SDNW4 Story Thread 2

[Shroom Man 777]

As the fleets formed up with each other, the warships on both sides returned to more relaxed positions. The commanders of both fleets, Bragulan and Chamarran, met each other on board the Hierarchy flagship where they discussed the exercises they would undertake, which had already been planned months in advance. After the formalities and the conversations, where final details were discussed, they went back to the business of business and the exercises began promptly.

The exercises would simulate joint Bragulan-Chamarran combined operations against a 'mysterious enemy from the anti-spinward'.

Greetings peoples of the Hierarchy. Today we can announce that 2nd , 3rd and 4th battlegroups along with the Pride of Chamarra have now joined our bragulan comrades in sector E-24 in order to conduct joint fleet exercises. As a result this sector is off limits to all vessels not directly involved in the exercise. Any vessel found entering sector E-24 will be intercepted and may be fired upon. - This is CNN

NAVY NYAH!

By: Darkevilme, Simon_Jester and Shroom Man 777

Sector E-24
Off Chamarran Space
Unreal Time / Late 3400 / End of the Year

A MOST BYZONISTIC FLEET REVIEW OF THE PROLETARIAN PERFORMANCE OF KOSMOFLOT BRAGOTYOMKIN IN THE SECTOR E-24 WARGAMES WITH CHAMARRAN HIERARCHY FORCES



Prepared by Front Admiral Nykanor Zyvan Nikhamov

Introductions

Comrades, I bring to you military learnings of Chamarra to make benefit glourious Star Empire of Bragule. The exercises in space sector E-24 were a great success and I cannot overstate my satisfaction, as the proud sailors and spacers of the Imperial Bragulan Navy acquitted themselves exceptionally and proved their mettle to our Chamarran comrades in an impressive display of martial skill. Moreover, the exercises also gave us a unique view into the structure and methodologies of both our Chamarran comrades and ourselves as well in our respective performances, allowing us to assess our tactico-strategic strengths and weaknesses relative to another galactic power outside the Koprulu Zone.

I believe this information will not only be vital to fleet command in reviewing the performances of the Bragulan Navy, but in also formulating new doctrines and stratagems for both Bragule’s fleets as well as those of our feline friends’. Da. This will be essential in what is planned to come, namely the ultimate fruition of our exercises near Chamarran space, and the culmination of our operations against the 'mysterious enemy from the anti-spinward'.

But before I get ahead of myself, I believe that introductions are in order. Firstly, I will introduce the key participants of these joint exercises, namely myself and the three gracefully lethal battlemistresses of the Chamarran Hierarchy Navy.

I am Front Admiral Nykanor Zyvan Nikhamov, commander of the Kosmoflot Bragotyomkin, a highly mobile Bragulan Space Fleet specialized in ‘excursionary’ operations deep into enemy territories. Due to my forces’ offensive nature, and the normal state of affairs in the Koprulu Zone, the ships and sailors of Bragotyomkin are seasoned combat veterans of many Wild Space campaigns and engagements against the Solarians and Byzantines.

My adversaries in the first two exercises, and the three battlemistresses who I am currently cooperating with, are battlemistresses Sesh Marria, Liana Essena and Eshe Amarie. Included are pictures of the battlemistresses and assessments of their characters.

From left to right: Battlemistresses Sesh Marria, Liana Essena (seen here a cubscout K-bolter), and Eshe Amarie.

Battlemistress Sesh Marria of the Second Battlegroup: The destroyer of the ork warlord Ghazka. Has either a reckless disregard for danger, or a belief in the invulnerability of her battlegroup. Known for willingness to take risks and suffer casualties if it means a more thorough destruction of the enemy. Nonetheless, her predatory skills are formidable, and on her own her aggressive tactics were responsible for her victory in the first exercise.

Battlemistress Liana Essena of Third Battlegroup: Untested and fairly new to her rank, it is believed her group was deployed here in order to give her some much needed experience - and to let high command gauge just what kind of commander Liana is. In the second exercise, she displayed initiative and commendable courage, but her lack of experience also showed through.

Battlemistress Eshe Amarie of Fourth Battlegroup: Somewhat Sesh’s opposite: though not tested in large scale battle, in wargames Eshe has shown a marked preference for destroying an enemy piecemeal instead of by direct engagement. Her caution and preference for long-range engagements allowed her to endure through the second exercise and make it to the very end.

Shortly after Bragotyomkin’s arrival in Sector E-24, we held a meeting between the respective commanders of our fleets and discussed the course of the exercises, which had been extensively pre-planned by the high commands of both Bragule and the Hierarchy. However, it was mutually agreed upon that there was room for improvisation in the exercises’ schedule, as the situation on the ground we dealt with was different from those foreseen by the distant planners.

The original plan was to simulate joint operations of combined Bragulan and Chamarran fleet assets against an opposing force of numerically few but individually massive and high-powered warships from a 'mysterious enemy from the anti-spinward'. The composition of these forces would be similar to that of Byzantine battleships and battle barges or, to reflect more current cosmopolitical and militaro-strategic realities, the warships of the Hierarchy’s new neighbors as based on their reconnaissance data. The OPFOR for such massive ships would be played by the Juggernaut Pride of Chamara.

However, due to the delays in the Juggernaut’s deployment from Chamarra Prime to Sector E-24, it was decided by the commanders involved to stage a series of warm-up drills as we waited for the Pride’s arrival. The conference was then adjourned as we went off to marshal our forces. This would be the first of many meetings with the three battlemistresses, who I would have the pleasure of knowing rather well in the course of our maneuvers.

Meeting Room, HSF Nightshadow

The meeting room was spacious and triangular in shape, with rounded corners and a domed ceiling that looked like clear glass, but wasn’t. It was actually a high resolution holoscreen that gave them a magnificent view of space, and the constellations of the Chamarran star systems within its vast vistas. The room was lit by candlelight, and the scented wax gave off an aroma of vanilla.

In the room were four figures. Three Chamarrans, lounging and luxuriating in the creature comforts their vessel provided, and one Bragulan, who was looking around and taking in his strange surroundings - unaccustomed to the affluent amenities provided by the Hierarchy Spaceforce to its senior officers. He sniffed, the strange aroma of the scented candles mildly irritating his sensitive snout.

“The Pride of Chamarra is leaving the Hierarchy’s territory for the first time in over three hundred years,” Eshe said as she swished her tail. She was seated on a cushioned throne, on her side leaning on the chair’s armrest. “Most of the time it just orbits Chamarra Prime, and it hasn’t even gone out of the system for parade in the last hundred years. So I suppose it’s no wonder they’re facing some ‘technical difficulties’.”

“Nyah, apparently something unspecific in the hyperdrive blew when they tried to leave system.” commented Liana, who was seated on another comfortable throne to Eshe’s right. She was idly playing with a grape on the table before her. “Talia said it might be a while to track down the problem, it’s a big hyperdrive and it’s not like we have spares anymore.”

If anything, she was understating the issue. To get a Juggernaught into hyperspace required a colossal hyperdrive bigger in itself than most other vessels in the Chamarran navy and no one around the table envied the kitties who would even now be wandering around inside the depths of such a device trying to find the problem using three hundred year old diagrams while dodging the occasional residual space-time anomaly that the interior of large hyperdrives occasionally developed.

“Either way, it is still most inconveniencing. We could be out there, doing the scheduled exercises and actually drilling ourselves in combat operations, but we’re forced to wait here idly for that relic ship’s arrival,” said Sesh as she drank from her glass of blood wine. She flashed a confident grin. “I hunger for battle, even if it is just practice. What do you say, Front Admiral Nikhamov?”

“I say you need not be so formal, Battlemistress. Nykanor will do,” the Bragulan Admiral replied. He took a glass and sampled the Chamarran liquor’s strangely sweet taste.

“Hm, and you may call me Sesh,” the Battlemistress smirked. “But you still haven’t answered the question. What do you make of this, Nykanor, twiddling our paws and twirling our tails while waiting for the arrival of the Juggernaut? Instead of idling, we can do something actually constructive to keep ourselves occupied.”

“A series of pre-conditioning exercises?” the Bragulan raised a furry eyebrow. “Da, it is a good idea, and I am sure our respective high commands won’t begrudge us if we improvise a little bit. What do you propose, Sesh?”

“We can begin by pitting our forces against each other in mock battle. My battle fleet, since it is the most combat-experienced of us three, against an equivalent force of your ships,” Sesh said confidently. It was true, her fleet was the most combat-experienced of the three by being the only combat-experienced one. Her two fellow battlemistress gave each other looks, unsure with where she was taking this, and maybe not at all too happy with what she had just implied. “I have long wished to test my fleet against a proper adversary, not just a rabble of orks. Maybe your forces are the challenge I’ve been looking for, Front Admiral.”

She smiled coolly at the Bragulan and observed his reaction, like a predator gauging its prey. Her cat eyes, with their slit pupils, narrowed on the bicorne-wearing bear.

“The Bragulan Space Fleet will be more than happy to oblige you, Battlemistress,” Nykanor chuckled. “And hopefully you will get exactly what you wished for.”

Preparations

The preparations undertaken for the exercises were extensive. On each and every vessel, both Chamarran and Bragulan, networks of sensors were placed on the hulls to detect ‘hits’ from simulated weapon fire. Each warship would be given an allotted amount of ‘hitpoints’ correlated to its durability, in terms of estimated shield strength, armor thickness, underlying redundancy systems, damage control measures, and so forth, with vital areas and critical components having proportionately worth more points for maximum damage. As both our sides were reluctant to give away too much detailed information on our prized warship designs for understandable reasons, we settled on a mutually agreeable points system to gauge the performances of our vessels within an acceptable margin of error. For impartiality’s sake, we used the Stefan-Wylkins Scale of Composite Capabilities and Cost, the SWSC3 - specifically the Umerian edition, which the Chamarrans were surprisingly familiar with - as the basis of this system*.

For the weapons systems, laser-tags and dialed-down gamma pulse arrays were used together with blanks to simulate K-bolt fire. To maintain the combat realism of the exercises, tracers were also included and would be fired after a preset number of blanks shots from every K-bolter. For missiles, traditional training warheads with sub-kiloton vegemite-enhanced chemical explosives (as opposed to more extensively vegemite-enhanced nuclear explosives) and illuminating radium flares would be used to give the effect of detonations. On the Chamarran side, their beam cannons were dialed down to the appropriate levels, making them capable of only scorching Bragulan lead-based paintjobs, and nothing more damaging. Other modifications on their part, replacing their projectiles and missiles with blanks and training rounds, were similar to the ones we undertook. The potency of the various Bragulan and Chamarran weaponries were rated by the SWSC3 in accordance with their estimated effectiveness, again neither side willing to disclose the full capabilities of their weapons systems, for perfectly understandable reasons.

In the interest of fair play and safety, both sides agreed to exchange liaison officers to monitor the installation of the training systems, and to interact with their counterpart crews and observe them carrying out their routine duties, to promote better understanding between the personnels of Bragulan and Chamarran navies. Understandably, again, the liaison officers of both sides were placed in non-vital and non-sensitive ship areas. Taking into consideration the unique Byzonic conditions typical of our warships’ interiors, it was decided to station the Chamarran liaison officers in the Friend of Bragule and Chernovyi-class warships rather than the more patriotically fossilized paleocruisers and the daringly hazardous gunskimmers, or the technologically advanced Imperator’s Fist-class battleships. Our liaison officers, on the other hand, were free to be posted in most Chamarran ships and were encouraged to gather as much information on the Chamarrans and interact with them as often as possible. For some reason, they were unusually enthusiastic about their mission, and often worked overtime in the Hierarchy Spaceforce ships.

Unfortunately, such was not the case with the Chamarran liaison officers. After a short period of time, they were recalled back to their ships due to ‘safety issues’. The Chamarran battlemistresses expressed concerns about exposing their litter to uncontrolled doses of radiation and other military-industrial hazard complexes, charges which were very puzzling and entirely unwarranted, in the opinion of this Bragulan Admiral. Upon inquiring the captains whose vessels were visited by the Chamarrans, they reported that the liaisons had been treated like any other Bragulan sailor, and special accommodations had been prepared to meet their unique needs. From what has been surmised, it is believed that the Chamarrans were merely unaccustomed to the naval traditions of the Bragulan Space Fleet and had difficulty adapting from the more lavish and comfortable lifestyle of the Hierarchy Spaceforce to the more martial utilitarian nature our Kosmoflot.

In any case, with Bragulan and Chamarran crews cooperating and liaising well, we made short work testing the training systems on our networked sensors, and calibrating the simulated damage they would inflict in hitpoints. After everything was ready, we began the exercises promptly.

[*The Stefan-Wylkins Scale is a human naval ranking system well known to the Bragulan Space Fleet, in no small part due to the IBGV’s involvement in acquiring the humans who invented it and facilitating their thorough debriefing, before their eventual release to the Solarians in a prisoner exchange. How the Hierarchy managed to get their claws on the Umerian edition of the SWSC3 is presently unknown.]

Flight Deck, Friend of Bragule-class warcruiser Bragyag

Munitions Maiden Mralla looked around cautiously, surveying the dizzying scene around her. The flight deck was littered with hundreds of tri-winged starfighters, the notorious Bragulan SNTs, and each craft was being tended to by dozens of bears, from the pilots themselves to the armorers, the fuelers, and other miscellaneous flight crews. There were also a number of gunboats, which were much larger than the fighters, and entire convoys of trucks and transports came to bring armaments to the miniature warships. Mralla could actually imagine how many missiles one of those boats could take, since she had ridden in one of them to the Bragyag, getting stuffed into an improvised passenger’s compartment that was itself stuffed inside the gunboat’s bomb bay.

Her seatmate had been a missile. In fact, her seat had also been a bomb, and she had sat on one of it’s wings. While the other Bragulans who had been with her were perfectly content with sitting on live nuclear warheads in a weapons bay with only their furs to protect them from the cold of space, she wasn’t, and there was no way in the mysteries she’d ‘huddle for heat’ with any of them as one exceptionally lecherous bear offered. The crew had promised to turn on the heaters just for her sake, and sure enough her seat had become warm enough to save her tail from frostbite. But that seat was also a live rubiconium nuke, and she heard the Brags coated their rubiconium nukes in extra rubiconium to make them even more radioactive... nyah!

She was taken off from her reprieve when she heard a loud banging sound. She looked for the source of the noise, and found that the bears were unceremoniously dumping their sub-kiloton ‘training rounds’ from the truck, onto a ramp, and letting the missiles roll into the magazines of the gunboats. The sound of countless sub-kiloton warheads slamming into each other echoed from within the gunboats, and she couldn’t help but wonder just how many of those training rounds it would take to make a megaton...

Mralla sighed and placed a hand on her forehead. Maybe it was the sheer incredulity at seeing first hand the mind-numbing methods to the Bragulans’ madness, since she was a Munitions Maiden of the Hierarchy Spaceforce; or it could’ve been the fumes from all the utility trucks, which to her astonishment were still powered by engines that guzzled fossil fuels, re-leaded and plutonium-laced petrochemicals no less; or maybe she was missing the comfortable contour-conforming cat cushions that lined the interior of Chamarran vessels, the refreshing taste of tea in the morning cycle to cleanse her system of all the weariness, and a warm relaxing bath with her sisters...

“Hey, kitty!” a guttural voice interrupted her reminiscing. “Need a little hand here, or paw!”

“Eh?” Mralla saw the gesturing Bragulan, who was sprawled under a SNT fighter and sticking a green-tinged blowtorch into the craft’s exposed avionics. Sparks erupted whenever he wielded some of the bits, and whenever the sparks came, the H.R. Giger counter she had clipped on her belt started crackling a lot. “What is it?”

The bear got up and walked over to a cart full of missiles. Despite the sheer insanity of the Bragulans, some of the things here in the Bragyag were still familiar. Mralla and her crews also used carts to bring missiles to their drone fighters, except the carts were also robots rather than crude hand-pushed things. Anyway, as a Munitions Maiden Mralla felt obliged to help a fellow crew counterpart, even if it was a crazy bear.

“Help me put training warhead on missile,” the Bragulan said. He took a crowbar and began prying off the missile’s seeker head, sticking the ichor-stained piece of metal into the gap between the missile’s casings. With a grunt, he managed to remove the head. He handed the crowbar to Mralla, who examined the ichor-stains.

“What is this?” she asked after giving a cursory sniff.

“Was in mission at Wild Space, took in unwanted visitors, craboid larva, had to beat them off with stick,” the Bragulan replied. “Did not wash off monster’s bloodstains, for luck is.”

“I... see...” Mralla stuttered. Meanwhile, the Bragulan started inserting a differently-colored seeker head on to the missile’s body casing. He was screwing it in and it was going in well, but then it got stuck.

“Gah, stupid threading is not aligned!” the bear roared, making Mralla flinch. “Cannot remove OR insert. Must do it hard way. Kitty, give me hammer!”

“What?!” Mralla gasped. Was this Bragulan thinking what she was thinking he was thinking?

“Give me hammer!” the bear roared again. “Must beat with stick! Must go in, or else will be late and will get stick-beat by commissar! Its either it or me, kitty!”

“Eh?!” Mralla couldn’t believe it. She grabbed an enormous hammer from a tool box and handed it to the bear’s outstretched paw. He thanked her and without hesitation began hammering at the jammed warhead. Mralla winched at the sound of each hammer blow. “Nyah!”

“Components!” the Bragulan started muttering as he struck the sub-kiloton training warhead repeatedly. “Solarian components, Bragulan components. ALL MADE IN TIANGUO!”

He smashed the warhead one last time with his hammer before discarding it, tossing it away and causing Mralla to duck for cover, before he gave the warhead a headbutt. There was a protesting squeal, and then the warhead’s threading was realigned. The Bragulan finished screwing it into the missile body casing.

“Da, is done!” the Brag proudly declared. His head was swaying and his eyes were crossing. “Thank you for your help, kitty cat!”

“Ehehehe. You’re welcome!” You crazy-tailed bear! Mralla added mentally as she backed away slowly from the Bragulan. She wondered if this was what the Bragulans’ Byzonism did to their brains. It was like their brains had been replaced with anti-freeze! She couldn’t imagine how they could stay sane without even basic amenities for civilized beings, such as the soft pillows everywhere, warm baths and relaxing massages, and excellent gourmet food paired with fine wine. She couldn’t look forward to any of those here, in the Bragship, and dreaded what else they had in store for her. As she brooded this, she barely noticed a rushing vehicle headed her way until it was almost too late, and she barely avoided being turned into a roadkilled kitty in space. She jumped back just in time and landed on her feet, and immediately shouted at the lousy drivers. “Nyah! What the heck?!”

“Hey,” the Bragulan driving the halftrack looked her up, causing Mralla to instinctively cover herself up with her flight jacket. The Brag had something in his mouth. Was he chewing gum? What? “Wanna go out for a ride?”

“Uhh... I could use a lift to my quarters,” Mralla said. On one hand, the bear was a complete lech! On the other hand, getting a ride would help her avoid mysteries-knew what other hazards were out there.... Mralla sighed as the bear nodded and opened a door for her. She went in and showed him the piece of paper where some Bragulan bureaucrat had written down the address of her quarters. The bear driver smiled lecherously, now knowing where she would be staying, and probably misinterpreting her move. Mralla glowered at the Bragulan. “Drive.”

The bear chuckled. He fucking chuckled. And with that he stomped on the accelerator and their half-track sped through the wide corridors of the Bragulan warcruiser with careless disregard for speed limits and safety regulations. They zipped past press-gangs laying down sharpened fuel rods to make plutonium punji pits, which Mralla’s driver explained was in case of boarders. What? And after that, a team of what looked like naval infantry who had converted the hallways into a makeshift firing range for their flamethrwers. She wondered if there was a potentially lethal hazard exposed every twenty meters or so.

Finally, they arrived at where her quarters were supposed to be. She thanked her lecherous driver icily and went inside a compartment littered with hammocks, cots and sleeping bags, along with the occasional triple-decker bunk beds. This must’ve been where the sailor bears slept. She cringed at the thought of sharing a bunk with one of them, but to her relief found a door that had the same number as the one in her paper. Mralla’s ears perked up, at least she’d have her own room, and an undoubtedly very sturdy armored Bragsteel door to keep all those lecherous bears away! She swished her tail happily, walked over to that door and opened it -

- only to discover that it was just a closet! In it was a box that was supposed to be a tiny chemical toilet. She also saw her sleeping bag, which looked nothing less than a giant sock that could fit a person. And there was a sack full of canned food rations, there on the floor along with all the bullet casings. At least, that might’ve been better than the imitation gruel the rest of the Brags subsisted on in the commissary. But when she gave a better look at them, to her horror she realized that they were cans of catfood!

“Nyaaah!” Mralla cried out in frustration, she had just about enough of this. “That’s it! I don’t wanna be a liaison officer! I wanna go back to my ship!”



TO BE CONTINUED...

[Darkevilme]

...IMMEDIATELY

Round 1

In accordance with Battlemistress Sesh’s request, we would engage her battlefleet with an equivalent force, approximately half of Kosmoflot Bragotyomkin. We cast lots to decide which roles we would assume, and it was determined that the Bragulan forces would take the part of the attackers, while the Chamarrans would be the defenders. Sesh seemed a little disappointed with that, and she confided to me that she preferred to lead the offense, to be the one ‘on top of things’ so to speak.

We went off to prepare our respective forces for the upcoming mock battle. The captains and officers of Bragotyomkin met for one last time to discuss our approach to the Chamarrans. Despite the sharing of informations between both sides, and the gauge we had on their capabilities based on the SWSC3’s estimations, the Hierarchy Spaceforce was still a great unknown to us. As a whole, the Chamarran navy had never been tested in war ever since its foundation centuries ago; their doctrines and methodologies had yet to be seen and sampled; their actions unscrutinized, unlike the more seasoned navies of other star nations whose battles were meticulously observed and studied. We had no bearing on what they were truly capable of, and perhaps they themselves did not either. All we knew was that we faced one of their preciously few blooded units, and their most combat-experienced one in that, in Battlemistress Sesh’s fleet. It was decided to take an initially explorative approach to the Chamarrans, to probe them and see just what they were made of.

Yet, despite the prospects of facing a heretofore unknown adversary in (mock) battle, we went into the system fully prepared to make (simulated) war - as any battle-hardened Bragulan fleet should. We went there expecting to face a force like any other in the Koprulu Zone, and in all honesty Battlemistress Sesh and her fleet proved to be more than a match for Bragotyomkin. Or half of it, at least.

We entered the system from beyond its hyperlimit, as caution dictated, preceded by an advanced squadron of Gugafez gunboat missileers and a vanguard of gunskimmers. We made our way inwards, and detected the Chamarran battlefleet by the system’s sole gas giant. Sesh proved her eagerness to do battle, having sent all her Rampant-class battleships, Predator cruisers, almost all her Wayward escorts and a not inconsiderable number of several thousand drone fighters from her Dominion carriers in an intercept course to engage us. To reverse this offense, or to slow it and temporarily put them on the defense, I sent a force of gunskimmers to engage her vulnerable Dominions, which had been left barely defended at the rear of her formation, anticipating them to make an attempt to defend their precious carriers. This was my first and, as it turned out, final mistake. The Chamarrans did not slow down one bit. Sesh continued on towards us relentlessly.

HSF Nightshadow

The three Rampants moved at good speed towards the approaching Bragulans. Accompanying them to battle were a squadron of eight Predators and thirteen Waywards, escorting the battleships. Left behind were a light screen of three Waywards to cover a pair of Dominion-class carriers, already disgorging their combined wing of over three thousand drone fighters. The fighters streamed forth from their teeming launch racks to form an immense swarm, lagging behind the vanguard of beam warships at first but swiftly catching up. Sesh’s force of strike craft, cruisers and battleships formed up into her signature mighty blow, this time straight into the snouts of the oncoming bears.

There was a palpable mood in the air of the Nightshadow’s bridge, a sense of eager anticipation. Sesh’s battlefleet was one of the few blooded forces among the Chamarran Hierarchy Spaceforce’s Battlegroups, and the only one present in this system. Her pack took a certain pride in that, along with taking in a little bit of their battlemistress’ innate aggression. After all, she had led them against the myriad Ork raiders besetting Neko Space and triumphed against the Warlord Ghazka and many other foes. They were the few and the proud of Chamarra, and seldom spared the chance to rub that fact in the noses of the other families’ fleets. And now, they were taking on a force of battle-hardened Bragulans all the way from Koprulu, the K-Zone, the Krazy Place. A real enemy, not a rabble of pirates or greenskins, but a truly formidable fighting force forged in constant combat. No, this wasn’t a privilege. To the Chamarran warriors in the Nightshadow, her sister ships and packmates, this was a pleasure.

Sesh sat on a cushioned papasan bowl throne on the central command dais. On the lower level around her, bridge officers, main munitions maidens and comm kitties were at work in their stations, coordinating the fleet in its approach to the Bragulans. Overhead, holograms floated in the air like constructs of liquid light, displaying colorful graphic symbols of the Hierarchy’s forces in space and the big brutalist blocks that represented the Bragulan fleets. Flowing with them were the hieroglyphic and calligraphic designations, status bars, and numeral representations of hitpoints, trajectories and speeds and estimated times of contact. Little by little, the distance between both fleets ticked down. The colorful glyphs and the brutalist blocks neared each other.

With tails of fire, the cats closed with the bears. Sesh watched the tactical map above her with a hunter’s intensity, as if willing the bears to cross the overlay for optimum firing range all the quicker.

A comm kitty spoke from her control pit. “Battlemistress, a Bragulan gunskimmer force is moving to engage our Dominions. Seuss and Severance are requesting permission to break from fire plan and engage their attackers.”

