Chapter 2: Reflections in the Void

The CDS Kanabo stood at rest in stark contrast to its Thentian ally floating shy of a few kilometers away. 

 

An imposing silhouette, it’s bulky, polyhedral, rhino-like head, shadowed a down-sloping neck. An armored bulwark to rival that of a station, tipped by a horn to carve through even the densest of atmospheres at blistering speed. A dizzying array of drop pod bays and missile tubes were tattooed across the neck of the great beast. A dragon's promise of carnage and fire, a territorial claim to whatever lay beneath it. 

 

Sloping up once more, the haunches of its colossal V-TOL thrusters dominated its rear frame, enabling the flight that the great wings sheltering them implied. Wings which curved and flattened against the very tail end of the ships spine, providing armor for the dual runways it’s hatchling fighters would depart from. 

 

Despite its terrifying slumber, the innumerable teeth of its watchful, restless, point defense weaponry hinted at the chaotic scramble of the many thousand souls comprising its nervous system. 

 

Chaotic though their hearts, the Terrans fluttered with order. Desperately they prepared the last details of what they hoped would save them against indescribable horrors that only the veterans among them could name. Weaponry, armor, entrenching equipment, a plan. 

 

This plan wound its way through cramped halls and spartan accommodations. Passing from nervous hand to nervous hand until it lay scattered in its own chaotic order across a great desk in Kreischer’s office. 

 

There he sat, as ordered and unmoving as the beast he commanded. And so too, beneath his quiet shell, his eyes transfixed by an empty space in the local star chart, there writhed a chaos of his own. 

 

No thought crossed his mind, nor diverted his gaze. It was an emotion that captivated the man, one he had harbored beneath the shadow of his heart for almost a century. 

 

The soft hiss of his door opening gave way to boots felling a pattern he’d ever so gratefully had time to learn. Dragging his eyes from the map he glanced across his desk in time to meet his lieutenant’s salute, matching it haphazardly, fist over heart. 

 

“Admiral!” The Lieutenant began, formal even to a friend. “Preparations for landing are complete and the perimeter team is ready to go.” Lowering his hand from his chest he brought it to his opposing wrist, flipping open a panel on his bracer. 

 

Swiping across menus on the data pad contained within until a rudimentary hologram appeared from Kreischer’s desk display, he continued. “The Federation advisors are departing their ship as you can see. ETA, fifteen minutes till boarding.” 

 

“Thentian advisors, despite heading the Federation they thankfully don’t speak for us all.” Kreischer promptly corrected him, appraising the image as his lieutenant loosened to a comfortable but professional stance. 

 

Kreischer swore he could almost hear the smirk beneath the man’s bulky respirator as he responded. “That’s true Sir. Though given the Federation hand picked them, I’d say these advisors do.” 

 

“Touché. Send them up here when they arrive and apologize for the lack of an official greeting.” A passing glance at his star map soured his tone. “If my instincts are right we don’t have time for such formalities.” 

 

A nod marked the lieutenant's departure as Kreischer examined the holo display in front of him. 

 

The main ship was a sleek creature. A bulbous centerpiece comprised the bridge, armored false viewports erected as a mosaic of those familiar crystalline eyes he saw lining the Federations Senate. The sides of this orb extended out and backwards into the shape of an elongated ring, not quite touching at the back. Instead these appendages flared out and coiled around in opposing spirals. 

 

A large parasite craft, which had rested its bird-like head upon the top of the orb, began to unravel its segmented, articulating wings. Rising and flaring into the shape of a bird diving upon its prey, the craft narrowed its wings back and retracted into an arrowhead, beginning its approach. 

 

It was such a striking silhouette that departed the Hughrinn, that Kreischer felt no wonder as to why the Norse had mistaken its shuttle for a giant raven.   

 

The Hughrinn in his mind truly was one of its captains greatest accomplishments, a prototype of Ohrdin’s own design. So ridiculously outdated by now and yet still centuries ahead of humanity. That was at least so long as their efforts were sunk into the quagmire of red tape and regulation that the Federation had upheld from millenia before. 

 

He sighed, knowing that even if they had joined in time to vote on the matter, they wouldn’t have had nearly enough sway to bother. The familiar gnaw of anxiety began to fester beneath his heart once more as his mood depressed, drawing his tired eyes back to the half empty star chart. In the infinite black, only the slight reflection of his face met his gaze. 

 

The thoughts that had sickened his mind for days now demanded an answer. Hoping to catch his lieutenant on the way out, he called out to him just before the door closed. 

