"I live in the most boring building, on the most boring planet, during the most boring era, of humanity's storied existence. There can be no advancement in this stagnant hell — for my career, at least."
— Velan
***
In the far future, walking was a very inefficient method of travel.
Humans had found ways to move faster than their legs could carry them tens of thousands of years ago. Even when genetic modification and mechanical implants had made things such as walking or running far quicker for every human, by that point, buildings such as the one Velan walked in now had been designed and constructed — buildings that dwarfed continents in size, and buildings that, by their very nature, were not conducive to walking.
Despite this, as Velan relocated himself to the office of his detestable superior, a haze of loathing and desperation clouding his mind, he did not travel by hypersphere, by aerial bike, or by Personal Transport Craft — abbreviated as PTC by the lazy, which was to say, nearly everyone on Earth — but instead, he walked. Not only was it more conducive to thought, but dozens of planets had been harvested to create the gorgeous, gilded, continent-sized building that he worked at: how could he not spend time admiring its architecture?
While Velan walked, events were transpiring across the galaxy that set the stage for the most terrible disaster the human race had ever witnessed. A crisis loomed, and the Empire's denizens either speculated at its nature, or dismissed it outright. Insidious fear gripped hundreds of planets while loathsome ignorance paralyzed countless more — perhaps unsurprisingly, Earth was one of the latter worlds, and even Velan, usually a man of action, paid the imminent threat no heed. In an era with nothing but tranquility, every minor event was treated as a cataclysm by the rumor-prone masses; Velan had taken the other extreme, and ignored most everything that the doomsayers preached, and he had been right every time. Due to this policy, Velan did not spend his time fretting about the galaxy's latest issue; instead, he spent his time doing what every Earther naturally excelled at: playing politics. On a mission that managed to be both professional and deeply personal, Velan progressed through the various artistic atriums, opulent offices, and even complete chambers dedicated to the entertainment of the increasingly inactive — and, consequently, increasingly bored — military. All of these rooms were, at the very least, decorated with inane quantities of gold and jewels, which were harvested from hundreds of devoured planets: the most obvious symptom of the military having many resources, and no enemies to fight, for over a century. When the glare from the artistic lights in the building, designed to look like windows, reflected off polished gold surfaces, their blinding radiance made it difficult to see any of the other wasteful parts of the building; if one were to glance at it, one would think the seat of the galaxy's military to be a luxury hotel.
"Do they really have nothing better to do? And to think that this is the home of the mightiest fighting force the galaxy has ever seen," Velan mused, scratching his pitch-black hair due to an unusual itch. The lack of professionalism that Earth's military displayed was nothing short of impressive, when it wasn't depressing; living in the "Capital Complex" boggled the mind, and Velan's mind had, sadly, been boggled for well over a year. The only wars that the galaxy-spanning Empire had fought were wars against itself, and even those were centuries old; the military looked impressive, and indeed it was both sizeable and modern, but a real battle existed only in the minds of theorists, and the human galaxy had not faced true crisis for eons. It is not enough to merely form steel into the shape of a blade; one must sharpen it before it can kill, and lining the weapon with gemstones or gold certainly doesn't make it more lethal. Humanity took immense pride in its army and navy, but whether or not this faith was well-placed, or if it would survive the coming months, was to be seen.
Squinting every half second due to the harsh rays produced by the array of ornate lights surrounding him, Velan marvelled at the sights — not because they were gorgeous, and they were, but because some of the military personnel he saw seemed to be more dressed-up than the politicians stalking the gilded halls. Indeed, these two vastly-different classes of people inhabited the Capital Complex together, for the building was not just the home of the Empire's military, but also its civilian administration. Things like the over-decoration of everyone reminded Velan nearly every day as to why people from Tehkria — or any other practically-minded planet — laughed at him and his world of Earth; after more than a year tied to the blasted, ostentatious, bureaucratic rock, he couldn't say he disagreed with them. It wasn't like he could change it though. Indeed, he had to dress just as ostentatiously as the next officer, if he wanted to advance his career.
As he had taken a hypersphere to a location near the one he wanted to reach earlier, Velan's walk was brief, and as his commander's office — a needlessly grand office set amongst an entire seven-mile tall atrium filled with needlessly grand offices — came into view, he hoped to put this rock behind him for good.
