: “ A Gathering - New Run ”

Eisenhower Terran Confederation Military Installation (ETCMI)
Planet Cairo Prime; New Achilles Continent, District A
The Cairo System, Vega Sector
MAR 12, 2681/2681.071; 0500 Hours (CST)

McKown’s eyes shot wide open, his mind struggling to assert itself back into reality from its previous state of deep slumber. With a gravelly voice, an “Oh Jesus Christ,” echoed in the quarters. Many more expletives of awakening followed. He reached over to his bedside desk, and picked up a PVU that blinking, “0600-Standard Patrol.” Yawning, he flung the bed sheets off him and stepped out of his bed, placing his feet on the cold ceramic-resembling floor. As he flexed and stretched the muscles taut over his toned exterior, he glanced around the room.

The room cabin itself was rectangular and modest, fitting a kitchenette, a system terminal, two swiveling business chairs and a foldout bed. Brandon sat up in the bed that folded out from the wall, ran a hand through his crew-cut brown hair, and dropped his skivvies to the floor.

“Ugh... feel like shit,” he groaned. “Probably look like it, too...”

Quickly he scooted to his shower, turned on the spout and set the water to the hottest temperature his skin could take. Jumping in, he quickly spurted some green body wash on his torso and let the streams of water run down his neck.

Ahhh—genuine, pure, virtually unlimited water. Not some chemical H20 recycled over and over until it became another chemical compound. The water that ran over his body had come from a planet, a living planet with real wind, real air, and nature.

No one who hadn’t spent months, years, in deep space could feel the same way about the same things. None in the Confederation Great Assembly, with the possible exception of one-time veteran pilot Senator Taggart, truly recognized what home meant to a war-worn soldier—except maybe when a re-election came up. Oh, then they knew everything. What the Space Force had fought for, who had been sacrificed, what planets had been saved, who the enemy was, and what freedom truly was.

Politics: telling someone to go to hell in such a way that they actually look forward to the trip.

After five minutes the shower was off and McKown was already dressed in a clean flightsuit, duty uniform underneath. Zipping up his vest and securely tightening his gloves, he walked over to the corner of his quarters nearest to the DataZig terminal—

The screen, displaying the image of a spinning Terran Confederation emblem, blinked with the words, “INCOMING E-MAIL.”

“Terminal: show me,” Darksabre ordered groggily. Text began spilling down the screen.

Date : 2681.071
Authorization Code : 125-6009-AZC [Level 3]
From : Adm. Tupelov, Dimitri (CINC, ConFleet) <dtupelov@tcn.7thfleet.alexandriaii.crew>
To : Capt. McKown, Brandon Thomas <bmckown@tcn.cairohq.crew>
Subject: New assignment

Battle Group Upsilon in the Seventh Fleet’s 77th Task Force, under command of the escort carrier Sangamon, has just been gathered at the a temporary outpost in the T’set mehr System in the H’hriss Quadrant of the Trk’Pahn Sector. During the battle group’s stay, the ships are being upgraded and/or repaired in preparation for the group’s next mission dealing with remnant “straggler” Nephilim forces.

The newly-commissioned Murphy-class destroyer TCS Walker, along with her sister ship the Young, have been assigned to patrol the immediate area and protect the battle group as it prepares for its next mission.

By the authority of Emergency Decree 394A, your midshipman post on Cairo in the In-System Security Militia of the Roberts Quadrant has ended. Effective as of 0100 today, you are promoted to the acting rank of Major—you have been assigned to command the fighter detachment of F/A-105B Tigershark multi-role fighters off the Walker. One of the fighters has been prepped and ready for your departure at 0600. Your journey will take an estimated length of two weeks, with sporadic pit stops for refueling and rest in between.

Once you arrive at your end destination, further orders will be given. Good day, Major.

Admiral Tupelov, CO Seventh Fleet

- END MESSAGE -

McKown sighed, keying the screen off.

For six years he had been with In-System Security, preferring to be involved in less bloodletting than in the Kilrathi Wars—the veritable bloodbath of the ages. No disappointment was within Brandon over not being able to fight in the bloodier, recently concluded Battle of Cynium—the Kilrathi Wars, barring all Cat insurgents outside of the central Assembly of Clans, was legitimately over with the signing of the Treaty of McAuliffe a year ago. That was enough for him. He was content to sit on the sidelines for the time being. It was peacetime, after all.

