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PART I The Odyssey

20,193 C.E.

HMPS Imperator

5^th Squadron, 18^th Fleet

Trajan System

“Combat, I need a report on the current status of the evacuation,” Captain Pavel Marino said as he paced up and down the bridge, wearing a groove in the decking.

“Sir, transports are still docked planetside and are in a ‘load’ status,” responded Lieutenant Commander Paige Kaya, working deep in the bowels of the Combat Information Center.

“I can damned well read a status board for myself! Now get in touch with Operations Center on the surface and find out what the hell is going on! And I want that report five minutes ago!” Marino was exasperated by the fact that he had to stay on top of his officers for the simplest of things, like actually providing their commander with a substantive report. It was almost like he was commanding a ship full of midshipmen or something. He knew that the crew was tired—he was too—but that was no excuse for any of this amateurish shit right now. Particularly with how serious events were unfolding at the present time.

Marino swept his gaze across the bridge and saw everyone there uncomfortably avoiding eye contact by pretending to be much busier than they actually were. That was up until he saw his XO standing there cleanly shaven with a fresh uniform on, flashing a pearly-white smile. If he didn’t know any better he might have thought the Exec was well rested, but he knew that wasn’t the case. He had been working more grueling hours than anyone and the captain was well aware of it. “XO, what are you doing here? I thought I told you to go and get some rack time.”

“You sure did Captain, but that was over four hours ago. I thought I’d give you a spell and take over flogging the crew for a while.” Commander Archibald “Archie” Aydin was and always had been a fine officer who worked well with Marino. They had only one previous assignment together long before the war and it was a treat to have him as a subordinate again. If there was anyone who could read Pavel Marino’s mind, it was Archie Aydin.

“Tell me something XO, how is it that after all the shit we’ve been through over the last few months, you look like you’ve just reported back on board after a month-long furlough relaxing at the beach?” Marino almost wasn’t kidding.

“It’s all this healthy living. Good food, adequate rest, lots of vigorous exercise and plenty of time for spiritual reflection; that sort of thing,” Aydin said, ticking off a list of things literally none of them had experienced in recent memory.

“You ought to consider a career on the comedy circuit,” Marino said while rubbing his bloodshot eyes, right before indulging himself in an epic yawn.

“Yes Sir. You look like you could use a break, why don’t you get some sleep? I can herd the cats for a while.”

Marino looked at his XO and thought about arguing with him, but the fatigue was overwhelming. “Alright Archie, you talked me into it, I’m off to my stateroom for a badly needed eyelid inspection. Once Combat gets that report from the surface be sure to update me okay?”

“Will do Skipper.”

“Alright XO, you have the bridge,” said the captain as he shuffled off to the hatch, running through a mental list of the thousand things that required his immediate attention, but wouldn’t get it. The tasks heaped upon them kept growing at an exponential rate which directly translated into a series of unpalatable decisions. It felt like it was just a constant stream of “lesser of two evils” and that was the reality they lived in these days.

Marino was a career naval officer who had climbed the ranks in all the usual ways; doing all the expected jobs, attending all the usual schools, and going through all the normal gates. He was an above average officer, though certainly not brilliant and he knew it. He was hard-working and dedicated, always giving one hundred percent to his duties, usually at the expense of his family. That was his cross to bear and he did so as any quiet professional would.

Family. He had one . . .  out there . . .  somewhere. His wife Sadie was down on the surface of Trajan, safe for the time being with her three brown mastiffs. He had spoken with her on a private line a few days ago and the conversation was cordial, if a bit strained. They hadn’t actually seen one another in person in a few years, and since he was in-system she had asked—already knowing the answer—if he could take a shuttle down and see her. But the answer was no, he and his ship were not back home for holiday, they were back home on business. And his business was aboard the Imperator. It was a quiet hell he lived in knowing that he was about to abandon her to her fate when they evacuated the system, but it was a quiet hell that almost every other member of the crew was living in, so he could do nothing more than bear it. He knew Sadie secretly hated him for leaving her here like this, but there was literally nothing he could do.

Pavel and Sadie did have three grown children and they were out there among the stars somewhere, assigned to various fleets fighting now for the home worlds. They were a navy family so there was no doubt that his two sons and his daughter would serve as well. It was a common practice for the military families to carry the burden of service from one generation to the next while the rest of society carried on with their lives in blissful ignorance. It was the military families that suffered during peacetime and sacrificed their children on the altar while the civilians lived their comfortable existences unencumbered and uninterested. They paid their taxes and figured that that was their way of “doing their duty.” As long as it wasn’t their own kids wearing a uniform, then it didn’t matter. That’s probably why Trajan found itself embroiled in so many military adventures during its history—the people weren’t really invested in the outcome. At least they weren’t until now.

Pavel hadn’t heard much from his kids but he hoped they were still alive. Communications between star systems was slow, and communication during wartime was limited at best. Add to that complication the movement of naval fleets from here to there, in contact, and limited space allowed for personal messages after clearing the censors and well . . .  getting word from his kids was tough. In the early days of the war he knew they were fine because he would have been notified of any of their deaths immediately through official channels. But now that everything was coming apart at the seams, that standard procedure had fallen into disuse. He just had to constantly convince himself that he’d know if something was wrong, but there was no way of knowing that for sure. He certainly didn’t want to think about all the abandoned units and squadrons scattered throughout the galaxy, left to fend for themselves. Or those that were so completely destroyed that there were no survivors left to report. Those dark thoughts haunted him and he tried to shake them away.

The various worlds of the Interstellar Protectorate had been a solid unified entity for over a millennia and had witnessed many great things over that time. There had been many challenges during its long and storied history to be sure, but it had always endured. It had shrugged off civil insurrection, financial collapse, human challenges to its sovereignty, and even the great alien war with the Orions. Never had its continued existence been in doubt, but now everything was lost.

There had been a long-standing competition with the Maktoum Dominion that went back for centuries. They had engaged in the on-again, off-again military clashes with them along their respective frontiers, and even full-blown war over a hundred years beforehand that bled both peoples white, emptied their coffers and ended in stalemate. It was just sort of understood that the Protectorate and the Dominion would carry on like this into perpetuity, competing with one another—occasionally coming to blows—but always accepting that the other would be there. Coexisting like two neighbors that hate each other who engaged in passive-aggressive games. That was up until the “Aguilar Incident” at the Garapan Rift and that’s when things took an irreversible turn that would trigger the end of them all.

It started off as a surveying operation which quickly escalated into a stand-off between small vessels of the local constabularies. That in turn led to a small engagement which quickly grew into local naval squadrons from both sides getting involved. As far away as everyone was from any sort of seat of government from either side, it was left to the commanders on the scene to make all the decisions and that’s when the perfect storm of ineptitude set in. The result was dozens of capital ships engaged in a full-blown battle costing thousands of lives on both sides. This had the predictable result of hurtling the Dominion and the Protectorate into a state of war. Not one of those convenient proxy wars mind you, but a formal declared war.

What was different this time from all the other flare-ups was the state of political and military affairs in the Interstellar Protectorate. The IP was on the tail end of a brutally slow recovery following a massive economic contraction brought on by years of irresponsible fiduciary decisions by the sitting governments. They had been overspending for decades and running up the debt they knew couldn’t be repaid and kicked the can down the road fully expecting the following generations to sort it out long after the politicians were out of office—or cold in their graves—without suffering the inconvenience of facing responsibility for their actions. Buying votes with bread and circuses was the norm for a long, long time until it simply wasn’t sustainable any longer.

Then came the “Great Austerity.”

That was a kind euphemism for the descendants paying for the largesse of their ancestors. A few generations lived like kings and then their grandchildren and great-grandchildren paid the cost. This was really what marked the beginning of the end for the IP. The declining hegemon slowly lost its edge at first, and then went into a freefall.

Fleets of ships fell into disrepair. The equipment of the army soon became obsolete and then poorly sustained as well. The numbers of service members on the rosters was scaled back, and then scaled back some more. Pensions were looted. Operating budgets slashed. Recruiting and retention goals plummeted. This was the navy Ensign Pavel Marino joined; a hollowed-out husk of a once-proud organization.

But Pavel had signed up when things were beginning to get better and they continued to do so throughout his career. He witnessed the low point and then gradually watched the organization that he loved resurrect itself. The officer corps got better, the budgets increased, the older hulls were replaced with cutting-edge new ones crewed by a new generation of trained professionals. It was a heady time full of optimism. Perhaps with a bit too much optimism. They were all guilty of believing their own propaganda back then, fully buying into the messaging that they were “Part of the greatest military the galaxy had ever known.” And while it was true that by the time Pavel earned the shoulder boards of a captain the military was far better than it had been in decades, they all had overlooked just how much better their strategic competitors had become.

While the IP was in a state of decline, her enemies were not and the Dominion enjoyed a series of advantages that were underappreciated by military and civilian leadership back home on Trajan. They had fallen into the trap believing that their family of powerful worlds had existed in sovereign unity for over a thousand years, and that that would never change. They simply did not consider the possibility that they were vulnerable to an existential threat. One that had been known to them for a very long time.

Some of the strategic planners weren’t completely stupid however and recognized critical shortcomings in industrial capacity and a lag in technological innovation. They knew that the Dominion would quickly overwhelm them if the war dragged out for very long, so they opted for a series of daring and operationally risky actions that were designed to gain advantage after inflicting crippling blows on critical military targets and enemy infrastructure. Some of these battles were decisive and successful. But not enough of them were and slowly but surely the Interstellar Protectorate started on a gradual slippery slope of military reversals.

It was seven years in before the first of the home worlds fell. The rest fell in rapid succession after that. The royal family and the seat of government were on Trajan, so the High Commissioner ordered that it be defended at all costs. This was in contravention to military realities and the advice of every single senior leader wearing a uniform. It played into the hands of the Dominion and sped up the inevitable.

Now it was nearly ten years after the “Aguilar Incident” and Pavel Marino was orbiting his home world, commanding His Majesty’s Protectorate Ship Imperator, a heavy cruiser whose keel was laid only a few years ago. Under peacetime conditions Marino probably wouldn’t have made the cut to command anything at all—let along a heavy cruiser—but the war needed hulls, and officers to command them. Especially when many of His Majesty’s best and brightest had been blown to atoms out fighting in a thousand different systems. War had a voracious appetite for flesh.

Pavel knew damned well that command was something he was privileged to have and he worked himself to the ragged edge constantly so as not to let his people down. Maybe he worked himself too hard. It was difficult to say. Particularly when the scope of work seemed to keep growing while the number of people left to do it kept shrinking. No matter. He was a professional and he would do his duty.

Not only did Pavel have the same ship and crew for the last few years, but now he had been put in command of a decent-sized squadron, tasked with the evacuation of Trajan. It was an unenviable task. It was a nearly impossible task.

The Maktoum Dominion military was running down the scattered IP fleets, task forces and squadrons just about everywhere. Most of them were fighting delaying actions, buying time for the evacuation of Trajan, such that it was. The Home Fleet was out there fighting like hell to hold onto the last three jump points in the galaxy that offered up any chance of escape, and they wouldn’t hold long.

In the meantime, down on the surface the last transports were getting loaded full of evacuees.

Naturally all the really important people and their families had seats on those transport vessels. This would also include a small intimate circle of important friends as well such as wealthy business partners, political connections, mistresses and illegitimate children. There was also this farce of a lottery that was put in place to convince the masses that the selections for salvation was done in a random and equitable fashion, but that was all bullshit. There were just enough families from the naval crews selected to give the illusion that it was fair, but more importantly to keep the crews from mutinying.

Pavel’s wife wasn’t one of those selected, but even if she were he would have quietly had her swapped out with the loved one of another crew member. He wouldn’t have asked others to leave family behind if he wasn’t prepared to do it. Besides, most of the crew on board the Imperator were from the other thirteen worlds in the IP and their families had mostly been left to an enemy occupation force.

Those that were absolutely guaranteed seats were the members of the royal family, the High Councilor, all the members of the High Council, and those that sat on the bench of the Principal Judiciary. And naturally most of them were fighting to get others preferential treatment which was bringing the evacuation to a grinding halt. The clock was running and it was only a matter of time before those precious last three jump points were lost, and down below on the surface the anointed ones were squabbling over seats on the Arc.

People were dying by the thousands to keep the escape route open, and the longer the delay, the more would die. But that hardly mattered to the ruling classes, they were concerned about nothing more than saving their own skins while the world burned around them. It was maddening.

Pavel made his way through corridors with members of the crew passing to and fro, all giving respectful acknowledgement of him as he passed. Some looked as if they were carrying out routine tasks, others looked harried. A few had the blank look of a robot simply going through the motions, with nothing left inside. Perhaps he identified with those the most.

When he arrived in his stateroom there was a certain sense of relief and release. He was in his own private sanctuary, a place he spent precious little time and a luxury he rarely afforded himself. At the end of his rack was a holographic status board giving live updates to various bits of information he was most interested in. There was a gently pulsing red light in the lower corner of the display that indicated a missed call from the XO.

