Republic Ascendant — Chapter Two
Book two in the Empirefall Chronicles follows the story of the fall of the Rew Confederacy and the rise of the Rogers Republic.
CHAPTER TWO | “Declaration”
The shuttle juttered as it broke through the wisps of Sintar-B’s upper atmosphere, with retrothrusters groaning through the steel metal walls as they attempted to arrest the small shuttle’s velocity.
Kele Vorr sat quiet and upright in his five-point harness, eyes fixed on the forward viewport. The orbital drydock emerged slowly from the clouds, half-shrouded in the golden shimmer of orbital vapor and debris reflecting the sunrise over the orbital horizon.
The former Rew Administration station had been hastily converted and now appeared as a lopsided wreath of scaffolding and tethered ships spinning in a low-orbit defiance.
She was ugly. Unfinished. And yet, in that moment, the most gorgeous thing Kele had ever seen.
This was where the Republic would begin.
A sudden smell of ozone and hot plastic wafted into the air as a crew chief melted a hole patch in the deck plating towards the rear. “Tar-ridden debris,” he cursed as the shuttle was pelted by another microfracture.
Kele had noticed the subtle acrid scent of scorched sealant when he had boarded, but failed to notice the many patch jobs. He knew Sintar-B suffered from the Kessler syndrome, but he’d never flown through a field himself.
Across from him sat a young Eukary who had saluted him too fast and too often when they had boarded. He kept glancing at Vorr like he expected to be reprimanded for his obvious discomfort at the approach to the station.
Kele kept his mouth shut.
No medals hung from Kele’s uniform. It wasn’t even a uniform, just a black flight suit made of some synthetic rip-stop material with a flame insignia stitched over his left shoulder. He’d been allowed to pick an insignia for his command, and he’d opted to keep it clean and simple—a small flame with three tips like a trident.
The shuttle jerked suddenly as the docking clamps caught. A mechanical groan rolled through the shuttle, and the interior lights flickered. The crew chief in the rear cabin muttered a prayer.
The airlock hissed open.
Kele Vorr stood and adjusted the strap on his satchel, more out of habit than necessity. Letting out a breath he took his first step into the heart of the Republic’s rebellion.
Drydock One, the new construction he was standing on, was alive. Heat shimmered off pressurized corridors, and everywhere you looked it seemed as if a new wall or section was being welded into place.
Workers in mismatched gear swung from mag-lines, shouting instructions in a dozen dialects and half as many different languages. Under the murmur of voices, Kele caught the beats of Eukary folk music coming from some battered synthspeakers.
Along the walls workers scurried about reinforcing the atmospheric shell. The center lanes of people moved with purpose towards work orders, ships, and offices. Sprinkled amongst them were merchants, some plying honest trade – others surely not.
Following with the mass, Kele worked his way down the length of the gangway in silence. As he moved, when one person or another caught his eye they would give a salute, or at least a brow knuckle.
Finally, at the far end of the gantry, his ship came into view.
The Republic Flame.
She was old, clearly retrofitted from a long-haul freighter. The patchwork of old and new metal detailed where armaplast had been glued into her frame to make up for structural weak points.
More disturbingly was the two dozen multi-colored Mesarbauer, Allied Shipping, and Pop Works containers that were still lashed to their external berths. The fifteen meter long containers had their outer doors removed, and one of the Pop Works containers was in the process of having a large caliber railcannon installed inside the container as a broadside.
They looked like half-finished thoughts, and Kele let out a resigned chuckle.
“She doesn’t exactly bristle with power, does she?”
The voice belonged to a Panathrean woman leaning against a junction wall. Her posture was casual, but her uniform was crisp. She wore her mane in a tight braid, and a stylus tucked behind one ear.
“Not bristles, no,” Kele agreed. “She endures her power, I should think.”
“I like that,” she said proffering her hand. “I’m Lieutenant Qira Nehl.”
Kele nodded as he took her hand, “My tactical officer.”
“Let me give you the nickel tour,” Qira said motioning towards the airlock gangway. “We lit up a reactor coil two days ago. Smells like burnt copper below deck.” Giving a wry grin, she included, “If you need reactor control, just follow your nose.”
“Did her former Captain neglect her?”
She nodded as they walked together. “Like you, I’m a former Confed Navy officer, they were privateers, so to our standards they were absolutely brutal.” As she shrugged away the concern, Kele couldn’t help but espy her slim frame.
“So we’re overhauling and retrofitting?”
“No better way to know a ship,” she chuckled as they entered.
The Flame’s interior was worse than he expected. Exposed wiring. Foam sealant weeping from wall joints. Pipes ran outside the walls where the internal infrastructure had collapsed during retrofitting.
But she breathed. She hummed with history. Every corridor had a pulse.
Kele smirked. The Rew would never see her coming. This amalgamation of space debris wasn’t worth a second look, and that gave Kele all the advantage he needed.
They passed a group of mechanics arguing over a schematic that looked like it had been drawn on food packaging. A pair of young dockhands paused to let them through, whispering behind cupped hands as they recognized him.
“He doesn’t look like a captain,” one muttered.
“He doesn’t look like he wants to be,” the other replied.
Kele shot them a hard look and they scattered without further comment. Kele felt a wince on his face, he hadn’t realized how transparent his disposition was.
In the command bay, three officers stood waiting.
