Tag: War

Short Story: Deadman Part 1

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

DEADMAN

Part 1

The missile silo’s outdated radar screens glowed with small, green waves. Before them sat the Lieutenant with his morning coffee, as he checked the bank of monitors above that read out telemetry for inflight ICBMs. Though useless in the absence of nuclear dispersal, a perpetual watch was posted at the ancient machines.

The Lieutenant relaxed in his chair to sip coffee, kicked up his feet on a second chair before him, and flipped-on a portable television in his lap. The news droned on that the snowstorm above the base was gathering strength. Roads, railways, and airports would be inaccessible for days. He sighed, flipped the channel.

They’d already been trapped for three days, the outside world further away for secrecy’s sake. Even with a full crew on-base, duties kept them from engaging one another. Only briefly did anyone see each other on their ways in and out of the commissary. In most senses, the Lieutenant was completely alone.

A beep sounded from the console. A button in arm’s reach depressed with an uninterested, habitual motion. Moscow’s confirmation required a physical response to relay that someone still lived to watch the screens. Everything was handled electronically, save for this job. Despite forty-odd years of Cold War terror descending into the schizophrenic creation of imaginary lines, every half-hour confirmation was still required.

The signal originated from the main missile-tracking computers beneath the Kremlin, and simultaneously pinged all silos in Russia. The operators then had five minutes to respond, before an alarm sounded. In war-time, confirmation was required every five minutes with only thirty seconds to spare. Any longer might signal a silo had been compromised. Likewise, if a silo registered something, the Kremlin’s technicians would call for on-site verification while alerting military leaders.

But it was peace time. In retrospect, it always had been. The war between nuclear powers had never come. The nuclear holocaust had never engulfed the Earth in the fires of Hell, and now the once-great, Red Republic’s relics simply kept people employed.

It was boring, but the Lieutenant still preferred it to Moscow’s drudgery. Working as a political door-guard was never as glamorous as it sounded. With the general contention between the people and the government in the post-war age, the ignoble politicians felt threatened; even minor ones had four flank guards in each room. To him, it was astounding that such cowards were even allowed to grace those prestigious offices– but such was the way the world turned.

He drained his cup. Stood for the far end of the room and the table there beside the data-analogue recorders whose tapes revolved with lazy, languid repetitions as pointless as his own. He poured himself a second coffee, returned to his seat to reposition the TV.

The confirmation signal flashed again.

Had it already been a half an hour? He pressed it mindlessly, adjusted his feet, lifted his coffee to his lips. The phone beside the console rang. Half-irritated and half-curious, he leaned forward to lift it, carefully juggling the cup and TV.

“Silo 193, data-sector, we need confirmation on bogey at grid 712,” a voice said.

“Bogey?”

“Bogey, will register on your screen in 3…2…1…now.”

The Lt. saw it. A series of grids beeped in succession from the right screens. They glowed brighter as a dot inched leftward over them, designated RU:1289H-YnD. Cold-war terror was a feeling renewed; launched from silo 128, pad 9, carrying high-yield nuclear ballistics.

“Silo: requesting confirmation on designation RU:1289H-YnD,” the voice stated.

The LT. responded mechanically: “Moscow: Confirming designation RU:1289H-YnD at 19:30. Trajectory: West bound. Acquiring target… thirty-eight degrees, fifty-three feet, fifty-three point three inches North by Seventy-seven degrees, two feet, nine point nine inches West.”

“Silo: requesting confirmation of time to target. One hundred sixty minutes. ETA approximately twenty-two thirty.”

He couldn’t believe his ears or eyes. Was it another test? It couldn’t be, their tests were scheduled for once a month and this month’s had been recently. You never knew when they might drill but–

He stumbled over his words, “Uh… M-Moscow: Tar-target time confirmed: one hundred eighty minutes; twenty-two thirty.”

“Silo: confirmation received.”

The Lieutenant’s terror oozed through the phone in his sweaty palm, “Moscow: requesting interrogative.”

There was a pause. The Lieutenant swore he heard a fearful sigh.

The technician responded, “Go ahead, Silo.”

