The Rask Rebellion

"Quite the speech," one of the Admirals muttered, his holographic form flickering. "What does clawless mean?"

"It's their word for slave," Murray replied. "They usually use it to describe a Borealan who isn't adhering to their pack structure, where the meanest son of a bitch is the Alpha dog."

"What do they hope to accomplish?" another added, leaning on the table as the hologram returned to a visualization of the planet. "They can't possibly believe that they can defeat the Coalition, let alone the UNN. They don't even have a Navy!"

"Our intelligence is spotty," Murray replied. "The Rask have never used the communications infrastructure that we set up on the planet, so our listening post at the pole hasn't been able to trawl their comms. We've suspected for some time that they've been surreptitiously engaging in piracy and raiding, even after signing a treaty that forbade it, but it's been hard to prove. The recent investigation into their incursions into the Araxie territory seems to have confirmed that they've been violating the Coalition charter. That report should be due any day now."

"Maybe they're trying to get ahead of the investigation," another Admiral suggested. "If they know that they've been found out, maybe they'd rather flip the table than face the sanctions. Seems like a very Rask way of going about it."

"That may be a contributing factor," Murray replied with a nod. "Our analysts believe that the Rask intend to fight a guerrilla war, asymmetrical combat. We should expect to face a full-blown insurgency."

"Then they needn't defeat us," an Admiral on the far side of the table mused, "they need only make the war too costly and difficult for us to fight. They know that our attention is focused on the Betelgeusian threat to our colonies, they've been a member of the Coalition for years, they understand our inner workings. Perhaps they think that by bogging us down in an endless ground war, they can wear us out and get us to abandon the planet."

"Then they must also know that we have a responsibility to protect our allies," another Admiral interjected, his voice hissing with static as his projection lagged for a moment. "Elysia is an important member of the Coalition, there's no way that we would abandon them. And even if we did, I doubt that the Rask could successfully defeat the Elysians. They have a functioning Navy, for the most part, and better equipment."

"I'm more concerned about where the Rask obtained the MAST," another added. "How many more of them do they have, and what else might they have gotten their paws on? We haven't supplied any of those weapons to any of the Borealan territories to my knowledge. There's always a fleet stationed in orbit as part of our treaty with them, there would be no need."

"We haven't been able to determine that," Murray replied. "That said, the smuggling of arms destined for PDF on outlying colonies is not a new phenomenon. We all remember what happened with the crime syndicate on Hades a few years back. Even ignoring the MAST problem, we've been arming the Rask with modern weapons for some time. Their soldiers have access to Shock Trooper armor, and XMRs, the same armament we provide to the auxiliaries. They've been trading openly with the rest of the Galaxy for a while now. Those who have served alongside the UNN will know our tactics and our capabilities very well, which further complicates the situation."

"What has been done about this so far?" one of the Admirals asked.

"Because we don't know how many MASTs the Rask still have, we've pulled our fleet out of their theoretical range, clearing a bubble of space over their territory that extends a good two thousand kilometers in every direction. Usually, we'd land troops on the ground and restore order, but we obviously can't risk that in this situation."

"Why not locate the launchers using long-range imaging and conduct railgun strikes to disable them?" another Admiral suggested, his holographic hands clipping through the table. "We could easily hit them from outside the range of the MASTs, even if our accuracy would take a bit of a hit."

"Not an option," Murray replied. "The Rask have certainly hidden the launchers in their territory's population centers, knowing that we won't risk civilian casualties on that scale. They know our doctrine well, lord knows we've explained it to them enough that it's probably been drilled into their brains. It would violate a hundred conventions. There's also the issue of the sandstorms. It seems that the Rask have timed their attack to coincide with the seasonal storms that plague the area, meaning that satellite imaging is going to be unreliable for weeks, maybe even months."

"So," an Admiral who was standing to Murray's right mused, crossing his arms as he examined the display. "We can't land troops in the territory without the risk of them being shot down by the MASTs, and we can't conduct orbital strikes to destroy the launchers. What options are left?"

"I've been talking with the Captain of the UNN Samar via quantum link," Murray replied. "His carrier fleet is currently on-site."

