StarDestroyer.Net BBS

Barberville, Pacifica
24 December 2165 AST


Damien Landers, of the A-class militia unit of the 10th Alpha Centauri Infantry, could see that the town had long been abandoned when his unit entered Barberville, a suburban community on the southern outskirts of Jefferson, right on the Washington River. It seemed so different from his hometown back on Alpha Centauri. There were abandoned cafes, restaurants, and small shops, not a single public replicator in sight, nor the public eating spots that people used when taking their meals in the community.
So this is what the charter colonies live like. No wonder they're so backward, every day must be a struggle for survival if they can't even get food or water without money. was the thought that went through his head. He looked over at his childhood buddy Peter Osinski, who was taking in the sights as well from the open back of the anti-grav truck they were in. "Think they'll let us take any souveniers?"
"I'd say we help ourselves if we want, these people don't deserve to have things if they're going to horde them and not share them like they should," Pete replied with a smirk. He was carrying a Type IV pulse phaser rifle, the same as Damien's, that both were well-trained shots with.
Driving through the center of town, their company wound up at the Barberville waterfront. A boat marina was nearby, some of it's berths empty from those who fled but plenty left. "We have orders to appropriate anything that can be carried," Lieutenant Lewins informed everyone over the comms. "And that means everything from everyone. The Pacificans have to be taught that resisting the Federation and trying to harm it's people mean they lose everything and not just a little fraction."
Damien heard this and looked back out at the river. They had cut off the Pacifican capitalist regime from escape, and soon, very soon, it would face the firm but benevolent justice of the Federation. It was probably more than they deserved, but that's how things worked, and it wasn't easy being the Enlightened Society sometimes....


Jefferson (West Bank), Pacifica


Winston's company was surrounded. That had been his expectation, but he had not argued orders, and that was to hold their positions as long as possible to buy time for 5th and 6th Army to relieve Jefferson.
The company had taken over a cluster of buildings, warehouses in the western portion of Jefferson in the city's oldest sections where the industry was currently all located. The Federation militia would push and Winston's people would throw them back with heavy losses, but ammunition was running out fast.
Looking over the nearby streets, Winston made the decision. He turned to his radioman and ordered, "We're attacking east to try and return to our lines." The orders were sent out and Winston held up his FAMAS-P Particle Rifle. He left the upper floor of the warehouse he was in and followed a squad and his company HQ.
At his order, Lieutenant Parkman's platoon immediately counter-attacked a Federation militia attacking their warehouse from a nearby car factory. They moved across the streets and to the doors of the building, where the B-class militia fought heroically but futilely, dying under the guns of Parkman's troops. Winston followed, the factory being secured and immediately abandoned as they moved over to the next street.

This time, however, they came under intense particle fire, and Winston could see the battle-armored hulks of Warhammer infantry as they moved through the next building, a furniture factory. He resolved to go around and ordered his troops to the southwest, heading toward one of the industrial center's recreational parklands, though he intended to go to the warehouse facility just north of the park to maintain urban cover.
They were nearing the corner when the first shot hit Winston. A particle bolt that burned through his armor and scorched his left shoulder. He cried out and fell for a moment, one of his men catching him. "Just a shoulder wound, keep going!" he shouted, urging the men onward.
They got to the building and entered it just as Warhammers entered it from the north. Winston held his gun up, spraying particle fire in their direction as bolts of blue particle energy flashed around indescriminately, wounding and killing anyone they hit.

Winston led a group of men around a stack of boxes that hadn't been been completely demolished by the energy fire going around. As he came around the corner, there was a clatter, and he turned in time to see a grenade on the floor. A number of the men ahead of him tried to get to it, but they were too late, and the last thing he saw was a bright flash from a miniature plasma eruption....


Planetary Defense Bunker, Jefferson

For the first time, President Tyler was considering defeat, and truly. The screens showed the situation; the roads on both sides of the city cut off, individual companies and battalions being encircled by Federation Warhammers and mechanized forces cutting right toward the heart of Jefferson while in the east the Federation created a cordon, consolidating it's control of the eastern roads to prevent any breakthroughs there. Jefferson was a trap, a big trap, and there could be no escape.
"How long until 5th Army is in position?" he heard Velasquez ask a subordinate.
"We don't know," was the reply. "The Federation has severed all land communications and is jamming all wireless channels.
Tyler chuckled, unable to help himself. "Just one more thing gone wrong." As he said that, he couldn't help but wonder.... had he been wrong? Had he moved too early? What other options could he have played that might have prevented this?
Was there anything else that he could have done?
He was certain that there was none, but he couldn't be sure, and that tormented him for some time to come....


Camp Cartmen


Cordell Winston woke up with a headache that felt like it was splitting his skull. The light above him seemed light, too light, and he brought up his arm to block the light.
But after a moment, he realized his arm wasn't responding. He looked up, trying to look around to see what happened, when a uniformed Starfleet nurse came up. She was a relatively pretty girl, with honey-colored hair and freckles, and she put a concerned hand on him. "You musn't get up now, you were badly hurt."
Winston thought hard, trying to remember what happened after the grenade. "Where am I?"
"We're at the field hospital of Camp Cartment. And you need more rest."
Winston tried to get up anyway, but none of his arms and legs seemed to be obeying. He raised his head and looked around. His mouth hung open in terrified shock at what he saw.
His arms and legs were completely gone.

Sanford, Earth
Alliance of Democratic Nations
Universe Designate HE-1
25 December 2165 AST


Along the southern shore of Lake Monroe, one of the many lakes to follow the course of the Saint John's River from upper Central Florida to it's mouth at the Atlantic east of Jacksonville, the city of Sanford had grown up, west of the site of Fort Mellon, a Seminole War-era Army fort. The old US National Guard armory on the fort's site, now converted into a local military museum, was still along 1st Street near the Seminole County services building, still existant nearly two centuries after it ceased being a hospital. Sanford had, in the past two centuries, not only retained it's position as the seat of Seminole County, but had kept a smaller town atmosphere despite the mass expansion of the Orlando Metropolitan area into most of Seminole County.
In the recent several decades, the city had begun holding an annual Christmas celebration at Ft. Mellon Park, overlooking Lake Monroe where, to the north, the great suburban sprawl of Deltona could be seen. Marching school bands down 1st Street from old US 17-92 to Mellonville Avenue and the old Sanford Memorial Stadium, a Christmas meal for the needy at the Park itself and the nearby civic center, and sundry other activities, including a yearly concert at the Memorial Stadium where it's expanded seating allowed for two thousand people to see lower-level bands perform Christmas music along their own tunes. Everyone was in wear appropriate for the season; sweaters and pants with the weather having dipped down to the 40s, which was far preferable to the prior year when Christmas Day saw temperatures up to the upper 70s and not below 58.

A local "old-time" barbershop quartet finished the Christmas song "Can You Hear What I Hear?" and left the stage at midfield to the applause of the crowd. After they did, a portly older African-American with a graying beard stepped up. City Commissioner Paul Collins was the most senior of the city's commissioners, a man who started politics later in life and hadn't advanced very far for it. "I hope you've all been enjoying the show," Collins began, drawing cheers mostly from a contingent of his Midway constituents, to whom he was the local hero for rising from a lower-class Midway home as a child to being a successful local businessman. "Before we continue, I'd like to address the crowd for a moment. As the news has reported lately, a conflict has broken out again in Universe ST-3. The Pacificans, a people who are pretty much our cousins, have been forced to rebel from the Federation to prevent the Federation from impoverishing them to enrich it's inner worlds. Now, since the Pacifican government was illegally arrested and deposed by the Federation some months ago, some concerned citizens in the Allied Nations, and on our own Earth, have formed the Friends of Pacifica Committee, and I have been given the singular honor of recently being asked to lead the Sanford chapter of the Friends of Pacifica Committee."

