Somewhere on the border of the Inner Sanctum, Drackmarian Outpost Watchtower

One dim star held the small system together. There wasn't much to it, really; two small balls of rock and a random assortment of gas that couldn't really be called a giant. Stray asteroids, a half dozen comets, and a total of eleven moons. Nothing of apparent value.

But the gravitational shadow cast by this system's sun amounted to a stopper stuck into the back door of the Inner Sanctum. Control of this system would mean access into that Sanctum. If Watchtower fell, so too would the bulwark established by Emperor Draconis to hold his enemies at bay.

Watchtower must not fall.

Watchtower must fall.

These two conflicting mandates, each from a scheme so alien to the other, would lead to a battle that would set the stage for the Drackmarian Empire's part in the coming Cataclysm . . .


A single object emerged from hyperspace; a massive, curved form, its rounded dorsal hull terminating abruptly, forming two opposite parabolic edges that met aft and fore to form a pointed bow and pointed stern. Beneath it glowed expansive docking bays, bustling with activity, ready for combat. The hull came alive with a thousand pinpricks of light, and as the Confederacy fleet appeared all around it, the massive vessel opened fire on the nearest of the tiny planets, raining fire and damnation on the Watchtower.


“Sound general alarm! Raise the shield! Prepare for ground invasion!” The colonel stalked behind his command staff, shouting orders with a vehemence that belied his secret knowledge. “Raise Central Command. Tell them: it has begun. Watchtower will hold.” Cast the net, and let the foolish beasts wander into it.

The defense shield of the Watchtower had activated just in time, protecting the Drackmarian stronghold against its would-be assailants. But soon the enemy would dispatch its ground forces to circumvent that limited shield's radius, and the defenders of Watchtower would be forced to battle against both time and foe to ensure this victory did not come at too high a price.




Drackmarian Central Command, True Drackmar

“It has begun!” Admiral Maggog shouted, and as one the ranks of technicians shifted tasks. The web was woven and the trap was set; all that remained was to await the last act of a foolhardy prey.

The admiral could have performed the task by himself, High Command's AI dispersing the dozens of ACTIVATE orders with one word from him. But . . .

But this act is too historic to commit its executions to machines, and . . . and my dishonor is too great to perform it alone.

This day would belong to General Sarris. The near loss of the Inner Sanctum Fleet at Admiral Maggog's command had lessened his stature in the eyes of the Emperor; now Sarris would be given the opportunity to prove himself the better warrior.

Before Maggog, Central Command's AI decrypted Watchtower's information and put it to use, matching its own stored data to the incoming bits of information in order to construct a three-dimensional representation of the enemy fleet's makeup, position, and orientation. The Confederacy was a little different this time, as always, and so a number of the enemy vessels were not on record, and those vessels were filled in with general analogues. Nevertheless, while the Confederacy pounded with futility against the shield of Watchtower, Central Command moved its pieces into play, using the knowledge supplied by their entangled communicators to formulate a strategy and maximize their advantage. Soon, soon.



Drackmarian Cruiser Iron Fist, flagship of the Outer Fleet

General Sarris had been waiting, and finally his waiting was over. Before him was assembled the entirety of the Confederacy's attack fleet, the holoprojector's representative marker's more than adequate substitutes for the real things, still a few light years away.

“Your orders, Sir?”

Sarris hissed quietly, his clawed hands on the edge of the projector table. “Admiral Beckan will utilize the secondary attack corridor; Rear-Admiral Gommah will proceed as planned. General Vornyt will assume attack posture beta. We will attack as one. Synchronize at . . . mark.”

Iron Fist's AI had compressed his orders into their smallest possible form, feeding them into the entangled communicator which then relayed them to Central Command. Soon, and with no external indications, the four attack groups of the Drackmarian Outer Fleet's Operation: Just Measure would pounce as one.




Drackmarian Fleet group Center, Drackmarian Heavy Destroyer Iron Fist

The two-pronged form of the Drackmarian Cruiser Iron fist erupted from hyperspace like some fiendish dagger cutting through a veil of darkness. From its twin prongs flew streams of starfighters, crossing one another above and below as those launching from starboard flew to port and vice versa. All along the hull, dispersed between the vessel's impressive array of weapons, small, disk-like objects broke free and set course, falling into formations and taking up positions between their companion starfighter squadrons.

The Cruiser's powerful shields coalesced into being as the last of its tiny fighters debarked, and its weapons thundered away, driving straight into the heart of the enemy, straight at the rounded command ship ringed with turbolasers and home to untold swarms of starfighters.

