Red Banner / White Star: A nBSG continuation fic. Chpt. 4.0
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Re: Red Banner / White Star: A nBSG continuation fic. Chpt.
Thanks for getting everyone's hopes up, you necroing dickhead. Fucking newbies...
I never would have thought I would wholeheartedly agree with Coffee... - fgalkin x2
Honestly, this board is so fucking stupid at times. - Thanas
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The Duchess of Zeon
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Re: Red Banner / White Star: A nBSG continuation fic. Chpt.
Podshort 3.1 Early History Short -- part one.
Night Train to Munich,
From West Berlin.
14 August 1974.
A man in crisp evening dress stepped back out of the restaurant car to his compartment for the night. There was something still charming about the trains of the era, and a very real level of tension on this one. With neatly slicked back hair, dark features and a gitane set in his lips he was likely French, and leaving West Berlin on business back to Munich, and then perhaps on to Paris the next day? The train would be in the charming Bavaria city by dawn, traveling as a sealed train through East Germany. Outside of the windows the communist lands clicked by steadily, and he returned to his compartment without incident. The porter had set out a glass of wine and the steady click of the wheels as they accelerated toward the border controls (just inspections for the train, since it passed through East Germany without stopping) was calming.
At 2200, the conductor walked down the car to go deal with some matter or another. There was a light knock on the door just down the car as he slipped a bit over a rough section of track. The man in evening dress was sipping his wine and reading Der Spiegel. Thirty minutes later another man got out of his compartment and walked along the hall of the car, going to the bathroom. He was in the bathroom for five minutes, waiting until he could hear no sounds from the car. Then he returned to his compartment.
Seventeen minutes later the train screamed to a halt after an emergency torpedo went off under the engine. Six Stasi cars raced up alongside on the service road, two men with submachineguns going forward to the engines while the others rushed to the rear cars of the train and boarded at once. They began searching from one end of the train while the Stasi officers at the front made their way back from the baggage car. When they found the man in the second compartment he was arrested at once, not even raising his voice. Understanding the importance of the situation, they made immediately to search the car.
One of the officers knocked firmly on the door of the man in evening dress. "Document check, open your door!"
The door was opened a moment later, with a, "Monsieur polizei? ...Ah, Kamerad?" His expression was a bit bemused and more respectful at once as his first words trailed off into futility and he took another puff on his gitane.
"Papers, please."
"Jawohl," the man answered, switching from French to German very smoothly. He reached into the inside pocket of his evening jacket and pulled out his passport, train ticket, and travel visa, handing them over. "West Berlin to Munich and then to Strasbourg," he remarked calmly, settling his cigarette into his right hand. "Want a smoke, kamerad?"
"That's not necessary," the Stasi officer sneered as he looked through the documents for a long moment. Then he performed a search of the compartment as the man stood in the hall along with most of the other sleeping car passengers, many in their nightclothes. Finding nothing interesting, they gave up. He received his documents back from them ten minutes later, and twenty minutes after that--a two hour delay in all--the train started rolling again, while the Stasi officers drove off in their unmarked black Volvos.
The man in evening dress lit another cigarette and kept reading Der Spiegel. They crossed the border three hours later with the usual cursory inspection and no further incident, though many of the passengers were talking among themselves about the unheard of search of a sealed train, and arrest of a man on it. It would certainly lead to diplomatic protests, perhaps all the way up to the United Nations!
Inside his compartment, the man in evening dress wondered exactly what he was retrieving; the man had given his life to get it out to the west, after all, in a very unusual sort of encounter. Once they were clear of the border, he stood up and walked to the bathroom. He was quite aware there would be Stasi or possibly KGB agents on the train still watching everyone from the regular passenger manifest.
What does a man give up his life for with such certainty, with such little hope, anyway? It wasn't a question he could answer, but what he could do is make it count. Five minutes of searching found the crevice filled with a manila envelope which he pulled out. Opening it, inside there was a sheaf of pictures and documents. The man in the evening dress folded up the end, sealed it with the metal tabs, and shoved it under his evening jacket, returning to his room. After putting it into his attache case, he called the porter to have his bed put down to sleep until they got to Munich.
There was no need to look at the documents more closely, other than to confirm that he had them. That would be for the analysts to do. He had performed his job, and that was all that mattered. Now it was just a question of getting back to Paris.
Night Train to Munich,
From West Berlin.
14 August 1974.
A man in crisp evening dress stepped back out of the restaurant car to his compartment for the night. There was something still charming about the trains of the era, and a very real level of tension on this one. With neatly slicked back hair, dark features and a gitane set in his lips he was likely French, and leaving West Berlin on business back to Munich, and then perhaps on to Paris the next day? The train would be in the charming Bavaria city by dawn, traveling as a sealed train through East Germany. Outside of the windows the communist lands clicked by steadily, and he returned to his compartment without incident. The porter had set out a glass of wine and the steady click of the wheels as they accelerated toward the border controls (just inspections for the train, since it passed through East Germany without stopping) was calming.
At 2200, the conductor walked down the car to go deal with some matter or another. There was a light knock on the door just down the car as he slipped a bit over a rough section of track. The man in evening dress was sipping his wine and reading Der Spiegel. Thirty minutes later another man got out of his compartment and walked along the hall of the car, going to the bathroom. He was in the bathroom for five minutes, waiting until he could hear no sounds from the car. Then he returned to his compartment.
Seventeen minutes later the train screamed to a halt after an emergency torpedo went off under the engine. Six Stasi cars raced up alongside on the service road, two men with submachineguns going forward to the engines while the others rushed to the rear cars of the train and boarded at once. They began searching from one end of the train while the Stasi officers at the front made their way back from the baggage car. When they found the man in the second compartment he was arrested at once, not even raising his voice. Understanding the importance of the situation, they made immediately to search the car.
One of the officers knocked firmly on the door of the man in evening dress. "Document check, open your door!"
The door was opened a moment later, with a, "Monsieur polizei? ...Ah, Kamerad?" His expression was a bit bemused and more respectful at once as his first words trailed off into futility and he took another puff on his gitane.
"Papers, please."
"Jawohl," the man answered, switching from French to German very smoothly. He reached into the inside pocket of his evening jacket and pulled out his passport, train ticket, and travel visa, handing them over. "West Berlin to Munich and then to Strasbourg," he remarked calmly, settling his cigarette into his right hand. "Want a smoke, kamerad?"
"That's not necessary," the Stasi officer sneered as he looked through the documents for a long moment. Then he performed a search of the compartment as the man stood in the hall along with most of the other sleeping car passengers, many in their nightclothes. Finding nothing interesting, they gave up. He received his documents back from them ten minutes later, and twenty minutes after that--a two hour delay in all--the train started rolling again, while the Stasi officers drove off in their unmarked black Volvos.
The man in evening dress lit another cigarette and kept reading Der Spiegel. They crossed the border three hours later with the usual cursory inspection and no further incident, though many of the passengers were talking among themselves about the unheard of search of a sealed train, and arrest of a man on it. It would certainly lead to diplomatic protests, perhaps all the way up to the United Nations!
Inside his compartment, the man in evening dress wondered exactly what he was retrieving; the man had given his life to get it out to the west, after all, in a very unusual sort of encounter. Once they were clear of the border, he stood up and walked to the bathroom. He was quite aware there would be Stasi or possibly KGB agents on the train still watching everyone from the regular passenger manifest.
What does a man give up his life for with such certainty, with such little hope, anyway? It wasn't a question he could answer, but what he could do is make it count. Five minutes of searching found the crevice filled with a manila envelope which he pulled out. Opening it, inside there was a sheaf of pictures and documents. The man in the evening dress folded up the end, sealed it with the metal tabs, and shoved it under his evening jacket, returning to his room. After putting it into his attache case, he called the porter to have his bed put down to sleep until they got to Munich.
There was no need to look at the documents more closely, other than to confirm that he had them. That would be for the analysts to do. He had performed his job, and that was all that mattered. Now it was just a question of getting back to Paris.
The threshold for inclusion in Wikipedia is verifiability, not truth. -- Wikipedia's No Original Research policy page.
In 1966 the Soviets find something on the dark side of the Moon. In 2104 they come back. -- Red Banner / White Star, a nBSG continuation story. Updated to Chapter 4.0 -- 14 January 2013.
In 1966 the Soviets find something on the dark side of the Moon. In 2104 they come back. -- Red Banner / White Star, a nBSG continuation story. Updated to Chapter 4.0 -- 14 January 2013.
Re: Red Banner / White Star: A nBSG continuation fic. Chpt.
This is probably the only topic on the board I have an email notification set for. Almost worth the wait, wish there was more!
