Tales from the Service: A Titan’s Downfall

2952-10-02 – Tales from the Service: A Titan’s Downfall

Nojus here. Those of you who have already read last week’s entry, which is most of you, know where this ends. A lone enemy warship, crippled in Sagittarius Gate, destroyed by overwhelming swarming attacks by Confederated strike craft and small warships.

Even this routine inevitability, though, risked the lives of thirty-something strike crew in each squadron. True, Commander Tennford’s group all seem to have made it home alive, but dozens of Magpie crews didn’t in the same day’s fighting. Rescue launches had about a fifty percent crew recovery rate, and that’s in uncontested friendly space after a battle lasting only a few hours.

True, these losses are nothing compared to the number of crew on a heavy cruiser, but we should not forget that even in these small victorious actions, Confederated spacers are losing their lives.

As the squadron formed up around him, Yoel Tennford studied the latest battle reports on the datastream from their home base. The wounded Tyrant cruiser was apparently still limping outward toward the jump limit, harried by strike craft and the occasional long-range missile volley from the few frigates which had been in range to participate. None of these could really expect to deal a killing blow to a ship that large and powerful, but they could knock out its weapons and even hamper its ability to make repairs to its drive, if they were persistent.

Yoel’s squadron, along with several others, would hopefully provide the necessary deathblow. If even a handful of their ship-killer missiles struck home, the straggling enemy cruiser would be destroyed. Short of a miracle or a surrender broadcast, the enemy ship was doomed, but an Incarnation crew never surrendered and probably didn’t believe much in miracles.

“Uriel actual, your attack vector is portside amidships.” The voice of the designated strike ops director was hoarse, as if he had been talking and shouting all day; he probably had. “Fenrir and Hermes squadrons will lead you in and keep the guns busy.”

“Acknowledged. Portside amidships.” Yoel smiled; this was a choice duty, with a high chance of scoring devastating hits. True, it was somewhat more dangerous than an end-on run, but with so many Magpies and other strike assets filling the space around the crippled ship, the danger was manageable.

Yoel would still have preferred to have let the kill go to someone else, but he could never bring himself to say that to the gunners and pilots under his command. They would take that as critical lack of aggression for a squadron commander, even if it did increase all their chances of surviving, and even if there was no real difference in the fortunes of war that would result from heroics on this particular day. The Incarnation ship was, for all intents and purposes, already dead; it was only a matter of who would deliver the coup de grace. Yoel didn’t want to have to send a message of condolences to someone’s family over a coup de grace.

As the distance to target began to decrease at an alarming rate, Yoel laid in a course that would bring his squadron around to their designated attack vector. Already the space around the Tyrant was abuzz with Confederated strike craft, and he could see two other squadrons maneuvering to start their attack runs at the margins of the sensor plot.

“Would you look at that.” Quinn Graves, the pilot of Uriel Six, whistled into his microphone. “Right amidships. Reactor-cracking territory.”

“Clear comms.” Yoel instantly regretted the snappy tension in his voice. This was as near to a routine attack run as one could get in live-fire combat, after all. He had been given plenty of reason to be nervous in the day’s first sortie, but that hadn’t rattled him near as much as this one was already doing.

Taking a few deep breaths to settle his nerves, Yoel keyed his comms again. “All right. We’ll be starting our run in about two minutes. Make your final checks, and report your status. No heroics on this one; if you’ve got any problems, take your rig home.”

Ten green wireframes on Yoel’s display winked blue and then went back to green; nobody was reporting any problems. On a second launch in the same day, this seemed farfetched; something always broke, somewhere. Yoel checked his own diagnostics, then returned his eyes to the turn timer. “Stay in formation. Gunners, keep your eyes and barrels rearward and call out any tails we pick up. There are still Coronachs out here.”

Thirty seconds later, Yoel brought his Magpie around to an intercept course with the wounded Tyrant, and the squadron maneuvered around him without a hitch. They’d never done this sort of synchronized run in a live fire situation, but they’d done it in the sims and on exercises many times, and so far they remained unmolested by the enemy. So far, they were too far out to draw fire, and by the time that changed, they would be most of the way to their launch point.

