A SHATTERING DEFEAT
Galactic war has ravaged the cosmos for three months. In an attempt to break the stalemate between the two warring powers, the Alliance launches a perilous mission to liberate thousands of their captured officers from a nearby Union prison. Disaster strikes, however, and the rescue attempt fails. Distress signals are intercepted by Exeter Station, where Commander Tanic Sandorn and his crew are called upon to do what the first mission couldnât. Save the tortured prisoners of war.
In order to be a part of this rescue mission, Sandorn and the rest of his crew will need to fall in line behind a corrupt, authoritarian fleet commander, who is willing to get them all killed for the sake of his own reputation. Will this second navy operation succeed, or will the same tragedy befall them, leaving even more lives lost?
Propaganda and discontentment are on the rise. Cracks are beginning to appear in the political horizon. Not everything is as it seems within the Alliance.
THE LIBERATION OF HANFORD PENAL COLONY
This military space opera novel combines epic fleet combat, space marine ground battles, political intrigue, deception, and romance. All the best parts of science fiction.
A SHATTERING DEFEAT
Galactic war has ravaged the cosmos for three months. In an attempt to break the stalemate between the two warring powers, the Alliance launches a perilous mission to liberate thousands of their captured officers from a nearby Union prison. Disaster strikes, however, and the rescue attempt fails. Distress signals are intercepted by Exeter Station, where Commander Tanic Sandorn and his crew are called upon to do what the first mission couldnât. Save the tortured prisoners of war.
In order to be a part of this rescue mission, Sandorn and the rest of his crew will need to fall in line behind a corrupt, authoritarian fleet commander, who is willing to get them all killed for the sake of his own reputation. Will this second navy operation succeed, or will the same tragedy befall them, leaving even more lives lost?
Propaganda and discontentment are on the rise. Cracks are beginning to appear in the political horizon. Not everything is as it seems within the Alliance.
THE LIBERATION OF HANFORD PENAL COLONY
This military space opera novel combines epic fleet combat, space marine ground battles, political intrigue, deception, and romance. All the best parts of science fiction.
The Amadan docked at Hanford Station with a colossal crash. The lack of automated docking systems or external sensors, mixed with the pressure to start the stationside operation as quickly as possible, gave the ship such a jolt that many officers and marines aboard were thrown off their feet. Even with its added inertial stabilization, those on the bridge werenât spared the turbulence.
âWhat the fuck did you just do to my ship?â Captain Eton blurted at his helmsperson while steadying himself.
âSir, my apologies, the external cameras are having interferââ
âEnough, youâre relieved. Commander Simpson, take the helm,â Eton said, then turned to his mission specialist. âLieutenant Bousiller, itâs time to enact your plan. Letâs get this going as fast as we can.â
âAye, sir,â the officer replied, tapping away at his console furiously, then opening a channel to the boarding party. âGeneral Fletcher, Lieutenant Bousiller here. Mission is a-go, proceed as planned.â
His message reached the marines standing ready on the starboard wing of the Amadan in a staging area next to one of the shipâs many airlocks. Fifty marines were standing shoulder-to-shoulder in this room, each holding an overhead handle to steady themselves, equipped with an array of different weapons. Plasma burst rifles, laser pulse equalizers, grenade launchers, and conventional projectile guns. Each of them with their own strengths and weaknesses. And every marine was equipped in tactical engagement assault armorâpower armor colloquially referred to as âtea-shirtsâ. The marines aboard were ready for an all-out war, maybe over-prepared for a prison break.
The airlock terminal lit up with activity as it connected with Hanford Station. Docking clamps engaged. Jet bridge secured. Seal validated. Atmosphere intact. Door control set to manual. Everything went from red to amber to green, and Brigadier General Fletcher was ready.
âSixty-third, first task force with me. Second task force, prep in staging area B when weâre aboard. Wait till weâre in the habitat ring before boarding,â the general broadcasted, his voice sounding simultaneously in the ears of every marine shipside, and every senior officer aboard the bridge. He tapped the controls and the pale silver airlock doors parted, revealing a dark russet colored metal hull. Up close, the effects of the toxic and radioactive atmosphere were visible on the stationâs hull. The metal was bobbled and scarred, as if it were the corroded body of a planet-based sea-faring vessel.