Rubbing his eyes, which had become irritated from his constant wearing of contact lenses, Velan proceeded past genetically-engineered plants that oozed an aura of dispensability, and pushed through mobs of unimportant civil servants engaged in mind-numbing conversation. Much of this conversation was centered around the fittingly banal event of the day: a set of anomalous signals from the ominously named "Light's End" black hole system. Considering it for a moment, Velan had to forcibly stifle a laugh: it was truly the sign of a bored society when that society creates a crisis out of mildly intriguing scientific phenomena, but if people wanted to go around fearing a simple celestial body, he could hardly stop them. Nodding respectfully to the two people in the room he knew, and receiving piteous gazes in response, Velan soon came to the door of his superior's office; as he exhaled exasperatedly, the door detected his intent to enter by interfacing with his neural implants, and it burst open, revealing the messy room and its unsightly occupant.
"Ah, Velan... And to think I was having a good day," the man inside stated, his abrasive, snobbish voice making Velan's ears threaten to bleed. Velan had to muster all of his strength to avoid recoiling in disgust — before him sat living proof that even with all the mandatory genetic engineering in the human galaxy, and with all of society's emphasis on discipline, there was still such a thing as an ugly, lazy bastard. To make matters worse, this ugly bastard had been interrupted whilst eating. The rude, ineffective bureaucrat was the exact opposite of the model officer that Velan prided himself on being; to think that he was outranked and supervised by such a creature caused him to lose no small amount of faith in the military hierarchy — along with much of his desire to keep his lunch. The only thing more repugnant than the man's visage was his personality, which was spiteful, hateful, idiotic, outdated, and haughty: in short, he was everything Velan despised about Earth's culture.
"The pleasure's all mine, Itivan, I assure you," Velan replied, trying to force a grin, and failing.
Wiping his food-stained hands on his wrinkled uniform's pants, despite the perfectly functional sanitation device within reach, Itivan remotely shut the soundproofed door to his office with a thought-command, and, speaking whilst still chewing, he commanded, "Before I speak another word, to make certain you aren't recording anything I'm saying, open your thoughts to me. Now."
Velan visibly recoiled in shock.
"You expect me to open my mind to you?!" Velan stammered, repeating what Itivan had stated as if to confirm he had, in fact, said it, "Half the married couples in the galaxy don't trust their spouse to see what they're thinking, and now you ask me to open my mind to satisfy your insane paranoia?"
Itivan, folding his hands, retorted, "If you want to discuss whatever was so important that you came all the way to my office for it, then open your thoughts. Otherwise, you can leave."
Velan sighed exasperatedly for the second time in under a minute, before saying, "Fine, I'll allow you to look into my head, but only for a minute — unlike you, I don't have all day."
Itivan cackled, sounding, briefly, more pig than man, "You stupid idiot! Ever since I grounded the Nemesis sixteen months ago, you've had all day, every day, all year! Don't lie to me already when I'm about to be looking at your thoughts!"
Velan said nothing; he merely grimaced, and then opened his mind to the selfish lout before him, ensuring that his mental firewalls were intact and ready to go be put back in place at a moment's notice in the meantime. The following moment, at Itivan's prerogative, a gruelling minute began as every facet of Velan's mind was rigorously inspected by the filth before him, who kept up his wordless interrogation until Velan's deadline forced his feeble mind to leave.
"I wasn't done!" protested Itivan.
"You are now."
Itivan scoffed discontentedly, yet could find no suitable come-back, and even he realized that Velan had been more than generous. Instead, he settled on stating, "So, I presume you came here to discuss the grounding of your ship?"
Velan began, "Yes, I—"
"You are wasting your time. Ever since what you did—" Itivan interrupted, only to be interrupted in turn.
"—is standing in the way of your egregious nepotism really all that terrible a crime? I know a little bit is to be expected, sure, but this..."
Itivan outright shouted in retort, buoyed by the confidence that his acid words would never leave his office, "This, is something you will never change. If I have to step on some random, lowly captain to give my daughter the resources she needs to succeed, I'll do so with a smile on my face. You and your band of undisciplined yuppies — especially your CGO, whose indiscretions are heard of far beyond this department — have no idea how to behave yourselves in the field or in the presence of your superiors. The Nemesis would shame our Empire if it ever left its hangar."
