Dreamscape Saga
Part 1: Project Falcon
By D. L. Sorrells
Table of Contents:
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter One
On the Gentech research colony, lying on the outskirts of Confederate territory, the nights were always long and bleak, opting for impossibly short days that were just the same. Tonight, however, a wind blew that cut right to the bone of anyone unfortunate enough to be traveling between buildings. Such travels were discouraged as the air, though breathable, had a tendency to poison a man’s lungs over time.
One of the few free-thinking men on the colony, Jacob Uriah, sat unsteadily in an office by a communications panel. He received information from a powerful Confederate vessel floating in the surrounding system. Word had been circulating around for quite some time about a new uprising gaining power in the area. The rumors never sounded as real as they did now. The vessel was to be the first of several that would arrive in an attempt to prevent the colony from falling under attack.
When the colony was first built, there was no other force in the known galaxy aside from the omnipotent Confederacy. The authority of the all-encompassing entity went unquestioned with the exception of a few minor skirmishes that ended quicker than they began. It appeared as though that was now changing. While the Confederacy never showed any form of concern, the rumors were unsettling.
With beads of sweat forming on his brow, Jacob scrambled to find the communications code of his commanding officer. Admiral Delaney, commander of the 214th fleet, ordered the colony to prepare for attack. In all his years of service with the Confederate military, Jacob had never before received such an order, and was frightened beyond reason. Knowing he couldn’t continue to function properly in such a state, he reached into a drawer and removed a syringe along with a small vial of white fluid. With a shaky hand, he inserted the needle into the vial and withdrew a small amount of the substance. The needle penetrated his skin like a painful embrace, causing him to shudder violently while it took effect. The serum, as it was referred to in a typically off-handed and desensitized manner, took its effect and relaxed him almost instantly. In small doses, it had the same effect as a mild sedative, but in larger doses it had the ability to fully inhibit any higher brain function such as rationality and free thought. Nearly everyone on the colony was under a full dose and was a slave to the Confederate control system.
Once more able to focus, Jacob grabbed his commanding officer’s code and called his office. The voice at the other end of the line was dismissive and uninterested.
“This is Commander Whitman.”
The commander should have expressed more interest in his post, but he found this to be increasingly difficult with each passing day. The Confederacy had long ago established its control over the known galaxy and there was little opportunity for real action. His most exciting days as a staff sergeant training new recruits were but a distant memory.
“Commander, we have word from Admiral Delaney,” said the man at the communications console. “We are to prepare for an assault on the colony immediately.”
After a few moments of internal deliberation, Commander Whitman sprang into action as the reality of what he was told set in. From the seat in his office where he filed his daily paperwork, he sprang and started shouting orders to his assistants. In a moment, the once quiet research facility resembled an ant colony, with everyone dutifully headed toward their designated station.
A piercing alarm sounded and soldiers wearing full black suits flooded the streets holding various weapons based on rank and duty. Most held a short rifle while others held a considerably more accurate sniper rifle. The elite carried heavier duty weapons that could stop a fully armed squad of soldiers dead in their tracks. Every thirty meters or so, men were scrambling up the T-shaped watchtowers that were armed with two high-powered turrets and one rocket launcher.
In every building, the researchers inside ran in a mad panic. They hid anywhere they felt they would be safe. Some men prayed and others cried as they tried to convince themselves that everything would be okay. Perhaps they wouldn’t have been so nervous had they not heard the rumors of a rogue group that had broken ties with the Confederacy, but the damage was done. Those that were not mindless drones knew fear.
Beneath the ground and under the feet of all the researchers worked the miners. Each was a slave in his own right and received a high enough dosage of the Serum as to prevent any form of thought. When they went to bed at night, they knew nothing but the sores covering their overworked bodies. When they awoke in the morning, they would know nothing of the previous day. Even as the world around them went into a horrible panic, they continued about their work, raping the planet of its raw materials. So ingrained was the work in their minds that even after their overseers had abandoned them, they continued with their work without question.
Admiral Delaney, aboard the Conquest, paced across the metal floors of the bridge as they awaited any sign of their adversaries. Around him were thirty consoles, each manned by a highly capable individual that furiously worked away, ensuring that every section of the ship was operating perfectly. The four heavy turrets that the ship possessed were charged and could be heard begging for release. Every launcher for missiles and torpedoes was loaded and waiting. Sensing the still anticipation of his armory, the Admiral couldn’t help but smile grotesquely.
“You’ll have your chance to do your part,” Delaney said to himself. “We just need to wait for the right moment.”
The Admiral’s vessel, a common Confederate destroyer, very much resembled the beak of a hawk, with the front end curving down slightly to allow for two massive launcher arrays that held the eager artillery. Near the back of the ship, where Commander Voltaire led, were the engines and six fighter bays. They made their home in what looked like thick, stubby wings for the giant craft. The fighter bays all faced forward for quick release and, if all opened at once, could easily overwhelm the enemy by releasing twenty-four fighters and twelve bombers.