He tapped some commands into the touch screen that was mounted on the table, the hologram shifting to show a flat view of the planet's arid surface. A red line extended from one of the giant oases to the next, weaving around one or two smaller lakes, the blue dome over its destination indicating that it was the Rask territory.

"It's his belief that a small, mobile force of ground vehicles could land in Elysia, then drive across the Borealan desert. Once they reached Rask, they could easily overwhelm their defenses, move into the territory, and disable the launchers. When that's done, the fleet can move in and take things from there."

"Are there any assault carriers in that fleet?" someone asked.

"Yes," Murray replied, "the UNN Okinawa is ready to go. She's loaded with a full tank battalion, and three thousand Marines. The Martians have also asked if they can test one of their new toys, some kind of prototype super-heavy vehicle."

"All in favor?" one of them asked, a chorus of ayes echoing through the conference room in response. "Then it's unanimous, we dispatch the Okinawa immediately."

"What of the situation on the station, and on deployed carriers?" one of the holographic Admirals added. "This crisis is not confined to Borealis alone. There are thousands of Rask serving as auxiliaries in the UNN, many of whom won't even know that their government has defected yet. What are we going to do with all of the Rask on the station, for example? Do we intern them? Encourage them to return home?"

"Trying to incarcerate them won't go down well," Murray muttered, his tone dour. "They're a fierce people in more ways than one, and many of them have served in integrated units alongside UNN Marines. They have friends, comrades, people who won't accept that decision. They haven't done anything wrong...yet. This is a very delicate situation, it could go downhill very quickly."

"Surely we can't allow them to just stay on the station? What about spying, sabotage? The Rask are loyal to their Matriarchy and their Alphas first, and the Coalition second."

Murray scratched his chin, considering for a moment before replying.

"Is the Rask Ambassador still on the station?" he asked.

"I believe so," one of the Admirals replied. "They'll probably be recalled to the homeworld in short order."

"We need to work with them and make sure that this goes smoothly," Murray added. "If we can find a way to just get them off the station, all the better. Reassign a carrier, or commandeer a civilian liner, whatever it takes. Worst case scenario, we can just park them in orbit until the situation on the ground is resolved. They don't have their own ships, they can't go anywhere under their own power."

"I'll have the Chief of Security see to it," another Admiral said. "He's a capable fellow."

***

Chief Moralez marched through the crowd, weaving his way towards the source of the commotion. The Pinwheel's torus was usually busy at the best of times, but today, it was even more congested than usual. The giant, ring-shaped structure had been designed to simulate the environment of a planet. Its ceiling was painted with a blue sky and wisps of white cloud, the bright lamps that were spaced out at intervals approximating the light and heat of Earth's sun. The wide walkway was lined with planters that were filled with trees and shrubs to add a touch of color to the otherwise matte-white of the hull material, the walls to either side of it decorated with sculpted facades that were facsimiles of terrestrial buildings. He was in the military quarter right now, the section of the station that housed the barracks and the majority of the hangars. Most of the buildings were blocky and functional, huge pressure doors that extended from the floor to the concave ceiling breaking up the monotony at intervals.

His prosthetic foot tapped against the metal deck of the station's torus as he marched, the subtle whir of the electric motor barely audible over the sound of a hundred muddled conversations. The Chief of Security was a grizzled veteran of the Kruger campaign, his leathery skin a patchwork of healed scars and plasma burns. Three of his limbs had been lost in the line of duty, two arms and a leg, replaced with advanced prosthetics. His leg was little more than a skeletal frame with a functional skid for a foot, while his arms were more filled out, the black polymer of their housings blending seamlessly with the UNN combat armor that he wore over his uniform.

