The Beast lurked in the depths.

Those who dared venture too near its lair were consumed.

And by the gods; it was huge.




“And what it needs this thing; is a new old approach.”

Lance Shipwright fastidiously examined the hologram. In theory it would kilometers in length.

“And what we need to remember,” he absently fished a hand in one of the many pockets adorning his cover-all. “What we need to remember is that we don’t need to build the thing…”

He was flushed. Pacing back and forth in front of his crews, seated and watching him with attentive eyes, Lance had worked himself into something of a tizzy. The lecture hall was over crowded and it was too hot for his taste. Sweat beaded on his brow.

“We’re going to base the design off of our Post-Imperial Command Cruiser prototype…” He mopped his brow then, gesturing with the same rag, shook a hand at one of his staff. “Warren and Neeluz were in charge of the prototype project and anyone still needing updates should speak to one of them as soon as possible.”

A few grunts of affirmation answered him alongside the sound of pens scratching on pads.

“Naturally we will have to re-innovate a number of critical systems to operate within Coalition standards. You’ll have all of the required information provided in your data pack under the subject heading…” Lance shuffled through a stack of papers before finding his own data pad and calling up the correct information. “New Coalition Standards for Imperial Design Comprehension…”

A hand shot up. Lance nodded.

“In reading the Flight Deck and Starfighter Manifest suggestions,” began a voice in the crowd. “How many birds are we talking about and what sort of rails, exactly? Or are we going to be looking at open-deck operations?”

“I do not, as of yet, have that information,” responded Shipwright. “Coalition contracts are still uncertain and it seems the higher ups are still debating exactly what kind of starfighter will be equipped.”

“However,” he moved towards the hologram and plucked up the keyboard.

The image blurred dramatically then shot towards the ship and incredible speed before resolving on a forward view of the main flight deck. Massive, a yawning mouth open to space, it was mounted with a bow oriented mouth in a roughly trapezoidal shape. A chorus of comments rose up from the audience.

Lance waved a hand for attention.

“Look, everyone. We’re not going to be going above the bar on this one. The Coalition has a clear idea of what they want and that is exactly what we will deliver. Wedge shape and all. When word comes down it will be passed on to you as I get it.” Stepping in front of the hologram he interposed himself between the workers and the image. “This project is receiving top priority. All side projects are cancelled indefinably. We will meet or beat the schedule laid down by the Coalition heads.”

“Financial and Commodities will be your first point of contact for anything not directly covered by your Team Leader. All asset requisitions will be passed through them before, I repeat, before any purchase orders are passed along to Purchasing. This is a warning folks, you blow this one out the window and I’ll have to restructure the whole damn thing. Remember, we’re doing a job. We do our job well.”

“Dismissed!”

The reporters, agents of agencies abroad and local, packed themselves into the conference room aboard the newly commissioned Provincial-class carrier. Seating was at a premium. Standing room quickly filled up. Soon, with elbows jarring one another, the room was filled and the doors closed.

Two Colonial officers clad in navy-blue uniforms and wearing side arms moved into position at either side of the door. A moment later the lights dimmed by a fraction.

A distinguished gentleman clad in a similar, though darker and adorned with the medals and piping, stepped out onto the stage set at the head of the room. Admiral Ruben Mar-Veil raised his hand for attention and, clearing his throat, spoke in a deep tenor.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the press,” he began. “Welcome aboard the Provincial.”

“Before I introduce the Colonial Minister I would like to ask everyone to save their questions. There will be a brief Q&A session following the Colonial Minister Ramos’ address. Thank you. I would also remind you to confine your questions to the material provided in your Press packet.”

He turned a sidelong glance away from the gathered media representatives.

“Without further delay, here is the Colonial Minister.”

Colonial Minister Paula Ramos stepped onto the stage and, moving towards the podium, offered the Admiral a warm, well meaning smile. Her blue-black uniform resembled the naval uniform worn by the Admiral but had been updated to meet more civilian attitudes. It fit tight against her form and hugged her curves.

The Colonial Minister spoke.

