Ah! I spent half an hour making an explanation of why I'm posting this drivel before it is finished, only to have it explode with NYERROR! messages... Sigh... You'll just have to find out for yourself.

Anyway, enjoy.

(I'll post some of my designs for the ships mentioned in the story if anyone is interested. Just not now, my brain hurts. I might post some form of lexicon/pronunciation guide also, but again, only if there is interest and if the brain-juice returns)
1301 Words.


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Chapter One: The Harsh Induction



The nimble fighters deftly flew through the incandescence and brilliance that was the explosion of a Super Cruiser. Their sleek, black hulls contrasted against the shattered remains of the white ship, hurled apart as the vessel was rent in two by an intense energy beam. Mile-high fireballs mushroomed as they sucked the air and crew out of the craft, then were extinguished as they met the vacuum of space. Those lucky enough to escape rode the escape pods as far as they could, fleeing the raging destruction of their late ship, some of them being hurled into another’s.

Such was only a scene of many amid the carnage of the battlespace above the many-mooned planet, Zianzo. The gargantuan cruisers led the smaller gunships into the mêlée, while the titanic Motherships remained behind, spilling evermore ships endlessly into the void. The TAPA fighters unfolded their stabiliser wings as they entered the combat out of the cramped confines of the hangars. Their targeting sensors instantly found their prey and followed in hot pursuit, charging quark cannons and powering-up kinetic matter-launchers.

One could barely see for all the debris and ion discharges littering the area. The many two-mile long cruisers only worsened matters. But even this could not impede recognition of the enemy: The Zhian. While the Human warships were for the most part identical and clean, the Zhianzan ships were dark and crudely built, many of them painted in the style preferred by the pilot. Their fighters were slow and poorly-armed, but many. For every one destroyed by the sparkling plasma of the cannons on the Super cruisers, or the miniature seeker missiles deployed by the TAPA fighters, ten more would round one of the hundred moons and moonlets covering the relatively large planet Zianzo.

Many of the moons were equipped with huge cannons as tall as any mountain, surrounded by maintenance facilities and power stations. Every so often, a moon would rotate thanks to an internal gyroscope, and the gun would fire. It could cause the complete obliteration of a formation of fighters, or tear a larger ship in two. The generals sitting safely behind the lines in their Motherships decided this could not continue, and deployed Special Forces One.

They were sent quickly. Within minutes their trademark pin-capsules were fired from the missile tubes of a Mothership. Four containers, each no longer than a metre, and no wider than a compact disk. Lustrous silver in colour, they reflected vast panoramas of the battle across their curving hull. Not too dissimilarly to a missile, they each had a small jet at the rear, which were seen to be expelling a small plume of blue gas. Stamped on the hull in tiny, bold letters was SF-1.

In fact, their resemblance to a missile stayed any curiosity from enemy fighters. They travelled fast, incapable of correcting orientation. The conflict raced past them, a blur of technicolour flames, energy beams and debris. The largest of the turrets loomed in front of them; built atop a brown-red moon covered in solar panels, making the most of the Zianzo system’s scorching star. Even as the microscopic cameras on the nose of the pins watched, the satellite moved majestically on its axis. The gun and the facilities around it shook as it fired a beam that terminated a nearby Super Cruiser.

As the squadron entered the thin atmosphere, airborne nanobots exited via an aperture on the back of the rockets and physically pushed them into a deceleration. Nonetheless, each of them crashed into the sea of mirrors with an almighty crash. Their hulls barely held as they absorbed the impact. The collision tore a small crater in the ground and sent buckled solar panels soaring in the low gravity.

There was a hiss, the only precursor to the transformation. It was instantaneous. Quite suddenly, there was a blinding flash in the form of four bodies; four erect and shining bodies in the crater of the impact. The image would have burned onto the retinas of anyone present. Left in the residue of the flare were four men, fully equipped and queasy. Their last memory was going to sleep before the beginning of the clash of species. They were told of a possibility of service during the battle.

Micro-transport was an imperfect science. The chosen subjects were manipulated by nanobots, taken apart atom by atom and in a super-dense form, forced into a container. It happened so quickly a person would have no memory of it, nor feel it. The containers were somehow gotten to their destination, and the same microbots would re-assemble the human instantly. They moved so quickly and there were so many of them with their bright ion trail that they were seen only as a flash. Mistakes could happen during the disassembly and the assembly: One could find himself with parts of his memory missing, due to the complication of assembling synapses in the exact way they were found. Sometimes the person could end out with entirely new memories randomly generated.

The process had raised many questions about the nature of humanity. The primary one unsettled most people: At what point is a pile of atoms considered a human being? It was thought by many conspiracy theories that this government-run operation was a ploy to remake all humans with the same brain, one that would follow the ideas of the empire blindly, but it had never been proven.

All four of the team stumbled as they re-materialised, one of them bent over and retched. It was a mystery to most scientists why one felt sick after a transformation. Even these highly trained, genetically engineered warriors succumbed to the effects. Clad in black uniform and equipped with more than one utility belt and a wide array of gadgets and visors, even while in their miserable state, they were a formidable force.

While waiting for their bionics to counteract the consequences, the team conversed in wireless neural connection telepathy, discussing their plan of approach.

“My memory implant shows we have been selected to upload new target trajectories into this moon-platform,” the first commando stated, designated Gamma.

“Confirmed. Target is shielded, heavily armed and swarming with Zhianzan guards. I recommend a full-frontal assault into the main station, and continue as a stealth operation,” the second said, deciding he would be entitled Lambda.

“Seconded, though I put forward that an all-out storm of the exterior of the base would prove troublesome, considering the perimeter cannons have a range of one kilometre, and rarely miss,” the third said, called Psi. He had discovered this after reviewing the base schematics superimposed on his vision.

“We can request the nanobots build us a high speed Cave Scout. Its speed and manoeuvrability will prove more than a match for the turrets,” Lambda argued, “They can also prove useful for jumping the trenches encircling the camp.”

“Agreed, we can build two and screen them in a secluded area outside. We can use them for our escape subsequent to our exit of the facility,” the fourth said, known as Sigma.

The words echoed in their minds for a time before they received an update from command, “Sun to pass over the planet Zianzo in approximately seven minutes. Light to reach your moon several seconds later. Estimated heat: 650 degrees Celsius.”

Any normal human would have quailed in the realisation of that simple fact. But not anyone from SF-1. Trained for twenty years with little or no human contact, fear simply did not come to them. The fact they had little to fear helped as well; their weapon implants, strict exercise, specially formulated diet and genetically modified muscles and vital organs made them among the most significant killing machines in the galaxy, at least among the human race.

Nonetheless, they recognised the seriousness of their situation.



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TO BE CONTINUED

Yes, and I know it's a bit far-fetched (and bad), but this is high science-fiction! My favourite kind, you know. Did you know that? Betcha didn't. And anyway, I'm open to criticism. Constructive criticism.

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