Fysas tugged at a waistband that has obviously grown too tightly in the years spent outside the service, the victim of richer food and more hours spent in his bed than on his feet. Running a hand through hair that had long since greyed and now began to thin out, he brought the dented metal mug held in his hands up to dry lips.
The bitterness was almost enough to make the tongue curl, but he revelled in its tartness. It had been a good decade since last he had the dubious pleasure of military-grade stimm-drinks – many long nights spent as the Officer of the Watch, hunched over a console with a cup in one hand and a desk to tap repeatedly with the fingers of the other.
Retired at the rank of Lieutenant-Major with no important honours to mention but a spotless record, and the personal satisfaction of over seventy years of service to the state in good faith, he'd looked forward to a few decades divided between repaying his beloved for the time she suffered alone during his deployments, the children of their children, and perhaps a hobby or two.
To find himself once again wearing a uniform of the Fleet Component was no small surprise. While every Kaeneian whose commission was deactivated with honour remained nominally available for a period of some years for service with the Fleet Auxiliary or Ground Reserve, those recalled for additional service were usually in the latter in preparation for a war or major offensive.
Since he was neither a soldier in the traditional sense of the word, nor aware of the Serene Union burning under enemy guns, why he now found himself standing off Machiavelli Station escaped his understanding.
Not that it mattered – he had his orders, even if they did not necessarily make much sense.
The FALV-Invincible had begun its career as a circle-two Khandriayata-class escort ship similar in function to a frigate-of-sorts. Launched almost to the day seventy years ago when Fysas' commission had first been activated, the ship had been the victim of changing tactical doctrine within the Fleet Component at large.
As the move towards the Conflict Carrier-based expeditionary groups rolled on, ships which had been laid down prior to this innovation and so did not fit in with this new vision were cancelled wherever possible. Skeletal frames which promised much but for now, were shells boasting nothing more than recharging ports for EVA activities, were towed from yards to be broken up without ever seeing a day's battle or even the courtesy of being inducted to the Fleet officially.
At the time undergoing upgrades across the entire class from circle-one as originally launched to a more capable circle-two overhaul, the Khandriyata class ended up the biggest loser-of-sorts to the Fleet reshuffle. The SLEP was immediately postponed with all work suspended, while exhaustive examinations on the capability of each remaining circle-one unit were conducted.
The effective result was the unofficial retirement of the entire Khandriyata-class; their capability to undertake long-range cruises deep into interstellar space suddenly becoming the very reason they competed with the Conflict-Carrier and so were no longer relevant. The circle-one ships were posted to training and minimal patrol duties, and all were decommissioned without the normal prerequisite time spent in Fleet Auxiliary within a decade.
All except what would eventually become the Invincible which had been the first ship to begin the circle-two upgrade, and was found to be sufficiently close to completion to make decommissioning a waste of resources. Almost certainly done tongue firmly in cheek, the ship earned the nickname “Invincible”. While her career was no more exciting or interesting than any of her sister-ships which did not get the chance, she nonetheless served without fault and again unlike her sister-ships, entered into the Fleet Auxiliary for the mandatory term of service.
In line will precedent, the ship was renamed to reflect its change of purpose. What had only been a nickname became official, and the ship's battle ready prefix of FCSV (Fleet Component Strategic Vehicle) became the rather more mundane FALV (Fleet Auxiliary Logistics Vehicle).
Her turrets were removed or capped and her ammunition stores emptied. Her armour was virtually stripped away, billets converted into stores and aft enlarged by the bulbous mooring anchors which would allow her to make short work of the vital – if underwhelming – duty of towing.
Fysas tapped his hand against the chipped grey bulkhead, fingers tracing along the bubbles where numerous coats of paint had been applied quickly. This ship was a sold as him but once again, they had both answered the call.
“Mooring lines attached,” A voice confirmed behind. Lieutenant Popsil had not fared so well as Fysas in the battle to retain his hair and the smooth dome above his eyes reflected the bulkhead lighting awkwardly. His battle to retain a waistband fitting for an officer had gone rather better, however, and the duty jacket around his chest seemed several sizes too large.
Fysas nodded, crossing back to the engineering station to glance up at data projected ahead of their generating lenses. The equipment was obsolete if he was kind, and archaic if he was not compared to the cutting-edge ANA and data-interpretation systems installed on the latest ships of the Fleet. Still the job of the Auxiliary – from its crew to its ships – remained to make the best use of equipment and personnel no longer suitable for the front lines.
Popsil's nostrils flared, forehead creasing as he caught a wiff of the stimm-drink. “How can you drink that? Or did seven decades reduce you to one taste bud?”
“I need the boost,” The Lieutenant-Major offered with an informal shrug. “I'm not as young as I used to be … It usually takes me ten, maybe fifteen minutes to climb out of my bed.”
Stretching his neck, Popsil nodded, “I have not left mine yet. I wonder why the Fleet felt the need to make me ...”
“Because they could not make anyone young enough leave theirs. The Fleet Auxiliary is only a third of the size it was when we were both Fleet officers – it is not the work of real military men, is it?”
“Real military men or not,” Popsil added with his own shrug, “Unless they plan to get out and push it, someone will have to do it.”
