A Titan's Vengeance (The Great War Book 2) Page 3

  “Welcome aboard Cronus, Hal.” Admiral Rihanna Albright stood by the entrance greeting her guests, the senior officers of her task force, as they entered.

  “A pleasure, ma’am.” Cutter snapped off a crisp salute to her. The woman, as ever, was impeccably turned out. The twinkling board of medals adorning her breast and golden braiding draped over her shoulder would turn a Sphere tin-pot warlord dictator green with envy.

  His eyes drifted to the chamber itself.

  “I take it this is your first-time aboard Cronus, Hal?” She’d obviously caught his admiring gaze. The fleet was massive and wide ranging these days, stretched across much of known space. To even set eyes on the flagship noteworthy, let alone accompany her into battle. And Achilles, as fine a ship as she was, was stark, utilitarian, and of a different, more modern, age. A total contrast to the cultured elegance he was seeing now.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Cutter nodded in appreciation. “She is a beautiful ship.”

  “It shows. And yes. Yes, she is. Some might say the symbol of a more civilized time when her mere presence would quell any opponent.” Albright gave a condescending smile as she gestured to a steward. He approached, proffering a tray of flutes to Cutter. “Orillion Champaign. Don’t drink it too quickly. Supplies will run low soon.”

  Taking a flute, he fought the urge to roll his eyes at the pompous admiral. The more civilized times she referred to were when the Kingdom brooked no competition. And this ship was designed, from the keel up, to show off the superiority of His Majesty’s Navy. Cutter held his flute up in a cheers, knowing what she wanted to hear, “Here’s to the return to such times.”

  “To such times.” Albright clinked her glass to his. He took a sip of the crisp, fizzing wine. Delicious. There was no doubting Orillions knew how to produce it. Anything else was a dim facsimile. “Come, we’re being antisocial.”

  She gestured around the room, indicating the other senior officers of the task force. “This is, after all, a time of celebration for a successful operation.”

  “That it is,” a voice rumbled. Cutter couldn’t help but give a smile at hearing the aggressive, belligerent tones.

  “Admiral Roe, how goes it, sir?” He turned to face the man. Admiral Roe’s left eye still hadn’t replaced with a cybernetic yet following his ship, Sabre, taking a hit during Operation Replevin, the recovery of the expeditionary force from Asteria. Instead, he sported a dashing black patch over it. It was an affectation which served to reinforce the admiral’s carefully cultivated buccaneering image. Yet, that was a façade. Arden Roe was one of the most switched-on combat commanders in the Kingdom Navy, with a near unparalleled ability to keep situational awareness.

  “You know, Hal.” Roe grinned. “Trying to stay out of trouble.”

  “Unsuccessfully, I might add.” Albright’s attempt at a light tone didn’t quite hide her distaste of the bullish man. Roe was a difficult man to actively dislike—his innate charm won people over—but there was no doubt he rubbed the more dogmatic of the senior naval officers the wrong way. And that included Admiral Rihanna Albright, who was as much a traditionalist as they came. She gestured at the seats. “Please, everyone. Take your places.”

  Cutter stood behind his chair, between Captain Arthur Phelps, Captain of Cronus, and Captain Delia Sherrington of the battleship Ajax.

  “Ladies, gentlemen.” Albright moved to stand at the head of the table. “We have completed a grim business in the Ishtar System. The destruction of the Republic fleet was a terrible, but necessary, action. There is no doubt that had those vessels fallen under Hegemony control, then this war would be infinitely harder for us.”

  Cutter stood with the others, trying to keep his own look of distaste from his face. He somehow doubted history would remember the task force’s actions with any acclaim. But the logic was sound. If the Hegemony had seized the four modern Republican battleships and fielded them...well, it still wouldn’t have parity with the Kingdom Navy, but it would have gone a long way toward it. Especially with the Hegemony’s unaccounted for production suggesting they were building their own capital ships somewhere.

  “So, therefore”—Albright’s gaze washed over the room, as if daring them to think otherwise—“we must view this week’s events through the lens of what they were. A great victory.”

