Brigadier Arthur Ranfurly walked purposefully towards the port, passing under a sign that read ‘A BRIGHTER FUTURE’. What was the brighter future? He believed he had a very good idea of what it entailed. This very morning he was travelling to the New Imperium planet of Londonia, the seat of governmental power in the empire, from the old capital of Earth – to deliver a talk at Parliament House to make the case for his so-called Reclamation. The trip to Londonia should take around 3 days Imperial, all told, and Arthur was most fond of the Mare Infinitum. Truly, the black sea of infinity roused within him a fervour of patriotism, an overwhelming desire to conquer and control that which dared appear untameable in the face of His Most Gracious Majesty.
He stepped aboard the sloop that was to take him across the stars, the Hermes, a private spice ship chosen for its speed and low profile, making it unlikely to be accosted and its valuable cargo – Arthur himself – stolen by the very Colonists he was planning to speak out against at Parliament. It had been nearly three hundred years since the New Imperium was declared amongst the fiery ruins of Earth, and its first explorers sent into the vast unknown. Since then Arthur believed the Colonists had been left too much to their own devices, allowed to scheme and plan their so-called ‘independence’, their new barbaric ‘freedoms’ which abhorred themselves to the very nature of the Imperium in all its resplendence. Arthur would bring about a new age of royal glory; he would restore the benevolent overwatch of His Majesty and truly bring the brighter future the banner had promised.
He checked his sabre and personal monies belowdecks with the Quartermaster, a Mister Wiggins – in accordance with the New Laws Of The Seas – who deemed his funds correct and his sabre in good order, but insisted he keep it on his person for the duration of the journey, as was custom in unescorted travel such as this. ‘If you can fog a mirror, sir, you must maintain arms against pirates and scoundrels’ he declared. Arthur found this a capital statement and invited him to dine that same night, Wiggins insisted he was indisposed this night but could attend the following eve, which Arthur found an acceptable compromise. He left, dispensing with the usual strict naval formalities and simply wishing Wiggins a good day.
Not long after settling in his clean, if somewhat compact quarters, Arthur encountered the Captain of the ship himself, a Captain Caulder, who struck him as a most stout fellow. The Captain did explain to Arthur, without hesitation, the many details of the Hermes, its measurements, armaments and such. Although this did not particularly interest the Brigadier, he deigned to listen as was the proper way when talking to the Captain of any ship. He learned the vessel was lightly armed with 16 kinetic cannons a side, but its true defence was its high manoeuvrability. Being an officer of His Majesty’s Army, Arthur understood little else of what was said, but nodded and allowed the Captain his proper discourse. When the Captain had finished speaking of the cargo capacity or some such detail he invited the Brigadier to dine that night – an invitation that was accepted without delay, and Arthur parted ways with the Captain in the formal style, with each standing to attention and smartly bringing a clenched fist over their hearts.
Some minutes later, the Brigadier checked his dress in the reflector, only to find – much to his horror – that his collars were in a most improper condition. This embarrassed him deeply, as surely the Quartermaster, and more importantly the Captain, would have noticed such a significant impropriety in his uniform. He removed his jacket with haste and searched in his dunnage for his kit bag, quickly starching his facings and collars in accordance with the Officers’ Dress Codes. The whole business had Arthur rather flushed, and he decided to go abovedecks once more for fresh air.
Once on deck he observed the lookout – a small fellow of no more than sixteen years – scale the rigging and climb into the rotary turret, in preparation for take-off. Arthur concluded that the boy had the unenviable task of sitting above the ship for the duration of the journey, scouring the skies for Colonist ships. The cloudless blue sky, soon to be punctured by the vessel, was indicative of a worthy and safe journey across the Black Seas, and before long Wiggins came above to inform the Brigadier that launch would be soon. Arthur checked his slight nerves with a strong draught of brandy from his flask and headed belowdecks once more.
He found the launch to be of a most agreeable sort, the canvas – a sort of invisible shield protecting the ship from the harsh vacuum of space – was extended without issue and soon the sloop had slipped the surly bonds of Earth altogether. Arthur spent much of the day composing letters to be distributed upon his landing at the Londonia port of Olton, the nearest sky-port to Parliament House. Soon it was time for his appointment with the Captain, and so he doubly checked his dress in the reflector, ensuring his dress boots were gleaming, his scabbard was attached correctly and his hair combed smartly before setting out for the Captain’s Quarters.
