March 23rd 2525
Epsilon Indi System
Ship Graveyard
Prometheus-class Heavy Destroyer Prometheus
The Prometheus coasted alongside the light carrier it was escorting, skirting the edges of the debris field while salvage teams continued to pick over the hulking starship corpses for technology, materials and any crew that may have survived this long, although no living beings had been pulled from the ships for days.
Fighters whipped around the two larger ships, orbiting them in concentric defensive formations, a number of them laden down with fusion bombs for anti-ship strikes. The admiral was taking no chances, and fully expected the aliens to return at some point, probably in greater numbers.
Commander Sanchez sipped at his tepid coffee, pulled a face and set the mug down.
"How are we for time, Temeura?" he asked of the ships AI. The avatar flickered to life in the holo-tank, crossed its arms and frowned.
"Our sweep will be completed in approximately twenty-two minutes," Temeura responded dryly. "Which is approximately one minute twenty-six seconds less than the last time you asked."
"Sorry," Sanchez grinned sheepishly. "I'm a little anxious being so far from the support of the fleet and ODIN. I'd rather not be caught out here when those aliens come back."
As Temeura nodded his understanding and returned to his duties, Sanchez decided to pass the time by reviewing the events of the past week or so. The heavy losses taken in the fighting had, by and large, been replaced with system patrol battle groups, mostly destroyers, frigates and light carriers.
There had also been a pair of fabricators, massive construction ships that were busy seeding Harvest's orbit with satellites, comprising ODIN. The Orbital Defence and Intelligence Network was already stronger than the original defence grid of the world, and growing stronger all the time as crippled ships and hunks of debris were recycled into satellites.
Made up of satellites armed with anything from auto-cannons and rail-guns to fusion missile launchers as well as an array of long range surveillance satellites, ODIN was the last line of defence against ships entering orbit. Combined with the 42nd Task Force and its supplementary ships, it made for a potent deterrent.
Sanchez watched idly as a Halcyon-class Cruiser - the predecessor to the more modern and capable Marathon-class - entered the system via slip-space rupture, accompanied by a pair of escort carriers and a destroyer. The four fresh warships moved swiftly, slotting into a defensive formation with the rest of the fleet with due haste.
Ships had been slowly trickling in from all over the Rim, and word was that Third Fleet, some one hundred and twenty plus ships, were on their way from Reach. News had spread like wildfire of the alien invasion of Harvest, and with it a wave of fear and panic had gripped humanity.
For untold centuries, man had searched the stars for signs of sentient life, the inexorable spread of colonies had done nothing to stem humanity's inquisitive nature and the search had continued. Now, having finally found another intelligent space faring race, people were terrified that it would come to war.
As far as Sanchez was concerned, those concerns were far from unfounded. The Covenant had aggressively attacked both Harvest and the 42nd, with no attempt to make peaceful contact at all. The UNSCs fleet was enormous - it had to be to protect the eight hundred plus worlds that humanity laid claim to - but most of those ships were small, fast attack ships designed to quickly hunt down Insurrectionists and the very rare pirate group.
Ships like that had been the mainstay of the 42nd Task Force and they had not fared well at all against the superior weapons and shields of the enemy. A Lieutenant named Keyes had been commended for his quick thinking and tactical analysis of the available data onboard the heavy destroyer Analis; on his recommendation, the ships commander had vented atmosphere to halt the advance of a plasma torpedo through the vessels innards.
"Sir," Ensign Corbett at sensors piped up, startling Sanchez out of his reverie. "New contacts on the scope, unknown classification."
"Get the admiral on the horn," Sanchez ordered, his stomach twisting at the thought of having to engage the aliens on his own. The carrier he was escorting would be of little use in ship-to-ship combat. "Charge the PAC and bring our rail-guns online. Raise shields and stand-by for evasive manoeuvres."
The silent bridge sprang to life quickly and professionally as the crew went about their business and in less than sixty seconds the ship was fully prepared for combat. Outside, the fighter wings from the carrier pulled into tight defensive formations around their larger cousins.
