NationStates Jolt Archive

Darkness reigned.

The night was silent.

Peace was everywhere.

Then the peace was shattered, the silence ripped apart, and the darkness turned as bright as day.

The Federation was under attack. Gaithersburg was under attack.

Bombs rained down across the city, anti-aircraft guns opened fire.

The bombs were untargeted. Gaithersburg was a civilian city. There was no military there.

The bomb fell. Down and down and down, closer to the ground.

Then it exploded. The explosion ripped through the heart of the neighborhood.

Fifty people died instantly in the blast. Two adults died in their sleep, as the front of their house was consumed. Their five year old daughter survived, in the back of the house. She would never again see her parents, never again hear their voices, never again be held tightly in their arms and told that they loved her. Her world was torn asunder, and it nearly broke her.

********************

"Well, who's next?"

"D'ron Christopher Smith, City of Gaithersburg, Age 18."

"The town that the Manilowans hit last night?"

"Yes, sir."

"Tell me about his qualtests."

"He averaged a ninety-three, with the high of 100 in ranged combat, and a low of 81 in International Diplomacy."

"My god! Recommendation?"

"I'd say Special Forces, if it weren't for the tactics and strategy scores. 92 and 98, respectively, sir."

"That high? Amazing. Start him into the Battle Center. We'll see how he does at a low level, and then we'll move him up as quickly as we can. I swear, Battle Center will change combat forever, if we can get the students through it fast enough to stop Manilow."

"Um, yes, sir." A pause, then softly, "Oh my god!"

"What is it?"

"The file just updated for Smith, sir. His parents were killed in last night's attack."

"Does he know?"

"He should be finding out soon."

"Monitor him. Find out his response. I don't want someone who breaks easily. Too much depends on this."

"Yessir."

********************

D'ron awoke to the incesant bleating of the message alarm. The first thought that ran through his mind was that he had no more government tests today, so why was he being awaken.

Then the noise registered, so he pushed himself up and hit the read message button on screen. He read:

<TO: MISTER D'RON Christopher Smith>
<FROM: FEDERATION Central Census and Population Bereau>

While the current situation is underwraps by the government, whom are attempting to hide the fact that the Federation has been attacked by the Dominion of Barry Manilow, you had a pressing need to know at the current time. We regret to inform you, that as part of its primary assault, Dominion forces terror bombed the city of Gaithersburg. During this bombing, your home was mostly destroyed. Based on available movement records, it can only be concluded that your parents, Dale and Margaret Smith, were killed during the attack.

No.

The world could have stopped spinning and that fact would have been easier to accept. His parents could not be dead.

Then... it came crashing down on him. They had to be dead. This kind of thing would not be done as a joke.

Logic crashed back into his brain. The message did not mention his little sister. D'ron noticed the contact code at the bottom of the message. He punched it into the viewphone.

"Census Bureau, how may I help you, sir?"

"I received a letter, about my parents, in Gaithersburg..." D'ron broke off, trying to force the emotion down.

"Your name, sir?"

"D'ron Smith."

"Well, I am quite sorry, sir, but I am afraid that the letter tells the truth."

"I was aware of that. But I had a different question."

"Yes sir?"

"My sister was not mentioned in the letter; she's five years old. I want to know about her."

"Ah. Let me see." The face on the other end of the line was silent for a moment. "She is in a medical clinic in Gaithersburg. She will be released in the care of her adult next of kin."

"That would be me."

"Yes, I suppose that it would, wouldn't it?"

D'ron nodded. "I currently have no place of residence though, I am about to begin my Federal Service Term."

"I am most sorry, sir, there is nothing I can do about that. If that's all..."

<CONNECTION TERMINATED> D'ron stared blankly at the screen for a moment. That hadn't been all, but the Census people were not the people he needed to contact about it. The clinic would contact him when he could take his sister.

But how would he support her? Federal Service paid very little, especially since he now expected to go into the military, considering the current state of the conflict between Barry Manilow and the Federation.

He just hoped it would all work out.

<TRANSMISSON Opens: Encryption ORDERS>
<TO: D’RON Christopher Smith>
<FROM: FEDERATION Military High Command>
<RE: ORDERS to a new station>

You are hereby requested and required to report to a new station to take up duties at the Battle Center, in command of First Combat Team. You are to report three days after this communication. With these orders a package should have been delivered containing everything you need for your uniform. As of this moment, you are part of the chain of command, of the Federation Military, and responsible to it. Until your assigned reporting date, you are given leave.

