SDNW4 Story Thread 1

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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

Niva-class Gunskimmer Grand Thug
Outbound towards Grand Coreward Trunk

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The Grand Thug plowed through the silver-blue liquid light of hyperspace with all the graciousness of an anvil, its hull was in no way aerodynamic, astrodynamic or even hyperdynamic but its set of six reciprocating sub-nuclear reactors nonetheless propelled it with swift speed belying a vessel of its shape, size and form. It was sleek and nimble by Bragulan standards, the smallest ship-class of their space fleet, a mere gunskimmer, but to some space navies outside the Koprulu Zone it would've constituted a very big and ugly destroyer-class or even cruiser-class warship. One thing the skimmer had, though, was a lot of speed and a whole bragload of missiles, guns and even missile guns. All to make up for its lack of prettiness.

Its name was a derivative of the Great Thug, a massive paddleboat steamer ship from the antiquities of Bragulan histories displayed in a museum on Bragule itself. It was a vessel from a time before Bragulankind had discoverd the might of the almighty atom and instead relied on shoveling copious amount of coals into steam engines (in some worlds, they still did this, actually). Some said that it was on that ship that the great Imperator was born in a manger centuries ago in the first-ever Bragsday, others said that his father was a steamboat captain who lurked in the bayou whilst raiding and drowning the bourgeois enemies of the revolution, while a few even dared to venture and say that the antique vessel had nothing to do at all with the Imperator for it was a paleotechnofossil hailing from prehistoric times. Either way, the Arbitrators didn't bother stick-beating people for these idle speculations so long as their thought contents remained ideologically inoffensive (although stick-beatings were also used to examine thought contents), but the main point was that the gunskimmer Grand Thug was named after something big and important currently festooned on someplace on the Imperial capital of mighty Bragule itself.

Those in the Imperial Space Fleet subscribed to the notion of the Great Thug having raided enemy shores during pre-Cambrian times, back in the geological era when the continents of Bragule were united in one Pangaean mass unmarred by plate tectonics or continental drift. Sometimes, it was said that Byzon's father captained the ship, other times it was said to be the Imperator's mother when she was pregnant with him, but most importantly the Grand Thug, like its historical pseudo-namesake, was also constructed for the purpose of raiding enemy places in the name of mighty Bragule.

They just did that back in the Reisenburg system, Umeria's very own capital, though not in a physical attack but a psychological one, making the Umerian space command shit their pants. Though upon seeing the size of the Umerians' big honking space guns, the crews of the Grand Thug also felt that very same urge. Which was the whole point of it all. For aside from surprising the Umerians by going 'boo', and delivering a number of vegemite-encrusted nuclear weapons right on time, the Grand Thug was also festooned with all manner and forms of sensor arrays, from hyperspatial ones and primitive radars, to even passive-aggressive phased arrays mounted on mechanically scanned arrays (to fool puny humans into thinking Bragulans used mechanical arrays, when there were phased ones mounted on them, in a feat of clever bragskirovka). Thus, with these, they were able to gauge the defense capabilities of the Umerians there in their own capital, thus allowing them to extrapolate a measure of the humans' general defensiveness as a whole.

With their mission accomplished, the Grand Thug was now heading home. It was not going to fly straight through Umeria, bypassing French space and making a direct line back to the K-Zone, no. The ship had the unique opportunity to explore the Spinward Expanse, the Spin Zone, a place seldom, if ever, patrolled by the Bragulan Space Fleet. It was going to take the scenic route instead. It would fly in the clear black areas near the shoals between Umeria and the Regency of the Engine, and make a narrow pass by Elysian space and then by the Prussianoid territories as well (traveling in the thin patch of international space between Prussia and the Regency of the Engine), before making a stop at friendly Altacar. As the Thug took its joyride, its sensor arrays scanned the whole area of space and took in everything it could within its detection radius. It was no CEID spystar, but still, it did not have to hide under cloaking fields or scatterscreens, and was free to turn its sensors on to active scanning while it sailed with the Bragulan flag held high. No fool would dare attack a warship of the Bragulan Star Empire. No one would be stupid enough to tempt Koprulu Zone rules, 'cause they did everything to the eleventh degree over there, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

Right?

Wrong.


"As most of you may know, we're not home yet. We're noway there. The Thug interrupted our journey for she's programed to do so unless things change. Things have changed. It seems that she has... intercepted a transmission of unknown origin. She got us up to check it out." Captain Yurgi Raghwarinoff explained to the assembled crew. The Commissar was with them too, eating a bronto-burger voraciously. Strangely for a bear with such appetites, he remained thin and quite lean.

"A transmission? Out here in remote space?" commented Ryply, their female electronic warfare officer.

"What kind of a transmission?" asked Bragbert, another female, the engineer.

"Acoustical beacon. It, uh... repeats at intervals of 12 seconds." Captain Yurgi replied.

"S.O.S.?" an acronym standing for 'save our shits'.

"I don't know." Yurgi answered.

"Human?" Ryply asked.

"Unknown."


Niva-class Gunskimmer Grand Thug
Deep Space, Somewhere in Sector T-7

The Thug dropped out of hyperspace and approached the source of the distress signal, a derelict spacecraft that had crashed into a planetoid. It was a mass primarily composed of ice and dust, perhaps a large piece of ejecta discharged during the formulations of some solar system. The vessel had crashed right into it, plowing into the solid chunk of ice, so it was in pretty poor shape, with a damaged hull that was broken in several places. There were several possibilities as to how the vessel ended up the way it was, though none of them were pleasant. One, it could've collided into the planetoid while traveling through hyperspace, in a freak accident. Two, perhaps there was an emergency and it had to return to realspace and crash land into the planetoid. Three, it had crashed there after suffering an attack - by pirates, raiders, or the warships of someone's navy.

The gunskimmer neared the space hulk. It was quite hard to tell the age of wrecks like these, in vacuum or near vacuum a hulk wouldn't rust, and any cadavers floating in orbit to the thing's gravity well would be mummified by the cold and vacuum, making any attempt at collision scene investigation and forensics moot. Space was the ultimate preservative, after all. So the vessel's crew began smearing the derelict spacecraft with active sensors, while using the gunskimmer's optics to visually inspect the craft with their space microscopes.

Upon further inspection, they discovered several things. The vessel had a horrible-looking design, with rounded edges and a Gigerian aesthetic replete with looping intestine-like structures that made it resemble an organoid. It had only one marking on it, which the Bragulans did not recognize, namely a six-pointed star. And, lastly, its hull had been damaged by weapons fire.

Meanwhile, the signal pulsed on.


They had sent down an away team to inspect the vessel. Not really because they were concerned for any survivors, but because the derelict was of an unknown category and perhaps there was something useful inside it. If not technology or hardware to be salvaged, then there were always supplies. Space was the ultimate preservative, everything from bronto-burgers to Freedom Beefs could last for thousands of years in the vacuum and still remain edible. The Commissar, still reeking of Zigonian incense and experiencing profound hunger, demanded an expedition to be sent. He did not specifically demand that they find him additional foodstuffs (because at the rate of his consumption, they would run out of supplies midway through the trip), but merely encouraged them to exercise their initiative on this, their longest ever independent patrol. After all, crews in independent patrols were expected to take risks, and gather new information through a myriad of means.

There was some worries about encountering a Karlack-infested space hulk, or finding a Karlack clutch of xenogauntlingmorph eggs and getting someone implanted with larvae, but they were too far out from Karlack space for fears of spawned broodlings to be realistic. Still, some of the crews were uneasy.

"Bash, that transmission... the Thug's deciphered part of it. It doesn't look like an S.O.S." Ryply told the weapon's officer, the aptly named Bash.

"What is it, then?" he asked.

"Well, I... it looks like a warning. I'm gonna go out after them." Ryply replied, obviously worried.

"What's the point? I mean by the, the time it takes to get there, you'll... they'll know if it's a warning or not, yes?" Bash shrugged.

Before Ryply could reply, she was cut off by the blaring of proximity alarms. Something was coming in from hyperspace. Ryply looked at her telescreen display and saw that there were many somethings, at least two of them.

"Shits! We have incoming!" she shouted. "Two contacts, medium-sized, they're fast."

"Everyone, man your battle stations. Get our people back on board and get us off this rock!" Captain Yurgi barked. The commands were relayed, and in record time the away team scrambled back into the ship. Then, with a jolt of igniting liquid uranium/liquid plutonium boosters, the gunskimmer lifted off the planetoid. "I want shields up and all weapons systems online now."

Bash acknowledged his captain's orders and started barking instructions to the gunners manning the K-bolters, missile racks and torpedo tubes. Afterwards, he reported that barely half of the gunskimmer's weapons were functional.

"Shits!" Captain Yurgi cursed. This was nobody's fault, since part of their mission to Umeria was to deliver a shipment of missiles - which happened to be the gunskimmer's own warload of vegemite-encrusted nuclear weapons. So all the encrusted missiles were literally sold out, and the only weapons they had were nuclear missiles of the non-encrusted variety as well as the eighteen medium K-bolters stuck on the gunskimmer. Craps. Yurgi regretted not mounting the extra missile tubes on the external hardpoints on the ship's hull, but there was little he could do since part of the Bragulan directives when sending ships out to diplomatic visits to other polities was to not mount extra missiles on the hardpoints but to mount things that looked like several dozen giant lawn chairs riveted to the hull for some inexplicable reason instead. That inexplicable reason was bragskirovka, to confuse the enemy into wondering what the purpose of the extraneous add-ons were, when in fact they concealed hardpoints for extra missiles to be used in wartime. But sometimes, just sometimes, in cases like these strategic doublethinking was not all it was cracked up to be. "When are the incomings due?"

"In a minute." Ryply replied. She was the electronic warfare officer, but the sensor arrays of Bragulan ships counted as electronic weapons. "Orders?"

"Hurm..." as in any combat situation, there were two options. First choice was to run, to tuck tail and flee like a frightened cubling in front of all these Spin Zoners, to bring dishonor upon the Bragulan Star Empire in a pathetic showing of its Space Fleet. No one would hold it against them, they were outnumbered and quite possibly outgunned. Second choice was to fight, and as the Imperator once said 'There are alternate ways out of our present situation than by forging a road toward our objective, violently and by force, over a sea of blood and under a horizon blazing with fire. But this way is the Bragulan way.' So there was no choice. "As soon as the first vessel emerges from hyperspace, I want you to initiate standard attack protocol #543. They outnumber us, and they think they can take us, so they might outgun us as well. But its too bad..."

"Realspace reentry in five seconds."

"...Because nobody can outgun Bragulans." Yurgi growled.


Haunebu V-class saucer-disc destroyer
Deep Space, Somewhere in Sector T-7

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Two saucer-discs of the ubiquitous Fourth Volkslander Reich emerged into realspace. One after the other. While the bones of their fatherland had been ground to dust by the Prussian Star League, their poisonous ideology and movement had survived and spread on. Werewulf. ODESSA. Thule. Schwarze Sonne. And a myriad other names in holdouts hiding in places like Pendleton and Majella, here and there. They had gone to ground, disappeared, but some had to resort to certain means to replenish their losses. So they served as mercenaries for whoever was willing to pay for their services. Or engaged in piracy, to take from those who weren't.

They had set up a trap, an ambush. After downing a ship full of those they deemed undesirable, they waited in hyperspace for whoever would answer the shipwreck's distress beacon, and when someone came to take a look, the wolves would attack their unwary victims. The Volkslander disc-destroyers were space wolves and hunted in packs or in pairs, singling out easy prey, isolating them and coming in for the kill. They worked with ruthless efficiency, befitting their heritage. They were cold blooded killers. They showed no mercy, no remorse.

And they would get none.

The Grand Thug was no mere defenseless deer doe, no mere entrapped elk. Unable to recognize the strange signatures of their would-be prey, the Volkslander wolves ended up pouncing upon no normal animal of the wilderness of space. It was not a docile grazer, not a harmless hare that would keel over and die to the predator's tooth and claw. What the Volkslander wolves had happened upon was a bear. And as it rose from the half-buried carcass strewn on that forsaken planetoid, the grizzly beast roared in the fury of its discontentment.

The hunters had become the hunted.

The Thug's atomic pulse engines exploded into action, detonating it at backbreaking velocities towards the closest saucer-disc, the one that had hypered out first. The saucer-discs did not expect this, perhaps they had gotten used to their prey fleeing like frightened trees, and did not think their prey would fight back in such a fashion, but to their credit they reacted quickly despite the initial surprise. The discs began maneuvering while bringing their big guns towards the gunskimmer. But the gunskimmer did not slow down, it didn't even maneuver, it just accelerated, pumping power into its engines while going straight for the disc it had marked as its target. It opened up with its massive K-bolters, spewing emerald-green bolts at the enemy, riddling it with acid bullets, gatling-cannons spinning while discharging projectiles coated in K-residue at hundreds of rounds per second.

The saucer-disc fought back. As its shields flickered with each and every K-bolt strike, it steadied itself and brought its gun to bear on the bears. Its sensors began acquiring its target, but the process was made more difficult as the gunskimmer's passive-aggressive arrays had switched to active aggressive-aggressive mode. The subnuclear-pumped sensors were overpowering the Volkslanders' own arrays, radiating them and making target acquisition troublesome, to say the least. But the gunskimmer was traveling at a straight path, predictable, and the Volkslanders returned fire. The massive railgun on top of the saucer-disc's hull roared and sent a chunk of depleted uranium into the Thug's face.

The round clanged against the skimmer's shielded hull. Then another round, and another, clanging and clanging as they struck dead center, right in the Thug's face, threatening to rip its shield generators off their moorings. But the brute ship took it, and as it came closer and closer it intensified the power of its forward batteries. Like space shotguns, its K-bolters spat relativistic buckshot, K-coated of course, towards the enemy ship in an attempt to break the cohesion of its shield fields.

The saucer-disc met the Thug's challenge and decided to charge the gunskimmer head on in a game of space chicken, all while blasting away with its primary and secondary cannons. The saucer and the skimmer came closer to each other with each passing second, both of them accelerating at ludicrous speeds.

Meanwhile, the second Volkslander saucer-disc fired at the gunskimmer as well. It was coming up the gunskimmer's flanks so its sensors were unblinded by any attempt at jamming. Solid slugs slammed to the side of the Bragulan ship, and as its shields were primarily focused in the front, the railgun rounds penetrated the shield fields and struck the gunskimmer's hull. Despite the strength and thickness of Bragulan steel armor, a clean hit from a railgun had a fair chance of penetrating, but the applique armor of the gunskimmer withstood it. Plates of explosive reactive armor detonated and blew the railgun rounds aside, protecting the actual hull of the ship under the ERA.


"Shits! Captain they hit us!" Bragbert cried out as the external explosion rocked their ship. She was unharmed, shaken but not stirred. She was buckled and fastened on to her seat and was fully decked out in standard space suit, with a brass diving helmet protecting her head. It was standard protocol for Bragulan crews, so even when the ship was extensively damaged and the compartments were depressurized (either due to hull breech, or through venting air to stop fire), they could still man their stations in an airless environment. "ERA absorbed it, but our shields won't be lasting much longer, pretty soon they'll get ripped off their mountings!"

"Ryply, maximize the output of our sensors! Burn their eyes out if you have to!" Captain Yurgi growled.

"I'm trying, I'm trying, but we're not exactly that hard to acquire! We're flying in a straight line, for Brag's sakes!" Ryply snapped back. Their arrays were already active-aggressively radiating the enemy's sensors. But still, at this high level of sensor output, they were burning out vacuum tubes almost faster than they could replace it. It was only thanks to the lightning fast belt-fed rotary-gatling autoloader that they were able to jam in fresh tubes just as the used ones burned out.

"I know!" Yurgi roared. Any second from now and it would be time. They were closing in on the saucer-disc, the game of chicken would end. The Grand Thug would blink, it would chicken out, but they would make the stupid puny human enemy ship explode. "Bash, when I give the order, fire all missiles."

"Da, kapitan!" Bash acknowledged. The ship rocked again and again. The saucer-disc in front of them was smashing their faces in, but the intensified shields were dealing with it so far. But the saucer-disc at the side, it was coming in as well and the exposed side of the Thug was vulnerable. They would not last much longer.

Captain Yurgi stared at the telescreen, watching the numbers ticked down, as the distance closed between the gunskimmer and the saucer-disc destroyer. Any second now and they would be in point blank range of the saucer. Any second now, any second... Now.

"Now! Fire all missiles!" Yurgi roared.

"Fire all missiles!" Bash shouted to the gunners.

"FIRING ALL MISSILES!" the gunners howled in patriotic Byzonist unison as massive missiles the size of automobiles were vomited out of their torpedo tubes all at once, flying forth into space whilst leaving behind dazzling contrails of combusting liquid uranium and plutonium. The gunskimmer shuddered as more railgun rounds pelted it, but the saucer-disc in front of them stopped as it attempted to retarget its weapons towards the incoming missiles. But that was too little, too late. The tactic used by Captain Yurgi was that prescribed for gunskimmers engaging superior dispositions of enemy warships while maximizing the potency of Bragulan thermonuclear missile salvos, namely by charging head on into the enemy ship/s guns blazing and only launching the missiles when they had reached the minimum envelope of engagement, when it was too close for the enemy's point defenses to engage the incoming missiles.

Which was the case now, as the entirety of the Thug's remaining compliment of unencrusted missiles smashed into the saucer-disc destroyer right in its kisser, its own forward momentum only exacerbating the deep impact in the microsecond before the warheads erupted into thermonuclear blossoms. The kinetic strike buckled the saucer's shield generators while the intense outpourings of radiation threatened to overwhelm their capacities. The Volkslanders reeled.

The gunskimmer jerked to the side at the last minute, narrowly avoiding crashing headfirst into the saucer.

"Blow all the bragboard ERA!" Yurgi barked as he madly spun the wheel of the ship, sending the gunskimmer twisting against its own momentum. Then suddenly, all of the appliqué armor on one side of the gunskimmer detonated. The hull explosive reactive armors, the HERAs, blew up in a flurry of micronuclear explosions that - together with the ship's own atomic thrust vectoring - spun the gunskimmer on a dime, sending it tailspinning to a perfect 180 degree about face. It was a maneuver that, by all means, should have snapped the gunskimmer into two.

It was a maneuver that brought it right up the saucer-disc's behind.

"All K-bolters, fire at will!" Yurgi bellowed. The gunskimmer shuddered again, not from the blandishments of puny human railguns, but from the mighty recoil of more than a dozen Bragulan K-bolters pouring forth thousands upon thousands of seed soaked in unholy residues. The gunskimmer rocked in a violently rhythmic motion as its discharges violated the saucer-disc's behind. The vessel's forward-focused shields had already been taxed by the torrent of K-bolts and the sudden climax of missile fire, worn and used, wearied, its unprotected rear could not withstand against the deluge. Shields flickered briefly before they were overcome, and the acid bullets began punching holes through the hull, spewing ultra-toxic Bragulan corrosives into the interior compartments. Damage control teams were dissolved like simple sugar carbohydrates exposed to gastric juices. The K-residue ate through the decks as more and more rounds came, until they reached the vital systems, the engines and reactors, the magazines - and liquified all of it. The first saucer-disc died from the inside out.

The second saucer-disc hovered menacingly in the distance. As it saw the demise of its partner, it seemed to consider its options. The wolf and the bear regarded each other. Like Captain Yurgi, the Volkslander captain had to consider his choices.

Except, Yurgi made the choice for him.

"All hands brace for impact!" bellowed the Bragulan captain. "Prepare for RAMMING SPEED!"

The atomic pulse engines roared to life once again. The gunskimmer was facing the saucer-disc destroyer. Though the Thug was now completely out of missiles, it did not matter. Flying at maximum speed, in a straight line, the gunskimmer itself became a giant missile propelled by the thrustwaves of nuclear explosions.