Fletcher attached a fist-sized device to the stationâs outer airlock, tapping on the controls until the doors parted slightly. He removed the device, tapped another button, and the doors opened as wide as they could. Just enough to fit a marine through. The airlock door was at least a meter in thickness, the color of the metal fading from russet to dark gray along its depth. The inner airlock door was just a few meters into the structure, the airlock itself able to house only a dozen marines.
âSecure the staging area. Weâre going to bypass the stationâs airlock.â Fletcher started speeding up the flow of soldiers onto the station as much as possible, per Bousillerâs orders. He approached the inner door, attaching the same device to it and tapping the controls again. It quickly opened into a much bigger chamber headed towards the habitation ring. A set of suspension rails lined the ceiling, suggesting the airlock was part of a giant cargo door large enough to fit a train. The doorway was three steps up from the main floor.
âEMP grenades,â Fletcher ordered, prompting the two marines closest to him to roll out a pair each. The small devices came to a rest in the middle of the large corridor, jumped halfway to the ceiling, opened up, buzzed with a flash, then dropped to the floor again.
The lights went out.
âFlares,â Fletcher said, advising the same two marines to toss out a couple of flares to brighten the dark space.
âOn me.â He signaled, stepping through onto the station, holding his rifle up to his eye. The light from the flares with the bright torch from his helmet illuminated the cavernous room. About twenty meters away on the opposite wall was a set of doors, presumably to the habitation ring. The floor was flat and open, no cover to speak of. Ventilation panels and ducts lined the walls. He marched a few steps forward, looking down the sight of his plasma burst rifle, scanning the area carefully. The HUD inside his helmet was attempting to analyze the objects he was looking at, but failing. Text scrolled in front of his eyes repeating âscan failedâ and âunable to read scan dataâ.
âMission control, I canât get any readings down here. Please advise on environment safety.â
Back on the Amadanâs bridge, Eton had tuned into Fletcherâs helmet and was watching the slow progress, getting frustrated that the marines wouldnât simply march in. He opened a priority channel directly to the brigadier general, overriding Bousillerâs audio just as he spoke.
âGeneral, the environment is safe to proceed. Mission mandates haste. Captain Eton out.â
Fletcher frowned. Eton wasnât the mission specialist, nor did he have the information to make that judgment. Nevertheless, he followed the order.
âFirst task force, move in. Set up around the two doors, far side.â He continued scanning the area, one eye on the ceiling looking for hanging turrets, the other on the doors looking for any sign of movement.
All was quiet.
Fletcher remained standing by the airlock door as the last marine of the first task force came through. He lowered his rifle, then tapped the controls to lock the airlock doors.
âSecond task force, move up to the staging area.â He turned to the steps, surveying the area.
As soon as the airlock doors sealed, a deafening clang rang out in the room. Every light switched back on. Fletcher froze.
âAlert. Intel,â he called out, requesting information from anyone in his detachment.
Silence.
âMission control, report.â Again, silence. Fletcherâs HUD scrolled with communication, connection, and system failures.
A loud grinding noise sounded for a few seconds, followed by another tremendous clang. Fletcher turned back to the airlock, frantically tapping on the device in his hand. Nothing responded.
âLeft door, focus on electronics. Right door, prepare explosives.â His HUD started showing static now, along with the communications errors. The marines obviously had the same issues, ignoring his orders, standing to attention and looking around. Some of them were tapping the sides of their helmets to mime hearing issues, others looking to Fletcher for guidance.
A third clang sounded, and the two flares on the floor extinguished. Fletcher stood perfectly still, moving only his eyes as he watched several marines scramble to open the internal doors. His HUD went haywire. Atmospheric failure. Radioactive environment. Lethal threat detected. He remained still.
Blood-curdling screams filled the room, each one lasting only a second or two. These werenât being broadcast through his helmet, though, these were in-person screams.