The throngs of onlookers parted before him, both out of respect for the Chief and for fear of being crushed beneath the feet of the two towering Krell who flanked him. The reptiles stood over eight feet tall despite their hunched postures, and they must weigh close to a ton. The distance between their dragging, oar-like tails and their crocodilian snouts was a good sixteen feet. Their bodies were covered in a layer of tough scales and bony scutes that served as natural armor, a spinach-green in color that tapered into a lighter beige on their underbellies. Jagged teeth jutted from their jaws, their yellow eyes scanning the crowd as they lumbered along. They resembled bipedal, musclebound alligators, but their fearsome appearance belied their gentle nature. These two wore only a black poncho that hung from their broad shoulders, doubling as a plate carrier and a chest rig, and they were clutching suitably large rifles in their many-fingered hands. Moralez wasn't fucking around today, order had to be maintained.

A group of Marines moved aside to let him pass, their faces obscured behind the opaque visors of their helmets, a component of their ceramic armor. There were also engineers clad in yellow overalls and a few personnel in civilian clothing who were probably off-duty. Here and there, a few alien heads rose above the sea of people. There were a couple more Krell, and a few packs of Borealans, the feline aliens looking on and whispering to one another.

They were basically humanoid in appearance, with flat brows, and cat-like noses. They stood on a pair of digitigrade legs that ended in paw-like feet, their thick fingers tipped with hooked claws. While they had fur, it was confined to their forearms and lower legs, giving the impression that they were wearing gloves and socks. It came in varying shades, sometimes patterned with spots or stripes, and sometimes not. From their hair protruded a pair of small, round ears that pivoted to track sounds like little radar dishes, their eyes reflecting the light as they peered over at him. They were also taller than humans, averaging about eight feet, the high gravity of their home planet making them naturally muscular. They wore either the same black armor as the Marines, identifying them as Shock Troopers, or their blue coveralls.

Moralez finally emerged at the front of the crowd, stepping through a line of MPs who were maintaining order, their black armor accented by their white helmets and sashes. He arrived before one of the massive bay doors, which was currently open. Beyond it was one of the station's many cavernous hangars, the deck reflecting the harsh glare of the bright halogen lights in its ceiling a good seventy feet above them. It was open to space, a shimmering, blue force field the only thing preventing it from depressurizing.

There were a couple of frigates being serviced, their angular, black hulls surrounded by gantries that projected from the nearby walls. The vessels were shaped like tapering arrowheads, their relatively flat profile, and their stealth design helping them to avoid radar detection. The only windows were up on the cockpit, on a kind of conning tower that was subtly raised above the hull towards the aft. They sat on sets of hefty landing gear, supported by sturdy hydraulic pistons that were adorned with hanging cables, their thick tires taller than a man.

Clogging the hangar door was a gaggle of maybe a hundred Rask. They were a race of Borealan, distinguished from their cousins by their dusky skin, and hair that looked as though it had been bleached by the sun. This was not a riot or a protest, however. Most of them looked bewildered, frightened, Moralez recognizing their bared teeth as a sign of insecurity rather than aggression. He'd had his fair share of dealings with the aliens in the past, to put it lightly. They were all wearing the same UNN uniforms as everyone else, save for one.

Her clothing was all tight leather in shades of black and brown, her pants leaving little to the imagination as they strained against her muscular thighs and rump. They ended just above the heel joints of her digitigrade legs, giving way to her sandy fur. Belts and holsters hung from her wide hips, housing a veritable arsenal of knives and unwieldy, primitive revolvers.

Her leather jacket was a little looser, reminding Moralez of something that a biker might have worn. It was lined with thick padding like a stab vest, filling it out, and providing some measure of protection from blades and claws. It seemed to be handmade, the stitching clearly visible, but its quality was undeniable. The fine leather was adorned with golden studs and badges, decorative patterns were pressed into the material, and there were patches sewn into it.

There was a spark of recognition in her yellow eyes as he made his way towards her, her ears tracking him intently. He gestured for his Krell guards to wait, the aliens turning silently to keep the crowds at bay.

"Ambassador Korbaz," he began, "it's always a pleasure. We really have to stop meeting like this."

"Tin man," she replied, seeming genuinely relieved to see him. Her tail was whipping back and forth behind her, a sign of uncertainty or irritation. "I am glad to see a familiar face."

"I do have a rather memorable one," he joked. "I just heard about what happened," he continued, sparing a glance at a Rask who was glaring at him from behind her. "Seems like your government has decided to make us enemies."

