The Warden’s Hangar was, in actuality, no different than the single other time Richard Tvorik had been there. Admiral Hazzard had, after ordering the Warden to Flank Speed, addressed the ship and requested calm as they assessed the situation.
That had been three hours ago, and the ship was making its way across the system of Innes Star, at full speed. Massive cranes removed the dummy warheads and fighters from the Warden’s gunships, and replaced them with the real deal.
That had been three hours ago, and the ship was making its way across the system of Innes Star, at full speed. Massive cranes removed the dummy warheads and fighters from the Warden’s gunships, and replaced them with the real deal.
Richard twisted his Truekeeper watch-he had been informed to report to the hangar with the contents of his Seachest, and to make absolutely sure that he had said watch. Truekeepers were essential to the operation of starships, and the sanity of their crew. The watches interfaced with nearby ansibles, to measure both the apparent and actual time experienced by the member of a crew. Foldspace jumps were, for the ship at least, instantaneous. Under normal circumstances, you experienced no time during the fold. The outside universe, however, did.
Calculating the exact length of foldspace jumps in actual time was hard-as in, very, very, professor-y hard. There was a rule of thumb though, that was more or less accurate for most, if not all circumstances: Take the number of light years between the two endpoints, and square it. That was your estimated travel time, in hours.
This meant that the disparity got really big, really fast, which was generally... Unpleasent. This was why the vast majority of fleet personnel were kept in more or less one place-if they never had to jump anywhere, there was very little opportunity for their personal timelines to be screwed up too badly.
Anyway, those particular orders could mean only one thing: Reassignment. That terrified him, honestly. The Warden was the logical place to draw replacement personnel for the beleaguered Warrior from. Each of the three Strike Groups-the Warrior, the Warden, and the Valkyrie-had vaguely defined regions of space that they were meant to remain in the general area of. Richard was assigned to Admiral Killian Hazzard’s Strike Group, the Warden, which was in turn assigned to the figurative home front-Sol, Kapteyn, Innes Star, the other core systems.
The Warrior was assigned to what was practically the edge of space-a region that included very few militarily significant worlds, and even fewer Civilian ones. In other words, it was not supposed to be the place where wars began.
Every wargame the fleet had fought assumed an attack would either hit the Valkyrie or the Warden first-they defended the strategically important targets, after all. In a way, that made it unsurprising that, when aggression finally came, it was somewhere unimportant, like this world of ‘Tantaline’. Richard had, quite literally, never heard of it before today.
He was stirred out of his thoughts by the shout of ‘Officer on deck!’ His head snapped up from where it had been keenly observing his hands, which were in turn occupied with fiddling with his watch.
A man in a stark white uniform strode into the hangar. Killian Hazzard had been the last member of the Governance Committee to start wearing one of those, but damn, they stood out like nothing else. He didn’t even have any visible bodyguards-though of course, his wife often accompanied him in public, and she trained the kinds of people who guarded the other Coven members.
“Greetings, crew of the UTFS Warden.” Hazzard said, walking up the stairs to the top of a loading ramp-elevated enough to be visible, but likely not ostentatious. “At ease.”
Richard adjusted his posture. A few years ago, when he had first been assigned to the Warden, he had been starstruck in the presence of Admiral Hazzard. This man had, if the stories were to be believed, almost single-handedly brought about the end of the Xon War. He had been the founder of Tactical, and the commander of almost every major planetary assault of the Republic-Imperiata war. The man was a legend.
“I’m sure you’ve all heard what’s happened at Tantaline, and so I initially planned to be brief. However, you deserve more than that, especially considering what will shortly be asked of you. This Republic is at war, gentlemen. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, we’re on High Alert, a status reserved for military crises. Make no mistake, the stakes are real. We do not understand the full implications of what happened at Tantaline, or even the full scope of what actually occurred, but we do know that we, the Fleet, have suffered an embarrassing defeat.
“We are, as I’m sure you’ve all heard time and time again, the ‘Thin Black Line’ that defends the Republic. Every one of the trillion citizens of this Republic is relying on you. You, personally.” Hazzard extended his hand, and swept it across the audience. “I remember the Fall of Earth, though few of you do. That day, though it has been painted black by the eyes of history, was not entirely devoid of hope-at no point did we surrender to the threat that assailed us. And at the end of that day, I made a promise, along with the others responsible for that victory: Never again. Never again would we be helpless before an onslaught, never again would the skies of a world burn as its very atoms were destroyed by Antimatter, as we were forced to render it uninhabitable in retreat.
“The Imperiata forced us to abandon those ideals. I personally ordered the world of Raven destroyed, over twenty-five years ago. But we never lost sight of our goal: To secure the future of Humanity. Today, that security has been tested, and, we pray, it will not be found lacking.
“I assume that you have all realized that you are to be reassigned to Strike Group Warrior-your assignments will be sent to you shortly. Strike Group Warrior has been severely depleted during the fighting, and we are the nearest reinforcements. Destroyer Squadrons Six and Eight are being transferred, as well as various other smaller ships and personnel. Remember, the hopes and dreams of a trillion sentients ride upon us. We cannot afford to fail.”