<TRANSMISSION Terminates>

D’ron looked at the equipment in the box, which was really just a patch and two pins.

The patch was that of the First Combat Team, a striking falcon with a fish in its talon. One of the pins was the standard name tag, with his first and last name, and his assignment “First Combat Team, Battle Center.” But what the hell was the Battle Center? It was obviously represented by the second pin. A sword crossed with a rifle, behind a striking eagle, on a background of flame.

That couldn’t mean anything good, could it?

D'ron sat stoically in the front of the church. It was his neighborhood church. The church where he had grownup. He knew everyone here, and was well known, and well liked.

But now the church was draped in black. Twenty-three members of the church had been killed or wounded in the attack.

And with no bodies, the funeral could proceed immediately. Unfortunately.

His sister, sitting next to him, wrapped in bandaged, was perhaps too young to understand. And perhaps not.

She did, however, understand that they would never see their parents again.

D'ron allowed his mind to wander back to his orders from the government. He new what he should have gotten in them. A rank pin. But he hadn't. What did that mean?

He would find out, no doubt, very soon.

Silently, he sat, through the funeral, through the grief. But the wake he did not attend, nor did his sister.

Collected by two men in uniforms as the funeral ended, they vanished.

OOC:

If I was D'Ron, I'd be tempted to think it was a joke if Barry Manilow attacked.

Anyways, good story thus far.

The Government had been cooperative, at least with regards to his sister.

D'ron stared at the ceiling of the small room. It wasn't the best solution, by far, but it would work. He glanced at his sister's small sleeping form, across the room.

Tomorrow he would begin whatever training it was he was supposed to receive, before beginning his assignment. Well, at least, that was what he thought he was going to do.

D'ron was hoping to get some training, anyway. His sister would be attending a tutor, he knew that, so that she would not fall behind, trapped on this military base.

D'ron drifted off to sleep, knowing Morning would come too soon.

************

D'ron stood stiffly at attention in front of an older man whose collar ensignia proclaimed him to be a Field Marshal of the Ground Forces.

"So you're the new kid they were telling me about?"

"I guess so, sir."

"I heard the Manilowians killed your parents. Is this true?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you want revenge?"

"No, sir."

"Why not?"

"Because it won't bring my parents back, sir."

"Then why are you here?"

"To serve the Federation, sir."

"Good. Welcome to Battle Center, m'boy. Hopefully, this will win us the war." The older man beckoned D'ron over to a console. "This will be your station, for now. The First is about to engage enemy units moving over the border, so I suggest you familiarize yourself with the unit quickly. We don't have much time."

"Yes, sir. With your permission, sir?"

"Go ahead, son."

D'ron slid into the chair, and immediately was greeted by a soft, nearly sensual female voice. "Welcome to the Mark Seven Tactical Combat Interface, Commander. We have time for a few minutes of familiairization exercises before the First engages, so if you will please direct you attention to....."

D'ron allowed himself to be drawn in.

D'ron looked in the box of small items that had been retrieved from their house, now completely destroyed, knocked down the rest of the way due to safety concerns.

He's been in the Battle Center for four days straight, existing on MRE's and water bottles.

It was overwhelming. Most of the people under his command had died, but he had accomplished every objective set before him.

Unfortunately, it did not look like his efforts were going to accomplish anything.

The Dominion of Barry Manilow was too militarized. Which of course, explained their horrible standard of living.

But still... the people could fight, and fight hard.

D'ron returned his attention to the box. His parent's wedding rings, and his mother's engagement ring. His mother's jeweled dagger. His father's college ring.

D'ron lifted the items out of the box one by one. These items were all that were left of his parents. He was glad Jessica was asleep right now.

He slipped on his father's ring, to remind him why he fought, and placed the rings of his parent's love in a safe place. As for the dagger, it was much to feminine for him. He would give it to Jessica, to remember their parents by.

He placed it next to her pillow, gems and metal work gleaming softly in the single light.

D'ron stripped then, and climbed into bed. They were giving him 16 hours before he had to fight again, this time, with a bigger, larger unit.

is this intended to be an interactive RP? :D

Jessica awoke on the bed the government had provided.

Her brother slept on the cot she knew was meant for her, and she giggled softly because his feet stuck off the end.

