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The original was posted on /r/hfy by /u/KhornFlaex on 2024-10-29 12:51:23+00:00.

He peeked out for a split-second, only to immediately back away when multiple projectiles flew way too close to his face. At least a dozen more iron bolts crashed near the edges of the rock he was hiding behind. The message was clear: "you shall not pass." He cursed. Nothing he could really do but comply. The company had been ambushed as it was moving up the river, towards the entrance to city-5. A sizeable group of infantry started shooting at them from the forest to the left six minutes prior. The bastards somehow managed to elude the scouting force entirely, which was now stranded and surrounded. The tanks had to hide inside the water after anti-armour rockets started flying, and the gunners found themselves unable to fire back.

What a dumb situation. One hundred and sixty men, doing their best to find some cover in the rocky and uneven terrain of the riverside. Twenty more clutching to their lives in the thick fungal undergrowth, completely surrounded by the enemy. The grim train of thought was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a soldier beside him, sliding into cover behind his same rock. The IFF immediately recognised her as the captain of the eighth company. She fired a short burst into the bushes, showing far more courage than him, before staring him down.

"Where is your squad, sergeant?" "Scattered, ma'am." "You wounded?" "No, ma'am." "Then get up and follow me. We must get to the higher ground." He scoffed. "Pointless. We're not making it without some heavy fire support."

She looked like she was about to reply, but didn't. As the adrenaline wore off just enough she realised the same thing: they were currently powerless. She cursed, and switched the radio to the global company channel. "Sit tight everyone. I'm requesting orbital support."

As the battle raged below, above it was unnervingly quiet. Radio chatter was low. Each one of the bright, dagger-like ships was busy making all sorts of checks and tests, ensuring the full combat capability of the vessel. The atmosphere was tense, each member of the numerous crews hiding the stress of the upcoming battle behind a cold, professional attitude.

"Turret gimbal test." "Testing."

The admiral spoke with authority and confidence. He was a veteran, having fought some of the most hellish engagements against the Centaurs. His crew, however, was not. The technicians and pilots of the Nile were mostly academy-fresh. Same with the rest of the sixth fleet. The Centaur war took a heavy toll on the fleet and FPAO alike, and the Federation had not yet fully recovered. This made the current war even more of a folly.

"Turret test is green, weapon coverage optimal." "Good. Proceed-" "Admiral?" Admiral Robinson hated to be interrupted, but it was the comms officer who spoke. "What is it?" "Incoming from the surface. It's the eighth company." "Open the channel."

There were no introductions or formalities. "We need orbital support." "Denied." "...What?" "The fleet is out of range, and preparing to engage the enemy in space combat. We cannot afford to move any ships into low orbit at the moment." "We're getting torn apart!" "Complain with HQ. Robinson out." "Fucking-"

He sighed. What he just did was horrible, yes, but he had no choice. The only thing he could do now was win this battle fast and see if there were any survivors on the surface. Although winning would be less than easy. The geo-stat probes had detected the remaining neuvean fleet in orbit around the homeworld on an interception course with the fifth federation fleet. All good so far. Until an entire battlegroup who no-one knew existed worm-holed seventy-thousand kilometres above the planet (a desperate move, no doubt, as that was hardly a safe distance for an interstellar jump), and moved to reinforce the defence fleet. The fifth called for backup, and the sixth answered.

"Admiral, all ships are reporting. The fifth fleet is hailing us." "Open channel." "Robinson. Good to have you with us." "Likewise, Harun. We'll support you from a lower altitude, as agreed." "Yes. Just keep in mind, siege ship Aurelian is open and exposed. If things get bad, we expect you to take point and protect the asset." "Of course. A siege ship is too valuable."

The Nile's radar officer interrupted the two admirals. "Neuvean defence fleet inside weapons range in five minutes. High-orbit battlegroup is descending fast, will be in range in eight." "Very well, we are ready. Harun, we'll support you. Good luck." "Got it, Robinson. Good luck."