The marines working closest to the internal door were the first to collapse, their bodies slumping to the ground and fizzing. As other marines moved to help their comrades, they, too, fell to the floor, each one letting out a last yell for help before perishing.
Fletcher felt his wrists tingling, just where his armor was thinnest. An icy wave of sickness pushed through his entire body. His helmetâs HUD went completely dark. No more scans, no more errors.
Within fifteen seconds, the remnants of every marine lay motionless on the floor of the corridor. Fletcher remained as still as he could, watching the armor of every soldier disintegrate and float up like burning ash rising from a fire.
He knew his fate was sealed as more of his body started burning in the most excruciating pain heâd ever felt in his life. He glanced down at the three steps in front of him, again keeping his head and body as still as he could. The shift of his eyes blurred his vision, and it felt as though someone was piercing them with a needle.
There was only one thing left to do.
Gathering his remaining strength, he moved his foot down onto the first step. It felt like wading through burning sand. He clenched his jaw and looked down again. His rifle fell to the floor with a crash, and embers rose from the ends of his arms where his hands were supposed to be. His leg melted into the step below, and his body dropped like a ragdoll onto the floor, smashing down into an explosion of ash and dust.
The crackle and fizz dissipated from the cargo bay, leaving it in complete silence.
â â â â â
Three hours earlier, Eton approached the brig with half a ration bar stuffed in his mouth. Simpsonâhis XOâand two posted marines stood to attention with sharp salutes at the doorway. The captain returned Simpsonâs gesture, but ignored the marines. Following the recent insurrection, the Alliance assigned contingents of marines across the fleet, much to the disdain of many Fleet personnel. One marine for every ten officers was the mandate, leading to overcrowding and frequent in-fighting. The genetically enhanced special operations marinesâgen-enâwere the least well-liked of them, though were ironically the most polite and hard-working.
âMorning, sir,â Simpson said, standing a full head-height shorter than the two marines next to him, one of whom was gen-en. Eton nodded, finishing his ration bar. âBeen here since oh-six-hundred, sir. Nortonâs ready to talk, but only to you.â
âBest to not keep our esteemed guest waiting then, commander.â He wiped his mouth of crumbs.
Simpson tapped the panel to open the door to the brig. Inside were another two marines, both sat at a central terminal. Six cells wrapped around the room, each fully visible from the middle, with vertical bars separating the inmates from staff. Only two of the cells were occupied: one with a young ensign, the other with an older man, both wearing Union colors.
âDismissed, marines,â Eton said, prompting both of the marines to stand, salute, and march out of the room.
âSafeties?â Eton whispered to Simpson privately, referring to the brigâs security software that erected temporary force fields whenever it detected any acts of violence.
Simpson nodded.
âCommander Simpson says youâre ready to talk, Mr Norton.â Eton addressed the older prisoner as he approached the cell.
Norton slowly sat up from his bunk, shuffling to lean against the wall. His face showed signs of torture. One eye was swollen shut, his nose misaligned with a crimson band crossing it, his lower lip fattened and purple, and dried blood matted his beard. The ensign was curled up in the fetal position faking unconsciousness, with one eye open just a micron. He, too, had been beaten bloody, and his wounds were fresher than Nortonâs.
âOh no,â Eton said, âlooks like you two have hurt yourselves. Do you need a doctor?â The disingenuous sarcasm was palpable.
âFuck you,â Norton said from the corner of his mouth, appearing to chew something briefly before spitting out what looked like part of a tooth. âYou want my help, or not?â
âAlright, Norton. Yes, I would appreciate your help.â This time, Eton played nice to get his adversary talking. âWhat can you tell me about the Hanford complex?â He gave a nod to Simpson, who started monitoring Nortonâs vitals through his datapadâa very sophisticated lie-detector.
âItâs built like a chandelier,â Norton began slowly. âFive docking stations join onto a large circular habitat ring about six kilometers in diameter. Thatâs where the inmates are. The centerâs all storage and processing, about twenty-K tall, hasnât been used in a century but still uninhabitable. Has a lot of dangerous materials inside, stay well clear of that. Then youâve got the atmospheric collector, about a hundred-K, reaches down into the atmosphere.â
Eton nodded along. Intelligence had a rough idea on the size and shape of the station, but no clues about its contents or modern usage till now. Simpson watched his datapad. Nortonâs physio was steady. Blood pressure, pulse, respiration, perspiration. Nothing indicated any lying, but also no sign of how incomplete the answers may be.
