Well, once again, this is an excerpt without an establishment piece. I
invite those interested to critique, specifically on specific plot credibility.
-The Reverend Prez
* * *
Excerpted from Episode 6 of Liars and Dreamers, Chapter 12
Escalation was a dangerous game, the d'na'Rhiov told himself, and if Command
continued to waffle on the brink like this...he couldn't bring himself to
imagine the consequences he'd face because the Senate was so damned
short-sighted. With small, inconsequential destroyers making up most of the
pickets staging out from his area of responsibility, Lanka was about inherit
the skeletal remains of Third Fleet's Fourth Arm Task Force, along with a
highly exposed Hemlaya System--the Terran-puppet Confederation had named her
star 'Rho Persei' centuries ago. It was definitely not a task he relished,
but Central Command felt differently about it. He watched angrily as Delta
Persei flotilla and Telmasa Fleet Bases were picked dry; in fact, the
One-Hundred and Fourteenth Unified Fleet Detachment--which had taken over
the Tulsos command's responsibilities after last years regrettable
incident--was barely more than three fleet carrier battlegroups and a few
cruiser divisions. His own battlecruiser squadron was the size of the
division he had commanded only nearly three years earlier. It stung at his
pride to see his command, ergo his career, stall like this. However, in two
and three-fourths of a year, he had sobered somewhat from the arrogance that
directed his earlier path.
Wising up was a rare quality amongst the officer corps of the
Hwi-zhemal'orra. While a vast majority of its men were drawn from pools of
moderate ability, a general, unwritten rule of behavior nearly precluded any
redemption or excommunication from the fringes of incompetence and
brilliance. If his cocky, aristocratic edge had yet to be tempered by
military ethic, he nevertheless learned a few principles of good leadership.
For that reason, his people respect him, even if they didn't like him.
Today, however, was a day for grumbling, and his officers were wise to
stand as clear as possible.
Commander Advanced Grade Lanka watched the plot carefully from outside
the situation pit. A low, red ambience oscillated in cadence with a barely
audible hum from the electro-plasma tap systems. The hum itself seemed
inappropiately relaxing; they were still seventeen hours from his new
command, and the wait drew out a anxiety bordering on irritability.
His flagship, of course, maintained continuous contact with those ships
in station-keeping between the orbits of Hemlaya's second and third planets.
He intended to change that as soon as he arrived. The third planet was a
minor-class gas giant, with plenty of moons. Shifting his formation around
their gravity wells would disguise his signature sufficiently to throw off
the enemy's force appreciations. Likewise, he intended to mandate a set of
fold/defold points outside of the starsystem. Interplanetary traffic would
slow, but minimizing his profile to Confederation watchdogs across the Line
would more than make up for the inconvenience.
Lanka's largest worry, of course, was whether or not the senior
officer-in-charge at Hemlaya right now was keeping things together. Since
Lanka was a political creature, he couldn't truly stand behind any fault in
his new XO's character; however, he wouldn't hesitate to ride him for
incompetence. He had to do so several times before, and the effects more
often than not cut short the career of those unfortunate officers. However,
that was leadership--as he had learned the hard way. Decision-making on a
pragmatic level did not come easy to him, but he was trying.
"Incoming message from Heavy Cruiser Division 14 commanding officer.
Authenticated, my Commander. He sends his regards and godspeed."
The d'na'Rhiov growled. He'd break him for that if he had the means,
but Lanka knew that Commander-thirdmark Trin had the backing of a Tulsos
senator. Despite the extreme distaste for the Tulsos held by not only most
of the Hw-zhemal'orra, but the Imperial Senate as well, Trin's father still
held Ranking Opinion status and controlled a sizable vote on the Imperial
Party's Closed Chambers floor. That was more than enough not only for Trin
to go uncensured for his deadly gamble that humiliated the Empire only a few
months ago, but also allowed him to keep his rank and command. Sometimes,
Lanka imagined he was Sulsos Manni, the outcast son of an Imperial Senator
who rose within General Mika Hw'italni's command to become one of the
Empire's most noteworthy heroes. Without any patronage, he could have had
Trin shot and have his good name protect him from any repercussions. But
no, Lanka was a Hillth--a highborn one at that. His own family had saved
him from enough trouble due to his own arrogance, and his father had already
overextended his influence in advancing (and, occassionally salvaging) his
son's career.
"Acknowledge, and pass the order to maintain a clear line on all
encrypted channels, sublieutenant," he directed his flag communications
officer. "Emphasize as you see fit."
The female sublieutenant, a Jurillian colonist and fairly attractive,
actually smiled in response, "It will be done, Sir." Lanka's gaze remained
on her for a few more moments, as if he had surprised himself. Never once
in his career could he remember a subordinate smiling at him, for whatever
reason. Maybe I really am changing, he thought. Maybe it wasn't too late.