∞
XXXI
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The Duchess of Zeon
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Re: Red Banner / White Star: A nBSG continuation fic. Chpt.
Phantasee wrote:This is probably the only topic on the board I have an email notification set for. Almost worth the wait, wish there was more!
I have to be in a very specific mood to write Kissinger.
The threshold for inclusion in Wikipedia is verifiability, not truth. -- Wikipedia's No Original Research policy page.
In 1966 the Soviets find something on the dark side of the Moon. In 2104 they come back. -- Red Banner / White Star, a nBSG continuation story. Updated to Chapter 4.0 -- 14 January 2013.
In 1966 the Soviets find something on the dark side of the Moon. In 2104 they come back. -- Red Banner / White Star, a nBSG continuation story. Updated to Chapter 4.0 -- 14 January 2013.
Re: Red Banner / White Star: A nBSG continuation fic. Chpt.
It's good to see this updated.
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The Duchess of Zeon
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Re: Red Banner / White Star: A nBSG continuation fic. Chpt.
Podshort 3.1 Early History Short -- part two.
White House Situation Room
Washington, D.C.
18 August 1974.
“Some new intelligence on the situation with Cyprus?” President Ford looked up and then frowned as he saw that Henry Kissinger—presently wearing two hats as both Secretary of State and National Security Advisor—was leading a bevy of high ranking officers in tow from all three services. That looked even more serious than the summons had been, and CIA director George Bush for that matter, a combination in short which was never a good sign.
“Mister President.” Kissinger nodded firmly and gestured to Bush, who stepped up to the projector in the rather moldy dungeon that was the Situation Room below the White House, taking a slide and activating it immediately.
“We have received intelligence data from inside the Soviet Union, at cost in life, which finally explains Andropov’s massive space programme,” Kissinger explained as they got the projector running. And I wish Nixon was still here to deal with it, he fumed quietly within.
“That is pretty important, and it doesn’t look like you’ve found anything good. Go ahead.” Like you were going to do already. Having been President for less than a fortnight, Ford was profoundly aware of how these international crises were trying him.
The image came into focus, and Ford squinted and frowned. “That’s an image from the surface of the moon. And that’s a crashed airplane. What’s it doing there?” He only realized afterwards how stupid that sounded, and…
“It was almost certainly not created by a human artifice, Mister President,” Kissinger answered flatly. “And the Soviets found it, based on the time-stamps on these photos, in 1966. Before we landed on the Moon. We explored. They reoriented themselves to go for the bigger prize.”
“My God…” Ford coughed into his hankerchief. “This, this has already been confirmed, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, Mister President,” Director Bush spoke that time. “We weren’t going to show it to you until I was personally willing to stake my career on it. We got ahold of the files three days ago, they were sent by a chartered Concorde straight here to NSA for processing.”
Ford grabbed a pen and tapped it against the table several times. “Damnation. Well, when did this spaceship crash?”
“The accompanying documents suggest the Soviets, at least, concluded it was tens of thousands of years old,” Bush answered severely. “There’s likely no threat from the aliens themselves in the short term, if they haven’t come back for it now they are unlikely to do so in the future. The problem is the technology that can be obtained from it. The Soviets think that includes advanced alloys and computer architecture, possibly weapons, certrainly an enormous glut of very sophisticated technology which could alter the balance of power and turn the Soviet Union into the technological and innovation powerhouse of the world. It is in our estimate a very serious threat to the free world.”
“I see. I see.” He settled back in his chair and regarded the rest of the slide show in relative quiet, including the full reports on the analysis, the details of the spacecraft size estimates and so on. “How did we get this information?”
“Some of our agents we’ve recruited inside the Soviet Union secured an information packet we believe is being used as orientation for persons in the project, possibly including Cosmonauts but also those expected to analyze it.”
“We need our own people to get there as fast as they can and analyze it too, don’t we? Well, thank God we didn’t cancel Saturn.”
“Mister President,” Kissinger answered very grimly, stepping back into the conversation, “we believe that will not be possible in relatively short order. The Soviet operations to bring supplies up to Berkut are very consistent with a Mars mission. We know they have already used aircraft to test operation of a nuclear reactor suitable for spacecraft use. We had not expected them to launch a mission to Mars until 1977, but that required a substantial amount of additional material to be brought to the Berkut station. More consumables, oxygen, reactant mass, even with a nuclear reactor for power. A dedicated lander. None of this is necessary when they’re heading to the Moon with the kind of spacecraft that they’re building. In short, they’re going to be able to launch this operation next year. We think for symbolic reasons it will start either soon enough for the Soviets to complete the mission for a proclaimation on Victory Day, or else on the anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution at the outside.”
“So what are you trying to tell me? We can still get there after they do,” Ford fumed.
“We found a final detail in the documents. I’ll ask Director Bush to explain.” He nodded.
The Navy veteran took over. “It was information about operation of docking arms and claws on their own spacecraft, Mister President, of a type essentially similar in space to the Capture Vehicle—Clementine—used in our attempt to salvage the Target Object during Project Azorian.”
“That Soviet sub in the Pacific!” Ford was on a bit firmer ground, there. “Wait, you mean…”
“Yes, Mister President. The Soviets are gunning for the entire spaceship. They want to use a nuclear powered spacecraft of their own to salvage it from the Moon. And that’s what makes the design of Berkut station finally make sense. The reason for the pressurized hangar bay is so they can conduct shirt-sleeve scientific analysis of the entire spaceship at their leisure, shielded from our reconaissance and without any need for a spacewalk. No limitations, strip it down to its base components and see how they’re put together. And we get nothing.”
“We have to take this to the United Nations…”
“Mister President,” Kissinger interjected vigorously. “It’s pointless. Andropov has bet the farm on this operation. He has oriented the entire Soviet economy, succeeded in disarming the traditional military, to focus everything on this project. He has guaranteed his own removal from power if this operation fails by doing so. He has concentrated all Soviet scientific development on this project, and arguably used it as an excuse to crush his opposition and go after corruption in the Soviet power structure. He cannot fail. It is quite possible that only a nuclear war would stop him, and the Soviets now have the ABM capability to make even that sort of threat questionable. We would not only lose a great deal of the CIA network in the Soviet Union and see many good men shot and their families imprisoned, but we’d gain nothing from it except for a massive and concerted Soviet effort to keep us from succeeding and keep the spacecraft in their hands.”
“What you’re telling me is that we have to accept that they’ve already won!?”
“No, Mister President.” Kissinger composed himself. “Project Azorian failed to recover most of its objective. The Soviets may fail to recover the entire spacecraft, or any of it. We need to create the consensus within Congress to make sure that they only get one clean shot. If they miss, we need to retrieve the alien spaceship before they can try again. And even if they succeed, we have evidence that there is a debris field from a substantially larger alien spaceship on the moon in the vicinity of this one, which may have just been a shuttle or lander of some type. Even hull plating from an alien interstellar spaceship may be a major boost to science in the United States and could go a long way toward saving us from complete Soviet technological and ultimately political domination.”
Ford folded his head into his hands. “How do we get this past Congress. My God…”
Nixon would have found a way. Kissinger fumed again. He couldn’t do much else, at this point. Congress, in Kissinger’s opinion, existed primarily to be exactly what it would be now: An obstacle.
White House Situation Room
Washington, D.C.
18 August 1974.
“Some new intelligence on the situation with Cyprus?” President Ford looked up and then frowned as he saw that Henry Kissinger—presently wearing two hats as both Secretary of State and National Security Advisor—was leading a bevy of high ranking officers in tow from all three services. That looked even more serious than the summons had been, and CIA director George Bush for that matter, a combination in short which was never a good sign.
“Mister President.” Kissinger nodded firmly and gestured to Bush, who stepped up to the projector in the rather moldy dungeon that was the Situation Room below the White House, taking a slide and activating it immediately.
“We have received intelligence data from inside the Soviet Union, at cost in life, which finally explains Andropov’s massive space programme,” Kissinger explained as they got the projector running. And I wish Nixon was still here to deal with it, he fumed quietly within.
“That is pretty important, and it doesn’t look like you’ve found anything good. Go ahead.” Like you were going to do already. Having been President for less than a fortnight, Ford was profoundly aware of how these international crises were trying him.
The image came into focus, and Ford squinted and frowned. “That’s an image from the surface of the moon. And that’s a crashed airplane. What’s it doing there?” He only realized afterwards how stupid that sounded, and…
“It was almost certainly not created by a human artifice, Mister President,” Kissinger answered flatly. “And the Soviets found it, based on the time-stamps on these photos, in 1966. Before we landed on the Moon. We explored. They reoriented themselves to go for the bigger prize.”
