currently untitled [Firefly/Serenity][R]

[Peace]

Backstory for my characters in my Serenity role-playing group. It's turned into a bit of a... thing.

For anyone who has no idea what the frack Serenity is, no worries! Background and all pertinant is provided.
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Prologue:

The most developed species on a small water covered planet called Earth were humans. They stood upright, clothed their cold bodies, crafted weapons to hunt food, grew crops to feed growing families, domesticated animals for transport, refined weapons to kill each other, developed religion to answer unanswerable questions, created entertainments in idle times, crafted complex mechanical devices that solved any number of problems, made weapons that could devastate entire regions, and quantified, reasoned and explained away every bit of it.

They were once born of the Earth, but they no longer live and die there.

Long ago humanity grew astronomically in number, to the point that they sucked the very life out of the planet that nurtured them. Minerals and metals had been leeched out of the soil, attempting to gain as many resources for the needy populace as possible. There was no possibility in growing and sustaining the amount of food necessary to feed that many. Billions starved every year. Wars broke out on a yearly basis. Weaker governing bodies rose and fell in a constant stream. Humans were strangling their world. People became desperate for a solution.

The solution came as technology advanced to the point that travel between stars was possible. Life could not be sustained in their Sol system, but it could elsewhere.

A distant star offered hope. The journey would be long and hard. Safety was not guaranteed, but no one had a choice. Earth was dying.

Enormous ships carried thousands of humans, and just as many plant and animal species. Humanity was desperate to save as much of Earth as possible. Whole arks carried generations of all forms of life from that small world. They carried it to the new star system. An entire generation of humans never saw anything but the interiors of spaceships as they moved toward their last hope.

During this time people mingled. Religions came and went. Nationalities dissolved, but two of the most important government influences remained: the United States of America and China. Many of the gigantic ships were entirely funded by these two governments. When they reached the new solar system, both set to work in cooperation, and the dead worlds were terraformed. Atmospheres were created with massive gas generators. Mines dug for new resources and the planning of colonies began. Dozens of worlds and hundreds of moons were eventually ready for new life to take root from Earth-That-Was.

When the governments once known as China and America agreed on a mutual alliance and consolidation of power, many rejoiced. They saw it as an opportunity. With this new Alliance things began to vastly improve for the planets closest to the new sun. Buddhism blossomed as the major religion, illiteracy was almost unheard of, medical advancements took leaps instead of steps and people wanted to be part of the new enlightened society. It was a new land, a new start and everyone wanted to do it right this time. It was a program that was working. Troubled persons were dealt with quickly and efficiently. People were better.

But all was not well. The problems of humanity cannot be so easily overcome. Not everyone wanted to conform with the new ideal. Not everyone was treated as an equal. Not every member of the human race was or is a nice person. Dishonest people exist everywhere, even within the new Allied government and its governing body, the Parliament. Others became fanatical about keeping their new way of life in tact, no matter what the cost.

The central planets and their moons saw this development, but many of the outer words became the place of settlement for those who were less… Civilized. Those who were unrefined, destitute, sick and simply poor were all settled to the worlds on the rim. They were given goods, supplies, land and left to their own devices.

Some succeeded. Others failed. There were famines. There were diseases. There were wars. The strongest survived. The weak perished. Life could be short and cruel.

The central planets prospered where the outer planets struggled. But it was a way that worked for most. The core worlds had peace, at the cost of personal freedom. The outer worlds has freedom, but at the cost of a hard life. Some reached out for help. Cries were constant and loud, and were eventually heard.

The Alliance took action. People needed help. Those in the rim needed a better life. The Alliance could provide it. They began to spread into the outer worlds. The Unification of Allied Planets began.

But the Alliance was not prepared for their reception.

Whole worlds rebelled against the attempt to make every planet in the solar system “civilized”, just like the core worlds. What they wanted most was choice and the Alliance was not giving them one.

The Independents were born. Resources were gathered and they faced an overwhelming foe. The Alliance had devastating weapons, but still the Independents fought on. They believed they were fighting for freedom from a tyrant. For five years the war raged.

All to make people better, safer. No more poverty. No more crime. No more suffering.

No more… Anything

[Peace]

The War for Unification
2502 AD

Demitri pulled back hard on the controls of the small medical transport he was currently flying. His co-pilot had taken a sudden turn for the worse when a ground-to air missle struck the underbelly of the craft and blew out the circuitry on the left side of the cockpit. Fred had been struck by scorching shrapnel and Demitri could still hear his screams of pain from behind as the nurses on board attempted to sedate him, before his thrashing caused more damage.

Fly in, get wounded soldiers, get out. That was the plan. It had been the plan until Independent forces decided to attack the medivac. The whole insane idea that rebel forces wanted to finish off the Alliance soldiers they had wounded, so badly, that they would fire on an unarmed transport. Demitri tried not to think about it as he attempted to regain control of the aircraft, which was slowly and steadily loosing altitude. The howls from Fred finally stopped from the back.

A soldier leaned inside the cockpit, gloved hands grasping the narrow doorframe tightly as the medivac pitched to the right before Demitri righted the flight. He hadn’t bothered to even look behind him as a feminine voice told him that they were leaving a rather obvious thick black plume of smoke through the sky.

“Great,” the pilot said, in what would have once been called a Russian accent. “It’ll make it easier for them to find the wreck we are going to become.”

“For us or them?” she asked, Demitri not entirely sure whether it was suppose to be an attempt at dark humor.

“Both.” He decided that a short and simple reply would be best under the circumstances.

At that moment he heard the familiar sound of a weapon clip being pulled and another one being inserted, locked and loaded. “Then let’s prepare a welcoming celebration, should the wrong side make an appearance,” the soldier said, then vanished into the back again.

The trees were getting closer and sweat began to bead on his brow, Demitri moved a thickly fingered hand over to the navigation console and brought up a terrain map of the area. He needed someplace to land this ship, and it needed to be somewhere where damage would be minimal. There were quite a few wounded men and women in his care at the moment, and this fact hadn’t left his mind. He needed to get these people to a medical facility and this wasn’t even close to the best way to go about that.

The computer focused on a strip of land that was clear. As Demitri turned the sluggish controls he sent a distress signal to the nearest Alliance cruiser, and hoped to God that they would get there pronto.

