Forty journalists split between nearly a dozen international media networks, shipped from Earth with just under two hours of setup time. Bulky cameras going through final checks, stock footage brought to networks as all watch the arrival of the massive deep space combat cruiser Alaska.
A form nearly a hundred meters long, the thing blotches out a distant sun as it crosses over the orbital horizon. Half-deployed radiator panels glowing red, heat from its fusion reactor shedding into cold vacuum.
Two massive turreted coilguns extend outward from its cylindrical hull, all angles of fire covered by bristled ordnance augmented by the small bulbs of CIWS systems. Terrifying firepower executed on inter-planetary distances, a future-proofing measure for an era beyond the orbital sphere of Earth.
Across its hull, words spell out the name and identification number; a constellation of the northern star following it in a small allowance of artistic license.
U.S.S. ALASKA - DS01
Ad aspera per astra
The second to last vessel to arrive, a fashionably late entourage delayed by circumstance and bloated security protocols
Within Station Four’s already busy Terminal final preparations are made. Journalists shoot test shots of the arrival gate, garrisoned marines checking weapons, and a single Solar System Defense Force Admiral straightens his dress uniform.
Black formal wear matched with woven rank insignias; the single star above three orbital lines denote immense rank upon his right shoulder and on the other a decorative, multicolored identification barcode. A chest adorned with eight medals, some forming memories of a time of direct combat while others signal glories earned in command rooms. The international purple cross stands out alongside the golden sun, a representation of both wounds sustained in warfare: the loss of one’s blood and of loved subordinates.
One of the airlock technicians raises a thumbs up in preparation. “Ready for pressurization.”
“Ready.” Another answers him.
Blasts of reaction control fuel sound across the hull of the Alaska, the massive mass slowed as it enters docking range. Universal docking clamps open to their near limits as they match with the cruiser’s design, a huge thud sounding across the Terminal the vessel is secured.
A rush of air within airlocks, pressurization completed as technicians raise thumbs in confirmation. “Confirm seal, pressure locks green. Time: 11:33.”
“Confirmed.” Another technician nods.
“Opening doors.”
The hiss of mild mis equalization, air flowing out into the Station as the doors swing open.
The uneasiness of zero gravity movement is obvious on bodies as the first arrivals of Secret Service Agents carefully push themselves off padded walls, scanning for threats within the terminal. Whispered communications into ear pieces, a confirmation of security as they wave in their primary objective.
Black suit pinned by the flag of the United States, the squat figure of the dark skinned, gray haired middle aged man is caught by camera lenses as he expertly pulls himself through the airlock and into the open space of Station Four’s Passenger Terminal.
A smile of immensely confident charisma, a conniving grin as he spots the highest ranked System Defense Force Officer within the room. A hand gripping one of the handles, he propels himself towards the old friend. Speaking forth with a distinct American southern accent, the soft familiarity arrives with nostalgia. “Admiral Issac Tucker.”
“President Cooper.” The Admiral replies with great respect. “Welcome to Station Four.”
The President catches an outcropped railing with his right foot, halting velocity in a masterful display of dexterity. Hung in an upside down position from the Flag Officer he extends out a hand in greeting, blue eyes wide in familiarity.
Admiral Tucker takes the strange handshake, both forms looking over towards the line of photographers as they smile.
“Goodness gracious, how long has it been?” President Cooper chuckles as he slaps the old man’s shoulder. “Four years?”
Admiral Tucker shakes his head, stifling a laugh. “Dude, I’m not keeping track.”
“Augh it’s so sad this is for business.” The middle aged man sighs as he glances around the Terminal. “You know Ingrid insisted she come see you, but well she’s the First Lady now so…”
“Duty calls.” Admiral Tucker agrees as another figure approaches the group.
A more pompous heavy-set woman, an old age pulling against her as she nearly slams into the President.
The middle aged man extends out a greeting to his cabinet member. “Admiral, this is Secretary of Space Riley Hyder. Riley, this is Admiral Issac Tucker.”
