SDNW4 Story Thread 1

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PeZook
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by PeZook »

Solaris system
June 12th 3400

Nobody managed to forget the Tannhauser Tango just yet. So when outlying sensor stations all around the sector detected a small fleet of ships bound from Collector space, cutting straight through the shoals in a straight line for Solaris, some people panicked again.

CIs didn't, of course. As the formation powered deeper and deeper into Solarian space, sensor resolution became good enough to determine it wasn't anywhere close to the two massive Monoliths that appeared in Shinn-Hokkaido some ten weeks ago.

So when the cruiser and four small escorts exited hyperspace, there was no gigantic fleet waiting for them. Alert levels were raised, of course, traffic was redirected and shields activated throughout the system - which was, after all, the centre of Solarian government. For this reason, the Collector squadron had been followed by IOUs ever since approaching USS territorry,though patrol groups had to pass it to each other as the group crossed straight through outlying shoals on several occasions, before entering the Solaris hyperspace nexus.

The five ships hung there in space beyond the hyperlimit, as if taking in the sights. Or maybe it was their way of showing they didn't come to blow stuff up: either way, it took five minutes before they began broadcasting anything at all, which was incredibly annoying to the system's traffic control CIs. They expressed their displeasure by threatening severe response should the squadron deviate from its assigned course towards the orbit of Solaris Minor. The Collectors seemed to contemptously ignore the warning, though they complied with all instructions with utter precision.

Since insufferable smugness was a proud property of Olympic that he didn't feel like sharing, the CI decided to add a personal touch to the matter by parking a USSF Genocide-class Dreadstar on the same orbit as the Collector squadron.

Eventually, the system's visitors - now targetted by some six hundred various defence emplacements, orbital autolaser batteries and missile launchers - deigned it fit to introduce themselves.

Code: Select all

Sherlock squadron reporting arrival in accordnance to agreement with Solarian decision-making construct. Special investigation team aboard flagship. Request initial operational briefing.
Only after sending that did they actually pay the parking fees for their orbit.
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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

Signature dedicated to the greatest achievement of mankind.

MILDLY DERANGED PHYSICIST does not mind BREAKING the SOUND BARRIER, because it is INSURED. - Simon_Jester considering the problems of hypersonic flight for Team L.A.M.E.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Simon_Jester »

Recommended Music: Mars, Bringer of War

Corsair-J class ELINT cutter CG-85484 “Heavenly Body
Hawk's Nest System
June 7, 3400
0905 Hours


Dwight was feeling a little confused. The port side of the ELINT shell had been pushed out towards the Trojan debris field, but he hadn't gotten any orders. Time to check with higher.

"Delta One, this is Delta Three, are we to concentrate on the Trojans?"

"Orders from Directrix are to maintain sensor watch. Keep an eye on your sector; someone's got to watch the rest of the sky."

"Copy that, Delta One." All right, he was doing the right thing. Times like this felt a little odd; the ships were having a pretty rough time of it, but the enemy hadn't targeted his boat. Of course, it'd be a waste of time to take potshots at something their size at this range unless they just sat there with a big "SHOOT ME" sign painted in nice, shiny radar-reflective paint. Despite the considerable fire the starships were under, Dwight's part of the battle was almost entirely inactive.

As usual, the peace and quiet ended without warning.

"Dwight, there's... something off to dorsal forward. Not sure what I'm seeing yet."

"Check it out, Mary."

"Yes, sir. Everyone, I need your consoles; this is gonna be tricky to iron out." The others, except Dwight, all slaved their computer stations to the EWO; Chris did the same for the vacant assistant gunner's station. Mary was quiet for a while.

"This... could be dust, could be ejected consumables... or it could be a stealthed ship. Really not sure."

"Pass it up the line, Jiangqi; let's see if we can get a better picture with our heads together."

Command Bridge, CNS Loyalist
0911 Hours


Commodore Liggs' senior staff sensor officer called to him. "Sir? Umerian recon shell reports a possible contact, drifting, bearing forty degrees above fifty."

"Do we have confirmation?"

"Can't see anything on Loyalist's sensors, sir. Shall we have the other ships slew main arrays to check it out?"

That would mean paying less attention to the Trojans... "Wait." Two quick strides took him back to his command console, where he called up the Umerian commander.

"...Admiral, can you confirm the contact to dorsal starboard?"

CIC, USS Directrix
0912 Hours


What does he mean can we confirm, it's right there!

But she knew that was unfair. She could see at least one stealthed ship, probably a light frigate of the same general type as the ones shooting from ahead... but she had the filtered take from over a dozen Corsair-Js' sensitive passive arrays being poured into Directrix's CIC. Unless Liggs totally rearranged his sensor coverage and canceled his previous order, he wouldn't have the same advantage. And the Centralist IT officers had been damnably paranoid about sharing their file formats, so she had no way to send him the footage directly.

"We see them quite clearly. Give me a moment, sir, and we will have confirmation beyond all doubt." She was tempted to do it with the main battery, but those guns were needed forward- they'd almost got their targets' shields warmed up enough to be seen clearly, but there was someone hellishly clever running that station's decoy systems. Time to break out the floodlights.

Another plasma bolt rattled Directrix's shields as she pulled up a second comm channel. "My compliments to Captain Kimball, and I need PAL fire on the stealthed contact at ship-relative azimuth point eight seven, elevation point seven zero." About ten seconds later, there was a subtle change in the hum of fans and the vibration of the decks as Directrix's starboard point defense laser panels went live, pouring a stream of near-infrared light into space. The phased array lasers on a Conductor-class were far larger in area than the relatively small panels found on small craft; the ship's combined point defense beams were a viable antiship weapon in their own right. Not much threat against cruiser strength opponents at reasonable ranges, granted, but powerful enough to do what she had in mind.

Captain Kimball's gunners didn't need detailed orders, not for this. They diffused the output of Directrix's lasers into a cone kilometers wide, aiming for coverage more than intensity. They swept the PAL beam like a searchlight through the volume the stealth ship was known to occupy. Soon enough, they found their target... which promptly lit up like a flare on passive infrared from the backscatter off her stealth field.

Hazarika turned back to the Centralist flag officer, her face beaming. "Sorry for the delay, but we have confirmation now."

Command Bridge, CNS Loyalist

Liggs' first, automatic reaction when Directrix speared the first pirate stealther was disbelief. Impossible! No ship that primitive has a cloaking device! Proper stealth equipment of that quality was... well, obviously they did have it, and he'd have to deal with it. He nodded briskly. "Thank you, Admiral." Of course, her method of pointing out the new target to the Centralists did have one disadvantage... they definitely knew they'd been spotted.

In the event, the pirate ships were well within firing range. They'd never hoped to get this close without detection- their gear wasn't that good, and there were a great many sensor platforms. But with the fleet's attention directed at the Trojans, they'd made it closer to their chosen firing position than expected without having to light up the main drives and make a run for it than expected.

They'd carried out their part of the plan to the letter.

The stealth ships opened fire on the Coalition squadrons from about forty-five degrees above two o'clock. As they'd expected, they were not within the optimal range of their own plasma guns: to avoid detection, they'd had to stay farther away than Keldrog's ships. They were, however, still close enough to catch the human ships in a raking crossfire.

Liggs had been expecting the first salvo of plasma fire. Most of it missed; this new lot of pirates hadn't had time to get their active sensors dialed in yet. But he was dismayed to realize that there was not one, but six ships out there. Who are these guys? Then Hazarika's face appeared in the upper left of his console's monitor.

Her voice was low and quiet. "Commodore, we have a problem."

That was putting it a bit bluntly for his taste, but it was certainly accurate.

"Shift fire?"

"More of them ahead, and closer; not happy leaving them unengaged."

"Same goes for the new one."

"True. Gunship attack to clear the flank?"

That was... not unreasonable. "I'll keep the fighters in reserve, and... split fire from my ships to keep them in play. But tell your gunners to stop playing around, and form up your cutters." He needed to support the gunship attack, which would take some time to assemble; he also needed to keep something in reserve in case there really was a threat from the asteroid field.

Hazarika nodded once again. "On it."

That was when the first properly aimed salvo from the stealth ships came in, with another dozen plasma bolts from ahead hard on its heels.

CIC, USS Directrix

Directrix rocked, a pair of bolts hammering her forward screen. Another blazed past her to take the Centralist flagship Loyalist from above. Hazarika knew she had to respond to the new attack quickly if she wanted to keep her ships responding as a coherent whole.

"All ships, go to evasion level four in plane normal to azimuth zero point six zero, elevation zero point three five" The Umerians stepped up their weaving, now slaloming back and forth in a plane that gave them the best chance at avoiding shots from both enemy formations at once. Now for the offensive orders Liggs wanted.

"All ships, switch to point targeting for main battery." They weren't quite as well shot in as she'd like; under less pressing circumstances she'd have given a few more minutes at sigma fifty or so. But unless the enemy had more decoying tricks than she'd seen so far, point-targeted beams ought to be able to maintain lock well enough now... and she needed to step up the pressure.

"Cutter groups Piranha, Oglon, and Wildcat are to form up with Centrality gunship for attack on Bandit Two-" using the code CIC had broadcasted to the squadron for the stealth ships firing on them from above and to the left. She was leaving the ELINT cutters out of this attack, but those three groups included everything else she had, even the strike troops' assault cutters... including every small craft in her command armed with the new tylium missiles.

Meanwhile, the crossfire kept up. She saw her own ships settling in to point targeting; the guns were still weaving back and forth to track the targets, but at evasion level four, their maneuvers were starting to be a problem. The newer ships, Artemisia and the two FF-6900 series frigates, had the new turret ring bearings and were keeping a firm lock. Her own flagship's fire was... well, occasionally walking off target, if the shield scatter was any guide.

Embarrassing, but there was nothing to be done for it. The consequences of not making hard evasive burns under this kind of fire were the consequences of losing a fair percentage of their fire on target.

The great saving grace of the situation for the Coalition was that enemy's fire was mostly unfocused. They were settling for whatever targets they could see best at the moment of firing, as was so often the case in a naval battle. It took good software to pick out individual targets from a mass of contacts and jamming, let alone to make sure multiple ships' fire picked the same target consistently. But the lack of a coherent fire plan meant that the Coalition ships were usually able to take individual bolts on their shields without being in critical danger of losing shielding entirely. Usually.

Her flagship wasn't targeted in the next salvo, but Admiral Hazarika winced as she saw a tight group of three bolts blazing at CNS Springbok. The lightweight ship's shields couldn't handle that kind of load; the second blast burned out the aft dorsal shield entirely... and the third ripped through the corvette's stern. Vaporized debris jetted out through Springbok's belly. Her drive signature suddenly spiked, then collapsed to a level far below the squadron average. Impressively, the corvette was still firing from her forward plasma cannon, with reasonable accuracy.

The orders that came over the general push to all starships surprised her still more than Springbok's bulldog determination to stay in the fight. "Fighter group Cicada fall back to cover Springbok, concentrate jamming pods on Target Group Two. All other commands, proceed as before." That was... questionable; if it was her decision she'd have held the task force back to cover the damaged ship, since they weren't in a great hurry. But it wasn't her choice to make, and she was hardly going to argue with Liggs' command decisions at a time like this. Still... Centrality doctrine could be strange.

Pirate Vessel Keldrog's Gutting Blow
0920 Hours


Warlord Keldrog grimaced. The humans' plasma fire had slackened considerably... but that had been more than made up for by their particle beams. Before, they had been almost comically inaccurate, striking decoys and ships alike seemingly at random. Keldrog didn't know what the humans had done- perhaps thrown their old gunners out an airlock- but now their fire was uncannily precise, defying all but the most heroic efforts. Even radical evasive burns earned only a temporary respite before the enemy tracked back onto the target. Six of his ships had been chosen for this punishing treatment, including his own flagship.

To make matters worse, as Keldrog had surmised the enemy electron beams were continuous, throwing sub-microsecond particle bunches at him in a constant barrage. While that at least meant there was no imminent danger of shields overloading and blowing out, it also meant there was no relief from the electromagnetic clutter thrown up by the beams. Nearly half his command's carefully arranged radar systems were useless, blinded by the bombardment.

It was like flying through an endless river of lightning.

Most of his ships, including the Gutting Blow, were bearing up well. But two vessels had either been targeted by multiple human ships, or were the chosen prey of the cruisers at the front of their formation. They were being battered more than twice as hard as the rest by larger electron beams. The only stroke of good luck was that one of the targets chosen for this unusually harsh treatment was the one belonging to the fool Gurzass. Since his plasma cannon was still not working, the fact that his shields were dangerously close to collapse and that his crew had already been forced to abandon the ship's forward compartments for fear of radiation were of little concern.

Such is the punishment for incompetence. Keldrog strongly suspected that Gurzass was now targeted by an enemy cruiser largely because he, the Warlord, had pushed the useless shiplord to the front to draw fire.

It was during these musings that Gurzass's ship blew up. A trio of unusually well-aimed plasma bolts punched into his shields. Since those shields were already weakened by particle bombardment, the plasma fire tore through them like parchment, striking deep into the core... and disabling the shield generators. Nor did the electron beams stop their fire, raking across it and tearing open the hull. On the visual display, Keldrog could see an eerie blue glow shining from rents in the hull, as ultra-relativistic electrons struck the plumes of vaporized matter pouring out through rents in the outer hull plating carved by the beams. Only after ensuring that their prey was well and truly dead did the human particle beams switch to the next target... one that was soon hard-pressed in its own right.

Better him than me, indeed...

Keldrog realized that he could still lose this day. The enemy had attacked faster and in greater force than he or his advisors had thought possible, and the trap he had set for eight or ten ships threatened to break when used to catch thirteen. It was time to call on the last reserve.

If the humans thought they could fight against an attack from two directions at once and still destroy his ships, then it would me most interesting to watch how they would deal with being attacked from a third. Warlord Keldrog bared his fangs in predatory joy as he turned to his signals rating.

"Order the fighters to deploy!"
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Shinn Langley Soryu
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Shinn Langley Soryu »

[I really need to get this particular ball rolling. My apologies if certain characters were not handled correctly.]

The Arrivals
Kansai Warp Gate, Hyogo L1 point
Kansai Sector, Holy Empire of Haruhi Suzumiya
T + 0 days


The Kansai Warp Gate was a truly priceless piece of infrastructure in all of Haruhiist space. Empress Haruhi had envisioned every sector under her domain having a warp gate of its own, but the chronic financial difficulties that constantly plagued her empire meant that those plans would have to wait for the foreseeable future. For now, she would have to content herself with a single warp gate over her capital, its use reserved for only the most prestigious of dignitaries and the most valuable of cargoes.

One such esteemed traveler was due to pass through the gate today, in fact. The controllers had been notified in advance of the transit, and they transmitted the usual warnings to the traffic traveling the space lanes around the gate; now, all they had to do was wait for their guest to finally arrive...

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"Outside activation," one of the operators in the gate control room chimed in. "Power level analysis indicates long-distance transfer. Single ship. Drive signature indicates military grade, yacht or ultralight tonnage."

"Horizon shield up," a second operator spoke up. "All systems green, standing by to receive transmissions."

"Receiving data packets," a third operator said. After a few seconds of computer analysis, he forwarded the results to the long-range comms for final verification from his superiors; after about two minutes of waiting, he finally got his reply. "Confirmed. It's the Chamarran envoy. Lower the horizon shield."

Shortly after the horizon shield was lowered, a single needle-like ship emerged from out of the gate's shimmering blue vortex. It was a Chamarran diplomatic yacht, the likes of which had not been seen in Haruhiist space in years, perhaps decades; its brilliant red and gold coloring stood out amidst the weathered chrome and dull gray of the ships that it was now sharing space with over the Haruhiist capital world. The yacht's shipmistress closely observed the traffic as she sent a message to Hyogo orbital traffic control.

"This is the HDS Voice in the Void to Hyogo system authorities," the shipmistress said. "We have arrived with Princess Tia Kithandra to take part in the planned negotiations with the United Solarian Sovereignty. Requesting course information and landing coordinates, over."

After spending a minute holding position in order to be examined by a series of SOS Imperial Navy orbital sensor arrays, the Voice in the Void was finally cleared to proceed along its designated course, its shipmistress given specific instructions by traffic control not to deviate from the course for any reason. As it descended from the inky darkness of outer space into the clear blue skies of Hyogo's atmosphere, an honor guard of four SF-26 Messiah aerospace fighters took up positions around the yacht, breaking formation and departing only when the yacht had landed at the Imperial Center Cosmodrome, a short distance away from Imperial Center proper.

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Like her sisters, Princess Tia Kithandra was an imperious figure, capable of commanding respect from even the most flippant of foreign dignitaries; even in the 35th century, there were still those who refused to take the Chamarrans seriously as a legitimate nation, and the blunder at Tannhauser certainly did nothing to improve their standing among the other major galactic powers. Tia hoped that by accepting the Haruhiist offer to mediate the Tannhauser fiasco with the United Solarian Sovereignty, she could start to salvage some of her nation's prestige; the fact that the Solarians had chosen to send Brigadier Flash Stalin as their representative to the talks still made her somewhat uneasy, though.

After steeling herself for what would come next, Tia and the rest of her entourage exited their yacht and stepped out onto the tarmac, where they were met by the SOS Imperial Guard.

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The Imperial Guards, all clad in immaculate parade dress uniforms and carrying ceremonial rifles, saluted the Chamarran dignitaries in unison. After taking up their rifles once more, the Imperial Guards parted their formation in order to allow Tia and her entourage to pass. As they walked past the multitudes of soldiers, they were approached by a relatively short, large-breasted brunette, none other than Secretary of State Asahina herself.

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Mikuru confidently and purposefully strode up to the Chamarran dignitaries, her heels loudly and rhythmically clicking against the reinforced concrete of the cosmodrome tarmac. She offered her hand to Tia, who promptly took it and shook it. "Princess Tia Kithandra, I am Secretary of State Mikuru Asahina," she introduced herself. "It is my honor to welcome you to the Holy Empire of Haruhi Suzumiya. How was the trip?"

"Brief and uneventful," Tia said. She glanced over at the Imperial Guards, still standing at attention with their rifles at the ready. "Quite the warm welcome you've laid out for me. I'm impressed."

"But of course," Mikuru said as she led the Chamarran dignitaries over to a waiting air limousine. "Unfortunately, the Solarian delegation will be somewhat delayed in arriving here, but that will simply give you more time to discuss your situation with us." One of the SOS Imperial Marines assigned to Mikuru's guard detail opened the door of the limo and gestured at Tia and her retinue to board. Once everyone had boarded, the aircar took off and sped towards Imperial Center, where Tia and the rest of the Chamarran delegation would be staying for the duration of the negotiations.

Wendee Lee class destroyer HSS Cristina Valenzuela
Outside the Hyogo hyperlimit
T + 2 days


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The Wendee Lee class destroyer HSS Cristina Valenzuela was one of eight such ships assigned to greet the strikestar USS Intolerant upon its arrival in Haruhiist space and provide escort for it as it traveled to Hyogo. Comparing the Intolerant and the Valenzuela revealed similarities in design philosophies between the SOS Imperial Navy and United Solarian Star Force; much like the larger Assailant class, the Lee class was composed of smooth lines and presented a slim blade-like profile, a knife pointed directly at the throats of those who would dare oppose the Holy Empire and its allies. Of course, the SOS Imperial Navy ships certainly weren't expecting any trouble from their USSF counterpart, but it still paid to keep up appearances for its allies.

"Great minds certainly think alike," Captain Louise Takamachi, skipper of the Valenzuela, remarked to herself upon glancing at the Intolerant's own dagger-shaped form. She pressed the appropriate buttons on the armrest of her command chair in order to open a comms channel to the Solarian strikestar. "USS Intolerant, this is Captain Louise Takamachi of the destroyer HSS Cristina Valenzuela. Greetings and welcome to the Holy Empire of Haruhi Suzumiya. We trust that your trip here was brief and uneventful. Please set your course so as to follow us to Hyogo."

The reply from the strikestar came almost immediately. "HSS Valenzuela, this is USS Intolerant actual," a comms officer said over the channel. "We will comply with the course given to us. Lead on."

The Intolerant took up formation with the eight destroyers as they sped towards Hyogo. As the flotilla approached, Captain Takamachi sent out a message to orbital traffic control: "Control, be advised that the ship carrying Brigadier Flash Stalin has arrived in system. Transmit additional course information and landing coordinates."

After receiving the appropriate information, the Valenzuela's comms officers relayed it back to the Intolerant; since the strikestar was incapable of performing a planetary landing due to its size, Brigadier Stalin would have to make it planetside via shuttle. Soon enough, a single shuttle departed from the Intolerant, carrying the good brigadier to Imperial Center Cosmodrome.

Upon touching down on the tarmac, Brigadier Stalin disembarked from the shuttle and was greeted by the same Imperial Guards that had been present to meet Princess Tia and the Chamarran delegation just a few days ago; as per standard procedure, they saluted the foreign dignitary and parted their formation in order to let him pass. However, Empress Haruhi had not seen it fit to send Secretary of State Asahina to greet Brigadier Stalin, particularly when she was still busy going over things with the Chamarrans; figuring that a military leader should be met by other military leaders, she had ordered all four of the Joint Chiefs of Staff (five if the office of Vice Chair had been filled) to greet the brigadier at Imperial Center Cosmodrome.

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Fleet Admiral Josefina Aquino (left) and Field Marshal Diane Nakano (right)

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Field Marshals Christopher Takahashi (left) and Ayako Takanawa (right)

The SOS Imperial Armed Forces Joint Chiefs were a particularly odd bunch as far as military commanders went. The first things that immediately came to mind when looking at them were their deceptively young appearances; highly aggressive use of anti-aging treatments meant that they still appeared to be in their mid-20s to early-30s when they had been with their respective services for far longer than their apparent ages would have suggested. Their extremely ornate, medal-encrusted uniforms tended to evoke the image of a cabal of self-aggrandizing armchair generals, oblivious to the true nature of armed conflict and concerned only with their own personal advancement regardless of the cost to their subordinates. Of course, anyone who was even vaguely familiar with the SOS Imperial Armed Forces knew better. All four of the current Joint Chiefs were modest people who had earned their honors and promotions the hard way, through decades of service to their country and the elimination of countless numbers of pirates, insurgents, xeno scum, and other enemies of the state. The ornate uniforms were simply standard issue, and they had to pay for their anti-aging regimens out of their own pockets.

