Stardate: 2450 CE
Orion Arm/Galactic Core Border.
HSV Montana->TF130 "HSV Montana to Task Force 130...HSV Montana to Task Force 130...please respond.
TF130->HSV Montana "Task Force 130 Flagship Repulse here, reading 10 by 10."
HSV Montana->TF130 "HSV Montana requesting status update on TF130's operations."
TF130->HSV Montana "All operations nominal. No signs of hostile activity. Supply status is marginal.
HSV Montana->TF130 "HSV Montana copies. We'll pass word along."
Meanwhile, 4000 kilometers away from TF130's position, a wormhole opens and begins to emit huge amounts of EM radation, serving as a jamming device. Ships emerge. Non-human ships.
TF130->HSV Montana "HSV Montana, we're [interference] a lot of [static]..
HSV Montana->TF130 "HSV Montana to HSV Repulse, please repeat, your transmission is garbled."
TF130->HSV Montana "HSV Repulse [crackle] under heavy [static]. Please assist!"
HSV Montana->TF130 "HSV Repulse, please respond."
TF130->HSV Montana "HSV Repulse damaged beyond all reasonable use. Self Destruct just [crackle]. TF130 Reporting Code Black. This is the last possible transmission from HSV Indianapolis. Good luck, HSV Montana. XO of [crackle] signing off."
Minutes later, six distress beacons are picked up by the HSV Montana.

Apollo Shipyards, Lalande 21185 System
Captain Lee strolled into the smoky briefing room, acknowledging the gathered officers and NCOs rising to their feet with a half-hearted salute before heading straight to the podium. The Resource had been on shipyard duty for the past 6 months, officially it was downtime between deployments, unofficially it was busy-work, using the Assistance Class' repair facilities to perform basic repairs and maintenance to ships back from patrol, freeing up slipways for major casualties and building work. His men were anxious to take the Old Lady out again, she was a fleet repair ship and her place wasn't here with the contractors and docksmen.

“At ease.” the captain said, pressing a button on the console built into the podium in front of him. The wall behind him shimmered, and transformed into a star display centred on their current position at the shipyards. Pausing for a second, the image then zoomed back out, tracking across the Orion Arm before resting on some unnamed system on the border of controlled space. “The Old Lady has an assignment.” Smiles spread across the flight officers and crew chiefs, and datapads were swiftly withdrawn as it became apparent this wasn't the ordinary daily repair brief. “We are to RV in this system with the other ships that will form Hegemony Deep Space Task Force 148, and from there conduct a standard long-range patrol until relieved. No, I don't know when that is, before you ask. Further orders are to be issued in-system, but I'm authorised to give you the repair brief now.”

The repair brief was an essential part of pre-mission planning. Each crew chief present would be assigned a member of the patrol, and it was his responsibility to study their blueprints, design spec and technological intricacies. The idea being that, in case of an emergency, the Task Force would have repair crews capable of operating swiftly and effectively, without relying on individual captains directing outside repair crews on top of commanding their own vessels. “First up, the flagship.” A button press, and the wall behind him flashed up the technical schematics of the dreadnought HSV Mictlantecuhtli. A few of the men groaned. “Grover, she's yours. I've asked the XO to draw up a list of all Nahuatl speakers on the crew, you should have it before we're underway. What we know – these ships are heavily armoured and shielded, which is good for us, but they carry short-ranged guns, so she'll probably keep us busy. She's smaller than most dreads we've served with, which will be a blessing for your lazy legs Grover, and has a small fighter launch which she can mostly service and repair herself. Look over the blueies, and have an energency action plan on my desk by 0200 shipboard on Friday.”

Another button press, and this time the display brought up a sleek, modern looking cruiser, unfamiliar to many of them. “Jones, you get the HSV Europa. It's a class namer, still on its first coat of paint, so expect some technical wrinkles on its shake-down. It's provisionally classed as a heavy cruiser, so expectations are that this will be the primary ship of the line in mid to long engagements. The Admiralty assures me that the ship is heavily armoured enough to hold her own, and heavily armed enough to take on a dread at range. Personally, I'll believe the Admiralty when I see proof, so expectations are that this ship will be suffering pretty heavy battle damage, plan accordingly.”

The display changed to another cruiser, this one more squat and compact than the Europa, but bulkier, and more powerful-looking. “The HSV Nelson. Gregory, you're on this one. Probably one of the most reliable ship classes going, she's sturdy and hard to break. She carries plenty of her own supplies, and three AIs to make interfacing for repair jobs even easier. Frankly, if she's in trouble, then we're all in trouble, but that doesn't mean you can slack on your report!”

“Now, the trouble begins – our destroyer contingent.” The screen displayed three very different ships. One was a hyper-sleek clack arrow, its image giving a striking sense of it piercing the heavens. The next was a squat, insect-like craft bristling with weapons and defensive systems. The third and final one was a ramshackle-looking Opportunity Class, a class even older than the Old Lady, and though this one showed signs of a recent-ish overhaul, enough of the crew chiefs had worked with Opportunities before to know the problems that could be caused by the dated computer infrastructure and thin-skin hull.

“HSVs Trapper, Vespera and The Vulture's Claw. Three more different ships you're not likely to see, Hells know it's enough to make you wish for standardisation!” the crew laughed, the Hegemony was so vast, and its military resources so diverse, that standardisation had remained a pipe dream for the last century or more. “Kyle, you get the Opportunity Class. You've worked with a couple before, this one has the Mk.2 upgrade package so you're spared the old engine system at least. Hutton, you have the Malediction. She's tough and reliable, and a long-ranger to boot, to she shouldn't be too much trouble. Nielson, you get The Vulture's Claw. Currently, I have no data to share, but The Admiralty assures me that we'll get the tech specs before mission underway. All I know is she's Ixythl, which means we'll probably have to sign NDAs before we board to put out fires and patch the hull, so just make do with the external plans and do the best you can.”

