Colonial Pride & Provincial Avarice


The Machine rolls on…


A tour through the Colonies, the sign said. See Gestalt from planet to planet in the Colonial Defense Fleet. Join today.

How attractive that prospect was, how alluring to the new citizen, the refugee of war. He had studied the poster every day waiting to catch the rail to work, to the mines. It looked so promising; the men with their guns at the commanders with their spaceships. Even on the best day it beat mining ore from the Ring.

Eighteen years old and the victim of a battle not his own, the boy had found hostel with the Gestalt. They had offered him a job and citizenship, a new place to belong. With no mother, no father, no kin to speak of, he had been left alone in the Galaxy. His planet would be annexed and a new government would arise in place of the one before it and he would never be allowed home again.

Home, the sign said. Find yours in the Fleet.

Was it fair? Who knows and really, who cares. It was something; it was that something offered just when life most needed it. Perhaps targeting their transient population with the prospect of glory and wealth through military service was wrong but compared against his life recently, the hum drum of a nine to five in the pits; the boy could see no real difference. And that’s the way it went for him and a dozen other young men who, weighing their options, chose service over the freedom to grind ones bones to dust.

Which isn’t to say things were bad for the boy, quite the opposite in fact. The Gestalt Colonies cut large pay stubs and kept their employees in the best condition. He had lived well since emigrating, half way across the Galaxy, to Gestalt I and all the same found himself itching for more. Perhaps it was revenge he desired but like so many his age and of similar circumstance the boy only felt numb.

And then his friends began to sign up. Friends he had known all of six months, men and boys who came from all four corners of civilization and, for some reason, found a new faith in Gestalt. They all signed up. And he found himself more inclined.

Propaganda was everywhere; if he had learned one thing about these Colonists it was that they prized their military unity which was logical given their near ‘island’-like status. So it was not like he had to look far for the information, in fact and strangely, it was a recruiter who came to him.

The boy had missed his father deeply and though he had forgotten or repressed that emotion since the event, the sight of the recruiting officer, so like his own father in uniform, brought it all back in a flood. Handsome, striking and old enough to be that same father, the recruiter seemed to detect that need in the boy; he picked up on it and nursed it. Some would accuse the man of exploiting the boy, of having twisted his emotions to the point that he would sign his life into the Fleet so swift. They might be right, the boy would have admitted. All the same…

… he would never take it back.

Many months later, a survivor of Camp Mar-Veil and veteran of the Starwind conflict, the boy would look back on his life and smile.




“What are you so happy about Lipinski?”

Ensign Lipinski looked up from his work at his superior officer and best friend aboard the newly commissioned Colonial (Mk II) destroyer, Lieutenant Junior Grade Smiken. He was, and had been previously, involved with a complicated diagnostic on one of the sizable assault missile tubes. Grease had, somehow, gotten smeared across his chin and uniform.

He shrugged, “Life is good.”

“Lipinski, you’re the only guy I know who can be knee deep in a sys-diagnostic and smiling about how good life is. You’re a real oddity, you know that right?”

“You’re the one who hangs around me, Smiken.” Lipinski chuckled and, offering a hand to his friend, gestured for a tug, “even when I’m wedged between two giant missile tubes, what’s your deal?”

Lt Smiken, clad in full dress, was hesitant to help his friend up but did so anyways, with some resignation. Naturally Lipinski noticed.

“What’s with the digs?”

This drew a frown on the part of Lt Smiken. Dismayed he turned to help his friend collect up his tools. Nonchalant, he said, “I’ve been transferred to the new Commonwealth. I ship out in twenty.”

“That’s great news,” replied Ensign Lipinski. Leave it to a Polak to focus on the positive, to the point of overlooking the negative. “You’ve been bucking for that position since the commission went official.”

“That’s great news,” he repeated.

An awkward silence followed. Despite the fact that both ships were going on joint operations for their shake down cruise they knew this meant that it would be unlikely that either one would see the other for some time. Smiken broke the silence.

“Good news for you too, I hear.”

Smiken picked up the tool bag and offered it to Lipinski. “You were accepted for Commando training.”

“Everyone goes their own ways eventually man, it can’t be helped. I’m running out the last of my time on this cruise and then I ship out to Lucerne Academy for training. It’s a heavy commitment and one hell of an honor considering the time I have put in so far.”

Together they started out of the missile bay. Clutching the hatch, Smiken pulled the metal construct back and gestured for his companion to head through. An access corridor waited beyond where work crews were still working to get the ship up and running. Dry dock workers could be seen moving among the Navy men.

