Another page of history is being written...
Chapter One
Failed Plans
Forty thousand Alliance ships had been mustered to counter the foray of an Imperial fleet half that size. In any straight fight, having twice the numbers had been enough to guarantee victory, if not an easy one. The officers and soldiers of the three separate Alliance commands were certain that luck and fate was now on their side.
But it wasn't enough to win. They had to make it look good so that the people back home could sell it, encourage the people into continued support of the war effort. As such, tactical brainstorming decided to use the basics of the victory which had allowed the Alliance to endure at the beginning of the war: the Battle of Dagon.
There, the legendary Lin Pao, despite having half the fleet size of the enemy, used knowledge of the Dagon Starzone and general inexperience on the part of the Imperials of the time to engineer a three-pronged assault. Three separate fleet groups had struck in unison, destroying the enemy in a fantastic siege. The enemy fleet had been all but obliterated.
Although the Astarte Starzone, where the two fleets were most likely to meet, didn't have quite as much cosmic radiation and other space mayhem to fool sensors to the extent Dagon had, the numerical difference, some said, would make up for the difference.
The Second Fleet with fifteen thousand ships, the Fourth Fleet with twelve thousand, and the Sixth Fleet with thirteen thousand ships would cruise to three separate marshalling points, surround the enemy, and charge in.
The Imperial Fleet had always been statistically slow at organizing its troops, even more the few times when they had actually been outnumbered. Moreover, the fleet commander was an inexperienced admiral of twenty years of age, who'd likely have trouble consolidating his own command. Admirals Moore, Paeta and Pastoll, and most of their immediate commanders were confident that they would easily achieve the success they yearned for.
With the data they had been given, officers guessed where and when the Imperial Fleet would emerge, leaving themselves some room to react if it was slightly early, late, or didn't completely occupy the designated sector that most computations thought it would.
Everything was set, calculated, perfected. All the three predators needed was to sight their prey and move in for the kill.
And then, for the still-moving Fourth Fleet, the plan was suddenly shattered in the most frightening of ways.
Far from any of the sectors that even the most cautious of the Fourth Fleet's analysts had assumed it would show, the Imperial fleet under the new High Admiral Lohengramm slammed into the Alliance forces with well-calculated fury.
Vice admiral Pastoll and his staff could only stare in shock as the enemy approached well before their forces were ready to fight them. Decades of set battle-plans and traditional tactical fleet movements made the Imperial angle and timing so unusual that the command staff found itself paralyzed.
Before anyone could come up with any sort of the counter to the newly-introduced combat elements, the Imperial fleet opened fire on its enemy in a relentless barrage of neutron beam.
January 1, Universal Calendar 796, Astarte Starzone
'Imperial fleet detected in front of us. Charging in at full speed!'
Even though that went completely contrary to the plans that Vice Admiral Pastoll had briefed the senior staff about, no surprise registered on commodore Fischer's moustached face. Coming down from a long line of cultural Englishmen – it was too fuzzy now to be assured of such a line genetically – his upbringing and natural propensity towards calm made him all but unflappable when faced with a dangerous situation.
He merely sat up a bit straighter as he briefly surveyed the Airget Lamh's pagoda-like bridge before addressing the communications officer.
'What are the orders from Fleet Headquarters?' he asked evenly.
'No orders are forthcoming from the Leonidas, sir.' The communications officer said, professionalism steady but unable to hide an understandable worry.
Fischer could understand that. The battle plan – which had seemed a trifle optimistic even then – had locked the fleet on cruising mode. They were to form up only an hour from now. The imperial fleet must have pushed very hard to get there first and still form up effectively.
That was beside the point, however. The problem was that they were here now, and any delay from the command staff would make it difficult, if not impossible, to fight back effectively.
Even at the best of times, with the fleet fully ready for battle, twelve thousands against twenty thousand wouldn't look good, he thought, But with no forthcoming counter-assault formation…
It wasn't a very surprising situation, really. In twenty-five years of military service, Fischer had noted that the people in charge didn't know how to react to sudden changes in battle situations very well. There were noted exceptions, to be sure, but Pastoll wasn't noted as being one of them.
And we're clearly faced with a bold commander. Not reassuring at all.
