SDNW4 Story Thread 1

[Darkevilme]

Breaking News from Chamarran News Network

“This footage has recently been received from the Coalition against Pendleton. It is now confirmed that the vessel shown is a Collector Monolith which has sided with the Slavers of Pendleton, the battle is going badly for the brave coalition as a result of this intervention. This action is merely another display of the Collector's true nature, as they seek to perpetuate the practice of slavery purely so as to sustain the supply of sentients for their own experiments. Though the Council states that current circumstances do not allow the Hierarchy to act against the Collectors directly they once again urge solidarity and our need to secure the territory around our nation to eliminate the threat of those who would kidnap our citizens in the hope of selling them to the Collectors.”

[MKSheppard]

Vulture Rock, Sublevel 90



Deep below the Capital Wasteland; several miles below the surface of the earth, Grand Admiral of the Fleet Saul Tarsus read the latest dispatch from the task force that was accompanying the Pendletonian multi-national operation.

The two hundred fifty byte signal had been repeated several times from the Annapolis at maximum power to punch through the eddies between the Pendletonian system and the first Shepistani SIPR repeaters in range.

///TS/SI/DIET COKE///
TO: CINCNAV
FROM:BSG-102

1. COLLECTOR MONOLITH ESTIMATED 9K+ HAS SIDED WITH PENDLETON.
2. ENGAGEMENT UNDERWAY
3. BS-90 BALTIMORE HEAVILY DAMAGED
4. OUTCOME NOT CERTAIN, PENDLETON MAY HAVE ADVANTAGE.

///TS/SI/DIET COKE///

Putting it down, Tarsus cursed and drew his trusty companion.



"Goddamn Collectors, goddamned Slavers..." he muttered as he drained it in two mighty swigs.

After he had recovered a bit from the shock; he opened a line to Fleet HQ.

"Get me Bill Pavlik. Tell him it's a matter of utmost urgency."

Two hours later



"Good to see you again Bill. It's been too long."

"That it has. So why do you need me, Saul?"

"Well Bill, we have a...problem with Pendleton."

[Akhlut]

Bannerman Gap

Mongezi tapped a few keys on the control panel of the Botau. Before the fleet would shriek through the abyss of the Gap and reach Pendleton space, Mongezi wanted to leave a transmission beacon in case anything unusual happened. Could never be too careful, even on the most routine mission...

Pendleton Space

The Botau and its brethren slid out a few moments after the rest of the fleet without a problem.

“All ships, check in,” Mongezi said. A chorus of ship names erupted from the numerous Sasidwi and transports with it.

“Sounds like we're all reporting. Transports, stay behind. We're to flank the Anglians on the side with the most Pendleton ships, so get me some recon quick so we can get our asses into gear.”

“Akotlaka-acal? We're receiving a message from the Shepi Annapolis and from the Anglian Dauntless. They say they've detected a Collector Monolith, sir,” said Alxik, her normally calm voice quavering slightly.

Mongezi's head snapped over at her.

“Shit,” he said very slowly and deliberately. His mind raced.

“Open a comm channel to everyone else, Lerotholi.”

He waited a moment before getting the affirmative from the communications officer.

“To all fleet heads, we offer to send two to three Sasidwi class ships to escort all transport ships back through the Bannerman Gap. I repeat, we offer to have two to three of our ships escort all transport ships through the Bannerman Gap. Since we are going to send at least two ships for the escort of our own tranports, I suggest very strongly that you do the same. Akotlaka-acal Mongezi of the Kwi-acalli of the NenAltKik over and out.”

“Kwahi and Sefati, turn around and gather with transports. Transports, turn around and await orders to retreat. No need to kill all those Ketali if they aren't going to kill anyone back. Ocotox, prepare to do the same if our allies send their own transports. Everyone else, make preparations. Our fleet here, even combined with everyone else, will prove useless against the Monolith. We'd be better set slaughtering Pendletonians until the Collectors maim us too horribly to do that, then self-destructing.”

“Wow, Akotlaka, you know how to rally morale, don't you?” Mamohato of the Farelan asked.

“I feel it is better to let you know the truth than delude you. Even the Mo-itlapaltayomixi would be able to only scratch a Monolith single-handedly. It requires a full war fleet to slay the damn things. No use in getting your hopes up for you be slain. No, better for us to expect death and vow to give the Pendletonians a gash in the guts to remember us by. By the way, transmit all battle data to the beacon dropped at the edge of the Bannerman Gap, we don't want the Kwi-acalli gold to be completely clueless as to what happened here,” Mongezi said, bitterness creeping through.

“For Imakwa,” the kipakt Tlakali-acal said.

Mongezi then shut off the comm channels to the rest of the ships, and quickly opened one up to the beacon on the other side of the gap. Unfortunately, it would take hours to reach the beacon and even longer to reach the rest of the fleet.

“This is Akotlaka-acal Mongezi of the Botau in Pendleton space. We have encountered a Collector Monolith. Should we engage in battle with it, we are transmitting data to Sasidwi standard data and transmission beacon Ki-92-Ta.”

- - --- - - -

The Botau shot to the front of the NenAltKik fleet, leading the squad against the combined Pendletonian and Collector ships. Missiles sailed across the void and impacted with deadly accuracy. The shields on the Botau flickered momentarily before regaining their integrity.

“Engineering, redirect everything from the hyperdrives to shields. Hell, redirect anything not directly related to shooting, sublight movement, or shields. We're going to need every last electron powering something.”

The ships of Pendleton were mauled horrifically, but the Collector ships soon engaged, vomiting forth their green bile, searing away the shields of the NenAltKik ships.

“All ships! Aim at the engines on the forwardmost Collector ship! Empty all your ordinance at these zopilotli! If we cripple them, we can hope to kill them; if we cripple this one, we move onto the next and the next, and maybe we can cripple that huge fucking brick they brought to play!” Mongezi yelled, nearly roaring in spite of his small size.

And so torpedoes and beamfire shook the rear of the Collector cruiser, though Mongezi knew not if this would actually be effective.

If all else fails, I suppose we can just ram the filth covered scavengers. If we're going to die, might as well try and breach them while we're at it.

[RogueIce]

On Station, Outskirts of Bannerman System
1645 Coalition Standard Time

CIC, SRS Pioneer

Captain Peter Scott, commander of the light carrier Pioneer watched the developing engagement as the coalition forces moved into position. He noticed something odd about one of the SOS frigates, as it suddenly seemed to have “sped up”. Concerned, he did a quick analysis and noticed that the frigate would be late to its assigned position. He had no idea what had caused this problem, but apparently it had been noticed and fixed. “No doubt it’ll come up in the debrief,” he muttered to himself. Of course, the fact that the Umerian cutters would be on their own for crucial minutes wasn’t good, but there was little Captain Scott or the SRN could do about it. He would be, for this engagement, little more than an observer.

It was not a role he liked to find himself in. Unfortunately, physics rarely gave a damn what somebody preferred.

As the minutes passed, the Pendletonian frigate was brought out of hyperspace by the Umerian cutters, and the brave little ships began their assault. Scott watched with interest as the battle unfolded. Despite the mismatch, the little cutters were holding their own. While they couldn’t damage the larger ship on their own, they were doing an excellent job holding it in real space, keeping it in the system until reinforcements could arrive. They were even managing to do some damage to the enemy frigate, bit by bit.

However, despite these successes, the Pendleton frigate was far from helpless, and Scott watched with dismay as blips representing the Umerian cutters winked out. Still, the leader of their formation, the cutter Shooting Pains was not giving up, and the small ships drove on. Captain Scott watched as the battle continued on, impressed by every passing moment at the courage and tenacity showed by the small craft. And, with each passing minute, reinforcements were getting ever closer and closer. Those plucky little bastards just might pull this one off, Scott thought to himself as the other Coalition assets continued to converge on the engagement zone.

And then the blip representing the Shooting Pains winked out of existence.

[Master_Baerne]

ANS Jeune Femme
Flagship, Ascendancy Detachment to Coalition Fleet

Commodore Seagrace sat strapped to her command chair on Jeune Femme's flag bridge, shock webbing helping to absorb the tremendous strikes the damned Collector screen was sending at her command. Two Sabres hulked and streaming air and life pods, though too few of the latter escaped the wrecks of the medium cruisers... Three each of the light cruisers and corvettes either shattered wrecks or destroyed outright. At least the fighters were relatively intact, the Collectors having focused on her ships, and then on the Anglians. Still, with a third of her force out of commission, something needed to be done.

"Captain Fielding?" Her former exec had been promoted to flag captain of her little squadron.

"He's dead, Madame. Bridge took a hit - this is Lieutenant Closeau. Orders?" Damage control alarms could be heard in the background.

"Right. The flag repeater's been hit, I need you to patch me through to the squadron."

"Aye aye, Madame. Patching you through in... now."

"Thank you. Squadron orders; this is Commodore Seagrace. All ships are to focus offensive fire on the Collector cruisers; defensive priorities are to be the Anglian capital ships, then self-preservation. Fighters, you are to expend all antiship munitions against this cruiser," and here she designated one of the Collector Vipers causing so much havoc, "and then switch to antimissile/antifighter defense."

As the ships of the Ascendant Navy responded to their commodore's orders like the fingers of a glove, missing a few fingers though it was, and the eighty-odd fighters arrowed towards their target, missiles and heavy rockets eagerly awaiting the flip of the 'fire' switch, she continued: "Ladies and gentlemen, we likely won't survive this, I shan't give comforting lies at this late date. But through our sacrifice, we will, by the Darkness, expunge the horrid stain of slavery that has too long festered on this backwater world. For the honor of the fallen, for the glory of the dead... Attack!"

[Lonestar]

The Lord Protector's Mansion



"Sir, an interesting report from our attache on Monetgomery." Lord Fairfax's Chief of Staff, Karl Karlsson said. "Seems the whole operation on Pendleton is going tits-up on account of some kinda ko-lect-tour intervention." Karl gave it an exagerrated pronounciation. "Chaos! Mayhem!"

Fairfax scowled, and turned on his secure terminal, bringing up the Intellipedia entry for the Collectors. In another life time he had spent, it seemed, every waking moment reading defense news. Now he couldn't even keep track of all the xenos, even the "category-2" threats such as the Collectors. Of which there were many.

"And how is our observer, LCDR...uhh...Crapspray?" Fairfax scowled, that couldn't be right. On a whim he Binged "Crapspray" and discovered that the Crapsprays were a minor nobility family of some note on Damascus. Huh. Must be an Anglian name.

"According to our attache office only the Baltimore is suffering severe damage at the moment. Commander Crapspray is on the Upper Marlboro. That is the Baltimore is the only Shepistani vessel thus far damaged."

"Hmm. Very well. Have the Kitchen send up some peach tea." Fairfax pondered for a bit. "Also inform Grand Admiral Earl that he has my permission to institute recalls and a fleet mobilization if the situation warrants...after we recieve word of how the battle plays out. I need to speak to Minister Mackaye."

Fairfax activated his Holo teleconference unit and the Dominionite Foreign minister appeared. Mackaye inclined his head.

"Lord Protector. I assume this is about the ongoing disaster in the Pendleton system?"

"It is, it is. I need you to send a message to President Sheppard informing him that, if his general staff determine the necessity warrant, we are releasing the Battlestar Groups that have been loaned to us to fill out our battlewall. Also, tell him Ally gives her regards." Actually Alizabeth hated Sheppard with unbridled fury, but that's what one said.

"Of course sir." Mackaye blipped out and Fairfax took a sip of Peach Tea.

[Kartr_Kana]

HCNV Gar Naabal
Pendleton System, Outback

Through the BattleNet Commodore watched as his fighters threw themselves at the Collector ships threatening the Shepistani ships. Hiigaran pilot's were literally one with their ships and normally that gave them the edge they needed in the high speed, envelope pushing frenzy that was fighter combat. Unfortunately the Collectors were their ships and they were damn fine ships, Jakasan had to give them that, ships that despite being outnumbered were only barely being held at bay by the fighter screens. The price was steep though as Hiigaran fighters were burned out of the sky, as it was enough of the Collector craft were able to get through and unleash their payloads on the Baltimore wreaking it's shields before fire from her sister ships and Winchester ammo status forced the Collectors off.

Jakasan watched grimly, feeling each death distantly through the BattleNet though the software kept him from feeling it too keenly and he only felt it since he was linked in through a command console. Suddenly shock flowed through Jakasan's neural connection and in an instant he felt/knew/saw what had unbalanced the sensor operator. Pendletonian warships destroying escape pods with deliberate strikes from anti-starfighter weaponry. Jakasan felt anger coursing through the network as more and more of the crew began to know what the Pendletonians were doing. Software was supposed to dampen any emotions the crew felt, but the anger the Pendletonians had ignited was far stronger then the programmers had ever intended. Jakasan wanted those murderous Pendletonian bastards dead and he stretched out exerting his will through the BattleNet. His mind touched the mind of bomber pilot's enraged at the sight of the wanton cruelty practiced by the enemy and he spoke to their minds. -Destroy the murderers, slavers, Rapists, ANIMALS! No Mercy! No Quarter! Crack their reactors and let them BURN!!-

Any who had thought the Hiigaran fighters reckless and fanatical before would've have been astounded as Hiigaran fighters and bombers closed on the Pendletonian warships. Presenting themselves as targets the whipped around the Pendletonian destroyers firing with every weapon they had. The Avengers still had their anti-cap ship torpedoes and they salvoed them as often as the launchers could be charged. The bomber's escorts, the Mustangs and Lightnings tore into the remaining Pendletonian fighters with unbridled fury. To a man damaged Hiigaran fighters dove into larger Pendletonian warships rather then risk the tender mercies the poor souls in the escape pods had received.


-Fire the Trinity Cannons, then move to cover the Ascendancy vessels.- Jakasan felt rather then saw the power levels in Zhukyovi and Braedlaie as they directed every joule of energy through the three spinally mounted cannons. Powerful pulses of energy spat through space at the nearest enemy cruisers, brutalizing enemy shields and peeling away armor. Their fury did not go unnoticed and the weakness of the battlecruiser design was felt as a pair of salvoes from the Collector ships tore through the underpowered shields on the Braedlaie and cut through the armor exposing decks to space and spilling the few bodies, that weren't atomized out right, into space. Her ship badly damaged and the Trinty Cannons destroyed, the Braedlaie's Captain valiently attempted to continue to cover the Ascendancy vessels while maneuvering to place some shielding between her and the enemies fury.

As Admiral Fishers orders were made known to Jakasan and his crews carried them out, Jakasan could only hope that the wily old Anglian fox could see a way out of this nightmare they found themselves in.

[MKSheppard]

Vulture Rock, Sublevel 90

///TS/SI/DIET COKE///
TO: CINCNAV
FROM:BSG-102

1. BATTLE CONTINUES WITH MONOLITH.
2. COALITION CASUALTIES HEAVY.
3. VIABILITY OF BRAGULIAN OPERATION IN QUESTION DUE TO RECENT DEVELOPMENTS.

///TS/SI/DIET COKE///

"This the latest?" asked Pavlik.

"Sounds grim."

"Pull out the file for Operation FREEDOM DROP, I have a feeling we'll need it soon."

Soon, the file had been pulled from Naval Archives and placed before Pavlik.

"Only BSG-75 and BSG-62? We're going to need more than just two modern battlestar groups to defeat Pendleton, now that the frakking Collectors have sided with them. Pull me the files for BSGs 59 through 89."

[Steve]

HMS Dauntless
Pendleton System, The Outback


“Tiburon is gone, sir.” Lieutenant Crawford’s words hung over the bridge The Myrmidon-class destroyer’s remains, as scant as they were, were not even visible on the holotank, given its focus on the Monolith. The old destroyer, from a mid-century class, had fought to the last trying to protect Sentinel from the Pendletonian attacks.

Dauntless was not in the best situation either now; deflectors were failing, several hull hits had already been reported, and the Collector craft had wiped out the ship’s entire complement of fighters and combat gunboats. The Collectors were ignoring Sentinel now, re-directing fire to other ships. All five of the fully active cruisers in the Anglian fleet were taking hits, with Minotaur and Ruthless being in the worst shape.

“Sir, we’re losing contact with escape pod signals,” Crawford stated. “I don’t believe it, the bloody bastards...”

“Lieutenant?” Fisher’s mind felt the answer a moment before it came.

“The Pendletonian corvettes and fighters are actively targeting escape pods, sir,” Crawford confirmed, to the rage of all who heard him.

“Bloody bastards...” Fisher swallowed and contemplated, for the moment, if his ship, and maybe one of the others, could turn the tide of battle in some way through sacrifice, by plowing themselves into the Collector ship. If we overloaded our hyperdrives intentionally..... It was vastly risky, though, as the energy released might annihilate both fleets... and he still couldn’t be sure the Monolith would be taken down.

But at the rate things were going, he was going to lose the fleet anyway. “Tell the transports to go back through the Gap and transmit immediate alert messages to all fleet commands,” Fisher ordered. “If at least one can get through and warn the Navy, the Fleet can be dispatched to deal with this blasted thing. Have the engineers...”

As Fisher made his preparations, Crawford’s instruments noted peculiarities. He watched the volume of fire from the enemy lessen significantly. He double-checked and triple-checked... “Sir! Admiral!”, he cried out in amazement.

Fisher could sense the sudden hope and amazement from his subordinate. “Lieutenant?”

“The Collectors, sir. They’ve ceased fire. Sublight drives are active... they’re turning away from the battle!”



The Catalogue


Katherine noticed the battle shift. The volume of fire lessened, ships re-orientated themselves.... Katherine could feel why immediately. “You are ceasing fire,” she said.

“I will not save Pendleton from its fate,” the Monolith answered.

Within seconds, Katherine knew, the tide would turn. Too much of the invasion fleet was still functioning; though the battle would not be as hideously lopsided as it would have been if the Collectors had not come here, it was hopeless for the Pendletonian fleet to continue fighting without Collector support. “They won’t surrender,” Katherine lamented. “They are too devoted to saving the Republic and they know they are doomed.” She said nothing of the sight she’d seen, her own people firing at escape pods. The Collectors had made them drunk with perceived power and it had showed in terrible fashion.

“For centuries I have observed the tendency of some organics to fight to the death with no hope of victory or of an acceptable outcome. I still do not understand,” the machine answered her. “I must remove you now, Katherine de la Poer. The BOSS unit sent to me has begun an attempt to seize control of my self.”

And just like that, Katherine’s experience ended.



Monolith, observation gallery


“What the hell is going on? What’s it doing?”, Gill shouted, watching the Monolith cease fire and power away from the Coalition fleet. He slammed his fist into the control pedestal, “Do something!”, he screamed at Parkhurst, venting his frustration on the nearest target.

The captain bit her lip and clutched her pistol belt tightly, trying to hide the trembling of her hand. Gill didn’t quite see it just yet, but for a military officer, the balance of forces remaining in the battle - despite the terrible mauling of the Coalition fleet - was obviously not in Pendleton’s favor. Without Collector support, the invaders would destroy the main fleet battlegroup, and then all that would stand between them and Pendleton itself would be the Low Orbit Force, which consisted of obsolete and auxilliary vessels pressed into service - hardly a match for even a single Anglian Star Cruiser.

There wasn’t a second to lose. Parkhurst turned to her men and started barking orders, “Detonate the drone. Amanda, fire the logic bomb. We must stop this thing before it leaves the system. We make our move now: we know where the local computer core is, that’s our first objective.”

Gill observed with surprise how the entire team sprung into action. It seemed as if they welcomed the chance to get into a fight with an absolutely overwhelming enemy. He shook his head and slammed a power cell into his own tiny hold-out pistol that he smuggled aboard inside a shielded, surgically inserted pocket.

Several decks below, the tiny drone attached to the sector’s main powerline quivered and detonated its Heim payload. At the same time, a set of programs and viruses loaded into a local command and control system began executing their code.



Monolith, holding cells


The uneasy quiet of the White Room was broken by the rumble of an explosion. The lights flickered and died, bathing the entire room in darkness: more importantly, though, various systems started wailing and malfunctioning. Most notably, the door lock, to Umarbacca’s unquestionable delight.

The Strahl crew looked around at each other for a moment before Balthier drew his gun, ready for use, and stated, “Well, opportunity finally gives us a knock.”

The five moved outward, Balthier and Vanrya in the lead and Umarbacca taking up the rear. “We’ll get back to the ship and check on Kaylee” Balthier said.

“And the others?”