Brigadier Stalin and the Joint Chiefs met exactly midway through their respective processions and saluted each other. "Brigadier Flash Stalin, it is an honor to welcome you to the Holy Empire of Haruhi Suzumiya," the leader of the Joint Chiefs, a short purple-eyed, black-haired woman in a white uniform, said as she held out her hand, which Brigadier Stalin promptly shook. "I am Field Marshal Diane Nakano, Chairwoman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff of the SOS Imperial Armed Forces. These are my colleagues, Fleet Admiral Josefina Aquino and Field Marshals Ayako Takanawa and Christopher Takahashi."

"It is likewise an honor to meet you as well, Marshal Nakano, Admiral Aquino, Marshal Takanawa, and Marshal Takahashi," Brigadier Stalin replied, nodding at each person as he said their names. He then glanced over at the Imperial Guards, standing impassively at attention with their rifles at the ready. "Impressive welcome you've laid out for me."

"Good to see you weren't disappointed. Valued allies like yourself deserve the warmest of receptions, after all," Field Marshal Nakano said as she and the other Joint Chiefs led Brigadier Stalin and his retinue over to a waiting air limousine. "The Chamarran ambassdor is waiting for you at Imperial Center."

An SOS Imperial Marine assigned to the Joint Chiefs' security detail opened the door of the limo and gestured at Brigadier Stalin to board. Once he and the Joint Chiefs were aboard, the aircar took off and made its way to Imperial Center. During the journey, Field Marshal Nakano and the other Joint Chiefs wondered to themselves whether Brigadier Stalin's choice to make the journey to Hyogo via hyperspace instead of warp gate was part of some strategy meant to unnerve the Chamarrans; they were all familiar with the ancient story of Miyamoto Musashi and how he showed up late to his duel with Sasaki Kojiro, and they could not help but notice the similarities between the two situations.
I ship Eino Ilmari Juutilainen x Lydia V. Litvyak.

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

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

Post by DarthShady »

Edge of Refuge space

The new arrivals to this sector of space had not gone unnoticed. Their appearance was sudden and mysterious, and so in order to learn more about them the Karlack had deployed several Shadow drones to the area, to check out the new neighbors. These ships were small, fast and built for stealth, therefore perfect for the task at hand. The Swarm decided to watch and wait, for now. More information about this Refuge would become available in time, either from their diplomatic contact with the Bragulans or through other means, until then - they would be observed.

Malacor I, Karlack Space
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"We are in agreement. The Refuge will be watched until we learn more about them." Alyxia Komnenos spoke with the power of her mind to the many and varied Aspects participating in the discussion. "Moving on then...We must discuss the recent changes in Bragulan behavior and decide on the best course of action."

"Our most illustrious allies appear to be pursuing diplomatic means to achieve their purposes. This is most unusual, but considering the current state of the K-Zone and the galaxy at large...this appears to be a very wise course of action." Spoke Mozak, the Aspect in charge of direct diplomatic communication with the Bragulan Star Empire.
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"Perhaps our strategies should be adapted to take advantage of this?" He continued his mind voice carried far through the void. "If the Bragulans manage to find allies against this so called human plague, perhaps we could make them our allies as well."

"An interesting idea...you are suggesting that we use the Bragulan initiative to enhance our own relations with other entities?" Alyxia asked. A bit surprised by the suggestion. "We all know that other species are reluctant to negotiate or have any kind of diplomatic relation with us. Most inhabitants of the Galaxy consider us mindless monsters that are only interested in eating them...or worse. And they aren't exactly wrong about that. What makes you think this would work?"

"We can't be sure it will work." Mozak replied. "But it is in our interest to try."

"Indeed. If we can persuade the Bragulans to vouch for us, we may be able to accomplish something by taking this course of action." Arkael joined the conversation. "I am sure many of the galactic inhabitants would love to have some kind of assurance against us. Actually, if recent events have taught us anything, it is that the humans are quick to join together against a common threat. And should we be perceived as a large enough threat, I fully expect them to join against us. And if that happens, other allies besides the Bragulans would be useful."

A pause ensued, mere seconds for normal sentients, but a considerable amount of time for the creatures involved - they were contemplating the best course of action.

"Agreed. We shall attempt this." Alyxia said. "First we must see if the Bragulans will cooperate, then certain entities will be approached."

"Be warned however that many will refuse our advances because of our reputation. They will not wish to be seen allying themselves with the likes of us." Arkael said. "A covert course of action would be best. We offer them a secret friend if they so wish, and we still benefit, as it reduces the chances of that entity opposing our interests."

"I never thought I would see the Swarm try such subtle means, diplomacy? Seriously?" Seth laughed. His voice seemed distant, foreboding. "I am impressed. I just hope that our efforts are not in vain...We haven't much time."

"We know. Our control is weakening. We are losing our grasp." Arkael said. "If we can acquire additional sentients, those strong enough to become Aspects, we might be able to..."

"It will not be enough. We would simply be buying time. Time we could use, but..." Seth said. His voice betraying great concern. "...we must find another solution before our time runs out, before it wakes from its slumber."
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Ilya Muromets »

[Author's Note: Well, deciding to jump right on in.]

A few days before current time

Onlishkta, R’nish Home Sector

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The massive R'nish ark ships held orbit over the home world the nomadic fleet of the R'nish Aggregate had chosen for their own. It was a low orbit, with the titanic vessels just skirting the upper atmosphere of the planet—far lower than many ship captains would be willing to go for ships of their size. To the Shipminds, however, the challenge of keeping the sizeable vessels up there involved little more than paltry calculations. In fact, they weren't really paying that much attention to the task at all.

No, the artificial intelligences had their attention on a much more important matter. Or, at least, a much pressing one.

Will one of those ones care to tell this one why a Confluence had to be called now of all times? one of the Shipminds demanded, sending an annoyed burst of data over the Greater Mindlink, This one was in the middle of an important discussion with Nlgus is a Good Name.

This one fails to see what is so important about the negotiation of a mind-swap, another Shipmind, the controlling intelligence of the Ark, Just Ark. Stop Asking, interjected coolly, Those ones have done so time and again, and this one fails to see the point.

It’s the novelty of the thing, this first Shipmind, Tried to Pick a Suitably Impressive Name but Lost Interest, retorted, The Residentminds change bodies at whim, frequently. Shipminds such as we ones are stuck with nothing bloated sameness. It’s mindnumbing.

This one still fails to see how that one’s bloated sameness differs significantly from the other one’s. The fact that, with frequency, those ones have swapped one bloated sameness for another has this one reckon that any novelty should have been long extinguished.

Before the Tried to Pick a Suitably Impressive Name but Lost Interest could respond, the presence of another mind burst through the Greater Mindlink. Not enough to be rude or domineering, but just enough to get the attention of every Shipmind in the Confluence.

If we ones could get back to the matter at hand, the new Shipmind interjected, a hint of impatience in its data transmission, More accurately, if we ones could start discussing the matter at hand.

The other two Shipminds sent apologetic transmissions over the Greater Mindlink, although the Tried to Pick a Suitably Impressive Name but Lost Interest just could not stop itself from grumbling about interruptions. The other Shipmind, known simply as the Jeffrey (a nonsense word it had chosen as a name), chose to ignore the grumbling.

This one has called this Confluence to discuss a possible alteration of the stance of Aggregate regarding diplomatic communications with the rest of the known races, Jeffrey began, managing to keep the bored edge which seemed to bleed into the attitudes of any sufficiently old R’nish out of its transmission, Specifically, that we ones should seriously consider establishing such communication to begin with.

What’s there to establish? sneered the Shipmind of the Strak by Inspiration, They keep out of the Aggregate’s business, the Aggregate keeps out of theirs, they can visit provided they don’t mess anything up, and if they do anything to we ones we ones don’t like while they’re here--blow them up! That has always been good enough.

A chorus of transmissions from several of the Aggregate’s Shipminds resounded through the ethereal chambers of the Great Mindlink. Some in agreement, some in disagreement, and one—Tried to Pick a Suitably Impressive Name but Lost Interest—in impatience. Most, however, were leaning toward agreement. The R’nish had always been concerned only with its own affairs, which mainly consisted of existing and trying to keep from getting bored existing.

After all, given that the R’nish as a “race” basically consisted of effectively immortal minds which could pick and choose between different mechanical or biomechanical bodies at whim, it was about the only thing they really could concern themselves with. There was little concern about death since every mind always kept a backup or two in the event that one “died” for one reason or another, in which case the backup would simply be uploaded to a new body. In fact, the general attitude of the R’nish in regard to death was shockingly cavalier by most races’ standards. In fact, nearly all R’nish usually die after becoming extremely bored of an extremely long life. The longest living R’nish, for example, chose to live for 754 hion (approximately over 2927 years).

What resources the Aggregate had were always distributed evenly throughout the entire Aggregate—and the worlds they were mining provided more than enough resources for the Fabricators—which meant little of the concerns about scarcity which often drove other races to expansion and war. Sure, there was the odd hostile alien incursion now and then (the most recent being that of the Pfhor), but since those had so far resulted in relatively little damage and no real deaths, all the Shipminds had deigned to do was destroy the intruders before sending an annoyed message to the invader’s home system telling said home system to knock it off.

Granted, the R’nish had thus far never been invaded by any significant military force. Mostly because they had been one of the most advanced and powerful races in the area. Or, at least, they had been. In the last few hundred hion the space around R’nish territory had become crowded with one growing empire after another while the R’nish Aggregate had contentedly sat in their two sectors and continued to stagnate, willfully ignoring everyone around it other than the occasional visitor who was treated with all due hospitality.

It could not continue that way, not for long. Eventually, one or more of the expanding powers was going to expand right into the Aggregate. As powerful and advanced as the Aggregate was, it was simply too tiny to resist any determined invasion from a much larger force, and at this point its immediate neighbors were already uncomfortably large.

It has been good enough, yes, agreed the Ark, Just Ark. Stop Asking, When we ones were the only ones around worth mentioning.

We ones are still the only ones worth mentioning.

Don’t be a heel, Strak by Inspiration, another mind snapped, That may have been true enough when the other races were younger and undeveloped, but that is no longer the case. It is time we ones face that fact. This one can still remember when this space was, for all intents and purposes, empty. Now all that separates the Aggregate from its nearest neighbors is a sector or two. Before long, even that will dwindle.

Let it dwindle, then! Nlgus is a Good Name declared in irritation, The Aggregate will deal with any aggressive folly the way the Aggregate has always done. If worse comes to worse, then we ones leave for another patch of space. It’s not like this world holds any real meaning for we ones other than as a source of resources; and it’s hardly the only source of resources out there. The universe is a big place, and the Aggregate is first and foremost a nomadic fleet.

Yet again, there was another burst of transmissions of agreement from the majority of the Confluence, followed by another round of disagreements from the rest save the Tried to Pick a Suitably Impressive Name but Lost Interest who, predictably, merely proceeded to show continued impatience coupled with rising petulance.

Then what? Jeffrey demanded, Wait until it happens all over again? All of known space is erupting with expanding civilization after expanding civilization like so many viruses from an infected cell. Anywhere we ones go, given the fullness of time, we ones will always be driven out by one or the next should we ones chose to continue to stand alone.

What’s the point, then? The way that was put, it sounds like the Aggregate is doomed anyway. It’s too small to start expanding now, and there’s hardly a place in known space where we ones can keep to ourselves until one power or another decided it needs it more than we ones do. Why don’t we ones all just self-delete and be done with it? the Strak by Inspiration countered with almost palpable scorn.

Don’t be obstinate, Ark, Just Ark. Stop Asking replied, the tone of its transmission hinting at the beginnings of a sorely tried patience, Jeffrey specifically mentioned that we ones will always be driven out by one power or the next only if we ones chose to continue to stand alone.

So we crawl to them and beg them not to come for us? the Tried to Pick a Suitably Impressive Name but Lost Interest scoffed, finally deciding to join the discussion instead of just making his impatience known to all in the Confluence.

No. But close enough, really, the Jeffrey transmitted in a tone of smug satisfaction, We ones are the R’nish Aggregate. We ones, of all races, should know the value of being good neighbors. The entirety of the Aggregate would be in anarchy if every Residentmind didn’t come into some sort of functional agreement, or if the Shipminds did not come into some sort of common decision. Like it or not, the Aggregate is but one among many. It must come into some agreement of a workable coexistence with the others, or at least enough of them, if it is to ride the waves of galactic growth instead of being swept under it.

Another uproar broke out through the Greater Mindlink. However, it was relatively muted compared to the last few ones. Some of the Shipminds were being thoughtful now, and they were beginning to see Jeffrey’s point even if it went against all that had been familiar and comforting to the Aggregate for more hion than any one R’nish could remember. Still, it wasn’t enough. Too many were simply too obstinate and unflexible. Too set in the ways in which the R’nish had grown comfortable with.

There would be no general agreement on this Confluence. Not on the subject of full diplomatic converse with the other races, at any rate. But there was enough doubt, enough consideration, for at least something.

May this one suggest a compromise? the Jeffrey implored.

What has been suggested is more than compromising enough for anyone’s taste. spat one of the disagreeable Shipminds. The rest, however, seemed willing enough to listed, even if some only grudgingly so.

From what transmissions we ones have managed to intercept, there is soon to be a diplomatic mediation in the capital of the civilization known as the Holy Empire of Haruhi Suzumiya regarding a recent dispute between the civilizations called the Chamarran Heirarchy and the United Solarian Sovereignty. the Jeffrey paused to gauge its fellow Shipminds before continuing, We ones could send a single, small group to observe the proceedings surreptitiously, to see how the other races conduct their diplomacy firsthand. From there, we ones can decide whether it may be worth opening a dialogue with them or not.

For a long moment, the suggestion was met with silence. Then, Nlgus is a Good Name spoke up:

One group only?

In one ship, yes.

And how would one propose the group go about entering that empire’s capital to infiltrate this diplomatic meeting? the Strak by Inspiration challenged.

It is not an infiltration. It is merely a quiet observation, Jeffrey corrected, There are several formerly-human R’nish who have chosen to join the Aggregate. Their original bodies have been studied and kept in storage. It is a trivial task to create new bodies from those and have the observation group use said bodies in order to blend in and avoid attention during the duration of their task. We can also make use of one or two of the formerly-human R’nish to serve as guides and consultants during the mission, should they be willing to do so.

Small, unobtrusive, and easy enough to disavow. a Shipmind observed.

Indeed.

There was another round of spirited discussion. This time, a majority seemed to hold interest in the idea. Even the Tried to Pick a Suitably Impressive Name but Lost Interest was actively taking part in the discussion. Jeffrey stayed silent, awaiting the final decision of the Confluence.

Finally, it came.

Very well, Jeffrey, let us ones try this little experiment.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Siege »

Hyogo, Kansai Sector
Holy Empire of Haruhi Suzumiya


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To be bluntly honest, Brigadier Flash Stalin found the Haruuhist Joint Chiefs of Staff a bit of a weird bunch. Sure, such could be said about the entirety of the Holy Empire (not to mention the rest of the galaxy)... Still though, not only did the assembled supreme commanders look awfully young and were their uniforms decorated by a rather bizarre number of medals, but to the eye of the Brigadier those same uniforms appeared rather... Impractical. Not to mention immodest, although he didn't mind the latter so much, especially not as it now treated him to the sight of physically fit young women in short skirts. Woof! thought the Brigadier, but wisely kept such thoughts entirely to himself. The Holy Empire might have a peculiar sense of dress, they were still dependable allies and that was what really mattered.

Stalin's own dress couldn't be much more different from the SOS uniforms. He wore a dark leather overcoat that covered a dull green dress uniform adorned only with the barest minimum of rank insignia and campaign ribbons. He usually preferred to let his name and reputation speak for itself. In case it didn't, though, there was always his sidearm. The SAWco Break-Top magnetic personal defense weapon featured prominently on his belt, and under the right angle could take a person's head clean off. He didn't fire it in anger very often, but wearing it made a statement nonetheless.

"Nice city you have here," rumbled the Brigadier by way of polite small-talk. The air-car offered a spectacular view of Imperial Center as it zoomed over the capital city. "It's a nice change of pace from the worlds I spend most of my time on." He crossed his arms and looked out at the arcologies that passed by the window. Then he looked at the quatro of field marshals and fleet admirals. "You have had a few days to observe the Chamarran ambassador. I have here," he patted one of the pockets of his big overcoat, "a list of demands my government expect to be met. You have received a copy of these demands. So you should be able to tell me -- what do you imagine her reaction to these demands to be?"
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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
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by RogueIce »

SRS Chimaera - Doma Sector, Shinra Republic: 06 July 3400 UNST

Grand Admiral Leo Cristophe was going over the latest reports from the campaign against the Returners when a knock came at his door.

"Enter," called the Admiral.

His Flag Captain entered and sat on the couch in the Admiral's state room. "We're making good progress, it seems."

Leo nodded. They were indeed making progress. Five bases taken down so far, and three attempted convoy attacks had been thwarted. So far though, no evidence to verify the President's suspicions of outside support. Leo wondered if maybe the President had not been jumping at shadows.

"Orders from Midgar," said the Captain. He pushed a button and transmitted the file to the Admiral's terminal.

Leo opened the message and read its contents.
GADM Leo Cristophe SRN, CDR JTF PALADIN ordered to proceed to Midgar and report to the Office of the President for temporary duty. Highwind class transport enroute to SRS Chimaera to effect transfer. As the nature of the assignment will be temporary, GADM Cristophe is NOT repeat NOT relieved command JTF PALADIN.
"Well, looks like command also feels we must be doing well. They're having me go to Midgar for some 'temporary duty' or other. Must be important, too. They're sending a Highwind out to get me."

"Hmmm. I wonder what the President wants?" mused the Captain. Both men knew that only the President could summon a Grand Admiral at a moment's notice like this. And, of course, dispatch a Highwind to do the fetching.

"Well, since they're sending me a transport, I'll assume they want the Chimaera to stay out here in support. I imagine Palazzo will be out here when he's done on Galbadia. If he shows up, all standing orders still apply." Leo knew the Captain would take his meaning: ESP Null fields would not be deactivated for the benefit of Kefka on Leo's flagship. Regardless of whether or not the Grand Admiral was personally present.

"Of course, sir. Will that be all?" As usual, Grand Admiral Cristophe's Flag Captain had a million things to take care of in running the massive Battle Carrier.

"Yes, thank you. Dismissed." After the Captain had left, Leo let out a little sigh. He would have to let Kefka know he'd be gone, of course. And while the message said Leo would still remain in command, for all practical purposes Marshal Palazzo would be in charge for however long Leo was absent. Kefka was, after all, the second most senior officer of the Task Force, whether or not Leo liked it.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Force Lord »

Main War Room, Center of War Building
Centrum, The Centrality
4 June 3400


Cracus Vompey waited until the Army and Marine General Staff members made themselves comfortable in their seats, then spoke.

"I presume you have prepared the ground forces earmarked for Operation Rhodes?"

One of the Army Generals responded, "We have about 10 Army divisions spaceborne at Novadon Sector, ready to be sent immediately. Others are stilll being called up."

One of the Marine Generals also spoke, "4 Marine divisions are en route to Sector H-11. More are being mustered at Novadon Sector."

Vompey ran the calculations in his mind. A Marine Corps sent to H-11, a few Army Corps in Novadon waiting for orders, with more Army and Marine units on the way...

It had been planned to send around 500,000 troops, 80,000 being first-rate (Black Beret teams and other special-ops forces, ESPer armed combat squads, elite Marine and Army formations composed of genetically and cybernetically-augmented soldiers wearing advanced combat body armor, as well as advanced A-3a battle droids), 120,000 Regular forces (mechanized and armoured units from Army and Marines, troops with standard combat body armor, standard A-2c battle droids) and 200,000 garrison-level troops (troops with light armor and weaponry, cheaply-produced A-1g battle droids, light vehicles), as well as support and logistics personnel, and Party Supervisors to "observe" them all. There were PS's in the Navy as well, not empowered to make military decisions, but as reminders to the military about who was in charge.

Vompey's thoughts were interrupted by one General asking an unexpected question.

"Sir, regarding your plans to reduce the number of men in the ground forces, how large will be the reduction and when will it be implemented?"

Vompey looked at the man for a moment, then said, "Next year, starting in January 1 if all goes well, the number of first, second, and third-rate personnel in the ground forces of the Centrality will be reduced by half."

There were a few stifled gasps in the room. Many of the Generals looked at each other.

"But so many Secretary?"

"Yes. In fact, I believe the first-rates will be reduced to three-quarters of their former numbers, as new first-rates will be available by 3402 in order to balance the reduction. The demobilized personnel will be reassigned to the planetary militias and sector defence forces as instructors and additional manpower. Also, more people will be available for the civilian economy."

Vompey took a moment to look at the Army and Marine Generals. It was clear they were unhappy with such a major reduction of men and women in their services.

"I understand your discomfort, but we can finish that tangent later. Now we need to focus on Zebes..."
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Simon_Jester »

Command Bridge, CNS Loyalist
Hawk's Nest System
0922 Hours


Commodore Gever Liggs smiled grimly as the first pirate ship blew up. Adjusting his comm settings, he murmured into the microphone of his lightweight headset: "My compliments to Artemisia and Carpenter; good kill. Keep it up."

The Umerians definitely seemed to have shaken out well, well enough that he had to wonder what had been wrong before. He decided to ask Hazarika afterwards- it seemed so odd. From what he could tell from a distance, the ships picked out by the Umerian cruisers for bombardment by electron cannon had been hard-pressed even before the destroyer CNS Carpenter put a plasma salvo from her forward turret through the shields of the one hovering out in front of the formation. Credit for the kill should rightly go to both.

He started looking over the formation of pirate ships ahead of him, which was still hammering his formation with plasma fire while drifting slowly toward them; neither side was in any great hurry to close the range even now, so forward velocity on both sides was minimal. It was a pity Springbok's drive damage was too great to keep up with even the minimal acceleration he was using as steering way, but the crippled corvette was still doing admirable servce firing on the pirate stealth ships from under cover of a fighter group's jammers.

One of the indicators on his display flickered, and a signals rating called to him. "Sir, USS Istanbul reports major hit on forward dorsal turret. No damage to core systems, but their dorsal shield is down to fifty percent and holding." That was serious damage, putting two of their six electron beams out of action and leaving them vulnerable to further fire coming in from above.

"What is Hazarika doing?" He considered ordering Carpenter to shift to cover Istanbul. That would put the larger destroyer's jammers in the path of any fire coming down towards the Umerian ship's weakened shield; since Istanbul was firing on the large group ahead, there was no point in worrying about masking their line of fire.

"Nothing. Istanbul rolled ship one eighty degrees on her captain's initiative; Hazarika has issued no orders." That would achieve the desired effect, yes... Very well. He would leave the matter to her judgment. If she thought her ships needed support, she would ask him.

