The Stampede Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Epilogue Part 1 Flag Lieutenant Nolsus, commander of pinnace base Oyster Cove-02, looked at the four officers sitting in front of his desk. To his left sat his station security chief, Lieutenant (Senior Grade) Matau-de Tes, an E’sani, and his adjutant, Lieutenant (1st Grade) Wessa Tinker, a Crajen. On the other was Lieutenant (Senior Grade) Davke and Lieutenant (1st Grade) Pavami. Both were Terpla’n, just like Nolsus, and they didn’t need to turn their huge eyes to see Tes and Tinker. They blinked their inner set of eyelids in a sign of displeasure, a fact not lost on anyone in the room. For Nolsus he drummed his fingers on the desk to express his. “I’m suppose I should be glad that the Commodore decided to leave the matter in my hands,” said the senior officer. “We’re not all that far from the front, and it’s imperative that the training of Whale crews isn’t interrupted by the kind of fracas that occurred yesterday in Rec Center #2. Now, let’s start with you, Davke.”       As a decorated veteran and acknowledged expert of Whale armed pinnace tactics and operations Davke had a lot of prestige. However, he was no fool to think that would help his case with Nolsus. “Well, Sir, those rookie Valhallan crews we’ve been assigned to have yet to grasp the importance of traditions regarding small craft basing. The tender Curtys and its assigned flight group, the Blue Whales, were granted much sought-after ‘ramp privileges’ on this base. Among those privileges was the manning and stocking of the base’s recreational center bars. Well, those rookies didn’t contribute to the tip jar, the contents of which go a long way to obtain those, ah, products that aren’t on the normal acquisitions forms. So I laid down the law, and closed the bars until such time the rookies contributed.”       Nolsus shifted his large eyes to Tes. “Lt. Tes?”       “It made have started like that, Sir,” said the E’sani, his spoken Terpla’n having a deep accent to go along with his huge lungs. “But the recently arrived rookies cajoled the bartenders, practically the only civilians on this base, to open the bars. Then the Blue Whales came in after conducting an endurance test of their replacement pinnaces. Being thirsty, they found that their favorite beer had not only been sold, but completely out of stock.”       “Then what came next, Lt. Tes?”       With sparse, trim whiskers twisting in distaste the security chief made himself answer. “Well, the Blue Whales were cajoling and extorting…”       “It wasn’t extortion,” said Pavami in a moderate voice. “Genuine Seaweed Beer is hard to come by, especially the brand involved, and its cost was commensurate with its rarity. We had every right to fair compensation.”       “Which amounted to a month’s pay of every Valhallan in the bar in question,” Tes said back in with equal composure. His deep voice was suited for a demigod, and Pavami swore he saw the very air vibrate. After given the junior office a look just short of glowering he continued. “Being fueled by liquid courage, those young Valhallans refuted the extravagant demands. The Blue Whales, with their reputation…” he eyed Davke this time “…in regards to drink and merriment, challenged the rookies to a fist-fight between the pinnace commanders with the losing side paying for replacement Seaweed Beer.”       Nolsus thumbed through the plaspaper hardcopy of the incident report on his desk. “Lt. Tes, this is the point where you and Lt. Tinker entered the recreation center. Having observed the commotion on your minicomp on the way, you took the unorthodox step of picking up Tinker and, in your words, ‘brandished him like a serving plate’ and then told the crowd ‘I have a Crajen and I’m not afraid to use him’.”       Tes twitched his snout again. “Yes, Sir. Tinker did give his consent for that unorthodox method of crowd control.”       “Actually,” said the Crajen, his four stalked eyes fully focused on Nolsus, “I was the one that came up with the idea. That, plus waving and snapping my crusher claws did get the young ones to shut up.” Save Tinker, everyone spoke Terpla’n Standard. The base computer’s translation matrix hadn’t enough on Tinker’s voice patterns to passably replicate intonations, so his voice was rendered in harsh, staccato bits that grated everyone’s ears.       To his credit Nolsus didn’t roll his eyes. This wasn’t the first time he had to put out fires caused by zealous station security. In the coming weeks it certainly won’t be the last. “That much I got from the representatives of the Valhallan crews. It’s bad enough that for many of them this marks the first time out of their home system. What made it worse for their first introduction to a Crajen was one where it was held aloft by a confederate and menacingly snapped his crusher claws at anyone nearby.”       “That’s not exactly true, Sir,” said Tes. “His claws were up in the air when he did his snapping.”       “Don’t forget that Tinker was pointing menacingly with his working hands at them.” This came from Pavami, and it earned him all four of Tinker’s eyes looking scornful at him. “Valhallans have a thing about being pointed at with fingers.”       Nolsus felt like a parent facing uppity children and decided to nix further incrimination. “Gentlemen, and I use the term conditionally here,” he said giving the eye to both Davke and Tes, “discipline will be enforced on this station, from green-gilled newbies and combat-savvy veterans that let drinks do their thinking off-duty. There’s no such problems occurring on the fighter base, and it’s a mixed crew over there as well. If something happens that does make the Commodore get involved… well, the offenders will be going home busted down to apprentice spacers in a cargo pinnace hauling personal effects of those killed in battle, among other things.” It was no joke coming from Nolsus. As a base commander back in Hagelkorn he followed through on his words and send a handful of offending small craft crews all the way to Terpla and Kiosho on a pinnace carrying combat deaths in cold storage. Whatever the officers were feeling was kept locked up as their eyes betrayed nothing. “Now, I’m going to invite the senior Valhallan pinnace pilot in a moment, and I want a resolution that is equitable to everyone. Understood?” He paused, letting the officers make their acknowledgment. “Good, because starting tomorrow this base will become a school of activity in one way or another.” Prime Lieutenant Fanmet was in the shuttle operations room aboard the Falconer, lead ship of the Falconer class of pinnace carriers. In one partially partitioned section of the room was his office, and he was going over various training problems, assessing the order they'll be utilized in this portion of the voyage. The Falconer was part of a small task group, composed of six pinnace carriers, three heavy cruiser sized escorts, three frigates, twelve commercial-engine corvette escorts, one destroyer-sized transport and six scouts. As for the task group's objective it was the Twins system. With the struggle going on for Battlement, a system just two transits from the Twins, and the beginning of Operation Restoration set to recover the Bedrock system just days away, events were shaping up for a decisive turning of the war. Once Bedrock was secured the AFC would flow like a storm-swelled river and rid Axis space of the Abom Commonwealth and their allies, including that major nuisance known as the Hokum Imperium.       Fanmet reflected on the path his career took to reach this point in history. Before the current war he aspired to become a strike fighter pilot upon joining the AFC. His reflexes weren't quite up to the task, so he went to shuttle school. With his initial performance rated quite high he was then cross-trained to operate an assault shuttle. Five years later the war against the Aboms started and Fanmet was taken from his duty as commander of shuttles on a personnel transport to that of squadron commander of assault shuttles based on a troopship. He recalled vividly his first action, landing troops on the Hamthen world of Eversham II. The images of environmental domes bursting open from cannon fire and of underground habitats caving in from groundquake bombs were inspirational enough, but the ground assault on the Hamthen homeworld was joy incarnate. Actually causing the fall of mighty towers and sparking immense fires in Abom-choked streets filled him with such ecstasy that no war video could even hope to feebly replicate. With four months of work on Hamthen Prime under his belt Fanmet's next assignment was the Pyrocumulus system. His now expert assault shuttle crews were sent ahead with their troopship to take part in the invasion of the Abom colony world. After a month of operations on Pyro IV Fanmet was promoted and assigned to be the chief field instructor of the assault shuttle school on Bandstand.       Fanmet didn't complain about his new job. If anything he was quite pleased to pass on his knowledge, practically gained battle experience, and passion for being an assault shuttle pilot. With the war going the way for the Asteroid Axis all the new troopships were going to the front as soon as they had their assault shuttles manned by trained crews and their hulls filled with fresh troops. Then the news came of the Abom victories in conquered Hamthen space, and of another race that was conquering systems in an Axis sector that used to belong to the now-dead Nu'Chut AIs. News of an armed variety of pinnace came initially as a shock, but then transformed into an insatiable need; a need to have such a new weapon for the Axis. With his need in mind development was pushed full-bore, along with a smaller, but faster design that came to be called the escort shuttle. Like the pilots he was training on Bandstand Fanmet chomped at the bit to get armed pinnaces to train on. Instead, and most likely influenced because of the assault shuttle school, the pilots were assigned to learn the ins and outs of the escort shuttle, officially called Stilettos in the AFC lexicon.       With a cadre of assistants Fanmet felt that his students were well versed on the Stilettos when word came of the Abom attack on Battlement, a system five transits out from Citadel and five from Bandstand. While the Aboms had successfully broke into the system they were weakened, unable or unwilling to break past the ring of fighter bases in Battlement's asteroid belt until reinforced. There was an expectation to send the first batch of Stilettos and their carrier motherships to Battlement immediately. However, as the abom Hokum were about in the Nonstop system the slow freighter-hulled shuttle carriers would be vulnerable to interception. Besides, the AFC already had a plan for the deployment of Bandstand's Stilettos.       On his desk terminal Fanmet, acting on a whim, opened that section of Operation Restoration file that pertained to the task group. It was called Operation Baseplate, and it involved disrupting Abom logistics behind their lines of advance. Intelligence had identified three Axis systems held by the enemy that contained closed warp points and would be part of any logistical fleet train. Since the Aboms wouldn't have failed to at least probe the warp points and the systems beyond proved they didn't captured intact databases revealing them. In two of the systems only a single closed warp point was available while the Twins had three out of four, so the possibility existed there for future incursions if not an avenue for a fresh counterattack. Working on the assumption that the enemy only knew two of the warp points in the Twins the task group commander's plan was to send his scouts to ferret out any sign of the enemy while taking station at the halfway point between the WPs in question. Factor in the speed of the Stilettos, along with the location of the task group's warp point, then any Abom convoy stood the good chance of being intercepted and destroyed. As much as he liked to linger over such thoughts of impending action Fanmet closed the file and resumed his work on the next operational exercise problem for his crews. Davke thought he seen his share of newbies screwing up exercise problems when armed pinnaces were first introduced into the fleet. He counted himself among those newbies, despite his extensive training in piloting small craft, especially assault shuttles, his acknowledged specialty. What he saw passing for a simulated attack on a small enemy convoy, actually a Tzelan task element heading back to Battlement after picking up fighters here in Kerama Retto, made his blood boil and engendered a feeling to wretch over the display screen of his Apin, the Wholly Mackerel. He had seen the initial Valhallan pinnace crews practice before the assault on Battlement, finding their skill up to the task. As for this batch of crews...       Pavami stole his boss’s thunder, finger pointing to a spot in the compact holoimager located on the flightdeck. “Look at that! An entire squadron came to a stop in a simulated battleground, and in formation no less. They must’ve had some training to achieve that maneuver. You suppose it’s meant to confuse the enemy?” His voice make it clear that he was being sarcastic, for Davke wasn’t looking at the holoimager but at the main flatscreen at the Whale’s pilot station.       Davke itched to open a can of beer he had stowed in the hollowed-out portion of his seat. It was the last one of the initial batch of Sargasso Seaweed Beer he bought for his Blue Whales squadron, based on the tender Curtys. It was to be drunk after surviving the next warp point assault. He resisted, but the temptation was strong to drink the beer after these newbies complete at least one successful exercise. That as well may have been wishing for Kerama Retto's twin blue supergiants to turn into brown dwarfs. He went back watching and listening to the comm net, his big Terpla'n eyes pulsing with each glaring mistake made by the Valhallan crews, just waiting for the right tripwire to be sprung in his mind. His wait wasn't a long one. Keying the override, his voice was heard in every Whale armed pinnace, regardless of crew composition, and the briefing rooms aboard the tenders.       "Congratulations," he said in the most composed voice possible, hoping that the translation programs would make his inflected sarcasm noticeable. "Never in the history of the armed pinnace program have I've seen such a performance, both in practice and actual combat. Given the size of your opponent, and the composition of the strike force, at most your losses would've been 20%. All of you can take perverse pride in knowing that you sustained 100% losses, the first such instance in any Allied nation that makes use of armed pinnaces. Even better, the simulated enemy took minimal losses and sustained minor damage, and most of that was done to easily restored shields. You know what I hate worse than witnessing this spectacle that passed for an exercise today? It's sending letters of condolence to families saying that their sons and daughters died because they were stupid. So you all better get on those red biped knees of yours and give thanks to your gods that this wasn't actual combat. I swear, lungfish would make better Whale crews in comparison.       "I know that you were shipped here by transport, and practiced with simulators in the time it took to get to Kerama Retto. Those replacement strikefighter pilots that came with you are practically aces compared to what I witnessed today, and they had the same length of training and time in the simulators too. Today it's clear that wasn't enough, proving to me that your initial training back at Valhalla was rushed. There's no excuse for that, sending crews that barely know how to operate their craft to a war zone. With all the damage landing cradles in the past few days, including on my beloved veteran Curtys, you all handled your Apins like ham-fisted refuse cutter pilots, which leads me to believe that you were all trained by ham-fisted refuse cutter pilots. If I encounter any of those Valhallan instructors, even if its decades from now, I'm going to punch them in the mouth.       "The slate will be wiped clean. You're all going to have remedial training to operate your Apins the way they should be, not as the garbage scowls as you were taught initially. The Apin will become your religion, with me as its leading prophet. You're only going to see combat until I'm satisfied you're ready, or on the direct orders of the CNO and your King Russen. So help me, when time comes to send all of you out into the cold ocean that is the universe your red skins would turn blue in the interim. There will be no time to go to the rec centers other than for strictly supervised meals. The beer, and I do mean all of it, especially your Valhallan brands will be impounded on the bases and tenders with the only key in the possession of the Commodore." Davke paused for a moment to imagine the collective groans and anguished gasps from the pinnace crews. "Any weasely attempts to get beer will result in having it flushed out into space. And my crews, boys and girls, like their beer, so you better stay on the level. We're going back to the bases, but no-one is allowed to land on the tenders. There's more than enough life support to make the trip, and you're not going to damage any more landing cradles on the tenders. You can bust up the cradles on the bases, and you'll be responsible for repairing them while the hanger crews get to play games on your crafts' computers. Given the way you all performed out there today I swear that you were playing games and had the computers do the work."       About to key out the mic, Davke had one more thing to say. "Until there's definite improvement no-one at the anchorage will get to see the first five episodes of Return to the Planet of the Khanates. So there's your motivation to improve if any, and if I find out that someone pirates a copy from a ship or pinnace transiting to Battlement I will come down on them like a kiloton of bricks. Davke out."       Pavami blinked his eyes. “And here I thought you were only going to revoke their ice cream privileges.” Despite being a new, purpose-built naval auxiliary, to Fanmet's eye the bridge on the Falconer looked like it belonged on a merchant ship pressed into service. The defense console was more elaborate as well as the one devoted to sensors, and aside from that everything else wouldn't be out of place even on freighter hull one-fourth the size of this one. Fanmet was familiar with this, having served on a freighter-hulled transport, so it came as no surprise that the ship's captain, Larpon, had no chair specifically made for him. He used one of the generic chairs that ringed the central holoimager at the center of the circular room. Larpon, sitting in one of those chairs, simply motioned to Fanmet to sit next to him. He was only into formality when it was called for, and in this instance it wasn't required.       Larpon, after sustaining substantial injuries at the close of the Elotoshani War, was made an AFC reserve officer and became a freighter captain for a chartered colonization service, the Better World Builders. At the start of the Nu'Chut AI War he wanted to reactive his commission, hoping to command a warship again, even if it was just a frigate. The AFC declined his request as they were younger officers anxious to get experience to call upon. Besides, the personnel board said, he was providing service to the Asteroid Axis for being a freighter captain just as surely as he would on a frigate. Larpon didn't feel patronized at all, not the least of which since his current pay was three times that what he earned in the Navy.       Attitudes changed in the current war, and once plans for the Mace armed pinnace were drawn up there was an acknowledged need for captains of the purpose-built pinnace tenders that would soon follow. So when the call came Larpon stepped forward, given the honor and privilege to command the lead ship of the Falconer class. He got to know Fanmet almost immediately as once the ship was commissioned the younger man's escort shuttle wing was embarked on the shuttlebay-filled hull. Their working relationship was akin to a mentoring, elderly uncle and a grown-up, appreciative nephew. It was in this frame of context that Larpon spoke. "I have some news," said the elder, the long gray strands of hair between the boney plates in his face moving from his breath. "Battlement has send word that the Aboms fleet in the system attempted to breach the ring of bases in the asteroid belt. Both sides sustained heavy fighter losses, but the Aboms, now positively identified as Valhallan, have pulled back."       "Battlement can easily make replacement Hatchets," Fanmet mused. 'The Aboms will have to call upon their fleet train to reinforce. If we're lucky, that could mean uncrating and prepping fighters. A time-consuming affair."       "True, Fanmet. If available, they could also call upon the fighters from other forces, especially if they have reserves in other, nearby systems. More helpful if pulled from convoy escorts." Larpon nodded, teasing a grey strand of hair under his chin. "This makes the Twins the right place for the prey we're looking from. From there one can go to Shunt, Electrical and then to Battlement. On the other side you have Chrome and Citadel. In the enemy's mind, Twins is far enough away from Battlement to be considered a safe, rear-area system yet close enough to Citadel to call for help should the need arise."       "So the odds of encountering and finding those reserves in the Twins have increased," Fanmet replied. "That, or we'll encounter packets of carriers, either empty or full, going between Battlement and Citadel."       "Exactly. Our task group commander has worked out the math. She predicts that by the time we enter the Twins system there will be an enemy presence, one way or another." A close binary, Kerama Retto's twin blue supergiant suns were 12 light-minutes apart. Such as it was the inner shell of scanner and comm buoys were due to be replaced in a matter of weeks as the broad spectrum of energy hitting those tiny platforms would eventually overwhelm circuitry and cooling systems. There were no standing patrols conducted by anything smaller than an escort closer than 6 light minutes from either sun due for the same reasons. Other than that acknowledged environmental condition the sensor net covering the system was complete as far as 360 light-minutes from that point in space halfway between the suns.       The KRA, as the Kerama Retto Anchorage came to be known, was currently composed of six bases. One of them was a Lagoon-class BS5, having four repair/refit slips currently engaged in prepping fighters and pinnaces as well as repairing two Valhallan cruisers. Next was a Sea Wing BS6 pinnace platform, serving as a temporary home for those prepped pinnaces until such time they were called forward to the Valhallan fleet in Battlement. The remaining BS6 was a pure fighter platform, but nowhere near filled to capacity as carriers shuttled back and forth from Kerama Retto and Battlement to pick up fresh squadrons. Rounding out the anchorage were three missile-armed BS2s, six Valthor scouts and a Brawn class tug formed the assigned mobile elements of KRA.       The painfully young Valhallan Whale pinnace crews were treated to a regimen that many swore was devised by the minor demon Firespur instead of Davke. Each morning, one hour before the arbitrary denoted 'dawn', all the Valhallan crews were driven from their beds by the sound of an obnoxious horn played over the PA system by a E'sani Marine. Next came a group run aboard the pinnace base, five kilometers in all and made in full flight suit gear. Riding herd on these groups were Crajen pinnace mechanics in scooters, making menacing snipping sounds with their crusher claws when it looked like someone was slacking and dispensing witty barbs on those that foolishly tried to sass back. Then came a deliberately large breakfast, and keeping them on schedule were RVSN senior CPOs from the cruisers undergoing repairs at KRA. They told them in no uncertain terms that they resented being babysitters for a 'bunch of snot noses that couldn't tell the difference between their asses and a hole in the ground.' If one should be found still having food on their plate, or giving food to a tablemate when the time was up they were forced to explain themselves over the PA why it happened and how it was essential to have the proper amount of caloric intake at the start of the day.       After breakfast came a one-hour lecture by Davke via holoimager into the base ready rooms. The subjects of these lectures varied greatly, from the sublime to the pertinent. The rooms were kept in dim light, and woe to the one that was found nodding off or worse yet, snoring. Davke's holographic image would 'walk' to the offender and, highlighted by a spotlight manned by a base crewmember, make the sleepyhead recite the flight checklist. An error would result in push-ups. Some early lecture times were almost composed entirely of push-ups with the heavy breakfasts being credited as the prime cause.       Following the lectures were 30 minutes of calisthenics to get people to chase away the sleepies, and then two hours of simulator time followed by two hours of cross-training. Lunch was a generous one hour, followed by another hour devoted to Apin maintenance. At the end of that came mandatory hour of cleaning the craft, the simulators and the bays there were stationed in. More than one devious inspector made stains or other messes magically appear in spots that were hiding in plain sight if a crew was suspected of cheating or not, consigning yet another hour of often back-straining labor.       The remainder of the afternoon was free time, and after dinner one-fourth of the crews participated in combat exercises, sans live ordnance, while the rest attended sponsored university-accredited classes. At the close of the day, one half-hour before lights out, was the required reading of a combined history text and 'motivational material' that Davke compiled and found necessary in his point of view. Ancient Valhallan military history was dominated by land armies as their homeworld only had small, landlocked seas. Thus there was almost nothing in the way of a naval patrol bomber background that pre-space Terpla'n military history had in abundance. By this text the Valhallan learned the daring exploits of Terpla'n crews flying land-based bombers, seaplanes and flying boats in the age of steam, oil, and nuclear power. When the inevitable wiseacre questioned the relevance of such a text, well... one could say the bodily waste receptacles on Oyster-Cove 02 were the cleanest in the anchorage that particular week.        Incorporating an element of the unexpected Davke never announced if he would participate in any particular live exercise or the Whale he'll be on. Sometimes he arrived just before launching and board a randomly-selected Valhallan-crewed Whale and sat in the rumble seat behind the command pilot. He didn't input anything in his datapad, committing everything he saw and heard to memory. When something happened that met his criteria he patted the Valhallan pilot in front of him on the shoulder, a sign of job well done. If he didn't like something, he made his thoughts know. "No, no, no." Those words came out during one particularly intense exercise. He didn't bother using the translation program as the crew had a fairly good grasp of Terpla'n at this point. It was the apin's co-pilot that evoked Davke to speak. "A Whale isn't a truck and shouldn't be treated as such. Like its namesake, a Whale is powerful, purposeful, and maneuverable in its environment. This is not the pimped-out tour boat you remember from your elementary school trip to an asteroid. Treat it like a big fighter that it is and revel in its power. Don't take any waste the fighter jocks dish out. You tell them up in their faces, even if they're E'sani, that one has to tough to fly the heavies."       "Yessir," said the co-pilot, relieved that was what Davke had to say instead of a dressing down he expected for that botched maneuver that prompted his truck comment.       "Good. Now take us back to the cove and this time don't mess up the 'beaching gear' like you did last time."       "Yessir." It was true. Like the whales of his home planet Davke never forgets. Part 2 After six weeks of trekking across five systems the Axis task group was just a day away from transiting into the Twins system. To celebrate the occasion Fanmet had his Stiletto flight groups participate in track and field competitions aboard their respective ships. On the Falconer and her squadronmates the shuttles were retracted into their maintenance alcoves to create the maximum amount of cleared space for the activities. Shipboard food services pulled out the stops and prepared carefully husband supplies of timberwolf meat from Lauset and broadleaf lettuce from Elotoshani. Tables and chairs sprung up on the shuttle decks as fast as they were cleared of jumping hurdles, nets, and goal posts. After proclaiming the winners of the respective sports and the feast tucked into Fanmet stood up at the head table and made his announcement.      “This is indeed a great day with equally great performances from all. Training and competitive spirit will stand you in good stead, for tomorrow we’ll be basking in the glow of the Twins. With Providence at our side, we will outshine the Twins with the dying afterglow of Abom ships broken by our weapons.” Fanmet waited until the thunderous applause died down, this being the first time he had ever evoked such an intense response from an audience. “We're one of three task groups involved in Operation Baseplate, the goal of which is to disrupt Abom logistical infrastructure in systems subjugated by their foul influence. Earlier today word was received that our forces in Battlement had launched a combined fighter and pinnace attack on the Abom fleet loitering in the outer system. Losses were heavy for both sides, and it was worse for the Aboms for they hadn't fully restored their flight groups from their last attack. Two Abom carriers were wiped out with several more damaged.” Again he waited for the audience to exhaust their fulsome cheers and cries.      “Battlement can readily replace its brace of Hatchet fighters and Mace armed pinnaces while our Abom enemies have to scamper home to restock from their wanton warehouses. This is where we'll do our part. We will smash any convoy that attempts to enter the Twins, whether sent from Citadel or Battlement. Not even a cargo pinnace will get past us. In combination with Operation Restoration, and the Will of Providence, we will see the fall of all Abom fleets set against us. We will ride the crest of the wave that will sweep them into oblivion.” Fanmet raise his left arm and made the AFC salute, a clenched fist planted just below the neck. “Advance... for the Axis!”      With such loud cheering and proclamations from the crews, combined with the acoustics of the open bays, one would think it was a rally at the People's Hall on Comensal Prime. Fanmet was at one such rally while undergoing officer training, and in many ways the comparison was apt. Then and there he hoped for the day to receive an award at the People's Hall, bestowed by the First Leader no less. Achieving numerous victories, especially ones that dealt massive blows to the enemy, for the Asteroid Axis is the one guaranteed way to be on the same dais that so many other heroes of the people got their reward. But for now the applause will have to do, and one must be alive in order to appreciate bestowed rewards and praise. The quarters for the pinnace crews aboard Oyster Cove-02 were the equal of those found on space stations and even groundside spaceports. Arranged by squadrons, there were nine such crew areas on the base, each quarters holding two crewmembers and having their own private bath as well as a multipurpose commons area. It was the same arrangement for shuttle crews on transports and troop ships, and it elicited the same jealously from regular base crews that had to do with communal baths and berthing space that held anywhere from four to ten.      On this night those Valhallan crews on the base and on the tenders deployed for exercises had good reason to celebrate. Davke had decreed that since there was a marked improvement in performance by the pinnace crews the time had come for some entertainment. In the nine pinnace crew common areas on the base was a holoimager, and around each one were 36 Valhallans watching the first five episodes of Return to the Planet of the Khanates. Some restrictions were lifted, and it was up to the Station Patrol to see that the rest are enforced. Just into the start of the fourth episode Lieutenants Tes and Tinker strolled into one such gathering, prompting everyone to come to attention. “Good evening, Sirs,” said one of the pinnace pilots, apparently the designated one in the group as he was the oldest by at least a year. “To what do we owe for this visit?”      “Contraband inspection,” said Tinker. The translation program had improved the intonation and inflection of his speech, but now it sounded like he was forcing his words like a piece of meat through a fine mesh screen. “Good old Davke wants to make sure none of his ‘kids’ are hitting the sauce or anything else on the proscribed list.”      “You’re welcome to look,” said the pilot, known by his callsign Hotdog. “We’ve kept our horns clean.”      Tes looked at the red-skinned biped. In his eyes, Valhallans were short, emaciated flat-faced versions of E’sani with small, vestigial horns on their heads. Said horns were often shaved down to round bumps so as to make flight suit helmets fit better. Even with hair in the way Tes knew that Hotdog was hiding something for a pair of thin, beading lines of sweat came down the face from where the horns were located. “I’ll take your barber’s word for it.” The nostrils on Tes’ snout twitched noticeably. “Now, is that cigar smoke I smell?”      “Yes it is, Sir,” Hotdog confirmed. “It’s one of the items allowed by Davke for use outside of religious observance.”      “No wonder the chapel is filled everyday,” said Tinker. The Crajen moved to a magazine rack that was mounted on the wall next to the restroom. “I wonder what the sense is in worshiping a god that prompts the smoking of rolled-up leaves. Unless you Valhallans can’t get lung cancer from smoking your ‘tabacco’ or whatever it’s called.” Using his left crusher claw with dexterity that no casual observer of Crajens would believe possible Tinker pulled something from between the rack and the wall. He then held it in his manipulative hands while his pair of claws folded up under his body. With two eyes looking at the filmsy-printed mag as he turned pages Tinker used his other pair of stalked eyes to navigate back to Tes.      It didn’t take much imagination to know that Tes was grinning. “What is that you have there?”      “I believe it’s what commonly called a ‘skin’ magazine.” Tinker held up the flimsy-papered object as high as he could with his manipulative arms for Tes to see. “I take it that it’s some sort of artistic depiction of the Valhallan form.”      Several male Valhallans tried not to show interest while certain females looked at them with daggers and sledgehammers coming from their eyes. Tes took the magazine and flipped through it himself. “It must be an art magazine, or even a fancy advertising device used to showcase those beads, necklaces, and shoes those bare females are wearing. At least I think they’re females.” He looked at the mixture of expectant, nervous, and resentful faces before him. “Yeah, they’re females alright. If this is art then I don’t get it.” Tes tossed the filmsy to a knot of female Valhallans. “Here, there might be some products in there that you want to get.” He pretended not to notice how a certain cluster of males tried their best to subtly keep their distance from a group of indignant females. “What’s that smell?”      “Other than the cigar smoke?” Tinker asked. As the smell receptors for a Crajen were in the mouth his mandibles moved like parts of an ancient, dementedly designed typewriter. “Yes, there does seem to be something else in the air.” He scuttled to the kitchenette with Tes in tow. Stalked eyes noted how there were stacks of shot glasses on the counter, yet no pitchers or containers were evident. In the large refrigerator there were only the issued bottles of flavored water. “Odd,” Tinker said to no-one in particular, “shot glasses aren’t normally used for water.”      “Yes, that’s unusual.” Tes’ reply came from deep in his chest. “The smell seems to be coming from the oven.” He looked at Hotdog, knowing that he represented the group as he had talked first. “Were you cooking brownies? I see no serving trays, napkins and forks.”      “Oh, we cleaned up after ourselves right quick,” said Hotdog eagerly. “No telling when surprise quarters inspections would be conducted.” The E’sani smiled. “Good for you. But haven’t you forgotten to clean the oven? I got a demerit back in officer training for forgetting something so simple.” He turned and went through the menu on the stove’s interface, bringing up the settings he need. “Hey, Tinker, think we should have the oven set on the deep, overnight cleaning mode?”      When a Crajen shrugs he uses all four arms familiar to shop mechanics that didn’t know the answer. “It won’t hurt anything if you did. Let’s have that oven inspection-ready.”      “Okay. I have it on the Hell’s Kitchen setting.” Tes was about to press the commit button when he was interrupted.      Hotdog stepped forward. “Wait, Sir! There’s something in there.”      “Really? Is it more brownies? I do fell a bit peckish.” Tes had his huge hand on the oven’s door handle. “May I?”      Looking like he had swallowed a lit cigar Hotdog managed a nonchalant reply. “Yes, Sir. Help yourself.”      Upon opening the stove Tes reached in and pulled out a covered pitcher filled with a liquid that had a light greenish tint. He opened it and took a deep inhale with his nostrils. “Ah, I believe this is what is described in the station regulations addendum as raisin moonshine.”      “I’ve heard of it, Tes, but never seen it.” Tinker took the offered pitcher and took a smell for himself, his mandibles clacking away. “How’s it made?”      With the red-skinned Valhallans looking downright pale Tes answered like a professor in a lecture hall. “Well, partner, you take several cupfuls of Valhallan raisins, dump them in an 8-pint container full of water, seal it, and place it next to a constant low-level heat source for three to four weeks. Skim off the raisins and then serve.”      “That doesn’t sound much of an alcoholic drink,” Tinker confessed.      Closing the lid to the container Tes then swished the contents and held it up to the light, noting its clarity and body. “Nevertheless the rules are the rules. We’ll have to… ah, ‘impound’ this for the duration of your stay on this station. Do I have your word that there are no other containers?”      “Sir, that’s the only one,” Hotdog said like he was reliving basic training.      “Good, because it would be unfortunate if I had to flush this out into space.” Tes stowed the container in the satchel he had on his back. With Tinker leading the way Tes left the commons area and back into the hallway. He looked down at his expectant partner once the doors closed. “You think the crews in the next set of quarters would drink their clandestine-brewed hooch by the time we get there?”      “Count on it, Tes. They’ll just claim it’s the smell of mouthwash on their breath.”      “Just like what happened to me in officer’s training. Well, let’s not keep the kiddies waiting.” It began later that night as a minuscule flaw in space-time right next to the star labeled Kerama Retto 1 (KR1) made its presence know via a small scoutship making transit. For a full minute it stayed before transiting back, reporting all-clear for its companions to proceed. One by one the flotilla of craft entered the system, 31 in all. Then, in preassigned groups and speeds, the ships went out, filled with crews intent on harming the enemy before the day is through.      The late shift sensor watch on Oyster Cove-02, tied into the Kerama Retto sensor net, had observed the initial entry and subsequent arrival of the as-yet unknown ships. Flag Lieutenant Nolsus and Commodore Fensha were awaken and told the situation as required by regulations. Both entered the station’s command post (the term bridge in CSF parlance is only used on mobile constructs) and consulted the massive main flatpanel display.      Fensha spoke first. “Sensors, confirm. Is this one of my random alert exercises?”      “Negative, Sir,” said the senior sensor tech on watch. “We checked the main database as well as the one belonging to Lieutenant Davke.”      “Has the location of this new warp point been confirmed?” Fensha had to adjust the resolution of the screen to make out the graphical markers. “Two light-minutes from the primary, a blue giant no less, sounds like a glitch.”      “It has been confirmed by three scanner buoys, Sir, and the scout V-043. As it was not found in the warp point survey and being so close to KR1 means this new warp point is a Type-15.”      Nolsus blinked. “A closed one. I see on the screen that one of the buoys is close enough to get a number estimate on the contacts. Is it the same for V-043?”      “Yes, Flag Lieutenant. I’ll put the breakdown of the groups on the main screen.” A moment later light codes and animations adorned the big panel. Every eye that wasn’t busy with immediate tasks was looking at it as well. The senior tech highlighted one cluster of icons. “Until we get a read on their drive frequencies we’re designating the groups as Amber. The first one is composed of five contacts moving at .05c towards WP2. They’ll get there in little over 8.4 hours. Amber 2 has two contacts moving at .133c towards WP1, ETA 7.12 hours. Amber 3 has three contacts also moving at .133c. If they keep their current heading and speed they’ll reach the halfway point between warp points one and two in 4.85 hours.”      “Right into our laps,” Fensha quipped. “The speed of Ambers 2 and 3 suggest they’re full-engine escorts or corvettes. What of Amber 4?”      “Sir, that contact contains 21 ships moving at .05c. It’ll reach us in just under 13 hours.”      “At least we have some time, Commodore,” said Nolsus.      “Yes, but what are we up against?” Fensha’s eyes went from the main panel to a bank of repeater screens directly below it. He thought for a moment. Among the other officers present was the operations officer, Mokana. “Ops,” Fensha said, “have scout V-043 stay within definitive scanner range of the new warp point. The scouts holding station over WPs 1 and 2 are to intercept and shadow their respective Amber groups. Two of our reserve scouts will investigate Amber 4 and the last one Amber 3. All scouts are ordered to go to full tactical speed to reach their objectives. Now, bring up the disposition of allied forces between Battlement and Citadel.”      “Yes, Commodore,” Mokana acknowledged. “The list will be on repeater screen #2.”      The list came up as green text on a black background, Fensha and Nolsus’ eyes treating each paragraph as a morsel to be digested. But, like the diet panfish being served on in the base’s dining halls, those morsels were there only due to regulations. “We can discount the forces in Citadel and Chrome. They can seal up the new warp point with mines and buoys but we’ll be long gone by then.”      “The RVSN is totally committed in Battlement, especially after the losses they reported earlier, and the escorts for their logistical flotilla in Electrical would only be able to secure the new warp point after it’s been surrounded by mines and buoys,” commented Nolsus. “By now the Valhallan carriers that came for their flightgroups would be at the Electrical/Battlement warp point. Only the pinnace tenders in Shunt have the chance to actually engage this unknown force.”      “I suppose we should be thankful they didn’t leave a day earlier as planned, Nolsus. Our Davke had to throw in one more major exercise before sending the first 36 Whales forward to Battlement. Even better, they’re conducting that exercise with the participation of Task Element 114.1, a veteran unit.”      Nolsus smiled, eyes double-blinking. “We’ll just have to start the hurt process on Amber 4 and leave the rest for Davke and Simm to finish.”      Fensha’s left eye focused on Mokana. “Ops, what is the current composition of our embarked Shark and Whale forces?”      