Starcraft: Perseus

[Xenophon13]

This is a Starcraft/B5/SW/Avatar/Halo Fanfic DaZergRock54444 and I are writing. Here are the first three chapters. More to come.



Prologue

October 3rd, 2546
Unknown Position

There was, simply, a hulk. Once it had been a warship, proud and unyielding until the very end. But now, it was there, drifting. There were, however, two marks of pride still there: an emblem of an eagle beneath a single star clutching an unknown world within an inverted, open triangle of thin, curved lines; and a single word: Perseus.
Though the reactor had long burned through all of its fuel, the engines had long ceased glowing, and the weapons had long fallen silent, the ship still retained its pride, its dignity.
Every once in a while, it would pass through an inhabited system in what had long ago been confirmed by scientists as an endless circuit through the sector. Some still argue to this day that the course had been planned, that the ship was possessed, but those people were few and far between.
Decades before, salvage attempts had been made, all to no gain. The ship refused to divulge its precious cargo, helping propagate the ghost stories surrounding it. But all the salvagers wanted was the physical cargo; weapons, precious metals and the like. The ship, however, had no such thing. What it did have was a story, a saga spanning time and space; unimaginable to most, but there none the less.
The ship has seen wars, and here remains. It stands in its true element, space, as it glides toward whatever destiny is deemed necessary.
The story of the Perseus starts nearly seventy years earlier, at the place none in this region know of: the planet simply called Earth.
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January 5th, 2477
Earth Drydock Facilities; High Orbit: Earth, Sol System.

The lone scientist watched as construction began on the ship that was, in essence, his brainchild.
“Amazing how it goes so quickly from a bunch of random squiggles on a piece of paper to a real hull,” he muttered to himself.
As things stood, the ship was to be the first of its class, while not as massive as the Behemoth-Class Battlecruiser was, this ship was meant to be able to take such an adversary head on and come out able to throw down with another. What made this particular design so superior was in the weapons layout: several heavy slugthrowing cannons, a point defense envelope so airtight that it would make any decent lawyer green with envy were it a legal case, the four plasma turrets on the hammerhead, and, last but definitely not least, the latest rendition of the powerful Yamato Cannon.
The scientist had planned for more features in the concept phase, but didn’t have time to put them in at the actual design phase. The main issue had always been time, command wanted the blueprints almost overnight, and the designer had not been able to come up with any method of placing the other improvements before the deadline.
Those changes had been placed on another set of plans, the ones meant for the eventual reevaluation of the design after ten or so years of useful combat life for the idea. What he didn’t anticipate was the politics involved.
A five-year project quickly evolved into seven, and then to nine, as problems with the workers, materials, everything except the dock itself, began to crop up. And as the project stalled, the more politicians there were to oppose the idea. In the end, all production halted, and the ship was quickly forgotten.
While forgotten, the ship was still there, and if one took the time to look through the dock’s files, one would find the ship listed under the title ’15-A’, with a status of ‘Indefinitely Postponed Pending Review’.
What had been a man’s dream had lost in the battle against politics. Eventually, that region of the dock became abandoned in favor of more advanced facilities, and ship 15-A was considered a permanent resident.
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December 6th, 2499
DSS Aleksander; Standard Orbit: Earth, Sol System

“Are you sure that you want to do this, Admiral?” asked the Russian.
“Of course,” the Admiral replied. “That ship is the best choice for such an assignment. The vessel in berth 15-A is the perfect candidate.”
“I’m only saying that that ship has not been worked on in twenty-two years,” the Russian shot back. “The metal could have rotted away. To say nothing of actually finding the plans.” He let the unspoken question hang in the air.
“This campaign needs a vessel to test what it is that we are bringing to the field, Alexi. That ship is the one. When is the earliest we can have it completed?”
“The ship is essentially completed. All that remains is some electronics and any upgrades made necessary by the time passed. If the workers go to failure, the vessel should be ready by Christmas.”
“Good. The next step is to find the crew. Who did you have in mind?”
“Most of the crew has already been reassigned; all that remains is the Captain and the Executive Officer. I had these two in mind.” The Russian handed over some files.
“Fiske? I remember him. He was the one who reeled in that rogue ship out near Jupiter six years ago, no?”
“Exactly, but he may be a bit, shall we say, unwilling to serve. The XO is a bit more straightforward. Commander Drake would be the perfect foil for any of Fiske’s, issues.”
“Be careful, Alexi, though you have faith in him, I can see only trouble ahead with what you’re thinking. The crew shall be as you chose, but watch yourself; this issue will have severe repercussions if it ever comes to light.”
“The decision was yours, Admiral. The construction will proceed as planned. You will have your ship.”
--------------
Chapter One

