The Rebel Faction

“What are you smiling at?!”

Spittle, like rain, splattered across his face but Lipinski refused to flinch. He did not even dare blink.

Roaring like an angry beast Sergeant Simmons, their commando drill instructor, showered his recruits with berating insults and intermittent flurries of phlegm. He was passionate about his job.

The recruits were lined up at the feet of their bunks. Unlike the raw meat turned into the grinder with first service these were men and women already hardened by years of service. Selected from the various ranks of Colonial service they had been selected to be the premiere batch of Colonial Commandos to graduate from into the newly created branch of the Colonial Defense Forces. Furthermore; putting to use their extensive previous experience, these people would be assigned to such vital command positions so as to fill the ranks with their much needed expertise.

Their trainers were not Colonial at all, but rather Kashan exchange personnel from their Shock Trooper corps, detached units assigned to the Colonial Corps to help develop the freshly commissioned Commando service. In the end they would share many commonalities, however; the Kashans had been selected for a number of highly specialized skill sets that would better serve them in their roles aboard the ships of the Colonial Defense Fleet.

Some unique differences were predicted to arise between the Kashan Shock Troopers and the Colonial Commandos. For instance, despite their the infantry-inspired moniker ‘Commando’ the Gestalt officers were to serve as an elite fighting force aboard the starships of the same and where as the Kashans possessed a larger population base, thus a larger trooper corps, the Colonials were still few in number and so had to rely instead on tactically reinforced training and expanded skill sets among their smaller, elite service. In many ways the Commando commission was comparable with the Marine equivalent. These key differences, among a vast many others, mandated totally unique training and recruiting processes that, though diversified, had been developed from Kashan templates.

Among those many differences were the physical rules of conduct, which in the case of the Colonial Commando, was very hands on.

Sergeant Simmons was an exception in both cases. No one in the recruiting corps really knew where he had come from, or how but rumors abounded that the Vice Commodore himself had dug the man up out of retirement and offered him the position. If the rumors were true, and his past as complex as the great vine indicated, then it spoke well of just how much Lance Shipwright expected of the division.

“Why are you smiling, shit stain?! Do you think I’m funny?”

The Sergeant had already struck three recruits one of whom had taken two hours to get back up.

“Sir no Sir!” screamed Lipinski in retort. Though he disagreed with the Sergeants training methods, in a great many ways, he had to admit that it was effective. Having previously indicated, harshly, that he would tolerate no whispering the Sergeant had fundamentally encouraged his soldiers to spend most of their time yelling. Lipinski was among the few whose throat had not gone hoarse. “The recruit does not know why he is smiling sir!”

“Then bloody well stop it, shit smear!”

The Sergeant had demonstrated an affinity for shit related insults. Shit storm, shit fart, shit stain and shit smear were among his favorites but this was not to say that he did not posses a wide vocabulary of supplementary adverbs.

“Sir I’m trying, sir!”

“Am I clowning, here to amuse you, shit break? Do you want to fuck me boy, suck my throbbing cock? What the fuck is your major malfunction! Just stop smiling shit eater. That’s your name now, Shit Eater. I am giving you the name Shit Eater and do you want to know why? It’s because of that giant shit eating grin.”

All this over a misplaced shoelace; it might have been his surname, it might have been his features or ancestry, but Simmons has taken an early dislike to Lipinski. Back in the world he would not have had to put up with a guy like this, he’d been an officer. But he had given up his commission, Commando training demanded it. Graduation would put him back up on the totem, a new man and of higher rank then Simmons. He reminded himself of that fact and found that it made him smile.

“Wipe it now, Shit Eater, or I’ll wipe it for you,” threatened Simmons, knotting his fist into a ball. “You have zero seconds, recruit!”

Short and loud versus tall and contemplative; Simmons and Lipinski were in near total contrast with one another. One was a thinker, a tactician who refused to move until he had all the facts; he was strikingly handsome and naturally empathic and averse to combat despite his chosen career. The other was a soldier, a grunt through and through. He, a stocky man who had lived his whole life according to the command of his superiors, could not tolerate the dubious and doubtful sort of officer he believed Lipinski to be.

Simmons had also been begging Lipinski for a reason, baiting him, abusing him and demeaning him… but it was just a matter of time before it was all over, and Lipinski had already been through hell at Camp Mar-Veil. He had been prepared for Lucerne Academy and knew, through and though, that he would endure.

“If you like shit so much, Shit Eater, then you can have latrine duty for the next two weeks.”

Lipinski tried not to shrug. He’d had worse, much worse.

About to boil, Simmons seemed ready to strike.

“Sir, yes sir.” Lipinski managed to sound defeated and lowered his gaze accordingly.

It seemed to be enough. Satisified, Simmons moved on.

