“ Raise shields.”
Admiral of the Fleet Baron Telan Desaria sat on the bridge of his flagship surveying the small contingent of Gyndinese ships arrayed before three squadrons of the Demasi Sector Fleet. Theirs was a hopeless mission: to stave off the now-certain Imperial assault. One could only admire the raw bravery filling men standing the way of no less than a dozen of the Empire’s ubiquitous Star Destroyers in barely a dozen aging frigates.
“ Count again, Commander Tomas. Have they broken off?”
“ Negative, Admiral. I read eleven Nebulon-B Frigates with weapons powered in two delta formations headed straight for us.”
Never more had the Admiral wanted his tactical officer to be mistaken. He was, however, both the Admiral and officer in question, too well trained for such an error.
“ Have they responded to any of our hails?”
“ Negative, Your Excellency,” replied the senior bridge communications officer from his position in the crew pit.
“ Very well then. The last shards of hope have been shattered on the rocks of ignorant stoicism. First Squadron to engage at maximum range with heavy turboloasers. To all ships: deploy one fighter squadron in picket position Sierra-Tango.”
“ Commodore Veltrane acknowledges the order, Admiral. He is engaging. Training guns now.”
Admiral Desaria tuned out the normal bridge chatter of repeating and re-wording orders, confirming this and acknowledging that. Men he had called his comrades a scant year before were now standing before his armada trying to bare the way into the depth of the system and Gyndine itself. He stood with hands clasped firmly at the small of his back and skulked forward along the catwalk. In no time at all, he was standing before the bridge viewports, Captain Voltaire at his side. Now was the moment of truth.
First Squadron, Demasi Sector Fleet, had as its contingent five Imperial III-class Star Destroyers and two Scylla-class Frigates, the latter of which took up screening positions before and below the designated plane of battle. It was over the heads of these pickets that the first shots of fratricide incarnate in energized particles pulsed towards the Gyndinese warriors.
Dozens of shots rang out in the stillness of galactic night, each one headed for the same target: a Nebulon B frigate. They could not last for long, but try they did. Kilometer by kilometer, they crept closer to their attackers until their own, smaller guns, were in range. When they were, they opened up on one ship, ignoring all others. They captains knew they stood little chance against five Imperial Star Destroyers, but might be able to concentrate on one and so concentrate they did.
Target of the Gyndinian fury was the
Detharius, commissioned ten years prior in yards once orbiting Gyndine of all places making the tumbling down of her shield strength all the more ironic. Her sister ships in the formation fought valiantly to save her and they almost did, ten of the eleven frigates giving in to the pressure of ten quad-turbolaser emplacements and a hundred other heavy or medium weapons per ship. The back was broken of the eleventh, but an engineer with more courage than life set his dying vessel on an intercept course with the
Detharius’ hull. She was a battleship and could ill-turn on a deci-cred and had no choice to but to stand proud and tall and accept the Fates’ decision. The frigate plunged into her full force, enveloping them both in a violent yet brilliant fireball.
“ Signal Commodore Veltrane: reassume formation.”
“ Admiral, Captain Arithet is in command now. Commodore Veltrane is dead.”
“ How?”
The communications officer turned pale. “ He committed suicide.”
[size=1]Requiem en Terra Pax[/size]
