The Protean Paradigm

[INDENT]pro·te·an ( P ) Pronunciation Key (prt-n, pr-t-)
adj.

1. Readily taking on varied shapes, forms, or meanings.
2. Exhibiting considerable variety or diversity[/INDENT]

[INDENT]par·a·digm ( P ) Pronunciation Key (pr-dm, -dm)
n.

1. One that serves as a pattern or model.
2. A set or list of all the inflectional forms of a word or of one of its grammatical categories: the paradigm of an irregular verb.
3. A set of assumptions, concepts, values, and practices that constitutes a way of viewing reality for the community that shares them, especially in an intellectual discipline.[/INDENT]


Brilliance is a curse.

Genius carries a weight considerable.

Like all men of staggering intellect Lance Shipwright lived within the confines of his own mind, immersed in a cacophony of stimulus both internal and external; the laboratory of his own consciousness.

Narcissistic to the point of pathological, he adhered to an agenda entirely of his own device whether consciously or not. The conflict with the Minister of Ethics aboard the RDS Uniform had forced him deeper into a world of his imagination. A testament to his ability for self deception, the MC-170 had been over turned by the authorities who, in turn, wanted to see the project terminated and yet, untouched, it sat within the primary berthing slips which had seen it given life taken from the inspiration of the Shipwright.

He gazed upon the sleek, abyssal flesh of his creation from the observation deck.

“Such beauty,” spoke a soft, female voice.

Silken tones, seductive and calming, caused him to relax noticeably. Lance pressed his palm to the glass looking out upon the starship and leaned closer.

“I will not let them hurt you.”

“Of course you won’t,” added the woman’s voice. “You will protect me.”

“I will protect you,” he repeated.

“Protect who?” A new voice, full of grit and grime, appeared at the doorway.

Commodore Shipwright did an abrupt about face nearly toppling over due the unexpected interruption. Shaking his head, Lance cast quick glances around the observation lounge confirming he had, in fact, been alone.

“Nothing, never mind Chief,” he managed. Lance mopped his brow surprised to discover a sheen of cool perspiration. “Talking to myself, I suppose. What can I do for you?”

“We’re ready for primary flight tests on the Prototype.”

“Ah, right,” Lance had to remind himself. The episodes had been getting worse; more diverse and disturbing. “I will be along shortly Chief.”

The Chief nodded and backing out of the room, flashed Lance a quick smile before throwing shut the hatch.

A wave of paranoia washed over the Commodore and sent icy shivers down his spine. Reality, such as it was, had been blending into his illusions with increasing acuity. Seamless segway made it even more difficult to distinguish the real from the imagined. This seemingly fallibility had been an issue of increasing concern and worry for the Commodore but, somehow, he managed to muddle through almost as effectively.

He needed to find a new source of medication and soon.

Commodore Lance Shipwright adjusted his uniform using his own reflection, like some immaterial ghost trapped within the black hull of the starship beyond, to be certain of his appearance before moving towards the hatch.

“Don’t forget,” chimed the female voice from somewhere over his shoulder.

Lance, in a parting gesture, turned and regarded the starship for one last moment.

“I will not forget,” he said with a grin. “I never forget.”

The Commodore departed for the bridge.







“You’re a brilliant boy,” his father was saying. Lost in the dream, his voice was uncertain, wavering. “Everyone knows it.”

A young Lance Shipwright studied his fathers face unsure of the meaning. Intent to discover it, he focused doubly hard.

“And you know it too.” He placed a massive, calloused hand on the boys head and ruffled his hair. “You know you’re smarter then everyone else.”

Lance felt pride in hearing his father say these words. Excited and overjoyed, the boy smiled at his father like a child who has just been told that the Galaxy is his or her own personal play ground. He jumped.

“But it will be your biggest fault, Lance. It will keep you away from people. You must not let this happen, Lance.”

He asked why it mattered so much what other people thought. He asked why he should care about people less intelligent then himself.

“Because you can, Lance; that’s the only reason to do anything with your life… because you can.”

(delete)!

Lance missed his father unlike he missed anything else. He was like air to the boy.

The boy in question, aged sixteen, had never been away from home for more then a few weeks and only ever a few days on his own. He stood, his bag clutched against his chest, and gazed up at the high arches of the Imperial Design Academy at Imperial Center. And he shivered.

Many boys his age, particularly those from military families, had experienced much more isolation then he and were thus better equipped to handle the change. The boys in his group, freshmen on their first day on campus all, were all older and more mature then he. Averaging eighteen years old, they had already taken to teasing the boy.

Day one; a bus ride and a tour. In a matter of hours they had decided not to welcome him into their circle.

Lance remembered school on Tatooine. It was just the same.

He had never felt so alone in his life.




Lieutenant d’Foose throttled the Arrow ahead. The stick clicked subtly, confirming full thrust.

The starfighter shot across the sky like an unleashed demon. In the cockpit, her voice repeated aboard the project bridge of the Uniform, d’Foose screamed and laughed.

Commodore Shipwright studied the statistical readouts.

“My engines seem to have impressed our pilot,” he observed, nonchalant.

In response d’Foose shouted again. The speakers strained.