[TO BE CONTINUED. Please do not disturb.]
Last edited by Shroom Man 777 on 2010-10-03 11:23pm, edited 7 times in total.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by PeZook »

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Almera colony
Corinth, Pelania


A man ran by, screaming something incomprehensible. A small group cleared the corner and froze momentarily, before running off in a different direction. High above, a helicopter circled lazily above the city, occasionally firing a burst from its cannon at some target Vilena couldn't see.

The girl was dying. She knew that, too: it was a miracle she survived this far. The attackers cut off her legs, breasts and part of an arm before something scared them off. Her mother managed to crawl up to her before dying herself. There were pools of blood gathering at the crudely amputated stumps, turning dirt into foul-smelling mud.

The pain was almost unbearable, yet she somehow held on. For what reason, she didn't know: maybe it was just the survival instinct inherent in any human. It wouldn't do much good: it would be minutes before blood loss would become too severe to sustain brain function. Vilena didn't quite think in those terms, never having received anything but the most cursory education, but she knew she was dying.

Something leaped over her. A pair of dogs, it seemed. For a moment, a thought entered Vilena's mind that when she died, they'd tear her apart and eat her: for some reason, the thought terrified her terribly.

Then another man walked up to the dying girl. He seemed strangely calm and collected for someone wandering a city under siege: when he leaned over, Vilena realized why.

He wasn't a man at all.

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The creature stared at the girl for a few moments. She felt euphoric now, in what doctors would say was the last attempt of the brain to save itself. She smiled at the evil, skeletal alien and said words which surprised herself, even despite her current state.

"You came on the falling star?"

The creature cocked its head. Its face didn't move, but the - surprisingly human - gesture made it look almost curious. Vilena smiled back and closed her eyes. It was time to die now.

Then she felt, as if through a thick layer of fabric, a touch of cold, metal fingers. And then, a spike of green light flared painfully inside her brain, drilling deep inside, tearing apart the very fabric of what made Vilena...well, herself it stopped momentarily - and she didn't feel anything at all after that.

X-COM field command post
Corinth, Pelania

A briefing was under way. The command post was quite crowded, with officer of general Corello's army as well as the entirety of X-COM's local command chain standing around a tiny map table. In the time where the developed countries used electronics for everything, when these devices failed, there wasn't anywhere near paper to go around.

"We have been able to hold the advance of your collumn here, at the bridge.", an officer of Corello's personal bodyguard, the Black Panthers, was explaining, "We managed to get some reports via runner that they're not using any sophisticated tactics, just advancing under cover of their armor. They might've ran out of warm bodies already. Unfortunately, we don't have any means with which to counter their helicopters."

Delgado clenched his fists again. Those were his men that guy was talking about!

He reminded himself that Scavo, and all his soldiers, were now under alien control, and just nodded stiffly.

"Your mem did good. I will send you a detachment to contain the situation, then we can start a sweep of the city..."

There was a ruckus at the entrance to the tent. Despite protests, general Corello himself managed to charge in. An X-COM guard grabbed the general's shoulder, which prompted him to turn around and stick a pistol in the man's face.

Delgado wanted to protest, but - to an even greater surprise - he saw an Algeiran Air Force colonel walk in next.

"General!", the new arrival said, "Stand down!"

Corello holstered his pistol with an ugly smile, "Remember that you're guests here. Which one of you is in command?", he demanded, surveying the tent. Delgado stepped forward, "I am. What's the meaning of this?"

"The general would like to...", the unknown officer started to speak, but Corello cut him off, "The aliens are in the city. What are they looking for?!"

"I told you already, general, we...", the colonel tried to interject again. Corello shot him a murderous glare, "I wasn't asking you. I was asking him."

Delgado glanced at his counterpart in pay grade, who shook his head. He then looked at the general again, "We don't know."

"Bullshit!", Corello spat. His men were starting to quiver in fear, Delgado noted - they must've seen him like that before, "Do you take me for a fool?"

"Calm down, general! We really don't know what they want!"

Delgado noticed the general's men were starting to get restless. Corello's body language also betrayed a barely contained rage. For all he knew, the man might start shooting people right then and there...and with the loss of Scavo's collumn, the current contingent would be massacred. But surely, Corello couldn't be such a fool? Algeira would wipe his little country out if its leaders ever found out...

The Air Force colonel bit his upper lip. Apparently, he wasn't so sure Corello would be deterred by that threat.

"Everyone, leave the room. We need to talk with the general in private.", Delgado finally said. Corello looked surprised.

Brief confusion could be felt within the tent, "Do it now!"

The tent was soon empty. Only both colonels and the general remained, though he looked utterly confused. The air force man began shooting panicked looks at Delgado.

"Sit down, general. We need to talk about your city."
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JULY 20TH 1969 - The day the entire world was looking up

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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Shinn Langley Soryu »

[This side branch of the Majella storyline brought to you in even more severe Unreal TimeTM than the actual ending.]

Nacht Der Untoten
St. Gerard, Majella
Wild Space beyond the Sovereignty frontier


While the necronite infestation that had overtaken St. Gerard after the Bragulan bombardment had claimed the majority of the remaining human population, there were still a few souls that had yet to be claimed by this machine plague. These forsaken few, mostly mercenaries and other members of the Majellan resistance, constantly kept on the move, attempting to stay one step ahead of both the zombies and the Bragulans; while they would occasionally stop to rest and gather what little supplies they could, doing so tended to attract the attention of one or both of their hated enemies.

Such was life during a zombie apocalypse. A zombie apocalypse that happened to fall on the same day as BRAGSDAY.

ImageImage
ImageImage

"Tank" Dempsey was a USMC Sergeant who had been separated from the rest of his unit during the chaos of the evacuation from Majella. Takeo Masaki was a mysterious hired gun from the Holy Empire of Haruhi Suzumiya. Nikolai Belinski was an exile from the Commune, cast out from his society for an unknown offense and now making a living as a mercenary wherever he went. Edward Richtofen was a Volkslander mercenary company leader, the only member of his unit left standing after the rest of his men were killed and subsequently zombified. These four men could not be any more different from one another; under normal circumstances, they would have all killed each other a long time ago. Only the most powerful of motivations could drive them to work together, like the zombie apocalypse currently unfolding around them.

"We're here. This is the place," Tank said to the others as they approached the munitions plant designated "Der Riese" ("The Giant") by the Volkslander mercenaries working for the Majellan Free Militia. Der Riese was supposedly home to one of the few Majellan weapons caches that hadn't already been destroyed by enemy action or seized by the deadites for their own use; the weapons and ammunition stashed there were thus a priceless asset to any survivors who managed to happen upon them.

"Finally! I was getting tired of Edward's rambling," Nikolai exclaimed.

"Shut up and get your gear, Nikolai," Tank said as he turned to fire at a group of deadites that had managed to follow them there. "The damn freakbags followed us here! They're starting to swarm! Let's go!"

"Now, where was the damn cache again?" Edward asked himself as covered the group's retreat into the complex by firing his laser MG42 at the advancing deadites.

"Don't tell me you've already forgotten, you Volkslander punk!" Tank called out as he fired his M116A4 pulse rifle at several more deadites. "Start remembering, or I'll splatter your worthless brains against the fucking floor!"

"Alright, alright, follow me!" Edward said as he replaced the energy pack on his antique laser machine gun. "Even though the materiel was dispersed throughout the factory complex, we can't split up to search on our own. We need to stick together and search each area one by one."

"Whatever you say," Nikolai grumbled as he followed the others deeper into the complex, firing his K-bolter carbine at whatever deadites he spotted.

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However, it seemed that no matter where Tank, Takeo, Nikolai, and Edward went within Der Riese, the deadites were waiting for them. They were not the stereotypical stupid and shambling corpses as depicted in popular fiction by any means; the necronite infestation had manged to preserve much of their previous physical and mental functions, making them just as dangerous as living enemies. While the vast majority of the deadites were unarmed, quite a few still had what weapons were in their possession when they had first died; Tank, Takeo, Nikolai, and Edward all gladly helped themselves to the armed deadites' weapons after putting them down for good, discarding them once they had run out of ammo and picking up new ones to replace them as they went through the factory.

After spending what seemed to be an eternity wading through the living dead during their search, the group finally found what they were looking for.

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"'Mystery Box. Press F for a Random Weapon,'" Nikolai recited drunkenly as he read from the label on one of the weapons crates. "What the hell? 'Press F'? 'Random Weapon'? Is this your idea of a practical joke, Edward?"

Edward walked over to the crate, pressed the F key on the crate's keypad lock, and popped it open. Following his example, Tank, Takeo, and Nikolai did the same to the other crates. This single cache was a veritable treasure trove of weapons, containing C-3000 caseless pistols (unlicensed copies of the venerable Colt M2411 manufactured by various firms within the Sovereignty), two variants of the Solarian XM115 pulse rifle (the "Accelerator" automatic rifle and "Compressor" carbine), and Volkslander-built copies of the Prussian StG 447 and FG 420 laser rifles. "Now this is what I'm talking about!" Tank exclaimed as he exchanged his empty M116A4 carbine for one of the XM115 Accelerators.

"I dunno, I still have some ammo left for my K-bolter," Nikolai mumbled as he picked up an XM115 Compressor and a Volkslander StG 447 to serve as his backup weapons. Meanwhile, Edward chose to discard his discharged laser MG42 for an FG 420, while Takeo took up another XM115 Accelerator. All four men also helped themselves to the C-3000 pistols.

"Okay, now that we've all helped ourselves to the weapons, what now?" Edward asked.

"Simple," Tank replied. "We go out there, kill some more Brags and freakbags, and try to find a way off this damn rock. Now, LET'S GO!"

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Now that they were resupplied, the gang of four charged out of Der Riese and back onto the ruined streets of St. Gerard, ready for just about anything that happened to come their way. It was going to be a long journey out of the city and off Majella...

TO BE CONTINUED...
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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Ride of the Battlecruisers: Distress Call

Post by Simon_Jester »

USS Haruna, Flagship of TF BC4.1
Following the Grand Coreward Trunk, Sector T-8
March 14, 3400


Admiral Lisiewicz had just finished briefing his officers on their first round of ops plans when one of the squadron navigational rating on flag bridge paged him.

"Sir, we're picking up a distress signal, very weak; also... well, there's a very loud drive signature on long range hyperwave, looks like someone bolted heavy cruiser engines onto a light cruiser hull, then screwed up the hyperfield geometry six ways from Sunday to slow her back down. On top of that, the ELINT pickets are picking up some hyperwave in what sounds like a German dialect, but they're using code phrases. Not on any of the Prussian code books we know of, and not on any of their preferred frequencies. Could be independent operators, salvage or... possibly a stalking horse. Hard to say without being able to interrogate the source of the distress beacon."

"Hmm." Interesting. Well, we're supposedly here in case Volkslander renegades turn pirate, so I think we're entirely justified in investigating the scene. If the German-speakers are Prussian Fleet, fine, if not, not.

He turned to squadron communications. "All craft halt. Ekaterina Groznaya, Emilie du Chatelet, Ichabod Weir, and Yevgeny Bartrev to investigate distress signal and unidentified contacts at squadron-relative azimuth one point seven three, elevation minus zero point two four. Ships are to rendering assistance to all distressed spacers.

The light starships of the screen, a light cruiser and three destroyers, should be able to handle the situation in the event that they were dealing with a stalking horse. Then again, in that case, looking at the plot... any action might well be long over before they arrived.
Last edited by Simon_Jester on 2010-12-14 09:33pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Siege »

OOC: I'm assuming Shinn's guys got off-planet (or whatever fate he deigns to bestow upon them) before the Moon Cannon fired.


Deep Shelter
Majella-3


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After the mercenaries and the unrest, the Sovereignty and the Bragulans, the Deadites and the ultimate Bragulan cure for infection, the surface of Majella 3 was utterly ruined. The firing of the Moon Cannon had been a mass deadite extinction event; even the unnaturally resilient hordes of living dead could not resist the awesome power of a fully operational Bragulan moon cannon. The rain of skyscraper-sized missiles and nuclear bombs had caused the very atmosphere to catch fire. Continents had been scoured, cities had been blown away, forests turned into bonfires commemorating the awesome firepower of the Imperator's finest (who were now hurriedly advancing in a rearward direction). The planet burned, and with it burned pretty much all of its strategic value.

When an hour later the mighty flagship of the 616th Interplanetary, USS Murderous, arrived in high orbit over the torched world, continent-wide firestorms were sweeping across the surface, burninating everything that could possibly have once been of value - cities, spaceports, resource extraction facilities, hell even deadites were turned into short-lived pot roast by the Bragulan bombardment. And so it came to pass that the commander of the 616th, the infamous Brigadier Flash Stalin, gazed upon the devastation far below and said: "I guess that settles that". And without further ado the mighty fleet of Star Force and Marine Corps ships turned around and shortly thereafter hypered out, never to return again.

And yet, below the smoke and flame, not everything was as dead as it seemed.

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It was a bunker that would put even lesser Bragulan facilities to shame, the product of many generations of convicts forced to labour under regimes of varying harshness that had ruled over Majella when it had still been unkempt and untouched by the gruesome culmination of a Tannhauser Tango turned into Musical Chairs played by Koprulu Zone Rules. Designed and built by the lords and masters of Majella, who had anticipated just such an event, the concrete-covered reinforced-steel mountain was only the entrance to the bunker, which itself had been tunneled deep into the planetary crust. It had been the deepest secret of the planetary leadership, the only such facility on the planet, and the very place where August Bullfinch had tried to flee moments before his capitol building was pancaked by United Solarian Marines and his ignominious career as hivehost necrodude began.

Only a handful of people had known of its existence. Even fewer of them had made it to the shelter through the hordes of undead and the Bragulan crossfire. But through ruthless Darwinian selection the few that had made it were some of the most cunning, resourceful, deadly - and now, vengeful - people on Majella. As the dust settled and the mighty doors of Vault Gamma-Sigma opened once more, these were the people to emerge. In pressure suits they stepped out onto the blackened concrete of the superbunker, gazed across the burning landscape that had once been their home, and hurled their curses to the empty skies. At that moment those few, those battered few, this band of brothers forged by the destruction of an entire planet, vowed their revenge against all responsible for the downfall of their once-radiant home. It was a key moment in the history of the Koprulu Zone and the Sovereignty-Bragulan conflict.

It was the birth of Gamma-Sigma.
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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 DarthShady »

The Graveyard Nebula
Edge of Malacor Sector, Karlack Space
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Strange places were abundant in the vastness of space, the Graveyard Nebula was perhaps one of the strangest places in the galaxy. The Graveyard was aptly named as it was a place which housed the remains of thousands of ships, some as old as the Swarm itself. Relics from long forgotten worlds, the last remains of species that no longer existed. This was a place where the Karlack brought what was left of their defeated enemies, and although quite a few Imperium battleships could be seen drifting among the wreckage(Perhaps a sign of the future? A prediction of things to come?), most of the relics here were unknown to the rest of the galaxy - remains from a time before the humans spread out amongst the stars. This was a graveyard of those who came before, those whose existence was ended by the chitinous hordes of the Karlack. They would stay here, forever, a symbol of what awaited the galaxy, should the Swarm manage to achieve its ultimate goal.

It was among this wreckage of old, that one of the Aspects made his home. Arkael - the Keeper. Arkael had a strange fascination with technology and spent most of its time analyzing and studying the mechanical constructs of the other races. Its expertise was useful and the Karlack had benefited much from this strange fascination. Arkael's talents had found many a flaw in the technology of the Swarms enemies. And as the Graveyard itself attested, the Karlack were good at exploiting those flaws. In spite of its name, the Graveyard was not a desolate wasteland, it was quite an active place - with Arkael's Brood ships swarming around, following the commands of their unusual master. Still the place rarely got visitors, with the exception of new additions to the ever growing collection of relics. But today, Arkael received its first visitor in a very long time. A rather large one. A World Crusher Brood Ship, or as the Imperium called them, a Hive Ship.
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On board the large behemoth, Seth was standing in a sea of lesser Karlack creatures, strange and horrifying sounds echoing all around him. He reached out with his mind.

"Arkael. I have come. Is everything prepared?" His psychic powers carrying his thoughts through the nebula as the Hive Ship moved slowly deeper into the Graveyard.

Blue lightning began arcing across the surface of the old ships, bouncing from one wreck to the next, pure Omega energy - a power unlike any other. Soon a swarm of small bug like creatures could be seen approaching the large Hive Ship, the same blue power could be seen arcing among them, jumping randomly from one small organism to the other. There were millions of them, like a swarm of locusts they descended upon the Hive Ship. And in this swarm an intellect resided, the mind of Arkael, the locusts were its body, its way of interacting with the universe. No other form could hold its massive intellect, its unsurpassed intelligence, Arkael was the smartest and perhaps the strangest among the Aspects. Each locust in its large swarm possessed brain power greater than any other Karlack organism, and combined they made Arkael - a genius beyond the understanding of mortal minds. And it was this Genius that had done Seth a rather large favor.

"Your construct is ready. You will be very pleased. I have disassembled many intelligences. reconstructed and combined them into one new and superior being. A construct that rivals, if not exceeds the greatest CI's of the Solarians." Arkael's voice was cold, arrogant and detached. Which wasn't very surprising for a being of its capabilities, and its rather unique view of the universe.

"I'm sure they will come to appreciate your creation." Seth gave a mental smile. Arkael's arrogance and pride were annoying to most others, but Seth thought them to be quite amusing. "Will it be loyal?"

"Like all my creations, this too is a servant of my will, and even with the vast intelligence I have granted it - it cannot disobey my wishes. Or to be more precise...your wishes." As Arkael spoke, his swarm was busy working inside the Hive Ship, assembling the construct in its new home.

"Good." Seth said. "Thank you."

"Do not thank me old one. You owe for this." Arkael's thoughts betrayed a smug smile. If a creature of his kind was capable of smiling, or being smug for that matter.

"Of course." Seth said. "So care to demonstrate its capabilities?"

"It has already been activated." Arkael said and a hologram of a red colored humanoid figure with no face appeared in front of Seth. "All it needs now is a name."

"I shall call it...SICKLE."
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Simon_Jester »

Central Administration Complex, Reisenburg
April 2, 3400
1600 Hours


First Technarch Michael O'Connell slumped in his chair after his latest meeting with the Prussian Reichskanzler, groaned, and pinched the bridge of his nose. There's another two hours of my life I won't be getting back. Thank you so very much, Herr Hoffman...

Hmm. Was Maxim free? He ought to have been able to politely disengage from the Chancellor by now; they'd both learned a lot about polite disengagement over the years, and dealing with Hoffman was a postgraduate course in the art.

Time to change the game a bit. Move one: call Max. O'Connell brought up his list of government contacts and selected the Second for Foreign Affairs. A moment later, the older man's laugh-lined face appeared on the screen.

"Hi, Mike. What is it?"

"I was just thinking how lucky Herr Hoffman is that he isn't dealing with my predecessor. Henggang would have thrown him out of the office on the second day."

Chernov raised an eyebrow. "What, you think Li would have waited that long?"

"Well, yes; the office is on the two hundredth story, after all."

The Second for Foreign Affairs didn't take long to catch that one; he started laughing uproariously, doubled over in his seat. O'Connell leaned back, lacing his fingers behind his head, and waited for his old friend to calm down.

"Anyway, I'm beginning to think the negotiations aren't going to get anywhere at this pace."

"No, really?"

"I know, I know, you predicted this a week ago at the game, then beat me in twelve moves just to prove you were in good form at the time."

"Well, I'd just gotten out of another four-hour meeting with him, and that was after the second round of drinks, as I recall. I was in a bad mood at the time, but now that you mention it..."

"All right. Anyway, I think it's fair to say that whatever Hoffman is here to do, he doesn't have a concrete agreement in mind and isn't prepared to acknowledge our actual concerns over Volksland."

