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[Cmdr Baxter]

Part 1

     In the beginning there was nothing. The factory production line was empty and forlorn, with only dimmed lighting splashing solitary pockets of light in small circles. Row after row of massive cranes and assembly arms were protectively nestled into their resting places along the ceilings and walls, where they were content to brood and wait for their turn to serve. Doors the size of starship engines stood their ground against the foul smells of grease, burned metal, and paint that fouled the air.

     What was remarkable about the scene was the last of a cast, for what story can start without a cast? And this one would be a tale for the ages. Before it was done there would be heroes and villains alike, enough to regale audiences in bars and children in schools. Cowardly men would roam alongside women as tough as armor plating. Dashing heroes with spotless military records would step forth to mix alongside the traitors, thieves, and liars. But for now the story would have to content itself with The Man and his iron horse.

     To serve The Man was like responding to a calling. No, not a calling: a call to arms. As an instrument of policy and arbiter of the ultimate force, The Ship would serve The Man and those who he served, in turn. For this was the way it had always been, and this was the way it would continue to be. And what was The Man without his faithful steed and trusty companion? He was nothing.

     In response to the demands of The Man for his iron horse, the lights began to slowly turn on, irregularly buzzing and flickering to life. Gears groaned as the arms shook in their cradles. As small pinpricks of light erupted through open doors steam billowed from rusty pipes and safety valves. Men and women of four different empires began to converge on the production floor, wearing multicolored jumpsuits and hardhats. Above their heads in the control room their supervisors intermingled with cups of coffee and half-eaten sandwiches.

     "Another one, huh?" one of them asked his neighbor as they regarded the empty production line. "Haven't had to build one of those in what, six months?"

     "Something like that."

     They stood there for a while longer until he spoke again. "Any idea why?"

     "Something about wanting a good ship."

     A newcomer to their conversation snorted as she overheard. They both turned to look as she spoke from behind her row of dirty, grease-fouled panels. "Men: all you care about is sentimentality. If he wanted a good ship he should've gone for something else, but what do I know? I'm just some grease monkey sitting in a factory."

     Had The Ship had a voice in the conversation it would have of course argued otherwise. Its cousins, brothers, and sisters were heirs to tradition. They were versatile ships with long histories of service, known for sporting bedeviling arrangements of weapons and electronics that were fined-tuned to individual specifications. And if they weren't good ships, then why were they sold to become the faithful iron horses of The Man, the ships that were instantly recognizable as belonging to the ones who rode with death as their wingmen?

     But of course The Ship had no voice or body, and thus no say. All its soul could do was sit, and wait, and watch while its physical shell took shape.

     The first things to arrive were the prefabricated sections. Four stories tall and filled with empty conduits and passageways, they lacked doors and the sounds of voices. If The Ship was a physical vessel and iron horse for The Man, in its most basic form then these sections would have been the community of voices that came together to forge the perfect weapon of war. As yet unmet with each other, however, they rolled into the factory on assembly lines, wondering all along what they would look like when fully assembled.

     A warning siren shrieked somewhere as yellow lights came alive on the walls. Bodies scattered as the cranes descended, sniffing for the sections. Like giant claws they were unceremoniously slammed into the pieces, grabbing and squeezing them before lifting them away from the chaos down below. Men and women watched as, in an intricate ballet, a precise sequence of computer scripts and commands choreographed precise measurements and rates of motion. Lines of text flew across display screens in the control room as the first two arms slammed the pieces into the cradle where the shape of The Ship would take shape.

     There were nods of satisfaction all around. Another construction process underway on schedule. Throughout shift after shift and under the eyes of hundreds of people the work continued.

     Line after line of parts and components streamed into the production area as it became an arsenal. There were unrecognizable pieces of machinery that rolled in on trucks, stacked alongside elongated hardpoints for the weapon launchers. Racks for missiles lined up around the enormous power core assembly. On day six of the construction process a door high up on the wall hissed open to reveal a que of five engines laying parallel to the assembly area, standing ten men high and dwarfing everything in sight. The engines reeked of grease and fresh coats of paint that marked bolting and caution areas with expert precision.