“Are we at war, Moscow?”

The technician spoke carefully, “That is… uncertain, Silo.”

More than a few thousand miles away, in NATO’s Cheyenne mountain complex, the General’s red phone was relaying a similar conversation. A fearful Master Sergeant stood nearby petrified. Maybe he had misread the radar, or perhaps the instruments had malfunctioned.

In the last fifteen minutes a dozen launches had appeared, each strategically aimed on American soil to decimate key military installations. Missile interceptors were launched with the entirety of the Air Force and Navy. Marines and Army Rangers were already working in co-operation with the Navy’s SEAL division to plan surgical strikes should the missiles reach their targets. But the President and several, high-ranking, military officials, were fearful of retaliation at this stage: It could be an instrumental malfunction, a sub-routine to test readiness, unintentionally triggered by someone or something. But action still had to be taken, the general population ignorant until zero-hour.

The General lifted a second, black phone to speak with the leader of the Russian armed forces, a man he knew well. He explained the situation, questioned an attack.

The Russian’s earnesty implied no malevolence, “We are reading the same thing on our screens, General. I assure you however, no-one in Moscow has given the order.”

The General replied formally, “I am required to pose this question; Are you being intentionally deceptive?”

He replied with a sigh, the sweat beading audibly on his forehead, “I wish that were the case. It would mean we know what is happening. Unfortunately, all we know is that there have been a dozen, unauthorized launches confirmed.”

“What the hell’s going on over there, Uri!”

“I… do not know, Jack.”

The Master Sgt. interrupted the General, “Sir, we have confirmation of twenty-more simultaneous launches.”

“Uri, what the hell’s going on?”

A second silence, and a remorseful sigh.

In a labyrinthine fallout-shelter, a console spanned a twenty-foot section of wall, divided in two, with large, flat-screened televisions that tracked the number and trajectory of launches. At the right, the Russian’s nuclear battery was zoomed to track across a global view. The other side, blank so far, had “United States” stenciled above it.

A young man in shabby, black fatigues approached an older man, “Mr. Niculescu, we have confirmation of all two hundred and thirty four launches from the Russian side.”

“Good,” Niculescu nodded.

A man appeared behind him, spoke with an American accent, “Alexi, this is a momentous day.”

“Da, it is John,” Niculescu said flatly.

“Deadman’s effectiveness is par-none. I must say; your Soviet predecessors did have us beat.”

“Ah yes, I believe they did,” Niculescu said, once more emotionless. “Soviet ingenuity always triumphed in the face of progressive adversaries. Though I must admit, setting it off was matter of American mischief.”

John smiled, “It was only a matter of a fly-by really. Low altitudes to avoid the radar, and a special package to trigger Deadman’s radiation and seismic sensors.”

He handed a glass to Niculescu, cast a glance around the room at the hundred or so young, shabbily clad men and women there.

“People, gather with me,” He requested. They formed lines before him, distributed expensive champagne into their tin cups. John waited, then, “If I may have a moment.” He cleared his throat, prepared them for his speech. “In the depths of the Cold War, a most marvelous means of destruction was created. Until this day, it went unused but maintained. Codenamed Deadman, this device was integrated into each of Russia’s nuclear-missile launch computers, designed to unleash an unstoppable counter-attack upon American soil should Moscow fall to a first strike.”

His eyes met each of those assembled in turn. “Until today, this system was largely considered a waste of time. But with your help, we have taken the first steps into a new era. Russia will fall once the American’s realize their imminent defeat. The Russians will be compelled to reveal the existence of Deadman in the last moments before America’s destruction, and when this occurs, a fury of retaliation will launch from America’s own soil. The world will wither in the nuclear winter that follows.”

He smiled, reassured, “However, with a million miles of underground complex in place, we will remain unaffected. Soon, we will descend to meet with our families and carry on our lives as the generations continue through the fallout. With the thousands of us here, it should not be entirely different to our lives now.”