“The Old Lady will sail again, and as always, she will perform above all expectations, even our own, is that clear? Dismissed.”

Near the Orion arm/galactic core border of the Hegemony, a destroyer-sized ship exits the berth of a small station, the berth almost the size of the station attached to it. The destroyer maneuvers using a system of chemical thrusters, and after drifting away to a safe distance, begins a 'burn' further away, propelling itself through the depths of space with a series of nuclear bombs' explosions. After pausing for a bit, a distance away, it seems to warp the space around itself, before simply disappearing. Shortly thereafter, the Alcubierre drive stops, leaving the ship in another star system. Inside...

"Captain, all drive tests successful, and we are now nearing the designated point. To pass the time, I recommend detailing mission parameters to your lieutenants. Sir." The younger man in the center of the bridge nodded at whatever voice was speaking in his earpiece. "That's what I was planning to do. Thank you for the heads-up, Major Tom. Return to your duties.". The A.I. replied, "Yes, Captain."

A short while later, soon after the jump, many important looking individuals are cramped into a simple briefing room. The captain, who is amusingly the youngest, yet most 'professional' looking person in the room, soon takes center stage next to a chalkboard. "Hello, as Captain of this vessel, I'm obligated to explain and detail our next mission. We'll be rendezvousing to create a new task force- 148-, with a few other vessels in the Hegemony. The flagship will be the.. interestingly... named...", he struggles to pronounce the name as he eyes it on a paper he brought with him, "...Will be a Teotl class dreadnought with a fucking eldritch naming convention. It's mainly kitted out for short-range, brutal boarding actions, and has two boarding platoons, each a thousand men strong.".

One of the other individuals there whistles, the security captain. "The Teotl class, if I remember correctly, is extremely armored. Thus, in combat situations, Helmsman, maneuver the Trapper behind the... Mic-tee-lanen-tek-uh-t-li-li?... stupid fucking name. In any case, remember to work with our Weapons Officer to ensure maximum accuracy during combat maneuvers. The next ships are the two cruisers of the task force, the HSV Nelson, a flag-cruiser, suited for electronic warfare and superb weapon systems... similiar to our Trapper..., and the HSV Europa that... with my information and research, seems to be a test model. The captain is probably itching to get his ship and himself killed in action, with that posting!" He and his subordinates laugh a bit at that joke, before continuing.

"The next ship is a 2KM long super-sized fleet repair vessel, designed to work on important systems even during combat. With our armoring the captain of THAT ship is going to hate us!". Another bout of muffled laughter, "It has an A.I. aboard for that it looks like. Tom, feel free to assist him in his endeavours, occasionally. Next two vessels, and the last ones, are destroyers, similar sized to our lovely little freighter... And one I have no info on. We have an 'HSV Malediction' with us in the task force, a hit-and-run anti-capital ship type destroyer, should be helpful, and a 'HSV The Vulture's Claw'... another stupid name."

He continues, "Well, this ship type must be brand spanking new, because I haven't found anything in any database about them yet, but judging from the grainy images they allowed us, it's a full combat setup, maybe a prototype?"

He continues explaining the ships' new fleet mates, and discussing tactics with his subordinates until they reach the area, Tom controlling the basic systems of the ship. After a few hours they arrive alone at the target area, ready for further orders, waiting patiently for the other vessels.

HSV Europa

“Attention on deck!” the XO boomed as the captain entered. The dozen senior officers stiffened into varying attitudes of attention. They looked exhausted and had every reason to be. If they looked rested on the eve of a shake down cruise Captain Marissia Renard would know the reason why and the Heavens help them if they didn’t have a good excuse.

“At ease people,” she commanded, her voice containing the barest hint of Aldvinan accent, erased by long practice at the fleet academy. The collection of officers around the table relaxed like an organic creature, datapads began to vanish as they realized the meeting was about to begin. She nodded approvingly; her subordinates saw no reason to stop their work simply because they were waiting for a meeting to start. She was a spare woman in her late thirties, her red hair closely cropped so as not to blind her in zero-G. With the deliberate long strides of a career spacer she moved to the front of the ready room, taking her seat beside Commander Emery, her XO.

“Group,” she began, the word keying in the command group commo circuit, some of her people simply couldn’t be spared for this meeting and would monitor it on the net.

“We have been assigned to Hegemony Deep Space Task Force 148, which, in order to save verbiage, I will henceforth refer to as force Tango.” The joke bought a polite giggle, the Hegemony bureaucrats thrived on alphabet soup.

“HSV Mictlantecuhtli, Mike element for similar reasons, has the flag. She’s a dreadnaught, Tetol class, I don’t know her commander but I expect to get personnel records in the near future. We have another cruiser the Nelson, the destroyers Vespera, Vulture’s Claw and Trapper, and the repair ship Resource under Captain Lee.” As she spoke each name a small hologram of each ship joined the others until they were swimming in a squadron in simulated space.

“I’ve served with Captain Lee before and he is as solid a skipper as they come. Lieutenant Patron, make sure you coordinate with him for any non standard equipment we might need, or equipment that we can use to convert fleet standard to fit this boat,“ there was a slight ironic tone to her voice and another round of laughter at ‘fleet standard’.

She turned to an extremely fit officer in gray battle dress.
“Colonel Cambden, you’ll need to get in touch with their Mike’s ground commander to coordinate the deployment of our marines. Ditto fighter control.” Both officers nodded, although clearly they had both already done so of their own initiative. She leaned forward resting on her hands. She was proud of her crew and proud of her ship.