“My God…” Ford coughed into his hankerchief. “This, this has already been confirmed, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, Mister President,” Director Bush spoke that time. “We weren’t going to show it to you until I was personally willing to stake my career on it. We got ahold of the files three days ago, they were sent by a chartered Concorde straight here to NSA for processing.”
Ford grabbed a pen and tapped it against the table several times. “Damnation. Well, when did this spaceship crash?”
“The accompanying documents suggest the Soviets, at least, concluded it was tens of thousands of years old,” Bush answered severely. “There’s likely no threat from the aliens themselves in the short term, if they haven’t come back for it now they are unlikely to do so in the future. The problem is the technology that can be obtained from it. The Soviets think that includes advanced alloys and computer architecture, possibly weapons, certrainly an enormous glut of very sophisticated technology which could alter the balance of power and turn the Soviet Union into the technological and innovation powerhouse of the world. It is in our estimate a very serious threat to the free world.”
“I see. I see.” He settled back in his chair and regarded the rest of the slide show in relative quiet, including the full reports on the analysis, the details of the spacecraft size estimates and so on. “How did we get this information?”
“Some of our agents we’ve recruited inside the Soviet Union secured an information packet we believe is being used as orientation for persons in the project, possibly including Cosmonauts but also those expected to analyze it.”
“We need our own people to get there as fast as they can and analyze it too, don’t we? Well, thank God we didn’t cancel Saturn.”
“Mister President,” Kissinger answered very grimly, stepping back into the conversation, “we believe that will not be possible in relatively short order. The Soviet operations to bring supplies up to Berkut are very consistent with a Mars mission. We know they have already used aircraft to test operation of a nuclear reactor suitable for spacecraft use. We had not expected them to launch a mission to Mars until 1977, but that required a substantial amount of additional material to be brought to the Berkut station. More consumables, oxygen, reactant mass, even with a nuclear reactor for power. A dedicated lander. None of this is necessary when they’re heading to the Moon with the kind of spacecraft that they’re building. In short, they’re going to be able to launch this operation next year. We think for symbolic reasons it will start either soon enough for the Soviets to complete the mission for a proclaimation on Victory Day, or else on the anniversary of the Bolshevik Revolution at the outside.”
“So what are you trying to tell me? We can still get there after they do,” Ford fumed.
“We found a final detail in the documents. I’ll ask Director Bush to explain.” He nodded.
The Navy veteran took over. “It was information about operation of docking arms and claws on their own spacecraft, Mister President, of a type essentially similar in space to the Capture Vehicle—Clementine—used in our attempt to salvage the Target Object during Project Azorian.”
“That Soviet sub in the Pacific!” Ford was on a bit firmer ground, there. “Wait, you mean…”
“Yes, Mister President. The Soviets are gunning for the entire spaceship. They want to use a nuclear powered spacecraft of their own to salvage it from the Moon. And that’s what makes the design of Berkut station finally make sense. The reason for the pressurized hangar bay is so they can conduct shirt-sleeve scientific analysis of the entire spaceship at their leisure, shielded from our reconaissance and without any need for a spacewalk. No limitations, strip it down to its base components and see how they’re put together. And we get nothing.”
“We have to take this to the United Nations…”
“Mister President,” Kissinger interjected vigorously. “It’s pointless. Andropov has bet the farm on this operation. He has oriented the entire Soviet economy, succeeded in disarming the traditional military, to focus everything on this project. He has guaranteed his own removal from power if this operation fails by doing so. He has concentrated all Soviet scientific development on this project, and arguably used it as an excuse to crush his opposition and go after corruption in the Soviet power structure. He cannot fail. It is quite possible that only a nuclear war would stop him, and the Soviets now have the ABM capability to make even that sort of threat questionable. We would not only lose a great deal of the CIA network in the Soviet Union and see many good men shot and their families imprisoned, but we’d gain nothing from it except for a massive and concerted Soviet effort to keep us from succeeding and keep the spacecraft in their hands.”
“What you’re telling me is that we have to accept that they’ve already won!?”
“No, Mister President.” Kissinger composed himself. “Project Azorian failed to recover most of its objective. The Soviets may fail to recover the entire spacecraft, or any of it. We need to create the consensus within Congress to make sure that they only get one clean shot. If they miss, we need to retrieve the alien spaceship before they can try again. And even if they succeed, we have evidence that there is a debris field from a substantially larger alien spaceship on the moon in the vicinity of this one, which may have just been a shuttle or lander of some type. Even hull plating from an alien interstellar spaceship may be a major boost to science in the United States and could go a long way toward saving us from complete Soviet technological and ultimately political domination.”
Ford folded his head into his hands. “How do we get this past Congress. My God…”
Nixon would have found a way. Kissinger fumed again. He couldn’t do much else, at this point. Congress, in Kissinger’s opinion, existed primarily to be exactly what it would be now: An obstacle.
The threshold for inclusion in Wikipedia is verifiability, not truth. -- Wikipedia's No Original Research policy page.
In 1966 the Soviets find something on the dark side of the Moon. In 2104 they come back. -- Red Banner / White Star, a nBSG continuation story. Updated to Chapter 4.0 -- 14 January 2013.
In 1966 the Soviets find something on the dark side of the Moon. In 2104 they come back. -- Red Banner / White Star, a nBSG continuation story. Updated to Chapter 4.0 -- 14 January 2013.
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richard3116
- Redshirt
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- Joined: 2011-03-05 02:18am
Re: Red Banner / White Star: A nBSG continuation fic. Chpt.
Wow, I’m glad this is back.
I just read the story from first post for the first time.
Another great BSG fic, the whole Soviet focus is very intriguing and the other elements (genetic engineering, immortally, AI slavery) are well worked in.
I’m not sure yet whether I like the back story more than the main plot
Looking forward to more and thanks for sharing.
I just read the story from first post for the first time.
Another great BSG fic, the whole Soviet focus is very intriguing and the other elements (genetic engineering, immortally, AI slavery) are well worked in.
I’m not sure yet whether I like the back story more than the main plot
Looking forward to more and thanks for sharing.
-
Simon_Jester
- Emperor's Hand
- Posts: 30165
- Joined: 2009-05-23 07:29pm
Re: Red Banner / White Star: A nBSG continuation fic. Chpt.
Ooooh. Shiny.
Weirdly, my mental focus during this scene was in large part on the portrayal of President Ford. It seems to me that while he's asking 'dumb' questions and saying 'dumb' things, he's got a pretty good grasp of the priorities. "What is that doing there?" "How long ago did it crash?" "What can we do?"
I don't know, there's something interesting about the idea of a 'stupid' character who's actually being logical about solving problems as efficiently as they can, and just doesn't have immense creative genius or the knack for sounding smart. As opposed to cartoonishly stupid characters who exist to be obstructionist.
Weirdly, my mental focus during this scene was in large part on the portrayal of President Ford. It seems to me that while he's asking 'dumb' questions and saying 'dumb' things, he's got a pretty good grasp of the priorities. "What is that doing there?" "How long ago did it crash?" "What can we do?"
I don't know, there's something interesting about the idea of a 'stupid' character who's actually being logical about solving problems as efficiently as they can, and just doesn't have immense creative genius or the knack for sounding smart. As opposed to cartoonishly stupid characters who exist to be obstructionist.
This space dedicated to Vasily Arkhipov
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The Duchess of Zeon
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Re: Red Banner / White Star: A nBSG continuation fic. Chpt.
Ford had a reputation for being an affable dunce, but he actually got a surprising lot done during his very short presidential term, a fair bit of which was actually good. All in all I was trying to keep both those things in mind.
The threshold for inclusion in Wikipedia is verifiability, not truth. -- Wikipedia's No Original Research policy page.
In 1966 the Soviets find something on the dark side of the Moon. In 2104 they come back. -- Red Banner / White Star, a nBSG continuation story. Updated to Chapter 4.0 -- 14 January 2013.
In 1966 the Soviets find something on the dark side of the Moon. In 2104 they come back. -- Red Banner / White Star, a nBSG continuation story. Updated to Chapter 4.0 -- 14 January 2013.
Re: Red Banner / White Star: A nBSG continuation fic. Chpt.
Thanks for the update, it was great! Still eager for more.
∞
XXXI
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The Duchess of Zeon
- Gözde
- Posts: 14566
- Joined: 2002-09-18 01:06am
- Location: Exiled in the Pale of Settlement.
Re: Red Banner / White Star: A nBSG continuation fic. Chpt.