  The looks on his colleagues faces were as sour as his own must have been. A great victory, in most people’s books, was not smashing defenseless ships into clouds of debris in a backwater port at the arse end of the galaxy.

  Roe looked as if he were about to say as much, but even he was wise enough to keep his mouth closed. Albright may have tolerated him, especially since his actions over Rorian had caused his star to rise. But that would only go so far.

  Algon Station had been a strategic victory. That was the party line. And the one they must all stick to, even when the history books might damn them for what they’d done.

  There was no doubt the Kingdom Navy needed a victory. And sorely. With the retreat—sorry, withdrawal—at Port Rorian, and the later loss of the battleship, King’s Challenge, public morale had been hit hard. The reality of her destruction, Cutter admitted, was something else. It removed the ancient ship from the roster. Helping to “streamline” the fleet, and undoubtedly for those in the corridors of power, gave weight to the argument for new capital ship construction. More crucially was the loss of the modern carrier, Falcon, and her escorts a few weeks ago in a savage battle. Something which the Navy was keeping under wraps as much as possible before what was left of morale completely evaporated.

  “Please be seated.” The steward drew back Albright’s chair and she settled into it, followed a moment later by everyone else.

  A wash of gentle conversation began throughout the room as the stewards busied themselves laying out what appeared to be a thick root vegetable soup and crusty bread which looked, and smelt, as if it had just been baked. The flagship knew how to put on a spread, that was for sure.

  “How is your work up going, Hal?” Sherrington asked, dipping a spoon into her bowl.

  He returned a rueful smile at her. Achilles — hell the whole line of Vengeance-class battleships — had been fresh out of their shipyards when the Hegemony had swept into the Republic. It was no secret among the fleet that Achilles had suffered more than most trying to get her turrets up to full capability. Still, the “testing” they’d just given them at Ishtar showed the power couplings were taking the load now. “We’re getting there, Delia. How’s Ajax looking?”

  “Spick and span,” Sherrington said with a wink.

  “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Cutter smiled back at her. The two of them had always been on the competitive side. From officer school at Hyperion to leapfrogging each other up the ranks. And now, they’d both peaked at roughly the same time, in command of vessels nominally the equal of each other.

  “It’s a shitty business, Hal,” Sherrington’s voice lowered. “But I’d rather have tested them under combat conditions here than against some Hegemony warship.”

  “Yeah,” Cutter murmured, his briefly bright mood taking a down turn. That was one way to look at it, for sure.

  “They’ll sue for peace. Sooner, rather than later.” Cutter’s ears tuned in to Albright presiding at the head of the table. “They know they cannot maintain their momentum.”

  “With all due respect, ma’am,” Roe retorted in a tone which suggested that the respect he felt due was not an incredible amount. “You didn’t see the tenacious bastards at Asteria. They gave us a damn good fight there.”

  “And maybe if the army hadn’t run away, then we wouldn’t be locked in this stalemate,” Arthur Phelps spoke. His words sent a wave of silence through the room. Cutter shifted uncomfortably in his seat along with the others around the table. A veiled criticism was one thing. But questioning the honor of the army? That was just plain unseemly.

  “I’m just saying what everyone—”

  “That’s enough, Arthur.” Albright’s tone didn’t quite match her words as she interrupted her captain. She agreed; she was making that much known for damn sure. She just had a veneer of politeness and diplomacy to her.

  Cutter shook his head. They hadn’t been there, these armchair officers. They hadn’t flown their ships into the maelstrom over Port Rorian. Seen the advancing hordes of mechs and soldiers. The fighters tearing by. The stealths pouncing on vulnerable ships. Lost Earth only knew how many corpses still floated in that system.

  “The Hegemony may have control of Republic space. But consolidating their position is quite another thing,” Albright continued. “It is my belief they have overreached. The whole edifice will crumble. Their successes have been a mix of luck and aggression. That is not sustainable at a strategic level.”

  “That luck and aggression cost us King’s Challenge and Falcon,” Roe said with a shrug. “Whatever works, is their view.”

