SDNW4 Story Thread 1

[Simon_Jester]

Recommended Listening: The remainder of the first movement of Nielsen's Fourth Symphony

Undisclosed Location, Sector H-12
Boskonian Sector Command Dome
July 10, 3400

High Admiral Natalya Zokolova nodded to the being reporting the situation at Zebes to her.

"Report accepted. Begin Contrecoup Stage Three."

Missile Frigate Gacknik
Ventral Flank Group, Zebesian Fleet
1421 Hours Coalition Fleet Standard Time

"Hey, chief, look at this, It's like they said- we're pulling out." Nugak pointed to the fire mission monitoring display, which showed the fleet: the swirling clouds of reassuring aqua light codes for the light ships reaching out to pincer the human fleet from above and below, and the less mobile constellation of heavy arsenal ships and laser monitors in the center.

The flank groups were dancing less and pulling back and away more, breaking away from the plane of the ecliptic.

"Festering dung of every imaginable herd beast! The center isn't moving!"

Everyone stood shocked and silent for a moment. Finally, Nugak asked what everyone had to be thinking. "Does... does that mean this is desertion?"

"Sure looks like it. If this were the plan, Frugus would be pulling out too."

"What are we gonna do?"

"I don't know, Nugak. I don't know. If the boarding troops are in control, and it sure looks like they are, there's not much we can do, not without getting our heads scissored off."

"But why would they pull out two thirds of the fleet and leave the heavies behind to get blown up?"

"I'm beginning to wonder... gimme some time to think. For now, let's just make sure our launchers are in order. Like that bastard with the arm cannon said, keep our heads down and do our jobs. Maybe we'll have a chance to escape, or figure out what the hell is going on, later."

This stinks. I sure wouldn't want to be Marshal Weavel or Admiral Frugus right now...

---

Tourian Command Center, Zebes
1421 Hours

"WHAT?"

Weavel's balled fist crashed down on a shelf overhanging one of the control room consoles. The thin plastic cracked, but the Urtraghan was too upset to notice.

"I'm telling you, sir, the flanking groups are pulling back!"

"Put me through to Frugus! None of our plans called for withdrawing the fleet this soon!"

"Yes, sir!"

The communication officers adjusted their relay hookups, trying to cut through the maze of ECM and ECCM around the battlefleets. Within a few seconds, Frugus's face appeared. He looked... agitated.

"Frugus! What in Zarquod's name is going on?"

"I was going to ask the same thing, sir. The flank groups are-"

"I see it too. You didn't order the retreat?"

"No."

A chill ran through Weavel's veins. "Those units were sent to us straight from Home Fleet; how could they mutiny like this?"

"I don't know. They aren't answering my hailing signals either."

"Losing the flanks puts your center in a terrible position. Can you pull out?"

Frugus clacked his pincers in frustration. "I don't think so. Breaking for the hyperlimit is going to be impossible, and my heavy units can't outrun the Prussians."

"I could order..."

"No, sir. They're still too far from the planet for your defense batteries to range on them, and you don't have enough of them to make a difference. Better to hold fire and use the planetary defenses to oppose the troop landings, like we planned."

Weavel knew that with those words, the bright young captain he'd appointed to command the Zebesian defense fleet had just signed his own death warrant. What can you say to that?

"I will inform the homeworld of the flank groups' defection. You may yet be avenged on the traitors, once we get to the bottom of this."

"Goodbye, Marshal. It's been a pleasure."

"Goodbye, Admiral. Zebes Command out!"

---

Valkyrie-class Battlecruiser SMS Brunhild
Flagship Sixth Battlecruiser Squadron
1423 Hours

Siegfried Kircheis frowned at the plot. "Reinhard, they're definitely falling back, and I don't think they're just opening the range. Can you think of a reason for this I'm missing?"

"No. But it's not a general retreat. The center isn't falling back."

"I doubt they could."

The corner of Reinhard's mouth lifted slightly in bemusement. "Not unless they have a lot more engine power in hand than we've seen. Certainly not the monitors."

Siegfried thought about it. "Perhaps... perhaps the enemy commander is sacrificing the improvised ships in the center to cover the retreat of the dedicated warships on the flanks, to fight another day? Especially if he's already expended his missiles from the bombardment cruisers..."

"That doesn't make sense. The enemy's plasma-gun ships are still largely intact, and far enough away to dodge the bulk of our fire, and are still capable of harassing our forces, especially the troopships and cripples. Why retreat now, when we have damaged ships for them to finish off?"

"It may just be a mistake, or poor advance planning."

"...I think you must be right, but in that case, I doubt we've seen the last of those ships. The enemy's supreme commander must be on them, and if he's that ruthless, I suspect we'll be crossing swords with him again at an inconvenient moment. I hope his next mistake is so conveniently timed, though."

"That would be nice."

A signals rating called across the bridge. "Communication from the flagship: Battleship and heavy cruiser squadrons are to advance and engage the enemy with missile barrage. Battlecruiser elements continue harassing fire on the enemy flanking groups."

Reinhard blinked, then scratched his chin. "Hmm. Kircheis, you were right earlier."

"About...?"

"About what would happen if it weren't for the crossfire from the flanking ships. I've underestimated von Mückenberger."

"It's all right." A devilish thought struck him. "You do have a way of achieving the unlikely, sir."

Reinhard chuckled. "For which backhanded compliment I thank you."

---

Arsenal Ship Hurgaa
Zebesian Flagship
1427 Hours

Here it comes. Not much for it but to die with dignity. The best he could do was... yes. He didn't have enough ships left to do meaningful damage to the enemy fleet; he could still make a further dent in the enemy landing forces, though.

"Laser ships to continue fire as long as possible on enemy transports. Concentrate on the damaged ones. Missile ships forward to draw enemy fire, frigates to ripple-fire remaining missiles at enemy battleships. Plasma destroyers to fall back, also while firing on enemy transports."

The enemy battleships were advancing, at a deliberate pace, probably because of the two ships with engine damage. Two of the enemy's five-ship cruiser squadrons were keeping up with them. Emissions suggested the missile armed Schwerkreuzer type... probably a missile barrage, something his forces were ill prepared to deal with...

"Arsenal ships go to full barrage jamming, emergency power." Those jammers were Boskone-supplied and hard-wearing- or, on emergency power, capable of being driven much harder than their design parameters for a few minutes.

That would be long enough.

Frugus decided that, all things considered, he would rather meet death on his feet than in an armchair. Thus, he stood impassive as the first Hellfires rolled out the tubes of the Prussian battleships. As following barrages leapt out, in a storm nearly as heavy as the one he'd thrown at Second Fleet, and more sophisticated. As his own ships' energy weapons ignored the missiles and their launchers, continuing to carve into the enemy troop transports, trying to thin out the enemy invasion force as much as possible.

There was nothing more to say. He watched the missiles fan out, watched a second Prussian transport break up under concentrated laser fire, while others slowed and trailed haloes of debris. Watched the incoming missiles shuffle in confusion as his barrage jammers began to confuse them... then decide, by the dozen and then by the hundred, to home in on the jamming sources. Good.

The Prussian barrage came closer; his ships' relatively light point defense rigs blazed away with a mix of whatever they'd had to hand: gatling mass drivers, pulse plasma weapons, a handful of light countermissiles. Two of the laser monitors, against orders, began using their main batteries to throw rapid-cycling, low power bolts at the missiles bound for his flagship. He should be angry, he supposed, but he found he couldn't be; it was the greatest compliment he'd ever been paid as a military officer.

Then the massive antiship warheads washed over Hurgaa and her sister ships. The first two blasts took his flagship at a range of five kilometers, sun-bright flashbulbs flaying at her shields. Four more bracketed the ship from ahead and behind, as the ship's forward shield generator burned out explosively, the lightly built deck flexed once again, and hurled the Urtraghan admiral off his feet.

Milliseconds later, the seventh strike came in, less than a kilometer off the arsenal ship's spine.

The lightly built missile carriers didn't have the kind of heavy armor belts incorporated into an ordinary warship of their tonnage. With the shields down and magazines empty there was nothing between the initiation and the bridge capable of standing off that heavy a dose. Frugus died in a hail of X-rays, cooked before he hit the ground.

---

SMS Brunhild
1440 Hours

Those poor soldiers. Siegfried shook his head.

The steady beam fire from the Zebesian ships ahead wasn't nearly as bad as the missile barrage had been, but concentrated on the damaged transports from the previous attack it had killed many more of the Prussian ground contingent.

Sixth Battlecruisers, along with the other battlecruiser squadrons left behind to cover the transports, had done its considerable best to confuse the Zebesians' targeting or at least force them to shift fire onto the transports with intact shields, the ones that could hold off the attack best. Even so, total casualties had to be over two hundred thousand already, and they hadn't even hit groundside. Reinhard's face was outwardly impassive, though Siegfried recognized the little quirks of tensed facial muscles that showed the same dismay he felt at the losses.

The admiral turned to the signals section. "Order Reuental and Mittermeyer to start picking up surviving emergency bubbles from the troopships; we won't be needing their escort now." Reinhard's eyes flicked back to the main plot, and Kircheis followed his gaze. Von Mückenberger's battleships were finally finishing off the last of the Zebesian monitors, while the destroyers blazed away at the retreating plasma-gun ships that had been attached to the enemy's center.

The laser ships had proven as tough as Reinhard believed, practically immune to the lighter guns of the destroyers or the Valkyries, and to spherical-burst nuclear strikes even at point blank range. Against the far more massive railguns of the battleships, though, the thick appliqués of rock were unavailing. The monitors' armor was smashed to gravel and vapor, a few hectares at a time, by repeated broadsides... and their lasers were nowhere near heavy enough to reply effectively against the battleships' shielding.

It was over.

Within a few more minutes, another order came from the flagship:

"All capital ships, approach the planet and take up preplanned positions to commence bombardment."

[Simon_Jester]

Something of an intermission. Recommended listening: Second movement of Nielsen's Fourth Symphony.

Disruptor-class Battleship CNS Black Hole
Deep Space, Sector H-12
1445 Hours Fleet Standard Time

"Sir! Message from Admiral von Mückenberger!"

"Yes?" The Centralist and other allied contingents were strung out over a few light-years of the tangled hyperspace lane that led to Zebes. They could be in position to support the Prussians within an hour if need be... and were just close enough that the fleet's capital ships could hammer code groups through the shoals. The level of communications wasn't much better than what ancient sailing ships could manage with signal flags, but it at least gave them a clue what was going on.

He wished he had a proper relay network, to give him more bandwidth, but there was no chance of setting up such a thing in the middle of hostile territory. Not against an enemy with the Zebesians' proven ability to think in terms of interstellar distances and tactics.

"Have destroyed or dispersed all enemy forces. Commencing bombardment and landing."

"Hmm. So he didn't run into a trap after all? That's a relief." Maybe his earlier fears had been misplaced. It would be nice to think that this was going to be an easy war now that the full strength of the Coalition had been put forth. But decades in the service of the State had taught him not to let down his guard. Not ever, and especially not when there seemed to be nothing to fear.

---

Tourian Command Center, Zebes
1450 Hours Coalition Fleet Standard Time.

Marshal Weavel, master of Zebes, shook his head, trying to conceal his confusion and fear from his underlings.

How could this disaster have happened? Granted he hadn't expected the fleet to stop the Prussians, but the way it had all gone wrong... Frugus had planned for a withdrawal in good order once the damage to his plasma and laser ships made it impractical to keep fighting effectively. Weavel had known that Frugus expected to destroy many more damaged Prussian ships, and inflict much higher losses on the Prussian invasion force before they hit planetside- even being optimistic, it was hard to believe they'd managed more than five percent losses against the humans' troopships. And no more than a handful of the humans' lighter escort ships had been taken out of action.

But now Frugus was dead, two thirds of his fleet having deserted in the face of the enemy- even now, the leading waves of the mutineers' ships were approaching the hyper limit and fleeing beyong his sight. For him to be betrayed like this, by ships from Home Fleet itself... it was almost incomprehensible. What could he do?

First order of business: keep his last promise to a loyal comrade-in-arms.

"Put me through to the High Command on Urtraghus." The Tourian base had powerful hyperwave 'casters; coupled with the relay network his people had seeded throughout the deep space of this sector, he had good communications with the homeworld.

"Working on it, sir." A minute passed. Another.

"What's the matter?"

"Sir, I... can't get handshake with the relay buoys. Something's gone wrong."

"You mean to tell me you can't get a signal through?"

"I could fall back on Glox* Code and send a message straight to home, but..."

"No. The risk of our signal being traced is too high. If the humans don't already know the location of the homeworld, we must keep that secret as long as possible." Normally, there would be no need to take the chance: Weavel's men could simply bounce and zigzag their transmissions around the relays until the risk of the enemy backtracking their signals were minimal. But if the relay beacons weren't working...

Weavel clattered his fingertips against the carapace of his upper leg. "Send tightbeams to the nearest relay stations regardless. If we're lucky, it's just a fault in the beacons and they're still receiving."

He hoped so. If not, he had no direct line back to the homeworld- which was a good deal more thoroughly cut off than he'd planned to be this early in the battle.

*An ancient figure in Urtraghan history, dating back to the early years of their first period of technological ascendance millenia ago. Glox's role in the ancient Urtraghan civilization has evolved into paleohistorical legend, but it is generally agreed by most reputable Urtraghan archaeologists and historians that he was responsible for a number of advances in that civilization's architecture, automatic weapons design, and communications protocol.

---

Valkyrie-class Battlecruiser SMS Brunhild
Flagship Sixth Battlecruiser Squadron
1455 Hours

Konteradmiral Reinhard von Musel directed a simple question at the signals officer he'd tasked to keep track of the escorts squadrons. "How goes it?"

"Mittermeyer reports just under five hundred survivors brought aboard; many more located, but his tractor and life support capability are limited. Reuental likewise- four hundred rescued and many more emergency bubbles to go."

"Tell him that the other squadrons are moving to support his recovery operations." That hadn't taken long to arrange- already, the other battlecruiser squadrons and their escorts were converging on the sites where Hanau and Ionia had broken up.

"Any word from Transport Command?"

"The fires aboard Hamm would seem to have been stopped short of the artillery ammunition bunkers; the fire doors seem to be in working order now, and they're working on venting the affected compartments to space as we speak. Some concerns about the ventilation system, but her captain sounds confident."

"Good."

"Also, several of the transports have detached regimental landing craft to assist in recovery operations. Their tractors are very limited, and they're short on EVA-trained personnel, but they do have plenty of life support."

"Even better. We can use them as storage room for the rescuees." One good thing about an invasion fleet- there was no shortage of shuttlecraft, ranging in size from regimental dropships and tank landers down to infiltration boats designed to drop individual Hussar squads.

"That's Flottenkapitän Meier's plan, sir."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you, ensign."

---

Tourian Command Center, Zebes
1457 Hours Coalition Fleet Standard Time.

Zebes was a strange planet, geologically. Urtraghan planetographers had spoken excitedly of it for years. It was an old world, with a crust made up of minerals almost unknown on the other planets of Urtraghan space, allowing for cave complexes of staggering scale.

Indeed, the caves were large enough that a combination of subsidence and the falling planetary water table left Zebes with virtually no open water visible from space; the closest thing the planet had to true oceans were enormous basins filled with various grades of mud. These vast quicksand bogs separated large plateau-like formations which passed for continents. Surface conditions were miserable, and virtually all life on the planet made its living in the more hospitable caves.

The Urtraghans had chosen Zebes for their forward base more because of the position of its parent star than because the ancient world was suitable itself, but it had proven acceptable. Weavel's predecessors had built their main naval bases and other facilities into the caverns under the Tourian mountain range, a major outcropping of igneous rock that gave them the greatest possible bombardment resistance and sensor concealment.

With invasion imminent, Weavel himself had positioned the bulk of his troops around that mountain range, positioned to cover the core facilities and slowly pull back into the extensive cave networks. For this purpose, his people had fortified and braced many kilometers of the caves, aided by capable Boskonian experts such as Dr. Yamada, the rogue Umerian.

Because of the pressing need to fortify Urtraghus, Weavel's command was poor in true antiship weapons; there simply hadn't been the resources to make Zebes into a proper fortress world that could engage enemy starships in its own right. But he had plenty of lighter 'antilander' guns and missiles that would be highly effective against small craft or troop shuttles, and that could be massed against small enemy starships that dared to enter low planetary orbit.

Most of these weapons were concentrated around the Tourian range, like his troops. The other continents held just enough garrisons and defense batteries to keep the invaders honest- to ensure that there would be no uncontested landings this day.

But it was... daunting. To know the sheer size of the fleet moving into position over his world, the inevitable barrage.

There was one being he could depend upon not to be frightened by the prospect of countless megatons of death from above. Granted, that being was insane, but at a time like this perhaps insanity could be used for good, as a source of strength. Also, that being spoke a language known to no one else in the control room, and only marginally pronounceable to the Urtraghan voicebox: Galstandard English. Thus, he could draw on the renegade Umerian's lunacy for his own benefit, bolstering his own resolve without demoralizing his command.

Definitely a win-win situation.

"Doctor Yamada, I find myself viewing the situation with some alarm. I know I've asked before, but are you sure our defenses will hold against this bombardment?"

"Nearly so. Like I said, anything can be cracked if you dump enough megatons into it. But this lot are no Sheppoes, and you've got really good rock strata on most of the planet; it'll bear up pretty well, I think. Anything right under a capital-grade shot is gone unless it's heavily braced or ridiculously deep, but we're not going to see a lot of mass scale cave-ins and subsidence."

"True, true."

"Another bright side, the ridiculous billion-hectare mudholes that pass for oceans on this rock won't transmit shock waves worth a damn. Anything that doesn't hit the continental plates gets swallowed without a burp- though don't hold me to that; we might see a few mudnamis before the day is over."

That was a graphic image. Weavel imagined a great tidal wave of quicksand rising up over his head, blocking out the sun... eep. The Boskone-supplied planetary defense specialist continued.

"Probably not, though. Honestly, if I had to pick a place to ride out a medium-sized bombardment, this'd be the one. The real question is how good they'll be at spotting the shelters. The hard locations will shrug off anything that doesn't come really close, but if they start throwing capital ship fire around in the areas your troops are dug in, the softer large-area shelters, you're going to lose people. But they can only throw so much artillery, and as long as we observe good emissions discipline, I doubt they'll really manage to cripple the defense before they land troops- at which point they have to start being more careful anyway. So don't worry, sir. I think you'll get the ground battle you want, once the real fun is over."

Real fun... Weavel just could not grasp that mindset; he wasn't sure he wanted to.

[Simon_Jester]

AUTHOR'S DISCLAIMER:

For purposes of making this scene and some of the ones following more entertaining, I will make a number of references to the Richter magnitude scale, as it might be applied from the point of view of specialists in planetary bombardment. I do this purely for art's sake, and with no intention of anyone doing calculations based on my references.

While the figures cited do accurately represent my own internal mental image of what the weapons being deployed here are capable of, they should not be interpreted as binding on any other person, under any other conditions, or even on me later on should I choose to ignore them. They are not "canon" in any strict sense of the word. Should you the reader choose to pretend otherwise, it will serve only to prove that your brain is a spherical mass of iron.

And now back to our regularly scheduled bombing. Recommended listening: Third movement of Nielsen's Fourth Symphony

---

Tourian Command Center, Zebes
1505 Hours Coalition Fleet Standard Time.

"They're spreading out, looks like they'll start shooting soon."

Weavel checked the human renegade's display. Eight of the Prussian battleships were taking up positions near the corners of a cube boxing in the planet, while two others- damaged, perhaps- hung back.

"You have the hookups on the big board ready?"