He virtually pressed the call button on the holographic screen. “What’s up XO?”

“Skipper I’ve got some updates from dirtside. What would you prefer first, the good news or the bad news?” The audio was crystal clear as if the XO were standing right there in the room, but Marino had the video switched off for a bit of privacy.

“Since when did you ever have any good news? Don’t tease me, I might start developing an uncharacteristic sense of optimism,” Pavel said, running his fingers through greasy, unwashed hair.

“Well, Colonel Bridger called to report that things are coming off the rails down planetside. Order is breaking down rapidly and his troops are engaged in some pretty significant gun fights down in the capital and it isn’t all just rogue civilian groups looting and stealing. He reports that there are several military units down there initiating a coup and they’re trying to keep the government representatives from getting off-world. That’s effectively keeping the spacedromes in the city shut down for the time being for fear of shuttles getting shot out of the sky.

“That’s just one problem. The other, bigger one is we’ve got members of the High Council down there making a mess of the manifests and demanding changes to get other people evacuated that aren’t on the lists. Every person of influence or title is down there pulling rank,” Archie said without a hint of humor in his tone.

“So what’s the good news?”

“The good news is that the royal family got out and their ships are slipping into formation with the rest of our squadron. The King sends his compliments to you and the rest of us for our professionalism and undying loyalty.” Marino thought he picked up a hint of sarcasm in the last part of Archie’s response, but just a hint, so he let it go.

“Is the Palace Guard with them as well?”

“Affirmative. Brigadier Khan has the entire battalion loaded up with all of their equipment, including Mark II Armored Combat Ensembles and maintenance staff.”

“Good, those are some excellent troops and they’ll likely be useful later on. Whenever the hell we get out of here,” Pavel said, feeling just a bit exasperated thinking about all the politicians down there holding up the entire operation.

“Skipper, I know I shouldn’t ask this but . . . ”

“But what?”

“At what point are we going to cut bait? I mean, we’ve got the royal family all safe and secure, but the longer we stay here the less likely it is that we can guarantee that. We probably need to consider pulling out of here regardless of whether or not we can get the government out.” Archie Aydin did not make this statement lightly and it was hardly off the cuff. He also had to know that if he was transmitting it to the captain’s stateroom that it was being recorded as well.

“XO, we are a constitutional monarchy and we take our orders from the duly elected government. The government that is currently on the surface making our mission more and more difficult with each passing minute. But they’re still in charge and we are going to stay here until we get them all up here with us. If all of us end up dead or spending the rest of our days on a prison barge then so be it, but we stay.” Pavel said it as firmly and gently as he could. There was no doubt in his military mind what his mission was, and he was ready to lay down his life for it. Even if the mission seemed more and more ridiculous with each passing minute. Saving the duly elected government while simultaneously abandoning the electorate that put them into office. And the more he thought about his wife Sadie down there, well . . .  that didn’t make this pill any less bitter to swallow. He almost wished he would have the opportunity to die carrying out this shitty assignment. It would be the easy way out.

“Understood Skipper. You know me, I’m always up for a good time, and this here is one hell of a party.”

“I know Archie, that’s what worries me about you. One of these days I’m going to have Doc have one of his best head-shrinkers do a full clinical study on you. I’m sure we’d gain priceless insights into the human condition. But I’m afraid that is going to have to wait.

“Now, if you don’t mind, my rack is calling my name right now. I’m going to get some sleep, call me if there’re any further issues.” Pavel could feel the exhaustion wrapping him in a warm embrace.

“Will do Captain. Get some rest, I’ll see you soon.”

Without a further word Pavel laid himself down and stared into nothingness. He did not bother to undress or even remove his shoes. His mind wandered as he tried to focus on all the things he needed to do when he awoke.

And then he fell mercifully to sleep.

20,193 C.E.

HMPS Aquila

Interstellar Protectorate Home Fleet

Vicinity of Heaven’s Gate jump point

The Ready Room aboard ship looked absolutely immaculate, with everything in pristine repair and nothing out of place. Nothing except for the near dozen marine strike fighter pilots of the Grey Fox Squadron who were currently desecrating the place with their very presence. In fact, this may very well have been the very first time marine aviators had been allowed to defile this rarefied sanctum of naval aviation. Their unwelcome presence underscored by the two enlisted naval ratings working in there beating a hasty retreat out the nearest hatch the minute they arrived.

Not that any of them gave a shit.

There were ten of them assembled, a few of them milling about while others took a seat on one of the thirty empty recliners in the room. There was a small podium up front and a space next to it for a holographic display. Throughout the compartment were scattered various devices and luxuries unheard of in any marine squadron. A couple of them marveled at the unimagined comforts they found themselves surrounded by, amazed at the soft existence of their navy counterparts.

“You gotta check this shit out, I’ve never seen one this nice before,” exclaimed First Lieutenant Gabriel “Professor” Baker, pointing to the coffee maker in the back of the briefing room. There was an ancient tradition going as far back as the very first military aviators where each of them was bestowed a nickname or call sign. It was a time-honored tradition and one of the few things that every military pilot treated with sanctity. Of course unlike the other services, the marines always chose the most belittling and insulting call signs for one another—another time-honored tradition—and kept it the entire time they were in uniform. Baker got his name “Professor” for being a bit slow and dim-witted; a nickname that came as little surprise to anyone who knew him.

“Don’t hurt yourself with that thing genius,” replied First Lieutenant Peter “Animal” Hirsch, not even bothering to look up from the notepad he was working on. Hirsch had earned the moniker “Animal” for being one of the largest and strongest human beings most of them had ever seen. He was so big in fact, that the service nearly did not allow him into flight training because he almost couldn’t fit into a cockpit. He was in fact very large, very tough, and also very hairy.

While Professor and Animal were engaged in witty banter, First Lieutenant Helena “BOTT” Kershaw leaned over to her wingman, Lieutenant Raj Patel, and pulled up some files from her notebook and presented it to him. Hailing from the home world of Lemuria, Patel picked up the moniker “DROOL,” which stood for “Dumbass Retard Out Of Lemuria.”

“Okay DROOL, this is what I’ve been working on and I need some feedback,” Kershaw said, brushing her long hair aside.

“DROOL” Patel looked at the equations she was scrolling through and tried to make sense out of it. “You wanna tell me exactly what I’m looking at again?”

“I told you about this at chow this morning, remember? It’s my design for an active sensor program to fool drones.” Kershaw was pointing at a series of algorithms on her display that she had been working on for the last few months. She was a bit of a tech nerd, and the boys in the squadron gave her shit constantly about it. That and her big breasts. Which was where she got her call sign “BOTT” which stood for “Big Ol’ Ta Ta’s.”

“Oh yeah, I remember now. You actually think that this would work in the Goshawk?” DROOL cocked an eyebrow, clearly a bit skeptical. Mostly because he didn’t understand the base principle of her idea in the first place.

“Listen, it’s simple. We in the Protectorate used manned fighters and the Dominion uses drones, right?” BOTT was starting all over from the beginning again.

“Yeah, everybody knows that,” DROOL responded.

“Why is that?” She asked, quizzing him.

“Well, I suppose it’s because they have a large industrial capacity, smaller population and a low tolerance for casualties,” he said, not sounding terribly confident in his answer.

“All true, and they also recognize that drones are utterly flawed and inferior to human beings that actually make decisions. Drones will have a certain failure rate, and in the case of the Dominion, they accept that failure rate as within acceptable parameters. That’s why they use them. They are sloppy, but they are a compromise that they are willing to work with. We on the other hand prefer human beings in cockpits that think, make decisions and are prone to fewer errors. Understand?” BOTT wanted to make sure he was caught up so far and not completely lost.

“Yeah, so how does your program give us advantage then?” DROOL was working to make the connection.

“Right. So the critical factor here is that human pilots think and drones don’t. They rely on Artificial Intelligence to make their decisions for them. Due to the distances in space combat and the realities of time lag, the drones can’t effectively be controlled from a distant ship—they can be slaved off to a C2 bird, but nothing too far away. But the Dommies don’t typically fight with C2 birds since they are slow and vulnerable. They let AI do the fighting for them and there lies the rub. Artificial Intelligence is only as good as the information programmed into it and that is its inherent weakness.” Kershaw scrolled through another set of algorithms and pulled up the page she was looking for and showed it to DROOL.

“I still don’t get it,” he said, scratching his bald head.

“The Goshawk strike fighter is basically a highly maneuverable stealth craft. Its core survival principle is based upon being as invisible as possible. Right?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Well what if we made the Goshawk transmit a signal—more of a signature that everyone could see? What if that signature were something completely absurd that shouldn’t exist in the vacuum of outer space?” She was quizzing him again to see if he was catching on.

“Wouldn’t transmitting a signature compromise the spacecraft and make it a target?” DROOL was getting interested now as he was beginning to follow the line of logic, even if it seemed flawed.

“Yes, the active signature would give away the craft’s position, but it wouldn’t compromise it because the drones wouldn’t recognize it and therefore wouldn’t treat it at a threat. It would simply ignore the fighter because it doesn’t look like one,” BOTT said, her face beaming with pride.

“There’s no fucking way that’d work,” DROOL said, shaking his head. “Plus, I’m sure the engineers would have thought of this already and if there was a chance it would work, it’d be part of the ECM package.”

“I’m telling you, the designer’s philosophy relied on stealth and this will work. Trust me!” Kershaw was not one little bit put off by the criticism.

“Fine, let’s assume you are correct and this program of yours is solid, what are you proposing to do with it?”

“Why install it in our Goshawks of course. It would be badass!” BOTT was closing up her notebook and getting more animated.

“Seriously Helena, nobody’s going to authorize you updating the software package on any of our birds without extensive testing and training. I know you’re thinking about putting that shit in there before we jump and there is no way in hell that’s going to happen,” Patel said matter-of-factly, trying to get her to see reason.

“It’s already done,” she said, still beaming.

“What do you mean? What’s already done?”

“I already got the program installed,” BOTT said with a twinkle in her eye.

“No way. How the hell did you manage that? Chief Ortiz would never allow any of his techs to install software on any of ‘his’ birds without direct authorization from the CAG,” Patel was stating the obvious at this point.

“Chief Ortiz didn’t authorize it, but technician’s mate Solomon gave me access permissions and I installed it myself anyway,” Kershaw had lowered her voice when she shared this part, not wanting the others in the Ready Room to overhear.

“You did what? Why would Solomon do that for you?”

Kershaw simply smiled and winked at him.

Patel lowered his voice. “You didn’t actually fuck him did you?”

“Come on, I’m much more refined with my feminine charms than that,” she said. “I just let him think I was going to fuck him. It’s all about the art of flirtation. You men are really easy you know.”

“Dear lord in heaven,” Patel said, shaking his head again while rubbing his hairless scalp. “You are one manipulative bitch.”

“And don’t you forget it,” she replied with a toothy grin.

Unnoticed by anyone in the room due to the usual exchange of banter and general grab-ass, the squadron XO entered and took his place behind the podium up front. “Alright, everybody take your seats so we can get this thing started.”

Nobody noticed that the XO was speaking and the group of them continued to carry on unabated. The XO’s frown turned to a scowl and his ears began to turn red. “HEY! Everybody shut the fuck up and take a seat!”

The room went immediately quiet. Those that were milling around slowly found an empty chair and directed their attention to the angry captain standing behind the podium. The angry captain they affectionately knew as “Dickcheese.”

“Listen up, as usual there’s a shitload of stuff to do and not nearly enough time to do it in. That’s hardly new. What is new is now we’re operating on a carrier and we have to make nice with the navy pukes on board this floating deathtrap. So before the boss gets here I want to cover a few things,” the XO said, warming up for his monologue.

Animal leaned over to Flash and whispered under his breath. “Oh boy, here it comes.”

“First, you will henceforth cease referring to the sailors and your new shipmates as ‘walking vaginas’ is that clear?” The XO scanned the room to make sure all eyes were on him.

“Second, it has come to my attention that some marines have decided to ‘claim’ additional berthing compartments from some of the navy personnel in order to have a little room to spread out and gain a bit of privacy. I believe this practice is currently referred to as ‘securing a jack shack.’ Effective immediately you will return these berthing compartments back to the naval personnel and move back into the spaces allotted for you.” The XO gave a moment for this to settle in.

There were a few muffled groans.

“And lastly, for any of you clowns that snuck booze on this ship, there is an amnesty box set up here in the Ready Room. Turn that shit in, because if I find it there’ll be hell to pay.”

And with the formal portion out of the way, the XO got started with his briefing.

✽✽✽

Paddy walked up to the terminal built into the bulkhead and used the attached stylus to scroll through a few pull-down menus to find the information he was looking for. He found the file for his squadron and then hit the tab marked “Maintenance Status.” Another screen appeared with a list of choices arranged alphabetically. He found the one for “Space Craft” and double-clicked on it. A window popped up with all the fighters in his squadron graphically displayed on it. All of the little fighter icons were shaded a green color with the exception of one; it was amber. He tapped that icon with the stylus and a detailed series of reports on that particular strike fighter came up.

