Chapter One: Stagnation and Change
Prologue: Imperial Millennium
"A nation that neglects social inequality, mischievously increases military budgets, and then uses its power internally to suppress the citizens on the pretext of invasion by an external enemy is on the road to extinction."
- Unknown, Alliance of Sovereign Planetary Governments
"Standby for docking drone."
"Magnetic clamps engaged. Welcome home, pilot."
Hawk of Aokessho - Houshou-class Escort Carrier
2nd Mobile Fleet, 21st Mobile Battle Group, 211th Mobile Division, う Element
First Frontier - Greater Galactic Empire
With a brief shudder, the single-man fighter firmly attached itself to the magnetic clamps on the flight deck of the Houshou-class escort carrier, the most numerous class of carrier ship in the Imperial Navy's arsenal. Their six massive wings were a familiar sight throughout the Empire, and some viewed them as graceful spaceborne birds or dragonflies, while others saw them as hideous angels of death. Regardless of public opinion, the 687-metre-long light carriers and their 29-craft complements were here to stay, having recently been granted another fifty years of service by the Imperial Navy High Command. Like many ship classes in the Empire, the Houshou had not changed much in terms of appearance in the last hundred years.
Smooth magnetic-levitation rails brought the standard-grey Mi-7 fighter across the flight deck, entering the main hangar. As the hangar door - segmented to either allow one to five of the fighter launch/recovery rails to be used at a time without needing to open the entire door - slid closed behind, shutting out the cold vacuum of space, Lieutenant Hiroyoshi Fujita let loose a yawn, invisible behind his black, face-obscuring helmet. The Mitsuhishi-manufactured Mi-7 Reppu was a fine aerospacecraft by many standards, but fightercraft armour could only go so far. In the event of an ejection into space, the pilot would still be safe within the fully-sealed flightsuit he wore. The downside was that the helmet was indeed rather bulky and obscured vision when not turned on, though the internal HUD made up for that during flight.
While the cavernous launch hangar could be sealed and pressurised when required, it usually was left depressurised as it was almost constantly in use and exposed to space outside of FTL jumps and port calls. Instead, it was into the more habitable and oxygenated storage hangar beneath this that Fujita's fighter was moved into. An aircraft elevator brought his fighter down, pausing to act as an airlock for a few moments before continuing further down. The flight computer had already done most of the post-flight checks and the pilot just had to re-check a few of the more critical components, which Fujita quickly ran through with long-memorised precision. The fighter jerked slightly as it came to a stop in the middle of the hangar.
...Rather than his fighter's designated stand. Even more strangely, the hangar lights were completely shut off, except for the soft green glow of emergency lighting over some of the emergency exits. Odd...
"Uh, hangar control, this is Ryu-23, I think there's some kind of power failure or-"
With blinding suddenness, the hangar lights turned on, bathing the entire area with stark white fluorescent light. Anti-flash-and-glare filters in the helmet visor prevented Fujita from losing his vision, as showers of confetti and streamers suddenly poured over his cockpit glass. Arrayed before his fighter, filling up around half the hangar, was a sea of people, from his squadron mates in their flightsuits to the deck crew in their multicoloured jumpsuits, and the black jumpsuits of the ship's crew. At the head of them all was the commander of the 'Aokessho in his black kimono-type officer's dress. Even a few glossy black helmets of the Navy Security Troopers could be seen at the back of the crowd. Applause echoed through the hangar, loud even behind the sturdy advanced-polymer cockpit canopy.
The ladder was quickly hauled into place, and a green-suited crewmember clambered up, pulling the external cockpit release latch as Fujita began to remove his restraints. Then the 28-year-old suddenly found himself being dragged out of the bucket seat by two other men, before being roughly pushed off the side of the fighter. Five of his squadronmates were there to catch him, one of which grabbed the emergency release and pulled off the pressurised helmet. Fujita blinked several times in the sudden brightness and noise, finding himself pushed to his feet and countless hands reaching out to pat him on the back and ruffle his wet hair. Someone came up with a Kanon HSLR and snapped a photograph of his half-stunned face, mouth stretched sideways into a goofy grin, the 'pilot's standard eye bags' underscoring blue North Kanagawan eyes and a just-within-regulations mop of sweaty black hair.
