SDNW4 Story Thread 1

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Magister Militum
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Magister Militum »

(OOC: Now that my internet connection is back up, we can continue our little story)

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Approaching Nouveau France
IFS Terrible
Fourth French Empire


The superdreadnought Terrible, now the flagship of HIM Louis-Napoleon II, plowed through the dark void to the heart of the Grand Empire, Nouveau France. News having traveled fast within the government and military, the Admiralty had dispatched the entirety of the Third Fleet to reinforce the battlegroup Louis-Napoleon had been personally commanding and provide a proper escort for France’s new emperor. Now, said fleet was joined by elements of the Home Fleet, the guardian of the core sectors, as it coasted through to the capital. For naval buffs, the sight of so many warships of such desperate make and size would have immensely impressive and awe-inspiring, a testament to the shipwrights of the Empire and its Star Navy.

Louis-Napoleon had little time to marvel at such a force. The time spent en route via hyperspace was mostly consumed by work, most of it devoted to the dealings of an emperor. A new cabinet would need to be formed soon, while foreign policy issues, now a top priority due to the return of France from its isolation, would have to be addressed soon. The latter concerned him the most. Louis-Napoleon wasn’t so much worried about Anglia – relations were cordial enough – than he was of the Ascendency and Prussia. The former had a very prickly relationship with the mother country for centuries, and, while relations had normalized, one could never know what could be going through their heads. And then there were the Prussians, who were always a wildcard. Those things could wait, at least for the next few days. Right now, France needed to mourn its departed Emperor and look to its new Emperor for guidance.

The pinnace carrying Louis-Napoleon left the hangar of the Terrible and toward Nouveau France, with a cloud of starfighters and gunboats escorting the spacecraft. Gliding though the atmosphere, the pinnace descended to the Palais de Tuileries, the Imperial palace and seat of power for the executive branch, in the bustling megalopolis that is Paris. Setting down on one of the landing pads, the boarding ramp descended from the spacecraft, with members of the Imperial family, key ministers, and an honor guard waiting for His Imperial Majesty.

“Your Majesty,” said Montesquieu as his holographic form bowed. “It is good that you arrived safely from Rapture. You have my condolences on your loss.”

“Thank you, Montesquieu,” replied Louis-Napoleon.

“I do realize that this may not be the most appropriate time, but have you given any thought to your regal name? The public and the galaxy at large will need to know soon enough.”

“Well, Louis-Napoleon II has a nice ring to it,” said the Emperor with a faint smile.

“Of course. Your mother and Her Majesty the Empress Consort are with your father’s body at the Palace of the Invalids. I’ll arrange for you to visit as soon as you take care of some business that needs your attention.”

“Fine,” said Louis-Napoleon as he came across his brother, Prince Marshal-General Henri Yves Bonaparte-Bourbon, within the Imperial entourage. “Henri, I didn’t expect you to be here.”

“I decided that I should be here when our new Emperor has arrived, Your Majesty. That, and I needed some time away from all the mourning,” said the head of Special Activities. A product of the very organization that he now oversaw, the Marshal-General was an augmented esper, a psychic assassin whose abilities were enhanced through cybernetics and genetic engineering. Louis-Napoleon had no idea as to how many people his brother had killed – Henri didn’t like going into the details – but apparently he was good enough at his job to eventually head Special Activities regardless of his position as second in line to the Lilies Throne.

“Don’t call me Your Majesty, Henri. We’re brothers, and the fact that I’m Emperor has not changed that.”

“Yes, but I’m an officer of the Grande Armée and you’re now the Generalissimus of the Armed Forces. At least when I’m in this uniform, protocol is the order of the day, sir.”

Louis-Napoleon mumbled something as he entered the palace and moved throughout its massive and elegant interiors. “So, what’s going on? Montesquieu said that there was something that our father never acted on and needs my approval.”

Both men entered one of the hyperlifts to the Cabinet Chamber of the Palace. “Diplomatic stuff, from what I’ve heard. From what Montesquieu has said, you need to be brought to speed regarding the changes France is undergoing, though you of all people are well aware of those changes. In particular, there's the issue of some old friends of ours.”

Cabinet Chamber, Palais de Tuileries
Paris, Nouveau France
Fourth French Empire


“...In addition, our recent emergence has had some interesting reactions with our immediate neighbors,” said Comte Greet Boerboom, Minister of Foreign Affairs from his seat in the meeting hall. “The three biggest issues relations with the Ascendency, Prussia, and Anglia. Anglia shouldn’t be an issue; relations between our two nations have been cordial for a very long time and that is not expected to change. The two wild cards, however, are the Ascendency and Prussia.

The Ascendency has always had a... interesting relationship with the Empire, as your ancestors can attest to. The death of Jean-Baptiste IV has produced a number of reactions among the aristocrats in charge, including those ranging from terror at the thought of a resurgent France, smug contempt for their ‘former oppressive masters’, and actual sympathy for our loss and a hope for a continuing of healthy relations. Fortunately, those favoring peace with France are in the majority, but, depending on our actions, that could easily change.”

“It’s not in our interest to backslide on Ascendency relations. They have the potential to be a powerful ally, and that is worth pursuing. Besides, I doubt my father will appreciate me going about and making enemies with every power in our backyard. What about the Prussians? We weren’t exactly on the most favorable terms.”

Boerboom took a drag from his cigarette. “So far, Prussian reaction to our return has been muted, mostly due to their preoccupation with a Neo-Fascist rouge statelet in the New Rhineland sector. Within the coming months, however, that could easily change. Relations have improved, but they’ll always be wary of our intentions, especially given the circumstances that led to our last military skirmish. I believe it would be prudent to keep an arms-length stance and see what happens in the coming months.”

Louis-Napoleon nodded. “Agreed. In the mean time, we should begin sending feelers out to the rest of the galaxy and start opening up diplomatic relations. And what of my father's funeral?”

“That is being taken care of, Your Majesty,” said Montesquieu. “The announcement has been made and invitations have been sent out to all nations. It's scheduled for two weeks from now.”

“Good. I know that many of you plan to retire now that my father is gone, and I am truly grateful for your assistance, but I hope that you can all stay along until a new cabinet is formed. This meeting is adjured. Now, if you'll excuse me, there's someone I need to visit."
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Steve »

New Chatham Metropolitan Park
New Anglia, Star Kingdom of New Anglia
5 February 3400



Yuna and Ashe felt uneasy as they followed Master Violet down one of the well-kept paths of the New Chatham Metropolitan Park. Across the St. James River from the Palace of St. James in the city of Westminster the Park was a giant patch of green framed from the dark blue of the river and the gray and black of the city itself. The Park took up about 5 square kilometers of land and was framed, on the city side, by carefully-architectured structures like New Chatham Abbey, the Royal Shakespearan Theatre, and the New Chatham Public Library.

There were people around. Lots of them, in fact, as it was a fairly sunny and enjoyable day. Nevertheless this did nothing but amplify their worries; the realization that their enemies on Hanson were so far-spread meant that even here they and Master Violet could be at risk.

"Be at ease, Sisters," Violet spoke up. "There is nothing here."

"We have been charged with your protection, Master, and our enemies have already gotten the drop on us once," Yuna pointed out. "With their Blitzschlag Generators our senses cannot see them."

"It doesn't matter. With him here, there are plenty of friendly eyes already on us."

The bench she indicated - not far from the statue dedicated to Prince William the Duke of Gloucester, the great naval hero of the First Dilgrud War - was occupied by a single man in a fairly official attire, if not formal. Violet had worn regular clothing as well and had directed Ashe and Yuna to do the same. "Now stay at a distance, young ones. He will want to speak alone." Sensing their acceptance of this, Violet continued forward and took a seat beside the figure on the bench. "You seem to be enjoying yourself."

"I always liked being outdoors, as you well know," Sir James Bronson answered. "It gets rather stuffy in the office."

"You start to miss what it's like to work in the field." Violet looked around. "Instead your life is about bureaucracy and paperwork."

"Well, you get used to it after a while," Bronson noted. He looked at her. "So, what can I do for the Order of the Silver Moon?"

"Pardon?"

"I doubt your Order's Council would send their next Grand Master to have an amiable chat."

"You always were good at reading people, even without the Gift." Reaching into her purse, she produced a data drive that contained all the information from Hanson. "We lost two laity over this, and very nearly three of our young Sisters."

"Ah. Sounds like high stakes. May I inquire...?"

"A group operating on Hanson."

"Ah. The so-called 'Hanson Citizens' Watch'?" Bronson smirked. "Let me guess. Someone is supporting them."

Violet tried not to grin. "I should not expect any less of you."

"We normally don't monitor goings-on in Hiigaran zones much," he confessed. "But when Hiigaran intelligence approaches certain persons to determine information on events in their part of the Outback, it can bring some notice." Bronson looked at the drive. "For you to share this information so directly tells me there is something on this drive that has your Order rather afraid."

"You'll see for yourself," Violet answered. "Now, as much as I enjoy seeing you again, James, I have a liner to catch back to Doreia."

"And your young charges are due back to Lochley too, I imagine." Bronson nodded to Yuna and Ashe. "You might want to encourage them to be less stiff in public. Virtually anyone with any attention to detail knows they are here as anxious and paranoid bodyguards."

"I'll talk to them about that." Violet gave him a nod and walked off.

Bronson stared at the drive for a bit longer. He saw one of his people, a fellow named Victor, give him a look that questioned if they were done. He looked away, a signal that he wasn't quite done yet.

"This seat isn't taken, is it?"

The voice was one Bronson hadn't heard in a while. He looked up toward the speaker and showed the slightest hint of a smile. "Why, not at all. I believe you prefer... 'Balthier'?"

There was a slight grin and a nod. Balthier slipped into the seat beside Bronson - he was in a white shirt and dark trousers, carrying a parcel of his own. "So, out to enjoy a good day of air, aren't you, Father?"

Bronson allowed himself to turn the smile into more of a smirk, recognizing the tone for what it meant. He had many differences of opinion and personality from his son, but they did share the same kind of tones when it came to their sarcasm. "What else would I be doing?"

"Well, you always did like open-air meetings with contacts. Or so Mother told me, in so many words."

"How is she? Still getting on with that nice husband of her's?"

"Yes. I believe that, in a case of irony you would appreciate, both she and her husband are currently seeing Anglians in the typical adulterous fashion. Mother's taste has apparently rubbed off on my dear stepfather." Balthier assumed a comfortable pose, propping his left leg up on his right knee. "Unless I miss my guess, that nice woman you just spoke with is from the Silver Moon Order. Not that you need confirm or deny, it's just that I've had experience with them and they're not hard to spot."

"Speaking of experience with them, how did the mess at Pendleton go?"

"Oh, swimmingly. We found our young client's family and brought them to safety. I do rather wish I could have brought Katherine de la Poer back as well, but given her role in our escape I won't let it mar the experience." Balthier handed the parcel over. "I believe that will fulfill the terms of our ongoing arrangement? Everything our ship recorded from within the Monolith."

Bronson looked at the parcel. "Yes, I think there are fellows at the Admiralty who will enjoy this information. I take it your money situation is well."

"Fairly so. I'm not coming with my hand out if that's what you're pondering. This time, I'm rather happy to say, I have no need of the connections and influence of your office. And I'd rather keep it that way."

"So you would." Bronson stuffed the parcel into his jacket pocket, next to the drive Violet had given him. It was interesting to get two gifts in one day. 'I don't suppose you'd be in mind for a father-and-son drink? I believe your favorite brandy is Bunan's?"

"Ghis, actually, but Bunan isn't bad." Balthier stood up. "But no, I am afraid I cannot stay. I am collecting a light cargo for delivery and shall need to depart very soon. Perhaps next time."

"Of course, of course. You have that wonderful life of a smuggler and outlaw to get back too," Bronson answered. "Do be careful out there."

It wasn't hard to sense the disapproval in Bronson's voice. But it was something the younger man was used to. "Oh, of course. It's why I recruited such a fine crew, you know. Can't make it out here on your own very well, space is a dangerous place and all." Giving a wave to Victor, whom Balthier had easily spotted, he began to walk away. He turned back to give his father a short wave and a parting statement. "Take care, I look forward to our next meeting."

Bronson watched his son (illegitimate though he was) walk off and looked back to the river. He'd had some hopes for the boy; a Royal Navy stint and on to the SIS. But sometimes your heirs could have minds of their own (he had done the same to his own father, who hadn't nearly been involved in the spy trade) and it couldn't be helped. So you did what you could bring yourself to, and sometimes you even managed a relationship above that of chilly indifference.

Seeing Victor look his way again, Bronson stood up. It was time to see just what he'd have to give to Naval Intelligence regarding the Collectors and of course to find out just what was going on with the Hanson issue. He had a feeling he'd dislike what he found. He usually did when there was Something out there he didn't know of.

Yet, anyway.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

[i]Previously on Majella[/i] wrote:“Alright, Vasyly, take us in,” Helanska ordered as she took up Zysief’s periscope-like viewfinder. She observed that their artillery was shelling the innermost most parts of the city, which told her that they were almost out of things to bombard – which was a good thing. Hopefully, there would be no friendly fire incidents. The last time one of those happened, Helanska heard, two entire armies were nuked from orbit because it was mistaken for mutiny. And the bastard who ordered the orbital bombardment got promoted, too! “Everyone, grab your anti-radiation pills. They’ve stopped the atomic shelling, but our hull is compromised and I don’t intend to get leukemia and grow tumors on my cunt!”
MAJELLA-3

The city was smothered in acrid black smoke, a mixture of burning wreckage and poison gas. It was a caustic neurotoxin, although unlike traditional nerve gas, it wasn’t colorless, nor was it tasteless or odorless – it didn’t need to be in order to kill hapless civilians who did not have protective gear. It burned, it choked, it killed. Men, women, civilians and insurgent alike as well as the children they used as soldiers, all were strewn all over the streets writhing, their skin melting off as their backs spasmed so hard that they broke their spines and vomited their guts out – life, and organs, leaving their spasming bodies and sparing the Bragulans' their bullets.

At these same corpse-littered streets, the soldiers of the 357th marched a dauntless advance. Ten thousand strong they were, clad in skull-like masks, olive-green trench coats, bayonets fixed on their rifles. The gas helped ease the process of systematic murder, but there were still pockets of resistance. The atomics, the artillery, the smoke, they didn’t cover the every nook and corner of the city. Someone had to sweep the city and make sure everybody had been killed thoroughly.

Image

Overhead, Stalag gunships hovered and circled, blinding spotlights searing through the poison fog. Some of them descended, and out came handfuls of men. They too had masks, but they did not bring standard B-11 K-bolters or trench coats, instead they had longrifles and camo-capes that blended with the surrounding color. The 357th were dealing with, aside from a millions-strong militia of rag-tag guerrillas and child soldiers, quite possibly Sovereignty Marine holdouts as well. So to accompany the 357th was a small detachment of elite Stormsnipers, in order to assist them in making the killing more precise.

There were a hundred Stormsnipers, and they went throughout the city, shooting at everything non-Bragulan that moved, forming kill-zones and informing 357th armor, artillery and infantry on insurgent strongpoints, formations and all other things of importance.

Ratko Kudratov was one of these Stormsnipers. As the gunship hovered, blowing dust and black smoke away with its massive turbofans, he leapt off and landed on a nearby building. His cloak billowed and immediately assumed the color of his surroundings – much like the camouflage used by the Terrans – as he rushed towards the rooftop entrance of the building. Directly behind him, his two fellow snipers, Levikk and Grafsyleninn followed closely.

“We are to reconnoiter for the tank formation of Commander Helanska,” Ratko said as they all entered the room. “Levikk, you spot for me. Graf, you secure. Understood?”

“Yes,” both of them acknowledged. And then Grafsyleninn asked, “Will we be meeting the humans? The Majellans, I mean. We deserve at least to show them the error of their ungrateful attitude towards our liberation.”

“Graf, just about every human on this planet is an ingrate. And they all deserve to die,” Ratko replied steely as he bolted a round into his sniper rifle. “Now let’s move out.”

Image

“Shits! Wear your gas masks!” Helanska shouted. With her viewfinder she could see the black smoke creep towards them slowly and menacingly, like a cloud of toxic death. Previously, the streets were clear of gas (though corpses strewn all over nonetheless) and they did not bother to protect themselves except by taking their anti-rad pills. Though Kora had sealed the hull’s breach, they all quickly reached for their masks, not willing to bet on the air-tightness of Kora’s epoxy and plastic cement.

Zysief, eyes red with tears and nose wet with snivel, struggled with his gas mask, whimpering before finally strapping it around his face. He forgot to remove a cap that covered his respirator, prompting Korachonynv to slap the back of his head before removing the respirator cap, fumbling and cursing out muffled curses in the process, which was lengthened by Zysief’s struggling and incessant whining.

“You stupid effeminate cunt,” Kora muttered as he threw the cap away and threatened to Zysief with his large fist. “Maybe I should’ve left it on and watch you suffocate! Be thankful!”

“Shut up, the two of you!” Helanska barked. “And load the guns!” As the smoke covered them, she activated the thermograph, weary of anything waiting for them in the black. Sure, everything unprotected was probably dead, or in a state of near death, but non-compliant Majellans who had access to protective gear, as well as airtight tanks, could be waiting for them – taking advantage of their unawareness, wanting them to think that everything caught under the smoke was too dead to fight them. The Majellans were battle hardened after fighting the Sovereignty, their previous occupiers, not like the unruly, undisciplined rabble that composed most rebellions. They would hide their armor inside buildings, waiting for Bragulans to get near before ambushing them, or have - “Fucks! Three o’ clock! Sappers! Space RPG!”

The Space RPG streaked from the rubble, where a Majellan sapper team was lying in wait, and exploded directly in front of the tank – detonated by defensive mini-rockets. However, the rockets did not detonate the massive plasma missile that was right behind the Space RPG, and it made contact with the tank and gave it a thermonuclear kiss, vaporizing a large chunk off the tank's appliqué brag-crete armoring in an explosion that looked like a second sun.