“Son of a bitch.” He said aloud. “I can’t believe they haven’t fixed this yet.”

He exited out of the program and turned to head down to “The Basement” where all the fighters were located. He had to go find a particular Aviation Electronics Technician that had promised him that a certain problem had already been fixed. The fact that he had to constantly check up on those guys was getting on his last nerve.

The corridor was full of people making their way past each other, hastily trying to knock out final preparations before the ship got underway. You could cut the tension in the recycled air with a knife and this was not filling Paddy with a whole lot of confidence.

“Paddy I think you need to see this.” Captain Yates pushed his way through the crowd holding a tablet in his hand. He was motioning to his Squadron Commander in a manner that betrayed his utter mental and physical exhaustion.

Major Chris “Paddy” O’Connor fought his way upstream through a crowd of maintenance techs and ratings who were going the other direction. Chris was the commander of the Marine Fighter Attack Squadron on board, known as “Grey Fox Squadron” and Captain Barry “Dickcheese” Yates was his XO. He couldn’t remember the last time any of them had had any sleep and he was having trouble concentrating on simple tasks. He also couldn’t remember when it was that he took those four painkillers because his head was still killing him, and it looked as if the headaches were only going to continue. “What you got Dick?”

“I just got a copy of the ordnance inventory and it doesn’t look good.” Yates extended the clipboard over to his boss.

“Come on Dick, we’ve got about a thousand things left to do before we have to get into lockdown before the jump. Checking ordnance lists isn’t one of them. That’s not our job, getting the birds prepped and secured is and we’re only just going to get it done before we got to report to the meat locker.” Paddy ran his fingers through his hair, took the tablet and started scanning through it. “Okay, what is it I’m supposed to be looking for? How ’bout giving me a quick summary?”

“Yeah, no problem. Go to page three and check out the on-hand stockage for Rapiers and Stilettos.”

“Okay, so what I see . . .  no, wait . . .  holy shit! Is this right?” Paddy started flipping through pages of the inventory trying to see if he had missed something.

“It’s right all right. I went down to the magazines and checked with Chief Fletcher to make sure there wasn’t some sort of administrative error. He told me that we got the wrong shipments—they got mixed up with some other division, and we’ve got the wrong allotments of just about everything. We’ve got the load-out that was supposed to go to Accipiter, and presumably they’ve got ours.”

“If what you’re telling me is correct we’ve got an excess of interceptor missiles and not nearly enough anti-ship ordnance.” Paddy handed the tablet back. “Did you tell anyone about this?”

“Yeah, I couldn’t find you so I passed it along to the CAG.”

“And?”

“Well, he told me it was too late to do anything about it. Accipiter is two light hours out and we’ve got less than half a day before we jump. There’s no way we can unscrew this before lights out.” Dick took the tablet back and scratched the stubble on his face. “The CAG told me that we are just going to have to sort it out along the way.”

“Who’s going to sort it out along the way? We’re supposed to all be in the meat lockers in deep freeze for the trip and we can’t run supply shuttles in transit even if we weren’t. We ain’t getting those missiles in time for the big show. The timetables are too tight. We’re supposed to be punching out the tubes almost the minute we get there.” That headache was really starting to pound now. “Okay, fuck it. Nothing we can do about it now. What’s our status, is the equipment ready?”

“Almost. My bird is secured below decks and the grease-monkeys finally got around to replacing that faulty circuit card in the targeting computer. They’ve still got to run the final diagnostic on it before it gets the green light though. After that I’ve just got to secure my sea bag and get suited up for the freezers.”

“Okay, get to it. I want you to get this squared away and then I want you to get some real sleep before you report to the meat locker. We’re not going to get much chance for rest on the other end once they thaw us out of deep freeze. And coffee will be a poor substitute for rest.” Paddy’s body ached at the thought of getting some sleep. He was hoping to get some too, but he wasn’t going to begin holding his breath. He supposed he could get plenty of rest after he was dead, and if things kept going the way they were going that was going to happen sooner rather than later.

20,193 C.E.

HMPS Ecnomus

Flagship, Interstellar Protectorate Home Fleet

Benidician System near Heaven’s Gate jump point

The last elements of the formation slid into their positions moving like ghosts through the vacuum of space. The smaller vessels slowly maneuvered into the outer periphery protecting the larger, more important warships. The outer screen of destroyers and light cruisers acted as a forward tripwire providing standoff range for the massive dreadnoughts and carrier strike groups. They initiated deceleration and finally came to a complete stop creating a virtual sphere around the critical center.

Captains signaled their positions in a prearranged order and automated battle tracking systems updated their status. Most of this was done with the aid of computer navigational control, a sort of pre-programmed auto-pilot while crews secured themselves in suspended animation chambers. With the exception of a few assigned to the skeleton crews, the soldiers, sailors, airmen and marines were going to “sleep” during the transition in order to avoid consuming critical stores during the jump.

Admiral Jenkins tapped a few commands into his console as he tuned out the activity going on about him in the Combat Information Center. As commander of Home Fleet he was deploying the Protectorate’s last viable combat formation on a desperate gambit to buy time for the evacuation of their senior leadership from Trajan. In all his years in uniform, he never dreamed that things would come to this, yet he was still absolutely committed to his duty.

For once things seemed to be falling into place and preparations for the jump seemed complete. For months they had been behind on all their established timelines and dangerously close to blowing the entire operation. Failure was not an option so the leaders within the fleet pushed the crews to their limits and beyond to get things back on track. After much heartache and pain they were ready.

With a whopping twelve minutes to spare.

Operation Beowulf itself was nothing more than a spoiling attack designed to buy time for the lucky souls who could make it to one of the last three secure jump points leading to salvation. There were hundreds of jump points still under their control, but these critical three actually led to sanctuary. A place where they could go to lick their wounds and consolidate. More importantly, it offered a way out that didn’t include surrendering to the Dominion and facing war crimes tribunals. They all knew there would be nothing more than a kangaroo court for every surviving officer who willingly surrendered. And that was tantamount to a death sentence.

Now they readied themselves for a jump through Heaven’s Gate. That would be three weeks of relative translation, which most of the crews would sleep off in the tanks. A few would be awake the entire time and minding the equipment while the others hibernated. On the other side, essential personnel would come out of stasis and do what needed to be done. Or they would die trying. Either way, they were absolutely committed.

The clock in CIC ran down the time until the fleet was ready to execute the jump. The few remaining individuals working there watched the countdown as anticipation and anxiety grew. All of them had done this many times before, but it never got any easier. It was always mentally and physically taxing on them all.

“Status on drive system?” The captain called out.

“Status reports ‘green’ across the board Skipper.” The response came back.

Jenkins checked his board and saw that it was consistent across the entire fleet. They were as ready as they were ever going to be. He wanted to broadcast a last message across the command circuit congratulating them all on their dedication, hard work and wishing them luck on the upcoming mission, but he had done that already and he had to force himself just to sit and watch the clock run out. It was maddening, and he wanted nothing better than to retreat to his stateroom for a bit of solitude. But his place was here, and he needed to be present if for no other reason than to lend a bit of moral support to the crew.

“Nine minutes. Check ignition systems.”

“Checking ignition systems aye.”

The power plant automatically spooled up at its pre-designated time, synchronized with every other vessel. The ships would all enter the jump point within nanoseconds of one another so computers ran the launch sequences, since manual initiation would be far too imprecise. As the core drive system ‘warmed up’ it gave off a massive vibration that resonated throughout the entire ship. Those that weren’t already tucked snugly away in their freezers felt the engines power up through the soles of their shoes and the seats of their trousers.

Without being told to do so the crew members all secured the collars of their vac suits and donned helmets. The suits themselves were essentially a set of sealed coveralls that provided basic limited life support in case the hull breached and atmosphere was lost. The ensemble was known as the “Naval Atmospheric Protective System” or “NAPS” for short. Most sailors just referred to them as “Long Johns.” It was standard operating procedure to wear them during transitioning to and from hyperspace, as well as any time combat was imminent. Any time there was risk of venting their oxygen into vacuum, the crew was required to put them on. They weren’t exactly comfortable, but better to be uncomfortable than dead. And dying from sudden depressurization was hardly a pleasant way to go.

Jenkins seated his helmet and heard the reassuring “hiss” when it made a seal with the collar. Reports scrolled across the small display inside the visor right next to a read-out of his own vital signs. He worked the touchpad attached to his wrist, adjusted the settings and status of the reports on display. He looked around to see the last of them taking their seats and buckling themselves in, all according to standard operating procedure.

“Four minutes!”

The admiral took a moment to reflect back on the events of the last couple of years and realized that it all had been one big long blur. So much had happened in such a short period of time. There had been no time to rest, no time to catch their breath, and now they were launching headlong into who knows what. All he was sure of was that he was going to spend the next three weeks out of the freezers, catching up on sleep and going over the tactical plans at his leisure. It would be his first chance to take a break in a long, long time.

Lost in his thoughts he didn’t even realize it when the clock reached “zero” and the hyperspace jump initiated. His whole world went white and then suddenly dark. A moment later his eyes came back into focus and everything seemed normal again. His body tingled all over and a funny smell hung in his nose, but other than that he seemed perfectly fine. When he looked up, the clock had reset itself and was counting down the time until they made the translation back into normal space once again—three weeks from that moment.

He popped the seal on his helmet and set it down before going over to check the fleet status boards. Just as expected, every ship—with the exception of the one he was on—had a dimmed icon. Ecnomus still had a very bright green hue to it. This indicated that Ecnomus’ status was current, and the others were accurate as of their last report. Since no vessel in existence could communicate or see another while in hyperspace, the status boards reflected current status right up until the instant they jumped. Until they reached their destination, they would all be trapped inside their little metal cocoons cut off from the universe. It was just as well though, Jenkins could really use a little solitude right about now.

✽✽✽

Cold.

Darkness.

Piercing loud noise.

Panic.

Fear.

“Where am I? What’s going on? What’s that noise? I can’t see!” Paddy couldn’t remember how he had gotten where he was. He could barely remember who he was for that matter. He was cold all over and his head was pounding. It took all of his effort to open his eyes and when he did his vision was completely blurred to the point of blindness. His heart raced and he began to hyperventilate, only to find that his breathing was labored as well. He wanted to cry out but could not . . .  he was quite convinced that he was dying.

And then suddenly, there was light.

The light was so bright he had to squint, and he still could not see anything or make out shapes. All Paddy knew was that the screeching wail had only grown louder, and many more sounds added to the din. He reached his shaking hands out in front of him and took a step forward only to trip and fall flat on his face. And that’s when he felt the blows to his sides and his head. He was being kicked by an angry mob of people for reasons he didn’t understand.

It was all so confusing. He felt as if he were going to die right there.

Then he remembered.

He had been in cryogenic freeze. That’s why he was so cold. That’s why it was so dark. That’s why his mind was so slow to wake up.

He blinked away the tears that streamed from his eyes. Shapes took form.

There was activity everywhere. Frenzied activity.

The wailing was the sound of the klaxons. It was the sound of general quarters.

There were people still kicking him and he curled up in the fetal position. As the veil lifted from his mind he realized that they weren’t doing it on purpose. It was other members of the crew also stumbling out of their cryogenically-induced haze, running off to their battle stations, tripping over him as he lie upon the cold hard deck. Some were tripping and falling over him in a heap, looking nearly as confused as he was.

“Think Chris, think! What am I supposed to do?” He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to block out the noise so that he could concentrate. His whole body shook uncontrollably from the cold. His teeth chattered.

He pushed himself up and struggled to get erect. Someone else bumped into him.

He steadied himself and saw others dashing past.

His head hurt so bad.

“Pull yourself together man. Where do we have to go? Frame Eighty, that’s it! Now where the hell is Frame Eighty?” He rubbed his temples vigorously and ran his fingers through icy, wet hair.

Paddy suddenly realized what he had to do. Everything came into focus at once. He had to get down to flight ops immediately. They had been awakened under emergency protocols and this was an alert, which meant only one thing . . .  they were in big fucking trouble.

20,193 C.E.

HMPS Moffet

Squadron 214, Interstellar Protectorate Home Fleet

Translating from Heaven’s Gate jump point

“Will somebody tell me just what in the hell is going on!?” Lieutenant Commander Latisha Johnson barked out to nobody in particular as she madly clicked through the different filters on her plot. She was the commanding officer of one of the destroyers assigned to the Task Force picket and she could make no sense out of the fleet’s current formation as they translated into normal space. Nor did she want to believe the enemy dispositions that were clearly displayed right in front of her face.

“Skipper the fleet is entering the system and for reasons unknown, the vessels are emerging into local space completely out of sequence and disoriented. Nobody is coming out of hyper in the right position or in the correct formation!” The tactical officer was merely articulating the obvious.