"Our purpose is to help get donations to support Pacifican families in this harsh time. Now I know a lot of folks don't have a lot of money right now, you've already bought gifts for your families or spent it on other charities, but I'd like to ask you now if anyone can lend something, anything. Even a few dollars can get a Pacifican child an extra meal while his folks are off fighting. And it all adds up."
"Now, to show you folks how strongly I feel about this..." Collins pulled something out of his pocket, and waved the slip of paper in the air. "This is a check for ten thousand Alliance dollars. This represents all of the spare money I have at the moment. This check is written out to the Friends of Pacifica Committee and will be provided to the Southeastern North America Regional Office of the FoPC first thing tomorrow. I am now at the mercy of my next paycheck, just like so many of you. That is how firmly I believe in the rightness of the Committee's work. One of the greatest American qualities is our generosity with our wealth, and I believe that the good people of Sanford will step up to provide for these hard-working people in their time of great need."
"Now, if any of you are worried that your money will go to buy weapons or military goods of any kind, you needn't. The FoPC has ensured that it's donation accounts will go directly to food, and medicine, and clothing, and only then shipped to Pacifica. I promise that if you give a donation, you are not paying money to their government to fight, you are providing innocent Pacifican families with the things they need to survive."
"Throughout the show, Committee volunteers will be in the stadium courtyard to collect any donations you see fit to give. I thank the good people of Sanford for their attention and patience, and now, I have the honor of introducing to you Sanford's very own big record band, Jenny & Charlene!"
As the pop/country duo came onto the stage with a round of applause, Collins left and returned to a seat.

When the Christmas concert was over, and everyone returned home, it would be estimated that the crowd of 2,000 had given $5,000 ADN to the FoPC, ranging from children putting loose change into donation cans to other wealthy citizens writing out checks into the hundreds of dollars (and some cynically noting them for tax purposes).

The only unique feature of this scene was the specific circumstances of it, as the process of seeking and winning donations was carried out across the Alliance. The metaphorical "loose change" of the Multiverse's greatest industrial power was going to start flowing to Pacifica very shortly.


Camp Cartmen, Pacifica
Universe Designate ST-3


Admiral Robertson wasn't surprised at the reports coming in, but the disappointment on his officers' faces was clear.
For two days they had advanced without ceasing, but here on the third day, they could go no further. The Warhammers were exhausted from all of the fighting they had gone through, and most of the militias simply could not advance against the determined, fanatical resistance that the hitherto-inexperienced Pacificans were putting up.
He listened to his commanders prattling on. "One more push" was the common refrain. All of his commanders, even the leader of the Warhammers, was for it. Only one regimental-level commander had voiced opposition, and he - Col. Gralo l'Rikt of the Andorian Imperial Guards' 3rd Cavalry Regiment - was looked upon with suspicion as he was officially an Alliance citizen, not a Federation citizen.
Reports from orbit indicated that nearly a quarter million Pacifican troops would be arriving on both banks of the Washington within four days, and that would make it impossible for Robertson's forces to do anything but hold their ground - and even that with difficulty - so their only chance to take President Tyler's rebelling government as prisoners was here and now.

Robertson's final push in that direction was a message from Milano, indicating that there were growing problems in other charter colonies as pro-independence factions grew bolder and drew more political support. The problem had to be dealt with immediately if they were to avoid a general civil war.
Sighing, and wishing he had retired back around Stardate 54200 like he'd initially wanted, Robertson gave the order to launch a full-scale attack on both banks.
The final act of the Battle for Jefferson was about to be played...

Missing limbs in spades. The One More Push. Yeah, this is a Civil War. Probably one with officers who will fumble around the war and spend lives without any idea what else to do. I do find it interesting that the citizens of the ADN are starting to let the cash flow. That's not somthing I can ascribe to any war in Earth's history.

Vehrec wrote:Missing limbs in spades. The One More Push. Yeah, this is a Civil War. Probably one with officers who will fumble around the war and spend lives without any idea what else to do. I do find it interesting that the citizens of the ADN are starting to let the cash flow. That's not somthing I can ascribe to any war in Earth's history.

Well, this is technically for charity in aiding the victims of the war. Just wait until the International Volunteers show up, though. I have yet to decide which actions of the Thomas Jefferson, Robert E. Lee, Winston Churchill, Casimir Pulaski, or Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben Battalions will be shown.

Steve wrote:

Vehrec wrote:Missing limbs in spades. The One More Push. Yeah, this is a Civil War. Probably one with officers who will fumble around the war and spend lives without any idea what else to do. I do find it interesting that the citizens of the ADN are starting to let the cash flow. That's not somthing I can ascribe to any war in Earth's history.

Well, this is technically for charity in aiding the victims of the war. Just wait until the International Volunteers show up, though. I have yet to decide which actions of the Thomas Jefferson, Robert E. Lee, Winston Churchill, Casimir Pulaski, or Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben Battalions will be shown.

Strong shades of the Spanish Civil War.

So, are we to have another Miracle on the Vistula?

Have a very nice day.
-fgalkin

Sabastian Tombs wrote:

Steve wrote:

Vehrec wrote:Missing limbs in spades. The One More Push. Yeah, this is a Civil War. Probably one with officers who will fumble around the war and spend lives without any idea what else to do. I do find it interesting that the citizens of the ADN are starting to let the cash flow. That's not somthing I can ascribe to any war in Earth's history.

Well, this is technically for charity in aiding the victims of the war. Just wait until the International Volunteers show up, though. I have yet to decide which actions of the Thomas Jefferson, Robert E. Lee, Winston Churchill, Casimir Pulaski, or Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben Battalions will be shown.

Strong shades of the Spanish Civil War.

A little bit of everything. Another SCW connection is that, for the UFP President Ovnork, I've envisioned a bit of Manuel Azaña Díaz, the Spanish Republic's leader during the SCW. I've taken a bit of liking to him from my reading of Hugh Thomas' Thucydidean work, "The Spanish Civil War".

Steve wrote: in aiding the victims of the war. Just wait until the International Volunteers show up, though. I have yet to decide which actions of the Thomas Jefferson, Robert E. Lee, Winston Churchill, Casimir Pulaski, or Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben Battalions will be shown.

Of course, being that it's the multiverse, some of those battalions may actually be led by the people they're named after.

Slacker wrote:

Steve wrote: in aiding the victims of the war. Just wait until the International Volunteers show up, though. I have yet to decide which actions of the Thomas Jefferson, Robert E. Lee, Winston Churchill, Casimir Pulaski, or Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben Battalions will be shown.

Of course, being that it's the multiverse, some of those battalions may actually be led by the people they're named after.

Um, no, not likely. President Dale's home Earth is the least-advanced Earth with Multiversal Contact and it is already into the mid 21st Century.

But you can all dream.

Steve wrote:

Slacker wrote:

Steve wrote: in aiding the victims of the war. Just wait until the International Volunteers show up, though. I have yet to decide which actions of the Thomas Jefferson, Robert E. Lee, Winston Churchill, Casimir Pulaski, or Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben Battalions will be shown.

Of course, being that it's the multiverse, some of those battalions may actually be led by the people they're named after.

Um, no, not likely. President Dale's home Earth is the least-advanced Earth with Multiversal Contact and it is already into the mid 21st Century.

But you can all dream.

It would have been fun.

Have a very nice day.
-fgalkin

I thought there was one in the ADN from the 17th century?

The Duchess of Zeon wrote:I thought there was one in the ADN from the 17th century?

No, there wasn't. The ADN 1.0, the sucky one I made when I was fifteen, had one from the 18th Century, but AR-12 was re-written as another advanced timeline universe for ADN 2.0.

Jefferson (West Bank), Pacifica

Just under a mile west from the Presidential Mansion was Monticello Avenue. It was a major road in the city, one that started and ended on the Washington River, running north-south through the outermost edge of the city's urban core on the western bank of the river and basically serving as a line that touched both ends of the bend the river made around Jefferson.
Now Monticello Avenue was to be the battlefield. The Federation's troops stormed forward over the road, aided by a short, prepatory artillery barrage that was the most effective attempted so far due to the loss of so many Pacifican anti-artillery defense batteries in the Jefferson Heights explosion.
When the barrage ended and the troops came forward, they found that a number of buildings had been shattered or otherwise damaged in the barrage, and hoped that many of the Pacifican defenders had been in them. This hope was dashed when the first mortars exploded in the middle of the street, killing and wounding many as six depleted Federation divisions began their advance.

