Author's Note

Remaster in progress, check back soon if you wish to wait for that.

Prologue: ‘Federation’

"In the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war…"

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The portside bridge of the battlecarrier is silent. It does not carry the weight of dozens into deep space battle, nor is it filled with orders from commanders. Simply put, the bridge is quiet. Not save for the stray droids on duty, or the footsteps of patrolling couples, but simply dead.

If one observes closely, they can hear crew members awaken from their slumber, once again becoming the wielders of this great weapon, this great ship. Given some time, they could harness their inner warrior, and adapt to their thrown off sleep schedules. Endurance was something cherished in the strong society, after all.

Here, night has come for their vessel above the Earth, and it would not deliver rest.

Hallways were blanketed in vibrant canary, beckoning crewmen to their stations. For a late, exhausting mission was near.

But before that dawned upon the crew, a celebration was to be commenced across all the Federation.

The starboard bridge was not in the same condition as it’s twin. Fleet Admiral Luti Umbru of the 12th Galactic Sector, also known as the "Flood of the Cape", gazed beyond the window before him, a rhombus-plated half-sphere that was the forward section of the command deck.

No man dared trespass on the Admiral's domain. At times, the energy of his nigh-immortal body radiated from him; in the most extreme cases, black lightning emanated from his chiseled back and hands due to his incomplete enhancement. Dead spirits orbited his cybernetic implants, for on his whim, fleets had committed great sin for the good of everyone under the banner. Sailors of 'Republic' thrived under their no-nonsense Commander, even if it took time to adjust to their steel-hearted skipper.

He was the former leader of the Unleashed Revengeance Group. He was a killer of Federalists in a bygone era, defiant to the end. After tasting defeat in single combat, he saw the error in his ways and was offered a high-ranking spot in the new Orbital Fleet. He serves the nation, operating against the terrors and the wonders of mankind's galaxies.

As such, he is the practical right-hand man of the High Marshall. Luti occupies a comfortable spot as the fifth oldest man alive at two thousand, nine hundred eighty-eight years of age, after three people he didn't know nor care about in particular and his once mortal enemy and now superior, Micah

The Fleet Admiral was at peace. Nearly three millennia of life resulted in him fighting in the most genocidal territorial expansionist conquests, pounding hostile alien civilizations out of the galactic supercluster, enforcing subjugation, or releasing superweapons on defiant galaxies. He leads fleets even harder. Early in his reign, he became the Naval Chief of Staff, the number one man in the Federal Navy. These were just a few of his accomplishments.

Memories of the past, though, were sidelined. Just like literal thousands of groups of men and women in the most private sections of his ship, he watched a television that was locked onto a single closed hangar in Bamako, angles varied due to the tens of thousands of news channels that had emerged in recent centuries, but the same doorway nonetheless. The gate through which their leader would appear in the most fabulous uniform fathomable and speak on this sacred day.

Umbru could hear his subordinates revel in their virtual victories and cry in pain at 'events' or whatever they were called in their stupid video games. He had hoped all were equipped with a backup device for what was obvious. Even a disciplinarian such as him could relent at least this once. Together, they were a ruthless apparatus of slaughter and perdition - the onyx soul of the United African Military.

Everyone was doing something, waiting for the moment promised in the past few months and even more speculated in the past few hours. He did not request anyone to stand up here with his old ass; instead, the leader sealed the chamber shut and stood alone.

And so, the Chief shifted his weight and commanded a droid with the serial production number "A-21-1" to use micro-projectors to transform the half circle of a window into text. The little droid complied immediately, its two little legs making it look rather cute until its horizontal head shifted enough for one to view the crimson eye.

You would see red, and your soul was at its mercy. At least that's what a private said happened. The story stuck…

Serial numbers as low as they were on this vessel made perfect sense, as this battlecarrier was among the first to integrate droids. Before mass deployment, the number of people on this one ship was enough to crew multiple battleships of today's requirements fully and then some.

The text that popped up on the half circle on the front of the starboard bridge were the details of the Republic herself and the iconic entries of an unknown Naval Ensign over two thousand years ago. The Admiral figured it was best to read up before the ceremony. He knew the crew wouldn't allow their leader read through the grand event, even if he wanted to.

