Tales from the Service: A Surprise Strike

2948-02-11 – Tales from the Service: A Surprise Strike

Though skirmishing continues in Matusalemme, it seems that the enemy holds the inner system for the moment. Oddly, they seem content to leave the Navy’s new HyperCast relay in the system alone; perhaps they suspect the relatively light force defending the installation is a trap. For all we know back here, it might well be.

The nearly-depopulated spaceport capitol of Adimari Valis is in Incarnation hands, and while I’m certain the scattered armed forces on the ground are still holding out in the planet’s notoriously rugged terrain, there seems no realistic way of reaching them in time. Short of the whole Fifth Fleet going in to take the system back to save perhaps ten thousand holdouts, it seems their best bet is to lie low and subsist as best they can. The Incarnation can only hold the system as long as the bulk of its cruiser force remains on station there, after all – in a few months, they’ll likely be forced to withdraw. Those brave souls on the ground there will be, in the meantime, in our prayers.

This week’s entry was sent in by Lieutenant Frans Salvi, a strike pilot engaged in the fighting in Matusalemme. In the deadly strike-wing sparring between his Magpie squadron and Incarnation Coronachs, losses have been quite heavy on the Confederated Navy side. The objective for the Navy strike pilots has been the stream of boxy, sluggish logistics haulers which the Incarnation fleet is shuttling to and from Adimari Valis under escort, carrying troops, weapons, and machinery to reinforce their groundside detachment. Obviously, the Incarnation is doing its best to protect these vulnerable assets, as the fleet at Matusalemme is at the end of a long supply line stretching back to the Sagittarius Arm.

[N.T.B. - The tactic described here has been used sufficiently many times in Matusalemme in the last few weeks that Naval Intelligence expects the Incarnation has figured it out by now.]

Frans Salvi had no way of knowing whether his squadron was still there, drifting in a loose cloud in the empty space outside his canopy. His Magpie was drifting without power, even its atmospherics disabled to minimize waste heat radiating off the hull. Breathing only with the aid of his flight suit’s own reserve oxygen, he could only watch the timer on his wrist display tick down toward the calculated time of intercept.

Most likely, when his little ship came alive, it would find itself in yet another patch of empty Matusalemme space, surrounded by nothing but the stellar wind and the other Magpies in the squadron. Launched from their mothership’s hangar cradles during a high-gee maneuver, the squadron had been cleverly catapulted onto a pre-calculated flight path across the system, timed carefully to intercept a convoy of two Incarnation haulers heading for the jump limit at the far edge of the system. Unfortunately, with all the Magpies shut down, there was no way to know if the maneuver had put them on the right course, or if the Incarnation convoy had divined the purpose of the wild maneuvers of one of the Confederated Navy cruisers skulking around the system and altered course. All Frans could do was watch the timer on his wrist, exchange sparse conversation with his gunners, and prepare to start up the ship on schedule.

“Bet you we’re on target.” Kosuke Ragno, the portside gunner, said for perhaps the fifteenth time.

“Hells, Rags, would you stop saying that?” Zahir Stevens, lazing in the starboard gunnery harness, had long since lost patience with the repeated assertion. “Nobody’s taking your bet.”

By the numbers, Frans knew he should have taken Ragno’s bet the first time he’d offered it. It seemed an easy way to earn quick credits, or a few drinks at his gunner’s expense. Still, he held his silence. The computer had put their chances of being on target below thirty percent in the pre-mission briefing, but something about the crushing jolt of their launch had felt inexplicably correct. “Fifty seconds to start-up. Run final checks back there. No telling what broke in seventeen hours without heat.”

As the two gunners began powering up the tiny power cells that gave life to their consoles and diagnostic equipment, he switched on a trickle of power from the main batteries to start his own sequence. The Magpies for the strike had been modified for the mission, but not enough to rob him of the familiarity of Jenny Red’s usual character. His ship had seen its three crew through the war safely so far, and it would, he knew, bring him home once more, no matter what surrounded her when the power-up sequence started the flow of sensor data.

“Green board here, Lieutenant.” Stevens reported.

Ragno finished his checks a moment later. “I’ve got a few warnings, but nothing serious.”

“Cockpit board is clear.” Frans switched off the battery power to the diagnostic system, and his console once again went dark. There were only six seconds left. “Start-up in five.”

