“The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong in broken places” – E. H.
The Freedom War: Introduction
The screeching of the alarm klaxon jolts Xander’s sleeping mind into overdrive, nearly toppling him out of his metallic, standard issue bunk. The dull, but bright red light burns into his eyes, forcing him to squint for several, long moments as his senses return to awareness from their slumber. ”All crewmembers to battle stations, this is not a drill, repeat, this is not a drill”, a soft, woman’s voice screams over the vibrant roar of the alarm. Around him, hidden by the drapes of the withering light, the shouts, the calamity of others scrambling about in a disordered diaspora as they rush towards their various stations like a never-ending stream of silvery salmon splashing their way violently upstream, beat a roaring war drum, a rush of hot red blood and stimulating adrenaline that permeates his throbbing ears and his muddled mind. ”Come on, bloody hell we can’t be late!”, a fellow below him cries, already almost fully dressed in full uniform, a mixture of smooth greys and milky blues, as he tugs aggressively at his wrist, ”frack.. not my problem, get dressed and get going!”, he bellows once more before hiding once more in the opaque curtains of the consuming, shifting shadows.
The darkness of the corridor hampers Xander’s every movement, pulling a hand through a sleeve, attempting to straight out every groove, every wrinkle in his uniform, even placing one step ahead of another. Others race around him, forwards in back, their faces lost, and meaningless. Each step, each wringing step atop the sleek, icy steel floor brings him closer towards a light, towards a blinding light so intense all he can sense is the withering commotion around him, the commands shouted by others, the heavy steps echoing from wall to wall, but loudest of all, the pounding of his heart to that beat, that awful, brash, beat of readiness. Bum bum. Bum bum. Bum bum. Eventually, his awkward gait thrusts him headfirst into that white, fiery abyss ahead, only for the burning blindness to clear as he cross the threshold. Here, the din of activity, the ferocity of preparation for the coming moments screamed as if in fervor and lust, men and women hunched all which ways, roaring, crying. A lone, elderly women, her surplus of gleaming medals glinting in the sharp light, stands atop the crowd, elegant, but barking orders all the same. A bulky lieutenant, seemingly materializing out of nothingness, grabs him roughly by his arm, bunching his uniform, and drags him towards a row of monitors alongside the walls of the warship. ”FRACK IT ENSIGN, GET YOUR FRACKING ARSE HERE QUICKER, WE GO COMBAT LIVE IN TWO FRACKING MINUTES YOU BLITHERING MORON!” he roared as if forced to expel every molecule of atmosphere from his gullet into Xander’s throbbing ear. ”SIT HERE, NOW!” the lieutenant screamed once more, forcing him roughly into a nearby padded seat. He points with a gloved hand toward a dark, but active monitor which lay in front of the seat in which Xander now occupied, ”Bloody idiots, every time we need to get something done- listen up dipsh*t, I’m only going to frackin tell you this once- your sector is Omega 3 Charlie 2, which is battle group,.. er.. Beta, led by commander,… er,.. Captain Ortega,… your job is to relay any actionable data to the fleet commander once the battle goes live, and/or answer any frackin questions she has, you got it you frackin scrub?”.
The brute of a lieutenant evaporated into the muddle of a mob as quickly and as abruptly as he had consolidated out of oblivion to harass Xander, leaving him some limited time to familiarize himself with the flashing, chrome display console as it lay humming softly before him. Though the various nobs and switches, as varyingly important as they were, remained foreign in nature to Xander, several elements were simplistic enough for even the least astute individual to derive function from. A single, moderately sized black screen, laden with various bright red dots, and labels beneath each of the dots, with faint numerical lines intersecting around the screen, as well as a single pair of lush, black padded headphones, in which faint, though unrecognizable, sounds spouted from time to time, lay on, and in front of the monitor to Xander, respectively. Tentatively, following in suit of the other crewmen who sat quietly to either side of him, Xander placed the headphones gently across his ears, awaiting orders.
