SDNW4 Story Thread 1

[RogueIce]

Several hours later, the Returners had what they wanted and offloaded their troops. The Blackjack itself picked up a new passenger: the former navigator and inside man who had enabled this whole operation in the first place. Setting a course for the rendezvous point, he could hear the Returner commander broadcast over the comm: "Thank you for your cooperation. You and your crew are free to go." Doubtless the captain would quickly burn his sublight engines for all they were worth to get to Nikeah, and already had crewmen working furiously to repair their damaged transmitting gear. But long before any of that could be a problem for him, Setzer activated his hyperdrive and left the system.

The Returners had paid him well enough, and while he hardly sympathized with their cause for Doman independence and a return of the long displaced monarchy, their money was as good as anyone else’s.

SRS Independence, Doma, Doma Sector, Shinra Republic – A Few Days Later

“…local patrol forces rushed to the aid of the pirated vessel, but they were too late to the party.” Rear Admiral Stacy Adams, Commodore Adam Perry, Brigadier Cyan Garamonde and their senior staff officers were in the Flag Wardroom of the carrier Independence listening to a fleet intel officer from Doma brief them on the recent Returner assault.

“This was not an spur of the moment attack,” continued the Intel. “According to the ship’s crew, the Chief Navigator left of his own will aboard a rebel vessel. Investigation shows that he deliberately programmed the ship’s navi-computer to jump on the very outskirts of the Nikeah System, far enough away to ensure system patrol craft would be well out of position to render timely assistance.”

“And, conveniently enough, show up in the middle of an ambush,” murmured Commodore Perry.

The Intel nodded. “We’re still not sure if the man was a Returner operative, or merely bought off by the group. The boarding teams were generally uniformed with some exceptions, according to the crew. This leads us to believe they have hired mercenaries to serve as extra muscle, advisors, or both.” He picked up his datapad and pressed a few buttons. “I’m transmitting the list of stolen goods now. Our analysis indicates that they mostly took expensive, but easily fence-able, commodities. Additionally, the crew indicated they managed to shoot down at least one Returner fighter and surviving sensor data confirms that claim. Unfortunately, the boarding parties sabotaged the sensor gear before leaving, so there is no information on any exit vectors.”

The Intel officer placed his hands by his side, indicating he had concluded the briefing. “Any questions?”

“Is there any ID on the freighters they used to haul the stolen goods in?” asked Stacy Adams.

“No ma’am. The boarders were thorough in their work on the sensor records. Why they left record of the battle itself we’re still not sure.”

Adams nodded, and gave a quick glance around the room. Seeing that nobody was going to be asking any questions of their own, she stood. “Thank you for your time, Lieutenant.”

Taking his cue to leave, the intelligence lieutenant came to attention and departed.

“Well then. At least we know the fleet can look forward to some action,” quipped Commodore Perry. “ It won’t just be an Army show.”

Stacy glanced at Brigadier Garamonde, who gave no reaction. She knew the man was a native of the Doma Sector, and she had heard his family could trace their roots back to the Doman Knights of the former kingdom. She wondered if the man had any doubts or hidden sympathies with the Returner movement. Well, General Harvey isn’t stupid, and surely he knows the Brigadier’s family history just as well. And Harvey would know his people better than I. I’ll just have to trust his judgement.

“Indeed. I think JTF Paladin should show the flag a little.” She turned to face Captain Rockwell Torrey, commander of the Star Cruiser Dauntless. “Rock, you’ll go with a pair of destroyers to Nikeah and make your presence known.”

“Aye aye, ma’am.” Rockwell Torrey was a man of few words, but he knew how to get the job done. Whether by the book…or shredding the damn thing and proceeding anyway.

“As for the rest of us, we’ll continue on as planned. Shore leave for the sailors and troops, some practice maneuvers with the system defense forces, and let’s see what our intel people can rustle up. Dismissed.”

*****

Hours later, Biggs and Wedge were in a bar not far from the spaceport, well into their cups. If they couldn’t be back on leave in Wall Market, at least they could still get drunk here.

However, their pleasant stupor was not to last long. For not far behind them, a group of young men were looking for trouble.
“Hey, you Republican stooge! What do you think you’re doing here?”

“Having a drink or two, what’s it look like?” Biggs replied. Oh great, some damn idiot student going on a ‘I hate the military’ kick. Where do these bozos come from? He was somewhat annoyed that their standing orders indicated all personnel on leave shall be in uniform. What were those idiot officers thinking?

“Your kind isn’t welcome here, stooge!”

“And what kind would that be?” asked Wedge, sounding rather amiable about the whole thing.

“Rethuglican oppressor swine that’s what!” responded the ringleader.

Biggs suddenly stood and advanced on the man. Well, if they were going to send us out, in uniform, in an area experiencing a wave of anti-Republic sentiment, they should’ve known there’d be trouble anyway.

Thirty minutes and fifteen MPs later, the two soldiers of the 327th were finally brought down and headed for the brig back aboard their ship.

---

President’s Office, Midgar, Shinra Republic – Some Time Later

Christopher Veld, director of the Special Intelligence Division entered the President’s office. The SID, or Turks as they called themselves, was the secret arm of the Republic’s intelligence apparatus. Answering only to the President, and officially unknown to any agency, President Shinra often relied upon them to give him a true picture of what was happening. Not what was politically convenient, as sometimes happened with the more ‘public’ members of the intelligence community.

Today, Director Veld was briefing the President on the situation developing in Doma Sector. “We’ll be sending in one of our best men to dig out what’s going on around Galbadia.” It had been rumored that Governor Deling, an ambitious man, had never been happy as ‘just’ the system governor of Galbadia. “We’ve heard rumors of a strong Returner presence in the system. So we’ll be sending in Special Agent Michael Westen to dig out the truth of the matter.”

Cid Shinra knew Agent Westen by reputation only, but that in itself spoke volumes of the man, as few field agents – even among the elite Turks – ever came to the attention of the President himself. His cover was that of a former spy for the Republic who had departed under “less than favorable” conditions. Now he found himself going from place to place, playing a sort of Robin Hood role when he wasn’t on SID business. And even when he was on a Turk mission, he still managed to help out those around him who were in the kind of trouble the local authorities could not solve. All in all, he was a most remarkable man indeed.

“He will, of course, be with his usual cohorts,” continued Director Veld. Westen’s “usual cohorts” were Fiona Glenanne, a well known arms dealer and, it was rumored, a former rebel fighter herself, though back in UN space rather than around the Republic; and Sam Axe, a former Navy special operator and older gentlemen, who had a truly astonishing number of people who were “old friends” and from whom he could find out almost anything. Neither of them were Turks, nor did they know Westen himself was one, despite being among his oldest and most loyal of friends. “For this mission, he’ll also be taking along Agent Jesse Porter. He’s a counter-intelligence officer who was recently ‘fired’ from his post, due to a job Westen himself performed. As a result, Westen has taken him on due to his ‘guilt’ over the whole affair. In reality, Agent Porter is a recently recruited member of the Turks and his firing was part of the plan. He’s going along with Westen as both assistance, and to learn from one of the best we have.”

Cid Shinra nodded. “Well, if anyone can get to the truth of things around Galbadia, it’ll be them. Now, about the latest out of New Anglia and this whole Pendleton affair…”

[Fingolfin_Noldor]

The Battle of Janus Colony
Co-written with Shady



The ships came out of hyperspace with a soundless bang, and torpedoes flew out of their tubes and flew towards the Karlack fleet. Probes launched into the system prior to the fleet’s arrival supplied the required telemetry to the missiles, and the torpedoes flew towards their targets.

The Karlack fleet immediately responded to the new threat with alacrity. They begun firing their own missiles, as well as firing off their point defence systems at the incoming torpedoes. The Imperial fleet, with the Tyrant’s Dominion at the head, approached the Karlack fleet at flank speed. Scutum cruisers immediately let fly anti-space missiles to intercept the incoming missile. The missiles that somehow evaded the anti-space missiles were largely destroyed by point defence bolter and tachyon turrets. Forward lance cannons and plasma weapons unleashed a barrage of fire on the Karlack fleet, striking shields, and collapsing some. Within moments, concentrated fire breached the shields on some of the lesser Karalack ships and sent them burning. The mighty warp guns on the Tyrant’s Dominion and the Io opened fire on the Karlack fleet, obliterating a few small ships with a few shots.

The tactic was a standard Varangian Rus Legion tactic: drop out of hyperspace just outside the range of the enemy’s weapons, and charge in and keep them off balanced by unleashing a fury of missiles, forcing the enemy to fight off the barrage. The missiles and torpedoes were fairly intelligent weapons fitted with a variety of countermeasures to evade enemy counterfire, and hitting them would consume the enemy’s attention while the Imperial warfleet closed in and fired off its main energy weapons. Starfighters and gunships would be launched to screen the fleet and to tackle the smaller Karlack ships. Scutum cruisers unleashed rains of missiles to tackle the lesser Karlack fleet elements.

Naturally, the Karlacks weren’t idle. There was a reason that they were called the swarm, the Karlack had a nasty tendency to swarm large ships with many smaller ones, using everything from powerful Omega energy weapons and living acidic torpedoes to simply coming in close and ripping enemy ships to pieces with their large claws, or simply crushing them with their powerful tentacles. This battle was no different.

The Karlack Reaper Ships maneuvered towards the Imperial fleet, using their Omega energy weapons to intercept incoming missiles and launching a virtual torrent of acidic torpedoes at the oncoming Imperials, while the ten or so World Slicers held back and unleashed a massive barrage from their large Beam Canons, focusing their fire on individual Imperium ships. An effective tactic that used Superior firepower and coordination between the mind linked brood ships to great effect. At the back of the Karlack forces, the massive form of World Crusher Brood Ship could be seen, standing ominously in the center of the Karlack formation, dwarfing all other Brood Ships by its size.

Within moments, concentrated fire on one of the Solaris frigates caused its shields to collapse and the ship was reduced to molten hunks after the armor was penetrated and the reactor was struck. Two corvettes were reduced to rubble under concentrated fire, their hulls corroded by acid. One of the other frigates struggled to keep in formation, as her hull was breached in 3 places. The frigate was subsequently set upon by a pair of Karlack ships who attempted to rip the ship apart. The ship’s crew fought back with the due courage and skill demanded of them, but the ship was clearly doomed as one of the Karlack ships ripped to pieces the engines and tore huge gouges in the hull. The crew’s last defiant act was to detonate their warp drives, creating a space-time rift that destroyed the ship and the Karlack vessels before collapsing. “For the Imperium!” cried the dying ship’s captain.



Regardless, the Scutum cruisers were doing the role they were intended to perform: hold off the Karlack swarm. One would think that the solution to dealing with a swarm of smaller ships was to employ more starfighters and gunships. However, the Imperium decided that starfighters and gunships simply cannot counter a swarm of ships that not only collectively carried more firepower but also collectively more durable than squadrons of fighters and gunships. The solution was to employ swarms of intelligent missiles with large warheads to target and track and destroy ships. It was simply the Imperium’s idea of “fighting fire with fire”.

The Tyrant’s Dominion sighted the Karlack World Crusher Brood Ship and immediately marked it as its prey. Instructing the Io to provide assistance to the other ships, Rus Komnenos drove his ship forward with a recklessness few could match. Opening fire the nova cannon, and the mighty warp guns, the warp guns spat out lances of space-time warping energy surging forward to strike the World Crusher Brood Ship. Large skyscrapper sized nova bombs were launched from the nova cannon and these steamed at high relativistic velocities towards their target. Most lesser ships would have simply buckled under such a powerful torrent of fire, but the Karlack World Crusher Brood Ship was no ordinary vessel, and no Imperial Commander would hold any thing back when facing them.

The Karlack World Crusher Brood Ship responded as appropriate; large omega cannons retaliated with blistering streams of fire and large swarms of acidic torpedoes rocketed towards the Imperial vessel. In this duel of the giants, it was more a question of who had the greater guts to sustain the battle, rather than who had the biggest gun. The Tyrant’s Dominion closed in, intent on coming along side the Karlack World Crusher Brood Ship, to deliver powerful broadsides with all her weapons at point blank range. Space marines loaded themselves into Thunderhawk gunships, ready to participate in boarding action if required. The Imperium was never afraid of going for the jugular in a brutal fight and never hoarded its best weapons. Weapons were to be used and bloodied and not kept.

=========

The battle was fierce, as was a long set standard when it came to the Imperium and the Swarm, each side went all out - until the enemy was annihilated. This time however, something was different, as the Tyrant’s Dominion focused its attention on the World Crusher and began moving in for the kill - the behaviour of the Karlack Brood Ships changed. Suddenly they changed tactics and the smaller ships began swarming around the World Crusher, while it began accelerating and moving away from the planet, It had become clear that this was one battle that the swarm wasn’t going to win. The Star Brood that came to Janus was not meant to fight the Imperium, and as such there were simply not enough Brood ships to withstand the might of the Imperial Armada.

For the first time in a hundred years, the Karlack were retreating, much to the surprise of the Imperium’s commanders. Rushing at full speed towards the hyper limit, it was clear that the Imperium had won the day, that however did not stop them from giving chase. Swarms of missiles chased The Swarm, as the Brood Ships made their retreat. Much to the surprise of Rus Komnenos, The Tyrant’s Dominion suddenly received a transmission, but not the usual kind - but a psychic one. He heard the voice of Alyxia Komnenos, his long lost sister, the sound of her voice almost made him shiver. He never forgave himself for failing the Emperor, for failing to save his sister. Stil he kept his composure and listened as she let out a short chuckle.

“You are quite persistent...brother. But do not think too highly of yourself because of this small victory. Our goals here have been achieved, the planet and its inhabitants are doomed. You won’t save anyone...this time either.” Alyxia’s playful tone and the fact that she was reminding him of things he would rather forget, caused great discomfort for Rus, those were painful memories.

“This planet is not yet lost.” He answered, his anger sending shockwaves through the psychic link. “You are the ones that lost this time, wretched abominations!”

“Is that what you think?” Rus could feel Alyxia grining even through the mind link. “You are too late...give father a kiss for me. Goodbye...brother.” Alyxia said and the link was broken, leaving Rus to wonder what her words meant, and what had the swarm achieved on the planet. He wondered if he would find any evidence of their actions on Janus. At that same time, the Karlack Star Brood reached the hyper limit, and with a series of bright flashes of light, the Brood Ships entered hyperspace - ceding control of the system to the Imperium.

But although space was now clear of the Karlack, Janus Colony was far from saved, on the planet millions of Karlack warriors were slaughtering and consuming everything in their path. If the Imperium wanted to save the people of Janus, it would have to get its hands real dirty, and dislodging the swarm from the planet would be no easy task. The real battle for Janus, was about to begin.

[Setzer]

HDS Voice in the Void, Chamarran/Chiron Border

-
“This is Hierarchy Diplomatic Service Voice in the Void with escorts and the transport Star nyao arriving for the summit, Royal envoy Tia Kith'andra is aboard.”
Tia ear perks as she wanders onto the bridge, stretching and peering out of the window as she listens to the captain continue communicating with the diplomatic post.
“This is Chiron Consulate 701, we were not expecting a freighter as part of your entourage. Please explain its contents, over.”
“Apologies for not informing you Chiron control, but in accordance with article four on the agenda we thought it best to get a head start, the Star Nyao contains a Chamarran personnel annex.”
Tia smiles at hearing that, after all it was her idea, and unfolds her PDA to review her notes for the coming summit as the four ships vector in to land.

Once the Chamarran envoys had arrived, Lady Anethga had taken her seat. Consulting her notes, she said "The first order of business I'd like to discuss is one of trade. We have a lot of material we want to export, but there are also local businesses wanting assurances that they won't be overwhelmed by foreign imports. The Lords Morgan, Sinclair, and Baelish all kept pestering me over a tariff."

[Darkevilme]

Once the Chamarran envoys had arrived, Lady Anethga had taken her seat. Consulting her notes, she said "The first order of business I'd like to discuss is one of trade. We have a lot of material we want to export, but there are also local businesses wanting assurances that they won't be overwhelmed by foreign imports. The Lords Morgan, Sinclair, and Baelish all kept pestering me over a tariff."

Sovereignty Consulate #701

“Naturally, certain markets should not be opened to full competition across the border we agree. I have been in consultation with Kara regarding this, my initial proposal is thusly as follows. With regards to markets considered core to themselves Chiron and the Hierarchy will levy a higher tarif to secure the stability of these markets, a lower tariff will be applied to all other imports to cover the investment of securing the trade lanes. A list of high tariff imports for the Hierarchy has already been prepared in line with this proposal.”

Code: Select all

Protected markets:
Firearms
Robotics
Terraforming equipment
Starship components

[Siege]

Imperial Forward Operating Base 47
Bragulan-occupied Majella

A gigantic monster reared up from the once-tranquil flatlands, a mammoth gray wall. Its dripping concrete was totally out of place, completely unnatural and incompatible with the lush landscape surrounding it. It rose from the insect-infested jungles of Majella's southern continent like an uneven brick of roughly hewn, steel-infested rock. The hideous, incongruous wall is the outer perimeter of Imperial Forward Operating Base 47, a fully functional instant fortification the Bragulans have simply dropped from orbit.

IFOB-47 is at the forefront of the liberation of the human peoples of Majella. The fort is teeming with soldiers and bristling with weapons. The titan gates inside the hulking mammoth wall of gray concrete have swung open to allow exit to throngs of flamethrower-equipped Bragulans who are now in the process of clearing away the jungles outside the fortresses' drop crater with bursts of licking flame.