Still, more time passed, and although chatter came from other ships in his squadron about what they should do, still nothing came from the fleet flagship. On the main screen, he saw that the Imperial Fleet had taken an excellent, well-planned formation. And that it was moving in fast.
Farther off at the edge of his vision, where one would only see the unforgiving, uncaring starts, pinpoints of lights from explosion showed.
He thought something: too late now.
'The imperial fleet has opened fire on the vanguard squadron!' Came a shout from the lower grounds. 'The vanguard has been ordered to counterattack!'
'Only the vanguard?' Fischer asked.
'Yes, sir.'
Bollocks. That's not a plan. That's just reaction. Fischer saw the flashes of light multiplying in front of him, and explosions from ships which simply hadn't been ready.
Fischer wasn't a tactician. Although he could admit to having a knack for moving ships effectively, he simply had never been good enough to read enemy movements in advance, see what they were going to do. It simply wasn't his expertise.
But even he could see disaster rearing its ugly head, a frighteningly normal state of affairs in the war so far as the Alliance was concerned.
His rear-guard squadron hadn't been ordered up, and if he were to be honest, he doubted any move towards the front would do anything but heighten the confusion he saw developing on the front lines. But he could still make sure that the ships under his command could still be prepared.
'Have the ships from the squadron form up into a defensive screen. Have our carriers send out half our Spartanian fighters to aid in that. A message to all the unit leaders: Unlock cruising formation and take defensive formation seventeen.'
Everyone in his squadron knew what that meant. He wouldn't have allowed it any other way. Glad to have something meaningful to do, his officers started to give out orders to the battleships, cruisers and destroyers under his command.
'Send a message to the Leonidas. Ask them for combat orders.' He asked as the flashes started getting closer.
'Sir, I've been trying, but no answer.'
He had thought it might be like this. Nothing to be done about it. Frowning at the pandemonium the rest of the Fourth Fleet was falling to, Fischer defaulted to the only option he had: circle the wagons, hold a defensive ground.
And hope that the enemy forces weren't out for complete destruction of the Fourth Fleet.
Even surprised, even outnumbered, the Fourth Fleet's situation wasn't immediately unsalvageable. Had commands come down from the Leonidas as soon as the Imperial forces had been sighted, a makeshift reorganization of the battle lines could have been orchestrated. There would have been losses, but the debacle would have almost certainly been averted.
But the orders didn't come. The officers of the vanguard waited for them, disbelieving, and by the time it was realized that commands weren't going to be forthcoming, the battleships, cruisers and destroyers of the enemy started cutting up a swath of destruction among alliance ranks.
Missiles breached through energy shields and smashed into reinforced armour, detonating inside and causing secondary cascade explosions. Lancing energy beams melted through armour even as men watched in horror before death through fire or depressurization took them.
In space, the long rectangular, green-tinted ships of the Alliance were breached and became brief clouds of shrapnel and chemical fireballs before the might of the relentless, roughly gun-shaped Imperial ships.
Even as this happened, some commanders began to use signals and short-range communications to regroup and reconstruct lines, arraying in shaky arrangements and fighting back as best as they could.
It was then that orders came from admiral Pastoll and his staff. Orders to launch spartanian space fighters against their Imperial valkyrie counterparts. That the imperials had already launched their fighters seemed to have escaped the commanders. Or perhaps it was that, as their panic rose, they no longer cared.
That command and the few other orders that followed no longer fully fit the combat situation that the ship captains and those squadron leaders still fighting had before them. In fact, executing such orders was almost tactically unfeasible.
But the officers were grasping at straws, and were too desperate to see the complete picture. In most cases, attempts were made to launch fighters within the chaos, and to take a combat formation despite imperial ships in their midst.
The disaster that followed was inevitable.
Valkyrie pilots flew to the spartanian carriers, often before they could even launch, and assaulted the exposed, helpless fighters, destroying many of them, sometimes even the carrier itself as well.
Attempts at impossible formations brought ships out of alignment and in each other's way, prompting friendly fire brought on by panic. Groups of ships, seeing how hopeless things were, began to speed away from the conflict as the Imperial Fleet kept cutting in with terrible efficiency.
The meticulous-minded, cautious Alliance Fourth Fleet finally started to shatter into confused, scattering splinters.
Being useless was something people like Dusty Attenborough didn't take to very well. Incompetence was also something that rubbed him the wrong way. And standing still always drove him nuts.