Hmmmm. Sesh’s Predators were committed now, providing a steady barrage of missiles to soften up the Bragulan fleet, and could hardly break away to assist. But alone they weren’t enough; she needed the Dominions to add their weight to the missile barrages at all cost- even after launching their drones, their missile batteries made a powerful contribution to the fleet’s firepower.

“Denied. Orders are to continue firing on designated targets.” Sesh ordered, knowing that this would leave Seuss and Severance to suffer from a close range strike from the gunskimmers that they were ill equipped to handle. But craft so small, even in great numbers, would have difficulty killing the Dominions quickly enough to interfere with her plans.

Sesh shifted position on her command dais for a moment, leaning back to regard the plot; she felt confident the unexpected would more likely come from there than the control pits. In holographic abstraction a missile duel occurred above her head. Individual missiles weren’t represented, such would be foolishness with both Bragulans and Chamarrans holding to the ‘more, lots, many’ doctrine of missile use- the plot would have devolved into masses of colour in short order. Instead, missile salvos showed up with numbers for surviving or estimated surviving missiles appended. So far, the Bragulan missile salvos were diminishing rapidly once they crossed into range of the Waywards who stood vigil over her fleet.

The surviving missiles from the Bragulans had thus far not caused much damage to their targets after running the gauntlet of final defensive fire. That was encouraging, however bringing up the figures for the Waywards’ countermissile magazine depletion was... less than encouraging. At this rate, they’d shoot themselves dry before she expected to be done with the main Bragulan wall of battle. Speaking of which, the clash was now imminent.

“Shipmistresses are ordered to confirm initial firing orders.” Sesh said to the comm kitty and received a nod as the order was relayed. It was a formality she hardly needed to trouble herself with really; woe betide the kitty under Sesh’s command who did not know their place when beam time came. Sesh watched as a list of ships appeared floating in the air and turned gold in under six seconds, mentally noting down the name of the last one to confirm for later.

Beam Time.

In a space of seconds, the Chamarrans unleashed their inheritance of firepower in demonstration to the Bragulans. Mighty beams, dialled down to minimum but simulating maximum, lashed out to stab and slice at the most powerful vessels in the Bragulan force. The Chernovyi-class battlecruiser Moonbreaker weathered a couple of beam hits, but got off lightly in comparison to the heavier battleship Fist of Consummated Retribution. The Fist took the initial fire of the entirety of Sesh’s Predator complement. Damage simulation computers chattered and whirred loudly in the bowels of the bear battleship, printer tapes reporting shield failures, turret losses, tube damage and hull breaches.

And yet, and yet it survived the onslaught. The computers judged that Bragulan layered armour, reinforced bulkheads and sheer bloodymindedness had kept the stabbing beams from boring into the heart of the ship and taking out anything vital. And so it was that the Imperator’s Fist joined the Bragulan retaliation as the battle began in full. K-bolter fire and further missiles rained on the Chamarran fleet and the Predators were permitted to pick their own targets from the warcruisers and paleocruisers of the Bragulan forces. But the Bragulans had their own mighty blow to strike at the kitties in return as it turned out. The two heavy capital ships Fist and Moonbreaker brought their bows to bear on one of Sesh’s Rampants- out of luck or design, upon her own flagship Nightshadow- and their three atomic death rays were a force to be reckoned with.

The initial volley came fast and hard as revolving ready magazines shoved vegemite slugs into the raygun breeches with brutal efficiency, spitting out emerald blasts at Sesh’s battleship. With the Bragulans having re-orientated a large amount of their fleet’s aggressive-aggressive sensors to burn through the omnipresent jamming masking the Rampant, the death rays proved accurate in targeting, and devastating in effect. Most of the blasts impacted, burning down shields layer after layer till they could wash over the hull directly.

“We’ve lost 36 out of 44 shield layers, EW modules 3 and 4 disabled, forward beamcannon destroyed, significant hull breaches across dorsal surface.” The kitty in engineering read the simulated damage report off as quickly as possible, not bothering with hull breaches- Sesh had already brought up the ship status hologram to see the red blossoming across Nightshadow’s dorsal surface.

“Pull us back now, full withdrawal!” Sesh ordered, in her heart rebuking herself for the cowardice but knowing her flagship would be in no state to fight without time to bring the jammers and shields back to proper strength. The Bragulans had no intention of letting the battleship go, though and they were still firing, still bathing her in high intensity sensor rays so that they wouldn’t waste shots on empty space. Even as Nightshadow tried to turn tail and glide away using gravity waves, the assault continued. Even as the flagship’s two packsisters contracted their formation to try and jam the Bragulan firing solution, lashing out with their own beamcannon to protect Nightshadow, the Bragulan death rays continued fire, though now at a more leisurely pace dictated by loading directly from primary magazines.

It was not an easy thing to watch. Sesh forcing herself to, though, as her ship was bested and beaten. The Bragulans pummeled Nightshadow; with each blow a new red bruise appeared on the status display. There was comfort in how her battlegroup benefited from her vessel serving as a sacrifice, but it was small comfort compared to the sinking realization that they weren’t going to be able to get out from under the Bragulan guns in time.

“Catastrophic damage sustained, structural integrity compromised, power generation inoperable. HSF Nightshadow destroyed.” The computer announced its verdict, and Sesh flinched despite her desire to take the inevitable stoically.

And now I’m a spectator.

Sesh settled into her cushioned dais, getting comfortable and trying to relax as she watched the tactical plot above her...



HSF Gripper, Predator cruiser

Shipmistress Kirara had been trying to decide how comfortable she was with her situation. Overall, it could be much worse. She hardly needed to trouble herself with directly ordering her crew at the moment, their experienced hands adept at maintaining the steady pace of missiles, driver pellets and beam strikes her ship was responsible for putting out. They kept up the fire without supervision, while she concerned herself with the tactical situation and tried to keep on her toes for a change. Not that she really expected the damned bears to change a tactic that seemed to be serving acceptably, but after the way Sesh had talked about the caliber of their foe it didn’t hurt to fight with a bit of poise.

Thus far, there was a continued lack of change. The paleocruisers she and the rest of her cruiser pack were facing continued their barrage of missiles without relent or finesse, showing no sign of running out. Given the size of the bears’ missiles, she imagined their magazines must be a sight to see... a big sight.

“Shipmistress, high powered sensor arrays from Bragulan warcruisers now focused on us. Comm chatter from other ships report similar.”

“Shipmistress, Battlemistress’s Sesh ship has been defeated.”

Kirara tailflicked in agitation. Sesh may be reckless and incautious, but she had brought 2nd Battlegroup a parade of victory and honours and now SHE was the one that these bears had dared to humiliate so; the pride of the entire battlegroup was stung, Kirara included, and there were few things that bore deeper wounds than Chamarran pride. But despite her desire to ameliorate the dishonour by turning the Gripper’s beamcannon on the inflictors, she knew she could not. It was the place of the remaining Rampants to avenge Sesh’s defeat and they had already moved with a fury to enact such vengeance. The beams of the battleships stabbing and slashing to further wound the Fist of Consummated Retribution’s already pierced and sliced hull. Kirara was forced to content herself with the inferior satisfaction of continued engagement with the Bragulan relic cruisers and so keep them from distracting Sesh’s chosen Sister Redeemers.

“Continue current firing and evasion patterns,” she ordered in response to the news of the increased sensor scrutiny.

The paleocruisers had proven markedly susceptible to Chamarran jamming and decoys on their own. With the Bragulan’s newer warcruisers focused on Nightshadow, the Chamarran cruisers had enjoyed an easy time playing with the antiquated Bragulan paleotargeting systems. But now this came to an end. The warcruisers provided EW assistance to their elderly brothers, assisting the paleocruisers with greater sophistication in equipment quality and offensive ECCM. And as the paleocruisers found their glasses, the rate of missile hits on the Chamarran ships upticking dramatically.

Kirara didn’t see anything to be done. Shifting power to jammers would buy time and lower the hit rate, but at the expense of cutting into her beamcannon offense... and the Predators were fighting against the clock here, to do as much damage as quickly as possible. The clock was set by a pair of numbers Kirara had put in the top left of her tactical map as a reminder- the number of countermissiles fired per second by the escorts, and the number of missiles they had left. The first number was far too high; even so, Gripper’s CIWS cannons were firing long bursts every few seconds- sometimes followed by a flash on the ship status display indicating the collapse of one or more shield layers.

The Bragulans just had so many damned missiles. For some reason the thought of them all made the name ‘King Canute’ flash into her mind, but she couldn’t remember why or where she’d heard that name from. The sheer weight of incoming missiles was impressive, as was their habit of detonating in massive nuclear fireballs- and this was their idea of training rounds. She could only hope that the reports were right, and they were at least disabling the external launchers paleocruisers were said to be festooned with. That might bring an end to this endless rain of missiles, or at least ease it back to a drizzle- otherwise, it would take a long time; the paleocruisers themselves did not die at all easy.

“Fire Control, full salvo, all missiles and beams on target 6.” As Kirara rapped out the order, her ears perked up in response to new developments. The chaotic swarm of fighter combat between the Bragulan starfighters and Chamarran drones was finally showing some order- and signs that the drones were markedly winning the conflict. Several flights of drones broke off to assault the paleocruisers. Gripper was the first of several Predators to shift their fire to the paleocruisers nearest the droneswarm, temporarily battering down their shields and allowing torpedoes to hit unimpeded. Judging by the diminished nature of the next Bragulan salvo, the drone attack must have done a fair bit of damage.

With the drones now swarming and following up on beamcannon strikes with torpedo bombing runs, the battle shifted towards the Chamarrans once again. Watching the bears’ sporadic gunfire as they tried to deter the drones was almost enough to make Kirara feel sorry for them- were it not for the elation she felt as their missile rain steadily slackened. The first of the ancient ships finally began succumbing to their numerous wounds, their IFFs flashing to spectator with a dramatic explosion ring effect on the tactical plot to mark the transition.

Kirara’s gaze followed an unwise drone flight as it tried to break through to the warcruisers behind the paleobattleline. The robotic craft soon found the Friends of Bragule to be a lot more adept at handling strike craft, nonchalantly spewing forth a salvo of interceptor missiles that swatted the drones out of space.

Her eyes then quickly drifted to back to the Rampants, still in the process of exacting retribution for the honour of Second Battlegroup. Their beams were focused on the Imperator’s Fist, and had already silenced the majority of its guns- even the atomic rays that had proved so hard to knock out earlier. Even with the Fist neutralized, the Chamarran battleships kept up the fire against the heavier Bragulan ship, ignoring the largely unharmed Chernovyi even as it inflicted steady damage on them.

The knowledge that Fist of Consummated Retribution was both the Bragulan flagship and responsible for the defeat of Sesh made this was a matter of honour. The Fist was to be stabbed with beamcannons till it stopped twitching. Thankfully, this didn’t seem a far off- and the heavier capital ship’s death would free the Rampants to crush the battlecruiser between them. Soon... and then Kirara checked the clock again.

Nyah!

“Communications, try and take over the control signals for any drones from Seuss in range and slave them to our point defence computer. And quickly.” Kirara hissed out the order and gripped the edge of her dais as she saw the ammo count for the Waywards hit zero. This was going to hurt. The Predators had managed to ride out the early stages of the battle with light damage compared to what they dealt out- but that had only been possible with the countermissile-laden Waywards burning through their supply of defensive weaponry at an extraordinary pace to shoot down the swarms of Bragnukes. As the last spatter of countermissiles took down their targets, the situation turned in the Bragulans’ favor, the Spuds now facing only the Predators’ light point defense mounts and jammers.

“Up evasion fifty percent! why don’t we have those drones yet, Comms?” It wasn’t like Seuss was in any state to control her drone complement, not while being hammered by the Bragulan gunskimmers. She could see their coordination starting to break down, flights making predictably foolish decisions that led them straight into traps laid by the bears’ last starfighters and the warships’ close-in defenses. They weren’t accomplishing much on their own; at the least, the drones could save her tail while they were here.

“Severance got there ahead of us, they’re trying to double up their own flights.”

“Well tell them they can have their double flights with my blessing, if they would please give us some point defence cover, they can’t have many torpedoes left.”

Kirara gritted her teeth, tail swishing quickly from stress. Despite her best efforts Gripper was surrounded by the flashes of Bragulan missile impacts; her shield layers were cracking faster than they could be patched up. And she was doing better than most- two of the Predators were already reduced to spectators, with others not far behind as the Bragulans made up for lost time.

...

And if anything, the paleocruisers were throwing more missiles than before... oh! Now it was obvious; the cunning bears had feigned launcher damage, to keep a fraction of their missiles in reserve for this moment. Forced to endure this bragcross missile massacre two of Gripper's packmates were quickly pummeled into defeat although the fact barely registered on shipmistress Kirara till later. The plight of her own ship kept a compelling hold on her attention- she didn’t notice the Rampants finished humbling the Bragulan battlecruiser and moved on to the warcruisers.

“Target 3 defeated!” one of the sensorcats called out from her pit. That earned a cheer from the rest of the crew on the command bridge, watching the paleocruiser succumb to their beams. Now the battle finally began to swing irresistibly and irrevocably in favour of the Chamarrans. The ancient vessels, damaged and outnumbered, no longer had the throw weight to force the Predators onto the evasive, with so many of them gone and their EW support preoccupied by the Rampants’ rampage. One by one the remaining paleocruisers were forced into spectatordom by the power of the Chamarran beams.

“Feline Superiore actual to all surviving Predators, form up to assist the Severance.” Kirara recognized the voice on the comm as her fellow shipmistress. For a fraction of a second she considered refusing due to her damage- the missile attack had taken a heavy toll, and resentment at the carriers’ abandonment still simmered. The drone controllers on the Dominions had never given her point defence cover such that she’d noticed.

But pride and duty quenched the thought completely. “This is Gripper, we are able and willing to assist.” she said and then took her finger off the channel button “Get us best speed to Severance. Engineering, how’s she holding up?”

“Not good, but she’ll fight.” said her first Onnai of engines, appearing as a holographic figure on the bridge when called “We’ve blown about half our shield layers, a few jammer nodes and lost the port missile battery, hull breaches all over. But the beamcannon still works.”

“So swatting gunskimmers should be no trouble, then?” Kirara smiled happily, receiving a nod from the engineer. “As you will, shipmistress, Engineering out.” The hologram vanished. Kirara turned her gaze eagerly to the plot for the space ahead of the ship.

Severance was hurt badly. It had never been intended to fight off serious assault at close range; the only reason they hadn’t gone the way of Seuss already was because they’d broken from Sesh’s firing plan and started launching their missiles at the attacking gunskimmers instead. But the ordeal for the desperate carrier came to a swift end as the remainder of the Chamarran battlegroup came to her rescue.

The gunskimmers broke off to face this new threat, turned into the attack, spitting K-bolter fire and the handful of missiles left to them after their strike on the carriers. They were greeted by a ferocious blaze of beamcannon fire: the kitties’ remaining ships were bruised, but their claws and teeth still proved sharp and lethal. The gunskimmers found themselves unable to meaningfully resist, evade or blind the Chamarran gunners. Even so, the Bragulans were undaunted by the futility of their efforts. Even as they were cut down, they fought with the savagery of a bear with its paw caught in a trap, mauling all who came near. The gunskimmers’ surprising high-speed dashes and heavy gun batteries took a last Predator with them... and then, at last, their opposition was extinguished.



HSF Nightshadow

With the destruction of the gunskimmers, the Chamarrans had triumphed. The kitties were mauled and wounded, as any who would fight bears at close quarter must be, but nonetheless stood tall in victory over the Bragulans. Sesh’s battlegroup had done her proud, but at an uncomfortable price.

Sesh had lost near half her heavy capital ships, including her flagship- only slightly mitigated by the simulators’ conclusion that she herself would have survived; the bears’ death rays had missed the command center. Had this been a real battle, thousands of sworn crewkitties would now be dead and her surviving ships would have needed extensive yard work before they could fight again under any but desperate circumstances.

The rewards for victory would have to be precious indeed for Sesh to bring such losses to her matriarch with a clear conscience. Even then, House Marria would be appalled by the price in lives and hulls. It would have been the greatest loss the Chamarran Hierarchy had seen in centuries, and even more shocking to those who hadn’t been there as Sesh had.

But despite this, the battlemistress was satisfied with the result, at least on one level. This was a veteran Bragulan admiral with a veteran crew, who’d fought constant battles against Solarianoids, Byzantinians and Mysteries alone knew what else. And she had beaten him, if narrowly, on even terms.

After-Action Analysis

The Chamarrans bested us. The entire Bragulan force present, half of Kosmoflot Bragotyomkin, was lost to the feline assault, but in return the Bragulan force incurred numerous casualties on Sesh’s battlegroup. All in all, only one heavily damaged Dominion carrier, two battered Rampant battleships, three Predator cruisers in various stages of damage and six Wayward escorts remained of the Chamarran fleet. Had this been a true battle rather than a simulation, it would have been the single largest loss of Chamarran ships and sailors ever since the founding of their nation. On the other hand, the loss of half of Kosmoflot Bragotyomkin, while significant, is not unprecedented in Bragulan military history, as many battles in the Great Civil War, the subsequent Running of the Apexai, and the ensuing Solarian Wars have resulted in far greater casualties. Be that as it may, in the end, the cats won the day, and in Koprulu Zone Rules, that was the only thing that mattered.

I personally congratulated Battlemistress Sesh for her victory, and for the striking performance of her fleet. Whereas Bragotyomkin’s showing in the exercise was acceptable, and its warships and sailors gave their best, our defeat was mainly attributed to one fault, a single miscalculation - namely the deployment of the gunskimmer force to attack the Chamarran carriers. The gunskimmers accounted for nearly a third of Bragotyomkin’s total striking power, and had they been present in the close-quarters combat between the battleships and cruisers, they would have proved decisive in a Bragulan victory. They would have allowed us to defeat the main Chamarran combatants before later moving on to the carriers, had they been used as such.

But they were not used as such, and were instead squandered against the Dominions, with the rationale of halting the Chamarran advance by forcing them to defend their precious carriers, the flagships of their fleet. Sesh, however, proved uncooperative and chose to sacrifice her carriers instead - even going so far as commanding them to direct their drone fighters and missile salvos towards the bulk of Bragotyomkin rather than defend themselves from the gunskimmers - in order to continue her attack and secure a win.

Though victory came at a high cost, Sesh secured it with an utter lack of ruth and without being daunted by her own casualties, attacking aggressively and relentlessly as any true veteran admiral should. Our defeat stemmed from my underestimation of her and my misjudgments of the Hierarchy Spaceforce, believing that in the face of a true adversary, she would ultimately hesitate. But she did not, and was able to capitalize on the error, proving herself to be a very formidable opponent like any in the Koprulu Zone. She would make a good Bragulan.



On a tactico-technotronic front, Chamarran military technology has proven itself to be quite formidable. The potency of their beam cannons equal that of any Solarianoid autolaser or Byzantinian lance cannon, and their electronic warfare suites are capable of besting the antiquated sensorium of our aged paleocruisers, though the more modern aggressive-aggressive arrays can penetrate them. The beam weaponry, and their hypertap power sources, seem to be the most remarkable instruments at their disposal, while the rest of their technology are generally on par with the galactic standard.

Their systems rely on heavy automation, but strangely their computronics lag behind the advanced CI systems of the Solarianoids. The drones they employed were far more susceptible to the decoys and trickeries of our fighter pilots than the autonomous parasites of Solarian warships, and were aggregately slaved to controllers in the Dominion carriers, or remotely operated from other warships. It was not their individual capabilities, but rather their insurmountable numbers, that proved devastating to our paleocruiser forces during the exercise by providing a force multiplier for their Predator/Wayward cruiser-escort combination. Also, our own fighter pilots had never before encountered such numbers of adversaries, and were unable to counter them before being simply overwhelmed.

Traditional Bragulan fighter tactics typically involve using numbers against the comparatively fewer, more agile and autonomous Solarian parasites or Byzantine heavy fighters but after the first exercises, the crews of our Light of Bragule warcarriers quickly set about devising new stratagems for fighting foes whose fighters outnumbered us for a change. These new tactics were derived from contingency plans for dealing with the hypothetical scenario of Karlack splinter fleets gone rogue.

Another interesting observation is that despite their highly developed beam cannon technology, the primary point defense systems of their fleets are the missile-armed Wayward escorts. In other heavily beam-reliant navies, such as those of the Solarianoids, the Umerianoids, and Byzantinians, their autolasers, phased particulate beams and lance cannonries can and have been miniaturized for point defense purposes - whereas such is not the case for the Chamarrans and their armamentations. Perhaps this is due to complexities inherent to the engineering of their beam cannons, and intelligence suggests that many of their technologies are actually derived from the Juggernaut artifact-ships. This is, however, largely conjecture as the nature of their beam cannons and other esoteric technologies remain as some of the Hierarchy’s best-kept secrets.

Nonetheless, despite these considerable Chamarran advances, Bragulanity is still able to keep up with the bleeding edge, just like those of our Koprulu Zone rivals whose technological terrors are thwarted by the unsurpassed ruggedness, simplicity and durability of Bragtech - not to mention the sheer destrucity of the Bragulan vegemite nuke. The explosive yields of Chamarran atomics pale in comparison to this, for they are not vegemite-encrusted, but compensate by using advanced computronics in their guidance systems to increase their accuracy, though this defficiency may soon be corrected by Bragule’s vegemite exportations to Chamarra.

The automation of the Hierarchy’s warships, while allowing for smaller crews and freeing up room for their excessive luxuries, does not seem to provide a considerable improvement in damage control or redundancy over the tried and true usage of press-ganged conscript masses in most Bragships, from the nimblest of gunskimmers to the greatest battlefortresses. Their warships also favor a more evasive approach to combat, preferring to misdirect and dodge blows rather than endure them. When the blows do manage to land, however, the damage is truly felt, not just in terms of physical damage but also in terms of personnel lost - as each Chamarran is proportionately less replaceable than an equivalent Bragulan sailor. Many of their design philosophies, from the usage of massive swarms of remotely-operated drones, to the comfortable internal designs for luxuriating catgirls, leads me to believe that they tend to value the life of the individual overmuch.

Overall, I hold that while Battlemistress Sesh may have no qualms with sacrificing her ships and crews to secure a victory, other less seasoned, unblooded and less experienced Chamarran commanders may not share her own constitution. This is further supported by reports from past Chamarran exercises disclosed to us, as well as intelligence gathered by our liaisons in the other battlemistresses’ fleets, where the crews were reportedly shocked at the casualties Sesh sustained and expressed disapproval of her methodologies. The few minor altercations the Hierarchy Spaceforce had been involved in historically, usually involving policing actions, ork-pacification operations and anti-pirate patrols, usually saw decisive victories and minimal casualties on part of the Chamarrans. Losses on the scale they simulatedly sustained during the exercise were, as already stated, unheard of in modern Chamarran military history and quite understandably some kitties balked at the after-action figures.

Admittedly, so did we, but unlike the Chamarrans Bragulan warfighting philosophy and Byzonistic military heterodoxy never gave the illusion of an easy victory - and the realities we face day after day in the Koprulu Zone, the ever-present prospects of renewed hostilities against the Solarianoids, Byzantinians and all their other human allies, have long since cemented the fact that horrific casualties and massive damage are the order of the day and to be expected in any real war. The Chamarrans, on the other hand, have the luxury of peace and the enviable position of being nowhere near any of their mortal foes, having no mortal foes to speak of at all. This, I believe, underscores the different mindsets between Bragulans and Chamarrans, and in the next exercise, it was this fundamental fact that proved decisive in determining the second (mock) battle’s outcome.

In any case, after yet another meeting with the trio of battlemistresses*, we went off to prepare for the next round of exercises. This time, it would be all three of the battlemistresses’ fleets versus the entirety of Kosmoflot Bragotyomkin. So I did what had to be done to make ready for battle, scrutinizing the faults that led to the outcome of the first battle and ensuring that there would be no repetition, that the fleet would fight at its finest in front of these felines. It was an opportunity to slight the stain on Bragule’s honor, even though the odds were less favorable for us than it had been in the first exercise. I personally instructed the representatives of the Commissariat to drill Bragotyomkin’s sailors intensively in preparation, not with stick-beatings but with the intensive review of Byzonic literature - particularly the Imperator’s Teachings of Tactico-Strategic Military Heterodoxies, the basis of all Bragulan warfare. The impromptu re-indoctrination of the Imperator’s wisest martial teachings, combined with the desire to prove to the Chamarrans just what the Bragulan Navy was capable of, galvanized each and every one of us in Kosmoflot Bragotyomkin with proletarian patriotic Byzonistic frevor, unifying all of us in a state of classless righteous indignation, where high officers, professional volunteers, conscripts and even penal press-ganged dregs were as one - each individual becoming but a minute component in the greater whole, the mighty Byzonic machine that is the Imperial Warmachine.

Once we were all thoroughly prepared and re-Byzonized, the exercise commenced in short order. This time Bragotyomkin held the defensive position against the approaching feline fleets. They came from all sides, and as the mock battle began, with all its simulated glory and computated horror, the exercise gradually descended into a protracted hours-long campaign as the Chamarrans, seemingly more cautious this time round, opted to stand from afar and lay siege to us in space.

In that position, outnumbered by a slightly superior force of cats, I would have never expected the eventual outcome of that second exercise.

[*On a personal note, Battlemistress Sesh confided in me her mixed feelings with the results of the first exercises. Understandably, she expressed the exhilaration of having fought against a worthy adversary for the first time - an honor I am proud to claim. I congratulated her for her victory, something of a rare act for an Admiral of the Kosmoflot, and in turn she commended my ‘valiant forces’ most exemplary display of martial prowess’, our ‘noble and uncompromising warrior conduct’ and our ‘defiant stand up to the very end’ where ‘lesser forces would’ve faltered’. But somehow, I had the sense that she herself was unsure of what to make of her hard-earned victory. Certainly there was satisfaction in having won, but there was also an uncertainty in her, as if she did not know exactly what to make of her costly achievement. I can only imagine what her interactions with her fellow battlemistresses must have been like.]