“Thank you Admiral,” she stepped behind the podium with a nod. “And thank you ladies and gentlemen of the media for attending our conference.”

Her dark hair, pulled back and tied in a neat bun, reflected the bright overhead lights and glowed like some ethereal, black halo. The sound of stylus scratching against pads and the clicking of cameras, a nostalgic throwback if anything given the digital revolution, descended upon the room.

“Today is a day to remember; a day that will go down in memoriam as the day the Gestalt Colonies applied for and were granted membership within the Galactic Coalition. It is with a proud sense of accomplishment that the people of the Colonies can today see their efforts come to fruition in the addition of yet another diverse governing body contributing to the overall well being of all life forms within the boundaries of the Coalition.”

“As a commemorative to this grand day and the fruition of our vision, the Gestalt Colonies will begin construction of the new Coalition-class Command Cruiser. This project will demand much of the Colonies as a whole but I am certain that we can rise up to the challenge and deliver.”

“A matter of further celebration for the people of the Colonies; I am proud to announce that the Kashan Government will be assisting our own in discovering and establishing a new hyper-space route in and out of the solar system. This cooperative effort with another member of the Galactic Coalition of Planets heralds a new age for the Gestalt Colonies.”

“Indeed, this is a day to be proud but it is also a day to take stock, to remember where it is we came from.”

The Colonial Minister fell silent for a moment, a minute of respect for the toils and struggles of her people. It was a visible, empathic gesture.

“Today is a great day for the Gestalt Colonies. Many of you, members of the media, have been following your own stories which have, in some light or another, detailed the comings and the goings of the Colonies and I cannot imagine that all of what I have said today will come as a surprise to those speculative few who, in the past months, have published material that could be considered inflammatory…”

Expertly, she did not mention how none of those personalities in question were in the crowd today. She did not mention how they had disappeared in the night. She did not mention the grisly detention blocks…

People need faith. People need hope. People need a future.

She gripped the podium.

“But it will never be said of the Gestalt Colonies that any person was denied their unalienable rights and to that end I am now going to answer as many of your questions as I can and to the fullest extent of my ability. Thank you for your patience and attention.”

“Lisa… go ahead.”

Seraph Mk II Cruiser Resolution, 10 light years from the Gestalt Colonies

“Pacifier One and Two have reported signs of what could be a black hole.”

The vessel’s captain stared out into space. Many people thought of space as being an empty, black void that could never be filled up. At one time, Captain Fiona Evas would have been among those people. Only hours into the mission, she was finding otherwise. Nebulas, black holes, clouds of debris and other matter, and asteroids. She let out an exasperated sigh; and according to Kashan scouting specialists, there were other things which could create a mass-shadow, and thus prevent faster-than-light travel. With all of the hassle and time it took to create and discover a new route, it was little wonder that most ships stayed with proven hyperspace routes. The hazards appeared endless.

“Very well lieutenant. Call them into refuel and launch the next recon flight.”

Another flight of Deathsabers roared into the subspace realm. They were but a small fraction of the Kashan fleet working on finding a viable hyperspace route. There were other cruisers checking out other promising options. But the protocol for all of the groups was very similar. The Seraphs acted as mother ships for the scouts, which were their Deathsaber compliment. Thus far, S9s were proving to be reasonably good scout vessels, with their enhanced sensors, covering more time than it would take for more traditional fighters. The flight of starfighters that had just launched scattered, using individual starfighters to cover more space.

The Silent Raider, a modified space-yacht, cruised smoothly through hyperspace. At the commands, half asleep and waiting for the chime that would signal real space reversion, the ships pilot snored noisily through his elongated snout. A Sniveen, he looked like the ill conceived spawn of a drunken lizard and a horny ape or rodent. Stubbly, irritating hair covered most of his body.

Vigor Rasznova was not a polite creature and this was exemplified by his near-naked status and perpetuated in the odiferous stink that wafted off of his almost unconscious form. A pair of flight goggles, badly stained, rested atop his head.