And so the Admiral settled down in a seat below the main walkways of the bridge and lost himself in words, the aura of malefic fading temporarily...

—————————☆—————————

*Entry start.*

It is a phenomenon as old as the military application of stellar technology that starships are seen as more than hulks of titanium and steel.

Through service, they transform into icons of the nations of this universe. The contraptions reflect the values, traits, and ideology of servicemen onboard.

Starships have come to represent many mighty ideals; liberty, opportunity, religion, populism, or tyranny.

Even rarer was a machine that embodied different emotions in each person who looked upon it. An example that would become the stuff of legend in the age of man.

African Federal Starship: Republic was one such ship.

A long abandoned archetype was needed to fulfill the ever expanding African needs.

Designed in secret at the peak of the North African Insurrection by the merciless Admiral and naval architect Nadira Juma, the revived class of warship was constructed to save the Federation from the vultures around the world in its darkest hour.

Entire armada of advanced human and alien warships fell before her hazardous weaponry. Swathes of star systems submitted to the army groups she at times single handedly escorted into the fray.

Built in the orbital shipyards above New Lomé in 3217, she was designed to complete such feats with ease. Adding onto these accomplishments, her secondary roles grew to include exploration and universal scale reconnaissance as standard sizes of capital ships slowly caught up to the nation-sized behemoth. The battlewagon of over eight-hundred kilometers in length and four-hundred fifty kilometers in beam, has been mauled in combat, upgraded, and finally, integrated with hyper-advanced technologies. These improvements have her the pride of the African navy for nearly two thousand years. Each implant into the ship's system is mastered by the immortal High Marshall of the Federation, who occasionally commands the ship in significant engagements.

As the lead ship of her class, Republic carries approximately seven hundred thousand crew members and over ten million droids and robots, primarily operating as worker drones, assisting with minor everyday tasks. Crew numbers of Republic are significantly lesser than her sisters, who each number approximately three million souls, with her carrying fewer men and women in exchange for enhanced battle performance, scouting ability, and armor. The men make decisions and operate weapons via command stations in the ship's many major and minor posts, among other actions.

The capabilities regarding raw firepower are dwarfed only by the ultimate symbols of power: the 'King Menelik' and 'Queen Nzinga' Class Dreadnoughts, which are not equipped with the fighter and bomber compliments of the aforementioned 'Tanganyika' and 'Carthage' Class Aircraft Carriers. Four thousand was the standard issue complement of space and atmosphere-capable craft that supported "Fleet Engagement" and full-scale "Planetary Invasion" operations on each carrier. On top of this number, twenty thousand units of advanced Russo-African artificial intelligence 'Swarm of Drone' technology equipped systems had been integrated into the carrier's systems, from Interceptor roles to F.P.V kamikaze bombing, were stashed in secondary hangars throughout the ship's two aft side concaves. The wedge-shaped hull was divided into topside and keel fire control sectors, controlled by the aft and secondary bridges throughout the ship.

On the topside, engineers constructed three rows of seven Mark-391 double barrel turrets on both port and starboard sides. Miniaturized thermonuclear energy cannons, unstable cobalt missiles imported from the Russian Federation, and thousands of general-purpose missile launchers line the superstructure. Hundreds of point defense systems, projectile or energy in nature, dotted the topside and horizontal belts.

All things considered, this would've made this carrier the tenth deadliest ship in the Federal arsenal... however, there was more. The Keel Sector (bottom half of the vessel) includes seven rows of eight armor-piercing double-barrel howitzers, horizontally positioned along the bulging centerline that went upwards outwards. Two Type-10 Kinetic-Dimensional Accelerator Rifles carry out planetary bombardment with low-yield, high-explosive, or thermonuclear projectiles. Every barrel in the arsenal that relied on kinetics, such as projectile launchers, had been rifled in the last millennia in standardization efforts. All smoothbore design philosophies were abandoned in favor of maximum speed and interdimensional application in projectile usage. Both were housed on the sides of a single turret, grey as fog with blue veins of cobalt energy on its steel skin. Those two things combined were one and a half times the size of Ghana. Most of the time, they were housed in the ship's lower section in a sealed vertical hangar.