Yoel switched his comms to the operations broadcast channel. “Fenrir, Hermes, this is Uriel. we are starting our intercept run. What’s your status?”

“Right behind you, Uriel.” The sharp tenor of the Fenrir squadron commander was the first to respond. “Lose about one gee of accel and we’ll pass in front of you to clear the way.”

“One gee down, aye.” Yoel pulled his throttle back and signaled for his compatriots to do the same.

“We’re coming in from the target’s stern.” The scratchy voice must have been the Hermes commander; Yoel had never met him. Hermes was from another hangar outpost. “We’ll come around and do a diving run on your target area just after Fenrir.”

“Understood.” Yoel hoped the Hermes squadron Magpies were clear in time; he didn’t like performing hard-burn maneuvers with his rigs intermixed with another squadron. Collision chances in the black were so small as to be insignificant, but it was just another way people could die unnecessarily on this sortie.

The attack run, being at the Magpies’ maximum acceleration given their current loading, only took about ninety seconds, but those ninety seconds seemed to crawl by. Enemy light laser fire and plasma barrages started to flash through the squadron with twenty seconds to go, but the guns were inaccurate, and too few of them were devoted to dissuading the attack.

At twelve seconds until weapons launch, one of the Uriel gunships took a glancing hit and had to break off its run, but Yoel didn’t have time to pay it any mind. Its pilot and gunners were on their own for the moment. His eyes were fixed on the timer, and his finger rested on the little button that would launch both of his ship-killers. He barely even watched the view ahead; there was nothing he could do about it anyway. Doctrine was to fly as straight as possible and to maneuver as little as possible in the seconds leading up to launch, to achieve an optimal effect. How much this actually mattered for targeting accuracy of the self-guided munitions was the subject of much briefing room speculation.

Whatever the other two squadrons were doing to draw fire and suppress the surviving guns, Yoel couldn’t see any indication it was working, but now, that wasn’t his problem. They were lost in the flashing swirl of strike craft dead ahead.

The timer hit zero, and Yoel pressed the button to fire his weapons. The Magpie jerked to one side, then to the other, as both huge weapons kicked free, spun up their own miniature gravitic drives, and hurtled away. As soon as they were clear, Yoel pulled back hard on his stick, twisting his Magpie away from the target. All around him, the rest of the squadron was doing the same, but he couldn’t see anything of this but the disappearance of munitions indicators from the status panel.

“Uriel actual breaking off. Report twenty launches.” Yoel breathed a sigh of relief, then switched channels back to his compatriots. “Scatter until you’re clear of the point defense, then regroup. Call it out if you catch a tail; Fenrir and Hermes are still in the area.”

So drained was he that Yoel didn’t even remember to watch the rear cameras for impact. Whooping and cheering on the squadron channel reminded him, and he switched on the cameras just in time to see four bright yellow fireballs already fading into the darkness. Four hits was probably enough to put that monster out of commission for good.

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Tales from the Service: A Maimed Titan

2952-09-25 – Tales from the Service: A Maimed Titan

Yoel Tennford led his pilots and gunners down the narrow corridor from the ready room to the armored hangar hatch. Every face was grim, but determined; their Magpie gunships were all freshly rearmed and loaded with all the biggest and most potent ship-killing munitions. They had been out on six sorties in less than five standard days, but this one was the big one. They were going to kill a Tyrant.

The target, an unlucky straggler from a recent raid, was limping its way out toward the jump limit, and in a few hours it would be in a position to make good its escape. Normally, Incarnation cruisers who came to raid Sagittarius Gate were careful not to put themselves in danger of damage that would compromise their mobility; even heavily damaged raiders retired at full speed and escaped alive.

