Chapter 3. Glory or Death
AA3
ARMAMENTS.
As stipulated in Section 7 Subsection 23 ---- all attack Lightships of the Magus type shall be taken to sector 7 and deposited on the planet designated as Gorn. The Electro Magnetic fields shall therefore render them useless and of no further threat.
Acknowledged by the peace treaty members of the Trajion conflict conference, REFERENCE ---- WAR CRIMES ---- B9021.UTS.
The Dragos was a warship, it was not like the great Trajion battleships of the past, whose design was no longer optimal in combat. The newer ships were much smaller. Equipped with only three sets of Molecular Blaze-cannons, rather than the older Particle cannons. It did not have the usual banks of Hidralinite torpedoes, they were not as powerful, as the newer Tri-hidralinite projectiles. They did lose something in their shielding. To avoid being fragmented, the new warships, relied more upon their maneuvering capabilities than the strength of their hull plating. Still it used, was the standard Poly-gromite-fazic coating, they did not triple plate them anymore. It was far too expensive and the possess took five times longer to complete. Even with its reduced strength, it was still victorious in battle.
The reason was quite simple, they hunted in groups. The day of the lone battle ship was over, now it was much better to face up to an enemy as multiple targets rather than one huge fortress. As for the crews, they were no longer mutants, used only for war. They were creatures with well-rounded intelligence who could think and react on their own.
Captain Molbon stood on his command bridge, he was an Eran. A humanoid species that had come a long way from their primitive beginnings, to be a real force in the Outer Rim. They were not warlike beings, they could defend themselves when called upon, and fought furiously if needed. They were tall and attractive by the standards of the galaxy, with straight features and a proud way of standing. They now inhabited twenty-two worlds and were establishing settlements on eight more. Well on their way to becoming the masters of their section of the Outer Rim, acquiring all those worlds had been costly. There were many wars and many deaths, and now they would defend those worlds at any cost.
The cost had been high for Captain Molbon. A veteran of many battles, he had received all the honors and medals that his world had to offer. His battle tactics were taught in the Academy of Warfare on Ubanus Six. On his Home-world, his name had been carved into a rather large statue of Vergo Trogo. Now the years had caught up with him, his body was covered in scars, and his right arm had been replaced with an organic Polycron appliance. Dermoplastas could have easily fixed the malformations of his body, it was a matter of pride to the old warrior that he should wear his battle scars proudly. There were also several replacement ribs and a new set of lungs, but it was not important anymore. Molbon knew, his glory days were far behind him.
His retirement was fast approaching and he dreaded the thought of sitting around his country home with nothing to do but watch the sun rise and fall. Plus, listening to his nagging wife, telling him he needed to get out more. How he longed for one last battle, one more glorious fight to show, he was still a commander, and not just a well-worn fixture for the younger ensigns to salute.
Molbon shifted in his seat, “what is our heading ensign?” His words were directed at a rather attractive female trainee who had just come on board as Navigation Mapping and was still learning the ins and outs of the bridge. She checked her readings and reported as trained to do, “we are nearing the star Procus, it is a third magnitude sun with no planets and radiation at seven point nine”.
The Captain liked the way she reported, he did not show it, in his opinion it was better to be feared then liked, “very well ensign, keep me informed if that radiation changes”. He went back to staring at his command screens and trying not to think about his wife.
At some distance from the great star Procus. The M-91 was moving slowly, its alternative locomotion engines were working well, they could not propel the warship to any great speed. The Repair-bots still had to keep working to keep the power supply constant and more than once their engines shut off and on, as connections failed. It was however only for a moment or two, then new routing brought them back online, and the M-91 moved once more.
The Report Drone stationed itself at the Command Center, there it could monitor all incoming functions and relay them to the Orb if necessary. The last orders were quite clear, find an enemy and terminate their existence, so being a drone it could not go against those orders. The long cycles of moving about the ship and making repairs had put something else into its programming. Something the original makers did not understand. The Report Drone no longer thought of the warship as a machine of death and destruction as it was intended. It now considered the M-91 as home.