 

“Merce?” 

 

A hand shot out to grip the door. “Something I can help you with sir?” Merce stepped inside, allowing the door to seal behind him.

 

Kreischer started, stopped, and sighed his response. “Do you ever think about the war? Ever find yourself stuck in memory?” 

 

“If you’re looking for that kind of company sir, I think I have a bottle of Iverian liquor that might serve you better.” Merce chuckled as he relaxed. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, fuck you too.” Kreischer responded as he watched his companion drag forward a chair and kick his heavy boots up onto the desk. “Where did you get it anyways? Your salary sure as shit wouldn’t cover it.” 

 

Merce gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Traded some teeth and a few cracked ribs for it before we left home. Some Iverian woman spent the whole night in the ring. Got talking afterwards. She must have taken a liking to my dazzling charm!” Although the mask covered it, his tone conveyed the grin sliding across his face. 

 

“Yeah… more like your thick skull.” Kreischer ignored the middle finger being thrown his way. “An Iverian? So who ended up on their ass?” 

 

“Ahhh I’m fairly confident I could have finished her but the second rib set the price a bit too high. So I decided to take a dive and got the bottle anyway!” He said, swinging his hands outwards in a display of pride. 

 

“Pricey prize isn’t it?” Kreischer probed.

 

The lieutenant scoffed. “Very pricey! I think she just wanted rid of it, something, something, sad drunk regrets. My ears were ringing too loud to listen.” 

 

Kreischer nodded, letting the uncomfortable silence of a dodged question fill the air. Leaning back on his chair he turned away slightly. 

 

Gently keeping time by clicking his boots together on the table, Merce looked across at the star chart that once again captivated his commander’s attention. Meeting nothing but a reflection of his helmet, the past began to seep into his mind. 

 

Sighing, his head tilted back contemplatively to the ceiling. “Yknow, I don’t think any of us go a day without counting our scars.” Kreischer drifted his eyes over to him, a slight smile at their renewed discussion. “I probably count them twice a day really, but I don’t see the point in your stargazing.”

 

Merce dropped his head and tilted it in concern. “It’s like a sailor sat by the shoreline watching the horizon. Dreaming of the past is gonna walk you into the surf.” 

 

“I don’t know, I suppose I’m just wondering if it was worth it.” Kreischer whispered, gesturing to the empty parts of the star chart. 

 

“Just how many of these scars do I have to strip down and show you, to remind you of what we were up against?” The question came quickly, coloured by an indignant laugh.  

 

“Seems a high price to pay for a hundred years of preparation.” Kreischer returned, equal in his annoyance. 

 

“As opposed to the thirty we would have had?”

 

“No you’re right we needed the hundred, I just can’t help but think of all the ways I could have lowered the bill.” The drumming of his fingers against the table punctuated his now slightly trembling voice. “If I had been more daring I could have done more…”

 

“You couldn’t have. Better men than you tried.” Merce interjected, quick to rescue an old friend from his thoughts.

 

The interruption startled Kreischer, drawing a scowl from his face. “Thanks for the compliment.” The challenging stare no doubt coming from beneath Merce’s oily visor, forced him to consider the statement. 

 

Merce felt the twinge of pity as he watched his commander’s face twist into that visage of self reflection that had haunted him ever since its birth. Knocking the table to draw Kreischer’s attention, he asked “Do you remember the Battle of Scillia?” 

 

A pained glance was all the answer he needed. 

 

“Well Sir, I’ll remind you anyway. Scillia, crown jewel of the frontier colonies. An agricultural paradise the size of Jupiter, only a few jumps before the border.” Pausing for a moment, Merce drew a deep breath and spat out, “So of course it’s defences were only just up to scratch, a perfect target for the fucking Nids.” 

 

Unsure as to the point of the story, Kreischer settled in and just nodded along. 

 

“I remember you could scarcely believe the reports when the first worlds fell. A butcher's yard from the border to Scillia. Yet all we could muster in time was three destroyers, a single battleship and a scattering of refitted mining ships. Safe to say Admiral Charyb had his work cut out for him when an entire fleet dropped into the area.” 

 

A soft smile spread across Kreischer’s lips as he remembered the man, mournfully delivering his praise, “A hero we lost too soon.”

