| abstract | - “Starship Ecumulis to commander Curl, squadron is a-go. Target vectors have been identified and are being uploaded to your navigational HUD now. Go get ‘em.” “Copy, Ecumulis. Initiating attack formation.” Flight commander Renard Curl sat strapped into the leather seat of the cockpit of his DarkBird fighter—a sleek, black beautiful killing machine of a craft if he had ever seen one. Fully loaded with cluster missiles, kinetic Gatling cannons, with an engine that would leave any wannabe flyboy this half of the rim spinning on his dime wondering what the hell just went by him, most agreed that she had simply no rival. Hanging behind him was the Elthior-class frigate Ecumulis, with several other arrow-like DarkBirds establishing formation around him. They were piloted by rookies fresh from the simulator tests, with the time having come for them to properly handle their craft and engage enemies for real. Curl had selected this target, in the fringes of the Crombach nebula—a small group of pirate raiders, fielding primitive craft that made a brick look spaceworthy, using ammunition that would barely scratch the paint of the DarkBirds. Appropriate challenge for these newbies—and they did have the opportunity to have fun with them. “All pilots, report in.” He called, as a 3D diagram of the target sector appeared projected on his helmet visor, with flashing red dots indicating enemy craft. It was the work of a moment for him to register the information before deactivating it. “Maverik, reporting in." "Krygsman, reporting in." "Sokes, reporting in." “Trace, reporting in." “Epson, reporting in." “All accounted for. Disengage safeties and lock rear thrusters in attack position.” Accelerating, the fighters pierced through the starship-sized wisps of colorful nebula gases drifting around them as the red dots indicating the target craft drew ever closer on his sensor readout. With a matter of kilometres still between them and the targets, Curl wondered what ordnance he’d demonstrate to the rookies first. There were your bog-standard missiles, cluster and regular, and the rapid-firing weapons, from regular ammunition to ‘spearhead rounds’—miniaturized sabots, designed for use against heavy armor, heated enough to slice through most fighter-standard plating out there like a knife through cheese. Best to stay practical, he decided—missiles would do. “Alright then, y’all, first targets closing in ahead. Here’s a little live demonstration of recommended ordnance in this situation.” He waited a few moments as the closest enemy fighter—a cobbled together piece of junk, just as intelligence had said—entered his range, with the beeping of the target acquisition alert following soon after that. Pressing down on the trigger of his joystick, he watched in satisfaction as a missile shot from the wing of his craft and crossed the space between him and the fighter in seconds, leaving a blue contrail. The flash of the explosion lit up ahead as the missile made contact, no doubt reducing the bogey to little bits of scorched scrap metal. “Confirmed hit.” Droned the female voice of the fighter computer. “Yeah, I could see that.” Muttered Curl. “Now, decelerate, acquire your targets, and give it to ‘em.” Seconds later, missiles burst from the wings of the other DarkBirds and weaved towards the target fighters as they pathetically tried to pull off evasive manoeuvres, no doubt trying to outfly the missiles—what they got was one nice hit after the other as the missiles hit home, blasting what was left of that wing into nothingness. Further ahead, semi-shrouded by purple nebula cloud, was the grey rectangular shape of a space station of some kind; their hideout, no doubt. More of their fighters were incoming, probably mightily pissed. More fodder for the rookies, then. “More bogies, incoming. Feelin’ it, boys? Feelin’ the need—the need for speed?” “Hell yeah!” “You bet your sweet ass!’’ Curl chuckled. “Okay, pick your targets and engage. Just try not to get any of ‘em on your tails.” The formation dispersed as the DarkBirds each shot for different targets—Sokes and Epson were already blazing away with their Gatling weapons, with blue muzzle flashes standing out among the red-and-purple clouds behind them. Trace and Krygsman were letting off streams of clusters, snaking straight into the target bodies and again utterly pulverizing them. Maverik was ducking in and out of a passing wisp, letting rip with a combination of rounds and missiles. Almost like watching a promo vid, with the way they effortlessly shredded the raider fighters. Slamming down on the throttle, Curl weaved the fighter from side to side as he approached the station, with clouds of flak bursting to all sides as he drew near. Dammit—that was one thing that intelligence had left out; still, if it proved too much of an annoyance, there was still the Ecumulis—those mass-driver operators of her were probably itching for some target practice, he thought. Switching to Spearheads, he squeezed down on the trigger as he came close enough to the station to see individual viewports in the corrugated gray hull of the ugly thing, spraying fire across it. Each sabot tore into the flak guns dotted around the hull beautifully—in moments, they were reduced to scorch marks and punctures on the side of the station. “Er, commander, could use some assistance over here.’’ It was Epson, his voice coming in priority over the other chatter on his comms system. Spinning his fighter around, Curl accelerated back to where the main fighting was going on—and there was Epson, trying to shake off a fighter that had got on his tail. Damn kid should have tried out some of the basic simulator counter-manoeuvres by now—oh well, something like this was bound to happen, he thought. Letting off a missile, Curl doubletaked as the fighter suddenly spat off flares, sending it spinning away uselessly. So, at least one of these kriffers was going to be an actual challenge. “Whoah! Commander, if you could hurry, that would be appreciated!” cried out Epson over the comms as the fighter shot off a missile, which detonated just behind him as he desperately let off a burst of superheated exhaust. “Do a barrel roll!” shouted Curl as he pulled up to fly parallel behind the bogey—he had enough time to fire off his own flares as rear-mounted missiles shot from the target, deflecting them. Each reflex came naturally—working this fighter was as easy as breathing for him. He didn’t blink as the lock-on warning came on. The responding burst of rounds from his Gatling weapons came automatically. Dozens of them ripped straight into the rear of the fighter, shredding the engines and piercing fuel lines. Spinning out of control and leaking coolant and fuel, which vaporized as it hit the vacuum, it careened away into the nebula gas before exploding. “Confirmed hit.” The computer felt obliged to say. The raider fighters had now been whittled away to hardly anything, with some desperately trying to jet away into the nebula as missiles streaked after them. Clearly, those cowardly little wretches would prefer slow suffocation in those flying metal boxes than a quick end in combat, but that was their choice. Swooping in, he came in over one of the stragglers, blasting the starboard wing clean off with a quick burst of Gatling fire before a missile took out the rest. “That was my target, sir.’’ Sighed Maverik over the comms. “What? Don’t you wanna let your commander in on the fun?”chuckled Curl. He threw up his navigational diagram onto his visor HUD again—nearly all of the raiders were accounted for. “Sir, incoming transmission from the enemy base. They’re offering a surrender." Came in Krygsman. “Well boys, I guess that’s our cue to end. Most of you performed very well for your first taste of real combat—hit the afterburners and return to the ‘’Ecumulis’’ for debriefing and evaluation.” The pilots complied, streaking back to the distant shape of the vessel. Hitting down his own thrusters, Curl wondered how these guys would handle any properly trained pilots handling decent craft. Simulations and skirmishes against no-name raiders such as these would only get them so far. But, if the guys at command back on Havez were right about that other expanding government in the Inner Rim, he wouldn’t have too long to find out.
*
* Sitting on the side of his bunk in the barracks dormitory, which was filled with hubbub and chatter as the recruits talked about their various matters, Havel rubbed his sore ankle as he waited for his eval-card to come. Following the exercise yesterday, he had been taken to a triage in the camp where they had applied various healing patches to him—apparently, the training rounds used were designed more to inflict pain, rather than cause physical harm. The hit from the painkillers had worn off by then, but he couldn’t help but feel a nagging desire in the back of his head for another one of those. “Hey—you’re one of those guys who kriffed up at the end of the exercise, aren’t you?” Havel looked up. Looking down at him from the bunk above was some guy whose name he hadn’t bothered to learn—but that face, angular, good looking, with a hint of las-surgery about it, he had managed to pick up from the rest. He was giving him an arrogant, almost patronizing look, making Havel wonder what it would feel like to give that smug little son of a nexu a good punch. “Uh...yeah. I guess.” Havel decided to reply, shrugging. “Well, from what I heard, you didn’t perform so badly on the rest. Oh, by the way, my name’s Joahnn—Joahnn Lenn. One of the top-scorers. Some tell me I may even be put in the SpecOps, eventually.” “Good for you.” Mumbled Havel. The SpecOps. He had heard about them, both from other’s conversations and info-feeds: the best of the best, capable of performing any task set to them, clad in impenetrable armor and wielding the most powerful weapons, all that jazz. Of course, no doubt the ability to recite the Necasian anthem on the spot and look good on a propaganda poster helped as well—and this guy probably fulfilled both criteria. “I think your eval-card’s coming.” Said Lenn, diverting his eyes elsewhere. Havel turned around to see one of the support personnel walking towards him carrying what looked like an infopad of sorts. He wondered if the exercises he had already taken part in today would count, and then began speculating as to what it would say. If he had screwed up, they’d probably have him end up in the Peace Enforcement Corps, or the NPEC, the militia tasked with keeping order on the worlds in the Necasian ‘sphere of co-operation’, or the reserves, or even the engineer corps. Compared to risking his life on the frontlines on some obscure planet that refused to suck up to Redharn, that didn’t actually sound so bad. Taking the pad as it was handed to him, Havel flicked his eyes across it. Satisfactory performance in target practice and marksmanship, in combat exercise, despite carelessness towards the end, and in stamina tests. Cause for concern in pol-droc and general patriotic attitude. From this, it looked like he would end up on the frontlines after all. To his surprise, he felt his heart sinking—trying to deliberately screw up to avoid that would probably result in a beating from an electro-baton, and carrying on would...he shrugged those thoughts off. Damned if he was going to start panicking like some coward now; the only thing he could do was try and get out of camp in one piece, and then hope that everything from there would be an easy ride. In fact, if the info-feeds were to be trusted, there wasn’t much standing in Redharn’s way at all. “Hey, guys. I think you should see this.” Called someone above the hubbub. Havel got up and walked over to a large monitor on the wall across the dormitory, with what looked like the titles of an info-feed appearing on it. Gathering around, the recruits watched as a crimson star emblem appeared on the screen. “Soldiers