“Europa is a new ship ladies and gentlemen and there are plenty of people who look at new things with skepticism. Whatever happens on this cruise we are going to prove that this boat was money well spent and that its crew is the best the Hegemony has to offer. Clear?”
From around the room and across the comms came a chorus of Crystal, Clear, Roger that and a dozen other acknowledgements.

“Section chief I’ll expect your final reports by 0:300 Zulu and I plan to light the drives and be on station four hours after that. Make it happen boys and girls. Dismissed.”

In the dimly lit control room, the assembly of the Cuaciqueh sits before the great round table, engraved with the seal of the Mictlan unit. Slowly, the captain stands up, wearing the typical Ocelotl armor, crudely painted with bright red, blue and yellow bright colors, without the helmet. A Macuahuitl-model heavy assault rifle is strapped to his back, and what uncannily resembles a human skull adorns his large pauldron. As he begins to speak, towering above the assembly, the many feathers attached to his armor, along with the other decorations made of teeth and bones, sway slightly in the air. "May Huitzilopochtli smile upon you, warriors." The congregation answers ritually: "And may the Lords of the Day and of the Night be with you, tlacochalatl Achcautli." The captain speaks again, in his solemn tone. "Once again, we have been called to war. As many of you might know, we shall be the flagship of Hegemony Deep Space Task Force 148."

"Six other ships will form the fleet. We will have three destroyers: the HSV Vespera, which we shall employ to weaken the defenses of our enemies before our attack, the HSV Vulture's Claw, a stealth destroyer which we shall use for recon and quick assault actions, and the HSV Trapper, an ancient and venerable ship which will be a fine addition to our firepower. Then, two cruisers: HSV Europa and HSV Nelson. The first is still a prototype of sorts, while the second one is a powerful but lightly armored ship. Apparently, both of these have their own marine battalions, which I intend to use as auxiliary units on the field of battle. Lastly, there is a repair ship, the HSV Resource." The tlacochalatl turns to a man dressed with the Cuauhtli light armor, painted with intricate black and red geometric patterns, and wearing a necklace of human teeth. "Nezahualcoyotl" says the captain, while the Cuauhtli stands up. "You will be assigned to the Vulture's Claw. I want 50 Cuauhmeh perennially on the ship, headed by you." As the Cuauhtli bows down slightly and sits again, the captain turns to another in the assembly, wearing the bulky armor of the Ocelomeh, painted in deep blue colors, and with large multicolored feathers adorning it. "Xicohtencatl" says the captain, as the warrior stands up, the pieces of bones worn as large piercings in the earlobes becoming fully visible in the dim light. "You will oversee the deployment of the marines from other ships. Make sure they don't interfere with our operations." The man bows, before sitting again.

"The Lord of Mictlan thirsts for blood and bones, and it is our holy duty to offer our sacrifices to the gods. Once again, we have been called to war. Once again, we shall triumph. Dismissed."

Captain Yvon Vespasien Lestrange is a young, promising and ambitious commander of the Hegemony Starforce. Apparently even too ambitious. Somebody must hate him in the upper echelon because he was essentially just given the worst post ever. On the surface he got himself a sweet deal. After little more than a year of officership Yvon was suddenly promoted captain, furthermore he was given command of a whole new class of warship. Really, Yvon would had been a fool to refuse this offer. So did he thought. After spending two weeks aboard the HSV Vulture's Claw he'd give almost anything to be transfered to another ship.

The problem that his ship wasn't just new, it was a complete prototype using top secret technologies. Worse, it was created by one of the big private contractors, the Ixythl Conglomerate. Named YV-7220 the ship went through extensive development and featured technologies which might change warfare as we knew it. As the final stage of this decades long project the Ixythl Conglomerate is lending twelve of these so-called stealth destroyers to the Hegemony Starforce in order to test them in live combat. You heard it right, lend them. The ships are still Ixythl property and only XC authorized technical personnel were allowed to tamper with it. In short the HSV Vulture's Claw is owned by Ixythl and after signing hundreds of papers Yvon and his crew was only given permission to use it. Classified technology, which made up a large portion of the vessel, were prohibited for non-XC employed technicians for access. Using any kind of classified technology was prohibited unless they can ensure there will be no witnesses outside of a tight permitted group of people are left alive. Worse yet the fifty-something count XC technical and science crew were escorted by exactly a hundred toughs from the Red Raven PMC. Their leader, who was also appointed to be the ship's XO without Yvon's knowledge, was a hardened veteran called Cezar Voronkhov. He looked so tall and powerful than Yvon had no doubt this man is wrestling sharks and knocking out bears during his pastime. Yvon has a decent physique and had his share in battle but even being in the same room as Cezar was secretly terrifying him. That man was a beast, a living menace. On the other hand Yvon noted with surprise that the gorilla knew his stuff and seemed to know much more about the ship than the captain.

With time everything began to make sense. His quick promotion, the toughs, the secretive research crew, the classified tech straight out of science fiction, everything. Yvon that he's practically just a figurehead, a guy needed to maintain the paper thin disguise this is just a typical Hegemony vessel. Ixythl are still the true owners of the ship and Yvon is just one of their lapdogs to do the tests. The realization dealt a great blow to Yvon's self-esteem and wished he could just resign and leave this farce. But as he analyzed his situation it became clear he was trapped. Barring desertion he's stuck as a pretend captain . The toughs from Red Raven were there to protect Ixythl's interest. One misstep and Cezar's stare turns Yvon into a chaotic mess of atoms. Exaggerations aside a hundred elite mercs are more than enough to massacre his tiny 302-men crew. They know the ship well and were probably even instructed how to take control of the Vulture's Claw in case the original crew had to be liquidated. Yvon had no clear evidence but he trust his gut feeling. He and his crew were dancing on a thin edge. His real job is to make best of their situation even with such depressing odds. Yvon was depressed but he was far from giving up. Afterall he was finally made a captain!