"Of course. I know your color perception isn't the same as mine, so I've got my own code programmed on my console, but for the big board I used a one-to-one mapping to your preferences. Shot energy is measured red to bl- ah, low frequency to high; location and damage radius according to the seismographs and other detectors is the spot size."

"You told me to expect impactors?"

"Yeah, dumb rounds from the battleship railguns. Airburst nukes are possible too, and bet on thermobarics because Fritz loves 'em to death, but I think most of the gigatonnage will be solid shot. Color scale is logarithmic, based off a scale we invented to measure earthquake energy releases. It should give a pretty good idea, all things considered. Impact energy listed alongside, in you guys' units."

"Very well, human. Keep me posted on anything of importance to the defense- you've read these plots more often than I, it seems." The specialist replied with an uncanny twist of the arms that made him look as if he'd just dislocated his own shoulders; Galstandard English called it a 'shrug.'

"A few live-fire exercises now and then, lots of simulations. You get used to analyzing the significance of the hits. Five megatons in the right place means a lot more than fifty in the wrong place. I'll keep you posted... ah, shit."

The rogue Umerian slapped a button on his display; Weavel heard the distant sound of alert horns. The human called out: "First rounds incoming, already sent the 'impact imminent' alert for you."

"Good."

The moment was tense. On the main display, drab green circles started blossoming at points all over the planet. "Aaaand we've got a string of hits, seven point nine Richters, marching up the Tourian range at us- drumfire from a battleship, brace yourself."

Twenty seconds later the first tremor arrived- heavily damped, barely noticeable in the command center. But the leading wave hadn't even dispersed when the next one hit, and the next. Weavel gripped the arms of his chair and prayed to all the gods that the ceiling wouldn't collapse as the room shuddered harder and harder, like an earthquake that kept ratcheting upward in 3/4 time. But then the shaking started to fade. The tempo of the strikes dropped off, the intensity with it... almost an anticlimax, really.

"They dropped those right along the crest of the main ridge- I think they were just pounding the mountains on general principles, not aiming for us in particular. Your troops in the foothills should be okay unless they decided to go topside for a smoke and didn't hear the alert. I'm a little worried about the labor barracks too, but they should hold out for now."

"The other caves?" Weavel felt a strange exhilaration at having just survived an onslaught of literally mountain-shaking force; he began to understand why the human had chosen to stay behind.

"I... wouldn't want to be in the un-reinforced caverns. Not without one hell of an escape plan."

"I pity; I was rather fond of some of the native lifeforms."

"Better them than us. Besides, there'll be plenty of survivors- it's just not somewhere I'd care to be spelunking at the moment. I'm picking up a lot of aftershocks- minor subsidence and cave-ins, but nothing colossal."

The main board was still being lit by flashes of dull green, battleship shots landing all over the planet on a fairly sporadic basis. The elaborate network of seismic wave detectors and air pressure measurement systems tracked the force of the impact, while Dr. Yamada tried to spot patterns and run damage assessments, coordinating the work of a battery of Urtraghan monitoring technicians he'd trained to the task.

Then there was a sudden, massive flare of blue-white near the upper edge of the big board- far brighter and covering more area than anything he'd seen before.

"Ah, crap. Nine point one Richters over on the north polar continent, must have been a full broadside. I think we can write off Battalion Barracks Eight-Two-Twelve... no, wait, I've still got signal from companies one, three, four, and... six! And they all laughed when I said I could design a large-population shelter that could ride out a Magnitude Nine at ten klicks! Hahaha!"

"My compliments."

"Thanks... Damn, they just dropped another broadside fifty klicks to the west of the first one. Nine point two, right on top of Sector Defense headquarters; they're less than a klick down, and in limestone. They're gone."

Weavel winced. A painful blow, though on the scale of a planet not a crippling one.

"And another one, but wide off target; I think the SAM sites will ride that one out... uh-oh, I see what they're doing. I think they're trying to pile up a shock wave, trigger some heavy tectonics."

"WHAT?"

"Fritz does that once in a while- throw something excessive, touch off mass casualties from environmental effects, then write it off as accidental collateral damage. Plausible deniability. Reminds me of something I read about from Volksland, only scaled up... but yeah, I'd be worried about that dormant supervolcano up there if I were you."

"We have to warn my men!"

"Of course. Drafting an advisory for everyone stationed on the polar continent; when it looks like she's gonna blow, we'd do best to order everyone in the area topside before the quakes hit them. We may have to displace some grunts to avoid any major lava flows or steam explosions, but that'll come later."

"This is very heavy fire; they've thrown what, a thousand rounds already?" It had been only a matter of minutes since the beginning of the bombardment.

"I think this is just to soften us up, really. All we're seeing so far is battleship fire; the smaller stuff will chime in when they can see targets small enough to nail with the smaller weapons, when they close in for landing operations and close support thereof. That'll be the really interesting part."

---

Valkyrie-class Battlecruiser SMS Brunhild
Flagship Sixth Battlecruiser Squadron
1527 Hours

Konteradmiral Reinhard von Musel watched the fireworks with disinterest, a magnified image of the planet taking pride of place on the main display. Most of the bridge crew were far more interested than he. There were occasional cheers from the crew when the brilliant flash of a broadside from one of the Kaiser-class battleships' railguns popped up, standing out briefly like a magnesium flare against the sickly yellow of the Zebesian surface. Reinhard gritted his teeth.

Kircheis turned to him almost immediately. "What's the matter?"

"This is a waste of time. What are we hitting? Spraying fire along random mountain ranges and with-luck-then-maybe targets? We could be here all day without even clearing a safe landing zone for the troops; if they're not returning fire at this range, we should move in until they do, so we have something to shoot at!"

Sadly, there was a plague besetting him: a plague of one large bacillus. Kommodore Nolden, assigned to him willy-nilly on the recommendation of the Admiralty, was... the only word was useless. He was obviously enjoying the show very much, looking cheerful and empty-headed. To Reinhard, Nolden's most common expression was the silly grin of a man who saw victory as a bloodless abstraction- and believed he'd earned it by a cleverness that in reality he did not possess. Worse yet, the fool had clearly overheard his remarks to Kircheis now, and had no interest in their privacy.

Nolden turned to Reinhard, a few paces away, and spoke, frowning. "You say they're incompetent, but they're doing their duty to the Fleet by suppressing the ground defenses. We, on the other hand, are just sitting up here and watching them work, eh, sir?"

Perhaps, just perhaps, he could reach the man. "That's the problem: we are sitting up here, and trying to suppress defenses that pose little threat to capital ships is a waste of energy. The lack of detectable large scale power sources on the planet, or of any return fire, suggests we take a bolder tack, rather than trying to drown them in shells from a light-second away."

"Ah. I see. Well, better safe than sorry." Nolden nodded, seemingly deferential, and turned back to watch the bombardment.

Reinhard sank back into his command chair, hand pressed to his temple. He still doesn't get it. Tactical cowardice, strategic foolhardiness, what has become of the fleet? It was too much to bear alone, so he inclined his head slightly to his aide, speaking softly. He could feel his frustration lend a hiss of anger to his voice, one that he couldn't muster the will to suppress. There was so much stupidity to cut through, so much nonsense, it was an endless, Sisyphean labor.

"Kircheis, praise me. Really, it's remarkable how much I've put up with these last two weeks. I feel like I'm using up a lifetime's supply of patience here."

Kircheis, bless him, nodded. "If you can be patient just a little longer, you'll be fine. If anything actually does go wrong, and the situation turns around through your tactics, even an idiot will see who was right. At that point-" he smiled- "you can gloat as much as you wish."

Hah. "Of course. Let's do that. But Kircheis..." Reinhard felt a smile crinkling his face. "...when I actually do gloat, this is what you'll say." His aide raised an eyebrow.

"You'll say, 'They now realize their misdeeds and are ashamed of them- so you should forgive them.' You're too kind, my friend; it's wasted on so many of them."

All Kircheis replied with was a shrug and a smile of his own.

Eh, well. Perhaps it will be all right after all.

[Alyrium Denryle]

City of Atuvir, Faust
The Centrality
Goddamn Unreal Time

After the bomb threat, the Ranoidean team had been evacuated by shuttle craft, and once the threat was cleared, they were returned to the games. Cerulea was the last contestant in the Precision Electrokinetics competition. The tesla coils activated, and he hopped gingerly to the stage naked, his skin colored a blue tinged green. Not that his nakedness mattered much, there were no external genitals to be embarassed about. He hopped through the storm of electrons until he got to the center, directing the energy around him harmlessly as he went. He looked smug, steeping his padded fingers together.



He found the idea of what he was about to do deliciously ironic. He was a professor of Music at Centerpond, and had taken an interest in ancient earth classical music. He loved how some of their music could literally conjure images, in much the same way his native language did in the minds of his own people. The convergence was uncanny. The ironic part was that he was about to perform this piece inside a fascist state.

He spoke, not through his voice, but through the electricity, the thrum of its power reverberating through the stadium

"This piece was originally performed in the concert hall of the besieged city of Leningrad, as the city was being bombed and shelled into rubble. Everyone in attendance was sure that this symphony would be the last music they ever heard. I give it to you, with a few minor additions."

He stood, and producing a baton strapped to his forearm raised his arms to his shoulders. The electric storm dulled to a whisper, reminiscent of the sounds heard as the audience murmured, and the orchestra positioned their instruments. Then the downbeat. The opening of the symphony conjured images of a happy, optimistic time in a bustling industrial city. Several minutes in, the happy tune began to slow, as in the background the first drumbeats of war could be heard, as well as the rumbling of distant bombs. Summer was turning to autumn as the music slowed further and took on a saddened tone. As the last string began to end, the drummers picked up as the string section began to pluck their instruments. The march to war, distant rumblings of future doom, as the city went about its productive life while western europe was plunged into war. Much less optimistic now, the melody sounded less pensive and more worried, the point and counter-point of the woodwinds conjuring the whispered concerns of the population.



The music then turned, the percussion section and the tempo picked up. The motherland had been invaded, and the valiant soldiers of the motherland were fighting a heroic but losing battle, burning fields, and making the invaders fight for ever meter of gain. The battle became more desperate and frenzied, until the invaders reached the city itself



Then the music slowed, becoming controlled by strings and the smaller woodwinds conjuring images of a depressed and downtrodden people, hanging onto survival and giving up all hope. Then it picked up again, as the brave city dwellers continued to live, and fight for their homeland, scoring minor victories, and suffering defeats in a desperate and feverish struggle for their homes, and their lives. Throughout this section could be heard the retort of gunfire, and the thundering booms of chemical explosives, the screams of the dying in appropriate places.















When the symphony finished, Cerulea bowed.

[Darkevilme]

HSF Victory Through Superior Providence, currently serving as Chamarran goods emporium in the Obscurum Nebula.

Designed to resupply the Chamarran Blade class stealth cruisers the Victory was not an ideal platform to act either as an emporium or as an intelligence facility. But the former failing had been for the most part corrected by the delivery of additional habitation modules while the latter had been resolved by the cold ingenuity of the detachment from the Bragulan intelligence service, who had improvised the exemplary current setup of interrogation chambers and prison cells with chilling ease given the limited resources on hand. It was once joked that if you left an IBGV agent alone on an island for a week you'd come back to find to a fully functioning Gulag with native wildlife serving as both guards and imprisoned dissidents.

“Sisters, brother. We have received three shipments from our useful friends so far, progress report please.” Risha settled on her cushioned resting bowl and looked over those assembled: Ein a lithesome kitty seemingly paying only half her attention to Risha and the rest to her data-reader, she was in charge of their logistics which was no small task so far from Hierarchy space. Sai, attentive but with mild fatigue showing in the movements of her tail and ears, no surprise given she was in charge of talking to the orks. Suria, only just getting settled and in charge of interrogations. And finally her Bragulan counterpart IBGV Tedhasivic, a hulking bear foregoing the cushioned bowls the Chamarrans favoured and instead standing to one side idly flicking a droplet of blood off his monocle. Risha had heard some of the kitties in interrogation refer to him as Mr. Teddy though despite his intimidating look he didn't seem to mind that over much.

Sai flicks a berry across the room to ping Ein's ear and then once she's got her attention speaks “We have had little trouble from our ork friends so far, we're well hidden here and the only ork vessel that's found us so far has proven agreeable to the business proposal we put to Grimmjaw. However.” she nods towards Ein who continues “However while Grimmjaw has been satisfied with his payments his spending habits have been contrary to expectations, he has not purchased nearly as much ordinance nor small arms as we had stocked for and he has made an unusual request that I am still working on a way to procure.”

“What has our green friend asked for Ein?” Risha says, body language speaking of curiousity. They'd considered Grimmjaw to be a regular war boss and stocked the emporium on the basis he'd be entirely interested in explosives and guns, but his success rate thus far and now this showed he may have a wit beneath that sloping brow that had not been anticipated.

“He's asked for a hyperdrive, military grade, super capital ship class.” Ein says and hmms “I can procure one though it will have to be shipped from our core systems.” Sai spoke up “I have already explained the additional expense to him but he seemed entirely set on the idea, it's probably best we don't disappoint him.”

“Agreed, Grimmjaw's usefulness has proven him worth placating. Ein you have permission to order the delivery of what he requires. Though none of his ships are in need of new hyperdrives or remotely that large correct?” Risha asks Sai, who nods.

“That is correct, however. I have some guesses as to what he wishes to use it for.” Sai says with a smile, a moment later Risha smiles as well as it comes to her as well.
“Well it's not our problem what he uses it for in any case, even if I wish him the best of luck.” Risha says with a chuckle and then turns towards Tedhasivic and Suria “What have you to report from working over the subjects?”

“They are weak and their leader foolish.” Spat Tedhasivic in disgust “Their leader promotes a religion that forbids dishonesty unilaterally. It's adherents are a waste of our talents.”

“Unfortunately this religion only holds sway amongst the uneducated members of their population, so intelligence gained from these easily compliant subjects is of limited value.” Suria adds and smiles “Though we are making headway with the more useful subjects through a combination of Esper guild assistance and the talents of our Bragulan friends.”

“Guild member Roth has commendable enthusiasm for his task. His probes have already yielded up useful information.” Teddy commented, indeed Roth's enthusiasm to inflict pain on his subjects made him an effective interrogator even without taking into accounts his psionic talents, but for him being a human Roth could have been a fine IBGV interrogator with the right training.

“So far we have interrogated seventy four subjects, mostly from civilian backgrounds though a few were ex-military. We have gleaned enough information to create a first draft report though this is only preliminary and not yet ready for dissemination to the Hierarchy, with your permission here are some highlights.” Suria says and activates the holo- projector.

“Information gathered from our ships in the field as to the holdings of the MEH have thus far been confirmed. However we have uncovered something that while unconfirmed may force us to reassess the naval forces of the MEH at least for the time being, subjects commonly have perspectives of MEHN vessels having defensive and offensive capabilities that exceed considerably our expectations based on their size. Although their perspective on their nation as a whole is suspect as some of their claims of MEH capabilities seem wildly hyperbolic and thus this may simply be propaganda at work in their own society, perhaps to improve morale. However without hard data we cannot rule out the possibility our estimates of their vessel capabilities are flawed.” Suria spoke as the projection showed the map of MEH space, followed by 3d reconstructions from pictures taken of MEHN vessels.

“We've also discovered that the MEH share some superficial similarities with the Solarian Sovereignty. Their military is if their claims are to be believed battle hardened and extremely aggressive, matching the tone of their foreign policy thus far. However their civilian sector is dominated by a robotic workforce that heavily automates most forms of labour and frees their populace outside of the military to live a life of decadence and trivial indulgences. This brings us to the most peculiar piece of technology in the MEH but one that we have no doubt exists, they call it the holodeck. This technology is by far the biggest form of entertainment in the MEH, unlike our holoprojectors the generators in a holodeck can create much higher resolution images and back them up with similarly fine precision forcefields to create solid holograms and make for full spectrum illusions. They seem to use this technology primarily to indulge in pornographic activities with virtual persons.” Suria continues, the projection now showing various artist impressions based on subject accounts of what a holodeck was like.

“The Solarians use virtual reality for similar purposes.” Risha said and then tail flicks “Why then does the MEH go to all this trouble and expense to achieve what the Solarians can do with implants?”

“I don't know, I asked the reverse engineering team and all they had was more questions and a headache as a result. I can't imagine what must of led the MEH down this path.” Suria says, somewhat vexxed from an analytical point of view that this problem remained so mysterious. Why would someone expend all that additional effort to assemble these holodecks, technological marvels though they were, and all the additional energy to power them when Solarian style virtual reality rigs were far less costly in terms of power consumption and could fit in a brief case. Medical scanning of subjects had already determined the MEH was not without cybernetic technologies and therefore clearly had the means to emulate the Solarian example so it wasn't like they had that excuse.It didn't make any sense and it rendered Suria even further ill-disposed towards the MEH for being so incomprehensible, why on all the myriad Earths in known space were they doing it this way.

“Yes it is a puzzle. Anything else?” asks Risha after a few moments restless thought.

“We have purchased at some expense a robot an Ork claimed as a trophy. These robots were the primary opposition on civilian ships. Disassembly indicates that they're in general terms a humanoid chassis designed to perform multiple roles although their control core was damaged too extensively for their programming to be recovered. The robot was referred to as a host by some of our subjects. These units are armed, a cutting laser has been mounted in one limb, however they appear to be primarily a utility and service robot with the combat capability tacked on as an afterthought. The design has insufficient power output to fire the laser more than sporadically and its defences are minimal. We should assume that if they have combat automatons in their arsenal they will be more effective than this model is estimated to be based on Ork accounts of encountering them. That concludes our preliminary report, we will have more information and a finished draft within 2 galstandard weeks.”Suria says.
Risha considers and then nods “Very well, meeting dismissed. I look forward to seeing your reports.”
Suria then turns to Teddy “Now I believe we left subject 47 in the hands of group B did we not, shall we see how they're doing?”
Tedhasivic cracks a smile “Da. Lead on.” And with that the meeting was adjourned, the four chiefs leaving the chief in chief to watch the stars and mull over their progress.

Interrogation cell B, The Victory.

Cad Willard was not a happy man, and it had nothing to do with him being called Cad Willard. He'd spent the past few days starving amidst a press of bodies and human filth packed like sardines aboard the Ork ship that had set upon his own and then later starving in barely a barely less cramped holding cells with with the only other difference being his jailors being nicer to look at. Now though their appearance was scant comfort, his wrists burning from the bonds holding him up and his eyes and cuts stinging from blood and the still unwashed filth clinging to his naked form. For the past few hours Cad Willard had been under the ministrations of the jailors he'd admired passively from afar, enduring the torments yet begging inwardly for this nightmare to relent.

Had Cad known what was to come though he would have gladly savoured his current nightmare till the end of time. The hatchway of the interrogation cell opens, Cad blinking to clear his eyes and peering blearily, seeing at first a gleaming reflective circle in the furry shadow filling the door. Then that shadow moved into the room and spoke in a language that the MEHnite did not understand “Is he still not talking?” “No Mr. Teddy.” one of his jailors answered. Tedhasivic grins “Good, this wouldn't be nearly as educational if he had.” he says and walks closer, when he spoke next Cad could understand him and what he said made the sweet freeze on his skin “Number forty seven, you have thus far resisted the efforts of my colleagues. Please continue to do so for the duration of the lesson...” the hulking bear said and then wipes his monocle “Now, let us begin. My name is Teddhasivic, and this..” he says, setting a black bag on the nearby trolley “Is my magic murder bag.” he then opened the bag up. Cad's eyes widening at the sight of the assorted implements glimpsed gleaming inside the bag.

“Now kitties, watch closely...” the bear stated as he wished a tool out of the bag and turned towards the human, and soon after Cad wished with all his heart that if he screamed help would come.