Iron Fist's escorts joined in as well, Destroyers and Assault Frigates adding their firepower to its own. But it was Iron Fist and her commander at the lead, pressing further toward the enemy fleet, drawn by the gravity of the world before them and the unwavering resolve of General Sarris.

Sarris had deployed his forces as close to the enemy as possible, choosing a vector of attack that split the difference between distance from the enemy and alignment of attack. He could have flown directly at Watchtower, its gravity pulling the fleet out of hyperspace beside the enemy fleet, but then the force would have lost precious time reorienting to launch a full-scale barrage; he could have dropped to realspace under his own power and in perfect alignment with his target, but such actions were unprecise. So Fleet Element Center had approached Watchtower at an angle, skimming the edge of its gravity field and arriving at almost perfect alignment, at [/I]almost[/i] optimal range.

Brighter streaks of light began to lance from Iron Fist and her Destroyer companions as they opened fire with their heaviest casemented weapons, concentrating firepower on the enemy command ship.

Power was poured into the forward shields to maintain their integrity, but the enemy fleet had other threats to address, and so the initial, concerted response to Iron Fist's arrival soon gave way to a more generalized, panicked, uncoordinated response. The withering fire and closing proximity of the Center group would soon begin yielding greater and greater results on its faltering target; this wouldn't take long.

Cut off the head, and the body . . . what does it matter?

Enemy fighters and bombers finally breached the Drackmarian screens, making desperate runs against the massive Drackmarian command ship in some effort to pierce its defenses and aide their own flag. But they were coming in too fast and too close, harried relentlessly by Drackmarian fighters and superfighters who gave chase.

The Cruiser's flack cannons―intended as a general screen against enemy missiles and torpedoes―fired, filling the space around the command ship with clouds of shrapnel, numbers so great to overwhelm shields and tear through hulls. Those too close were vaporized almost instantly, victims of their own internal explosions. Those farther out escaped immediate death, only to pull away and give Iron Fist's tiny guardians clear shots of their quarry.

Another minor nuisance dealt with; another minuscule victory preceding the inevitable.




Fleet Group Center, Drackmarian Fighter Squadron: Flurry

A drackmarian starfighter squadron is much like a Drackmarian army squad; they can make a lot of noise, they can draw a lot of attention, but their true gift is in making the enemy bleed. As the alarms onboard Iron Fist's docking bay blared, the Drackmarian pilot Drrgwain readied himself for war. And then he had the confirmation, and with the pressing of a button he was away, lifted from the deck by his own repulsor fields, and shoved from the bay by an invisible push from launch control. His repulsors interacted with the invisible field cast in front of the bay doors, pushing his fighter up and away from the massive Cruiser's port prong; and then his engines fired, taking up where momentum had left off and carrying him into battle.

Drrgwain checked his scopes, adjusting his position slightly to maintain formation with his eleven fellow squadron mates. Brief pulses of data were being received from Iron Fist, relaying compressed and encoded attack data to the squadron's integrated droid brains. They all followed their squadron commander's lead, not needing to fill local traffic with comm bursts relaying their states of readiness and degree of comprehension; they were Drackmarian, they were always ready and they always understood.

And then the enemy came. The Drackmarian fighters gave way to their enemy counterparts, breaking down and away from a head-on clash and a mutually-assured death. They soon turned back up, however, searching for an opportunity to attack the enemy's bombers and trusting their own defense to the squadrons of superfighters following closely behind.

The Drackmarian fighters made a pass on the Confederacy's bomber, their nearly perpendicular angle of attack making their efforts rather difficult. They circled around after passing the bombers, trying to get in behind their targets, though the enemy bombers soon broke away as they found their own starfighter escorts lacking.

The battle dissolved into near-total chaos, as starfighting is wont to do, but the Drackmarian fighter pilots made sure to stay close to their superfighter support, maximizing the assistance given by the larger vessels' quad laser cannons.

Drrgwain and his pair of wingmen broke from the furball developing between the two opposing command ships, gaining distance and swinging around for a more appropriate attack run. Such duties would ordinarily be assigned to interceptor squadrons, who couldn't survive combat in the furball for very long, but such interceptors were lacking on this front, so Drrgwain and his companions would have to do.

He acquired a target lock and fired a pair of missiles, one after the other, selecting another target and then opening fire with his laser cannons, his four weapons firing in linked pairs, bolts of destructive energy chasing after the nearby enemy. And then he was once more in the midst of the maelstrom, friends and enemies all around, firing madly, struggling to survive.

A few enemy blasts struck against his shields, warnings flashing to inform him of diminished defenses. Drrgwain let the sirens fade on their own, too absorbed in the moment, hoping Iron Fist would soon finish the enemy command ship and this Confederacy could be dispersed once and for all.