A situation where contingency plans had been ignored and where changing situations had brought stagnation were unacceptable living conditions to be honest. Compound it with the fact that he was stuck babysitting nervous communications officers, and the average-looking, freckled-faced man fairly wanted to punch something or someone.
He wouldn't do that, of course. He was still first officer of the Patrocles, and that meant he had to maintain control over himself. Besides, the only things to punch were the wall, the computers and the communications officers. The first being too hard, the second too pricey, and the third far too problematic, Attenborough therefore elected to fume in silence as a form of general compromise.
So far it was working, even as he stood behind two of the officers trying to raise the Fourth Fleet.
"Fourth Fleet, please respond!" The first officer said.
"Fourth Fleet, this is the Patrocles. Leonidas, respond immediately!" The second stated once more. Their voice was taut. They knew something was very wrong. After all, communications were now an hour overdue.
"Still nothing, commander." The second officer said. It was useless, Attenborough could see that, had heard pretty much all of their efforts. But protocol had to be maintain.
"Alright," Attenborough mused, keeping his emotions back in check. He didn't need to vent, it'd only make the men more anxious. "Could our position be affecting our long-range communications? Or perhaps cosmic radiation is interfering with their systems?"
"No sir, that's highly unlikely," the first communications officer summarized, face taut and frowning. "Sixth Fleet reported in on schedule and we've been able to reach them. This isn't natural, sir."
He sighed before catching himself. It was exactly as they had feared. Fourth Fleet's communications were being jammed. That knowledge and what it meant seemed to have cast a pall of grim silence over the cavernous bridge, with only short conversations like the one he'd just had, whispered mutterings, and urgent calls for the Fourth Fleet to respond breaking the dreadful routine.
It was after the silence had stretched for a few long moments more that vice admiral Paeta's voice, calm and in control despite the tension, was heard. Being located in the secondary bridge, right under the primary command platform, Attenborough heard him almost as if he was standing next to the guy.
"Commodore Yang."
"Sir." Came the voice of Attenborough's former senior and friend.
"How do you view this situation? Give me your opinion."
Attenborough's spirits rose a bit at that. It was the first time that he'd ever heard Paeta seek out Yang's opinion. It was a good sign, if nothing else. Ever since he'd befriended the older Yang at the Academy, he'd respected the man for his insight, knowledge, and knack at coming up with strategies that worked.
"It means that the enemy's goal is to assault each fleet individually. For that, they needed to take out the Fourth Fleet, which was to their front relatively speaking," Yang said, sounding like a professor, albeit his tone remained respectful." Once they did that, they could then strike either the Sixth Fleet or the Second Fleet before the last two units could combine."
Paeta was clearly disbelieving, even as Yang's graphics of the situation came on screen. Attenborough could see it, and found they made a lot of sense. The fleet commander's tone wasn't so certain.
"But for the Fourth Fleet to fall so easily…" Paeta hesitated from above.
"It was likely a direct clash. Twenty thousand against twelve thousands. The Fourth Fleet likely didn't stand a chance."
"Then we must advance quickly and rescue our allies. We might then even be able to destroy the enemy fleet." The admiral said confidently.
"It's probably useless to do so, sir."
Yang quickly continued by saying that the Fourth Fleet was likely a loss already, and that going after it would only make the remaining fleets vulnerable. Instead, he advocated quickly combining the remaining two fleets so that the next battle would be more on their own terms.
Attenborough was a bit torn. He didn't have the ability Yang had of seeing the big picture, the capacity to abandon a doomed unit to rescue the other two. He understood Paeta wanting to come to the aid of the Fourth Fleet. But, in the end, the tactician in Attenborough told him that Yang's take on the situation was likely the best one.
Admiral Paeta, however, didn't see it that way. The Fourth Fleet could still be saved in his opinion, while Yang politely pointed out that to try to save it would be walking right into Lohengramm's trap.
"It might not be that way. If they're still holding their own."
"Sir, I told you, that's highly unlikely."
"Commodore, reality doesn't always fit into your plans." Paeta retorted, clearly irritated by now. In resignation mixed with his own irritation, the green-haired, freckled first officer already saw how things were going to end. The admiral was digging his heels firmly into the ground.