“I can see that for myself Mr. Steenbock! Tell me something I don’t know!” The Captain was doing her best to identify the other hulls from disparate squadrons scattered all over vacuum this side of the primary.

“Right . . .  er, one moment.” Lieutenant Steenbock hammered away at his display while the rest of the watch in CIC executed their individual tasks in a frenzied near-panic. “Ah . . .  Skipper, best I can tell is that for all of this mess the enemy has not seen us yet. The vessels closest to the enemy are roughly four light minutes out.”

“Meaning we’ve got about four minutes before our hulls start populating the enemy plots and they begin reacting to us . . .  right?” Now the Captain was stating the obvious.

“Yes ma’am. We’ve got four minutes and then we should expect the enemy ships and their static batteries to . . . ”

“Yeah, yeah I got it. Are we in communication with the other members of the squadron? Can we raise Flag on the burst transmitter?”

“Ma’am everything is a total goat rodeo out there right now.” Steenbock wiped the sweat from his brow with the gauntlet of his crash suit.

“Skipper the net is jammed with flash traffic and nobody can get anything through.” Ensign Childers chimed in from her console.

“Damnit, we’ve trained for this! Communications discipline should not have broken down like this . . .  hell, we haven’t even fired a shot yet!” Johnson pounded her fist on her thigh in frustration. She looked back at the plot again and saw icon after friendly icon appear and with each passing second they slowly began to identify by name and hull number. It was apparent that it was going to take much longer than four minutes before all of the ships in the fleet were even properly pinpointed. She also knew that with things as fouled up as they were right now it was going to take not minutes but likely hours for the fleet to sort itself out, and by the time that happened the enemy was going to get a vote. Right now they enjoyed the element of surprise but that window was quickly closing. Her mind was racing for the right answer. Her mind stopped racing the moment she realized that all eyes were on her.

“Mr. Steenbock what’s the closest enemy contact to our position?” The Captain had made up her mind.

“I’m showing elements of a screen at one-four-three mark niner-two—at four decimal three minutes. It’s a tight formation consisting of three destroyers, a frigate and a light cruiser.” Steenbock was already bringing the main batteries on line.

“Very well then. When in doubt . . .  attack. Issue a general transmission on all command nets informing anyone who’ll listen that we intend to commence with offensive maneuvers. Our mission now is to buy time for the fleet to sort itself out and get into the fight. Ahead flank speed.” And with that a certain calm washed over her.

“Ahead flank speed aye!” The command echoed and the familiar thrum of the main power plant coming alive vibrated throughout the hull.

✽✽✽

The Moffet was pushing her engines well past the red line along with two other destroyers—Kidd and Paul Jones. After the skipper on Moffet issued her pronouncement, two other captains in the neighborhood punched their drive systems in the ass and caught up with her as quickly as they were able. There were other escort vessels and smaller ships in the vicinity but they elected to stand by for orders rather than tear off half-cocked into the maw of the enemy. More than a few transmissions were sent to the trio advising them that they were in violation of standing procedures and should await instructions. Johnson and her fellow skippers elected to ignore those transmissions.

The three ships tied into Moffet’s tactical computers which synchronized the weapons systems from all three tin cans. This made the three small craft much more effective than the sum of their parts, since human beings react far too slow and inaccurately—particularly with the close in defensive batteries—to maximize the capabilities on board. The Protectorate ships were going to need every edge that they had in order to come out of this one. They were going up against a Dominion squadron that not only outnumbered them, but likely outgunned and outclassed them as well.

As predicted the enemy reacted immediately upon “seeing” the coalition forces, which meant that they had a scant four-minute head start. Both belligerents moved at sub-light speeds so it was significantly longer than that before either would be in weapons range, but an edge is an edge, and right now the Dominion ships were reacting to the IP vanguard and not the other way around. It was becoming obvious that as the distance closed, those reactions were happening much faster. Much too fast for comfort.

“Skipper, we’re detecting new energy signatures from contacts Alpha through Epsilon.” Steenbock’s tone had become almost robotic and the rest of the crew fell into their routines after a short time. Training took over and while the tension still hung in the air, it didn’t carry with it that sense of despair that it had less than a half-hour before. It may have helped a bit after everyone donned their helmets and it was more difficult to see the frightened facial expression of the others within CIC.

“How much longer ’til we are in range?” Johnson was nervously pumping her knee up and down at a quick cadence.

“Five min . . .  Ma’am, contacts Alpha and Beta are falling back while Gamma through Espilon are continuing to close with us at flank speeds! I’m detecting multiple missile launches from Alpha—the light cruiser! Point defenses are online and I’m showing green status across the board. Missiles will be in range in seventy seconds!” The Tactical officer’s volume increased in direct correlation to the activity on his screen.

“Has all of this been shared on the tac net?” Johnson already knew that it had.

“Affirmative ma’am. Kidd and Paul Jones acknowledge. Their statuses are green as well.” Childers never looked up as she delivered the report.

“Okay, so the destroyers are pushing forward to keep us busy while their heavier ships engage us at range. Got it. We need to take their screen out so we can get a shot at the frigate and the light cruiser. Maintain course and speed . . .  this is going to get hairy quick.” She unconsciously raised her hand toward her mouth to nibble on her fingernails only to be thwarted by a gloved hand and the thick face plate on her crash helmet.

“Forty seconds! Identified second wave launches as drones—probably with anti-ship ordnance. They are maneuvering to envelop ahead of the second wave of missiles.” Steenbock was trying to analyze the attack pattern.

“Looks like they are trying to tie up our point defense systems with the initial salvo of missiles while the drones get in position and envelop us, then while we dissipate our defense fire on them in all directions, the last wave of missiles come in for the kill. Is that what I’m seeing?”

“That’s my take on it as well. Fifteen seconds!” Steenbock’s tone was tense.

The IP destroyers opened fire at the same instant sending forth rapid fire pulses of energy into the abyss. They did so in pre-programmed patterns based upon computer algorithms designed to defeat the enemy missiles and their damnably agile maneuver drives. Unlike “dumb” munitions that moved in straight lines or predictable trajectories the Dominion ordnance flew erratically and possessed electronic warfare kits—making them extremely difficult to hit. Still, with enough fire they could be brought down and the three Protectorate tin cans were doing an impressive job of lighting up the darkness.

Scores of Dominion medium anti-ship missiles leapt forward, suddenly accelerating once they reached terminal guidance and smashing headlong into defensive energy and plasma.

The destroyers maintained their courses and charged into the morass without any thought of slowing. As they did so the drones engulfed them from every conceivable angle and then they unleashed their own lighter payloads.

“Skipper, we’ve eliminated eighty percent of the initial—OOOOFFF!!!” Steenbock was cut off mid-sentence as one of the larger medium missiles struck home amidships and rocked the small vessel of war.

A massive plasma jet sliced through the ship’s outer armor and into her soft vital mid-section. Bulkheads burst under the pressure and lucky crew members in the strike zone were vaporized instantly. The unlucky ones lived long enough to survive the massive explosion, which was instantly followed up by the radiation and heat that literally cooked them alive in their crash suits within the hull. Moffet’s belly was splayed wide open venting the remaining atmosphere left unprotected by the few surviving bulkheads.

As Moffet’s defensive fire slackened, Paul Jones moved into position in order to cover her wounds with its own point batteries. As it did so they managed to shoot down the last of the initial wave of anti-ship missiles and then shifted its attention to the swarm of drones that took sweeping passes at the destroyers with their remaining light anti-ship ordnance and guns. While this was going on Moffet’s tac net began to falter—at which point Kidd’s systems kicked in and took over the fight.

Kidd slipped to the lead position and adjusted her firing patterns to concentrate them on the different clusters of interceptors, rather than attempting to maintain an all-round defense. This was deadly effective and the Dominion drones were hammered into plumes of expanding gas. This thinned their numbers quite effectively but at the same time sacrificed protection for the group.

A brace of drones approached the formation from the rear as the IP destroyers focused their attention elsewhere. The two opened fire with their cannons at a full cyclic rate and pushed their impellers beyond their designed tolerances. The motors literally began to melt their protective casings just as the pair smashed into Kidd’s primary drive, exploding the coil and rocking the ship off its axis. The destroyer fell out of formation even before it lost all but emergency power, crippled.

Johnson watched in horror as the wounded Moffet and Paul Jones pulled away from the stricken Kidd. “Ensign Childers I need you to raise the Kidd and get a status report from them right now!”

“I can’t ma’am—they aren’t responding at all, and their distress beacon just kicked on. I am detecting some sort of low power transmissions on board which indicates survivors, but they are too weak and garbled for us to decipher.” Childers continued to repeat her hails, receiving nothing in return.

“Skipper, we’ve knocked out nearly half of the drones and the last salvo of missiles is less than ten seconds out!”

“Captain, damage control teams are reporting in . . . ”

Johnson cut him off, “Not now with the damage control reports! What’s the status of the tac net? And since Kidd is down where is Paul Jones focusing our fire?”

Steenbock worked furiously and attempted to wipe his brow again, the sweat stinging his eyes. “Our tac net is offline—we’ve got to rely on Paul Jones. And they’ve  . . .  wait, standby . . .  they’ve oriented all fire forward to engage the missiles. We’re ignoring the remaining drones.”

Just then everything in CIC went dark. Seconds ticked by and after what seemed like an eternity the emergency power flickered on and they were bathed in red light. The plots came back to life shortly thereafter as well as the communications. Artificial gravity was gone as well and the inertial dampeners were on the fritz. As Johnson watched the display come back she could see that most systems were in the red, but the weapons were still operational—thank goodness for small miracles. The entire ship jarred with repeated hits from the drones, while the defensive fires zeroed in on the incoming missiles. She focused on the tactical displays and watched as the icons representing the enemy’s incoming barrage winked out one by one. They were taking one hell of a hammering from the unmanned craft but they were enjoying success against the incoming projectiles. That was right up until Paul Jones took a direct hit from the one that got through the fusillade.

“Report!”

“Ma’am, Paul Jones just took a wicked hit. They are reporting significant damage but their systems are still operational. They won’t know for sure until the damage control teams check in, but they think they’ve suffered significant casualties. But they report that they are still in the fight.”

“Time until we are in torpedo range?”

“We have been for the last two minutes ma’am—at least we are for their destroyers. The frigate and cruiser are still out of range. Tubes are standing by for launch.” Steenbock went through the trouble of actually turning to face his captain so he could look her in the eye.

“Inform Paul Jones we recommend pressing forward until we get within energy range of their picket, then hit them with everything we’ve got. Hopefully we’ll be able to overwhelm them and do some damage. I’m concerned that if we loose the torpedoes now, they just get shot down and it’ll be a waste of perfectly good ordnance.” She was guessing now. She’d been briefed on the enemy’s tactics and weapons capabilities—all of which they’d trained for back on Trajan. It had become painfully apparent that much of that information was wrong and that now she would have to make it up as she went along.

“Ma’am Paul Jones acknowledges and concurs.”

Another violent jolt rocked Moffet and without warning the surviving drones disengaged. A good number were vaporized as they attempted to run but far too many got away for anyone’s comfort.

“How many did we get Mr. Steenbock?”

“We knocked out roughly two-thirds of them ma’am—they still have plenty left to do some damage. It looks like they are heading back to Contact Alpha to presumably rearm and refuel.”

“And Contacts Gamma through Epsilon?” Johnson was suddenly distracted as an errant access panel floated past her face followed up by random pieces of hardware and shredded bits of metal and insulation. She looked around CIC and noticed for the first time the sorry state that they were in. Everyone in her immediate vicinity seemed to be more or less okay, but she had one eye on the casualty numbers that kept rolling in. They had taken a serious beating and this thing hadn’t even really started yet.

“Contacts Gamma through Epsilon have increased speed and are making a beeline right for us. They will be within energy range within . . .  no, strike that. They’re already in range. What are your orders?” Steenbock was preparing to disengage tac net control and go to manual weapons control protocols when the electronic order from Paul Jones beat him to the punch. Scores of torpedoes belched forth just as the main energy projectors lashed out.

Their guns focused all of their fire on a single Dominion ship while the “smart” torpedoes followed up at maximum speed. The armor buckled and peeled off under the onslaught. It lasted only milliseconds before detonating into a ball of hot gas. The torpedoes immediately recalculated and shifted their focus to Contact Delta.

“Skipper Contact Epsilon is destroyed and wait . . .  INCOMING!” Steenbock instinctively grabbed his four-point harness and braced for impact.

The two surviving Dominion destroyers fired back with everything they had—dividing their fire between the two IP tin cans. Moffet shuddered as armor plate melted and sheered away. Damage alarms wailed in CIC and the emergency power began to fail. Paul Jones took several violent hits and began to maneuver into position to protect Moffet when a beam of focused energy punched through her guts. The cooling systems that fed the primary coil were blasted to junk. Not a living soul on board Paul Jones knew it, since the crew working below decks keeping the power plant running were all incinerated or crushed from savage overpressure and decompression.

