Gestalt I, high orbit, yesterday…
In formation, moving in groups of two and three, the various starfighter squadrons assigned to the Provincial, filed in to land. The carrier, namesake of the line, scooped them up in its gargantuan flight decks while plowing ever forward through the black nothing, the void.
Not alone in this formation, a handful of vessels of Colonial design and designation filled out the line, further accompanied by a tandem pair of Kashan built Seraph-class Cruisers. Their connubial positions though juxtaposed against one another spoke of a certain level of cooperation which, in turn, was indicative of a combined task force.
A flock of S9 Deathsabers commingled with the Arrows and Avengers of the Colonial forces. These, the standard deployment for Seraphs, flew in close formation with their Gestalt counterparts; there would be no quisling here. Indeed the pilots there in flew with a level of cohesion, a unity that bespoke of a relationship, though burgeoning, that would blossom into an unbreakable unity.
Looking on from the well removed bridge of the Krakana, his eyes locked on the far off glimmer of the swarm, Lance Shipwright imagined a future in which he and his people shared an unparalleled level of connectivity with yet another humanistic faction within the Coalition. As Vice Commodore of the Gestalt Colonies, a ceremonial title that served him as, though he would be woe to admit, supreme commander of the collective assets there-of, it was his duty to see, nay to envision a glorious, bright future for his people. And that future was looking particularly prosperous thanks in part to a man by the name of Corise Lucerne, Commodore of the Kashan Defense Fleet and a man with considerable political clout.
The two had been fast friends from their first meeting aboard Starwind Station, a peace summit for the various less incumbent members of the Coalition. That meeting solidified their instant rapport and established between them a plain understanding of their various roles in the Galaxy. Tested in combat, they had come out on top of the opposition and embarked upon a campaign to help further unite their two nations.
Truly, Vice Commodore Shipwright was looking forward to their rendezvous at Foerost.
“The Task Force is reporting,” relayed the ships Commander, a lean man of about forty years and enamored of his own long, waxed handle-bar moustache which he would frequently stroke. “Parade Squadron is away.”
Barely visible and in fact only perceived with a trained eye, a minute and far-off flash of light signaled their FTL jump. In the blink of an eye, less then the blink of an eye, the apotheosis, Parade Squadron, leapt away.
Lance Shipwright turned away from the view screen; his MC-170 command cruiser did not feature any external, extraneous observation bridges. “I will be in my quarters.”
He had no inclination to remain on the bridge, the crowded and massive bridge. It had been designed and built by Mon Calamari workers, a tricky contract conducted aboard the Uniform over a year prior. And though they had operated with strict human supervision, as strict as he could legally manage, and though they knew the ship would be crewed by humans they had utterly failed to understand and recreate the sort of ambiance typical of most starships… particularly the Post-Imperial designs most commonly used and constructed by the Colonies. The chairs were uncomfortable and the terminals were not to his liking, though most of the crew had since adapted and now claimed to prefer the odd alien design.
He stepped into the lift. The doors whooshed and shut audibly. Lance cursed them.
… and reflected that, under any other circumstance he would have been similarly cursing Commodore Lucerne.
Foerost held no interest for Lance Shipwright and if it was of no value to him then it could not be of much value to his people either. More over and more importantly he despised the political arena. Whatever natural ability he had developed, weather social or philosophical, was just that; natural ability and he had not ever, nor had he now the interest to hone those skills. In truth his two encounters with Viryn Quell had soured him on the notion.
Special exceptions would always have to be made, however; and as Corise had asked directly for Lance to be involved, he had little recourse, reason or desire to decline. The two Seraph-class cruisers assigned to the joint task force were a testament to trust they had placed in one another and, that being the case, Lance Shipwright could not bring himself to wrong his new friend.
The facts were simple; since meeting Corise Lucerne he had been too busy to truly obsess. Without obsession
she had fallen silent, mostly.
In his quarters, close to the keel and near enough the core to hear the dull thrum of the engines even through the superstructure, Lance checked the chronometer. Half a second later the Krakana leapt into hyper-space. Their trip would take a day, a day to traverse the developing corridors between Kashan and Gestalt before leaping off midway through and diverting towards Foerost.
Lance settled down behind his desk and began the arduous task of reviewing his dossiers pertaining to the situation at hand.
Aboard the Provincial were five starfighter squadrons; two Arrow and three Avenger. Named for their respective tactical deployment aboard the carrier, these were largely from the first batch of students to graduate the Colonial Naval Academy, Camp Mar-Veil. Under the command of the very same, Admiral Ruben Mar-Veil, were the fighters, the ship and in fact the rest of the task force.
Task Force MOM, Mission of Mercy, consisted of six capital scale starships.