Tops of trees scraped the belly of the medical transport and the pilot reached for the on board com system. He clicked a small red button. “I hope everyone is strapped in or holding on to something, This landing is going to be rough.” Switching off the com, Demitri cut the thrusters and extended the landing gear. A flashing red signal appeared on his screen, telling him in both English and Mandarin Chinese that the landing gear was not operational. Swell. The man rolled his gray eyes and switched on the landing boosters. Nothing appeared to alert him to any problems, so Demitri pulled back on his controls and could feel the shudder of the rockets coming to life on the sides of the body and under the wings of his craft.

Items within the ship rattled and the sounds of frightened field nurses filled the air as red lights began to flash all over the roof within the ship. They indicated that landing gear had not been lowered, even though the ship was going to drop down to the ground. Without the struts to cushion the fall, the medical transport dropped hard, thudding against the loamy soil and the weight of the whole craft placed pressure on the abdomen, causing metal to bend and moan with stress.

But that meant they were on the ground, and not threatening to drop out of the sky like a rock. Demitri was pleased enough. He didn’t crash them too terribly. Moans and grumbles punctuated the sounds of a grounded and complaining. He spent little more time at the helm, reaching for a small keypad and punching in a numerical sequence. A small panel clicked open near his knee and Demitri pulled out a small handgun. He unfastened his safety harness with the other hand, and stood, securing the weapon in a holster at his hip.

Most adult men would have to duck down, to avoid contact with the cockpit doorframe and the head. Demitri was shorter than average, but made up for it in sheer muscular bulk. One would pick the man for a street thug, rather than a pilot with better than average skills. He turned slightly to the side, slipping from the front of the craft and moved to the cargo hold, which was serving as a make-shift hospital. Wounded soldiers were strapped securely to bunks that were bolted to the composite steel floor. A handful of medical personal were getting out of their no frills seats and checking patients. Bags of artificial plasma were placed above men and women with severe blood loss. Faces were torn, black and gray uniforms of Alliance personal were holed and stained red, bandages staunched bleeding wounds, nurses injected powerful pain killers and immune system boosters. Everywhere the injured moaned, uttered questions and lay in dreadful pain.

It broke Demitri’s heart. He had been a paramedic for a handful of years before being drafted in this war. He flew the short-range aircraft that brought patients to and from hospital. He wasn’t experienced at treating the sick and dieing, but he followed orders easily enough. When a partner told him to inject a needle or charge a defibulator, he did it, no questions asked.

But he questioned this war. Why was it even being waged? Did anyone even know for sure? Did these soldiers know why they threw themselves into the line of fire? Did they care?

The female soldier that looked in on his attempt to land the transport was now looking over the soldiers, her standard Alliance issue AR-24 assault rifle was slung over a shoulder. In her right hand dangled her black visored helmet. Her hair was a mass of very blonde hair and her cheeks were sunken and eyes ringed with dark circles. Demitri wondered briefly if the rumors of starving troops were true, of if it was the stress of battle that made such a pretty woman look so old. She attempted a smile as one of the injured addressed her as Sergeant Kavanagh.

“We’ll get you out of here, soldier, and back to your family where you belong,” she told him.

The man weakly grinned as a nurse wrapped a gauze bandage around his deeply cut head.

Turning to Demitri, the sergeant slid her rifle to the front and put on her helmet. “Shall we assess the damage and check for nosey neighbors?” she asked him.

The pilot shrugged. “That’s what I figured we were going to do,” he said.

They moved to the side of the craft. Kavanagh secured the strapping on her helm, readied her firearm and put a gloved hand on the exit door. She paused for a beat, turned the handle and pulled on the hatch. The seal made a slight sucking sound as the door pulled inward. Kavanagh stopped again, waited and turned to face the outside.

Windswept fields of golden wheat greeted her razor sharp gaze, and the business end of her rifle, as she prepared herself for anything. Besides the sound of a breeze rustling the crop and the sound of a chitterling bird or two, nothing happened.

Slowly, the sergeant crouched down and in a single move hopped out of the crashed ship. Her combat boots crunched already damaged stalks as she took a step forward and ducked low.

Demitri was no fool. He had seen such maneuvers played time and again. Anyone or anything could be lying in wait and it didn’t pay to be careless in a time of war. Inattentiveness lead to disaster when enemies where skulking about, and this was a planet of Independence sympathizers. Some pissed off farmer with a hunting rifle could kill you just as well as some trained sniper with a thermal scope. Kavanagh raised a closed fist, then pointed her fingers skyward and gestured toward the tail of the craft.

Suddenly she was gone, hunched forward and running toward the back of the plane. Demitri was quick to follow her lead, jumped from the door and crouched low as he made his way to her. It wasn’t hard to move around the plane and still maintain a certain level of cover. A wide trail of mowed wheat from the crash and remnants of smoke curls easily masked their movements. Demitri covered his nose with the sleeve of his flight suit. It took an enormous amount of will to keep from coughing. His eyes began to water when he moved through a particularly dense, black cloud.

They reached the rear of the spacecraft and when the wind kicked up again, blowing the smoldering plume away from his face, he could see the damage very clearly.

The ship had been white, a brilliant reflective white that was used only on medical transports. If the color wasn’t enough to scream out ‘Not an enemy combatant!’ then the large red crosses painted over the right, left, top and bottom of the fuselage and the vertical stabilizer, the underside and top of the slight wings. Another clear indication of ‘We fix broken people!’.

But now the entire back half of the ship was riddled with holes. Demitri was thankful for the layer of interior insulation and paneling to protect passengers. A sizable hole had also been blown out of the right side, which explained the difficulty he was having with steering. The explosion had mangled an aileron. Even if the damage hadn’t been this bad, with the landing gear folded inside the body they wouldn’t be able to get enough air flow into the boosters for take off.

There was only one option. Wait for rescue and hope like hell that someone didn’t come to scavenge for parts.

“Not getting’ off the ground are we?” Kavanagh asked, eyes scanning the horizon for any suspicious activity.

Demitri shook his head. “Not with this. We have to sit tight.”

She nodded. “Back inside.”

The pilot scrambled along the side of the ship as the sergeant covered his back. They slipped inside the body and closed the door again.

“I’ll head to the cockpit and see if I got a response to my distress call,” Demitri told the female soldier. “Then I’ll see what I can do about an extra pair of eyes.”

Kavanagh loosened the chin strap on her helmet and pulled the bulky piece of armor from her head. “Good idea. Sensors might not be that great since we’re on the ground, but anything is better than nothing.”