“She’s taken the bird into a hard vertical one eighty,” commented a technical attendee. He tugged at his breeches. “The Arrow can’t take that stress, not yet.”

As the Commodore had taken to understand the technical attendee in question had been responsible for naming the new interceptor. Apparently it had some significance in the history of his nation, a holo-film of which had been recently broadcast throughout the Uniform as a public service. This no doubt helped swing the vote, as it were.

Lance chuckled at the beauty of it, the scale of deception whereby his staff, his employees, his peons thought that they had any actual say in what went on in one of his projects, his babies.

“Ah, but will they fly in combat?” A voice asked; a voice unheard by the others and audible only to Lance Shipwright. It was a female voice, like sex and lace it washed over him.

Lance shivered.

“Um, yes,” he replied to both.

The technical officer glanced up.

“Instruct Lieutenant d’Foose to rein it in a little. We do not to be loosing our prototype so early in testing.”

He concluded with a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure we will have ample chance.”

“Chance for what,” the techie quirked a brow and paused in his motions to contact the pilot. “Sir?”

“Nothing, nothing at all.” Lance excused himself. “Continue the tests.”




“Quiet now,” soothed the voice, so gentle and feminine.

In his quarters, later that night, Lance Shipwright stared out into the blackness of space. In his lap sat a picture of his father, a proud man standing tall before his Tatooine homestead, his business. Lance curled his fingers over the picture.

Tears welled up in the corners of his eyes.

“Nothing can bring him back,” she continued, ethereal and unreal. “You are not to blame.”

He knows he should have been there, at home with his father. He should have been there to help, or at least to say goodbye. Nothing could have been more important.

“But it was more important. All of this is more important then you know.”

Lance cried.

His father had been like air.

Space…

A man once said; all we want is room to breathe.

Humanity requires it, life demands it.

There is no expansion without it.

Make no exceptions.




Commodore Shipwright locked his eyes upon a nameless star. In the void beyond his window an endless expanse of possibilities were forever unfolding. He traced the outlines of his own reflection, cast in black shadows reflected from the depths of his quarters, pinpointing the distant stars like some celestial self portrait. The constellation Shipwright stared back at him, a face billions upon billions of kilometers across.

“I’ve come this far…”

The Commodore spun away from the window his bath robe billowing behind as he swept towards the desk upon which sat a mountain of data disks and flimsy documents. He leafed through the stacks.

Problems, a plethora there of, had begun to plague his organization. Many of these were the direct result of Minister Quell and his ministrations attempting to, aptly enough, quell the expansionist ideals of Lance Shipwright and his crew aboard the RDS Uniform. Most glaring of all, however; the fact that Minister Quell had spoken out against the massing of a Galactic Technologies fleet alongside their mandatory production runs for the Galactic Coalition of Planets. The continued streaming supply lines had been narrowed in contrast with the unrestricted flow that had been common only months earlier. And, perhaps the most frustrating problem of all, Lance himself did not fully comprehend exactly why these issues had become so important to him.

Recalling the man reflected in a face of connected sun, Lance was acutely aware of just how much he had changed since the beginning of the project.

Krakana, the MC-170, was the last straw and now, as a result, the Uniform was without its significant Mon Calamari worker population.

“Where is it?” He cursed and summoned his android. “Delta,” he called into the room adjoining his own. “Where are those summary reports on the Status of the Fleet?”

A human replicant android appeared in the doorway. At six feet tall and clad in a technician’s uniform the imitation was almost indistinguishable from an ordinary human male. Held in its hand was a data-pad. The android offered the pad to the Commodore with outstretched palm. Dozens of units like itself were integrated into the regular, mostly human staff.

“I was updating the report. The office of the Defense Secretary sent formal documents this morning. The allied Galactic Armed Forces will not be sending further conscripts, trained or otherwise. To that end I have highlighted the training and education programs that will have to be cancelled and their staff reassigned.”

Its duty done, the android turned to leave.

His mind, a torrent pouring across the flood plain of options, scrambled. Likewise and with equal intensity he started to rifle through the piles of paper separating the computer input devices from the rest.

Delta, an advanced human replicant with significant interpersonal programming and an extensive emotional perception package, paused mid-step. Doing a quick about face the android appeared at the Commodores side. “May I help you?” He proffered.

“I saw a project proposal for the Arrow space-frame endorsed by d’Foose. It was something about an ultra-long range reconnaissance version fitted with a comprehensive sensor and communications suite…” Distracted and deeply bothered by this, Lance set the android with a sidelong glare that quickly softened. The most recent versions, the Delta line, were designed to be incredibly accommodating. “Thank you for the summary, Delta.”

“If I may, sir…”

Lance nodded and stepped aside. He focused his attention on the data-pad presented by Delta.

“Okay then,” his train of thought switched tracks seamlessly. “If this is correct we’re ramped up to 95% anyway. That’s more then enough for complete operational efficiency given the harsh restrictions I imposed when we started the project. Take our training people and assign them with their most recent crews and begin ship breaking on the training sloops. We won’t need them any more.”

Effortless at multitasking, the Delta line could process and store over a thousand different verbal and ocular command lines simultaneously. In theory they were the perfect achievement of a sub-human worker replacement. While searching the mountains of hardcopy for the information queried by the Commodore it correspondingly absorbed and documented the mans commands. Deep within the mechanical bowels of its body the Delta activated its short range wireless.

