Spheres of Influence: The Space Between















The massive bulk of the Restigouche hung motionless in the fathomless depths, matched side to side, by her cohort; a pair of Colonial-class destroyers. Their escort, the equally massive reconditioned Dauntless-class transport Dream of Kashan, sat below the trio (relatively speaking) rolled hard on her port side engaged in a mid-space cargo transfer. A constant stream of shuttles and cargo crates (caught in repulsor beams) moved between the two behemoths, pouring from the starboard side of the Dream directly into the ventral bays aboard the Rusty Guts. Two squadrons of hyper-fighters swarmed between the quartet while an additional picket squadron monitored a larger defense perimeter.

The Dream of Kashan was one of two Dauntless-class starships each of which had been repurposed to suit the needs of the Confederation and Colonies alike. They had been stripped down and designated as personnel and cargo transports destined to ply the Gestalt-Kashan hyper lane. The twin starships transported everything from cargo to livestock while also providing extensive accommodations for multiple classes of personnel. Hulls painted with the emblems of both these starships were off limits to raiders due not only to their patronage but also their considerable size.

It was extremely rare that anyone traveling along the route should stop anywhere but one of the heavily garrisoned redirect points which were staggered along the corridor. That one of the joint-use transports should be delayed mid transit was unheard of. As dominant trade partners the Confederation and Colonies had benefited from one another’s success greatly even factoring in other Coalition elements and that success had meant non-stop business for their transport businesses; namely the “Dream Sisters” line. Such a stoppage would doubtless be expensive in the extreme.

From the bridge of the Restigouche Captain d'Foose oversaw the transfer. To say she was anxious would have been an understatement and she found little relief in the display of arms.

“Status, XO?”

Captain d'Foose peeled her attentive gaze away from the myriad monitors and displays tracking their progress locking on her Executive Officer instead. He, like his commander, was dressed in his casual browns though his scuffed knees and wrinkled pants were indicative of recent ‘hands-on’ intervention.

He examined his readouts, “we’re thirty five percent complete. We should be ready within the hour.”

“The sooner the better,” observed the Captain.

Like d'Foose, many of her peers in the Coalition had become increasingly wary of Imperial aggression of late. Those commanders whose responsibility it was to secure or patrol anywhere near the Imperial spheres were stepping up their precautions. Even in the vast “unclaimed” areas through which the Kashan/Gestalt corridor passed one could not be too cautious. The irony was, unfortunately, that the Coalition had brought this upon themselves with their own continued campaigns against the New Order. It was not lost on d'Foose.

“Our hyper patrols haven’t detected anything even resembling an Imp tag out there,” commented the XO in an off hand sort of way that encouraged a slight grin from his commander. The two were perpetually in sync, it seemed. “We haven’t done anything to them. No reason they should bother us, right?”

“If only it worked that way.” She countered. “The Empire doesn’t discriminate. We’re Coalition, as far as they’re concerned.”

“It’s all semantics anyway. We’re more like the Empire then anyone wants to admit. The society we’re a part of, the Vice Commodores little dream, is just as regimented as their own. If you’re not in the military then in all likelihood you’re a civilian working with or near the CDF. Humans are the dominant species, I mean… the last alien I saw was on Gestalt, six months ago, a guest of the Vice Commodore.”

“That’s enough,” put d'Foose simply. While what he said was true in some regard it could be seen as sedition. The association was common throughout the Colonies as anything but sympathetic. “Many of our people broke from the Empire at one point, XO. We are not the Empire, despite the similarities. Our officials are elected and we treasure our democratic state. The rights of the individual are assured without fear of suspension by any Colonial official…”

“The similarities are noticeable, but it’s our vast differences that set us apart.”

“But,” the XO started.

“But nothing,” she turned back to her tracking displays. “There is a delay in receiving. I’d like you to take a look”

“Aye,” he saluted and departed without further comment.