In the back of his mind Lipinski wondered where his friend might be right now. Off among the stars, somewhere on the edge of Gestalt space, Smiken was probably enjoying a cup of coffee and absorbing the routine aboard the new Commonwealth-class battlecruiser.

Ah well, he thought. The grass is always greener…

To say that Lieutenant Smiken was nervous would have come as an adumbrated understatement. To propose puzzlement as the precursor for his trepidation would have been likewise incomplete. In simple fact he had been completely taken aback by the invitation. A young Lieutenant, even assigned as a military-political liaison, hardly expected that, on his first day in a new position, he would be called before a person of such importance; High Cardinal Oyzamndais was the iconic figure representative of Colonial spirituality, he preached constantly about the merits of knowledge, wisdom and experience.

As the turbo-lift rode alone, expediting itself along exterior rails mounted on the outside surface of David Tower, he contemplated the vagaries of his new posting. To arrogate such power, without any sort of outward motivation, Smiken knew that if presented correctly this new destiny could prove very hearty for his furthered career in the Colonial Defense Force. However, and he had to admit, the tang of a double edged sword swung neatly above his head for should he fail in this calling, he knew, the High Cardinal could have him drummed so far down the ranks he would no doubt find himself facing a grim future manning one of the deep space patrol stations that edged eighty percent of the Gestalt System.

David Colony gazed back up at him as he looked down upon it through the glass windows of his lift inspiring a momentary sense of vertigo. But it was a sensation of disorientation not due, truly, to his extreme height or relative velocity; rather he felt a pang of shock at the scale of the Colony and the speed with which it had come into being. While others in the galactic community had looked upon the Colonials with a supposititious gleam in their eyes, exemplified by the debates waged between the Ethics Department and the offices of the Vice Commodore, Smiken knew in his heart of hearts that the conduct of the Gestalt people was nothing if not admirable from all aspects. In such little time, undertaking rigorous progressive sociologies, the Gestalt people, true in more ways then just their chosen name, had come together under a like banner, a banner adopted by all and disputed by none from within.

The Colony platform itself was simply a marvel of technology, even in these; the days of rampant innovation and implementation. It spanned kilometers across, featured massive refinery levels and blossomed as the heart and soul of the Gestalt Colonies, and all of it had been constructed here, at home, by local contractors and hired from previously transitory population bases. Previously Transient had become a common, if not house hold phrase and it stood for a generation of displaced persons, displaced by war or by starving economies, people… humans who had heard the rumors of a new haven, the dream of a visionary named Shipwright, where all would be welcomed with open arms if only they too could subscribe to the same vision. And who could turn down the offer of prosperity, health and long life all within an independent nation state, and contributing member of the Galactic Coalition of Planets? Outside of the Empire, the answer was, almost always, almost no one.

How many years? Months? All of this accomplishment, progress heralded by the discovery of such a rich, yet untapped planetary star system?

Lt Smiken noticed his own reflection in the polished glass, he was smiling.

And rightfully so, he reminded himself. The Colonies gestalt had saved him, had saved his family, and given countless souls like himself the opportunity for a bright new future, rather then a dismal fate traversing the stars in hope of a refuge. It was odd, he recounted, to consider his own history so tightly tied to a commercial navy now disbanded. Once upon a time, and how it could seem so long while he, himself, was yet so young he did not know, Smiken had fought for what he believed to be the truth, for a government that he believed to be pure and in defense of a nation he had convinced himself was truly noble. He and hundreds of thousands like him. But what they lacked, and realized this now, was the very thing that David Colony represented to the rest of the Colonies.

“The Way of David,” whispered the young, blonde haired man to himself. Absently, perhaps unconsciously, his fingers, working of their own accord and conspiring with his left arm, found themselves fingering the icon strung about his neck on a thin, silver chain. “The Way is me.”

In answer to his unspoken prayer, the lift arrived at its destination. The doors slid open with the whispered hiss of escaping gas. Smiken pressed his cap to his head and stepped out…

… into seemingly nothingness.

It took the young Lieutenant a few moments to realize the truth of his situation, however; and found himself laughing at his own preposterous response.

The Atrium of the High Cardinal was constructed, almost entirely, of transparent steel. Furthermore, and to further confound the unfaithful, the dome-like structure he inhabited jutted out from the side of the Tower itself, away from the precipice of solid construction. Upon exiting the lift the uninitiated soul was blessed with, for just a moment, the thought of his or her own, tumbling demise.

Once oriented, however, one tried to focus on the nearby objects, such as the rugs, tapestry or paintings, rather then the distant horizon of David Colony or the much more vibrant Gestalt II skies. It took Smiken, fractionally, less time to orient himself then most others and the High Cardinal, with an amused look upon his chiseled features, seemed to notice this.

“Well done,” offered Oyzamndais in an offhand sort of way. “I have seen but a few people go so far as to loose their lunches in my lobby. I am glad that I do not have to call for a clean up, this day.”

