The First Century
New York City, USNA - 2194
New York City, USNA - 2194
A January hurricane was blowing in on New York, cloaking the city in steam and rain. Up and down the coast, the mournful sound of the storm sirens rang out, surge barriers rising into position.
UN Secretary-General Aruna Korrapti used his sleeve to wipe condensation off the inside of his window, looking down on the twinkling warning lights of the East River Flood Wall and the glowing Brooklyn sprawl. His limo inched a few inches forward in the gridlock.
“I told them not to take FDR,” Maxim Lytvyn complained. The Secretary-General’s assistant was a stocky Ukrainian, thick-necked and red-faced, always looking worried about something. Twenty feet out of UNHQ and they’d run into traffic. You could rely on New Yorkers to blithely ignore the flashing lights of their escort, and the pennants on the vehicle.
“Relax, Maxim,” Aruna said mildly. He was a gentle-eyed man, the trace of a smile always playing around his features. “It’s the weekend. What are you doing with it?”
Lytvyn softened slightly. “Gonna take my daughter up to the Bronx Zoo. See the baby rhino.”
“That’s right,” Aruna said. First non-clone rhino born for fifteen years. It was all over the feeds.
“What about you, Mr. Secretary?”
“I have a briefing on Bifröst. I’m looking forward to it.”
His eyes moved instinctively to the sky. Somewhere out there, beyond the lowering storm clouds and the light pollution, in the orbit of Pluto, work was underway on the Bifröst Project. Twenty five years ago, Wu Chen and Jonathan Adkins had shared the Nobel Prize for their demonstration of the artificial wormhole. Now, sponsored by the UN and 198 nations, the Wu-Adkins drive was on the precipice of launching humanity to the stars. It was the greatest undertaking in humanity’s history, and the crowning purpose of Aruna’s career.
The limo had started moving again.
“About Bifröst, Mr. Secretary. We should discuss the Nigerian - ”
“There’s nothing to discuss, Maxim.”
“With all due respect, they’ve gathered significant support in the General Assembly and they’re going to raise it in the Security Council.”
“We’ve been down this road before. Every few years, everyone gets squeamish about costs. Overruns. We’re building an interstellar wormhole generator. It’s not an immediate process.”
“After the riots in Cairo…”
“I’ll speak to Ambassador Fashola,” Aruna said, irritation finally visible on his face.
The man was a great visionary. Inspiring. He’d campaigned for Bifröst half of his adult life, and put himself in a position to see it through. He’d inspired a sometimes-cynical world to carry the burdens of reaching the stars for almost a decade. Certainly, as the UN had steadily accrued global leadership, Aruna’s predecessors had managed to force through ambitious initiatives: the Amazon Restoration, Lunar settlement, the Ceres mission. But nothing like Bifröst. Vast swathes of the public lauded him as a hero. Still, he was just a man, and not one for granular detail. He took slights personally.
A resentful silence settled in the car.
Maxim knew Aruna wasn’t really irritated with him, but with the realities of the world. His mind was always in the stars. He reached into his jacket pocket, and unfolded his tablet. “I’ll have Ambassador Fashola placed on your schedule,” he said quietly.
“No. Have Deputy Secretary-General Kennedy do it. She’s a good politician.”
“Yes, sir.”
They were arriving at the restaurant Aruna was scheduled to eat in.
“Is my wife already here?” the Secretary-General asked, waving to the curious crowd assembled on the sidewalk, held-back by holographic NYPD tape.
Maxim checked with the advance team on his tablet. “Yes sir. Advance team says there are a few members of the press as well.”
Aruna nodded. He looked at Maxim. “I apologize for snapping at you.”
“There’s no need.”
“There is.”
Maxim nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Secretary-General.”
The limo came to a halt. A wave of applause rippled through the crowd as they realized who was arriving, cameras flashing. Maxim opened the door, and the smells of New York in the late 22nd century washed in: rain, and the tang of bio-diesel fumes; the ever-present background musk of overloaded sewers and too many people, the ionic crackle of the oncoming storm. One of the advance team handed him a black umbrella, and he opened it over Aruna’s head as the Secretary-General stepped out. A few media drones buzzed overhead.
Aruna gravitated, as he always did, to the rope-line, shaking a few hands, posing for selfies.
One of the journalists was calling. “Mr. Secretary-General! Mr. Secretary-General!”
Aruna paused. “Kelly, good evening.”