“The additional support should put us up at least another two point five per cent.”

“Two point six one per cent,” corrected the Delta.

“Of course,” Lance confirmed.

“Of course,” confirmed Delta also.

“And, here you are,” the android, finished sorting the assorted stacks of data, held out a hand to the Commodore. In it was the report filed by Lieutenant d’Foose regarding the Arrow space frame as a survey and reconnaissance platform. All of two pages long, Lance quickly scanned the document.

A mischievous grin crept across his features. The Commodore winked at Delta.

“What is the status of our Stellar Cartography department?” Without being too obtuse, he added, “I need the last progress report from that division. There was a blurb about…”

“… the discovery of an asset rich star system is considered likely at this time,” said Delta both finishing the sentence of his master and offering the requested data. “I believe this is it.”

For a moment the Commodore was quiet, his attention focused on taking in the displayed information with as much haste as possible. Sensing this, Delta continued organizing the Commodores desk.

“How many people will we have coming off of flight training with the canceled programs?” Lance asked.

“One moment,” replied the android. “I will need to reference the mainframe.”

The Delta went silent for a number of seconds, eyes pressed back and vibrating in the fashion of a human in deep Rapid Eye Movement sleep. When its eyes shot open it was with a sudden abruptness that belied the near human nature of the thing.

“The senior instructors, currently inactive pending reassignment, number seventy six in total with sixteen others awaiting new venue orders. The latter are scheduled to end their active rotation.”

“Bring them all back.” The Commodore spoke with a conviction that, to the Delta, implied this would be a non-negotiable recall to duty. “Do whatever it takes to make sure no one leaves. I want the entire batch reassigned to…” He snatched up the document filed by Lieutenant d’Foose. “Designate project Prospector. The team lead will be filled by d’Foose herself.”

Delta nodded.

“Get that all sorted out and I will forward specifics accordingly,” the Commodore spoke while assembling the various parts of his uniform on the bed. “That will be all, Delta.”

Again, Delta nodded. The android moved noiselessly out of the room after excusing itself politely.

“I’ve come this far,” said Lance aloud to no one in particular.

Fragile fingers, light like the summer breeze, brushed across the back of his neck. Sensations of electric bliss shot down his spine and stood his hair on end. Goosebumps rippled along his flesh.

“You are going to go much, much farther,” came a supple, layered female voice from behind his shoulder. Its breathe bushed against his ear. “Just listen, Lance, just listen to my voice.”

Lieutenant d’Foose closed her eyes against the brilliant barrage of lights that cascaded across the canopy of her starfighter. The elongated star points, a visual effect of faster then light travel, shot past her Arrow LR. Even the sizable cockpit of the nineteen meter space frame failed to fully accommodate these long journeys.

She stretched her legs and pushed her pedals to their limits. Of course, locked in hyperspace, her controls did not respond. This was another fail safe measure she had recommended for the long range reconnaissance version of the Arrow. The music, calibrated to the taste of the pilot in question, which pumped out of small speakers mounted in her helmet, was her own innovation but one she allowed the rest of her squadron to indulge in.

Somewhere near by her wing mates, their ships trailing behind a short distance, relative to their ‘speed’, sat in the cockpits of their own Arrow LR’s listening to music of their own and occasionally flexing their various limbs to prevent atrophy. They called themselves Albatross squadron; a moniker given them by their eager flight crews who likened their long winged starfighters to an ungainly, though far traveling, avian. Numbering ten in total they were currently en route to nowhere, a simple navigation point set in the expanse between a nexus of star systems.

Their mission called for the exploration of a number of near by solar systems. One they arrived at their navigation point they would drop out of hyperspace and deploy a series of tracking probes slung against the underbellies of their spacecraft. From there each ship would update its navigation computer, hardwired into their astromechanical androids copilots, and, splitting into groups of two, explore a total of three different star systems from a total of five various charting vectors which, extrapolations indicated, would prove to be optimal mapping routes.

The Lieutenant cracked one of her slender eyes open. In big red numbers her flight clock was counting down the time until reversion. It read 3h5m26s. She groaned.

How much work had brought her to this point, a months hard, arduous work.

She pressed shut her eyes and remembered.



“You can’t bloody well do that,” snapped Chief Tyrell. The grizzled old human, a grump of a man almost fifty years of age, fished in the pockets of his cover all. He had lived his entire life in the military as a civilian flight deck operator and it showed. “Gods damn woman! What do you think you’re doing?!”

Lieutenant d’Foose rolled her eyes at the old codger.

“Look Chief,” she leaned against the Arrow starfighter, the current object of their dispute, and spread her fingers against the cold, steel skin of the craft. “You can fight me on this all you want but my commission and my title, that’s Team Lead if you’ve forgotten, both supersedes your opinion.

“Lady, if you go changing the draw of this thing, if you build up the wings any longer, I’m going to have to refit and upgrade my Launch and Recovery protocols across the fleet to accommodate these handful of ships. Then it becomes an issue of cost integrity, missy.”