“Chief Maru,” said a Declanian with cobalt skin and a diagnostic slate in his upper left hand, both thumbs typing furiously on the screen. “We’ve almost got this wreck moving again, Cap’n. Don’t ask how.” He laughed, as the circlet he wore flickered briefly along his temples, indicating psionic activity. The psionic tell-tale devices were a new fad that some Declanian’s wore to engender trust amongst non-psionic crews.
“Yarra, Comms ops,” the light ginger furred Pantheras said as she extended a hand-paw. “Small issues with uplink stabilization, but nothing that’ll keep us in dock. Kele gripped her hand, nodding.
“Estal Jenks, Senior Sensor Tech.” Jenks gave a sharp military salute. The smooth greenish-brown skin with his perfect cheek bones and sharp eyes instantly gave him away as one of the tank-bred Ocari.
“Kinda far from home?” Kele asked, returning the salute. “I’ve been to Eldane on a couple cargo runs.”
Jenks gave a curt nod, “Begging your pardon, Captain, it’s not something I like to discuss.”
Qira lifted her arm, motioning around the command deck, covering her Captain’s cultural faux pas. “For now, you’ve got a hull, some guns, and a crew that believes in breaking the chains of the Rew.”
Kele studied the layout. He could see where things had been torn out.
Replaced.
Improvised.
And yet the command deck was modeled after the Rew warships. The command plot sat at the center, with each duty station facing inward towards their captain. Someone had taken care to design a ship of war inside the hull of a freighter.
“This will do,” Kele mused, running his hand along the command plot. “Yes, this will do.”
Kele stood alone in the ready room hours later, staring at a projected file.
The man who stared back at him was years younger, hopeful, naive. I was a damned fool. Kele shuddered at the memories. His dossier had been patched together with classified files recently stolen from Confederacy archives. The highlights were blunt: mid-tier nav officer, reprimanded during the Syndicate Riots for refusal to fire on civilian vessels. Transferred twice. Discharged quietly. A ghost. He’d spent his days since then as a long hauler cargo Captain for Astex Mining Corp.
He closed the file.
A soft knock on the open door frame drew his attention. Qira stepped in, carrying two mugs of something steaming and probably terrible. She wore her off-duty t-shirt with navy blue cotton shorts that showed off her strong thighs with a thin, well maintained body fur. Kele had to force himself not to stare.
“Figured you’d be up.”
He accepted the proffered drink with a nod. “Thanks.”
They sat for a moment in companionable silence, the hum of the ship filling the otherwise dead air as Kele felt his mind wander.
“You believe in this?” Qira asked after a moment, catching his eye with a twinkle.”
Kele didn’t answer right away.
She was gorgeous, and he wanted just another moment in her presence. Finally Kele sighed, rubbing his snout slightly, “I believe in building something better than what broke us,” he said.
Qira looked at him thoughtfully, “You think we can’t win?”
He looked past her, into the flickering wall display of the ship’s exterior.
“I want to think we can mean something.” He turned his attention back to Qira, warmth flushing his face. “That’s harder to kill than us.”
The red pulse on the separate communications panel next to Kele’s desk drew their attention.
Reaching over, the old toggle switch resisted at first, as though testing his resolve. Then it gave way, springing into its upright position with a sharp thunk. Across the board, the communication relays stirred awake, “CO,” Kele replied as the two-way channel opened.
“Cap, this is Yarra, we have a courier at the lock with orders, your eyes only.”
“Send him up, out.” Kele pressed down until the metal clack closed the connection and the green light winked out. “Archaic comms board,” he grumbled to Qira.
“Looks like the privateers used hardline comms for everything.” She smiled, “Old school cool.”
Kele barked a laugh as the courier arrived at his still open day cabin. Young, and sweating through his uniform, he passed Kele a datapad, trying not to convey his nervousness.
Pressing his thumb print into the receipt pad proffered by the courier, Kele dismissed him with a wave, before skimming the orders. “From Admiral Casey. One target. Confederate bulk freighter. Medical and comms gear headed for Farhast. Intercept, board, confiscate. Disable if necessary. No escorts available, no backup available.”
“Rules of engagement?” Qira asked, as her tactical mind started running through an intercept plant. “Freighter escorts?”
“Unclear,” Kele frowned. “ROE hasn’t been codified by the provisional council.” Holding the tablet out for Qira to read he shrugged, “Old school fire if fired upon, I suppose.”
“So what do you think this is really about then?”
“Demonstration,” Kele said. “The admiralty wants the galaxy to see us act.”
Qira nodded. Not with approval, but with understanding.
Hours later, as the drydock rotated away behind them, Kele stood at his spot on the bridge of the Republic Flame.
Every system felt like it might fail. He tapped the console.
“Helm. Prepare burn vector, zero-three-seven.”
“Navigation plotted,” came Yarra Wen’s voice from comms. “No obstructions unless we hit another revolution.”
The Republic Flame’s engines warming like a storm behind glass.
A single starboard broadside of railcannons, built into the old cargo containers that were docked along the strong back that ran along the larboard side. Only six of the eighteen containers had been upgraded with railcannons… But destiny didn’t wait for repair yard schedules.
“Diagnostic shows green,” Nehl said, though she didn’t sound convinced. “Mostly.”
Kele didn’t smile.
He laid one hand on the railing, fingers tightening.
Not for vengeance. Not for glory. Just to see something built without chains.
“Cut the clamps,” Kele said, and the Republic Flame rose into the black.
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