BCS Samuel Hood,
Patrol Orbit, Britannia,
Britannic Coalition,
30 September, 3068
"Holy shit!" the sensor operator breathed quietly to herself, as a number of large infrared blooms appeared on her long-range scanners. She punched buttons and typed in commands to her computer terminal to run diagnostic programs, sure there was a glitch with the system.
"No way!" she exclaimed, shaking her head in disbelief as the diagnostics pronounced the sensor suite to be bug-free.
"Demi-Precentor", Adept Samantha Reid called, turning around to get the attention of the Hood's XO. "Sir, I think you'd better have a look at this", was all she said, still wondering if, perhaps there was something wrong with the readout.
Ross Calderwood glanced over at her from his bridge station, mildly surprised at this unusual display of theatrics. Sam Reid was not one to make a fuss over nothing.
He walked the short distance to her station and leaned over her shoulder. He instantly saw her cause for concern and his eyes widened slightly. "I take it you've run system diagnostics to check this isn't a glitch", he asked, knowing she probably had, but needing to ask the question all the same.
"Yes, sir", replied Reid, patiently. I've checked the calibration and scan parameters…everything checks out. If these readings are correct, we have several – maybe five – warships inbound".
She stared up at Calderwood, "Isn't that Alliance regiment due in-system soon, sir?"
"Yes, but not for another couple of days... Besides, while they may have their own jumpships, I'd be very surprised if they were given their own naval escort as well".
As they watched the display, the IR blooms expanded into the unmistakeable jump signatures of five warships. Two were noticeably larger than the rest.
"Blake's Blood", Sam breathed, "I've never seen a bloom like that, sir", she said, indicating the largest of the quintet.
"I have", Calderwood said quietly, an icy ball materialising in his stomach. "There's only one warship big enough to make a jump wave like that…"
BGS Bismarck,
Britannia System,
Britannic Coalition
Time accelerated to its usual speed and vision returned to normal. Truscott was just getting over the disorientation he always experienced with hyperspace travel, when a call from the sensor operator distracted him from his discomfort.
"Demi-Precentor, I have a large warship, bearing Zero One Three, range One One Four Zero!" called the Acolyte, meaning there was a vessel almost directly ahead of them, a little over eleven hundred kilometres away.
Truscott thought quickly. Although they were not yet within weapons range, it would be prudent to take precautions.
"Adept Xavier, sound General Quarters!"
"Aye, sir!"
The Adept punched a button on his console to sound the 'battle stations' alarm and an electronic wailing sounded throughout the ship. The normal overhead lights were replaced by pale blue lighting. All through the ship, weapon crews scrambled to their stations, techs assembled into damage control parties and all non-essential personnel ran for their quarters.
Truscott turned to glance at the figure by the holotank, half hidden in shadow. The mission commander was leaning rather heavily against the handrail that ran round most of the raised holotank platform. The effects of jump sickness hit him harder than most. The Precentor straightened up and nodded, "I think its time we introduced ourselves".
"As you wish, sir".
With the practised ease of a seasoned spacefarer, Captain Truscott kicked off from the deck and drifted across to the communications console. "Open a hailing frequency – I wish to speak with her captain", he ordered the ensign at the controls.
"Acolyte Quentin, what are we looking at?" Truscott barked at the sensor operator, glancing over his shoulder at the crewman behind him.
"Sir, it appears to be a modified Monsoon class battleship, displacement one point three million tons, main armament consisting of medium PPCs and Class 30 autocannon", the Acolyte reported, the surprise evident in his voice.
"Blake's blood!" exclaimed Truscott. "I had no idea there were any Monsoons left…that ship must be over 600 years old!"
"If you recall", said the hooded figure from near the holotank, "The Tempest was formerly used by the Com Guards as a training vessel, prior to our liberation of Terra. Evidently they are still unable to dispense with her services".
Truscott gave a derisive snort. "If that is the best they can muster, we may as well send the Swift Justice and the Deliverance against her. Between them they carry almost the same firepower and armour".
The hooded figure nodded. "If the ship's commander does not comply, send them. I would imagine their crews are eager for action after this interminable journey".
"Blake's will be done, sir. For too long these heretic scum have cast a shadow on the light of Blessed Blake's Divine Will. It is time they were eradicated".
The hooded figure made a disapproving noise. "Eradicated?"
It shook its head. "We are not here to destroy them. Our mission is to make them see the error of their ways. The falsehoods they so blindly follow have caused them to stray from the True Path and our task is to guide them back to the light of Blake's divine wisdom".
The figure gave a soft, chilling laugh, "If our lost flock require some…encouragement…to return then we will indeed simply be doing His will".
The Precentor's words sent a shiver down Truscott's spine. He was left in no doubt that his commander would relish any "encouraging" that had to be done.