"So it appears," she grumbled, seeming about as unhappy with the situation as he was.

"The MPs are just here to keep the peace until we can figure this thing out. Come on," he said, gesturing to the interior of the hangar with a prosthetic finger. "Let's go talk this over somewhere we can hear ourselves think."

She nodded, leading him through the tightly-packed group of Rask. Moralez felt their angry stares as they parted to let him pass, a hundred pairs of feline eyes scrutinizing him. He was generally well-liked by the Borealan denizens of the station. Battle scars were worn like a badge of honor in their culture, and he understood their ways better than most, which allowed him to resolve most situations peacefully where others might resort to force. It was also no secret that, if provoked, he could put any one of these cats on their ass with his prosthetic fists. But the vibe was different now, he could feel a palpable tension in the air. These aliens were wound up like a spring. He'd seen reactionary aggression from the Borealans, he expected it, but this was something else...

The two emerged into the hangar proper, their footsteps echoing, the ruckus on the torus fading to a dull murmur. They moved over to the near wall, standing beneath a hunk of nondescript machinery that protruded from the otherwise smooth surface.

"So, want to tell me what the hell is going on?" Moralez asked as he spread his robotic arms in exasperation. "I woke up today with an Admiral yelling into my earpiece about some kind of rebellion. They told me to get down here ASAP and make sure that nobody started a riot. What the hell is the Matriarchy thinking, launching an attack on the Coalition?"

"You know my feelings on this matter already," she replied as she crossed her arms over her ample chest, her leather getup creaking. "This is a culmination of the Coalition's mistreatment of us, their disregard. Over and over, we express our concerns, and yet they go ignored. I have a seat on the Coalition Security Council, I've watched our objections be dismissed, our votes count for nothing. The admittance of the Araxie, the travesty with the Jarilan Hive, the favoritism shown towards the Elysians. It cannot continue."

"You don't need to remind me," he grumbled. "Whenever we meet, you usually give me a lecture about Rask superiority, and how your people should be heading the Coalition. I believe you once told me that the humans have a chain around the necks of the Borealan people."

"Indeed," she replied tersely. "Your so-called integration training strips our warriors of what makes them Borealan, turns them into docile slaves."

"We teach them not to resolve every confrontation with their claws, and how to respect the Coalition's command structure," Moralez shot back. "The Rask have always been malcontents, sure, but I never..."

"You never took us seriously," Korbaz replied, glaring at him pointedly. "That's exactly the problem, Security Chief. Nobody ever took us seriously, the Coalition felt safe ignoring us. They were just shown the error of their ways."

"Did you know that they were going to do this?" he asked.

"No," she replied, shaking her head and making her short-cropped hair bounce. "It is as much a surprise to me as it is to you."

"Is this...what you would have wanted to happen?"

She hesitated for a moment, seeming uncertain. She would never question her superiors, that was not the Borealan way. They lived in intensely competitive packs, led by the strongest and most willful individuals.

Moralez had never seen her like this before, her usual self-assuredness seemed absent. Their interactions were usually good-natured, if rather antagonistic, and more than a little sexually-charged. She liked to make trouble for him by smuggling weapons into secure areas of the station and generally being uncooperative, usually in an attempt to get his attention. She'd made more than one failed pass at him over the years.

"I do as my Matriarch wills," she replied, Moralez daring to roll his eyes at her.

"Listen, we've got hundreds of Rask all over the station who are enemy combatants as of this morning thanks to your Matriarch's little stunt. The Admiralty wants them off the station as soon as possible, they can't stay here. They were also auxiliaries until a few hours ago, they've shed blood for the Coalition, we're not going to shove them all out of an airlock. I have Rask friends myself."

"We have been recalled to the Rask territory," she said, "our orders are to leave the station."

"Then we want the same thing," Moralez insisted. "We have an understanding, you and I, right? We've known each other for a while, we have what you might call a working relationship. If this is going to go down smoothly, without anyone getting hurt, then I need your cooperation on this. You're their Vice Admiral, they'll do whatever you say without question."