AN: Here's the next chapter, uploaded quickly to make up for the horrible lack of chapters in past weeks, if not months .
Anyway, regarding the length of the chapters, I'm really sorry if it doesn't meet your length expectations, but please bear in mind that these used to be one long document that I've just cut up into arbitrary chapters. I've done the best I can to ensure that each chapter focuses on specific events, which could also explain the shortness of some of them. Again, my apologies.
Marquis
Over the Mid-Atlantic Area…
Captain Matthew Nolan of the HMIS Queen's Eye, one of the new, smaller scouting-based Assault Ships, was bored. Like his predecessors, he'd been tasked to scout out two things in Europe: the European Imperial Resistance's forces, and those of the Death Eaters and their collaborators.
The first had been a simple run. A few patrols from the single fighter squadron they had, Jupiter Squadron, had shown that the EIR's power base had not increased at all, and that they remained a minor threat to the Empire.
The second, however, was proving to be more elusive—something that, while Nolan should have felt more wary about, was merely being written off as changed Death Eater routines—something that, for any other captain, would have been far more alarming, considering it took something quite drastic to force the Death Eaters to change their routines.
"Sir!" called out one technician. "Jupiter Leader reports nothing in quadrant seven!"
"Jupiter Twelve reports the same in quadrant eight, sir!" chimed in another technician.
Nolan yawned in boredom. "Order Jupiter Squadron to expand their search for the Death Eater patrol one quadrant," he ordered lazily. Oh, what he wouldn't give to be back at the Imperial Capital, enjoying a nice drink in his house.
"Sir, are you sure it's wise to leave ourselves so open?" asked Nolan's worried XO, Commander Henry Fitzroy. "Military regulations require us to radio in to Headquarters under our circumstances…"
Nolan waved off Fitzroy's concerns. "Nonsense, Commander. The Death Eaters are probably late on patrol, or some such nonsense."
Fitzroy wasn't so sure, but he had to admit, there were precedents. "Even so, Captain, I strongly urge you to bring Jupiter squadron closer to us. If the patrol if late, then it stands to reason they'll show up on the pre-determined lanes."
Nolan gave his subordinate a superior, if condescending look. "My dear Commander, you really must learn to calm yourself. This is a routine patrol. We've done this a thousand times!"
Fitzroy still wasn't so sure, but kept his tongue still this time. He knew that to push the issue could have him taken away from the deck and if his worries were correct, then someone competent had to remain on deck to command a fighting retreat at worst.
"Radar contact!" finally came the shout from what the men were calling "the pit," where all the consoles were gathered.
"Report!" ordered Fitzroy immediately, while Nolan sighed at his subordinate's zeal.
"Two fighter-sized contacts heading towards Jupiter Leader's segment!"
"Order Jupiter Leader to fall back towards the Eye and to lose the bogeys!" ordered Fitzroy.
"Belay that order," snapped Nolan immediately. "Have Jupiter squadron engage and destroy the enemy fighters."
Fitzroy turned towards Nolan, surprised. "But sir!"
Nolan glared at Fitzroy now. "I have tolerated your zeal quite patiently until now, Commander. We are at war, and we have a mandate from the Queen herself to engage our enemies wherever we find them."
'A mandate that applies to fighting ships only!' Fitzroy's mind screamed in protest. Outwardly, however, he was unable to voice this, as he was sure that Nolan would have him confined in the brig for insubordination if he continued.
"Jupiter squadron moving to engage target," reported one of the radar technicians.
"Put them on speaker," ordered Nolan, which the communications officer did immediately.
"This is Jupiter Lead to all units: Move in for a two-pronged attack. Jupiter Six, take your flight on an eastern approach and I'll lead mine into a western approach," crackled Jupiter Leader's voice through the speakers on deck.
"Copy that, Jupiter Lead. Six taking flight into eastern approach," came the reply.
Nolan glanced sideways at Fitzroy with a superior smug, while the younger, more cautious man looked towards the radar officer with some worry.
After a few seconds, Jupiter Leader's voice crackled through the radio again.