The tactical display flickered to life and Sanchez observed three ships moving cautiously in a flying wedge formation, dozens of smaller contacts moving around them. The ship in the middle was almost as big as a Halcyon-class cruiser, but was of a much sleeker design, with a bow section shaped almost like the head of an alligator. Two flat cylinders were suspended to port and starboard, possibly some kind of weapon similar to a MAC. Six large engines pushed the ship slowly forward.
The two smaller ships were roughly equivalent in size to the Prometheus itself, they too shared the alligator-head bow, attached to a blocky body and an A-frame set of engines to the rear, lacking in the cylinders of the bigger ship.
"Sir," Lieutenant Franklin said. "We're getting a lot of radio traffic directed our way from those ships. They could be trying to hail us."
"Patch it through to main speakers," Sanchez said, frowning. The speakers squealed for a moment, then cut to static shortly before a garbled voice came through. The voice spoke for several seconds, paused, then repeated itself.
"What the hell is this?" Sanchez queried, puzzled. "I can't make out a word they're saying. More aliens?"
"Perhaps," Temeura appeared in his holo-tank. "But I doubt there are a great many aliens out there that speak a somewhat modified dialect of Mycenaean Greek."
"Mice-ah what?" Franklin blinked, looking stupefied.
"Ancient Greek," Temeura responded flatly. "Spoken language of Greece from a period spanning from the sixteenth century BC to about the twelfth century BC. I'm quite fluent."
"And you know all this because…"
"I have my hobbies," the AI snapped. "Now would you like me to translate this for you or not?"
"By all means, go ahead Temeura," Sanchez grinned, gesturing in the general direction of one of the bridges speakers.
"This is Commander William Adama of the Colonial Battlestar Valkyrie to unknown vessels, if you hear and understand me, please respond," Temeura translated, then raised an eyebrow. "How odd. It almost sounds human. Some kind of Insurrectionist ruse, maybe?"
"He did say 'colonial'," Sanchez mused. "But I've never heard the designation 'battlestar' before and I doubt that the Innies have the resources necessary to create three ships of that size, particularly ships of such…exotic design."
"What do we do?" Franklin asked.
"Answer them, I suppose," Sanchez huffed. "Temeura, if you would kindly translate?"
"Of course."
Battlestar Valkyrie
That Same Time
"I doubt they can even understand what you're saying," Ambassador Eva DeSenta commented to Commander Adama. "The only reason the Covenant can speak Colonial is because they likely spent quite some time studying us before they decided to attack."
"True," Adama replied as his message repeated itself over and over. "That's what the First Contact package is for, assuming they received it. After that, it'll be up to you and the rest of the diplomatic team to keep talking to them.""Sir," Lieutenant Felix Gaeta called out. "We're receiving a message…it's in Colonial, sir!"
"Put it through to the main speakers," Adama said, nodding his head to DeSenta and trying to hide his surprise. There was no way they could have figured out the First Contact package so quickly, was there?
"This is Commander Alejandro Sanchez of the UNSCDFS Heavy Destroyer Prometheus to Commander William Adama of the Colonial Battlestar Valkyrie," an accented voice crackled over the speakers in near-perfect Colonial standard, though a few words were mispronounced the inflection was clear. "You have entered a restricted area. State your business here. You have sixty seconds to respond."
Adama arched an eyebrow, sparing a glance for Colonel Tigh across the CIC. His old friend didn't look overly impressed with the veiled threat at the end of the transmission. Adama's head was filled with questions.
How had the aliens figured out Colonial so quickly? Why did the name of the other ships commander sound so…human? What did 'UNSCDFS' stand for? And how had the ship come to be named after Prometheus, traitor to the Gods?
"You have thirty seconds to respond," the voice returned. "I'd rather this didn't turn ugly."
Adama glanced at the DRADIS display, eyeing the ship identified as the Prometheus and the smaller ship that hung close by to it, the numerous fighter-sized craft in formation around the two ships, and the five more vessels approaching rapidly from the orbit of a heavily defended planet.
