Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Bridge 

A really BIG view screen dominates this room. It should since it is the entire ceiling. This massive screen is visible from the main hatch (and anywhere else in the room), as the room is tilted down from the main hatch and towards the bow of the ship. At a 3:2 ratio, it is not a steep drop and the tilt does provide an excellent view of the entire room's contents from the back.

The second thing that is so noticeable about this room is the central staircase. Running down the middle from the back to the fore of the room it divides the room into two sets of tiered workstations, but more noticeable is that its made of a dark wood. Its holly stoned surface gleams darkly in the low lighting of the room and the silver inlaying adds bright lines of reflection to the darker hue of the wood.

The tiered workstations themselves are the third and last notable thing about this otherwise utilitarian room. Each workstation is a separate 'pod', designed as a standalone escape pod but with all the functionality of a standard fleet workstation. Tiered one above the other, they're unmarked with any insignia other then the ship's ID number and would be indistinguishable from each other save for the small brass plate inlayed in the wood of the staircase. Each plate is engraved with black lettering and marks the function of each pod as they cascade down the slope of the room; the command, engineering and operations pods on one side, with tactical, communications, and navigation pods on the other.

Cyral snaps to attention and barks, "Captain on DECK!"

Willoughby sits in the captain's chair, cane leaned against the chair's armrest. He holds a cup of tea and reads off of a data display in front of him.

Walters sits at his ready station, frowning with concentration as he taps away at his console. There's a few fierce taps, and then a brief nod as he finalizes preparations of the missile systems.

Rodden sits at the helm, his expression void except for a hint of a smile at the corner of a lip. His eyes rove over the displays in front of him as he clears the ship.

Joshua stands at the rear of the bridge near the ladder, his gaze up at the viewscreen. His arms clasped behind his back, he carries a stern expression

Drae remains near the hatch in the back, out of the way, watching- quiet but alert.

Cyral sits at his assigned console and checks and rechecks it and it is marked by a plethora of green lights. He reports, "Port guns Green and Five by Five. Ready to give whatfor and blazing Hell Captain Sir."

"Right, then, gentlemen," Willoughby says, setting his teacup down and looking out over the bridge. "You know the drill, what? Once more over the plan: the minelayers do their thing if the Phyrrians launch sappers right away; otherwise, they fall back. Fighters in space as soon as we drop out, shields up right after. Move in once the sappers have been dealt with; take down the Phyrrian capital ships.

"Sir, forward tubes one and two ready," Walters announces. "Awaiting orders to load and arm torpedoes." There's a pause. "Turreted launcher also ready, additionally waiting for orders to load and arm submunitions." A frown lights on his face. "May those bastards see the face of hell this eve, for our honor lies at their feet."

Rodden turns to face the captain and gives a quick nod and "Yes, Captain."

Joshua is pulled from his watching of the stars on the screen and likewise nods to Willoughby. "Understood, sir," he says in a dry professional tone, "My men are already briefed as such."

Drae nods, still watching the screen.

Cyral cycles his console so as to be ready. He waits expectantly for orders. He waits silently but with an eager muderous gleam. He chews his lip.

Willoughby leans back in his chair. "Right then. They beat us to New Luna, and we know how that turned out. Let's show them what we organics can do, what?"

"Rodger, sir," Walters replies softly, pressing a call button for some tea of his own. He then folds his hands in his lap, waiting for the inevitable to occur.

The General watches as comms talks and the station's modified freighters launch into space and head towards their positions with the sivadian light ships, "Claymore on stand-by, Riposte Group on stand-by." His voice is calm, almost bored, authoritive, he turns to Martin, "No yelling when I'm concentrating please." He continues talking to comms, "Marines are prepped, order them to take their positions thank you." A final order, "Confirm civilians are locked down." A nod from comms confirming all his orders, Gladstone smiles, "Good work people, let's go kick some phyrrian butt."

"Shall I set a course, sir?" Rodden presses from his seat at the helm.