She was thankful for the excuse but in truth her Executive Officer was nearer the truth then anyone wanted to admit and he was no where near alone in his opinions. Perhaps it was inevitable. Lance Shipwright had once said that the sedimentary nature of the Colonies would not be conducive to homogenization. Though the people of the Colonies had come together out of a common desire the problems would arise when the honey-moon inevitably came upon its twilight and the people of the Colonies began to recognize their differences. Lance understood this and acted accordingly; he encouraged the Colonists to endorse an increasingly isolationist perspective that would, through the weight of their circumstance, force them to concede their differences in favor of continued prosperity within the Colonies themselves. Though he had recruited the majority of their population through careful and clever promotion of the Colonial dream within the right circles, and though he had done his best to recruit immigrants of similar heritage or lineage he could not be absolute in his efforts. It had been an arduous task. Through his contacts within the Coalition operating under the auspices of Galactic Technologies he had secured a sizable migration of skilled workers while his agents abroad had managed their own miracle in uncovering and insinuating themselves within a target group of displaced peoples from certain Core-ward regions of the Galaxy.

With only just a cursory glance around the bridge of the Restigouche one could get a feel for what the Colonies were, and had become during these, their formative stages. Men and women of similar skin tone served alongside one another with a rehearsed familiarity, they shared common familial backgrounds, they had elected to join the Colonial dream and in doing so become a defender of that vision. By and large they would have come to what equated to an upper-middle class upbringing. It was an iconic, idyllic scene to behold.

Captain d'Foose knew better, knew that the romance could last for only so long before the grim reality of the Galaxy threatened to flood in around them.

Poverty and crime were almost unheard of within the Colonies. Education, health care and pension planning were assured of every Colonial citizen regardless of status. Life in the Gestalt Colonies was like some sort of impossible utopian thing that, d'Foose suspected, could not hope to endure forever.

To that end, she was taking action.

“Captain,” called a communications technician from the crew pits. “We have an inbound from Gestalt I marked Captains Priority from the office of the VC.”

“I’ll take it in my ready room.” She replied and with that turned on her heel, stepping off of the bridge and into her private ready.

The room was slanted with the curvature of the nearest bulkhead but canted in such a way that a large ‘wall’ window had been installed to grant the Captain a view of the ships forward port side. It was not as small as those aboard the Colonial-class destroyers but at the same time was much smaller then the Imperial or Coalition (proper) variants employed. A high-backed chair sat behind the small, yet ornate desk with its back to the wall and looking out at the space around them.

Captain d'Foose slipped in to her chair and swung it around to face the communication terminal. A small red switch was flashing for attention so she flipped it.

A fraction of a second later the face of Lance Shipwright appeared in grainy, unresolved blue/grey tones. The hologram hovered in the small alcove cut out of the wall and showed the Vice Commodore from the shoulders up. He was dressed in his typical finery indicating that he had recently come from a meeting of some variety.

“Captain,” he said in a cool, flat tone.

She replied, disarmingly, “Lance, what’s up?”

The hologram of Lance Story Shipwright JR studied Captain d'Foose for only a second before saying, “The Onyxians send their well wishes.”

So that’s where he’s been, she thought. “Glad to know it, was Caleb there?”

The hologram shook its head from side to side. “The good Captain was otherwise occupied. It was little more then yet another boring discussion about the intra-Coalition stock exchange project.”

“Fun stuff,” she joked. “But you didn’t call me up Priority just to shoot the breeze, did you?”

For a moment she flirted with the idea that Lance had simply wanted to hear her voice or see her face. She knew better, of course. The Vice Commodore was something of a narcissist and their relationship, whatever it was, did not require any sort of examination. He was a great man and she was justifiably attracted to him but beyond that, she knew, there was no real hope for them to build anything real, tangible.

“No,” he conceded. “We have a problem.”

“Oh?”

“The Dream of Kashan is late,” he seemed to be looking at something off screen, or at least not in the holo-projectors perspective. “It did not check in at its most recent way point. You are in the area and I’d like you to investigate.”

“This couldn’t go through regular channels?”

Lance narrowed his eyes and leaned towards the camera’s lens. “I need you there, d'Foose. If something happened, and I think you know what I mean, then this will require careful tact and I simply cannot have someone outside the circle making a mistake where you-know-who might be involved. Are we clear?”

“Of course,” she smiled and nodded well naturedly. “It’s probably just engine trouble; I heard reports that the Dream Sisters were due in for heavy inspection and refit next week. Someone probably just pushed a motivator too far. I’ll check it out and report as soon as possible.”

“Good,” Lance winked. “I’ve missed you, d'Foose.”

“Shipwright out.”