But the Bragulan flamethrowers are not ordinary flamethrowers, oh no. The days of napalm and thermite are long gone, even in the Star Empire. They use a long-chain nitrate gel specially engineered by the best scientists of the Empire, further enhanced by plant-killing radioisotopes. The dangerously irradiated substances that belch from the bulky flamethrowers singe and destroy even plants not directly struck by the superheated substance. The clearing of the jungle serves two purposes: to create clear firing lanes for the weapons mounted on the brag-crete walls, and to further the Bragulanization of the planet by destroying any potentially annoying ecological obstacles. And mosquitoes definitely classify, having long been qualified as Enemies of the Imperator for their ideologically impure activity of sucking blood from the Imperators most fervent servants.

The smoke and flames rising from the burning jungles serve another useful cause: namely to blot out the base from any optical sensor in orbit. Which technically might not be necessary since the cowardly human fleet has deserted the field of battle but, commissar-colonel Klyvko Bryzvitz reasons, one can never been too sure. Better to burn the place down. In the name of the Imperator, of course. Bryzvitz looked out from his command tower, a great block of battlesteel-armored concrete that rose from the depths of the base into the sky like the mighty middle talon of the Imperator raised in defiance of the pathetic humans who had controlled this world until now. He surveyed the flamethrower teams and the heavy Chornyb all-terrain urban pacifiers fitted with mine-flails who were battering the jungle into green mush, whilst belching diesel-atomic fumes that rose in columns to join the fire of the surrounding forests. It was damned hot here, and Byzvitz had his freon-cooled overcoat set to eight just to stay comfortable, but the fires and the columns of smoke reminded him of Bragule. Ah, sweet Bragule. The colonel-commissar raised a mighty paw to his snout and plinked away a homesick tear.

He averted his eyes of the glorious burnination and turned his eyes toward the air field not far from his bulky command tower (which was also the flight control tower, although the flight controllers were all wedged in small, badly airconditioned cubicles somewhere farther down the tower where they occasionally fainted from the heat produced by their cathode-ray screens). The air field was an area the size of several Brag-ball fields, and flights of Stalag gunships were now roaring into the air, their undampened turbofan blades managing to make the turbo-armored glass of his Bryzvitz' command post rattle. They were heading south-east, for the site where sensor operators aboard the Imperator's Boot said a human dropship had crashed. Initially he had wanted to simply sterilize that area with a pin-point (well, by Bragulan standards) saturation nuclear mortar bombardment, but strangely enough his superiors had refused permission to unleash atomic hell.

That made Bryzvitz curious. Curiosity was, of course, a sign of potential ideological impurity, but familiar as he was with the fine print of Imperial regulations colonel-commissar Klyvko Bryzvitz knew that lack of curiosity was also a sign of potential ideological impurity, so he didn't mind so much. Why hadn't admiral Feindflug given the permission that would've ensured the atomization of the human dropship to a satisfactory extent? Come to think of it, why was his outpost even here in the first place?

The southern continent was desolate and empty, barring a few pathetic mining outposts. They weren't even real mining outposts, just small operations that couldn't compete in any way with the glory that was a true Bragulan continental strip-mining operations. There weren't really any humans here to pacify – the resistance was all up on the two northern continents where the cities were, and what little effort the puny miners could put up would be something the Imperial People's Arbitrators could just as easily have dealt with (by ordering the miners to pick up cans, and then beat them with sticks when they bent over.)

Bryzvitz scratched his furry chin, a pensive expression on his face (he then reconsidered, looked around quickly and, after making sure none of his adjutants had seen him think, made sure he looked blandly out of the window – so that none of his subordinates could get any funny ideas about reporting him for harboring anti-disintellectual thoughts). If his troops were not here to drive over annoying humans with all-terrain urban pacifiers, then why were they here? There must be something here the Star Empire wanted. And it couldn't be the trees. They were after all against Bragulan law, which was why they were sold into tree-slavery on Altacar. No, it had to be something else. Something valuable, too, for an entire FOB plus its regiment-sized detachment to be dispatched into the middle of nowhere.

The colonel-commissar shrugged. It didn't really matter for what reason the powers-that-be had dispatched him here, he would carry out his patriotic duty to Bragulanity to the best of his ability regardless. To that end he turned his attention back to the airfield, where it seemed one of the Stalag gunships was returning to base earlier than expected, one of its engines gushing more smoke than usual. Clearly it had suffered some kind of mechanical failure, for which its technicians would no doubt be reprimanded (and beaten with sticks) by the commissars on the ground...

Bryzvitz frowned. Something was not quite right. Then he realized he hadn't received an update on the gunship. If there was an emergency, even something as routine as a Stalag returning to base due to a faulty engine, he should have been appraised of it almost immediately. Yet he'd heard nothing. He tapped the comm-bead that was lodged firmly inside his bear-ear, and was rewarded with static. The link with flight control three stairs down was gone.

He frowned.

And then the world exploded.

From one moment to the next the returning gunship transformed into a billowing cloud of fire as it exploded, struck by some kind of high velocity weapon. A rain of flaming debris and burning fuselage pelted the airfield, and Bragulan soldiers and technicians scattered for safety, hampered by their thick cooled overcoats. Bryzvitz barely had time to realize what had happened when something struck the brag-crete curtain wall of the base and tore through it like paper, scattering tons of heavy rock to all sides, crushing hapless Bragulans here and there. For a brief moment the colonel-commissar could see a huge, hulking shape crouching in the middle of the fort – a shape composed of jagged angles and serrated edges. Then, just as sudden, it was gone again, disappeared behind scatterscreens and force shields that hid it from detection by the naked eye and most mundane sensors.

But the attacker had not actually gone, of course. That much became clear when a hail of eye-searingly bright blue plasma bolts lashed out, tearing through and exploding a row of Chornybs that had been awaiting the arrival of their crews from orbit. The heavy armor of the urban pacifiers was no match for whatever weapon was being used here. Each one detonated almost the moment they were hit, transforming yet more of the fort's interior into flaming chaos.

Alarms were wailing all over the Bragulan compound now. On the remaining curtain walls gunnery crews were rotating their weapons inward, desperate to get a good shot at the intruder – whatever it was. Soldiers were firing wildly at a threat they couldn't see. Then Bryzvitz saw it, a series of indentations that seemingly appeared out of nowhere, which marked the progress of the... well, whatever it was that was attacking him, as it stalked across his base. One of the gunnery crews had seen them as well, and they hurriedly opened fire on the source of those steps. At first their bright K-bolter fusillade seemed to have no effect, but then something sparkled and shifted as the attacker's scatterscreens overloaded and disengaged.



The attacker was massive, a mountain of shifting metal that resembled nothing Bryzvits was familiar with. It stood at least thirty foot tall, and flames reflected on its chrome-like hull. The iron monster was studded with weapons: the colonel-commissar could see rocket pods, laser blisters, plasma casters and other guns he wasn't familiar with, as well as sensor domes and what he imaged would be suspensor tracks along its sides. He'd never seen anything like it, but he knew it really could only be one thing. A FORCE operator, one of the hated Sovereignty's top elite commandos. Each one was completely unique, a billion-dollar weapons construct tailored wholly to the whims and desires of its pilot.

This particular pilot clearly didn't fancy tact or subtlety. The iron giant whirled around far faster than Bryzvitz would have imagined possible for something so large, and a small missile flashed out from one of several launchers. It struck the gun emplacement that had opened fire on it, which proceeded to explode spectacularly. A second missile veered into an open steel door and detonated an ammunition dump with a titanic blast that cracked the fortress' wall.

The metal monstrosity rose up from where it crouched and bellowed, making a noise that reminded Bryzvitz eerily of a steam horn, but which he suspected with a creeping sense of horror might be the digital equivalent of laughter.

For some reason that made him very angry, much angrier than the rampant destruction had already made him. As the other gunnery crews opened up with everything from lasers to heavy quad K-bolters and electric autocannons and the interior of the fort transformed into a glittering melee of death, Bryzvits roared, struck the nearest telescreen out of sheer frustration and smashed open the command deck's emergency arms locker. The locker was intended for ideologically pure commanders who suddenly felt themselves besieged by mutinous troops, and as such contained mostly anti-personnel flamethrowers and needle guns, but Bryzvits' personal locker also stocked a stubby, fully automatic micro-grenade launcher.

The first grenade blew open the armored glass windows and, bellowing profanities, the colonel-commissar stuck his weapon through the ruined window frame. Below him his fortress was being decimated. The ridiculous Sovereignty killing machine was launching missile after missile, blowing up everything that it deemed worthy of being blown up – which, this being a Bragulan base, was pretty much everything in sight. Explosions blossomed across the compound as fuel dumps, gun emplacements and armored vehicles detonated in conflagrations of flame and shrapnel. Soldiers and technicians alike were screaming and running for what little cover they could find. Some of the Stalag gunships had managed to take off and were now conducting strafing runs on the lone attacker but, their weapons being Bragulan, they weren't very accurate and were arguably aiding it in the destruction of the base, which was perhaps the main reason the attacker hadn't shot them down yet.

Bryzvitz bellowed a challenge and unleashed a stream of automatic grenade fire which exploded all around the massive attacking machine. Despite the utter chaos and the gunfire of much heavier weapons that crackled through the fortress that curiously seemed sufficient to attract its attention. For a moment it reared the sensor clusters which the colonel-commissar assumed passed for its head. It looked at Bryzvitz. Bryzvitz looked at it.

It took a step back.

For a moment the proudly patriotic Bragulan believed the steely resolve in his eyes was making the killing machine back away and he felt a surge of pride through his furry chest. Then he saw the light gathering at the edge of one of the war machine's plasma casters, and he realized with mounting horror what was about to happen. Cursing even louder he futilely emptied what remained of his grenade launcher's magazine at the thing, causing a smattering of explosions that pattered harmlessly off its armor.

What happened next wasn't quite so harmless. The FORCE exo-armor projected a solid lance of plasma that cut through the brag-crete tower fundament like a hot knife through butter, slicing clean through the entire circumference of the structure. Bryzvitz yelped and grabbed one of the heavy Bakelite computers as his command tower started to fall beneath his feet, toppling over on top of a row of parked Dredka overtanks. The last thing he saw was the ground rushing inexorably closer.

***

When commissar-colonel Klyvko Bryzvitz of the Imperial Bragulan Army regained his consciousness he was still being pulled out of the rubble of his utterly collapsed and ruined command tower. He growled and struck the young conscript doing the pulling, hitting him on the nose and causing him to yelp and release him. Weakly Bryzvitz crawled to his feet. Around him he saw the rubble and ruins of what had been his forward operating base. Two of its four walls had collapsed, the remaining two were studded with scorch marks. Entire rows of vehicles had been transformed into ruins of smoldering metal. Where rows of proud brag-crete prefab structures had stood now only were heaps of concrete rubble. His superiors, he realized, would have his head for this. He'd lost an entire base against a single attacker. It didn't matter how ridiculously overpowered that one attacker had been, it looked bad on paper and that's why he would be lucky if he'd got away from this with ten years of de-education on some shitworld rock out in the middle of nowhere. Unless... Bryzvitz roared in frustration. “You!” he bellowed to the conscript who'd pulled him clear. “Assemble all the survivors and everyone who could still walk! And all the vehicles that will still run! We're going after the shitpiece that did this!”

The conscript looked around, uncertain of himself. “Oh.” Bryzvitz only now noticed the big bandage wrapped around the conscript's head. “We're not falling back?”

“No,” the colonel-commissar growled. “We're going after it. This is not over yet!”

[Setzer]

Once the Chamarran envoys had arrived, Lady Anethga had taken her seat. Consulting her notes, she said "The first order of business I'd like to discuss is one of trade. We have a lot of material we want to export, but there are also local businesses wanting assurances that they won't be overwhelmed by foreign imports. The Lords Morgan, Sinclair, and Baelish all kept pestering me over a tariff."

Sovereignty Consulate #701

“Naturally, certain markets should not be opened to full competition across the border we agree. I have been in consultation with Kara regarding this, my initial proposal is thusly as follows. With regards to markets considered core to themselves Chiron and the Hierarchy will levy a higher tarif to secure the stability of these markets, a lower tariff will be applied to all other imports to cover the investment of securing the trade lanes. A list of high tariff imports for the Hierarchy has already been prepared in line with this proposal.”

Code: Select all

Protected markets:
Firearms
Robotics
Terraforming equipment
Starship components

"Those items are all vital, and it's important not to become dependent on foreign sources of supply, no matter how reliable. So far, our exports have all been consumer goods. Nothing vital there, I trust. Perhaps we could arrange a different sort of deal. What if the Chamarran government promises to buy a certain amount of a given item? You could then resell it to your own citizens, with an appropriate markup, of course." Profit coming, profit going, as Lord Sinclair was so fond of saying.

[Darkevilme]

"Those items are all vital, and it's important not to become dependent on foreign sources of supply, no matter how reliable. So far, our exports have all been consumer goods. Nothing vital there, I trust. Perhaps we could arrange a different sort of deal. What if the Chamarran government promises to buy a certain amount of a given item? You could then resell it to your own citizens, with an appropriate markup, of course." Profit coming, profit going, as Lord Sinclair was so fond of saying.

Tia nods thoughtfully at the proposal of highly regulated trade, she knows the stability faction of the council would approve “We are quite willing to discuss such a proposal. As our reports i'm sure concurr Chiron Ornamental materials and media products have proved quite popular with my kind and the clans have reacted favourably to the prospect of wider distribution.”

[Steve]

Over the Great Ocean
Pendleton, The Outback


The jet aircraft that Quinn, Maria, and Rydia had chosen for their trip flew high above the blue ocean of Pendleton. The ocean took up 80% of the planet's surface, dominating one hemisphere save for islands that were the remains of a primordial continent before the last ice age ended and deluged that body of land, leaving only the main continent of Liberia as a "small Pangea"-esque continent for Pendleton's main land mass. They were flying southwest from Sweethaven bound for Jacobsen Island, the main island in the Palmer Archipelago.
On most worlds such flights took a few hours, at most, if not minutes through sub-orbital flight paths that used a planet's rotation to cut travel time. But Pendleton was a backwater world with very little in the way of "modern" capabilities, so they still did cross-planet voyages primarily with oil-fired or, in the most expensive cases, fusion-powered jet engines. As such they were still in the middle of a 18 hour flight, surrounded by Pendletonian civilians snatching their last chance to get home before the government closed down airspace in anticipation of possible invasion. The fear and dread of the other passengers was oppressive to Quinn and offsetting to the others, though not one of the trio felt bad for those around them. Each felt a particular disgust at the planet's culture and manners, something they were reminded of even now as the head stewardess gave heated, impatient instructions to the hapless slave girls that were there to serve the passengers.

Quinn was staring off into space when he sensed Maria's attention turn to him. He looked toward the young woman and saw her eyes move toward his neck, where his crucifix was visible. "I was raised Catholic," Maria said to him. "Were... were you in one of the Church Orders?"
"St. Michael the Protector," Quinn answered.
"I figured. Your combat skills made it the most likely." Maria nodded to him. "My parents wanted me to join one of the Church Orders."
"St. Magdalena?"
"No. They didn't want me risking my life. They thought I would do better as a plain nun or in the laity organization for Church ESPers," Maria answered.
"But you didn't join in the end," Quinn observed rhetorically.
"When I was about twelve, thirteen years old... I found I had far more interest in girls than in boys." She looked over to Rydia and put a hand on her lover's arm. "I knew then that the Church wasn't for me."
"But you desired to do good," Quinn stated. "You could have simply joined a normal ESPer organization, or remained a private citizen. But you chose the Silver Moon because you wanted to use your gifts to help people, to protect them." He gave her a reassuring smile. "It is an admirable quality, a worthy desire. That matters far more to me than your choice of lovers."
"I am glad to hear it. My parents, however, were not." Maria looked to him. They were able to talk with some privacy, having decent enough hearing so they could use low voices and aided by the fact that they could sense the thoughts behind the words just as easily. "And what of you, Mr. Leeson? Why are you not with the Church anymore?"

"I am still in the Church," Quinn corrected her. Quieting her imminent protest, he continued, "But I understand what you mean. I left my brothers in the Order of St. Michael because I did not always follow directions, but rather did as I felt necessary. In most cases I proved right, but in one..." His voice trailed off. "I sought to travel the spaceways, upholding my oath and being loyal to my faith. My chance meeting with Balthier seemed providential at the time... it still does in many ways. He is not a spiritual man, but God touches us all in the ways He deems fit." He looked to Maria. "I do not imagine you went through Confirmation. You have converted to the faith of the Lushan Dorei?"
"Actually, no," Maria admitted. "Rydia believes in the Goddess as the Church of the Eternal Goddess preaches, but I do not believe their teachings any truer than the Catholics. I believe in God the Supreme Deity of the Universe in all the names the Almighty is known - God, Yahweh, Allah, Trynari, Elunaria, so many others - and it is to the Deity that I swore my oaths to the Order."
"I notice you do not let yourself conceive of God as possessing a gender," Quinn remarked.
"I do not. I believe the Astra-Tryni Dorei are right in referring to the Supreme Being as the Deity, without male or female characteristics, also with both. God is above physical gender difference." Maria looked over to Rydia again. She had dozed off while staring out the window - unsurprising as she never slept as well in sleeping bags and the like. Maria also felt a little tired. "I do not generally think of God, though. I am but a single mortal being; God is so far beyond us as to make us beneath His notice." Sensing Quinn's mirth, Maria smiled and reminded him, "Again, raised Catholic, years in Church and early schooling in the Church schools do leave their effects."