 

“Of course the resident martyr would see it like that.” Merce scoffed. “At any rate he faced a choice. Certain death in the hope of saving the planet, or leave it to its grizzly fate. Charyb had prepared for this, knowing their shields charged too slowly to engage in battle after jumping. So, like a hero does, he evacuated the ship and loaded every nuclear warhead he could get his hands on into his battleship. As soon as their fleet arrived, thrusters to full burn and a timer set for intercept, every battery they had lit it up like a Christmas tree, melting it into a particularly fast moving slab of deception.”

 

Kreischer’s grin extended to his ears as he recalled what was to come next. 

 

“Fortunately the interior compartments were never breached, and so when the timer went off, in the middle of their fleet, the universe's largest fragmentation round shredded nearly a thousand ships into dust!” Merce exclaimed, slapping his hand against his leg. 

 

Both men’s quiet celebration lasted not thirty second’s, as neither could forget how the story ended. 

 

“Charyb’s stroke of genius, turned into a catastrophe. That dust, swirling down into the planet's gravity well was irradiated so badly that before it even made planetfall, it had rendered the place uninhabitable.” 

 

Silence reigned in the room for a minute as the reality of the war they had fought tried to swallow their mood. Merce, as if disturbed from slumber, drew a short breath, dropped his feet to the floor and leaned into the desk. 

 

“The loss of Scillia spurred an unholy wrath from us. We fought like dogs for the next two years. Every battle was to the last, every attack aimed at liberating our violated worlds. We were creative, daring, fuelled by a zealous wrath and… utterly short sighted.” 

 

Kreischer cocked his head at the sudden shift in tone, letting his confusion stand in place of a question.

 

“Our grand battles and victories wrote odyssey’s of valor. We erected so many statues of admirals who gave their last, the mines on Promethea ran out of black marble. Our refusal to back down bled us dry of the hero’s who defended us. By the time two years had come, less than a tenth of the fleet remained and almost forty planets had been lost.”

 

Merce paused for but a moment, unhooking the latch on his helmet. “So many officers gave their lives in the name of heroism that the highest ranking officer left …”  a soft hiss noted the decompression of his armor as he rested his helmet on the table, “… was you.” 

 

Gently, he thumbed the silver, dragon’s head insignia adorning his helmet. “You took Battlefleet Imperi, and the crushed spirit of the marines, and held them off for ten years. Always knowing when to retreat, always knowing what we could afford to lose. What we had to lose to survive. You knew better than anyone the real price of a victory. You made them bleed for every inch of it, dragging week-long battles out into months of costly victories for them.” 

 

“Most importantly, Sir, you led us through countless last stands and somehow brought us home.” A firm pat atop the helmet cut short Kreischer’s attempt to stammer a reply. 

 

“My point is,” he said insistently, “you found men so traumatized by war that they could barely function. So devoid of hope that they hadn’t even bothered to arrange their funeral details, sure that there would be nobody left to bury them.“ 

 

Reaching across the table Merce jammed his finger into his commander's shoulder, gratitude lumping in his throat. 

 

“While the rest of the admiralty had held the gates for a few years, taken back some planets, riding the wave of glorious vengeance. You somehow found a way to muster a defense from the scraps left behind. Not built upon the hope of victory, but the cold reality of the horror’s of losing.” 

 

With one more poke of Kreischer’s shoulder, he leaned back to finish his point, kicking his feet up once more. 

 

“You took that darkness, and harnessed it into the fuel that made us fight like dogs. You’re the reason we ONLY lost half. You understood a man fights harder for what he’ll lose than what he’ll gain…” a strained hesitance paused his speech for a moment, “… if you say we have to fight like that again, here on HE-1, frigid fucking wasteland that it is. Then I have no doubt that it is necessary, as much as I have no doubt that we do not need any more heroes. Hero’s tales end with their death earning a better future. We cannot afford to lose any more. We need a survivor. We need you.”

 

Kreischer stared in astonishment at the matter of fact expression he faced, finding himself unable to muster an appropriate response. “Thank you, Merce, though I’m not sure I have the time left to hold true to my reputation.” 

 

Picking his helmet up off the table, Merce turned toward the door. “You know how to fix that.” 

 

“I told you not to mention that vile shit again.” Kreischer said behind gritted teeth.

 

The men locked eyes, the burden of friendship weighing heavy in the air. 

 

Merce was the first to break the tension, speaking with a resigned voice as he fixed his helmet back onto his suit. “I’ll send the guests to the bridge, the plans will be easier to showcase there. We’ll need you to help guide us on re-entry anyways. The atmosphere’s pretty bad down there.” 