âStationâs anchored so the collector always touches the atmosphere. The only docking bay in use is the one pointing toward the planetoidâs magnetic north. They disabled the other four docking modules, thereâs no life support on those.â
âDefenses?â Eton asked bluntly.
âHeavy energy and radiation shielding, thick bulkheads. Energy weapons wonât touch it. Used to be half-submerged in the atmosphere. You know how radioactive that planetoid is?â
âInterior?â Eton said, ignoring the prisonerâs question.
Simpson threw a worried glance in Etonâs direction, wanting to interrupt and ask for more information on the radiation. Eton had a single focus though, and wasnât straying from it.
Norton paused for a few seconds, frowning, and exploring the inside of his mouth with his tongue. The metallic taste of blood was hard to ignore. âTurrets, fields, blast doors. EMP blast can take care of those.â
âPersonnel?â
âHundred or so prison guards. Not soldiers.â He knew his vitals were being monitored closely, and any lie would be picked up on.
Eton looked to Simpson again, who tapped a few keys on his datapad, then gave a quick nod. âLooks like youâre telling us the truth, Norton. Not to say I was expecting any less from an honorable man such as yourself.â That same duplicitous streak started showing through again. âAnything else you want to add?â
âNothing comes to mind right now.â Norton looked away from Eton briefly while still holding his head up. The top of one of his ears had been sliced off overnight.
Eton noticed but ignored the injury. âGot everything we need?â he addressed his XO.
âAye, sir.â Simpson nodded.
The pair turned to leave the brig as Norton shouted out to them.
âHey, what about us?â He moved towards the edge of the cell, looking at his companion opposite. âNo more torture. Clean quarters. A shower,â he pleaded. âAt least my ensign, heâs no risk to you, he knows nothing. Beat me all you want, but at least treat him with some fucking dignity.â
âYouâre right, Norton. He knows nothing. Heâs useless. Why would I waste a set of quarters on him?â Eton scoffed and smiled towards Simpson.
âIâm a captain, dammit. What happened to being treated in accordance to rank? Nearly a thousand years and the convention ends here?â he spoke desperately.
âYour rank means shit to me, captain. Just like the ranks of all those brave Alliance officers trapped in Hanford mean shit to you.â Eton shook his head, then turned to leave the brig once more.
âFuck you, Eton!â Norton shouted as the door closed. âYouâll get whatâs coming to you.â
â â â â â
The Amadanâa farende-class cruiserâwas big for its class, designed predominantly as a breach-and-board vessel for search and rescue missions. She had wide corridors, an abundance of dormitories, a thick hull, and impressive shielding. Two hangar bays flanked either side of the ship, housing eight shuttles and two fighters between them. These ancillary craft were all capable of atmospheric flight around Earth-like planets. But her focus on the human cargo within came at a cost, and that was firepower. She wouldnât dent anything larger than a small frigate.
She resembled a thick plus sign from above with an arrowhead at the fore and a set of cylindrical exhausts to the aft. She stood just over two hundred meters long and just under two hundred meters wide with enough capacity for around sixteen hundred people, though only one hundred and fifty were required to operate her. She was an ugly and clumsy ship, but she could mostly take care of herself unlike and out-and-out transport ship.
Eton and his crew were en route to the Hanford system, roughly one dayâs travel from Exeter at four-point-six AU per secondâaups. A small, isolated system with a single planetoid and three asteroid belts. The planetoid orbited in the systemâs Goldilocksâ zone but was anything but habitable, with an atmosphere full of extraordinarily radioactive materials and corrosive gases. The draw to Hanford wasnât the planetoid, though. The resources there had since been replaced by a synthetic alternative. Intelligence services from the Combined Systems Alliance suggested that the three-century-old mining station in orbit was housing a couple hundred prisoners-of-war.