He greeted Captain Caulder in much the same way as he had left him, and was surprised to find no other guests present at the table. A table set for two lay before him, and Arthur found this most improper indeed. One does not simply invite a fellow to dinner alone, unless he has something secret to discuss, of course.
This theory became cemented in Arthur’s mind as the Captain immediately proffered whisky, something properly left until the conclusion of the meal, and the Captain’s countenance spoke volumes for the words he had yet to say. The Brigadier took his seat and sipped the whisky, eager to hear what the Captain had to say. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Welcome, Brigadier. It’s a pleasure to have you aboard,” came the Captain’s formality.
“The pleasure is all mine, Captain,” came Arthur’s response, in the proper manner.
The Captain dispensed with any further formalities. “Tomorrow evening we shall come under Colonist attack, and I expect you shall be the bounty they seek”.
The Brigadier’s eyes widened, he had assumed the sloop would go unnoticed, such a small vessel travelling in the limitless darkness of the Mare Infinitum, without as much as a single escort ship, should surely be no target for Colonist attacks, given the secretive nature of his passage.
The Captain continued, undaunted by the Brigadier’s obvious discomfort. “Fear naught old boy, we’re simply luring them in, you’re no small fish and we’re sure they’ll send their best men to wrest you from the grasp of His Most Gracious Majesty. We’ve a Ship Of The Line standing by an hour behind us, the Blackfoot, are you familiar with her?”
Arthur responded in the negative, prompting the Captain to continue talking once more.
“A First Rate Ship Of The Line old boy! A marvellous vessel she is, seventy-four cannon a side, certainly enough to dispatch any unruly Colonists. She’ll come the moment we spot the devils, and blast them into the darkness!” He seemed very enthralled at the prospect of action, much to the disdain of Arthur.
The Brigadier had little stomach for hearing this, just days before the unveiling of his grand Reclamation, which he had been planning for almost half a year at this point. He had an inquiry: “But why me, Captain? Why not simply a decoy of sorts, surely this could bring about the same effect?”
“Ah, not quite old boy,” came the Captain’s reply. “You see, we’ve reason to believe there are numerous treacherers and turncoats in His Majesty’s Service these days, and recent Colonist raids appear to be far too-well orchestrated for mere coincidence. No, my fellow, they’re spying on us, and spying well. We need to draw out their most seasoned fighters so they can be crushed by the might of the Imperium!” With his final words the Captains raised a clench fist into the air, demonstrating his enthusiasm for the fight once more.
“How can we be sure it’ll be tomorrow?” asked Arthur, keenly searching for any hope of avoiding the engagement.
“Well my boy, they’re not the only ones who can spy! By God, they’re not the only ones!” The captain gave a hearty laugh and held his whisky tumbler up to the light, twisting it and inspecting something that Arthur could not guess at.
The Brigadier felt a sudden surge of nausea, which he quickly suppressed with a haughty drink of the Captain’s whisky. Having purchased his commissions over the years back on Earth, he had little stomach for serious combat, and had seen precious little of it in ten years of His Majesty’s Service. Some garrisoning patrols, a handful of executions and just two quellings of public unrest meant that Arthur hadn’t drawn his sabre in anger in almost half a decade. Having laid out the plan, the Captain took to regular conversation once more and not long passed before the servants brought out some food and two canters of a sweet wine, which did much to soothe the parched throat of the Brigadier.
The meal of quail in a splendid cherry sauce wore on and Arthur found the wine and whisky did much to calm his nerves. Whoever the cook was aboard the Hermes, they certainly knew their trade well. The Captain spoke at length of engagements he had seen, various insurrections he had put down and training exercises he had completed. He seemed confident in his ability to hold the Colonist’s attack at bay for the required hour or so until the Blackfoot could come to their aid. At the end of the meal they took a second whisky, which put Arthur firmly in the mind that he needed a good long sleep. He excused himself and his formal salute was waved away by the now-tipsy Captain, who dismissed the Brigadier with a hearty slap on the shoulder and some encouraging words.