 

Pausing just before the door closed, Merce sighed to relieve the tension, looking back towards the contemplative Kreischer. “Hey do me a favor will ya sailor. Quit looking at the tide and get off the shore before you get too comfortable there.” 

 

The door hissed shut leaving Kreischer alone with his thoughts once more. He was glad to have the support of his men, at least if his lieutenant was anything to go by. Yet still the guilt of what he was to ask of them weighed heavily on him. 

 

A final glance he gave towards the star chart, changing it over to a view of the Terran core worlds. In soft, melancholy tones he spoke to himself. 

 

“I appreciate the vote of confidence Merce, but if we don’t succeed here… quite frankly I’m out of tricks.”

*****************************************************

 

The chatter of people, the canter of boots, the shearing strain of steel, all hummed through the air driven by the intensity of their current path. Despite this, the only sound Kreischer heard was the anxious drum of his gloves against the captain’s seat. Like needles they drove every detail of the plan into his brain, perhaps attempting to lobotomise his doubt away. Hearing a rapid succession of doors opening, closer and closer each time, he rose to greet the new arrivals. 

 

A cacophony of bolts, gears and whining re-compression sounded off the opening of the bridge's blast doors. Immense size allowed perhaps the first comfortable entrance of the Federation’s equally… considerable advisors. 

 

Ohrdin had not aged a day it seemed to him, bar a few small details. That same unreadable featureless face. Pale gray skin stretched taught over a smooth skull, beneath which lay the subdermal crystalline eyes that dazzled so many a Terran. It seemed he was particularly worked up, Kreischer thought to himself, studying the dizzying array of tiny lights emanating from the many faces of Ohrdin’s hidden eyes. He had learned over the years that their emotions were not as unreadable as one might think. It was as simple as learning to see the world the way they did, thoughts were a color, and these colors were consistent. 

You are reading story The Horrors We Choose at novel35.com

 

Looking up he saw the first notable difference. His skull flared out at the top as it always had, giving the impression of a sloping crown adorned with various twisting splits along the top ridge. It seemed that since their last meeting, these horns had grown to a considerable length, interweaving with each other to create the visage of a writhing mandala of snakes. A symbol of maturity, these horns he knew would only continue to grow more complex until his people assisted him in ascending to the next stage of their unknown lifespan. The ritual was supposedly as taxing as it was mysterious, and so he didn’t imagine it would come about any time soon. Whether that was by choice or by lack of influence he couldn’t rightly say. 

 

Downwards his gaze drew, flowing over the elongated upper arms currently clasped deep behind the visitors back. Almost a foot below, sprouting from the lower ribcage came two more reasonably sized arms, thumbing through what seemed to be a rather disheveled copy of the battle plans.  

 

Ohrdin’s slender chest was adorned in a simple black robe which ended in embroidered strips of cloth, varying in length and coloured trim. The lexicon of symbols embroidered upon them were only half as distracting as the serpentine lower body they covered. The powerful appendage, easily fourteen feet from hips to tip, coiled around itself in a similar fashion to the ancient Caduceus symbol, scattering faint reflections of the room across its iridescent scales. 

 

Floating just off the ground, he reckoned Ohrdin’s head was comfortably approaching seven feet from the floor. This would have been an intimidating presence if not for the Iverian woman ducking under the doorframe. 

 

Easily nine feet tall without the signature Iverian warsuit she wore, her mountainous presence was turning nearly every head in the room. Looking towards Merce, he noted a nervous shift in his stance by the holo display. This must have been the woman he spoke of before. 

 

Returning to Ohrdin’s bodyguard, at least he presumed she was, he could not help but admire the craftsmanship of her armor. Hundreds of long overlapping plates sat atop a flexible, dense mesh which he knew could pressurize like its Terran equivalent, albeit far more resilient. These plates flowed in the direction of her muscles, sitting close to the skin and showing the flexing hints of why these suits were typically not powered. Iverian’s were strong, ludicrously so. To add any noticeable amount of strength to the suit it would have to be made far too bulky to be practical. 

 

Atop those plates rested more rigid armor pieces, rising and falling in time to her languid breaths. Of small evidence this was to her peoples slow reputation. Convincing was the reason that could motivate any of them when it came to putting their strength to use. Slow, patient creatures usually, their speed and ferocity was almost unstoppable once they got moving. The two inches of alloys that comprised the armor adorning her shoulders, neck, shin’s and forearms, complimented by the four inches that rested on her chest and upper back, told him unstoppable was very much the idea. 

