A Life at War: Twilight

Caluula lay below us, her old anti-orbtial weapons trained ahead of us as the lines of the Rebellion arrange themselves promptly, Dreadnoughts and Hammerheads and their pickets, followed by a line of our battleships, destroyers and theirs, followed by a line of Acclamators, anchored on each side by our Inexpugnable battlecruisers and our repair-dreadnoughts. It was an imposing formation, assisted by the second line being below the first and the third above them both in a quasi-lattice.

It was beautiful, powerful, dangerous, too little too fucking late.

A hundred fifty ships of the line and over two hundred light ships and pickets and it wasn’t even close to enough. Sure, it may overpower the force left after Argai, especially if they hadn’t managed to recover their strikecraft losses, but if Honor even received a single squadron of battleships to reinforce her, I didn’t like my chances.

If the Imps didn’t start deserting en mass soon, we would start having problems. Manpower and material, first and foremost. Followed rapidly by lacking territory to retreat to and the sacrifices that would entail. We were both fighting on too large a front and couldn’t afford to lose a single parsec more than we already had.

I sigh openly as I pull up a map of Dellalt on a spare datapad. Even though I hated it, I had made sure to begin adapting my plans of defending the system to its current orbital positions and the number of feasible forces I could probably pull together if this battle turned sour. Because for all I feared and despised the Dellalt system, it was the final chokepoint I could use for the Phase Five Fortress Protocols before I would have to fall back on phase three.

I exhale slowly, deliberately, as I notice the blinking of the Little Revenge’s sensors officers’ station. The blinking that indicated the detection of Cronau radiation and the imminent arrival of either a small force, or the eventual arrival of a much larger one.

“Sir, detecting Cronau rads. Based off of last Intel package on the Retribution Fleet, we have another couple hours.” Commander Welder reports dutifully.

Another slow exhale before I begin snapping orders: “Finish setting up the minefields and have our minelayers and tugs pull back once they’ve finished. Prime firing fields and finish checks for our strikecraft. What was the status of our surface forces?”

“203^rd Light Infantry is in position, as is the 1^st Bandomeer Legion, sir. Our six Tionese Brigades are still finishing their entrenchment around the anti-orbital batteries.” Comes Hursk’s reply.

“Have Generals Pilsudsk, Robotnik and Chirup keep their transports running hot and pass the order along to the newer officers. I don’t want to abandon any more ground forces after we scratched together what the abandoned Tionese worlds gave us.” I order.

“Understood, sir.” Commander Slas replies.

“I have a bad feeling.” Cal mutters.

“Anything solid?” I ask.

“No, sir.” The Jedi replies and I sigh. That could basically mean anything from my understanding of Jedi magics. Maybe he would stub his toe, maybe we would all die. Scheiß Jedi. Can sense the future, but can’t tell me anything worth knowing.

“Alright, you have my orders. Mi-Kus, your bridge. I’m gonna have a caf before shit hits the fan.”

“My bridge.” My Adjunct Captain replies evenly as I march out to the closest kitchenette.

Honor watches as hyperspace recedes, leaving bare the world of Caluula and the pitiful Rebel force assembled to hold her off. Old Republic Hammerheads, Invincibles, ancient Inexpugnables and a myriad of more recent Republic and Separatist warships making up the three lines which were supposed to hold back the tidal wave that would be her assault.

“All forces present?”

“The second wave is lagging behind, ma’am.” Comes her Adjunct’s reply.

“How much?”

“About an hour. A pirate raid slowed them down after destroying two of their supply ships. They almost committed to a pursuit before Rear Admiral Nantz called them off.” The Adjunct extrapolates.

Honor frowns. That was an almost inexcusable delay. If this was the Home Guard she might have had Nantz flogged for such a delay. And yet she could understand the officer’s choice. Moff Therbon had diverted the forces now reinforcing her Retribution Fleet from the edge of the Bryx Sector, they would be desperate to ensure their supplies were kept well, especially if any of the many battles devolved into a dreaded siege.

And she had chosen Nantz to lead the most rambunctious of them after reorganizing her Operations Divisions. In part so that the calculative man would cool their retros, in part to keep the Rear Admiral busy. Busy enough to keep him from coordinating further legal insubordination with Dodonna, not so busy as to make him dull. After all, she needed every officer under her command as sharp as a vibroknife. Seems her plan was working, for now at least.

“Very well. We push forward at a … slow pace. Deploy strikecraft and keep them in a tight picket. We will make sure that the time between our reinforcements’ arrival and our long range engagement with the Rebels coincides.” Honor decides.