Drackmarian Fleet group Splinter, Drackmarian Destroyer Flamewind


The Drackmarian Destroyer Flamewind emerged from hyperspace an instant after Iron Fist, the larger vessel's arrival drawing the enemy's attention and allowing Rear-admiral Gommah a momentary advantage in which to survey the status of the enemy's response.

He selected the nearest enemy vessel of analogous size and issued the fire order, his own starfighters and support craft departing in much the same fashion as the Iron Fist's, though they were lesser in number. He was farther out than General Sarris, not having the luxury of utilizing Watchtower's gravity to his advantage, but still within weapons' range, and he had an advantage that Sarris lacked: speed, or at least less slowness.

With the enemy concentrating on the fleet's Center group, it was Gommah's duty to break that concentration, to force confusion and disruption into their ranks. The causing of damage was secondary to the disruption of damage done. Iron Fist was far from invincible.

And so it was, as Flamewind's counter returned fire, Gommah ordered the Assault Frigates and Gunships under his command to alter course slightly, angling to put themselves between the Destroyer's target and the enemy command ship.

Instead of holding some invisible line in space, Fleet group Splinter's fighters and light support craft selected nearby targets and began assault runs under cover of Flamewind and her companion Destroyer.

The faster warships of Splinter group were moving well ahead of their Destroyer counterparts, but they had farther to go, and Gommah had no intention of leaving them to fight alone. He held course at maximum speed, closing until the distance wasn't worth mentioning, and then kept moving, the Drackmarian warships' superior shields and armor giving it a staying edge over its numerically superior foe, and the bombers and missile assault craft capitalizing on the enemy's obvious confusion as two Drackmarian warships pressed further into the Confederacy's formation, their weapons picking new targets as old ones flashed by.

It wasn't a safe maneuver, of course, but the Drackmarian Empire had long ago learned the limitations of this Confederacy, and the terror represented by Iron Fist's presence was more than enough to shatter the hopes of those present.

None of this was supposed to be happening, as far as they were concerned. Their ambush of the Inner Sanctum Defense Fleet had ensured them space superiority over the Drackmarian Empire for the foreseeable future. The presence of the Outer Fleet in the Inner Sanctum was a violation of the Drackmarian Way, and as good as the Emperor was at war, that was something he simply would not do.

Gommah stopped his musings, the alarms recalling him to the present as their forward shields fell and enemy fire began raking across their armored hull. It didn't matter; the docking bays were locked down, the external docks for the support craft were covered over with blast doors, and―like all Drackmarian warships―the command crew was safe in the heart of the warship, watching the battle on banks of projectors and viewscreens. The armor would hold; the armor would hold.




Fleet group Splinter, Drackmarian Assault Frigate Nightstalker

It wasn't fair to call this ship a frigate. Frigates shoot missiles. Frigates chase after starfighters. This ship of his breaks things, and not the small kind. It was okay; the Emperor knew what kind of ship a Drackmarian Assault Frigate was. That's what mattered.

Nightstalker was in command of Shatter group's secondary attack element, the faster vessels that had diverged from the main Destroyer charge. Nightstalker and a pair of counterparts had just engaged a Star Destroyer analogue that had been making its way to defend the Confederacy's command ship; a quartet of gunships were offering support fire and setting up anti-starfighter screens.

Together, Nightstalker and her companions would cut the larger vessel down to size, and its neutralization or outright destruction would surely help to drive a stake of fear into this flank, and splinter it from the main enemy force. And after all, that was Splinter group's objective.

A lone Assault Frigate and another pair of Gunships were offering general distractions to nearby enemy warships, supported heavily by the starfighters and disk-shaped support craft that flew through the area wreaking havoc.

Captain Yenja was not like most Drackmarians; she preferred to remain calm, quiet, and still while she worked. She took her place in the midst of her command crew, not above or behind them on some sort of command platform or would-be throne. She allowed her calm to remind her crew of her assurance that victory would be theirs, and saw no need to stalk about, barking orders and putting the fear of Drackmar into them.

“Torpedoes ready, Ma'am.”

She glanced at her Morseerian tactical officer, who was working his controls with all four hands, his pair of eyes roaming independently of one another.

“Synchronize for attack,” She ordered, and the Drackmarian comm officer gave her a hand signal to acknowledge it was done, minimizing noise on the bridge. They had just passed into optimal range, and with Nightstalker and her counterparts ready to pounce as one, Yenja gave the command: “All tubes, open fire.” She watched in satisfaction as the glowing orbs streaked toward their targets, glowing brighter from time to time as their weak shields deflected metallic debris and the handful of on-target hits from defense guns.

