Waking Dragon, a Short Story Senior Chief Gilbert's jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles in his face might have been carved from the iron core of Ares itself. The badge of the Planetary Customs Enforcement Police shimmered on his chest, a stark contrast against the crimson sea of uniforms before him. His hand was a vise, crushing the paper that bore orders from Draco Prime. Every pair of eyes in the formation fixed upon him, tracing the darkening storm across his brow—this was a tempest far surpassing the day an Academy greenhorn had botched a fueling operation and left one of their ships gutted. "Chief's about to blow a gasket," someone whispered, the words passing from rank to rank like static charge. The men and women standing rigidly at attention were seasoned in the art of interception—a daily dance with smugglers at the gravity well's edge, prying illicit seeds and spores from the cargo holds of visitors itching for glory in the Ares Gaming Domes. They’d combed through vessels for stowaway creatures that could wreak ecological havoc, or worse, the veiled threats of drugs and weaponry. Their vigilance had even once unraveled the labyrinthine trails of a notorious killer who'd thought the wilds of Ares would swallow his sins. But as the silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant hum of ships in the hangar bay, they all shared an unspoken knowledge: these new orders etched into the wrinkled sheet in Gilbert’s grasp—they were anathema to everything the red-clad guardians had sworn to protect. The percussive clank of a door latch releasing echoed through the cavernous space, pulling every gaze to the rear of the hangar bay. The Captain emerged, his silhouette framed sharply against the light that spilled from the office behind him. In an unspoken but well-practiced choreography, the sea of red uniforms snapped into a rigid attention, their stances as straight and unwavering as the service rifles they might soon bear. "Attention on deck!" the Senior Lieutenant's voice cut through the tension like a laser scalpel. The word was a command, crisp and absolute, resonating off the metal walls with practiced authority. Senior Chief Gilbert, however, stood resolute at the forefront, his jaw set, eyes still locked on the invisible horizon of an uncertain future. As if in defiance of the protocols they all held dear, he raised his voice, robust and commanding, overruling the call to formality. “Belay that order,” Chief bellowed, the timbre of his voice betraying no room for debate. “Stand at ease.” The formation exhaled in a collective ripple, shoulders descending, hands clasping behind backs—a forest of disciplined bodies easing from the rigor of statues into something resembling life once more. They had been trained to react to the slightest inflection in Gilbert’s commands, to read the storm brewing in his eyes, and to understand when protocol bowed to the gravity of a moment. Today, the storm was there, and it spoke volumes. The Senior Lieutenant stood rigid, his mind a tempest of protocol and respect. His gaze flitted between the stoic back of Senior Chief Gilbert and the expectant faces of the rank and file, his heart hammering a staccato rhythm against his chest. In the still air of the hangar, the weight of command pressed upon him, an anchor threatening to drag him beneath the waves of indecision. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the Commander sidestepping the formation, duffle bag slung over his shoulder like a mantle of resignation. The man's eyes darted nervously, seeking escape rather than confrontation. This was their leader, the man they were sworn to follow, yet in his hasty retreat, he exuded none of the poise or determination that marked those who wore the red uniform. As the Commander skirted the edge of the assembly, the Senior Lieutenant’s gaze met Chief Gilbert's—a silent exchange fraught with meaning. He saw in the Chief's steely visage a resolve that anchored his own wavering spirit. It was not merely anger that sculpted the lines of Gilbert's face; it was the unyielding essence of duty. "Senior Chief," he began, but before he could finish, the moment unfolded with chilling finality. “Coward,” the accusation slipped from Gilbert’s lips, a venom-tinged whisper loud enough only for the intended ears. The word hung suspended, a dagger poised between honor and disgrace. The Commander froze, mid-stride, the insult arresting him more effectively than any physical barrier. For a heartbeat, there was a flicker of something—perhaps defiance or embarrassment—but it vanished as quickly as it came. Swallowing whatever retort had threatened to surface, he resumed his retreat, his exit as damning as any trial. In the wake of the Commander's departure, the quiet rustle of shifting feet and suppressed murmurs filled the space he left behind. But no one broke ranks. No one followed. The Senior Lieutenant’s uncertainty evaporated, replaced by a newfound clarity. In this crucible, loyalties were being forged, and his allegiance to his commander had been usurped by the unwavering certainty of the Senior Chief's convictions. He understood now what must be done. Senior Chief Gilbert's chest rose visibly, drawing in the heavy air of the hanger bay that seemed to sag with the weight of expectancy. He stood before his troops—a monolith of resolve against a tide of uncertainty. The red sea of uniforms before him shifted almost imperceptibly as he prepared to address them, his voice cutting through the tension like a laser scalpel. “As all of you know,” he began, his words steady and clear, “an invading alien fleet was headed towards Earth. We were