The news was filled with noise. Makoro hadn’t experienced anything like this in the past thirty years, since he was eight and the Xon war had ended.
That had been a troubled time, filled with uncertainty. The two factions that had formed out of the ashes-The United Terran Fleet and Hazzard Technology joined together under the banner of the Republic, the old Imperius Sol and several large planetary navies under the Imperiata’s-had waged war across the stars. Eventually, the Fleet had won. As in the Xon war, they owed their victory to a small number of leaders-indeed, many of the same leaders-such as Julian Shishani or Killian Hazzard.
That had been a troubled time, filled with uncertainty. The two factions that had formed out of the ashes-The United Terran Fleet and Hazzard Technology joined together under the banner of the Republic, the old Imperius Sol and several large planetary navies under the Imperiata’s-had waged war across the stars. Eventually, the Fleet had won. As in the Xon war, they owed their victory to a small number of leaders-indeed, many of the same leaders-such as Julian Shishani or Killian Hazzard.
Makoro had never cared for politics. When he was born, he was a citizen of the Terran Federation. At age eight, he abruptly became a citizen of the Imperiata. Almost exactly on his fifteenth birthday, Riya Dare’s dreadnoughts had finally pounded their way through Saray’s defenses, and, three days later he had complied with the general order to turn in official Imperiata papers in return for their Republic equivalents.
Life had been no different under the Republic, for him, at least. Oh, the Imperiata had been bad, if you weren’t ‘Human’ by whatever current standard they had cooked up. Makoro had never been gmodded though, at least, not beyond the basic ones that every human alive got, so he had never had to worry.
He had been told that made him a horrible person. It made him just like the people, back in the 20th and 21st centuries, who had allowed secret police and government agencies to spy on, exploit, imprison, and slay their own citizens. He had always shrugged it off. It was now fashionable to be for the Republic all-out, to the death, and since the dawn of time. As soon as it no longer was, Republic patriots would become as few and far between as moderates like Makoro were now. Every man, woman, and child had been in the anti-Imperiata resistance, it seemed-an institution that, being brutally honest with himself, Makoro couldn’t remember existing twenty years ago.
Makoro shook his head, and turned back to where he was taking inventory. He had better things to do than to care about whatever disaster the news had cooked up for the day.
Three hours later, he had come to an alarming conclusion. They were out of flashlights, and he would need to place an order.
He made his way over to the back room, where there was a small rec room for off-duty employees. He fully expected to see some of the younger ones gaming-and, indeed, one of those big capital ships was dominating the monitor.
He smiled. Whatever big news had been revealed this morning, it was all forgotten behind a joystick controller. He sat down at a monitor in the back of the room, and logged on to the net. The problem with being a backwater like Saray was that the Ansnet providers made a killing off of everything you did-one good thing about the Republic was that they had finally gotten around to mandating that the maximum Ansnet rates that providers could charge varied with the population of the planet.
Still though, it hurt to feed the meter.
He typed in the address of their providers-the next mail shipment to the planet was due to depart Omir in the next few days, so he needed to get this order in sooner rather than later.
There was a delay in connecting to the Ansnet-that was normal, because while the Ansibles obviously had unlimited transmission capacity, the normal planetary Internets at both ends did not. After a few seconds of waiting though-which was as high as lag times really ever got-he started to get suspicious. After ten more, he turned around, and asked, “Has anyone turned off the Net connection?”
“Yeah.” That was his nephew, Tarau. The boy was absent minded, but to turn off the net and then just sit down and game? Come to think of it, this wasn’t a game, it was a news channel.
“How are you getting news if the net is of, Tarau?” Makoro asked, beginning to become annoyed.
“The Internet’s on, Uncle. The Ansnet’s offline though.”
“What?”
Tarau pointed at the monitor they were watching news on. “Fleet did. They sent the kill order for all Ansibles this morning.
Makoro raised an eyebrow. Maybe the news today was not simply noise. He turned his chair around, sat back down, and began to watch the news.