The signal died leaving the Captain to regard the projector for a moment before checking her chronometer. It was time to go. The Captain of the Kashan Dream would bite his tongue and play his part. It was all part of the plan and HQ would not know until it was too late.

Captain d'Foose departed her ready room. Five minutes later the Dream of Kashan leapt off into hyperspace and the Colonial task-force followed fractions of a second later.

The stage was set, the pieces in motion.

Lance Shipwright sat back and for a moment he said nothing. The darkened holo-projector was idle before him but he was not alone.

Colonial Minister Ramos appeared at his side, placing a delicate hand on his shoulder. Paula was, as usual, a sight for sore eyes and Lance took solace in her comfort for a moment. Seconds later she was joined by Admiral Mar-Veil.

“She lied to you,” observed Paula, somewhat put-off. “I did not think she…”

The Admiral cleared his throat.

“She’s doing what she has to,” stated the Vice Commodore as a simple matter of fact. “She is doing the right thing and she needs to think that we don’t know and that we would disapprove of her actions, her aims. Her conviction will be our salvation, Paula.”

The trio was occupying one of the communication coordination stations in the military complex within the Seven Cities. Dark hues of blue and shadowy depths abounded and as befit any good communication node, a plethora of panel-lights and soft beep whistles sounded and flashed in the background.

Lance had just come from a meeting with an Onyx delegation to discuss the Commonwealth/Colonial exchange but this was not the source of his sour mood. Colonial Minister Ramos and Admiral Mar-Veil had both been present and were accordingly dressed; Ruben in his dress whites and Paula in one of her form fitting faux-navy outfits.

“She was inspired on Cerea,” commented the Admiral. “You were right to send her, of course. But maybe this is too much too fast? Caleb Logan certainly made an impression on her…”

He let his comment trail off unaddressed.

Lance stood, flexing his thighs, and hopped down from the receiver/broadcast seat. “Caleb Logan is what he is, but what he means to d'Foose and what he means to the Colonies are two very different things.”

“But she is not going to Caleb, is she?” Paula brushed a hand over the Vice Commodores tunic, smoothing it.

“No, she’s not.”

“Care to share your secret with us?” Ruben asked. The old Admiral was still a stern and rigid man who retained all of his potency. Playing games with the minds of your allies was not to his taste. “Because I fail to see your logic here, Lance.”

“Captain d'Foose uncovered a secret,” Lance supplied. “She found a secret that was hidden for her to find. You need not wonder at the content or context of that secret, only to know this; our Captain d'Foose will find the Commonwealth and hopefully, friends within it.”

“The Onyxians?” Ruben and Paula looked perplexed. “I thought you said she would not be going to Caleb…”

Lance sighed and paused at the doorway, his shape silhouetted by the illuminated frame, “Captain d'Foose has more then one curiosity about her… much as the Galaxy has more then one Commonwealth about it.”

High alert.

Captain d'Foose had not left her post in hours.

The nervousness she had experienced during the cargo exchange was nothing compared to the tension that knotted at the base of her spine causing that cold, wet perspiration bred of high anxiety. She was not alone in her trepidation; the atmosphere was ripe with stress.

Making the Perlemian exchange out of Kashan had been taxing and the additional support of the two destroyers she’d been flying escort with to Kashan was sorely missed by all but this was not a mission in which they could partake. Without the missile support provided by the Colonial ships the Restigouche was vulnerable and would have to depend on her starfighter compliment more heavily if engaged in hostile negotiations which, if all went well, they would avoid without complication. Hers was not an aggressive dispatch.

It was well known that the Empire held sway over this stretch of the ‘Route.

The elongated lights of hyperspace stretched out ahead of the Restigouche.

“It won’t be much longer now.”

She recalled…


Four Months Earlier – Shipwright Shipyards, RDS Facility


Unprecedented; it wasn’t the right word, but it fit.

Every slip full, the length and breadth of the Colonial shipyards, was host to a CDF vessel. Their long, grey/black hulls dominated the expansive facilities and for as far as the naked eye could see sat the hulking, wedge shape hulls of the Colonial defense forces. Over half the fleet was in dock for one reason or another and, given the changing defensive paradigms taking place with the brass, some of their crews were wondering if they’d ever leave dock.

