The Rebel Faction

The Past, The Cataclysm


Anoat Central Spaceport, Anoat High Orbit
Traffic Control Command


It was a good day. Busy, but good. Anoat had really been picking up steam lately. They seemed to have shaken that whole “terrorist/freedom fighter” thing, the planet's “environmental revitalization” had wrapped up nicely, and the system was developing into a real commerce hub, both for Coalition goods headed out and outside goods coming in.


And that was good news for Chief Grubnub. The Sauvax from Leritor was really digging this job; most of his folk were content to poke fish with sticks and build huts out of seaweed, but not Grubnub. Grubnub loved space. Granted, he got space sick when he had to ride in the back, but that wasn't a problem here. Not at Anoat Traffic Control. Not as the Chief.


Grubnub walked the main aisle of Traffic Control's upper tier, where the heavy work of routing large convoys and military formations was handled, his chitinous feet clicking rhythmically against the deck plating. There were dozens of operators on either side, with hundreds more below managing smaller formations and individual vessels. Commerce had become the beating heart of Anoat's economy, and transport was the beating heart of all commerce. And this station, this Traffic Control hub, was the beating heart of Anoat's transportation infrastructure.


What was Grubnub's deal with beating hearts all of a sudden?


An alert sounded somewhere below, piquing the Chief's interest and causing his eyestalks to dart toward the source of the noise. Then another station sound an alert. And another.


Then three of the stations on the upper tier sounded alerts in unison. Then five more.


Grubnub's lobster head shrunk reflexively down into its armored torso, but make no mistake: Grubnub the Chief Operator of Anoat Traffic Control was not scared. Surprised? Yes. Startled? Of course.


But above all else: he was excited.


“Show me what we've got!” Grubnub exclaimed, the rhythmic ticking of his feet changing pace as he clambered to the end of the upper tier and the holo-console that was his official control station. Was it a Coalition task force moving into position before a top-secret attack? An invading fleet arriving without warning? Less exciting but perhaps as interesting, a Ryn construction fleet or massive Squib/Ugor salvage operation?


“Reavers,” Grubnub just barely made out from some comm chatter coming from a station as he passed by.


“Reavers?” Grubunb repeated, not buying it. “There are no Reavers on this side of the galaxy!” He pushed the Ugnaught worker out of the way and started poking at the console himself.


“They're Gestalt ships, Chief!” one of the other operators called out. “They're all Gestalt ships.”


“By the stars,” another said in shock and horror. “The Reavers hit Gestalt . . .”


“Impossible,” Grubnub said, giving up on the tiny controls of the Ugnaught's station and heading off for his own again, though now at a decidedly faster clip. “There are no Reavers out this far!” he said again, but this time not quite as believably.


A different sort of alarm sounded, a warning alarm. A military alarm.


A weapons fire alarm.


“Colonial Destroyer Ark Royale,” Grubnub shouted as he reached his station, “stand down from weapons readiness and disengage your targeting computers! You have entered the jurisdiction of Anoat Space Command and will not engage your weapons without proper authorization, do you understand me!” It was only when Grubnub paused that he realized what had just happened; the Colonial warship had fired on one of its accompanying civilian craft.


“You can shove your jurisdiction!” came the immediate reply. “We've got Reaver infestations popping up all over the fleet!”


“But . . . but there are no Reavers this far out,” Grubnub said to himself, all thoughts of daring battle or political intrigue finally stamped out.


He could hear the confirmation behind him, the cries of ship captains begging for help, the futile efforts of Traffic Control operators to get a handle on a military and humanitarian nightmare.


Ahead, in the distance, more red streaks of light shot out from the Ark Royale, a ship fighting desperately against an invisible evil that turned friend to foe.


It was settled, then: the Reavers had come to Gestalt.


And Gestalt, or what was left of it, had come to the West.


* * *


Captain Julia Krin didn't have the qualifications for this. She was a naval officer, trained to fight starships, not infections. She didn't know the first thing about diplomacy or humanitarian operations. But here she was regardless, in command (for the time being, at least) of the last surviving souls of a lost nation.


And that was the most horrifying part of it all: these were the only survivors. The ships had stopped coming. There had been a window of about three hours where Colonial convoys kept appearing, usually a little pocket of civilian vessels with a military escort of a single warship, sent along to destroy any ships that had turned while in hyperspace. It was both brutal and effective, but it wasn't a solution.


Some ships had still suffered dangerous exposure to the Reaver infection, and the risk of letting the Reaver virus gain a foothold in the Anoat System was too high to allow them access to the planet. Add to it that many of the ships that the Colonial officers deemed beyond rescue still had uninfected passengers on-board, and Krin was facing a moral compromise that she wasn't willing to make.


And as commander of the Coalition forces stationed at Anoat, she didn't have to.


The Colonials had retreated to Anoat in accordance with existing Coalition protocols to be enacted in the event of a catastrophic invasion of the Gestalt Colonies. Anoat was a straight shot up the Corellian Trade Spine, making it the closest major Coalition position to the Colonies. Those protocols had been laid down before the advent of the Reavers, in a time when the Colonies seemed firmer members of the Coalition as a whole. Even so, the Colonies were technically still a Coalition member, its citizens the Coalition's.


And that put their care and safety squarely on the shoulders of Captain Krin. The Reavers were a military threat, so the threat these Colonials brought with them empowered Krin to declare a state of military emergency. Until brass further West or someone from High Command stepped up to take command, this was her responsibility, even if she didn't have any idea what she was doing.


And she didn't. Not when it came to the Reavers. She was an officer of the West, though, and this was friendly territory, which meant her first priority was safeguarding the innocent, not defeating the enemy. And to that end, Julia had mobilized everything in her power to save every life she could.


The end result was a twist on standing Coalition quarantine protocols for Reaver-infected ships, scaled up for the size of this emergency and tailored to Anoat's available resources. The orbital spaceport had become the last line of defense, the temporary shelter for low-risk Colonials who nevertheless had to be evacuated from their ships while the vessels underwent thorough inspection. In the unlikely event of a Reaver outbreak, any individual affected docking bay could be sealed and vented into space without risk to the rest of the station.


Station traffic had been rerouted to surface ports, delaying a great many parties who were used to using the orbital facility as a quick-transfer point for bulk cargo, but groundside would just have to deal with the added congestion for a while. The fact of the matter was, as long as there was any doubt whatsoever, Julia wouldn't be letting a single Colonial onto the planet's surface. It was simply a risk too great to take. And that meant the station was the only place on-hand large enough to house them all.


The evacuated ships were being held in multiple quarantine zones, arranged by likelihood of infection and likelihood of successful rescue. Higher-risk Colonials had been moved to Western ships belonging to Anoat's defense force. There they could be monitored by soldiers and medics, in an environment that wouldn't increase their risk of exposure. And if, at the end of the day, Krin had to scuttle a ship because of contamination, it was better one or two warships than the dozens of civilian vessels she would have had to commandeer through the authority of martial law. That was not a move that the political situation on Anoat could easily weather, especially not coming from a Coalition naval captain.


And that left the Colonial warships. They were pretty banged up; probably as much of the blast scoring on their hulls was from friendly attempts to destroy traces of the Reaver virus as from actual enemy fire. There was no doubt that they'd been exposed, but the Colonial military was top-notch and they'd received the latest in Coalition procedures on containing and eliminating Reaver infection from active warships. Captain Krin couldn't be sure they'd payed any attention to Coalition military notices recently, of course, but the fact that their ships were still flying under their own control gave her some cause to hope.


So that was the situation. Five hours in, and it already felt like she'd been in battle for the past two days. But she couldn't stop. She couldn't give herself the luxury of a reprieve, because these people still needed her. She wasn't a diplomat. She wasn't a doctor or a biohazard specialist, or a politician, or . . . hell, even a very good public speaker. But she was in charge. And that counted for something.


“Captain, the Colonial commander is asking to speak with you again.”


“Tell him I'm still busy,” she said into her commlink, then opened the lift doors and stepped out of them . . .


Into Docking Bay 1A of the Anoat Central Spaceport, and the sheer humanity of fifty thousand people crammed into a space meant for less than a tenth that many. She walked the narrow paths between cots and makeshift mattresses, consoling those she could and listening to as much of the pleas as she could stomach. One woman was weeping for her lost child, having just finished going through every docking bay on every level in hopes of finding him somewhere, anywhere, safe. Another old man was shaking uncontrollably, recounting the horror of an Imperial attack that was “nothing, nothing” compared to what the Reavers had done.


And so she continued, passing off this or that Colonial captain to one of her subordinates as needed. It was all she could do at this point. The protocols were in place. Her people knew their roles and would carry them out to the best of their abilities. Everyone knew the stakes here, everyone except these people. These Colonials, still in shock from the loss of their homes, unable to leave until they were cleared and with nowhere to go besides. Right now, they needed her more than anyone else.


They needed to know that they weren't forgotten. They needed to know that even though their hope was spent, others still hoped on for them. They needed to know that the Coalition, and it's people, weren't about to turn them away.


And then she caught the tail end of something that piqued her interest as a military officer: Remorans.


“David bless them!” the middle-aged woman was saying. “The Remorans, I tell 'ya, they saved us!”


“You think they're human under all that gear?” an elderly woman asked.


“What does it matter?” the other woman shouted back. “They saved us!”


“They're all dead now,” a young man said sullenly. “So yeah, what does it matter?”


“The Remorans?” Julia asked, edging into the conversation. She'd gotten the reports on the strange aliens who had first attacked the Colonies and then entered the system again for some sort of diplomatic exchange. It was odd to hear the Colonials refer to them as “saviors”, given that the West had considered them the first viable threat to the Colonies since their founding. If anything was ever going to warrant the Coalition's Colonial evacuation plans, Western Command had reasoned, it would have been the Remorans. Until only hours ago, that had still been Krin's thinking. Now, though . . .


The Colonial refugees eyed her with suspicion and mistrust, but reluctantly an old man spoke up. “Aye, those thick hulls of theirs smashed right through the Reaver lines, hardly a dent in 'em.” There was something about the way that he spoke to her that told Julia he had served, that he respected the uniform and that was why he'd answered her.


It seemed enough of a welcome for the rest of them. “We don't know why they came to the rescue,” a teenaged girl said, somehow bright-eyed despite all that had happened. “But that huge ship of theirs . . .”


“That's right!” the middle-aged woman jumped back in. “The Sovereign. She was a beauty, and so powerful!”


“The Remorans engaged the Reavers?”


“Not just engaged,” the old man said. “They covered our retreat, good and proper.”


“But they didn't follow you out?” Krin asked.


“We got out in the third wave,” the young man said, squeezing the teenage girl's hand. “They were still fighting . . . uhh, covering us, then. They didn't look so good, though.”


“Captain, we've got a bit of a situation here . . .”


“Is there a Reaver outbreak?” she asked into her commlink.


“Uhh, no, Ma'am.”


“Did the Empire pick this exact moment to strike Hoth or Renteg?”


“No, Ma'am.”


“Did Regrad call to fire me?”


“No . . . no Ma'am.”


“Okay, then I don't care, busy.” She clicked the commlink to standby again and returned her attention to the Colonials.


“Were any of you in with the last wave of ships?” Julia scanned everyone in earshot, but they were all shaking their heads or staring back blankly. “Were any of you on the last wave of ships,” she asked louder, but no one beyond this little circle seemed interested in responding. She realized that maybe they were worried she was looking for late arrivals for a less desirable reason than a simple conversation. “Did anyone on the last wave of ships see what became of the Remorans?”


“Hey, Cap'n's talkin' to you!” the old man shouted.


“Yeah,” a man in his early thirties said, maneuvering his way down a narrow, winding path between the refugees. “What of it?”


“The Remorans,” Krin pressed. “Do you know why they didn't follow you out of the system?”


He shrugged. “Well, yeah; they stuck with the rearguard.”


“Rearguard?” Krin asked.


“The Colonial ships who were holding off the Reavers for our escape.”