Abruptly, and tensing at the sight of the alien, a young woman swept into the cockpit. Unlike the near slumbering alien she was clad from head to toe in a delicate, breezy layer of crème colored fabric. Oddly functional, the one piece body suit looked like some sort of flight-suit/ball-gown hybrid and it plumed about her feet as she moved. A blaster, the outdated sort of DL-type worn by only the most rugged of deep space pilots, rested against her hip. At perhaps seventeen years of age and full of vim, she was an attractive if gangly thing. Her golden hair flowed down past her shoulders.

“Wake up,” she shouted and kicked the pilot’s seat. “You are being paid to do a job, now do it!”

Vigor sat bolt upright with a start and, in doing so, pulled the sweaty skin of his back off of the seat in a painfully fast sort of way.

“Yeow!” he screamed.

“What’s the big idea, girl?”

The Sniveen glared at her over his shoulder; the action causing his neck to disappear and push his lower jaw flush with the now reddening, pimped flesh of his back.

She winced.

“Look, Ilesha we’re gonna get there when we get there and not a moment sooner.”

“I don’t care if you can’t get us there faster,” she snapped at him. “You are being paid to fly this ship, my ship. You are being paid to escort this family, my family, out of hostile space. You are being paid to take us to these Colonies you spoke us and you’re not doing a very good job of any of it!”

“Listen here little missy,” Vigor Rasznova pushed his captains chair around in a circle and stood up. Though fully grown, the adult male Sniveen matched eye level with the human girl. “I’ve had just about enough of your lip. You ain’t paying well and you ain’t got no other options for a pilot so unless you want to…”

An alarm klaxon blared.

Ilesha, the girl, paled.

Vigor, the alien, leapt into his seat and shouted into the PA.

“All hands brace for impact, repeat all hands brace for impact…”

He had to shove the girl into the copilots chair and shake her attention to the crash webbing which she began buckling. “What the?” she asked.

“Something is in our way… We’re gonna…”

The Silent Raider shot out of hyperspace carrying enough forward inertia that, with her motivators deactivated, she continued to rocket forward at 99% of light speed.

A swarm of starfighters jinked and juked to get out of the way. Fractions of a second later the massive hull of some warship loomed up in front of the diminutive yacht.

“This is not good,” said Vigor in the cockpit of the yacht. “I don’t recognize any of these ships…”

“I am royalty,” declared the girl. “My family… you have to get us out of here!”

With a glance at his systems indicators, Vigor confirmed, “We’re not going anywhere.”

The Resolution hung suspended amongst the stars in the vastness of space. Around it, a squadron’s worth of Deathsabers swarmed around, having been scrambled as a combat air patrol to counter an interloper in the form of a ship. The starfighters swooped overhead of the other vessel while the Resolution positioned itself to stop the interloping starship from moving forward. On the bridge, Captain Evas and her crew looked over the situation with guarded thoughts.

“It’s a space yacht of some sort.”

Captain Evas snorted as her blue eyes observed the ship via holo-projector. “I doubt it’s a yacht anymore.”

While some used the yachts for their original intentions, Space yachts had the reputation among naval officers as being smuggler craft, such an example being the famous Pulsar Skate crewed by the Terriks. She casually brushed her short, black hair as the nearby Deathsabers made quick sweeping scans of the vessel. The particularly adept sensors of the Kashan starfighters had little difficulty in discerning that the specifications of the Silent Raider. Scans indicated that while the vessel was armed, it was hardly a threat to either the Resolution or her starfighters. This put the Kashan captain in something of a quandary. While the Silent Raider had not done anything wrong, its presence in deep space not normally traveled by any space-going vessel made it suspicious.

“Open up a communications line with that vessel,” ordered the female officer.

“Silent Raider, you have entered Coalition space. State your intent and purpose. Failure to comply will result in the disabling or destruction of your vessel…”

“Coalition space?”

Ilesha glared up at the Kashan Shock-Trooper who appeared to be the leader of the squad that had boarded her yacht. She stared daggers at him.

One of the others, a man of about twenty years and wearing a regal suit that had been badly worn, had the good sense to hold the girl by her shoulders.