“What if the Rebels use the chance to call on further reinforcements?” An Adjutant asks.

“It won’t matter.” Honor says, “They lost the moment they began giving ground.”

“Enemy approaching us slowly, sir.”

“Enemy strikecraft numbers?” I ask.

“They’re deploying now. I count … thirty five wings or so. No more than thirty eight.” Welder replies.

I frown. Parity. I could work with that: “Deploy our skirmishing force alongside five wings of strikecraft. See if we can lure some of Honor’s men out by giving them a missile run or two.”

“Understood, sir.”

“He isn’t even trying anymore.” Honor sighs as she watches almost two dozen DP20s and two dozen more corvettes pull forwards alongside some … six wings of starfighters. Dericote was really going to try and hit her with his preferred tactics, as if she didn’t know him better than the boy’s own extended family, and hope for the best.

She should probably be insulted, but at this point Dericote has disappointed her so severely that she can no longer be surprised by his clear stupidity and audacity. Instead she inhales and exhales deeply before looking over the greater battlefield once more. Three lines, hiding behind a minefield and interspersed with various defensive installations held over from the Clone Wars and a few newer Golan I platforms.

“Any ship whose Captain breaks formation in pursuit will receive censure and a court martial for disobedience.” Honor decides to crack down on any glory hounds. This was not the time for initiative, this was the time of equally calculated and extreme violence.

“Understood, ma’am.”

She would show her wayward protege the meaning of discipline, since he clearly lacked it.

“She isn’t falling for it.” I grumble.

“Not yet at least.” Mi-Kus says, “She might change her mind once Commodore Strom lets loose the missiles on a concentrated target.”

“Maybe.” I reply, though I doubted it, “Strom knows his priority targets?”

“Alpha strikes only, sir.” Comes Hursk’s reply.

“Good.” I mutter in reply. Any damage we did before Honor could truly respond would do us some good.

“They’re about to enter maximum missile range. Strom just pinged us the targets over the tactical.” Cal points out.

I glance over at the tactical display. An Arquitens, a Nebulon and two Gozantis. Not bad. Not great, but not bad.

“A fair choice.” I mutter.

“Missiles away.”

“Incoming heavy turbolasers.”

“Have him go for another run once he’s cleared enemy range.” I order.

A splattering of heavy turbolasers smash into the corvettes, tearing their shields off as the turn about, their engines straining to gain acceleration and distance. Yet when the missiles strike four Imperial warships go cold, dead in space, while we only loose a single corvette in turn, an older Sphyrna from one of the patrol sections I had pulled from the Ash Worlds. An acceptable exchange.

“Remind Strom to wait for all his ships’ shields to recharge. I’d rather do less damage than lose too many ships.” I add to my previous order.

“Transmitting.”

Faxe Strom, Commodore of the Rebel Coalition, watches carefully as he chooses the next targets for his missile run, adjusting the course of his lattice as he goes. He was always pretty good at adjusting skirmishing formations and now, all his experience gained throughout the Clone Wars was being stressed once more against his former comrades in arms.

His chosen targets for this run were a Nebuolon-B and three Carracks. Sure, he may only end up nailing one or two of the four light cruisers, but it would be worth it. After all, every light cruiser and frigate the Empire lost was another picket they couldn’t bring to bear when the strikecraft raced and proton bombs fell. One picket less to cover the retreat of strikecraft flights. One less picket that could potentially race into the middle of a Coalition formation and decide suicide is worth it if they can take out a couple squadrons of strikecraft.

“Begin coming about.” Faxe orders calmly as he gives a small adjustment order for one of the outlying corvettes in the formation, the Consular moving in closer as they receive his command.

“Approaching max range.”

“Firing solutions prepped and transferred.”

“Enemy still holding formation.”

“Their strikecraft too.”

“Entering range in t-minus ten, nine, eight-”

“Prepare to come about for reassembly at point cresh-eight once missiles are away.” Faxe orders.

“-three, two, one.”

“Fire!” Faxe bellows.

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Missiles emerge, spewed forth by their launchers, then soaring towards their respective destinies. As the Rebel corvettes bank hard and turn, the ordnance coalesces into deadly balls of explosive firepower, closing inon their intended targets. As Imperial heavy turbolasers splatter against the shields of the corvettes, missiles leave trails of smoke in their wake. Rebel corvettes push their engines to leave the Imperials’ maximum range, a majority of the missiles brave the flak and soar into the Imperial formation. As Faxe exhales a sigh of relief for not having lost any ship during the run, the missiles crash into the light cruisers and frigate, detonating against their armor, upon their hulls, into their vitals.