     By day eleven of the process a sister ship was taking shape alongside the first. At all hours of the day and night they sat there and regaled each other with stories of what had come and what was to come, watching as the men and machines swarmed over each other. Their sides and ribs grew higher and higher, taller and fatter. Wings took shape, the better for them to fly upon.

     Then came the day when the engines were lifted into place. Men and women stopped what they were doing as the enormous shadows blotted out the lights. Work barges hovered overhead and shepherded the process. After the last engine had been slotted into place the sparks erupted as men and machines alike attacked them in a valiant effort to securely fasten them to the bones of The Ship. Its sister watched enviously, waiting for its turn.

     Fast forward a few days, and soon it was time to go. Engines thrummed with power, and feet walked the inner guts of The Ship. Interior lights shone brilliantly out through the viewports. Metal gleamed on the armor plating that provided that all-important protective cocoon. Running lights twinkled as if to declare its readiness to the world. One-by-one the gantries hissed and let go of the armored belly, to fall away towards the floor. There was no fanfare, no ceremony, and nothing special to mark the occasion for the workers who had labored so long and so hard. The iron horse awaited its trusty rider.

[Cmdr Baxter]

Iron Horse, Part 2

     In the beginning there had been nothing, but now there was everything. Sights, and sounds, and places to roam and go. The day and hour of the iron horse and its trusty rider had arrived. In the peak of life, The Ship served The Man ... and enjoyed every moment of it, like it was some blood-hungry knight of death. It wore its battle scars with honor and pride, shaking off the hits that got through its shields, charging into the fight to lay waste upon the unending ranks of its foes.

     Take, for instance, a snapshot of action and war. Man and machine in the fight against the minions of the enemy. The small ships of the hostile legions twirling and battering the shields with concentrated fire. Where the ship wore its armor with pride, they wore spikes that seemed to serve no purpose other than to inspire fear. But the iron horse was not afraid, for it was death incarnate. In response to the deft commands of the rider it snarled in defiance at them: guns firing, engines roaring in a steady drumbeat, shield booster ticking on and off at irregular intervals as needed.

     The minions of The Man ran along its interior corridors and manned their stations as klaxons roared and battle-stations lights continued to flare in deep red colors. On the bridge a lean woman wearing the pips of an executive officer confidently sat in the center chair, barking out orders as they were sent to her by The Ship from The Man. She pointed out the window as one of the ships of the enemy buzzed by, momentarily blocking out the starlight.

     "Weps, get that bastard! Sic the drones on him!"

     "Aye ma'am!" the tactical officer responded, punching in new orders. The children of the iron horse came quickly about, buzzing the ship and almost scraping its shields as they charged away in eager pursuit. A pair of turrets spun and rotated through two axis as they honed in on the new target. With grim determination The Ship eyed its new foe about to die, bore-sighting the target before lashing out in anger. How dare they come here, to threaten The Man and their kind!

     The battle was in the end won and the enemy vanquished, annihilated in one more blazing fight. There would be stories exchanged over this: tales by The Man to their kind, embellished versions told in bars for drinks, or sanitized versions used to regale wide-eyed schoolchildren who would run home at the end of the day to regale their parents in turn. But there were not always battles to be fought and stories to tell.

     For alongside the battles came the peace, in equal measure. The Ship was eager to fight: it had been created and honed as a fine instrument of war. As The Man grew in experience and training, so did it reflect upon his iron horse. New equipment was added, or removed. Over time iron horse grew from the inexperienced and still-greased battle weapon into a heavy-hitting war mount that charged into battle alone, or with its cousins who had taken shape in far-flung locations. And with this came wisdom, and recognition that it was but one of many types of iron horses that served The Man.