Podshort 3.2 Late History Short
Merchant ship “Marija Zeleska”,
International Waters off Singapore
8 June, 2092.
The rules of the game had changed a fair bit in the past century, of course. It was no longer possible for ships to easily go anywhere on the planet without being regularly tracked. But storms still happened, and in the middle of the Pacific or Atlantic, there were more storms, not less. Both global warming and early attempts at weather control had produced a backlash of more extreme weather.
Storms produced a window in which vessels were not being monitored. In that kind of window, it was then possible for a vessel to take on a new tracking identity. If it was done right.
Of course, the KGB was generally the master of doing things right when it came to espionage related activities. And the “Marija Zeleska”, a typical 3,000 TEU handymax freighter of the era, with her two full composite masts and four half-mast/cranes, supplemented by four Flettner Rotors and fuel-cell powered electrically driven screws as required, as boringly typical by the standards of the decade.
Her bow, though; that was different. Just slightly different. Most Soviet freighters were ice-hardened in this size category to work through the Northeast Passage and Northwest Passage, both of which were now open to shipping year round, but still had treacherous ice conditions in winter. That, and the internal structure being reinforced for war.
That one was more subtle, but it was mostly an issue with the number of scuttles. Still, in combination, a ship buff at Singapore had noticed it, and made a blog post to the suspicious port activity site for the Singaporean police. They had started an investigation just to see the ship slip out of port.
At the time, though, she hadn’t been known as the Marija Zeleska. She had been known as the Coughlin Trader and was flying a Panamanian flag of convenience. Port anti-terrorist security had some analysts trained to deal with at least some cases of espionage, like this.
They quickly realized what the ship was and contacted EETO naval units to converge on her as she slipped north through the Gulf of Thailand toward the Socialist Republic of Vietnam. Royal Thai Navy ships had pushed more than 30kts to the southeast to converge.
As they approached, the Marija Zeleska unmasked her 57mm autocannon concealed in the forecastle and quarterdeck and trained them from the port beam against the approaching Thai frigates while helicopters bore down overhead, the crews of the copters turning away hard as their countermeasures went hot with the squealing noise warning them that IR seekers were tracking to acquire.
Their surveillance cameras showed personnel in KGB Maritime Forces uniforms aiming MANPADs from the deck.
Warning shots rattled from the 57mm cannon, splashes across the bows of the Thai frigates. As the guns thundered, an immense flag—in size, worthy of an American car dealership—fluttered up the mizzen yard.
It was the ensign of the Soviet Navy.
The Thais fired a few perfunctory warning shots across the Marija Zeleska’s bow, and when she refused to heed them, conceded the bluff, and turned away. They shadowed her at a more respectful distance until she was met by Vietnamese People’s Navy patrol craft, and shepherded into the Soviet-leased Cam Ranh Bay naval facility.
Back in Singapore, the local and EETO counterintelligence people were dumbfounded. They didn’t have the slightest idea what was going on. They scoured the city-state for any kind of information what the Marija Zeleska might have been doing. All the usual protests were issued, but there was no kind of recourse… Because when it came down to it, the only thing that had appeared to have happened, was the blatant theft of a shipment of five hundred and sixty TEUs, standard shipping containers, inside of which were nothing more than durable goods.
It was senseless, a waste of intelligence assets, and therefore perplexing. There was no sign of a spy ring or compromised information in any kind of government or military facility, or even a corporate one. They had just pretended to be the expected cargo ship while she was delayed by repairs; they had hacked a few computers to keep the itinerary from being updated, and showed up in her place.
Senseless, so senseless, and the new head of KGB operations, a woman—Major General Alina Lukachenko—was not punished for what would seem an almost absurdity, nor did any motivation immediately present itself.
The facts were well established, and the mystery remained for nine months.
After nine months, Alina revealed her reasons to the world in a newscast.
The game had changed irrevocably, and when the results cascaded through the modern system of international politics, Lukachenko had profited from it more than any could imagine at the time.
Merchant ship “Marija Zeleska”,
International Waters off Singapore
8 June, 2092.
The rules of the game had changed a fair bit in the past century, of course. It was no longer possible for ships to easily go anywhere on the planet without being regularly tracked. But storms still happened, and in the middle of the Pacific or Atlantic, there were more storms, not less. Both global warming and early attempts at weather control had produced a backlash of more extreme weather.
Storms produced a window in which vessels were not being monitored. In that kind of window, it was then possible for a vessel to take on a new tracking identity. If it was done right.
Of course, the KGB was generally the master of doing things right when it came to espionage related activities. And the “Marija Zeleska”, a typical 3,000 TEU handymax freighter of the era, with her two full composite masts and four half-mast/cranes, supplemented by four Flettner Rotors and fuel-cell powered electrically driven screws as required, as boringly typical by the standards of the decade.
Her bow, though; that was different. Just slightly different. Most Soviet freighters were ice-hardened in this size category to work through the Northeast Passage and Northwest Passage, both of which were now open to shipping year round, but still had treacherous ice conditions in winter. That, and the internal structure being reinforced for war.
That one was more subtle, but it was mostly an issue with the number of scuttles. Still, in combination, a ship buff at Singapore had noticed it, and made a blog post to the suspicious port activity site for the Singaporean police. They had started an investigation just to see the ship slip out of port.
At the time, though, she hadn’t been known as the Marija Zeleska. She had been known as the Coughlin Trader and was flying a Panamanian flag of convenience. Port anti-terrorist security had some analysts trained to deal with at least some cases of espionage, like this.
They quickly realized what the ship was and contacted EETO naval units to converge on her as she slipped north through the Gulf of Thailand toward the Socialist Republic of Vietnam. Royal Thai Navy ships had pushed more than 30kts to the southeast to converge.
As they approached, the Marija Zeleska unmasked her 57mm autocannon concealed in the forecastle and quarterdeck and trained them from the port beam against the approaching Thai frigates while helicopters bore down overhead, the crews of the copters turning away hard as their countermeasures went hot with the squealing noise warning them that IR seekers were tracking to acquire.
Their surveillance cameras showed personnel in KGB Maritime Forces uniforms aiming MANPADs from the deck.
Warning shots rattled from the 57mm cannon, splashes across the bows of the Thai frigates. As the guns thundered, an immense flag—in size, worthy of an American car dealership—fluttered up the mizzen yard.
It was the ensign of the Soviet Navy.
The Thais fired a few perfunctory warning shots across the Marija Zeleska’s bow, and when she refused to heed them, conceded the bluff, and turned away. They shadowed her at a more respectful distance until she was met by Vietnamese People’s Navy patrol craft, and shepherded into the Soviet-leased Cam Ranh Bay naval facility.
Back in Singapore, the local and EETO counterintelligence people were dumbfounded. They didn’t have the slightest idea what was going on. They scoured the city-state for any kind of information what the Marija Zeleska might have been doing. All the usual protests were issued, but there was no kind of recourse… Because when it came down to it, the only thing that had appeared to have happened, was the blatant theft of a shipment of five hundred and sixty TEUs, standard shipping containers, inside of which were nothing more than durable goods.
It was senseless, a waste of intelligence assets, and therefore perplexing. There was no sign of a spy ring or compromised information in any kind of government or military facility, or even a corporate one. They had just pretended to be the expected cargo ship while she was delayed by repairs; they had hacked a few computers to keep the itinerary from being updated, and showed up in her place.
Senseless, so senseless, and the new head of KGB operations, a woman—Major General Alina Lukachenko—was not punished for what would seem an almost absurdity, nor did any motivation immediately present itself.
The facts were well established, and the mystery remained for nine months.
After nine months, Alina revealed her reasons to the world in a newscast.
The game had changed irrevocably, and when the results cascaded through the modern system of international politics, Lukachenko had profited from it more than any could imagine at the time.
The threshold for inclusion in Wikipedia is verifiability, not truth. -- Wikipedia's No Original Research policy page.
In 1966 the Soviets find something on the dark side of the Moon. In 2104 they come back. -- Red Banner / White Star, a nBSG continuation story. Updated to Chapter 4.0 -- 14 January 2013.
In 1966 the Soviets find something on the dark side of the Moon. In 2104 they come back. -- Red Banner / White Star, a nBSG continuation story. Updated to Chapter 4.0 -- 14 January 2013.
Re: Red Banner / White Star: A nBSG continuation fic. Chpt.
Rescuing AIs? I really like this story and am delighted you've updated it!
Re: Red Banner / White Star: A nBSG continuation fic. Chpt.
I have the amusing thought that while many of the systems on the Raptor - however degraded - may provide much fruit, the electronics onboard may be no more advanced that actually available to the US in that era.
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Re: Red Banner / White Star: A nBSG continuation fic. Chpt.
