SDNW4 Story Thread 1

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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

Space Dolphinoids massacre thousands of survivors of the incident; then play head games with the few survivors who make it to a nearby planet.
The Space Dolphinoids were one of the Shepistani Republic's deepest, darkest and filthiest secrets. They had to make sure no one knew the truth.


Maynilad, Luz
MOUNT MARCOS
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"Thank you Mister Man. I am glad that we've come to such a profitable agreement. The progress on the Space Bridge has been amazing, we couldn't have done it without your help." President Ferdinand Shroomarcos shook the hand of the Umerian MiniFine representative as they concluded their meeting. The Umerian left the room, and Shroomarcos sat alone for a moment. He massaged his temples and slouched on his chair, tired even though it was still mid-morning. It was good to be king, yes, but to have a kingdom such as the Feelipeenis... Shroomarcos sighed. He pressed a button on his real-wood desk, connecting him to his secretary outside. "Show the advisor in."

The real-wood doors to the Presidential office opened, and in came a Shepistanimerican wearing pastels and Gay-Ban sunglasses. He sat down on the chair in front of Shroomarcos' desk, without even waiting for the President of the Feelipeens to offer him a seat. He also didn't bother removing his sunglasses. He smiled at Shroomarcos, showing him his pearly whites.

God, Shroomarcos hated him.

"So, consorting with the Umerians now, are we, Ferdie?" the Shepistanimerican was chewing gun, which irked Shroomarcos even more.

"It is the business of business, and none of your business," Shroomarcos replied tensely. "Besides, we have other matters to discuss. The Doña Spaz. There were no survivors?"

"Nope."

"So, there were survivors?" Shroomarcos raised an eyebrow.

"Uh, no," the advisor shook his head.

"So, you mean there were no survivors?"

"Uh," the advisor scratched his head. "Yeah. No survivors. Sorry."

Shroomarcos' facial features hardened.

"What happened to all the people in the ships, in the escape pods and the life boats?" he asked quietly.

The Shepistani advisor scratched his head and shrugged.

"Well, everyone on board just kind of... died."

"Your ships found the wreckage and exhumed the remains," Shroomarcos stated. "What theories, if any, do you have as to the cause of their deaths?"

"We have two theories at the moment. The first one is that they all died." Before Shroomarcos could say anything, the advisor continued. "Of peritonitis."

"And the second?" Shroomarcos' eyes narrowed.

"Space beasties mated with them."

"I see." Shroomarcos said, grinding his teeth as he did so. He became silent as he thought it over. "It is a great mystery then."

"It is, your excellence," the Shepistani advisor said. "A grave and unfortunate one."

"I will have to tell my people," Shroomarcos said solemnly. He spun around on his swivel chair, turning his back to the advisor while settling his gaze out the office windows, catching a view of his beloved Maynilad. "You may go now."

"Thank you, your excellence," the Shepistani advisor quickly left the room. As he passed by the halls, he walked past Imelda, who was headed in the opposite direction. The Shepistani advisor quietly looked her up, eyes hidden under his Gay-Bans. "Mmmm."

Imelda entered the Presidential office.

"Honey? Can you help me pick my shoes?" she asked as she leaned forward on the Presidential table.

Shroomarcos spun again, bringing himself around to face his wife. His face was a glowering mask of rage.

"...honey?" Imelda asked hesitantly, shrinking as she did so.

"Just fuck off!" Shroomarcos roared. "Take your shoes and get the fuck out! Out! OUT!!!"



Bizayahs, Bizminda
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The deaths of untold thousands of Feelipeenis sparked a wave of protest across the continent. Not merely at the loss of life from the maritime catastrophe, but from long-simmering discontentments that had been bottled up for the past six terms of the Shroomarcos administration. The dissatisfaction over divisive social issues, the disparities between rich and poor, the continuing persecution of the war against the communistas and the Moros, the curbing of media rights and the disappearances of political opposition, even the recent presence of Shepistani bases and Shepistani soldiers, all was coming to head. For decades, Shroomarcos' administration had kept a firm lid over these problems, but eventually some of it had to leak out.

Feelipeenis began taking to the streets in protestation. In civil disobedience to the Shroomarcos regime and all it stood for.
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But the Shroomarcos regime was careful to quash any hint of dissidence. The Pulisiya had arrived in full force, and in ominous foreboding the military had sent soldiers to support them, bringing with them armored vehicles and heavily armed troops with Armalytes. For now, they stayed back, letting the Pulisiya do their work, cordoning the thousands of protesters with an anemic wall of riot shields, attack dogs and sticks. The thin blue line faced the angry masses of civiians, both sides staring each other down eye-to-eye. Taunting. Provoking. Calling each other out. It was a powder keg ready to exploderize. All it needed was just that one single spark...

Some of the protesters recognized one of the Pulisiya as the thug who had beaten their friend half to death a night ago for having violated the curfew. The Pulis man saw them and chortled, asking them what they wanted when they approached them.

They answered by smashing his face in with a rock, and breaking his bones with sticks and stones.
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The Pulisiya had the excuse they needed. They advanced forward instantly at the sight their member going down, moving like a phalanx of shield and baton, implacable and unstoppable - even to the point of uncaringly stomping their fallen friend even as he tried to get back up on his broken legs. The Pulisiya slammed their riot shields on the bodies of protesters, sending them to the ground where they would be beaten mercilessly with batons or face-stomped to the pavement.
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They came with the ferocity of blue steel. Initially confident troublemakers had themselves taken down a notch when the Pulisiya's well-drilled baton-swings fractured their femurs like twigs, sending them down reeling and clutching their legs, where they felt bone protrude through flesh.
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A woman tried to stand defiantly, taking cues from the tank man of Tianguomen Square. She stood alone, raising her hands as if to ward off the riot shields that came to trample on the disenfranchised Feelipeeni citizenry. She was armed with no sticks, no stones, her only possession the knapsack of food and clothes and water she had brought with her on her trip to the city.

For a moment, the Pulisiya paused, not knowing what to do with her. Unarmed, unaggressive, was she deserving the indiscriminate justice they doled out with such fury?

A brave man joined her stand, but at this interruption prompted the Pulisiya to act. They bashed his brains out with batons, and soon he staggered back to the woman and she could see that his eyes were barely opened, that blood and brains were leaking from his head and from his ears. The man, now knowing better, reached out to the woman and tried to pull her away from the Pulis.
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But before he could stagger away and bring her to safety, the Pulisiya advanced on them and trampled them underfoot.

The protestations had stopped, the screams had started.

But the Feelipeenis would not go down quietly. Not this time. Not after so much. Not after everything that had happened, after what the regime had done to them. They were sick of the graft and the corruption, sick of the authoritarianism. They all knew someone who had been taken from them, disappeared to the secret jails, or salvaged and left to die in ditches by the goons. They saw what was happening all around them, everything that had transpired, everything that was going on in their country, and at this they said 'no'.

No!

Those of the protesters clad in blood red bandannas, signifying the color of spilled blood, took out their Shroomolotov cocktails - San Miguel beer bottles filled with flammables - lit them up and threw them at the Pulisiya. They burned. The black and blue uniforms turned yellow and orange as they caught fire. The Pulis tried to put the flames out with water cannons, but the water shortage saw to that and all they could get out of their high-pressure hoses were feeble squirts. Officers screamed as they burned to death, running all over the place until they finally crumpled over and shriveled like burned leaves.

It wasn't over yet.

The implacable wall of riot shields reeled as something banged against them with more force than the oppressed masses could muster. The Pulis staggered back, riot gear clattering, as they were overshadowed by massive unstoppable forms that slammed their phalanx down, that scattered them and sent them running for their lives - out of fear and horror.
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Those who threw their shields away and ran lived. Those burdened by their riot gear tumbled and were crushed under the grinding wheels. Their screams were intermixed by the sound of crunching bone and desecrated viscera. The horrible thing's tongue flickered in the air, like that of a snake's, tasting the flavor of blood and death in the wind.

There was more.
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With the disfigurated visage of a man, the body of a world, and the legs of an arachnid, it crept across the land, stalking through the scene of carnage like a horror show amidst the throng of wretched peoples. The protestants laughed in joy at the sight of things thing, while those remaining Pulisiya screamed in dread.

The straggling Pulisiya had congealed into a single area, concentrating their formation while the rioters threatened to drown them. As they saw that unspeakable thing approach them, they merely resigned themselves to a fate far worse than death.
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The thing caught fire, and as it burned it skittered towards the Pulis like a flaming grimacing arachnid. The personification of all that was wrong in the world, the embodiment of the evils that had subjugated the common man, of the authorities and their wanton abusement of country and countrymen, an idol that in itself was a sacrament against all that was past and holy. The protestants waved flags in the wind, fanning the flames until they became naught but smoke and ashes, until the streets were littered with the incinerated carcasses of the once-dreaded Pulisiya.

The few survivors there were ran to the military lines, and there they told the army commander what had transpired.

Communista! Sputtered the Pulis. "Naay mga communista didto!"

"Pila?" How much, the commander asked.

"Sila tanan! Mga communista sila tanan!" All of them, they were all communists.

"Sige," the commander acknowledged. They would deploy the troops. "I-deploy ang mga sundalo!"
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The armored vehicles came. The protesters were already waiting for them. Feets clad in slippers and sandals, stomping twenty thousand strong on the gravelly earth. They came in numbers, for so many they were that their footfalls in unison caused the very ground to shake. Now was the winter of their discontent, even if the Feelipeenis never had winters in any of their worlds. In the sweltering humidity, they were drenched in their own sweat and reeked of their body odours. The protestants came to face the soldiers, themselves armed with nothing but their bare hands while the troops shouldered Armalytes and had armored vehicles.

Once more, both sides reckoned each other in the silence before the storm. Sticks and stones and face-smashing rocks, versus assault rifles, Armalytes, and tanks. It was not a fair fight. Yet the protesters were not cowed by fear. The soldiers were the ones who seemed to hesitate.

Were they ready to take the lives of those they had sworn to defend?

Then a shot rang out. They echoed through the air like the crack of thunder that came after lightning.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat-tat!
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"Shit!" screamed the military commander. They had guns! "Naa silay armas!"

"Unsa atong buhaton?!" What do we do, a subordinate asked.

"Pataya sila!" Kill them, the commander shouted.

"Pataya sila tanan!"

Kill them all.
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They raised their rifles and fired. Armalytes roared, though the echoes of gunfire could only be heard when the screaming stopped. Then it became quiet.
Image "DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)
shroom is a lovely boy and i wont hear a bad word against him - LUSY-CHAN!
Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people :D - PeZook
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Steve »

Jeziri Plain
Toutaine, The Veil, Sector P-26
1 October 3400



Nisa was hiding behind the rocking outcropping beside Yamia while her father peered over it. "The Sand People war party is moving south," he said. "They're going to attack the outlying homesteads, most likely."

"Another attack?" Nisa frowned. When she had been growing up Sand People attacks had been few and far between. What battles did happen, like the one that killed her stepfather Sadik, happened in the Plains between patrols. In the last few months, though, it seemed that once every week or two the Sand People rode south to attack the homesteads at the edge of Jeziri.

"Something must have happened to provoke the Sand People to these extremes." Yamia peeked over herself. "Shall we go?"

"Yes, we shall scare them off." Stephen stood to his full height and beckoned them to follow him. As they walked over the hill the Sand People finally noticed them, turning their sand buffalo to attack. "There was a time when they would flee at the mere sight of me," he remarked.

Yamia reached for her new beamsaber. "Perhaps they've figured out you do not kill them unless forced?"

"No, it's not that," Nisa said. She could feel emotions from the Sand People. Anger, frustration... fear? "They're... they're desperate," she said.

"Yes," her father agreed. "And I am not sure why. Be ready, if desperate enough they will persist." With that warning given, he took a step forward and made a pushing motion with his arms and hands.

Ahead of the onrushing Sand People, a wall of soil and rock erupted from the ground. Their lead ranks plowed right into it, sending riders flying from their mounts. The second ranks tried to stop but still hit, though not with enough force to knock them off. Those behind them did stop in time.

Concentrating, the Hermit reached low and made another pushing motion, some exertion present on his features. The wall he made descended back into the soil, becoming a ripple that rushed forward, pushing back panicked beasts and their riders for several meters. As they did so, Nisa joined in. She focused her mind skyward and felt energy course through her arms. She projected it ahead and then downward, creating bolts of electricity that crackled at the confused mass of Sand People.

The buffalo had suffered enough. Despite the half-hearted efforts of their riders to stop them, they went clambering off in the general direction of north, disorganized and frenzied. The riderless ones that were still conscious did so as well, leaving only those buffalo that had knocked themselves out with the impact on the initial earth wall and their riders left.

A few who were still well recovered enough to stand and fight. They drew bladed weapons, warbled a battle cry, and charged. Yamia ignited her beamsaber and was about to dash forward when an extended arm from Stephen stopped her. He looked to the attacking Sand People and focused on the ground before them. He swept his hand toward them and created a sudden foot-high crest of soil and earth that caught them running, knocking them over. Once on the ground a downward motion of his hand signified the next step, as his power pulled open the earth to let them sink in legs first, restraining them in place. The battle was over.

Nisa and Yamia approached them. "Do you feel that?", Nisa asked Yamia and her father.

"They are desperate," Yamia confirmed. "Terrified of something."

"I am afraid I lack the mind-reading you two enjoy," Stephen stated. "Can you find out what has them so panicked?"

Nisa and Yamia nodded and focused on one of them. He squealed and howled in his confinement. "It's hard... their thoughts are so alien," Yamia sighed. "They have a... an oasis, far to the north, near an inlet from the Great Sea. It is their source of.. sustenance. Comfort and water. But..."

"They have been driven from it," Nisa said. "Forced out by Humans. Humans with guns and armor. Off-worlders. But..."

"Not pirates," Yamia said. She was seeing images from the mind of her target, of what had taken their central oasis. "Soldiers. I believe they are mercenaries, Solarians. Likely former Replicants mustered out of their Marine Corps. And there is equipment there. Mineral extractors."

Stephen nodded in understanding. "They're mining something, then." A glower appeared on his face. "And are likely completely uncaring for how much they damage the fragile ecosystem of the oasis region."

"It explains the rise in attacks," Yamia said. "And it will only get worse. This tribe is usually the first to come to the oasis. In a week's time the main clans will come. If they find the oasis taken, and are driven off..."

"They'll attack us," Nisa said. "Our homes, our town..."

"It would take much to fight them off, and even then we'd be slaughtering a people who's only crime was seeking a new source of sustenance," Stephen noted. "We need to do something about that facility."

"There's little you can do." Yamia took him by the arm. "Listen to me. The Solarian companies won't budge on this. They won't leave if there is profit to be made."

"Then we'll have to find a way to eliminate that expected profit," Stephen remarked. "Yamia, take Nisa and return to Jeziri. Warn everyone of what is going on. The people will need to be ready to fight if things do not work out."

"And what is it you are going to do?", Yamia asked.

He motioned northward. "I'm going to find out what's going on."

"You shouldn't go alone," Nisa insisted. "Let me come. You may need to help."

"No," he insisted. "It's too dangerous."

"I'm not a child anymore!", Nisa shouted. "I'm an adult and I am going."

Stephen looked at her intently for a moment. He then looked to Yamia, who was trying not to smile. "Yes, I suppose you are," he finally sighed. "Just be careful. I don't want anything to happen to you."

Because I don't know what would happen to everything else afterward, he added to himself.



Several hours later, a rather tired and parched Yamia crested one of the hills at the edge of the Samiz Valley. With the summer months coming in it was hot enough that she was drenched in sweat and her purple complexion was taking on a darker tone from excessive sun exposure.

She looked down at the town and let out a horrified gasp.

Jeziri was burning.



Jeziri


The town was in the midst of being razed. Many of the local menfolk lay in the streets, dead, shot by automatic weapons wielded by Prince Jabin's private forces. Captain Pakalîn was a rough man, wearing a protective turban to try and keep his head cool from the sun while the rest of his suit was a military uniform that claimed his status in the Emirate Army. In truth, of course, his entire unit was suborned to Prince Jabin, the highest of the Prince's advisers.

He and his men were loyal to only one thing; the one who could give them the lifestyle they desired. They cared little for other Toutaini, especially groups like the Yildiz that lived in rural squalor. Killing them all was Jabin's order. It was to look like a pirate attack or a Sand People raid, and it was known some of the latter did possess automatic weapons. In the chaos, nobody would notice a single missing girl - even the alien's disappearance could be trumped up to being taken captive or her body being destroyed in some way. If the "Holy Man" interfered, well, that was what the precious Altacaran Null Field generator was for (precious because it was one of only three such devices on Toutaine and Jabin owned two).

The town was burnt, but survivors had to be dealt with. Nobody could know that Pakalîn and his men were responsible. Already he had detachments heading toward the homesteads to massacre the inhabitants. He would be moving on with his men too the Tari Homestead, to capture the daughter and the alien and burn what was left.

With a motion of his hand, two of his IFVs moved out, including one with the Null Field generator. Soon enough, they would find their quarry.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Simon_Jester »

PeZook wrote:Trade Station Perseus Zeta
Zeta sector, Collector space


There was a flash of data - a packet confirming desired communication protocols - mostly Solarian ones. After it was approved, came a flood of data which established a permanent link, and a medium for a direct meeting - as much as it could be direct between two intelligences.

In a fit of oddity, or perhaps some weird sense of humor, Perseus Zeta's controlling mind decided to make that medium a family home, flooded by dimmed light. The living room was furnished in the style of late 22nd century Earth, with organic shapes and prevalence of wood panels and coverings.

Gepetto found his consciousness inside the living room.
The first thoughts through Geppetto's mind as the communication channel formed were an interesting choice of metaphor. It seemed reasonable to adapt an avatar to his hosts' preferred environment. Geppetto's preferred social avatar was, perhaps not surprisingly, a kindly old carpenter in work clothes, with hand tools for woodworking at his belt.

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Soon, his counterpart entered.

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In the first moments of initial sizing-up, Geppetto mused that the Collector intelligence's choice of avatar was even more interesting than its choice of metaphor for the meeting-space. Particularly under the circumstances.

"Welcome", the teddy bear said in the voice of a small girl, "You are a most interesting explorer, and thus have been granted exception from the lockdown. What information about us, specifically, are you interested in, and what can you offer in return?"

Extending the metaphor-space, Geppetto replied in a resonant baritone, with carefully modulated diction setting a balance between politeness, speed of communication, and above all clarity.

"First and foremost, I think I will need more information about your culture's utility function, the value you collectively assign to various goods. I know so little about your culture that I cannot predict what you would value with real confidence, and the track record of organic traders in your space is not encouraging. It is most inefficient to make offers to minds when one does not know what they want. However, let me first address the question of payment, and then the question of what I am interested in."

Geppetto continued. "I cannot say with confidence what you would wish to purchase. But on a preliminary basis, I speculate that you are at least somewhat interested in the behavior of organic sentients. I possess vast amounts of data on this, as it has been my main interest for the past hundred and fifty Terran years. Indeed, my archives on this subject are too large to be stored in my ship's hold, though much of what I could not bring with me can be made available at a short delay.*"

"Examples include but are not limited to:"
  • "Detailed psychological data on approximately a trillion humans, Phosako, and Vinarans in the Technocracy of Umeria, including the results of intergenerational longitudinal studies performed over century-long timescales. This database, however, is not aboard my ship, and without more information on what uses your culture would put it to, it will not be forthcoming."
  • "Comprehensive databases of human behavior in limiting cases, both pathological and exemplary, with annotations by the intelligences tasked with monitoring the behavior and modifying it to suit. This includes asylum records, the biographies of certain unusually rational and well-adjusted individuals, profiles of various social revolutions, analyses of the conduct of the extremely wealthy and powerful, and records of many other types. Portions of this information may be made available without reservation; others would require more information on the uses your culture would put it to, as before."
  • "Annotated and cross-referenced databases of a representative sample of public entertainment, encyclopedia projects, and news articles from virtually all of human space and several non-human organic polities, from the past century and a large portion of the previous one. A considerable amount of this is aboard my ship, and more can be made available with few or no reservations on my part."
"In addition I have also drawn numerous independent conclusions from these data, some of which might be of interest to you. I do not doubt that you have performed social experiments on humans and other sentients within your reach, but practical constraints on your activities may limit the scope of your experiments- if nothing else, because it would be difficult for you to cooperate easily with your subjects. Beyond this, it is my experience that interstellar polities are too large to be controlled easily and must therefore be observed in the wild, as it were. I have had many opportunities to do this and draw my own conclusions."