“You have my contact information.” Smiken winked, “it’s been a slice man.”

“It sure has,” agreed Ensign Lipinski. “The Colonies are only so many and only go so far, it’s not like we’ll never see one another again. I would not have thought that I would meet anyone like you in the service… That’s got to mean something. And now we’re going our separate ways…”

“Yeah, that’s life.”

Lipinski chuckled, “life is good.”

“What are you smiling at?!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then bloody well stop it, shit smear!”

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

“Sir I’m trying, sir!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

About to boil, Simmons seemed ready to strike.

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

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

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

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

David Colony…

High Cardinal Oyzamndais perched precariously upon the precipice of his balcony overlooking the sprawling ‘cloud city’ that stretched out before him. The six pointed terminus of the sub-orbital platform, a distinct construction design, looked back up at him. Panoramic in perspective he need only turn his head to take in the full scope of its shape, seated as he was atop the highest tower set in the center of a kilometers wide Star of David. Persistent and omnipresent, the glow of Gestalt II fought against the illumination of the systems primary and left the platform bathed in a constant orange-yellow hue. Not far below violent super-storms raged against the gravitational pull of the gas giant itself.

The Cardinal exhaled a long, slow and measured breath. Seated with his legs locked in the lotus position, knees protruding over the lip of his balcony, the man opened an eye. He had been in deep meditation for some time though he showed no sign of strain or discomfort given such a seemingly uncomfortable position. At over forty years of age Umarlrich Von Stontton Oyzamndais VI looked no more then thirty. He came from a line of men with seemingly unnatural longevity, men who could trace their ancestry back to ancient times and back to the men of the core ward Fjords.

At three hundred meters tall, the tower atop which Oyzamndais sat was the center-point of David Colony. This was the Spire of Spirit, commonly known as David Tower, and it served as the seat of power for the largest single religious organization active in the Gestalt Colonies. In truth the Way of David was the only religion practiced within the Colonies and the only spiritual authority recognized by Government and Military alike, and it was from the Tower atop David Colony that the Cardinal oversaw the activities of that holy body.

David Colony served not only as the religious epicenter of Colonial spirituality but also played host to the single largest non-Military education facility within the Gestalt Colonies. Highly regarded and very well funded the Colonial University of Gestalt or CUG, was directly linked to both educational branches/divisions of the Way and Government and similarly overseen by directorate boards on either side. In practicality, however; High Cardinal Umarlrich Von Stontton Oyzamndais VI was the single most powerful authority on David Colony and as such he possessed final veto, final responsibility for the conduct of David Colony. The fingers of David Colony extended far beyond the borders of the floating platform upon which it seated itself, beyond the borders of Gestalt II and into almost every aspect of Colonial life.

Among the hierarchy of the Gestalt Colonies, as near as the Cardinal himself could tell, he ranked roughly fourth in his ability to wield and affect power in Gestalt.

His background was purely pro-human and somehow entwined with Vice Commodores background as well, though to date no source had been able to reveal the depth of their connection pre-Colonization. Aristocratic and born to wealth, Oyzamndais came from a powerful merchant family which, due to the current military concerns in other parts of the galaxy, had been forced to re-examine their business structure while also reconsidering their current investment in the naturalized state. When Vice Commodore Lance Shipwright had contacted their family, on the behest of the Gestalt Colonies, and offered them a considerable equity in the merchant stock of the Colonial effort they had been only too happy to oblige. And while their, as of yet, considerable power in those core ward territories had dwindled, they had been able to supplement their losses with the profits of operating alongside the Colonials. Unfortunately the physical demands of operating in a war torn environment had taken its toll on the family line.

With a population of roughly four million, almost entirely human, David Colony supported a sizable civilian population with minimal unemployment and negligible crime of which to speak the Way of David and CUG were household references. Multiple star-ports, both commercial and industrial, meant that the Colony is further able to conduct extensive trade with the other colonies.

David Colony also provided a significant quantity of the Colonies ability to refine raw materials. Of the many people living in David Colony approximately 75% are affiliated with the Refinery Industries which dominate the lower levels of the platform upon which the Colony itself is situated. Multiple external platforms, much smaller then David Colony and purpose built, orbit Gestalt II in slightly lower trajectories.

And because all of this had fallen into the arms of one man alone, more or less, the Colonial Defense Fleet and Colonial Provisional Government had kept very close tabs on the conducts of the man in question. Not that Oyzamndais resented this constant inspection; on the contrary, he found it endlessly helpful for it served to keep him vigilant at all times. Unlike men of lower morality or lesser scruples, Oyzamndais held himself to a higher calling, believing in a sense of right and good which helped him to fight the temptations of power or the allure of riches.