[MKSheppard]

[deletedes]

[Steve]

Shadoshroom's Everlasting Glory, En Route to Koprulu Space
Outer Rimward Trunk, Sector EE-14
19 September 3400


They were a week out from the Feelipeens. Zara and the other fighters had spent that time in their cells, moved en masse into the cargo hold of a large transport commissioned by General Julia's Shadoshroom Organization. The nearby cargo hold held their training gear, with each fighter required to put in requisite laps and training to maintain themselves in top form now that they were not fighting.

Zara was laying against the transparent steel wall separating her from Shroomka's cell. The mutated human was laying quietly on his cot, partially sedated to keep him tranquil. Despite the null field pervading the cargo hold Zara thought that, with effort, she could breach it enough to feel his mind. Below the programming that General Julia's scientists and programmers had placed in his mind, there was a sliver of original self remaining, something she hoped to tap.

She knew Toph was "observing", at least audibly since the null field prevented her mind from viewing for her blind eyes. "Are you still trying to get through to him?", she asked.

Zara drew in a breath. Blood was trickling from her right nostril, courtesy of a burst capillary from the sheer pressure she was exerting against the null field. With her head aching and her focus waning she made herself stop. "I think, with time, I might," Zara sighed. "But not with the null field. I'm just not powerful enough to fight through it and the layer of programming."

"Well, good luck. If you win your next bout, you're going to have to fight him. And after what he did to that Thanagarian..."

Zara tried not to think about it. Shroomka had faced a Thanagarian in the third round and, well, the poor man might have been better off dead compared to what Shroomka did to him...

"You know, it's one thing to fight in front of other Humans, but Bragulans? They're going to be even worse," Toph continued.

"I don't know. One expects Bragulans to enjoy Humans killing each other in blood sport, but for Humans to do so..." Zara drew in a sigh and stumbled back to her bed. The sleep cycle was coming and training would resume fresh in the morning. She didn't want to do anything to give away her attempts to reach Shroomka.

[Tanasinn]

IVS Tsvak-Ka-Vik
Sector H6
Near Pirate Bazaar, Waypoint 636

As Tsveet-Skik-Bisk watched the commander repeatedly bring his taloned foot down on the would-be challenger's throat, it occurred to him that the characterization of his people as violent by the galaxy at large was, perhaps, not entirely uncalled-for. It was the third such challenge the commander had faced since being put in charge of this task force. He had shown mercy the first two times, sending his badly-injured opponents first to the infirmary and then to appropriately miserable new tasks. This time, as Tsveet watched the commander continue stomping, it seemed that he was somewhat upset. And why not? By now he'd rearranged his command staff to his own desire; the first two Vrak that had challenged him had been part of this task force's old structure. This third and latest challenger Commander Tsvisk-Vissk-Kisk had previously selected and assigned personally, and that reflected back on his own sense of judgement.

Well, there he goes, Tsveet thought dispassionately as the third challenger stopped struggling entirely; dead, most certainly. The commander didn't even need to bark an order to his bridge crew - a pair of marines entered the bridge, picked up the corpse, and whisked it away for disposal. The commander, for his part, didn't bother with any bombastic words or threats; he straightened his long-greyed quills and rolled his shoulders before turning back to Tsveet, obviously intent on resuming the conversation where they had left off. The humans had a saying - "Actions speak louder than words." The Vrak had it too, "Don't talk, act." Words that the commander, at least, considered worth living by.

"You were reporting, Skik-Bisk," the commander said, tone surprisingly calm despite the fight, "On fleet readiness, I believe?"

'Believe' nothing, you KNOW, Tsveet thought, but continued, "Yes, commander. As I was saying, my examination of progress reports submitted by your subordinates leads me to believe that we are, in fact, within acceptable readiness if we receive an enemy attack. Integration with station command took longer than we expected, with the mish-mash of races and differing ideas of command, but we now see eye-to-eye. Checks have been run on communication with the mine field; command authority has been removed from the station and transferred directly here, to the Tsvak. Comms and system coordination between the, ah, standard warships and our improvised models has been ironed out. Other local pirate vessels - though there aren't any to speak of, at the moment - have refused integration under our command even in an emergency, as station authorities predicted."

"To be expected," the commander said sarcastically, "After all, what are we being paid for?" he paused a beat, "My own review concurs, Skik-Bisk. You are dismissed."

The younger Vrak gave a salute, "On your word, sir," he turned to leave the bridge. It occured to him that, not too long ago, he had bristled at acting as the commander's assistant. To think that he'd be subordinated to a disgraced, graying old relic! Of course, there were two (well, three) examples now of what happened to young, competent, confident Vrak who thought they could dismiss the commander as unfit to command. Part of it, he supposed, was resentment at being posted out here well away from the Empire aboard a ship uparmored from a civilian freighter. As much as he and other young officers who had been on the wrong side of politics or had lacked enthusiasm when the coup came chafed under punishment duties, he knew the commander had it worse. To go from a senior commander aboard a proud Vrak warship to lord of a merchant ship and a handful of light riff-raff guarding a pirate bazaar, that was a fall both far and hard. It occured to Tsveet that the commander, when this deployment was over, would probably be quietly shuffled off to a political concentration camp and never seen again; that's what happened to most of the old guard as the Empire found new tools to replace them. It would explain why the elder Vrak had named their "warship" after the new emperor, ostensibly a show of dedication but really one of contempt. Whatever the commander's fate, Tsveet had come to appreciate him, old and washed-up or not. It took a special kind of Vrak to maintain discipline in a posting like this, and if enemy vessels came knocking, it would take a special kind of commander to secure victory.

Or so he felt, anyway.

Anya Paterson-class Battlecruiser FNS Cataphract
Sector H6
Deep Space

Now was the time. Battle plans had been distributed, drives had been charged, systems had been checked and rechecked; the same was true, Commodore Brookes knew, of the Atlantean forces, as the communique she had just received indicated. All that was left was to do it. There, of course, was the sticking point. One could plan and prepare all one liked, but as wise men were prone to saying, no mere plan survived contact with battlefield conditions. Considering that lives were on the line - to say nothing of diplomatic relations with other coalition forces and her own career - she hoped to prove wise men wrong, at least for once.

She wasn't counting on it.

"Patch me through to the squadron, video and audio," Brookes snapped to her communications officer; straightening her cap and drawing herself up to her full height reflexively, she awaited the chime that would indicate the feed was life. A moment later, it came.

"Fellow soldiers of the Humanist Union, men and women - today we strike the first blow in a decapitating strike. That this pirate syndicate has cost the lives of Humanist citizens needs no refreshing - but more than that, they are an international menace, an infection on the hide of the spinward region that needs treatment. We are that treatment. Today remember that not only your own lives are at stake, not only Humanist lives; but also the lives of men and women victimized by these pirates everywhere. Remember the character of the International Ideal: together as one. Those who do not eradicate vermin will otherwise drown in them," Brookes paused, as if considering; in reality, she simply wanted to isolate the political rhetoric from her next statement, "Many of you are untested in battle; many of you have seen no real fleet action outside of exercises. Do not doubt yourselves; I have served alongside you in the past weeks and have the utmost confidence in you, from commander to shipsman. You will succeed. I expect no less," another brief pause, "All ships, prepare for transition."

With that, the feed cut off. Unbidden, Voronin, Brookes' flag captain, spoke up, "That will play well back home. The proper politics for the politicians, the proper 'don't piss your pants' for the soldiers."

Brookes gave the older man a brief smile as she sat in her command chair, "Glad you think so, Ivan. As the saying goes though, actions speak louder than words. Communications? Send the message. Transition in three minutes. Time to act."

Pirate Bazaar, Waypoint 636
Sector H6
Command Deck

Sensors officer Kitterson was having a bad day, and it had just gotten worse. The man spoke the words no sensors officer wants to find themselves saying to the deck officer, a weirdly worm-like Kask, "Sir," Kitterson said, though his kind were hermaphrodites, "Sensors indicate a large unknown contact inbound; ETA is two minutes."

The deck commander hissed into his translator, and it generated an appropriately human - and even surprised-sounding - reply, "Friendly vessels?"

"Unknown sir, no scheduled movements of this size for today."

"Military?"

"Unknown sir, contact size would indicate-"

"Would indicate," a third voice broke in, "That we're about to be 'fucked,' as humans say," this was the Vrak military 'advisor,' an officer the Vrak Empire had insisted be included among their personnel if their navy was to accept a contract to work with the pirates. Anyone with a brain knew he was there to take over if things went south; the Vrak had sent real military vessels to this contract, albiet small ones. The Vrak ignored the Kask commander's venemous stare - anyway, Kitterson assumed it was venemous - and barked an order, "Notify defensive assets that we have incoming military-grade hostiles. Flash-charge the shields to maximum capacity, draw it from any systems you have to. Patch me through directly to Commander Vissk-Kisk."

Say what you would about the crew of the pirate bazaar station - they were efficient. The Vrak commander, an ancient-looking example of his species, had seen to that, though it had annoyed the station brass, their own superiors had agreed with the mercenary commander.

Vissk-Kisk never bothered with visual feeds, and when his harsh voice came over the speakers, the command deck crew jumped as if goosed. Kitterson hated the chirpy, birdy Vrak language, but Vissk-Kisk was a particularly grating example, "This is Vissk-Kisk," he said, unnecessarily; most everyone knew that voice by now, "We have received your transmission and are moving into formation. Expect battle readiness in one-point-five minutes. Request contact information be relayed to my ship immediately," Kitterson didn't wait for the order from station staff. A moment later, Vissk-Kisk spoke up again, "Humanists, I'd guess. Prepare for heavy missile and mass driver bombardment."

The Humanist Union, then? Weren't they supposed to be isolationist and conservative? Kitterson didn't ask how Vissk-Kisk knew, his mind was already on the next pertinent point. He recalled from an issue of Jayne's what a Humanist ship was like: a stick attached to a drive section, bristling with weapons, looking like nothing so much as a flying rifle. That was because, in a way, they were flying rifles, with the spinal-mounted siege railguns anything above cruiser-sized mounted.

Waypoint 636 had no real ability to maneuver. This day was about to get worse.

[Simon_Jester]

Recommended listening: Fourth movement of Nielsen's Fourth Symphony.

Tourian Command Center, Zebes
1550 Hours Coalition Fleet Standard Time

"I give 'em full marks for persistence. I'd expected them to stop when they passed one kiloton per square kilometer, but nooo. " Dr. Yamada gestured up at the main plot, where lines of yellow and orange had already blossomed along many of the planet's major fault lines- relatively minor earthquakes set off by the endless abuse. The drab greens were everywhere, battleship rounds landing every second.

"How much more can we take?"

"Lots, for the hardpoints. Their aim's still none too good. But that semi-random grid pattern fire isn't doing the troop shelters any good; structural caution alarms are already going off in a lot of places. Your ground forces are really going to feel it if they don't decide to make landfall in the next twenty minutes or so."

"What do you predict?"

"No way to be sure; they seem to be enjoying this too much. But they can't keep it up forever- those ships only carry so much ammunition. If it comes to it, at this rate, unless my ammunition figures are way off, they'll run out of bullets before we run out of stuff to prop the roof up with, at least on the Class Three and up shelters."

"Good."

"...Unless they bring up a fleet resupply train and decide to settle in for the long haul. But if they were going to do that, why bother bringing the troopships along with them?"

"...Is that another barrage along the crest?"

"Oh shit." The renegade's hand slapped another button; alarms blared. Once again, the command center shook to the distant sound of multimegaton blasts, kilometers overhead and kilometers away. Once again, no real damage.

"HA! Told you they weren't going to be able to pinpoint us!"

"Your subspace relays do seem to have them misdirected. I'm glad we aren't in the decoy site."

"What decoy site?" The Umerian chuckled.

"The one you had us dig... oh." It was a feeble jest. That site was hundreds of kilometers from anything of consequence but made to look like a dug-in command center to orbital sensors, with none of the masking put up over the Tourian facilities. After the last few broadsides to land on it, there probably wasn't much left of the cave-riddled mountain it had been buried under.

As it turned out, the Prussian battleships kept pounding Zebes for another ten minutes before Second Fleet began to move, spiraling inward towards the planet. The human troopships began releasing their swarms of landing craft. The battleship fire continued, yes, but at a greatly reduced rate.

Weavel was relieved- at last his men would be able to come to grips with the invaders.

The moment of truth was fast approaching, when his ground defenses would open fire on the enemy fleet. Like poor Frugus, Weavel had ordered his command to concentrate on the invasion forces: the more they could damage and disrupt the landings, the better his troops' odds of being able to hold out against the humans' great numbers... and to maneuver into positions where the humans' orbital fire support would not avail them.

---

Dropship 17-483
Approaching Low Zebesian Orbit
1613 Hours

There was no surface fire; that made Ensign Anna Schmidt, Imperial Navy Transport Command, nervous. The invasion force had suffered badly on the approach- two transports destroyed and several others badly damaged- and that had rattled her nerves. The Zebesians were unnaturally well prepared in space; what were the odds they weren't prepared on the ground, too?

That was when the radar detection systems started pinging.

Oh, shit! Her dropship was carrying a full Hussar armored company, which made trying to sideslip incoming fire a bit problematic, but she gave it her best shot anyway. Her copilot was quick too, firing up the shuttle's ECM pod.

Prototype Zebesian planetary defense gun; final version uses disappearing turret mount

The radar apparently decided she was an unpalatable target and chose to go pick a fight with the next ship over. She could see a few flashes from the planetary surface just beyond the terminator, much dimmer than the blazing impacts of the battleship rounds...

Her headphones buzzed. "All boats, full defensive protocol!" Well, better the squadron leader react late than never. She was already pulling as much from her shuttle's defenses as they were worth, and she wished once again that her dropship class had shielding...

"BOOM! AAAAAA-"

Her copilot looked around reflexively; more experienced, Anna checked the main plot on her display... then the squadron leader came on the net, to remove any question of what had happened. "We've lost Boat Six!"

Oh, shit. Weren't they the ones carrying the regimental headquarters...?

And then, just to make the day complete, her radar detection module started pinging again. Vigorously.

"Warning. Warning. Missile lock detected. Missile lock detected."

---

Tourian Command Center, Zebes
1619 Hours

The chief commander of defense batteries, a role separate from Yamada's, shouted to Weavel in a state of near panic. "SHIT! I'm not getting launch confirmation from the missile batteries! No, I take that back, some of them are firing, but... just over five percent!"

"Blaspheming kitchen-foulers! What's wrong?" Weavel turned to the weapons officers, snarling and questioning. He received no coherent reply- the commands had been sent, the receipt confirmed... but the missiles had proven inert, sitting in place on their launchers and doing nothing.

Now his ire was aimed at the renegade, Yamada- he was the only being in this room who had any direct association with Boskone. They'd sent him here, they had supplied the missiles; perhaps he knew the reason for this massive failure.

"Tell me quickly, human, what is the meaning of this? I have several thousand missile launches to make, and the batteries aren't answering the firing commands!"

"I don't know, Marshal. We tested those things ourselves, you saw some test firings. I'd talk to your shipment people if I were you. We've still got target lock from the dud launchers, though- weird. They're pinging targets on radar but... ah boy. Should have seen that coming."

Weavel turned to the main plot, where yellow-orange sparks indicating fire from the Prussians' lighter warships were now appearing all over the planet... in great quantity.

---

Valkyrie-class Battlecruiser SMS Brunhild
Flagship Sixth Battlecruiser Squadron
1621 Hours

Brunhild shook only slightly as the forward main battery guns fired single shots, trying to take down the Zebesian anti-lander weapons that had revealed themselves. This had not been unexpected, and the mission of taking down the enemy's light defensive weapons had been tasked to the battlecruisers and destroyers of Second Fleet well in advance- but the raiders' defenses were turning out to be very difficult to suppress. They had a nasty habit of not dying when you shot them, even from rounds that had to have landed within a few tens of meters of the firing position. Reinhard had to admit this was rather surprising, given that he was shooting them with hypervelocity impactors from his main battery. He'd already ordered per-shot energy dialed up closer to what he'd use for antiship operations, and it still looked like it was going to take a while to put the things down.

"Sir, new fire plan from the flagship! Missile batteries on the surface, thousands of them!"

Reinhard's main tactical display showed only a modest number of sites around the planet firing- probably dispersed and underground launchers. Fleet point defense was trying to engage them before they reached the dropships. It was more difficult than it should have been with proper fighter support, yes, but hardly the crisis they'd be seeing if there were thousands of launchers.

What was von Mückenberger thinking? Perhaps... Reinhard set his displays to look for emissions rather than confirmed targets. Ah-ha!

While there might only be a few dozen batteries around the planet, there were countless radar transmitters... which the other battlecruiser squadrons were already engaging, at maximum rate of fire in an attempt to suppress the launch sites before the missiles fired.

It made no tactical sense, though. Anything above the surface would be battered now that they'd revealed themselves; if the launchers were there at all they would be firing now... He looked to Kircheis, still sitting at his right hand. The expression dawning on his face was all the confirmation Reinhard needed.

"Signals, order to all ships, hold fire on enemy missile sites until further orders. Then, put me through to Admiral von Mückenberger at once."

There was only a brief pause before he was answered.

"What do you want? And why aren't your ships firing to the Fleet plan like the rest?"

"Admiral, it's a trick. You're firing at decoys."

"Nonsense, boy! Your ships are the ones with the mountains of EW equipment; you can see those emitters as well as I do!"

Patience. I must have patience, or all other virtues are in vain. "Sir, look at how many of those sites aren't firing. There are dummy launchers scattered all over the planet; it's a waste of time trying to engage them without taking the effort to pick out the ones with functional missiles." That wouldn't be easy- much of Zebes was already shrouded in clouds of dust thrown up by the battleship bombardment; visual confirmation was practically impossible.

"What does it matter? We have the numbers, we have the firepower, to simply drown them in railgun fire. We'll get the real defense sites too, and without the risk of missing anything!" And at this, von Mückenberger cut the channel.

Reinhard sat frozen for a time. Then he took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He turned to the signals section once again, slowly and formally.

"Cut the following order to the Sixth, the Eleventh, and the Twenty-Third: All ships, this is Squadron Command. Fire only on positions confirmed to house enemy batteries. Apply maximum possible discrimination to avoid being fooled by decoy missile launchers with targeting radars. Repeat, apply maximum possible discrimination."

---

Dropship 17-483
Flying At Low Altitude
1637 Hours

Oh shit!

Ensign Anna Schmidt dipped her dropship into a convenient crater from one of the battleship strikes just in time to fool the incoming missile. This was a lighter one, probably shoulder or light vehicle-fired, and her boat might have been able to tank it without losing anything important... but she was just as happy to have a big pile of hot rock between herself and the launcher. They were close to the landing zone, and it turned out that the bombardment hadn't managed to suppress the Zebesian ground troops.

As the point formations of air-dropped Panzergrenadier vehicles made landfall, enemy troops had come swarming up to meet them from underground bunkers scattered all over the landscape. In some places, the nearest bunkers were far enough away from the landing positions that calls for orbital fire had been able to flatten them; in others... not so much. The enemy troops were well equipped, with altogether too many large-caliber energy weapons for comfort; there were a few scars on the outer hull from ground fire already and it was mostly luck nothing had penetrated into the cargo bay.

She flew low across the terrain to avoid coming under fire from those damn coilguns- some of them had survived everything the lighter ships could throw, or held fire until the landings had already begun and only then started shooting at targets within the atmosphere, at ranges too close to dodge. Now that troops were on the surface they couldn't count on battleship support to blast apart the dug-in turret positions- but she was within twenty kilometers of the landing zone secured by the pathfinders already, and if they could just get an armored offensive mobilized...

