Universal Dependencies - English - GUM

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— Prologue —

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It had taken only a matter of hours for the Kethlan system to become a tumbling sea of debris; the twisted and burnt-out remnants of a once glorious Imperial nation.

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An empire whose costly mistakes would for many years to come echo into every corner of the known galaxy.

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And with those mistakes would come death to billions of innocent, unsuspecting lives.

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A starfighter hurtled through the scattered metal, the pilot desperate to find a way to stop himself from joining the ever growing population of this interstellar graveyard.

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Jacques Chalmers was not alone in his frustration with the current situation, but he was doubtless one of the most panicked.

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He tried to steady himself as he began cycling once again through the available display options for his starfighter's radar system.

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His anxiety continued to grow with each passing second, every change of the screen doing nothing to abate it.

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He stopped midway through the calibration and glanced out of his cockpit.

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The scene was the same as it had been a few moments ago and it brought him no comfort.

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He couldn't count the number of capital ships that dominated the Enemy's frontline.

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Twenty?

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Thirty?

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Fifty?

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In his years of service to the Imperial Naval Forces he had never seen anything like it, not even in archive war footage.

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The enormous forms of the battleships loomed like giants atop a hill, staring down upon a tiny village below.

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Then there were the Enemy starfighters themselves: hundreds at least, swarming about like a huge wall of locusts.

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Knowing that he had already been flying straight for longer than was advisable, Chalmers altered his course to attempt to throw off any pursuers.

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* * *

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Not long before he had been standing on the flight deck of his deployment carrier, amongst the other pilots, his heart pumping in his ears, his hands sweating as he awaited the order to board his fighter.

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Chalmers saw his friends run forward as their names were called out, scrambling into cockpits, pulling on helmets and performing last-minute safety checks.

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Though most hid it well, he was convinced they were all as nervous and scared as he was - knowing they could well be speeding only to their own deaths.

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As he watched his friends' fighters hurtle down the catapult, his commanding officer had addressed the last remaining pilots still standing on the flight deck.

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“Right, listen up,” he started.

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“This is where we must make our stand.

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The Enemy cannot be allowed to advance any further.

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Tonight we fight the battle for Kethlan and for the Imperium; the battle for our survival.

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Hundreds of millions of lives are depending on our actions here.

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Make them proud!”

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Hundreds of millions? thought Chalmers.

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Is that all that's left?

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A few months ago it was billions.

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This day had crept ever closer as cities, planets and then entire star systems had fallen to the Enemy; to those damned Pandorans; to the Senate's mistake.

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How many of his friends had he lost over these last few terrible months?

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Had they died fast or were they now suffering a fate far worse..?

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As his CO continued to pump them up for the critical battle, Chalmers' head was filled with visions of row upon row of black-clad soldiers.

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A white emblem resided on their right arms and left breast, an all-encompassing full black helmet upon their heads, its smooth form negating all facial features.

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Two bright red oval spheres were set into an eye-level groove that ran all around, the “eyes” themselves slanted into a menacing and intimidating scowl.

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One of the soldiers turned to face him, the ruby-like eyes seeming to pierce his very soul.

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He felt his hand tighten on the flight helmet he held, swallowing hard.

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“Daniels! Peterson! Foster! Brown! Rye ...” a voice called out above the other sounds that filled the flight deck.

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Feet moved and Chalmers felt his stomach lurch.

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His name would be called soon.

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He felt a sense of doom.

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If the Empire could not stop the Enemy before, what hope did they have now?

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The Enemy's power had grown exponentially and they had crushed everything in their path with harrowing little effort.

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Chalmers was feeling forced to accept the truth: they were all that was left of the Imperial Naval Forces.

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This was a battle that could not be won; not now, not ever.

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“... Tyler! Flynn! Chalmers! King! Golden! Blair ...”

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At the sound of his name, Chalmers felt himself move robotically, his mind screaming in protest against what his legs were doing.

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He ran over to the waiting starfighter, threw on his helmet and begun ascending the ladder into the cockpit.

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Zombie-like he sank down into the seat, watching as if from outside his body as his hands buckled him in, his fingers flip switches, press buttons, acknowledge questions and confirmations on the screens before him.

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Moments later, his craft was taxied to the catapult and before long he'd found himself out in space and into the thick of battle.

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At that moment, his worst fears had not only been altogether realised, but far exceeded.