The Lieutenant winced visibly. Recent memorandums, circulated through the various projects underway, had stipulated that cost saving measures had been applied to all design mandates for the foreseeable future.

“I’m not going to do something that will demand refits throughout the fleet, Chief.” She did not mean it. She had, until being called on the issue of the memos, planned to push the change through. What d’Foose did not have was a suitable alternative.

“Then what will you do, Lieutenant?” Chief Tyrell seemed to know that he had her in a corner. He moved in for the kill, “push them off the deck with your bare hands?”

“Is there a problem here?” The voice of Commodore Shipwright interrupted the argument and drew looks from the crowd that had gathered to watch.

Flight decks were notoriously dramatic places.

Chief Tyrell and Lieutenant d’Foose exchanged looks.

Tyrell, like everyone else aboard the Uniform, knew full well that the Commodore had taken an early interest in the Lieutenant and that he had, in the past, come to her defense for less obvious affronts then this. To risk berating her in front of the man could mean the end of his career or, at the very least, a swift kick in the ass (so to speak).

Lieutenant d’Foose, however; knew that the cost saving mandate and the memorandum there of had been issued directly by Lance Shipwright himself in an effort to combat the now straining flow of assets from the Coalition proper. More importantly and more to the point, she had become aware of the Commodores attentions of late due in large part to the teasing jibes of her flight mates. She did not want to discourage his advances as, in all honesty, she found him to be an infinitely attractive and involving man. But she did not want to appear dependant on his influence either.

“The Chief and I were just discussing alternative options to suit the expanded wing span of the LR.” She went on, “I had considered pushing out the POD but, as the Chief was saying, that would be a problem throughout the fleet and, for just a handful of ships, I couldn’t really call for it.”

The Chief nodded as Lance, turning to him, gave the man a questioning look.

“Why not fold the wings?” The Commodore asked. “Copy the old cloak shape and hinge it on the fulcrum.”

Tyrell, eyes wide, looked at the Lieutenant. D’Foose, her own features mimicking the Chief, did likewise. Both wore looks that asked; why didn’t we think of this.

And then, as if picking up on those unspoken cues, the Commodore added, “Sometimes when we focus too hard on a thing it becomes obscured.”

“Keep your focus.”

Albatross squadron dropped out of hyperspace. The ten LR-type Arrow starfighters appeared one after another in a long staggered line across the bow of the Colonial. In turn the Colonial, a six hundred meter long area-defense Destroyer, signaled a warm welcome to the arriving squadron and turned about to present her open flight deck.

The black nothingness of no where, some nameless location between the stars, had rarely been such a welcome sight… particularly to the pilots and crew of the Expeditionary Fleet.

Two Commonwealth-class frigates, similarly designed to accommodate a mixed squadron of starighters, moved into position along the flank of the Colonial and, radioing their own ‘welcome home’, dispatched a squadron of fighter escorts to shuttle the Albatross’ home.

Aboard the Colonial, standing with arms crossed, Commander Mar-Veil looked out the tall viewing portals along the port side of his bridge. He preferred he natural, unassisted view of space to that of the electronically rendered representations that marked the Command Operations Center for its single, combat oriented purpose. More over, the COC was situated deep within the center of the ship where naval commanders, particularly of the old school, could not feel the rise and yaw of the ship beneath their feet. Fortunately the Colonial-class Destroyers were well suited to multiple purposes.

“Commander,” called the officer of the watch. “Lieutenant d’Foose is asking for you on the squadron channel.”

Normally, given his rank and position, this would be an irregular request. But this was not a normal situation. Many of the men aboard his ship, his crew, were civilians. Others came from the various rotary militaries of the Galactic Coalition. All of them were human and, save for a few notable exceptions, most were male.

He had come to dote upon a few. Lieutenant d’Foose was among them.

“Go ahead,” he hefted the microphone receiver from its cradle. “Patch her through.”

Commodore Shipwright was, technically, the most senior ranking individual assigned to Galactic Technologies. Practically, however; Commander Mar-Veil was his superior in age, experience and tenure. The two had established a very close relationship that had originally manifested itself as a strained sort of rapport the like of which only seemed to arise when men of a military background were forced to take orders from civilian personnel, specifically those assigned dubious, honorariums such as the title ‘commodore’. As time wore on they had shared many a long evening discussing strategy and the future… and occasionally women such as the Lieutenant.

“Commander, this is Albatross One, I have urgent news.” The static filled voice of Lieutenant d’Foose filled the bridge. She had not dialed down her broadcast amplification and it was causing feedback. Most important, this indicated that she had been trying to reach them since before their arrival. “I have… You just have to hear this, Rube.”

Commander Reuben Mar-Veil did not chide her on the use of his informal nickname though he should have. Biting back his own military acumen, he said, “You are clear Albatross, go ahead.”

“We’ve found it, Sir.”

“The goal of Project Gestalt was to locate a habitable planetary star system with all of the essential elements required to sustain the prolonged operations of this organization.”

Commodore Shipwright spoke with a firm acuity. Today was turning out to be a rather spectacular day for his own sense of mental clarity. He stood tall behind the podium. A room full of eager eyes stared back at him. Representatives of the various unions within Galactic Technologies packed into the seats arranged before the raised dais. So did a number of elect ambassadors and politicians from the more pro-human planets within the galaxy.