“Ma’am.” The Admiral respectfully greets with a short nod.
“Good to meet you Admiral Tucker.” The woman croaks.
A pause as journalist teams take photographs, the President casually clapping his hands together. “Alright, time for the reception. Issac, please tell me you have no-throws.”
“Well, I didn’t think it appropriate to serve that to global leaders.” The Admiral admits. “But given the plan for this afternoon’s events I should probably dig some out.”
One of the airlock technicians behind them interrupts, barking out the announcement in confirmation. “All aboard, ready to undock!”
“Ready!”
Clamps loosen, the Alaska released as the docking sector is cleared for a final arriving vessel. Busts of fusion power accelerate a thousand tons, the cruiser disappearing beyond the visual range of viewing windows.
A quick glance at the exhaust plume, the distortion of starlight revealing a tiny arrowhead shape against cold, black space.
The Admiral takes a deep breath as he acknowledges watchful guardians, turning back to the entourage. “I’ll see you at the reception Mr. President.”
“Count on it.” The President smiles as he pushes himself off the railing.
Onwards alongside fourteen secret service agents, metal briefcases in hand as they struggle to adjust to an added dimension of movement.
All watch as the final vessel arrives.
A coalition of nations left behind by the expansion of humanity, a formal declaration of war against the stars themselves. Perpetuated by piracy and terrorism, deniable actions in a ceaseless conflict for their very lives.
The forgotten peoples of Earth, standing on their last hill beneath a green and blue flag matched with gold.
Massive cylinders held together by scaffolding surrounding a rectangular crew compartment, huge engines propelling an unwieldy mass towards Station Four in a lazy drift. Blotched marks of blackened metal from high explosives still visible on some of the storage tanks, an original name painted over in an obvious discolored, unreflective gray.
Almost twice as long as the Alaska, the commandeered helium tanker menacingly moves itself into dock with Station Four.
“Fucking hell Ling…” Admiral Tucker whispers under his breath.
Docking clamps struggle to find purchase on the Java Treaty vessel, rubberized claws gripping cold steel in an attempt at stabilization. For a moment the airlock technician pauses, looking up at the staff surrounding the operations panel. “You see this?”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“I do.” The other replies as he grips the radio on his shoulder. “Java, advised you are seven KpA below station pressure. We are preparing for equalization on our end, do you read?”
The deeply accented English replies. “We read, and ready.”
A hiss of air, Station Four’s hoarded collection of gas pumped into the new vessel as atmospheres standardize.
Five minutes to completion, Admiral Tucker turns back to the Station’s Garrison of marines in the exchange.
Open hand raised, quickly clenched to a fist as he signals an unspoken order.
Weapons are taken off safety, a casual stance turned slightly serious as free hands grip handguards in the preparation of a close-range shootout.
“Ready!” The technician announces.
“Ready!” Another confirms.
The hiss of atmosphere, airlock doors opening alongside the noise of shuttering doors. A wash of hot, moldy air entering the terminal as unkempt filters stunted in the production of breathable atmosphere spew forth miasmic byproducts.
A handful of journalists instinctively push back at the scent, their forms left floating away in microgravity.
Eight primary Java Treaty nations represented in the group of sixteen that maneuver forth, a diversity of culture and nationalities united against the singular entity before them.
Light security, the allotted bodyguard number unmet from the group of personnel. Six in total for all sixteen, a terrible implication hitting Admiral Tucker before starting his greeting.
One leader among them, a thin body floating forth slowly. Dark skin with a south Asian complexion; ferocity in sunken eyes the woman’s smooth face wrapped in a dull green head covering betrays a cold soul.
The Admiral speaks in a straight form towards the recognized character, charisma hiding an instinctive chill running across his spinal cord. “President Cuizon, welcome to Station Four.”
Outstretching his hand in a respectful greeting, the woman just stares at the old man.