Though Smiken had, naturally, heard the High Cardinal speak before; on such occasions as the Celebration of Colonization, or Colony Day, or having listened to his previously recorded lectures and later, sermons… he did not expect, nor could he have prepared himself for, the full weight of the mans presence.

“Good navy training, Sir,” replied Smiken by way of covering up for his lack of preparation. He felt as though he were on the loosing side of a chess board, or more over, that the game had already been played and decided prior to his arrival. “I credit the CDF and the Way for blessing my path.”

“As you well should, good Lieutenant. As you well should.”

The High Cardinal turned and disappeared down a hallway, though perhaps disappear would be too strong a word. Behind the angles of the sizable glass structure light bend and refracted into a myriad of complex images, such that when the Cardinal stepped from immediate view, he appeared to divert into a thousand various broken pictures of himself, each meandering off in a new direction. The effect made Smiken immediately dizzy.

It was rumored, and observed whenever the High Cardinal made public appearances, that Oyzamndais did not worry for his own security and so never bothered to employ body guards or even CDF assigned Colonial Commando protection. Smiken, himself, believed that, like his glass palace in the sky, much of this was just smoke and mirrors. Immediately evident, however, was the complete and total lack of apparent security precautions.

The Lieutenant shook his head and followed. This was going to be an interesting assignment after all.

Six hours into the night watch Lieutenant Smiken took over as Officer of the Watch aboard the Colonial-class destroyer Ark Royale. Most of the ship was asleep. He had just woken up; his body clock dialed to the nocturnal side of things, and stepped onto the bridge with a fresh cup of coffee in hand.

Lieutenant Smiken enjoyed the contrast; he freshly dressed and wide eyed while the rest of the ship was getting ready to turn in for the night. Even the earliest shift change, aside from his own, wouldn’t occur for another two hours. The Ark Royale had been in stand-down position since her arrival on station at David Colon. Her crew had been enjoying a three day overlap between their arrival and the departure of the current command ship, the Battlecruiser ‘Commonwealth’.

The Executive Officer, McKeon, greeted Smiken with a weary smile.

“Long night,” he said eyeing the cup of Joe in the junior officer’s hand. “Sleep well?”

“Always,” replied Smiken while tucking his drink into the cup holder at the communications duty station. No one occupied the big chair except for the Captain herself. “You ready?”

The two officers enjoyed a certain informality. McKeon nodded.

“You have the Watch, Lieutenant Smiken.”

“I have the Watch, sir,” answered Smiken flawlessly.

He sipped his coffee and slipped into his chair. McKeon appeared at his side.

“You were sent a communication half an hour ago. It was transmitted by way of Out System.” A distinctly dark air gathered around the XO. He looked pained. “I’d take it in the ready room if I were you.”

Smiken nodded and McKeon departed.

For the next hour, so wrapped up in paperwork he hardly noticed the time pass, Smiken did not let his mind stray to the communiqué. Whatever it held the news could not be so important that it could not wait. At oh five hundred hours the Captain would relieve him of the Watch and he could take a moment to view the file. Until then, it did not matter.

McKeon had known this, hence his delay in delivery. The XO knew that Smiken was an early riser, knew he could have contacted him earlier and given him the news beforehand. But he had not done so and that implied some importance. Perhaps McKeon had been worried that the contents of the letter would send the young Lieutenant off his game, perhaps he knew that Smiken needed the focus of work fresh in his mind before he viewed the news.

So he busied himself with his work, he buried himself in going through the Captains Briefs, tagging the important or humorous ones for her reading pleasure and preparing the days final duty roster entries as the filed in from the various department chiefs. He hardly noticed the time.

“Good morning, Lieutenant.”

Smiken looked up, half surprised. The Captain had appeared at his shoulder.

“Good morning Ma’am,” he answered. “Captain on the bridge.”

“Thank you Mr. Smiken. I have the Con.”

“Aye Ma’am,” Smiken updated the log.

“I understand you have a message to view?” McKeon would have woken the Captain up which would explain how she had known. Obviously, for the XO to bring it up with the Captain, the contents had to be fairly weighty. “Feel free to use the Ready Room.”

He did.

Alone in the Ready Room, just aft of the bridge, he queued up his message. It read:


Smiken pressed his face into his palms and found a warm dampness there. He wasn’t sure if it came from his eyes, everything had started to buzz. He pressed harder into his palms.

This was duty, he reminded himself. This was service; working towards something better then himself. He swallowed, gulped and tried to regain his composure. He reminded himself that if it hadn’t been pressingly important an hour ago, it wasn’t now. Guilt lied.

This was service…

Smiken fingered the icon slung around his neck on its thin silver chain, “The Way is me.”

But somehow those simple words failed to cover the hurt.