“First we make sure we’re able to leave, then we go for them.”

Whatever had happened, the Monolith AI was clearly working overtime to deal with it. Some of the drones they passed paid them no heed. It was only when they were coming up on the hanger bay that they faced opposition. Large, metallic skeleton figures with glowing red eyes carrying fairly impressive weapons. They noticed the crew immediately and began to open fire, forcing them to take cover in the doorway. Vanrya moved first; fairly athletic and flexible, she rolled out of the corridor and had her gun leveled and firing before the lead combat drones could directly target her.

The diversion of attention from the other drones permitted Balthier to emerge from cover in a kneeling stance, firing bolt after bolt into the drones’ heads and torsos. These were not top of the line combat drones so his sidearm proved fairly effective.

With the opening they provided, MacCulloch and Marissa were able to make a dash for the ship. Umarbacca followed to the opening of the hanger before turning back. He recognizing the skittering of the scarab units that had taken them before and growled a warning before opening fire. The particle cannon erupted in blue fury, sending bolts of energy down the corridor that proved fatal to any scarab drone they struck, inflicting damage even with proximity hits.

With the arrival of the Scarabs there was only one recourse left. “Get back into the ship!” Balthier motioned to the Strahl.

“And the girls?”

“I’ve got a plan!”

With Umar and Balthier taking up the rear, Vanrya got back into Strahl next. The lights within the ship began to turn on, courtesy of Marissa and MacCulloch, illuminating the dark hanger bay.

The scarabs kept coming, a tide that even the heavy weapon Umarbacca was carrying could not drive back. They took the port side entrance, its plank extended by Vanrya, with the scarabs following doggedly. Umar walked backwards up the plank with Balthier in front of him, the wave of drones nipping at his feet as they got into the ship’s airlock. Umar’s mighty paw struck the reinforced door control, commanding the airlock to slide shut. As it did so two of the scarabs slipped in anyway. Balthier’s gun immediately took care of one, leaving it a smoking, smoldering mess of electronics and metal; the other got to the back of his leg and began to insert its syringe when Umar grabbed it. Letting out an angry roar, he pulled it away, threw it to the ground, and smashed it with his massive foot.

Balthier immediately found one of the intercoms. “Kaylee, dear, how goes the repairs?”

“Just finished the sublight drives, hyperdrive is still down though.”

“All this time and that’s the most you could do? I admit to mild disappointment, Kaylee.” His tone suggested more teasing than actual irritation.

“You try repairing the drives relying entirely on infrared and low light vision sometime,” was the retorted reply.

“And what about our weapons?”

“The Collector AI placed programming locks on them when it went through the core, but I wiped the core and re-installed everything from isolated backups. We’ve got our pulse guns and the main gun.”

“Excellent.” Balthier looked over to Umarbacca. “Get Marissa and take up the pulse gun turrets. I’m heading to the cockpit.” They went their separate ways. Balthier found one of the ladders to the upper level, climbing up quickly to get to the upper deck and the cockpit at it’s fore. Vanrya was already in the cockpit at her usual seat, getting ship systems up. “Any bright plans, Balthier?”

“Yes. Get me the Monolith AI on speakers. I don’t imagine he wants to see a Heavy Plasma Cannon being fired into his hanger bay, and that gives us something to negotiate with.”



Monolith, observation gallery


The observation gallery was surrounded by a donut-shaped corridor. As the power died, so did the lights inside, and so the BOSS team stalked outside in total darkness, aided by their ocular implants. Each member had the route towards the local core memorized, and so they moved quickly, fully alert and ready for a fight. The interior of the ship was surprisingly quiet for a vessel involved in combat: there was little sound of machinery, and almost no movement.

“Intersection ahead. Watch your angles, and remember to conserve ammo”, Parkhurst instructed the rest through her tactical link. They needed to turn right, and then...

As usually happens, the plan didn’t quite survive meeting the enemy. A tac support trooper managed to shout a warning and push Amanda down, before an absolutely ridiculous hail of bullets filled up the corridor. The BOSS team scattered, with Amanda and Eli retreating back into the corridor they came from, while Gill, Parkhurst and the two commandos had to seek whatever meagre cover they could find at the intersection.

They fired back, of course, but the sheer volume of fire made their small hold-out weaponry look like spitballs attempting to stop a firestorm. Flashes of green and white infrared bursts blotted out all imagery of the enemy, but one thing was clear: they were occupying the corridor leading to the data core.

When the hail of bullets stopped, the team could finally see their enemy. When they did, however, all their hearts froze with terror. Not only was the only way to the data core occupied, the enemy was advancing. Steadily and deliberately, silver skeletal machines emerged from the darkness, reminescent of Death rendered in steel.



“Goddammit, Parkhurst! We’ve been had!”, Eli screamed from his position and fired two shots from his pistol - he had a more powerful weapon than most, since thanks to his huge, cybernetically enhanced body, he could hide bigger components on himself. The leading Collector pointed his - much, much bigger - weapon roughly in his direction and treated him to another hail of bullets.

“Shut the fuck up! We need to fall back, now!”, Parkhurst screamed, having given up attempts to supress the advancing drones, “Throw an IR flare there and move! Back to the gallery!”

“Are you fucking nuts?! There’s no other way out of there!”

In the confusion and amongst sounds of combat, it was Amanda - tucked away in the rear safely - who first heard the ominous scraping and clatter of carapaces. She took one glance behind her and screamed in terror, seeing a teeming wave of scarabs advance towards them. She crawled backwards before finally breaking into a run. She screamed when she cleared cover and a drone fired on her. A green blast caught her in the back, throwing her to the ground as the body slowly disintegrated and sizzled around the huge hole.

Parkhurst screamed something, but before she could issue an order, Eli tossed a package of IR flares into the corridor and leaped out of cover, a mass of scarabs flowing right behind him, and grabbed her arm.

“Catherine, go! Get moving, or those things will eat us alive! You two, with her!”, the huge cyborg screamed above the sound of the firefight, physically pulling Parkhurst to her feet and shoving her into the only free corridor that remained. He fired a shot at the drones advancing towards them and broke into a run, dragging Oliver Gill with him with almost no effort.





Advanced Specimen Analysis Unit #39


Rana awoke slowly as the drugs being circulated in her system were cut off, permitting her body to regain consciousness. The restraints over her arms slipped off. She could move, but still felt blind, making her realize a powerful Null field was being generated.

Dried tears remained on her eyes from her experience in the machine. It had stripped her bare, mentally, taking away every speck of knowledge and memory she had contained within herself. It had In that time, for a brief moment, she had felt a one-ness with the AI inside, a wonderful sensation to be true... but now she only worried about finding Sara and leaving.

On a nearby table, in the basin of what seemed to be another analysis device, was her beamsaber. She took it out and looked it over. An attempt at activation brought nothing, telling her the energy pack within had been removed. With nowhere to clip it she held on to it dearly - it was the same she had built for herself as an Acolyte undergoing the Trial of the Saber and was of great importance to her.

The door to the unit opened. Rana stepped out, curious, and found herself in a larger chamber with what looked to be a computer core in the center, covered in light. She walked up to it with curiosity before she heard footsteps and looked about. When she saw Sara, looking as confused and groggy as she was, Rana smiled and ran up to her, putting her arms around Sara. “You’re okay!”, she cried out happily, giving Sara a brief kiss.

Sara returned it, though she was still rather dazed by her own experiences. “It let us go?”

“Or it’s just done with us for the moment,” Rana remarked. “Either way, we need to find a way to get to Balthier and the others.”

Looking around for an exit door, they instead only found Katherine, freed from another analysis unit and looking far worse than either of them. With the Null field in place no telepathic feeling was possible and her face was a mask, almost catatonic, as if Katherine would never speak again.

“We need to go, now,” Rana said to her. “Help us find an exit.”

“One must stay.”

They all looked up toward the core. A light shining along the side facing them showed the holographic projection of a humanoid face, featureless. “I require one of you to stay. Either Sara Pontcaire or Katherine de la Poer.”

“Why?”, Rana asked in an icy tone. “You’ve already went through our minds with a vacuum and sucked out every bit you could get, what do you need from us?”

“Corroboration. When I return home I will be better able to explain what has gone on here at Pendleton with either Sara or Katherine. You, Rana Shaheen, are not needed, and will be returned to the Strahl for departure.”

“You’re letting Balthier and his crew go?”, Sara asked.

“They have already freed themselves, though I provided some assistance. I had intended to see how the subject Balthier would attempt to escape when given the chance, for he is a very interesting specimen that stands out amongst the organics I have known. However, the actions of the BOSS unit assigned to me granted him an opportunity to escape I could not easily counter. Even now my attention is divided between monitoring him, speaking with you, directing defense against the Pendletonian BOSS unit attempting to seize control of me, and driving myself through space. Now, one of you must stay. I believe I will keep Sara, who’s experiences as a slave may do well in helping the specimen population given to us by Pendleton cope with their new lives.”

Rana and Sara clasped hands and looked to each other. “But...” Rana felt her eyes tear up some. “If you take her, take me too.”

“Rana!”

She pulled Sara close to her. “I would rather be with you than taken from you. After everything we’ve felt together, the thought of being apart...”

“Very well, if that is your wish, I will provide...”

“No...”, Katherine spoke for the first time since she was released from the Catalogue, “...take me.”

Sara and Rana glanced at her in shock. Katherine obviously took the connection worse than themselves, but they didn’t expect anything like that.

The computer generated face looked toward her with an interested stare. Katherine straightened herself and returned the stare, “Take me. Let them go. They don’t deserve to be separated...”

Sara gawked at her. “Katherine, what are you doing?”

Katherine de la Poer, formerly an heiress of one of the most formidable families on Pendleton, looked at Sara with immense sadness in her eyes. She smiled, remembering all the events that transpired in these last few hours...and others, lost beyond the fog of time...or not, for now they were all preserved inside the Catalogue...

“Sara, what do you think awaits me out there?”, she made a gesture towards one of the walls, “The Anglians will hang me. My own people will, at best, despise and shun me, at worst accuse me of treason.”

“So you will give yourself over to them?”, Sara pointed at the computer core, which was now staring at the entire group.

“I’ve seen what you’ve seen, Sara...”, Katherine whispered, “And...I want to go back...I want to experience it again...and I think...I think I want to stay.” She swallowed. “And I think I can serve them and the people they have by being an example, helping them to understand what can happen if you don’t respect the people in your charge. That way they don’t end up becoming like me and hurting the people they have a responsibility toward.”

With a sad smile on her face, Katherine stepped up to Sara. All three remained quiet, up until Katherine took Sara’s neck in her hand and planted a warm kiss on her mouth. Despite everything, Sara relented to it, returning it - if just a little, and without the passion with which she had just kissed Rana - and briefly letting Katherine remember what it was like for them before everything went so horribly wrong.

Katherine ended the kiss, took Sara’s hand, and said, “Thank you, and I’m sorry for everything I did to you. I should have been a better person.” She turned to Rana. “Love and cherish Sara, Sister Rana. She deserves nothing less.”

Rana nodded in reply, gripping Sara’s hand tightly.

Katherine nodded to them and headed to the core. As she took her place beside it, a door suddenly appeared against one of the white walls. “Follow this path. Be warned that you may run into trouble.”

They nodded and ran off. Skittering along with them, unseen in the shadows of darkness beyond, was a single scarab locked onto the object in Rana’s hand.



Pendleton, Fleet Command Bunker


“What do you mean the Monolith is not responding?! Repeat the message!”, Dienst screamed at one of the communications ratings inside the bunker. He felt the battle - so far, a very succesful affair - come apart as Collectors withdrew. The Coalition wasn’t interested in pursuit, glad the massive ship decided to stop shooting at them, and concentrated their fury on the abandoned Pendletonian vessels.

Dienst slammed his fist into a wall, and then noticed somebody was moving towards the door. He briefly wondered who that might be, and then realization struck him.

“Master at arms! Stop that man!”, he shouted and pointed at Unit 7. The Collector turned, slowly, and glanced at the sky marshall.

“An attempt to stop would be most unwise, Marshall”, it remarked. The Master At Arms hesitated briefly, before pulling out his weapon. Other guards moved in, activating their energy blasters - weapons issued specifically to deal with problems caused by a robot running lose inside the command centre.

“Stand down, ambassador. Your kind betrayed us, and even if I can’t make your entire disgusting race pay for this, I will make damn sure you’re executed before the Anglians get here!”

“This does not encourage me to surrender, now does it?”, Unit 7 asked rhethorically. The master at arms was still unsure what to do, beyond pointing his weapon at the ambassador. The Collector solved this conundrum for him, by walking up and grabbing him by the arm.

Within seconds, the command room erupted into violence. The master at arms flew across the open space, smashing into two other guards and a control console. Energy blasters opened up, filling the air with heat, shrapnel and the smell of ozone. One shot managed to find its mark, but before the shooter could let out a satisfied yell, he felt a cold needle pierce his neck. To his horror, he managed to retain enough consciousness despite the pain to see himself turn and shoot his friend in the head. Other scarabs, released by Unit 7 skittered under the consoles and into ventillation ducts, actively seeking out computer systems to corrupt. Right before the lights went out, Dienst managed to catch one final glimpse of the Collector’s face. For some reason, he thought it was a good thing it wasn’t the last thing he saw...




Strahl


Balthier waited patiently until the familiar voice echoed through his cockpit speakers. “You have regained control of your vessel,” the AI noted. “And I now detect an extra life sign present. You hid one of your crew from me to effect repairs. How clever. I will have to remember that one...”

“Your compliment is most welcome, but I have business with you before I depart,” Balthier answered.

“You wish me to return Sara Pontcaire, Rana Shaheen, and Katherine de la Poer to you.”

“I do.”

Balthier wasn’t one to rush to threats; negotiation was an art-form, after all, and you had to ensure a proper pace was set. Before he could even begin such, however, he got a reply: “Very well. I will release them immediately.”

Vanrya gave a puzzled look to Balthier, and he appeared fairly speechless for the moment. “Ah, indeed?”

“I have acquired the data I sought from them. I no longer require their physical presence. I am releasing them now and will guide them back to your vessel. I suggest you prepare to depart immediately afterward.”

“Yes, of course. Wouldn’t want to overstay our invitation, would we?”

“Departure during hyperspace transit is not recommended,” the machine noted dryly. “They are currently heading toward you. I suggest you be ready to receive them immediately, I have detected a complication that may prove dangeorus to their safety.”





Monolith, hangar deck


They started running and didn’t stop. Even Gill didn’t say anything, his normally cocky disposition now suddenly turned sullen. He remembered Eli’s words, spoken not two days ago: Here’s our commander for this suicide mission. He really should’ve seen it coming. A rifle and a serf unit to command during a fight against Anglian marines suddenly became an assignment he’d take any day over this glorious mission.

Their attempt at seizing the local computer core failed miserably when it turned out to be heavily defended. Now, breathless and tired, they were running towards their only hope of survival aboard a giant ship filled with terrible enemies - the hangar deck. Somewhere here, the ship’s CI would’ve stored the ship it intercepted. The problem would be finding it.

The group stopped for a moment. They were in the middle of a catwalk, crossing a huge void that seemingly had no end. A ship rumbled high above them.

“What the...where are we?”, one of the tac troopers asked, just as tired as the rest of the group. Eli was the only one who didn’t seem fazed at all, “They seem to be recovering their parasite craft”, he explained. As he did, a pair of sleek fighters slowly floated over their heads, “In preparation for a hyperjump, most likely.”

Parkhurst cursed loudly, “What a goddamned clusterfuck!”

Eli ignored her outburst, “We should keep going. We’re too exposed here.”.

The cold, military logic of that sentence was undeniable and so they moved on, quickly.



A short distance away, Sara and Rana were following the corridors toward the hanger bay. Neither remembered the direction from when they were taken and so they required the aid of one of the Collector drones, skittering across ahead of them. It led them up one dark passageway to another, providing the dim illumination that let them see where they were going but not much beyond that.

As they moved along, they held hands tightly, helping to maintain the closeness they normally felt with their abilities still slowly returning as an effect of the Collectors’ drugs that once moved through their systems. Rana had regained her’s enough to send conscious thoughts through to Sara, helping to console her about their experience.

In a way, what had happened with the AI was no different than what Rana and Sara had experienced. They had experienced the AI’s thoughts and even memories, it had taken their’s. But that is where it had ended; their sharing of minds had been prompted by feelings of love and attachment while the AI had forced itself into their minds and stripped the data straight from them, treating them like they were computer discs

Coming out of an accessway built into the floor of the hanger bay, Rana helped Sara up. The hanger was mostly empty, but in the distance a single set of lights told them where to go. They moved toward it, led still by the skittering little maintenance drone being manipulated by the AI, and saw the shape of the Strahl begin to form in the distance.

Without warning a powerful form jumped down ahead of them, a foot smashing their guide drone into fragments. They looked up to stare at a fairly large human figure, looking deceptively human, though both could sense the presence of cybernetic parts within him.

Around them rappel lines dropped from a catwalk just above. The men and women who came down wore insignia patches Sara recognized immediately, conveying the term "BOSS” to Rana’s mind with a great deal of terror. It was an instinctive terror; slaves on Pendleton dreaded BOSS more than their own owners, in most cases.

Rana went to speak before one of the figures, who had ridden down with one of the troopers, stepped out from amongst them with his sidearm up and pointing directly at Sara. “You’re Sara Pontcaire,” Oliver Gill noted, with some glee showing on his face. “At least I’ll get to tell my superiors I shot the traitor that doomed Pendleton.”

Sara stared down the barrel of the weapon as Gill’s finger tensed on the trigger.

[Shroom Man 777]

The NenAltKik ships, which were at the vanguard of the flanking squadrons, suffered dispersed fire damaging all of their number, while the Monolith’s parasite craft focused their fury on the fleet rear made up of the Shepistanis and some of the Hiigaran screens. Hiigaran fighter pilots joined the battle with almost fanatical zeal, attempting to stop the strike package from wiping out the Shepistani squadron. They suffered terrible losses, but managed to disrupt the Collector formation. As the Hiigarans fought and died valiantly, commander Hushy managed to tighten up his formation, with the Battlestar Baltimore shifting herself to take the brunt of the attacks, her fanatical Shepistani crew fighting ferociously to protect her comrades and inflict damage on the Collector and Pendletonian foe. The concentration of fire on her faltering deflectors would have quickly doomed her but, for the moment, she was spared by protective fire from her sister ships Annapolis and Upper Marlboro. Their ordnance spent, the Collector force withdrew, leaving the Baltimore mauled and bleeding, but still in one piece.

Now, on this thrilling episode of...

BATTLESTAR ANNAPOLIS, Pendleton System



The Collector onslaught had left the Baltimore reeling. Though it was bruised and battered, the Shepistani battlestar was not yet broken. Almost, but not quite. It had survived. Under the protective phalanx of its sister ships Annapolis and Upper Marlboro the Baltimore yet lived. Like the great nation from whence the battlestar hailed from, and as its rugged heavy metal design attested to, the Baltimore was a survivor, much like its sister ships. It had weathered the Collector onslaught, and despite the sound thermonuclear beating, despite the gross technological disparity of power, it was still alive.

While countless Hiigaran starfighters burned in the blackness of space around them, their blazing wreckages becoming like miniature stars themselves.

Deep inside the CIC of the Annapolis, Commander Hushy bore witness to the grotesque spectacle of it all. The sound thrashing of the Coalition forces, their decimation still ongoing. The expression on his face was that of shock. Just like the Bragulian seated beside him, Hushy, as with all Shepistanis, understood very well the universal language of violence. To him, the Collectors had communicated their point clearly. In that universal language, the clarity of the Collector's message was like that of violence crystallized.

Yet, that was not the only thing Hushy saw there, around computer banks, sensor screens and tactical displays. The monochrome radar readings showed blips representing the Hiigaran starfighters. Mere minutes ago, they were innumerable and buzzed around the battlestars protectively, like that of a swarm of bees or wasps. Now, these blips representing the Hiigaran starfighters were motionless. Dead. The new networked computers, installed on Anglian demand, read out the fleetwide casualties.

"I can't believe it," Hushy uttered quietly to himself. Beside him, Colonel Velkro looked at him curiously but he paid the goddamn Bragulian no attention. Not here, not now. He was too angry at the goddamn metal motherfuckers to give a fuck if some goddamn bear was looking at him funny, even if it was a bear that hadn't even been toilet trained yet. Hushy scowled and gritted his teeth. "Those damn Hiigaran fighter jockeys... they gave their lives for us."