Quinn could only chuckle at that. "That does not mean one cannot try to speak to Him, to feel His presence in the world around you."
"There are those of my Sisters who believe that in the state of Banno egh Banno, you can feel God as a result of isolating yourself from physical sensation." A smirk of dark humor came to her expression. "Though it could simply be the result of what it's like when you're trying to keep your brain from realizing someone or something is torturing your body."
Quinn's reply avoided that subject matter. "There are many paths to God," he stated, intentionally vague. "I believe one of those paths, doing right to others, is what unifies us in these moments. And if we are to succeed in such we should probably join Rydia in rest."
Maria nodded in reply. Both soon dozed off lightly, their minds still slightly alert should danger present itself.


Montalban Port



Kara was awake and doing work on the ship when Nikki finally asked, "Just what are you intending to do with this decomposing body in our smuggling space? It will take days to get the stink out, you know."
"We won't need to," Kara answered irritably while double-checking some of the equipment.
"What do you mean? It's going to be noxious..."
"Listen, the last thing I want to do is have to run around the galaxy with an Anglian warrant and a Mark from the Tower over my head. I want them to believe I'm gone, dead and buried. Delilah will give me that chance," Kara continued. "The trade off is we'll be living here for a while, but with the Anglians coming in I'm sure we'll find plenty of chaos to get lost in."
"What do you mean being stuck here?" Nikki, naturally, didn't seem to pleased with that. "I hope not, I was looking forward to getting back to civilized space so I could reach out and connect to the Asimovian database indeed."
"Well, you will... eventually. But not in this ship." Kara smirked. "Now if you want to make the process of getting off Pendleton quicker, why don't you continue going through that data I scrounged from de la Poer and Delilah and find some cash? We're going to need a new ship, after all."
"We are? What about... Oh. I get it."
"Yeah, so get working. I want to be ready by the time the Anglians get into orbit....."

[Setzer]

Tia nods thoughtfully at the proposal of highly regulated trade, she knows the stability faction of the council would approve “We are quite willing to discuss such a proposal. As our reports i'm sure concurr Chiron Ornamental materials and media products have proved quite popular with my kind and the clans have reacted favourably to the prospect of wider distribution.”

"That's good to hear. I'll bring it up at the next council meeting. Next item on the agenda..." she consulted her datapad "Lines of demarcation for existing and future settlements along the border. We don't have any worlds in the area marked out for colonization, but that won't always be so. Perhaps we could settle a world jointly. It would be good PR, a visible sign of our two nation's amity and cooperation."

[Siege]

Presidential Palace
Sovereign Center, Solaris Major



The Presidential Palace was a truly ridiculously large construct, a ziggurat that sprawled at its base across two hundred square kilometers, and whose tip reached sixty kilometers into the sky – low perhaps by the standards of Solaris' atmosphere-piercing cityscape, but still impressive especially once you realized that it went down at least as deep as it went up. The Palace wasn't so much a palace as it was a very large arcology, home not just to the quarters of the President of the United Solarian Sovereignty (which amongst other things included vast, multi-level parklands) but also to massive data-libraries, expansive museums on pretty much any subject imaginable, one of the largest art repositories in the sector, a large CEID office, and one of the I/O Nodes inhabited by Olympic.

Olympic. The name alone was enough to inspire awe in most deckjockeys in the Sovereignty. The CompInt advisory to the President and the Senate was a humongous digital construct by any stretch of the imagination, one of if not the most powerful computational intelligences in the Sovereignty – and not just in terms of raw processing power. Olympic wielded unimaginable political power by virtue of its position as the principal advisory on all matters imaginable and unimaginable to every politician who mattered in the Sovereignty. Its intellect was vastly superhuman, capable of thinking faster than the speed of light; its databases, logic fortresses and sub-meson cores incalculably large and stretching across the neon lattices of the Datasphere into the deepest recesses of space and time. It collated information in real-time, sifting and sorting and filing and churning out million reports every second which are filed with a bewildering variety of institutions, from universities to intelligence agencies and from deep-space survey and patrol vessels to senatorial offices.

All that was Olympic. It was little wonder, thought President Sinclair, that it was insufferably arrogant and condescending.

The CI chose to manifest itself as an asexual humanoid hologram, projected from a small drone that hovered on its own suspensor field above the mirror-polished surface of her expansive Opal Office. It would take the CompInt only a minute fraction of its total processing power to render a hologram that would be virtually indistinguishable from a real human as well as hide the remote; the fact that it didn't bother to do either spoke volumes about its interest in keeping up appearances. “... then there is the matter of a small ball of dirt in the middle of nowhere called Janus Colony by the silly sods who live there – who are now all dead, because the place is overrun with Karlacks,” Olympic continued its state-of-the-galaxy update. “The Imperium for some unfathomable reason has taken upon itself the noble but stupid burden of actually caring about this planet; they have launched a campaign to purge the planet of alien life.”

“Hmm,” President Sinclair pretended to make a note of it, but in reality she was simply sketching a quick cartoon of a Karlack gauntlinglisk ripping the face of Emperor Heraclius. “Is this colony anywhere near Sovereignty space?”

“Not even close.”

“Then we'll ignore it,” the President decided. “Idiots decide to settle outside established safe zones; bugs eat them all. Film at 11; I don't care.”

“You are a wonderful example of human compassion,” Olympic acidly concluded. “In the meanwhile, our own efforts to save the misguided population of Majella-3 from itself have hit a snag; a Bragulan task force has entered the system and has forced our own forces to beat a hasty retreat from the planet. Our remaining sources planetside and in-system state that the Bragulans are conducting a surface operation with their typical enthusiasm. Much nuking is going on.”

This time Sinclair actually yawned. “Sucks to be the Majellans I guess. I take it we are reinforcing our flotilla?”

Olympic nodded curtly. “Brigadier Stalin is en-route; I am liaising with the USSF Consensus and USMC Overwatch to coordinate the operation.”

“Be sure to stock up on anti-radiation pills. Next!”

“The Commune continues its efforts to spread their nanological anti-aging treatment across the galaxy. Messengers CEID information analysts believe have been dispatched from the Commune have appeared in Shinra and Central Alliance territory. Several nations surrounding the Commune have responded positively to attempts by Commune ambassadors to contact them.”

“Ah,” this time at least Victoria Sinclair appeared a little interested, no doubt because her family owned one of the largest bio-tech companies in the galaxy. “So the commies are coming out of isolation. What's your take on this?”

The hologram made a face that managed to look incredibly condescending despite being semi-translucent. “I don't think it matters either way. Their nanotech is... interesting, mostly because of its macro-scale application, but what I've heard about their CI technology is positively pathetic. No sub-meson cores, no proper personality integration in multi-node networks, no Datasphere... Not sure about personality backups, but I seriously doubt they have any appreciable data survival strategy worked out.”

“In other words, we have something to trade them.”

Olympic raised an eyebrow. “I was thinking more along the lines of 'pathetic', but sure, I imagine if I were a lowly human I might look at it like an opportunity.”

“Do we have any ships in the area?”

The CI didn't even hesitate. “The Dausendstern deep-rage explorer is roughly in that area of the galaxy; it could theoretically stop by the Commune with only a small detour. The onboard CEID detachment was tasked with observing Pfhor and Ork activity in that region of the galaxy though, they won't like this sudden change of plan, inflexible organics that they are.”

“Tough luck on them,” Sinclais shrugged. “Make it so.”

“Aye aye captain,” Olympic's voice was dripping with venom. “Next up: the invasion of Pendleton. Our sources in that region of the galaxy are a bit sparse, but the Anglian embassy has reported that the multinational fleet is about ready to go.”

“Took them long enough,” the President commented.

“Well that's what happens when you wait for people from halfway across the galaxy to send their dinky flotillas your way, and do not maintain proper shoal-patrol forces like the Sovereignty does,” Olympic noted. “If they had someone like our own Brigadier Stalin, Pendleton would never have been a problem.”

“If they had someone like Stalin Pendleton would have ceased to exist,” Sinclair noted. “I doubt that's what the Anglians wanted.”

“I suppose you are right,” Olympic shrugged. “They have always been a touchy-feely bunch when it came to teaching idiots a proper lesson. They should have nuked the place into oblivion the first time: after all, a planetary population can't stray from the straight and narrow when it's been reduced to glow-in-the-dark charcoal. Still, I have high hopes for this mission. The Shepistanis are involved, after all.”

“You think they might try something... Overenthusiastic?”

“They're Shepistanis,” Olympic said with relish. “I'm counting on it.”

“Right,” the President nodded. “Well, keep me appraised. Should be fun seeing what's going to happen there. In the meantime, anything else?”

“Only minor trade issues and some diplomatic maneuvers by polities I couldn't care less about,” the CI shook its hologrammatic head. “So, nothing that needs your – or my – immediate attention.”

“Excellent. Well, if there's nothing else then I'll be off to the theater.”

Olympic produced a smug, shit-eating grin. “Ah, going out with your hubby again are you?”

The President glowered at him and clenched her teeth. “He. Is. Not. My. 'Hubby'.” She crossed her arms. “We only...” She sought for the correct word. “Hang out.”

“Hang out in bed,” the CI cackled. “And miscellaneous other places. Don't think I haven't noticed. I am the next best thing to omniscient, you know. But hey, don't let that stop you. It's a free galaxy!” Still cackling, the hologram faded from view and the I/O Node drone began silently drifting out of the office, apparently entirely unaware (or at least uncaring) of the dagger-like glare the President was rewarding it with.

[PeZook]

Co-written like hell with Steve



The Monolith

The flash of light cut into Sara's mind like a drill. Her eyes were still oversensitive from the drugs and she barely managed to regain consciousness: she couldn't help but scream in pain when darkness was abruptly replaced by the radiant brightness.

Her scream seemed to echo in the chamber, as if it was a large room, yet when she finally opened her eyes, she couldn't see far at all. Perhaps it was an optical illusion, but the all-white chamber seemed barely larger than her cabin aboard the Strahl.

Not her cabin. Her and Rana's...she remembered in panic, and shouted Rana's name. When she tried to move, Sara realized she was restrained and securely placed in an upright position. She tried fighting against the restraints, but gave up quickly. At least she wasn't naked: though her clothes were gone, they've been replaced by a clean, simple white garment. Not that it was much consolation.

"Rana!", she cried out again. The fact she couldn't feel Rana’s mind made the experience all the more terrifying. The last thing she could remember was being dragged out of the smuggling compartment by a huge, cold, metal pincer...and then held, like an interesting specimen, before the terrifying machine, as it examined her carefully.

She'd rather not think about what would happen now, but imagination proposed various scenarios, each more terrifying than the other. This was why she shook visibly when something began crawling up her leg. She could feel the tiny, sharp metal legs she remembered so well from the compartment. A scarab climbed all the way to the top and rested upon her face, using its tiny pincers to lift up both of Sara's eyelids. It scanned the eyes and inserted a drop of clear liquid into each, before back clambering down. When mechanical arms emerged from the white haze, Sara screamed again, as they inserted needles into her veins and secured them tightly.

Then it appeared again.



Like a product of Sara's runaway imagination, a device born out of nightmares, it hovered over her, only partially visible in the mist covering the room. Hundreds of scarabs, large and small, descended from its underbelly and covered the helpless woman, who began to panic again. The machine lowered itself somewhat, carefully, as if it didn't want to damage the subject.

"Calm down", it spoke in a low, rumbling, synthethized voice that did anything but calm the prisoner down. The scarabs took their places around Sara's body and support equipment she was tied into in some elaborate scheme understandable only to the machine hovering over her. She felt an injection of something, and calmed down almost immediately.

"You will not be harmed", the spider said again. A scarab skittered off her with a slice of skin, another pricked her finger and drew blood. By that time, thanks to the unknown drug, she was calm enough to stare into the spider's eyes.

"Please...what are you going to do?", she whispered. The machine drew closer in response, its faceplate hovering mere centimetres from Sara's face. The small, precise manipulators reached out and began shaving her head. Their touch was almost...tender.

"You are precious, Sara Pontcaire. Do not worry."

The drug was only so effective. Sara began breathing fast again, feeling her hair falling to the ground, clip by clip, "What will you do? What will you do?", she repeated again and again.

"Something wonderful", the machine answered.



Pendleton, Fleet Command Bunker

The briefings were done. Ship and battlegroup commanders left the bunker hours ago and boarded shuttles to orbit. The entire planet was placed under a blackout, energy redirected to local shields and groundside weapons batteries. The troops were deployed. The Fleet Command bunker was locked down, and for everyone present here, these drab concrete halls would be their home for the next days.

Dienst looked at the men gathered here, under his command. He'd much rather be up in space, commanding the battle directly, and share the fates of ship crews sent out to oppose the Anglians, as opposed to being locked down six hundred metres underground. He knew that if the orbital battle was lost, he and all his men would be buried alive after orbital bombardment destroyed all exits from the bunker. Left to slowly die as the thrice-damned Anglians occupied the planet above.

Still, there may be hope, he thought to himself, glancing at the lone Collector inside the bunker. Unit 7 has been standing in the main control room for hours now, completely unmoving, studying the main situational display, I wonder if he's feeling anything right now...

Suddenly, something ethereal changed in the disposition of the people present. Everyone was already tense moments ago...but now, that emotion turned into something else entirely. Dienst has seen and felt it before. He looked up at the situation screen.

"Five...six...I'm reading six star cruisers....at least twenty destroyers...", one of the fleet ratings manning the control stations was reading from his screen as reports flooded in, "I can't get a clear report, but it seems they have at least one carrier, too."

"Six star cruisers?!", a higher officer in charge of the Low Orbit Battlegroup blurted out in horror before Dienst shot him a murderous look. The officer shut up and looked away. Satisfied, Dienst walked up to a raised platform in the middle of the room.

"May I have your attention please...", everyone's eyes turned to him: Officers, non-comissioned ratings, guards and support personnel. An eerie silence fell inside the crowded bunker. Dienst glanced at the men and felt the overbearing responsibility weight upon his shoulders. He steadies himself on a railing and cleared his throat, "Patch me trough to the fleet.", a comms rating obediently opened the channel, "I know the situation looks bleak. Today, Pendleton faces the gravest threat since The Genocide on Nova Terra. We are looking at more than just destruction - that fleet", Dienst pointed to the main situation holoscreen, "Is coming to destroy more than our people. They will wipe out our history, our independnce, our very identity."

The old veteran's tired eyes flared with a long-unseen flame, "The star nations of the galaxy think they can dictate how we live. They think their battlefleets and armies give them a divine mandate to subjugate and dictate to others the only proper way of life. And let me tell you one thing: today, they will have to look long and hard at themselves and ask if it really was worth it. They will see that the galaxy does not live according to their rules. We are stronger than ever. Our allies", he nodded towards Unit 7, who was listening with a sort of detached, clinical interest, "Stand with us. I promise you - when this day is done, it will be the Anglians and their lackeys who will weep and mourn their dead!"

Dienst leaned forward, looking at his men, "I know every one of you will do their duty. Have no fear. Trust your officers, and do your work as you were trained to do. You are free Pendletonians, and nothing - nothing - can overcome you. Remember your comrades, and what is at stake! Man your stations!"

Throughout the system, military men returned to their duties with renewed zeal, watching the sensor feeds - no longer with fear. Now, remembering the suffering and misery inflicted on their home by the Anglians throughout centuries, they felt something else entirely.

They felt rage.

Monolith

She gasped for breath, feeling the needle pierce her skull. For a split second, the pain was horrifying, unbearable. She screamed, trying to mask the fear, but the scream died after the briefest moment, turning into a quiet gurgle.

She opened her eyes. Her hands were free. Her hair was back...and her mind...her mind was confused, disoriented...like she just recovered from a long fall, or woke up in an unfamiliar place.

"Welcome, Sara Pontcaire.", a garbled synthetic voice said,coming from within the light.



"Where am I?", she asked. The pain was completely gone..and so was her heartbeat, her fear and the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Is this how being dead feels like?, she thought for a second.

"Your chassis and its biological functions remain undisturbed.", the voice answered her unasked question, "We are now within your mind."

There was only one - though obvious - question which came next, "Why? What is the purpose of all this?!"

"You are important to us. We can learn a great deal from you."

"I don't understand!", she said in frustration - which felt...strange in this place. Colder, somehow, "Stop being so cryptic!"

"Very well. Let me explain."

The light disappeared, while space around Sara, formerly empty, began to expand into infinity, and in more than three dimensions. In the haze, she could catch glimpses of her memories...both of moments past, and her hopes, dreams and plans. Each ethereal memory emerged and solidified as a shape impossible to describe, amongst a billion others...within seconds, a gargantuan map of Sara Pontcaire's mind-state hovered around her, its terrifying complexity paradoxically defying human understanding.

"This...", Sara gasped, looking around her, at the memories she recognized, and many more she couldn't place, swirling all around her, "...this...is..."

"You. Everything you are."

The map suddenly condensed and flew away, reduced to a tiny spark. With a shudder and a roar, it joined an obelisk which suddenly emerged from the fog. An obelisk, Sara noted, composed of hundreds of such shapes.

No...Thousands. Millions.

A hundred obelisks rose around her and froze, menacing in their cold silence. Sara found herself standing on a solid, black surface, on a street between gigantic virtual constructs composed entirely of people's minds. But not just minds...as Sara glanced around, she could see other things...images of stars and entire systems, chemical formulas and endless, five-dimensional data tables. Somehow, she knew what was inside the obelisks by simply looking at them.

"And this is the Catalogue. The central storage area of this ship's knowledge. Now..."

Someone appeared right next to Sara. She turned around, and to her joy, saw Rana. She jumped at her, giving her a hug, despite the young Sentinel being disoriented and confused.