Not several terse moments later, abruptly as to almost startle those not tense enough with dread, a shout rang throughout the bridge, “MULTIPLE CONTACTS, FRONT LINE, SECTORS 1-4!”, a young communication officer screamed from somewhere inside the bridge, his location obscured by the shifting crowds from Xander. Immediately, as if a sudden violent diaspora had lay waste to the bridge in a matter of moments, Xander’s view of the happenings around him abruptly expanded, leaving but no individual except that wiry old woman, her grey hair neatly tied in a uniform bun to the back of her head, standing alone atop a raised, metal platform, staring intently out into the void ahead of her. As she clasped her wrinkly hands firmly behind her back, turning her head ever so slightly to her right, grey, milky eyes now downcast, she intoned softly, “Communications, open a fleet wide broadcast…” Pausing for perhaps a second or more, she continued, this time more audibly, “This is Fleet Admiral Hopper to the fleet,… we are engaging multiple hostile targets in sectors 1 to 4, all military units are authorized for weapons free, repeat, all military ships are free to engage targets.” She gestured strikingly, as to have the communications officer to end the broadcast, before turning abruptly, and strolling to rest in her plush, padded chair, scrubbing her eyes lightly and blinking rapidly.
Operations began smoothly, as far as Xander could tell through the tunes echoing from his padded earphones, a few harsh barks from unknown captains, a few hoots and hollers from enthusiastic pilots and jockeys,
“Watch it, port side, multiple hostiles!-”
“Smoked em’ Gardier, yeh owe me a shot when we back!-”
“Target,.. er… painted unit 16G,.. all batteries, full spread!”
However, this relative peace, like a leaf upon a harsh, winter gale, was not to last but a few moments, giving way to more alarming rhetoric. The luminous flashes of far off discharges became brighter and brighter, drawing more defined, more deadly.
“SH*T!!! THEY GOT AARON! FOUR BASTARDS LEFT FLANK!-”
“This is R.S.S. Magadan, requesting immediate assistance, to any-”
“MULTIPLE HULL BREACHES, DECKS 4 THROUGH-”
Xander’s headset rang with dying screams, each louder, each more blood-filled than the last. The cacophony of sounds distorted so much so that by each moment the noises sound less like the death rattles of men and women, but rather like a crashing typhoon, drown out all other noise around Xander, until all he could hear is the roaring beat of that awful drum in his ears.
“Bum-bum…. bum-bum.. bum-bum. bum-bum, bum-bum, bum –bum, bum-bum!”
Xander’s eyes tearing, he ripped the headphones from atop his head, slamming them into the console in front of himself, nearly shattering the desk with his repulsive force. As he watched in horror, that dark, encompassing monitor in front of him seemed to grow exponentially, the numerous red lights that once adorned it slowly disappearing as if one by one, an electrician unscrewed each bulb, leaving only the blackness to consume Xander.
Xander scrubbed his eyes vigorously, now is not the time to lose his mind, focus, breath. The screaming voices on the bridge once more breach his ears, a mess, but at least compressible.
“Sector 2 has collapsed completely, I just have the Vanahiem and a few frigates left sir!”
“Admiral Chenya reports total shield collapse, on the battlestar Newport, and has transferred command of Sector 1 to Captain Diahaus on the Omaha.”
“Sir, we only have two functional caps left, the Arcadia and the Russi dreadnaught Kursk, we need to think about…”
This last statement, by a male flag officer towards the front of the bridge, seemed to dull the majority of the bridges voices, as if every crewman collectively held their breaths as they looked to the withered Admiral as she stood, gesturing to silence the officer. She brushed her nose lightly, stared into the void, the effervescent flashes of death fading with every passing moment, before clearing her throat to continue.
“All right, inform Captain Yumashev to spin up their nuclear missiles, and being spinning our as well. Open a broadband channel on all frequencies…”
She paused for a few moments rubbed her eyes as if to clear an invisible speck of dust from them, before continuing.
“This is Fleet Admiral Hopper on all frequencies; this is an emergency message to all parties. The combined fleet has failed to repel the enemy forces, and has sustained heavy losses, repeat, the fleet has failed its combat operations. I hereby command all remaining coalition forces to engage drives and calculate for Telemachi swing to rendezvous at the fallback coordinates. You are ordered to assist any civilians ships with the jump, until such is no longer reasonably possible. I now herby relinquish command of the fleet to Rear Admiral Nagumo, and promote Rear Admiral Nagumo to Fleet Admiral, authorization code AlphaZuluOne-DysonTwoNineZero. To the people of Hiroikku, we have failed you, and for this, we are sorry. Good Speed and Fair Winds, Admiral Hopper out.”