A few exploded prematurely, their defenses breached, but the vast majority impacted their target as one, tearing into its shields and scarring its hull. Attack fire from the trio of frigates shifted to exploit the weakest points in the enemy's defenses, and the countdown timer began running as it counted down the time before the next torpedo salvo.

Then the guns fell silent on the enemy warship, and Captain Yenja hissed quietly as she surveyed her crippled prey. “Shift targets to its escorts. Break formation and pursue, and order the gunships back; they've taken enough of a beating already. Starfighters are to fall into defense position and guard our approach. We're going in.”

Drackmarian anti-starfighter Craft

Drackamrian fleet group Splinter, Superfighter Black Talon

Talon squadron was a six-ship group of anti-starfighter craft, attached (literally) to the Drackmarian Destroyer Flamewind. They launched immediately after reversion, streaking ahead at maximum speeds, using the general direction of their mothership's turbolasers as a guide. The six ships broke into a pair of three's, holding a loose formation that would allow for evasive maneuvers whenever―

A flurry of defensive fire soared to meet them, joined by enemy fighters and a smattering of missiles. Talon squadron broke wildly, their pilots putting the craft into complex maneuvers as their gunners set about picking targets, counting down the intervals between desperate spirals and relatively stable flights, waiting for those brief instances of calm to open fire.

The Black Talon rocked suddenly as a missile impacted against its chaff screen, the energy of the blast insufficient to break through the shields but powerful enough to make itself known. Starfighters were blossoming all around, struck down by the swarm of Drackmarian fighters flying toward the enemy fleet. Talon Squadron's forced evasive maneuvers had put them behind the main charge, but the starfighter squadrons had picked up the slack, escorting the squadron of missile assault craft Talon had been tasked with defending.

They wouldn't be able to catch up in time for the first attack run, so they'd have to make do. “Orders,” Commander Moggosh declared, getting his squadron's attention. “We follow them in close, keep these . . . Confederates off of their tails. For Drackmar!”

And that's just what they did. While the main attack group strafed an enemy warship, unleashing a hail of missiles and torpedoes, Talon Squadron followed in their wake, firing on any enemy fighters that tried to disrupt that run. Talon broke away before it came too near the Confederacy warship, firing a few ineffectual at the massive vessel as they engaged whatever targets of opportunity, awaiting the return of their allies.

As the swarm of Drackmarian starfighters, bombers, and missile launchers returned, Moggosh surveyed the battlefield and made a command decision. Talon Squadron and one of its counterparts would break from standing Splinter group directives and move to assist the Rear-admiral and her pair of Destroyers, which had pressed well into the Confederacy's flank and were taking fire from all sides.

A dozen superfighters might not seem like much, but Moggosh knew the capabilities of his men and their hardware, and he knew that the pair of Drackmarian Destroyers would need all of the help they could get. They traveled in something of an arc, staying as far away from the largest enemy warships as possible, and firing only on the enemy starfighters that gave chase.

“I'm registering torpedoes; numbering sixty.”

Moggosh grew grim, studying the readouts. “Get us there, fast.”

Splinter group's command ship, the Destroyer Flamewind, had just lost its shields. Impact from sixty proton torpedoes would be devastating. The only hope was that Talon and its companion squadron could get to the missiles before they got to the Destroyer, and cut the numbers down to something more manageable.

“I want maximum resolution on our targeting scanners. Give a direct feed from sensors to our gunners, and establish a maximum efficiency firing pattern. Helm, are going to make it.”

The pilot hissed in defiance. “I'll bring us in right behind them.”

The commander nodded, the tension growing. Those weapons with a clear attack lane opened fire, the angle of approach making their efforts all but useless. A supperfighter's weapons are divided into three sections: dorsal, ventral, and a third along the outer perimeter of the craft, between the two. The pilot had aligned the ship to give the dorsal weapons a clear view of their target, but the missiles would soon overshoot the group of starships, and immediately after the two squadrons' vector would intercept the missiles', putting the gunners directly behind their targets until they passed out of range . . . or hit their target, the latter of which would happen sooner.

The missiles flew past, and the formation began to reorient, placing themselves behind the missiles and firing with all available weapons. Only the aft most laser turrets were unable to acquire targets, and instead set about defending the group from approaching starfighters.

But the array of quad laser cannons fired incessantly for that brief window of opportunity, compensating for their lack of precision with volume, and were rewarded moments later when the surviving torpedoes impacted upon Flamewind's unshielded hull, blackening and breaking armor, but doing little structural damage.