The timer hit zero, and Franz yanked the master start switch. With a whine trailing off into a high-pitched hum, the little ship’s reactor began to burn, and power flooded through all systems. Normally, a Magpie took almost ten minutes to complete a cold start, but the techs had rigged Jenny Red and the rest of the squadron for a crash start. The process would take only a few seconds, but it would, he was assured, put several missions worth of wear on most of the systems.

Almost immediately, data began flooding into the console displays before they had finished warming up from the chilly equilibrium of interplanetary space. “Contact.” Frans was almost more surprised at his own surprise than the data flooding in. “Less than a hundred klicks. Damn, they pulled it off. One Tyrant leading a pair of haulers. No strike in sight.”

Ragno whooped into the intercom, and Frans winced at the noise. The control column appeared out of the center console, and he grabbed it, tapping the thrusters to spin the Magpie in place. The ship’s tiny A-grav axis was the only system which the techs couldn’t speed up – it would take more than a minute to finish coming online, jump-started by a disposable battery bolted under the gunship’s belly. Until then, he had to be careful not to accelerate or decelerate too fast, lest he turn himself and the gunners into smears of organic paste soaked into their crash-harnesses.

As the strike ship turned, the distortion halos of a trio of gigantic gravitic drives warped the background stars. “Target acquired. Talos units, report status and form up.”

The squadron’s nine other gunships, coming online at almost the same instant, appeared on the status panel, each showing some variation of not-quite-full operational effectiveness. Still, the squadron had come through well enough, and they had caught Nate napping. There wasn’t time to pause and make repairs to cold-damaged or vacuum-welded components.

Without waiting for the squadron to coalesce, Frans nudged the throttle forward. Even a tiny percentage of maximum thrust crushed him back into his restraints at several gees, so he pulsed the main drive in fitful bursts to begin to match velocity with the convoy, ignoring the creaking restraints and aching in his joints that accompanied each burst. In a few minutes, the cruiser in the lead would scramble Coronachs – every second counted.

As the A-grav axis warmed up, he could push the throttle more and more before he felt the acceleration. Soon, he was rushing toward the trailing vessel of the convoy at a reassuringly terrifying speed more appropriate to strike-craft combat. “Odd Talos units target the leading hauler, even units target the one behind.” Being Talos One, he adjusted course to the forward vessel. The ungainly cargo and personnel carriers were nothing like the sleek, elegant cruiser which protected them – they looked crude and misshapen. “Arm hullbreakers.”

The even group, arrowing toward the nearer, trailing hauler, reached their target first. A series of “Munitions Away” notice-cards appeared on the status board, and the smart-glass view-panel highlighted the course and location of each of the big, slow hullbreaker missiles along with the vessels that launched them. A few scattered point defense lasers stitched the darkness, chasing the Magpies and their missiles, but at least one hullbreaker got through. A moment later, accompanied by the staccato flash of low-yield fission warhead, the ship simply came apart, its internal hull structures glowing furiously.

Frans tore his attention away from the wreck. Stevens had already armed Jenny Red’s lone hullbreaker, and the launch button glowed on the side of the control column. The second vessel, having gathered data from the demise of the first, would be better at picking off the vulnerable munitions. “Hold missiles on the first pass.” He sent. “Work over their point defense.”

“Talos lead, Coronachs incoming!”

There wasn’t time to check which pilot had sent the alert. A full cruiser full of Coronachs was more than ten Magpies could handle. “Scratch previous order. Dump hullbreakers at optimum range and let’s get out of here.”

The remaining gunships reached launch range and launched their payloads. Frans held his a second longer, then touched the launch button, and he felt Jenny Red lurch as the big missile lumbered away. The gunners fired streams of railshot ahead of it, though this had little chance of intercepting any point defense beams. As soon as he had verified the missile’s lock-on, Frans pulled away. The Coronachs would chase them for some distance, but a Magpie’s railguns could fire in any direction, the fragile Incarnation interceptors had no long-range weapon to counter with. A stern chase was, in fact, the only engagement in which the Magpie had a clear advantage over the Coronach, even when wildly outnumbered. After a few minutes of chase to dissuade another attack, they would return to their hangars.

“No joy, Lieutenant.” Ragno’s voice seemed all scowl, and it persuaded Frans to look at the tactical sensor display. Sure enough, the second hauler proceeded serenely onward, apparently undamaged. Its point defense had swatted all five hullbreakers.

“Next time, Rags.” Frans assured his crew-mate, staring at a rear-facing camera display, in which the hauler’s distortion halo still glowed. “He’ll come back loaded to the gills, and we’ll be here waiting for him.”