  “A dishonorable attack on the Challenge,” Phelps snapped between dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “Sneaking in one of their damnable stealths and destroying a ship at mooring.”

  “You mean something like what we just did?” Sherrington’s voice lacked a confrontational tone. She was just stating facts. The recent loss of the battleship King’s Challenge while in dock had sent shockwaves through the fleet. Nearly as much as what had happened in Rorian. A single stealth threading its way through sensor arrays and patrols, then putting a spread of torpedoes into the vulnerable ship and killing 833 men and women.

  “We didn’t sneak in,” Phelps retorted, before offering what he probably thought was a conciliatory smile. “Anyway, at least it was that old antique and not one of your Vengeances.”

  “I’m sure that’s of paramount reassurance to the families of those spacers,” Sherr
ington said coldly before taking another spoonful of steaming soup.

  “Regardless.” Albright held her hand up, ceasing the verbal sparring. “Despite their successes, mark my words, before too long this war will turn into a matter of mopping up the sad remnants of their overreaching forces.”

  “Easy as pie,” Roe said sarcastically.

  “It won’t be easy.” Albright looked intently at the rear admiral. “But it will be simple.”

  Maybe, Cutter thought, after you’ve fought the damn Neos, you’ll change your opinion on that one.

  Chapter 4

  Spacer 1st Class Gaddish

  Vadir System – HAS Behemoth

  Moving berths was something normally done under a cloud. The result of a fight, a petty falling out, or an inability to take care of personal hygiene and an excuse found to move the offensive person. For Spacer First Class Rom Gaddish, though, it was just down to the simple allergies of his bunkmates.

  The berth he was being moved to was, Rom Gaddish thought, more spacious than most. He’d give it that. Still, twelve people would be sharing a space not much bigger than the back of an average hover-truck. The central gangway divided two banks of six bunks and the associated brushed-metal lockers and recessed storage compartments.

  It was, basically, a very tight fit.

  “Who the hell are you, and what on Terra is that?” A man, thickset and all muscles—barely contained within his stained vest—hopped off his bunk, landing on the metal deck with a thud. Gaddish noticed his name emblazoned on his barrel chest: Loctz.

  Gaddish took a deep breath. This was always the nervous part of being allocated a new space. Meeting the people whom he’d be living with for the foreseeable future. Finding out whether they’d get on, or be reduced to bickering or fistfights. Even when it came to Gaddish being the designated ward of the...creature, he got no particular say in just where he was going to end up. He was being sent here just because it was one of the few berths left on the ship with a free bunk.

  But, as much as he begrudged being forced to move, in the few short days he’d been caring for the angry little bastard hidden inside the carry case in his hands, it had grown on him more than he’d ever thought possible.

  He set the case down gently as the others looked at it quizzically.

  “So, come on,” Loctz rumbled as he squinted at the carrier. “Who are you?”

  Gaddish snapped to some semblance of attention and beat his fist to his breast, something which was greeted with condescending sneers. He let his hand drop. “I’m Spacer First Class Rom Gaddish, Electrics Division.”

  “A sparky.” Loctz nodded. His vest was covered in the grease and detritus of someone who spent far too much time crawling through service ducts in one of the more mechanically orientated sections.

  “And this”—Gaddish knelt and flipped open the small hatch situated on the front of the case—“is a cat.”

  A small furry face looked out of the opening cautiously with wide eyes before taking a quizzical sniff.

  “Okay...” The man recoiled with an awed expression on his face. He forced civility into his voice. “You mean you’re the...?”

  “Yeah, I’m the ward. The cap’n said so,” Gaddish offered. He plucked the tiny black and white kitten out of the carrier and wrapped it in his arms. The others in the berth clustered around in the tight space. He looked around the cabin for somewhere to place the cat down. He settled on the single made-up bunk. The small animal bounced lightly on the sheets. It looked around uncertainly at the faces clustered around it, standing on all fours. “Apparently, every new ship should have one.”