Drackmarian Missile Frigate

Drackmarian Fleet group Decimation, Missile Frigate Starfall

Starfall was a good ship with a good crew. It was still just one piece in a larger puzzle. A gargantuan, flying, armed puzzle. With ordinance.

Captain Lendis took orders. Captain Lendis gave orders. Every now and then, Captain Lendis traded orders. This was what was to be expected as the commander of a Missile Frigate. Someone would always be a few kilometers away, on something much more accurately resembling the bridge of a warship, telling him where to point his launchers. He would order the crew to do so, and they would comply. That was about all there was to it.

A Drackmarian Missile Frigate was a support ship in the most dreadfully true meaning of the word. It served no purpose unless augmenting a greater, more versatile force. Captain Lendis sighed, watching the first exchanges of fire on the readouts.

“Captain?” The tactical officer intruded, forcing Lendis to focus. “Sir?” The Drackmarian prodded, and realization dawned on the Morseerian captain. “Oh. Launch support craft and raise shields,” He finally said. What did a few seconds matter, though? If something came after him, he was going to die. Sure from straight ahead the ship's profile is thin, but from overhead it's basically a three hundred meter-diameter exploding target. And with six support ships . . .

“Sir? Orders for our support craft?”

“Oh yes, yes. Of course. Standard defensive posture.”

“Sir?”

Lendis glanced quickly at the nearest console, his eyes moving oddly as he realized the error he had just made. “Attack!” He screamed, drawing warning glances from the Drackmarian crew. “Deploy in launch pattern alpha and attack!” This was so exciting; he'd never had missile support assigned as his escort squadron before. He was actually going to get to command an attack barrage!

“Orders from the Admiral, Sir,” The Comms officer reported. “Our support craft are to redeploy to the left flank and assist in a concentrated barrage on the enemy command ship.”

The moment of excitement drained from him, and Captain Lendis once more consigned his fate to the meaninglessness it would forever represent.

“Sir?”

“Yes, yes. Of course, Lieutenant. Make it so.”

It was pretty simple, really. The dorsal launchers fired somewhere between a thirty and fourty-five degree angle, flying over whatever larger ships were serving as a defensive screen and following an artificially ballistic course toward its target. The ventral launchers did the same, only below the Drackmarian warship screen, meaning both ventrally and dorsally launched missiles converged on their targets in unison, two separate missile groups closing on a single point. The rate of convergence could be adjusted before launch, but the default settings seemed to work just fine for the most part.

“Incoming fighters,” The Drackmarian at tactical called coolly.

“Fire! Fire!” He screamed, pointing at the forward viewscreen as if to give direction to his command. A few random point-defense lasers flashed across the screens, sensors reporting a few hits.

“If the admiral's going to take my fighter defense away from me, the least she could do is cover my back!” The captain barked, already forgetting his previous excitement and hearing his anti-fighter craft had been replaced with missile support ships.

This particular Morseerian captain had no business in the Drackmarian Navy.

Drackmarian Gunship

Drackmarian Gunship Victory Guard, Fleet group Decimation

Most didn't consider a posting onboard a Gunship anything spectacular. Commander Gorgin had been at this a long time, though, and was glad his responsibility didn't extend beyond the ship's small crew. He had no desire to leave the Navy behind, but was more than content to leave fleet command to individuals like Admiral Beckan.

Not many Morseerians made it to such positions of import within the Navy; they just didn't seem cut out for it. But Admiral Beckan had proven herself time and time again, and as the Gunship Victory Guard dropped from hyperspace and received the Admiral's initial orders, Commander Gorgin was fully prepared to obey.

Assigned as one of many smaller ships supporting the Admiral's flag, the Destroyer Ruin, the Gunship would remain close to its command ship, allowing the slower destroyers the time they needed to move into position.

“Orders, Sir?”

Gorgin grunted, something not all that common among the reptilian Drackmarians. “We wait. Ruin will draw the brunt of enemy fire for now. But when the enemy sends their fighters . . . then we will pounce.”

The crew had gotten used to the old Drackmarian's unnecessarily long and vague answers by now, knowing that when the time came, when they were in the thick of it, he was most at home, and thankfully most concise.

And so they waited. Fleet group Decimation spread along the length of the enemy fleet, attacking from above. Destroyers supported on either side by Attack Frigates, interspersed with Gunships, all of them deployed in front of a massive line of Missile Frigates.

But Admiral Beckan and the Ruin pressed into the enemy, generating a focal point for the Confederacy's forces to focus on, and therefore opening the attack options of the remainder of the fleet. Unfortunately, it limited Commander Gorgin's options somewhat; in his small gunship, he was left to fight for little more than survival.