While the stationâs existence wasnât news to central intelligence, its use as a prisonâor even as a POW campâwas a well-guarded secret by the Free Planetary Union. Two weeks ago, reports showed several transport ships heading from the battle-lines to Hanford. The Unionâs surprise attacks on the Alliance three months agoâespecially the widespread mutinies carried out aboard Alliance assetsâresulted in the capture of many high-ranking officers. Intel suspected these officers were locked up in Hanford, and they were soon to be liberated.
The war had only just begun, and Alliance HQ wasnât going to set the precedent of leaving personnel captive behind enemy lines this early on.
âCaptain on the bridge,â announced an army major stationed by the door, calling on the bridge crew to stand to attention and acknowledge their commanding officer. She stood up straight herself, holding her conventional rifle in front of her.
The Amadanâs bridge was the largest of any cruiser bridge, with extra stations for personnel management, tactical marine control, and shuttle control. Eton walked across the deck to mission operations before acknowledging the officers standing and saluting around him. Simpson, meanwhile, walked to the first officerâs chair, just to the right of the captainâs chair.
âAt ease,â Eton eventually said to the room, prompting the officers to return to their stations. All apart from his mission specialist, Lieutenant Bousiller, who remained standing, now very close to Eton at the mission operations station.
âSir?â
âWeâve got an in.â Eton tapped a few controls on Bousillerâs console, bringing up an external view of the Hanford complex. âEntry pointâs in the north-facing docking station. None of the others have life support. EMPs on entry, about a hundred guards, non-military. Should be a walk in the park.â
âAye, sir.â The lieutenant nodded. âSuggest we send a scout party of twelve, full combat-phes gear, assess the area, then bring reinforcements behind.â A personal hazardous environment suitâphesâwas perfect for keeping its wearer safe, with in-built life support, the ability to withstand extreme temperatures, and an attenuation coefficient comparable to a meter of lead for radiation. Though when paired with full combat gear, they resembled a bomb disposal suit from the twentieth century. They were cumbersome and extremely slow.
Eton checked the clocks, all three time zones for UTC, Exeter, and Hanford. They were already running several hours behind and hadnât even arrived in the target system yet. The mission mandated a quick sortie, not sitting round.
âWe donât have the luxury of time, Mr Bousiller. Tea-shirts only.â
âAye, sir,â Bousiller said pensively, but until now all they knew about the stationâbesides it being an ancient mining colonyâwas its location and shape. âIâll have a plan for you within the hour, sir.â
âI know you will, lieutenant.â Eton patted Bousiller on the back aggressively, forcing the man to fumble and drop his datapad.
âNav, whatâs our ETA?â Eton continued, stepping back towards the captainâs chair.
âTwo hours, sir.â
The main viewscreen at the front of the bridge defaulted to the forward-facing external cameras, showing the emptiness of space blur as they sped along at nearly two and a half thousand times the speed of light. Bright stars melted to different shades of gray and streaked slowly across the screen.
â â â â â
Two hours later, the Amadan dropped out of warp a few kilometers from the Hanford prison complex. The structure was massive, just as Norton had described. Only once it was on the viewscreen did Eton realize a six-kilometer habitation ring meant the best part of twenty kilometers in circumference. And that wasnât just a single deck, either.
âHow tall is that outer ring?â Eton queried from the captainâs chair.
âSir, one-twenty meters,â the signals watchstander replied.
âDecks?â
âUnknown, sir. Sensors canât penetrate the stationâs hull, and there arenât any windows to tell us. Just thick armor plating.â
âFuck, that thingâs huge.â Eton slumped back into his chair, running his hands through his hair until he interlocked his fingers behind his head in thought.
At one hundred and twenty meters tall, that ring could house forty decks, though with the thick shielding it was more likely to have twenty to thirty. Going off Nortonâs estimate of a hundred prison guards, there was no way Eton could split his marines to any less than fifty-officer contingents. Four parties searching twenty-five decks the best part of twenty kilometers long each? Thatâd be more than a dayâs worth of just walking corridors, let alone searching actual rooms.
Eton looked again at the station, noticing a single spire that rose several kilometers above the structure.