Eventually, though, one of the bastards had to get unlucky. In trading fire with the outer line of defensive installations, one of the quartet of cruisers had taken a heavy torpedo amidships on the starboard side. Even with the formation’s overlapping shear-screens, the torpedo had blasted a hole nearly eighty meters long and twenty deep in the cruiser’s hull. Something that had gone out with the debris had been important to the big warship’s gravitic drive, and it had fallen out of formation, drive operating at barely half of its normal acceleration.

Strike formations from the various fortress installations had been harrying the cripple for hours, but most of them had done little damage; they had all been launched before the situation developed, as patrols and harassers, not as ship killers. They had been carrying smaller munitions for general work. Yoel and his squadron had been out there earlier that day, trying to keep the raiders’ swarm of Coronachs from hitting anything important. Now, they were going out once more, to take care of business.

Command had selected eight squadrons from the various fortresses and vessels in the Sagittarius Gate system to go for the kill, and another dozen-odd squadrons would keep the Coronachs off them and suppress the cruiser’s still-formidable suite of point defense weapons. Two frigates and a light carrier from Seventh Fleet which had happened to be in the right place at the right time were also going to get involved, but if things went to plan, they’d mostly be there to sift through the debris and vaporize anything that was still trying to fight back. Under normal circumstances, this wasn’t a force that would be able to destroy any heavy cruiser, much less the capable Incarnation Tyrant type, but the sluggish speed of their foe and the fact that it had been abandoned by its formation all but ensured its death.

The armored hatch hissed open, and Yoel led the way onto the hangar deck. Eleven Magpies waited there on the pads for eleven crews, each one with a pair of oversized cigar-shaped payloads slung under its stubby wings. They had trained to carry and use ship-killers, of course, but had never actually used them in combat.

In most of the raids, skirmishes, and battles in the defense of Sagittarius Gate, it had been up to Seventh Fleet ships to deal the killing blow to those few enemy ships that had met their end. This time, though, most of Seventh Fleet was away; the fortress units had repelled the raid more or less alone, and so the glory of the kill was theirs.

Personally, Yoel would have preferred to let the glory and the danger go to others, but he knew his crews would be dismayed if they learned they had been passed over for the opportunity to complete such a high-profile mission. He could only hope that all eleven Magpies would make it back to the hangar in a few hours.

As the crews approached, the hangar techs hurriedly removed their leads and hoses from each rig and hung a ladder on the brackets beside the hatch. Yoel’s Magpie, a command model with an expanded computer and comms suite, was parked nearest the entrance, but he lingered at the top of the ladder for a long time after his gunners were aboard, watching the other crews board their rigs. Farther off, he spotted the base’s pair of recovery shuttles warming up, but these would not be launching with his squadron.

Flashing a thumbs-up gesture toward the hangar controller’s station, Yoel ducked inside and clambered to the cockpit at the nose. Already the reactor hummed with latent power, and most of the flight systems were online, but he did a few quick checks as he buckled himself in.

When his restraints were secured, Yoel pulled on his helmet and extended the microphone. “Uriel Actual showing a green board. Requesting launch clearance.”

“Green board up here, Uriel.” The controller replied. “Clearance granted. You are first in line for the launch run.” With a series of clicks and thumps, the clamps holding the Magpie’s landing skids released.

“Clearance acknowledged.” Yoel flicked the switch to change over to the squadron comms-net, and his status board filled with green wire-frames for the other ten Magpies. “Uriel squadron, launch when ready.”

With that, Yoel activated the thrusters to gently lift the craft from its landing pad, then maneuvered it into line with the launch tube at one end of the hangar. A strike craft’s best defense was raw velocity, and the base’s hangar was equipped to send its compliment into battle well defended indeed, with a launch rail nearly two kilometers long.

Twin arms from the launch system latched into the Magpie’s hull and pulled it gently into the cradle whose inertial isolation supplemented its onboard gravitics. Without the cradle, Yoel and his gunners would be turned to pink jelly with the force of acceleration, to say nothing of the damage to the Magpie itself. Despite having launched this way nearly a hundred times, Yoel gripped his seat and squeezed his eyes.