BCS Samuel Hood,
Patrol Orbit, Britannia,
Britannic Coalition
Adept Reid's console lit up with warning lights and discreet buzzers sounded as the inbound jump signatures, picked up earlier, transformed into solid sensor contacts. Her stomach lurched as she read the streams of data that rapidly scrolled down her main screen. "Sir, I…"
"I see it", Calderwood replied, still hovering over her shoulder and cutting her off mid-sentence. "I'll inform Precentor Harrington".
Ross straightened up and strode over to his bridge station. Punching a few buttons on the comms console put him through to the Precentor's cabin. The electronic buzzer rang several times before a groggy-sounding voice answered from the other end.
"Harrington – what is it?" Matthew Harrington had been having a rough deployment. The Hood had been having computer and engine problems since they left the outer berth at the Arcturus space dock two weeks ago. He'd been driving his crew hard to fix them, but had not spared himself either.
"Sir, your presence on the bridge is required immediately. Several warships have just arrived in system. Negative response to IFF but they're designs known to be used by both Comstar and Word of Blake…including a McKenna and a Potemkin. Given what's been going on in the Inner Sphere lately, I don't think Anastasius Focht or Precentor Martial Davion have decided to pay us a visit, sir".
Calderwood thought he heard a muttered curse before the Precentor replied, "On my way". The link was cut abruptly and Ross returned to his station, wondering what else could possibly go wrong.
He briefly recalled the pride he'd felt on being promoted to Demi-Precentor last year, which had only swelled on learning he had been appointed to serve as the Hood's Executive Officer. He'd been brought down to Terra with a resounding thud on the shakedown cruise following the ship's refit. In their hurry to get the ship combat-ready, it seemed the techs at Cygnus had left a number of jobs unfinished or neglected entirely. As a result, the ship's engines and manoeuvring thrusters suffered from power fluctuations, sometimes cutting out entirely. The ship's computer systems – controlling everything from waste disposal to communications and fire control were also erratic to say the least. He crossed his fingers behind his back and offered up a silent prayer to any gods that might be listening.
Precentor Harrington stumbled from his bunk and hurriedly dragged on a pair of soft-soled flight boots that were designed to fit inside larger, heavyweight magnetic boots, when it was necessary for him to keep his feet firmly on the floor. He zipped up his rumpled pale blue jumpsuit, hit his cabin's door switch and drifted through. Matthew pulled himself along the corridor to the elevator, using the handrails that ran along the walls. Under normal circumstances, he'd have drifted all the way, but his cabin was six decks below the bridge and Calderwood's tone, along with his words, had clearly conveyed the urgency of the situation.
On reaching the elevator, he hit the button and waited impatiently for the car to arrive. What seemed like an age later, the door hissed quietly to one side and he drifted in, reaching over and jabbing the button for the bridge.
The lift began its ascent. It had travelled several decks when, suddenly, it lurched to a halt. Harrington swore and hit the button for the bridge again. When nothing happened, he slapped it repeatedly, before hitting the alarm button.
"Ow! Son of a bitch!" he swore as the mild electric shock travelled through his body. The control panel sparked and the smell of burnt circuitry filled the air.
The elevator lurched again and suddenly dropped like a stone. Harrington stumbled and fell to the floor, pinned there by the G forces exerted on his body.
Ten decks and a hundred feet later the lift car smashed into the bottom of the shaft, killing Precentor Matthew Harrington instantly.
Back on the bridge, it seemed their unexpected guests were ready to identify themselves.
"Demi-Precentor, incoming transmission from the McKenna!" called the comms officer.
Calderwood looked across at the Acolyte at the communications console and nodded. "Put it on the main display".
He waited expectantly as the junior officer of the bridge crew punched in the appropriate commands.
Calderwood's blood ran cold as the blank screen resolved into the decidedly undaunting shape of a stocky, silver-haired man clad in a white jumpsuit, whose epaulettes bore the familiar rank insignia of a Demi-Precentor. The sudden upwelling of fear and hatred within him was inspired by the device on the left breast of the man's jumpsuit…the sword-and-hyperpulse logo of the Word of Blake. Ever since they'd identified the vessels, he'd been expecting it, but seeing undeniable proof still shook him to the core.
A shocked silence fell over the rest of the bridge crew as they recognised the face of their sworn enemy.
The silver-haired man spoke. "I am Demi-Precentor Fabien Truscott, commander of the Blake Guard Ship Bismarck. Word of Blake is assuming control of the Britannia system and all others belonging to the Coalition. You are advised to stand down and prepare to be boarded".
At this point Truscott paused and smiled unpleasantly. "Failure to comply will be met with lethal force".
Ross Calderwood struggled to keep his face impassive. He glanced over his shoulder, desperately hoping to see Precentor Harrington appear through the bridge door, but it remained resolutely closed. He made a show of looking at the control console in front of him, while his mind raced as he thought of something to say. In the end he gave the only response he could.