The ‘yards were a furious hive of activity with men and equipment being moved across the deck sole at an alarming rate where literally thousands of people were attempting to conduct their duties amongst the towering behemoths. With so many ships in dock the Colonial military machine was working over-time (at least, it’s civilian counterparts) to ready as many of the vessels for launch as expeditiously as possible so as to free up additional berthing space for the fleet still in active service. The noise level was atrocious and dangerous but so too were the odors, the smells. Working amongst such chaos, the men and women of the Colonial Fleet Service (civilian) wore protective head gear, re-breather masks and wireless, sound dampening headsets. Their brightly colored cover-alls turned the open areas into ever shifting kaleidoscopes of grays, brilliant oranges and violent neon’s.

From high above, in one of the administrative observation units, Lance Shipwright and d'Foose watched the progress below safe from the chaos below in their anti-gravity powered sled augmented with its own internal o2 supply and regulated atmosphere. The unit was little more then a drone-driven platform fixed atop with a miniature board room complete with a table, chairs and four walls formed of transparent durasteel sheets. The Vice Commodore occupied one of these chairs with his ankles propped upon the edge of the table (both of very utilitarian design) while Captain d'Foose had spun her own chair around and sat beside the VC with her chest to the chair back, her eyes scanning the berths below.

Slowly, a hundred meters above the workers below, the hover skiff made its way ponderously among the tall, matte hulls of the Colonial fleet. In the distance could be seen the rib like protrusions of a new starship construction which rose up like the tusks of some great beast.

“Sometimes I wonder what they’ll look like,” mused d'Foose aloud, “what they’ll look like when they’re banged up, really hurt.”

“Hmm?” responded Shipwright. His head was down, eyes studying the data-pad resting in his palm, on his lap.

“The Coalition is no stranger to war. Most of our people know that, fought in those wars, or the ones before them… or had friends and family killed in those same wars.” She passed a hand through her close cropped, golden blonde hair. “How long will it be until we’re fighting their enemies? And how are we going to fare?”

At this, Lance looked up from his work. “What?”

“Our people are like our ships, Lance. I just wonder what they’ll look like when they’re really busted up, and if they’ll hold together.”

“Ah,” he said, tossing the pad on to the table. “Thunderous maintenance and production schedules are one thing, but working within the basking light of seemingly endless prosperity of a utopia is another. You wonder if our people will stay as strong in adversity as we are in our success.”

“Something like that.”

“That is a valid concern,” he replied, rising. “Since the foundation of the Colonies we have been on a constant upswing and much of that is directly attributable to Galactic Technologies. It has been expensive but the returns have dwarfed the costs, but those costs are not inconsiderable.”

He pressed his hand against one of the transparent walls. “Our people sacrifice freedom for order.”

“Exactly,” agreed d'Foose. Her hand went out to him, caught his own. “What will happen when that order is disrupted?”

“Why do you say; ‘when’?”

She sighed. “There are aggressive elements within the Coalition, constantly aggressive. The war with the Dragon Empire should have been a warning. I know that it’s only a matter of time until one side pushes too far. The Empire, the Dragons or someone else. What then?”

“We have done no harm to the Empire, nor have we aided the Coalition in abetting the Dragon threat directly. The grace and beauty of this Coalition is its fractured nature. If one element pushes too hard and we bide our peace and mind our own security, the Empire or the Dragons… it matters not; they will leave us alone.”

“What if they don’t? And what of our allies?”

Lance smiled, “You worry too much.”

“Look around you,” he gestured. “The Colonies are more then prepared to defend ourselves. Our single star system is among the most heavily garrisoned, our Colonies are protected unlike any other. Our people are attuned to the military mind-set. Attacking these Colonies would be an expensive and wasteful effort on the part of either. And of our allies…”

“Our prosperity is based in highly regulated trade and the riches of our own star system. Our allies are replaceable, and the enemy most closely poised to assail us must understand us; the Empire’s dominance stems from a societal norm not unlike our own. If it came to it…”

Faced with the cold, calculating outlook of the Vice Commodore, d'Foose paled. “You can’t be serious…”

“Can I not be?”

The Vice Commodore laughed but d'Foose found little solace in his humor.

Safe harbor almost within sight, the mood aboard the Restigouche was notably relaxed compared to the tensions that had abounded during their sojourn through Imperial-claimed space. Thankful for their success and continued safety, d'Foose had the ships chaplain offer a prayer to David over the ships public address system and then ordered watch rotation though she insisted on maintaining battle readiness at all times.