In his black and grey uniform, freshly pressed and cut in a fabric just a bit too nice for a serving man, the Commodore made for a fairly impressive sight.

“I am proud to say that Project Gestalt, which I might add was the first and successful mission assignment for the new Arrow-class of starfighter space frame, has returned spectacular results. We have uncovered a planetary solar system which meets all of the requirements and, in honor of the project itself, we have designated this system “Gestalt”.”

Behind the Commodore, projected on a two story high white wall, a digital rendering of the Gestalt system appeared in vibrant semi-textured colors. A total of seven planets were highlighted on the ‘map’.

“The third planet from the primary, a star we have designated Primus, is Gestalt I. It should be noted that this is not representative of its position in the solar system but rather according to priority. I will explain the priority aspect of this update later on in the lecture.”

“The star system itself is located in an unclaimed region of space located just before the junction of the Hydian Way and the Corellian Trade Spine. While this area is within proximity of the New Orders recognized borders it is beyond the demilitarized zone according to their own dictates. This puts the system, technically, on the Outer Rim. It should be noted, however, that with access to both the Hydian and Corellian trade routes, this is hardly a secluded territory.”

“Currently we have only located one way in and out of the system but the passage is stable enough and sizable enough that it will accommodate a long transit jump… aboard the RDS Uniform.”

A hushed river of whispers descended upon the room. Those in the audience exchanged quiet comments. Not all of these were negative and, in fact, a considerable number of those in attendance agreeing under their breath.

“Please save your questions until the end,” said the Commodore in a somewhat raised voice. He continued on, “Gestalt I…”

The image zoomed in on Gestalt I. A blue-green ball capped on either end with thick white encrustations appeared on the screen. It began a slow axial rotation.

“Gestalt I is perfect for human settlement. It has climate areas representative of all the major requirements for human population. There are two distinct continental locations with a continuous ring of islands that follows the equatorial belt.”

On the screen the blue-green planet rotated to reveal two major continents, one on the northern and on southern hemisphere of the globe. A chain of islands, little more then massive, underwater mountains with their peaks exposed to the atmosphere, was stretched between them. Each of the continents in turn butted up against the polar ice-caps that tipped either side of the planet. Four distinct mountain ranges, massive peaks jutting high into the sky, were visible from the high orbit rotation. Deep blue seas filled the areas between.

“There are no local sentient species that we have discovered so far; which is to say that there are no structural developments of any known sort visible on the planets surface. All other scans have turned up negative and, ruling out the usual, our project teams began extrapolating further information. It is highly unlikely that there are any sentient species on the planet.”

With stunning clarity the image zoomed in.

“Our low orbit scans have picked up signs of extensive local flora and fauna.”

A herd of mammals, wooly things moving about on four thick legs and set with massive horns, moved across an open grassy savannah on the screen above his head.

“On the topic of priority; Gestalt I will be so named as it is going to be the first established colony.”

Again, the room digressed into dozens of various conversations though with far more obtuse dialogue. Lance sighed, waiting a moment before calling for attention.

“This was all covered in the general meeting last night, and last week. It was also covered in the memorandum,” the Commodore hefted a thick, twenty page composition. “But it is obvious there are still some concerns. It is painfully obvious that some of you still have reservations,” though he noted with some jubilation that this was a much smaller percentage then he had seen only last night. “To that end I’m going to go ahead and take a few of your questions right now. I’d like to remind you to keep your comments confined to the information already dispensed… I have a whole speech here to finish after all.”

He pointed a finger at one of the many faces.

“The memo stipulated that anyone who stays on board will receive double resigning bonuses issued direct and retroactive. Some of us are wondering if that extends to the non-union, independent service operators.”

“Yes,” the Commodore frowned. This was going to get tedious fast. “Those people operating under contracts covered by Section C will be given the opportunity to renegotiate their contracts on a case by case basis. By and large these people will be looking at fifteen to fifty percent salary increases.”

Another face popped up and the Commodore pointed.

“When will the issue of family stipends be covered?”

“Those employees and military contracted personnel, civilian and enlisted, will be offered full complimentary bonuses for brining their families along. We understand that the effort of constructing the colonies will be a long and arduous task that could occupy much of our work force for the next decade. To that end we are doing everything we can to accommodate the families who will be joining our adventure. The financial supplements for those in question will be considerable but I want to stress; the only reason we are offering so much for the first ten years is that we want to remove the financial concern from the equation. Those who join us, we hope, will be coming along for reasons other then the money.”

“But like I said,” the Commodores tone grew abruptly sharper. “Keep your questions to the provided materiel. There will be a meeting to cover Family Issues tomorrow evening as you should all be well aware.”

Without pausing for another question, Shipwright segway’d right back into his speech.

“Project Gestalt will cover the exploration of Gestalt I first. Landing teams will be prepared and dispatched within the week. They have been assigned an operational window of one month. During that time they will utilize their extensive skills to chart and document the planet for further study. The Uniform will, in that time, begin production of various prefabricated structures.”

“Before you ask, our timeline for primary landing is going to be exactly two standard months from today.”

“The Gestalt System is home to six other planets all of which are notable for one or more reasons as dictated by our initial survey mandate.”

