"Let the sun beat down upon my face, stars to fill my dream."
A heavy cruiser simply ceased to exist as a laser beam cut it in half. It was theoretically impossible: matter cannot be created nor destroyed. But in the face of the enemy, anything goes.
The heavy cruiser of the Cashmere Fleet that was destroyed was replaced by an equally armed battle cruiser that was fairly new and had been committed to the operation less than ten days previously. That ship, too, went down in a ball of flame that resembled the creation of a planet.
In short, the 'Empire of the Sun' was killing the Cashmere Fleet. It wasn't the first time the Empire had done so; it would not be the last.
The monstrous battlewagons that were the Empire's heavy ships of the line moved in for a presumably easy kill that would never happen. The Cashmere Fleet had seen enough losses to know the Empire's formation and techniques. The thirty remaining ships of the Cashmere Fleet fled the battle zone, and despite having the upper hand, the Empire's ships too, went back to their homeworld.
*****
"Three years," muttered Cashmere Fleet Commander Doza. "They could have ended this war three years ago." Doza, despite that he was six feet tall and had a muscular build, was hunched over, tired from overwork and the terrible burdens of war. His face was shaven blue, his eyes were blue, and he had long brown hair.
"I know," said the leader of Cashmere itself. A president of sorts, Goya was the man who left all the naval needs up to Doza, out of lack of knowledge. "I still, to this date, do not know why they haven't destroyed us all yet." Goya was slight, having a beard and mustache and having been weakened by the toll of the war since it had started, was beginning to die, slowly.
"They're playing with us," said Doza. Goya did not reply, which made Doza's statement mean that much more true. Doza finished, "The Empire must be simply toying with us. But why?"
"How the cripes do I know?" Goya cried in exasperation. He looked like a deflated balloon.
"I do know this," Doza said with his voice as sharp as knives, "this war will not come to a pleasant end."
"That is true," said Goya. He sat up. "I will not allow this planet to become enslaved."
"What will we do? Take our ships, fill them up with civilians, and leave?"
"If that is possible, yes."
Doza immediately laughed in his leader's face. "Do you realize that we only have thirty ships left, compared to their hundreds of thousands?"
"I'm fully aware of that." The way Goya casually said it made Doza explode.
"You've been fully aware of that ever since the Empire attacked our Fleet at Omaha. You've been aware of that ever since the first ship died in the line of duty to protect our world. And yet you simply sit behind the desk and leave me with all the paperwork and-"
"SILENCE!" Goya boomed. He rose slowly and his knees looked like they would give way at any minute. "I'm dying," he said slowly," I've been dying since the war began from stress. And all you can think about is your fat belly?"
"Sir," said Doza, "I apologize for my outburst. All I'm saying is that we need more ships."
"Good," said Goya, "because that is exactly what we don't have."
"I know," replied Doza, "you always tell me to make do with what I have. But I can't."
"Well, find some people to command the ships."
"Too many risks," replied Doza. "Fifteen people, out of thirty, have committed suicide over the past three days."
"I understand," replied Goya. He frowned. Doza felt that he put his leader into a depression, and it was his job to get him out.
"All I can say, sir, is that I will try." But as Doza walked out the door, Goya wondered if the man's oath would be enough.
*****
Twenty-six year old Stuart Junkers straightened out his uniform. Acting like a child opening a new present, he picked up the commissioning orders and glanced them over.
"TO Lt. Commander Stuart Junkers, U.C.N.F. You are hereby promoted to Commander and are ordered aboard the U.C.N.V Southern Cross at 0800 hours on the sixteenth."
Junkers didn't bother glancing at the ending message, just a seal of authenticity and other garbage, and folded the message. He placed it into his breast pocket, and put on his hat.
He walked onto the lawn, past the porch, where his mother was seated at the lawn table, and sat next to her.
"My," said Marianne Junkers, putting down her book, "don't you look nice." Junkers smiled.
"Thank you, mother," he said in reply, "everything is packed and ready to go."
"I see. Your father would have been proud." Marianne's voice sounded full of regret and sorrow.
"You sound like you're saying he's dead."
"He is." Junkers spoke between clenched teeth.
"He's on patrol."
Marianne shook her head. "That's the government talking. Stu, there comes a time when, despite all hope, you feel it in your heart that you have lost something. Your father is dead. I can feel it in my bones. I feel it in my heart."
"And you think I will die, too?"
Marianne's voice cracked as she spoke. "Son, death and destruction will come to all of us. I remember when you were little, you always wanted to go to space and see the stars, to feel their beauty. You were too young at the time to realize that every single one of those beautiful dots in the sky were was actually a giant ball of superheated gas. But you were too young to realize this."
"You feel I've made a mistake?" asked Stu.
"We all learn from our mistakes. But this one will cost us all out lives in the long run. The strong prey on the weak. The Empire declared war on us and none of us will ever be the same. You've read too many romantic stories to realize that war is hell, wherever it may be: space, or on the ground."
"This war is different," Stu insisted.
"How? War is all the same. Killing. Violence."
Stu shook his head. "Not all war is the same. Violence is different from war."
"How so? You're just as dead if you buy it in an 'incident' or in war, or by some maniac on the street."
Stu found that he could not reply and stood up. "I've got to get going."
Marianne rose as well and hugged her son tightly.
"You take care." She nipped her son on the cheek.
"Mother, I'll be fine."
His mother backed away and looked at him.
"Your father would have been proud," she said, defiantly.
"Are you?" asked Stu. There was a nod.
"I suppose I have to be," came the reply, "after all, it is your life and you are my son."