As Zysief screamed in panic, Kora took a telescreen-equipped remote control and activated the K-bolter emplacements on top of the tank’s turret. One of them was offline, an unexploded bomb crushing its servos, but the others were in working condition. Before the sappers could either flee or fire more plasma, he selected one of the double-barreled cannons and let loose a barrage of K-bolts, barely aiming with the remote’s unwieldy joystick. One of the sappers exploded, although Kora couldn’t see that with his blurry tiny television screen, while another had his limb turned into goo due to splash damage. A the third Majellan tried to run but was splashed in residue and ended up screaming and rolling on the floor as he was reduced to a skeleton, while the last one fired off another plasma missile. It was intercepted, and soon enough, the shooter was liquefied by a hail of acid-coated bullets. His friend, the one that was turned into a skeleton, was now a steaming puddle. But Kora did not see this in his blurry screen, and continued firing blindly for nearly a minute before Vasyly got them moving.

Somehow, the other tanks that were supposed to be in formation with them were gone, and now they seemed alone in the smog-covered, ruined streets of the Majellan capital. The others probably went ahead while Kora was melting the puny humans, or maybe they turned at the wrong intersection… “Boss, where are we heading?” Vasyly, the driver, asked.

“Our formation is supposed to…” Helanska wasn’t entirely sure herself, and she checked the maps. “Shit, we’re supposed to lead our formation to a bunch of troopers, push for the capital or something. Where are the other tanks?!”

“They left us… I think…” Vasyly answered hesitantly, all the while, Zysief was becoming hysterical. He asked, with his wide-open eyes visible even through his mask, “This is bad, isn’t it?! Isn’t it?!”

Helanska sighed. “Yes, it is.” And then Korachonynv headbutted Zysief into unconsciousness.
Last edited by Shroom Man 777 on 2010-08-22 01:03pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Lord_Of_Change 9 »

Volksland

Image
The ruins of Fuhrerstadt

The battle of Fuhrerstadt continued, the Hussars continuing to advance through the shattered streets and buildings. They didn't need much cover - their armour protected them against most small arms and rocket launchers, and their weapons could shoot straight through cover.

Captain Otto Falkenstein looked with his HUD at a building approximately 3 kilometres away, the zoom function of his HUD correcting for the distance. It looked almost intact, the bombardment that had flattened most of Fuhrerstadt having damaged it only slightly, and a sign nearby marked it as the 'Volksland Military Defence Headquarters', obviously important. He sent a single order on the quantum radio to his men - move.

Image
The Volksland Military Defence Headquarters (taken during its period of use as the Volksland Remembrance Museum)

They advanced steadily through the rubble of Volksland's proudest city, mowing down the enemy wherever they stood or hid. Some surrendered, but the majority of the forces fought back as well as they could, not having learned that it was useless fighting against the Hussars.

Eventually they reached the building, storming it, pushing through rooms and corridors, killing the enemy wherever they were. In only ten minutes the flag of Prussia flew over it.

That was when the transmission came.

+++

It was in orbit that the transmission was heard. It was simple - 'People of Volksland, resist to the last'. But it also originated from an unusual position, an uninhabited forest 500 kilometres north of Fuhrerstadt. It was also coming from one kilometre under the ground, so unless the sensors were wrong, it meant one thing - somebody was hiding out in a bunker near the position the signal was coming from.

Fritz Von Langstein gave one order to Edelstein, who had set up a HQ in the ruins of Fuhrerstadt.

Send a Regiment of Hussars to that position, from orbit unless absolutely necessary.

+++

Sigismund Wolfstein sat down, looking at the forest. It was dark, shadowed, and menacing. He could feel movement all around him, but he didn't budge an inch. It was probably what they wanted him to do, he was a guard for the base surrounding the entrance to the bunker, he could see its light behind him if he looked back.

Image
The forest

Then, before he could hear the sonic boom, his head was blasted apart by a chunk of ferrous metal, as men of the 13th Hussars Regiment, known as the Night Hounds, advanced toward the base.

The Hussars continued their stealthy advance, after all, out of the Hussar Regiments, the word that defined their beings as a regiment was stealth, and so they had been given special suits - lighter and with no missile pods, but equipped with low-level cloaking devices that bent electromagnetic energy around them, making them invisible in most of the electromagnetic spectrum. They used gravitic sensors to create a picture of the environment, as the cloaking devices rendered them blind otherwise.

Their motto was simple: 'In the Dark of the Night', aptly describing the environment they were most suited to.

They moved toward the base, and put kinetic bombs at four strategic points against its walls, with a radius set to 500 metres - covering the base except for the entrance to the bunker, as the Hussars moved to a safe position to watch the fireworks.

The bombs detonated, unleashing a wave of pure kinetic energy that sent things flying. The air boomed as it was displaced, ripping up the earth as chunks of ground, base, and military vehicles were sent flying into the air by the kinetic shockwaves created by the bombs. The Hussars advanced cautiously into the rubble, and wrenched the bunker's door loose from its hinges.

They were coming in.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Siege »

GRID WORKS
Mejis Sector, outskirts of Sovereignty space


Image

Jason realized that the facility was, in a word, enormous. There really was no other term for it. The stealthed structure where the Heart of Gold had docked had already been sizable, a monolith of cerasteel that towered kilometers high over the jagged surface of the unnamed ice-world, but now he realized it had been nothing but a control facility – a lift anchor, or bridge tower, if you would, for the real Grid Works base that had been tunneled into the surface of the planet.

And tunneled it had been. Sidney and the Wild Geese had boarded a bullet-shaped, gunmetal gray suspensor carriage that had zipped off into a series of access tubes facilitating high speed access to the most remote recesses of the massive base. The carriage was equipped with inertial compensators and the bronze-colored tubes were mostly featureless and closed, making it difficult to determine just how fast they were moving, but Jason was under the impression that it was fast. And they had been moving for some time, too.

Then there were the sights. Occasionally the tubes widened and opened up, allowing the occupants of the carriage to catch glimpses of the facility and its inhabitants: throngs of people in the archetypical white coats of laboratory personnel; rooms full of incomprehensible equipment festooned with flickering lights; dizzying vertical access shafts that seemed to plunge straight into the heart of the planet or climb into the geological strata above; humongous halls full of thrumming dark energy reactors in long hive configurations on neatly tiled floors; sleek, vaulting expanses of frozen steel running up and down artificial indoor canyons like ice.

Image

The slo-trans engines of the carriage hummed audibly as it finally swerved gently down an intersecting tunnel, then slid alongside a side opening and stopped. The hatch flicked soundlessly open and the mercenaries stepped out onto a silent platform in front of a bank-vault huge hatch made of a thick steel alloy. A red-eyed sensor sat above the vault, quietly taking in those who stood before it with a kind of unexpressed menace. The mercenaries followed their employer, who was setting a brisk pace toward the vault door.

Phani Angeimiro, the Wild Geese sniper and resident ultra-assassin, bent in to whisper in Jason's ear. “One concealed space at each side of the door,” she said, sets of mil-spec ocular implants allowing her to make out the micron-thin lines in the otherwise uniformly smooth metallic bronze walls. “Another two in the floor.”

Jason glanced sideways. “Your take?”

“If I designed this place... Plasma or laser pulse-guns in the walls, and solofilament spoolers in the floor.”

“Not quite,” injected Sirocco Montague. The black-haired psion frowned. “You're right about the spoolers but the walls... Unless I'm mistaken there are death field generators hidden behind them.”

Jason raised an eyebrow. Neural phase field generators were a forbidden technology, deeply frowned upon by the UN and, in fact, most human powers in the galaxy. Such devices generated specific frequencies of ultra-sonic sound waves and specific electromagnetic field variations to directly affect the nervous system of sentient beings, causing abject, artificially induced fear, paranoia and in some cases uncontrolled epilepsy-like fits and seizures. At very high levels, NPFGs could burn out the CNS and neural pathways and drop humans in their spot lifelessly with massive cerebral hemorrhaging and fusing of the finer neural pathways – hence their nickname among the few people who had experience with them: death field generators. You walked into the volume of one, and you'd be dead in under three seconds.

The Wild Geese were now fewer than a few meters away from the wall. Well within the volume of a field generator. Jason looked at the walls again and furrowed his brow. “Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

Either unaware or uncaring about his mercenaries' apprehension, Sidney had walked all the way up to the vault door and had come to a halt in front of it. Then he turned around. “Ladies, gentlemen,” he began. “You're now about to enter the heart of the Grid Works facility.”

Morris Les Six crossed his arms. “That's all very well and good,” the former Para-Marine said. “But we still have absolutely no idea this place is supposed to do.”

“Well then allow me to demonstrate.” Sidney turned around, and only Alistair Courcy, the Wild Geese's infiltrator and data-expert, noticed the subtle digital command pulsed to... well, somewhere else in the facility. Soundlessly the vault door slid open. It was at least fifteen centimeters thick, yet it was but the first of a dozen equally thick hatches, forming a close-spaced, immensely strong barrier that was no doubt defended by even more concealed automated weapons systems.

Finally the last hatch opened up and the men and women of the Wild Geese followed their employer onto a platform that was suspended in the middle of... well, 'cavern' was really not an adequate word for it. The immense emptiness of the space before them would be enough to inspire vertigo in the most hardy of mountaineers, and its expanse was interrupted only by small platforms and walkways hanging seemingly in thin air, held aloft by suspensor fields. In the midst of the twilight emptiness, glittering beams of dark energy silently rushed through miles-high containment fields, converging on some point buried deep down inside the planet. Soft lights illuminated the edges of platforms, adding white accents to the pulsing purple of the energy matrices. The only sound was the low, throbbing hum of slo-trains engines buried in the walls of the enormous chamber. All things together, the poised, almost reverent atmosphere that hung over the vast space appeared more like that of an ancient temple than that of a modern research facility.

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“So then,” Sidney turned around, suddenly serious. “Let me tell you about Grid Works.”

“You could start,” Jason suggested, “by telling us what the hell this place is.”

“That's going to take some time to explain.”

As it turned out, it did indeed take quite a while to explain. But then, that was inherent in having to gloss over more than a millennium of ancient history. By the time Sidney was done, Jason was scratching his chin. “So let me get this straight,” the mercenary leader said and frowned. “There's this Q character, who's been manipulating the galaxy for like forever, which he can somehow do because he's an... An...”

“N-Dimensional,” Sidney added. “Or at least that's the term my scientists have bestowed upon creatures like him.”

“Speaking of your scientists...” Phani asked inquisitively. “I saw hundreds of them on the ride down here. There must be more we haven't seen. How have you managed to keep this place a secret from people like CEID?”

“They're Replicants. They aren't talking. They've been engineered that way.”

Morris, himself a Replicant, frowned at that. “So you hollowed out a planet, cloned up a small army of loyal mad scientists, generated enough power,” he pointed at the massive energy beams that pulsed through the chamber, “to mass-scatter a sun... And you did all this in secret?”

Sidney shrugged. “It's not that hard if you have half a millennium and enough funds to buy a small galactic empire to accomplish it.”

“But what is this place?” Sirocco seemed bewildered despite herself. “What does all this do?

“Grid Works...” Sidney spread his hands. “It's reality engineering. It's about the manipulating sixth and seventh-order forces, about hacking the source-code of existence. This machine will allow me to break down the barriers of of space and time, and shape reality on the level similar to the N-Dimensionals themselves.” He grinned maniacally. “I am about to fulfill another of Man's deepest desires. The first was to achieve immortality. The next... To become a living god!”

Sidney Leon Hank the Fourth couldn't help himself. For a brief moment, he cackled.

He stopped, though, when he noticed most of the Wild Geese looked at him sceptically. He coughed. “Err, well. Any questions?”

Jason looked at his employer with a newfound appreciation of sanity. “Just one, really... Once you can do all this, you know, the whole sundering-reality and rewriting-the-universe stuff... What are you gonna do with it? What's the goal, here, exactly?”

“The goal?” Sidney scowled. The maniac smile was gone. “Hell. I thought that was obvious. I'm going to find Q, and kick him in the balls.”
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SDN World 2: The North Frequesuan Trust
SDN World 3: The Sultanate of Egypt
SDN World 4: The United Solarian Sovereignty
SDN World 5: San Dorado
There'll be a bodycount, we're gonna watch it rise
The folks at CNN, they won't believe their eyes
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Steve »

Capitol Building, Montalban
Pendleton, The Outback
2 February 3400



A guard of Royal Marines stood at parade attention, the area secured by a company from the 4th Alban Grenadiers Regiment, as the pinnace came to a stop in front of the damaged, yet intact, capitol building. Fisher stood with his staff, at attention, as the door opened and Governor-General Tarkington made his first steps on the newly-conquered world. A throng of people watched from afar and on the other side of the barricades manned by the 4th Alban, the slaves amongst them cheering and waving the Union Flag.

In measured, calculated steps Tarkington walked up to Fisher and offered his hand. "I congratulate you, Admiral, on your victory here."

"Thank you, Governor. It was a costly one, to be sure." The casualties had reached the thousands, given the loss of crew on most of the destroyed ships and the Pendletonians targeting escape pods. Preliminary inspection had even made it seem unlikely that the cruiser Sentinel could be brought back through the Gap, though she was operational enough to be brought into orbit and put through a long-term repair.

"So I've heard. Damned machines."

With their exchange done, Tarkington turned to the assembled. "The blood of your comrades and friends, of all those who were martyred to redeem this planet, will not be in vain. The justice of the Empire will be stern but fair. I will make this planet's redemption my life's work."

The rest of the speech was fairly simple, regarding how the occupation would perform a census of the planet, ascertain whom were the slaves and whom were the slave owners, with compensation and reparations to be meted out. Justice would be meted out toward those whose actions demanded its wrath, that sort of thing. Fisher approved of it; Tarkington was no Parliamentarian at least, and he said what he meant.

When all was said and done, Fisher and his staff headed to their own pinnace and Dauntless, which had undergone sufficient repairs to make the Gap run. It was time to head home.



Lochley Landing
Lochley's Retreat, The Outback
6 February 3400



The dorm in Chapter Sunelis had a single window to let the light of the system's sun in, illuminating the cot on which Rana and Sara cuddled closely. Over the past couple of weeks their hair had begun to grow back, though it was only a slight fuzz right now. They both were having fun with that, rubbing their heads gently and giggling about how fuzzy their regrowing hair felt.

Rana was officially on convalescence, to let her wound heal, and they had spent nearly every moment together, either with her family or alone in Sara's room. The time was being put to use by them; a chance to enjoy their bond and all of the pleasure and good feelings they derived from it. Decompressing from the stress and terror of what had happened was well complete but did not diminish the experience, as both knew that Rana would, upon recovery, again have duties to be dealt with.

As they lay together, Rana's thoughts turned to the musings she'd had. Departing the Order to be with Sara all the time, letting them build a life together. It was not something she wanted to do - she loved the Order and serving others - but she was afraid of hurting Sara.

Don't be was the thought that went through her mind, coming from Sara. I'll be fine. I could never ask you to give up what you love doing.

I know. Rana kissed Sara on the forehead. Sara... can we go through Bonding?

Bonding? Through their connection she knew what it meant; the equivalent of marriage for a Sister of the Order, an affirmation of love and the existence of an unbreakable bond. Yes, we can. I'll invite the family and everything!

Smiling contentedly, Rana pulled Sara closer in her arms - not that she could be much closer than she already was - and the two fell asleep.



Blind Boar Pub


Balthier, Vanrya, and MacCulloch were in Balthier's usual booth, enjoying a bottle of Ghis-brand Archadian brandy provided by the smiling Cammie, when a figure nobody would have expected to see in the establishment entered the door. Eyes turned toward the tall, solid figure of Admiral Fisher as he walked up, in deliberate steps, to Balthier's table. "Ah, Your Lordship, come to enjoy the spiced rum?", Balthier asked non-chalantly. "I really must recommend the brandy, though."

Wordlessly, Fisher reached into a pocket and retrieved a cash card, marked as being from the Bank of Anglia. He set it down in front of Balthier. "My prize money from this venture to Pendleton," he informed them. "Four hundred thousand pounds sterling."

"A careful man could retire on that," Balthier noted as he considered the card. He saw Vanrya reach for their card reader, a small device which would read such cards and chits and extract money from them for wireless deposit into bank accounts. "Don't you have a young charge and her family to provide room, board, and an education to?"

"I will anyway. But I want to cover Sara's debts. I know she gave you 10,000 pounds. I would like you to return it, Balthier, and to consider her debt paid in full."

"Sara was fairly insistent she pay her own way," Balthier noted, holding the card and preventing Vanrya from taking it. He seemed to be thinking while letting a glass of his brandy hover near his mouth. Finally he gulped from it and placed it down. "I have a counter-proposal. I shall accept half and happily consider Ms. Pontcaire's debts paid in full, indeed I shall consider any future services she might request from me to have been paid for in advance. You shall use the other half you intended for me and ensure she and her family are well-cared for and provided plentiful opportunities for a happy future."

There was no reply for a moment. "You are a very strange outlaw, Balthier," Fisher finally remarked. "I can't imagine any other not accepting such a large prize."

"Yes, well, I do pride myself on being unique," Balthier admitted. "I take your remark is acceptance."

"It is."

MacCulloch and Vanrya had amused smirks on their faces. The latter handed Balthier the card reader. He typed in the commands and set it to extract 200,000 pounds from the card, after which he pressed it into the machine. A couple button presses to confirm the amount completed the transaction. "Do give Sara and her family my best?"

"I will. Good day." Taking one last look at the intriguing outlaw and his associates, Fisher worked very hard to suppress an amused grin before departing the Blind Boar Pub.

As Fisher walked out, Balthier looked at his half-empty glass and raised a hand. Having gained the attention of Cammie the barmaid, he called out, "An entire bottle this time, if you please?"

"Aye!", MacCulloch agreed, his own glass empty.
”A Radical is a man with both feet planted firmly in the air.” – Franklin Delano Roosevelt

"No folly is more costly than the folly of intolerant idealism." - Sir Winston L. S. Churchill, Princips Britannia

American Conservatism is about the exercise of personal responsibility without state interference in the lives of the citizenry..... unless, of course, it involves using the bludgeon of state power to suppress things Conservatives do not like.