It was over in just a few seconds, of course, with only the barest whisper of acceleration tugging Yoel backwards into his seat. The Magpie erupted out of the launcher at a terrifying velocity, already hurtling toward its target.

“Launch successful.” Yoel grabbed the controls and flicked the switches to arm the rig’s weapons, knowing that a few straggling enemy Coronachs were probably still prowling around. “Proceeding to target. We’ll form up en route.”

Nojus here. Duncan is out for the next week or so doing interviews, so you’re stuck with me through next episode.

Though a raid at Sagittarius Gate last week was hardly big news, the fact that it claimed an enemy cruiser destroyed and at least one damaged without Seventh Fleet capital units being engaged is unusual. Normally, the enemy tries to raid when the fleet is out on operations (training or otherwise), and though they’re not always successful in this, they know not to press their luck when they find the battlewagons are home.

The defenses are growing so sophisticated, however, that only the largest raid forces now have much of a chance of doing real damage, and a raid in such force is a big risk to an enemy fleet that’s replacing its losses slower than ours.

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Tales from the Inbox: The Pilgrim’s Departure

2952-09-18 – Tales from the Inbox: The Pilgrim’s Departure 

Obviously, the trail of Ayaka Rowlins dead ends at her launch from a hired smuggler vessel in the Margaux system. Unfortunately, until the war ends, I doubt anyone will be able to determine for certain what her fate was, but these described events happened several months ago, so she has met that fate by now. 

I shudder to think of what the Incarnation would do to an Immortal defector. No doubt Rowlins had some idea, and this was considered in her preparation for going rogue on this apparent suicide mission. 

As Fey Wanderer finished its slingshot maneuver around the fifth planet in the Margaux system, Emilio B. paced behind his chair on the bridge. There was no drive activity anywhere near them, nor was there any signal activity, but that would be true if his ship was flying right into a trap just as it would be if the area was empty. They were committed to the run now, and would be in real trouble if detected at this stage. 

Their passenger and erstwhile employer Ayaka Rowlins had departed the bridge some time before, which suited Emilio just fine. With their current course, they would be in a prime position to launch her little ship toward planet Margaux in about ten standard hours. Most likely, she had gone to her quarters. After all, her odds of making planetfall would be vastly increased if she was well rested for the attempt. 

As the minutes ticked away and Wanderer’s passive sensors still showed no sign of enemy forces detecting the intruder, Emilio handed off command to Vargas and headed down to the wardroom to get something to eat. He’d been on the bridge nearly every waking moment since they’d committed to their course, and with no food-fab up there, he’d subsisted on nutrient shakes run up to him from the galley for the better part of two days. Some proper hot food would feel good, even if it was, deep down, just another preparation of the same nutrient slurry used to make the shakes. 

As he walked down the corridor to the wardroom, Emilio punched in an order to the food-fab at his destination for chili, one of his favorite items on the ship’s extensive food menu. The machine’s programmed recipe was intended to imitate the flavor profile of Tranquility-style homesteader chili, and though there were neither genuine ground diregoat nor mashed white T-beans in what the food-fab made, the program nailed the flavor of the dish’s key spices: cumin, flyerseed, paprika, and ice-belt pepper. 

The bowl of chili appeared in the machine’s receptacle just as Emilio entered the wardroom. The compartment was empty, of course; all of the senior officers were on duty or sleeping, and most of them were probably getting their meals the same way he had been, or hurrying through their meals to get from duty to sleep and vice versa faster. Being on a run through occupied territory put everyone on edge. 

Sitting down, Emilio had barely put the first spoonful to his mouth when the door opened, and Rowlins stepped in. She had changed from her shipboard fatigues into a skin-tight black flight-ops suit, and with most of the accessories most pilots attached to this suit still missing, this attire left very little to the onlooker’s imagination. 