From the day of his birth those who knew him had come to remark of his nobility, as though he were possessed of an intense aura of empathy. As a child he had never been inclined to fight, he had been a quiet and contemplative boy well liked by all of his peers and disliked by none; a primary school teacher once noted, upon the commemoration of his commencement, that a young Umarlrich had only once encountered a bully of which she had been aware and it had been her distinct pleasure to see Oyzamndais go out of his way to befriend the offending youth and, indeed, that the bully had become one of Umarlrichs closest confidants (and being present at the party in question) commended them both. In University he moved on to study theology in all its diverse forms locally and aboard. Soon after, Oyzamndais changed forums; he enrolled in a series of theocratic education institutions, and somewhere through in over a decade of study he discovered the Way of David.

The Way of David had changed his life instrumentally. Had it not been for The Way none of this would have been possible. He had brought The Way to his people.

A faint chime roused the High Cardinal from his meditation fully. He had not heard it the first time. Uncoiling a wrist with serpentine grace he fetched his communicator tab and opened the microphone.

“Yes?” He asked in the sort of voice one uses when motivating crowds of personages paying by the hour to hear one speak. “Go ahead please.”

“Sorry to interrupt you,” replied a secretarial female voice. “The new attaché is here, Colonial Defense Fleet liaison.”

“Ah, excellent and thank you, Margaret please send him up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

… into seemingly nothingness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mighty chary,” declared Gunner over the squad channel. “These boys look about ready to crap themselves Major.”

Crammed in the auxiliary compartment of a CG-10 Centaur, the men and women of Major Marty Squad bumped and jostled up against one another as the small transport bucked out of the void into the upper atmosphere of Gestalt V; better know among the Colonials as Wells Grey.

Wells Grey on Gestalt V was something of a gem to the Colonists. The small green planet was home to an incredibly dense terrestrial forest complete with temperate rain-forest conditions and totally free of any native sentient life forms. It had been set aside as a Park Reserve, which meant that until such time as the Powers That Be arranged themselves to tap the natural resources of the planet Wells Grey would sit pure and untouched. More over, the planet had become a regular stop for Colonial Commando training runs.

Gunner chuckled aloud and, thumping the nearest greenback with his shoulder, said, “Don’t worry kids, your first tour in the Grey will be just dandy. Word to the wise though, brothers and sisters, keep your boots tight and don’t step on any Adderblacks.”

They were seated in rows of four, backs to one another, each rookie clutching tight to his kit with eyes focused on the jump lights. The constant beady red glow assured them of another few second’s safety, for they all knew that with the switch from red to yellow they would be only moments away from deployment. And, in this case, deployment entailed, just to start things off, a forty five second free fall through the night-side atmosphere of the planet followed by break-neck ‘chute recoil at just two hundred meters from impact.

Major Marty, something of a dubiously joking moniker among the troops, was in command of this twelve person training operation. Sergeant Major Marshal Martins had done this run now on four different occasions; each time with a new group of would-be Commandos in tow and each time were worse then the last. Unlike his previous experience with similar live-fire exercises the Wells Grey Run had become the bane of his existence… it just never got any easier.

Of course Gunner was just doing his job as well, it was his responsibility (though unspoken) to get the newbie’s riled up, to get their nerves twitching. It added to the realism and tested their pre-action mettle both psychologically and physically (the latter was much less fun in the long run as the duty to swab the deck always ended up in Gunners lap when some young kid tossed his cookies). But when Major Marty, eyes but narrow slits, turned his steely gaze on the man he knew, Gunner knew he had said enough.

Expectedly, Gunner fell silent.

“Button up, boys and girls,” spoke Major Marty over the squad channel. “It’s about to get very real.”

The wannabe Colonial Commandos checked and rechecked their flight gear; bulky, boxy units strapped to their torsos with vector-thrust nozzles sticking out the after edges. There were no external dials to check, no gauges to examine, for everything functioned on a digital feed… the centerpiece of which was the Commandos helmet. Behind that plate of one-way, transparent steel each man and woman would be running through a myriad checklist.

Overhead the readiness indicators flipped from red to yellow cuing Gunner to stand, an awkward proposition given the cramped aft-compartment. He stuck his up and rolled back the tinted visor that had, previously, hidden his face. Twelve helmeted heads turned towards him as one, the thirteenth, Major Marty, simply yawned and checked his chronometer.