 

The two features of greatest note to him were the battle skirt attached to her waist, draping out from beneath the chest plates to cover the sides and back of her thighs, and her helmet. The skirt was an old design that looked like it could have been pulled straight from an Iverian museum. He couldn’t think of a single modern war suit that still used them.

 

 Stranger still, the helmet she had rested against her hip was composed of two parts. The main body of the helmet was as expected. Built to fit around and accentuate the protruding features of her head, unmistakably that of a somewhat flatter faced tiger. The only difference in the exterior helm, were what looked to be Thentian sensors built into the temples. 

It was the mask that drew his eye the most, an eerie depiction of a smiling tiger that seemed to burrow its jade eyes like knives into his very soul. Something about its twisted expression, not unlike that of old samurai masks, brought back a kind of primal fear he had not felt in a very long time. 

 

A final element of confusion drifted through his mind, the mask was golden. Covered in symbols he did not recognise that seemed hand carved into its surface, it was far more ornate than the woman herself would seem to be interested in. Standing in direct opposition to the quality of her armor, a dozen minor scars carved through the tiger woman’s face, parting the short black fur in interlacing silvery lines. A large mane of white hair cascaded backwards to a few inches below her shoulders. Large braids bound in golden rings attempted to keep the wild locks under some control. Cut short on the sides, likely to reduce the weight, there was revealed a continuation of the large white stripe that crossed over her eyes, wrapping up her head and down her neck in a spiral. The lack of tapering on the lower section painted a picture in his mind that this stripe wrapped around her entire body. 

 

He made a mental note to have two beds roped together and reinforced. Being twice the breadth of even his largest men would certainly demand special accommodations. Looking between Merce and the Iverian before him, he made an additional note to tell Merce just how full of shit his story was.

 

The sudden snap of Ohrdin closing the reports he held, brought Kreischer’s attention back to the conversation he’d still not quite managed to prepare for, stifling a scowl as Ohrdin spoke. 

 

“These reports are a miserable justification.” The sharp yet restrained tone quickly returned prying eyes to their workstations. “I was willing to accept casualties, by the mother they will be inflicted upon us. I was willing to accept that we would have to take unfavorable situations in order to delay. What you have planned here is nothing short of a mass suicide!” 

 

“Ohrdin you should know better than anyone that I would not suggest this unless there was no other way, we need time for the reserve fleet to arrive.” 

 

“Yes, do tell Kreischer, what exactly is slowing them down?”

 

“They need to finish re-arming.” Kreischer responded, soft and disdainful. 

 

Ohrdin’s static demeanor tightened as he white-knuckle gripped the reports in his hand. “The reserve fleet is to remain at half armament under all circumstances, a substantial enough force to hold the for two weeks we need.” 

 

“You’re right Ohrdin, it should be at half armament.” Kreischer regarded the relaxing Thentian before shaking his head and bringing reports to view on the large holo display in the center of the bridge’s upper decks. “The Federation’s  ‘Unity Parade’ required that all ships be fully prepared for any attacks that occurred along the Drenhari border. While we weren’t fond of taunting a sleeping bear, we complied and stripped most of the reserve fleet's weaponry in order to bring our newest models up to scratch. Weapons had to be moved from factory floor to fitting room as fast as the steel cooled. I unfortunately can’t make any promises on when they will be ready. We are on our own until the Federation fleet arrives.” 

 

“Participation was voluntary, you did not need to blunt your own sword for the parade.”

 

Kreischer scoffed. “When your diplomatic weight is based on your classification, which in turn for us is based primarily on the strength of our fleet, I would consider it far from voluntary.”

 

Ohrdin’s figure relaxed, head slowly turning to the false viewports currently in line with the planet beside them. “Well then what is it on that planet that made you forgo two, generously donated, Class 6 stations, armed and ready to withstand even the most brutal of Drenhari scouting fleets, all just to sit in the cold and watch them pass you overhead?” 

 

“The stations aren’t enough.” He replied, gesturing to the holo-display, now showing a total map of the Drenhari border. 

 

Ohrdin paused, examining the map, wary of the expediency of his indignance. “I’m sure your explanation will be thrilling.” 

 

“Were this a century prior I wouldn’t argue with you, but it isn’t and so I will.” Dozens of zones highlighted themselves across the map in various colors. Each zone was split into a solid smaller section and then surrounded by translucent exterior sections, each marked by a date.