Velan sighed, and resisted the urge to either place his palm on his face, or place his fist on Itivan's, as he replied, "You can play your games but you will leave my crew out of it. They have dreams too, and it isn't your place to interfere. And if you think your favoritism will go unnoticed whenever she goes and looks for a promotion..."—Velan decided to stop himself, lest he repeat the year's argument yet again—"Whatever. Regardless of how you feel on the issue, and even if I'm right, I am willing to settle this pragmatically. I want my ship un-grounded and my crew free to leave with it. Name your price."
Itivan, his fist clenched and brandished as he had stood from his chair, anticipating a scathing remark from Velan, suddenly backed down. Falling into his chair, Itivan began to consider how he could take advantage of the man in front of him.
A good two minutes of waiting later, and Itivan curtly replied, "I want your ship to follow Kehsia's vessel, The Ever-Loyal. I want you to play support, and I want you to credit her magnificent insight for your successes in every report you submit. And of course, every operational failure is due to mistakes on the part of you and your crew."
Velan, rolling his eyes at the outrageous demand and overwhelmed by a surge of disgust, placed his hands on the Itivan's desk, leaned forward, and, his words as stern as his expression, he interrupted the diatribe, "You know what, Itivan?"
"What?" Itivan met Velan's cold stare.
"I'm going to end your career someday. I hope your daughter can provide for the both of you when I do."
Velan then got his thankfully-gloved hands off the man's disorganized desk and left the raging fool to sputter and accuse as he exited the rancid office, having accomplished nothing important, yet smiling to himself all the same — bleak future notwithstanding, at least he had ruined Itivan's day in the process. His impulsive reaction may cause him untold misery, but Velan would be a liar if he said it didn't feel good to finally speak freely to his damnable superior. Over a year of obsequiousness had gotten nowhere, and a lot of frustration had built up. Allowing the glorious scenery to wash over him, Velan allowed himself to enjoy this moment and the overly-decorated vistas that assailed his eyes, for it had just become likely that he would be seeing them, and others like them, for a long time.
That moment, Velan's concentration was dashed by an incoming textcomm — a form of communication between individuals that utilized the basic cerebral implants of every Empire citizen to share information and thoughts between people instantly. As messages were received, rather than being read by their recipient, they entered the short-term memory of that person instead, thus becoming understood the moment they arrived; textcomms were the fastest way to communicate within the Empire, and they saw frequent use by both civilian sectors and military types alike. Naturally, these two different groups had different names for the practice: civvies mostly referred to it as "texting," while the military, who liked to appear more sophisticated than their unarmed counterparts, called it "text communications," "TCs," or, most commonly, "textcomms." The textcomm that Velan had just received, his implants informed him, had originated from Falmenec, Velan's chief scientist, and long-time friend; its puzzling contents simply read, "That was quite entertaining."
Velan, as he became aware of the message, was stupefied and surprised in equal measure — he had not told anyone he was going to speak to Itivan, and Falmenec's message implied he had somehow witnessed the exchange. As if Velan's friend sensed his confusion from the lack of an immediate reply, another textcomm arrived a moment later, reading, "Of course, you wouldn't know that we recorded that entire conversation, thanks entirely to your brilliant ploy to catch Itivan's medieval idiocy on tape."
Velan, having regained his wits, asked in reply, "And what 'brilliant ploy' is this?"
"The brilliant ploy that involved you wiping your memory of the said brilliant ploy before you went to speak to Itivan so that when he inevitably demanded to see inside your head, he'd see nothing conspicuous."
The weight of failure fell off Velan's shoulders. Chuckling, he thought to himself, "Now that is actually a pretty brilliant ploy. Good job, me. My Earther instincts at work. And that other thing too."
Nevertheless, some questions remained unanswered, so Velan textcommed back, "And how did we record this exchange? My implants certainly aren't doing any such recording, I — and Itivan — would have been alerted to that!"
Falmenec's reply arrived a moment later — the connection between implant and brain, person and galaxy, was so seamless that messages were compiled by thinking.
