Chapter 27

Centares, Centares System
Maldrood Sector

I handed the tablet back to hare, feeling a sense of perverse satisfaction. But that was the reality of this galactic order, that not even the idealism of the Separatist Alliance could cure. Politics will remain corruptible–if not always with money–no matter in the Bronze Age or Space Age. Nobody can fix it. Least I could do was exploit the disease for reasons better than others, if not totally unselfishly.

But as the days ticked on with no signs of the person who was supposed to rescue us, I was feeling less and less optimistic about our chances. The confirmation lost by five votes. Even with the Commonality, that was too close to replicate. Dooku will be prepared for next time, and that means I’ve stalled as much as I could. All that’s left is to put up a good fight.

And that we shall, I thought as I crossed the deck to the visual display, slamming down the blast shields and activating the holoHUD. An interdiction minefield had been laid 50,000,000 klicks out, and several dozen support ships were arranging themselves behind the Coalition Armada, already pre-loading the first caches of munitions onto their tenders.

Seven-hundred warships in total–greater than the First and Second Fleets combined–most of them now stateless and eager to return home. Then there were another eight-hundred warships that should be enroute from Commonality space. It was the largest single gathering of Separatist warships since the start of the war.

There would be no fancy manoeuvres this time. Not with this many ships. Not with this many commanders. Separatist fleet doctrine relied on overwhelming numerical superiority, justified with exemplary formations. The first the Republic will attempt to do is break up the Armada and defeat us in detail. To prevent that, everyone will have to play by the book and avoid playing hero.

“Interdiction arrays are reporting three-hundred drive trail signatures,” Stelle paused, as if checking if that was all.

I keyed in the frequency, “I am declaring sector-wide Red Alert; all personnel to battlestations. There are three-hundred–”

“Six-hundred–” Stelle leaned forward, “No, one-thousand drive cones!”

I watched in quiet dread as the icons began flooding onto Repulse’s holoHUD, completely blanketing the interdiction array and sweeping through it with brute force. For a moment, I was thrown back to Ringo Vinda, watching ARENA’s red tide trample over everything on the board. This felt obnoxiously similar, instilling the same emotions you would get knowing a tsunami was approaching yet too close for you to escape.

“…Urgent transmission to Columex; request all available reinforcements immediately. Send it.”

“Repulse?” a voice asked.

“I apologise,” I stifled a choke, “There are one-thousand signatures approaching. Avoid all communication but tightbeam and optical. Here they come.”

Calli Trilm didn’t have time to think about anything but what’s at hand. And what’s at hand was a disaster. The Coalition Armada was supposed to outnumber the Cerulean Lance, but instead they found themselves outnumbered by three-hundred warships. Which means either every Republic Sector Fleet was a thousand strong and the war was about to end in a month, or this wasn’t just the Cerulean Spear.

Either way, someone in Naval Intelligence was about to get bent over a barrel.

Of course they’d know we’d outnumber them, her brain berated, so of course they’d bring even more!

“Tell me something, Tex,” she demanded harshly.

“They’re coming at us head on, sir,” her tactical droid said, “No formation. The only finesse is their approach vector. They intend on rolling right over us. We’ve stopped their momentum with our mines, but they’re accelerating again.”

An icon left of hers blinked on the expansive battle plot; Task Force Repulse–Rain Bonteri’s formation in the Armada–signalled steady acceleration to 1,000G in line ahead. A hundred and twenty marks surged out of orbit, ships queuing into a textbook Battle Order One. Three straight columns, with the heaviest ships in the leftmost main battle line, lighter cruisers and frigates in the middle, and auxiliaries–including carriers–on the right.

Battle Squadron Talcene and Battle Squadron Bryx–two stateless formations from their eponymous sectors–raced after Task Force Repule, bringing the full number up to two-hundred and fifty ships.

“Mark bearing,” she commanded.

“Mark bearing,” Tex repeated.

She nodded in satisfaction, “Signal Task Force Clysm into Battle Order One. Accel up to one-thousand gravs. Time to intercept?”