Modular Defense Station D-05…

Five hundred thousand kilometers above David Colony, high above the revolving, multi-colored disc of Gestalt II, a Colonial-class destroyer moved into a holding position relative to the giant, stationary defense platform. On the observational bridge of the destroyer, the namesake of her line, the Captain and her navigators maneuvered the sizable warship into position. As the ship was slipping into place a quartet of docking tractors reached out to assist the taxed thrusters. These massive tractor-beam generators were used solely for the purpose of mooring Colonial line-ships on point and were used among in hundreds of ports in the Gestalt System. Unfortunately stations of this size were not equipped with capital-scale umbilical’s, but for the requirements of this mission, that would not be a problem.

Captain d’Foose crossed her arms behind her back, knitting her fingers at the small spot near the base of her spine and stepped towards the forward wing of the observation bridge. “Inform the station commander that I will be arriving shortly. Are our Commandos prepared?”

“Aye Ma’am, the squad is standing by in the launch bay. Both Centaurs are ready to fly.”

“Good,” replied the Captain. She laughed, “Let the games begin.”

Located throughout the Gestalt star system, spaced for optimal coverage, were multiple networks of observation satellites designed to monitor and report on the conditions of any given sector at any given time. Granted the majority of the information returned by these arrays was, by and large, useless but certain conditions could be predicted for; such as the reversion of a space-bound object from the quasi-dimensional reality known as Hyperspace. And naturally the entire breadth of the Colonies could not be kept watch over so the logical result was simply to relegate the majority of these resources to known ‘hot zones’ of which only two were noteworthy. These were the combined Hydian Way and Trade Spine terminus’ which served as the only mapped, viable entry into the Gestalt system without considerable subspace navigation and the Gestalt junction into the Gestalt-Kashan hyper-route.

As the Gestalt Colonies had never experienced a hostile incursion and did not suffer the detritus of smugglers or piracy the detection grid had never truly been tested. In fact, thought Captain d’Foose as she stood in Operation Command aboard Modular Defense Station D-05, the bulk of the Colonial Defenses have never been tested beyond simple skirmishes beyond our own borders. Command had resolved to address this issue.

“Commander,” called the sensor operator, a young non-com with a spit-shine haircut. “The grid is broadcasting multiple contacts; multiple ships reverting from hyper beyond David.”

That’ll be the Kashans, she mused silently.

“Understood,” Commander Riceman replied. The stations commanding officer was a pudgy, dark skinned man in his early thirties and the victim of male pattern baldness. He turned towards the Captain while checking his pocket chronometer. “Beat to arms, Captain.”

Captain d’Foose nodded. The Commander huffed then turned to the business of readying his position. Belting out orders and his own call to arms he turned the command station into a buzzing hub of activity. Even as she was departing for the lifts d’Foose could observe and confirm uplinks with two patrol squadrons being routed through Ops. She smiled as her own command, the Colonial reported in alongside her sisters, the Restigouche (a Provincial-class Carrier) and the Victoria (one of the new Commonwealth-class battleships).

“Identify those bogies,” demanded the Commander amongst the barrage.

A sensor operator raised his voice to object, “They aren’t broadcasting IFF…”

“They’re Kashans, son.” The Commander countered. “I want to know what kind and how many. That narrow it down for you some?”

He nodded and as Riceman added, “Tag them unfriendly and keep an eye out for more.”

The doors to the lift shot shut leaving her to hear no more but she knew that the Restigouche and Victoria would already be en route to station keeping positions. A sort of bizarre sense of amusement overtook her though the taste was bitter to her tongue. Indeed, she thought, the boys and girls in blue were downright green. Here she was alone in the lift due only to her rank when there were doubtlessly others waiting on either end with serious business to attend. Even the novice in Ops had sounded genuinely amazed and overcome by the sudden rush of activity and she doubted he was alone in that… despite the fact that the games had been public knowledge for some time. Reflecting she could count a dozen members of her own bridge crew, of her own command, who had little or no practical combat experience. Notably however; those with significant experience had been highly placed. The Colonial Defense Fleet was young yet.

She laughed young with a fleet of shiny new ships, green sailors and an itchy trigger finger… not a good combination.

Raising her communicator to her lips the Captain toggled the unit to call Major Neald of the Colonial Commandos. “Major,” she called. “What is your status?”

“We’re boarding the birds now, sir,” crackled the speaker half a second later. “We’re running ahead of schedule Ma’am.”

“Good.” She replied, “Out.”

Part of the test and the reason her command would be late in getting to the front, was to test the preparedness of the CDF elite fighting force. From a stand-up deployment they would have to break and load on the Colonial before the ship could break moorage. Captain d’Foose would join them on the flight deck and shuttle back to her ship aboard one of their Centaur-class troopships.

Again, she smiled. Her part in this would come yet.