0800

Bruna System

U.N.S. Aradi CV-01

Commander John Harper stood on the flight deck of the newly constructed U.N.S. Aradi, staring absentmindedly at the glare on the nearly untouched floor. He lifted his black naval cap and slicked his dark brown hair back before pulling the it back onto his head. As he straightened his service ribbons and did a brief inspection of his service dress blacks, he noticed the top of the third bar on his right sleeve was slightly frayed, but did his best not to draw attention to it. He was acutely conscious of the news camera pointed in his direction from his right side.

In front of the camera was a middle aged female reporter in a retina burning blue pant suit. He watched as her stiff blond hair bounced with her optimistic, teleprompter fed monologue on the history of the project, and the new hope this ship instilled for the end of the Hauren war. Harper contemplated the term “war” as it applied to the current conflict.

He knew the 72 year conflict with the Haurens fit the dictionary definition of war, but had often felt the term was unfitting. After what was likely humanity’s longest era of peace the Hauren’s had locked our species into a campaign of perpetual defense that outlasted any of our previous conflicts. He often wondered if it wasn’t some form of karmic retribution.

The U.N.C. Military Council had debated sending the Aradi on a scouting expedition to find the Hauren home world, but the idea was unpopular. Though their faster than light technology was now surpassed by our own, all attempts to trace their origins led to empty space; and their dense star charts suggested a home turf somewhere much close to the center of the spiral arm or even the center of the galaxy. At best guess, Haurens possessed some higher tier of galactic travel that they used before warping to their target. Even if we could guess the right direction, they may be out of reach.

To Harper’s left was Captain Tavish McLeod, six feet tall and so slender that He often wondered how he could be seen from the side. Harper had served under McLeod for three of his four years in the U.N.C. Navy, but still found him to be an enigma. He fought a smile at the uncharacteristic disgruntled look on his commanding officer’s face. In spite of being nearly completely bald, McLeod despised wearing hats. This was a trait that had frequently gotten him in trouble as a cadet, nearly 25 years prior. They had now been standing on the rear half of the flight deck for nearly 15 minutes, staring at the aft flight deck doors, and the captain was growing increasingly impatient.

Harper used this moment to properly observe the rest of the flight deck. He hadn’t realized till now how their busy schedule since arriving on board had kept him from taking in the ship. The flight deck as a whole ran the entire 335 meters of the ship. Shaped like an elongated flat top pyramid, the empty space covered the equivalent of roughly three decks as was apparent in the mirrored ventral portion of Aradi’s hull. The forward quarter of the flight deck was the primary launch platform for the ship’s first and second wing of fighters. Powered by active magnets, Aradi could launch fighters at combat speed allowing them to remain idle until clear of the ship. The second quarter had a retractable deck allowing the fighters to be brought to or from the flight deck together. A little past the half way point was the central pylon which contained both the officers lift and the central stairs allowing travel from the bridge and Flight Operations to the flight deck and the decks below.

Most of the civilians on board were currently gathered near the pylon while the present officers and crew were lined on either side of what doubled as the combat landing deck and where the last two wings of fighters could be brought to the flight deck. Behind himself and the line of officers across from him were two diagonal launch decks in the forward swept wing like structure son Aradi’s port and starboard sides. In theory, using all three launch decks, the Aradi could have her entire compliment of fighters clear of the ship in under two minutes.

A quick series of two tones came over Harper’s earpiece as Lieutenant Commander Sarah Parker, second officer and currently in command of the bridge, connected to the Captain and himself.

“Bridge to the Captain.”

“Go ahead,” McLeod responded, as he looked up at the observation windows of Flight Operations.

“The fighters are leaving Langley now. Construction workers are clear and they are ready to open the dry dock.”

“Understood. As soon as the dry dock is equalized, open the aft flight deck doors.”