“We’ll see the blighters bested old boy, yes we will!” called the Captain as Arthur made his way to his bed, and thence to the comforting nothingness of sleep.
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The next day Arthur arose early, cursing his inability to sleep away the nervous hours of the day. He kept himself busy working on navigation with the Captain, and they soon established the evening encounter with the Colonists would come not long after they passed the agrarian planet of Cloister, a sizeable world with a history of rebellious sentiment. The conclusion was drawn that the attackers would likely be Coilstarians, so reference books were located and the appropriate information found about the Colonist world.
Cloister had made its name as a trading post in the early days of the Imperium, storing military goods going to and exotic goods coming from the frontier. From there the population grew until it was forced to take its rightful place as an agricultural planet. In recent years the population had swollen considerably, which gave both Arthur and the Captain significant cause for concern. Densely populated and under-represented planets were the manifest home of rebellion, and all but the most strategically crucial agrarian worlds had any representation at Parliament House. The vast majority of the Imperial Forces’ work was dealing with uprisings from over-taxed lands such as these, which made them both a breeding ground of discontent and a safe haven for insurrectionists.
The whole business of reading the vast reference books unsettled Arthur considerably, who took his leave as soon as was proper, retiring to his quarters to read the Histories of the Imperium, a text he always found steadied his will. He began to read about the valorous actions of the Old Empire generals during the American Mutiny, and soon found himself lost in the exquisite details of the Boston Burning and the execution of the treacherous scum who dared defy the divine rule of His Majesty George III.
“How are you feeling, sir?” came words from the doorway. The Brigadier shot to his feet, and turning to face the uninvited guest he was relieved to see the rotund form and beaming smile of Quartermaster Wiggins.
“Just fine, old boy. Splendid, in fact!” he responded, hoping to allay any suspicion of cowardice his fellow servant may have.
“Very good sir,” said Wiggins, “the Captain has requested your presence on deck.”
Arthur was confused. “Why does the Captain summon me, Wiggins?”
“Well sir, it appears we are under attack,” said Wiggins, adding hastily, “if you’ll care to follow me sir, and bring your sabre.”
He made good time towards the decks; Arthur hurriedly re-buckled the scabbard he had lain on his bed and followed close behind.
The Brigadier stepped into the fresh air and into a maelstrom of well-regimented activity. Where before the ship seemed scarcely crewed at all she now buzzed with life, swarms of men in battle dress were rushing to and fro, preparing the Hermes for the action the Captain had anticipated so thoroughly. The same Captain who now stood at the helm, hurling a near-constant stream of orders to his men at an alarming volume, who needed no encouragement to ready themselves for the fight. “Load sharpshell!” the Captain bellowed across the deck. “Load sharpshell!” came the echoing response as each man who heard the order relayed it across the deck. The guns, which to this point had lain under tarpaulin covers, were now thrust into their proper places and loaded with ammunition by men who performed their duties with a reassuring ease. The sharpshells – true to their name – had the diamond-tips necessary to shred the canvas of an opposing ship, exposing it to the vast infinity that surrounded them. Arthur scarcely had time to take in the scene before an angled hatch in the decking was thrown open by Wiggins and the call of “muskets!” echoed across the deck. Any man without a posting on the guns scrambled to the Quartermaster, grabbing and loading muskets as quickly as they could. Arthur was all too well-acquainted with the musket, it having been the mainstay of the Imperial arsenal for well over a century.
The call of “vessel ho!” reverberated across the ship as Arthur laid eyes on the Colonist attackers for the first time. He stood in awed silence for some time; this was not what was expected. The daunting mass of the rebel vessel dwarfed the Hermes, and the Brigadier could see its vast crew frantically crawling across its deck and rigging like so many disgusting termites.
Arthur looked up, past the rigging to the rotary turret at the top of the mainmast. The young boy he’d seen the previous day was struggling to free himself from the turret when the Colonist vessel unleashed a devastating barrage of cannon fire on the Hermes, tearing holes in the canvas shield and sending limbs and blood spraying across the decking.