In atmosphere, protocol demands two precautions are followed: In order to avoid potential disasters to the local population and infrastructure caused by sudden air currents, the ship must either maintain an altitude above a certain threshold or engage shield weakening measures and reduce its speed when entering the atmosphere, ensuring negligible disruption of airflow. The second pertains to all nuclear, cobalt, kinetic-dimensional accelerator, and orbital bombardment weapons be locked and usage restricted unless deemed necessary. This is due to the advancement of these weapons, meaning that in atmosphere, a single usage could obliterate entire continents or worse. Gravitational forces so different from Earth could create white and black holes. Republic is one of the few ships that can effortlessly contain and harness the powers of these objects; the same cannot be said for over ninety-nine percent of human infrastructure.

The self-sufficiency of Tanganyika Class Battlecarriers is second to only dedicated universal scout ships. With 'Type-985' sphere-shaped reactors inside their hulls, these ships' electrical and nuclear power are comparable to dozens of Betelgeuse-sized red supergiant stars combined. Each carrier can commit to shield transfers of entire fleets while maintaining stability and energy equilibrium. Nearly completely automated repetitive crew duties such as cleaning, meal preparation, and about half of the overall manual labor demands led to increased room for hull armor and entire cities' worth of food, nonperishables, water, and more stored in the secluded sections.

If Tanganyika vessels are required to, with massive support or on their own, initiate Planetary Assault, over one hundred thirty thousand African Marines, who as a fighting force are integrated into the naval chain of command, are stationed aboard the ship, along with all necessary equipment to sustain them for years on end on one or multiple worlds.

As a frequently employed scout ship, Republic is commonly sent beyond the range of rapidly deployable allied task forces and, as such, carries the most formidable communications array ever fitted on a vessel.

Due to the unique and controversial roles of the carrier, the strongest, most professional, and most experienced operators are hand-picked for service should they find themselves in a 'First Contact' scenario.

The staff of the Republic is one hundred percent human, just as in the vast majority of African ships. The High Marshall and other prominent figures are currently pushing for integration. Still, with the friendly humanoid alien minorities favoring the army branch and planetary air subdivisions, this leaves the navy in a welcoming but ultimately irrelevant position in this sector.

*Entry ending.*

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The Dome of Article is the most sacred site of the Federation.

A monument, a mega building, the final testament to its great nation.

It stands triumphantly atop Bamako, the capital of one of the great empires. Mali.

The top of the dome was a crimson hue. An energy shield powered by thirteen jet-black constructs in a symmetrical ring pattern enveloped the spectators. Every pillar assembled in obsidian and diamond, mauling the clouds of Mother Earth that dare connected.

The formal entrance to the connected 'House of Article' was opposite the dome. Though an audience section was in the front, it was far from the most impressive sight. The dark green turf was gardened tidily in rows reminiscent of the French chateaus. All parallel to the staircase, the steps, encrusted with steel, look beyond the ancient city of Paris. It was dwarfing this land's old governors. A hexagon-shaped door was encased in a massive supporting wall on all sides. It was solid quartz, as white as the clouds, glossy, and polished as a marble surface. The logo on either side was simple, just as with the pillars: a green flag with twelve stars orbiting the one star of unity in the center.

Mali is just one of the representatives of the thirteen stars. Each of these regional zones of the greater Federation represents the continent and governs over the states of the galaxies. The banner of the state was adopted in 2072, years after the unification process was finalized through the final conflicts with North African forces. The stars were proposed by Field Marshall Jamal Ali, leader of the 2nd Army Group during the days of the East African Provisional Authority after the continent was organized into thirteen Federal Provinces. The idea stuck.

A slew of people, differing in all things, from race and religion, humble liberators and enslaved people within the far reaches, the relatively simple-minded of galactic television, and men on the frontier all united in watching the vacant balcony. They awaited together, silent as the next in the octillions on whatever network-capable device and beyond the world's atmosphere. People now were fixated on the history about to be made. One man had the attention of the known universe.

The holograms and signals along the aerial streets of the Earth's immense African cities flash beyond the set of one hundred steps that lead to the entrance. The outside landscape was filled with green trees- and black, white, and grey superstructures that towered over anything natural and were domineering heights, almost flexing, proving their worth to ancestors living thousands of years before peoples of Africa had united, and before she had manifested as a nation of many.