Joshua stands at the rear of the bridge and remains silent, hands clasped behind him and looking sternly at the view screen.

Drae remains motionless, only the white on her knuckles of her hands, which are clasped uncharacteristically behind her back, show the stress.

Cyral waits further on orders. He clears his throat. He says, "Can we have some Ratings do on-site system checks. I'm getting green lights even during diagnostics. This ISN'T the Indie but I'm pretty sure there are back-ups."

Sunpelt merlps softly, keeping to the side and out of Gladestone's way as she looks at the screens and the commands wipping through the computers.

Martin nods and taps the Marine Comand Comm. "Secure civilians. Fire Teams, report." He says walking a few feet way from the General. There is a few moments pause before the various squads around the station start to report back in.

"Izolda," says the General. "Reconfigure the holographic module to show the Waldheim system, update planetary system to our exit time from transit space. Projected fleet position on display. Continuous updates based on sensor readings upon arrival. Thank you." A small smile to the station's resident AI. The General glances over at Sunpelt, "Make yourself useful, man secondary weapon station." He then presses a button on his console, "General Gladstone to Allied Fleet, confirm you're green for go." Red squares next to each ship name turn green on his console as the confirmation signals of various ships come in. Not all yet though.

"Claymores, report." Rukais' voice comes across the comms, along with the rest of the pilots all checking in.

Shortly, the allied forces arrange themselves into formation and make the jump to Waldheim. They appear a distance from the planet itself, fifty-four ships crewed by His Majesty's Finest the bulk of the attack force. At the center of the formation are HMS Indefatigable and one of her sister ships, HMS Vindictive, First-Rate carriers. Four older First-Rates, without the fighter bays, flank them, and spread out to screen the six big ships are two dozen Second- and Third-Rates, and as many more frigates, with the Regreb Bay and the New Lunite forces on the fleet's right flank. Those ships that have fighters deploy them, and the scanners on the RNS ships search space for Phyrrian contacts.

Sunpelt merlps softly as she shakes her head. Flicking her ears as she straightens up. Walking over to secondary weapon station. Sitting down, before wiggleing a bit to fit her tail through the back with a grimace. "I hate tailess seats.." Flicking her ears slightly as she flicks in a few commands into the console. Folding her ears back. "Not like the End's systems..." Flicking through a few more commands, working fast at getting a feel for the systems while booting the terminal up.

Phyrrian contacts appear numerous, pinging the sensor displays with staccato bursts as the Allied fleet resolves from FTL to sublight. Twenty-four of the massive, blocky capital ships, each bristling with guns and swarmed by dozens of automated fighters that are waiting for something else to cloud around. Like, say, the Allied fleet. The fighters start rocketing toward the fleet, leading the way for hundreds of sapper drones that spill from the bays of the capital ships.

"Hold our place here, Mr. Rodden," Willoughby says, leaning forward. "Let the minelayers do their work. Mr. Walters-Cobb! Fire a torpedo on the sapper formation on fleet's mark; the other ships with torpedoes will be joining you this time."

"Rodger sir!" Walters belts out, busy at his console. There's a pause, and a grind of hydraulics. "Torpedo in tube." A couple of taps at his console. "Warhead armed. Awaiting mark, sir." A specialists moves unseen on the bridge, putting a battle-teacup next to the Sixth Lieutenant. There's a brief nod from Walters as he takes a sip, zeroing in on the targets, trying to find a trajectory to maximize Phyrrian losses.

"Aye aye, sir," Rodden says, looking back toward the helm console, pulling back on the main thrusters.

Joshua walks toward the upper railing of the bridge and leans over it with bracing arms. He idly adjusts his cockade hat before placing the arm back under him. His gaze remains steely on the view screen.

Drae shifts from one foot to the other, useless, and yet grateful for the opportunity to watch the battle. Her eyes follow the specialist exiting the bridge and restraightens her shoulders.

Martin stands silently for a few moments then lets out a grunt once the Sappers come up on screen. "Fire team. Phyrrians inbound. Last minute check. Be ready if the breach." He barks into then says something in Latin.