Hegemony Central Command Secure Facility, Earth, 3 kilometers below Washington, DC.
"Why that's just the goddamn most rag-tag assembly of ships i have ever seen in my career..."
"It's the best we can muster out to that deep in the Orion arm, sir."
"I suppose so. How many have arrived?"
"HSVs Europa, The Vulture's Claw, and Resource."
"Hm, good enough. Dispatch our auxiliary group to the system now, best they get there and establish who's who and keep that band of...miscreants from killing each other."
The man who just spoke turns and stares out over the blue orb below, a tactical representation of Earth's orbital space. He shakes his head.
"They ask me to send a task force to find out why a full battle-group dissipated...and this is what i get?"
"Madness."

Hegemony Space Dock Weaver, Earth Orbit.
The so-called Auxillary group consisted of three Burke-Leigh class Frigates, two Benjamin-Franklin class Space Control Destroyers, one Dauntless class Cruiser, and one of the fleet's aging vessel; long over due for retrofit and overhaul...a singular, decrepit Battleship, long phased out of use: The HSV Hood.
Matter of fact, you could describe every ship in the ancillary group as decrepit and outdated. They had all been pulled out of mothball.
The Burke-Leigh class was over eighty years old. The three frigates, HSVs Indomitable, Daring, and Supernova were roughly seventy years old.

The Benjamin-Franklin class was over a hundred years old; the two belonging to it were roughly as old as the class itself, those were HSVs Samantha Jansen and Alabama.

The Dauntless class was even older...one hundred and twenty two years. The sole ship in it's class left operable was the one in the ancillary group: HSV Jackhammer.

All had countless mechanical, electrical, and hull issues. Most of the HSV Indomitable's armor had to be replaced due to cracks in it from banging into countless wrecks while in mothball, the HSV Supernova had nearly lived up to it's name when they tried to start the reactor, the Samantha Jansen's engines exploded, and shorted out half the systems in the aft of the ship, the Alabama's railguns had to be totally replaced, and the Jackhammer's frame required reinforcing to hold up under acceleration.
In short, the entire group was a clusterfuck.
Worse, though, was the Hood.
The hood ran on Deuterium and Tritium. Most Hegemony standard ships used hydrogen. It had taken months to get a full fuel load, and worse yet, most of the superconductors had to be replaced, along with half the power conduits in the ship. It doesn't stop there. The ship's sewage system had failed, leaving thousands of gallons of waste sitting in the tanks for who knows how long, and corroding them, the missile tubes were totally non-functional, along with most of the railguns. The computer cores had to be replaced, and the ship's AI had long since deleted itself after going insane when the ship was slated for mothball.
Worse, yet, was the captain assigned to the ancillary group's command. Commodore Theodore Samson.
A drunkard. Most of fleet passed him over out of respect - he had fought in the last civil war that had broken out in the Inner Hegemony. He lost everything, evidently. Wife, children, family. He crawled into a bottle and never came out. He was placed in charge of a mothball carrier - long since recycled since being assigned to the Hood.

As the Trapper waited for the others to arrive, Major Tom began to detect them on the ultra-long-range sensor equipment, assisted by the IFF systems. Major Tom notified Reginald, "Sir, I'm detecting the other members of the task force, most of them have just warped in and are quickly rendezvousing. Shall we do a commutative hail?". Reginald thought for a moment, biting an apple. With a bit of it still in his mouth, "Yesh. Lhets do daht.", and he took another bite. "Fhuck, dis is a ghood ahhple.". Major Tom did the A.I. equivalent of a laugh, "Makes me sad I don't have taste buds, it looks very appetizing on my sensors, sir.".

Major Tom opened hailing frequencies to The Vultures Claw, the Nelson, the Europa, the Resource, the Vespera, and the Mictlantecuhtli. All at once.

Reginald says hello to everyone first, "Hello, this is the HSV Trapper, specifically it's captain, Sir Reginald Nelson. ...Hey! I already have a ship named after me? Shucks. In any case, our Teotl class here is our flagship, yes? I'll be following orders from you then. Please, just allow our rustbucket to hide behind your ships' heavy armoring, Sir. We can't take hits as good as anyone else here, but I'm certain we can punch above our weight class decently enough to compensate."

"And, The Resource, I already apologize for having to take up most of your time!", he adds quickly.

HSV Resource
Lieutenant Kelvin, the watch officer, relayed the message to her captain - her words echoing across the compact AIC buried in the depths of the command tower at the rear of the huge ship. Several of the watch crew sniggered, though whether it was at or with the captain's unprofessional attitude and word choice was unclear. Rolling his eyes, Captain Lee took a second to wander his gaze over the offenders, who buried themselves quickly into their consoles and suddenly looked very busy.

"Officer of the Watch, transmit our ID codes to the flag and report our status and disposition. Inform them Resource Actual is available if they wish to speak to me directly. XO, I want a secure channel to The Vulture's Claw. Request from them any and all data they feel may be relevant to conducting swift and effective repairs. If they refuse to provide, then back down, but Ancestors know why they wouldn't want fixing if there's a fight." Picking up the comm phone, he switched to a secure, direct channel with the Trapper. "Trapper Bridge, this is Resource Actual. I acknowledge Trapper Actual's last, tell him his apology is accepted, as long as he keeps his rust-bucket in one piece when we're out of combat then the Resource will be happy to put it together in combat. Resource Actual out."