At her sides her arms swung back and forth wildly with fists balled up into little knots. Someone had also removed her of the blaster.

They had not resisted although Ilesha had been inclined to try and fight them off. The cruiser could have easily overwhelmed the modified yacht and any fight in the corridors of the ship would gone poorly for the refugees. But the key to her complaisance, or at least her semi-compliance, was to be found in the saving graces of their captors identities. They were not enemies of the New Galactic Coalition.

Rumors had reached them some time ago that the Colonies too had entered into negotiations with the Coalition for membership within that interplanetary alliance. Perhaps it had gone through but even that failed to explain the Kashan representation.

“This is supposed to be Colonial space. We were looking for the Colonies!”

A lithe woman clad in the garb of a Kashan Defense Fleet officer appeared from between the wide shoulders of the trooper squadron. She must have come through the ship-to-ship umbilical after the troopers. No one had noticed her before hand, at least none of the refugees had.

“Excuse me, did you say you were looking for the Colonies?” She put a powerful emphasis on the word looking. “My name is Captain Evans of the Kashan Defense Fleet joint Gestalt Colonial task force. I believe you and I have something to discuss…”





In the confines of the RDS Uniform, deep within a project office that had been equipped for comfort, two men sat in the near silence, each quietly contemplating the future.

They glared at one another, studied one another over the edge of the chess board.

No one, but no one dared interrupt their solitude.

“Your move Lance,” said one man, reminding the other that the clock was counting down.

“Hush,” replied the other man. “There are only so many variable Corise, only so many outcomes.”

Vice Commodore Lance Shipwright was, for all intents and purposes, the undisputed commander of the combined Gestalt Colonies. He had manifested his ascendancy through civilian, military and political channels. At under thirty years old, his accomplishments thus far had been remarkable.

His opponent, wearing the uniform of a Kashan commander, was Commodore Lucerne and of all the people in the galaxy Lance could honestly say that he had no better friend, that there could be no better friend.

He moved. Corise nodded then pushed one of his own pieces forward. Six moves later...

“Mate,” declared Commodore Lucerne victoriously. “Though I have to say, you did much better this time.”

Lance Shipwright shook his head. “I have never met a man as intelligent as myself, Corise. It has never happened… and yet I find myself totally at a loss in certain arenas. Political… Tactical…”

“You have it all wrong. Not everyone processes information exactly the same. You see every outcome, every variable as you say. You see all of them and you’re not happy to move until you do.”

“Where as you just see the right ones?” He winked and moved to refill their glasses.

“Yes, but that’s not it.”

They both laughed.

“I know what you’re getting at. I have not forgotten about Starwind.”

“Speaking of which,” Commodore Lucerne nodded and accepted his beverage. The amber liquid glistened in the dim lighting. “How goes the refit?”

The refit of which they were speaking referred to two of the captured vessels conquered by the very first Kashan/Colonial fleet. It had been their first meeting and in the end the two had walked away victorious and touting the spoils of combat. A Dauntless-class cruiser and a Nebulon G frigate were the spoils awarded to the Colonials.

“The Dauntless is turning out to be more of a project then we expected. It’s over forty years old now and has been in service, it seems, from day one. It went from cruise liner to refugee transport when the civil war broke out and then, somewhere after that, fell into the hands of the Rebellion. I don’t need to tell you how savage they could be when overhauling ships to meet their war demands. As if that wasn’t bad enough, it followed this with a stint in a private patrol fleet before being sold to the pirates we took it from. The poor ship has been repurposed to death.”

“The frigate, the G-type, was a lucky strike. I tell you, it’s golden. For nostalgia I would almost consider keeping it as my own personal transport were it no so badly over qualified for the purpose. After all… I’m no Prime Minister.”

Again, they laughed and then it was Shipwrights turn to inquire.

“And the mapping,” he smiled. “How is that going?”

“Well,” Corise smiled right back at him. “Let me tell you that one stroke of luck can change everything. We have over seventy five percent of the navigation coordinating complete…”

“Well, let me tell you that one stroke of luck can change everything. We have over seventy five percent of the navigation coordinating complete. Between your Arrows and the Deathsabers, it’s been fairly easy thus far,” he boasted, rolling the stem of his glass of wine.