The New Luna Militia's Claymore Squadron jets out into the void, keeping in formation with the Sivadian fighters. Over the low range comms, a consistant source of orders issues between them.

"Confirm Claymore launch," says the General on arriving at Waldheim. Gladstone glances over at the holographic display. As positive pings appear on it, he raises his eyebrows. Then more pings, then more, and yet even more. Gladstone is half-way to display when the capital ships launch their sappers, he reaches over and hits the comm in front of the display, his eye particularly on the Vanguard fighters launching from the VAN Casca, "Gladstone to allied fleet, that's a bloody awful lot of ships. Snelling, hold back, I want a fighter screen damnit." A glance at Sunpelt and Ree, manning the main weapons station, "Weapons hot, even with the fleet between them and us, I'm expecting company. Have Riposte Group on launch notice."

Hundreds of tiny glints against the backdrop of space flow from the undersides of the four frontmost Naval Service ships, and they fall back toward the center of the formation even as twenty-one of the Sivadian vessels fire torpedoes. As the sappers approach, the RNS's frigates open up with their rapid-fire point-defense guns, filling space in front of them with a wall of fire. The larger ships in the rear of the formation join in with heavy guns as the Phyrrian fighters and sappers close the range.

Sunpelt growlfs softly as she glares at the controls. Flicking her ears slightly as she finally gets her commands worked out on the computer. Simple really, just a diffrent setup than what the End uses. Flicking in a few more commands, bringing the turrnet in her control hot, while bringing up the targeting sensors. "Weapons hot Sirrr."

The sappers bob and weave, successfully dodging the torpedoes before they detonate, arcing off toward the RNS gun frigates. Some of the fighters are obliterated by the well-situated defensive mines, but others break through and continue closing on the fleet, nearing the next cluster of mines. The capital ships remain in a tactical web around the planet Waldheim. Sensor scans of Waldheim will show that the cities, as on New Luna, have been battered by tankbots, fighters and infantry bots. It appears that millions of sentient organic life forms on the planet have died since the Phyrrians swarmed into the system. Those that remain are trapped on a world whose environment has become more and more toxic with each passing day. Water appears undrinkable in most places.

Willoughby watches, shaking his head. "Reload tubes one and two, Mr. Walters-Cobb. Fire at your discretion. Mr. Thomas, fire into the Phyrrian formation. All cannons," he says, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair as he leans toward the viewscreen.

After a brief shudder, the torpedo tubes are emptied. Again, a grinding whine, barely audible, signifies the next batch of torpedoes loaded. "Oh, bloody - mines," Walters sighs, launching the next salvo. He attempt to blow up the torpedoes on the edge of the minefield to avoid destroying the fleet's passive defenses. After launching, he begins loading the tubes again. He looks towards his display, and his face turns white at the reports from Waldheim. "We have betrayed our oaths most egregiously, sir," he whispers, ostensibly to the Captain.

Drae closes her eyes for a moment, and purses her lips together. Next time...next time...

Cyral tracks his assigned weapons onto the incoming targets. He presses his controls with savage relish. He watches his screens with eager glee.

Martin taps the comm once again. "Soon people." He hisses into his commset. The man then plops down and starts to check the clip of his rifle. "Security team to the door. Mars smile on us all."

As the fighters move out closer to the fray, they start to sub-divide into small groups within the main formation. Said formation is hanging back for the moment, unable to engage their enemies within the defensive mines.

Gladstone keeps his eyes on his holographic display, face one of concentration, the red line marked on the display, Hancock's weapon's range hasn't been passed yet, though he shakes his head as sappers and fighters close in on the Regreb Bay, "Launch Riposte Group." As the station's reserve of modified Dashers and gunships led by the Riposte launch from the bay, "Riposte, keep the Regreb's path clear if you can." Confirmation chatter comes in over the comm-system. "Snelling, keep your fighters close to Hancock."