January 3rd, 2500
DSS Perseus, High Orbit: Gliease IV

There always was a time and a place. It was the time, they knew the place, or would in a little while; all they needed was the personnel to do whatever was required. When the order to ship out to the Gliease Colony came through, Zachary Fiske had been nearly speechless. After six years of semi-retirement, the forty-something captain was just a little rusty. His most recent combat experience was a small series of maneuvers out in the Jovian region; and that had been a near disaster.
This time, however, he was stuck in command of a ship still in the prototyping phase. And he still had to get his executive officer; he needed to shake down the full crew after that; and then there was the glaring lack of orders to cause even more confusion. All in all, he thought, I’m overdue for my trip to the hell that is HIGHCOM. If I’m lucky, I only get saddled with this accident waiting to happen for a few months, then I get to either go back home, or I get assigned to command a proper Behemoth-Class vessel.
The Perseus was a new ship; fresh out of the dry dock that had been his home for nearly twenty-three years. The class in and of itself was new, some fancy design that was downright tiny compared to the Behemoth-Class cruisers generally in use at the time. The Maverick-Class wasn’t meant to carry a full legion, not on the scale of what something like the Aleksander, the shining star of the fleet, could hold, but the power plant was something else. The Perseus’s reactor could easily put out energy well into the terrajoule range, but that was if all the safeties were disabled. And assuming that the crew was desperate enough to risk a high volatility reactor skipping all the warning signs and going direct to what is colloquially referred to as ‘KABOOM’ and reducing the ship and all its occupancy to atoms. The typical being thought of that as being a bad thing. The sublight engines could pull somewhere around .16c on a really good day, but were normally kept to about .13c. Weaponry was the standard fit for the whole fleet, more than enough guns for what was supposed to happen; though the ship was the testing platform for some new plasma torpedoes that R&D had been cooking up, and off.
Fiske himself was of medium height, slightly above average weight, and was just now starting to show his grey hairs. Decked out in his standard, bells and whistles free, uniform, the captain was just a shade shy of imposing, and really trying to go the rest of the way. His grey eyes looked as though a storm was always going on in his head, and his demeanor was similar. Ready to go into a fight in which no quarter was given nor expected, Fiske would almost certainly be in his element fighting whatever threat the Directorate might send him to assault.
The bridge was laid out slightly differently from the usual way. A fairly long hallway stretching from the bow, just above the Yamato emitters, to about two-thirds back along the hammerhead, the bridge was larger than most. A brand new idea was the fighter bay in the neck. The area was usually crew quarters, but the compressed size of the Maverick-Class meant that what space that wasn’t in use on older models was used, and that what precious few companionways that weren’t one way quickly lost that status.
And yet, here he was, waiting for one of his dropship pilots to pick up his soon to be XO, Tiberius Drake.
“Captain?” one of the techs called out. “Warrant Officer Pilarte just called in. Commander Drake is on his way.”
“Good, good,” Fiske replied. “Inform the Commander that he is to report to my ready room as soon as he is aboard.”
“Yes, sir,” the tech returned as was expected.
The ready room itself was where it belonged, in respect to the adjusted layout of the Maverick-Class of course, which was just off the bridge. The interior was, in a word, simple. A desk, three chairs, a couch, and an end table for said couch. Nothing really personal, understandable as Captain Fiske was the first user of the room and hadn’t taken the time to do much. Somehow, he felt that never would do much. He didn’t want to get too attached to anything here; not the crew, not the ship, not even the food. He sighed and looked out the window. It was going to be a long several months.

--------------

Tiberius Drake sat down in the dropship, nervous with anticipation. It had been a long day and he was tired, but he was too anxious to try to sleep. He had spent 5 years at the academy and another 5 aboard an obsolete science vessel, just for today. He was finally getting to serve aboard a battlecruiser. And this wasn’t just any battlecruiser. This was an elite ship, a test bed for features that may be used on the new Hercules or Minotaur classes. Or so he had been told. The ways of fleet command were mysterious. Even if it was an ancient Leviathan Class, he wouldn’t have minded. It was simply the fact that it was a battlecruiser that counted. He knew many an officer that would sell their souls to be in his position right now. Yes, he was a lucky young man. As he was thinking these things, he found himself beginning to doze off. It’s a long flight, he thought, Might as well…

