Born of Ash and Iron — Chapter 2
Admiral Colin Fisker lowered the headset, watching over his sub-Lieutenant’s shoulder. “Signal them again,” he growled in his low Belliundrian voice. He didn’t want to unleash the fury of a broadside on the small planetside station, but he needed to set them in their place before moving after the fleet that had managed to slip away.
“No response, Admiral,” the sub-Lieutenant reported with a hint of glee in her voice.
Fisker understood her desire to eradicate an enemy from orbit, but he’d witnessed that very same violence meted out on Skywatch. The helpless horror of massive plasma beams and focused light crashing into the planet’s surface still haunted his memories.
Raising the headset again, Fisker clicked the communication tab. “Rebel base,” he paused. “Republic of the Two Worlds Fleet Base, on the surface of Somari 6, this is Admiral Fisker of the Commonwealth Navy, respond on this frequency.”
“This is Deputy Specialist Duvall,” the reply came over the headset. “We are willing to negotiate our surrender.”
Fisker winced; he’d conceded to their ego by referring to their upstart national name, but that was as far as he was willing to go. “Deputy Specialist Duvall,” he replied, slowly saying the man’s rank and name. “There will be no negotiation; this will be my final attempt to secure your surrender before I blot your little fleet base off this frozen moon.”
“Planetoid,” Fisker’s sub-Lieutenant grumbled quietly.
The radio cracked again as the receiver on the other end collided with a surface. “Unless you guarantee us safe passage, we will scuttle this base and all of its supplies before we turn it over to you in surrender.”
Fisker sighed, looking over his shoulder at the remains of his flag bridge. He knew his damage control team could use the support of repair yards, even if it were just to salvage spare metals. “As long as your complete surrender stays on the table, I am willing to discuss terms.”
Admiral Fisker glimpsed Bogavine, his Prime Lieutenant, shifting on his feet across the flag bridge. The Lieutenant’s gills fluttered for a millisecond, his glassy black eyes widening, far more than normal for the typical Cartolangious. The fluttering gills ended with a barely escaped gasp at the Admiral’s terms.
Bogavine’s sharp teeth ran counter to his timid demeanor; they gritted nervously in response to Fisker’s intense gaze on him. The bridge officers waited in oppressive silence, the hum of the pinging telemetry equipment marking the time with staccato notes.
Muting the headset and pulling it away from his ear, Fisker held up a finger at his executive officer. “Exec.” Fisker glared, giving the man a visual lashing for the breach in command.
Bogavine lowered his curved, pointed head, revealing the flattened dorsal fin ridge on the back of his neck. “Apologies, Admiral,” he said, warping his mouth to speak through his vocalizer. The noises transposed into Rhyneese, the primary language of the Commonwealth.
Placing the headset back against his head, Fisker listened as Duvall continued, unaware, listing the assets they had on hand. “Deputy Specialist,” Fisker said, interrupting. “As I am sure you are aware, we require your facilities.” That was a dangerous admission. He shook his head and tightened his grip on the headset, trying to keep his voice steady. “Our sensors show –”
Fisker snapped his finger at the nearest scan technician, who turned his tablet for Fisker to see. “-One unarmed supply transport at your loading pad.”
“That’s a foreign Corpo ship,” Duvall replied in a curt tone, his lower jaw clenching shut and his eyes boring into the view screen.
“I don’t care if it’s Cappy Horn’s Flying Circus,” Fisker snapped back, catching stifled smirks from his crew at the reference, minus Bogavine, whose body tightened up as the rest of the crew loosened. A few of them were young enough and grew up watching the show. His granddaughter loved it, but Fisker couldn't stomach the empty pageantry and manic faux excitement of the program. He'd always found it irritating, much like his current interaction with the rebels. He hated feeling compelled to call them by any other name, but he clenched his fist and kept his composure. This would be over soon enough.
“I will give your crew one galactic standard hour to board that ship and leave. After that, my Marines are landing and will send you off to meet the Fi’an, Gorn, or whatever divinity you believe in.”