The Naval Service ships continue their torpedo barrage with a second volley, and the pattern of fire put down by His Majesty's frontline frigates widens as the fighters and sappers close range. As the Phyrrian small craft pass the last line of RNS mines, the Spitfires patrolling around the ships-of-the-line break and accelerate toward the incoming contacts.

The last of the waves of Phyrrian automated fighters are blown to swirling space junk by the RNS mines - sacrificing themselves, it would appear, to give the sappers a series of open lanes to the unified fleet ships clustered on the verge of Waldheim's local space. The capital ships remain in their positions around the planet, awaiting the outcome of the sapper assault.

Willoughby's shaky smile at the destruction of the fighters melts into a frown at the sight of the sappers behind the explosions. "Bloody hell," the captain says, tearing his gaze away from the viewscreen and shifting it to Walters. "Do you think you can fit one more volley in, Leftenant? What about you, Mr. Thomas?"

"I will do my damndest, sir," Walters hisses, firing the torpedoes again as soon as their loaded. "You may, perhaps, want to brace for a near impact," he notes mildly. The officer blows the torpedoes up dangerous close to the prow of the Regreb Bay (but away from other RNS and Allied vessels), trying to catch any sappers in the blast. Once the torpedoes are away, the launchers begin cycling in fresh missiles.

Drae leans back against the bulkhead, closing her eyes in relief. "Well done," she murmurs.

Cyral nods, "Rightly so Sir!" He track his guns as fast as he can on the sappers. He gimaces in desperate hope as he fingers in his fire commands. He lustfully glares in hopeful rage as he fires. He grins at the torpedoes success.

One of the torpedoes fired by Walters detonates at just the right spot, catching a "school" of sappers as they're waving on a route toward a frigate. The other two clusters manage to swerve, bob, and spin their way through the pulse blasts fired by Cyral. His shots are generally good, they just pass through the space where the sappers *were* rather than where they *are*. The sappers spin away from each other, latching onto the hulls of a pair of RNS frigates. Precautions taken by the crews to limit trouble caused by the nanites manages to slow the process down, but it doesn't stop them. The guns of those two frigates go silent and they're soon adrift. Six capital ships break away from Waldheim, closing on the Allied fleet. The other eighteen seem content to await the outcome.

The two frigates' engines sputter, and their guns fire sporadically for a few moments before they go dark. The allied fleet doesn't wait for the Phyrrian capital ships to come to it; fifty-two sets of engines light and the Naval Service is on the move, bringing the gargantuan pulse turrets on its six First-Rates into range of the advancing carriers.

"Mr. Walters-Cobb-- fire on the lead carrier when we reach range," Willoughby says, taking his teacup in a slightly shaky hand and having himself a sip, studiously ignoring the two darkening blips on the scanner board. He looks over to the gunnery pod. "Mr. Thomas, the same goes for you."

Walters takes a quick sip of his tea, his console illuminating the feral grin on his face. "Finally they come to for a taste of our teeth. Sir, I do hope to make it two tonight. Second most feared man for the Phyrrians in the galaxy." With that, Walters targets and fires. "Tallyho," he whispers under his breath.

Drae grins, looking over at Walters.

Both torpedoes fired by Walters strike the lead carrier. The first detonates without so much as making the Phyrrian capital ship pause. The second, though, finds a weak spot in the armor and rips through the superstructure. Reactors and other volatile systems inside the carrier erupt as the vessel is torn apart by the torpedo's abuse. So, that's the good news. The bad news: One of the other carriers opens fire on the Regreb Bay with its plasma cannons.

The Regreb Bay's shields absorb the first salvo of plasma cannons. The generators are heavily taxed by the impacts, though.

Cyral targets the second carrier and returns fire. He snarls in a savage UN-SAVADIAN way and curses out a prayer in a harsh language that betrays his heritage. After he does so he looks around sheepishly like he just farted.