Their journey had taxed the ships engines and the mess of technical reports splayed across the desk of her ready-room stood as a testament to that fact. She had spoken with the Chief only twice during the sprint along the Imperial corridor and both times he had been too busy to discuss the finer points of engineering but suffice it to say that his language had been colorful enough to stress to d'Foose that he clearly did not enjoy pushing the engines to 120%, but that he also clearly understood the need. Only a single relay had been blown, the fuse sending one man to the med-lab with burns to his left arm, but otherwise they had come through without so much as a scratch.

She was proud of her ship and thankful for the new, freshly broken-in engines and systems.

During a particularly tricky burn along the ‘Route the Restigouche had picked up a hum, a slight vibration in the oscillation of the ships artificial gravity. Upon clearing the burn she had ordered a crew to investigate. They had not yet uncovered the source.

Captain d'Foose took a moment to relax her eyes, pressing them shut against the brilliant lines of hyperspace that shot past her porthole. The phrase; ‘out of the frying pan, in to the fire’ played over, and over again in her mind.

The communiqué had been dispatched ahead, through hyperspace, to Bonadan to announce the impending arrival of the Colonial Battlecruiser Restigouche under the flag of the Gestalt Colonies, Captain d'Foose commanding. Each passing second brought them that much closer to the Commonwealth border, and that much closer to either success… or disaster.

Another hour or so and they would be within range of the Commonwealth patrols, and their likely interdictor pickets. There was no way to be sure, and so d'Foose had opted to let the fates play out their hand. After all, this was not an aggressive mission… and by David, she prayed, the Commonwealth better understand that.

It would not be long now.

CWS Rapier – Sick Bay



“When is the last time you got a good, full eight hours of sleep?” asked the doctor.

Wilkar ran his hands over his grizzled face. He had not shaved in a week.

“I don’t know… Before the Battle of Kirima maybe?” he guessed, sipping some caf.

The doctor took down some notes on is datapad. “Admiral, you do know that the Battle of Kirima was almost two years ago?”

“Listen doc… In the past six months, I’ve have done nothing but fight the fucking Domain. Then they blow the ship up my girl is on. Alien scum…” he spat.

He finished off his Caf.

“Now the New Order is about to fucking rape the Coalition… Those fuckers may be dumber than a sack of nerf shit, but we need them! They distract the Empire enough that they don’t even notice our little Commonwealth! So yeah… I’m a little fucking stressed out right now…”

“How much would you say this affects your ability in the command chair?” question the mental health professional.

“None. I don’t let it. I lock it up in a little box in the back of mind until I’m off duty.”

Wilkar rubbed his hands. They were covered in cuts and scratches.

“See these hands? On my last leave, I wailed on my holoprojector for about forty-five minutes. Hurts like a bitch…”

The shrink took more notes on his datapad. “How would describe an average leave Admiral?”

“Well… I usually get shitfaced, then, unsuccessfully, I try to go to sleep,” said Wilkar, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Can I smoke in here?”

The doctor nudged towards a sign on the wall. “I would rather you not Admiral.”

Wilkar rolled his eyes and put the pack away. “Next question doc,” moaned Wilkar, grimacing.

Putting his datapad down, the doctor leaned forward in his chair. “No more questions Admiral… Just a diagnosis… You need stability in your life Admiral. I’ve heard about you Admiral. You’ve got a girl in every port. You’re what… forty years old? It’s time to settle down a little bit in your social life. This instability is making you well… almost unstable. Also you’re an admiral… Delegate some of your duties to your subordinates. If I see you supervising engine repair one more time, I’m going to be pissed.”

The doctor pulled a bottle of pills out his desk drawer.

“This is a prescription for twenty Deranin to help you sleep. Come and see me again in a week.”

Wilkar squinted at the bottle’s label. “Is this enough to commit suicide with?”

The doctor spit out is own caf. “I do hope you’re kidding.”

“Of course I’m kidding. Go fuck yourself doc,” he added walking out the door.


The admiral’s comlink beeped in the corridor. “Your presence is requested on the bridge, sir.”


Later, on the Bridge


“What have we got Commander?” mused Wilkar, taking his seat in the command chair. The bridge was a hive of activity. Officers were running back and forth between terminals, trying to figure out what was going on.