Fisker could feel his chest pounding, his face flushed. The silence that followed his demand lingered for what felt like an eternity. His patience was wearing thin, and that tension permeated everyone on the bridge.
“Agreed, Admiral.”
The reply cut through the silence. Fisker took a deep breath, and his heart rate returned to normal.
The sub-Lieutenant started to shake her head in disapproval, but snapped her attention forward just as quickly. Fisker smiled to himself. He knew she wanted the Rebels blown into dust, but he decided he’d let her insubordinate gesture pass – this time.
“One hour,” Fisker grumbled, and tore the headset off his head. “Pass the word for Marine Major Doss; I’ll be in my ready-room.” Giving a snarled grin to Bogavine, Fisker nodded, “Exec, will you join me, please.”
Bogavine swallowed the heavy lump in his throat. It wasn’t an invitation.
“Yes, Admiral,” he replied as he fell into step behind his commander.
~ ~ ~
Volm flipped the octagon box in his hands, trying to guess the weight, “Three, three and a half kilos?” Volm asked as he returned the metal drum to the recently promoted Commander Jea. As his chief surviving engineer, she’d been busy coordinating repairs when he found her.
“Three-six, yeah,” she replied. “It’ll last us a couple hundred bolts, but that’s about it.” She shook the semi-empty canister again, minding the loose revolutions of internal metal barely scraping the edges of the canister. She shrugged, wearing a slanted frown.
“Still effective?” Volm questioned. “I’ve heard stories about dud rounds from these PyroExodus types.”
Jea shook her head. “They’re supposed to be inert in the gas capsules. I’ve checked the primer catalysts, though. They’ll work; even half-empty, they’ll work. Pray we don’t need anything this close-range.”
“How do we maximize our other firepower then?” Volm questioned, crossing his arms.
He surveyed the armory, racks of empty missile bays, loose metal scrap hanging off shelves, half-used Blazer canisters barely harnessed down The battle over Somari 6 had nearly cleared them out..
“Railguns?” She replied, shrugging again. “You’ll need to ask Max, but he said something about fabricating rounds from spare metal in the supply station.”
Volm pulled a piece of scrap from the rack and waved it at Jea. “You’re talking about loading this shit into the rail cannons?”
“If we had poppers, I’d say use those,” Jea said, lightly pulling at one of her ponytails. She pulled a heavy green box sleeve of the explosive-tipped railgun ammunition the Type-88 had carried into battle. “Unfortunately, the poppers' magazines hit vacuum before we dove. All I have are these empties.”
Turning the thought over in his head, Volm nodded. “Alright, I’ll talk to Max. If all we have are a couple thousand ballistic rail cannon shots and a couple hundred blazer shots, we’ll just have to make every shot count.”
“Or go down early in the fight,” a new voice interrupted. Volm turned to the interloper and cocked his arm back as if to pop Alkora in the nose before opting for a playful swing at his arm.
“We’re taking at least two of them with us, or maybe even one of their cruisers,” Volm said with a smirk.
Alkora grinned, “Or better yet, we take a couple out and surrender before they blow us away.” He held out a mobile computer for the Captain to review. “We just pulled a telescope image from Somari 6. It looks like they let that Corpo transport leave. It’s headed for Somari Prime.”
Jea laughed quickly, “Com’on Alkora, don’t be so naive.” Her eyes narrowed. They know we’re watching. If we surrender, we die.” She nodded defiantly, “I plan on going down fighting, for one.”
“No surrender,” Volm agreed. “That kind of talk damages morale.” He winced, rubbing his chin and scratching at his broad nose. He lowered his voice to a deep whisper. “Keep conversations with your subordinates positive and about our advantages.”
Both officers nodded, giving half salutes, and returned to work.
Volm touched the bulkhead, pressing against the ship, as if willing it to grow larger. He knew in his gut this would be his last command. At last count, the Commonwealth force had two cruisers and three destroyers. His three little destroyers were under strength and undermanned. There was little hope of survival.
“Captain,” a midshipman called across the armory as he entered. “Narrow beam light message from home for you.”
Volm nodded. He wasn’t sure what they wanted, but it was either bad news or a cease-fire—probably bad news.
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