Voltaire was quite proud of his squadrons and treated them as his children. Every ship was cleaned again and again until it shone like a mirror, and their weapons were always fully stocked. For too long his children hadn’t eaten, but with any luck, that would change today and they would rip the enemy to shreds.
Due to the great pride the commander held in the fighters under his command, his pilots became the best in the entire Confederacy. Each pilot went through rigorous training and never failed in their duty. For three years, there had not been a single death under Voltaire’s watch, and they knew the consequences if that changed. The men that lived would face the whip and, if the commander was found in particularly bad temper, they would be turned into slaves and stripped of their rights as free men. While it was comforting to know that those under complete control of the Serum would not remember the injustices they suffered, the pilots knew that the fall from freedom was a steep one.
In preparation for the attack, command issued the call to battle stations, ordered the raising of shields and charging of weapons. Voltaire smiled as his crews reported to their flight decks and suited up under his watchful eye. Once prepped, the escorts assisted the pilots into their ships. The bomber pilots easily walked into their cockpits with plenty of room around them to maneuver. The fighter pilots struggled into the tight fit of their tiny craft. With the pilot seated, two men of each flight crew he
lped secure his equipment to his body. An assortment of connecting tubes and hoses allowed the pilot to become one with his ship.
Voltaire scowled and walked over to one of the fighters as a technician finished securing the pilot. He reached his strong hand into the cockpit and grabbed hold of a loose tube that rested at the pilot’s feet. From behind the thick cover of his helmet, the pilot looked on in tremendous fear, knowing that someone was going to pay for the mistake.
“Who can tell me what this tube is?” asked the commander in an almost bemused tone.
For a moment, no one said a word and shook in fear hoping the commander’s anger would pass.
“I do not ask questions simply to waste breath,” Voltaire said. “When I ask a question, I expect an answer. Now, who can tell me what this tube is?”
A low-ranking technician of the flight crew stepped forward and said, “It’s a hose that attaches to a valve on the pilot’s lower chest plate to pressurize the suit, Sir.”
“I’m so sorry,” Voltaire said. “What did you say this attaches to?”
“A pressurizing valve, Sir.”
“Aren’t we above a planet?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Please, explain to all of us here what that means to a fighter pilot.”
His pores streaming out sweat, the technician replied, “The pilot will undergo variable gravitational pulls and forces as he goes close to the planet’s atmosphere. Without the hose connected to the valve, the pilot could black out or die due to the extreme and rapid changes in pressure.”
With a wicked grin, Voltaire clapped as he took two steps closer to the technician. “Absolutely correct. Now, would someone please tell me who was supposed to connect this hose?”
Standing by the blade-like wing of the fighter, an older man was exposed as the guilty party by his comrades. Voltaire beckoned him to step forward, which he did reluctantly.
Staring the man directly in the eyes, Voltaire whispered, “We don’t have room for errors, do we?”
The man quivered and attempted to speak, but before he could, Voltaire ordered him to extend his arm. Looking around desperately, the man looked for someone to save him. No one did.
Trembling, the man reached forward. Two men stepped towards him. One pulled his uniform back to expose the skin on his forearm. The other held the man in place. From a small pocket on his jacket, Voltaire removed a syringe filled with a white fluid. In a single, smooth motion, he stuck the needle in the man’s arm and depressed the plunger.
After watching the man slump to the floor, the commander retreated to the control room where he felt the fearful eyes of his staff upon him. He felt no remorse. To him, the freedom of a lower-ranking individual was of no value. Removing that freedom was the best way to set an example.
With the pilots ready, Voltaire ordered the flight decks clear and depressurized so they would be as prepared as possible for the fight.
Admiral Delaney smiled as he heard Voltaire report his station as ready. Three other destroyers arrived and formed a tight formation to maximize their firepower. Six frigates lined up in a wide and open formation in front of them, ready to dispatch in any direction deemed necessary. To him, the opposition didn’t stand a chance. Regardless of their armament, they couldn’t possibly have the training and knowledge of the Confederacy. He held no doubt in his mind that would be his enemy’s ultimate downfall. For hours on end, the ships scanned the surrounding space hoping to capture a blip of something on their radar. By the end of half a day, they saw no signs of life outside of the formation and the planet below.
Chapter Two
William Sykes, the Head of the Council for the Order, sat uncomfortably in his command chair aboard his behemoth of a vessel, the Mobile Space Station. With a habitat sphere the size of a small moon and docking pylons large enough to hold eight full-sized carriers, there was no other ship like it in the galaxy. Originally built by the Confederacy nearly fifty years prior, the ship was designed to explore and colonize planets. The efforts were abandoned due to the incredible amount of resources required to maintain such a vessel. Since the liberation movement, the Order used the giant vessel as a command base.
Today was an exciting and new chapter for the Order as they had plans to seize a research colony, their first major assault on any Confederate establishment. After months of deliberation within the Council, it was decided that the potential gain far outweighed the potential loss. They gathered the necessary resources and planned the battle out to the letter.