Emilio waved Rowlins in without a word. That suit might have been a distraction if another young woman was wearing it, but he’d learned too much about her to be at all tempted to fantasize. Her body was corrupted by Incarnation science, and though she had repented of their ideology, no-one could undo the unpleasant things that had been done to her. 

“Captain, I just wanted to-” She looked down at his bowl. “Is this a bad time?” 

Emilio swallowed and shook his head. “No, not particularly. As long as you don’t mind me eating while you talk.” 

Rowlins nodded and sat down across the table. “I wanted to say goodbye, and to offer you a warning. It may be that there will be no time for it later.” 

Emilio nodded. “It has been good doing business with you, Miss Rowlins. But you know your credits are all the thanks we need.” 

Rowlins smiled. “Yes, how very mercenary of you.” She slid a cred-chit across the table. Emilio saw that it was one of the unmarked ones that you handed in to complete a pre-arranged transfer. “Then let this be my thanks. There’s a little extra on there. I won’t need credits where I’m going.” 

Emilio pocketed the chit, then took another bite. When Rowlins didn’t speak right away, he held up his hand. “And the warning?” 

Rowlins sat back in her chair. “At some point, someone’s going to try to figure out where I went. They’ll be good. Maybe the best.” She shrugged. “When they catch up to you, don’t bother to try to lie to them. I think it will go better for you if you tell them everything.” 

“And spend the rest of my life in a military prison?” Emilio scoffed. “We’ve got ways of throwing the authorities off our scent, don’t you worry.” 

Rowlins arched one eyebrow. “Do you think the Confederated government just lets Immortals roam the Reach freely after they promise to be good, and sends the regular constabulary after us if we start causing problems?” 

Emilio hesitated. “Well, no. I figured it would be Naval Intelligence. Maybe B.C.I. I've handled that sort of interference before.” 

Rowlins smiled. “You’ll be lucky if it’s just B.C.I. If it’s-” 

The lights dimmed and an alert klaxon began to blare. Without being prompted, the wardroom’s holo-projector woke up and showed the tactical data-plot, with several fresh red pips at its leading edge. 

Emilio stood up and tapped his earpiece to set it to the primary command channel. “Status report.” 

“Looks like a strike patrol, Captain.” Vargas sounded rattled. “They came out of nowhere.” 

“Have they seen us yet?” 

“Don’t think so. But they’re going to pass within spitting distance.” 

Emilio winced. Incarnation sensor suites were excellent. It would take a truly incompetent pilot to fly close to Fey Wanderer without seeing it, even running cold with stealth systems fully engaged. Changing course risked discovery right away, even if only using the low thrust of the ion engines. 

Rowlins stood up and tapped her forehead with two fingers. “I’ll be ready to launch in five minutes.” With that, she left the wardroom. 

Emilio sighed. It probably had come to that. Wanderer could deal with a few strike launches and make a break for the exits, but it would mean abandoning the run in toward Margaux. Rowlins, obviously, wasn’t going to let that dash her hopes; she would launch and try to make it the rest of the way in on her own, whatever the odds. 

“I’m on my way up.” Emilio took one last look at the meal he’d barely started, then tossed it in the recycler and headed for the bridge. If it came to a tangle with Incarnation forces, they were about to learn that Fey Wanderer was the worst kind of slippery customer. 

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Tales from the Inbox: The Pilgrim’s Wager

2952-09-11 – Tales from the Inbox: The Pilgrim’s Wager 

Emilio B. drummed his fingers on the side of his command chair and watched the sensor plot in the middle of the bridge. Fey Wanderer being in hostile territory, their sensors were all on passive mode and every feature intended to conceal the ship’s presence from unfriendly eyes was active; this did wonders for their chances of survival, but didn’t have any good effect on her ability to see what was going on more than a few hundred kilometers away. 

The gravimetric sensors had picked up a few drive signatures, but not nearly as many as he had been expecting. Margaux, in Confederated hands, had been a fortress and an industrial powerhouse, at least by Coreward Frontier standards. Surely the invading power, with no such worlds of its own before the war, would have to make use of the ones it had taken, and that meant there had to be far more ships in the system than currently showed as visible on the plot. 