Niculescu’s rigid demeanor relaxed as he picked up, “The greatest care and planning has gone into this decision. The most technologically knowledgeable and fore-thinking minds have been added to our population. They will stimulate growth through priceless, expansive research and development labs. We will live off cultured foods, and though there will be little meat at first, in time our cattle programs will thrive. We will be entirely self-sustaining, and in the days when we begin to emerge, each our future relatives will live as kings and queens.”

The two men at the front of the group raised their glasses, chorusing together: “To the future!”

The others echoed the toast at the resonance of their tin cups.

Band of the Red: Part 3

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

3.

THE EINHEIT

To those allowed to know of it, it was called the Einheit. There were only five of us as too many attempting sabotage or subterfuge is easy to discover. As a precaution, each of us was to join the Band of the Red through separate systems. We required the utmost secrecy, our role vital to the survival of Billions. It was a harsh thing for spirits, but there was little choice in the matter. Our only Commanders were the needs of the Federation. But we received orders through dozens of hidden channels, forced to decipher layers of code.

Only as a group could we decode a full message, but our messages were our own. It forced us to work in shadow, hone our evasion, and disregard the whole for the sake of our own progress. We were one men splinter-cells.

This is where the Einheit’s infamy was gained. Nobody, save a select few that cobbled together our orders, knew our identities. Everyone we met as individuals assumed we were green, draftees, inexperienced in combat. It was a dangerous ruse to uphold considering our skill.

When the first of the Einheit infiltrated the Band, he held himself well. Though never discovered, he was highly suspected of treason. Such was his skill that he could disappear and reappear with the wind, but even still the Band distrusted him.

The reason? From the start, we had one, crucial piece of information to be used against us; we were known, Federation draftees. Anyone could find our names in public records over Gal-net, see that we had once been pulled to the fray, but we each used it to our advantage. If questioned, the rebuke was simple; we had families we wished the best for, and were willing to do whatever it took to protect them and end this damnable war. It was clever, obvious, but enough to allay suspicion. There was no shortage of former-loyalists– defectors from the Federation and Mustela’s militaries– that begged ging for aid or surrendered en-mass. Only five of us however, were under orders.

Reluctant to bestow First his Acolyte status, The Band assigned him several tasks to prove his worth; sabotage shipments of D-335 and shipbuilding facilities, while reporting extensively on the movements of the Federation and Mustela’s militaries. The Gal-Net could not report the latter of these, it surely showed the vids of Federation facilities exploding from afar as they took possession of D-335 shipments from Mustela freighters. Ignorant to the greater scheme of things, the vids called the attacks “monstrous,” “atrocious,” all the while unaware that their own Council had ordered it.

I remember watching the approach to Mustela-Four on the Intranet during chow. Mustela-four is a simple moon of the systems home-planet, but with an ionosphere that regularly exudes nebulous, electrically charged gas. I smelled the hint of First’s leaks to the Band in that attack: the way the Federation’s cruisers approached Mustela only to be met with an entire fleet flanking them from the rear. Verbero ships had come from the far side of the moon, so close to its powerful ionosphere that they’d been cloaked to the Federation’s sensors. They never saw the Verbero coming.

When the Verbero fleet took position, they unleashed batteries of particle-beams that lit space with waves that no ship could avoid. The fighting was over in moments, every ship flanked, destroyed. It was the first time an entire, Federation squadron been eliminated en-route. And it was First that had done it– on orders from the Council.

The massacre proved First’s loyalty, and Sharok bestowed him the title of Acolyte. She trained him herself, sensing his promise. It was this personable nature that eventually led to a cataclysmic event, of which I will speak later, as well as the Band’s suspicion of First.

With First as an Acolyte, Second made her way to a recruiter in the Mustela system. Her ruse was the most clever of all, mired in a lore of the people whom did not directly know her, but rather stories that she took claim to. It was, therefore, easiest for her to infiltrate.

She was known as a defected draftee, but then came the lore: Many defectors had hidden themselves on the planets of the contested-zones, knowing that they would be secure until the Federation began its ground wars. Until then these defectors, were willing to sell information to the Band and the Verbero to remain out of harm’s way.

