This is the first of several chapters dedicated to fleshing out the N7: Javelin Missiles mission. This was written to be as accurate to the game as possible, though some liberties will be taken. Feel free to comment negatively, as long as it is constructive.
...
First Lieutenant Robert J. Fox sat at his station, blankly watching his scanners for any unexpected anomalies. He lazed back into his seat, wishing once again that the Alliance put a little bit more consideration for comfort in their chair designs. His eyes strained against the glow of the blinking screen, a familiar pressure behind his eyes giving the warning signs of an incoming migraine. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as he squeezed his eyes shut. 'Maybe I am getting too old for this crap' he thought silently. Though sixty-one years old and considered unfit for active duty, he had refused to retire. He was a soldier, and had seen too much action in his time to be satisfied with the civilian life. So they stuck him in Franklin's Bravo base control tower, where he could still find some way to be useful to the Alliance, albeit it being mundane and tedious.
After a few moments, he reopened his eyes and turned his attention once more to the glass panes before him. Immediately before him lay a medium-sized spaceport entrenched within one of Franklin's deep and shady craters. The sterile-white of the facility provided a stark contrast to the moon's dusty gray exterior. And beyond, a lush green globe shone brightly, posed against the infinite blackness and specks of light. Watson, the garden planet of Sigurd's Cradle, and one of the few major human colonies of the Terminus Systems.
It was a majestic sight all right; it filled one with a sense of calm.
If only there wasn't so much at stake.
When the Alliance had stated intentions to colonize viable planets on the fringe of the Terminus Systems, people had called them crazy, if not downright suicidal. The Terminus Systems were a lawless and dangerous place, crawling with pirates and slavers. It certainly didn't help matters that one of humanities primary antagonists, the batarians, were firmly entrenched in this region of the galaxy and didn't take kindly to humans colonizing planets they considered rightfully theirs. Fortunately, the squints didn't have the military or political clout to directly oppose humans, but it didn't stop them from being a major thorn in the side of the Alliance.
In the Attican Traverse, random batarian pirate or slaver attacks were at least an annual occurrence in colonial life. The Alliance had a fleet of over 200 vessels, but given that they had colonies spread over numerous systems throughout the galaxy, they would spread themselves too thin if they tried to protect them all. On defense, the Alliance military lives by Sun Tzu's maxim, "He who tries to defend everything defends nothing." On Watson itself, there was only a token garrison to protect the colony. With numbers too small to actually defend the colony, they instead would focus on reconnaissance, gathering information on the enemy's strength and numbers to report on the invaders. In combat situations, the Alliance made up for the low number of marines with sophisticated technical support (VIs, drones, artillery, electronic warfare, etc.), as well as guerilla warfare tactics. However, the Alliance stationed powerful fleets at various mass relay junctures, allowing them to respond to attacks in any system with overwhelming force. While this often worked in the case of an organized attack, such as the Skyllian Blitz, Alliance reinforcements often arrived too late to provide any assistance in the event of raids. This fact particularly strained relations with the colonists, who believed the Alliance was unable (or at worst, disinterested), in protecting the colonies they established. Not to mention how entire colonies had been disappearing without a trace. People were terrified.
He blinked, his eyes refocusing as they flicked from Watson to Bravo base below. Truthfully, there wasn't much to look at, but then most of the facility was underground. The hanger lay below the moon's surface, housing six squadrons (1) of Alliance interceptors and fighters. Although the one manned-craft were generally most effective as combat support to larger vessels, coupled with the six squadrons of Franklin's Echo Base, they presented a significant deterrent force to attacking ships. In addition, when working in coordination with the base's GARDIAN laser towers, they could easily hold their own defensively until Alliance reinforcements would arrive. The hangar could also house a few Kowloon class freighters that brought regular shipments from Watson. To preserve the station's limited atmosphere, deploying ships were raised on platforms into the external structures above the moon's surface. Once sealed inside, the air was pumped out of the room into the hangar below. Once fully in a vacuum, the building's airlocks would open above, whereupon the platforms would complete their journey to the surface, allowing the spacecraft to take flight.