She turns to face the bridge, her eyes now wet, as if morning dew now sprung from her ducts. She rubs her chin, her eyes shift from left to right, before continuing, this time more softly.
“Arcadia is now re-designated Palisade 1, and the Kursk is now Palisade 2, as designated under Naval Law J3, Section Two, Defender Clause. I thank you all for your service.”
She looks directly a comm officer, “Is Captain Yumashev ready?” The officer listens for a quick moment to inaudible distance voices, then nods, solemnly.
“Target 5A seems to have sustained the most damage of their caps, Palisade 1 and 2, launch missiles full spread. Lets crack that mother*cker!”, Admiral Hopper roared.
Streaks of light blossom from both the battlestar and the nearby dreadnaught, as if seeds had been suddenly ripped up by a gust of wind and thrown into the air, towards a distance spec. The light rays lanced out, piercing the hull of the alien warship. As the onlookers watched, the distant ship faltered, then detonated in an array of vibrant deadly colors, scattering irradiated debris amongst the corpses of war.
“Target 5A is no longer on scans; sensor suite reports multiple citadel hits and total obliteration of target!”
A cheer rose in the throats of the bridge crew, a few muted hoots, as Admiral Hopper began to speak again “Eat that, you filthy scum, alright tell Captain Yum-“
A ray of light pierced the Kursk from bow to stern, as she seemed to hang in time for a still moment, before dissolving like so many before her into a storm of fire and metal. The Arcadia rocked violently, throwing several crewmen around Xander from their padded seats and to the metal floor.
“Palisade 2 is not responding, sensor suite reports multiple enemy hits onto her,…”
Admiral Hopper leaped quickly upward from her seat, roaring into the intercom system, “This is Hopper, general evacuation orders to port escape pods to any non-essential personnel, repeat, non-essential personal to port escape pods “. She turned to her helmsman, “Fire starboard bow realignment repulse, get our starboard broadside facing them. Pull main batteries to face starboard. We aren’t going down without a bloody good fight!”
Suddenly, that gruff, broad, angry lieutenant that had harassed Xander earlier materialized once more behind him, hand atop his weary shoulder. “Come on, you fool, get to the frackin escape pods, we don’t exactly have all frackin day!”
As Xander ran, stumbling with every lurch and jerk of the Arcadia as she bore the brunt of weapons fire, the carnage of war blurred around him. Splatters of blood adorned every wall, a corpse here and there, draped across and under fallen metal girders. Occasionally, a bloody crewman would run in front of Xander, before fading into the darkness of the emergency lighting. Several times, He was forced to backtrack, as locked blast doors, fallen debris, and fires delay his egress. Alongside Xander, or rather behind him, the lieutenant breathed heavily, turning pale by every passing moment.
“Stop,… here… escape… room…. 12B…. there..” he mumbled between each breath.
Entering the room, a hatch lay open to a pod beyond. Inside, several others sit waiting on a padded bench, each with various uniforms and in several states of health, though many seats open with their woven harness unoccupied. Upon entering, the heavyset lieutenant closed the hatch behind Xander, shouting, “There’s no one else coming, the past couple of hallways are probably engulfed in flames now, we’re pushing off!” He closed the hatch, then straps into the bench beside Xander, struggling to lock the harness around his large girth. An alarm sounded, the lights dimmed and turned red, a sudden, viscous jolt, then a sudden feeling of gravity tearing at Xanders innards ripped through him, as the pod fell away from the warship.
The viewport built into the hatch gave Xander an unrestricted view of the Arcadia as he fell away, several pods falling alongside theirs. As Xander watches, the Arcadia takes numerous, destructive hits, her guns still blazing away into the void, before being lanced by a brilliant beam of light into her midsection, breaking into two oblong pieces, as if torn apart by the wrath of an almighty god of light and chaos.
“Don’t worry” the lieutenant next to Xander utters softly, “everything is going to be alright”
From his groin blooms a wet spot, staining his trousers.