The turret – and what was left of the lookout – crashed straight through the deck into the midsection of the ship, where sinew mangled with wrought iron in a pool of inanimate matter. Arthur felt like the wind had been yanked from his lungs as the engineers belowdecks struggled to repair and maintain the canvas shield.
The Captain wrestled with the steering column, trying desperately to bring the Hermes, which had yet to fire a single shell at the Colonists, away from the unexpectedly large vessel. Wiggins attempted in vain to launch a salvo at the enemy, but three of the gun crews had been killed and more still taken out of action in the opening broadside of the encounter. He was knocked to the deck seconds later, taken unexpectedly by a volley fire of musketry from the decks of the rebel ship, which was now well within boarding range.
It was clear the Colonists were attempting to capture the Hermes, which did not bode well for Arthur, who struggled to remember the correct loading procedure for a musket. It was a laborious process that could be done but three times a minute, and the Brigadier had barely held one since his initial training all those years ago. It was not an officers’ weapon – and it was quickly becoming apparent that this was not an officers’ fight.
Arthur’s last thoughts were of trying to steady his hands, as a second massive volley of sharpshell tore through the Hermes, whose light canvas finally buckled under the enormous weight of fire from the Colonists, sending Arthur, the Captain, the gunners and the remains of the ship careening off into the endless Black Sea.
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Admiral Samuel Conrad, Captain of the Blackfoot and Commander of the Second Black Sea Fleet, watched from the bow as the scattered remains of the Hermes drifted by in the endless darkness. Here and there a piece of ex-human floated by, an arm, a leg, sometimes a disgorged torso – but no survivors. The Hermes, like all Black Sea ships of the Imperium, was equipped with life-vessels capable of keeping men alive for days until rescue came, with food, water and canvas enough to sustain those lucky enough to escape a doomed ship. However, not a single such boat had been found in the proximity of the Hermes. Before long it became apparent why.
“Captain!” yelled the lookout, perched high above the colossal Blackfoot in the rotary turret, “mainsection sir! The mainsection is off the starboard side!”
Conrad turned dejectedly, acutely aware that the lookout had used the salvage term ‘mainsection’ rather than any formal naval vernacular. Walking across the deck of the ship the scale of the carnage became even more apparent: the entire rear half, or something that once resembled the rear half, was drifting alongside his own ship. Riddled with sharpshell holes, pocked with musket dents and slathered in frozen human blood, the canvas was down and the life-vessels were still attached to the hull of the ship.
It was abundantly clear that there would be no survivors.
He stepped aboard the sloop that was to take him across the stars, the Hermes, a private spice ship chosen for its speed and low profile, making it unlikely to be accosted and its valuable cargo – Arthur himself – stolen by the very Colonists he was planning to speak out against at Parliament. It had been nearly three hundred years since the New Imperium was declared amongst the fiery ruins of Earth, and its first explorers sent into the vast unknown. Since then Arthur believed the Colonists had been left too much to their own devices, allowed to scheme and plan their so-called ‘independence’, their new barbaric ‘freedoms’ which abhorred themselves to the very nature of the Imperium in all its resplendence. Arthur would bring about a new age of royal glory; he would restore the benevolent overwatch of His Majesty and truly bring the brighter future the banner had promised.
He checked his sabre and personal monies belowdecks with the Quartermaster, a Mister Wiggins – in accordance with the New Laws Of The Seas – who deemed his funds correct and his sabre in good order, but insisted he keep it on his person for the duration of the journey, as was custom in unescorted travel such as this. ‘If you can fog a mirror, sir, you must maintain arms against pirates and scoundrels’ he declared. Arthur found this a capital statement and invited him to dine that same night, Wiggins insisted he was indisposed this night but could attend the following eve, which Arthur found an acceptable compromise. He left, dispensing with the usual strict naval formalities and simply wishing Wiggins a good day.