Second’s information was highly-valued, though none of us were aware of its contents. Her reward, and the only way she would hand over the intelligence, was to join the Band at Sharok’s side. She wished to strike against the order’s oppressors with a vengeance fueled by past sufferings of prejudice. Either this attitude struck a soft spot in Sharok, or Second’s information was so valuable as to warrant it, that she was recruited outright.

Now, both first and Second had joined Sharok’s ranks. And it seemed, were perfectly poised to decimate the Band. However their orders seemed, unequivocally, to be watch, learn, and wait.

It then came time for Third and Fourth to join, but they took a rather foolish approach. It was summarily rewarded with some of the greatest atrocities witnessed by the Einheit.

Third and Fourth allied themselves with the Verbero fleet, staying close to one another, but not so much as to garner suspicion. The Verbero fleet immediately engaged in attacks and raids on Federation planets the savagery of which we knew not could exist. Gal-net soon revealed what little civilian footage they could of countless bombardments, but the Intranet showed it all.

The Verbero fleet directly targeted defenseless planets for hit and runs, with no more aim then to decimate morale. I remember the distant flames of Vermeer-six as the particle-artillery rained like white-rain, only to meet the ground with immense explosions of black and red. Just before the civilian vid cut-out, deathly wails of mourning and pain stung our chests. The screen surged white, then went black. We all knew then what had happened.

But for Third and Fourth, the worst had yet to come. What became known as the Blackmane Massacre took place, and the Einheit simply sensed Third and Fourth’s involvement. It began with Verbero’s fleet positioning themselves upon the surface to seek out companies in need of assistance in gaining a foothold. Blackmane, once a mining colony, had been terra-formed to an industrial world with several metropolises once its mines ran dry.

As the Verbero landed, nearly the entire planet was immediately overwhelmed by sheer barbarism. In training, the Band of the Red neglected to pass over their style of honor to the Lord’s army, and the result was the literal rape of the planet’s settlements. The Verbero slayed any one they found, advanced a burning trail across the planet, and stood up the ruins to rape women and children. In the middle of it, Third and Fourth were forced to were forced to join, hoping in time they would find sanctuary in the Band.

Stories surfaced from the Einheit’s classified-files regarding Third and Fourth’s time in with the Verbero, but most are too horrific to repeat. But for the usual coded, exchanges I have had little contact with them, and as such, can neither confirm nor deny anything. Of Third and Fourth’s journey, I know only what I have told until their appointment within Sharok’s ranks. I do, however, know that no war before or after could damage a man as this one has undoubtedly damaged them.

Finally there is but one Einheit member whose introduction into the band I have yet to; my own. Elements of this story may appear plagued by embellishment. This is not true. I have no use for lies outside of the Einheit, and will impart the most detail admissible to the events of my recruitment in the Einheit, and training with the Band.

And we’re back! Short Story: The Governors of the Universe

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Thank you to everyone for waiting patiently for the next story, and sorry it’s a little late today. Enjoy!

The Governors of the Universe

Part One

In the midst of the cold blackness of space, beyond quasars, pulsars, and novae left behind from the poignant Big Bang, stands the Blue Sphere. Half illuminated at all times by its massive star, and with it’s orbit elliptical, and fused with a rotation all its own. Its axes, tilted twenty-odd degrees, shift ever slowly over aeons while its poles magnetically transfer by micrometers with each rotation.

Known to it’s inhabitants as Earth, the planet stands as a silhouetted, blue marble, suspended almost majestically in space. It is the third in-line from its mother-star, eighth in planetary order, and the only inhabitable by its unique form of life.

It seems, one day, hundreds of millions of years ago, life crawled from its seas to stand upon bi-pedal vestiges to harness the land around itself. Shortly after, the warring began. This planet, billions of years in the making, and having graced its inhabitants with a stellar dust all its own, motioned to them. The wars ceased abruptly, though for only a short time. The inhabitants looked skyward, to the stars. They built ships– large and sluggish though they were– and sent them high. Leaving their planet behind, albeit briefly, they stepped forth into the machinations of a cosmic infinity to place their feet firmly upon their revolving satellite.