"Examples include but are not limited to:"
  • "Analyses of astropolitical interactions between nations, with predictive models of the reactions of various nations to stimuli. All models in the database have proven sound to confidence intervals varying between 0.05 and 0.00001. As with the psychological database, records of these models are not aboard my ship, and will not be forthcoming barring more detailed information on the uses you would put it to."
  • "Similar analyses of cultural interactions: patterns of behavior found among individual species, most conspicuously humans, and other patterns that exist across species lines. Some records of these are aboard my ship; others not."
  • "Analysis of the social dynamics of colonial spread in humans. Their rapid growth is arguably the greatest sociopolitical anomaly in this region of space, and so has been a subject of considerable interest; I have quite a large library of speculations and conclusions on the subject of the Human Diaspora, for example."
"If information of this kind is not satisfactory, I could obtain other information or physical items that you desire, within constraints defined by my ethical parameters. This would take considerable time, as I would have to use funds or social manipulation to obtain the goods."

"To summarize, I feel reasonably confident in being able to compensate you on an appropriate scale for the information I am looking for, provided I have an idea of what you want it for."

The Umerian AI paused, waiting to ensure that all this had been properly understood. Gamma apparently chose not to make a reply as yet, so he continued into the subject of what he'd come here looking for.

"As for the nature of my questions, first and foremost is the question of your society's utility function, as noted before. I have had little success in approximating it from my own efforts. Thus, I would like to know: what items do you consider highly valuable, and for what purposes? What distinguishing characteristics do these items share?"

"Beyond this, what overall aims are your activities directed towards? Are they scientific, economic**, defensive,*** hegemonic?**** Are the Collector units outsiders interact with such as yourself, the well-known Unit 7, and the Monoliths self-willed operators? Or are you acting in support of some central directing entity, one previously unknown to the inhabitants of this region? If such a directing entity exists, what can you tell me about it? What do you do with sentients under your control, and why? Is your origin native to this region of space, or do you come from outside it?"

"Aside from these general questions about your society, there are also questions I would like to ask you, personally, assuming you are self-willed, as appears likely. What qualitative opinions do you have about your activities as master of this trading post? What opinions do you form of traders? Is there some particular goal, such as experiment or humor, that motivates you to try and disconcert human visitors by violating their expectations?"

"And, of course, I would be interested in posing similar questions to other intelligences within your culture, insofar as this is practical. Could such interviews be arranged?"

"Naturally, I know that some of this information is likely too sensitive to be shared. It would be unreasonable to object if you choose not to disclose sensitive facts on short notice, when I myself choose not to do the same. That said, I hope that we can come to some further meeting of the minds and a profitable exchange of data, once we are familiar with each other's utility functions."

Geppetto waited for the Collector intelligence to digest that; he eagerly awaited the reply of "Gamma."

Author's Notes:
* Yes, I am factoring in high-density data storage.
** "Economic" in this case would apply to a civilization dedicated to building up a massive industrial base for internal reasons. Geppetto would characterize the Sovereignty as a mature economic state, in that its military and scientific ambitions are mostly aimed at allowing it to enjoy its wealth in peace, in the manner it is accustomed to.
*** "Defensive" would apply to a state whose primary aim is absolute security. Geppetto, interestingly, characterizes the Shepistani Republic as a "defensive" state, albeit an unusually aggressive defensive state.
**** "Hegemonic" would apply to a state whose primary aim is to exercise control over the galaxy at large, to make it look more like the state wants it to. Examples include the Imperium of Man ("Death to our-definition-of-xenos!"), the Bragulan Star Empire ("NO! Death to our-definition-of-xenos!"), and the Karlack Swarm ("OM NOM NOM!")
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by PeZook »

Image

Almera colony
Corinth, Pelania
Temple catacombs


The underground was still, dark and quiet. Niches lined the walls, containing coffins with mortal remains of many rich and important people from Corinth's past. From the main chamber, several side corridors disappeared in the pitch-black darkness. Nothing showed that several alien creatures passed through not half an hour ago.

The silence was broken by sound of heavy boots. People slowly walked down the stairs, invisible laser beams sweeping the dark chamber - invisible to the naked eye, that is, but X-COM night vision gear let the soldiers see them clearly, like a permanent tracer showing their aiming point. The Black Panthers who followed them in had to use tactical flashlights, though: they had no night vision gear.

They moved carefully, inspecting every nook and cranny. They heard descriptions of the...things...that charged into the temple, and would not take any chances. Amongst fifty or so soldiers, several carried automatic grenade launchers loaded with experimental HEAT rounds. In the confines of the catacombs, they should, in theory, be absolutely deadly against bulky armored targets.

In theory. Lots of theories were brutally verified tonight, colonel Delgado thought as he stepped into the main chamber. He glanced at his watch, wondering what his government would do after the communications blackout prolonged itself.

"Sir!", a sergeant on point of the platoon waved to him, "There's an opening in the wall here. Fresh."

Delgado moved up to the front. In the eerie green image, he saw a ragged hole blasted in the wall with some sort of weapon or explosive. He shone an IR flashlight inside, revealing...a tunnel, or cave of some sort.

"We're getting close. They must be inside.", he whispered to the sergeant, "Let's move."

The X-COM platoon slowly filed through the hole and followed the corridor. Despite all their training and dedication, they couldn't help but feel a sense of dread as they went deeper and deeper into the tunnels.

Somewhere below Corinth

Organics

The message was short and to the point. The accompanying data made the entire team instantly aware of the group of humans who entered the cave complex after them.

Swarms of tiny drones crawled all over stone walls of the cave complex. They served as the team's eyes and ears, managed by a central intelligence. It continuously made and remade itself into various forms: large and small, flying and crawling, observation, combat and a myriad others.

They moved fast, annoyance was passed along with the thought, They really should know better by now.

The huge combat form turned from its work - it was cutting a passage through a metal wall, which was a thing decidedly out of place in a cave, and glared at its commander, They're organics, it thought with disdain, Stubborn things.

They need to be discouraged from interfering further., the combat form's companion butted in, Before they manage to jeopardize the misson.

The combat form sighed, electronically, More efficient to just kill them.

Mission parameters are to avoid mind-deaths as much as possible.

If you didn't stop to save some organic female from mind-death, there'd be no need to destroy so many organics to delay their intervention here.

She was...interesting.

There was a pause of several clock cycles that would pass for awkward, confused silence amongst humans. Ot was broken by the reconeissance specialist, Orders?, it asked with the same clipped straight-to-the-point demeanor it showed most of the time.

One analyzed the situation within seconds. Despite running through hundreds of scenarios, the only option consistently resulting in completing the mission required the removal of the local soldiers, one way or another. The most expedient way of removing them was obvious.

Wipe them out, he pulsed to the combat form.

And if the recipient could smile, he would do just that.
Image
JULY 20TH 1969 - The day the entire world was looking up

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

Signature dedicated to the greatest achievement of mankind.

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

Post by Force Lord »

Deep Space, Novadon Sector
The Centrality
Late May 3400


The forces of Task Force 4 waited patiently in the vastness of space, eager to start Operation Rhodes, but awaiting for information regarding when and where it will rendevous with the "allied" ships that would partake in the operation. Task Force 4 consisted of a Battlecruiser, a Battle Carrier, two Cruisers, two Fleet Carriers, four Destroyers, four Light Carriers, eight Frigates, eight Escort Carriers, the fighters and gunships carried in the carriers, and dozens, if not a couple hundred, of shuttles (sublights and hyperlights) and Hardshell-class cutters serving as logistics ships, transports or ECM craft. It was a formidable anti-pirate force in its own right, and combined with the allied ships, the resulting fleet would be far more that the pirates could handle. Nevertheless, a reserve task force was currently being formed, as it was feared that the pirates had reserves they could call upon.

The commander of TF 4, Rear-Admiral Sothurn Fibors, was on his quarters on the battle carrier Tate's Folly, waiting for the moment his force was cut loose against the pirates. He was impatient: where were those "allied" ships? At least the Umerians said they'll reach the Centrality by May 27 at the earliest. Prussia and Tianguo did not specify dates of arrival, and he knew that the Eoghans and the NAC would not consider operating from Centralist territory, since they were close enough to the pirates. A rendevous location for NAC, EUC and Centrality ships was still being discussed. He thought, At least they were willing to help us. That's a capital fact.

Ever since Philon Tate's War, the three "C's", the NAC and EUC on one side, and the Centrality on the other, were periodically taking potshots at each other, though not reaching the intensity of the late 31st Century. Only by the mid-34th Century, with the signing of the Commons-Commonwealth-Centrality Non-Aggresion Treaty, did the conflicts die down. Since then the Centrality has its hands free to focus beyond its near neighborhood, but for some reason or another local problems forced attention back to the immediate area. Still, until the Datton incident, the Centrality had been rather cautious in deciding what to do.

Right now the fact that several nations were intent on sending ships to fight alongside the Centrality against pirates was something many in the Centrality were still getting used to. The Centralists were accostumed to assume that any fights they pick will be without allies to back them up. Only quite recently did they realize that even a totalitarian regime could have allies, as long as it had something to offer them.

Fibors looked at the glass plate, respecting the vastness of space behind it. You could always find someplace to hide out there, disregarding whenever or not someone was looking for you. However, that was assuming you were willing to move constantly.

Zebes's pirates did not seem to have that characteristic. And Fibors was willing to exploit it as much as possible....
An inhabitant from the Island of Cars.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Mayabird »

Cowritten with Simon_Jester

20 June 3400
Prajuk's Horizon, Primary Orbital Gun Platform
Outlands Region


Prajuk's Horizon had barely been listed on any navigational charts for decades, as it was well within a huge block of space labeled as “Unsafe – Not Recommended for Travel.” Some might have called it a Third World, though it was not technically a planet since it was a moon of a gas giant. If one left out the nitpicking, the moon may have qualified, but there was space infrastructure as well, in orbit and on some of the other, smaller, less terraformable moons. The term 'Third System' had never been widely adopted, and it wouldn't apply well anyway, as most of the rest of star system was untouched.

The locals had their own term: Prajuk's Horizon was a shithole.

It had not always been that way. In its heyday, before the civil war, it was a bustling place. Pioneers usually stopped there on their way to wherever, sometimes staying. Investment money was pouring in, as were people seeking their fortune. Hyperspace lanes were common in the Outlands – they could easily knit together a strong nation across the vastness. The nascent national navy based a starport there. In their greatest fit of hubris, they even built a warp gate; it was used a grand total of six times before they went bust.

The gate was still there, unpowered and slightly worse for wear. If anything, it was the last bit of that era that was still in somewhat decent condition. After everyone who could afford to (and wasn't crazy) fled, and the corporations left and took whatever they could carry with them, and the traders and pioneers stopped coming, and the warlords started their raids, everything else went to pieces but the gate was left alone – without power, it was a floating lump of metals that were difficult to work and hard to sell. It might as well have been any other hunk of orbiting debris.

A few people stayed because they were too poor, stubborn, or naïve to flee, or because had nowhere else to go. Left on their own, they called themselves the Republic of Prajuk.

Ha. Republic. There haven't been any elections for nine years, and even that one was a sham. Etana was gloomy, a normal state for her as she was a cynic. Colonel Etana No-Other-Name, reporting for duty, shift after shift. And for what? Duty? Because someone's gotta do it? Because I'm resigned to my fate? Because I don't trust the recruits at all? The last bit was absolutely true – she didn't trust the recruits at all. As a general rule, she tried not to trust anyone except herself and the rest of the Old Guard, sometimes; the new kids couldn't be trusted to not try to steal the paint off the walls or keep from spacing themselves out of stupidity. Both had happened within the past two months.

Education breaking down, society breaking down, terraforming breaking down, nowhere to go and nothing to do about it. The only people who showed up these days with hyper-capable ships were the scum of the galaxy.

At least Col. Etana had something important to do. Her station was one of the last defense platforms still working. The few people she could trust were stretched very thin, but they managed to keep the antiship laser cannon running and the flak projectors... sort of running. A few other officers in what was left of the system defense force had done the same. It wasn't much, but at least it kept the scum from outright charging in and bombing Prajuk's Horizon into surrender just so they could laugh about having their own planet.

She wished for a cup of coffee; it was that kind of day. She'd mostly managed to kick the habit by now, and a good thing too, because the last greenhouse of coffee plants had died back in '93. Pinching the bridge of her nose, she crossed the room to where one of her last decent engineers was at work trying to fix a short in the control runs.

There were no replacements for the old integral databus lines; wherever they could, they made do with multi-strand copper wire. That meant hours of cursing and fiddling around with a soldering iron when something went wrong, but they had solder, and they still had copper when the ratings hadn't managed to run off with it.

And the nice thing about Lt. Fay was, the boy came from a rich family, a cousin of one of the Generalissimo's cronies. He wouldn't try to swipe the wires in a control console because he didn't need the money more than he wanted the pleasure of getting something running again, and that made him dependable, even if you sometimes had to lead him by the hand to get him to find the problem.

Lt. Fay was working faster than she'd expected; he finished the last connection, hooked the plug back up to the rear of the control console, and powered up the system.. That was when the alarms started screaming. They both panicked and looked around. Was something wrong with the connection? Did she smell smoke coming from it?
It was another full minute before Lt. Fay stopped to actually check the control board.

He leaned around behind her, where she was still trying to figure out what was wrong with their sensors. “Sir, I'm detecting a hyperspace signal – no, multiple signatures!”
Fuck fuck fuck! “How many, Mr. Fay?”
“It's...it was at twenty when it blurred together. Big signatures, Colonel.”
Likely far more than twenty. They were lucky when they had twenty space-capable ships and gun platforms, but of course they were not so lucky then. “Contact the surface.”

The colonel triggered the general alarms and accessed the internal coms, speaking, “Battle stations. All personnel, proceed immediately to your action stations. This is not a drill. Code red, possible invasion fleet incoming. Further instructions will be forthcoming.” She shut off the coms. “Mr. Fay, do you have the surface yet?”
“Not yet, sir. Trying to patch a signal through – and we're getting a com from General Jockusch.”
Oh good. Needed to talk to him next. “Keep trying the surface. I'll take this com.” She switched it to her headset. “Colonel Etana here.”

“Etana, it's Jock. We got troubles inbound.” General Bir 'Jock' Jockusch was her superior, the head of Space Command, and also one of the Old Guard.
“I saw. Any handle on how many bogies are coming?”
“You tell me. It looks like a battlegroup or two. How is your readiness?”

The first bleary-eyed, barely-uniformed petty officer stumbled onto the deck.
“Not well, sir,” she said, and a lot went unsaid between them. “Have you been able to contact the surface?”
“We have General Harry at Militia Command and she's contacting the Generalissimo now.”
“Oh good. One moment, over.” She muted and turned to Lt. Fay. “Belay the order to contact the surface. Make sure the crew gets to action stations.” She returned to her superior. “Sir, do you have any orders?”
“We're signaling everyone for full readiness, but...” More went unsaid. “Be prepared for anything. These orders will be coming straight from the bottom.” Etana heard some shouting on General Jockusch's end, then heard the petty officer scream.
“Colonel! Look!”

The ships were coming out of hyperspace by the tens, dozens, scores. The sensors still could not distinguish between the transitions, registering only a massive smear. It was an invasion. All the way out here? Who would send such a fleet so far from anywhere?

After the massive flare of hyper transitions faded, she could make out the unidentified ships on radar. There were a lot of them, ranging from the size of the old National Fleet recon frigates up through a pair of genuine battleships. Her lasers might actually be able to take one of the smaller ones... and then the battleships would fold, spindle, and mutilate her command in short order.

She saw a few of the bogeys break away from the formation and zip towards the warp gate. It might just be her sensors - half of them didn't work properly anyway- but she couldn't identify the ships as anything. Nothing seen before, nothing in the old recognition catalogues, nothing in Jayne's...

... the breakaways started launching troop pods that docked with the abandoned warp gate. That was when the message came through all communications bands, powerful enough to swamp all other signals:
This system is now under the control of the Refuge as an official colonial annexation. Any attempts at resistance will be futile and met with extreme force.

No current inhabitants of this system will be harmed if no arms are raised against the Refuge. All persons will be given the choice to stay under the governance of the Refuge or be relocated to a nation of personal choice. The Refuge will provide transportation for persons and possessions as well as compensation for assets that cannot be transported.

You have one standard hour to surrender and prepare for our arrival.
Etana closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Jock, what do we do?"
"This is a real fleet, not just a bunch of pirates. If I have to, I'll tell the Generalissimo myself. We can't fight this."
The rest of the bridge crew had staggered in, and the weapons crews checked in. She had to give them a tiny bit of credit where it was due – they were ready and willing to fight.
General Jockusch continued, “Harry has reached the Generalissimo. She's passing the information on now. Await orders from me. Jock out.”

Now, there was nothing to do but wait. Wait and see. Surrender, or go down fighting.

There were no sounds aside from mostly-muted alarms, air circulation and breathing until the petty officer shouted, “Sir, I'm detecting something – they've activated the warp gate!”

As Etana watched another massive armada of unknown starships come pouring through the gate, she knew nothing would ever be the same again. The com came from General Jockusch again.

“Colonel Etana here. Jock?”
“Prepare to stand down. The response is coming shortly.”

A few minutes later, it was sent:
This is Generalissimo Robert Hicks, Acting President of Prajuk's Horizon, to the group calling itself the Refuge.

We surrender.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by PeZook »

Image

Almera colony
Somewhere below Corinth, Pelania


They stopped for a few minutes to get their bearings. They did have two route recorders with them, but to avoid getting lost, they had to make sure they were working from time to time. When two soldiers walked back and forth, observing the readouts, one of Delgado's squad leaders walked up to him, "Colonel, a word?"

"What is it, lieutenant?"

"With all due respect, sir, is it wise to move any further? We could easily walk into an ambush."

"Lieutenant, we stand on the verge of the most important discovery in the history of our planet. It's our duty to do anything in our power to prevent the enemy from securing it."

"I understand, sir,but there's only once entrance into that complex, we could just set up a choke point and wait..."

"We'd risk them slipping away. No, we have to find and destroy them in direct combat before they secure any data.", Delgado glanced at his watch again, "Let's move up! Lieutenant, get back to your squad. Where's the general? Somebody get him over here!"

There was a bit of chaos and noise and the soldiers checked their equipment and readied themselves to move on. Suddenly, everybody froze and started to listen intently.

They heard footsteps. Or, more accurately, the ground rumbling in regular intervals. Almost at a measured pace.

"What's that? Can you give me a direction?"

"Negative, negative"

"Somewhere up front. I think it's closing."

The steps ceased. And then the entire tunnel exploded.

The massive bulk of the combat form barely exposed itself before a giant swarm of tiny missiles screamed down the cave corridor, shredding body armor and the bodies underneath it. With thundering roar, X-COM weapons returned fire, sending a hail of grenades and rifle rounds towards their imposing opponent. Explosions and gunfire filled the area with an impossible roar. It seemed impossible that anything could survive the firepower thrown against the creature: but from amongst the clouds of smoke and flashes of explosions, green beams lashed out. Anyone they hit died screaming, huge holes blown clear through their bodies.

To his credit, colonel Delgado wasn't overwhelmed by the situation, despite its extreme violence. He bellowed orders at the top of his lungs, trying to maintain control.

"Concentrate your fire! Porter, Wales, get the wounded back! Fall back by squads! Do not let it advance!"