DONALD J. TRUMP IS A SEDITIOUS TRAITOR AND MUST BE IMPEACHED
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Agent Sorchus »

Nyarlathotep's Assembly, The Moon of Cinnabar, aka The People's Daughter

A thin wind ruffled the frigid sea. An Iceberg was being pushed aside by the floating city's shields. The Moon was young, barely over a thousand years old, built to replace both of the originals. It's small metal heart was cold and it's deep oceans of methane and H2O covered more than 90% of the surface. Only in summer would the ice recede enough for the floating cities to pass.

A cold dead silent world, just as the outer gods liked. The Herald peeled away from the bay window overlooking the port. Sister Sovereign was approaching. They were two faces of the same coin. The sister headed the assemble in the face of the world, and dealt with the followers of the other outer gods. The Herald was the chosen of the clergy and keeper of the voice. Neither of them held jurisdiction over politics though, and the midyear elections approached. And so they meet to walk through their private level in the the single tower of the city and discus it.

"So Sister do we have any allies in the game?"

"Some local ones, but the Federal elections are not that friendly. Fionnuala has allot of momentum to retain control of the Courts and is probably the most friendly. Caratacos is the leading challenger and he is not in a bad position, though we have nothing in common with him. He even wants to extend the powers of the Detective houses to command greater control of the gifted. That was part of a recent statement, and it might have been political suicide."

"Good we do not need more opposition from the Detective Houses. Anything more on Marshal Supreme Nimue's health?"

"Not as such. But everyone knows that she has lived 83 years, and even with the best off luck 120 is all any citizen expects. And the Marshal doesn't have the best of luck. A successor is not apparent and not apart of this election anyway. But this election might decided it anyway."

"Oh do go on then. Nimue has been decent enough to us." They were passing one of the best places to view the planet, and as luck would have it the Capitol was visible.
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"The position of Envoy to the Nations is an open election, which has been a long fight between Embla, who has worked as the Commons Reconciliation Advisor for ten years, and Ashkr who has been one of the Envoys deputies for a similar length of time. Embla has been generous enough when dealing with inter cult clashes, but Ashkr has worked hard keeping various pilgrimages safe. Neither should be hostile, Herald, but the length of this challenge has worked against both of them. When Detective Magister Ailill brought us in contact with the Central Alliance he gained a large amount of political good will, and he has recently entered the race for the Envoy position. He has placed both Ashkr and Embla in danger of lossing and he is still little more than a nobody."

"And how friendly would he be?"

"Like I said, he is a nobody in the larger scheme of things. He has investigated several of the cults that have driven themselves into the firing line, but he hasn't given to much of his ideas of policy out and he is supposedly of the Gifted. Ashkr and Embla's best bet is to get the Bosses for the forestry and rail services to back them, and so far neither of them have gotten any support from those sectors." Forestry and Rail were very deeply entrenched in the minds of the people as important unions to listen to. Cinnabar wouldn't still be green and swampy if it weren't for Forestry, and as the jokes went Rail was as deeply entrenched as their sub-crust hypersonic rail-lines. "Supposedly Ailill holds some belief in the outer gods, and I do believe that the Church of Azathoth represents his beliefs."

"Fascinating. hm. Is there anything more that we should discus?"

"Yes, but this is really for your ears only Herald. The Sorcerer Alfher has heard your request and thinks he can get a hold of the N'sss text that you require. I am not sure of the price he will ask though, and I ask for you to be careful. He is Caller for a reason you know."

"I take that into consideration every time I consider contacting him, but he is caller and I am the keeper of the Voice. I do what I must. And if there is no more I have duties to perform."

"No. May the blessings of Nyarlathotep be with you."

Later in the Chamber of the Voice
A cowbell was ringing as the ritual came to completeness. The red and black robes were presented forward to for the great Entity of Nyarlathotep. Arcane text's and irreverent gizmos held their place along the walls. Of course the being probably was only going to stay for a short time, his cult really didn't need him so much as he needed to go out into the world and find toys for the gods.

"Divine Nyarlathotep, it is a pleasure to be in your presence once more."

"Herald, I hear things are going good? Or is my little servant tired of the mewing of the Plebes? Either way I do have a message and then I am going to leave. This place is just not that interesting and you hardly ever change. I mean how long has this trumpet been here? I only used it once to play with some mortals, it isn't that important. But yes the message. There are those that would harm my fellows and I. Now I am not going to make this easy on you but the forces at work are within your grasp, if you try."
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"But enough of this place. I have to teach some fools that toying with my appetites are not good for their health."

"Wouldn't going after those that would harm you be a better idea?"

"No, it wouldn't be sporting. Besides these guys deserve it more."
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Shinn Langley Soryu »

The Gallian War
Gallian continent, Halkeginia, Belka Sector (Sector P-24)

The world of Halkeginia, in the Belka Sector, was divided into a number of major polities, two of the most important of these being the Gallian Imperial Alliance (East Gallia) and the Principality of Gallia (West Gallia). East and West Gallia were once a single unified nation, but a dispute in 3346 between the Gallian noble houses of Randgriz and Reginrave over the line of succession to the Gallian imperial throne led to a civil war, which ultimately resulted in the house of Reginrave gaining power and the house of Randgriz electing to split off and form its own nation in 3354. The abortive Gallian Unification War of 3355-3375 had little effect overall, apart from the expansion of East Gallia's boundaries (at the expense of its neighbors Azadistan and Tristain, who had allied themselves with West Gallia) and the formation of a truly massive demilitarized zone between the two Gallias. Tensions remained high twenty-five years after the end of the Unification War, with the rest of Halkeginia watching while the two Gallias massed armies on their respective sides of the DMZ in preparation for the seemingly-inevitable resumption of hostilities...

Camp Inglebard, Emmeloord Joint Security Area, West Gallian side of the East Gallia-West Gallia DMZ
14 February 3400


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Prior to the Gallian Unification War, the town of Emmeloord was a simple agricultural area that lay within East Gallia, just a short distance away from the border separating the two Gallias. Emmeloord was vacated and later destroyed during the course of the Unification War, with the current Joint Security Area established just half a mile to the west of the town's ruins and directly straddling the border; it was in the Joint Security Area that the two Gallias signed the armistice that ended the Unification War twenty-five years ago, and the site was used for negotiations between the two Gallias from that point onwards. However, ever since the last round of negotiations to take place in the JSA back in 3391, the already tenuous relationship between the two Gallias began to steadily deteriorate, leading to a number of incidents between East Gallian and West Gallian soldiers stationed in the JSA; the most notable of these was the Axe Murder Incident of 3396, which was fought over a tree blocking the view of a West Gallian observation post and resulted in the disintegration of the tree by a stray K-bolter round and the deaths of two West Gallian soldiers (including the namesake of Camp Inglebard) and fifteen East Gallian soldiers. However, for all these provocations, all-out war had yet to resume, though it was a simply an issue of "when" rather than "if."

Camp Inglebard itself, located just a quarter of a mile to the west of the JSA, was a curious place, just like the rest of the DMZ. Two Royal Gallian Marine Corps companies, numbering about 400 total, were stationed there, and like the rest of their kin stationed along the rest of the DMZ, they found life there to border on the absurd at times. Much of their time was spent observing the military build-up on both sides of the DMZ and waiting to see who would make the first move; for the most part, it was a boring existence, though the anxiety was certainly palpable.

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[left to right] Capt Eleanor Varrot, 1stSgt Largo Potter, PFC Alicia Melchiott (holding the unit's pig mascot Hans), 2ndLt Welkin Gunther, CPL Isara Gunther, and CPL Brigitte "Rosie" Stark of the Royal Gallian Marine Corps, standing in front of an Edelweiss MBT

While her subordinates were generally eager to fight, Captain Eleanor Varrot of the RGMC was decidedly less enthusiastic about the whole affair. She was only 10 when the Unification War ended, and her subordinates were most freshly-recruited volunteers and newly-graduated officers who only knew about the Gallian Civil and Unification Wars from what they had learned in school and from what their parents had told them; if conflict was to break out soon, this would be their very first war, and for all her confidence, Eleanor still had a few doubts regarding her ability to lead and the ability of her subordinates to handle themselves.

Today was quickly shaping up to be just like the rest so far, to be spent watching, waiting, and just plain wishing for anything interesting to happen. Of course, Eleanor's guys had to be careful with what they wished for, because they just might have gotten more than they had bargained for. The message rang out through the comms systems loud and clear: "Red alert! Red alert! East Gallian forces have crossed the border! I say again, East Gallian forces have crossed the border! All forces, defend the camp! I say again, all forces, defend the camp!" War had finally broken out once more between East and West Gallia.

The sounds of small arms and artillery fire were plainly audible all throughout as Eleanor rushed to the camp's subterranean command bunker in order to help coordinate the defense of Camp Inglebard. She found the bunker to be in utter chaos, with comms operators and lesser-ranked officers practically overwhelmed trying to relay reports and orders to the various RGMC platoons caught nearly by surprise. One of the officers noticed Eleanor entering the main control room and saluted her. "Captain Varrot, thank God you're here!" he exclaimed.

"You can dispense with the formalities, Lieutenant," Eleanor replied as she half-heartedly returned the salute and walked over to the main tactical display. "Just give me the sitrep."

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"The Easties have mostly been throwing infantry over the border at us, but aerial recon has revealed that they've somehow managed to acquire a Baneblade, and they're using it to spearhead the attack on our position," the officer reported.

Eleanor glanced over at the display and saw what forces she currently had at her disposal. At the moment, she could only see one tank platoon, two light infantry platoons, two heavy infantry platoons, three anti-armor platoons, and a single sniper squad currently on the field, along with the last known locations of the East Gallian ground forces...including the erstwhile Baneblade. "A Baneblade?" she exclaimed, managing to conceal the shock and surprise she was currently feeling. A brief pause. "Patch me through to 2nd Lieutenant Gunther. We'll see if our Edelweiss can stand up to one of those things."
I ship Eino Ilmari Juutilainen x Lydia V. Litvyak.

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ImageImageImage
Phantasee: Don't be a dick.
Stofsk: What are you, his mother?
The Yosemite Bear: Obviously, which means that he's grounded, and that she needs to go back to sucking Mr. Coffee's cock.

"d-did... did this thread just turn into Thanas/PeZook slash fiction?" - Ilya Muromets[/size]
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Steve »

Altair
Kingdom of Fynn, Sector X-13
4 February 3400



The courier Comet dipped through the clouds and gave its passengers a full and glorious view of the city. The capital of Altair was the largest city on the planet, home to ten million souls in its environs and the cultural, economic, and social heart of the planet, an Earth-like world of roughly 30% land and 70% ocean surface, giving it more actual living space than Earth itself and a tad more than New Anglia.

For Hilda and Layla, it was a homecoming of sorts; both were familiar with the city below; Hilda had grown up here while Layla, having lived her life prior to joining the Order on the other side of the planet, had seen pictures and holos of the planetary capital since she was a small child. Zara and Druni were seeing the city for the first time, as well as the splendid countryside, forest and open farmland stretching out to the foothills of the Highwind Mountains to the north and west and the Great Sea in the south and east.

Their approach vectors took them around the tall arcologies and skyscrapers of the city and to an expansive complex along the waterfront, framing a single lake and stream. A palace designed to resemble the Palais de Tuileries in Paris-on-Nouveau France stood on the side facing the city, the other sides being offices, guest-houses, and even personal barracks.

The Royal Palace of Fynn, emblazoned with the Coat-of-Arms of the House of Altan, had its own small vertical-craft landing space for ships like the courier, and it was to this area of the inner palace's courtyard they were heading. Hilda's eyes focused on her family crest, adorned with the golden Lion Rampant and fleur-de-lis of her family's mixed Scots and French ancestry on a blue field, also bearing the family motto of "Devotion and Duty" in Latin along the bottom. As Crown Princess she would bear a similar crest on her documentation and in her homes, though she was permitted personal alterations; in her case, she intended to place a Silver Moon crescent insignia in honor of her time with the Order, and a rose with a bleeding thorn in honor of Zara.

At the landing a party was waiting for them. Her father was in the lead, along with his chamberlain Count Dupreè and Chancellor Kasan. She nodded to Zara and led them to the courier's side exit after it was settled on the ground. She was the first out, wearing the Silver Moon robes of a Knight, with Layla and Zara following her and Druni following Leyla. The three others bowed respectfully to the King of Fynn; Hilda simply walked up and embraced her father for the first time since the memorial service for her dead mother and brother. "It's good to see you so well, my dear," King Charles said. He looked to the others. "Is this Zara?"

Zara looked up and nodded. "I am, Your Majesty."

Charles looked for a moment like he was about to hug her, but a glance from Count Dupreè prevented that. Proper protocol and such was to be found, even here. Instead he placed his hands on the younger woman's shoulders. "So you are the brave young woman who has taken my daughter's heart."

"Hilda took my own," Zara answered plainly. "I am pleased and honored to meet you, Your Majesty."

Next he was introduced to the apprentices. "Pardon us, Dame Zara, but we have much to discuss with Her Royal Highness," Kasan spoke up, gesturing toward Hilda. "Confidential matters of state, you see."

"Yes. Chamberlain, see to their comfort and lodgings. They are guests."

Charles and Kasan led Hilda into the Palace, leaving Dupreè behind to see to the needs of Zara and the younger girls. Hilda followed her father closely as they walked through the halls of the Palace. She had memories here, fond ones, being playfully chased by her big brother or carried by her father as the family had close times together.

They entered the Royal Study. Hilda remembered it as the place her mother taught her to read and where the tutors arranged her education until she was old enough for proper schooling. Those were the days before they knew what she would become, before her ESP manifested and her parents, together, decided to entrust her education to the Order of the Silver Moon.

They took seats, with a pitcher of water ready for them. "Your Highness, how goes your training with Layla?', Kasan asked.

"It is progressing as well I as could hope." Hilda took a drink of the water. Out of respect she refrained from actively trying to sense what her father and the Chancellor were thinking, but the emotions they were giving off gav eher some apprehension. "I believe she may even be ready for her Trials by the end of the year."

"But no sooner?"

"No. I would not disrespect Layla, or harm her, by forcing her to attempt the Trials this early," Hilda said. "It would be wrong." She turned to her father. "Father, is something wrong? The only reason you would be wanting me to rush to finish Layla's training is so that I am clear to leave the Order."

"It is not strictly necessary for you to do so yet, but we do need you to begin taking up responsibilities as Crown Princess," Charles answered. "And that includes one that I have dreaded proposing to you, but which circumstances and the needs of our nation demand I do." He looked squarely at her... and then he told her.

And at that, Hilda could do nothing but stare at her father in shock.



Zara had been given a room to herself, as was befitting her rank as a Knight of the Order (or so Count Dupreè had insisted), while Layla and Druni would be sharing a room. She found the soft bed almost uncomfortable, though, as used as she was to firmer mattresses and cots. And the luxury and wealth around them was completely beyond her normal experience. Her family had been lower middle class New Anglians from Chatham-upon-Fraser and the Order, which she had been living in since going to their prepatory school at the age of 12, had lived with even more austerity.

When the door opened she expected it to be a maid or butler, or perhaps someone from the kitchen staff, as the Chamberlain had said he was sending for light finger foods to be brought to them for their enjoyment. But it was Hilda who entered. Zara could immediately sense the turmoil and pain in her lover's mind. "Hilda?", she asked, dreading what it could be. Knowing, also, that this day would come eventually, that Hilda would have to leave the Order to take up her duties and that she would be alone. Alone with her memories, with the things done to her and the scars left on her body and soul...

Hilda had tears in her eyes as she looked at Zara directly. Zara's heart quailed as the words came to her mind, a mere second before Hilda spoke them aloud.

"They want me to get married."

Zara was silent. It had to be this? When Hilda would, through science, be capable of child-bearing for another hundred and fifty years? "To anyone or..."

"Political marriage." Hilda drew in a sigh. "They want me to get married to the Grand Duchess of Tyconia."
”A Radical is a man with both feet planted firmly in the air.” – Franklin Delano Roosevelt

"No folly is more costly than the folly of intolerant idealism." - Sir Winston L. S. Churchill, Princips Britannia

American Conservatism is about the exercise of personal responsibility without state interference in the lives of the citizenry..... unless, of course, it involves using the bludgeon of state power to suppress things Conservatives do not like.

DONALD J. TRUMP IS A SEDITIOUS TRAITOR AND MUST BE IMPEACHED
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Zor »

Fort Defiance: Nova Australia

Fort Defiance was relic of the barbarian wars, but one which had been frequently updated over the subsequent centuries. It was a well sheilded complex on the surface with was on top of a major underground bunker beneith it, serving as a primary command facillity to a defensive network of bases spread across the planet. It was also. On the surface around it was over a thousand square kilometers of training ground, currently staging a wargame in which two mechanized, three motorized and six infantry legions (Five Regular, two Posthuman) were staging a mock battle. The base proper could be thought of as a city, it could accomidate an entire Planetary Army if the need arose and as it stood, there was a large staff of civilians even for novelties such as hired chefs for resteraunts.

Inside one of these Resteraunts, Centurion (Posthuman) Jane Butler sat back on her off time, finishing off the last of a meal of Ny Olso style wraped sausages with a side of oranges, salad and a glass of beer when she saw several officers comming towards her table, one of them a Legate, his nametag was labled Shindu.

"Centurion Butler" he said.

"Yes sir" she said.

Shindu took a seat "Your track record is, as you, know fairly distingished. Several operations. As such, we would like to employ you in a new project." He gave her a datacell "This is top secret and this cell is specifically keyed to your systems. What i can tell you is that it will mean leaving your century for some time should you accept. You have a week to think about this and contact us should you accept."

"Very well sir"

"Alright" He said. "Waiter" a few moments latter a white humanoid robot walked over.

"Yes sir?"

"I would like to pay for her meal" He extended his arm, which the robot scanned.

"Very well sir." The robot responded. With that, Jane was electronically informed that her tab had been payed off.