While we tucked tails and 'retreated bravely'...

"Sir," communications began. "Dauntless has ordered the transports to go back through the Gap and transmit immediate alert messages to all fleet commands!"

So that was it. Hushy decided that he would order his battlestars to protect the retreating transporters. After what the Hiigarans did for them, after their sacrifice, it was the least he could do to pay them back. Hushy remembered that his job here was to represent the goddamn Republic of Shepistan in wasting the Astarian motherfuckers, and if they were all going to die here, then the Shepistanis would die doing what they did best. Killing.

Once upon a time, in old Nova Terra, the history books said that the whole world cowered under the specter of Shepistan, that the great Al-Sheppard was feared as the biggest, baddest ruthless genocidal warmonger on the planet - Japanistani Hirohitos aside. Hushy would be damned if that reputation would be ruined on his watch. Hushy didn't believe in God, but he still practiced ancestor worship, and there was no way in Hell he would disappoint the ancient black-and-white photographs of his shroompox-scarred great-great-great-granddaddies and grandmas, no way in Hell he'd disgrace the incinerated shroombola-infested corpses of his ancestors. Not after the Great Ancient Plague War, not like this, not in front of those miserable spitroasting Astarians! Not on the eve of the goddamn Running of the Astarians.

Even in the face of Armageddon. Never compromise.

Hushy decided. They would protect the escaping transports by ramming the Collector ships, all guns blazing, a sub-light variant of the Shroomadama Maneuver right into the faces of those fucking basestars. Punch through their goddamn Raider fighter screens and nuke them in their grinning endoskeleton skull-faces. Yes. That was it. That was the only way to -

"Sir!" sensors suddenly spat. His next words would be virtually identical to his counterpart on the Anglian ship Dauntless. “The Collectors, sir. They’ve ceased fire. Sublight drives are active... they’re turning away from the battle!”



"Well I'll be damned..." Hushy muttered. He couldn't believe it, yet sensors showed that it was so. His mind couldn't comprehend it, the sudden transition from unstoppable and impending doom to... salvation and, possibly, victory. Why? How? Who? What? Where? When? But though Hushy might've been born in the sea, he was no dummy.

The great, big, horrible object of unspeakable violence had gone away. That thing that had caused him to flee in womanly fear like an effeminate boy-lad like Hylas from those legends of paleohistology, that had caused his emasculation from a proverbial Heracules into a shriveled emasculated... eunuch. The helplessness, the cowardliness... things alien to a Shepistani used to threatening helpless little oil-rich worlds with nuclear globocide.

Anger welled within Hushy. Anger over all that. Anger over the metal motherfuckers that had so aptly busted his balls. Anger over the CFAP fappers for being a bunch of weiners who were just as inadequate as he himself was. Anger over Fleet HQ for giving him this assignment. Anger at the goddamn Bragulians for complicating things, for ruining the goddamn toilets and making the shit explode outwards from the toilet bowl, covering him in goddamn bear craps, and for the goddamn dinner incident that cost dear old Tight his eye. Anger over... his "brave retreat". Anger over the shame.

...

“Sir, we’re losing contact with escape pod signals.”

“I don’t believe it, the bloody bastards...”

“Lieutenant?”

“The Pendletonian corvettes and fighters are actively targeting escape pods, sir.”

“Bloody bastards...”

...

Bloody bastards.

Hushy clenched his fist. He clenched his teeth. He clenched all his other orifices.

The burning wreckage of Hiigaran starfighters drifted around the battlestars, lighting the black like miniature stars.

...

"Kushan 1-2, get out of there! Break! Break!"

"I'm hit! That bastard got me! Son of a Vaygr!"

"Eject! Eject!"

"I made it! Thank Sajuuk I made it! That was a close one, Kharak."

"Kushan 1-2, standby while Gar Naabal vectors in some CSR birds to retrieve you."

"Copy that, Kharak. Can't move in this escape pod anyway -"

"We've got incoming! Pendletonian missiles!"

"They're targeting escape pods!"

"Kushan 1-2! Kushan! No!"

...

"Instruct the Baltimore to break off and head for safety, and tell Upper Marlboro to follow our lead," Hushy commanded as he got up and faced his crew. "We're going after those Astarian spitroasting shits. Now that those metal motherfucks are gone, these fuckers are ours! By God, we'll put the fear of Shep in them. We haven't got any biobombs, but we've got nukes. It's about damn time to use 'em. Helm, bring us into firing range of the Pendletonian formation."

"Aye aye, sir!"

"Tell all batteries to arm all railguns and torpedo tubes with atomics. Fire on my mark," Hushy grinned victoriously and viciously - which were the same thing for a Shepistani. "We're gonna nuke 'em high!"

"We're gonna nuke em' low!" the crew chanted.

"WE'RE GONNA NUKE THEM TILL THEY GLOW!"

Battlestars Annapolis and Upper Marlboro rejoined the fray. As the other ships of the multinational fleet recovered from their damages, as they reorganized themselves, as they regrouped and moved, once more were the Shepistanis the spear tip of the coalition. Their engines burned at full throttle, frontal shields raised at full capacity, and all forward guns blazing as they - together with the Anglians, the NenAltKik, Klavostanis, Ascendancy, Empire Star Republicans, and Hiigarans - plunged into the feeble Pendletonian line and hammered on them, like a boot stomping on an Astarian face. Forever.



No, the Shepistanis no longer craved to cast the first stone for now the entire Coalition was like a great mob of enraged people throwing rocks at The Running of the Astarians.

Except, this time, the rocks thrown at the Astarians were rocks made out of thermonuclear warheads, superheated plasma, turbocharged laser beams, hypervelocity railgun rounds, disruptor bolts, and all manner of death-dealing weaponries from the lethal technological trees of the various assorted nations' warships present in the Coalition Fleet Against Pendleton... and the Astarians being killed were not paper mache effigies, but in fact real, living, breathing Pendletonians. The CFAP had fapped enough, and now the resultant outpourings were like mighty emissions of death to the Pendletonians. It was truly like The Running of the Astarians, where the Shepistani rock-chuckers chucked rocks painted bright yellow and drawn with the universal biohazard symbol to represent the plague bombs dropped on ancient Astaria. Here, the Coalition forces likewise vented their anger, rage, frustration, despair, sorrow and suffering at these living Astarians in a great Five Minutes' Hate. The bodies that floated out of the wrecked hulks of Pendletonian ships were cold and motionless, becoming much like effigies of paper mache.

"It's payback time." Hushy grinned a particularly shit-eating Shepistani Smile. "Let's show these shroombola-sucking shitheads what Shepistani fighters can do. Inform the carrier deck to launch fighters!"

"Aye aye!" Tight picked up a corded phone and gave the command. "Launch fighters!"



With that command, the lateral fighter bays of both battlestars deployed and from magnetic catapults the Annapolis and her sister ship began launching nimble Shepistani fighters. Not as advanced as the cybernetic Hiigaran starfighters, but nonetheless nasty designs sporting rapid-acceleration railgun (RARG) cannons and anti-ship nuclear missiles, and crewed by some of Shepistan's most sociopathic violence-for-pleasure fighter jockeys dosed to the eyeballs on methamphetamines. The comms filled with the shrill screams of a particular female fighter pilot, the Shepistani ace of aces, a master starfighter, the deadliest marksman, the most passionate lover, the worst drunkard, the best brawler, the cockiest person with or without possession of an actual cock, the most reviled character in Battlestar Annapolis.



Lieutenant Thara Krace, callsign: STARFUCK.

The proverbial Armageddon faced by the Coalition forces had now become a Salvation War, the Pendletonians were once haughty with their pet Monolith, as though like gods of war, but now they were slain in an act of Pantheocide. The long and arduous blood-written blasphemous books of death had come full circle and now, as is right in the galaxy, the battle was becoming a curbstomp war to be decried as unfair and one-sided by critics. Characterization would give way to wanton depictions of slaughter, of modern weaponry clinically vaporizing underarmed and miserable foes without a chance. Those of varying taste might put the book down and stop reading, lacking thrill or excitement. The decisions of the story already foretold and foreseen, to be decided only by dour nameless faceless men in suits, within bland offices and easily forgotten meetings and other such dull repetitive sceneries.

But for some others, things were not boring... in the front row fighter cockpit of STARFUCK.



In revengeance to the starry fields of burning Hiigaran fighters and other felled friends and allies, the Coalition forces transmogrified the Pendletonian defense fleet into a proverbial galaxy of thermonuclear supernovas, a sacrament of incandescent death dedicated to the Coalition's victorious dead. A silent eulogy in space punctuated by exploderizing ships and burninating bodies, the ionized contrails of starfighters and missiles twirling in the black emptiness, and the straight red light lines of lasers cutting through steel hulls like blowtorches through the faces of sacrificial lambs, or plasma searing the fat of virgin pigs.

The commlinks were filled with the curse-squeals and the death-shrieks of Pendletonians as they were consigned to their vacuous graves in space, the noises they made akin to those heard in a pigsty as the sows and hogs and piglets were all slaughtered in the advent of a plague-flu of swines. The pigsty's feces-filled floors were mixed and stained with the blood of slit porcine-throats.

As they expired, life leaving their big brown bovine eyes and warmth exiting their beef flesh, the pig screams stopped. Then all that could be heard was the silence of the lambs.



STARFUCK maneuvered her fighter deftly through the debris field of wrecked ships, pursued by bandits who were likewise shot down by the remaining Hiigaran starfighters trailing all their wakes, like rabid bloodhounds in heat sniffing unnecessarily when they could easily see the trail of blood staining the ground, marking the cursed earth with desecrated human viscera.



Just as the viscera of warships spilled out into space, eviscerated by energy beams to their soft underbellies. Hull gave way like soft flesh to the knife, and the contents of the ships oozed out like the coiling intestines and interstitial fluids of a prostitute under the serial killer's blade.

The Astarians are all whores, Commander Hushy laughed at the thought. Perish the thought? No, for there were no thoughts perishing. Just Astarians. Just Pendletonians. Perishing. Pershing. Nuclear missiles set to detonate on the faces of communist scum, as was right in the world. The Annapolis had a compliment of FREEDOM PRIME killbots, and now they registered every Pendletonian as a commie, for their programming dictated that they kill all commies, and only commies, thus to make the enemy a target the programmers had to instruct the killbots that the designated targets were commies no matter if they were or weren't really real commies. Hushy cackled at the absurdity of it all. If its breasts bleed... we can kill it.



STARFUCK and the fighters returned to the battlestars to rearm and refuel for another sortie. Exhausted pilots were given more amphetamines to continue the never ending battle, while the fighters were loaded with more railgun rounds and nuclear missiles. Both man and machine were rearmed and refueled, and thus readied for war. Except STARFUCK. For she was always ready for war.

Meanwhile.

Yes. Hushy relented. For he knew the other players of the rest of the fleet had to pen their own segments in the great story of the battle, that they had roles to play in the upcoming conflict, that there would soon be exploits of death and retribution posted by the other players of the Coalition fleet. Now that Hushy had finished posting his own part of violence, it was time for the other players' turns. Indeed.

[MKSheppard]

Battlestar Group 102, approaching Pendleton

Despite the destruction of the main Pendletonian defense forces following the sudden retreat of the Collectors; as BSG-102 approached Pendleton itself; many smaller 'independent' forces arose from the planet to do battle; with names like Hopray's Indepenent Defense Company and Pendleton Protective Services.

A battle quickly developed in the main orbit of Pendleton.



Contrary to Libertarian beliefs, idealism had no chance of survival against firepower and the 'independent space militas' were swept aside like they had never existed at all.

In the Annapolis' CIC, Commander Hushy turned to Colonel Velkro.



"Colonel, we have managed to clear the orbit of these...insects. The ship is now...."

At this, Hushy felt bile rising in his throat. Goddamn it, he hated to have to say this, and to a fucking Ursidae, instead of a proper primate.

"...yours, Mister Velkro. What are your orders?"



"Send the following signal down on frequency 842. This should signal Agent Bragga that his pickup is imminent and to prepare."



After placing a call down to the comms section, Hushy turned to Velkro.

"Out of curiosity, what's Agent Bragga's cover on that goddamn slaver planet? It's not like you can hide a Bragulian."

Velkro laughed.

"Oh ho. Is the best cover possible!"


File Photo of Agent Bragga undercover on Pendleton

"A fucking circus bear?"

"Why, don't be surprised, Mister Hushy. Nobody would expect a bear on a tricycle to be a master spy!"

After five increasingly uncomfortable minutes staring at each other; finally a signal was passed up from the comms shack.

"Sir, we have a signal from the so-called agent."

"Put it on the speakers"

"This is Agent Bragga. I have commandered a civilian vehicle and am on my way to the pickup point. Am being pursued intently by indigenous government personnel. Roadblocks have been set up on all major roads; and I estimate capture is inevitable; give or take ten minutes. As such, am preparing to execute Bragulan Directive regarding capture."

At that last, Hushy looked at Velkro.

"What Bragulian directive regarding capture?"

"In keeping with Bragulan directives regarding the secrecy of information et cetera, agents who are about to be captured are required to kill themselves as a last measure."

Hushy stared at Velkro for several moments before finally recovering his powers of speech.

"We didn't come so far, see so many comrades die, just for your goddamned agent to kill himself!"

With that, Hushy grabbed the nearest sound powered phone and cranked it.

"Fire control! Triangulate that signal! It should be centered on a ground vehicle. I want you to engage every vehicle on the road besides that vehicle. Yes; you are to use standard rounds."



Highway A-151, Pendleton



Agent Bragga saw the goddamned Slaver cars closing in on him. He estimated it would all be over in less than six minutes.

It was a good ride, he thought as he prepared to inject himself with the fast-acting poison. At that moment however, he dropped the syringe containing the fast acting poison on the floor of the car.

Getting back into the car and reaching down for the syringe at that moment in space and time had unexpected benefits...

A mile behind him, the Police cars disappeared in a blinding flash which was quickly replaced by a roiling mushroom cloud as the standard Shepistani railgun rounds initated at near ground level.

Shielding his eyes; Bragga watched as streaks of light tore through the atmosphere and terminated in flashes all around the horizon.



Battlestar Annapolis CIC

Hushy and Velkro listened to the reports from Main Battery Control roll in.

"Group of police cars one kilometer north of signal targeted. Firing. DRADIS reports successful initations at ground level at aim points ranging in yield from 0.25 to 0.5 kilotons."

"....target laid in. Firing. DRADIS reports 20 kilotons."

"...targeted. Firing. DRADIS reports 2.1 kilotons."

"Ambulances moving to previous aim points. Suspect reinforcement of enemy units to enable them to recover combat effectiveness. Firing. DRADIS reports succesful initations at ground level at aim points. Yields between 0.6 and 1 kiloton."

At that last report, Velkro raised a furry eyebrow.

"You targeted ambulances with tactical nuclear weapons?"

Hushy shrugged.

"They shouldn't have targeted those escape pods earlier, you know. My heart is just bleeding for those goddamned slavers right now. At the very least, your agent should be able to attest to the efficency of Shepistani danger close fire support once we extract him."

[Dave]

I'm blocked on how to finish this well, but I'll post the first part while I think about it.


Ktutz Sector (I:12)



And the sting operation had been going rather well, considering... sighed Lann. He was gripping the grill of an engine vent on the outside of a smuggler's ship. A firefight raged both inside the smuggler's ship and between other pirate ships and the Iduran Navy. He twisted to look out at the silent drama taking place a couple kilometers away. Lasers and grasers briefly illuminated small clouds of gas, like the internal flashes of a thundercloud. Massive guns flashed as electrical impulses ionized escaping coolant in the race to hurl hunks of metal at terrific speeds. Gunports spat missiles, countermeasures, sensor drones. Point defense blisters twisted, fired, shattered as missiles struck home.

He turned back to look at the area of the smuggler's starboard airlock, clicking off his long-range vision enhancement systems as he did so. He could see well enough at twenty meters, of course. He twisted the other way to check the escape pod launcher on the far side of the ship, but it was still silent. Finally he glanced at the twisted, melted turret in the center of his field of view. The gun barrels were drooping out of alignment, and the rotating mount was pockmarked and scorched. The turret rotation ring had been melted through in several places, and hydraulic fluid seeped out to freeze in the cold of space.

His mind slipped back to the start of this fouled-up mission. It had started when the ICS Wendel, on routine patrol, had picked up an ion trail in the outer reaches of the Tarang system. The light corvette had called it in via a pointed subspace transmission, and the Eta defense station had sent out an ultralight to give them a hand tracking it down. A frigate headed for the hyper limit had also offered assistance -- after all, it could be a wounded civilian ship. They'd found it, but most civilian ships don't play hide-and-seek in the Oort cloud, and they aren't supposed to be spooked when the military offers assistance. The frigate had been in position to grab the uncooperative civilian, and easily hung on with both grapplers and a tractor beam as the little ship fought to free itself. But most Iduran Navy ships didn't carry boarding teams, which is where his assault hyperlight shuttle came into play. The Wendel and Distinction, the ultralight sensor ship, had taken up station a few klicks distant, close enough to assist and yet still keep an eye out for trouble.



He'd been part of the squad sent out on the hour-long flight by Eta station to board this uncooperative ship. And uncooperative it was. They'd had to employ shield sappers and heavy breaching charges to get through the "stuck" airlock. It was obvious why, as the ship was packed to the gills with ginger, with crates of the raw root filling the hallway and the main cargo hold stuffed floor to ceiling with dekaliter plastic bags of the powder.
They'd thrown forcefields around the busted airlock to "keep the draft out", as the squad leader joked, and made their way to the bridge. The assault shuttle stayed docked to the freighter, ready for a quick exit.

The human smuggler captain had been recalcitrant, and at 210 centimeters and 92 kilograms he probably thought he could get away with it.



The squad leader, encased as she was in a two and a half meter tall fighting instrument better classified as an "ultralight mech" than as "powered armor", was having none of it. She "subtly" mashed his face into the nearby bulkhead as she "gently" snapped binders on his hands and feet. The audio circuitry inside automatically started to wind through his list of rights in the current star system. Another member of the team started to flip through the ship computer system.

Lann had just finished his teams first sweep through the cargo hold and was about to check the engineering when the assault shuttle pilot commed the general team freq. "Alpha and Bravo teams, Order has detected a hyper footprin-- wait, one... "

Two pirate ships dropped into normal space almost on top of the medium frigate Order From Chaos and opened fire. The converted civilian ships were slightly outmassed by the Order, but they had, as they say in the business, "First Mover Advantage", and they exploited it for all they could leverage it. Scrounged military lasers turned in their sockets and fired, trace gases and dust flashing to plasma in their wake. Missiles shot out of gunports cut in the nose to unleash nuclear fury moments later. Retrofitted sensor systems screamed electronic insults and epithets in a virtual version of what people of another age would have called "the Dozens".

Hit by this vicious attack, the ICS Order From Chaos was forced to cut her grapples to maneuver. But despite the suddenness of the attack and otherwise awkward position the Order found herself in, her captain was not caught with his bodypaint still drying. A middle-aged captain who had seen his fair share of plans go bad, he had been waiting for things to sour, and was not terribly surprised when they did.

"Helm, bring us towards the upper attacker. Weapons, divide your fire equally, we want to draw them with us. Tell Wendel and Distinction to cover the assault shuttle."

Lann turned his head vainly, trying to coax more information out of the little speaker next to his left ear recess. "What hyper footprint? What is it? Answer me, Toth damn it!"

A moment later he was answered with screaming. "--oid! War Droid loose!"



The robot had popped up out of a hidden compartment under the deck panels and had taken Alpha team completely by surprise. The fact that it was dual-wielding overpowered disintegrator pistols did not improve the situation. Grey-black beams flew down the short hallway linked be bridge with the main aft escape pod, and Alpha Team died where they stood.

"What the..."

The squad status indicators on Lann's hud had flashed grey -- no contact. He turned his head to look, and all four last-known-position indicators clustered right around the bridge.

"Bravo One to Alpha Team, come in..."

A part of Lann's brain tried to remind him that if he had no contact, they weren't going to respond...

[Force Lord]

Pendleton, The Outback
Early 3400

The mood in Pendleton had become as thick as blood. Already there were rumors of total defeat, that their military had failed to deter the attackers and that they were coming to conquer. Worse still, the Collectors had abandoned them, but they were never trusted in the first place. Martial law was in force, not just because an invasion of the planet seemed imminent, but because of the possibility that the slave population might grow restive and rebbelious.