"Thanks to Dentor's engineering: we hid a microscopic camera drone in your hair before we wiped your memory and sent you on your way! Though the drone was almost lost when you foolishly decided to scratch your hair before the meeting, thanks to Terxah's excellent piloting, the drone stayed in position, and we still got everything. Itivan's reign of terror is finally over, and, hopefully, so is our de-facto imprisonment."
Velan, not caring for how strange it would make him look in front of the crowds of the CC — he would be leaving the blasted prison soon enough — shouted boastfully to no one in particular, "Yes! By the Imperator, I thought I'd never leave this place!"
His words drew many a wary and confused look from the many bystanders present, but Velan didn't care: he would be leaving those bystanders behind soon enough. Euphoria flooding his weary mind, Velan sent a questioning reply back to Falmenec, "Excellent. When can we send everything to Itivan's commanding officer?"
"It's already been sent, acting in accordance with the instructions you gave us beforehand" was the reply, and what a glorious reply it was. A few moments later, another textcomm, this one not being from Falmenec, but rather the officer in command of Itivan, came crashing into Velan's mind — its contents were much in keeping with the victorious theme of the day.
"I've just seen your proof, and I am both impressed, and sorry. You will find that ship is no longer grounded, and your executive captain privileges have been restored; you will also find that Itivan has been sentenced to an hour of corporeal punishment, with a severe demotion pending review by the rest of the bureaucracy. Corruption is inexcusable no matter who it is for, and I thank you for bringing this to my attention. I know that you and your crew need some action after sixteen months so go out there and find something traitorous to kill in the name of the Empire, if there is anything traitorous left. Either way, good luck, captain."
A wry smile growing across Velan's face, he quickly dispatched a reply to Falmenec:"I just received word from Itivan's superior — we're free, and our former oppressor has had a meeting arranged with a punitive whip! It looks like I made good on my promise a bit earlier than intended."
Velan briefly paused his stride, and then answered the message from Itivan's superior: "Thank you for seeing this matter resolved so swiftly and so justly. I have just one request: Executive Captain Kehsia's ability and valor are well-known among those she serves alongside. I ask that her father's transgressions for her sake not stand in the way of her surely illustrious career."
Velan was pleased with that request: it was both a good thing to do, and would give him even more of an upstanding, honorable reputation. Beneficial both practically and ethically: the ideal action. He received the reply almost immediately: "You are a credit to the service, Velan. I'll make sure the record takes your request into account."
It would have been difficult for Velan to feel happier.
"Should I stop Yelazar from making any scandals and get him over for a meeting?" Falmenec sent him a textcomm.
"By the Empire, yes. Do that now. " Elated beyond imagination, Velan could do nothing but gleefully cackle his way through the pristine halls of the Capital Complex, dispatching a series of textcomms to his entire group of senior officers as he did so. These textcomms served to summon them to a meeting in the aptly-named "Meeting Hall" of the Capital Complex: now that Velan, his crew, and his ship had had their freedom restored, the only matter that held them back was deciding what they would actually do with this newfound autonomy. A conference room was well-suited to discussing this. And as it happened, a face-to-face meeting was also a great way to celebrate their acquisition of this independence, especially if the celebration could be enhanced by liquor — Velan's already ecstatic officers could hardly bid the Capital Complex goodbye without it.
------
Author's Note:
Salutations, dear reader. I know some of you are probably thinking:
"Where are my space battles?!"
I don't blame you. The first and second "parts" contain a lot of plot, but it's only until (and this is a minor spoiler) Chapter 3 of Part 3 that battles start occurring. If you're not a huge plot person, and just want the carnage, feel free to skip until part 3; you're not really intended to do that, and a few things will be a bit confusing if you do, but I understand that not everyone wants to read through a novella's worth of book before things start blowing up. Of course, if you don't mind some backstory, and some space politics in Part 2, then continue reading as you would normally; those chapters aren't bad, they just aren't as action-packed as the later ones.
And believe me, the later ones are very action-packed, so hang in there.
I hope that this knowledge improves your experience as a reader, and I pray that if you have any feedback, you will leave it in the comments. Have an illustrious day, and an enjoyable read,
~The Author
Also, it appears that some spaces are removed from my text when I copy-paste from microsoft word. If there is a fix for this, please let me know, I'm somewhat new to Wattpad.