Suddenly, he was face-to-face with the Commander himself, the older officer extending his hand. Fujita snapped a quick salute, then responded with a firm handshake, recovering quickly from his earlier confusion. The applause was deafening. The ace pilot waved to the crowd, then someone gestured for him to stand on an ammo crate they had just pushed into place. Stepping up, he waved to the crowd again.
"Thanks guys. Really," he said, the boyish grin still plastered across his face.
"Speech! Speech!" His wingman began yelling, prompting the crowd to begin chanting. Fujita nodded and raised one hand, the crowd quickly quieting down.
"It's been a great few years," he began, when one of the ammo-techs handed him a loudhailer to reach the back of the crowd, "yeah, it's been a great time here. So many things have changed in these two years. The first week I came in I got thrown in the brig for insubordination."
Laughs spread through the crowd, especially from his squadron commander, who pushed his way through the crowd uncharacteristically clad in his officer's kimono.
"Then we were deployed for war. I guess that was my wake-up call. Heh. Thanks for your support, all of you. We lost some good people. But we gained a lot more both for ourselves and for the team."
"Yeah, you gained the hundred!" Again, his wingman, who was now holding a flight helmet covered in strange, colourful markings. The chant began again. One hundred! One hundred!
"Yeah, a hundred. A fucking hundred bad guys!" The crowd erupted into cheers again, "and I couldn't have made it this far without all your support. I'll never forget my time here with the Sandsharks, here on the 'Aokessho. This is really a special place. The best crew on this side, no, the best crew in the entire Imperial Navy. Thanks guys, you'll always be in my heart. Wherever I go. Farewell, but not goodbye."
He threw one fist in the air.
"Maximum Impact!"
"Aokessho no Taka!"
Pilots' Lounge
Level 3A
Hawk of Aokessho - Houshou-class Escort Carrier
"Fuck, my damn helmet," Fujita tossed the reinforced polymer-and-alloy helmet onto the table, making a solid bang. The polished black surface had been vandalised by dozens of scribbles in markers and paint, words of encouragement and farewell messages from the crew, his squadron, and others. Someone had even stuffed a Rising Sun flag covered in messages of encouragement from the Security Troopers and the engineering department. The pilot still had the same youthful smile he had previously, even though he was now wearing much more comfortable black Navy work pants and a t-shirt bearing the squadron logo, also covered in signatures and messages.
"I'll miss your antics more than the man," one of the bomber pilots called from behind the bar in a loose Horaisani drawl, "but here you go. Have one last Horai Gem before you go."
"Shit, man, it wasn't so bad," the fighter jock slid up to the bar and grabbed the turquoise cocktail, receiving a hard pat on the shoulder from the other man as he sipped from the glass of deceptively sweet liquid.
"Not so bad? Bomber Wing isn't about to forget the fucking shower incident so soon!" The man gave a hearty laugh, mixing up another glass for himself.
Fujita gave him a wave and slid off towards the couches, which surrounded a hologram projector and a massive floor-to-ceiling screen. Most of his squadronmates were lazing around there. It wasn't often that Combat Air Patrol was not up, but the 'Aokessho and its accompanying vessels were far from any potential trouble spots, nearing the icy world of Atsuta for the entire formation to take leave, and to drop off outgoing personnel. Fujita wasn't the only one whose tour on the escort carrier had come to an end. He just happened to be the most famous one. Perhaps the other ships in the Element too had their superstars.
"The Great Hundred Kills Lord has arrived!" His wingman yelled dramatically, waving his e-reader around. The other pilots grinned, pulling Fujita to his usual seat on the brown, squishy couch.
"Fuck, I'll miss you guys," he shook his head, leaning back and sinking slightly into the seat, "if I could choose I won't leave."
His wingman punched him in the arm, hard.
"Are you nuts? This is great! You're an ace. You deserve to be amongst the aces," he grinned, "721st Fighter Squadron. The best of the best. They're so good, they don't even need a fucking cool nickname. Just 721. That's famous enough."
"It won't be the same, man," Fujita elbowed him back.