[Siege]

Redwood Forest, Kimanjano
United Solarian Sovereignty



I watch the dust and gravel fly up in the rear view mirror as I pull the big red Sandorado back onto Highway 92. The gas station disappears behind a bend in the road, and then suddenly we're in-between the Grand Sequoias. Magnificent, centuries-old things, many of these trees are over a kilometer high, and their diameter is measured in hundreds of meters. Unlike almost any other place in the Sovereignty the road has been constructed to accommodate them, instead of the other way around: the black asphalt winds lazily through the forest, slaloming between the towering brown giants on stark-white support struts, a solid yellow-lined streak of black winding through the green biosphere of Redwood Forest.

“Having fun yet?” I ask with a smile.

She looks at me from behind those trendy Kristoff sunglasses. Her skin exudes the subtle fragrance of Blau. It makes her yet more attractive, despite the doubtful frown on her face. We met six months ago at a party thrown by our two respective firms, to celebrate two hundred years of interstellar banking relations. The party was boring; the crowds didn't mix – yeah I know, Imps and Sovvies don't socialize, who woulda guessed, right? Well, I met her halfway through at the buffet. We struck up a conversation- I can't recall who of us started it. I thought she was snobbish at first, the way all Byzantines are. She probably thought I was a boor. For some reason we kept talking, I guess because neither of us had anyone more interesting to talk to. I offered her Whiskey, she offered me Amasec. And something went *click*.

When the party was over the two of us continued talking at the nearest bar.

It's funny how quickly some opinions change. Six months later and here we are. I'm sure it's not her first trip outside of the Imperium, but I bet it's the first camping trip she's ever made. The forest smells of pine.

“No streaming water,” she says. “No civilization for fifty kilometers at the least, no electricity, no auspex, we're driving a hopeless gasoline antique...” she sums up her points with her fingers. “Did I miss something?”

“We have to cook on gas like-” I mimic her voice.

“Like Bragulan primitives!” she chimes in as I say it. We laugh. It's what she said when I first proposed this holiday. She told me she thought consciously leaving all interstellar civilization well behind was anathema to her idea of having a good time. I told her it would be fun. I like to think speaks volumes about her and about our relationship that she's actually agreed to it. Not that many people go for camping trips these days.

A flaming red atomic truck zooms past in the opposite direction. The trucker stares at us. We must look like Laurel and Hardy, I in my checkered woodsman's shirt, she in an elegant blue suit that's probably casual by Byzantine standards but hopelessly formal by ours.

“I like it here,” she suddenly says. “The forest's beautiful. It's just so... green.”

I just smile and turn on the rental's chromed radio. An ancient rock 'n' roll classic rings out the car's old-fashioned speakers. I hum along half-remembered lyrics. She fakes a groan and says “you're such a brute” but she smirks as she says it. I stick out my tongue. Huey Lewis sings something about the power of love. I think this is going to be a wonderful vacation.

[Force Lord]

The Bragulan Economic Exposition Extravaganza of Friendship (BEEEF)
Vlyadibragstok, Southeastern Severnaya Sector / just beyond Northwestern Lena Sector
Unreal Time / October-December 3400

In the Centralist pavillon, there was great activity. Already the first shipments of AB-185 Assault Blasters (delayed due to the fact that they were being hastily modified for Bragulan use) were arriving, as well as some Overseer droids and a few ESP Amplifiers. Even a handful of Hawk fighters had arrived. Now came the time to impress the Bragulans.

The firing range.



A few AB's were being tested at the firing range, where they were being fired by Bragulan volunteers. One Overseer droid had malfuctioned and was deactivated, but it was decided it made for a good target in the firing range. At the same firing range, four Hawk fighters from the Centrality and flown by Bragulan pilots were firing down towards a few "soft" targets: three old trains. Unfortunately for one Bragulan pilot, one of the trains had not been disposed of all its fuel, and he was too close to the resulting explosion, claiming him and his fighter. Nevertheless the tests were declared a success.

At the same firing range Bragulan officiers were writing down the performance of Centralite War Droids: A-3a Advanced Battle Droids, A-2c Combat Battle Droids, and finally the common A-1g Regular Battle Droids.

Code: Select all

Performance of A-1g RBDs

These machines are little better in battle than our conscripts. They have only a basic concept of cover, and their aim is unremarkable. Their intelligence is also rather limited: they can speak well, but they tend to talk excessively about their situations, and their common sense is lacking. They, however, can stand toe to toe with humans in a strength contest, and are cheap to produce. The Centralites say these machines are quite versatile and can fill almost any role. Indeed, they can carry many weapons, except the heaviest. They can also be programmed as pilots, drivers, janitors, to name a few roles. Nevertheless, the mentioned drawbacks mean the standard combat model can only be useful when used in sheer numbers.

Code: Select all

Performance of A-2c Combat Battle Droids

This model seems an evolutionary development of the A-1. It has an armored shell covering the upper body and the torso, while the legs are more built-up. This makes it taller and stronger than it's cheaper cousin, but heavier as well. While they can carry weapons, their main weaponry is actually built [i]inside[/i] their wrists! The standard model has two wrist blasters in each wrist, capable of a high rate of fire. A variant is armed with wrist rockets in one arm, while another has its right hand replaced with a type of projectile cannon. Other variants exist, but currently the Centrality is not providing us any more information about them. These machines are best used as shock troops.

Code: Select all

A-3a Advanced Battle Droid

Perhaps the most advanced war machine the Centrality has available, most of the functions of this robot are unknown to us. Indeed, this droid is expensive, yet the trials show it is very capable. The machine must have special armor, since one took some hits before going down. It can also mimic voices, useful in a spec-ops situation. Its agility is remarkable, more than a ordinary person, and can match a Bragulan in physical strength. This type of machine can use many weapons. It is our opinion that we must acquire as many of these machines as possible.

The Bragulans finished their report, and moved on elsewhere.

[Shroom Man 777]

Maynilad



"These godless communistas steal our money, the Feelipeeno's money, to fund their terror campaign, their rebellion. They call it their revolutionary taxes, but the only thing it taxes is my patience!" Shroomarcos bellowed in front of the assembled journos. "This cannot stand! Moreover, they chose to commit their crime in Sunday, when the Santo Papa was visiting, in a holy day! Truly their thieving terroristic treachery knows no bounds!"

Shroomarcos was fuming. Those pinko bastards dared steal money. Not just any money, but his money! He had gold in the banco, waiting for transfer to Zubrich where his billions of bullions were stashed at in his secret slush fund. The amount the communistas stole was minuscule. Had they gotten a sizable portion of it, hah, then they could've bought themselves a big part of the country. But no, what they got was spare change. But his spare change! Nobody fucked with Shroomarcos, no way Jose!

"There will be no mercy for these communistas, or any other subversives!" he continued. "Oh, you Centralites, you think I've forgotten about you? I don't think so! I am authorizing intensified military, paramilitary and intelligence operations against these subversives and all of their confederates, and have consulted with the Department of Defense. Combat operations will be stepped up in the provinces. Whatever refuges these rebels have will be found by our armed forces, and these criminals will be brought to justice in a completely fair and honest manner, with extreme prejudice. You communistas and centralismos have this one chance to surrender, before we hunt you down like dogs and cook your gooses!"

Shroomarcos laughed a harsh laugh.

"Anyone caught confederating with these rebels will be punished severely. But anyone with information that leads to the death of these rebels shall be rewarded handsomely. Ladies and gentlemen, people of the Feelipeens. We are at war. There can be no recourse until these worms who eat at the core of our great society are purged from our systems with sufficient doses of medicina!"

With that, he slammed his arthritic fist on his table and stormed off in a huff.

He went into his sanctum. Only his most trusted advisors were allowed to join him.

"Ferdi, you better calm down," Imelda consoled him. "You might explode an artery..."

"SHUT UP WOMAN!" Shroomarcos snapped at her. "Better if they had taken all your stinking shoes that are filling up our goddamn home than a single centavo of my fucking money!"

Imelda quivered and went off to sulk in a corner. Somehow, that made Shroomarcos feel better.

"My son," said the Archbishop, whoever his name was. "Certainly, material things are not of such import as matters of the soul and of love. Why, as the Father Pope said..."

"Cram it, old man!" Shroomarcos spat.

The funny-hatted priest crossed himself and went to pray.

"Jesus Christ," Shroomarcos cursed. "Can anyone here be actually useful for once?"

Behind him, a blacksuited Shepistani cleared his throat. Shroomarcos turned to face him, Feelipeeni butterfly knives (called balisong, in local lingo) of hate in his eyes.

"Mister President," the SIS man began. "I believe we may have a solution for your problems."

"Yeah? Well, spit it out, you goddamn gringo!"

"As a precaution for just exactly this kind of scenario, we took the liberty of irradiating your gold bullion, to track the movements of anyone who might make off with it..." the SIS man said.

"What?! You fucking Shepnukistanis nuked my fucking gold?!" Shroomarcos' eyes shot wide open. The balisongs in his eyes turned into frickin' machetes.

"As a purely precautionary measure, of course," the SIS man nodded.

"GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY OFFICE!" Shroomarcos howled.

"Okay," the SIS man shrugged as he stood up and went to leave the room. "But you'll never find out where the gold is."

Shroomarcos cursed.

"Sus! Mariosep!" Jesus Mary and Joseph. "Wait! Gringo! Tell me where my fucking gold is!"

The SIS man turned back and smiled at the President of the Feelipeens.

"Of course, Mister President. Why, we'll even draw a treasure map of it for you."



Somewhere in Planet Luz



The big truck rolled out into the Feelipeeni countryside. It was a Shepeterbilt 379 painted hotrod red. It wasn't traveling alone, with it were other vehicles, not quite as big or as cool, and more like the standard Feelipeeni vehicles, worn down, dented and rusty. In this convoy of trucks, the Shepeterbilt was the biggest, shiniest and coolest truck around. It also had a trailer rig attached to it, presumably filled with supplies.

As the convoy went on, they gradually left the confines of the marginally civilized areas of the Feelipeens and went into the further provinces where the rule of law was more tenuous. Yet they didn't slow down (well, actually, they kind of did because the roads in these areas were pretty damn terrible), for they had a job to do - a destination to reach.

They left dust clouds billowing in their wake as their passage picked up dirt from the ground. The Shepeterbilt's gleaming chromed bodywork was caked with dust. The sun had turned red in the late afternoon.

The lead car of their convoy stopped abruptly, and all the vehicles after it did so as well to prevent a pileup. Ahead of them was a roadblock, several massive tree trunks that had fallen in the middle of the road. Some of the men went out of their vehicles and examined the obstruction, and prepared to tie ropes to the trunks so they could drag them away.

Before they could, the sound of gunfire filled the air. Some of the men ran for their lives from the Killyshnikov fire. From the woods and underbrush surrounding the road emerged a band of armed men, red stars patched on their ragtag uniforms. The truckers quivered in fear. Communistas.

They demanded their revolutionary taxes, but when the truckers couldn't pay, they were beaten with rifle butts. The rebels decided to exact payment in the form of materials, but most of the trucks and vehicles were crummy. Except for one. The Shepeterbilt truck. They liked it, and decided to keep it, along with its trailer full of supplies. It would help their revolution.

So the revolutionaries left the rest of the truckers and their crummy trucks, after slashing their tires and breaking their radios. Making sure they couldn't alert the authorities, who were usually too far away to do anything anyway.

The revolutionaries took the Shepeterbilt truck and rode off into the sunset, back to their revolutionary stronghold.



Fuckbalahap base

The revolutionaries celebrated. Not only had they gotten themselves a new truck, but mysterious benefactors had also provided them with copious amounts of monies to aid their revolution. Shroomarcos' corrupt regime wouldn't last long, and now that the centralismos had joined them in the noble struggle, Shroomarcos' days were numbered.

So they feasted. The Shepeterbilt truck had been, for some reason, filled with foods. They also drank tuba, coconut wine. They lit up a bonfire and sang the Internationale, reddened eyes watering at the sound of its touching tunes.

Suddenly, the tunes of the socialist song was interrupted by the sound of rapid clickings and clackings, mechanical noises that emanated from the Shepeterbilt truck they had captured. Some of the communistas wondered if something was wrong with the truck, if they had left the engines on or if it was malfunctioning. Others, for some reason, aimed their Killyshnikovs at the vehicle as though warding away evil spirits fearfully.

They were right.

As the mechanical sounds intensified, the Shepeterbilt truck in its polished hotrod red paint scheme began to move in an extremely untruck-like manner, seemingly rearing up on itself as its components and bits and pieces reconfigurated, as its chassis reshaped itself. As it transmorphed.


[FREEDOM PRIME demonstration in Montgomery, Shepistan.]

The Shepeterbilt truck transformed into something else entirely. The elite commando version of the Shepistani FREEDOM PRIME killbots. With an unlimited kill-meter.

It reared up on its hind legs and registered the communistas around it, their brown skin bathed in the eerie red light of the bonfire. Then it made its pronouncement:

COMMUNIST THREAT DETECTED! BETTER DEAD THAN RED!

At this, the rebels opened fire with their Killyshnikovs and RPGs. Rounds pinged off the FREEDOM PRIME's hyperalloy combat chassis, while cheap explosives merely scorched its hotrod red paintjob. In return, the FREEDOM PRIME's eyes began to glow and after a sharp humming noise, an intense light shot out of its face - a beam of red, white and blue colorations that made the communists catch fire.

Then the FREEDOM PRIME's other weaponries activated. Menergon blades snapped out of its forearms as it started to cut down communists. Some tried to climb up to the safety of the tries, but the Menergon blades merely chopped the trees up before chopping the communists up afterwards.

COMMUNIST THREAT DETECTED! BETTER DEAD THAN RED!

Arm-guns, shoulder-cannons, plasma casters, grenade launchers, sonic electronic ball breakers. The FREEDOM PRIME unleashed the arsenal of democracy on the godless socialists. Perhaps, for the first time in countless years, the FREEDOM PRIME was finally doing the mission it was designed for.

COMMUNIST THREAT DETECTED! BETTER DEAD THAN RED!

Its facial armor-plate lowered, revealing its mouth parts. It opened them and fire began to belch out, burning a school and a makeshift hospital staffed by doctors and nurses who had come to the provinces and collaborated with the communists to take care of the poor. It was a fitting fate.

COMMUNIST THREAT DETECTED! BETTER DEAD THAN RED!

A group of communizers lowered their arms, fell to their knees and began groveling for mercy. The FREEDOM PRIME stomped on them, liquefying their corpses on its armored mine-resistant hooves before scraping their remains off.

COMMUNIST THREAT DETECTED! BETTER DEAD THAN RED!

Its long-range sensors detected another encampment nearby. A village, whose sick and ill came to the communist camp to be treated in their field hospital. No doubt the vile villagers were providing food and resources to the godless communoids.

That was it.

The FREEDOM PRIME turned to its trusty trailer rig. With a wireless command, the trailer rig began to transmorph as well. It opened up, revealing something cleverly concealed within it. A sub-kiloton thermonuclear warhead.

The FREEDOM PRIME picked the warhead up with one hand and, with all the force its servohydraulics could muster, hurled the nuclear bomb like a giant football at the nearby village.

There was a brilliant flash of light as the jungle itself caught fire.

FREEDOM IS THE RIGHT OF ALL SENTIENT BEINGS!

[Shroom Man 777]

Co-written with PeZook!

Previously on SDNW4...

“This is Murca, guys! This is how things should be everywhere!”, he started to talk excitedly, his voice breaking down periodically due to his immensely patriotic fervor, “I mean when I get ready to buy a company that makes more than 250 thousand marks a year, why should I pay more tax on it? To support some bullshit welfare state? No! Support the troops! Go army strong! We are fighting for freedom and remember that the tree of liberty needs to be watered with oil and blood of Mohicans! Freedom isn’t free! Yeah! MURCA! FUCK YEAH! FUCK YEAH! Say it with me!”

“FUCK YEAH!”, the crowd chanted with him, and Joey was proud, so proud of his fellow Murcans that they could take a stand against the forces of terror trying even now to destroy their way of life. Fuck yeah!

Almera Colony
Oho, Murca
123 Fatlas Smuggedsville Trailer Park



The great slabs of meat were sizzling on the grill, tended by womenfolk as the Bibel proscribed, as the newest regulations - all just and proper, of course, aiming only to preserve the fabric of society - posited in the Constipitution. The Sovereign Citizens were hard at work, making sure Murca would remain free from the taint of homobortionist intellectual lieberals that threatened to tear apart that great country.

Joey was sure glad the Sovereign Citizens prevented that. He could’ve seen it slowly happening during Bari’Bama’s time in office, the dissolution of the true Algeiran culture, the constant invasions by foreigners and government officials telling good patriotic citizens what to do and when...Joey welcome the change, the freedom, preserved under threat of guns.

His neighbor, Billy Bob Franklin Junior, didn’t seem as enthusiastic as him, though he did organize an awesome grill party, serving only wholesome and healthy traditional Murcan cuisine.

“Hey, Joey,” the man said, walking up to Joey Jojo, who was minding his own business, chugging down red meat with butter and washing it down with gravy, “It’s kinda hot today. Enjoying the meats?”

“Damn right, pardner.” Joey nodded as he grabbed a piece of rare meat and chewed on it, staining his lips with beef blood.

Billy Bob grabbed a light apetizer with both hands and bit into it.



The fat and sauces dripped down to the ground, but the man managed to avoid staining his pants. “You were at the rally yesterday?” he continued the small talk.

Joey added some gravy to his beer, mixing a traditional, wholesome Murcan drink with his steak knife. “I sure did! We sure showed those homobortionists how it’s done. The folks even got to shoot a lieberal. A real lieberal intellectual, man! You don’t see those often anymore!”

“Yeah...”, Billy Bob seemed sullen all of a sudden, “...it’s kinda hard to find any now. Like a doctor.”

“What’s going on, Billy?”, Joey showed concern, despite his dislike for the man’s sudden display of unmanly emotions, “Trouble with the family?”

“My youngest is sick, man.”

“Well, tell him to walk it off! If he eats right he’ll be walkin’ around and playin’ with the little fellas in no time!” Joey chuckled good-naturedly. Hah, and to think Billy Bob bought into that lieberal bull about vaccinations, now look what happened. Served ‘im right.

“That’s what the Sovereign Citizens told me, too. Things sure have changed a lot.”

“It’s all for the better, Billy.” Joey chugged down his can of gravied beer and belched mightily... from both directions at once. “Let’s see the libruls regulate that carbon emission! Hahaha!”

Both men laughed it up, as it was truly great comedy. Billy forgot about his troubles for a while and farted himself, to add to the fun.

“Oh, hah hah... that was good!” Joey tried wiping a stain from his shirt, but failed. He decided on a light snack to lighten his mood, and chose a couple slices of deep fried pizza



“Anyways, I heard your eldest is in Pelania now?”

“Oh yes, he’s a Murcan Marine.”

“I saw on TV that the damn sand diggers are trying to suicide bomb our boys!” Joey Jojo spat. “Fuckin’ cowards! At least the luberal just lied down and let us shoot ‘im in the face. Those hash brownies won’t even take a bullet like a man, the shits! They do their killin’ facelessly! They should stand up and fight us like men!”

“I wouldn’t know” Billy Bob said evasively, as if he was hiding something. Joey was starting to become suspicious... first he wanted to see a lieberal doctor, and now didn’t seem outraged at the cowardice of the foreigners? “I just want my boy home, you know. We don’t want big guvmint regulatin’ our business here, so why is the guvmint sending our boys to regulate Pelania? I don’t want my boy blown up by some sand digger, Joey.”



Goddamn, Joey Jojo’s brain froze in the middle of swallowing another ice cold beer, mixed with gravy and half of a deep-fried Sneakers bar floating inside of it like a turd in a toilet bowl. What was that crazy talk? Benn Gleck said the Army was doing righteous work in Pelania! Spreading freedom, and Billy Bob didn’t want to sacrifice his family for that? That limp dicked pussy couldn’t even get it hard enough to support the troops!

Billy Bob Franklin seemed to take Joey’s sudden silence as sympathy, because he suddenly opened up, “You know, that gots me thinkin’ about the whole business here, Joey. How’s that we now have gubmint folks that ain’t doin’ anything fer the community?”

Sweet Jeebus. Joey clenched his fist, squeezing another piece of raw meat so hard the juices dripped out. He was starting to shake with righteous rage. Did Billy Bob just say he wanted a bigger gubmint?

“I mean,” Billy Bob continued obliviously. “I get it that the gubmint shouldn’t butt into our business, but they could at least bring the trash out, ya know?”

Joey Jojo looked back at his trailer park home and the mound of dirt accumulating outside of it. Was Billy Bob mocking him? Was he saying that he had a dirty house? That worthless piece of shit!

“...an’ they’re tryin’ to enforce those ridiculous things, like makin’ boys play with themselves, or havin’ women wear those stupid dresses...” he pointed to Joey’s wife, Mary Jane, who was trying to fry huge slabs of meat while wearing a proper and modest set of whole body-covering clothing, so as not to reveal her luscious and sexually stimulating features - like the face.

Joey glared at the man. What was he, a lustful sinner who coveted his wife? Who the hell did he think he was? First he questioned the righteousness of Pelania’s freedomization, then the Sovereign Citizens and their attempts to secure the freedom of Murcan society... and now this!

“Who the hell do you think you are, Billy? Are you trying to say something? Huh?!”

Billy Bob Franklin Junior raised his hands defensively, surprised at the sudden outburst “Relax, Joey! You have to admit that’s a little excessive!” he tried to save the situation.

Joey dropped his dish in shock. Billy Bob really did covet his wife! He wanted to see her face, her hands, possible even her... feet! He reached to his belt, where he always kept a gun - to chase away stray dogs and the homeless.

“What the hell are you suggestin’?! Huh? You want to take my wife away?! Bring it on! Bring it!”

“Jumpin’ Jehoshaphats, Joey Jojo!” Billy Bob Franklin Junior backed off. “What the hell? I was only saying that it was kinda hot for those clothes!”

“AHA!” Joey pointed an accusing finger at Billy Bob. “You... you! YOU! YOU PIECE OF SHIT! YOU SHITPIECE! GET AWAY FROM MY WIFE YOU DAMNED DIRTY DEM!”

“Fuck you, Joey!” Billy Bob shot back. “You’re full of shit, man! So full of shit that you’re, like, the fattest fertilizer salesman in Murca!”

“Get out of my goddamn house you traitor!” Joey Jojo pulled out his gun and shot in the air repeatedly, screaming as he did so. “Aaaaaahhhhh!!!!!!”

“We’re not in your house, fucker!”

Joey gurgled something incomprehensible, a half-swallowed brownie bar was sticking out of his throat and mouth. He contemplated shooting the traitor right then and there, but Billy Bob wasn’t some lieberal intellectual. There were some people living here who actually liked the bastard!

Holy shit, I’m surrounded by traitors! Joey thought. He’d deal with it another way!

“MARY JANE!” he screamed. “PACK YOUR BAGS! WE’RE LEAVIN’!”



Meanwhile...
Almera Colony
Corinth, Pelania



The convoy of Doomvees sped through the Pelanian marketplace. Their star-spangled hood ornaments were stained by the blood of hobos who couldn’t vacate the streets fast enough. Doomvee drivers were told to drive as fast as they could, as long as they could, and as hard as they could. Maintain forward mobility at all costs, or else those freedom-hating suicide bombing sand diggers would blow them up for bringing democracy to their nation. Any attempt to inconvenience the Coalition Of The Coerced was obviousyly a terrorist plot.

Fuckin’ ungrateful sand diggers, thought Private Freedom Class Chet Fisto, manning the Mama Goose heavy machinegun on the leading Doomvee. It’s been a week since Corinth fell to Coalition troops, and it still wasn’t calm on the streets of the fucking shithole of a city. Now PFC Fisto and his platoon were running patrols every day, trying to find any remaining terrorist sympathizers and freedomize them thoroughly.

“RPG LEFT!”, he suddenly heard someone scream from inside the car. He swiveled the heavy machine gun and sure enough, somebody was pointing an object at the convoy.

“Pit stop pit stop anus two by four engaging!”, Chet screamed into his microphone and let fly. His weapon roared, and the crowd scattered, running for cover.

The man with the RPG was perforated along with a couple of random civilians he was talking to - no doubt discussing the best plan to execute the ambush. The massive rounds of his sixty cal almost ripped the man in half.

“HOOAH!” Fisto shouted and pumped his fist “Take that, fuckers!” He felt his pants become tight again. The fucking quartermaster was supposed to have fixed that already!

“Cease fire cease fire!” his radio suddenly blared “Convoy halt!”

The entire collumn stopped, and the third Doomvee disgorged medics and their commander. He walked up to Fisto and slapped him on the helmet, “You fucking idiot! That was a journo! Didn’t you see he was white?!”

Fisto ground his teeth, “So fucking what, LT? That defence contractor at the briefing recommended we kill all journos anyway. And he had a camera, so fuck him, he shouldn’t point random objects at our troops, we’re armed and don’t give a shit!”

The driver yelled “HOOAH!” but shut up after the lieutenant glared at him. “We’ll talk later, Fisto.”

The medics, predictably, declared the journalist dead. Stupid fuckers, Fisto thought, Of course he’s dead, I blew him apart with a Mama Goose!

“Are we moving or what? I’m hungry,” one of the soldiers whined.

Fisto sighed. “We have to wait until they pack up the fucking journo.”