“Fifty minutes. Intercept velocity thirty-thousand KPS,” the droid vocalised his internal computations, “Permission to speak freely?”

“Granted.”

“There is only a twenty-seven point three-nine-nine percent probability of our victory,” TX-103 said, “It would be more strategically sound to fall back to Columex, where our strength can be bolstered.”

“That’s not the point, droid,” Calli scolded mildly, “Centares is a signatory. There are thirty-seven Centarian warships in Battle Squadron Maldrood. If you want to talk statistics; over sixty percent of our fleet is composed of ships and spacers who have lost their homeworlds. The fact that they are still fighting with us is because they believe we will fight for them.”

“The psyche is a troublesome factor,” Tex replied flatly.

“No,” she disagreed, “It is quite manageable, for most races. And when it is on your side, it is as if the gods are fighting with you. Come, droid. Let’s give the Loyalists a thrashing they will remember.”

Task Force Clysm, with Battle Squadron Salvara and Battle Squadron Perkell, were situated on the right most flank of the Armada. Around one-hundred eighty warships in total. Star of Serenno’s sublight drives roared, kicking her in the rear and sending her sprawling forward, with the rest of the division neatly falling in behind.

To avenge their lost worlds. For the distant hope they will be liberated. To defend those who have not fallen. In the name of the Confederacy itself. For whatever the reason they held in their hearts, seven-hundred shining stars appeared in the night sky of Centares. Whether they would glow for an era, or burn so brightly for only a brief moment. Such was the solidarity of the Separatist Alliance.

Commander Vinoc ordered Task Force Sol forward in a standard line ahead, flanked by Battle Squadron Maldrood and Battle Squadron Jospro. The largest but slowest of the three divisions–courtesy of the heavy Sy Myrthian carrier-battleships–two-hundred and seventy warships clung onto the Armada’s left flank.

“The Sy Myrthians are getting left behind, Commander,” Captain Harsol tightbeamed, “Their carriers cap out at three-hundred gravs.”

“Forget the screens!” Vinoc snapped, “We shave half an hour off our transit without them. We’re last in the battle order, so as long as the LACs catch up before then, we’ll be fine.”

“LACs?”

“Light attack craft.”

“Slides off the tongue well, I’ll give it that,” Harsol mumbled– “Understood. I’ll relay the order. What about the Columexi?”

The Commonality wanted to rendezvous every one of their available ships in Columex before sending them to Centares in full force. They simply didn’t expect the Republic to charge in so fast or so hard. With 1500 parsecs between them, the difference between the swiftest cruiser and heaviest dreadnought was a couple hours to a whole day. If the Commonality was intent on sending their Joint Defense Fleet together, then they might as well not.

“Let’s hope they’re hauling ass, if nothing else.”

Harsol afforded a chuckle, “Looks like they’re coming straight down our throats, sir. They’re wanting for a brawl, after all.”

The captain of Sa Nalaor cut the comms with that.

“They won’t,” TJ-912, his recently assigned tactical droid, pointed to the tactical display, “Their drive trails suggest some standard of coordination between ships. They are attempting to mislead us by purposefully mixing in lighter ships, but if you ignore the shorter trails, you’ll note that the more prominent cones are maintaining a coherent line abreast.”

Vinoc saw it. The Cerulean Spear Fleet had arrayed themselves in two lines abreast obscured within a mess of light cruisers, frigates, and corvettes. Their violent acceleration was only a ruse to pull a fake from right under them. He checked the repeater; 30,000,000 klicks to intercept and closing. He couldn’t see them yet, but he could see the blossoming drive signatures of Battle Squadron Jospro’s LACs behind them.

Over two-hundred thousand were already in space and racing ahead of their motherships, with six-hundred thousand more swarming out of the hangars with the cadence and symmetry only the metronome precision of droid brains could perform. As he watched their formation weave itself into a star-speckled blanket fit for an eldritch god, Vinoc felt that the Republic had no idea what’s waiting for them.

Come right on then, bastards, he thought viciously, see what we’ve got for you.

