War Fleet: Resistance

set, sir.”
“Then let’s go to FTL-warp.”

27
The modular fleet spanned as far as the eye could see, at the edge of the Ripley sector, a long way from the human super-dreadnought shipyard the Arstans so feared and the sun that would destroy it all. A mesh of shield, weapons, scanning, energy, boarding, and other functional modules had been arranged in such coordinated latticework fashion that the untrained observer wouldn’t be able to tell one Arstan ship from the next.
But Olsen would.
It wouldn’t be the first time Rear Admiral Aarsh had encountered him, but this time, he would make sure it was the last.
He’d encountered Olsen when he was a rear admiral at the Battle of Makorest, in a battle the humans knew as the Grashorn incident. He’d taken down most of the fleet, but Olsen’s flagship had escaped. Even though he’d claimed victory over the humans, he’d had to go back home with his head bowed in shame. According to Arstan tradition, a battle wasn’t truly won until he had a trophy from it — something belonging to the commander of the opposing fleet that proved they’d been annihilated for good.
Rear Admiral Aarsh, commanding officer of both the Kinlysta flagship and this flotilla, a wealthy duke and cousin second-removed of His Excellency Lord Empire of the Arstan Civilization, scanned the curved 360-degree viewscreen with admiration. He sat in the CIC, a roomy control center compared to most Arstan builds. Around him, about a hundred Arstans worked rigorously at their curved desks, making sure that each module was in the right place to deliver maximum effect. Their tails swished behind them as they worked, and there came an occasional grunt as an officer raised his hand to his mouth, let off a silent yawn, and then hunched back over his control panel.
Many Arstans snubbed this kind of work. They thought a good life shouldn’t be spent behind a desk, but out farming in a field or wading through swampland with a cannon on a shoulder and a rifle at the hip. Jobs that required strength and, occasionally, brutality. But everyone on this ship knew that it was upon the Arstan battleships where history was made. And if they ever showed any hint of not understanding that, they received a flogging until they did.
The scent of oleander filled the room — a fragrance that Aarsh had encountered in human slave colonies and grown partial to. That, and the taste of Sumatran coffee that lingered at the back of his long tongue.
In the foreground, against a backdrop line of Arstan weapons modules, a speck of white light appeared on the viewscreen. This suddenly grew, and then faded away to reveal a sleek-lined alien ship.
The Tauian was here, and it was hailing Rear Admiral Aarsh.
“Bring him on screen,” Aarsh said to no one in particular. He didn’t need to address crew members by name here. They followed his orders as a unit and did as they’d been trained.
A rectangle appeared on the screen next to the Tauian vessel. Ambassador Oort glowed out from it, the hues of his skin changing ever so slightly as he talked. “Greetings, Rear Admiral Aarsh,” it said.
“And to you.” Aarsh wouldn’t give the Tauian the title of Frande. Only those in the royal family, and Aarsh’s superiors, had that privilege. “I trust you are here to give a report.”
“I believe you are referring to the Ripley sector. Things are progressing well, but still, we cannot allow for any disruptions.”
“Perfectly understandable,” Aarsh replied. “And you can probably see that our fleet is well prepared. The Tapper cannot get past this fleet, so long as you’ve done your part.”
A hatch opened on the side of the Tauian vessel, and out of it floated a spherical object no larger than an exploration shuttle. Aarsh flinched, concerned that it might be a bomb, and he almost shouted out to prepare battle stations. But the rational part of his mind took over. Though he didn’t quite trust the Tauian — no one in high circles acted purely on altruistic objectives, such as Oort claimed — the alien had no reason to attack now.
“I see you’re alarmed, Rear Admiral Aarsh,” the alien said. “But I merely wanted to deliver the warp-jammer you asked for. Such a primitive technology, and yet your galaxy hasn’t proven capable of discovering it yet.”
“If you send us the schematics, then we can set to work on it immediately.”
“Oh, but it isn’t our place to interfere in the research progress of a civilization. Not unless we have the express permission of my superiors.”
“Very well. So how do we use this?”
“It’s already set up. I’ve done my job; now make sure you do yours. And remember, we want as many humans captured alive as possible. Captain Olsen and his crew know of the location of Fleet Admiral Frega, and the Arstan cannot be allowed to continue his plans.”
Aarsh lifted and interlocked his hands, letting his claws graze the topmost knuckles of his fingers. “As you wish,” he said. “We will try to cause minimum damage. But if we need to annihilate the ship and everyone on it, we will. Please remember this fleet is under Arstan, and not your, command.”
“We’ll cross that bridge if we ever come to it,” Ambassador Oort said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have many more important meetings to attend.”
Before Aarsh could even respond, the Tauian ship ghosted out of view. Aarsh tightened his grip on his hands. The fact that the Tauian was gallivanting from system to system in a series of meetings concerned him. Was it cavorting with the other civilizations too? Regardless, now was his chance to complete a job he’d started fifteen years ago.
Captain Olsen was finally within his grasp.


28
FTL-warp was one sensation no one quite got used to. Though every Marine and crew member would go through rigorous conditioning to battle the vertigo that would send a normal man vomiting, still you couldn’t move one muscle when traveling at this speed.