As the convoy waited, scanning the crowds for potential ambushers and suicide bombers, the radios began blaring incomprehensible messages again. “Seven gnomes call up west of your position confirm shaftlick, confirm”

“Go ahead with Shaftlick”

“ASS located primary BUTT in your area six BODY ODOR times fifty two confirm”

“Holy shit! Holy shit, Chet, you heard that man? They found him!” Fisto’s driver yelled. “Let’s move before he disappears again!” He revved the engine like a little kid

“Wait for the order!” Fist wouldn’t have his men going off on their own, that was for liberals. He did tap his fingers impatiently on the trigger, though.

“All units all units move out six BODY ODOR time fifty two BUTT located”

“HOOAH! We’re gonna getcha, Barry! FUCK YEAH!” Fisto’s driver yelled as he threw the doomvee in gear. “We’re gona have us some fun! We’re gonna have us some fun!”

They column rolled out, engines revving at full power. Up in the skies, far above the city, helicopters raced towards the location indicated by the radio calls. Everyone was excited, everyone was happy, for they finally found their quarry.

It lasted about as long as it took for them to drive into an ambush.

RPGs streamed out from rooftops near the target building. They struck one of the doomvess which blew up in a spectacular fireball and blocked the rest of the convoy. The remaining National Guardsmen began raking rooftops and windows and parked cars and storefronts with heavy weapon fire, but the convoy was trapped in a kill-zone.

“Goddamn, they’re trying to delay us! Gun it!” Fisto yelled at the top of his lungs, over the roar of his Mama Goose. His Doomvee was not blocked, and he knew that if they let themselves be pinned down, even only long enough to killfuckerize everything alive within two blocks, Bari’Bama could escape. So he ordered his driver to keep moving, which prompted two other doomvees to follow.

They left the carnage behind, chased only by Fisto’s lieutenant screaming obscenities into the radio. Fisto didn’t care, though. They were gonna have some fucking fun with that socialist traitor of the people! He didn’t bayonet defenceless students at Kunt State just to let that evil man escape!

Fisto’s little column cleared a corner and charged into a tiny little square in front of the target building. They were immediately raked with rifle fire, but their Mama Gooses silenced it quickly.

“Ha ha you stupid fuckers!” Fisto’s driver was totally pumped up, the man was a proper Murcan, enjoying the action and the carnage. He drove over a suspected terrorist sympathizer and laughed. He fucking laughed.

Suddenly, Fisto noticed something strange. A vehicle, all white, with a weird red cross emblem on the side. It stopped nearby and a bunch of hash brownies in white coats jumped out and started to help a wounded man.

“What the fuck is this shit? We’re running a police action here!” Fisto couldn’t believe his eyes. How dare they keep terrorists from slowly and painfully bleeding out in the mud like they deserved.

He grit his teeth again and fired a long burst, perforating all the goddamned sand diggers with the sixty cal and fucking up their ride.

“Hell yeah Chet! Show ‘em how it’s done! Fucking noncombatants wandering into a combat zone! FUCKERS!”

Fisto was satisfied with the carnage, but didn’t lose sight of their primary objective. “Dismount, ladies! Let’s go get Barry!” He yelled into his radio.

“HOOAH!”

The troops dismounted their Doomvess, although it turned out that a couple were wounded. The Doomvees were not armored, no doubt due to Bari’Bamas neglect of the military. Yet another reason to hate the man.

They entered the building’s foreboding doorway, gaping at them like the gateway to Hell itself. But Murcan soldiers weren’t afraid of Hell, they’d invade Hell’s asshole too if it meant they’d get that fucker, that Satan Mekratrig, that socialist Barry. The shitpiece.



They cleared the building room by room like pros, stacking up and tapping each other on the ass and slicing the pies like they were trained to do. It was hard work, sweaty and humid but also manly, as they blew apart many terrorist fuckers and their human shields. Some of them begged for their lives, but as they wore no uniforms the Genevieve Conventions did not apply to them - and so Fisto’s men shot them all like rats. They had the guns and the gear and so could do whatever the fuck they wanted to anyone they desired. As Saint Murcan said, might made right, and they were the mightiest of Almera and thus the rightiest of all.

Finally, they reached the centre of the hovel, the biggest room. It was almost over. Other soldiers were storming the compound too, invading its orifices from helicopters and armored transports, but Fisto wouldn’t wait for some stupid ASS TURDS to take all the glory. He kicked the door open and screamed obscenities as his men stormed the room, kicked down whimpering human shield terrorist sympathizers and dragged out their quarry, the most dangerous man on the planet. They dragged him out from a hole he was hiding in, the coward.

Fisto held up a picture all Murcan soldiers had on them, taken some time after Bari’Bama cowardly fled back to his secret homeland of Pelania, and compared the prisoner’s face to it for a good minute.



“Yep. Boys, we’ve got him!”

“HOOAH!”

The guardsmen high-fived and slapped each other on the ass. It was a good game. They’d debrief themselves later at the base’s shower room, too.

Fisto nodded with satisfaction. Justice would be served.

Finally.



Almera Colony
Oho, Murca
Undisclosed Motel Room



Joey Jojo smiled as he sat there, watching TV in the cheap motel room. Used condoms littered the floor, but upon sniffing them, he found out that they were months old by now. Proof that godless contraceptives were no longer being used, and that ever since then, the occupants of the motel practiced only abstinence.

The TV was showing how a completely anonymous tip had led to the discovery of a den of lieberals in the nearby trailer park of 123 Fatlas Smuggedsville, led by their ringleader Billy Bob Franklin Junior, and how the sovereign citizens came in to get rid of them. They took them to the FREEMA camps, once used for death by the godless lieberals, but now used for freedom by the small inobtrusive government.

“That’s what you get for wantin’ a bigger guvmint, Billy Bob,” Joey said to himself quietly. “That’s what you get fer wantin’ to take away our freedom, you miserable piece of sentimental hippy shit.”

He laughed, laughed at Billy Bob Franklin Junior’s mug on the TV screen, at the video of all those neighbors of his being forced to take off all their clothes before being thrown into a ditch and getting taken cared of by the sovereign citizen militia groups. Served them right. Served them all right.

As he watched Billy Bob scream and blubber and beg for his life, Joey couldn’t help but remember one of the last thing Billy said to him. Something about being a fertilizer salesman. Yes. He was a plumber, but he also cleaned septic tanks to earn extra. But what if... what if he used all the shit for fertilizer, and sold it? Yes. That could work. Hah! He could do that for a living, he’d need a new job now that he was out of Fatlas Smuggedsville anyway, and why not? The free market would reward him, and one day he’d come back and buy that burned down trailer park and invest in some real estate bubbles, just like what those tycoons at Balls Street said.

Joey thanked Billy Bob Franklin Junior for the sound financial advice. Eventually, the video of his ex-neighbor’s ultimate freedomization was being cut off by something else.

“Live from Corinth, Pelania. The Murcan military has announced a stunning development on the War of Oppression. The former President of Algeira, and now wanted fugitive war criminal dictator-terrorizer Bari’bama, or Barry as they called him on the Hill, has been captured!

“The hero of the hour is a team of National Guardsmen from the province of Oho. One of them is with us right now. Private Freedom Class Chet Fisto. Hello, Chet.”

“Hello, Blenn. How are you today?”

“Me? I’m fine. You?”

“I’m feeling great. Extra-freedomy!”

“That’s good to hear, Chet. Say, who’s your friend you brought with you?”

“Oh, him? His name is Barry. That’s what we called him on the Hill.”

“Hello Barry.”

“Barry, say hello to these nice journos from Cox News.”

“...mmmrrrmmmffrrrrmmmmffff!!!”

“SAY HELLO TO THESE NICE JOURNOS FROM COX NEWS YOU GODDAMN FUCKING SAND DIGGER! CARPET BADGER! YOU DIRTY MUDDY PIECE OF SHIT!”

“Hahaha. Private, what’s that you brought with you? Is it something for Barry?”

“Oh. Why, yes it is.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a bucket of water, and a board.”

“What’s it for?”

“Oh... for hydration. And bathing. Say, Barry, would you like to take a bath?”

“Nnnnnnnfffffff!!!!! Nnnnnnffffrrrrrggghhhh!!!!!!”

“Don’t be such a woman! We all know no means yes!”

“NNNNRRRRRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!!!”

“Open wide! Say aaaaah!”



“Hhhrrrrggghhrrrkkkkk.......”

“Ladies and gentlemen, that is the socialist traitor Barry being freedomized right before your eyes for his crimes against freedom, democracy and Murca. Live, right here on Cox News. This is the Straight Talk Express. Except, Barry here can’t talk very straight right now because of all the water in his lungs.”

The camera focused on Barry’s face, as he was desperately gushing for air and whimpering sadly. News tickers floated at the bottom of the screen with less important news than gratuitous torture of the most evil man on the planet: mere forest fires and economic woes of the nation would have to wait.

Remember folks, if you want to support our brave troops..., the voiceover continued while Fisto was stuffing a wet rag deep into Barry’s throat while screaming obscenities (which were all bleeped out to protect the children, of course). ...call the phone numbers specified below and donate to the Troop Stress Relief Fund! We’ll provide the troops with quality adult entertainment professionals to give them aid and comfort away from home, and engineering support to honor their tools and keep them rigid! Make sure our boys can freedomize these poor people with gusto!

Barry’s gurgling ceased for a while. Chet Fisto screamed something foul and began administering CPR to his victim. When the former president of Algeira, the foul fiend, woke up again, PFC Fisto immediately redoubled his efforts to freedomize the dirty socialist.

With gusto.



The Hill
Washingtoff, Murca
A few days later still

“The Zenobian ambassador is here to see you, sir”, the young aide quietly reported. Thick Chinny quickly tossed his issue of Cocked and Locked into the drawer and zipped up his pants.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Let him in!” he answered angrily, hoping the boy didn’t notice what it was that he was doing. He wiped his brow and tried to compose himself.

The door to Chinny’s crappy office, the Almost Sovereignest Citizen’s office, opened with a creak. The bullet holes still weren’t patched on them, unlike the awesome huge door used to access Shrubya. Chinny growled and quietly added a mental note to himself to steal a door from somewhere else on the Hill. Maybe one of the aides - they couldn’t protest, for fear of being thrown out onto the streets of Washingtoff with no health insurance if they offended Chinny. Yes. Good plan.

The Almost Sovereignest Citizen smiled to himself, confusing the portly, short man standing before him. It was Litvin Maximov, Zenobia’s ambassador to Murca. The short bastard was the only ambassador who somehow managed to navigate the strange and twisted structures of the new government and get stuff done.

Chinny had finally realized Maximov was there and snapped back to reality. “What can I do for you, ambassador?” He asked with a snarl. Stupid diplomacy.

“Mr. Almost Sovereignest Citizen”, Maximov began, stressing Chinny’s title. That reminded him of his meeting with that stupid military officer... and that bureaucrat before him... and one of Shrubya’s smug assistants... grrrrrrr.

Ambassador Maximov smiled inwardly, seeing Chinny break a pencil in his hand. “My government has instructed me to deliver a stern warning about undertaking ill-advised foreign adventures. The international community...”

“What?” Chinny interrupted “What foreign adventures? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Why, your occupation of Pelania, of course...”

“The hell? What the fuck, do you Zenobians think you can order us around?”

Maximov knew of Chinny’s temperament, but even he was surprised by the sudden outburst. “No, we merely want to warn you against destabilizing adventurism...”

“Oh like hell you do! You just know you can’t poison Pelania with your goddamned socialist lieberal ideas if there are Murcan boys present there, you fucks!” Yeah, he’d tell him! He’d tell him good, the smug bastard!

“Please calm down, Mr. Almost Sovereignest.” Maximov was starting to wonder if his quip at Chinny’s title wasn’t ill-advised “History shows that...”

Chinny slammed his fist on the table. “Screw history! And screw YOU, ambassador! We don’t need your fucking approval! We’re gonna bring freedom anywhere we want, whenever we want, because we’ve got the biggest guns, biggest ships and the meanest sons-of-bitches on the planet!”

“There is not a lot of goodwill towards Murca in the world right now, Mr. Chinny. You’d do well to take international opinion into account, or you might find yourselves standing alone in a time of crisis.”

“Ah, go to hell. You limp-dicked science majors couldn’t fight your way out of a wet paper bag, anyway. Murca has always defended you! Well now you can shove that smug attitude up your ass ‘coz you’re either with us or against us and boy if you’re against us...” Chinny had to pause for breath here. He wheezed a few times before continuing “...then you will get fucked up! YES! WE WILL GO DOWN ON YOUR ASSES SO FUCKING HARD YOU’LL BE SHITTING OUT BLOOD FOR A WHOLE YEAR!”

Aides and bodyguards were now glancing into Chinny’s office, wondering what was going on. The tirade lasted for a good fifteen minutes, before Litvin Maximov charged out, fuming and angry. But it was nothing compared to Thick Chinny. His anger was epic. It was righteous.

“THAT’S RIGHT, MAXIMOV! YOUR MOTHERLAND IS A WHORE!” Thick Chinny was following him while bellowing out a constant stream of obscenities. Finally, the Zenobian ambassador couldn’t take anymore and he locked himself up in the bathroom. But Thick Chinny wouldn’t relent, as he stood outside of the toilet, kicking and slamming at the door while continuing his spiel for hours on end. “A CHEAP WHORE! I SWEAR IF YOU CROSS US, SHE’LL BE A DEAD ONE TOO! LIKE ALL THE OTHER WHORES IN MY FUCKING BACKYAR...”

Realizing he had said too much, and that he was on the verge of an arrest, Chinny quieted down and slowly ambled off. Clutching his chest and looking for morphine.

Litvin Maximov would not leave the bathroom until the next day, when Chinny would be in the hospital for a minor heart attack. But the Almost Sovereignest wasn’t done with Zenobia. No, he felt that the ambassador insulted him, personally! He brushed aside the doctors and nurses and called up his trusty assistant.

“I’ll make them pay, the fuckers. The goddamned communistas! Draft up an executive order for the Sovereignest citizen and make him sign it! I will show them that nobody fucking orders Murcans around! Nobody tells the freest country in the world what to do! Don’t write that down, you idiot!”

The aide yelped and jumped. He knew perfectly well that having little money and no connections, he could end up on the street with one word from Chinny, as Murca now practiced “at will” employment. And he sure couldn’t afford a nice and clean hospital like the one the Sovereign Citizens used. Well, not without selling his organs, at least.

“Are you done, shithead? Now I cite!”

The aide nodded and began noting - really, really fast. The very next day, the media announced a new executive order of Murca’s unobtrusive government.

EXOR 11231 GEOSTEMBUTTOCK

1. NO MENTION OF THE COUNTRY OF ZENOBIA SHALL BE MADE IN PUBLIC DOCUMENTS, PRIVATE WRITING, EVERYDAY SPEECH OR ELECTRONIC TRANSMISSION
2. ALL MEMBERS OF THE UNMENTIONABLE NATION’S DIPLOMATIC CORPS, ITS CITIZENS AND ASSOCIATES ARE TO BE KNOWN AS TERRORISTS
3. TERRORISTS HAVE NO RIGHTS
4. THEREFORE, TERRORISTS MUST BE SHOT ON SIGHT
5. FREE CITIZENS OF MURCA ARE TO IMMEDIATELY BURN ALL DOCUMENTS, BOOKS AND ELECTRONIC STORAGE DEVICES THAT MENTION OR CONCERN THE UNMENTIONABLE NATION IN ANY WAY
6. VIOLATION OF THE BILL IS PUNISHABLE BY SUMMARY EXECUTION

Long live the land of the free! The home of the brave!

[Fingolfin_Noldor]

Imperial Chronicles
With considerable edits by Siege, and inputs by Shroom

Nineveh

The man they called ‘Yeshua’ stood amidst the unthinkable charnel house that had once been a thriving colony. Everywhere around him were bodies, torn limb from limb -- little more than chunks of bone and ragged meat, sliced to pieces as if by an army of deranged butchers who did not care how their cleavers slashed. There had been no tact, no subtlety, no restraint to the onslaught. The enemy had massacred without regard, offering no quarter even to women or children. Blood caked to ceilings, ran in thick runnels from doorposts and windows of the habs. It flowed through the streets like a river, pooled in drains, clogged in the sewers. The nauseating stench of death hung in the streets like a black fog.

Yeshua felt worn down to the bone. He sighed, knelt and drew a symbol in the blood-spattered sand. He placed his hand over the symbol and uttered a few words. His lips bled a little, and a device he held in his other hand glowed and emitted a cackling voice. Something was alive within the device, an animus that responded with glee, no exultation, to the bloodshed. It grew with every life he took, becoming ever stronger, ever more powerful. But it wasn’t mature yet. It would take more time, and more blood.

In a bid to quell the civil war he had started, the Imperium responded with carnage of its own. The the Holy Inquisition had dispatched the Adeptus Sororitas to lob off the heads of the leaders of the revolt, a task they performed with their usual fanatical fervor. While more bloodshed was certainly palatable to Yeshua’s hidden masters, he knew the Inquisition was closing in on him, and the Sisters were determined to haul him in front of the populace and put him to the sword for Grand Heresy, just like they had already done to so many of his puppets. If they caught him alive, he would be burned at the stake. Or perhaps he would be crucified, then burnt. Yeshua did not really care what the Imperial zealots had in store for him. He did not intend to be taken.

Still he could not allow these accursed servants of the False God, the Anathema, to deter him from his task. His hidden masters had directed him to find a world that would suit their purposes and evade the Anathema’s wretched servants. He would follow his master’s directives, and find passage off Nineveh. Some of his followers, who had earlier begged him to stay as their leader, had suggested using a ritual to power the device they had given him to get him off-world, but he had objected; the scum of the Inquisition would be looking for signatures in the warp, and the use of the device when warships of the accursed Imperium remained in orbit would certainly alert them to his presence and existence.

Yeshua scowled and stood. It would have to be done the hard way. He clasped the device in his hand, and with a thought reinforced the glamour that hid him from detection.

Later in a local cantina, he met the captain of a freighter. Where there was war and bloodshed, men like him would inevitably arrive: he was an arms smuggler, a war profiteer - a carrion bird on the field of war. But today, it was he who was the prey. “Can you get me off-planet, child?” Yeshua asked. His voice was unnaturally soothing and sang with the power of the warp.

The captain, enthralled and kneeling with one knee before Him, replied softly, “Anything is possible for my Lord.”

You would sooner deny me 3 times, you wretched little shit, thought Yeshua, however he instead told the captain, “Thank you, Son. Your deeds will be rewarded in heaven.”

“Where do you wish to go to, Lord? You wish is but my command.”

“I wish to go to this planet,” He pointed at a planet on a ragged star chart.

The man bowed one more time. “I will do as you command, my Lord. Remember me in heaven.”

“I will, my child.”

Of Yeshua’s followers, he only allowed one man to accompany him off-world. He was Jonah, his most faithful servant. “I am honored that you should allow me to follow you my lord. I shall follow you to the ends of the Earth, and even slay those who come to bring you to be crucified by these nonbelievers.”

“Stay your sword. You will do me justice when the proper time comes, as I have dictated it.”

“It shall be done as you say, my Lord.”

“Good. Now prepare for our departure. And don’t hesitate to disembowel this slimy worm of a freighter captain. I do not sense any falsehoods in him, but his bumbling stupidity could get us killed by accident.”

“As you say, my Lord.”

Slipping the gauntlet was not easy. The captain had made his best effort, even going so far as to use null fields to hide his presence, but the Imperium was determined to enforce the Compliance of Nineveh, and the Inquisitorial triumvirate had a full precogitor choir at their disposal. Ultimately the Imperial farsensors got wind of the planned escape, and the Inquisition unleashed the Adeptus Sororitas on Yeshua just as he was boarding the freighter with his last remaining follower.

“Get on board your holiness! I will do my best to hold them off!” yelled the freighter captain, firing away his laser pistol, however weak and feeble the pistol was against the armor of the geneseed enhanced Adeptus Sororitas with their powered armor. One of the bolter shells landed just right in front him, sending him flying onto the ramp that led to his ship. Frightened, the man wet his pants and quickly scrambled up the ramp as bolter shells exploded all around him. “Take us off!” he screamed. “Take us off now!”

The ship lift off right in front of the Adeptus Sororitas, who continued firing their heavy bolters, slagging off some of the ship’s armor, and even blowing off one of the side guns. The ship took a steep climb up into space, and begun evading the fast guns of an Imperial Corvette that was gunning to destroy them. But by some stroke of luck, or whatever one wanted to call it, the ship seemed to blur in front of the corvette for a moment, causing the fire control systems to somehow momentarily lose track of the ship. The ship made it into hyperspace, and the Byzantines could only watch futilely from a distance.



Or maybe not luck. Yeshua chuckled as he clenched the device. Veins on the back of his hand were bulging unnaturally. He could feel the thrum of unholy energies within the device, and deeper - something coiling, slithering... awakening. He had felt the warp buck and twist as the maddening creature within worked its sorceries to confound the corvette’s sensors. There was a potency there, a tempest within the warp, building toward a perfect storm... But not yet, not quite. There was more work to be done. And now he was on his way to his next target. A planet in Solarian space. Mejis.

[Ryan Thunder]

Co-written with (and mostly by) SiegeTank

Asang Urbanate
Nova Miratia
Interstellar Union of Worlds



Inside the Asang Urbanate there were at least a dozen franchises of Uncle Enzo's Best Cevaukian Pizza, and they all looked alike. In fact, they looked like all such franchises looked the galaxy over: pristine white, floodlit exteriors, roofs tiled in fake terracotta, and a giant neon billboard up front showing Uncle Enzo himself, all well-groomed smile and handsome suit, giving a big thumbs-up to his visitors as if trying to say ‘good job, you're in for a real treat'.

And the Unies were. It's just that today, it wasn't the five-cheese salami-flavoured treat anybody was expecting. Which was of course precisely the point.

Inside the closed-down restaurant stainless steel tables and red-leather benches had been moved aside, and a dozen burly men were busy moving a cumbersome device into position. “Hurry it up will you,” said the man in the slick beige suit. As was customary none in his outfit knew his real name so they simply referred to him as ‘boss' or - when he wasn't around - ‘fisheye', because of the weird milky implants where his eyes should be. Fisheye looked more apprehensive than the men he commanded -- which probably had a thing or two to do with the fact that most of them couldn't actually think for themselves. He had plenty reasons to be nervous, too: this operation was high-profile and, correspondingly, highly dangerous. The only way this could go smoothly was if they got the timing exactly right. A minute too early or too late, and they'd all end up being very dead, very soon.

“X marks the spot,” said one of the men near the device, a scrawny guy who moved with the tell-tale precision of a cybertronic enhancile. The other men all stopped moving at the same time, and the bulk of the machine came to rest on a duct-taped cross on the floor. The lanky man tinkered with a series of complicated-looking dials and switches. Holographic screens lit up with rows of numbers and complex diagrams. The device began to hum audibly. “We are stand by for primary ignition.”

“Good job,” Fisheye nodded. With a thought he checked his augmetic chronometer. “Five minutes to go. Get the boys ready to breach.”

***

Officer Burest twiddled his thumbs idly at his desk, one eye, half-opened, settled on the vast three dimensional matrix of screens that he had been tasked with observing. It was a pretty mind-numbing job since the specialist AI had been installed to watch it better a few decades earlier, so it had since been assigned to mind-numbing people.

Outside of the darkened Monitor Room, the halls of the precinct detention module were quiet. Whitewashed walls and floors were lit from above at regular intervals by fluorescent lighting, creating a sterile atmosphere. Occasionally a grim-looking security bot would wheel through the hall, more a show for the prisoners than anything else.



Two officers stood outside one particular cell. It was one of many such cells, many of which were empty today. “This one's...?”

“Ain Ny. That's all we got.”

“Is this a joke?”

“No. Well, maybe she thought it was funny...”

Ain brushed aside her long black hair and looked at them sideways from her cot.

“Antimatter smuggling. Not cool,” one officer commented a bit louder for her to hear. She tensed a bit before looking away and shrugging.

The other officer snorted, “She's just crazy. You'd have to be crazy to do that, anyway.”

“True enough. Let's go grab some coffee before we get back to this goddamned paperwork.”

***

In that moment, the industry-standard ceiling of the Monitor Room abruptly changed from its drab grey color to yellow, to hot white, to a collection of flaming cinders over the course of a single microsecond as the gangsters six floors up activated their nuke-pumped precision laser. In a split second the device blew a smouldering hole through not just the floor of Uncle Enzo's Best Cevaukian Pizza but also the retail clothing store below and the empty security buffer the precinct maintained, culminating in a narrow man-sized hole some 20 yards deep extending through the floors of the Urbanate directly into the holding facilities of the 31st Asang Precinct.

The flash of the laser and the burst of radiant light was enough to burn out the optical nerves of the poor officer Burest -- which, weirdly, meant that he was one of the lucky ones, because a second later a dozen Replicants hive-controlled by the scrawny Vincent Riconi dropped through the hole, their fall arrested by simple grav-harnesses, and knocked him out cold. They moved with trained precision: four took up position by the door that lead into the cell block, the others placed a sleek-looking widget on the desk of the now-unconscious officer Burest. Riconi dredged a set of weird-looking sunglasses from the pocket of his Mafia-issue tailored coat and put them on, then punched a single button and activated the memetic device.

Like any other police precinct in Nova Miratia or, indeed, the entire Interstellar Union of Worlds, the 31st Asang was protected from simple memetic and cognitive attacks by a series of low-powered force fields that had the additional benefit of keeping the buildings free from bird droppings. There was just one drawback to this method: they didn't work so well when you were already inside the warding bubble, and the precision laser had landed the mobster attack squad well inside the shields.