The second carrier has just finished weakening the Regreb Bay's shields with a barrage of plasma weaponry when Cyral opens up with the Sivadian vessel's heavy guns. Three shots strike the Phyrrian carrier, and one punches into the vulnerable reactor bubble. Explosions wrack the enemy ship as it is destroyed.

Gladstone smiles as the two carriers disappear from his display. He frowns however and focusses on the rest of the battle.

As the Regreb Bay fires her salvo, the four First-Rates surrounding the Indefatigable and Vindictive turn to bring their broadsides to bear, firing a unified broadside toward the remaining carriers, the big guns' accuracy too vague a thing to single out any specific one.

Two of the four remaining Phyrrian carriers in this battle group are blasted to ruin by the Sivadian warships. But that's not quite enough to eliminate the threat to the Regreb Bay. The surviving two Phyrrian carriers unload two full salvos of plasma weaponry at the Regreb Bay, wrecking her shields and punching through the hull. Sensors are reduced and life support is failing. Several of the other Phyrrian warships start closing on the conflict - and they're unleashing more sappers and fighters.

The salvos hit the Regreb Bay full-on, and the ship is thrown back. On the bridge, klaxons wail and smoke drifts from shorting electronics. The lights flicker and go out with a sound of breaking glass, and the emergency reds flash on after a moment or two. "Leftenant Rodden!" Willoughby shouts over the noise, joined now by the booted feet of damage-control teams ringing throughout the ship's structure. "Pull us back, get us behind those battleships!"

Walters growls. "Sir! We've lost weapons guidance. I'm going to attempt to take a shot. I'm not sure if we'll be able to reload..." The Sixth Lieutenant attempts to program a trajectory, firing two more torpedoes towards the two remaining carriers that are attacking the beleaguered Regreb Bay. Luckily, Walters is surprisingly unscathed from the attacks. The launcher refuses to reload, and the Lieutenant rises to his feet. "Sir! Beg to report that torpedoes are done! Launcher damage!" Looking around, he notices the First Lieutenant slumped over his console, not alone amongst the officers in injuries. "Bloody hell! Leftenant Rodden is injured. I'm taking the helm." The Sivadian sprints in that direction, as the Regreb Bay is incredibly vulnerable without someone guiding it.

Martin drums his hands on the comms station and shoves some snuff into his mouth. "Well... stay ready people." He murmurs into the mouthpeice as he stares at the viewscreen.

One of the two closest Phyrrian carriers is destroyed by the torpedoes fired by Walters. The other starts arcing to follow the wounded beast while four more carriers start accelerating into a position where they can provide additional firepower. The fourteen carriers still parked around Waldheim fire maneuvering thrusters, rotating slowly and preparing to attack the Allied fleet if the intruding sentient organics refuse to retreat.

A pair of Second-Rates break from the formation and move to screen the crippled Regreb Bay. At the center of the Naval Service formation, the battleships fire again, this time dividing their fire between the remaining close carrier and the four others closing in.

Drae, pulling herself back up from the floor where she was knocked during the salvo, goes to assist Walters in laying the injured Rodden on the floor, and checks his injuries as best she can.

The carrier pursuing the Regreb Bay is warming up the plasma cannons again for the killing blow when one of the RNS battleships destroys it with a well-aimed, computer-assisted salvo. The other shots from the battleships strike their marks, but fail to penetrate the armored hulls of the carriers. With their focus on defending the Regreb Bay, three of the battleships can do little to stop the clouds of sappers that swarm around them and then settle on their hulls. The nanites work a little slower than normal, but within about thirty seconds, those Second-Rates are rendered powerless and adrift.

"Mr. Walters-Cobb," Willoughby says, holding tightly to the arms of his chair, "why are we not bloody moving yet? Move us to the back of the formation, what? Leftenant Thomas-- good God." The captain hobbles down from the command pod to the guns and manhandles Cyral's unconscious form from the chair, taking a seat himself. The captain works at the console for a moment, and fires a volley from the Regreb Bay at one of the four closing carriers. The remaining First-Rate and the two carriers she escorts join in.