It was soon apparent that the barrage might not have been the best idea. Pacifican troops moved forward, finding the cover of rubble to be a great advantage while it simultaneously provided an obstacle to the Federation infantry. In two sectors, along Parson Street and Carr Street, Federation tanks managed to penetrate the Pacifican lines only to be wiped out by the reserves and their anti-tank missiles.
High atop the Parker Building, a fifteen story office building overlooking Monticello Ave., Captain Harry Davis watched the Federation attack unfold and directed what was left of the Pacifican artillery assets in Jefferson down on them. Lack of space in the urban environment had forced the dispersal of the artillery, most of it in the Riverfront Park or Landing Park, which commemorated the spot that the colonists of Pacifica had landed on two centuries prior. Now, in the distance, he could sometimes see the brief flashes of where the artillery was firing, raining more cluster munitions and armor-piercing shrapnel rounds on the Federation troops as they rushed onward.

From his place Davis could watch much of the battle unfold along the six mile front. There were ten thousand Federation troops per mile of front, a density of volume of ground troops not met in Federation history in a long time, and these men and women - exhausted, suffering from loss and desperation - charged onward almost recklessly. Those who had never seen battle before this campaign had become hardened by what they had experienced, their less-worthy comrades long claimed as casualties. They were a far cry from the worry-free core worlders they had once been, and what they had experienced had filled them with rage toward the Pacificans and Colonials in general, just as most Pacificans detested them. Just as Davis himself abhorred them, having seen how they lived, how little they thought of the men and women who worked hard just so they could live carefree. The pre-war prejudices had now been enflamed into bloody wartime rage.

The breaches at Parson Street and Carr Street were sealed by reserves, but the Federation's 8th Tellarite Infantry Battalion forced a breakthrough at Roosevelt Street, where the tanks of the Andorian 22nd Guards began to filter through. From his place on the Parker Building, Davis saw this happen and called for an artillery strike. The roughly-porcine Tellarites looked fierce as they pushed their way through the street, firing up at the nearby buildings and braving the murderous crossfire as some of their platoons broke off to take the buildings.
Then the shells hit. Precise and deadly, they sprayed hot metal over the Tellarites at super-sonic speed, overcoming their body armor and shredding many. The dead and dying soon covered Roosevelt Street while the survivors responded to an order to take cover, which forced them into the buildings. WIthout infantry to support the tanks, the anti-tank units made short work of the Andorians, who promptly fell back having lost six tanks within a minute.
From where he watched, Davis saw the Federation's wave of troops falter on Monticello as the street ran with the blood and entrails of over half a dozen races; Human, Vulcan, Bolian, the list went on. The sight served to reinforce to Davis how much of an underdog Pacifica was if she were forced to fight alone. There were thousands of inhabited systems in the Federation, while Pacifica had only thirty in its sphere. Yes, they were almost all highly-populated and productive, not literal colonies any longer, but the Federation had the largest portion of the Alpha Quadrant under its flag. How could tiny Pacifica compete with that?
The sun would be down soon, and Davis was ready to shift on his night vision as he did not expect the fight to lighten up simply because of night.
Then he saw movement beyond Monticello Avenue The roads were filled with armored troops coming up, and Davis recognized them easily as the Warhammers. Without stopping to do much more than slightly reform their ranks, they began moving across Monticello, collecting shattered or disorganized units around them to join them in resuming the offensive.


Jefferson (East Bank)


Chief Pablo Hernandez, a native of Acapulco back on Earth, was commanding one of the squads in the 9th North American Infantry Battalion, Beta Company, and had his men resting for the moment in the confines of a former restaurant. They had already raided it's stores for food and eaten, so all that remained was to wait until the order went out to try again for the river.
They were almost there. From a nearby office building's eighth floor, Hernandez had seen the Guise Bridge which connected the two halves of the city, and which was his unit's final destination.
Over the comms the order was given to resume the attack and to try and overwhelm the Pacifican defenders nearby. Hernandez led his squad back out into the street, finding the attrited remains of his platoon without their commander (Lieutenant Wilder had been killed just hours before in the taking of the aforementioned office building), and brought them together to resume their advance.

They moved swiftly down the street until they found themselves opposite an office building from which Pacifican troops opened fire on them. Hernandez quickly ordered the platoon into the building's main doors, which the Pacificans had not blocked.
The lobby was grand, four floors high by itself, with a marble fountain still spewing water dominating the scene. There were visible cafes on three levels, while the directory listed off dozens of offices for companies, law firms, insurance firms, and ironic enough, the office space for the local branch of the Federation's BNA Enforcement Bureau.

Particle fire erupted from the upper floors and Hernandez and his people took cover, though not before two of them were claimed by the first. Hernandez lifted his own Type 1 Particle Burst Rifle, a Federation knock-off of the MP-10, and opened fire at the open floors. His shots hit nothing, but his troopers' firing allowed him and a squad to get to the stairway and begin working their way up. They were soon joined by other infantry, as another platoon from Beta Company began to slip into the building. A burst of particle shots fired at some of them as they took cover demolished the fountain statue and chipped away at it's basin, sending water to the floor and making it dangerously slippery.

Up and up the stairs they went, crouching and ducking under the solid railings to avoid fire as best as they could. They made it to the third floor and rounded a corner, hitting the ground just in time to avoid fire from the Pacificans. Hernandez pulled a photon grenade off his belt, pulled the pin, and tossed it across the open space between the walkway and the nearby office corner where a fire team of Pacificans were firing. The explosion's heat washed over him, feeling almost painfully hot, and the screams of dying Pacificans could be heard, one changing in volume quick enough that Hernandez knew that the poor soldier had been blown over the railing and fallen two floors to the wet floor below.
There was a burst of particle fire from another direction, and Hernandez and his people took what cover they could, though he saw one of the younger members of the platoon fall with direct hits to her torso. As he turned to check on the girl, a clattering noise came to his ear and he saw the frag grenade hit the ground. Without thinking, he jumped upon it just in time for his body to take all of the released fragments. They had just enough power to break through his body armor, but lost enough kinetic energy in the effort that most of the pieces failed to get through his body entirely, embedding themselves in his guts, ribs, and lungs. Hernandez coughed up blood and it would be several seconds before his last breath came and went.

Around the spot where Hernandez fell, a ferocious infantry battle broke out that would last for the next three hours. When it ended, it was from the exhausted Federation infantry being pulled out by their commander, who could no longer bear to see his people die against the fanatical Pacifican resistance and decided to admit defeat on getting to the bridges.


Jefferson (West Bank), Pacifica


The Warhammer attack reinvigorated the Federation's troops, and Davis watched from his perch as they began to surge forward. They got down Parson Street again and then Roosevelt, though the knocked out tanks on Carr barred their progress. The British-built Chieftans used by the Warhammers proved more resilient against the anti-tank weapons of the infantry reserves, absorbing many hits before going down and threatening to exhaust the ammunition for the anti-tank forces.
It didn't take long for Davis to see his own building come under attack. The Warhammers and two other militia companies surged into it, driving the companies attached to him up and up the building. It was soon clear the building would fall, and Davis knew that this position could not fall into Federation hands. Over his comm, he gave the building's location off for a full-scale barrage from the remaining artillery.
The shells soon came in, and Davis had a moment to feel the building rumble beneath him as the high-explosive shells crashed through the structure and exploded, doing enough damage to ruin the building's structural integrity. As it began to crumble, a shell overhead went off and sent a solid piece of shrapnel through Davis' helmet and skull and into his brain, killing him instantly.