Enemy fighters swarmed from all around, the gunship's light weapons tearing through the cluttered space, swatting desperately at the tiny specks. Gorgin had ordered them closer to the Ruin, just against the extreme range of the Destroyer's flack cannons. From time to time their port shields flickered with the incidental impact of a few stray shards, but hopefully the cloud of debris surrounding the Destroyer would help deter enemy strafing runs from that direction.

“Enemy fighters have circumvented our defensive screens,” The tactical officer reported, but the commander waved him silent as he scanned the information for himself.

“Order our fighters around.” He stalked off, considering other matters.

“They're moving into attack positions,” Tactical continued, worried. “Our don't think our fighters will make it in time.”

“They'll make it,” Gorgin reassured.

“Permission to redirect firing groups seven and eight to―”

“They'll make it!” Gorgin roared, flexing his clawed hands in frustration with his subordinate. Shifting the firing corridors of his defensive batteries while friendly starfighters were on approach was how captains got themselves and their subordinates killed. Opening two holes in their defensive matrix to plug one that was soon to be so anyway was the desperate act of a young and inexperienced man, and Gorgin would have none of it.

“Incoming missiles!” The tactical officer shouted, and Gorgin braced himself as he ordered the others others to do the same. The ship rocked under the multiple impacts, tactical shouting of shield failure over the deafening sounds of too many things breaking at once.

Gorgin righted himself and turned to his tactical officer. “Our fighters?”

The officer hissed, ignoring the multiple warnings and failures flashing on his screen to try and answer his commander's question. “They have engaged the enemy; we shouldn't suffer another attack from them.”

The Commander bobbed his head once, reading the damage reports on his screens. “Rotate us along our central axis; bring the starboard hull to bear alongside Ruin. Hopefully our port shields will hold until the battle's end.”




Fleet group Decimation, Missile Assault Craft Hammerblow


The Confederacy wanted control of Drackmarian Space. The fact that the Drackmarians already occupied and controlled Drackmarian Space did not dissuade this desire. The fact that the Drackmarian Empire once permitted free and open travel of friendly species through their space did not dissuade this desire. The Drackmarian Empire controls Drackmarian Space; as far as this Confederacy is concerned, that makes them evil.

As far as the Morseerian captain Bulyo is concerned, that gives him just and appropriate right to bomb them into vapor. “Captain, all tubes loaded. Orders?”

His eyes were searching hungrily, looking for an appropriate target. He pressed his finger against the screen, selecting a vessel not in the Drackmarian databases. “Let us find its tolerances, yes?”

The Drackmarian hissed his approval, imputing targeting data and preparing for the assault. The launch tubes extended, their blast shielding dropping away to expose them to open space. The fast attack craft surged forward, their way cleared somewhat by Drackmarian starfighter screens.

The Morseerian captain took up a somewhat unusual posture, clasping his lower hands behind his back, and gripping the edge of the display table with his upper hands. They fired more or less in congress, the six missile assault craft releasing a flood of burning pinpricks, each one capped with a devastating warhead.

“Point-defense fire!” A thousand tiny lances of light jumped from the unidentified warship, many of the missiles vanishing in premature explosions. The same lasers raked over Hammerblow's shields, forcing the pilot to pull back and lay on the evasive maneuvers.

“Status,” The Morseerian captain demanded.

“Our shields are holding, but Shatter and Dynamo have taken moderate damage. Should we withdraw and select another target?”


Morseerians are not known for their great warrior spirits. They serve with diligence and loyalty, as true members of the Empire, but they lack the more basic compulsions which make the Drackmarian species so good at what they do. At least, most of them do.

“No. We will hurt them; we will break them.”

“Sir?”

“Shatter and Dynamo will follow us in. We will draw their fire.”

“Sir?”

The Morseerian made a sort of wheezing sound, his species' approximation of a laugh. “We are Drackmarian; we cannot fail. Besides, now that Slither knows what to expect, he can outfly their guns.”

“Sir?” This time it was “Slither,” the pilot, not the tactical officer.

“Make us proud, and make them pay.” He returned his attention to his second in command. “Two-vector attack; divide their focus. Loose formation, hit fast.”

“Yes, Sir.”

Bulyo returned his attention to the main viewscreen, eying the dedicated starfighter-killer that had just led him into a near-fatal trap. “We can't dodge them all, no sense trying.”