As the tin can suffered her mortal blow its torpedoes struck home and obliterated Contact Delta. In under a second the two ships coordinated their fires under control of Paul Jones’ tac net and focused on the remaining light picket vessel. The crews found themselves nothing more than spectators as computers worked firing solutions in the span of nanoseconds. And before anyone on either destroyer could utter a word Contact Epsilon winked out from their tactical plots.

“Skipper, we’ve eliminated their screening element and Contacts Alpha and Beta appear to be retreating, but they’re not moving nearly as fast as we are. We will close the distance with them and be within engagement range shortly.” Steenbock interrupted his report as the emergency power failed again and they found themselves in the dark. A moment later the lights and computers struggled to come back on.

The captain thought for a minute before responding. “They aren’t trying to get away, they’re merely buying some time until they get those drones refueled and rearmed. At which point they’ll engage. What’s the status of Paul Jones?”

“Captain, Paul Jones reports severe damage across the board, but they say that they are ready to press the attack with us,” Childers said, her voice quaking from adrenaline.

“We’re both in bad shape, we’ve expended all of our torpedoes and both enemy vessels are out of our class. That being said, we’ve still got to buy the fleet more time. Maintain our course, we are going to finish this one way or the other.” Johnson received no acknowledgement, the crew knew what they had to do.

Just as Steenbock updated his targeting solutions Paul Jones’ coil detonated, belching forth gas and plasma. The ship and all hands went up like a nova. Moffet was hammered with chunks of wreckage from the explosion and lurched viciously. The damage control teams down below were slammed into decks, bulkheads, and twisted metal. The crew in CIC strained in their four-point harnesses as they were pelted with debris. The emergency power went out again and they were all left in velvety darkness.

Lieutenant Commander Latisha Johnson opened up the small rectangular pack attached to the wrist of her left gauntlet and pulled out the cable and adapter within it. She manually plugged into the control panel and powered it up with juice from her crash suit batteries. The monitor dimly lit up and gave her what information it had—which was sketchy at best. Everything was offline, including the artificial atmosphere. The only thing the survivors on board had going for them was the oxygen left in their suits . . .  and that was going to be gone in just under twenty-four hours.

For all intents and purposes, this little attack was over.

✽✽✽

Admiral Jenkins stared at the holographic display in silence. The Chief of Staff stood next to him—if just barely out of striking distance—unwilling to say the first word, afraid of how the Old Man might react. The rest of the primary staff stood back a few paces along the periphery, doing their very best to blend into the shadows. What they were looking at was an unmitigated disaster and while nobody in the room was at fault, it was still their problem.

Instead of snapping in his traditional fashion, the Admiral remained amazingly calm. “Okay Rodney, what do you think happened here?”

The Chief of Staff, suddenly relieved that his face was not unceremoniously ripped off by the boss relaxed just a little. “Admiral, right now everything is speculation but we think we’re looking at the result of a glitch in the navigational programming.”

Jenkins continued to stare at the three-dimensional image in front of him depicting the most current disposition and status of his fleet.

Not receiving any other cues from the commander, the Chief of Staff nervously continued. “Sir, as you can clearly see elements of the fleet are still translating into normal space, but everything is a scrambled mess. What’s worse is we’re missing nearly sixty-percent of our capital ships and their escorts. We’re hoping that they show up soon, but we simply don’t know anything right now.”

“Hope is not a plan Rodney.”

“Yes Admiral. The divisions and squadrons are currently consolidating and bringing themselves back into some semblance of organization—at least what’s arrived so far. Getting the fleet sorted out will take hours. Would you like the bad news now?” The Chief lowered the hand-scrawled notes he was looking at.

Jenkins turned and simply gave him an icy stare.

“We’ve already got elements in contact. Some of our pickets are engaged with the enemy right now.” He pulled out pointer. “Right here. At this current time the enemy has not seen us yet, but that will not be the case for much longer. We have very little time before we lose that one single advantage.”

He considered that for a moment. “Alright, this is what I want. Begin issuing orders across the command net to every ship in the fleet. We’re too spread out and intermingled so it’s impractical for us to sort ourselves out into our designated organizations—at least within any reasonable timeframe. So, have the division and squadron commanders assemble ad hoc formations out of the ships within their immediate vicinities while pressing forward and attack the enemy squadrons.

“Admiral, with so few ships of the line available we aren’t going to be much of a match for the Dominion fleet.” The Chief of Staff did not need to point this out.

“Well then, the Navy is going to make a lot of heroes today.”

✽✽✽

Paddy O’Connor burst into flight ops completely out of breath and looking every bit the worse for wear. He steadied himself against the status board and found the CAG talking to a small cluster of officers. He was animated and making wild gestures with his arms and when he was done those officers bolted out the door, pushing past the still very disoriented major.

“Paddy, what’s the status of your team?” The CAG was addressing him and it took a moment before his mind processed the information.

“Uh, I’m not sure CAG. I’m not even sure how I got here just now.” Major O’Connor’s head was still pounding.

The Commander Attack Group—Commander Rik Beltran—tossed him an auto-injector. “Use this right now.”

Chris caught the vial, pulled the plastic protective tip off with his teeth and jammed it into his arm through the sleeve. The spring-loaded needle punched through fabric and skin and delivered a potent dose of chemicals into his bloodstream. It literally took seconds before the stimulants took effect and the commander of the “Grey Fox Squadron” felt his head clear and his muscles steady. He was suddenly lucid and freshly energized. He was fully prepared to study for a nuclear physics exam while running a marathon.

“Better?”

“Yeah, better boss.”

“Good, now get yourself and your people suited up and launched, and I want it done ten minutes ago!” Beltran was already pointing toward the hatch indicating that he wanted Paddy the hell out of there.

“But what about a briefing?”

“I’ll be launching with you all in the C2 bird—I’ll give you everything you need to know on the way. Now move!”

✽✽✽

Paddy was still securing the seals on his pressure suit as he worked his way down the catwalk toward the elevators where the fighters rested on their gantries. He had to squeeze past a number of ratings as they raced about, preparing the assorted fighter and attack squadrons for battle. One electrician’s mate came down the walkway so fast, her face buried in her notepad scrolling through some list or other, that she slammed into him and almost knocked him over the railing, threatening to send him plummeting a good thirty meters or more into the belly of the carrier. She dropped her workbook onto the diamond plate and stumbled just a bit, then without missing a beat she snatched up the small electronic device and kept on moving without even looking back or otherwise acknowledging Paddy’s presence.

Approaching his bird he could see the other members of his squadron lowering themselves into their respective cockpits, donning helmets, plugging in, and running through pre-flight checklists. He spotted his XO already seated and strapped in when the two made eye contact. Paddy mouthed the words to the single question he had on his mind, “Are we good?” He was relieved when Dickcheese simply responded with a “thumbs up” gesture.

He mounted a small steel ladder and climbed down into his fighter, immediately settling in. It wasn’t precisely a fighter however, it was a strike fighter—dual-role cross between fighter and attack craft, designed to carry various types of munitions. It could take on enemy interceptors or it could go after their larger ships. The F/A-56 Goshawk was not as nimble as the dedicated fighters in carrier battle groups, but it could carry an enormous payload—assuming that there was anything available. Paddy punched up his weapons status and smiled—yup, there were explodey-type things mounted on his hardpoints, and lots of them. His manifest was showing one dozen Rapier anti-ship missiles, all in the “green.” Guns were “green” as well and the fuel was topped off, to include an external fuel tank. He had not received a brief from the CAG, but if his load-out was any indication it looked like the Grey Foxes were going in deep—somewhere—to take on something big. Which was perfectly acceptable as far as he was concerned.

He pulled his helmet on and powered up the comms. Text messages populated his holographic screen and voices filled his headphones conducting individual checks. “Hey Dick, are we up?”

“Roger that, there’s an ass in every seat and we are more or less ready to rock this shit.” Captain Barry “Dickcheese” Yates sounded like a man born-again hard.

Paddy O’Connor never thought he’d be so happy to hear from his fellow Marine aviator. “What do you mean ‘more or less’?”

“Not all the load-outs are the same and well shit, we don’t even know what we’re supposed to be doing yet. Doesn’t matter though, everybody’s checked in and ready to fuck some shit up.” Dickcheese was in rare form.

Just then the gantries to their left loaded with fighters from SF-131 Black Cats began to shift and transferred their precious cargoes into the elevators where they would be lowered to the launch bays. The equipment moved with swift and smooth mechanical precision and it took no more than a minute or so before these craft were punched out into space. Other lifts activated throughout the forward hangars pushing out the electronic warfare and early warning birds.

Warning lights illuminated the cockpit and the clamshell canopy slowly lowered into place. The outside racket resounding within the hangar—muffled by Paddy’s helmet, silenced itself even more once he was sealed within his little cocoon. He was in his own little world now, a world of flashing displays and artificial audio signals. A moment later he could feel the Goshawk begin to move—the inertial dampeners not yet fully engaged. He knew the clock was running now and he had scant little time left to do his final checks. He looked over the scores of gauges and meters that decorated the inside of the cockpit. A pilot learned early on in flight school that one didn’t check each individual readout, one just scanned them all and looked for anything out of tolerance. As he did so he confirmed that all lights and needles were in the “green.” He was good to go.

The Goshawk’s engine rumbled awake and when the inertial dampeners came online there were no physical cues for the pilot when his craft burst from the launch bay into the cold vacuum of space. His only indication was a vibration he felt through his instruments and seat, as well as the updates populating his Heads Up Display. Spacefighter canopies were opaque and covered with an assortment of readouts that the pilots used to gain and maintain situational awareness while “flying” their birds.

The HUD lit up with dozens of icons on the short range scanner. It was reassuring to see the rest of his squadron populate the screen as they formed up on him. He noticed on the edge of the screen where the early warning craft—code named Gypsum—was located in relation to the rest of them. That was where the CAG was physically located and he would be accompanying the strike force to battle.

“All stations this is Gypsum Actual, stand by for air mission orders.”

✽✽✽

The Aquila’s entire space wing had launched and the CAG had given them a reasonably detailed brief mid-flight on the way to their primary target packages. They were focused on a Dominion Dreadnought and several battleships that constituted roughly fifty percent of their heavy hitters in the local system. The original plan had them working in concert with space wings from Accipiter and Ibis, but since neither of those ships had translated from hyperspace they were on their own. The CAG had made it abundantly clear that if they failed to neutralize those ships the fleet did not have enough fire power to put up any sort of fight and that put the entire attack in jeopardy. In short, failure was not an option.

“Paddy, this is Professor, the boys and I—and BOTT too I guess—were discussing a few issues before going into hyper and we were hoping you could shed some light on some things.” Professor could stand the silent anxiety no longer and decided to break radio silence. They had been assured that the communications line was undetectable and secure so there was no danger of giving themselves away.

“What’s your question Professor?” Paddy was slightly annoyed, he had other things on his plate just then, but he was capable of multi-tasking.

“Well like I said, the boys and I . . . ”

“I’m a girl asshole.” BOTT interrupted.

“Yeah, sorry. Us guys and BOTT were talking about the liberty situation after this op is over.” Professor felt very proud of himself for breaking the ice with the commander.

“I’m not sure now is the best time to bring this up Professor.” Dickcheese interjected.

“No, no, it’s fine. We can discuss it now. We’ve got a bit of time.” Paddy was now growing somewhat amused. The pilots in his squadron, like all the other squadrons, spent far too much time with one other and as a result they fought like a bunch of pre-pubescent siblings constantly squabbling and fighting over the most trivial matters. None of them fought with the commander of course, so Paddy normally sat back and enjoyed himself while watching the fireworks.

“We were wondering if when this thing is over with, will we be able to take some liberty? We haven’t had any time off in quite a while and we’d like to blow off a little steam.” Professor said.

“What Professor’s trying to say is that he wants to get drunk and get his pole greased by some local hookers,” BOTT said without a hint of irony in her voice.

“Let’s be fair about this BOTT, in Professor’s defense I’d like to get my pole greased too,” DROOL quipped.

“Yeah, me too. My hand is developing some wicked calluses,” said Flash.

“All right, all right, I get the picture. I’ll tell you what, I’ll take it under advisement.” Paddy was half distracted by his updating plot and the rather engaging conversation going on over the net.

“If it’s an ‘order of merit’ then might I suggest a friendly competition?” Baron chimed in.

“I knew this was coming,” said Dickcheese.

“Why don’t we tally up the kills and we rank order based upon that?” Baron sounded very proud of himself making the suggestion. Though that is what First Lieutenant Chet “Baron” Devonshire was most talented at—that and sounding like a pompous, pretentious, patrician asshole.

“I’m up for that. I got my eyes on that big fat Dommie dreadnought and I got a Rapier with its name on it!” Blackout could no longer resist the temptation to offer up a contribution to the shit-talking.

“Whatever fucktard, you have to actually find your way to the target first before you can shoot at it,” Animal retorted.

“So says the guy who wants to be first in line for the date rape,” Stammer said rather proudly.