Details

Tales from the Service: A Knife in the Back

2948-02-04 – Tales from the Service:

I’m sure all of you are already familiar with the Navy’s data (what has been released at any rate) about the engagement in Matusalemme, contesting the colony of Adimari Valis. Obviously, the news isn’t good. Though the Incarnation force in the area lacks any ships on the scale of our battleship units (its battle line is composed of between fifteen and twenty Tyrant heavy cruisers), it seems to have driven off a mixed Fifth Fleet detachment centered around the dreadnoughts Hercules and Pericles with only minor losses.

Losses for the Fifth Fleet were not so heavy, as a percentage of forces engaged, as they were at the Battle of Berkant, but this Battle of Bodrogi still resulted in significant damage to both of the big battlewagons engaged, in addition to the total loss of two heavy cruisers, Mannerheim and Okayinka. Losses to the lighter fleet units was limited, except that a heavy toll was taken from strike squadrons.

Though some datasphere commentators have decided to use the results of the battle to stoke fear among their audience, I will point out that there are some bright points in this mess. The Incarnation is still incapable of destroying a Confederated battlewagon, which indicates that they will have trouble dealing with the heavy orbital defense installations present at some of the more populous Frontier worlds like Maribel and Håkøya. The Confederated fleet was not driven from the system entirely, and skirmishes between light units continue until the moment of this writing as Confederated Magpies and Palmettos attempt to reach the big, lumbering troop and supply carriers in orbit over Adimari Valis, intercepted by Coronach squadrons. With both mercenary and Confederated forces buying the colony several weeks, almost eighty percent of the planet’s population was evacuated before a single Incarnation boot touched the dusty ground.

The strangest bit of the battle, and the snippet which the Navy has given us access to relate to the audience in this week’s Tales from the Service, is the loss of the cruiser Carl Gustaf Mannerheim – it was not lost to enemy gunfire.

Captain Chinwe Abel threw himself into one of the crash-padded restraint chairs in Carl Gustaf Mannerheim’s combat intelligence center as the salvo of missiles bored in on his ship, feeling the automatic restraints snake over his torso to hold him in place.

Somewhere beyond the vast bulk of the cruiser, railguns chattered out cones of white-hot rail slugs into the path of the incoming ordinance, and the point defense system, seizing control of every multipurpose laser that could be brought to bear, was ready to slag the projectiles with coherent light. The ship’s screening projectors had absorbed a few hits, but they were still functioning at near peak efficiency, and the helm was already dialed in for last-second evasive maneuvers to throw off the aim of the missiles’ shaped fission warheads. Mannerheim’s protective trio of point defense frigates threw up their own clouds of railshot and spat clusters of countermissiles, but they could only do so much.

The timer ticked down to one second, and the world around Captain Abel was wrenched in several directions and spun on its head. Even with the inertial isolation of the ship’s A-grav axis, he felt at least six effective gees alternately crush him into the padding and hurl him against the restraints.

Two new alarms began to wail as the restraints slithered back into the chair, but Abel knew the moment his feet were back on the deck that his ship had escaped serious damage. The subtle hum of the ship’s drive was still there, strong and healthy, and there was no distant roar of a massive pressure-hull breach. “What’s our status?” He called, knowing the damage-control chief would be ready with the answer.

“Screens took the worst of it, Captain. We lost some hull plating and fire control to two light railgun batteries.” Chief Nathans responded, the calm in his gruff voice reassuring Abel more than the content of his report.

The minor miracle didn’t conceal the fact that things were not going well in Matusalemme. The fleet detachment sent to chase away the Incarnation had tried to soften the enemy cruisers up with long range missile and heavy railgun fire, but the faster enemy ships had closed the distance with only two of their nearly twenty ships forced to drop out of formation.

The odds, favorable at long range, should have still been even in a general melee, but somehow the damnable Nate crews were able to keep their mutually supporting screening projectors aligned on each other even through close-range maneuvers. The whole formation seemed to maneuver as one graceful unit, rather than two dozen hulls each a hundred klicks from its neighbors. By comparison, the heavy cruisers and dreadnoughts at the core of the Confederated formation seemed clumsy and fractured. Already, Okayinka was faltering and Vespacian was falling out of line with damage to its main drive.