"Come on, you get to meet her. The top ace, man. Last I checked, her kill count was 384," the wingman almost obsessively counted off, "she's almost there, man. Damn, I wish I could meet her. Lucky shit!"
"She's almost forty years old," Fujita looked at his friend with faux disgust, "anyway, Sandsharks is where I was raised, it's where I got these kills, man. It's where I got this family."
The other pilots laughed at his dramatic statement. One of the other pilots waved her arm and grabbed the television remote off of the hologram projector, where it had been casually placed next to a coffee mug and a classified dossier.
"Man, fuck this guy," she laughed, glancing through a very thick folder of programme timeslots across various planets, carefully compiled prior to the trip and synchronised to shipboard time, "let's grab some Sensha-do. I think we're close enough to Atsuta to get some reception at last."
She turned on the massive screen, and, after a few moments of suspenseful static, tanks quickly appeared on the screen. But rather than that famous sport of simulated tank combat, the tanks were in parade ranks. And there were dozens upon dozens of them, followed up by enormous ranks of infantry troops marching in lockstep. It took a few moments for Fujita to realise it was some kind of breaking news programme. The female pilot swtiched channels, only to get the same thing with more static.
"Ah, I forgot. It's fucking Imperial Day," another pilot spoke up, receiving nods from the others. Shipboard time and dates were very different from terrestrial time on many planets, and was based around the six-hour ready shift rather than a solar frame of reference. Some bothered to keep track of time maybe on their homeworlds, or Imperial Standard based on Miyako's 24-hour day, but most did not care.
"Well, banzai," Fujita offered with a fist half in the air, giving his trademark lopsided smile. Someone threw a cushion at him, barely missing his glass. Everyone else began raising their glasses, gesturing to the ace pilot to begin. He laughed and raised his drink, beginning the trademark warcry of the Empire he served.
"Tenno Heika!"
Empire's Field - Miyako City
Miyako - Capital of the Greater Galactic Empire
Imperial Core
"Banzai!"
In drilled and painstakingly rehearsed unison, the next contingent of a thousand troops, in a perfectly rectangular formation of 25 rows and 40 columns, snapped their heads to the right and raised their assault rifles perpendicular to their chests in a salute. Their hard bootsteps echoed mightily across the concrete parade ground of Empire's Field, though this still found difficulty competing with the sheer noise generated by the thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands, of spectators crammed into the rest of the Empire's legendary traditional parade ground, and beyond. A long history this field had, from its supposed origins as the first spot where the Empire's predecessors had landed on Miyako, to being the first spaceport on the planet, and then the site where the Greater Galactic Empire had been decided and proclaimed. Today, the Empire's Field was a parade ground at the foot of the most important structure in the entire Empire: the Imperial Palace itself. On the other end of the Field was the massive Teikoku Gikai Complex, where representatives from all corners of the Empire gathered to democratically run the nation... In theory.
Following behind the contingent of geared-up Imperial Army troops from Aomori was a column of Type-49 all terrain scout walkers, five rows wide and seven rows deep, and led by a light utility truck. The characteristic unstable-looking, jerky and noisy movements of the vehicles often derided as "chicken walkers" became far more intimidating and impressive with every single vehicle in step, the commanders atop their vehicles saluting the observers on the right stiffly despite the shaky ride. The most important people in the Empire and beyond were sitting in the grandiose stands erected along the Imperial Palace's tall outer wall, with three of the four most powerful people of the Empire seated in the very middle alongside foreign dignitaries, beneath another platform with an unoccupied lectern.
With an ear-splitting shriek, five aerospace fighters streaked overhead, splitting apart in a bomb-burst formation and leaving pretty white contrails slicing through the skies. Mankind has always been delighted by air shows, and the massive crowd roared at this sight. Even if they had missed it, the massive screens hung on the many governmental buildings on the sides of the Field replayed the scene at least twice before going to the usual low-swooping and high-angle shots of the parade that had been seen for the last two centuries, taken via tiny dragonfly-sized drones. As the scout walkers clanked their way out, yet another contingent of infantry from the Imperial Marines, dressed in strange, never-before-seen hostile environment gear with face-obscuring masks and glowing red goggles began marching past. Even though the weather today had been artificially modified to be as comfortably cool as possible, those troops must have been sweltering inside of their suits, which appeared to be made for much colder weather.