-------------

“Malik Stevens?”
“That’s me.”
Malik stepped into the circular chamber where he would be fitted with a new CMC. He hated doing this, and couldn’t see why he couldn’t just use his old one. It was probably just another way to make him regret that night, that awful night, when he had accidentally killed the constable of his small Botswanian town. The constable had been harassing a woman, so Malik had provoked him into a fight. The details were blurry, but he had ended up hitting the Constable with a chair. The blow snapped the Constable’s neck, and had landed Malik ten years as a UED marine.
As he stepped onto the foot clamps, machines began to whirr. Robotic arms started placing servo motors and metal plates around him. Other arms welded and riveted these together. The world became a flood of metal and fire. An uncomfortable heat and pressure began to build up inside of him. Just as he thought he couldn’t bear it anymore, the machines stopped. The door at the other end of the chamber opened up. He exited and began to follow the “breaking in run” his HUD had indicated. This made sure the metal plates settled in a position that was conducive to movement, and helped teach marines the layout of the ship. He sighed. It felt good to be back in a CMC. He played some music on his headset, and let the music take his mind elsewhere. Just three more years, he thought. Just three more years.

--------------

Stanislaus VonStadt was bored. He was also angry at the Captain for sending him to pick up the new XO, as if he were some sort of taxi driver. He was the tactical officer for Pete’s sake! To make matters worse, the XO didn’t even pay him any notice, so it would have made no difference if the Captain had sent a dropship pilot. Sulkily, Stan sat at the controls, wishing he had brought his datapad. Behind him, he heard faint snores. The XO had fallen asleep! He grinned wickedly, and punched the stereo, cranking the volume all the way up. The dropship filled with 110 Decibels of Yellow Submarine. The new XO bolted upright, banging his head on the ceiling. He stood there, his immaculate uniform all in shambles, and then asked,
“What was that for?”
“I can’t hear you,” Stan replied, showing no interest in turning the volume down. “You’ll have to speak up.”
Tiberius walked into the cockpit, where the young red haired pilot was innocently turning the joystick and punching buttons. He noticed that the autopilot light was on. He gave the pilot a withering look. The pilot looked back at him and then turned off the music. An awkward silence filled the room.
“Nice to meet you,” Stan said. “My name is Stanislaus VonStadt. I’m the gunnery officer aboard the Perseus. I look forward to serving under you.”
“Commander Tiberius Drake,” The XO replied, “As your superior officer, I ask you never to do that again.”
With that, he went back to his seat without shaking hands and promptly fell back asleep. Stan noticed that one of the XO’s eyes was a prosthetic. He briefly thought about asking the XO how he got it, but thought the better of it.
Just as he too was starting to doze off, he saw the Perseus in the distance. He truly was a thing of beauty. Five fusion engines, a terajoule power core, twenty-four laser turrets, plasma torpedoes, a 10 Megaton Yamato Cannon, 12 Wraiths, 4-5 meters of neosteel hull plating, and best of all, The Birdie, a one Gigaton planet buster nuke. He grinned. The Koprulu Sector was in for a nasty surprise.

[Xenophon13]