Nodding, Demitri went back to the control center of the transport. He plopped down in his customary chair, and looked over his instrument panels. A screen confirmed that the Alliance cruiser had indeed caught their signal and was sending a search and rescue team as soon as conditions allowed. Which meant, whenever they got around to it. He spent his time going over the fried circuits on the other half of the cockpit and determined that radar was dead, video communications was impossible and until something triggered the infrared sensors, he didn’t know if those worked or not. Diagnostic scanners were gone as well.

He simply put the sensor array on a continuous full sweep, connecting it to the emergency alert system should anything trigger a bleep, and left the cockpit. There was little more he could do.

Of the three dozen or so cots that were laid out in the main area of the craft, all were filled with the casualties of war. Demitri was unfortunate enough to emerge when a nurse was pulling a silver emergency blanket over the head of a soldier. Another dead from wounds received in the heat of battle. Swell.

Just keep telling yourself he’s a fortunate one, Demitri thought. No loss of limbs, no need of transplants or cybernetics or years of recovery to retrain your brain on how to hold a spoon. He wondered if some of these men could even remember their own names, with some of the head trauma he had seen lately. The Independents were shooting for the heads now, since armor plating protected the vital organs. Most of the time, anyway. Not much you can do when a fragmentation grenade goes off. Those bastards rip away skin and muscle, pierce protective vests and shatters bone like glass. Painful way to go.

He caught sight of the sergeant off by the door, sitting on the deck and leaning against the wall. She was pulling a pack of cigarettes out of a breast pocket and digging for a lighter. Demitri took a seat next to her as she lit up. Offering him the opened pack she asked, with the smoldering stick in her mouth “Want one?”

“That dung’s bad for you,” he said grimly, pulling one out. “It’ll kill you.”

She chuckled mirthlessly.

He looked the rolled vegetable matter in his thumb and forefinger. A small green logo was placed an inch from the end. It was in the shape of a marijuana leaf, with a tobacco sprig overlay. Demitri grinned. “Nice blend, where’d you get it?”

As he placed the cigarette to his lips, Kavanagh flicked on her Zippo lighter and ignited the end. “There’s a small place right outside the Military base on Ares. They have some fine smokes.”

Demitri look a long drag. “They’re coming. Eventually.”

“Hope so,” she said, purposely releasing a slow exhale of smoke. “My men are dying.”

“Sorry,” Demitri clumsily said.

“So am I,” she paused, looking over her cigarette in a thoughtful way. “Even with superior firepower as a major advantage my men were outnumbered. This was suppose to be a simple run. Get in, take care of business and get out. That was the plan. Someone fucked up, in a very bad way. They were waiting for us.”

“You sure about that?” Demitri asked, his voice lowered several octaves.

She nodded.

“Damn,” Demitri took another long drag. “War is fucking hell.”

“Tell me about it.”

They sat in silence for a time, and then the warning klaxon erupted once again. Nurses jumped, patients struggled to see what was happening and Demitri shot toward the cockpit. On a viewer he brought up an image of their downed craft, shadowed and small in scale, there were also a series of lines were directed out from the center of the body. They recycled on each other in a constant stream, a simulation of the scanners that searched for thermal radiation. Several dots had been picked up, moving in from the left side of the ship. There was also a much larger blip, shaped vaguely like a ground transport vehicle.

The Alliance very seldom used ground transport, they used flying and hover craft whenever possible. They would have swooped down like a falcon, with power and grace, to snatch their fallen troops. These were Independents. Moving slowly, they were picking their way toward the ship.

“Is it what I think it is?” Sergeant Kavanagh said, standing just outside the doorway, both hands cradling her rifle like it was a gift from God.

Demitri nodded. “Coming at us from the west.”

She blinked. “Sorry, not real good with direction planetside,” she told him. “Port or starboard?”

He pointed to the left side of the ship. “Port,” he muttered.

The soldier quickly left, her boots tromping the steel deck. She began barking orders, telling everyone to remain calm, and getting everyone not secured to a bed to hunker down anywhere there might be cover. Demitri just turned back to his view screen. The small, brightly colored dots inched closer. More seemed to pour out of the larger blotch, following the advancing party.

This wasn’t going to turn out well, Demitri knew this. He reached for the holster at his side. He slid out the matte black handgun and pulled back the side, loading the chamber. Demitri had never used his gun before, outside a firing range. He never needed to. But this was not a time to be thinking semantics, he drew a deep breath and quickly left the cockpit. Hurrying to the door he had exited not that long ago Demitri found Kavanagh with a handheld pocketscope up to her eye, looking to the fields beyond the ship through the small window in the door.

She saw little as the automatic sight adjustment focused on pockets of wheat that parted every now and then as the small force continued their approach.

Kavanagh shook her head as she lowered her sight. “Damn these country bumpkins are good. Can’t get a good look at any of them.”

“This is why we haven’t won the war already,” Demitri told her.

She snorted. “Pity I don’t have any grenades left.”

There was an uncomfortable silence for a few seconds as the two crouched by the entrance. “So what do we do now?” Demitri queried, glancing back at the wounded and terrified in the ship.

Kavanagh jerked the door opened and adjusted her grip on her rifle. “Those individuals who are advancing on this medical transport will halt, or you will be fired upon!” She shouted from just inside the doorway.

Demitri risked a glance outside. Nothing moved, accept the crop flailing in the increasing wind that blew. He could see the tan and green camouflaged truck in the distance. Cheap but reliable transport. Sold as outdated equipment by the Alliance military ages ago. Instead of being used to ferry cabbages to market, they were moving rebel ground troops around.

A male voice rang out in the unspoken dim. “Lay down your arms, do not resist and none shall be harmed. Medical assistance is on standby should you have anyone requiring immediate attention!”

Sergeant Kavanagh scowled at the demand. “Those who required it are already dead, no thanks to you!” she spat.

“Do as we say and no one else need die!”

“buck off!” Kavanagh screamed, and threw herself in front of the open doorway. She pulled the trigger on her AR-24 and sprayed bullets into the wheat. After half a second she ducked behind the relative safety that the wall of the ship provided.

Demitri pushed himself against the wall, raising his gun. “That didn’t help, you know.”

“Made me feel better,” she darkly joked.

[Peace]

The voice called out once again. “That was just a waste of ammo, and this is your last warning. Surrender now, or we will take the ship by force.”

“dung,” Kavanagh muttered, tapping the back of her helmet to the hull of the ship.

A weak moan came from a bunk within the cabin. “They want the medicine.”

Demitri and Kavanagh glanced at each other for a second before they both jogged over to a cot where a wounded soldier lay with his right arm wrapped in a splint. Blood faintly peeked through the gauze on his broken arm. “What did you say, soldier?” Kavanagh asked, eyes narrowed.