Gladstone watches the battle standing in front of the display, Riposte Group is moving towards the Regreb Bay, the General says over comms, "Let them concentrate on the heavy guns, just keep fighters and sappers off their tail."

Cyral wakes up and barfs.

Martin sighs and spits some tasty tabacco juice into a cup and hit's the Marine Comand Comm and starts to sing in his deep voice. "Oh, they've got no time for glory in the Infantry.

Oh, they've got no use for praises loudly sung.

But in every soldier's heart in all the Infantry

Shines the name, shines the name of Rodger Young." After some time other voices start to pick up the tune and the song grows louder.

The General rarely smiles, and he doesn't now either, but he does pick up the song. Low-like, where nobody can hear him.

The captain takes over the Regreb Bay's guns and, despite the lack of full-powered sensors, manages to strike a fatal blow against one of the Phyrrian carriers. A Second-Rate blasts open the hull of another carrier. However, the RNS takes another loss as a Phyrrian carrier shreds it with salvos from its plasma cannons. That leaves two Phyrrian ships in immediate proximity to the battered Regreb Bay and 14 more closing quickly, with more sappers and fighters closing in.

Joshua finds himself quickly off his feet and over the railing he was holding on to. His hat tumbles off to the floor as he manages to keep grip on the railing, but now on the other side and hitting his feet on the floor only a few feet below on the tier. His eyes are wide and he grunts as he finally hits the end of his arm-span. Tapping tentatively with a foot, he tries to recollect himself and stand upright again, apologizing to those in the tier he just feel into. Getting his legs under him again, he searches for his cocked hat again.

Drae, still tending to Rodden, talking to him softly and coercing him to stay on the ground, glances up at the viewscreen in time to see the last hit.

Cyral sits up and upon hearing the song croaks hoarsely, "I went to a public'ouse to get a pint o'beer

Cyral says, "We serve no redcoats here!""

Cyral sits up and upon hearing the song croaks hoarsely, "I went to a public'ouse to get a pint o'beer

The publican up and sez,

"We serve no redcoats here!"

the girls behind the bar laughs and giggled fit to die

but I outs into the street again an to myself sez I:

Oh it's Tommy this and Tommy that

and "Tommy go away"

but it's "Thank you Mister Atkins"

when the bands begin to play

O it's "Thank you Mister Atkins"

when the bands begin to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as can be

They give a drunk civilian room

but they hadn't none for me!

They sent me to the gallery or round the music halls

but when it coems to fighting LORD!

they'll shove me in the stalls!

For it's Tommy this and Thommy that

and Tommy wait outside!

but it's "special train for Atkins"

when the troopships on the tide!

It's "special train for Atkins"

when the troopships on the tide!

O makin mock of uniforms that guard you while you sleep

is cheaper than those uniforms

and they are starvation cheap!

And husling drunken soldiers when they're going large abit

is five times better business than parading in full kit!

The it's Tommy this and Tommy that

and "Tommy hows your soul?"

But it's thin red lines of heroes when drum begin to roll!

Yes it's thin red lines of heroes when drum begin to roll!

You talk of better food, of schools, and fires and all

But no matter how you treat us we're there when you call

even when it's names and your spit in our face

because the widow's uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace!

For it's Tommy this and Tommy that

and "Chuck him out the brute!"

But it's Savior of the country when the guns begin to shoot

and then it's Tommy this and Tommy that

and anything you please!

But you better be that Tommy aint a fool

and "Mister Atkins SEES!"

As the heavier ships in the fleet begin to take damage, the RNS fleet shifts tactics, frigates running at full speed toward the swarm of sappers and fighters, pouring fire from antifighter weapons into its center. The remaining undamaged and lightly damaged ships in the fleet push forward behind them, engaging the entirety of the Phyrrian fleet at close range, the remaining Second-Rates and Third-Rates spraying gunfire and torpedoes at their much larger targets. On the Regreb Bay, Willoughby shifts the guns toward the nearest Phyrrian carrier and fires a volley.