The mentioned officer didn’t bother to consult a readout, for he knew the numbers by heart. “Commodore, we have 36 F1 Sharks and 54 Whales. Additionally, we have two RVSN cruisers in the repair slips of the Lagoon base. However, they only arrived here a month ago and repairs have been at a lower priority due to the need to uncrate fighters. Apart from life support, only their armor, point defense, and electronic warfare systems have been repaired, and can only make one-third of their top speed.”      “Understood.” Sensing that all the eyes in the room were looking at him Fensha made his decisions. “Ops, tell the cruiser repair crews to pull out the stops and jury-rig as many components as possible in eleven hours. Barring any radical changes, this anchorage will be at general quarters one hour before the arrival of Amber 3 and at battle alert thirty minutes before the arrival of Amber 4. Send a flash message to the pinnace tenders and Task Element 114.1. They are to enter Kerama Retto and engage the contacts, which I’m convinced are Axis units, as soon as practical. I designate Flag Captain Simm to be in charge of the combined tender-carrier force.”      “Aye, aye, Commodore,” said Mokana.      "Don't bother to wake the pinnace crews just yet," Fensha added. "They deserve to have a night's rest before going into what might be their first and only battle." The quiet on the bridge of the Falconer was only broken by occasional tones from worked control panels and the creak of chairs in their crash frames. An underlining sense of anticipation was felt by all, for very soon a pair of scouts will have reached the Twins/Chrome warp point to keep watch over it. As for the destination of the Falconer and its companions it was already reached by a trio of scouts. What they found was the heart of conversation between captains, tactical and operation officers of all of those ships.       ”So it appears Prime Commander Ashton's instinct was correct,” opined Larpon as he gazed into the holoimager. “I was expecting nothing more than a small way-station for pinnaces to recharge their power reserves and life support.”       Fanmet, standing next to Larpon, could only nod in agreement. “Three type-2 bases, a type-5, and a pair of type-6s. There's also a commercial engined destroyer-sized ship, and, if the scouts are reading it right, a pair of cruisers docked to the type-5. A proper little anchorage.”      “Being where they are, Fanmet, those large bases have to be fighter platforms. Perhaps small craft too. A potential for a big fight in my book.”       Fanmet feel a bit hungry while looking at one white-colored icon in the holoimager. “Too bad Ashton had to send those fighter-armed Flak Lighters to the other warp point. Even though they're carrying a dozen outdated Hatchets we could use their firepower.”      “Commander's prerogative,” Larpon said. “It's possible the enemy may have left some light fixed defenses at the Twins/Shunt warp point. Perhaps nothing more than a small base or a ship equipped with automated weapon control systems. If such units are present then destroying them will deny their use to the enemy. So using a dozen outdated fighters for such a task is reasonable.”      “Still, a fighter is a fighter,” mused the shuttle pilot. “Ah,” he pointed to a holographic icon that blinked in a rapid series of pulses, “the scouts are reporting from the Twins/Chrome warp point.” He quickly read the word scrawl appearing below the icon. “No enemy units present. That means they'll perform their secondary duty and destroyed the nearby navigation, communication and scanner buoys.”      Larpon's eye stayed on the holoimager as the icon divided into two, each representing a scout engaging in a search pattern to find the buoys. “That will hamper their communications between here and Citadel. Any courier drone coming through has a very good chance of not achieving a position fix. Those that do will have to face the prospect of being shot down by the scouts.” With nothing better to do at the moment the two officers watched the reported progress of the scouts. Before long one found the quarry and moved full speed in order to dispatch it quickly and get back to assume its watch over the warp point. What came next was totally unexpected.      Truth be told, there was only one actual scout in the pair, for the other had its long-range scanner swapped out for a point defense instillation; not only for its own use but to share via datalink with its partner. It was just as well, for the scout needed all the help it could get at this point for it had run straight into a pattern of mines 1.5 light seconds from the buoys. With no engine modulation, and ECM shut down as there were no enemy units in weapons range, the surprised point defense crews did their best. Attacked entering and leaving the mine patch, the scout was a wreck, with just life support operational and one engine room intact. The scout’s partner came over, and, after doing a comprehensive investigation, found that the two buoys were protected by a very thin shell of mine patterns, 36 in all at a distance of 1.5 light seconds. Never before did the Axis encounter such a defensive arrangement for what were expendable assets. The mines wouldn’t stop assault shuttles or fighters, and posed a slight risk to solitary pinnaces. Clearly it was meant to mousetrap unwary scouts, or hold them at bay until a fighter, armed small craft or a bigger ship was available.      The commander of the Tracker Leader, after some thought, decided that the mission had to be completed. He had the remaining crew on the slightly smaller Fleet Tracker abandon ship, but not before programming it to enter the partially depleted mine patch. This done, the patch was down to 20 mines. His own ship, with full engine modulation and ECM spun to full power, entered the patch with a fully alert point defense crew. On the far side the scout emerged victorious, its path now clear of mines, though it came at the cost of its armor, datalink, hold and two engine rooms. With both buoys shot down, and survivors from the Fleet Tracker stuffed aboard, the remaining scout took station around the Twins/Chrome warp point. Emergency repairs fixed one engine room. Prime Commander Ashton had the scout stay on station until relieved by the scout trio that was currently keeping watch over the enemy anchorage. All the while the nearby CSF scout kept its own watch, having observed what happened and reporting its findings via courier drone to Citadel and a comm line to Oyster Cove-02. In the battle for the Twins the much despised Aboms got the first kill. On the opposite end of the system the AFC had better luck. The five-ship flotilla was comprised of one Tracker Leader scout, one standard Flak Lighter and three fighter-carrying Flak Lighters. What they found was a single type-1 base, sitting 10 light-seconds from the Twins/Shunt warp point. The three little carriers launched their broods, three squadrons comprised of four F0 Hatchets each. Since they controlled the range the fighters minimized their exposure to counterfire.      With so much lead time the base commander’s decision was an easy one. Save for fourteen volunteers, including himself, the commander had the rest of the base’s crew evacuate in the assigned shuttle. They were to head out into Kerama Retto’s outer reaches until the arrival of the pinnace tenders. As for the Sloop scout it kept its distance, watching the unfolding fighter strike. Though they could’ve been armed with antimatter close attack missiles the squadron commanders elected not to do so, preferring to save the new and relatively expensive ordnance for more worthy targets.      The fighters went in, taking no losses from the base’s point defense and sole externally mounted close attack missile. Leaving behind a cloud of expanding debris the 12 fighters were vectored by the Fleet Tracker towards the communications/navigation buoy, having received word of what happened at the other warp point. There, too, was a thin shell of mines like the one at the first warp point, and was duly noted by the Axis scout. Around the warp point proper was a shell of 300 mine patterns. Obviously any weapon buoys that were presented were lifted months ago and moved on to the Electrical/Battlement warp point. Secondary task completed, the Hatchet fighters landed on their miniscule carriers and were rearmed. An equally tiny combat area patrol, composed of three Hatchets, took their station, circling the warp point. At best, such a small force was expected to destroy any courier drones that came through as well as any small enemy ship. It was accepted that anything greater than that would mean the destruction of the Flak Lighters, leaving the sole scout to carry on with its mission.       An hour into the routine the Sloop detuned its engines and moved towards the warp point, taking the CAP by surprise. More enticed rather than cautious, the fighter trio moved on the ship, only to be tricked at the last moment. The Sloop launched its sole courier drone at full speed and came about, heading away while the drone, now out of range of the Hatchet’s close attack missiles, made transit into the Shunt system. Now armed with the knowledge of what awaited them on the far side the allies rushing towards Kerama Retto drew up their plan of attack. Part 3 Something nagged at Commodore Fensha’s conscious with the persistence of a student that felt he missed answering a question on a final exam. All the Amber contacts have been confirmed as Axis, with the largest one, Amber 4, still heading for the anchorage. In that group were three heavy cruisers, three frigates, a small freighter, eight undersized corvettes and six DN-sized freighters. Those last six ships were pegged as tentative pinnace carriers, that or the Axis Fleet Command came up with something else entirely. Fensha looked at both the main flatpanel display and the now-active holoimager in the base’s command post. It was a suspicion that he needed someone else to recognize. He called the base commander to come to his side. “Nolsus, what do you make of the report the scouts sent on Amber 4?”      “The shuttle and cutter activity?” Nolsus acknowledged. “Odd, to say the least. If those six dreadnought-sized freighters are pinnace carriers then it follows they would have their own magazines. Why they would choose to transfer supplies just one hour shy of the anchorage is a mystery.”      “It’s not a total mystery. Look,” Fensha pointed to one particular icon in the holoimager. “Thanks to sensor data obtained during the liberation of the Pyrocumulus system we can say with a fair degree of certainty that the contact is a freighter-hulled, destroyer-sized troopship. I surmise they simply waited until the last moment to transfer troops so as to extend the life support of whatever shuttles, assault shuttles, and regular pinnaces they may happen to be carrying.”      “Commodore, you believe they’ll attempt a boarding action against our bases? They’re bound to take huge casualties, both in the approach and actual hand-to-hand combat.”      Fensha’s right eye blinked twice and focused on Nolsus. “They brought a troopship along in the hopes of boarding and capturing any ship, or base for that matter, they came across. We have to plan according.” He shifted both eyes onto Mokana, his Operations Officer. “Ops, inform the security detachments on all bases and ships to hand out whatever firearms and ammunition they have in their armories. The anchorage can expect boarding actions to occur once the enemy is engaged. All units will only keep critical areas pressurized for the duration. Also, engage first-stage database elimination protocols. As the Axis isn’t known to take prisoners it’s our computers and the data they contain that they’re after.”      “Aye, aye, Commodore,” acknowledged Mokana.      “Depressurizing will have everyone not in the security detachments wearing environmental suits. That will put our defenders at a disadvantage, Commodore,” said Nolsus. “Casualties will be greater.”       “The same goes for the enemy, Flag Lieutenant. We’re going to make them choke on their own oxygen-starved blood.” Fanmet wanted to wipe away the sweat he felt on his palms, but knew that the material in the environment suit gloves whisked it away as soon as it was produced. He was in the shuttle operations center on the Falconer, serving as the overall strike coordinator. One didn’t need to see him to sense that he wanted to be aboard a Stiletto. He wanted to fly the craft into battle on an elemental level, but the dictates of command required him to be at where he was now. Still, his left hand gripped a portion of his work station like it was a shuttle’s launch lever. With the chronometer inexorably counting down to launch Fanmet went over the numbers in his mind one more time.      The combined flight groups from the six Falconers equaled 306 Stiletto escort shuttles, and of that number one out of six carried 100 troops each for boarding actions. As the positional drives on the bases produced a substantially weaker interdiction field, allowing the Stilettos to bulldog their way in, all that was needed was to bring down the shields. All the troop-carrying shuttles had two antimatter close attack missile with the rest each having one such missile and a laser pack. All 18 F1 Hatchets from the escort cruisers will be used, tasked to destroy the trio of small type-2 bases since they were deemed unworthy to be boarded.      An annoying buzzer filled the air, and the deck rumbled as the Falconer and her five sister ships launched their broods at the 10 light-second mark from the bases. With shuttles and fighters moving at .133c the big ships, the shuttle carriers and their CA escorts, followed at .05c. On their external racks were loaded nuke-armed SBMs to take advantage of any base or ship that used point defense against their attackers. Fanmet would rather have the big ships 9 light-seconds out, for both of the huge type-6 bases could hold as many 25 SBMs on their external racks. Prime Commander Ashton, however, had timed the movement so that when the strike was a point blank range the ships would be 8.25 light seconds out. So it would be a fish-or-cut-bait situation for the Aboms, decided whether or not to spare some point defense against a missile volley that may or not exist.      For a full 90 seconds there was no response from the Aboms, causing Fanmet to wonder if the big bases were missile instead of fighter platforms. It was inconceivable that the enemy would pass up the opportunity to destroy, if not critically damage, one shuttle carrier during the run in. As if responding to allay Fanmets fears, the bases launched their fighters and armed pinnaces. 36 of the former and 54 of the latter moved as one, the anticipated intercept just two light seconds shy of the shuttle’s primary targets.      