The twenty-nine year old McKown’s decision had been a difficult one: to take a step down to ISS, the In-System Security, in a go-nowhere position on a go-nowhere posting. During the Wars, though, he had felt discontented with his assignment aboard the Concordia-class TCS Mediterranean: he did too well in his position, and would later feel sick for doing so.

“Death... so much killing. Why do I have to be such a fucking crybaby? It was war, damn it... war...”

In all of McKown’s sorties as part of the White Lotus Squadron of the carrier’s 157th Tactical Fighter Wing, he took down almost fifty Kilrathi fighters total. Not the most glamorous of Space Force careers, but he’d seen his share of combat. In the Battles of Hilo, Loche, and Risac he had been awarded the Silver Star, yet each time he felt dirty for accepting them. Brandon had found out too late that the taste of death was not pleasant on his tongue, and each time a Kilrathi vessel exploded in the targeting reticule he flinched in unbearable guilt. Even though damn near every Cat was bent on destroying mankind, McKown didn’t want to end every one of those Cats’ lives. He supposed it could be attributed to the fact that no large, hate-inspiring event had ever set him toward that goal, or maybe he had simply been meant for the Diplomatic Corps from the beginning... The truth was the truth, though, never to be altered in the eyes of the honorable, that McKown was never to be a natural-born, soldier-bred killer. Nevertheless, there was still the lingering doubt, the possibility that his decision to step down into the ISS had been a blind one. Was it truly the right choice, or was it the equivalent of a self-imposed exile?

Soon, if Admiral Tupelov’s communiqué was to be any indication, he would find out if he had what it took. Brandon had the second chance he’d been waiting for.

ETCMI Spaceport
Landing Pad 7
0603 Hours (CST)

Darksabre looked around the vast section of the Installation. McKown himself was standing on a landing pad half a kilometer in diameter, with several hundreds of variations of Confederation shuttles and fighters touching down, taking off, or being repaired. Even with the light of the pale cyan sun shining upon the land, casting a somber motif upon the busy site, McKown considered it a sunny day. However, a cold, biting wind blasted over the flat launchscape, so powerful it seemed to threaten to topple him over.

It was quite a busy day for everyone at the ETCMI, for the Major saw several officers of every rank and military branch bustling through the streets and lifts of the installation. Skimming the upper atmosphere of Cairo was a 700 plus meter Concordia-class light fleet carrier, bristling with her flak cannons, anti-matter guns, and fighter escorts in proud protection of the planet. The decades-old vessel, still impressive even in the 2680s, remained vigilant against any invaders were they gall enough to show their faces. Reminded him of the Mediterranean. A bustle of shuttles and transports were likely ferrying to and from her, the Major suspected.

A young, energetic-looking woman with the suit of an Intelligence officer shoved her way past a gathering of petty officers upon catching a glimpse of McKown. Approaching him, she greeted Brandon hurriedly, shooting off a quick salute. “Hell of a wind today, isn’t it, sir?” she chimed. “Sir, Lieutenant JG Susan Ashmore reporting per System Command’s orders.”

“At ease, young lady… yes, a damned strong wind. It’s that time of year.” Brandon clipped a salute in return and responded somewhat mirthfully, in a deep wooden voice, “I’m being shipped off to T’set mehr, several jumps away from here. Due to the lack of available transports heading in that direction, I am to pilot one of the destroyer Warden’s F/A-105B Tigersharks to my destination.”

“Yes, and I’ve been ordered to brief you on the basic guidelines of your journey to the T’set mehr System,” the strawberry blonde answered. She continued, holding a GIF minidisc up for her superior. “During your journey, which will take about two weeks, you are to read over the information within this unit. All of it is CICINTEL Top Secret, and you already understand—”

“The implications for revealing any information I have read,” he finished for her. “Yes, yes, it’s the same old hush-hush cloak’n dagger bullshit. Don’t worry, Lieutenant Ashmore, I won’t be revealing any secrets. I just want to get to my destination as soon as possible. Now if you’ll direct me towards my ride, I’ll take it from here.”

Ashmore was somewhat unnerved at McKown’s apparent abandonment of protocol, but she continued with McKown as they wove their way between several utility shuttles, fighters, and repair crews.

In a far-off corner, hidden under a bolted-down canvas, was the Tigershark designated for Darksabre. Her paint and glossy finish were perfect, complementing her thin fuselage and symmetrical wings. Overall, her design was vapid, and made for function rather than form. However, she was a beautiful fighter nonetheless.