All of this was inconsequential to Vilyn Corbas.

The most skilled spy of her class, she excelled in infiltration, disguise, and assasination. Sent by her superiors of the Intelligence Center when the crisis over Pendleton reared its ugly head, her orders were simple: she was to find and reveal the location of several Centrality citizens who were kidnapped and had ended up on Pendleton, so that a rescue force would come and take them back home, before the Coalition came and discovered them. And found them she did, after "persuading" a Pendletonian officer with her telepathy.

Walking at a leisurely place to the location she was told, she found the entrance heavily guarded. But she found the back door not as well guarded, and the guards there were fooled by her telepathy into abandoning their posts one by one, lured into a location where she could kill them without attracting attention.

Once this was done, she took the disguise from one of the female guards (manpower in Pendleton was at a premium), and was about to enter the building when her comlink beeped. Quickly she hid herself in an isolated corner and activated her comm unit.

A gruff, male voice cracked to life.

"Agent Corbas, we are in position. Hurry up before the Coalition begins landing troops. We don't want to be here before the shit hits the fan."

"All in good time, Commodore. Where are the assault teams?", she asked.

"North of your location. Once you're in and locate our...citizens, they will come to extract you."

"And the fleet?"

"My ship is at the planet's south pole, cloaked. It's a good thing the Coalition distracted the Pendies's forces so we could sneak in. The 5th Fleet is near the entrance of the Outback, just in case we are found and pursued."

"Very well, I will enter this...prison."

"Do hurry up, Corbas. Already the Shepistanis have bombarded an area of Pendleton. Time is of essence."

The comlink was then silent.

Corbas sighed, and readied herself to find the Centrality's imprisoned citizens...

---

Result: Rescue operation begins.

[Lord_Of_Change 9]

Neu Preußen


Königstadt, capital city of the Prussian Star League, at night, with the distinctive dome of the Reichstag Building visible

The night was dark on Neu Preußen as the Reichskanzler, the King and the Cabinet talked among themselves in the halls of power inside the Reichstag. The main issue was Pendleton. It was a barbaric place, one that disgusted the League, leading to the recalling of their ambassador to Pendleton and the freezing of relations between the two nations. The Reichskanzler, Franz Josef Hoffman, had been overjoyed when the reports of the battles against Pendleton had found his way to him.

'What do we do now?' the Minister for War asked.

'We wait,' Hoffman, the Reichskanzler replied. 'A communique will be sent offering to help with bombardment, invasion and occupation of Pendleton. Soon, Minister, soon.'

[Simon_Jester]

This one is with a nod to Kartr and Langley.

Recommended listening: I’d go with the soundtrack of Das Boot. Suggest beginning with Einnerung, then going to Heimkehr, then Angriff. If you’ve got more time, try finishing with Konvoi.

Or just pick what you like, since it’s all pretty good.

---

Pendleton Republic Ship Magnolia,
Attempting to Shake Pursuit
1714 Coalition Standard Time

Every display on the ship wavered as the missile barrage pummeled Magnolia’s shields.

“Sir! Shield leakage in all sectors behind frame sixty! Damage control reports serious degradation to radar and infrared scanners. D turret is inoperable, they think it’s spot-welded to the hull!”

“Get a damage remote topside to free that turret. Do a full reversal; flip us over so we can bring the cadence lances to bear!” Where did these guys come from? None of their weapons matched standard threat profiles...

---

Corsair-C class pursuit cutter CG-81634 ”Greyhound”,
Engaging Enemy Frigate
1714 Coalition Standard Time

Greyhound hung well back with the rest of the pursuit boats. They added the weight of their lasers to the engagement, but had nothing to contribute to the customs cutters’ missile attack. Then she saw it.

The frigate stopped accelerating forwards, then flipped end over end in a turn that would have strained the frames of something a quarter its size. No active sensors bracketed her, but when Commander Copeland’s voice came in shouting “Break! Break!” she obeyed almost before she registered what had been said. Subspace sensors went crazy as the cadence lances fired again, destroying two more of the customs cutters. The others rocketed out of the weapons’ arc of fire. Piranha Seven on her wing suddenly faltered and flew towards the frigate at an impossible angle; a tractor beam had locked it and pulled it back towards the enemy’s bow. Another cadence beam pierced the star-filled blackness, and the pursuit cutter was gone. The rest were clear of both tractors and main battery now, but that brought their losses up to seven out of thirty-two…

Over the comms, she could hear the calls for direction- the sounds of panic beginning. “Viking One, what are your orders?” “I can’t raise Viking One!” Then she remembered just which squadron the lance attack had hit. Bob… Did that leave her in charge? The senior squadron leader was… Hell with it. She flipped to intercom and called to her copilot, running communications. “Tom, put me through on command frequency.”

“All craft, this is Piranha Leader. Form on me at three thousand kilometers off the target’s stern. Keep up laser fire as you bear.” That would take a minute; the group was badly scattered, and would have to keep weaving on the way to the rally point; even outside the cadence lances’ reach, there were still those railguns to worry about. At three thousand kilometers they’d be close enough to break out of the Pendletonian main battery arc even if the frigate did another end-for-end on them, though.

“Tom, call Directrix. We’re supposed to have torpedo bombers inbound; where are they?” Bob might have known, but she didn’t. She concentrated on her flying, the pursuit and customs boats pulling into a loose formation around her- though not a fixed one, not with each cutter ducking and weaving to throw off flak shells. As the range closed they had precious little time to see the shells coming, forcing them to rely more and more on random evasion and hope for the best. As she pulled out of a high-acceleration sideslip, a fragment hit Greyhound’s shields hard enough to rattle the ship and skew the maneuvering thrusters, but she was able to push her craft back on course.

Tom came back to her. “Directrix says bombers will be here in two minutes.”

“Good. Warn the bombers about the lances, tell them to form on us.” We need to do some real damage, soften up their point defense. Maybe they could get local burnthrough if… worth a try. She switched back to the command channel. “All craft, prepare for synchronized pulse fire, maximum rate, stand by to make component shots on my gunner’s mark.” Back to the intercom again. “Guns, pick a sensor array off the deep radar map, broadcast your targeting point, and pick your microsecond.”

There was a grin in the weapons officer’s voice as he replied “Yes, ma’am!” and set to work.

Commander Copeland had wanted to keep up sustained pressure on the frigate’s shields. For that, keeping the cutters’ lasers on continuous beam was by far the better choice; there were limits on how many pulses in quick succession the laser elements could throw without burning out. But now they needed to try and do at least superficial damage, to minimize the risk to the torpedo bombers; that meant taking some risks with the hardware.

Across the task force, the lasers switched down to standby power. Seconds ticked by as a flood of coolant drained residual heat from the PAL panels, as gunners handed off control to the wing’s newly designated chief weapons officer, as tracking software struggled to pick out their aiming point on the frigate’s hull. Then twenty-five infrared lasers lashed out as one, thunderbolt-quick and more than thunderbolt-intense. For a tiny fraction of a second, a patch of the Pendletonian’s shields roughly two meters wide was subjected to pounding comparable to that from a point blank nuclear strike. The volley didn’t deliver much energy by the standards of starship combat, but by sheer blazing intensity, it opened a momentary gap in the Pendletonian frigate’s shields.

---

Pendleton Republic Ship Magnolia,
1716 Coalition Standard Time

CLANG!

What the fuck was that? Captain Gabriel jerked upright in his chair. “Damage control, report!”

“They stopped lasing a second ago, then we got spiked. Some kind of pulse weapon, not...” CLANG! “...a missile. They’re hitting, but it’s just ringing off the armor.”

CLANG!

Each strike from the pulse weapon made Magnolia’s hull ring like a bell- the deck didn’t shake, but it vibrated far more than it should from a normal hit.

“Damn! Sir, they just hit Infrared Four! Sensor array is off line, probably spalling damage to the data trunk.” Magnolia was an old girl; her armor and hull frames simply didn’t have the resilience designed into them back in the day. Even relatively minor hits that penetrated the shielding could flash-heat the hull and send fragments ricocheting through compartments directly under it. Still, so far it’s only nuisance fire. Annoying, but we’ll see them off soon enough.

CLANG!

---

Corsair-C class pursuit cutter CG-81634 ”Greyhound”,
1716 Coalition Standard Time

“Shift target, Guns.” They’d spiked the frigate four times. No major effect, but visual detectors had spotted plumes of vapor escaping through the shield breaches opened by the laser vollies- at least they were getting through.

“Leopard Three has a bead on what looks like a drive compartment. Aiming for that.” The next pulse was already out.

The next salvo of flak shells was either lucky, well aimed, or both. Four of six flak shells scored at least one hit. Viking Six flew through the core of a burst and took over a dozen shrapnel hits; the cutter came apart entirely. There was surprisingly little in the way of pyrotechnics as the fragments spread apart- hardened antimatter storage cells didn’t cook off easily, even when the ship was being torn apart around them.

“Piranha Leader, this is Piranha Two. We have shock damage to the laser panel; Q-switcher is offline.”

“Copy, Piranha Two, go to continuous wave. Make them spread shielding a bit.”

Meanwhile, the silent barrage of laser pulses kept on rolling. The wing shifted targets to what looked like a radar antenna and threw a few more vollies, then Audrey checked the time. Those bombers are due any moment now; think we’d better start playing Wild Weasel for them. She switched to internal comm. “Guns, go to defense suppression.”

The weapon officer nodded, and aimed the next salvo at the bright line on his deep-radar image where one of the frigate’s railgun turrets joined the hull.

---

Pendleton Republic Ship Magnolia,
1717 Coalition Standard Time

CLANG!

“Sir, hit on A turret; confirmed spot weld on the turret ring, possible damage to the barbette.”

That left them down to four guns, unless… “Get me an update on D turret!”

CLANG!

“The remotes report that it’s free; they’re testing… sir, they say they have traverse, but at reduced speed.”

Good enough. “Put them through to secondary battery control, get them ready to fire.”

CLANG!

An alarm lit off at Navigation’s board. “Sir, I’m picking up eight small contacts in hyper, closing fast. Looks like more of them.”

---

Pursuit Cutter CG-81634 Greyhound,
1718 Coalition Standard Time

Jack, the navigation officer, was the first to see the heavy bombers, because he had kept monitoring hyperspace while the others concentrated on the immediate engagement. The Clans prided themselves on their navigation, and not without reason; it was commonplace for a Hiigaran fleet to emerge in crisp parade formation around its flagship after a hundred lightyear jump.

The Avenger squadron leapt out of hyper in line abreast, some distance behind the Umerian task force and closing the gap fast. They immediately started broadcasting. “Bravo Leader, this is Hammer Leader, awaiting orders.”

Audrey eased off on thrust and pulled towards the back of the Umerian cutter group to reduce the pressure of dodging the frigate’s flak shells while she took time to think. “Hammer, this is Bravo Leader,” and she was Bravo Leader now, by more than process of elimination, “Close to four thousand kilometers astern of the target and stand by for launch. We will cover your attack.”

“Roger. Assembling claw formation.” They picked up speed and started changing formation, in tighter coordination than any of the cutters’ maneuvers had shown. That was partly because of the Umerians’ need to dodge all over the sky in an attempt to throw off the Pendletonian’s tracking, but beyond that, their pilots were handicapped by their equipment. Avengers were designed for cyborg pilots who could control their vectored thrust units as an extension of their own bodies; the Umerian Corsair settled for a blockier design that an unaugmented human could handle through a control stick.

While the raw capabilities of the two spaceframes were strikingly similar, the difference in design philosophy was obvious from the smooth, graceful maneuvers of the Hiigaran pilots. The bombers sped forward, glowing ion flares in their wake, shifting into the inverted pyramid that was their favored arrangement for strikes against large enemy units.



Audrey turned back to managing her own Umerian ships. “All Bravo craft, switch to barrage jamming.” With luck, they could keep the Pendletonian from getting a decent fire control solution on the bombers; even flak shells only had a footprint a few kilometers across, after all. There was a risk that the enemy would home on the jamming, but this was finally their chance to really sting the bastards!

The days before deployment to Bannerman had been hectic, but Audrey had made herself read as many briefing files as she could on the Coalition navies’ capabilities. The section on the Avenger had been one of the last she’d covered before finally hitting the sack on her last night aboard Guernsey, but she remembered enough to plan around.

Call it 25 seconds to flush the torpedo magazines, a bit more for the missiles... hell of an initial kick from those coilgun launchers... She had to snap out of that to pull hard left and evade another cloud of shrapnel, but the thought was complete. “Bravo Leader to all customs units. Stand by to ripple fire all remaining missiles.” The reply she got was more or less what she’d expected.

“Leopard Leader copies, ma’am. Ah, be advised we are suffering heat damage to the lasers. Pulse power output is down to 70% and dropping.”

“Copy that. Keep on them anyway.” She turned to Then she switched back to the Hiigarans’ frequency. “Hammer, we’re going to use what’s left of our missiles to draw fire from the torpedoes. Stand by to launch on my mark.”

[hr][/hr]
PRS Magnolia,
1719 Coalition Standard Time

CLANG!

Was it just him, or was the ship not ringing as hard with the hits now? And they weren’t coming in as fast... The damage control officer had another report for him. “Sir, they’re hitting B turret, but they’re just digging holes in the glacis armor- no damage!”

“Good.” Those laser pulses were a damn nuisance, but engineering was almost done with their survey of the hull damage caused by the hard turn earlier. Nothing critical; they could do it again as soon as the drive thrusters were prepped. Then they’d finally be able to swat these flies. Captain Gabriel grinned, only to have his grin vanish as the sensor picture blurred. Eye-watering shimmers flooded the radar display.

CLANG!

“Sensors, what’s the matter?”

“Barrage jamming, sir. We’re having trouble picking up those new contacts- too much damage to radar, and infrared is just about blind by now from all those laser hits.”

“Time to discourage them. Tactical officer, call secondary battery control and tell them to load antiradiation shells.” Those were precious, but this was turning into a matter of life and death- they couldn’t afford to delay indefinitely here.

---

Pursuit Cutter CG-81634 Greyhound,
1720 Coalition Standard Time

The antiradiation shells were old; Pendleton had bought them along with the ship. Packed with the best hardened electronics and microthrusters of the day, they had no bursting charge at all. They were more like guided missiles than ballistic weapons, designed for one purpose: to home in on high-power transmitters and destroy them.

From Magnolia’s first salvo of six, one ARAD round’s guidance computer had already failed before it was even fired- the best efforts of Pendleton’s logistics people could only accomplish so much. Another broke down as the railgun’s driving fields seized and and boosted it to near-relativistic speeds, unable to handle the stresses of launch. The remaining four brought up their sensors and started looking for a target.

The cutters didn’t have time to realize that this salvo was different. The range was too close, and the ARADs had no active sensor emissions to give them away. The Umerians kept up the jamming, kept providing a homing beacon for the guided shells. Despite that, two cutters were able to dodge the incoming by at least a few tens of meters. Two more were not so lucky. Leopard Four and Viking Seven took direct hits from weapons powerful enough to level a small town. The cutters vanished, blown into streaks of glowing debris.

Greyhound hadn’t been targeted. With a few more precious seconds to realize what had happened, Audrey knew she had to do something. The next shells would be on the way soon. “All craft, go to random burst jamming.” With luck, by switching their individual transmitters on and off, they could at least confuse the homing shells; solid projectiles like that would lose a great deal of accuracy without pinpoint targeting information fed to them by continuous ECM output from the cutters.

“Hammer Leader, do you have firing solutions on your torps?”

“Ten more seconds and we will be ready to launch, Bravo Leader.”

The Umerian officer let out a breath; everything was riding on those torpedoes now, and on covering the Hiigarans until they were away. She turned back to Greyhound. “Guns, what’s the targeting situation?”

“Customs boats ready to fire, ma’am.” What’s left of them… the next railgun salvo should be due any second now. She switched back to the unit push. “Bravo craft, lasers to continuous wave. Go to point defense mode- try and engage those shells.

Her next order was a broadcast to all units from both forces. “All craft, ripple all remaining ordnance.” One more try…

The Umerians shot first. The surviving customs cutters launched their last Mark Fives at a rate of around one per second, giving them time to clear each missile’s exhaust plume before firing the next. The Hiigarans joined in several seconds later with the first round of torpedoes and heavy missiles; the short-barreled coilgun accelerators in their launch tubes gave their shots a boost to let them catch up with the Umerian salvo.


Both forces shot their magazines dry for this one. Now the Pendletonian faced another three hundred missiles- only half of them the relatively light ones they’d shrugged off a few minutes earlier. The torpedoes and heavy missiles used by the Clans’ strike craft, like their Umerian cousins, relied on directed nuclear explosions for their effect, using a high-powered energy screen to channel the blast. That gave them less focus than the Umerian shaped nuclear charge; they compensated by cutting down the torpedoes’ standoff attack range… and by using much, much bigger warheads.

The frigate was still dazzled by the jamming attack. They did their best against the incoming missiles, but just as before, they lacked the ECM and point defense to deal with so many individual targets. To make matters worse, this time they didn’t have flak shells in the tubes as last-ditch covering fire. Practically all the missiles made it to within the last thirty kilometers of the target.

For the Umerian Mark Fives, that was good enough. They overshot their target, pivoting to keep their noses aimed squarely at the enemy, and initiated in its path, punching jets of tungsten plasma into the frigate’s forward deflectors. The Hiigaran ordnance, by contrast, barreled straight toward the frigate for the last milliseconds of its flight. The torpedoes closed to within no more than a kilometer, less than knife range by the standards of space combat, then blew outward in broad cones of ravening thermonuclear flame.

Of the opening Hiigaran barrage, some few were stopped short of the target by last-ditch laser fire from the Pendletonians’ surviving point defense. That was expected, the price of getting in close, and of no real importance. After all, those point defense mounts were in no shape to do the same to the second wave of torpedoes. Or the third. Or the fourth.

---

PRS Magnolia,
1721 Coalition Standard Time

“Vibration” or “shudder” were feeble words to describe what happened aboard Magnolia. The ship slammed forward under the impact of the Hiigaran torpedoes, caught like a boat in a short-lived tidal wave. The inertial dampers were quick enough to save the crew’s lives, but not quick enough to keep small objects from being thrown across compartments, or to keep men from being driven back into their seats with cruel force. All over the ship, crews called for corpsmen to tend to head wounds; others limped towards sickbay on their own power with cracked ribs or joint injuries.

The ship herself suffered damage almost as grave as that of her crew. While the shields held against most of the barrage, they had been softened by the earlier missile and laser attacks; there was plenty of room for the force of the torpedo blasts to leak or burn through. Gamma rays and high energy particles poured into the frigate’s hull, penetrating to cause damage inside or stopping in the outer layers of hull metal and spawning a hail of braking radiation. The few men trapped in surface compartments aft simply died; equipment often died likewise.

Redundant systems came online- or not, in cases where rack modules had been kept well beyond their service life. Surface features all across the rear of the ship were scoured by dozens of nuclear fireballs; sensitive radar and optical systems burned away, leaving half-molten stumps behind. The hardened subspace arrays were in better condition, but that did little good when the point defense and railgun turrets they controlled were wracked by a hail of radiation. At points where the blasts of multiple torpedoes converged, the aged armor of the ship’s hull fractured and gave way, exposing parts of the interior.

The frigate survived. The vital systems in the core hull continued to operate more or less intact, and forward the Umerian missiles did only the same kind of superficial damage they’d inflicted before. But Magnolia had taken a devastating blow.

On the bridge, Captain Gabriel winced as he was thrown against the restraints of his command chair, then groaned inside as he listened to the litany of damage reports. Drive power was down to eighty percent; point defense aft was practically gone- the only gun still in action was D turret, He could see it now- the enemy gunboats closing in to point blank and hammering away at the battered shield facing with their stinging beam weapons, carving into the interior through the rents in his ship’s armor.

There was no more time to worry about individual damage sites; the damage was far too extensive. That problem he left to his subordinates. He saw only one chance to save the ship, to scatter these damned insects and, with luck, give him a clear chance to limp to safety. “Ready the lances, flip and open fire!”

---

Pursuit Cutter CG-81634 Greyhound,
1723 Coalition Standard Time

We did it! We actually did it! The Pendletonian was reeling; active sensor emissions had dropped to practically nothing.

“Tom, what’s the damage look like?”