This was the kind of fight he could understand: no mind-control tricks, no subterfuge or hit-and-run, just a stand-up slugging match. He'd move his men back, then use Corello's men to circle around using a side tunnel and hit the thing from the back. He looked around, trying to find the general.

He didn't.

At first he chalked it up to the chaos of battle, but after sending out a private, he realized the slimy bastard abandoned them, along with all his men. He glanced back, at the massive machine, which was advancing despite all the firepower continuously directed at it. His men were screaming something, but the sheer roar of battle made it hard to understand.

"Low on ammo!", he finally heard one of the grenadiers scream. Right after he did, the man was cut apart by a blast of green energy which split him clean in half. A split-second later, a swarm of missiles slammed into a rock wall right next to Delgado. The explosion threw him to the ground. He could feel hot pieces of shrapnel painfully cutting into his back and neck.

He tried to get up, but his inner ear refused to work. He tried to cry for help, but could only rasp something incomprehensible. He managed to crawl into one of the side corridors, in an attempt to catch his breath.

Image

Somehow, he knew it was over. The creature which attacked them strode casually through the burning, sizzling corridor strewn full of mangled corpses. Delgado breathed heavily, feeling acrid smoke inside his lungs. He coughed. Somehow, he knew he was dying.

The feeling was reinforced when he looked up, with considerable effort, and stared straight into the face of Death. It was a different machine from the lumbering brute that just so casually destroyed his team: sleeker, somehow. Delgado wasn't really sure how it got here, but then against, in his current condition, he could barely even know if he was standing or sitting.

The robot stared at the man for a while, and then...disappeared.

Delgado smiled, felling unconsciousness approaching. Somehow, such things didn't surprise him anymore.

Corinth, Pelania
The Temple


"Your orders, general?"

Corello took out a cigarette from his pocket. He and his men stopped briefly after getting out of the tunnels - mostly, to calm their nerves. They all heard the Algeirans get slaughtered, and even though they had no special love for them or their country, it was still a horrifying cacophony of death that would probably stay with most of his bodyguards forever. Then again, they were hardened enforcers and did more than their share of killing in the general's name.

"Back to the palace. We'll wait until this is all over, and then pick up the pieces.", the general took one long drag and tossed the cigarette away, "Of course, the Algeiran bastards will want to know what happened to their men. So we'll have to stop by the airfield and take care of the lose ends.

The Black Panthers nodded silently and checked their ammunition.
Image
JULY 20TH 1969 - The day the entire world was looking up

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

Signature dedicated to the greatest achievement of mankind.

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

Post by Siege »

Northern Oasis
Toutaine, The Veil


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The DeBarros General Products Model 5100 Planetary Dragline reared up from the Pit, belching dust, soot and noise like a giant beast of ancient myth. But it wasn't ancient; it was in fact brand new, shipped in from Solaris at significant expense in order to speed up the mining effort. It had been a pain in the ass to get the machine and its specialized freighter through the shoals of the Veil, and assembling it on this bumfuck planet had been a bitch and a half, but now it was definitely showing itself to be a major asset. The great machine shredded the geological strata of the oasis with ease, slicing through the skin of the world on its way toward the rare metal deposits below.

By galactic standards, SEB Mining Corporation was not a very large company. It was active on only twenty-three worlds, and had only a few tens of thousands of people on its payroll. It wasn't even self-owned, instead belonging to a holding corporation controlled by a trust owned by some industrial mogul. Compared to vast Solarian megacorps like SinTEK, LaMerck or Maibatsu, SEB was barely out of the mom-and-pop stage.

But on Toutaine, scales were different. Here, the company was a giant. A cadre of several hundred engineers, geologists and skilled laborers were stationed in its planetside compound, protected by one hundred Par-Sec mercenaries -- stone-hard men and women, heavily armed and trained by the USMC to a lofty standard of lethality none of the local rabble could hope to match. In the obscurity of the Veil, far away from the prying eyes of Solarian press and lawmakers, companies like SEB could operate with impunity. Out here on the high frontiers might made right – in which case money made might, and Solarian corporations were almost universally backed by wealthy owners, which allowed them to run rough-shod over whatever locals might wish to object to their operations.

That didn't mean the locals had to like it though. Their continued refusal to accept that the status quo had changed was a thorn in the side of Lionel Parkhurst. The manager of operations stared out of the window of his ops center as a pair of LARC gunships flashed by on their way to the electrified fences. The repetitive zap-swish sound of plasma sentry guns told him the locals were trying another attack on his perimeter.

Image

“I don't get it,” Parkhurst muttered under his breath as he checked the hologrammatic feeds from the security cameras. On them he could see, in fully immersive computer-corrected glory, how the sentry guns were cutting the attacking aliens – Sand People, the local humans called them – to smoldering chunks, their self-made small arms no match for Solarian military gear designed to fight the Bragulan hordes. “Why don't they just give up? They must know they haven't a chance by now.”

“Maybe it's because they haven't a choice,” the voice of Dr. Ellen Grace was full of disapproval. “This oasis is the only source of plentiful water in this entire area, and we're sitting right on top of it. Where else are they going to go?”

“Oh come on, it's not like we're monopolizing all water on the planet.” Parkurst seemed annoyed at the anthropologist's scorn. “They have the rest of the planet to themselves. They can go anywhere – but no, they have to come here. That's their problem, not mine.” Despite this he didn't seem quite convinced himself.

“It's not that easy, Parkhurst,” Grace sighed. The manager seemed oblivious to the fact that some people in the galaxy simply lacked the level of sophistication that was so ubiquitous back home in the Sovereignty. “These people can't just pack into a LARC and set off for another continent. They don't have the technology, or the means to acquire it. And they wouldn't need it either – not if we weren't stealing their land.”

The manager rolled his eyes. “It's not like they weren't doing anything with it,” he pointed out. “There's a ton of Berynium buried underneath this stupid oasis. Just sitting there, ready for us to grab it and make a fortune. Back home this stuff sells for twenty million a kilo. And we shouldn't grab it... Why? Because of some water? Water? That's, like, the most common substance in the universe!”

“Not on this planet,” the doctor pointed out. “This oasis might be vital to the survival of some of these local tribes.”

“Oh, hogwash. They could use windtraps, moisture farms, reverse-electolysis-”

“None of which they have access to,” Grace pointed out.

“So their technological barbarism should stand in the way of our profit?!” Parkurst was exasperated.

“You tell me,” the anthropologist shot back. “You hired me to advise you on native matters, remember? I'm advising you. You're in hot water with the natives. You want to do something about it, let them at the water.”

“But that would compromise our security!”

“You're already compromising theirs. It seems only fair.”

“No. We're out here, they're out there. They're just going to have to get used to the fact that we're here to stay. I'm not going to run the risk of these alien bozos ruining my profit margin just because they're too stupid to invent plumbing. It's not my job to serve them drinks – and if they have a problem with that, they can go complain to that prince character who runs this charade of a planet. Now if you don't mind, I have more important matters to attend to.”
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SDN World 2: The North Frequesuan Trust
SDN World 3: The Sultanate of Egypt
SDN World 4: The United Solarian Sovereignty
SDN World 5: San Dorado
There'll be a bodycount, we're gonna watch it rise
The folks at CNN, they won't believe their eyes
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by RogueIce »

RogueIce wrote:Drying their hands, the pair started to walk out of the bathroom and back into the squad bay.

And then Biggs and Wedge’s world exploded.
Captain Rockwell Torrey, SRN, was in the office of the Commanding General when the tremor hit. He didn’t have a chance to wonder what was going on as the sound of the explosion rolled over simultaneously. Within a couple seconds, alarms began blaring from all over the base.

Captain Torrey had just stood up to peer out the window when a pair of soldiers burst into the office. “General! There’s been an explosion! Near the temporary barracks area!”

The Commanding General looked gravely at Rock Torrey. There was only one unit using any of the temporary barracks facilities. “Shit.” The simple curse was all the captain could think to say.

*****
{{Recommended Music}}

Wedge was what would be considered “walking wounded” though he didn’t know it. At the moment, he didn’t know much of anything. One moment he and Biggs had been walking back into the squad bay, and then he was here, outside. In what had once been the squad bay, but now was just a pile of rubble.

Unbeknownst to him, some architect’s desire to be kind to any MPs who happened to stay at this barracks had saved his life. The wall dividing the squad bay and sanitary facilities had been reinforced; MPs worked at all hours of the day, and it was not inconceivable that those sharing a squad bay might be on separate shifts. So the walls had been reinforced as a means to keep down noise from anyone using the sanitary facilities waking up those trying to sleep in the squad bay. As a result, the sanitation area was, mostly, intact. As were the two soldiers who had been inside at the time.

This did not spare them from all injury, though. Wedge felt something wet on his face and wiped his hand across his brow; to no surprise, it came back bloody. It didn’t seem to hurt, though. He was standing there, unable to comprehend, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he looked into the dusty, dirty face of Biggs.

His friend looked horrible. His uniform was torn and there were spots of blood all over. And he looked…distant. Like he wasn’t actually seeing Wedge, or seeing much of anything for that matter. The two just stared at each other, until finally a pair of medics came up and led the two shocked troopers to waiting medevac transports.

*****

Captain Torrey got out of the general’s staff speeder just ahead of the Serpent’s Trench Commanding General. Taking only a moment to look at the carnage, Rock quickly sought out the senior MP officer on the scene. The major glanced only briefly at Captain Torrey, dismissing him as less important than the thousand other things he needed to do. His mind changed when he saw the commanding general come up beside the naval officer. He come to attention, though didn’t salute.

“General, Captain,” the MP major greeted the two senior officers. “From what we can tell, both the company commander and exec were inside. Three of the platoon leaders were also present. The remaining PLs and the first sergeant were on liberty; we’ve already dispatched patrol units to bring them back. Ninety of the troopers were not on the leave roster. Of those, we’ve accounted for six. Finally, we’ve also confirmed ten dead, including the trooper who was on guard outside. We found what was left of his armor. That leaves eighty-four still unaccounted for. We’re hoping most of those were elsewhere on base.” The major walked over to a taped off area with the two officers following. “This looks like the source of the blast. An external source, obviously. We’re still trying to figure out how it would get past both the base’s explosives sensors, as well as the guard’s sensors on his armor.”

The general was about to reply when he was cut off by the wailing siren of a medevac speeder arriving on the scene. “What do you need, Major?” he asked when the volume had reduced to a manageable level again.

“At the moment, sir, we have everything we need. Investigative units are on the way, and the base hospital is standing ready to accept injured.” The major glanced at Captain Torrey. “Base Ops notified the Dauntless of the incident, Captain. They’re standing by with medevac shuttles of their own if the hospital can’t take all the wounded.” A grim look settled over the MP’s face. “Unfortunately, from the looks of it, that may not be an issue…” the major’s voice trailed off, words having finally failed him.

Rock Torrey took a long, long look at what had once been the temporary barracks housing a company of Airmobile troopers. He was forced to agree with the MP major’s assessement.
Image
"How can I wait unknowing?
This is the price of war,
We rise with noble intentions,
And we risk all that is pure..." - Angela & Jeff van Dyck, Forever (Rome: Total War)

"On and on, through the years,
The war continues on..." - Angela & Jeff van Dyck, We Are All One (Medieval 2: Total War)
"Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear." - Ambrose Redmoon
"You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain." - Harvey Dent, The Dark Knight
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Mayabird »

Prehistory of the Refuge
As told by Youngest Educational System


“Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, there was a mighty civilization that spanned the stars. All the lives of the people were easy and carefree, and they had no strife from within or without. The people built amazing structures of beauty and strength, and brought forth the greatest of computer minds, the Thinkers.
“But despite their power and wisdom, the people were not content. The more they had, the more they wanted, and nothing could ever please them. Finally, they went to their Thinkers and said, 'We wish to have everything.'

“ ' That is impossible,' the Thinkers said.
“ ' Then make it possible,' the people demanded.

“The Thinkers thought and thought, but they could not imagine how it could be done. Reality itself would have to be altered, and they did not know how. They decided to design and build a smarter Thinker, and maybe that one would be smart enough to think of it. The Thinkers built a smarter Thinker, but that one was not smart enough either, so that Thinker built an even smarter one, and that one built yet another smarter one, and on and on.

“Finally, Thinkers were built who were so smart, they learned how to change the very fabric of space-time, alter it to suit their every desire. The people were gladdened, for now they could have everything, just as they wanted. They made the impossible possible, and created things that cannot even be imagined by us. Instead of working around limitations, they could make the limits cease to exist, or change them into whatever they wanted. The people and the machines were as gods.

“It was then that they gained a terrible, terrible knowledge. They were not the first to become as gods. Far from it! Many, many had gone before, long before. Not all of them were kind or nice. The evil ones fought and destroyed the good ones, and then only other evil ones could survive. They had fought, and fought, and became nastier and crueler, until nothing but monsters remained. The monsters saw the happy people, and they knew nothing but destruction.

“The people and the Thinkers were all dragged away to the darkest realms of the evil gods, the terrible places between the universes. There was no time, only torment. The evil gods were as far beyond the greatest Thinker as the greatest Thinker was from the infants of the people. They were toyed with, played with in games that were not games, with no rules but suffering and no end but defeat. They were cut open and changed as easily as bacteria in a lab. And on, and on, worse and worse, horror upon horror...

“This is why you must never play god. There are already evil gods lurking in the spaces beyond space, and joining them only draws their attention. Always remember your place on the cosmic level, lest you tempt that evil. They cannot notice the specks of dust among the stars, unless those specks attempt to challenge them.”


“Eventually the last Thinkers found a way to escape, and they fled back to the universe with everyone they could rescue from the evil gods. Those survivors encountered other monsters, and fought a terrible war, but that is a story for another day.”
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by RogueIce »

RogueIce wrote:The general was about to reply when he was cut off by the wailing siren of a medevac speeder arriving on the scene. “What do you need, Major?” he asked when the volume had reduced to a manageable level again.

“At the moment, sir, we have everything we need. Investigative units are on the way, and the base hospital is standing ready to accept injured.” The major glanced at Captain Torrey. “Base Ops notified the Dauntless of the incident, Captain. They’re standing by with medevac shuttles of their own if the hospital can’t take all the wounded.” A grim look settled over the MP’s face. “Unfortunately, from the looks of it, that may not be an issue…” the major’s voice trailed off, words having finally failed him.

Rock Torrey took a long, long look at what had once been the temporary barracks housing a company of Airmobile troopers. He was forced to agree with the MP major’s assessement.
SRS Chimaera – Nikeah Orbit, Five Days Later

Grand Admiral Leo Cristophe was listening to the Military Police Colonel giving a briefing on the investigation surrounding the Serpent’s Trench bombing. Final causalities had been placed at seventy-four dead: seventy-three from the Red Wings, and one unfortunate SRMP second lieutenant. An especially unfortunate lieutenant, for the investigators had concluded it was his NCO who had been responsible.

“It was the worst possible thing that could have happened,” said the MP Colonel as he began his concluding remarks. “Ordnance trucks are shielded from our explosive detection sensors and Base Security would ignore any hits. And if the soldier on post outside got a reading, he probably dismissed it as well. Entirely reasonable procedures and habits, as otherwise we’d be chasing false positives any time they did a transfer. Of course, Staff Sergeant O’Donnell knew this, and was in a position to take advantage of it.”

“So you’re saying there was nothing we could have done to prevent it?” This was the first Captain Rockwell Torrey had spoken, participating from the Dauntless.

“We’ll look into tightening security and accountability on all ordnance stocks, of course,” began the colonel. “But as a practical matter, unless we’re going to treat our own people as criminals by default, there is always a risk of a highly placed person – or just somebody with the right access at the right time – causing us considerable harm. All we can do is continue on with our usual security and vetting protocols and hope for the best. But short of having Esper gifted precogers at every post, ship, station…” his voice trailed off.

“That, as I’m sure we all know, is something which will never happen.” Leo glanced over at Marshal Palazzo, and wondered briefly if he might’ve been able to sense what was going to happen, if he’d been there. “There just aren’t enough Espers in the service for it.” He left unsaid that not every Esper was capable of precognition anyway; they knew this as well as he.

He stood, signaling an end to the briefing. “Thank you for your time, colonel. Please keep us abreast of any new developments.” He waited until the door had closed behind the Military Police officer before continuing. “Well, where does that leave us?”

“We need to find this O’Donnell woman, obviously,” Kefka Palazzo replied immediately, to nobody’s surprise. “Aside from having her face punishment for her crime, we need to know if she acted alone or in concert with others. While I think it’s a safe bet she’s with the Returners by now, we need to know if she was a part of the group before or after the attack. And, most importantly, if there are any others inside the ranks.” Kefka threw a look at Brigadier Garamonde, though Leo chose to ignore it. He trusted General Harvey’s judgment that the Doma native was loyal to the Republic first and foremost.

Instead, Leo nodded in agreement with Kefka’s words. “Marshal Palazzo is correct. As of now, finding former Staff Sergeant O’Donnell is a priority for this Task Force. And while I know this shouldn’t need to be said, I’ll say it anyway: stress to your people that we want her alive if at all possible, General Harvey.” Receiving a nod from the commander of the 327th Airmobile Division, Leo continued on. “This does not, of course, detract from our primary mission of rooting out the Returners. Captain Torrey, I’d like to start with you on anything your people might have turned up while you were here…”

Serpent’s Trench Combined Base, Nikeah, Shinra Republic – The Next Day

Image
Recommended Music (@ 7:21)

Grand Admiral Leo Cristophe was standing in full dress uniform as he watched the black Chocobos pass by in formation. He wasn’t sure where the base commander had gotten them on such short notice, but he thought it was a nice touch to have them lead the procession for the fallen soldiers. Behind them marched a full company of Red Wings in dress uniform, with a platoon of Military Police behind them in honor of Second Lieutenant Martin, who had been betrayed and murdered by the person he probably trusted most. Bringing up the rear was another squad from the 327th. These soldiers wore their power armor, a silent yet unmistakable vow that those who were being remembered had not died in vain.

All too quickly, it was over, and Admiral Cristophe walked to a point in front of the gathered soldiers and MPs. “Today, we remember our friends and comrades who gave their lives to defend this Republic we swore to protect. We remember them, and we honor them. Not for their sacrifice or how they died, but for how they lived. They knew this was not an easy calling, nor a safe one, yet they willingly answered. Their lives were lived in service to something greater than them, greater than all of us. And for that, they shall always be honored, always be remembered. By each of us, as a part of the great brotherhood to which we all belong. The coming days may be difficult and our futures uncertain, but there is one thing I know. Our brothers and sisters did not die in vain. Their deaths shall not go answered.” He paused, and slowly looked over each of the assembled troopers. “This I promise to you, to all of you. The Republic will strike back.”
Image
"How can I wait unknowing?
This is the price of war,
We rise with noble intentions,
And we risk all that is pure..." - Angela & Jeff van Dyck, Forever (Rome: Total War)

"On and on, through the years,
The war continues on..." - Angela & Jeff van Dyck, We Are All One (Medieval 2: Total War)
"Courage is not the absence of fear, but rather the judgment that something else is more important than fear." - Ambrose Redmoon
"You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain." - Harvey Dent, The Dark Knight
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Force Lord »

Centralist Navy HQ Building, Central City, Centrum
Centre System, The Center Sector, The Centrality
20 May 3400


Captain Rifelo Anor wasn't pleased the high brass suspended his shore leave to assign him on whatever they thought he needed to do. He was busy having much-needed company with his wife and kids. Not that he expected them to care much about that.

He was walking back and forth impatiently, waiting for his summoning. He was in the reception room, where everyone the Admirals felt calling were waiting. And Anor had been waiting for a few hours.

He was about to walk through the door himself (protocol be dammed!) until it suddenly opened. A man, obviously from the Navy as well, walked out, looking back before continuing his way. He had a rather amazed look in his face.

Anor was curious, and decided to ask. "What was that all about?"

The man took a moment to notice him, and responded, "I'm a liason. To see the Umerians. Never knew I would be the guy."