As she sat up, she felt something cold and metallic near her, and felt for it in the near darkness.

Upon touching it, she realized what it was, and begin to cry, softly weeping.

But it awoke her brother, after a few minutes, and he same over to her, and sat on the bed, and held her, reminding her that he was still there.

After a few minutes, Jessica looked at her brother. "Why don't you cry?"

D'ron bit his lip. "I don't have time to cry, sister mine. I cannot weep yet, for the Federation has called, and we are all servants of the State, so I must answer."

Jessica was confused, but her confusion quickly passed as she pronounced "I'm hungry."

D'ron smiled, and said. "Well, let's get something to eat then." And quickly taking turns with the shower, and getting dressed, they went to find just that.

The pleasant fiction of a family life D'ron had shared with his sister for a few short hours was over.

Now he had returned to Central COmmand room of the Battle Center. The operational silence was deafening. Near silent keystrokes, whispered commands. D'ron sighed, and slotted back in, taking control of his second unit now.

It was still the First Combat Team, but the troops he had come to know over the last four days were few in remaining number, and dispersed widely among the greater numbers of the new unit.

"Welcome back, Commander." D'ron nodded to the computer, even though, as far as he knew, it could not see him. He was wrong, but that did not matter.

He called for a status check, and got a 98% ready reply. Impressive, but now back to the front.

His tanks rolled forward, as CAS aircraft hovered watchfully. A brigade of Dominion troops was approaching, and he sent forward his fast scouts, luring them into his hastily set fire trap.

His artillery opened fire...

The tanks rolled forward, under the hail of the artillery, as thundering storms of rockets roared by.

The advance wheeled, and slowed, as they hit resistance. It was a tactical advance, for sure. Over all, they were losing.

But D'ron didn't know that. And so his orders continued to come fast and clear. His unit broke through, and he wheeled them about, to hit from the rear of the enemy force.

His control as near absolute, and these men and women's lives depended on everything he did.

They had to trust his orders would not be wrong. That he would lead them to victory. And so far, he had.

In seven days of combat, D'ron's First Combat Team had never failed to achieve their tactical objective.

So, for now, their trust was absolute, as their lives were secondary to the mission, as all good soldiers knew them to be.

And as D'ron's hand guided them, sending the orders, they slammed into the enemy's rear, killing as they went.

"We're going to have to. The unit uplinks just aren't staying intact."

"Deploy Battle Center Personnel in command vehicles? Deploy them forward?"

"Yes."

"But they have no training, and we don't have time to train them for field operations."

"Then we have to send them out anyway. Jamming and satellite interference is soon going to render much of the Battle Center ineffective."

"Well, then we'll have to do it. Start reversing some command vehicles."

-----------------------------

D'ron collapsed exhaustedly into a chair in the mess hall. They had made him stop after 10 straight days of fighting.

He could have done more, he was sure. If only he had more firepower. If only there was a way to have people on the other end that knew what he wanted.

He needed exacting control, and if the unit got any larger, it was unlikely he would be able to have it.

He began to eat in silence, slowly shoveling food into his mouth. A voice, behind him.

"Hello, Commander."

D'ron turned his head. A young woman was standing there, stunningly beautiful. She was also dressed in a commander's uniform, in her case, the Third Combat Team, it appeared.

"Hi." He wasn't exactly awake, after all.

"May I sit with you?"

"Sure." She sat down next to him, and he blinked in surprise.

"So, D'ron," she said, obviously reading his name tag. He didn't look at hers, figuring it might be a bad idea at the moment to look at her chest, as her uniform was a bit tight. "What's a nice guy like you doing in a place like this hellhole?"

D'ron blinked again. That comment had been unexpected, to be sure. "Well," he began, "at the moment, trying to stay awake."

She leaned in closer to him. "I've heard that you were in your control booth for the last ten days." D'ron nodded. "Doesn't that hurt you?"

"It's got to be done."

"Yeah, it does. But don't kill yourself, Commander."

"I won't."

"Good." She reached over a squeezed his hand as he looked on in surprise. "You know, you saved my ass earlier."

"What?"

"Yeah, that was the Third, my unit, that your units freed up."

"Oh. You're welcome."

The small talk, now that business was done, began. Home, family, goals, favorite things. Pretty soon, though, the food was done.