Harper spread his legs a little further apart to improve his balance. As the dry dock doors opened, the force of the escaping air caused the ship to shake, even more so for those standing on the deck plating designed to move when the first wave of fighters is lifted to the deck for launch. The hull of the ship groaned as it settled between the internal air pressure, and the vacuum of space. The shaking and groaning was visibly disturbing to the civilians on board, and mildly so for the younger officers and crewmen.

Moments later, the aft doors of the flight deck slid sideways into their recesses on either side, leaving a nine meter high triangular hole, where the blue, green, and white marble of a planet below could be seen reflecting in the brilliance of the sun against the blackness of space.

The speed at which the doors opened was impressive. Harper shuddered slightly at the logic behind this design. The containment field designed to hold in air on the flight deck while the doors were open was a recent development. Auxiliary craft on other vessels were launched from docking bays that had to be depressurized before launch, but the flight deck of the Resolution had to be able to remain pressurized while vessels were launching and landing, due to the 20 to 40 personnel on deck at any given time. The containment field thankfully had its own power source, but the designers of the Admiral King Class assault carrier knew that it was not impervious to damage. In the event of a containment field failure, the doors needed to be able to close quickly, but no one wanted to imagine the consequences for the deck crew due to the rapid decompression, and the possibility of being sucked out the doors before they closed.

The chairman of the U.N.C., Lawrence Taft, stood to Harper’s right side. He was a portly man, with a graying mustache and an impressive full head of hair for a man of 83. Harper had noticed that he was slightly nervous since he arrived on the ship, but became increasingly agitated since the flight deck doors opened.

“Shouldn’t we be wearing oxygen masks?” Lawrence whispered to Commander Harper, while keeping a strained smile his face, because he was also acutely aware of the cameras pointed in his direction, and cared a great deal more.

He was referring to the oxygen masks the deck crew wore during launches and combat landings. As vessels come through the containment field that separates the air on the flight deck from the vacuum outside, there is a small exchange that results in a loss of air from the deck. When large amounts of vessels are going through the field in close succession or simultaneously, the loss of air can be more than the life support system can keep up with, and thus, breathing can become difficult. However, an engineer had assured Harper that this would not be an issue during the landing ceremony, as only five fighters would be crossing the barrier, while the rest of the ships compliment of 156 fighters were already stowed away on the deck below.

“Not to worry, Mr. Chairman, with only five fighters coming through, the air loss will be negligible and brief,” Harper responded, smiling as if they had exchanged a joke.

The Chairman nodded his head, and some of the color returned to his face. Out of the corner of his eye, Harper saw the reflection of the sun on the five Valkyrie Mark III space superiority fighters approaching the ship. A feeling of bitter anticipation welled up inside him.

Harper joined the Bruna Space Defense Force at age 17. By the time he was 18, with his natural ability for flying the Mark I and his aptitude for leadership, earned him two promotions and a position as CAG for the entire BSDF.

This all felt like a life time ago. At age 21, Harper had transferred to the U.N.C. Navy as a Lieutenant, and never looked back. However, he knew that being around fighter craft on a regular basis was going to inspire a nagging sense of nostalgia. There was a chime over the flight deck’s PA system, and the voice of Lieutenant Symon Anatoli, the next officer in charge of flight operations after Parker, boomed with surprising clarity over the large and cavernous flight deck.

“Attention all hands, fighters inbound and cleared for landing. ETA, less than one minute. Prepare for recovery procedures, and maintain a safe distance.”

The crewmen lining the port and starboard side of the aft portion of the flight deck, dressed in black BDUs, stood at attention. Even the deck crew, which was standing on the aft starboard auxiliary craft elevator, ended their chatter and diverted their attention to the open doors. The civilians and media all watched the approaching fighters with a mix of awe and intimidation, leaving a silence so prevalent, the only things that could be heard were the ventilation system and boot steps from various decks reverberating through the bulk heads.