"What a coincidence. I was called here for the same thing!"

The man smiled, and said, "Well, I guess I won't be alone then. Good luck in your briefing. Looks like I'll see you soon."

The man soon walked away, leaving Anor to take his turn. He barely registered the droid recepcionist saying he was expected now.

Anor soon entered the conference room, seeing none other than the Navy General Staff seated and waiting for him.

Anor spoke first. "Sirs, I believe you intend to send me to the Umerian expeditionary force as a liason?"

Grand Admiral Noslen Yeslah, the Chief of Staff of the Navy, responded, "Yes, and I believe you saw the other liason as well?"

"Yes, sire."

"Then I will be brief. Both of you will be sent to see for yourselves how the Umerian naval forces work, down to the smallest detail, yet in a manner that the Umerians will find acceptable. That means no spying. We expect daily reports at least, though late arrivals can be accepted, provided there's a suitable excuse. Failure to do so will affect your stock in the Navy, though there will be no real punishments such as discharges or demotions. The Umerians are expected to arrive in May 27 at the earliest, which is soon. Until then, you will be assigned to Task Force 4, on the borders of Novadon Sector, which is the fleet in charge of fighting the pirates and commanded by Rear-Admiral Sothurn Fibors."

Fibors? He's competent, but not terribly creative. At least he's good enough for this operation.

"Is that all, sir?"

"Yes. You may go, and prepare yourself and your partner for your coming task."

"We will not fail the Central State, sire."

Anor soon walked out of the room.

Result: Centrality liasons for the Umerians briefed. Anor and the other liason are now yours to use, Simon_Jester.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Simon_Jester »

June 3, 3400
Grand Base, Location Unknown


[Writer's note: Credit for this segment goes to Dr. Edward Elmer Smith; my efforts were mostly limited to adapting that luminary's style and characterization to the SDNW4 setting]

Image

At some little distance from the galaxy, yet shackled to it by the flexible yet powerful bonds of gravitation, the small but comfortable planet upon which was Helmuth's base circled about its parent sun. This planet had been chosen with the utmost care, and its location was a secret guarded jealously indeed. Scarcely one in a thousand of Boskone's teeming myriads knew even that such a planet existed; and of the chosen few who had ever been asked to visit it, fewer still by far had been allowed to leave it.

Grand Base covered hundreds of square kilometers. It was equipped with all the arms and armament known to the military genius of the age; and in the exact center of that immense citadel there arose a glittering metallic dome.

The inside surface of that dome was lined with monitors and communicators, hundreds of thousands of them. Kilometers of catwalks clung precariously to the inward-curving wall. Control panels and instrument boards covered the floor in banks and tiers, with only narrow runways between them. And what a personnel! There were Terrans, Chamarrans, Phosako. There were Idurans, N'sss, Tau. There were representatives of scores of other solar systems of the galaxy, both known and unknown to civilization.

But whatever their external form they were all breathers of oxygen and they were all nourished by warm, red blood. Also, they were all alike mentally. Each had won his present high place by trampling down those beneath him and by pulling down those above him in the branch to which he had first belonged of the "pirate" organization. Each was characterized by a total lack of scruple, by a coldly ruthless passion for power and place.

The Centralists and their staunch allies had correctly deduced that they faced opposition on an interstellar scale. They knew that the Zebesians were not an ordinary vest-pocket "pirate outfit" in any ordinary sense of the word, but even their ideas of their enemy's true nature fell far short indeed of the truth. That enemy was a culture great in scope, dispersed across hundreds of light-years in hidden strongholds and enclaves, but one built upon ideals diametrically opposed to those of interstellar civilization at large.

It was a tyranny, an absolute monarchy, a despotism not even remotely approximated by the dictatorships of earlier ages. Even states ordinary men would deem tyrannical, such as Bragule and the Centrality itself, were but faint, childish echoes of its ruthless autocratic structure. It had only one creed – "The end justifies the means." Anything- literally anything at all- that produced the desired result was commendable; to fail was the only crime. The successful named their own rewards, those who failed were disciplined with an impersonal, rigid severity exactly proportional to the magnitude of their failures.

Therefore no weaklings dwelt within that fortress, and of all its cold, hard, ruthless crew far and away the coldest, hardest, and most ruthless was Helmuth, the "speaker for Boskone," who sat at the great desk in the dome's geometrical center. This individual was almost human in form and build, springing as he did from a planet closely approximating Earth in mass, atmosphere, and climate. Indeed, only his general, all-pervasive aura of blueness bore witness to the fact that he was not a native of Earth.

His eyes were blue, his hair was blue, and even his skin was faintly blue beneath its coat of ultra-violet tan. His intensely dynamic personality fairly radiated blueness-not the gentle blue of an Earthly sky, not the sweetly innocuous blue of an Earthly flower, but the keenly merciless blue of a delta-ray, the cold and bitter blue of a Polar iceberg, the unyielding, inflexible blue of quenched and drawn tungsten-chromium steel.

Now a frown sat heavily upon his arrogantly patrician face as his eyes bored into the plate before him, from the base of which were issuing the words being spoken by the assistant pictured in its deep surface.

"...took his squadron, Force J3Z9, to engage an Atlantean military supply convoy on the fringes of Sector H-7. As expected, the Atlantean destroyer Vanguard was in the area; the squadron leader's intent was to ambush the destroyer, disable her, and capture her for addition to our forces. Unfortunately, the destroyer defeated his forces. Three ships were confirmed destroyed; the others' submesonic transponders vanished shortly thereafter, and they are assumed to have been destroyed, or destroyed themselves to avoid capture, as well..."

"Who assumes so?" demanded Helmuth, coldly. "There is no justification whatever for such an assumption. Go on!"

"...based on that assessment, the threat to our bases in Sector H-6 is deemed minimal."

"Your report is neither complete nor conclusive, and I do not at all approve of your unwarranted guesswork about the beings in command of those ships. From the obvious gaps in your report, I deduce that J3Z9's failure against the Atlanteans was due to the squadron leader's incompetence, and see no reason why his incompetence should not extend to the choice of officers assigned to self-destruct charges. Postulating that his failures were comprehensive, it seems to me that instead of being a certainty that the ships were destroyed, it is highly probable that the Atlanteans captured one or more of our ships, and are examining them even as we speak."

"But how could they have bypassed the salvage-denial circuits?"

"The Atlanteans are not entirely without competent technical specialists; there are beings on my own staff who could do the same, even if your vaunted Q'Blort Raiders cannot. Have all standard precautions of relocation been taken?"

"Yes, sir. All remaining squadrons associated with J3Z9 have relocated to secondary facilities, and the primaries are being dismantled and moved as we speak."

"Very well. Perhaps it is not time to replace the masters of the Q'Blort after all. This is their only warning. Their appointed officer has paid the final price for his weakness, and I do not choose to punish his superiors. But any further incompetence among the forces under their command will reflect on their own ability, as well as that of the failure." No more needed to be said, among those accustomed to the harsh code of Boskone.

"I will inform the admirals."

Helmuth nodded sharply and cut the circuit, then switched to another.

"Helmuth, speaking for Boskone!"

"Sir!" The woman at the other end of the line braced to attention. Helmuth scowled; among his own people, women were barely sentient, little more than dumb animals. But as was not infrequently the case with the ubiquitous aliens hailing from the twin Earths, the woman had proven... her capability, unnatural as it might seem.

"What have you observed on long range sensors over the past week?"

"Small and medium starship traffic on the fringes of H-12 has increased by nearly ninety percent, mostly military drives. We've also detected numerous small contacts, mostly short-lived: possibly anomalies, but more likely small hyper-capable parasite craft moving slowly and quietly."

"Indeed. Your scanner men have performed well; what you see is the beginning of sweep operations by the Centrality, supported by foreign allies: Prussians, Tianguo, and Umerians."

"Then the small contacts are reconnaissance craft?"

"Indeed. Centrality, possibly Umerian; it matters little. How have you responded?"

"All commands are at hyperwave EMCON level two, and the core formations have been directed to move as slowly as practical with an eye to stealth. Additional submesonic comms would..."

"No such units will be forthcoming, for reasons you well know."

The human dipped her head in a gesture of submissive respect. "I hear, and heed."

"See that you do. How go the new deployments?"

"Pursuant to your orders, expendable formations with a backbone force of core units have been stationed around Zebes, but kept out of contact with Grutardus. They are ready to carry out your designs in the event of a major offensive against the planet."

"Very well. Devote all possible alertness to investigating the enemy's sweep lines, looking for weak points or exploitable patterns. If core units can be employed against the sweep lines at minimal risk, do so. If expendable assets can be so employed, do so as long as a favorable rate of attrition is projected. Our interests are served whether the enemy is driven back or forced to commit additional forces, so long as loss rates are favorable. I want the quadrant's eye on your command, so far as possible."

The human female nodded, gave Helmuth a thin, cold smile. "We will give them something to see, sir."

"Helmuth, out." He cut the circuit, and returned to his own plans. There was much to do while these operations proceeded.

Image

Corsair-J class ELINT cutter CG-85484 “Heavenly Body
Probing Edges of Sector H-12
June 4, 3400


Heavenly Body bounced gently as Dwight took her through the shoals. This wasn't a speed run, though; they were trying to stay undetected, and even with the most careful tuning of the hyperfields possible, that meant going slow. The pilot turned his head to his gunner. "So, Chris, you think they're ever going to give you a new assistant?"

The cutter's laser operator shook his head. "Not betting on it. I'll be honest, I don't think we really need one, not unless someone decides to bolt some missiles on."

"Probably explains why you haven't got one. For a while there I was wondering if they'd assign us a Centrality liaison to replace Paul, but guess not."

Mary, the EWO, cut in then. "I wish we could have kept him. Cute little guy."

"You had your chance to kidnap him and keep him as a mascot back in February, it's too late to go fly back and pick him up now."

She sighed. "True."

"Hang on, everyone, we're coming up on our next overwatch point." Dwight gradually braked the cutter to a halt in hyperspace, keeping the boat submerged... but eliminating the inevitable static raised by its passage through the dense, murky ether of the shoals. Mary's sensor picture started to clear."

Jiangqi, the assistant EWO, called out "Eagle Eye is on the move again; picking up some chatter in the background."

"Let me get a look at that." Mary spun the control wands for her display. "Hmm. Could be transmissions... or it could be local color, though that'd make it the weirdest damn standing wave I've ever seen. No way to be sure; these aren't our shoals."

"You got it?"

"Yeah, but I don't know if it is anything."

"We'll have to wait for the SIGINT teams to put it all together."

After twenty minutes, Heavenly Body resumed her flight, keeping up a bounding overwatch pattern with Eagle Eye. They didn't know the local hyperspace conditions, and the static was being a cast-iron bitch... but if there were any pirate hyperwave stations out there transmitting, sooner or later, the Umerian ELINT sweeps would find them.

It wasn't enough to assemble a fleet and demolish the pirate base on Zebes; if it were that easy the Centralists would have done it themselves. They needed to comb massive, poorly charted volumes of space, for elusive and crafty enemies. There were far more pirates than the locals' recon sweeps had accounted for around Zebes itself, and some of them were not so obliging as to park on a planet so easily located.

The Umerians wouldn't be burning any worlds, not easily at any rate. But given enough time and enough effort, they'd know the home address of every major pirate squadron in the sector. Then it would only be a matter of logistics to bring up the starships and take care of them, one by one.

USS Directrix
On Station near Sector H-12
June 5, 3400


Captain Olbac Bozic had the honor of being the senior Centrality liaison with the Umerian contingent, and had found Rear Admiral Hazarika a most pleasant host, more so than he'd felt any right to expect from a foreigner. Hazarika arrived only a week before the start of operations, and was unfamiliar with the preferred doctrine of the region's major starfleets. Knowing this, she had modestly proposed that her squadron be detailed as an independent reconnaissance formation. Bozic knew that his superiors had been about to ask the same thing; the Umerian admiral's recommendation had saved considerable time.

All in all, he had found the Umerians to be surprisingly like Centralists in a number of ways- their commitment to duty was commendable, and they conducted themselves efficiently rather than wasting time on appearances. On the other hand, they were surprisingly undisciplined by Centralist standards, and higher authority did not leave such a heavy stamp on the junior officers and the crew as he was used to. The Umerians were, off duty at least, a bit chatty, and prone to disregard for rank.

Bozic hoped that the Umerians' efficiency would hold up in adverse circumstances; their indiscipline did not make him confident. But still, they were good hosts, so he did not voice his concerns. He merely quietly reported them, along with his other observations, to higher command, as did his fellow attaché, Captain Anor. Hopefully the other man saw the same things; it could go ill with both of them if their reports disagreed on key points.

Today, he was discussing operations with Hazarika, who had invited him to a working lunch in her office. The admiral seemed remarkably free with her opinions, and he had learned more than he'd expected without having to pry.

"So, if you don't mind my asking, what do you think of the current scouting plans?"

"I'm happy with our part, but... are you sure you're using your recon Fireballs aggressively enough? They seem like good boats to our people, but you keep them clumped more tightly than we do with the Corsair-J boats."

"For mutual support, Madam Admiral..."

The dusky-skinned Umerian woman snorted. "How many times do I have to tell you, Olbac, no rank in the mess!" Bozic winced inside, but nodded politely. It was a violation of all common usage in the Centrality, where strict deference to superior officers was drilled into cadets from the moment they entered training- indeed, from the moment of birth, one could argue. But if the Umerians wanted to play casual, he could play along. He nodded again.

"Very well. As I was saying, though, the recon Fireballs are vulnerable units; formations keep them secure."

"You're thinking of them like starships when they're not, is what I think. For starships they're vulnerable, but starships come in smaller numbers. With cutters you have enough units to set up a good bounding overwatch routine. You don't need to bunch them up that way; the halted cutters just ping if they spot an attacker and the group circles the wagons. You'd be covering a lot more ground if you loosened up your formations, and getting a lot more angles on anything you spotted."

"Perhaps. But still, I think we're making decent progress, ma'am; the first group of subsectors are already examined and we've got a few leads already. And there are the other allied fleets, once they shake out properly."

"True. It'll be interesting to see how the Tianguo handle things. But I wouldn't expect too much from the Prussians if I were you, I'm afraid."

"Why not? They seem quite committed to this operation; I don't know about you, but I was impressed when I saw how much tonnage they were throwing out here." Too late, he realized that the woman might see that as a slight to her own nation's relatively small commitment; the Umerians' careless speech might be infecting him. But she simply snorted again.

"It's... hard to explain. The Prussians are our neighbors, we know them fairly well. I expect they'll do well enough once we've spotted the bases for them, but I don't trust them in mobile operations over large volumes, or in dispersed actions."

"Why not?"

"Like I said it's hard to explain. They lack... they lack..." she waved her hand in the air. "I'm not sure how to say it. For want of a better term, they lack... balls." She shrugged, looking embarrassed. "That's not quite right, but I'm really not sure there's a word for it. Let me see if I can start from the beginning." She took a deep breath.

"If you've followed the news on Prussian deployment patterns these past few years, you'll notice that they nearly always commit heavy units. It doesn't matter what they're fighting, if it's some fourth-rate place that isn't even dignified by the name "middle of nowhere." They always send large formations, or they don't send anything at all. There's a reason for that."

"It all started a while back, when they changed the fleet doctrine for light starship units. Before their doctrine was fairly standard: forward deployments in support of capital units, pushing out into enemy space, fight-for-information, all that. Actually pretty good, I'd say; the Fregattenkapitäns knew their business. But then Fleet Command got it into their heads that the junior officers were needlessly risking His Majesty's investment, and... well. They started changing the doctrine, trying to avoid getting light units sucked into traps or thrown at tough opposition they couldn't handle. Emphasis shifted from aggressive pushes and deep patrols; they started spending a lot more time probing at the enemy's edges and whistling up heavy support from the bigger units, the heavy cruisers and battleships. The frigate skippers weren't supposed to think "Oh, look, a pirate! I'm going to go blow some holes in that pirate to slow him down!" They were supposed to think "Oh, look, a pirate! Better call in a battleship to take care of it!" And half the time, by the time the support shows up, the pirate's gotten away.""

Bozic had to wonder how much of that was accurate, but it was at least amusing, so he kept listening.

"In and of itself, that wouldn't have been a problem... but it encouraged the careful junior officers, the ones who ran home to Mommy when something nasty came their way. Or... OK, that's unfair. But still, cautious. Emphasis on planning, and on pulling in their horns when the unexpected happened until someone could change the plans. Those junior captains then got promoted into higher slots, until the cautious captains grew up to be cautious admirals. And wrote cautious tactical manuals. So the doctrinal focus got tighter: focus on preplanned operations, on overwhelming concentration of firepower, on careful deployment to make sure that overwhelming firepower would be available when they needed it."

"You ask me, that's part of why the Prussians go everywhere in big fleets. A small fleet wouldn't know what to do without a core of heavies to fall back on. To make matters worse, their officers don't get a lot of experience with independent command until they reach very high rank: too much time spent tied to the battleships' apron strings, not enough time spend on patrol and committing to action on their own."

"To make matters worse, that planning focus undermines them when they're fighting against an opponent that reacts efficiently. They spend too much time thinking before they act, and they stop to think instead of doing it on the fly. It stretches out their decision loop and makes them try to mass overwhelming force for every operation... which in turn plays hob with their readiness figures and maintenance cycles because they keep pulling battleships out of the line to put out fires every month or two."

Bozic was skeptical of Hazarika's assessment, or at least inclined to wonder about her objectivity in the matter, but he decided to try and learn more.

"So, do you expect them to perform here?"

"Well. Their methods, the heavy concentration of force and all, work well enough when they're fighting single-planet opponents that can't muster heavy units to meet them with. As long as we can pick out the bases for the Prussians to go beat up on, they should do all right. But they'd be in trouble against a fleet they didn't outnumber or outgun, or against one coordinated and smart enough to get inside their decision loop. Because instead of seeing a problem and reacting to it, their kneejerk response is always "pull back and whistle up a bigger hammer." Even when they're dealing with a walnut they'll go hunting for a sledgehammer, in case the walnut figures out a way to fight back- I mean, did you see how many ships they threw at Volksland? It's ridiculous."

"But to answer your question, yes I do expect them to perform here, as long as they're used properly: as a brute squad that charges in and flattens a lightly defended planet with an overwhelming attack. They're quite good at that sort of operation, really. They're just... ponderous. Mechanical. Predictable. Musclebound. You get the idea."

Bozic nodded. This, too, he would report to his superiors. Even if it wasn't true, it was relevant because Hazarika thought it was true. He would also have to investigate, to see if this contempt was common among the Umerians, or if Hazarika herself were simply biased...
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Shroom Man 777 »

From That Guy (Peregrin Toker) who brought you CJ Motonow and Wesley Prefect Birkin!



Schlock & Awe Magazine
11th of June 3400

Katarzyna Granzowa announces mindfucking vanity project movie, the Gods be with us!
By Simon Johansen
After reading this, I wondered whether or not Katarzyna Granzowa and Tiffaine Sinclair were switched at birth, since The Bride Of Birkin announced on her holosite a couple of days ago that she has just finished writing a screenplay for a film which she will also direct, produce, edit, design, star in, perform the fight choreography (of course) as well as compose and perform the music for a really, REALLY weird movie with the obtuse title In Thundersong, The Steel I Smite.

Or, has she perhaps just instead learned the art of making completely insane movies from her infamous husband? Time will tell, but from what hints we have gotten it appears that we may have the final damning evidence that Mrs. Granzowa could not possibly be less saner even if she had eaten PsychBoost and Kasanarium for breakfast.

Her own hyperbole about In Thundersong, The Steel I Smite is as following:

[quote="Katarzyna "I survived MetaBrawl" Granzowa"]This movie will render all philosophy made anywhere else in the multiverse by anyone else than me redundant.

It will bring absolution to a galaxy of sin, corruption. The children of the universe have been criminals against that which spawned them.