Chapter 2
The dropship carrying Tiberius and Stanislaus pulled into the left hammerhead hanger bay. They disembarked and walked down a long hallway to the bridge, where they found the captain and the rest of the bridge crew busily working at their consoles. Tiberius Saluted.
“Commander Tiberius Drake, reporting for duty.”
“At ease commander,” the captain replied, returning the salute. “Allow me to introduce you to our bridge crew. You’ve met Tactical Officer VonStadt.” The man in question was already slinking away. He then motioned to an attractive young woman who appeared to be of Indian descent. “This is our helmswoman Ensign Indira Patel” Next, he gestured toward a stout man working at a console at the side of the bridge. “This is our communications officer, Lieutenant Oliver Armistead.” The captain then pointed out an extremely thin man who was sitting at the gigantic holographic display in the rear of the bridge. “That is Lieutenant Aaron Mitchel, our navigator. And somewhere is our chief engineer, Lieutenant Commander Mikhail Valentov – ah, there he is,” the Captains gaze fell on a well built man with rather beady eyes and brown hair who was off to the side near a console with several missing panels.
“Charmed, I’m sure. I also double as Chief Electrical Officer,” Valentov stated, with a significant Russian accent.
“Mr. Valentov does general fixit work when he isn’t threatening to smash something with a sledgehammer,” the Captain clarified. “The easiest way to get him somewhere is to page him over the intercom.”
“I take it that you have worked together in the past?” Drake queried.
“Long time ago,” Valentov answered. “Some ten, fifteen years past. Speaking of which Captain, you still owe me that case of vodka.”
Drake was just shy of incredulous. “What happened to no betting any alcoholic beverages when aboard a ship?” he asked.
“Why?” Fiske asked, noncommittally. “Vice Admiral Stukov is known for his affinity for vodka.”
Drake was trapped, and he knew it. “Can we get back to the briefing that you were about to give me before you were sidetracked by the Lieutenant Commander here?” he asked.
“Right,” Fiske began, “your duties should have been clarified on the ground, but here is the rundown: First, you are to take over if I am killed or otherwise incapable of executing my duties as Captain. Second, all crew squabbles cross your desk after going through, in this order, the Deck Officer present, the Division Officer, and then Department Head. If you can’t figure it out for yourself, then you pass it on to me, which is almost a guarantee of reprimands and disciplinary action for all. Third, you will, as a general rule, be in command of the tactical bridge, or rather, the bridge we are on now. Fourth, and by far the most important, you are to oversee the Ghosts we will be dragging along. I just said all of that so the powers that be can’t get after me, so please affirm, in writing, that I have informed you of your primary duties.”
“Yes, sir,” Drake replied. He was unable to stop the slight sullen tone he took on whenever he was talking about ghosts.
“Excuse me, Commander?” Fiske asked. “I will not tolerate any sort of insubordination. VonStadt’s antics are one thing, but anything even remotely resembling mutiny will be dealt with swiftly and severely! Do you understand?”
“Perfectly, sir,” Drake replied. “I merely have,” he paused, “personal, reasons to dislike Ghosts.”
“Whether or not those reasons are valid, I don’t want to know,” Fiske said. “But right now, you don’t have a choice in the matter. The fact is, you’re in charge of keeping the Ghosts out of trouble at all times. Is that clear?”
“Crystal, sir,” Drake replied.
“Good. At this point, we’re waiting for Arcuri to finish breaking in his new pilots, after which, we join the rest of the fleet. We do a full briefing at 1400 hours. Until then, you are dismissed.”
With that, Fiske turned around and resumed his overseeing of the bridge tune-ups. This, he thought, is definitely going to be a long few months.

