Prologue: An Iron Bureaucracy
A blond man with piercing blue eyes and an obvious harelip stood on the bridge of the Iron Republic Starcruiser Deer’s Charge. He was dressed in a red and black uniform of the Iron Republic commandos known as the Fist of Mars. His small printed and electroplated rank insignia showed him as a Colonel, and his left breast was covered with awards and badges showing years of service. He adjusted his cap, and motioned to a nearby Beta Brethen, “B-76 what is the current status of the launch site?”
All of the Brethren clone soldiers on the bridge were dressed in full Martian battlemail, a spacesuit modified for high intensity combat, as they expected to be attacked any minute. B5056547964-76 was keeping one eye on the scanner console’s holographic display, and one hand resting firmly on the butt of his flichette pistol.
He glanced briefly at his commanding officer and said, “Sir, so far no Da’uhnb lifesigns. Just Humans, Olgogs and a few Neliff.”
“Ehh I hate Neliff,” sniffed the Colonel, “B-22 what does the treaty allow in this situation?”
Brethren B792053054-22 checked the law databases, quickly confirming and then reciting, “This zone is outside EEF Colonial Zones. Therefore as long as our purpose is not setting up a settlement or extracting local resources we would be justified in acting with a full military police action.”
“A police action eh? Then no orbital bombardment of the site,” murmured the I.R. Colonel in disappointment.
B-22 agreed but added, “That would still legally allow us to use Drop Troops to quell the Neliff outbreak. Well as long as none of the suits’ nuke reactors go critical. Fallout would be frowned upon and possibly raise some official discussions.”
“And discussions cost billable hours for the legal teams,” said the Colonel, “I learned my lesson from the Stark Debacle, we need to keep costs down. For now continue monitoring them. I want to know what is going on at all times.”
Brethen B99099751-01 noticed an encrypted communication coming in, and quickly alerted the Colonel, “Sir, we have a Code XVY beamed transmission coming in, Codeword: OVC. Shall I put it up on the screen?”
“No B-01, transfer it to my ready room. I want it on the private terminal, full privacy settings,” said the Colonel growing a bit pale.
The Colonel walked off the bridge into a smaller room adjacent. It was decorated in a Spartan style, with only a few honored weapons and trophies on the wall. The Colonel’s eyes wandered across pistols, rifles and swords to the single spear. It was a fishing gaff with a driftwood shaft and hooked end made from the sharpened rib of some alien creature.
The Colonel sat down at a simple plasteel desk, it was unadorned except for a Nanomachine based encrypted communicator. Above the communicator hung a ball of self-replicating nanites, resembling a floating sphere of liquid metal. The Colonel tapped the sphere and it shifted into the image of an Olgog with a harelip and piercing blue eyes.