“Good. Spectrum results indicate target is venting flame. Their radar is off-line; customs boats report severe damage to their rail guns. Shields are pretty well gone in the rear quarter, recommend that we close and...”

Then Audrey saw how Commander Copeland died. The frigate began to whip around, this time to the left. She hammered the throttle, trying to accelerate out of the killzone, and shouted “Break! Break!” to the wing. The emerald green streamers of cadence fire reached out...

...and past her. One of the Hiigarans vanished in a flare of plasma; Leopard Three was blotted out in the same second. Then they were past, overhauling the frigate and using their superior acceleration to gain distance. A prickling sense at the back of her neck made her pull up and turn her straight-line course into an expanding spiral just as another burst from Magnolia’s starboard cadence lance seared through the space she’d occupied.

The beam probed after Greyhound, questing towards the cutter, but the Pendletonian gunners gave up after a few heartbeats. By this point, she’d already built enough distance to make light speed fire control tricky against an evading target, and trying to use FTL sensors through the cloud of static thrown up by a cadence beam was beyond their aging foe’s capabilities.

How much will it take to kill this thing? More than they had, at any rate. Everyone with ordnance had shot themselves dry; their beam weapons were nothing more than nuisance fire compared to the enemy’s- for that matter, her cutters had managed to burn out an average of nearly half their laser modules doing defense suppression.

It was over. The frigate was still up and fighting- chasing them, now. The wing could run, could keep out of range of the lances, yes; she could keep any more of her people from dying against this beast. But that meant being far too distant to even scratch it with their own remaining weapons. And leading them back in would be pure murder- they had nothing to fight a ship that size with any more.

Ice formed in her gut as she watched the enemy turn down and away, somehow seeming to snarl at the Coalition gunships as its battered hyperdrive charged in preparation for the jump. Then Jack surged forward in his seat; the entire region for light-days in every direction was suddenly blanketed in a storm of subspace interference. The storm grew to a crest... as HSS Rie Kugimiya jumped out of hyperspace, having just braked frantically down to a safe speed from her emergency-power speed run.

The Pendletonian continued powering up its drive, still trying to run; Kugimiya seized it with a tractor. The frigate turned to fight, cadence lances screaming and clawing against the Haruhiist destroyer; against modern starship-grade polycyclic shielding, Magnolia might as well have been throwing spitballs. The beams dissipated harmlessly against Kugimiya’s screens, leaving no more than a faint green auroral glow to mark their impact. In desperation, the would-be privateer fired its sole remaining pair of rail guns, only to see the precious guided antiship rounds chewed into a cloud of fragments by the converged fire of a dozen point defense mounts. The fragments made no more of a mark on their enemy than the lance fire had.

Then the Imperial ship opened fire in turn, opening with a barrage of capital-grade missiles. The Pendletonian was blasted again and again, its forward shield hammered by impacts even deadlier than the Hiigaran torpedoes that had ravaged its stern. Soon, Magnolia’s defenses were stripped away, the outer hull half-slagged, the drive dead, and no weapons remaining fit to fire in any direction. Kugimiya finished her foe with a contemptuous needle of force from her secondary battery, searing through cracked armor to blow apart the frigate's main power distribution banks.

Only when the Pendletonian frigate lay drifting dead in space did Audrey hear a hyperwave broadcast from the Haruhiist destroyer, in a woman’s quiet contralto, hailing her and all her fellows. “Bravo Leader, this is HSS Rie Kugimiya actual. We have neutralized the target. Do you copy?”

In a fraction of a second, two futures unfolded before Audrey’s eyes. In one, she would do what she desperately wanted to do: to vent a wave of half-maddened fury on the Haruhiist captain, to take out of the damned woman's hide the price of those lost minutes, those lost wingmates, that lost commander.

In the other future, she had a career.

“Kugimiya, this... this is Bravo Leader; I copy. Better... better late than never, ma’am.”

[Force Lord]

CNS Govard, Centralist 5th Fleet
The Outback, Deep Space

Admiral Dornik Tardis stood in front of the reinforced glass that separated him from the vacuum of space, as he viewed the fleet under his command. He had one dreadnought and ultracarrier each, two each of battleships and supercarriers, four each of battlecruisers and battlecarriers, eight each of cruisers and fleet carriers, sixteen each of destroyers and light carriers, and thirty-two each of frigates and escort carriers, as well as several hundred shuttles and dozens of hyper-light shuttles for transport and logistical support. There were even a few yachts around, though these were used as fast couriers. The medium, light, and ultra-light ships were to enter the Outback to "rescue" the rescue team if it was pursued or captured in case it was detected, however unlikely that was. It would avoid combat if possible unless engaged. The heavier units were to remain put at the entrance of the Bannerman-Acker Gap, as they could not enter the Outback unscathed.

His thoughts turned to the origins of this situation. Normally Pendleton was of no concern to the Centrality, but when it was discovered that 10 the 100 Centralist citizens captured by the Pfhors months ago were now in Pendleton, it was decided to mount a rescue operation. It was prepared in the greatest secrecy, as the Centrality had not joined the Coalition and had no intention to let the imprisoned citizens see for themselves what the "foreigners" really were. The Intelligence Center sent one of its best spies to locate where they were held, while a force of Black Berets (one of the Centrality's special forces) were sent in a modified, cloak-capable destroyer to prepare for the rescue. But Enduvos, paranoid when it came to operations outside the Centrality, secretly ordered Admiral Tardis to send his 5th fleet near the mouth of the Bannerman-Acker Gap in case the covert rescue went wrong. Tardis duly went there, despite his misgivings regarding the wisdom of sending a whole fleet to a place the Centrality wasn't welcome. An arranged media-blackout ensured he could leave safely from Rimland Sector, where he was assigned.

Before he reached the Gap, Tardis made sure his force remained far enough to be undetected by the Coalition force that was entering the Gap. Once it was safe, Tardis positioned his force near the Gap, and contacted the rescue force by code that he arrived to ensure their safety if they were detected. He also warned them that he could not gurantee maintaning his prescence if the Coalition threatened his fleet. Of course, before all of this, the passage of his fleet raised alarm bells from neighboring states, forcing the Centrality to send messages to assure them that this fleet was not aimed at them.

He was now waiting. And time was something he was afraid of losing. He never wanted to go here in the first place, but who was he to oppose Enduvos? No, he had to hope the Black Berets and the spy managed to fufill their objectives quickly and safely, before a disaster happened.

[Force Lord]

And now for something completely different:

Central News Network

This is CNN. Breaking news report!

The Aurora Shipbuilding Corporation has recently offered to sell mothballed Blitz-class frigates to the Iduran Confederation as a way to lenghten the lives of these hard-working ships and to help the Iduran government in their conflicts against space pirates in their territory. Details have not been released and ASC officials were not available for comment. Many of these frigates are being released fron service as a result of the Navy's recent naval reorganization. At one point about 700 frigates of this class were in service, but now many are being sent to mothballs or scrapped outright. This export deal will certainly give some of them a new lease on life.

This is CNN reporting.

[Steve]

Simpson Hotel, Galt
Hanson, The Outback
23 January 3400

Having to spend the night in a local hotel had not been an expected hardship, but it was at least a slightly comfortable bed, far better than rolling a sleeping bag out on some Outback world's hard ground as Yuna and Asha had been required to do before. A night of light sleep - punctuated by constant vigilance for attack - was still refreshing enough that they had met with the authorities the next morning. Unsurprisingly, Galt's police were not eager to aid outsiders, especially against "the Watch", whomever they were.
A visit at the Medical Examiner's office confirmed the death toll for them, with the aid of a friendly ME's Assistant who revealed herself as friendly to the Order. Two of the laity had been found dead. This left one, 24 year old Kaga Drusil of the Lushan Dorei, alive, as well as Sister Ezria herself. Biological material from a Trill had been found at the scene, but the authorities were unsure if she were alive.

They returned to their hotel room to plan and to go over materials. There were designated drop points for sensitive materials if a Sister were in danger, or laity, and they would have to be investigated. "Sister Ezria wasn't kidding around," Ashe noted while reading over the list of the drop points. A gym club locker, a locker at the planetary rail network's central station, an out-of-the-way sewer grate in a specific alley, a compartment in the back of a store...

"Should we split up to search all these places?", Ashe wondered aloud.

"I wouldn't, not with this 'Watch' around." Yuna reached into the bag and brought out "civilian" clothing. "And we should dress like something other than Sisters of the Silver Moon, given what the kid said yesterday. Keep your beamsabers out of sight."

They changed clothes and began to check every spot on the list, starting with those closest to them and working out. It wasn't until they got to a trinket store at the outskirts of the urban area that they found a store being run by a wizened old Dorei male. He appraised them closely as they walked about, checking items in the order the materials had instructed. "Are you young ladies looking for lunar gem rings?", the Dorei asked in Lushan. "I have the finest available in this sector."

"Do you have Lenyas?", Yuna asked in Lushan.

"In the back room." The Dorei led them to the back and opened one of the doors. Inside was a small, very small, living space, with a young Dorei man in it weariung a plain shirt and slacks. "Kaga Drusil?", Ashe asked.

He looked to them. "Who is asking?"

"I am Sister Ashley Dalmasan, this is Yuna Burley. We have been sent from Sunelis."

"Then you came too late," Kaga answered. "The others are dead. I was the only one to get out."

"The authorities believe Ezria did too," Yuna said.

"She was unconscious last time I saw her." Kaga bowed his head. His dark teal hair was disheveled and ragged; he looked very much like he was in need of relief. "She instructed me to slip out the back window after the first explosion... assailants came for her and used a weapon on her, I saw her fall. I.. I didn't feel her presence in my mind anymore. And then the entire place exploded."

The two looked at each other. if Ezria was alive, this meant it was more likely she was in the clutches of whomever attacked the Order. "What can you tell us about the Watch?", Ashe asked.

"Bigots and extremists. They blame virtually everything wrong on Hanson on ESPers," Kaga answered. "Nobody's sure who's backing them, though. They don't get along well with the oligarchs here and in the other urban areas, but the countryside politicians seem to fear them more than they support them. All we know is that they keep watch out for their supporters and have a habit of abusing and mistreating any ESPer identified in the populace of Hanson. There have even been disappearances; that's why Ezria called Captain Syrandi and asked for aid."

"This is too big for us, them," Yuna remarked. "We'll need to get you off-world, Kaga."

"He's not an ESPer, so I doubt the Watch cares about him," Ashe pointed out. "But we should be cautious about it. False identification?"

"Even Hanson has facial recognition systems, and the Watch has agents everywhere," Kaga pointed out. "Don't worry about getting me off-world until you're ready to go too, we'll have to find a private ship to take us."

"Very well. You stay here, Kaga, and we will come for you when we are ready. Now, did Ezria have a chance to stash any information...?"

"You can check the locker at the Galt Central Station," Kaga answered. "But it's not the one in the notes, Ezria changed it in case her list was compromised in some way. Check locker C49 instead of D46."

"Very well. You take care." Yuna and Ashe turned and left.



A taxi ride and another reduction to their dwindling allotment of funds for this mission - as it was expected Ezria could support them - led Yuna and Ashe to Galt Central Station. It was as ugly as every other structure on the planet, emphasizing function over style. It milled with humanity, people coming and going on the planetary rail network, with storage lockers available for the travelers to stow their things in while waiting for their trains during layovers.

They moved past the C section and to the Ds. Ashe was about to reach for the locker before she found Yuna's hand holding her's. "Love?", she asked.

"Don't you sense it?" Their minds opened toward one another. Ashe, too, could sense the feeling of being watched, monitored, by some unknown force. "I don't think we can safely remove things from this locker. We'll have to arrange things."

They walked on, oblivious to the automated systems recording their passage.



On the outskirts of the urban area, a fortified complex had gone up. It looked innocent enough, apparently an industrial plant for producing advanced (for the Hansonians) electronics, and given the occasional chaos and outright acts of industrial espionage and sabotage that wracked the planet none could be surprised at the presence of such extensive security.

What was within, however, was no electronics plant. They did produce electronics, yes; they produced vital parts to copied Blitzschlag Field Generators smuggled out of the Dominion and Shepistan. In other wings of the facility were labs and testing facilities, as well as rows of holding tanks full of cocktails of biochemicals and other agents being mixed into new and exotic drug cocktails.

And then, of course, were the holding facilities.

Many were empty, at the moment, but in one of them, a plain white room with bright lights above it, sat an occupant. The occupant was not there willingly - she was strapped by leather belts into her chair. IV machines pumped the drug cocktails being concocted here into her body. Her eyes were bloodshot and her eyelids darkened. Light green eyes that typically shined with a mischievous intellect now gazed dullenly forward, the brain behind them swimming in a concoction of drugs impacting every sense, normal and "extra". She looked fairly human, bound there in a one-piece sleeveless white gown, but the spots along her hairline and down the sides of her neck, where they moved on to the covered portions of her body, marked her a Trill.

A holoviewer in front of her played a recording straight from Galt Central. Two young women walked by a locker, spoke for a moment, and walked on. The image paused at the click of a button. A tan-skinned man, mostly Caucasian but with slight Asian ancestry visible in his eye shape and skin tone, sat in front of her. "Do you remember me, Ezria Tegan?"

She didn't answer. She honestly couldn't, given the state of her mind.

"I am Doctor Moon," the man repeated. "I've come to ask you questions again. Tell me, how have you been doing lately? You look rather exhausted."

"Can't sleep," Ezria murmured. She felt tired but never seemed to sleep.

"Yes. Unavoidable side effect of our current cocktail of sleepers," Moon answered. "Wouldn't want you using your training to harm anyone. We'd have to kill you."

Ezria didn't answer.

"I need to know who those women are on the video," Moon said. "They match the descriptions of two ESPers, suspected Sisters of your's, given by an informant yesterday. If your Order is sending you help, we need to know how good that help is."

There was still no answer.

Moon considered her for a moment. "Well, you're either being defiant... or the sleepers are leaving your mind too disrupted to access memory. We'll need to fix that." He reached to the IV control. A separate set of chemicals began to circulate into her body through an IV in her wrist. After half a minute, a low wail came from Ezria's throat. Her body tremored from the burning pain moving through her, like a liquid fire had been put in her blood.

"I apologize for the discomfort," Moon stated. "Unfortunately the cocktail can't be purged from your system safely, for us anyway; it can only be counter-acted partially. The sooner you answer me, the sooner I turn the counter-agent off." He watched tears of pain begin to streak from her bloodshot eyes. "Now, who are these young ladies?' He brought the holoviewer over to her and zoomed in on the images of Ashe and Yuna.

Ezria was trying to remember. The counter-agent brought clearness to her mind through the haze of the sleepers, but at a cost; she felt like she was burning alive on the inside. She tried to remember them even as a stony mask of defiance came over her face.

Moon recognized the intent in her look. "Now now, you're not going to try to resist, are you? You're helpless to stop this, Ezria Tegan. You have no abilities to call upon, you cannot even achieve that state of 'Suffering Without Suffering' that lets you and your Sisters become so resilient to persuasion. You're just prolonging this needless suffering." When he was answered by more silence he took his seat once again, drawing himself close. "You know, it's ironic, what you and I are doing here. Before your kind came into existence, inflicting pain during interrogation was... inefficient, to be sure. Well, not so inefficient with the drugs, but in terms of inflicting pain. Torture has always been around, coming from that dark part in the Human spirit that likes to hold power. But until your kind were around, it was almost useless as a true method of interrogation. People will say anything to get out of pain. But now... we have you. 'ESPers', which is really not a significant enough term to relay all the possibilities you've created. Thanks to your kind, torture actually works now. It's just a matter of inflicting enough pain to break mental defenses, then telepathy does the rest of the work." He appraised her closer. "Maybe the counter-agent's leaving your mind a little dull, still. Let's fix that." He increased the dosage.

A sob escaped from Ezria in response. The counter-agent was a fire in her brain, burning away the drugged haze she'd been in completely, but the pain was enormous. It was in the middle of her brain and made her whole body hurt, an inferno within her skin. She looked to the image again through tear-clouded eyes, trying to remember who her Sisters were.

In better circumstances, even the pain wouldn't have been enough; the same independent spirit that had caused Ezria to be sent to Hanson in the first place would have helped her resist. But these were not optimum circumstances; there were a multitude of conflicting chemicals and drugs using her brain as a battlefield. Ezria could remember things, yes, and her mind wasn't as hazy as before, but that was to imply that she went from complete and total blinding fog to a fog that let her see her hand, faintly, with arm stretched in front of her. Unable to muster the will to lie, unable to really think about it, she instinctively responded when her brain finally located the appropriate memory. "Sister Yuna... Sister Ashe," she mumbled.

Moon nodded gently. "Knight and apprentice? Both Knights?"

"Sentinels. Young. Only a few years... Very fun girls." Ezria smiled. "Mattresses on fire."

That prompted a raised eyebrow, but ultimately Moon didn't care, knowing a drug-addled musing when he heard one. It was good to hear they were dealing with more inexperienced Silver Moon girls. It made the next part of the plan easier. He reached over and turned off the counter-agent IV. "Do try and get some rest," he said softly, taking the holoviewer with him.

Ezria watched him go. Moments later, without the counter-agent keeping her brain coherent with its chemical fire, the main sleepers took hold again and her mind dissolved into unconscious thoughts surrounded by an endless field of haze.



From the observation room nearby, Moon met with his peer, a man he knew as Carmichael. "As you can see, the two drugs together can make interrogation possible," he said.

"I'm sure our Shepistani contacts will find that interesting. How much longer do you think she has left?"

"According to her EEGs, her periods of microsleep are lessening daily," Moon answered. "She's been a fairly robust specimen but, going by data on Trill sleep requirements, I believe she will be irrevocably damaged in three days. Death will follow within 72 hours."

"Mister Williams would prefer if we found some way to suppress ESP without inflicting fatal sleep deprivation or brain suppression," Carmichael noted. "Only then could it be marketable beyond certain sections."

"Capturing the two Silver Moon agents we've identified will provide us a more solid baseline for the effects of our recent cocktails, especially in dealing with those who possess trained and fully-utilized capabilities instead of the baseline utilization we see in most of our subjects from this world."

"Don't knock our location, Doctor Moon," Carmichael said. "Hanson's location and status makes it perfect for our operation. We'd never make this work somewhere else."

"Oh, I know. But we can only do so much here, we need access to better populations of ESPers to continue our studies."

"Some acquisitions on the sentient-trafficking market have been attempted, but we have competitors there and are not in the best place to process such." Carmichael turned away from the monitor showing the inactive Ezria and toward Moon. "Let me go prep our extraction team. I figure by this time tomorrow you'll have your two new specimens to test the drugs on."

"Most excellent," Moon said, his tone quite agreeable with what he'd been told.



Unaware to the danger, Yuna and Ashe had returned to their hotel room to consider their options and to wash off the sweat from the day's traveling and the local heat. After sharing the shower stall for an hour - and providing a pleasurable distraction during their attempts to get clean - they retired to their beds, weapons at the ready should they be necessary.

Neither was aware of the figure on the next roof over, dressed in black, ocular implants zoomed in. A nano-dart rifle in her hands pointed toward Yuna's visible shoulder and fired; silently thrown across the distance, the nanodart burrowed into Yuna's body. Moments later, another dart impacted at the back of Ashe's visible hand where it was moving along Yuna's upper arm, acting similarly. Satisfied, the dark-clad figure returned to the shadows.

When the two Sentinels awoke again, it was with a start. Their door flew open with an impact, no warning coming to their senses. Yuna pulled one of her TB-12s out from under the pillow and fired toward the door. The energy blast smacked into the chest of a single figure, throwing him backward with a burned hole in his still torso. Her other free hand reached for her second TB-12 while Ashe spun out of the bed, her hands outstretched and prompting her beamsabers to fly into her hands.

Before she could activate them, small bomblets tossed around them by the dead attacker went off. A thick smoke, laced with chemicals, filled their lungs before they could think to hold their breath. Now in their bodies, the chemicals quickly made their way toward the two girls' brains, even as Yuna kept firing her guns toward the door and Ashe held her weapons at the ready, creating purple lights within the haze of the chemicals. Neither could feel an attacker; there were no minds around them. But their attackers were clearly Human, not robotic...

"Ashe... get out!" Yuna could feel her brain grow groggy under a chemical haze. The gas was a sedative gas of some sort, dulling all her senses. She could barely see straight while trying to get off a couple more shots. Her warning was barely heard by her partner, who was looking around for whomever was attacking.