This would be the last contingent for the first quarter of the parade - which had already gone on for around an hour - and they were followed by a staff car upon which the parade sergeant major stood. As his car left the Field, the crowd began to fall silent. Another flight of aerospace fighters streaked overhead.
And then the chanting began.
Tenno Heika Banzai!
Steady your breath.
Tenno Heika Banzai!
Nothing out of place.
Tenno Heika Banzai!
Try not to cough up blood again.
Four mechanical legs clicked across the polished marble floor, internal gyroscopes, motors and computers ensuring that the seated figure in the kimono of the traditional black-red-blue royal colours was not discomforted in the slightest. If she did not feel the movement of the air on her face and hear the sound of the legchair moving, she could have easily have believed that she was still sitting in her throne room, listening to the latest audio dramas or pursuing her many hobbies. The twenty-year-old was the epitome of Miyakoan nobility in appearance, from her razor-straight bangs, shoulder-length black hair and pale complexion to the slender, koto-ready fingers and neutral yet attentively upright posture. The stark white bandages covering her sightless grey eyes and the IV drip hanging from the back of the legchair, tube snaking forward into her left arm, completed the portrait of the Empire's latest monarch. In her hands she clutched the Kusanagi sword, the heirloom of the Imperial House and her symbol of office alongside the Golden Fan and Jade Rod.
She heard the Gates open before the chair's computer and an aide prompted her via soft audio receivers in the chair's headboard. Unlike other commercial medical products, the Empress's legchair was clearly far superior, made to look exactly like the Imperial Throne such that she need not move from chair to chair. Many in the Empire believed that the Empress was unable to walk as she rarely walked in public. All this added to the mysterious character that she had carefully cultivated. Would one dare to hit such a weak and defenceless target? Would the common man not see that she had to put in far more effort than a normal monarch due to her disabilities?
The cool air of twilight Miyako filtered over her face as she emerged from the Palace gates, the roar of the crowd increasing tenfold. She heard the two Imperial Guards following her stop before her own chair stopped moving, the controls having been slaved to follow a specific path so she did not have to drive herself. The legs lowered her gently to the ground, placing her seated in front of a specially-built short lectern. It had been a strange sight for the first two years, but for the next five the Empire got used to having such a leader. And they would have to be used to it for many, many more.
Her pale, thin right arm went upwards in the Imperial salute, which was one arm raised perpendicular to the ground, palm open and fingers closed. The crowd immediately fell silent, as did billions of others watching on their televisions, holograms, or otherwise throughout the vast Empire.
"My subjects," her voice was serene yet firm, with a softness that was still discernable even when amplified by mass speakers to reach the thousands-strong crowd arrayed before her, their presence felt but not seen by the young monarch.
"When my ancestor, First Empress Mayu, first established the Greater Galactic Empire, she had a vision. She envisioned a nation where all of humanity would act as one people, one nation and one Empire, working together with strong leadership to build the greatest future possible for all humankind. She envisioned a state that would stand the test of time, stand against innumerable enemies, stand against the tides of foreign influence and emerge stronger than ever before. She envisioned a people, united as one, strong, yet innovative and thoughtful, able to reflect inwards and remember their roots. A people that would honour and uphold their culture as their most important asset, who would shape the Galaxy rather than allow it to shape them."
"She envisioned and promised a thousand-year Empire, a thousand years of the most powerful human civilisation to come into existence. We, her children, her eternal subject, we have attained this goal. Today marks the first day in a new era. Today, the Greater Galactic Empire is a thousand years old. Today, the Greater Galactic Empire steps forth beyond its founder's vision, today the Greater Galactic Empire rises up as the most glorious human nation to exist in all of history! The First Empress Mayu promised a thousand year Empire but I, your Empress Shizuna, promise you that this Empire will last another ten thousand years!"
She took in a sharp breath.
"Dai Ginga Teikoku!"
The responsive roar from the crowd was deafening, almost equivalent to several high explosive bombs going off at the same time in close proximity. Such was the strength of the united Imperial peoples.