"Morover, the enemy commander, Count Lohengramm, is young and inexperienced. Admiral Pastoll, however, is a veteran of a hundred battles."
And yet I'm betting Lohengramm is trouncing Pastoll right now, Attenborough thought almost bitterly. He couldn't quite get angry, however. Paeta's logic made sense from a purely moral standpoint. What he knew, however, was that Yang probably found the idea of abandoning comrades just as distasteful. He just seemed to find a way to do his job nonetheless.
If Yang'd been the commander, we wouldn't be in this mess right now, he told himself with a conviction that only half-surprised him. Upstairs, Yang tried to reason that Lohengramm's tactics were a wild card they couldn't afford to discount, but the discussion was closed as Paeta ordered him to leave the argument be.
For the hundredth time at the very least, Attenborough wished that the command positions were reversed.
If wishes were horses, we'd all be riding one. Or something like that. There was no point in wishing on something which wouldn't happen. They'd have to do with what they had.
"Still nothing, sir," one of the communications officers stated again in the same tone, only it sounded a bit more resigned to Attenborough's ear.
There's not gonna be anything from the Fourth Fleet, he thought, And this run of bad luck's just beginning unless something happens to change it.
With the explosion of the Leonidas, the Fourth Fleet lost the last of its defensive coherence. The field squarely belonged to the Imperial Fleet and the young Reinhard von Lohengramm. Cries went up to pursue the shattered fleet and finish it, as was traditional in such circumstances.
High Admiral von Lohengramm, however, hadn't shown himself to be a creature bound to tradition, and he showed that trait once again as orders were sent for the fleet to disengage and set sail for the sector that the Alliance Sixth Fleet was located in, reorganizing and resting as it did so.
The Sixth Fleet, unlike the Second, hadn't decided to go aid the Fourth Fleet. In fact, vice admiral Moore hadn't kept in touch with the other two fleets much, and hadn't budged from his designated course. Whether this was due to ignorance or arrogance was never to be fully known, although it was known that Moore, a fighter, was known as the most stubborn of the twelve main fleet commanders.
No matter the reason, the fact remained that the Sixth Fleet was caught perhaps even more unprepared than the Fourth, which had had the dubious advantage of a frontal assault. In this case, the Imperial Fleet hit from the back, on the starboard side. Sensors hadn't seen them until it was right on top of the Alliance fleet, and by the time Moore arrived, the attack had already begun in earnest,
The Alliance attempted to retaliate with what side cannons could be targeted towards the back. Side cannons, however, were no match for a warship's main frontal cannons, and the difference in power showed immediately.
Perhaps it was due to this that orders came throughout the Sixth Fleet to turn about and engage the enemy, despite the chance that confusion would be heightened without proper coordination. What is known is that this became a tragic tactical error on admiral Moore's part.
The Imperial Fleet was too close by then to miss ships that turned towards them and exposed their size, and in this admiral Merkatz of the Imperial Fleet made the most shedding of blood. His close-range gunboats tore into the exposed Alliance cruisers and destroyers, while battleships fell to the guns of larger craft.
The Fourth Fleet had already fallen, and quickly it became certain that the Sixth Fleet would follow. Still, Alliance units fought as tenaciously as possible, and calls went out to the Second Fleet that an attack was underway. By then, the Second Fleet had moved towards the Fourth Fleet's last know positions, and was too far to help.
Confusion and fear spread as professionalism was stretched to the breaking point, with the command ships urging the remaining units of the fleet which were still whole to resist the enemy assault and fight back. Some did just that. Others saw the way the battle was going and refused to take part in what some saw as an untenable position.
By this time, the Battle of Astarte was already an unmitigated disaster for the Free Planets Alliance, with the first third of its forces shattered and the second in the process of shattering.
The Fourth Fleet had been destroyed because of hesitation.
The Sixth Fleet was being dismantled by what could safely be said to be stubbornness.
"Enemy destroyers closing in at three o'clock!"
"They've locked on. Evasion impossible, sir!"
"Direct hits, incoming!"
Thank you for telling us that detail, a mocking voice stirred in Patorichev's mind. The rest of his intellect, however, was too focused on whether or not the Bayard would survive the hit.
Suddenly, the ship heaved. There was the collective grunt of diamond-hard alloys as a bang reverberated throughout the ship, and Patorichev was flung from his chair as the gravity compensators were overtaxed. He landed flat on his back as other cries of fear and pain were heard as everyone was flung around like rag dolls.