âIs that a comms array?â he called out again, assuming the right officer would answer.
âFrom the top, sir? Yes, sir. Rises ten-K above the center.â The response came from signals again.
Eton turned to his tactical officer. âPop it.â
âWith pleasure, sir.â
A small volley of missiles launched from the Amadan, making their way towards the station. The first fizzed out against the complexâs luminescent blue shielding but the rest reached their target, a series of explosions cascading along the pylon away from the primary structure.
âHelm, take us in to dock. Comms, tell our escort to keep close by,â Eton said, receiving a pair of audible acknowledgments in return.
âSir, proximity to this planetoid is interfering with the sensors,â the signals watchstander warned. âI canât even pick up the star, sir. Itâs all static.â
âWhat about visuals, ensign?â
âCameras working fine, sir, but we have noâŚâ
âBest keep your eyes open, then,â Eton cut his signals officer off. âBousiller, itâs time to rouse your marines.â
âAye, sir,â Bousiller replied.
â â â â â
An explosion rocked the Amadan.
âWhatâs the status of our damn marines?â Eton called back to mission operations.
âNo contact, sir. And the second task force is reporting the airlock wonât open due to a toxic atmosphere,â Bousiller replied, tapping his controls, trying to raise Fletcher.
âFuck this. Get us undocked and away from this station,â Eton said to Simpson as the ship shuddered. More hits to her hull. âAnd get me some eyes on whatever the fuckâs hitting us!â he shouted at his signals watchstander.
âDocking clamps disengaged, but weâre still connected. Permission to rip her free, sir?â Simpson asked from the helm station.
âOf course, get us off this thing now.â
âAye.â Simpson tapped on his controls.
The Amadan slowly tore free of the station which had extended its own arms to grip the cruiser. The hull rumbled as the stationâs arms tore great gashes in her armor plating.
âGot eyes on a bogey,â the signals watch called out. âLooks smaller than a frigate, maybe a corvette? Setting cameras to track.â
âTactical, take âem out.â
Every gun battery with visibility started firing toward the corvette, but the sensor interference and usual computational tracking led all shots to miss their target. The Amadan, now clear of the station, started moving away from the planetâs atmosphere and various systems came back online. The escort frigates followed suit, also relying on just visuals to track their lead ship. A further barrage of shots landed, causing the Amadanâs hull to quake again.
âSignals!â Eton became furiously impatient. âGive me some fucking intel!â
âReadings coming in now, sir.â The watchstander paused. âShit, we got a dozen corvettes out there, sir. Maybe more. Theyâre dogfighting our escort.â
âGive them some cover fire, but weâre getting out of here. This opâs a bust. Nav, plot a course for Exeter.â
âAye, sir, thirty seconds to calculate.â The ensign at navigation adjusted her posture, sitting upright and pulling the console closer to her.
The corvette swarm engulfed the two frigates, swirling around them like a murmuration of starlings. Colored lights and explosions flew out in all directions, effervescent blue flashes shimmered against the dark backdrop of space, and in a few seconds both frigates were glistening streams of space dust.
The corvettes now immediately started burning for the Amadan and opening fire. No longer were the shudders intermittent but replaced with a constant and violent turbulence. Even on the bridge in the depths of the ship, the rumbling sound of ordnance called for raised voices.
âNav, ETA?â Eton said, gripping the arms of his chair tightly.
âTen seconds, sir. Co-ordinates with helm for alignment,â the navigations watch called back.
âAligning ship now. Count it down,â Simpson replied.
The violent turbulence worsened, then a massive jolt threw the crew in all directions. Lights flickered off then on aboard the bridge. Everyone whoâd been standing was knocked down and thrown across the deck.
âOperations, report?â Eton was holding onto his chair, trying to stabilize himself.
âSir, engines down, repair crews dispatched. Major damage all decks. Multiple hull breaches.â
âFuck!â Eton screamed. âAbandon ship. Simpson, take the conn.â He stood and marched off the bridge.
âAye, sir.â The XO didnât move from the helm terminal, though, since there was noone to replace him at this point.