Seven men of the African Army approached the main gateway as it opened horizontally. As the men entered, a dark tunnel guided them to a concealed door. Overhead lights initiated, motion sensors buzzed, and a dormant system awakened.

"Welcome, High Marshall of the Federation, Micah McNeal." A feminine voice announced, monotone as all other times the voice had been summoned. Blinding red lines inside the walls of the site flared to life as the A.I was awoken.

As the High Marshall gave the rest of the equally built men the word, they dispersed in the direction they had come.

"The same fancy attire awaits me inside?" The High Marshall demanded to know as he walked beyond the passage. As it so happened, it was literal minutes before the hyped speech. It was an action that no sensible Marshall would undertake; ‘pondering about some clothes this close, you should've been ready by now.’ Mother's words nearly brought on a smirk, for the previously plain thoughts were finally gone. Such a decision as personal of a choice of outerwear could affect the lives of the men and women of his nation. This mere talking to would undoubtedly go down in history.

Just another day at the office.

Contemplating momentarily, he surmised he could regain the feeling he longed for, losing himself in speech. Yes, of course, this message to the civilian masses, not just militant fronts, would be from his heart, just like all used to be.

He may be a genetically altered, immortal super soldier, but he wasn't hopelessly focused and empty inside. Sure, stoicism was disciplined from a young age by his adaptive, determined child self and by God, but Micah wasn't like the other American or Chinese or Russian "Gladiator" dubbed Supersoldiers who had their human desires and purposes stripped from them for exactly point-zero-zero-one percent more efficiency.

And, of course, for all that bluster about how since he was among the few not sterilized and emotionally unavailable, he was inferior to them in fights, he still whooped their best men's asses.

"This fit will do," He spoke to the artificial woman, casting a downward glance to meet her gaze while pointing a finger toward a coat hung on his right. Her golden form now projected onto the ground in front of him. "It will show strength in our time."

"I'm sure they couldn't agree more, sir." the A.I submitted, knowing his decision was irreversible.

"Glad we share the sentiment, Nyala." McNeal shot back, detecting attitude. "So, standard issue it is," was uttered, "let me inspect before starting this march ahead of me…"

The woman did not respond verbally to this. Indeed, the Marshall was already drowning in rugged military wear. Underneath everything he was going to examine for flaws was a black suit. Skin tight, this advanced metallic mixture was like a second skin designed to keep body temperature moderate or whatever was desired at all times.

Like his brother-in-arms, the enigmatic Umbru, McNeal had harnessed the powers of electricity. The High Marshall was the only master of the craft left alive, the few others perishing in war.

He finally began the final check. Hard-fought medals from his centuries in the frontline were propped on his big chest, an olive sweater with the Thirteen Stars emblazoned on its front holding the objects up. Below, on his hands were armored gloves; matte black, the gloves exterior were made of smooth, shiny material, a mixture of steel from the South African smelters of Durban and synthetic rubber from New Abyssinia the most populous African World, dwarfing Afriarth's post-catastrophe population. The knuckle guards over each pair of near-skinless heavy hitters acted as soft rubber shields, a nexus of which enhanced steel expanded unto the top of each finger. The wrist and the ends of the forearms were covered with thin guards that could be concealed under the sweater.

The man's pants were of the Army Detachment 774, a special division of which McNeal was still technically Commander. In reality he wielded it as own elite personalistic dictatorship, a citizenry of killers. All who passed selection were among the finest fighters in their censored history. New, pitch-black, and heavy-duty, the many black nano-tech armor plates glistened, pouches below still as durable as the day they were unified. This pair had seen battle across the stars, today might just be the grandest.

His standard-issue rubberized boots were covered by advanced nano-tech armor that extended midway up his shin, matching the color of his leg armor. The whole outfit of underlying cloth and flexible nanites gave his lower body a bulky appearance that matched his structure; thick legs and a bit too big rear end. This also had to added benefit of giving him an additional three inches of height.

Not that he needed it though. Micah ignited dread in the minds of smaller beings compelled unwavering respect in all subordinates with his aura, owing this to his towering height, immense weight, robust musculature, and masterful strategic prowess. At seven-foot-three inches tall and five-hundred-forty-six pounds without armor, few sentient beings in all of universal history have matched his physique, even less in age.