----------------------------------------------

On the Engineering Bridge, located near the top of the command tower with an overview over the repair dock was Commander Hutchinson, the Chief Engineer aboard the Resource. His prematurely grey hair was testament to the rigours of his job, and the data streaming to the command table in front of him wasn't likely to put any colour back into it. The display cycled up with active scan details, updating in real-time as the gravity waves pulsed back into the sensor receptors. Luckily, the distances involved were negligible, so scanning and communication were near-instantaneous. Cross-checking the results with the files they received, "Harry" the AI highlighted any discrepancies that may indicate any damage or maintenance work required. As expected, there were very few flags raised at this stage of the mission, and the few discrepancies found were well within tolerances for void-worthy craft of their class. There were, however, strange readings coming from The Vulture's Claw, as the AI struggled to identify and catalogue components for future reference. Idly, Hutchinson dismissed the task queue, the skipper had been clear that any information they got on the prototype ship had to be given voluntarily. Something about grave consequences or whatever, above the Commander's pay grade anyway.

Well, he thought, lighting up a smoke, the band's all together. Let's see how well they play.

The Europa came out of warp speed like a bullet striking a million kilometer long block of gelatin. The technique allowed her captain to spread the shock of deceleration out of a long area. In combat situations it was not ideal, as it kept the ship from being combat effective for a few seconds, in the present circumstances however it allowed Captain Renard to minimize the strain on her ship’s hull. This was the Europa’s first major FTL excursion and her captain saw no reason to take unnecessary chances.

Data hung before her in holographic sheets, numbers and reports scrolling past as the ships systems reported their readiness to her. She wasn’t a specialist but years of service on bridge crews allowed her to interpret data and notice if anything was going catastrophically wrong. Now they were back at the speed of lazy photons, the plot position indicator, or PPI, sprang to life. Angry red welts appeared on the display as targeting programs quested into the void, one by one turning green as the IFF hand shakes were confirmed. Lieutenant Monroe, her sensor officer, looked visibly relieved as the last of the coded bursts confirmed there were no hostile or unidentified ships present. Her weapons officer looked a little disappointed. She permitted herself a slight smile, there was nearly no chance of a meeting engagement being fought at a rendezvous like this but hope, apparently, sprang eternal.

Then the transmission from HSV Trapper began. After its conclusion there was a stiff silence on the bridge for several seconds. Commander Emery cleared his throat.

“Well there are Captains and then there are Captains,” he noted judiciously. A general grin flashed around the BDC the tension vanishing.

“True enough,” Marssia replied with her own smile, “Signals, transmit out thanks to the Trapper for its welcome on station, find out who has the most recent encryption data and get us a copy.” She moved through the data stream with precise finger movements looking over the dispositions of the fleet, mentally calculating maneuvers on the off chance they were engaged.

“Echo 4,” she spoke tripping the comm circuit to Commander Casey in combat air control, “keep the fighters stood to for another numbers, fifteen, minutes and then stand down. Break.”

“Priority two, Europa Actual to Resource Actual,” she began. The communications net gave preferential treatment to rank, if she called over an open net and Resource Actual was on the comms to his subordinate there was a good chance her message would step on him. Flagging it priority two allowed the computer to wait for a gap in communications if necessary. This wasn’t urgent ships business, it was a social call.

“Good to see you again Captain Lee, some welcome wouldn’t you say?”

The Lord of Mictlan rises from the darkness, immobile after exiting the warp, looming as an immense monolith in the depths of space.

Slowly, the tlacochalcatl steps on the holo-platform, cloaked in his long dark brown mantle, adorned with human phalanxes, swaying behind him, as the all seeing eye of Tlahuizcalli appears in front of him. "How may I serve you, tlacochalcatl?" "Begin holographic transmission, to all HDSTF 148 captains." Quickly, lights flicker to life and buzzing noises arrive from the Tlahuizcalli interface. The captain stands solemnly still, holding in his right arm his Ocelotl helmet, decorated with long, brightly colored feathers. The tlacochalcatl's face is crossed by a deep scar, running all the way from the left eye to the neck, along with numerous bone piercings. His long hair is adorned with braids, pieces of bone, feathers and other such decorations. "The holo-transmission is ready, my lord."

"Warriors, I am Achcautli, tlacochalcatl of the Mictlan and captain of the HSV Mictlantecuhtli. I and my children have been chosen to command HDSTF 148; thus, you will all take orders from me. I suppose that it will be needless to say that I won't accept any kind of insubordination on your part. Captain Nelson, you will be allowed to use our ship to protect your own. Captain Lestrange, I wish to notify you that a Quetzalli transport with 50 Cuauhmeh on board has already left our ship for yours. They are to remain there for the whole duration of the mission, to function as a landing and boarding force for your ship's recon operations. Their commander is Nezahualcoyotl, and is one of my most trusted men. Captain Renard, you should receive in a matter of minutes a transmission from cuachic Xicohtencatl. He will oversee the deployment of marines from your ship, along with those of the HSV Nelson."

"This is all. May your ancestors smile upon you." The holographic transmission closes, and Achcautli steps down from the platform. With his usual slow, heavy steps, he heads to the the House of Darts, the inner sanctum of the ship, to perform the sacred rites that the gods require before a war begins.

HSD Weaver, Earth Orbit
The ancillary group, now having earned the title of The Geriatrics, slowly crawled to an old warp point, dating back to when Humanity first left Sol. Everything was somewhat in order, atleast, the engines and reactors functioned. Weapons had been tested, found acceptable, and were passed. All ships were fully stocked and had a full crew. In a few seconds, they would transition to Alcuberrie and into the same system as HDSTF148.
The group's commander sat in his office aboard the HSV Hood, with a bottle of Siberian Vodka. Once again, he was drunk off his ass. He muttered, looking down at the old, scuffed desk that he sat at and took another drink straight from the bottle. Deep inside the CIC, one of the security officers looked at the screen worriedly, watching the commander drink himself into a stupor. "We...really should do something about him, Sarg." he says, rubbing the back of his head. "Wish i could, Ensign. Wish i could." he mutters, before turning back to his station.