The man shifted slightly under the silver foil blanket. “I said, they want your medicine. That’s why you were shot down.”

Frowning, Demitri muttered, “Shot you down? You. Not us.”

The sergeant looked carefully at the man’s face. He was rather ordinary, a darker complexion with nearly black hair and dark eyes. “You weren’t under my command,” she uttered, released the straps holding him in and grabbed a hold of the black bullet-resistant vest the man was wearing. He shouted in pain as she unceremoniously pulled off several securing straps to reveal another vest beneath it. It was a brown leather piece of clothing with a green triangular patch in the upper right corner on the front. Growling with anger, she threw him hard against the cot and peered down at him. “You’re a goddamned Browncoat!” she screamed at him. “Took an Alliance vest off of one of my men!”

He weakly shook his head, eyes watering. “No! I swear! The man was already dead when I found him!”

“Scavengers!” she continued to tear into him. “Blood thirsty luh shuh!” Kavanagh raised the barrel of her gun.

“No!” Demitri took hold of her weapon and kept it pointing at the deck, as she was about to vent her anger he got into her face, which wasn’t difficult to do. She was nearly his height. “This can save us,” he hissed. “So hold off.”

As Kavanagh wordlessly fumed in place, Demitri turned to the Independent soldier. “Why do they want our supplies?” he demanded.

The man gulped, sitting up and cradled his fragile arm. “We’re getting low on everything,” he quickly explained. “Some units are getting desperate, especially medical supplies. You might not have a lot, because you’re basically a glorified ambulance, but you have some. And some is enough of a risk to take when you have guys getting infections from even small wounds.”

His words deflated Kavanagh slightly, and Demitri let her rifle go. He turned back to her. “If the Independents take the med kits and leave…”

“No,” Kavanagh said firmly. “Our people need it.”

Demitri shook his head. “An Alliance cruiser will be here any minute to take us all back-”

“Minutes that some may not have.” She interrupted him through gritted teeth.

“You said it yourself- The men who needed the help desperately are already gone,” he pointed out, and immediately wished he hadn’t said it. Not only did she become more infuriated than she had been, Kavanagh’s eyes became glassy. Demitri wasn’t sure if she wanted to crack him across the face with the butt of her rifle, or curl up on the floor in a ball and cry. He didn’t know which would be worse.

Suddenly her gaze leveled off and she took a deep breath. Kavanagh had mulled the situation over in her thoughts. “The Alliance ship might also blow the Independents off the face of this moon,” she said evenly, looking down at the wounded Browncoat with steely eyes.

“Before or after they launch a few more anti-aircraft missiles at us?” Demitri asked her. “Your men wouldn’t have a chance.”

It was true. She took a second to look at the men laying in the military cots. It wasn’t as though they could duck and cover if they were attacked again. Kavanagh nodded once, slung her rifle over her shoulder and reached down to the Independent soldier, grabbing the front of his short. “The first thing, boy,” she said, her voice dripping with venom, “you are going to take off that vest you have sullied with your blood. Then the rest of you,” she stood straight and addressed everyone, “are going to gather every single bandage, hypodermic needle, bottle of pain killers, first aid kit, surgical thread and every other item that might even remotely be used in the medical profession and pack it all into one duffle.”

A male nurse stood. His normally crisp, white smock was covered in old blood and other fluids that he might not admit to. “Are you mad?”

“Maybe,” Kavanagh admitted. She then pointed to the Browncoat as he slowly began to peel off the military garment she had indicated. “Then this go tsao de son of a Imbicile can take the bag to his little friends out there, and then they are all going to go away and leave us in peace. Don ma?”

“Yea,” he hissed as he pulled his injured arm though the cut hole in the armor.

As the others began to gather the supplies Kavanagh went to the door and relayed their plan to the Independents, in much more civilized words.

“We agree to your terms,” the man, who she had been communicating with, shouted back.

In minutes a black canvas duffle was stuffed with items. Kavanagh tossed at the feet of the wounded Independent soldier. He silently scowled and reached down for the grip with his good arm. “Leave,” she ordered, taking hold of her weapon again.

The man took the hint and walked toward the door. He held up both arms and dropped the bag outside the crashed aircraft. He then crouched down to the deck, sat and slid out of the craft. He then took up the duffle again and slowly walked toward his armed comrades. When he reached the closest men hiding in the waving field of grain, they exchanged a few words and they quickly opened the bag. After a few seconds they all retreated back to their vehicle and away from the Alliance personal.

Demitri went back to the cockpit and watched the dots file into the truck and drive off.

They weren’t alone for long, about 15 minutes later a large gray ship plunged out of the bright sky and hovered over the medical transport. It looked as though it were made of a few metal boxes welded together, with small stabilizing wings and a pair of twirling egg-shaped engines attached to the rear.

It took only minutes for everyone to be extracted from the crashed vehicle.

Then the ship pulled higher into the sky, dropped a missle on the site and vanished as the remains of the transport exploded in a fiery ball, so that no one could forage anything useful from it.

Demitri knew they were headed for the massive Alliance patrol cruiser that hovered above the moon’s surface. The terraformed surface became nothing more than a brown and green curve of color as the blue sky rapidly turned black, speckled with twinkling white stars. A tint of red rimmed the view port he was looking out as they began to break though the upper atmosphere. The flame quickly died as they reached the cold of space.

The superstructure that was the cruiser grew in size from a personal hovercraft to a floating city. The tall black structure was dotted with squares of white and green light that indicated illuminated rooms with thickly paned windows. Four vertical towers were connected with similar bridges of shiny metal. It was virtually impossible to tell where anything was located on the massive spacecraft. Even the propulsion system was difficult to find. Everything seemed to be disguised, protecting vital areas from being targeted if it where ever attacked.

It wasn’t a bad system, Demitri had to admit to himself. Though if the thing ever needed to be repaired it had to do so in space dock. It could never land on a planet. Ships of all sizes and functions circled the structure. Dozens of mall one-man fighters sailed along in arrow-like formations. Hundreds more were probably housed in hangers aboard the main assembly. Freighters brought goods and people to and from the ship. Medical transports were bringing the wounded in to be treated in professional hospitals that were located on the cruiser.