As Riconi activated the device, the minds of the officers inside the precinct were totally consumed by a single pre-programmed phrase, repeated endlessly. In this case, the phrase was "WHORES WHORES WHORES WHORES WHORES WHORES WHORES..."

Gibbering madness took them. For a short while, granted, because unlike the feeble human officers and their easily manipulated optical pathways into the brain the security robots would remain unaffected... But it was enough of a window to do what the mobsters were here to do. As soon as Fisheye himself had dropped into the Monitoring Room the Cevaukians rushed down the hallway, past a half dozen incapacitated officers - some now with suspicious-looking wet spots in their pants - then took a hard left, and down toward the holding cell where Ain Ny was being held.

Of course, since all of her own augmetics had been shut down by the officers when she'd been taken in, Ny had fallen under exactly the same spell as the policemen of the 31st. Fisheye rolled his eyes when he saw the foam at her mouth, then directed Riconi to blow the hinges off the cell door. He checked his chronometer again. “Thirty seconds ‘til the drones,” he said, then gestured to a pair of the Replicants, both of whom carried heavy backpacks. “You two, with me.”

***



The first thing the precinct security intelligence noted was that nearly all the visual feeds were dead save for those integrated into the prison security drones. It made a note for its creators to consider decentralizing such things in future. The next thing it noted was that the audio feeds were still intact. Knowing the precise location of these feeds, it was able to triangulate the positions of the intruders and dispatch security drones to investigate.

GYRO-008 was the first unit on the scene. If it had possessed emotions, bravery might have been one of the qualities ascribed to it, but alas, its virtual virtue was short-lived. “FREEZE,” its voicebox uttered a grotesque mechanical imitation of a human voice, as psych-strobes flashed their mentally disruptive patterns to implant compliant attitudes in any who laid eyes on it. Unfortunately for the brave little drone the intruders were not using their eyes to see, and thus, unfazed, dispatched the drone with ease; A burst of plasma bolts blew a chunk of its fuselage away, and it spiraled out of control, sirens blaring and voicebox spewing nonsense as it's assault laser played along the walls, leaving glowing trails of craters and taking out several overhead lights before the safeties kicked in and it deactivated. Even as this played out, a half-dozen hovering robots the size of footballs spilled into the corridor, flying erratically and spewing purple bolts as they advanced.

***

Staccato pulses of purple fire cracked through the hallway, and the personality-less replicants slaved to Riconi's cybertronically enhanced mind returned fire. There was no real sense in trying to target the drones: they were small and nimble things and they moved in pre-programmed evasive patterns. Vincent Riconi absent-mindedly wondered if he might be able to figure out the algorithm behind those evasions, then realized he had nowhere near the time to do so, and with a single thought simply ordered his androids to open fire at full-auto. A hail of brightly glowing plasma bolts filled the corridor, blasting fist-sized chunks out of the wall at the far end. A lethal firefight developed. One of his replicants was scythed down by a pulse of laser fire, the better part of its chest vanishing in a gory blowout of steam. In response the other replicants simply doubled their rate of fire, managing to blast one of the attacking drones out of the air.

Vincent decided to focus his attention on the problem at hand. The object of this whole operation was right in front of him. One problem though: she was in one of the finest cells the Interstellar Union could fabricate, and he didn't have time to pick the lock. Worse, the door to her cell was made of a dense hyperalloy that would take forever to cut through. Luckily for him though, the fuzz hadn't built the walls out of the same sturdy stuff. So instead of obsessing with the door, he simply placed an implosion charge on the wall and without further ado blew a modestly-sized hole in it. Another thought and one of the replicants broke away from the firefight, dropped its gun and stepped into the cell to pick up the foaming, unconscious girl.

That was when a giant riot bot crashed through the wall. Vincent took a single look at the huge machine as it lumbered through the shower of dust and ruined bricks, then grabbed the girl from his minion, turned around and ran as fast as his feet would carry him. “Boss!” he pulsed over the augmetic d-link, “time to go!”

A product of MADNESS Planetary Systems' Urban Tranquility project, the Tubbs' armoured body was covered in military-spec pain rays, psych-strobes, myriad targeters and even grenade launchers for laying down smoke or tear gas. For some inscrutable reason, however, this one also had claws. “THIS IS A RESTRICTED AREA,” it boomed. Without further ado it took a wild swipe at Vincent who only narrowly managed to avoid having his head taken off by running round the corner. The cell wall interposed between them presented a poor obstacle, and the machine simply demolished it as well. “CEASE AND DESIST IMMEDIATELY,” it continued, before casually crushing a replicant under its massive foot. The smaller drones, now down to four, spiralled into the corridor over the sizzling corpses of the defenders like a swarm of very large and very angry hornets, optics burning bright blue as they continued to tirelessly evade and fire, buzzing around the Tubbs which took a swipe at another replicant, reducing the android to a red smear on the wall with contemptuous ease. A tear gas grenade launcher on the robot's shoulder zeroed in on another replicant and blew its head off.

***

Meanwhile at the end of the hallway Fisheye had managed to attach the two big breaching charges to the outer wall of the precinct which, if everything went according to plan, was also the outer wall of the entire arcology. The two replicants that accompanied him had withdrawn to a safe distance, and had now taken up firing positions that would hopefully buy their escape a little time. The heavy footfalls of the riot bot grew louder as it pursued. “Here goes nothin',” the leader of the Cevaukian mobsters muttered and thumbed the red switch on his detonator.

Twin blasts blended together into one ringing explosion. The outer wall was blown outward in a gout of flame, dust and mangled steel. For a moment Fisheye could see nothing but clear blue skies, gazing across Nova Miratia from the 183rd level of the Asang Urbanate. It was a magnificent view that he wasn't quite capable of enjoying at the moment, which had something to do with the fact that the cracks of laser fire and the stomp-stomp-stomp of the enormous law enforcement robot were coming ever closer. Time seemed to slow down to a crawl. He could see Vincent running toward him, the girl in his arms. He could see their remaining replicants firing wildly and ineffectually at the Unies' police-bot swarm. By his estimate they had less than twenty seconds before they'd all get whacked. “C'mon Johnny, you rat bastard...” Fisheye growled feverishly as he checked his internal chronometer again.

The LARC swung into the messily improvised aperture in the precinct wall at the exact second it was supposed to. Hydraulic doors hissed open, revealing behind the vehicle's wheel the third thinking member of Fisheye's breakout crew: Johnny Handsome, looking for all the world as if he was going for a night on the town in his three-piece suit. The getaway driver smiled roguishly. “Hey boss, need a hand?”

“Fuck off.” Fisheye jumped aboard. A second later, Vincent skidded to a halt beside the repulsorlifter, unceremoniously tossed the girl on the back seat and dove in afterward. He yelped as a laser burst singed the bodywork of the car and slammed the door shut. “Let's not be on this planet,” the scrawny man huffed.

“Alrighty,” Johnny nodded and the LARC withdrew, drawing some of the Urbanate's ruined exterior with it. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard. Please keep your arms and legs inside the-”

“Jesus, shut the fuck up Johnny and get us the fuck outta here will ya?”

“Aww, okay boss.” With a slow thrumming of slo-trans engines the repulsorlift vehicle accelerated away, away from the precinct at first and then up towards the darkening sky.

[Mayabird]

Coraline, Reef Star Realm Republic
Sector AA-25


O, my brethren of the plankton, do you remember those halcyon days of not long ago?

Do you remember our good king, who kept us from the strife and wars that tore apart our neighbors? He did not oppress us, use us to prop us his wealth or power. We were let alone, given our simple and happy lives. Do you remember those, my brethren? It was not long ago at all. The rich seas and gentle atmosphere provided for most of our needs. What little we needed from outside, we could get by gathering the vowels off the beaches, half a day every few days. What festivals we had, on those days! Our best cooks would prepare a feast for the gatherers, and the dancers would dance and clack their claws for our songs. The gatherers would return with their baskets full, and we would eat and laugh and celebrate the harvest. There was always more than enough for our simple needs, so those who had to rest from their molting until their skin hardened could rest, and those who were injured could recover.

But now our king is dead, our good king, the rightful king of this realm! Now we are called a republic but there are no elections, just overlords set above us. They claim we are free but now we toil every day, every hour of daylight, gathering every vowel and not being allowed to swim, for they fear we will escape. We cannot get to our groves for their fruit or our clam beds for their molluscs, told that the fruits and shells belong to someone else! We planted those groves and tended those beds! It all belonged to us before. O my brethren, we have been robbed by invaders from afar, who enrich themselves on our backs! They force us to work even after we molt, and when our delicate skins are torn and infected, they laugh. They fucking laugh.

They think we are weak and languid, that they can enslave us and take our food and our vowels. No! No, my brethren! We are strong! The plankton of the stars ruled a vast realm in the Outlands, and we can take back ours!

Join us, beneath the waves! In the hidden reefs and deep trenches, we are gathering our forces. There are many many thousands of us, and we grow stronger every day. We control the secret fishing zones, maintained by the king for a crisis like this. The good king, our good king! He knew that the time might come that he could not protect us any longer, so he made these precautions, that we would be prepared for that time. We have also twenty of the royal larvae, the potential heirs of our beloved and murdered king! My brethren, we can have a new king or queen, a new day, and bring back our wonderful realm!

So take up your vowel-rakes. Strike down the overseers and pathetic collaborators who join the oppressors for scraps thrown down to them. Gather all things that you can carry, all that can be used as weapons, and join us! Join our armies in the reefs! We will strike down all who wish to stomp upon our faces, cast them and their lobotomized puppet Doctor down into the abyss, and restore the true order!

Long live the king! Long live the Reef Star Realm!


Result: Royalists!

[Shroom Man 777]

Prajuk's Horizon, Grand Junction
The Refuge
Unreal Time



The Bragulan transport craft landed in the middle of a decaying metropolis. Half-finished buildings, rusted-down industrial sites, and poverty-stricken shanty towns surrounded the starport. The denizens of Prajuk's Horizon once wished for their world to become a prominent trading center for the Outlands, prior to the collapse when it then fell from grace and slowly crumbled down like the rest of the defunct nation. Then the Refuge came, and after the mass exodus of those who had taken up the Refugee's offer to leave the worlds they had annexed, the remaining denizens of Prajuk had gotten what they had once wished for. But as the saying goes, one had to be careful for what to wish for.

Prajuk was again becoming a prominent trading center, for the Refuge. The new alien overlords (who some Outlanders for one welcomed) swiftly began constructing gleaming citadels filled with their own kind, the numerous and diverse Avianoid bird-people, the strange and mysterious Aggregates and Modulars - some humans and other non-Refugees were even allowed to work in some of these facilities, but only some, only those who could be trusted to varying degrees. There were new buildings and new projects, but these were mostly only in the areas the locals dubbed the Refugees' Realm. The rest of Prajuk, the places where the natives lived and dwelt in... just sort of stayed as they were. The Refugees stemmed the tide of the post-collapse decay, restoring crucial infrastructures and systems on the little moon-world that had been slowly dwindling and slowly drying, but aside from that they did little else for the natives they had annexed. After the restoration of crucial life-systems, and the revitalization of the moon-mines and other things of import, the Refuge just left the populace as is in an act of benevolent neglect.

The Refugees seldom went out of their Realm, if only to enforce the rule of order whenever the natives got too unruly. But considering that Prajuk had even been worse prior to the Refuge's arrival, and that they had actually rehabilitated the moon-world with their efforts, the natives were mostly content to simmer in their own funk, sitting in their shanties whilst occasionally glancing covetously at the gleaming new citadels erected in the Refugees' Realm.

Still, the Refugees knew all too well the hazards of occupation. Yes, they had won the loyalties of the local government, military and law-enforcement, who considered being under the rule of the Refuge to be no worse than the rule of the old Outlands, except with what the Outlander Commissions no longer existing. But beyond the official de jure powers, there were many more parties and forces acting in Prajuk's Horizon - and not just in that moon-world, but elsewhere in the ex-Outlands, and beyond. The syndicates and factions that sprung up in the Commissions' wake were still a force to be factored in, particularly with the Refugees still learning the nuances of local cosmopolitics, and while they could influence those entrenched in the official channels, those who operated in the gray latitudes were something else entirely. But the agents of the Refuge were no strangers to the shady business of intrigue and subterfuge, as black-clad blob Aggregates lurking in the shadows of the underworld could attest to.

However, there were still some matters that they could not account for. Theological matters. Those who dealt with unsound technologies were to be taught their place in the order of things, and while as of yet, the Refuge's reach was not far, they were still nonetheless ruthlessly efficient in the areas within their sphere of influence. Unsound technologies were things the Refuge had encountered before, and they knew how to deal with these quite handily. But as they acquainted themselves with the greater galaxy, they discovered something else - something possibly far worse than theologically unsound science. Theologically unsound people.

Espers, Psykers, Psions. The existence of which sent certain over-excitable Nodes into great fits. The phenomenon was an unknown to the Refuge, and the fact that it could occur somewhat frequently in the populations of the native species they had annexed, all while so much of it remained a mystery, was even more reason to be cautious. Knowledge was power, and the lack of knowledge meant a lack of power, something that could be exploited by outside powers - many of which, the Refuge knew, also made extensive use of psionics.

At first, there was little they could do to defend against this. But they did what they always did. They learned. No, they didn't go the way of certain likewise newly-arrived rotunds in committing casual experimentation. Rather, in the absence of any other option, they asked. As they gained more information, so too did they learn ways to circumvent psionics - to the point of confidently ambassadors to nations ruled by espers without fear of having their thoughts betray them. Methods had been devised to protect against the psykers, but still, the Refuge lacked the expertise of those who had faced the very same problem for a longer period of time.

So, again they asked. And this time, they received.

The Bragulan Star Empire was one of the nearest neighbors of the Refuge, and among the first nation to receive the nascent power's diplomatic overtures. The efforts of Bragule to court fellow inhuman nations, their impressment at the Refuge's quick conquest and stabilization of a neighboring failed (partly human) state, and the efforts of a now-renowned Refugee ambassador who recognized the necessity of winning close allies, bore fruit. The Refuge had quietly confided to the Brags their 'psyker problem', and while not quite as excessively anti-psyker as Shepistan (whom the Refuge had then not yet contacted), Bragule was nonetheless eager to please and eager to win a new ally over. If the Refuge wanted defense against the blandishments of the psionicists, who were mostly humans and their ilk anyway, then all the better. Bragule itself had no psykers, and faced the very same problem when dealing with the perfidiousities of the Solarians and their dreaded Apexai-Hybrids, thus to help the Refuge meant to thwart its enemies.

The renowned Refugee ambassador was instrumental in these dealings, in having visited the arms extravaganzas of Bragule that showcased the same security systems the Bragulans were now unloading to Prajuk's Horizon - to be delivered to the Refugee's Realm, and to be used there for their security.



Bragulan advisors demonstrated the big-bore K-bolter cannons, which were linked to Psychokinetic Energy (PKE) detectors. They could detect within the radius of their sensor coverages any minute discharges of psionic ectoplasm and react, within microseconds, to eliminate the source of the foul ectoplasmic discharges (by melting the head off the offending psyker). This was a typical example of a Bragulan passive-aggressive system, with the sensors being the passive, and the smoking acidbullet-shooting gun as the aggressive. These weapons could be concealed in panels, to pop out and shoot when necessary. The PKEs could likewise be connected to the Refugees' own weaponries, should they wish to use less acidic arms. Or it could be used in an entirely passive-passive system, for detecting psykers without automatically liquefying them.

There were also samples of Null Fields and Blitzschlag Field Generators, all Bragulanized to emit copious amounts of radiation, so that the neutralization of esper abilities also came with radioactive poisoning. The Refugees were, understandably, not too keen on these samples.

But the PKEs and passive-aggressive systems had certainly caught their keen bird's eye view, and many would soon be emplaced over the Refuge's planetside facilities deemed to be accessible to unwanted espers.

[Force Lord]

JUNE 15, 3392
CIS DOCUMENT NO. 22349
SECRET COMMAND MATTER
CHIEF'S MATTER!
READ ONLY BY OFFICER!

COUNTERMEASURES AGAINST KNOWN ANTI-ESP DEVICES

The proliferation of anti-ESP devices has been a great concern to the Centrality, due to the historical importance of ESP in our nation. It is no secret that the State is dominated by ESPers at all levels, with each branch of the Central Government, civil and military, showing a particular affinity to a certain ESP ability. This fact is one of the prime reasons why our anti-ESP technology has never been so well developed in comparision with other nations, since it would mean jeopardizing the State. We have therefore studied anti-ESP tech only in the interests of disabling them, and so our focus is to develop anti-anti-ESP technology for the purpose of preserving and increasing the effectiveness of our ESP operatives.

Here is a catalouge of anti-anti-ESP devices most commonly used by the CIS:

Null Disruptor: This device surrounds the user with a shield that can disrupt the functioning of a null field, and depending on the model can protect the user for a few minutes or several hours. Disruptors used by the CIS are normally small, for purposes of concealment, and can only render a null field temporarily non-functional for a couple of minutes, meaning that an ESP operative will have to make best use of that time if he or she has to use ESP. Disruptors must recharge after use, and again depending on model can take several seconds or a half-hour. CIS models usually take between five to ten minutes to recharge. Variants of the Null Disruptor include the Interrupter Disruptor, which was developed after a working Interrupter Field was stolen from the Humanist Union, and the Blitzschag Disruptor, which is a stronger verson that resists a Blitzschlag Field.

"White Noise Dampener": Soon after the discovery of Chamarran White Noise Generators, the CIS managed to capture a working model and Centralist scientests studied it meticulously. The scientests designed what is commonly known among agents as the "White Noise Dampener" to protect "psykers" from its effects. While the protection given is not 100% effective, it allows telepaths to make better use of their abilities without being distracted too much by psionic "noise". This device is not as common as others given that WNGs don't see as much use as null fields or Blitzschlag Fields.

Psi-Jammer Deflector: Nova-Atlantean use of Psi-Jammers lead to the development of Deflectors that can "deflect" the jamming from the user's mind. These devices are commonly used by psionic operatives.

Psycho Hider: This device covers the user with a field that renders psionics or PKEs unable to detect said user's psychic abilities, if only temporarily. Can be overwhelmed by a sufficiently advanced PKE or a powerful and determined psychic. Must recharge after use.

All ESP-capable CIS agents are expected to utilize such devices wisely, or they may end up handicapped at a fatal moment. Non-ESP capable agents are only given such devices if there is a chance that they find a ESP ally during their missions or are partnered with an ESPer agent. Lastly to ESPers, BE CAREFUL NOT TO DAMAGE YOUR PROTECTION! Not only the State does not want its resources mishandled, but your missions may depend on these devices. None of you will like your files mention "Damaged State property and thus aborted mission".

Hoover Gates, Director of the Central Intelligence Service

[Zor]

UCW High Command: The Apex

Administrator Prime looked over the new reports from Division-6. and the various firms it was employing. Teams had been working to deal with a couple of new tasks. The first was that of countermeasures that were begining to emerge against Psi-Jammer technology. The Centrality had been doing so and while the Commonwealth's relations with that state had considerably improved there were still concerns that this capacity might spread further. The rotating frequency system showed promise, as did the higher output. Hopefully, their would not be a need for this but better to have something and not need it. The other was in the area of DollDust after that incident at the BEEEF. Tissue samples were being tested using Umurthurst and a safety measure was well on its way.

The Apex: Mareiopolis

Prime Minister Smith waited as the lift descended. Despite the Zebesians, things were on the whole looking good with the arrival of these new factions it was likely that the commonwealth could see new markets openeing up. As the lift descended she got ready to make her way to the starport. Soon would begin the Naval Review.

[Beowulf]

Forbidden Palace
New Hong Kong
Bao'an System
Guangdong Sector
Tianguo

Katya Perry was giving the King a brief on the state of the galaxy. "The Multiversal Empire of Happiness has as yet failed to send an ambassador as the promised to do, several months ago. Apparently they're stalling over a claim that we attempted to kill him once already. Or at least, that's the hypothesis. They haven't said much of anything of late.

"There's another development in the Rimward Widdershins area. We've been picking up a transmission of some sort or another. Don't think it's natural. It's like Linear A. We don't have any reference point to decode it."

"Another Xeno power? That's the fourth this year," muttered Gwen.

"We don't think anyone else has decoded it either, but other powers seem to be assuming it's a 'Hello, world' message. The Byzantines sent a typically bombastic message 'I Keel You! Later. When we're not so busy.' The Atlanteans are trying to sell things, in their own Post-Speeling way. The Bragulans are welcoming what they presume to be another non-human power. The Sheps are trying to sell anti-Psyker defenses. The list goes on, but nothing's out of character."

"So where are they located?"

"Triangulation puts them between the Pfhor and the Charmarrans."

"Hey, don't we have a fleet headed down that way? Any chance we can have them burnt to a cinder on the fleet's way home?"

"We'd need help. I can try contacting the Byzantines, and possibly the Suzumiyas. It's doubtful we could get anyone else to help."

"Speaking of our fleet, we're currently planning on crashing the Atlantean's naval review as an excuse to get the extra ships out to Widdershins. The may be trying their damndest to become non-human, but better relations with them couldn't hurt either. The Taikongjun says they'll have their reinforcements headed out that way in a couple days."

TL;DR: Complaints against MEH, Locris. Talk about the coming MEHstomp, and fleet sent to NACW Naval Review. 4 Battleships, 12 Cruisers, 12 Carriers.

[Shroom Man 777]

Somewhere in the Feelipeens



"Ooooh! Goooold! I love gooooold!" cackled the Centralite. He had come from the CENTINTERN and was here to rally the local Centralists to the noble cause of Dovanism, and to eventually depose Shroomarcos and create a new power, a central Feelipeeni state. But for the Centralites to do that, they needed funds, and the gold and monies that were given to them were just what the doctor ordered. "Anyone care for a shmoke and a pancake?"

They feasted and smoked, celebrating their newfound fortunes. They had some suspicions as to who their mysterious benefactors were, and where they had gotten the monies from, but they didn't ask any questions. They got what they were given and liked it.

"You see how Shroomarcos steals from his own people, and how his corrupt cronies steal from the government funds," he said to his comrades, mouth half-full with a slice of pancake and a cigarette. "How can his regime ever create a strong state when the leaders themselves take money from it? They not only steal from the citizens, but also from the state. Thus they weaken the state, and the weakened state can no longer enforce order. Thus disorder grows. As foretold by dialectic Dovanism!"

His listeners applauded his statement as he swallowed his mouthful of pancake and took a drag from his cigar. At least there was an upside to the Centrality's alliance with the Humanists, namely the lifting of trade embargoes on the socialist planet-state of Cube. Now they could enjoy some fine Cubic cigars.

The audience who dined with the golden man were from all walks of life. Prominent university professors from esteemed collages smoked together with fine upstanding businessmen, whose industries were now being taken over by Shroomarcos' chosen colleagues, along with politicians from marginalized parties. These intellectuals, elites and upper-middle class men who were all disgruntled at the Shroomarcos' regime and wished to enact change for the better.

Now, with the millions of pesos liberated from the banco, Shroomarcos' own dirty money, they finally had the means to do that.


Somewhere else in the Feelipeens



The Unmanned Cylonic Aerospace Vehicles circled the clear blue tropical skies, taking in the sun on their stealthy black-tanned metamaterial fuselages. They were SIS drones equipped with the new AN-SPQRSDNIMBY2KKTHNXGTGBRBLOL-747/11 active enormously scanned arrays, and with their new datalinks they could soak in all the emissions from the Feelipeen countryside while transmitting their findings back to base. Their sub-sentient protocols were programmed to detect one thing, the emission of radiations. Specific radiations that Shroomarcos' gold had been laced with.

The existence of the SIS drones was unknown to Shroomarcos, as had (until recently) the fact that his gold had been irradiated. The SIS had taken the time and the effort to do so, setting up a datalink network for the secret drone flights, to be able to know where all of Shroomarcos' gold deposits were in the country. And to be able to bomb them all sky high within a moment's notice, should Shroomarcos ever turn against Shepistan. Sure, Ferdinand had a very deep pocket, but that was why Sheppard had depth charges.

However, today, the UCAVs wouldn't be bombing the pre-designated gold deposits. No, they were still bombing the gold, but the gold had been stolen and relocated by the thieves. So the UCAVs had to find them first. And so they did.

A drone was flying over a manicured suburb, the kind affluent and well to do people had, a gated community where the fences were topped with barbed wire and broken glass to keep the bloody poor people away. The drone detected traces of the radiation and its optics zoomed into the source, a fancy residence with several vehicles parked nearby. The drones were programmed to take collateral damage into account and queried their superiors.



Maynilad, Luz



The call centers were a growing source of employment in the Feelipeens. However, the prospects of new jobs came with a terrible risk, as many call center agents, due to the stress of work and lack of anything better to do, were prone to engaging in unprotected fluid exchanges. Rampant exchange of bodily fluids was a major cause of society's downfall. After AIDS, there was NRS, then there was UBT. It was a strange phenomenon endemic to the Feelipeens.

Anyway, unbeknown to the Feelipeeni call center agents making out in the janitor's closet or the photocopier room, their call centers were being used for a far more sinister purpose than the outsourcing of Shepistanimerican jobs. The telecommunications facilities of the call centers were secretly relaying encrypted messages to and from Montgomery, Shepistan. Their senders, and receivers, ranged from SIS cells operating across the Spin Zones, to illegal drone flights in the Feelipeens itself.

An encrypted transmission was sent from one of these sites to Montgomery, where the footage was analyzed. The plate numbers of the vehicles parked around the residence matched those in the SIS database, namely the vehicle registry numbers of known nd suspected leftists, anti-government sympathizers, and Shroomarcos' political rivals in the Feelipeens. Within moments they received their answer.