At the same time, an FTL transmission left the HSD Weaver, and was soon to be recieved at the HSV Mictlantecuhtli.
TASK FORCE COMMANDER'S EYES ONLY
SECURE HEGEMONY FTL LINK ESTABLISHED...
TRANSMITTING.
FLEET ADMIRAL'S ORDERS - FLEET ADMIRAL WINTERS, ARABELLA
"Tlacochalcatl Achcautli, we are dispatching an ancillary group to assist TF148 - the commander of said group is Theodore Samson. You are to follow his orders under normal circumstances - though, under combat situations, disregard all his orders. He is nothing but a figurehead for this operation."
"The ancillary group consists of three Burke-Leigh Class frigates, two Benjamin-Franklin Class SCDs, one Dauntless Class cruiser, and one battleship, the HSV Hood."
"What you are about to receive is a full dossier for the real reason behind this excursion close to the core."
"There have been...disturbing signs of non-Hegemony ships and intelligence near the core, the main evidence we have? The destruction of a full task force, particularly HDS130, your predecessor. The HSV Montana picked up their distress beacons shortly after they signaled Code Black. We have given you everything we can redirect on short notice."
"Remember, Tlacochalcatl Achcautli, failure is not an option."
TRANSMISSION END
QUANTUM-600 BIT DESTRUCTION IN 3...2...1
...
...
...
FILE DELETED.

The tlacochalatl kneels before the stone altar, stained with ancient blood. Watched by the empty sockets of the thousands of skulls on the racks hanging from the walls of the House of Darts, Achcautli, naked from the waist up, his body covered in ritual warpaint, raises a dagger of black obsidian, as the song of war is sung. Thick white smoke rises from the braziers surrounding him, and along with the many skulls the weapons of all the fallen Mictlan warriors and of their slain foes stand as an eternal testimony to the gods alone. The black dagger is raised with both hands, and the tlacochalatl swiftly cuts his palm, letting a few drops of warm blood fall onto his face. Rythmically and with a deep voice, the sacred chant is sung, and the voices of the dead echo in the House of Darts.

Tezcoaaz,
Titlapalloaz,
Tl imitzcalco,
Amo can canin
Tiaz huel itzcalco.

Tla xihuallauh ce Tecpatl:
Tezcoaaz,
Titlapalloaz.
Tla xihuallauh Tlaltecuin.

---

"My lord, a FTL message incoming from the HSD Weaver." The robotic voice of the A.I. rings in the Captain's Quarters. "Let me hear it, Tlahuizcalli."

---

"Eztli, Ichtaca." "Yes, tlacochalatl." The two warriors kneel before their commander. One, a tall, huge warrior, his armor painted in deep red and adorned with ocelot pelts, fangs, and long brown feathers; the other, much thinner, wearing a mantle covered in eagle feathers and beaks, his armor painted with a dark green intricate mimetic pattern. The control room is empty, and the sound of their voices echo in the darkness. "You are my tlacateccah. As such, to me you are more than children. Know that we will have to follow a fake leader for this war; for now, we play along, and in fact, this might be an advantage for us. Be alert, and keep the Cuaciqueh ready as well. We shall strike soon. Dismissed."

“The Hood?” Marrisa Renard said in genuine surprise.

“Good Christ my grandmother served and the Hood and it was bloody old even then, I am amazed that it can still even make FTL.”

They were in her ready room, a long room of the Bridge that attached to her cabin. Commander Emery shrugged helplessly.

“Captain we can't rely on ships that are likely to shake themselves apart when they fire their thrusters and it is all very well to look to ourselves in combat but we can't close the gaps in the line that these clunkers will create if the shit drops in the pot.” It was a good tactical analysis but it wasn’t a good personal one.

“True, but odds are good that the good commodore resents being in command of an old clunker when there are newer ships already assigned. It is probable that he will keep us in the rear where we can form our own formation when things get hairy.” She adjusted the holographic display trying to figure out how she would handle deployments if she were in charge of this ratfuck. Which she might well be if it went badly south.

“Any luck raising the Resource?”

A portal opened with a swift swish, and a baby-faced young man in a lieutenant’s uniform walked through to the Captain of the Nelson’s day cabin. The mess astounded him, data slates piled around randomly across the room, almost burying what could be seen of three half-eaten meals, and an empty bottle with tumbler with a bit of ice still melting. All of it was highly against regulation, and the young squeaked out his first response, nervously fidgeting with the thick package of sealed orders, “Captain Boyd?”

A pile of data slates shifted with a clatter, revealing muddy brown hair and a pair bloodshot green eyes. The young man swallowed heavily at poaching a ship’s god in its den, and stammered out, “Captain Boyd?” One hand tossed a data slate aside after a thumb print and reached for the beaten metal mug. Boyd took a slug of caffeine and made a sound between a groan and a sigh. His eyes tracked up from the open paperwork forms up to the ceiling, paused, and then tracked back down. The young man gulped as Boyd’s face transitioned from a frown to a glare directed at him. He stammered out his previous query in a squeak.

“Who else do you think would be in the captain’s day cabin doing this mountain of paperwork for three days on no sleep, lieutenant?” Boyd growled. He took a deep breath at the green tinge in the young man’s face, and continued in a dangerous calm. “What is it?”
“Sealed dispatch orders, sir!” He held the thick package in front of his face like a shield.
“Hand it over.” Boyd’s eyes narrowed at the biometrics suite on the package. “Sit.” The free hand gestured towards a pile of data slates covering a chair. “Don’t break them.”

