Episode 1: The War to End All Wars
—Urosa IV, 40 LY from CSH borders: Human Calendar December 31st, 2999 AD—
No one was bold enough to so much as drop a pen. Utter silence filled Colonel Kolisk’s (General Kolisk, now, he reminded himself) office as the news was brought to him.Not one spy, nor five. Twenty eight. Twenty eight traitors, all of them officers with faked birth certificates, elite training, and advanced technology, struck across every frontier on every far-off continent. Every Messiln front-line general—all of them implacably brave, noble men—had perished within an hour. Their eyes were vigilantly fixed on the horizon, so they were too trusting, too dignified, to look over their shoulder. Millions of acres of hard-earned land from proxy wars, espionage, and skirmishes—lost in an afternoon, in a single, well-executed attack. Kolisk had been promoted from Colonel to General overnight out of desperate necessity.
The silos had, miraculously, been left untouched—and not one had been fired. Even in the midst of the most well-planned attack, they had not been willing to fire a single WMD. It was both relieving and chilling at once. The Keshin now knew where the Messiln were not willing to go.
They had to do some show of force. There was no other way. “Turn on the news, Cadet,” he ordered. A young, pale-crested youth (how young are they these days—he’s barely pubescent, with a crest barely a hand above his head, the general thought) picked up a remote and turned on the local news. This was a forward operating base in one of Messil's proxy countries--originally considered a buffer to a buffer, now quickly becoming a frontline. Already, Keshin broadcasts had begun to make their way to the local air waves.
Kolisk’s crest flared red as Nulahk Rut—the Keshin’s dictator of twenty years—denied any and all involvement in the spy attack. This denial, of course, did not stop him from sending in occupation forces. What Messiln troops were left were now, conveniently, POWs.
“Look at him insulting us,” Kolisk growled. “It’s mockery. He’s just daring us to counter-attack.”
The same pale-crested youth turned to his leader. “General Kolisk,” he asked, “What do we do?”
“The only option left to us.” He took a corded phone from his desk. It had no numbers to dial—it was connected to exactly one person.
“Madame Minister,” he said as he heard the phone lifted by the most powerful woman in the world a thousand miles away, back in Messil—a land he too often dreamed of, and one he knew he would not be seeing any time soon.
“Speaking.” Minister Mayis responded with an aged, gruff voice that seemed uncharacteristic for a woman who had, before her political office, frequently won beauty pageants.
“Do we have a go to begin reclamation?” He asked. He wasted no time pretending he had any other motive than to take back what was rightfully under Messiln occupation.
“You understand what you’re suggesting. This isn't just a proxy country or two. This is a full-scale military operation. This is—“
“No, Minister, it doesn't have to come to that.”
A moment of fertile silence—he could sense (or simply guess) a mixture of relief and interest.
“Go on, General,” Mayis said, guarded.
“We mobilize our sleepers. Not the proxies—they’re all dead or compromised. We mobilize our Shessen assets, and begin Operation Blacksong.”
“What you’re suggesting—“
“Is a contingency plan that has been in development and absolute secrecy for two decades. There is no better time to use it. It will sow absolute discord in their highest ranks, it will disorganize them down to each and every fire team. It was made to shatter their spine, and it will do just that.”
“It’s awful convenient timing, isn’t it? That itself would give it away—“
“It’s awful convenient for their own officials, too. Or did you forget what Rut does to his second in command whenever he gets a boost in power?”
He had overstepped his bounds with that comment, and he knew it as the words escaped his mouth. Silence followed, and he winced in it, knowing all too well his suggestion had permanently fallen on deaf ears—
“You’re right, general,” said Mayis. Kolisk blinked back into reality. “There is no time more necessary. I’ll place the calls now.”
She hung up. And for the first time in 28 hours, Kolisk smiled, confident the Keshin victory would be short-lived. Confident in his revenge.
--
Nulahk, if he knew the story, would be feeling quite like the boy who cried wolf. How many black operations had he denied? How many of his spies had swallowed poison for his cause; how many had he refused to acknowledge ever existed? The Messiln had seen through him in the past, and now his denial was as good as an affirmation.
He could only hope that the desperation in his eye could prove his innocence. He could not say, on public television, that he was retaking the lands due to their arability, to alleviate the widespread starvation in rural countries—such things were publicly denied. He had absolutely no options left.
