Ho-ly crap.

Part 3.

No more Kuznetsov/Carson intros.

Hope y'all are still enjoying~!

Here goes nothing!

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"By the order of the Council, the National Crisis Provision has been invoked. All off-duty naval personnel are hereby recalled for temporary service. All available warships are thus ordered to muster at the Endura Systems Naval Authority. Please note that the National Crisis Provision permits the navy to possess any commercial or personal starship that falls into the Series-A weight class, as defined by Clause 90-Type-B."

Lyctove took an hour off to cleanse the shock of the Council actually functioning. Really, he felt like a month as isolated as possible from politics wouldn't be too much to ask.

The National Crisis Provision was invoked with only one subsector dissenting. It was, by all accounts, unanimous — such solidarity hadn't been seen in the Republic since the Resource Wars. Not even prosecuting the Border War with the Coalition saw such universal support.

Lyctove didn't take pride in such a momentous occurrence. He had devoted the majority of his adult life to serving the state - it was heartbreaking to realize that the nation he now presided over wouldn't work mutually unless under threat of annihilation.

Regardless, it was a historic moment. The National Crisis Provision had only ever been invoked twice -- once during the Secession War and once predictably at the onset of the Resource Wars. The Provision was invasive and expensive -- it immediately ordered the mustering of the entire "available" navy at the Endura Systems Naval Authority. An armada of starliners, cargo haulers, puddlejumpers, and personal yachts had already been temporarily expropriated -- Clause 90-Type-B alone would strain the Republic's treasury, as it ensured hefty compensation for any starcraft possessed. Generally, that compensation was monetary.

The Terminus Gulf -- part two of the recently-christened "Operation Sentinel" -- was a stretch of Republic territory home to the three most powerful enterprises in the galaxy - Reiner Heavy Industries, Iasaka Interstellar Incorporated, and Soarson Manufacturing. Needless to say, it was second only to the core in political power, and many systems in the Gulf likely surpassed even Oscomn in wealth. Despite this, it had a history of working as essentially a dumping ground for Rimworlders during times of emergency, and as such, had the resources to deal with such a vast influx of people. Of course, a relocation this massive cost a lot and raised the valid question of whether or not it would be more economical to simply update the Rim's protection. Lyctove's response was that, according to the Council, it wasn't. Anymore.

There was also the fact that a large part of the Rim was still under martial law.

This was a blessing and a curse. Coordinating a military evacuation was obviously easier when the military possessed authority, but the military only possessed authority because the Rim didn't want Republic authority. With any luck -- or if Rimworlders had any common sense these days -- they wouldn't let politics get in the way of their safety.

A dazzling burst of light signaled the arrival of a new Republic battlegroup. The command cruiser -- none other than a Centurion-class -- still bore the scars of battle, dragging a rent and battered bow down as it dropped into formation with a dozen smaller craft. Four puddlejumpers had been stationed on the corners of the Endura Systems Naval Authority, directly coupled to massive power generators, ferrying flotillas of warship amalgamated with private assets to the Rim. Yachts, liners - even a prison ship, Lyctove noted with mild surprise. Naturally, humanitarian starcraft of all shape and size were present as well, from tiny, four-or-five man shuttles to the enormous mobile hospitals of the Public Welfare Implementation & Development Institute.

Military experts had long questioned the security of the Authority. Lyctove himself had been unconvinced during his tenure as a Councilman. As President, however, he quickly came to realize that nothing was penetrating the Authority if the navy didn't want it to. It skimmed the upper atmosphere of the gas giant Altria, making use of the planet to mask the amassed starships from the probing sensors of potential enemies. Altria's perpendicular, concentric rings were littered with batteries of weapons, and tens of thousands of satellites delineated the Authority's "perimeter." Altria's second-largest moon, Injeya, had both poles swamped with long-range interception missiles, slaved to massive suites of particularly reliable and precise sensor equipment.

With the orbital weapons of Endura having apparently been rendered ineffective, however, High Command wasn't taking any chances. A single planetbuster could decimate the entire Republic fleet. So by order of High Command, every starship had exactly thirty minutes after arriving to depart for the Rim before they were ordered to warp out, cycled back through the system, and rescheduled for deployment six hours later.