Too shortly these few men, as they call themselves, left their satellite and returned to their Earth. For a short period, these strange creatures, infatuated as they were with the skies, launched innumerable artificial satellites. Though none were so magnificent as that of their planet’s own, natural one, they had looked deeper into the recesses of nothingness than any of their world’s other inhabitants. For what must have been, even to them, the briefest of periods, they built more machines to thrust themselves upon the blackness; more machines still to rest there outside their fragile atmosphere, and look further from themselves.

Then came a period where, one-by-one, they felt fulfilled in the minute faculty of what they had seen, accomplished. One by one, their eyes turned once more upon their lands. One-by-one, they resumed the in-fighting and warring among themselves. And one by one, and little by little, the artificial satellites filled the skies with nary a “man” to be found. With each new satellite, another was abandoned to the cosmos. Litter and debris filled the orbit of that once majestic blue marble.

So here we sit. The first regiment and invading party of– what to them– is an invisible civilization waiting for their ascension beyond pettiness of their own differences. Their wasting of time and littering of space have angered our leaders. The Federation that would have welcomed them with open arms, now only wishes destruction upon them, and so has thrust my Company and I marble-ward. No doubt our weapons and tactics will be merciless to them. Some will attempt surrender: they will be equally as crushed beneath our might. Once more, My company and I will wipe from the universe, this galaxy, and existence, another of the seemingly infinite plagues.

For you see, there is an unending supply of pests such as these. They are allowed to mature, for either way they stay contained, until they look heavenward. Following there first forays into the inter-spatial voids, they are kept under close watch– For it is much easier to exterminate the hive, than it is to hunt pests individually. This is what my Company and I are; Galactic Exterminators, for someone must keep in check that which is as hell-bound, destructive, and wasteful, as these beings.

With knowledge comes responsibility, and all pests follow the same course in their leanings. Once their flights of fancy begin, it is only a short time before again they look downward, resuming their transgressions, eschewing the responsibility of evolving, maturing, through what they have learned and seen. If the universe is to stay at peace, such aggression must be stamped out at its source. So we will drift down into their atmosphere, lay waste to their settlements where millions dwell in frenzy. We will destroy them en-masse, push them back from the brinks and into the recesses of their habitat. And when it is through, never again will they be capable of mounting ventures outward.

For this is what we do, my Company and I. We are exterminators, carefully keeping in check the parasites that emerge in the universe. We leave civilizations in ruin, imparting to them the utmost profitable of all lessons: Humility.

The signal resounds that their atmosphere has been breached. We shall take our positions upon the ship’s weapons, and above their greatest masses, commence the slaughter. And Slaughter we will, my Company and I.

Part Two

They came with disinterest, indifferent to all but wiping us from the Earth, in their ship and on a sunny day. Strolling through Central Park, I found myself caught in the fervor of natural beauty around me, unaware of the news that their ship had descended with a fierce predilection. We learned all too soon what I had missed.

They began with the largest cities, laid waste to them one-by-one with terrible weapons like something out of Wells. Invisible heat-rays burst forth with unimaginable speed, left swaths of destruction in their path. I have a mind to say, perhaps Wells saw forward to our own time, or rather was thrust into it by his machine. In either case, his vision was near complete. Though they did not come in tripods, nor cylinders, nor so far as we know, from Mars; the destruction was total all the same. So far as we know, they did not show themselves– that is, there is no account beyond that of the ship.

In itself, it was truly a spectacular sight, if not the most violent and frightening one I might ever lay eyes upon. Wide as a city, tall as Everest, it stretched star-ward with reckless abandon; constructed of several sections, and obliquely spherical. Though we never truly saw its topmost sections, I am inclined to believe it was merely a space-fairing bubble of some strange viscous material. Within, its commander stood, pridefully gazing at the wonton destruction reigned forth. Its lowest sections housed Wells’ heat weapon, though it was far superior to what he had envisioned. Where his Martians held it in their tripod’s arms, our invaders’ weapon encompassed the whole of the bottom of their ship.