“The only thing Animal’s going to rape is Rosy Palmer and her five sisters.” BOTT piled on.

While the banter went on back and forth Paddy listened to the command channel carefully monitoring the progress of the space wing as the distance closed and their objective neared. The enemy flotilla made no indication that they were aware of them and seemed to being solely focused on the main body of Home Fleet. Still, he felt his stomach turning in knots and his mouth began to dry. He would have given about anything at that moment for a nice cold glass of water. His environmental suit was regulating his body temperature but even so he could feel the sweat beading up on his forehead and the wetness on his palms. His pulse was elevating and he could feel the throbbing on his temples.

The tactical plot displayed small three dimensional imagery representing the current disposition of friendly and enemy forces. The fighter squadrons were practically in position to support the strike fighters as they made their runs at the big fish. The EW birds were doing a good job masking their infiltration and everything appeared to be going okay. Well, except that they were going in short two entire space wings. That part kind of sucked.

“Gypsum this is Black Cats Actual, I’m picking up some sort of anomaly along my vector.” The commander of the Black Cats fighter squadron had broken the silence on the command frequency and by the tone of his voice it did not inspire confidence.

“Black Cats this is Gypsum, exactly what do you mean by ‘anomaly’?” The CAG asked.

“Not sure, we’re picking up some slight radiation readings where there shouldn’t be any and it’s barely registering on our equipment. But it’s definitely there.” Lieutenant Commander Jeffers was a hotdog and a braggart with a reputation for being a complete jerk, but he was also considered to be very good at his job. He was always taken seriously. “Wait, hold on . . .  stand by. Holy shit!”

Paddy’s plot instantly populated with scores of unidentified contacts that were interspersed among the Black Cats. In the blink of an eye half the fighter squadron simply ceased to exist. The survivors scattered and started fighting for their lives. The half-dozen of them that remained found themselves surrounded by near a hundred enemy drones screaming at them from every direction. The handful of fighter pilots flew like they had never flown before in a desperate bid just to stay alive.

“Boss we’ve got problems!” Dickcheese announced, instantly silencing the grab-ass. “I’ve picked up over a dozen enemy signatures—looks like interceptors—and they are all around us. It’s an ambush that they’re about to spring on us . . . ”

“Roger that, guns free—engage! Dick, lead us in!”

The Dominion drones had been drifting in space with their engines powered down in order to make themselves invisible in the endless vacuum. It almost worked but the radioactive elements in the magazines feeding their guns betrayed them as the Protectorate craft stumbled into knife-fighting distance.

The Grey Foxes throttled their accelerators and turned directly into the dozen or so craft they could identify. The Goshawk canon opened up simultaneously and lanced through the unmanned craft shattering them before they could react. The strike fighters flew through expanding plumes of gas and wreckage.

“Gypsum Actual, this is Grey Fox, we’ve got contact. Engaging time now.” Paddy broadcast his report as the enemy played his hand. Over three hundred unmanned interceptors fired up their engines and swarmed the small group. Canon, guns, and missiles let fly in every direction as the situation quickly degraded into a massive fur ball.

“DROOL, stay with me I’ve got an idea.” BOTT lined up another ship, pulled the trigger and scored a kill.

“Need me to hold your beer for you? Shit, look out!” DROOL blasted a drone that was lining up on BOTT’s six.

“Just fucking do it!” BOTT yanked hard on the stick and peeled away with DROOL right on her heels.

As the two broke out of the fray, the throng stayed largely focused on the rest of their mates. They acted very much like a swarm singularly focused on the main concentration of human fighter craft while ignoring the outliers. This presented BOTT and DROOL with a brief respite and an opportunity.

“DROOL, the drones aren’t paying attention to us. Remember what I told you before about fooling their AI? Well, both our birds are transmitting a signal right now and those drones are ignoring us. We can support the rest of the squadron and work the edges of the drone formation and whittle them down.” BOTT jerked a hard right and intuitively hip-shot a canon burst through a pair of drones. “You follow?”

“Roger that, I’m with you. I can’t believe your program is actually working, but I guess I’m glad it does. Let’s do this thing.” DROOL swooped down past BOTT and flicked on the seeker heads on the half-dozen Stiletto missiles tucked in tight against his fuselage. He was quickly rewarded with the familiar buzz of a positive weapons lock, at which point he fired all six simultaneously. He watched in his HUD as all six streaked forward and veered off toward different targets. The drones made no attempt to evade and flashed only briefly before disappearing forever. “Suh-weet! Did you see that? I just smoked six of them at once! That reminds of that one time back on Trajan in flight school . . . ”

“Um, DROOL?” BOTT stopped him mid-sentence.

“Yeah BOTT?”

“Seriously, nobody gives a shit.” Without missing a beat she blasted another Dominion craft to bits.

✽✽✽

Paddy O’Connor labored to breathe, and strained like he was on the toilet. His peripheral vision was shrinking as if he were wearing blinders and the vivid colors flashing about him in the cockpit had turned grey. He was blacking out and he knew it, but he had to keep this up for just one moment longer. Just then the reticle on his targeting display began to flicker as it locked onto the drone. A beam of charged energy lashed out and the mechanical demon popped in a brilliant flash of light.

Major O’Connor eased up on the instruments and the inertial control alarms stopped wailing in his ears. The sensation of a silverback gorilla sitting on his chest disappeared and air mercifully entered his lungs. He could move his head again and shook it just a bit inside his flight helmet. His field of vision immediately expanded and the color blindness steadily subsided. There were a few more contacts in his immediate vicinity but they could wait just a minute until he caught his breath.

“Dick, give me a SITREP.”

“Yeah boss, we splashed another five but Baron and Flash bought it right after we got jumped.” Dickcheese Yates was obviously still engaged while he delivered his report.

“Roger that. Where did they come from?” Paddy was trying to reconstruct the past five minutes in his mind. The interceptor squadrons had all been engaged but his strike fighters appeared to be closing in on some Dominion capital ships when they got ambushed by a swarm of drones that came out of nowhere. They had done an admirable job taking them down, but not without losses.

“Best I can figure is that the little fuckers were floating out here with their power plants shut down monitoring in passive mode. And when we came along they powered up and caught us with our pants around our ankles. Wait . . .  stand by.” Captain Yates pushed the stick violently forward and punched the accelerator and was able to get a lock before his guns went active. He was rewarded with an anti-climactic return on his screen that confirmed that the target was destroyed.

Paddy took a breath and then punched it, pushing the dampeners as far as the governors would allow. Every pilot entertained the idea of manually disengaging the governors, but knew better than to do that. The strike fighters were tough and could easily pull maneuvers that would crush the pilots in their ejection seats if allowed to do so. The reticle lit up again and the Goshawk’s canon claimed another victim. He then stole a glance over at the one gauge he was trying to ignore but could not.

“Dick, I’m looking at the indicators and it looks like we are all pretty close to ‘Bingo’ on fuel is that correct?”

“Roger that boss. With all this unanticipated dogfighting we’ve managed to burn up everything in the external tanks plus some. I don’t know if we’ve got enough to mop up the last of these drones and get a run in on the ships in our target folders.” Yates sounded crestfallen.

“Okay Dick, in that case I want you Blackout, Professor, and Shart to hang back and keep these little fuckers busy. I’m going to take Stammer, Animal, BOTT, DROOL and Monobrow with me and we are going to make a run. Everyone acknowledge.” Paddy eyeballed his monitor and was pleased to see all the surviving members of the Grey Foxes instant message him with the letter “a” for “acknowledged.”

Without another word Dickcheese and the three others broke away and went headlong into the remaining drones while the others formed up on their squadron commander and accelerated on a heading toward their pre-designated target packages. Paddy watched with satisfaction as Dick broke his element up into two sections and successfully drew the drones into one hell of a hairball. He almost regretted not being there himself.

Ahead of them were six enormous enemy warships steaming towards the heart of the IP fleet. There was a dreadnought escorted by two battleships and three heavy cruisers. The Grey Foxes had slipped past the enemy picket quite a while back and now they were within striking distance of something rather substantial. The six of them quietly drew together in pairs with primaries protected by their wingmen.

“How you doin’ back there Stammer?”

“Still hanging in there, so what’s the plan boss?” Stammer—the call sign awarded to First Lieutenant David Speers—wasn’t the only one looking for a bit of last-minute guidance as they quickly approached max engagement ranges.

“According to my plot it doesn’t look like anybody else has made it as far as we have. The enemy has effectively intercepted the other squadrons and have them decisively engaged. So we’re it.” The realization of what he had just said just now sinking in.

“So what do ya want us to do boss?” Stammer said without a trace of humor in his voice.

“Right . . .  so this is the deal. We are going to go after the big one on our plots. The computer has it designated as a ‘Dreadnought’ which I guess is something bigger than a battleship and something smaller than a planet.” Paddy was trying to inject a little levity into the briefing. He was failing miserably.

“The cat is out of the bag and the Dommies know we’re out here. If their scanners can’t detect us, they’ve already received reports from the interceptors so they know what to look for. They know that there are six of us so there’s no point in trying to phase in. If we take turns making a run at her they’ll just focus their fire and wait for the next pass.”

“So you want us to hit ’em at the same time then?” DROOL interrupted.

“Affirmative, we hit ’em at the same time. From different approaches and we do it fast. I’m passing along the details to your flight computers time now.” Paddy hit the “Enter” button and the timing and approach vectors populated on the entire squadron’s monitors.

“Twelve seconds boss.” Animal interjected.

Without another word the three sections split up and got into position as they closed into attack range. Paddy resisted the urge to order the engagement until he was confident that the Rapier anti-ship missiles they had on board would get a solid lock and be well on their way before enemy defensive fire could shoot them down. So he waited and watched as all six of the friendly icons on his plot drew dangerously near to the enemy battle wagons. He knew they were definitely in range but was unsure as to whether or not they had been seen yet.

Then, without warning, the enemy warships emitted an enormous electronic racket spanning the electromagnetic spectrum. Their EW suites suddenly went from “passive” to “active” similar to a wet water naval vessel that used asdic pings to detect sonar contacts sub surface. Paddy’s monitor lit right up.

“Shit they see us!” BOTT screamed.

The Dominion ships of the line cut loose a torrent the likes of which none of them had ever seen before. Space erupted all around the vessels in blazing hot death. Energy and kinetic weapons lashed out in every direction, but mostly focused on the six lonely Goshawk strike fighters. Coming on from the most dangerous angle between two battleships, Animal and Monobrow flew into an interlocking wall of defensive fire that consumed them both in the fraction of a second. Paddy and Stammer nearly met the same fate but managed to somehow evade the worst of it, while still suffering significant damage to both their craft. DROOL and BOTT ran the gauntlet and came through unscathed and instinctively launched their ordnance.

“On the way!” DROOL cheered as he and BOTT pulled away back through the hellish nightmare of defensive fire.

“Let’s do this thing—fire!” Paddy ordered to Stammer, and both strike fighters shuddered as Rapiers cut loose from their hardpoints. They too kicked their engines well past the red line and maneuvered hard to make good their escape. As they did so Stammer took a devastating blow from a kinetic round sent forth from a railgun.

“I’m hit boss. Looks like my power output is starting to drop off,” Stammer said, reporting in complete deadpan.

“Roger that, I am going to close up on you to and help cover you with my ECM bubble.” Paddy slowed down his acceleration and maneuvered his craft in tighter with his wingman.

“I gotta run a full diagnostic on my systems but by the way she’s buffeting I think I’ve got some serious issues here.” Stammer ran a quick scan only to have the computer spit out a bunch of nonsense before completely shutting down. “Um, yeah. It’s confirmed, I’ve got some problems over here boss.”

While they were distracted neither of them noticed the status of their Rapiers. The volley of angry fish found their mark and exploded nuclear warheads center mass of the Dominion warship, triggering a detonation from the dreadnought’s own fuel rods and magazines. The follow-up blast sent forth an enormous cloud of expanding gas and debris that caught the Goshawks unawares, slamming into them at incredible speed.

One minute Paddy was refreshing his system’s status and the next he felt like he was getting kicked in the back of the head with a steel toed boot. Even with his restraints firmly in place his head still smashed into the canopy, knocking him silly. When he regained his wits he could taste blood in his mouth and bile rising up from his throat. The Goshawk wasn’t responding to his commands, every bone in his body hurt and he was just hoping like hell he didn’t have a concussion.

“Boss, are you okay?” It was BOTT and she sounded like total shit.

“I’m alive if that’s what you mean. Stammer, DROOL, you two still with us?” Paddy wanted to spit out the blood in his mouth but that would have simply resulted in him fouling the inside of his helmet.

“I’ve felt better boss. In fact I’ve woken up from week-long benders feeling spritely compared to what I feel like now,” DROOL said without a trace of humor in his voice.

“Stammer, what about you?” While transmitting he attempted to update his plot, but it refused to comply. His systems were suffering from cascading malfunctions across the board.