Demitri had never been on one of these massive beasts. He was excited about it, feeling like a boy going for his first trip to another world. Something shiny and new! Then reality flooded back to him and Demitri became sullen. Not far away Sergeant Kavanagh had collapsed in a padded chair, exhausted. She finally let her guard down, now that she was in the capable hands of the Alliance military. Her eyes were closed and she breathed easily. Demitri then looked behind the small passenger area, to a small open arch that led into a cargo bay. The wounded soldiers had been layer out on the deck, foam sleeping pads and layers of blankets protecting their bodies from the flight.

The military ship docked along one of the spires and landed with a shudder. In seconds the hatched hissed as it opened and individuals wearing hospital gowns began to quickly file in with stretchers to take the injured to one of the many medical bays. Pulses were checked, injuries assessed and everyone taken out in record time.

Everyone who had not been hurt in any physical way slowly entered the Alliance cruiser one at a time. Demitri straightened up as he stepped into a spotless hall of cream colored walls and bright white lights. He almost had to squint to keep from being blinded.

An officer wearing a wool mandarin style gray coat and a cap with a brim of patent leather stood at attention as he walked though. “Welcome aboard the Darjeeling,” he said, voice just as crisp as his uniform.

“Yea,” was Demitri’s brilliant response.

The shuffle of canvas, plastic, leather and metal made Demitri look behind and spot Kavanagh striding into the bay. The officer quickly saluted. “Sergeant Kavanagh, welcome aboard the Darjeeling.”

She gave him a quick salute and said “Corporal.”

“The Commander requests your presence at once, Sergeant,” he said.

Kavanagh sighed, looking as tired as ever. “Of course she does.”

He indicated a direction down the hall. “If you would follow me.” He paused. “Both of you, if you please.” He glanced coldly at Demitri.

Demitri had the same reaction as Kavanagh. They both raised an eyebrow.

“All right,” said the pilot and began to march down the seemingly endless hall of light.

[sunstar]

I'm curious now!

[Peace]

The Beginning of the End of the War

The pair were lead through long hallways, lined with doors. Demitri had never been in one of these colossal ships before. He had heard that they were practically floating cities in space and the description was nearly bang on. Whole families seemed to live there. Children, wearing colorful outfits that resembled kimonos, ran past them, giggling with merriment as they clutched data pads to their chests. An adult was chasing after them to slow down and keep quiet, with little success. Sergeant Kavanagh smiled at the normalcy of it. There was a war being raged just outside these walls and few would ever know it, accept there were well armed guards positioned at nearly every intersection.

At one point the hall widened significantly, people bustling to and fro, before it exploded into an inner courtyard. Brilliant lights simulating the light from a yellow sun beamed down from above a dome of blue painted steel. Stalls selling food and snacks lined the walls, with much of the interior space filled with glass topped tables of cast iron. Carefully sculpted trees and shrubs were planted in enormous boxes filled with enriched soil. The sounds of chirping birds could be easily heard above the din, songs that were being piped in through speakers.

Everything was meant to make the Darjeeling feel like any normal city located in the interior of the Alliance Empire. The lights would gradually fade as the artificial day would fade into night. Colored tubes hidden along the tops of all the doors, shops and within the walls would very slowly start to take on a red hue, making the courtyard feel as though the sun were setting. Then the lights would leisurely change from red to purple, then change to blue and then fade entirely. The ceiling would become black and small fiber optic stars would twinkle above. Though the ship was slowly moving through countless stars, these were controlled twinkling dots of light. Never changing, accepting fading away as the 24-hour clock would once again cycle back into day.

This was the Alliance. Neat. Orderly. Safe. Never changing. Always there. A stable force in an unstable universe.

Kavanagh kept telling herself this, even when her confidence in her government wavered. She had seen the cost of this war first hand. She knew that the Independents were so set in their beliefs that they were willing to die by the thousands for it. It was a courage that she would respect. Kavanagh also had no idea why the hell anyone would prefer a life of blood, sweat and tears over a life of ease, comfort and security. The war was also a futile effort. Everyone knew the Alliance was going to triumph over the Independents. That Browncoat that sneaked on the medical transport that had been sent for the remnants of her squad would have preferred to surround himself with the enemy, rather than go back to the loosing side.

The sergeant realized that the pilot was no longer at her back as she followed her escort though the square. She turned and found that he was looking at the trees, trying to locate the nonexistent birds. She stopped walking toward the arched door and frowned as he gazed into the branches of a Japanese maple that towered some fifteen meters into the air. This man must be some backwoods idiot savant, she mused as he cocked his head at the woody plant.

Kavanagh whistled sharply. He quickly looked towards her, the tree ignored. “If you’re done looking at the scenery, the Commander wants to see us.”

“Right,” he said, jogging back up to her.

“Attention deficit disorder?” she asked, mocking his behavior.

“Humph,” he snorted. “I just have never seen anything like this. It’s like someone built the spaceship around a whole neighborhood.”

“Some of these men and women can be in space for years at a time, serving their duties to the people and government,” she explained. “It’s a good system. Instead of leaving your family behind, you take it with you. The rest just naturally followed. Several corporations have made deals with the military and now nearly every kind of business can be found here. There are plenty of civilian jobs that can be filled by nonmilitary personal. After all, why have a soldier peeling potatoes in the kitchen, when he can be out in the field? Most of the workers around here have no military training at all. They were hired to fill service and labor positions.” She paused as they entered a large circular elevator. Seats were positioned around the side of the lift, as well as a ring of cushioned seats in the center. Kavanagh and Demitri sat in the center as the elevator began to climb. Their escort stood behind them, hands folded behind his back. None within the lift were jostled as it moved. “Everyone underwent rigorous screening, of course. Only the most qualified were allowed to move into these ships. But still, ten-thousand call the Darjeeling their home. And there are five more just like her.”

“So how long have you been living here?” Demitri asked, having caught on quickly.

She shrugged. “Only a few months before the war broke out. Then I was assigned to a squad. Went through this battle, that battle. Sent from world to world, moon to moon. Very few of the first people I met are still alive today. All of them have, or had, commands of their own. I was second in command of the 5th squad in the 113th Tactical Assault Unit.” Kavanagh paused, realizing that she was going on about something she shouldn‘t. “Ah, I mean, I haven’t gazed at these walls in ages. Feels like coming home.”

Demitri made a noncommittal noise.

“What about you?” Kavanagh asked him.

He shrugged. “What’s to know?” Demitri said. “Went to flight school when I was barely a man, graduated in the top twenty-five, got a cushy job flying people around. Then I got bored, mostly tired of listening to people prattle on and on about how crappy their lives are, got the bare minimum medical training and flew an ambulance on Boros for a few years. Then I got snatched up by the military and began flying their ambulances up until now.”