The Rim evacuation had already hit a substantial roadblock.

It hadn't been entirely unexpected, but the degree to which the denizens of Frontier resisted the evacuation had proven to be a massively debilitating issue. Frontier was the capital of the Rim, and -- setting aside it had a population greater than that of all other Rimworlds combined -- it was the hub by which the Rim connected to the rest of the Republic. Several solutions had been proposed - the one that seemed least objectionable to Lyctove was the mass-tranquilization of Frontier's population. Leaving Frontier's population to their fates should war break out was apparently more morally reprehensible than drenching a few hundred billion souls in Trinity XO++ sedative from orbit.

There wasn't even an established method to carry such an operation out. High Command -- with Lyctove abstaining -- had ordered a few million chemical anti-planetary warheads to be modified for sedative "distribution."

They were going to bomb Frontier.

Lyctove tore his eyes off the assembling fleets. He had more pressing matters to attend to.

Namely, the relay network was finally reacquiring.

It had taken far longer than what was predicted.

The Bureau of Naval Intelligence was once again getting spotty data from the Caroki Watchtower network - chiefly data regarding the Prythian Civil War. The separatists controlled Prythia, however, and had declared control over the Assembly. Yet they still refrained from attacking Republic military installations, and the few times they had raided transports, the crews had been mostly unharmed. Miraculously, only a handful of Republic personnel had actually been killed. As such, it was highly unlikely that the Council would be convinced enough to declare war.

The Watchtowers were still fighting though Prythian jamming. Every few minutes, another would reacquire, flickering through boot-up sequences before dumping tons of passively-gathered data. Most of the activated satellites were deep in the Bubblegum Nebula or scattered throughout free space, which made most of the data marginally useful at best, but it was a start nonetheless.

This, unfortunately, was a problem. The Bureau had been informed of Alexandra's excursion, but the public had not been. Currently, Alexandra was buried in the Marston Naval Testing Range, undergoing two month's worth of additional trials.

The fewer people who knew about Alexandra's classified, mission the better.

At that moment, Lyctove's watch decided to buzz with a priority message from the Bureau.

Sighing, he called for his shuttle.
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Carson found the projector rifle to be a highly objectionable firearm.

Depressing a firing stud forced a cloud of pulse out of the dispersion cone which counted as the weapon's "barrel." If one were lucky, they'd be killed instantly. If they were unlucky, Carson would force down the urge to vomit as men collapsed to the floor, writhing in agony, screaming as the pulse induced 3rd-degree burns across their entire bodies.

It was horrifying.

The businessman felt marginally better with himself after watching marines gun down men and women loyal to him. The personnel of the station had been split down the middle between those faithful to the State and associates Carson had personally appointed. The armories had been picked bone dry, with employees outfitting themselves in an array of stun batons, sedative spray, and security pistols. Someone had killed the power, drowning the entire station in red auxiliary lighting. In the chaos, any semblance of a unified order of battle had fallen apart. The nine remaining Shock Troopers led the ramshackle militia against drilled and battle-hardened Union marines, obliterating priority targets with those cannon-rifle hybrids they hauled around.

The situation was getting worse. Carson's crew had powered the Tempest online, bringing point-defense weapons to bear on the Geofrie-class battleship that had deployed a storm of breaching pods but had otherwise held fire. Now the station was flooded with Union marines, adding hails of slugthrower titanium to the confusion.

A single Shock Trooper escorted Carson through the carnage, with the El'saas cranking the filtration on his helmet as high as it could go to negate the smell of burning flesh. Countless hull-breach alarms had already gone off, and Carson had no idea how many holes had been blown in the walls of his expensive station, but that was irrelevant if he couldn't get to Tempest in time. Already, the surviving elements of his "army" had fortified the hangar bay, lacing the maintenance corridors with tripwire-triggered nanite hives and IEDs before digging in behind crates of delicate scientific equipment. The nominal leader and highest-ranking individual present, Marshal-Lieutenant ML-107S, had already requested Carson make haste, as the right flank had already collapsed once, and it was due to collapse again at any time. ML-107S was Shock Trooper -- hence the numerical designation, although Carson had nicknamed the behemoth Lots for the sake of efficiency -- but its weapon was out of ammunition, and as such it had resorted to directing the grossly-outnumbered Station militia to the best of its ability, as well as pulverizing any who made the ill-advised decision to get within punching range. It had re-equipped itself with the largest weapon it could find, which ended up being a pulse rifle.