Micah had only two weapons on him, not counting his own body; two fourteen-inch, jet-black, Bowie knives remained sheathed on his sides, concealed by the cloth over them. They were of the highest quality, straight from the African National Arsenal Botswana District after becoming standardized for all forces of the Army.

The Marshall threw on the hung-up no hood coat over his sweater, all black besides the symbol of the well respected 'Turra C. Company'. Once ready, he reflected on himself.

A unifier of the motherland made a killer of the cosmos.

The retribution of his people, executioner of the enemies of state and family.

"Screw that generic ass script," he began "I will initiate this speech trusting in only him to gift me the words."

"I guess this would be the 'American' in you speaking, sir?" The word, along with the condescending tone, was ignored.

—————————☆—————————

The time has come. The High Marshall begins his march-a hundred steps.

The famous rectangular hangar opened horizontally, the sunlight beaming before his path. No news reporters were in this corridor, he would use that fact to his advantage and prepare himself for what must come.

He took the first step.

Absorbing his surroundings was now possible due to the blinding light entering through the cracked hangar door.

Hand-crafted symbols were emblazed on the walkway below his feet. The walls and ceiling of the octagon-shaped tunnel presented a collection of wooden emblems of every institution of the government from the militant branches to the Department of Orchestra. Ten fireplaces on both the left and right of the centerline contained blue-colored flame that erupted as soon as the sun's touch reached their centers.

As the march reached the tenth step, steel statues of soldiers came into view; ten monuments to the most honored fallen of the Federations campaigned through the cosmos.

All of the martyred men were cremated upon their ascendance to martyrdom. The dark and heroic endings of the men who had given their lives for the cause are well known throughout the cosmos. Among historical figures of pre-unified Africa, such as the Pharaohs of Egypt, the leaders of the National Congress, and countless more, these ten future soldiers garnered the most attention from Micah during the march. The reason was obvious: he knew them. Because he, technically at least, oversaw every order that led to their deaths. Perhaps he was devastated by this constant necessity in his younger years, but time had done away with that as much as possible. Or perhaps these thoughts were just another form of coping. The vital objectives were unfailingly attained with ruthless determination, the Federation would not prove to be a paper tiger, like those who had so thoroughly enslaved her.

So while 'አረደ' or slaughter of the enemy could be seen as nationalistic, self-sacrifice inside the military and the hugely religious society was, bar none, the grandest gesture of service to the nation.

Fifty steps into the march, thunderous applause met prepared ears. The people had come out in force for their powerful leader. Just as the applause and cheer met his eardrums, the Marshall now understood the gravity of this huge uproar. He now remembered the significance to the new generation and the old, and like a slap in the face, he understood. A true embarrassment was the fact he had forgotten what today was.

December the Seventh, the date of infamy remembered across the North American Commonwealth for the travesty of Pearl, the rest of the stars for him, was his birthday. The people of Africa had not forgotten the great day three thousand years ago on this very hot day in Mali, a leader was born into this world by a meek woman across the sea.

And he didn't give one damn about it.

Three thousand years of life in itself made no difference.

He already had given the day to his people and had decided to devote today's monumental speech to them. He wouldn't even mention his date of birth or the fact he was now three thousand years old, for everyone already knew. He reasoned internally that when one has lived for many millennia, what is another year? Only events inside those rotations of life particularly stood out to him, not the year in comparison to his life, though he wouldn’t just up and say that to the crowd as it was rude and unkind.

Fate though had decided this day would be significant, and Micah couldn't stop that, not just because this hyped-up event happened to be on the agenda, but something else he would know about soon.

The last moments before Micah emerged from the opening gateway outshone the expectations of even the most fervent believers, and internally, the High Marshall equipped himself with the words to follow up on what was to come.

His footsteps made no noise anymore. Newly awakened thunderous drums and traditional music from Africa guided his footsteps, and the diaspora from America to which he belongs magnificently took over the soundscape right before the onyx anthem of the National Artillery Corps finished their piece of the never-ending orchestra, all under the lyrics of West African songs of the revolutionary centuries of old. All of which was followed by an epic remix of the iconic Ethiopian Tezeta of the turbulent 60s, and finally came on the Grim Theme of the Federal Navy.