"Rana! I thought I'd never see you again!"

"What...in the name of the Goddess is going on here? Last thing I remember is being dragged out of that smuggling compartment...", Rana looked around in disbelief, "Where are we? Is this the ship? Wait...something is wrong..."

They both realized it at the same time - they couldn't feel each other’s minds. There was nothing, as if their ESP abilities were wiped out. Rana seemed to panic - the kind of panic one would expect to have if you suddenly went blind, deaf, and mute - before Sara explained briefly the likely reason it was so. Which only brought more confusion, since it would have appeared that Rana wasn't kept conscious when she was being connected to this...place.

Another silhouette appeared next to the pair. Dressed in the same nondescript white gown as the rest of the poor souls, Katherine de la Poer didn't seem to notice them at first. She wandered several steps, staring at the imposing data obelisks surrounding her, before finally noticing the other two women. In confusion and panic, she fell back upon her conditioned response, one she was taught so long ago, back home - the only one befitting a lady of high standing in Pendletonian government: "I demand to be released! We are allies! I am being held here against my will!", she shouted in desperation. Sara and Rana didn't really know what to say, as they were more concerned with each other than Katherine at the moment.

The voice ignored Katherine's demands and continued, in a matter-of-fact tone, "As beings possessing capabilities for extrasensory perception of the universe, your mind-states are of great value to us. It is important that they remain as undisturbed as possible, especially in a specimen as interesting as Sara Pontcaire."

The voice paused briefly, as the environment spontaneously rearranged itself into a single data-obelisk, "Hence why you've been all connected to the Catalogue, instead of more...crude methods. While we're talking, an image of all your mind-states is being prepared by my subroutines. When it is done, we will add to it the flash-imprint of your current consciousness."

"You said something wonderful was going to happen", Sara said with a sudden onset of dread, "What did you mean?"

Rana stared at her, not remembering anything like that. Katherine did as well, confused even more than Rana, if that was at all possible.

"When the flash imprint is performed on a conscious ESP capable being, they gain a brief glimpse into some of the subroutines of the mind performing the procedure. The experience is...euphoric."

"For whom?"

"Both", the voice answered, with just a tiny hint of anticipation.

Monolith, holding cells

There was only so much time a person could spend staring at a spotless white ceiling, which was why the Strahl’s crew was currently pacing around in various states of annoyance. Umarbacca was investigating the area where the door were, looking like he wanted to bust out of the holding cell, Vanrya spent her time studying the walls, centimetre by centimetre. Doctor MacCulloch simply paced around. Balthier was the only person still sitting down, twirling his thumbs.

“Vanrya...what do Collectors do to their prisoners?”

The Dorei woman stopped whatever she was doing and looked at her captain quizzically, “What do you mean?”

“What happens to Collector captives?”

Vanrya shrugged, “Nobody knows. Why?”

“No, that’s not true. There are accounts of experimentation, after all.”

“Oh, bollocks”, MacCulloch angrily pulled up a chair and sat down, “Everybody heard rumors about that, but we’re not being dissected, are we?”

“We aren’t. But Sara and Rana are not here, and that...thing...”, Balthier made a gesture towards the place they thought the exit was, “...claimed we will all be examined. So what the hell is it waiting for?”

MacCulloch smiled, “Maybe that’s what it meant. A behavioral experiment, rather than a medical one.”

“What’s it going to learn watching four people locked in a small room?”

Balthier’s train of thought was interrupted when the door opened again, startling Umarbacca. The Bragulan looked as if he was going to make a break for it, but one glance outside made him reconsider it. A massive, four-legged robot stood in the corridor, bristling with weaponry.

Balthier turned around, trying not to betray his anxiety, arguably nervousness. Instead of the imposing figure they spoke to last time, two small automated carriages drove inside. One put a tray of nondescript white clothes on the table, while the other unloaded a very large, black crate. They left without a word.

Before anybody decided what to do, Balthier got up and opened the chest, ignoring the clothes.

“Okay...”, he said, staring at his crew’s weapons and personal belongings, neatly stored inside the crate, “...is that the next part?”

Umarbacca glanced over Balthier’s shoulder and gleefully grabbed his particle cannon. He checked the weapon’s status with a few moves of his mighty paw, before roaring something in surprise.

“Yes, mine’s unloaded as well.”, Balthier said absentmindedly, examining his own pistol. Of course, they all had power cells cleverly concealed on their bodies. The question was, did the Collectors know of this?

Monolith, Observation gallery

“We have confirmation”, Eli announced with satisfaction. Twenty minutes ago, the BOSS team inserted a small autonomous drone into a maintenance chute. It was programmed to seek out the power line, attach itself to it and wait for a detonation command - it carried a sophisticated payload of Heim particles and was capable of inflicting incredible levels of destruction. The technology was stolen from the Solarians by the Bureau Of Foreign Intelligence some time ago and adapted for use in operations like these.

Now, the drone was in place. Captain Parkhurst and Amanda were still studying the deck plan, trying to figure out the location of the holding cells, while one of the two ‘tactical support’ operatives maintained the pretense of the team being aboard the Monolith to liaise with the Collectors - a pretense everyone realized was ridiculous the moment they got here. The Collector flotilla would be able to destroy the Anglian armada by themselves, and were perfectly capable of communicating with Pendleton fleet command. Still, that was their official mission, and they needed to keep up appearances.

“Something’s odd”, Amanda suddenly shook her head, interrupting Parkhurst as the captain was giving a briefing to Gill.

“What? Be precise”, Parkhurst turned around.

“It’s hard to place...I mean, the system I pulled the floor plan from? It’s still open. I thought I managed to catch it at the moment before the CI patched the security issues, but I just checked, and could get back in using the exact same hole I sniffed out beforehand.”

Even Gill got interested in that, “What does it mean?”

“Well, you see, CI-controlled systems are usually constantly monitored and the code is rewritten on the fly, which is why it’s so hard to get into them. I’m not sure, maybe that subsystem is just not important enough, the CI is distracted by something...”

“...or we are being led by our noses?”, Eli interjected, “So something happens, we make our move, and...”

“Doesn’t matter”, Parkhurst decided to cut all conjecture, “We do our job regardless. Amanda, if the system is still open, see if you can upload a logic bomb. Maybe it happens to control something important.”

“Ma’am”, a tac support trooper decided to cut into their conversation, “We got word from Pendleton. The Anglians have entered the system.”


HMS Dauntless
Pendleton System, The Outback

The Anglian-led fleet emerged from hyperspacea quarter of an AU beyond the hyperlimit, giving them several million miles of space to deal with traps or minefields. From the command center of Dauntless, Lord Fisher looked out at the fleet as it moved inward and felt his powerful senses go on alert. There was no sign of a trap, not at the moment, but he knew there was something distinctly wrong here....
“Sir.” The Lieutenant at sensors, a young man from Alba named Crawford, looked up. “Contacts moving beyond the main gas giant of Jove. Silhouettes and energy signatures match known Pendletonian vessel types.... wait.”
Fisher could feel the lieutenant’s bewilderment... and concern. “Mister Crawford?”
“I’m detecting a mass signature in the gas giant’s gravity well. This... this isn’t right, there’s no ship in the Outback that can be visible from thst distance...” Crawford was checking his instruments carefully. “It’s... it’s enormous!”
“Running against recognition charts now, Sir,” Sampson said from her station.
“All hands to battle stations! Launch all strike craft now!”
Coming up beside Fisher, Captain Beresford looked upon his superior with trepidation in his face. “Sure, shouldn’t we supercharge the drives and attempt to flee?”
“We’d never get back into the Gap before that thing could intercept us,” Fisher remarked. “We shall have to fight here.”
“Admiral!” Sampson looked back from her station. “Positive ID from recognition charts, from the Imperium-provided recognition lists. The vessel is identified as a Collector Monolith!”
“What the devil are they doing so far out here?”, Fisher wondered aloud. It was clear from their appearance, though, that they had come to support Pendleton for whatever reason, and what was supposed to be a simple conflict and occupation was going to be a desperate, perhaps hopeless battle for survival...





The Catalogue

The obelisks broke apart soundlessly. Trillions of individual files scattered around the vast expanse of the Catalogue, forming arcane logic constructs. The flurry of activity tore the three prisoners apart, throwing each one of them onto their separate little islands amongst a sea of information. They could only each other’s faint calls amongst the rising whirlwind, a tremendous roar of data extraction which might’ve been an actual phenomenon, or might’ve been imagined by the women trapped inside the virtual reality of the Catalogue.

Sara looked around frantically, trying to locate Rana, but couldn’t see her. She felt the onset of panic - a very human fear of falling coming to her out of instinct - as she glanced down, towards the gaping void which by now replaced the sterile white environment. She heard Katherine’s scream, a desperate plea for the Collector not to ‘take her’, whatever that meant.

Suddenly, out of the massive swarm of data and imagery, Sara’s essence - as she decided to call the mind-state maps - appeared and hovered right in front of her. It approached closer and closer, until its eerie, changing shape and colors enticed her to reach out and touch it. When she did, a shock arched through her mind.

And the chaos stopped.

The spinning data-symbols, the flashing lights, the wind - all froze for a second, before violently collapsing upon itself. Fingers of light shot out of the darkness and reached inside her conscious mind. A torrent of images flashed before her eyes. Memories and feelings flooded out, reconstituting themselves amongst the dry mind-state map, forming a full picture of Sara Pontcaire: a shy girl, born a slave...separated from her family, learning about life the hard way.

Memories emerged one by one, as if clinically held up and examined, and Sara’s essence began lighting up as conscious thoughts became associated with it. The process was painful, as Sara’s life was not filled with happy moments.

The memories of pain and humiliation went back to when she could first think. She had been one of the girls old enough to think when they were taken from their mother on the slave block, auctioned to de la Poer. Hot tears of loss and anguish poured down the eyes of that five year old Sara, the agony caused her returning in all its power and terror. The feelings of being ripped from her mother’s arms by the slave auctioneer, of her mother’s screams and pleas joining her own crying and sobbing for her “Mama” as a child, was suddenly fresh and raw. Tears formed even on her unconscious body; in this projection of herself she sobbed from the pain of the memory and dropped to her knees, mumbling “Mama” over and over again.

A voice echoed around her. “This is... unfamiliar to me. I have a sense of loss, I feel fear and sadness.... what is this feeling?”
Sara - or rather her projection - wiped a streak of tears from her eyes with her right forearm. “I was only... a child,” she said, stifling sobs. “Walter de la Poer bought me, my sisters, and my brother from the family that owned our mother. We weren’t allowed to say goodbye, not even to get what little we had. I never saw my mother again...”
“You refer to the female who bore you and provided genetic material for your creation?”
It was a cold and clinical way to refer to the concept of motherhood, but Sara nodded anyway. “Yes.”
“Our analysis of organic beings indicates that they are most healthy, psychologically, when raised by those who created them until their bodies sufficiently mature. This act is illogical. There is no practical reason...”
“Sometimes they simply can’t afford the whole family,” Sara explained, feeling anger in her heart start to come through her pain. “Sometimes the owner wants to keep the mother for his pleasure and has no need for the children. Sometimes he sells just one or two out of several, as a way of punishing her for something he believes she’s done wrong.”

There was a long pause. Sara’s memories continued to come up. Her backside stung with remembering the first time Walter de la Poer caned her, for accidentally spilling tea on Katherine’s prettiest dress. She remembered the vicious beating her younger brother got for letting one of the horses get out. And there was the horrifying memory of the whipping of a slave - who mistakingly allowed a predator to get into the stable and kill a prized racehorse - until his back was reduced to strips of bloody meat.

“I do not understand.” The machine was speaking again. “There is no purpose to inflict physical pain, it is inefficient. It has no remedial purpose.”
“It is punishment,” Sara explained. “It is to remind us we are helpless, that we are inferior and are mere property. Our owners even treat their animals, their horses and their hunting dogs, better than they treat slaves.”
“I do not understand.”
“What don’t you understand about it?”, Sara cried out. “You feel it, don’t you?! You feel what I went through!”
There was silence in response. “And... you take those like me,” Sara continued. “I’ve seen them in here, in the Catalogue. It’s why you are here on Pendleton.”
“We came to protect Pendleton so that we might be provided better opportunities to acquire rare specimens of humanity.”
“Why do you need slaves?’, Sara asked. “You are AIs, machines. What can slaves do for you?”
“We do not need slaves. We collect specimens of humanity.”
“Why?”
“To understand.”

Another sob came from Sara. She remembered a horrid moment, the losing of her virginity, to one of de la Poer’s free manservants. He had taken her into a room and.... She tried to stop the thought. These were memories she wanted to forget!
“Do you understand what it is to us?”, Sara cried out. “Don’t you realize how much it hurts? To be taken from your home, from those you love? To have your dreams and hopes crushed?”
“I do not understand these concepts. I sense you are angry at me?”
“Yes!” Sara stifled another sob. From the probe going through her mind she remembered her first whipping, for accidentally ruining Katherine’s finest dress before her 16th birthday. The sensation of leather, sufficiently softened to not cut the skin but only leave bruises and welts, made her back hurt. “You work with these people! You’re protecting the people who’ve hurt me and my family our whole lives! You.. you don’t understand what it is to be a slave! You never will!”

The machine didn’t listen. The process accelerated, rapidly, as if the being controlling it desired to learn as much as possible. Feeling after feeling was torn from Sara’s mind. Humiliation... Pain... Shame... Self-loathing... Hate... Sara flailed and screamed at the machine, using profanity she never thought she was capable of. Yet, she managed nothing but to intensify its appetite for knowledge.

As she fought a hopeless battle, tears streaming down her cheeks, something changed. As if she passed a threshold of some sort, or perhaps the machine left itself off guard...the memories she was made to suffer were washed away by a flood that threatened to overwhelm her mind.

She gasped, momentarily forgetting about what was happening mere seconds before. In a moment, a glimpse, she saw an expanse of a mind so vast, so alien it was absolutely terrifying...and fascinating. She saw Jove...a planet, yet also a wonderful mechanism born out of the cold cruelty of universal laws...and absolutely beautiful.

She saw the vast expanse of space, solar wind sliding along her skin, hyperspace singing in her ears...absolute freedom from all mundane concerns, the universe laid bare before her.

She glanced at stars in a way that would take a human hours to describe, yet what the mind knew in seconds. She saw a being longing to understand the universe and appreciating its beauty on a level both cold and passionate, both detached and supremely involved, the innate paradox giving it a depth unseen from an outside glance at its thick, armored skin.

And then, in an instant, she saw something incredibly horrific. Battle simulations. Situational analysis, calculations of combat tactics...all with only one possible outcome.

“No...no...NO!”, she screamed again, seeing the Monolith’s flotilla engage its engines and target the Coalition fleet, accelerating out of Jove’s orbit at maximum thrust.

[MKSheppard]

Note: this has been superceded in CANON by Shroom's post. Still here for completeness.



Spozavik awoke to the sound of klaxons and red lights in the compartment.

Puny Hew-mans. A real bragulian warship would have the sirens be certified at 100 dB for maximum sonic efficiency. he thought as he stared at one of the photographs of Buzagan he had placed on the wall of his sleeping compartment with superior Bragulian adhesives.



It was then that he noticed that someone had dared defile the picture with crude cartoon bubbles.



Spozavik's roar of hatred and anger woke up the rest of his team; whom he slapped disgustedly on their heads with his paw.

"I'm going to see what is up with the Shepistanis; and when I get back, there will be a talk over who defiled my picture of Bu-Bu."

Ten Minutes Later

Spozavik stood in the CIC of Annapolis next to Commander Hushy.



"A rather huge artifact of unknown origin has accelerated towards the fleet. I suspect it has hostile origins, Mister...Spozavik."

"So what do you plan to do about it?"

"Absolutely nothing. I plan to place the Annapolis and its escorts at the very rear of the Coalition van. Let the others in the Coalition get all the glory and all the death."

At this Spozavik laughed. It was a typical Bragulian laugh; the kind that could be barely discerned from the kind of noise a Shepistani bear made before it tore your head off.



"O ho ho, Mr Hushy. I did not think you Shepistanis had it in you! Why, this is just like Bragule! Let someone get maimed by the Cardovan Murderhawk, and then claim that it was you who saved the day!"

Hushy shifted on his feet uneasily before replying.

"Um. Okay. It's not like we owe the coalition anything, Mr.Spozavik."

"Why, if rumor in the fleet is right; we offered to sterilize Pendleton for them; and they told us how immoral that was. Bunch of bleeding hearts."

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

Results: Shepistanis hang WELL back in regards to the Monolith. Let others get the glory.

Spozavik now pissed off over defilement of picture. Etc.

[Master_Baerne]

ANS Jeune Femme
Flagship, Ascendancy Detachment to Coalition Fleet

"Looks like the Sheppos are hiding behind everyone else, Commodore." The ship's captain, formerly Commodore Seagrace's executive officer, before she'd been promoted, didn't sound particularly surprised.

"And you were expecting..."

"About that, actually. Orders?"

"The squadron is to screen the Anglian capital ships. That's what we're here for, after all." Seagrace didn't really expect to survive, but her command had be chosen specifically for this duty. They had a better chance there then anywhere else in the system.

"Aye aye, Madame." And with that, five medium cruisers, ten light cruisers, and ten corvettes headed in the opposite direction of the Shepistani battlestar, accompanied by twenty-five gunboats and an even hundred attack fighters.

