Let Us Sleep Now(new story thread; NSFW)

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U.P. Cinnabar
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Let Us Sleep Now(new story thread; NSFW)

Postby U.P. Cinnabar » 2016-06-24 03:21pm

Let Us Sleep Now
“’ I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark, for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now....’”

—Wilfred Owen, “Strange Meeting”

6 NOVEMBER, 2275 11:30:31

“I’m reading a mass of dysprosium and cryogenic lithium sandwiched between two layers of tungsten-carbide/depleted uranium composite at zero degrees solar latitude by eighty-three degrees solar longitude, and 28,522 klicks inside the star ,” Sienna Kyle reported from Earth Federal Research Vessel Wanderer’s sensors and probes station,“ total thickness three meters...there’s another meter or so of lead underlying the inner Whipple armour shell, which is interfering with our scans; object is oblong in shape,, two meters long by one meter wide, massing fifteen tons.”

“Whatever the anomaly is,” remarked Wanderer’s captain, Doctor Kyla Starr, “it is definitely not natural. Pilot, take us in closer to the Sun, as close as you can to that object, withou—”

6 NOVEMBER, 2275 11:32:00

“Echo Charlie has been eliminated,” Union Star Ship Defiant’s sensor tech reported, and that made her skipper, Captain William A. Koenig, smile.

“Done, then,” the 35,500-ton Akira-class destroyer’s skipper calmly replied.

“Pilot, vector for Chalcedon, and make it quick,” he then ordered.

“Vector plotted and echoed to ship; warpfield generator spinning up, warpsail array energizing, warpsail field forming, and extending,” Lieutenant Commander John Grey reported from the piloting station at the front of Defiant’s red-lit Combat Information Center.”Warping now!”

And, the saucer and mast hullform of the Star Fleet destroyer created the necessary mathematical conditions in local spacetime to turn itself into an imaginary mass now able to transcend the speed of light.

Until it was abruptly, violently knocked back down into normspace to the tune of a million shrieking alarms inside Koenig’s helmet, as the CIC’s red lighting and multi-function holodisplays briefly went dark, and slowly returned to normal.

Multiple relativistic-kill vehicles inbound!” shrieked the sensor tech.”Zero by twelve point five, one-five-three kiloklicks downrange, and closing fast at—”

Pilot, fuckin’ jink and burn, now!” Koenig ordered.”Defensive, get your thumb out of your ass, and burn those fuckin’ rocks out of my sky! Tactical, find that Earther battlewagon, and fire quantum torpedos, as soon as the tubes are loaded!”

“If the little monkey bitch wants to die that badly,” he added,”then, let’s give her what she wants.”


...Mama?!” the thirteen-year old girl screamed, kneeling over her mama, holding her hand...she was bleeding from the ears and the mouth, her chest was all crushed, legs bent out of shape...she wasn’t moving.

Mama,” Jami pleaded, hearing the engine roaring, tires squealing as he turned around again, “ you gotta get up, now, please, he’s comin’ back, Mama, please, please, you gotta get up!

The roar of the gasburner’s engine grew louder, he had gotten up speed, Jami felt the headlights burning into her as he charged back down Long Street, horn blasting the first few notes of “Onward, Christian Soldiers,” into the night, he’d be on top of them any second now, out to finish what he’d started doing.

Mama, please,” Jami sobbed,“please, get up, please get up, please—”

Hot, burning white lights bore down on them again....


...and the third deck was dark again, more alarms screaming in her head, goddamn Mid and Christnazi warbirds everywhere she looked in the flickering master holoprojector, and not one hope in hell’s chance of making it out of here alive.

Primary and secondary electrics are burned out,” Jil shouted from the weapons station, as the 03’s red lighting and MFDs came back up, “ teritary electrics 78% disrupted, radiators one, two, five, eight through ten destroyed, internal heat now sixty degrees and still rising; auto-repair system off line, penetration in weaps deck, railgun turrets one and four knocked out...Number One...baby, I-i know you want to save as many of them as you can, we all do...but—”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP, AND RETURN FIRE!” the frightened senseless nineteen-year old woman now commanding this busted-up warbird screamed at Ariel’s weapons engineer.

“—you’re in command now,” that bitch just fucking had to remind her,“you have to think of your ship and crew as well...you’ve done all you can, you have to....”


6 NOVEMBER, 2275 11:33:06

...battle ready, battle ready, flight crew to stations, commander to 03, at the double, commander to 03, at the double!”

Jami Lee Selkirk, pilot in command of the Earth Federal Starship Ariel, was out of her quarters, fumbling on her slate-grey No.14 flight dress, screwing on her lid, running through the strobing, red-lit crew deck, and sliding down the ladder leading to the 30,000-ton Nemesis-class main-battle starship’s red-lit third deck, before her first lieutenant had finished confirming what the fading whopwhopwhopwhopwhopwhopwhop! of the hooter had already roused her skipper out of bed over.

Besides, it wasn’t as if she’d slept soundly in the first place..