"This is Commander Adama," the Old Man finally answered. "We come in peace."
Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Adama regretted it, wincing as he caught the look on DeSenta and Tigh's faces.
"We mean you no harm," Adama continued, trying to cover his clichéd line. "We represent the Twelve Colonies of Kobol and seek allies against an alien threat."
The whole CIC was silent, listening raptly to their official First Contact with this new advanced species, and relieved immensely that it was going infinitely better than their last First Contact situation, so far.
"This threat," Sanchez's voice came over the speakers in a slow drawl now. "Wouldn't happen to bear a striking resemblance to what's left of the alien ships in the debris field, would it?"
Adama sighed and nodded, before realising the gesture was moot because the other commander couldn't see it.
"Yes," Adama answered. "They call themselves the Covenant. They attacked us almost two years ago without warning. We…the war isn't going well for us."
Sanchez didn't answer for a long time, but when he did it was like a gift from the Gods themselves.
"Understood," Sanchez said. "I have been ordered to form up with your ships and escort you into high orbit of the colony, Harvest. Once there, you will be asked to leave your vessel with a diplomatic envoy to rendezvous with Admiral Wilhelm Schweiger. Initial diplomatic relations will be held through him for now, but at a later time a civilian representative will be shipped in to meet with you."
"Thank you, Commander," Adama said. "You've no idea what this means to us."
"You're welcome," Sanchez replied. "Security details will be allowed if you feel it necessary. If you have some kind of environmental suit, I suggest you wear it, we don't want to risk the spread of any communicable diseases between our two people."
"Understood," Adama confirmed. "Adama out."
The channel clicked off at Sanchez's acknowledgement and the Prometheus and six other vessels closed in and formed up on the small Colonial group. Adama turned to DeSenta.
"This is where you come in, Ambassador. I suggest you make your preparations."
Colonial Viper Mark VII
Valkyrie Contingent
Lt. Daniel "Bulldog" Novacek's craft
Bulldog whistled softly as a pair of delta-winged fighter craft blazed by him, moving with a speed and agility that was completely unexpected given their size. The fighters swung back around in a tight arc before settling in beside his
Viper. Across the small fleet, the same actions were repeated.
The fighter nearest to Bulldog waggled its wings at him, and with a grin the lieutenant returned the gesture. Nice to know some things are universal.
His grin faded rapidly as he took in the other fighters appearance, specifically its armaments: a pair of wing mounted missile pods, two wingtip mounted auto-cannons and a nose mounted device that looked like a sphere with a smooth, glassy flat side.
It took him a moment to realise that the device looked familiar to him. The Colonial Marines were experimenting with weapons that looked almost exactly like the one he was looking at, only those were huge, truck mounted turrets that used enormous amounts of power to operate.
"Valkyrie Actual, Bulldog," Novacek reported in.
"Bulldog, this is Actual. What is it?"
"You're not going to believe this Actual," Bulldog said. "But I think these fighters are armed with laser cannons."
"Bulldog, Actual, please confirm your last."
"Confirmed, Actual," Novacek replied. "What I'm looking at looks almost exactly like the experimental laser weapons the Corps is playing around with, only a hell of a lot smaller."
"Understood, Bulldog," Actual responded. "Keep us appraised of anything else you spot. Actual out."
As the channel closed, the fighter Bulldog had been observing dipped its wing and moved away, heading toward the Valkyrie. On instinct, Bulldog followed the fighter as it swept across the Valkyrie's spine, ducked beneath the bow and shot out from under the battlestar's underbelly before swinging up and over and rapidly orbiting the ship.
After several more similar passes, the fighter shot off back to its original position within the mixed fleet, Bulldog right behind it. He surmised that the craft had probably been taking photo's and sensor readings on the battlestar as he returned to his own spot, noting that a Raptor was doing the same to the Prometheus, followed by one of the angular fighter craft.
Both sides were sizing each other up, which was a waste of time as far as Bulldog was concerned. The Colonials were hugely outnumbered and outgunned, if things went sour and it turned into a fight it was obvious who the victors would be.