It was a very strange thing to be sure. Drones are simply drones, just machines to do the work and nothing more, the organic memory brain it was equipped with had been growing. The cycles of work had put into its intelligence more than memory links or programming. Now it had pride, pride in its work and pride in the fact that it had helped maintain the M-91, and saved it from destruction. Now it was all over, all the work was for nothing, it was all going to stop, deletion, erasure...End.
The Report Drone did not want to end, it wanted to continue, to exist, to keep going, but that was impossible, there was no way to disregard orders, it had to obey. So with nothing more to do, it now looked for an enemy to attack, it moved to the Navigational Console and spoke, “navigation, report on scanners, is there an enemy to attack?”
The Navigational Console was up and running, now there were engines to propel them once more. The scanner that had once only reported on sun spotting and corona flares now searched the heavens for any sign of life. “Scanners reporting several ships approaching from a heading of seven nine eight, speed is level two, intent is not known”.
The Report Drone moved to the main scanner screen and tried to call up the information for viewing. It had to try more than once, at last it managed to see a blurry image of a ship approaching. “Weapons, standby” it called out.
The Weapons Console began to spark, and a puff of smoke burst from a secondary view screen as it shorted out. “Weeeeaponsss at ready, bubbas, blaze caaaaaaanons online”, there was more sparking the main connections held.
The Report Drone spoke again, “navigation, make heading to cross flight path of scanned ships, speed to coincide with meeting”.
“Understood” replied navigation.
Although the Crew Manifest Console had not been asked a question, it never the less commented, “this is not going to bring back the dead if that is your purpose”.
The Report Drone did not reply, stood unmoving as the M-91 slowly turned and headed directly towards the approaching ships.
On the Command Bridge of the Dragos, Captain Molbon was having a cup of his favorite beverage, it looked like a nice cup of Gorgalian tea to anyone who might notice. What they did not know was the cup was not filled with the sweet tea, it held a goodly amount of Orgal whiskey. It was forbidden for alcohol to be on any warship in the fleet, the Captain had never been much for rules. With his retirement on the way, he did not feel the need to follow the command book all that closely. Besides his replacement arm had been hurting him lately, and the whiskey eased that annoyance.
He only took one long sip of his drink when the alarm in the command center began to sound, in an instant the bridge was a flurry of activity, crewman checking their screens and consoles lighting up with different readings.
“What is going on?” cried the Captain, “somebody, give me information...NOW!”
The scanner technician began shouting; “we have a scanner alert at heading seven nine eight, a large ship of unknown origin heading directly towards us”.
“At us?” Asked the Captain, he was sure there had been some kind of mistake. Every star system in the Outer Rim knew that the Eran were formidable in battle and no one, not even a drunken spice pirate would attack a fleet
of warships. Yes this had to be some kind of joke. “Check your readings again”, the Captain ordered, “and turn off those dammed alarms!”
Deep inside the M-91 the Orb knew, its life would soon be over, the organic matter, of which it was comprised, was very powerful, its sensory outreach had grown many times greater in its long cycles of waiting. It could reach out and feel its surroundings now, past the shielding and hull plating, past the Poly-gromite bonding and Fazic coatings, past all the ships defenses and out into endless space, there it could feel what was coming. It knew, it was heading for destruction, its long cycles of thinking and waiting were fast coming to an end. Soon there would be nothing, no more tactics, no more repairs, no more anything, it would be over...and it was content.
On its Command Bridge the Report Drone plugged itself into the Main Console, it was not really equipped to do this. The battle computer should have taken over, but it had been destroyed many cycles ago in the war with the Drymac’s. At the time, they had won the day, but their computer was hit and its functions terminated. So for now, the Report Drone tried to take over the programming and do the best job it could.
It tried to give commands for the ship to attack, “orders, attack oncoming ships and destroy them, make heading for...” As it tried to complete the orders, there was a massive feedback and its connections sparked with a white fire, the drones input connector was melted and it shattered. “GRAAACKKKK!” It called out as it pulled what was left of its connector back into its casing.