Micah finally smiled as the classics of his day came out in force; the sinister instrumentals of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries had taken over.

But this was different, the dark orchestral covers gave him new ideas, awakening deep in his soul a side of him he only felt when listening to the music.

"Heh... yea lil bruh this my shit." the, by now, immortal young/old head muttered that filth silently to nobody. "guess they will have me enjoy my day one way or the other." Micah knew his closest friends were probably laughing hysterically, orchestrating these songs of Micah's era.

He was glad to have people who knew him so well.

The resounding cadence of Africa triumphantly graced the mother world, outer colonies, space stations, cantinas, and frontlines.

In defiance of all imperators of the known universe.

In defiance of hostile fronts against the Vanguard.

In defiance of the enemies of the State.

As a new phase of tribal, mighty symphony began. Slow and deliberate, the pulses calmed the crowd as the gate in front of their Marshall opened up, revealing a man clad in militant wear.

The African starlight of the early evening rained down and the masses steadied themselves. Micah took a single step into the oncoming light, his eyes not at all squinted.

Now was his time. The Africans below observed as the thin walkway that protruded the elevated gate arose to his level, barely wide enough for any man to stand on top the gray platform comfortably. Micah trotted the tight-rope effortlessly as always, he swiftly found his best position for speaking, acclimating to the height and the wind dying down in real time. The shield dome operator now received McNeal’s signal for wind cancelation measures to embrace all within the shield. He didn’t need to look down as the steel platform got more constricted, thousands of feet in the air.

Micah was now on the edge. Its final point had expanded in width by now, due to Micah submitting to the instant request to use some of his leg armor nano-pieces to help the pathway expanded slightly, likely made by the on-duty operator trying to help out their Marshall in this moment. It was appreciated. The end was now wide enough for McNeal to manage a decent and familiar stance, left foot forward, the right at a slight angle. The now slightly skinnier armor pieces on the top his pants reflected no light, along with his open coat and sweater. His brown, thick, wide, neck glistened with sweat, unlike the rest of his temperature suit-protected body.

The words of the speech have now come to him, just as he knew they would.

Just as they always have.

—————————☆—————————

His crowd stood below at attention, not even the newborn dared disturb what was to come.

He looked down to his audience, blinking thrice as the famed ‘King Menelik’ Class Battleship; ‘Kenyatta’ steamed out of hyperspace directly above and slightly behind him. She was in formation with Micah’s being, behind the dome. She was magnificently close to the ground, flying perfectly upright. Just elevated enough that holy light could touch the speaking man.

An entire province worth of land behind was covered by the shadow of the giantess vessel, her length and beam-wide systems having already molded the ship to perfectly adapt to the curvature of the Earth.

Her hull was dark grey, yellow stars dotted her wedge-shaped superstructure from what the crowd could see.

The masses in the spectating dome and within the exterior watching booths let out the iconic battle cry of their nation once more.

‘Kenyatta’ hovered above the arena silently.

McNeal spoke up.

“… Let me tell you, who we are,” he asserted himself over the crowd, his seven foot frame silencing all and restoring order.

“We have, a legacy.”

“A legacy that… molds us.”

“A legacy that, we’ve built.”

Micah glanced down with his hands balled at his sides. Nervousness never came to him, but it did today.

A wave of feeling, a wave of hatred overcame his form as his neutral expression suddenly morphed into the iconic stance he had taken after killing that one super-soldier in public over ten years ago.

The left side of his mouth cracked open, his titanium-grey teeth with their iconic blue light shimmering off multiple cameras, presenting this cold moment to countless beings. A toothpick from behind his teeth emerged and stuck grouch the teeth, a small opening between his molars clenching the imported bamboo.

He would continue, with purpose and unwavering willingness to see this thing through to the finish.

“We birthed on this, mother world,”

“We rose, separate, as the tribes…” he forced out the true beginnings of the Federation, the millennia before he himself experienced the world of his day. “Many people, crafting, our future.”

“They came, to destroy it,” he spat, careful to not jettison the toothpick from his titanium teeth’s vice grip. “They tried to sever us, to… scatter… the tribes.”