Walters keeps the Regreb Bay at the heels of the combined might of the Second- and Third-Rates, barely able to keep up in its damaged state. "Orders, sir?" he questions loudly towards Willoughby.

The fighters, in their various formations move in along the sapper swarm, wingman protecting leader, element section protecting lead section. Missiles carried from their hardpoints fly out with the white hot flames of their thrusters, racing on toward their intended targets as their deliverers break off to for their next approach.

Many of the sappers are wiped out by blasts from the frigates and fighters, but enough get through to latch onto and cripple a Second-Rate.

As the Regreb Bay's guns take out another Phyrrian carrier, the other fourteen from around Waldheim are getting close enough to finish off the RNS fleet flagship.

ENGINEERING REPORTS: Generators are failing aboard the Regreb Bay. Her turrets are now offline. She barely has enough power to limp out of the star system, let alone make any FTL jumps.

The Indefatigable is about to unload her guns at the oncoming Phyrrian fleet, but she first comes under a swarm of sappers. Listing to starboard as she goes adrift, lights flickering and then going dark, she then suffers repeated punishing blows from several of the enemy carriers. The plasma cannons peel away the Indy's shields and then punch through her hull.

"Right," Willoughby says, glancing back at the engineering display. "Mr. Walters-Cobb--get on the comm and instruct your torpedomen to set the timers on the remaining warheads to two minutes and aim the ship toward the back of the Phyrrian formation. Don't worry about the engines--once you've set the course and the torpedoes, we will be abandoning ship."

Gladstone doesn't say anything as the Indy's flag blips off his screen, "Get to the life pods, get to the..." It's too late and he knows it is.

"Rodger, Captain. She has been a valiant ship," Walters says sadly, furiously programming the vessels' course and doing his best to guess the trajectory of the Phyrrian fighters, sappers, and carriers. In the meantime, he executes several wild maneuvers to attempt to keep the Regreb Bay out of harm's way for the time being. The Sixth Lieutenant opens a channel to the torpedo room, "Gentlemen, set the torpedoes to explode in two minutes. It has been an honor and a privilege." He stands, turning to salute Willoughby. "Sir, reporting ready to abandon ship."

The RNS fleet and the Phyrrian warships exchange fire while Willoughby's orders are carried out by Walters. Four more enemy carriers are blown apart while the Regreb Bay follows a course toward the rear of the battle group.

Martin taps the comms. "Troops, ready for friendlies." He says into then looks over to the General with a slight frown.

Willoughby nods, takes off his hat, and reaches for the comms microphone. "All hands," he says, pausing and taking a deep breath, "abandon ship. Take your escape pods toward Hancock."

Collecting his hat, and a slight tear in his eye, Joshua dons it again and looks to the captain. "Shall I recall the fighters, sir," he says, trying hard to keep his voice audible but only succeeding in making his voice crack, "to protect our abandonment?"

"Do so, Mr. Rummel," Willoughby says, moving from station to station at a fast hobble to check the seals on the command escape pods before returning to the command chair. He sits down, touching the arm of the chair briefly, and a moment later the pod slides shut, sealing with a hiss.

The guns of the Phyrrian carriers brutalize the shields and hulls of five more RNS fleet ships. Three are destroyed outright; two are crippled and come under assault from sappers and fighters that are intent on finishing them off.

Walters prepares to hit the button on the escape pod for the First Lieutenant's station. "Captain, it has been a pleasure to serve aboard this vessel. I will see you aboard Hancock Station. Hopefully, we have discharged our duties with honor for King and Country tonight." With that, Walters presses the escape pod button, and is launched towards NLM asteroid base.

The ten remaining RNS ships-of-the-line fire frantically at the last eight carriers, firing around the frigates circling, futilely trying to keep the sappers and fighters off the bigger ships.

Joshua turns to face the comm officer. "Recall all fighters, get them to protect the escape pods by order of Squadron Leader Joshua Rummel," he says rapid fire then walks toward the captain. "If I may, sir," he says, choking out the words, "shall I make sure the civilian officers make their way off the vessel, sir?"