--------------

Down in weapons control, Lieutenant Alexander Morton was contemplating what was about to go down. He knew Stanislaus VonStadt by reputation, but the lieutenant was still leery about letting the man and his eccentric music collection into the laser control suite. Yes, VonStadt could get results, but the price for those results seemed almost too much. Having one’s eardrums blown out by 110 decibels of five hundred forty year old music just didn’t seem very appetizing. But Morton was willing to go to great lengths to gain results, and he had bought several sets of earplugs the minute he had seen the projected crew roster. Just to learn how far my limits extend, he thought. Just then, VonStadt walked in. Morton beckoned to him.
“VonStadt,” he said, “I’m Lieutenant Morton. As of right now, I want you to know that I won’t be putting up with any of your antics. Your reputation stops right here.”
“And just how are you to enforce your rules?” VonStadt asked, acting as though he had heard this speech a thousand times before. “There should be no issue with my being here. You’ll get a cannon fired when it needs firing, don’t worry. I would think that having some sort of music to go with is not too much trouble.”
“All right then,” Morton tossed back. “The volume does not exceed 90 decibels, understand?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Very good. I assume that you know how to operate the cannon. Go set up in your station. Dismissed.”
-------------
Tiberius examined his quarters. They were smaller than the ones he had had on the Galileo, but then again, he wouldn’t have to put up with leaky pipes and rusty walls anymore. He hadn’t brought much with him, so unloading took only about ten minutes. He pulled out clothes, his laptop, some books, and a couple music chips, and arranged them in something resembling a state of order.
He had 45 minutes before he had to go on duty, so he decided to go down to the officer’s mess and have dinner. He had just started a plate of sautéed vegetables when his communicator beeped. “Drake here. What is it?” he asked.
“Uh, sir, this is Lieutenant Jorvan, from security. We need you down in the cantina. There’s been a fight.”
Drake sighed. “What happened to the Deck Officer, Division Commander, and Dept. Head?”
“Well, uh, sir, it involves a ghost.” Jorvan Replied
“All right,” Tiberius said wearily “I’ll be down there immediately.” He stood up. Damn, he thought, I hate not finishing a meal.
-------------
On the bridge, word of the incident in the cantina had just reached Fiske’s ears.
It had to happen sometime, he thought. Just would have hoped that he would have more time to settle in first.
Valentov had headed for engineering a few moments ago, something about temperature fluxuations in the reactor.
Something else to worry about, when the reactor is already going haywire and we have yet to start moving.
“Sir, we’ve just received a transmission from the Aleksander, I think it’s the orders,” Armisted called out.
“Good, send them to my ready room. I’ll review them there.”
-------------
When Tiberius arrived at the cantina, he found a flustered lieutenant Jorvan waiting for him outside the door. He saluted, and then began to fly into the details of what happened. “Well sir it all started and nobody knew and I was at-“
“I’m in a bad mood lieutenant.” Tiberius cut him off. “I don’t like being called away while off duty. Now tell me exactly what happened, and speak slowly.”
“Yes sir,” The young lieutenant replied. “It seems that one of the marines made a bet with another marine that he could ask out this ghost, but apparently Ghost #4 doesn’t respond well to that, so she knocked him out, so then about ten other marines joined the fight, and now there are fifteen unconscious marines on the floor and a ghost who will only talk to a superior officer; which is you, sir.”
“Thank you.” Tiberius replied. “Call medical and have them check on the marines. There’ll be hell to pay for that ghost.” He then walked in. The lieutenant’s explanation had not prepared him for the scene within. The unsuited marines were lying in a neat pile in the center of the room, surrounded by broken bottles, tables, chairs, and bits of food. Sitting alone at the bar, sipping a martini and looking arrogant was ghost #4.
“I wondered when you’d get here.” she said sarcastically. “I was worried that this ship could turn out to be lax on discipline like so many others. I see I was wrong. I suppose you want me to leave?”
“I had something like that in mind.” Tiberius replied. “In fact, I’m calling a meeting for all ghosts at my office in thirty minutes. You are hereby banned from the cantina, pending further notice.” The ghost looked completely unfazed. She gave Tiberius a look of utter disdain and silently walked out. A few marines chuckled but were shut up by a withering look from Tiberius. Although he hated his prosthetic eye, it did make him somewhat more intimidating. As he walked out he ordered an executive lift, normally used in emergencies. He had only 30 minutes to get acquainted with his new office, and didn’t want to waste a second. He knew that any sign of weakness of discomfort on his part would be ruthlessly exploited by the ghosts.
-------------
Back in weapons control, the lights cut out, and the entire compartment started to shake.
“Alright, nobody move!” Morton yelled after the shaking was over. “Give it ten seconds, and then somebody get me a flashlight.”
The ten seconds came and went; the lights still didn’t come back on.
“Where’s that flashlight, people?” Morton asked.
A tech quickly brought one over, and Morton switched it on.
The scene would have been hilarious, save for the fact that there was a large amount of military grade explosives that was unsecured. The people were suspended in the activities that they were engaged in when the power cut.
Morton walked the fifteen meters to the panel containing lighting controls. The controls were all set to active. He found his radio and called Engineering.
“This is Lieutenant Morton in Gunnery to Engineering, is Lieutenant Commander Valentov there?” he asked.
“Just got here when the power cut, give me ten minutes,” Valentov’s voice came back.
Nearly twenty minutes later, power was restored.
“Thank you, but that was almost double your estimate,” Morton said, with just a tinge of sarcasm.
“Picky, picky,” Valentov shot back. “At least I got power restored. The problem was not where it was expected.”
Then the intercom crackled to life.
“All senior officers, report to the Strategic Bridge, in five minutes,” the Captain’s voice came out.
---------

At the same time, Tiberius sat at his desk, looking over the four sullen Ghosts he had been given command of. Two were male and two were female, and all gave the impression that they considered Tiberius to be an insect of some sort. Nevertheless, he was their commanding officer, and had to be obeyed. “So,” Tiberius began, “It seems that up until now, at least one of us does not have a complete understanding of the fact that you all are bound by the same regulations as an ordinary crewman. I have taken this time to warn all of you that any disorderly conduct will not be taken lightly, and will result in loss of privileges and time in the brig. Any questions?” The ghosts shook their heads silently. “Good. You may now leave.” They filed out one at a time. Tiberius sighed. He desperately wanted some dinner, but he had to begin preparing for departure. Suddenly, a loud rumble shook the hall and the lights cut. Tiberius grabbed his communicator and shouted “What the hell just happened?”
“The power just cut out sir, and we think that there might have been an explosion in Engineering,” a voice came out, probably one of the various low level techs that scurried about the ship.
The commander had not quite forgotten about his unruly charges, and gave them a withering stare. “If any of you, and I mean any of you, did this, expect repercussions.”
And with that, the five of them waited for the lights to come back on. When they did, Drake simply sat down, and watched his ghosts as they got as close to twiddling their thumbs as they could possibly get. He barely heard Captain Fiske’s summons, and contented himself with watching.
-----------