Fysas nodded and clamped a hand on his subordinate's shoulder, turning his attention up to the large diagram projected across the side of the bridge – displaying the Invincible and its towing lines extending back into one of the numerous repair docks dotting Machiavelli Station. The image flickered occasionally, distorting badly every so often to the point of almost dissolving – such was the age of the lenses which created it, despite the elderly attentions of the Auxiliary technicians, to which this technology had been at the cutting-edge during their primary tour of service.
To Fysas' left dominating the centre of the bridge, two generating platforms extended up from the decking and down from the ceiling bulkhead respectively, leaving a gap between them in which a three-dimensional model of the Invincible floated in orange, fuzzy wireframe. Zooming the image out with a tap of his finger, the towing lines and the periphery of Machiavelli Station were likewise rendered – along with the massive bulk of the Conflict Carrier FCSV-Xiana as it came alongside.
“Invincible Control, Xiana Control,” A voice scratched over the numerous speaker grilles bolted to the bridge's perimeter. “We are ready to proceed at your discretion.”
Fysas set his mug down and opened a link to reply. “Xiana Control, Invincible Control – standby.”
“Good evening, Machiavelli Space Traffic Control,” He began after keying the secondary frequency, “KTDF Invincible Control. Towing lines are secure and preparations complete. Release dock controls at your discretion and maintain separation of traffic until Minimum Safe Distance is reached.”
An intermittent gurgle of white noise screeched through the link, to be replaced by a distinctly bored voice. “Have a good trip, Invincible. You've got a green light.”
Fysas closed the link, craning his neck around towards Popsil, “Take us ahead.”
Looking suitably more pathetic than when she had first been pulled from a dock, the Timeship slid almost painfully free of its structure supports, atmospheric pressurisers and potable water connections. Great gouts of escaping coolant billowed out silently over the scarred hull, to crystallise almost instantly and scatter to the solar winds. Running lights blinked obediently, illuminating the patches applied to seal the worst of the breaches which exposed the fragile corridors within to the hard vacuum.
On-board, dozens of technicians monitored the towing from their end and continued the minor repairs which would nonetheless contribute to restoring the ship's operation, eventually. Excess pressure was vented from the engines, the ship's ANA taken off-line for the trip and its electronic personality hard-saved for later examination. The occasional flicker of thruster fire spat over the Timeship's bow and aft as minor corrections were made to counter the action-and-reaction of the larger Invincible ahead.
Commandant Zenayeta glanced at his watch for the fourth time in two minutes and resisted the urge to sigh. His orders had been explicit if uninspiring and difficult to understand – bring his ship to full combat readiness and escort and oversee a towing operation from Machiavelli to Europa. It was not difficult but it was hardly the work of a Conflict Carrier and her highly-trained, highly capable crew. If the truth could be told he chafed under the mediocrity.
Still, duty was duty.
“You have the ship,” He said simply to which his executive officer, a Captain, nodded. If nothing else he could use this lull to make a small dent in the endless datapads which fought with each other to reach the ceiling bulkhead of his cabin from the top of his desk.
Fysias excused himself from the bridge for the shortest of moments and walked the small distance to one of the defence turrets which had once sat to the starboard of the bridge. Where before the dome-shaped top had provided a real-time, three hundred and sixty degree generated image of combat for the manual operation of the guns to follow now there was simply a metal cap in place and no stars visible beyond.
Climbing the small service ladder left in place of the complex cradle assembly, the Kaeneian pushed his palm against a large rubberised button operating the tiny armoured viewing port, which had been left in place looking aft for what purpose, he was not entirely sure. The plate retracted upwards into its cowling, granting a tiny picture of the bulk of the Invincible behind and even further behind, at the end of the towing lines, the curious cargo itself.
The ship was an usual design, with a hull designed more with the apparent action of waves against metal as the business of space travel – as if somehow the strange vessel was supposed to navigate on an ocean of sorts. It was in stark contrast to the angular lines and edges of the Invincible – made all the worse for the loss of the battle armour and with it any semblance of grace in its mission.
He wondered intensely at its purpose but knew full well his authority extended no further than what was necessary to carry this bizarre vessel on its short journey across the gas giants. Puffing his cheeks out in resignation he brought his palm up to close the port.
A bright flash filled the entirety of his vision, blinding him so that he instinctively brought his hands up to shield his face and lost any grip on the ladder. Teetering between falling against the port and falling backwards, the decision was made for him as a terrible groan resonated through the Invincible – as if some massive hammer crashed against the hull relentlessly to shake it apart.
Fysas was forced from the ladder down some ten feet to crash his head against the bulkhead. He fell onto his side, on the decking, gasping for the air driven from his bruised lungs. His vision swam with bright colours which would not coalesce back into objects or persons, hands trembling as he jerked fingers up to wipe against the slick warmth which ran from the back of his skull.
He lolled on the decking even as a klaxon began to blare alarmingly.