She still couldn't piece this together. It still didn't make sense in her mind. “Someone split the Colonial navy in two? A delaying force, and an escort force?”


“Yep, that's about right,” the old man said again.


That didn't make any sense. And it especially didn't make any sense considering the Colonial captains hadn't mentioned it to her or anyone in her command. “Why?”


The old man frowned. It was not a pleasant expression on his wrinkled face. “Politics.


“Now listen here, that Human High Culture nerfshit holds up just fine as long as you don't ever bother to look at any of the other shit any other species ever built, or ever get yourself into the kind of a situation where you might need any kind of help from anyone else anywhere in this gods-damned galaxy.”


“Language!” the old woman said, slapping his hand.


“That's how it works though, right?” the old man barked back. “I get to say whatever kinda shit I want, and as long as I'm not some kind of a fish, or a cat-man, or a lizard or some-such, it's A-ok with you types, right?”


“Oh . . .” the old woman huffed, shooing him away with her hands, unsuccessfully.


“I'm afraid I don't follow,” Krin had to admit. She was human, but she wasn't Gestalt human. Even then, she was beginning to wonder if the old man made sense to them.


“The high-ups,” he continued, pointing over his head as if it would clarify something. “Military brass and politician-types. The true believers with the power to make true believer policy. They were so sure of themselves and their own superiority that they never imagined anything like the Reavers could come along and kick over their sandcastle. But they did, came in and kicked it over hard.


“The Reavers came in hot, tore through the colonies' static defenses 'fore the brass knew what was happening. We lost a lot of people in the time it took the patrols and whatnot to fall back to the colonies. Alot'a people, and alot'a leadership. I think . . .” the old man sat up a little straighter, pointing a withered finger at the captain, “I think somebody survived that first hit from the Reavers, somebody who wanted to keep surviving and who found hisself with the kind of power to give the order that would keep him surviving, what with all the bodies of his commanders splayed out around him.”


“Why's it got to be a 'him'?” the old woman asked, slapping him again.


“Huh?” he asked.


“All that railing on and on about Human High Culture, but you're still the same stupid, sexist, prick I married all those years ago!”


“Shut yer yap, I'm talkin' here to the Cap'n! Anyway, Cap'n,” he continued, returning his attention to Krin, “that's what I think. Now I can't go guessing about the Remorans; they're a strange lot I've not heard of before. Maybe they just like a fight. Maybe they got a thing for protecting civilians. I don't know. But the Colonial brass . . . I'd bet you a hundred credits, if I had it to bet.”


It made as much sense as anything else, but it was bad news if true. The Colonial evacuation to Anoat was only half of the old plan, because a Western fleet could move from Anoat to Gestalt just as quickly as a Colonial fleet could move from Gestalt to Anoat. Maybe faster, if the Colonials were escorting slower civilian ships. Which, in this case, they had.


It was beginning to sound like, while the opening blow of the Reaver invasion had been devastating and disruptive, the Colonial fleet, under proper command, could have held out long enough for Western reinforcements to arrive if they had only signaled for help. Even if the Reavers had scrambled long-range comms, a courier ship at full speed or a comm ship jumping out of system then sending a mayday would have reached Anoat in time. It didn't sound like they could have held the system from the Reavers, but maybe they could have bought the time for a proper evacuation.


Could it really be that simple, though? Could some mid-level political official or military officer really have gone to those insane lengths, thrown away so many lives, just to save her- or him-self from the Reavers?


“Captain, I've got another one claiming to be in command now.”


“Yeah,” Krin said absently into her commlink, “I don't care. Tell that one to get in line, too. There's not much to be in command of, besides. I'm in command of this system until relief arrives from further West, and my orders for the Colonial ships and crews won't be changing until then. So you pass that along and tell Captain-Commodore-Viscount-Whoever-the-Frack to shut it until I'm done here!”


“Uhh, yes, Ma'am. There's just this one weird thing . . .”


Julia sighed heavily, bobbing her head back and forth as she considered whether or not she should take the bait. “Okay, tell me.”


“We can't tell where the transmission's coming from.”


The old man shot bolt upright, surprised and maybe a little uplifted by the statement.


“What?” Captain Krin asked, intrigued by his response. “What is it?”
This post was edited by Smarts (1:49am 22/09/15, 10 years ago)

“We will not be settling on Anoat,” Minister Ashern said decisively.


For the fourth time in as many days, Captain Julia Krin of the Western Province met the unflinching stare of the acting leader of the Gestalt Colonies. “Do you have any idea what it took for me to secure an autonomous region of Anoat for your people to settle? An autonomous region, like we agreed two days ago!”


“We have identified a superior alternative,” the minister said.


Julia rose to her feet, kicking her chair back out of her way. The display startled not only the Colonials, but the local advisers who had been with her for these past several days now.


“Wha . . . what are you doing?” the minister asked, taken aback.


“I'm through losing sleep over your plots and schemes. We've already moved fifty thousand Colonials on-site and into temp housing thanks to the hard work and dedication of our Squib friends,” she indicated the Squib Procurator, Juri, sitting next to her on the right side of the table, “hard work and dedication that I've got nothing but grief over from your people,” she added, pointing and accusatory finger at Minister Ashern. “I've got a refugee population that's been living on ships and space stations for over a week now, the best of them distinguishable from the worst of them only by not having been forced to watch their fellow Colonials shot to death by Western marines after turning Reaver.


“So if you'll excuse me, I've got more important things to do with my time.” And she set off to leave the daily meeting.

“We want Deyer,” Minister Ashern said hurriedly, rising to his feet and gesturing for her to stop.


She did, out of a numbing sort of incomprehension instead of any sympathy for his plea, but she did. “You made me fight the Anoat government for five days over this on your behalf so at the end of it, you could leverage the unpleasant prospect them having you as a neighbor, so they'd hand you a dead ocean world an orbit over?”


“We don't want autonomy,” Minister Ashern said. “We want independence. We want the Gestalt Colonies. Deyer is habitable, if not altogether hospitable, and it has sufficient land mass for our current population. Convince the Anoat government to cede us Deyer, and we will not only stay well out of their politics, but you will have earned the Coalition's Western Province a stout ally in our new Gestalt Colonies.”


That was his plan, to buy her off with the promise of fame and favor with Western Command? “The people of Anoat don't like you. They don't like your arrogance, they don't like your isolationism, they don't like your speciesism, and they sure as the nine Corellian hells don't like how you use Coalition authority to meddle in their internal affairs. And now you want me to got to them with this, to tell them that you made them spend thousands of collective hours of bargaining, and debating, and compromising, so at the end of it all, they'd be so annoyed at you that they'd give you what you really want just so they don't have to deal with you anymore?”


“Tell them it was your idea,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Tell them it was all part of your ploy to get us off of Anoat,” he continued when he realized she wasn't following. “Say it was in the name of preserving their national integrity, or something to that effect.” Krin still wasn't buying it, and that was really frustrating the minister. “Look, a week ago, if we'd asked Anoat to cede Deyer to the Gestalt Colonies, they would have laughed in our faces. They would have called Cerea and told that Prime Minister of yours to clear us out of their space, to ship us off to some refugee center in the East or somewhere. But now, after seeing our weeping mothers, and hungry children, and exhausted elderly, they can't help but care. Sure, Colonial bureaucracy and our formal demands have been frustrating and unnerving, but that only serves to contrast the futility of dealing with us against the necessity of helping our citizens.


“After all, it worked on you, right?


Julia's eyes widened in shock and horror as her face turned red hot with rage. She wanted to strangle the man with his tie. She wanted to shoot him with her service blaster. She wanted to beat him to death with his chair.


All at once. “Gods, you're a monster.”


“No!” he shouted emphatically, the first genuine show of emotion that Julia had seen from him in the time they'd been dealing with each other. “Whether you or your government recognize it, I am the leader of this nation, the Colonial Minister of the Gestalt Colonies, and there is nothing I will not do to see my people safe and our Colonies restored!”


Julia was taken aback by his raw display of emotion. Even his own Colonial advisers seemed surprised by his outburst. She didn't know what to do, didn't know what to think, stunned by what she couldn't even be sure was a genuine turn of events, given how much the Colonial leader had already manipulated her.


Then the gentle rumbling of Grubnub's voice caught her attention, and she looked back at her team to see him giving quiet counsel to the others. They muttered their own replies and then Grubnub looked to Julia, nodding his lobster head at her. She understood: they were on-board.


Just by accepting the Western captain's offer to serve as a civilian adviser on behalf of Anoat, these people had painted themselves as staunch Coalition supporters in the eyes of Anoat's population. Whether or not it was actually true was largely irrelevant at this point. They needed, desperately, for the Western Province to come out looking good in the eyes of the Anoat people, and apparently they thought this would do it.


Julia turned back to Minister Ashern, still feeling like she was missing something. She let her eyes drift over the Colonial representatives, trying to puzzle out what it might be. And then her eyes drifted past the empty seat at Ashern's side, and she had it.


“There's nothing you wouldn't do for the colonies?” she asked, turning his own words on him, her dark tone betraying her designs.


* * *


Months Pass . . .


RDS Uniform, Deyer Orbit
Converted Conference Room


The Uniform was a dedicated science research ship, built for experimentation and prototyping. It didn't have space to waste on the bureaucratic niceties like the very room in which the small party now gathered. It's modular design, intended and until only recently used for retooling to meet new research and design challenges, however, made it quite capable of taking up its new function. And these days, “capable” was a luxury the Colonies couldn't afford to pass up.


It was a small, quiet meeting in the midst of the mounting media frenzy. Intimate, even.


The two Colonials looked quite pleased with themselves, and they should, she supposed. At least one of them had worked just as hard as anyone over these last few months, even if at times their efforts were very decidedly at odds with the labors of their supposed allies. And now, finally, they would reap the personal rewards for all of their past efforts.


Captain Julia Krin felt like she was finally beginning to understand these people, their pride, their dedication, their unshaking resolve that could survive even a Reaver invasion and the near-total destruction of their governmental and military command. There were certainly things about the Colonials to be admired, that couldn't be denied.


If only they weren't such assholes!


“Well, shall we?” Gideon said, indicating the official document sitting on the table between them. He had insisted in recent weeks that Julia call him “Gideon”, not “Minister” or “Mr. Ashern”.


She had told him quite plainly to call her “Captain”.


Julia looked to her sole companion, expecting him to take the lead. Never in her years of service did she imagine she'd find herself standing beside the Prime Minister of the Western Province, equal partners in a complex legal and political maneuver to determine the fate of a Coalition member. She was a soldier, after all. A warrior, trained to break starships, not resolve contract disputes.


“I think the good captain has earned the honors,” Pro Moon said lightly, looking straight into Julian's eyes.


“Agreed,” Minister Ashern . . . Gideon . . . said.


Looking back to the pair of Colonials, Julia nodded reluctantly, taking her seat and retrieving the document. The others sat in unison.


“The Squib Internal Rapid Response Force,” Julia began, reading the formal name of the humanitarian fleet dispatched from Skor II, “has concluded Phase One of the Seven Cities Complex Project, and certified that the Colonial Refugee Relief Operation has met minimum health and safety requirements laid out by Coalition Law. As Prime Minister Pro Moon has received confirmation from the Coalition House of Representatives that the Gestalt Colonies have executed their continuity of government protocols in accordance with Colonial and Coalition law, I am now legally authorized to transfer administration of the this Relief Operation to the Colonial government.


“With the recall of the RDS Uniform by the Colonial Defense Fleet and its appointment as the future command center for this Operation, I have received satisfactory indication of your government's technical capabilities to continue the settling and development of Deyer. Furthermore, with the completion of repairs effected to Colonial warships at Anoat, I am assured of the Colonial government's abilities to defend its own sovereignty to a degree well within the bounds of Coalition law.


“That leaves only a single hurdle to clear before I am satisfied to declare this state of emergency resolved, and return the Gestalt Colonies to their independent governance. I must be assured of some minimally acceptable level of formal oversight, to ensure that a self-administrated Colonial Refugee Relief Operation will remain on-track and allocate Coalition relief resources appropriately. To that end, I have proposed the admission of the Gestalt Colonies into the Western Province of the Galactic Coalition, with all of its citizens, officers, starships, and assets subject to Western law.”