Most likely, the majority of the ships he couldn’t see would be parked in orbit around the planet for which so much blood had been spilled, and Wanderer wouldn’t be going close enough to be threatened by them. If there were some parked elsewhere, though, Emilio had to guess where before he committed his ship to any particular course through the system; no amount of stealth features in the world would help him if he blundered within a few hundred klicks of an Incarnation cruiser while setting up a gravitational slingshot around one of the outer gas giants. 

Wanderer had the legs that made such a mishap escapable in all but the worst circumstances but it would mean either abandoning the delivery or dropping poor Rawlins so far out that her chances of making planetfall were miniscule. She’d paid in advance, but Emilio didn’t like taking money and only delivering on half of what she’d promised. It wasn’t good business, because it didn’t encourage repeat customers, and it would bring rise to the idea that when the Fey Wanderer and its crew agreed to do something, they didn’t see it through. 

“Captain?” Miss Vargas turned away from the helm controls. “What’s our course?” 

“No course yet.” Emilio shook his head. “We need more information, and there’s nothing in our neighborhood to find us.” 

“Aye.” Vargas reluctantly turned back to her controls. She clearly didn’t like loitering in a hostile system, and Emilio could hardly blame her. The sooner they were out, the safer they’d be. 

The soles of hard dirtside boots clicked on the deck in the corridor behind Emilio, and his blood ran cold.  

“Can I help you, Miss Rowlins?” Emilio didn’t turn around; he was still focused on the data plot. Miss Rawlins might be a client, but after their last meeting, when she’d made it only too clear what she was and what her business was, he wanted as little of her company as possible. 

“Just observing.” Rowlins fell silent for a long moment, probably looking at the same holographic readout Emilio was. “The view is better here than in the hangar.” 

Most clients got bored or got themselves kicked off the bridge within minutes of trying to “observe” Wanderer’s operations, so Emilio didn’t expect her to remain long. He waved a hand of assent, then went back to watching every minute development on the display. Passive sensors had just detected a pair of small craft moving in from one of the outer systems without a gravitic signature; most likely those were cheap-fabbed industrial barges using ion propulsion. If so, the moon they’d departed from was an active industral base; several potential courses were no longer viable. 

For her part, Rawlins remained silent, but her presence loomed over Emilio like a cloud. He wished he had some excuse to send her away. 

Signal scatter suggested some sort of Incarnation military activity near the fifth planet, a md-sized gas giant, making another set of courses inviable. The list of low-risk courses was shrinking by the minute. No course was without risk, of course, not in an Incarnation system. 

“There.” Rawlins stepped up beside Emilio’s chair and pointed. “The fifth planet.” 

Emilio frowned and turned to his client. “I’m sorry?” 

“Make our course there.” Rowlins stepped back. “That signal scatter is from a strike patrol. They’ll have moved on hours before we get there.” 

Emilio raised one eyebrow. “How can you be sure?“ 

Rowlins shrugged. “Nothing’s certain. But with no drive signature, it’s either strike units or a garrison. They wouldn’t park a cruiser out there with a cold drive.” 

Emilio considered this. Odds favored this wager, but to go that way instead of to use another planet as a slingshot with no traffic detected there at all? 

Rawlins was, of course, the client, and the major risk was to her. Given her background, perhaps it was more than a simple wager. “Miss Vargas, start preparing for course... nineteen or twenty-two.” He looked up at the woman standing next to his chair. “We won’t be past the no return point for at least half an hour, so let's see if anything else comes up before then.” 

Ayaka Rowlins going rogue on a supposed vengeance mission is an interesting development, but it is sadly one which I don’t have any expectation of learning more about in the near future, or ever. Emilio (not his real name of course) sent in what he could, but the only person who could tell the whole tale is Rawlins herself, and I do not expect that she will ever tell it to us or anyone. 

 

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