“One capital class ship, running Gesalt Colonies tags. Hauling ass… It just blew right through our outer checkpoint, but it is slowing.”

“Yellow alert,” ordered Wilkar.

The Battlecruiser Restigouche



“Reversion complete.”

Still hurtling ahead at almost five hundred gravities, the body of the Colonial battlecruiser shot out of hyperspace riding the pace of her forward momentum.

Space stretched out around the observation bridge of the Restigouche and Captain d'Foose took it all in. So too did her ships sensors, prodding with urgency outwards. None present aboard the Colonial starship had ever ventured here, none knew the region and despite their maps (said to be fairly accurate by the Galactic Coalition) were of little comfort after running the gauntlet through Imperial territory.

Captain d'Foose checked her plot.

“Contacts,” came the call from tactical, “tracking multiple Commonwealth contacts.”

“All stop,” ordered the Captain. “Stand down main batteries and fly up the white flag.”

“Confirmed,” came the call.

“Communications, send the following; This is the Colonial Battlecruiser Restigouche, Captain d'Foose commanding. We request permission to enter Commonwealth space, and are standing down accordingly. I am attaching a missive with this request, on behalf of the Gestalt Colonies. Please relay the following to your command authority.”

The Captain jerked a finger at the communications relay officer, effectively ending the signal. “Attach the document.”

Along with the verbal broadcast the Colonial vessel directed a line-of-sight transmission at the nearest Commonwealth vessel. The package contained a moderately encrypted, digital encode that, once decrypted would read as follows:






“Sent, sir,” confirmed the same.

“Thank you,” a heavy weight seemed to fall upon her. She had known, outright, that this would not be an easy or lighthearted task to undertake and that in its conduct she may well have earned herself a dishonorable discharge, declared a traitor to the Galactic Coalition and locked in the stocks… or worse. But in the doing of the thing she took no relief and indeed her misgivings were redoubled. “You have the bridge Xo,” she declared and moved towards the doors of her ready room. “Now we wait, again.”

In the peace of her ready room, d'Foose pressed a palm against the cool steel wall.

The risks, she thought, are awesome. Though her letter was brief she wished she could have said more but nothing could be assured and if the message was captured, translated and relayed to other elements of the Galaxy, it would reveal too much as it stood. To add more would have been foolish, would have been more foolish.

She slammed her other fist against the wall, hard.

“Fuck me,” she cursed. “Fuck me hard…”

Bonadan.




“Defection?”

The sheer weight of the words caused a uncomfortable veil of silence to descend upon the closed chamber…

Vinda turned to meet the gaze of the rest of the cabinet and finally his closest advisor questioningly…

“What do you make of this?”

Achinta looked downwards for a moment, then returned the gaze…

“Perhaps, but there may well be more to this than meets the eye, I suggest we move forward cautiously…not a huge amount is known regarding these Gestalt colonies, this...d'Foose does not expressly divulge exactly what she means by intervention..."

Vinda murmured in agreement, and scratched his furrowed brow as he reread the message …

“But what else could she mean? Do they wish for us to represent a neutral party for talks? Military action? I don't know...the tone of the message sounds far more serious... I can’t help but wonder what the rest of the GC will make of this…”

Eventually he looked up, with his eyes narrowing in thought as they glided towards his secretary, Zara…

“Zara, notify to convene the ISC, and the executive council…priority one, we have matters of urgency to discuss…get the ambassadors up to speed, it looks like they may well have some work to do”

With a sharp nod , she followed her instructions…

Vinda turned his attention back to his personal advisor…

“Wilkar is out there?”

The bodyguard nodded…

“Put me through to him , now”

As the command was followed, and the ASCA relay connected Vinda found himself facing his Vice-Admiral…

“Looks like you’ve got yourself quite the interesting situation there Admiral, we’re sending an Ambassador now, shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to reach your position”

Vinda took a hefty drag upon his cigarra, before continuing…

In the meantime, lets show some good faith on our part. Meet with this…Captain d’Foose, get a measure of her…We still don’t know exactly what the situation is, but its obviously fluid, so stay sharp.
Taskforce delta is enroute to provide back-up should the need arise…but they will stay outside the system, out of range of sensors. If this d’Foose is above board, then you won't need them…

… Good luck Admiral”

And as the Admiral acknowledged and signed off, Vinda leant back into his chair deep in thought…


...What kind of intervention?...