     Another snapshot, this time of peace. Fat and lumbering ships sitting motionless, raking equally-motionless asteroids with throaty roars and an unquenchable thirst, demolishing everything in sight. Clouds of dust and rock fragments spiraling away in all directions, creating a dense shield that blocks out the very sunlight. A command ship built for this very purpose hovered nearby like a doting mother, tending to her brood of young ones who clamored only for destruction and chaos.

     The Ship watched this destructive proceeding with all the patience in the world. Amongst this assembly of unruly steeds it alone stood forth as the warrior and shepherd that would be their guide and constant companion. It was there to keep them safe from harm, to fend off the wolves who came forth (as they inevitably did) to harass them and at times attempt their destruction. It snorted at the destruction and did not like their existence. When another of its warrior kind roared into sight it cast envious eyes in their direction and freedom of mobility, for it knew that it would not leave until the destructive children were gone and safely tucked back into their stations.

     On the bridge the woman was gone, replaced by a man. He sat with less ease in the center chair, and it reflected on those around him. At a glance it could be perceived that they were nervous. He wore command like an uneasily-fitting uniform coat, snapping at times and brooding to himself at others. Peace bred contempt for him, and the few times of war did nothing to improve his standing. The Ship tolerated him because The Man told it to. So the iron horse allowed him to drum his fingers on the arm of the chair, and watched as he swung to look at the communications officer.

     "Any sign of their completion?"

     For the fifteenth time this hour the woman sitting there looked up at him with ill-concealed dislike. "No sir. Last report was another hour before the belt was exhausted."

     "Should've brought some mining lasers ourselves," he grumped in response as he stood to walk to the forward window.

     The Ship shook with rage inside. It was a beast of war, not some vessel built for more gentle pursuits. How dare he! But The Man spoke to the ship, and comforted it, and soothed its troubled mind. The shield boosters ticked on to cycle and check their readiness, allowing the iron horse to revel in its momentary discoloration of blue light. On its hull the weapon mounts rested comfortably and yet whispered of their proud kills and willingness to do battle once again.

     And The Ship waited for its turn amongst the glorious fire of war once again.

[Cmdr Baxter]

Iron Horse, Part 3 (Last Part)

     In the beginning there was nothing. In the middle there was valiant service, growth and change from new and untested weapon to proven and stalwart companion, and praise and recognition for deeds and accomplishments. Heroic boasts accompanied repeated sorties of The Ship onto the ever-changing battlefield, as the trusty iron horse that conveyed The Man to areas of conflict and peace alike.

     But in the end such things aren't meant to last. As The Man grew in knowledge and expertise the end of their joyous ride together began to approach. The Ship watched nervously, as first there was the contemplation of the same training and knowledge that had turned the iron horse into the weapon of war that it had always been destined to be. It continued to watch as The Man moved from contemplation to practical examination, and consulted with their fellow riders. And at the end of the day all it could do was shut its engines down, as directed, and stand by.

     The day eventually came when The Man did not call for his mount. He departed and left his trusty companion to stamp and brood while it nervously waited for his return. Its crew filtered off the ship one-by-one, turning off lights and closing compartments as they went. They held no sense of sentimentality in the same way that The Ship held towards them. And now it knew why its fellows whispered of the day when it would do nothing but sit and reminisce about the past. It had been blind to consider otherwise.

     And when The Man returned with a newer iron horse, bigger and stronger, their formerly-trusted and faithful steed could do nothing but watch and observe in sorrow and anger. It silently regarded the new intruder with hostility, casting envious eyes upon it as The New Ship nestled into a berth where it had once held prominence. Inside it collected dust and grew old and tired. As The New Ship left time and time again to go forth and do battle for The Man, the same executor of war that The Ship had once been, it could do nothing but sit and watch.

     But then came the day when The Man eyed their formerly-trusty and reliable steed, that constant companion of so many months that had proved itself time and time again in the fires of conflict. And they looked at what the galaxy had become, and what was before them now. War had come.

     And The Ship stamped at its berth and flared its engines, for it knew it was time to ride again.