The gunship attack seemed to be forming up fairly well. The Centralists' own Fireball groups were in position, and the last of the Umerians were within a few minutes of entering formation; they'd had farther to go, so the delay was understandable.

His thoughts were interrupted again by the signals rating responsible for monitoring the Umerians. "Sir! Recon shell reports activity in the Trojan field!"

Commodore Liggs, by trained reflex, rose slowly from his seat and strode over to the main plot for a closer look at the situation in greater detail than his own repeater display could give him. On his orders, the main search sensors of most of the Centrality units were still trained on the asteroid field, even as fire control kept a lock on the other two target groups. Thus, he had a very clear picture of something most disturbing. Fighter craft were detaching from the asteroids trapped in orbits around the Trojan point... in great numbers. It seemed as though every rock more than twenty meters across had been used for the purpose, and some of the larger ones, on the hundred-meter scale, concealed entire squadrons.

Across a wide band of the debris field, what looked like at least five hundred enemy fighters were swarming, assembling into a massive cloud in order to descend on his command. More were still coming into view.

Nor had his other, known enemies relaxed their attack. Loyalist rocked four times in rapid succession, then vibrated as a tremendous BOOM! resounded along the corridors. Liggs' eyes flickered to the display of his flagship's system status; forward shields were down but coming back online already. Some compartments were flashing yellow, a few redundant sensors and were red... signs of damage to the ablative armor along the spine. The worst hit seemed to have penetrated to one of the antifighter missile magazines... blowout panels had engaged, and the release of the missiles' drive accumulators hadn't done any real damage to the surrounding compartments.

Nothing serious, for now; he'd known his flagship could take it when he'd put her at the leading edge of his formation. But Loyalist was his strongest, most durable unit. A similar strike on anything else in his formation except possibly the Umerian cruisers would have been crippling.

Liggs' first instinct was to take the hammer of gunships he'd assembled and turn it around to smash the fighter attack, but that had many risks. The gunships were already starting to assemble and move out for an attack on the stealth ships to dorsal starboard. Ordering the gunships to turn around and disperse the fighter attack forming on his port flank would confuse them, and leave the enemy stealth ships to attack him unhindered except by the relatively light plasma fire his command was keeping up from half its turrets- even that was only a fraction of his main battery. A commander had to maintain clarity of aim; only when his own mind was certain could he impose his will on the battle.

No, that wouldn't do. Instead, he decided it was time to throw in his final reserve. Adjusting his settings to exclude the Fireballs already-committed Cicada fighter group, he issued his orders to the rest of the Centrality squadron.

"Fighter groups, form up for a spoiling attack on the enemy fighter group to squadron-port. All starships, load flak and prepare for broadside point defense fire."

CIC, USS Directrix

Admiral Ananya Hazarika nodded to herself as the orders went out. "Load flak" was meaningless to her cruisers, though the frigates most likely carried a few of the time delay shrapnel shells for their bombardment guns. "Prepare for broadside point defense..." she'd better put some more detail on that. Bringing up the starship push, she gave her own version of the order to the Umerian ships. "All ships, I want even-numbered missile cells in reserve. Keep up point fire on enemy ships, but stand by to slew main battery for raster fire on my mark."

With that out of the way, she paused to consider Liggs' overall strategy. For a moment she'd been worried that he'd take the gunships and throw them at the fighter attack. That would be a mistake; "order, counterorder, disorder" was no joke in a situation like this. Spun round against an entirely different kind of opposition than they'd expected, the gunships and cutters would do their best, she was sure. But that would still leave the enemy stealthers practically unengaged. A commander had to maintain clarity of aim; there was a fine line between adapting to the tide of battle and becoming a helpless bit of flotsam on it. Liggs, in his own way, seemed to be holding to the right side of that line.

There was a faint rattle of the deckplates as the outer fringe of a pair of plasma beams crackled against Directrix's shields, but the shots had been mostly sidestepped and Hazarika barely noticed it, busy considering the fighter attack. From what she understood of Centralist doctrine, Liggs had just ordered his fighters to launch the same kind of attack on the enemy fighter group that a Umerian carrier would: a high-speed interception aimed at a point as far away from the squadron as possible. The Hawks would try to shoot down as much of the enemy craft (and thus the enemy ordnance) as they could in a head-on engagement before the enemy got into launch range. They would then break down and out of the way, clearing a corridor for the starships' point defense to do the rest.

Still, though, there were a lot of enemy fighters out there. This was going to be a bit more of a test of their antimissile doctrine than she'd like. In mitigation, it would at least be only one attack from that direction; there was no sign of a carrier or base out there for the fighters to rearm at, so if they could weather the strike, there wouldn't be another one. At which point it would come back down to the beam duel in the center, and the gunship attack clearing their other flank...

Corsair-C class pursuit cutter CG-81634 “Greyhound”,
Forming Up for Alpha Strike
0924 Hours


Commander Audrey Cardwell saw that her command was mostly in position now. Time to do final checks. "Piranha group, test fire control network."

"Piranha Leader, this is Piranha Four-One, our flight is out of synch." It always happened to someone; the Corsair's telemetry encryption systems were right on the bleeding edge, and if you gave two units long enough they were bound to become mutually unintelligible sooner or later.

"Copy that, Piranha Four-One. Re-initialize, random seed three six two." That seemed to fix the problem; the fleet melee boats slotted into the group's telemetry network gracefully enough afterwards.

While a lot- too many! of the Bannerman survivors were here, the organization of the cutter formation was drastically different this time. Instead of piling mixed customs/pursuit units into squadrons of eight, the wing was divided into the usual flights of four. As usual, the ELINT cutters ran off and played their own games, which left her in charge of the twenty-four boats from USS Nantucket and her own USS Guernsey.

Between them, the two cutters carried a dozen fleet melee cutters, pure naval combatants armed with the Mark Six antiship missile- what they should have had... no. Not now! That was flights Two through Four. Flight One was her own pursuit boats- lasers only and really the wrong units for this strike, but the fleet had brought them along in case they were needed, and that put them here whether they were suited to antiship strikes or not.

Flights Five and Six were odds and sods: customs and assault boats armed only with the Mark Five. The assault boats were still stuck with the standard Mark Five, which was damned useless and she ought to know; she supposed the jury was still out on the new greencap version the customs boats were carrying, though she for one was pinning most of her hopes on the boosted Mark Sixes on the fleet boats. They only had twelve of the things apiece, but that added up to a lot of the beasts over the entire wing.

Audrey hadn't really given much thought to her decision to call her command "Piranha Group" once again. Since January, she'd never quite stopped thinking of herself as "Piranha Leader," and she wasn't about to change that at a time like this.

Behind her own command were two mirrors of her own group: Oglon and Wildcat groups, with the same strike packages aside from being commanded from fleet cutters. Their lot were mostly close to being in formation; not far behind hers, really. Ahead were the ranks of the Centrality craft, the Fireballs. They were sleeker than her Corsairs, without the modular design that made the Umerian boats look like they'd been glued together from building blocks... but the real difference was the formations, not the ships themselves.

The Centralist gunships were assembled in tight-bunched pyramids of five; within each pyramid the individual boats were practically invisual range of each other. That was a sharp contrast to the looser four-ship formations of her own command, and one that worried her. She hoped like hell they knew what they were doing; she'd had enough of having to fend for herself.

CIC, USS Directrix
0927 Hours


To dorsal starboard, the gunships were on their way out; to port, the Centrality fighters had been quick off the mark for manned craft, she'd give them that much. Their Umerian counterpart would be an AI drone swarm that would form up on its way to the target. You couldn't do that with human pilots, not under combat conditions, but the Centralists had obviously practiced this kind of massed scramble to intercept well enough that they could mostly dispense with the disadvantage.

Liggs had started with four hundred fighters from six small carriers. He'd lost a few to random chance, individual craft with the bad luck to be in the way of stray plasma fire from the enemy starships; fifty more were still covering the damaged Centralist corvette Springbok. His remaining reserve was outnumbered well over three to two.

She hoped the pirates didn't have much in the way of dedicated escorts along with their strike package, or that head-on pass between the two groups would be truly ugly.

Cutter CG-81634 “Greyhound”,
0928 Hours


Audrey's lips skinned back from her teeth. Finally, they were underway! The Centralists had picked the targets. Facing half a dozen enemy ships in line abreast, they simply threw one Umerian group of twenty-four at each of the three on the right, and divided their own eighty gunships into rough thirds to take down the ones on the right: five of those little pyramids for the two on the extreme flank, and six for the one closest to the middle.

The plan was to arc to ventral and close the distance as fast as possible along a vector that didn't place them directly between the pirate stealthers and the task force, then hammer the enemy with a missile attack. Past that, it was up the initiative of the squadron leaders; not even the Centralists felt sure enough about how well the pirate ships would stand up to the missile attack to say whether it would be safe to try to finish them with gunfire after the ordnance was expended.

As they moved out, the Umerians spread into a loose wall formation, widely separates and weaving back and forth. The Centralists clustered in their little pyramids, and now Audrey saw how they could survive that way: ECM pods. Each five-ship formation was putting out a constant blaze of electromagnetic and hyperwave jamming, the individual pods strobing and flashing, dazzling any sensor directed their way. Even far out of the line of the jammers' main focus, at close range, her own sensors were hard pressed to make out anything but a twenty-kilometer ball of noise.

That explained how they could fly in tight formation and live: those formations weren't just the signs of a rigid, combative mind. They let the high-power jamming systems on the Fireballs cover for each other. Still, though, she wouldn't want to be part of one of those five-ships if the enemy managed to get their ECCM working.

Right about then, the stealth ships decided to start shooting at the oncoming wave of gunships, instead of the starships. The first waves of plasma fire were mostly aimed the Umerians' way; they had ECM of their own, yes, but they were at least easier to see than the Centralist pyramids. Easier to see, but more difficult to line up a shot on; the moment the targeting radars started slewing her way, Audrey had sent her ships to evasion level five. Now the maneuvers were even more wild, with the pilots' best efforts augmented by random high-frequency jitter added by the ships' computers. It was disconcerting, but the pilot retained broad control of the ship's position... to within a precision of a few hundred meters.

The first salvo of plasma bolts didn't hit a thing, nor did the second. By the third, frustrated plasma gunners had started deliberately spreading their bolts out, throwing containment magnets out of tune to generate wider, more dispersed beams. It was the equivalent of flak: foolish against starship-grade shielding, but effective against the Coalition's little ships. One of the customs boats in Oglon group hit a wall of plasma and came apart. Three salvoes later, one of her own was hit by a blast from a ship that had been too enthusiastic about spreading the beam out... and managed to survive.

"Piranha Three-Three, this is Piranha Leader, do you copy?"

The reply was faint but clear. "Ahhh... we copy. Damage to sensors, we've lost targeting gear. Missiles are reporting no lock." There was a buzz of static as another plasma wave passed near them.

"Fire independently and hope for the best, Three-Three." That would cut their accuracy down to damn near zero, but at least the missiles would be out in space. If only we can get in range... and they could. This kind of charge through the fire envelope of heavy starship guns was a common aspect of small craft doctrine; as long as the craft could avoid making easy targets of themselves, it was doable against the kind of slow-firing weapons used by the pirates.

Then one of the Centrality Fireballs in the five-ship closest to the Umerian wall lived up to its name, taking a tight-focused antiship beam head-on. And another, this time the gunboat at the apex of the pyramid. One of the pirates had managed to get a peek through their jamming; only after the flight lead's craft was destroyed did the three survivors start jinking. For thirty nervous seconds she wondered if that same ship would shift to another formation and begin tearing up the Centralist side of the attack one boat at a time... but no one managed to repeat those two deadly shots in the next salvoes.

As her group drew closer, Audrey set her sights on the pirate ship she'd been assigned. The customs cutters had passed her their detailed scans of the enemy hull; that gave her what she needed to know for the fire plan.

"All Piranha craft, this is Piranha leader. All craft are to fire greencaps as soon as the customs boats are in range; fleet boats will fire all missiles, both greencaps and standards in support. Standard Mark Fives are to be held in reserve. Do you copy?"

There was a chorus of agreement from the flight leads. The engagement range here was set by the Mark Five; enhanced warhead or none, the missile bus didn't change, and the Honeydew was still short-legged.

The cutters had already covered a third of the distance to the target, and more than half the time, as they continued to accelerate towards their launch points.

Command Bridge, CNS Loyalist
0931 Hours


With the pirate stealthers firing on the gunships instead of his starships, the situation had temporarily eased. The Hawks were getting close...

"Sir! Peltast reports another hit; forward plasma guns are out of action." That was the second shot the unlucky frigate had taken since the battle began, and far more serious; less enemy fire didn't mean none, and this hit had effectively knocked Peltast out of the beam duel against the enemy center.

But for the moment, the critical point was the fighter engagement to port. If the Hawk squadrons could break up part of the oncoming wave before they launched, if the enemy ordnance wasn't as unexpectedly good as so much of the rest of their gear was turning out to be, if the Umerians' point defense was up to snuff... they could handle this.

If not, his command was going to get pounded, and the enemy starships would be able to exploit that damage even if the gunship attack to starboard went exactly as planned.
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Re: Ride of the Battlecruisers: When in Rome

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

Simon_Jester wrote:USS Haruna, Deep Space
Some Hours Later


Admiral Lisiewicz cracked his knuckles. He had the Phase One plan complete. Vince would be taking TF BC4.2, with the carrier USS Beehive, battlecruiser USS Thunderbolt, and half the screening ships on a goodwill visit to the hardscrabble micro-empire of Elysium. Elysium was a rarity and an oddity: one of the galaxy's few interstellar shoal polities, with a very strange culture; Lisiewicz hoped Vince would be able to deal with them well. But recent reports indicated that their civilization had been beset by the menace of the Connoltian Raiders for years, which suggested an obvious way of gaining goodwill and fulfilling 4th Battlecruisers' antipiracy mission at the same time.

Vince's command would have aggregate tonnage on par with the Elysians' storied flagship, the Heracules, and if Umerian systems integration and electronics rigs weren't up to a higher standard than the Elysians, he'd eat his main tactical computer. TF BC4.2 might be able to shake a few things loose and kill them, with luck. He took a moment to mentally wish Quirino good hunting, then flipped back to his own side of the ops plan.

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USS Beehive, New Tyre Naval Base, Sector V-6
March 13, 3400


Vice Admiral Vincente Quirino sighed and ran his hand through his hair. This was going to be tricky; the Elysians were both very strange compared to galactic norms and very isolated. There were no particularly good routes into their little network of whisker lanes from the Grand Trunk without flying dozens of light-years off the beaten track. They had a few better access routes to clearer space that ran more or less parallel to the Trunk through the shoals, but it was generally unrewarding to get there.

But the isolation wasn't a critical problem, and it had advantages: the Elysians knew the routes through those shoals extremely well, from centuries of experience, and were surprisingly good navigators in spite of their relatively crude drive and computer technology.

The real problem was going to be the thousand-volt culture shock. Preparations for that were why he'd gotten Antoni's approval to spend another few days at New Tyre and pull together some more fleet elements.[/size]
MOUNT EPIKINDYNOS, Elysium

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Atop the jagged peak of Mount Epikindynos, otherwise known as MOUNT DANGEROUS, sat the temple of Delfeya. Consecrated by the wise men and leprous Ephors, blessed by the very gods themselves, it was on Mount Dangerous, within the Temple of Delfeya, that one could find the Oracle.

A purest virgin chosen for her her beauty, to please the gods of Elysium, her life was sacrificed in servitude as the messenger of the heavens. As Elysian men of war oiled themselves and pleased one another in the lands below and around Mount Dangerous, so too was the Oracle kept accompanied and pleasured - not by men with filthy members that would despoil her purity and thus bring forth the jealous wrath of the gods; but by priestesses whose caressments, soft words and warm kisses would bring both joy to the holy Oracle herself, and slake the lusts of thirsting gods and goddesses watching the carnal movements of their true followers.

It was on this night, on the eve of a holy shrine-day proscribed by the Elysian calendarium, that the priestesses arranged the incense burners and placed within them the spice melange. As the sanctified spice fumes circulated within the stale tabernacle, the Oracle emerged from her chambers - clad in but scant and sheer silken vestments, barely obscuring her nubile form. She closed her eyes as she breathed deeply, and as the spice took hold of her, she began to perform the ritualistic movements that would please the gods - for only in pleasing them would they reveal their truths to her.

Thus she communed with them. Her movements become one with the swirling clouds of spice, her fluttering garments themselves billowing in an ethereal wind as her body rhythmically swayed and undulated there in the central altar. Her bare feet touched the cold stone floor, the warmth of incense-fumes filled her lungs, the air was cool as it brushed her moist skin.
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Her mind transcended the mortal realities of her realm and ascended into the astral planes, where she traversed the scintillating gulf of space hued by so many colors naught perceptible by the human eye, and visited strange vistas dominated by time-lost citadels carved in Precambrian rock, once-verdant worlds whose great spires gleamed no more. So it was that she descended into another place and another time, before the Age of Obscurity and the After-Earth, before the time of even the likes Heracules and Remulus, venturing forth to an era where there was naught but protoplasmic ruination - and it was there in that strange land where space and time had no meaning, she met the old gods. She gazed at their frightening visages, both terrific and terrible at the same time, and she fell to her knees - groveling at their sight in prostration while she herself averted her gaze from their incomprehensible forms.

These transpirations occurred in her mind. Back in the Temple, her body had collapsed on to the stone floor as she was wracked with the throes of ecstacy-convulsifications whilst the incomprehensible ululations she uttered forth from her mouth resembled that of a long lost fossilized tongue, a language of some dead and forgotten world perhaps, cryptic tomes brought to them through the spiritual medium of the Oracle as she convened with mankind's cosmic ancestry.
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She writhed, body drenched in sweat, vestments undone to reveal her flesh, breasts rising and falling with every breath after the experience of enrapturement. She opened her eyes, yet with them she saw not that which was within her mortal confines. No. Her vision pierced through the veil of realities and saw within the infinite universe so many things... things that have already transpired, things that were becoming at that very moment, and things that had yet to be.
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Before exhaustion took her and the priestesses carried her back to her chambers to lie with her and soothe her, as she laid still on the stone floor, she uttered but one word:

"The prophecy."
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 Ilya Muromets »

Some days before present time

Main Fabrication Bay of the ark ship Ark, Just Ark. Stop Asking.

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The Main Fabrication Bay was a cavernous network of large metal-and-composite rooms crammed with foreboding-looking pieces of heavy machinery. It was alive with the ordered and systematic motions of the fabrication equipment, the attendant swarming of numerous types of maintenance and construction drones, and the bustling of several R'nish going about their respective businesses. The R'nish themselves were a sight to behold, coming as they did in a variety of bodies ranging in shape, symmetry, and size.

In fact, not one of the bodies was exactly the same, customized as they were for their respective minds' needs and whims. Even the component parts of the bodies differed. Some were purely mechanical and electronic, some had varying degrees of biomechanical amalgamation, and some looked purely biological in nature (although even these had some cybernetic components which were skillfully hidden away). Then there were the unused bodies and component modules which were being built in the various foundries of the almost chaotically-arranged fabrication bay.

One of these was a 80-meter long yacht-type ship body. Or, at least, it used to be a ship body until a custom requisition had caused most of its internal components—including the blank mindcore—to be taken out and replaced with an internal set-up more akin to that of a physically-piloted vessel. It was now just a plain old yacht; its sleek, almost organic, form sat upon a platform as attendant drones and mechanical arms went over every surface for a final preparatory inspection. There were also utility drones loading pieces of cargo into the yacht's hold.

Image

Within the cockpit of the yacht sat two R'nish in bodies which differed quite significantly even from the wild variety around them. Their bodies were bilaterally symmetrical; with two arms, two legs, a head, and no tail. At the end of each arm was a five-digit hand, with one of said digits being relatively shorter and stouter but opposable. The bilateral symmetry was also evident on the bodies' faces, which each had two eyes, ears, and nostrils. Only one mouth, but it was set in the lower center of the face. The bodies were cover in pale, pinkish flesh which was in turn somewhat covered by pieces of clothing. There was also a thick mass of hair upon the heads of the bodies.

Humanoid bodies. Human bodies, although only one of them had truly ever been human. That one was in a body that appeared to be a well-muscled, middle-aged male with dark brown hair. He had just completed running a pre-flight check of the control systems of the yacht, and was now running hands and sweeping eyes nostalgically over the instrument panels in front of him. He smiled wistfully.

“You did an excellent job, Snol,” he said, directing his speech at the Foremind in charge of the Main Fabrication bay, “Everything's just like I remember it, even down to the wearing and scuff marks. If I didn't know better, I'd swear this was the original Fickle Fortune.”

Of course, Karl Devaki, that is only to be expected, Snol transmitted in reply, This one took this project as a personal challenge because this one found it interesting. Imagine! An actual tactile control system! It's been so many hion since anyone wanted anything even remotely like that. Naturally, a project as novel as this has to be as perfect as possible.

“You didn't need to make every detail exactly like my memory files.” Karl chided gently.

Nonsense! the Foremind huffed, What would be the point of being a perfectionist if this one did not strive for perfection. It's just not done. In fact, if there wasn't such a hurry this one would have fabricated an external body of the exact specifications of your original vessel instead of merely modifying the interior of a preexisting ship-body like you requested.

“This one fails to comprehend the need to modify the control systems in such a manner in the first place,” added a female voice to the right of Karl, “If we ones had kept the original layout it would've been a simple task of uploading your mind onto the ship's mindcore to get it ready instead of going through all the tedious pre-flight checks. Really, Karl, this seems a bit indulgent with very little practical reason other than nostalgia.”

“That's 'I' not 'this one' and 'we' not 'we ones',” Karl corrected, “You have to get used to human pronouns if we're to pass for a human. Also, it's 'Dad' not just 'Karl.' Human daughters your age don't get to call parents by their names. Not usually, at least.”

Image

The R'nish beside him, who appeared to be an adolescent human girl with her long brown hair tied back in a pony tail, crossed her arms and pouted, which was actually a pretty human gesture. Karl commended that. Also a very daughter-like gesture, come to think of it, which brought a smile to Karl's face. Funnily enough, the R'nish beside actually was his daughter. Well, sort of. She was even young in the way most R'nish accounted for age, although a human would've considered her to be middle age in purely chronological terms.

She had been born from the combination of part of his personality matrix with those contributed by eight other R'nish. In fact, her chosen name, Esna9, referred to the fact that her mind had been created from nine R'nish parent-donors. Although, Karl was the only one who ever really stuck around to raise her since parenting wasn't really something most R'nish bothered with since newly-generated minds were often self-sufficient enough to learn on their own.