...things could be about to get very complicated…

CWS Rapier - Bridge


Wilkar read through decrypted document that had been attached to the message. Then he read through it again.

“Stand down yellow alert,” he commanded.

The smaller Restigouche hung in the viewport. Wilkar could see a Commonwealth Naval R&D analyst peering out the viewport. He was taking notes on his datapad, just like that damn shrink. The Vice-Admiral was not surprised. That Battlecruiser was probably the hottest piece of military tech seen this side of the galaxy in years.

“Relay a message to the Colonials. I’m coming over there. Vinda said to get a feel for this Captain d’Foose, so that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Who will be accompanying you, sir?” asked Wilkar’s new executive officer. The new guy was a prick.

“A pilot, Commander,” answered Wilkar.

“Are you sure that is a good idea, sir?” questioned the prick.

“Yes, I do actually,” he retorted. He had answered enough stupid questions today.



Later


Wilkar peered through the shuttle’s canopy. Without noticing, he was taking a leaf out of the R&D analyst’s book. He was counting the Restigouche’s guns. The Rapier might dwarf the Colonial vessel by a few hundred meters, but the smaller ship had almost double the complement of guns. Wilkar smirked. His brief cooperation with the Kashans had had a similar cast of vessels.

He looked back at his Flag vessel. The Imperator Mark Two Star Destroyer was almost as old as he was. It required near constant maintenance, but it served its purpose. It killed, just like Restigouche. Not quite as efficiently, but it killed. Wilkar considered himself a practical man. A ship needed two things: guns and armor.

The shuttle was quickly approaching the Colonial Battlecruiser. He would be landing soon inside of it soon.


Don’t fuck this up.

The Battlecruiser Restigouche

The mood aboard the Restigouche was, not to put too fine a point on it; confused.

Captain d'Foose regretted having not made her intentions better known amongst the crew but such was her privilege as commander. Having elected instead to keep the ships personnel only as informed as was necessary to maintain order and efficiency the general perception was one of mystery but also resolute consent. The men and women serving under her command would follow her unto the breech, or so she hoped. Companionship not bred of combat did not behoove the military machine and aboard a ship of war such as the Restigouche, with a crew not hardened through conflict save those imposed upon them in simulation and regiment, d'Foose had to wonder (no matter how remote the possibility) at their loyalty and indeed the fealty of the citizens of the Colonies as a whole. And that, she reminded herself, was why she was here.

The flight-deck, its jaws open to space, was shielded by a millimeter thin barrier of cohesive energy, and an eerie silence abounded. For reasons of her own the Captain had not ordered any sort of escort or guard to join her in greeting the Commonwealth envoy, instead bringing only a retinue of her most trusted commanders foremost among them and standing attentive at her side, was her XO and he stood as the only one among them armed. A small black holster rested on his hip.

Aside from the welcoming committee there toiled a single work crew, conducting scheduled maintenance on one of the ships compliment of hyperfighters, carrying out their business some hundred meters distant, but the sounds of their ministrations went unnoticed and unheard in the cavernous space. Only the dull hum of the ships engines resonated through the deck beneath their feet. Moving towards the Restigouche, as of yet a mere speck of light growing steadily and swiftly larger, the Commonwealth shuttle would be conducted by the ships flight command, instructed in the correct landing procedures and berthed. Though the Captain could have listened in on their communications, she chosen not to.

But it was not upon the approaching shuttle that d'Foose was fixated but rather the wedge-shaped destroyer lurking, visible in the distance. This was a design she was only too familiar with. At the mere sight of it she remembered her childhood and the terror that those bone-white starships had inspired in her and her family and everyone like her as a symbol of the Empire…

She’d been a child of perhaps ten when, for the first time, she was forced to acknowledge the strength of the Empire.

Her parents, now long since dead, had fallen ill of the Imperial advance. For as long as she remembered, d'Foose had lived among the stars and only endured her captivity within the sphere of planetary gravity only when she had to. To their credit, her parents had inspired in her a desire to ply seemingly infinite spaces between. She had grown up with her feet on deck thanks to her parents. Her father had been a navigational computer expert and her mother a components sales-woman for a sizable firm responsible for distributing starship equipment for various producers in their region. They had been mildly successful under the rule of the Old Republic but everything changed when the Emperor rose to power.