They struck without mercy, unhindered by our greatest feats of modern life. They came fast to their position, halted long enough to charge and fire their weapon. From all directions, the heat emitted in a massive dose akin to that of a Sun. It laid waste to cities in mere seconds, sweltering miles of their outskirts.

When I first heard of the attack, I immediately removed myself from New York. The radios were filled with reports from all over China, Russia, and Europe. The attacks, only seconds long, bore a heat and destructive force that has caused a global rise in temperature. It has since thrown our environment into chaos. The invaders hovered overhead for a brief moment, long enough to target their foul weapons (or perhaps, long enough for those below to recognize their defeat), fire, and disappear.

We attempted defense once our eradication was evident. Like Wells’ English cities, we laid massive guns in hiding. Though in the years passed since War of the Worlds, our defensive technology has grown by bounds, still our weapons were useless. Bullets rebounded from the ship like rubber off steel skin. Bombers dropped the highest yields of explosives ever concocted upon the ship’s exterior, yet no damage was done. The ship’s materials, we knew, were immensely strong. Perhaps for a dual purpose: both intergalactic space flight, and defense. I believe, though I can not be sure, that the ship eventually left our atmosphere in the same pristine condition it had entered.

As the beast descended swiftly upon Canada to work its way downward, hope for humanity was lost. True though it was, that many minor cities still remained, there was already unanimous agreement that the human race could never recover. Billions had already been wiped from existence in a small matter of hours; their fates predetermined by a higher intelligence within the ship’s theoretical, viscous bubble, extinguished amid the most formulaic indifference man has seen.

Some argued rigorously– until their own demise– that these invaders were intelligently-minded. Enough even, to recognize a surrender if one were presented. Conversely, others cried to repent, for this was His work; an apparition of a modernized horsemen for our own bemusement. In equal parts they were struck down without regard.

I, for one see it for what it is: we have been systematically eliminated as a species. For what could naturally occur in that short chaos that would so fully hide massive numbers– allow us to survive, rebuild? Nothing. That they knew. They were exterminating us. Our species and its greatest endeavors were as pests to them. They moved swiftly from one nest to another to eliminate our largest swarms before targeting the left-overs.

And that they did. Only mere hours after the attacks began, the largest cities upon Earth had been utterly destroyed. Yet unsatisfied, these intergalactic exterminators reversed their movements, started to lay waste to every remaining city. Attempts were made to contact them. Scientists and mathematicians, soldiers and politicians, radio astronomers, even HAM radio enthusiasts, searched dutifully for the cosmic frequency to raise the white flag. Until their final moments, they fought with valiance. In the dejection afterward, true white flags rose by the thousands. Every Human, feeling threatened, stopped amid the confusion to cast out their pride and surrender without contemplation. Still the invaders plundered us; cosmic bullies in our own yard.

When it was over, the few left were driven into hiding under the ground, and back in caves like the pests we were seen as, treated like. New-found humility has ebbed its way through the survivors; if, in fact there are any. There can be no doubt of it either way. No man, woman, nor child, no matter their arrogance, could miss the point of this event. Though I may be the only human left, and have been wandering for days, I know it to be true. How many days? I cannot count. I have succumbed every night to utter exhaustion, suffered by an insurmountable hunger. In the rising global temperature, I am quite literally dying of thirst, but have yet to come across a clean stream of water– though I would take a dirty one at that.

My bones and muscles grow weak, weary. I fear the end may come before I find another living soul. In a day, our species has been targeted, attacked, left to whither and die painfully. Futile attempts will be made, I’m sure, to rekindle the flame of our species. It is doubtless our numbers will increase to sustainable once more. At that, should we venture anywhere into the near, observable space beyond our great, Blue Marble, we shall likely be smote down once more.

I will attempt to recollect more soon, but am too weary now and require rest. The next days shall be spent in search of food and water. Perhaps the futile nature of pests is among us. We push ourselves so futilely to live on in caves, beneath rocks, and underground in search of simple sustenance. All the while we crave to preserve ourselves, persevere for some primal reason unknown to us. I for one, believe that was the reason for the attack– though belief now seems superfluous. We took more than we gave and someone took notice. The notion of our species as a parasite is not new, and with this development in our history, it is safe to say it is correct enough.