“Here’s the fighter you’ll be using on your journey and during your assignment, the F/A-105B Tigershark. She’s quick and she handles smoothly, accounting for her designation as a multi-role fighter. All kinds of CAP, escort, recon, light strike, anti-ship, wild weasel—pretty much everything. It’s one of the new ones set to replace the F/A-105As... not even the Midway’s air group has gotten their hands on one quite yet.”

McKown grunted, unimpressed with what was beginning to sound uncannily like a sales pitch. So it has four ion cannons instead of two lasers, two bullet mass drivers, and a charging mass driver... big fucking deal, he thought to himself.

“A short-to-medium-range vessel by design,” Ashmore went on, “she will have to suffice for your two-week journey.”

“Eh...?”

“Oh, don’t worry. You’ll run into refueling stations on your pre-programmed course.”

Darksabre’s boot heels clicked against the durasteel pavement as he gave the fighter a walkaround. “She’s lighter and more nimble than what I’ve usually handled... not like an F-86 Hellcat medium fighter at all. She’ll take some getting used to—I can tell that already. But I guess that’s why the Seventh Fleet’s having me take her, right?” He smiled a good-natured smile.

Susan agreed, and smiled back. “All around, I can safely say she is in no way like a Hellcat V. She’s 13.3 meters shorter, but her armor is heavier, her weapons are just as good, and she is faster and just about as maneuverable. A word of advice, however... be careful. She can take some abuse, but don’t get too sure of yourself out there.”

The Major was perturbed, “Do you think I should expect some... action on my journey?”

Susan walked around the fighter, towards McKown, her auburn hair flowing in the blustery wind. As the wind kicked up, and several more vessels took off, she spoke louder. “Let’s just say that Guild piracy and mercenaries alike have taken a sudden leap in hostility. They’re getting weapons, ships, and other supplies from the corporate Mafia groups so that let’s them acquire more control. If you see any Guild activity, you of course know that you must stop it at once or notify the proper authorities. We don’t want to lose any of our systems to criminals... not now. We aren’t the Border Worlds, you know.”

“Right,” McKown agreed falsely.

“Anyhow, here you are.” Susan handed him the data-GIF cube with little in the way of emotion, “Happy reading and safe flight.”

Two hours later. . .

ETCMI Intelligence HQ

“Agent Ashmore, you are to catch the next transport out of here.”

Susan’s eyes raised in surprise and fury, “WHAT?!”

Her superior officer, a dark man of Indian descent, handed her a PVU displaying stellar coordinates, routes, and orders. “Detachment CO McKown is needed to be made aware of some more current tactical information and updated with specific orders that cannot be sent even through the most secure of channels… We have arranged, albeit hastily, a transport to intercept him at the nearest point. You shall leave within twenty minutes and report to Landing Pad 32. That is an order.”

The lesser agent argued in return, “I already have orders and plans made. I’m supposed to do a three-point TARCAP at—”

Commander Malin interrupted, his deeply accented voice cutting in sharply, “Your plans have been allocated to other officers. You are leaving. Deal with it. Gather any necessary files or other essentials.”

“What am I—the goddamn pony express?” Susan stopped, took in a breath for many long seconds, held it, and finally released it. “All right, then, sir. I’ll, ah, be on my way, I guess.”

How she hated military transports. They were cramped, darkly lit, made for function rather than form, and had the exact relaxation factor of a bed of nails.

She had less than ten minutes to upload her files to her palmtop, organize some clothes, and amenities that would make her trip a bit more enjoyable… All because one man needed updated orders and some information.

Even if it was unjust and not even completely considered, she breathed under her breath, “I hate you, Brandon McKown.”

Just before Ashmore left for her quarters, Malin added one last thought she may or may not have heard on her way out, “Lieutenant Ashmore… Susan. Whatever it’s worth, have a nice trip.” With that, he unleashed a toothy grin with light sadism painted all over his face.

Susan groaned.

Tigershark TC-520
Outer Region, Alcor System, Vega Sector
1000 Hours
March 15, 2681

- Relay from TCS Sangamon to Cairo HQ -

Date : 2681.074
Authorization Code : 125-6009-AZC [Level 3]
Sender : Col. Adams, Marcus “Spiral” <madams@tcn.sangamon.crew>
Recipient : Maj. McKown, Brandon T. <bmckown@tcn.cairo.hq.crew>
Subject : Re: New orders

Heya, McClown... you miss me? :)

Yeah, yeah, I know just what the hell you are thinking. But face it—I turned in my pilot wings for a nice comfy desk. Think about it, though—the pay is better, survival rate is generally higher, and no pirate punk is gonna best me when it comes to sitting around all day issuing orders and writing manpower reports.