The Colonial, naturally under the command of Captain d’Foose, was a public relations grab. It was the first destroyer of her line constructed and with d’Foose at the helm it had seen multiple diplomatic missions carried out without a hitch. For the occasion, and to impress the natives with their gregarious nature, the hull of the Colonial had been done up in the bold white, red and blue of the Gestalt Colonies, a flag painted in massive scale on her port side.
Furthering their non-hostile intentions and in turn falling back on their own histrionic military nature, Parade Squadron would be flying point just off of the Colonials bow. Twelve starfighters, an equal mix of CF-105 Arrows and GF-111 Avengers, the squadron recruited only the most elite pilots.
Acting in support of the destroyer and the Colonial similarly escorting the carrier, the Commonwealth had also been included in the banner fleet. It too was the premier of its line, the namesake for all Gestalt designed frigates to follow. An able multi-role patrol vessel with a squadron of its own fighters, Commonwealth Squadron, its commander was a stern man who, like Mar-Veil, had once served under Matko Kovic in the old, ironically, New Republic.
Similarly, the squadron of starfighters dispatched to the Colonial had derived their name from that of their host vessel and so called themselves Colonial Squadron.
It had all become rather mundane to Lance as he had, of late, delegated much of his previous military responsibility to Admiral Mar-Veil, to Ruben. What had interested him recently were the next two entries on his computer.
Gestalt Honor and Queen of the Colonies flashed on his screen. These were the names of the two Seraph-class cruisers assigned to the joint Kashan/Gestalt task force. For some time now they had been running exercises with one another, benefiting from the skills and talents of one another and formulating a deeper sense of camaraderie then initially suspected. Lance, in his role as Vice Commodore, had become quite attached to them, the few serving on board with whom he had become acquainted. Even more shining were the reports from d’Foose and Mar-Veil alike, touting the merits of their new Kashan allies.
Half way across the stars and making their way to the same location were two Colonial-class destroyers which had been in active deployment with the Kashan Defense Fleet while their Seraph counterparts worked within the Colonies. Unfortunately, according Lances information, their arrival time had been altered. More unfortunate still it did not say one way or the other if they would be early or late and if so, how early or late?
And then there was his ship, the MC-170 Krakana.
As something of a joke and a surprise for Commodore Lucerne Lance Shipwright had opted to bring along the stealth cruiser despite the political implications. He reasoned that since following Foerost the Kashan and Gestalt fleets had been scheduled to engage in maneuvers it would be an optimal time to reveal the existence of such a ship to his comrade.
With a grin he switched off his monitor and reclined in his chair. It reached up to him, adapting to his body. Fingers crossed behind his head, elbows in the air, Lance Shipwright laughed while imagining the look of Corise’s face when he’d reveal the Krakana.
Not long to wait, he reminded himself, just a day or so…
Foerost, today... the far side of...
Immediately, as Parade Squadron shot out of hyperspace, they knew there was something wrong.
In the cockpit of the lead fighter, painted in bright hues of red and blue, the lead pilot struggled to identify all the targets that filled his Head Up Display. Her astromech wined. Hardwired into the impressive electronics of the CF-105 Arrow it struggled to identify the myriad of ships.
Most came back blank or unknown. A handful of signals, two large blips at the center of a dozen others crowding about, came back positive. Half a second later, as the Colonial was reverting to real space, the pilot relayed her information to command.
Captain d’Foose, on the observation bridge of the Colonial, was surprised to say the least.
Both Captain and pilot, baffled, did absolutely nothing. As if they had not noticed the amassed forces the Colonial and Parade Squadron continued with their dramatic entrance; arranged for the sake of the Foerost natives and their Ambassadorial detach.
Captain d’Foose shrugged. “Play the music and on with the fireworks.”
The sound of the Gestalt Colonial Anthem piped out across the radio waves.
Oh Colonial Pride
We emblazon thee
Oh Colonial Pride
We emblazon thee
Accompanied by a display of non-lethal fireworks launched from port and starboard of the Colonial, an impressive explosion of lights arranged to compliment the colors of the Gestalt Colonial Flag and blasting in the hues of the united Foerost navy (at least, according to their most recent information).
A moment later, a moment measured in fractions of a second, the Commonwealth and Provincial shot out of hyperspace and into position behind the Colonial. The information train reached them upon arrival even as it was still boarding…
And aboard the Krakana, it’s arrival masked by the fireworks and almost impossible to discern from the multiple FTL flashes, Vice Commodore Shipwright quickly collected, tabulated and assessed the available information. Brilliant men process swiftly.
“Patch me through to Commodore Lucerne, route it through the Provincial.”
The Captain and his Executive Officer complied, shouting commands at the appropriate personnel and their harder to intimidate duty stations. It was unnecessary of course; protocol demanded that course of action as implemented by Vice Commodore Shipwright himself. Neither man bothered to mention this, however.