Her father was called away, she remembered, when the Empire annexed her homeworld. The need for skilled, human tradesmen was great and all across the new Galactic Empire men and women were being called to duty. She had not understood at the time why her father had gone away but she had blamed him for it. Having lost her father she believed things go be no worse. She was wrong. The Empire declared that humanity was being overrun by alien species and that humanity should reclaim its rightful, superior position in the galaxy. Unfortunately this meant that her mother, having been employed by a company with majority ownership spread among alien investors, could not continue to do her job for fear of being deemed an alien sympathizer, or worse. Again, she had not understood. She watched her mother spiral in to depression and clinical drug use and blamed the Empire for their circumstance. The Empire had stolen her father and destroyed her mother for no apparent reason. Soon the Emperor had established itself on her planet and slowly, as she grew, the populace became loyal to their new masters but d'Foose harbored her resentment deeply. Life was bad, she knew, but even in her naivety she saw the conditions of those around her and felt the hate the Empire bestowed upon those with alien sympathies. Her mother refused to give up her friends of mixed species and fell further from grace because of it. And then the Alliance invaded. The Empire was dying and the Rebels struck her homeworld due its Imperial domination. The violence was fierce and she was too young to fully comprehend what was occurring however; the death of her mother caught between Alliance and Imperial lines, sung a clear song in her ears.

“The shuttle,” nudged her XO, rousing her from her daydream. “Look.”

Sure enough the Commonwealth shuttle had penetrated the outer shield and was moving towards deck-fall. She swallowed.

“Attention,” she commanded of those present, snapping her own heels together. “Keep your mouths shut. Company is coming.”

Internally she regretted the hodgepodge nature of the meeting as she regretted a great many things.

The Vice-Admiral’s shuttle had landed within the Restigouche’s hanger bay. A small complement of Colonial officers had assembled to meet him. Off to the side of the hangar, a snub fighter, which Wilkar was unfamiliar with, was being carefully inspected by two men, while a third man was hard at work tightening down a large bolt with a rather menacing looking hydrospanner. The rest of the squadron appeared to have been stored away.

Wilkar wondered how the pilots of the Gesalt Colonies would rate against their Commonwealth counterparts. Wilkar had read reports of how the Colonies’ fleet was based heavily around fighter wings, but these formations were largely untested. Commonwealth Star Fighter Command had released a report showing a forty-five percent casualty rate among the star fighter squadrons against the forces of the Domain last year. This conflict had put the Commonwealth Military almost to the breaking point at some points, but it had left a solid foundation in which to build upon. Recruits were joining up everyday with experienced leaders to mold them.

As the shuttle’s exit ramp began to lower, Wilkar got up out of his seat. His uniform was wrinkled, though he had managed to have all of the buttons fastened. His rough, slightly wrinkled, face still remained unshaven. His appearance was not one aligned with the look of a model Commonwealth flag officer, not by a long shot.

Wilkar’s pilot began walk towards the ramp, but the admiral ordered him to stay with the ship. He took a step off the ramp and on to the hanger deck. Pausing in front of his shuttle hands perched on his hips, as if for dramatic effect, he looked around. The place did not have that Coalition feel to it. The hanger was devoid of aliens the usual filth of Coalition vessels. Wilkar had to remind himself that this was not a typical ship of the Coalition Federal Fleet or one of the many subfactions that made up the star nation. The ship was not even running Galactic Coalition tags, much to Wilkar’s liking and appreciation.

The Vice-Admiral began to walk forward towards the cluster of Colonials. Adjusting his low slung pistol holster as he walked, he managed the smile that had gotten him on the cover of magazines last year. Wilkar reckoned he would not even rate the back page rags this year. An almost straight year on constant campaign had matured his face with wrinkles and shortened his temper with annoying interviewers.

Wilkar came to a stop in front of who he assumed was Gesalt Colonies Captain d’Foose.

Saluting, he began, “Terosk Cineburg Wilkar, the fourth, Vice-Admiral of the Commonwealth Third Fleet.”

A much disheveled looking admiral, who was quite possibly ever so slightly mentally unstable, had begun the first face to face interaction between the Commonwealth and the Gesalt Colonies. It would without a doubt be a day to remember.