"True. I'm beginning to suspect that he came here without knowing what kind of agreement he planned to sign."

"I can't understand it. He's said many times he wants to "reach an understanding." You'd think he knew what understanding he had in mind. Or did he just want to impress us with how personally friendly he is?"

"Perhaps the latter. That can work to a point, I've done it any number of times, but..."

"...but you do your homework before you go off to another country to show off how friendly you are. He didn't."

"True." And the First Technarch knew that that was most likely the problem. Hoffman had come to Reisenburg in hopes of making the Umerians understand him. And indeed, O'Connell and Chernov did understand Hoffman, quite well. But what did it matter that they understood him when he had nothing to say? What profit was there in communicating with someone whose words had no real content, whose intentions were so vague as to be nonexistent?

Michael let out a long, slow breath. "That said, I think that we have to wrap this up. He's burning time we don't really have to spare, and every day he wastes is a day the Volksland issue isn't settled, a day the Prussians have to cement further control over the planet and to position forces for whatever next moves they might make."

"...Hmm. Do you know, that might be his angle. Another one of those preplanned blitz operations, either against us or against other independent planets in T-10, while we're tied up in negotiations..."

"Possibly. Whether he's got anything that subtle up his sleeve or not, he's still wasting our time. Besides, if I have to keep listening to him waste our time much longer I'm going to go DuQuesne on him."

"I'd never expected to hear you say that, Mike, not when you were picked as a reconciliationist, but I know what you mean."

"Right. Anyway, I think it's time to give the most illustrious Kanzler a nice solid boot in the ass."

Prussian Embassy, Prime City, Reisenburg
April 2, 3400
1600 Hours


"I'm telling you, Ulrich, you're all wrong about how O'Connell is behaving. I've looked the man in the eye. I was able to get a sense of his soul. And I think we're getting somewhere."

With the steel-hard discipline of the Prussian old guard, Ambassador Ulrich von Beck fought back the impulse to sigh, to groan, even to blink. He had no respect for the... person in front of him, but the office of the Reichskanzler must be honored even if the holder of the office was not. That was at the very soul of what made Prussia what it was: the traditions, the loyalty, the obedience to the interests of the State without regard to the men who made it up.

Franz Hoffman was the chancellor, the head of the government, the left arm of the Kaiser to go with the right arm that was the Prussian military. Granted, he might be a withered left arm, but the office must be honored. To do otherwise would be un-Prussian, and thus unthinkable. But then, that was the problem: the Umerians were not Prussians, and thought the unthinkable as a matter of routine. They were a people to be respected in some ways, perhaps even to be admired in a few, but they had no understanding of the proper relation of man to the institutions of the State. They were seeing Hoffman not as an office, not as Chancellor of the Prussian Reich, but as a man. And Hoffman, viewed as a man, simply was not very impressive.

It was plain that in spite of his efforts to smooth things over, to prepare the Technarchs to meet Hoffman and Hoffman to meet the Technarchs, the negotiations were doomed if Hoffman didn't sit down and seriously consider his own goals and priorities.

In his heart, von Beck knew that Hoffman would not, could not, do so.

He tried to explain again. "Herr Kanzler, you cannot base policy only on personal impressions. Not when dealing with Umerians, especially not the Umerians of this administration. They will remain polite until they are on the brink of violence, until they have already decided that politeness will serve no further purpose. At some times they may be polite even then. The fact that you think Herr Doktor O'Connell understands you means nothing, so long as you do not offer him some concrete point on which to build an agreement."

"Why, surely I have done so! I am here looking for an understanding- Prussia has no hostile intentions for Umeria, after all... Hopefully, a trade agreement or non-aggression pact, or something similar, at the least..."

"Herr Kanzler, have you then some draft of such an agreement? A specific proposal?"

"I had been hoping that such would develop naturally, over the course of the discussions."

"So then, if such an agreement has not yet been drafted, then perhaps you have a counter-note, one addressing the Umerians' concerns over the matter of Volksland in a straightforward fashion? That would be most useful; the Umerians are very appreciative of straightforwardness in diplomacy."

"But you must see, Herr Repräsentant, that the Umerians' questions cannot be addressed so simply and baldly as they were put to us. The people of Volksland are facing a humanitarian crisis, and we simply cannot help them that much if we do not annex them. There are also the matters of de-fascistification of Volksland, which is looking to be hard if we do not engender a sense of Prussianism in the population, which will be rather hard without annexing them. And then there are the potential security ramifcations [sic] - suppose fascists take power in Volksland again? This is a risk we can not afford, so for the moment, Volksland will become Prussian."

Von Beck nodded slowly, to buy himself time to compose his next question to the Chancellor. All this I have heard before. Perhaps I can bring him to the point this time, though?

"And so in the course of the negotiations, you do not intend to address the Umerians' concerns, their desire for assurances regarding the security of the Trunk, their desire for compensation to neutral shipping disrupted by the Kaiserliche Marine's operations, their frustration with what they see as a disconnect between the assurances of the Government and the decisions of the Reichstag, und so weiter?"

"Why, of course I wish to address the Umerians' concerns, but how am I to do so when they are not properly sympathetic to the League's need to secure Neu Lothringen and instill a proper sense of Prussianism in the inhabitants?"

"Herr Kanzler, I apologize from the bottom of my heart for being so blunt with you, but we must face this matter squarely. I understand that you wish to address the Umerians' concerns, that it is your desire to bring about peace and remove tensions. But do you intend to do so? Is there, in fact, anything you seriously intend to say to them, any specific, concrete policy you wish to advance?"

Chancellor Hoffman glowered. "Herr Repräsentant, you forget yourself, but I will overlook that in light of your long and heroic service to the State. I am here to promote amity between the Technocracy and the League. To "extend the olive branch of peace," as it were. I understand that the Umerians would never expect me to do such a thing, and that is why I did it: to show that I care."

"But I do not understand in what way you intended to promote amity, and thus I do not understand why you chose to come to Umeria at all." Von Beck injected a note of pleading into his voice. Though it disgusted him, it was necessary to his effort to get through to Hoffman. "I cannot assist you in achieving your aim if I do not know what your aim is, Herr Kanzler. And it is unlikely that you will be able to achieve your aim at all, unless it is clearly defined. In dealing with the Umerians, one must always remember von Clausewitz's remarks on clarity of aim."

Hoffman looked blank. "Clausewitz? I have not... not heard of him, come to think of it. Clearly not a member of the Reichstag, nor a government official of any note. Perhaps... is this "Clausewitz" you refer to a military figure? Someone on the General Staff?"

Oh thou my God, he doesn't know who Clausewitz is? Granted the man was an ancient philosopher but... to simply not know Clausewitz, as a Prussian leader, was almost as absurd as not having heard of Christ. Perhaps more so; it was possible to be an honorable Prussian without the church, but how was it possible to be a Prussian without understanding the clarity of purpose and mental discipline of one of the men who helped to rebuild the old Prussia in the wake of the campaigns of Napoleon?

At this, von Beck gave up. He could not do this. He could lead Hoffman to the realities the Chancellor had been ignoring, but he could not make him think.

"You might say that Clausewitz is something of a figure among the General Staff, yes." And that was true; Clausewitz had practically invented the General Staff, nearly sixteen hundred years ago, in the first great age of Prussian glory. Every subsequent version of the Staff acknowledged him as one of the founding fathers of military science, and rightly so.

"I apologize deeply, Herr Kanzler, but there are duties I must attend to if I am to keep the business of the embassy running in a smooth and orderly fashion."

"Of course, Ulrich, of course. I would not want to keep you from doing your duty."

As he bowed and left the room, the old veteran thought to himself, That is likely even true... and yet since his arrival in Reisenburg he has done nothing else but keep me from doing my duty.

1615 Hours

The Prussian ambassador retreated to his study. Ulrich von Beck felt like a very old man. A broken old man, one out of place and out of time. How was he to understand this world in which simply convincing his own head of state to pay attention to the reactions and concerns of a neighboring state was like the labors of Sisyphus?

Unlike the Kanzler, Ulrich was quite familiar with Vom Krieg, having practically memorized the book in his many long decades of service to the State. His mind was drawn irresistibly back towards the beginning of that great work by that great founding figure of Prussianism.
Carl von Clausewitz wrote:Returning now to the main subject, although it is true that in one kind of War the political element seems almost to disappear, whilst in another kind it occupies a very prominent place, we may still affirm that the one as as political as the other.

For if we regard the State policy as the intelligence of the personified State, then amongst all the constellations in the political sky whose movements it has to compute, those must be included which arise when the nature of its relations imposes the necessity of a great War.

It is only if we understand by policy not a true appreciation of affairs in general, but the conventional conception of a cautious, subtle, also dishonest craftiness, averse from violence, that the latter kind of War may belong more to policy than the first.
Of course, Clausewitz had been talking about War, War both real and in the abstract, in all its terrible grandeur. This was- God willing!- not a matter to be decided by war. It certainly was not such a matter yet. But as the man himself had said, "war is a continuation of politics by other means." And that could easily be inverted. In this case, the great man's commentary on war seemed to apply equally well to diplomacy.

He feared that "cautious, subtle, also dishonest craftiness" would prevail in setting the tone of his nation's policy, and that the League would suffer in consequence. The Umerians would respect a true Clausewitzian leader, one who was bold and forthright, who stated his intentions clearly and sought reasonable compromises. In his assessment, they might even respect one who pursued his intentions aggressively and by force, so long as there was a coherent guiding Will underlying the actions of the State, so long as the leader comported himself with honor and dignity.

But the squalling tantrums of a child, the ill-considered rashness of a fool, these things earned nothing but contempt from the technocrats. And yet this was all the League had shown to Umeria these past few years. And now the crisis was coming to a head, as inept leadership unwittingly provoked the Umerians again and again, without even perceiving that they had done so, or that there was any need to rectify matters.

But then, perhaps that was always the way of things. He remembered well the symbolism of the old Kaiserreich's national colors of black, red, and white on old Earth, a millenium and a half ago: "Durch Nacht und Blut zur Licht," "through night and blood to light."

The night had most surely come upon Prussia, as the State blundered about in the darkness in search of any point, any coherent purpose or understanding that could guide it forward. Hopefully they would find the light, but do so through the minimum possible of bloodshed.

There was still much time for the State to react intelligently to this crisis, if only that time were used.

Central Administration Complex, Reisenburg
1615 Hours


The First Technarch listened attentively as Maxim wrapped up his explanation.

"...To summarize, as I said earlier, we have reason to think that Hoffman's administration is in a fragile position."

"But earlier you expected Hoffman to know this, and to feel pressure to come to some kind of an agreement with us to make himself look good. But he seems to be in no great hurry to answer us. Perhaps Hoffman does not feel such pressure- perhaps his position is more secure than we believe."

"Possible. In that case, the most likely conclusion would be that Hoffman is, as I speculated, trying to tie us up in negotiations while his forces mass for another Blitz attack against either our own border or against the independent worlds of T-10. But MiniSec and MiniDat have no reports of such concentrations on the rimward frontier, and Fourth Battlecruisers does not report any remarkable Prussian activity around Volksland, either. Also, there is... another factor."

"Yes?"

"In your personal assessment of Hoffman, is he capable of the level of subtlety required to pull off such a maneuver?"

"...He could, I suppose, be a genius pretending to be an idiot. In which case many of our reports of him on his own turf would be deliberately misleading, and in which case von Beck's warnings to me about him would probably be him being ordered to lie to us. It's... possible, though I don't care to think about it. But honestly? No. I do not think Hoffman is capable of the kind of complex planning it would take to bring what you're suggesting off."

"Well, as you imply, we must bear the possibility in mind, but it seems most unlikely to me as well."

"So... we agree that Hoffman is probably too stupid to be planning anything complicated?"

"Precisely."

"In that case, it would seem that he is wasting our time for no reason at all, in which case that boot I suggested we give him earlier is all the more deserved, eh?"

"But you see, Mike, that's the interesting bit. If his political situation at home really is as precarious as our analysts imply, and that is supported by the circumstances of the annexation vote..."

"HA! Now I see what you're getting at!" If Hoffman's situation was that wobbly, it was entirely possible that if he didn't come back to Prussia with something in hand, the humiliation would bring down his government entirely.

"Good. And hopefully, his successor will be more amenable to reason, or at least less of a cretin."

"So, do we just send him out the door, or do we give him one more chance to make a serious agreement with us?"

"The former is tempting, but I think the latter would be most effective. Especially if it lets us formally state our objections to the dragging out of negotiations for the record."

"Ah, well. No, wait. That's good. That means I may get to go DuQuesne on Hoffman twice..." O'Connell sighed. He'd been waiting to do that for weeks, and even then he'd only imagined being able to get to do it once. "I'll start bright and early at our next meeting at ten o'clock tomorrow, I think. Get right to the point."

The Second for Foreign Affairs chuckled. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Simon_Jester »

Central Administration Complex, Reisenburg
April 3, 3400
1000 Hours


Hoffman came into the conference room along with his three aides, precisely on time- the man was at least punctual, if not efficient about what he did with his time after he got there. They settled down on the far side of the table from the First Technarch, the Second for Foreign Affairs, and a single aide.

The Chancellor was first to speak.

"Good morning, Dr. O'Connell-" and at least he'd broken that annoying habit a day or two into the discussions; Michael knew it was a bad habit to be irritated by failure to use his academic title, but he couldn't help it- "and I would like to continue our conversation from yesterday on the subject of the history of amiable relations between our two countries, and how to restore this condition once again."

As at every meeting, O'Connell waited with bated breath for those first few minutes, hoping that the Prussian would make any real, concrete reply to the note that was handed to him on his first day in Umeria. Or that he would have something to say about the various proposals he and Chernov had dropped about possible settlements of the Volksland question, aside from going on about the need to ensure proper defascistification of the planet by instilling Prussianism in its people. Or that he would present some draft agreement of his own, something they could discuss on its merits. Or something, anything constructive.

But aside from some vague ramblings about actions taken against pirates in the far rimward sectors of Prussian space, there was nothing.

After seven minutes, O'Connell turned to face Chernov, who was looking toward him. The First Technarch nodded to his friend, then stood and walked back from the table towards the imageboard* along the wall on his side of the table- not because he actually expected to draw Hoffman a picture, but as an aid to thought.

The time for patience was past now; the time for the DuQuesne Mode had begun. This was named after the famous, ambiguous First Technarch Marc DuQuesne: architect of the Umerian victory in the Jaggan War, but infamous for his defiance of the Selection process and attempt to set himself up as permanent tyrant over the Technocracy. The attempt failed, but the circumstances of his demise cast a thick pall over what would otherwise have been an extremely impressive fourteen years in office. DuQuesne had been a hard man who made hard decisions, at a time when hard decisions were absolutely needed; had he stepped down when the time came, that would have been all Umeria needed to remember about him.

Among the many things the great man was known for to this day for was his total intolerance for weakness or stupidity, and his absolute willingness to condemn it when he saw it. It was that trait of his predecessor that Dr. Michael O'Connell wanted to call on today- one normally far from his own nature, but that had been brought to the surface over the past two weeks of talks.

The First Technarch's act of standing and walking away from the table had achieved exactly the desired effect: it had made Hoffman stop relishing the sound of his own voice and listen for a change. Having reached the wall, O'Connell wheeled around and fixed his eyes on the Prussian leader.

"Herr Hoffman, what you were saying is of no real relevance. I suspect you already knew that, but it does not matter to me. It is entirely beside the point whether you are pretending stupidity, or indulging in it." That last was said with a bitter twist of contempt, as the frustration the First Technarch had built over the course of dozens of hours of listening to Hoffman's babbling grew to a head.

"At no time since your arrival have you made a single proposal either of our nations could realistically act on. At no time since your arrival have you made a response of any substance to any of our own proposals or questions. So far as I can determine, you are here purely to waste time. While you may choose to waste your own time whenever and in whatever manner you please, I do not appreciate your decision to impose upon us here and to waste our time."

"Despite this, we bear Prussia no particular ill will. We are quite happy to coexist with your nation in peace, as we have done for many years. But for peace to be preserved, there must be a real dialogue between nations- not one side talking while ignoring the other's questions."

"Over the past fortnight, I have spent many hours closeted with you, hours I could have spent attending to any number of matters of state, some of which have suffered from a lack of attention as a result of our discussions. I have spent this time in an effort to extract real answers from you on real questions facing our nations, questions that could affect the lives and fortunes of billions. In response to my efforts, you offer meaningless answers to meaningless questions, which affect nothing more than the wording of press releases."

"Therefore, I have a simple question for you. What are you doing here? Is it now, was it ever, your real intention to come to a meaningful agreement with us? Or are you here because you took it into your head to waste our time?"

"If it was your original intent to come to agreement, if it is a matter of any importance to you or to your administration that an agreement with Umeria be made, I suggest that you come up with a proposal or reply of substance."

"I, my foreign secretary, and my aide will now leave this room for twenty minutes, to allow you time to discuss what you wish to do next with your subordinates. If you choose to have something to say when we return, we will be willing to hear it. If you need more time before you can have something to say, we will be willing to hear it tomorrow or the next day, and this meeting will be over. If you choose not to have something to say, then I fear that the Technocracy will not be able to spare more of its leadership's time to listen to Herr Hoffman saying nothing."

"In the event that you wish to have something of consequence to talk about, I suggest that you begin with this:" he fished a note from his pocket and slapped it down on the table. "This is a copy of the same note we gave you two weeks ago, on the matter of Volksland, to which you have made no substantial reply. I believe we are within our rights to expect some semblance of a serious answer to these questions, in light of your nation's behavior over these past three months."

At this, the three Umerians rose and walked out of the room. The Prussians looked at each other, then at the piece of paper on the table before them:
The Technocracy's primary grievances involving the Volksland Affair are as follows:

-The Technocracy was not consulted before the League began major military operations against Volksland, employing roughly a third of the Kaiserliche Marine's line of battle a short distance from the Grand Trunk, a major Umerian trade route. This caused considerable alarm and disruption to neutral shipping in the area, for which no attempt at restitution has been made.

-The Technocracy was not offered any evidence of Volksland's involvement in the "Black Sunday" attacks prior to the invasion of Volksland; evidence has since been forthcoming, but only in response to direct and blunt requests from the Technocracy's embassy on Neu Preußen. In light of the heavy civilian casualties suffered by the Volkslander people during the attack, the League's disinterest in proving Volkslander involvement seems particularly lamentable.

-The Technocracy was not consulted on the future disposition of Volksland, in spite of its strategic position on the Grand Trunk. We believe it worth mentioning that the same objection could reasonably be raised by other signatory powers to the Grand Coreward Trunk Navigation Accords, though Umeria speaks only for itself as of this time.

-When the Technocracy specifically sought clarification on the future status of Volksland, the League Government replied to the effect that "Volksland will not be annexed," but was instead to be occupied for some indefinite time. Within a few days, the League elected to annex the planet in direct contradiction of the assurances it sent the Technocracy, and proceeded to engage in alarmingly rapid efforts at cultural assimilation and "Prussianization" of the planet. Many in the Technocracy's government are inclined to view this as a sign of bad faith, or of some sort of general expansionist policy on the League's part which, naturally, the Technocracy can only view with grave alarm.

-Pursuant to this, the Technocracy finds itself unsure whether it can rely on the Hoffman government to keep its promises or make accurate statements about the League's future policy. If the Hoffman government can neither exercise control over the Reichstag nor admit its own inability to do so, it will make any negotiation with said government nearly impossible.

-The Technocracy is both concerned and curious to know who, if anyone, can be relied upon to speak for the League with greater reliability than its own foreign minister, Herr Gottlieb.

-Finally, the Technocracy would also like to note that it has yet to acknowledge Prussia's claim to legitimate rule over the planet Volksland, and is uncertain about the wisdom of doing so under the circumstances.