The big sibling battlewagons, though taking at least as much punishment, were faring a bit better – Hercules was trading fire to its own advantage with the nearest Tyrant, and Pericles had forced away a ship closing in to finish off Vespacian, riddling it along its length with its heavy rail-cannon.

“Gunnery, concentrate on Hercules’s target.” Abel drew a ring around the insubstantial mote in the three-dimensional display. The battleship, designed for long-range combat, didn’t have very many close-range weapons, but Mannerheim was another story. Shortly, the ship’s heavy plasma cannons locked onto the target.

The gouts of self-contained, superheated ions took only a few seconds to race to the Tyrant, and those that didn’t fizzle out in the complex spatial shear of the enemy ship’s screening fields tore up huge swaths of the big ships’ heavy plating and chewed up the machinery and men beneath. The Tyrant faltered, falling out of formation, and the next few shots from the battleship’s big cannons nearly tore it in half. Abel might have cheered, but at almost the same instant, wounded Okayinka met a similar fate.

A chirp told Captain Abel that there was an update on the fleet control band. As he examined the new orders on the display, Mannerheim trembled, its plating once again absorbing a hit. Admiral Mhasalkar  had evidently decided that his fleet could not afford to trade heavy ships on a one-for-one basis. The order was for the heavy units to withdraw back toward the jump limit, forcing the enemy to either break off pursuit, switch to engaging the lighter fleet units, or be whittled away at close range during the whole pursuit by dozens of frigates and destroyers.

Balling his hands into helplessly frustrated fists, Abel relayed the order to the helm, watching on the display as the ship’s gunners concentrated their plasma weapons on another Tyrant, doing little damage but forcing it to move out of range. As it did, the missile bays unleashed a salvo of their own, the tiny needle-icons fanning out before homing in on the retreating ship.

Abel never saw if the salvo did any damage. The CIC display flickered, then blinked out, leaving him blind in semidarkness. “Bridge, I’ve lost tactical display. What’s going on?”

There was no response. The ship’s drive still hummed, but the silence on the comms channel was deafening. Turning to one of the hard-line terminals in the compartment, Abel keyed in a new channel to the other command centers of his ship. “Comms are down and I’ve lost tactical display. Are we still on course?”

“Computer core is down!” Chief Nathans barked. “Slagged by some sort of timed incendiary. The backups too. Going to have to vent these compartments to deal with the fire.”

“Sabotage?”

“You can go all in on that bet, Captain.”

“Dammit.” Without any centralized computer system, every part of the ship would revert to manual control. The ad-hoc datasphere created by the crew’s various smaller digital devices might barely be enough to limp away, but without computer coordination, the point defense system couldn’t possibly swat incoming missiles, and evasive action was all but impossible.

Finally, someone on the bridge patched themselves in. “I’m reading laser strikes on the screens. We’re at the back of the line. Frigates are doing their best, but-”

At that moment, the reassuring hum of the main drive faltered. “Main drive losing power!” Someone shrieked.

Captain Abel cursed under his breath. His ship had just received a full atmospheric system overhaul at Håkøya – dozens of Navy and civilian techs had swarmed through every part of the ship, clambering into crawlspaces and suiting up to ramble through the unpressurized portions of her hull. Evidently, the fast-growing Naval outpost in that system did not have the same tight security as the Core Worlds installations. “Any prayer of getting acceleration back?”

“Not in time.” The damage control chief sounded as heartbroken as his captain felt.

Abel took a deep breath, then, in light of the dozen-odd Tyrant cruisers bearing down on his stricken ship, gave the order no starship captain ever relished. “All hands, abandon ship. Repeat, abandon ship immediately.”

If the computer had been functioning, it would have blared out this order in every compartment, but without it, Abel knew he had to rely on his crew to carry that message to any compartment not yet connected to the ad-hoc datasphere. Even so, there would inevitably be some left behind.

There was one more unpleasant task to perform before he ran for the launch bay or the escape-pod banks with everyone else. Producing a data-key lanyard from his pocket, Abel plugged it into the terminal in the command center. Its screen lit up with a very simple interface which could issue only one command. “Chief, I’m arming for self-destruct.”

“Confirmed from here. Make it ten minutes.”