“Boss, I don’t know if you can see this but my system shows that Stammer is still alive but his vitals don’t look good. I think we took one hell of a hit when that Dommie ship went up.” BOTT coughed just a little. “DROOL and me can still fly but we’re out of ordnance . . .  well, except for the guns, but they won’t do shit against those battleships.”

“Paddy this is Dickcheese, how do you read me?”

“Got you loud and clear Dick. How are you boys doing out there?” Paddy was relieved to hear that his XO was still out there. Somewhere.

“Holding our own Boss. Anyway we’re en route to hit those battleships.”

“Did you finish off all those drones? There were still quite a few of them left.” Paddy’s vision was blurred and he was having trouble focusing.

“Negative, we broke contact. We’re going flat out at full acceleration and they can’t quite keep up with us. I plan on breaking up my two sections to target the remaining battleships while you all get back to Aquila.”

Paddy blinked a few times as his entire system crashed and rebooted itself. “Dick you can’t keep that up. At that speed you’ll burn up all your fuel. We can intercept the remaining drones while you make a run at those targets, that way you’ll have enough juice to make it back.” Paddy punched his monitor with a gloved fist in an attempt to get it back online faster. It didn’t work.

“Negative Boss, those drones are on us like glue—they see what we are about to do and they won’t take their attention off us. Plus you guys are a fucking mess. Get the hell out of here while you can. We’ll still have a little juice left in our tanks to make it part way back—you can send some Search and Rescue birds after us later. Just go.”

Paddy didn’t want to admit it but the XO made sense. Though he felt like a fucking coward leaving him and the others while they were still in the middle of a fight. That wasn’t what a Marine was supposed to do. And then there was the issue of Stammer who was drifting alone out there and most certainly alive. They just couldn’t leave him behind either.

“BOTT, DROOL, you two head back to Aquila. Rearm, refuel and get follow-on instructions from whoever the hell is still alive back there that’s in authority to issue orders. I’m staying here with Stammer until he comes to and then I’m escorting him back in. Clear?” Paddy was hoping there would be no arguments.

“Crystal clear Boss. We’re outta here. DROOL, form up on me—let’s head back. The sooner we get more fuel and ammo the quicker we can get back out here and lend a hand” Kershaw said, as she adjusted her vector in the direction of Aquila.

✽✽✽

As the pair raced their birds back to the carrier, Dickcheese led his element in at full speed against the two battleships and three heavy cruisers. It became readily apparent by the power emissions and the sluggish movement of the enemy vessels that they were also recovering from the violent end of the dreadnought. Though spread out, they had been much closer to the enemy ship than their Goshawks had been and were almost certainly slammed hard by the huge fireball and detritus when it went up. He quickly realized that this was going to work in their advantage. It was small consolation though, with over a hundred enemy drones hot on their tails.

“Okay fellas this is where we make our money. Blackout you form up on me, we’ve got the big one on the left. Professor and Shart, you’ve got the big boy on the right.” Dickcheese Yates painted the targets and designated them for everyone so there was no confusion. Everybody’s got two Rapiers on board—and I want you to expend no more than one on this pass. Save something for a second run. Got it?”

“Roger.”

“Got it.”

“I’m with you XO.”

Without another word the four strike fighters broke up into two sections and angled in on the largest of the remaining enemy ships with a deadly swarm in pursuit. Another series of “pings” rang out clearly marking the Goshawks on the Dominion threat boards, which was immediately followed up by desperate, inaccurate defensive fire. Normally, they would avoid a sweeping pass all the way through the defensive bubble and exposing themselves to the maximum amount of fire, but that assumed you didn’t have several score of enemy interceptors right on your ass. Dickcheese elected to deviate from established procedure and fly through a virtual hailstorm in hopes that those nasty little shits on their tails would either break off the chase or maybe get hammered flying through a wall of friendly fire. He didn’t have a clue how this was going to work out, but he was going to risk it.

As the volume of fire picked up and the target range decreased the XO became singularly focused and tuned out the rest of the universe. The Dommie warships did not have their defensive batteries synchronized, likely due to battle damage, but they made up for it by turning up the heat the best they could. A proximity alarm screamed in his headset after he was nearly hit by a hail of tungsten projectiles moving at hypersonic speeds. Then finally—mercifully—he reached his pre-designated weapons release point.

“Now! Fire!” Dickcheese ordered as he loosed a Rapier from its hardpoint.

Yates ignored his plot. He didn’t want to look at the position of the other Grey Foxes, nor did he want to see where those drones were or get a sense of the wall of energy and projectiles they were flying through. He just stared ahead at his pre-determined Initial Point glowing and pulsating on the Heads Up Display. Then he heard the static suddenly squelch and he broke out of his trance.

“XO I just lost Shart. He’s been destroyed.” Professor said without fanfare.

“Acknowledged.” Yates watched as the Rapiers streaked in on their targets. One was hit by close in batteries but the other three were still on track. He also saw that they were clearing the worst of the firestorm and that—thankfully—a good number of drones were taken out by fratricide.

Upon reaching the Initial Point he saw battleship icons change colors on his screen, indicating hits and damage. This was all very antiseptic, as the scene was quite different outside the cockpit and its blackened canopy. Two Rapiers hit the first battleship and disintegrated two enormous sections of the ship with fireballs hotter than the surface of the sun. What remained hardly resembled anything built by intelligent life. The third surviving missile hit the second battleship dead center and snapped its keel, rendering it nothing more than a shattered derelict adrift in cold space.

“Okay, everybody form up again on me, we’re making a run at those cruisers now. Acknowledge.” Yates whipped his bird around and was preparing to blast his way through the eighty or so remaining drones to get at those heavy cruisers.

“Dickcheese this is Blackout, I am ‘Bingo’ fuel.” And with that his engine cut out.

“Fuck! Professor, what’s your status?” Yates could feel his palms starting to sweat.

“XO, I’m almost out too. Listen, you go after the cruisers—you can take one of them out at least. I’ll hang back and help Blackout. Those drones are almost on us!”

Yates had several options here and all of them were shitty. And then he stole a glance at his own fuel status and quickly made up his mind. “Fine, Professor you stay with Blackout. I’m going on another run. I will send help back as soon as I can.”

“Roger that. Good luck XO.”

Dickcheese Yates flipped the Goshawk over on its back and hammered the throttle home charging right through the middle of the approaching swarm of drones. Seconds later he was blazing away and maneuvering like a mad man clawing his way through the horde. He paid no attention to the number of kills he racked up, nor did he pay any mind to the damage he was sustaining. He just fought like a maniac and blasted a hole through them until he was finally through. To his chagrin, the host did not follow him but continued on after Blackout and Professor.

Moments passed and he began to take the first bit of punishment from the defensive batteries aboard the trio of cruisers. He locked on with his one remaining Rapier before looking at his tactical plot to check the status of the two he left behind. He immediately wished that he hadn’t. Blackout—with no power at all to maneuver—was mercilessly dispatched by the enemy. Professor, wholly and completely outnumbered and out of fuel himself, made it only a few seconds longer before his light went out forever. Then, before he could break himself away from the drama going on behind him, he felt a heavy blow to his body. Looking down Yates could see blood burbling out of a massive wound in his chest. Yates’ Goshawk had been hit through the canopy by a tungsten projectile no larger than his thumb and it passed through his body and out the other side of the strike fighter before he could even register what was going on.

The last thing Captain Barry “Dickcheese” Yates heard was the hum in his headset indicating that his Rapier nuclear anti-ship missile had a solid lock on its target.

He then slipped into unconsciousness . . .  forever.

20,193 C.E.

HMPS Imperator

5th Squadron, 18th Fleet

Trajan System

Marino clutched the cup of hot tea with both hands, feeling the reassuring warmth radiating through the hull of the anachronistic ceramic mug he preferred to use. Constantly drinking tea was hardly a satisfactory replacement for sleep, but it seemed like every time his head hit the pillow, another urgent call would interrupt his rest. Seeing little point in actually trying to get any respite, Pavel just elected to stay on the bridge until he physically could stand it no longer. This was usually when one of his officers caught him sleeping while standing up, half-way into some report or other. He didn’t know what time it was anymore and he knew his nerves were frayed and if he didn’t get a break soon, one of his little mistakes was going to become a big one.

It had seemingly taken forever to get the sitting government finally loaded on a series of transports and off the surface of Trajan. The fighting from insurrectionists was spreading like wildfire and the ground units of the army and marines were having a terrible time keeping the capital secure, while doing everything in their power to ensure the evacuations were possible. They had nearly lost a couple of shuttles loaded full of high commission representatives and one of the cabinet members, but they ultimately managed to get everyone out safely. Now the poor bastards on the surface were left to fend for themselves and that was really hard to think about.

Marino kept in constant contact with the Joint Operations Center and grew fond of Colonel Bridger, the Current Operations Chief who was the glue holding everything together. There were any number of senior flag officers—generals and admirals—down there in command, but it was Bridger taking the calls, making key decisions, and working the backdoor channels keeping everything from imploding in on itself. Like Marino, Bridger was physically and emotionally spent, but he continued to carry out his duty as hopeless as he clearly knew it to be.

Pavel had hoped that as soon as the government was evacuated and their ships joined the squadron that they would get out of there. But he soon realized he was being naïve and that his troubles had only just begun. They could not leave until they knew where to rendezvous with the Home Fleet at, and they hadn’t heard anything from them in quite some time. In fact it was becoming a bit disconcerting that they hadn’t heard anything since they made the transition into hyperspace through Heaven’s Gate. Surely they should have heard something by now, and the fact that they hadn’t was filling him full of dread.

He was seriously considering different options at this point and none of them were good. He was toying with the idea of setting off for one of the three jump points code named “Sanctuary One, Two, and Three.” There was a one in three chance that they’d pick the correct one and be in the right place at the right time for a link up with Home Fleet. But there was a two in three chance they’d be at the wrong one and that would mean a complete failure of the mission and almost certain capture or destruction by the Maktoum Dominion.

Another option that was similar to the first one was splitting the transports up into three groups and sending them to each of the “Sanctuary” jump points. He could evenly distribute members of the royal family and the government among the different ships headed in each direction. One of the three groups would make it at the very least and the other two would just have to hope for the best. Meanwhile Pavel would keep the squadron here in the Trajan System under his command and fight to the bitter end to defend his home world and come what may. That would ensure at least some of the leadership made good their escape, and Pavel could have his clean, heroic death that he often longed for lately.

As much as he wanted this all to be over, even if it meant his own death he knew that was wrong. Whenever the darkest thoughts gained purchase in his mind he simply looked at the ragged members of his crew working diligently right there on the bridge in front of him. Then he thought about all the members of the crew working throughout the Imperator when he did his daily inspections to the various sections of the vessel. Those men and women were working harder than he would have ever expected, and he knew that the other crews on the other ships under his command were working just as hard. No, he couldn’t take the easy way out and sacrifice them in such a way. No matter what, they still had to try.

Complicating matters were the constant calls from representatives of the royal family and the different government officials. Few of them would contact him directly of course, that would be demeaning for them to talk directly to a mere captain. A few of the more savvy ones did, but most would just contact him through emissaries, secretaries, deputies, and adjutants. They all wanted the same thing, to know what was going on and when they would be leaving. None of them would be satisfied by talking with Pavel’s XO, or his Operations Officer. They wanted the report from the man in charge, who in this case was a measly captain—a person they wouldn’t normally allow into one of their meetings unless he was carrying a bag for somebody of real substance. And now this mere captain held all of their fates in his exhausted hands.

But the real worry, the one that had his stomach acid churning and his gut tied in knots, were the reports of the Dominion reconnaissance probes that had been identified in the system. Three of them that they knew about for sure, and two other ghost signatures that couldn’t be positively identified but had to be assumed as belligerent. The squadron’s intelligence officer—Lieutenant Commander Liu—reminded them all of what they already knew, that for every recon probe they positively identified there were statistically three others that slipped through their fingers. Meaning quite simply that the Dominion knew precisely what was going on in the Trajan System and that sitting here continuing to wait was going to end badly.

It had to be assumed that the enemy knew that the Home Fleet was not there. It had to be assumed that they knew about the evacuations, and that there was only one lonely squadron with a single heavy cruiser left behind to defend the entire system. It was easy to conclude that a Dominion battle group would be on its way, burning out their accelerator cores to get there before any help could arrive. If any was coming at all. Which there wasn’t.

Pavel took a sip of the hot tea, hoping for the millionth time that it would take his mind somewhere else.

It didn’t.

“Captain, Combat.” It was Lieutenant Commander Kaya and she sounded a bit more lively than usual.

“Go ahead Combat.” Marino said.

“Roger, we just picked up a contact at eight nine decimal two seven four, at two nine light seconds. IFF identifies it as a pigeon. Should I relay secure comms to ops?” Kaya knew the protocol, it was clear from her tone that she was just as hopeful as the rest of them that it was finally the message they had been waiting for.