He heard a smaller, closer explosion.
Above him, over the din, the lights flickered once, twice, then died. For a moment everything was dark. And then minimal lighting came on, casting everything into a depressing gloom.
The heaving stopped, and silence once again reigned, broken only by the occasional grunts of pain.
He grunted himself as he heaved his tall, massively-built frame off the floor, and took his beret where it had fallen, holding it in his hand as he took stock of the gloomy bridge. Commodore Matthews, whom he was serving as operations manager, was standing a bit farther off, looking in the direction of the ship captain's duty console, while he heard some of the other officers from the bridge's upper levels painfully getting back up.
He wasn't surprised when he saw Murai having taken the communications mike to talk about the ship. Even less surprising was that his voice sounded no different than if he were in the midst of a daily status check.
"So there is no way to restore power then." Murai said in his usual clipped, stern voice, his severe, unsmiling face partly cast in gloom. Patorichev noted with some wry disbelief that the smaller man's beret was still right where it always was. A part of him wondered, despite the seriousness of the situation, if Murai had considered himself too busy to fall down, and that the universe, too frightened to disprove him, had left him alone.
"Sir, it's a mess down here," the voice from engineering, sounding rushed and extremely stressed, seemed to convey that this was an understatement, "They hit clean through the engine sections. It was just luck that allowed us to initiate an emergency shutdown."
"Any chance for repairs."
"No sir. I wouldn't try anything like that without full docking facilities. Right now, if we power it up, well, we'll be cosmic dust before we can do anything."
Murai took that as stoically as Patorichev had pretty much seen him take anything. The ship was dead in the water, so to speak. There was nothing to be done about it. Patorichev winced at how vulnerable they all were right now, and how much of a mess the Sixth Fleet was in. With main power offline, the view screens had become blank walls, and sensors were inoperable. Anything could be happening outside and they wouldn't know of it.
Despite himself, he felt a surge of panic welling up from the bottom of his gut. Grimly, he fought it down. Protocols. That was the key to keeping focused. He started to walk towards the commodore, who hadn't yet budged, still looking over the captain's post.
"Commodore, given the current situation, I think it'd be wise to evacuate," He cautioned. There was no response. A moment later, he saw what his commanding officer was surveying, and it was his training that stopped him from gasping and stepping back.
He realized why the other explosion had seemed to close. In the din and chaos of the first, it hadn't seemed that loud.
The captain's terminal had blown up, right in Captain Valterra's face. The shrapnel had transformed said face into a mix of blood, torn flesh and bone fragments that he could have done without seeing just dead.
There was nothing to be done there. Only pray that he had died instantly. He looked down at the commodore, and saw he wasn't quite looking at the corpse anymore. In fact, he didn't seem to be looking at anything at all.
"Sir?" there was no response, "Sir!" I think I can get that this is a lot to take, but we can't have the ranking officer in a daze. Not here, and certainly not now,
Finally, Matthews stirred somewhat. His eyes were still glazed, but there was now a spark of recognition. For a moment, Patorichev felt pity and understanding – men had broken under the strain too many times for him not to – and then he forced himself to ignore the devastated corpse and return to the situation at hand.
"Commodore, we need to evacuate. Now." He repeated.
"I agree, Sir." Murai's voice came from the central station, "The Imperial Fleet is likely busy fighting active ships, and aren't concerned about us. But that could change. We need to be off this ship."
A slow nod, some comprehension. "Right… true… do that." Matthews said in an hollow voice.
Murai had no intention to be told twice. His voice soon resounded, firm, cool and professional. "To all personnel, the Bayard is crippled beyond repair. Gather the wounded and head to the shuttle bay following evacuation protocols."
Patorichev had known Murai for many years, ever since he and the Hero of El Facil, Yang Wen-li, had busted a corrupt captain for embezzlement. Although they'd started to work together only over the last year, his easy-going manner and Murai's no-nonsense allowed them to make a great team.
He knew the crew thought Murai was a cold-hearted, analytical guy, something the big man knew to be untrue. But right now, that cool professionalism, that ability to be level-headed in trying circumstances… it sure was useful.