of the Necasian cause,” began the gruff voice of an announcer, “it is time you were informed of what is potentially the greatest threat to our expansion yet. A government, rapidly gaining territory in another part of the galaxy, dedicated to dangerous and insidious ideals, calling itself the ‘Srav Federation’. We know little of it, other than it does have the capacity to present a serious threat to us.” The image turned to show grainy, blurred images of what appeared to be convoys of ships of some kind moving through space. “These ‘Sravs’ appear to be too dedicated to their ideology for any chance of co-existence with our own.” Continued the announcer. “They possess numbers and military technology comparable to our own.” The image again changed, to show another grainy picture of curved armored vehicles moving across some landscape. “Their leaders, we have gathered, cannot be compromised with. Naturally, against such a body, we must hope for the best and prepare for the worst. You will be the first recipients of all important intelligence we receive of this faction, as to prepare yourselves for the unfortunately strong possibility that we will have to go head-to-head with them. We will come back to you later with further information. Remember, remain strong, remain focused, and remain brave.” The screen flickered into blackness. Seconds later, the hubbub returned as the recruits began talking agitatedly among themselves. Havel groaned and threw himself back onto his bunk. At least it was doubtful that it could get any worse.
*
* Former officer of the Turien Police Forces, Holfe Qaran, admired himself in the reflection of a puddle. Only yesterday, he had been wearing the ridiculous pyjamas that passed for TDF uniform; now, he was clad in the sleek blue riot gear uniform of a militiaman of the Necasian Peace Enforcement Corps. With a shotgun in one hand and an electro-baton in the other, he was looking forward to enforcing order on the streets the proper way. He began his patrol, heading down through the downtown district of the capital. Other NPEC officers, both proper Necasians from Havez and willing recruits like him, were also on patrol, as per the agreement between the Turien president and Carsal Redharn. No more corruption; no more sucking up to gangsters and crime lords; one step over the line and the miscreant would receive a shotgun shell in the face. Yes, these Necs truly knew how it’s done, he thought, as he saw another fellow militiaman attack a cowering insectoid Verpine with his baton. Another plus—no more disgusting freaks like them striding around like they owned the place, scaring the children. Some had whined and complained about erosion of rights or some idealistic shavit like that, but they were probably rotting in a cell like they belonged. He glanced up at a LCD screenboard covering the side of a building, playing another hammy recruitment ad. “Tired of mediocrity? Tired of feeling meaningless?” a muffled, enthusiastic voice was coming from its speakers. “By joining the legions of the Necasian Military, you can bestow purpose on yourselves and others! Bring order like we have to those without it, with some of the most advanced weapons in the galaxy! Destroy those who would spread anarchy and destruction! Head to your recruitment office now!” Holfe smiled as the screen showed grinning soldiers in sleek, clean body armor with the Necasian insignia superimposed behind them. He felt proud for those guys, and the people now lining up to the recruitment office below the screenboard. He wished he could be in their position, using all those weapons he had heard about. But his place was on the streets, and his family would never let him. Still, all those brave boys going out to fight the good Necasian fight certainly deserved all the benefits their service would bring. “You traitorous filth!” He turned to see old Wenja Punel, some senile bat who typically went around the city streets generally being an irritant to people, hobbling towards him. “It’s people like you who’ve sold out our world to these...these... scum! I hope you’re happy that we’ll have to salute their flag from now on, and...” Casting his mind back to his intense reading of the NPEC regulations manual from that morning, Holfe tried to recall anything that would finally let him shut this crone up. “Ma’am, you are currently in violation of public orders 45 and 57, pertaining to disorderly conduct and spreading of seditious opinions. I am obliged to escort you to the nearest constabulary where you may face a combined sentence of twelve years. Come quietly, or there will be...trouble.” She spat at him. Impulsively, he drew his electro-baton, and smashed it onto her neck. Jerking spasmodically and crying out as volts of charge pulsed through her body, Wenja fell limp, and he began to drag her down the street. Yes, just like they had promised, the Necasians had brought nothing but good to Turien, he thought in satisfaction. “Holfe. Different uniform, same old son of a Rakatan, eh?” He recognized the young woman standing by the curb in front of him. Kata Heser—immigrant from Corellia, down on the new database as a potential wrongdoer, owing to her connections with the wrong type of fraternity on that world. Information on her flashed up before him, projected onto the inside of his visor. Apparently, she mostly stayed at a bar down in Waterside District—an alien-owned bar, to top it off. Soon as he could, he’d organize a search of the place. “You watch yourself, citizen.” He snapped, glowering under his visor. “Don’t worry, sir. I’m only too happy to welcome our new boot-wearing overlords. And now, like a good citizen of the new Turien, I’ll just go around sucking up to them at every opportunity, just like a few other people.” “Get the hell out of my sight.” Growled Holfe. Kata merely chuckled and strode off. She’d get what was coming to her soon enough, he thought. But for now, it was time to get on with the job.