Eton marched quickly through the shipâs corridors, bracing himself against the walls several times as explosions rocked the deck. Officers and marines ran past as Simpsonâs voice echoed throughout the Amadan.
âAll hands, abandon ship. Repeat. All hands, abandon ship.â Simpsonâs voice echoed through the shipâs corridors.
Etonâs brow was as furrowed as it could be. He ground his teeth tightly as he moved onward. There were no marines stationed outside the brig anymore, and inside they were hastily cuffing the young ensign, ready for evacuation.
âOpen,â Eton ordered, walking up to Captain Nortonâs cell.
One of the two marines moved over to the desk in the middle of the room and tapped a few controls, opening the cell bars.
âCaptain Eton,â Norton said, âcome to escort me off your ship?â He remained sat on the metal bunk, hands on either side, steadying himself from the ongoing turbulence.
âNot exactly.â Eton drew his sidearm, aimed it at Nortonâs leg, and pulled the trigger. Nortonâs left shin exploded in a crimson mist, his foot flying off to the corner of the room, and he collapsed forward, gripping his knee with a yowl.
âNo!â the ensign yelled, trying to pull free from the marineâs grip to no avail.
âShut the fuck up.â Eton turned and fired a second shot, landing it square in the ensignâs chest, who let out a muted cough and went limp.
Norton groaned deeply. The physical pain was horrific, but paled in comparison to the emotional pain of watching a crewmate die like this. After days of unending torture. After nights of reassurance. He lifted his head to look Eton in the eye, blood slowly dripping from the corner of his mouth, tears pooling in his eyes.
âLast words, captain?â Eton spat Nortonâs rank at him as heâd done a couple of hours prior, though the confidence he had then was now replaced with pure hatred and anger.
âNo, captain,â Norton replied through gritted teeth. He was defeated in every way, but he at least found solace that Eton was, too. âHow about you?â He slowly turned his grimace into a smug grin. Despite everything heâd gone through, the Union were the victors here.
âFuck you.â Eton raised his sidearm to Nortonâs face, forcing his adversary to stare down the barrel. Norton refused to let it faze him. He was clearly suffering insurmountable pain, but focused all his remaining energy into maintaining the smile on his face.
Eton pulled the trigger.
The tale opens with a riveting description of an attack by an Alliance battleship on Hanford Station, a space prison where many Alliance POW officers are being held. When the raid ends in disaster the Alliance, in desperate need of the imprisoned officers to combat the opposing Union, commission a larger rescue fleet under the command of Commodore Flynn. To his joy Commander Sandorn, the XO at Exeter Station (which he had helped rescue some time before), is given a ship in the fleet. However Flynn was the man who had almost caused the loss of the station by withholding his ships and there is no love lost between the two. Sandorn gathers his old crew together and the fleet sets off for Hanford Station but Flynnâs strategy is poor and to Sandornâs distress they have to leave behind some of the prisoners and his girlfriend, Rosso. As well as her loss it seems Flynnâs misleading reporting of the action will seriously harm Sandorn and his crew. But Captain Anderton, head of Exeter station, has other ideasâŚ.
The world building in the book is impressive, with a documentary approach to life in Exeter Station (a hub for the transfer of military ships, personnel, and equipment) and to the battle sequences. Military jargon and the rules of intergalactic warfare are convincing, such that even non-military types like myself can understand whatâs going on - it did help that I'd enjoyed Battlestar Galactica! Although Sandornâs crew have appeared in a previous book they are still well-drawn characters here with sufficient of their back stories to allow us to relate to them. It must be said their personalities are all fairly one-dimensional as either goodies (Sandorn, his crew and Anderton) or baddies (Flynn, who is not even a good tactician) with little nuance, but I loved the engineer Durandâs sloppy salute!
After the opening incident the story slows down somewhat. Itâs one of the problems of a follow-up book that you feel you have to fill the reader in on the backstory and here those various elements are all given right at the beginning (including an overview of Exeter stationâs shipyard). Although interesting this was not gripping and the fleet doesnât get underway until Chapter 7.Â
Once launched however the action is all that could be desired and for those who love space opera and inter-galactic warfare this is an exciting Must Read.