“Velocity twenty-three thousand KPS, fourteen minutes to intercept range,” Stelle reported.

The Republic fleet was still coming straight on. I can literally see your line of battle, assholes–how much closer do you want to push this game of chicken? Ironically enough, the Republic held an overwhelming advantage in a full frontal rush. Not because they outnumbered us, but because they were using Star Destroyers as their ships-of-the-line. Aside from a couple handful of obsolete Invincible-class dreadnoughts in the back–which we had too–the main bulk of their battle line were Venators. The ten or so ISDs–Tectors, apparently–were on our right flank, rematching against Task Force Clysm.

Back to Star Destroyers. Venators may have piss poor ventral firing envelopes–yes, even with their new hangar gun, which couldn’t depress vertically downwards or even fire rearward due to its jury-rigged placement–they do have absolutely overwhelming forward firepower. Their tapered hull meant the vast majority of the guns on their artillery deck could fire forwards, to say nothing of their dorsal barbettes. Of course, that meant their rear firing envelope was pretty much non-existent, but they don’t tend to show that anyway.

Munificents and Recusants were built similarly, in that regard.

On the other hand, the bulk of the Coalition Armada’s line of battle were Providences; their 360 degree transverse coverage sacrificed the potency of each individual firing arc, as the sum total had to be halved towards each flank of the ship. And of course, its tubular shape meant there was only a minimal forward envelope.

I eyed the readout; range to intercept 23,000,000 klicks, and plummeting eye-wateringly fast. At constant acceleration of 1000G, we were already tearing through space at 24,000KPS. And it was nothing, not when most Separatist capital ships came with inertial dampeners powerful enough to compensate for up to 2500G. But a 1000G was hard enough to control–we don’t want to be blasting straight through the enemy, right?

Unless you were that one lady with purple hair. She’s kind of special. What was her name again?

“Task Force Clysm is signalling hard to starboard,” Stelle relayed.

“Project Queen of Beauty’s bridge and signal Task Force Repulse,” I stood up, feeling far too jittery to sit without bouncing my leg to disintegration, “Standard starboard turn. Keep it tight as we manoeuvre in succession. Arm port launchers one to fifty.”

Repulse’s bridge shimmered, a curtain of light falling over the viewports and replacing it with the illusory image of Queen of Beauty’s command deck. In a rare moment of queasiness, I could feel Repulse heeling over hard to starboard in a much sharper angle than Queen of Beauty. The disconnect between what my body experienced and what my eyes saw pretty hammered me to the point of artificially-induced intoxication.

I fell ass-first into the captain’s chair, shit-faced beyond belief and rubbing my eyes shut as I retreated onto years of naval experience to gauge the progress of the turn. Manoeuvring in succession was rather self-explanatory. When the van of a line of battle executes a manoeuvre, that same manoeuvre will be successively performed by every ship as they arrive at the wake of the vane. In simple terms, every following ship will only turn when they arrive in the exact spot the van was when they turned.

In this case, we were all following the… the what? Unwilling to open my eyes, I wracked my brain for the order of battle I prepared a few days ago. Repulse was in the second column–so as we turn to starboard, we will be hidden behind the main battle line. And that means the van was… Astarte?

Whatever the case, manoeuvring in succession from a line ahead was preferable to a simultaneous manoeuvre from a line abreast, simply due to the sheer number of ships participating. Especially when there were Providences, Invincibles, Dreadnaughts, Kolivexes, Munificents, Recusants, Auxilias, and a dozen other classes which all have different rates of turns.

Like I said; by the book.

At the speed we were racing along, however, it sure as hell didn’t feel like it. I cracked my eyes open the moment Repulse stopped turning, though a cursory scan told me Queen of Beauty still was.

“They’re launching fighters!” the sensor droid cried in alarm.

The scanner displays were a sight to behold. Wave after wave of drive cones were spawning out of the Venators, radiating out in a blinding white fog that completely smothered the main signatures. Standard Venator capacity was 420 LACs. I played around with the repeater’s interface for a couple seconds, and got myself a cursory figure of 400 Venators.