Abel keyed in the indicated time, then winced as he pressed the red button on the terminal’s face. There was no fanfare to the act of instructing his ship to scuttle itself – the computer, though not responsible for self-destruct itself, would have been responsible for the screeching self-destruct alarm. “It’s done, Chief. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Details

Tales from the Service: Outsiders to War

2948-01-28 – Tales from the Service: Outsiders to War

We are expecting news about the ongoing Battle of Matusalemme at any moment. Though the system’s Hypercast Relay has been destroyed by the Incarnation, the Fifth Fleet has rigged a fleet communications system back to command here at Maribel. Though the press pool is not privy to the nature of this system, it seems so far reliable and not subject to attack. 

Last week’s entry in this space resulted in a significant amount of datasphere traffic and a number of questions, but to respect the wishes of the sender, I cannot comment on it in any great detail. River Plate is a secondary unit supporting the forces currently attempting to engage the enemy in Matusalemme; when the battle there is over, perhaps the person who sent it in will agree to engage with the datasphere audience. 

This week, in lieu of any interesting data from the battle-front, Nojus and I thought we’d take a moment to discuss the odd interest certain non-Confederate xenosapients have taken in the war’s progress. There are a few Rattanai and Atro’me in the Confederated Fifth Fleet, but the experiences of these individuals are going to be similar to that of their human crew-mates. What we thought this audience would be interested in was a summary of the behavior (or suspected behavior) of the Angels and other species that keep themselves separate from the Reach’s culture and datasphere. For this special, I will present the facts, and then Nojus will provide analysis. 

The Angels 

There have been several confirmed Angel sightings during the period of hostilities, though all but two of them (including Tales from the Inbox: Angels in Sagittarius) occurred before loss of contact with the Confederated vessels and civilians on the far side of the Sagittarius Gap. On the far side of the Gap, the behavior of the Angels has been erratic and difficult to interpret, with small groups of their signature strike-analogue vessels appearing and disappearing almost at random, zipping through systems on apparent high-speed snooping passes which often terminate early with the ships vanishing without a trace, perhaps into some poorly-understood form of star-drive jump. When contacted, the Angels respond to humans as they always have on our side of the Gap, suggesting they are at least in communication with the Angels who operate in the region of Sol. 

The two sightings in the Coreward Frontier regions of Meriwether and Nye Norge are a bit stranger, and one of them is still under Naval Intelligence media embargo. The one we can talk about is similar to a few unconfirmed sightings from before the start of hostilities – a colonial outpost reported being visited by a trio of towering Angels who appeared out of the wilderness on foot, deposited a blanket-wrapped bundle on the ground in full view of the awestruck settlers who ran to meet them, then silently turned and departed. On inspection, the bundle contained an unconscious human child of perhaps three years’ age, as well as a collection of small trinkets and a Confederated Worlds credit-stub carrying a sizable sum. 

[N.T.B. - Having seen several data payloads of this sort of encounter, I suspect they are looking for something – a lost comrade, perhaps. I have a hunch the Angels spotted on the far side of the Gap are some of the same Angels who’ve been lurking in the dark around the Core Worlds for centuries. Hells if I know how they managed to lose someone or something on the other side of the Gap – this might be the first time they’ve lost anything at all.  

As for the foundling, I have heard almost a dozen such stories over the years. Settler legends insist that such youths are destined to live great and significant lives, though I can’t say I buy that.] 

The Reachers 

In addition to the encounter with a small Navy task force previously featured here (Tales from the Service: A Reacher's Request), there have been several Reacher sightings on the Coreward Frontier since hostilities began. Though their usual mode of interaction with humans is purely mercantile, the Reachers have on several occasions declined to rendezvous with nearby Confederated vessels for purposes of trade, citing more pressing business. This is the first time they have been observed to do this in a well-documented encounter; usually the Reachers are very eager to barter.  

There were no Reacher sightings on the far side of the Gap before the chain of Hypercast relays to Sagittarius was cut. It is not known if the endurance of their vessels allows them to travel that far before needing to resupply.

[N.T.B. - Though no vessel of Reacher make has ever been seen twice, there can be little doubt there are at least several Reacher vessels in the Coreward Frontier, and that they are not making any particular effort to hide from Confederated eyes (or presumably the Incarnation). The pressing business cited might refer to searching for the Grand Journey which they mentioned to Mus’ad Balos. My personal speculation is that this is the name for the faction of Reachers who ply the far side of the Gap, and that the Incarnation dealt harshly with them, to the point of commandeering one or more of their vessels.  

What makes me think we’re missing something big here is that Nate would attack the Reachers at all. They don't care about any of our mad ideas, counterhumansim included, and probably would have happily sold Nate everything they had about the Confederated Navy for the right price.] 