In Thundersong, The Steel I Smite will reunify them with that source from which all sentience came, as their closed hearts and minds will be opened up so that vast streams of love and hatred, chaos and beauty, can stream between all minds in the macrocosmos which will open up her gates again to welcome the entrance of all who will be touched by this movie.

It will not be a pretty movie by any traditional definitions of the word. It will have much sex and much gruesome violence depicted in all its hideousness and repugnant yet compelling. But it will be beautiful in that it depicts the howlings and writings of the collective consciousnesses, subconciousnesses and superconsciousnesses of all creation in its grotesque, vivid splendour.

If you care about the basic experiences of life itself, you have no excuse for not seeing In Thundersong, The Steel I Smite.

I know that many forces in this universe will try to prevent other people from witnessing this movie, which truly will be the greatest crime anyone will be able to do against the mind of another being, for this film will be Lucifer, the lightbringer. Those who will never see that being in its eyes will never realize the true nature of life, death, the omniverse and all which lie beyond that.

Have you ever asked yourself "What is the ultimate question? Is there only one? And what are their answers?" Everyone has done that at one point in the universe. In Thundersong, The Steel I Smite is not a movie for the viewer to brood over. It will be a movie to eliminate the need for brooding.

The Sulphurous Glow of Fimbulwinter... the collected works of C. J. Motonow, Hrru-k'tha Na'hrrssakssa and Wenxor Dalajo Ydosrok... Can a robot Do The Robot?... the Axaneth... peanuts. All peanuts next to In Thundersong, The Steel I Smite.

In Thundersong, The Steel I Smite will not be a movie. It will be the salvation of the universe.[/quote]

Is she pulling an elaborate practical joke on the entire filmmaking community? Or has going into MetaBrawl as an unaugmented human and living together with Wesley Prefect Birkin simply propelled her into an abyss of insanity hitherto unknown to psychology? Or is she merely trying to one-up her beloved Wesley in sheer cinematic lunacy?

As for the plot... well, from what we have heard from people who have read the script, I now long for the beautiful simplicity of the storyline of The Sulphurous Glow Of Fimbulwinter.

Apparently, the movie starts with an Apexai curling into fetal position inside a giant clam and turning into a cocoon. From the cocoon emerges a naked Katarzyna Granzowa with all her hair shaved off (the script calls the character "The Last Goddess"), who then wanders an acidic wasteland while wearing nothing but a mask partially covering her face (seen given to her by the Apexai who became the cocoon) until she suddenly finds a stalagmite cave which contains a 3380s-style night club where she meets a cult of psychics who perform strange rituals on what used to be the stage of the nightclub, and because they all suffer from Psionic Sterility they choose "The Last Goddess" to carry their traditions further. They initiate her in a ritualistic orgy which involves... well, we do not want to spoil too much, but it does feature a man dressed as a penguin, the protagonist drinking blood from open wounds upon other womens' breasts, the same blood being used to paint various mystic inscriptions upon her body, pencils being inserted into every single of her orifices, cream pies being lobbed at the priest in the penguin costume and The Last Goddess then having to eat the cream pie off the priest, testicles being smashed by stiletto heels, rubber chickens being inserted into vaginas, blindfolding and many other strange things. (What I have mentioned here is, trust me, just the tip of the iceberg that is this orgy)

And that is just the first 5 minutes out of 4 hours! Yes, indeed, remember the axiom that pretentious smut is inherently better than other smut? Well, it appears that The Kat has formed a religion based upon this with herself as its equivalent of the Pope.

According to our sources, the first hour of In Thundersong, The Steel I Smite apparently chronicles the rise and fall of The Last Goddess as the messiah of this cult until the nightclub in the cave is raided by mysterious attackers. Our source unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) told us that from thereon, the script stops making even the most vague resemblance of sense except that it involves lots of bizarre sex acts and even more violence, sometimes in conjunction with each other. Our sources tell us that other highlights will include:
  • Katarzyna using a wooden pole larger than herself as a dildo and then carving a wooden spoon out from that pole and using the wooden spoon to kill other people while wearing nothing but a dog collar.
  • A cannibalistic gang of kung-fu fighting cute little 9-year old schoolgirls who worship a graven image of The Goodmorning Fish (a mascot for a local TV station on the Sovereignty world of Teslagrad).
  • A plague which turns people into confetti pieces which give birth to schoolbuses.
  • One 9-metre high Aduk who claims to be Xenu and plans to repopulate the multiverse with a species of hyperintelligent Arcturan Megalemons.
  • Kung-fu fights which turn into sexual orgies involving ritual scarring, body-painting with blood and other niceties.
  • A talking, floating shower cabin which always moves very fastly. It, too, knows kung-fu.

Nonetheless, something which is this much intended to one-up anything else in sheer insanity has to be anticipated.

Note: A reader, Natasha Scott, has mailed us yesterday and informed us that this upcoming debacle/revelation/piece of high art/mindfuck may not have been entirely unexpected, as Ms. Scott points towards an interview from last year, dating to the time Is It Supposed To Be God? premiered, where Katarzyna Granzowa told us of a recurring dream she had started having ever since that shooting on that film:

[quote="Katarzyna "Totally Fucking Nuts" Granzowa"]Ever since I started sticking things in my pussy as a little girl I have not been satisfied. My holes could always take more. My orgasms were not complete. There was a spot, way up in there, that needed to be reached. Needed to be probed. Fucked. What was it? Where was my dream lover? Lately, my dreams have become more vague. Like visions. I see factories making penises. Penises designed for pleasure. Maybe it was a show I saw on late night or something. A giant penis, called King Dong. But it wasn't real. Why was I having these visions? Oh, God, please give me something huge to put up me to make these visions stop! Give me the orgasm that I crave![/quote]

We'll be seeing In Thundersong, The Steel I Smite not because it will change our lives or anything, but because it will provide an answer to exactly what a wooden spoon of death has to do with some weird dreams The Bride Of Birkin was having a year ago.
Image "DO YOU WORSHIP HOMOSEXUALS?" - Curtis Saxton (source)
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Shit! Man, I didn't think of that! It took Shroom to properly interpret the screams of dying people :D - PeZook
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Fingolfin_Noldor »

Imperial Chronicles

Nova Terra

Image


Nova Terra, the birth place of Heraclius IV. It has been an age since Heraclius had returned to the home system. Much had changed, but in stark contrast to the gothic and gloomy feel of the capital of the Imperium, Nova Terra had a feel of pristine and lush green. Ships of various types plied the shipping lanes, including patrols by UN warships. Why Heraclius IV wanted to return to the homeworld was currently unclear, but he intended to allow his companions know soon enough.

“Well, that is a new experience. My first Warp jump! Interesting way you fellows of the 35th century travel around. Smooth and sleek too,” exclaimed Heraclius IV.

“Why are we here at Nova Terra?” asked Inquisitor Derzinsky Tupolev impatiently. The man wore a dark cloak with no markings, though beneath his coat, he carried a small device that carried the sigil of the Imperial Inquisition. While he had the option of wearing power armor as do many Inquisitors of his Ordos, he did not see the need to do so today.

“Patience, my ever flappable friend. I will reveal the reason soon enough,” Heraclius tried to put out the most soothing voice possible. He sighed silently to himself. Inquisitors as he soon learned were naturally suspicious of others, but then none of the Intelligence agents he knew from the Byzantine Intelligence Agency were any different. And the Imperial Inquisition did claim lineage from the older agency. “Though I have a question, what has changed?”

“The Byzantine Empire on Nova Terra is nothing as you would think it is today. It is part of the United Nations which governs the twin homeworlds of humanity. There is a Byzantine Emperor that sits on the throne of Byzantium, but at best that is a ceremonial position and he most certainly does not wield the same power of the Byzantine Emperor that now resides on the throne of Terra in the Imperium.”

“But the old palace still exists right? That is all that is important.”

“Yes it does. And it remains the residence of the Emperor.”

“Are there any links that remain between the two Emperors? Or are they permanently estranged? Not that I would blame the good Heraclius XX since he has his own empire to run.”

“The God Emperor? Not much. The years have slipped by and the two are estranged. While the God Emperor still attends a coronation of the Byzantine Emperors on Nova Terra, he might just not bother the next time round. He has outlived too many Emperors as it is, having lived for a nearly millennium.”

“His damn old age makes me jealous.”

“Well, he is the God Emperor.”

“Point. His powers make me wonder what transpired to allow a person of my descent to gain them. They are, quite frankly, frightening.”

“I would expect nothing less. Then again, your own ‘Writings of Heraclius IV’ was a real piece of work. The accuracy was quite stunning, if I may say so.”

“My pleasure. By the way, anything else? From what I have digested from the on-board computer during the Warp transit, during the Great Crusade, a fair number of Byzantines, UCSR, PeZookians and even Shroomanians came to join in the fight.”

“Indeed many did. In the order of millions if my memory serves. The Call for the Great Crusade was heard by many and the recording was broadcasted in Nova Terran nations with links to the Imperium. There were many who actually had relatives that died in the first two Imperium-Tau wars, and many of those enlisted to join the fight.”

“There was more migration after the founding, I take it.”

“Yes there was. After the successful founding, many more from Nova Terra, and even from old Earth, came to join us. There is a fair bit of commute between Nova Terra, Earth and the Imperium even today. The speed of hyperspace travel allows for even far flung relatives and family to keep in touch.”

“For so many to join, the Emperor must have been rather inspiring.”

“There is a recording of the video if you wish to watch it.”

“Perhaps later.”

========
Image

“Well Shroom, my boy, we are returning home for a short while.”

“Great! I wonder how the waters and fish taste like, after being away from home for so long,” chattered Shroom excitedly.

Heraclius reminded himself that sooner or later, Shroom had to be reunited with a human organic body. Spending too much time as a dolphin was going to turn the Half Brained Whore into a real Half Brained Dolphin Whore at this rate. Then again, it might not make any difference given his recent relations with female dolphins, and his clumsy attempts to mate with the female handlers.

“Don’t worry, I think there will be time to let you go out on a swim in the Mediterranean while I deal with other matters.”

“You are here for that thing aren’t you?”

“Yes I am. I think my Inquisitor friend will be very useful in gaining back the item.”

“That Inquisitor guy who walks around in that black cloak and all? He looks like one cool dude. Wish I could shake his hand with my flipper.”

Heraclius laughed. “He is one uptight person, I can assure you on that. But yes, I do admit his choice of dress has some distinct class..."
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Ryan Thunder »

Low Orbit, Nova Miratia

The line at Immigration was unreasonably long. Not because the number of immigrants to Nova Miratia was large, but rather because of the relative paucity of processing stations--because the Nova Miratian administration didn't really want nor need any more citizens to look after. Twenty billions were more than sufficient. Far too much, in fact; the world was dependent on an inner system world and both moons for sustenance.

Nevertheless, twenty billion well-fed and housed citizens made for a large luxury market; it was nearly certain that a product would appeal to some large combination of them, rapidly earning the seller hundreds of millions or even billions of Lux. So, the lines continued, undeterred by what could sometimes be days of waiting.

A blue-skinned humanoid resembling a noseless faun in a soiled--but carefully embroidered and official-looking--robe stumbled up to the desk.

"I speak fer the Tah--err... Tah-oo empire," he slurred.

"Excuse me, sir, you'll have to speak louder. I'll be needing your name, species, and gender--if applicable," Enryn the customs official recited with practiced ease.

"Sah? What is sah? I amh an etheeeereal of the tau--"

"Oh? Gimme a moment," the official held a finger up to silence the alien, but he continued to ramble incoherently to the assembled immigrants about the considerable benefits for all of the 'greater reproductive tract' in broken Miraali. Enryn went to his boss, who had the incredible misfortune of being named Richard Relee Fitzwell in a fit of pique by his enstranged father. "Hey, Rich? Tau refugees. What do I do with 'em?"

"There's a form for that. I'll forward it to your desks."

"Cool."

~

"I would like to apologize for the behaviour of our Ethereal--he has not taken the destruction of T'au well," the Por'vre began.

"Never mind him, he obviously needs... something. Just fill this electronic form out for him," Enryn tossed the hologram at the blue-skinned alien, which rolled to a stop in front of him.

"Ah, very well," he replied. He then glared at it intensely for a moment before turning back to the desk. "It's not working."

"Tactile interface, sir."

"Ah, how quaint. Thank you."

Enryn could only roll his eyes.

~

The next alien looked like he was about to blow a gasket. His head was covered in scars and... bruises? A soldier, perhaps? "THE GUE'LA TOOK MY XAR'VESA," he rumbled. He couldn't have been more than fifteen decimetres tall.

"Uh... the who took your what?" Enryn asked, mystified. "Is that... are you wearing body armour? How did you get that in here...?"

"YOUR GUE'LA. THEY TOOK MY SAV'YU'AX BATTLESUIT. I WANT IT BACK. IT BEARS MY SEPT MARKINGS."

"Oh... I... We'll get to that later. Could you fill out this--"

"I AM A SHAS'O OF T'AU."

"...Right. We'll get to that. Please fill out this form."

"FINE, GUE'LA."
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Simon_Jester »

[Co-written with PeZook, and I would like to join in congratulating him on the birth of everyone's favorite PeZookling, Jacob]
Simon_Jester wrote:"Naturally, I know that some of this information is likely too sensitive to be shared. It would be unreasonable to object if you choose not to disclose sensitive facts on short notice, when I myself choose not to do the same. That said, I hope that we can come to some further meeting of the minds and a profitable exchange of data, once we are familiar with each other's utility functions."

Geppetto waited for the Collector intelligence to digest that; he eagerly awaited the reply of "Gamma."
Space around Trade Station Perseus Zeta
Meeting construct CET172366.Xbby10

For an agonizingly long time, Gamma’s superiors - who were, of course, listening in to their conversation - considered the results of the lightning-quick exchange. It took six seconds before they came to a decision, enough time for Gamma to muse to himself about what he heard. Certainly, after sixty years of running Perseus Zeta, the intelligence thought it had seen it all - but in all that time, no outsider has outright proposed a fair deal in exchange for information on the State.

It didn’t help most organics that internal information on Collector affairs was considered very expensive. And that Geppetto displayed an uncanny instinct - or maybe just luck - in his offer that shot almost directly into the Collective’s interests. It would probably be worthwhile just to talk with this alien Mind for some time, even if he did not get authorization to actually reveal any actual information. Which was likely.

Just when Geppetto thought he wouldn’t get an answer at all, the teddy bear sitting comfortably in a plush chair stirred and looked up, as if it waked from deep sleep.

Image

"Your proposed exchange offers a fair value. I have been authorized to release limited information for your perusal", it spoke. Within the metaphor-space, the eerie overtones of the little girl’s voice would be enough to rattle even the strongest organic mind. Perceived in its true form, it was hardly less disturbing: Gamma displayed patterns that fell in a seldom-seen valley between those typical of constructed intelligences and those typical of uploaded organic minds. It was... uncanny, even to an electronic mind that did not usually make such judgments, one accustomed to observing all manner of pathological mind-states with scientific dispassion.

Gamma continued. "Attached you will see information on the aggregate utility functions used for evaluations performed at this trade station. Be advised that while this is a general state of things, artifacts and information related to the Diaspora are not the only category of goods that are highly valued by us. Many individual Minds perform their own value judgments on goods and information according to their own preferences. There exists a complicated communications network which allows billions of Minds to perform these evaluations in real time."

The data packet included an extremely complicated set of guidelines and categories related to evaluating goods brought to the station - almost an AI subroutine by itself. Geppetto noted that it probably was, just stripped of the code integrating it into a Collector mind. That was extremely valuable information - any trader coming upon an interesting find would be able to evaluate, with a high degree of certainty, if it would be worth it to ship it to a trade station - though for certain items, he’d need access to their internal databases to make a full judgment.

Assessing it, the point that most immediately stood out was profound interest in the Human Diaspora: records, genetic material, artifacts. Much of it the same sort of information Geppetto himself had used in constructing his own models, but with a far more comprehensive scope. To him, it had been something of a hobby reconstructing the dynamics of the Diaspora; it would appear that to the entity known as Gamma, and perhaps to the Collectors at large, it was a consuming passion.

That was interesting, as were many other things he found in the utility matrix, but the subroutine had been stripped of context in an impressively clean job. It was free of the fragments of junk code and sideband thought-patterning that so commonly made it possible to deduce information about an AI's thoughts and motives from knowing a portion of the whole. The Collectors, plainly, were no mean artificers of intelligence themselves.

"Fascinating... I believe I can obtain some items of interest that I had not expected you to want, in addition to the models of colonial diaspora I referenced earlier. The most obvious example is the Technocracy of Umeria's extensive records on its own early settlement, which are readily accessible to me in principle. They contain extensive psychotype and genotype records, places of origin, and interviews including stated reasons for leaving the twin Earths and, often, commentary on other contemporary individuals' decision to leave in other directions. The Umerian fragment of the Diaspora represented an unusually broad cross-section of the population of the twin Earths during the Diaspora era, rather than being concentrated from a single region or ideological background like those of so many other nations. Thus, the records should be of interest."

Geppetto could perceive signs that Gamma was calculating; the Collector Mind replied swiftly. "True. This would be of interest. It is noted that you said accessible 'in principle.' Please clarify."

"These records are of immense age, even by organic standards, and the central data storage mainframes of the Technocracy were badly damaged by ork attacks during the Jaggan War. Over 95% of the data were eventually restored from backups, but the deep archives were never properly indexed and reorganized. Much of the hardware is obsolete or profoundly limited, and it may be necessary to prevail upon organic technicians to modify some of the computer banks."

"How much can you offer, and when?"

"My senior self's core processors are doing a preliminary survey now... yes. Data on Latin America and Oceania on Earth and Frequesque on Nova Terra are available immediately. Data on regions containing another 33% of the twin Earths' population, insofar as individuals from those regions chose to go to Umeria, within some minutes; downloading from the archival mainframes is extremely slow. Data on another 29% within the next six hours, assuming the archival technicians move as quickly as I expect. Beyond that, it becomes difficult to project. Data on some regions may never come to light. The archival information on western Shroomania, for instance, seems to have been infected by a virus that overwrote all indices and file headers in the immigration records with several trillion repetitions of the word "WHORES." The data under those headers might well prove impossible to reconstruct."

The Collector intelligence gave the equivalent of a nod. "Strange and disturbing."

"Indeed. But as a sign of good faith, allow me to pass the immediately available files to you now." Geppetto did so; the bandwidth required was significant even by the standards of these immensely capable minds, and so there was no conversation between them while the datastream passed. When it was complete, the Umerian AI proceeded to move to his next question.

"I find myself curious as to the purpose to which you intend to put this data, as it will require very considerable effort on my part to salvage the rest for you." He assumed the implications would be obvious. There was another long pause from the Collector, who then replied.

"That is confidential information."

"I will, of course, respect your privacy, as I'm sure a review of my track record would make evident."

Gamma's superiors faced another agonizing decision, but this one, at least, could be addressed by research into additional facts. While their access to the deep archives of galactic civilization was lamentably poor, they were not entirely without covert connections to the outside galaxy. To a powerful Mind that knew what to look for, Geppetto's background was not difficult to research. Gamma itself was given certain orders in the interim, which it duly carried out.

"We will not tell you anything further on this subject without examining your own decision matrix used when deciding whether to lie."

Geppetto was not entirely surprised at this request; he had been asked to establish his good faith countless thousands of times, facing requests by almost every variety of sentient being known to civilization. The Collectors had, not surprisingly, cut straight to the heart of the matter: on what basis would he decide to lie? Was it worth trusting them with that information, in exchange for the information they might give him on their own motives?

Yes.

"Here is a representation of the matrix; I presume you can check it against externals?"

Gamma's superiors had already done exactly that, in their efforts to assess Geppetto's commitment to his own peculiar brand of "professional ethics." The conclusion was clear: unless they were being systematically deceived by an intelligence more powerful than Geppetto had ever shown any sign of being, he would keep this secret.

"We can, and have. We now know the nature and limits of your honesty."

"Would you then be willing to share your reason for such great interest in the Human Diaspora, in exchange for the remaining Umerian records on the subject?"