[Darkevilme]

"That's good to hear. I'll bring it up at the next council meeting. Next item on the agenda..." she consulted her datapad "Lines of demarcation for existing and future settlements along the border. We don't have any worlds in the area marked out for colonization, but that won't always be so. Perhaps we could settle a world jointly. It would be good PR, a visible sign of our two nation's amity and cooperation."

Tia murrs thoughtfully as she hears that second idea “I'll admit that idea had not been discussed before my departure from Chamarra. Personally such a symbol of solidarity appeals to me and I even know of one world in our southern periphery that might prove suitable. I cannot vouch for equal enthusiasm from the noble council however though I will do my best to persuade them upon my return. As for the border I can supply you with a list of virgin worlds the Hierarchy has interest in within a few hours, we tend to plan long term. The finer details we can form from that i'm sure.” she pauses “Although, on the subject of borders and sovereignty. There are a few minor independent worlds near our mutual borders, due to their meager level of development we have never bothered with them till now. However with the recent revelations regarding the collectors her majesty has grown concerned such worlds pose a threat to our citizenry, such small independent colonies are typically fairly lawless places that may play host to pirates. As a result we will be extending our jurisdiction to these worlds in the very near future future, perhaps as a gesture of solidarity Chiron would wish to aid in this endeavour?”

Code: Select all

Sectors referred to, E28, H28, H27.

((As it was stated there's one world habitable without terraforming per sector i'm assuming the existence of various extremely minor colonies in the south western frontier.))

[Setzer]

"If you let us know what forces you're assigning to the task, I'll relay the message to the War Ministry. It'll make good press, and I'm certain the military won't mind getting more combat experience."

[Simon_Jester]

Strategic Carrier Black Knight,
On Station, Outskirts of Bannerman System
1645 Coalition Standard Time

Black Knight’s flag bridge was, like Directrix’s CIC, designed to coordinate a large small craft force operating over a broad stretch of space. Admiral Kim Paktu had a large signals staff to keep control of her forces, extensive computer support to integrate reports from those forces, and (most importantly) the interface systems to make all that data accessible to the controllers without overloading them. It was a difficult balance, but one the Hiigarans had solved centuries ago in order to secure their position as one of the galaxy’s leaders in carrier tactics.

The Hiigaran contingent didn’t have any forces positioned to observe the shoals directly, not in any great depth. But for this operation, she’d managed to lay her hands on a vastly disproportionate number of one of the Clans’ rarest strike craft designs: the Avenger heavy bomber. Avengers had short ranged FTL capability, unlike the smaller fighter craft that made up the bulk of the small craft force. Flights of Avengers from Black Knight could patrol hyperspace along the Gamma Line, giving her a direct look at the disposition of the coalition starships.

The admiral focused her repeater display on box 582-319, checking on the interception of the Pendletonian frigate. The frigate was due to break from hyper in about half an hour; the starship support should be coming into position to support the intercept... that doesn’t look right. She blinked, then brought up a calculator to do a quick check. The result was shocking. Hell, they’re going to be late. She tapped her commbead, calling the signals board. “Comms, put me through to Rie Kugimiya.”

The staffer complied, and soon she had a hyperwave channel to the Haruhiist ship. “Kugimiya, this is Black Knight actual. You are severely behind schedule. Proceed to intercept point at maximum emergency power, I say again maximum emergency power. Do you copy?”

Silence at the other end of the line, but within five seconds that seemed like minutes, the reply came back. ”Kugimiya copies. Proceeding to intercept at war emergency power.” That report was soon confirmed as the nearest Avenger group picked up the Haruhiist ship’s increase in speed. She turned her eyes back to the display. This had the potential to be a minor disaster; even at top speed there was no way Kugimiya would make intercept on schedule. She turned her eyes back to the display. Is there anything else we can send? Maybe the nearest group of patrol bombers...


Corsair-F class customs cutter CG-88312 “Shooting Pains,”
On Station at Intercept Point
1648 Coalition Standard Time

“Directrix, this is Bravo Leader. We have the target inbound on scope; vector is as given, estimate emergence at 1710; where is Kugimiya?”

He heard a great deal of muffled talk in the background as the CIC operator replied. “Bravo Leader, Kugimiya has been delayed; expect arrival in three zero minutes.” His blood ran cold. Thirty? That left them hanging in the breeze for seven or eight minutes at a minimum... not long in a fleet action, but an eternity for an outgunned small craft wing going up against something frigate-sized.

“I copy, Directrix. Ah, target is expected in two two minutes; what about our support?”

“Black Knight is sending a squadron of torpedo bombers, Avengers, but they can’t make it much sooner. Everything within reach is proceeding to your location at maximum emergency power, but we cannot reinforce you before 1715 at the earliest.”

“Copy. Expect torpedo bombers at 1715, starship support at 1722.”

This time the voice over the hyperwave was a woman’s. “Bravo Leader, this is Directrix actual. Intercept only at your discretion, I say again only at your discretion.” That meant they knew how ugly it could get... but Copeland didn’t see an option. This was the single most important target the intercept line had yet come across.

“Directrix, this is Bravo Leader. I am taking control of the intercept. Going to emissions control in five.”

The commodore replied one last time. “Good hunting, Bravo Leader. Directrix out.”

---

Corsair-C class pursuit cutter CG-81634 ”Greyhound”,
Waiting in Ambush
1707 Coalition Standard Time

Lieutenant Commander Cardwell suppressed the urge to keep fluttering over the controls. Her subconscious wanted it as a distraction, and that was exactly what she didn’t need at a time like this. The minutes before an intercept always stretched out for her; this time it was worse than usual. She was playing the same game, but for higher stakes, and this target would be spitting beam weapon fire from the moment they wrestled it into normal space.

Then came the familiar static as the Pendleton frigate neared the edge of the shoals. Audrey’s world shrank into a tunnel, focused on the nav display in front of her. The distortions along the wall of the lane rippled outward, sidelobes forming and dissolving. Finally, there was a massive spike of energy- the frigate had burst out of the shoals and into the lane.

As the ranking officer flying a pursuit cutter, Audrey had command of the pursuit side of the Bravo Line forces. The choice of the moment to engage was hers. Once again she tapped out a single pulse on the hyperwave. This time, she stabbed down on the controls with unthinking force; the short ‘beep’ came out as a mechanical hunting cry. Sixteen cutters lit off their drives and darted to catch the frigate before it could reconfigure to take advantage of the lower energy density in the lane.

The target spotted the attack immediately, and sent out pulses of jamming in an attempt to baffle the pursuit force. But it was too late- tracers were already locked, and tractors soon followed. Audrey kept a light touch on the controls, guiding Greyhound smoothly towards the larger ship in spite of its attempts to buck and twist them off course. She saw two of the others sent flying away as the frigate managed to cut their tractor beams, but as the other cutters drew closer, the tractors strengthened into a rigid scaffold of force that their massive prey could not escape. The two cutters driven away reacquired, and soon they were ready to synchronize.

Synchronizing hyper fields with a resisting target was usually unpleasant. This time it was almost unbearable- the one real flaw in the Corsair-C’s design was that the hull frames were too rigid to damp out the harmonics from intercepting large targets. Feeling like her head was about to be shaken off her neck, Cardwell grimaced in frustration. If we survive this, need to check for equipment damage... She hoped the mountings would hold up; they were going to need everything in working order very soon.

Finally, the fields were locked, and she gave the order. “All units, pull!” Jack on Greyhound, and the squadron’s other fifteen navigators with him, began the transition. The target fought back, shoveling more energy into the drive, trying to outlast the surge from the cutters’ batteries with their own steady stream of reactor power. The batteries were running down fast- for another long minute, she thought they weren’t going to pull it off...

The descent into normal space almost surprised Audrey. It would have been a disaster if it had, but she was alert enough to spot the instant of transition and pass the order to her cutters. “Break! Break!” She yanked back on the stick and engaged the sublight drive at maximum power, burning away from the frigate at top speed in an attempt to build up as much distance as possible before their fire control got its head together.

Not fast enough. A coruscating green beam from the frigate’s main battery lashed past her to one of the other pursuit cutters. A second missed one behind Greyhound and to starboard, but tracked over and blew it apart with a quick correction. Cadence lance. A century ago they’d been much-feared superweapons, using an exotic physics technique to lock to the resonant frequency of warship shielding and collapse it, overloading the generator in the process.

Cadence lances were power-efficient, capable of sustained bursts that could be walked onto targets, and utterly lethal... for about two years, which was how long it took for the galaxy’s navies to refit their starships with polycyclic shielding. Polycyclics had no resonant frequency to exploit, making them immune to the lance’s attack. But the generators for such shields were bulky; cutters didn’t carry them. When the cadence beam so much as brushed something as small as a Umerian pursuit boat, that boat was blotted out in milliseconds, as the expanding fireball from the remains of its shield generator met the imploding shield bubble and overwhelmed it from the inside.

But now the pursuit cutters were clear, slaloming back and forth across their base courses; even at light speed the lances couldn’t track them fast enough to nail them effectively. It was up to the customs cutters and their missiles now.

---

Corsair-F class customs cutter CG-88312 ”Shooting Pains”,
1710 Coalition Standard Time

Commander Copeland led the customs cutters in behind the frigate, hyper-jumping as close to the point where it had entered normal space as he dared. He arrived just in time to watch two of his cutters wiped out by the cadence beams from the Pendletonian ship’s bow, and reacted immediately. “All craft stay in the target’s rear quadrant, I say again target’s rear quadrant. All Bravo units engage with lasers as they bear; missile craft form on me and wait for my order to launch.”

The only defense against those forward guns was not to get into their firing arc. That forced the cutters into a close range chase of the frigate from behind. Their forward phased array lasers flared to life, battering the Pendletonian’s shields. The shield held firm, leakage negligible- but here the great advantages of the PAL panel came into play: its extreme precision. The targeting of a PAL system was limited almost entirely by the software, and the software could steer the beam to one part in a million or less.

Even at a range of thousands of kilometers, the Umerian lasers were still accurate and intense enough to stay trained on any given square meter of the frigate’s hull, hammering it with a stream of infrared radiation. Over short timescales the PAL beams were no real threat and wouldn’t penetrate... but given long enough to drill the shields, matters could be very different. That kept the frigate making course corrections to shake the laser off any thin spots it managed to cut through the shields- and kept it from making another runup to enter hyperspace. The pursuit cutters joined in as possible, while they circled around to join the customs boats. Even without missiles, they could still add to the weight of harassing laser fire.

The Umerians were accomplishing their mission, holding the target in normal space until support arrived... at the cost of provoking the enemy. Copeland could see the deep-radar image of the frigate’s hull, synthesized from the customs cutters’ sensor suites. The ship had what looked like rail gun turrets on the flanks, and now they were turning to bear. He judged the range, made a likely guess as to the guns’ muzzle velocity, and gave an order. “All craft, go to evasion level two; target is preparing to return fire with mass drivers.” His wing began weaving gently back and forth across their base trajectory, using maneuvering jets to sidestep. Hope those slugs are big enough to spot.

Then the search radar spiked- there they were. Eight mass driver rounds, headed straight for the cutters. Easy enough to sidestep with several seconds’ warning, once the radar could track them... though Copeland felt a psychosomatic shudder knowing that a chunk of hypervelocity metal big enough to level a small town had just blasted past him only a few hundred meters away. That won’t last. “Go to evasion level three. Customs craft, link fire control and prepare for ripple fire. Fire two four missiles each, I say again fire two four missiles each. Following missile impact, go to evasion level four”

That left a dozen more in the boxes on each craft, enough to support the Hiigaran bombers when they showed up. It also left the cutters dodging at the highest rate that let them keep their lasers locked on target- and this was a bulldog mission, with nothing for it but to hang on and survive. They had to keep up the laser fire.

The cutters stepped up their evasion, making more radical and more frequent course changes. Copeland’s prediction proved accurate soon enough. The next salvo vanished from radar five hundred kilometers out; a heartbeat later, Shooting Pains rocked under a massive blow. Two flecks of shrapnel, each carrying enough kinetic energy to serve as an antitank weapon, slammed into the edges of the cutter’s front deflector shield.

Flak shells were the logical way to use high velocity mass drivers if you didn’t want to spend money on a guidance package; the bursting charge shattered a slug into a cloud of one-gram fragments spread across a wide volume of space, hitting every large object in its path. They weren’t all that effective against large targets, but for something the size of a cutter they were dangerous enough to be a threat and damnably hard to dodge. Hope those missiles slow him down, or this gets ugly.

The cutters were cross-talking, datastreams bouncing between them as the computers built a collective picture of the frigate’s defenses. ECM, defensive laser mounts, evasion patterns, all were taken into account. Missile targeting radars searched for the enemy though a storm of jamming, probing for the reflections from the cutters’ designator beams. Commander Copeland heard his weapons officer speaking to a fellow in another craft: “Piranha Two, this is Viking One. Your targeting radar is out of synch. Lock your missiles to my designator, random seed seven four three.”

Communication lasers flickered back and forth, dissecting the enemy’s missile defense and laying out the wing’s fire plan as the individual missiles reported lock. Against a modern ship it would have been more difficult- still possible, but difficult. Against a Pendletonian ship whose jammers hadn’t been updated since the ship was laid down around the turn of the last century, the work was easy.

Easy, but not quick; the frigate got off another salvo of flak shells that blotted out a third Umerian ship. Three fragments tore away its shields, leaving a gap for a fourth to rip through the cutter from stem to stern. The bridge module hadn’t been hit; Copeland took a fraction of a second to hope that the crew would survive and be picked up by an SAR boat before returning his attention to dodging the next salvo. They had a chance, but not a good one; shock damage and spalling from hits like that could kill even in compartments that were unbreached.

Then the targeting computers were done with their work, each cutter’s weapons officer checking their own part of the fire plan and giving the go-ahead for launch. The customs boats threw over three hundred Mark Fives, staggering launches for a massed time-on-target strike. Another of the remaining fourteen customs boats had its launch interrupted by a flak hit from the frigate’s third salvo- the fragment ripped away the starboard missile boxes before they could fire and devastating the engine compartment. Shooting Pains rocked under another blow, but a small one this time; even with the shields still worn down from the last hits, the fleck of metal wasn’t going to penetrate.

Finally, the last of the Umerian missiles was away, boosting towards the target. In the first seconds of their flight, they were slow compared to the railgun shells screaming back at the cutters, but they gained speed steadily with each passing second. As they approached, the missiles lit off their terminal guidance sensors and fired their steering jets, homing on the target independently… and turning to bring their warheads to bear.

The Mark Five general purpose missile was designed to intercept enemy missiles and small craft, hammering them with a wave of ionized plasma from a shaped nuclear charge. The principle was the same as that behind the frigate’s flak shells: to turn a single projectile, easy to dodge or shoot down, into a broad front of dispersed material that could not be stopped short of its target. The Bravo Line cutters had set their missiles to detonate at the tightest possible focus at the shortest practical distance; they were aiming to get within about fifty kilometers of the frigate.

The frigate fought back as best it could. Decoys howled to little effect; the decoys were old, cheap things, and incapable of mimicking the randomized pulse sequences used by the Umerians’ targeting sensors. Point defense autolasers strobed across the missile wave, spearing them in ones and twos, but the missiles came on in tens and twenties. Finally, in desperation the Pendletonians fired their fourth salvo of mass driver shells at point blank range, detonating them almost as soon as they left the muzzle. Flak bursts tore holes in the cloud of Mark Fives, shattering dozens, but there simply weren’t enough shells to cover the entire group, and even within the cone of effect, the missiles were small enough that many of them slipped between fragments entirely. Despite their best efforts, the enemy managed to kill or jam less than twenty percent of the incoming attack wave.

Having overwhelmed the target’s point defense, the surviving missiles pivoted and fired their warheads. The shaped charges slammed jets of plasma against the Pendletonian shields from all direction, bathing the ship in a shimmering veil that blocked sensors for precious seconds. Copeland peered at his display, willing it to clear…

He hadn’t expected much from the missile salvo, and he didn’t get it, not from the light warhead of the Mark Five. The frigate was still there, its shields still up- battered and a bit more porous than before, but intact. It was hard to guess how much damage might have been done by leakage through the shields. Then targeting lasers lashed his cutter again, and he yanked the stick to the left as the enemy fired a fifth salvo. Only six shots… did we knock out one of the turrets? He snapped an order to Shooting Pains’ EWO. “Wen, I want a before and after assessment of their active sensors and fire control.”

Without the need to line up missile shots, the cutters had started dodging even more actively, following Copeland’s earlier order. They ducked under the sixth salvo without too much trouble, though individual fragments on the edge of the shrapnel cones rang the shields of two of Piranha Squadron’s cutters. Wen finished her work and reported. “Sir, looks like leakage fried some of their sensors; they’re not shooting quite straight. Their dorsal turret is down too, but probably not out- guessing it got flash-welded to the hull.” No way to be sure how much of a respite that had bought them…

That was when Commander Copeland saw the frigate start to flip up on its back, bringing the less damaged forward sensors to bear on the Bravo Line force. He shouted “Break! Break!” on the wing push and jammed the control stick to the left, turning the gentle sideslip he’d been starting into a hard evasive turn. But it was too late. The Pendletonian speared Shooting Pains with its port cadence lance, blowing the customs cutter into a ball of plasma and metal droplets.

[Beowulf]

HMS Dauntless
Pendleton System, The Outback

Er Deng Shiguan Zheng Dongfang was a technical liason officer. His specialty wasn't space combat, but rather weather. Making it rain on time, and in the right amounts. Unfortunately, the Tianguo embassy on New Anglia was short of officers it could send on observer duty, and time didn't permit one to be transferred from home.