With a roar, the tanks of the 8th and 11th Mechanized Brigades moved forward from their positions at the Riverfront Park, and one of the platoons was under the command of Brevet Lieutenant Beverly Lamb, granted a battlefield commission to replace her lost commanders and for her performance in the prior week of battling. She sat in her tank, directing the movements of it and the other three under her command as her company commander had instructed.
The Stuart was no match for the heavier Chieftan normally, but in these close environments the range advantage of the Chieftan was negated more than the speed advantage of the Stuart, so her tank had more than a fighting chance against them.
With a single order her entire armored company was sent to shore up the faltering left flank, where Federation tanks had penetrated on six streets. Not wanting to take them on at the front, she ordered her squad of four tanks to travel down Constitution Street first and attack an enemy column moving up Johnson Street on it's right flank. They rumbled through the growing darkness of the Jefferson streets, the civilians in this neighborhood long evacuated to the riverfront shelters or the handful of foreign consulate buildings in Jefferson, and the noises of battle kept the enemy from hearing their hover engines until they were almost in range. They got to 3rd Avenue and turned, coming up on the enemy column as they went down Johnson Street just 200 meters or so away. With a single button press on her console Lamb had all four of her tanks fire, and all four hit their targets thanks to the close range, striking the weaker flank armor of the Chieftan tanks. Two burst into flames, one simply stopped from damage to it's tread, and one was hit at such an angle that the Stuart's cannon failed to penetrate it's armored skirt.

The attack caught the Federation column off guard, and it paused just long enough that Lamb got another shot off with two of her tanks, destroying the crippled tank and a fourth before she pulled her tanks back to avoid the devastating return fire that the Chieftans could give.
As the tanks pulled back, moving to another street to try and catch the Federation tanks in the flank again, Lamb's sensors showed that another enemy column of four tanks was moving down Constitution Street to attack them. She ordered her tanks to keep going and turn turrets to engage the enemy attackers, aware that against a Chieftan's main gun even their frontal armor would be no protection. Thankfully for her, Lamb's tankers got off the first shot at the enemy, damaging the cannon on one and scouring armor on another. A thunderous sound boomed in the air, and Lamb saw Sergeant Lister's tank explode. There was no time to grieve, as Lamb had to save herself and the others by turning down 4th Avenue and away from Johnson Street to avoid the enemy column.
She had help now, as an infantry platoon with anti-tank weapons had been moving up from the scant reserves to plug in the gap in the Pacifican lines, and they had taken positions in a building to fire down on the Federation tanks. The plunging fire was devastating, rockets and missiles blowing up the columns on both streets and allowing Lamb to turn her tank around and resume the movement to Monticello Avenue.


Presidential Mansion


From an upper floor of the mansion, Tyler was able to look out on the city and see the fighting rage from the flashes of light in the night sky, the explosions. So many had died, and more were dying, in this war that he had unleashed.
The weight on his heart was heavy. Tyler himself was not an eloquent, grandiose man. He had entered politics to try and change the world for the better and had ended up making the same cynical deals that all politicians had to make to advance their careers and their agendas. Now History had taken him and placed him upon its stage, and his actions would determine his fate, the fate of Pacifica, and perhaps trillions of more people across the Federation and the Multiverse itself.
Behind him, aides finished preparation to evacuate to the Madisson that overlooked Washington River, since the fall of the Mansion could not mean the fall of the Government. The ballroom there was already being prepared for Congressional sessions the next day, as they sought some way of maintaining a norm while their city came under siege, with relief still days away.

News came that Federation tanks had been spotted by the Capitol, which was only about one hundred and fifty yards away, and nearby explosions seemed to indicate this truth. Just as Tyler was allowing one of his aides to pull him away from the window to evacuate, a series of explosions was joined by a report that the Federation tank force had been defeated by Pacifican anti-tank weapons and the evacuation ended partially. Tyler returned to his place at the window, nursing a cup of iced tea and too nervous to eat the baked potato provided to him by the Mansion's cooking staff before they were evacuated.
For hours that spanned an eternity in his troubled soul, the flashes of light and explosions in the distance continued. Beautiful Jefferson, the Pacifican capitol built to resemble Washington, D.C. on Earth (the Presidential Mansion was designed to look more like Thomas Jefferson's Monticello mansion than the White House, though), was being reduced to rubble and her streets drenched in the blood of her people and the invading Federation troops.
"From time to time, the Tree of Liberty must be watered with the blood of Patriots and Tyrants" was a saying of the great man the city was named after, and here Tyler could see, at a distance, that watering taking place at a scale he had never tried to contemplate. The war against the Dominion had, after all, scarcely touched Pacifica, so he had not seen those horrors, and aside from the brief Alliance campaign against the Orions and the short Klingon Civil War, this region had not seen such bloodshed since the Federation-Klingon border skirmishes a century before, in Kirk's time.
And again, it was all on his head. Tyler's heart quailed as he tried to consider the lives being ruined, extinguished even now, due to the things he had ordered. A part of him wanted this to end now, at any cost, but he would not. He could not. History would never forgive him if, once upon its stage, he refused to see this through.
And so the bloodshed continued through the darkness....


Camp Cartman


The displays on the screen were all Robertson needed to see. In the east, only the thinnest sliver of territory remained in Pacifican hands, but that sliver contained all of the bridges that could allow his troops to bridge the mighty Washington River. The forces on the east had advanced for days through urban terrain, taking horrible losses as they went and now so overstretched that, if the enemy had more troops, they could easily counter-attack. Their commander, Admiral Supek, had called off the attack, not seeing the point in continuing when his troops, even the Vulcan contingents, were too exhausted to break the enemy's defense.
On the west, the battle was still raging as the night hours continued, but it was clear to Robertson that things were not going according to plan. Although his forces had very nearly seized the Capitol, and had advanced up to nearly 2 kilometers into the city's heart along one street, the urban terrain was aiding the defenders too greatly, and the attack had lost all momentum. Pockets of Pacificans were still holding sections of Monticello Avenue, and save for a couple further penetrations the rest of the Federation force was being held at a line running parallel to the western edge of Landing Park, where in some cases artillery guns were being fired like cannons directly at approaching Federation tanks.

"This isn't going to work," Robertson said to the viewscreen image of General Thompson, the graying old commander of the Warhammers' 2nd Division and the lead commander of the assault. "You're not breaking through fast enough."
"The rebels are so battered that if I can just get one more push through...."
"One more push?!" Robertson exploded in rage at the man, making him recoil from the screen and drawing the attention of his aides from the outburst. "One more push you say! How many more 'one more pushes' will be necessary, General? Even one is too much now. We have scarcely three days, maybe as little as thirty hours, to get your troops out of combat, back to Camp Cartmen, and reorganized and replenished to deal with the eight fresh Pacifican divisions about to come down upon us! Face facts, General, this battle is lost! We cannot press on further no matter the strength of the enemy, not with our units torn apart and in disarray from the fighting. Continuing to so will only lead to unnecessary losses and diminish our ability to hold our base camps until more reinforcements arrive!"
"But Admiral, sir..."
"You either pull those troops out, General, or I'll sack you and find a man who will!"
The unexpected force, or rather vehemence, of Robertson's orders finally broke Thompson's protests. He nodded and quit the channel, and within moments Robertson could see his orders being enacted. The Federation troops, battered and exhausted, were pulling their scattered units back, and the orders would soon be cut for the units on both sides to fall entirely back to their base camps and prepare defenses to fend off the oncoming Pacifican reinforcements. Within hours, many of the roads out of Jefferson were again open. The siege had been lifted.

Although it was now officially 26 December 2165 AST, some of the observing Multiversal commentators from the media, diplomatic corps or other sources - for drama purposes or simply from not accurately realizing the change in date - began to dub the battle the Miracle of Jefferson.
The battered city of Jefferson, and therefore an independent Pacifica, had been preserved.

On the subject of numbers, how many are the Core worlds of the federation, and how many are their Charter Colonies? How do the colonies break down in terms of level of dissent, industrial capacity, and population? Weren't some of the Charter Colonies almost as bad off as the core at this point from decades of heavy extraction of capital?