Not long after settling in his clean, if somewhat compact quarters, Arthur encountered the Captain of the ship himself, a Captain Caulder, who struck him as a most stout fellow. The Captain did explain to Arthur, without hesitation, the many details of the Hermes, its measurements, armaments and such. Although this did not particularly interest the Brigadier, he deigned to listen as was the proper way when talking to the Captain of any ship. He learned the vessel was lightly armed with 16 kinetic cannons a side, but its true defence was its high manoeuvrability. Being an officer of His Majesty’s Army, Arthur understood little else of what was said, but nodded and allowed the Captain his proper discourse. When the Captain had finished speaking of the cargo capacity or some such detail he invited the Brigadier to dine that night – an invitation that was accepted without delay, and Arthur parted ways with the Captain in the formal style, with each standing to attention and smartly bringing a clenched fist over their hearts.
Some minutes later, the Brigadier checked his dress in the reflector, only to find – much to his horror – that his collars were in a most improper condition. This embarrassed him deeply, as surely the Quartermaster, and more importantly the Captain, would have noticed such a significant impropriety in his uniform. He removed his jacket with haste and searched in his dunnage for his kit bag, quickly starching his facings and collars in accordance with the Officers’ Dress Codes. The whole business had Arthur rather flushed, and he decided to go abovedecks once more for fresh air.
Once on deck he observed the lookout – a small fellow of no more than sixteen years – scale the rigging and climb into the rotary turret, in preparation for take-off. Arthur concluded that the boy had the unenviable task of sitting above the ship for the duration of the journey, scouring the skies for Colonist ships. The cloudless blue sky, soon to be punctured by the vessel, was indicative of a worthy and safe journey across the Black Seas, and before long Wiggins came above to inform the Brigadier that launch would be soon. Arthur checked his slight nerves with a strong draught of brandy from his flask and headed belowdecks once more.
He found the launch to be of a most agreeable sort, the canvas – a sort of invisible shield protecting the ship from the harsh vacuum of space – was extended without issue and soon the sloop had slipped the surly bonds of Earth altogether. Arthur spent much of the day composing letters to be distributed upon his landing at the Londonia port of Olton, the nearest sky-port to Parliament House. Soon it was time for his appointment with the Captain, and so he doubly checked his dress in the reflector, ensuring his dress boots were gleaming, his scabbard was attached correctly and his hair combed smartly before setting out for the Captain’s Quarters.
He greeted Captain Caulder in much the same way as he had left him, and was surprised to find no other guests present at the table. A table set for two lay before him, and Arthur found this most improper indeed. One does not simply invite a fellow to dinner alone, unless he has something secret to discuss, of course.
This theory became cemented in Arthur’s mind as the Captain immediately proffered whisky, something properly left until the conclusion of the meal, and the Captain’s countenance spoke volumes for the words he had yet to say. The Brigadier took his seat and sipped the whisky, eager to hear what the Captain had to say. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Welcome, Brigadier. It’s a pleasure to have you aboard,” came the Captain’s formality.
“The pleasure is all mine, Captain,” came Arthur’s response, in the proper manner.
The Captain dispensed with any further formalities. “Tomorrow evening we shall come under Colonist attack, and I expect you shall be the bounty they seek”.
The Brigadier’s eyes widened, he had assumed the sloop would go unnoticed, such a small vessel travelling in the limitless darkness of the Mare Infinitum, without as much as a single escort ship, should surely be no target for Colonist attacks, given the secretive nature of his passage.
The Captain continued, undaunted by the Brigadier’s obvious discomfort. “Fear naught old boy, we’re simply luring them in, you’re no small fish and we’re sure they’ll send their best men to wrest you from the grasp of His Most Gracious Majesty. We’ve a Ship Of The Line standing by an hour behind us, the Blackfoot, are you familiar with her?”
Arthur responded in the negative, prompting the Captain to continue talking once more.
“A First Rate Ship Of The Line old boy! A marvellous vessel she is, seventy-four cannon a side, certainly enough to dispatch any unruly Colonists. She’ll come the moment we spot the devils, and blast them into the darkness!” He seemed very enthralled at the prospect of action, much to the disdain of Arthur.
The Brigadier had little stomach for hearing this, just days before the unveiling of his grand Reclamation, which he had been planning for almost half a year at this point. He had an inquiry: “But why me, Captain? Why not simply a decoy of sorts, surely this could bring about the same effect?”