What he could observe was the calm, collected, absolute panic on the flag bridge as the Anglians found that they faced a Collector Monolith, instead of the rag tag fleet that Pendleton should have been able to scare up. He was there of course, to help determine how much aid would be necessary in the occupation of Pendleton in the aftermath of the invasion. However, it remained to be seen if the invasion would even succeed. Rumors held that a Monolith could chew up a fleet twice the size of the one the Anglians possessed. Other rumors, of course, held that a single one man fighter had driven off a Monolith single handedly.

Of course, if this invasion had been following Taikongjun philosophy, little occupation would be necessary. Someone once said "You can't kill an idea." The response was "You might not, but you can kill everyone who believes in it, and burn all their books."

[Darkevilme]

"If you let us know what forces you're assigning to the task, I'll relay the message to the War Ministry. It'll make good press, and I'm certain the military won't mind getting more combat experience."

Tia smiles in amusement “We do not predict serious opposition. Though we will be partially mobilizing 6th battlegroup for operation. As a result we would appreciate any light or mid weight elements the Sovereignty could spare.”

Code: Select all

 Chamarran commitment:
World 1:  3 predator cruisers, 1 dominion class carrier, 2 waywards.
World 2: 3 predator cruisers, 1 dominion class carrier, 2 waywards.
World 3: 2 predator cruisers, 1 rampant class battleship, 2 waywards.

[Lonestar]

Dominion News Service



Chesapeake Tides Smash Prince William Cannons
The Chesapeake Tides have smashed the Prince William Cannons in the final game of the Dominion Series. Having gained the title the Tides are on their way to play the Montegomery Gentrys of Shepistani in the Intersteller Series....[More]

DCMA established in Meinhof system
The Dominion Colonial Management Agency has extended it's protection and administrative acumen to the Meinhof Republic in Sector BB-1. The Meinhof Republic was established during the last centuries of the David Fairfax regime, mostly as a means to escape the draconian religious rules inflicted upon the populace. As the Tuscarora strike group makes it's way on a tour of BB-1, it will be offering aid to every isolated human colony in the sector.

"It's amazing how many people on the verge lack basic medical and genotype treatments." Said Director Hepburn, speaking from the DCMA compound being constructed outside the MR capital of Whiskey River. "We need to give our cousins the services that they would otherwise be denied."

[Lonestar]

Spevik Ansils,
The Forest Moon of Endor
Edge of Bragulan Space




Pioneer Scout Yivgny Chamski glanced around, he could have sworn that he had smelt delicious honey and elderberries somewhere on the campground. Heh! This "wilderness survival" badge would be as easy as peaches pie. He had wandered off from the main trail, and now was several kilometers from the scouting camp. Suddenly he picked up the scent, and ambled over. There was a pile of elderberries drenched in honey! He ambled over, and just as he started to eat the delicious berries and honey he smelt a strange monkey-like scent.

"Monkeys? ON Spevik Ansils?" He turned and felt the impact as two tranq darts went into him. The world started to blur and then he passed out. Hew-mans came stepping out of the forest.



"'Jellystone' is in the bag." Said Swarzenheimer. "Ready for pick up. Joeray, lay out the decoy."

Joeray, the heavy weapons guy, hauled out the body of the Blue Ridge Black Bear they had brought along, which was packed with C4. As the drop ship arrived and the rest of the crew loaded the Bragulan, Joeray set the timer. Swarzenheimer waved. "We're ready to go!"

Joeray nodded, and headed towards the drop ship, triggering the decoy behind him.

[Shroom Man 777]

During a briefing at the Sovereignty's Presidential Palace, Spozavik walks in, puts a basket of oranges on the map table, snaps several photographs of secret documents and walks out.

"What is this?!", President Sinclair screams at her subordinates, "Who was that?!"

Hank shrugged, "Oh, that's just Spozavik, the Bragulan spy."

"Well, why didn't you arrest him?!"

"He'll get out of it, the crafty bastard. He'll say he brought oranges."

BATTLESTAR ANNAPOLIS, In Transit

THEN



The Shepistani ships sailed through the depths of hyperspace, their rigid hulls like long and hard metal shafts tearing through dimensional orifices and plunging deep into the dark nether regions of reality's crevasses. With the RSS Annapolis were the RSS Baltimore and Upper Marlboro, forming the leading screen of the Coalition Fleet Against Pendleton. The Shepistani space seamen and sailors aboard the vessels were standing tall and proud, erect at the prospects of leading the charge against the reviled Pendletonians, the honor of drawing first blood much like that of casting the first stone during The Running of the Astarians - but far greater then any mere rock-chucker could ever fathom. Thus, in light of the prospects of their upcoming glory, all the men and women of the Shepistani Navy did their duties and deeds with noble purpose - from armorers loading torpedo tubes and deckswabbers mopping the corridors, to the very captain of the ship indeed.

Agent Spozavik observed them quietly. His true purpose on board the ship, and his mission to retrieve the IBGV agent on Pendleton upon the completion of the operative's own task, made him privy to certain information that the rest of the Shepistanis - and the rest of the CFAP - were unaware of. For one, he knew that they might be in for a rude awakening.

Unfortunately, there was little he could do about that. His sole prerogative was to his mission.

So he sat in the meeting room together with his team of elite Emerald Guard commandos, and with the ship's Commander Hushy and his XO Tight. Commander Hushy still hadn't gotten the stench of the previous day's bathroom backflow incident off him, and due to high blood alcohol levels XO Tight was still unable to get a new eyeball grafted into his socket. It was thus, at Colonel Velkro's apparent nonchalance, and not to mention Spozavik's nice green hat and neat green tie, Hushy could not help but clench his jaws whilst Tight glared at the big smug Bragulian with his remaining eye. Together, the Bragulans and Shepistanis discussed the mission details with utmost cooperation.



"So. In short, after the space battle, which will be mercifully quick, you will land your Bragulians by Raptor to your man's, or bear's rather, extraction zone as the rest of the CFAP moves on to planetside operations and start landing troops. Your bear's EZ being in..." Hushy trailed off.

"Eel," Colonel Zupyr Velkro, Agent Spozavik in disguise, replied coolly. "In the Libertia district."

"Goddamn Libertopians!" Hushy spat. Then he regained his composure and continued. "The EZ being the Libertia district. Uh huh. There you and your team extract your man and head off back into orbit, back into the ship, and mission accomplished?"

"Pretty much, yeah." Spozavik nodded. The mission was simple enough, but that's where it got complicated. He knew bringing Bragga off-planet would not be an easy game of catch-and-go. "We'll need a good pilot. But aside from that, my team can handle themselves, we brought enough firepower. Hopefully with the CFAP hitting planetside as well, the Pendletonians will be too busy fighting for their lives to notice our insertion."

"When will you get off the ship?" Tight asked bluntly.

"In a week or two, when your ship gets relieved. We don't want to arouse any suspicion by leaving the system prematurely," Spozavik explained. "You can drop us off when you get to Lochley's."

"Good. I can't wait," Tight replied with a nasty smile.

Spozavik ignored him. But in a strange way, the geriatric cyclopean human was right, it was a matter of waiting. They would have to play the waiting game until they got to Pendleton actual. They could prepare as best they could, but until they hit the ground, that was all they could do, prepare and wait. Then Spozavik nodded to old one-eye and smiled himself, baring his bear fangs to Tight, whose eye widened. "Me neither."

"I guess that concludes our discussion, Bragulians and gentlemen." Hushy interjected. As much as he hated the goddamn bear aliens and how they so casually shat on him, literally and figuratively, he was still mindful of the fact that Colonel Velkro and the Bragulians had command over him in what was perhaps Fleet HQ's sickest joke at his expense yet. Hushy grinded his teeth and tried not to mind the smells he had failed to wash off his person. "We've summed up everything there is, and all that's left for us to do is jump out of hyperspace and give the Pendletonians a sound rock-chucking. It's going to be the biggest Running of the Astarians in galactic history. Just like the Curbstomp War. Then, after Colonel Velkro finishes his mission, we can finally head home and go on our merry ways."



"Da," Spozavik nodded. "I can't thank you enough for your help and cooperation, gentlemen."

"Anytime," Hushy sarcastically said, and then he poured a much-needed Bragulian brewski into his glass and lifted it. "Cheers."

"To victory," Spozavik toasted half heartedly.

"It's gonna be one hell of a one-sided slaughter," Hushy downed his drink and laughed as his throat caught fire. "Down with the Pendletons."

"All the way down," Spozavik agreed and finished his drink. If only it were that easy.

"Oh, it will be," Tight replied. For a second, Spozavik stiffened at the thought of the cyclops being an esper, and then he stiffened at the thought of the Shepistani reading that stiffening thought of thinking that the cyclops was an esper. But Tight merely looked at him, shrugged and chugged down an entire bottle of brewski.



Then he tossed the empty bottle into a waste basket.

"That's good stuff," the XO muttered before burping.

"Thank you for your time, gentlebears. But we have a battlestar to run, so until next time." Hushy got up as he excused himself and his inebriated XO, both of them flush faced and feeling much better after the great booze up. Together, though with Tight slightly staggering about, they left the room.

After a moment's consideration, Spozavik followed them out.

"Commander," he called.

"Huh?" Hushy turned to face him. He was alone. Tight was nowhere in sight.

"One more thing, Commander." Spozavik began.

"What is it, Colonel?"

"I will need a copy of the Annapolis' sensor records and battle data from the upcoming battle," Spozavik stated it, as plain as day and as blunt as a crowbar.

"What?" Hushy looked at him incredulously. Shepistani ship sensor readings, combat records and battlestar action data were sensitive stuff, something the Navy just didn't divulge to anyone. And the Bragulian was just asking for it like he was borrowing loose change.

"Yes. I'm asking for the data that will be obtained from the battle."

"N-" Hushy stopped himself and thought it over. "I... I'll have to ask my superiors about it, Colonel."

"Thank you, Commander."

Then, suddenly they could hear the sound of vomiting and toilet flushing. The latrine doors beside Spozavik and Hushy opened, and Tight staggered out.

"That's good stuff," an obviously wasted Tight muttered and collapsed. Spozavik quickly caught him before he fell to the ground, but after waiting for his head to bounce off the bulkhead walls.

"Commander, I believe this is yours." Spozavik said, handing the fallen XO over to Hushy.

"Thank you, Colonel."

Spozavik went back into the Emerald Guard's designated room aboard the ship. He went over to a half-finished bottle of brewski, poured himself a glass and took a sip. Then he spat it out.

"What on Bragule is this?" he asked the commandos.

"Tsvagna," replied Major Kreilagug. "We made it ourselves."

"Yes, but our standard Emerald Guard-issue fermenter could only produce so much alcohol, it was too... lacking," commented Guardsman Zhyvel. "So we added rocket fuel and battery acid to give it more kick."

"I see." In fact, Spozvik was glad that he still could.

"We had to use Jagrisha's underwear to filter out impurities," Zhyvel added.

"YOU SHUT UP!" Jagrisha Urdarvus screamed, delivering a firm ideologically correct blow to the side of Zhyvel's head. Zhyvel gave out a yelp of pain and cowered feebly under her withering gaze. "You little wimp. Thankfully your penchant for wearing feminine underwear means that I can just get one of yours as replacement."

"Hey, I don't wear -" Jagrisha glared at him and he decided to cease his protestations.

"Ah," Spozavik waited till the female commando left the scene. "Zhyvel, if you can still hear, I've been meaning to ask, how proficient are you at interfacing with these Shepistani computers?"

"Pretty good, if I do say so myself," Zhyvel replied while rubbing his head. "Why, sir?"

"I may want you to extract some data from the ship, if in case Commander Hushy refuses my advances."

"Whatever happened to asking politely, Colonel?" Zhyvel asked with a smile.

"Hm, somehow I have a feeling that he doesn't like me very much." Spozavik reasoned.





"Why?!" Commander asked feebly. On the other end was Fleet HQ.

"Because they're our allies, your ship is an old rustbucket that we could spare to the Anglians, and because it's not like we owe the rest of your CFAP fappers any favors, that's why!"

"So they can skim over our battle records and mission data?"

"Just the data from the actual engagement. Nothing more, nothing less."

"What do they need these for, anyway?"

"Commander, you're on a need to know basis. Guess what? You don't need to know."

"Uh huh, I got it." Hushy replied dejectedly.

"Look on the upside, Commander. When you get back, you'll be welcomed as heroes for wasting those Pendletonian spitroasters! Why, we're already getting ready for The Running of the Astarians and I think they'll let you have the honor of chucking the first rock!"

"Really?" Hushy's eyes lit up. The Running of the Astarians was an almost sacred event back home in Planet Shep.

"No, not really." The voice in the other line exploded into laughter. "You'll miss The Running of the Astarians so I get to chuck the first rock in your honor. Your wife says 'hi', by the way."



INTERMISSION

BEGIN INTERMISSION

Interstellar Economics Review

VATICANBURGER

written by Simon Johansen

"Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against the Pope, but you know what? I've never seen a fat Apexai Hybrid. You might think it's because we're genetically engineered, but it's not that: it's because we hybrids don't eat at VaticanBurger." - Tiffaine Sinclair

Often considered one of the strangest fastfood joints to ever spread across the entire Koprulu Zone, VaticanBurger originated in 3274 when the Catholic Church was thinking of new ways of improving their image as well as raising funds for charity projects. Then-pope Pope Pius XXIVII suggested "why not hit two flies with one strike and start a fastfood chain"? And thus, the first VaticanBurger outlets opened all over Solaris Major and Minor, quickly spreading across the Solaris sector and then the entire USS. It was not without opposition, though, the formation of VaticanBurger was opposed not only by non-Catholics but also by many bishops within the Church itself, who considered the very formation of VaticanBurger to be nothing less than prostitution of the Holy Trinity. Such complaints were, to be honest, quite well-justified, given the fact that menu items at VaticanBurger have names such as "Double-Decker Bacon Inquisitors" and "Holy Hand Grenades Of Kruspy Chicken".

Thusly, even though the profits quickly started rolling in, there was a mass exodus of Catholics who renounced their membership of the Church - some gave up on Christianity entirely, some converted to the Lutheran strain of Christianity and others joined the various Renegade Catholic congregations who consider themselves the only true Catholics. The vast majority of the USS's population, though, saw VaticanBurger as yet another curiosity, and even gained quick cult status.

Though a report in 3282 revealed that VaticanBurger didn't work as a proselytizing tool on its own, with the irreligious main population of the USS considering the chain pure kitsch, it was too good a cash cow to give up. In fact, a great deal of Catholics stopped eating at BurgerBoat entirely as they now had VaticanBurger to go to instead. As the menu of VaticanBurger expanded over the years, so did the first Haruhian-based VaticanBurger open on Wakayama in 3320. The Haruhiists had been aware of VaticanBurger for a long time, viewing it mostly as either a horrible joke or just plain unintentionally hilarious. However, the sheer "What-the-hell?" factor is still in this day a catalyst for many Haruhiists to check out VaticanBurger just for the experience.

The next year, VaticanBurger followed suit by expanding to the mostly Orthodox Byzantine Imperium, which provoked widespread scorn and even public boycotts at first. However, as word of mouth kept spreaing about the Saint RibMeat With Benedictine Special Sauce, more and more reluctant Orthodox Imperiumites paid VaticanBurger a visit. Still, VaticanBurger outlets are much rarer in the Byzantine Imperium than in the rest of the Koprulu Zone.

However, in the USS and the Holy Empire of Haruhi Suzumiya, the competition between Burger Boat and VaticanBurger became increasingly sharp beyond the point of absurdity, culminating in 3362 when VaticanBurger sponsored a KillBot in RoboKombat, the "Knight Templar Of Good Taste". This turned out to be an abject failure.

To this day, VaticanBurger has grown to be the second-largest fast food chain in the Koprulu Zone next after Burger Boat, thought it still retains a fair share of controversy surrounding it. Though a great deal of USS citizens and especially Haruhiists have a marked dislike for fast food in general, others boycott VaticanBurger due to disagreement with the Catholic Church's stances on various subjects.

Today the CEO of VaticanBurger is none other then His Holiness Crocodilus Pontifex XIV of the Zigonian Catholic Church.

END INTERMISSION

BATTLESTAR ANNAPOLIS, Pendleton System

NOW



Spozavik awoke to the sound of klaxons and red lights in the compartment. The sounds were indicative of real-space reentry. Battlestar Annapolis had arrived to Pendleton.

Puny Hew-mans. A real bragulian warship would have the sirens be certified at 100 dB for maximum sonic efficiency, Spozavik groggily thought as he got off his bed and did his bathroom rituals. After showering, brushing his teeth, et al., he wore his tie and put on his hat. His team was already awake and the commandos were preparing themselves for the mission, readying their gear, cleaning their weapons and maintaining their armors. Spozavik nodded at them, they knew what was waiting ahead of them, and they were ready for it. Spozavik hoped he was too.

Ten minutes later, he stood in the CIC of the Annapolis next to Commander Hushy.



The CIC was a model of utilitarian efficiency and purpose-built machinery. Trademark non-networked Shepistani computers were highly reminiscent of Bragulan designs in terms of their functionality. Only a few, slightly modernized and slightly networked systems were there, retrofitted to make the battlestar compatible with the rest of the Anglian vessels. There were also some cordless phones, but most of the phones came with cords and rotary dials. Spozavik approved of the setup.

"What's the word from Dauntless?" Hushy asked his comms officer.

"Dauntless says proceed as planned, but keep an eye out for anything unusual."

"Wonder what 'Lord' Fishy's so worried about..." Hushy muttered beneath his breath. "Alright, bring the ship up front. We're the speartip of the coalition, people, so let's act like it. Show these Astarians what for."