“Okay kids, here’s the deal; don’t loose your lunches, hang on tight and enjoy the ride. Oh, and make sure you take a long last look because you’re on your own until extraction, the bird will pick you up at Twenty Three Forty Five standard time. You’re on your own until then.”

“Stand up and get in line!”

With much jostling and bumping of gear the twelve armored figures rose to their feet while performing final checks on their own, and their neighbor’s kit. Major Marty was last to stand.

And then the lights switched to green, Gunner thumped a fist against the door hatches, and the cold night air of a high atmosphere Wells Grey night spilled into the cabin.

“Go, go, and go!” Gunner hollered.

One after another they tumbled backwards out of the CG-10, arms crossed over their chests and knees pulled up tight against their chests. In the space of fourteen point five seconds they had all exited the vehicle, save Gunner.

For the fifth and hopefully final time Marshal Martins watched as the little green square of light shot away from him at hundreds of kilometers per hour. Running under stealth to give the new recruits a better idea of just what a High Risk drop could be, the Centaur was invisible in the night sky except for the door hatches which they had jumped out of.

In a flash they vanished leaving Major Marty alone in the blackness to contemplate his fate while, somewhere around fifty meters below himself, the rest of his men experienced perhaps the most terrifying moment of their young lives. They’d get used to it as he had, he knew. The trick was not to become complacent, not to let your mind wander.

In the dark, thousands of meters up and plunging toward an invisible planet below, one could forget the gravity of their situation when in fact gravity should be the central focus of any such activity. A million brilliant stars gazed down upon them.

Martins checked his speed and adjusted his vector so he was angled downward relative to the planet below. He zipped past terminal velocity without a second thought and began overtaking his students. Like something shot from a canon he roared past them. Behind him, now trailing the Sergeant Major, the others followed suit; turning their noses toward the planet and putting on the speed.

One hundred meters from the planets surface Major Marty kicked his landing gear into action. Two ram-shaped pylons flipped down from behind his back, extending above his head. Thrust nozzles on the ends of these struts fired to life.

Marty felt like he was going to expel his innards through his mouth. They were pushing the limits of human tolerance. Fractions of a second later, riding a downspout of flame, the kit changed. Bending at the joints, it seemed to give in to some unnatural torsion, and heave to at the middle. With his knees held high, however; it effectively embraced him in a human shaped roll cage. Ventral and dorsal rockets fired immediately after.

Through to a mere fifty meters from the planets surface Major Marty and his band of diehard crazies began shedding speed like so much winter fur until reaching safe landing velocity. Shifting vectors abruptly they hit the ground with a bone jarring thud and proceeded to roll a further twenty meters across the ground before coming to rest. Explosive charges then fired, blowing the human shaped roll cage open. At the ready, guns drawn, the thirteen men and women rose up from the shattered hulks of their landing gear.

Over the squad channel, each man and woman sounded off in sequence.

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

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

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

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

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

The two officers enjoyed a certain informality. McKeon nodded.

“You have the Watch, Lieutenant Smiken.”

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

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

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

Smiken nodded and McKeon departed.

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

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

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

“Good morning, Lieutenant.”

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

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

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

“Aye Ma’am,” Smiken updated the log.

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

He did.

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



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

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

This was service…

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

But somehow those simple words failed to cover the hurt.

Delete this post please.

Modular Defense Station D-05…

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

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

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

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

Pegasus, Kashan Flagship, en route to Gestalt Colonies

"How are we holding captain?"

"Task Force Seraph is on schedule, directly behind us."

"Excellent," stated the Commodore.

For the war game, Corise was trying an experiment, dividing his invasion fleet into two parts. The first, known as Task Force Pegasus was composed of the star destroyer Pegasus and a trio of Juaire-class Heavy Gunships: the Coriander, Detroyant, and Andenes. The second was comprised of the Seraph and an assortment of other Kashan vessels.

He glanced at the chrono. "TF Seraph should be reverting right now."

The second task force dropped out of hyperspace just outside of the Gestalt system as the first Task Force continued forward, surging towards the David Colony.

"Reverting in five, four, three, two, one."

The brilliant lines of hyperspace morphed into tiny orbs scattered across the void of space. Pegasus knifed forward through the darkness with her consorts. Directly in front of the star destroyer was the Andenes; to her port, the Coriander, and to the starboard, the Detroyant.

Corise nodded.

"Launch all starfighters," ordered the black-clad man. The Dice are cast, the game has begun.

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

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

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

That’ll be the Kashans, she mused silently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good.” She replied, “Out.”

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

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