“What of Colonial citizens and military assets within Confederation space?” Gideon asked immediately.


It was an expected question, one that Pro Moon was eminently qualified to answer. “As you well know, the Western Province styles itself as a Coalition-in-miniature. As such, you will be free to pursue any course of action you deem fit, within the constraints of Western Law. The Western Province will not, however, take independent action to pursue what it may perceive as wayward citizens of a member nation. That would constitute an unconscionable violation of the Colonies' sovereign rights.”


Julia refocused her attention from the Western minister to the Colonial minister.“Are these terms acceptable?”


Gideon looked to the Colonial commander and received a curt nod. “Yes,” he said simply, taking the official document and signing where necessary. Passing it back, Pro Moon signed on as Prime Minister of the West, leaving one final signature, one final line to be filled out.


Captain Julia Krin, the human woman from Abregado-Rae who had come to call Anoat her home, a career naval officer whose fondest hopes and most dreaded fears never wandered far from the specter of armed conflict, signed her name and ended the longest conflict of her life, a conflict of an entirely different sort.


“Congratulations, Colonial Minister Ashern, Admiral Derricot,” Julia said to each of them in turn.


They nodded back in acknowledgment, both looking rather proud of themselves.


“The Gestalt Colonies live,” she added with a grin she just couldn't manage to suppress.


“Indeed they do,” Pro Moon said, caught up in the giddiness of the moment. He rose to his feet, clapping his hands together, about to excuse himself.


Julia put a restraining hand on his forearm, surprising him a little. “Minister, would now be appropriate?” she asked Gideon, her tone formal.


“The sooner the better, I'd say,” he answered, nodding.


Julia tugged gently on Pro Moon's arm, “This way please, Prime Minister, for your safety.”


Pro Moon's huge Cerean brows furrowed in confusion, but Julia kept tugging and he relented, letting her move him to her opposite side, putting him uncomfortably close to the nearest bulkhead.


She brought out a commlink with her free hand and spoke into it: “Security detail to the conference room, we're good to go here.”


“What's all of this?” Admiral Derricot asked, confused, looking from the Colonial Minister to the Western captain.


A pair of Colonial Commandos entered the room, heading straight for the commander of the Colonial military.


Julia locked eyes with him just before she began to speak. “Admiral Sven Derricot, by the authority of the Coalition Western Province as called upon by the Colonial Minister of the Gestalt Colonies, I am placing you under arrest for the crimes of treason, dereliction of duty, impersonating a flag officer of the Colonial Defense Fleet, and . . . is gross incompetence a crime? Because the Prime Minister of the Western Province is right here, and I can probably get that made a crime before you reach the brig.”


“What? What is the meaning of this? Get your hands off of me!” Derricot struggled in futility against the commando who had grabbed his wrists, locking them in a pair of stun cuffs. While Colonial Commandos weren't meant for military policing duties, Julia had thought that the visual of the armor-clad warriors hauling the traitorous commander to the brig would be quite appealing. Gideon had agreed.


Julia put a hand on the nearest Commando's shoulder to stop him from hauling the newly minted admiral away. “Welcome to the Western Province, admiral, among whose members is a certain living planet called Emanon, who quite enjoys putting puzzles together. Puzzles, like determining the positions and actions of the Krakana for the duration of the Reaver invasion, by synthesizing sensor records pulled from the hundreds of Colonial ships who escaped to Anoat. Like pairing scrubbing algorithms with Colonial naval decryption codes to recover data from tight-beam comm signals aimed at Colonial command ships and originating from the ruins of David Colony. Comm signals that carried orders with Admiral Mar-Veil's authorization codes, the same Admiral Mar-Veil who we now have confirmation died in the opening attack on David Colony. The same Admiral Mar-Veil who you were serving under at the time.


“You pulled the Krakana from the line to save your own ass. You ordered other Colonial commanders to die in your stead. You threw away the lives of how many thousands of Colonials to ensure your own survival? The Gestalt Colonies live, and they will not abide your transgression.” She slapped the Commando's shoulder and he hauled Dericot out of the room, kicking and screaming.


“Well, that was enlightening,” Pro Moon said, uncharacteristically somber. “I take it Emanon's findings will hold up in a Colonial court?” he asked, turning to the new Colonial Minister.


Gideon shrugged. “It doesn't matter. The Colonial military is formally part of Western Command now, meaning a Colonial court martial must abide by Western guidelines.”


“Well that's convenient,” Pro Moon said lightly, having already shaken off the dark prospect of the Admiral's past actions. “And I take it you'll be needing a new commander of the CDF now, yes?”


“It shouldn't be a problem for the Minister to promote the senior-most Colonial captain to the post,” Julia offered, moving her chair aside and stepping back so Pro Moon could more easily extricate himself from the cramped corner she'd pulled him into.


“Oh, I think that would be a terrible misstep on the dear Colonial Minister's part,” Pro Moon said with more than a dash of mock concern. “In these uncertain times, with your people's faith in their military command so shaken by this turn of events, I think it would be best to have a trusted, proven commander leading the CDF, someone who's paid her dues and more, who's already proven she's willing to make the tough calls that save Colonial lives.”


“Oh, no . . .” Julia whispered, sinking back half a step as Pro Moon moved out of the cramped corner and back to stand at her side.


“And besides,” he continued, “I think it would be best for the citizens of the Colonies to see a clear demonstration from their new Minister of the strength of the Gestalt Colonies' new relationship to the West, and renewed relationship to the Coalition as a whole. Don't you?” He was facing Minister Ashern, but his hand had come to rest on Julia's shoulder.


“Prime Minister . . .” Julia began, desperate to salvage this situation before he pushed the Colonial leader too far, desperate to extricate herself from this dangerous position . . .


“I think Captain Krin would make an ideal Colonial,” Gideon said smoothly before she could continue.


Her voice caught in her throat. She glanced back at Gideon in wide-eyed shock. She could feel her shoulders slumping under the weight of the Prime Minister's hand, her natural instinct to retreat from such an undesirable and disadvantaged position.


They were using her, both of them she now realized, for their own political maneuvers. Her months of selfless labor and sacrifice to save the people of the Gestalt Colonies and ensure them a chance at future prosperity were being wagered by other, more powerful people for ends she couldn't even see.


“Promotion to the rank of admiral is out of the question, of course,” Pro Moon said immediately.


“Minister Moon,” Julia managed, her mouth dry, “I don't think this is a good idea . . .”


“Agreed,” Gideon said in reply to Pro Moon's comment, ignoring Julia's objections completely.


“You'll do just fine,” Minister Moon reassured.


 “It's not me that I'm worried about,” she said, more defensively than she would have liked.


 “Everyone will do just fine,” he replied in the same, reassuring tone.


“Besides, I think something more identifiably Colonial would serve our needs best," Gideon continued, now ignoring their entire exchange. "Vice Commodore, a ceremonial title that nonetheless denotes supreme authority over the military assets of the Gestalt Colonies. A reminder, also, that though the Gestalt Colonies are now members of the Western Province, the Colonial Defense Fleet is an autonomous entity subject only to the direct authority of the Commander of the West, Captain Ion.”


Julia was shaking her head in disbelief. Had Pro Moon known about Admiral Derricot all along? Had the two leaders struck some informal agreement before this meeting had even begun?


“It will of course help that Captain Krin is so well respected by the people of Anoat, your new neighbors,” Pro Moon noted. “It's agreed, then? I should file the transfer paperwork?”


It was just then that she caught something in the way Pro Moon regarded Gideon. Something about the tone of his voice and the way he narrowed his eyes ever-so-slightly.


She looked back to Gideon and found him staring at her, a wistful smile on his lips. “Yes. Yes, you should.”


Oh . . .


* * *


“. . . Balls. Big, hairy, Wookiee balls!”


Julia kicked the locker door shut, behind which now hung her former Western naval uniform.


“Is there a problem, Miss?”


She turned to find the familiar Ryn standing in the doorway, a grease smudge on his face and a work belt around his waist. His coveralls were stained with sweat and more grease, and his hair had that particular oily look that some Ryn got when they'd been too hot for too long.


“Is the refresher working yet?” she snapped at him, not at all liking his disarming demeanor. Right now, she wanted to be armed, well and truly armed.


This area of the Uniform had been converted to additional living space for members of the Colonial Relief administration stationed aboard, and she'd opted for new quarters here rather than pushing out one of the permanent members of the ship's senior staff. Unfortunately, in their haste to ready the quarters before their latest deadline, the construction crew seemed to have missed a few essential functions.


“Just about,” he said, turning to head back into the room. “It's not like you're the only one with better things to do with your time.” He added the barb with no hint of levity.


This particular Ryn had only recently joined the Squib relief effort that had been helping the Colonials settle their new home for months now. With the Colonials regaining their political independence, the racist jackasses were rewarding the hard work of their Squib and Ryn allies by pushing them off-world with all possible haste. The Uniform, technically a Colonial asset but hugely influenced by broader Coalition interests over the past several months, was one of the few places in the Colonies that non-humans were given any measure of respect. With his skills and personal connections, he'd managed to get a posting here.


And now Julia had him fixing her bathroom. “I'm sorry,” she said, reaching out an arm as if willing him to stay. Oddly enough, it worked. “This day's been seriously kicking my ass. I'm not really a Colonial, you know?” She said it like she wasn't sure he'd believe her.


“Yeah you are,” he answered with a mixture of admiration and disappointment, staring at the insignia and medals on her new uniform. He shook his head, a roguish grin distorting the grease smear on his face. “Vice Commodore of the Gestalt Colonies.”


She couldn't hold that fire-and-ice stare, and looked away. “Minister Ashern . . . Gideon . . . he has a thing for me.” Why was she telling him this? She shouldn't be telling him this. “I figured it out when they were deciding my fate . . . he and Prime Minister Moon, I mean. Moon saw it before I did; I sort of picked up on it late in the game.”


“Maybe he likes strong women,” the Ryn said lightly, stepping away from the door, apparently content that he was fully engaged in this conversation now.


“I think he likes breaking strong women,” she answered, meeting his eyes again as she fought back the bile of the revelation.


“Well that'll get him disappointed real fast,” he said, still oddly jovial.


“I can't . . . I can't . . .” She looked away again, somehow embarrassed by all of this. “I can't believe they're all the same. There's got to be more to them than these narcissistic, self-absorbed, short-sighted, xenophobic, racists!”


“'Racists', huh?” was his only reply, which he accented by crossing his arms over his chest.


“Speciesist, whatever!” she shouted, gesticulating wildly. “It's a stupid sounding word. I can't help which words sound stupid, give me a break!”


She turned her back on him, the whole situation having become too much for her to handle. It was just another straw to toss onto the crushing press of conflicted thoughts and feelings that had been building in her since the Colonials first arrived.


“Hey, hey, now,” he said softly, taking a few steps forward, reaching out a hand to rest it gently on her arm. “All the breaks. I'll give you all the breaks.”


The ridiculous attempt at reassurance made Julia chuckle, and she allowed herself to take a half-step back, closer to him.


He moved in closer as well, right against her, his forehead brushing against her hair. “What do you think's going to happen,” he paused to kiss her gently on the neck, below her ear, “when he finds out . . .” his hand slid up her arm to squeeze her shoulder gently, his other hand moving to rest on her hip “. . . you're married,” he kissed her again, the hand on her hip sliding around her waist while the other moved across her collarbones until he had her wrapped in both his arms, “to a Ryn?”


She was fighting the urge to draw in deeper breaths, her quickening heartbeat demanding more oxygen from her lungs. “I want to say one of those terrible, offensive, unhelpful, inconsiderate things that you always get furious at me for.”


“Do it,” he whispered into her ear.