He gave a slight yawn, not from being bored, but he hadn’t quite compensated for the time shift between Kashan and the Gestalt Colonies.

“Another week or so and we should have the entire route mapped. The bases won’t be ready yet though. As such, I think we’re going to have to position some of our ships there; I’m thinking of using the Xiytiars we took at Starwind.”

The KDF had taken some of the spoils as well. Rather than taking larger vessels though, the fleet had opted to take the smaller ones and convert them for a variety of purposes. Most of the cargo craft and sub-capital ships were being used for their original purpose, but the Xiytiar-class Transports had been converted into light frigates for customs and patrol duty. Orders already existed that put the ships under the joint Gestalt-Kashan Fleet that would be in charge of patrolling the new route. Thus, if the ships were already there, it wouldn’t hurt, and moreover, it would free up the larger warships of the fleets for more important duties. Before he could finish, his comlink silently vibrated.

“Lance, it would appear that the Resolution has a situation.”

“This is Hyper Squadron Alpha, flight leader reporting.”

From the cockpit of the starfighter, the pilot checked his flight readings. The hyper-signal read as steady. In formation and moving faster then the speed of light though hyper-space, the rest of Hyper Squadron Alpha sat in position around him.

The starfighters themselves were long, aerodynamically shaped affairs that looked more like an atmospheric craft then starfighter. A long fuselage had been designed to accommodate the considerable electronics required to fly the craft and a comfortably appointed cockpit.

“Prepare for TA.”

Communicating with one another thanks to small hyper-transceivers, which then networked with one another to share processing power, the rest of the pilots clicked in. A host of telemetrically uploaded data played across their Heads up Displays. This information was being routed to them from Command and contained all the necessary information for the upcoming maneuver.

“Count down. T-minus ten and counting, silent,” added the lead pilot.

He checked with his astromechanical unit. All signs read positive. At five seconds, he keyed open his microphone again.

“Begin secondary Motivator ramp up.”

Behind him, lurking in the long frame of his starfighter, a secondary hyper-drive unit began its power up cycle. The ships computer tied it into the powerful navigation unit and coordinated it with the incoming information being uploaded by Command.

“Drive route plotted,” zero second hit. “Reversion!”

He tugged back on his throttle.

The elongated star-lines of hyper space narrowed to single pinpoint dots. Somewhere between Kashan and Gestalt the squadron, Hyper Squadron Alpha, shot out of hyper space. They did not delay long.

Each pilot gripped his flight yolk and pulled back while sinking a foot into one of the pedals. The formation turned about swiftly.

“On my wing,” snapped the leader when one of his pilots strayed too far out of position. “Clean it up five!”

And then they were around, around and clear and pointed back in the direction from which they had arrived.

“Go for switch over,” said the pilot over the squadron band while flicking the toggles that would turn primary control of the Hyperdrive over to the astromechanical unit. “Go for Light Speed!”

And just like that Hyper Squadron Alpha shot back into hyperspace.

Four hours later, and still in hyper drive, the pilots of Hyper Squadron Alpha began discussing the maneuver. They would still be locked in the cockpits of their craft for another twenty standard hours.

“These flight tests are really getting under my skin,” spoke one of the pilots, a female. “My ass is just killing me.”

In the comfort of his own cockpit the lead pilot silently laughed at his wing mate. This new design required extensive pilot to pilot modification which most of the squadron had endured. Five, the sloppy one, had been an exception. How she had managed to get out of the fitting, he didn’t know but he would find out.

For his own part, the lead pilot was perfectly comfortable. Everything about these new starfighters had been designed to accommodate the comfort level of the pilot given that they would be expected to endure routine shifts exceeding twelve hours in the pit. His flight chair quietly pumped his muscles with ultrasonic vibration to fight off stiffness, attrition. He had been reviewing their flight status according to the last four jump points. They’d already set two records.

A virtual simulation was playing itself out on his screens.