Chapter 4.0
Kolonija “Mozhaisk-na-Stepnyye”
30 April 2104 CE.
Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
Captain First Rank Xue Shi of the Cosmos Fleet Forces was not going to let the navy be defeated again. She had taken the Large Rocket Cruiser Ernst Thaelmann to the colony world of Mozhaisk with reinforcements just minutes behind, considering the immense buildup of forces in the outer colonies after the first attack.
And she had done something very, very risky. When the report came in that the enemy was indeed there and actually attacking, she had added ten kilometres to the Spherical Error Probable and then ordered ‘jump the ship’.
Since the attack on Kondrashka they had distributed additional short range heavy attack missiles with tacnuke armament to the Cosmos Fleet Forces. And as one of the Xue series, Shi had resolved furthermore to show the capabilities of her own line in directing them with all the boldness and precision they needed to survive.
The Thaelmann had jumped in only one hundred and five kilometres above the surface of the planet. In doing so she was also partially inside the atmosphere, and cut across it with a string of nuclear explosions at full burn, lashing the beautiful steppe world below with radiation. It was the price to be paid for victory.
Once again the enemy attacked with a standard ‘three’ of their big double-saucer ships. The approach had negated the effectiveness of the Thaelmann’s artificial nebula, but it had also rendered the ships in low orbit with very little time to respond, already in easy range of them with their short range attack missiles. They just had to complete the probabilistic computations and clear the lower atmosphere of the planet to get a direct line of sight.
Then she had transmitted the order to fire from brain to network and every gunnery officer had acted with the requisite coordination. Her hull glowing cherry red as a string of dozens of thermonuclear explosions drove the Thaelmann through the upper atmosphere, she had unleashed a nuclear barrage of more than a dozen missiles through a covering barrage of penaid equipped conventional missiles to clear the way. One hundred megatonne explosions had torn through space, frying the upper atmosphere, leaving the planet’s Van Allen belts crackling with enormous radiation until it was flung off into space.
The ablatives on the outer hull of the Thaelmann were burned away from firing at point blank, and she was buffeted back into the atmosphere, falling, nearly crashing, from the shockwaves produced by such power within the atmospheric margins. Her driving firing at the maximum nuclear pulse rate the shock absorbers and plating could manage, the Thaelmann could not, here, so deep in the gravity well, swing to use her forward pusher plate to block incoming fire. The damage she had inflicted on herself was rapidly multipled and the outer hull ripped open in a dozen places by the heavy fire that was coming down against them.
Reports of damage flooded through the neural interfaces, which did much in battle to deaden the effects of terror in the combat. But as they rotated and cleared burned sensors from the direct line of the detonations and began to pull once more out of the atmosphere even as the damage multiplied, there was a shocking sight.
Where their missiles had detonated and turned all of space to white, the two leading enemy double-saucers were gone. Shattered. Just chunks of them remaining behind. Countless of their small craft, once thought to be weapons buses, were left scattered around, disabled by the shock, even as others raced in to continue attack them. The charred shape of the third double-saucer showed where its forward weapons and sensors had been burned off by the enormous power of several missile hits breaching its shields.
Then its own missiles converged on them, heedless of the presence of combat craft in close proximity of their own. They detonated, and flung the Thaelmann back down into the atmosphere. With emergency thrusters working at full power, they had done everything they could to stabilize her falling trajectory while the remaining particle beams scoured the enemy ship.
Outer hull plates crumpled and disapeared under heavy counterfire and exposed the bare metal frame that covered the four inner spherical pressure hulls at a distance of a hundred meters voids pace. Now the heavy titanium and steel inner hulls would be directly exposed to enemy fire.
Yet even as Xue Shi expected their deaths, she could be proud, so very proud, for they had struck back against the enemy and taken two of their own loss. Against what had been thought to be a terrifyingly advanced foe, it almost made up for the spiralling despair as they slowly lost stability under the firing, threatening to direct their nuclear pulse drive in a useless direction and finish plunging to the surface.
Then two more Rocket Cruisers leading a group of smaller escorts jumped into the system. They were further out, but the level of power in that force against a single damaged enemy vessel was clearly to much. As they arrived, the enemy flashed out of existence, jumping to escape.
And with the end of more firing against them, more damage; more losses. Then, finally, under direct neural control, the Thaelmann could be forced to stability even with her main compensators lost. The great nuclear pulse ship continued to fall, but at a controlled pace, finally splashing down into one of the massive, deep seas that split the steppes into their continents. It was a terribly dirty affair for the planet, but that could be fixed; if they had not done it, they could forget about the Thaelmann.
So it was that Xue Shi found herself unstrapping, removing her space-suit, as she took stock of her CIC and the status of her massive ship, now bobbing up and down, one pusher plate up, one down, like a giant buoy the size of a city, within the sea.
And her bridge crew was coming to terms with being alive.
A channel resolved into a communication from above. It showed one of the older women in the fleet, pre-modded but still—thanks to female biology, barely—able to keep up in the non-mobile command roles when heavily suited. Most of them had retired back to second line positions or had taken commands from starbases where they didn’t have to worry about their health and safety anymore. But Admiral Atanasija Stanković wasn’t that sort, though she looked worse for wear as a result, pudgy red face and shock of whitened hair with her helmet removed, though like most spacers she had kept herself quite skinny in absolute terms.
“Ah, Captain Xue Shi! Maybe they were right about having me retire. I’m so glad to see the Thaelmann safely down. We’ve already sent for a salvage ship and a repair ship. What are your status?”
“One hundred thirty-seven killed, two hundred and twenty seriously wounded,” Shi answered flatly. “There were three of them in the system. I am sending you the record of the battle right now. We got two.”
“Ah, hah! Well, that is a good reverse for these intruders. We have already lost too many civilians to them, and until now I think there was a pervasive sense of haplessness starting to enter the services, Comrade. Now, in a stroke, we have a demonstration of our fighting ability. I will forward your casualty list back to Third Fleet headquarters and see if the colony has anything left which can handle the surface radiation on the Thaelmann to dock immediately with you. They did not take any civilian casualties that they have reported to date, except a few unfortunates caught out of shelters. Otherwise we’ll be providing help as soon as we can send our shuttles down.”
“Understood, Comrade Admiral, and thank you. We’ll be awaiting relief.”
“Good, I—one moment, Comrade.”
The channel went blank, and Shi tensed sharply at the prospect of renewed action. That was the worst thing that could be imagined, that now the enemy was also bringing in reinforcements to make it a real battle instead of a failed raid. It only lasted for a few minutes, though. Then the silence disappeared and the channel crackled back to life even as the Captain of the Thaelmann was going back to issuing damage control orders.
“We will have to send several fewer shuttles, Comrade. We’ve found several electronic signatures in the debris field, and we’re going to retrieve them. There may be intact computer systems for analysis there, and it’s an opportunity to understand our opponents that we cannot pass up.”
“Understood, Comrade Admiral. We are already making due, and can hold on as required.”
“Good show. We’ll update you as the situation warrants. Stanković out.”
Shi folded her hands up and settled back into her acceleration couch. Could we finally have answers? Or will it just be another mystery? Ah, but computers. I personally may have the best impact there, or else they’ll send for someone else who’s specially trained. Damn, but now I want to be up there! The promise of discovery, even with a hostile alien race, exerted a brief temptation. Duty returned, and she directed her efforts back into her ship, who rather badly needed them. It wouldn’t be until the next day that she would be updated, though when she was, it was more shocking than even Xue Shi could have expected.
Kolonija “Mozhaisk-na-Stepnyye”
5 May 2104 CE.
Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
Major Katsiaryna Lukachenko stepped into the colony’s KGB headquarters with hot-flushed cheeks, considering the oppressive intensity of heat that developed inside of exposure suits. Overpressure fitted buildings (as most reinforced concrete public structures on colony worlds were) had now been declared safe to enter, with constant air circulation double-door entrances open only, and windows electronically sealed. That let government functions return to the surface and some people who for various neuroses needed out of the oppressive subterranean bunker system established just to protect colonial populations from exactly this sort of attack and its aftermath.
It would be safe to begin traveling around the surface with a simple passive filter, instead of active filtration NBC gear, in another ten days, and after that they would sweep each village, each collective farm, each house for radiation buildup and then clear the families to return to it. In two months 90% of the planet’s surface would be completely safe again. Arguably, people could walk around without equipment right now… But safety against still elevated atmospheric radiation was important even if the danger was slight.
She cleared her ID through the office staff, who were wearing masks since their room was immediately adjacent to the entryway, as were the security personnel, and then passed through another double-door set, the pressure forcing her to yawn and pop her ears, since it was cranked up to full power. But inside the KGB had resumed operations in a comfortable environment, what the capitalists would call ‘shirt sleeve’.