Boyd dismissed the kid from his immediate concerns and frowned as the tiny machine checked his retina, thumbprint and blood sample. He unconsciously clenched his jaw. More covert intelligence manure. I told Ban I was down with his messes. Written orders, a few rank packages and a data slate came out. A vein on his forehead started to bulge at the anachronistic written orders when the lack of commodore insignia among them. The data slate required another biometric scan to open. It was far faster to scan it, then work through the thumb thick stack of legalese. His eye twitched and teeth ground at the list of promotions and immediate transfer orders for what seemed to be a third of his crew, including a full battalion of his marines. Boyd cursed audibly at the transfer date. It was a full three days late for a normal transfer to a new assignment.

“Athena, please put in an immediate transmission to Vice Admiral James Curren. Lieutenant...” Boyd trailed off for a second. “What’s your name?”
“William Vernon, sir!” He stood up in a clatter of slates and gave a passable salute.
“Unless I am mistaken, I don’t a think a rookie like you is transferred to my ship. I am going to give you a brief piece of advice before you say anything. When you deliver orders to your next skipper, don’t squeak, and find either an AI or the COB to introduce you before wandering into the Captain’s day cabin. Got it?” The younger man nodded. “Now, get off my ship and don’t get lost. We are leaving in 12 hours and if you are still here…” Boyd trailed off and the young man nodded, desperately trying to leave. A hand motioned for him to leave, and Boyd have turned away, only to turn back again half a second later. “Why are you still here?”
“I need confirmation, sir…” Boyd tossed the empty case at him.
“Go. [b]Now[/i].”

_________________________________________________

Athena’s voice chimed in softly a few minutes later. Her voice sounded as wise, calm and soothing, while still echoing an unbreakable core of iron. The corners of his lips tugged into a momentary smile, as he the vocal programming was truly a masterpiece every time he heard it. “Vice Admiral Curren has accepted your com, sir.”
“Put him up, please.”

Boyd swiveled in his chair to see the holographic image of a vigorous man in his late fifties slowly going to fat. Not even the tasteful beard and professionally tailored uniform could hide the double chin and steadily thickening middle. Mischievous and deceitful eyes topped a professionally fake smile.

“Admiral Curren.” Boyd tossed out a sloppy salute.
“Captain Owen Nelson Gerhardt Boyd. Good to see you, I have been waiting for you to call.” A cherubic smile appeared.
“Go to hell Ban. If we weren’t cousins I would beat you into a coma.”
“But what about my rank?”
“We both know I wouldn’t get caught.”
“So let’s get to it.” The admiral clapped. “Go ahead and let it out.”
“After I told you I was done with your cloak and dagger games, you saddled me with every disgusting, fat incompetent of a commodore you could find, and Yeargin was the worst of the lot. HE turned a routine patrol in a diplomatic shooting incident with three transtellars and the system government in twelve minutes. Twelve minutes of leering at the governor’s daughter and son.”
“Why would that cause a problem?”
“She was twelve and he was eight. And then he got handsy.”
“Well…”
“Not to mention that fat tub of lard reeked of his own rotting flesh and noxiously sweet perfume, or his ‘flag lieutenant’ squeeze.”
“Well, come back to work for intelligence then. You got a chest full of medals for it.”
“That I can only wear in a theater closet in the basement of high command! Two-thirds of my records are redacted, and the last 8 years have been babysitting imbeciles too connected to can. I am tired of it Ban.”
“Your father’s history complicates the situation…”
“Really? Sins of the father, Ban? You’re replacing a third of my crew, promoting several vital people out of zone, including my XO, and replacing an entire battalion with Viktor Thailen in charge instead of Maria. What exactly do you want?!”
“Don’t worry too much boyo. Finish this mission, and I will have something better for you then a tour of BuShips doing quality control—“
“I am not doing any more naval intelligence work, Ban. Get me a fighting Commodore’s slot.”
“Depending on how it goes, that might not be a problem at all.”

The smirk on James face was the last thing Owen saw before he disconnected. Boyd’s blood pressure skyrocketed and he threw yesterday’s breakfast tray against the wall. He panted for a few moments, and breathed deeply, trying to bring some clarity to his tired brain. Eight hours of sleep in the last three days wasn’t enough to fully process everything, and he knew there was some curve ball he wasn’t accounting for.

“Athena, contact shore patrol. Get all the crew in for a rush load. Max the supplies, and have Clara obtain replacements for anything she can’t fix on the way. Its Curren’s backstab, so he will have to live with all of that on his budget. Maybe the accountants will get a few digs in. Speaking of which, notify my steward to just dump all of Yeargin’s personal belongings in a crate and have it shipped somewhere… unpleasant for him, except for the booze. We can requisition it for ‘religious purposes.’”

____________________________

Commander Claudia Arza ignored the few whistles on the dock on the way to her new post. She was used to getting catcalls, and she had to admit the naval uniform looked quite fetching on her, but at least the commander’s insignia removed the most of the naval personnel from the equation. The crew on her new posting seemed to be a bit frantic, with drifting sailors in skin suits all over the surface of the ship and an open cargo bay with continuous flights in and out. She bit her lip a little, thinking of the potential fatal accidents.

The sergeant at arms had an efficient screening process right outside the umbilical to the Nelson. The fifteen year veteran couldn’t help the widening of his eyes at the young female commander handing over her dispatch orders, but she didn’t notice anything else as he fed the chip into a reader.

“Commander Arza?”
“Yes?”
“Please enter through here ma’am. Would you prefer a steward to help you with your luggage?” He eyed the two large duffel bags meaningfully, before continuing, “Otherwise you are cleared to board, and just ask Athena, one of our AI’s for direction to your cabin.” He gave a brief salute and gestured her through. “Next?”

______________________________

Claudia didn’t expect that the first sight of her new commander was an extremely dirty pair of pants, bent over in the flag cabin digging through a pile of silk sheets. Athena had led her to this unexpected sight, and her mouth fell open a little bit before she regained her composure.

“Sir?”