The lead fighter engaged braking thrusters and the two fighters on each side followed suit. The maneuver was so perfect that in spite of the change in velocity, all five craft maintained the exact same formation, giving the impression that they were a solid unit, attached to each other by some invisible force.

They slowed just enough to allow them all the room they needed to land, and crossed the threshold with blue hued static exchange between the fighters’ hulls and the containment field. When they had all crossed into the flight decks atmosphere, the craft leaned back slightly and engaged their ventral thrusters, both stopping their forward momentum, and controlling their vertical descent onto the deck.

A mechanical whir could be heard in quintuplet as the landing skids descended, and the fighters softly landed. The civilians immediately erupted in applause as the canopies opened and ladders descended from beside the cockpits. Harper smiled at how easily the crowd was amused. Seeing the same maneuver performed at high velocity during combat was significantly more impressive, but no civilian had ever witnessed this in person.

The lead pilot stood up and placed a boot on the first step of his ladder, before taking off his flight helmet. He tucked it under his arm and smiled as he waved at the crowd with a movie star smile. Harper was almost instantly annoyed. Being a fighter pilot himself at one point, he was well aware that since they first put a gun on an airplane in the 20th century, fighter pilots were treated like royalty. He was also aware of how this treatment would affect a pilot’s humility, but had grown out of it since joining the U.N.C. Navy, and found the behavior associated with it annoying.

“Just what a naval vessel needs, sir,” he said under his breath to McLeod, “a bunch of cocky fighter pilots.”

“Relax, Commander, they’ll learn soon enough that there’s no limelight out there on the front lines,” McLeod responded.

After reveling in the attention, the lead pilot, a handsome man with close cut black hair and a sparkling smile, descended the ladder and approached McLeod before nonchalantly saluting.

“Major John Glenn, reporting for duty, sir,” the pilot said in a very casual tone. The captain didn’t seem to notice.

“Welcome aboard, Major, your flight record is the most impressive I’ve seen since our Commander here hung up his helmet,” McLeod said, extending his hand to the pilot, “I’m sure you will make an excellent CAG for the Aradi.”

“Thank you, sir, I’ll try not to disappoint. If you don’t mind I would like go below and meet the rest of my pilots.”

“Absolutely, Major, you’re dismissed.”

The U.N.C. public relations director began to direct the civilians and media off of the flight deck, and off the ship, as the fighter craft were magnetically taxied to the auxiliary elevator. Harper watched as the fighter craft turned their collective port hulls towards him, and the circular green emblem, with the head of a timber wolf, gleamed on the tails of the craft in the flight decks bright, if slightly jaundicing, light.

The Crew Chief, Gerard Gallagher, approached Harper and McLeod in a decidedly non-military gate, but when he arrived stood at attention and gave a salute worthy of a commissioned officer. Gallagher was a husky man of average height. His hair was a short dark and curly, and usually matted with sweat. His right hand, now held level with his eyes, was thick with callous, and betrayed the hands on approach he took to his supervisory role on the maintenance deck.

“Captain, Commander,” he said, without the characteristic unease that most non-commissioned officers had on the rare occasion they spoke to senior officers.

“As you were, Crewman,” McLeod replied, “How can we help you?”

“The last of the ammunition for the fighters has been loaded, but because of the nature of the munitions, I need a senior officer’s signature before I can take delivery officially.”

Harper exchanged a significant glance with the Captain, and returned his gaze to the Crew Chief with an arched brow.

“Why do we need to personally approve a simple supply of ammunition,” Harper queried.

“The new ammunition is considered class four for storage, sir,” Gallagher replied.

There was another significant glance between Harper and the captain, this time with a little more urgency. Gallagher looked on with anticipation, and perhaps, Harper reflected, a slight amusement at the senior officers’ confusion.

“Commander, go down to the maintenance deck and find out what’s going on here,” the Captain directed, with more than a hint of curiosity in his voice. “While you’re at it, check in with every department personally, make sure they are ready for departure at 0930. I’ll be on the bridge.”