Everybody in the crowd knew just who their leader referred to. The European State and the North American Commonwealth, both embodied not only responsibility for the trade of old, but of the largest crisis in African Stellar history that that nearly collapsed the stars back into division.

No elaboration on their roles were needed though, and never in the future would any descendant forget.

McNeal’s face stayed hard and greeted the space forward of his eyes grimly. Cumulonimbus clouds above growled in anticipation of what was to come. Electric power hid itself within their forms. Barley resisting collapse, Micah needed to store some meager but eye catching energy away in the watery whites of the sky.

The signature green lightning of the holding back High Marshall was ready to show itself across any foot of planet it was called unto.

Micah composed himself, refusing to let go of his hate just yet.

It was time for the climax of the speech.

“But we fought back!” Micah’s voice raised definitively as, above his dome, over a dozen snub fighters skimmed over him. His chin rose as his eyes turned green and pulsated lightning of their own.

The people loved the display absolutely and matched with more ferocity than any stadium could handle. The battle cries tearing through ears in the hundreds of thousands reached decibel levels unheard before in anything short of stellar combat.

It was a welcome response.

“We rose, as brothers and sisters-” He regained his domineering tone and tripled his volume. Now with renewed vigor, once again speaking plain and direct to the crowd below…

“-seizing victory from the vile chains we were broke…” His tone took a more somber form now. He more than anyone here was informed of just what these ships looked like. Transports for the millions now across the sea. Micah, in all his time, had personally seen the houses where his mothers and fathers were violated for centuries. After all, the leader was a direct descendant of the diaspora.

“And today we stand…”

“We stand as the thirteen stars of the continent.”

The ancient and deliberate orchestra of the revolutionary eras of yesteryear restarted as all could sense this would be the end of the beautifully crafted, heartfelt speech…

“We stand, as Africa!”

Small starfighters from underneath Micah’s position flew up at subsonic speeds, one of the pilots performing a barrel roll that anyone would condemn as reckless. The gesture was appreciated. A mighty “Hoorah!” left the lungs of countless hundreds of thousands in the span of only a second as the fighters soared into the sky and met up with the dreadnaught, hovering around for some seconds as the shields relented, landing inside its portside hangar as clearance had been granted.

Micah could hear every reaction and every being talk about this historic day, hundreds of thousands of his countrymen and women shouted the name of their nation.

Still standing on top the steel pathway, his pupils dial aged into nothingness once again. His eyes in their entirety begun to glow a bright jade, matching his sweater under his unzipped coat. Thunder erupted from his form as his hands rose to summon his electric power. Green lightning erupted like a volcano and covered the darkening evening sky in jade colored beauty. Two massive streams of electricity linked with McNeal’s hands as he looked up at the spectacle he planned for come to fruition, unleashed for all his countrymen and women to remember.

With his musical reaching its end, the newest updates of the navy blasted through his hidden radio. His neck maneuvered his head down to his right deltoid, contracting as lightning still flowed within his veins.

High Marshall, sir, once you’re finished, we’re going to need your assistance on the dreadnaught. That resource rich planet has to wait.” the familiar voice of the Admiral of the 12th Galactic spoke concisely. The word choice in the latter half would’ve been a sign of disrespect, but the two simply talked like this sometimes. His tone was one of concern rather than confrontation anyway.

“We have a concerning development in 87th’s area of operations,” he continued elaboration, mindful of the situation Micah was in, “the largest enemy fleet seen in that galaxy’s history is about to engage Sinai and Osiris’ forces are stretched thin. Currently the assembled fleet above Earth is waiting on you to lead the force, as you requested.”

Taking in the atmosphere around him one last time on the platform he had grown accustomed to over the past few minutes, he twisted his waist and begun trotting back towards the gate.

“Is Polar’s support flotilla in the area capable of reinforcing the lost systems within their A.O?” McNeal questioned, sticking two matching earpieces into his ears, then tinkering to direct radio traffic to them after the portable radio on his right front deltoid. As the orchestra turned into classic African and American rap tunes from this age and the last, he made his way back into the hangar door in which he had returned. The fire pits continued to burn into the coming night alongside the headlights automatically coming on.