Fanmet felt some relief that there were so few fighters, with 12 coming from the type-5 and 24 from a type-6 base. This was evidence that the Aboms was using the Twins to prep uncrated fighters for carriers to pickup. With so few fighters on hand it was clear that a transfer was conducted just days if not weeks earlier. Had those two bases been at full strength then it was conceivable that the Aboms would’ve launched a long-range strike instead of waiting at the last moment.      Transfixed on his readout screens Fanmet could only wait until the combat was played out. Being faster, the 36 Abom fighters were atop the Stilettos with the armed pinnaces just one-quarter of a light second behind. In absolute numbers the Axis had the advantage, but the odds were that for every six Stilettos shot down at least one of them would be a troop carrier. He grimaced as he watched the losses mount up, each shuttle that was destroyed had its designator on his screen briefly lighting up before during dark. Of the 74 Stilettos destroyed in the exchange, 24% of the entire force, 14 had boarding parties aboard for a total of 1,844 casualties. It was fortunate that the losses weren’t higher, given that defenses on the bases and the three ships were imponderables until the very last moment. Fanmet made himself breathe, lest that he should pass out at the moment of Axis victory. “I’ve never been in a stampede before,” said Fensha as the holoimager became less saturated with icons, some of the enemy and the rest belonging to the defenders. “Now I know how wranglers must’ve felt when losing control of their herds.”      Nolsus looked away from the repeater screen at his control station so as to look at the holoimager for himself. Against such numbers the outcome was expected, thought some hope was held out that a fraction of the Whale crews were able to eject, as their flight decks and engineering spaces were also self-contained life pods. “At least herds of cattle aren’t equipped with lasers. It’s confirmed that the Axis small craft are armed with antimatter, Commodore. As for the craft themselves they have fired as individuals, and are halfway between a shuttle and pinnace in regards to mass. What they’re using as a point-defense equivalent is more potent than that found on a pinnace.”      “Commodore,” said Mokana from the master plot, located next to the holoimager tank, “the three heavy cruisers and six shuttle carriers have entered range of our externally-mounted SBMs. Enemy small craft continue to close on the anchorage and will be at point blank range presently.”      Fensha’s inner eyelids blinked as he continued to view the oncoming wave of overgrown shuttles with dread. A composite image of one such shuttle, based on visual, laser and radar readings, floated at the bottom of the holotank. It looked cartoonish in its proportions, like a pregnant roller skate with stubby wings that swept up at the tips. There was no doubt that had Crajen small craft guild masters seen such a craft they would’ve broken out in laughter. Fensha himself would’ve heaped scorn upon such a design like an overly opinionated teacher berating a classroom if the situation wasn’t so dire. “Very well. Continue with the engagement plan in regards to the small craft. As it would be a waste to fire upon a shuttle carrier that’s going to be riding empty direct all SBMs against one of the heavy cruisers.”      “Aye, aye, Commodore.”       Like a swarm of angry pipe fish the Axis shuttles and fighters enveloped the bases, but before the first Axis unit could achieve its fire-control solution a pair of bases, a type-6 and type-2, opened up first with all of their weapons. Eight Hatchet fighters and nine Stilettos were shot down, exploding like unstable fireworks against the backdrop of space. Thanks to the jamming from the fighter base the Hatchets were forced to fire as individuals, diluting their waning strength. Just one laser-tipped SBM got past the point defense of an escort cruiser to scour its armor in this first exchange.      Retribution was swift and inexorable like an avalanche. All three type-2 bases ruptured and split up into their prefab parts from the pounding they received, and joining them were the two Valhallan cruisers and the tug. Care was taken to only bring down the shields of the bigger type-5 and type-6 bases, and for that only 40 Stilettos were bagged along with 14 of the 18 Hatchets. One Axis cruiser did lose all of its armor from the SBM-LTs fired by the bases. It was a pitiful consolation prize compared to what was done to the anchorage, but one final opportunity for the bases to wipe away more shuttles presented itself.      To aid their troop-laden brethren all of the laser-armed Stilettos made it look like they were going to attach themselves to the bases’ hulls as well. Defensive fire was hellish, especially from the type-6 fighter base with its baker’s dozen of point defense mounts and four advanced launchers. Unable to engage engine modulation, the Stilettos had to take the angry torrent of point-defense laser and railgun fire in stride. Pulling away at the last moment the remainder made it past the defensive envelope of the bases at the cost of 62 of their number, including 12 that held boarding parties.      Mokana had the holoimager display representations of the three large bases. Terpla’n bases were flat discs that reminded one of stories of mythical aliens in equally ancient stories. “Reports coming in, Commodore. We have six of those large shuttles attached to our hull in a more or less circular pattern. Shark Reef-07 has five and Lagoon-02 has seven. Station security is sending teams to each impending breach site and accelerating the handing out of weapons from the armories.”      Fensha’s fingers rested on the holster for his pulsar, a handgun-size version of the weapon used by station security used to combat boarders. It fired glass beads coated in synthetic diamonds, very effective in putting down vac-suited opponents yet does minimal damage to interior structure and bulkheads. The same can’t be said of the enemy, however. “Very well, Ops. What is the estimated number of troops carried by those shuttles?”      “Approximately 100, allowing for a crew of at least five, Commodore.”      “We’re going to have a fight on our hands,” commented Nolsus as he watched the progress of station security at his command station’s screens. “That’s six companies’ worth of boarders on this base.”      Fensha blinked. “Ops, inform Lagoon-02 to go ahead and purge their astrogation databases. They have 700 boarders and far fewer defenders. The primary goal for all base security forces is to defeat the enemy and defend the shield generator compartments. The enemy can’t leave as long as one shield unit is up and operating. No prisoners will be taken until after the battle, assuming any will be alive in unpressurized compartments.”      “Aye, aye, Commodore.” The small Axis force at the Kerama Retto/Shunt warp point could only listen to the reports beamed at them from the main force while keeping vigil over the insubstantial flaw in space/time. Over an hour had gone by since the boarding actions started at the Abom anchorage though with the time delay the watch force had to wait over 30 minutes to learn the progress of the boarding parties. The delay worked the other way as well, so Prime Commander Ashton would hear what was happening at the warp point 30 minutes later as well.      The miniscule CAP, composed of three fighters, was surprised by the appearance of a battlecruiser that emerged from the warp point. Following the ship were five more: a CL, FGE, and another BC, CL and FGE. All of them went through one particular patch of the minefield at full speed, armed with the knowledge that the now-destroyed control base had deactivated those particular mines earlier. The three Hatchets weren’t surprised for long, and although were limited at half-speed their weapon systems went on-line, angling for the second battlecruiser. First to fire, however, was the CSF escort frigate Hotfoot. Despite transit-addled fire control a single Hatchet erupted into a boil of light, confirming that it had antimatter close attack missiles on its racks. The remaining two scored hits, breaking down the shields and scouring two-thirds of the armor before the second escort frigate, the Boiler, fell one of them.      Of the five Axis ships only the regular Flak Lighter initially came to action stations. The Tracker Leader scout was nine light-seconds out, safe at the moment, but the four undersized corvettes were four light seconds out with the lead battlecruiser, which happened to be the pinnace tender Curtys, only 1.5 light seconds away. Stuck at a crawl until such time their crews were at action stations the three Flak Carriers turned away as the CSF ships from the first wave consolidated while the second wave, made up of another BC, CL, and FGE, transited from Shunt. Fire control stabilized, the Curtys’ long range scanners were able to distinguish the carriers thanks to their lack of shields. Of the twelve laser-tipped capital missiles fired by the Curtys and Bayyar eight locked-on and six slipped past last-ditch point defense fire. The Curtys’ laser also hit, sealing the first Flak Carrier’s fate as the last hanger bay had a Hatchet loaded with antimatter close attack missiles. It wasn’t so much ripped apart but exploded like a balloon as the antimatter ordnance went off in the little ship’s magazine.      A CL and FGE fired at another Flak Carrier, and enough damage was scored with CM-Lts and CAMs that an occupied hanger bay was crushed with its antimatter-armed Hatchet inside. The fireball of the doomed ship was fit for a fireworks display, complete with multiple stroboscopic explosions. Knowing it was just spitting in the enemy’s eye the Flak Lighter fired its sole CAM at the Cannucut, scoring a hit that further scoured the armor. The big ship’s laser missed, and though the Boiler’s CAMs hit it wasn’t enough to reach the last Flak Carrier’s hanger bays. Due to that shortfall it was able to launch its brood. Knowing his ship was the target the Cannucut’s captain broke formation to keep its distance from the quartet and was kept company by the Boiler and Hotfoot. This maneuver, however, placed the ship in the path of the remaining Hatchet from CAP. Now unarmed, the pilot took his craft in a suicide run on the big ship but missed, becoming a target of the Hotfoot’s point defense. As for the quartet they were all splashed by the Boiler and Cannucut’s point defense.      The second wave ships fired their CM-Lts at the remaining Flak Carrier, and combined with the Curtys’ laser, made it an immobile wreck. Poking along at .05c, the Flak Lighter could only become a live target as the Curtys, Cannucut and Almandra kept up a barrage of laser fire. The ship and the last Flak Carrier were rendered into expanding patches of debris. On the Curtys’ bridge Captain Bensae turned to display his smile to one Lieutenant (sg) Davke. “Well, let us hope that will be the only time my ship is called upon to perform in the assault role.”      “I’m thankful we didn’t need to use our Whales, Captain,” said the relieved pinnace jockey, “and that the Cannucut’s hull remains unbreached, if only barely. If the number crunchers on Oyster Cove-02 have it right we might be facing almost three times our number in armed pinnaces. Those Tzelan carriers and their veteran squadrons will go a long way to level the playing field.”      “That remains to be seen. Communications,” said Bansae as he shifted his attention, “contact our observing scout. Also, send a drone to Shunt so that Simm knows it’s safe to transit.”      “Aye, aye, Sir.”      Bensae fished a stick of mackerel jerky from a belt pouch and bit off a quarter of it. He let it rest at the side of his mouth so as to save the taste longer. “Master Plot, where’s that no-good Axis gadfly?”      “Still hanging out 9 light seconds from the formation, Captain,” said the senior sensor tech.      “Captain, are you going to recommend to Simm to use one or two of his new Fireflies squadrons to run down that ship?” Davke asked. Due to the veteran status of its flight groups, Simm’s task element was among the first to receive the new F2 fighters. They can run down any scout, even if it detunes engines, and still carry enough ordnance to destroy it.      “While they’re capable of doing that, Davke, I’ll recommend to Simm to hold onto his Fireflies and preserve their secret for as long as practical. Plus we have some more new toys. That reminds me. Comm, inform all ships to commence reloading external racks with missiles equipped with the new model of laser warheads. The frigates will get their missiles from the light cruisers.”      “Aye, Sir. We now have a reply from our scout. It has sent a download of the situation at the anchorage as of 32 minutes ago. Sending the data to Operations for processing. It will be on the primary screen in a few moments.”      “Thank you, Comm.” Bansae and Davke waited, and were treated to a digital panorama of the anchorage and data light codes on the huge flat panel screen.      “This is going to take some overtime,” Davke finally said after digesting the update, chewing on two sticks of mackerel jerky at the side of his mouth. “There are 130 of those ugly little spots of bother remaining and 18 of those have disembarked boarding parties on the three big bases.” While unspoken, everyone on the bridge knew how Davke felt at the loss of 54 Whale crews, crews that he had trained over the past few weeks so thoroughly and thoughtfully. Only the intensified grip on the twin jerky sticks betrayed his inner emotions.      Bansae had a momentary, but involuntary glance at Davke. His pinnace commander had his share of losses before, especially in the first combat deployment of the Curtys. Despite the self-deprecating manner he maintained with his own strikegroup, and the tough image he projected for everyone else Davke actually cared for his trainees. In one unguarded moment he referred to his Valhallan charges as ‘his kids’, and readily admitted to Bansae over drinks in the ward room that he had been overly harsh in the initial dressing-down following the first training exercise debacle. Later, definitely much later, Bansae had some words to say to Davke. “At least their fighter strength is practically non-existent. I want you and Simm’s strikewing commander to mash the grey matter and figure out a way to counter this new Axis small craft. They’re faster than a Whale and have a point defense system that is demonstratively equal to that found a Phyr escort frigate.”      “Aye, Captain. We’ll find something that’ll pull the starch out of their bony faces.” Of the ongoing combat on the bases the struggle on Lagoon-02 got resolved first. Despite their determination the crew couldn’t stop the deprivations of the enemy. Shield generator compartments, or any compartment the boarding parties found themselves in was wrecked with the intense violence and thoroughness one came to expect from the Axis. The boarding parties on Lagoon-02 withdrew in disciplined order to their Stilettos, wrecking all compartments they passed in the process. With his own work cut out for him Lt. Tes, commanding his security teams and improvised groups of armed base crew from Oyster Cove-02’s auxiliary control, made the time to pass on some rather important news to Nolsus. “Sir, I’ve got confirmed reports of what the Axis boarding parties are carrying with them from the other two bases. Examples of those ‘black bricks’ have been recovered from fallen enemy troops are the same as found on Lagoon-02. They are what we suspect them of being.”      