These new starfighters had been purpose built to patrol the Kashan-Gestalt hyper lane. They featured a whole new world of innovations which had been incorporated to make them all the more competent at fulfilling their stated purpose. Primary and secondary hyper-drive auxiliaries had been built into the starfighters. They were not small. And they were not lightly armed.

In the cockpit of the lead starfighter, a communication light blipped to life. He toggled it, examined the information then keyed open the Squadron channel.

“Well guys, it looks like we’re gonna get a chance to test our new guns. I’m uploading the data now, direct from the Resolution. Here we go girls and boys. Weapons free!”

Sentry-class Station #1, Gestalt-Kashan Hyperlance

“Atten-hut!”

Over a hundred shock troopers clicked their boots together; the sound echoed throughout the massive hangar that occupied most of the Sentry-class Station. Commander Fyre offered a brief salute as he descended down the ramp of the Lambda-class Shuttle. Superficially, the entire proceeding was little different from those of their Imperial counterparts. Ranks of the white-armored troopers flanked the pathway to the door, which the young Kashan man quickly passed through to meet the commander of the station: Sarah Jenkins.

Commander Fyre offered a military bow to the woman, who simply gave an amused smile.

“How was your trip, Commander?”

The other man sighed. “Well, there wasn’t enough tea. I don’t know how you Colonials manage those rides without a good spot of tea.”

Jenkin’s smile blossomed. The dishwater blond woman was a Colonial officer assigned in charge of the station for the joint Gestalt-Kashan hyperlane. She had been picked as the new station commander mainly because of her leadership talent, which was showing in the high degree of co-operation between the Gestalt Colonials and the Kashan crewmembers that ran the station. She shook her head.

“We do actually have some tea here in the officer’s lounge.”

The other man sighed. “If the Commodore wouldn’t have my head, I’d have the tea first, and then the inspection.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “Which commodore?”

“Er…Commodore Lucerne. I’m not familiar with Commodore Shipwright. Would he kill me?”

She shrugged. “I hope not.”

The two continued forward through the metal corridors of the asteroid base. A pair of doors swished open, admitting the two into the command centre of the Sentry. It was a darker room with several levels of consoles being centered on the large holo-projector that dominated the room. Jenkins tapped her com-link, activating the projector, which displayed the Gestalt and Kashan crests. They faded into the blackness of the space in which the base itself appeared among an asteroid field. The Sentry was surrounded by smaller vessels, mostly Coalition starfighters, but a Gestalt frigate and Amphion-class Light Frigate were present as well.

“What is this?” asked the Kashan officer.

The woman pursed her lips as the holo started.

A cyan subscript showed that it was the simulated battle performance of the station and the other forces assigned to protect it. The Gestalt-Kashan armada surged forward as a multitude of bright flashes indicated criminal ships arriving from hyperspace. Most of the opponents were heavily customized freighters and the Supa-class starfighters that had attempted to partially replace the StarViper in Black Sun service. However, three Assassin-class Corvettes formed a trio in the middle of the enemy formation. Some of the minefields in the area opened fire, with Merr-Sonn Defenders sending large ion bolts into the opposing fleet as the Arayd mines sputtered forth lighter bolts at the swarm of enemy starfighters.

The Gestalt frigate led the charge, easily being the largest and most heavily armed ship present on both sides. With its laser cannons, it began to pound the enemy corvettes. The faster Amphion-class soared forward in the previous vessel’s wake, picking off enemy starfighters with its weapons; hardly hard given its fast-tracking weapons. The dual turbolaser cannons packed enough power to pierce most starfighter’s shields in a single hit, which usually resulted in massive holes appearing in the said starfighters. Likewise, the sheer volume and power of the quad laser bolts overwhelmed the enemy ships, creating strings of blossoming explosions. And all around those vessels, the starfighters engaged in a furious melee that promised losses for both sides. Despite the tempest of the battle, the station stood silent, with everything concealed; Stealth was its key defence aside from the ships assigned to protect it.