And D'ron smiled at her. Catherine Powell earned the first true smile D'ron had smiled in nearly 3 weeks. Ever so briefly, he's felt like he had a normal life, if it hadn't been for the uniforms they both wore, anyway.

<tag>

A year had past since the first bombs of the current war fell.

A full year of fighting had gone by. Jessica and D'ron were a year older, and their parents were now just memories, dear ones to be sure, but memories all the same.

Battle Center was the only thing keeping them from being crushed.

But soon they would have new weapons, new units.

D'ron, and Catherine, now inseperable, their feelings for each other obvious in their gaze, argued repeatedly that they needed to conserve the new unit until they had enough to either be decisive or were on the very cusp of losing.

And eventually, and before any new units were used, they had gotten the Central Command to agree, with the support of a number of their fellow Battle Center Commanders.

There were twelve combat teams now, each about two divisions in strength. But it was not enough.

The command and control was not effective for mass engagements.

The Battle Center Commanders worked together flawlessly now, but their combat teams didn't. They died to fast against the numbers and training of the Dominion's forces.

But the Federation was stiffening its resistence. Last week, the Federation had finally managed to stop a small advance cold, wiping it out completely.

But it wasn't enough. It was never enough. How long would they last?

There was talk of a coming reorganization, amoung the upper levels, the strategic commanders. No one knew what it would mean for Battle School and its commanders, but the rumors did not seem promising.

D'ron and Catherine hugged. It had taken Central Command some time, but they had finally decided on a course of action.

D'ron was to be given full control over the entire military, from Battle Center, as he was the best of the Commanders.

The remaining eleven Commanders would be deployed to the field, to directly command their units, to lead from in front, as they say.

Well not quite the front, but too close for D'ron's liking. He didn't want Catherine in danger. But they had no choice. It was four years to the day since they had met in the mess hall.

D'ron kissed her forehead, and with a tear in his eye, watched her go. And for some reason, it felt final.

Crushing finality. The end of a time.

He squeezed his sister's shoulder, for Jessica, in her own way, had loved Catherine too. They watched her leave together, turning as she got in the car, blowing them each a kiss.

But the war couldn't last much longer. Soon, they were going to be forced to either commit the new units or surrender. But they would continue fighting until then.

Metal tore, missiles roared over head, machine guns chattered counterpoint.

The carnage grew faster, fiercer. D'ron had to find a way to break the line of the Dominion forces, or the city would fall. And without Griffin, the Federation would fall.

But he had the new units. Not as many as he wanted, but perhaps enough. He had his other commanders in the field. Everything they could have arrayed for them was.

Except the situation itself. They were losing... there had to be a way to break the enemy lines, to halt their advance, at the very least.

Perhaps... there.... that would work.... what unit? The Third was in the best position. Catherine's unit. D'ron bit his lip, and called up her on the comm.

"Cat, I need you to do something for me. I need the Third to do this for me." As he spoke, a map lit up on her end. "Can you do it?" She nodded, though tears began to form in her eyes.

It was suicide. There was no way anyone in that unit would survive, but it had to be done, and done now, or they would lose.

And so it was done. D'ron left the link open. In an entire year in the field, and he'd never had to send her into danger. And now, the first time, it was a much better than even chance she would not return.

He watched as she commanded her units, and he commanded overall, there eyes meeting many times as he watched the death toll mounting... but it was working. It was going to work.

He watched the tears run down Catherine's face as her people died. Their eyes met again. Not much left of either... it was going to work... He raised his hand to the comm screen, and she did the same. "I love you, D'ron," she said softly.

Then the bright flash, and then nothing but static....

The enemy's line broke. The Federation pounded into the hole, and the rout began.

Taggage
Nice story!

It hadn’t taken long, that last day of the Dominion’s advance, to wipe them out. When Catherine’s unit had broken their line, D’ron had poured the reserve through the hole, and they’d inflicted nearly eighty percent casualties on the other side.

It had been a month before either side had been ready for continued operations. But the Federation had been first. And while the Dominion had tried to reinforce, and defend against flank attacks, while they were distracted, D’ron had hit them, and hit them hard.

He had destroyed their remaining field forces in direct engagement, wiping them out to basically the last man or woman. He instructed his units to give no quarter to the Dominion troops. No surrender, no retreat. Only death.