He, like everyone else in the small task force, just had to hope that it didn't come to that.
Adama sat in the co-pilots seat of the Raptor, Lt. Acoura flying the craft skilfully between UNSC and Colonial ships as they made their way down to the planets surface. He watched in awe as two massive ships went about their business, seeding Harvests orbit with a seemingly infinite number of defence satellites.
The grid in place rivalled that of Picon already, the apparently automated guns tracked the Raptor's movements. Each of platforms was skeletal in nature, evidently designed as a cheap solution to orbital defence and there was nothing to indicate that they were inhabited by human crews, which meant they were all probably controlled by one of the ships in orbit or a command centre of some kind on the ground.
The Raptor plunged into Harvests upper atmosphere, pushing down through the air and cruising through clouds as flames licked at the craft from the entry friction. It rattled and rumbled, shaking violently for a long time before suddenly smoothing out its decent as it slowed down, piercing the cloud cover momentarily.
Adama caught a glimpse of pillars of smoke miles high and of a sprawling city before his view was obscured by more clouds.
"DRADIS contacts," Lt. Lowman reported. "Two fighters, closing fast."
"That'll be our escort," Acoura replied, to which Adama nodded. It had been discussed at length via radio transmission exactly how they were to proceed to the surface; the two fighters were atmospheric craft that would form up on the Raptor and escort it to the landing pad at their destination.
The Raptor swept in low, fresh DRADIS contacts appearing every second or so the whole way down as the system picked up on dozens of fighters and dropships. Acoura's keen eyes picked up a large convoy of vehicles heading toward some unknown destination as the altimeter dropped rapidly and the ground rushed up to meet them.
"ETA, forty seconds," Acoura said. Immediately the four Marines that made up the security detail began checking over their weapons, standing up to make ready to disembark from the craft. Everyone onboard the Raptor was wearing sealed environment suits designed to protect against vacuum; for the purpose of this meeting, they would suffice in protecting both parties from communicable diseases.
The base sprawled out before them, prefabricated buildings and numerous defensive bulwarks, AAA guns, SAM sites, machine gun nests and what looked like an impromptu mine field protected the site. A motor pool teemed with vehicles and figures moving back and forth between them, swirling dust from the landing thrusters obscuring Adama's view as they touched down.
Adama sighed explosively as he stood up, his stomach performing a complex gymnastics routine as he steeled his nerve and made his way to the hatch as it cycled open and the Marines trotted out and took position, Ambassador DeSenta and her aide rising from their seats. He had a sudden flash of some horrible alien monster in his mind and shuddered as he pushed the thought aside, nonetheless wondering what these creatures would look like up close.
Adama took in a deep breath, stepped out of the craft and prepared to offer his greetings to the aliens. His eyes came upon the group of figures waiting for him and he felt his jaw drop to somewhere near the centre of the planet. The shocked expressions of the people waiting for him told him that they sure as hell hadn't expected this either.
"You're human," Adama breathed, eyes wide as he stared openly at a broad-shouldered older man in an elaborate white uniform.
"You noticed that, huh?," a hologram flickered to life as a feminine voice cut the silence and a glowing pink woman appeared. Adama's focus switched to the pink lady and he watched as what looked like streams of data flowed across her body.
The man in the brilliant white uniform, decorated with golden epaulettes and a breast full of campaign ribbons and medals, stepped forward, cleared his throat and spoke.
"On behalf of the United Nations Space Command and the Unified Earth Government, I, Admiral Wilhelm Schweiger, hereby officially welcome you to the colony-world Harvest."
The silence returned after that, stretching on for an uncomfortably long time before it was broken again by DeSenta.
"I'm sorry…did you just say Earth?"
A/N: UNSCDFS stands for United Nations Space Command Defence Force Ship. Quite a mouthful, huh?
I would also like to know, if anyone has an answer for me, why FFN insists on arbitrarily changing whole sections of my posts, forcing me to do massive editing just so that the document on here will resemble the one in my word processor?