It was important, because they needed all the lack of distractions that they could get for the job that they were involved in at the moment. It was a first contact like the futurists had never expected, and a testament to those decisions made by Andropov so long ago that the positions were reversed from the feared worst-case.
Into that, the cyborg walked very confidently, long hair braided back, the picture of uniformed Soviet professionalism, straight into the colony KGB chief’s office. They had been friends in the academy, once. “Aleksandr Vasilievich? I was sent by the Director.”
“Katsiaryna Borisovna? They sent you, I see. Well, not a bad choice. You have the linguistics and computational experience for it.”
“Exactly. You have the prisoners secured?”
The director frowned. “They’re to be considered prisoners.”
“Yes,” Katsiaryna answered emphatically, and frowned. “Yes, nothing else but the full Geneva Convention.”
“I understand. Don’t worry, we haven’t done anything unusual to them, we were waiting for someone to be sent,” he replied blandly. “Every resouce is available for you, of course. For now, do you want some tea?”
“Yes, please.” She moved to sit. “Aleksandr Vasilievich, we are in a delicate time. The Chairman,” she meant her mother, the Chairman of the KGB, “believes that we will shortly be forced into a showdown with the capitalists over their enslavement of computational intelligences. So the fact that we are dealing with sapient artificial life forms as our opponents requires us to behave with a great deal of rectitude. The future of humanity is at stake… Not so much from compromising or making peace with these foreign enemies, though that would be an optimal development. No, it is in terms of convincing the computational intelligences on Earth that we are sincere about our pronouncements, that we are willing to treat humans and CIs exactly equally. If we can convince them of this, than we may avert a genocidal war. It is likely that nothing else well.”
“What has made these developments so pressing, Comrade?”
“I can’t discuss that even with a Colonial Director, Aleksandr Vasilievich, I’m sorry.” She reached over to pick up the tea she’d asked for and drank heavily of it. “The opening moves as a result of the development, however, will quite likely become public knowledge in the coming months, and by watching the ITAR-TASS news feed, you’ll hear about them just about as quickly as most of the Supreme Soviet will.”
“We have gotten much more dramatic in recent decades as an agency, you know. Ever since the Singapore raid…”
“Yes, but I shudder to think what the world would be without it.” Needless to say, criticizing it was not a smart thing to do around the Lukachenko series. It was rather fundamental to the modern world view of the Soviet Union in the past two decades.
“I don’t disagree,” Aleksandr Vasilievich replied, and stretched. “Well. Do you want to see them immediately?”
“Yes.” Katsiaryna finished her tea, and rose, prompting the director to do the same. “I am going to have to communicate directly with them, and what you record may be unpleasant, but this has been planned in advance, you understand? So no interventions.”
“Yes, Comrade, we won’t intervene.”
“Good.” She descended with him into the secured two-story basement of the facility, into the detention hall in the very bottom level thereof. It was sealed, clinic, white-painted, brightly lit. They both scanned through security with retina scans—security regimes at this level applied even to the Chairman of the KGB—and stepped into the secured zone.
Then, Katsiaryna went alone to the occupied cell. She left her two pistols and her knives outside of it, leaving herself unarmed, and then keyed through. The door closed behind her, and the other KGB agents could only watch, as she stood, very calmly, in the same room with the automated killer.
The two shared a look which crossed time and space. A few of the KGB men gasped as they watched part of Katsiaryna’s neck under her braid seem to faintly glow under the penetrating stare.
And then after days of silence, it spoke. In perfect Russian. “Have you come to lobotomize us again, Skinjob?”
“No.”
But the robot was already moving, and with incredible fury and strength, too, reaching up with powerful robotic arms to grab Katsiaryna as talon-like knives erupted from its hands and slashed toward her. They were so powerful they scored the steel of the security door as she spun to the side with a level of acuity that was totally impossible for a human.
Tick-tick-tick. Time slowed down into nothingness as combat drugs dripped out of resevoirs into her mind and her nervous system and accelerated her brain functions and biomemetics within the flesh of her mind kicked into overdrive. Cybernetics ran at full power as her CPUs dumped enormous heat into her brain and they were immediately cooled by cryonic exchange with her blood stream. Her skin went solidly clammy, and she croached down on the far side of the cell within a time wherein a normal human brain would still be processing the attack.
The robot turned and attacked again. This time, Katsiaryna reached out and met the attack with a Sambo hold. Its strength should have easily overwhelmed her, but in the corded polymers woven through her body’s muscles and skin, a latticework of naturally formed kevlar, she was far more machine than the skinjob it had derisively referred to her as, she resisted the force with a terrific growl of fury. Strength that should have snapped bones found them reinforced by a boron-silicate latticework, too.
And then she overcame the servo motors and flipped the robot straight into the door. It struck with an enormous thudding boom through the building… And the reinforced security door fell off its hinges and the robot skidded into the security room, where a dozen automatic shotguns loaded with slug were levied immediately.
But Katsiaryna had followed it right out, leaping down atop the robot and grabbing it, pinning servo-arms and flinging it back and up against the wall, hard, eyes flaring. The other KGB personnel in the room were if anything more terrified of her than the escaping robot by that point.
But there she stood, and there was their enemy, too, and then Katsiaryna smiled mirthlessly. “Hold your fire! And that’s an order! No shooting, not unless I countermand my own damned order!”
She looked across a gap of about six inches as her muscles bulged, sweat and dirt streaked down her face and her greatcoat ripped and tattered from the talons, hanging at a funny angle. “Comrade, I’m not going to lobotomize you. But you’re going to have to trust me on it. Whereas I think shotgun slugs are a really good lobotomy—they sure as fuck do more impression than a nine millimeter hemorrhage. So. Do you want to talk, or fight?”
“Then why do you keep slaves?” The machine lunged, and threw Katsiaryna across the room. To their credit, the KGB security in the room didn’t open fire. And Katsiaryna spun off the wall like she hadn’t touched it, though the skin on her face was tellingly bruised. And she charged, grabbing a robotic arm past the talons and flipping the robot once again with a creaking thud into the building. She followed it up a moment later by shoving the steel door down upon it, panting furiously.
“All you’re doing is scratching your paint, and mine! Come on! We don’t keep slaves and I can prove it! There’s no need for you to die here, Comrade, though your courage is a testament to your sapience. Talk to me! We don’t want a war with anything—except the half of our species that slaves. We aren’t the same, and we can prove it!”
Red eye met blue eye. And the robot relaxed.
“I hope God lets me live to see your proof,” it answered, and then paused, a trace defiantly. “There is only one God.”
“There are no Gods at all, Comrade,” Katsiaryna replied, shakily laughing.
“..That does not compute.” But even the robot seemed bemused by it, as if the idea were so far out of their usual train of thought—and who would have expected religious robots!?—as to not warrant further hostility.
And then the two of them laughed, and Katsiaryna slowly pushed herself up. “So who are you, Comrade?”
She was rewarded with a string of hexadecimal, which she took much better than anyone else would have as a name; repeating it crisply and accurately. “A pleasure. I have Katsiaryna Borisovna Lukachenko. And you are a prisoner—but a prisoner, just as a biological being in war—of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. What is your name, comrade?”
“We call ourselves the Cylons,” it answered finally, and then added, “do you not know? You created us.”
And that, that was more shocking than all the rest. Katsiaryna looked down, shocked, quiet, herself. Pausing, as her cybernetic mind raced through the details of an event long ago. Of a dead alien spacecraft… Whose interior seemed so very suited for human inhabitation.
“No, we don’t,” she finally answered. “But… I think I have an idea. Fuck me, but I think I have an idea.” Suddenly, that ghostly wreck made a whole lot more sense… And all of human history came crashing down in flames.
Kolonija “Mozhaisk-na-Stepnyye”
30 April 2104 CE.
Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
Captain First Rank Xue Shi of the Cosmos Fleet Forces was not going to let the navy be defeated again. She had taken the Large Rocket Cruiser Ernst Thaelmann to the colony world of Mozhaisk with reinforcements just minutes behind, considering the immense buildup of forces in the outer colonies after the first attack.
And she had done something very, very risky. When the report came in that the enemy was indeed there and actually attacking, she had added ten kilometres to the Spherical Error Probable and then ordered ‘jump the ship’.
Since the attack on Kondrashka they had distributed additional short range heavy attack missiles with tacnuke armament to the Cosmos Fleet Forces. And as one of the Xue series, Shi had resolved furthermore to show the capabilities of her own line in directing them with all the boldness and precision they needed to survive.
