The Children's War: Chapter One

Admiral Robert Neil stared at the view on the rear imagery screen, the black depths of space reflecting back at him like a mirror to his soul. The stretch of space was vast and thin, points of light scattered in a sea of black. He felt that way, stretched thin, with so very few lights in a dark history. The

future seemed even more grim, and he sighed, lifting a big hand to rub his tired eyes. He considered himself a man of faith, the name of God on his lips many times throughout his life. Whenever he faced worry or peril, he called out in faith to a God that had always answered in some way or another. He could recall his youth on Old Earth, when the name of God was not so rare as it was now, when men still believed that there was something greater than themselves. Oceans had been vast then, and space was still an untamable thing that spawned imagination and dreaming.

Back in those days, disease and drought were all but wiped out, and it seemed that every evil that had plagued mankind was conquered by science. When humanity took to the stars, space became the new frontier, and the promise of a great future lay ahead. Man always excelled in the flames of trial, emerging a new and better man for his victory. But new evils awaited in the stars, horrors as dark and strange as space itself. It was that horror that Admiral Neil faced now, and as he turned his pale blue eyes toward the front viewing screen, he uttered the name of God again for the first time in many long years.

Fire and plasma cast a light show in the dark of space, silent explosions that sent out energy waves, rocking the ships of the fleet like wake on water. Debris floated in weightlessness out there, skipping over the hulls of the battleships. And there, skimming around the battlegroup was the enemy--that horror that laid in wait for them in the stars.

The cruiser was massive, a great monster of the deep that slipped out of the dark of space, wreathed in a greenish glow. As far as anyone could tell, Sprechthelish was the name scrawled on the hull. It was the Cozzar dreadnaught, in route to Old Earth, guns ready and warriors poised to annihilate every last human between that battle group and the planet. The Sprechthelish's A.I. sent out a hostile transmission pulse that vibrated through the ships around it. It rumbled like the song of a demon whale, striking fear as it coursed through the bones of the pitiful resistance.

The Sprechthelish’s belly split open, greenish light and atmosphere and a host of starfighters oozing out of it like roe from the bowel of a gutted fish. It was another wave of fresh fighters, unleashed to pick apart the dwindling fleet. Robert knew that they could never survive another onslaught. He also knew that help would never arrive in time to save them or Old Earth. They were the last defense humanity had, and they were failing.

He ran his hand over his mouth, swallowing the taste of salty water. His stomach rolled. He was physically ill and sick at heart, asking himself over and over what he had done and if it would be enough. If it did succeed, it would forever leave a stain on humanity--a shame that the race would never be able to shrug off. But, there was no choice. This was the last chance that mankind had. If they did not do this thing--no matter how terrible it was--then they were doomed. The Sphelhesh Cozzar made no secret that they wanted to wipe out the race of man, and they had made a good start on that goal. There were so very few fighting men left, so very few ships, and so little in the way of munitions. This sickening, loathsome thing was the last hope of humankind.

Robert stifled a sob, clamping his hand to his mouth as he sank into his leather bridge chair. It wasn’t the nausea that made him tremble. Tears stung his eyes and burned his throat, regret and shame and sorrow made him shake. He had done the unthinkable. He had sent the children out to die.

“The children are here, sir,” the Quartermaster of the Bridge told him, his voice thin and tired. "Taking their formations now."

"...the children," Admiral Neil nodded. "Who are my squad leaders?"

"Samuel Anders. Call sign Vicious. Nineteen years old.” the Helmsmen began. “Jaylian Shiningway. Call sign Vendetta. Seventeen years old. Jason and Jeremy Neil. Call signs Tango and Rockstar. Both sixteen years old.” He paused, watching Admiral Neil wince at the names of his twin sons. “Uh...Olivia Prescott. Call sign Calamity Jayne. seventeen years old.”

The list went on, but Robert could not focus. Hearing the names of his own sons was too hard to grasp. He blew out a heavy breath and wilted into his chair. “Open the comms.” he said weakly. “I want to hear everything that goes on in those cockpits.”

"Aye, sir.”