The structures before him looked like two large rectangular cakes, one about half again as large as the other. The larger one had six box shaped airlocks on its surface, signaling that the fighter squadrons lay below. The smaller pad had three rectangular airlocks for incoming freighters, separating the two types of spacecraft. The GARDIAN towers stood on each of the facilities' four corners, making eight in all. From the vantage point of the control tower, he could also see a separate facility, the Javelin missile silo. He frowned as he studied the building.
Putting interplanetary Javelin Mk. II missiles on Franklin's base had initially seemed like a waste of resources to Robert. Though packing a tremendous amount of power, they were virtually useless against a marauding fleet. Far too slow and predictable, proper warships could easily destroy them before they could get close enough to do any damage. It was only after some time that he realized he was looking at the whole thing the wrong way.
By having these weapons in the cards, the Alliance was effectively laying claim to the entirety of Sigurd's Cradle, daring their batarian competitors to colonize the system's viable planets. It was a bold statement, especially given the Alliance's recent failures, but perhaps it was a much-needed show of power to remind the squints that humanity was prepared to play hardball. If there was one thing those four-eyed freaks understood, it was power. Then again, if the Alliance couldn't back up this claim, they'd end up just looking more ineffectual than ever. Maybe that was the reason for their base's higher grade of security than what he typically saw in Alliance bases.
A sudden beeping noise tore his attention away from his musings and back to his console. One of the probes he was supposed to be monitoring had picked up an incoming ship. Tapping at his keyboard, he pulled up the scanner. In moments, a holographic rendering of the ship sprouted out of his terminal, along with list of registry information. He sighed, relaxing once he recognized the freighter, the MSV Omaha, back for one of its monthly supply drops. He keyed his comm, accessing the Omaha on an encrypted Alliance channel.
"This is Bravo base to MSV Omaha, do you read me, over?"
A slight pause followed, "This is Captain Kirk of the Omaha, I read you Bravo Base."
"Captain Kirk, please respond to call-sign 'Ice-pick'."
"'Phoenix', identification code 675-443-291."
Fox nodded. "Counter-response confirmed. Good to see you again Cpt."
The other side was silent for a while. "Yeah, it's been too long, huh? So where do I set this bird down?"
Fox pulled up the hangar schematics, activating freighter lift three. "Head to airlock three. The lift will be there when you arrive."
"I appreciate it. Over and out."
Fox cut the of the comm connection.
"Sure will be nice to get some fresh supplies. We've had nothing but old tortellini MRE's for a week now."
Fox smirked, looking over at his junior officer David Coffer.
"At least you're getting three square meals a day. Why, when I was at the Skyllian Blitz, we didn't have anything to eat but—"
"Hardtack, berries, and the occasional grasshopper. Yeah yeah, I know. Spare me the old war stories."
Fox humphed, annoyed. "Mind your manners, boy. When's the last time you've seen any action?"
David scratched his short black hair. " Well, you got me there. But even you can't sit there and tell me you're not sick of recycled water."
This got a small chuckle out of Fox. Recycled water may be clean to drink, but they never had quite figured out how to fix the taste.
...
"I appreciate it. Over and out."
Captain Kirk flicked off the comm channel, a dead weight sitting in his gut. He heard a cruel chuckle, a deep bass voice.
"Good work, human. Now that wasn't really that hard, now was it?" It taunted him like the voice of a sick, twisted demon.
Though in this case, the only devil he could see was himself.
He had never been a brave man. When he finished flight school, he had been all too happy to take the job as captain of a freighter ship. He may have felt guilty about it, but he always managed to justify it to himself. He was making a difference. Soldiers couldn't fight without his supplies. Besides, he had a family to think about. He'd managed to bury his cowardice, comforting himself with the belief that everyone was born with a measure of courage stored up inside. He always thought that when the time was right, when the trial was most dire, that hidden strength would just flow out of him instinctively. It had been a pleasant thought, one that dispensed with all those little tiresome acts of courage one could perform on a daily basis.