 

Clearing his throat Kreischer continued. “Each of these zones is an area of Drenhari space whose borders went quiet. No raids, no invasions, not even a cursory spit in the Federation’s direction.” Grabbing a laser pointer he gestured to the expanded sections. “Cut to a decade or two later, their fleets came back thrice as numerous attacking up to, and only, within these expanded zones. Given our lack of intel to say otherwise, I would wager each of these zones can be defined by a particular faction.”

 

Flickering, the holo-display reorganized the coloured zones into a more traditional border map. “The implications of my theory are far scarier than some crayon work. They care only for what they consider their group and I’ll admit I don’t know whether it’s by treaty or by sword, but the pattern is clear. These groups are unifying and their usual infighting is now being directed elsewhere.” 

 

Ohrdin stared at the map, the statuelike stillness that had suddenly possessed him told Kreischer he did not need to bridge the gap in their understanding any further. Ohrdin, still frozen in place, let out nought but a whisper in his response. “The entire border has been silent for half a century.”

 

Kreischer subtly smiled, knowing he now had Ohrdin’s full attention. 

 

“That it has councilman, that it has. As you so kindly informed us their jump drives have finally reached a quality high enough to reach this lovely little bubble we’re in. Presenting a perfect opportunity to sneak an armada into our back garden. Without a full Class 7 fleet, which only your people are even capable of producing, I’d wager again that we stand no chance of even slowing down what is about to come through this sector.”

 

Ohrdin’s gaze lowered to him, eyes scattering a deep black light beneath their fleshy veil. “If you had told the Federation about this system then we could have prepared to handle this. Though, I imagine you knew that and chose your secrecy over the safety of all of our people.”

 

The challenge was met in kind, a scowl carved from marble consuming Kreischer's face. “Don’t for a second try and pretend that this would have been any different from the last invasion. We learned well enough how concerned you all were with ‘our people’.”

 

“You were not the only race in need of help, the fleet was bound up in a conflict that put the scale of your problems to shame. In case you had forgotten why it is currently celebrating the centennial of our victory.”

 

“It only outscaled us in border length, the majority of their navy flooded through the frontier to cut open what they thought was your soft underbelly. I know this because I was the person who proved not only them, but the Federation wrong. We bled for your safety and earned nothing from it.” Kreischer’s tone rose with each breath, slipping notes of anger between every word. 

 

“You have no one to blame but yourselves for your reckless expansion. We gave you as much as we could spare and you spent it building an empire you couldn’t protect. Simply put, we did not have the fleet necessary to defend some farming colonies half a galaxy away.” Ohrdin’s voice rose to match Kreischer’s anger with sternness. The black light continued to grow as screens within the bridge began to flicker. 

 

“The Black Mirror is no one’s fault but those depraved Dren bastards!” Kreischer shouted, clicking the display over to the map that had so captivated him earlier. “Eighty seven worlds! Comfortably over a quadrillion people! Every ship we built with your money was more than enough to repel even a sizable Drenhari fleet. Especially since you wouldn’t allow us beyond Class 5 weaponry. They sent everything! We traded twelve to one in a favorable encounter and I did not have the luxury of choosing many of those.”

 

A deep silence befell the bridge as the black glow of Ohrdin’s eyes slowly drained away. Fixing his uniform and setting his jaw, Kreischer stared down the Thentian councilman, his nose twitching as he calmed his nerves. 

 

Ohrdin bowed, extending his arms and pointing his palms towards the ceiling. “My apologies Sterran. While I do not appreciate the outburst, I must admit it was I who birthed it. My longevity is not conducive to a sense of recency, and the pain of what your people went through…” raising his head he gestured throughout the room, “... is plain for me to see. On your faces, in your hearts and in your aura’s. It permeates the very air and I must admit I am somewhat on edge having to bear witness to it. None of us could have predicted the Drenhari would turn to scorched earth tactics. It had not ever been employed by them in our entire history of conflict.”

 

Rising from his bow he pointed to Kreischer and then Merce who stood alongside members of his regiment. “May the mother help those of you who are old enough to remember it, your pain drowns out even the deepest of concerns amidst this room. It is that very pain which prompts me to beg. Please convince me Sterran, that you send your men not to a slaughter but to a victory. I do not wish to see you in the Cradle’s cells.”

 

“I would like to offer my own apology, recent events have both of us on edge it seems. Bad blood aside, I do not plan to spill a single drop of my men’s unless it is absolutely necessary!” Kreischer said, conviction spilling out as he fished a thumbdrive from his breast pocket. “My apologies I couldn’t show you until now. I can’t exactly send classified information over open channels.”