And the radio went silent. Robinson took three long breaths, and lowered the visor on his face. Then, the cables connected to the back of his skull. As soon as he opened his eyes, he was floating in space, his body transformed into the smooth and thick hull of the Nile. Data was flowing all around him, orbital vectors, radar feedback, weapon status, engine throttle and, most importantly for him, fleet report. His officers and the pilot were with him, thanks to the shared neural link. When in full combat mode, the bridge crew and the ship become a single organism, their single minds, experience and expertise working in absolute unison with the assistance of the powerful shipboard computer. With the neural link, giving orders and their execution becomes a matter of milliseconds.

"Three minutes to contact." The radar officer did not speak, but Robinson understood nonetheless. Forty-two vessels in the defence fleet, seventy-one in the surprise battlegroup. The latter was three minutes late. This could be exploited, as the single fleet was nearly outnumbered two-to-one on its own. All combined, however, the Federation was severely outgunned. Robinson spent a few seconds looking at the menacing radar blips of the approaching armada before starting to give orders.

"Close heat panels." "Closing."

The enemy was just doing the same. One after the other, the enemy's heat signatures disappeared into nothing. From now on, only radar could be relied upon.

"Arrange ships to face the minor fleet." "Engaging vector thrusters..."

The massive battlecruiser moved, pivoting around its center of mass, in order to show its sharp edges and tip to the enemy. This was the optimal angle to engage. The other ships in the battle formation followed the example. A hundred-kilometre wide field of shining white-grey arrowheads, all pointing towards a still invisible enemy. The distance was still too great to spot the long, dark ships with the naked eye. Still, an awe-inspiring sight.

"One minute."

Robinson took one, last deep breath, knowing full well it could be his last. Space warfare is cruel, brutal, and impersonal. Each ship down could very well mean the loss of dozens of lives, but it's easy to forget when you're in the midst of the firestorm. In the next few minutes, hundreds would die.

Inhale. Exhale.

"Load missiles."

Massive motors whirred to life, moving the twenty-metre long vectors at blistering speed inside the depressurised bowels of the ship. Deadly warheads were hastily screwed on top, before getting unceremoniously slammed into the firing port. And the ship was quiet again. Waiting.

"Contact in thirty..."

Time seemed to slow down. For Robinson, this was by far the most unnerving part of any battle. The uncertainty of the first moments, wondering who would win, lose, live or die. Life hanging by a thread. Any missile, bolt or random piece of debris could spell his demise. His, and everyone else's.

"Ten seconds..."

"Five..."

"In range!" "Fire!"

In a split-second, almost a hundred magnetic rail-launchers ejected the thick spears of doom into the cold void. As soon as they were a hundred metres away from the ships their massive liquid-fuel boosters turned on with what would have been a booming roar, were they not in space. A maddening acceleration, and they were gone, too far to be recognised if not for the bright plume of their engines.

In another circumstance, the admiral would have preferred to carefully test the enemy's defences with some probing attacks. But not today. This battle was a race against time. Both for the second incoming fleet, and the two hundred humans who desperately needed help from above.

The missiles from the fifth fleet joined the mad race, adding up to just below two hundred warheads. Halfway to their destination, the opposing sides' weapons crossed each other. Heat sensors went berserk, IFF systems marking absolutely anything vaguely unknown as hostile; PD turrets began tracking their targets with an uncanny, mechanical focus. Rangefinders counting down, not the time, but the distance; in a few seconds, they were past the fifty-kilometre mark.

Hundreds of guns started firing into the void. Thousands of aluminum casings ejected in less than a second, barrels spinning and smoking, the stream of bullets tracing long, bright beams into the night. Dozens of high-end quantum computers were directing the astonishing wall of armour-piercing projectiles, calculating, analysing, predicting and optimising. Tens of missiles were utterly obliterated, engines destroyed, leaking fuel, crushing themselves under their own acceleration as soon as the supporting structure's integrity was compromised.

Almost every missile was neutralised, their broken bodies drifting past the fleet, into some random orbit, where they would remain for the next several millennia. Almost every missile. Four got through. They smashed into the ships, sinking slightly into the hull, before detonating their four-hundred kiloto...

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