Kavanagh cracked a smile. “How exciting.”

Demitri grinned. “You know it.”

Their official attendant wordlessly moved to the doors, which indicated that they had finally reached their destination. Kavanagh could hear the lift slowing and she stood, Demitri following suit.

Next a cool female voice announced over the intercom “Welcome to the bridge of the Darjeeling. In a moment you will be scanned for weapons and recording devices. Should you possess any item that has been deemed inappropriate for this sensitive area, you shall be detained until security arrives to escort you to the detention facility located on floor 137, north-east quadrant.”

Another one of those false applications of planetside life, Sergeant Kavanagh noted. North-east quadrant. There was no sense of direction in space. There was no north, as it were. Usually everyone just used the sun as a central point in a rather complicated, circular compass. Or just had a ship’s navigation computer do all that unnecessary mathematics.

Sensors erupted along the walls, fitted with laser scans that passed though living tissue and read the layers of clothing and accessories that everyone wore. Beams of white light passed over the three people in a horizontal arc and then vanished.

“No inappropriate items have been detected,” the voice chirped. Kavanagh rolled her eyes. “Welcome aboard.”

The elevator doors slid into the wall, revealing the hub of the massive ship. It was a large, circular area. Consoles and computers filled the majority of the space, each one being carefully monitored by an Alliance officer, dressed in the gray same uniform. The only ornamentation that was visible was a black belt strap that went over the right shoulder and fastened with a brass buckle. It was indicative of an old fashioned sword belt, even though no one carried a weapon. Little indicated rank accept for the occasional gold or silver piping that would be around the folded sleeve cuff.

Several security officers were stationed on the bridge and their uniforms were slightly different. Each had a jacket with a bibbed front, edged with black, rather than the mandarin jacket.

At the very front of the bridge was an enormous view screen. The concave screen had an image of a star field surrounding the planet New Melbourne. Just peeking behind the sphere of blue, green and gold, was the small moon Avalon. Avalon was completely dark, being unsuitable for terraforming. Kavanagh had heard rumors that it was being used as a smuggling base for Independents, but it appeared to be quiet at the moment.

Probably because there was a massive Alliance command ship looming overhead.

She ignored the goings-on and moved to another set of doors indicated by her escort. As he stood by the doors and saluted, she repeated the gesture in kind and pressed the door chime. An electronic chirp could be heard from beyond, then a feminine voice said “Enter” though the intercom in the chime.

The doors slid open noiselessly and beyond was a sparse room of eggshell and gray tones. A large wooden desk provided the only color, a rich red hue of stained cherry. The top was glassy ebony and several papers and screens dotted the work area. A woman was seated behind the desk, in a chair of plastic and leather. Demitri and Sergeant Kavanagh stepped in, the doors closed behind.

Kavanagh snapped to attention. “Commander.”

The woman in the chair immediately stood and rushed to the rigid sergeant. She quickly wrapped her arms around Kavanagh and gave her a strong hug. “Oh, xiao mei-mei!” she cooed, “there’s no need for formality when the boys aren’t around!” She then released her ‘little sister’ and smiled sweetly, turning to a stupefied Demitri. “Present company excluded, of course.” She held out a hand to him. “I am Commander Muriel Kavanagh, welcome aboard my ship. I hope Susan hasn’t been too much trouble.”

Demitri gave her a large grin and shook her hand. “Ochin pree yat nah. Nothing I couldn’t handle, Commander.”

“Excellent, Mister Zinovi. It‘s a shame I don‘t speak Russian. I‘ll just assume you said you were delighted to make my acquaintance.” Commander Kavanagh said, releasing his hand. “I have already heard several fascinating variants of your little adventure.” She moved back to her desk and sat down.

Sergeant Kavanagh frowned. “So quickly.”

“News travels fast, mei-mei,” The commander replied, twirling a stylus between in fingers. “Let’s start at the beginning. What happened down there.”

It wasn't a question. Susan Kavanagh’s eyes held on Demitri.

The commander waved a hand, unconcerned. She began to roll her tool in both hands, between thumbs and forefingers. “I repeat: What happened down there Sergeant.” she said, a stern note striking her tone.

“My unit had been dispatched to an agricultural distribution center on New Melbourne, as you well know.” Susan paused, the commander nodded. “Intelligence led us to believe that supplies that were intended for the Independents were being housed and shipped from that particular location. We were fifty strong, well armed, well armored and well informed. It was indeed an Independent warehouse, several Browncoats were visible from the air as we came in, disguised as a produce transport. We docked and caught the Independents off guard. We killed anyone who resisted and took many others into custody. The plan had worked well. We got a hold of their computer and began to download information from it, enough to bring formal charges against anyone who willfully helped the rebels.”

“That’s when it all went to hell. Out of nowhere an explosion went off. I have no idea where it came from. It may have been planted there already, or it could have been launched into the warehouse. I couldn’t say for sure. All I know is that we were suddenly surrounded by Independents and fighting for our lives. Before we had downed the last of them nearly half of my men were gone. Almost everyone was injured in some capacity. That’s when I sent the extraction communication. We were wounded and needed to get out. Those who could pulled the men and women out of the building before I set the charges.”

“It wasn’t long before medical transport was there,” she tipped her head, indicating Demitri. “They landed like a graceful swan, picked us up and spirited us away. When we were high enough in the air I pushed the detonator, blowing the warehouse. I’m sorry I couldn’t gather much intel about any farmers and shippers that were Browncoat friendly.”

“You achieved your primary goal,” the commander told her. “You cut the supply line to the Independents. Go on.”

Susan cleared her throat. “We were flying out when a rocket hit the rear of the craft. We went down and it was remarkable that we didn’t crash. The damage was extensive and the copilot had been injured in the attack.” She looked at Demitri. “If it hadn’t been for this man, all of us would be kissing the angels.”

Commander Muriel Kavanagh smiled. “You are absolutely right.” She tapped a few items on the computer placed within her desktop. “Demitri Zinovi, you are hereby granted the military title of ‘airman’ and henceforth considered a member of the Airforce of Allied Planets, with title and available privileges effective immediately.”

Demitri’s jaw dropped. “I, uh,” he stammered.

“Congratulations,” the commander gave him a grin, flashing a set of perfect white teeth. She stood and extended her hand once again.