"This is Jupiter Leader. I have a visual on inbound bogeys. Looks like two dragons. Welshes from what I can see."
"Roger that, Jupiter Lead. Confirm visual on two—repeat, two Welsh dragons," came a similar call from Jupiter Six.
"Roger that, Jupiter Squadron. Proceed to engage target," answered the comm officer on deck.
"Roger, Queen's Eye. Jupiter Squadron moving in for the kill."
Nolan and Fitzroy watched the overhead display as the 12 green dots representing Jupiter Squadron moved in on the 2 solitary red dots. Exhilaration and foreboding dominated their minds, respectively, as both held very opposite views of the event about to occur.
For his part, Nolan believed this was the quickest way up the promotion ladder. After all, most of the other patrol officers contented themselves with staying back and fulfilling their boring patrol missions. But he, on the other hand, he had managed to do that and bring down two enemy dragons, which were always a hassle on the Imperial Air Force.
Fitzroy, on the other hand, saw this for what it probably was—a textbook trap. While not entirely unusual, Death Eater dragon squadrons tended to be close to their launching points—usually dumbed down Death Eater replicas of the Imperial Assault ships. Therefore, there was no reason for two Death Eater dragons to be simply flying around a routinely patrolled area for no reason.
What was more worrisome for Fitzroy was the fact that Death Eaters weren't this smart. While they occasionally did launch ambushes, they were usually crude and easily beaten off. This particular one, however, was an advanced trap that he'd learned at the now-renamed Imperial Academy in Harrisburg, when it was still called Duke Military Academy, under the direct supervision of the Duke of Halifax, for whom it was named.
If the dragons reacted to the attack as he imagined, then one of them would go on a suicide run against Jupiter squadron, while the other, upon the first's death, would retreat. Typically, exhilarated by the kill, the tactic extrapolated that the attacking fighters would pursue, thinking there was no other threat nearby.
Which was when the trap would be sprung—usually by two or more airships hidden in cloud cover.
The problem was, Fitzroy couldn't see a cloud in sight in the bright summer afternoon. Therefore, if the dragons were pulling off the ambush, then he couldn't see where the ambushers would be hiding.
This was too odd. Too…complex.
When the alarm began blaring seconds later, Fitzroy knew he'd been right.
"Report!" barked Fitzroy.
"Multiple radar contacts suddenly appeared, sir!" said one of the radar operators.
"Location?" asked Fitzroy, as Nolan was left gaping like a dumbstruck goldfish. He'd bought the Death Eaters' bait hook, line, and sinker.
"Directly ahead, sir. Visual of the enemy confirms two Assault Ships, bearing Death Eater markings, Retaliation-Class at least."
"Action stations!" yelled Fitzroy over the alarm klaxons. "Recall Jupiter Squadron! Turn the Eye around and set escape route back to Harrisburg!"
"Aye, aye, sir!" the deck resounded with the call.
Pointing at the gunnery controller, Fitzroy kept giving his orders. "Have the exposed decks open fire on the oncoming enemy! Order for delaying fire solutions!"
"Aye, aye, sir!"
Fitzroy then turned to the pilot. "Bring the ship about ninety degrees, then full speed towards Harrisburg!"
"Aye, aye, sir!"
"RADAR CONTACT!"
Fitzroy spun towards the radar technician, surprised. "What?"
"Fifteen ships have appeared onscreen!" the man relayed frantically, a hint of panic in his voice. "No, sixteen—twenty-one!" he corrected rapidly. "Ships are still appearing! Thirty and counting!
"Dear god," whispered Nolan as he came to his senses. "What have we stumbled upon?"
"Sixty ships!"
"They're invading," Fitzroy said after a moment of contemplative, if alarmed, silence. As Nolan turned to him, horrified, Fitzroy pressed on. "It's the only thing that makes sense. All the withdrawals from the fronts, all the changes…they've been massing an attack force."
A violent shudder threw Nolan and Fitzroy off their feet.