The drive section of the Timeship was consumed in a coruscating arc of destruction; the hull not so much shredded as removed from molecular existence by the forces of reality colliding to mutually assured annihilation. Running lights blinked their last as their lenses, mountings and the armour surrounding was vaporised. Pushed off-kilter by the asymmetrical detonation the Timeship began to spin in its death throes, pulling on the towing cables which in turn made a mockery of the Invincible's engines and forced it to acquiesce to a dance it wanted no party to.
Rents in the hull raced with each other through the superstructure; splitting the ship asunder and spilling atmosphere and crew to the void. Great clouds of freezing gases escaped their prison; finding a permanent release in the surging maelstrom of the void. As if the explosion were some creature of higher intelligence, a creature intent on sowing maximum destruction the mounting points to which the Invincible had once towed from but now, in a role-reversal was towed, held fast.
Fysas dragged himself onto the bridge, marking his trail from the turret position by the red smear along the decking, courtesy of the shattered fixings which had cut through his jacket and deep into his belly as he rode over them. Rolling onto his back his breath came in ragged gasps, vision no better for the time spent with his eyes clenched shut in pain.
“Popsil ...” He gasped, groping blindly for something, anything. “Popsil … Fire the thrusters.”
What was left of Lieutenant Popsil's face stared up at the ceiling bulkhead from where it had been staved in, arms dangling limply against the console beneath and a single intact eye glassy, unblinking from a head whose cheek bled against the controls. He could not hear his commanding officer and he could not see him – his service to the Fleet Auxiliary was at an end.
Fysas groaned, his gut twisting and forcing him to gag as he returned the stimm-drink to the deck with a guttural, choking grunt. His face was forced down into it, smeared against his clothes to make his eyes water before he was driven back by a new centrifugal force. “Popsil ...” He croaked, “Fire the thrusters ...”
Even if ten men stood by to fire the thrusters they would have gotten no further than pushing the relevant button with their finger. Stripped of her armouring designed for the work of war the deadly wreckage turned razor-sharp scythes ejected from the burning remains of the Timeship found no great difficulty in cutting through the Invincible from prow to aft – severing control systems and destroying their manual equivalents in short shrift.
Her back broken, the Invincible proved she was nothing more than a name in spirit.
“Emergency breakaway!” A voice roared, struggling to be heard against the multiple shouts of other stations and the high-pitched warbled warnings from a dozen systems vying for attention. The Captain struggled to keep his feet to the decking as the massive conflict carrier belied its size and girth by outpacing its own inertial control systems. Chest pressed hard against the rail the acting-Commandant gritted his teeth in pain as the ship struggled to come about and leave the Kill Zone.
A terrible series of impacts, so violent that it would surely have dislodged his heart from his chest were it not for his ribs, told the captain he had not been entirely successful.
“Multiple impacts! Confirmed hull breaches!” A faceless Lieutenant clamoured. The lights above his head however, continued to shine and despite his keenest efforts he could not hear the ship twisting about his own frame. Time to take stock of the situation.
“Get the Commandant up here!” He ordered firstly, and ultimately lastly as the same unknown Lieutenant forced himself up from his seat. “Collision warning!” He managed before the entire CCC was turned upon its head.
Fysas slumped against the projection unit at the centre of what was left of the Invincible's bridge. His fingers rubbed against the caked blood which filled the wrinkles of his hands, even as they clumsily wiped at the crimson stinging his eyes. He lolled his fractured head backwards, glancing up in his blindness to see for the first time, the faintest after-image of the fuzzy, orange wire-framed representation of the ship itself.
The most absurd smile came to his torn lips as he watched the display interpret the real-time oscillation, the Invincible twisting and turning as if it were the hand of a god and not a mere ship at the other end of the cables. His burned retinas picked out the edge of the Xiana as it gradually began to take up more and more of the available projection space.
His eyes rolled closed, a trail of bloodied saliva escaping the corner of his mouth to run down his chin. “Popsil ...” He managed. “Popsil … Cut the cables ...”
The FALV-Invincible was retired from the Fleet Auxiliary, its commission deactivated along with its crew by way of impact with the FCSV-Xiana. The former-frigate disappeared in a blossoming explosion which for a moment overrode the laws of physics and defiantly burned in the vacuum, the armour, designed to absorb the worst weapons of war offered no real defence against ordinance fully one-fourth the size of the ship it protected, buckling like paper torn repeatedly by a man's hand and scattered to the winds.
Stores detonated, reactors exploded and ammunition cooked off in temperatures sufficient to melt the superstructure and eject it into space; to cool and form grotesque snowflakes-of-sorts. The fist of the impact burst through the port side which had faced away from the disaster, bringing with it the majority of the starboard as the mighty warship was effectively disembowelled and turned inside-out.
Fragments of hull as large as the former FALV-Invincible crashed into each other to repeat the devastation of impact a dozen times, fracturing into smaller chunks which span like worlds in their own right – attracting smaller sections until eventually these too subsumed together in terrible detonations which shredded the strongest metals and plastics.
A few lifepods ejected along the midship-aft No. 5 gun turret, only to be overtaken by the No.5 gun turret itself as it was sheared from its mounting and ultimately crushed to nothing along with any survivors inside by the barrels as they broke apart under the strain of spinning acceleration.
The Timeship, the work of its destruction complete, span away into the black burning and broken.