Julia slid her hand between his and her own waist, squeezing it gently and then pulling it away. His other hand fell away immediately, and she turned around to stare into his eyes. “In thirty minutes, Colonial Minister Ashern is going to present me to the newly appointed Council of Ministers.” She released his hand and grabbed the clasp of his work belt, unlatching it and dropping it to the floor.


“Make me smell like an alien.”
This post was edited by Smarts (10:06pm 03/12/17, 8 years ago)

Seven Cities Complex, Deyer
Colonial Minister's Office


He had a new statue. Of course he had a new statue.


And it was of a human. Carved out of Alderaanian marble.


“You don't approve?” Colonial Minister Ashern asked, pouring himself a drink. He had already learned not to offer her such things.


Or perhaps he was growing more overt in his displays of disdain for her. “I was just considering the moral implications of such a purchase, one so expensive it outstrips the annual cost to the Colonies from the tariffs you keep blocking me from eliminating.”


“You still don't understand,” he took a sip of the overly expensive drink and began walking toward the statue, “do you? The future of the Gestalt Colonies rests as much on our image,” he made a show of polishing it with his suit sleeve, “as on our financial reports and construction projects.” He glanced back to her, taking another sip of the drink. “We've been here before, my dear Vice Commodore: at the site of a brave new world, with the RDS Uniform overhead, churning out building supplies and directing construction projects.”


“You had Coalition funding pouring in last time.”


“As we do now,” he countered. “Of a different sort, admittedly, but there all the same.”


“Not enough. Not if you want to do anything more than survive.”


“And you aim to do something about that,” he said, giving up that he already knew something of her plans.


“Truly, I'd be disappointed if you hadn't been spying on me.” Julia smirked as she watched him walk back to his desk, drinking more of what must be an unpronounceable and exotic liquid. He was so sure of himself . . .


“I don't need to, with all of the public speeches you've been giving about Galactic Technologies lately.” He set the glass down and turned those searching, dark eyes on her again.


“I wouldn't characterize them as speeches,” Julia said offhand.


“The media does,” he replied, tapping a button on his desk that pulled up an array of holo stills and text articles about Julia's recent public appearances. “They seem to think you're quite impressive in the political arena, given your inexperience. There's even some talk of you running for office in the special elections . . .” His tone had gotten progressively darker, bordering on outright sinister by the time he let the last word trail off. It was clear to Julia what he was thinking right then.


But he wasn't quite far enough along for her liking. “I am a Colonial citizen now,” she goaded, walking slowly toward the Minister's desk, “and those 'quaint' local gatherings I've been attending despite your past counsel against them really seem to have endeared me to a great many of my fellow Colonials.” She grabbed the bottle of strange liquid and uncorked it, taking a swig directly from it . . .


. . . and it wasn't even alcohol! What kind of ridiculous, decaff, reverse-osmosis, space-hipster root juice was that? And it probably cost him more than if he'd bought the stuff that would get him drunk!


Minister Ashern was fuming, though, so Julia still counted it as a win. “So yeah, let's talk Galactic Technologies.” She said it lightly as she recorked the bottle and set it back on his desk.


“What?” He was taken so off-guard that she could tell he was still trying to figure out internally if he was supposed to be mad or not.


She suppressed a smile and turned as if regarding the art on a side wall. “This feeling you're having now . . .” she let the comment linger as she walked slowly toward the artwork on the wall “. . . now you know what it's like, to have your best-laid plans turned into a playing piece to be sacrificed by someone else for a completely different game. You should be proud, really.” She turned on her heels, abandoning the pretense of distraction by the artwork, happy to see he was still muddled and unsure of himself.


“I learned it from you.”


His eyes widened in recognition, and he drew in a deep breath. Months ago, in the first days of the evacuation, he'd made Julia spend days fighting with the Anoat government for special considerations to a Colonial autonomous region on the world, all as a ploy to secure Deyer as Colonial property. “If you don't want to be Colonial Minister, then what do you want?”


She smiled despite herself, holding his shocked and desperate gaze. He needed to know so badly. He needed to understand. But it was so, so simple:


“Galactic Technologies.”


“What? Are you insane?”


She shrugged. “Just for six months; that's all I really need.”


“You have that fancy uniform, Vice Commodore, but you aren't Lance Shipwright! Not for six months, not for six minutes!”


She chuckled at her own thought, turning on her heels back to the artwork, once again denying Minister Ashern the privilege of addressing her face to face. “My husband would be happy to hear it, for more than one reason.”


It seemed to take him a moment to get over the offhand comment. “What, then?” he finally asked again, rounding the near corner of the desk and stopping just beside her. “What do you want it for?”


She still didn't turn back to him. “You really don't understand the first thing about me, do you? I'm sure it's never even crossed your mind.” She finally turned back to him, staring down through those windows to his soul, into the hungry darkness beyond. “I want to save these people. I want the Gestalt Colonies to succeed, to prosper again. I want them to be able to forget the horrors of the past, because they find themselves in a bright and brightening present.”


“And how, my dear Commodore, will control of Galactic Technologies enable you to do that?” He smelled a lie. He smelled a lie and it gave him back his composure, refocused his mind.


He still didn't understand. “You said yourself that the Colonial people have been here before, facing the colonization of an untamed world with nothing but the support of the Uniform and Galactic Technologies backing them up. I can secure the contracts needed to fund the Colonies all over again, but it will be by turning to the kind of people who won't make deals with the Gestalt Colonies unless it's through the kind of woman who would marry a Ryn.”


He was literally taken aback, having to steady himself by reaching out for the edge of his desk. “The Ryn Fleet? Allies of the very aliens who we've already pushed off-world? That would destroy your reputation in the eyes of Colonials everywhere.”


“Yes, yes it will,” Julia nodded her head. Maybe he was finally catching on. “How fortunate it will be for you, that you'll be able to both claim credit for the Colonies' renewed financial success, and avoid the fallout of association with the sources of that success.”


The minister backpedaled toward his seat, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the tabletop as they slid after him. “You're serious about this? You're willing to throw away all of the personal success and power you've amassed over all of this time, just to put the Colonies back on track? You're willing to hand me public credit for this deal, right before you walk yourself willingly into a populist's nightmare?”


Julia followed after him, on the opposite side of his desk. “Under this title of Vice Commodore, my rank is Captain. I am a Coalition officer, the commander of the Colonial Defense Fleet. It's who I am; it's who I chose to be. So yes, I'm ready to burn my little empire down, to see these Colonies restored. To see myself return to the duties and responsibilities of my true calling.


“To see the people I've sworn to protect live lives worth protecting.”


* * *


It was the first time she'd called a press conference. The new Parliamentary Estate was framed squarely in the background, extensive scaffolding showing clearly its ongoing construction. On the live feed, Julia could just make out the tops of the largest trees that ringed the artificial lake set between the Estate and the podium, a newly installed fountain in the lake's center spraying hundreds of liters of water into the air in a fantastic display. It was the most authentic glimpse of the current Gestalt Colonies that the outside galaxy was likely to get, a thin veneer of opulence draped over blatant signs of desperate scrambling to return to only the shadow of former glory. At least that was how the Vice Commodore saw it.


The cheering crowd seemed to have a different read on the situation.


Julia ascended the few steps to the raised platform and then headed straight for the podium, deciding to add a hint of military-style precision by coming to a complete stop behind the podium and then pivoting on her heels to face the crowd, snapping her feet square as she raised her hands to rest them on the podium's top.


“Ladies and gentlemen, as administrator of the Colonial Relief Operation, I am happy to report not only that Colonial Minister Gideon Ashern's administration has acquired a controlling interest in Galactic Technologies, but that I have been appointed interim Chief Executive Officer for the next six months, in which time I have committed to and been charged with the task of transferring the duties and obligations of the Colonial Relief Operation to Galactic Technologies.”


The ending proclamation elicited a substantial display of shock and surprise from the crowd, most of whom were already aware of the internal political maneuvering Gideon had performed to clear the way for the nationalization of the company. But only six more months to bring the Relief Operation to a close?


It was unthinkable.


“Rest assured that we are committed to the returning greatness of the Gestalt Colonies, and though the nature of the Colonies' ongoing relationship to Galactic Technologies has quite literally been reversed, the results of that relationship will prove in coming months to be largely indistinguishable from past feats of greatness. It is with great pride and pleasure that I intend to lead not only Galactic Technologies, but the Gestalt Colonies themselves, out of these troubling times and into a bright future as of yet undreamed.”


The obligatory cheering ensued, and Julia waited several seconds before demanding quiet, nevertheless allowing a thin smile to creep across her features. “Planning is in the preliminary stages, and there are of course any number of company secrets which I am not at liberty to discuss, but I would like to allow for questions before we pack up here. A storm front is moving in, after all, so please do be concise.”


There was a smattering of that fake laughter that's always given when someone powerful and unfunny tries to make a joke, and then Julia called on the first questioner, a young woman with the Colonial News Service. “Vice Commodore, the obvious question on everyone's mind is: with Galactic Technologies only just having been revived from what was essentially corporate death, how do you expect to accomplish anything of merit in only six months' time, much less the bold proclamations you just made?”


Julia used the smile she'd been practicing for weeks now. It sounded like exactly the kind of opening question Ashern would have lined up for her behind the scenes. “Much of the strength of GT has always been in its intellectual property, and the intellects that produce that property. I am confident that with the production capacity of the RDS Uniform and the ongoing work of her crew, we are fully equipped to renegotiate old Coalition contracts and acquire new business partners of the quality and number needed to meet all of our financial goals.”


It felt so gross and weird, playing the part of the corporate executive, but she kept her practice smile on and leaned into the wind, refusing to back down from the challenge she'd set for herself.


The next question came from an independent news agency. “Any comment on the recent speculation that the supposed defense force deployed to the Western Province's newest member world, Terminus, the closest inhabited world to the former Gestalt Colonies, is in fact an anti-Reaver task force assembled in collaboration with the Coalition-led anti-Reaver Compact out East?”


Suddenly she wanted to be playing the part of the corporate executive again. She couldn't tell if the murmurs of disapproval from the crowd were directed at her delayed response, or the person who asked the question, but she really couldn't let the silence hang in the air any longer. Then the last-minute pep talk from her prep team came to mind and she knew what to do: deflect, deflect, deflect.


“This conference and my duties are concerned with the people of this world and the future they will make for themselves. The actions of the Western military are not my business, except for the business of selling them state-of-the-art hardware, of course.” She allowed herself a self-congratulatory smile to accompany the generally authentic-sounding laughter of the crowd. “And a point of clarification: there are no 'former' Gestalt Colonies. We are alive and well, right here in front of you.” Cheering support erupted from the primed audience.


Next up was a reporter from a major Western newsgroup.“Mrs. Kern, could you comment on the current state of relations between Galactic Technologies and the Contegorian Confederation?”


It was a surprisingly on-point question to be coming from someone seen as an “outsider” to the Colonial spectators. Not only that, but it was a question of the kind that Colonial censors would never have allowed to be asked by one of their own agencies. “Well, I would say that given the recent setbacks Galactic Technologies has suffered, current relations are nonexistent. However, through its subsidiary Colonial Technologies, GT has cultivated a history of mutually beneficial relations between the Gestalt Colonies and the Confederation.


“A history that I, for one, would like to see continue on into the future.”


“But what about the possibility of Western interference?”


“Well, I believe that the terms of our . . . admission . . .” something was going on, something distracting several of the news crews “. . . into the Western Province have guaranteed us sufficient autonomy to pursue revived relations with the Confederation, if it proves to be a fiscally viable option.”


No one in the news services were paying attention to her by the time she finished her response. Movement to her right caught her attention, and Julia looked over to see one of the members of her prep team walking toward her, a commlink in hand.


“Sorry Ma'am,” the young man whispered into her ear, “but you need to hear this.”


Julia turned away from the podium and its microphones, lowering the volume on the commlink and pressing it against her ear to minimize the chance that anyone would pick up its audio.


But what came through was just a prerecorded message. The quality was low and the speaker's voice sounded strained, going on and on about some gibberish Julia couldn't make much sense of. And then the message neared its end and the Vice Commodore of the Gestalt Colonies understood what had shut down her entire press conference:


“My name is Lance Shipwright.”