She thrust a recorder toward him. “Mr. Secretary-General, do you have any comment on the remarks today by Nigerian UN representative Fashola, and the less-economically-developed states bloc on the Bifröst Project?”
Aruna’s expression was far more benign that it had been in the car. “Kelly, Bifröst is a generational undertaking. The UN is committed to ensuring a fair resource allocation from all countries, and the review of burdens is always ongoing. I look forward to discussing the concerns of the LEDC-bloc at next week’s meeting of the - ”
Later, Maxim would always wonder if he could have done something. He’d review the grainy surveillance drone recordings for hours, questioning himself. In truth, he never saw her. She stepped out of the crowd: plain, ordinary face, lank hair pressed to her forehead by the rain. She wore one of those thin waterproofs they gave out to the climate refugees in the Gulf of Mexico. He heard her shout: “No stars while Earth starves. Earth First!” He didn’t see the gun.
A flash. A crack, echoing round the street. People screaming. Aruna’s brains spattered across Maxim’s face, mixing with the warm drizzle. Bodies pushed past him in every direction.
Blood gurgled down the overflowing gutters.
UN Secretary-General Aruna Korrapti used his sleeve to wipe condensation off the inside of his window, looking down on the twinkling warning lights of the East River Flood Wall and the glowing Brooklyn sprawl. His limo inched a few inches forward in the gridlock.
“I told them not to take FDR,” Maxim Lytvyn complained. The Secretary-General’s assistant was a stocky Ukrainian, thick-necked and red-faced, always looking worried about something. Twenty feet out of UNHQ and they’d run into traffic. You could rely on New Yorkers to blithely ignore the flashing lights of their escort, and the pennants on the vehicle.
“Relax, Maxim,” Aruna said mildly. He was a gentle-eyed man, the trace of a smile always playing around his features. “It’s the weekend. What are you doing with it?”
Lytvyn softened slightly. “Gonna take my daughter up to the Bronx Zoo. See the baby rhino.”
“That’s right,” Aruna said. First non-clone rhino born for fifteen years. It was all over the feeds.
“What about you, Mr. Secretary?”
“I have a briefing on Bifröst. I’m looking forward to it.”
His eyes moved instinctively to the sky. Somewhere out there, beyond the lowering storm clouds and the light pollution, in the orbit of Pluto, work was underway on the Bifröst Project. Twenty five years ago, Wu Chen and Jonathan Adkins had shared the Nobel Prize for their demonstration of the artificial wormhole. Now, sponsored by the UN and 198 nations, the Wu-Adkins drive was on the precipice of launching humanity to the stars. It was the greatest undertaking in humanity’s history, and the crowning purpose of Aruna’s career.
The limo had started moving again.
“About Bifröst, Mr. Secretary. We should discuss the Nigerian - ”
“There’s nothing to discuss, Maxim.”
“With all due respect, they’ve gathered significant support in the General Assembly and they’re going to raise it in the Security Council.”
“We’ve been down this road before. Every few years, everyone gets squeamish about costs. Overruns. We’re building an interstellar wormhole generator. It’s not an immediate process.”
“After the riots in Cairo…”
“I’ll speak to Ambassador Fashola,” Aruna said, irritation finally visible on his face.
The man was a great visionary. Inspiring. He’d campaigned for Bifröst half of his adult life, and put himself in a position to see it through. He’d inspired a sometimes-cynical world to carry the burdens of reaching the stars for almost a decade. Certainly, as the UN had steadily accrued global leadership, Aruna’s predecessors had managed to force through ambitious initiatives: the Amazon Restoration, Lunar settlement, the Ceres mission. But nothing like Bifröst. Vast swathes of the public lauded him as a hero. Still, he was just a man, and not one for granular detail. He took slights personally.
A resentful silence settled in the car.
Maxim knew Aruna wasn’t really irritated with him, but with the realities of the world. His mind was always in the stars. He reached into his jacket pocket, and unfolded his tablet. “I’ll have Ambassador Fashola placed on your schedule,” he said quietly.
“No. Have Deputy Secretary-General Kennedy do it. She’s a good politician.”
“Yes, sir.”
They were arriving at the restaurant Aruna was scheduled to eat in.
“Is my wife already here?” the Secretary-General asked, waving to the curious crowd assembled on the sidewalk, held-back by holographic NYPD tape.
