Last Stand at the Fall

The crimson glow reflecting off of Caliban’s atmosphere, cast an ominous red across the hastily assembled briefing room aboard the Idris frigate, “Crion’s Wrath.” Colonel Amara Haines, her face grim, addressed the assembled officers and pilots, a mix of weathered veterans and green recruits, their eyes reflecting the same gnawing fear.

“This isn’t a drill…” Colonel Haines voice echoed, laced with the desperation of a losing hand. “Vanduul forces have breached the system’s perimeter. Crion, our home, is under siege. We, the 10th Special Operations Group, along with a detachment from the 32nd Marine Division which was currently on maneuvers, and the 89th Logistics Squadron, are the only and last line of defense. Currently our forces are spread razor thin along the Hemlock region; however they are holding the line at Candle Road, allowing for the civilian transports to escape. That said, a Vanduul Kingship has just jumped in-sector, and is closing in on the planet.” Colonel Haines looked around the room at the mixed emotions seething from the eyes of those gathered around the holo-table. “You’ve trained for this, you’re ready for this. We are the Blades of Caliban, and today, we carve our legacy in fire!”

The nickname, Blades of Caliban, was a recent one, born from a daring lightning attack of a squadron of Gladius light fighters that ambushed and crippled a Vanduul destroyer weeks prior. Now, it held a bitter irony. These weren’t knights carving glory, but desperate farmers thrust into a colosseum with lions.

The 10th wasn’t a traditional battlegroup. It was a hodgepodge of Caliban’s defenders – ex-CIG security personnel, planetary militia fighters, and even a few now “ex-cons” and spacers who’d managed to escape the initial Vanduul onslaught. All of them drilled relentlessly by the remaining stranded members of the 32nd Marine’s; prioritizing unorthodox tactics and improvisation.

They had a collection of salvaged Hornets, battered Gladius, a few Cutlasses, and even a lone Hull-C that had been jury-rigged with salvaged missile pods across its spindles. Colonel Haines pointed at the holographic display flickering above the table. “They’ve overwhelmed the planetary defenses. Our objective: Crion’s Central Spire and surrounding area at Candle Road. We need to buy time for the evacuation.”

A young Lieutenant, sweat beading on his brow, spoke, his voice cracking. “But Colonel, with all due respect, how? We’re throwing pebbles at a hurricane.”

Haines slammed her fist on the table, the holographic display shimmering. “Like dead men with nothing left to lose, Lieutenant. We hit them hard, hit them fast, and create enough chaos to let the civilians escape. We may not hold Crion, but we can ensure its heart keeps beating…elsewhere.”

The briefing ended in a tense silence. Outside, the crimson sky pulsed with the flashes of Vanduul fighters strafing the ever-growing inferno below. In their cockpits, the Blades strapped themselves in, a mix of grim determination and raw terror etched on their faces. Captain Alex Sato, veteran pilot of the lead Hornet, took a deep breath. On his comm channel, he spoke, voice steady but heavy with the weight of the situation. “Red Squadron, this is Phoenix. You heard the Colonel, let’s go carve us a legend.”

The flickering comm crackled with responses, a chorus of defiance against the encroaching darkness. Engines flared as they roared down the ship’s runway into the crimson sky, a ragtag force facing a Vanduul swarm. The air became a canvas of fire, the roar of engines merging with the screams of dying ships. The Blades fought with the fury of the condemned, weaving through laser fire, their salvaged weapons spitting defiance.

Alex weaved his Hornet through the fray, the heads-up display flashing red with incoming fire. He hammered the trigger, his cannons spitting death into a Vanduul Scythe. It exploded in a fiery bloom, but two more took its place.

Hours bled into a bloody eternity. Ships fell, comrades’ voices cut short by the cold embrace of space. Yet, the Blades persisted, a thorn in the side of the Vanduul advance. Alex , his ship battered, shields flickering, knew they wouldn’t last. But below, on the ravaged surface of Crion, he saw a glimmer of hope. The last civilian transports, escorted by a battered Idris, were breaking free of the atmosphere.

“All remaining fighters engage. Let’s show them the bite of Caliban’s Blades!” With a defiant roar, Alex led the remaining Blades in a final, suicidal charge. They tore through the Vanduul ranks, carving a bloody path for the escaping transports.

The official reports listed the 10th Caliban Special Operations Battlegroup as MIA – Missing In Action. But 60 years later, whispers of a group being called the “Blades of Caliban” traveled through the UEE military like a haunting ballad. A symbol of defiance, a chilling reminder of the cost of war, and a terrifying legend for any Vanduul who dared to set foot on Caliban.