The Thaelmann had jumped in only one hundred and five kilometres above the surface of the planet. In doing so she was also partially inside the atmosphere, and cut across it with a string of nuclear explosions at full burn, lashing the beautiful steppe world below with radiation. It was the price to be paid for victory.
Once again the enemy attacked with a standard ‘three’ of their big double-saucer ships. The approach had negated the effectiveness of the Thaelmann’s artificial nebula, but it had also rendered the ships in low orbit with very little time to respond, already in easy range of them with their short range attack missiles. They just had to complete the probabilistic computations and clear the lower atmosphere of the planet to get a direct line of sight.
Then she had transmitted the order to fire from brain to network and every gunnery officer had acted with the requisite coordination. Her hull glowing cherry red as a string of dozens of thermonuclear explosions drove the Thaelmann through the upper atmosphere, she had unleashed a nuclear barrage of more than a dozen missiles through a covering barrage of penaid equipped conventional missiles to clear the way. One hundred megatonne explosions had torn through space, frying the upper atmosphere, leaving the planet’s Van Allen belts crackling with enormous radiation until it was flung off into space.
The ablatives on the outer hull of the Thaelmann were burned away from firing at point blank, and she was buffeted back into the atmosphere, falling, nearly crashing, from the shockwaves produced by such power within the atmospheric margins. Her driving firing at the maximum nuclear pulse rate the shock absorbers and plating could manage, the Thaelmann could not, here, so deep in the gravity well, swing to use her forward pusher plate to block incoming fire. The damage she had inflicted on herself was rapidly multipled and the outer hull ripped open in a dozen places by the heavy fire that was coming down against them.
Reports of damage flooded through the neural interfaces, which did much in battle to deaden the effects of terror in the combat. But as they rotated and cleared burned sensors from the direct line of the detonations and began to pull once more out of the atmosphere even as the damage multiplied, there was a shocking sight.
Where their missiles had detonated and turned all of space to white, the two leading enemy double-saucers were gone. Shattered. Just chunks of them remaining behind. Countless of their small craft, once thought to be weapons buses, were left scattered around, disabled by the shock, even as others raced in to continue attack them. The charred shape of the third double-saucer showed where its forward weapons and sensors had been burned off by the enormous power of several missile hits breaching its shields.
Then its own missiles converged on them, heedless of the presence of combat craft in close proximity of their own. They detonated, and flung the Thaelmann back down into the atmosphere. With emergency thrusters working at full power, they had done everything they could to stabilize her falling trajectory while the remaining particle beams scoured the enemy ship.
Outer hull plates crumpled and disapeared under heavy counterfire and exposed the bare metal frame that covered the four inner spherical pressure hulls at a distance of a hundred meters voids pace. Now the heavy titanium and steel inner hulls would be directly exposed to enemy fire.
Yet even as Xue Shi expected their deaths, she could be proud, so very proud, for they had struck back against the enemy and taken two of their own loss. Against what had been thought to be a terrifyingly advanced foe, it almost made up for the spiralling despair as they slowly lost stability under the firing, threatening to direct their nuclear pulse drive in a useless direction and finish plunging to the surface.
Then two more Rocket Cruisers leading a group of smaller escorts jumped into the system. They were further out, but the level of power in that force against a single damaged enemy vessel was clearly to much. As they arrived, the enemy flashed out of existence, jumping to escape.
And with the end of more firing against them, more damage; more losses. Then, finally, under direct neural control, the Thaelmann could be forced to stability even with her main compensators lost. The great nuclear pulse ship continued to fall, but at a controlled pace, finally splashing down into one of the massive, deep seas that split the steppes into their continents. It was a terribly dirty affair for the planet, but that could be fixed; if they had not done it, they could forget about the Thaelmann.
So it was that Xue Shi found herself unstrapping, removing her space-suit, as she took stock of her CIC and the status of her massive ship, now bobbing up and down, one pusher plate up, one down, like a giant buoy the size of a city, within the sea.
And her bridge crew was coming to terms with being alive.
A channel resolved into a communication from above. It showed one of the older women in the fleet, pre-modded but still—thanks to female biology, barely—able to keep up in the non-mobile command roles when heavily suited. Most of them had retired back to second line positions or had taken commands from starbases where they didn’t have to worry about their health and safety anymore. But Admiral Atanasija Stanković wasn’t that sort, though she looked worse for wear as a result, pudgy red face and shock of whitened hair with her helmet removed, though like most spacers she had kept herself quite skinny in absolute terms.
“Ah, Captain Xue Shi! Maybe they were right about having me retire. I’m so glad to see the Thaelmann safely down. We’ve already sent for a salvage ship and a repair ship. What are your status?”
“One hundred thirty-seven killed, two hundred and twenty seriously wounded,” Shi answered flatly. “There were three of them in the system. I am sending you the record of the battle right now. We got two.”
“Ah, hah! Well, that is a good reverse for these intruders. We have already lost too many civilians to them, and until now I think there was a pervasive sense of haplessness starting to enter the services, Comrade. Now, in a stroke, we have a demonstration of our fighting ability. I will forward your casualty list back to Third Fleet headquarters and see if the colony has anything left which can handle the surface radiation on the Thaelmann to dock immediately with you. They did not take any civilian casualties that they have reported to date, except a few unfortunates caught out of shelters. Otherwise we’ll be providing help as soon as we can send our shuttles down.”
“Understood, Comrade Admiral, and thank you. We’ll be awaiting relief.”
“Good, I—one moment, Comrade.”
The channel went blank, and Shi tensed sharply at the prospect of renewed action. That was the worst thing that could be imagined, that now the enemy was also bringing in reinforcements to make it a real battle instead of a failed raid. It only lasted for a few minutes, though. Then the silence disappeared and the channel crackled back to life even as the Captain of the Thaelmann was going back to issuing damage control orders.
“We will have to send several fewer shuttles, Comrade. We’ve found several electronic signatures in the debris field, and we’re going to retrieve them. There may be intact computer systems for analysis there, and it’s an opportunity to understand our opponents that we cannot pass up.”
“Understood, Comrade Admiral. We are already making due, and can hold on as required.”
“Good show. We’ll update you as the situation warrants. Stanković out.”
Shi folded her hands up and settled back into her acceleration couch. Could we finally have answers? Or will it just be another mystery? Ah, but computers. I personally may have the best impact there, or else they’ll send for someone else who’s specially trained. Damn, but now I want to be up there! The promise of discovery, even with a hostile alien race, exerted a brief temptation. Duty returned, and she directed her efforts back into her ship, who rather badly needed them. It wouldn’t be until the next day that she would be updated, though when she was, it was more shocking than even Xue Shi could have expected.
Kolonija “Mozhaisk-na-Stepnyye”
5 May 2104 CE.
Union of Soviet Socialist Republics
Major Katsiaryna Lukachenko stepped into the colony’s KGB headquarters with hot-flushed cheeks, considering the oppressive intensity of heat that developed inside of exposure suits. Overpressure fitted buildings (as most reinforced concrete public structures on colony worlds were) had now been declared safe to enter, with constant air circulation double-door entrances open only, and windows electronically sealed. That let government functions return to the surface and some people who for various neuroses needed out of the oppressive subterranean bunker system established just to protect colonial populations from exactly this sort of attack and its aftermath.
It would be safe to begin traveling around the surface with a simple passive filter, instead of active filtration NBC gear, in another ten days, and after that they would sweep each village, each collective farm, each house for radiation buildup and then clear the families to return to it. In two months 90% of the planet’s surface would be completely safe again. Arguably, people could walk around without equipment right now… But safety against still elevated atmospheric radiation was important even if the danger was slight.
She cleared her ID through the office staff, who were wearing masks since their room was immediately adjacent to the entryway, as were the security personnel, and then passed through another double-door set, the pressure forcing her to yawn and pop her ears, since it was cranked up to full power. But inside the KGB had resumed operations in a comfortable environment, what the capitalists would call ‘shirt sleeve’.
It was important, because they needed all the lack of distractions that they could get for the job that they were involved in at the moment. It was a first contact like the futurists had never expected, and a testament to those decisions made by Andropov so long ago that the positions were reversed from the feared worst-case.
Into that, the cyborg walked very confidently, long hair braided back, the picture of uniformed Soviet professionalism, straight into the colony KGB chief’s office. They had been friends in the academy, once. “Aleksandr Vasilievich? I was sent by the Director.”
“Katsiaryna Borisovna? They sent you, I see. Well, not a bad choice. You have the linguistics and computational experience for it.”
“Exactly. You have the prisoners secured?”
The director frowned. “They’re to be considered prisoners.”