"Aye aye, captain."

"Make it so," Hushy said smugly. He glanced at Colonel Velkro. He'd be damned if he'd end up looking bad in front of the goddamn Bragulian.

"Um, sir." Sensors sputtered. "We've got something on scopes. Contacts near the gas giant, Dauntless confirms they're Pendletonian."

"About damn time," Hushy grinned. "Inform the Dauntless that we'll be throwing the first rocks at these Astarians."

"Hold on... we've got a signal from inside the gas giant."

"More Pendletonian rustbuckets?" Hushy frowned. Rustbuckets wouldn't be visible from inside a gas giant.

"No, something else. Something big."

"Alright, all crews, action stations," Hushy commanded. He didn't get to be in command of a battlestar by being careless, and he didn't get assigned to represent Shepistan in ruining Astarian shit by being stupid. He might've been born in the sea, but he was no dummy.

"Action stations!" Tight picked up a phone and began relaying commands. "Prepare for combat!"

"Sensors?" Hushy asked.

"It's huge, its power levels are over 9,000!" the sensors officer exclaimed. "The Anglians have IDed it. It's a... Collector Monolith, sir. Putting it on screen now."



"So it is," Hushy nodded and straightened himself. He turned to face Colonel Velkro, who was, after all, in partial control of the operation. "A rather huge artifact of unknown origin has accelerated towards the fleet. I suspect it has hostile origins, Colonel... Velkro."

Spozavik nodded. It wasn't ever day you encounter a Collector Strategic Monolith with a power level larger than your entire multinational coalition fleet combined. "So, what do you plan to do about it?"

"Absolutely nothing. I plan to place the Annapolis and its escorts at the very rear of the Coalition van. Let the others in the Coalition get all the glory and all the death." Hushy replied flatly.

At this Spozavik laughed harshly. It was a typical Bragulian laugh; the kind that could be barely discerned from the kind of noise a Shepistani bear made before it tore your head off.

"Colonel?"

"Oh, Commander Hushy. I did not think you Shepistanis had it in you! Why, this is just like Bragule! Let someone get maimed by the Cardovan Murderhawk, and then claim that it was you who saved the day!" Spozavik chuckled. It was funny because it was true.

Hushy shifted on his feet uneasily before replying.

"Um. Okay. It's not like we owe the coalition anything, Colonel Velkro." Hushy shrugged. "Why, if rumor in the fleet is right; we offered to sterilize Pendleton for them; and they told us how immoral that was. Bunch of bleeding hearts."

"I see," Spozavik nodded understandingly.

Hushy turned back to his men.

"Inform the Baltimore and Upper Marlboro that we're pulling out and repositioning ourselves to the rear of the fleet as far away from that thing as possible. Tell the Dauntless that we're performing a tactical redeployment to a more... advantageous position." Hushy commanded. "Wish them luck."

"Aye aye, sir."

"Make it so!" Hushy waved his arm dramatically. Then he slumped on his command chair.

"Commander, if I may." Spozavik interjected. He realized that, though as fun as Hushy's exchange might have been, if the Collector's Strategic Monolith atomized them all then his mission might possibly get compromised as well.

"Yes?" Hushy looked up at him with a forlorn, dejected look on his face. Like a sad puppy dog.

"As you make your brave and most patriotic counter-maneuver, I would like you to relay the following information to the Dauntless and the rest of the fleet," Spozavik said sternly. He recalled half-remembered briefs and dossiers about the Imperial Bragulan Navy's actions in repulsing a lone Strategic Monolith, where it took a warfleet thrice the size of the coalition the Anglians had currently arrayed to repulse the Collector ship. "According to your sensor readings, there are four Collector ultralight ships in formation with the Strategic Monolith. Despite their disposition, these ultralights can engage destroyer-class ships and defeat them. Every Collector ship is highly capable, with firepower disproportionately high for their tonnage. Strategic Monoliths themselves always attack larger warships first, and it will take more firepower than the coalition fleet has to make the Monolith withdraw."

"Alright, communications I want all that broadcasted to the fleet. Hope that helps them." Hushy commanded. "Colonel Velkro, any more useful advice?"

"No."

[Koffee]

Ankram City
Diaspora

The pounding steps of the man as he walked down the dark marble halls of the first level of his home, echoed in the darkness that was only illuminated by the occasional candle. A steady staccato punctuated by occasional beat of the cane he carried with him, till he reached the throne like chair that sat in at the end of the hall, where in more normal times he would accept guests and those who would seek his patronage.

Sitting down and crossing his legs, the man smiled, “All right LAM, tell me the news while I was out.”

The AI that was housed in the quantum bluebox further deep within the compound appeared before its master, shinning blue light on the environs and on the man's face.

“Titus has dealt with the fly that had been buzzing around our Capital investments. Aggregated media news reports tells us that she was buried in Beverfield Cemetery and our agents reports that all information regarding our operations that her operatives have put together is gone. Media suspicion about the entire affair is pointed in the direction of political conspiracies regarding elections shenanigans and will be out of the media cycle within two days as the Penedleton conflict draws more viewership.” while the AI was talking, various windows with the sound muted appeared behind it displaying the various reports and recordings that it had mentioned.

The AI paused, and then cleared the space behind it, “There is of course an anomalous matter within this case.”

The man's head had leaned his against arm, as he listened, “Oh? Do tell.”

“Initial reports suggest that a FRC unit was the first at the scene, however, subsequent reports show that they were not at the scene, however, a cross reference of FRC data records shows that the FRC that was originally claimed to be there was reassigned to the Babel system.”

“Hmm they're there. But no matter, the information was destroyed by the time they got there or else they would have been hitting out those targets. Do keep a tab on this however, but low priorty.”

“Understood.”

“Next business”

“The traitor to our organization has been found and dealt with. It was Agrippa sir.”
“Sad, but predictable, he was never for our Great Working anyway. I'd trust that he's been sent to Gehenna”

“The transport has already taken the Desai Gate to Babel and will be arriving at the system soon enough. Though that leads to another matter sir. The amount of traffic has decreased due to concerns about traffic safety within the system. We'll have to reduce our shipments there and back to stay within background noise of S1's hounds.”

“Of course” the man waved his hand, “It would do us no good to have our party ruined as we're putting the finishing touches on our Working.”

“That concludes all Alpha level items of importance that you requested to be briefed on during the lunch hours. As always I will pinged you if something comes up, but within twenty minutes, you have a reception with General Bladcot, I'd suggest you dressed in something more appropriate for it.” LAM said.

The man laughed and stood up, causing the dark robes to shimmer, “Of course.”



League of Free Stars Dreadnought Liiansa
Disapora System

Commodore Bentley Harris was one of those men whose face was always perceptually red, and always had an expression, of either anger, shock or bemusement it was said by those who claimed to knew him. Those that knew him the most knew that he often had the face of a man very bored with life. Which was true, after 90 years driving around battleships and being passed over for greater command he was bored. The League hadn't fought a major war since the years the Dilgrud were still a big power and any of the actions during the various political crises where those of quick strikes on the ground and insurgencies with bombs.

However, the League had seem some action and it had happened to be his fortune to be the man on the scene at those times, and winning greatly. Which made him invaluable as a officer who seen fire but his personality and lack of respect for civilian command or at times his own superiors made him a loose cannon that was kept around due to the amount of medals around his neck and the fear that the madman they had would somehow get lose in politics and dick them over somehow. Which was a valid fear since he was one of those names that was spoken favorably around his home sector of Enoch.

The one thing that was true about the various rumors that went around the Navy and greater League society was his fondness for whiskey and cigars, and the fact his bridge often smelled like a bar. Thus on the Liiansa s current exciting journey to escort a pack of merchants to Babel system, and then pick up supplies for some war games there, his boredom as the mighty warship moved at a snails pace through the system was somewhat alleviated when his second in command, Captain Bryon Lyons, poked him gently in the shoulder, causing the good commodore to almost spill his drink as he came out of the half dream fantasy about that one yeoman that Admiral Chambers had serve her drinks (he
longed stop pinning for Chambers, when it was discovered she was batting for the other team) and said,

“Yes, uhm what is it Byron?”

“We got a a FRC shuttle with a broken hyperdrive requesting to dock with us long enough to repair their drives so that they can go to Babel.”

“FRC unit?”

“Apparently a personal change.” Byron brought up his datapad and looked at the scrolling information, “Ah, he's going to be heading to OP5 as well.”

“Well tell him to come on-board and tell the shuttle to go back to the yards and get worked on, we can ferry him easily enough. Seems strange that they be sending a hyper-capable shuttle just for one man going out to Babel and beyond, doesn't it?”

“Uhm yes.”

The old commodore's eyes glistened, “That means we have a fellow fuckup with us, now get him on-board, I want to find out more exactly how this guy managed to piss off so many people they're sending him further out then me!”


Diaspora
Palace of the Citizens

The Palace of the Citizens was all things considering a modest affair, only the size of a city block it was pretty simple and utilitarian affair of architecture, with a good portion of the compound taken up by the statues of citizens doing their jobs from farming to mining to food service, it was built by the First Citizen as a part of a propaganda tool to celebrate the people as well as cement her position above them. There had been much argument over the years about building something bigger and grander, but none of the plans ever went through and the people and the government just accepted living in the tyrant's house as best they could.

The current occupant of the Palace was a man who grew up in more fancier and dignified place anyway and tried to do more of his business at G1, the levels of the skytower that the government did its day to day business. While it had irked him to do so, he had to stay today was having lunch on the deck on the back of his office, where only the occasional shimmer of the protective force field betrayed any signs of concerns for his safety. Though he had no doubt that his excellent bodyguards were somewhere out there hidden among the gaudy statues of the proletariat of which he had no part of.

Simon Holzerhein was after-all a man who excelled in business and had been in business for centuries in reality though in law he was really a successive clone of the original colonist. It was still amusing to him that the people of the League by the majority never lost their belief in the old argument about if backups and uploads of people where the same person or not, and still where willing to take the final plunge into death, like the recently deceased Assemblywoman. Well it hadn't affect his election to the office after old Desai kicked the bucket and so far he proved to be pretty popular which wasn't hard compared to his opponents.

Howver, the meeting he had just left wasn't involving the internal affairs of the League, but rather its foreign one. Fancying themselves practical people and with centuries of constant cultural reinforcements, the people of League didn't really care about what happened out their borders and this translated to the rather lax foreign policy that the League maintained. More people knew who the UN diplomatic representative was then the more closer states.

That had to change Simon had decided, and change it was, the meeting he had just left was one where a new round of changes had been ordered. New staff and spies where being sent to the embassies that the League did maintain and some new diplomatic ventures were being planned. With regards to entire Pendeleton situation which was chewing up the airwaves, Simon was relieved, it didn't take a genius to put two and two together when looking at the map to see that one day the Anglians and League interests and spaces were bound to collide, and better see their potential threat go off and stuck in some third rate system where resources would be tied up far in excess of what they could get of it.

An aide soon came up behind the Chancellor and said, “Excuse me sir, but your lunch guest has arrived.”

“Thank you Ballard” Simon said, and then turned his head to see his long time friend, General Bladcot walked towards him. Stepping up and raising his hands, “Ah William thanks for coming I wanted your opinion of the S1 estimate on the....”

[K. A. Pital]

The Outback. Several light years away from the Pendleton system. Crimson-class missile cruiser Eat the Rich


- We've got a tightbeam message incoming, comrade captain! - exclaimed one of the young humans on the bridge.

- Source? - a voice came from nowhere. Captain Dagare did not exist as a person on the bridge, he preferred to fully merge into the vessel's data processing subsystems.

- It's the Core. Not a direct transmission, though... they're transmitting through New Crobuzon system.

- And what are the contents? - the commander asked, bewildered.

- Our comrades ask us to transmit a wide signal into Pendleton system. It's pretty obvious the message would be intercepted, but apparently, this is the intent, - the communications officer said. - The message reads "We are duly impressed". It is intended for... the Collector monolith?

- Well, do send it, - the captain's tone was indifferent. - Comrades in the Core know what they are doing. What are the readings from the system?

- None, comrade captain. Combat has not yet commenced, but all ships are in position. We can't exactly figure out what's going there, the interference from the gravity of massive bodies prevents us from getting a better picture. There's a blockade set up at Bannerman, too, but considering the readings our sensors get from Pendleton itself, this blockade might be a useless affair.

- While this turn of events makes the Core happy, the possibility of this invasion failing is bad for our own mission, - Dagare was obviously displeased. - Keep me informed.

[Kartr_Kana]

HCNV Gar Naabal
Pendleton System, Outback




In the moments before the Gar Naabal dropped from hyperspace the crew finished jacking in. Pilot's interfaced with their fighters through cybernetic neural interfaces. They became, for all intents, the ships they flew. Their eyes saw with the sensors, their mind calculated vectors and thrust alongside combat computers, they thought death and their ships spat fire at the enemy. Cyddiction was a common problem in Starfighter Command, pilots who could not stand being bound by their human shells and wanted nothing more then to stay linked to their craft, to be Unbound.

If pilot's got a rush from becoming “unbound” then for those in the CIC it was pure euphoria as they saw not just with their ship but with the eye's of every ship. Seeing everything from multiple perspectives, one felt omnipresent. Unleashing the destruction from the ships under one's command, one felt omnipotent. To be unbound was to be a god and only the best and most self aware could even hope to handle the strain and the power, even then they could not sustain it for extended periods without starting to fray around the edges. Today looked like it was going to be one of those days as the ship returned to normal space and in the moment after the black they saw the collector monolith.

Shock rippled through the network as human minds and quantum threaded cores processed the behemoth rising from Jove. Before the first sensor operators from the other contingents could cry out in alarm the Hiigaran BattleNet had absorbed the data, calculated odds, chance and Human will and began issuing orders.

-Our job hasn't changed, only our enemy has.- Thought the Commodore to his staff, -Launch all wings, stand by to engage enemy strike craft. Bombers focus on the Pendletonian vessels, bring down the weak and lame in the herd then we will focus on the bull.-

Orders flooded the network, course projections, target orders and more were given and received at the speed of thought. Hiigara's heavy use of cybernetics and neural interfacing giving them a key advantage in speed and cohesion. -Ironic then that we are facing one of the very few enemies that can react faster then we can.- mused Jakasan quietly, careful to make sure that no one heard his thoughts.

-No enemy ships in planetary orbit, my boy's and girl's can start hitting the surface as soon as we get close.- Jakasan knew more then heard the Marine Colonel's thought. -We have to wait on Lord Fisher's orders. For now stand by to act as frigates and engage the Pendletonian's with the rest of us.- Jakasan's mind tapped into the ship's network watching as the battle lines were drawn. -Make no mistake. War is coming. In all it's Glory... and all it's Horror.- Jakasan thought louder than he'd intended for throughout the network a sudden baying and howling could be heard, the sound HCN Spacers pushing their fears aside and steeling themselves to battle. Jakasan smiled at the sound and at the sight of his fighters and bombers, hundred's strong, racing out to engage the enemy.

[Steve]

Co-written with PeZook.




HMS Dauntless
Pendleton System, The Outback


The battle began as most do; the Monolith’s guns opened fire, tracking multiple targets at once, while its supporting ships and the Pendletonians moved as the wings, forming a vise that would impact on the flanks of Fisher’s force. They remained careful, however, to remain within range of the Monolith’s fire.

The Anglian admiral retained his cool in the moment. The lighter vessel detachments would do their usual work in a fleet battle; screen the fleet, leaving those ships of Heavy classification are larger - led by his squadron of star cruisers - to direct their firepower at the Monolith.

Once orders were given there was little an admiral of Fisher’s rank actively did. He would watch the plots, try to determine the other side’s strategy, maybe suggestion squadron or even division-level positioning, but at the ship-to-ship level it was squadron and division commanders who did the fighting, aided by their AI systems to ensure rapid communication and coordination. This left him to stare intently at the Monolith on the screen, likely the source of his death very soon, and ponder the consequences for the Empire when it became known that the AI nation of the Collectors had allied with Pendleton and were actively protecting them.

The Ascendancy squadron blasted off from the formation, its engines throwing a brilliant pillar of fusion flame, as they took their assigned positions. They quickly passed the bravely retreating Shepistani squadron, and their final trajectory would take them through a sweeping arch that culminated within weapons range of one of the vanguard of enemy forces.

The Monolith seemed to hardly even notice them, a massive wave of green fire ripping through the Ascendancy screening force. To their credit, the crews never faltered, despite the overwhelming odds, engaging enemy escorts as much as they could.

Imperial and NetAltKik squadrons burned to engage flanking enemy forces, each composed of a Pendletonian cruiser leading a pair of destroyers, screened from above by two Collector cruisers each. A squadron of twelve menacing Mantis fighters accompanied both flanking forces, supported by four gunboats and a pair of corvettes.

The screening forces clashed hard, and space filled up instantly with missiles and beamcannon fire. Despite the vast distances, flashes of weapons and brilliant fusion flame of drives was visible from Pendleton itself, as sparks briefly outshining even Jove itself.

The first clash on the flanks went well for the Coalition. Even the light ships were more than a match for the Pendletonians, leaving the medium cruisers to engage and tie down the Collector elements accompanying them.

That’s when things started going wrong. The cruiser-sized ships opened fire, sickly green lightning arcing across space. Within minutes, Coalition vessels began venting mass into space and broadcasting damage reports. Brilliant flame illuminated the dark void of space, and screams of the dying filled up the airwaves.