"I look forward to your responce." He said as he left. Latter that night, June went over the information incoded which Legate Shindu had given her. She gave it some consideration as she recharged. That morning, she eventually decided to accept, said her fairwells and was a day latter sent off for her new Job in regards to the Slayer Program.
HAIL ZOR! WE'LL BLOW UP THE OCEAN!
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Steve »

National Palace of Tyconia, Carwen
Grand Duchy of Tyconia, Janus System (Sector X-13)
5 February 3400



The National Palace was part of the Government District in the metropolis of Carwen, a city of three million and the second-largest city in the Grand Duchy. It was the main city on the continent of South Tyconia, found in the continent's northern shore in a mild subtropic zone. This area, along with the Waverly isthmus that connected the continent to North Tyconia (the eastern half of the Tycon-Jieshi mega-continent), was the "heartland" of the Grand Duchy from the days of its early founding, even if it was no longer quite the economic center (central North Tyconia, which was the centerpoint of trade with the other nation on the planet and the site of the Tyconian Space Elevators, had usurped that position).

The Government District itself had the Duchy's national flag - a coat of arms with lions rampant and a Teutonic cross combined with the Cross of Burgundy on a gold field, the historic colors of Catalonia - on a number of buildings Some also had the portrait of the current ruler, a sincere and soft-looking young woman with the bright pinkish-red hair of someone with cosmetic gene-mods in their bloodline and intelligent green eyes. The largest portrait was hanging from the clock tower of the Abbey of St. Nuria, the traditional Church used for coronations in the Duchy and for services to the Catholic population in the city's inner areas. The clock chimed out that it was 11AM in the morning

The Grand Duchess Reina II was, indeed, a young woman. She had turned twenty years of age just five months ago, brought to the throne years ahead of time due to the death of her grandfather Ferdinand in 3396 in a shuttle accident - her parents Alexander and Elena already long dead, having died when she was just a small girl due to, well, another shuttle accident (people living longer naturally tended to spike the accident rate and the possibility of dying in one, it had long been determined). Her two year regency had passed without much incident; at age 18 she had taken over the formal powers of the Grand Duchy's throne to ceremonial fanfare and little else.

It wasn't that the monarchy in Tyconia was unpopular. It just... was. It was an institution that people passively supported to the extent of tolerating its existence and perhaps, occasionally, cheering the health of the Grand Duchess. If Reina had any more popularity than Ferdinand had enjoyed, it was because she was a healthy 20 year old woman and thus looked far easier on the eyes than a 220 year old man who had let himself go a bit too far. In fact, as far as the average Tyconian was concerned, being able to look good in a two piece bikini swimsuit could even be considered better qualifications for being the Head of State.

The duties of the Grand Duchess were not very dissimilar to those of the King of New Anglia, save that her nation's Parliament was smaller and her people vastly preferred that the business of ruling be left to those who were considered better suited for the job, like the Premier, and did not easily tolerate the Duchess or her family sticking their noses into the actual machinery of politics (while in New Anglia and some of the other monarchies, interest from the Throne was seen as a sign that the Sovereign was actually paying attention to the feelings and needs of the nation). All she had to do was attend a monthly Privy Council session to be briefed on government business, spend a few hours every day signing papers of state like military commissions or bills and acts that passed the Tyconian Parliament, and smile and wave at cameras on her birthday and other events where she was mandated to go into public. The rest of the time was, frankly, her's to do with as she pleased, just about, so long as she dutifully checked in with the Chamberlain and didn't give her security forces too many fits.

After a breakfast and an hour of paper-signing in the morning, the lead up to lunch was usually taken by the Grand Duchess' favored activity; personal training. The Palace Gymnasium had been converted according to her needs and the needs of her sister Sarisa, now 17 years old. They were clad in workout clothing, Sarisa's a tad more daring than Reina's in the amount of lightly-tanned skin it showed, and her own purple hair (another result of the gene-modding from their mother's side) was pulled back into a longer ponytail.

At first they indulged in simple sparring. Self-defense had been taught as a matter of course, if just to help them in abduction situations, with a number of styles shown. Styles that were augmented in effectiveness from their mutual trait of possessing ESP, though unlike others they were not trained to use their minds for augmentation. Jabs and kicks were taken or parried; years of mutual practice left them able to read each other quite well, even considering their ESP was not generally of the telepathic variety.

Being the more aggressive sister, Sarisa upped the ante first. She jumped backward in an athletic, well-executed somersault. Landing on her feet, she concentrated hard and brought a leg up to execute a mid-air roundhouse kick. As her foot moved through the air energy, invisible to the naked eye, flared until the air itself caught fire, a wave of flame that moved forward like a blade.

Reina's arms twisted around. Water from a nearby basin heeded an instinctive, telekinetic command, moving in front of her. Her mind pulled energy from it, causing it to solidify as ice. Sarisa's flame dissipated harmlessly against the ice, though it did melt some of it. Balancing her stance, Reina's arms came up and pumped forward, releasing the energy she had drawn from the water back into it, shattering it and creating icicles that darted toward her sister. Sarisa generated short bursts of flame from each arm, melting the projectiles before they impacted, and did so just in time to deflect a kick from Reina as she closed the distance and resumed physical combat. Sarisa tried to turn the kick into an opening, gripping Reina's foot and throwing it to the side to off-balance her.

The older girl seized advantage of this immediately. While she went off-balance, she turned it into a corkscrew kick with her other leg. For moments she was in mid-air, no limb contacting the ground, but her left leg was faster than Sarisa's arms. Her foot smashed into the face-guard Sarisa was wearing with enough impact to make her head whip around. Reina completed the mid-air spin as Sarisa staggered backward and pulled energy out of the air around her, enough that she could sense the moisture in the air and grip it with her mind. A solid band of fluid reached out around Sarisa's ankles and gripped them. Reina pulled her own arms backward, an action to help focus her mind to do the same with the water. Sarisa's legs came out from under her and she hit the mat. Reina was on top of her, a knee on Sarisa's shoulder, before she could get up. Smiling, she reached down to her sister and said, "Match?"

"Match," Sarisa breathed. She took her older sister's hand and let her pull Sarisa up. The two grinned at each other widely; they were fairly evenly-matched, with only Reina's advantage of about 30 months age letting her win slightly more often. "How do you manage to do so much with water?', she added, refraining from an actual pant despite their exertion.

"You know that already, Sarisa, you were there when the ESP examiner told Grandfather about it," Reina replied with a grin. She picked up a towel and wiped the swear off her forehead and neck.

"It was a rhetorical question, Reina," was the cheerful retort.

That they had become ESPers was not too surprising. One out of every three members of the House of Schweizer had been ESPers, including fifteen of the prior Grand Dukes and Duchesses. Their mother had been one as well, upping the odds considerably of them both developing.

But how they had developed was the interesting part. Neither had any particular telepathic or empathic capability beyond a basic ability to read emotions and thoughts openly generated in their vicinity. They had learned how to draw energy into their bodies for some physical augmentation, a style commonly taught to ESPers (though not all could do so). Most importantly, however, was the key difference in their skills: Sarisa was a pyrokinetic, capable of using energy to create and control fire, while Reina was capable of Refined Telekinesis, meaning she was able to affect or influence specific things very strongly while being only basis with others. In Reina's case, that specific thing was water, or more accurately, any compound with with it included. With intense concentration she could even pull a little bit out of the air, if it was moist enough, though it took all her focus to manage it.

With the sparring done they turned to the less competitive aspects of their exercise, going through the movements of their favored fighting styles and applying their abilities to them. Sarisa's kicks would include a fiery trail at the edge of them, heating the air, while Reina focused and held a bubble of water as she moved her arms about. The arm movements had no real power over what they were doing, acting purely as focus for their minds, but the process of making movements helped to refine their abilities and connect the actions of the mind to that of the body.

When training was done it was time for a shower and lunch. The sisters showered together in the one available by the gym and changed into fresh clothes, fairly soft and luxurious blouses and skirts of silk material. "So, make up your mind about the University of New Chatham?", Reina asked her sister as they walked toward the dining room where, on schedule, lunch would be ready.

"It seems an awful long way to go to learn political science... why would I be learning that anyway? It's not like I'll actually be doing anything political in my life. And the scholarship they offered is just more politics, wanting to keep their university in good standing for educating the upper classes in other states." Sarisa grinned slightly. "I mean, my job for life is basically to not do anything to make you and the family look bad. That's it. They don't even want me in the military because of my ESP, and intelligence doesn't want me because of who I am."

"Well, if you finish schooling, you could always teach," Reina laughed. "But I think you should take the offer, Sarisa. If anything, it'd let you get off Janus and see other worlds. No reason you should be stuck here just because I have to be."

Sarisa saw her sister's expression and felt her sadness. Before their grandfather had died Reina had always talked about visiting other worlds. Now, of course, she would rarely leave Janus, save for official state visits or, if it came to that, marriage to someone off-world. She can't even marry freely, at least without causing waves, Sarisa thought glumly. Technically she couldn't either, but as the Heir-Presumptive to a 20 year old Grand Duchess there wasn't much fear that she could end up on the throne. "And they don't even really like us that much," Sarisa muttered, gesturing out the window to the city. "I mean, we just exist to them. They don't really love us that much, I doubt they ever will."

"To be honest, little sister, I'm not sure they have much reason to," Reina mused.

They remained quiet until they got to the dining room. An unexpected figure was there, the stocky figure of the Premier, Bartholomew Dragovich. He was from one of the Slavic-descended communities on the planet, in the West Gemmara District near the Jieshi border. His party was the Labor Union Party, the leader in a left-center coalition that currently controlled Tyconia's legislature. For all practical purposes, he was the man in charge throughout the Grand Duchy; Reina was just the rubber stamp. "Your Majestic Grace," he said, bowing slightly to Reina out of protocol. "And Your Highness." He gave a head nod to Sarisa. "I wanted to catch you for lunch time, an affair of state that is of some importance."

"Do you wish for some lunch, Premier Dragovich?"

"No, it is not necessary, Your Grace." He followed the girls to the table, where he sat opposite from Sarisa and said nothing as they began to put the selection of lunch foods on their plates. "Duchess Reina, what I'm about to ask you is a matter that goes beyond the usual interests and affairs of state. It delves directly into your personal choices for your life. And I do not ask this of you lightly."

Reina finished chewing a bite from a sandwich. "What is it you want?"

"I have been in negotiations with Chancellor Kasan of Fynn, and through him King Charles. Between us, a proposal was formulated. One of great importance to our future." He looked at her carefully, knowing her ESP was not so refined she could read his mind. "We want you to get married."

Sarisa had been chewing her food at the moment; she nearly choked on it in surprise. Her reaction was more open than Reina's, as she remained quiet save to look at the Premier more intently. "I have not had any suitors, as you well know Premier." Reina drew in a sigh. "I imagine my spouse-to-be has already been selected."

"The idea was to have you marry the Crown Princess Hilda," Dragovich continued.

"And by doing so, any daughters we have would be heirs to the thrones of both Tyconia and Fynn," Reina noted. "A treaty of union could then be considered to take advantage of the dynastic merger, creating a new interstellar state that would be the most powerful in this sector and adjoining ones."

"Even better, Your Grace, your daughter, as Queen of Fynn and Grand Duchess of Tyconia, could give the Ivalicians an alternative to Archadia," Dragovich pointed out. "With this act, we could set in motion the unification of most of the sector, if not all of it."

"That's silly," Sarisa retorted. "The Republics won't give a damn about dynastic mergers, they'll just look to other powers to restore a balance of power in the sector."

"Maybe. On the other hand, a number of those republics are also keen to unify the sector," Dragovich pointed out. "Even if unification is not the result, it would do wonders for Tyconia's security to be unified to Fynn."

"I honestly do not think this will work as well as you think, Premier," Reina said. "But I shall consider it. I wish to meet Princess Hilda as well and see what she has to say about it."

"I can make the arrangements easily," Dragovich promised. '"You are due to attend the funeral of the late French Emperor. Visiting Fynn before departing for Nouveau France would be no bother."

"Then that's what we'll do. But I give you no promises, Premier, save my consideration of the proposal," Reina reminded him. "Now, I believe we are scheduled to meet with the Privy Council this weekend? I'd like to finish lunch with my sister."

"Oh, yes, of course," he agreed, standing up and walking off.

"I really do not like that man," Sarisa muttered once he was gone.

"You've never liked politicians," Reina teased.

"No, it's not that. I just get the feeling that he sees us as nothing more than pawns, little pieces he can move across the board."

"That just means he's used to political maneuvering." Reina began to bite into her sandhich again.

"And this marriage business. I don't think there's ever been a royal lesbian marriage before, has there? Not that there's anything wrong with it...."

"There have been a few. The last international one even happened with one of our great-great grand aunts, Duchess Violet, who married a younger daughter of one of the Anglian Kings. Either George XIX or Edward XIV, I can't remember."

"You always did pay more attention in family history lessons." Sarisa ate a little more before continuing. "And what about Anthony?"

Reina froze in place, looking down at her food. "What about him?"

"I thought you were getting along pretty well with him. Didn't you even approach the chamberlain about..."

"It couldn't happen. His parents are politicians. It would be a sign of favoritism." Reina sighed. "And he and I had some differences anyway. That's why we don't see each other anymore."

"Oh. A shame. He was real handsome." Sarisa returned to her food, letting her sister return to her thoughts.
”A Radical is a man with both feet planted firmly in the air.” – Franklin Delano Roosevelt

"No folly is more costly than the folly of intolerant idealism." - Sir Winston L. S. Churchill, Princips Britannia

American Conservatism is about the exercise of personal responsibility without state interference in the lives of the citizenry..... unless, of course, it involves using the bludgeon of state power to suppress things Conservatives do not like.

DONALD J. TRUMP IS A SEDITIOUS TRAITOR AND MUST BE IMPEACHED
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Simon_Jester »

Glowworm-class Transport Tranquility, on Nguyen’s World
January 18, 3400, 1205 Hours, Planetary Local Time

Behind them, still pinned by his bike, Nazdreg grimaced with the pain from his injured hand. With a wrench he pulled out his personal radio, a boxy contraption with a nice big antenna- his top mek had made it for him personally.

“Boyz! Dis is Nazdreg! You kommandos, you listen good! Dunno where da ship landed, but I put you all over da place. Some of you iz close. Get there, NOW! You boyz back in da base, you do two t’ings. You get da big guns ready if dey break atmo... and you call Boss Migwazza. Tell ‘im where to go and ‘dat I got a t’ousand teef for him if he catches d’ose humies! WAAAGH!”

He might not get revenge on those stinkin’ grots in person, but he’d get it... oh, he would get it.
Sammie drove the mule, taking as much care as she could. Brecht half-stood in the passenger seat, sweeping the landscape with his newly liberated plasma gun. And John was with Olivia down in the back. She was still conscious, but there were flecks of blood on her lips. She was smart enough not to try to talk. They’d both seen enough cases like this; she knew better. How... how had she put it, back in the war? A sucking chest wound: Nature’s way of telling you to slow down... Sick horror was flooding John; if he lost her, lost the last of the old company, lost the one who’d watched his back for near ten years, would there be any point in carrying on at all?

It... it couldn’t be that bad. They had a doctor to hand this time, he’d said he was a trauma surgeon... and now the horror concentrated in his gut like a spike of ice. The trauma surgeon you just slugged in the face two days back. Who now he was going to have to come to, hat in hand, begging for Livvy’s life.

Hell.

They were coming up on the ship. As they buzzed across the scrubland, John saw a figure standing outside. He squinted... it was Lakatos! He shouted over the noise of the engines. “Sammie, back us up to the ramp!”

As they approached, the doctor called up to him: “You got her on the stretcher, right? I’ll take this end; help me get her inside!” John wasn’t used to someone else giving him orders, and even less to obeying them by instinct, but he did- there was no sign in the Techie’s face or voice of anything but professionalism and control. Lakatos took the end of the stretcher by Olivia’s feet; John got behind the other end and slid it towards the end of the bed, then dismounted to take it up again and start walking up the ramp. Livvy stirred and groaned.

They hauled her up. As his head came level with the ramp, he saw their other passengers looking on with concern. Dobson stammered, then asked “What’s happening?” No one answered for at first, and then all question of answering him vanished. From a hundred meters or so behind Tranquility, he heard a loud demented chittering, punctuated by the crack of a small-caliber pistol. Dobson’s scalp erupted in a spray of blood. He went down, sprawled on the deck and bleeding profusely from the head, as the chittering was drowned out by bellowed chorus: “WAAAGH!” and the deep-throated bark of heavier guns.

Image

John set down the stretcher as fast as he could; thankfully Konrad had the wit to do the same and lie prone. As he spun round he saw the brilliant flash of Brecht’s plasma gun, the cyan flash of the bolt making the sun-lit desert look dim and washed out by comparison. He drew his revolver. The orange afterimage didn’t hide the mob of orks who’d just thrown off dust-covered tarps and started blazing away at the ship... or Sammie, cowering in the driver’s seat of the mule.


Brecht saw too. If it had been anyone else, he’d never have considered what he did next. His first shot had been a close miss, one that might have scalded his target but didn’t stop him. He switched Vera to his left hand and squeezed off a salvo. The hail of energy blasts was enough to make even orks flinch; their fire was even wilder than usual as he charged down the ramp and seized the young engineer in his right hand, shouting “Get DOWN, you gorramn moron!” and yanking her out of the cockpit by main force. Meanwhile, John took his revolver carefully in both hands, squeezing off shots as accurately as he could. Wasn't sure if he'd hit anything, though one of the orks might have flinched. As John ducked down to reload, another spray of plasma fire left the Callahan’s muzzle sizzling in the air and glowing red-orange; he held it out to one side and ran back up the ramp, throwing Sammie into the corner and leaning against the ship’s back wall beside the entrance.

Time for a command decision. Fight these guys, or take off and abandon the mule? He checked behind him. The doctor and preacher had grabbed Livvy’s stretcher and hauled it behind cover. Glazer had even come back for Dobson- gutsy but impractical; no one was liable to be doing much for him. They were down to two shooters, and he counted... five orks plus one screaming demented gretchin waving a pistol. The beasts were starting to get their nerve back; the cargo bay rang as one of the orks managed to put a burst of slugga rounds through the open hatch, but they were high enough not to be an immediate threat. We lose the mule, we can't afford a new one. They'd have to fight it out and trust to their better cover and the orks' poor marksmanship.