“We...”

Pause.

“... are...”

Pause.

“... alive.”

Visibly shaken, Julia handed the commlink back to the assistant delicately, like the slightest perturbation might shatter it to pieces. She nodded him away, turning back to the podium and steadying herself against it.


“No more questions. The storm is closing in.”
This post was edited by Smarts (2:10am 22/09/15, 10 years ago)

Months Pass


Outside of the Gestalt System, Provincial-class Carrier Virtus
Combat Information Center


The holographic conference called by Vice Commodore Julia Krin was attended by the virtual projection of every capital ship commander in the Colonial Defense Fleet, minus the small symbolic escort remaining with the RDS Uniform. Given their proximity to what had come to be called “Western Reaver Space” to avoid any acknowledgment of the fact that the system was officially designated “the Gestalt System”, special protocols had been enacted to ensure their communications didn't come to Reaver attention. With the Colonial Fleet broken into three task forces stationed at the three hyperspace access points to the system, that was not an insignificant feat.


Julia felt alone in the room full of holograms, having cleared the entire CIC for the duration of the meeting. There was simply nowhere else available until a proper, Colonial regulation forward command post could be established on Terminus.


“Captains,” she began, nodding indistinctly at the collection of officers, “as you know, this operation has become a point of pride for the Colonial people. Your rapid deployment from Deyer and seamless integration of the Western interdictors to your commands are nothing short of a testament to the excellence and professionalism of the Colonial Fleet.


“You've been stationed here for months now without incident, patrolling our former borders, this new Neutral Zone between these nightmares who have stepped into reality and the galaxy beyond that carries on as if no such things exist. This I believe is a worthy task, and one that will not soon end. But if we are ever to reclaim the Gestalt System, or at the least rid ourselves finally of the threat the Reavers pose to our new Colonies, it will not be soon enough, and it will by no means be through Colonial force alone.


“That is why, given the success thus far achieved with mixed task forces of Western special operations warships under Colonial command and escort, I have coordinated with the commander of Terminus' Western defense force to rotate out two of his capital ships at a time, in four week intervals, to serve under Colonial command in our interdiction operation.”


There was a grumble of surprise and disapproval, but the Colonial captains knew better than to interrupt their Vice Commodore. “In exchange, two Colonial warships of equivalent capabilities will be rotated through Terminus in the same four week intervals, giving our sailors and command staff some much needed shore leave.”


“On Terminus?”


Julia nodded. “Logistically and strategically, allowing service members to return to Deyer simply can't be justified at this time.”


Julia could see the young captain's jaw tense and relax as he fought the urge to shout out some obscenity or another. No doubt at that very moment quite a few of them were reminding themselves that she was a Westerner at heart.


“The Colonial vessels deployed to Terminus will maintain minimal combat readiness at all times, and will be subject to local Western command for the duration of their deployment there. It is of unparalleled strategic importance for both the Colonies and the West that we learn to work together toward our mutual defense goals.


“Given the likelihood of the long-term deep-space deployment of the vast majority of the Colonial fleet, I will be making efforts to persuade Western Command to increase the permanent garrison at Terminus, at which point I hope to expand our ship rotation agreement with the commander there. I don't want to leave our boys and girls out here, beyond the sight of civilization, for months on end without reprieve.”


She paused for a moment, letting them stew in their discontent. It was important to her that they heard what she had to say next.


“Let me be direct and clear: the Gestalt Colonies will not fall again. That is my pledge to you, both as your Vice Commodore, and as the person Western Prime Minister Pro Moon considers 'the West's woman' in your ranks.” That admission elicited a general sort of appreciative acknowledgment from the captains. They hadn't expected such bald honesty.


“I could have, of course, updated all of you on these changes through official fleet dispatches from Deyer, and I'm sure none of you find my charming disposition of sufficient potency to warrant this meeting. So again, I will explain myself directly: while our stated mission here is sincere and important, it is not nor has it ever been the primary motivation for my decision to deploy the Colonial Defense Fleet to the borders of Western Reaver Space.


“Some of you may be aware that there are a number of human replica droids among the citizens and officers of the Gestalt Colonies, though I have gone to the considerable trouble of confirming that all of you are quite biologically human.”


Some showed their surprise at the revelation, others nodded in acknowledgment of their previous awareness, still others sat stoic and impervious, unwilling to reveal their hand to the Vice Commodore with a Western heart.


“As acting CEO of Galactic Technologies, I have gained access to certain critical information regarding the fundamental operation of these HRDs. Yesterday, Colonial censors scrubbed a third broadcast coming out of the Gestalt System by the creature or creatures claiming to be Lance Shipwright, though it's only a matter of time before recordings of that broadcast bleed into Deyer from other Coalition sources.


“Simply put, if the Western Reavers have the will to do so, and if they have acquired the knowledge of Lance Shipwright to any significant degree, then they have the means to remotely summon these replicants to the Gestalt System. Our mission here, the reason I secured interdictors from the West, the reason I ensured Colonial command of the overall patrol operation, was not simply to keep the Reavers in.


“It's to keep Colonials out. Your mission is to prevent any Colonial starship or citizen from entering the Gestalt System, by whatever means necessary. I don't know what to make of the claims in these broadcasts, but I know that the Reavers . . . damn the absurdity of it! The Reavers can't be trusted, no matter whose face they wear, or whose voice they use, or whose mind they've claimed.


“Now, I have been quietly pursuing the means to eliminate this security threat to the Colonies for some time now, but understand: at present, these replicants represent a clear and eminent threat to the Gestalt Colonies. Any interaction between them and the Reavers may goad the Reavers into another attack. So until further notice, we're keeping all of this in-house and quiet. We must not take any overt action which may stir these replicants from their current routines. You are to consider this a classified operation on direct orders from me, separate from the jurisdiction of the Office of the Colonial Minister, or Western Coalition Command.


“Any questions?”


* * *


Terminus, Galactic Spaceport 12
Western Naval Zone


Julia was planning to hitch a ride to Anoat in a Western Navy supply convoy. The Colonial Navy needed every ship at its disposal for the patrol operation, and besides she'd need some low-visibility time back at Deyer to square away some of her less public plans for Galactic Technologies.


Before any of that, though, she had one last thing to square away here.


“Ah, Captain Glurp!” Julia exclaimed jovially, stretching her arms out wide as if to give the man a hug.


Which was physiologically impossible, of course. The whale-like Herglic captain was easily a meter taller than Julia even with his slightly drooping posture, and one of his massive arms probably matched her entire weight. It was an old bit of physical comedy between them . . . which unfortunately he didn't seem eager to join in.


Then Julia realized someone was walking behind the mass of pale blue blubber, and she felt a little silly at the indulgence from a previous life. Even so, the good captain came to a lumbering halt and offered her a gigantic, lopsided, rubber-lipped grin. “Vice Commodore,” he said in a voice so soft and muted that it caught Julia by surprise, and she thought she'd been expecting it! “It looks like you've done quite well for yourself these last years.”


He bobbed his head in such a way that Julia knew he was staring at her Colonial rank bars with those slitted, jet black eyes of his. “I should say the same for you,” she said brightly, eying his Coalition uniform. “Life under the Empire's boot finally got the best of you, huh? You accepted that Coalition commission after all.” She was trying not to sound smug about being right all these years, but it wasn't working. And she didn't really mind.


The captain nodded his bulbous head, still smiling. “When I heard the West was gearing up militarily, with an emphasis on trade security, I just couldn't resist anymore. Abregado-Rae is my home, and it always will be, but this is my heart.” He tapped the captain's insignia on his sleeve. “And it always will be, too.”


The two had served together in Abregado-Rae's military before the Imperial takeover, and while Julia had elected to stay with the Coalition when it abandoned the world, Glurp just couldn't do it. He handed in his resignation and tried his hand at civilian life. Last she'd heard, he was doing alright at it, too. But something must have changed . . . for the better, she hoped.


“But oh, my!” Glurp exclaimed, the slightest toot of his blowhole sounding from his excitement. He shuffled over to the side, each footstep noticeably vibrating the large duracrete floor panel beneath them. “Allow me to introduce Chief Administrator of Ports, Buttons.”


The wiry, hesitant creature that appeared from behind Glurb's meaty leg was almost a meter shorter than Julia. Vaguely rodent-like, it wasn't a Squib, or a Tynnan, or a Jennet, or any other species Julia recognized. Covered in short hair with what looked like a gray coat with yellow stripes on the body that broke into spots on the limbs and face (though she couldn't be sure they weren't cosmetically added coloring), “Buttons” had a tuft of coarse, black whiskers sprouting from the tip of its nose.


“Pleasure to meet you,” the creature said in an uncomfortably high, squeaky voice. “'Buttons' isn't really . . . oh.” He (it was probably a he) said the last word quietly, fidgeting with some kind of jewelry around his neck. “Sorry,” he continued, his voice still impressively high but no longer ear-splittingly so. “It's so hard keeping species tolerances straight in the old noggin'.” He knocked on his own head with a knuckle.


Julia was curious to ask if the device had just been activated or deactivated, if this was his genuine or augmented voice, but she thought perhaps it wasn't an appropriate question. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Administrator Buttons,” she said, offering her hand.


“Oh!” The initial sound screeched painfully high like feedback from low quality audio amplifying tech, and she had her answer. “Right, like I was saying: 'Buttons' isn't really my name, it's just that you folks can't properly articulate Squeakerese.”


“Squeaker . . . squeakerese?” she asked delicately, glancing to her Herglic friend for a bit of help.


“Also not really the name of my language,” Not Really Buttons explained, “but again, you can't pronounce it's real name, so . . .” He shrugged for emphasis, but his arms were too long in proportion to the rest of his body. It looked . . . off somehow.


“Well, then, Administrator Not Really Buttons . . .”


“Please, 'Buttons' will do just fine,” he interrupted, apparently missing the attempt at a joke.


Julia was beginning to suspect that Buttons might be a Squib after all. “Administrator Buttons . . .” she tried again.


“Just, just Buttons, really.”


Yeah, definitely a Squib. She cut her eyes to Glurb: still smiling. And now she understood why. “Is this guy for real?”


“The best part is: yes, yes he is.”


Sighing, Julia returned her attention to the local official. “Buttons,” she began again, pausing to ensure he didn't have any further objections. “I hate to start off our relationship like this, but I believe that Captain Glurb forwarded you a digital document to sign? And forgive me, but I don't see a datapad anywhere on your person.”


“Oh, that's me,” Glurb said, trying to fetch the pad quickly but only succeeding in taking a rapid succession of tiny steps to manage his center of gravity. “Sorry, sorry,” he added as he dug into the cavernous pocket of his uniform. “And . . . here it is.” The normal-sized datapad appeared from the pocket, held only by his thumb and forefinger.


Julia snatched it and checked the signature lines. “Can you even sign something this small? As in, physically, is it possible?”


Glurb looked hurt. “It's been resized. I shrunk it for human scale.”


“Mine too,” Buttons piped up, “but bigger instead.”


Julia double-checked the lines on the confidentiality agreement, then shrugged and tucked it under her arm. “Good enough. Shall we?”


“This way,” Buttons said, rushing off into the Coalition's designated section of the starport. Rushing, of course, being a relative term, as the alien's sort of hop-skip gait didn't actually move him forward any faster than a casual human's pace.


Definitely not a Squib. “Care to multitask?” Julia asked as she and Glurb followed after.


“That shouldn't be a problem,” Glurb said.


“Sure!” Buttons exclaimed. “. . . but I have no idea what you're talking about.”


“I need a rundown of the current state of local relations with the West, the particulars of whatever sort of leasing agreement has given us control of this spaceport, as well as a general sense of the average shipping business the planet sees, among other things. Plus, I still need to get around to telling you why I made you sign a joint Colonial government/Galactic Technologies confidentiality agreement.”


Glurb looked impressed. “Sheesh, Julia, you didn't tell me you'd be getting up to all of that.”