As the Coalition forces began to subdue to the enemy elements, more criminal ships arrived; directly on top of the station. They attacked the station, sending bolts of energy into what appeared to be a typical asteroid. With the station’s disguise somehow discovered, the weapons appeared through the rock outcroppings and began to fire back. Heavy Turbolaser bolts in the a flak mode scattered the enemy starfighters with brilliant explosions as the station’s lasers systematically swept the immediate area of smaller ships with their withering fire.

The other melee slowed as the enemy was beaten back into hyperspace. As the enemy fled, the Gestalt frigate secured the enemy corvettes that had menaced the battlefield. Gestalt Arrows and Kashan S10s turned about to finish off the enemy that now threatened the Coalition base. The relatively fast Amphion turned portside and barreled forth at the enemy formation. A volley of Starflares emerged from the Kashan vessel at the enemy formation; seconds later, explosions of the warheads suffused the area filled with enemy starfighters. Their forces decimated by the onslaught, the criminal elements began their retreat, with a pair of their own corvettes secured the jump-point. While out of range from the station’s weapons, the corvettes with their fighters were not out of reach from charging formation of Gestalt and Kashan vessels: the Amphion struck at the corvettes, lancing out bolts from its lighter capital-grade weaponry, which although not incredibly powerful, could reasonably damage vessels of that size. The Coalition starfighters swarmed the area, chasing the few criminal ships that remained. More flashes of light announced the last of the enemy ships had been beaten back from the system. The holo froze and then disappeared at the click of the Gestalt woman’s comlink.

“And you showed me this why?”

The woman blinked. “Because I thought it might show you the design philosophy of the station; it doesn’t fight except when it has to. The station prefers to use passive defence and allows the ships assigned to it to carry out the offence. I’ll now give you the basic tour, starting with the mine-producing facilities-”

Her comlink blipped as a new voice materialized within the room.

“Ma’am?”

“Yes Sub-lieutenant?”

“The Seraph-class Resolution has reported an incident. I have taken the initiative of providing navigational data to all nearby Coalition vessels, including the hyperfighters. I just wanted to inform you.”

“Fine. I’m going to be taking Commander Fyre on a tour of the station, I trust you can deal with anything until I return from it.”

“Yes ma’am.”

The Gestalt woman turned to Commander Fyre.

“Ready for the Tour?”

“Can I have some tea first?”

Wincing noticeably, the crew chief pulled his finger away from the pipe and, wetting it, stuck the digit between his lips. He eyed his crew.

“Yep, it’s over heated alright.”

Smitty was the chief engineer aboard the new Pandora-class minelayer. From a long line of space faring men, his family had no claimed home planet so transient was the nature of life in the void. He had come by the job through the Gestalt Colonies and found himself working under contract with a mixed crew of Colonial and Kashan non-commissioned officers. At only twenty four years old he had attained the highest rank in his station and had even been offered a commission though the Colonial Defense Force.

His auburn color skin was smeared with grease.

For their part the rest of the stokers, his subordinates on Core One, tried not to roll their eyes. They wore varied expressions the general consensus of which seemed to be; Duh! The five men shrugged.

A heavy series of thumps echoed through the hull. As one, the men blanched.

“It’s okay,” said Chief Smitty in comforting but not totally confident sort of voice. “None of the warheads have been armed. They’ll just keep stacking up until the hopper gets stuck open.”

These new Pandora-class minelayers had been repurposed from Action IV bulk transport freighters. Because they were not purpose built the line had developed a number of problematic quirks, quirks that had earned the ungainly ships the dubious nickname “lunchbox”. The men who served aboard the vessels were regarded as “meat heads” by the rest of the Kashan-Gestalt JTF; a humorous moniker that was only part of a unique operating dynamic. Life aboard a Pandora-class minelayer was exciting, if nothing else.

“We need to shut down the plasma stream.” He scratched at his jaw, resident to a day’s stubble. “If those mines get superheated it won’t matter about the redundant shut down. At the very least they’ll melt and we’ll need to replace the entire hopper mechanism… at the worst, we all die.”