"IMPACT!" shouted one of the technicians. "Shields are being battered! Aft hull is breached in sections fifteen through twenty!"
"Order a team to the area to seal the breach!" ordered Nolan, while Fitzroy turned to the shield technician.
"How much more can we take?"
The man shook his head. "Two more shots and we're defenceless!"
As the ship shook from close shots and direct impacts, Fitzroy turned to Nolan with a grim look. "We won't survive this, Captain."
Nolan, who'd looked panicky so far, now erupted into a full-blown panic attack. "No! NO! I can't die here! There has to be something! Anything!"
Fitzroy shook his head as he then pointed to the command map. "I managed to get the ship out of the instant-kill zone on time, but I'm afraid that there is no way for us to leave the engagement altogether. That isn't the pressing matter, however."
"Not the—Not the pressing matter?" shouted Nolan hysterically as the ship shook violently again as a close shot exploded mere meters away from the ship. "What the bloody hell is more pressing than our survival?"
"Informing the Imperial Capital that this fleet is on its way," Fitzroy answered without skipping a beat. Turning around, he ordered the communications tech to use the remaining shield power to increase the power of the communications device.
Nolan's eyes bulged furiously. "Commander, you are ordered to cease this immediately!"
Fitzroy ignored his Captain as he leaned over the communications officer. "Sir, most of our men throughout the ship are dead, or dying," he reasoned out loud, his eyes fixed on the communications screen. "We need to use this moment to tell the Marshall of what's coming."
"The pox on the Marshall!" screamed Nolan hysterically, eliciting gasps from the crew. "We need to get out of here!"
"Sir, if we don't warn the Capital, they'll be defenceless!" protested Fitzroy heatedly.
Rather than replying, Nolan did the unthinkable. He unlatched his holster and drew his pistol on Fitzroy. "Sergeant Harding! Take Commander Fitzroy to the brig!" he ordered hysterically.
Fitzroy, for his part, had felt his jaw drop open in flabbergasted surprise at his superior's actions. Still, he could not allow this travesty to keep going. "Sergeant Harding!" he counter-ordered. "Take Captain Nolan off the bridge! He is relieved and charged with treason, and dereliction of duty!"
Nolan's already wide eyes bulged in fury at what he perceived to be his subordinate's insubordination and his teeth gritted as he repeated the order, only to be quickly followed by Fitzroy repeating his own.
For her part, Sergeant Harding was torn between following the Captain's orders, and taking the Commander's side, which she agreed with. In the end, she unlatched her own pistol holster and drew it, but kept it pointed down.
"Sergeant, what are you waiting for?" screamed Nolan. "Take this mutineer off my bridge!"
"Sergeant, you know what must be done. The Empire will not survive unless we send that signal"
As Harding's eyes swivelled between her two superiors, she also heard the shouts of the technicians around her.
"Explosive breaches in sections twenty three and twenty four!"
A moment of silence passed as Harding made up her mind, broken only when Nolan screamed, "SERGEANT!"
"Captain Nolan, please come with us," Harding finally said, her troops right behind her, weapons set to fire.
Nolan's face flushed with rage at the perceived mutiny against him, while Fitzroy smiled gratefully at Harding as the Sergeant led the disgraced captain off the bridge. Turning back to the communications officer, Fitzroy leaned over the man's shoulder and looked at the data streaming over the screen.
"How long?" he asked simply.
"We need one more minute to finish powering up the array," answered the technician honestly as he worked frantically at the keyboard. "The blast in section sixteen damaged the communications array. Nothing we can't get around, but it slowed us down."
Turning to the shield technician, Fitzroy was about to ask a question when the man pre-empted him with a shake of his head.
"Shields won't hold for long, sir. We've got three shots worth of shields before they're completely depleted."
"I thought you said two earlier?" asked Fitzroy.
The crewman nodded. "I did. I managed to get more power to the shields by slightly powering down the weapons systems."
Fitzroy was slightly uneasy about powering down their weapons, but acknowledged that whatever break they could get, they should take. "Good. Keep at it."