Having lost the regimental headquarters wasn't going to help with that, she feared.

---

Tourian Command Center, Zebes
1640 Hours

"It's confirmed sir, the humans have made landfall in locations all over the planet. Our forces are moving out to engage them."

"Is their orbital bombardment causing trouble for our troops?"

"Not so much; as you expected, they're reluctant to use heavy railgun or nuclear fire."

"What about their thermobarics?"

"To troops in the open, well away from the surface, might as well be low-end nuclear- we've mostly had armored units engaging in the open, though, and they can survive fairly well outside the immediate blast. And these strange Prussian weaponse have had poor luck with the gun turrets."

Dr. Yamada, who had come to understand the Urtraghan tongue though he lacked the physical features to speak it properly, chuckled. The renegade had done a good job with the heavily protected disappearing turrets, and was obviously enjoying watching them repel fire from the Prussian lighter ships.

The Prussian landing zones were distributed across the planet. With his own troops concentrated around the Tourian range, he hoped he could inflict more heavy losses on them in this area- with luck, make them cautious about routing out his remaining positions, but convince them that this was an area worth fighting over. He wanted a long, slow siege. In theory they might flatten everything from orbit, but his entire campaign was gambling on the theory that the Coalition would insist on trying to recover intelligence and captives from the core of his position, rather than simply obliterating it.

The strategy had been forced on him by a lack of heavy antiship weapons and theater shielding, but he was fairly optimistic that it would work long enough to impose serious delays on the humans' offensive.

He turned once again to Yamada. "Your guns and bunkers are doing well, human. You have my gratitude."

"Thanks. But those damned missiles... still don't know what went wrong..."

"Indeed. I wonder if... No."

Weavel's eyes blazed as he realized what must have happened.

"Doctor Yamada, I think I know something."

Failing to read the Urtraghan's body language, the human seemed unalarmed... stupidly so. "Eh?"

"Remember the traitors assigned to support Frugus's forces? Those are hulls of a Boskone-provided type... with crews that keep to themselves mostly, supplied mostly by Boskonian cargo ships. The missiles, likewise, came from Boskone. And only the Boskonians know where my deep space hyperwave relays are, the ones that are now cut! I have been BETRAYED!"

With a snarl of rage, he stepped towards the rogue Umerian, supplied to him by Boskonian offices.

The alien stood, seemingly fearless. "Defenses of my design have been fuel-aired, nuked, and railgunned, and we're still shooting back. Go ahead if you must, Marshal. It's a good day to die."

"KRRAAAAA!" Weavel's fist lashed out into the wall. He felt a slight crunch in his hand, and a matching crunch from the wall, but didn't care; he was that angry. "No. You are not responsible. You have helped me to the limit of your abilities, and I find it difficult to believe you capable of keeping any important secret for long, human. Whatever I words and deeds I may have for Boskone, I do not blame you. And I need your skills."

"I'll get back to work then."

"See that you do. I will speak with your master." Yamada, apparently realizing how narrowly he'd been spared death, said nothing in reply.

At first, Weavel feared that the submesonic transponder Helmuth had provided him would not work- that would be of a piece with the rest. But it did, and once again he saw the blurred image of Helmuth's tentacled secretary. "Greetings, Weavel of Urtraghus. Helmuth can be with you shortly, unless this is a routine matter?"

"The enemy has closed on my position, cut me off, and is already beginning landing operations. I must speak with Helmuth; it is urgent!"

"Helmuth is already arranging vital matters related to your situation. He will have made the relevant orders very soon, within a few hectoseconds at most. Until that time, I invite you to partake of a sampling of work by my race's greatest composers."

"This is intolerable! The reinforcements you sent me deserted! The missiles you gave me don't work! I've lost communications with Urtraghus, and my planet is being bombarded by countless megatons of orbital gunfire as we speak! I demand to speak to Helmuth!"

All he received for a reply was an endless loop of Boskonian call waiting music.

---

SMS Brunhild
1700 Hours

"Sir, word to all flag officers, Field Marshal Mohlmann is reporting that the landing zones are secure and free from serious enemy fire; offensives to take out enemy fire positions and space-defense weapons nearby are underway!"

Reinhard, watching from orbit, was not so confident. But aside from troubling reports around one of the planets' major mountain ranges, it did seem that the ground troops were making adequate progress. An army of eight million men could not be denied indefinitely, after all. Still, while land warfare wasn't his specialty, but he was worried about that mountain range; the comm chatter his ships had picked up from that region sounded more boastful and empty than the ones from other continents...

"Sir?" That was Kircheis, breaking him out of his contemplation of the situation on the ground.

"Yes?"

"You were saying something earlier about our fuel and ammunition reserves being wasted on the bombardment... I've been compiling some data on the other ships' consumption, and it doesn't look good."

The danger of the ships taking significant ground fire largely gone; even those troublesome coilgun turrets, some of which were still firing, weren't dangerous to capital ships. Kircheis apparently wasn't satisfied with electronic transfer; he actually stood up to pass his admiral the dataslate. Reinhard looked down.

"...an understatement!" Kircheis nodded.

This made it urgent, he had to get this through von Mückenberger's skull...

"Signals, I need a channel to Prinzregent Luitpold at once!" Despite their unpleasant exchange earlier, the admiral seemed happy enough to see him. Perhaps what he would surely see as a victory had buoyed his temper.

Lie to him. Butter him up. He has to hear this, damn him.

The words felt impossibly bitter in his mouth. "I called to congratulate you on a battle... well fought, sir."

"Why thank you, young man! It's good to see you come around at last, and show proper appreciation for a well planned engagement."

"Also, I would like to be sure I understand our situation."

Normally that would have tripped von Mückenberger's suspicions and irritation, but he seemed to have been mollified. Thinking he'd just won a great battle must put him in a good mood indeed.

"Ja?"

"The battleships have fired off virtually all their missiles; the heavy cruisers most of theirs, and what remains is largely specialized ground support munitions. Railgun ships are down to an average of 35% ammunition remaining, and that's including my own ships which are at 60%. Due to the energy consumed in the fleet battle and the bombardment, fleet fuel supplies are at 25%, and we will require refueling before we can return to the fleet anchorage."

"Heh, heh, yes. You can't fight a battle without using resources, my boy. But don't worry, there's a resupply convoy coming with plenty of fuel and ammunition for all our ships."

"Yes sir. Which is why I'd been meaning to ask. Looking at our order of battle, all our ships are here. And if we're all here, then who's guarding the convoy?"

Mückenberger blinked. "Look at the size of the fleet we defeated! That's every ship the Zebesians have ever been seen to have, and more! They were all here defending Zebes like proper Zebesians, not back up the chain. And now we have beaten them; we have them on the run!"

"I see, sir. So we're in hostile territory, pinned into position by landing operations. Our supplies of fuel and ammunition nearly exhausted, and our entire resupply hinges on an undefended convoy. Meanwhile, the majority of the enemy's known ships have escaped to quarters unknown, and we have little or no information on enemy dispositions in the nearby stars."

"Well, you could put it that way, but I don't think there's any cause for alarm. I don't see a problem. We've broken the Zebesians in space, and the splinters will not cause trouble again for some time!" Von Mückenberger's face was split by a mighty grin.

WHAT?

Reinhard felt stunned. Even when it was put to him point blank, he didn't see a problem? Eyes unseeing, he muttered... something on autopilot, he could never remember what afterward, to von Mückenberger as a farewell. He shut off the viewer and sank his face into his hands. This was beyond a blunder. It was beyond shameful. It was... There is no word for this, this is madness, what has become of the Fleet that this is even possible?

"Sir? Are you all right?"

Reinhard looked up... into worried gray eyes.

Thank God. Reinhard rose to his feet with a convulsive heave, then looked at his aide again. He reached out and squeezed Kircheis's arm.

"Kircheis... sometimes I think that I am the only sane man in the universe. It is not a pleasant thought. And then I see you, and I know that it's not true, and that am not alone."

He nodded. "Thank you. Ah, were you thinking what I'm thinking...?"

"Were you thinking about what our stalwart commander said about the resupply convoy?"

"Yes."

"Then yes, I am. We are about to witness a strategic masterstroke, my friend. I only wish it were going to happen to the enemy, instead of to us."

[Shroom Man 777]

MERRY BEEEFMAS!

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

The BEEEF began in earnest. Initially planned to begin sometime in August or September, the sudden surge of participants posed a perplexing plague of pondersome problems, from the security arrangements needed to watch the Solarian guests who were undoubtedly all CEID spies to a man, to ensuring adequately-sized toilet facilities for Kipakt NenAltKik guests whose leavings were even greater than that of mighty Bragulans, and manufacturing chrome seashells in enough numbers to meet the needs of Bragule's new Umerian allies. Then there was the sudden appearance of the Refuge, and more preparations were had to accommodate their birdie avianoids and blobby amoebanoids. Some of the guests were easier to accommodate though, such as the ever-adorable Chamarrans who had made arrangements punctually, the Karlacks whose predatory proclivities were already well known, and Bragulanity's good friends the Shepistanis. Still, in the end, the expo had been bushed back for two months, but now, finally, the BEEEF cometh!



The world Vlyadibragstok had been chosen due to two seemingly conflicting attributes - first being the requirement of a world distant and unimportant enough so that no vital Bragulan assets could be scrutinized by the countless alien agents attempting to infiltrate the event; second being the need to show the marvelous glouries of Bragulanity, like the massive cities and habs fumigated with pollutants, the endless factories pumping poisons into the air, the radioactive red-zones, and all the other triumphs of Byzonism to suitably impress the Imperator's visitors and show the greatness of the Star Empire.

In that end, Vlyadibragstok had been chosen because it was a suitable compromise between these two extremes, for it was in Severnaya, a relative backwater colony sector compared to the likes of Kirensk mid-sector or the throne-worlds of Bragule. Yet its proximity to the Lena core-sector meant that the world was also a semi-developed hub of outbound Bragulan trade towards Altacar and the outside galaxy, while possessing only a modest military presence.

Vlyadibragstok was also the site of significant Byzonist history, for in ancient times the world was bristling with great megapoli that strove to match that of the Lena core-worlds, until the Great Civil War saw the complete decimation of the planet and the irradiation of its original decadent beargeoise pigbear inhabitants at the hands of none other than Byzon the Dear Liberator. In the reconstruction efforts that followed the Great Civil War, the beargeoisie's palaces and citadel-continents had been torn down and melted in the atomic furnaces, which forged them into the weapons that were used in the Running of the Apexai and the Solarian Wars. To this day, in Vlyadibragstok, the remains of the beargeoisie's gleaming spires are still being harvested for scrap metal by patriotic blue-collar Bragulan steel-workers.

Once more, history had come to Vlyadibragstok. In a symbolic symbolization of the glourious Imperator's beneviolent will, the world that saw the mass nuclear-defenestration of the beargeoisie oppressors in the bloody Great Civil War would now bear witness to the manifestation of the Imperator's Quest For Peace - culmination of glasnot and bragstroika, of Byzonist internationalism in meeting with comrade-nations as well as those on less than friendly terms with Bragule.

It was BEEEF.

***

Visitors and guests were ferried planetside on aerospacecraft, some of which activated turboprops for atmospheric travel, while others made water landings and completed the final leg of their journeys oversea. On their way down to Vlyadibragstok, Bragulan attendants and security personnel made sure that these alien guests were treated with much hospitality and ensured that they had safe and comfortable rides. As they made their atmospheric reentries, their aerospacecraft flew over the industrial wastelands and steel towns of the planet, and their tour guides gave speeches of how through Byzonist nuclear class warfare the beargeoisie were all killed and their homes redistributed as scrap metal for other Bragulan war efforts. After they landed and disembarked, they were given a quick tour of other sights on the ground, driving by the massive subatomic smelting plants, where more guides gave more speeches extolling the virtues of Bragulan working-class labors.

But finally, after that arduous ordeal, they arrived at the BEEEF. They could tell, for as the Economic Exposition Extravaganza of Friendship was one of the largest arms expos in the galaxy, the grounds surrounding the BEEEF building was littered with shells and ammunitions. There was a garden of bullets gleaming in the midday sun, for the smog-clouds had been cleared by a nuclear airburst the day before just so that the sunlight may sparkle off the bullets' brass casings.



As the first guests arrived, bombastic music began playing out in megaphones for all to hear - filling the air with the sound of the Imperator's March, the great national anthem of Bragule said to be composed by Byzon himself. The Imperator's March would be played throughout the BEEEF, all three months of it, and despite that length of time the song would keep on playing unendingly because played from beginning to end the song was longer than the BEEEF. The Imperator's March was one of the lengthiest songs in the galaxy, and even those who stayed in the BEEEF from start to finish would never get to hear it in its entirety. No one would. No one could. No one ever did.



Those who frequented Bragulan arms expos would notice some familiar faces at the BEEEF, regulars who came and went to ply their goods, to buy Bragulan produces and sell them elsewhere. Vacuum tubes, vegemite, vespene gas, Bragtech weaponries, anything and everything. Honest businessmen making a decent living in full compliance with galactic law, or those less scrupulous few who were more at home with navigating the gray latitudes, as they called it. Traders and salesmen, smugglers and gun runners, mercenaries and criminals. From more than a dozen star nations from across space, from the nine vectors of the known and unknown universe. They were all here.

They all wanted a piece of BEEEF.

[Shroom Man 777]

Sent by covert courier-gunskimmer to Chamarra Prime

BRAGULAN MESSAGE TO THE CHAMARRAN HIERARCHY
From the People's Department of Limited Foreign Interaction and Human Affairs

As agreed between our ambassadors, the Bragulan Star Empire will be partaking in the relocated Chamarran naval exercises located in Neko Space. Attached are the details of the Imperial Space Fleet's deployment details. The fleet will set sail soon.
Spoiler

5th Imperial Bragulan People's Most Byzonist Space Guards Deep Excursionary Kosmoflotta Bragotyomkin
3x Imperator's Fist-class battleships
4x Chernovyi-class battleships
2x Friend of Bragule-class warcruisers in carrier configuration
2x Friend of Bragule-class warcruisers in fleet tender configuration
20x Patriotic Glory-class paleocruisers
40x Niva-class gunskimmers
Misc. logistics vessels

Coordinates

We look forward to seeing you there.

28 Days Later

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



The Bragstavka, in consultation with the Hierarchy Command, had selected a single star system in Space Sector E-24 to serve as temporary base for the 5th Imperial Bragulan People's Most Byzonist Space Guards Deep Excursionary Kosmoflotta Bragotyomkin to reside in for the duration of the exercises. It was an unnamed system in the middle of the sector, with an oceanworld containing a breathable atmosphere, but otherwise unremarkable and empty, devoid of anything of interest. Once flagged for potential terraformation, the world and its system had been so unremarkable that the Hierarchy itself had forgotten about it. At least, until the request for a useless world in an empty system had come in, prompting the Hierarchy to suggest it to their Bragulan comrades.

Now, the Bragulan sailors had dubbed the world with the affable name of 'Planet Kitty Litter'. They had placed semi-permanent structures in orbit around the world, large pieces of space scaffolding to serve as docks for the warships that would call the system home for the next few weeks or months. These were spare materials for civilian space docks that the Chamarrans gave to the Bragulans, which the Bragulans then converted to suit their ships - and now gunskimmers were cradled inside them, as though inside a bird's nest of steel. These would be the Bragulan Space Fleet's temporary base near Chamarran space.

The ten gunskimmers resting within the docks were the very first ships of the Kosmoflotta Bragotyomkin to arrive in the system. While the Chamarrans helped set up the docks, the gunskimmers did early exercises and scoured the system for any hidden surprises - perhaps laid by anyone interested in watching the exercises, such as the neighboring human powers, or perhaps Solarian spystars far away from home, or even the Chamarrans themselves with their own sneaky stealth ships. After sweeping the system with passive- and aggressive-aggressive sensors, the gunskimmers waited for the rest of their comrade-ships to come. After the rest of Kosmoflotta Bragotyomkin arrived, the vanguard ships took their rest - and now they sat there, mated with the dockyards, coupling with wires and steel scaffolding, exchanging fluids and fuels, venting coolant-steam and replenishing supplies.

The Bragulan sailors worked hard and fast to return their gunskimmers to fighting condition. Their rest was a short one, and soon they were refreshed and ready for action once more, as though the twenty-something sectors of space they had traversed had been but a mild inconvenience. Kosmoflotta Bragotyomkin was designed for long-range deployments, its crews likewise trained to undertake missions that would take them far beyond the Koprulu Zone. The Bragulan Space Fleet rarely had this opportunity, to be tested not by the fire of its enemies, but by the very elements, by space itself, and by their own endurance. The sailors of Kosmoflotta Bragotyomkin were eager to prove their mettle and acquit themselves rightly - and a mixture of strictly-drilled procedural mastery and Bragtag ingenuity combined allowed them to perform with an acute and above average amount of alacrity.

With the detonation of explosive release bolts and the release of magnetic clamps, the gunskimmer squadron emerged from their steel cocoons to join the rest of the fleet. Detached coolant cables and fuel lines dangled behind them in the vacuum, each like an umbilical cord separating as a child sheds its placenta and enters the world, as the gunskimmers were likewise born again into space. They regrouped with the rest of the Kosmoflotta Bragotyomkin, just as a sudden but expected spike of hyperwave emissions signaled the arrival of a Chamarran fleet joining them in the exercises.



Kosmoflotta Bragotyomkin reacted swiftly, heightening alarm and readiness levels, assuming a defensive formation before the Chamarran force - though not out of any imminent danger or impending hostilities, there was none for they were amongst comrades, but because any complacency would be unbecoming of the sailors of the Bragulan Space Fleet. Eternal vigilance was not just the purview of the IBGV, but of all Bragulans charged with the defense of Imperator and Empire.

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

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

[Simon_Jester]

Spacely Sprockets Main Offices
Orbit City, Reisenburg
August 22, 3400



"JETSON!"

"W-wh-what, boss?"

"Have you got the factory computers back in shape yet?"

George was sweating now. He and the other programmers had had a hell of a time trying to coax the subsentient expert systems back into smooth operation after the latest round of firmware module updates. "Y-yes! Except for the Number Three production line, I'm still getting glitches from the handling equipment in simulation-"

"Oh! Good!" His boss beamed. Mr. Spacely was, if anything, even more disconcerting when he was happy than when he was mad. "Come to my office, Jetson, and let's have a little talk."

Uh-oh. There was nothing for it, though. After a few minutes adding comments to his last modification to the control systems, he hopped out of his chair and trotted through the office complex. He made it to Spacely's office in near-record time; the door slid shut behind him.

"Ah, Jetson! What kept you?"

"Commenting code. It was a lest-I-forget, sir."

The frown retreated, but in good order to a familiar fallback position. "All right, then." He'd accept the excuse- if he'd been feeling nosy he'd check the logs, but he'd accept it.

"So, ah, what was it you wanted to see me about, Mister Spacely?" George made a point to pronounce 'mister' as much like 'doctor' as possible; you definitely didn't want to get him thinking you were disrespecting him.

"Now, I haven't spread the word around, but after the latest word from GroundSec last month, it looks to me like we're going to lose the contract for switchwidgets in the next generation of Mammoth tanks. And there's word that Cogswell-" Mr. Spacely almost spat the word out- "is working on undercutting our market with SpaceSec, too."

"That doesn't sound good."

"It's worse than that. Last week I got a call from MiniFine: 'Your loan applications will continue to be approved, contingent on your recognized service to the state.' It sounds like they're planning something sneaky, and I don't like it. MiniProd's been wanting to get their greasy little hands on my factory for years, and the only thing that keeps them at bay is our productivity matrix- that and our defense contracts. If we lose those..."