Using the incredibly powerful scanners on the station, they could see that the Confederacy had set up a small line of ships. They hoped to avoid a confrontation above the planet, but expected it all the same. Sykes couldn’t help but smile. Despite the infinite resources of the Confederacy, they had yet to develop a scanner for a smaller ship that would reach as far as those found on the station. Because of the lack of foresight, they would pay the ultimate price.
To Sykes’ left, a woman spoke from her console in a very collected manner, “Councilman Sykes, all ships are reporting ready to engage. The Excursion is prepared to lead the assault.”
“Alright then. Give the order.”
Two battle cruisers shot a tremendous volley of missiles that screamed silently through space toward their target. Even if the Confederate vessels saw them coming, they could not effectively counter them.
“Councilman, the Excursion is leading out.”
The Excursion, the largest and most powerful vessel at the Order’s disposal, moved forward under the skillful command of Captain Russell Wilcox and began to form the battle lines. Due to its eight heavy impact turrets and minimal ability to maneuver, the Excursion guaranteed itself a spot at the back of the action with minimal risk. The other vessels soon followed suit with the smaller vessels, more capable of avoiding enemy fire, taking the front of the line. From their stations, the men and women of the Order watched with uncontained glee as their initial launch released the full fury of its barrage.
Lying open in front of the enemy line, the frigates suffered the brunt of the attack. As the first missiles dug into the Confederate group, the center two frigates were instantly destroyed. Their shrapnel shot out and heavily damaged the ships around them. Only the two on the outermost edge of the line survived and remained battle-worthy. Both crept forward to avoid the flying debris that seemed to come from everywhere. The remaining frigates did all they could to maintain the integrity of their ships.
The destroyers that lay behind then had their taste of the horror. Their shielding was unprepared for such a furious barrage. One by one, each missile made its permanent mark in the hull of the formidable vessels.
The Excursion opened fire.
Despite the efforts of the crews of the two damaged frigates, their number was up. The first shot that hit the frigates buried itself in them. The second, trying to outperform its predecessor, cut straight through the vessels, leaving the men on board to float lifelessly through space with expressions of agony.
The Confederate destroyers, taking the opportunity while the Order was preoccupied with the smaller ships, opened all their fighter bay doors and released the fury of ninety-six fighters and forty-eight bombers; an unfortunate and wasteful mistake.
Once the Order detected the launch of the fighters, they launched their own. From just the destroyers, the Order launched one hundred forty-four fighters to counter those of the Confederacy, and thirty-six bombers to help handle what remained of the enemy vessels.
The result was a magnificent mess.
Between the two battle lines, a massive dogfight broke out. The Confederacy held a slight technological advantage, as their fighters, which consisted of a small cylindrical core surrounded by three blade-like wings, were slightly faster and more compact. The Order on the other hand, whose fighters were considerably wider with a small cockpit and two wing-like structures, swept to the side and erupting forward, held a strictly numerical advantage. The bulky Confederate bombers were n
o match for the speed and agility of the Order’s fighters, and the Confederate fighters just couldn’t perform well enough to counteract their numbers. The battle grew more complicated as fire from the capital ships caught negligent pilots off guard.
Captain Wilcox stood for a moment, watching in awe at all the silent explosions. It was clear to him what the Confederacy was trying to do. Since Delaney couldn’t penetrate the Order’s line of ships using his guns alone, he ordered his bombers to make a run at the larger vessels. He hoped to knock out the turrets to give himself time to call for reinforcements. Unfortunately for him, neither was going to happen.
Understanding Delaney’s tactics, Captain Wilcox called for his gunners to man the anti-fighter turrets stationed all across his ship. Ports sprinkled liberally across the hull opened and allowed gun turrets slightly larger than a man to protrude out. For them, this was their time to shine and to prove their worth.
It wasn’t long before the first squadron broke out of the dogfight and made their way toward a Guardian Class destroyer known as the Dexterous and captained by Commander Spinner. Three fighters escorted two bombers, holding anyone who would try to stop them at bay. As they neared the vessel, the bombers dropped low and the fighters pulled back to watch the destruction from a distance. Flying less than two meters above the hull of the destroyer, the bombers made themselves a difficult target for fighters.
Involuntarily holding his breath, Commander Spinner forced himself to breathe again. The situation was desperate, but hardly hopeless if the gunners could do their duty.
Neglecting the comm. officer, the commander pushed the young man at the console aside and grabbed the microphone off the table drawing in a stale bit of air before addressing all the gunners over the intercom. “Gunners, be advised there are a pair of bombers in low flight over our hull. Take care not to knock them out directly over the ship.”
After an eternity of silence, the commander verified with his tactical officer that the bombers were still there. The high-pitched scream of anti-fighter turrets bounced down every corridor in an endless echo. On the active weapons display, the tactical team watched as the gunners fired fruitlessly at their target. The bombers performed a full circle around the ship. The bridge crew looked on in horror and awe as the bombers released the first round of their payload.
Dreamscape Saga Part 1: Project Falcon Page 1