Brecht pumped another plasma bolt into the rock one of the kommandos had taken cover behind. Thermal shock split the boulder open and slashed the greenskin's face open with splinters, leaving him bellowing and clutching at his eyes. John shouted over his shoulder: "Doc, need you to slide Livvy's rifle over to me!" There was no reply for a moment. "You hear me? The rifle, NOW!" Almost before he'd finished the sentence, he saw the carbine in Lakatos's hand; he gave it a solid push and it skittered across the deck to him. John grabbed it and raised it to his eye just as one of the orks hoisted a thigh-thick tube to his shoulder. John shot first, absorbing the recoil of the high-power cartridge. He didn't try anything fancy, and just as well; he'd aimed the unfamiliar weapon for the ork's center of mass, and instead grazed the side of its chest. That didn't accomplish much against such a tough beast, but it at least threw his aim off. The rocket came screaming towards Tranquility trailing a thick cloud of black smoke, but fell almost twenty meters short of the mule still stalled on the loading ramp, kicking up a wave of dust and gravel.

The rocket gunner hadn't hurt anyone, but that didn't mean he hadn't done any harm. Neither side could shoot straight through the smoke... which favored the side that hadn't been shooting straight anyway. Trying to chamber the next round, John fumbled slightly with the carbine's unfamiliar action, his practiced reflexes with other kinds of weapons as much a help as a hindrance. Brecht started to spray more plasma into the orks' position. The mercenary's first shot was rewarded with a bellow of pain and rage- a promising start- but on his fourth bolt, the rifle's level hum rose to a high-pitched whine, then faded.

John heard the sound of an electric spark, followed by a torrent of curses in Tianguo. "...humpin' orks messed up the circuits!" Brecht set the plasma weapon down at his side and pulled up the bullpup rifle he'd started the day with. With a smoke screen to cover them, and without the authority of the heavy weapon speaking for them, the orks would most likely... Oh shit. He could hear it through the smoke.

"WAAAAGH!"


They only had a few moments to prepare... and the desert wind was kicking up, blowing straight into their faces. Weather ain't neutral. John coughed at the mingled stench of rocket exhaust and burnt ork, but the smoke wasn't thick enough to hurt visibility inside the cargo bay too much. They'd have to time it just right. John checked the magazine on Livvy's carbine- only two more rounds, but at least he had a full load in his pistol. He and Brecht nodded at each other. Times like this were when he was at his best; you never had to tell him what to do when it looked like it was going to come down to close quarters. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sammie scuttle back, deeper into the hold. She wanted no part of hand fighting against orks, and he didn’t want her in it either. Good as we’re going to get.

He heard the screaming charge; they were getting closer... as the sound of their hobnailed boots became clear over their shouts, he and Brecht pivoted around the edges of the cargo bay as one, Brecht from the right and John from the left. The merc sprayed bursts from his automatic rifle. John had to be a bit more careful, with only two shots left; he spent a heartbeat taking in the situation, then his eyes snapped to a swirl in the smoke. He fired. A round through the middle of the breastbone and out the back would slow even a hulking greenskin down, most times; the kommando tripped on the edge of the ramp and sprawled on his face, his right hand stretched out and scrabbling for the massive bayonet-tipped slugthrower he'd dropped. John worked the action and put his last shot through the ork's head.

Meanwhile, Brecht had managed to wound two of the orks coming up his side of the ramp. One was riddled to the point where he collapsed, even more thoroughly disabled than the one shot through by John's first bullet... but the second had taken only four rounds through the thigh by the time he'd cleared the ramp and gotten into the bay. He was wobbling on his feet, but that didn't stop him in hand to hand. The only thing that saved Brecht's life was that he was on the ork's off-hand side. Instead of finishing the human with his battleaxe, the greenskin simply backhanded the human gunman out of his way. Brecht made a mistake then, trying to match force with force and block the blow rather than dodge. His own strength was enough to soften the impact, saving him from smashed ribs or a broken skull, but the ork’s casual buffet still hit hard enough to slam him against the bulkhead. He blacked out.

John went for his revolver to keep up the fight, but suddenly a screaming, wiry gretchin was clawing at him. This one was nearly the size of a man, and fighting like a lunatic. He went over backwards, rolling on the deck and struggling to keep the thing from throttling him. That left the others a free shot, but he didn’t have time to be worried, to do anything but shout a warning, as they pounded past.

Konrad and Andre crouched behind the wall formed by a row of waist-high supply crates. Olivia had hissed directions to them as they crabbed deeper into the cargo bay, trying to move the stretcher and stay low at the same time. She’d pointed out the position with a flick of her hand. Professional reflex had told him to quiet her down, and another thin spray of blood droplets had reinforced it, but... he was a doctor, not a gunman, and if she knew where to take cover in her own ship he wasn’t going to argue.

A pair of ork bullets had thunked into the other side of the crates and hit something inside with a loud clang, so he hoped she’d made the right choice. He thought better of trying to insert the chest tubes in the middle of all this, especially after the captain called for Olivia’s rifle. Her condition wasn’t good, but unless she got a lot worse in a hurry, this was not the time. Then he heard it.

“WAAAAGH!”

Olivia hissed to him. “Get... my pistol... left... holster.” And if orks were charging the ship... God. All my training is out the window. This must be what battlefield medics feel like. He did as she said, putting the pistol in her right hand. He’d already propped her up; that much was unnecessary.

She hissed another order. “Get... back...” Again, he did, though he stayed by her head to make sure she didn’t slide. Her eyes swam back into focus when her hand touched the hilt of the pistol.

The shouts were getting closer now. He heard the pops and barks of gunfire from the hatch, then massive booted feet clanging on the loading ramp. There were a pair of thuds, a heavy clang, some high-pitched monkey-like screeching, a shout from the captain: "LOOK OUT!"... What’s going on? Olivia was very still, even more so than normal for an injured patient. She raised her arm out straight- that couldn’t be anything but painful with the wound in her chest, but she showed no sign of it. Beside him, he saw the old monk shifting his stance- still low to the ground, but now he looked poised, almost, rather than just crouched behind the crates. The footfalls were getting closer. Then he saw the first ork.

Spittle flecked the beast’s face as it howled with rage. Its right hand clutched a heavy battleaxe; its left arm ended in a blackened stump just above the elbow. If it was feeling any real pain, Konrad saw no sign of it. Then Olivia’s pistol cracked. A spray of dark blood erupted from the ork’s chest, but it raised the axe and started lurching towards them regardless. She kept firing, pumping round after round into the monster without bringing it down. It shuddered from the impacts, but kept taking slow, deliberate steps, drawing back the axe for a butchering strike... Finally, the warrior woman's sixth shot, more fortunately placed, blasted through the greenskin's throat and spine, right at the base of its thickly muscled neck. The ork sank to its knees at Olivia’s feet, still twitching; then down and to the side, dead... but the hulking corpse blocked Olivia’s line of fire.

The bellows had died down. He still heard scuffling from over by the hatch, with high-pitched yelps and snarls. Then his face went white as he saw the last ork: a squat, powerful specimen with a massive, saw-toothed knife, stalking back into the hold. The beast walked with a hint of a limp from wounds that had left a sheen of red-black blood on its leg. Konrad followed the ork’s gaze... to Sammie, backed up against the rear wall and shaking with fright. The ork chuckled. Brecht and the captain weren't stopping him- are they dead? Olivia didn't have a shot. Konrad started looking around frantically for some kind of weapon, something heavy, anything to distract him for a moment or draw him over to this side of the hold, into the first mate's line of fire.

Then Andre straightened up, stepping over the body of the ork Olivia had killed. Konrad watched him, suddenly feeling a wave of strangeness pass over the scene. The sounds of the scrabbling melee by the door faded, and the scene around him seemed to blur; only the old monk was in focus. Andre looked at the ork, then said in a low, level tone: "Look at me." The ork stood still for a moment, halting his advance... then started to turn, slowly. From behind, Konrad couldn't see the look on Glazer's face, but he could see the ork's: fear.

Tendons on the beast's right arm stood out, like it was exerting all its strength- on what? Then the knife went clattering to the floor. The ork's hands began to rise, slowly, as if powered by a will of their own. The raider stared down at them in horror. They kept rising a few centimeters at a time, slowly but surely, toward his neck. Now the ork's sausage-thick fingers were clasped at the back of its neck... and the massive thumbs were digging into its own throat.

The tableau hung like that for a minute or so. The screeching noises and thumps from aft faded away entirely, the lights seemed dim; everything but the compelling figure of Reverend Glazer was out of focus. The ork's face slowly changed color, shifting through darker shades of green to something almost black. Then the greenskin collapsed to the floor, unconscious; its hands released its neck and splayed out across the deck.

The weird distortion of Konrad's senses faded. He looked around, and saw Brecht and John staggering toward them, Brecht favoring his left side while the captain bled from numerous small cuts. The mercenary was the first to speak.

"Did... did you just hypnotize him into chokin' himself out?"

Glazer turned to them, a sheen of sweat on his face. He sat down on the crates he and the others had taken cover behind earlier. He gasped a few breaths, then replied.

"I'm not entirely without... gifts. But unless you're sure that's the last of them, I imagine we need to get moving."


They dumped the bodies out the ramp: the orks they'd shot, the berserk gretchin that the captain had finally managed to take down with a piece of piping to the brainpan. Brecht kicked the stunned ork down the ramp... then put a bullet in its head. No one complained.

John brought the mule back inside and locked it down. Konrad took the time to transfer Olivia to the infirmary and seated her on the bed, and to finally get the drainage tubes in. By now he'd had a chance to look her over more thoroughly, and he was confident that the tubes would keep her stable long enough for them to get away.

Finally, about twenty minutes after taking leave of Nazdreg in the ravine, they were ready to hit sky.

Warboss Nazdreg's Fortress

Nazdreg's orders hadn't been ignored, though as usual the boyz took their sweet time to do anything about it. The ork leader had landed on this mudball with only a handful of followers; his road to power had opened when he found the perfect spot to land a cunning but brutal blow- fitting for one of the chosen of Mork, as he styled himself. His personal retinue, leading an army of ferals, had stormed one of Nguyen's World's planetary defense batteries and commandeered it. He'd had to kill several meks with his bare hands to keep them from muckin' around with it, but it was worth it: the superheavy mass drivers were still in pristine condition (aside from the occasional bullet pockmark and the crudely spray-painted glyphs on the barrels) and ready to fire.

And now his followers were turning them to bear, loading the first lot of plasma shells into the breech for air defense fire...

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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Force Lord »

Command Bridge, CNS Frod
Clankor Sector, The Centrality
Early 3400


"This better be good."

"While we have not yet ironed out all the kinks in the design, I assure you that this version won't be a complete write-off like the last one."

"Oh, sure", replied Captain Stack sarcastically. "As in complete destruction, including the deaths of it's trained crew?"

The man in front of him winced. "We did not forsee a explosion from the late Type-64 Super-Heavy Ion Cannon. We thought it would only affect the cannon itself, not the ship that housed it."

"Yet it did explode and destroyed that ship! I don't know how can you assure me that the same won't happen with my ship!", shouted Stack.

The engineer sighed. "Sir, the Type-74 has rectified the flaws in the previous model. The magnets are now properly placed and won't explode from the slightest disturbance. This may be it."

Stack shook his head. "Nevertheless, I'll oversee the testing of this weapon from another vantage point." He then announced to an ensign, "Alert the hangar crew to prepare my shuttle."

The engineer looked at him confused. "You won't stay?"

Stack nodded curtly at him. "Ship officers don't come out cheap, you know."

He then marched out.

Part I of Ion Cannon testing.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Force Lord »

Command Bridge, CNS Datton
Over Pendleton, The Outback


"Incoming!"

A sudden shudder had knocked Sorge off his feet. Electricity arced throughout the consoles, shocking any personnel that was unfortunate to be near.

"What the fuck?!" Sorge was having difficuly seeing. "Who turned off the lights?!"

"Sir, sensors detected a Shepistani nuke veering off to our location. The explosion sent off an EMP wave that knocked out many of our systems. We're now running on emergency power."

"What systems are still operational?"

"Only life support and gravity generators. We're blind, deaf and mute sir. Not to mention defenseless."

"Lieutenant, we're being pulled by the Anglians!"

Sorge was in panic. What could be done now?

"Let's hope the Commodore knows what's he's doing."

Commodore's Quarters

Commodore Forg was brooding.

He really didn't want to do this. But what else he could do?

The EMP made the self-destruct option useless. But poison gas throughout the ship could still do the trick, since it was designed to work even with emergency power.

He turned around and looked at the safe. It held several communications devices in case the Datton lost it's ability to communicate. The safe itself was protected against EMP pulses to prevent damage to the holocomm.

Kneeling, he opened the safe. He picked a holocomm. I hope the Anglians have holos, he thought.

Turning on the hologram, he soon managed to lock on to the Anglian ship tractoring his vessel and access their holocomms.

An image eventually appeared. A very surprised Anglian naval officer was looking at him.

Forg cleared his throat before speaking.

"Excuse me, but are you commanding the warship that is tractoring my vessel? I recommend you not to board us. Behind me is a keyboard. One of those buttons can unleash poison gas throughout my ship. Gas that can kill in seconds. So try not to enter. And no, the EMP does not affect its fowarding."

Forg anxiously awaited his response.

Result: The Datton's long-awaited return!!! :mrgreen:
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Steve »

Commodore's Quarters

Commodore Forg was brooding.

He really didn't want to do this. But what else he could do?

The EMP made the self-destruct option useless. But poison gas throughout the ship could still do the trick, since it was designed to work even with emergency power.

He turned around and looked at the safe. It held several communications devices in case the Datton lost it's ability to communicate. The safe itself was protected against EMP pulses to prevent damage to the holocomm.

Kneeling, he opened the safe. He picked a holocomm. I hope the Anglians have holos, he thought.

Turning on the hologram, he soon managed to lock on to the Anglian ship tractoring his vessel and access their holocomms.

An image eventually appeared. A very surprised Anglian naval officer was looking at him.

Forg cleared his throat before speaking.

"Excuse me, but are you commanding the warship that is tractoring my vessel? I recommend you not to board us. Behind me is a keyboard. One of those buttons can unleash poison gas throughout my ship. Gas that can kill in seconds. So try not to enter. And no, the EMP does not affect its fowarding."

Forg anxiously awaited his response.

HMS Challenger

Captain Shetty appraised the man standing before him, courtesy of the holotank. "I assume you are the commander of this vessel, then?", he asked pointedly. "Sir, please consider your situation. Your ship is damaged and inoperable. Even if I let you go, your chances of making it through the Gap are slim. I need only confirm you are not carrying persons of interest or a slave cargo, then you can be repaired and sent on your merry way. Killing yourself and your crew would be a terrible waste."
”A Radical is a man with both feet planted firmly in the air.” – Franklin Delano Roosevelt

"No folly is more costly than the folly of intolerant idealism." - Sir Winston L. S. Churchill, Princips Britannia

American Conservatism is about the exercise of personal responsibility without state interference in the lives of the citizenry..... unless, of course, it involves using the bludgeon of state power to suppress things Conservatives do not like.

DONALD J. TRUMP IS A SEDITIOUS TRAITOR AND MUST BE IMPEACHED
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Simon_Jester »

...and you call Boss Migwazza. Tell ‘im where to go and ‘dat I got a t’ousand teef for him if he catches d’ose humies! WAAAGH!”
WAAAGH! Migwazza aerodrome, ~200 km south of Nazdreg’s fortress
January 18, 3400, ~1200 Hours


Image

Boss Migwazza stomped out of his tent. He smelled lunch: baked squig. Following his nose led him to the outskirts of the encampment. A bunch of the wanna-bes blazed past on the hills above the camp. Better find out who wins. There were always more pilots looking to join up, some of ‘em had what it took. Races were a good way to find out who.

He kept going. Soon he saw the smoke of the roasting fire, and grinned. It smelled good. He saw two of his pilots lounging around, plus a couple of grots turning the spit. One of them waved.

“Hey, boss! You want some?” Migwazza raised a thumb and came closer, still sniffing. Then he glowered and took a closer look. The squigs they were roasting were... midnight blue. Suspicion creeped into the boss pilot’s battered brain.

“Where you get ‘dose squigs?”

“From da pen by Mek Bitzgrub’s place. Why?”

Those... those... “ZOGGIN’ MORONS!”

The Squigwinda had been Bitzgrub’s fourth-best idea. Behind the deffkopta-with-a-buzzsaw-attachment, way behind the superWAAAGH!ic jet... Hmm, maybe not behind the nuclear ramjet fighter.*

That would have been great if it’d worked, but after that one went wrong, they’d had to move the airbase to get away from the creepy four-armed mutant snotling attacks, so not so good, he guessed. OK. The Squigwinda was Bitzgrub’s third best idea.

It had all started over fungus beer, watching a face-eater squig going after one of the ground crew. Migwazza had been feeling pretty philosophical, so he sighed and wished he could have a rocket that was smart enough to go chasing after things to kill, like a squig. Bitzgrub suddenly fell over backwards and shouted “Dat’s IT!” Which was always a good sign with meks. Usually.

A few days of ferocious hammering had yielded the first “Squigwinda” missile. Working with a few of the local Runtherdz, Bitzgrub trained an attack squig to look through a set of carefully assembled binoculars and gnaw on one of a selection of levers in front of it. By rigging the levers to the fins of a normal rocket, Bitzgrub build a missile that chased the target itself. He’d been working on that one for months now, and each new lot of the things was better than the last- it was great.

Finally, at great expense, he’d managed to get his hands on a batch of the rare, much sought-after night watchsquigs, claiming that their ability to see in the dark would somehow let them go chasing after the heat of an engine exhaust or... something. Migwazza didn’t understand all the details, but it sounded killy, so he went with it, shelling out nearly two hundred teef for the lot.

And now the zoggin’ morons had just baked the lot of them.

“RAAAA!” For a moment he considered grabbing the morons and bashing their teeth out against the nearest rock to help pay for another lot of watchsquigs. He decided to do that, but first, something a bit more fun...

Migwazza was actually a bit on the slender side for an ork warboss, but his pistol draw was quick as a warbike on hardpan. He yanked out his custom slugga... and put a shell from the underbarrel grenade launcher into his pilots’ campfire. Fragments of bomb casing and baked squig lashed out, a few of them scoring stinging cuts on his arms and legs, but the two idiots died very, very thoroughly.

That was better.