*Imageboard: analogous in function to a whiteboard or blackboard, this holographic display can either be 'written on' using a stylus moved through the air, or to display various imagery as desired by the user, thus allowing it to serve the combined functions of a projection screen, flat panel display, and blackboard.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

Haunebu IV-class saucer-disc destroyer
Deep Space, Somewhere in Sector T-7
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The saucer-disc destroyer loomed eerily in the blackness of space, its contra-revolvulating fuselage-halves spinning as it did so. Its gleaming steel hull glinted ominously in the starlight while its battery of Rheinmetall guns trained on the incoming gunskimmer, targeting the massive nuclear explosion-propelled freight train coming straight at it. Already, in the saucer-disc's command bridge, radiological alarms were blaring from the skimmer's mere irradiated engine wake, despite the attenuation the disc's own sensors faced from the enemy's active-aggressive arrays. For the Volkslander men serving aboard the disc-destroyer, the Bragulan ship was unlike any foe they had faced, a warship full of undesirables - alien undesirables - from beyond the Spinward Expanse, encroaching upon the fine pure-human worlds of the Germanic stars like a wave of inhuman vermin as prophesized by their ideologies. Thus it was their manifest destiny to repulse this filth before it further stained their god-given living space, before it contaminated their worlds and brought more scum like it to the Grand Coreward Trunk.

It helped that the noble sacrifice of the first saucer-disc had thoroughly weakened the gunskimmer. It had expended its primary weapons, using up its entire missile load, while its shields were taxed from its desperate charge, and the flanks of its hull had already been dented from the few sideshots that had gone through. The two saucer-discs, together, would've outmassed and overpowered the gunskimmer, and though the lone remaining saucer was slightly smaller than the Bragulan ship, the bear boat had already been damaged, not to mention depleted of armamentations - thus evening the odds.

For the Volkslander kapitan, it was on. He would hunt the most dangerous game of all.

Bears.

He grinned a gruesomely grotesque Germanian grin. With a cry of 'schnell!' and 'achtung!' and 'jawohl!', the saucer-disc accelerated to meet the gunskimmer's charge. The Rheinmetall railguns began firing. As the poem went, the German guns went boom.


Niva-class Gunskimmer Grand Thug
Deep Space, Somewhere in Sector T-7

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The Grand Thug shuddered from the repeated impacts, its focused forward fields flickering and flashing from the space warfare equivalent of blunt-force trauma. The whole ship shuddered as the shield generators were forced against their moorings with each and every strike, as their Bragulan steel construction and internal components withstood the kinetic energy of the relentless battering - but not without denting metal, not without crumpling components, not without vacuum tubes shattering like glass only to be replaced by the gatling-autoloaders that ejected spent cartridges and inserted new ones into the tight yet well-lubricated tube chambers.

Bragulan crewmen hastily placed more and more fresh tubes into the loaders' conveyor belts, as though feeding a machinegun, while others shoveled spent tubes off the floor. It was controlled chaos as the histrionic female voice of engineer Bragbert screeched through the intercoms, ordering the press-ganged workers to shove in more tubes harder and faster, harder and faster, while reminding them to rub more lubricant into the chambers. Overseers shouted and barked their own orders as well, cracking whips made out of chains to emphasize their points. The groveling workers intensified their labors, in truest patriotic dedication to the proletarian Byzonist cause of sticking more tubes into more holes, harder and faster, while keeping them moist and smooth.

Suddenly a scream rang out amidst all the hollering and barking, drowning out even the intercom-screeches of Bragbert. A worker had gotten his paw stuck inside the autoloader mechanisms, and now the machine was eating his limb, chewing it up with mechanical teeth like some crevasse with fangs, with dentata! Blood began mixing with spilled lubricant. To save the poor bear from having his entire body eaten by the mechanism, one of the quicker-doublethinking overseers broke the emergency glass case and pulled out a fire hatchet to sever the victim's arm by its shoulder. After half a dozen attempts at hacking it off, they finally rescued him.

They saved him. At the expense of the ship.

This few seconds disruption in the vacuum tube feed came at an inopportune moment, as it happened just as the latest tube in the chamber shorted out. The shield generator spat the spent casing, but the autoloader was not able to jam a new round in for it was busy trying to kill the caught Bragulan comrade. In that instant, a Rheinmetall railgun round punched into the gap in the Grand Thug's shields and impacted into a portion of the hull uncovered by explosive reactive armor.

It penetrated and went in deep and hard.


"Shits! Bragbert get those shields back up now! Bash, keep on firing!" Captain Yurgi shouted. The whole ship shuddered from the impact, alarms were blaring and the telescreen displays were flashing green, showing the damaged areas that ran along the gunskimmer's guts. Fortunately the round had penetrated the now-empty missile magazines at the front end of the ship, non-vital, but these conveniently vacant compartments also served as living spaces for the crew and anyone unfortunate to be still in there would've been pulverized. "Seal the breach, lock the affected compartments and vent the air out of those that are on fire!"

All those manning their stations were already garbed in space suits with brass diving helmets, and were strapped on by chains and seatbelts. Any decompression would only mildly inconvenience them. But for those in the living rooms? Who knew?

"Casualties?" Yurgi asked. Casualties would affect the combat capability of their ship. They would need to replenish their Bragpower to replace any losses.

"We're getting reports... a dozen got vaporized from compartments 3 and 4. There may be more. Infirmary is reporting twenty suffering from brain damage."

"Alright, have the recovery teams go into the meat lockers to get replacements!" Yurgi commanded. It was a hard decision to make.

Because within the meat lockers, where they stored their foodstuffs, was also the ship's cryonic stasis chambers. To puny humanity, such a feature would only be found in their crude sleeper ships where they had crews hibernate in stasis as the ship made its way at slower-than-light speeds. In mighty Bragulanity, it had started out that way too, but glouriously were other patriotic applications found for such an invaluable technology.

All Bragulan ships still had their cryo-chambers, including the Grand Thug. Inside them were select members of the ship's former crews. Despite having been discharged honorably and retiring from the Space Fleet, these veterans - some having served in the wars against the Sovereignty centuries ago - had ended up being dragged out of their homes at night, their sleep interrupted before being reintroduced to unconsciousness by stick-beating. Afterwards, they were dragged back to the ship they had just left and their limp forms were placed in the cryo-chambers.

Now, they were defrosted. After years in refrigeration, these seasoned veterans from ancient wars were once again ready to serve mighty Bragule - whether they wanted to or not!

But they were not given tools with which to carry out repairs on the damaged portions of the ship. Nor were they placed in their former stations. Instead, they were being herded towards the armory where they were decked out in gear, clad in armor and armed with weapons.


Haunebu IV-class saucer-disc destroyer
Deep Space, Somewhere in Sector T-7
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K-bolts clanged against the saucer-disc's shields. The emerald acid-coated bullets exploded against the wall of energy, smearing the K-residue on it, causing the fields to flicker on and on before the corrosives were finally evaporated. Then, more flashes of light, not from bolt impacts, but from the gunskimmer's shotgun cannons pumping out relativistic buckshot on the saucer's shields - attempting to disrupt the energy wall's coherence, to fracture its frequencies and shatter its solidity.

It worked. The shield broke. Volkslander engineers shouted cries of 'nein!' and 'scheisse!' and 'shit!' as they hastily tried to replace the broken components of their generators. But without mighty Bragulan auto-loaders, and with an unacceptable defficiency of patriotic vacuum tubes, the emerald storm of the K-boltres began ripping through the saucer's armor belts. The acid bullets and relativistic buckshots were aimed at the disc's armamentations, its Rheinmetall railguns and other weaponries. They began melting turrets and dissolving guns. The attempt at counterattack, to return intensified fire at the gunskimmer that also had faltering shields, itself faltered - for the Bragulan ship had ideologically robust autoloaders and vacuum tubes. The press-ganged crews were whipped back into shape, forced to load more tubes while leaving their disamputated comrade to bleed to death without any medical attention, and they managed to activate their ray shields.

The Volkslanders tried to do so as well, as fast as they could before their ship melted from the acid rain. But strangely, their ship didn't. The gunskimmer had lessened the amount of its ejaculations after it had damaged the saucer's primary weapons. Yet, at the same time, it continued to rocket towards them at ludicrous speeds despite the dubious state of both of their shield systems. The distance closed, they came closer and closer. And then the Volkslanders realized what the Bragulans were trying to do.

With a cry of 'alarm!' they tried to break away from the incoming gunskimmer. This time they would be chicken.



Niva-class Gunskimmer Grand Thug
Deep Space, Somewhere in Sector T-7


"BRAGZAI!" the Grand Thug's crews cried out, not merely amongst themselves but also through all the radio channels, filling the airwaves and spacewaves with the murderous Bragulan war cry. Bragzai meant 'ten thousand years' and was said to wish the Imperator long life, and it was obviously effective. Gunskimmer crews also shouted it when doing nigh-suicidal Bragzai attacks on ships of the Sovereignty, back in the great wars, and the term had gained notoriety throughout the Koprulu Zone.

Their roars resonated throughout the eternity of space as the Grand Thug rammed into the Volkslander saucer-disc. The puny human vessel had tried to dodge at the last second in a feat of cowardliness, but with the judicious application of turbo-boosted atomic thrust vectoring and the detonation of remaining lateral explosive reactive armor, the Thug matched the saucer's maneuver and moved in to deliver an intimate Bragulan kiss. It was like the paddle steamship Great Thug of old, during the time it rammed into an iceberg and caused the floating glacier to sink in a titanic feat of supreme Bragulanity.

The Thug plowed on, the hull of the saucer-disc literally deforming around the gunskimmer's prow. The Volkslanders tried to reactivate their shields, but the Bragulans diverted power from the atomic pulse engines to their own generators, creating a violent interaction between both ships' fields, a power surge that overwhelmed and fried both their shield generators. Which suited the Bragulans just fine.

After the slight turbulence subsided, the Bragulan crews immediately unbuckled their seatbelts and unlocked their chains as they got up and stormed to the many copious weapons lockers spread throughout the gunskimmer's corridors. Non-vital stations were abandoned, emergency glasses were broken and axes were retrieved, and flasks of tsvagna was passed on from trooper to trooper. Nuclear flamethrowers were fueled with irradiated incendiaries while the Bragulan space troops downed their poisonous alcohols.

Emptied bottles fell to the floor. Overloaded scythe clips were shoved into K-bolters. The Imperial Bragulan Naval Infantry were armed and armored. They were locked, they were loaded. They were ready.
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The commissar emerged from his chamber with bloodshot eyes and disheveled vestments, though his mighty cap was immaculate and perfectly positioned atop his head. He snarled, his normally calm Zigonian incense-induced demeanor gone, replaced by the righteous fury of a member of the Patriotic Commissariat that may have had something to do with the intense hunger he was experiencing. He surveyed his assembled troops, noting with satisfaction that they were ready for war.

He had prepared a great speech for occasions like this. But he had forgotten it. Instead, he merely said:

"Launch the harpoons!"

And so they did. All over the gunskimmer's hulls, gunports opened and previously concealed cannons began firing the so-called harpoons. Tied to nanotubule-enhanced chains were projectiles consisting of wretched power-claws and giant drills that dug and burrowed into the entangled saucer-disc's hull and locked on with crackling electromagnetism. The saucer-disc tried to escape, feebly pulling away with whatever engine strength it had left, but the harpooneers began reeling it in like Bragishmael hauling in an enormous whale, a white whale, a sperm whale. The Grand Thug wrestled with its captive, drawing it in closer for the bear hug.

"Breach the hull!"

Nuclear breaching charges were lobbed at the saucer's hull. On the exposed hatches, on the structural weak points, on any exposed part for the Bragulans had no schematics of the particular vessel. The warheads magnetized themselves on to the hull before detonating in shaped subnuclear explosions that sent sharpened spikes of atomic energy stabbing through the flesh of the captured vessel. The saucer-disc began to bleed, air and fire spewing out of its punctured hull like some great frisbee-shaped swastika-adorned balloon.

"What's the matter? You want to live forever?!" the commissar barked harshly as he, together with his first squad, stepped out of the airlock - using the decompression to propel themselves to the stricken saucer-shaped ship. They fired grappling hooks from the underbarrel launchers of their K-bolters and swung into the various gaping wounds scarring the Volkslander disc. They stormed the ship, Hard Radiation (HR) Giger counters crackling at the intense radiation of the irradiated entry points. The initial areas were devoid of life, being caught in the blast zone, but as the Bragulan troops went deeer in they began to encounter resistance.
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"Contact!"

They met the Volkslander Waffen elite. They had hastily set up machinegun nests at various choke points, and it didn't take long for the Bragulans to encounter them. As soon as they did, laser MG-42s and Sturmgewehrs filled the blasted corridors with angry blood-red beams of coagulated light and the Bragulans reciprocated with the actinic green acid bullets of their K-bolters. Despite their armor, some Bragulans succumbed to the laser fire, but more of the Volkslanders met agonizing deaths as the K-bolts melted through their covers and spewed corrosive residue all over them. The rest retreated - some falling, their acid-soaked bodies skeletonizing mid-step - and sealed the blast doors behind them.

But that wasn't the only trick the Volkslanders had. The grav-plates on the ship's floors intensified the artificial gravity to increasingly higher Gs. At first, the Bragulan troopers took it in stride for the mighty homeworld Bragule was larger than the puny human homeworlds of Earth and Nova Terra, thus higher Gs were natural to them. But then, the Volkslanders dialed it up a notch and soon the Bragulans were burdened just by their own body weights, nevermind all their armors and weapons.

"Shits!" the commissar cursed. But this was not unexpected, and for every problem came a final solution. "Blow the floors out!"

They melted the floors with K-bolters, and when they jumped down they ended up landing in on top of a proverbial throng of Volkslanders. A few of the unlucky puny humans were crushed by the weight of falling Bragulans, but the rest rallied and opened up at their oversized boarders. The ship's interiors, designed for puny humans, proved crammed for the Bragulans, but they used this to their advantage. Close-quarters-combat ensued. The Bragulans began shooting at people's faces, spewing K-residue everywhere, but that was hazardous to both friend and foe. So, instead, they activated the retractable bayonets mounted on their K-bolters and began spearing humans while using the crammed confines to their advantage, by smashing the humans with the superior bulk and body mass of the Bragulan physique. The Commissar himself preferred a chainsword coupled with his trusty service revolver, namely a 44mm Bragnum pawcannon that shot old-fashioned bullets instead of K-bolts - which, to human standards, would've made it nothing less than a rotary grenade launcher of some kind.

The Volkslander elite didn't give up easily. Forsaking their own brethren, the Waffen elite again fled the scene and sealed the level the Bragulans were on - and this time they filled it with nerve agents, turning the whole corridor into an enormous gas chamber. Though the Bragulans were decked out in sealed armors, those with compromised suits or, worse yet, open wounds, would've been susceptible to the nerve agents. The remaining humans stuck there with them suffered the same fate as the Bragulan wounded.

But the Commissar was not one to be deterred so easily. With non-nuclear breaching charges, they blew through one of the walls and went deeper into the vessel. Abandoning the relative restraint and finesse they had displayed earlier, they began subjugating any and all humans in their path with indiscriminate justice - incinerating them with flamethrowers, or chucking thermobaric grenades into the hiding places of non-combatant crews. They reached the engineering section, and a Bragulan technician ripped a human computer off the wall and stabbed it with a data-spike, brutally downloading the ship's schematics. With this in hand, they made their way to the ship's bridge.

The resistance intensified, but the Bragulans repaid the Volkslanders with their own human blood, and compounded it with interest. Bragulan-spec chemical weapons were used, and unlike the inadequate human nerve agents, Bragulan toxins were not colorless or odorless, but were a kind of black smog that fumigated the entire area and saturated it in corrosives - a diluted form of K-residue designed to melt through light NBC protection. Light NBC protection which happened to be what the Volkslanders were using. The rubber in between the joints of their suits, the plastic glass visors, the filters of their gas masks, all began bubbling and melting as the black smoke ate through them and went in to contaminate the humans underneath. The Bragulan chemical weapons melted skin to better facilitate the absorption of the neurotoxins.

Waffen men never surrendered, but that was because nobody needed them alive. The Bragulans left them there, lying on the floor, spasming until their spines snapped while they vomited and spat their internal organs out. The commissar led his troops towards their destination.


Finally, they reached the bridge, and there the Bragulan commissar met his match. The captain of the ship, the Gruppenfuhrer, was decked out in power armor reminiscent of the gear used by the Prussian Hussars. He even had an energy saber in hand.

"Inferior alien schweinbären! Now you shall behold the true racial superiority of the superman!" the Volkslander captain cackled.

"If you were so superior, then why are your puny genitals hanging outside of your body, dangling there for everyone to kick so easily?" the Bragulan commissar replied in a deadpan. Unlike Captain Yurgi, he did not need a Zigonianoid paleothesaurusaur to speak in the language of the humans.

"The beast speaks!" the Volkslander captain ignited his energy saber. "But not for long!"

"Wrong," the commissar drew his 44mm Bragnum revolver and shot the Volkslander captain in the face. Repeatedly.

But instead of seeing the satisfying explosion of a human head, the Gruppenfuhrer's head remained intact and the Volkslander lunged at the commissar with his saber. The commissar parried it with his own chainsword, the magnelectrified teeth clashing with the energized saber blade. They dueled as the various Bragulan troopers and Volkslander Waffen fought and died all around them, there in the saucer's bridge. They exchanged slashes and stabs, parries and ripostes. With his power armor, the Gruppenfuhrer moved with inhuman speed and strength, driving the commissar back inch by inch.

With a mighty power armor-assisted shove, the Gruppenfuhrer threw the commissar against a bulkhead. Then with his wrist-weapons, the Volkslander kapitan fired his ranged weapons at the Bragulan - sending monomolecular blades in the shape, form and likeness of sharpened spinning swastikas at the unteralienmensch's direction. The commissar drew his Bragnum revolver and reflexively shot the incoming swastikas down, but one of the flying blades went through and slashed his shoulder - cutting through meat and bone. He winced and reeled.

Then the Gruppenfuhrer moved in for the kill, bringing his saber down for the final blow. The commissar raised his chainsword up defensively, but when the saber struck it the chainsword simply exploded, sending shrapnel and torn pieces of chain and tooth flying all over.

The commissar staggered and removed his helmet, as it was damaged by the blast.

Then the Gruppenfuhrer impaled him with the energy saber.

The commissar gaped and looked down to see the crackling energy sword sticking through him. The Volkslander merely sneered upon seeing the Bragulan's reaction. He tried to swing the sword across the bear, to bisect the Bragulan into two.

But the commissar grabbed the Volkslander's sword hand and gripped it with all his might, fighting to hold it in place, to prevent the Gruppenfuhrer from halving him. He struggled against the servo-hydraulics of the Volkslander power suit.

"Just die!" the Gruppenfuhrer snarled.

"Nyet!" the commissar roared as he brought up his Commissariat-issue combat beating stick...
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...and brought the stick down on the Gruppenfuhrer's visored face with all the might and fury of the Imperial Bragulan judgment, with the undisputed authority the Imperator himself bestowed upon the Commissariat to deliver his final sanction on those unworthy to live in his galaxy. The jagged stick-edges of Bragulan steel shattered the Gruppenfuhrer's helmet visor, bludgeoning the human face underneath and disorientating the Volkslander kapitan. The Bragulan commissar struck again and again with the beating-stick until the entirety of the visor and helmet was obliterated, exposing the head of the Volkslander. Then the commissar gazed into the wretched face of humanity, the pulped visage of that brutalized human.

The commissar dropped his beating stick. Then he roared.

"NEIN!" the Gruppenfuhrer screamed in womanly fear. He knew what was coming. He had to.

"Da!"