Makaharwans 

The most celebrated xenosapient species encountered on the Coreward Frontier itself, the inhabitants of the Chromatic World, not being natively capable of space travel, have not participated in or been affected by the war to date. I made a few inquiries to the chief of the Makaharwa scientific mission this week, and was informed that while Makaharwans of all ages have listened attentively to stories about the war told by Confederate missionaries and scientists, this is not different than the way they react to any story that has been translated into their language.  

While they grasp the concept of space travel rather well, I was informed that most of the members of the research team doubt the clever avian-sapients quite believe the stories. Their own legends are obviously exaggerated, and most likely the Makaharwans think their human interlocutors are exaggerating their stories as well. 

[N.T.B. - I still haven’t had the luck to visit Makaharwa... Maybe when this is all over, I will. I hope and pray the Incarnation leaves them alone; the Makaharwans could easily vanish into the rocky uplands in which they nest, suffering no hardship, and leaving the Incarnation in control of whatever land they wished to take, but the process of levering a strong Incarnation garrison off that beautiful world would inevitably cause destruction on a scale they are almost certainly not prepared to face.] 

Cold Refuge 

Though Cold Refuge is on the far side of the Confederated Worlds from the Coreward Frontier, several of its automated mercantile haulers have meandered their way into the areas threatened by Incarnation raids. According to Naval Intelligence, four Cold Refuge haulers are operational in the Frontier, and they have been making a habit of visiting systems only days after an Incarnation cruiser raid. 

[N.T.B. - Most likely, the Guardian of Cold Refuge, who is at least partially connected to the datasphere, is seeking to learn more about the conflict, which is the first since the Brushfire War, and thus its first opportunity to observe Confederated fleets as an un-engaged observer. This just goes to show how information is more valuable than hulls – especially when one can send semi-autonomous spies which, if not destroyed, more than pay for themselves hauling bulk goods from system to system.  

It might also be a public-relations move; with all the disruptions caused by the raids, most of the Frontier colonists probably don’t mind the help moving supplies and goods from place to place.] 

The Grand Journey 

We know little about this variety of xenosapient except that it was mentioned to Navy personnel by Reachers. Naval Intelligence parsed the recording of Mus’ad Balos’s conversation with the Reachers hundreds of times, and were happy to tell me they think based on this analysis that the Grand Journey is not a single species, but instead a cross-species identity held together by bonds of common beliefs. 

The Reachers believe that the Incarnation operates captured Grand Journey vessels, and while it’s not clear what variety of starship this refers to (perhaps the blocky, unwieldly transports they brought to Matusalemme a few weeks ago), it is expected by Naval Intelligence that they were appropriated by force. 

[N.T.B. - Odd that a multi-species coalition could exist in Frontier space without anyone knowing about them until now. Perhaps, given their name and association with the Reachers, we’re looking at a nomadic society, one far less focused on trade and more self-sufficient. Someone is going to have to pay the damned Reachers a fortune to learn more, and I bet that’s why they slipped Balos that tidbit. They might have showed up in front of those destroyers just to let the Navy to know they had information to sell.] 

New Xenosapients

Other than the Grand Journey, there have been at least three sightings of unknown spacecraft in the conflict zone. Two of these have been covered on this feed before (Tales from the Service: Gabriel's Dutchman and Tales from the Inbox: Indigenous Immolation), but the third is more recent, and does not seem related to either of the previous two. 

In an odd data snippet captured by a Navy cruiser heading to Berkant some weeks after the battle there, a cluster of small (none greater than three meters in length) self-powered objects are seen circling curiously around the vessel just after its arrival at the edge of the star system. A spooked gun-battery commander opened fire on them, and though the guns don’t seem to have hit anything, they encouraged the tiny vessels to scatter in all directions, and the cruiser soon lost track of them. 

[N.T.B. - I don’t think I could say anything about the previously published items on this feed which the audience has not already speculated since they were published. As for the recent sighting, sapient or no, the objects probably weren’t spacecraft. Though cloudsprites have never been observed outside dense nebular clouds as far as I know, that story lines up with what I've heard about them. Most likely these aren’t sapients at all – if they are similar to cloudsprites, they’re not even really alive.] 

Details

Tales from the Service: A Casualty of War

2948-01-21 – Tales from the Service: A Casualty of War 

This week, I am going to publish a text-only message sent to our audience feedback mailbox unedited, uncredited, and without any direct commentary or analysis, as requested by the sender. 