Nearly perfect English, President Cuizon ignores the handshake in her answer. “Thank you Admiral.”
A gracious retreat, hand brought back into the fold as the System Defense Force Admiral moves to greet the next individual within the entourage.
Prime Minister Saxana’s was much taller than the rest, a disturbingly lanky figure beneath a serious expression. A warm fatherly smile on his face, however, a friendliness earned from a decade of near death and assassination on the Indian subcontinent. He speaks, broken English supported by rehearsed lines. “Admiral, it is good to be on station four.”
“Welcome Prime Minister.” Admiral Tucker smiles back, a handshake offered and subsequently rejected.
The small case of Minister Rashid was the most dangerous of them all, a physicality seemingly made for hand-to-hand combat. Firefights in both orbital structures and ground warfare, a suspected political terrorist forcing his way onto the highest echelons of one of the most powerful nations in the middle east. The Admiral smiles as he follows the man’s movement. “Minister, welcome to Station Four.”
Brushing by unabated, the Minister’s hostility directly exposed as he ignores the greeting and continues onward to the reception hall.
The Admiral quickly adjusts strategy, the two more leaders arriving in conjunction. The final remnants of the short lived South China Sea Alliance; Minister Dung Nguyen and President Duy Nguyen heading a sub-group of the Java Treaty within their localized geographical area. News stories of commerce blockades attach themselves to naval standoffs within the warm waters of the Indochina region, an economic threat unattainable by anyone else. Similar names betray completely different national and cultural heritages; Minister Nguyen tall and handsome while President Nguyen average in both appearance and stature.
A short, respectful bow comes from the Admiral. “Welcome to Station Four gentlemen.”
Both nod, floating past him without further greeting.
Each of the major Java Treaty players acknowledged; Presidents, Prime Ministers, and Ambassadors in full force. A mental note is made as the Admiral attempts to quantify each one. Ancient insight brought to bear, every suspect treated with a standard greeting as eyes meet.
Deception of forbidden knowledge playing out in the critical world of first impressions, the war of humanity built on words and body language. A game of shadows as Admiral Tucker tries to find the triggerman, a list narrowed down to the five players from raw political power alone.
Watching as the entourage files into the reception hall the Flag Officer turns back to the airlock. Technicians communicating with flight control, snippets of information exchanged as they move themselves alongside the airlock.
“Is something wrong?” Admiral Tucker asks as he floats over to them.
“The Java is having engine trouble.” One of the Technicians replies. “Don’t know what’s happening.”
The Admiral takes a moment to stare out at the vessel, the decay of usage obvious on its scarred exterior. “Let me guess she’s stuck here until her engineers can diagnose the problem.”
“Yes sir.” The Technician nods.
Turning back around towards the squad of garrison marines the Flag Officer motions for a minor bit of privacy. Trained forms moving to proximity, the Admiral gives the cold order. “You guys are not rotating out of the Terminal. I want people to stand guard here until 1600. Is that clear?”
“Ja.” The leader replies.
“Good, be careful.”
Journalist teams finished with the major arrivals as they pack padded equipment back into bags, global powers in the midst of an allotted three hours of socialization and acclimation within the promenade of Station Four.
A cracking of neck muscles as he attempts to relax, Admiral Issac Tucker following a handful of the stragglers through the primary security scanner.
Open but empty stores a backdrop alongside celebratory decoration, an evacuated civilian population delusionally replaced by desertion. The illusion of a normal life against the bustling of politicians; entourages of Presidents, Prime Ministers, Ambassadors and Bodyguards maneuvering against the unnaturalness of microgravity.
A majority of the personnel was concentrated within the contingent of European Union representatives, nearly twenty two of the world’s largest defined economies situated underneath the wide reaching umbrella of the super-national alliance. Germany and France hold the most advanced services sector alongside Great Britain, the two presidents and sole prime minister currently attempting to reorient themselves to a non-realizable upwards direction.