“Ah, not quite old boy,” came the Captain’s reply. “You see, we’ve reason to believe there are numerous treacherers and turncoats in His Majesty’s Service these days, and recent Colonist raids appear to be far too-well orchestrated for mere coincidence. No, my fellow, they’re spying on us, and spying well. We need to draw out their most seasoned fighters so they can be crushed by the might of the Imperium!” With his final words the Captains raised a clench fist into the air, demonstrating his enthusiasm for the fight once more.
“How can we be sure it’ll be tomorrow?” asked Arthur, keenly searching for any hope of avoiding the engagement.
“Well my boy, they’re not the only ones who can spy! By God, they’re not the only ones!” The captain gave a hearty laugh and held his whisky tumbler up to the light, twisting it and inspecting something that Arthur could not guess at.
The Brigadier felt a sudden surge of nausea, which he quickly suppressed with a haughty drink of the Captain’s whisky. Having purchased his commissions over the years back on Earth, he had little stomach for serious combat, and had seen precious little of it in ten years of His Majesty’s Service. Some garrisoning patrols, a handful of executions and just two quellings of public unrest meant that Arthur hadn’t drawn his sabre in anger in almost half a decade. Having laid out the plan, the Captain took to regular conversation once more and not long passed before the servants brought out some food and two canters of a sweet wine, which did much to soothe the parched throat of the Brigadier.
The meal of quail in a splendid cherry sauce wore on and Arthur found the wine and whisky did much to calm his nerves. Whoever the cook was aboard the Hermes, they certainly knew their trade well. The Captain spoke at length of engagements he had seen, various insurrections he had put down and training exercises he had completed. He seemed confident in his ability to hold the Colonist’s attack at bay for the required hour or so until the Blackfoot could come to their aid. At the end of the meal they took a second whisky, which put Arthur firmly in the mind that he needed a good long sleep. He excused himself and his formal salute was waved away by the now-tipsy Captain, who dismissed the Brigadier with a hearty slap on the shoulder and some encouraging words.
“We’ll see the blighters bested old boy, yes we will!” called the Captain as Arthur made his way to his bed, and thence to the comforting nothingness of sleep.
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The next day Arthur arose early, cursing his inability to sleep away the nervous hours of the day. He kept himself busy working on navigation with the Captain, and they soon established the evening encounter with the Colonists would come not long after they passed the agrarian planet of Cloister, a sizeable world with a history of rebellious sentiment. The conclusion was drawn that the attackers would likely be Coilstarians, so reference books were located and the appropriate information found about the Colonist world.
Cloister had made its name as a trading post in the early days of the Imperium, storing military goods going to and exotic goods coming from the frontier. From there the population grew until it was forced to take its rightful place as an agricultural planet. In recent years the population had swollen considerably, which gave both Arthur and the Captain significant cause for concern. Densely populated and under-represented planets were the manifest home of rebellion, and all but the most strategically crucial agrarian worlds had any representation at Parliament House. The vast majority of the Imperial Forces’ work was dealing with uprisings from over-taxed lands such as these, which made them both a breeding ground of discontent and a safe haven for insurrectionists.
The whole business of reading the vast reference books unsettled Arthur considerably, who took his leave as soon as was proper, retiring to his quarters to read the Histories of the Imperium, a text he always found steadied his will. He began to read about the valorous actions of the Old Empire generals during the American Mutiny, and soon found himself lost in the exquisite details of the Boston Burning and the execution of the treacherous scum who dared defy the divine rule of His Majesty George III.
“How are you feeling, sir?” came words from the doorway. The Brigadier shot to his feet, and turning to face the uninvited guest he was relieved to see the rotund form and beaming smile of Quartermaster Wiggins.
“Just fine, old boy. Splendid, in fact!” he responded, hoping to allay any suspicion of cowardice his fellow servant may have.
“Very good sir,” said Wiggins, “the Captain has requested your presence on deck.”
Arthur was confused. “Why does the Captain summon me, Wiggins?”
“Well sir, it appears we are under attack,” said Wiggins, adding hastily, “if you’ll care to follow me sir, and bring your sabre.”
He made good time towards the decks; Arthur hurriedly re-buckled the scabbard he had lain on his bed and followed close behind.