Sergeant Kavanagh ogled the scene with nearly total disbelief as he fumbled with his thanks and shook her sister’s hand again.
“I have already prepared a room for you,” Commander Kavanagh said, poking at several bits of information on her desktop computer. “Corporal Baldev will show you to your quarters. I do hope that you will be available for dinner this evening.” As one of the guards that had been stationed on the bridge entered, she motioned to Demitri. “At nineteen-hundred hours. I shall see you then, Airman Zinovi.”

Demitri was too busy swimming through the haze of his mind to reply with much. He managed a nod and followed the Corporal out the door, leaving the sisters alone.

Susan glared at her commander. “What the hell just happened here?”

Muriel lost her smile and dropped down into her chair. “It’s all happening right now, Susan.” she said, her voice becoming quiet. “On Hera. Hera seems to be the line in the sand. We thought that we could take down the Independents quickly, but they are stead fast. You almost have to admire their tenacity. Unfortunately we have received word that they are gathering forces that might be enough to push us back. The Darjeeling has to head to Hera and reinforce the soldiers already placed there. We will launch a massive air strike against the Browncoats, shattering their forces.”

Susan always loved visiting Hera as a child. Almost every square inch of land on the soil-rich world was covered with agriculture. The people were mostly simple, quiet and law-abiding folks. It’s what made it a peaceful place. This also made it easy for the Independents to dive in and take over. The Alliance had been fighting the rebel factions for some time now. If it was true that their forces were building…

“But you will not be part of that assault, Susan,” the commander slowly put down her stylus and laced her fingers together. “We have uncovered how the Independents are coordinating their attacks. They are piggy-backing their encoded messages off of our communication network.”

Susan Kavanagh stared at her sister. “How is that possible?” she blurted. “We use the Cortex itself! The Alliance is linked with every planetary network all over the system…” she paused, the realization flooding her. “It explains how they seem to be quickly moving messages back and forth, reacting almost as soon as we do something. They might even be able to crack our code.”

The commander nodded. “Highly unlikely, but we have considered that possibility. We have had specialists monitoring the Cortex, attempting to discover the source of their waves. Almost didn’t believe it when we heard it.” She paused. “It’s coming from the Cortex Moon itself.”

The Cortex Moon. An entire sphere covered with transmission equipment, electrical generators and it was surrounded by a hub of satellites that beamed the information to all known worlds. It was like a single broadcasting station the size of a planet. The whole of the moon was dedicated to the broadcast of news feeds, personal communications, entertainment programming and carried sensitive information. The information was known collectively as ‘the wave’. Somehow the Independents had hacked into the wave and was using it to broadcast their own transmissions.

“So it’s not so easy to just jam their transmission. What do we do about it?” Susan asked.

The commander raised an eyebrow. “Not us, mei-mei, you. I am going to introduce you to your new assignment over dinner.”

“Dinner,” Susan parroted.

Her sister affirmed her statement. “Along with our newest airman, you are going to take a small team in, cut their communication ties and hopefully fly home in time for the celebratory fireworks.”

Sergeant Kavanagh crossed her arms. “You really believe that the war is in its closing stages.”

“Yes. This is the beginning of the end of the Independents.” said the commander, deadly serious. We have attacked the limbs and now we are going straight for the throat. They cannot last much longer. The Alliance will triumph and we can begin rebuilding. A new and better society for all.”

Susan’s eyes drooped slightly. She suddenly felt exhausted. “Then if you will allow it, Ma’am, I shall take my leave and freshen up for dinner this evening.”

The commander rose and saluted. Susan immediately returned the action. “You are dismissed Sergeant. I will see you again this evening. Get some sleep before then. You look like you need it.”

“Thank you,” Sergeant Kavanagh said, leaving the office without another word.

Susan waved away her escort. “Just tell me where my quarters are,” she told him. He relayed the information and she stepped into the lift, putting in the correct floor. The elevator moved and she slumped into one of the provided cushions. Fighting the urge to find a warm dark corner, curl up and wait for the war to end of its own accord, Susan got off the left when she reached her floor.

It wasn’t long before she found her new bedroom. She placed her thumb on the provided scanner at the side of the doorframe. It scanned the print, checked for vitals and opened the lock. It was a small room, equipped with only the bare essentials. A full bed, small dresser, wardrobe and a powder room in back.

Kicking off her boots, Susan then pulled off her armored vest and other pieces of gear, tossing them on the floor. She then collapsed on the bed, digging into the blankets.

[Peace]

Dreams came to Susan Kavanagh easily, but it was the nightmares she couldn’t shake. Ever since she had first laid eyes on the true horror of war, the woman couldn’t escape the demons that haunted her. Slumber would carry her into an average dream of fancy and wit, like a lovely warm summer day along a seashore. Susan would have a fishing rod stuck in the sand beside her lounge chair, the line and bobber lazily moving in and out with the tide. Then the dream would explode into a fiery ball of destruction. She would find herself surrounded with the dead. People broken, bleeding and moaning with pain. Limbs would be torn off, internal organs eviscerated and lying along the blood-stained white sand. Bullets would fly, children would cry and it would all come crashing down on Susan.

Then she would wake in a cold sweat. Unable to sleep well since the war started, Susan rarely got a full night’s sleep. Nightmares would always be different, but they would always end the same.

This, potentially, restful nap was no different. But now she had a new experience to add to her mental repertoire of living hells. She was leading her troop into the Independents warehouse in New Melbourne. Susan was in full combat mode, her rifle tight in her hands, helmet strapped tightly to her head, and her boots firmly planted on each step. Around her were trusted and experienced men. They knew the risks, but enthusiastically stepped up to the plate. The team encountered little resistance as they made their way in.

Inside an enormous storage cooler, the team spread out around stacks of apple crates. It was a fresh, delightful scent that nearly made Susan want to reach in though one of the small ventilation holes in the crate and pull out a piece of fruit. It was a thought that flashed across her mind only briefly, as she focused on her duty. The first thing that came was the thundering sound of boots striking the concrete floor. Then gunfire echoed off the walls of the storage facility. Deafened by the impact of the noise, Susan fired back at the Independents that came swarming in. Her vision was so highly trained on the men in front of her, she dropped to one knee, allowing the men behind her a clear shot of the targets and she had no idea that more enemies were circling them and shooting from the side. They were using walls of cold apples as complete cover. No one saw them coming, and no one would hear any shouts of warning once the fighting begun.

A bullet buzzing by her nose caused Susan to look to her right. Independents were rushing against the Alliance team like a tidal wave. Her tactical unit was being surrounded. She needed to get out before they were completely cut off from any exit. Her gloved hand switched on their com system and she ordered them to withdraw.