Somewhere else in the Feelipeens



The UCAVs launched their warheads. While typically they would be issued JDAMRAAMLRSLBM9F-117/11s, the sensitivity of this mission meant that they had to be far more precise. As their targets were also convenient sources of radiation, they used Smart Malingering Anti-Radiation Missiles, SMARMs. The SMARMs were designed for aerospace-to-surface work, in eliminating enemy IADS systems by homing into the emissions of radar and sensor sites. But unlike the traditional ARM, the SMARMs could also malinger - circulate high in the stratosphere while taking in data and networking with their datalinks to get a more cohesive picture of the battlefield, to determine possible decoys and prioritize higher-value targets and coordinate with their fellow SMARMs. In high-intensity battlezones against a modern competent enemy, the SMARMs would be vital in dismembering his IADS.

These SMARMs launched by the UCAVs would face no such formidable foe though, as they rocketed down towards their target. Each SMARM had a Combined Unitary Neutralizer of Threats (CUNT), a multi-purpose warhead that deployed in two stages - the first stage being a hard-headed bunker buster designed to punch through hardened targets like fortified SAM sites, and the second stage being a cluster bomb/mine dispenser designed to deal with softer targets like spread out radar sites and antenna by either blowing up the whole area and/or denying it to repair crews.

The first warhead would land right on top of the fancy house. The secondary sub-munitions would scatter all over the suburb.



Somewhere in the Feelipeens

"And after we oust Shroomarcos," said the Centralite, whose Cubic cigar smoke was now filling up the dining hall. "We must be sure to gain security in the region. Shepistan would react swiftly, but with improved ties between the Centrality and Umeria, I believe we can get a powerful ally in the Umerians to beat back the Shepistanis. If the Centralites are allied with the Humanists, then we may be able to broker a deal with the communistas."

His audience nodded and affirmed their agreements. With the communistas rising against Shroomarcos, the Centrality making waves in the cosmopolitcal scene, and now their monetary boon, it seemed as though they were at the best position to topple the regime. Shepistan was more and more maligned everyday, with each and every atrocity further cementing their status as a rogue nation whose only allies were economically bankrupt rednecks and totalitarian space bears. Shepistan would no longer be a good ally for the Feelipeens, and they couldn't prop up Shroomarcos forever. Someday, something had to give.

Then, it would be their time.

"Then it will be our time!" the Centralite proclaimed. "To order! To the state! To dialectical Dovanism! To Centralis-"

[Force Lord]

Hideout, Somewhere in the Feelipeens

They first noticed it when one of the agents began to vomit. Soon, another agent started to have painful blisters. One quick-thinking agent happened to carry a Geiger counter, and discovered that they had been contaminated by radiation. The agents realized it could only mean one thing: the money they stole was radioactive, somehow. They realized that they have endangered both the communists and the centralists, and soon Shroomarcos and his Shepistani backers would try to find them. If they did, all their work would be for nothing. Quickly they used up their anti-radiation medicine, and burned contaminated materials, but three agents were too sick to be cured. The three condemned men begged their comrades to kill them and burn their bodies and belongings, which the remaining agents did, but not without sadness. The hideout was abandoned and burned as well. The remaining agents decided to return to the embassy and report their oversight to the CIS.

[Simon_Jester]

The Empty Quarter
August 3400

Warboss Migwazza

On the long voyage from the Badlands to the Homelands, Migwazza had made sure to keep Deff Skwadron well-practiced in the art of flying their pointy new fighters, patterned after Big Mig II. Squigwindas had been modified with oxygen masks for the squigs so they could fire in space without the guidance computers asphyxiating. Turborocket boosters had been upgraded to duperturborocket boosters, and given an extra coat of flaring scarlet paint for good measure.

Migwazza was feeling on top of the worlds, and as his confidence swelled, so did his physique. The Migwazza who came to the Homelands was nearly four inches taller, and an equal distance around the arms, when he stomped into a spaceport bar in the heart of ork territory, looking for a drink, a fight, and some recruits for the squadron. Not necessarily in that order.

The boyz were mostly the ordinary sort, and they knew to stay out of the way of someone as tough, confident, and huge as him. Migwazza shambled a short distance in through the door, bludgeoned a couple of serving gretchin into unconsciousness, and used them as a soapbox to stand on.

"What dis place needs iz a big, tough new warboss to whip da lot of ya inta shape! An' I know just who..."

At this point, Migwazza's tirade was rudely interrupted from behind by enormous clangs and the whir of servos- something that sounded suspiciously like a powerklaw about to close on his head, around the level of his ears. The ace spun round, to behold the largest ork- and loudest voice- he'd ever seen.

There's always a bigger ork...

"OI? WOT'S DIS RUBBISH I 'EAR SOME GROT SAYIN' 'BOUT A BIG NEW WARBOSS!?"

Migwazza was a surprisingly quick thinker, especially when he had about three seconds before someone ripped his head off by way of his backbone.

"Uh, you! You da big new warboss! An' I'm yer new nob, come from 'alf way 'cross da galaxy to fly fer you! You da boss!"

"DAT'S RIGHT! I'm da hand of Gork and Mork, dey sent me to rouse up da boyz to crush and kill ‘cos da boyz forgot what dere ‘ere for. I woz one of da boyz till da godz smashed me in da ‘ead an’ I ‘membered dat Orks is meant to conquer and make slaves of everyfing they don’t kill." The huge ork was bellowing in Migwazza's face, spittle and fragments of baked squig spattering the pilot.

"I’m da profit of da Waaagh an’ whole worlds burn in my boot prints. I’m death to anyfing dat walks or crawls, where I go nothin’ stands in my way.I iz more cunnin’ than a grot an’ more killy than a dread, da boyz dat follow me can’t be beat. I’m Warlord Shroombad Mad Uruk Dakka an’ I speak wiv da word of da gods! We iz gonna stomp da ‘ooniverse flat an’ kill anyfing that fights back. We iz gonna do this coz’ we’re Orks an’ we was made ta fight an’ win!"

Migwazza, feeling the moment, straightened from his slouch and bashed his hand against his forehead.

"YES, SIR! WAAAGH!"

"WAAAAAAAGH!"

---

Da Deff Star
Hanga I Forget Da Numba
Mid-November 3400

The bomba before him stretched out into the depths of the cavernous hanger. It was damn near the size of an attack ship. It bristled with dakka of every kind. It had engines the size of Migwazza's entire fighter- some the size of the building that stored Migwazza's entire fighter. It was very, very red.

"Flamin' Mork, boss. It's... it's...

"...Zog me. It's bootiful. Deff Skwadron ready for action, boss! Wot's da mission?"

"Heh. Knew you'd like it, Wigmazza. But dat ain't da sekret weapon."

"Uh, yeah. Da sekret weapon's da Deff Star."

"No you grot! Not dat sekret weapon, da uvver sekret weapon!"

"Must be a real good sekret weapon, boss, cuz I never heard of it."

"OF COURSE YA KNOW DA UVVER SEKRET WEAPON, YA GIT! DA BOMB!"

"Whut?" Migwazza had been so busy the last few months, vetting the recruits to build up his squadron, engaging in strongarm operations on the warboss's behalf, and all the rest, he'd pretty much lost track of what Bitzgrub had been up to. Aside from stomping into the mek's lab on a regular basis to demand more planes and more Squigwindas, which were usually supplied by Bitzgrub's swelling band of like-minded mekthusiasts, Migwazza had just let his old friend get on with his profession.

Apparently, boom was his profession. Building planes had just been a hobby.

"See, you gots a good mek dere, Orkenhamma speaks up for 'im! He been workin' on Da Bomb nonstop, round an' round da clock. Wif' da other meks, an'... I dunno, dat Sheppohumie seems to be fittin' in better and better every day... anyway, you need ta see it fer yourself. I got no more time for 'dis. Bitzgrub'll fill you in. Go!"

Shroombad gave Migwazza a mighty slap across the shoulders- obviously meant in fun, because even with the power-assist from his mighty armor, it only embedded the fighter ace a short distance into the wall.

---

Bitzgrub's Lab
Later Dat Day

Migwazza's trusty smartboy Zimgrod was practically bouncing up and down as the ace tromped down to the lab.

"I gotta good feelin' about dis, boss! We's gonna win big! Cuz... the best means of Attack is Defence, an' the best means of Attack is a really really Big One, right, with lots of Boys an' dead big shooty things an' what have ya. An' we got dat!"

"Yeah. I know. But I gotta see what dat zoggin' teknikul type's done to Da Bomb."

The corridors Shroombad's orks had dug through the rock of the asteroid now known as Da Deff Star were rough-hewn and full of all manner of strange flora and fauna. Aside from the usual squigs, snotlings, and other hangers-on of the orky ecosystem, there were all manner of rodents, both organic and mechanical. Migwazza roared at a mouse droid and fired off a spray of bullets from his personal shoota in its general direction. He only winged it, but it skittered away to find a hole to hide in anyway. Wimp.

A few more minutes' stomping took him to Bitzgrub's new lab, which smelled of all manner of strange substances. Back on Bunyip he'd started with plutonium and supplemented it with Sheppohumie repleted uranium and lithy... lithadoot... dootahide... uh, other stuff. But since coming to the Homelands, and with the aid of what Migwazza had come to think of as the mek's trusty Sheppo sidekick, Budd, the design had bloomed. Or possibly boomed.

Bitzgrub had found all manner of strange things to put in Da Bomb now. Antimatter, promatter, quasimatter, pseudomatter, strangelets, normalets, stabilized metallic hydrogen, unstabilized metallic hydrogen, restabilized no-longer-metallic hydrogen, quintapetaldehydrosucrotaterine, boomex, whamex, thumpex, deflagratex, turpentex, and a quorum drawn from vegemite derivatives One through Forty-Six.

Migwazza wasn't sure how the mek had managed to fit it all together into one bomb casing, but he aimed to find out. And, naturally, to ask the mek. As usual, Bitzgrub was engaged in a deep discussion with Budd, both beings waving their arms and gesturing at a graph Migwazza neither knowed nor cared how to read.

Maybe it was the lighting, but the ace pilot could swear that Budd was starting to look almost... greenish. Could have have somehow caught orkiness? Or at least the Spirit of Boom? Eh. Who could say?

"OI! BITZGRUB!"

"Oh hey boss!"

"So, how big is Da Bomb? Dis big?"

"Dat's not a bomb."

"What iz it den, Bitzgrub?"

"Dat's what you call a 'party favor.'"

"Heh, heh. Good party. So, dis big, den?"

"Boss, you iz muckin' wit' me, dat's not even big enough for da primary tamper charge!"

WHAM! "Oi, don't get smart wif' me! You been workin' on it dis long, get dis mouthy, it better be DIS big!"

"Oh, lots bigger dan dat, boss!"

"Wow. Dis big?"

"Uh... not quite dat big, but dat's what you'd call da right gen'ral range."

"Good. I like dat. So, what're we plannin' ta drop it on?"

"Well... da Supreme Warboss was yellin' at me, an' he said..."

[Shroom Man 777]

Hideout, Somewhere in the Feelipeens

They first noticed it when one of the agents began to vomit. Soon, another agent started to have painful blisters. One quick-thinking agent happened to carry a Geiger counter, and discovered that they had been contaminated by radiation. The agents realized it could only mean one thing: the money they stole was radioactive, somehow. They realized that they have endangered both the communists and the centralists, and soon Shroomarcos and his Shepistani backers would try to find them. If they did, all their work would be for nothing. Quickly they used up their anti-radiation medicine, and burned contaminated materials, but three agents were too sick to be cured. The three condemned men begged their comrades to kill them and burn their bodies and belongings, which the remaining agents did, but not without sadness. The hideout was abandoned and burned as well. The remaining agents decided to return to the embassy and report their oversight to the CIS.

Somewhere in the Feelipeens



SIS investigator Frill Frissom scoured the burnt remains of the building. The UCAVs had detected traces of radiation, but the site was already destroyed, burned down to the ground. As far as they knew, none of the drones had attacked this area, which was curious. The irradiated bills and bullion had been burned, along with three bodies and a house. The obvious conclusion was that the men who stole from Shroomarcos had somehow figured out that their monies were hot. But how?

An H.R. Giger counter reading gave the answer. The readings from this particular batch of monies and golds were higher than normal, some of them even reaching toxic levels. The SIS hadn't laced lethal doses of radiation on the bills, they only laced them with enough radiation to track them, not to sterilize and otherwise cancerize anyone. But it turned out that this batch had been accidentally over-radiated. A bad batch? Who knew?

So the thieves had detected the higher-than-expected doses of radiation. What remained of the three charred corpses showed signs of poisoning. They must've succumbed to the rads, and the rest of their team must've decided to get rid of their remains along with the rest of the evidence. Clever. But not clever enough.

A detailed sweep found vials of anti-rad, injectables, perfect sources for DNA, except they were burned along with the rest of them. The suspects did a good job of burninating everything, but Frill was an expert in forensics, formerly of the Lost Vegas, Shepvada crime lab. It'd take more than burnination to hide evidence from him.

He donned his protective gear and went to the nearest corpsified cadaver. He opened its mouth with a gloved hand and grabbed something inside. He gave it a hard yank and pulled it out.



A tooth. With the genetic material inside it hopefully still intact.



Result:

It looks like the CIS is taking on... the CSI.



Yeeeeaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!!!!!

[Steve]

Goddess' Light, en route to Doreia
Star Kingdom of New Anglia
25 October 3400


With the ship almost to the hyperlimit of Doreia, the task of bringing the ship in had fallen on Yuna and Ashe. The latter, being the more accomplished pilot, was flying the YPA-4750, with her newlywed Bondmate sitting in the co-pilot/navigation chair. As indicators on their screens flashed, Ashe looked to her. "You should tell them we're arriving."

Nodding, she went off to do so. Syrandi and Yamia were together, of course, and responded to her summons by getting ready. That left their passenger, who's cabin was at the end of the row. She pressed the chime key and waited patiently, resisting the temptation to try and actively sense him. Ashe had already tried once, out of curiosity, and Yuna had felt her apprehension, even fear, afterward.

"The door is open," a voice called out from inside. This prompted her to open the door and step in. He was sitting on his bed in a full robe and leggings, hands on his knees.

"Did I interrupt your meditations, Master?"

"No, you haven't. Meditation is not my strong suit, young lady. I'm afraid my mind resists being quieted." He looked up at her and Yuna thought she could see a flash of recognition go through his eyes. "You are named Yuna Burley, yes?"

"I am," she answered.

He looked at her more intently, his eyes going down to the holsters at her hips and her weapons. "And you prefer pistols, I see. One for each hand."

"I have been learning Reyma Duria."

He looked at her closely for several more seconds, making Yuna feel uncomfortable. Then, much to her surprise, he raised his head and began to laugh heartily. "What a strange and curious thing," he said after the first round of laughter. When he saw this was earning him an uncomfortable, bewildered look by the young woman, he added, "Ah, I apologize for being rude. I am afraid that my... peculiar experience has made me see connections no others would know of." He looked her in the eyes. "You and your wife are cases in point."

With those words, curiosity overcame her, and Yuna's mind opened and tried to read him. His mind was strangely closed, but she could sense the power he had, and some hints of age that felt unlike any older mind she'd known.

But it was the power that scared her. It was... imbued in him, unlike any other Gifted individual she'd met. And it felt like it was shrouded, contained, only a portion of it actually there.

"I don't need telepathy to sense what you're thinking at this moment," he pointed out aloud. "You sense that there is more power to me than is immediately apparent, and it scares you."

"But how can you be so powerful without mind-reading?", she asked. "It's... it's not supposed to be possible."

"Fourteen hundred years ago moving faster than the speed of light was not supposed to be possible. Living to be two centuries old? Not possible. Retaining youth well into the second century? Not possible." He stood from his bed. "In this galaxy, where people can move things with their minds and Humanity has two distinct homeworlds, it is best not to dwell on the idea of things being irrevocably impossible. Now, I imagine we are on final approach to Doreia?"

Yuna had, in fact, forgotten to bring that up, and only now realized she'd felt the brief vibration in the ship that went along with a hyperdrive transitioning back into normal space. "Yes, we are," she said.

"Good. Hopefully this trip will not be in vain."


The Grand Cloister of the Silver Moon, Darnis


The star of Doreia was now over the horizon. Stephen looked out upon it, and the bustling metropolis of Darnis, through a grand window as he waited in the foyer outside the Council Chamber. Most of the people around were Dorei, with a smattering of Humans, all going about the business of the morning routine here at the Grand Cloister.

The door opened and a Dorei girl with dark blue complexion, a Sentinel given the markings on her clothes, invited him in. He found Syrandi and Yamia already present, off to the side in mats. The Council was arrayed in a semi-circle around a podium and raised dais facing them, which is where the young Dorei guiding him in indicated he should stand. He bowed respectfully to the Order Council before taking the podium and fixing his hands upon it. "Honored Masters, I thank you for this audience on such short notice.”

“We have heard that you are reponsible for Sister Yamia Kunara’s survival and return to us, and for that we are grateful,” Grand Master Paytalo said. The Tryni woman, marked by her blue complexion and mid-length teal hair, nodded solemnly to him. “Knight-Captain Luneri has informed us that you are petitioning the Order for a powerful commitment of Sisters to undertake a dangerous mission?”

“I am, Master Paytalo. I need your aid to rescue many Espers, including your own Sister Zara Delmar, from the captivity of a blood sport organizer.”

“R. Julia,” Yemila answered. “We’re aware of his activities. But you are asking a great deal from us, Master. Our numbers are not great. You would have us commit one out of every twenty Sisters we actively have for a mission that has such a high risk of complete failure.”

“It would not be the first time the Order has fielded a large number. I recall the Battle of Salkton, when you sent two hundred Sisters to save the planet’s population from a Karlack intrusion...”

The Council Members all looked at each other. “Salkton was not deep in Wild Space, surrounded by Karlacks and Bragulans, and we had the Anglian and Hiigaran militaries moving to aid us,” one of the other Dorei pointed out. “And we suffered greatly even then, it took us ten years to fully recover...”

“I remember the suffering of your bold Sisters on Salkton,” Stephen remarked carefully. “But I am not asking you do this alone, but with the aid of other powers...”

“You mean that malignant, pompous Solarian and his mercenaries?”, another of the Dorei masters, Pani Semi, stated harshly “That you associate with him is not a mark in your favor, Sir.”

Some eyes turned nervously toward Semi. The Grand Master had formally recognized him as a Master of the Gift through her choice of address; for Pana to not extend that indicated the measure of her distrust.

“There is more to Sidney Hank than anyone realizes, and while I have my own disagreements with him, he is most certainly not malignant.” A glint came to Stephen’s eye. “Though I admit he is pompous.”

Yamia, who had met Sidney as well, barely hid a smile, and Syrandi sensed her amusement.

“The point of the matter remains, Master, that we cannot commit one hundred of our Sisters to such a dangerous mission in such a terrible area,” Yemila remarked. “The Goddess forgive us, but we will not see so many of our brave girls enslaved by the Karlacks or slaughtered by Bragulans.”

“I understand,” he answered, breathing in a sigh. “What aid might I secure, then?”

“Unless any member of the Council wishes to object...” Yemila’s look made it clear such objections had already been leveled and rejected telepathically by vote. “...we will authorize no more than thirty of our Sisters to go with you as volunteers, including Sisters Syrandi and Yamia who have already made their intentions known. And no Acolytes will be accepted.”

He nodded. A quarter of the number he wanted, and the ban on Acolytes would probably lead to a number of Knights having to turn it down due to their responsibility to their charges... but he had expected the higher figure to be rejected and thirty was more than he’d counted on. “I am thankful, Master Paytalo.”

One of the two Human women on the Council, a blonde named Jaina, stood and looked to the others. “I wish to be the first volunteer.” She looked to Yemila. “If the Grand Master will release me from the Council for it.”

Yemila opened her mouth, as if to object, but after obvious telepathic communication decided not to. “Very well. You may help Syrandi go through the list of volunteers and decide who should be brought.”

Jaina nodded. “I suspect it will be a long list.”

“Stay here for the rest of the morning business, then, before you join the others. Master, Sisters, you are dismissed.” Yemila smacked a rod before her, as if it were a judge’s gavel.

They filed out. “We will likely get volunteers from a number of Cloisters,” Syrandi commented. “Though with no Apprentices being permitted to go, we will be short on Knights...”

“It will still be of help.” Stephen looked to them. “I am grateful for the aid.”

“What made you bring up Salkton?”, Yamia asked. “It might very well have backfired and prompted the Council to refuse you. The losses we took...”

“As I said, I remember them. Two out of three Sisters injured or lost. Nearly twenty-five infested by the Karlack, though none infested survived the Anglian bombardment of the planet after its evacuation.”

“You speak...”

“As if I were there?” He frowned. “I was, Syrandi. I survived Salkton as well.”



Inside the Council chamber, all eyes turned toward Jaina, who nodded solemnly. “Yes, it was him, I am sure of it,” she said quietly.

“You are sure?”, Violet asked.

“I remember his strange aura. There are minor changes... but it is the same. He was the one on Salkton who saved my contingent from infestation,” she answered.

“I cannot approve of this,” Pani Semi insisted from her seat. “That aura is all wrong. It feels... warped. Artificial. Barely contained. We should be wary of this man, not offering the lives of our Sisters to him.”

“Do you wish to call for another vote, then, Master Semi?”, Yemila asked pointedly. “I do not sense the vote would change.” And she was right; it would likely remain 3 for, 3 against, and Yemila breaking the tie in favor of.

“I do want our dissent issued with the Call, and I want it made clear in the Call that the Council considers this mission to be of the highest danger and risk and not to be undertaken lightly. We should also forbid any Knights or the most promising of Sentinels from taking part...”

“And further limit the chance for success?”, Violet replied. “If we are supporting this mission then we must not sabotage it at the same time.”

“Masters, please,” Yemila called out. “I will permit you to have an attachment to the Call making clear the Council’s fear for the mission’s chance of success. You know as well as I, however, that this will only draw our most devoted Sisters into the mission. And I will exercise a final veto on the volunteer list that Sister Jaina brings before me. That said, I will not limit this mission to only certain categories of Sisters. We owe it to those going, and to our Oathes, to make sure the mission has the best chance of success we can reasonably give it. Now, we should move on to other matters concerning us. Including, I remind you all, the request we will be making of the Master Hermit if he returns alive from this operation...”

[Master_Baerne]

Thuranni
Firmament, Firmament Sector
Ascendance Fédérée

January was the favorite month of many Ascendant schoolchildren, for a variety of reasons mostly related to how little school was attended in it. The first week, especially, was filled with celebrations - just long enough after Christmas (still celebrated by most Ascendants, despite the lack of a state religion) to be comfortable came New Years Eve, with all the attendant festivities, and the Second of January was the Lady Ascendant's Birthday. Military parades were held in most planetary capitals, sector fleets staged airshows, and the Lady Ascendant traditionally gave a speech to the nation, which took the place of other countries' annual addresses. It was a day for cheering and for parties, as the entire population celebrated the power of the Ascendancy and the prosperity it had achieved under the Lady Ascendant and her predecessors.

This January, the first year of the new century, marked an especially lavish set of spectacles. On Firmament, the Ascendant throneworld, preparations had been underway for weeks, with thousands of tons of fireworks being prepared for the traditional evening lightshow and city governments setting out banquets in public spaces. Nobles opened their homes to the population, some more grudingly than others, but generally every Ascendant was taking the opportunity to revel in being an Ascendant. The elite Army units chosen to march in this year's parade drilled manically, sergeants screaming out abuse over every fault, both real and imagined, and the fighter squadrons of the flyover group had spent nearly all of the previous week in the simulator. Even the Starfleet's larger ships were getting in on the act, this year - First Battle Squadron, newly returned from exercises with the Hiigarans, would maneuver in low orbit for the delight of the assembled millions.

Sikala II, true to her reputation as an utter perfectionist, spent most of the day practicing her speech. 3400 had been a good year for the Ascendancy, and her remarks would reflect that. Indeed, she planned to take advantage of the unprecedented properity of her people, and their related charitable feelings, to move the nation's foreign policy in a new direction: Towards closer relations with France, which had been prevented by three centuries of bad blood up until now. This was a carefully guarded secret, of course: Nothing causes more bloodshed than the prospect of peace. Too many of her officers and politicians had made their careers by blaming the French for ever piece of bad luck and by finding French spies in every shadow. If she could present them with a fait accompli, however, a lasting peace might be the result, and that would be her legacy to the Ascendancy.

This in mind, it was with considerable nervousness that the supreme feudal ruler of 280 billion men, women, and aliens watched the 7th Division of the Lady's Guard, the best in the Army according to the combined exercises carried out in December, as it paraded down the wide Central Avenue in Thuranni. The paved expanse stretched fully three miles from her own residence to the towering Palais du Senat, and the gardens on either side were thronging with people. The carnival atmosphere did not match up well with Sikala's frame of mind; every step of the color guard, every note the massed bands of the 7th Division played, they all marked another moment closer to her moment of destiny.

All too soon, the troops had ground to a halt in front of her reviewing stand, fighters off ANS Glorieuse had crisscrossed and whirled above the assemblage, and it was time for Sikala to speak. She rose gracefully, somehow, fighting her body's desire to run and hide from the task she had set herself, and grasped the sides of her armored lectern like a liferaft. The Lady Ascendant opened her mouth - and the world disappeared in a swirling maelstrom of fire and shrapnel as the lectern, or rather the bomb concealed within it, exploded.



Governmental Emergency Hypercast
NUCLEAR EXPLOSION IN THURANNI STOP. ATTEMPT TO ASSASSINATE LADY ASCENDANT STOP. CULPRITS UNKNOWN STOP. STATUS OF LADY ASCENDANT UNKNOWN STOP. EST. >300,000 CASUALTIES STOP. FIRMAMENT SECTOR QUARANTINED EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY STOP.