The “pigeon” was a secure communications platform that physically traveled through space and once it reached its destination would send its data package in a burst transmission. Due to the extreme distances they operated in, often through hyperspace, conventional communications were impractical at best. The standard practice for sending communications was sending a sort of “message in a bottle” from one star system to the next in a pigeon. If intercepted they would “zero” themselves out and self-destruct, and if there was any discrepancy in recognition codes they would default to destroying the information and themselves. They were small little robots, light and stealthy, with incredible range and speed. They were also the lifeline between friendly forces operating in far-flung sectors.

“Combat, send the message to my conference room, I’ll take it in there,” Marino said before turning to the Watch Officer. “Get ahold of the XO and have him meet me in the conference room right away.”

The conference room was located just offset from the bridge and it was barely big enough to be considered a “room.” But it was large enough to get a half-dozen chairs and a secure comms suite for briefing the senior officers on the ship. Pavel often used it as a quiet space to get some work done when he needed some time away from the rest of the crew.

Within a couple of minutes a hologram illuminated the center of the compartment with a pulsing red light awaiting his authentication code. He punched it in and then leaned forward for the standard retinal scan which unlocked access to the messages. What he saw did not inspire confidence, nor did it do anything to salve his frayed nerves. In fact, he was pretty sure he was going to develop an ulcer from this in the very near future.

The hatch chimed, indicating that someone was requesting access. It was the XO. Pavel hit the entry access authorization icon and let him in.

Archie Aydin rolled in with a hopeful look on his face and quickly secured the hatch behind him. “Is this it Skipper? Did we finally get the rendezvous coordinates?”

“Yes Archie we did, but we’ve got problems,” Pavel croaked as he rubbed his bloodshot eyes, right before scratching the day-old stubble on his chin.

“I’m almost afraid to ask,” said the XO, his voice filled with concern.

“See for yourself.” Pavel was motioning the XO over so he could read the message displayed in front of his captain.

“Great. Just great.” Aydin was shaking his head as he read the decrypted message.

“The Home Fleet suffered significant losses and lost two of the three remaining jump points. The only viable option is ‘Sanctuary Three’ and that one’s the furthest away from us.

“To make matters worse, the Dommies are in pursuit and we won’t have ‘Sanctuary Three’ for very long either. Admiral Jenkins said that they will hold for approximately two more weeks, and then they will transition through ‘Sanctuary Three’ whether we make the rendezvous or not.

“After the distance and time the pigeon took to get here, and the shrinking window of opportunity we have very little time to get underway.” Pavel was shaking his head, running different options through his exhausted mind.

“I assume that they didn’t send coordinates to the final destination on the far side of ‘Sanctuary Three’ did they?”

“Nope. They did not. Admiral Jenkins did not send that information, nor did he give a reason why. He just said we need to make the rendezvous with the remnants of Home Fleet or else we are on our own.”

“Well that figures. We can’t ever catch a break. You want me to get Ops to see how much time we have before we need to set sail?” The XO seemed unsurprisingly anxious.

“That’s not necessary, I already ran the numbers. They’re bad.” Marino was feeling about five hundred years old right about now, and collapsed into a chair. “If we left this very second we’d never make it in time. Our problem is the transports. They’re too fucking slow.”

“You probably already know what I’m thinking Skipper,” the XO said, taking a seat as well.

“I know, I know. But we’re not leaving the politicians behind. They’re the sole reason we’re here in the first place. No, there’s another solution. An unpalatable one, but one to be sure.

“We leave the two slowest ships behind and we make off with the rest.” Pavel crossed his arms and sighed. “That will give us a twelve-hour window. We’ll barely make the rendezvous in time, but it’s feasible.”

Aydin stood up from his chair and started toward the hatch. “Roger that Skipper, I’ll tell Ops and get movement initiated.”

“Hold up. First we need to get all the evacuees off of those ships and transferred over to combat vessels in the squadron. And we need to do it immediately. There’s no time to waste.”

“Skipper I know I don’t need to remind you of this, but there’s not enough life support capacity for the additional personnel on our warships. We’re loaded for bear as it is. We’re talking about taking on almost eight hundred people, it’s just too many.”

“That’s why we’re going to transfer an equal number of sailors over to the transports and send them back to Trajan.”

“Skipper, you can’t be serious. Those are our people we’re talking about here. Leaving Trajan behind is one thing, but abandoning our shipmates?” The XO’s face began to flush red as he struggled to maintain the volume of his voice and the hotness of his temper. “Those politicians got us into this mess and then made sure that they were the first rats to jump the sinking ship. Our sailors have risked their lives over and over again for us . . .  we just can’t do this!”

“We are going to do this, and we’re going to do this right now before it’s too late. Now, I am going to walk out of this compartment and I am going to issue the order. We do not have any time to fuck around with this. Are you going to support me on this or not?” Pavel gave Archie an icy stare.

“After all we have been through, do you even need to ask me that?” The XO was crestfallen.

“Is that a ‘yes’ then?”

“You know it is Skipper,” Aydin said with the voice of a dejected child.

“Fine.” Pavel slowly stood up and tried to smooth the wrinkles from his jacket. “Then let’s get this over with and get the fuck out of this rotten system.”

20,193 C.E.

HMPS Imperator

5th Squadron, 18th Fleet

Jump Point “Portage;” codename “Sanctuary Three”

Pavel Marino stared at the plot currently projected in the center of the bridge while several officers and enlisted ratings worked to update the various filters, refreshing them at routine intervals. The officers and sailors were busy, but everything was under control and things were calm for a change. They were on schedule and he could clearly see the ships of Home Fleet right there on the holographic display. The fact that they had made it in time and hadn’t been left behind brought a sense of relief to them all.

The race to get there initially started with the maddening transfer of evacuees from the two slowest ships and spreading them out within the squadron. The captains of the ships stoically obeyed the orders to leave behind crewmembers, but he soon found himself one of the most unpopular people in uniform. Not that he had a lot of friends to begin with—command is a lonely place after all—but now he really was on his own. Even the XO stopped talking to him for a while, but that was probably for the best anyway.

He was hoping for a bit of respite during their two-week sprint for “Sanctuary Three,” but turned out to be wishful thinking. He really did think that once underway things would quiet down for a bit and he’d get the rest he so badly needed. That was not to be as the calls from the royal family and the politicians only increased. Pavel found himself constantly fielding questions from senior staffers about every conceivable inconvenience, discomfort and complaint from the anointed classes. They griped about everything from lack of private toilets to the uninspired and plebeian menu options in the galley. Every inquiry that came to him was urgent, and all of them distracted him from something legitimately important he really needed to be doing instead.

The message from Admiral Jenkins made it clear that Home Fleet had suffered significant losses in their efforts to keep the escape route open. He did not state specifically what those losses were, only that they were substantial. So it came as no great surprise when Marino’s squadron got within sensor range and first witnessed the shattered remains of the fleet. It might have been disheartening to see, had it not been for all the great tragedies they all had witnessed in the last few years.

Now they loitered near “Sanctuary Three” which was actually a jump point named “Portage.” The Home Fleet was deployed in such a manner that it would fight just long enough to get as many of them through as possible. Though if they were attacked and came under any kind of pressure, necessarily some of them would have to be sacrificed to save the others. There would have been no other practical solution.

“Databurst transmission from the Flagship,” announced Lieutenant Schafly, while hastily updating the plot.

“Pull it up,” Marino said while taking a seat.

A second large screen illuminated right beside the plot, and the image of Admiral Jenkins came into view. Since they weren’t quite close enough for a proper real-time conversation, this was a recorded message. “Captain, I want to congratulate you on a successful mission getting our royal and political leadership here safely. Job well done.

“As you may have already surmised, we’ve had a tough go out here and managed to hold on by the skin of our teeth. But we have a way out and for that reason I am willing to declare our efforts a success now that you are here. There is little time to waste so we’ll make the translation as soon as you arrive.

“You may have wondered why I didn’t send you coordinates for our destination on the pigeon, but that was largely due to the fact that we didn’t have one selected when we launched it to you. In the meantime, we have found a suitable system to retrograde to and we’ll share that with you as you form up with the rest of the fleet. We are confident that the location selected will offer us the conditions that we need to consolidate, reorganize, and make preparations to recover what we have lost.

“When you get within one light-second we’ll establish a secure line and we’ll have a conference with yourself and the other senior commanders.

“Again, a magnificent effort on your part and I look forward to meeting you in person. Jenkins out.”

✽✽✽

The jump point named “Portage” had been built in a time so distant in the past, that no one really knew how old it actually was. At different periods in history it was heavily utilized, but had seen only irregular use in contemporary times. This one, like all the others was a scientific and engineering marvel based upon an ancient alien technology that had been obtained sometime in antiquity. The science of it was still not entirely understood with any clarity, but the mechanics of making it function had been mastered for a long, long time. The history of it had become corrupted over the millennia, and the stories were more legend than fact any longer. They were now more or less just considered something that had “always been” even though that was clearly not true.

The jump points themselves were a physical man-made construction co-located with a rare, naturally occurring celestial anomaly. The rift, when managed with sophisticated navigational hardware, could send vessels or other objects across the galaxy faster than the speed of light for all intents and purposes. This made interstellar travel a practical endeavor for human beings, since they no longer crawled through the vastness of space at sub-light speeds.

Since each jump point relied on a naturally occurring aberration, they were all unique in their capability. No two of them in the charted universe were the same, and each one was meticulously studied and exploited. It often took centuries to learn the potential of each of them. Most of them still held many secrets yet to be discovered—or more likely rediscovered.

The hardware was also shockingly expensive to build, and nearly impossible to construct using some of the rarest materials known to man. Between the amount of resources and effort invested in each one, coupled with their value in making interstellar travel viable, the jump points were priceless. So valuable in fact, that the Law of Warfare prohibited their intentional destruction. There were a few things that were not allowed in the convention of armed conflict; the destruction or tampering with a star in an inhabited system, the destruction of a planet populated by humans, and the damaging or modification of jump points. It simply wasn’t done.

Like the one named “Portage” many had been constructed and activated hundreds, if not thousands of years before, servicing generations of star travelers. But with the ebb and flow of human habitation across the galaxy along with the trade and military adventures that went along with it, some of the jump points had fallen into disuse. They still functioned—and were subjected to maintenance when necessary—but many quietly stood as monuments in places that had once known glory in the faded past. These lonely artifacts stood as silent sentinels in the far reaches of space.

Now, this ancient one was witnessing the most activity it had seen in many centuries. This one had fallen into disuse and was in an area largely forgotten by contemporary people so it made an ideal place to hide. Or in this case for the remnants of the Interstellar Protectorate, it represented the opportunity to disappear.

20,193 C.E.

HMPS Ecnomus

Interstellar Protectorate Home Fleet

Jump Point “Portage;” codename “Sanctuary Three”

(T-minus Fifteen Minutes to Transition)

Admiral Jenkins imperiously strode into his conference room with his aide de camp and chief of staff in tow. The two of them peeled off and took a seat in the corner while their commander faced the projected images of all the military commanders of the fleet. Included among them were all the captains of each of the vessels, along with the senior ground and space wing commanders as well. Conspicuously missing were any civilian representatives of any kind, particularly since this was to be the announcement about their final destination.

“Ladies and gentlemen, let me start off by saying that it has been a distinct honor to have served with you for all of this time, and it makes me the proudest man in uniform to have been allowed the privilege of being your commanding officer.” Jenkins paused a moment to survey all of the faces being projected in real time. He even took time to notice Pavel, and nodded to him in acknowledgement. “As you are all well aware, Captain Marino has finally joined us after successfully delivering not only our treasured royal family, but the entire civilian government as well. His was a difficult task, but one he carried out brilliantly and because of this we are now prepared to make the next leg in our arduous journey.”

The faces of the commanders in the hologram faded out and were immediately replaced by a star chart, depicting system that was completely unfamiliar to all of them.

Jenkins then continued. “My friends as you well know we have not transmitted our final coordinates to anyone. This was not done for operational security reasons, but rather for practical ones. The fact of the matter is we did not know where we could go until now. There are many suitable worlds to support human life, but there are very few of those within reach that have been charted and can provide a practical haven from the Maktoum Dominion. ‘Sanctuary Three’ here did not leave us with a whole lot of options, and we nearly didn’t find anything at all until we stumbled across this one, single, solitary world within the last few hours. A world that was settled, lost and forgotten thousands of years ago.

“The coordinates have been transmitted to you, and we launched pigeons out to every known remaining allied fleet and squadron that we believe are still alive and fighting. With luck we will be joined by our brothers and sisters on the other side.

“In less than fifteen minutes we will make our way through the jump point and spend the next three weeks in hyperspace. Once we transition back to normal space, then the real journey begins. It will be five long years of navigating at sub-light speed until we reach our final destination. And once there we will finally be safe to begin again,” Jenkins paused, hands on his hips, with that stoic look etched on his face that he was famous for. “Are there any questions?”

There were none.

And fifteen minutes later, they were off.

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