"Uh-oh."

"If we don't find some new contracts, military or export for choice, we could go out of business. The factory could be sold off, handed over to MiniProd or worse yet... Cogswell." The little man gritted his teeth.

"So what are we going to do?"

"I've been looking at the export market- put advertisements in a lot of the international journals and so on... and I had an idea. Maybe a wild idea, but I think it's got potential!" Now Spacely's eyes were fixed on George. This wasn't going to end well, he could tell...

His boss was still talking. "Lately there's been word that the Bragulans, of all people, are going to hold a trade expo in October. Calling it the Bragulan Economic Exposition Extravaganza of Friendship. I've been reading up, and they use more tube-type switching systems than the rest of the galaxy combined. There are enough samples of their hardware floating around that I've found a few to look at, and I've been thinking... what if we tried to sell switching tubes, using our techniques? I think we could offer them a longer-lasting, harder-wearing product!"

"Are you sure, boss? Selling vacuum tubes to Bragule?"

"YES! Yes, I'm sure!" Mr. Spacely stamped his foot on the desk. "Now, I've already picked out a team from Sales to run our booth at the BEEEF. I'm sending you along as technical representative!"

"But I- but I-"

"No buts about it, Jetson! You're the kind of man this company needs, and this is your chance to prove it! Come back with that export contract, and you'll have a fut- er, a bright future with Spacely Sprockets!"

"...All right, Mr. Spacely. I'll give it my very best." And I can just hear the "Jetson! You're FIRED!" now, if this turns out to be as bad an idea as I think.

"Well, I'll leave you to it. Get your travel plans ready soon; the Expo begins on October 1."

"Yes, sir." What am I going to tell Jane and the kids?

[Siege]

Par-Sec Promotions proudly presents: CollectoRock!



Par-Sec Promotions are proud to announce that Iron Johnny and the Chernobyl Nukebots will headline the first night of the 3340 CollectoRock Festival.

Set to take place December 20-22 on the Diamond Heights fibcrete wasteland of Solaris Major, the multi-faceted event combines galaxy-class headliners, popular developing bands and the top children's artists working today within the ever-popular Xenosnatch Synth-Grunge subgenre of postnuclear fuzz-rock.

A wide range of entertainment options including games of MIB-versus-aliens, laser cloudcrafting and interactive art activities by the famous exiled Byzantine ARNist Dynamicus Loveswell. Other popular artists to take the main stage at CollectoRock are MC Men-rui T of the Holy Empire (famous for his acint-pop smash hit "gotta get yourself / gotta get yourself Collected") and retro-urban duo Flaky Funk



famous in cyberdecker circles for their catchphrase "you can crash your monolith between my left thigh and my right thigh!"

This year's festival aims to attract five million visitors and raise $1 billion for fringe-space worlds facing life-threatening challenegs through the Empyreal Foundation.

Tickets are available now and can be acquired through the CollectoRock metanode in the Datasphere, as well as through physical outlets throughout Solarian space and beyond!

[Beowulf]

FROM: The Multiversal Empire of Happiness
TO: The Office of Katya Perry, Wairen Bureau, Tianguo

Because of your insistence on a battle for diplomacy to begin, we have decided to send a robot to present us.

It was the only way to prevent death and continue contact between our peoples, and even if I lose the fight, I will be connected to a backup body on my ship.

I will be coming via warp gate, see you soon.

Signed
Saint #3

Guangdong Warp Gate,
Bao'an System
Guangdong Sector, Tianguo

"Sir, we've got a gate activation request coming through."

"Is the Iris still closed?"

The technician check both tell-tales, and the visual feed. Through it, one could see the massive armor plates that made up the Iris, which fit perfectly together only a micrometer above the event horizon of the gate. It was closed. All the while during the conversation, a growing bass tone could be heard as the warp gate machinery spun up, fed by energy from the far side.

"Yes, sir. Iris is still closed and locked."

"Do we have a valid authorization code?"

"No sir, it's definitely not a gate that we have authorized transit from."

"Keep the Iris closed."

Seconds later, a profound bass *WHAANNNG!* sound could be heard reverberating through the station.

[Ryan Thunder]

MADNESS Planetary Systems Unit, Hall of MADNESS, Nova Miratia



"We're gonna be late, you twat. Forget about the hat, its Vlyadibragstok, just get your shit and let's go!"

"The BEEEF--er, beeef? anyway--the Beeef is a convention. It doesn't matter if we're a few minutes late."

---

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[Mayabird]

August 3400
Some Podunk Planet Somewhere

The Shroomanists were an odd cult. The adherents of Shroomanism were never numerous, and generally tolerated anywhere that there was any sort of freedom of religion. Though their beliefs were, to say the least, odd (such as the one stating that the universe had been created only a few years ago by insane gods for their amusement, and that the prevalence of the name “Shroom” was a sign of cosmic significance), Shroomanists were generally an inoffensive bunch. Their proselytizing was rare though amusing, but mostly they kept to themselves, acting as nurses to the poor from their church clinics and defending prostitutes wherever they roamed. Shroomanists were insane but mostly harmless.

But now a new movement was sweeping through their ranks, and converts were, if not pouring in, at least trickling in a bit more than usual. A prophet had arisen, bringing with him a new gospel.

There was a rumble. Though they were on dry land, far away from any major bodies of water, a wall of water could be seen, approaching. A tsunami! And on it, surfing the wave, came the Prophet.

He leaped off as the wave collapsed and his surfboard became a skateboard that he used to do amazing flipping tricks as he descended towards his band on the stage.

The band blared his theme song as he did one final wicked turn and landed before them and the screaming crowd of Shroomanists and general curiosity seekers.

And then he preached of the Gospel of Awesomeness.

[Mayabird]

23 July 3400
Bloemfontein, Orange Free System


A bribe, a threat of revealing the love letters and pornography on someone's work computer, and another bribe, and The Captain had cut right through the layers of Orange red tape.

“What are you using for bribes?” Notsix asked. “We don't have any funds.”

Shh. Busy.

Then The Captain ran into a wall: a hold on their record. The coding looked like it had been placed by MPU, probably to keep people from investigating them. There were ways around that. Then he ran into another wall: a technicality. A stupid bureaucratic rule buried deep in the lines of the Standard Operating Practices and Procedures. Computer codes could be cracked. Bureaucratic minutiae was one of those sacrosanct things that would get them in even more trouble than murder, super-murder, or selling himself and then stealing himself back and running off with the money.


Meatbags, I don't have time to wait three-to-six weeks for the petition to go through!

...what? transmitted Notsix.

Fortunately there are ways to push these things ahead in the queues. I love my completely illegal hacking programs.

“You have lost me,” Notsix said.

Lickus van de Kraap (or as he called himself, “Lickus van de Kraap and yes I'm related to those van de Kraaps,” based on the completely incorrect assumption that other people gave a damn), got an alert on his computer. An urgent petition, with all sorts of red flags and alerts and codes with shiny legalese. This could be his big break! He typed out the code to call his supervisor.


Notsix, my dear, Orange only allows couples or larger families to adopt a child. That being said, considering out plan with Kees, will you marry me?

“Anything to keep out of jail. May I have a ring?”

If you desire a ring, I will scrounge one up somewhere.

Thank you.



Lickus looked at the tiny screen, which showed his supervisor.

Piet Firmus scowled down at the camera.

“What is it, Crap?”

“Van de Kraap, actually, and I just got a 463 dash 6 form, with the priority code on line...”

Lickus was convinced that Firmus was always in a foul mood, since he always saw him like that, and so took no mind of it. It was true that Firmus was always scowling when Lickus was around, but that was because he detested Lickus to the depths of his cold, shriveled soul. The idiot had gotten in via family connections. Powerful family connections, of the type that caused people to disappear and then reappear as tissue and organ samples on other planets. He was an idiot, but he was their idiot, even if they were placing him in a position far away from anything of theirs that he could break.

“...but the notification came by...sir, are you following me?”

“Hmm? Ag, hmph, yes, I wrote those policies. Continue.” That was a lie but Lickus was dumb.

“As I was saying, the notification came to me by...”

Those damned family connections. All Piet wanted to do was make it through another eight years so he could collect his pension from the Orange government. Eight more years in the Records Ministry, that he could stand. It tended to be rather quiet and boring there. Eight more years dealing with Thickus...wait a... “Thickus, is that an MPU lanyard?”

“It's Lickus, sir.”

“I don't care what your name is! Why are you wearing an MPU lanyard?”

“Well sir, we had this representative come through the other day-”

“Take the damn lanyard off this instant! You do not work for Multi-Planetary United! You work for the government of the Orange Free System!” Lickus did so, face blushing like he was a schoolgirl. “So this is some marriage license thing?”

“Yes sir, but there is the wrinkle...”

Firmus did not have time for Lickus's shit. “Dickus, why don't you handle it yourself? I'll delegate all the responsibility to you.” He never could follow instructions anyway. Why waste time and breath on it?

“It's Lickus, sir, and regulations state that a personal visit must...that's paragraph eight, line twelve of the...”

“Then you can have access to one of the ministry's podcars.” Firmus had a particular one in mind.

“Really?” Lickus's dumb little eyes lit up in hopefulness.

“Yes, of course. I'll process the documentation immediately. Also, this should become your top priority, this over all your other duties.”

“Thank you, sir! I'll-” Firmus cut off the connection, harboring a small hope of his own. Carjackings being at their current all-time high, there was a very good chance that Lickus would not survive his little visitation. And that would be beautiful.


Jan returned with the smoking podcar, having mostly gotten over his funk of bemoaning his squandered adulthood and the depths to which he had sunk. He had barely gotten out when The Captain yelled at him over the intercom. “Jan, you need to be here tomorrow. Have your fanciest suit ready by local sunrise.”

His head was tilted upward, towards the ceiling, as if staring at it and by extension The Captain, but he saw nothing. For a moment, he considered asking, and his lips began to part to form a question. Then he decided that he didn't want to know. He'd have to find out soon enough anyway. “I returned Kees to the orphanarium,” Jan said instead.

“Good man. Best man on the ship. Ha. Josse, how's the search for insulating foil going?” Jan had taught himself not to wonder or ask. He would find out soon enough anyway, and it wouldn't be anything he wanted or expected, so he wandered towards his bunk to check on his good clothes.

[Mayabird]

24 July 3400
Bloemfontein, Orange Free System

It was barely morning, and a small Records Ministry podcar drove down the decrepit Orange roads. Some gangsters watched it covetously, considering killing the guy inside and taking it for themselves. Then one of them mentioned that incredibly terrible podcar they'd seen the day before, and they all laughed. In doing so, they missed their chance, and Lickus van de Kraap drove on in obliviousness.


Jan wore the nicest thing we had: a business suit which he wore for negotiating with lowlifes on cargo to transport and convincing lower-middle-lifes that they were somewhat respectable. Josse wore her old Communist Guard uniform, which was supposed to look revolutionarily fetching, but on a tiny Tym it looked merely adorable. Oatmeal had been shampooed and brushed. The Captain's talking drone was dressed up as well.

Notsix wore her birthday suit. Since she was an armadillo and only wore clothes for protective purposes, this was fine to everyone else. She had spent the night cleaning up and waxing her plates so she did look rather shiny.

“I'm gonna be a fairy godmother!” squealed Josse.

“That's nice,” said Jan.

“This is The Captain speaking,” said The Captain on the intercom. “Sensors indicate that the bureaucrat is approaching our position.”

It was early and he was tired, so Jan blurted out, “Huh?” before he could stop it.

Notsix patted him on the shoulder. “The bureaucrat, Jan. So we can get married, The Captain and I. Were you not informed yesterday?”

Fortunately for Jan's fragile sanity, he was too stunned to blurt out another questioning sound.

“He's almost here,” said The Captain. “Jan, try to look dignified! This is a special occasion! I'll forgive your lack of a wedding present if you stop standing slack-jawed.”

Lickus van de Kraap had put on his fake MPU lanyard again, not because it allowed him to bluff his way into the spaceport (though it did without him realizing it) but because he liked the look of it. It looked official so it made him feel official, and by looking official lazy and ignorant spaceport guards waved him and his podcar through. He parked under The Captain and made his way through the hatch that opened for him.

“So this is a spaceship,” said Lickus. “Really nice. Really nice. You have all that spaceship look to yourself, all your metals and pipes. Really nice.” He had a bad tic of repeating himself when he got nervous.

The tuxedo-ed talking drone came to meet him. “Ah, you must be the man from the Records Ministry. Welcome to my ship and extended body,” said The Captain.

“Ah, yes, I'm Lickus van de Kraap and yes I'm related to those van de Kraaps.”

“That's nice,” said The Captain, who did not give a damn. “Please come this way.”


The storage bay was the largest open space in The Captain so they had cleared a small area and put a carpet down to make it look nicer and hung up some curtains to cover the burn marks. The others were standing around waiting as the drone and Lickus arrived.

“You know, this is not safe, not safe at all,” Lickus said. “All this machinery, no safety gear, and garbage strewn all over the place, it is not safe.”

“We have a permit,” Notsix lied.

“Oh alright then,” said Lickus, as he got out his Records comp. He looked over the crowd, “So, we have a marriage going on, yes? So, ah, who is the...ah...lucky couple?” He looked at Jan van Maan. “You sir, would you be the Captain?” To be fair to Lickus, this was the one time in his life where anyone would be confused.

“I am The Captain,” said the drone. “First name 'The' and surname 'Captain.'” He tapped the screen of Lickus's comp with one hand while gently holding Notsix by her claws with the other. “And this is my dear Notsix.”

“Ah, so, ah, you two are to be married?” Lickus half-stated and half-asked.

“Common law married,” The Captain clarified. “Common law. We don't want to have to pay for the license.”

“Well, this is highly irregular, then. Highly irregular.”

“We only need it declared so we can adopt a child. If you'll notice Article 17 of Section 14, eighth paragraph...”

Jan looked at Josse. He couldn't help himself anymore. “What is this about adopting a child?”

“Notsix and The Captain are getting married so then can adopt Kees because we need another crew member and he won't have to be in the orphanarium anymore!” she said. “And they said I can be Kees' fairy godmother!”

Jan thought for a minute, then realized that this was possibly the most sensible plan the pair of lunatics had ever thought of. It actually made a certain amount of sense. Plus they'd done plenty of scams before, and marriage scams were ancient classics.

“...so you'll notice it says nothing whatsoever about species or organic composition in these marriage laws,” The Captain continued, in his discussion with Lickus.

The reasoning seemed sound, so he knew he was supposed to be convinced, but Lickus still thought something was off. Someone more astute may have sensed devious plans, but Lickus just wasn't getting over the part with the CI and the giant armadillo. “So there don't seem to be any regulations technically against this, not against this, but...”

“So we will be wed, and you can tell others for the rest of your life about the marriage ceremony you officiated,” said Notsix.

“I wouldn't really be officiating it-”

“But don't you want to? Just once? Tell everyone of the happiness and love, say the magical ancient words, the wonderful story of how you made things special?”

Lickus was clearly liking what he was hearing. “Special? Me?”

“Of course you!” Notsix said. “Think! Would that not be grand?”

“And there's nothing saying you can't,” added The Captain. “You can register us and still act as our justice of the peace. Just don't file it in the report.”

“It'll be fun!” Josse chimed in.

“And then one less child clogging the orphanariums!” Jan added.

“Think how much happier that child will be with parents!” continued Notsix, though Jan had not planned to go that far.

“Happy couple, happy child!” said The Captain. “And all thanks to you!”

That was enough to convince Lickus. “Well then! I can have you two registered,” he said as he held the comp up. “How long have you both cohabited?”

“Eight years.”

“Eight years, very good, very good. Next question, ah...” They went down the rest of the list, got Jan and Josse signed as witnesses, and then Lickus confirmed that all the documentation was in order.

“So, ah, now what?” Lickus asked.

The Captain whispered, “Dearly beloved...”

With much coaching, Lickus said, “Oh...dearly beloved...we are gathered here today...under...ah...what...under the governance of the Orange Free System...to join together this ...ah...these two people in...holy matrimony.
“Do you, The Captain, take this, ah, umm...take Notsix to be your commonly-lawfully married wife?”

“I do.”

“And do you, Notsix, take The Captain to be your commonly-lawfully married husband?”

“I do.”

“Then...by the power...vested...in me by the Orange Free System...I declare you to be husband and wife. You may kiss the...umm...you two may kiss now.” The drone and Notsix looked at each other, wondering for a moment how to go about it, and then Notsix poked her nose into the drone's face, which was close enough.

“Rings! We nearly forgot the ring!” The Captain said. He opened a chest compartment and brought out the ring he had Josse make for her.

Yes, this was actually gold insulating foil before. Really. Josse is talented like that.

“It's beautiful. Thank you, The Captain, and thank you Josse,” Notsix said, as The Captain's drone placed it on her claws.

“I think that was a proper wedding, then,” said Lickus, as he submitted the information. With his special authorization from Firmus, it was registered immediately.

“Now about that adoption...” said The Captain.


Piet Firmus was in a foul mood. He hadn't been able to sleep since the nightmare he had, one where Lickus had married his daughter, and there was something about mechs, and also there was this old guy in a bathtub full of goo saying, “All this has happened before, and all this will happen again...” which didn't seem to fit in with the rest. Then he remembered sending van de Kraap off to his death, and that cheered him up a bit. Until van de Kraap returned safe and sound.

“Boss! I got it all fixed up!”

Firmus muttered something in acknowledgment and returned to his office. The idiot couldn't even get himself killed properly. Lickus always screwed up everything. Somehow, some way, maybe months down the line, Firmus knew he would have to clean up or deal with the mess that Lickus managed to make. There was a reason he had a flask of...whatever the hell it was they brewed in the shebeen...in his desk. When no one was looking, he took it out and had a swig.

Now he could stand to wait.

[Simon_Jester]

AUTHOR'S DISCLAIMER: I do not seriously assert that the art of moshu, as applied to the summoning of ancestral spirits, works this way. But it bloody well ought to work this way...

Taikongjun Cruiser C-5406 Grand Canal
Deep Space, Sector H-11
July 10, 3400
1230 Hours Fleet Standard Time

The ship's moshushi frowned. "All right, ma'am, I'll do the ritual again, if you insist."

"Last time you didn't tell me anything useful."

"I'll try to get something this time, but I've had very little luck. The spirits are..."

"Restless?"

"Worse. Grumpy. But I'll try."

There was one ancestral spirit he hadn't yet tried to talk to. One who was ancient, wise... and cranky. But it was worth a shot. The moshushi withdrew to his quarters and began the summoning rituals, trying to get into contact with the one he sought. The one who hailed from some unknown number of centuries past, from an unknown place. The one who allowed himself to be known only as... Uncle.

The ancestor's first action was to lash out with a ghostly arm, delivering a two-fingered strike to the moshushi's forehead. Somehow, it felt as if Uncle had struck his very soul with a stinging rebuke.

"Ow!"

"You deserve that for summoning me so carelessly! It's dangerous out here! For example, did you know that there's a bunch of aliens nearby who also practice ancestor worship? Some kind of dinosaur-men, they call themselves the Grunt or the Gran or something. The only difference is, they believe that if they're good, their spirit will become a mighty supernatural warrior! Have you ever tried getting into a quarrel with a fire-breathing tyrannosaurus?"

"Uh... no?"

"Obviously not! Luckily, I was able to get her complaining about her foolish grandchildren, then she listened to me complain about my foolish umpty-great-grandchildren. Some things are the same no matter what species you are. But anyway, you should be more appreciative of what a pain it is for us to come out this far! Just because we're in the spirit world doesn't mean we don't notice being shunted a million light years or whatever it is!"