[Force Lord]

THIS IS CNN BREAKING NEWS REPORT!

This is CNN!

Reports are coming regarding a massive explosion in the capital of the Federated Ascendancy. The explosion took place when the ruler of the Ascendancy, Sikala II, was about to give a speech in front of her subjects as today, January 2, is her birthday. Her current condition is unknown, and she is feared dead. Preliminary death tolls number in the hundreds of thousands.

The Central Government has condemned the event as an act of terrorism and offered condolences to the Ascendancy Government. CNN reporters have been unable to contact the Ascendancy ambassador to the Centrality...

*several minutes later*

In other news, the Central News Network has sued the Chammarran News Network for copyright infringement regarding the CNN logo...

[Force Lord]

CENINTERN Conference, Central City
Centrum, The Center Sector, The Centrality
14 January 3401

The conference was about to start, and in true Centralist fashion, began with a fireworks display.



There was also the military parade:



Inside the building, and around it, security was tight, with CSB and CIS agents, undercover or otherwise, everywhere. In a conference such as this, foreign agents would not resist spying on the event, and thus the security measures were understandibly great.

The conference room was full of foreign Centralists, from varied nations and cultures:



Everyone was waiting for the Centrality's leader to arrive. Said leader was currently talking with Lord Redav.

"If someone asks you who you are, make up the most believable lie you can think of. Perhaps say you are my bodyguard," said Dirad Kierger.

"There is our excuse already, Dictator. Now let us go. We do not want to keep our friends waiting," responded Lord Redav.

Both men walked to the pulpit, Kierger sensing the attendants' uneasiness regarding Redav. He understood them: he still regarded Redav as a rather unknown individual, but at least he was getting all the attention, for the moment. Kierger was fighting off his stage fright...not too well. Finally facing the CENINTERN members, he composed himself, with Redav at his side.

"Welcome to Centrum, my friends! As your host, I hope your stay will be most fruitful. CENINTERN's leadership was kind enough to make me spokesman for the duration of the conference, and so I will tell you what issues Centralism faces now."

"We have the following:

-Current situation of Centralism
-Rise of Centralism in Former Outlands
-Persecution of Centralists in the Feelipeens and elsewhere
-Expansion of Centralism in Third World planets
-CENINTERN-Centrality relations
-Disputes between Centralists and possible conflict resolutions

More could not be added due to time restraints."

"Let us begin."

[Shroom Man 777]

THE MAYNILAD BULLETIN

MAYNILAD, Luz - The bodies of three men, recognized through forensics as being of Central origin, have been repatriated to the Centrality Embassy in Maynilad. The bodies were found in a residence that had caught fire, reportedly due to a gas leak from a kitchen stove that had been left on overnight. While there was enough genetic material to conclude that these men were ethnic Centralites, authorities say that their physical features have been too damaged by the fire to determine their exact identities and have requested the Central embassy's help in naming these men.

Government officials have offered their sincerest condolences to the Central embassy.

[PeZook]

Co-written with Shroomie!

Previously on SDNW4...

Ambassador Maximov smiled inwardly, seeing Chinny break a pencil in his hand. “My government has instructed me to deliver a stern warning about undertaking ill-advised foreign adventures. The international community...”

“What?” Chinny interrupted “What foreign adventures? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Why, your occupation of Pelania, of course...”

“The hell? What the fuck, do you Zenobians think you can order us around?”

Maximov knew of Chinny’s temperament, but even he was surprised by the sudden outburst. “No, we merely want to warn you against destabilizing adventurism...”

“Oh like hell you do! You just know you can’t poison Pelania with your goddamned socialist lieberal ideas if there are Murcan boys present there, you fucks!” Yeah, he’d tell him! He’d tell him good, the smug bastard!

“Please calm down, Mr. Almost Sovereignest.” Maximov was starting to wonder if his quip at Chinny’s title wasn’t ill-advised “History shows that...”

Chinny slammed his fist on the table. “Screw history! And screw YOU, ambassador! We don’t need your fucking approval! We’re gonna bring freedom anywhere we want, whenever we want, because we’ve got the biggest guns, biggest ships and the meanest sons-of-bitches on the planet!”

Wild Space Sector BB-25
Planet Almera
Top Secret COLON ASS TURDS Blacksite
Pelania



“Where did you first realize what was happening?”, the humorless interrogator asked. The man sitting across from him, wearing a bright orange jumpsuit, seemed lost in thought for a minute, “Not until they engaged your people for the first time. Frankly, I thought they were all insane when they first arrived. I didn’t like it at all.”

“Why?”

“They were heavily armed and on edge. Put yourself in my shoes.”

“Understood. You say colonel Delgado first sent out an armored column to the landing site?”

“Yes. They thought the landing happened in the San Dorado hills. We’ve lost a platoon there, too, but I thought it was the usual - bandits, desertion, accidents. They did happen from time to time.”

“Did they reach the hills?”

“No. I am not sure what happened, I wasn’t at your command centre at the time. All I know was that they encountered... something, and then turned around and attacked the city.”

The investigator seemed surprised for the first time. Well, the second, actually: the first was when General Corello surrendered and was forthcoming and truthful during interrogations. It almost seemed like the man was... tired.

“They attacked the city?”

“Yes. They drove back and started shooting at both your people and my men.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“General, you know that is sounds awfully far-fetched?”

“Yes, but that’s what happened. I know it looks like I’m trying to cover up some nefarious scheme, but I’m sure you have other people in custody who can corroborate my statements.”

The interrogator chuckled, “That we do. What measures did Colonel Delgado undertake in response?”

Corello did not answer that question immediately. He took his time to extinguish his cigarette, “He ordered my men to stop the column.”

“Why?”

“That man you had watching over me, I can’t remember his name... he said your people lost all communications. My men couldn’t use their radios, either, except at very short range. Which kind of defeated their purpose.”

“Are you sure there was no other factor?”

“I wasn’t exactly privy to Delgado’s decision making process”, Corello leaned on the table, “That was the reason I was given. Since everything seemed to indicate it was true, I gave the orders. Lots of my men died that night.”

“What about the alien landing party? Did you directly encounter them?”

“No, not me. After a while, based on reports of my men and some deduction, we thought that we’ve identified the target. Colonel Delgado again strongarmed me to support his attempt to face the landing party there.”

“What happened?”

“They were wiped out. They came down into the Temple, down to the catacombs, and never came out. I decided to just let the alien leave with whatever it was they wanted. And, well... they did.”

“What happened to the rest of our force? The command center, logistical tail...”

“We killed them all and disposed of the bodies. It was easy, they lost all their combat troops chasing shadows.”

“And?”

“...and went down into the catacombs some time later. I think you have the reports from that little excursion.”


Almera Colony
Corinth, Pelania
Three months earlier

The metal wall was a strange thing, considering it was embedded in ancient rock, and below a rustic temple at that. Flashlight beams seemed to slide off the strange material, as if it absorbed the beams entirely.

There was a huge hole, obviously freshly made, for a given value of ‘fresh’. Inside was a strange, dark corridor built of the same material: now dilapidated and dirty, but obviously artificial.

“The hell...” one of the Black Panthers, general Corello’s elite bodyguards, muttered to himself. He had never seen anything like that.

“General, are you sure those... things are gone?” another soldier asked, shining his flashlight inside.

“Why the hell would they stay? It’s been months, we’d have noticed something. Let’s move.”

They crossed the hole and entered the corridor. With every step, they saw more strange things: things that seemed like they were out of this world. There was writing in some strange, undecipherable language... advanced equipment, used for unknown purposes. Everything about this structure was alien, utterly alien to anyone raised in Pelania. Possibly anywhere else on this world, too.

The complex wasn’t in a very good shape. Several corridors were crushed or blocked with earth. Others were unstable, and several times the small search party had to hastily retreat from a corridor or junction that threatened to collapse.

Eventually, though, they came upon a large, circular room, located roughly in the middle of the complex. And, unlike all the others, this one lit up the moment the first human entered.



At first they were scared, but it soon became obvious they room wasn’t going to try and kill them all. With trepidation and reverence, they approached the central display. One of the Black Panthers began photographing everything

Most of the holographic screens were blank, but one displayed a corrupted and barely readable map of the continent. There were markings on it - many, many markings, arcane symbols that obviously defined places of interest.

“General! That’s Corinth here... look... Corinth, this is the river... San Dorado hills... is that what the aliens were looking for?”

“If it was, they’d have taken it with them.” Corello rubbed his chin “But this is still obviously quite valuable. Send a runner to the surface, we’ll need work teams here. Fast.”



Wild Space Sector BB-25
Planet Almera
Top Secret COLON ASS TURDS Blacksite
Pelania
Present day

“...we’ve moved the equipment to a secure location over several weeks. We had to work at night, of course, and carefully time the excavations to avoid your satellites...” Corello’s explanation was interrupted by the interrogator

“Where, general? Where did you take the equipment removed from the complex?”

Corello smiled and leaned back in his chair “Why... you would like to know, wouldn’t you? Heh. And now we come to the part where we actually negotiate for what you want to know, yes?”

So that’s why the bastard was being so helpful..., the interrogator thought. He was dismayed at being led by the nose like that, like an amateur, but there was little choice he had in the matter now. Sure, he could order torture... but torture threatened to give X-COM false information, and was generally just a waste of time.

“Okay, let’s say we’ll negotiate. What do you want?”

“Safe passage to a non-extradition treaty country and fifty million marks in cash.”

“Not going to happen. You know perfectly well you can just give us false information and disappear.”

Corello held up his hands “Well, that’s my offer. What else can I give you but my word I am not going to lie?”

“I think”, the interrogator leaned forward, “I think that what you really want is immunity from persecution.We are not naive, general, my superiors will never go for just letting you off. But my organization can protect you from the government if you cooperate.”

“Hah! Works great for you, doesn’t it? Keep me where you want me to be, always watched, ready to be disposed of after I become useless?”

The interrogator returned Corello’s gesture from just a few seconds ago, “That’s my offer. You know damn well you’re not going to get a better one.”

There was silence. Corello considered his options carefully, but saw no way to actually get anything more out of the situation. If he strung everything along too much, they’d just torture him for the information, anyway. It was surprising he had been treated as well as he was for so long.

“Fine. But you will go first. If I am out of a cell and living somewhere more comfortable by tomorrow, you will get the location of your artifacts.”

“I am glad you saw reason, general.”



Planet Almera
Hempland Province, Pelania
Present day



The Doomvees moved through the badlands of the Hempland Province, the furthest region of Pelania that bordered it with the nearby nation of Ayrak. The horrible mountain road made for a bumpy ride, to say the least. The fact they often winded close to giant bottomless cliffs didn’t exactly inspire confidence, either.

“This is bullshit, sarge!” Chet Fisto’s driver yelled from his station. He was attempting to navigate the small column while wearing night vision goggles.

Fisto tried to glare at the man, like his old sergent used to do, but his own goggles made it difficult. He sighed inwardly: ever since the promotion, he had to learn all these strange new skills. Like leadership. It was much harder than brutalizing terrorist sympathizers with the butt of his rifle, or stabbing college students, and SGT Fisto didn’t have the money saved to pay for his own NCO training.

Due to Fisto’s failure to leadershipize him, the driver kept whining, “These fuckers behind us, they must be really fucking comfortable in their APCs!”

The doomvee suddenly shifted to the side. The wheels bucked and blasted sand and small stones without finding a good grip. Despite the driver’s best efforts, the leading Doomvee was stuck, hanging halfway over a cliff.

“Godammit, Cuntser! You should’ve watched the fucking road!”

“But Sarge, you didn’t tell me to!” the Private Freedom-Class whined back.

“Shut the fuck up!” Fisto smacked him with his pistol. It looked like he’d have to learn leadership on the spot. He made a mental note to have Cuntser demoted from the rank of PFC to the rank of PFC, Private Fail Class.

“Okay, everybody out! Stop the convoy!”

His men began piling out of the precariously located vehicle. Fisto could barely even glance at the situation, when a group of all-black armored vehicles rolled up to the blockage.



Soldiers in featureless uniforms without any distinctions began piling out of them, taking up defensive positions along the sides of the road. Before Fisto could be done yelling obscenities at Cuntser, he was approached by the commander of the second part of the convoy, the one Fisto and his men were acting as scouts for.



“What’s going on here?” the woman demanded. She was clad in high-tech tactical gear, and cradling a large machinegun.

Fisto didn’t even raise his head. “Go away, men are working here,” thinking her to be some random journo, a nurse or maybe a cook. Only after he said that, he noticed his men becoming suddenly silent. It was the kind of silence that preceded something really, really bad.

Fisto turned around slowly, facing the woman. She has no distinctions, but carried herself with an aura of obvious authority, and also carried a huge gun. And besides, she was introduced during the briefing as a lieutenant colonel, which Sergeant Fisto forgot. After all, a woman could never normally attain such a high rank. They could only attain such a rank... abnormally. Through their feminine wiles! That’s what Fisto’s chaplain said during his sermon, and the chaplain was never wrong about such things.

“Oops.” Fisto simply said.

“Oops? Sergeant, if I hear anything like that from you again, I will toss you off that cliff myself. You are extremely lucky we’re not on base right now, or I would have had you relieved of your post and sent to headquarters for reassignment,” she paused for dramatic effect, eyeing Fisto up. The sergeant, in a rare spat of wisdom, said nothing. “Now let’s start this again. What’s going on here?”

Stupid bitch, Fisto thought, glaring at her, Talking down to a man like that!

“Sergeant!”

“Uh, yeah. We’re kind of stuck, but we’ll get it working again, don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry what?”

Fisto swallowed the bile which was filling up his mouth due to rage. “Don’t worry Ma’am!” he yelled back. Bitch.

“Good. Now let one of my vehicles pass you, we’ll drag you back onto the road. And move it, we’re sitting ducks out here.”

She went back into her Badley IFV while another doomvee went ahead of them. A black-clad trooper went out of the vehicle and hooked a cable to them, and began dragging them out with a winch.

Soon the convoy was on the move again. Fisto, still angry from his humiliation at the hands... at the mouth of that stupid whore, decided to relieve his frustration by verbally abusing his subordinates. It wasn’t right, he thought, how that woman bossed him around like that. Out here on the battlefield, no less! Women didn’t belong to the battlefield! Women were supposed to make babies. Lots of healthy babies who could then shoot terrorists for freedom! Women going out themselves to shoot people was just wrong and obscene.

And what if the terrorists got the women? How could they defend themselves? And how could they make more babies if they got hurt? Fertile women were the key to the next generation of strapping young non-homobortionistic Murcan boys, and also some fertile girls that they’d need to make more after that. At least some very virile man-soldiers had the good sense to sleep with the women and make babies on the battlefield, get them knocked up so they’d get sent home. It was for their own good, after all, even if the women would try to say all sorts of things. Fisto knew that no always meant yes, just like what he said to Barry, and that they wanted it anyway.

Something made Fisto think that the female commander wasn’t really a fertile female, he wanted to ask her if she had ever been mistaken for a man, but was afraid to since who knows what she would’ve said back. And these troopers she commanded? Some division of those fucking ASS TURDS, they said. The goddamned arrogant bastards with their hi-tech gear and no-nonsense attitude. Why, nobody ever saw the TURDS freedomizing cities and hauling suspects off for enhanced interrogation. No, it was all Guardsmen and Armymen who did all the hard work! Fisto had the honor, no, the privilege of giving Bari’bama a drink, he was practically a hero, and now this bitch was talking down to him? Motherfucker. Stupid whore.

Fisto mulled over the issue some more, while randomly throwing expletives at his convoy. It took him enough time for the doomvees to clear the last precarious bend in the road and come upon a large plateau. The terrain in here rolled down gently towards another high slope: about halfway up that one lay the village they were looking for, where Fisto was supposed to lead that goddamned bitch-whore and her stupid emasculated soldiers to look for whatever they were looking for. Months of treading those fucking mountains and that’s the assignment he gets after his heroic abuse of fucking Bari’Bama himself, live on TV, with Blenn Geck.

Chet Fisto was angry, angry at the entire world. His humiliation threatened to burn a hole in him, and so the moment he saw anything to lash out on - in this case, a goat, grazing by itself - he blew it away with his Mama Goose while yelling terrible curses. Yes. That was better. Oh Jeebus, hell yeah. The roar of the machine gun carried far, like thunder. Hell yeah!

The result was most strange, however. Unlike in Corinth, where shooting random animals and people did not make people overreact needlessly, the goddamned bitch... overreacted. Her vehicles immediately broke formation and disgorged her troops, while she came on the radio demanding a report. She was hysterical, probably due to her wandering uterus, Chet concluded.

“It’s nothing, I just killed a goat,” Fisto said into his headpiece.

There was silence. The black-clad troopers somehow managed to glare at him from their positions around the stopped convoy, despite their helmets and goggles, which made SGT Fisto kind of jealous.

“Fisto, I want to see you. Right now.” The bitch finally spoke. How did she even know his name? Fucking hell. Angry again, despite the carnage wrought on the unsuspecting animal, Fisto unclipped his safety straps and climbed out of the doomvee. Fucking hell.

He jumped off the doomvee and made his way towards the Badley, dragging his feet as he did so. He passed by one of those black COLON assholes, who was glaring at him with his ugly goggled face. Fisto glared back at the ASS TURD.

“Yeah, what’re you looking at, jerkwad?” he said defiantly.

The TURD looked like he was going to say something, but instead of saying anything the TURD suddenly exploded. He blew up into bloody bits, spraying Fisto with bone splinters and desecrated viscera. The National Guardsman fell on his ass at the unexpected display of violence, while the other troopers - TURDS and non-TURDS alike - immediately returned fire at their unseen assailants.



The night was lit up by tracer fire and muzzle flashes, as small arms, Armalytes, Mama Gooses and Badley assault cannons opened up in an obscene omnidirectional onslaught of ordnance. The roar of so many firearms was deafening to Fisto’s ears, and the smell of cordite from the spent casings overpowering his stuffy nostrils. But there was another sound, and another smell mixing with those familiar scents and sonances. A sharp sizzling noise, and an acrid odor coming from below his nose. Fisto was still on his ass, he looked down and saw that his own Armalyte, which had been slung across his chest, had melted into two and the ceramic plate inserts on his body armor was bubbling and burning.

“Oh shit! Oh shit!” Fisto screamed as he tried to remove his melting chest plate. As he undid his tacticool webbing, he could feel the intense heat on his breasts as whatever it was ate through the plating. “Oh Jeebus!”

“Take cover make stand!” the woman commander was shouting over the radio. Another TURD exploded violently, his upper torso abruptly removed from the rest of his body. The nearest soldier started screaming as something got on him, he started rolling on the ground as smoke billowed from his body.

“What the fuck?” Fisto finally undid his armor, throwing it to the ground just as the ceramic plate had been fully liquefied. Realizing that Colonel Bitch probably had more important things to do than talk to him, Fisto started crawling back for his doomvee. TURDS were dropping all over the place. One of the COLONs fell right in front of him, the trooper’s face was reduced to a grinning skull, before it too bubbled up into slime. Fisto whimpered. “Mommy!”

Their assailants were shooting back. Emerald bolts stabbed through the dark, like green bullets that exploderized whatever they hit and bathed anything nearby with acid. One of the National Guard doomvees was already reduced to a half-molten slagheap along with everyone inside it. It was unlike anything Fisto had ever seen on this planet, he didn’t sign up for this shit. He signed up to bayonet goddamn communoid union protesters and student demonstrators, he joined the National Guard to shoot sand diggers in the face and bathe Secret Pelanian Barries with cool refreshing water. Fisto was regretting not bringing any money with him to the battlefield.

But no matter, he was finally near his doomvee. He called out to Cuntser to pick him up, but the goddamn Private Fail Class was busy trying to be a hero and manning the Mama Goose instead of driving his ass out of the line of fire. The roar of the heavy machinegun was deafening, the trooper couldn’t hear Fisto. The muzzle flash was also blinding, and the trooper also couldn’t see the incoming emerald bolts. They missed him, but not the doomvee. They found the fuel tank and the whole vehicle blew up, sending Cuntser flying off the damn thing and hitting the ground with a painful thud.

“MEDIC!” Cuntser wailed. None of the acid had gotten onto him, but the explosion had ripped both his legs off. A para-medic crawled towards him and he grabbed the medic desperately. “Doc! Help... me!”

“This looks pretty bad, Cuntser. I’m afraid your plan only covers one lost limb, not two. You’ll have to pay out of pocket for that one,” the medic replied. Murcan military medics were privatized, and they didn’t cover pre-existing conditions. They also didn’t provide free socialized medicine in the field, each soldier had to pay for his own treatment, because neither the military nor the government stole from the taxpayers in a display of efficient management. It worked very well, as medics offered various TraumaCare(TM) plans for their customers, allowing the government to cut taxes and save its citizens even more money - truly, the greatest combat care in the world! Cuntser reached into one of his countless tactical pockets and feebly produced a piece of burnt plastic. The medic clucked his tongue. “I’m sorry, we don’t accept FasterCard.”

“But my premium!” Cuntser shouted as blood frothed out of his mouth. The medic shook his head and applied a tourniquet to only one of Cuntser’s lost legs before crawling away, out of the line of fire, and leaving the other amputated limb to continue on bleeding. Cuntser looked at his untreated leg and started crying. He looked at Fisto desperately. “Sarge... tell my wife... I need money...”

“What a girl, no wonder his parents named him cunt,” Fisto muttered under his breath as he left the guy and bravely tried to find cover. He found it in a convenient rock, which he curled up and hid under.

“Move the Badleys to cover the doomvees, their armor can take those acid bullets!” Lt. Col. Bitch was ordering over the radio. The Badleys moved out, advancing towards the direction of the enemy fire and letting loose with their own auto-cannons and missile launchers. The emerald bolts were slamming on IFVs’ armors, melting the outer layers. These particular Badleys, like most X-COM vehicles, were modified with experimental layered composites and rated to withstand heavy damage - and so managed to hold up slightly better than the Doomvees. At least, until an enemy missile destroyed the leading Badley.

“Call for air support! Call for air support now!” the commander’s voice now had a hint of panic.

“We can’t, we’re being jammed! We’re trying to -” another missile streaked through the night and struck the Badley equipped with advanced communications equipment.

“Shit! Ma’am, our Badley can’t take any more of those acid bullets, we can’t move the turret and they melted the treads. We’ll be targets for those goddamn missiles!”

“Dismount!” the commander shouted, as the crew of the command vehicle disembarked and used their disabled vehicle for cover from the acid rounds. It wasn’t wise to stay too close to the downed Badley though, so the TURDS spread out to present harder targets.



“Fall back! Run, get to the doomvees!” the Lt. Col. commanded, she was attempting to suppress the enemy with her high-tech X-COM pulse rifle. “We’re moving towards phase line bravo then collapsing back along the approach route!”

The ASS TURDS and the National Guardsmen fell back. The remaining Badleys popped smoke to conceal their exit, reversing their courses while continuing to shoot back at the unseen enemies. The doomvees, shielded by the wall of IFVs, took the survivors and rolled out ahead of the Badleys, which covered them with autocannon fire. For the meanwhile, the pace of the enemy attacks seemed to slacken, the torrent of emerald bolts slowing down and the missiles slacking off. Maybe it was the smokescreen, or maybe they had no need to attack a retreating enemy.

“Move it or lose it!” Chet heard the Lieutenant Bitch say over the radio. “Go go go!”

“Shit! Wait!” Chet screamed. He was still hiding under the rock, and now the Badleys and doomvees were leaving him behind. “No! Come back! Don’t leave me! Nooooo!”

He fell to his knees and waved in futility at the departing convoy.

The emerald bolts and missiles finally ceased, and the X-COM operatives and the Guardsmen breathed sighs of relief in having survived the gauntlet. Their commander was trying to get the radio to work, to get through the jamming. They made it out alive, but something told her that it wasn’t over yet.

The humans are retreating.

What’s our ROE?

Humans dispensable. Kill everything that isn’t covered in fur.

Da. Use of tactical atomics authorized.

Acknowledged.

As the convoy made its escape down the long and winding mountain road, their passage triggered something buried beneath the ground. The device was a compact thing, barely 50 kilograms in weight and the size of a small fridge. Its passive-aggressive seismic sensors waited for the first vehicle to pass, and then the second, using the vibrations in the ground to compute just how many vehicles there where - and when the middle-most vehicle was about to pass over. It determined when it was under the exact center of the convoy, and then it initiated its micro-nuclear warhead.



Sergeant Chet Fisto watched night turned to day, and the X-COM and National Guard convoy turn into dust. The blastwave threw him like a rag doll, or rather a rag action figure, sending him flying through the air until he was reintroduced to terra firma. He fell to the ground, hitting his head on something.

Before he lost consciousness, Fisto caught a glimpse of a small group of towering brutes, silhouettes posessed of bearly physique, covered completely in fur. The last thing he heard were strange voices, guttural growls in an alien tongue he’d never heard of before. He also heard the unmistakable sound of laughter.

Of fucking laughter.



Next Sunday
Oho, Murca
Saint Murca’s Pentcostalinism Chapel of Jeebus

There was music and there was dancing in the church. For Murcans were a religious people, a god-fearing people, but also joyful people. Preacher Reverend Billy Biscuit Graham always said that your should praise the Lord with joy, and so there were always things going on in his church. There were no pews, no chairs, no - the people prayed while standing, prayed while dancing. They prayed for hours, sometimes days.

The preacher paced around the stage before the altar, microphone in hand, shouting at his congregation, “Say it with me, brothers and sisters! Say it with me now! Who is your savior?! Who delivered you from daaarkness? Say it!”

“JEEBUS!” the crowd chanted. “JEEBUS SAVES!”