U.S.S. Hood NCC-80045
Near Pacifica, Disputed Space
27 December 2165


The U.S.S. Hood was of the new "Flight III" Galaxy-class ship line, one of the few post-Dominion War ships in Starfleet. A true "lessons learned" design that incorporated elements picked up from ten years of examining other navies' designs, the Galaxy incorporated stronger shields and an armored hull, a greater complement of phaser weaponry, and a pair of large pulse phaser cannon batteries on saucer hull-turrets that gave them a wide arc of fire. Upon her bridge sat Admiral David Masters, Commander of the 10th Fleet of Starfleet's Defense Branch.
Below them the battle had been stalemated, and the Pacifican theater shields made it impossible for his fleet to effectively bombard any of the approaching troop concentrations or the capital itself. All he could do was wait and watch as more reinforcements moved in here and there.
As he studied a post showing the status on-planet and the continued withdrawal of the troops to their landing camps to defend them, he saw a subordinate shift at his post. "Sir, picking up multiple warp signatures."
"How many?"
"At least a hundred."
"I see the Pacifican fleet is coming back to the rescue," he said. He had the numbers to take them on, but then again, the tactical situation had changed somewhat. "Deploy all Cruiser and Battle Wings to meet them. Light Wings will watch our flanks."
WIth those orders the Federation fleet deployed to meet the Pacificans in battle once more, with two hundred and sixty vessels against the hundred, perhaps a hundred and ten, Pacifican. Over the next hour or so he watched their fleet come on, led by the battleship Abraham Lincoln, an Alliance Missouri-class vessel that had been rebuilt while in mothballs following it's crippling at the Battle of Alpha Paternis. Fortunately the Pacifican fleet was not very powerful, and the Pacificans had never been able to afford a superdreadnought, as the Federation still had no dreadnought-equivalent ships (preferring to make faster, more durable vessels that would, at most, rate as battleships in the Alliance Navy). Decent for it's size as of now, it could still not match the Starfleet force in firepower or number.

The Pacifican fleet acted conservatively, engaging at range and pelting Masters' cruisers, his Ambassadors and Akiras and Excelsiors, with missiles. Watching some of his ships began to disappear from his tactical display after receiving mission-killing damage, Masters ordered his fleet's bulk forward, looking to decisively crush the Pacifican fleet before more lives were lost.
The Federation fleet advanced, the Hood coming toward the lead, her quantum torpedoes lashing out and smashing into one of the Pacifican heavy cruisers and causing it's shields to partially fail. The Pacificans didn't react initially, remaining in a simple wall formation, and Masters began to get suspicious.

"Sir! More warp signatures, right behind us!"
Masters turned to the sensor man in shock. "What do you mean? Why didn't you detect them?!"
The answer to that was given when the ships that came out of warp behind them were seen to include two Marathon-class electronic-warfare cruisers, their jammers having actively hidden the arriving vessels with the Pacifican fleet's open arrival "covering" them on subspace sensors. The fleet that came on was nearly equal to the Pacificans' in size, but looked a bit larger, and Masters felt his gut twist when his Vulcan tactical officer confirmed the presence of a superdreadnought-sized vessel that their systems identified as the Rek'ter, a vessel of the naval force of the Thu'tassk Federated Republic, a union of Human, Tellarite, and Andorian charter colony worlds; she was a Sam Houston-class heavy dreadnought of Texan FHI-8 design, their attempt to match the first "superdreadnought" of the Multiverse, the Israeli Tikvah. She was clearly not as advanced, or deadly, as an Alliance Freedom-class, but the size of her 600mm mass drivers was testimony enough to her raw power, and deflector screen systems could always be upgraded at least.
But what was truly jarring for Masters was the presence of the Thu'tasskian fleet. Robertson's failure to take Jefferson was taking effect now; other charter colonies that were starting to stir with anti-Federation sentiments were going to be emboldened.

"Come about!" he shouted. "Engage the Thu'tasskian fleet!"
The 10th Fleet began to turn, but it was already too late. The Thu'tasskian fleet fell upon his lighter starships and began cutting them to ribbons, mass drivers and railguns and particle cannons firing into the weak deflectors and thin hulls of the mass of Mirandas and Steamrunners and even the newer Reliants. The four Defiant-class vessels in his fleet were engaged by their Alliance-designed Boxer-class counterparts, nullifying any advantage they might have given.
Now the Hood and her counterparts came on, led by Hood herself and the Sovereign-class Magnificent leading the way. He watched the Rek'ter come up alongside the Magnificent while her shields took the blows of the Hood's forward guns without faltering. It's mass drivers erupted, sending out rounds that smacked the Magnificant with the kinetic energy equivalent of four quantum torpedoes for each round, then added to it with their own shield-piercing warheads. The explosions were designed to put maximum stress on the other ship's shield generators, much as newer models of quantum torpedoes were meant to, allowing for shields to become too weak to stop the KE of other rounds.
The Sovereign-class's shields had been made to withstand, as much as possible, such broadsides, and they held, but Masters knew that they couldn't take many more hits like that. He saw their phasers lash out at the Rek'ter while the Hebridia's 290mm particle cannons retaliated across her shields from the Missouri-class ship's position "above" the Rek'ter.
Then the Rek'ter fired again, and this time her cannons prevailed. The Magnificant's shields buckled under the onslaught and explosions racked her port side from the multiple hits. Her port nacelle exploded spectacularly, sending debris everywhere, and the mighty Sovereign's lights began to blink out.
As 10th Fleet began to plow through the Thu'tasskians, the Pacifican fleet came hard on the cruiser wings that had been watching their flank. Masters knew they couldn't hold out, not with the heavy units of the Pacifican fleet in the fight, and tried to pull the cruisers back and gather his fleet together to break out into open space and reform.

The many energy beams and pulses and solid weapon rounds were making space deadly, and as the Federation fleet closed range to it's preferred "knife-fight" tactics and to partially negate the advantages of the other fleet's superior point-defense, the Thu'tasskians and Pacificans tried to maintain a relative distance to take advantage of their ships' preferred range.
With concentration and drive, the 10th Fleet forced it's way through. The Hood shook under the onslaught of the Thu'tasskian battleships Hebridia and Simmons, making it to warp just in time to escape from the trap.
Masters watched on his tactical displays as the 10th Fleet pulled away from the fight for the moment, forcing the Pacificans and Thu'tasskians to turn and very nearly causing them to hit each other with shots aimed at the Starfleet vessels. In these precious few seconds, he would be able to reform his fleet....
"Sir, warp contacts bearing from the upper plane of the system, coming from New Hollandia!"
That phrase brought with it defeat. New Hollandia, the actual origin for the colonists who later created the Algrossan Republic that had provoked the great crisis with the Alliance in 2158 AST, was a noted hotbed of secessionist intent, and their rich veins of dilithium and latinum ensured that even with the Federation's forced dues, they had enough money to buy a capable, if small, fleet. If they were coming in, there was no doubt that they were here to support Pacifica. And like Thu'tasskia and her federation of colonies, they had been known to purchase not one but two superdreadnought-level warships, enough firepower to go with the numbers of the Colonials to overcome 10th Fleet.
"Signal to all ships, break combat and fall back to Starbase 19!"
With that order, the 10th Fleet went into full retreat, leaving almost a third of it's number behind for the Colonials to capture.


Camp Cartman

Admiral Robertson listened intently, and stoically, as General Velasquez recited to him the offered terms of surrender. His people would be provided hospitable confinement at a prefab prison camp being erected in the temperate climes of the State of Stafford to the north, their weapons would be turned over, and the Starfleet medical personnel would be provided with ample support to provide for wounded Federation personnel. Admiral Robertson himself and Admiral Supek were being offered softer confinement at the newly-appointed Vice President Regina Gustafson's palatial home overlooking Adams' Bay, not ten kilometers from where his men would be encamped, though both men knew that they would not accept. Furthermore, promises were made that Robertson and Supek, and all of their men, would be offered asylum upon Pacifican or Thu'tasskian territory if, upon the termination of hostilities, they had reason to fear imprisonment for whatever reason.
Robertson looked to his staff and the looks upon their faces. The only missing face was Commander Hilton, who had been given the singular fortune of having beamed aboard the Hood the prior day to go over plans with Admiral Masters, and had thankfully been detained by duty long enough to escape with them.
As for the rest of them... The bitter taste of defeat was already to be had, but would they accept the humiliation of surrender? Robertson believed they'd have to, and more to the point, he was willing to save their lives and take that upon himself.
"General Velasquez, you are a good and generous man. Despite the blood you have lost to this struggle, your terms are exceedingly generous," Robertson replied. "With my authority as commander of the Federation Armed Militia's Pacifica Expedition, I hereby accept your terms of surrender."
"Thank you, Admiral. History will honor you for ending this bloodshed now."
"That's good to hear, because I have a feeling History may yet find a lot of things to condemn both of us, and our causes, over, General Velasquez." Nodding to a subordinate to transmit the announcement to his field troops, Robertson continued, "I can only hope that the Federation sees the wisdom of negotiation now that armed might has failed, and that the bloodshed these past few days will not be joined by more. Robertson out."
As he closed the channel, and prepared to turn himself over to the arriving Pacifican troops, Robertson's heart quailed in the knowledge that his hope was a forlorn one. The bloodshed would not end. Indeed, he couldn't help but fear that it had scarcely begun...