“Understood, Captain. With me, Chief,” Harper said as he led the way towards the personnel elevator. Gallagher saw this and corrected him.

Actually, Commander, it would be faster to go down with the fighters,” he said with a smile. Harper looked at the craft elevator as if he had never seen it before.

“I suppose you have a point,” Harper conceded.

They walked over to the auxiliary elevator and stood facing the flight deck. Harper put a hand on the hull of one of the fighters as Gallagher flipped a switch to his right. Amber warning lights lit and spun and the elevator jolted to life. He began to feel like himself again, as the civilians, media, and the flight deck in its entirety, disappeared from view.

1415 Eyrth Standard Time

Outside Vega system

“I dreamed a dream, the other night,” a scrawny long-haired pilot sang out from behind the navigation console.

Voices echoed from the belly of the ship to join the others on the bridge in response to his call, “Low-lands. Lowlands away, my john.”

“My love she came, all dressed in white.”

“My lowlands, away!”

Captain Dennis Kripton allowed the rhythm of the centuries old sea shanty lull him into a kind of meditation, adjusting himself in the captains chair that had long since formed to his weathered and lean build. He rubbed his face which was carved with lines from decades of squinting at faulty display screens and star glare, and seriously considered allowing himself a nap.

“And bravely in her bosom fair.”

“Lowlands, Lowlands away, my John,”

“A red, red rose my love did-” The Captain snapped back from his zen like state when the pilot stopped his singing. “Arriving, Vega two, in approximately five minutes,” the pilot finished amelodically .

Dennis Kripton snapped back from his silent musings at the crewman’s announcement, and checked the antique time piece on his wrist as he ran his fingers through his short, salt and iron hair. “Very good, Mister Spears. Three hours ahead of schedule,” He said as he rose from his seat. His boots, which were older than some of the colonies, clanked on the deck plating as he walked around his seat to the navigation console behind him. He leaned on the console and regarded it in quiet wonder, knowing this was an impressive feat for his vessel.

“Yes, sir. Skipping that dog-leg past Miranda was a good call on your part.”

The captain smirked and patted Spears on the back. “Humility will get you everywhere, Mister Spears. But, I won’t be taking credit for your navigation skills. Well done,” he said as he straightened with a grunt. He winced through the pain and wondered how a lifetime in sub-Eyrth gravity still had him feeling so much older than 52. “This calls for a celebration. When we finish unloading, I don’t think I’ll be rationing the liquor stores. We can always restock while we’re here.” The crew members on the bridge beamed at him silently as he returned to his seat and planted his feet firmly on the deck plating, which was vibrating in rhythm with the Steinland Motor Company 1000c warp engine.

Most of Dennis’ ship, the S.S. Red Witch, was close to 150 years old. Some said the oldest of its class still flying. His great-grandfather had used his life savings from making runs across the The Trinity, the small cluster of stars with the human home system Bruna at its center, to purchase this ship. That was shortly after a United Nations research grant had resulted in the first warp engine fast enough for true interstellar commerce. Dennis’ father was born and raised on this ship, and 30 some years later, Dennis was born to follow in his footsteps.

The only 52 year old engine, and the ship’s third, was pulling them at a theoretical speed of nearly a thousand times the speed of light. Their destination was one of the newest colonies, Vega II. Just over 25 light-years from the Eyrth, Vega II was a booming colony on the frontier that could theoretically just now see the light that Bruna emitted the year it was founded. A gem of civilization at the edge of human reach.

Dennis always loved the runs to this planet. It reminded him of how far humans had come in such a short period of time. In 2050 with the third world war ending, the new U.N. achieved unanimous participation, and began to make major strides in sustainable technology. Two centuries of relative peace later the human race was spread out over countless sovereign colonies more than 20 light years in every direction.