Overhead the screen resolved itself on three various sized gas giants.

“We have designated these three gas giants as Gestalt II, III and, IIII respectively and for now. They are, fundamentally speaking, three incredibly large elemental furnaces rich in,” he consulted his paper and listed off a dozen valuable and semi-valuable elements. “Each is ringed by between five and seventeen satellites, some of which are ripe for further extra-terrestrial colonization.”

“An asteroid belt,” the image changed accordingly, “sits between Gestalt I and the outside edge of the star system. According to our reports this used to be a metal-rich planetoid and is ripe for mining.”

“The last three planets of the Gestalt System are not easily habitable but, as stipulated by the original request, have strong enough gravity fields that we will be able to establish orbital facilities, should it become a requirement, without difficulty.”

“Project Gestalt Home, the next phase in the evolution of our organization, will begin within the week. We will be constructing a colonial establishment within the Gestalt system.”

“And now… Any questions?”

Three months later, in high orbit above the planet Gestalt, the RDS Uniform continued her easy geosynchronous orbit escorted, as always, by a rotating squadron of Avenger starfighters.

Aboard the Uniform, sequestered in yet another resource oriented meeting, Commodore Shipwright met with the consular committee of the newly established Galactic Colonies government. The room, in which they met, a crowded conference room, had the distinction of being one of the few areas of the Uniform not turned over to housing the families of the employees or otherwise retrofitted for production.

The Commodore was wearing a rough beard, not out of choice, but out of necessity. Sleep and time off had been at a premium since arrival in the system.

“We want to discuss the political structure that is developing on the planet and the mining colonies.”

The Colonial Minister, paramount to a Prime Minister but reduced in status given their colonial establishment and limited population, was a striking woman of perhaps thirty years and when she spoke it was with a sort of determination that tended to draw a listener in. She was dressed in a form fitting blue-black uniform that borrowed its style from the worker fashion popular among the people.

Seated opposite the Commodore, Colonial Minister Ramos, first name Paula, was joined by two advisors. The Deputy of Education and Health sat to one side, a short, dark haired man. To her left sat the Security Secretary; a civilian electoral position paramount to Chief of Police.

Commodore Shipwright was similarly joined by Commander Mar-Veil and Captain d’Foose. The three were clad in military uniforms indicative of their position.

The Commodore nodded, “Discuss.”

A talented sparring partner, the Colonial Minister was not drawn in by his shortness.

“We have a total of five hundred thousand souls now dedicated to the colonial cause. There are, roughly, three hundred thousand people living in the Seven Cities area and a further hundred thousand working in the mines of the Ring.”

Everything had been given a name.

The Seven Cities area was a near-coastal delta edged by a towering mountain range. A number of small islands close to the coast were also incorporated into this general district. By and large, the population of Gestalt had been recruited from seven distinct human cultural demographics and, as a result, each group had established a township of its own. They were all connected. By coincidence each group had chosen one of the various planets in the System as its avatar. Gestalt was central among these and home to the newly established Colonial Government.

The Ring, easily guessed, was the slang, common name for what was properly designated the ‘Primus Mining Facility.”

“And a further hundred thousand serving in the Colonial Defenses,” added Commander Mar-Veil.

“Exactly,” Ramos smiled at the handsome, old Commander. “Now it should be noted that although a significant portion of our population is comprised of people formally employed by Galactic Technologies, we have been getting arrivals from across the Galaxy.”

“Our advertising schemes have been generating mild success within the rest of the Coalition.” This was the Deputy of Education and Health. “We have room, we have work. The transient population has been our biggest contributor and, with the war having displaced so many, the Gestalt Colonies are an attractive prospect.”

“The Pro-Human right has been strong in its affectations, however,” added the Security Secretary. “We are not getting as many non humans as we would like although, from my own point of view, this has helped to increase the sensation of uniformity within the people.”

None of the military officers in attendance bothered to mention their strong support for that cause. Some things did not need to be spoken to be agreed upon.

“As a result we have a multicultural human population and everyone wants to see their interests represented,” concluded the Minister.

“Which is why I encouraged the creation of a Colonial Government to oversee the needs of the people,” said the Commodore with a grin. He was not here to listen to the Minister pipe her own virtues again. “And as my information seems to indicate, that is exactly the political structure we should be talking about… only we don’t need to.”

Absently, as though lending his ear to an unspoken voice, Lance’s attention drifted. He waved a hand over his shoulder.

“Regardless,” he went on. “It is important that the people are happy.”

Lance Shipwright had become the Colonial keystone. He was the bridge between civilian and military. Most of the civilians had been employed by Galactic Technologies and had enjoyed unfathomed financial success under their banner. Those who had come after, mainly the families and friends of those initial employees were equally loyal to the company. As founder and operations manager they had all come to know Lance, directly or indirectly, and to respect and love him vicariously. The Military, many of whom had been rotated out of regular service and recruited from new civilian stock, had also become closely familiar with the Commodore. They saw him in the halls of their ships and saw his name on the considerable pay cheques that came with a regularity unimagined by many of them.

“The people are very happy, Commodore,” said the Minister with genuine joy. She truly cared for the people of the colony. “It is that very thing we want to discuss.”