Anyway, I had a few friends of mine up on there on the Fleet Ladder pull a few strings and, with my flight experience, they got me a posting as Wing Commander of the Sangamon’s flight wing and—fancy this—now I got this sweet gig of sending you some special orders…

As you probably know, a new hostile alien race that Intell has code-named the “Nephilim” entered and attacked Kilrathi space early in the year, threatening to burn a path straight through the Etruria Flank, the Border Worlds, and into Confed’s lap. Thankfully for all of us, the TCS Midway was at the scene to put an end to the Nephilim incursion early last month.

The Nephilim arrived via an artificially generated wormhole—a technology that easily transcends Akwende Jump Drive by light years. Luckily, the gate indefinitely supporting the wormhole was shattered before it was made permanent. However, some scientists in CICINTEL and CIAI still believe the Nephilim have the capability to re-open the collapsed anomaly, if not at Kilrah then in another system. However unlikely, Intell does not rule it out as a possibility, and neither should we.

As an insurance policy, ConFleet is organizing the Seventh Fleet’s 77th Task Force to hold presence in Kilrathi space—the Admiralty figures it’s a gesture of good faith on our part toward those now-allied with us in the Kilrathi that suffered in the first Nephilim incursion, and serves to paint a better picture of Confed in the eyes of the Cat Clans that never signed the Treaties of Torgo, Ko-bar Yagar, or McAuliffe. At present, the precarious situation in Vega has been compartmentalized, with any and all fleet action in-sector now under the direct jurisdiction of Space Marshal J.R. Brenner. Even the battle group of the Seventh Fleet’s Mistral Sea, commanded by Captain Russ Greenberg, is out there, last reported in the Hell’s Kitchen System.

While Confed is fighting an increasingly viral biohazard from within and the new Hades-class strike cruiser Cerberus (presently in Ella) proceeds on her mission, our duty is to make sure the line remains drawn along our flanks. Battle Group Upsilon of the 77th Task Force will gather and organize in the T’set mehr System, and from there they will gather with the rest of the Fleet in McAuliffe. From McAuliffe, Upsilon will then proceed into a tour of the Kilrathi Assembly territories just beyond the Feudal Planets. While the TCIS boys here on the Sangamon will be comparing notes with Kilrathi on the Nephilim debris biohazard, you will be serving as the squadron commander for the Eros Detachment 193rd FW’s “Decimus” Squadron off the destroyer TCS Warden.

As our group reaches farther into Kilrathi space (even into the uncharted Hari Sector, you’ll be interested to note) you may or may not be secondarily assigned various missions for the Exploratory Services that chart Hari in as much detail as time allows. You will deal with things possibly unknown to all of the galactic powers, but that can wait, given the situation. The brass has elected not to reveal the kind of missions that will be assigned to you, however I can say that you will usually be flying solo or in wings of three.

At any rate, you will probably be fighting either Kilrathi insurgents (which I understand you have had some encounters with before at Cairo) or remnant Nephilim. They have some disorganized, bloodthirsty tactics to them, and I am trusting that you will use that aspect against them. Keep your head out there, kid.

Keep Channel 43A open. You’ll be receiving more data about your position soon enough.

Colonel Marcus Adams

- END MESSAGE -

“Hah, good ol’ sanctimonious Spiral,” Brandon chuckled to himself, “It’ll be nice to see at least one friendly face in the battle group.” The previous worry of being transferred was starting to disappear. At least he could talk to his old friend.

Closing the ramscoops for maximum velocity, the Major sped his fighter up to a brisk 650 KPS, checking his power reserves once again. He judged, barring any heavy maneuvering, that he had nine to eleven more hours of fuel left until the next refueling shuttle would lock onto his position.

Darksabre halted his ’Shark a moment. He throttled the engines all the way down and pulled his fighter into a hold position. Below his HUD he accessed several stellar charts on the MFDs and veered his fighter directly toward the red giant sun of the Cairo System, nearly a parsec away.

For a few moments, Major Brandon “Darksabre” McKown simply stared at the fading crimson dot among other brighter ones—brighter, but not as beautiful.

He then brought the fighter’s command system up, borrowing power from the auxiliary power unit. The cockpit MFD readouts flickered and stabilized as the APU came on-line. He cued the system into its diagnostic mode, letting the ship’s computer check over every on-board circuit, system, and connection to pass the time. “Computer,” he spoke, not bothering to key the command in, “reassume previously set autopilot course.” 

With that, the Major relaxed as his sojourn began in earnest...

FINIS