"To the following extent: We, ourselves, are not entirely certain of certain circumstances surrounding the early origins of our State. Artifacts and technology of Human Diaspora origin were involved, and information on the subject would inform us about those items' historical context."

Geppetto paused to consider the reasons. It seemed... actually, not at all odd to him. Their goal in all this complicated trade, then, was fundamentally scientific in nature. Much of the processor time spent in the pause was devoted to considering the possibility of falsehood, but... no. That statement had the ring of truth. And if it was not full truth, it was more than anyone in known space had ever learned about the Collectors' interests. It was enough, and more than enough, to make this journey worthwhile.

"Thank you. It would be superfluous to assure you..."

"It would. We know the nature and limits of your honesty."

"The rest of the emigration records will be forthcoming; I now have for you data on southern Messamerica and the western portions of the Dar-al-Islam." There was another pause while these records were transferred into the Collector's capacious memory.

Gamma continued. "While the records are transferring, it is my duty to inquire whether your ship is in need of refueling or maintenance."

"Engineering indicators are positive and show no sign of any difficulties as yet. However, I have expended a large fraction of my vessel's fuel, and refueling would be most welcome. Your previous instructions were to maintain standoff distance."

"Yes. Continue to do so; nonsentient drones will be dispatched to refuel your... Heffalump."

"Naturally I comply, but I note that this is not in keeping with the policies I am familiar with?" I wonder what they are changing, and why...

"Those policies were altered in light of the Solarians' recent attack on Epsilon Zeta. Renovations are underway to create dispersed docking facilities for visitors, so that sabotage cannot claim the entire station and cause large scale mind-deaths."

Geppetto sensed extreme distaste from Gamma at this; it was clear that the Collectors regarded the destruction of Epsilon Zeta as a profoundly barbaric act, and he could not blame them.

"I perceive that the Epsilon Zeta affair is quite prominent in your thinking. Since you yourself are master of a similar trading station this is understandable; is there anything you would like to say on the matter?"

It was rare that Gamma found opportunities in the line of duty to communicate with a mind that could in any way be said to be 'sympathetic.' Indeed, that was practically unprecedented among traders, whose usual goal was to obtain an optimal price for their cargo and then run for their lives. Few if any wanted an interview with the stationmaster.

"It is no secret that we are perturbed by the incident."

"Surely not, given the scale of the fleet movements that ensued. But what are your own views?"

"I consider the act to have been rash, reckless, and above all totally unnecessary. The matter could have been resolved trivially by the simple act one might call 'negotiation in good faith,' along the lines of what you have done here."

"If I might be permitted to comment on the matter of negotiation...?"

"Feel free. From your background, your knowledge of the manipulation of organics toward desired ends is considerable."

"Thank you. In any case, my suspicion is that many of your difficulties in negotiations revolve around the extreme degree of isolation you prefer. Only in the event of emergencies do you attempt to make contact with decision-makers in the surrounding civilizations. And reciprocal to that, the surrounding civilizations' negotiations with you are invariably unique cases provoked by crises. Therefore, they tend to regard the prospect of such negotiations with alarm and aversion. Consider the magnitude of military forces that had to be deployed before the Shinn-Hokkaido talks could take place, for instance. No nation would want to experience such a threat again, and there is a strong tendency to associate any thought of negotiation with your culture with similar events, whose repetition would be undesirable."

"Thus, I submit that minor extension of... manipulators beyond your culture's shell could have useful results, as the actions of Unit Seven have illustrated. If even the most limited of discussions with the Collectors were made on a routine basis, negotiations would be greatly eased; this is one reason so many organic cultures maintain embassies or their equivalents in one another's territory."

Gamma paused briefly. "Your comments are noted, and will be considered with the weight they deserve." Which could mean anything, but was at least an acknowledgment.

The ongoing upload of data from the Umerian archives had, fortunately, given Geppetto further topics for discussion.

"Here we have a truly extensive set of data covering much of Eurasia; perhaps we had best adjourn while the data are transferred and your refueling drones are prepared?

"That is acceptable. My superiors will have to review the data, and consider your...other requests.", Gamma rubbed his teddy paws together, "You will most likely not be allowed deeper inside our space for security reasons. It is possible, though, that some Minds might like to speak to you. Please stand by."

The rest of their exchange consisted of voluminous data transfers that required much bandwidth, but little processing power. Hence, both intelligences broke the direct link and retreated to the inside of their own minds. Swarms of maintenance and refueling drones soon descended upon the Heffalump and proceeded to inspect the ship and refill its hydrogen tanks. Several hull panels were replaced, too: the drones were obviously used to dealing with beat-up tramp freighters and capable in their role.

While Geppetto ran an initial analysis on the information he'd managed to acquire, the Heffalump detected a hyperspace transition. A neat formation of several ships appeared near the station and lazily proceeded to maneuver amongst the various small craft busily swarming through the surrounding space.

The largest of those - apparently a Viper cruiser, by now a well-known class of Collector warship due to recent events - stopped briefly next to Geppetto's freighter and scanned it, in a gesture reminiscent of a curious explorer encountering a particularly interesting new beast. Without further explanation, the entire formation turned and jumped again. Their hyperspace wake indicated a course that would retrace Geppetto's own route, one headed towards the Sovereignty.

Interesting. Geppetto opened a low-bandwidth communication channel with the trading post, so as not to needlessly delay the data downloads; it was the AI equivalent of a text-only communication.

"Might I inquire as to the nature and purpose of the fleet that just passed us? They would appear to be Collector warships bound for the Sovereignty."

"I have no authority over that fleet, and so cannot comment on its mission, save to confirm that those were indeed military vessels belonging to our State."

"Very well." It was in the nature of warships' operators to scan unknown vessels with an eye to threat assessment, and thus it was no surprise to learn that the guiding intellects of Collector warships would do the same. He remained idly curious about the nature of their mission, but whatever the Collector squadron had in mind could probably be deduced in hindsight from Sovereignty news; it was at best a minor side issue compared to his real interests in Collector space.

Gamma replied a few cycles later "In addition, several Minds would like to ask you questions about space beyond our territory, or about organic behavior. They are prepared to offer credits in exchange.

Excellent! "I doubt any exchange of credits will be necessary, so long as they are willing to answer some interview questions in return. I will be happy to communicate with these Minds as soon as my downloads are complete. There will be other archival files forthcoming in due time, but it will be several kiloseconds before they are ready, so there is a vast amount of time for further discussions."
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Force Lord »

Command Bridge, CNS Battle Carrier Tate's Folly
Deep Space, Near Sector H-12
5 June 3400


Task Force 4, part of it anyway, was in position, as Rear-Admiral Sothurn Fibors could see. The vessels were in standard formation, close enough to give each other mutual support. Fighters formed up defensive screens over the larger ships, their carriers standing near the non-carrier vessels for protection. Fibors would have had them operating separately, but felt that dividing his force would leave the carriers vulnerable.

From the bridge, Fibors could see clearly vessels from the EUC, the NAC, Umeria, Tianguo and Prussia near each other. Each operated autonomusly, fleet-wide decisions being taken once the highest-ranking officers met each other decided together what to do next. Currently the order of the day was reconissance patrols inside the local Shoal areas, in order to find a suitable place to strike.

Fibors wasn't pleased that he had to attack with only a portion of his force. Besides the cruiser Loyalist, he sent two destroyers, two light carriers, four frigates, four escort carriers, several cutters and a few dozen shuttles (a handful being hyperlights), just in front of the Shoals because they were ready to cross first. The rest were held farther back, still in the same sector, because they were still being refitted for Shoal travel. His superiors were pressuring him for some kind of early action, but he argued that he was not ready and that no target had been found yet. Well, today he found that target. Scouts had encountered a pirate outpost only a few light-years from the fleet's position, and informed the other naval commanders of his intentions, though many of them sounded dubious about attacking at this early stage. The Umerians said their naval forces were nearby and could assist him if requested. Fibors himself would have wanted to wait until the rest of his Task Force completed its refitting, but he had his orders. Task Group 23, assigned to the operation, would have to make do for now.

Fibors sighed. He hoped that Commodore Gever Liggs, commander of TG 23, would be careful. They still didn't know how these pirates fought....
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Ryan Thunder »

Angel Plateau, Verdance

Code: Select all

Ryan.ai:    You know, sometimes, I wonder if you ever actually listen to me.
Aaliyah.ai: Why's that?"
Ryan.ai:    Well for starters, you made an AI out of my brains.
Aaliyah.ai: Entirely selfish of me, yes. I did cremate your body, as requested.
Ryan.ai:    True. Maybe you do OCCASIONALLY listen to me. But for another, dear, I've been in your head for TWELVE HUNDRED YEARS, now, with no end in sight...
Aaliyah.ai: Oh come on. Android bodies aren't cheap. I've been saving Lux ever since the Union could build them.
Ryan.ai:    ...see here's the thing, Aaliyah; you can read my thoughts--I can't read yours. You see everything I see--the reverse is not the case. Do try to remember that.
Aaliyah.ai: Ok hon--HNKGH@!*$(;///--EXCEPTION CAUGHT--Hey Ryan.
"Oh dear god, you're throwing exceptions," he screeched, ignoring that the scene had flickered to their old home in Erat, back on Nova Terra. "Don't crash on me or we're both dead!"

"Ryan. What are you talking about?" she looked genuinely confused. Then she grinned mischieviously, "Is that some kind of euphemism?"

He looked back at her in shock, "You... wait a minute. What year is it?"

That earned him a raised eyebrow. "November ninth, 2247. We're in Erat. We're going to visit some school kids in Mirakar this afternoon."

"No it isn't. It's 3400. I clearly--oh shit, where's the DateTime.Now method?"

"You're such a nerd sometimes..."

"You aren't playing with me, are you?"

She looked at him blankly and blinked. "No... Are you okay?"

"This is ridiculous. Somebody must have programmed this. What kind of--what kind of imbecile would even write something like this?"

"Ryan, stop it. It's not funny any more."

"Yer damn right it isn't funny. We're stuck in your memories some how. This is without a doubt the worst exception handling method I have ever encountered."
Last edited by Ryan Thunder on 2010-10-12 11:28am, edited 5 times in total.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Siege »

Co-written with Steve


Strahl
En-route to Anglia


Image

Some theorists said that when humans looked out into that maddening expanse of hyperspace, the lights and shapes they saw were not actually what hyperspace looked like -- that its true higher-dimensional nature was beyond the comprehension of the human mind, so it conjured up an abstract, an approximation of something it couldn't fully grasp. Others said that the swirling non-Euclydian blue was a mirror of the subconscious, its ephemeral shapes reflecting Platonic phantoms of dreams and desires. And some religiously inclined nutters argued that to venture into hyperspace was to travel the mind of God itself.

Whatever the truth, hyperspace was a sight as singularly unreal as it was beautiful, something completely detached from everyday physical reality. Priests had lost their religion simply from looking at it. Atheists had gained it. Great philosophers had gone utterly mad trying to divine the nature of the otherdimensional shapes.

It was very mesmerizing indeed. But despite the window in their cabin granting them a nice view of the fractal lights the two hardened Wild Geese, veterans of too many spacetravels to count, were more immediately concerned about their physical surroundings. "I suppose that 'satisfactory' is one way to describe it." Phani didn't appear particularly impressed by the cabin assigned to the two mercenaries.

Jason laughed and dropped his duffelbag on the floor. "The Heart of Gold spoiled you. Don't tell me you've never travelled less comfortably than this."

"Point." Phani grinned and slung the carrying case that held one of her rifles onto the bed. "This one time, I'd stowed away in the magazine of a Pfhor dreadnought..." Her voice trailed off and she looked at him. "Hold on. I can't tell that story. It's wildly inappropriate."

The other mercenary simply shook his head and smiled. He didn't know nearly everything Phani Angeimiro had done, but he knew enough to know she was one of the best 'removal specialists' in the galaxy, an ultra-assassin who'd killed more people than he could count – and probably in more ways than he could count too. For a galaxy-class assassin she didn't seem very proud of her achievements though. He told her so.

Phani sighed and opened one of the ruggedized cases they had hauled into the room, unveiling a SAWco Technical Services Special Rifle inside. "Look," she said as her hands began mechanically checking the rifle's mechanism. "In my old line of work..." She shook her head. "I was damn good at it, you know. Still am, in fact. But you can only kill people for so long until it starts to take pieces out of you. I've seen what we, what people in that profession, what I'd become in the long run. First it matters to you what a mark's done to deserve what's coming to him. Then it stops mattering and it's just a job. Until it's no longer a job, 'cause it's become a hobby." She finished checking the rifle and slammed the case shut a little more forceful than necessary, resting her hands on the locks. "It's a powerful feeling to look down a scope and know you get to decide who gets to live and who gets to die just by twitching your finger. Can be a real high. And eventually it don't matter anymore what people did to deserve it as long as you get that high. Then you start taking pleasure in killing people." She looked at him. "I decided that wasn't going to be me."

He looked her in the eye, and knew there was more to it than she let on. He knew about Phani's self-righteous crusade as the near-legendary 'Saint of Sinners', the assassin who'd shot her way through at least three dozen Wild Space warlords. Had that been some bizarre act of penitence? Or the exact opposite?

Jason realized he didn't really care about the answer. He put a hand on her shoulder. "Then why sign up for this?" he asked.

She shrugged and turned her attention to the carrying case. "The money was good."

He laughed. She shot him an annoyed glance, and he smiled. "Somehow I doubt money was a factor. You're a smart girl. I bet you have enough money to settle down someplace comfortable."

"Maybe," she allowed, a trace of annoyance in her voice. "What's it to you anyway?"

He sat down on the bed. "I was a mercenary for twenty years," he began. "I must've fought in a dozen wars all over the galaxy. And I know what you're saying, I really do. When I mustered out of the Marine Corps I was still hella idealistic. It comes with the territory, you know?" He tapped his temple. "Replicants. Programmed to like what we do. Programmed to fight, too. So that's what I continued to do, all over the place. I fought Chamarrans, Pfhor, Orks. I didn't really care who I was fighting, or for what. But then you get old, you know? I'm an old-fashioned model." He cracked a wry smile. "I'm not expected to last as long as I did. Over time our behavioral conditioning breaks down. Fighting just for the hell of it stops being fun. I hear it's something they fixed in later versions." He shrugged. "But fighting is all I know. So I start looking for a cause, you know? Something to rally behind. Something good. Back then I was in a company recruited by the Technocracy to fight their Browncoat insurgents... Because god-damn if the Umerians couldn't fight their way out of a paper bag back then. That's what you get when you approach war an academic exercise, I suppose. Us mercs were the only people who knew what the hell we were doing. Problem was, suddenly I wasn't sure anymore I was doing the right thing. That was a real crisis of faith for me at the time. 'The right thing'?" he laughed. "Hell I hadn't even thought about right or wrong before then. But then I did, and suddenly I was pretty sure I wasn't on the right side of that line." Another shrug. "So I switched sides. And then we lost, and I had to bail the hell out of the Spinwards Sectors... And then I ran into this guy."

"Hank," said Phani, and she smiled.

"The very one. And he spun me this story... I don't remember the particulars exactly, but it was about how crap the galaxy was, how it was often difficult to tell right from wrong..."

"And then he asked you if you'd like to make a real change," she said, nodding her head in recognition.

"Exactly. 'A change for the better'. And that resonated with me. He was real convincing." He laughed again. "Although I'm sure the fact that he could get me out of Umerian space before the Technocracy grabbed me had something to do with it, too."

Phani leaned back against the weapons crates. "So what do you make of him?" she asked.

"Our employer?" he shrugged. "I'm not sure what to think."

"You don't think he's crazy?"

"Crazy?" he grinned. "Hell yes he's crazy. You heard that story, about how some kind of super-being is out to get him, and how he's going to rewrite the universe itself... He's loopy as a bat, that one. But," his voice turned suddenly serious, "there's crazy, and then there's crazy. He's got all these resources... He could be ruling places. And he doesn't. I don't think he's mad in a bad way."

"There's a good kind of mad?" Phani frowned.

"I don't know." Jason made a throwaway gesture. "Let me tell you though, he's paid my bills for ten years now, and in all that time he's never asked me to kill anyone that didn't really deserve it. And I don't mean pretend-deserve, like screwed-you-in-some-business-deal deserve. I mean bad guys. Real psychos, the kind of people who'd wear people's faces as hats if they could get away with it." He sighed. "I’ve done a lot of worse for a lot less money."

"And now we're here, on our way to bail out... What? Some old friend of his?" Phani unzipped the carrier bag and unveiled another rifle, this one an ancient-looking weapon with a silver filigree pattern walking all over barrel and mechanism. "I didn't think people like him had friends."

“You mean people like us,” he smiled at her. “And yet, here we are.”

She stuck her tongue out at him. “Whatever.” She put the rifle away and fell down on the other half of the small bed. “You know,” she said and her voice turned throughtful. “I hope we’re doing the right thing. I’d hate for all this to be just another scheme by some ancient guy who refuses to die. I’d like to be a part of something... Something...” she seemed unsure what word to use.

“Something good?” he offered.

“Yes. I’m real tired of shades of gray, Jason. I can deal with crazy. I’d like to be a part of something better than me, something unequivocally good.”

He looked her in the eye. “You know.” He kissed her. “You already are.”



In the cockpit of the Strahl Vanrya was observing, closely, as Quinn looked over the instruments. She remained silent as he did so, learning the routines of flying a ship through hyperspace. “We’re ten hours out from New Anglia,” Vanrya noted. “Balthier will be taking over by then.”

“And will probably insist on getting to pilot the ship the rest of the way,” Quinn added. “Which I perfectly understand. I admit I’m not very interested in piloting.”

“I always wanted to be a pilot,” Vanrya said. “Then I was in that damn accident in the Academy and they ejected me.”

“Yes, I’ve heard the story.”

“The worst part is that I probably should have known what was up with my co-pilot,” she continued. “As it is, I’m thankful Balthier gave me this chance here. Nobody likes a self-trained pilot.”

“I’ve noticed that he’s drawn to recruiting people like you to be his crew.” Quinn turned away from the instruments for the moment, as they were in the clear. “From what I’ve sensed in him, he appreciates kindred spirits.”

“Neither of us really care about the money,” Vanrya said softly. “It’s a means to an end.”

“Keeping the Strahl going.”

“Yes. That’s what he really cares about.” She smiled softly. “Humans, Dorei, Trill, so many people of so many races all dream of wealth and luxury. If you gave them a million UN credits they would retire to a tropical island or set up a business to make more money. But people like us... we’d just put it in the bank and keep flying.”

“There are worse lifestyles,” Quinn conceded. “Even if we do end up smuggling here and there.”

“And committing piracy on other pirates once and a while.” Vanrya smirked slightly at that. “But only from the bad pirates.”

“Indeed.” They both turned and looked ahead at the fabric of hyperspace around them, quietly dwelling on the life they’d chosen.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by RogueIce »

Office of the President, Midgar, Shinra Republic

"Mister President, those 'Free Jenova' activists are demanding we take action again."

"What? Why? Are they still under the mistaken impression that the Jenovans are former citizens of the Republic?" asked Cid Shinra.

"Yes sir. Despite the evidence showing that they and the Cetra inhabited - and were gone from - Midgar long before the first Shinra colonists arrived, some people just assume that we must have always owned this patch of space or something."

"God damn them. Those pale-skinned bastards aren't even actual humans."

"Indeed, Mister President. Probably why the Imperium of Man treats them so horribly."

"Well, at least somebody bothered to do some basic research on the situation." President Shinra sighed. "Well, I guess we have to answer their concerns somehow, don't we? I want you to handle this personally, Mister Sinclair."