Perhaps, on a rock somewhere in space, or in the great void between rocks, rests a civilization that is always watching. They observe growth until critical mass is reached, then send their envoy to teach the pests of humility by swatting them back from the brinks. When they are done, those left, too fearful of retribution, reconcile themselves to a better way or none. For they are the Invaders, the Galactic Exterminators, and the Governors of the Universe.

Update and Story!

~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Happy Friday Everyone!

So I’ve decided, in addition to Tuesdays and Thursdays, I will begin posting longer stories in “parts” each Friday. I have several novella/novelette-length stories that I’m working on, and a few finished.

For the next few weeks, I’ll be posting the first of these longer works called Band of the Red. Hopefully you’ll enjoy it and the others to come.

Also, I may be adding more pages/content (not stories) to the site in the next few weeks, so keep an eye out and enjoy your weekend.

 

Band of The Red

1.

PRELUDE TO WAR

At peace for thousands of years, and presided over by the loudest voices in ten galaxies, The Federation’s open-court held deliberation. The issue at-hand was whether or not to break treaties passed long ago by ancestors whose names have been forgotten. The leaders of many, great worlds pled for continued peace in the council’s enormous chambers. They cited that no man nor woman has a warring sense about them any longer. The strategically minded agreed; there was no favorable outcome to aggression, our weapons were powerful, but our tactics untrained. These voices echoed endlessly off the Council’s great, metallic walls.

And in reply? Nothing more than their echo back at them.

How did it come to this? The truth is, it should not have. At least it would not have, had the decision been left to those whom would fight. But they were not the individuals in the position to make the call. Those old, robed fools merely sat on-high, deciding the fate of Billions with less consideration than a larvae to its evening meal.

So, what then was the motivation to break three thousands of years of serenity, tranquility? It was, as it always has been, personal gain.

Two major factions began a conflict that led to Federation intervention; the Verbero, and the Mustela. The Verbero, represented in council by their Lord and namesake, sought profits with an unchecked desire. Verbero was a fat man in the grandest of senses. His robes fell over his stained undergarments, that rarely (if ever) were cleaned or changed. Jewel-encrusted rings shined across his plump fingers that groped mercilessly for all within grasp– in both a literal and figurative sense.

For many years, he and his faction had been responsible for trade among The Federation’s planets. He held himself a king. But fiefdom was not the Federation’s way. Often Verbero-shipments were accompanied by the Lord’s personal men; scoundrels and dregs of the galaxy that hassled merchants for increased payment on delivery. The Verbero (both the man, and those whom took his namesake) were unscrupulous scoundrels.

The Mustela, until very recently, were a poor and simple folk– farmers, hermits, the like. They wore the obvious rags of their station, and it was said their Council representative owned the only suit to be found in the whole system. Only after massive veins of the mineral D-335 were discovered within their planetary system, did the representative even have cause to wear it.

For whatever reason, (perhaps at the beginning of time, the formation of their solar-system allowed it) this mineral seemed most abundant in their system. As the main component to The Federation’s defensive weaponry, the discovery placed the Galaxy in a unique position. The balance of economic and political power tipped from Verbero to the Mustela.

In a literal, over-night sense, this tattered, agrarian system became the most important political power in The Federation. Their representative quickly curried the Council’s favor through his home-grown charisma and ever-present suit. Gal-Net news briefs showed him in Council perched humbly in his seat, or at banquets for those of The Federation’s highest esteem. As such, his voice became both well-heard and well-regarded.

That was, to everyone but Lord Verbero.

Ancient and unforgiving, the fat, old-bastard felt entitled to a share of profits from the D-335 mines. As far as the Mustela were concerned, he was not. For a moment, this was only a minor source of contention with either side pitted against the other in negotiations.