The commissar gave the Gruppenfuhrer a Bragule Kiss, biting the Volkslander's face and sinking his fangs into the puny human's head, crushing his puny human skull with the mighty jaws of Bragulanity. Blonde Aryan hair was bloodied as the scalp was ripped off the bone, blue Aryan eyes were forced out of their sockets as the entire skull was compressed. The Volkslander's body struggled for a moment, convulsing as the Bragulan jaws crushed its brain, but shortly thereafter it became limp and impotent.

With a jerk of his head, the commissar ripped the Gruppenfuhrer's head off and discarded the body like so much refuse. Then he pulled the still-crackling energy saber out of his gut. The weapon had cauterized its own entry wound, there was no outpouring of blood, although intestines spilled out of the gash it had made. The commissar tried to keep his insides inside.

The world spun around him, the ship's bridge becoming an indiscernible blur as he fell to the floor. He could still hear the sound of Bragulans killing humans and, in that moment, felt a surge of pride has his troops did their duties to the Imperator and Empire - as any good Bragulan should. He had done his own duty as a commissar.

Then, there was silence.


The Bragulans stopped shooting and killing when there was nothing left to shoot and kill. With a cry of 'URRA!' they celebrated their hard-fought victory over the humans. They began clubbing and bludgeoning and riding the remaining human captives as any rightful victor should.

But then, in a sobering discovery, they found their commissar on the floor with his guts sticking out of a stomach wound. They felt his ears, there was still a pulse. Immediately they hauled him back into the Grand Thug. The commissar was beloved by the crew, or at least tolerated, for while he ruled with an iron fist, he had also shown himself possessing a heart of gold. They would not have him die and be replaced by another, far more brutal and execution-happy officer who might not be placated with Zigonian incense.

Captain Yurgi realized this too, and thus he went with the medics and helped bring the commissar to their infirmary. He himself gave the orders:

"Bring him to the meat locker!"

There, amidst the emptied cryo-chambers and the stacks of frozen meats and bronto-burgers, and the hanging corpses of food-animals suspended by meat hooks and chains, were vats of liquid nitrogen and other preservatives. In them were organs and spare body parts, a few made from pre-fabricated stem cells, but most of them harvested from the Bragulan penal system where prisoners could regain their ideological fortitude and commute their sentences by donating their organs to the Empire's militaries. Some of the other organs were also harvested from dead crew mates.

They carved the commissar open and removed the damaged portions of organs and other intestines, sectioning it off while they defrosted a set of replacement guts and crosstyped it to match the commissar's blood type. They worked there in the frosbitten interior of the meat-locker, slash cryo-chamber, slash operating theater. They placed operating lights on the suspended meat hooks and overhanging pieces of meat. Crews gathered outside to watch anxiously, biting on the claws of their paws in anticipation. Breath was vaporized into mist. Sweat crystalized into ice. Tears froze in their ducts.


The Bragulans secured the second saucer-disc to the Grand Thug with harpoons, claw-hooks, and chains. The gunskimmer could haul the damn thing through hyperspace, since the saucer-disc's rudimentary systems were still partially intact and could provide additional propulsion-thrust and power. It was the spoils of war and they had the right to claim it and keep it. Inside their emptied torpedo tubes were crammed Volkslanders reeking in their own sweat and excrements.

Meanwhile, Captain Yurgi and the recovered commissar - who numbed his pain by rolling up some Zigonian incense and smoking copious amounts of it - decide to turn the first saucer-disc, the one gutted by K-bolt fire, into a monument celebrating Bragulan naval supremacy and their first ever victory in the Spin Zone. They shoved the extra prisoners of war, those who wouldn't fit in the torpedo tubes, into the few intact compartments of the shipwreck and marooned them on the very same icy planetoid where the distressed derelict spacecraft also was. So that the abandoned Volkslander wouldn't feel lonely, the Bragulans gave them some company - by emptying the Grand Thug's septic tanks into the compartments the humans were in.

To commemorate their triumph, they also wrote the following words on the wrecked saucer-disc's hull after consulting the Zigonianoid paleothesaurus rex:

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HEUTE IST BRAGSTAG!
Last edited by Shroom Man 777 on 2010-10-05 07:45am, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Shinn Langley Soryu »

Plugging the Douchenozzle
Cantina Niño del Cielo, Santo Domingo de Trujillo, Nueva Hispaniola
Wild Space beyond the Sovereignty frontier
9 March 3400


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Antonio Douchenozzle was precisely what his family name stated he was, a man whose mouth constantly wrote checks his body couldn't cash. His loud mouth and utter contempt for everyone else around him ensured that he'd always find trouble no matter where he went; indeed, he had lost count of how many times he had been tossed into the brig for insubordination back when he was still with the United Solarian Marine Corps. If anything, the fact that he was now a mercenary only encouraged him to stir more shit up; while his CO was a very tolerant and forgiving man, even he was starting to get tired of having to bail Douchenozzle out every time he fucked up.

One of Douchenozzle's more pathetic qualities was his horrendous track record with women. While he loved to brag about his numerous romantic escapades (much to the exasperation of anyone within earshot of him), the truth was that he was still a virgin and that his only real lover was his right hand. No woman in her right mind wanted anything to do with him; even the drunk and/or high ones somehow knew to keep their distance from him. Any and all approaches he tried to make were always met with a slap or a punch to the face (or sometimes direct kick to the nuts).

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Cantina Niño del Cielo was one of the busier watering holes in Santo Domingo de Trujillo. Thanks to its convenient location next to the local spaceport, it saw a constant influx of customers of all stripes, ranging from simple vagabonds all the way to Belkan mercenary pilots. It was also one of Douchenozzle's favorite haunts; ever since he and the rest of his mercenary company arrived on Santo Domingo de Trujillo, he spent a good portion of his free time there, constantly trying his luck with the ladies and failing miserably every single time.

Unfortunately for Douchenozzle, the shy young woman he had sought out tonight had friends. Very powerful friends. She was a member of the legendary Belkan 156th Tactical Fighter Squadron "Aquila," better known throughout Wild Space and the Veil as the Yellow Squadron (not to be confused with the other Yellow Squadron, the 23rd Tactical Fighter Squadron "Gelb"). The members of Yellow Squadron all looked out for one another, as good Belkan soldiers did; if Yellow 4's honor was as stake, the rest of the squad would be at her side in no time.

"Hey, gorgeous! You want to come home with me?" Douchnozzle called to Yellow 4 in his usual tactless manner.

"I'm with my friends here. Do you mind?" Yellow 4 retorted.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Douchenozzle replied. "I don't want to get in between you...or do I?"

"Look, buddy, the lady told you she's hanging out with her friends already," one of the other Yellow Squadron pilots, Jean-Louis, said to Douchenozzle. "She wasn't interested in you the first time, and she sure as hell isn't interested in you now."

"Always trying to get with the ladies and always failing every time," another Yellow Squadron pilot, Gene, spoke up. "When will you ever learn?"

Douchenozzle scoffed at the two Belkan men. "If you're gonna be the teachers, no thanks, I don't swing that way. Your lady friend's certainly free to tutor me, though, but she should keep in mind that I have a very sexy learning disability. I think it's called sexlexia."

"Whatever, man," Jean-Louis said, clearly fed up with Douchnozzle's constant douchebaggery. "When we're done with you, a learning disability will be the least of your problems."

"Is there a problem here, gentlemen?" a male voice called out from behind the two pilots.

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Jean-Louis and Gene turned around to face their commanding officer, David Jordan, better known to the general population of Wild Space and the Veil as "Yellow 13." Outside of the cockpit, he was a calm, even-tempered, friendly, and forgiving man, slow to anger and preferring to use diplomacy over violence under most circumstances. There were still things that could arouse his ire and cause him to punch the offender in the face, though; he simply did not take harrassment of his squadron mates lightly.

"Douchenozzle over here was trying to hit on Yellow 4 again," Jean-Louis stated matter of factly, gesturing towards Douchenozzle accordingly.

Yellow 13 glared at Douchenozzle. "How many times have my colleagues and I told you to back off and leave her alone?" he said in his usual calm manner. "Most people I've met tend to get the message the first time around. You, on the other hand, still refuse to comply even after being told multiple times by multiple people."

"So? What's it to you, old man?" Douchenozzle retorted.

"Last I checked, I'm actually the same age as you, Antonio. And what's it to me, you ask? She's a member of my squadron. It's my duty to look out for her and the rest of my team, just as it's their duty to look out for me. By threatening one member, you call down the wrath of everyone else."

"Oh, really?" Douchenozzle sneered. "Bring it."

"You first," Yellow 13 declared bluntly. "You talk a lot, but are you willing to back up your words with deeds? I am."

"Then let's go already!"

"I already said, you first."

"Okay, okay. If that's how you want to play it, then FINE!" Douchenozzle cried out as he attempted to sucker-punch Yellow 13 in the face. Much to his surprise, though, Yellow 13 deftly blocked the strike and retaliated with a single punch square in the nose, shattering it.

"You broke my fucking nose, you motherfucker!" Douchenozzle said.

"Hey, I wouldn't dare do that to my mom," Yellow 13 retorted. "Now, what's your next move gonna be?"

Douchenozzle growled as he lunged at Yellow 13 and tried to take another swing at him, only to lose his balance when Yellow 13 took a single step back. Undettered, he got up and attempted to punch him again, only to have his clumsy blows blocked every single time. "Weren't you a Sovereignty Marine before you took up mercenary work?" Yellow 13 remarked as he parried Douchenozzle's strikes. "Apparently you washed out before they taught you CQC. You couldn't make it in their army, so you decided to make your own."

At this point, Douchenozzle was pissed. "I DID NOT WASH OUT!" he roared as he charged forward and tackled Yellow 13 to the ground. "I PASSED MY TRAINING! I DID MY TIME! BEING A MERCENARY WAS MY CHOICE!"

"My God, your breath stinks," Yellow 13 quipped. "You really should stop sucking your own dick. At least that'd be a start towards actually making it with the ladies."

Douchenozzle had a lame comeback prepared for that remark, but he was cut short when Jean-Louis knocked him out by slamming his helmet directly into the back of his skull. With Douchenozzle down for the count, Gene helped his superior officer back up on his feet. "You did pretty well there, sir," he remarked. "You really had him going there. The autofellatio comment was a nice touch."

"Really?" Yellow 13 said. "That one just came out of nowhere. Why'd Jean-Louis have to end the fun early, though?"

"You said it yourself, sir," Jean-Louis replied. "It's our duty to look out for everyone else in the squadron."

"Hey, you know I've fought more formidable opponents than that guy in the past," Yellow 13 said. "Where were you guys to back me up then?"

"We had our own opponents to fight too," Jean-Louis shot back. "Besides, you handled yourself quite well. If anything, where were you to back us up?"

Yellow 13 laughed heartily. "You got a point there, Jean-Louis."

Yellow 4 got up from her stool at the counter and walked up to Yellow 13. "Thanks, sir," she said. "But you know I would've kicked his ass on my own if you hadn't intervened."

Yellow 13 smiled. "I know. I've taught all of you well, and I trust all of you to do the right thing when I'm not around. But enough of that. Where's my guitar?"

"I think Gene and the other boys left it back at base," Yellow 4 said.

"Darn it," Yellow 13 said, obviously disappointed. "Oh well. Gotta find some other form of entertainment, then." He stood up on a chair and whistled to get the attention of the other patrons, who hadn't paid much attention to the prior scuffle between him and Douchenozzle. "Everyone! All drinks till closing time are on me!"

The entire bar erupted in raucous cheering as Yellow 13 stepped down from the chair. "Jean-Louis, Gene, make sure to take out the trash."

"Yes, sir," Jean-Louis and Gene said simultaneously as they picked up Douchenozzle's unconscious body and unceremoniously tossed it out the front door of the bar. The two then decided to walk out and kick Douchenozzle multiple times in the ribs before going back inside.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Lonestar »

Ramsey's Draft Wilderness
Damascus


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Francis, Cardinal of the True Church, scowled as he stood in front of the OR Cabin. The Bear Moreau had been particularly strong and it was deemed nessecary to lend his formidible mental powers to immobilize the cretin so the restoration process could begin. It had taken considerable effort, the Bear Moreau was very nearly a psychic null, and finally in frustration Francis had just inflicted blunt trauma on the freak in order to render him unconcious.

For he was a Cardinal, a Patriarchal Pysker who had recieved the same level of gene therapy and treatment that the now defunct Dominion Knights did. Only the Astartes of the Imperium were comparable, the assault marines of the GDN didn't undergo such an intrusive process. And now...now he was one of the few loyal cardinals left. The apostate that sat on the throne of the Grand Dominion had dared to take from the True Church what was rightfully God's. And thus far the Apostate had won the temporal conflict, forcing Francis to take refuge with these useful idiots...

Francis looked up into the sky. He felt the presence of another pysker rapidly approaching, and in fact could see several burning drop pods heading to the therapy camp.

Hello Brother. I be giving you one chance to surrender and be reconciled wit de rightful government and church of de Grand Dominion. Came a mocking voice in his head. A Spectre! The Secularlist trash! He lifted his radio and sounded the alarm.

*****

Bessières sighed and turned to Morgan, shaking his head. Colonel Morgan grunted, and spoke on the platoon's net. "Stay Frosty Gents, the pysker down there ain't surrendering and we don't know what other security they have." There were a bunch of "rogers" and then the net transciever clicked to standby. The pod's rockets fired to slow the descent and seconds later they impacted. The exit hatch blew open and Morgan egressed just in time to see the Cardinal across the lake lift another pod and fling it with his TK into the distance. Morgan grunted again, lifted his Gauss rifle, and blew the Cardinal's head apart like an eggshell. He turned to Bessières.

"You always were a good shot brother. You got him right quick. There be no other pyskers here."

A slug ricocheted off his armor, with the DRADIS immediately identifying location of the shooter who was trying to hide in the shrubbery. With a sigh Morgan put a double tap through him. "Flarkin' Retards." There was more dirt kicking up around him from incoming shots...mostly slugthrowers. "Alright Benjy can you find the Xenos?"

Bessières scanned the camp, finally settling on one of the cabins near the 'sploded Cardinal. "He be in there...as is the head of this here camp."

"Alrighty, let's go." Morgan switched to the platoon TACNET "Gentlemen, do a sweep, looks like the primary threat has been removed. Dog Team, I need you to surround the cabin I am marking on the map, don't let anyone out. Unless it looks like a bear."

Another round of "rogers" as 6 blue painted Assault Marines bounded towards the marked cabin. Morgan and Bessières ambled on over, the two of them occassionally shooting at the few idiots stupid enough to attack a Spectre and a Assault Marine in a combat harness. As they walked up the sergeant turned to Morgan.

"There's some movement inside but no one has so much as opened the doors a crack. Johnson and Smitty are 'round back and they say someone came up to the window by the rear egress portal and disappeared when he saw them."

"Thank you Sergeant." Morgan said. He turned his external speaker up to it's ludest rating. "Now listen here, you are hereby under arrest for the kidnapping of a minor across state lines, kidnapping of a minor across interstellar lines, illegal use of firearms against Federal Servicemembers, harboring fugitives, and general idiocy on y'all's part. If'n you come out with your hands up I can promise that you will not be sent to a Federal Pound-me-in-the-ass prison. Leastways not until after the trial."

"Always one with words Colonel." Bessières murmered. The front door open, and there were some mutterings at what stepped out.

"Sweet Christmas." Was Morgan's shocked reaction.
"The rifle itself has no moral stature, since it has no will of its own. Naturally, it may be used by evil men for evil purposes, but there are more good men than evil, and while the latter cannot be persuaded to the path of righteousness by propaganda, they can certainly be corrected by good men with rifles."
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Master_Baerne »

Office of Shipbuilding
Admiralty Tower, Firmament


The scene: Dark, with a holographic model of a ship that would never be built hovering over a projection table. A man in a white coat arguing with a woman wearing nondescript business wear. A device in the corner ensuring that no one could possibly overhear what would, if it followed precedent, be an extremely insubordinate discussion.

"Look, Dr. Frohman, I agree completely: We should have some carriers. Yes, they would be more useful than the 'goddamn obsolete Inflexible dreadnoughts,' though they really aren't that bad. What you need to understand is that this is the Admiralty we're talking about, the most paranoid, overreaction-prone group of half-fossilized flag officers in the nation. The fighting admirals shunt everyone they don't want to listen to here, and give them enough power to have the illusion of more of it. Ever since the Aviary Incident, the Navy hasn't used carriers; this is not going to change anytime soon."

"Aviary Incident? What could possibly have been enough of a shock to prevent the use of an entire class of ship?" Frohman was a rational man; paradoxically, the sheer irrationality of it had the normally collected doctor almost frothing at the mouth.

"During the War of Self-Determination - French Civil War, whatever you want to call it - a Firmament Defence Force carrier group was attacked by a French battlecruiser squadron operating stealthed. Their alpha strike took out the carrier, lost us the battle, and with it half of Inception Sector. Three hundred years and more ago, but that's the Admiralty for you..."

"... And this makes sense to someone?"

"Not so much, anymore. The previous Lady Ascendant lost two uncles and a cousin in that battle; you know how Navy-mad the whole family is, which explains some of it... Actually, Lady Sikala might be amenable to getting rid of this for us. She's never been much for historical artifacts." And it was true. Not three years ago, she'd removed the prohibition against Formics in uniform, not that uniforms really fit the several-meter ant analogues too well, and a pair of dreadnoughts had been refitted to allow them to be crewed by the giant insectoids.

"You may have something there, Ms. Reybrand. Would you be so good as to see about an appointment with Her Ladyship?"

"Certainly, Doctor Frohman."

RESULTS: The Navy wants to see about some carriers. Rather, the Office of Shipbuilding wants to see about some carriers, and the Navy will be getting some. Gotta love a modernising monarch.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by MKSheppard »

Vulture Rock, Sublevel 90

The tridee screen glowed blue for several seconds as it initalized; then the words:

TS/SCI/PUGGLE

NOFORN
SHEPBRAGDOM DISSEMINATION ONLY

Results of Testing at A2321 in Sector DD-4


appeared for a moment then the screen shifted to a view of a somewhat okay planetary world.

"Gentlebeings," intoned the narrator. "This is A-2321; it is a planet inside the human goldilocks zone, and is a prime candidate for future colonization; as it already has a self sustaining biosphere that is ameniable to human life."

"Unfortunately, it is already occupied by a alien species; which we are calling the Craboids of the Crab Nebula."

At this, General Sheppard who was watching the briefing, groaned. Goddamn eggheads, he thought.

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Craboid of A-2321

"Scientific tests place them at level 3 on the S-Y scale; and extensive sampling tests show a DNA convergence of 4.612 percent with the Amplitur."

"Due to these convergent factors it was decided that they were a good example for our latest weapons testing exercises; and OPERATION BUSTER-CRABHOLE was initated."

"The Department of Energy, in conjunction with it's Bragulan and Grand Dominion counterparts has spent the last ten years intensively researching the physics and manufacturing possibilities of..."

The narrator then paused dramatically, causing Sheppard to sigh and make the 'move it along' motion with his hands.

"...stable anti-plutonium."

The screen then broke into several complicated diagrams and graphs that attempted to explain how anti-plutonium worked; and why it didn't instanteously combust in contact with normal matter. All of it went over Sheppard's head.

Finding the fast-forward button, Sheppard went to the more interesting parts.

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"Following the initation of the device at the standard HOB; the effects of the initation spread across the planets in hours, and it is estimated that planetary exinction except for chemovores in the planetary mantle and around magma vents in the deep oceans will be complete by the end of the month."

"We estimate tenatively that with anti-plutonium, we are able to achieve yields upwards of 2.5 times as powerful per specific weight than with conventional SMOGBANK devices."

The scientist paused, almost like he was remembering some insignificant detail.

"Oh, and before I finish up, the secondary and tertiary objectives of BUSTER-CRABHOLE..."