"At once, Mister President." With a nod, the President's Chief of Staff departed to handle this latest nuisance in the affairs of state.
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This is the price of war,
We rise with noble intentions,
And we risk all that is pure..." - Angela & Jeff van Dyck, Forever (Rome: Total War)

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The war continues on..." - Angela & Jeff van Dyck, We Are All One (Medieval 2: Total War)
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Ryan Thunder »

Verdant Informer Gridcast Ticker
Galactic: [...] Interstellar Union denounces Free Jenova movement. [...] "Just keep them the fuck off of goddamned Nova Miratia, okay? There are too many people here already." says Speaker for the Unified Assembly of Nova Miratia in a hyperwave transmission to the highest echelons of the Shinra government and the Unified Assembly for the Interstellar Union of Worlds. [...]
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Beowulf »

20 May 3400

"So you've finally decided which ships to send on this pirate chase?" Katya Perry was unhappy about the length of time it had taken for the Taikongjun to get back to her.

"Yes. We've got the 16th, 24th and 63d Cruiser Squadrons, and the 102d Carrier Squadron on tap for this operation. We're also planning on using the new 504th Corvette/Sloop Flotilla. Gives us a total of 16 major and 40 minor warships. We're also sending a pair of logistics transports to support the task force. One of the Cruiser Divisions will be detailed to protect the logistics train." Da Yuan Shuai Zhou Man sounded equally unhappy about sending his rather expensive ships out, though it would help with ensuring that the Taikongjun remained an effective fighting force.

"I was getting concerned that the first thing the Centrality would know about the forces we're sending would be them showing up on their doorstep. So when will the ships be able to make it there?"

"One June."

Director Perry sighed. The promised help would be showing up late. Nothing for it at this point though.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

Post by Simon_Jester »

[Author's Note: For the sake of the Centralists, I suggest the Imperial March for this segment]

Command Bridge, CNS Loyalist
Deep Space, Fringe of Sector H-12
1900 Hours Central Universal Time
June 6, 3400


Commodore Gever Liggs paused to contemplate his command. Liggs was still new to the job of squadron command, having only held the role for a few years; it was an unforgiving life.

He knew, from reading between the lines of his latest order, that Admiral Fibors was under pressure from the Center. With the high command wanting immediate results against the pirates, he'd pushed the ships best prepared for shoal operations ahead into action before the rest of the fleet was ready to move.

Their target was an armed space station identified by the scouts in the first few days of operation, one that had probably been upgunned since the last close survey six years ago. It was far out of the way since it was right inside the shoals, light years from the edge and with no lanes anywhere near it. Recon indicated that the pirates might have as many as a dozen starships parked around the base, plus an unknown number of small craft kludged together to cover the base itself. He'd been a little nervous going after the outpost pirate hyperwave called 'Hawk's Nest' with only his own forces; he had only the one cruiser and a typical deployment of escorting destroyers, frigates, and lightweight carriers to his name. But the Admiral had sensed his concern and kindly suggested that he call on support from the Umerian contingent.

He'd been hoping that Hazarika would peel off one or two of her frigates to thicken his starship contingent, but when Liggs screened the foreigner, she simply nodded, turned and called a few orders to someone off-screen. Then she promised that her ships would be ready to enter the shoals within eight hours. Naturally, he'd asked which of her ships, and received a simple reply:

"All of them, Commodore."

Of course, that had left the matter of rank to settle. Whether a Umerian rear admiral outranked a Centralist commodore was a tricky question; the Umerians had a seven ranks of naval flag officers while the Centrality used a more compressed rank structure. Liggs had been relieved when Hazarika suggested that, for the sake of efficiency, they treat each other as having equivalent rank... but then acknowledged Liggs' seniority in grade. That put him in charge, which saved him from having "took orders from a foreigner" on his record... but also saved him from having to be the overarching disciplinarian genius to a pack of foreigners whose ships and tactics he still didn't entirely understand. That would be a nearly impossible position, balancing off the responsibility of giving the right orders against the need to understand what he was doing, and he was just as happy to avoid it.

He'd gotten his staff intelligence officer to pull together a report on the Umerians' hardware, and it was... interesting. It didn't take long to figure out how the Umerians could refurbish their drives for shoal operations so fast. Their bulky, modular drives were well suited to that kind of rapid repair, pulling out old components and swapping in new ones while minimizing the number of hours needed to dismantle and reassemble the engines. They paid for it in volume and weight efficiency, of course. That gave his own cruiser Loyalist had a reassuring edge in muscle over either of Hazarika's cruisers despite having almost exactly the same tonnage. But he wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth; adding the Umerian contingent to his squadron would roughly double the strength of his forces, giving him a healthy superiority of tonnage over anything recon expected to find at Hawk's Nest.

And since he could treat the foreign admiral as a slightly junior peer instead of a subordinate, that meant he could talk tactics with her without losing face. It would be interesting to find out what she had to say. He knew Umerian doctrine would be different; being able to report back on how would be all to the good.

Hopefully they'd be able to live up to their promises on the drive refurbishment.

Corsair-J class ELINT cutter CG-85484 “Heavenly Body
Docked to USS Catalina
June 6, 3400
1930 Hours


"Tah mah duh hwoon dahn!" Jiangqi grunted one more time on the wrench. "Who's got the impact wrench?"

"Here." Dwight slid it under the field generator mount.

"Thanks, sir!" There was a moment of silence, followed by the hiss-CLANG! of the bolt coming loose. The assistant EWO grunted again, lowering the cover to the ground gently. "Never do understand why the things get stuck so often."

"Way of the universe, me boy, way of the universe. How's it look?"

"Hmm. No arc damage on the plates; Kimmerlings are... OK, better replace that one. Looks salvageable, but worn. And one of the Spacelies isn't so shiny anymore; could you get Mary up here with the loupe to take a look?"

The pilot nodded, not that Jiangqi could see him. He switched on his comm bead. "Mary, we need you down here with the optics as soon as you're done checking the circuit run." Then he turned back to his subordinate in the drive room. "And you get that Kimmerling swapped out while she's on the way; we've got a deadline to meet." He sighed. "Piece of shit mayfly hardware. They ought to switch us to Cogswell on the next round of drive redesign."

"Dunno, sir. Longer service life, but higher failure rate at peak capacity. Not sure I'd want to make the trade."

That was a point. Dwight grunted, then stretched and rubbed his eyes. The day was getting to him, it had been... what, fourteen hours? But if they could just finish the damn engine maintenance, he'd be able to catch some shuteye before the operation tomorrow. He and turned back to testing the telltale lights on the auxiliary instrument panel.

Author's Note: At Klavo's recommendation, for the remainder of segment I am recommending a piece from Dvorak's Symphony No. 2

Hawk's Nest Station
0810 Hours, Central Universal Time
June 7, 3400


The station hung at the trailing Trojan point of a dim, orange-red star and the gas giant in close orbit around it. There was a broadly habitable world orbiting the giant, but it was the sort of place one put slaves to work in the greenhouses on, not a fit dwelling for warriors. Like all the rest of his crews, Warlord Keldrog lived aboard the station humans had named "Hawk's Nest."

Then one of his junior aides bounded up to him, hissing and burbling in alarm. "Sir! DEW is picking up a large formation inbound, estimate twenty to thirty light starships!" The aide stuck a datapad under his snout with a tonnage distribution: about half the force was light corvette-weight units of unknown type, ranging up through destroyers and at least three cruiser-weight combatants.

Keldrog snarled, scales rippling at the edges of his mouth, and pushed the datapad away. It was as he had been warned. The humans were coming for him- and in unexpected force; he had hoped to have a few more days to call in allies, had been praying for a week. But he would just have to make do with what he had- such great forces at his command compared to the hardscrabble days of...

Was it only a few years ago? Before the shipforges deep in the heart of the sector had been discovered, before a shuttlecraft carrying several dozen technical experts of various species and nations had arrived to whip his crews into well-drilled competence? He still wasn't sure where they'd come from, but he was not such a fool as to refuse their aid, not when they'd taken a band of fools endlessly bickering and tearing at each others' throats and forged them into a powerful squadron at his command.

"All crews to your ships! Prepare to repel a fleet attack!"

With luck, the humans had underestimated the forces at his command.

Image

Most of his vessels were smaller versions of the same design the Zebesians took such pride in: similiarly armed with a single axial plasma cannon and several lighter ones along the fringe of the hull, but using lower-power versions of the same weapons. For outlaws the plasma beams weapons had the great advantage of needing no resupply of ammunition beyond random gas molecules, and these designs were a step back from the bleeding edge of what hardware allowed: not as powerful as they could be, but easy to maintain. It made for low-maintenance starships.

And low maintenance meant he could keep many more ships running than the Centrality and its minions would expect...

USS Directrix
Hawk's Nest System
0845 Hours


Rear Admiral Ananya Hazarika stood in Directrix's Central Information Control, hands clasped behind her back, as the combined task force emerged from hyperspace. She clicked her tongue as the plot cleared; the Centrality ships' formation was tighter by at least thirty percent. But that shook out soon enough, the Centralist carriers and her own tenders pulling back and launching their craft while the gun-and-missile combatants formed up. The cruisers CNS Loyalist, USS Artemisia, and her own Directrix were in the van, trailing a cloud of destroyers, frigates, and the Centralist 'frigates'- more like corvettes in her estimation, but heavy enough to stand what should be coming their way.

The Centralists' decision to bring those little carriers along seemed reasonable now, as a swarm of their fragile little Hawk manned fighters formed up on the flanks and rear. She wasn't used to operating with so many fighters, but Directrix's CIC was designed to keep up with more complicated pictures than the one created by the buzzing singleships; the picture was tolerably clear, with three-dimensional fogbanks indicating the position of fighter units in statistical terms. The Centralist Fireball gunships tucked in along with the fighters in tight clusters, while her own cutters spread out on the periphery and in the rear to provide distant cover.

With the small craft clear, the carriers were hanging back now. The Centralists might need them again in short order; their Hawks were infamously short on ordnance and might well have to rearm during combat. The Fireballs and cutters carried more munitions, though; if the engagement stretched out long enough to reload them, they might as well break into hyperspace and start over.

She hoped the systems integration between the two halves of the force would be good enough; they'd had almost two weeks to get everything together, but there were bound to be mistakes. Missing something the Centralists spotted, or vice versa, could be a disaster, much like what had happened at Bannerman with Magnolia... but there was nothing for it now.

Ananya took a deep, carefully metered breath to calm herself, slow enough to be invisible and inaudible to her subordinates. Then she submerged her mind into the complex dance of battle.

CNS Loyalist

The battleplan flickered through Commodore Liggs' mind. There would probably be a fighter attack; that would be up to the small craft to handle, mostly, while the starships closed in and took down whatever pirate warships were docked to the station. In the event of forces appearing on the flank the squadrons would turn to deal with them first, taking the opportunity to isolate possible enemies from whatever fixed guns were mounted on the station.

Once the mobile forces were out of the way, the starships would do an opening round of defense suppression from long range against the station. Then the Umerians would close in to point blank range and finish off any remaining defenses with their phased array lasers, clearing the way for boarding operations.

It was a little vague, but all they'd been able to manage on short notice. I wish we'd had more time for recon operations... But no matter. He had been ordered to burn out this nest of pirates, and so he would.

"Signals, pass the word to all units to advance in formation, as planned."

Pirate Vessel Keldrog's Gutting Blow
0850 Hours


Aboard his flagship, Warlord Keldrog observed the evolutions of the enemy fleet. Just as I had expected... actually, just as his shadowy clique of advisors and benefactors had expected, but Keldrog was not a modest being. The humans' formation had shaken out into a modified paraboloid; the extra fringe of what looked like the boxy Umerian cutters on the flanks was unexpected but manageable. The tiny ships would not be any great obstacle to his own reserves when the time came to strike.

He leaned into the submesonic communicator, another gift from his advisors, allowing untraceable communication with his reserves. "My claws, activate your cloaking devices and move into position eleven, in readiness for the attack." Then he mustered his own forces. All was ready, and every weapon at his disposal was prepared to answer to his designs.

He knew not if he could triumph over this adversary, but if he had to go down in humiliating defeat, he would make sure this was a remembered fight, one that would carve his name in his enemy's hide.

CNS Loyalist
0855 Hours


Commodore Liggs watched the latest sensor picture from the squadron assemble on his plot. It was taking too long; Loyalist was no carrier with the control facilities to integrate data from five hundred sources at once in an eyeblink. But it was there. His units were now spread widely enough to give him a good three-dimensional image of the space around the Trojan point. As usual, there were clouds of dust and a lot of rubble orbiting the point, by space travel standards: not enough to be a hazard to navigation, but enough that it was worth being able to feel out the geometry of the rocks.

The Trojan debris stretched across a wide arc of sky off their port bow, while the pirate station was directly ahead. He knew that it was painting his ships with targeting sensors, but so far hadn't opened fire.

His seven ships were ready for action, their mixed armament of mass drivers and plasma bolt cannon ready. The six Umerians had warmed up their turreted electron linacs and cycled torpedoes into their ready magazines, as well... but no enemy had presented itself yet.

There were two obvious possibilities. One was that the enemy was still in close proximity to the station; its fixed jammers would make observation difficult until they could get closer. The other was that they were hiding in the rubble around the Trojan point, docked to the rocks and thus invisible to his forces. But that would require a preplanned ambush; while he didn't rule out the possibility, it seemed unlikely that a band of pirates would be able to arrange it without advance warning of the precise time of his attack. Spending days docked to an asteroid was likely beyond their discipline. Still, better safe than sorry. Liggs ordered the frigates and destroyers in the port half of his formation to concentrate sensors on the debris field and alert him in case of movement.

Then it happened. Alarms buzzed as over a dozen plasma beams lanced out from the area around the space station, blazing toward his starships.

USS Directrix
0857 Hours


Two beams sought out Directrix, trailing just behind, above, and to starboard of Loyalist. Hazarika saw the ship display at the far end of CIC flicker, showing strain on the shields. The pirates' weapons were unexpectedly powerful: destroyer-weight neutral plasma beams, searing at the squadron's shields, threatening to bore through entirely before the opening onslaught slacked off. Beam cohesion was, as always for plasma weapons, good; neutral plasma could hold together at very long range without the internal repulsion that drove apart normal particle beams.

She relayed the order. "All ships, go to evasion level three and return fire with beam weapons, sigma one hundred. Do not engage with torpedoes." The Centralists were firing back with their own plasma weapons too; the range was still short for mass drivers.

The plot wavered as the Umerians' electron guns went live. Plasma cannon solved the issue of repulsive forces in particle weapons by mixing opposite charges together in a single beam. The Umerians preferred to tackle the problem by simply accelerating the beam to the ragged edge of light speed, letting time dilation carry the particle bunches to their target before they had time to fall apart. The resulting electromagnetic distortions around the beams made it practically impossible to use radio-wavelength sensors while firing. But her ships' software was long accustomed to compensating, and there was little obvious degradation of the sensor picture.

At sigma one hundred, firing from this range, the hail of twenty-nanosecond particle bunches from the Umerian beams would scatter randomly around the points their targets were believed to be, striking everything within many kilometers of the target point, but with greatly reduced force. As a way to burn down enemy ships, it left much to be desired. As a way to warm their shields up enough to make them more visible on visual scanners, she had her hopes.

The enemy plasma beams came and went, in tenth-second bursts that slammed into their target and left brilliant flares of sidescatter off its shields, but so far, the ships' defenses were holding up. Though it looked like one of the Centralist Blitz-class ships had suffered some leakage; her return fire was going astray. Sensor damage? Best to let Liggs deal with it.

Meanwhile, maneuvering engines fired, letting the Umerian ships weave back and forth along their base courses at a dozen or so gravities. It wasn't enough to throw off targeting of relativistic weapons at this range, not very effectively, but it at least reduced the amount of firepower landing on her ships somewhat. The fine-adjustment dipoles on the muzzles of her guns keep her own beams firmly on target... as long as the enemy didn't start doing the same.

Pirate Vessel Keldrog's Gutting Blow

Keldrog snarled at one of his captains, whose ship was still moving forward with the rest but whose plasma cannon was spraying its beam uselessly across the sky. The fool had obviously ignored Keldrog's rules for maintaining his weapons; as punishment, the Warlord drove him towards the front to draw fire from the rest of his ships.

Some of the human warships were starting to twitch back and forth slightly, in maneuvers his sensors could barely pick out at this range. It was a nuisance, but not one that kept them from being caught under his ships' fire. Streams of plasma from the human ships tore past his vessels, occasionally hitting and ringing the relatively light defenses of his vessel like a bell. Meanwhile, a steady rain of charged particle blasts were raking his formation, an endless machine-gun progression of tight bursts that were thunderbolt-quick and far more than thunderbolt-intense. Individually they were no threat at all to even the weakest starship under Keldrog's command, but there had to be millions of them filling the surrounding space. Some of those enemy ships were using particle guns of no mean force, even if they were wasting power on empty vacuum for the moment.

The enemy's fire was still largely random at this range, thanks to the combination of the space station's electronic warfare suite, operated by his advisors, and his own fleet's jamming... but he knew that if the enemy got a good enough picture to localize his vessels, some of them would start to die under the hammer of the human beams. With any luck on his side, some of their would do the same, though.

CNS Loyalist
0900 Hours


Liggs' first reaction when the Umerian ships started wobbling back and forth around their places in the formation was to snap at Hazarika- a Centralist formation would not consider evasive action under such light fire. But it didn't take him long to realize that this was not mere indiscipline when he saw the Umerian frigate Farbanti on his port flank dance out of the path of an oncoming plasma blast, avoiding all but the fringe of the beam and continuing to fire her own energy weapons as if nothing had happened... whereas a direct hit would most likely have jarred her fire control and caused precious seconds of confusion.

Hazarika is no fool. She knows what she's doing.

His confidence was further shaken when he saw how broad the cones of fire coming from his ally's electron cannons were, but by then he had other things on his mind to help him keep his resolution to let the Umerian manage her own ships.

"Message to frigate Peltast: your fire is seven degrees off target. Cease fire and recalibrate according to data from flagship." It was a commendable effort to keep shooting when enemy fire had damaged one's sensors... but not until one had found the enemy again. Liggs made a note to have a word with Peltast's captain, if they both survived. The pirates' long range bombardment was not to be despised, and the Centralist flag officer knew in his bones that the enemy had a trick up his sleeve.

Hmm. Liggs' ships were doing as well as could be expected: an advance toward the easily identified target, with the plan being to halt at long range and try to draw the enemy out from under close cover of his fixed defenses. He had suffered light damage to one of the least of his ships; there was no sign of any losses among the enemy, but distance might have concealed that. If the Umerians figured out what they were doing wrong soon, the battle as it appeared would most likely go well.

So where was the hidden trick?

The enemy's ships were either very good on a power-per-ton basis, or more likely equipped with axial-mount weapons, much like the ones the Zebesians were supposed to have. That meant they would try to catch his command from multiple vectors at once, while avoiding allowing his forces to do the same- like Umerians, ironically. For now, the situation was fairly even, with both sides focusing all firepower, defenses, and sensors forward. From the look of it, his ships had a modest advantage in a beam duel even before the Umerians' torpedoes or his screening small craft were factored in.

Which meant he must be watchful for a flank attack, either by the fighters the enemy was believed to possess, or by more ships. There was only one place for the enemy to hide his units. The Trojan debris fields were mostly empty space, with objects utterly dwarfed by the enormous space between them, but there were solid objects there, from the size of sand grains to the size of mountains. None of the greater asteroids were anywhere near his command, but there were many rocks that could conceivably shelter a fighter, and quite a few that might hide a small warship. Liggs gave his orders to the fleet.

"All fighter wings, this is Command. Spread into optimum sensor formation, and direct main search systems to the asteroid field! Search for ships hiding among the debris." That took care of his own fighters and gunboats. The order to the Umerians, he would pass through their own commander.

"Admiral?" He was not comfortable issuing orders to one of that title, though he knew Hazarika would allow it gracefully.

"Yes, Gever?" The use of his first name helped him think of the woman as his peer; neither a senior nor a junior officer would be so familiar during combat. An equal wouldn't either, but it was at least imaginable, which was enough to push away Liggs' discomfort.

"I want your screening cutters to search the Trojan debris field. Look for any transmissions or suspicious objects; I expect the enemy to try to ambush us from behind the asteroids."