Nolsus’ voice over the commlink was terse, for combat was two compartments away from the base’s command post. “They got what they wanted then, Tes. Emphasize to all your teams that every computer interface panel is to be wrecked so as to deny their use to the enemy. We’ll be conducting a deep purge of the active and long-term cache files presently. ”      “Aye, Sir. Tes Out.” The brawny E’sani closed the link and peered at a live video feed of combat near the base’s magazines. Lt. Tinker was leading a team against a particular resilient group of boarders, one that happened to use breaching rockets like water balloons. Destroying the boarders in total was the order of the day for the fact of what each one carried. The object in question was dubbed a ‘black brick,’ a combat-cased brute-force electronic interrogator. Placed on a computer interface, or even an encased data hardline, a black brick would cajole and then suck up any electronic information like a drought-dried sponge. The allies had such devices but never used them in wholesale lots, but not for a lack of trying. Whoever on the other side thought up of the idea obviously was perfectly comfortable with the massive casualties involved just to get a few bricks loaded with captured data.      “You listening, Matau-de?” said Tinker over the audio link, the earbug Tes wore positively vibrated against his skin like an angry insect. The E’sani looked at the associated video feed, which was Tinker’s point of view. Rarely addressing his friend by his first name, by using it now meant Tinker was thinking of something drastic. “These bastards’ refusal to die is an insult I can’t abide. Unlike you, I’m not afraid to use myself. Just watch!”      Before Tes could protest he watched as the POV changed. The squad Tinker lead was composed of E’sani, and it was the one known as Husker that lifted Tinker off the deck, and, gripping him like a throwing disc, lobbed him down the corridor towards a knot of barricaded Axis boarders like he was participating at a national track and field competition. Stupefied by the sight, the bone heads failed to hit the airborne Crajen as he went over their heads and bounced off the far bulkhead, landing on his legs, facing them. Tinker had a 10mm gun in both work hands instead of the regular bead pulsars, firing rapidly while his vacuum-proof crusher claws did their gruesome work on a pair of boarders that were a bit to slow on the uptake. As that particular section of the base was in vacuum there was no sound aside from the clicking of Tinker’s mandibles over his pressure suit’s audio link, and it was the most rapid that Tes had ever heard.      A limp body of a vac-suited boarder was thrown over the barricade by Tinker. With faceplate ruptured it was clear that the Crajen had crushed the helmet and the skull underneath. He waved his claw, ushering his squad to come forward. “MC Alpha has been secured, Security Chief,” said Tinker over the link. “We’re going to make sure they didn’t trap any of the antimatter ordnance. I do request a runner be sent to my location with more pulsar ammo and a brace of grenades.”      “You got it, Lt. Tinker,” said a relieved Tes. “If it wasn’t already placed in secured storage I would send you a shot of that raisin moonshine for that successful stunt you just pulled.” Fanmet, after debriefing and congratulating the Stiletto crews that returned to the Falconer, went to the bridge to observe the boarding action reports firsthand with Larpon. Thanks to this Fanmet was also able to learn first-hand of the allied entry into the Twins from the Shunt warp point. Only after a comprehensive read by the Tracker Leader scout on the Abom flotilla’s composition did the shuttle force commander made his opinion. “We should wrap the operation up now, if I was in Ashton’s shoes.”      “I’m sure she’s coming to the same conclusion,” Larpon said like a wise grandparent. “But it may take a little longer for the boarding teams on the larger pair of bases still haven’t knocked out all the shield generators.”      With anxious eyes Fanmet peered at a small readout screen below the holoimager. “As much as I don’t want to leave anything behind for the Aboms we’ll need all the Stilettos we have for defense. Ashton won’t send in the three frigates to finish the bases unless the Aboms weapons are wrecked or the magazines gutted.”      Larpon nodded like a sage. “Perceptive, Fanmet. While the frigates could stay at maximum HET laser range we don’t know how much antimatter ordnance those Abom have for their missile launchers. We only just finish reloading our external racks with laser-tipped capital missiles. Spending another hour to reload is just one more hour for the enemy to close on us. Perhaps Ashton will just settle with three heavily damaged bases for the enemy to repair and reinforce.”      “Reinforce? Why leave a nucleus for the Aboms to build upon, Captain?”      Larpon smiled. “To give the Aboms an incentive to expend resources to make the Twins more secure. As long as they’re engaged in Battlement they’ll be compelled to secure their rear lines. Plus, more importantly, any defenses they had planned for Battlement will have to be diverted to the Twins for the foreseeable future. Then, I imagine in six to nine months, the High Command will send in a fleet and seal off the Chrome warp point, letting that Valhallan Abom fleet to die on the vine.”      “I see. Make them waste treasure like the builder trying to make a foundation in sand.” Fanmet said, but kept the following thoughts to himself. If that was the case, then why wasn’t that tried first? Waiting three or four months for a proper fleet wouldn’t have been prohibitively expensive for the Battlement defenders. I suppose Operation Restoration is the reason why we’re just a raiding force.      “Ah,” Larpon said pleasantly as he read the text that appeared on a repeater screen on the console before him, “it seems our dear Ashton has made up her mind. The boarding parties have been ordered to evacuate and return presently. We will be underway once the last shuttle has returned.”      Fanmet waved in a flippant manner at the ghostly image of the pinnace base in the holoimager. “Very good. This scene no longer holds any interest for me.” The damaged Tracker Leader scout at the Chrome warp point received orders to retire at full speed and rendezvous with the task group. An order easy to say but difficult to execute for the scout, already damaged and limited to .1c, ran the risk of having said damaged engine packing it in along the way. This didn’t factor in the Sloop scout, waiting and then following in the distance. As far as the Tracker Leader captain was concerned as long as that Sloop kept its distance then that was fine for him.      However, it was not fine for the Sloop captain. He followed, and once it was clear that the Axis scout was moving at maximum speed he followed suit and went to full speed as well. Being one-third faster the gap closed fairly quickly. For the Axis captain the only explanation was that the Sloop had a CAM on its external racks, and regardless of what he did that Sloop was going to be at point-blank range to fire. So the only option was to engage ECM and employ erratic maneuvering at the optimum moment, and despite that the CAM still hit. The sole shield was brought down and the patched up engine was put to rights for good. The Sloop pulled away to resume its station around the Chrome warp point, leaving the Axis scout to chug along now at .05c. It was going to be a long, lonely trip that had the crew hoping there was still going to be a task group to meet them. Part 4 "Well, I guess they waited as long as they could," Nolsus said in a resigned tone. The red light codes for the Axis ships in the holoimager turned and moved away from the amber-colored one used to represent the anchorage. "They could've got more distance had they left upon learning about our reinforcements. It still wouldn't have mattered, due to the speed difference."      "That may have well been their commander's thinking," opined Fensha. "Those new shuttles have the speed to catch up to their motherships. Perhaps they weren't so willing to readily abandon the boarding troops. Morale may be as important to the Axis as it is to us."      "I hardly thought that would be problem for them, Commodore. They wrecked our bases like college students on a weekend bender. Only our command post and the sick bays have remained untouched."      "Not for a lack of trying, Nolsus. What remains of the boarders wouldn't even fill one of the three shuttles still attached our hull."      Just at that moment the icon for fighter base Shark Reef-07 blinked, followed by a white dot speeding away on a heading towards the retiring Axis units. "That's the last one from that base, Commodore," said Mokana, the operations officer, working from the master plot station. "We'll be receiving their revised damage assessment in ten minutes."      Expecting no further action it came as a surprise to see a blue icon appear from Shark Reef-07, trailing only half a light-second behind the Axis shuttle. And, just as quick, the enemy craft was blotted from space, its icon in the imager fading and then disappearing altogether. The blue icon came about and returned to its launch point. "That base still had its pinnace," quipped Nolsus. "So does Lagoon-02, but now the three remaining Axis shuttle pilots will be ready. They're going to leave as a group instead of singletons."      Fensha blinked slowly to show his approval. "That was a fine display of initiative. Inform the other base commanders to have their pinnaces launch at moment the shuttles lift-off from our hull. Taking out one more shuttle may mean the difference between victory and defeat for Davke and Simm." Lt. Tes lead the last reserve squad of station security, made up Terpla'ns, to the nearest entry point made by one of the remaining Axis shuttles. There was no overt need for him to be involved in combat at this point, now that the enemy was in full retreat towards their only means of escape. He had already lead a commendable effort in the defense of the base at his command post, directing squads of both regular security and armed base personnel to maximum advantage against an enemy that took the simple expedient of blasting bulkheads open to create a route of advance. Being at the command post did have the disadvantage, however, of hearing all those distress calls of squads of being pinned and then cut down without the option of turning off the volume or the video feed. More importantly, Tes felt that his personal bravery was being called into question for his command in a position of relative safety. To an E'sani it's an imperative to act on one's bravery when called upon to action. His conscious, and the souls of the fallen, demanded no less.      Tes signaled his squad to stop just shy of an intersection. Debris littered the passageway, and the emergency lighting bathed the scene with a dull red color. Consulting the map displayed on his visor, Tes saw that the entry point was just twenty meters away right in the heart of once was a rec center. The borders had blasted open one wall of the compartment, thus explaining the debris. He grabbed what appeared to be a round grenade from his utility webbing, and after rolling it in his huge gloved hand like a giant marble tossed it into the ruined rec center. There was no immediate response, and the grenade was actually a tactical sensor. A trio of tiny legs popped out of the grenade, halting its journey across the floor. Tes saw through the dedicated panoramic feed that there were no Axis boarders in the area. He did notice that the mouth of the boarding tube jutted half a meter down from the ceiling. With not ladder evident the boarders had to be tractored up into their shuttle.      Carrying a pulsar in one hand Tes pulled another item off his utility webbing. It was one of the Axis ‘black bricks’, and after observing how several squads of Axis boarders used the bricks in relation to the boarding tubes an idea was born in Tes’ brain. He motioned his squad to take up positions to intercept any boarders, taking two Terps with him into the rec center. What was once a place where Whale crews could down cool drinks and eat fired mackerel could now be mistaken as the aftermath of a firefighting exercise. Some of the chairs and fixtures were melted and fuzed to the floor, and a mural depicting a Whale firing away at an unseen target was burnt in its entirety. With his two guards at his back Tes walked under the three-meter-wide boarding tube. Giving last minute instructions via suit skin contact Tes held up the black brick and pressed, gently for an E’sani, the recessed button on the underside. A hum was heard, and then the sensation of weightlessness as the trio was drawn up into the craft.      Working the boarding tube controls on the shuttle was an anxious crewmember. He was the assistant flight engineer, and one of his primary responsibilities was operating the life support equipment. Also included in his duties was the operation of the shuttle’s two airlocks and the boarding tube. This was his first deployment since joining the AFC a mere six months ago, and while he was glad that the schooling was over he wanted to be somewhere else that very moment. Having already cheated death in the exchange with the enemy’s small craft, the attack on the base and the intense landing sequence the engineer didn’t want to press his luck. He heard what happened to the last shuttle that lifted off from the other big base, hoping that jerk of a weapons officer on the flight deck was quicker on the point defense than the enemy.      A warble at the control panel told the engineer that a group of boarders was below the tube, ready to be picked up. He pressed the tractor button and went to the hatch, waiting for the cycle to complete and render assistance if there were any wounded. Because he acted so promptly he didn’t bother to look at the video feed or even the contamination filter scan readouts. Had he done so, and had remembered to engage the emergency overrides, then things would’ve been different. But it wasn’t entirely his fault, for the designers of the shuttle had failed to include a simple viewport on the hatch. Now, had that feature been present then the engineer could’ve used the manual floor iris controls and dumped whoever was in the tube back down onto the floor below. So, instead of seeing boarders he got a mountain of an E’sani in a combat pressure suit before him when the hatch opened wide. The two suited Terpla’ns behind the biped mountain didn’t even register in the engineer’s frozen mind.      