Still, it was one of the lingering bits of humanity left in Karl. As he often did, he felt the shadow of a pang when he thought of his former humanity and of himself as a parent. He suspected that it was related to the reason he had become a R'nish in the first place. He remembered that he had come to the R'nish Aggregate in anguish, and that he had told them to delete all memory of the cause of said anguished when they had encoded his mind as a R'nish since he couldn't bear to live with the memory. But that he felt a pang which might be related to something he had found painful enough to give up his humanity for made him uncomfortable, and as he usually did he forced the pang out of his thoughts.

He was grateful when Esna9 spoke again, since it helped in distracting him from his train of thought, “Fine, Dad, but thi—I still don't see the point of the tactile control layout.”

“It's not just for nostalgia—though I admit it was part of it. The original Fickle Fortune was good ship,” Karl said with a patient smile, “Like I said, if we're going to pass for humans we have to do things the human way. Most humans would pilot a ship like this from a cockpit, and any human pilot worth his or her training always does a pre-flight check.”

Besides, if that one hadn't requested a conversion, this one would not have had the chance to work on such an interesting project, Snol added happily, That would've been a painfully missed opportunity.

Esna9 just pouted again, “I still think it's a questionable design choice.”

Not at all, Snol assured, For a tactile control layout, it's a very ergonomic design. Now, if you'll excuse this one, there are other matters that need to be attended to. Your ship should be ready shortly, and this one would think that you should have no trouble finding your way out.

“Later then, Snol, and thanks for everything.” Karl then turned to his daughter of sorts and said sternly, “ Speaking of questionable designs, just why are you wearing so little clothing, young lady? Didn't I stress the importance of proper clothing to human beings?”

“This?” Esna9 gestured to at her midrift-baring top and her miniskirt, “Kaye said that this would fit right in where we ones are going, and it conceals all the parts thought to be too offensive to bare in public.”

“Kaye told you that?”

“Yes,” Esna9 said matter-of-factly, “She told me that, should you disapprove, that I should remind you that she is more experienced at being human than you are.”

“I heard my name.” came a voice from behind.

Both Karl and Esna9 turned to see the source the voice emerging from the hatch behind the cockpit. It was Kaye Minsky, the other-formerly human (and now human again, sort of) R'nish who was to serve as a consultant and guide for their mission into Haruhiist space. She had joined the Aggregate before Karl, and had been older than his age when he had joined Aggregate. That wasn't apparent, however, given her choice of body. While Karl had chosen a body created from the DNA of his original and created to look like how he had remembered it, and the R’nish had even included the scar over his right eye. Kaye, on the other hand, had chosen a green-eyed, green-haired female body of a similar apparent age to that of Esna9's.

Granted, treatments in Haruhiist space allowed most people to look that dissonantly young, so she wouldn't really stick out of a crowd where they were going. Still, the human sensibilities of his mind as he remembered them found it a bit strange, even after all his time as a R'nish. The protective human parent part of him as he remembered it also objected to the somewhat revealing clothes his daughter of sorts was wearing, and now he had found the source: Kaye had dressed her human body in a similar midrift-revealing top and minikirt, although she also wore a blue vest over the top and a pair of skin-conforming shorts under her skirt.

“So I have you to blame for my daughter's brazen clothing?” Karl demanded.

“Brazen? Don't be such a fuddy-duddy, Uncle Karl,” Kaye said, grinning impishly as she called him “uncle” to emphasize his un-youthful choice of human body, “Where we're going, what we're wearing is about par-for-the course for young women like me and Esna9. Trust me. I've been there before, you haven't.”

“I still think it's bit much, er, I mean.... less, y'know?”

Kaye giggled, “What, are you afraid she's gonna get hit on? She's got an attractive, young female body. That's going to happen no matter what she wears. You'll have to face that like any pretty girl's father would have to.”

“Hit on?” Esna9 inquired in a tone of confusion and slight concern, “This one—er, I don't understand, why would I attract physical violence? And what would that have to do with clothing?”

“That's not what—” Karl began, but he was interrupted by a voice coming up from the hatch.

“Speaking of clothing,” it said as its speaker emerged from the hatch to stand beside Kaye, “I'm still not sure about this. I mean, I know you have first hand experience as a human, Kaye, but my research—”

“Oh, c'mon, Thoth. You look fine.” Kaye assured, although Karl noted that she had a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Looking at how the tall and lanky human body of Thoth—full name Tyrkt-hoth—was dressed, he knew the girl had carried out some mischief. Thoth was dressed in an absolutely garish ensemble. He wore a long beige coat with red lining along the collars, sleeves, and pockets. On his left lapel he wore what seemed to be some kind of vegetable stalk. Under the coat he wore a white long-sleeved jumper with a red and black V-Neck pattern. Under that was a white dress shirt with a red interior and embroidered with, as if to accentuate the confusion of the wearer, question marks on the collars. Finally, his trousers had an ugly pattern consisting of brown and beige stripes. It was something that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a clown. To the R'nish researcher's credit, though, he seemed to suspect that he had been put on despite his lack of firsthand knowledge of human fashion.

“I've carefully studied all data the Aggregate has archived on human clothing, as well as the memory files on human clothing other formerly-human R'nish have been willing to share with me.” Thoth pressed, “The overall aesthetics of this combination you suggested does not seem to conform to—”

“Thoth, Thoth, Thoth…” Kaye said placatingly to her old friend, rasing a finger in an almost lecturing manner, “Research is nice, and I respect your dedication and exacting attention to detail, but everything the Aggregate has on that subject just isn’t enough. I’ve been out there, Thoth. I know how people dress. Trust me, you look grand.”

Image

Thoth scratched the side of his head—he had been paying a lot of attention to his research on human gestures and body language. He had a look of discomfort on his face.

“But this seems to be a mishmash of clothing articles that most humans would consider, well, silly.”

“Thoth, I chose those clothes for you,” Kaye took on an exaggeratedly hurt tone, “Are you suggesting I would lead you wrong.”

“Out of malice? No.” Thoth answered, “Out of playful mischief? Probable.”

Kaye turned up her nose and, with a theatrical air of umbrage, said: “As long as our friendship has lasted, and this is the kind of trust you show me? Thoth, I can’t believe you!”

“Now I definitely know you’re being mischievous.”

“You think?” Karl snorted in amusement.

“Eh, fine, fine,” Kaye relented. Then she grinned slyly, “If you really aren’t comfortable with those clothes, you can follow me down and I can get you out of them real quick.”

“Thank you.” Thoth answered graciously, “I’ll wait for you in the main lounge then.”

The R’nish researcher made his way back down the hatch, completely oblivious to the now widening grin on Kaye’s face. Karl shot her a warning look.

“Kaye, don’t even think about it.”

“What? Thoth is a researcher, and I’m sure he’d appreciate a bit of intimate knowledge on human interaction. Besides, I used to like ‘em tall and lanky, and it’s been way too long.”

“Not on this ship, you’re not,” Karl warned, “I don’t want you putting any ideas in my daughter’s head.”

“Ideas?” Esna perked up inquisitively, “What kind of ideas? Is this about clothing?”

Kaye ignored her and went on, “Corrupting your daughter? Well, I hadn’t considered it, but now that you bring it up there’s more that enough room for—”

“NO! Uh-uh, don’t you dare try. Don’t even think about it. You do it, and I’ll toss you out the airlock and delete your mind backups.”

“Geez, Karl, get a grip. I was only kidding. Well, about Esna, anyway.”

“Excuse me, what’s all this about?” Esna9 spoke up, “I don’t understand anything in this exchange anymore.”

“With luck, you won’t have to…” muttered Karl.

“That just makes me even more curious about what this is all about!”

“I blame you for this, Kaye.” Karl said sourly.

Kaye just smirked, “You always do, Uncle Karl. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Tyler’s waiting for a ‘change of clothing’.”

“I can hear the poorly-disguised euphemism, you know.”

“Wasn’t trying to disguise anything,” she retorted as she went to the hatch, “Besides, never you mind. You’ve got flying to do, and we’ve got a long trip ahead of us.”

“Now you’re just being juvenile.”

“I was always juvenile.” Kaye said smugly as she disappeared down the hatch.

“Why is no one answering me?” Esna9 demanded in annoyance, “I’m really confused now.”


[Author’s note: Gah, sorry, I got lazy toward the end. But, result: R’nish Aggregate sends party to secretly observe the diplomatic meeting between the Chamarrans and the Solarians in the Holy Empire of Haruhi Suzumiya. Next installment will be set at present time.]

[EDIT: Forgot that the proper term according to the ruleset was "yacht" instead of "shuttle"]
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Ryan Thunder »

Lost in Memory
Erat, Miratia

"Honey, you have to listen to me," Ryan tried, "This is not reality."

She cocked her head sideways and looked at him out of the corner of her eyes. "Oh, really? It seems real enough to me. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Okay, okay, I've had a lucid dream or something," he retreated. "I'm gonna go lie down for a bit."

"Maybe I'm finally wearing you out," she smiled thinly, "I'll see if I can cancel that errand this afternoon. Coffee?"

"Christ, yes, please," he sighed. "Actually, you know--I'll get it. Shroomocha?"

"Sure," she fit her cell headset over her ear and started dialling.

Ryan, meanwhile, ran through everything again in his metaphorical mind. He'd done some programming in his long life, enough to know that something like this couldn't just happen by accident. No--somebody had done this intentionally. Programmed this scenario. Compiled it. Installed it into Aaliyah's upload. Who would do that? What kind of--he became dimly aware of a hand on his shoulder. "Ryan," Aaliyah was on the verge of giggling, "You've rinsed that coffee pot out like ten times, now. You aren't going senile on us, are you? You're only what, two hundred and fifty now?"

He looked at her, then shook his head, "Crumbs..."

"Anyway, I can't get a hold of them. Q knows what they're up to."

Ryan leaned on the kitchen counter, looking thoughtfully out the window at the Morning Wood in their terrace apartment garden. "On second thought, let's just go. I need some air."

~

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They headed down to the lobby, which doubled as an access point for the maglev that snaked through Erat from urbanate to urbanate. They'd take the train to the Inland Transit hub, and from there, take another train to Mirakar. They were about to board when Ryan saw a tall, thickly moustached man leaning heavily on a cane out of the corner of his eye. "Srrkayn? Is… Is that you?" he asked hesitantly. The man nodded. "Holy shit! I thought you were dead!"

"I'm sorry to disappoint," he joked. "Aaliyah, you look younger than when I saw you last. Impressive," he added.

"Why thank you," she responded. "How have you been?"

"I've seen better days," he muttered. The sound seemed to come from his chest.

Ryan then noticed he was wearing a pendant that seemed to hold some kind of speaker. Why, he wasn't sure. "That's too bad. Where are you headed?"

"Actually, I came to see you," his voice became grave, "I have some bad news."

"Oh? What's up?"

"The Assembly has unanimously voted to merge Miratia into the NFT, and the supreme leader has approved the motion."

"Are they out of their fucking minds?"

"In a nutshell, they claim that we've run out of arable land and need to consider alternatives," he continued, "And that the NFT has the resources to help. Of course, what that really means is that the San Doradans suckered them into outsourcing our aeroponics on the basis of improved efficiency--and then cornered the market on the stuff."

Ryan crossed his arms and grunted, turning away from the other two for a moment. "This is ridiculous," he announced flatly, "The entire system was established from the outset to be internally self-sufficient, and now we have this… this--what the fuck?" he noticed a red laser dot on his shirt.

"Hands where we can see them!" a commanding voice, distorted by a helmet vox, ordered.

"Err… okay?" Ryan spread his arms as no less than a dozen grey-armoured soldiers--the very same special forces he once had authority over, he recognized--surrounded them, "What's the meaning of this?"

"You'll see soon enough," the first one replied, and then nodded at one of the other troopers. Ryan was about to retort when he felt the cold metal of a rifle but slam into the back of his head. Everything went dark.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Ryan Thunder »

Lost in Memory
He awoke on the floor in a world with no sky, stars, nor sun. He groaned, massaging the back of his head and wondering if this was some kind of afterlife--until he remembered that he was an upload. "Hey!" he yelled out, "Anybody here?"

"Fuck you!" a voice answered back from the darkness.

"No, fuck you!" he retorted, "Who are you?"

"Get fucked. Who the fuck are you?"

"Ryan Thunder."

"Oh, that son of a bitch. It hasn't been long enough, asshole," he sounded like he was kidding, but...

"Well, what the hell is this place?" How many goddamned AIs are there in here, anyway?

"It's kinda like purgatory, except that you're just unconscious. I'm dead."

"I see," this was getting more ridiculous by the minute, "What happened?" Ryan was crawling in the direction of the sound until finally he felt--something. A boot, perhaps?

"Hey, what the--" Whatever it was, it moved. Very fast.

"AUGH, my face!" Ryan wailed, "What the fuck was that for?"

"Oh, sorry. Hey, I know--" he snapped his fingers and they were bathed in blinding white light from all directions. He looked down at Ryan, and adopted a shit-eating grin "Whoa, you totally have a bigass black eye there."

"Jesus fuck, who are you?" he demanded.

"Zakhar Kasabian. Master-at-Arms."

"Oh, you! What happened?"

"Well, the chuckleheads who replaced you deployed me to the border with Tian Jiao. I was supposed to infiltrate one of their HQs and steal… eh, something. Whatever it was. Anyway, I failed, was captured, and for my troubles the bastards had me executed me on a shitty cellar floor after depriving me of sleep for a month and asking me the most inane questions imaginable. I don't know how I ended up here, though."

"Somebody uploaded you. Who was it and how?"

"'Uploaded'? Fuck if I know what that even means, Ryan, never mind who did it. You're going to wake up soon, though, so I should tell you a few things before you go. First of all; you can break the rules here. It's actually quite easy if you have some willpower. I can't really explain exactly how it works because I don't really understand it myself but--oh, shit."

~

"Wait! Tell me more!" Ryan demanded, but once again he was surrounded by darkness.

"Oh will you shut up already? You've been babbling nonsense for an hour now!"

Oh, shit. Ryan thought. "Srrkayn? You did this?"

"No, you retard, they threw me in this shithole with you."

"Oh--uh, sorry." For a moment there was silence. Then he remembered; "Jesus tittyfucking christ, where's Aaliyah!?"

"I was sleeping--until you did that," she replied groggily from somewhere to his left.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

"Well, now where are we?" as if on cue, a door opened. Fluorescent light spilled out across the floor, blinding everybody. Ryan scrambled to his feet and advanced towards it with his fists up. A hulking brute of a man stood in his way. He looked Ryan up and down once, but otherwise did nothing. Ryan lunged sideways into a kick aimed at the brute's face. He hadn't made it halfway into the motion before the other man swung a ham-sized fist towards his face so fast that he didn't even react until after it hit, sending him sprawling across the floor in a daze.

"Ryan!" Aaliyah ran to him.

The guard chuckled. "He'll be fine," he rumbled. "But… don't do that again."

"Is everything under control?" a new voice asked. It was the same commanding tone he'd heard earlier.

"Yeah, you want in?" He nodded, and the guard let him pass.

Ryan groaned. "I'm going to kill you," he muttered, "I don't even care. I'm going to kill you, whoever you are."

"Well, your honesty is refreshing," the newcomer replied, "But futile."

"Who are you?"

"Yes, I did all this," he replied. "Why? Because you're a sham, Thunder. A pretender. A mockery of the office you weren't even properly elected to! A worthless foreign shitstain, here to twist our culture and values to suit your own!"

"I… what?" he did a double take. "You can't be serious… I've fought for this country's well being every chance I've had. Who the fuck are you to say otherwise?"

"Gero, Ryan. The true Supreme Leader of Miratia."

"Gero? Who--oh, shit."

"Yes, that's right."

"But--I didn't even give you a name! You've been retconned!"

"Ryan, Ryan," Gero put an arm around his shoulder, "Did you know that I personally fought against the capitalist rebels in this country decades before you were ever anywhere near this planet?"

"Er… yes. I wrote that."

"I'm more resilient than you know."

"But you don't even exist!" his confusion was rapidly turning to indignant rage.

Gero sighed, "You're delusional, and a foreign parasite. Well, I can't abide that." He returned to the door. "Get that one out of here," he ordered, pointing at Aaliyah. "She's blameless in this." Two more soldiers walked in and grabbed her.

"Hey!" she protested, "Where are you taking me? Let me go, you sack of shit!" Gero watched them drag her out.

"I just want to make something clear; I am not a monster," Gero droned. "We aren't going to hurt her," he asserted. "You, however," he turned his gaze on Srrkayn, "Not only do you have a fucking unpronounceable name, but you waged war on behalf of this… this… vermin. Risking Miratian lives for a fucking alien! Sydney fucking Hank, no less!"

"Jesus Christ, Gero, I don't recall writing you as a bigoted xenophobe."

"Enough of this. Kill them both."

Another soldier jogged into the room outside the improvised cell. "Supreme Leader!" he saluted Gero.

"At ease. What is it?"

"Your troops are in position. The assault on Mirakar urbanate begins on your command."

"I'll go there now," he replied. "Come on."

That was when the brute returned, now armed with a crowbar. Srrkayn slammed the door closed behind him, plunging them again into darkness.

"You aren't too bright, you know that?" Srrkayn challenged him.

"Shut up," he rumbled, and swung the crowbar with such force that the impact against the cell wall was deafening.

Ryan felt around in front of him. Feeling something warm, he lashed out with his fist at head level and hit what he guessed afterward was the man's chest. It hurt. A moment later he was in blinding pain, curled into a foetal position on the floor. No. I'm not going to die here. I'm not going to fucking die to your brainless motherfucking lackey. I'm going to find you. I'm going to kill you. I'm going to put everything back where it belongs. Screams of agony gave way to screams of rage.

Suddenly, the pain was gone. He stood up, and felt something in his hand. It was a pistol grip. He knew it was a gun. Not just any gun; his gun, and one of several. He opened his eyes. He was wearing a helmet. He felt armoured joints constraining his movement slightly across his entire body. He could see Gero's brute, straddling Srrkayn and still pounding the man's face in with the crowbar, though it was absolutely dark. This would do well enough. "This ends now, vermin," he announced. His voice sounded like gravel being crushed.

"What the--" the brute didn't get to finish his sentence. Ryan emptied the magazine.

Outside, the cell door flew off its hinges. A figure clad in glossy black body armour stepped out, his face concealed behind a featureless mask. Two guards stood briefly dumbfounded. They raised their carbines, but two shots rang out before they could so much as pull the triggers. The soldiers collapsed in place.

He was so through with this bullshit.
Last edited by Ryan Thunder on 2010-10-15 02:34am, edited 1 time in total.
SDN Worlds 5: Sanctum
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Steve »

SEB Mining Site
Toutaine, The Veil, Sector P-26
2 October 3400



The moon light was the only remaining illumination over the wrecked mining site. The SEB crews had abandoned it entirely, leaving behind everything from equipment to the contents of their mess hall.

Nisa returned from it, carrying two containers, while Stephen was looking out at the destruction he had wrought. "These containers say 'self-cooking'," she asked "I am not familiar..."

Almost absent-mindedly he took one and pulled away a strip at the bottom before setting it down. A glow briefly appeared in the bottom and a savory aroma came from the container. "Self-cooking meals," he explained to her. "Taking the strip off activates a short chemical reaction that generates strong heat, cooking the food in minutes before dissipating."

"And this is how people eat out there?" Nisa gestured skyward.

"Not all the time. But these are favored for travelers or, I imagine, people on long-range assignment to low-tech worlds."

Nisa pulled the strip on the other container. She set it down quickly at feeling the heat within. She felt a tremor in her stomach from hunger, but that wasn't what was on her mind. "You almost killed that man," she said quietly. "I've never seen you ready to kill before."

"I know." He looked over at the ruins of the Dragline, at least what was visible now that it had settled into the pit. "What you saw, Nisa, is the reason I am living on this world as a hermit."

"You've been teaching me control, why can't you control this?", Nisa asked.

"I can, to a degree. When you called out to me to spare Parkhurst, it helped me regain enough self-awareness to hold myself back. But I can never control the power completely, only strain to direct it."

Before Nisa could speak there was a roar in the air. They both looked up to see a starship coming in to land. Nisa tensed up, anticipating the ship to be pirates. "Should we hide?"

"No point. I suspect whomever is on that ship is here to see us," Stephen answered. "In fact, if I'm correct... this is what I've been waiting on since our trip to Al-Yasuj."

Nisa relaxed, watching the sleek vessel's wings slide backward until they met each other. Anti-grav drives whirred in the wind as the vessel set itself on landing struts. Stephen stood to approach the ship. Nisa followed, staring at it with some wonderment. Aside from the horrible time she'd been taken by pirates, she'd never seen a ship up so close before.

Several moments after it settled the door opened. The first man out was a handsome fellow, wearing a stylized golden vest over a white collared shirt with black trousers, while the figure behind him was a grim-looking man. A hulking Bragulan with white fur came out in the rear, hefting a massive weapon. Nisa stared in awe at the Bragulan, having never seen one - the "bear aliens" were a legend on Toutaine, the product of centuries of smugglers and pirates telling stories to locals.

The second man in the row stepped up and looked closely at Stephen. "You are Mr. Garrett, correct?"

Nisa looked to him. There was a resigned look on her father's face. "I have not heard that name in a very long time," he sighed. "But I am he. I am guessing you are in the employ of Mr. Sidney Hank?"

"Yes. I am Jason Chandra. This is Balthier, the owner and captain of this ship." He gestured to the Strahl. Afterward Chandra looked around at the wreckage. "You realize, sir, that SEB Mining is a subsidiary of Pan-Empyrean?"

Hearing that, Stephen broke out laughing. It took him several seconds to speak through the laughter. "Oh my... ha ha... what a coincidence. I'll have to discuss it with Sidney when we see each other. But first, we need to be going back to Jeziri."

"What for, if I may ask?", Balthier asked.

"To pick up someone. The very reason I sent my letter to Sidney was to get her a ride home, in fact." Stephen gestured southward. "It will take only minutes to get there with your ship, I'm sure."

"Very well." He gestured to the ramp from the side of his ship, prompting them to walk up it. A pair of women, one an older woman carrying a rifle and the other a younger one dressed like she belonged in a Nordic mythology holovid, watched them enter. Balthier led them to the cockpit and settled into his chair beside Vanrya.

Nisa watched with great interest as Balthier took the controls. She felt the ship vibrate below her feet as it rose into the air. There was a stronger vibration as the drive wings swung out and locked into place. Balthier pressed forward a throttle mechanism and suddenly the ship rushed forward. Despite the great speed, with the landscape rushing below them, she felt no pull as she had when the LARC had maneuvered around the mining site.