That had been six months previous. Now, the tanks of the Federation First Combat Team, escorted by those of the rebuilt Third Combat Team were rolling through the capital of the Dominion of Barry Manilow. In three hundred years, this was the only war to be fought to an end. The only war in which one side had refused the others requests for peace.

But at what cost? What cost? D’ron was a hero of the Federation, for sure. But had he lost his humanity?

He had, in the last seven months of the war, taken exactly fourteen days out of the Battle Center’s control room. He had become implacable, an elemental force. The Dominion war had cost him his family, and his love.

Logic and pain ruled him now. His sister was shut out, there was pain in their family. Wounds that even time might not heal

Only time would tell.

The cold wind snapped through the streets of the Manilowian Capital, but neither it, nor the darkness of the still early morning could compete with the blackness and cold of D'ron's heart.

He had protest. How he had protested. He'd point blank refused the award, even. But he wasn't given that option. No Citizen was.

Four million dead in five and half years of fighting. Four million. The number clawed at D'ron's heart, and he knew it was that number that should bother him.

But it didn't. It was the one. The one he'd loved, the one he'd sent to her death.

And so, emotions buried under an implacable calmness, D'ron turned to his bed, and tried to sleep.

---------------------

It was still cold today, but the sun was shining down upon the city.

Military personnel, as usual, lined the streets, in full dress today, though their weapons were still just as loaded and lethal. And troops in full battle dress waited just out of sight.

D'ron smiled, falsely, as he mounted the steps of the Capitol Building. He did not wish the Sentient Star, but it was an award he could not refuse.

Unfortunately. He didn't deserve it. All those who put their lives on the line, those who lost them. They were the ones who deserved the Star.

Not him. Not "The Hero." He wasn't a hero. He was an official murderer. He had chosen, and he had led all those people to their deaths.

He smiled as he shook the President's hand, and the ceremony began.

D'ron wanted to live a quiet life, a private life.

But they wouldn't let him. And so, without the need to hold down a job, supported by the Federation, as a hero... which again he thought was stupid.

The State over all. D'ron recalled something he'd read as a child. 1984, it was called. 2 + 2 = 5. The State over all. Different views. But it seemed to work.

But he had dedicated himself to peace in Dor Lomin now. And that was his goal. And so he spoke himself ragged on the topic, visiting governments, and leaders, and all manner of people, in an attempt to bring peace.

And slowly they had agreed. Every conflict that had been ongoing he had managed to stop, not mostly through his rhetoric, but through the raw appeal in his speach. War was something he hated. It had cost him more than he dared ever reveal, to anyone but his sister.

And it was on one of these journeys that he met someone new. Newly elected Empress of the Peithan Commonwealth, Lesley Collins. A year younger than he, and of average beauty. But her presence, poise, and intelligence drew him to her, and in the short time her was in her nation, he had become her friend, and she his.

A very good friend, with the possibilty of something more. Something D'ron had not considered in over a year at this point. The possibility of love.

But it was probably only a passing attraction. They were both young, after all, and fairly attractive.

But something, whether friendship or something more, was there. That could not be denied.

D'ron smiled as he worked through the training moves with his sword, watching his reflection in the wall-lining mirrors.

Satisfied with his progress on the new move, he ran through the sequence at combat speed, which still took nearly two minutes. As he finished, there was clapping.

He spun around and saw the Empress Collins standing there. Lesley. And he was standing there in nothing more than battle dress pants, in black.

He couldn't tell what he looked like her perspective, and had he thought about it, he would have guessed completely wrong.

Broad shouldered, with clearly defined muscles, breathing slightly heavily, sweat gleaming on his skin as he moved under the lights. Not at all what he thought she might see.

But she wasn't seeing from the Empress point of view, as he thought she was. No, when she looked on him, she was Lesley.

It was then her appearance registered. She was dressed in a fencing outfit, in white, smiling at him.

D'ron smiled back. "I'd like to thank you, your Highness, for allowing me to use the gym during my stay." During his stay. Heh. He kept getting drawn back here, again and again, to meet with the Empress, though he wasn't entire sure why.

"It is no trouble, D'ron. Please, in such a setting, call me Lesley."

"As you wish, your... Lesley." She smiled more broadly at him, walking into the room.

As she stepped in, D'ron noticed she was carrying two foils. He sheathed his sword as she stopped a couple of meters away.

Her hand flashed, and a foil arced towards him, which he easily snagged out of the air with his left hand. Her eyes gleamed at the ease with which he did this.