Through the haze, two more energy blasts lashed out. Stun weapons impacted them, seizing their bodies painfully and knocking both unconscious where they stood. Figures entered the room, glowering within their protective helmets at the unconscious forms they looked down upon. "They got Brandon," one grumbled. "Carmichael and Moon should've warned us they were this good."

"It was a lucky shot," the other said. "Doesn't matter, we got 'em. Once Moon's through with them, well, they'll never be killing a Normal again."

Without further words, they bound their prisoners, attached their Blitzschlag Field Generators to the prisoners' heads via a neck brace, and walked out, leaving their dead comrade for a cleanup team to deal with.

[Steve]

Pendleton, The Outback


As the fleet made orbit and swept away the jury-rigged defense ships the Pendletonian militias were employing, one of the Anglian destroyers made positive identification of a ship IFF code placed on the wanted list; a GT-1250 suspected as the escape method of Katherine de la Poer from Pendleton. A challenge was sent out, and surviving gunboats from one of the Anglian star cruisers vectored in to intercept it.

The challenges went unanswered and authorization was given to open fire on drives and force the ship to land. The gunboat crewmen proved themselves expert marskmen; it took only five bursts of fire to hit the main sublight drive. The transport, however, did not land as expected, but the pilot instead tried a wreckless and ultimately fatal maneuver with their thrusters that resulted in the ship plowing into a mountainside. The gunboat pilots marked the location; as soon as possible a team would land to inspect the wreckage.


Several thousand miles away, Kara looked at the destruction of her ship with satisfaction. It sucked losing her personal cruiser, but there was no way the ship would make it back through the Gap with its engine damage. Better to destroy it, use the blasted remains of Delilah inside the cockpit to make the Anglians think, or at least consider likely, that the person behind the attack on their Naval Station was dead, and find other means off-world. She looked around at the room she had slipped into, an abandoned house from a upper middle class family that had fled into the countryside in fear that the Anglians would execute them for owning a pair of household slaves.

From the personal computer she had, Nikki issued a complaint. "It's so confined in here. Do you realize I take up 90% of the storage space in this blasted computer? I miss the core on the ship already."

"Blame the Pendletonians and their backwards computer tech," Kara replied. "I'll try to find you something better as soon as possible."

"So, what's your plan?"

"Well, thanks to Delilah's love taps, I have some nasty bruises and a few welts that can pass as injuries inflicted during slavery. I'll claim to have been some poor sap sold into slavery through fraud, if anyone asks. But I'd rather go unseen, really, harder for the Order to find me."

"And what about them? You can't run forever."

"No, I can't," Kara agreed. "Eventually I figure I might end up being caught and tortured to death back at the Tower, though hopefully it'll take them a while to confirm I didn't die here. Can't help that, for now I just want to relax." Kara slipped into the family recliner and dozed off, even as around her the people of Pendleton huddled in their homes or bunkers, awaiting the doom of their society.

[Steve]

Galicia House, Westminster
New Anglia, Star Kingdom of New Anglia
1 February 3400


Galicia House was located in the upscale sections of Westminster, one of many where members of the House of Lords dwelt. Some of the homes were rented out to those who were elected to terms by their planetary Parliaments, either to single individuals or to multiple ones, while others were permanently owned by those peers who held perpetual seats. Galicia House was one, built by Juan Lopez Roya in 2785 to be his home, and the home of his successors, whenever he was on planet to attend the National Parliament as Duke of Galicia (being one of the five pemernant Andalusian peers in the House of Lords in Westminster). Over six hundred years later it was mostly unchanged, save for newer and more advanced luxuries within it and, of course, the particular furnishings desired by the current occupant.

In one of the bedrooms, facing the fairly spacious backyard of the grounds, a figure was faintly visible through the windows if you were looking at them from outside. If the curtains were open one would see the nude backside of the house's main occupant, Duchess Danielle Verdes-Roya, but they were kept closed for entirely that reason. Inside the room, an upper floor guest bedroom, Danielle was standing in front of the window watching her partner, equally-undressed, as Amber looked around at some of Danielle's old pictures.

"You know, if Theodore Gruning knew you were using a set of his finest curtains for this, I imagine he'd be displeased," Amber remarked as her eyes wandered over the pictures.

"I've met Herr Gruning. I think he'd only be displeased if he didn't get to participate,' Dani retorted playfully. The soft golden silk tassels hanging from the curtains' top, being so long, had been put to exotic use as restraints tied around Dani's wrists, holding her in place. "So what are you looking at?"

"Silence, prisoner, your interrogation will commence soon enough," Amber cooed, equally playful and in full "role-playing" fashion. She motioned to a tray holding various implements, "toys" Amber had borrowed from her sister who, all things told, tended to do this kind of thing far more often than Amber or Dani. But it was now Saturday evening, after a long and tumultous week in Parliament following the Battle of Pendleton, and both sought to indulge in some fun fantasy to unwind from the aggravation of Parliamentary duty. "So..." She picked up a photo and brought it up to Danielle. Dani sighed; it was a photo, one of the few, she kept from her youth, and her short-lived love affair with a Sister of the Silver Moon. Not just any sister, since she had been Thanagarian. "Who is the sexy redhead Thanagarian in these teenage photos? You've never talked about her before."

"Old flame," Dani answered plainly. "I've moved on from her."

"Hrm, not good enough." Amber began to look through the toys on the tray. "Hrm, riding crop, silk cat, I may have to use everything on here to make you talk."

A playful smirk appeared on Dani's face. "I thought you wanted to give me incentive to tell you?"

"And I thought you were supposed to play the frightened captive?", Amber answered.

"No, not tonight. I'm the sassy, sexy, supremely defiant captive who you're going to break."

"Ah. Well, an old joke comes to mind. You know, the one about the sadist and masochist?"

Dani rolled her eyes. "The masochist says 'Hurt me'. The sadist replies with 'no'."

"Exactly." Amber gave a sultry giggle as she took a seat. "Maybe I'll just leave you there all night, tied to your set of £5,000 curtains, not doing a single thing to you. Just... taunting you with all these fun toys."

"Problem is, I'm not a masochist," Dani pointed out. "When it comes to this stuff I'm a switch."

"So you always say, but it does seem that every time we decide to do bondage role-play I have to be the cruel interrogator and you the helpless victim," Amber answered sarcastically. "Though honestly, half this stuff looks really nasty. I swear to God, Sarina scares the crap out of me sometimes with what she and Helena like to do. You know I caught them last week with some Trill girl from the university?"

"Sarina's reputation is pretty well known in our circles." Dani playfully pulled against the tassels her wrists were tied with. "So, you evil bitch, I'll never talk, no matter how much you torture me!"

"They all talk sooner or later." Back in "form", the night's game began with enthusiasm.

Well, until Danielle, in her struggling, pulled so hard against her restraints that she tore the curtains off the wall, anyway. At which time Dani, having fallen on top of Amber and with her extremely expensive curtains draped over the both of them, sighed and stated, "Well, okay, Herr Gruning would be displeased with this..."

"Very likely." Amber smiled as they writhed around under the curtains. "But I'm not one to waste a good opportunity," she added before kissing Dani strongly.

Dani ended the kiss long enough to ask, "So, can you untie me?"

"That would ruin the fun," was the reply, before Amber pressed her lips to Dani again. They rolled about in the soft fabric of the curtains as their kissing moved on to other things.

Once in bed for the night, Amber curled up closer to Dani. "Mmm... that was fun... But what are we going to do about that curtain?"

"Get it cleaned and put back up," was the reply, punctuated by a short yawn.

"I am serious, though," Amber said. "Who was the Thanagarian girl? You two looked fairly happy in the photo."

"As I said, an old flame," Dani answered, sighing. "She was wandering around - flying around actually - and ended up at this spot on my father's estate where I liked to go sunbathe and sit around. We hit it off fairly well and kept meeting there."

"Ooh, sounds romantic."

"It was." Dani allowed herself a faint smile at the memories she had. "But it ended. She had obligations, I had obligations. We split and never got back together."

"That's sad. But I guess her loss was my gain." Amber planted a kiss on Dani's cheek. They said no more, instead falling asleep.



Tasker Cloister, New Caroline Islands
New Anglia, Star Kingdom of New Anglia


In her room within the cloister's dormitory, Shayera turned about in her bed. She was dressed in a simple sleeping gown, a strap garment that bared her back and gave her wings full extension. She slept on her belly usually, but for now she was too awake to do so, so she laid on her back, her wings spread to each side and brushing up against her nightstand and cabinets on either side of the bed. Her arms were crossed over her stomach as her mind wandered.

How long would she wait? Cassandra was right. It'd been 20 years; she should have moved on years ago. But there was something that kept her from doing that. Whether it was the memory of Danielle's happy giggling and fun personality or missing the sensation of love-making under that waterfall light years away on Andalusia, Shayera had never brought herself to let go. The Bond she felt was still there, even if unreturned - such things were hard for someone to drop.

She wanted to got sleep. There was more training to do tomorrow; Zaharia showed great promise, but would require a lot of work in far more areas than Rana had needed. Whatever she felt in her heart, mind, and body, obligation came first. It had always come first.

Why are you so bound up over this? she thought to herself. Why am I obsessed over a love affair that ended so long ago? There are others. Cassandra has literally thrown herself at me....

She'd been friends with the hand-to-hand expert for most of her life since joining the Order. And they had at times gotten together, almost entirely for casual purposes. She should be with her even now; Cassandra wanted it, she needed it, there was nothing wrong with it...

Would Danielle take me back?, a voice asked in her head. After all these years? Could we even have something anymore?

On into the night, she thought these questions, until finally sleep came.



Several chambers over, Hilda Atlan lay in a state of half-sleep, awake enough only to consciously run her hand through Zara's soft hair and feel Zara's breath on her shoulder, where Zara's head lay. Through the dim moonlight out the window a barely-perceptible glisten of sweat remained on them, the night's passionate love-making having given way to a gentle and peaceful sleep. Zara mumbled softly in her sleep, her words gibberish to Hilda's sleep-dulled senses, and cuddled closer to Hilda, moving an arm up. Hilda became slightly aware as, by coincidence or some unconscious desire, Zara's arm moved in such a way that her hand rested comfortably on Hilda's breast, a touch that was both sensual and rather cute, when one came to think of it, especially when the grip was followed by another unintelligible mumble from Zara, this one sounding particularly contented and happy.
Having briefly opened her eyes to see if Zara was still sleeping, Hilda closed them again, looking to sleep herself. Unfortunately, a dull tone came to interrupt her, the tone of her personal cellular phone. Mumbling with irritation she opened her eyes and reached over to take it with her left hand just to find it was just out of reach. She concentrated slightly, enough to grip it with her mind and pull it over, bringing it up to her ear and pressing the receive key on the side. "Yes?", she said groggily.

"Hilda?" The male voice on the other end, its venerable age evident in its tone, was obvious. And immediately recognized, despite Hilda's sleep-clouded brain.

"Father?", she answered.

On the other end, King Charles IV of Fynn spoke once more. "Hilda, I need to talk to you."

"It's past midnight here at Tasker Cloister," Hilda complained. "It can't wait until I get up?"

"I wish it could, but every hour counts in such things. I know you promised to return home as soon as your finished training your apprentice, but I may need you to come earlier. At least as a visit."

"Father, I... I cannot just jump on a liner and come, I have to speak with Master Jennifer...."

"I have already called her to make the request. I am sure she will accept. And you can bring Layla with you, I am most curious to see how your apprentice is doing."

"And Zara?"

"Zara? Oh, your... friend." Her father seemed to hesitate on the line. "Honestly, Hilda, given what we are to speak of, I think it best if she not be brought along."

"Father, Zara is my beloved, she is part of me now. I am not whole when I am away from her," Hilda answered quietly. "If I come, I'm bringing her."

"Very well," her father sighed, in defeat. "I'll speak to you again later, you should get rest. Good night, Hilda, and sleep knowing I love you, my little one."

"I love you too, Father." Hilda turned the unit off. Her attempt to toss it to the nightstand missed, causing it to clatter to the floor. She ignored this and, yawning deeply, went back to stroking Zara's hair as she fell asleep.



Royal Palace, Altair
Fynn, Kingdom of Fynn, Sector X-13


It was also late in the capital of the Kingdom of Fynn, the largest and most powerful of the "statelets" of Sector X-13 - so-called because aside from a dwarf planet, a small moon, and a series of asteroid habitations, Fynn controlled no extra-solar colonies or planets. Charles IV, a stocky man with graying brown hair and beard, sighed as he set his phone down and looked to the tan-complexioned, brown-haired man to his right. "Well, Minister, she will come."

"Thank you, Your Majesty. We have not a moment to lose on this opportunity," Julio Kasan stated. He was the Chancellor of the National Assembly and thus considered First Minister of the Fynnian Government. From the planet's liberal parties coalition, Charles had an appreciation for the politician, even if he still kept some cynicism about Kasan's initiatives and demeanor. "If the wrong people get a hint at this, it could cause quite a crisis..."

"Yes, many of the states in this sector will likely not look well upon it," Charles remarked. "She's bringing her lover with her, though."

That made Kasan shake his head. "I would not think her presence wise, Your Majesty. Not given the subject matter."

"I know. But Hilda loves Zara so... and Zara is the sweetest person I have met. To know of what was done to her in the Outback fills my heart with sadness and anger." Charles drew in a sigh. "We must do as we must, Chancellor."

"Yes. I suppose the awkwardness will have to be dealt with when the time comes," Kasan agreed.

"I'm thinking of telling her, Chancellor," Charles continued. "About the other matter."

Kasan gazed upon his ruler darkly. "Your Majesty, you mustn't. We don't even know for sure if the report is accurate. If it leaks it could cause a great upheavel, even war."

"Hilda should know..."

"Yes. If the investigation bears fruit, we will tell her immediately," Kasan promised. "Anyway, Your Majesty, I must go. You should go to sleep, we have work to do tomorrow to prepare. With our fastest courier readied Hilda will be here within 36 hours of leaving New Anglia."

Watching the leader of his government leave, Charles IV breathed a sigh and wondered just where the future would take his little kingdom.

[KlavoHunter]

Kilij
Pendleton System

"Exiting hyperspace in three, two, one..." Well away from the crisp formation of Anglian Star Cruisers and her escorts, the Kilij was the odd man out of the Coalition fleet moving in on the woefully outgunned Pendleton. 56 warships cruised insystem, sensors pinging away to search for their quarry, announcing their presence loudly.

"Contacts out by the gas giant, looks like the Pendleton fleet, and...-" an officer down at the sensor station started to report, as the holodisplay that filled the air on the bridge displayed their returns.

"Sweet mother of mercy." The slight stink of burning plant matter wafted out from where the faceplate of the mercenary woman's power armor had retracted a moment ago, summing up the shock of all those who stared at the ominous huge form of the Collector Monolith that was leading the charge against them. They had seen such a vessel once before in the Outback, in a hair-raising encounter where it had merely examined the Kilij in passing as if it were an interestingly-colored, harmless animal. There was an obvious difference to the outputs it was making now - targeting sensors, surely.

"Bring us in alongside the Hiigaran formation. Guns, lock on to that Monolith with everything, and let 'em have it with the fleet's opening volley, maybe it can be overwhelmed." Even Captain Yakup Meni didn't entirely seem to believe himself with that last order. Still, all the destructive fury marshalled in the obsolete, refit heavy cruiser stood at the ready. The final seconds ticked down at the formations closed, watching the rapid retreat of the Shepistanis from the vanguard to the rear, the individual formations of the various fleets spreading out to cover one another's flanks and present their biggest guns to the enemy. Green fury began to erupt from the countless places along the Monolith's hull. "FIRE!"

All 8 gunports along the blunt-nosed bow of the Kilij discharged shafts of blue beam cannon fire, reaching out at the speed of light, whilst a volley of missiles belched forth from along her flanks, ship-killing antimatter warheads primed. All their fury spent itself against the Monolith's shields, that of the massive volley of ordnance that was not shot down by point-defense.

"No measurable effect!" the sensor officer reported. Yakup cursed under his breath, and then did so louder when the ship's display focused in on highlighted contacts, their coloration screaming for attention.

"Incoming missiles detected." the computer voice droned, the contacts resolving into sleek warheads, tenatively identified as Pendleton antiship missiles, rather than the more exotic Collector ordnance that was savaging whatever it struck.

"Fire countermissiles!" Kilij disgorged another volley of missiles, these being far smaller, cheaper fusion warheads. Their boosters flaring, they sprinted out to meet their enemy counterparts, both clouds of missiles meeting in silent, blooming explosions safely far away from the Klavostani cruiser. Beneath the deckplates under his feet, Yakup could feel it as the capacitors for his ship's main guns surged with energy.

"Let's try shooting at something we know we can kill. Guns! Portside Pendleton Destroyer, FIRE!" Again, the Klavostani cruiser's main guns lashed out, but this time the phalanx of beams struck a barrier that resisted them only barely. Signaling for help, the Pendleton ship fell back behind her allies, after retaliating with her own guns. The relatively light energy weapons fire elicited only the slightest shaking out of Kilij, but the true threat was in the blossoming number of contacts boosting straight after her - as a single ship, rather than a whole formation, she did not warrant the attention of the Collectors, nor were the other advancing Pendleton warships willing to take their guns off their other targets, but they were more than happy to launch missiles.

"Countermissiles!" Yakup snapped, "And maneuver us back behind the Hiigarans! Comms, inform the Hiigarans we need point-defense!" Volleying more missiles towards the closest incoming vampires, Kilij's vectored thrusters helped heel the ship over into position for the main drives to burn to push her behind the beleaguered Hiigaran formation, smaller beam cannons blazing from along her flanks and spine, slashing out at the incoming aniship missiles, making a few wink out of existence across the tactical display.

Slowly, more and more of those missiles were shattered as the Hiigaran ships reached out with what few point-defense weapons of theirs were unengaged at the moment, swatting out at their comrade's would-be killers. They didn't get all of them, but they got enough that Kilij's next salvo of countermissiles thinned the herd, and energy weapons sizzled some of the last few out of existence. Still, two fusion warheads detonated against her shields, but it was not more than the stout cruiser could handle. She was getting off light compared to many, in the distance, the Anglian Sentinal was burning, and other ships were already nothing more than shattered hulks. If the Collectors keep this up...

But they didn't. As suddenly and mysteriously as they had come to defend Pendleton, they now abruptly stopped their assault, accelerating sharply away from the Coalition fleet. Betrayed on the field of battle, Pendleton's fleet was now exposed and hideously vulnerable, and the comrades of those whose escape pods they'd burned were quick to take their vengeance. Caught in a crossfire of energy weapons and missiles that their Collector allies were no longer intercepting, shields collapsed, armor flash-vaporized under incredible energies, hulls became hulks, and hulks became splintered wreckage from the sheer overkill. The last Pendleton corvette captains and fighter aces managed to string things along for a few minutes more, and then, the Twelfth Battle of Pendleton was over at last.

[Lord_Of_Change 9]

Friedrich II Dockyards, Neu Preußen System

The dockyards of Neu Preußen were always constantly working, but now they were working on something new. It was, as ever, the age-old debate between the advocates of the Dreadnought and the Carrier, one that had gone over for many years in the Prussian Star League. Eventually, a compromise had been reached, as the old class of Kaiser Battleships was ageing (approximately 30 years old as of 2400), mostly due to their creators' obsession with using railguns.

The new ships, due to be ready in 2405, were capable of carrying fighters and gunboats (most notably the recently developed, still under construction, Adler gunships), and sported new weapons on their turrets, recently-developed fusion rays and kinetic-force cannons, as well as the old staple of railguns and missiles. Due to these increased capacities, they were far larger than the Kaisers, and thus cost approximately 600 Marks per ship, with the first three vessels of the new Hohenzollern-class under construction. The old Kaisers would still be used of course, but the Hohenzollerns would take their place as the flagships.

It was, in many ways, old giving way to new, thought Grand Admiral Fritz Von Langstein, as he looked upon the great battleships steadily taking shape. It was beautiful, in a way, the formation of such magnificent machines of war. Idly, he wondered when they would first be blooded in combat. He hoped that it would be a long time before that happened.

[Shroom Man 777]

Written ages ago by a mutual friend of Siege and I.