Such was the strength, of an undying chorus.
"Banzai!"
Imperial Concession - Extraterritorial Special Liaison Region of the Greater Galactic Empire in Alvia
Gozich - Capital of the Alvish Intersolar Imperium
Arrowhead - Alvish Intersolar Imperium
At some point in its history, the Empire had been extremely xenophobic. Everything changed with the first Imperial Civil War and the lessening of the Imperial Shrine's grip on the Imperial government and society over five hundred years ago. From then on, the Empire had reformed and taken a much more friendlier stance towards non-human races in the Galaxy, reasoning that cooperating with the aliens was preferable to constantly fighting a war of extermination against them. From there, the Imperial Shrine also adjusted itself and the national religion that often had blurred lines in its relationship with Imperial culture also became far less radical. From befriending the reptile-like beings of the Hierarchy to even signing a treaty with the fiercely isolationist Ikajin, the Empire suddenly found its horizons expanded massively, ushering in a new golden age of trade and expansion.
All this finally culminated in the ultimate extension of Imperial power, the so-called Sutharav Incident, which served to further cement the Empire's place in the Galaxy as a major power. At the height of the Alvish Fifty Years' War a half century or so years ago, Imperial forces moved in and threatened the remnant of the formal government with Imperial intervention in the war in the interest of protecting their Hierarchy allies. The alternative was for Alvish markets to open to Imperial trade, the construction of a trade wormhole, and for the establishment of an extraterritorial consulate for diplomatic purposes in the notoriously isolationist civilisation. Far too disorganised at the time, the Alvish amazingly agreed, and the Greater Galactic Empire became one of the first human nations to open formal diplomatic discussion with the Alvish, on their capital planet of Gozich.
The environment was hostile to humans, but the Imperials in their usual fashioned forced a concession area anyway. Quickly becoming a walled city that most Alvish came to hate for its vastly different appearance compared to local architecture - it was supposedly called the "Monolithic Blight" in some circles - much of the compound was a single structure pressurised and oxygenated for the diplomatic staff to live within. Two sections was open to the Alvish public, one a large 'open air' market that hawked Imperial goods, and another an office complex that held branch offices for the biggest shipping conglomerates and trade unions of the Empire, as well as, quaintly, the first Atsugi Prefectural Post branch (and the first and only Imperial postal service) to be erected outside of the Empire's borders.
For the Alvish, the diplomatic compound was the home of strange aliens who needed to wear full-body suits to survive. Their faces were visible, and were similar to the Alvish, but the armed Imperial Army soldiers guarding the compound wore their green rubber hazmat suits and masks that obscured their faces. For the next forty years, the building soon became the focal point of numerous conspiracy theories, anti-government rhetoric, local hatred, and was often the first place for a riot to form. Terrorist attacks were common enough for the aliens to bring in additional security robots over the decades, increasing their otherworldly appearance.
But that was a long time ago, even by modern standards. A niche group of the modern, post-civil war Alvia had appeared, some free radicals who apparently took a genuine interest in foreign civilisations. Often this would be the Empire, thanks to the ease of travel due to the Kanagawa-Victhalla Wormhole, as well as the allure of a civilisation that many Alvish in their trademark sense of self-importance begrudgingly acknowledged to be at least almost as powerful as theirs. And so the markets soon found slowly-increasing crowds appearing, trade grew beyond solely metals and fuels, and private traders even appeared elsewhere in the Imperium.
Ambassador Naotake Satou put down his shot glass of sake, his Alvish counterpart and the other people in the room following. Despite the room being filled with oxygen, toxic to the Alvish, the Alvish representative was able to enter freely thanks to some unknown technology that the Empire had not unlocked yet, despite the Imperium's constant attempts to sell it to them. The Empire was naturally cautious; they refused to use what their scientists had not come up with. And it was not known what this Alvish gel was made of that allowed them to survive in oxygenated atmospheres - nor was it known either what was the counter product offered to the Empire for sale, that allowed humans to survive in ammonia-rich Alvish environments.
"You know, we used to get bombed every Imperial Day," Satou remarked, taking his seat at the head of the oval-shaped table, smoothing his black kimono over his thin, aged frame.