Admiral Tucker pauses as he scans the room, finding Chancellor of the European Union Valentina González hidden at the edge of the promenade. Technically not belonging to any national power, her presence within the G40 conference was brought alongside her national comrades from Great Britain as a so-called advisor. Currently throwing up in a sickness bag, the Admiral glances away with a hint of privacy.
Federated Russia’s President Batbayar on the other hand doesn’t even attempt to hide his presence as he stands atop a guardrail. Huge body towering over his guards, the insane musculature built from his teenage years still paying dividends out in his adult life. With one hand he holds up Russia’s U.N. Ambassador Alek Volkov like a deadlifting bar. Journalists snap photos of the display, a loud laugh barely held as the President speaks up. “Нормально я так не могу!!!”
Chairman Wong hides amongst the crowd, the only real possibility of tracking her short stature found within the glances of her own security force. Leader of the Republic of China, her movement through the social carnage is strangely graceful as she prances between handholds and rubberized rails. A lifelong experience on the ice rink somehow translates to microgravity, the woman moving between cliques as she samples randomized bits of conversation from the thirty nine other delegations.
President Cooper navigates across the space effortlessly, a small crowd made from his own bodyguards and parts of the European Delegation follows him as he improvises a safety lecture on microgravity movement. Eight years of service within the United States Space Force flooding back as he speaks, a veteran of the first years of low orbital warfare presenting slightly outdated advice swinging between station sectors like a fish reintroduced to water.
Spread amongst the crowd the Flag Officer spots them: the handful of Java Treaty nations and their respective leaders socializing within the rest of the international guest list. Tensions raised, a body language stiff in not only the navigation of space but in the subtle tells of social conflict. Each hiding a deeper secret within, a secretive hatred of the decadence and arrogance before them.
Admiral Tucker removes the phone from his pocket, opening the group chat as he quickly scans over the unread messages held within.
Captain Perez’s message sticks out first, the directed ping silenced by software. @Adm_Tucker, YOU’RE LIVE.
A screenshot of INN’s live news stream attached to the text, the snapped still of Admiral Tucker greeting President Cooper with the strange handshake making rounds as the rest of the Task Force reply with snide comments.
The Flag Officer holds in a smile as he sends out the priority update. @all All delegations arrived, in main promenade rn. Coffee vessel is confirmed helium freighter, currently in terminal.
There’s a distinct silence of text as the Task Force reads over the message.
Captain Perez is the first to reply. Rubicon scan is negative thermals, cannot see inside. Hundred ninety meter with six tanks, Cmdr. Maciver says can hold at least one hundred people if empty.
Lieutenant Keys represents Marauder Squad as he sends the next message. Ling asks when the actual event starts.
The Admiral takes a glance around from the promenade entrance, the French Delegation floating by as their Ambassador accidentally throws herself into a flat spin. A short greeting exchanged, a textual response given as fingers cross the touchscreen. People having trouble adjusting, maybe will take 15-20 min after scheduled start in two hours.
Keys continues typing, a conversation held as the marine team shares a quick discussion. We all agree attack will happen during conference when everyone’s in the same place.
Captain Perez interrupts. The Alaska stalking Rubicon, American getting sus of scan. Will update, Cmn Zhang reading text, will also speak.
Ling’s own contact arrives as he personally sends a message towards the naval asset. Be careful!
Keys finishes his message, the thing sent out as the rest of the marine team is glued to their own personal phones in discussion. Marauder keeping a close eye on the livestreams @ADM_Tucker. So keep phone off silent in case we need to speak says Cherny and the killer robot
Restrict pings, ping me in case of emergency. The Old Man finishes as he puts his phone away. @all Stay safe, good luck.
Admiral Tucker takes a deep breath as a psyche descends into the depths of the soul. A psychology grabbing personality from an assortment of shelves as the Old Man pieces together a farce for the social situation, a false facade presented to the world as a warm smile pulls across his face.
A form that disappears into the crowd.