"I'm sorry, Uncle, but it's very important. We're trying to figure out what's going to happen to the Prussian fleet. They're about to go into battle!"

"Oh, them! Yes, they must be around. You can always find Prussians in the spirit world; they're followed by the strangest mix of ancestors- the recent ones, who are all stupid, and the old ones, who are all going "Nine nine nine!" or something all the time."

"You mean nein nein nein?"

"Same thing. Seriously, they have more people spinning in their graves than the graveyard in one of those crazy centrifugal-habitats you youngsters like to build. It's kind of sad, really."

"Have you found out anything about them?"

"Yes. These Prussians came here in a fleet, yes? There were a few very old spirits following the fleet, going "nine nine nine!" louder than anybody. Older than me, even. I talked to one of them... what was his name... Murderous von Schrom, I think. I heard something about a supply convoy, over and over, then he just started wailing crazily. He must have been very disappointed in his umpty-great-grandchildren."

"So, something about a supply convoy?"

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

"Do not question Uncle!"

"Of course. I'm sorry."

"One more thing! I hope you enjoy your vacation; your great-great-aunt Jasmine is looking forward to seeing you."

"What?" His eyes went wide.

"I said do not question Uncle!" The ancestral spirit reached out and thwacked him in the soul again.

"Ow! I'm sorry, Uncle!"

"Goodbye!"

And with that, the spirit vanished.

The moshushi returned to the bridge to meet the captain.

"What did you find?"

"The portents are... inauspicious. Also something about a Prussian convoy."

---

Cruiser C-5406 Grand Canal
1410 Hours

Captain Fa Mu Lan was not happy. She didn't like the situation: they were out of contact with the allied contingents deeper in the shoals, and the allies were only barely in contact with Zebes. On top of that, there was some activity among the Prussian supply dumps, off to one side- something the Prussians hadn't mentioned in their rather short and boastful briefing to the other fleets.

As the senior-ranking captain of the Tianguo detachment, she was one of the more responsible officers available, and she was starting to wonder about them. Especially in light of the auguries. Something about a Prussian convoy...

It was the work of a moment to direct a message at the Prussian cargo ships. "Prussian transports, this is Grand Canal actual. What are your orders?"

The reply took a minute, and came in heavily accented Galstandard English. "Ma'am, we are under orders to supply fuel and ammunition to Second Fleet after the battle is over. We are preparing for departure now, and will be ready within twenty minutes."

Wait. If all the Prussian ships are at Zebes, then who's escorting the transports?

"Prussian transports, do you have escort for the operation?"

"...Ah, negative, we were informed that the area would be secured."

"..."

"Grand Canal actual, do you copy?"

Okay, this is too stupid for words. "Prussian convoy, hold while Grand Canal moves to escort you; I'll call for other ships as well."

There was no reply. Either the Prussians on the cargo ships were glad to have an out from what had to be an incredibly stupid order and couldn't admit to it, or they themselves were so stupid they'd just suffered terminal cerebral meltdown. She didn't much care which.

Deep Space, Sector H-12
1720 Hours Fleet Standard Time

Captain Fa Mu Lan was even less happy. She'd scraped together a few more ships; the Umerians had detached one of their cutter-tenders, the Eoghans a couple of gunships, the Centralists a frigvette. But she hadn't been able to shake loose anything more before they ran out of time, and the Prussians insisted on departing, escort or no escort. Fa was inclined to believe the "terminal cerebral meltdown" theory now. She hoped this turned out to be unnecessary after all...

Local conditions were very bad; they still hadn't been able to get word through to the allied contingents that they were coming. The static was worse than anything they'd encountered since the start of operations. It was almost bad enough to make her suspect active jamming, but there was no way to prove that.

"Ma'am, word from Ascension's recon cutters: they think there's a cluster of contacts in the shoals ahead, moving toward us slowly- some kind of sweep. CIC pinged them right around the same time, too."

OK, now she was truly not happy. She'd only thought she was unhappy before. Granted, there was an off chance that the Artificial Stupidity in charge of processing the ship's passive hyperwave sensors was totally wrong, and that the Umerians were jumping at shadows, but somehow she knew that would be too easy.

"Check it."

Word came back shortly. "Definitely enemy ships. Two contacts light cruiser tonnage, somewhere between nine and fifteen around the mass range of a Type 20, maybe a bit under." That was... a lot of light corvettes. Between that and the cruisers, almost enough to outweigh her entire improvised escort by a factor of two.

Fa now had the classic problem of the outgunned convoy escort. She could signal the convoy to run- either out of the shoals towards the fleet base, or deeper in towards the allied contingents. Somehow, though, she doubted she'd be able to outrun them. The only reason she could imagine for the Zebesians to be sneaking around back here while shots were fired at their homeworld would be to intercept a convoy or light Coalition squadron... and anything they sent to intercept a convoy would probably be fast enough to chase down the heavy, underpowered cargo vessels.

If she ran, and the enemy squadron caught up, the Zebesians would be free to grapple individual cargo ships and yank them out of hyperspace- and there'd be nothing she could do except drop her own ships out of hyper one at a time to cover them. Since she had five ships and they had at least eleven, she'd run out of ships to protect the convoy faster than they'd run out of ships to attack it. Not good.

Or she could drop the whole convoy out of hyper and make a stand-up fight of it... but, again, she was outnumbered and they'd probably just flatten her entire command, soaking up the casualties to get the supply ships. Also not good.

Or... she could split the difference.

"Plot me an intercept course that lets us engage the raiders short of the convoy. Send word to the other ships, get ready for a hyperspace interception on one of the cruisers."

Bounce both cruisers out of hyperspace, and all that would be left to attack the convoy was the enemy corvettes- which were relatively light, enough so that even the smallest ships of the escort could take them on one-on-one, and enough so that the light shielding of the transports could hopefully survive their fire. The challenge would be keeping the Zebesian cruisers from making any more trouble for the convoy after the intercept...

---

1726 Hours

The cargo ships were holding back now; the timing on this would be tricky and she didn't want to risk them running the gauntlet before the enemy cruisers were out of play. Grand Canal bored straight in for one cruiser. The other was going to be mobbed by the combined intercept assets of the rest of the escort: three corvettes of varying sizes and four Umerian pursuit cutters with the other cutters hanging back in support. That was going to be difficult, but she was cautiously optimistic. All those ships were designed for running down more massive opponents, and hyperspace interceptions were an important part of that mission.

They were good at it- or they'd better be.

Here it comes... The navigator, in charge of the drive for this intercept, began running off status report. "Field synchronization underway... phase angle down to fifteen and dropping... ten... three... we have lock. All ships report lock."

"Grand Canal to all ships: execute."

Her cruiser shivered as the Zebesian ships fought her tractors, fought her hyperfield, but she had the edge in tonnage and just as good a power plant. Fa didn't like to think what it would be like for the other ships, wrestling their massive opponent, but they were managing it too: both raiders' hyperfields were bleeding energy, and...

The sense of discontinuity from the violent transition washed over her. The Zebesians reacted fast, too fast- some kind of energy weapon was already raving against Grand Canal's shields within seconds of their emergence into normal space. But it wasn't anything she wasn't rated to stand; Fa was more worried about the other escorts, as they broke away from the other raider at top speed.

That fight was too far away for her to do much about- over a light-second. Her own energy batteries could range that far, but they were urgently needed to fend off the cruiser attacking her. Fortunately, the battle was over as fast as she'd hoped; her orders had been for them to break and return to hyperspace, jumping back into the whisker lane immediately. In theory they might have been able to take down the enemy cruiser, swarming it with missile and railgun fire at close range, but she needed those ships intact to cover the convoy against the enemy corvettes.

One of the Umerian pursuit boats off USS Ascension took a burst from the Zebesian's main battery- continuous-beam energy weapons, not lasers or particle guns, but something unfamiliar. That cutter vanished... as a sheaf of antiship missiles from the escorting fleet melee cutters punched into the raider's shields. Fa was quite familiar with the shaped-nuclear weapons; Umeria was one of the most common opponents the Taikongjun trained to fight. This time around, the missiles were hitting harder than their Mark Six was usually capable of, some kind of warhead upgrade maybe; she'd make a note to report that back to naval intelligence, if there was any chance she'd remember it.

Still, though, against a cruiser the cutters simply couldn't put enough energy on target to cause really serious damage. Upgrades or no upgrades, Umerian fighter-weight missiles were on the light side. The Centralists and Eoghans had more luck; they had full-up starship weapons even if small ones. The Centralist corvette Veldtchomper* was particularly successful, unloading a vicious barrage from her 'midships mass driver turret. As always, the massive low-velocity rounds proved devastating in this kind of knife range engagement; the cruiser's shields flared and wavered- local burnthroughs, with any luck.

The enemy concentrated her beams on the corvette in turn, but Centralist ships were built tough for their tonnage, and Veldtchomper pulled away at top acceleration, trying to open the range before the the raider could steady her gunnery enough to drill the armor belt. Broadside fire from the Zebesian cruiser for those critical seconds left her stern shields in tatters and knotted, glowing canyons sliced into her armor plating didn't seem to translate into reduced speed, and she made it away- last of the Coalition ships to pull away.

As the last of the plucky little ships fled into hyperspace, Grand Canal was left to face the two Zebesian cruisers alone... exactly as planned.

*A type of vicious yet passive-aggressive predator native to one of the Centrality's core worlds. Known for a nasty habit of lying concealed in tall grass, then leaping up and biting your leg off.

---

1728 Hours

"Focus jamming on Target Two, set up missile firing solution for Target Two; keep phasers on Target One." However much damage the light ships had done to the distant target, it wasn't enough to be sure; she wanted to make sure they wouldn't run for hyperspace any time soon, or be going fast when they did. A maximum-rate salvo of Long Arrows ought to see to that, if anything could, so long as she could delay the moment when the second cruiser locked her beams on Grand Canal.

These pirate ships weren't like anything she'd seen before, totally different from spinal-plasma ships or armed merchantmen the Coalition had crossed swords with to date. Their armament seemed to be all energy weapons, all of that strange type- though shields held up well enough against it. The hullform on the nearer one looked almost Altacaran, narrow streamlined shapes, probably with the emitters recessed into the hull like an Altacaran design. Unlike Altacaran ships, the drive signature was hauntingly familiar- like a bastardized Mach-Lorentz thruster, some kind of inertial manipulation, almost like a Cochrane drive. For that matter maybe it was a Cochrane drive; maybe they were suicidal idiots, though they obviously didn't plan on blowing up any time soon.

The ongoing beam duel with Target One was a fairly even match. The raider's shields were set up in some kind of multiple-tier arrangement, but the outer tiers were fairly fragile. The first and second layers had come apart quickly under the barrage of intense UV from Grand Canal's phased array lasers; the third held for around ten seconds. But the fourth layer of shields was proving harder to crack, radiating off the surplus energy in a star-bright yellow that would have been blinding to unprotected eyes on the hull. Periodic green flashes marked hits from Cochrane shells fired out of the Taikongjun ship's mass drivers, but there were few other signs of damage.

Meanwhile, the Zebesian's own beams pushed Grand Canal's shields near their sustained power limit, but not over it. One on one, the fight might well have gone on for hours. Sadly, it was going to be one on two as soon as the other cruiser shook off the damage inflicted by the lighter ships...

Ha! Fa felt the ship thrum as the Long Arrow antiship missiles shot out of their launch cells. Target One apparently had the presence of mind to try and shoot some of them down in the early boost phase. She half expected Umerian-style raster fire, but instead the Zebesian gunners relied on five and ten-millisecond bursts, plainly visible from subspace scatter along the beam path. Individual missiles burned, but more reached safe clearance distance and fired up their Cochrane drives, making a sudden jump to near light speed and flashing towards their target. That threw off Target One's targeting and left Target Two with the usual nasty point defense problem: Tianguo missiles came in fast.

Fa always felt a certain glee when thinking of the panic someone unfamiliar with Cochrane-drive missiles usually felt as they flashed in.

Even so, the raider managed to take down a surprising fraction of the salvo before Grand Canal's missiles started impacting... and the impact was almost an anticlimax compared to that high-speed dash. The Cochrane drive was an inertial-manipulation trick, giving her missiles speed without supplying the corresponding kinetic energy. On impact the conservation laws reasserted themselves with a vengeance, and high speed missiles turned back into low speed missiles. The Long Arrow was, on balance, no more effective than the galaxy's common run of starship missiles... but no less.

As with Target One, the three light outer layers of shielding around Target Two's hull flared down in short order, a second or less apiece. Radiation from the final tier of shields climbed up through the visible spectrum in seconds as missile after missile struck home., then passed beyond it a heartbeat before the screens failed outright. Great plumes of debris blew out from the hull as chunks of the graceful ellipsoid hull vaporized on impact... but whoever built her had built her tough. Those of the enemy cruiser's beam emitters not destroyed now switched from point defense to revenge, as the raiders struggled to rebuild her defensive wall-screen.

The added weight of fire pushed Grand Canal's shields pushed to and beyond safe limits. Fa's mind flickered over her options...

"Full overcharge to port phaser grids, sequenced point targeting." As the engineers routed as much power as they dared to those panels, the familiar hum of cooling systems picked up- trying to keep waste heat from burning them out as long as possible.

Tianguo phasers were very like Umerian PALs in concept, but the shorter wavelength gave them the same spot size at ten times the range... and unlike the Technocracy, Tianguo used their laser grids as their ships' main energy battery. Grand Canal could put much more power behind her pinpoint stabs at Target One's shields than a Umerian cruiser could have done, and the difference paid off. Where the Zebesian's inner wall shield could handle the Coalition ship's peak power output, it couldn't handle peak intensity, and individual bolts of ultraviolet burned through shields and hull alike.

Given full knowledge of the pirate's layout, Fa's gunners might have been able to disable the cruiser entirely, but there were limits on how many hits they could score this way, and for how long. Some of those blazing needle-beams punched through nothing of importance; others hit key systems but missed their redundant backups. Target One kept shooting back, and soon the overloaded phaser banks began to burn out, one cell at a time.

Ten minutes into the engagement, Grand Canal's maximum-effort attack had faded to nothing, leaving her facing two heavily damaged enemy cruisers... with no offensive firepower left to speak of. Their beams kept hammering on her shields to the point of overload and beyond; localized damage had already cost her most of the starboard phasers even as the port banks burned out.

Captain Fa Mu Lan wondered how much of the convoy had made it out. Keeping track of the complicated hyperspace action while handling her own ship had been beyond her; given the choice she'd chosen to concentrate on disabling the Zebesian cruisers. In the final seconds before the shields went down entirely and the raiders' beams tore through the bridge, she took the opportunity for one last sentence over the ship's intercom:

"Oh, well. Better luck next time."

[Mayabird]

26 July 3400
Bloemfontein Orphanarium Number Four

He was almost hungry enough to eat the imitation gruel. Almost. The overgrown teenager had stubbornly decided to not make a decision and have one forced on him: they would eventually get sick of him taking up space in the refectory and either force him to eat or kick him out without it. When he saw one of the orphanarium managers approach, flanked by two burly security guards, he thought that it was time. Instead...

“Dick Smuts,” she asked, without actually asking.

“...Whattaya want?” The muscleheads were even bigger than he was, but he still sneered at them, daring them to fight him. His black eye was fading and his hormonal cocksureness had come back over the last couple days.

“Come with me.” She swirled and sauntered back towards the door. The guards didn't give him any choice to follow, as they both grabbed him under an arm and hauled him along. Behind them was a noise of several smaller children pouncing on the abandoned bowl and fighting over the drips.

“What's this? I didn't do nothing! Voetsek! I'll beat you doos!” He struggled futilely, receiving nothing but a headbutt for his troubles until he was dumped into a chair in the manager's office.

“Dick Smuts, you are being formally adopted by a foreigner couple, some Solarians.”

“...guh?”

“Solarians. For whatever reason they're adopting you.” She stuck a stylus in his hand and pushed an electronic pad in front of him. “I need you to sign these so we can release you to their representative.” He stared at the pad. “Sign at the bottom, here.” She pointed, then grabbed his hand and dropped it on the space. The stylus left a little squiggle. “Good enough. Next page.” The text changed but there was still a line at the bottom. “Sign there too.” He waved the stylus back and forth a couple times, in a daze, leaving another squiggle. “Next page. Sign there and there...” It took a couple minutes to get through the release forms. “Excellent. You are adopted now and no longer under our care. Have a good life and don't come back. Take him to the lobby,” she said to the guards, who grabbed the boy again and dragged him to the lift.

Once they reached the lobby level, he saw a familiar face. “Hullo, Kees,” said Jan van Maan.

“JAN!” The guards dropped him and he bolted out of their reach. “You came back for me, bru! I'm gobsmacked!” Kees turned around and made an obscene gesture at the guards and then generally at the orphanarium. “Fook off! I got a parent!”

Jan started to say something, then settled with, “Yes. Let's leave now.”

As they walked out, Kees was so happy that he was bubbling forth incomprehensible street slang, even though he should have remembered that van Maan had no clue what Kees was going on about. Jan responded with his usual “yes, right, okay, agreed, certainly,” just as he always had as he let Kees back into the podcar.

As Jan entered and shut the door behind him, he discretely made sure that the locks had been activated. The drone of course had locked it, but he wanted to make sure.

Kees was still talking, “...really, really gobsmacked. You're...you're a kief bru, err, da!”

“Kees, I do not understand what you're talking about, but, thank you. I think.” The podcar coughed and sputtered before it started driving back to the spaceport.

There was some more jargon before Kees said, “I swear I will be a good son, if you swear to keep me.”

“I would but it is not my decision.”

“Buh...what?”

“I am not the ones adopting you.”

Kees was never a fast one. “But...but...” Representative. Couple. “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” He threw himself at the door, trying to open it.

Jan had foreseen this, so before he left to pick up Kees he had grabbed an item from The Captain's medical cache, something they kept on hand just for an event like this: a Chuck Sonneshroom Off-Button Hypospray ™ , guaranteed to knock out any humanoid within seconds. Jan reached over and pressed it against Kees's neck. There would have been a faint hiss if the podcar hadn't been so loud, and Kees slumped over unconscious. He has snoring within half a minute.

Jan indulged himself in a grumble. “I hate my life.”

[Shroom Man 777]

Previously on SDNW4

“Number forty seven, you have thus far resisted the efforts of my colleagues. Please continue to do so for the duration of the lesson...” the hulking bear said and then wipes his monocle “Now, let us begin. My name is Teddhasivic, and this..” he says, setting a black bag on the nearby trolley “Is my magic murder bag.” he then opened the bag up. Cad's eyes widening at the sight of the assorted implements glimpsed gleaming inside the bag.

“Now kitties, watch closely...” the bear stated as he wished a tool out of the bag and turned towards the human, and soon after Cad wished with all his heart that if he screamed help would come.

Byzonism seeks power entirely for its own sake. We are not interested in the good of others; we are interested solely in power. Not wealth or luxury or long life or happiness: only power, pure power. What pure power means you will understand presently. We are different from all the oligarchies of the past, in that we know what we are doing. All the others, even those who resembled ourselves, were cowards and hypocrites. The Centralite Fascists and the Humanist Communists came very close to us in their methods, but they never had the courage to recognize their own motives. They pretended, perhaps they even believed, that they had seized power unwillingly and for a limited time, and that just round the corner there lay a paradise where all beings would be free and equal. We are not like that. We know that no one ever seizes power with the intention of relinquishing it. Power is not a means; it is an end. One does not establish a dictatorship in order to safeguard a revolution; one makes the revolution in order to establish the dictatorship. The object of persecution is persecution. The object of torture is torture. The object of power is power. *



Interrogation cell B, The Victory

"How many claws, Willard?"