The rest of the bridge crew quickly made their way to exits, helping what wounded were there. A few bodies, he saw, lay there, dead. There would be no time for them, unless the ship wasn't destroyer and they could return to collect the bodies. Right now, as sad as the idea was, only the living mattered.
The elevators couldn't run with the remaining power focused on essentials, and they were forced to use emergency ladders to go from floor the floor, passing other officers and crewmen who were on their way.
There was damage, but the parts they went through had been spared the worst of it. Patorichev, however, wouldn't have wanted to be in the carnage that the engine compartments must have been even for a billion dinars.
The entire thing had a look of controlled chaos. There was danger, but blind panic would only make things worse, and the crew knew it. Professionalism had to be the rule here, and nothing else.
It was when they passed by a gloomy corridor with flickering lighting that they came upon one crewman who hadn't been as lucky as most.
"Is anybody… is anybody here? I…I need help!" Came the voice, cracking with panic. Murai and Patorichev looked at each other, looked at their largely unresponsive commanding officer, and made their way towards the voice along with two other crewmen.
Clearly, the surge had been worse here, and the bulkhead had closed off a section. Patoricheve stared at that spot in a moment, and saw an arm, perfectly sectioned off, lying in a small pool of blood, and felt a bit sick. Someone on the other side of the bulkhead hadn't been fast enough.
But the man he was seeing had only been marginally luckier. A piece of metal had fallen on him, pinning a leg down, and from the blood he saw underneath, whatever was there wasn't in the best of shape. The man, seeing them, hailed them in a mix of pathetic relief and rising panic.
"Please, please, get me out of here. I don't wanna die here! I want to see my wife again! My kids!" the man fairly sobbed. Given how terrorizing being left alone, with the smell of blood from a comrade having been squashed by a bulkhead, unable to move… Patorichev couldn't blame him.
Murai kneeled next to the man, revealing the gentler side Patorichev had fully seen only once, about seven or eight years past, talking to an Imperial prisoner, as he spoke gently.
"It's fine, soldier, don't worry. You're coming to the shuttles with us." He said calmly. He locked eyes with Patorichev a moment, and the large man nodded.
He took hold of the metal fragment that had fallen on the man's leg, quickly aided by the other two crewmen. Murai took hold of the fallen soldier under the armpits, ready to move him away from the disaster.
They heaved. The metal piece groaned and, almost as if on cue, so did they. Still, the metal moved up. Only a few centimeters, but enough for Murai to pull the man away. Patorichev and the other two officers let it go with a grunt of relief. Immediately, the assistant chief of staff went to the wounded, which Murai was quickly looking over. The leg looked rather bad, twisted in angles it couldn't take naturally. But at least it didn't seem to have been mashed into a pulp.
"Nothing we can do about it right now, not until we have the medical kits onboard a shuttle. Captain, you'll have to carry him."
"No problem, sir," Patorichev said. "Here we go, soldier."
With that comment, he carefully lifted the man in his arms. To others, it would have been considered difficult, if not impossible. But if there was one thing Patorichev admitted, it was that he was as strong as he was massive.
They finally made their way through to the main shuttle hangar, which seemingly had escaped damage. There, operations officers and crewmen were calmly directing people to the five main shuttles which would serve for evacuation. To his surprise, Patorichev noted that there was little in the way of actual panic, so well-coordinated the evacuation was going. Three of the shuttles were seemingly already prepped for launch.
They made their way to one. Upon seeing both the wounded man and the fact that among them was the squadron commander, the squadron chief of staff and the operations manager, they were let through rapidly, and left the wounded man with the other injured, tended to by the medical personnel which had seemingly been dispersed to all shuttles.
Patorichev knew that this was going so well because of the extremely strict evacuation plans he and Murai had implemented. Some had complained then, but he doubted any would afterwards.
Soon, they found their seats, and the commodore turned towards them, his eyes still having a slightly dazed look but his voice more alive, but low so that only they could hear.
"This is thanks to you. I want you to know that. I know I froze there, and you two didn't. Thank you." He said simply.
The large officer knew enough about Matthews to know that the man had been a political promotion. He wasn't a field officer, but he had pulled strings to get himself commanding a squadron in the Second Fleet.
All that considered, however, he hadn't been an obtuse man and had always taken Murai's advice. Just because of that, Patorichev couldn't resent him for letting the situation get to him. Some broke under the pressure, some didn't. That was just the way it was.