"I am Demi-Precentor Ross Calderwood, Executive Officer of the Britannic Coalition Ship Samuel Hood. You have entered Coalition space without authorisation and have furthermore stated your hostile intent. As personnel of the Coalition Navy it is our duty to defend our territory with every means at our disposal. I intend to see we carry out our duty to the fullest extent". Although he stood in a relaxed "at ease" pose, he was anything but and it took every ounce of self-control to keep his voice level and unemotional.
Truscott gave a tolerant smile, as a parent dealing with a child's temper tantrum might. "Demi-Precentor Calderwood, perhaps it might be better if you summon your commanding officer. I think his assessment might be a little different".
Knowing he was showing weakness to an enemy, but not caring, Calderwood glanced across at the communications officer. "Jeffers, see if you can raise Precentor Harrington. Advise him his presence is required on the bridge immediately".
A few moments later, she glanced up at him. "Sorry, sir, I'm not getting anything".
"Sir…" It was Reid again. "Two of the smaller vessels have increased speed and are on bearings to intercept".
"Time is running out, Calderwood", said Truscott, whose visage still loomed over them on the main viewscreen. "You have two minutes to comply or we will open fire".
Glancing behind him, Calderwood saw Precentor Harrington still hadn't made it to the bridge. Hesitating only for a moment he punched a button on his console to kill the transmission, before hitting the one which sounded the General Quarters alarm. The lighting on the bridge and throughout the ship changed from the normal white to a muted red. An electronic two-tone klaxon began sounding. Activating his console mike, he made sure it was patched to the ship-wide comms system. "All hands to battle stations, all hands to battle stations. This is not a drill...repeat...this is not a drill".
He felt the deck tilt and the vibration through the hull increase, as the Hood's helmsman tried to steer them out of the McKenna's broadside arc. He reached for a grab rail, braced his legs and turned his gaze once again to the viewscreen. It didn't help. The sight of the hostile fleet growing larger with every passing minute did nothing to calm his nerves.
He glanced over at the communications officer. "Relay this message to the HPG station and have them transmit immediately to headquarters".
He paused as the Acolyte readied herself to take the message.
"Three Word of Blake warships arrived in system at Oh Six Thirty BST. Flotilla comprises a McKenna, a Potemkin, a Lola III, a Vincent and an Essex. Commander of McKenna has stated hostile intentions and has ordered fighter craft launched against us. Both destroyers have also opened fire on us. We are preparing for a defensive action and request assistance from any available fleet units".
The ensign glanced up from her keyboard questioningly.
"That's it – send it now!"
"Aye, sir!" she responded, punching the requisite commands into her terminal. From there, the message would go to the ship's onboard HPG station, where it would be encrypted and compressed, before being beamed through space, to the HPG facility at the Coalition Naval headquarters on Britannia.
Ross returned his gaze to the main viewscreen, hoping against hope that his superiors would come up with a plan to extricate them from this nightmarish situation. Even as he fervently prayed, he knew he was being unrealistic. News had reached them of the Athena's battle in the Wellington system…their closest friendly unit was currently disabled and in need of assistance herself. Any help, if any at all were coming, would have to come from Newcastle or Halifax. This battle could very well be over by then.
He spun round in annoyance as another thought came to him. "Where the hell is Precentor Harrington?" he asked the bridge in general. "He should have been here by now".
"Demi-Precentor!" called the comms officer, her voice tinged with panic. "They've found Precentor Harrington…there was a malfunction in Elevator Three…" her voice trailed off. "They…they're…he's…dead…"
For a moment there was complete silence on the bridge, except for the muted wailing of the battle stations siren.
Calderwood, like the rest of the crew, was stunned. He couldn't think of anything to say, much less decide what to do next. In the end, the decision was made for him.
Just then a new siren began sounding. "Sir, we have missiles inbound…the Lola III has opened fire on us!" shouted the sensor operator.
"What the hell…?" began Calderwood, looking in bewilderment at the main viewscreen. Though the unidentified fleet was clearly visible, the missiles were too far away to make out against the starry background.
"Another incoming transmission, sir!" called the comms officer.
"Put it up!"
The starscape was replaced with the Blakist commander's face once more.
"You're out of time, Calderwood", said Truscott, a slight maniacal edge to his voice. "Prepare to receive Blake's divine justice!"
Ross pulled himself together and began barking out commands. "Helm, begin evasive manoeuvres! Weapons, activate AMS, launch decoy screens and prepare forward batteries…and someone, get that off my bridge", he snapped, pointing at the oversized face of the Demi-Precentor.
The comms officer punched a button and the Blakist's visage disappeared from the viewscreen, to be replaced by the external view of the enemy fleet.