Julia turned around, walking backwards to stay with the group while her eyes darted back and forth between her Herglic friend and something in the middle distance. “I'm the head of the Colonial military, the CEO of Galactic Technologies, Administrator of the Colonial Relief Program, and I'm on special assignment from Prime Minister Moon, so, yeah . . .” she pulled the datapad out from under her arm and handed it off to a passing Colonial courier before spinning back around and falling into step with the two aliens “. . . I'm getting up to 'all of that'. Also, talk fast, because my shuttle's leaving soon.”


“Well as you know,” Glurb began, not sounding too sure of himself, “after this new Reaver outbreak, the Western Province wanted some way to maintain a significant presence nearby, to monitor the situation and prepare for a possible counter-attack. As it turns out, the Terminians were looking to not get eaten by Reavers.”


Buttons spun around, copying Julia's previous maneuver, except adding quite a lot of hopping. “You needed a local base of operations, we needed more local protection. It was the perfect fit.” He spun back around, adding a little skipping bit that was not at all a copy of Julia's previous maneuver.


“There's hardly a token force from the West here now, though,” Julia pointed out.


“You're from the West,” Buttons said warily. “The Colonies is the West, and those ships of yours are plenty local now.”


“We're not on-station, though,” Julia said, still not understanding the miscommunication. “From a planetary defense perspective, 'local' means 'here', not 'kind of close by'.”


Buttons snorted, something Julia didn't know he could do. “We'll be fine, trust me.”


Glurb cleared his blowhole, a foghorn kind of sound that surely got him even more attention than he was looking for. “Terminus operates a substantial independent defense force, used for screening the huge traffic load the planet sees and maintaining order throughout the system. It's well trained and well equipped, and combined with promised Coalition ground-based defenses, together we'll be able to hold out not just for Colonial assistance, but heck, maybe even reinforcements all the way from Cerea.”


“Why didn't anyone tell me about this?” Julia asked a little defensively.


Glurb's shoulders rolled, wave-like, in a shrug. “It wasn't any of your business.” He saw how angry the blunt comment made her and immediately clarified. “The Colonial Fleet is here for the Reavers, not Terminus. Your relationship to the planet and its government is more commercial than political, at present. The Coalition's first-response obligations to this world fall to me now. Why's this so important to you, anyway?”


Julia shook her head, waving away his concern. “I need to know where all of the pieces are, and how big they are, and who owns them, or I'll never be able to put it all together and make it work!”


“We signed your silly papers,” Glurb pointed out. “So how about you start telling us what 'it' it is you're trying to make work, and maybe we can help you sort out your mess?”


Julia found herself rubbing her eyes, suddenly realizing how long it had been since she'd last slept. That, and she appeared to be allergic to Buttons. “Okay, what's the deal with this military lease and that ongoing construction, because I need to secure a permanent forward operations base for the Colonial Fleet. This situation where we're sharing your undersized facilities is not going to be well tolerated by the Colonies for much longer.”


Julia saw Glurb slouch noticeably when she said “undersized facilities”. The poor guy was still sensitive about his size. “The Terminians are building us a permanent Navy base according to Western regulations,” he said glumly. “These civilian facilities are just temporary.”


“Why aren't you using the planetary security's facilities?” It seemed like a reasonable question.


Until Buttons answered. “Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. No and no.”


Julia's eyes widened at the creature's exuberance. “Care to elaborate?”


“No. Well, yes, okay, fine. We're in the West, but we're not in the West; you know what I mean?”


“No.”


“No?”


“No.”


“Really?”


Julia huffed, bringing her hand up to her eyes again but stopping short, remembering why they were burning. “Seriously, what's going on here?”


“Minimal governmental and administrative overlap between local and regional parties,” Buttons said, making sure to enunciate each word. “We're building the Westerners their base, so we don't have to share ours. Look, Terminus needs the West's protection, and we're willing to pay our dues for it, but we're not your buddies, we're not your palls . . . despite my own charming disposition.”


Julia sneezed. Oh no . . .


“Eh, yeah, also I make that happen sometimes. Sorry.”


“So the Western base is completely independent of all local affairs? Land rights, power generation, approach and departure spacelanes, everything?”


Buttons nodded. “Mm-hmm.”


“They want us out of the way,” Glurb said, “and we want to be out of their way.”


“It was all worked out in Terminus' membership charter,” Buttons continued. “The land designated for the base, the Terminian commitment to construct the facility, the long-term designation of entry and exit vectors for Western military use: all codified, valuated, and payed for in the form of partial reimbursement for taxes otherwise owed.”


Terminus was a trade world; the space around the planet was literally its most valuable asset. Trading a sliver of that space to the West for reduced taxes was genius for Terminus, and too good of a deal on the West's part to pass up. It left the West free to move forces through the system completely unobstructed by Terminus' extensive traffic control network.


And it gave Julia an idea.


“And I would, of course, be more than happy to offer the Colonial Fleet the use of my base for its Forward Reaver Command once it's finished,” Glurb offered cheerily.


That was not her idea. “That's very kind of you,” Julia offered absently, then turned her attention to Buttons, “but I'm more interested in this deal you worked out with the West.”


“Huh?” Glurb's shoulders slouched as he realized he'd just been blown off.


“What about it?” Buttons perked up, sensing profits.


“About one of my own.”


“Go oooooon,” Buttons dragged out the word, a fox's grin twisting his face.


Definitely a Squib. “Would it be possible for the Colonies to work out their own, separate arrangement, similar in scope to the one reached with Western Command: an independent base of operations with accompanying dedicated space lane access, free of local jurisdictions and interference?”


Buttons made a tisk tisk sound before casting her a dubious glance. “I don't know; these sorts of deals aren't cheap, and from what I hear you people aren't exactly in a position to pay up.”


“There aren't any other concerns? About . . .” Julia glanced to Glurb “. . . certain unspoken aspects of Colonial culture and, uhh, social convention?”


“Oh, you mean about them all being a bunch of racists?” Buttons asked bluntly, with a little twist of amusement in his tone. “Not a problem. You just keep your crazy to yourself, and you can have all of it you want . . . as long as you can pay, of course.”


“Oh no. I don't . . . I'm not . . .” Julia looked back over to Glurb, suddenly nervous and scared about how this would all play out.


His somber expression wasn't encouraging, but he reached out a hand and pushed on her arm with his forefinger, making her stumble over a couple of paces. A weak smile crept across his face and she knew she'd survive this with their friendship intact, at least.


“Like I said,” Buttons began again, glancing back and surprised by how far over Julia had moved, having missed the brief exchange between the two. “Business is business. You're hardly the first xenophobes who've passed through here, hating everyone they see but wanting in on the coin nonetheless.” He shrugged (it still looked off somehow), “Pay us, and carry on.”


It was surprising to Julia, in that moment, how much the little unidentified alien actually reminded her of a Colonial.


Glurb used the lull in the unpleasant conversation to change topics. “You said you were on special assignment from Pro Moon?”


“Yeah, well, uhh, about that . . .” Julia was having trouble lying to her old friend. She made a sort of sweeping motion with her hands as if to indicate the space around them.


Glurb looked around at the crates of supplies, the handful of Western troopers heading this way and that, the Coalition banners hanging on the walls to mark this area of the port. “Wait.” He wheeled around, his quick footwork reverberating like drumbeats. “That's not the reason Western Command came asking after me again, is it?”


Julia's eyes grew wide and she turned away, pretending to take notice of a group of Coalition sailors handling a crate. “That is something you would have to ask Western Command.”


“Julia, no!”


She looked back to him, trying to use her practice smile. It didn't work. “It's good to see you, Glurb. It really is.”


“I thought I was important to the cause!”


“Glurb, you are!” She sidled over to him and bumped her shoulder into his arm, then stumbled away as if she'd hit a brick wall.


“Only because you know me!” he exclaimed, clearly upset.


“Well, technically, I think it's because you know me, but now's probably not the best time for those sorts of semantics, huh?” She flashed him a weak smile that didn't seem to have much effect.


“So now that you're done with me and I'm no more use to you, you're heading off back to your human utopia, huh?”


So easily so pouty! “No, Glurb; now that my shuttle's leaving, and I'm out of time, I'm heading back to my human utopia." Julia pointed at the nearby shuttle, frowning. “Also, it turns out humans are crap at utopias.”


Now that they had wound down to a depressing stop, Buttons took a minute to stare at them staring at each other. “Wait, what, huh? What did I just miss?”


“Julia just needed me because I'm likable,” Glurb moped, sitting down on a nearby supply crate. It groaned under his weight.


“Oh, so I'm the one who's so important here!” Buttons had just caught on to the whole scheme. “Sorry, buddy,” he added, patting the Gerglic's knee, which came up to his chest.


“To be fair,” Julia stressed, “Pro Moon needed you because you're likable. I'm just taking advantage of you being likable, for Pro Moon.”


Glurb bowed his head, his voice growing even quieter. “I thought they wanted me because I'm a good commander.”


A chuckle escaped, unbidden, from Julia. She covered her mouth, Glurb sitting upright and fixing those cold, dark eyes on her. Another short burst of laughter made her turn away from him, but he shifted forward on his makeshift chair, arms tensing, anger mounting.


Another bout of chuckling, this one longer than either before, made Julia pull her hand away and wave dismissively at Glurb as she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to get a hold on her faculties. She sneezed, and her laughter cut off immediately, the short, intense pressure on her sinuses making her whole head hurt and snapping her out of it.


“It's not funny, Julia.” His voice had gotten a little gravelly, and there was a faint honking sound from his blowhole when he said her name.


“No, you don't . . . you don't understand.” She was trying to catch her breath now, finally able to turn back to the huge Herglic and face him properly. “I'm the human Vice Commodore of the Gestalt Colonies, Captain Glurb, and you are the Herglic commanding officer of the Western forces at Terminus.”


“Yeah, so?” He was about five seconds from getting genuinely nasty now. It was a good thing he'd misread the situation so badly.


“So you're the only man I know who can put these Colonial captains of mine to shame. You being all bubbly and nice and getting this little rascal,” she pointed dismissively to Buttons, “on the hook for me may be the sort of thing Pro Moon is into . . .”


Buttons puffed himself up in indignation. “Don't be so sure about who's on the hook for what now, Missy!”


“Shut it, you; I've already got you all figured out.”


“Oh yeah, how's that?”


She ignored the question, focusing on Glurb. “But from where I'm standing, all that stuff's just a convenient bonus.” She walked over to Glurb and punched him in the shoulder lightly. It hurt her knuckles a little, but she didn't let it show. “C'mon, Cap; can't you be a little proud of your old protege?”


“How's that?” Buttons asked again, growing impatient.


Glurb's big, goofy smile appeared on his face again and he wrapped Julia in a too-big hug. Just when she thought he was going to crush her to death, he relaxed and pulled back. “Whatever you and Mr. Moon are planning, you better make it work. Anything worth both your time has got to be worth seeing.”


“Hey, how's it . . .”


Julia put her hand over Button's mouth and pushed him backwards a little, just enough to shut him up while he regained his balance. While she was wiping off a little bit of unidentified rodent saliva onto her pants leg, she grabbed Glurb's oversized thumb with her free hand and squeezed tightly. “Will do, Cap.”


“Alright, now, if you brought me out here and wasted my time having me follow you around so . . .”


“Shut up, you,” Julia snapped, turning on the pesky alien.


“How dare you speak to me like that!”


Julia smiled, suppressing a laugh. "Profit."


Button's furry brow twitched noticeably. "Huh?"


"I 'dare', because there's profit involved."


"How so?"


“Well you see,” she began, kneeling down to be on his eye level for the big reveal, “up until the fall of the system, there was this little thing called the Gestalt-Kashan Hyperlane . . .”
This post was edited by Smarts (2:45am 22/09/15, 10 years ago)

Flashback


Julia Krin walked the passageways of the Colonial starship with a stiffness in her gait that betrayed the importance of this operation. She was trying too hard to seem calm and collected, she knew, but the impact of this project would ultimately determine the fate of the Colonies. She couldn't help but feel the pressure of the moment. If this operation failed, all of her plans would come to ruin.