New Windsor, New Anglia
28 December 2165 AST


The Kingdom of New Anglia had never been very happy with the Federation, even in the pre-New Way days before the Basic Necessities Act and the yearly GDP dues to pay for it. The founding of New Anglia was rooted in British conservatism that had managed to survive the Eugenics Wars, the Third World War sparked by the Greenists, and the rise of "progressive" government spurred by Vulcan prodding. As the saying went, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and for every danger that the more misguided elements of late 20th Century progressivism brought, the more some people began to wonder if maybe things had been better off in an earlier time.
The final stage was the founding of the Federation and the successful salvation of Humanity and it's new allies from the Romulans. The government on Earth had won the war while implementing integrationist policies meant to nearly abolish national governments, and the victory in war gave them legitimacy for domestic policies that included the "final victory of rational, progressive politics over the savage past"; the "Dissolvement Act" of 2165 (ST-3 Calendar) that officially declared that all monarchies still legally active on Earth were dissolved without reservation.
At that point, the thousands of British, Canadian, and Australian monarchists still alive and committed to the Royal Family resolved to maintain the British throne, and to do so, they emigrated, finding New Anglia at what was then the edge of Federation space, unclaimed but with hitherto-undiscovered latinum and dilithium deposits in it's solar system.
The final catch had been the division of the monarchist movement into a pro-Windsor and a Jacobite faction, resurrecting the centuries-old Jacobite claim and adopting an even more extreme archconservative view, namely that the Hannoverians and Windsors had let things go too far. This feud had the potential to nearly kill the possibility of New Anglia being founded, but was resolved by a happy coincidence, that the current Windsor claimant had a German wife, Charlotte von und zu Liechtenstein, who was the rightful heiress of the Stuart claim that originated from the deposed King James II and VII (and of the Princely Family of Liechtenstein to boot, though the population of Liechtensteiner monarchists was so small that it was soon subsumed into the primarily English and Scots population of New Anglia, leaving only a quaint "New Liechtenstein" city near New Windsor that became a tourist oddity and where people learned a little German for matter of atmosphere). This neatly unified the two factions and, on 9 March 2173 ST-3 Calendar, the Kingdom of New Anglia was formerly created.

The reaction in the rest of the Human sphere was akin to the reaction of one seeing the bearded lady at a carnival freak show. Press pundits didn't know whether to laugh or be angry at such a display of "reactionaryism" as the Federation prepared to move on into the future. The progressivists of the Earth government, always aware that their Dissolvement Act had barely skirted by a court challenge and was dubious under the Earth constitution, pressed hard for the Federation to quash it. And nearly quashed it was, until the debate was subsumed by the wider debate of how to ensure that new alien races would want to join the Federation in the future despite a disparity in settled planets. As such, the "United Federation of Planets" essentially re-designated itself to a mere "United Federation of Homeworlds" (as one critic called it) while other worlds with populations of the founding races were offered "sovereign charter", meaning autonomy and partial sovereignty, in exchange for relinquishing any claim to a Federation Council seat, permitting Federation authority in foreign affairs, and agreeing to place all defense forces under Starfleet in time of war. Thus was the birth of the "charter colony".
The bargain saved the newly-formed Kingdom, which applied for and received charter colony status despite the vicious howling of the anti-monarchists on Earth. Most contemporaries, and later many historians, believed that the Federation Council accepted the charter just to get the issue out of the way, not wanting to delve into a "particularly Human" political matter, though it would find itself drawn back into the "monarchy" debate when the Betazoids applied for Federation membership decades later.

And so the "Great Joke of New Anglia" began, and while the loyal monarchists labored to make New Anglia prosperous, they were treated with scorn and popular derision by the majority of the rest of Humanity, though this didn't stop them from getting a sizable population as the latinum and dilithium mines opened up. Soon this early wealth, and a succession of excellent Prime Ministers in the early 23rd Century, made New Anglia one of the wealthiest charter colonies in the Federation, further permitting the diversification of it's economy with major industries such as shipyards, pharmaceuticals, and chemicals. And the population continued to boom, with many millions proving that while they might particularly care for monarchial government, they didn't mind it if it let them be prosperous.

Then came the New Way, the Neo-Socialists, and their merger into the Idealogue Party. New Anglia felt the crunch as badly as everyone else, and the damage to their prosperity ironically turned an originally apathetic population into staunch supporters of the Royal Family, which resisted every dues increase, every nationalization, and every other injury to the agreement that granted New Anglia her rights. No longer was "God Save the King" constantly subjected to ridicule or humorous alteration at public events, or republican sentiments expressed by the population. The monarchy was their ally, their friend, against Core Worlder exploitation.
By Multiversal Contact secessionist sentiment was high and was very monarchist, while the republican movements on New Anglia were increasingly dismissed as Idealogue shills (ironic given that most had been founded almost at the origin of New Anglia by Earth progressive parties trying to get rid of the restored monarchy quickly).

Now the news spread across the worlds of the Kingdom of New Anglia like wildfire. First had been the successful defense of the Pacifican capital, now, the defeat of Starfleet's orbital sieging fleet by the combined might of the Thu'tasskian, New Hollandian, and Pacifican navies.
The popular reaction began soon enough. Demonstrators complaining about the Federation demanding a lump sum from New Anglia to compensate for "lost dues" openly harrassed a Federation official of the BNA Enforcement Bureau as he went to his office, pelting him with any object they could find and shouting at him while the New Windsor bobbies tried to hold the demonstrators back.
Of course, for the official, the day was not yet over, for no sooner did he get to his office that armed Constabulary arrived and asked for him to come with them for his own protection. Soon the official was on a shuttle to take him to a Vulcan transport in orbit which took him back toward Earth, along with every other Federation official on the planet.

Soon the rest of the population began to realize something was going on. Members of the Anglian Army reserves received comm-calls informing them to report to their mobilization centers. Royal Anglian Navy personnel on leave or off duty were called to their posts, leaving behind concerned and uncertain families. The families of Parliament members saw them off, and Parliament held a full emergency session of the House of Lords and the House of Commons by mid-day.

And then the news came. Starbase 32, the central Federation position inside Anglian territory, was undergoing some form of rebellion or uprising, and all communications were cut off. Reporters from nearby planets reported that local army units were mobilizing and that the navy was being called into action. All of New Anglia seemed to be in a strange kind of orderly uncertainty, with it's populace awaiting with bated breath whatever Parliament and the Government was up to.
They got their answer about an hour before sunset, as the Compensation Hours began to catch up the 20 hour New Anglian day to the 24 hour Earth standard. Every holovid and open news station showed the sight at the Winston Churchill Parliamentary Building at 12 Churchill Street as Prime Minister Wallace Pitts stepped out onto a balcony overlooking the street and the gathered crowd at Nelson Square. He was flanked on his left by Her Grace Duchess Diane Howard of New Norfolk, a prominent figure in the House of Lords and popular due to her long suffering and complete fidelity for her husband Edward Winfield, who as a young man disappeared during the Cardassian War and was later rescued from Madred Village 23 on Dervak by forces of the Allied Nations and Federated Commonwealth in the Winter War; on his right was Defence Minister James Hamblin, former Starfleet captain and military analyst most known in defense circles for his accurate assessment of the Alliance's potential in the early 2150s AST; on the left of Duchess Howard was also the Right Honourable Gregory Toomb, MP of Shetford, the Speaker of the House of Commons.
With hands on a PADD device, Minister Pitts began to speak in a loud tone to the crowd below, his "New Cornwall" accent prominent to the crowd.