As explosions tear the Imperial ships from the inside out, Faxe begins re-assembling his formation, adapting it on the fly into another proper lattice. As a Carrack’s reactor goes critical and another begins to drift, dead in space due to an engine failure and the loss of its life support, Strom begins picking out his next targets.

By the time the Rebels have reassembled at point Cresh, four Imperial vessels lie dead, a critical hit to a fuel tank and a bisection of the Imperial Nebulon adding both warships to the slowly growing debris field in the Caluula system.

I watch carefully as Faxe finishes his final skirmishing attack. Five times he had battered the Imperial pickets and once he had launched anti-fighter frags. For the effort and the loss of another two Sphyrnas, he had nixed seven light cruisers, nine Nebulons and five Gozantis. Not to mention decimated the forward starfighter pickets of the Imperial center. Yet now, as Faxe was rushing back, I could practically taste the long range line battle that was about to begin.

It tasted foul.

I only really had two options here. Pull back and try to lure Honor into my lines, or rush forward and pray we survive the medium range engagement well enough to get into her formation and start a brawl. The problem with that was if we needed to pull back, we’d be exposing ourselves to her range advantage when we were vulnerable. And we’d be unable to use the anti-orbital defenses below us, the risk for a mistake would be too great, even if we managed to move the brawl into the batteries’ range.

But if Honor refused to take the bait, then … how to lure her in?

“Sir, background Cornau radiation hasn’t returned to standard levels yet.” Commander Welder reports, interrupting my increasingly concerned musings.

“Repeat that, Commander?” Mi-Kus asks.

“We haven’t returned to standard Cronau radiation yet, in fact, we’ve got a buildup.”

“Shit.” I mutter as the realization hits me.

Honor watched dispassionately as the Rebels’ skirmishing force made its final retreat towards Caluula. Dericote had spent so much time, wasted so much effort, only to chip at her armor. It would be an impressive display of bravery and voidsmanship if it wasn’t for such a pathetic cause.

“Ma’am, our reinforcements have entered system.”

“Inform Nantz he is to join our lines promptly.”

“Dericote’s not reacting.” Her Adjunct points out.

“Curious.” Honor replies. Perhaps her errant student had finally realized the folly of his ways. Though if he had, she hoped he would at least throw himself against her forces properly, as befitting of an officer of the Navy.

“Very curious.”

This had complicated things … significantly. Five more Imperials and forty Venators alongside a dozen Victories, ten Dreadnoughts, some thirty Arquitenses and almost two dozen Neutron Stars. This force alone would have been … difficult to defeat. Perhaps not impossible, but difficult.

But when added to the forces of the Retribution Fleet … there was no victory to be had here. Not without strikecraft parity. Not with three and a half times our number in battleships and destroyers. All we would gain by staying here would be time. Time to be bought with blood, steel, tibana and the corpses of my men.

“Dammit.” I mutter before snapping at Commandere Slas, “Prepare ground forces for imminent evacuation and hail the 28^th at Byss. I need them at Dellalt yesterday. Hail Sykes, have him pull our battlecruisers and the repair-dreadnoughts out of system alongside our minelayers. We’re expanding Dellalt’s defenses asap and I want him overseeing it now. The repair dreads are to begin retrofitting every civy ship in system to militia grade and pressgang them into service, even if it means holding a blaster to their Captain’s necks. See if we can scrounge together additional forces from the Ash Worlds asap too.”

“You can’t wring blood from stone, sir. We already took whatever forces the Ash Worlds could give.” Commander Hursk points out.

“We can’t just abandon the people here.” Kestis objects.

“It’s either abandon them like I did the rest of the worlds between here and Argai, or give Honor another world to eradicate.” I reply, exhaustion and disgust leaking into my voice in equal measure.

What was one more world to be lost in this war … but if I was willing to sacrifice the world below … I might as well make Honor bleed for it.

A crowd approaches the quickly dug trenches manned by the various remnants of the 53^rd Corps. It was a pitiful force, recently reorganized into the only Division whose command had survived the abandonment of Argai, the 203^rd Light Infantry, though even that was an exaggeration, more a reinforced brigade than a division due to the sheer losses the rushed evacuation from Argai had caused. Morale hadn’t recovered. The trenches were haphazardly dugby men and women who had survived and were still dealing with the aftermath of that burden, transports just behind in their own dugouts in the case of an emergency evacuation.

