Battle of Reynold- Preview

"Holmgrad fleet in range, sir. Positioned near the colony. Formation wedge."


On the bridge of the ASNS Nile, Captain Erasmus Froome shifted in his seat, looking out into the expanse that lay beyond the walls and windows of the bridge of the Argus-class escort carrier. Around him, operators maintained a constant vigil over their consoles, eyes fixed on screens.


Cradling his bearded chin with a gloved hand, he turned to the crew member who had just spoken.


"Any estimate on their numbers, Boggs?"


"Total signatures come in at around twenty-plus, sir."


Froome leaned back in silent contemplation, hands now steepled. "That puts our combined numbers on an even keel, then. This goes without saying, but we can't play around with them."


He looked to his right, the view beyond showing the sleek, oblong forms of accompanying Argus-class vessels and the ominous, domineering shapes of two of the fleet's six Viribus Unitis battleships, but there was an anomaly among them. It was this that Froome focused on, a satisfied smile on his face.


"We, however, have an ace in the hole."


The ship that so captivated him gleamed in the darkness like a sharpened blade; the ASNS Strasbourg, the pride and joy of the ATA. Three hundred meters in length and strangely anachronistic amidst its brethren, looking more like an antiquated battleship of the 20th century than anything else, it stood at the head of the armada. Three four-gun bolt drivers, two fore, one aft, glistened in the light, their barrels poised, complemented further by two considerably larger turrets behind both fore guns- what they fired, Froome could only guess. They were supplemented further by an array of torpedo tubes, and further still by a network of mass driver cannons and point defence turrets, bristling across the vessel's hull akin to spikes on a hedgehog's back.


Impressively armed, and equally impressively armoured, many in the fleet were anticipating the moment when even a fraction of its firepower would be unleashed. Froome was among them; Boggs, however, was sceptical, the dark-skinned man now looking up at his superior with mild incredulity.


"You really reckon that'll do its job, sir? Seems to me as though it's just some expensive toy."


"The Strasbourg was a significant investment, and it's here for a reason. You'll see it in action, Boggs. So will the rest of us."


"Well, I just hope it doesn't just sit there and look pretty."


Not heeding his subordinate's dismissive response, Froome resumed looking ahead at the fleet and colony in the distance. It wasn't long before Boggs spoke up again.


"Sir. Admiral Ohr aboard the Babylon is hailing the Holmgrad fleet. Response pending."


Silence then hung over the bridge once again, now like a shroud; and with each passing second, with Froome waiting with stern countenance and bated breath for the reply, it only became thicker.




The silence served to comfort her.


Nestled within the cockpit of one of the four steel giants that hung suspended in the launch bay, her own iron cocoon, Second Lieutenant Odette de Perignon, "Qoppa-3", drummed her fingers on the control sticks of her personal "Muromets" mobile suit. She was dressed for combat, clad from neck to toe in the standard-issue viridian flight suit of the Royal Holmgrad Armed Forces and with a sizeable helmet fully encapsulating her head of golden hair. And although her experience had mainly been limited to simulations and basic training, she knew, anyone with common sense knew that waiting for the inevitable to finally happen always created dread and anxiety.


The ship she was in was one of seven others like it that now hung in the empty space surrounding the colony of Reynold; a Novik-class cruiser, Oblako, which found itself positioned amidst a combined wedge of Novik-class ships, and twelve can-shaped Riga-class frigates. At the head of the wedge lay a cluster of Sevastopol-class battleships, titans of power in the Grand Fleet. And it was this potent force that was tasked with defending the colony that lay behind it, a metallic, translucent cylinder suspended in the void, for some distance across lay a UN fleet dispatched the ATA, intending to claim by force what they could no longer claim by right.


The ATA had been decidedly less than pleased when it had heard of Reynold's secession.


Hostilities were imminent, and Odette was merely counting the seconds in her head until the first salvo.


"Worrying yourself away again, princess?"


The voice of Qoppa-4, Joachim Rote, pulled her out of her reverie, but little mirth was brought forward in response to his jab. Her voice, which seemed to flow like water in a tone that made clear her noble birth, contained snideness in its place.


"What about you? Not quivering in your seat like you did in training, are you?"


"Keeping it under control as best I can, ma'am."


Even with Damocles' blade looming over her, she couldn't help but contort her lips into a wry smirk.


"You're incorrigible, you know that?"