They were so very young. The eldest of them was only nineteen. The youngest was hardly fourteen. They were the first children to be born with the Burn--a biological technology that had evolved in the first full generation of humans born in the stars. They were flesh and machine all in one, their muscle and sinews laced with fibers that pulsed electricity and wirelessly tapped into machines. Young as they were, they were skilled pilots, each of them paired with an artificial intelligence unit synthesized as a harmony to their own brain waves. Now, those children and their artificial companions were placed into the cockpits of new weapons and deployed into space. They were the last thing standing between humanity and its extinction.

The bridge crew wept quietly, each staring out into the black, watching the next generation go to their deaths. Sons and daughters were out there, their human-shaped vessels falling into sloppy formation to face the Cozzar dreadnought. Admiral Neil closed his eyes--a tear rolling over his rough cheek as the Helmsmen patched in to all the comms and the voices of children began to feed onto the bridge.

"Atlas, prime your guns. You’re dead before you start if you go in there cold.” a young man’s voice said over the open comm.

"Who was that?” Neil frowned, disturbed by the experienced sound of such a young man.

"Call sign is Vicious, sir,” the Helmsmen nodded. “Samuel Anders. He’s been assigned command of the first unit.”

"How old?” Neil asked, unable to recall the boy’s age.

"Nineteen, sir.”

"Blitz,” came a girl’s voice. “Close up that gap. Tank, don't make me tell you again to keep power up on that Point Shield, you're gonna need it.”

"Sorry, Liv," a cracking young male voice replied. "Won't happen again."

"That was Olivia Prescott, sir,” the Helmsmen offered. “Call sign, Calamity Jayne. The answer came from Danny Paige, fourteen years old, our youngest pilot.”

"Somebody wanna tell me why the Hell my little sister is out here in a Syn!” a man’s voice barked through the comm.

"Everette Prescott, sir,” the Helmsmen shifted his eyes to the Admiral. “Squad leader for the last remaining unit of non-jacked Syn operators still out there. Call sign, Crusader.”

"Open his comm,” Robert sighed, blowing out a hard breath to fight the rolling of his stomach. “Crusader, this is Admiral Neil.”

"Admiral,” the response was cold. “What are these kids doing out here?”

"They are the last line of defense we have, Crusader,” he said, troubled by his own tone of conviction. “They have to buy us time for the fleet to arrive."

"Buy us... Have you lost your mind! They're kids! Is UniTerE seriously letting you do this?”

"I have UniTerE Brass Panel's approval. You have your orders, Crusader. If you cannot follow them, you can step down and be replaced.” Neil frowned. “I've made my decision.”

He hated himself. He would never be able to live with this decision, and he knew it. The chances were good that he would die here today, and the shame of what he'd done would follow his name throughout whatever remained of humanity's future. If he survived, he would hate the Brass Panel for the rest of his days. This massacre of the children hadn't been his first choice, after all. It had been theirs.

"Think I'll stay right where I am, sir,” Crusader sneered. “Just a little F.Y.I, you just made the job of every real pilot out here a whole lot harder.”

The comm cut off before Neil could respond. It didn't anger him. He knew that Crusader was right. There was nothing he could say to make it better.

The Cozzar pilots let their light fighter's predatory A.I. systems unleash an onslaught of wailing transmissions. The sounds whined through the hulls of the UniTerE vessels, playing havoc with the minor systems and making lights flicker.

"Open all channels.” Neil said, clearing his throat.

When the communications officer gave him a thumbs up from his station, Neil gathered the last of his courage and addressed the men and women and children who were about to give their lives.

"This is Admiral Robert Neil of the Nostradamus speaking,” he began. “Today, we face an enemy like none humanity has ever known. They will show us no mercy. Their goal is to annihilate our species. You have one directive in these next few minutes. There is no room for mercy or even honor in this moment. Make sure that when they tell their future generations about us, they recall us as the monsters of their nightmares.”

The response to his command was instant. Light fighters zipped across the Nostradamus' hull, rolling over one another as they unleashed a spray of plasma fire. Comm chatter hissed across every channel. And the black void spread out in Neil's forward view screen lit up like fireworks.