Men and women began to drop quickly. Both Alliance and Independence were taking heavy casualties, but the Browncoats continued forward. Susan began to back up, firing the remnants of her clip. She almost tripped over one of her fallen comrades as she continued to move backwards, releasing the empty cartridge and replacing it with a full clip. Her assault rifle exploded in a hale of bullets. A salty, iron smell masked the scent of the apples now. They pulled the wounded out of the building, leaving the dead or dying. Susan prayed that their spirits wouldn’t haunt her for what she was about to do.

Earlier she had two of her explosives experts place charges around the building, just in case it suddenly took a turn for the worse. Now it couldn’t get any worse. In her hand was a remote detonator, and with a flick of her thumb she uncovered the silver toggle switch that would make it all blow sky high.

“God forgive me for what I am about to do,” she muttered to herself and then turned to her team. “Everyone down!” she screamed and then flicked the switch.

A fireball erupted into the blue sky. Heat, flame and debris scattered over Susan as she lay flat on the ground, her arms covering her head. Hard chunks struck her several times as the fire dies away.

Screams of the dead then filled Susan’s ears. They were all howling for revenge. Susan began to cry as their faces flooded her memories. She cowered from the ghosts as they began to pull and tear at her clothing.

Waking with a start, Susan sat up in bed. She rubbed at her crusted eyes and quickly moved to the bathroom. She waved her hands under the sink, water spouting in a warm stream. Splashing the liquid on her face, Susan rubbed her eyes and then looked into the vanity mirror. She only saw her tired, heavy features. Susan stared at her own eyes for several seconds before deciding that no vengeful spirits would appear.

It was a brainless thought, she told herself. There were no such things as ghosts. No one would come to claim her soul for her trespasses. She did what she needed to do, for the good of everyone. No one was gaining anything from this war, that the Independents started. A war that caused pain and suffering. Suffering that she had not caused, damnit!

Susan scowled, glancing up at a steel rimmed wall clock. It was nearly time for her meeting-slash-dinner with the commander. After using the toilet Susan wandered back into her room. She glanced at her discarded items on the floor and chided herself for being such a pig. Then she kicked the items under the bed and opened the wardrobe.

Just as she figured, there was a new gray Alliance uniform waiting for her, hanging inside and covered in a clear plastic wrap. Susan pulled it out and looked at the front. A paper sticker placed on the protective wrap declared boldly in red Chinese characters that it had been tailored by the Chen-Gong family of Angelina. She couldn’t help but chuckle at the label. Textiles from the moon Angelina were highly prized throughout the system. The Alliance spared no expense on frippery.

Pulling off the shirt that Susan felt she had been wearing for something like a month, she wadded it up into her hands and looked at the fabric. It was stained with all manner of filth. Susan then decided that it was time for a sponge bath. Walking into dinner smelling like a horse wasn’t exactly proper etiquette. She tossed the article into a corner and went back into the bathroom.

It didn’t take long to find a small basket of personal articles that were made available to every person who stayed aboard the Darjeeling for an amount of time. A wicker basket had a cotton towel, washcloth, bar of soap, a hair comb and a stick of deodorant. Susan didn’t have a room with it’s own full bath, but there were public baths available for anyone who wished to use them. It was a practical solution to a space restriction problem that was solved long ago by the ancient Romans and the Japanese on Earth-That-Was. There were showers available, but the real treat was a large heated pool that was filled with mineral water. Separate facilities were available for men and women.

Susan didn’t have a modesty issue with the public baths like some did, but she was strained with time and a lathered washcloth and a quick wipe-down with warm water would have to suffice.

After she was reasonably clean, Susan pulled fresh clothing out of the dresser and began to put the articles on. When she was fully dressed in her plain uniform the sergeant went back to the powder room, ran the comb quickly through her short hair and then pulled her boots back on. She frowned at the well worn leather. Quickly grabbling the washcloth and wiping the boots down, Susan was satisfied with the result and tossed the square of fabric into the sink basin. She didn’t bother straightening up her room as she left.

The captain’s private dining hall was off one of the dining courtyards that most everyone else used. It was several floors away and led through some of the most highly elaborate parts of the ship. It was used on the occasions that very important persons within the Alliance military or government would be onboard. The fact that Susan was going to be having a meeting with her commanding officer there and no where else made her slightly more than suspicious. Maybe her sister was just pulling some strings and giving her hard working, grunt of a sibling a break for a change. Maybe Commander Muriel Kavanagh was having a bit of a celebratory dinner, before they finally crushed the Independents once and for all.

Maybe. But something wasn’t sitting right with her. Susan’s high-ranking sister had said something about giving her the next assignment. Along with the newly Christened Demitri. Why would she need some ambulance pilot? There were plenty of other talented pilots out there, all with real military experience.

Maybe the war wasn’t going as well as the Alliance claimed it was. If the story about the Independents coordinating their movements through the Cortex was true, it would mean a higher level of strategy than the top brass had given them credit for.

Maybe that was it. Susan continued to mull all the pieces around her mind as she strolled though the walkways of the Darjeeling. The walls in this section of the ship were painted a bright spring green, with white crown molding lining the bright white ceilings. All lights in this section were also custom made, featuring light bulbs that were said to give off light with the same properties of the sun filtered through a typical planetary atmosphere, subconsciously keeping folks from becoming depressed from little exposure to the rays of light when planetside. Susan never really believed that one.

Susan figured she was going to be told that she was going to be sent to the Cortex Moon, and disable the Independent’s transmission source. Not a problem. It was just the thing she was trained to handle. Just give her some reasonably experienced soldiers that could follow orders, and it would be easy as pie.

Pie that occasionally contained an explosive, set to go off if you cut into it at just the wrong place…

[thaophu999]

....my friend's furson is named Serenity!!!

[Ponyboy]

Very nice! I see it's been quite a while since the last update; will there ever be a continuation to this? I wonder if aiding the enemy will ever come back to haunt them...

A couple of notes from a die-hard Browncoat:
The prologue says that the Unification War was a result of the Alliance expanding to the outer planets. However, it was actually more like the American Civil War; the Independents didn't like the way the Alliance was treating them, so they tried to secede and form their own government, causing the Alliance to resort to the use of force to keep them in line.

Also, I've seen the Unification War referenced as starting in 2506, but I'm not sure if that was just an estimate.

I particularly enjoyed the last line; it was a great reference to the Alliance's apple grenade traps.

I liked how well the style meshed with the original show. The use of random Mandarin was a nice touch. If it just used a few gorrams instead of more conventional profanity, it would be just like an episode.