"Three days ago, the Kingdom of New Anglia received privately a demand from the office of the President of the Federation Council, and the Commander-in-Chief of Starfleet Command, to relinquish the vessels of the Royal Navy to Starfleet possession, and to disband three quarters of the Army, demands concurrent with the resumed demand that New Anglia pay a sum of approximately three hundred billion pounds for 'purposes of recovering lost dues and penalty for defrauding the Federation Council'."
"Again, His Majesty's Government proclaims that it is innocent of the charge of defrauding the Federation Council, and further charges that the Federation Council is using the accounting irregularities of other governments to justify extortion from innocent ones such as our's. Furthermore, His Majesty's Government has already refused all demands on the issue of payment or disarmament."
"Due to Federation actions toward other governments to refuse their unlawful demands, and to the conduct of the ruling party of the Federation and the electorate that has supported it for the past fifty years, it is clear to us that the Federation no longer abides by the spirit or form of the charter agreements that lawfully bind it to the Kingdom of New Anglia or to any other Colonial government. As such, His Majesty's Government has only one course open to it."
"On this day, 21 July 2380 Earth Time, the Parliament of the Kingdom of New Anglia has elected by majority vote to adopt a resolution written by His Majesty's Government, with the full input and support of His Majesty Edward XI, King of New Anglia and Sovereign Prince of Liechtenstein, that officially dissolves all political connection with the United Federation of Planets and which asserts the full sovereignty of the Kingdom of New Anglia as a lawful and independent Interstellar State of the Multiverse and furthermore recognizes as independent and sovereign all colony governments that commit the same act of dissolution from the Federation."

A cheer erupted from the crowd, with cries of "God Save the King!" from many voices. Even if the other peoples of the Federation, even the other Colonials, saw such monarchism as silly, why shouldn't they voice their loyalty and devotion to the King who had worked tirelessly to safeguard their rights, to strive for the return of property stolen from them, the King who sheltered innocent Anglians from fradulant terrorism charges that would have resulted in their abduction by the Federation for extradition to Cardassian torturers, the King who remained in the Palace of Saint George as Jem'Hadar and Cardassian ships approached New Anglia and the Federation bureaucrats abandoned the people they had been bilking for decades?

The cheer subsided as Pitts continued. "It is the opinion of His Majesty's Government that with this announcement, the Federation will likely commence military action to subjugate the Anglian people and to depose His Majesty from His throne. In light of this, the Parliament has elected to grant the Government with extraordinary Emergency Powers to aid in the Defence of the Kingdom, and so with this authority I herebly announce that the New Anglian Army and Royal Navy are considered fully activated. All reservists are to report to their mobilization centers and all leaves are hereby canceled. Furthermore, upon a careful study of the requirements for the likely coming war, the Government will adopt further measures regarding the economy, the production and distribution of both war material and ordinary goods necessary for civilian life, and the rationing thereof."
"Before I leave, I would like to read to His Majesty's People a letter written in His Majesty's pen, addressed to you. It is as follows.

To my Beloved People,


It is My Opinion that the days to come will be difficult, perhaps the most trying times for our people in over two hundred years. I furthermore hold that it is a burden that We must bear. These are the times that try the souls of all Good Men and Women, those times when Heaven places upon our shoulders the Heaviest of Burdens so that we might prove ourselves in the eyes of History and to ourselves.

I do not for a moment doubt that you, My Loyal Subjects, are capable of bearing this burden. I place my faith in you and in God that the Kingdom shall come through the times not merely as Survivors but as Conquerers. Traditional British Liberty is at risk. The tyrants of Paris and San Francisco move against us even now, and after numerous Offences against the Kingdom of New Anglia and it's People, We can no longer bide our time but must Act, and Act with Decision befitting Britons. As our ancestors Repulsed the tyrant Napoleon at Trafalgar and Waterloo; as they Repulsed the tyrant Hitler in the skies over Our Earthly Homeland, and Drove his evil Legions from the beaches of Normandy back to the German Homeland; as they Repulsed the Vile Aggressions of the tyrant Khan Singh and his Monstrous Armies at Basra and Bangkok; and as they Overcame the Lies and Delusions of the tyrant Colonel Green and his Madness, so too must we, their Descendants, their Blood, Repulse the tyrants Ovnork, Wilmington, and Milano.

The Honour of all Britons calls upon you, My Subjects, to answer the Call to Arms and to Gird yourselves for Battle. So long as your spirits remain Insurmountable, we will not be brought low and We Shall Not Surrender. We shall fight on the beaches, in the hills, in the cities and towns, in the deserts and forests, and of all the stars above our planets, and we shall never surrender. So long as a single British Heart beats Free, our People cannot be Defeated.

No matter what may come, I shall remain here, in the Palace of Saint George, as my sons and daughters and their children join their commands in the Army and Navy and prepare for battle. If this city falls, if this planet falls, I shall not flee, but will join any left here in facing our fates.

May God Bless Us With Victory

Signed,
His Majesty Edward XI, King of New Anglia and of its worlds, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, Sovereign Prince of Leichtenstein

The crowd recommended the cheering, and across the planet, the people of New Anglia answered the call to arms resoundingly.
New Anglia would fight for it's freedom to the last.



New Orleans, Earth
United Federation of Planets
1 January 2166 AST


Earth was burning.
For some it was hard to grasp. It seemed like a nightmare, not reality, but the truth was inescapable. Across the globe, much like many other worlds across the Federation Core, the populace was in the streets rioting, looting, protesting, as their response to the day's announcement that rationing had been imposed on the use of replicators for food or goods due to "impending material shortages brought on by the revolts of the colonies".
The ranks of revolting charter colonies was spiking every hour, it seemed. Fully a quarter of them had declared independence, representing about thirty percent of the Federation's industrial potential between them, and a dozen more had not only because Starfleet Security had acted swiftly enough to detain their governments as the Pacifican one had been detained. Three more were under interstellar siege, their navies having fought against Starfleet vessels and the planets in question actively resisting landing Federation forces.

Now the planetary mobs were lashing out. Convinced of their entitlements, enraged at having real limits placed upon them for the first time in decades (even during the Dominion War the "daily credits" were so high that nobody realistically used them all), they lashed out at the most convenient targets. They attacked shops and stores, seeming to present the "business owners" that in the colonies were responsible for this. They attacked government offices sometimes. But most importantly, they attacked anyone clearly identifiable as from a charter colony, even ones that had not yet seceded. Indeed, any outsider was immediately at suspicion of being a "Colonial" and thus risking attacked.
One of the mobs was moving through the city of New Orleans, hunting down a wealthy Pacifican family that had made the unfortunate choice of not leaving before the crisis started, and which had been barred from departure. A husband, wife, and two teenage children, they fled through the streets as fast as their legs could carry them, their home in New Orleans already being ransacked by some members of the mob while others sought to hunt them down, baying for their blood.

Jerry Stanton, the husband, led his wife Samantha and daughters Trudy and Wanda to the one place they thought they could find shelter, at a restaurant they always frequented when in the city. And it was through the doors of the closed Sisko's Bistro that he sought sanctuary.
They were soon met by the man who ran it, the elderly and snappishly tongued Joseph Sisko, father of war hero Rear Admiral Benjamin Sisko, and his grandson Jake. As Jake scrambled through the house, shutting all of the doors, Joseph prompted the family to escape over a wall into a nearby street while he distracted the mob, instructing Jake to follow them to the Planetary Transporter Terminal, run by one of Ben Sisko's former subordinates and a man who could be trusted.
Jake shook his head. "I can't leave you with them, Grandpa Joe. They're going crazy out there!"
"Jake, I'm not going to argue with this on you. Your dad needs you, and these people need you to help them get to the terminal. Now go!"
Seeing the look in his grandfather's eyes, the look that told him that the stubborn old Sisko wouldn't bend, Jake submitted and ran off to join the Stantons, helping Trudy get over the wall into the nearby street before jumping over himself.