A pocket of Union marines rounded a corner. The businessman's Shock Trooper escort -- it had introduced itself as Lieutenant-Corporal LC-1019 -- had opened fire before Carson had even recognized the threat, blowing away half a dozen troopers while the rest scrambled back, firing wildly with pulse rifles.

"We're approaching the hangar," it said, yanking a bolt back to clear its firearm of any clogs. Indeed, the sound of combat was growing ever-louder, and the booming voice of a Shock Trooper could be heard above the din of pulse rifles and slugthrowers. "Around this corner. Stand ready."

Carson gripped his projector rifle tightly, gritting his teeth as he followed the Shock Trooper around the corner.

It was utter chaos.

A heavy slugthrower, captured by Carson's forces, was affixed to a crate at the end of the corridor, spraying titanium rounds indiscriminately into a ballistic shield wall the marines had formed. To the flanks of the slugthrower, men and women waited for gaps in the shield wall to show, firing bursts of pulse which slowly thinned the marine's ranks.

Carson had to give the marines credit. They were well-disciplined and exceptionally loyal, never breaking formation, grinding forwards even as bloody chunks of flesh were torn off by the slugthrower's .80 caliber rounds.

That was until Lieutenant-Corporal LC-1019 opened fire.

In an instant, the entire balance of power shifted dramatically.

Carson found his less-than-average fighting prowess of little use. In a few seconds, the entire rear echelon of the marine phalanx had been torn to ribbons. The front echelon responded to the best of their ability, responding to the screams of their commanding officers and presenting a wall of shields at LC-1019, bristling with pulse rifles and nanite-tipped lances.

It mattered little. The composite shields barely had an effect on the uranium slugs on LC-1019's rifle, and the line shattered almost as soon as it had reformed.

Before long, the hall ran red with blood.

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Filion slumped out of a stasis tank into the waiting arms of someone familiar.

Correction - something familiar. It was the automated recovery system. Four padded limbs carried Filion's body across rails lining the roof to a medical bed where he was unceremoniously dropped - literally dropped.

"How's it goin?"

Filion glanced right.

Jarik.

He felt a sudden wave of relief.

"Holy shit." Filion breathed. "You're still alive?"

Jarik raised an eyebrow. "I would ask you that question first."

"Very funny."

"I thought we weren't friends?"

Filion ignored him. "Where the fuck are we?"

"Republic battlecruiser. The - erm..." he turned to face someone Filion couldn't see. "What was it called again?"

"Alexandra."

Filion's heart stopped.

Lyise rose from her seat. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her hands were bloodshot - no, wait. They were bloody. She smiled - a weak, tired smile that barely pierced dark clouds of exhaustion on her face.

"Hey, Sam."

Filion found himself mute.

Jarik cleared his throat awkwardly. "She's been sittin' there for the past twelve hours. You should probably thank her or something."

Lyise raised an eyebrow. She knew not to dwell on Filion's silence too much. After all, he'd just spent 12 hours in a stasis tank. Lyise doubted he was really awake.

Her hypothesis was confirmed as Filion fainted.

Lyise sat down on the corner of Filion's bed and clasped her hands together.

She'd wait as long as she needed to.

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"This is Admiral Viornem of the Caroki Star Union."

His voice was broken and scratchy, and this time it wasn't the connection or the Union's questionable technology.

Buren knew he was listening silently. No doubt he was judging her.

"This is -" Immediately, she hesitated. She wasn't an admiral anymore -- despite what everyone seemed to think -- but revealing that would put her in a submissive position of inferiority from the very start. "Vice Admiral Buren, United Confederation of Planetary and Systems Republics." Buren realized she had subconsciously made the decision to cite the Republic's old, formal name.

Silence.

"Please state your purpose, Admiral," Buren eventually said.

"Vice Admiral, I am but a messenger," Viornem replied. "Here to inform you that the Republic has six months to recall all assets from Carok.

Or face war."