They went in for another attack run, two sets of three missile assault craft approaching from different directions, at different angles. The enemy weapons didn't hold until the last moment this time, instead opening up at extreme range. Bulyo preferred it that way, though, and surely so did the pilots; there was no false sense of security allowed with dozens of point-defense blasts lighting up the empty space. Slither and his counterparts enacted wild evasive maneuvers, spinning wingtip over wingtip, coming out of tight rolls to buck suddenly up and then back down, but always holding the target firmly ahead, firmly in their way.

Only when the impacts became unavoidable and their number began to grow dangerously high did Bulyo finally issue the order, this time a wave of missiles substantially less coordinated launched, but this time they were much, much closer. The assault ships wouldn't have made it to safety, but when the inevitable impact of missiles against target occurred, the enemy ship's weapons blinked out, and the space around Hammerblow grew calm.




Drackmarian special attack group Invisible, Interceptor squadron: Phantom

The twelve Morseerians sat in total silence, as did the other dozen-man squadrons flying along in identical vessels. As did the other twenty-four man, twelve ship squadrons they were escorting.

Behind them, in the distance, were the dozens of hyperdrive rings that had brought these interceptors here. Before them was the battle at hand, the forces of the Drackmarian Empire embroiled with the collective armies of this Confederacy. Their task was simple: make Splinter group into something more than a diversion. If doing that tipped the scales of fear and hopelessness in the Drackmarians favor . . . so be it.

A warning sounded as the interceptor's AI reported a sensor ping. Soon, it tagged a number of enemy starfighters, all of them approaching the group of fighters. Someone had noticed them.

The interceptors surged forward at top speeds, leaving the bombers they were escorting behind. The Confederacy had no fighters to match their speeds, no defensive turrets to track their movements. Phantom squadron and its counterparts would tear through these fighter and blaze a path of flotsam and jetsam for their bombers to follow.

Tiny, glowing specks streaked from the interceptors, their miniaturized torpedoes closing the distance in far less time than even they could. A number of explosions marked their impact, but . . . Not as many as their should be.

The Morseerian pilot called Bool let loose a torrent of rapid-fire blasts as the enemy closed within weapons range, firing his ventral jets in unison and rocketing up and out of the incoming line of fire. He hurled the craft into a tight turn, straining inertial compensators in order to beat the enemy's maneuvers and make a quick kill.

The Confederacy had heavy fighters of their own, and while their shields were able to swallow a single mini torpedo whole, their engines weren't able to keep up with the smaller, more agile Morseerian craft. There's no use in absorbing three times the damage if you can't get out of my way! Bool launched a pair of the mini torps this time, then sprayed another quick burst of fire to head off the enemy fighter as it tried to shake the torpedoes.

As his weapons fell silent to conserve and recharge their capacitors, Bool was rewarded with a brilliant explosion, and then he banked right to avoid the incoming enemy his interceptor's droid brain was warning him of.

He tapped a quick call of help over the comms, hurling his ship into one string of evasive maneuvers after another, planning to evade and distract the enemy chasing him until a wingman could solve the problem. He watched on his scopes as the friendly markers approached, waiting until the opportune moment to halt his maneuvers, cut power to the main engines, and fire his maneuvering thrusters, spinning his ship around as momentum carried it backwards; a quick burst from his lasers cut the enemy off as it attempted to flee from the pair of aiding Morseerian interceptors.

His friends streaked by, and he once more spun his ship around, reengaging engines and flying after them.




Special attack group Invisible, Drackmarian bomber squadron: Crusher

The interceptors surged ahead engaging the enemy fighters in a proactive fashion. The entire group had dropped from hyperspace just next to the planet, using its curvature and limited atmosphere to hide its arrival from the enemy. But now they were approaching that enemy, and even in the midst of a losing battle, notice was inevitable.

Soon they'd be doing a lot more than noticing. “Ready?” The pilot asked her old friend, grip tightening on the controls.

“Always,” He responded solemnly. “Try not to get us shot this time, okay?”

She hissed uncontrollably, nodding in earnest as she the reality of the situation settled in. “But that wasn't my fault,” She insisted.

“Which time?”

She hissed again, a different sort of sound. “Yes, which indeed.” It was no longer fun and games. They were approaching.

A Drackmarian bomber is essentially a small armory that has been pressurized, put into space, and strapped with ridiculously powerful engines. Its shields are weak proportional to its size, though outperforming a superiority fighter in total energy output; its maneuverability is laughable, basically depending on escorts to clear a path before this sort of approach. Its lasers are all but useless, and its size is large enough to swallow other fighters whole.

But here they were, Drackmar's bombers, on approach with their cargoes of death. Up from below they came, driving for the same weakened flank that the Splinter fleet group had driven itself into. The squadrons of bombers divided themselves into groups, each angling for a specific target, arming their weapons and waiting for optimal range.