* * *
Lightyears coreward, on the Confederation side of the Buffer Zone, UPDF Navy
Destroyer Division 730.7 moved silently between the inner and outer orbits
of a magnetic star's two lonely planets. The star had no name other than a
temporary designation by the UPDF Navy Astrographical Survey. The report on
this star's astrography was far more detailed than the equivalent produced
by the Survey Corps, although both noted the proximity to the Teller-01
tributary. The Manchuria C's main bodyhain, otherwise known as the Blue
Corridor, lay only fifty-eight lightyears to the galactic east; an invisible
collection of powerful hyperlanes that penetrated deep into the
Confederation's core.
Kredic-grez Bagzent Anders, a Commander in the UPDF Navy, had spent most
of his twelve line officer years working with smaller screening crafts;
particularly cruisers and destroyers. He virtually wrote the book on the
new Roland-class destroyer escorts introduced two years ago, and had served
as chief engineer onboard the heavy cruiser Kathel Vorz for four years
before that. As the CO of this Task Division, he was already drafting new
operational parameters and tactics for picket duties--maybe his next
textbook would make the required reading list at the Martian Defense Force
Academy.
His gruff demeanour offset his stocky physique--inherited from his
German father. However, the noble stature that thousands of years of
Tirolian genetic engineering had instilled in their warrior clones shown
through in his rough, Zentraedi features. A sharp-olive complexion melded
in his his evergreen hair; tied into a ponytail that once signified a
Zentraedi warrior occupying a level of authority quite similar to the one he
held now. Although rather small--he controlled less than one-thousand
people and five ships--the command was his own; more than a few destroyer
division and squadron COs went on to command larger groups at flag rank.
However, Anders wasn't the least bit concerned about advancement now; his
worries lay with the four signatures indicated by red and yellow flashes in
Plotting's holotank.
"What we have here," his executive officer pointed out, citing an old
Earther adage, "is a failure to communicate. They're just sitting there,
and if Admiral Smith's data is correct..."
The XO directed Plotting to overlay the intelligence received from Task
Force 77. As the quantum-grav passives remained fixed on Zulu Contact Group
One, the estimated course Admiral Smith's team had deduced for Zulu Two
rendezvoused with it. ETA data and other information flooded the screen.
Lieutenant Commander Alicia Dunedia licked her lips before continuing. "Now
if Rho Persei and Telmasa are completely stripped, then you'd think they'd
at least move up this heavy cruiser division in Krdan to somewhere they
could make use of it." A blue area marked the Krdan system--Intelligence
had yet to ascertain the level of forces in that area.
"They'll barely have a third strength of a cruiser squadron with this.
What are they trying to do?"
"If what Fleet Flag says is correct, Sir," Commander Dunedia stood
akimbo, shaking her head disbelievingly at the plot, "then the Big Guy
across the Black is just doing what the Western Fleet CO's telling him;
situation looks mighty different at that level, I suppose. We're in a dead
pool, Sir."
"It's definitely starting to look that way, Alicia," Commander Anders
wondered how many other people on his side of the Black were staring
puzzledly at their holotanks, wondering what the hell the blueskins were up
to. "ETA on that Archangel Detachment?"
"Twenty-two hours, Sir," the group operations officer--the second hat
warn by his ship operations officer--spoke up.
"All right then. We're at least a day ahead of whoever's on their way
to Rho Persei. Hal? Send to group. We're going to stay in the dayside
baffles of LD-332 B as soon as we get their--LEO at five-thousand. What's
our ETA?"
"Two hours, Sir," the ops officer replied.
"Well, I guess they can see us," Anders assumed responsibly. "Let's
fix that. To Group, Hal. Rig for cloak and standby to activate the net."
* * *
A watchful glint flew from the Turas-family officer's eyes and onto her
commander. Tulsos Trin paced about his bridge angrily; his beard seemd to
crackle with fury. It had been five months since he staged into the
Confederation and daringly assaulted the aerospace wing of a major DeForce
presence in the Pollux System. Despite his bravado and skill in pulling off
the attack, Trin watched his career come to a grinding halt. The nerve of
Command, refusing him the honors of a true Corron warrior. He had followed
his lawful orders, so didn't he at least deserve a promotion, or even a more
prominent assignment at Central Command, in return? Obviously those bastard
Hw'italni in the Hw-zhemal'orra's upper echelons wanted to punish him for
embarassing their kinsman, Commander Advanced Grade Hergo. He and CruRon
12's CO both earned the Blade; Trin's only regret in that matter was that
their executions hadn't been made public. After all, the orders came from
the Telmasa Task Force commander, and he should have been solely held
responsible. Still, Command saw fit to take their anger out on him as well;
Trin responded by transfering that anger and blame onto his crew.
"Eilajin!" the profanity burst out, his finger suddenly pointing towards
a junior operations officer. The tari'iov, a sublieutenant, cringed
fearfully as Trin went off on another violent, rambling episode. "When is
that bastard Lanka going to finally get here?" He clearly felt no reason to
speak respectfully of the latest big-wig stooge Fleet Command sent this way.