Stephen stood behind her. "Here." He pointed to a map of the local region that the ship's computers were displaying, showing Balthier where to find the Tari Homestead. He maneuvered accordingly and began to slow down.

They crested a hill. Nisa was thinking of how ecstatic Yamia would be to see them, knowing she would get to return home soon. And then to see her home from above, how exciting that would be!

That was when she first saw the flames.



Kimiya drew in another pained breath. The fire devouring her barn and home was throwing smoke into the air, making it uncomfortably hot around her. And then there were her bullet wounds, left unbandaged by her attackers and leaking around the cloth she'd torn from her dress and blouse to try and staunch them. She'd been shot on every joint save her shoulders, while another bullet had grazed the diaphragm muscle in her chest, causing every breath to be full of terrible agony. She could still feel the bullets inside her body, or so she thought.

But she hadn't given in. Nor had Yamia. Jabin's men didn't know where Nisa was - she had protected her little girl. And here she would die, praying to the Almighty God that Nisa was preserved from Jabin's cruel lusts.

There was a rumble in the air. She looked up to see a starship hover overhead and land near the inferno. From a side door a robed figure erupted from it, and she recognized it as the Hermit. She watched him fall to a knee briefly before standing up and raising his hands. The flames devouring the Homestead began to die down.

Behind him, Nisa jumped down and ran toward her. "MOTHER!", she cried, arriving just as Kimiya tried and failed to stand. The bullets that had shattered her knees and ankles would not let her support her own weight. She sagged into Nisa's arms. "Mother, what happened?!"

"Armed men..." Kimiya reached her hand up to Nisa's cheek. "They wanted you too..."

Stephen came up to them and helped Nisa support her mother's weight. He looked back to the ship as a man came running out, carrying a bag. "Kimiya, you must hold on. We have help for you."

"They kept shooting me," Kimiya said, every breath full of pain. "But I would not say. Yamia would not say either."

"Where is Yamia?", Stephen asked.

"They took her. Wanted her for... the harem..."

"Who did this to you mother?! WHO?!," Nisa cried.

"Nisa... Nisa, listen to me... my little one." Kimiya brought her hand up. It was bleeding as well - a single gunshot had blasted through the palm. "You must... have... your own life..."

"Lay her down dammit!," an accented voice called out. MacCulloch was beside them now - behind him the crew of the Strahl, plus Jason and Phani, were watching the tragedy play out. He brought up a scanning device and used it on Kimiya's body as she gasped for air. His expression darkened and his eyes tensed. He turned to Nisa to speak.

Before he could, Nisa did so, sensing his thought. "You can't save her."

"Nisa... do not... waste your life..." Kimiya could see her daughter's agonized, angry expression and moved her hand further back on Nisa's head, staining her face with blood in the process. "You are... my precious little one.... I want you... you..." She gasped for breath again. Her voice was becoming weaker. "...be happy...."

"I'm sorry," MacCulloch said. "But she's lost so much blood... I don't have the materials or equipment t' keep her alive."

"No..." Nisa began to weep. She put her hand on her mother's face. She felt her mother's thoughts ripple through her very soul. I love you, my little one, over and over, until the thoughts ceased. Kimiya's eyes didn't move away from looking at Nisa, but there was no life behind them. Her breath ceased.

Seeing her mother was dead, Nisa wailed aloud and gripped her mother's body, pulling it close in an iron grip. She sobbed "Mother" repeatedly.

Balthier and Chandra looked at one another, and then to their intended passenger. Stephen looked down to where Nisa was mourning and knelt beside her. He put a hand on Nisa's shoulder, trying to be a reassuring father for his suffering girl. "I'm sorry, Nisa. I'm so very sorry."

"Who did this?!", she screamed in rage. "WHO DID THIS TO HER?!"

"I recognize the wound patterns," he said. "There is an elite unit in the service to the Emir's army, whom answer to Prince Jabin himself. I have seen their handiwork often in the desert, where they leave their victims. Usually political enemies of Prince Jabin or people who cross him in some way."

"WHO?!"

"Nisa! You must calm down. I know what you're thinking, but you can't fight them alone..."

"Then help me!", Nisa shouted. "Help me destroy them!"

"Nisa, I cannot let myself use that power," he insisted. He took Nisa's head into his arms and rested it against her shoulder. Looking up to Balthier and Chandra, he said, "But we will get justice for Kimiya, Nisa. We will get justice."

"I take it you're going to ask us to aide you in this quest of 'justice'," Balthier remarked. "I'd rather not have to go up against the local potentates, though. That always tends to be messy business."

"And I've heard of this Prince," Chandra added. "According to the intel packet Mr. Hank gave me, he's the power behind the throne here on Toutaine. If we go up against him we'll be taking on the whole damn planet."

"I will pay you well," Stephen said.

"You? A hermit, dwelling out here in the Veil? What kind of money..."

"The kind that a man who has lived far too long can acquire," was the sharp reply. "Besides, they've taken my friend Yamia. And she is the passenger I wished to secure transport off-world for, the entire reason I called Sidney in the first place."

Chandra didn't react, but an expression of interest and surprise came over Balthier's face. "Yamia, you say?" He stepped closer, having exchanged a look with Vanrya. "A Dorei woman?"

"Yes."

"Full name is Yamia Kunara?"

Seeing Balthier's recognition, Stephen nodded and added, "And a Knight of the Silver Moon, I'll add."

"Well then." Balthier crossed his arms. "That changes matters. You can count me in on dealing with this Jabin character. Free of charge, too."

Chandra gave Balthier a bewildered look. "Really? Just what is it about her?"

"Well, Mr. Chandra, I do have a rather soft spot in my heart for ladies like her and her beloved. And a good leading man must occasionally play the hero, no matter the danger." Balthier gestured toward his ship. "I think we should be getting going, then. It's a brief flight to the Capital, but we have a lot of planning to do to get Yamia back."

"Give us time, Balthier," Stephen replied. "We have other duties to perform first."

There was an answer of a nod, at which time the others began to return to their ship.

"Come, Nisa," Stephen said, standing to his feet. "We will bury your mother beside Sadik, where she wanted to lay. And then we will salvage what we can from the house."

Nisa wordlessly nodded in acknowledgement, lifting her mother into her arms. When the time comes, Father, I will get justice for her, she thought, in a way she knew he could sense. Prince Jabin will pay for what he's done.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

SPEVIK ANSILS, Severnaya Sector, Bragulan Star Empire
Image Image Image
The Commissariat's Commissar Commissary was a posher affair than the ordinary cafeterias and cantinas of the regular military troops and justice-enforcement arbitrators. It had polished wooden furniture made out of real wood instead of decycled papers or de-fossilized chunks of petrified plants. The food was good, and there was ambient music from laserdisc-gramophones playing in the background.

Special Commissar Vikim Vikimsivik took a sip of Tsvagna and regarded his newfound partner, Arbitrator Fiyor Byordyng. In contrast to their first meeting, the mood now was relaxed and Vikim smiled at his comrade, who was literally a buddy cop.

"So, comrade, I was thinking." Vikim said as he placed his steel glass down and leaned forward towards the Arbitrator, businesslike in demeanor. "Of a suitable reward for your services to Imperator and Empire."

"You are too generous, Commissar." Fiyor meekly replied. When they returned home from Dominion space, bringing the rescued cubling with them, they were both hailed as heroes and much celebrations and awards were had for weeks on end. For Fiyor, that had been reward enough. "An officer of the Imperial Arbitrators of Justice Enforcement does whatever is asked of him by Bragule. Saving young Yivgny Chamski from those depraved human cultists is in itself all the reward an Arbitrator could need."

"Yes," Vikim nodded. A satisfying response of a truly patriotic and ideologically impeccable servant of the Imperator indeed. He could tell, for his standard Commissar-issue aural implants could hear the rhythm of the Arbitrator's cardiovascular system, while his Commissar-grade ocular implants could see the pupilary dilations of the law officer's eyes, as well as other autosomatic signs that could prove or disprove thoughtcrime. It was what made Commissars so effective at rooting out ideological deviancy, what gave them an edge over the IBGV witch hunters despite all their efforts, and what made it so financially unwise to play Koprulu Zone Rules poker with them. "But I could recommend you be transfered to... positions more befitting an officer of your caliber. You can move up, from this backwater and to a post in Bragule itself, with its prestigious Suicide Police. What say you?"

"Nyet. I am sorry, Commissar, but I must decline." Fiyor took a sip of his own drink, a steel glass of milk bearing the brand of the Patriotic Mother-Citizens' Association of the Imperator's Glourious Star-Bannered Empire, an organization whose billions-many maternal members donated fortified and nutritiously healthy refreshments to both Byzon Youth cubs and the fighting bears of the military. "If I had opted for an easy post instead of staying here, in my home Spevik Ansils, then the case of young Yivgny Chamski might have fallen on to the lap of another officer, who might not have been as lucky as I. I have my responsibilities here, Commissar. This is my home."

"Your dedication is admirable," Vikim applauded. "For did the Imperator not say that those loyal Bragulans who fight for heart and home, in turn, likewise defend the patriotic working-class proletariats with the true spirit of Bragulanity? Why, I believe he did, for I read the Green Book every night before I sleep. Da."

"So, what now?" Fiyor asked. He belched, for he was slightly lactose intolerant and always built up gas when drinking milks, but he was not embarrassed for the biological processes of Bragulan physiology were never to be ashamed of (compared to the biological processes of human physiology, which when functions and gives life to puny humans, is considered a big disappointment to the Imperator himself).

"We simply part ways, as Commissar and Arbitrator, and go on with our respective duties. Hopefully, our careers will be long and uneventful, and there will never again be such a grave offense that both our services would be called upon. But humanity is a crime against nature, so unfortunately it will be quite a while before we can retire peacefully." Vikim chuckled at the joke he made at humanity's expense. It was an ideologically correct joke too. Anything at humanity's expense was. "Let me just say that it was a pleasure serving with you, Arbitrator. And I'm sorry about Shagfellow."

"Don't be. I got myself a replacement furry and he is much more useful than Shagfellow, more trainable. Now I have him as a bomb-smelling human, I make him fetch stick-grenades." Fiyor replied. "Speaking of which, what about our Dominionoid allies? Despite being puny humans, Benjamin Bessières and Captain Greene were truly invaluable in saving young Yivgny. Will their efforts at helping rescue a child-citizen of the Empire be acknowledged?"

"Do not fret, comrade. We've got it handled." Vikim smiled. "They will get all the recognition they deserve, as befitting friends of Bragule."


MONTGOMERY, Shepistan
Image
The SHEPlanetary Express Ship had deposited almost all of its cargo of enormous SPUD missiles at the drop-off point. The high ranking Shepistani military officer blew a kiss at the female cyclopean captain as he departed the ship, and the female cyclopean captain promptly turned the vessel around and stepped on the accelerator - hoping the exhaust would vaporize the obnoxiously chauvinistic high ranking Shepistani military officer. Unfortunately it didn't, but no matter, after that regrettable incident of pity-sex, the female cyclopean captain hoped she'd never have to see the high ranking Shepistani military officer again.

The insipid human male deckswab and his inebriated robot friend noted that they still had two SPUDs left in their hold. They wondered if they could keep the SPUDs, one for each of them. The female cyclopean captain called them idiots and explained that they had one last stop, because aside from making a shipment for the Shepistani Republic, the Bragulans had just contracted them for a delivery as well.

They sped through the Montgomery skyline, and when they were near the Capital Wasteland, they found their destination. The Grand Dominion Embassy. The Dominos had no idea what was going on when the SHEPlanetary Express ship flew over their compound and proceeded to deliver the Bragulan package to the Grand Dominion:
Image
Two enormous SPUD missiles, fully armed and fueled with various nuclear warheads and liquefied nuclear propellants all inside. But aside from that, they were distinguished from all the other SPUDs by the markings on their armored missile buses - adorned with decorations commemorating both Benjamin Bessières and Captain Greene, each one missile for each of them, for their services to the Bragulan Star Empire. It was written in Bragulan hierocyrillicalligraglyphics, to preserve the secrecy of the anti-cultist mission and prevent the xenophobic Dominionoid populace from understanding what was written on them.

All anyone could tell was that the names of Benjamin Bessières and Captain Greene, written not in Bragulan hierocyrillicalligraglyphics but in humanoid alphabet, were on the missiles along with a whole bunch of gibberish - in glow-in-the-dark radioactive paint.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Steve »

The Jasmine Dragon, Guoyang
Grand Duchy of Tyconia, Janus System, Sector X-13
12 July 3400



The backrooms of the Jasmine Dragon had a dual purpose: excess stock of materials for the tea shop and for those handful privileged to be learning pyrokinetic arts from Master Maroh. Currently Druni was the only person with this distinction, taking her lessons every day during the quiet hours.

Maroh hadn't just been teaching her how to use and control the generation of fire, he'd been teaching her his philosophy toward it. Fire was a source of life, but its danger could not be understated. It was as capable of destroying life as it was of sustaining it.

Druni was in a gi outfit of red color, going through the movements she was being taught. They were the same Sarisa had practiced that morning months before - movements that would direct the flames she made. But it wasn't just about moving her limbs but how she breathed; control of the breath became control of the flame, the mind linked them easily. Even though the Gift to make fire was like any other Gift, an element of the mind, the key to training was using the body to direct one's use.

Today Sarisa was doing the movements alongside her, coming to have Maroh judge her own progression. They were moving almost symmetrically, as if one mind was guiding both their bodies.

When they completed the motions they bowed to Maroh, who nodded in approval. "It pleases an old master to see his students doing well," Maroh stated.

"My sister helps," Sarisa admits. "We spar often."

"Ah, yes. Tell me, does she still like to use her own gifts to manipulate water when sparring with you?"

"Very much so." Sarisa grinned and looked to Druni. "And I see you're doing very well, Druni. I'm glad."

"I'm used to intensive training and work from my time in the Order." Druni accepted Sarisa's hand. "So, have you decided on attending the University of New Chatham yet?"

"Well..." Sarisa rubbed the back of her head and blushed a little. "To be honest... my scores in school were a bit too low to get a spot this coming year." She blushed and looked toward Maroh apologetically. "It's not that I'm not trying, but... I just fell behind."

"Ah, you are young and skilled, Sarisa, I know you will do well in life." Maroh folded his hands together. "Now, why don't you humor an old man and allow him to enjoy some tea with you?"

"Oh, of course," Sarisa said happily. "I'd love to."

Druni nodded in agreement, even if she was honestly becoming a tad tired of Human tea herself. On the other hand, she'd learned - to her delight - that Master Maroh was quite good at making lessa tea as well, and that was her favorite. As they went out to find a table, Druni asked, "Well, if you're not going to New Chatham, where are you going?"

"I thought about just spending the year studying up, doing some public works projects like a good member of the Royal Family and focusing on my personal training," Sarisa began. "But Reina gave me this look that screamed 'Go to school or I will make you regret it', so I'm thinking of taking some classes at Duchess Maria's College next semester."

"It probably is wise not to anger your sister," Druni said. She lowered her eyes a bit. "Tell me... has she said how Mast... Queen Hilda is doing?"

"About as well as could be expected." Sarisa sighed sadly. "Hilda's in a lot of pain. And their wedding probably won't ease it. Honestly I think this whole marriage business sucks; my sister doesn't deserve to be forced to marry someone who's going to pine for another person for the rest of her life."

"I do think they can be happy though," Druni said. "Over time the broken Bond will heal. Hilda can find a new one with Reina and they can be happy wives to one another."

"Assuming whomever had King Charles assassinated doesn't strike again," Sarisa noted glumly.

"Now now, let's not dwell on such matters," Maroh insisted, accepting a pot of tea from one of his waitresses. "There's plenty of time for that when you're not at my table enjoying tea...."



Puerta Gabriela
Luz, The Feelipeens
13 July 3400



Zara allowed herself to get lost for the day in the crowds of the seaside town of Puerta Gabriela, observing the outdoors religious ceremonies nad marches of the native Feelipeenis as they observed their particular branch of Catholic Christianity. The town of Puerta Gabriela had been founded as a fishing community early in the planet's colonization as the native aquatic fauna had proven suitable for Human consumption.

But now the fishing community was in dire straits. Overfishing prompted by Shepistani interests, looking to feed various mining colonies and space habitats in nearby Shepistani space, had diminished the catch in nearby waters. In fact, three entire species of edible native fish were considered extinct, as well as a transplanted species of Earth fish. Even worse, an offshore oil deposit was being drilled for, as was a further off underwater deposit of chromium being developed for sale to the Umerians. Under Shroomarcos and prior governments environemtnal safeguards had been rendered non-existant. The result of these two influences? The fishers were unable to get an income and the town was reduced to complete economic collapse, relying on outlaying farms to feed itself. It was here that Zara was hunting down a lead on the mysterious "Shadoshroom" organization, which her work had indicated was linked to "Shroom Fighter" and the desire for captive Espers.

From her vantage point on the sidewalk Zara saw that the religious procession gained unwanted attention. The locals had been carrying placards addressed to Shroomarcos, pleading for his aid in saving them from starvation. The messages were not hostile, but the mere fact that they protested his policies had been sufficient for the trigger-happy, hostile government police forces to begin dispersing the march. Zara drew in a sigh as people were pressed away from each other by the overzealous police.

Then the riot started.

It might have been a thrown punch. A misspoken word. A panicked mistake. But the rough separation became overt brutality; truncheons were coming down on malnutrition-stricken bodies and men, women, and children were screaming as the beatings began. People were trampled while trying to flee, including the priest - most who fell were set upon by panicked and brutal police who was firmly of the opinion that any figure before them that wasn't a uniform was a threat and had to be beaten until still to no longer be such.

There were two things Espers like Zara could do in this situation. She could fight directly if attacked, but that would draw attention to her. The alternative was what she did; fade away. She slipped into the alleys of the town's decrepit buildings. When a policeman came up behind her, truncheon raised to attack, he suddenly got a brief impulse to consider her to not be a threat and opted to move back into the street.

Zara remained in the alley as the screams faded into the distance, the police pursuing the procession's remaining people for many blocks. Only the dead, dying, and wounded people remained. A part of Zara castigated herself for not acting; the Code demanded she help the innocent and she had done nothing! The mission had to come first, but that could not calm the self-loathing in her heart.

She heard sobs from a nearby figure. It was a child, no older than 10, with a bleeding head. She sensed it was a boy from his thoughts as he clasped his fallen mother. Zara came up and saw it was too late for the young woman; her skull had a fatal dent in the side from a strong blow by an overzealous policeman's truncheon. "What is your name?", Zara asked him.

He sniffled some more. "Pito", he said. Understanding the extent of her question was rather clearly the extent of his grasp on the English language.

Zara nodded gently and touched him on the forehead to communicate a different way. For telepathy wasn't necessarily restricted by language. Sure, she could verbalize her thoughts in English, but she could also keep them unverbalized, showing concepts as images instead. She did so, making it clear to Pito that she wanted to help him find his family.

That proved futile. His thoughts were clear; his family was dead. His father had died in a collision with a chromium barge. His grandparents were dead. His aunts and uncles were dead or scattered around the world; his only surviving relative, an uncle, was in a Communist guerrilla unit and might not even be alive. He was alone.

Seeing this, Zara showed him her intent to care for his wounds and try to find someone to care for him. With trepidation and sadness he accepted her outstretched hand and followed her away from the carnage.



Commander Julio Kabran was not a happy man. The violence on Puerto Gabriela was likely only the beginning and the regional authorities would not be pleased if he had permitted the Communists an inroad to his town.

Now he had a trooper insisting there was a witch in the town. He chattered excitedly of the blond-haired woman who had looked at him and robbed him of his will, emasculating him without touching him. Superstitious idiot, it's only an Esper, Kabran thought.

Greedy thoughts came to him. The Shepistani intelligence officers on-planet paid well for solid tips on "psyker spies".... and there were other avenues for him to pursue here as well. Making some extra money would help him get a better home or maybe even enough, if he was lucky, to bribe his superiors to give him a nicer posting. Maybe in the wealthy communities of Maynilad, far from piss-soaked streets....
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

LUZ, The Feelipeens
Image Image Image
Fishermen hauled their boats down the garbage-strewn shores of their seaside lands. The fishermen pushed their vessels forward as they themselves waded into the waist-deep waters mixed with refuse and waste, deeper and deeper until the brackish filth was up to their chins. Then they pulled themselves up into their boats and began paddling out into the ocean.
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They passed through a mangrove of death, the bloated carcasses of fish floating as the gases of decomposition inside them buoyed them to the surface. The whole place reeked, putrid with the smell of decay, much like the scent of rotten eggs. The filth of human wastes spewed forth by broken sewage systems, the industrial pollution of off-shore corporate mining and drilling drifting to the shore, were all mixed by the tides and provided the perfect growth medium for microorganisms - toxic species of dinoflagelloids - to multiply and expand at a geometric rate. They consumed the oxygen in the waters, suffocating the fishies, while infesterizing them and killing them with toxins, making even their carcasses inedible and unfit for human consumption.

A seagull swooped down to eat one of the floating fishes, and as it swallowed the fishy it too was instantly affected by the poisoning. The seagull spasmed mid air and dropped like a brick, falling into the black lagoon with a plop.

The fishermen shook their heads at this. It wasn't like this, not in the past, in the old days when men respected nature and lived in harmony with the ocean and the trees, the birds and the fishes of the seas. But now...

They were forced to paddle far out further than their traditional fishing grounds. They had begun their journey in the early morning, but only by midday had they reached their destination - the clear blue oceans where the poisonous red tide hadn't affected the waters yet, where all they had to contend with were the heavy metals seeping from off-shore corporate drill-mining.

Their ancestors had told them of a secret oasis of sealife in the middle of the deep blue sea. An underwater mountain protruded from the deep abyss, extending nearly to the surface, and there - so far away from the shoreline - bloomed a hidden reef filled with vibrant life, with colorful sea creatures and magnificent untouched corals.

This was the last hope of the forlorn fishermen of the Feelipeenis. It would take too long for them to set up their drift nets and wait for hours, not when they had only so much time until night time when the curfew would come into effect - when the military helicopter patrols would shoot anyone traveling out at night, even in the sea. For these fishermen, their livelihood was their only source of income, their only source of food. They had to get enough fish to sell to the markets, they had to get enough fish for their families.

They didn't bring their nets with them. Instead, they had with them glass bottles of Croka-Crola sodas and Slurm. They filled it with powder, topped it with fuses. They lit them and threw them into the ocean.
Image Image Image
The dynamites detonated and the sheer shock instantly killed scores of fishies. They also shattered the precious corals that were the fishies' homes, the one thing that sustained the fragile ecosystem of the secret reef. But the fishermen no longer had any care, for then they jumped into the water, with nothing but pouch-bags and bamboo snorkels, and they began stuffing the dead fishies into their beltbags and the broken corals too - which could be sold to the rich people in Maynilad as paperweights or as decorations for their aquariums.