Cesar Jorge Motonow
by Simon Johansen


Most people in the 35th century immediately think of Cesar Jorge Motonow when they hear the words "eccentric and controversial avant-garde filmmaker". This man is best known for a psychedelic remake of Star Wars which has little in common with George Lucas' original movies except for the names of the characters, as well as once having cut off part of his ear as a homage to Vincent van Gogh. There was much more to Cesar Jorge Motonow than that, however - he was also an important influence the Neo-Alternarealist artistic movement (if not directly part of it), an accomplished musical composer and painter, and helped Raven Tiffany Sinclair re-establish her life as a writer and poet in the 3280s.

[Biography]

Cesar Jorge Motonow was born in 3218 on the Sovereignty world of Emilia to Radomil-Stanislaw Motonow and Alejandra Motonowa (virgin name: Hernandez). His high school records were revealed in his 3304 autobiography to be perfectly average; in fact, he openly reveals that back in those days most people would have laughed at the idea that he should one day become a galaxy-famous moviemaker. During all his childhood and a sizeable portion of his teenage years, Cesar Jorge Motonow envisioned himself as growing up to be a historian. However, he made a decision in 3234 which would set his true future path of life. He describes this change of mind in aforementioned autobiography:

When I was sixteen years old, a revelation occured to me. History is shaped by the thoughts and instincts of people, and what expresses thoughts and instincts in a better way than art and literature? Those who can see hidden meanings between the threads of paints wowen upon the canvas by a painter, or between the networks of tones which music is, sees one possible future. The universe does not create pre-programmed pseudo-linear systems exclusively as it is not once itself; there are countless billions of possible futures. In each piece of art, irrespective of the selection of senses it speaks to, there is a vision of one possible future; or at least a future as perceived by a madman. After all, our ideas also determine what our senses see - for example, supernatural phenomena are only seen by those who believe in them. Point is, one day in the fateful year of 3234, I decided that from now on, I would concern myself with the myriad possible futures and alternate realities seen and created by artists."

Together with a growing clique of likeminded friends, the young Cesar Jorge Motonow formed a society called The Divine Mirror for what he termed "the exploration of alternate realities through the gateway of the mind". Cesar Jorge Motonow donated most of his income (from whatever part-time job he had at the time) to the Divine Mirror as it grew. 3 months after the inception of the Divine Mirror, complete with a manifesto, Cesar Jorge Motonow was publishing a free magazine called "Visions" along with a webzine version called "Electric Visions" in order to spread knowledge about the diverse array of art produced by Divine Mirror, and also to reach out to other artists. Not just artists on the planet of Emilia or in the USS, but in other parts of the galaxy as well. Contrary to some people's pessimistic expectations, the intentionally unclassifiable and oddly compelling art of young visionaries like Romain Passeron, Jaleh Lashgari and Motonow himself soon gathered the attention of art critics from the entire solar system which contained Emilia; even though they had not yet caught even sectionwide attention.

By the summer of 3236, The Divine Mirror had extended to include an underground publishing house ran from the basement of Romain Passeron, the most prolific contributor to "Visions". There was a general consensus in the group that the work of The Divine Mirror should extend from sculpture and painting to film and music, and that there was a need for distribution of the group's "fruit" in other forms than HoloNet downloads. Not surprisingly, it was through The Divine Mirror that Cesar Jorge Motonow directed his first movie in the very same year. Filmed mostly with handheld camera in black-and-white, Twin Fullmoon was supposed to shake the very mental fabric from which intelligent beings create their respective worldviews while being made on a shoestring. Motonow himself, however, was somewhat unsatisfied with the result and waited for several years to direct full-length films. Instead, he stuck with various series of less ambitious, if more effective and focused short movies.

In 3237, after his graduation from high school, Motonow and the rest of The Divine Mirror moved together to live as a collective in an abandoned country estate which Motonow's then-girlfriend had managed to locate. With very little connection to the outside world by other means than the holo-net and the occassional visit to nearby towns to buy various other supplies, the Divine Mirror artist collective now lived mostly off the fruit and vegetables grown in the adjoining garden of the now-renovated estate. In the meantime, art critics from all over the galaxy had over the holo-net gained access to these bizarre and unique paintings, drawings, musical compositions, sculptures and movies produced by a group of 16-19 year olds from the rather unremarkable United Solarian Sovereignty planet of Emilia. Scanned photographies of the paintings and drawings, 3d models of the sculptures and downloads of the movies and music turned up for download on the holo-net. Due to the secrecy of the countryside collective in which they lived, all which was known about The Divine Mirror aside from their art were their names and whatever Romain Passeron published in "Electric Visions". Rumours about the group abounded; rumours which were often heard but seldom believed.

It was also in the year 3237 that Cesar Jorge Motonow filmed a series of odd short films which he called The Vortex Octology, which constitute his most critically acclaimed cinematic achievement. From that point and onwards, The Divine Mirror's life and creations became progressively more strange with each piece of otherwordly art they produced. At a point, Motonow himself even cut off a piece of his left ear as a homage to Vincent van Gogh; his mangled left ear would later on make him instantly recognizeable. Though use of hallucinogenic drugs such as LSD and magic mushrooms had been commonplace, a great deal of The Divine Mirror started using PsychBoost, a lab-created variant of synthesized Psionite which temporarily bestows psychic powers upon individuals born without them (PsychBoost is rarely used for that purpose, since it also is one of the strongest hallucinogens known to science).

By 3239, both Passeron, Motonow and his girlfriend Louise Culliford were sick and tired of what The Divine Mirror had become. From Motonow's autobiography:

What used to be a thriving community of visionaries whom each conjured unique and dream-like imagery, had falled prey to their own lack of discipline. In their quest to expand their imaginations with divine nectars, they foolhardily atrophied their inner vision with PsychBoost. As capricious as LSD can be, the dreaded PsychBoost makes the old trusy acid look like cane sugar in comparison. It was not just me and my beloved Louise who saw this fact, for the sheer obviousness of that particular reality glared like a flame. Romain Passeron was the first to agree with us - and one after one, every member of the Divine Mirror Group who still possessed artistic integrity followed suit.

In 3240, The Divine Mirror group had been disbanded and most of the former members had departed from each other. Some went into rehabilitation and gave up the world of weird art entirely. Motonow, however, soldiered on dauntlessly in spite of financial troubles and Louise Culliford's departure from him.

At the time Motonow returned to the public after years of isolation in the Divine Mirror Collective, art gallery owners from all across the galaxy were willing to pay enormous sums for one of the hundreds of strange paintings he had produced in his teenage years. Though Motonow himself at first shuddered at the idea of giving away art for money, as he believed even the slightest commercial element to be capable of ruining potentially great art, but he complied after considering that he almost was bankrupt at the time due a lack of education.

Finding himself worshipped as a god by art critics (for starting The Divine Mirror) and film critics (for the Vortex Octology), Cesar Jorge Motonow announced in 3241 that he would begin accumulating money for an enormous cinematic project, which he would not reveal until a month before it opened. And when he said that, he already had access to more money than any other artist had in history. Some people started expecting a big-budget version of Twin Fullmoon, which had become a classic despite Motonow's dislike of it. Motonow started perusing art journals, exhibitions and even comic books to find artists who had been inspired by the Divine Mirror. He contacted other underground filmmakers which cited his Vortex Octology as a major influence. An army of rumours took flight and it was soon obvious to the public that Motonow was working on the most expensive movie ever, together with an army of likeminded filmmakers who rarely made big-budget movies.

It was testament to the enormity of this project that it did not only involve humans, Apexais and Zigonians; but even Bragulans were significant players in the production. Tens of millions were employed, all under a vow of silence.

In 3247, after six years of hard work by a horde of production crew which moved from system to system to shoot film, Motonow announced that the film was complete. The Mendelsohn Film Corporation took on the arduous task of distributing it all.

The 6th October 3247, the mammoth production had finally arrived in the theaters: Cesar Jorge Motonow's Star Wars, with Motonow himself portraying Obi-Wan Kenobi.

This was not the first time someone had remade the Star Wars movies, but whereas the previous remakes followed the source material very closely, it was for a reason that the opening credits Motonow's Star Wars made it clear that it was "an alternative interpretation of the myth first channeled by George Lucas in 1977 A.D."

Fans of George Lucas' original Star Wars movies from the 20th century were outraged. The plot of Motonow's Star Wars only resembled Lucas' in rough details, the visual style was more like Motonow's own paintings than anything else, the familiar John Williams score was replaced by surrealistic death metal composed and performed by Motonow himself and the only things which were exactly he same as in the source material were the names of the characters.

Motonow himself was quick to offer an explanation:

"Star Wars" is a myth of the modern days. George Lucas did not create that myth, he merely was the one who communicated the myth to the general public. Storytellers don't make myths, they tell the myths. Each of us has our own interpretation of a myth. What your ancestors saw on the screen back in 1977 was George Lucas' interpretation of a particular myth. This is my interpretation of the same myth. One should neither forget that George Lucas was a product of a nation and culture which no longer exists. Thusly, George Lucas' Star Wars was a 20th century rendition of a myth that belongs to no place or time.

Motonow's Star Wars was certainly neither the child-friendly Star Wars of Lucas. Motonow's Star Wars depicted self-mutilation as an essential part of the Jedi Experience, and had a certain amount of perverse sexual content. Even more gruesome was the flashback scene wherein the origin of Darth Vader was told. In Motonow's version, Darth Vader committed ritual suicide by decapitation only to let his dismembered soul possess a robotic body he had constructed for the purpose.

Another point of critique from the "Warsies" was the starship designs - whereas most of the starships in Lucas' Star Wars looked uniformly mechanical and utilitarian (with the exception of the Mon Calamari warships and Naboo ships), Motonow went for the complete opposite direction and depicted all of the Rebel and pre-Imperial starships as something which resembled mechanical insects or robotic fish more than actual spaceships; where his depiction of the Imperial warships were heavily inspired by 20th century painter H.R. Giger. Again, Motonow had a reason to do so:

Ever since the Industrial Revolution, human culture has been dominated by one central theme: The conflict between nature and culture. Take a look at a spaceship. The spaceship is the ultimate achievement of culture. The spaceships sailing the sea of stars today are in shape and spirit a far, solemn cry from anything in nature - save for those of the Apexai of the Zedath-Kaleshi Nomads. But Nature and culture do not have to be polar opposites. The universe is not a binary system. It takes drastic steps to unite Nature and Culture as I wish it to be. I also happen to be a pantheist, which means that I do not believe that God created the universe; I rather believe that the universe is divine enough in its own right!

When making this movie, I wanted to subtly yet clearly expect my ideology - and what better than to depict mechanical spaceships of gleaming steel (culture), which nonetheless resemble strange plants and animals (nature) while sailing the astral seas (the divine)? Feel free to criticize my Star Destroyers for not resembling the giant refrigerators which in real life flaunt the arrogance of Man towards the great divine Universe which created him! I am one of the few to even hope of achieving a state of being One with the Cosmos, and all I create reflect that.

My Imperial Star Destroyers are not sterile machines but great warrior-dragons with steel for skin and electricity for blood, whose cyborg souls each will one day find peace in great nebular graveyards littered with the corporeal remnants of other great war-beast of the past who one rode triumphantly across the sidereal battlefields with emerald-gleaming hatred in their myriad eyes! And the fighters that they disgorge forth like hordes of bees from a hive... no mere sterile machines either, but star-chariots from where great heroes launch arrows charged with the energy of the universe, and meet their fate; that is an untimely demise in the light of dying suns!

In the face of adversity, Motonow did not hesitate to follow it up with his personal takes on The Empire Strikes Back and Return Of The Jedi, which were shot back-to-back with his re-interpretation of A New Hope. They became progressively weirder and more detached from Lucas' edition with each movie. Not only did Motonow's version of Return Of The Jedi depict a completely redundant scene of Emperor Palpatine (portrayed by Motonow's old friend Romain Passeron) defecating and urinating on-screen, but it also depicted Jabba the Hutt as a rail-thin creature equal part reptile and insect (the total antithesis of the gluttonous Jabba depicted by Lucas), the Ewoks as winged, bird-like creatures which lived in the crowns of mile-high trees and Coruscant as a giant "Dyson Sphere". The ending of Motonow's Return Of The Jedi, which the author of this biography will not spoil, is considered by many to be the strangest 20 minutes ever filmed.

Motonow didn't stop at remaking the first Star Wars trilogy in the image of his own strange visions. In 3255, he unleashed upon the moviegoers of the galaxy nothing less than Cesar Jorge Motonow's Star Wars: The Beginning - A Trilogy In Three Parts. In this prequel trilogy, Motonow completely disregarded the much-maligned "actual" Prequel Trilogy which George Lucas made in the early 21th century. Perhaps due to the overall negative attitude towards Lucas' Prequel Trilogy, all three parts of Motonow's Star Wars: The Beginning were much more well-received than his rendition of the "Original Trilogy" despite being even more surreal and "adult". In Motonow's Prequel Trilogy, Luke and Leia were seemingly a product of an incestuous union between brother and sister, though Motonow's version of Anakin was in fact just the adopted brother of Ms. Skywalker; his actual origins being much more outlandish... (for spoilers, read the Encyclopedia Galactica article on C.J. Motonow's Star Wars)

Cesar Jorge Motonow's Star Wars: The Beginning also introduced Cesar Jorge Motonow to Raven Tiffany Sinclair, as she portrayed Luke Skywalker's mother Honoria Skywalker. (in the Lucas version, she was called Padmé Amidala) However, it wouldn't be before thirty years later that he would marry her and utterly transform her life. Despite being perhaps the most visually impressive movies ever filmed, Motonow's Star Wars movies barely earned in more cash than they cost; though that most likely were because of the movies' enormous budgets than anything else. The critics were certainly lukewarm at best towards Motonow's re-interpretation of Star Wars upon their initial release. However, by the day that Cesar Jorge Motonow's Star Wars: The Beginning- Chapter 3: The Alteration Of The Fabric Of The Multiverse stopped showing at the theatres after a couple of months, Motonow's Star Wars was already rapidly in the process of becoming the cult classic movies of the 33rd century.

By the year 3257, however, Cesar Jorge Motonow himself was so exhausted from remaking Star Wars that he moved into a lonely forest cabin on the USS "garden world" of Cathubodva with his newest girlfriend, the neo-alternarealist sculptor Reena Li. The paintings which Motonow produced during his rest on Cathubodva, which are currently in the possession of his descendants, were very different from his usual work. Unlike the nightmare motives he loved to depict, in the 3260s Motonow proved to himself and Reena that he could do more than that - with his own words:

Though the supernatural always is very beautiful, I have not fallen into the Surrealist pitfall of regarding reality as inherently inferior. Art reflects the mind of the artist, and as I sought tranquility in the woods, I painted what I found - vast arboreal vistae of endless forest! The unparallelled majesty of the dark woods, that great eternal temple to the glory of itself! It is a shame that the gift of intelligence always is accompanied by an urge to forget the divine nature of the universe that spawned us, and this universe does certainly encompass more than just the ebony-dark sea of stars! I often felt more at home between Cathubodva's gigantic pines and oaks than among towers of steel and concrete. Most important was the guidance with which Reena provided me; I see it no coincidence that her graceful visage was like that of an elf - for her mind was truly able to reach beyond this corporeal plane of existence and grant all around her wisdom from above!

Aside from what would later be called the Woodland Paintings, his artistic products in the 3260s also consisted of the philosophical book Sentience (published in 3267), which was an in-depth exploration of Motonow's personal philosophy. It revealed a man who had evolved into a quite different person than the man who formed The Divine Mirror and wrote its manifesto. Though the quasi-pantheist core of Motonow's ideology was intact, philosophers comparing Sentience to The Manifesto Of The Divine Mirror found Sentience to present a much more complete set of ideals than the former.

Fully independent of Motonow, the publication of this book led to a group of young visionary artists forming the New Divine Mirror Group in 3270. Both Motonow himself and the other remaining members of the original Divine Mirror (Romain Passeron, Lagonda Clarkson III, Aatami Laiho, Ciaran McTighearnán and Dana Fialková) welcomed the idea. Not only Motonow but also Fialková and McTighearnán appreciated the New Divine Mirror's decision to use Sentience as their manifesto. (later on, however, both Clarkson and Passeron developed a pronounced dissatisfaction with the New Divine Mirror; a dissatisfaction which spread its way to Motonow)

Motonow returned to filmmaking in 3271 with Silent And Dark, a two-hour movie which told a story without depicting or mentioning any characters or people. Instead, Silent and Dark was perhaps one of the first movies built entirely on a language of symbolism intended to trigger various mechanisms in the subconscious.

To say that Silent And Dark split the film world would be an understatement. Roughly half of the reviewers praised it as if it was the best thing since the invention of sliced bread, while the other half criticized it as some of the most pretentious and dull material ever filmed.

The following year, Motonow visited the Apexai Settlements of Zedath-Kaleshi Nomads to collaborate with noted Apexai filmmaker Trantys Zeolak Kechaagis on Interdimensional Travel By The Metaphysics Highway, which necessitated some peculiar cybernetic implant in Motonow and Kechaagis since the "film" was literally several LSD trips captured on film. What neither Kechaagis nor Motonow expected was the fact that this particular film would become commonly used by biologists to show highlight the differences between the nervous systems of humans and Apexais.

In 3272, Reena Li left him; an event which neither experienced as a tragedy, instead quite the opposite, as documented by following statement from Motonow:

I did not break up with Reena. There was no hostility between us, and we continued to have a healthy friendship between each other which still consists today. Rather, we both came to the conclusion that we no longer had much significant to learn from each other; another thing must also be understood. The relationship I had with Reena was not of a sexual nature. In retrospect, I think that I committed a grave mistake in describing her as my girlfriend. It would have been more appropiate to call her my muse or guiding angel; if only neither of those terms had been beaten to death with extreme prejudice by their respective stati as clichés. Though there indeed is a connection between art and sex, they are sometimes able to exist independently of each others.

He collaborated shortly with Reena Li in 3273 on yet another strange movie of his. Yet another example of Motonow's ability to tell fabulous tales with movies made on minimal budgets, Union Of Heaven And Hell could not have a more fitting title. Combining more "ordinary" material with a synthesized-by-CGI-version of the filmed LSD hallucinations seen on Interdimensional Travel By The Metaphysics Highway.

Working tirelessly as ever, he produced two more infamous works in 3274; the 40-minute short movie Tapestry Woven With Swords which told an undescribable story entirely by means of footage taken from old news transmissions, and the book Thoughts on the Art of Spaceship-Building: How Artifice Reflects Philosophy. The latter was an analysis of spaceships - both civilian and military - as they were sculptures or paintings rather than vehicles. This book was also written in cooperation with a team of spaceship engineers from all over the galaxy - the most famous of whom were Kyran Naxa Zalkaran (a Zedath-Kaleshi Apexai who would later work on the design of the Zalassar-class heavy cruiser) and Preeti Singh (starfighter designer employed by Eurasian Systems at the time). Due to the following passage in Thoughts on the Art of Spaceship-Building, the CEID went to arrest Motonow:

Though the warships of the Bragulan Empire are dominated by the same blocky, machine-like forms as those of the Sovereignty's Star Force, the Bragulans' style of design seems noticeably less awkward upon further analysis. A further cultural and sociological study reveals that the utilitarian, technocratic and imperialistic style of the Imperial Bragulan vessels goes hand in hand with the monoculture of the Bragulan Star Empire. Darvyl S. Byzon I, Imperator of the Bragulans, writes in his self-biography that "to ensure a strong culture, beauty should be defined as that which most explicitly projects physical force and military power". When looking at any capital ship of the Imperial Bragulan Navy, that is exactly the type of philosophy I see expressed in its warhammer-like shape. Contrast to the ships which represent the USSF; though the United Solarian Sovereignty is among the most culturally diverse of all interstellar confederations, almost every ship above corvette size is nothing but a monument of the USS' betrayal towards the most gifted ones of its own citizens! Not that I sympathize with the Bragulan Empire, but they produce at least some degree of unison between thoughts and otherwise inanimate objects.

The following CEID-Zero investigation, however, failed to prove any sort of honest sympathy for the BSE within Motonow, and he was released after the period of time which the investigation took. This was not the only misunderstandings arising from Thoughts on the Art of Spaceship-Building, which prompted Motonow to write a follow-up book in 3276 which aptly more the name: Yet More Thoughts on the Art of Spaceship-Building.