"Forty-nine camas-dure, Commander," the ops officer regained her
composure and responded with a slightly less than quivering tone. After
five times of enduring his vociferous demand for Commander Lanka's ETA, she
had grown used to being called the Hw'ithaengo equivalent of "you stupid
cunt!" Demeaning as it was, Trin was still several ranks her
senior--commanders were given a great deal of leeway in handling
insubordination.
Trin slumped furiously into his command chair as his fingers picked at
his beard with an increased pace. His forehead seemed to turn a few shades
darker, but eventually he realized that fuming about would only make things
worse. Instead, he continued to bark at his officers and crew, even chewing
out the only Tulsos senior officer on his bridge at the moment. Those
spineless, quivering bastards. Fat, lazy old men and their oversexed
bitches; if they gave me a real command, I would show these nekoluyrn
Confederasi a how real Corron zhemaron fight! He bitterly shifted his glare
to his command chair's armrest screen, his fingers calling up the latest
update from central plotting. Ah, the Confederation destroyer group had
finally cloaked. The Book said that meant they had finished deploying a
sensor net, permitting them to reduce their profile to an opponent's watch.
Trin once thought that nothing could escape the eye of a quantum gravity
sensor suite at full power, which reached out lightyears as if by magic.
For the most part, nothing really could; there was always a return from an
quantum-grav pulse. However, cloaking scattered most of the signal to
actually reduce--more accurately, alter--the quantum-state image produced by
returning pulses. A Corron warship had similar ECM capabilities, but the
Confederation's superior computer technology incorporated AI in the
operation of their cloaks. Still, it was possible to defeat such measures.
If Tracking had a decent, active solution before a target went to cloak,
then they could determine which of the many skewed, returning
quantum-gravity signals actually represented the target. Morever, vessels
employing cloaking fields and other forms of ECM also left tell-tale
emission signatures against background radiation. They were somewhat harder
to find, since the quantum mechanics for photons were a bit more complex for
a sensor suite to process than matter particles, but these emission ghosts
often had a regular pattern that could be detected and tracked--tentatively,
of course. Unfortunately, Trin's sensor suite had not been on active
pinging prior to Contact One's disappearance from the plot, and his groups
sensor capabilities didn't permit ghost-radiation scanning over a distance
of more than a lightyear (within a cone of deviation of no more than an
eighth of a degree radius). Interestingly enough, it didn't drive Trin into
a wild rage. He had a pretty good idea where they might go. They were just
going to camp out in the orbit of one of those two planets orbiting
LD-332--as the Terran-puppets called it.
"Tracking, this is Commander Trin," he said as his left index finger
depressed the communications circuit to the sensor department.
"Yes, Commander?"
"When did Contact One go silent?"
"Seven illacamas ago, Commander," the replied came back. Trin nodded
and cut the circuit. According to the Book, he would have to report this to
the new CO; to keep Moa Lanka on his toes, he suspected. Well, Trin rarely
subscribed to the Book anyway, and this wasn't a terribly unusual move on
the enemy's part. The Empire and the Confederation had played this game for
years, each side pretending it had absolute security over its "territories."
Well, at least one side was pretending, Trin thought. Although a child at
the time, he remembered the last time his people had taught the
Confederation otherwise.
"Tracking, turn targeting group sensors to Yuhallyye Three-Three-Zero,"
he ordered over the intercom circuit. The more powerful targeting sensor
package had been installed during his vessel's last refit--just under a
month ago. He hadn't been told what tactical or strategic purpose they
served, but it was his new toy. Still, Command had outlined one
technicality about their usage--do not employ them without receipt of
Class-4 [squadron or higher command] authorization. To hell with them,
Trin thought bitterly. If they could come close to even touching him, they
would have done it long ago. This was his ship, and he had a pretty
accurate solution on a Confederation formation--he wasn't about to let some
pushka bureaucrat in the chain of command deny him a few minutes of excitement.
A brief hesitation preceded the reply, "Sir, we have squadron orders to
maintain--"
"Tracking, I said turn targeting group sensors to Yuhallyye
Three-Three-Zero!" Trin repeated with a bitter hiss. "I'm not in the habit
of repeating myself."
Trin could not see the technician lieutenant in Tracking swallow back
the welling ire in his throat. The lieutenant responded with a terse,
borderline disrespectful hiss of his own. "Yes, Commander." The circuit
cut without another word, leaving Trin with a smug, self-congratulatory
expression. Well, he could always rattle the Confed bastards' cages a
little bit--Squadron Command be damned.
* * *
* * *
+-----------------+-<The Badass Reverend of Funk Prez>---+
| Presley H. | Political Science / Computer Science |
| Cannady II | and Electrical Engineering Undergrad |
|<revprez@mit.edu>| at the Mass. Institute of Technology |
+-----------------+-<Anime Manga Development Group>------+
+ Author of Liars and Dreamers, a Robotech fanfic +
+-------<http://www.geocities.com/Tokyo/1731/index.html>-+
| MIDN 4/c A-2-2 SQD, MIT-Harvard-Tufts NROTC Battalion |
|_|"The art of war is of vital importance to the state"|_|