By the end of the day, they had collected hundreds of fishies after dynamiting more secret oasis-reefs, thus denuding the life-filled peaks of those undersea mountains. As the sun sank into the horizon, the fishermen returned to dry land, paddling as quickly as their tired bodies could - not wanting to be late for the curfew and catching the government's unwanted attention. They arrived at friendly shores, where they were greeted by their worried families.
Image Image
Children laughed and smiled and played with the carefree innocence of the young. They ran around the beach, one of them being pushed on a wheelchair that had belonged to an elder family member who had passed away recently when they couldn't afford her treatment and medicines. There was a puffer fish on the sand, gasping for water as its ballooned form slowly died. A laughing child came across it and began kicking it, playing kickball, sipa.

Before the child's parents could shout a warning, the puffer fish's spines stung the child's foot and soon she became ill from the poisonous fish's venom. They could not afford any medicine, so they merely tied the child's leg with rope and tried to suck the poison out of it. It didn't work.
****
Days later, after the fishermen finally had enough and protested to the government - and were subsequently flogged for their defiance - two children came across a beautiful blonde lady, a foreigner who had made friends with a boy with a head wound.

"Ask the White Lady, she will know," the first child said.

The second child nodded and went over to Zara.

"Ms. White Lady, will my foot grow back?" she asked her.
Last edited by Shroom Man 777 on 2010-10-16 05:05am, edited 3 times in total.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Shinn Langley Soryu »

Siege wrote:"Nice city you have here," rumbled the Brigadier by way of polite small-talk. The air-car offered a spectacular view of Imperial Center as it zoomed over the capital city. "It's a nice change of pace from the worlds I spend most of my time on." He crossed his arms and looked out at the arcologies that passed by the window. Then he looked at the quatro of field marshals and fleet admirals. "You have had a few days to observe the Chamarran ambassador. I have here," he patted one of the pockets of his big overcoat, "a list of demands my government expect to be met. You have received a copy of these demands. So you should be able to tell me -- what do you imagine her reaction to these demands to be?"
From One General to Another
Imperial Center, Hyogo
Kansai Sector, Holy Empire of Haruhi Suzumiya


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The air limo carrying Brigadier Stalin and the Joint Chiefs sped past the massive arcologies of Imperial Center's main districts towards the historic city center, home to the Imperial Palace and numerous other landmarks dating all the way back to the initial settlement of Hyogo and the Kansai Sector. While certainly not as sprawling as Solaris Major or as grandiose as Holy Terra, the Haruhiist capital was still impressive in its own right, which Brigadier Stalin was particularly quick to take note of; its aesthetic was indeed a welcome change of pace from the usual sights of the Sovereignty and the rest of the K-Zone.

Image
FILE PHOTO: Field Marshals Ayako Takanawa and Christopher Takahashi in civilian clothes, date unknown

Field Marshal Christopher Takahashi, Commandant of the SOS Imperial Marine Corps, was an ESPer of no small ability, though he knew that outright probing Brigadier Stalin's mind would certainly be in bad taste. Nevertheless, he was still able to sense a general idea of just what the good brigadier was thinking about. Yep, "woof" is definitely the word I'd use too, Field Marshal Takahashi thought, which he wisely kept to himself as well.

Field Marshal Takahashi and the others were also quick to note Brigadier Stalin's choice of clothing for the occasion. The man was dressed as he would be for his usual business, wearing a simple green dress uniform adorned only with minimal rank insignia and decorations as a concession to his true status. Field Marshal Ayako Takanawa, Chief of Staff of the SOS Imperial Guard and the resident fashionista of the group, had her own speculation as to why Stalin chose to come dressed the way he did. As impressive as a full parade dress uniform covered in medals can be, it's certainly not what you'd wear if your goal is to intimidate someone, she thought. Coming here dressed as he would for an actual campaign sends the message that this is going to be just like any other battle for him, and he will not walk away until he has won. Diplomacy is the continuation of war by other means, after all.

The two marshals were broken out of their reverie when Brigadier Stalin asked about the Chamarran ambassador. Field Marshal Takahashi took a few moments to gather his thoughts before he finally answered the Brigadier's question. "The Chamarrans are an extremely proud race, and the members of House Kithandra are certainly no exception to that rule," he replied. "You should expect plenty of resistance from Princess Tia all throughout the arbitration process. However, she wouldn't be the Hierarchy's lead diplomat if she allowed her own innate stubbornness to rule her dealings with others. She can be made to see reason. If you can explain the Sovereignty's case to her in a clear and logical manner, you may very well get her to compromise. Of course, if she still refuses to yield, you should be prepared to offer a few compromises of your own. We're all here to find a solution that satisfies both your government and theirs, after all."

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Brigadier Stalin and the Joint Chiefs were still in the middle of discussing the Sovereignty's case when the air limo finally arrived at the Imperial Palace. Though dwarfed by other structures such as the Presidential Palace on Solaris Major and the Byzantine Imperial Palace on Holy Terra (not to mention many of the arcologies in Imperial Center itself), the Haruhiist Imperial Palace was still an imposing edifice in its own right, nestled atop the highest hill in all of Imperial Center, where it could gaze down upon the rest of Empress Haruhi's creation.

"Well, it looks like we're finally here. Secretary of State Asahina and the Chamarrans are probably waiting for us," Field Marshal Nakano spoke up. An SOS Imperial Marine posted at the front entrance walked over to the air limo's door and opened it, providing the cue for Brigadier Stalin and the Joint Chiefs to exit; the Guards and Marines saluted the five officers as they exited the limo and entered the palace.
Last edited by Shinn Langley Soryu on 2010-10-16 06:10am, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by KlavoHunter »

Sector E-24
In UNREAL GODDAMN TIME
KSS Yavuz


When the Hierarchy's fleet went far abroad, Klavostan became worried. Risking such a huge part of their battlefleet far from home was a gamble for the Chamarrans, one brutal stroke could easily neuter the kitties, if the infamous Flash Stalin had been given different orders. And with that, the region would inevitably become unstable. It was decided then that they would send the Chamarrans a reminder. Elements of the fleet's logistics arm shifted within the Sultanate first, and then First Fleet departed the capital to take over the duties of Eighth Fleet, assigned as of late to the New Java sector.

From there, Eighth Fleet was able to muster itself, and proceeded down the fastest of the local warp lanes, showing the flag quite spectacularly to the local systems. Whilst the formation was a mere 10% of Klavostani fleet strength, it was a concentration of force that the Chamarrans would be nearly unable to properly resist, with the vast majority of their heavy battlegroups away. "Something to make their fur stand on end," as Fleet Admiral Sulaiman Ziane had described it when they were planning the operation, and it seemed apt.

A distress call attracted the fleet's attention - one more chance to show the Chamarrans up in a non-violent way. However, the kitties were already on the case...


Predator Cruiser Fang and Claw

Whilst she restrained herself from hissing, Shipmistress Sharii's tail twitched in frustration. Ahead of them, the engines of the infamous Ork pirate Da Red Barren blazed all the hotter, showering their pursuer with a dirty sleet of radioactive exhaust as it crept further and further out of range, despite the probing fire from the Fang and Claw's main gun. The Ork had torn up a civilian ship, and managed to fake out the pursuit of Fang and Claw's packmate with a brutally cunning maneuver. But they wouldn't get away from her this time! Somehow, somehow, even if they were running for the hyper limit faster than she could chase...


Da Red Barren

A vessel kustom-kommissioned by a Kult of Speed that wanted to ply their ruinous trade on the spacelanes, Da Red Barren has been a miserable blight across the region for the better part of a century, the Kaptain's chair changing hands many times in the Orkish way, but the boyz didn't care, they got to go fast and shoot things! Kaptain Doomzakka wished that he still had a few more mines to kick out the back at the Pussy behind him, but he'd already used up that trick on the other ship, who'd never be able to catch up after their extreme evasive maneuvers. Still, going faster than them was almost as good as blowing 'em up!

Doomzakka squinted as the display that dominated the forward bulkhead grew painfully fuzzily green and bright with contacts. More than he could quickly count with all his digits, that's what he was for sure of.

"ZOG DAT!" he roared out as he recognized the forms of Klavostani warships, more than he'd ever seen in any one place before. He'd take his chances with the pussycat! He backhanded the helmsork away from the controls, and personally brought the ship about in such a viciously sharp 180-degree turn that the red-painted ship groaned in protest. That was drowned out by the enthusiastic "WAAAAAAAAAGH!"s of the crew, especially the gun crews, as the enemy came back into their sights, and Da Red Barren erupted with dozens of different varieties of cannon, missiles, and energy weapons.


Fang and Claw

"Enemy ship coming about!" the catgirl at sensors reported. "Additional cont-" Shipmistress Sharii stood up and cut her off.

"FIRE!" Fang and Claw's single main ship-killing gun struck out, this time finally scoring a clean hit on the pirate, while missiles gushed forth from all her tubes. The Chamarran ship shook under the impacts of those Orkish weapons that struck back, but clearly it was getting the better of the engagement, as they both charged one another head-on. The distance dwindled, and Fang and Claw's hyperspace tap hummed all the hotter to recharge the main gun as fast as possible.

The Chamarran's prow flashed blindingly again as her beam cannon stabbed out, and this time, Da Red Barren's shields could not resist such a blow, and there was nowhere near enough armor to stop it as the beam carved in. Secondary explosions ripped up along one flank, somewhat slackening the fire coming from the Ork, but her hot-rod engines were still going strong...


KSS Yavuz

The sensor inputs of an entire fleet quickly put together a clear picture of what they'd stumbled into following that distress call - deeper insystem, bleeding atmosphere and the contents of her cargo holds, a stricken civilian freighter drifted helplessly, while before them, the cat-and-mouse game that had been played across the uninhabited system was coming to an end.

"That's the fucking Red Barren. Get that Ork, kitty!" Sulaiman permitted himself a chuckle at his own joke, and then looked in closer at the display, and frowned while he watched those nukes that made it through batter the Ork about, but it was taking so damn long for the Chamarran's big gun to recharge for the finishing blow. "Allahdammit, the Orks don't play chicken, he's damn well trying to ram you!" At this range, for all the mighty ships at his command and the Fleet Admiral rank insignia on his uniform, he was merely a spectator to this battle.

It even all seemed to be going well, as Fang and Claw fired one last time, and then immediately heeled over, fusion rockets burning hard to try and get her out of the way of her exploding opponent. Even as everything exploded around him, Kaptain Doomzakka kept his big green fists on the controls and steered Da Red Barren in on its last course...

Fang and Claw was spun about viciously by the kinetic force of the impact, shields burning out and armor putting a little more protective mass in between the fragile crew and the enemy's last attack, and the variety of munitions that were still going up in the disintegrating Orkish vessel added to the mess. Fortunately for Shipmistress Sharii and her crew, it was a relatively glancing blow, rather than the fatal, mutually-annihilating impact that Doomzakka had wanted. It was bad enough, though.

"Attention Chamarran vessel, this is Fleet Admiral Sulaiman Ziane of the Royal Klavostani Star Navy. We are willing and able to offer you our assistance..."
"The 4th Earl of Hereford led the fight on the bridge, but he and his men were caught in the arrow fire. Then one of de Harclay's pikemen, concealed beneath the bridge, thrust upwards between the planks and skewered the Earl of Hereford through the anus, twisting the head of the iron pike into his intestines. His dying screams turned the advance into a panic."'

SDNW4: The Sultanate of Klavostan
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Master_Baerne »

ANS Uhtred Ragnarsson
Flagship, 17th Battlecruiser Squadron, Commodore Guillaume Murat commanding
Nouveau Quebec, Voyageur Republic, Sector CC-12


"And here's the Fire Direction Center, Admiral, gentlemen. Holotanks there, there, and there, individual stations for port and starboard batteries, when we're not firing in arc, and the missile station is behind the graser stations. FDC functions can be duplicated from the bridge, of course, but we prefer not to, ah, put all our eggs in one basket, as it were." Commodore Murat was enjoying himself immensely. It wasn't every day he got to play host to a fleet and his staff who were actually impressed by a battlecruiser; Ascendant ones were typically promoted from command of superdreadnough squadrons.

"Commodore, if I may, what exactly is your force doing here? It seems much too powerful to have much use in this part of space." That was the Voyageur admiral's flag captain. Blunt-featured, and apparently blunt in his thoughts as well - Murat could see the more diplomatic Voyageur officers developing slightly pained expressions.

"Pirate hunting, Captain. The Ascendancy is entirely fed up with pirates having a free reign over our outworlds, and we've been sent out to burn their bases, slag their ships, hang their commanders, and generally have a grand old time. Not much action yet, but we keep the grasers charged, right, Lieutenant?" The last was directed, with a cheerfulness that belied the bloody-minded nature of the Ascendant Starfleet, to the officer in charge of FDC this shift.

"Quite so, Sir. We can put a converging sheaf salvo on any point in range in a minute, from a standing start, and most of that's turning to bear and getting the crews into the turrets."

"Quite impressive, Commodore. I don't mind admitting that I'm turning green with envy right now - what I wouldn't give for a fleet of these..." That was the Admiral. Murat repressed a slight smirk as he thought of the much more potent ships the Ascendancy could call upon, but declined to mention them in the name of diplomacy.

"So, Admiral Duroi, how exactly did your people find themselves out here in CC-12? As far as we knew, the Ascendancy border was the furthest extent of civilization in this region of space."

"Ah, Commodore, I'm afraid I can't really answer that in any detail. Perhaps your ships would care to accompany my own back to Nouveau Quebec - well, one of them, anyway; the rest will stay here at the asteroid base. As much as I enjoy the pleasue of your company and the hospitality of Uhtred Ragnarsson," at which compliment Murat clicked his heels and bowed slightly, smiling - "I'd like to turn this... second-contact over to someone more qualified as soon as possible."

"Quite understandable, Admiral, and I'll take you up on that offer. Would you care to shuttle back to your ship now?"

"Yes, I believe that would be best. My cruiser Saint Lawrence will accompany your squadron; I shall speak to Orbit Control and my government and see what can be arranged."

"Until later, then, Admiral. Lieutenant Paris will show you to your shuttle."

"Until later, Commodore."

The moment the Admiral was out of FDC and comfortably far from hearing, Murat dialed his flag captain's code into his comlink. Captain David Seagrace - one of those Seagraces, the innumerable offspring of the Countess of New Baerne, and all the more annoying because his aristocratic mannerisms hid real talent, and as much as the common-born Murat wanted to he couldn't dismiss the man as a useless effete who'd gotten his command through nepotism - answered on the second chime.

"Sir?"

"Captain Seagrace, everything all right on the bridge?"

"Yes, sir. Very little to repôrt, and none of it interesting - we watch the Voyageurs, they watch us, nobody changes acceleration."

"Excellent. Put a Senior Lieutenant in charge of the watching and the drifting and meet me in the briefing room - squadron conference; I want everyone of Lieutenant Commander's rank and higher there or on the holo in fifteen minutes. Something's very odd about these people."

*********
And so, as the four daggerlike ships of Battlecruiser Squadron 17 accelerated leisurely towards the two inhabited planets in the system, the officers of the squadron met for an unusual, by Ascendant standards, brainstorming session. Commodore Murat sat at one end of a long table, his captains (or their holograms) closest to hand - Seagrace of Uhtred Ragnarsson, Illyria Juris of Roland, the Formic minor hive queen Skrskt, commanding Pierre de Villeneuve, and Charles Muntz, the most junior, aboard Gustav Eiffel. They were an interesting bunch, made more so by the handful of divisional heads crowded around each one, by any standard.

"Ladies and gentlebeings," the commodore began, only to be cut off by the abrupt change of lighting as the ship shifted to Condition Two, probable combat; muted red lighting and the strident blaring of the alarm klaxon replaced bright white and the sounds of a ship about its daily business. By the sudden disappearance of all the holographs, the same had occurred on the other ships of the squadron.

"Report!" Captain Seagrace and Commodore Murat shouted the word at the same moment to their respective deputies; a gunnery lieutenant for the Captain and Murat's chief of staff for him. They got nearly identical responses:

"Sir, hyperspace bow shocks detected in the outer system. Numbers unknown but not less than seven, light cruiser weight, predicted emergence in the vicinity of the Voyageur asteroid base." Not good, that; the Voyageur navy was, according to its commander, all accounted for. There were no other Ascendant forces operating in the region... But a very large number of very well-armed pirates.

"Beat to Quarters!" The ancient order, directly taken from Earth's Age of Sail and Nova Terra's Age of Snail (termed by a Shroomanian historian in reference to the speed of sailing vessels), was the only appropriate one in this case, and as it snapped out of Captain Seagrace's mouth, in sharp, decisive tones entirely unlike his usual ones, Murat felt the a part of himself, a primal part filled with the joy of the hunt and a desire to prove his worth in trial by combat, stir restlessly. The ship itself, named for a mythical warrior of Earth's distant past, seemed to growl it's approval as the blaring of the klaxons and the sudden thrumm of the shields coming to full combat strength mixed with the thudding of boots as crewmembers ran to their stations, creating an anticipatory snarl that the original Uhtred, a berserker who sought battle constantly for the feeling of excitement it brought, would have approved of.

Therefore, it was a prepared squadron, engines flaring a brilliant blue-white as they swung the massive bulk of the ships around, shields hovering at the edge of sight by flaring bright to sensors, heavy turrets turned to bear on the ship's alpha arc, missiles hanging heavy with destructive force in their tubes, fighters eager to fling themselves and their own deadly cargoes into the void, that presented itself to the nine ships that emerged with a flicker of pseudomotion a mere five thousand kilometers from the home of the Voyageur Republican Navy. They were small ships, the largest the size of Ascendant light cruisers, but better than anything the Voyageurs had. Parasite craft immediately began to spew from the unknown squadron, and a moment later that region of space blurred under a hail of jamming.

Whatever was going on, Murat highly doubted it would end well for the Voyageurs.
Conversion Table:

2000 Mockingbirds = 2 Kilomockingbirds
Basic Unit of Laryngitis = 1 Hoarsepower
453.6 Graham Crackers = 1 Pound Cake
1 Kilogram of Falling Figs - 1 Fig Newton
Time Between Slipping on a Banana Peel and Smacking the Pavement = 1 Bananosecond
Half of a Large Intestine = 1 Semicolon
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Simon_Jester »

Recommended Music: Carl Neilsen's Symphony No. 4

Corsair-C class pursuit cutter CG-81634 “Greyhound”,
Hawk's Nest System
Approaching Target Group Two
0931 Hours, June 7, 3400


Cardwell's eyes narrowed. Something was happening; the stealth ships had stopped firing.

"Piranha Five-One, this is Piranha Leader. I need a sitrep on those stealth ships." Nothing, not even ELINT cutters, could beat the customs boats for fine resolution; the need for detailed scans of what a ship was doing was vital to their mission.

"Ah... looks like they're turning about."

Trying to run? Not smart; they'd given up too much of a velocity advantage by not running earlier, and the gunships would be on top of them in minutes. No. She knew the enemy ships had some kind of heavy axial gun... that meant broadside secondary armament on the flanks.

Nothing for it but to charge through the fire; if they launched from this far out the missiles would be ballistic.

The first flurry of plasma bolts was wild- gunners who had their settings wrong? Local fire control that hadn't locked properly? Impossible to say. The second and third started getting shot in, thouhg, too close for comfort. Beam halo crackled by her, and she heard a buzzing report: "This is Piranha One-Four, we've lost forward sensors; laser panel is offline."

"Hold formation. We'll cover you. One-Two, One-Three, take up position off One-Four's flanks and go to barrage jamming." With luck that would keep the enemy from pointing sensors this way when there were more easier targets. She herself slotted into a trailing position behind the other three and below them, then switched to intercom. "Tom, go to barrage jamming too." She was group leader, yes, but damned if she'd forget her own flight in the shuffle.

The Centralists had another run of bad luck: three ships took it into their heads to concentrate fire on a few of their little pyramids. Even without a good lock, the sheer volume of fire being thrown at best-guess figures for the Fireballs' positions was enough to kill another two; the other three ships managed to wing another Centralist in the next five-ship over... then put a tight-focused bolt into one of Wildcat's melee boats.

They were getting damned close now...

Command Bridge, CNS Loyalist
0932 Hours


They were getting damned close now...

Commodore Liggs watched with bated breath as the pirate fighter force charged towards his own Hawks.

Then it happened- the enemy made their first mistake. A few of the fighters in the lead of the enemy swarm launched their missiles. Then a few more. Soon, scores, then hundreds of the pirate craft were dumping ordnance and braking... were they trying to match course with the Hawks?

Finally, the pirates had started acting like a proper rabble. And Liggs was not one to interrupt an enemy while he was making an exploitable mistake. Fortunately, there was nothing he needed to do except watch. His ships were fully ready, the enemy fighters had launched their strike from too far out; their failure was going to be a matter of arithmetic. His command might well take hits, but the devastating strike he'd worried about facing had just been aborted.

He would take a certain grim pleasure in watching what was going to happen next.

Pirate Vessel Keldrog's Gutting Blow

Keldrog watched in shock and fury as his carefully mustered fighter force, as one, did precisely the wrong thing. The rage was so intense he began bellowing curses at the distant fighters from his own bridge, hissing, his claws spread wide as if for the signature combat tactic his ship was named for.

"Useless, stinking idiots! Pre-heated meat! Did your mothers shit in your eggs before you hatched?"

The Warlord slammed his clawed hand into a nearby stanchion, gripping it with crushing force. His orders had been simple and clear: a charge, a launch of missiles at the ideal range, then break away and use beam weapons to finish off cripples or enemy small craft. But watching his fighter wing, he saw what had gone wrong.

His fighters had been forced to stay hidden in the Trojan debris field for too long, with too few visits to the handful of retrofitted freighters he'd kept in the field as carriers for their crews to rest and recuperate. For pilots of his own species, that would have been acceptable: the race of Gron was tough and self-sufficient, bred by an unforgiving homeworld to go on in the face of physical discomfort for many days. But most of the fighter pilots under his command were not Gron- he had swelled his ranks with all manner of opportunistic aliens, including the ubiquitous humans.

With the commendable exception of a band of Airaii mercenaries, few of the aliens had the endurance and self-discipline of a Gron warrior. The long wait in ambush had taken its toll on them, both physically and mentally.