"Defend yourself," she said lightly.

D'ron flipped the foil to his other hand and stepped back onto the workout mat, arm extended in the classic position. He flicked his eyebrows up in challenge, and she came at him.

For twenty minutes, D'ron, who had quickly realized he was a better swordsperson, toyed with her. And then, when he felt her attacks beginning to slow, her tiredness reaching out, then did he go all out.

It was over in less than ten seconds.

Lesley tossed her red hair and laughed. "You were just playing with me, weren't you?"

D'ron nodded, grinning broadly.

"You bastard," she said lightly, though her laugh wiped away any insult the words might have once carried.

"Perhaps. I wanted to see how good you were, though, not how fast I could beat you."

"Good of you to let me think I was at least decent for a while," she responded with a grin.

"Decent, yes. Competition quality, probably not," he said truthfully.

She nodded in agreement with his assessment. "After we clean up a bit, would you like to have lunch?"

D'ron turns to look at her anew. Why not? "Sure."

D'ron looked out on the assembled throng of people, gazing at the vast millions who stood in Griffin Central Park.

Why me? Why did they have to pick me? Hell, I don't know how to do anything but fight.

William Jackson, Imperial President of the Federation of Sentient Peoples approached him from the other side of the platform. This was the second such time they had been on a platform together, but this time, this time was far, far worse for D'ron.

This time, he was being sworn in as Vice-President of the Federation.

How do I let myself get talked into these things? Oh right. Duty. Damn that word. Damn it to Hell.

He saw his sister, who smiled at him encouragingly from the front row, and he stepped forward, rasing his hand to take the oath, so remarkably similiar to his oath when he has joined the military.

On my honor, I, D'ron Christopher Smith, hereby foreswear my loyalty to the Federation of Sentient Peoples. On my oath as a citizen of the Federation, I accept the responsibility of leadership, and the burden of command. To the utmost of my abilities, I shall learn and then lead the Federation through storms within and without. Until the day I die, or am no longer capable, in my own estimation, of fulfilling my duty, I hereby assume the mantle of leadership, and the protection of that Office.

Then the ceremony by which the sword of state's protection was transfered to him as well, a ceremony of blood.

Though D'ron did not know it at the time, that would one day save his life.

D'ron stood on the platform in the capital of the Dominion of Barry Manilow, watching as the President gave a speech.

He had not wanted to come back. In fact, he had advised against it. But Jackson thought he might be able to help quell the dissent rumbling beneath the surface.

It had been long enough for the Manilowians to get over the shock of being defeated, and now, with a Vice-President to take his place, Jackson had thought it safe enough, and a good idea to see what he could do. But D'ron had argued again and again that having him there, in addition to making them both vulnerable, would be a provocation, not a help.

Unfortunately, D'ron turned out to be correct.

The crowd was listening passively to the speech, D'ron standing off to the side of the President, soldiers, heavily armed, unobtrusively lining the field where the speech was occuring.

Suddenly, Imperial President William Jackson's chest exploded as a 15 mm railgun shell tore through it, ripping it to pieces.

CRACK!

Then the shot rang out like the end of the world, for it very nearly was, and D'ron dived for the President. But it was too late, and he was simply covered in the President's blood as he hit the dead man's body.

The crowd began to surge, almost as if primed for this event to occur. And the soldiers, opened fire into the crowd.

Women, children, the very young and the very old. All were in the crowd. And all were unarmed. The blazing sound of EM assisted automatic weapons began, and then, was drowned out by the screams.

The sound of the rifle, but too late. There was no warning. The hot blood, flowing from the President’s lifeless body.

Hot tears, dripping…

Salt mixed with blood…

The screams as the soldiers massacred the crowd. D’ron opened his eyes. Is this how I take power, propelled into the Office I dreaded by blood bath?

He placed his hand on the sword of state’s blade, which lay across the Federation’s Constitution. “I, D’ron Christopher Smith, do swear my life into the Service of the Federation, from this date forth, taking the Office of Imperial President until such time as I can no longer discharge the duties of the Office. By my oath of honor, that service is the best I can provide, for the good of the Federation, and its citizens.”

It was done. He was the President now. The whole weight of six hundred million sentient beings lay upon him. He would discharge his duties. Or die trying.

((A well deserved taggishness. Great writing.))