The Captain in charge of this section of trench along the main road towards the anti-orbital battery decides the crowd had come close enough and pulls out a speakerphone from his Staff Sergeant: “HALT! This is a restricted area. Remove yourselves from the premises immediately or else be stunned and removed, this is your only warning.”

The people continue to close, though they do slow.

The Captain curses under his breath before barking his next orders: “Ready arms, set stun!”

A few people begin to run towards the battery.

“FIRE!”

Dozens of stun rounds emerge from the trenchwork and dozens of people fall to the ground, scattering their belongings on the floor. Yet in return, half a dozen members of the ex-Confederate militia open fire upon the entrenched Republic soldiers. A blasterbolt nails the Captain in the head, the man falling dead before he can call for reinforcements.

“Ma’am incoming transmission from the Governor.”

“What could he possibly want?” Honor asks her comms chief.

“Seems he wishes to turn coat again.”

“Very well. Inform him to remove the enemy ground forces and take control of the anti-orbital batteries on his world. Once he has them, disable that MC80 on the Rebel’s portside flank, then go for the enemy carriers.” Honor orders.

“Doing so now, ma’am.”

“We’ll have to remove such a man.” Her Adjunct says, “Such a creature cannot be trusted to serve anyone but themselves.”

“Yet it is precisely such self-interest which will ensure his loyalty.” Honor replies, “As long as he remains without further scruples.”

Her Adjunct considers it a moment before nodding: “I’ll have a report on your orders done after the battle then, ma’am.”

“Do so.”

“-Amass our strikecraft and adjust the lines asap, slower ships on the flanks, faster ships in the center all remaining lines mean nothing, form into a three tiered lattice instead, Get me a solid proposition on gravitational influence on a hemispherical battle. Contact the Merchant Fleet and have them rally at Mintooine asap and damn the political capital burned, I want them ready to evacuate strategic industries and personnel throughout the Ash Worlds at the drop of a hat.” I order rapid fire.

The moment I recalled a similar situation as the one before me. Though instead of it being me with the overwhelming force, I was the one on the backfoot. But like hells would I allow myself to fall into the same trap I had laid out for Da-Wis. Instead I would act and defend this world to the best of my abilities!

“Adjusting formation now, sir.” Mi-Kus says.

“Coming about, sir. Heading towards starboard flank” My helmsman reports.

“Preparing missiles for opening salvo.

“Strikecraft have begun assembly ahead of us.”

“ETA, for max range contact, fifteen minutes.”

“Missiles locked onto enemy frigate.”

“Firing solutions coming in from the fleet, you should be able to see them on the tactical display, sir.” An Adjutant reports dutifully.

“Entering flank lattice, middle row, towards the edge between it and the center lattice.” The Helmsman reports.

“Sir, incoming transmission from the 203^rd Light Infantry.” Commander Slas reports.

“What could they possibly want?” I ask.

“Sir, power fluctuation at the anti-orbtial battery below us!” A sensors officer shouts.

“What?” I splutter.

An explosion rocks the opposite flank. Where there had once been the Pride of Ruisto’s immaculate hull, there was now a beaten MC80 Home One type Star Cruiser with a hole burrowed into her depths. The bridge is silent before another anti-orbital battery unleashes its firepower upon the Star Cruiser.

The ship explodes in two, a reactor hit, I realize. Suddenly the plan falls apart. The determination I had disappearing faster than a pebble in a sandstorm. A moment of shock, then instinct takes over.

“Evacuate our ground forces, we’re leaving this shithole!” I bark, “Helmsman bring us about. Rally the fleet above the polls of Caluula outside of those guns’ range. We make for Dellalt. Assemble a rearguard under Rear Admiral Luxerite and form it around his 587^th Battlegroup. Strikecraft are to keep the enemy off of us, no offensive actions.”

“New heading marked.”

“Transmission going out.”

“I’m not seeing a lot of escape pods on scope.”

“The Pride’s bridge transmitter is out.”

“Major General Chirup just informed us his men have lost one of the anti-orbitals. The tried to hold the local militia off, but it seems they came in significant numbers. He claims they could recapture the installations within the hour-”

“Too long. Get our forces offworld now!” I interrupt Slas’ information.

“Understood, sir.”

I start swearing as my formation breaks apart, ships racing away, fleeing, from Honor’s now accelerating ships. Damn Caluula. Damn your governor and your perfidiousness! Damn you for making me fight at five times cursed Dellalt and damn you thrice more for the deaths you caused. Damn you a final time for the loss of a fine officer.

Battle of Caluula