going to send our only warship, the newly commissioned Battleship Ares, to help defend Earth, this is no longer the case.” His gaze swept over the faces in formation, each set with the gravity of the situation. “The enemy has changed direction and will be here in twenty days.” A collective, barely audible gasp fluttered through the ranks, a wave of realization crashing upon them. Whispers crested and fell; the very air thrummed with the unspoken fears and silent questions of the men and women who had pledged themselves to protect their planet. With a commanding presence that demanded attention, Senior Chief Gilbert allowed the murmurs to ebb, his eyes slowly tracking across the assembly, ensuring he made contact with as many as possible, silently reinforcing the bond of shared duty. Then, when the last vestiges of quiet chatter had been quelled, he continued, his voice resonant with the gravity of what he was about to say. “We have new orders.” The three words hung there, stark and irrevocable. “If anyone wants to join that coward that just left, do so now.” It was an open gate, an opportunity for flight feathered with the barbs of shame. Yet, rooted in place by the magnetic pull of Gilbert’s leadership, not a soul moved. Their stillness spoke of courage; their silence, a resounding vow of solidarity. They were the unyielding shield of Ares, and not even the shadow of desertion could tempt them from their sworn oaths. In the charged silence, Senior Chief Gilbert's gaze swept over the formation—a challenge laid bare in his steely eyes. Not one of the red uniforms stirred, each member locked in place by the gravity of the moment. They had heard rumors about the Commander's ineptitude, whispers that he was a mere figurehead installed by political machinations. Now, with the threat looming and their leader fleeing, none felt the compulsion to follow his retreat. The Commander's absence barely registered as a loss; if anything, it steeled their resolve. "Most of you have never fired your stun pistols in the line of duty before," Senior Chief Gilbert's voice cut through the quiet, stark against the hum of machinery in the background. The words fell like hammer strikes onto the cold hangar floor. "And you won’t be doing so now." A collective tension gripped the assembly, arms stiffening at sides, breaths held in anticipation. From within the ranks, the familiar weight of the standard-issue stun pistol on each hip seemed suddenly obsolete, a relic of peacetime customs enforcement. With deliberate movements, personnel began unclasping holsters, the sound of Velcro and clasps snapping open punctuating the air. Senior Chief Gilbert watched as hands reached down, relinquishing the familiar tool of their trade. "You will turn your stun pistols in," he continued, his voice steady and resolute, "and be issued a pulse rifle." The implication of those words hung heavy—the shift from non-lethal to lethal, from peacekeepers to warriors. It was a transformation none had signed up for, yet all accepted without question. The exchange of weapons would not only signify a change in armament but a fundamental alteration of their role as defenders of Ares; they were no longer just policing the influx of alien visitors but preparing to engage an enemy intent on annihilation. As armory officers emerged with carts laden with the sleek, deadly pulse rifles, there was a palpable sense of purpose among the ranks. Hands that had once checked luggage and passenger manifests now wrapped around the textured grips of rifles designed for war. Eyes that had scrutinized documents for forgeries now focused on the unfamiliar contours of the weapon, the heft of real firepower a sobering reminder of the impending battle. Senior Chief Gilbert stood sentinel over the transition, the crumpled paper of orders still clutched in his hand—a symbol of the old giving way to the necessity of the new. The men and women before him had been trained to enforce order, to protect, but they were about to confront chaos and destruction head-on. As the last stun pistol was handed over and the first pulse rifle claimed, they crossed an invisible threshold, leaving behind the world they knew for one where every shot could mean the difference between survival and extinction. The silence in the hangar bay hung heavy as Senior Chief Gilbert turned to face his expectant crew. The red sea of uniforms before him, charged with a tension that seemed to vibrate through the air, waited for orders that would charter their new reality. "Senior Chief, what's our orders?" The voice of the Senior Lieutenant cut through the stillness, his stance firm despite the undercurrent of uncertainty. Gilbert's gaze swept over the faces of his unit—faces he had come to know better than his own. With a solemn nod, he addressed them all. "We are the only semi-military unit on Ares," he began, his tone betraying none of the trepidation that tightened his chest. "This is a peaceful world, and we never felt the need to build a fleet of warships." Outside the bay doors, the distant rumble of arriving trucks reverberated, an audible signal of the change coming. "There are trucks arriving now to refit each of our ships with two rail launchers," Gilbert continued, his eyes locking onto the Senior Lieutenant's. "We will be following the Battleship Ares into combat. You will fire your two missiles, and then fall back to the resupply ships to reload." A collective breath was held as he paused, the weight of command pressing down upon him. His hand unconsciously smoothed out the crumpled paper of orders, a futile attempt to straighten the irreversible path they were set upon. "Once our missiles are