“Alright, ladies, gentlemen,” Fiske nodded to each of his senior officers in turn, noting that Commander Drake was absent. “As of half an hour ago, I have our orders. On September seventh of last year, command decided that the time had come to go reclaim some colonies. These colonies did not exist until five years ago when we received garbled transmissions from a region towards the core known as the ‘Koprulu Sector’ to the locals. After having watched them for some time, command decided to bring them into the fold. We have reason to believe that there will be armed resistance, particularly from this so called ‘Terran Confederacy’. We will rejoin the fleet at the edge of the Gliease System and begin the jump to the Koprulu Sector. The estimated timeframe from our departure from here to our arrival there is nearly fourteen months, so everyone goes into cryo. This includes general staff that would otherwise be awake the whole trip. The rendezvous is in four hours; you have until then to stow all of your gear and get your individual departments to the cryo bays. We are going to be part of the advance wave meant to clear out the resistance at the projected emergence point. Any questions?”
Valentov was the first, asking, “What about the power outages? We cannot all go into cryo with the power supplies being so volatile, and of course the reactor may be in quite a state.”
“Point,” Fiske replied. “Ask for volunteers. I won’t force anyone to stay up for fourteen months without relief.”
“We go on shifts,” Valentov countered. “Every two weeks the crew on duty wakes up the next batch on the roster. That way, all get their beauty sleep.”
“Good idea,” Fiske said. “Draw up the shift roster, all departments will be rotating people in and out for general maintenance.” He paused and looked about the room.
“If there are no further questions, dismissed. And someone find out where in God’s name Commander Drake is.”

[Xenophon13]

Chapter Three

In only three short hours, a full shift roster had been drawn up. While he wasn’t up for duty until five months into the journey, Fiske had a feeling that he would be spending most of the voyage out of cryo. There were many reasons, first and foremost among those was his wish to see to it that the mission didn’t train-wreck before it actually started. Though he had almost zero desire to remain in his current position for any extended period, he had his orders, and he would carry them out as close to the letter as the situation permitted.
At this point, Commander Valentov was wrapping up his main report on the power outage earlier.
“As you can see, Captain,” he said, “these wires were expertly spliced, and those rumbles were not the ship straightening itself out. I don’t know the full history of this ship, but that junction isn’t from the original construction, and there wasn’t any warping near engineering due to the pause in construction. In fact, the place where the junction box is was space until last month. I would have expected the leads to the primary transformer to go, not the distribution node the next compartment over, and there might have been some explosions. This was, in my opinion, an act of sabotage.”
Fiske looked up, and it seemed as though the hyperactive aging process common among ship captains on long haul voyages was already in full swing. On a normal captain, it took about six months of nonstop activity to cause such an advanced case, and now, it had only been a few standard hours.
“If I’m reading this right,” Fiske began, “we have a saboteur aboard, and we can do nothing except watch and pray.”
“Effectively, sir,” Valentov replied.
“The most obvious suspects are the ghosts, on the simple fact that we might piss politicians off by simply being here, but they are ruled out by the trackers in their armor, and the fact that they can’t cloak without it,” Fiske rattled off. “Next is Drake, on account of his ‘personal issues’, but even he isn’t that stupid. Another candidate is Stanislaus, simply because he is Stanislaus VonStadt.”
“Drake was reading all of the ghosts the Riot Act in his office,” Valentov countered, “and Stanislaus was in Weapons Control when the outage occurred, Morton can attest to that. And before you ask, that outage was spontaneous, no delayed action whatsoever. One question though.”
Fiske nodded.
“Why was Drake the second suspect?” Valentov queried
“You remember his reaction when I said that he would be supervising the ghosts?” Fiske began his answer with a question.
A nod from Mikhail was his only response.
“After he left the bridge, I did a little bit of digging,” Fiske said. “I learned that his entire immediate family is deceased. Nothing much, many lose their entire family, but what makes this interesting is that they all were found at the same time. All murdered, execution style, and with more than a few favors called in, I learned that the late Mr. Drake had attracted the ire of the regional governor. Put two and two together, and you get a potential political reprisal carried out by ghosts when Commander Drake is thirteen years old. He has a sealed juvie record, and doesn’t really surface until he shows up at a major hospital as a victim of a bombing. Significant scarring to the torso, face, and arms; the left eye was declared a total loss the moment the paramedics saw him. All in all, our Executive Officer has the potential to be significantly unstable, and I don’t enjoy the prospect of having him on a revenge binge.”
“Wise man once said, ‘When in doubt, get a paring knife or a scalpel. If that doesn’t work, use a shotgun.’ Just as effective as the knives, but the gun is quicker than attempting to perform delicate surgery on an issue. If you aim just right, you will hit the heart of the problem with one or more pellets, and be done with it,” Valentov ventured. “Just broach the subject, and if he cracks, lock him in the brig. If he attempts to escape, strap him down. If he is still a problem, this would not be the first time you’ve had to take care of a problem with a nine-millimeter to the skull.” The engineer was referencing the incident near Jupiter, in which a captain named Bradshaw had broken down and was shooting at supposed friendlies left and right. Fiske’s vessel was severely damaged in the attempt to retake it, and in the end, Fiske just took the screaming man to an unused compartment and put him out of his misery.
The look on Fiske’s face said that even Bradshaw was not the first.
“Let’s just file that under last ditch plans for when all else fails,” Fiske replied. “As for when we do enter warp, I want to keep the problems to a minimum, so I’m staying out of cryo. You have your own things to stow, so go take care of that.” Valentov rose to leave. “And on your way out, send Drake in,” Fiske continued. “I beg of you, keep this conversation to yourself. I don’t want anyone knowing of our suspicions just yet. Oh, and bring the plate up to the bridge when it’s ready. You’re dismissed, Mr. Valentov.”
Valentov left the ready room without saying another word. When he arrived in the antechamber that served as Fiske’s waiting room, he said one sentence: “Watch your step in there.”
----------