"First, the destruction of a possible amplitur precedessor or remnant race was wildly successful, as was the tertiary objective; destruction of their biosphere to make way for the superior human biosphere. Shroomland-Yutani has already signed the contracts with the Department of the Interior to set up a atmosphere processing colony to bring the atmosphere under control in the next couple of decades to enable stage two colonization."

Results:

1.) Early tests of anti-plutonium successful. Deployable devices are still a bit off.

2.) Possible Amplitur Remnant/Precursor race at the stone age blown away.

3.) Near Earth-like world (within several percentages of Earth in all parameters) blown away to get rid of alienoid biosphere to create a sterile world for human biosphere seeding.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

Previously on...
BRAGURAMA
Finally reaching civilization, even if it was uncivilized bear civilization, and making planetfall was the best thing that had happened for the men and woman of the SHEPlanetary Express ship. After landing, they began throwing away the Slurm cans and OrGazmo wrappings and wiped off the dried bloodstains on the floors and walls of their vessel. Old grievances were put aside, any misgivings about attempted homicides and frustrated manslaughters were forgotten - at least temporarily so - and they focused on the job at hand. They touched down on that Bragulan fringe world and set about doing their duties.
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The female cyclopean captain scowled as she watched her two crewmates amble out of the ship, staggering on the stairway as they did so. The insipid human male deckswab steadied his inebriated robot friend as the machine enjoyed the last of its smoldering unfiltered tobacco roll and washed it down with a bottled alcoholic drink. Its belch was that of a mouth-ventilated internal combustion release. The female cyclopean captain sighed, wishing she had gone to college instead and worked as a single female lawyer, but the human deckswab was an idiot and the robot had sociopathic tendencies courtesy of its malfunctioning emotion engine. Somebody had to take care of them.

Flying starships was one of the female cyclopean captain's passions, and while she was practically an invalid due to her lack of depth-perception, nonetheless their mad scientist employer - a wrinkled old prune of a man who had escaped from an Umerian old folk's home - had taken her in and given her a job, perhaps due to his morbid fascination with genetic abnormalities brought about by an unhealthy childhood fixation on circus freaks, or maybe even out of compassion. Despite being a lousy boss, their employer gave them interesting jobs such as carrying parcels for the likes of Dr. Wormstrum Bitchslag, or whatever his name was, and the Shepistani government, to name a few. The current job was a military one, and they had to retrieve a package from practically the other side of the known universe - in Bragulan space, no less. The journey had been long and arduous, fraught with danger as pirates had attempted to board them several times, and in no less than two occasions space beasts had also nearly mated with their ship. But, by god, through sheer grit and determination they had survived.
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The high ranking Shepistani military officer got out of bed and joined them. He, and his green amphibious adjutant, were clad in red uniforms and wore no pants - preferring skirt-things instead, and white jackboots. It was an archaic ceremonial attire, the Shepistani equivalent of the Umerian Chrome Age Spacer fashions, but seeing as this was a diplomatic visit as much as a pickup, the high ranking Shepistani military officer opted to dress to impress.

The Bragulan bureaucrat waiting for them wasn't impressed by the bright primary colors of the high ranking Shepistani military officer's dress, nor did he mind the bare legs. The Bragulan bureaucrat broke wind and, without bothering to apologize - for the superior cultural norms of Bragulanity meant that they were not ashamed by mere ideologically-neutral biological functions unlike the humans who were shamed by their mere humanity - led them on. They rode a civilianized Chornyb urban pacifier, the standard Bragulan troop transport the size of a monster truck, and rode on. The Bragulan bureaucrat explained that he would be giving a tour to display the greatness of the Bragulan Star Empire to their puny human eyes.

On their way to Site A, the Bragulan bureaucrat took out a piece of paper - real paper made out of actual killed trees - and began reciting a speech to them, quoting the address Byzon made during the first centennial Bragsday address (somewhere around 3100 in the human calendar) to the Worker's Union of Novnaya Prospykta extolling them for their patriotic virtues and the fire of their spirit that smelted the Bragulan Steel and forged them into the bullets that had riddled a million human corpses on a dozen different worlds during the wars with the Sovereignty. As the Bragulan bureaucrat read on, soft tunes played in the background, the opening notes of the great Bragulan anthem, the Imperator's March. The Bragulan bureaucrat continued, and as he reached the fiery crescendo of the Imperator's address, so too did the patriotic music gradually rise and rise until it became as loud as thunder.
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It was at this moment that they reached the People's Commission for the Self-Improvement of Citizenry Through Compelled Labor work camp where human POWs and Bragulan political prisoners alike toiled in the sweat pits and coal mines. The Chornyb urban pacifier roared through the throngs of laborers, scattering them as they ran for their lives, all while the patriotic music of the Imperator's March blared loudly from the chassis-mounted macrophones. The speechifying Bragulan bureaucrat grabbed a mouthpiece and his own orations rumbled through the air like the very word of the Imperator himself - terrifying all those outside and sending them groveling and kneeling in reflex honed through stick-induced Braglovian classical conditioning.

There the Bragulan bureaucrat boasted the superior construction methods of Bragulan engineering. The laborers were tasked with crude and simple duties, wielding slabs of armor together to form the preliminary fuselage chassis of the Shepistani gunstars under construction. Their work was inspected thoroughly, and would have consequences if found to be substandard. The female cyclopean captain looked out of the gunports with her eye as the tour continued, watching the crude construction process. The Bragulan diplomat explained that after the more basic facets of construction had been completed through compelled labor, when the hulls were laid down, the plumbing in place, the chairs bolted on and the like, the hulls would be transfered to more capable facilities with more... ideologically reliable construction crews. Then and there would more important and sophisticated equipment be placed into the ships, where they would be made spaceworthy and eventually launched for their maiden voyages to Shepistan - where the final weaponizations would be completed in short order.
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They passed by the work camp shortly afterwards, bound for another destination. After the shock and awe of seeing the forced laborers in their deprived conditions wore off, the female cyclopean captain asked when they would be receiving the shipment they came for. As interesting as things were, the Bragulan bureaucrat's long speeches had grown tiring after the first five minutes of Byzonist this or inter-species class struggle that. The insipid human male deckswab and his inebriated robot friend were beginning to amuse themselves in inane and obnoxious ways. Thankfully a short and squat Bragulan attendant, their guard, who looked like a black bear, produced some refreshments to quench their thirsts and shut their mouths. It was Spurm, a popular beverage throughout the human galaxy. The two of them were surprised at how the Bragulans came into the possession of Spurm, a drink they supposed was as ideologically impure to Bragulans as it was addictive to humans. For the Bragulans to have prepared Spurm just for them was quite touching.

However, unbeknown to them all - the Bragulans among them included - the reason why Spurm was so widespread was because its distributors and manufacturers, based on an independent planet-state somewhere in free space, was actually in the sway of a Karlack gene-eater cult. The Spurm humans drank were actually the biological secretions of an enormous Karlack sluggoth.
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Unfortunately, the Spurm did not contain infesterizing agents, for surely it would not have gained Space FDA approval if it had, and any parasitic microbes or spores in the substance would've been detected by the Byzantine Inquisition and attracted their unwanted attention. So the Spurm the humans drank was clean of any impurities. The reason why the Karlack gene-eater cults sold the wildly popular beverage was not to infest humans, but to rip them off by making the humans pay to drink horrendous Karlack secretions. It was a brilliant scheme and the IBGV's HUMINT operatives gained a modest share of the proceeds. What the Karlacks used their profits for, no one knew. What the IBGV did with theirs was hidden in the black budget, so it was also unknown. It was a great mystery.

The female cyclopean captain enjoyed a can of Spurm as well, together with the high ranking Shepistani officer who she had previously slept with in a bout of pity-sex. The Bragulan bureaucrat did not drink the beverage but instead had some Bragulan Ale. He explained to them that he was showing them the progress of the Shepistani Gunstar order. With that through, he was now going to show them the glories of the Bragulan SPUD missile. But, also, in a feat of hospitality they would also demonstrate the mighty robustness of Bragulan defensive fortifications. Both at once, to save everyone's precious time. The Bragulan bureaucrat, now out of speech-papers to orate from, seemed to be in a hurry. He glanced at his digital watch.

Meanwhile, the Chornyb took them to their destination. A pre-fabricated structure called a 'Brag bunker' according to Sovereignty designation, a quickly deployed fortification that could be dropped directly from space, surviving re-entry to crash land on the planetary surface to establish a nuclear-proof foothold on any contested combat zone. Made out of Bragcrete and Bragsteel, the Bragulan bureaucrat claimed it was practically invincible - and that he would demonstrate this to the Shepistanis before him.
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"Excuse me," the female cyclopean captain had more than enough of the various glories Bragulanity had to offer, but nonetheless she tried to be polite. "But where are the SPUDs we're here to collect?"

"Oh, they're coming here already as we speak. It is part of the demonstration," answered the Bragulan diplomat.

"Demonstration? What demonstration? Who said anything about a demonstration? I never heard about any demonstration," the high ranking Shepistani officer said confusedly. What were these Bragulans trying to pull? Some kind of space-con?

"A display of both the unparalleled might of the SPUD missiles and the sheer resilience of the Brag bunker!" the Bragulan bureaucrat explained. "By striking this very location with the SPUD, so that it may detonate its great warheads, which the Brag bunker will withstand point-blank."

"Oh," the high ranking Shepistani officer uttered in comprehension. He remembered his briefings. "That demonstration."

The insipid human male deckswab did a spit-take with his Spurm, almost as though he had discovered what its contents truly were. He managed to speak after getting the Spurm out of his nostrils:

"What?! No, don't do it!"

The Bragulan bureaucrat leafed through his speech-notes and found the appropriate quote to reply with:

"Do it? Dan, I'm not a Republic Serial villain. Do you seriously think I'd explain my master-stroke if there remained the slightest chance of you affecting its outcome? I did it thirty-five minutes ago."

Before anyone could even recognize what he was talking about, the whine of air raid sirens filled the air. Despite being alien air raid sirens, the SHEPlanetary Express crew and the high ranking Shepistani officer recognized it for what it was. Their initial reaction was to duck and take cover, and there was no other cover aside from that offered by the Brag bunker. They all ran inside it and took shelter within its Bragcrete and Bragsteel confines.

The alarms blared three simple words, translated to human language for the benefit of the guests:
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NUCLEAR LAUNCH DETECTED
To save time and energy, the SPUD had been launched thirty five minutes ago. While the people were still on their way to the bunker, the SPUD waited and orbited high up in space, far above them. When the sirens and alarms rang, and the guests were confirmed to be in the shelter, the SPUD simply pointed itself down and went into a dive guided by its inertial guidance system. When it reached optimal altitude, its radar altimeter sent a signal to the nuclear warhead and the double-barreled gun-type fusion device initiated with the brilliance of a thousand suns. Hundreds of miles away, the flash would've blinded the toiling workers who disobediently disobeyed their superiors' orders to not gaze eastwards, though the humans who had read the book of the Jesus Man - whatever a Jesus was - considered themselves fortunate to not have been turned into pillars of salt.

Within the bunker, the prone forms of the SHEPlanetary Express crew slowly dragged themselves up to their feet. The high ranking Shepistani officer's green-skinned amphibian aide pulled him back up to his feet. His gut-girdle had been undone in all the rough tumbling, thus revealing the true extent of his previously concealed girth.

"WE'RE ALIVE!" the insipid human male deckswab cried out in rejoicement, falling to his knees and lifting his arms high as he did so. His inebriated robot friend was still on the floor, immobile, as its microchips were not shock resistant. When asked if it was still okay, the inebriated robot friend managed a reply, telling them to clench their jaws on its gleaming metallic posterior. That was a good sign.

The female cyclopean captain checked if there was nothing in her eye. She only had one, and if it got poked out, she didn't have any extras lying around in a convenient second socket unlike most people. She looked around and saw the Bragulan bureaucrat calmly sitting on a spinning chair, buckled up with seatbelts and chains, and obviously no worse for the wear. He made a little laugh. A fucking little laugh.

The high ranking Shepistani officer chuckled nervously, having remembered his briefings and the cocktails that came before it. High command had brought him here to assess the effectivity of Bragulan nuclear weapons firsthand, and the Bragulans had done so with panache that even a Shepistani ruthless genocidal warmonger could appreciate. He also laughed with the Bragulan bureaucrat. They fucking laughed together. He patted his paunch as he did so.

The high ranking Shepistani officer shook paws with the Bragulan bureaucrat as, then and there, they finalized the agreement of the SPUD shipments and the licensing of Bragulan bunker designs to Shepistan.

Afterwards, the Bragulan bureaucrat took one more look at his digital watch and excused himself, for he had another appointment. He didn't mention to the Shepistanis that the next meeting was with Chamarrans interested in buying weaponries, and that they had prepped another Brag bunker for a nuke-demonstration as well. The Bragulan bureaucrat was a busy person, and today was Bragsday just another day in the job for him. He bid them farewell and went off.

The Bragulan bureaucrat left the building. In a lead suit that would protect him from the intense fallout radiation.

The high ranking Shepistani officer had forgotten that particular detail, and the idea of bringing radiation suits for himself and the others had slipped his mind. He blamed his green-skinned amphibious adjutant, passing the buck so that he wouldn't look back. While the other SHEPlanetary Express crew grumbled and mumbled, at least they had gotten rid of the Bragulan bureaucrat. After they waited for the Bragulan decontamination teams to come over and clean the area, they finally got the shipment of SPUD missiles they were supposed to pickup.

Then, without further ado, they went back into their ship and lifted off - heading back home to Shepistan. They patted their backs for another job well done, another delivery for the SHEPlanetary Express. They had debriefings and cocktails. Of Spurm.
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Last edited by Shroom Man 777 on 2010-10-06 03:10am, edited 1 time in total.
Image "DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)
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Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people :D - PeZook
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Force Lord »

Center of Foreign Affairs Building, Central City, Centrum
The Center Sector, The Centrality
4 April 3400


"Prussia and Umeria have been having diplomatic spats for days, sir. Bad timing, too." Ravin Nostrum sounded concerned.

Borlon sighed. Bad timing indeed, since both were willing to help the Centrality in fighting the pirates. If Prussia and Umeria brought their dispute in the Centrality's backyard....

"This will not do. You will try to get an suitable agreement out of those two. If we have to be neutral mediators, then so be it. We can't have our 'helpers', for lack of a better term, be distracted while fighting our common enemy."

"I will do my best, of course."

Ravin Nostrum soon walked to compose a message for both nations...

Result: The dispute between Umeria and Prussia reaches the ears of the Centrality...and it's not well received.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Steve »

Wembley Performing Arts Center, New Chatham
New Anglia, Star Kingdom of New Anglia
2 April 3400



Located not far from the center of New Chatham, the Wembley was build to hold many thousands of people for concerts ranging from Old Earth opera to neo-classical orchestra performances and metal band concerts. The latter was going on now, an Anglian band called Hard Noise playing vigorous and loud electric guitar riffs that echoed through the structure. Somewhere on the order of 50,000 people, almost all between 15 and 30 years of age.

Among those present was Druni Jestani. She was dressed in what Clarice insisted was proper concert wear - a leather vest over a cleavage-baring tank top with a high skirt that barely got to the mid-point of Druni's thighs. After years of long dresses and trousers with modest robes and vests, it was a liberating yet almost embarrassing change of wear.

The earplugs were the only thing keeping Druni's physical eardrums from bursting as she moved through the dancing throngs. Her mental "hearing" was another matter. Emotions and thoughts washed over and around her, making it impossible to feel any one mind. She felt happiness and envy and liberation and lust...

Clarice grabbed her arm and pulled her toward a couple other girls, Patricia and Margie. "Watch it now, don't want to get lost in the crowd!" Clarice was yelling at the top of her voice and was still mostly inaudible, such that Druni felt what she said with her Gift more than she heard it. She looked at Druni from eyes that had been prettied up with cosmetics, accumulated painstakingly from their allowances, with a midriff-bearing tube top and a skirt even higher than Druni's, such that it struck Druni as immensely immodest... and by Tryni standards Druni was quite a liberal and immodest girl herself. The others weren't much better dressed.

In this crowd Druni despaired of finding Sarisa. She began to wonder why she wanted to in the first place. What guarantee did she have that Sarisa would even care? They'd met only once, after all, it wasn't like they'd really gotten to know each other over that one morning. When it came down to it, she was just grasping at a straw, wondering if it might give her a purpose in her life now that she had decided the Order was not for her.

The band was playing a new song, this one a bit slower in tempo. Druni didn't bother listening to the words as she followed, for the moment, Clarice and the others.

She noticed the bodyguards a moment later.

It wasn't hard to miss them, standing at the edge of the upper level. In a building packed with young people wearing loose and comfortable clothing, the suited men stood out. It was hard to sense their thoughts from the distance, and with all the people between them, so Druni slipped away from Clarice and drifted closer, wading through the others present. She got to the stairways that led upward and pressed through them, though thankfully there was more room here. At the top she had to start milling through again. As she got closer she tried to sense minds to see if she could find a familiar one, the best she might hope for in these crowded spaces.

As she saw a head of purple hair, on a human, a hand gripped her arm tightly. She felt pain in her upper arm as a figure loomed beside her, a third bodyguard. He pulled close enough so that a growled, "Excuse me, but you're going to have to back away." was still audible.

"What's the prob... let go of me!", Druni complained. She tried to wrench free and found his grip was remaining solid. She turned her attention back to the head of purple hair. She concentrated on it and projected a thought. Duchess Sarisa?

That prompted the figure to turn. Sarisa saw Druni and grinned. "Why, Druni, isn't it? I would never expect to see you here!" She looked to her bodyguard. "Let her go, I know her!"

"Your Grace, I..."

"She's with the Silver Moon, she's perfectly fine!", Sarisa insisted. She took Druni by the arm. Shouting herself hoarsely, she continued, "Come on, let's get somewhere quiet!"



They found a balcony overlooking the nearby roads and buildings where the music was down to a background noise. Druni's ears were ringing a little as she pulled out her earplugs, Sarisa doing the same. "Wow, you look good in that," Sarisa remarked. Her own suit was just as flattering, being a sleeveless blouse and thigh-length skirt of blue and black color respectively. "They let you attend concerts in the Order?"

"Actually..." Druni lowered her head. "I left the Order."

"Really?" Sarisa gazed at her intently. "Was it because of... me?"

A smile crossed Druni's face. "In a way, yes," she admitted. "I was going to be in trouble. I... used fire."

The sheepish, yet amused, look turned to one of concern. "Druni, you didn't hurt anyone, did you?"

"No, just a plant. Well, at first..." Druni sighed. "After the assassination of King Charles, I chased the shooters. I'd seen Sister Zara go down and I was furious at their acts. I found them, fought them, nearly got myself and other Sisters killed, and my only way out was to use pyro and electro on them. To get through their protective technology."

"And your Order was actually going to punish you for that," Sarisa said aloud, figuring it out. "You left to avoid punishment?"

"No. I left because after thinking about things, I realized that as much as I agreed with the Order's intent, I didn't want to be part of it," Druni explained. "I wasn't going to commit my life to an organization that wanted me to suppress a natural part of my Gift. So I left. I'm living in a hostel now, in North Park."

"North Park? Oh yes, I believe I saw that area listed on a map." Sarisa looked out over the city. "It's so much bigger here than Carwen, you know. It's like you've put three Carwens in one place."

"It's astounding. My hometown of Beyar could fit in New Chatham alone over thirty times. I think there are more people living in a ten kilometer radius around North Park than through the entire New Caroline Islands." Druni drew in a sigh. "But I'm only here temporarily, trying to find my feet. I want to learn how to use my Gift, all aspects of it. But I've got to wait for a chance at examination by the secular schools and colleges for the Gifted, for Espers I mean."

"I'm here to look into attending New Chatham University myself," Sarisa mentioned. "Reina thinks I need to get a full education and live my own life. Though honestly I'd be perfectly happy attending university back home. There's just so much going on here..."