“Commodore Lucerne of the Kashan Task Force, this is Vice-Commodore Shipwright of the Gestalt Colonies. Please update situation reports as soon as possible please,” Lance toyed with his microphone. The bridge buzzed around him much as the bridges of the other Colonial vessels must have been buzzing. “Is this a hostile or non-hostile action?”
His militaristic, removed approach had its reasons. Even with supposedly secure communications you could never be absolutely certain of a direct, uncorrupted line. He hung up the microphone.
On the various tactical displays a number of the targets began to populate identification information. Corise Lucerne, a similarly brilliant man, had not bothered with verbal confirmation. A plethora of tactical information was being uploaded from the already present Kashan ships… another bonus of their past joint operations.
“Remind me to thank Corise for that,” he muttered to himself before rounding on the captain.
“Signal the fleet to move into standard Delta formation with the line,” this would put the Colonial, Gestalt Honor and Queen of the Colonies in a line with the Seraph and Steadfast already in position. Forming a rough ‘continued W’ line in such a fashion would then enable the Provincial to take up a rear-relative position well off aft of the front line and leave the Commonwealth in a pure-support position between the line and the carrier. “Send a request to the Foerost fleet. Ask for tactical suggestions and get Admiral Mar-Veil on the line.”
Before the Provincials commander could reply another update rushed in from the Kashans. Lance reviewed it.
“The locals have authorized Defenses Free, signal the MOM accordingly.”
“Aye sir,” called the Executive Officer even as the Captain moved to offer Lance the direct line to Admiral Mar-Veil. “The Admiral is on the line.”
“Go ahead,” called the older navy man on the other end.
“The court is yours Admiral. I cannot help you from here. The Krakana will maintain Ultra Low Profile for the duration. Suggest you stand by all fighters.”
The Krakana would remain well behind the friendly line and away from the combat, hopefully. It fortunate for the entirety of Task Force MOM that their arrival had brought them into the vicinity of the planet but on the far side of the unknown formation, which Lance was increasingly assuming as Imperial.
As a last note, before abdicating the scene to his military counterpart, Vice Commodore motioned towards the doors, "Activate the HoloCom, I'm going to update the Coalition... I'm sure this will interest someone... "
He left the bridge, moments later the call went out.
On board the Provincial (shifting scenes) Admiral Mar-Veil nodded to his flight commodore. “All pilots stand by fighters.”
“Order the Colonial and Commonwealth to stand ready for attack and have Parade Squadron form up on point, well in front of the general line.” He smirked, eyes locked on the real time battlefield representation. “If the ships,” he pointed at the hostiles, “are not supposed to be here, then they are not here. Order Parade Squadron to continue their orbit.”
“Umm, sir… That will send them right through the enemy formation.”
Quirking a bushy eyebrow above the frame of his glasses the Admiral fixed the man with a curious gaze. “What enemy formation?”
“Their missiles haven’t been coded active,” added the officer, obviously missing the point. “They can’t stand and fight.”
Again, the Admiral looked perplexed.
“Fight what? Dear me lad, you need to calm down. There’s no reason for our fighters to go weapons free, nor is there any reason for me to suggest they should be on the defensive. This is a diplomatic mission and we were invited and unless the guest card has been updated…”
The officer seemed to understand. He beat a hasty retreat to the commodore and reported, “Parade Squadron is to continue their parade route… unaltered. They are, by all means, to remain non-hostile. No weapons, no shields.”
Here, and quite clearly, the flight commodore, better versed in the tactics of old, understood.
He relayed those orders to the fighters.
*
Aboard the Foerost flagship…
“Where is that communication coming from?” The Admiral snapped at his subordinates who, in turn, busied themselves finding out.
“Umm, we’re not sure Sir. It looks like it’s coming from somewhere behind the newly arrived… fleet,” the Feorostian menial sneered the word. Clearly, compared to his own forces, he did not consider these new arrivals worth of the term; fleet. “No, scratch that. It’s coming from their lead ship, the
big one. They are broadcasting IFF codes…”
“Well…” He asked impatiently, “who are they?”
A moment later the officer replied. “Sir, it’s the Gestalt Colonies envoy. They are requesting permission to join up with the line and…” Pressing his head seat into an ear, he continued. “They’re opening communications with Commodore Lucerne aboard the Seraph. Sir, they’re asking for tactical commands.”
“Hmm,” the Admiral scratched his chin. “It appears that the ball is in our hands as they say. Let’s see if they want to get hit with it.”
“Tell the Colonials that they are welcome and their addition to our gathering is welcomed by all means. Forward the appropriate communication codes to put them in touch with the Ambassadors Office.”
“Now, I suppose the stage is almost set…”
He gazed out upon the assembled Imperial type craft.
“… and they are still here.”