Joe Sisko opened the door and was nearly knocked over by the mob. Some he recognized somewhat, others he didn't, all New Orleans natives who spread out and began to move around the restaurant. "Where'd the Colonials go, Sisko?!" one of the male voices demanded, and Joe Sisko thought he recognized it as a part-time patron who sampled his Cajun dishes every month or so.
"There's nobody here but me," Joe replied defiantly. "I''m closing up for the night, so please go."
"I saw them enter here," a female voice screeched. "Lying old man!" The crowd gathering around Joseph grew while their compatriots moved throughout the building, and began to loot it as well.
Two pairs of arms grabbed the elderly man from either side and a host of voices demanded answers. Joseph shouted, "You people should be ashamed of yourselves! Goin' around, destroying things and beating on people because you've been asked to sacrifice a little. Have you fallen so far?!"
"You were always one of them!" a voice cried, and Joseph did recognize this one as a man he knew named Weston, a young wastrel who lasted about three days in the bistro as a waiter before Joseph fired him for being a slouch.
Fist after fist, moving too fast and with the crowd too big for Joseph to identify, began to pummel the old man. Pain filled his ribs and stomach, and soon his face was being bashed in. Joseph's nose broke first, then he lost teeth, and an eye swelled shut, and he generally collapsed as his already ill-health couldn't take the strain of the beating. But it continued on and on, until long after Joseph Sisko breathed his last, thinking of his children and grandchildren to the very end.


San Francisco, Earth


Barely an hour after Joseph Sisko's murder, his grandson stepped out of an aircar driven by Chief O'Brien with the panicked Stanton family in tow. The mobs were rampaging through San Francisco too, beating and even killing anyone who stuck them being wealthy, businessmen, or Colonials, as well as holding a violent, vicious protest that was besieging the Alliance Embassy, naturally the target of the mob's impassioned suspicions, though even they lacked the courage to actually attack it given the deadly rifles and weapons in the arms of the Embassy's enlarged Marine guard.
Of course, Jake was never bound for there in the first place, but rather to the Embassy he was most familiar with, a place he could get in easily at. He first looked back to Chief O'Brien, who winked at him. "Good luck, Jake. Hope your grandfather makes it out all right."
"Thanks, Chief, you're a life-saver."
"Just doing my duty," O'Brien replied in false cheer before driving off. Seeing him go, Jake turned to the building in front of them. The power armor-wearing guards opened the massive steel gate protecting the Embassy grounds for Jake, though the Stantons were nervous even as they crossed the threshold of that gate to legal safety and trod upon the beautiful tiled mosaic of a mailed fist, the same mailed fist on the blue flag snapping in the sunset sky of San Francisco and marking the building as the Embassy of the Lyran Commonwealth.
At the door, another pair of guards in power armor emblazoned with the same fist looked to him and, recognizing him, one said, "Mister Sisko, a pleasure to see you again," in a faint German accent. Jake nodded and led the Stantons inside, where he was quickly led to the office of the Charge d'Affairs. The waiting room was filled with the mementos of it's office occupant and was exquisitely furnished. The secretary there, a somewhat plump blonde woman, smiled at him in recognition and then saw the Stantons. "Who are they?"
"Pacificans. They were staying in New Orleans when the rioting broke out, and a mob attacked them. Grandpa made me bring them here."
"Oh dear. Let me see you in...."

Moments later, Jake and the Stantons were standing in the office of the Lyran Commonwealth's Charge d'Affairs, Gustav Furst. It, too, was well-furnished, though the desk was covered in papers. Most of the pictures in the room were upon the desk or nearby tables and stands, with the except of the replicated copy of a Titian-esque equestrian portrait of Archon Victor Steiner upon the wall behind Furst's desk, between the two windows looking out at the San Francisco sunset. The portly Tharkad native shook Stanton's hand and gave a gentlemanly kiss on his wife and daughters, as conscious of gentlemanly social mores as any Lyran dignitary, before turning to Jake. "Yes, it's so horrible out there. The Baron is upstairs in his office informing the Archon and his staff on our situation as we speak," Furst lamented. "I will have to speak with the Ambassador, but I certainly don't see why we can't give the Stantons, or you, asylum here, and perhaps even political asylum in the Commonwealth complete with visas."
"That would be good, Mister Furst. Thank you very much."


Jake had scarcely emerged into the embassy's main hall when footsteps echoed from behind and a slightly-accented voice cried out, "Jake!"
He turned in time to see a beautiful young woman with tanned skin - clad in a business blouse and skirt that only made her more attractive to him - run into his waiting arms. Cordelia Muller's blue eyes looked at him, tears in them, before she put her lips to his in a kiss. When it ended, she sobbed, "After I heard on the news. I was so worried...."
"What news?" Jake asked. "I... I haven't heard anything..."
"Oh Jake...." Cordelia began to weep. "Grandpa Joe.... they found him.... the mob, they.... they..."
Jake felt his eyes tear up and knew his grandfather was dead even before his lover managed to get "they killed him" out between her sobs, for between her fears for Jake's safety and her own admiration for Joseph Sisko, she was a complete wreck. Jake held her tightly, trying to fight the tears coming down his face as he thought about how, if only he'd stayed, Grandpa Joe might've lived. If only he had stayed...

Looking up, he saw Jerry Stanton standing nearby, looking exhausted from the day's ordeal. He saw the two of them together and said, "Your Grandpa said you were seeing someone finally."
"Oh, Mister Stanton, this is Cordelia, Cordelia Muller. She's one of the Ambassador's aides here. That's how I met her."
Cordelia waved weakly at him, tears still in her reddened eyes.
"I'm glad to hear it." Stanton wiped at his eye, a tear having been coming down from it. "Listen, Jake.... I'm sorry for your Grandpa Joe. I wish he had gone and I had stayed, just so long as Sammie and the girls were all right."
"He wouldn't have wanted that," Jake said softly. "He... he wouldn't have wanted your family to lose you..."
Stanton nodded at that. "I just... just wanted you to know that we're all sorry, and that if there's anything we can do for you or for your Dad..."
"Escape," Jake said. "Go to the Lyran Commonwealth like they're going to offer you. Grandpa would've wanted you all to be safe."
At that, Stanton nodded and left Jake and Cordelia to grieve.


Paris, Earth

The fires were finally dying down, Ovnork could see. He stood in his office and watched as the violence finally subsided. It had taken a disorganized mobilization of the planetary militia, troops from Vulcan, and Starfleet Security detachments from every ship in the system to restore order, but it had finally been done. The casualty estimates were coming in every ten minutes as more bodies found, both of rioters and their victims. In the span of a single, horrible day, Earth had lost it's status as a happy paradise. The future never looked so much in doubt as it did at that moment.
Behind him, an aide came in to report that the rioting had ceased in London. Ovnork, without turning, thanked the man and sent him away, returning to his thoughts as he could still see the flames in the distance, the occasional flashes of phaser fire from the security forces stunning rioters joining them.
It was all coming apart. The AFU had forced Ovnork to overreact to the Pacificans and that had tugged at the string, unraveling everything. He could see the Federation begin to collapse all around him, with every charter colony secession, with every Starfleet ship defection, and now with the cities of Earth and of many planets across the Core burning as his own people turned their back on their vaunted, pacifist "enlightenment" and indulge in rampant violence, beating, looting, and killing in an orgy of madness.

Ovnork felt his soul shudder under the weight of what was happening. And he knew he was damned to sit here and watch it happen until the very end. He would be the last President of the United Federation of Planets, or at least of what it had been, since the Federation under Wilmington and Milano would be more akin to Cardassia or the Dominion than anything, not truly the Federation anymore.
This Federation, which he grew up loving, which he wanted to serve, was dying. His life's work was being trampled down into the dust, along with all hope of the better future, of the Enlightened Society, that Ovnork had felt when he was a young man. All that was left were the ashes of what might have been.
Ovnork looked out at the remnants of his sundered dream and began to weep, for even as the fires that lit up the streets of Paris died, even as the phaser flashes stopped, he knew it was not the end. It was the beginning.
The Federation Civil War had begun.



End Prologue

Please be patient for the beginning of Segment 1 of the Federation Civil War, "The Devil to Pay". Coming to a fiction forum near you....