The Brigadier stepped into the fresh air and into a maelstrom of well-regimented activity. Where before the ship seemed scarcely crewed at all she now buzzed with life, swarms of men in battle dress were rushing to and fro, preparing the Hermes for the action the Captain had anticipated so thoroughly. The same Captain who now stood at the helm, hurling a near-constant stream of orders to his men at an alarming volume, who needed no encouragement to ready themselves for the fight. “Load sharpshell!” the Captain bellowed across the deck. “Load sharpshell!” came the echoing response as each man who heard the order relayed it across the deck. The guns, which to this point had lain under tarpaulin covers, were now thrust into their proper places and loaded with ammunition by men who performed their duties with a reassuring ease. The sharpshells – true to their name – had the diamond-tips necessary to shred the canvas of an opposing ship, exposing it to the vast infinity that surrounded them. Arthur scarcely had time to take in the scene before an angled hatch in the decking was thrown open by Wiggins and the call of “muskets!” echoed across the deck. Any man without a posting on the guns scrambled to the Quartermaster, grabbing and loading muskets as quickly as they could. Arthur was all too well-acquainted with the musket, it having been the mainstay of the Imperial arsenal for well over a century.
The call of “vessel ho!” reverberated across the ship as Arthur laid eyes on the Colonist attackers for the first time. He stood in awed silence for some time; this was not what was expected. The daunting mass of the rebel vessel dwarfed the Hermes, and the Brigadier could see its vast crew frantically crawling across its deck and rigging like so many disgusting termites.
Arthur looked up, past the rigging to the rotary turret at the top of the mainmast. The young boy he’d seen the previous day was struggling to free himself from the turret when the Colonist vessel unleashed a devastating barrage of cannon fire on the Hermes, tearing holes in the canvas shield and sending limbs and blood spraying across the decking.
The turret – and what was left of the lookout – crashed straight through the deck into the midsection of the ship, where sinew mangled with wrought iron in a pool of inanimate matter. Arthur felt like the wind had been yanked from his lungs as the engineers belowdecks struggled to repair and maintain the canvas shield.
The Captain wrestled with the steering column, trying desperately to bring the Hermes, which had yet to fire a single shell at the Colonists, away from the unexpectedly large vessel. Wiggins attempted in vain to launch a salvo at the enemy, but three of the gun crews had been killed and more still taken out of action in the opening broadside of the encounter. He was knocked to the deck seconds later, taken unexpectedly by a volley fire of musketry from the decks of the rebel ship, which was now well within boarding range.
It was clear the Colonists were attempting to capture the Hermes, which did not bode well for Arthur, who struggled to remember the correct loading procedure for a musket. It was a laborious process that could be done but three times a minute, and the Brigadier had barely held one since his initial training all those years ago. It was not an officers’ weapon – and it was quickly becoming apparent that this was not an officers’ fight.
Arthur’s last thoughts were of trying to steady his hands, as a second massive volley of sharpshell tore through the Hermes, whose light canvas finally buckled under the enormous weight of fire from the Colonists, sending Arthur, the Captain, the gunners and the remains of the ship careening off into the endless Black Sea.
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Admiral Samuel Conrad, Captain of the Blackfoot and Commander of the Second Black Sea Fleet, watched from the bow as the scattered remains of the Hermes drifted by in the endless darkness. Here and there a piece of ex-human floated by, an arm, a leg, sometimes a disgorged torso – but no survivors. The Hermes, like all Black Sea ships of the Imperium, was equipped with life-vessels capable of keeping men alive for days until rescue came, with food, water and canvas enough to sustain those lucky enough to escape a doomed ship. However, not a single such boat had been found in the proximity of the Hermes. Before long it became apparent why.
“Captain!” yelled the lookout, perched high above the colossal Blackfoot in the rotary turret, “mainsection sir! The mainsection is off the starboard side!”
Conrad turned dejectedly, acutely aware that the lookout had used the salvage term ‘mainsection’ rather than any formal naval vernacular. Walking across the deck of the ship the scale of the carnage became even more apparent: the entire rear half, or something that once resembled the rear half, was drifting alongside his own ship. Riddled with sharpshell holes, pocked with musket dents and slathered in frozen human blood, the canvas was down and the life-vessels were still attached to the hull of the ship.
It was abundantly clear that there would be no survivors.