Anaxandros flew across the deck and crashed into the line of chairs and displays being used by the rest of the officers. Explosions wracked through the interior, and one explosion ripped out a chunk of the ceiling. Exposed pipes and cabling dropped down to strike one of the officers. Anaxandros lifted himself and turned back to see the carnage aboard his ship.
“Return fire, evasive action!” he called.
But it wasn’t necessary. The gunners were already working away, all of them working as a team to fire salvoes of plasma at the approaching ships. Multiple hits were scored, but their shields deflected most of them. One of them must have struck part of the manoeuvring system, as one of the two ships pulled away from the chase and started to spin uncontrollably. It wouldn’t stop her, but it would keep her out of the chase, at least for a few more minutes.
Ka’Veras left his post for a brief moment and helped Anaxandros to his seat. He then brought up the tactical operations display and continued sending specific orders to the gunners and engineering, while conferring with Dekarchos Ezekiel. Anaxandros might be in charge of the ship, but it was the role of the kybernetes to pass the orders of the commander through to the relevant parts of the ship. It took just seconds for him to seal the breached sections of the ship, increase their speed and direct their gunners against the single remaining pursuer.
“Good work. News on the FTL drive?” asked Dekarchos Ezekiel.
“Another three minutes until we are out of range of the gravity well.”
Another beam flashed nearby, but the helmsman expertly avoided it with a spin of the ship across its length. It was a flashy manoeuvre and avoided the impact by a matter of just a few metres. Three flashes appeared in front of them, and only the skills of the crew enabled them to avoid smashing into the path of three more warships. These were even larger than the ship that was pursuing them.
“Sir, signal from the new ships. It is their commander. They wish to discuss our surrender,” said Auletes Sarjek.
Anaxandros shook his head.
“Jam them, put all reserve power into the shields. We have to get through!”
The warships unleashed a torrent of plasma fire, sending hundreds of superheated projectiles hurtling towards the small ship. Even the skill of the crew couldn’t withstand the ferocity of the bombardment. Multiple strikes to the centre section of the ship severed the fuel cells and started a number of massive fires. Alarms announced the critical damage, and emergency crew ran about, each trying to minimise the damage caused. Anaxandros watched the destruction and knew it was over. They were a scout and not a warship, and they were already outnumbered. They were never going to make it out of here. He just had one last job to do.
“Get me through to Clearchus and the Armada, quickly! Before it’s too late!”
Laconian Titan LLS Valediction, Tarsus Assembly Point
Cyrus, the tall and enigmatic half-brother of the Emperor watched the fleet review with a mixture of excitement and pride. It had taken many months of subterfuge and cunning to bring together so many people from such diverse parts of the human domains. From his position on board the Laconian flagship, he had the perfect few of his Armada. The Tarsus system was the last area of neutral space between the worlds of the humans and his own race. Just a short distance from there were the feral borderlands, occupied by a mixture of humans, Mulacs and a myriad of other races. For the last two hundred years, this area had become one of the most important bridges between the empires of the humans and the greatest power in the region, the Median Empire. The two great civilisations had moved into the same territory at the same time, with bloody consequences. In total, the Terran worlds contained only a fraction of the planets and inhabitants of the Empire, yet they flourished when they should have been consumed centuries earlier.
The interior of LLS Valediction was unlike any of the other heavy warships in the fleet. A Titan was something out of the ordinary as it was, but this vessel was even more unusual. Valediction was the oldest of the Titans, and the most famous ship in the Laconian fleet. She had been present at the great battle of Sala when the combined Terran fleets had smashed the invasion force sent by the Median Empire. It was an epic battle of which scores of poems, songs and plays had been constructed to celebrate the achievements of humanity. With hundreds of decks, many corridors and untold rooms, the ship was more a society in space as opposed to an actual vessel of war. Cyrus has listened with interest days before when a human, an old engineer from the supply fleet, had explained to him about the Titan. He had said that to Terrans, the Titans were mobile colonies, more a marching polis than a ship of war. Each Titan contained enough citizens, warriors and supplies to operate for years. They were fully self-sufficient and could function in deep space without even an escort.
What I would give for my own fleet of these behemoths,
he wished.
The command deck was wide and large enough to house a hundred officers. Banks of computer displays ran in columns, each one attached to the ribbed inner skin of the ship. What really made this ship special was its large-scale virtual observation system. The entire inner surface of the deck was controlled at a molecular level to give it the characteristics of a flawless three-dimensional video display. Standing on the deck was like flying through space, with the full ability to see outside of the ship, past the armour and into space itself. It was as if only the command deck itself existed, and there was no more to the ship. Lesser versions of the technology were used on frigates and cruisers but nothing on such a grand scale. Dozens of officers moved about, some checking the scanners, others leading security patrols throughout the ship.
Cyrus watched the scores of Laconian military personnel and smiled inwardly.
So many warriors, all so dedicated to a cause they don’t even know yet.
He
looked to the inner skin of the command deck and noted the positions of the many ships, great hulks of Titans, long and slender cruisers plus the small but deadly wings of destroyers. In a much larger formation above the Armada was his own fleet of Imperial ships. Unlike the rough, angry looking shapes of the human ships, the ships of the Median Empire were small, sleek and looked incredibly fragile. What they lacked in brute strength, they more than made up for in sheer numbers. Each vessel was crewed by contingents of completely loyal automatons, the artificially created slaves used throughout the Empire. Cyrus thought of them pale and weak compared to humanity; but they could drown the human colonies in numbers they couldn’t imagine.