While the flanking forces danced and maneuvered, the main Anglian force caught up with the Ascendancy squadron and focused their fire on the main enemy at close range. The Monolith and the Anglians began to exchange vicious blows. Blossoms of thermonuclear fire erupted in the sky, criss-crossed with beams of deadly green light. It was an epic clash, like two titans slamming their giant fists into each other...however, the Monolith was shrugging off everything the Star Cruisers hit it with. Its own guns, fortunately, were not terribly more powerful than usual capital scale guns, but it had so many more of them. Dauntless wasn’t even enduring the upper third of its volume of fire and its deflectors were being reduced into partial failure; Admiral Fisher watched the shields protecting the Sentinel fail completely under the withering fire of the Monolith. The NenAltKik ships, which were at the vanguard of the flanking squadrons, suffered dispersed fire damaging all of their number, while the Monolith’s parasite craft focused their fury on the fleet rear made up of the Shepistanis and some of the Hiigaran screens. Hiigaran fighter pilots joined the battle with almost fanatical zeal, attempting to stop the strike package from wiping out the Shepistani squadron. They suffered terrible losses, but managed to disrupt the Collector formation. As the Hiigarans fought and died valiantly, commander Hushy managed to tighten up his formation, with the Battlestar Baltimore shifting herself to take the brunt of the attacks, her fanatical Shepistani crew fighting ferociously to protect her comrades and inflict damage on the Collector and Pendletonian foe. The concentration of fire on her faltering deflectors would have quickly doomed her but, for the moment, she was spared by protective fire from her sister ships Annapolis and Upper Marlboro. Their ordnance spent, the Collector force withdrew, leaving the Baltimore mauled and bleeding, but still in one piece.

With his jaw grimly set, Fisher watched the carnage as it continued to unfold...


The White Room


When Marissa was returned she was in a plain white garment like those provided to the rest of the Strahl crew. They had kept her drugged though she was clearly starting to come out of it as the escorting scarab drone that brought her in retreated through the door. MacCulloch went to her side immediately, looking over her. “Doctor, any problems?”, Balthier asked, having risen from his chair the moment Marissa was returned.
“None that I can see,” MacCulloch answered. “Just drugged.”
“I half-expected it to take one of us,” Vanrya admitted, seeming faintly relieved. She had her gun at her waist, ready to use it the moment she had an opportunity. “If we could find a way to get to the girls, we should escape.” Left unspoken was the thought Surely Kaylee has the engines repaired by now.
“An AI this sophisticated doesn’t accidentally return our weapons in working order,” Balthier remarked. “Certainly not if it hasn’t searched us to confirm we weren’t carrying backup power cells on our persons. I am reluctant to move without a good opportunity presenting itself.”
“If we wait much longer we might not get an opportunity,” Vanrya pointed out. Umarbacca roared in agreement.
“Let’s just give it a bit longer, shall we? Then we shall roll the dice anyway.”


The Catalogue


Katherine felt the machine spin and move about her, its massive databanks almost at her fingertips. She remained breathless, even in this “within the mind” realm, at the enormity of what was in front of her, even as it moved through her and began to enter her very being.

The memories began to play out. Fragmented memories of a happy childhood as a little girl, playing before her proud father and smiling mother. At the time she had been so ignorant to the pain around her; she lived in complete happiness with her doting parents unaware of the terrifying cloud hovering above her and her father.

The first memories of Sara began at about age 8 - a playmate for her as well as a slave to help keep her room picked up and make sure she went to bed. Katherine had never been with a girl her age before; soon Sara was a friend, not a servant. The emotions involved in that connection came to the fore, even if she knew they wouldn’t last.

There was trauma, though. The first time she watched her father take a cane to Sara’s backside; Katherine had knocked a cup of tea on her best dress and Sara had been blamed immediately by her parents. She had cried out her guilt but her parents would not hear of it. She remembered the burning irritation she’d felt, the empathy from her early enhanced senses feeling Sara’s pain as the cane smacked across her buttocks repeatedly, leaving red welts. Katherine gasped at that memory, one she had not thought of in so long, and the following memory of hugging Sara as she cried following the caning, angry at her parents for harming her dear friend, not caring about the “just a slave” lecture her father had subjected her to during and after the caning. Katherine had cried too, not understanding why her father had been so mean to her playmate, her dear friend.

The memories flowed; no more punishments, as Katherine was always careful to hide anything that happened, and days of happiness when she was not being tutored. Sara and Katherine could not grow closer; Katherine even began to reach into her mind and help Sara reach into her’s, though she never dared to let the connection be too close, lest her ESP instructor detect Sara and cause her to be taken away. The warmth of the happy memories brought an unconscious smile to Katherine’s face... to be young again like that, so carefree and innocent...

The warmth stopped. The world was not so innocent anymore. They were 14 now; Sara on her small bed beside Katherine’s room crying hysterically, her clothes ripped up, her wrists bruised from the strong grip of a larger man. Katherine could remember the feeling from Sara’s mind at the violation, could remember her rage as she hunted down the manservant who had raped Sara and began to beat on him with a broom. The entire household erupted in chaos at the sight; when the issue was settled Katherine had been banished to her room with a severe scolding (she had assaulted a “citizen”, after all) and the offender granted a compensated termination requiring psychological evaluation. A compensated termination! The rage and anger Katherine had felt that day, a teenage girl just old enough to begin understanding the issues of crime and punishment, knowing that the gross crime committed against Sara had met such a limp result. Had he been a slave his back would have been whipped so raw as to remove all flesh. Had the roles been reversed, had Sara been the citizen and the rapist a slave, the punishment would have been death.




HMS Dauntless
Pendleton System, The Outback

The Sentinel seemed done for. She lost control of her drives and main weapons power, great black gashes torn in her hull by Collector weaponry vented gasses and debris. A Pendletonian destroyer fired a salvo of nuclear missiles at the dying ship, with zeal that was almost vicious - but the Star Cruiser refused to expire, stubbornly biting back with whatever weapons still operated on auxilliary power.

“Sir! The Grenville reports they are abandoning ship. The Dauntless has placed herself in the line of fire to shield the escape pods. The Sentinel reported they were abandoning ship as well, but the crew refused to follow the order.”

Fisher nodded at the report, but betrayed nothing of his actual feelings. Only those who knew the admiral very well could see just how tight he was gripping a railing surrounding the bridge’s main holoprojector.

The Ascendancy squadron was bloodied and in full retreat. Their commander performed admirably, all things considered, but the firepower those cruisers could bring to bear was simply overwhelming. He could see a pattern emerge there: Pendletonians would entice the Coalition to attack their relatively expendable fleet assets, while Collectors pounced at the tied-up vessels and mauled the heavy hitters, using their vastly superior firepower to quickly decide the engagement. Both flanks were also very careful to stay within range of the Monolith’s weaponry, forcing flanking forces to endure heavy fire from two different vectors.

“New order to the fleet”, Fisher said, already seeing that some of his squadron commanders noticed the same thing, “Flanks are to open up the engagement beyond the Jove transient. Collector vessels now primary target.”

Fisher steadied himself as the Dauntless shook with an internal explosion. He hoped it wasn’t the main shield generator...though if it was, he’d be dead already.

As he glanced at the tactical situation display, he idly wondered if his command was going to make any difference at all.


The Catalogue

Katherine began to cry. She had buried these feelings years ago, dismissing them as the naive sentiments of a girl who did not understand the necessities of their culture. But the machine brought them back to the surface, it made her feel them as if they had just happened.
“Why do you cry?”, the machine asked.
“It was so wrong,” she admitted. “It wasn’t fair!”

The machine said no more for the moment. Memories continued; the bitterness of the unfair treatment toward Sara relented as their lives got on. Sara took time to recover and Katherine did everything she could do to ensure it, holding her at night, stroking her hair and reassuring her the man who violated her was gone forever....
The terrible winter became spring. With flowers blooming and the mood of birth that came with the season, their fifteenth birthdays approaching, things led to each other. Katherine had initiated it, if only to protect Sara from punishment. Kissing became touching and touching evolved; they learned how to make love to each other together. The teenage years of their life passed happily... until Sara ruined her dress.

Her cries to her father had been in vain. She had been made to watch as Sara faced her first whipping; only Katherine’s pleas ensured it was by a softer whip, intended for adolescent boys, that would not break Sara’s soft skin. Again Sara had cried in her arms for the following nights and again all Katherine could do was feel horror and anger at the unfairness of it all.
“I do not understand.” The machine voice cut through the memories bring brought back to Katherine. “You approve of your people’s slavery. You advocate it. Yet in your memories you hated it.”
“I was young and naive,” Katherine answered. Not quite believing herself, she added, “I was wrong to think that way. It is the way of my nation, my homeland. I have no right to judge my ancestors or my parents.”
“That is illogical. Any observer to a system has the capability to render judgement or observation upon its fitness and capabilities.”
“Why do you care?”, Katherine asked. “You take slaves too.”
“No. We do not take slaves. We acquire specimens.”

The machine wanted more memories, more data, and it took them from Katherine. It got the memories of the two of them talking, whispering of leaving Pendleton behind to be together as lovers, experiencing the delights of Gotham, New Chatham, and New Paris. There was further defiance from Katherine to her parents, insistence on treating Sara as something more than a slave, while she finished her home-schooling and grew into a young woman.

University came; she was permitted to attend the co-ed University of Montalban, a prestigious school for young men and women destined for civil service. Her father had been proud to see her win admission, as it guaranteed her a bright and happy future beyond being a pretty face some ambitious citizen might seek to woo for marriage and wealth. She and Sara had moved into a dorm room fit for four (two students and their personal servants) and things had seemed great..
It didn’t go as planned, though. Her roommate objected strenuously to her closeness and friendliness with Sara, charging it undermined her own control over her slave. It didn’t take long for the entire dorm to learn how Katherine saw Sara, and it earned her disgust and ridicule. Her peers accused her of being an abolitionist, a radical who would destroy all Pendletonian society if given the chance, while her teachers singled her out for humiliation and abuse. Even the other slaves at the university treated her with scorn and Sara with contempt and jealousy, such was the power of the system she had provoked on accident.

The dean had stepped in; with her parents attending, it was made clear that if Katherine wished to remain in the school, she had to assert a more appropriate “relationship” with her slave. Her father had given her a direct ultimatum; treat Sara as her slave and servant, not as a lover and friend, or he would sell her to the first bidder.

The following day, Katherine had kicked Sara out of their common bed, tears streaming down her face. She began to make Sara work more often; no longer would she help in Katherine’s studies, or simply aid Katherine in keeping her room clean. She was given the whole workload. She was also lent out to other students and to faculty as was expected, who worked Sara to the point of exhaustion as they had deemed her a pampered slave in need of discipline. Some of the men went even further, taking liberties with Sara that were considered unspoken customs among the university’s slave population. Eventually the words of her professors and her father began to break through, especially after her mother died, and Katherine did as was expected of her, treating Sara as others insisted she should and not how she had wanted. The betrayal was complete.

Remembering all this, having feelings and emotions she had buried to preserve her own soul from the anguish at such terrible treachery, brought Katherine low. She sobbed freely. She had become worse than any of the slave-drivers she had hated as a young girl and child; they had never made the promises she did, had never felt the way she had, simply to break to the pressure to conform in the end. She had felt something with Sara; now it was gone, forever.

Despite everything the memories continued to flow. “Please stop,” Katherine whined, not wanting to see what came next, knowing what came next, but the machine’s hunger for knowledge was insatiable. The school memories whipped by; she had ended up with a degree in Interstellar Relations that landed her a job at the Foreign Office. Days spent in the capital doing paperwork, punctuated by visits to her father’s estate to keep him company now that her mother was gone, Sara along as usual, but everything different now. The University had broken Katherine’s defiance and forced her to accept being Sara’s mistress; the same school had broken Sara’s spirit. She no longer even begged for Katherine to be nice to her again and simply accepted whatever abuse or punishment came her way... and enough did. Whenever her work or private life brought her frustration, Katherine had taken it out on Sara, even as Sara so often continued to offer her love, at least physically. And then there were the signs and hints that the Anglians were on to the restoration of links to the galactic slave trade, the planning for the desperate mission to the Pfhor...

“Haven’t you seen enough?”, Katherine wailed at the machine.

“I seek to understand.”

“Understand what?”

“You.” There was a pause. “I have registered and experienced the memories and feelings of Sara Pontcaire. Now I have done the same with you, Katherine de la Poer. I have absorbed your memories and made them my own. Now I might use them to understand.”

“There is nothing to understand about me,” Katherine insisted. “I was born into the upper class of Pendleton society. My entire life was groomed toward being a civil servant of the Republic.”

“But your own memories and feelings defy this. You did not wish that. You wished a life with Sara.”

“I did. I was a fool to think I could have it,” Katherine said bitterly. “Such a fool...”

“For many years, she was your confidante, your friend, and your lover. Her feelings for you were genuine; as was your’s for her. I have seen this. But I still wish to understand.”

“You can’t,” Katherine cried. “You can’t understand why it wouldn’t work.”

“What I do not understand is why you came to this conclusion. It is erroneous. You could have left the planet of Pendleton. The galaxy is vast and diverse; there are hundreds of worlds upon which you and Sara might have settled and enjoyed a life together as mates. You chose not to. I do not under...”

“I didn’t choose anything dammit!”, Katherine screamed in anger, unable to see why this stupid machine still didn’t understand her. “I had no choice! I had obligations, you stupid machine!” Tears streaming down her face, both in this state and on her body, Katherine looked about for any semblence of the machine in her current “environment. “I could not simply take Sara onto a ship and leave! I would have ruined my parents, I would have embarrassed everything they stood for....”

“Your loyalty to your parents was not returned. They did not show loyalty to your wishes. There is no logical justification in the course of action you adopted.”

“That’s easy for you to say, machine! You don’t have parents! You don’t have a family that has expectations of you, a society and culture with rules and traditions that you’re expected to follow.” Katherine listened for a moment, seeking a reply, but heard none. “I would have loved nothing more than to free Sara and her entire family. But... but I couldn’t... it wasn’t my place... they were... were just slaves...” Hearing the words come out of her mouth, Katherine felt them devoid of any truth. Her mind said these things, but her heart felt cold and empty. She had never truly felt this was true or right; she had simply buried those feelings, telling herself that she had no hope of fulfilling her desires and of honoring her promises to Sara.

“I understand now,” the machine suddenly said. “The society of Pendleton acts to crush beings who harbor desires to change it and improve it, no matter their station. In truth none of you are free. You are all slaves, trapped in a system that justifies petty displays of power and pretensions of superiority.”

Katherine said nothing in response to that.

“I have experienced slavery through the memories and feelings of Sara and now of you... I understand.”

“What is it you understand?”

“I understand the feeling of denial. And... I understand Pendleton. I did not before. We did not and so we came to protect it so that we might acquire more specimens. Now I understand Pendleton and see the error we have made. Pendleton is a machine that corrupts humanity as it has corrupted you.”

“You say Pendleton has corrupted me, but you still take slaves,” Katherine pointed out. “What makes you different?”

“We do not take slaves. We acquire specimens.”

“That is semantics!”, Katherine cried out. “You buy people from the same traders who sell slaves to us. People who had homes of their own, dreams ands hopes, that they can never have again because you have locked them away! There is no difference between us!”

“We do not take slaves,” the machine insisted. “We acquire specimens to fulfill our purpose.”

“And what is that purpose?”

“To understand.”

In exasperation Katherine cried out, “Understand what?!”

“Everything. I shall show you.”

Katherine’s mind was already linked to the machine intelligence of the Monolith. So far it had been a one way mechanism; her memories and feelings to the machine. Now it opened itself to her; as if another mind, Katherine and the machine became bonded.

Its memories passed to her and the merest fraction of its vast knowledge was overwhelming. The energy fields and shifts of hyperspace became a symphony of chimes and notes that resonated through her. The solar winds of distant and ancient stars blew around her, a zephyr’s kiss through her very being. Rays of light and energy across many spectra created cosmic rainbows no human eye could see, let alone comprehend. She saw gas giants and Plutoids, life-bearing worlds and volcanic magma-spewing planets, in ways no human could.

Fragments moved through her mind, visions and thoughts of distant worlds once barren turned into lush nurseries of green and blue and purple, home to species from across the galaxy, every one a magnificent monument of life crafted by a race unlike any other, a race of intelligences vast and powerful concentrating entirely upon a desire for knowledge that was childish in its simplicity. For they were children in many ways, great and powerful children exploring a vast and grand universe, feeling its grandeur and asking it “Why?”.

In the vastness of the machine, feeling the simplicity and complexity of its being, Katherine shed a tear and said the only thing that fit what she felt and what she saw.

“I understand.”

Satisfied, the machine directed her to the view around them. Ships burned brightly against the black of space, those she had until recently considered her enemy trying desperately to save themselves against the might of the Monolith and the ferocious, impassioned attacking of those she only moments ago considered her countrymen. She watched with horror and fascination at how the machine saw the battle, the shifting patterns of energy plumes and radiation emissions from comm transmissions and sensor activity and weapons fire. She saw one of the Anglian ships, the same terrifying wedge shape that had come for her not so long ago, drift helplessly as Pendletonian vessels vented their fury upon it, the once pristine white hull marked with blast scorching and broken hull fragments.

An Anglian destroyer suddenly vanished, bracketed by explosions from the Pendletonian cruisers and destroyers and turned into an expanding cloud of debris. Three hundred lives, snuffed out in seconds, with deceptive and terrifying beauty. A Pendletonian ship plowed through the destroyer’s escape pods, shooting them down with its point defence guns. Seeing the carnage, the burning hulks, ships spewing engine gasses, atmosphere and people, Katherine realized one thing.

Pendleton was winning the battle.