The possibilities seemed endless, as only plant and animal life had been found on the few already habitable planets. The rest of the colonies were terraformed or featured modular settlements. Vega II always reminded Dennis of Eyrth. A crisp blue and green planet with an abundance of both urban and rural communities, but un-scarred by the industrialization and war that had plagued Eyrth. It was Eyrth with a second chance.

A klaxon blared from the helm and Spears moved over to the display screen with concern. Spears swept his long brown hair out of his eyes and sighed but his expression relaxed. “Sure you don’t want to take credit for navigating, captain?”

“Why, what’s wrong?”

“Engineering is requesting we finish the approach on sub-lights. Engine’s running hotter than he would like.”

“What will that do to our ETA”

“Should take about forty-five minutes to complete the approach.”

“Disengage the warp drive. Bring the Ion drives to full. And, don’t worry. We still gained two hours.”

The warp field quickly disintegrated as the ship resumed sub-light velocity.

“Captain.” The helmsman said quietly.

“What is it,” Dennis said, looking over his shoulder. The helmsman didn’t answer, but Dennis followed his gaze and soon saw what had disturbed his pilot. In the distance, small explosions could be seen just outside the atmosphere of Vega II. “Magnify by 200.”

He heard his comms officer oblige with a few clicks on the console to his right, and static filled the forward view port as the magnification screen activated. The static gave way to what should have been the pristine surface of Vega II, but instead showed population centers clouded over by billowing black smoke and being rained down on by strange beams of energy from the sky.

As the view panned, it was filled with a dark shape, spinning in space. Spinning, Dennis could tell, by the glowing red accents that arched through the screen.

“Reduce magnification,” He ordered as he stood and approached the screen. The image changed instantly, and what it revealed brought his heart into his throat. A ship, of some sort. Nothing a human would ever design, but a great blade in space. At least 8000 The ship had a pronounced axial orientation, symmetrical and was pushed by absolutely massive plasma sub-light engines that looked to be spreading radioactive waste as it moved. The red accents he had previously observed were weapons, swatting planetary defense forces out of the black like flies, and raining hellfire on the planet below. Due the the ships wedge like shape, every weapon from the bow to the stern was capable of firing straight ahead to the planet’s surface when it wasn’t shooting down the small craft trying to stop its advance.

Dennis turned his back on the screen, the sounds of the bridge muffled in the rush of blood to his ears. It seemed like an eternity before his helmsman’s voice broke through the din. “Captain, what are your orders?”

Dennis looked at Spears for a long moment, then over his shoulder at the carnage ahead. This isn’t an attack, he thought, this is defeat.

“Abandon ship.” The words had escaped his lips before he had completed the thought. He repeated himself with more conviction when he had realized that he subconsciously came to the only move they had left. “All hands abandon ship.”

“Captain, abandon ship to where? Shouldn’t we turn tail and run?” Spears’ voice had an air of fear and doubt that Dennis had never heard in him before. Under the circumstances, he forgave him for it.

Dennis firmly grasped his officer by both shoulders and feigned a smile. “Mister Spears, I leave the crew in your capable hands. When it’s over, get them planet side.”

“When what’s over? Captain there’s nothing we can do.”

“Not we. Me. You have your orders, Mister Spears. Get to the escape craft.” On that note, he took the seat behind the helm controls and started disabling safety protocols. In his heightened, adrenaline fueled state, he could hear his officer open his mouth to protest, but it was followed by silence. His bridge officer was intelligent. Too intelligent for this line of work, Dennis had sometimes thought, and had realized what the Captain intended to do.

“You heard the Captain. To the lifeboat, now.” Mister spears left the bridge and the sounds of boots on deck plating signaled that the rest of the bridge crew had followed suit. Dennis continued his work at the console. He barely glanced at the flashing orange indicator on the screen to his right, signaling that the lifeboat had disembarked.