Now looking towards the pilot, a serious look on his face, he made a quick decision. "Mister Blake, turn the Eye towards the nearest enemy vessel and accelerate to ramming speed."
Yells of "What?" would have filled the bridge at this point, but Fitzroy had always kept a strict sense of discipline amongst the men, so no shouts of protest came up. Instead, a single, polite "Sir?" came up from one of the radar crewmen.
Turning to his men, his squared chin held high, Fitzroy gave them all a glare worthy of a commander of the Forlorn Hope. "We all know how this mission is going to end, gentlemen," he reminded them sombrely. "If it is to end with our deaths, then we shall strive to take as many of our enemies with us, and so hopefully delay them a bit."
A solemn silence overtook the crew as the klaxons around them blared their screeching noise. All around them, the ship shook from near-hits and shockwaves from explosions. Near the door to the bridge, a panel shot out as several cables snapped from the sheer force of one such explosion, causing short circuits to occur in many a computer.
Throughout the ship, the scene was similar. The Eye's hangar was abandoned as huge holes in the hull sucked out the oxygen of the air at high velocities, taking with it much of the hangar crew. The transports themselves were now useless, as a particularly lucky shot from the Death Eaters had landed in a missile rack that had rolled near the transports due to the decompression.
Throughout the hallways, frenzied crewmen strove to fix the short circuits or put out the fires. Every once in a while, the men and women of a particular compartment had to be evacuated as another breach formed up. Sometimes, they weren't so lucky.
And so, it was a quiet bridge that led the ship to its eventual doom. The target, as Fitzroy had chosen, would be a large, rectangular ship that the Eye had managed to get close to in the midst of the enemy fleet. A preliminary guess, and a quick scan had told him that it was a transport ship—undoubtedly full of enemy troops and supplies.
Granted, the crew knew that there were dozens, maybe even thirty such ships, but if they could take out at least one, then that meant one less worry for the Imperial Capital.
"Mister Klein, status report," ordered Fitzroy.
The communications crewman turned to his superior with a triumphant look. "Communications array fully functioning, sir. Transmitting core data now," he reported as he kept typing at the computer's keyboard.
Fitzroy nodded, pleased. "Excellent. How much time until transmission is complete?" he asked, his mood professional. He'd made his peace, and was determined to see his fate head-on in the manner of a true British officer. Just like Admiral Hawke.
Thoughts of the sandy-haired admiral flooded Fitzroy's mind. Hawke had been one of Fitzroy's heroes. As he'd graduated from the Harrisburg Air Fleet Academy, it had been Hawke who had given the honorary graduation speech. Hawke had pinned the Commander insignia on his uniform. Hawke had been the one to shake his hand in congratulations.
Throughout his career at the Academy, Hawke had been the main topic of most Tactical-centric courses. He was an example, a role model for all up-and-coming Imperial officers. Loyal, resolute, dignified, and intelligent. A fanatic in war, a gentleman in peace.
And then Admiral Hawke had died.
It had been the single most heartbreaking moment in the Academy's history. Hundreds of students, who'd grown up with him as the centre of their hero-worship wept at the news. All flags were lowered to half-mast for months, and every student had a black piece of cloth wrapped around their left arm in mourning.
Bagpipes had blared out Amazing Grace throughout the entire day, classes had been suspended. It had completely baffled the Imperial Capital, as most were under the supposition that the hero worship amongst the military was entirely centred on the Iron Duke. But the truth was, each branch had its own, private heroes. For the Air Fleet Hawke was the one just behind Air Field Marshall Potter.
And so now, Fitzroy stood facing the bridge windows, spine erect, chin up, hands clasped behind his back, in what he saw as the perfect emulation of his hero's defiant last stand.
"Transmission…complete," eventually came the solemn, soft call of the communications technician.
With a sharp nod, Fitzroy turned grave eyes to his crew. "Gentlemen, this is it. It's been an honour serving with you."
Silently, as one, the crew of the bridge saluted their commander as the Eye shook violently from direct blasts.