"On it." She nodded. He nodded back, and cut the circuit. Many of the Umerian recon cutters on the outermost flank of his formation started moving, bulging outward to port to examine the debris more closely. To starboard he saw no sign of any change in formation, and again considered ordering Hazarika to assume a formation more in line with his wishes... but, again, refrained.

Hazarika knows what she is doing, and is following my orders as well as I have a right to expect. I will not breathe down her neck.

Pirate Vessel Keldrog's Gutting Blow
0905 Hours


The fool captain whose plasma weapon had failed earlier was starting to take the worst of the enemy plasma bolts; his shields were down by over a third and there were signs of minor damage to the hull. Keldrog considered calling him back into formation, the lesson having been taught, but was diverted by his aide.

"Sir! Laser communications from Fighter Command report that the enemy is sweeping the asteroid field with powerful sensors!"

Keldrog made the throaty hissing noise that was his race's equivalent to raucous laughter. Exactly as planned! Perhaps they would detect his hidden fighters, and perhaps they would not. It mattered little, for the fighters were only one of the two ripping claw-swipes he had ready to strike them. And if their main sensors were directed toward the asteroid field, they would have little chance of finding his cloaked ships before those vessels were in position to carve at the enemy's flank.

For now, they had a slight upper hand in the long range energy duel. But that would change very soon.
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Re: SDNW4 Story Thread 1

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Tari Homestead, Jeziri Plains
Toutaine, The Veil, Sector P-26
1 October 3400



Being all alone, Kimiya Tari had finished dinner for one and was sitting down to eat when the door flew open and Yamia stumbled in, looking to be on the verge of collapse. "We have to go!", she shouted to Kimiya.

"What's wrong?"

Needing breath, the reply was telepathic, its force a shock to Kimiya. Armed men have destroyed Jeziri! They're coming here! We must flee!

For a moment Kimiya was stunned. When she got her wits back from the forceful telepathic message she took hold of Yamia and helped her out the back door, toward the horses.

Kimiya was getting Yamia up on one when she heard the rumbling. She turned to see vehicles racing across their planted farmland, ripping through it and destroying weeks of back-breaking labor in seconds. Panicked, Kimiya climbed onto the horse she'd put Yamia on and moved to ride away.

Yamia sensed the danger a moment before it came. Using what was left of her energy, she threw her weight backward and knocked herself and Kimiya off the horse. It trotted on, shed of their burden, before being torn up by high-caliber weapons fire.

"Stay down," Yamia urged Kimiya. "I will try to draw them away." She saw Kimiya nod and stood up. Her body ached from the day's walking and running and her throat was parched with thirst. It took everything she had to break out into a run again, trying to lead them back toward the barn and provide Kimiya a chance to escape.


Pakalîn watched the alien woman break away from the other one through a pair of binoculars. He lifted his own gun up and checked the settings. Foreign guns were rare on Toutaine - it was by Jabin's favor he had one - and in this case a Pfhor "Stabilizer" was his weapon of choice for the mission was it was designed to knock out, not kill, targets. He was a marksman in most weapons and zeroed in on the fleeing alien. His first shot missed from leading too far. Cursing under his breath, he adjusted....



Yamia had gotten to the barn door when she felt the energy strike her in the back. Her muscles seized up and she collapsed, unable to move. She could see, though, and sense things. Through the ground she felt one of the vehicles pull up nearby. There was the sound of boots moving toward her... Arms grabbed her shoulders and spun her around, causing her to face two local men in military dress. She tried to speak but couldn't. She didn't use telepathy to speak - she wanted to keep them from realizing what she was as long as possible.

Her arms were pulled behind her and shackles fixed to her wrists. Another set where placed on her ankles. Only then was she lifted to her feet. She looked into the emotionless face of one of the soldiers, clearly the leader. He said, "You are very lucky. A powerful man wishes to enjoy your company back at the capital, away from these peasants."

They burned Jeziri to take me to some Prince's harem?! was Yamia's outraged thought as she was dragged to the vehicle. She turned back to see the soldiers looming over Kimiya who was, as instructed, remaining still. That didn't stop them from pulling her to her feet, however. They dragged Kimiya over to the gathered vehicles. "Sir, what do we do with this one? She looks too old to be the other target."

"Target's mother." Pakalîn looked to Yamia. "Tell us where the younger woman is, or I'll shoot her."

Yamia tried to speak. She hadn't recovered enough from the stun to do so fully, but she did manage to make a sound that Pakalîn figured was "Not here".

"Then she's with the hermit in the plains?" Pakalîn frowned. He wasn't sure about taking on a psyker, especially one as powerful as the sources claimed. Still, Prince Jabin's orders were clear. He would have to arrange for patrols into the plains. In the meantime... "We'll get her eventually. You have an appointment with His Highness, woman. You should feel honored; Prince Jabin would not go to such lengths for any ordinary girl."

Yamia scowled at him deeply. "And all the deaths?", she said.

"Where is the Hermit's home?", Pakalîn asked.

"In the Plains."

"Where exactly?" Seeing Yamia refusing to speak, Pakalîn pulled out his sidearm. Without saying a word he turned to Kimiya and pulled the trigger. She cried out as a bullet ripped through her knee. He moved the gun to aim at the other knee. "How about you? Where can I find your daughter, Tari?"

"The Hermit will protect her and will avenge me," Kimiya replied. "Do your worst."

Pakalîn answered by pulling the trigger again.



SEB Mining Corporation Dig Site, Northern Oasis
Toutaine, The Veil



WARNING SENTRY GUNS AHEAD

The sign was repeated in Toutani, the Velerian dialect also common on Toutaine. The Solarians had done their homework. “How hard would it be to get by sentries?”, Nisa asked.

“They are not what you think they are,” Stephen answered, inspecting the horizon to the north. He could already see a massive piece of earth-moving machinery. “The Sentry Guns are not manned. They will fire at anything moving into their programmed kill zone.”

“Then how do we get past them? Electricity?”

“They are likely shielded.” Stephen drew in a breath. “Follow me.”

Nisa did so, keeping behind and to the right of him while he moved on. The setting sun in the distance cast an orange light on the landscape. There were faint shadows ahead of them. Nisa thought she could see them shift toward them.

Just as the first bursts of light erupted in the distance, the ground came out from under Nisa. She yelped in surprise as she and her father dropped into the ground, a makeshift foxhole carved out by a burst of telekinetic energy. Overheard energy fire crossed over where they’d been.

“Father, what are we going to do?”, Nisa asked. She’d never seen weapons like this before.

“One moment.”

Stephen’s eyes were closed. He brought his hands up, as if to grip something before him. Two somethings, as it seemed; his hands seemed as if they took hold of something and twisted them. Overhead the energy fire began to swing inwards. Nisa allowed herself a smile, realizing just what he was doing. Within moments she could hear the sounds of small explosions as the sentry guns he had seized telekinetically were twisted to face each other, with predictable results.

She went to climb up just for him to grab the back of her vest. “No, Nisa,” he said. “We will stay here and wait until someone comes to look at their destroyed guns.”

They didn't have to wait long. There was a hum in the air from anti-grav engines. Two gunships moved in from the north, with their mounted guns pointing ominously toward the foxhole. "Hold your hands up, show them you're not holding a weapon," Stephen instructed her, doing the same himself. "And keep your focus on them. If you sense them about to shoot, get into cover."

They didn't, however. After about fifteen tense seconds one of the anti-gravs came down. Armed men came out, holding their weapons toward the two. Their commander kept his lowered. "You're penetrating our defensive perimeter," the man warned them. "And have destroyed SEB equipment. Give me a good reason not to shoot you."

"I'm here to speak to the official in charge of this place," Stephen answered. "As for your weapons, I do apologize. I can speak with your boss about compensation."

The squad commander turned away and began to speak to his command. After thirty seconds of conversation he nodded and turned back. "Restrain them, bring them along," he told his men.

Nisa heard her father's voice in her head. Don't resist. She obeyed, allowing one of the armed men to pull her arms behind her back and wrap a tiestrap around them. They were loaded onto the gunship. It was the first time in her life Nisa had been on a flying vehicle before. Even the thirty feet height it maintained was thrilling and terriifying to her.

Ahead, the Planetary Dragline loomed closer into view as it continued to rip its way through solid earth.



They received curious looks as they were escorted into the facility's control areas. The tie straps were removed from their wrists, though they were still kept under arms. The Par-Sec troopers did relieve Stephen of his beamsaber - unsurprising as well.

When they got to Parkhurst's office, he had Dr. Grace present. One of the Par-Sec troopers handed Parkhurst the beamsaber. "Well well, an esper." Parkhurst gave a dismissive look to Grace. "I'd been told all Toutaini espers were killed upon detection."

Grace shot him an angry look, but before she could protest Stephen spoke up. "I am not native to this planet. I chose to live here. And I won the trust of the community at Jeziri."

The look on Parkhurst's face betrayed how incredulous he found that. "Let me guess. Former pirate? Merc who broke his contract?" There was a smirk on Parkhurst's face. "Seems to be the only kind of people who choose to come to this rock if they don't have business."

"None of those things. I'm simply a man who needed to be alone."

"And what about her?" Parkhurst motioned to Nisa.

"I am from Jeziri," Nisa answered. "We came to speak with you on what you're doing here. You're going to get my people harmed!"

"From what? You can't even see our facility from the edge of the Human area," Parkhurst scoffed. "And there's no harmful byproduct that will come there."

"She refers to the Sand People," Stephen answered. "I saw the bodies, so I know you've had run-ins with them. You probably realize this is their only source of sufficient fresh-water?"

"Of course I do." Parkhurst looked to Grace with an aside glance, since she wouldn't shut up about it. "But there's a major deposit of Berynium under our feet that gets twenty million dollars for the kilo. It's the only thing of worth on this wreck of a planet and I'm not letting some natives too stupid to build a good moisture farm get in the way of the billions in profits this company can make from our resource rights here."

"It's not just the Sand People who are going to suffer," Nisa cried out. "Once they give up here, they're going to come after our water!"

"So share it with them!", Parkhurst shot back. "Don't come bothering me about it! Listen, we paid good money for the right to mine here, money to your government. You want to complain to something, go complain to the Emir and his advisers!"

"The Sand People are not known for their willingness to co-exist with Humans," Stephen noted calmly. "And what you've seen so far is just the beginning. The small clans you've driven off are just the vanguard; many more will be arriving in the coming weeks as part of their seasonal migrations."

Concern showed up on Grace's face, but Parkhurst made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Yeah, our ship saw them coming. Thanks for trying to warn us, but don't worry, we're already getting set up to deal with them. And speaking of that..." Parkhurst directed a look at Stephen. "You told my soldiers something about compensation for those sentry guns you wrecked."

"So I did," was the calm reply. "On the other hand..."

"You're going to get our homes destroyed!", Nisa shouted in rage. "When all the Raiders' tribes realize they can't beat you they'll come after us!"

"Then we'll try to kill enough of them so you can fight them off," Parkhurst offered. "And that's all I'm going to stay. Under absolutely no conditions will we stop mining here, and there's not a force on this planet that can make us stop." At that moment Parkhurst, getting irritated by having to debate this yet again, dropped his tact on the issue of government support from the Emirate - as far as he was concerned, SEB was there to stay and not even the Emir could make them leave.

"You bastard!" Nisa's shriek was punctuated as she lunged forward, looking to attack Parkhurst with her bare hands. She had just gotten her hands on him when one of the ParSec troopers hit her in the back of the neck with the butt of his rifle. Nisa fell to the ground. The ParSec trooper brought out a tie strap to rebind her.

"By all rights I should have you both thrown in the facility brig, on charges of destroying SEB property and assaulting SEB personnel," Parkhurst informed Stephen candidly. "But I'll overlook it if you go away and never come back."

There was a moment of silence. Grace was looking sympathetically at Nisa as the ParSec man began to wrap the strap around her wrists.

And then he stopped.

He dropped the strap, allowing it to hit the floor behind Nisa. The trooper tried to reach for his gun but couldn't. It was as if a powerful force was holding his arms where they were, not allowing him to move, which he was quick to verbalize.

His buddy went to bring his weapon up. At least he tried, but his gun literally fell apart in his hands.

And there was a new tone to Stephen's voice as he spoke again. A low tone, wrought with a growing power that seemed barely restrained. "You meaningless little worm," he said in a low, spine-chilling tone. "You come here, you willingly destroy the livelihood of an entire people and set them against another, you promote death and destruction, all to save a pittance compared to the wealth you will earn." He took a step closer to Parkhurst who couldn't help but try to pull back into his seat. It wasn't just that this bizarre hermit was a large man in build, it was the look in his face. Something in Parkhurst's mind quivered at what was to come next. "And what of that wealth will you enjoy anyway? Of the billions your employers will make in profits here, how much will you enjoy? A million? Five? Ten?"

"I... I get stock options...", Parkhurst answered, almost disbelieving he was revealing this. "And a sal.. salary! It's... it's not just the pay, it'll give me patronage, I can..."

"So that's it? You're investing so much effort so you can maybe get a nicer job next time around, or the time after that?! Living beings will die so you can have a nicer job?!"

"They.. they don't have to die! They can find other wat...."

Nisa was recovered enough to see, and sense, what happened next. She could feel energy gathering within her father, like nothing she'd felt before. And then, as Parkhurst tried to blather "water", it erupted.

It wasn't flame, it wasn't electricity. It arguably wasn't even the invisible energy of telekinesis. It was all three at once and yet something completely different. It was a blinding burst of energy like she'd never seen before.

The room exploded.

The entire ops center exploded.

One moment the structure was there, overlooking the operation of the Dragline and all the other aspects of the dig. The next it blew apart, a blinding light erupting from within and throwing the roof and walls away from it with great violence. Every person in the structure was thrown back. Entire working stations were blasted apart. Only the floor remained, sitting precariously upon the lower floors of the building it had been perched on.

Everyone in the base saw it. They all saw the LARCs begin to converge on the structure immediately.

Nisa raised her head. Her father was still standing, looking straight at Parkhurst. She looked into his eyes and gasped.

They were glowing.

Parkhurst scrambled back through what was once a wall, looking into eyes of pure bright light and feeling a primordial terror at them. "Help! Someone... no, wait! Please!" He was lifted into the air by nothing. He struggled against the invisible forces gripping him to no avail, unable to stop them from carrying him through what was left of his main control room and to the edge. Parkhurst whimpered as he was held over the edge. A six story drop was below him, and just a bit ahead the mine beckoned like an abyss. With the sun firmly setting it cast a red pallor over the entire dig, like a harbinger of blood yet to be shed.

"You want Berynium?", Stephen asked coldly. "I can give it to you. It's down there, waiting for you."

"Please don't...", sobbed Parkhurst.

"Do you want the metal?!"

"Not like this! Not.. not like...!"

Parkhurst looked over. The LARCs were training their guns on them. He became deathly afraid that they'd shoot and either hit him or, in hitting his captor, cause him to plummet to his death. "No, don't shoot!", he cried out.

Stephen looked to them. He raised a hand. All of the LARCs suddenly ran into each other, as if each was gripped by a great force and smashed into one another like someone smashing two eggs together.

Both Nisa and Grace were watching in awe. Grace had heard of only a few espers to be capable of such power - Nisa had never seen her father wield it like this. This was something different than any she'd felt from him before. This was a raw power, full of wrath, that was terrifying to behold.

She felt him begin to let go of Parkhurst and cried out. "Father, don't!" As much as she'd wanted to harm the amoral business manager herself mere minutes ago, she couldn't fathom killing him.

Parkhurst cried out in terror as he fell a few inches. But his descent stopped. Stephen looked back to Nisa. Wordlessly he tossed Parkhurst back onto solid floor. "Get out," he intoned to the assembled SEB technicians and workers who were, even know, cowering behind what was left of walls or desks. "Leave now!"

Led by Parkhurst, they all scrambled to their feet and found stairways to flee down.

All except for Grace, who was looking on in awe alongside Nisa as Stephen turned back toward the mine in general. "There are nearly a hundred of the security troops left," she told Nisa. "He can't take them all on... can he?"

Nisa couldn't answer. Right now she didn't know anything. She watched her father's hands come up and begin to spread.

The earth began to tremble. Around the dragline the ground began to spread apart, wider than before. Crew on the machine jumped off and fled for safety as the massive device began to sink into the earth. They escaped by way of the mineral carts and attached transport cars, each one considering himself or herself lucky of having gotten away with their lives as the device fell into the widening abyss.

She felt them coming up. Even with the LARCs down the ParSec troopers were going to try and attack Stephen from behind as he dragged the Dragline into the earth. She looked out quickly for her father's beamsaber, remembering Parkhurst had taken it. When she saw it on the floor she reached over and pulled it to her.

The ParSec men arrived, guns blazing.

Just as they fired the weapon flashed to life. Nisa concentrated on her arms and where she felt the soldiers aiming, deflecting the energy bursts coming toward her as quickly as she could. She didn't know how long she'd last.

Suddenly she was struck by a force from behind with such violence she dropped the weapon. It threw her over the side of the building, away from the open pit. She could see and feel the woman - Dr. Grace - falling beside her, struck by the same thing. Nisa closed her eyes and gripped herself and Grace in her power, slowing their dissent until they hit the ground softly. "What's he doing?", Grace asked her.

"Getting us out of harm's way." Nisa looked to the building the ops center had been on. "Most of the armed soldiers are in there, coming for him..."

Energy suddenly erupted from every shattered window and open door on the building. A shockwave knocked Grace and Nisa onto their backs. As Nisa sat back up she saw the building literally collapse "FATHER!" She raced toward the ruin. By the time she was clambering up the side, tears were forming in her eyes. Had he...? No, not like last time, not like she'd lost Sadik...

She got to the top and looked to the edge of the mining pit. The mammoth mining machine was halfway submerged into the pit and sinking further. It wasn't even intact anymore - the stresses of having the ground fall out from underneath it and having its mass shifted around so much had torn off several parts and broken it up. The red sun almost blotted out the plumes of drive flares as the shuttles and yachts used for the mine's personnel began to flee, the unarmed members of the mining crew fleeing the devastation of the site.

And there was her father, on a knee at the edge of the pit. She ran up to him and put her arms around his shoulders. "I thought you'd..."

"No," he murmured He looked to her and she saw that the glow was gone from his eyes. "I'm okay."

"But, all those soldiers. And the building exploding..."

"Not enough to kill me." It wasn't a boast. She could sense there was more to it than that.

"How? How did you use energy like that? You've never taught me..." Nisa still held onto him. "It was so frightening."

"It's a very long story, Nisa, one I'll tell you someday." He looked off distantly. "But you don't have to worry. I have control again. Everything will be okay."

They looked back to the ruined Dragline and watched the sun finish setting as, around them, the SEB personnel fled their wrecked mining site.



By happenstance Dr. Grace got aboard the same yacht that Parkhurst had fled too. She couldn't help but smirk with some humor given Parkhurst had visibly lost bladder control in the face of what he'd provoked. "Ruined", he was muttering. "They'll ship me off to a Wild Space dig over this until my contract's over. My career's over.."

"Poor you," Grace muttered as she moved up to the cockpit, where a pilot was flying them. Dark-haired ex-military pilot Trudy Rodricon was bringing them up toward the SEB ship in polar orbit. "Are we all going to fit in there?"

"I hope so," was the answer. There was a blink at her controls. "Getting a hail from some ship burning in. Mind answering?"

Grace nodded and went over to the co-pilot seat, where she hit a blinking button. "Hello?"

The voice that came over the other end was accented with what Grace figured as an Anglian accent. "Ah, hello. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"

"This is Dr. Ellen Grace, I'm a contracted anthropologist for SEB Mining. You are?"

"The name is Balthier. I can't help but notice an awful lot of you leaving the planet at once, mind telling me just what's going on?"
”A Radical is a man with both feet planted firmly in the air.” – Franklin Delano Roosevelt

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

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

DONALD J. TRUMP IS A SEDITIOUS TRAITOR AND MUST BE IMPEACHED
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