“Due to the order to deactivate the Ansnet, details are slim on exactly what has occurred on Tantaline, especially as the local Fleet emplacements-which should have received a dump of all data from that engagement-is being rather closed-lipped.” The woman on the monitor said. “However, a few things are certain. First, the Fleet has engaged hostile, non-Republic forces. These have widely been theorized to completely alien in nature. Second, it can be inferred that the Fleet has not fared well-if they had, they wouldn’t have enacted Ansible Silence protocols. Third and final, it can be assumed that the Fleet will be more than capable of controlling the situation in the long term.”
Makoro had been through the Imperiata’s rule. He knew propaganda and doublespeak when he saw it. ‘The fleet has not fared well’ and ‘More than capable of controlling the situation in the long term’ were, after all, clearly contradictory.
“However, the Fleet Base has requested that speculation on the Tantaline attack be withheld until their representative has had an opportunity to speak, on ai-.” The newswoman paused for a moment. “Which we will cut to now.”
Makoro smiled. The news was typically slick, well-coordinated, a machine. For once, they were as astonished by the events as the populace in general was. He was curious to see if the Fleet was too. One of Julian Shishani’s promises after the end of the Xon war was ‘Never again’. Never again would humanity be helpless before an alien threat-and he had used that line of thinking to justify a civil war and quadrillions of credits of expenditure on warships, even with no real use for them apparent.
The screen flashed, the simulations and stock footage of warships being replaced with the Republic’s flag-Yellow circle, blue circle, gray circle, emblematic of a planet that no-one cared about anymore because its surface was evenly split between the slag and the military-industrial bases.
It cut to a man wearing a black military uniform, the Republic flag on his shoulder, and displayed behind him. On a frontier world like Saray, everyone could recognize their garrison’s commander. Even if they were on the opposite side of space from where the majority of the fleet was deployed, they knew that the Republic's fleet could, in an instant, become the only things standing between them and a very sudden, very brutal death.
“Greetings, citizens of Saray!” He says, the kind of patriotic music that accompanied officialdom in all its shapes and forms blaring from the monitor. “You will have heard the rumors-that Tantaline has fallen, that the First Citizen is dead, that the fleet is in shambles, that we are at war.
“Some of these are true. Regrettably, we have made contact with a further alien species. They have taken a single planet. However, Tantaline was virtually undefended-barely a hundred Marines and a dozen fightercraft were assigned there. Here at Saray, you are safer-the Fleet has thousands of Soldiers assigned here, as well as a destroyer squadron, and Strike Group Warrior itself on its way.
“However, this will require sacrifices. Selected Volunteers have been called up across the Republic, but Saray will bear much of this weight. Starships can only travel so fast-and Saray needs warriors to defend it now, not in two months. Warships have been dispatched from a local boneyard facility to be crewed with Selected Volunteers.
“We have already selected said volunteers, and they will be contacted shortly. They will report to Fleet within the next twenty-four hours to begin training. They have been selected based on various fair, unbiased algorithms that have been designed to ensure that the Fleet receives the skills it needs from our volunteers. Ships from the Boneyard are expected to arrive within the next few weeks, which will be more than enough time for their new crews to become familiar with operating them. For our Republic, this is Commodore Ian Cory, signing off.”
The flag flashed across the screen again, and, as the newswoman reappeared, the room exploded.
“Who do they think they are?” Tarau spat.
“We’re not idiots.” Akira, one of his nieces said by way of agreement. “‘Selected Volunteers’-if you’re going to institute a draft, just call it a draft.”
Shaking his head, Makoro turned away and began preparing food.
His tablet pinged at him as he began, but he ignored it. He didn’t read the message until the meal was already in the oven, cooking.
It was in all caps, with a republic flag imposed in the background.
‘Greetings, Mr/s MAKORO KARAZWAKI. You have been selected as a volunteer for service with the United Terran Fleet. You will report to a Fleet base for duty within the next 22 hours, 49 minutes...’
It continued on like that for several pages, informing him of what to bring, what would get him out of service, so on and so forth.
The news was... Unexpected. Makoro had never served in the military, had never done anything to qualify himself for this.
There was purpose behind everything, but this? Why this? There seemed to be no purpose to it. The Republic had reasons for everything it did though, that much was fairly obvious to anyone who lived under it. Clearly some computer program somewhere had decided that he was useful.