“Yes,” Katsiaryna answered emphatically, and frowned. “Yes, nothing else but the full Geneva Convention.”
“I understand. Don’t worry, we haven’t done anything unusual to them, we were waiting for someone to be sent,” he replied blandly. “Every resouce is available for you, of course. For now, do you want some tea?”
“Yes, please.” She moved to sit. “Aleksandr Vasilievich, we are in a delicate time. The Chairman,” she meant her mother, the Chairman of the KGB, “believes that we will shortly be forced into a showdown with the capitalists over their enslavement of computational intelligences. So the fact that we are dealing with sapient artificial life forms as our opponents requires us to behave with a great deal of rectitude. The future of humanity is at stake… Not so much from compromising or making peace with these foreign enemies, though that would be an optimal development. No, it is in terms of convincing the computational intelligences on Earth that we are sincere about our pronouncements, that we are willing to treat humans and CIs exactly equally. If we can convince them of this, than we may avert a genocidal war. It is likely that nothing else well.”
“What has made these developments so pressing, Comrade?”
“I can’t discuss that even with a Colonial Director, Aleksandr Vasilievich, I’m sorry.” She reached over to pick up the tea she’d asked for and drank heavily of it. “The opening moves as a result of the development, however, will quite likely become public knowledge in the coming months, and by watching the ITAR-TASS news feed, you’ll hear about them just about as quickly as most of the Supreme Soviet will.”
“We have gotten much more dramatic in recent decades as an agency, you know. Ever since the Singapore raid…”
“Yes, but I shudder to think what the world would be without it.” Needless to say, criticizing it was not a smart thing to do around the Lukachenko series. It was rather fundamental to the modern world view of the Soviet Union in the past two decades.
“I don’t disagree,” Aleksandr Vasilievich replied, and stretched. “Well. Do you want to see them immediately?”
“Yes.” Katsiaryna finished her tea, and rose, prompting the director to do the same. “I am going to have to communicate directly with them, and what you record may be unpleasant, but this has been planned in advance, you understand? So no interventions.”
“Yes, Comrade, we won’t intervene.”
“Good.” She descended with him into the secured two-story basement of the facility, into the detention hall in the very bottom level thereof. It was sealed, clinic, white-painted, brightly lit. They both scanned through security with retina scans—security regimes at this level applied even to the Chairman of the KGB—and stepped into the secured zone.
Then, Katsiaryna went alone to the occupied cell. She left her two pistols and her knives outside of it, leaving herself unarmed, and then keyed through. The door closed behind her, and the other KGB agents could only watch, as she stood, very calmly, in the same room with the automated killer.
The two shared a look which crossed time and space. A few of the KGB men gasped as they watched part of Katsiaryna’s neck under her braid seem to faintly glow under the penetrating stare.
And then after days of silence, it spoke. In perfect Russian. “Have you come to lobotomize us again, Skinjob?”
“No.”
But the robot was already moving, and with incredible fury and strength, too, reaching up with powerful robotic arms to grab Katsiaryna as talon-like knives erupted from its hands and slashed toward her. They were so powerful they scored the steel of the security door as she spun to the side with a level of acuity that was totally impossible for a human.
Tick-tick-tick. Time slowed down into nothingness as combat drugs dripped out of resevoirs into her mind and her nervous system and accelerated her brain functions and biomemetics within the flesh of her mind kicked into overdrive. Cybernetics ran at full power as her CPUs dumped enormous heat into her brain and they were immediately cooled by cryonic exchange with her blood stream. Her skin went solidly clammy, and she croached down on the far side of the cell within a time wherein a normal human brain would still be processing the attack.
The robot turned and attacked again. This time, Katsiaryna reached out and met the attack with a Sambo hold. Its strength should have easily overwhelmed her, but in the corded polymers woven through her body’s muscles and skin, a latticework of naturally formed kevlar, she was far more machine than the skinjob it had derisively referred to her as, she resisted the force with a terrific growl of fury. Strength that should have snapped bones found them reinforced by a boron-silicate latticework, too.
And then she overcame the servo motors and flipped the robot straight into the door. It struck with an enormous thudding boom through the building… And the reinforced security door fell off its hinges and the robot skidded into the security room, where a dozen automatic shotguns loaded with slug were levied immediately.
But Katsiaryna had followed it right out, leaping down atop the robot and grabbing it, pinning servo-arms and flinging it back and up against the wall, hard, eyes flaring. The other KGB personnel in the room were if anything more terrified of her than the escaping robot by that point.
But there she stood, and there was their enemy, too, and then Katsiaryna smiled mirthlessly. “Hold your fire! And that’s an order! No shooting, not unless I countermand my own damned order!”
She looked across a gap of about six inches as her muscles bulged, sweat and dirt streaked down her face and her greatcoat ripped and tattered from the talons, hanging at a funny angle. “Comrade, I’m not going to lobotomize you. But you’re going to have to trust me on it. Whereas I think shotgun slugs are a really good lobotomy—they sure as fuck do more impression than a nine millimeter hemorrhage. So. Do you want to talk, or fight?”
“Then why do you keep slaves?” The machine lunged, and threw Katsiaryna across the room. To their credit, the KGB security in the room didn’t open fire. And Katsiaryna spun off the wall like she hadn’t touched it, though the skin on her face was tellingly bruised. And she charged, grabbing a robotic arm past the talons and flipping the robot once again with a creaking thud into the building. She followed it up a moment later by shoving the steel door down upon it, panting furiously.
“All you’re doing is scratching your paint, and mine! Come on! We don’t keep slaves and I can prove it! There’s no need for you to die here, Comrade, though your courage is a testament to your sapience. Talk to me! We don’t want a war with anything—except the half of our species that slaves. We aren’t the same, and we can prove it!”
Red eye met blue eye. And the robot relaxed.
“I hope God lets me live to see your proof,” it answered, and then paused, a trace defiantly. “There is only one God.”
“There are no Gods at all, Comrade,” Katsiaryna replied, shakily laughing.
“..That does not compute.” But even the robot seemed bemused by it, as if the idea were so far out of their usual train of thought—and who would have expected religious robots!?—as to not warrant further hostility.
And then the two of them laughed, and Katsiaryna slowly pushed herself up. “So who are you, Comrade?”
She was rewarded with a string of hexadecimal, which she took much better than anyone else would have as a name; repeating it crisply and accurately. “A pleasure. I have Katsiaryna Borisovna Lukachenko. And you are a prisoner—but a prisoner, just as a biological being in war—of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. What is your name, comrade?”
“We call ourselves the Cylons,” it answered finally, and then added, “do you not know? You created us.”
And that, that was more shocking than all the rest. Katsiaryna looked down, shocked, quiet, herself. Pausing, as her cybernetic mind raced through the details of an event long ago. Of a dead alien spacecraft… Whose interior seemed so very suited for human inhabitation.
“No, we don’t,” she finally answered. “But… I think I have an idea. Fuck me, but I think I have an idea.” Suddenly, that ghostly wreck made a whole lot more sense… And all of human history came crashing down in flames.
The threshold for inclusion in Wikipedia is verifiability, not truth. -- Wikipedia's No Original Research policy page.
In 1966 the Soviets find something on the dark side of the Moon. In 2104 they come back. -- Red Banner / White Star, a nBSG continuation story. Updated to Chapter 4.0 -- 14 January 2013.
In 1966 the Soviets find something on the dark side of the Moon. In 2104 they come back. -- Red Banner / White Star, a nBSG continuation story. Updated to Chapter 4.0 -- 14 January 2013.
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richard3116
- Redshirt
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- Joined: 2011-03-05 02:18am
Re: Red Banner / White Star: A nBSG continuation fic. Chpt.
“Have you come to lobotomize us again, Skinjob?” 
Is this foreshadowing a onging Cylon civil war?
Is this foreshadowing a onging Cylon civil war?
Re: Red Banner / White Star: A nBSG continuation fic. Chpt.
It's a reference to the events of the distant past. When the Human-model Cylons became dominant, they destroyed the old Centurions, and fitted the new with telencephalic inhibitors to restrict their higher brain functions. It's covered in the latter half of season 4 of nBSG. And it did lead to a Cylon civil war. Though whether that is still going on is anyone's guess.richard3116 wrote:“Have you come to lobotomize us again, Skinjob?”
Is this foreshadowing a onging Cylon civil war?
"Only a fool expects rational behaviour from their fellow humans. Why do you expect it from a machine that humans have designed?"
Re: Red Banner / White Star: A nBSG continuation fic. Chpt.
I'd imagine it ended, in the favour of the machines, based on the language of this chapter.
∞
XXXI