exhausted…" The words caught slightly in his throat, not from fear but from the burden of responsibility he felt for each life under his command. The Chief's frown deepened, etching the gravity of their situation onto his weathered features. "We are Customs Enforcement, and nobody knows better than us how to force entry into a ship." His voice remained steady even as it amplified across the wide space. "We will board the enemy vessels and destroy them from within. We will continue to engage the enemy as such until they are destroyed or withdraw." He let the directive sink in, knowing full well the enormity of what he was asking of them. Then, with deliberate clarity, he added, "If you want to leave, this is your last chance." The air crackled with unspoken resolve; the men and women before him were no longer just defenders—they were warriors facing the unfathomable. Yet, amidst this daunting transition, there was a silent consensus, a shared understanding that echoed louder than any spoken word. They were the unseen barrier between chaos and their peaceful world, and they would stand united, whatever the cost. The silence was palpable, a testament to the unwavering solidarity that had swiftly coalesced among the ranks of red uniforms. The gravity of their new reality hung over them like a shroud, yet it did not stir them to retreat. Amidst the stillness, Senior Chief Gilbert's eyes swept across the faces before him, each etched with determination and an unspoken promise to stand firm. Not a single person broke ranks. In that moment, the air hummed with the weight of destiny as the torch of command was unwittingly passed in the face of adversity. The Senior Chief turned his gaze towards the Senior Lieutenant, whose jaw was set in a hard line, his eyes reflecting the resolve that had been forged in the crucible of their dire circumstances. "Sir," Senior Chief Gilbert intoned, his voice resonating with both respect and necessity, "you're the Commander now." It was a declaration delivered with the solemnity of one who understood the cost of leadership and the sacrifices that lay ahead. The newly minted Commander, his shoulders squaring under the weight of sudden command, wasted no time as he stepped forward. His voice was firm and carried the sharpness of one who knew there was not a moment to lose. "Senior Chief, I want a round-the-clock training schedule to practice breaching techniques and riflemanship," he said, scanning the sea of red uniforms for any flicker of hesitation. There was none. "We'll use the ship mock-ups at the Academy Training Grounds, and let's get the Academy Instructors over here to give re-enforcement training classes." The Senior Chief, a man whose very posture spoke of decades spent upholding the line between order and anarchy, nodded. A lifetime of service had prepared him for moments like this, and his resolve was as unyielding as the steel of the ships they would soon refit for battle. "Yes, Sir," he replied with a voice that rumbled like distant thunder, already envisioning the logistics that must be unraveled and rewoven into a new pattern of war-readiness. "I’ll have the schedule within the hour." Around them, determination was a palpable force, each officer ready to transform from guardian to warrior under the crucible of necessity. The Lieutenant's command had set in motion a machine of purpose, and Senior Chief Gilbert was the engine that would drive it forward without falter. *** In the heart of New Haven, a constellation of grim faces surrounded the automatic missile launcher, its parts splayed across the impound lot's concrete like a disassembled beast awaiting resurrection. The Capital City police, whose own red uniforms, the same color as the soil of Ares, were now flecked with grease and frustration, worked with a desperate urgency, hands moving over cold metal. Their skill with firearms was about to be tested in a manner far removed from the policing they knew; they would become the city's last line of defense, repurposing every tool at their disposal for the war that raged toward them. Nearby, the sea's edge had transformed into a bustling exodus point as a legion of Ares children, laughter stilled by the gravity of the situation, were herded onto vessels of all sizes. The floating game domes, once arenas of joy and competition, now stood sentinel as sanctuaries. Once the youngest of Ares citizens were aboard the domes, they would be submerged deep beneath the waves. Here, the innocence of Ares would find refuge, cradled by the very element that had long provided for their people, while above, their guardians prepared to shield them with their lives. Farther from the capital, where the mountains cast long shadows at dusk, the local sheriffs, fortified by a sense of duty as rugged as the terrain, rallied the miners. These men and women, who had once extracted precious ores from the bowels of Ares, now stood shoulder-to-shoulder, forming a militia as unyielding as the rock they had broken. Each one carried the resolute determination to make invaders reckon with the cost of encroaching upon their land—a price that would be measured in blood and valor. The narrative of resistance wove through every settlement, every homestead on Ares—a tapestry of resolve and defiance. In the streets and fields of a planet named for the god of war, a peaceful people were rising, embodying the spirit of their namesake. They were not soldiers, but the enemy would find no easy conquest here. On Ares, where life had thrived under the banner of harmony, the will to fight was kindling, and soon it would blaze forth in a display of unity that would mark the history of their world.