As the echoes of the explosion faded, he heard a shout behind him. “BOSS! BOSS!” He whirled, whipping the slugga around and squeezing off a couple of rounds on general principles, but it was only his smartboy.**

Used to Migwazza’s ways and undeterred by the bullets, the smartboy delivered his message. “Boss! Boss Nazdreg’s on da horn! A t’ousand teef for us if we can catch a starship dat’s runnin’ from him!”

That would make up for the loss nicely. “‘Ere we go! Round up da pilots! An’ get one of da ground crew to pry out da teef of dose two. Put ‘em in da war chest.”

“Uh... boss? We got no pilots today.”

“WHUT?”

“Well, Zak and Zok’re sleeping’ off last night’s drunk on account of da booze made dem go half-blind, Drog lost a face eatin’ contest wif a face eater squig, Guk got shot over his shoota, an’ Drogo got shot over Guk’s shoota, an as fer Beev an’ Botto...” He gestured at the shrapnel-riddled corpses behind Migwazza.

“Den we DO IT OURSELVES! Come on, you! You run da radar set, an’ I’ll fly! Tell da ground crew to ready da Big Mig!”

Image

*Author’s note: Yes, this means that Bitzgrub managed to get his hands on fissile materials.
**Smartboys: A rare subtype of ork that is basically a normal warrior in temperament, but unusually intelligent. Typically the ones to remember such details as the actual nature of the mission. Often used by warbosses as a cross between an aide de camp, a designated driver, and a whipping boy.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Force Lord »

Steve wrote:
HMS Challenger

Captain Shetty appraised the man standing before him, courtesy of the holotank. "I assume you are the commander of this vessel, then?", he asked pointedly. "Sir, please consider your situation. Your ship is damaged and inoperable. Even if I let you go, your chances of making it through the Gap are slim. I need only confirm you are not carrying persons of interest or a slave cargo, then you can be repaired and sent on your merry way. Killing yourself and your crew would be a terrible waste."
CNS Datton

Alright, time to buy more time.

"Sir, I have already considered my situation. In fact, I see no other recourse, given my orders. First, a clarification. Surely you must have seen the Pendletonian defences firing at my ship, which revealed quite plainly that we're not from Pendleton. We're from the Centrality, and I can assure you that we carry no slaves or contraband."

Time to confess, I think.

"I believe you need to know the reason why we're here. Several months ago some of our citizens were kidnapped by a Phfor slaver party. Ten of them ended up on Pendleton, and by the time we found out, your Coalition was already making ready to enter the Outback. We hastily organized a rescue mission, and an entire fleet was deployed near the Outback just in case we were discovered and cornered. Indeed, before the EMP hit, I recieved word that a Task Force was deployed near the edge of the B-A Gap in order to clarify our prescence and perhaps get us back safely. You can call your allies there to confirm it. As for me and my vessel, we rescued our citizens from the Pendies' clutches and tried to stay undetected, but I'm not very knowledgeable in this whole steath business. So here I am. I must say that my orders do not include letting others board my vessel for whatever reason. So I can't let you in."
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Force Lord »

Shuttle Malachuschus
Deep Space, Clankor Sector


Shuttle Malachuschus flew around the hull of the battleship CNS Frod, awaiting the test of the new Ion Cannon. Inside the shuttle, Captain Stack was nervous. If that cannon wrecked his ship, there would be hell to pay.

The hologram of the engineer was in front of him.

"Is everything ready at your side, mister?", Stack asked rather unhappily.

"Yes sir. All systems are a go", responded the engineer.

"Well, then. Let's see if your assurances are truthful. Commence primary ignition."

The ship's cannon began to glow with power as the ion energy was being charged.

"I intend to use only 25% of the cannon's firepower, sir. Best to be on the safe side."

Stack sighed. "Now you're cautious."

The engineer just shrugged.

"The cannon is ready to fire", one of the ensigns said.

Stack could now see arcs of electricity around the Ion Cannon. He gave the order.

"Fire at will!"

But, all of a sudden, the glow died down and the electric arcs disappeared.

Stack shook his head.

"What the heck?! Someone check on the cannon!", the engineer shouted.

"I guess you like drawing boards, don't you?", said Stack.

The engineer grimaced. "At least your ship didn't end up as space debris."

"And that, sir, is why I haven't sent you off to your bosses yet. You wouldn't want to explain that another Ion Cannon failed?"

The engineer gulped. "No sir."

Part II of Ion Cannon testing.
Last edited by Force Lord on 2010-11-05 04:57pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Lord_Of_Change 9 »

Volksland

To Reichswehr Sergeant Johann Schmidt, Volksland had most definitely fallen. The ruins of Fuhrerstadt's Germania Concourse stretched before him, a seemingly-endless sea of neoclassical buildings reduced to rubble and broken, shattered monuments. His armour was a body-glove of thick black synthetic mesh inside a carapace of metal and plastic that could withstand most small arms. His helmet covered his entire head, containing a HUD and a gas mask that protected against most common nerve agents, not that Volksland or the few resistance groups that remained had any of that, but wearing it was a simple matter of protocol.

It was a simple affair, the utter collapse of Volksland. After Fuhrerstadt had been destroyed and the glory-hogging Hussars had captured the generals, the people of Volksland-B (who hated the other Volkslanders) had rebelled in favour of Prussia, seeing a chance when it hit them. Then the Reichswehr had begun their occupation and a provisional government headed by General Siegfried Von Königstadt had been set up while the Prussians worked out precisely what to do with Volksland.

There were, to Schmidt's knowledge, two factions, those that wanted to annex Volksland and those that wanted to abandon it to its miserable fate of decline and disintegration into a third-world nation like Somalia or Liberia in the early 21st century. For the invasion's devastation had sped up things that were already happening due to neglect, and Prussia was struggling to supply humanitarian aid to the people of Volksland. Fuhrerstadt had been crumbling before the bombardment's first shot was fired. But the aid - not just Prussian, but also from those organisations the Prussians trusted enough to allow aid to come to Volksland's citizens from - was coming, and whatever happened, Schmidt knew that this would be a decisive event for the people of Volksland.

+++

Neu Preußen

In the hall of the Reichstag, things were anxiously being debated. The 'Volksland Annexation Bill' was being angrily debated, and several times the Speaker had to call for order. Eventually after a vote, the results were 51 fore, 49 against. With a tiny majority, Volksland had just been annexed.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Siege »

Tombstoner
The Perilous Circumstances of the Duke of Death

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“A Man of Notoriously Vicious and Intemperate Disposition”
Thaddeustown, Doralee
Wild Space beyond the Sovereignty frontier


The village was a series of shacks of crudely cut wood and sheets of corrugated metal, little better than roofed-over holes in the ground really. The rain had turned the main road from a dusty trail into a muddy gulley through which the superstitious scum that inhabited this miserable place shambled on their way to, well, wherever they were going. The Duke of Death didn't much care for their plight. The worlds of Wild Space were filled to the brim with colonies in one stage of failure or another, although the Duke had to admit to himself that Thaddeustown was really quite spectacular in its miserable breakdown and decay. There was nothing here. No spaceport – the landing field, or what passed for it, had been ruined some months ago by a crashing tramp freighter – no factories, no mines... Not even a saloon, because the locals belonged to some kinda uptight religious cult (the Duke couldn't remember the name) who'd banned not just alcohol but also prostitution, holovids and pretty much everything else that passed for fun and entertainment on the Wild Space frontiers beyond the Pecos Gap and the light of Sovereignty civilization.

Instead of a saloon, or for that matter a brothel, there was just mud, muddy huts, and a ramshackle wooden structure that passed for a muddy church further down the road. The people were muddy too, as well as emaciated and haggard, with hollow eyes that looked fearfully at the imposing leather-clad figure that had taken up position under a tree at the beginning of what passed for Main Street. The Duke pulled his wide-brimmed Stetson down and ignored the pattering sound the rain made on his black duster.

He felt right at home.

Auriga Bob, the Duke of Death, was just contemplating if he should dig out his hip flask of Tsvagna, the acidic Bragulan brew made of distilled alcohol, battery acid and rocket fuel (which incidentally meant the hip flask had to be fashioned out of a highly corrosion-resistant material, in this case bulletproof Bragulan steel) when he saw a familiar figure hurry out of the church.

Amongst the thronging masses of humanity trying to eke out a living in Wild Space, amongst those teeming millions of prospectors and colonists, whores and gentlemen, ranchers and vaqueros, lady aristocrats, wanted men and millionaires-to-be, amongst those dregs and hopefuls there circulated a thousand myths about dozens of legendary outback figures. Wild Bob Khan, Eliza 'March Hare' Hennessy, 'Cancerman' Cuthbert... Famed for apocryphal exploits on dozens of faraway worlds, these men and women filled the roles of archetypical romantic heroes and villains humanity couldn't seem to exist without. The Duke of Death himself was also one of these spurious figures.

Pinkerton McClintock was another.

Also known by his nickname 'The Professor', Pinkerton McClintock had, or so rumor said, once been a man of higher learning in some civilized but faraway place. Some said he'd lived in the Sovereignty, others claimed it was the Holy Empire, the Shinra Republic or even remote Umeria, where he'd been happily married until a powerful gang-boss had his beloved wife and daughter murdered for some unknown transgression. Dissatisfied by the response of the authorities, a grieving Pinkerton McClintock had (or so rumor said) taken the law into his own hands, carving a blood-soaked path of murder through the legions of foes arraigned against him before personally executing the gang boss by, depending on which version of the myth you chose to believe, dropping him from a stratoscraper, throwing him in his own pool of Hiigaran razor-leeches, or knee-capping and handcuffing him before sticking a stick of dynamite on a timer up the gang lord's behind. Now a wanted man himself, Pinkerton fled into Wild Space, where he began a second career as a notorious pistoleer who, unlike the Duke, fought not for a pay-day but for all the good lost causes that came across his path.

The Duke of Death didn't know if any of that was actually true. Hell, people told a lot of rubbish stories about him after all. Maybe Pinkerton McClintock didn't have a tragic past. Maybe he just liked blowin' bad guys away. He was a real good shot though, the Duke knew that much. And he liked playing the good guy, too. That was why he was here. And that was why the Duke was here, too.

Pinkerton McClintock hurried through the downpour toward the Duke, all the while cursing the rain and the mud and Thaddeustown and every living soul in it as he did. The Duke briefly wondered if maybe everybody here was already damned in some way – the mud-soaked environs sure looked like the kind of place you'd consign damned souls to linger in – but then decided to put off philosophizing about such things. Instead, he indifferently watched the Professor struggle against the mud until the man arrived under the same tree that offered the Duke a modicum of shelter from the elements.

“Well,” McClintock finally said. He spoke with that weird drawling accent of his the Duke couldn't quite place. “Looks like we're in the right place after all.” He tried to shake the rain droplets from his elegant dark blue mantle, a futile gesture if ever there was one – the rain just kept pouring on more water every second. The Duke just looked at the thin and wiry pistoleer and patiently waited for the Professor to continue, which he did after a brief moment of silence. “According to the preacherman at the church, we can find our charge just outsida this here fair city.”

The Duke nodded. “And the preacherman?”

Pinkerton McClintock gave the Duke a steely-eyed look. “Why, I shot him of course.”

The Duke of Death twitched one of his eyebrows. “I heard you wasn't into shooting unarmed men.”

“Well, Bob,” the Professor said. McClintock always called him Bob. Never Auriga Bob, or Duke. Always just 'Bob'. “I made an exception just for him.” He smiled ruefully. “It appears my wickedness knows no bounds.”

The Duke shrugged. He'd shot plenty unarmed men, and unarmed women too. As far as the Duke was concerned, it was silly (not to mention potentially quite unhealthy) to let the matter of whether you was going to shoot somebody depend solely on something as arbitrary as them happening to have a weapon in their hands or not. “He had it coming.”

“We all got it coming, Duke,” the Professor shook his head, sending raindrops flying from his feather-topped hat. “Let's go. It don't seem like we got much time.”

Stoically, the Duke stepped out from under the tree and into the pouring rain.

The two gunslingers left the joyless hamlet behind, slogging through the soaking mud and into the surrounding hills that rose through the rainy fog of this miserable little world. Pinkerton McClintock lead the way, his blue mantle blowing in the breeze, revealing the pair of Tokarev heirloom laser revolvers he used as his guns of choice. They were ancient weapons, almost as old as the Duke's own M2411; elegant weapons from a more elegant age, developed a long time ago in the Commune or one of its predecessors.

Mercifully the dispiriting trek across the badland wastes of Doralee didn't take long. The Duke heard the sound of slowly intoned hymns long before he saw anyone, but it gave the two outlaw killers a direction to move in. Minutes later, the congregation of the Dawn Church came into view, assembled in a great circle around a great pile of kindling, thrown together seemingly for a great pyre. Atop the kindling was a great wooden pale. Tied to the pale was a girl, crying hysterically. The congregation seemed not to take notice of her, instead continuing to sing their manic praises to, well, one god or another, the Duke supposed. He never was very good in keeping up with theology.

Either way the congregation was too busy shouting their badly intoned canticles into the cloud-covered heavens to notice the approaching gunslingers, which suited the Duke just fine. He was just beginning to think he should pull out his gun and blow away the entirety of the Dawn Church before they could react and was in fact already calculating how many magazines he'd need to do just that, when the Professor put an end to that any such plan.

“Oh, tell me you folks wasn't about to defile this here purdy knoll with sumkinda human bonfire shenanigans?” McClintock drawled, his left hand resting easy on the ivory grip of his laser revolver. “'Cause if that's so we two, bein' the damsel-extricatin' gentlemen that we are, would really have to object.”

If anybody had been watching, the Duke thought, just about now would be a good time to explain some of the finer 'what came before' kinda details of this here situation. See, there were a lot of tramp freighters in Wild Space. Thousands of dinky little rustbuckets run by mom-and-pop operations were traveling between all kinds of worlds, delivering anything from food rations to medical supplies or farming equipment to needy folks the galaxy over, all the while being maintained by well-meaning amateurs who often kept their ships working with little more than duct tape and prayers.

One of these freighters had been the Green Bandit. Had been, because some months ago on a run between Shekinah and Doralee the Green Bandit had burned through its Grav Boot. As a result, the fair ship had crashed quite spectacularly and definitively on the landing field, or what passed for it, just outside of Thaddeustown.

Luckily for the two people aboard the Commissions, where the Green Bandit had originated almost three centuries earlier, built their ships real sturdy-like, so both of them survived the crash with nothing worse'n a few bumps an' bruises. They'd been Philippe Noguiera, captain and father of a thirteen-year-old girl, and Isabella, thirteen-year-old girl and daughter of Philippe. When they crawled from the wreckage they found themselves stranded in Thaddeustown, a shithole town chock-full of religious insanity with nothing but blind hatred for anything they didn't like, which was pretty much everything to begin with.

That was a pretty bad situation to be in. What made it even worse, though, was that Isabella happened to be a third-generation psion who'd barely starting to grow into her abilities. Now, there were only scant few things the fundamentalist Dawn Church liked less than homosexuals, aliens and Sovereignty authority figures, but psions definitely were one of those scant few things. 'Agents of the devil' was about the friendliest thing the cultists had to say about them, and what dreadful things they claimed they was going to do if they ever got their hands on one wasn't something to be repeated in polite company. Luckily for Philippe and Isabella none of them had actually ever seen a psion before, or for that matter knew how to recognize one when they did, so none of the local yokels drew any conclusions from Isabella's large eyes, rail-thin frame or suspiciously pale skin.

And there was a way out.

More than one ship visited Doralee. In three months, a large cargo freighter from the Sovereignty was scheduled to appear over Thaddeustown, at which point father and daughter could hitch a ride back to proper civilization. Until that time, all they had to do was lay low and wait. Philippe Noguiera told his wife as much from the hypercomm in the ruined shuttle. In the meantime, he'd keep in touch once every week or so.

It was a good plan. Unfortunately, it didn't count on the nightmares of a thirteen-year-old girl psion traumatized by a crash from space. When in the depth of night every piece of glassware in half the town began to psychokinetically rattle that could perhaps be ascribed to a localized earthquake – once, or maybe twice, but that about exhausted that particular explanation. Thanks to Philippe's efforts it had taken some time, but eventually the locals caught on to little Isabella's peculiar nature.

Evidently they hadn't taken it very well.

The chanting had stopped abruptly. The crowd had fallen silent, turning their attention from the pyre-in-being to the two strangers who had appeared so suddenly on the otherwise nearly featureless hilltop. The sudden silence was only accentuated by the sobbing of the little girl tied to the stake. The leader of the congregation made his way through the crowd. He wore a red robe that was frayed at the edges and soaked with rain. Compared to his emaciated flock of followers he was obscenely fat. A single roll of fat hung over the dirty napkin that served as a clerical collar. It only managed to accentuate his utter lack of a neck.

This was Pastor Dick Weissenbuehler, leader of the fundamentalist Dawn Church and, the Duke knew, wanted in the Sovereignty on several counts of tax evasion. Although the Duke wasn't quite sure how he could be wanted for something like that, seeing as how nobody in the Sovereignty had to pay taxes. That was something to be pondered another time though. Auriga Bob turned his attention back to the pastor, who had finished disentangling himself from the garbled mass of his followers. “This is a holy cleansing!” he bellowed, his voice full of self-righteous indignation and fury. His face reddened as he pointed a chubby finger at the two gunslingers. The Duke idly noticed what looked like the faint outline of a weapon (specifically, an Imperial Athena-pattern las-pistol) underneath the red robe. “You cannot think to thwart God's will!”

Pinkerton McClintock smiled grimly. “Y'all see the man in the long black coat over here? That would be the Duke of Death. Now I'm not saying you weren't easy to find. But it was kinda out of our way, and he didn't want to come in the first place. Man's lookin' to kill some folk. So really it's his will y'all should worry about thwarting.”

That was a good point, the Duke thought. He'd come a damned long way without firing a shot; if this continued any longer he'd be out of practice. Of course, he hadn't been hired to come this way to shoot somebody. Instead he'd come here to rescue a little girl. Not by the parents of the girl in question though – Philippe was locked in what passed for a town jail in these parts, and the Duke doubted the mother would want anything to do with a man that had a reputation such as his.