But when they had taken him and shown him the video… God, he could still see it now. Linda in her nightgown, sitting in a chair with a gun to her head, trying to hush their crying baby daughter. Her voice was soothing, but her eyes were terrified, her normally silky brown hair plastered with sweat against her forehead. Something had broken inside of him in seeing that image. All of the lies he had used to build his ego had been violently stripped away, leaving behind a broken ghost of a man. He realized that he would do anything they asked of him, anything at all, to save his family. In doing so, he knew he was damning unknown numbers of innocent people to death.
So he had sold his soul to the devil. His life already felt like some kind of hell.
In the corner of his eye, the black barrel of a Carnifex hand cannon lingered close enough to barely brush his sweating scalp, mocking his terror. He wondered what he would see, if he would even hear the shot that would kill him. He turned to look at it, strange thoughts racing through his mind.
'You always hear the death is like a dark tunnel with light at the end. Guess that means I'm staring death in the face right now.'
He dared to look up, staring into the face of his tormentor. Four black, soulless eyes stared back into his. Rows of nostrils stacked on top of one another. Thick tissue spread like a handlebar mustache around its mouth. Sharp, pointed teeth revealed in a leer. Sudden loathing rose up in Kirk as he glared venomously at the batarian.
"You son-of-a—"
The leer became a snarl. "Quiet!"
A stunning crack from a pistol whip across the jaw threw him against the control board. Pain lanced up his jaw as a metallic flavor filled his mouth. He was fairly sure the crack was his jaw breaking, but despite the blinding pain, he didn't care. He knew he deserved this. In a way, he welcomed the pain; it made him feel perversely cleansed.
"Take us down to the station. Don't speak unless spoken to."
Kirk felt something odd in his mouth, so he spat it out on the deck. A tooth bounced before rolling into a corner. The pain was incredible, blurring his vision, but he felt strangely detached from it all. Maybe he really was already dead. Numbly, he tapped the control panel, setting a course for the station and finalizing a landing sequence. He entered it into the computer, speaking in spite of himself.
"There. The ship will take care of the rest." His words were a bit slurred; he couldn't work his jaw right, and the blood in his mouth dripped out when he tried. He turned defiantly towards the batarian leader again.
"I've done what you asked. I kept up my end of the deal. Now let my family go."
He expected another blow, but the batarian just leered, tilting his head to the right. "As I recall, our deal was that you get us into the station, and you get to see your family again. Well, you've done your job."
The batarian raised the pistol, aiming between Kirk's eyes.
"Now are you ready to join your family?"
As the implications of his statement sunk in, Kirk felt as though his heart had stopped beating. 'Linda, my baby, oh God I'm so sorry—' A flash of light, his neck whipped back. Darkness closed…
...
"Get this scum out of my sight." Barlak growled. Two of his subordinates stepped forward, pulling the corpse out of the seat and carrying him out of the bridge. He felt a warm tingling sensation run up his body, closing his eyes and savoring the feeling. Power. The power over life and death. It had always fascinated him, drawn him.
After losing his brothers to the Slaughter at Torfan (2), Barlak had sworn to do whatever he could to make the humans pay for what they took from him. Now it seemed like those dreams would finally come true. He smiled as he inhaled deeply, looking down at the rapidly approaching Alliance base. It was time for vengeance, and the humans would learn their place in the galaxy. Operation Red Dawn had begun.
...
(1) Typical Alliance squadrons consisted of about fifteen vessels each. Between Franklin's two bases, this means they could field 180 fighter craft in any given battle.
(2) Torfan was the sight of a brutal reprisal against the batarians after the Skyllian Blitz. Many slavers are killed even after surrendering on Torfan's moon.