Why there were negotiations in the first place is beyond me. Had you asked, I’d have said Verbero wasn’t entitled to a damned thing– but I digress. The contentious negotiations later broke down. The Federation’s mediator, a neutral party if Gal-Net were to be believed, as well as the Mustela representative, failed to see reason for a tithe to Verbero. Though the mineral was found along his trade routes, he had not found it. And so long as the Mustela did not use his caravans to transport it, he had no rights to it. In simplest terms, the mediator sided with the Mustela even before the talks broke-down.

Gal-Net went wild when The Federation formally denied all tithe Verbero sought. Some called for Verbero’s head, others for annexation of the Mustela system. Still more made speculations and predictions of what was to come. Though most of them were wrong, the few that later turned out to be right, wished they weren’t.

What followed Gal-Net’s formal reports was the beginning of a series of hit-and-runs that turned to a formal declaration of war. While no evidence against Lord Verbero personally, was found, even a fool could see it was his men ransacking the Mustela trade-routes.

One such incident was widely reported, amid obvious rumors, on Gal-Net: Mustela’s caravan had made its hyper-jump between its system and the next, only to emerge before an armada. The plundering thieves tore through the Federation-appointed guard, and boarded the Mustela ships. They murdered all aboard, took the D-335, then made for the black market. The few Federation scouts that escaped did so with brutal, visual evidence of the attack. Even now, years past, the images of their scorched ships are used as a symbol of remembrance.

Following Gal-Net’s report, many system-leaders chose sides. Those seeking profit sided with Verbero, hoping to create a veritable aristocracy among the stars. The others, seeking justice and retribution, sided with Mustela. This led to a precipice of peace, where it was possible look down into a chasm of war.

How could we war over this? It was undoubtedly foolish, selfish even. But as I said before, it is not those who take up weapons to fight that have the final say. The Federation has always had a vast army, but its main purposes are defense, posturing. The Verbero though, have always had vast riches at their side. At that, rumor suggested that Lord Verbero, with aid from certain mercenaries, was building an army to rival The Federation’s own.

This was the point where we attempted to jump the chasm– leap its distance and land on the other-side at a peaceful resolution. A final round of peace-talks began. But the chasm was as wide as it was deep, and stretched into the bowels of planet as volatile as the Lord’s lust for riches. Little hope for peace remained, and when the talks once more faltered, The Federation began drafting recruits.

There was no point in lying to ourselves anymore. War would begin in the coming days. Ships and weapons that had not been launched or fired in anger for thousands of years would immediately loose themselves upon the stars. Until the first shots came, some held hope with bated breath that a last-minute resolution would be reached.

I for one, held no such hope. I had been drafted. The final session of Council in those blasted chambers determined my fate. With The Federation at his side, the representative of The Mustela appeared on Gal-Net to personally condemn the attacks suffered on the D-335 trade routes. Though the word was never said, war had been be declared. Undoubtedly, the fighting immediately began; either side laying in wait for the formal acknowledgment with their first targets already sighted.

But how did I feel about it? The truth was, it didn’t matter. I’m one of the few who smelled the Verbero’s treacherous nature before Mustela’s D-335 was ever discovered. I knew their Lord, greedy and ruthless as he was, would one day bring an end to peace. The only thing needed to spur the warring was something valuable enough to both he and The Federation. The trade-routes presented ample fuel for the fire, and I sensed it outright.

Never has a thing been more dangerous nor depraved than a leader whose sole pursuit is riches.

I smelled the proverbial fire before it was ever thought to be lit. And in the nights of the first peace talks, I dreamed of assassinating Lord Verbero and his seconds. I wished nothing more than to see his bloated corpse begin to rot beneath my outstretched hands. In the years that I have lived, the Verbero traders have slowly imposed their stranglehold on The Federation. Inside it has been near-invisible. From the outside, it has been subtle, insidious, but even with the greatest foresight there was little to be done about it; the Verbero had monopolized trade. At the formal declaration, that trade came to a screeching halt. The majority of The Federation’s populous who’d sided with the Mustela would starve before the end of the war unless something were done.

When the council adjourned live on Gal-Net, The Federation had split damn-near down the middle. It was almost as if one could see the aristocracy rise and exit the chamber to one side, while the crusaders wandered out the other. Regardless of my feelings, I prepared for war.