"I will be back, mother. I promise you that much. The war won't last forever." Junkers turned and walked away.
*****
A small shuttle took Junkers up to space, to the small space cruiser that would bring him to the battle.
"You know what it will be like?" asked General Redd. "It won't be like the simulators." Junkers nodded. Redd smiled. "Nervous?"
"Sort of. I've never commanded anything like a space cruiser before."
"The space cruiser will not be yours to command. She's a ferry of sorts. We're going to the rear lines first, to hand you over to the Southern Cross."
"I'll be in the rear?" Junkers asked with some noticeable concern.
"We don't dare put you in the front lines, son, especially on your first mission," Redd replied, looking at Junkers carefully, "this isn't like the news says it is."
"What do you mean?" Junkers asked, growing suddenly interested. He met Redd's stare.
"We're losing the war." Junkers' mouth dropped. He gazed at the floor as Redd continued. "The Empire is destroying us, steadily. When we battle with them, we lose more ships than we can afford."
"I thought we were winning," Junkers replied slowly.
"Propaganda. All of it. The war is vastly different from what the news says it is. The battle, three weeks ago, with the Hercules? The Empire's ships destroyed her."
"She's in the yards, being repaired. Or on patrol," Junkers replied. The General guffawed.
"Man, you do have a long way to go, kid. You'll turn my hair gray yet. The Hercules was destroyed; the news just showed footage of her being built, that's all. Propaganda." Junkers' face grew red hot with embarrassment. The General noticed this.
"You'll learn," he said, "that there's a difference between reality and society."
The battered warship pretty much confirmed what the General had said. The sleek, crisp, and clean hulls of warships on television were what he was expecting.
The battered, worn, and dirty hull of the Southern Cross was what he got.
"This is your ship," stated the General, "The Southern Cross."
"What a piece of junk!"
"The bigger ships are in much worse shape than this one," Redd replied. "Consider yourself lucky." Stu wondered if this ship would be his tomb.
The battle cruiser Southern Cross took their new commander well. Only five people littered the Bridge; one was the engineer, who would eventually go below decks. The other four were the first officer, helmsman, radar officer, and the gunnery control officer. Each saluted, and the General got down to business.
"We'll be in the rear end, for now." The engineer breathed a sigh of relief.
"Thank God. The engines quake with every hit."
Junkers spoke up. "We've been hit before?"
"Of course ... major damage to the stern compartment."
Junkers shut up.
"Well, Commander Junkers, you have fun here. Good luck," said Redd, using Junkers' rank incorrectly. He walked out the door, and Junkers turned to his crew.
"Well, I suppose we wait for orders?" The first officer handed Junkers a piece of paper.
"Here are our orders," he said. Junkers read them and almost cursed.
"Sir?" asked the engineer.
"We're to stay here and experience combat."
"No, you've read it wrong, sir," said the engineer. "You are to experience combat. I've seen enough of it to know when hundreds of thousands of people on a battleship or heavy cruiser die."
"How many on this ship?" asked Junkers asked the first officer.
"How many people?"
Junkers nodded.
"About three thousand," the first officer replied. "Most are gunnery officers."
"Three thousand," Junkers replied, trailing off. "How many died on the Hercules."
"About a hundred and ten thousand."
Junkers felt like he was going to puke. He nodded slowly.
"All hands to their combat stations. I suppose I'd better get used to this job." The engineer smiled, saluted, and went below decks.
The first officer's name was Zim and Junkers took a particular liking to the man the moment he met him. He was short but yet confident, and he had deep auburn hair that radiated his eccentric personality.
"The ship will be shaking quite badly once we enter combat, commander," said Zim," I would suggest you strap yourself in." Not taking Zim for a fool, and despite the fact that Junkers was Commander, the all-knowing, and all-powerful ship's leader, he took a seat and Zim did likewise.
"Entering system now," came a shrill voice over the loudspeaker, "dropping Hyperspace shroud."
All at once the black viewscreen blossomed into deep reds, whites, and intense yellows.
"What is this?" Junkers asked.
"This, Commander is the battle," replied Zim.
Junkers rose. He stared out at the intense battle going on between the Empire and Cashmere.
"We ... We're losing so many ships," he said as a large battle cruiser broke apart into fragments.
"I know," Zim replied, "and we have to do something."
Junkers turned to meet Zim's stare but suddenly found himself on his back as the ship took a direct hit. Another battle cruiser puffed into debris.
"Should we open fire?" asked Junkers, "or would that attract fire to our position?"
"You are wise in deducing that if we open fire we would become a target," said Zim. "Unfortunately, not one of the other commanders we have had was that wise."
Junkers sat back down.
"I was stupid to get up," he said, rubbing his elbow.
The loudspeaker came back on. "All ships retreat. Repeat: the battle is over. All ships retreat. We have taken heavy casualties." Junkers' mouth dropped.
As the ship moved through hyperspace, Zim rose while Junkers simply sat in his seat, in shock. Zim walked over to the radar officer.
"He seems to be holding up better than the others," he told the woman.
"There is something about him, isn't there?" the woman asked him.
"He seems to understand war, but has never tasted it."
The radar officer looked at her Commander.
"Is he all right?"
"He's in shock right now. He'll be recovering in about a day."
To the astonishment of everyone, Junkers spoke. "I'm not in shock," he said, "I'm just wondering how anyone can commit their forces to such a barbaric war." And he turned to the two officers and spoke. His voice was deadpan.
"I know you may think that I'm just another person in this world, but I'm not. This war claimed my father. This war has killed millions of people." Junkers brought his voice down to a menacing whisper.
"And by God, I'm going to finish it."
To be continued...