Officially. she was on Deyer overseeing the new Ryn workforce she'd hired in her capacity as Administrator of the Colonial Relief Operation. That was why she wasn't at Terminus in her capacity as Vice Commodore and overall commander of the Colonial Defense Force, coordinating the deployment of the Colonial Navy to its new anti-Reaver operation. It was also why a certain newly-trustworthy Delta-series Human Replica Droid had been placed in charge of the Rebirth project, despite the fact that its importance to the future of Galactic Technologies warranted direct oversight from the company's interim CEO.


None of that mattered, though, not when compared to what could be gained here. Rounding one final corner and stepping through the open blast door, the shepherd of Gestalt's fate came face-to-face with her most ambitious scheme yet. The hangar bay had been cleared of all support ships and related equipment. In their place was strewn a contraption that looked more like a pile of scrap metal spread out in a rough line than any recognizable piece of technical equipment. Stretching the length of the bay, its many obvious hinges implied something of its ultimate function.


On the near side of the twisted metal assemblage, a multi-screen computer terminal and squat, broad data storage module had been bolted to the deck, around which some half dozen Colonial technical officers were busily at work. One of them must have heard the muted clomp clomp of her regulation boots against the hangar deck plating, because he looked over his shoulder toward her and then the whole team was turning around, awaiting her orders.


“Status report,” Julia said, heading straight for the left-end screen of the terminal and pulling it out and away on its articulated arm mount.


The project leader, a man of about sixty years who nevertheless had an aura of youthful exuberance about him, answered without hesitation. “Low-power systems check is green across the board. Bridge reports the ship is ready, and CIC has given us a green light for squadron launch.”


“Security measures?” Julia asked, splitting her commandeered screen into multiple windows and calling up an array of relevant video feeds and technical readouts.


“The data vault has been secured according to your specifications. All encryption and security measures are active and the lockout timer is running.”


“Have you tested the zipper?”


“Uhh, tested the . . .”


“Yes, Ma'am,” one of the younger techs cut in. “All hinges and linkages have been tested independently. No errors or failures to report.”


The project leader and the tech shared an awkward look, before Julia took notice and explained: “I wanted a last-minute hardware test before we go live.”


The man shook his head dismissively. “I can assure you, Vice Commodore, that a hardware malfunction is the last thing we should be concerning ourselves with.”


“I wanted it,” Julia reiterated, staring him down until he looked away uncomfortably. “This is important.”


He nodded, pretending to check a few things on his own monitor. “Yes, Ma'am.”


“Very well, then: sound off all-clear for full system deployment.”


The half-dozen hand-picked techs jumped to their stations at the formal order, quickly bringing up their relevant technical readouts. “All clear,” the first called out. “All clear,” again, and again, and again, until at last the project leader turned to her with a big grin, his youthful excitement back in full force. “All clear for full system deployment, Vice Commodore.”


Julia brought out her commlink immediately. “Attention, attention: this is Vice Commodore Krin. We are go for full deployment in sixty seconds on my mark.” She reached out for the final key on her console, pressing it as she said, “Mark.”


Safety alarms sounded as the device in front of her rumbled to life, its various hinges and linkages flexing and bending according to its function, the center of the mass lurching toward the bay's mag-con field as the two ends were pulled gradually toward the centerpoint. What started as a straight line quickly morphed into a sort of inverted T, a long bar with a short stub poking out at its midpoint. The stub continued to grow as the device stitched its two halves together, the two sides of the bar shrinking all the while.


Julia checked her screen, seeing all green from other departments. She enlarged the exterior camera shot, getting a full view of the antenna as it completed the first of two deployment stages. Now “zipped” and extended from the bay, the network of hinges flexed in unison, elongating and narrowing the antenna.


The timer hit zero and a voice from her commlink announced, “Hyperfighters away,” though she was watching the launch progress of the twenty-four vessels on her screen. Twenty four fighters, nineteen survivors of the fall of Gestalt, and five built in secret aboard this very ship, testing both the physical limits of the machine shop's capabilities, and the technical ingenuity of the engineering crew.


But the Vice Commodore had ordered it, and they had made it so.


Julia counted off the seconds until the hyperfighters made their jumps to lightspeed, split into two squadrons and headed in opposite directions. She waited with bated breath until the project lead bobbed his head emphatically, turning from his terminal with barely contained glee. “We're receiving navigational telemetry!”


The cheers were immediate and numerous. Julia, however, could only allow herself a moment of celebration, which also meant she could only allow her project lead the same. Pulling him aside, she broke the bad news. “I'm not satisfied with this timetable.” He started to object but she didn't give him the chance. “I need six more hyperfighters on survey duty by the time we reach our projected fifty percent completion goal.”


He shook his head. “I'm sorry, it can't be done.”


“I believe in you,” Julia said insincerely.


He shook his head again. “It's not a matter of belief. It's a matter of materials. Hyperfighters use ultrachrome in their designs, and our only source of that particular material was the Confederation. We had to cannibalize the entire fleet's maintenance reserve just to build the five fighters we needed to complete the second squadron.”


“I don't need them combat-ready,” Julia said bluntly. “I need them survey-ready. Six ships; get them for me.”


Visibly shaken and all trace of celebratory excitement gone now, the man nodded his submission to her unreasonable demand.


“I'll get another ship out here as soon as possible to restock the necessary construction materials, but it's only going to get harder to conceal these resupply missions once the commotion of the fleet redeployment dies down.


“I understand.”


Unlike the myriad Galactic Technologies and Colonial Technologies projects underway in and around the Anoat System, projects which now relied heavily on contract labor from the Ryn Fleets, this was a wholly Colonial endeavor. The security concerns were substantial, but that was only one of the reasons: the Colonies needed to prove they could do this. It was important that when the time came, the right people would realize that though the Colonies had been taken down, they'd not been taken out.


And soon, very soon, they'd be on their feet and ready for the next round.


Hovering above the ruins of Sentry Station Waypoint One, a custom-designed and built hyperwave antenna floated in space as if cut free from some long-departed vessel, dutifully capturing the survey data of its small but growing fleet of scout ships. The MC-170 Krakana would remain on-station with full stealth systems engaged until the integrity of the Gestalt-Kashan hyperlane was reestablished, and its utility unequivocally demonstrated.


* * *


Now


MC-170 Krakana, Milagro System
Combat Information Center


Neat and orderly, in perfect Colonial form, the familiar shapes of Milagro's defense force were the subject of the captain's attention. Representing the bulk of both the system's combat and counter-stealth capabilities, they were the chief concern of the Coalition Colonial as he and his vessel stalked through the spacelanes of his former brothers and sisters.


But that other road traveled was not the reason for the Krakana's presence today. Vengeance was not their play, and reconciliation, well that was for the sort too noble to command a terror platform. No, they were here for the low-level comm signal they'd been pumping out in conjunction with a squadron of Colonial Stealth Intruders appropriated from the Western Fleet through channels the captain knew better than to inquire about.


Too weak to register as even background static on the most susceptible of frequencies, the signals hadn't yet triggered any hostile reaction from the Colonial fleet present. After all, it was far more likely that their new homeworld's communications network was suffering from some minor bug than that a small fleet of stealth ships was roaming their skies, intent on doing basically nothing at all of any discernible sort to anyone or anything in-system.


Of course they were, in fact, doing something, something of substantial effect and broad consequence. Something that would be kicking off at any minute now.




Tribal-class Patrol Cruiser, Milagro Orbit


The captain looked over the previous shift's report, noting that three crewmen hadn't reported for duty. Add to that another two from the previous day, and . . .


“Sir, security is reporting that one of their troopers missed muster and can't be found.”


Damn. It was understandable that everyone was excited now that they'd finally moved to Milagro and started settling in, but he thought his people were better than this. He knew they were. “Very well . . . go ahead and inform command that we're having problems with both officers and enlisted crew failing to report in.”


“Aye, Sir.”


“Captain,” the ship's XO spoke up, “I've heard a report from some of the other officers in the fleet that other crews are having similar problems. I think it's just something that's going around.”


“Maybe.” It just didn't sit right with him. “Maybe.” There had to be more to it than that.


Then a notice beeped from a sensor station. “Talk to me,” the captain ordered. “What have we got?”


“Unauthorized launch from the surface, Captain. Local traffic control is requesting we move to intercept.”


The captain all but snarled at the report. “They've got their own ships, can't they handle it?”


“Sorry, Captain,” the chief of comms reported, “it sounds like they've got their hands full with some sort of commotion on the surface.”


“That's all well and good, son, but we're not a customs picket. We've got -” Another notice chimed. Then another. Then an alarm sounded, local, on-ship. “What the hell?”


“Unauthorized shuttle launch,” the tactical officer reported.


“Well,” the XO said, “at least we know what our missing crewmen are up to.”


“Lock down that shuttle, and shut those alarms off! And somebody -”


“Sir,” the comm officer cut in, working his console and slipping a widget into a data slot, “incoming holocomm from command.”


“Let me see it.” The holoprojector flared to life, then shut off . . . along with the bridge lighting. And the consoles. And the gravity plating. “What the fu-” He never finished the expletive, the gravity plating kicking back on unexpectedly and slamming him into the deck, knocking the air from his lungs.


Gasping for breath, the captain rose on shaky feet as the lights reengaged. “Status report! I need a status report! What hit us?”


“Systems are still coming back on-line, sir,” the XO reported.


“Captain,” one of the other crew called out ominously.


When the captain identified the officer, he found the young man standing ramrod straight, right arm extended and pointing out of the forward viewport. The captain looked out of the window and saw . . . Milagro.


“Repulsors and engines are down!” navigation reported, just getting back minimal function of the terminal. “Initiating emergency restart.”


“We're caught in Milagro's gravity,” the XO stated. “And so are they.” He pointed at a tiny sliver on the horizon, the distinct wedge shape of a Colonial warship, also listing toward the planet below.


“Comms, get me command,” the captain said evenly, trying to put on a brave face for his crew. “Comms? What are you doing, son?”


The communications officer had risen to his feet, turning to face the captain. Slowly, he raised his hands over his head. “Pash Varrack, Second Lieutenant, Colonial Defense Force, Western Coalition Navy.”


“What the what?”


The XO was already at the comm station, yanking the widget from the console. He inspected it for a moment, then his eyes darted to the captain. “Take a look.”


The captain caught the little device in mid-air, noticing immediately the stamp on the side: GT. Galactic Technologies. The manufacturer of this ship. This ship, and every ship in the Colonial fleet. And it had just been pulled out of an active comm station.


The XO already had the traitor on his knees, arms pinned behind his back.


The young man wasn't quite so smooth now, his voice a little strained, a quiet fear evident in his tone. “I am a uniformed officer of a foreign military within the borders of a sovereign nation without authorization, and I am surrendering to you. My name is Pash Varrack, I am twenty-three years old, my rank is Second Lieutenant, I am a member of the Galactic Coalition Navy, and I surrender.” He could feel the barrel of the blaster against the back of his head. He leaned forward a little, but it just followed him.


Tears were beginning to form in his eyes when a pair of boots stepped into his field of vision. “Look at me, son.” Reluctantly, the young saboteur raised his head to regard his captain, the man who had been his captain. “If even one of these ships goes down, I'll put the bolt through your eye myself.”


The young lieutenant shook his head feverishly. “They'll reboot in time. They'll all be safe. I'm not . . . I'm not trying to destroy your ships.”


“Then what, pray tell, are you trying to do?”


The flash of motion on the other side of the viewport caught the captain's attention. He looked up to see another shuttle fly by, extremely close, and then another, and then a loose formation of freighters and other civilian craft.


The comm station burst to life with chatter from planetary control, something about disrupting the local security force's pursuit of hijackers.


The young Coalition operative smiled despite his shaking with fear. “I'm trying to delay you until they escape.