Myranda Howe’s crew gave her a proper deep-space burial while en-route to Matusalemme on January 16. She died of her wounds after fighting a fire on the hangar deck of the fast carrier River Plate.  

Normally, the wide datasphere would not remark on the passing of a single crew tech second class in a war zone, but Myranda, a twenty-two-year-old volunteer from Pericles at Herakles IV, deserves to be known by the public whom she took an oath to defend. She was the great-granddaughter of Antonio Howe, the most decorated non-officer of the Terran-Rattanai War.  

In the action which earned him the third nebula pin for his Centaur Cross, Antonio Howe is credited with saving the crew of Filip Romilly from annihilation when, faced with the order to abandon ship, he encouraged his gun-deck crew to stay at their stations in order to fight off a wing of Rattanai strike ships intent on picking off the launches and escape-pods. Somehow, they drove off the attack, and he led his crew to an escape pod, losing only one of the seven-man gun crew in the quickly-disintegrating ship. Shortly after they got away, the dying ship broke apart completely – they had escaped by mere seconds. 

To Myranda, the many stories of her ancestor’s heroism might have seemed to be fantastic bedtime stories. He died when she was ten years old, too young to really understand why he never had the scars on his face reduced with nanomedicine, or why he always left the room when someone turned on a war holo-drama. 

Later, of course, Myranda did understand. When she enlisted at age seventeen with her parents’ blessing, she tried to get a posting as a point defense gunner, just like Antonio.  

Though she was a fair hand at the deadly dance of railshot versus incoming strike-ships and missiles, she proved far more skilled as a systems tech, and found herself assigned to her first posting’s atmospherics maintenance crew, with an alert posting to damage control.  

A lesser spacer might have grumbled or schemed to work her way onto a gun-battery crew, but not Myranda Howe. She threw herself into the work, cheerfully attacking each faulty carbon-scrubber and clogged nanofilter with the sort of bright enthusiasm which most people reserve for their favorite hobby. In damage control drills, she was tireless and decisive, putting the less energetic members of her damage-control team to shame. Only her closest confidants knew that she had such big shoes to fill – and that, in quiet moments, she was terrified she could never be the sort of hero that her great-grandfather was. 

Off-duty, Myranda was a member of River Plate’s chapel choir and the singer for the Tin-Can Surprise, the ship’s unauthorized neo-Centaurite musical quintet, whose practice and performances the senior officers did their best to pretend not to notice. In singing either the racy lyrics of Centaurite classic tunes or the solemn, grand hymns of the choirbook, she always stole the show. 

On the fifteenth of January of this year, a gunship re-entering the hangar just before a star-drive hop missed its docking cradle, tumbling onto one side and catching fire. Its three-person crew still trapped inside, damage control rushed to contain the blaze enough for them to escape alive. One of the first crew on-scene was Myranda Howe, who was not on duty but who had been walking a Tin-Can Surprise bandmate to the pilots’ ready-room. Armed with a thermo-foam sprayer and with a helmet completing her uniform’s emergency pressure-seal, she ran into the blaze with five others. 

Though the hangar techs began venting oxygen out of the damaged hangar cell, it was too late. The explosion tearing the strike launch’s starboard sponson off was probably the result of an overheated thruster-fuel reservoir, but even this was enough to toss the brave damage control personnel some distance. Though four of them were only bruised, one suffered a series of broken bones. Myranda, closest to the explosion, suffered nine shrapnel wounds to her torso and several more to her limbs. 

Myranda clung to life for seven hours after being pulled out of the hangar and rushed to the ship’s medical bay. Heavily sedated as the medical staff operated on her badly mangled body, she never regained consciousness, dying just after midnight ship-time on the sixteenth. In her final hours, she was surrounded by her closest compatriots. Her brief funeral ceremony was attended by almost the entire River Plate crew, with ship’s chaplain Father Sheeran, who knew Myranda quite well, delivering the eulogy.  

The crew of the gunship survived the crash. The thermo-foam sprayed onto the wrecked launch by the damage control team absorbed enough heat from the fires that they were able to free themselves with only minor injuries. The wrecked gunship was safely jettisoned without major damage to the hangar or further loss of life.  

The actions of the damage-control team of the fifteenth of January might never earn official commendation, but those who knew her are comforted by the fact that when a crisis loomed, Myranda Howe had been the same kind of hero as the man whose shadow she had walked. 

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