Again the Crew Manifest commented without being asked, “Careful that will get you killed”, it said dryly.
Back on the bridge of the Dragos, Captain Molbon shifted back and forth near his command crew. He moved like a caged Vargarian, she-cat, he barked orders that would have frightened a seasoned officer. “I want continuous readings on that ship, give the order to the other ships, to close into attack formation, charge up all weapons and secure bulkheads, and do it NOW!” He sounded very angry, inside he was feeling something else.
Contentment.
Maybe I won’t have to spend my last cycles as a broken old soldier? He thought to himself. Maybe I can end my life like a true soldier and not waste away until I am nothing. He tried to hide the smile on his scarred face he could not. Knowing that he might be going into battle again made all aches and pains melt away and in their place a feeling, he had not felt in a long, long time...Courage.
“We have a reading on the ship Captain”, reported the attractive trainee, “its configuration coincides with an ancient signature of a Trajion battleship”.
The Captain gave her a look. “Trajion? They haven’t been seen in over two hundred standard cycles, are you sure your readings are correct?”
The ensign quickly checked over her console, “yes sir, all readings are confirmed, it’s definitely of a Trajion design”.
Molbon’s face no longer smiled, if he had looked around his bridge he would have seen the same look on the faces of his crew. Trajion were the stuff of legends in the Outer Rim. The stories of their wars and the viciousness of their battles were written about in hundreds of books and used for many eye-screen entertainments. No one had ever thought, they would ever be seen again, moving through the Outer Rim. It should have been impossible, unthinkable, there it was on the console screen, it was a nightmare come true.
Molbon straightened his uniform and spoke loud enough for everyone to hear, “all crew at battle stations, charge weapons, prepare for attack!”
In an instant all crew members were relaying those orders throughout the ship. Everyone hearing those commands followed them without question.
On the other ships in the attack fleet, the order to battle stations was also followed. Their Captains were much younger than Molbon, and many of them had not seen real battles. When their sensors reported the Trajion ship, they knew, they would soon have an invitation, so battle alarms sounded and each ship took up its designated formation, and waited for the order to open fire.
The M-91 did not turn from its flight plan. On the Battle Bridge the Report Drone tried to load data into the main console, its mind-lock capabilities were just not strong enough. After trying unsuccessfully to coordinate a battle plan it gave up and simply waited.
“Target approaching” sounded the Navigation Console, “contact in approximately three point nine time breaks”.
The word “approximately” was something new to the Navigational Console. In the past it would have known down to the microsecond, how much time would pass before contact was made. That was long ago, its calculating circuits were not what they used to be. To the Report Drone, it was enough, three-point-nine time breaks, or four-point-nine, what did it matter? Its orders were to find an enemy and terminate. Being on time was not in his mind mass right now.
“Understood” replied the Report Drone, “continue on course”.
Once again the Crew Manifest spoke without being asked, “so you’re just going to stand there and let us all die, is that it?”
The Report Drone did not answer went to the Weapons Console, “weapons, when in range open fire with all available guns and keep firing”.
The Weapons Console sparked to life, “unnnnderstood, all weaaaapons will fire as commanded”.
“It’s not going to work you know” the Manifest said, “you’re just going to die like everybody else”.
The little Report Drone was getting tired of the constant input from the Crew Manifest. Ordinarily it would have disregarded its comments this time it did not. It moved over to the console and reached out with its programming tentacle, there was a spark as it found the input connector.
“What are you doing?’ ask the Manifest, then it realized just what the Report Drone was trying to do, “wait, don’t shut down my interface connections, I don’t want to die, please don’t let me die!”
The Drone continued its input, and with a final piece of data, terminated the Crew Manifest and the console went dark. It turned and went back to the Main Control Console.
“We have reached contact point”, reported Navigation, “you can commence weapons fire”.
For a moment or two the Report Drone stood unmoving, maybe it was trying to find some kind of alternative program that might let it disregard its primary orders. Or maybe it was just thinking about what was to come? After a few more moments it spoke in a clear command voice, “weapons, ...FIRE!”