Tedhasivic placed his instruments back inside his murder bag. He closed it, turned around, and left what little remained of Cad Willard behind. He had long since removed his monocle when he was processing Willard, the bloodstains had proved too troublesome to clean whenever things got messy, so he took them off whenever he was doing procedures. He replaced it afterwards, wiping it clean and placing it back on his eye when he was done with his subjects. He left the cell and the Chamarran observers likewise exited the operating amphitheater to join him.

They called him Mr. Teddy, but he didn't seem to mind. His assignment in the Victory reminded him of his time in the IBGV's academies where he taught cadets and junior agents the various Bragulan interrogation techniques. Now, instead of fellow Bragulans, he was playing show and tell with the kitties. They shared information, not only of their various methodologies, but also regarding what the Hierarchy had gleaned from its low-intensity reconnaissance efforts - these would be of import to the Space Fleet as it conducted its exercises with the Chamarran armada.

The correlated results of the interrogations were most interesting. The IBGV methods had more success in prying information from the subjects than the Chamarran methods. This was perhaps because the techniques the Chamarrans had employed were the exact opposite of those used by the Bragulans, using sensory amplification not to induce unpleasant or painful sensations - but to stimulate the subjects and arouse within them irresistible urges that only the Chamarrans could slake. Once this had been built up and the subjects thoroughly addicted, they would then be left in a sensory deprivation pit where the subsequent withdrawal would leave them deliriously desiring for the resumption of stimulation - to the point where they would give anything for it, even their secrets. This interrogation technique was designed to crack open subjects hailing from particularly conservative and rigid societies, like the Klavostanis and Byzantines.

The only problem with this was that the sensual sensations the Chamarrans induced in their subjects had proven to be inadequate. The Chamarran technicians were very good at what they did, if Tedhasivic could say so himself, and Suria's performance had impressed even him. But what they had not counted on was the extent of the hedonism their subjects were accustomed to back in their homelands. Their society was simply so decadent that even the Chamarrans' stimulations had proven inadequate.

But in their pampered hedonistic lifestyle, the subjects' had never before felt anything remotely like the horrendous things an IBGV agent could do to a being. Ironically, it was their sheltered lives that made the Bragulan treatment all the more effective. For Cad Willard, the suffering he had faced in Interrogation Cell B was unlike anything he had ever experienced in his life.

But it wasn't over yet.



Some time later,
Some place else

"You asked me once, what was in Interrogation Cell B. I told you that you knew the answer already. Everyone knows it. The thing that is in Interrogation Cell B is the worst thing in the universe." *

Cad Willard woke up, relieved to be still alive yet cursing his continued existence. He looked up at the monster that, for the past few days, had been his only companion. His sole confidant. He had told him so much, told him things that not even his friends or family knew. In a way, the bond they had was greater than that of brothers. The ordeal Willard had faced, and what he shared together with him, was something special, something that existed between only them - and no one else. Willard had revealed to him everything that he was. He had been opened and laid bare in a process so intimate in its horrific sincerity. There were no lies here, no deceit, no pretensions. There was only brutal honesty at the hands of his partner.

"Remember when I said that the thing that is in Interrogation Cell B is the worst thing in the universe?" Mr. Teddy asked him.

"Yeah, you said it was." Cad Willard replied.

"I lied."

Once more he opened his magic murder bag and extracted from it one last instrument - one that Willard had never seen before. It was a black tube. Teddy uncovered it and reached in with a pair of forceps. What he revealed was something far worse than all the other instruments and implements he had used before - somehow those cold and painful steel apparatuses couldn't match the wickedness of this last object, perhaps because it was alive.



"This... is a Karlack brain slug." Mr. Teddy began. He lowered it nearer to the side of Willard's restrained head, past his field of vision, leveled it with his ear. He continued describing the thing for what it was, enunciating its true form.

It began to slither into Willard's ear. The cold and wet sensation was all he could feel as he closed his eyes and screamed.







*Shamelessly borrowed from George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty Four

[Mayabird]

Written with Simon_Jester.

Prime City International Spaceport
Government Hangar Six

“Your Excellency, we have an aircar waiting for you and your assistant, if you would care to begin the tour...?”

“Sure!”

Phoebe-o had been subdued at first from the stress of the first contact and fears of ruining it or having something violent or unfriendly occur, but now that she was feeling more comfortable, she was getting twitchy. She hated sitting still and besides, there were so many new things to look at! It was so much better to see things in person than to look at reconstructed images on a screen, with blank bits when they could not recover all the data.

Bookworm buzzed privately at Phoebe-o. ”Please remember to maintain your Dignity. In truth, Bookworm was still a little annoyed that Phoebe-o had been the final selection for this mission. Certainly, she was by far the best versed in physics of the candidates and was in the top percentiles for all measures of avian intelligence, possibly one of the smartest birds in Contact, but she could get so - undignified. The moment some new factoid or item appeared, all decorum, all attempts at gravitas, vanished into the vacuum as she became totally obsessed with finding out everything about it. It was too bad that Fulcrum had been vetted for Bragule from the beginning; there was someone who could project majesty, even if he did have that squawking tic when he got over-excited. But in the end, it was decided that intelligence had to be the strongest factor for selection over others such as Dignity. And age.

Speaking of lack of Dignity, Phoebe-o was nearly hopping in glee. “Ooh! What a nice aircar! Bookworm! Look at these cushions!”

Bookworm buzzed again. ”Ambassador!”

”What? Phoebe-o asked.

”This is unacceptable! This aircar will not fit even one of our Honor Guards.”

”So we’ll have to leave them. Ask them to go back in the yacht, will you, please, thanks!” Then Phoebe-o fluttered into the car. ”The cushions are as soft as they look!”

---

Unity Park

Winter was approaching. Far beyond the city and its suburbs, on the hills out of sight, leaves on deciduous trees were changing colors, and the grasses were fading into gold from green. Berries were turning bright red and blue and nuts were ripening to be picked by the wild animals and stashed away.

But it was a warm day in Unity Park. It was not a true Indian summer, as the city heat island effect meant that the park had its own microclimate. Eventually winter would come here too, but for the moment, the plants were still mostly green, with only hints of warmer colors.

Not that anyone living in the arcologies would notice a difference. But they were not indoors. Phoebe-o looked up, and up, at the azure dome which was the open sky. She had an urge to fly straight up until the air got too thin, to see if the stars would appear. They were all covered up by that blue! And with all that air in the way, the stars would look twinkly!

Dr. O’Connell waved an arm, in a gesture that appeared to indicate the whole park. “We feel it’s important to add properly organized greenspace to urban areas. It makes for a much happier citizenry when they’re encouraged to make use of such space, rather than kept cooped up in habitation cubage all day.”

The First Technarch then glanced at his wrist. Phoebe-o saw a flash of unreadable green light over his eyes- some kind of thinscreen lens over the eye? I remember being briefed on Umerians not using implants very often; I wonder why they don’t? But O’Connell began to speak.

“The Second Technarchs for Ecology and Welfare will be joining our party for the rest of the day; we’ll meet a few others later on.”

“That sounds good. I would like to meet them. Are all your parks open-air or do you have any enclosed within the arcologies?”

“Both. Arcologies are, by and large, self-contained as far as the inhabitants are concerned; easy access to greenspace is a necessity. The Ministry of Welfare tends to insist on it for all large scale habitats, both on the ground and in space. And...” The spry little human glanced into the air. “Here he comes now; you can discuss the matter with him too if you like.”

A pair of hovercars touched down about thirty meters away, countergrav keeping them a few inches above the grass of the park. The insignia on the doors was the same as the one in the vehicle they’d ridden here.

She recognized the Technarchs from her briefing; they were the first out of the cars. From the car on the right, she saw a male who had to be the Second for Welfare. Kahnemann was very distinctive: taller than the average by almost ten percent, very thin, with a remarkable amount of facial hair. Watching him unfold from the car was slightly comical.

From the left came the Second for Ecology. Dr. Warren-Marshall was shorter than average and thin, though not nearly so much as Kahnemann. From the files, she was around fifty years old, and unless humans tried very hard not to they tended to get a little plumper by that point. Either Kahnemann had tried very hard, or he was just weird that way; Warren-Marshall was more typical in that respect. Her hair was long, pulled into a ponytail, and dark brown sprinkled with a few strands of grey. Her eyes were the same dark brown, as was her thin eye plumage (no, eyebrows!), and her mouth held a huge (closed-lip) grin.

Dr. Chernov bowed slightly, gesturing in the direction of the first two new arrivals. “Your Excellency, I’d like to introduce Dr. Isaac Kahnemann, Second Technarch for Welfare, and this is our Second Technarch for Ecology, Dr. Susan Islington Warren-Marshall.”

Phoebe-o and Susie looked at each other, and for a moment, they both had the strangest sense of a cosmic connection.

“...please, call me Susie,” said the Second for Ecology.

Then Kahnemann stepped in and ruined it all.

“Hello, Madame Ambassador.” He bowed. “My department is responsible for the upkeep of this park.” Phoebe-o saw Susie’s eyebrow twitch at that. Is she displeased? I wonder why.

“It is a nice park. I like it. It’s... planetary.”

“Planetary?”

“I was raised in an orbital habitat. We don’t have open-sky recreation, you see.”

“Ahh. Yes, proper greenspace in large enclosed facilities is a problem. We have our own solutions, of course, that might not suit you, hence the choice of an open-air park.” Dr. Kahnemann’s expression changed slightly. “If you’d excuse me, there’s a minor matter I need to take care of?”

“Go ahead.”

The Second for Welfare had a quiet, mumbled conversation with his communication earpiece.

“A planning error, it would seem. The local schools had scheduled a parade along a route that passes through the park. It’ll be a simple matter to redirect them; we wouldn’t want to disturb our guests.”

“No, you can let them through. It’s all right. I’m curious.”

Dr. Kahnemann scratched his head. “I suppose.” He mumbled into his comm bead.

Soon, crowds of humans began wandering towards the far side of the park from all directions. A dozen or so uniformed security officers directed them away from the area immediately around the Technarchs and the ambassador, but otherwise the crowd was allowed to proceed unhindered.

Bookworm buzzed again. I don’t like this. Any of them could be an assassin or a spy or... who knows?

So ask him.

Okay.

The Aggregate did exactly that. The speaker on his cart used a synthesized voice based closely on some of the human subjects Contact had been working with. “Excuse me, Dr. O’Connell, but might I ask a question?”

“Why of course, Mr. Bookworm.”

“Here you have gathered several of your most senior government officials, in the open, with no obvious security beyond a thin cordon of unarmed security personnel. This would seem a most unsafe arrangement, should anyone bear your government ill will. Isn’t there a risk of an assassination attempt from this sort of thing?”

“Hmm? Well, in theory I suppose, but... it’s such a rare event it’d make more sense to worry about slipping and breaking one’s head falling out of the bath. Ah, for us that is; I doubt you would be so vulnerable to that.”

“It is rare for enemies to attempt strikes against your leadership?”

“Not unprecedented, but it rarely goes well for them when they try. If the system can pick us, it’s a fair bet that it can pick someone harsher than us to replace us. That’s happened a few times during major wars and revolts: assassinate a moderate and get a hardliner in their place, and you’re liable to regret it.”

“I... see.”

“And beyond that, well, not all security in Umeria is obtrusive.” O’Connell winked. “There’s a great deal of monitoring behind the scenes, though it’s nearly all automated. Makes it difficult for hostile agents to move freely on the core worlds if they’re trying anything as ambitious as an attack on government facilities. Not impossible, but you have to be very good about avoiding traffic analysis, not tipping off flags in the face-recognition software, and so on.”

“So we are better protected than we appear to be?”

“Oh yes. One might be surprised how difficult it would be to get into weapon range of us, if one were so inclined. Well, for line-of-sight definitions of ‘in range.’ Someone did try coming after Jim Borrego and me with a ten-centimeter automatic mortar once. The story of how they managed to smuggle it to the capital was rather epic. It was a forlorn-hope operation right after the end of the Browncoat War, and they did get into firing range easily enough, given that the thing ranged something like twelve kilometers... but that meant lofting the shells through the air in full view of Capital Air Defense. All it got them was some pretty mid-air fireworks and a spot in the record books for creativity. Had an amusing interview with them afterward.”

The crowd on the far side of the park, just over a hundred meters away, was getting thicker. Some of them turned towards the Technarchs, pointed, and talked among themselves. Their interest was mostly muted, and the cordon of security officers seemed to somehow hint to them that they should stay over there and not bother the dignitaries, but they did seem quite interested in the sight of Phoebe-o herself, given the direction of some of the pointing fingers. But she noticed that relatively little attention was being paid to the Technarchs themselves. Hmm. The Umerians don’t seem curious that their rulers are right here. Why is that? Do they recognize them? Do they just not care?

The parade distracted those of the crowd who were pointing and looking; that was what they were there to see. Once it became clear that nothing flashy would happen inside the police cordon, people started turning away to watch the approach of the marching bands. Bookworm watched the crowd and monitored voice traffic: his cart’s microphones were much more sensitive than human ears, and later he could have people on the diplomatic ship analyze the conversations to see what they were saying to each other.

Soon, the conversation stopped as the first marching band came through. Phoebe-o, during her viewing of captured reference texts, had seen mention in an encyclopedia about marching bands and instruments, but sadly the video files and most of the images had been corrupted so she could only hear a few snippets and see a few still pictures.

Bookworm, are you recording this? We don’t have any files of this back at the Refuge. It might be useful for cultural studies.

Bookworm squeaked another sigh. Yes, Ambassador, I am recording the parade.

Musical instruments made sense to Phoebe-o. Without the enormous vocal range that Avians had, singing wouldn’t be adequate for most species. It seemed counterintuitive at first that scratching strings and blowing in tubes would make melodious sounds, but she spent a few nights on her study comp and determined that the tunes she heard on the recordings could be made by the instruments listed.

Carrying the instruments to bring the music along was an easy extension to understand. It would be like the dramas played in the large open rec commons. Only here, there was no story, and all the little humans (little humans! Like adult humans, but littler!) and occasional Phosako were in neat lines, marching like soldiers, sometimes swaying back and forth and making motions with their instruments while playing all the while, and their plumage was all alike. But the plumage! They were the most colorful things she’d seen since arriving!

Each school had its own colors and designs. Maroons and gold, light blue and silvers, velvet and white, so many combinations (though sadly none ultraviolet, since the human visual range did not extend that far). Some costumes had flaring capes, and others had helmets with billowing feathers (!), and some of them had sparkly sashes that flashed colors as they lit up. Along with the musicians there were sometimes dancers in elaborate costumes that twirled batons and streamers and sparklers. It was fun! Their few pictures hadn’t conveyed any of it. It made her wonder why Umeria was generally so dull when their children could have all that color.

Despite her excitement, Phoebe-o managed to maintain Ambassadorial Dignity for a final fourteen minutes before her bubbly and inquisitive nature emerged for good, at the sight of a particularly fascinating instrument among one of the bands, producing a pattern of sounds she’d never heard before.

She jumped up and gestured with her wing. “Ooh! What’s that?”

The Second for Welfare blinked. “You mean... oh! The young gentleman in question is playing the Umerian national instrument, a Phosako innovation called the monoventral heebiephone. Not commonly seen outside Umeria, I must say; few genuine heebiephone artists can be found beyond our borders, so far as I know.”

“How does that work? May I see that? Wow! That’s shiny!”

[Steve]

Co-Written with Siege


Villa Straylight
Geosynchronous orbit around Solaris, United Solarian Sovereignty
21 October 3400



With her day's training completed and her father once again off to himself, Nisa returned to her room. After showering she traded in the vest and loose pants she used in training for a multi-colored blouse and knee-length skirt for comfort. Once at her computer terminal - she had taken to them easily enough, given how they were designed for minimal learning curve - Nisa took to the Datasphere and its uplinks into the Galactic Comm networks. News about Ork attacks on some empire that popped into existance to Anti-Spinward, reports of economic improvement from the Grand Dominion, all sorts of things came through.

Following a link through some of the more underground channels, Nisa found herself reading about something called "Shroom Fighter", a fighting tournament for Espers like her. She felt a mix of revulsion and intrigue at the notion sufficient to pique her curiosity, so she began watching fight videos. She saw a blond woman covered in scars fight off a crazy human levitating around and proclaiming himself to be Imperator Byzon, the ruler of Bragule, and after that a fight where some poor winged man - a “Thanagarian” - was rather brutally maimed and beaten by a wild-looking green-skinned humanoid with orange hair.

Nisa watched in disgusted fascination at the spectacle, the cheering crowds, and the nasty man overseeing the fighting. As she did so, she looked at the strange green man and something clicked.

She’d seen that face before.

“Computer? Dionysus?”

There was a moment, almost certainly calculated to give the omnipresent intelligence a more human dimension, before the CompInt that operated Hank’s villa responded. “Yes, Miss Tari?”

“How do I take an image of a face and check it against records?”

“There are many ways to compare similarities between images, Miss Tari. I would do so for you, if you would specify which face on the video you wish to use in the search?”

“The green-skinned man,” Nisa said. “I know I’ve seen that man before, somewhere.”

“I- see.” There was only the briefest of pauses, but Nisa had come to know the disembodied voice of the superhuman computer well enough to be able to tell that was somehow significant. Whatever similarity she’d spotted, the CompInt had seen it too. Encouraged, she pressed on:

“I... I think I saw it here, but I can’t be sure. I know it wasn’t on Toutaine, though.”

“No, it was not.” The cadence of Dionysus’ voice changed almost imperceptibly as the CI opened extra channels to the avatar of the villa’s owner and began piping large volumes of data-traffic through them. “This is a very astute observation, Nisa.” A hologram popped into existence, hovering over a table not far from Nisa’s terminal. A blur of light coalesced into the face of the green-skinned man, converted from the two-dimensional image on her terminal’s screen into a 3d model. Next to it a welter of images flickered above the table, like a recording that was being fast-forwarded. Nisa caught glimpses of an energetic man making a speech before what seemed a convention or a parliament of some kind; the same man, now seen through someone’s eyes, shaking hands and drinking a clear liquid in an ostentatious office filled with communist paraphernalia; the man again, in an oriental-looking restaurant; then as a golden statue on the bow of an ocean-going ship; blurry footage of the man engaging in a shoot-out with an unseen assailant, grainy as if taken from a security camera in the rain; more meetings, the man appearing older each time; and finally, an open casket surrounded by official-looking people in expensive clothes.

It was then that Nisa realized that what she was watching were memories, being replayed before her eyes. She blushed in embarrassment, feeling like an intruder into these private and ancient thoughts. “He was your friend... and another of Father’s?”

“He was a good friend. But that was... a very long time ago. He died.” Again the briefest of pauses. “Apparently that wasn’t enough.”

“Father has said he once died too. I.. thought he was speaking metaphorically,” Nisa murmured. “But it’s true, isn’t it?”

“It is. He did. Most of us did. It’s a long story, and one I do not feel entirely comfortable telling you without your father’s consent.”

“He told me he would explain it to me soon. He is meditating now, should I go tell him?”

“That would be wise. Give me an hour, this matter deserves my physical presence.”



Sidney, Stephen, and Nisa were together in one of Sidney’s many commons rooms. The 3D representation of “Shroomka”, as “Lord Julia” called him on the video, hovered above them. Nisa watched her father stare at it with a mix of horror and sadness. “Oh, Shroom... he did this to you too. And what have they done to you?”

“You are sure it is him? That it isn’t just a coincidence?” Coming in Nisa had again seen the bust of “Prime Minister Shroom” and known where she’d seen the face before. The resemblence was unmistakable, but to think of a dead man being resurrected.