That was 168,000 LACs. Considering that Venators were not the only carrier-capable ships, I rounded it up to 200,000 across the whole line. That meant Task Force Repulse had a share of 60,000…

“Get our Vultures in the air!” I shouted, “Are our tubes loaded!?”

“Yes, sir!” Stelle answered, “Deploying Vultures– the enemy fleet is bearing down on us!”

Star Destroyers had a near-100% forward firepower efficiency, simply by design. But turbolasers fired tibanna gas wrapped in a magnetic field. Gas that wanted to expand into the void, and a magnetic field that decayed exponentially with every klick travelled. Strangely enough, that meant laser bolts theoretically had more range in-atmosphere than in-vacuum.

What didn’t decay, however, was steel. Explosives wrapped in steel.

“Our last ship-of-the-line has completed its turn,” Stelle reported.

“Very good,” I leaned forward, “Open fire.”

As the first torpedo signatures glittered the battle plot, Calli Trilm drew in a deep breath. Task Force Repulse unleashed the first, massive salvo of the battle, plumes of fire and smoke rapturing out of the broadsides of their battleships.

“Open fire,” she ordered.

Star of Serenno shivered as a blazing wave of energy lashed from her hull in a brilliant cascade of warheads streaking through the void. As the three Task Forces manoeuvred, their vans and rears met to form a single massive line of battle along 800 klicks. 200 destroyers and 30 dreadnoughts, with fifty and a hundred launchers per broadside respectively. Each launcher concealed three tubes.

Forty-thousand proton torpedoes screamed towards the Cerulean Spear Fleet.

The Republic had more numbers, better guns, better firing envelopes, better fire control, and simply better ships. Their main armament–eight dual-barrelled DBY-827 heavy turbolaser batteries–could punch out a capital ship’s shields with a single salvo, and tear into the hull with the next.

But one thing they didn’t have was the range. Jedi cruisers relied on their fighter complements to dish out missiles and torpedoes, as they didn’t have any of their own.

We must dictate the cadence of battle, Calli Trilm mused in practised calm, that is our only hope of victory.

She snatched the backrest of her chair as centrifugal force threatened to toss her off her feet; all 230 ships rotated on their long axis in tandem, flipping ‘upside down’ and unleashing a second rippling wave of torpedoes. By the time the battle line had flipped back upright, the portside launchers were already reloaded, and another salvo roared out into the abyss.

With impulse drives capable of upwards of 10,000G, it took the first salvo ten whole minutes to transit the 20,000,000 klicks between the battle lines. Three salvoes in ten minutes, Calli checked her chrono. Acceptable.

The Republic battle line dashed in to close the distance as quickly as possible, eating the full brunt of the first two salvoes with their forward shields. The actual hit ratio was poor; maybe one in a hundred, or even less. The vast distances meant their targeting computers had to rely on enemy drive cones, which were blurred enough–not to mention the torpedoes were ballistic by the time they reached. Lastly, the Republic had prepared several screens of point-defence frigates.

On the other hand, the Coalition Armada was not lacking in munitions. Each Providence carried enough warheads for eighteen whole salvoes, and munition tenders were already crossing the distance between the auxiliary column and the battle column with even more. Distant explosions lit up the void, nearly incomprehensible from the backdrop of stars.

“Time to intercept?” she asked.

“Their accel-squared is dropping,” Tex noted, “I calculate… thirty-four point five minutes.”

“Eleven salvoes,” Calli grinned with all teeth, “Keep firing.”

Another volley of torpedoes erupted out of the hull, charging down the gleaming wakes of the previous broadside.

Her eyes scanned the battle plot, at the swarm of drive cones pushing ahead of the Cerulean Spear’s main line of battle. Calli patiently waited for each scan, updating their position on the display and calculating the acceleration. Six scans later, and Calli was relatively certain those were enemy starfighters. 2000G; twenty-three minute transit.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Where are our fighters?” she demanded.

“Our carriers are having trouble keeping up with the columns,” Tex answered.