 

“I imagine the ground war is to protect whatever you think will tempt them not to leave this system?” Ohrdin questioned, eyeing the oddly downcast aura of the otherwise unperturbed lieutenant beside Kreischer.  

 

“Tempt is too soft a word councilman. So long as our defenses hold they will not be able to.” Smiling proudly as the holo display once more rearranged, Kreischer swept his arm towards the now revealed hidden prize of HE-1. “The Morningstar!” 

 

The grand cleft of two ridges carved from an otherwise flat landscape, meeting in a V-shape, lined with bunkers and peaked by what appeared to Ohrdin as an oversized kinetic orbital cannon was… disappointing. “Not to insult you, but I don’t see a shielding system anywhere, what’s to stop them from just turning this… weapon… to dust?”

 

“Detecting its location from orbit is almost impossible, and even when they trace the trajectory of its rounds, most forms of counter battery will either burn up in the atmosphere or be too out of range to threaten it.”

 

“The atmosphere, yes. It would also deny any fighter sortie from approaching. The wind speeds alone would rip them to the ground. Missiles and any other form of long range targeting would be rendered useless as the planet’s interference would scramble any transmissions. I am beginning to see how you devised your plan Kreischer. Whilst I admire its creative use of circumstance, you must surely realize that no kinetic weapon could ever hope to penetrate even the weakest of shields, nor would the enemy wait for you to reload. They will have left and raided the nearest Terran planet long before you even put a dent in their numbers.”

 

A few solid footfalls announced Merce’s entry to the conversation. “They’ll certainly be stopped by a Class 9...”

 

“Bullshit!” Ohrdin spat, wheeling around to face the surprised lieutenant. Caught off guard by the normally reserved Thentian’s sudden cry, the lieutenant found himself unable to respond. “Even my people are just scratching the surface of Class 8 technology. Do you seriously expect me to believe that you have cobbled together a device worthy of the Mother herself?”

 

Kreischer sighed, gesturing to his lieutenant. “Merce if you would be so kind as to explain how innovation can bridge the gap in raw power?”

 

“Of course sir.” Merce turned back to Ohrdin, took a slow breath, and began. “Sir we do not expect you to believe that we have refined a weapon to that degree. You are correct to assume that our current technological capabilities are far inferior to that required of a theoretical Class 9. However, as you know, higher classifications can be reached if said device were to render previous technologies obsolete.” 

 

“You both know well enough that only applies to weaponry if the now obsolete technology was supposed to defend against it.” Ohrdin’s nervous tone was not lost upon those present. 

 

“Yes sir, as I will now explain, we believe current methods of shielding have been rendered obsolete.” 

 

Ohrdin’s hands began to tremble, clasped tightly behind his back. As the thought of a weapon that could undo the balance of power within the Federation waged a nervous war inside his mind. His assistant Lohren, taking brief note of her employer’s almost hidden nerves, began linking a borrowed Terran datapad into the holo display. 

 

“As I'm sure you're aware, HE-1 has extensive Drachmium deposits. Its adverse effects on shielding allow small projectiles to pass through the normal spatial distortion that would otherwise deflect them. The weapon fires in two stages. The secondary barrel fires a fragmentation round designed to spread vast quantities of material in front of the target, effectively disabling their ability to detect the round once it leaves the atmosphere. The main barrel then fires a slug packed with pellets formed from a special alloy along with two fuses.” 

 

Still listening, Ohrdin briefly cast his gaze to Lohren, hastily calculating something on her data pad. 

 

“The first fuse will detonate at a set range. This enables us to either detonate between ships or within shielding. As shielding is a distortion of space, it experiences no deflection, instead as far as the round is concerned it is traveling in a straight line, bent out of the way by the warping of space. This compression however, turns meters, into dozens of not hundreds. Typically this means any projectile takes a great deal of time to be deflected relative to itself. To us of course it bounces away as quick as it came. So should the round hit shielding it will rapidly approach the distance of its fuse, detonating on contact.” 

 

Ohrdin raised a hand, interrupting the Lieutenant. “I imagine this alloy is why you presume kinetics are of any use to you? Drachmium bound to what… precisely?” 

 

Both Terran officers shared a pained glance, the old friends mentally dueling for the right to avoid Ohrdin’s wrath. “Depleted uranium.” Kreischer said, bracing for impact. 

 

A sudden crack lashed through the air as Ohrdin’s eyes pulsed, an unseen wave of energy splintering nearby screens. A deathly silence followed the few surprised shouts. 