Deep inside the ship the Orb felt a slight shudder as the Blaze-cannons started to fire. The energy levels began to dip as the banks of powerful weapons emitted a barrage of death at the approaching battle fleet. To the Orb it felt good, at last its time had come, it could die now, and leave the universe to itself; an ending, it thought; no more wars or battles, at last I can rest.
When the first wave of cannon fire hit the bridge of the battleship, its Captain did not give a command to turn the ship or open fire, because he was not ordered to do so. He was a well-trained soldier, and he and his crew died the same way, at their post, obeying orders.
When Captain Molbon saw the Victorious destroyed he did not hesitate. He stood just like the statue of himself back on his Home-world, one hand raised while the other touched the gold buckle on his dress pants.
“All ships...FIRE!” He screamed, with those commands the entire fleet of warships spewed out a holocaust of blazing power beams that struck the M-91 dead center.
The Report Drone felt the deck buckle under it. There was the sound of fragmenting hull plating, and the lights began to flutter. Smoke began to fill the Command Bridge and all the consoles sparked with short circuits.
“Navigation is no longer working, heading is...” the console lights went dim and there was nothing more.
“Report all damage,” called the drone, “all damage report to Central Command”. There was no reply, it seemed that the entire information network was no longer working. At this point, any other creature of the Outer Rim might have turned and ran for its life. A primal instinct that saved species from ex
tinction. It has to be said, the Report Drone did turn away from its console, but only for a moment.
Where would it go? There was no place that would be safe now, and although it fought hard against its primary programming, it could still not go against direct orders from the Orb. So it just stood there and waited. Waiting for its input circuits to stop functioning and for its organic mind mass to feel nothing.
Captain Molbon watched the view screens as the battle continued to rage. He saw his ships firing again and again at the Trajion warship. He waited, for the giant war machine, to fire back with all its terrible power. Why isn’t it using its torpedoes or main guns? He thought; surely only secondary Blaze-cannons is not enough?
He continued to think this over as his ship, was hit, by a low-level blast from the enemy.
“Hit on level six”, damage control reported. “Minor damage, to electrical terminals in level three”.
“Very well” replied the Captain, “reroute as needed and continue firing with all banks”.
Again the Captain watched as hit after hit struck the warship, one by one the Blaze-cannons stopped firing and its hull plating began to buckle.
Why don’t they retreat, why?
As more and more of his ship bombarded the mighty warship the Captain continued to ponder this question.
Deep inside the M-91, the Orb thought only of one thing, when will it end? It was strange, for ages the mind had calculated endless tactics of attacks on its enemy. It had gone over every possible scenario and factored in all the variables, to try, to continue its primary programming. That time seemed to pass very quickly. Now as it waited to die, time seemed to stand still. Seconds were ages, and its thoughts hung on every flash of its inner eye. It remembered when it first sprang into being, a jarring flash of intelligence and memories and pain. Then the horrific battles and long cycles of repairs and more battles, it all came flooding back to the Orb now, all in a mere instant of time, an instant that was forever.
Then came a great ripping of steel.
The fire from the Eran battle fleet was intense. Great chunks of the M-91s hull plating, were being blown into space, its huge drive engines tore loose from their moorings and shattered into millions of blazing fragments. The docking ports were destroyed in a flash, and its communications tower ripped clear and drifted away. Until it was completely disintegrated by an over enthusiastic Captain of one of the smaller destroyers. That fool hearted Commander, wanted to see just how much damage he could inflict, seeing the tower dissolve into nothing made him feel very proud.
On the bridge of the Dragos, Captain Molbon was not proud, as he watched the destruction of the Trajion ship he should have been happy. There was no contentment on his scarred face, on the contrary, his faced showed...pity.
His long years of warfare, had taught him that victory against a strong foe, is what soldiers really hope for. All that talk from the high-rankers, about not having to fight, and what everyone wants is peace, was so much air dung. What warriors really wanted, is a worthy opponent, an enemy who is strong, powerful, dangerous that makes victory taste all the sweeter, this, this was just slaughter. The destruction of an enemy who could no longer fight back, it was empty. Without glory or honor, the only taste was bitter.