“One second. I almost got it.” Claudia was nonplussed. A tall spare man with gold eagles on the epaulets stood up with a bottle of fine 40 year old whiskey. She was even less impressed by the haggard expression three day old beard and redden eyes. “Yeargin wasn’t good for anything but his own gluttony. Who are you?”

“Claudia Arza, your new XO.” She saluted, repressing the distaste from her facial expression. The captain tossed off a quick salute.
“Good. Follow me.” He rotated his jaw to change the internal com. “Steren, get another glass. The new XO showed up.” He nodded, and did another jaw twitch. “Ok. Follow me Commander Arza, you can meet the woman you are replacing. Come on, let’s get out of here. It reeks worse than I do right now.”

His free hand grabbed another bottle of a clear liquid, and quickly strode out of the room. She had no choice but to follow, and he was moving so fast she had to jog to keep up with him. Through a warren of corridors, maintenance bypasses and what even looked like HVAC passage, Claudia couldn’t help but wonder if they were going to steal her door and stash it somewhere, and if she could ask for the AI’s help. Before she knew it, they entered a small state room with about thirty other officers.

“Alright, settle down. The party has arrived. Now most of you know why we are here, and that is to celebrate the departure of dear friends. Several of you have been promoted and transferred away, and if you haven’t been notified by me already, you don’t get to escape from hell just yet. But, your lovely XO is being promoted to command her own ship, so let’s have a toast!” He raised both bottles, popped off the corks before grabbing a pair of glasses and filled them with one of each before passing the bottles around. He held out both to Claudia, and she picked the one she recognized, the whiskey.

He turned back around and pulled out a square box. “Before the libations begin, I have a small gift for Commander Foirgoine.” He handed the small red-headed woman the box. “Now I wish I could have given you my eagles, but High Command still thinks I need them. However, I do have my great-great-grandmother’s for you. Don’t clean them, and don’t lose them. They are supposed to be that color and are practically antiques. If you are curious, her citation has recently been made public. Now thanks for all the hard work for this last tour, but we leave in three hours, so don’t get drunk, and don’t get stuck. I will brief you all on the way, we are going to be a bit late from paperwork SNAFUs. Cheers.”

He clanked the glass against Claudia’s, and downed it. Like a magician, he disappeared right in front of her eyes, leaving her alone with a mixed crowd of total strangers and co-workers. What an introduction. She sighed and began to mingle. After the weird experience only two fragments of conversation stood out with her, one from the former XO and the other from the marine colonel.

First was that Boyd had a solid core of integrity and honor with great passion, but was totally ruthless if need be. The second was from the marine, and that the man who was replacing her was not all his official record would say he would be, and to be careful because at least Boyd had some sense of dignity and restraint. The last was that nothing would be as it seemed, from which they included her in the assessment, and that to keep a good watch on her back. The captain’s official steward Steren Rose was a good guide for that, but do not impose on her at all. It was a confusing, irritating two hours.

_________________________

The transition between FTL and normal travel always made Boyd queasy, but he never mentioned it. The three day workup in transit had been promising, and his crew was fully prepared to be dropped back into the toilet, but they were grudgingly admitting it wasn’t his fault and used to it. IFF signals trickeled in as he dropped from out of the ecliptic to the meeting point. Shaving off two days from the fastest recorded was a neat bit of astrogation, but they were still three days late.

“Athena squirt our transmission to command the minute we confirm, and let’s deploy six recon drones in a standard cube pattern until we are tied into the group com-link for detection. Keep on your toes, boys and girls.”

“Contact, Contact!” screamed the sensor officer. Marissa snapped out of her analysis of the starboard gunnery crews recent performance, dumping the data with a flick of the finger and remoting the sensors officer display. He continued to report but she was already speaking.

“Helm execute a 15 degree roll to port to clear battery seven,” she ordered calmly.

“Have the CAP…” she started to order her escorting fighters into position to intercept ordinance but was interrupted.

“IFF confirms a friendly,” the sensor officer reported. He looked a little abashed at having jumped, but it was far better not to take chances. The newcomer had came out of transit within virtual spitting distance. Sometimes ships used micro jumps to launch attacks that way and it was better to be prepared than to be caught napping. This was a long range jump though. That was fine astrogation, damn fine. It could be luck of course but few people were that lucky.

“Incoming vessel this is Europa Actual, to what do we owe the pleasure.”

HDSTF148's ancillary group, Alcuberrie space.

Unlike most modern Hegemony ships, ships as old as the Hood and her escorts relied on the flagship of the fleet to generate the warp bubble that allowed them to transcend the light-speed barrier. This was later considered a design flaw, and a glaring one at that, but it did have it's advantages. For one, mounting a stronger Alcuberrie drive than most ships, highly reinforced and built into the super-structure with it's own dedicated reactors and power-grid, the drive could take far more damage and still generate a viable warp bubble. It was, at one point, however, decided that the "Fleet-Alcuberrie" had to go. It was thought that losing one ship was better than losing an entire task-force to the loss of a flagship.

These drives were also radically different from the more modern drives. They were built before the study of FTL Harmonics was a thing, therefore, their transition to normal space was not silent. Far from it. It generated a flash of light and a slew of particles collected along the way, which, if they dropped in too close to a ship - could be deadly. It was also known that they were imprecise - once again a hallmark of the Hegemony's early days.

Thus, this caused quite a spectacle when the entire Geriatrics task-force dropped in next to HDSTF148, only a mere 100 kilometers away. Of course, modern sensors wouldn't even flinch at such a sight, but never-the-less, it was bound to scare some poor sod on sensor duty. IFF codes were broadcasted and exchanged, and things taken care of. The Geriatrics joined up with the task-force, moving into formation slowly, almost boringly so - once again, another hallmark of their extreme age.