Everything had a purpose, however, of that Makoro had faith. He was scared-terrified even-but that was unimportant. There was a plan for everything, and, though he knew it was not his place to question, that didn’t mean that he had to like it.
Still though, he had to be strong. For himself. For his family. Even for the fleet.
Makoro had been young when the Xon war ended. Still though, he had been raised on an Imperiata world, and images of the Fall of Sol had defined his childhood. Cities burning. Dark footage of the tunnels below New York or Blackacre, terrifying Xon Assimilates barely distinguishable from the UTF Marines that they fought.
He steeled himself as the oven chimed. He would have to discuss this with his family, though he was not overly concerned-he would find a way to tell them.
Apparently, he belonged to the Fleet now.
Life had been no different under the Republic, for him, at least. Oh, the Imperiata had been bad, if you weren’t ‘Human’ by whatever current standard they had cooked up. Makoro had never been gmodded though, at least, not beyond the basic ones that every human alive got, so he had never had to worry.
He had been told that made him a horrible person. It made him just like the people, back in the 20th and 21st centuries, who had allowed secret police and government agencies to spy on, exploit, imprison, and slay their own citizens. He had always shrugged it off. It was now fashionable to be for the Republic all-out, to the death, and since the dawn of time. As soon as it no longer was, Republic patriots would become as few and far between as moderates like Makoro were now. Every man, woman, and child had been in the anti-Imperiata resistance, it seemed-an institution that, being brutally honest with himself, Makoro couldn’t remember existing twenty years ago.
Makoro shook his head, and turned back to where he was taking inventory. He had better things to do than to care about whatever disaster the news had cooked up for the day.
Three hours later, he had come to an alarming conclusion. They were out of flashlights, and he would need to place an order.
He made his way over to the back room, where there was a small rec room for off-duty employees. He fully expected to see some of the younger ones gaming-and, indeed, one of those big capital ships was dominating the monitor.
He smiled. Whatever big news had been revealed this morning, it was all forgotten behind a joystick controller. He sat down at a monitor in the back of the room, and logged on to the net. The problem with being a backwater like Saray was that the Ansnet providers made a killing off of everything you did-one good thing about the Republic was that they had finally gotten around to mandating that the maximum Ansnet rates that providers could charge varied with the population of the planet.
Still though, it hurt to feed the meter.
He typed in the address of their providers-the next mail shipment to the planet was due to depart Omir in the next few days, so he needed to get this order in sooner rather than later.
There was a delay in connecting to the Ansnet-that was normal, because while the Ansibles obviously had unlimited transmission capacity, the normal planetary Internets at both ends did not. After a few seconds of waiting though-which was as high as lag times really ever got-he started to get suspicious. After ten more, he turned around, and asked, “Has anyone turned off the Net connection?”
“Yeah.” That was his nephew, Tarau. The boy was absent minded, but to turn off the net and then just sit down and game? Come to think of it, this wasn’t a game, it was a news channel.
“How are you getting news if the net is of, Tarau?” Makoro asked, beginning to become annoyed.
“The Internet’s on, Uncle. The Ansnet’s offline though.”
“What?”
Tarau pointed at the monitor they were watching news on. “Fleet did. They sent the kill order for all Ansibles this morning.
Makoro raised an eyebrow. Maybe the news today was not simply noise. He turned his chair around, sat back down, and began to watch the news.
“Due to the order to deactivate the Ansnet, details are slim on exactly what has occurred on Tantaline, especially as the local Fleet emplacements-which should have received a dump of all data from that engagement-is being rather closed-lipped.” The woman on the monitor said. “However, a few things are certain. First, the Fleet has engaged hostile, non-Republic forces. These have widely been theorized to completely alien in nature. Second, it can be inferred that the Fleet has not fared well-if they had, they wouldn’t have enacted Ansible Silence protocols. Third and final, it can be assumed that the Fleet will be more than capable of controlling the situation in the long term.”
Makoro had been through the Imperiata’s rule. He knew propaganda and doublespeak when he saw it. ‘The fleet has not fared well’ and ‘More than capable of controlling the situation in the long term’ were, after all, clearly contradictory.
“However, the Fleet Base has requested that speculation on the Tantaline attack be withheld until their representative has had an opportunity to speak, on ai-.” The newswoman paused for a moment. “Which we will cut to now.”