They struck fast and hard, each bomber launching two salvos before before turning up and flying through the other side of the enemy formation, reaching for the relative safety of fleet group Decimation's nearest flank.

They would circle around and strike again, picking up a few squadrons of fighters from the Decimation group to escort them. They would cut through the enemy flank again, smashing more ships and freeing the Splinter group to move further into the enemy formation. Total victory would come soon.




Drackmarian Fleet group Eternal, Interdictor Drackmar's Chains

This Confederacy couldn't have known; they were a consortium of purely regional species, trapped in this part of the galaxy by a combination of spatial anomalies and the border of the Drackmarian Empire, an Empire they chose to make war against time and time again. This time, it would be different. This time, Emperor Draconis would ensure they never again spilled Drackmarian blood.


Of that, General Vornyt was sure. His duty was fairly simple: he was to sit beneath the Confederacy fleet, follow them wherever they tried to go, and ensure they never left this system except in chains. To facilitate his defense, the general was assigned a Drackmarian Destroyer and six Assault Frigates, the latter of which could better keep pace if the Chains had to chase down a fleeing fleet element. To deter enemy assault, a line of eight Missile Frigates was arrayed below him, facing the Confederacy formation. Any enemy warships attempting to eliminate the interdictor would first have to wade through the crashing waves of high-powered anti-capital ship missiles.

Eternal group's only task was to stay intact, and to that end they were expected to draw no undue attention to themselves. A single interdictor in a battle of this size was going to draw attention, however, and General Vornyt had been doing this long enough to know just about when that would be.

Not when they realize that victory is beyond their grasp, but when they turn to escape and realize it is being denied to them.

Admiral Beckan had arrived at the head of Fleet Group Decimation at the same time as the other three commanders, and her task was the breaking of the enemy's back. She attacked from above, her force spreading out along the length of the enemy fleet, firing turbolasers, ion cannons, and waves of missiles into anything and everything not bearing the transponder codes of the Drackmarian Empire. It was her twenty Missile Frigates, twelve Assault Frigates, Four Destroyers, and some thirty Gunships that would soon bring that realization to fruition within the enemy ranks.

Before General Sarris finished the enemy command ship and the Vice-Admiral turned the enemy flank, Vornyt would have to act. His interdictor was too important to the Emperor's wishes, too important ensuring the safety of the Empire; too important to wager on a few Drackmarian lives.

“Order the missile line to open fire,” He finally declared grimly, feeling the moment approaching. “Our escorts will move forward under their cover.”

“Sir?” The Communications officer asked, obviously confused. Drackmarian warriors were loyal, but they weren't stupid.

“You have your orders, soldier.”

“Yes, sir.”

As streams of missiles began to appear above and below, approaching convergence as they neared their targets, the Drackmarian Destroyer Stalwart opened fire with all weapons, its engines surging to life and closing on the enemy formation. The Assault Frigates followed, forming around their Destroyer and aiding in his charge.

Stalwart will hold the line. Stalwart will be the breakwater. . .





It would take a year-long campaign to finish those who escaped this broken trap, a year marked by victories and defeats stretching through a Quagmire of interstellar space General Sarris had had no intention or need of entering beforehand. Of dead soldiers and lost warships, and of a war that should have been a battle, started by a battle that should have been a massacre.

General Vornyt's “initiative” in disregarding standing orders and redeploying his forces had cost him his life, and had cost the Outer Fleet the only interdictor they had brought with them. With his defenders elsewhere and the Confederacy gripped with fear, the nearest warships swarmed the Interdictor as expected, ignoring the other vessels of the Eternal fleet group, which they would have been unable to do if those elements were still arrayed around the interdictor, serving as a barrier against the desperate Confederacy attack.

As it was, however, a Confederacy ship of some two hundred meters had impaled the Drackmarian Interdictor. Sarris had dispatched ships from the Center group to offer assistance, as he had intended to do from the start, but with no effective protection, the Interdictor was already lost. Even with the enemy command ship crippled and their left flank crushed, the enemy had enough fight left in them to run, and run they did.

Everything had hinged on the interdictor, and while an outside observer might wonder why a secondary or even tertiary interdictor had not been used in the battle, Sarris would have answered simply: if General Vornyt had done his duty, a secondary would not have been needed . . . neither would a grave marked by his name.

Peace has made too many of us soft.

General Sarris cursed Vornyt's pride as he watched the Confederacy's fleet disperse, bleeding out between the Outer Fleet's mission groups and disappearing into hyperspace. “Signal General Codru. The space battle is won; Watchtower requires reinforcement.”

Abysmal failure.