“That’s right, my flock! That’s right! Who holds your hand every day? Who delivers answers others can’t? Who is the only light, the only way? Say it! Say it with me!”

“JEEBUS!” the crowd chanted yet again, “JEEBUS GUIDES!”

Joey Jojo danced with the crowds, reciting his prayers. He had been praying for two hours now, along with his son, Bobby Lee. The women prayed behind them, of course, so as to not distract the men from the glory of JEEBUS with their unclean feminine physiques.



The preacher suddenly held up a snake, “BROTHERS! Look upon the face of the DEEBIL! Look at that which tempted ROSLYN to seduce ADAMA!”

There was a gasp, as the music stopped all of a sudden, “Yes! The horrible visage! This beast, foulest of the foul, that made ROSLYN flash her body at ADAMA and corrupt his mind, so that man was thrown out of paradise! But fear not! For we have faith and thus look into the face of the DEEBIL with courage!”

The preacher’s assistants began throwing rattlesnakes at the congregation, and the music started again. The people in the crowd were now falling down in epileptic attacks, speaking in tongues, with terrified rattlesnakes slithering all over them, shaking their rattles. But they were trampled with ritualistic frenzy. Some people fell over from the bites, but were ignored.

“See the DEEBIL fall before us, brothers! See him trampled by our righteous feet! Pray, pray to JEEBUS that he bestows GRACE upon you! On your families! On our boys fighting His good fight in Pelania!”

“We pray! We pray! Save us, JEEBUS! Guide us, JEEBUS!”

Joey yelled with everyone. Suddenly, his son, little Bobby Lee, fell down to the floor and began thrashing about, babbling something in tongues.



“Abela kababa bakalakdaka mohhamad jihad! Mohhamad jihad!”, the boy yelled incomprehensibly. Joey lifted him up high above the crowd and bellowed, “Listen to him! Listen to JEEBUS speaking through my child!”

“Bomabstic fantastic! Durka durka boom shaka laka boombad general! Tooty fruity!”

People gathered around Bobby Lee. A guy was yelling at him in joy or psychotic rage - it was hard to tell, while another banged a fist on the boy’s chest while reciting the Scriptures. Joey was besides himself with joy - literally, for the chanting and music and yelling and a rattlesnake bite or two let him enter an otherworldly trance. He stood next to himself, watching his body froth at the mouth and yell at the church’s ceiling. He then floated, high above, above the world, towards the heavens... he saw things there, things beyond imagination. He saw talking bears and walking dead, he saw big-headed angels with gray skin and gigantic eyes, he saw black monoliths floating through space and giant clouds of mushroom shape above strange worlds.

“JEEBUS SAVES! OH JEEBUS Let us know your will through that child as you let your disciples hear you speak after being thrown off a cliff!” the preacher’s voice snapped Joey back to the then and there.

“OH JEEBUS!” the crowds chanted back.

“OH JEEBUS! Testify!” the pastor hollered.

Bobby Lee shrieked, “Like a virgin! Touched for the very first time!”

“Testify decently, boy! Speak like JEEBUS!”

“Meesa exiled! Meesa cast out! Meesa clumsy! A hidden city! Muy muy crunchy!”

“Yes, brothers! Hear the boy speak of exile, of terrible ordeals suffered by JEEBUS in the Swamp of Terrors! Where our Lord lived for four seasons, eating what nature gave him and praying!”

“Hallelujah!” someone shouted.

“Hallelujah!” the rest followed. “HAIL JEEBUS!”

“HAIL!” half the crowd went as they raised their fists.

“JEEBUS!” the rest replied, beating their chests.

The assistants now walked about in the crowd, collecting donations. It was easy, for the entranced, chanting crowds did not mind their wallets, so the assistants emptied them into large trash bags. Credit cards and cash soon swelled the bags with righteous wealth which would serve to further englorificate JEEBUS and pastor Billy Biscuit. The assistants also placed some rattlesnakes into the bags for good measure, ones that hadn’t had their venom sacs filled with LSD.

“Brothers! Close your eyes and PRAY TO JEEBUS!” Reverend Billy Biscuit commanded his flock. They followed his Holy Word and closed their eyes, but most of them were simply too exhausted to actually do any praying, and just passed out either from over-exertion or the drugged rattlesnake venom. Suddenly it was very quiet, but not for long. The sound of helicopter rotors could be heard from inside the chapel, and the double-doors opened as a black-suited man entered the church.

“Reverend Biscuit,” it was a man from the Sovereignest Service, an SS man. “You are needed on the Hill. The Sovereignest Citizen would like to have a prayer with you.”

“I see. Where the Lord calls, I will follow. Come, my child,” the reverend nodded and went with the man, leaving his comatose congregation and boarding the helicopter outside. They departed for the Hill.

A few hours later, Joey Jojo crawled back to his feet, groggily, dizzy with the whole world spinning around his throbbing head. As the other churchgoers left the building, so did he, staggering outside and getting in his truck. After cleansing his sins on church, Joey felt like he needed to go back home to get a beer and have some smokes. Yeah.



He drove away, despite the nagging feeling that he forgot something. No matter, nothing was ever lost in the House Of The Lord, he’d just come back to pick up whatever it was next week. He went out of the pristine gated community owned by Pastor Biscuit, who was very rich since the free market copiously rewarded his godliness. Then he got to the public roads, which were no longer being maintained by taxpayer money stolen by the socialists. The road was bumpy, but that was why he was riding on a Frod pickup truck. A sportscar, some fancy rich wiener’s BDSMW passed him by, but he didn’t mind. His throat was too hoarse from shouting praises to Jeebus to scream obscenities at the guy who overtook him.

Eventually they stopped at a toll booth operated by the gangs who now owned the road by exercising their Second Amendment rights. Everyone had to pay a fee for driving through what was now their private property. Joey Jojo noticed that the graffiti on the toll booth were painted over by new ones, and the tollers were wearing bandannas with new colors and waving different signs with their hands. They must’ve staged a hostile takeover on the last guys who operated the tolls. The free market at work: Joey was told by Blenn Geck last night that this was how the tolls went down, while quality of service went up!

Joey Jojo stopped behind the BDSMW.

“Hey, hey, hey. Nice car, holmes!” one of the toll boothers said to the BDSMW’s driver, waving a FAC-10 around like it was nobody’s business. Joey Jojo felt a bit nervous as he watched, but reminded himself that it was the man’s Second Amendment right to own any weapon he pleased and wave it around in public, especially at town hall meetings. This was not pussy-ass Algeira anymore, in Murca men were truly free to intimidate their fellow men, particularly those less manly men, like women and homobortionists. “Can we take it for a ride, yeah?”

“No, this is my private property. I’m not gonna let you poor people borrow it around like some socialist,” the rich snob in the BDSMW said. Turned out he had a vanity plate too, Joey just noticed. Prick.

“Huh? Well, ya know what they say, no means yes, homey. Especially for women. Are you a woman, homes?” the boother asked. His friends were going around the BDSMW, eyeing it closely and greedily. “Say, dis is a BDSMW, ain’t it? Why you don’t buy Murcan, mang? Why you buy some fancy Thanasian car?”

“Fuck off, you damned dirty Mohicans,” the BDSMW driver spat. He revved his engines and prepared to make his escape, while pressing an emergency button on his company cell phone.

“Don’tcha know them Thanasians are a big bunch of socialists? They’re right beside Zenobia, holmes. You have a socialist car! We don’t like it, holmes. You better get rid of it.”

“You fucking idiot!” another gangster spat at his friend. “You’re not supposed to say the name Zenobia, goddamn it! Oh shit, now look what you made me do! Argh!”

“TRAITORS!” a third gangster came up behind them and shot them both with a Puzi submachine gun.

As they screamed and splattered blood all over the BDSMW, the rich bastard tried to take advantage of the gang’s fratricide. He stepped on the gas and crashed into the toll booth, but the cunning entrepreneurs manning it had foreseen such folly and laid out some tire spikes. Joey watched as the guy spinned out of control and crashed into a tree. The fine examples of Murcan patriots then dragged him out and shot him in the head. Then they threw him into a ditch beisde the road.

“Some repairs and it will be good as new!” one of them proclaimed upon inspecting the BDSMW. “It wasn’t very useful on these roads anyway. Gotta add some upgrades.”

Another one of them approached Joey Jojo, since he was next in line after the BDSMW.

“Yo, mang! Toll rate’s gone up cuz’ of maintenance fees!” the boother said, on account of the BDSMW having just wrecked their booth. “Pay up, pal.”

Joey Jojo reached into his pants and felt for his pocket. He felt something thick and hard, but realized that it wasn’t his wallet. The ganger eyed him suspiciously as he stuck his other hand into his pants to look for his wallet.

“Oh shit, I must’ve left it at the church...” Joey sputtered. He knew he had forgotten something. Oh shit.

“Hmm... then I guess we gotta impound your car, man. Step outta the vehicle,” the boother brandished his Puzi menacingly.

“No way, man.” Joey replied defiantly. “I paid for this truck with my goddamn money. That I earned! Surely you understand the value of the dollar, right?”

“We do. That’s why we gonna take the car,” the man pulled the Frod’s door open. “Get out or I’ll take you out!”

“Fuck you!” Joey’s hands, still in his pants, reached for the thick and hard thing inside it. He was gonna show this asshole his Second Amendment rights, up close and personal. He whipped his thing out and shoved it at the boother’s face. “Eat this, motherfucker!”

Joey Jojo drew his gun, but he forgot that he had pawned his gun to get some cash for his startup fertilizer business...



...so he ended up pulling out a northern diamondbutt rattlesnake from his pants instead, must’ve slithered into his trousers back in church. The snake whipped out of his hands and sank its fangs into the toll booth operator’s throat.

“OH JEEBUS!” the ganger screamed as the venom went into his arteries and then into his brain, crossing the blood-brain barrier to fill his skull with deadly neurotoxin. He started to foam in the mouth while flailing his arms in feebilitude. “OH JEEBUS!”

Joey Jojo realized that the guy must’ve been from the same church as he was. He swore he heard that voice back when they were singing praises, but now he was taking the Lord’s name in vain. Whatever. Joey slammed his door shut and stomped on the accelerator, going off-road with his Frod pickup and avoiding the spikestrip the assholes had laid in the pavement.

Unlike the BDSMW, Joey’s pickup was more suited to the incredibly fluid environment of the free market, and thus managed to circumvent the booth with ease. A few rounds plinked through the truck’s body, adding to the collection of bullet holes it had collected over the years. Joey glanced at his mirror, and saw the gangers get into their own vehicles to chase him.

Suddenly, though, four black SUVs passed him from the opposite direction. They stopped by the side of the road and opened up with their roof-mounted Mama Gooses. Joey recognized the logo the cars carried - that of Buttwater Tacticool Solutions, a popular mercenary company providing security services to all Murcans. They made quick work of the gangbangers, and began dragging and cuffing those who had survived.

The rich guy must’ve been employed by a corporation, which would now take its compensation from the gangbangers in the form of forced labor. Joey didn’t care, though, as long as they left him alone. He tuned to his favorite radio station and whistled all the way home, while listening to Benn Geck.

“You know, we all have our inner demons. I, for one - I can't speak for you, but I'm on the verge of moral collapse at any time. It can happen by the end of the show. You know why that is? Because of progressives! Progressivism is what had almost destroyed our Constipitution. It was designed to destroy the Constipitution by the lieberals! I am telling you...”

“We interrupt this program to bring you troubling news. We have just been informed that a Murcan patrol in Pelania was attacked with nyukyular weapons while scouring the border with Ayrak for fleeing terrorists. We will give you more information as the story develops.”



Washingtoff, Murca
The Hill
Hours later

“The hell?!” Chinny said, slamming the report on his desk. “Nuked?”

“Yes, sir,” there were many, many generals sitting across the table from him. They were all in the Sovereignest Citizen’s office, alone - as Shrubya was away praying with his closest advisor, Reverend Billy Biscuit Graham. “Everything is in the folder. We managed to get one survivor from the area after we brought in air support.”

“Survivor? Who? Where? Have you debriefed him? What did he say? I wan to speak to him!” Chinny spat out in rapid succession. What most of the gathered officers thought was fear and anger was in fact a show of glee. Nyukes! In Pelania! Near the Ayraki border! The perfect excuse to freedomize another country!

“We debriefed him very thoroughly. You might know him, sir - it’s sergeant Chet Fisto, you gave him a medal a few months back for apprehending Barri’Bama.”

“Hah! If anybody could survive a nuke attack by terrorists, it’s that fine young man! Bring him in! Right now!”

A mortally terrified aide hurriedly called in somebody from the waiting room. Thick Chinny was rubbing his hands together, already anticipating the march of freedom through the area... first Pelania, now Ayrak... then, who knows? Maybe even Zenobia!

He was surprised when two men walked in, instead of one. One was obviously superior, for he was wearing a uniform of the proud armed forces of Murca, while the other was skinny and wearing glasses like a goddamned intellectual.

“Who the hell is that?” Chinny growled at the unexpected intruder.

“Uh,” the skinny man adjusted his glasses nervously “My name is Hands Bricks, I am a nuclear specialist working for Specific Atomics...I was called in as a consultant...”



“Oh, fine, whatever. Sergeant Fisto!” Chinny’s face actually took on a joyful expression, which was pretty painful. “You are truly a fine patriot! Only a true Murcan could survive such treachery and live to tell the tale! Give him a chair!” He yelled at the terrified subordinate “Please, sit down. Describe what happened out there.”

“Thank you, sir!” Fisto sat down heavily, handing his crutches to the nuclear physicist. “Here hold them ya sissy.”

The soldier cleared his throat, “We were on a joint patrol with a special unit from COLON, which we were assigned to as protection... my men were supposed to take a major terrorist fortress in the mountains and hand off the prisoners to the TURDS for interrogation...”

A general shifted uneasily, as if he wanted to say something. Chinny glared at him so that he wouldn’t interrupt.

“...we approached the objective and came under heavy fire while storming the fortress. Despite a ten to one numerical superiority we managed to work out way about halfway to the main objective before a shell struck the vehicle carrying the TURDS... I ordered my men to fall back and carried out the wounded on my own back.”

“Dear God, soldier!”, Chinny was obviously impressed. The general who shifted uneasily had a strange expression on his face. Fisto smiled smugly. He’d get another fucking medal for that, no thanks to Colonel Bitch and her stupid soldiers.

“After moving all the wounded to safety we resumed our attack. I personally led the assault. Despite heavy fire we managed to clear the walls of enemy presence, and then we noticed we were not being fired upon by Pelanian terrorists, but someone else entirely!”

“Who did you see?” Chinny listened with great interest. Yes! Yes! He knew exactly what Fisto was going to say!

“Well, I am not sure, sir, but I think they were Ayraki regulars!”

Yes!

“Describe them, sergeant. Why did you think they were Ayraki?” the disgusted general managed to butt in. Chinny glared at him again and made a mental note to deal with the troublemaker later.

“Well, sir... it was pretty obvious. They wore furs, were very tall and spoke like animals, sir.”

The troublemaking general and Bricks exchanged shocked looks. Chinny didn’t seem to mind.

“Yes!” he exclaimed, to everybody’s further confusion. “You are indeed correct!”

“Uh, sir, but Ayrakis are not actually fur-covered animal like beasts...” the nuclear physicist tried feebly to protest. The general gave him a fearful wide-eyed look and waved his hands, trying to stop him. “They dress differently from us, yes, and wear turbans and beards, but...”

“What the fuck? Who the fuck asked you, brainiac?” Chinny yelled. “You’re a nyukyular lieberal intellectual so shut up and only speak when spoken to!”

“What he said! We don’t call Ayrakis and their kind carpet badgers for no reason!” Fisto added. “Anyway, we almost won, but then they nuked us. I tried to rip the bomb from their commander’s hands but he detonated it before I could do that. Unfortunately, I was the only one to survive.”

Everyone looked at Fisto with eyes wide open and mouths slightly agape. Even the general, who seemed like he couldn’t control himself anymore.

“Jeebus,” the general groaned. “Of all the things I’ve heard in my life. That’s gotta be the most - ”

“Patriotic act of bravery ever,” Thick Chinny gasped in realization, nodding his head vigorously at the general in mistaken agreement. “Sgt. Fisto, you’re a true blue all-Murcan hero. General, get this man a medal.”

“What?” the general sputtered incredulously.

“Any medal will do!” Thick Chinny declared. “Why, this looks good enough!”

He reached out to the general and plucked one of his many decorations from his chest, transferring it to Chesto’s chest. The National Guardsman beamed proudly, thrusting his nipples out like as if they were tied to a pair of charging bull elephants.

“My God, you look dashing, Sergeant. Why, I’ll personally take head of your debriefing,” Chinny chuckled. “Then we can go have some cocktails. After we punish Ayrak for attacking us with WMDs, of course.”

“Sir, that’s ridiculous,” the physicist said what many people in the room were thinking. Silence fell inside the office, with Chinny and Fisto glaring at the insolent bastard.

“I thought I said you were supposed to keep yer mouth shut!”

“I am sorry sir, but that’s the truth. Sample analysis shows the bomb had a yield of about six kilotons, and was very clean. Ayrak has no capability to produce clean, portable devices with such a small yield, because it doesn’t have any nuclear capabilities at all, and sergeant Fisto’s description of how the bomb could be hand-held...”

“Are you calling me a liar?!” Fisto rose from his chair, suddenly not needing the crutches “You better not be calling me a liar!”

“Maybe not a liar, per se...” Bricks adjusted his glasses “Just misguided. Perhaps you are misremembering, or...”

“You fucking prick, I’m a veteran! When you wear this country’s uniform for as long as I have maybe you could talk down to me like that! I’m a soldier and deserve respect, you scum!”

“With all respect due to a man of your station and obvious intellect...” the physicist was pretty nervous, but had apparently decided to bet everything on one card “...you don’t possess any detailed knowledge in this area, and...”

Chinny didn’t hear anything more, for he was boiling inside at the sheer audacity that stinking lieberal intellectual displayed in questioning the word of a soldier. It was too bad he was employed by Specific Atomics... those damned companies protected their lieberal employees as if they needed them for anything! If Chinny owned that firm he’d fire the bastard and throw him in a pit with other lieberals. He’d throw them scraps and make them fight each other for food! And if their elitist ivory tower knowledge turned out to be necessary somehow, they snap a collar on one and drag him out...

Wait though Chinny, having remembered something I do own that company!

“...so while your deeds might indeed have been heroic, I spent twenty years working on nuclear weapons and, forgive me for saying, daresay I know a little bit more than you!”

“Enough!’ Chinny growled. “Mr. Bricks, you are fired! Fired, I say!” the Almost Sovereignest Citizen yelled, and then commanded an SS Man standing next to the exit. “Throw him in the pit!”

“Uh, excuse me, sir... I don’t think we have a pit...” the terrified aide reminded him cautiously.

“Then dig one!”

“Now wait just a minute!”, Hands Bricks tried to protest, but the SS man had already grabbed him. A pistol-whip later, the physicist was dragged out of the office.

“Now, gentlemen... let us discuss the issue of the Ayraki nyukyular attack on our brave troops, and our retaliatory options!”

“Shouldn’t we wait on the Sovereignest Citizen before making a policy decision, sir?” the secretary of state, that goddamned legalistic prick, observed. Chinny growled at him, making the man cower in his chair. “Or maybe not...” he feebly added.

“Good. Now that’s taken care of, allow me to present our grand plan for the liberation of Ayrak!”

Chinny proudly extracted a folder from his drawer - obviously a document long in the making, but only consisting of one page.

“Here it is. We should go in and abolish Ayrak’s government... dissolve the army, pull down the statues... yes, the statues are important... and the people will be free to do whatever we want them to do!”

The generals looked at each other in confused silence.

“So? What do y’all think?”

“Uh, we thought there’d be something more?”

“No, that’s it. I mean, Ayrakis will obviously love us for freeing them! They may be subhuman brutish animals, but deep down under every sand digger is a Murcan trying to get out! Freedom will make them turn into white middle-class Murcans!”

A general took the piece of paper. There was more silence, then confused whispers. Somebody mentioned how much money they could drag out of the budget to finance that one. Another general mentioned he could sure use a bunch of new airplanes.

“The plan needs a little fleshing out, but it is otherwise excellent!” they finally declared.

Chinny growled again “No! It is perfect! No fleshing out needed! Get the orders drafted! Now!”

The generals gave up the fight. “The Sovereignest Citizen will get the first operational orders tomorrow.” they said.

I should be getting the first operational orders tomorrow. Chinny grinded his teeth but suppressed his rage.

“Good! You are smart men! Meeting adjourned, tah. You know where the doors are.” Chinny slapped his forehead. “Oh yeah I think we should reward our brave sergeant here for his heroics!”

Chet Fisto beamed with pride again, and grinned smugly. “Anything for Murca, sir!”

“Yes! You will have the honor of being the first Murcan to invade Ayrak! Gentlemen, give the sergeant here a parachute and put him on the first plane to Ayrak!”

“What?!” Fisto gasped.

“You heard me!” Chinny slapped Fisto on the butt good-naturedly, being a former wrestler back in the day, and sometimes fantasizing about his glory days back in the showers and locker rooms with all the other boys. Chinny sighed happily. “Go ‘git ‘em, tiger.”

Chet Fisto whimpered, but it seemed to have gone unnoticed. A general with a medal missing from his chest placed an arm around Fisto’s shoulders and led him away with a knowing smile.

After the generals left, there was a sound of a toilet flushing. A cleverly concealed side door opened and in walked Gorge VW. Shrubya, the Sovereignest Citizen, with a folded newspaper under his arm.

“Oh, hey Chinny. Did I miss something?”

“We’re gonna invade Ayrak. Weren’t you supposed to be off praying with Biscuit Graham?”

“Well, yeah, but I had to go poopsie. Invade Ayrak, huh? Golly, what did they do?”

“Well, we established without question it was they who nyuked our troops. And Ayrak is an offence to freedom and apple pie.”

“Fair enough. Say, I’m gonna be busy tomorrow morning, gonna go to a pre-school and read some pop-up books to some kids. I love pop-ups. Would you like to get the first operational orders for the invasion tomorrow, Chinny?” Shrubya asked pleadingly. He had scheduled the visit to the pre-school months ago and had been looking forward to it so much.



“Oh,” Chinny grinned, exposing his fangs. “It’d be a pleasure, Gorge.”

[Force Lord]

Planet Locri
Homeworld of the Locrian Collective
Unreal Time

Tersites Parlero, assigned to be the Centralist ambassador to the Locrians, watched as the Locrian homeworld grew larger from the viewport of his shuttle. He could clearly see Locrian ships of various size zipping throughout the atmosphere, all acting as if directed from a single source. Parlero laughed at that thought. The Locrians were a hive mind, and hive minds only act collectively. They certainly were smart enough.

The shuttle came to a stop as it landed on what looked suspiciously like a landing pad. The ramp came out, and Parlero became one of the few humans to have ever stepped on Locri's surface. Not the first, and certainly not the last. His assistants followed him outside.

"So, where's our embassy here?", one of the assistants said.

Parlero's secretary pointed out to the unfinished building nearby, where Locrian drones worked to finish the embassy.

"How the hell are we supposed to talk to bugs? And on that point, how can we understand them if they want to talk to us?", said another assistant.

"I don't know. I suppose we wait for the Locrians to finish. Then we'll worry about communication. You brought that universal translator?", said Parlero.

The assistant produced the device from the bag.

"Excellent. Too bad we couldn't bring chairs. I don't exactly see a proper seat nearby."

Everyone else muttered their assent. Certainly staying still was bad for the legs in the long run.

[Force Lord]

THE MAYNILAD BULLETIN

MAYNILAD, Luz - The bodies of three men, recognized through forensics as being of Central origin, have been repatriated to the Centrality Embassy in Maynilad. The bodies were found in a residence that had caught fire, reportedly due to a gas leak from a kitchen stove that had been left on overnight. While there was enough genetic material to conclude that these men were ethnic Centralites, authorities say that their physical features have been too damaged by the fire to determine their exact identities and have requested the Central embassy's help in naming these men.

Government officials have offered their sincerest condolences to the Central embassy.

Centrality Embassy, Maynilad
The Feelipeens

The ambassador broke a cold sweat after reading the local newspaper. How he wasn't informed about this?

Barging out of his office, he hollered to his secretary, who gave him a piece of paper with the following message:

OPERATIONS POSSIBLY COMPROMISED. MONEY STOLEN FROM FEELIPEENI BANK WAS RADIOACTIVE. THREE AGENTS DEAD. BODIES DISPOSED BUT DISCOVERED BY SIS. BENEFICIARIES OF STOLEN MONEY UNACCOUNTED FOR. UNDERGROUND GROUPS POSSIBLY ATTACKED DUE TO RADIATION TRACING BY THE SIS. EMBASSY PERSONELL HAVE DISPOSED OF RADIOACTIVE BODIES BUT EMBASSY IS STILL AT RISK. EVACUATION RECOMMENDED.

Evacuate? At this moment? I think those agents overestimate the danger!, the ambassador thought in disbelief. The CIS agents must be exaggerating. And yet...

In his sleep, he had a nightmare. He saw his world going up in flames. He could hear the screams, the explosions. He could smell the smoke. The nightmare felt so... real. What if it was his precognition warning him of a future threat?

He couldn't take any chances. If the embassy was under threat, then he had to find a way to ensure minimal casualties among the embassy staff. And he then had an idea.

Returning to his office, he procured a small comlink, and spoke, "Men, I need you to do a little scare..."

THE MAYNILAD BULLETIN

MAYNILAD, Luz - The Centrality embassy has been evacuated due to a bomb threat by an unknown terrorist group. Officials could not be contacted at this time. The incident has come after the repatriation of three dead Centralites found earlier. More information is not available.