Murai didn't look modest or arrogant at the comment, only taking it neutrally as always. "Supporting your command is my duty, commodore. You did give your approval for this evacuation procedure. This is also your work, sir."
"I signed the necessary documents; you two did all the work. Don't think I'll take that away from you. I know what's what." He said, and with that, the commodore ordered that the shuttles, now filled, depart.
Using some of the last energies from the backup generators, the bay doors were opened, and the shuttles glided out, picking up speed. The electronic viewports afforded them a view of the outside, and they couldn't miss the state of the Bayard.
The ship was a standard, heavily armoured battleship that the Alliance had been using as its mainstay for decades, and consisted of three main modules. A main engine and several fuel tanks formed a full third of the ship, and the middle was comprised of the bridge, crew quarters, main medical facilities, as well as the shuttle bay and the spartanian launch bay. The frontal module was made of the Bayard's eight powerful main cannons.
It was a design that, despite being smaller and perhaps slightly less advanced than its imperial counterpart, was sturdy enough and packed enough of a punch to equal it on the battlefield.
Right now, however, the Bayard wasn't the powerful ship it was only an hour ago. Gaps from exploded, torn hull plating joints, scars from enemy fire and lack of any lighting made it nothing but a large husk. As he looked, he saw the empty spartanian launch bay – all of them lost in the fighting – as well as the mangled engine section, where the enemy had focused their firepower.
He preferred not to look at the debris too closely. He knew there were likely bodies floating out there. As the shuttle sped away, he also noticed that the signs of fighting remained, but had travelled quite a ways away. It seems that the ship had been left for dead.
The fierceness of the assault, the fact that the Imperial Fleet didn't pursue stragglers, didn't send ships after fleeing units, and finally left disabled ships alone, made the entire thing a clear blitzkrieg assault. One that the Sixth Fleet hadn't been ready for.
He shook his head, tried to quip.
"So much for an easy victory."
Murai nodded. Matthews seemed to be lost in thought once more. There was no humour to be had here. He fell silent, certain of only one thing.
The Alliance had lost this fight.
Caught by surprise and from behind, the Sixth Fleet quickly incurred major damage to its units, but the situation was originally not completely unsalvageable in the eyes of some. If the fleet commanders had acted quickly and in the right way, if the right tactical decisions had been given, the fleet likely would have maintained cohesion and been able to fight back effectively enough.
The Sixth Fleet, however, was commanded by a man who was better known for his aggressive assaults than for tactical genius. Despite the fact that some counselled against it, all vice admiral Moore could see was that the enemy was behind him, and he ordered his fleet to turn towards it to give it battle.
Moore might have had a plan to turn the battle around had his forces managed the turn. The quickness of the imperial assault, however, had made several units panic, and the order to turn around only heightened the confusion as some commanders attempted to carry out the direct command, while others hesitated and kept firing.
This led to a breakdown of command which the Imperial Fleet used to its advantage, quickly penetrating deep in the Alliance formation and disrupting it quickly.
During the battle, the Sixth Fleet flagship Pergammon found itself and its escort detail surrounded by the rapidly advancing Imperial forces. The cruisers and destroyers which accompanied it were quickly overwhelmed by sheer numbers, while the flagship was damaged.
Quite aware of the importance of its target and having the overwhelming upper hand, the Imperial Fleet gave Moore and his crew an offer to surrender to them, but was rejected, and the Pergammon opened fire with all of its weapons. The Imperial ships quickly retaliated, and sunk the ships.
So complete was its destruction that there were no survivors.
With this, the battle with the Sixth Fleet had largely come to an end, leaving two fleets torn apart and scattered. With two fleets destroyed, Lohengramm and his staff decided to set a course for the last, and largest, of the three fleets.
The Imperial Fleet hadn't come out of the fighting intact, but what damage and loss had occurred was overshadowed by their brilliant success thus far. Although the men were certainly tired, they were in high spirits.
They had come to Astarte certain that they would be defeated. But instead, now, they were winning the battle despite having been outnumbered two-to-one.
Before the battle, Reinhard von Lohengramm was generally seen as a competent but lucky young commander.
As the fleet sped towards what its members saw as the last phase of a victorious campaign, he had become much more than that.