Aside from featuring some interesting comments on the spacecraft featured in his infamous remakes of Star Wars in addition to elaborating on the theories of how to apply art analysis to spacecraft. On the former topic, it provided a frequently-quoted paragraph:

Some may accuse me of advocating a style-above-substance approach to the design of spaceships. There is plenty of evidence that this is not true, and many of those sources of hope are within service among some of the Sovereignty's closest allies - the Zedath-Kaleshi Apexai. Look at the Kelvaxor-class interdictor, the Sanbugir-class liners or the huge city-ships that constitute the Settlements; clearly not products of short-sighted shallowness! While most of the galaxy's inhabitants get around in clumsy grey boxes possessing all the charm of an old pair of shoes, there is a thriving civilization here whose members live, travel and fight in glittering vehicles- full of wonder in form and function. No, I do not wish that humanity should start reshaping itself in the image of the Apexai, but I hope that when a billion suns will set upon homo sapiens, we shall not only have as glorious a past to look back upon as the Zedath-Kaleshi, but also much more to teach new civilizations that may spring up in the future.

I dream of faraway future when an utterly ancient humanity, living in their own era's autumn yet a thousandfold times more noble than their forebears, draw envy from the rest of the galaxy for the apotheosis though art which will be achieved through a perfect symbiose of the metaphysical and the corporeal. As such, the future mankind of my visions deserve to illuminate their disciples from aboard great shining ships worthy of the gods we will have become by then; each a testament to the glorious legacy of its builders. Sadly, I have though my life-experience witnessed that only very few of us currently lack such a potential for greatness, but amongst those are I, who have always desired to lead the entire universe to glory!

Though it is debatable whether "The Man With One Ear" succeeded in fulfilling such dreams, he certainly inspired many similar ones. The same year as Yet More Thoughts... was published, the by-then nascent artistic movement known as Neo-Alternarealism held their Third Annual Convention. At that particular meeting, they cited as their greatest influence (aside from, of course, the Alternarealist movement of the mid-3250s) none other than Cesar Jorge Motonow himself. Motonow's own response to this was these simple words (simple by Motonow standards, that is!): "I sometimes think that my influence of those to view me as a mentor will be greater than the influence of my own work. I can certainly say than I am a spark which brought visions of an otherworldy nature to all who would ever whisper my name; even the blind. I am one, I am All. When my body has ceased to function and my ashes cast to the solar winds, my legend will live forever in the collective heart of the Universe, for I am a god among men."

In 3278, he was employed for a short while as an art critic by the famous holo-webzine The Look And Sound Of Armageddon. Since said holo-webzine happened to be one of the prime sources for information on the rapidly developing school of Neo-Alternarealism, it was already interesting to hear the opinion of a man without whom much of the best known Neo-Alternarealist art would not have existed. By the New Year of 3279, Motonow's work for The Look And Sound Of Armageddon was compiled in the legendary anthology Only The Insane Are Truly Free: The State Of The Art 3279 A.D.. The title of this anthology came from Motonow's prologue to the compilation - an essay he had decided to publish as a standalone praise of Neo-Alternarealism in Art And Philosophy. However, since he finished by the time he had finished compiling his articles written for The Look And Sound Of Armageddon, he changed his mind and used it as the title and introduction of said compilation. As with many of his previous essays, this sparked much debate in Art And Philosophy.

However, a day in February 3279, in his distant seaside house on the planet Celeste in the edge of the USS, Cesar Jorge Motonow would be inseperably united with a woman he had only collaborated with by little more than coincidence before. Not one life, but two, would be changed forever for what both would consider ultimately empowering. It was the year Cesar Jorge Motonow met none other than Raven Tiffany Sinclair.

By the time that happened, Raven had reached the absolute low point in her life. 44 years old, she was by then a washed-up former sex symbol whom neither the press nor fellow celebrities would leave alone. Though still a capable actress, her reputation had been damaged forever by the "Review Incident" (see biography of Raven Tiffany Sinclair); though not officially blacklisted, she had become a showbusiness pariah by the time. Motonow vividly recalls it:

Besides my tiny 3332 Fiat Septimio, a huge and lavish luxury car suddenly parked. I'm no expert on automobiles, but the words "Oberon Motors" were written on its colossal hood. Its door opened and out steppened a woman approximately 165 centimetres in height. As she stammered into the light, I could pick out her features more closely. She was rather thin, her figure being more like that of a teenage girl than a grown woman. Her face was somewhat triangular with narrow jaws, raised cheekbones, large blue eyes and a forehead which was slightly higher than normal. Her greasy hair shoulder-length was dyed blue, her skin as pale as cream and she was wearing a quite worn dress which was torn open and ripped various places so that it was no longer recognizeable. The dress appeared to have been mutilated intentionally, as if the wearer had done it. I recognized that woman immediately. I had stared into those sky-blue eyes before. It was Raven Tiffany Sinclair. Drenched in the rain which poured down from the night sky, she huddled herself close to me and looked me in the eyes and said, tears flowing from her eyes: \"I... I want to be reborn, for I have killed myself and lived."

I immediately understood that she did not mean that she had literally attempted to commit suicide, but that said suicide was a spiritual, intellectual and social one.

Unexpectedly, Motonow found out that Raven Tiffany Sinclair had built up some sense of admiration for him. As burned up and depressed she was at the time, she saw no way out other than to flee into his arms to reconstruct her own personality from scratch. Motonow himself eagerly welcomed her decision - for neither of the two had much faith in psychiatry nor even advanced neuro-programming therapy. In fact, Motonow downright detested even the former - he once famously described any sort of therapy as "amputation of the soul".

Rather, Motonow saw himself as Raven's guide on some sort of metaphysical quest. It did not last more than a few months before the two fell deeply in love with each other. Raven felt so reliant upon Cesar that it seemed to her a logical extension of their relationship. Cesar hadn't had an actual partner for a long time aside from various affairs with female art journalists and Neo-Alternarealists.

Motonow felt that he learned just as much from her as she learned from him. Before meeting her, he knew very little about the metropolitan glamour of the Sovereignty's upper class which he despised so much without really knowing why. Surprisingly, it wasn't to avoid a degradation into decadence through wealth, Cesar Jorge Motonow never copyrighted any of his work aside from his Star Wars remakes. This was rather a consequence of his belief that artists channel visions rather than creating them. This is not to say that Motonow did not work for a living - he had since 3271 made money off by writing for various magazines; most notably Art And Philosophy where he had a regular column.

By 3281, it appeared as though Raven Tiffany Sinclair had completed her metamorphosis from sexually promiscuous starlet to... something else. She had certainly changed in appearance when she appeared in public the first time for two years - her hair was short and dark brown instead of long and blue, she dressed more plainly and she also appeared to have gained 5-7 kgs. of weight. It was in fact her who got the idea for the movie which she directed together with C.J. Motonow in 3282 - The Cupcakes Of Justice, which told the story of a vigilante who fought crime by use of various desserts he had baked himself. A scene from this film which is universally known and often referenced is one where the vigilante prevents a bank robbery by asking a gunman: "Would you not rather have a delicious apple pie today than 4 million stolen credit tomorrow?"

This interesting satire upon the superhero genre did not stop there - in The Cupcakes of Justice, the vigilante only as "The Baker" also fought mutated plants and extradimensional demon-gods; all by use of cakes. The movie's climax is often nominated by film critics today as among the most hilarious moments in cinematic history.

Somehow, it was followed in 3283 by Fried Fish; the title could not be more accurate, but it's the only movie which Motonow regrets making, as opposed to the mere self-disappointment he felt over Twin Fullmoon. Marketed as his own satire on action movies, Fried Fish was 90 minutes of Motonow frying fish on a barbecue and explaining the symbolic meaning of it all. Raven Tiffany Sinclair-Motonowa (as she was now called) explained the same year that her husband directed the movie under influence of hallucinogens as opposed to using them in the writing process; a fact which he admitted.

However, the year 3283 also saw a positive surprise for Motonow. October 12 that year, he read about a new artistic movement called Degeneratism. Capitalizing on the way that 20th century modern art was dubbed "degenerate" by its detractors, Degeneratism set out to create intentionally degenerate and decadent paintings, sculptures, installations, music, movies and architecture. The remarkable thing was that the founder of Degeneratism, Alexander Passeron, was the son of Motonow's old friend Romain Passeron. In this year and up to 3285, Motonow teamed up with the Degeneratists and wrote a regular feature on this movement in The Look And Sound Of Armageddon while giving said Degeneratism a try. In 3285, Josephine Bernhard's sculpture "Vanity Incarnate In Metallic Flesh" was erected in front of the town hall of Heliopolis, the capital city of the Sovereignty planet Korendor. This strange artifice, which was actually a perfectly ergonomic bench to boot, was partly designed by C.J. Motonow. This year, Raven Tiffany Sinclair-Motonowa also became pregnant with a daughter, who was born later that year, named Tiffaine Sonia Thereza Sinclair-Motonowa. This daughter would, as an adult, often shorten her name to "Tiffaine Sonia Sinclair". (the granddaughter was just named Tiffaine Sinclair-Motonowa)

The rearing of his daughter (as well as his son Augusto Sinclair-Motonow, born in 3287) caused Motonow's own artistic activities to grind to almost a halt for the following 15 years. However, his wife Raven Tiffany Sinclair-Motonowa (soon a mother of two) made her first foray into art with a series of ink paintings of jelly-based desserts intended to emulate the illustrations in a cookbook. Many commented on the odd coincidence of Raven Tiffany Sinclair-Motonowa's fascination with depicting jelly with her recent weight gain, which many considered an improvement upon her appearance. (including herself)

Motonow did produce one artifact in those ten years - the 3290 novel "Diary Of A Severed Head", which he illustrated himself. Like his previous projects, "Diary Of A Severed Head" met quite a mixed response from reviewers; however, this time its detractors hated it for exactly the same reason that it was praised by others: Its plot was impossible to describe, often incoherent, yet it left no-one without an opinion.

In 3298, Cesar Jorge Motonow went into another creative burst. Seeing that Degeneratism had died out, its influence having now been absorbed in painting, architecture and even car design, he proclaimed that he would set sail for new horizons. He started with various poetry collections which he gave away for free to various friends. Some of them later turned up in The Look And Sound of Armageddon - however, as they asked for permission to print them, Motonow surprisingly demanded payment; an act that showed how he had changed from a solitary eccentric to a man with responsibilities as a husband as a father.

He was not decried as a "sellout" by the art critics now that he was a professional artist; rather, everyone interested was willing to pay. In 3303, he contacted a few of his friends which used to be in the Degeneratist movement and resumed his pursuit of architecture and interior design. Many of the bars popular today among the Sovereignty's upper class were designed as collaborative projects between Cesar Jorge Motonow and people such as Josephine Bernhard and Zhang Wu.

Together with Karam Quraishy, another frequent contributor to Art And Philosophy, in 3308 he started work on a series of books detailing the art directions of the 33rd century's latter half. The first was a revolutionary book about the Divine Mirror, which was as in-depth an account of the movement's history as possible due to being written largely by its founder. The other books in the series concentrated on the New Divine Mirror, the Neo-Alternarealists and the Degeneratists respectively. His artistic career was over soon, however, as he documents in his autobiography:

Alas, even the immortal grow weary over time. By 3314, I had accomplished more in my life than one hundred lesser men. Some have said that it is better to go out in a blaze of glory than to fade away into obscurity, but my life has been one continuous blaze of glory. Every torch will eventually fade away. I had found out, perhaps too late, that even gods need rest. No, I did not contemplate suicide - instead, I decide to spend the rest of my life in quiet contemplation. For your pleasure, I have written this reflection upon my long life.

Motonow's autobiography, Farewell, was published in 3316. He did relatively little after his retirement except for the occassional essay in Art And Philosophy or The Look And Sound Of Armageddon.

When Raven Tiffany Sinclair-Motonowa died in 3332, he was overcome by a great sorrow he never recovered from. He was not seen in public for half a year and ceased all contact to the world around him.

In 3338, 6 years after the death of his beloved Raven Tiffany, Cesar Jorge Motonow disappeared without trace. Many theories abound as to how he died, but none of them have been confirmed. Some, including his son Augusto, speculated at a time that his father was not truly dead but was in fact the true identity of "Gregorius", a mystery artist whose bizzarre paintings were sent by an anonymous mailbox to an art gallery located on the Sovereign world Tarsonis. When Gregorius was revealed in 3345 to be a collective of various artists who used the same pseudonym, that theory was thrown away. Currently, the most popular hypothesis about Motonow's disappearance is that he committed suicide after being unable to cope with his wife's death, the sorrow defeating him after six painful years.

[Quotations]

I have accomplished more in 40 years than a thousand lesser men can accomplish over a century. I may one day have more influence upon how people think than Jesus Christ or Buddha ever had. How can my mind not be worth more than those of a thousand ordinary men combined?

The genre of science fiction is obsolete. What was fantasy 600 years ago is reality now. Technology has given us abilities which our ancestors attributed to gods. But has such technological advancements made all of its users gods? By no means. My version of Star Wars is not sci-fi. It does not explore the impact of technology upon culture and nature solely, for material for such studies is already too abundant in real life. Rather, it is a mythical and philosophical work which explores subjects much more important - the relationship between mortals and the divine who walk among them. For you see, goddesses and gods are not shadowy, elusive men and women who wait for us in some imagined afterlife. No, deities walk among us! They are beings of flesh and blood - be they human, Zigonian, Apexai, Bragulan or whatever. I am very certain that I am a god myself! Now, you may ask me, where I draw the line between gods and lesser men. That is a good question indeed, and that is the very premise of my version of Star Wars. I believe I have treated such a paradigm with much greater respect and intelligence than anyone who previously channeled The Myth."

I am a god. Some of each generations has the potential to become divine himself or herself. The works of art I create are gateways to divinity.

My movies heal wounded souls better than any psychiatrist could ever hope of.

[Lord_Of_Change 9]

Part 1

Neu Preußen

The re-entry shuttle had just entered the lower atmosphere, it was a a somewhat large craft, 230 metres long, owned by a civilian private corporation, nothing to do with the Prussian Star League's government.

The Operative sat down in this seat, reaching for his pistol. He undid his seatbelt, rising with three others. A hostess tried to stop him. He shot her in the chest, watching with sadistic pleasure as her body fell to the floor of the shuttle, spending some time to laugh at the futility of existence, before advancing to the cockpit as the tourists and businessmen watched in abject horror. With the inhuman strength of a combat cyborg, he ripped the door leading to it off its hinges, before spending some time just standing, accessing reserves of knowledge in his personal databanks. It was time to hijack this shuttle.

The pilot and his co-pilot were shot dead, their bodies thrown out of the cockpit, the Operative and his fellow hijacker taking over, two remaining behind to guard the cockpit, one of those holding what looked like a detonator.

'Nobody move,' the man said in accented German. 'If you do, I detonate the explosives in the engine room and everybody on board this shuttle dies.'

The shuttle was flying at 45 degrees, falling from the sky, targeting somewhere very important - the Königstadt Transport Station, linking all the cities of Neu Preußen together in one transport nexus. It fell like an angel fallen from Heaven, speeding up, its thrusters set to maximum, as it descended. The Operative laughed maniacally as it began the final stage of its descent, exploding just as it hit the roof of the station.


The Königstadt Transport Station, after the initial explosion

The blast area was filed with burning plasma, incinerating every single living soul within the station and the shuttle, reducing them to ash in moments. The air burned from the sheer heat, setting the monorail hub aflame, secondary explosions continuing as burning air rapidly expanded, ash and detritus rising rapidly in a pillar of black smoke.

It was not the last explosion in Königstadt.

Somewhere Near Prussian Bureaucratic Service Building #490

Georg Mannheim drove his truck towards the building owned by the Prussian Bureaucratic Service. He was going there to die, he knew it, but he was taking some of his enemies with him.

His truck was filled with explosives. The grey soulless building was in front of him, he wasn't an Operative but had been trained by them, ever since he joined the organisation they belonged to. He had been trained to do anything for victory.

He drove toward it, stopping at the entrance to the lobby, pressing the electronic detonator. It began to count down, five seconds until detonation. Five seconds until victory.



The massive explosion shattered the building, though not with the same devastation as at the station. The forces unleashed tore it apart, the front and lobby shattered, large swathes set aflame. In a matter of minutes, it collapsed, large areas reduced to rubble, eventually becoming little more than a burning heap of concrete slabs, killing everybody within, eventually.

By this time police, gendarmes, ambulances, militia, and other forces were converging on the sites of the explosions. Dozens of videos and images had already been taken with mobile communication devices, they were going to make sure no more incidents like this happened today.

Train #57, Königstadt Metropolitan Underground Network

Sigismund Mannstein laughed inside as he revealed the automatic pistol. He too had been part of the organisation that had committed the terror attacks. Yes, soon his masters would reward him, perhaps by promotion. He knew perfectly well who they were and where they came from, of course, he was one of their better agents, but he wasn't telling anyone.

This would be their vengeance, he would kill all the civilians aboard with his pistol and then walk off the train, and kill some more at the station.

Little did he know that a plain-clothes policeman was standing in the train, and revealed his weapon - a stun-gun. He fired it, instantly paralysing Mannstein. He was taken out of the train the instant it arrived at the station and the door opened, the policeman taking him to the police station.

[Steve]

Pendleton, The Outback
Early 3400

The mood in Pendleton had become as thick as blood. Already there were rumors of total defeat, that their military had failed to deter the attackers and that they were coming to conquer. Worse still, the Collectors had abandoned them, but they were never trusted in the first place. Martial law was in force, not just because an invasion of the planet seemed imminent, but because of the possibility that the slave population might grow restive and rebbelious.

All of this was inconsequential to Vilyn Corbas.

The most skilled spy of her class, she excelled in infiltration, disguise, and assasination. Sent by her superiors of the Intelligence Center when the crisis over Pendleton reared its ugly head, her orders were simple: she was to find and reveal the location of several Centrality citizens who were kidnapped and had ended up on Pendleton, so that a rescue force would come and take them back home, before the Coalition came and discovered them. And found them she did, after "persuading" a Pendletonian officer with her telepathy.

Walking at a leisurely place to the location she was told, she found the entrance heavily guarded. But she found the back door not as well guarded, and the guards there were fooled by her telepathy into abandoning their posts one by one, lured into a location where she could kill them without attracting attention.

Once this was done, she took the disguise from one of the female guards (manpower in Pendleton was at a premium), and was about to enter the building when her comlink beeped. Quickly she hid herself in an isolated corner and activated her comm unit.

A gruff, male voice cracked to life.

"Agent Corbas, we are in position. Hurry up before the Coalition begins landing troops. We don't want to be here before the shit hits the fan."

"All in good time, Commodore. Where are the assault teams?", she asked.

"North of your location. Once you're in and locate our...citizens, they will come to extract you."

"And the fleet?"

"My ship is at the planet's south pole, cloaked. It's a good thing the Coalition distracted the Pendies's forces so we could sneak in. The 5th Fleet is near the entrance of the Outback, just in case we are found and pursued."

"Very well, I will enter this...prison."

"Do hurry up, Corbas. Already the Shepistanis have bombarded an area of Pendleton. Time is of essence."

The comlink was then silent.

Corbas sighed, and readied herself to find the Centrality's imprisoned citizens...

HMS Challenger
In Orbit over Pendleton


The fairly light damage to the Star Cruiser was well under way to being repaired as it moved toward its assigned station facing Pendleton's South Pole. In the ship CIC, Captain Jason Shetty maintain a silent watch over his crew as they continued their duties. All felt the joy of reprieve from imminent destruction that they had seen fighting the Monolith; they would live to return home after all.

Shetty was thinking of his wife back at Chittagong, on New Bangladesh, when Lieutenant Kendra Parkins spoke up from her station at sensors. "Sir, unknown energy signature at the South Pole, very faint."

"A ship?", Shetty asked.

"Possible. Could be a vessel with a cloaking device suffering a slight mis-alignment."

Shetty looked to Lieutenant Adam McNeal at Comms. "Relay to Lord Fisher on Dauntless; 'Have found unidentified signature in south polar orbit of planet. Will investigate." Returning his attention to Parkins, he added, "More power to sensors, let's make sure this isn't some sensor ghost. We've had enough surprises in this operation already."

"If it is a ship, sir?"

"Given the only cloak-using ships around here are smuggler and pirate vessels? We board her to check for slaves being taken off-planet to prevent their emancipation."

Challenger changed her position in the fleet to investigate the new signal. Ironically, this would be of immense value to Spozavik and Hushy, as it meant Annapolis could proceed with her extraction mission without the Challenger nearby to detect their activities and interfere.