For all her world had been sundered by the events of the last month, Nisa still thought like a Yildiz. For her, this could only be a sign of divine involvement, but when she had stated such, the two older men had shown looks that betrayed their feeling that the “resurrections” were anything but divine.

“This stopped being funny a long time ago,” grumbled Sidney.

“He was the best of us,” Stephen said quietly. “Even with everything that happened to him, he always had a smile and a joke.” He was thinking back to his memories of Shroom. Hosting him in Adams, then in San Magdalena when Shroom’s first “return” to life occurred, having Shroom visit after Sophia died...

“How is this happening?”, Nisa asked. “How can dead people be brought back like this? He... he doesn’t look entirely Human anymore.”

“What do we know of this ‘R. Julia’?, Sidney?”

Sidney blinked rapidly as the Dionysus part of his consciousness dumped a cache of data into his implants. “Not much. He hosts a... I suppose you could call it a fighting tournament. Blood sport. Illegal in most of the civilized galaxy, but then a lot of the universe isn’t these days. His operation used to be low-key, gladiators and Wild Space yokels with nothing left to lose, fighting for a few measly bucks... But this Julia character’s been broadening his horizons of late. Word across the ‘Sphere is he signed a deal with some Bragulans, and that the rock-chuckers may be involved. Looks like he might be trying to go galaxy-wide, but I’ve got nothing on the man himself or his motivations on the public net. CEID may know more, but their cores aren’t on the Net. It’ll take time to access them.”

Stephen nodded. “I may be able to make some inquiries as well. If this is out toward Shepistan, the Sisters of the Silver Moon may have some knowledge.”

“I am sure they do,” Nisa spoke up. “The fight before this one had one of their Sisters, at least according to this General Julia.”

“I highly doubt one of them would be a willing combatant.” Stephen frowned. “Undoubtedly she’s been forced to fight, to protect either herself or others. But I can use this. Sidney, I believe a trip to Lochley’s Retreat will be in order.”

“You want to talk to those do-gooders in the Order, I imagine?” His tone of voice made it obvious Sidney didn’t have the highest of opinions of the Silver Moon.

Nisa observed the wry look on her father’s face. It fit them rather well; her father appreciated and admired the Sisterhood for their ideals and willingness to sacrifice while Mr. Hank considered them something on the order of naive fools wasting energy and blood on fool’s errands when they should be combating the universe’s problems directly at the root. “Your mercenaries are good, but you’ve got only so many of them and with the sheer quantity of security that Julia and the Bragulans will undoubtedly have in place, we’re going to need help. At the very least, the Sisters know more about this individual and can help us understand what’s going on.”

“True enough,” Sidney shrugged. “I’ll get you a yacht and a priority gate transfer to New Anglia by way of Alpha Centauri, and a suitable businessman-like cover so you won’t attract attention. You can be there in...” Another flutter of eyelashes. “Two days.” A look. “I can look after your daughter in the meantime.” He raised a hand to forestall the inevitable protest. “Insofar as she needs looking after, that is.”

“Why can’t I go?”, Nisa asked, suddenly feeling offended at the idea of not getting to go, of being treated like a child.

“I imagine the ship he’s considering for my use is literally a small cabin strapped to a big hyperdrive and sublight drive strapped together with a cabin and pilot area tossed together and strapped on as an afterthought.”

“Too luxurious still, old friend,” Sidney grinned. “The Joyride Madonna is an engine with a bed glued on.” He looked at Nisa. “You, my dear, may be old enough to drive a LARC, but Lochley’s Retreat is not the sort of place you’d want to hang around if you didn’t have a pressing reason. You’d attract unwanted attention.”

“A wretched hive of scum and villainy,” Stephen stated. Upon getting a sarcastic look from Sidney, a fairly uncharacteristic (to Nisa at least) smirk crossed his face. “I can still try to be funny, you know.” Looking back to Nisa, he stated, “Nisa, I will not be long. And as much as my protective instincts as a father want to keep you out of this, you are an adult now and if you wish to join us when we actually go to save Shroom, I will not resist. Remember to keep training yourself while I am away; your talents are always being honed by use.”

Nisa nodded, somewhat glumly since she wanted to see this world as well, but also because it meant that she would suddenly be alone. Well, not entirely alone, but without her father here there wouldn’t be a single person she had known for more than a couple weeks available to talk to.

Sidney’s grin widened. “Don’t you worry, dear. We’ll have plenty of fun when your father’s away.”

For some reason, this did not comfort Stephen.

[Shinn Langley Soryu]

Company of Bastards
Outskirts of St. Vith, East Gallia
Gallian continent, Halkeginia, Belka Sector
21 August 3400

For the first five months of the war, Captain Eleanor Varrot's unit, G Company of the Royal Gallian Marine Corps 56th Marine Regiment, 1st Marine Division, had steadfastly and tirelessly held the line against the East Gallian aggressors at Emmeloord. Now, with the stalemate between the two Gallias finally broken, G Company and the rest of the 56th Marine Regiment found themselves at the forefront of the West Gallian counter-offensive, fearlessly leading the charge into East Gallian territory. Within the space of a month, the West Gallians had managed to penetrate deep into East Gallian territory and were already on the verge of taking several of East Gallia's major cities; the 1st Marine Division's particular objective was the city of St. Vith, a major transportation hub and one of several gateways to East Gallia's southwestern frontier and its abundant natural resources.

St. Vith was also a major stronghold of the Volkslander mercenaries that the East Gallians had hired to bolster their already considerable numbers. With their former homeland now ground to dust under the heel of the Prussians, the Volkslanders marooned in the Koprulu Zone had chosen to cast their lot in with whoever was willing to pay them. East Gallia was a particularly attractive employer, and even with the Belkans, the Haruhiists, and the Solarians actively destroying any and all Volkslander shipping they encountered with the most extreme of prejudice, large numbers of Volksies insisted on flocking to Halkeginia, enticed by promises of great wealth and comfortable lifestyles after the war; the fact that the East Gallian government was in many ways ideologically similar to the former Fourth Reich also helped. The 1st Marine Division expected considerable resistance from the Volkslander contingents in and around St. Vith, which Eleanor and the rest of G Company were in the process of breaking down piece by piece...

A few miles outside St. Vith, Welkin's tank platoon and some G Company infantry had ambushed a Volkslander infantry platoon, inflicting severe casualties upon the unit. One of the few survivors of this attack was an Unterscharführer named Walther Rachtman, who was promptly taken prisoner and, given that he was the highest-ranked of the survivors, singled out for interrogation. By the time Unterscharführer Rachtman finally realized the gravity of his situation, it was far too late for him; given the reputation the Volkslanders had all throughout known space, few forces were willing to have them as prisoners for very long once they ceased to be useful. Likewise, G Company was starting to get a reputation of its own among the Volksies...

"So, I assume you've heard of us," Welkin said to Unterscharführer Rachtman.

"You're Welkin Gunther, the Ace of Emmeloord," Unterscharführer Rachtman replied.

The rest of G Company laughed. "Well, if you've heard of us, you've probably heard we're not in the prisoner-taking business," Welkin said. "We're in the killing Volksie business, and cousin, business is a-boomin'. Now, that leaves two ways we can go about this. We can kill you, or we can let you go." A pause. "Up the road apiece, there's an orchard. Besides you, we know there's another Volksie patrol fucking around here somewhere. If that patrol were to have any crack shots, that orchard would be a goddamn sniper and tank-killer's delight." Welkin took out a datapad and brought up a map of the area on it. "Now, if you ever wanna eat a sauerkraut sandwich again, you gotta show me on this map where they are, you gotta tell me how many there are, and you gotta tell me what kinda artillery they're carrying with 'em."

Unterscharführer Rachtman glanced at the datapad briefly, then scoffed at Welkin. "You cannot expect me to divulge information that would put Volkslander lives in danger."

"You see, that's where you're wrong, Walther, because that's exactly what I expect," Welkin said. "Now, I need to know about Volksies hiding in those trees, and you need to tell me. You need to tell me right now. Now, take your finger and point out on the map where the party's being held, how many are coming, and what they brought to play with."

"I respectfully refuse," Unterscharführer Rachtman replied.

Just then, a loud crunching noise rang out, followed by the sounds of a man screaming in pain and a woman laughing. "You hear that, Walther?" Welkin asked. "That's Sergeant Jane Turner, but you might know her better by her nickname: Sadistic Jane. Now, if you've heard of the Ace of Emmeloord, then certainly you've heard of Sadistic Jane, right?"

"Yes, I have heard of Sadistic Jane," Unterscharführer Rachtman said.

"What did you hear about her, Walther?"

"She beats Volkslander soldiers with a club."

"She bashes their brains in with the butt of her rifle is what she does," Welkin said. "Now, Walther, I'm only gonna ask you one more time, and if you still 'respectfully refuse,' I'm gonna have to call Sadistic Jane in here, and she's gonna take that rifle of hers, and she's gonna smash your skull in with it. Now, take your wienerschnitzel-lickin' finger and point out on the datapad what we need to know."

"Fuck you, you West Gallian liberal dogs!" Unterscharführer Rachtman snapped.

At that, Welkin laughed. He fucking laughed. "Actually, Walther, we're quite tickled to hear you say that. Quite frankly, watching Jane beat Volksies to death is one of the closest things we get to going to the movies. YO, JANEY!"



"Yeah?" a pale, cadaverous, raven-haired woman in a blood-spattered uniform spoke up. It was none other than Sadistic Jane herself, fresh from having beaten one of Unterscharführer Rachtman's surviving platoon mates.

"We got us yet another Volksie who wants to die for his nonexistent country," Welkin said. "Oblige him."

Jane flashed a truly murderous grin. "With pleasure, Lieutenant Gunther," she said, licking her lips as she sized up her latest victim. Her eyes fell on the Eisernes Kreuz 1. Klasse medal, a perverse copy of the Prussian military honor of the same type, prominently displayed on the left breast pocket of the Unterscharführer's uniform. "You get that for killing civvies?" she asked.

"Bravery," Unterscharführer Rachtman spat.

Jane smiled once more as she brought up her rifle. "Scream for me," she said right before slamming the butt directly into the Unterscharführer's temple with a sickening crunch. Unterscharführer Rachtman silently collapsed to the ground like a bloodied sack of potatoes.

[Simon_Jester]

Undisclosed Location, Sector H-12
Boskonian Sector Command Dome
July 10, 3400
1747 Hours Coalition Fleet Standard Time

High Admiral Natalya Zokolova's features took on their usual schooled immobility as the visiplate flashed an alert. The commander of Squadron T5X22 must have resolved the convoy interception, at least to the point of being able to give a report via submesonics.

That squadron of all-core units had been given an important mission; Zokolova accepted the call, and the renegade Air Caste officer appeared on the screen. Zokolova's first impression was poor, as her subordinate was clearly speaking from a damaged command bridge. Not a good sign.

As always, the Boskonian language lent itself well to terse conversations.

"Commodore, report."

"Partial success. Enemy convoy escorted by mixed international force, including unexpected Tianguo heavy cruiser." Tianguo cruisers weren't normally classed as 'heavy;' an attempt to excuse damages? But there was no time to cross-examine the report, not with a major battle about to start. Zokolova remained silent, and the Tau kept talking.

"Escorts engaged aggressively, intercepting our cruisers. Enemy heavy cruiser remained at intercept site; other escorts fled. Core cruisers unable to pursue, being engaged with Enemy heavy cruiser. Core light corvettes attacked Enemy convoy regardless."

"Outcome of convoy attack?"

"Running battle between core light corvettes and four Enemy ships consisting of two Eoghan patrol sloops, one Umerian parasite tender, and one Centrality corvette. Enemy warship losses two patrol sloops, heavy damage to parasite tender and corvette. Successfully intercepted and destroyed six convoy ships. Surviving Enemy units scattered and fled for Enemy multinational fleet position. Our losses four light corvettes destroyed or mobility-killed, three damaged."

Hmm. Worse than she'd hoped, but then she'd hoped there wouldn't be an escort. The light corvettes were... fairly expendable. But there was an outstanding question, one which the Tau seemed to want to avoid, probably because it would reflect poorly on her. There wasn't time for dilatory subordinates, either.

"The cruiser engagement?"

"Both core cruisers severely damaged and unable to participate in convoy battle; Enemy heavy cruiser completely destroyed."

In isolation that would have been a victory. Given the mission T5X22 had been assigned, it had been a major setback. Those cruisers had no doubt been sorely missed when the numerous but lightly armed corvettes went up against their Enemy counterparts. Disappointing, but acceptable. Again, there wasn't time to dissect T5X22's performance; that would have to be reserved for later, possibly delegated.

"Report accepted. Withdraw covertly to sector headquarters for repair; scuttle any ships incapable of making the journey."

Next order of business, the situation at Zebes. She called on the staff analyst she'd tasked with collating what information sources were available to her on events at Zebes in real time: signals intercepts, mostly; a tap to Weavel's headquarters that didn't work as reliably as she'd like, and a handful of other things.

"Directing Analyst! What is your report?"

"Situation proceeding as expected. Enemy landing operations well underway. Native forces have overrun several drop sites immediately around Tourian mountains, but Prussians have firm footholds elsewhere. We expect them to start assembling offensives towards Tourian before local planetary nightfall."

"Good." Just as planned. It was a sign that the Prussians were confident that the area was secure, that they did not suspect her plans. And more important yet, until the Enemy began landing operations, there was no way to stop them from trying to run from the Contrecoup fleet. Having a land-based army on the planet would tend to pin them in place; it was unlikely that von Mückenberger would be willing to cut his losses with whatever was left of eight million soldiers at stake.

---

Recommended Listening: Here.

Contrecoup Stage Three was complete; the fleet was in position. The core Boskone-crewed ships from her own Sector Command would provide the core of heavies to keep the Prussian capital ships occupied. They'd already crept close to Zebes, relying on astrodynamic drive fields and the general chaos of the battle to keep anyone from spotting them as they ran at minimum drive power towards the target. Now reinforced by what asset forces she'd been able to draw from outside the sector- and the portions of the Zebes defense fleet under her control, withdrawn from the battle earlier on her orders- all they'd have to do was make one final pounce and fall upon the Prussians.

Given the depleted state of the Enemy's fuel and ammunition, the state of their landing operations... yes. There'd be losses. Those battleships would take a lot of killing. But she was as sure of victory as she was of her own name.

Zokolova shuddered slightly. Her eyes flared wide, and a faint smile creased her face.

At last.

"Report accepted. Begin Contrecoup Stage Five, prepare Stage Six. I will be monitoring the fleet in Simulator One."

---

Kaiser-class Battleship SMS Prinzregent Luitpold
Overseeing Landing Operations on Zebes
1803 Hours Fleet Standard Time

"Sir! Picking up multiple contacts at one light-year, closing fast!"

"What?" Perhaps the allied contingents, trying to jump in and somehow share in the victory? They'd find it too late for that!

Then he stopped to actually look at the display. He'd been a watch officer once too; he remembered how to read a plot. And those were not Coalition drive signatures. They looked... Altacaran, perhaps? No, that wasn't right either... Could it be the Tianguo contingent? No, too many signatures.

He couldn't be seeing this. This wasn't part of the plan. But it was there anyway!

After he'd stood silent for a few minutes, watching the unidentified ships approach, the tactical ratings started looking at him awkwardly. The chief tactical officer called out. "We have figures on drive strength and tonnage, Admiral. I'm seeing... two battleship-class capital units, six light capitals, estimated at... heavy battlecruiser tonnage. Somewhere around fifteen cruiser-class units, and... this can't be right. I'm picking up at least eighty units in the destroyer and frigate weight range!"

A pit opened in von Mückenberger's mind. This was wrong, the Zebesians were supposed to stand and fight, not to have huge fleets dropping on him after he'd already won, after the bombardment and during the troop landings. It was supposed to be over after you brushed aside the enemy's fleet, bombarded the planet, and landed the Hussars, damn it!

Worse yet, this time they had battleships. Battleships with suspiciously powerful drive signatures, suggesting more powerful units. He didn't want to risk fighting a battle against superior ships. That was just common sense. At least they didn't have many of those superior ships, but...

No. No. No. This wasn't part of the plan! Where were all these ships coming from? Would his fleet, worn down by the earlier battle, be able to fight them?

He turned to his chief of staff. Arnold's indomitable solidity made him someone you could rely on- it wasn't just his physical bulk, it was that buoyant confidence. Even when he was in trouble, you still got that sense that he'd be able to solve the problem, by grabbing it and breaking it in half if nothing else. A fine officer, commendably direct, commendably simple. And maybe he'd have some ideas here.

"Arnold, come with me to the ready room." That was just off the bridge- he needed a private conversation, he couldn't be seen to be weakening at a time like this. After they got into the ready room and shut the door, the New Austrian asked the obvious question, his deep baritone distorted by the provincial accent of his home moon of Übergraz.

"This is about the new fleet?"

"Yes."

"Sir, I think ve are screwed."

No! No! No! "But our fleet! It's over eight thousand on the Stefan-Wylkins scale!"

Arnold shook his head. "Admiral, ve may have the most bulked up fleet in the sector, but the biggest battleship is useless when it out of gas und bullets. Which ve are very close to being."

"What are we going to do?"

"I would vote for "call for help," sir. Then just... hang together. Try to survive." Arnold shrugged his heavily muscled shoulders.

"That sounds good." Call for help. Hang together. Try to survive.

Von Mückenberger strode away from the ready room back to the bridge, mustering every scrap of presence available to him- one must keep up appearances. He turned to his signals officer. "Put through a signal to the allied contingents, maximum intensity: "Under heavy attack. Need reinforcements." And repeat that until acknowledged!"

Call for help. Hang together. Try to survive. Call for help. Hang together. Try to survive. Call for help. Hang together. Try to survive.

---

Z-1240 Series Destroyer Z-1261
1810 Hours

Flottenkapitän Oskar von Reuental frowned. "Any word from the flagship on the new contacts?"

"Only 'stand by for fleet formation change,' sir."

That could mean anything. The destroyer commander's lip curled. "What about from Brunhild?"

"Hmm, we've got some executables coming from them... looks like EW protocols!"

"Forward them to me as the downloads complete." That took another minute, but... That's more like it. The summary laid out sensor and jamming patterns seen at the battle last week against the Zebesian mining facility... against those unknown ships. Apparently, young von Musel had put his electronic warfare officers to work analyzing what they'd seen in those few minutes of action, positing what might be seen on larger, more capable platforms with the same technical palette, working out ways to counter it.

Interesting. Does he think- ah. It was indeed suspicious that they hadn't seen more of the mysterious streamlined ships here. With ships like that mixed in with the Zebesians at the mining facility, why were none reinforcing them at Zebes itself?

But to move from that to the deduction that they would be seeing more ships of the same type in the large fleet coming against them now... interesting. He'd have to see whether that panned out; the younger man's intuition was good, but was it that good?

"Put me through to F-2522." He wanted to check this with Wolfgang.

Mittermeyer was quick to answer, as usual. "The incoming fleet, Oskar?"

"And the new EW schemes. You saw?"

"You think he's right to expect more of those ships?"

"Only way to be sure would be the drive signatures, and we never saw them at Target Three; the admiral didn't let any get away." Now Oskar smiled, remembering a trap well executed.

Von Mückenberger hadn't been at Target Three. Even if he had, when Reuental said "the admiral," it would have been obvious to them both which flag officer he meant.

Wolfgang nodded. "I feel better knowing he's around, I tell you that." The expression on his face spoke volumes. His friend could read the numbers- and more to the point the ammunition and fuel figures- as well as he could. This was going to be an ugly battle, possibly their last.

Reuental had never been the sort to believe in miracles, nor the sort to indulge in flights of optimism. But on the off chance he was going to be wrong today, he suspected the one to prove him wrong would be Konteradmiral von Musel.