"I just want to go somewhere in my life. Somewhere that's not Beyar, where my parents will scowl at me for daring to leave the Order and people will glare in the streets if I'm known as a practicing pyrokinetic. I just want to belong somewhere."

"How long do you have to stay at the hostel?", Sarisa asked, beginning to think of something. "I mean, are you contracted there or...?"

"I don't have to stay, honestly, it's more of a day-to-day thing. You sign up and get free room and board, plus a small stipend, in exchange for community service - whenever you get real lodgings arranged you move out. Cleaning up the parks and streets, watching children, that kind of thing. Eventually you get government money to go into a vocational school of some sort. I'd be a special case as an Esper, though a lot depends on how I want my talents to be used."

"Well, I was thinking of your education when I had this thought." Sarisa grinned. "How would you like to accompany me back to Carwen, as a guest?"

"I'd be honored, Your Grace." Druni tried to keep her smile humble. This was precisely what she'd been hoping for - a place to actually go. "Would your sister be okay with it though?"

"Oh, Reina would be fine," Sarisa assured her. "And then I can take you to meet my pyrokinesis instructor and we'll see what he can do for you. In the meantime, would you like to stay in my suite? I'm sure your hostel isn't that nice."

"Not as much space as I got at the Cloister, but more freedom after our daily work." Druni bowed her head respectfully. "Thank you very much, Your Grace."

"Please, call me Sarisa. Now, how about we go get your things from the hostel and go back to the suite for a late dinner and some fun girl talk?" Sarisa put an arm around Druni's shoulders. "And if my guards give you any lip just remind them you were trained by a kickass Esper Order and will toss them around the room with your mind." They laughed together as they walked off.



National Starport, Maynilad
Luz, The Feelipeens, Sector Z-6
4 April 3400



Due to being such a backward system, the starport at Maynilad was called the National one, as it was the only actual Starport in the entire system. While there were airports and fields that could accommodate landing starships, only the Maynilad Starport had a fully functional terminal for space traveler traffic.

A young woman with blond hair stepped through one terminal, having arrived from Umerian space. The burly security guards spoke to her in broken English, eyeing her lustily despite her fairly conservative attire. Assuring themselves that she was, in fact, Angela Crawfield of the Caroline Times and that she was carrying no weapons or contraband, they let her go through. She gave them only the briefest of smiles before disappearing into the crowds.

Zara swallowed. Her head hurt from the active Blitzschlag Field being generated around the facility, a gift from Shepistani to Shroomarcos - ostensibly to help him identify obvious Espers coming into his country. The truth was that you could only detect a telepath in a BFG if they weren't prepared for it and hadn't quieted their extra senses. It was nevertheless hard to keep a straight face given the ache in her head and the loss of her senses.

The feeling dissipated as she left the terminal - the technology on Luz was backward and insufficient to fully power a BFG Shepistani-style - and she could feel many of her senses returning as she flagged down a taxi. Even more broken English called out to her, asking for a destination, and Zara picked a medium-quality hotel that catered to Anglian and Altacaran clientele.

Her funds here were limited. The Order was not a national intelligence service; she would have to make the account cards made available to her last if she was to investigate fully. The only lead she had was that the slavers on Creston were involved in something called "Shroom Fighter". What this was nobody knew; it would be up to her to find it and hopefully a link to the slavers.

Unlike in the Outback, there were no friendly authorities for her to turn to. The Feelipeeni authorities were corrupt and brutal and Shepistan was only a sector away. She could not afford coming to their attention or she would be in mortal peril. Her mission was simply to find out what was going on and report back. The Order would take measures as needed afterward.

Zara would obey her orders. Such was the requirement given by the Code. And the Code... was all she had left.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Simon_Jester »

Conductor-class Light Cruiser USS Directrix
On Home Station, Hogan's Star, Sector W-6
April 4, 3400


Rear Admiral Vargas scowled over the visiplate. "What, they're sending you out again? What are you, Umeria's Goodwill Girl?"

Commodore Hazarika shrugged. "Something seems fishy to me too, sir. They're pulling the same ships out of the system control group for this that they did for the Pendleton op. It might just be some computer in SpaceSec command making the same decision twice for the same reason, or it might be something more complicated."

"Wish I knew what. Are you sure you'll be all right with being shipped off to the Centrality after that stunt they pulled at Bannerman?"

"Word in the briefing packet is that the new administration is expected to be a bit more... stable. And worst case, we'll be operating fairly independently; we can always make a run for it if they decide to do anything too psychotic."

"Well, I'll miss you, and I'll miss the ships you're taking with you."

"Should be all right; shoals have been fairly quiet, and they're extending Petrona's sweep area to take up the slack."

"I know, I know; it's the principle of the thing. Anyway, keep an eye on Cardwell, all right?"

"I will, sir." And that was a good warning. The newly promoted cutter commander was still shaky after the horrific casualties the cutters had taken going up against a Pendletonian recon destroyer at Bannerman before starship support showed up to finish it off.

Cardwell was a good officer, but Bannerman had brought too many demons too close to the surface for comfort. Two months of inactivity hadn't improved matters, not with the inevitable pressure to turn her initial after-action report into something publishable. She'd had to walk through the recordings of the battle repeatedly, dissecting everything for analysis, and it had shown in her behavior at the officers' mess, or lack thereof on the days when she'd 'withdrawn to work.'

"Good. I wish I knew what the swirls were playing at with those torpedo drills they want your missileers to run; I can't understand why they only sent those to the ships they're peeling off..."

"We're a good deal more likely to see action, sir."

"Yes, but it's not like we have anything better to do than run simulations... well, in any case, good hunting."

Hazarika grinned. "Yes, sir!"

Conductor-class Light Cruiser USS Directrix
Fleet Gunnery Range Two, Reisenburg System, Sector W-7
April 9, 3400


Ananya watched the plot on flag bridge as the last of the ships allotted to the Umerian contingent for the campaign against the Zebesian pirates popped out of hyper. Leading the squadron were her own Directrix and the younger Empress-class light cruiser Artemisia. With the cruisers and four frigates, the arrival of the last pair of cutter tenders brought the combined force up to a dozen ships... a greatly reinforced formation compared to what she'd taken to Bannerman.

In fact, it was definitely a two-star command... and they hadn't had a rear admiral to run it. Until now.

The orders announcing her promotion to Rear Admiral and placing her in command of "Task Force Two" were quite welcome. She could only hope Rick, who'd been the squadron's other commodore, wouldn't take exception. He had been a helpful friend at the Academy, and she didn't want to risk bad blood.

But along with those orders had come an announcement that a special representative from the Bureau of Armaments was coming aboard to give her a secret briefing. The representative's shuttle had just docked, so she was expecting it when just over a minute later, the call came in her earbud.

"Co- ah, Admiral, there's a man from Armaments here to speak to you. Clearances check." The corner of her mouth twitched slightly; being newly promoted while staying on the same ship could be confusing for the ratings at times.

"I'll meet him in my office." There was a pause.

"All right, ma'am. He'll be up in a minute."

The flag accomodations aboard a light cruiser weren't as spacious as those aboard the full-up capital ships, but there was certainly enough room in the office to receive a guest. The man in civilian clothes sealed the door behind him.

"Good day to you, Admiral. What I'm about to tell you is Confidential Type Three." Hazarika nodded. "When we send you off to the Centrality, your command is going to be equipped with new experimental torpedo and missile designs recently developed by the Bureau of Armaments, with an enhanced-yield warhead using a rubiconium derivative."

"Tylium?"

"Yes."

"Wow. I won't ask how you managed that..."

"Thank you. In any case, supplies are strictly limited; you're being issued the first small production batch for combat testing. We can guarantee resupply, but we can't fill your magazines with the things."

"How many?"

"At the moment we're projecting forty-five or so torpedoes, just over six hundred Mark Five and just under four hundred Mark Six by the time you leave; that's practically all the tylium-boosted warheads in the whole country."

That was... quite a responsibility. She'd have to put some thought into how to distribute them among her ships, but that was for later.

"How's the performance?"

"Suboptimal. We've gotten great improvements in the yield, but focusing has suffered badly. This is an improvised modification to existing warheads, not a ground-up design. Right now, we've increased yield by about a factor of four, but the jet angle has increased by something like 70%, so we lose most of the gains in intensity from that. Hopefully they'll beat the problem with a new warhead to mate to the existing chassis soon, but..."

"We're the beta testers. Hmm. Are there any changes to handling, loading protocols, maintenance?"

"Not many; the details are all in here." He slid a chip across her desk.

"Hmm. Super-heavy warheads, but limited quantities. What do you have for doctrine?"

"Actually, that's what we plan to have you working on for the next four to five weeks..."
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Beowulf »

Annam governate, Aurore
Stairway Hyperspace Lane
Sector W-5


Colonel Barthe had returned home some months ago. It had been quite some time since he'd been able to get back. Over 40 years, as a matter of fact. Since he'd left, he'd made captain of a mercenary company. Twice. Since then, he'd raised his own outfit, known as Compagnie de Barthe.

And then came the call. The Auroran Army had too enthusiastically put down a food riot, and turned the town of Sneek into rubble. That had been the last straw in the long simmering resentment against the kleptocracy that Aurore called a government. Someone made good on the bond required to hire his regiment, and he was on his way home. He was somewhat mystified as to who did so, as those not in the favor of the government were kept impoverished.

Massive highways existed, travelled only by the so-called Integrationists. Even then, most of them instead flew air-cars, disdaining ground travel as for the rabble. The rabble, instead, largely walked. This was largely effective in keeping the discontent from spreading. However, it wasn't all that effective in supporting an healthy economy. Supporting an healthy economy wasn't the point though. Supporting the aristocracy in the manner they were accustomed was.

The problem with the Integrationists was that they'd taken the Umerian type system, and twisted it. You couldn't manage to get into the upper echelons without being a high enough type, and you couldn't be a high enough type without having the right family.

So here he was, along with three thousand of his friends, in the stinking jungles of Aurore, to teach civilians how to fight the government, and win.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Lord_Of_Change 9 »

Reisenburg

The negotiations had been going nowhere for days, and Hoffman was getting bored. It was with a mixture of tiredness and boredom that he spoke to the Umerian diplomat, Maxim Chernov. Hopefully the words he was about to say would lead to an understanding.

'Perhaps,' Hoffman said. 'The Volksland system could be demilitarised, yes? After all, your greatest concern is that it will be used to attack Umeria, or disrupt the Grand Coreward Trunk. Demilitarisation would aid relations between you and us, after all?'
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Simon_Jester »

Orbit City

Image

Orbit City on Reisenburg was created as an experiment in arcology design, triggered by the development of new structural alloys in the 30th century. Many would say that it is a failed experiment, and this is supported by the fact that it is practically the only city of its type in Umerian space.

Ever since the first attempts at arcology construction in the late 21st century, the problem of access has plagued designers. The first-generation arcologies on Earth and Nova Terra suffered very badly from this, as virtually all supplies and resident traffic had to flow in and out through the ground floor. Gradually, ground-floor layout improved and subterranean loading docks and freight elevator design improved to reduce the scope of the problem, but if nothing else, the physical footprint of the extensive elevator system required to move all traffic from the ground floor to the upper floors was prohibitive and reduced the amount of real estate available on the lower floors.

The development first of compact low-maintenance ducted turbofans and later of antigravity devices reduced the scope of the problem by allowing flying vehicles to dock at the upper floors, reducing the problem. But even then, intense drafts around high-rise structures and the high cost per ton-mile of flying car transport limited that as a solution; a great deal of cargo (including, for example, the water supply) still had to come in from ground level and pass through the periphery of the ground floor- and there was only so much physical space to do this.

During the exuberant period of post-Jaggan War expansionism that reached its high water mark in the 30th and 31st centuries, urban planners in the Technocracy of Umeria came up with a bold and daring solution after looking at the parameters of the era's structural durasteels: mount the entire building on stilts. This allowed ground-based cargo transports to come into the structure from below and offload goods into powered cranes that could raise them up into the interior, effectively using the entire first floor of the building as an enormous loading dock rather than depending solely on small docks around the edge of the first floor.

This radical design departure was tested out in Orbit City, originally a typical low-rise urban center that was in the process of evolving into an arcology-city ("arcopolis") at the time. The new arcologies of Orbit City were constructed according to a stilt-based design paradigm, and the project was hailed as "The City of Tomorrow" by its ambitious development leads.

Historians of urban planning have compared Orbit City to Brasilia, and not without reason. Like Brasilia, Orbit City was played up as the architectural and design 'wave of the future'. Like Brasilia, Orbit City was viewed with interest by other nations looking to it as an example of a city laid out along truly modern lines, without reference to obsolete legacy concepts. And like Brasilia, Orbit City often receives complaints that its layout is designed more for vehicle traffic than for people.

While ideally suited to the favored modern combination of ground-based cargo and aeromotive passenger transport, the stilt-arcology design makes it impractical for people to leave the building except by air. Access through the elevator shafts piggybacking on the stilts is awkward and cramped, and fitting the Orbit City buildings with evacuation chutes to allow the inhabitants to retreat to deep bombardment shelters proved very expensive, further discouraging the Umerians from repeating the experiment.

Today, several of Orbit City's residential blocks have been repurposed as manufacturing facilities, particularly ones where high sensitivity of equipment to vibration makes isolation from ground tremors desirable. Others have been dismantled. The remaining residential blocks serve either to house workers at said manufacturing facilities, or citizens employed at offices which take advantage of the rare combination of low real estate costs and high concentration of floor space for large white-collar employee concerns.
Last edited by Simon_Jester on 2010-10-06 07:09pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

Simon_Jester wrote:Orbit City
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The remaining residential blocks serve either to house workers at said manufacturing facilities, or citizens employed at offices which take advantage of the rare combination of low real estate costs and high concentration of floor space for large white-collar employee concerns.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

In the Bragulan justice system, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups: the suicide police, who instigate crime; and the district attorneys, who persecute the offenders. These are their stories.
Claw and Order 3: Party Girl

ALTACAR EMBASSY, Bragule
Praise Lohen staggered into her apartment's kitchen, half-drunk and dizzy, cocktail dress wet from spilled drinks and otherwise. It was late in the evening, but her parents wouldn't be due back until much later - they were still in their spaceflight from Rygnskrgnvk, getting some stupid Bragulan award for shipping some stupid Altacarian vowels to some stupid bears. Praise was the only daughter of two Altacarian diplomats just recently assigned to Bragule. Since their previous assignment was at Anglia, the sudden news that they were getting reassigned to the ass-end of the galaxy, in the goddamn Krazy Zone no less, had hit Praise like a punch in the ovaries. Of course mother and father were delighted to have such an exciting assignment in such an exotic faraway locale, and of course being the terrible parents they were, they didn't realize just what it meant for their daughter. Praise loved it in Anglia, it was just like Altacar, but even better! The clubs, the discos, her rich fashionable friends and princess pals, all the wild parties she got invited to. She had everything there, all the boys and girls she wanted and needed, who also wanted her in return, and all the... pleasing social interactions it entailed. God, she missed Anglia so much.

But all that was gone now. She was stuck on fucking Bragule and the only "fun" she had was with partying with the other humans from the other neighboring embassies. Hoo-fucking-ray, the parties were lame, they only lasted up to 8 in the evening because of the Bragulan curfews on humans, and the people she met there were even lamer than the lame parties. There were only, like, two other embassies nearby - the Umerian one and the Shepistani one, and they were all full of losers! The Umerians were geeks and she just laughed at them when they invited her to play Dungeons & Dinobonoids with them. What a crock of shite. While the Shepistanis? They were all army-brats, all the guys were meatheaded jock douchebags and while some of the girls were lesbians, they were the ugly butch bitches who didn't wear lipstick or shaved their armpits. Gross! Ew! Yucks!

For a moment, she considered going out with a Bragulan instead, but then she remembered that they were crazy ugly bear aliens that ate people. Why those things were allowed to own their own planets, and even have a star nation, she had no idea. If she had it her way, she would've had Anglia and Shinra and the UN and everyone else to come down on the Brags like a ton of bricks and skin all those bears alive and use them for rugs. The galaxy was for human consumption anyway, all those alien animals could count themselves lucky if they ended up domesticated or in zoos - it was only a matter of time. The Byzantines had the right idea with the Tau, but the Byzantines were also a bunch of Bible-thumping Throne-humping Emperor-freaks and she bet they all thought she was a slut, so they could all take a cathedral spire and shovel it, as far as she cared.

So what if I am?! she thought. She pulled out her communicator from between her legs, like that groin-o-phone used by that great and ancient Nova Terran leader she heard about in history class once, and tried to call one of her friends. She knew long distance relationships were hard, so before they hauled her out to Bragule, she had ended her relationships with her boyfriends - both of them - but she just wanted to hear the sound of their voices again, listen to their sexy Anglian accents, imagine them whispering to her as they ran their tongues over her earlobes...

The call didn't make it, she was outside the service area and Bragule didn't have any signal. God, she hated Bragule! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

She screamed and threw her cellphone at the floor. The thing shattered on impact, like a piece of stained glass breaking into shards.

"Shits!" she cursed, realizing what she just did and cussing like a Bragulan, of all things. "Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!"

She bent down and tried to grab the pieces of broken phone. The gadget was a transparent piece of solid-state quantums, it didn't have any buttons or screens or batteries or chips, it was just pure crystal, like a piece of glass - and it broke like one too. She cut herself on a shard. She saw blood coming out of her wounded fingers.

"Oh no! No! No!" she cried and got down on her knees. Where could she get a replacement phone? She didn't have enough money, and even if she did the only phones they sold on Bragule were walkie talkies with fucking vacuum tubes that weighed ten pounds. Her phone, her precious phone! Both her boyfriends pooled in to buy it for her monthsary, since they ended up broke after buying her useless shit in all the previous monthsaries, so they had to combine their cash for her latest present. "What am I going to do? Oh Jesus. Oh God! What am I going to do?"

Her prayers were answered when she found herself in front of the kitchen sink cupboard. Strangely, she was compelled to open the closet and there, under the sink and its many pipes, she found the answer.

A bottle of drain cleaner.
****
"Honey, we're home!" announced Mr. and Mrs. Lohen as they entered their apartment. "We're early since the Bragulans thought the guys in front of us were CEID agents, so the Brags took them for processing and we got through the line faster. Isn't that convenient?"

"Honey?"

Mr. Lohen went into the kitchen, intending to check the fridge to see if there were any lemons he could suck on, when he found his daughter. He screamed like Mrs. Lohen.

"Praise! What happened?! Praise, are you okay?! Praise!"

"Honey, what's the matter - oh god!"

"Help! Is there a doctor in the house? Call for help!"

The Altacar Embassy didn't have a hospital, only a small clinic that was not equipped to deal with people who drank drain cleaner and burned their entire esophagus and upper digestive tract. A Bragulan Embassy, on the other hand, would've come with not just a puny clinic, but would've also had a dentistry department, and a field hospital complete with a morgue and a furnace. Their neighbors called for outside assistance while Mr. and Mrs. Lohen carried their daughter to the Bragulan para-medics who merely calmly stood outside the embassy grounds as to avoid violating foreign territory. They took her to them, and without even bothering to put her on a stretcher the para-Brags hauled her one-handedly and threw her into the armored ambulance. Then they rushed her to the hospital, sirens blaring and treads rolling against the pavement.
****
Imperator Darvyl S. Byzon Veterinary Facility for the Bragulan Children's Small Animal Pets and Human Beings
Image
The pain was excruciating, the drain cleaner had melted the linings of Praise Lohen's esophagus, causing terrible bleeding in her upper digestive tract. The chemicals were now accumulating in her stomach, threatening to eat through its membranes and burn through to the rest of her abdominal cavity - like a stress ulcer from hell. Praise wept like she never wept before, harder than the time her girlfriends and galpals called her a manipulative conniving whorebag bitch and slapped her in front of everyone, or that time she was drunk driving in Umeria and she mistakenly thought the Umerian engineers were going to send her to work in the mines due to her DUI (when in fact she just stayed in jail for three days), and even that time someone insulted her by calling her a useless socialite without any worthwhile contribution to decent human society at all.