Maxim checked with the advance team on his tablet. “Yes sir. Advance team says there are a few members of the press as well.”
Aruna nodded. He looked at Maxim. “I apologize for snapping at you.”
“There’s no need.”
“There is.”
Maxim nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Secretary-General.”
The limo came to a halt. A wave of applause rippled through the crowd as they realized who was arriving, cameras flashing. Maxim opened the door, and the smells of New York in the late 22nd century washed in: rain, and the tang of bio-diesel fumes; the ever-present background musk of overloaded sewers and too many people, the ionic crackle of the oncoming storm. One of the advance team handed him a black umbrella, and he opened it over Aruna’s head as the Secretary-General stepped out. A few media drones buzzed overhead.
Aruna gravitated, as he always did, to the rope-line, shaking a few hands, posing for selfies.
One of the journalists was calling. “Mr. Secretary-General! Mr. Secretary-General!”
Aruna paused. “Kelly, good evening.”
She thrust a recorder toward him. “Mr. Secretary-General, do you have any comment on the remarks today by Nigerian UN representative Fashola, and the less-economically-developed states bloc on the Bifröst Project?”
Aruna’s expression was far more benign that it had been in the car. “Kelly, Bifröst is a generational undertaking. The UN is committed to ensuring a fair resource allocation from all countries, and the review of burdens is always ongoing. I look forward to discussing the concerns of the LEDC-bloc at next week’s meeting of the - ”
Later, Maxim would always wonder if he could have done something. He’d review the grainy surveillance drone recordings for hours, questioning himself. In truth, he never saw her. She stepped out of the crowd: plain, ordinary face, lank hair pressed to her forehead by the rain. She wore one of those thin waterproofs they gave out to the climate refugees in the Gulf of Mexico. He heard her shout: “No stars while Earth starves. Earth First!” He didn’t see the gun.
A flash. A crack, echoing round the street. People screaming. Aruna’s brains spattered across Maxim’s face, mixing with the warm drizzle. Bodies pushed past him in every direction.
Blood gurgled down the overflowing gutters.
=======================================
Welcome to The First Century! This is my first attempt at a Stellaris AAR, but some of you may be familiar with my previous DH AAR Crown Atomic. As the name suggests, First Century will follow humanity's first century in space. My last AARs have all turned out a bit grim, so I'm hoping this one will be able to offer a realistic, but ultimately hopeful vision of future humanity (if the universe cooperates 
) The AAR will be narrative heavy, with fictional interludes and history-book style, and I've been inspired by Mass Effect, The Expanse, Peter F. Hamilton and others.
Here is the version of humanity I will be using:
) The AAR will be narrative heavy, with fictional interludes and history-book style, and I've been inspired by Mass Effect, The Expanse, Peter F. Hamilton and others.Here is the version of humanity I will be using:
I am not as optimistic as Paradox that future humanity will be naturally Xenophile, so I've made them Materialist, Militarist and Egalitarian instead. Likewise, I have made the UN traits Idealistic Foundation and Parliamentary System. (Some of you may notice that the new government system forces you to be a 'Military Commissariat' with these traits - I have photoshopped it above as I will be RPing a Representative Democracy). I'll be using wormholes and mass drivers in a medium-sized galaxy with hard/hard settings.
I hope this is interesting so far! I'll be posting the first proper gameplay update shortly and hope people choose to follow along
Contents
Prologue: Space Exploration 2023-2169
Chapter 1: The Essential Journey
Interlude: Pioneer
Chapter 2: 4 Minutes, 58 Seconds
Chapter 3: Life
Chapter 4: Sleepers
Chapter 5: Thanksgiving
Chapter 6: First Blood
Chapter 7: Discovery
Chapter 8: Better Angels
Chapter 9: Passing the Torch
Interlude: Merchandise
Chapter 10: Doctrine
Interlude: Proportionality
Chapter 11: Arms Race
Prologue: Space Exploration 2023-2169
Chapter 1: The Essential Journey
Interlude: Pioneer
Chapter 2: 4 Minutes, 58 Seconds
Chapter 3: Life
Chapter 4: Sleepers
Chapter 5: Thanksgiving
Chapter 6: First Blood
Chapter 7: Discovery
Chapter 8: Better Angels
Chapter 9: Passing the Torch
Interlude: Merchandise
Chapter 10: Doctrine
Interlude: Proportionality
Chapter 11: Arms Race
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