Makoro smiled. The news was typically slick, well-coordinated, a machine. For once, they were as astonished by the events as the populace in general was. He was curious to see if the Fleet was too. One of Julian Shishani’s promises after the end of the Xon war was ‘Never again’. Never again would humanity be helpless before an alien threat-and he had used that line of thinking to justify a civil war and quadrillions of credits of expenditure on warships, even with no real use for them apparent.
The screen flashed, the simulations and stock footage of warships being replaced with the Republic’s flag-Yellow circle, blue circle, gray circle, emblematic of a planet that no-one cared about anymore because its surface was evenly split between the slag and the military-industrial bases.
It cut to a man wearing a black military uniform, the Republic flag on his shoulder, and displayed behind him. On a frontier world like Saray, everyone could recognize their garrison’s commander. Even if they were on the opposite side of space from where the majority of the fleet was deployed, they knew that the Republic's fleet could, in an instant, become the only things standing between them and a very sudden, very brutal death.
“Greetings, citizens of Saray!” He says, the kind of patriotic music that accompanied officialdom in all its shapes and forms blaring from the monitor. “You will have heard the rumors-that Tantaline has fallen, that the First Citizen is dead, that the fleet is in shambles, that we are at war.
“Some of these are true. Regrettably, we have made contact with a further alien species. They have taken a single planet. However, Tantaline was virtually undefended-barely a hundred Marines and a dozen fightercraft were assigned there. Here at Saray, you are safer-the Fleet has thousands of Soldiers assigned here, as well as a destroyer squadron, and Strike Group Warrior itself on its way.
“However, this will require sacrifices. Selected Volunteers have been called up across the Republic, but Saray will bear much of this weight. Starships can only travel so fast-and Saray needs warriors to defend it now, not in two months. Warships have been dispatched from a local boneyard facility to be crewed with Selected Volunteers.
“We have already selected said volunteers, and they will be contacted shortly. They will report to Fleet within the next twenty-four hours to begin training. They have been selected based on various fair, unbiased algorithms that have been designed to ensure that the Fleet receives the skills it needs from our volunteers. Ships from the Boneyard are expected to arrive within the next few weeks, which will be more than enough time for their new crews to become familiar with operating them. For our Republic, this is Commodore Ian Cory, signing off.”
The flag flashed across the screen again, and, as the newswoman reappeared, the room exploded.
“Who do they think they are?” Tarau spat.
“We’re not idiots.” Akira, one of his nieces said by way of agreement. “‘Selected Volunteers’-if you’re going to institute a draft, just call it a draft.”
Shaking his head, Makoro turned away and began preparing food.
His tablet pinged at him as he began, but he ignored it. He didn’t read the message until the meal was already in the oven, cooking.
It was in all caps, with a republic flag imposed in the background.
‘Greetings, Mr/s MAKORO KARAZWAKI. You have been selected as a volunteer for service with the United Terran Fleet. You will report to a Fleet base for duty within the next 22 hours, 49 minutes...’
It continued on like that for several pages, informing him of what to bring, what would get him out of service, so on and so forth.
The news was... Unexpected. Makoro had never served in the military, had never done anything to qualify himself for this.
There was purpose behind everything, but this? Why this? There seemed to be no purpose to it. The Republic had reasons for everything it did though, that much was fairly obvious to anyone who lived under it. Clearly some computer program somewhere had decided that he was useful.
Everything had a purpose, however, of that Makoro had faith. He was scared-terrified even-but that was unimportant. There was a plan for everything, and, though he knew it was not his place to question, that didn’t mean that he had to like it.
Still though, he had to be strong. For himself. For his family. Even for the fleet.
Makoro had been young when the Xon war ended. Still though, he had been raised on an Imperiata world, and images of the Fall of Sol had defined his childhood. Cities burning. Dark footage of the tunnels below New York or Blackacre, terrifying Xon Assimilates barely distinguishable from the UTF Marines that they fought.
He steeled himself as the oven chimed. He would have to discuss this with his family, though he was not overly concerned-he would find a way to tell them.
Apparently, he belonged to the Fleet now.