Thus, it was perhaps no surprise that their weak command structure had broken down along factional lines. Or that effectively independent squadrons had started dumping their ordnance and engage the oncoming Centrality fighters directly rather than take the casualties from plowing through their ranks and firing their missiles at optimum range against the human starships. And once the first squadrons started doing so, the prospects of the head-on attack became steadily worse: soon, even the Airaii and Gron pilots were forced to launch or be abandoned by the great mass of alien rabble.

Keldrog squeezed the stanchion still harder as his plot showed the first consequences unfolding. The Centrality fighters were badly outnumbered, but showed a level of discipline and organization he would cheerfully have killed for- starting with several of his own squadron leaders. As they saw the antiship missiles separate from the fighters that had been carrying them, they made the perfect choice: they fired on missiles in passing.

Light pulse lasers stitched out from the Centrality formation, according to fire plans carefully assigned by the central fire directors on the squadron leaders' craft. The missile barrage was a lumpy cloud, dense in some places and sparse in others; the Centralists chose to target the thinnest spots in the cloud, and often managed to completely shoot their way through in the short span of time available. Then they broke off, to port*, as if daring the Keldrog's fighters to pursue... which they did, killing velocity and looping back towards the Centralists' vector in pursuit as the two forces bled off their momentum and merged into a confused low-speed beam duel. It was a chaotic mess, but Keldrog could see how it served his enemy's purpose: the fighters themselves would not be charging in along with the missiles to fire their own beam weapons in support.

The fact that his own pilots outnumbered the Centralists nearly two to one did not seem to have entered into their calculations. But even if his own fighters won the turning battle handily, it would not change the fact that he had just suffered a major setback.

At least the human ships' electron beams had stopped shooting. He wondered why...

*[Author's note: if you note inconsistencies in Keldrog and the human commanders' view of the fighter maneuvers, consider the reason why they might not label the same direction in the same way... cookie for anyone who figures it out.]

Central Information Control, USS Directrix
0933 Hours

Rear Admiral Hazarika had been no less surprised than Commodore Liggs to see the pirate fighters launch early and dive into a useless furball with the Centrality fighters. She, unlike the Centralist flag officer, had one more order to give.

"All ships, go to raster fire." The deckplates gave a low-frequency rumble as the four dual beam turrets echeloned across Directrix's dorsal hull turned to bear to port- the bearings might be frictionless, but the stresses in the hull from the turret motors were enough to be noticed throughout the ship. The vibrations died.

The Centralist fighters had performed commendably against the enemy's antiship missiles; Raider-model interceptor drones could have done no better. By concentrating on the thinner parts of the missile distribution, then ducking out of the line of fire, they left the incoming salvo trimmed back into tight clusters with no friendlies nearby... perfect for main battery antimissile defense.

The Centrality ships' mass drivers, with nothing better to do at this range, had already sent the first salvoes of flak shells on the way; as seconds ticked by, the Umerian gunners got their electron beams ready for raster fire. Her inner ear flickered under a brief, disorienting moment of centrifugal force as Directrix's station-keeping thrusters found the right setting to cancel out the torque caused by the recoil from broadside fire. There was no way to feel it, though, as the muzzle dipoles began panning the beams across the target volumes.

Raster fire was a technique made possible only by the use of continuous beam weapons. Main battery control set their focusing magnets with indifference to beam cohesion and used the gun's fine adjustment steering magnets to pan it back and forth across space like an ancient cathode ray tube. A barrage of high-energy particles strong enough to drill starship shielding instead became an oncoming wall of radiation, each gun saturating areas dozens of kilometers across per second.

Against shielded warships- even unshielded ones with adequate armor- raster fire over such broad areas wouldn't even be an inconvenience. Against relatively fragile missiles, on the other hand, it was deadly. They weren't armored or shielded against radiation flux that made bathing in a solar storm for weeks look mild by comparison; certainly not when that kind of dose was delivered in a matter of seconds. Casings scorched and half-melted; hardened electronics battered beyond their capacity died.

Of course, sweeping an area a hundred kilometers across in a few seconds wasn't enough to stop all the missiles by any stretch of the imagination... but aimed at the thickest concentrations, it simplified the point defense problem tremendously. Scores of missiles were blotted out, faster than the eye could have followed; there were reasons why swarms of individual targets on Umerian CIC plots were shown as a cloud of iridescent fog according to density, instead of as discrete points.

Meanwhile, the Centrality ships, lacking their own equivalent of Umerian electron guns, took advantage of their as yet unused mass driver armament. The mass drivers were meant for overwhelming short-ranged fire, or long range bombardment of clumsy targets. Here, the gunners loaded time delay fuzed shells and fired in the general direction of where missiles were expected to be. The flak shells were riddled with potential fracture points; when the explosive charge lit off they burst into enormous clouds of hypervelocity fragments.

Colliding with a piece of shrapnel from a mass driver flak burst was a threat to shielded fighter craft; when a missile experienced the same, it vanished as if it had never been.

The missiles were coming through the beaten zone of the main armament now- there had been thousands of them, and even the storms of lightning and steel thrown out by the Coalition ships' heavy guns were not enough to more than punch out some of the tightest clusters. Now the job fell to lighter, quicker-firing point defense. The Centrality ships kept up their flak barrage, but smaller, lower-velocity guns that spread broader flak footprints chimed in, as did pulse-firing burst lasers. The Umerians simply lit up the phased array laser grids on the sides of their ships and never stopped firing, switching from one target to the next under computer control and alloting as many square meters of panel as it took to burn each missile down with a torrent of infrared light.

Supplementing the guns, both contingents threw thick barrages of countermissiles into the fray. The Centrality's preferred point defense missile was essentially a self-powered railgun shell, and worked along the same principles as their flak shells: saturation of the area in front of the target with so many fragments that even in space, there would not be room to slip between them. The velocity of collision did the rest.

The Umerians, by contrast, preferred to protect their starships with copies of the fighterweight Mark Five missile, with its shaped nuclear charge. They didn't need a direct hit or anything like one; they didn't even need an intercept in the classical sense of the word. As long as the missile could get within a few dozen kilometers of its target for a millisecond or so, the cone of tungsten plasma blasting out of the warhead would see the enemy missile off, burning and battering it if not vaporizing it outright.

Likewise, both contingents tried to cover their ships with jamming: the Centralists with blinding, overpowering bursts that sought to destroy sensors outright or hopelessly confuse them, the Umerians with dancing will-o-wisp light shows provided at lower power by the VLA drones supporting the ships' sensor grids.

All in all, it was almost enough to save the Coalition starships from harm.

Most of the missiles fired by the pirates had been taken down by point defense- with so long to calculate trajectories, the intercepts had been easy. Most of the missiles not killed were spoofed by ECM- with so long to experiment with what each missile could be fooled by, the ships' computers had managed to mislead almost everything they hadn't allotted the firepower to kill. It was a rare, lucky few that actually made it to the target.

Most of the pirate antiship ordnance didn't even bother with a warhead; designing a warhead more powerful than the raw impact of a missile at those speeds was a challenge beyond what their suppliers cared to meet. The first hits landed on the Centralist destroyer Hector, pushed out toward the port side of the Coalition formation. Hector managed to take several hits on the shields, four impacts splashing off harmlessly before the defensive screens flared violet and died; unfortunately, the destroyer had been the target of seven surviving missiles.

One dived into the brilliant radar reflection from the angle where Hector's aft plasma turret joined the hull, slamming through the barbette and carving a brilliant trench through the hull plates on the far side. The detached turret drifted away slowly, its contents shattered.

The second was something of a disappointment from the pirates' perspective: it was a dual-role missile designed for solid kinetic impact or flak detonation, and its launching fighter pilot had mistakenly set it to "flak." The resulting hail of antitank impactors stripped surface features across much of Hector's port flank, but at no point managed to penetrate the heavy, cofferdammed armor belt underneath.

The third, however, a larger torpedo-weight weapon from one of the Gron fighters, penetrated the main armor belt, as its comrade had failed to do a second earlier. It even punched through the secondary belt around the ship's core. The jet of volatilized wreckage and missile fragments speared the power distribution banks for Hector's forward reactor and continued through the core hull until smashing up against the armor on the opposite side, splashing outward from the impact.

The reactor failed-safe as designed, but the mushrooming effect of the remains of the Gron missile ripped through Hector's vitals like an exploding bullet, destroying critical systems along a hundred meters of the ship's length. The combined effect killed nearly fifteen percent of her crew- with nearly half the others suffering injuries ranging from crippling burn damage and severed limbs down through cracked ribs and concussions. Between the loss of her aft turret and the destroyed power trunks to her forward one, her main battery was effectively disarmed, save for a handful of mass drivers aft.

The other ships on that side of the formation suffered less severely. Another missile clipped the Centralist frigate Terrier across the dorsal surface between gun turrets, destroying light weapons mounts and disabling the mass drivers mounted amidships, but causing only light casualties and damage- mostly by luck.

The Umerian frigate Cairo took a similar hit across the ventral surface, shearing through the VLS missile racks that had been spitting countermissiles seconds before- again, light casualties and light damage, again mostly by luck.

Aside from the ships on the flank closest to the enemy, the cruisers drew most of the attention. They had more point defense to fire in direct self-protection, but the sheer volume of fire directed by eager pilots fantasizing about a 'big kill' offset that. All three cruisers were hit.

Artemisia, closest to the enemy, managed to spoof several into flying above or below her. Missile impacts collapsed her port shield, but by that point the salvo had mostly passed or died. The only round that struck with her defenses stripped was, like the second hit on Hector, a flak burst. On a Umerian ship, a flak strike was more problematic than it would be on a Centrality vessel: Artemisia's port PAL arrays were effectively destroyed by thousands of shattering impacts. But the Empress-class cruiser survived with only superficial injuries to her flank.

Loyalist took several hits more. Three fighter-weight kinetic missiles struck naked hull-metal... and none managed to penetrate. Centrality cruisers were far better protected than their destroyers, and none of the individual impactors were built to the same scale and quality as the one that had pierced Hector.

As for Directrix... well, Hazarika noticed very little of the effects of the hits on the Coalition squadrons, because like the other cruisers, her flagship took a hit after her shields had failed.

Like the first hit on Hector, the Gron torpedo punched through the barbette of the Conductor-class cruiser's C turret. Unlike Hector, the turret's weapons were powered at the time, which affected the details, if not the broad result. Instead of the turret simply being severed after the structural features holding it in place were destroyed, the superconducting busbars feeding the twin electron beams shorted across.

When the power feeds to an antiship beam weapon fail, the result is no minor spark such as might be seen in a Tesla coil or thunderstorm. In the infinitesimal fraction of a second before internal breakers shut off the power to C turret at the distribution banks, enough energy to duplicate the blast of a tactical nuclear weapon was released at the tips of the severed power lines in the barbette. The blast propelled what was left of C turret into space like an improvised Orion drive, and reverberated down through the shaft carrying the power busbars themselves.

Fortunately, the Umerians had allowed for just such an emergency; the tradition was well established that when a ship of the Space Security Force lost a weapon, that weapon should be being fired at the enemy at the time. Damage control bulkheads integral to the massive electrical conduit baffled and mitigated the explosion, and there were no other volatile explosives or dangerous materials in the barbette aside from the charged power leads themselves. Thus, actual damage to the ship was confined to those portions of the main battery power systems that were now useless anyway, the guns they served having been blown into space.

The side effects of the damage, on the other hand, were less confined. This explosion had occured inside the armor belt, in a tunnel that was rigidly connected to the core hull. It rocked the ship from end to end; what few crewmen were not in their shock frames were hurled to the floor. Inevitably there were loose objects about in violation of regs; many of these became annoying, harmful, or in a few cases deadly missiles. Vibrations from the blast took many long seconds to damp below the threshold of the crew's abused senses.

The effects on the crew were difficult to describe to anyone who has not been trapped in a tight enclosed space while powerful enemies beat on it from outside. Those far from the point of impact were momentarily dazed. Those closer in, such as Admiral Hazarika in CIC, suffered more.

0935 Hours

Being less than two hundred meters from a kiloton-range event is seldom a good choice. Even with the best protection in the galaxy, you're likely to feel it; Directrix did not have the best protection in the galaxy. The sheer physical force jolted Central Information Control hard; shock-absorbing frames did their best to keep equipment and crew from being seriously injured, mostly with success, but quite a few of the crew were rattled hard enough to leave them feeling punch-drunk, including Admiral Hazarika.

What the hell... Ananya blinked and groaned slightly. After decades on the job, though, her instinctive reaction to this kind of situation was the right one. Is the ship out of danger? What about the squadron? They'd just taken a fighter missile attack... she clumsily stabbed at her console controls, bringing up a squadron plot.

Not good, but not... not bad. Directrix had lost a turret, Artemisia was reporting badly worn down point defense to port. One of the Centrality destroyers was down and out. Light damage to a few of the smaller ships. But they could still fight.

What else... her head was starting to clear from the immediate shock. What about the cutters?
This space dedicated to Vasily Arkhipov
Simon_Jester
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Posts: 30165
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Simon_Jester »

Recommended listening: here, taken from the Master of Orion II soundtrack. Note that the piece is only two minutes long; I recommend looping it if you can; the game does and I've been known to needlessly prolong naval actions in that game just for the soundtrack...

Corsair-C class pursuit cutter CG-81634 “Greyhound”,
Hawk's Nest System
0935 Hours, June 7, 3400


The plasma bolts were whipping past as the cutters closed. Audrey saw that even the Centralists had started dancing to evade now- they weren't quick and they weren't subtle, not by her standards, but they were at least making themselves harder targets. Greyhound was jittering all over the sky, trying to outrace fire control computers that could pick a target and shoot in a matter of milliseconds.

Almost there... Audrey felt a vicarious, carnivorous glee as she gave the order. Her boat wouldn't be firing missiles, but she would very much enjoy what happened when the others did. Her world shrank to her own command and the pirate stealther they'd been assigned to hit.

Try shrugging off these, oh mighty frigate.

"Piranha Group, launch your birds!"

The melee and customs cutters called back with a chorus of "Rippling!" and "Launching eighteen!" Thanks to their high lateral speeds, they could afford to fire missiles from the launch boxes on the cutters' flanks faster than usual without catching any in the wake of the ones before. The last rounds were on their way within less than twenty seconds. Off to port, the Centralists were firing as well, smaller salvoes of their own heavy missiles; Audrey spared that only a glance, just enough to be sure that this time, the neighbors hadn't left her in the lurch.

The first birds in the salvo were the fleet boats' standard Mark Sixes. The Galias were an attempt to scale down proper antiship torpedoes to the Mark Five's size range, and the attempt was at least partly successful. But here they were as much decoys as a serious attack- intended to fly ahead of the greencaps and draw the enemy's fire from them. Hard on their heels were the tylium-boosted Mark Five "Honeydews," focusing lenses set to minimum dispersion and minimum range, just as at Bannerman... but this time with a healthy coating of rubiconium-derived exotic material jacketing the warhead. Behind that were a hundred and forty or so Mark Six greencaps, the best the cutter wing had to offer, since no one had seen fit to bring along a Buccaneer-X strategic torpedo boat.

The pirates' secondary plasma guns went to maximum rate of fire, hammering out light bolts as fast as possible, with no regard for barrel wear and a bare minimum of regard for accuracy. As the leading edge of Piranha Group's missile wave closed the range, Audrey noted that they were opening up with some kind of lightweight, quick-cycling mass drivers, too, possibly some sort of gatling mount. Probably bolted on as an afterthought, but she was just as happy they were too busy to shoot the things at her.

The standard nuke-armed Galias took the worst of it, being in front. But they'd had plenty of time to look over the target's guns and ECM before the launch. Crosstalk between two dozen fire control computers had built up a picture of the pirate stealther's defenses almost as good as could have been derived from the ships' own blueprints. The pirates' jammers were noted and ignored where possible; fire patterns of point defense were inferred and steered around as best the missiles could. Without ranging shots to test the defenses, only so much could be done, but what had been done proved to be enough. Quite a few of the Galia-standards made it into attack range.

In preparation for the attack, the pirates had cunningly focused their shields to starboard, on the side facing the humans' missile swarm. This proved to be a serious tactical error.

Umerian missiles, as a rule, neither wanted nor needed to ram head-on into their targets. That was a recipe for low hit rates, with the enemy's last-ditch defensive fire coming straight down one's throat at point blank range, where the fire control loop was too short for gunnery computers to miss. Instead, they favored the oblique approach, on trajectories that would take them whistling past their target, kilometers away from it.

The pirates were no fools, and fired on these missiles too, knowing that what looked like a shot about to miss could always be a feint with a guided weapon. But they suffered a painful surprise when the missiles, detecting the thickened shielding to starboard, did not curve back onto direct-impact trajectories. Their course selection was no feint, and indeed they did coast past their targets... only to pivot their nosecones toward the target and initiate in flashbulb bursts above and below, ahead and behind.

Jets driven by the Galias' shaped nuclear charges slammed into the pirates' shields, which shimmered, lit from all sides by a tightening ring of copper plasma. As the first seconds of the Umerian attack ticked by, this ring grew steadily more intense as more Galias added their blasts. With much of the shields' power diverted to a direction the Umerians had no intention of attacking, these latter Galia-standards managed to stab a few minor burnthroughs and a shower of scattered copper ions through the pirate's thinning defensive screens.

Then the Honeydew-greencaps made it into attack range. Pivoting to fire perpendicular to the line of flight like their fellows, the enhanced yield Mark Fives lit off in turn. Here, the relatively conventional blast from the warhead's fission core was augmented by the sub-nuclear lattice energy of disintegrating tylium, liberated in a shower of hard X-rays: the same X-rays that sent the shaped charge jet on its way.

The cone of tungsten plasma from the Honeydew-greencap was harder-driven and harder-hitting than the standard model would allow; the main limit on its effect was that the additional force of the exotic-physics tylium explosion tore apart the missile casing too soon, causing much of the warhead's energy to be wasted in a useless spherical burst. Dr. Martin and the Bureau of Armaments were still working on that side of the problem. But that which was not wasted was valuable.

Even at the tightest possible focusing, even with the tylium boost, the Mark Five warhead could not burn through starship-grade shielding on a single hit. But where gaps and thin patches had been torn by the earlier nuclear attack, the new waves of plasma could exploit them, burning and irradiating further areas of the stealth ship's hull and scouring away weapon and sensor mounts that had survived the first wave of the attack.

A few hundred such hits would have damaged the pirate ship severely, burning away any features not covered by heavy armor and gravely limiting her ability to fight back. Sadly, the quartet of Umerian customs cutters didn't have a few hundred greencaps to throw, and thus the stealth frigate was far from finished as a fighting ship.

That job was left to the boosted Mark Six Galia-greencaps from Piranha Group's fleet melee boats.

By now, the pirates' point defense was having little effect. The cutters had launched at the optimum time, balancing the need for the missiles time to build up speed to cross the space immediately around the target quickly with the need to avoid giving the enemy too much time to analyze the attack. In the seconds they had, the pirates had naturally concentrated their fire on the nearest, most visible targets: the Galia-standards and Honeydew-greencaps. The Galia-greencaps were practically unengaged, having to deal only with jammers, jammers they had a good read on how to avoid.

Again the missiles shot past their target, hitting from the sides. Again they formed a ring of fire around their target, and again blasts of ionized copper wrapped the pirate ship in their coils. But this time, the shaped charge weapons struck with double force, propelled by tylium disintegration as well as uranium fission, and this time, the pirate's defensive shields were in tatters.

Jets of high-temperature plasma punched into and through the stealth frigate's outer armor belt, searing the hull. Even now, the core hull remained largely immune, but in some ways that only increased the devastation as shockwaves and reflected plasma scattered off the interior armor and echoed through the space between the two protective layers.

By the time the last greencaps initiated, there was precious little left of the pirate's outer hull. Plates along the spine and belly had been burned off or pierced through; power trunking had shorted and died, taking entire compartments with them as on the Umerians' damaged flagship. In some places, sectors of the outer hull dozens of meters across were stripped down to a skeletal framework of hull girders, the only things between the stealth frigate's armor belts tough enough to shake off the blasts. The core armor, covering many of the ship's key systems, had mostly survived. But virtually everything not covered by that inner shell was gone.

The Umerians passed by their target at close range, no more than a minute behind the missile barrage they'd launched.

This time, when Audrey Cardwell took her cutters to within a few thousand kilometers of an enemy frigate, there was no one left in any position to fire back.
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Simon_Jester
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Simon_Jester »

Recommended listening: A selection from Mahler's symphony "Tragic"

Command Bridge, CNS Loyalist
Hawk's Nest System
0935 Hours


Liggs viewed the gunship attack against the pirate stealthers with great satisfaction. His schooled, implacable face betrayed no signs of the relief he felt, but he knew that victory was nearly certain now.

The Umerians' missile attack was... interesting to watch. An intriguing contrast to what he saw on the Centralist side of the attack. Centralist missiles were, much like the ones the pirates had thrown, dual-purpose flak/antiship munitions. The Fireballs launched a relatively small number of them, covered by a large amount of specialized ECM ordnance, similarly designed for kinetic attack but with heavy jamming pods built into the nose.

It was difficult to be sure exactly what had happened from this range, but looking at the apparent effect on the enemy ships, he could fill in the blanks: missiles hammering into his enemy's shields and armor with mountain-splitting force, a brutal, uncompromising gauntleted fist in the face compared to the Umerian missiles' cunning rapier-thrusts. Those impacts would cause much the same kind of damage his own squadron had just suffered. It would take time to determine exactly how much damage the stealthers had taken, but he felt serene confidence that the enemy ships to dorsal starboard were too badly damaged to pose a serious threat to his own command. The ongoing fire from ahead was still a problem, of course, but once his main batteries were back on point, that problem would shrink quickly. The only place where there was still any real danger of even localized defeat was... yes.

The Hawks had carried out their mission admirably and drawn the enemy fighter forces to ventral port, but now the two forces were tied up in a turning battle, a confused melee he could do little to support for fear of damaging his own fighters along with the enemy's. Flak shells or that strange barrage fire the Umerians had used against the enemy ordnance would be worse than useless. Laser fire might be of some service, but even that would have to be done in very quick, tightly controlled bursts that would have a hard time achieving good effect on the great mass of the enemy force.

At best, the lasers would help to blunt the pirate fighters' superior numbers. With the exception of two relatively capable contingents, one unidentified and one that... might be an Airaii raider contingent, the enemy was poorly coordinated and poorly armed as a rule; his own fighters had a large qualitative edge. But still, to decide the battle in his favor, he would need to direct more forces into the dogfight.

He keyed his next order to the gunship formation; this needed to reach both contingents in order to concentrate the maximum force against his other flank. "All gunship commands, this is the flagship. You have done well. Come about and reinforce the fighter wings to squadron-port."