Hazzard stepped down from the platform, the room silent. Then, off in one corner of the room, someone shouted “Never again!” It was repeated, rising, becoming a chant that filled the hangar.
“Never again! Never again!” Pausing at the door, Richard could have sworn that he saw a smile cross the Admiral’s face. Richard had always looked up to that man, and, well, Killian Hazzard undoubtedly deserved it.
After all, it took a skillful man to get men cheering as you sent them to what every one of them suspected would be their deaths.
Calculating the exact length of foldspace jumps in actual time was hard-as in, very, very, professor-y hard. There was a rule of thumb though, that was more or less accurate for most, if not all circumstances: Take the number of light years between the two endpoints, and square it. That was your estimated travel time, in hours.
This meant that the disparity got really big, really fast, which was generally... Unpleasent. This was why the vast majority of fleet personnel were kept in more or less one place-if they never had to jump anywhere, there was very little opportunity for their personal timelines to be screwed up too badly.
Anyway, those particular orders could mean only one thing: Reassignment. That terrified him, honestly. The Warden was the logical place to draw replacement personnel for the beleaguered Warrior from. Each of the three Strike Groups-the Warrior, the Warden, and the Valkyrie-had vaguely defined regions of space that they were meant to remain in the general area of. Richard was assigned to Admiral Killian Hazzard’s Strike Group, the Warden, which was in turn assigned to the figurative home front-Sol, Kapteyn, Innes Star, the other core systems.
The Warrior was assigned to what was practically the edge of space-a region that included very few militarily significant worlds, and even fewer Civilian ones. In other words, it was not supposed to be the place where wars began.
Every wargame the fleet had fought assumed an attack would either hit the Valkyrie or the Warden first-they defended the strategically important targets, after all. In a way, that made it unsurprising that, when aggression finally came, it was somewhere unimportant, like this world of ‘Tantaline’. Richard had, quite literally, never heard of it before today.
He was stirred out of his thoughts by the shout of ‘Officer on deck!’ His head snapped up from where it had been keenly observing his hands, which were in turn occupied with fiddling with his watch.
A man in a stark white uniform strode into the hangar. Killian Hazzard had been the last member of the Governance Committee to start wearing one of those, but damn, they stood out like nothing else. He didn’t even have any visible bodyguards-though of course, his wife often accompanied him in public, and she trained the kinds of people who guarded the other Coven members.
“Greetings, crew of the UTFS Warden.” Hazzard said, walking up the stairs to the top of a loading ramp-elevated enough to be visible, but likely not ostentatious. “At ease.”
Richard adjusted his posture. A few years ago, when he had first been assigned to the Warden, he had been starstruck in the presence of Admiral Hazzard. This man had, if the stories were to be believed, almost single-handedly brought about the end of the Xon War. He had been the founder of Tactical, and the commander of almost every major planetary assault of the Republic-Imperiata war. The man was a legend.
“I’m sure you’ve all heard what’s happened at Tantaline, and so I initially planned to be brief. However, you deserve more than that, especially considering what will shortly be asked of you. This Republic is at war, gentlemen. As I’m sure you’ve noticed, we’re on High Alert, a status reserved for military crises. Make no mistake, the stakes are real. We do not understand the full implications of what happened at Tantaline, or even the full scope of what actually occurred, but we do know that we, the Fleet, have suffered an embarrassing defeat.
“We are, as I’m sure you’ve all heard time and time again, the ‘Thin Black Line’ that defends the Republic. Every one of the trillion citizens of this Republic is relying on you. You, personally.” Hazzard extended his hand, and swept it across the audience. “I remember the Fall of Earth, though few of you do. That day, though it has been painted black by the eyes of history, was not entirely devoid of hope-at no point did we surrender to the threat that assailed us. And at the end of that day, I made a promise, along with the others responsible for that victory: Never again. Never again would we be helpless before an onslaught, never again would the skies of a world burn as its very atoms were destroyed by Antimatter, as we were forced to render it uninhabitable in retreat.
“The Imperiata forced us to abandon those ideals. I personally ordered the world of Raven destroyed, over twenty-five years ago. But we never lost sight of our goal: To secure the future of Humanity. Today, that security has been tested, and, we pray, it will not be found lacking.
“I assume that you have all realized that you are to be reassigned to Strike Group Warrior-your assignments will be sent to you shortly. Strike Group Warrior has been severely depleted during the fighting, and we are the nearest reinforcements. Destroyer Squadrons Six and Eight are being transferred, as well as various other smaller ships and personnel. Remember, the hopes and dreams of a trillion sentients ride upon us. We cannot afford to fail.”
Hazzard stepped down from the platform, the room silent. Then, off in one corner of the room, someone shouted “Never again!” It was repeated, rising, becoming a chant that filled the hangar.
“Never again! Never again!” Pausing at the door, Richard could have sworn that he saw a smile cross the Admiral’s face. Richard had always looked up to that man, and, well, Killian Hazzard undoubtedly deserved it.
After all, it took a skillful man to get men cheering as you sent them to what every one of them suspected would be their deaths.