Tes’ gloved hand didn’t so much cover the engineer’s face but enveloped the entire helmet-covered head. He imagined that he was squeezing a grapefruit, the way his grandmother always did back at home, and never failing to make the delicious orb rupture and spray. When he relaxed his grip the body of the engineer fell to the floor in a heap, the interior of the helmet coated in blood. Now in the shuttle proper Tes has his two guards go aft to secure the engine compartment. Scans during the battle have shown there were six crewmembers on each shuttle and with one accounted for that left five – one aft and four on the flight deck forward. With safety off on his pulsar and combat knife in his free hand Tes moved quickly, knowing that success was all that separated the brave from the foolhardy. Flag Captain Simm, commander of Task Element 114.1, rubbed his wool-covered chin while contemplating the impending action with the Axis force. He was conferring over a conference link with Captain Bensae, commander of the pinnace tenders, along with Davke and Lt. Hevv, the Tzelan commander of the task element’s strike wing. “It was a likely maneuver on their part, Bensae. Even with life support and laser packs our F2s wouldn’t be able to catch up to them.”       If a Terpla’n had shoulders then Bansae would’ve shrugged. “Hopefully all they got was just unimportant messages and videos from the unsecured cache files on the bases. I wonder how they’ll react if all they got were episodes of Return to the Planet of the Khanates?”      “Being what they are, they’ll think it was about them.” Simm smiled. One hour after receiving news from the Shunt warp point the Axis force pulled stakes from the anchorage and moved at 0.05c towards their entry warp point. There was no way the big dreadnought-sized shuttle tenders and the undersized corvettes would get there in time, and even the escort cruisers would be overrun by Simm’s trio of Okado class DDs. It was the three Axis scouts that had reached the anchorage ahead of the main force that stood the best chance of escaping, providing that their detuned engines held out long enough. “Hevv and Davke, the enemy will strive to reduce our fighter and pinnace strength while at the same time crippling our ships so that we’re unable to close on their tenders. We’ll be doing the same, with the priority given to the elimination of those new shuttles followed by the three frigates. Once that’s done, we’ll be able to bring our Okados forward and in conjunction with the Privateers finish off the rest of the Axis ships without further loss to our flight groups.”      “It’ll be done, Sir,” said Hevv. “The maneuver we have plan for them should achieve favorable results.”      “My Whale crews are eager, Flag Captain, though we rather be shoving ordnance up their exhaust ports,” chimed an irrepressible Davke. “Just let us have an opportunity to fire those new stand-off missiles should the opportunity arise.”      Simm fished out the pipe he had in his uniform jacket and held it in his hand like a sage about to dispense wisdom. “Provided that our losses aren’t prohibitive I’ll give it some consideration, Davke.”      On the Falconer two officers walked out of the portside pilot ready room and directly into shuttle bay #7. A Stiletto escort shuttle, armed and prepped for launch, was waiting for one of the officers to board so it could be launched to join the others. The older officer, his vac suit helmet under one arm, shook the hand of the younger with his free hand. “An impassioned, persuasive speech you made, Fanmet. You could find work delivering patriotic oratory for the People’s Office of Welfare.”      “I just may do that after the war, Larpon. Those meddlers coming after us will have their legs hobbled and arms limp after we’re done with them.” As Fanmet spoke his sense of exhilaration was palatable to the older officer. In under a minute the shuttle commander had convinced Prime Commander Ashton to change her mind, so instead of staying aboard he was going to command the remaining Stilettos in combat. “Your point defense crews will have nothing to do other than cheer our success.”      “Perhaps you can spare a ravaged squadron or two. I think my crew will appreciate the opportunity to immolate some fighters in actual combat,” Larpon said in jest. “Nevertheless, come back so that you can train more pilots to fill these hanger bays to capacity for the battles to come.”      “I will, Commander.” Saluting smartly, Fanmet donned his helmet and sealed it as he went up the boarding ramp. Back in the pilot ready room Larpon watched from behind the clearsteel viewport as the Stiletto was launched before heading back to the bridge. He sincerely hoped that Fanmet would be successful in breaking the enemy. From the numbers the Abom force was composed of 3 BCs, 3 CLs, 4 know CVEs, 5 DDs and 3 FGs. They were moving twice as fast as the Falconer, preceded by no less than 54 armed pinnaces and 48 fighters. Opposing them were 127 Stilettos, 4 Hatchets, and six regular assault shuttles. There would’ve been 130 Stilettos, but two were shot down while leaving the anchorage by a like number of regular Abom pinnaces (and in turn were themselves shot down). One was still attached to the hull of a base, and was in all likelihood disabled by means unknown. Hopefully the crew destroyed any sensitive material to prevent captured by the enemy.      Back on the bridge Larpon sat in his preferred chair at the holoimager. He adjusted the situational display so that all contacts within 30 light-seconds were represented. The first Abom formation, containing the fighters and pinnaces, was 12 light-seconds behind the Axis ships. Five LS behind were the first group of ships, and five more LS beyond them was the second group containing the CVEs. Given the rate of closure, 1.5 LS per minute, the battle would commence presently. Larpon turned his chair. “Tactical, be ready to receive targeting orders from the flagship once the first group of enemy ships is within 6 light-seconds.”      “Yes, Commander.” Davke worked his expectant energy by strumming his fingers on the armrests of his seat. He occupied the co-pilot’s position of his Whale armed pinnace, the Wholly Mackerel, and had the tactical plot on his dedicated screen. The enemy made his move, waiting until the 6 light-second mark before turning those oversized shuttles around and making a shark line for the strikeforce. The three Punch frigates also came about, accelerating to 0.117c. Given the circumstances, and the demonstrated level of aggression from this particular Axis force, Davke bet his back pair of legs that they’ll attempt an overrun and then head for the battlecruisers. They had both the speed to outrun the Whales and the reach to swat down Sharks that attempt to close.      The maneuver Davke had in mind had the virtue of never having been tried before, both in the field and in training. It should’ve been obvious in light of the fact that the Axis would develop their copy of the armed pinnace, and that’s not even mentioning this new type of shuttle. A part of Davke that was the dark, cool professional was thankful that the pinnace commander at the anchorage didn’t do something similar on the fly, being so badly outnumbered that any desperate idea would’ve been tired. That would’ve alerted the enemy and in turn lead to inspired countermeasures. Another part of Davke had wished his students did perform the trick, and in doing so caused more losses for the enemy. Now fate gave him the opportunity to inflict revenge for the fallen. An icon on Davke’s screen blinked red, prompting him to speak into his suit’s microphone. “All units - circus, circus, circus!”      Fanmet, sitting in the co-pilot’s seat of his Stiletto, was experiencing the thrill of his life. This marked the first time he directly participated in space combat. He made himself swear that, from this point forward, he would regale his future children and grandchildren with this exploit first when asked for war stories. In a moment the Stiletto’s fire control system will lock up on one of the Abom pinnaces and destroy it with direct malice, unlike the random death dispensed from an assault shuttle against a clot of Aboms.      Watching his formations selecting targets, Fanmet noticed something was amiss. The enemy was reducing speed for some reason, putting them three-fourths of light-second away instead of point-blank range as expected for the exchange. Even at that range at least 32 pinnaces would be consigned to an explosive death. Dread filled his face as the readout piteously rattled off data. Not one Stiletto was able to lock-on to any pinnace or fighter for that matter. As if to mock him a most unwelcomed warble spilled out of shuttle’s flight deck speakers, making the command pilot juke and weave to break the tentative weapons lock on his craft. A point defense missile passed within 20 kilometers of the shuttle, too far out for its kiloton-range warhead to do any damage but close enough to remind everyone on board of their mortality.      Swearing under his breath Fanmet saw the devastation wrought by point defense missiles and lasers from the Abom pinnaces and fighters. 46 Stilettos were shot down, each death more violent than expected as they had antimatter close-attack missiles on external racks. To engage in a mass melee now would surrender the initiative the Aboms, not when the battlecruisers and destroyers were still within reach. “Proceed to primary targets!” He yelled over the command frequency. “All units to engage enemy fighters and pinnaces with point defense only, target at will!”      The Stilettos blew right past the Whales, not slowing to use erratic maneuvering. In order to keep up the Whales had to dispense with their drive-induced ECM and rely solely on the ECM packs they carried. As for the Tzelan-crewed Firefly fighters they used a portion of their drive potential to augment the packs they carried in order to kept station with the Whales and opened up on the Axis craft at a distance of 0.25 LS. Brief, intense fireballs lit up both formations in the exchange. Pilots juked and dodged, breaking lock-ons while their gunners sought to make them. While they may have been trained well and fought with conviction the Stiletto crews were simply outgunned. While the allies lost five Fireflies and ten Whales the Axis only had three Stilettos remaining, backed up by the four Hatchets. Of the six regular assault shuttles only one remained from the long-range improved point defense fire from the Phyr frigates.      Meanwhile the three Punch frigates had slow dramatically, moving at 0.033c while generating maximum ECM to complement their erratic maneuvers. They were now at a distance of 4.5 LS from the Privateer tenders, optimum range for externally-mounted capital missiles. It was planned that once the Stilettos wrecked the tenders the Punches would speed back up and seek an engagement with the Okado destroyers. Seeing how they were such difficult targets at the moment Bansae held off on the order to open fire.      “Good work, boys and girls!” Davke shouted over the command frequency. “All Whales and Fireflies, fall in on me and engage the approaching enemy frigates!”      In contrast to Davke’s liveliness one could find Fanmet transfixed with rage. He had expected so much more, only to be let down in the clutch by the hands of Providence. There was no time for internal reflection on what may have swayed the universal force in the decision it handed down to this particular lowly mortal. With no hope of survival there only remained the sweet release one can find in victory. So motivated he hit the override control and personally piloted the Stiletto himself, leaving the command pilot nothing to do but watch as the grin on Fanmet’s boney face turn into a grotesque expression fixed with the rigor of death. Over the shuttle’s internal frequency one could hear him hum the tune of ‘Advance, My Nation’, one of the anthems of the Asteroid Axis.      The remaining assault shuttle made its run towards the tender Cannucut with the intent on ramming. It missed, turning and coming about to give chase. From its vantage point it watched what happened to the paltry remnants of the strikeforce. Upon completing a relative turn to starboard a datagroup comprised of one BC, CL and FG opened up on a Punch and on the four Hatchets. The laser warheads on the external capital missiles used by the Aboms were more powerful than expected, resulting in denuded armor that allowed the old-fashioned laser to reach inside and collapse the cargo hold of the first Punch. All four Hatchets were consigned to fiery oblivion, denied the potential harm from their pure loads of FRAMs. One Stiletto fired its pair of FRAMs at the Cannucut, taking down 80% of its shields. The second datagroup did the same to the second Punch, yet only killed two of the three Stilettos, and the last one opened up on the Cannucut again. With the rest of the shield brought down and its already damaged armor finished the big ship lost an engine room and sustained partial damage to another. The third datagroup only succeeded in removing one-third the armor of the third Punch, and for that the tender Almadra got nearly half its armor lazed off. As for point defense it was focused on the last Stiletto. With racks empty the craft’s resulting explosion was unexpectedly just as bright as a loaded one. It faded just as quickly as it erupted, no-one ever knowing that the craft’s energetic death was fueled by the hate felt by Fanmet.      The Privateer tenders came about, putting as much distance between themselves and the now full-speed Punches. With the Whales and Fireflies now in range for their laser packs the Axis ships knew they only had one shot, so they fired on the Almadra again, finishing the armor and wrecking everything forward of the second engine room. Point defense only succeeded in nailing one more fighter before the trio were nickel and dimed to death by wrathful flight crews.      Simm, with pipe in hand, spoke into the connection that linked him to Bansae. “That almost settles it. We can rearm out strikegroup with the new standoff missiles and strip the remaining Axis ships of their external ordnance. Once that’s done we can come forward and release the Okados. Even your Privateers can participate.”      “My fellow captains won’t turn down that offer, Simm,” Bansae replied, holding a stick of mackerel jerky in his hand. “This may be the only opportunity that the Cannucut and Almadra would have a direct hand in dispatching enemy ships to the depths.”      “That’s generous of you, Bansae. Your Curtys has earned a collection of engagement stars worthy of envy by battleships.”      “On a more serious note, Simm, may I suggest we launch all available shuttles and cutters to conduce search-and-rescue operations for those pilots and pinnace crews that survived the destruction of their craft?"      "Agreed. As they're not needed for combat have your smaller tenders serve as the collection point for rescued crews."       "Aye, Flag Captain," Bansae acknowledged before turning off the comm link.      As the formation slowed to match the speed of the huge Axis tenders the point defense gunners of the Cannucut engaged and destroyed the last assault shuttle, bringing an end to the Axis stampede. After witnessing the destruction of the strikeforce Larpon sat back down in his chair on the Falconer’s bridge. The utter waste of fine crews and craft would make a more passionate man weep or yell. For Larpon his temper was leaven with prudence and experience. The old captain reasoned that had he lived, and gone through more combats, Fanmet’s zeal would have been seasoned with experience, Larpon was sure of it. As for the combat, could it have been handled differently? The Stilettos could’ve been held in their bays, enticing the enemy to come closer, or if Punches remained with the ships longer. Such after-the-fact thinking wasn’t productive, but it served to pass the time until the enemy made their next more.      The Abom fighters and pinnaces landed on their carriers and tenders, undoubtedly to rearm. Shortly afterwards they did launch, flying in a group, towards the task group. As for the ships they were in a single group now too, though they kept just beyond 6 LS range. “Getting new orders from flagship, Sir,” said the Falconer’s helmsman. “We’re to present our portside to the enemy as they achieve a distance of 1.5 light-seconds.”      Larpon nodded. Such a move would briefly deny the enemy firing missiles in the blind spots of their targets. “Helm, acknowledge the order. Tactical, release control of our point defense to the escort cruiser.”      “Yes, Commander.”     On 18 bridges, and on 18 dedicated screens, a like number of tactical officers watched as the Abom strikeforce moved in at .1c. 44 armed pinnaces and 42 fighters armed with FRAMs could destroy the whole force, though it remained in the realm of possibility that severe losses could be inflicted upon them. It didn’t turn out to be the case. Each Firefly, save for one in each squadron equipped with an ECCM pack, carried a full load of the new second-generation stand-off fighter missile with the equally new lasing warheads. They were all veterans too, making them more accurate in anti-shipping attacks. Just outside of interception by capital point defense, the Fireflies let loose with their missile storms. The Whales did likewise, also loaded with the new missiles. The experienced crews from the Curtys and Bayyar fired on the tenders, and with greater accuracy achieved more lock-ons for their loads. While no one ship was destroyed all had armor scoured with the undersized corvettes getting the worse in the one-sided exchange. The strike pulled back, and Larpon knew one more was in the offering for the enemy won’t put their ships in range of external ordnance until all the tenders and escort cruisers were streaming air from laser-ravaged flanks. In fact the cruiser that had its armor removed in the missile exchange with the bases sustained internal damage at this juncture, losing an engine room.      Ashton also figured there was going to be a second strike and was proven correct six minutes later. At just under the 3 LS mark the Axis ships moved at .033c and employed what ECM and erratic maneuvering they could muster. It didn’t help in that all the ships lost more armor and all their external ordnance with two corvettes destroyed and one rendered engineless. In minutes that third corvette was vaporized by the Okados in passing. Ashton knew, as well as all of those in the remaining ships, that there was no point in splitting up and running: not now, not even hours ago. Three Firefly squadrons, each fighter loaded with two stand-off missiles, went after the one Fleet Tracker that followed the allied ships from the Shunt warp point. With their speed advantage they would eventually overhaul the scout before its abused engines could burn out. Six Whales went after the crippled Fleet Tracker that was making its painfully slow progress to its entry warp point.      With no opposition the allied force closed in to 4 LS range. First to fire were the Tzel ships, using HET lasers and launching laser-armed capital and standards missiles. Three damaged Flak Lighters were finished in the opening exchange. A minute later it was the turn of the destroyer-sized troopship, already an abattoir from earlier hits from laser-armed missiles, and another Flak Lighter, finished by the Privateers. The damaged escort cruiser came next, and after a further minute of fire it and the last corvette turned into clouds of disassociated parts and frozen atmospheric gasses.      Now at one light-second range the Okados fired antimatter-armed sprint-mode missiles at the second escort cruiser, hastening its demise. In a final gesture of defiance the Axis ships launched their shuttles and cutters in a suicide run on the Cannucut. Only one cutter succeeded in ramming, doing nominal damage to the shields, with the rest being shot down by the Phyrs as they turned around and lined up for another run.      This was the process for the remaining Axis ships. Firing antimatter sprint missiles the Okados brought down the shields of each ship in turn, letting the Privateers have their look before finishing them with point blank laser fire. At no time did the Axis ships speed up, slow down, or change direction. For the Terpla’n crews it was like watching old whales swimming towards that part of the ocean to die so that their carcasses would sink to the deepest depths, their own private graveyard. Unlike the first cruiser, those ships that dropped to 0.016c detonated antimatter ordnance in their magazines. Only a brief flurry of courier drones, moving a maximum speed for the Axis entry warp point, gave the clue of what was about to happen.      On the Falconer, like her sister ships, the crew stayed at their stations and sang ‘Purpose, Unity, Strength’, even as they were killed by explosions or collapsing bulkheads. Larpon sat in his chair, protected by crash webbing, and watched as his ship disintegrate around him. The shuttle bays crumpled like empty cans beneath angry feet, engine rooms erupting in flames and point defense mounts spewing counter-missiles and mass driver loads directly into the void. At the damage control station the officer rattled off those compartments and systems that had been destroyed. Upon hearing the loss of the second engine room Larpon nodded to the officer at the point defense console. He punched in a code and inserted a key, and waited as Larpon entered another code on the control pad by his chair and inserted a key of his own. Eyes locked, both turned their keys at the same moment. It was a five-second audio count; enough time for those that still lived to compose themselves in that final moment. The detonation of the Falconer’s remaining antimatter ordnance tore the huge hull into several major fragments, a firework that signaled the end the Axis foray into Kerama Retto. Epilogue The three remaining Axis scout ships were observed by the Sloop keeping station at the entry warp point. After they made transit the Sloop waited two hours before following. What was discovered before the sensors fully cleared was a solitary CA-hulled ship sitting 5 light-seconds out. It had been waiting for this moment, having received word via courier drones a short time before the arrival of the scout trio. The big ship fired its sole heavy force beam mount at the scout, scouring its armor. With no need for further prompting the Sloop came about and transited out, but not after getting a fleeting glimpse with its long range sensor of the surrounding environs.  A shell of mines, 300 patterns strong, surrounded the warp point. Only the CA, most likely an automated weapons control ship, and the now-distant retreating three scouts were evident. Only a little later on was it discovered that the defenses were purely to discourage any half-hearted pursuit. The CA had moved on, and a heavily guarded survey force found no additional warp points, and there were no population centers on the system’s moons. The only way the Axis got into this system was by a closed warp point. So it would require captured astrogation data or watching an Axis ship enter from the other side to find it.      Back at the anchorage what patchwork repairs that could be made on the fighter and pinnace bases were complete. Two repair ships were dispatched from the central reserve in the Citadel system to enable proper repairs. As for the Lagoon repair base it was engaged in repairing its own damage while fixing up the Cannucut and Almadra. What mobile forces that could be spared to defend the anchorage were being decided upon by high authority. For now it was up the pinnace tenders and Task Element 114.1 to defend Kerama Retto.      One of the sickbays on the pinnace base was tending those Valhallan pinnace crews fortunate enough to eject from their doomed craft.  20 out of 54 crews survived, mainly because their craft were hit by lasers instead of point defense missiles fired from the Stilettos. One of the pilots, call sign Hotdog, was being treated to a surprise visit from Tes and Tinker. The E’sani security chief and his Crajen deputy had brought the confiscated raisin moonshine, dispensing a shot glass’ worth of the drink to all the Valhallans present. Hotdog was saved for last, for there was another guest - Lieutenant Davke.       “You don’t look worse for wear, as far as bipeds go,” said the ace Terpla’n pinnace commander. “I’ve seen some that only survived because their suits kept all their bits together in one place for the doctors to sew back up.”      “Then I’m luckier than most, boss,” said Hotdog. Though he appreciated the visit Hotdog would rather spend his time with one of the attending female Valhallan medtechs that survived the destruction of the two cruisers.      “Such good fortune should be acknowledged. So, for you and the other crews I had something made.” From the pocket of his flight suit Davke produced a length of gaudy-colored ribbon with a decorative piece of brasswork at the end of it. “Hotdog, you’re the first recipient of the Order of the Palm. Any pinnace group that has ramp privileges will have to pay for your drinks as long as you wear it for all to see. If called upon to arbitrate a bar room dispute the most senior wearer of the Palm present shall offer their services. As you see,” pointing to the newly-created honor and the stamped number it wore, “you’re the first.”      “Thank you, boss.”      “Ah, but that’s not all, Hotdog. You and your crew will be going to Hagelkorn, but not for rest and regeneration. As Valhallans and Comensal share very similar physiology and life-support needs you’re an excellent candidate to test-pilot that captured Axis shuttle. You’ll put it through its paces and evaluate it potential as a weapon. Admirals and senators will be reading your reports, so you better get in practice writing while making the trip.”      Test-flying a piece of enemy hardware was something that very few could claim to have done in this war, and Hotdog looked forward to wring every erg of performance from an example that killed so many fellow flight mates. “I’m honored, boss.”      “As well you should be, and you crew won’t be going alone. All the Valhallan survivors from the two cruisers that got sunk will be going to Hagelkorn as well,” Davke said as his left eye locked onto the female Valhallan medtech Hotdog had been watching not so subtly the whole time. “That will include the medical staff just in case your injuries, such as they are, flair up again. Plus there will be plenty of time to watch episodes six and seven of Return to the Planet of the Khanates. Now, take some of that raisin moonshine rotgut before the doctors confiscate it for their own.” In the only intact conference room on Oyster Cove-02 was filled with the captains and first officers of all the ships and bases present at the Kerama Retto anchorage. Commodore Fensha stood up and swept his eyes over the assembly. “Gentlemen, I have received word from the Royal Valhallan Fleet in Battlement. Axis forces attempted one final mass attack with fighters and armed pinnaces, supported by warships. It was evident that all the enemy pilots involved were short on experience and were destroyed to the last unit. Our losses were extensive, but the enemy has been decisively defeated. The outer shell of asteroid bases and platforms are now in the process of being destroyed.”      “So the Boneheads now have armed pinnaces?” said the Tzelan Flag Captain Simm. “I was beginning to wonder when they’ll show up.”      Fensha’s eyes did a double-blink. “It certainly worked in the Axis favor as they caused the majority of damage inflicted on the Royal Fleet,” Fensha amended. “The F1 Hatchets and armed pinnaces were carrying anti-matter ordnance. Among the losses was the Vanguard, King Russen’s flagship, as it went head-to-head with an Axis dreadnought. The damage reached to the ship’s magazines, and before they could crash-release its antimatter ordnance the Vanguard was destroyed. King Russen is dead.”      “That may throw a wrench in the works for the Valhallans back home, “said Bansae, captain of the Curtys. “The spacers in the Royal Fleet may carry on to honor their fallen King, but those foot-draggers in the Valhallan government may use his death as an excuse to play a much smaller role in this war.”      “You might be proven correct, Captain. However, whatever political games may come about will take a back seat to this. I received news half an hour ago. Early today the Axis conducted an assault on the Gravel Pit/Bedrock warp point. The defenses have been neutralized, and those ships that have the speed and time are leaving the system via the Circuit Run and Tire Iron warp points. Those ships still in Gravel Pit and Brickyard have been effectively cut off, and the troopships are heading to the outer reaches of the Bedrock system to hide. As of now the 3rd Expeditionary Corps Bedrock Prime is on its own.”      Simms stroked his fine curly chin. “So we’re going to have to hold the line for the foreseeable future, Commodore?”      “Not only here, but also in Battlement. Those carriers without flight groups will be coming here to replenish from what remains of the crated stores on the repair base. We have to hold on until the Royal Fleet is able to take the offensive again. On our part we’ll cover the third warp point and post a scout and sensor net in the system the Axis used to enter Kerama Retto.  My staff will work out the particulars. That will be all for now, gentlemen. I will break the news about Bedrock to the anchorage presently. Dismissed.” End 12/12/11

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