"Check by comm," Willoughby says through his lifepod's comm system. "If they don't respond, they are already off the ship or are not getting there before we close."

The desperate last-ditch effort of the ships-of-the-line yields a barrage that blows six of the eight remaining Phyrrian carriers into ruin. The two remaining Decimator Fleet vessels provide more punishing attacks that obliterate a pair of Sivadian vessels, leaving six in the RNS battle group.

"Gladstone to all ships," he doesn't smile. "Move in for the kill. This ain't a victory, but we're not going to settle for a draw either."

Even as the Phyrrian counterbarrage impacts, four of the frigates break off from the main group surrounding the remainder of the fleet, accelerating as fast as their engines can push them toward the last two Phyrrian carriers.

Drae looks over to Joshua and gestures to the semi-concious officer in her lap. "Sir...I don't know if he's going to survive the evacuation, but I can't move him into a pod myself." Sliding her arms around the man's waist under his arms, Drae pulls backwards towards the closest empty pod. Sitting down, she heaves up, pulling him as far into the pod and onto her as she can, but she cannot lift the entire weight. Her hands are slick with his blood, and it drips from her skirt onto the floor, as she looks across back at the one remaining officer.

Martin glances of to Gladstone. "Shall I go play welcoming commitee?" He asks.

As Gladstone finally takes note of the Regreb Bay's escape pods, he shakes his head, more to himself then turns on Martin, "Do so."

If you are on the Regreb Bay but hiding in, say, the officers quarters - now's a good time to find your way off the ship and onto Hancock Station.

"With all due respects, sir," Joshua says, "As the only remaining pilot aboard to man the launch for their escape, I believe they wait for me regardless. My fiance along with our civilian officers are below decks. I hate to leave them without a chance." He glances toward the ladder, Drae and the bleeding officer, then toward the comm officer and simply shakes his head. "He's dead already," he says emotionless before turning back to the officer at comms. "You heard the Captain, Mr. Phillips. Send the word," he says sternly, "All hands abandon ship. Civilian officers lay below to the Launch." With that he heads down the ladder.

With Phyrrians closing in, HMS Regreb Bay does her best to stay out of harms way. Escape pods fall away from the Bridge and drift off into space as the Phyrrians approach closer still. The small launch craft departs the forward bay of the vessel and drifts on. Sappers latch to her hull, and the remaining lights that could be seen through the hull breach flicker and fade. Phyrrian fighters and warships close, bright traces of lights as their energy weapons lash out for the killing blow. The hull glows and burns through, cracks tracing out from the new breaches. Air mists and crystallizes out into space and a handful of bodies are sucked out and frozen in the void, tumbling off into dark of space, forever doomed. Puffs of explosions burst randomly along her hull, blasting armored panels out and away and breakneck speed. The fighters continue to tear into her for a few more minutes as the escape pods and launch gain distance and then with a final salvo from the Phyrrian warships and the vessel disintegrates in a brilliant flash of light as the reactor fails, sending out a shock wave in the atmosphere swirling around the doomed vessel. As the light fades, three dark sections of the ship slowly tumble away from one another, the edges glowing a bright crimson from the heat of the explosion and slowly fade away. The remaining Sivadian fighters race on toward the escape pose, prepared to make their final stand to defend the helpless crew in the escape pods.

In her death throes, the Regreb Bay manages to take out one of the remaining Phyrrian warships, while the kamikaze frigates ram headlong into the last. The Regreb Bay and the Indefatigable don't go alone into the dark abyss of memory - they're joined by the two dozen carriers that held Waldheim until tonight. The planet has been ravaged, left in tatters by the toxic activities of the Phyrrians, but it can recover - and the Overmind has paid a dear price for this conquest. [[Category:Classic OtherSpace Logs Classic Military logs Classic Royal Naval Service logs Classic Phyrrian Logs Classic New Luna Militia logs]]