Humans,
he thought.
They prefer Terrans, don’t they? I have to remember. They are never happy when referred to as humans, a strange people, very strange.
Too many people and too many customs. This will change when my mission succeeds, I think.
He looked out at the assembled ships and tried to hide a smile. As well as the four mighty Titans, there were scores of other Terran ships. Cruisers, battleships and transports waited in formation for the order to move. Their vessels looked crude and ungainly compared to his own, but he knew their strength and had no doubts what would happen if a Terran capital ship faced off against a Median vessel. Even so, a quick glance to the sides of the fleet showed even more ships from his own worlds. Over fifty Median cruisers had answered his call, and twice as many smaller vessels moved about the fleet in small groups.
Terran muscle and Median finesse, an interesting combination.
Cyrus, like most Imperials, shared a common but uncertain link with the Terrans. At some point in the distant past, there had been a crossover of genetic material. Scientists, scholars and ministers of various religions had all proposed different hypothesis. No matter who was asked though, the inarguable conclusion was that the two races shared a common heritage, and one that seemed to draw them together in the most unlikely of scenarios, but never in peace.
Will this be enough?
he thought, watching the vast fleet before him.
I have the Terrans, their Titans and my own forces. Can I do what must be done, or should I wait and build up my forces? If I wait, I lose the element of surprise.
He watched the Laconians move about their business, each moving efficiently, but never stopping for idle gossip or conversation. One officer approached him and stopped directly in front. He saluted and handed a document, a simple sheet with a list of captains in the fleet. Cyrus nodded, glancing at the man before he moved away. The Laconian was strong certainly, but he moved with a sluggish pace, so different to his own species. Outwardly, Cyrus appeared of a similar build to a human man, but with a few significant differences. Due to his race’s more sophisticated development, they had modified themselves to increase both their lifespan and tolerance to disease and illness. His features were smaller, almost feminine, and his skin was tighter and smoother than an equivalent human. He looked like a man in his prime rather than over ninety years old. Clearchus, the Laconian commander stepped forward.
“My Lord. The Armada is assembled and awaits your command.”
Cyrus nodded, but said nothing. He looked at the human with a mixture of awe and dismay.
He sighed.
They are so strong, so powerful, and yet their lives are short. They burn brightly before fading forever. Tragic, but for me, useful. If they could ever do the things we can, the Empire would be torn apart.
Clearchus was a famous General, possibly the most famous human leader in the last hundred years. As a Terran male, especially a Laconian, he was the exact opposite of the elegant, almost beautiful-looking Cyrus. A little shorter, at two metres tall, his torso and arms were thick and toughened by continuous training and conflict. Stood next to each other they gave the impression of a warrior and a dancer, in terms of their physique and stature. Clearchus tapped a device on his left arm, and a model showing the entire fleet appeared as a detailed, digital projection.
“Every kentarchos is ready.”
“Thank you, General Clearchus. Just a few more minutes, I am waiting for one last contingent before we make way on our adventure. What is the status of your own contingent? I understand you have been busy while waiting for my arrival?” asked Cyrus with a smooth, elegant voice.
“Yes, Tissaphernes implied that the situation at the gates required our attention, and that you had already promised our services to him. We were attacked by a number of raiders before you arrived.”
“Yes, that is what I heard. I will be discussing this with him shortly. Tissaphernes is a strong friend and ally of my brother, the Emperor. But do not let this fool you. He is a lord and mighty ruler in his own right. My brother may rule the largest domain in the galaxy, but he does so with the co-operation of his Satraps. Each has control of many worlds, soldiers, even ships. It is through the support of the local Satraps that he wields his power. But Tissaphernes is something else. Do you know what he did when my brother became Emperor?”
Clearchus fidgeted uncomfortably. Court and political intrigue was something he really didn’t enjoy. He’d come from a state that valued military service and loyalty above all else. That had not stopped him being exiled from his own people after his victory over the Alliance. It seemed the one thing they feared back home, even more than defeat, was a victorious general. He’d managed to miss the end of the war with the Alliance and been left to rot in one of the League’s many border stations. Strategos Lysander, one of his archrivals, had won acclaim in that war, and he wouldn’t forget the betrayal. Cyrus watched him, intrigued by the man’s change when the subject shifted from combat to politics.
“Well, the short version is that Tissaphernes implied that I was against him becoming Emperor. We almost came to blows, even as my father lay dead but still warm.”
“That is why you forced yourself into involuntary exile to your own borders?” asked Clearchus.
“In part, yes. Watch Tissaphernes. His interests lie in one place only, himself. He would sooner kill either of us than see his own position affected.”
He looked out at the assembled Armada. It was a mighty force, but he could also see the precarious position they were in. Unlike the Terrans, he knew the size of the enemy. Even Clearchus couldn’t comprehend the numbers arrayed against them if they were not quick. He turned back to Clearchus.
“As it stands, we cannot start the campaign along the border until we have established a series of staging posts. We are not fighting one fleet but a co-ordinated series of attackers. The last thing I want is to end up trapped and with limited supplies. We need substantial fuel and supplies before making the next series of jumps, and this area is the only place within ten jumps that can provide this.”
“Why the urgency?” asked Clearchus.