Malik sat in the mess hall, laughing uproariously with the three other marines that made up his squad. The incident that had occurred previously had given them more than enough to laugh about.
“Aw man,” chuckled the group’s demolitions expert, Nick, “Those guy’s gonna be sore when they wakes up.” It was common knowledge that wounds never healed in cryo. The twelve or so marines involved in the fight would have to spend precious time in rehab with no pay.
“And did you see the look on the XO’s face?” laughed Malik. “He looked like he was gonna kill that ghost.”
“He probably was,” replied Sting, the squad’s firebat.
Only Aaron, the squad’s experimental marauder remained silent, only because he was asleep, drunk. When the meal was over, the four soldiers were sent to their respective cryo pods. Here goes nothing… Malik thought as he jumped inside. He only barely noticed the shaking of warp entry as the dark curtains of cryo sleep washed over him for the next eight months.
---------
As Drake walked in to the office, the air discernibly grew colder.
“I think we know exactly what you’re here about,” Fiske stated, matter of fact. “So I’ll cut to the chase, why did you skip out on that briefing?”
“I found it necessary to make my authority fully clear to the ghosts,” Drake replied, short, sweet, without unnecessary posturing. “I have heard horror stories about undisciplined ghosts, and so the minute an incident occurred I chose to take action. You have my most sincere apology.”
“Understandable,” Fiske remarked, then adding under his breath, “considering your history.”
Drake just raised an eyebrow.
“Nothing,” Fiske recovered. “In any case, we leave within the hour, and you are going directly to cryo. Honestly, the transmissions that we are basing our assumptions on are far too old to be considered useful intelligence. I fear that we will be encountering something beyond our wildest expectations, and are poorly equipped to deal with it.”
“And I assume a plan was drawn up to deal with power outages,” Drake put in. “And I must formally request to be let out of cryo halfway through so that you enter it while I stand duty.”
“Naturally,” Fiske replied. “Well, you might as well go try to get yourself ready for the journey, because once we enter warp, it should be smooth sailing from here to Koprulu. That’s the general prayer around here, especially in Engineering. Oh, and be ready for a rude awakening if I have to order a SCRAM. You’re dismissed, but I want you on the bridge in forty minutes.”
Drake stood, saluted, and walked out in a perfect display of forced professionalism.
If only I knew just what he went through, Fiske thought, then I would be able to at least tell him to snap out of it and soldier on. I know the loss, but the way he lost, I can’t truly threaten to shove my boot up his ass and be willing to do it and not look like a heartless fool.
---------