"Look how we've progressed since then," he gave the Alvish a yellow-toothed grin, "we brought in some extra security anyway. Or rather, our bosses brought in extra security. This is Agent Hikaru Okada, he's the liaison between us and those marines. You seen their new uniforms? Designed to be more comfortable than the old hazmats in such hostile environments. Oh, Okada, please."
Hikaru Okada was a man in his mid-twenties, with small eyes and a messy haircut. The black working kimono his wore covered up his arms, but what was visible of his forearms were well-toned and muscular. The man stood up, bowed slightly and extended a hand to the Alvish liaison.
Fumimaro Okada's Mansion
Melnag
Arrowhead - Alvish Intersolar Imperium
The old man leaned back in his seat and switched off the small tablet computer before the Empress's speech could go on further, placing it flat onto the small wooden table beside his luxurious bedroom. Fumimaro Okada loved telling his upper-class circles that he literally lived in a cave; it was his favourite joke over a glass of good Miyakoan sake. Of course, this was no ordinary cave. Half of the cave was a luxurious pressurised and oxygenated mansion for himself and any Imperial guests he had, while the other half was a massive store-cum-exhibition of Imperial curios, so-called artefacts, and whatever else interested the upper-class Alvish infected with the Imperial fetish. The portly man stood up from the cushioned chair and shuffled towards the bathroom, where half of it was plated in gold.
An underground city underneath Melnag, a barren moon, the place was not dissimilar to the vast subterranean geofronts on Okada's homeworld of Shimane, or the sub-surface levels of the Jiulong arcology on Yujing. Back in the Empire, Okada had been running his family's traditional herb and teas shop, but business had been struggling due to the massive amount of competitors in the already oversaturated market. The end of the trade restrictions on the Interstellar Soviet only meant hordes of cheap Soviet tea farmers soon flooded the market, collectivisation granting them vast farmlands and free tools. It had been a takamagahara-send that Ixaar Sildomar kof Schisker-asch-Valnach, a minor Alvish noble, had been touring the Empire on holiday and took a liking to Okada's specific blend of Yamataian tea.
From there, the ageing shopkeeper's life had been a blur as he somehow found himself becoming one of the few foreigners trading in Alvia, given this cave complex with Schisker's blessing and patronage, and given near-sole access to a market of surprisingly curious, rich gaijin. His only competitors on Melnag were Alvish foreign goods markets that also bulk-imported Imperial goods, though his store definitely had the pull of being an 'authentic experience'. Sort of like a miniature tourist trip to the Empire for those upper class Alvish unable to afford an actual trip to his homeland. At the mouth of the cave was almost offensively stereotypical "Imperial Garden" commissioned by Schisker or his family (complete with a rock garden devoid of any symbolism, a minimalist pagoda that was more USR than Imperial, two wildly inappropriate statues of Amaterasu and Yomotsu-Shikome, and a selection of other "Imperial-looking" sculptures), Schisker-Ockaden Exotic Trading saw its fair share of the Alvish upper classes' obsession with the foreign and the Imperial... And their vast racism.
But for Okada, the years spent in Alvia had changed him as well. He came to realise that so far away from the Empire, few could see or care how he spent his money. Living alone in the cave was lonely at times, but he had the freedom to go back to the Empire at any time, leaving the management of the store to a young local placed there by Schisker. He paid no taxes to anyone or anything, except for occasional gifts and tributes to Schisker or local gangs and authorities to keep more radical groups off his back. And with his millions, the unassuming old man could just waltz back to the Empire and party in High Miyakoan society, or go gambling in the legal and illegal circuits of Jiulong, then disappear back here.
Even more recently, yet another type of product had emerged that the locals were paying a very high price for. His underworld connections reached far and wide back in the Empire, and with their help he had acquired several sources of these goods. For a man who had forsaken his nation in order to live as he wished, even this type of product was fair game. In fact, according to Schisker, yet another buyer was coming later that day. Fumimaro Okada smiled to himself as he splashed water over his wrinkled face.
Another few million would be his by the end of this alien day.
All for just a few tiny data cards.