 

Ohrdin’s voice came clear and grave. “The pellets would pierce through the shielding of any ship in range, lighting on the hull and turning the smaller ships in the fleet…”

 

“… Into molten slag, as if the stars themselves had been fired at them.” Kreischer finished for him.

 

“I had underestimated your devotion to ignoring the Mother’s rules of mercy.” Ohrdin whispered as janitorial staff were sent for to clear away the wreckage. “What is the second fuse for?” 

 

“Penetration depth sir, for the larger ships.” Lohren interjected, brushing bits of her shattered data pad off of her armor. “Presuming the outer casing is also lined with this alloy…” a nod from Merce answered her implied question, “… then the velocity of the cannon’s shells could comfortably penetrate all but the Cradle’s shields. Melting its way through the outer armor and detonating inside the ship, coring it from bow to stern at almost 6000 degrees Celsius.” 

 

Ohrdin regarded his new assistant, her proactive nature provided some fond relief from the litany of crimes he was being asked to assist with. This was not even beginning to consider the ramifications such a weapon would have for the politics of the Federation. He knew humans however, had they tested it during the last war they would have attested by way of story not lecture. Tall tales of heroism did make up most of their media that found its way into Federation channels. 

 

With an unnatural cheer, he turned to Lohren. “Tell me, as you’ve elected to join our discussion, I imagine you have an opinion on our dear friend’s plan to defend an illegal weapon, under a brutal assault from what may appear to be the deadliest fleet to have graced this side of the galaxy in a hundred years? Some manner of insight into the single most deranged, horrific to endure plan a retired admiral has ever suggested to me?” 

 

Lohren did not reply in the nervous tones he expected for such a question. Instead adopting the air of pure confidence Ohrdin had witnessed possessing her in public settings, cementing her professionalism in his mind. “I… am not sure what to make of it sir. I can’t help but think that if he hadn’t ordered it, and had simply been the victim of such an attack, the Federation would be sending medals not a warrant.” 

 

Honesty, his final reason for choosing the only soldier of all his applicants. While it had its places, he did appreciate the clarity she brought to him. He stared for a moment at the planet below, wondering whether younger perspectives were a good or bad influence on him.

 

“The Federation is welcome to try me as soon as they arrive to take over the defense. Until then I have to do what is necessary to protect us all.” Kreischer said, somewhere between a plea of faith and an order. 

 

“That won’t be necessary Kreischer, given the unique desperation of the situation I see little harm in allowing the Phoenix to earn his title. The weapon you use to start these fires will be discussed at a later date, but until then we may as well make use of it. I doubt many will survive long enough to suffer its barbarity.” Ohrdin once more clasped his hands behind his back, turning towards the display of the weapon. “How will it target through the planet’s interference?”

 

“That is actually where I could use your help councilman.” Kreischer replied, earning a curious head tilt from Ohrdin. “The weapon is linked through quantum entanglement to a station a few hundred kilometers inland. The station is on top of the largest mountain on the planet, high enough to avoid most of the interference and allows for a more complicated uplink which connects to a satellite near the top of the bubble. I need your ship to go there and expand its cloak to cover that satellite. Unfortunately I have to endanger your crew as we don’t have anyone else to protect it.” 

 

“That can be arranged, Lohren prep our crew to do just that and instruct them to link their sensors to the Terran satellite. Our equipment will provide more accurate data.”

 

Kreischer turned to his Lieutenant. “Merce prep the crew for landing, make sure we’ve finished bolting everything down. I know this ship is built to be shot at but this will be a very rough landing.” 

 

“Yes sir. Alright everyone you heard the Admira! Double check everything unless you want me to fly this thing!” He replied, scaring a certain liveliness into the bridge crew with the threat of his helmsmanship.

 

Both subordinates saluted in their own manner and quickly marched through the main door towards the elevators. 

 

In silence, a calm settled between the two leaders. Appraising each other in the unfortunate circumstances of their first constructive interaction since the last invasion. 

 

Ohrdin chuckled briefly in spite of a cutting look from Kreischer. “They do know you’re retired right admiral?” 

 

Matching the chuckle with a deep laugh, Kreischer shook his head and looked up with a grin as he surveyed his men.

 

“Do you ever think they’d let me?”

You can find story with these keywords: The Horrors We Choose, Read The Horrors We Choose, The Horrors We Choose novel, The Horrors We Choose book, The Horrors We Choose story, The Horrors We Choose full, The Horrors We Choose Latest Chapter