Instead, he'd been hired by someone with a reputation just a shade better than his own: Pinkerton McClintock, also known as the Professor. High-falutin' sharpshooter and professional do-gooder. The Duke had run into the Professor in a space bar on a planet not far from Doralee. For a moment it had seemed like violence might occur, but in the end the two men had settled for drinking. McClintock had told him he'd been hired by Isabella's mother, who'd grown very concerned when she'd heard nothing from Philippe in two weeks. Having gotten off as excellent drinking buddies in the night and early morning (insofar as such things could be said to exist on space way stations), the Professor then offered to share the reward, which he said would be 'ample', if the Duke accompanied him. The Duke, having nothing else to do at that time, had simply nodded. And now, here they were.

Of course if the crazy local cult had acted on their murderous intents right away they would have come far too late. But apparently according to the holy book of the Dawn Church, at some point in the distant past (perhaps, the Duke figured, during the days of Heracules' legendary exploits) an angel had appeared to some kind of prophet in a blazing bushfire. And somehow the bush didn't get burned when this was happening. Based on this strange account the religious leaders of the Dawn Church somehow figured that if they lit little Isabella on fire and she wasn't burned, she'd be proven an angel too. If not, well, then they were clearly correct in burnin' her at the stake, 'cause she'd been proven a heretical creature of evil or somesuch. And the stake burning was to take place at passeaster, which was some kind of religious celebration of the exodus of true believers from Earth during the Great Upheaval many centuries ago.

To the Duke, it all sounded pretty damned crazy. But then he still had no idea what a Jesus was, so what did he know of religious matters? All he knew was that they had gotten here in the nick of time, and that he wasn't paid to let a little girl get burned to death. He fixed his dead, uncaring eyes on the pastor's and coldly spoke three words. “Cut her down.”

Pastor Dick got all red and huffy. “I will not!” he yelled. Behind him some members of the congregation yelled things like 'amen!' and 'sieg hallelujah!' in support of their pastor's defiance. “That girl is unholy and a wicked witch!” The pastor self-righteously complained. “And you are filthy unbelievers not deserving to share in the glorious celebration of our godliness! You shall leave us, immediately, or else-”

Wrong answer.

If someone ever tries to kill you, the Duke had once said to the man who'd written that book about him, you try to kill 'em right back. That, of course, had been something of an embellishment. In reality the Duke always preferred to kill folks before they had a chance to try and kill him instead. It was what had made him such a deadly opponent, and it was why he was still alive when so many of the men who'd gotten in his way weren't.

And not to forget, he had a reputation as a man of notoriously cruel and intemperate disposition to maintain.

It was for these two reasons that the Duke's legendary customized M2411 left its holster in a sleek movement that was less like a blur and more like instant teleportation. As far as the baffled zealots of the Dawn Church could tell, one moment the gun was tucked safely in its holster underneath the Duke's black kevleather duster. The next, there was a thunderclap, the pistol was smoking in the Duke's hand, and the lifeless body of Pastor Dick Weissenbuehler collapsed onto the grassy knoll, the back of his skull gone and his brain scattered over the ground and the congregation behind him. For good measure the Duke followed up with a second shot, which hit the powerpack of the hidden laspistol. The resulting explosion tore bloody gibs out of the carcass of Pastor Dick, and set his ruined robe on fire too.

No way he was gettin' back from that, the Duke thought with some satisfaction.

There was screaming. Of course there was. There was always screaming. But to the Duke's surprise (which was to mean, insofar as anything could actually really surprise the Duke), it wasn't the helpless, emasculated screaming of the pitiful terrified. Instead it was the outraged screaming of fanatical religious zealots, incensed and profanated by the sudden gory demise of their ecclesiast. They yelled and hollered, a swelling chorus of violent affrontation that almost managed to drown out the wailing of the little girl on the makeshift pyre.

Almost.

Then the violence began in earnest.

Like almost all populations on the frontiers and in Wild Space the settlers of Rosalee and of Thaddeustown had access to lots of weapons, and the congregation of the Dawn Church was no different. Whatever the Man Jesus might have said about 'turning the other cheek', right then the flock of Pastor Dick wanted nothing of it. Maybe the loss of their preacher-man temporarily blinded them to their divine teachings. Or maybe them divine teachings were full of shit, and so were its adherents. Whatever the reason, weapons were produced. And then the killing started.

Compared to the two gunslingers, there sure were a lot of cultists. At least three dozen men and women had assembled for the ritual witch-burning. All of them had now armed themselves. Some of them carried only knives or clubs, but most had shotguns or rifles or even, in case of some of the richest zealots, antique handguns. Collectively they possessed way more firepower than the two gunslingers. What they didn't possess more of, though, was raw killing experience. Which was something the Pinkerton McClintock and the Duke of Death had in spades. What's more, the cultists had come here for festivities and religious spectacles. Until moments ago they hadn't expected anyone but the little girl on the pyre to die, and they were hesitating to do violence to anyone in person.

Neither McClintock nor the Duke of Death suffered any such hesitation. The Duke and the Professor waded into the midst of the fanatical cultists with guns blazing. The simple black steel of the M2411 was a reassuring weight in the gloved hand of the Duke, who moved with the expert precision of a lethal gunman – he moved into position, pointed his gun at his chosen target, pulled the trigger, confirmed the kill, and immediately moved again, repeating the process as many times as necessary, occasionally taking the time to reload his ancient weapon. But even then the Duke never stopped moving, giving his opponents very little opportunity to hit him.

They said that when confronted by superior numbers, the experienced gunfighter would always fire on the best shot first. The Duke of Death didn't know who 'they' were, but for him it didn't work like that. The Duke simply began shooting and didn't stop until there was no-one left to shoot back. He didn't really know which of the cultists might have been the best shot. He just killed them where they stood, one by one, moving through the crowd like a train conductor checking the tickets of passengers. But instead of checking tickets, he punched them. He punched them real good.

The Professor was different. His gunplay was more graceful, almost elegant to behold in its awful lethality. Pinkerton McClintock held one beautifully engraved laser revolver in each hand and cut through the crowd of people with a series of brilliant flashes of crimson light. Each flash was followed by the clap of superheated air; each flash ended a life or severed a limb. In the end, he was just as deadly as the Duke.

The cultists stood no chance. Out of a flock of three dozen, maybe three or four managed to draw a bead on the Duke. One or two might even have been able to squeeze off a round, only to see their ammunition rebound harmlessly against the bullet-proof coat the Duke was wearing. And McClintock moved so fast he was a blur of posthuman speed on the retinas of baseline borderworld hicks, and utterly impossible to target. The thundering of guns echoed across the hillside. Confusion and deadly chaos reigned for long seconds. The cultists thought they had a Jesus on their side. But the Duke was a Jesus. A Jesus with a pistol. Whatever a Jesus was. And the Professor... In that moment, the Professor was the wrath of god incarnate. His eyes blazed with unholy fury, and his with each life he ended his lips split progressively wider in a smile of intense, cruel satisfaction.

It was over in seconds; that's how long it took for twenty-six people to become dead or dying.

One last woman threw down the antique rifle she'd been holding and ran down the hill, back toward the village. Watching her go, the Professor hesitated. The Duke of Death didn't. The clap of the gunshot died away just as the pathetic cultist did, her life ended by the expertly aimed uranium slug that turned much of her cranium into a pasty goo scattered over several square meters of muddy hillside.

It was suddenly very silent. The air smelled of cordite and ozone. The Duke began checking the bodies for any not-corpses that might just be playing dead. There weren't any, which was satisfying. The Professor meanwhile bounded up the makeshift pyre to cut down the girl. Mercifully, little Isabella had feinted of terror and exhaustion the moment the noise and the killing started.

The Duke of Death looked up to the skies. It had stopped raining.

The gunslingers came down the hill the same way they had come up. Isabella was curled up in the arms of Pinkerton McClintock. The Professor spared her an occasional worried glance, but the girl seemed physically fine. Mentally though... That was another case.

The scurrying wretches had disappeared. Thaddeustown was silent as the grave when the pair of mercenaries walked down the muddy gully that was Main Street. They broke down the door to the town jail and found no lawmen inside. Perhaps the sheriff had been killed on that hilltop. Perhaps there hadn't been an actual sheriff in Thaddeustown for a long while. They found the dead body of Philippe Noguiera where he had been shot in his cell. The gunslingers exited without another word.

There was movement behind the curtains of the buildings along the street, people peering out of the windows of the ramshackle houses. But no-one of the remaining inhabitants dared show himself to the angels of death that had come to visit Thaddeustown, much less challenge them to another feat of arms.

“There's something I gotta tell you Bob,” the Professor said as they walked out of the seemingly deserted village. McClintock glanced sideways. “You recall when I said there'd be a reward for savin' this girl?”

The Duke nodded. “In spades, you said.”

The Professor furrowed his brow. “I didn't mean like in gold bullion, Bob. Isabella's mother don't have any money. I meant it like rewarded by the satisfaction of doin' somethin' right.”

The Duke of Death was silent for a moment. When he spoke, there was an uncharacteristic softness to his normally flat and emotionless voice. “I know.”

“You-?” Pinkerton McClintock stumbled and nearly dropped the sleeping girl in his arms. He raised an eyebrow at the Duke. “You know? You mean you ain't gonna shoot me fer, like, deceivin' ya?”

“No.”

“'Cause I can, like, pay you myself if you want.”

“Don't bother.”

“Sheesh,” The Professor shook his head. “And here I was thinkin' I had you pegged, Bob. I thought you was a stone-killer, in it just for the cold hard dineros.”

Auriga Bob craned his head and looked at Pinkerton McClintock. For the briefest of moments there was a glimmer of... something, in his lifeless black eyes. “Wrong.” The Duke of Death turned around toward the village and suddenly his voice boomed across the muddy flats, strong as a thunderstorm and just as unavoidable. “All of y'all better behave!” he thundered. “Better not burn, nor otherwise harm no girls... Or I'll come back and kill every one of you sons of bitches!”

Then he turned his back to Thaddeustown. Gone was the fire and zeal, just as sudden as it had come. The man who had summoned it had disappeared again, transformed once more into the Duke of Death, remorseless killer of women and children.

The two gunslingers and the little girl disappeared into the wastes, on their way to the stars.
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SDN World 2: The North Frequesuan Trust
SDN World 3: The Sultanate of Egypt
SDN World 4: The United Solarian Sovereignty
SDN World 5: San Dorado
There'll be a bodycount, we're gonna watch it rise
The folks at CNN, they won't believe their eyes
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Kartr_Kana
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Kartr_Kana »

Force Lord wrote:"Indeed I am, Rear Admiral Patku. It was never our intention to break this blockade. We were here for another reason."

Kordis took a deep breath. It was now or never.

"Several months ago, a hundred loyal citizens of the Centrality were kidnapped by a Pfhor slaver party. We tracked down ten of them in Pendleton just before your Coalition reached the B-A Gap. Since it was too late for us to join you, we were forced to send a cloaked destroyer to Pendleton just after you got there. But our leaders feared that there was a chance it could be detected, given that said ship's crew and commander lacked much expertise in stealth operations. Hence the prescence of our 5th Fleet. Yes, this is not our entire force. The rest of the fleet is just outside the Outback. Again, I assure you we are not seeking a conflict. We only want our cloaked destroyer back. In fact, the last message we recieved from it suggested it was caught by an Anglian vessel. You must tell the Anglian command about this, or there would be an incident of ghastly proportions."
HCNV Paktu
Edge of the Bannerman System, The Outback

Admiral Kordis while I am sorry to hear about your people your government should have let us know either that they were there, or that you were going to mount a rescue yourselves. Now I will forward this through the gap as quickly as I possibly can, but I cannot allow your fleet to pass without orders from the Star Kingdom. However if you would like I can have one of your officers taken through the gap to persuade your stealth ships captain to stand down and prevent a interstellar incident.
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"Our Country won't go on forever, if we stay soft as we are now. There won't be any AMERICA because some foreign soldier will invade us and take our women and breed a hardier race!"
LT. GEN. LEWIS "CHESTY" PULLER, USMC
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Magister Militum
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Magister Militum »

Nécropole Impériale, Paris
Nouveau France, Fourth French Empire


State funerals for monarchs were always some of the grandest and most elaborate in France. Often, they required weeks of preparation, as well as a tremendous amount of coordination and security for the safety of so many dignitaries. The state funeral for His Late Imperial Majesty Jean-Baptiste IV was no exception. Thousands of individuals were packed within the Great Hall of the Nécropole Impériale's main cathedral. The Imperial Family, nobles, military officers, and ministers from within the Grand Empire were among the countless present in the Hall, as well as the monarchs and nobles, heads of state and ambassadors from Anglia, the Ascendency, Prussia, the Solarian Sovereignty and many other nations. From the Nécropole, the sorrowful spectacle was relayed all throughout the galaxy, reaching trillions on hundreds of worlds.

Louis-Napoleon II, seated at front alongside his wife, the Empress Consort Carmela Herminia, three children, and immediate family members, tried to observe the ceremonial Catholic Mass as best as he could, but his preoccupation was making that difficult. It wasn’t the fact that he had to soon speak to the mourners present, but, rather, the series of events that had occurred ever since the purge of Rapture. One moment he was saying his goodbyes to his father, promising to come back soon and in one piece, and the next he was taking his place as Emperor. He knew that his father was to die soon, but it was still a burden for Louis-Napoleon to accept. Someday he wished that no one would ever have to deal with the tragedy of death, but, even with the ever-increasing advances of technology, that dream still remained just that, at least for now. The only thing he could do now was to honor his father’s memory by trying to be as good of a ruler as he was, and live up to his family’s legacy.

His turn to speak now up, Louis-Napoleon rose from his seat and took the podium after being introduced by the Archbishop of Paris.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to thank every single one of you for joining us in our hour of mourning for the late Emperor Jean-Baptiste IV. When my father took the Throne, he inherited an empire that was still reeling from the petty conflicts waged upon our neighbors. My grandmother realized what would ultimately become of that danger and worked tirelessly in her final years to rectify those errors. Many of the militants and imperialists were opposed to such a supposedly weak position, but she held her ground right to the end. She never did manage to see what became of her plan, but she appeared to be content to let my father finish her work. And even with the opposition he faced, Jean-Baptiste IV was not afraid of dragging France into a new direction.

France became reclusive under his rule, but, despite that, manage to flourish in ways none of us could have ever imagined. Every citizen of the Grand Empire came to enjoy a standard of living that they could never have dreamed of, and a new enlightened society came about. For the first time in centuries, France had a ruler whose reign with without every launching a major or significant conflict. While many lauded my father and praised him for his dedication to all sophonts, he refused to acknowledge such glory or praise. In his eyes, he was just a civil servant - A very powerful civil servant, but a servant nonetheless -for the people he represented and led. The joke within the Imperial Court was that my father was a workaholic, never stopping to indulge in the stereotypical excesses that monarchs are supposed to take advantage of. He was the type of ruler who took his title of Emperor of the French very seriously.

And now that man is gone. The Emperor who created a new society and we thought would never die has finally departed to the unknown. He had hoped that France would be a new nation by the time of his death. As with so many other citizens, I can proudly say that he succeeded beyond even his wildest dreams. His compassion, devotion to his subjects, and integrity serves as a model for not only all government officials and heads of states, but also for all the people of France and beyond. The best way we can honor his memory is to try to live up to his legacy. Even if we only come half way or two thirds of a way... that’s good enough in his eyes. Long live the Emperor.”

Palais de Tuileries
Paris, Nouveau France
Fourth French Empire


“That was a beautiful eulogy, Louis,” said the Empress Consort Carmela, as husband and wife relaxed in the den of the palace.

“I meant every word of it. France lost a great ruler, and who knows how the next one will turn out.” Louis-Napoleon downed the last of his cognac.

“You’re too hard on yourself, honey. Your father knew that you’d take good care of the Empire and continue his work. Everyone knows that.”

“Times have changed, Carmela. We’re not going to be able to hide in our comfortable little shell anymore. We have to step out onto the interstellar arena, and who knows how that’s going to turn out.”

Carmela sat on Louis lap, draping her arms behind his neck. “Louis, you can’t keep doubting yourself like this. If France is going to take back her position in interstellar affairs, then I can’t think of anyone who is better suited to the job than you. Your father and everyone else knows that, too. You’ll make your father proud.”

Louis-Napoleon smiled. “I love it how you can charm me into feeling better. Reminds me of the reason I married you.”

“I think it’s time for us to go to sleep. You have a busy day tomorrow, Louis.”

Louis-Napoleon rose from his seat, carrying in wife in his arms as they headed for the Grand Chamber. “I have a much better idea instead.”
"America is impossible to conquer. There are too many gas stations and too many empty coca-cola bottles there." -Gregory Zhukov

"Whoever said the pen is mightier than the sword obviously never encountered automatic weapons." -Douglas MacArthur
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Shinn Langley Soryu
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Shinn Langley Soryu »

Here Come the Fuzz...
Santo Domingo de Trujillo, Nueva Hispaniola
Wild Space beyond the Sovereignty frontier


As a general rule, lawmen in Wild Space were one of two kinds of people. Some were among the most decent, righteous, and practical people in the entire known universe, renowned for their tireless dedication to the spirit of law, order, and justice. The vast majority, however, were truly and thoroughly reprehensible individuals whose sheer excesses and abuses of authority could make even the most corrupt Feelipeeni cops blush. There was very little room in between, and the very nature of life in Wild Space meant that those who tried to strike a balance between the two extremes simply found themselves dead for either being too corrupt or not corrupt enough.

Santo Domingo de Trujillo, on the world of Nueva Hispaniola, was actually one of Wild Space's more prosperous settlements, though a casual observer would conclude otherwise upon setting foot in the city limits. Earthquake damage sustained as far back as 3390-3391 had yet to be repaired in some places, leaving the city a ramshackle mess of upscale housing and shanties. Most of the major thoroughfares were paved, though the majority of the city's traffic passed through dirt roads that became nigh-impassable quagmires with even the slightest rain. Though the spaceport was still functional, its facilities were considered poor and unaccomodating even by the standards of the average Wild Space trader. What few factories and mines existed were universally considered unsafe, to the point that it was seen as a particularly bad sign of desperation if one willingly applied for any of the jobs there. Crime was just as rampant as it was anywhere else in Wild Space, and the police were uniformly considered just as bad as the criminals themselves. Two men wanted to change all that, though. Their names were Nicholas Angle and Denver Butterbean.