All throughout the hull, the ship was torn apart by shot after shot. Shrapnel flew all around the air, sometimes disintegrating as it became enveloped by another shot. Slowly, then surely, the Eye began to fall as its two remaining turbines failed. Though they would never know it, being that the bridge was destroyed by a random shot from one of the attacking vessels, the Eye never managed to ram its intended target, nor did its ME core explode. In the end, all their sacrifice was worth was a frantic message that the Imperial Capital received minutes after their demise.
In the attacking fleet, watching the destruction of the Eye, a young man, of silky black hair, combed back into a regal look, his squared jaw set and aristocratic nose pointed up, smiled in satisfaction as the Imperial scouting vessel fell towards the sea below in pieces.
He had managed to keep the blasted thing from taking out a good deal of his transports, which he counted as a win, considering his previous failure at Salt Lake City. Then again, he had no idea that the blasted admiral would go on a suicide run. None of his opponents ever did.
The man shifted his shoulders slightly, causing his purple cape to ripple slightly. He remembered quite vividly the humiliation he'd suffered afterwards, being berated by the conservative faction of the Death Eaters for his failure to defeat the Imperial Air Fleet and Navy and Army—a feat no one could ever claim. Just the mere fact that he had orchestrated, successfully, the coup had been a miracle. After all, England had never been successfully invaded since the times of William the Conqueror—even Louis VIII of France, the man to get the closest to conquering England, had been beaten back.
But he had done it. He had brought about the end of the British Empire.
Or so he'd thought.
Never had he thought that the Americans would have kept a single heir to the throne alive. When he had, at the Council's orders, told the American collaborators to execute the entire lineage, he had assumed they had been thorough and ruthless about it. As it turned out, however, they had either failed to realize the last one's line (unlikely) or had, in a bout of guilt, decided to leave her alive (less unlikely).
Still, this latest suicide run concerned him. This meant the enemy was more dangerous now than ever. He could deal with rational minds, but once the rational was abandoned for the fanatic, then things got tricky. After all, how do you calculate the actions of an opponent who acts without logic?
Fanning himself slightly with the priceless Chinese war fan that had been recovered amongst the spoils in the Terracotta Army caverns, the man pondered his next move. His previous plan had ensured that the Imperial Army and Air Fleet was stretched throughout the globe—each of them at least a full day's flight away from the Imperial Capital.
His next move had been to find the capital in question. This, he had achieved by triangulating the city's location by means of random attacks along the periphery of certain sectors. Eventually, by calculating response time and fleet speed, he had managed to compute a possible location for the island capital.
Then, he had put into motion his latest plan—that is, to infiltrate the Imperial Defence Network. He had taken one of the marvellous soldiers from the Terracotta Army and had it meld into an average looking wizard with no exceptional power—a nifty attribute that these ancient machines of war had. With his creation, the man had ordered a cover story created for the soldier, including reasons for which no one could remember seeing him and the like. They even fabricated an official school transcript from Durmstrang, comfortable in the knowledge that since all records from that school were gone, there would be no way to counter his claim.
The infiltration, as far as he knew, had been successful. Unfortunately, in order to perfectly preserve the soldier's cover, no communication had been set up between him and the soldier. As such, only a subconscious command guaranteed any success in that particular plan.
With any luck, the Imperial Defence Network would be offline when his cloaked fleet arrived.
With any luck, the job he'd begun five years ago would finally be over in a day's time.
With any luck, the British Empire would die, for good this time.
Unfortunately for the man, nothing ever goes according to plan in war. For, waiting patiently for the chaos of the battle to begin in Greenland, was a dark presence. A presence so foul, so dark, that he had been called, for years, the Darkest Wizard in history. A presence so evil, that he actually intended to slaughter a child in its infancy in order to secure his own immortality.
A presence so powerful, his very name was feared for years.
In the icy wastelands of Greenland, sitting atop a throne of jagged ice, that man waited.
And then, as he'd planned, the icy doors of his throne room opened, and a single man was let in. With a cold, cunning smile that belied his advanced years, the man greeted his guest with a silky, superior voice.
"Welcome."