She shared glances with her counterparts.

“The future of the Colonies calls for settlements to be established throughout the rest of the system and to that end we all understand that we will depend heavily on the Defense Force for protection. Spread out as we will be across the planets the Navy will be required to protect our transport lines in and out of the system. The direct influence of the Defense Force will doubtless become an omnipresent force within the Colonies. We would like to suggest that the Fleet become even more integrated into the culture of the colonies.”

Now it was the Commodores turn to share looks with his staff. None of this was unexpected; in fact, it was exactly what the three had predicted of this meeting.

“Are you suggesting a more fundamental restructuring of the Military?”

The Minister nodded, her raven hair tumbling down over her shoulders.

“Currently over three quarters of the elected body holds some former recognized rank including myself. If we were to recognize these accomplishments within the structure of our duly elected Government…”

No one wanted to say it, but everyone felt it.

“I have no objections,” said the young Commodore simply.

Captain d’Foose fixed the distant flash points with a cold, steel stare.

Twelve months following the Restructuring, as they had come to know it, and the newest starship of the Gestalt Colonies rolled off of the line, a herald for a whole new age for the fledgling government.

Admiral Mar-Veil, aboard the Provincial, would soon be within communications range. Vice Commodore, a honorary title bestowed upon Lance Shipwright in recognition of his dual service to the Colonies, was aboard as a diplomatic guest and as something of a send off for the new Super-Carrier line of starship.

Behind the Captain and clad in a suit that lent itself to a military atmosphere, the Colonial Minister stood with a staff of advisors on the port wing of the Colonial. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun.

“All of the big names are out for the event,” commented the Minister in a amicable tone.

The Colonial, Commonwealth, and Tribal, the namesake ships of their lines, sat in a tidy line above the planet Gestalt awaiting the arrival of the Provincial. A screen of starfighters, Arrows and Avengers alike, drifted between the formations. Half a dozen media shuttles also moved in and out of the formation taking footage for the news reels.

“This is a Media push,” admitted Captain d’Foose. “The people need to see what we have to offer.”

“Call up an image of the Provincial for the Minister,” ordered Captain d’Foose. “She won’t be in range for some time yet.”

On the viewer an image of the aforementioned carrier appeared. At over nine hundred meters long and with two jutting forward flight pylons the Provincial was a deviation from the typical wedge-shaped hull of the Colonial starships. The designers had attempted to achieve a less “Imperial” look in the Provincial, at the encouragement of the Ministers Political Bureau.

“I hear it holds four full fighter wings,” commented the Colonial Minister in an off hand sort of way. “And yet we have not discovered a new hyper-route out of the system.”

Captain d’Foose, a pilot at heart, laughed. She and Minister Ramos shared a common sense of humor. “Well, maybe now we can spit enough pilots out to find some.”

They both laughed.

“Of course, it is possible that we only have one direct route. Stranger things have happened.”

Minister Ramos nodded slightly. She did not relish the thought of the Colonies being so confined to the system for many reasons not the least of which were the detriments to trade and population influx. The military, she had to admit, had their own reasons for hoping that the system would prove to be just that isolated.

“She will be stopping at Pinta Colony right about now,” stated the Captain.

Pinta Colony, the second colony established in the system, was a small city on the third moon of the systems largest gas giant. Currently populated by some twenty thousand people, humans working for the Survey Commission, the long range goal of Pinta Colony would be to establish a military base on the outer edge of the star system protected by the massive gas giant near-by and to discover new resources on the rest of the planetary bodies surrounding the Giants; some two dozen moons and satellites in total. Pinta Colony was very closely attached to the military establishment.

“The Pinta is on station there, if I’m not mistaken?”

The Minister made it a priority to keep appraised of the movement of the fleet. A Destroyer named for the Colony, the Pinta kept station on Pinta while being tasked with rescue and recovery operations as well.

Captain d’Foose confirmed, “Yes, she sure is.” And then she added quickly, “There, did you see it?”

“That flash,” asked the Colonial Minister. While they were speaking she had been searching the pin-point backdrop of space for what navy people called ‘flash points. These were the tell tale signs of a hyper-jump to light speed. “Was that it?”

“That was it. That jump will take them to Camp Mar-Veil,” she said in reference to the new military base on Gestalt II; the planet directly after Gestalt I.

Camp Mar-Veil had been named, aptly enough, after Admiral Mar-Veil. As the highest ranking member of the Defense Force he had the distinction of being the unrivaled commander of the Defense Fleet though, technically, Vice Commodore Shipwright could supersede that authority at any time. As an honor to his status the paramount Military establishment had been named after him. It served as the primary headquarters for all Armed Forces divisions.

“Next they will buzz the Uniform before rendezvousing with us.”

With the constant expansion within the Colonies, within the star system, the Uniform had seen itself re-designated. Still home to Vice Commodore Shipwright and his company, they now operated under the name Colonial Research & Development. In truth, though few knew it and fewer still would admit, virtually every aspect of the Colonial Government and Military filtered through the RDS Uniform before achieving a post of any significance. It maintained a stable orbit over the Seven Cities area of Gestalt I, still and by far the most populated area in the Colonies with over four million now calling it home.