Again, the Bragulan para-medic hauled her one-handed like carrying an anorexic stick, and brought her to the ER. There the veterinarian, who couldn't speak any human language at all, was all confused as Mr. and Mrs. Lohen tried to communicate with him in the native Bragulan tongue.

"Da. I will have to lavage her stomachs," the vet told him. "I cannot make her vomit, because if she does so then the chemicals will damage her upper digestive tract all over again as they go out the way they came in. So I will flush her four stomachs with neutralizing agent to prevent the chemicals from doing further damage. You humans have four stomachs, right?"

"No! Just one!" the father cried desperately.

"Just none? How strange. Do you instead vomit digestive acids to dissolve the food before slurping it in, like certain Karlack bioforms?" the doctor scratched his ear.

"We humans have one stomach! One!" the mother held up both her hands, with index fingers raised in each one.

"Two stomachs? Ah, just like the chambers of your hearts!" the vet nodded in understanding.

"ONE!!!" the mother lowered her other finger.

"Ah, one. Why didn't you say so? Hilarious, one stomach leads to inefficient digestive process unlike mighty Bragulan physiology. Your human stomachs lead to an accumulation of feces, making you full of shit. Maybe that can explain politics," the vet chuckled. "So, I will insert this tube to her stomach. If I stick it in her nose, it will go into her stomach, yes?"

"Da!" the father nodded his head. "Hurry!"

"Mang, I never studied much of human anatomy. When I was conscripted, all they told me was that I had to kill as many humans as I could. Now I am trying to save a juvenile human cub, how times have changed!" the vet said good-naturedly. He chuckled again. "By the way, my name is Hybbrt. Pleased to meet you."

"JUST DO IT GODDAMN IT!" both parents shrieked.

"Okay, okay, sheesh! What is this god you damn, there is no god, only great Imperator Byzon!" the vet shrugged. "Oh well, here goes something."

With his bear paws, he pulled Praise's nose up and with his other hand, he held a lubricated nasogastric tube. It was for Bragulan sizes, which meant to a human it was roughly the size of a gardening hose. Hybbrt moved to slide the tube into the human's nostril when -

Suddenly, a gauntleted paw restrained Hybbrt's surgically gloved paws.

"Stop in the name of Bragulan Law!" Suicide Police Officer Stas Stas Bush barked harshly as he trained a K-bolter on the vet's face, mere inches away. "What treachery is this?!"

"I... I... I..." the vet promptly urinated on himself. When severely anxious and fearful, Bragulans tended to territorially mark themselves. "Uhh... how on Bragule did you get here anyway?"

"You question our authority?!" Yefym twisted the vet's paw and nearly broke his pinky claw. Hybbrt squealed and went down to his knees. "We are the Bragulan Suicide Police, and we have detected an attempted suicide. By this -"

He pointed at the gurgling, twitching form of Praise Lohen.

"- sickly diseased excuse of a puny human female. What an emaciated form. Perhaps she was thinking of taking her own life because she thought herself unable to suckle enough cubs during the winter season. But perhaps not. In the Altacar Embassy, she had diplomatic immunity, but here and now she is within our jurisdiction. This is why we will carry out an investigation."

"But she's dying! She needs medical treatment!" Hybbrt protested.

"This is outside the jurisdiction of medicine." Yefym replied as he released Hybbrt's arm and turned his attention to the suspect. "You. Why did you try to take your own life? Speak up?" Yefym bent down and cupped his ear to get better reception. "Louder please, I cannot hear you."

"She can't speak because she drank drain cleaner!" Mrs. Lohen bawled.

"Silence! Do not speak when you are spoken to!" Stas growled with his limited mastery of the human languages. He lowered his K-bolt and retrieved his beating stick. For humanitarian reasons, he wrapped the stick in newspaper, to cushion blows that would've been lethal otherwise.

"No!" Mr. Lohen ran up and tried to block the big Bragulan officer.

"Oh, you want to be first?" Stas chuckled. "Okay."

"Please! Don't!" Mr. Lohen cowered in humanly fear. Stas raised his stick and prepared to administer a medical beating, seeing as they were in a health care institution after all.
Image
"Stas." Stas stopped as his superior officer spoke. "We are here to conduct an investigation. Let us interrogate them first."

"Before we administer the beatings?" Stas asked hopefully.

"Yes. Before the beatings." Yefym relented.

"Works for me!" Stas shrugged.

So they asked the parents why their juvenile cub tried to take her own life. Since there were two of them, Stas and Yefym took turns in interrogating them in separate rooms, one after the other, careful to keep them far apart from all times while recording their confessions meticulously. They scrutinized them and cross-referenced their testimonies, to make sure with absolute certainty that there was no hint of deceit. The father blubbered something about 'taking too much time' and that their 'daughter didn't have long' or something, but when Stas brought up his newspaper-wrapped stick threateningly, he stopped digressing and returned to the topic of their visit to Rygnskrgnvk.

The SuPo were suspicious. Weren't suspected CEID agents apprehended in a flight from Rygnskrgnvk and taken for processing? Just coincidentally, this human tries to kill herself. Maybe she didn't even drink drain cleaner. Maybe she was just using drain cleaner to wash down a cyanide pill before the IBGV could get her!

This was a grave case. The SuPo would need to bring them to the Technicians of Justice for referential recycling and fill the necessary papers.

"Imperator, the paper work will take forever!" Stas whined.

"But she'll die before that!" Hybbrt protested.

"So?" Stas asked.

"Wait, no. He's right." Yefym thought out loud. He had to admit, the vet had a point.

"What?" Stas asked. Again.

"If she's dead, she can't be processed. We'll have to make a summary judgment call based on the evidence we have now." Yefym thought it through and made a decision. "Stas, stand the human up."

Stas pulled the human's hair and dragged her up into a standing position.

"As judge, jury and executioner, upon examining your pathetic reasons for living - and even more pathetic reasons for dying - I judge thee unworthy to even die on Bragule. Praise Lohen, go die on someone else's planet!" with that, Yefym punched her in her stomach in a blow so mighty that the drain cleaner in her digestive tract was forced back up her esophagus, burning it all over again, before reentering her mouth and searing her tongue and teeth before it spewed out of her mouth. Some of the drain cleaner also came out of her nostrils, along with nose hairs that wilted off their follicles. Yefym looked down at her with contempt. "May Byzon have no mercy on your soul."

"Shits, I think she really is dying, boss!" Stas exclaimed upon seeing the defoliated nose hairs sticking out of the potent mixture of puke, chemicals, biles, bloods, and indiscernible bits of sloughed off esophagus-linings.

"In that case, I think your services may be needed after all, Doctor Hybbrt. I will grant medicine temporary jurisdiction over this case, just this once." Yefym crossed his arms.

"What a bunch of Bragholes," Mr. Lohen whispered to his wife.

"I think we need a mop to clean this mess with." Stas remarked. "Human, do you want us to conscript your face for janitorial duties?"

"Eep!" he squealed.
***
The treatment involved surgerizing poor Praise Lohen. They resected the burned portion of upper gastric tract, and Dr. Hybbrt, without the benefit of detailed files on human anatomy, ended up replacing her esophagus by transplanting her colon into her throat. As Hybbrt explained the procedure to them, Stas wondered - if a human's colon was in his mouth, would this mean she would vomit shits? Or if she swallowed shits, then would that shits come out as foods in the other end? It was a great mystery - one that, Imperator willing, no one would find out.

"Oh, wait!" Hybbrt suddenly stopped. "I forgot!"

"What's wrong?!" the parents asked fearfully.

"I remember, a shipment I received just yesterday. A human prisoner of war from the Sovereignty wanted to commute his sentence, so he had all his organs harvested except for his brain. The amount of donated organs won him his freedom, so the Commissariat put his brain in a bottle and shipped him back to Solaris. One of his organs is an esophagus and I have it in my meat locker!" Hybbrt said excitedly. He scrubbed out in the middle of the operation, leaving Yefym to stand idly while holding his sterile gloved hands up. Hybbrt patted his back. "Nurse, keep the instruments sterile, we'll have to restart the entire operation!"

"Shits!" Yefym cursed.

Hybbrt showed the parents the United Solarian Marine's disembodied esophagus. It was a combat-grade designer organ, and under the microscope they could see that each and every cell had the brand logo of SinTek. Hybbrt, being the ethical vet, let the parents sign a consent waiver before restarting the whole operation. He returned Praise's colon - which was oddly distended, probably from prolonged unlubricated usage - back to her posterior while surgerizing the new military-issue Solarian esophagus and upper GI into Praise's body.

"Bragreka!" Hybbrt proclaimed as he finished his gruesome work.
***
"Mum, dad, I love you!" Praise cried as she hugged her parents. She fell in a coma for a whole month because it turned out Bragulan anesthesia and tranquilizers were more than what a human body could handle. Who knew? "I'm so sorry, I'll never do that again. I love you so much!"

"We love you too, sweetheart." Mr. and Mrs. Lohen embraced their daughter with all the warmth and loving care a good mother and father could manage. Despite being out like a light for a whole month, they never left their daughter in her thirty days of being a vegetable. They had stayed with her throughout the whole ordeal, changing her bedpans and turning her side to side so she wouldn't develop pressure ulcers that would eat through her butt flesh and reach the bone, and suctioning her mouth so she wouldn't drown herself in her own saliva. "Look, your friends came to visit!"

"Hey, Praise!" waved the bespectacled Umerian dorks and the Shepistani army brats (and butch lesbians, who were actually wearing some fashionable clothes for a change).

Praise smiled.

"So, wanna play some Dungeons & Dinobonoids?" they asked sheepishly.

"I'd love to!"
****
EPILOGUE
Praise ended up becoming very close with her new Umerian and Shepistani friends, and with her new consumer branded throat she had even more pleasing social interactions with them than she ever had before.

In the end, Praise didn't have to be recycled by the Technicians of Justice. It turned out that the CEID operatives that had been processed weren't really CEID operatives, but furries and Moreaus from the Grand Dominion seeking asylum in Bragule. Then, after their processing, they were re-processed again.

And everyone lived happily ever after.
THE END
Last edited by Shroom Man 777 on 2010-10-07 01:33am, edited 1 time in total.
Image "DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)
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Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people :D - PeZook
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by PeZook »

Image

Almera colony
Corinth, Pelania
X-COM field command post

The only three men present in the command tent stared at each other in silence. Secrets were shared here: dark secrets, of the sort that toppled governments, gutted cultures and forced people to withdraw history books from circulation. The fact they were usually the domain of crazy conspiracy theorists was just icing on the cake.

Colonel Delgado just told a tinpot dictator the secret of Almera's origin. That was pretty much as secret as information went: he'd probably be fired over that. Unless he managed to stop the aliens and recover the thing they were probably after.

The Tower. The first structure built after planetfall by the ancient settlers of Almera. Its location was lost as the planet descended into chaos. The structure and its surrounding complex was heavily damaged, and now, after hundreds of years of erosion and tectonic activity, was lost. Resurgent Almeran superpowers have been trying to find it for decades now.

General Corello leaned heavily on the map table. The problem was, that they expected him to tell them where it was, and he had no fucking idea.

"I have no fucking idea where the place is. I ruled Pelania for years now, my men would've found it by now if it was anywhere in Corinth."

The Air Force colonel gave Delgado a knowing look, as if trying to say 'Told you so'. Delgado almost sneered at him, but decided to grill the general a bit more, "Think. Are there any particularly old buildings? Places people don't go because they're haunted, or for cultural reasons?"

He didn't mention that intelligence people from all Almeran superpowers have already cased every old structure in Corinth. If there really was a hidden entrance to a mighty underground complex full of alien technology, they'd surely have found it by now.

"Corinthians are superstitious people...there's a lot of places that have strange legends about them", the general shrugged, "I'm not sure what you want me to do here. I'm sure your spies have already scoured every inch of my city."

The Air Force colonel's eyes went wide for a bit before he regained composure, "We're wasting time here...", he said, trying not to sound surprised.

Corello noticed his reaction, though, and it gave him no small amount of satisfcation, "That place is underground now, right?", he asked after a few moments of thinking, "There are catacombs below the Temple that people say are haunted."

"Our people have already been there!", the air force colonel blurted out, clearly frustrated, "They found nothing."

"They couldn't exactly knock down walls, now could they?", Corello pointed out, "It's not like the Tower will have a nice accessible door to the outside world if it was slowly covered in earth over the ages..."

The two Algeirans looked at each other. Delgado shrugged, "It's worth a shot. Let's concentrate there: it's a more secure location, anyway."

"You want to move everybody to the Temple?", Delgado's counterpart said with disbelief, "What if the Tower is actually elsewhere?"

"You have a better idea? We need to beat them there, and those...catacombs, whatever, they're our best guess."

"Our best wild guess!"

"You know what?", Corello got up, "We don't have much time. Either we do it or not, but I won't sit here and watch you two argue. You make a decision now, or I'll take my men and leave."

The Algeirans both looked at the general with utter surprise. They didn't expect such a show of defiance from the dictator: both of them assumed he'd just listen to their orders, like a good little puppet ruler should. But in that moment, they came to realize that without communications with the outside world, they needed Corello's men more than he needed them. After all, he could just flee the city: why should he care about Algeiran interests in the face of death via alien? It was remarkable he still wanted to cooperate at all.

"Fine. The Temple it is, then."

Image

Downton Corinth, Pelania

The creature moved through the streets of the human settlement. His hunched form would normally have attracted plenty of attention, but whatever humans didn't flee the fighting or hunker down inside their shelters were easily distracted with a wave of the hand, and ventured away, slowly shambling in a random direction.

It was a skeletal figure, grasping a royal-looking staff in one hand. A tattered cloak hung from its shoulders: everything, from it stylized face-plate in the shape of a mummified human head, to the skeletal shape of its body and finally the cloak and slightly glowing eyes, was calculated to make organics more suspectible to manipulation and control.

As it made its way between the little building and tiny shacks, it coldly calculated the proper spot, and leaned over a terrified human. Staring deep inside the being's eyes, it made sure the organic remembered its face, and then planted an imperative to leave and notify the army about the meeting. It went around the local shacks and houses: to its clear satisfaction, most humans did not require sophisticated reprogramming like this.

Begin phase two, it pulsed a data packet across the quantum realm. It reached its destination very rapidly.

Somewhere else within the city, two shadowy silhouettes - one remebling a huge gorilla, and another a more wiry, agile version of a typical Collector combat Unit - erupted from their hiding place inside a half-collapsed basement and began rapidly moving towards their primary objective.

The Temple, standing majestically in the center of the city.
Image
JULY 20TH 1969 - The day the entire world was looking up

It suddenly struck me that that tiny pea, pretty and blue, was the Earth. I put up my thumb and shut one eye, and my thumb blotted out the planet Earth. I didn't feel like a giant. I felt very, very small.
- NEIL ARMSTRONG, MISSION COMMANDER, APOLLO 11

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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Simon_Jester »

Central Administration Complex, Reisenburg
April 3, 3400
1200 Hours


"So, Mike, do you think he'll come up with a credible response given two days?"

"I'd like him to, but I'm not holding out much hope. That said, we have to plan on the basis of his most likely responses. I want you to put together a series of possible counterproposal documents..."
Lord_Of_Change 9 wrote:The negotiations had been going nowhere for days, and Hoffman was getting bored. It was with a mixture of tiredness and boredom that he spoke to the Umerian diplomat, Maxim Chernov. Hopefully the words he was about to say would lead to an understanding.

'Perhaps,' Hoffman said. 'The Volksland system could be demilitarised, yes? After all, your greatest concern is that it will be used to attack Umeria, or disrupt the Grand Coreward Trunk. Demilitarisation would aid relations between you and us, after all?'
Central Administration Complex, Reisenburg
April 5, 3400
1000 Hours


As before, Hoffman came into the conference room along with his three aides, precisely on time- the man was, as always, punctual. As before, the Prussians settled down on the far side of the table from the First Technarch, the Second for Foreign Affairs, and a single aide. The man looked... surprisingly neutral, possibly... it was inconceivable that he was bored, and yet somehow he did look that way. Could he be that detached from reality?

The First Technarch truly hoped not.

Max led off. "So, Herr Hoffman, do you have any proposals you would like to make?"

"Perhaps the Volksland system could be demilitarized yes? After all, your greatest concern is that it will be used to attack Umeria, or disrupt the Grand Coreward Trunk. Demilitarisation would aid relations between you and us, after all?'

Despite knowing that any rational person would have made a proposal broadly along those lines some time ago, the First Technarch was quite nearly stunned. He actually did it! He paid attention and responded logically to a situation!

It was a low standard, but one he'd expected not to be met.

Chernov looked at O'Connell, who nodded. As Chernov began shuffling paragraphs of his preplanned responses, O'Connell made a reply.

"That is an excellent and constructive proposal, Herr Kanzler. Thank you. Maxim, what do you think would be..."

"Well. As you and I discussed, Michael, there is a legitimate need to secure the Volksland system against outside parties; the problem is mostly that in the hands of any one nation it becomes a chokehold on commerce along the Trunk."

"We propose, in response, that a conference be held between the four main signatories to the Grand Trunk Accords: Tianguo, Umeria, Prussia, and Altacar. The goal of this conference will be to draw up an appendix to the Accords, specifically on the matter of Volksland. The Umerian proposal at this conference will be that a multinational force of light starships be used to secure the system against intrusion, while guaranteeing its neutrality in the event of hostilities."

"In addition, we intend to propose that the planet Volksland be declared a Prussian mandate, to be administered by Prussia, but with oversight from the other three Trunk powers: Tianguo, Umeria, and Altacar. Over the long run, this mandate will be governed with an eye towards the restoration of the planet's independence."

"Thus, Prussia is welcome to exercise control over the planet for as long as necessary to restore stability and prosperity to Volksland, and to ensure that it no longer poses a security threat to the Star League. But this control is only welcome so long as there is international oversight and some means of assuring that control is not kept in place indefinitely, or used in a way that would be bad for the balance of power.

"We will be forwarding a copy of this counterproposal to all the interested powers, along with a request that the conference convene in... July, perhaps? I suggest that the representatives meet on Altacar to discuss the matter, as it is arguably the most neutral participant and the one least dependent on the fate of Volksland."

"So, Herr Hoffman, what do you think?"

[Ball's in your court, LoC9. Basically, Chernov is proposing a joint occupation of the system, with the Prussians running the civilian government, but with representatives of the other powers watching and trying to push the planet towards eventual independence... some time later this century.]
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Force Lord »

Centralist Party HQ Building, Central City, Centrum
The Center Sector, The Centrality
5 April 3400


Viso Fredon and Falko Tredell were discussing Party business from Dirad Kierger's readiness to assume the posts of President and Dictator to routine paperwork when Tagdef Borlon arrived rather pleased.

"I bring good news. Aside from Prussia and Umeria, Tianguo is also willing to assist us. The NAC shows sympathy for our position as well, offering us to share Intelligence."

Viso Fredon could only bring up a small smile.

"At least we have some help. Any Intelligence breakthrough?"

It was Tredell who responded. "The CIS will brief the Chiefs of Staff and the Secretary of War tommorow. It's rather late as it is today."

"But I think we have to prepare for the arrival of foreign units. I will tell the Navy to ready its logistical elements and be as cordial as possible to any allied ships who have to use our territory. Tredell, I want you to go to tommorow's briefing as our eyes and ears. Borlon and Nostrum will deal with all diplomatic concerns. As for me, I will handle Kierger for now. He must be ready soon."

The three men soon went about their business....
An inhabitant from the Island of Cars.
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