“And . . . there is one more thing: I've been authorized to tell you that I am operating under the direct command of Vice Commodore Julia Krin of the Colonial Defense Force. So . . . maybe you should save your threats for her?”




MC-170 Krakana, Milagro System


The super low frequency pings were enough to tell the captain that his Stealth Intruders were nearby, and that was all he really needed. The flotilla of stolen civilian and Confederate Colonial starships were fast approaching, the Confederation's contingent of Delta-series Human Replica Droids compelled over these past few days by the Krakana's signal to conceal and coordinate their escape.


If escape was even the word for it. The captain shrugged, leaving those kinds of distinctions for better men than himself. As the flotilla drew nearer, the Krakana sent out a proximity ping, warning the ships and their pilots to slow down and await more precise instruction. Apparently the way this signal worked, the replicants were still “smart”, as in they still had the full range of their cognitive abilities available for use, but their motivating goals became very simple and direct: “leave at this time, stay hidden until then, meet at this point in space”. That kind of thing.


It creeped the captain out more than a little, but then, that was why he was a captain, and not a doctor or a diplomat or one of those other fluffy jobs that required moral nuance. All he knew in that moment was that he had a duty to escort these folks to safety, and the local security force was in hot pursuit. He had hoped he wouldn't have to resort to this, but oh well, it would make for a good story as long as everything worked out in the end.


“Fire the covering spread,” the captain ordered, knowing his crew had been standing by for the command.


The trio of low-detection Azimuth Doomsday intra-system ballistic missiles streaked from the stealth ship and weaved through the friendly flotilla, triggering automatically as soon as they reached safe detonation range. The initial blast was far enough away that the pursuing Milagro vessels received no immediate damage, but they were forced to veer away in order to avoid the interlocking clouds of radioactive debris now hurtling towards them.


The action bought the shepherding Krakana the time it needed to complete its task, and they were far enough away from the planet itself that the fallout from the bombs would disperse harmlessly into open space. All in all, worth the risk.


By the time their pursuers were free of both the danger and sensor scrambling properties of the weapons meant for genocide, the temporary slave circuit had been established and the active sensor jamming suite of the Krakana had been activated and expanded. In a precisely timed move, the full compliment of the MC-170's missile tubes fired their specialized torpedoes and then jumped into space, each of the twenty-five warheads releasing a cluster of hyperspace decoys that jumped, blind but coordinated with their kin, along a small number of routes only slightly divergent from the Krakana's.


The result, for any ship in a position to take notice, was a hazy soup of indistinct sensor readings. And best of all: intelligence was confident that the Confederation hadn't yet extended its early warning network to encompass the new member world. Now, if they could just keep ahead of possible pursuers . . .




Hours later


MC-170 Krakana, Sentry Station Waypoint Two


It took all of five seconds before the hails started coming in. Expanding the effective radius of the MC-170's sensor scrambler might work at extreme range with only local planetary security pickets close enough to get a good look, but this close to the modern military hardware of the former Gestalt-Kashan Hyperlane Joint Task Force, there wasn't a chance in any one of the Corellian hells of pulling that trick again.


They had come in as far out from the asteroid field as possible, but without blazing their own trail altogether, which sure as heck would have gotten them noticed well before now, this point was simply unavoidable. All they could do was try to minimize their time inside the belt's gravity well and hope the task force couldn't mobilize fast enough to catch them. With luck, the withdrawal from Milagro had been sufficiently confounding that the Confederates wouldn't have been expecting the flotilla's appearance at Waypoint Two.


There was, of course, something of a contingency plan, involving a certain number of Azimuths fired into the nearest cluster of asteroids, generating a cloud of radioactive debris that might be substantial enough to deter pursuit long enough for the Coalition force to effect their escape plan, but the collective gravity of the belt would inevitably suck in much of that debris, with likely long-term harm to the hidden station within. That wasn't the kind of confrontation they were here for. Besides, all they had to do was make it to the edge of the belt. If they could just make it there, to the effective edge of Confederation controlled space . . . they'd be unstoppable.


Unstoppable because, as of two weeks ago, the MC-170 Krakana was the only ship in the galaxy with an up-to-date map of the last half of what was now effectively a Kashan-Terminus hyperlane. The minutes ticked by until, finally, they were clear.


The slaved flotilla jumped to the relative safety of hyperspace, confident that if they were pursued, it would be by vessels now barely familiar with the twisting, turning, ever-changing hyperspace lane ahead.




Commonwealth-class Battlecruiser Rebirth, Terminus System


It had taken ten times the labor force and equipment to manage, but they had done it. The first Commonwealth-class Battlecruiser produced since the fall of the Gestalt System, the only one of its kind now in service to the Colonial Defense Fleet, had been built in half the time of any of its predecessors. It had been a thing of beauty to behold, watching the open space construction of the vessel by work crews of the Ryn Fleet, administrated and coordinated by engineers and technicians from Colonial Technologies (a registered subsidiary of Galactic Technologies). If not for the cheap but skilled labor of the Ryn and heavy subsidization by the Western Province, the project would have been impossible to complete, at least in this timescale.


But it had been completed, on time and to specifications. Galactic Technologies, the Gestalt Colonies, Vice Commodore Julia Krin: they had made it happen. They had set their sights on nothing short of rebirth, and there it was, reborn.


Julia had called the majority of the Colonial fleet to Terminus, leaving only a light escort of Tribal-class frigates and a single Western warship each for the interdictors at their stations. Now deployed near the partially completed Far-Point Outpost and its various temporary space stations, these vessels were well within the confines of the independently administrated Colonial space zone, completely free of the threat of intervention from local traffic control and planetary defense forces. If the deployment of the Colonial fleet in such close ranks had raised the locals' suspicions, they hadn't bothered to mention it.


And then the fleet arrived from Milagro. Approaching along a Colonial corridor, they remained technically within the administrated space of the Gestalt Colonies, even if the direction of their approach had come as a surprise to any watching Terminians. Far-Point Outpost stepped in immediately, calling out to the replicant-controlled vessels and compelling them further into the system.


“Alright, Captain,” Julia said into her commlink, “put him on.”


“With pleasure,” the kindly voice of the Herglic Captain Glurb replied. There was a slight hiss in the line, the result of the network of communications dampening satellites the Terminians had deployed along the edge of the system nearest Reaver space. While there was some doubt as to its necessity, the sheer volume of regular intra-system communications had caused a sense of foreboding in the local population that the dampening field had calmed somewhat.


“What is the meaning of this!” Buttons had started complaining before the hologram of his little rat face had fully materialized, catching Julia by surprise. “What are those ships doing here? Why are some of them broadcasting Confederation transponders?”


Yep, definitely a Squib. Julia chose her words carefully, as the results of a great many months of labor depended wholly on the next several minutes. “The Gestalt Colonies have taken into their custody a number of Colonial citizens who had been subject to Confederation authority against their will. They will be held at the Far-Point Outpost until their safety and liberty can be assured.”


Buttons' nose scrunched up, his whiskers wiggling oddly. Okay, maybe not a Squib. “You have no right to bring your politics to Terminus! I demand that you move these ships and their occupants out of the Terminus System with all haste!”


Julia forced a bitter smile, genuinely unhappy that she had to treat the little not-Squib like this. But she did, she had to. “The terms of your contract with the Gestalt Colonies grant us full autonomy over the operation of our designated spacelanes and orbital sectors. You have surrendered your right to interfere here. But that's not really what you should be concerned with right now.”


The way that Buttons' rage made his fur stand on end in splotchy patches and set his ears twitching uncontrollably made Julia reconsider her Squib hypothesis yet again. “What. Have. You. Done. Julia.”


She shrugged offhand, trying to make her shameful frown look like one of insincere mockery. “In about . . . oh, ten to fifteen minutes, a military task force from the Contegorian Confederation is going to arrive in this system along that vector, and if we're really, really unlucky, it's going to arrive with the MC-170 Orca.”


“The Orc-awhatnow?”


She had piqued his interest, but she had not yet stoked his fear. “It's a top-secret, first-strike, stealth warship equipped with atomic warheads and stealth weaponry designed to devastate planetary populations and infrastructure.” Now there was the terror she needed, clear on his decidedly not-Squib face. “Now, lucky for you, the Cooperative task force you've surely detected at the edge of this system includes a vessel equipped with a crystal gravfield trap that might – might – just be able to detect one such stealth vessel. So what do you say you exercise your authority as outlined in Terminus' charter with the West, and transfer operational command of the system's defenses to me, so I can call those vitally important allies of mine in-system, hmm?”


And there it was, outright terror turning to violent indignation. “Why you low-down, dirty, conniving, backstabbing, manipulative, Colonial bitch!”


The benefit of his violent indignation, was that it was still so very firmly rooted in fear. “Is that a yes, then?”


Buttons' head slumped down and his whole body swayed as he kicked at something outside the range of the holofield. From this angle, she realized just how Squib-like his ears were . . .


“Fine,” he said, snarling, as his head snapped back up to meet her gaze.


Julia nodded, suppressing a smile at the sick and shameful pleasure she got from so blatantly manipulating her ally. “Oh, and Buttons: don't worry. I have a plan.”


His fiery demeanor vanished in a flash, his own dark realization finally seizing him. “You always have a plan.”


The Cooperative task force was on location in less than two minutes, their preplotted microjumps bringing them in right in front of the Far-Point Outpost. The converted hospital ships of the Cooperative Emergency Medical Response Force nestled themselves securely between their own military escort and the Colonial fleet already stationed there.


“Alright people, let's move!” Julia shouted at her coordinating team, most of whom were liberated Delta-series replicants. “We're behind schedule and well past the point of no return. Retask some Tribals to escort the slowest ships from the flotilla, signal the Krakana to break away and establish a safe position, and maintain full sensor sweeps of the Confederation's approach corridor. I want to know the second they're in-system.”


They were behind schedule, because the Krakana's nav computer had encountered more trouble than anticipated on its approach to Terminus. Part of the problem was likely due to the time it had taken the MC-170 to be deployed covertly to the Milagro system, time not only that the Krakana wasn't receiving updates on the route's stability, but the route couldn't be surveyed at all, due to the vessel's essential role in the operation as the replacement for Sentry Station Waypoint One's repository of survey data.


It wasn't as simple as that, though. The raw survey data had been housed in an isolated storage module in order to maintain the security protocols safeguarding the route's secrecy. While it would have been advantageous to run the data through a dedicated hyperlane management network (like the one on Terminus), or a properly calibrated supercomputer (like one of several aboard the RDS Uniform), or perhaps a mysterious living world-machine (such as Emanon), data analysis had had to be done completely in-house to preserve those security protocols.


It wasn't until the Krakana was en route to Waypoint Two from Milagro that the navigational data had even been transferred to the ship's navcomputer, a computer that would have to be extracted and atomized before the stealth ship would be allowed to leave this system. The measures may have seemed extreme, and even Julia agreed that they were, but she had come too far to let some minor oversight ruin her plans. At this stage, every decision held the potential to bring her entire endeavor to ruin.


“Reversions detected!”


“Broadcast on all channels,” Julia ordered before confirmation of the arriving vessels' identities had even been acquired. She waited until she got a thumbs up not only from the comm officer, but also from the sensor operator, but she began the second she knew who she was speaking to.


“To the commander of the Contegorian Confederation task force entering the Terminus System: I am Vice Commodore Julia Krin of the Gestalt Colonies, acting commander of the combined Coalition defense forces in this system. I am informing you that the Coalition has taken a number of individuals from the Confederation world of Milagro into protective custody, though I am unwilling to discuss the justifications for that protective custody over open comm channels.


“I can assure you that our intention is not to antagonize the Contegorian Confederation, but we are firm in our commitment to the protection of these individuals. For that reason, I cannot allow you to approach the planet, but am willing to meet with you to negotiate a peaceful resolution to this unfortunate set of circumstances.


“And though the Terminian government has erected an extensive communications dampening network at the near end of the system, I will remind you that we are near Reaver space and should keep remote communication to a minimum.”
This post was edited by Smarts (4:31am 22/09/15, 10 years ago)