Micah subtly deactivated his mic for a quick comment.

“Thanks Nyala,” Micah spoke to the female A.I, by now integrated into the interior’s systems, “What would I do without ya.”

“Anytime sir!” Nyala’s voice responded humbly. Illuminated surfaces, resembling veins on a human body, lined the wall. At once they pulsating in red, signaling that the AI had entered her state of “sleep”.

Reactivating his communication device, Micah listened in for the answer that would soon arrive.

“I’m afraid they are already retreating from multiple systems to bide their time, sir. The Russian “Polar” support fleet, is not engaged in combat, I’ve already requested them to link up with us. Osiris’ Primary T.F is currently preparing to make its stand in MLD-RG System.” The Fleet Admiral clarified calmly. “Riot’s support flotilla is currently regrouping, they should be ready to reinforce our escort groups once we rendezvous with them at the nearest gateway to the main combat zone.”

“12th Galactic Sector and the 3rd Task Force are above Earth, sir. Commanders are briefed and ready when you are.” Umbru finished his rushed explanation and remained silent afterwards, awaiting his superiors thoughtful response.

“Are the ones who I believe are attacking us doing this damage, Umbru?” Micah needed to know this answer within the minute. Weapon systems of the dreadnaught had be adjusted according to the foe. beating around eh bush.

“The ships were confirmed to contain a massive amount of remnants of the ‘Neljuc’ species in that galaxy, advance Deep Reconnaissance units of theirs already have taken around twenty-nine percent Casualties.” Umbru proclaimed, hiding his laugh.

“POOOOOO~gahhhahhahh…” his laugh exposing his deadly gray titanium chompers. “Naw bro ohhhh hell naw those mofuckin… cocksuckers. So… they want their dumbass civilization to be all resurgent and cool and enslave half the universe like how they used to eh!?” Micah blurted with a huge laugh. He couldn’t help it truly, as unprofessional as it was.

“Alright… alright I’ll get to the battleship and ensure the mark sixty-four combat loadouts are beyond adequate for meeting the enemy fleets as best as we can on such a short timeframe.” The High Marshall composed himself, lest he get caught by a stray camera.

“Hehehe your fatass, goofy ass laugh finna make me chuckle at this little situation, anyway sir yes sir!” Luti Umbru finished cooking him a tad-bit, and deactivated his mic as Micah did, both going into fulfill their roles as commanders, and as friends.

Micah waltzed out of the main entrance, his vision filled with people celebrating in the after party some celebrities had organized. He was never one for that party shit. A troop transport craft waited patiently for him as he exited the House of Article. His time spent in the premises before he evacuated it was approximately one hour. How time passed so quickly, it was mystery to him.

He took a spot in gunship like shuttle and stood the entire journey to the battleship’s hangar, all in the rapid deployment level. Holding onto the ceiling handles with a single hand, a soldier beside him pulled out a black device out of his duffel bag. A miniaturized handheld radio that was tuned to the frequency of the fleet Micah was about to lead into the biggest fight a contested galaxy had seen. McNeal accepted what was offered to him and began hoisting it on his right deltoid, replacing the previous object and stowing it away on his waist belt.

The trip was uneventful besides that. His stoic subordinates now preparing to disembark once the hangar deck met their landing gear.

“Touchdown in thirty seconds brothers, prepare yourselves.” The female pilot alerted passengers onboard via the speakers.

“Attention all commanders, the High Marshall is on Kenyatta, callsign Hammer.” McNeal got on the radio to establish his authority in the fleet, his mind steeled himself for the largest battle in centuries. Command protocols and security checks by smaller Strategic Cruisers had given him the green light

“Operational command of the fleet has been centralized. Prepare all ships planetside or in orbital station for the jump to Andromeda Main Gate.” Micah continued his introductory greeting to all his crew members as his craft drew closer to the hangar of the dreadnaught.

“We and callsign Nemesis will be linking up with Riot’s escort flotilla and the Russians after two jumps. As you know, OP-Four is fighting on his home turf. He is more experienced than us by millions of years.” Micah spoke the truth and embraced the fact of the matter wholeheartedly, a characteristic feature of his.

“Oh but of course-when has that ever held us back?”