“We have communications linked up,” called the Executive Officer from the Comms duty station.

“Patch us through on the squadron frequency.”

A brief hiss of static emanated from the bridge speakers before resolving into a clear chatter.

“Gods, this thing is big,” a pilot was saying. “Well, big for not so big.”

“Calm the chatter Eight. We may not be on combat duty but I expect you all to stay sharp.”

“Roger that One, I’m making a pass on the dorsal side.”

“Those will be Avengers,” the Captain informed Ramos. “We’re listening to the escort squadron flying TAG on the Provincial. That’ll be Lieutenant San-Ramos in command.”

The Colonial Minister brightened. “That’s Jamos?”

“I thought you might like that Colonial Minister,” the Captain nodded. “I had heard that he was assigned as CAG on the Provincial. No matter how you cut it, getting Lieutenant Jamos San-Ramos to join up with the Colonial Defense Fleet was a brilliant stroke. We’re lucky to have him.”

And such was true of many of the people who had immigrated to the Colonies from across the Galaxy. Many were friends, more were family. Friends of friends and family of family, they came from across the stars at the word of others and with only mild media advertising. They had been careful to encourage human settlement though subtle in application and, in screening immigrants it became increasingly important to make certain that the refugees of hostile regimes would not damage their nations with their loss.

“Here she comes,” said Captain d’Foose.

"I don't care what Finneus says about profit margines and 'economic side-benefits' or whatever the hell he calls it," said Viryn. "The man is using our money to build himself an empire."

"Technically," replied Miette, "when we pay him the money it becomes his money, not ours. What he does with it then is up to him, right?"

Irritaited, Viryn slammed his datapad down on his desk. "Well then why doesn't he buy a mansion or a trophy wife or a solid fucking gold swimming pool? He'd be in the ass-end of space making flying buckets for no-name companies if it weren't for us, why does he decide to do something that's practically illegal?"

Miette, Viryn's android secretary and confident, had borne witness to many of her employer's rises and falls, and had often learnt how to adapt to those changes in fortunes much sooner than Viryn. Standing on the top floor of the Ministry of Ethics, a turret jutting from the side of the Coalition Command Tower, she waited patiently for the Minister to finish his angry tirade. In many ways, he was still back in the underground news reporter days.

"Minister, I know it's a little questionable, but he isn't actually doing anything illegal-"

"Oh no, not exactly, is he?" said Viryn, who got out of his chair and began gesturing wildly as he spoke. "He takes the money we give him to design ships for us, along with the pool of talent we make available to him, and uses that to expand his company into a series of 'colonies'. Owning land on uninhabited planets isn't illegal, and it isn't illegal for them to operate outside of the Coalition, but where the legalese gets denser than INS's bullshit on a good news day is when his primary source of funds and inverstors is Coalition contracts.

"At the same time, he has a colonial government to support and his own private navy. Not a security force, not rent-a-cops trying to make up for some shitty pension, a navy built out of the military-grade designs that we paid for him to make. Are we paying a company for service rendered, or footing the bill for a country's fleet and army?"

He turned and noticed that Miette was picking at her nails - all the more frustrating since, as an android, her nails didn't need looking after. He scowled and sat back down. "All right, so tell me, what's the big news?"

As Viryn had sated himself, Miette could now relay her information. "The Gestalt Colonies are doing a big media event, trying to appear more legitimate and official. It's unclear if they're a separate government or property of a company, like the Corporate Sector was. You've recieved a special request from the Prime Minister to visit and sort out the situation as you see fit. He said it was especially fortunate timing, since he's head the Ministry's been less busy since the start of the war."

Viryn snorted - the Azguard had a sense of humour, no doubts there. Almost every investigator in his department was off following the war effort or sniffing around anyone trying to turn a profit from those involved. His offices, which were usually rattling with the sound of clerks scanning reports of financial records and transactions, was now silent as those same observers instead watched for mass graves and biological horrors. In fact, he was the only living person actually in the building.

"All right, I guess it's up to me to reign this sucker in. Can you schedual a ship and diplomatic escort from the CIB's TARGET group and let that... Lance guy know I'm on my way? I want him to know who's coming for him."

Miette smiled cheerfully and said "You have such a way with people, you know that?"

Viryn barked laughter, and slapped his desk. "What can I say? I'm an optimist. I should really be going with a fleet escort in case one of his new projects flips out. You can come too if you like, I know you've had such a hard life here in the office, taking notes and comms for me."

Miette gave another cheery smile, and left the Minister alone in his office. After a few moments to collect his thoughts, he rotated his chair to look out the window towards the Azguard capital city of Az. Lance had been hired for a job they never got around to giving him, and had spun the situation into a million loyal followers and a bigger budget share than his top two competitors combined. That he'd managed all this without - so far as he could tell - greasing a single palm or exploiting one loophole in his contract just made Viryn suspiscious, and now the colonies.

Viryn was not a complicated man, deep down. One of the things he couldn't stand was inequality, and a nation built out of Coalition money and contracts without Coalition law and liberty stank of it.

He absent-mindedly reached for a drink he'd poured himself earlier, and found the glass and the bottle gone. He cursed under his breath - that secretary of his was going to be the death of him.