It would take many minutes for them to come to the support of his outnumbered fighter wing, but when they came, the formed-up gunship units, confidence buoyed by their victory against the stealthers, would most likely prove decisive against the enemy fighters.

Hmm. What else was there to be done? He examined the long range sensor plot again. The stealthers... four of them were starting to try to limp away. Perhaps the others have suffered drive damage? That would be good; if they were immobile, that meant they were now in range of his mass drivers. The gunships were out of the way, looping around as they decelerated to come back and join the furball to port.

To the Centrality starships, he gave another order. "After the gunships are out of the line of fire, direct mass driver bombardment on the two immobile targets in Group Two." His ships replied quickly. He felt the rumble of the turrets aboard his own flagship, the shudders as driving fields engaged the guided antiship rounds and boosted them on their way. On the plot, he saw his ships answering commendably. The damaged frigate Springbok, now far astern, threw a full salvo; even the crippled destroyer Hector managed to put a pair of rounds from one of the turrets amidships in the direction of the target. That was beyond duty, and he made a mental note to commend the officers responsible afterwards.

With the first salvo on the way to its distant but nearly immobile target, Commodore Liggs turned his attention back to the situation ahead.

Corsair-C class pursuit cutter CG-81634 “Greyhound”,
0936 Hours


Noting the absence of return fire as Piranha Group overshot the target and barreled outward towards interstellar space, Commander Cardwell decided she needed more information.

"Piranha Five-One, this is Piranha Leader. Give me a damage assessment."

The reply came back almost immediately; good subordinates could be a treasure. "Ma'am, target is venting flame; destruction of outer hull estimated at thirty to fifty percent, damage expected in virtually all compartments. Reactors are still operational, but we see no sign of drive signature or targeting sensors."

That was good, good enough. It would be difficult to follow up on that effectively with energy weapons; there wasn't a lot left to shoot.

"Ah, we may have a problem. Looks like we killed their targeting systems, but I think their main gun emitters are still operational; that was inside the secondary belt."

Not so good. She hovered on the brink of ordering her command to go back for another pass; with shielding gone the conventional Mark Fives and laser panels might well be able to finish what the greencaps had some close to doing on their own... then a stern voice came in over the comm.

"All gunships, this is the flagship. You have done well. Come about and reinforce the fighter wings to squadron-port."

Damn.

Pirate Vessel Keldrog's Gutting Blow

As his missiles dented but did not break the human lines, as the gunships washed over his carefully maintained stealth ships, Keldrog knew that he was doomed. Both wings of his planned vertical double envelopment had failed, one through incompetence and one through the enemy's unexpectedly heavy small craft force- not so much in numbers as in quality.

His battle plan had gone from potential victory to certain defeat in under five minutes. The fighters had failed in their task; of his six stealth ships, two had working cloaking devices, four had drive power, and two had functioning weapons. None of them had all three.

As he watched, helpless to interfere, a hail of mass driver rounds closed in on one of the stealth ships, near the center of their line, one that had been immobilized and blinded but not disarmed. Trapped and unable even to try and destroy the incoming guided rounds with its main armament, the ship was torn to pieces. The other paralyzed ship managed to engage its cloak, and thus avoided immediate destruction, while the other four limped away, trying to stay clear of the gunships' beam weapons.

He gripped the stanchion at his side still harder, hard enough that he could feel the thin scales on his palm being driven into his flesh. Then his ship began to shudder and the damage control displays indicated an uptick in radiation counts forward. The electron beams had returned! The enemy's plasma fire redoubled as well- the cannon formerly trained on the stealth ships were now pointed his way.

It didn't take long before the extra fire started to make a difference. A sequence of nine plasma bolts blazed towards Yekkor's Screaming Leap; his old shipmate's vessel was hit five times, collapsing the forward shields. Follow-up salvos destroyed Yekkor's main armament and left the crew scrambling towards their lifepods as reactor leaks endangered their lives.

The battle had been decided. It was only a matter of time before the humans' now-superior beam power destroyed his fleet. Perhaps this was the long-imagined day of his glorious last stand. It would be good to die this way, against a cunning and powerful enemy, and a fitting end to his life if he died in combat against the ubiquitous alien race that seemed fated to rule this galaxy, when his own more worthy people were trapped in the intangible murk of the 'shoals,' unable to organize an empire worthy of their merits.

But then, he had a duty to the warriors under his command, not just Gron but other species as well... it was not an easy choice to make.

Warlord Keldrog made it.

Command Bridge, CNS Loyalist
0939 Hours


"My compliments to Gunnery Control; good kill." It was good to see Loyalist's fire starting to tell against the pirate ships ahead. With the stealthers destroyed and the Umerians shot in properly, even after the damage to his formation he had a considerable advantage over the pirate mobile units in total gunpower, as well as three individual units far larger than anything they commanded. Adjusting his formation to provide the maximum cover for the weakened ships was a challenge, but the increased volume of fire they were putting out was in some ways their best protection; unlike the Umerians, the pirates were proving singularly poor at dodging and shooting at the same time.

He also saw that his ships' gunners had managed to more or less localize the stealth ship that had decided to try and rely on its cloak to compensate for immobility. Using their radars much as the Umerians had used their phased array lasers, they painted the pirate with intense microwave beams, trying for enough of a return for fire control sensors. As they began to succeed, the next salvoes of guided shells rumbled out the mass drivers to finish off the cripple.

There was a crackling on the comms.

"Sir! We're picking up a broadband subspace transmission from the pirate ships, in the clear!"

"Put him on, Rydberg."

Liggs heard a buzzing, hissing accented voice- how much was distortion and how much was the pirate's own voice?

"Human commander, this is Warlord Keldrog, former master of the fighting forces in this star system. I offer my surrender." There was nothing more. It might be a ruse, but... perhaps...

"All starships, this is the flagship. Cease main battery fire; continue laser fire in support of the dogfight to port. Fighter group, the enemy may be about to disengage; if they do, do not pursue." His fighters had already taken considerable losses in these minutes of combat, but were mostly intact as a fighting force; it could threaten the surrender if they misunderstood enemy fighters separating and giving up as a retreating enemy.

"Com-scan, respond to the pirates, in the clear on all frequencies."

"Live mike, sir."

"Warlord Keldrog, this is Commodore Gever Liggs, of the Centrality Navy. I accept your surrender. Lower your shields and power down your weapons systems. Advance towards our position slowly. We will give more precise navigational orders as you approach." He had to get them out from under the station's guns; otherwise it would be too risky to do anything but scuttle the ships with long range fire, and he wanted them captured, not destroyed, now that he had the option. With the pirate ships close to his own command's current position, the station's defenses would have a difficult time hitting him; he would have time to evade any extreme range bombardments thrown his way if they tried to prevent him from boarding the pirate vessels.

He was taking a risk, he supposed, but it was an acceptable one. The pirate commander had every reason to prefer a surrender at this point, and Liggs saw no reason to believe he was up against a suicidal opponent.

There was a burbling noise over the hyperwave. "...I hear, and obey."

"Good. Now, order your fightercraft to disengage"

"I hear and obey, but they may not. They are... undiscipined."

"I expect to see immediate compliance with my reasonable demands."

"...I will tell them."

Within fifteen seconds, the two large disciplined groups of fighters had broken off. Liggs held his breath. Most of the other smaller, disorganized units trailed behind them. The survivors continued to fight, but there were no more than a hundred of them: his own Hawk fighters soon fell on the renegades and began destroying them, as they proved helpless to reply.

It was not perfect, but it was good enough. Liggs was now satisfied with the alien's submission to his demands. He had won.

Hawk's Nest Space Station
0945 Hours


Robert Vale of Alpha Centauri II frowned in consternation. The Centrality forces had demanded Keldrog's surrender, and in a great surprise to him, the Warlord had complied. Now his ships were advancing out of effective range of even the hypervelocity guns of the defense platforms Boskone had quietly provided him.

The expendable assets had inflicted considerable harm on the Enemy already, but it was not enough. Only two of the Coalition ships had been badly damaged, and some of the others were entirely unharmed. The entire purpose of these expendable assets' existence in this place was to bleed the Centralists and their allies' vanguard, to encourage them to make a slow, ponderous advance into the sector and toward the deeper redoubts protected by core forces.

One of his subordinates, a renegade half-caste Tau who had assisted with the shipboard cloaking devices, hissed to him. "I am not surprised at this turn of events, human. The pirates were a rabble; your belief that they would fight to anything near the death was entirely unwarranted."

"What would you have us do?"

"Always you said you could assure that the assets would put up a strong fight, that they would defend this position and bleed the invading Gue'La."

"I ask again, Tau. Do not test my patience. What would you have us do?"

"I think you have underestimated the opposition, and misestimated Keldrog. I think that you have made critical blunders, not through any accident, but through your own faults. I think that you are mentally unfit for your post!"

At this, Vale simply seized the insolent being and slammed his head into the wall. There was a crunch of bone, followed by a second crunch as a booted heel crashed down on the Tau's neck.

"Let this be a lesson to the rest of you. Had the Na'el bothered to truly think about this crisis, rather than make mindless accusations, he would have deduced that I already have a plan for this contingency. Had he bothered even to ask, he would have learned the same. Greel, give me the transponder box." Unflinching at the sight of the Tau's blood pooling on the floor, the Q'Blort, a creature of unusual talent who had been plucked from the Raiders of sector H-6 by a Boskonian recruiter, complied.

"As you all know, this box is programmed with the command override codes to the station's submesonic transmitter. I now have untraceable communications with the submeson receiver aboard Keldrog's flagship." Vale fished a key from his pocket and inserted it in a lock on the side. Turning the key, he tapped in an alphanumeric sequence. "All of you will now watch the main tactical display. John, tune into the center's hyperwave comms; I want to hear the results."

"I will now implement a contingency prepared for just such an emergency." Pausing to relish the moment, Vale pressed a large red button on the side of the transponder box. The coded signal flashed through the station's communicators and into Keldrog's main engineering computer... where it triggered the carefully hidden multimegaton demolition charges buried within the hull frames, planted there years ago by Boskonian technicians at Vale's own orders.

Keldrog's Gutting Blow vanished from the plot, blotted out of space entirely by the blasts. Half-molten fragments of the vessel's hull scattered bursts of sparks off the armor of some of the other pirate vessels. Then the confusion began, and this was why Vale had wanted to be listening.

<What?>

<NO! KELDROG!>

<What's happening?>

<Those stinking, treacherous apes! They've killed the Warlord!>

<How could they do that? It must have been some kind of accident!>

<Silence, grub! All ships, for the honor of your Warlord and your race! TO THE DEATH!>


Vale cut the circuit. On screen he could see the pirate ships' shields spiraling back online, their engines flaring as they prepared for a point blank duel against a superior force they could not possibly win. He turned his back on the display and gestured to the other Boskonian advisors who had carefully nursed Keldrog's band from a handful of renegades into a powerful fighting force over these past five years.

"Greel, activate the automated defense platforms under protocol B1. Wohznog, pick up that body. Frank, Grollo, Yorgi, kill the four beings on this list and meet us in the main shuttle hangar. You will find them in Control Room Seven. We must evacuate the station before the Enemy finishes off the assets and resolves the confusion."

Some minutes later, Vale leaned back in his cabin aboard the stealthed dual-drive yacht and sighed in relief as he took his boots off. The Enemy showed no signs of having spotted the Boskonian personnel transport, but as a routine precaution they would travel deep into the shoals under Heim drive before making a hyper translation and risking detection by Enemy hyperwave sensors.

It was just as well. Vale was fairly sure he could justify events to the admiral, especially in light of the additional damage the pirates' last-ditch attack had done, but he did not relish the prospect of making that explanation. Nor was he in a great hurry to do so.
This space dedicated to Vasily Arkhipov
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Ilya Muromets
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Ilya Muromets »

Hyogo, Kansai Sector
Holy Empire of Haruhi Suzumiya


Esna9’s human body suddenly yawned, and she immediately covered her mouth with her hand and attempted to stifle it. By now, she knew that humans considered an un-stifled yawn to be somewhat, so she had automatically stifled it even though no one else was around as part of her continuing practice with general human customs. She liked to think that she had already become somewhat proficient at acting human. She rarely slipped back to using R’nish un-gendered pronouns, and she had even grown accustomed to thinking of herself as female.

She felt another yawn working its way up her throat, and she stifled it again. This time before it could truly start. She stood up and stretched, as this was another human custom involved in warding of the feeling of malaise which often accompanied yawning. Esan9 recognized the reason for her sudden predilection for yawning. It was something most R’nish became deeply familiar with over the course of their incredibly long lives—boredom.

True, it wasn’t anywhere near the heavy, mind-numbing weariness which eventually drove older R’nish to self-delete, but the psychosomatic effects her minor boredom was having on her human body were growing tedious to deal with. So, she stood up and began to walk around her somewhat large hotel room. She had found that some kind of physical activity often staved off feelings of boredom, provided one didn’t let it continue to the point of repetitive monotony or physical exhaustion.

She had nothing else to do, really. Her father—she smiled; it wasn’t only easy to think of Karl that way, but there was also a satisfying feeling of comfortable affection accompanying the sentiment—had told her to wait in her room until he called her attention. Well, alright, he’d told her to set up the drones she had to help keep her occupied. But that task had been completed with relative speed and ease, even when doing so with the longer and more complex human way.

After that, all she’d been doing was sitting in her room. Even the entertainment programs couldn’t muster much interest like they initially did upon their arrival. Following her initial immersion, she had immediately connected her mind via R’nish interface technology with the local information network to gather as much data related to said entertainment programs as she could. Thus, she had gained more knowledge of local electronic media entertainment than anyone on-planet, but at he cost of having said programs become completely stale when she realized most of them followed rather predictable conventions.

Although, one advantage of such immersion was the fact that she finally realized what all the fuss between her dad and “cousin” Kaye (their cover identities had them as a tourist group with Karl as a father, her as his daughter, Kaye as his niece, and Tyrkt-hoth as a family friend) was about. Kaye had regained her sexuality along with her human body, and had indulged it by convincer her friend, researcher Tyrkt-hoth, to have recreational intercourse with her as a form of research on human interaction.

Kaye’s innuendos had only become apparent to her after comparing them with the sexual-referenced content in much of the local entertainment programming. After learning that, she had retroactively found her father’s reaction to Kaye’s mischief on the way to Hyogo extremely amusing.

It had quickly become obvious that Karl was, as humans would count it, something of a protective father. This, as she had learned from the human interactional conventions in local entertainment, included her father having to guard her sexual virtue. He had been afraid Kaye’s indulgence would’ve inspired her to perform acts of careless sexuality, and Kaye had deliberately fueled those worries with her actions with Thoth to amuse herself with her dad’s overreactions.

Even more amusing to Esna9 was the fact that her dad’s concerns were unnecessary. Esna9 already knew something about sex since she had observed a few R’nish in biological bodies indulging in the act back on their home Ark Ship, Ark, Just Ark. Stop Asking. She had always found them, while interesting, somewhat revolting on some level. The whole thing seemed a bit messy and inefficient to her, not to mention a bit unsanitary. Although R’nish had little reason to fear unsanitary environments, they still didn’t seem all that attractive to her either. Gaining a functional, sexually-capable human body hadn’t changed her preference against it.

Still, her dad’s concerns, though unfounded, were at least a sign that he was serious about being as much of a parent to her as she was an offspring to him, which gave her the satisfying feeling of comfortable affection again. Unconsciously, her happiness had seeped into her pacing about the hotel room since she had began hopping and skipping happily when a signal over the communications array of her neurocybernetic implants broke her out of her reverie.

Esna, it’s time, the information burst from her father conveyed, Bring them up.

I’m on my way. Esna9 replied. She quickly strode over to the chair where she had hung the bag containing the miniature drones.

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Esna9 grabbed the bag, strapped in onto her back, and got out of the room in one smooth motion. She strode toward the nearest lift and headed for the level where her father had told her he would be waiting. It turned out to be a large, open area in the arcology where they were staying. She spotted her father looking out toward an impressively large open bay at the equally impressive view of Hyogo it afforded. Then again, everything to her on this world was impressively large, so used had she become to the rather heavily populated and relatively compact Ark Ships and Cruisecraft of the R’nish Aggregate.

She walked over to her father and got his attention by saying, “I’m here, Dad. What do you need?”

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“Ah, Esna,” her father said, “Are they ready?”

“They been ready about three ti—er, I mean, over two hours ago.” Blast it! She had slipped up. Damned human time systems…

“Good,” her dad said, taking a brief look around to make sure no one was looking at them closely, “Let’s take them out quickly. I just saw the diplomatic air limo with the Solarian diplomat, Brigadier Stalin, overhead.”

Esna9 nodded and un-strapped her backpack. She opened it up and pulled out what looked like a lump of metal with a cluster of several diodes and a several cables coiled behind it.

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It was a R’nish Miniature Maintenance Drone. Normally used for smaller scale maintenance in difficult-to-access places, their group had reprogrammed them for covert observation. The cluster of optics, which could see in multiple spectrums and was capable of extreme magnification, should be good enough for remote visual observation. Remote listening arrays had also been added to the drone, allowing it to serve as a remote eavesdropping device.

Esna9 handed off the first drone to her father and pulled out another one from the backup. She heard her father activate his drone and felt the quick transmission he sent at his drone to activate it and slave it to his mindcore. She quickly did the same with her drone.

The optics on both the drones immediately shone a dull red, with the cable-like mechanical tendrils quickly unfurling. Without further ado, the drones’ propulsors activated and they quickly zipped out after the diplomatic air limo. Since the drones had been programmed to avoid as much attention as possible, the tendrils of each were out to either side in two clusters, flapping like wings. It was hoped that this would make them look like avians from a distance.

The drones would shadow the diplomatic limo at a distance until it arrived at its destination. After that, the drones would try to find a way to covertly infiltrate the diplomatic session and transmit all they observed back to them.

“We should inform Kaye and Thoth,” Esna9 suggested after the air limo and the trailing drones were out of view.

They had arrived a day after the Chamarran delegation had arrived, so they hadn’t been able to intercept the delegation with the observation drones. Kaye and Thoth had offered to go to the Imperial Center to find out where the Chamarran delegation was staying. They had managed to find out where that was, and had successfully managed to shadow them with their own drones.

“I already did,” Karl answered. She was about to voice her satisfaction, but the look on her father’s face stayed her. She had gotten good at interpreting human facial expressions, and the one her father wore was that of concern. Esna9 was about to ask, when her father decided to voice it.

“I just hope this doesn’t end up as some kind of fiasco.”


[Author’s note: Looks like the Haruuhist-arbitrated Chamarran and Solarian diplomatic pow-wow is going to have some uninvited eavesdroppers.]
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Darkevilme
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Darkevilme »

HSF Fang and Claw, Sector E-24

Ranked on a list of things that would be bad for a Predator cruiser to be hit by a disentegrating ork pirate ship would rate pretty highly on the list and it's easy to see why. Faced with thousands of tons of orkish metal travelling at speed multiple layers of shields designed to deflect low mass high velocity projectiles or dissipate energy beams overloaded in under a second, their energy sumps flash fried into burnt out ruin. But this was but the start of the damage poured out on the Fang and Claw by the dying wrath of Da Red Barren and worse came when the orkish warship crashed into the rear flank of the Fang and Claw and sent fragments of itself and spalling from the Predator's armour violently through the interior compartments, one even managing to fly through a chink in the armoured shell around the hyperspace tap causing several seconds of tense consternation as the safety systems struggle to extinguish the rift before it leaves the containment chamber and wreaks havoc on the rest of the ship.

It was small mercies that it didn't happen, the engineering crew uttering a shared, but barely audible in the dwindling air, sigh of relief as the blazing rift inside the heart of the ship winks out. Mercy did not feature much in the treatment of the rest of the ship's rear sections however as Sharii was rapidly discovering with the damage reports flooding in.

“We've lost fusion chambers 1 to 4, we're getting reports of severe depressurization in the port engineering and hangar sections, Hypertap is damaged but shutdown successfully, casualty reports still coming in. Sudden Ferocity reports undamaged and able to assist as best as able.” Sharii looks both grim and sore as she surveys the ship status holoprojection and sees more and more of the rear port section start flashing red. At least their packmate is okay but the Fang and Claw was almost immobilized and only had power from two of its fusion chambers.

"Attention Chamarran vessel, this is Fleet Admiral Sulaiman Ziane of the Royal Klavostani Star Navy. We are willing and able to offer you our assistance..."

Well we're sure as hell not going anywhere on our own anytime soon. thinks Sharii then earperks and answers
“This is shipmistress Sharii of the HSF Fang and Claw, we accept your offer of assistance. We require extensive medical aid and repairs.” Sharii eyes the number of contacts on the tactical viewer and then continues “Not that i'm unhappy you're here, a rescue ship is over a day away after all, but I have to say I didn't expect to see you round this part of space and in such force, what's the occasion?”

Meanwhile under the watchful gaze of the Klavostani 8th fleet the HSF Fang and Claw slowly damps its spin to nothing, atmospheric leakage slowly dwindling down even as fragments of the deceased Red Barren slowly drift off the mauled rear of the cruiser. The fast attack craft HSF Sudden Ferocity closing distance with its packmate steadily, having finally rid itself of homing mines sometime during the Fang's pursuit though sadly ill equipped to provide adequate aid to its larger wounded packsister.

Imperial palace, Hyogo, Haruhiist space

Tia would object to any accusation of being as proud of her sisters of the ruling house Kithandra had she been aware of them, she likes to think of herself as a good deal more in touch with the galaxy as a whole through her travels. But she certainly had acted somewhat aloof her hosts during her stay. Tia greatly preoccupied with preparing for the coming talks and communicating with her sisters back home. With the aircar's arrival the time had come to switch from preparation to practice and face the Brigadier. The two meeting for the first time in the room set aside by their hosts. Tia flanked by her own aide and the Haruhiist minister Asahina. During the introductions the princess of Kithandra assessed the figure and posture of the man who up till now she'd only seen as a holographic reconstruction It's a shame human body language isn't more expressive really, although doesn't look like it's gonna be easy to resolve this without relations deteriorating any further. she thought and then ear flicked and glanced to the side for a tiny moment before inwardly cursing her loss of composure and refocusing on the Brigadier Damned instincts, but I can't help feeling like I'm being watched by something.she thinks to herself but hides her disquiet and inclines her head momentarily “Brigadier Stalin, greetings. It seems by arriving ahead of you I have robbed much of the value from the gesture of your travel choices. A shame I feel as it takes you away from the Murderous all the longer. Nevertheless i trust you had an uneventful flight. ”
Last edited by Darkevilme on 2010-10-18 12:29pm, edited 2 times in total.
STGOD SDNW4 player. Chamarran Hierarchy Catgirls in space!
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