Gunnery was just settling down for the trip as everyone else was going to sleep. The common knowledge was that Lieutenant Morton was more anal-retentive than the head weapons officer on the Aleksander, who ran a very tight armory. Of course, seeing as how the weapons chief on the Aleksander had been trained by Morton, it was understandable that the Aleksander’s chief was more likely than not to loosen up just a little.
Inventory was done, the ordinance locked down, and the nuke was wrapped in lead, Styrofoam, and cellophane. The only chance of being harmed in this armory would be if someone left something out of place and Morton spotted it, causing a severe reprimand and several months polishing bullets.
“Alright folks, lets lock it down,” Morton called out. “Everything should be sealed, locked, and or disarmed in some way, shape, or fashion. Don’t let me catch something wrong.”
As the ordinance cages were locked, Morton walked down the aisle in what could only be analogous to a barracks inspection. Everything was under the microscope, but in all, this was probably the best time to do the inspection.
------------
The next forty minutes turned the already busy vessel into an invariable hive of activity. The fleet that the Perseus was to rendezvous with was composed of seven ships, including the Aleksander. The decision was that the Perseus would leave first and arrive about a week ahead of the advance fleet, primarily for scouting purposes. This would be a test of the full capabilities of the various bits of technology that the scientists had welded onto the warp core.
When the time came, Fiske was in his already customary place some two meters behind the helm and right on the centerline of the bridge.
“Ms. Patel, bring us up to standard cruising speed toward the rendezvous point,” Fiske ordered easily.
“Aye, sir,” Patel answered coolly. “Standard cruising speed toward the fleet, estimated time of arrival: ten minutes.”
Fiske just smiled, and at that point, Valentov came onto the bridge with a team of four engineers carrying a large, and oddly shaped, object covered in a black sheet, and judging by the way the engineers were struggling with it, it was heavy.
“Just finished it,” Valentov said. “Do you want me to put it in the usual place?”
“Try to mount it, but keep it covered,” Fiske replied. “I want this to be ready when we reach the rest of the fleet.”
At that, Valentov gestured to an unused section of plating at the rear of the bridge, and the team was fast at work in bolting whatever it was to the wall without removing the cover.
Sometime later Drake came on, obviously a little happier, though not much. He raised an eyebrow at the covered parcel, but walked right to the Captain.
“Sir, we’ve reached the fleet,” Patel stated.
“Good. Set course for the Koprulu Sector,” Fiske ordered. “Then set the timer for five minutes.”
The course was laid in, and the timer set. There now were only two things left on Fiske’s to-do list; and for the first of which, he produced a piece of paper from an inner pocket of his coat and a clipboard both of which he handed to Drake.
“Sign it or run for the escape pods,” Fiske said nonchalantly.
“A Medical Release form?” Drake asked. “Since when do I need a Medical Release form to do a tour of duty?”
“Since we are using experimental technology that might or might not have unwanted side effects. Just like before, this is so that the powers that be don’t come after me.”
Drake signed, and with a slight flourish, Fiske took the form away and placed it in his coat pocket again.
The mission clock read “–3:27”
“Activate the main intercom,” Fiske said. When it was done he began to speak. “Ladies and gentlemen of the crew, you all know why we are here, and where we are going. I must say that we stand a very good chance of not coming back at all, but that is a risk we all take as soldiers for the Directorate. There is one thing that, in our haste to leave dry dock, we forgot to do; officially, this is an unnamed ship. As such, I would like to present to you the official christening of this vessel; ladies and gentlemen, I give you the EDF-1337, DSS Perseus!”
At that moment the black curtain came off of the parcel, revealing a Greek shield bisected by a sword top to bottom, with the Directorate crest inscribed on the shield and the words Do or Die along the top edge. The bridge crew clapped as Fiske smashed a champagne bottle on it.
“Take us away Ms. Patel,” the captain said coolly.
Observers on the sun soaked plains of Gliese colony saw only a flash of light in the distance as the DSS Perseus sped toward the unknown.

[Xenophon13]

BTW, we welcome any comments and/or criticism.

[pieman3141]

Looks good so far. Nothing glaringly bad.

[Xenophon13]

Looks good so far. Nothing glaringly bad.

Because we're alternating parts, it'll need some editing.

[DaZergRock54444]

Personally, I find anyone who points out any errors is a good person. If we don't have someone like that, then we are just setting ourselves up for failure.
*I am the co-author if anyone asks*

[Night_stalker]

Not bad so far. Has a lot of potential, and keep up the good work!