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Nicholas Angle (left) and Denver Butterbean (right)

Once upon a time, Angle and Butterbean had been police officers back in the Sovereignty. Few knew why they had left their positions to fight crime in Wild Space, and even fewer knew why they had chosen Nueva Hispaniola as their destination. All that mattered was that they were there, and they were going to clean out Santo Domingo de Trujillo even if it meant killing themselves. It was going to be quite the task, however, given that Santo Domingo de Trujillo had its own rogues gallery of corrupt cops, unhinged vigilantes, and heinous criminals...

An Abridged Guide to the Santo Domingo de Trujillo Rogues Gallery

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REAL NAME: Unstabler, Elliott
KNOWN ALIASES: Freakshow, Reverend Clyde Stanky(?)
GENDER: Male
DOB: 10-20 (exact year unknown)
BIOGRAPHY: Former United Solarian Marine. Contracted a rare skin disease after prolonged exposure to Karlack spores and received a medical discharge in 3384. Was imprisoned and sentenced to death in 3396 after going on a killing spree while employed as a private detective on Solaris. Managed to escape (along with Mikhail Tripper) when his prison transport crashed. Rumored to be Dawn Church clergyman Clyde Stanky. As his name suggests, he is extremely and violently unstable.

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REAL NAME: Leonards, Lawrence
KNOWN ALIASES: Edgar the Bug, Gomer Pyle
GENDER: Male
DOB: 8-20-3351
BIOGRAPHY: Former United Solarian Marine. Suffered a mental breakdown after going on a routine bug-hunt and received a medical discharge in 3376. Employed as a private detective on Solaris until suffering a second mental breakdown in 3396. Last known whereabouts place him on Nueva Hispaniola.

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REAL NAME: Lame, Horatio
KNOWN ALIASES: H, Horatio Kain, Horatio Kane, That Guy with the Sunglasses
GENDER: Male
DOB: 4-7-3350
BIOGRAPHY: Former crime scene investigator from Solaris. Dismissed from his job under mysterious circumstances sometime between 3390 and 3399. Currently employed with the local police in Santo Domingo de Trujillo. Has a reputation for being unbelievably smug and condescending.

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REAL NAME: Taylor, Daniel McKenna Boyd X
KNOWN ALIASES: Dapper Dan, Denim Dan, Mac-10
GENDER: Male
DOB: 11-1-3355
BIOGRAPHY: Former United Solarian Marine. Claims to be descended from a long line of Solarian soldiers dating back to the First Bragulan War. Lost his legs while fighting Karlacks during a routine bug-hunt and received a medical discharge in 3384. Later acquired military-grade cybernetics on the black market in the Nova Atlantean Commonwealth and made a career as a traveling musician and vigilante throughout Wild Space. Last known whereabouts place him on Nueva Hispaniola.

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REAL NAME: Gibbs, Leeroy Jenkins
KNOWN ALIASES: Leeroy Jenkins
GENDER: Male
DOB: 3348 (month and day unknown)
BIOGRAPHY: Former United Solarian Marine. Went rogue with the rest of his unit sometime after 3391 so they could become mercenaries. Currently employed by a minor crime lord on Nueva Hispaniola.

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REAL NAME: Neener, Joyless
KNOWN ALIASES: Intolerance Brennan, Bonehead, Boner Breaker
GENDER: Female
DOB: 3366 (month and day unknown)
BIOGRAPHY: Former anthropologist from the Nova Atlantean Commonwealth. "Went native" while studying criminals in Wild Space as part of her doctoral dissertation in 3390. Has a truly astounding lack of social skills or popular culture knowledge, to the point where one wonders how she was able to survive in Wild Space for so long. Has a violent hatred of Apexai, Zigonians, and anything pertaining to the Byzantine Imperium or Holy Empire of Haruhi Suzumiya. Currently wanted for her involvement in a failed terrorist attack on the Haruhiist consulate on Zigon 5 in 3399, among other crimes. Last known whereabouts place her on Nueva Hispaniola.

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REAL NAME: Tripper, Mikhail
KNOWN ALIASES: N/A
GENDER: Male
DOB: 3350? (month, day, and exact year unknown)
BIOGRAPHY: Former private detective from Solaris. Was imprisoned and sentenced to death in 3396 for the double murder of Doctors Merdith Gay and Perry Cocks and the attempted murder of Doctor Gregory Hausenhorn. (Needless to say, he hates doctors.) Managed to escape (along with Elliott Unstabler) when his prison transport crashed. Last known whereabouts place him on Nueva Hispaniola.
Last edited by Shinn Langley Soryu on 2010-08-30 10:18pm, edited 1 time in total.
I ship Eino Ilmari Juutilainen x Lydia V. Litvyak.

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Phantasee: Don't be a dick.
Stofsk: What are you, his mother?
The Yosemite Bear: Obviously, which means that he's grounded, and that she needs to go back to sucking Mr. Coffee's cock.

"d-did... did this thread just turn into Thanas/PeZook slash fiction?" - Ilya Muromets[/size]
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Simon_Jester »

Glowworm-class Transport Tranquility, on Nguyen’s World
January 18, 3400, 1230 Hours, Planetary Local Time


They were underway, the ship's ducted turbofans giving her a surprisingly smooth ride as they coasted out of the atmosphere. Konrad had Olivia secured in the infirmary bed; Dobson was on one of the tables, off to one side- he wasn't in a position to do much for brain damage in any case, so he concentrated his attentions on the patient he was sure he could save. He'd sent Brecht off with a bag of ice on his head; the captain hadn't even stopped by once they'd gotten Olivia in here, marching right up to the bridge and ignoring his own scrapes and cuts.

Then Dobson groaned. Konrad looked up, almost afraid of what he'd see; his mind flashed the image of a lurching zombie. But the man was only stirring slightly; he tried to raise himself a few inches and crashed back down to the bench. The doctor murmured, "So much for my triage skills..." flashing over to his fellow passenger's side.

"Can you hear me, Lawrence?"

That elicited another groan, then: "Head hurts..."

"I want you to lie very still." He cursed himself; he'd just assumed Dobson was untreatable in the chaos... how much damage had he suffered? How much worse was he going to be for the delay? At least he could find out quickly. He still had one advantage as a physician, even if it had turned into a liability in the past few weeks. That edge had singled him out for attention from dangerous men, attention that drove him to run, drove him to this place. But if he had to pay for it, he could at least keep using the benefits for good.

Konrad closed his eyes and concentrated on Dobson's head. He felt the familiar little click in his mind, as he shifted from an ordinary man's awareness of the universe to the psionic sense of perception.

Color, pitch, odor, texture, all vanished from his awareness. What flooded into its place in his consciousness was something at once infinitely poorer and infinitely richer: a complete awareness of the objects he focused on, in three dimensions. It was dry, bland, colorless; the sense of perception had none of that qualitative jolt carried by the normal senses, no sense of immersion in one's surroundings. But in exchange, it was breathtakingly detailed. His mind's eye could pierce the surface of the bench and sense the grain of the plastic underneath, could detect the crackling electrostatic fields of the dust-magnet surfaces that kept the infirmary air clean... and could scan the inside of Dobson's head, observing the distribution of blood, bone, and brain tissue, down to details of microstructure and internal chemistry.

The bleeding had stopped, but Dobson's scalp was a mass of blood already; he'd have touched it directly if need be, but not without trepidation. He probed deeper, and found to his amazement that the skull was almost entirely intact- a few microfractures, but nothing that wouldn't heal on its own; most conventional tests would have found nothing to worry about, and been right. Now he knew what must have happened: a small bullet fired by the smaller creature the captain had killed, hitting at a shallow angle, skimming along the scalp and tearing a massive wound... but glancing off the hard bone underneath.

Deeper again, to observe the brain beneath... concussions were hard to detect, but he'd made himself practice on patients until he could spot the signs. In Dobson's case- not good, but not bad, either. He'd need attention, stitching when there was time, painkillers definitely... but he'd live. "Relax, Lawrence, it's going to be all right. You have a very hard head." He turned back to Olivia; she'd gone from the only patient he could save to the one most in need of his attention in a matter of moments.

On the Bridge

Gavin wanted to be down there with Olivia, desperately so- but if there was any kind of a pursuit, they'd all need him here. He felt like the strain was going to eat him alive, but he stuck to his controls, knowing it was all in the doctor's hands. At least the captain was up here with him.

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The first order of business was to get some distance before climbing to orbit; a few minutes' level flight would see them far enough from the site of the attack that nothing Nazdreg was likely to have would be in a position to hurt them... he hoped. The comm hissed for a few seconds before the signal stabilized into a voice "...repeat, Overwatch Three calling unidentified freighter, do you copy?"

Gavin blinked. "We copy, what is it?"

"We saw the firefights on thermal imaging. Be advised that the orks are still pursuing you. There is a high speed aircraft inbound on your position, and a hijacked planetary defense battery is turning to bear."

The pilot's eyes went wide; he mouthed "Oh, shit," then replied. Now his voice was very, very calm. "Overwatch, what kind of battery, and can we avoid its fire?"

"Mass drivers. At minimum velocity they can surface-skim guided plasma shells out to a range of roughly one thousand kilometers. However, our observations indicate that the orks have not been able to disable the altitude safeties on the shells. Stay below six hundred meters and you should be safe."

Gav glanced at the altimeter. Then at the ground. He did some quick mental math; the results were not promising. "Ah, Overwatch, is that six hundred meters above sea level or above ground level?" He sure hoped it was the latter... there was a brief silence.

"That is above sea level. Stay below six hundred meters absolute."

That was just... too much. He started cursing in several languages, incoherently enough that no one on the other end replied. "Six hundred meters? What are we supposed to do, fly underground?" There was a much longer pause on the radio. How did we get into this insanity? Oh. Right. Now I remember. Remembering did not help.

"There is a canyon ahead of you leading to the east, vector 325, twelve kilometers. Drop into the canyon and terrain mask. We advise that you hurry; the guns are already pointed on... rounds incoming, confirmed on radar."

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He turned his head to the captain, who had started strapping into the copilot’s chair as soon as he heard the words “defense battery.” The captain punched the intercom button.

“This is your captain speaking. We might experience some slight turbulence... and explode. All hands, strap in.”
Tranquility screamed across the badlands as close to the ground as Gavin dared. The radio came alive again. "Impact in thirty seconds..." He could see the lip of the canyon up ahead, just a few klicks away... "Four rounds, ETA in 15 seconds..." He was almost there. "Ten seconds..." as he pivoted the engines and hammered Tranquility down towards the valley floor; he felt a brief moment of lightness as the artificial gravity raced to catch up. "Five, four, three, two, one, impact!"

The canyon was suddenly lit from above by the fiery trails of large-caliber artillery shells screaming through the atmosphere at near-reentry speeds, bracketing the freighter. High above, the rounds detonated in enormous plasma bursts, blue-white and almost as bright as nuclear fireballs.

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Gav shouted over the intercom: “Brace for impact!” and spun the engines to push them straight up, throttling them down to stay level. Just a few seconds more... Even several kilometers below, the blasts outshone the desert sun. He got the timing right- the blast wave from the first rounds struck just as he throttled the engines to maximum power, fighting to maintain altitude as the shockwave slammed into the freighter like a giant's fist. He was able to keep control... barely.

The radio went live again, this time crackling and buzzing through the EM clutter thrown up by the plasma blasts. “...nother wave... coming...”

Oh shit.

Infirmary

Konrad had heard the call to strap in. Olivia was already secured, but Dobson... he glanced over to the chair he'd helped the man into. Not good- he was still weak, and the chair itself wasn't fixed to the deck. He ran over to steady Dobson; he arrived just ahead of the blast waves. It was altogether too much like being caught in an earthquake. The light fixtures shook and flickered, and a bottle of alcohol Konrad had left on a side table fell and shattered on the floor.

Dobson moaned and looked sick...

Fighta-Bomba Big Mig, approaching the canyon

Migwazza skinned back his lips in a rictus of joy; they were getting close. He didn’t know what about this ship was worth a thousand teeth to Nazdreg, but that wasn’t his worry. He was just gonna kill it.

Then a bunch of blue-white meteors traced ruler-straight lines across the sky in front of him and blew up- a long way ahead, but close enough for the blasts to be dazzling. Migwazza threw his arm over his eyes, shading it from the blast. Nazdreg, muckin’ about wit’ his guns. Those things were a real nuisance, and they made Nazdreg think he was real clever. He’d thought about trying to take them out with a bombing attack, take the guy down a peg. He had a plan, it might work... well, maybe someday. If he went too long without a good scrap.

It didn’t occur to him to do anything special before the blast wave hit. His fighter rocked, yawing wildly. Behind him, his smartboy, who’d been manning the radar, shouted.

“Boss! We lost da left engine!”

That would explain why they were in a flat spin and losing speed. Migwazza hauled on the stick, willing the plane to fly straight and level... and it did, finally. He called back to his radar operator. “Get those zoggin’ clowns to KNOCK IT OFF!” Soon, he was muttering into the radio. Some gibberish, something about “blue on blue...” lot of mucking about. He reached back with a long, powerful arm, and ripped the microphone from the smartboy’s hands.

“You grots! You quit shootin ‘dose guns or I fly back ‘dere and blast youse to squig feed!”

He was rewarded with another ripple of explosions jarring his fighter. The radio signal vanished in a howl of static. The gunners were ignoring him! Migwazza bellowed with rage, and mentally moved up the day he’d launch his attack on Nazdreg’s gun platform. It’d be fun.

“Boss! I found ‘em! They’re tryin’ ta hide in da canyon down there!”

Oh, right. The ship. Migwazza let out a booming, throaty laugh and tipped his plane over into a power dive, heading for the deck and his target.

Tranquility’s Bridge

Gavin gritted his teeth and kept flying. He’d lost count- was that twelve salvoes or thirteen? Weren’t the orks going to run out of ammo sooner or later? He kept pushing Tranquility east along the canyon as fast as he dared, thanking the heavens for his friendly eye in the sky. Thinking about it, he remembered the heavily defended sensor outposts Nguyen’s World kept on its tide-locked moons, to monitor ork activity. It was just as well they didn’t know what Tranquility had been there for...

Somehow, Nazdreg’s gunners kept tracking him; each new salvo of four shells bracketed his position seemingly at random, making it suicide to leave the ravine and impossible to work out a pattern of which way the blasts would hit him from. Overwatch Three kept giving him the advance warning he needed to avoid being sent out of control by the shockwaves, though... then something new happened.

“Freighter, there is a high speed aircraft closing on your position, moving along the canyon from your six o’clock.”

“Overwatch, you mean through the antiship fire?”

“Affirmative. Probably ork-piloted.” Probably? Only probably? “You only have a few minutes to intercept. Suggest you arm any weapons you have and prepare to defend yourself.”

”Oh shit” just wasn’t enough for moments like this.

“Overwatch we are unarmed, say again we are unarmed. Can you get reinforcements to us?” There was a pause. He could almost sense what was going on at the other end. The controllers looking at each other, shaking their heads... then Overwatch replied.

“We already have a couple of gunships working their way towards you from the east, but they are at least fifteen minutes away. We’re alerting them to make all possible speed, but they’re restricted to the canyon too. Inbound shells in thirty seconds.”

That demanded all Gav’s attention while they rode out yet another round of massive explosions. He thought he smelled ozone from some of the controls, but no smoke yet. A few alarming flickers from the drive caught his eye; he keyed the intercom. “Sammie, I’m going to need you in the engine room.”

He heard an, amazingly, still cheerful voice on the other end. “Already here, Gav!”

“Getting a bit of wobble out of the aperture control starboard. Check it for me, OK?”

“Gotcha!” It can’t be too bad if Sammie’s still... wait, that’s stupid. He returned his full attention to flying.
This space dedicated to Vasily Arkhipov
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Siege
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Siege »

Universal Galactopedia > Recreation > Recreational Drugs > KASANARIUM

Kasanarium is a semisynthetic crystalline drug named after its point of origin, the Kasanar continent on the planet Tooramal, in the Zigonian sectors of the United Solarian Sovereignty. Unlike many other modern recreational drugs, pure Kasanarium has no immediately negative effects aside from being perhaps the single most psychologically addictive substance yet discovered, and physically accelerating the user's metabolism to the point that the worst Kasanarium wreckages are constantly consuming large amounts of junk food yet remain so skeletally thin that they resemble reanimated corpses (usually vital and healthy reanimated corpses, but still) more than anything else.

The drug is primarily consumed for its mind-altering effects and its uncanny ability to enhance and focus a user's innate metafaculties, which is the reason it was initially developed by the CEID intelligence agency for its psion field agents. The drug was dropped from the agency's field arsenal however when its addictive qualities became known, in favour of CE Rigs and other artificial amplification technologies. Nowadays, refined Kasanarium is used mainly as a focusing tool by psions not in the direct employ of the USS government, whilst more impure versions of the substance are used as recreational drugs throughout Wild Space.

Kasanarium is sold in various stages of purity, and the substance's addicitiveness, metabolism-accelerating and psionic effects are directly proportional to its degree of purity. The psychological effects of less refined Kasanarium can include altered thinking processes, excitement, increase of appetite and euphoria, synaesthesia, a sense of time distortion, ego death and spiritual experiences. The physical effects include extreme increase in metabolism, and prolonged regular consumption of Kasanarium will cause the eyes of the user to turn unnaturally blue. Furthermore, in purities above the 75 - 80 percent range, latent psions will begin to naturally manifest their ordinarily dormant talent, whilst purities above 90 percent will highly increase the focus and precision with which operant psions can harness their abilities.

Users of Kasanarium usually smoke their drug, although it can also be snorted and consumed orally in tablet form. The substance is wholly legal in the Sovereignty, where it can be found in most large drug stores. As a result it is widely available throughout Wild Space and indeed in many polities surrounding the Sovereignty irregardless of the drug's legality in those parts.
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SDN World 2: The North Frequesuan Trust
SDN World 3: The Sultanate of Egypt
SDN World 4: The United Solarian Sovereignty
SDN World 5: San Dorado
There'll be a bodycount, we're gonna watch it rise
The folks at CNN, they won't believe their eyes
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