On the view screen he watched, as again and again, his fleet ripped the Great ship apart. Massive explosions began to shatter the Trajion vessel. There was no retaliation from its weapons. It was over.
No glory; The Captain thought; No glory.
On the Command Bridge the little Report Drone was still functioning, all around, was fire and smoke, as consoles began to burn, and under its motivators the hull plating began to buckle. As the fire began to spread the drone began to move, it started to spin in a tight circle, round and around, like a child’s whirl head. It began to speak, its words had little meaning to the raging fire that was now flickering at its metal surface.
“Mercy, mercy, mercy,” it cried out over and over again. There was no one there, to hear it scream. Only a long dead crew member who never knew what that word meant.
Captain Molbon had seen enough. Although it was a standing order that any ship attacking an Eran must be completely and totally destroyed. He no longer had it in him to follow the order. He did not know, if there were any crew members still alive inside the great ship, but he knew, it had to be stopped. It was not the ending, to the battle, he wanted, but it was the one, he would have to live with.
Maybe I’m growing old? He thought; maybe it was time to retire?
He straightened his starched uniform and called out to his command crew, “give the order for all ships to cease fire”.
There was a look of disbelief on many of the crewmen who heard the order. This was not their way, it was a direct order that no one was going to question.
“Giving orders to cease fire Captain,” the signalman replied, “all ships will discontinue attack”.
The Orb was still alive, safe deep inside its shielding it waited to die. It could feel the ship breaking apart and the fire spreading through the many levels, it would not bring an ending. The makers of the Trajion ship were masters of warfare. They had built the battle machine to withstand even a defeat. They never spoke of it, there were safety measures. Even if the ships weapon's and engines were gone its main brain command would continue. So the Central Core now closed itself off from all other parts of the ship. Massive bulkheads moved into place, shielding that could withstand concentrated firepower came into effect. It was even beyond the control of the Orb. So as the M-91 ceased to be a weapon of war it would continue to hold the seeds of death.
The Orb had no one to call out too, all its drones were now cut off from its orders, and there was nothing more it could do. It reached out with its mind and could feel the heat from its burning body and it wanted to scream out to anyone, to let it die.
There was no one left.
So it stopped feeling, it stopped its thinking.
It let itself drift off into a world that no words can describe, it was not death as we know it, there was no ending, it simply did not think. It focused all its massive concentration on one single image. Something it had seen only once in its long existence. It was long ago, back to its beginnings, it had just awoken to a bright light, there were people standing nearby and they were patting each other on their backs and smiling. One of them, a female was holding something in her arms, it was a very small creature, and it was crying loudly. What purpose the creature had or why the female was holding it so carefully, the Orb never understood, there was something about it, something its mind could never forget.
So it held the image in its central calculating imagery and thought about nothing else. It did not know, if it would ever figure out, what the tiny creature was. Holding it in its minds eye, made the Orb feel content.
In all wars there are winners and losers. Victory and defeat, one thing is certain, all wars eventually end. For the crew of the Dragos there would be many more battles. Some of them would live long enough to see the Great Empire of the Eran move across the Outer Rim. Others would fall and their names would be forgotten. As for Captain Molbon he would soon leave his bridge and return to his Home-world. There he would receive a hero’s welcome, and more medals and accolades, enough to last many men their lifetimes. Then after all the cheering and shouting was done, he would go to his home in the country and rest. Later, he would sometimes walk down to the local meeting house, and share his stories of battles with his friends, and they would listen and praise him for his courage and honor. Then one by one they would die, until there was no one left who remembered his wars or his name. Eventually he would not have the energy to walk or speak. On long summer nights, and the safety of his observation porch, he could only sit and look up at the stars.
In those remaining days, he would think of his last battle, and wish with all his heart that he had died standing on his command bridge, facing a strong enemy with strength and courage. In his very last hour, he would cry a l
ittle for those days of honor and glory now long past.