He was about to bring about the end of the world and it just wasn’t fair. He’d planned everything. He had sleepers, yes—but none there, certainly none so well-coordinated and expert. He didn’t have any kind of grand operation like this planned, and as far as he knew, neither did any of his own officers.
For once in his life, Nulahk Rut was innocent.
—Meanwhile, on CSH Frontier Spacedock 2188, the C.S.H.S. Feynman is about to undock.—
The Feynman was more than an exploration ship, more than a battle vessel—it was a spacebound city. Five thousand souls, three and a half civilian, either family to the crew or bold merchants and pilots out to stake their living in the frontier—had finally gathered upon its decks and made their homes in its quarters. They all met in a single grand plaza—auditorium was too small a word to describe it—as Admiral Alex Eisen addressed the crew. Sitting in front were the Bridge Officers, and front and center was Captain Alicia Merrill. It was controversial to allow a Captain to command such a massive vessel—the head brass wanted Eisen itself at its helm, but he refused, and had suggested Merrill despite all protests against her rank.He spoke to dozens of species from within the CSH and without. NOAM translators, each part of the Sextant personal computer and fantastically expensive, worked tirelessly with each of them, and so Alex Eisen had the gift of tongues.
“You are about to embark on the most audacious journey in six hundred years. In 2384, the first human reached the Hyades. Within two hundred years, these systems were connected and established the first inter-species government in known history.
“You will be the first exploratory ship to leave the Hyades cluster. Your journey will take you far into the unknown. Whether duty, wanderlust, familial ties, or ambition have brought you here, you are tied by one trait—indominable courage. You go into the great unknown—may all the Hyades learn from your example.”
Uproar and applause. It was an excellent way to send the ship off. The ceremony continued, with the bridge officers each individually introduced. Their ranks were given, they gave their bow to a roaring crowd of five thousand, and they exited stage left.
Eisen had requested Merrill’s presence in his office as soon as possible, whether the ceremony was complete or not. Time was of the essence—not for tactical reasons, but because the human governments and corporations most invested in the Feynman demanded that it take off at precisely the beginning of the new millennium.
“I hope you’ll excuse the hurry, Captain, but the people who paid for the damn ship have a thing for symbolism. Marking a new era for humanity, and all that. I think it’s hubris, myself—if you know your Earth history, you know what happened not too long after the last millennial celebration. And this isn’t about humanity. This is about the CSH.”
He began his briefing without waiting for Captain Merrill’s thoughts on the issue.
“Your first official stop is this planet—Urosa IV.” His sextant shows a star chart which zooms in by orders of magnitude to a green planet with silvery rings, as if by magic. “There’s a sentient, industrialized species there. Our last probe was shot down with a fairly primitive air-to-space missile—going over the data, it looked like a prototype. If they have a space program, it’s still in its budding stages.
“You’re not there to admire the locals. There’s several deposits of auxerite there.” As he said the word, he conjured a picture of an ore, then a soft-blue stone reminiscent of marble, then a fascinatingly complex, three-dimensional molecular model. “That mineral’s used in dozens of ailments. I’m not an expert, but from what I know, if a doctor’s absolutely baffled by a new disease, the first thing they try is auxerite—and it works more often than not, even across species. I can’t describe how valuable that medicine is to us. Given the right chemical catalyst, it’s proven to work on anything from advanced cancer to hay fever, and there’s easily enough on that planet to treat billions of people. You’re going to go to that planet, do your damnedest to negotiate with the locals, and try to open a trade route.
“You know the rules. You’re not to use force if diplomacy doesn’t work. We aren’t going to become a bully empire, even if it means taking some hits. Keep the weapons for real threats—if space travel is revolutionary technology to these people, polarized armor and stun rays should keep you safe from any serious threats. Use discretion and put the safety of your crew before the mission.
“That’s your first mission in a nutshell. Sorry I didn’t give you a chance to speak—our sessions are normally less one-sided.” His speaking began to slow. His Sextant’s projector deactivated, and he sat back in his chair, smiling. “Any questions?”
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OOC: Center your posts, in IC time, a little after the introduction ceremony. You can certainly have your character’s reaction to the ceremony included, however. Take a quick chance to mingle with other PCs, get settled into the setting, your character, and your role, and ask questions, IC or OOC.
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