Remote Mine Operations Vessel “Ramona” RM01N4 had been operating as part of a five ship squadron assigned to secure this portion of the Gestalt-Kashan hyperlane when it experienced a fatal systems failure. They had been responsibly positioning and repositioning their own units in conjunction with those deployed by the rest of the tenders. The mission was being conducted in apologia with the JTF and in the best interests of the peoples of Kashan and Gestalt.

The hyperlane had been increasingly busy these recent months and had received top priority from both governments.

Immediately following the error the ships commander sent out a priority distress report which was in turn distributed throughout the military ships in occupation of the hyperlane. Due to the hazardous cargo aboard the munitions deployment vehicle and the abundance of explosives in the vicinity, yet to be properly configured, flight control had chosen to redirect all incoming traffic. A squadron of HyperFighters which had been patrolling the route was directed to reconnoiter. They would arrive shortly and in the mean time the other Pandora-class vessels were to beat a hasty retreat.

A Kashan cruiser, the Resolution had also been dispatched.

Despite the dire circumstances, Chief Smitty remained cool and composed. His confidence inspired strength in his crew and it showed.

“The auxiliary power conduit runs by that junction,” Smitty informed the others while tracing his finger along the ships blueprint diagnostic. It zoomed in and out at his touch. “If we shut down the adjoining corridor here and close the circuit here, a man could fit into that conduit. Cut through the pipe here and directly switch off the plasma flow here…”

“It’ll work,” he rounded on his group. “Toni and Lemugh, I want you two to get down to engineering and keep an eye on the regulators. When I give the signal I want you to reroute primary power through these back ups here. It’ll take both of you. Jermi will assist me…”

“You’re going in?”

Smitty had developed a reputation. He never took risks with the lives of his men.

“I’m going in. Someone contact the bridge… they’ll need to know what’s going on.”




“This is Hyper Squadron Alpha flight leader to RM01N4, do you read?”

The fighters had dropped out of hyperspace only moments earlier. Because of the abundance of mines yet to be linked in they had been forced to plot their reversion some distance from the stricken freighter. From this distance nothing looked amiss.

“This is Ramona, Lieutenant Pok commanding. We have experienced a fatal failure in our ordinance deployment system.”

He sounded anxious. No time to waste…

“Calm down Ramona,” ordered the fighter pilot. His own rank exceeded that of the ships commander. “We have been apprised of the situation. How long do you have?”

In perfect formation, their Azimuth thrusters firing, the squadron of HF-10 starfighters moved in careful to avoid collision with any of the mines clogging the area. The pilots knew that if the tender went, she would go big and bright. The long, swift fighters were not well suited to maneuvering through the artificial asteroid field.

From the seat of his HyperFighter the flight leader spied obvious external damage on the Pandora’s port side. His flight helmet automatically focused on the area. He began recording the images and prepared to uplink with the freighter.

“We have a man in the pipes,” reported the ships captain. “Our Chief says that he can get it nailed down in about ninety seconds… Unfortunately we’re reading about sixty seconds to critical.”

“Roger that. Fire your pods and we’ll begin moving as many people out of here as we can. The Resolution is still three minutes out.”

Seconds later a dozen escape pods shot away from the Pandora. It was SOP (standard operating procedure) to stuff all non-essential personnel in the emergency units in such a situation while only that crew with skills relevant to the discovery of a quick solution stayed behind; in this case, Chief Smitty and his men.

The HyperFighters moved into positions around the escaping pods and, with their much more advanced sensors, plotted safe escape vectors. It took an additional forty seconds to clear the danger zone.

Checking his chronometer the lead pilot keyed open his microphone. “How are you doing over there?”

No response was forthcoming.

He twisted around in his cockpit to visually examine the freighter. Kilometers away, he could nary distinguish the ships lines.

“RM01N4?”

And then space lit up. It was like the birth of a star.

The pilot flinched and pressed his eyes shut as though the blast shield were not enough. His cockpit darkened automatically.

A tragedy had unfolded. Ten men were dead, ten men dedicated to Kashan/Gestalt unity. And in death they would become heroes and icons if, together, their nations could grow from it.

He did not regret not firing his weapons.