He continued his work in silence as he mused on how fortunate he was he had never chosen to bring children into the life he and his father had lived. Glancing at the forward view port he did some quick math in his head, entering the results in the nav computer. Another indicator flashed urgently, this time in red. He ignored this as well, not only by laissez-faire, but entered commands into the console coaxing the computer to share his apathy towards the fatal result of his plan.

He unlocked the guard on the warp engine throttle and pushed it to its forward most position. Listening to the aged warp engine struggle to reach its peak power level, he pondered the unfamiliar ship ahead. He thought about the fact that he would never know what exactly had happened today. Nor would he ever know if what he was about to do would make any difference.

A quiet high tone emitted from the console, accompanied by a flashing pearl white indicator next to the warp engine throttle. He ran his finger over the polished surface of the switch next to it, a small grin crossing his face. He wasn’t certain why. Leaning back in his seat he closed his eyes and took a deep breath before flipping the switch.

Alexander Baxton felt a pang of guilt as he was shuffled through the stirring crowd. He couldn’t look in any direction without seeing a face touched by this tragedy. The death tolls hadn’t even begun to be calculated, but one thing was for sure, the Colony President was dead. Along with…well, he had never counted the elected officials above him in the line of succession. That’s how low on the list he was.

He was a representative of an outlying rural area. A visit to his constituency that day may have been the only thing that had spared him from the fate of his colleagues. He risked a glance at the crowd and saw the soot covered faces of the people that would now be looking to him for leadership.

The pang of guilt deepened. An entire world was in mourning and he was thinking of himself. He couldn’t help it. He had no ambitions for power. He had entered politics for no other than reason than to represent the community he had spent his childhood in since his parents brought him here from Eyrth. Yet here he was, in charge of an entire planet, on the tail end of a historic tragedy.

He looked up at the sky, where several hours ago a great alien vessel, piloted by a species who had identified themselves as the Hauren, had unleashed devastation on his world, before being destroyed themselves. The image of its destruction was burned into his memory. The few remaining planetary defense ships that had witnessed it said it appeared that a vessel had intentionally warped directly into the coordinates that the alien vessel had occupied.

Alexander tried to summon the same courage it must have taken to make that sacrifice, hopefully to the same end; saving his people. Near the end of his procession to the New Alexandria City Library, the temporary government headquarters in light of the tragedy, a throng of reporters struggled to get close to him. He had to restrain what he felt would be an inappropriate grin. Most of them were injured, and their equipment was whatever they could get their hands on after the attack. On Vega, everyone was committed to their trade.

His security detail cleared his path through the reporters up the steps of the makeshift capital building. The reporters shouted at him, a clamor of indecipherable questions. Something stopped him just before he reached the doors of the library. He felt a calling to speak, to give his displaced citizens solid ground to stand on.

Ignoring the protests of his security detail he walked back to the reporters, who surrounded him in a semi-circle. A deathly silence fell over the crowd, waiting for words that would bring any sense to this chaotic time. He looked up at the sky one more time, seeking that evasive courage, before he spoke.

“When we swept away the bonds of our home planet, and ventured into the stars, it was a testament to human spirit and evolution. We reached out into the universe, venerable, but determined to continue our existence free from the horrors of our violent past. We found the universe to be all but empty, and we thought we were safe. Thought we were alone. What happened today has forced us to face the reality that though we as a species have learned to live in peace, we will encounter those who are not as enlightened, and will want to harm us to take what we have. Since colonization of extra-terrestrial worlds began, the colonies have always enjoyed a high level of autonomy, but with a threat of this magnitude, we will not survive standing on our own. The human race must join together in mutual defense, or we will all parish. My first action as acting Colony President will be to petition the United Nations and the other colonies to form an interstellar military. Just because we have become a peaceful species, does not mean we will allow this travesty to go unanswered. ”

The crowd erupted in applause. It didn’t mean much, but it was more than they had before. He walked away, and into the confines of the library, unknowing that his candid call to action would result in the creation of the United Nations and Colonies, and the beginning of the first Human interstellar war.