  “Apparently so. It is good luck. So, you a good mouser, eh?” Loctz leaned over the cat, his expression inquisitive. The animal recoiled slightly, giving a soft hiss, causing the big man to give a rumbling chuckle. “Shit. Is angry but cute.”

  The others in the berth gathered around, striving to look at the cat with expressions ranging from distaste to smiles. Hesitantly, the black kitten relaxed then curiously sniffed at Loctz’s reaching fingers.

  “Anyone got any milk?” Loctz turned to face the others, clapping his hands. Clearly, this was the man in charge of this berth. “Come on. Milk. Now.”

  Hastily, one of the ratings opened a lockbox with “coffee supplies” scrawled on it and pulled out a bottle of insta-milk. He poured it onto an abandoned plate, laying it on the bunk. The cat nudged his head forward toward the plate and sniffed uncertainly.

  “I’m not sure insta-milk—” Gaddish began. He was positive that was in the notes he’d been provided.

  “Bah,” Loctz barked. “It be fine. So, what’s his name?”

  “He...he hasn’t got one yet.”

  “That is unacceptable. Completely, totally unacceptable.” Loctz cast his eyes into the corner of the room, as if contemplating deeply. “We’re going to win. He needs a name which shows that. Wait, you sure he’s a he?”

  “He’s a he,” Gaddish confirmed. He gave an inward wince at his very firm orders to take the poor thing down to the sick bay at six months old. The last thing anyone wanted was for the thing to start spraying everywhere and making the place stink.

  “Okay, good. Good.” Loctz nodded sagely. “Winning Will?”

  “That’s awful,” Gaddish said, stroking along the lapping cat’s back. He felt the rumble of a purr beneath his fingers.

  “Bob Behemoth?”

  “Even worse,” a voice called out.

  “Triumphant Tim?”

  “Errr...” One rating frowned, his disapproval evident, yet the enthusiasm for the vital project of naming the ship’s good luck symbol clearly growing on his berthmates.

  “I know,” Loctz said, a sage tilt to his face, as if he’d come to a firm conclusion. “Victorious Vince.”

  Gaddish looked around the cabin at the faintly approving tips of the other spacers’ heads. The decision had been taken out his hands, clearly, and Victorious Vince was the favorite. He still didn’t like it, though. Victory was the name of the bastard Kingdom’s main starbase, a fact lost on these people. No, it couldn’t be that. But it could be...

  “How about In-Vince-ible?”

  “I like it!” Loctz bellowed, slapping Gaddish on the back so hard he was driven forward a step, making the decision for the crew. The whole crew. Not just those in the room. “In-Vince-ible it is.”

  The kitten looked up from the saucer imperiously and gave a short yowl before burying his face back in the milk.

  Gaddish gave a smile. It looked like the name had everyone’s approval.

  “You.” Loctz waved a finger in front of a scrawny looking spacer. “You work in the machine shop. You make a collar. Now!”

  The boy swallowed and nodded before hurrying out the room. Loctz might have been gentle seeming to kittens, but it was clear he ruled the berth with an iron fist.

  “Good In-Vince-ible.” Loctz knelt down next to the bunk and fussed the kitten roughly on his head. “You’ll help us win this war, no?”

  Gaddish took a deep breath. If he’d known it was this easy to win over new berthmates, he’d have always bought a kitten with him to new billets.

  ***

  With a shudder, the huge mooring arms released Behemoth. They retracted, folding back into themselves, leaving the huge battleship floating free within the hellishly lit dock.

  Captain Lasik stood, her hands clasped behind her back, her vision washing across the huge bridge before turning to face Admiral Sarven. “Sir, would you like the honor?”

  “An honor, indeed, Captain,” Sarven said from where he stood on his command podium. The bridge was set out in the traditional fashion. Below him, officers and enlisted bustled. To the front, a huge screen was set to show the view from the bow. The huge tactical holo-display inset in a pit in the center of the room provided an impressive 3D representation of space around Behemoth. All around the edges were the gunners, systems techs, helm, and others required to keep the vast ship functioning. All were under his ultimate command, but he was a step above such detail and rightly so. To give orders, he had to go through Captain Lasik.