*
* “The gods smile upon our plight, Warlordess. Our Vanguards report the discovery of several inhabitable worlds. We have also made contact with other beings likewise traversing the ether.” Priestess Amethyst Farsight stood in the dimly lit chamber before the much larger Storm Irownings, wearing her ornate white-and-gold armor. They were all Zayre; long-haired humanoids standing over two meters high, with large wings folded behind their backs, and claw-like hands and feet. Apart from Amethyst, dressed in blue priestess robes, they were all wearing tight, curved armor moulded from pure Kadatian, the most durable metal on their homeworld. They were standing in the main council chamber of a Bearer, a huge conveyance moulded from biological matter by Zayre sculptor-priestesses and capable of interstellar travel with the grafts bestowed upon it. Each Bearer carried many tens of thousands of Zayre, with a fleet now of them moving their entire population through the emptiness of space away from the desolation of their homeworld. Ironwings took in the news Amethyst had brought her. After these months of travelling, barely holding together following the plague that had swept through them, they could finally settle and resume their civilization. How hospitable the planet was did not matter to her; a kind one would enable their arts and culture to flourish, keeping them wise; a harsh one would enable their warriors and fighters to thrive, keeping them strong. But this mention of new beings contacted intrigued her. “What are these beings you mentioned? What is their nature?” she asked. “We are not sure. They are based upon technology and machinery; we found them in a small Bearer of metal and iron, with no evidence of shaping in use. We elected to take them aboard, but their tongue is taking us a while to decipher.” “Bring them here.” “As my Warlordess wishes.” Amethyst walked out and returned a few moments later with two Zayre warriors, both clad in tight metal armor and tattooed war-masks, carrying two males dressed in strange garments. No women—so, unlike the Zayre, their females did not fill the positions of society, she decided. She took in a closer look, amused at the looks of fear and confusion on their faces. One of them began babbling to her in some bizarre language, while the other manipulated some item of technology—a black metal sliver. “Who are you? Where are you from?” demanded Ironwings slowly. The sliver suddenly babbled something out, and the being in turn spoke into it. “We are travellers—explorers—people of speed.” The sliver seemingly spoke in Zairi, albeit slowly in a very strange, droning voice. “We present no harm—threat—danger.” “So I can see.” Said Ironwings dryly, flicking her long blonde hair back. “Tell me, what are the names of the nearest inhabited worlds?” The sliver babbled something back at them—she was beginning to guess its purpose now. It took the words of both speakers and converted them into the opposing languages. Very clever. “Ankarr. Hypori. Rodia.” It droned. The being turned it around to show a galactic map of sorts superimposed on some panel, with three red dots positioned on it. “Those appear to correspond to the bearings provided by the Vanguards.” Said Amethyst, taking a closer look. “We shall set a course for this ‘Ankarr’ first.” Declared Ironwings. “Order the Guiders to input new bearings. “The Bearers under the command of Lancer will divert course for ‘Hypori’, as a contingency. Should there be anyone on these worlds who sees fit to oppose us, we shall smite them.” She turned to the other figures standing behind her. “State any objections or suggestions you might have.” “What do we know of the weapons these people possess?” demanded Hakila Janissary, of the Zayre Honor Guard. “What weaponry they possess is irrelevant.” Snapped Ironwings. “Not one enemy has prevailed under the weight of our spirit, focus, and stratagems. Should war seek us out, we will embrace it with zeal, as is our way. Defiance on the part of anyone will be a useless gesture. It is as straightforward as that." “A leader with faith in her warriors is a leader who will likewise receive faith in herself.” commented Amethyst musingly. “The proverb is appreciated, but we are familiar with the scripture of your priestesshood.” Said Ironwings dryly. “Now, it is time I informed the people. What the future holds for us only the gods know, but with their blessing and our faith our race will surely prevail.”
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