She barely acknowledged Flight Sergeant Phylicia Gaines’ “commander on deck!”, barely even heard First Lieutenant Jillian Kalsi reporting “skipper has the ship,” as she executed a jink and burn, trace nanoseconds of eight-kilograv thrust from the ship’s antimatter fusion torch almost knocking Jami’s feet out from under her, before the diamagnetics underneath the deck—set perpendicular to the ship’s thrust axis—compensated.

She reached her seat at the center of the of the five stations arranged in a semi circle at the front/top of the cramped third deck, strapped in, and glanced at the sitrep windowed in the command station’s MFD.

Ariel’s hellspace systems radar had detected a Christnazi destroyer jumping in at 9.4 teraklicks from the Sun, at the same time the Solar System’s early-warning platforms had, neither of them able to stop the bastard from firing a stable octet of saboted meson warheads into the 5,000-ton Attenborough-class survey ship, which had been the subject of a long-running BBC documentary series.

She’d been unarmed, without even point-defence railguns, and the meson warheads had gotten close enough to her hull to bypass her armor and gut her from the inside out.

The murdering sons of bitches.

“I have the ship, Number One,” Jami tersely said, the joystick controlling the RCS thrusters slapping itself into her left gauntlet, Ariel’s pilot in command programming another few nanoseconds of war emergency burn into the ship-wide AI network, as the same time she wrenched the joystick down and a bit to the left, as SMWs jumped in, shed their white-hot sabots—housing their torches and hellspace systems—and screamed toward an intercept with Ariel, Phylicia intercepting them instead with a fusillade of 20mm saboted tungsten penetrators from several of the ship’s forty rapid-firing point-defense railguns, while the eight 240mm anti-starship railguns under Lieutenant Simone Montigny’s control salvoed 24 STPs, whose one-shot antimatter torches instantly, immediately boosted them to one-half light speed, before their hellspace systems spun up and shot them toward the enemy machine at one light year per s—

The 03 went dark, more alarms howling inside her helmet, her chief flight engineer, Lieutenant Chelsey Ford, shouting from her station in the drive pit at the center of the deck,“primary electrics 72% disrupted, secondary electrics 50% disrupted, internal heat 44.5 degrees and rising!”

Return fire!” Jami snapped, as she executed still another jink and burn.

Hit the Christnazi bastard again!” she added, unnecessarily.

6 NOVEMBER, 2275 11:35:17

Koenig laughed, even as the holo of his chief engineering officer, Lieutenant Commander Callum Myles, stood in front of him, and reported:

“Primary electrical system’s burned out, secondary el system’s 88% disrupted, teritary el system 82% disrupted, torp launchers one to five knocked out, penetration on weps deck, radiators one to seven, eight, twelve and fifteen all destroyed, internal heat now sixty-five degrees and rising sharply!”

“Tac, another salvo of q-torps, if you please,” Koenig ordered.

“Sir,” asked his exec, Commander Thomas J. Selkirk,”is that—”

Are you afraid to die, Commander?!” Koenig demanded, while Lieutenant Jebidiah Turner returned the Earther warship’s fire with a double spread of quantum torpedos.

“Well?!” Koenig demanded of his XO.”Answer me! Are you afraid to die, when His Received Canon, and all the years of empirical data, and scientific research have confirmed we are Homo magister, and, for us, death is only one step closer to the pinnacle of Evolution, that is Deo sapiens?!

“I fear only a death which does not serve His Work of Evolution, Captain,” Selkirk calmly replied, as the bridge went dark again.

“Secondary electrical system burned out,” Myles was only too eager to report. “Penetration in engineering spaces and drive housing; warp engine offline, impulse restricted to nine hundred grav max burn, impulse thermopile shorting out; radiators nine to eleven destroyed, armor belt undergoing boil off, internal temp now seventy-four degrees, continuing to rise!”

“Defensive, what the actual fuck?!” demanded Koenig, as Ensign Aaron Eisenberg struggled to intercept the inbound eight and a half inch kinetic penetrators with the 45 five-petajoule phased-particle arrays under his control.

“I need you actually shooting down those rocks,” the Defiant’s skipper added,”not making pretty lights in—”

A roar of hot light put a stop to Koenig’s rebuke, even as it triggered the cerebrally-implanted hundred-terabyte solid-state drive which ensured the continuation of his immortal soul, and, by extension, His Great Work of Evolution.

6 NOVEMBER, 2275 11:37:50

“We’re not done,”Ariel’s commander whispered, as helldar confirmed the kill.

“Not done,” she repeated, her fingers flying across her MFD, inputting entry vector data and SATAN field generator parameters into the shipnet, Ariel’s own Burroughs Space And Time Anomaly Nexus field generator whining as it kicked in, the field winding through the ship’s dysprosium hellsail array to displace her more through space than through time, and propel her at nine point four teraklicks per second on a vector to Alphekka Bravo(or Kolob)’s fifth planet, what the Christnazis had decided to call Chalcedon, after the American Exiles had settled there almost 290 years ago.

A little over a century after that, the Christofascist wankers had poured through Inferno’s Gate—orbiting what had been Pluto— to invade Earth and her Solar System, setting off thirty years of interstellar war.

And, thirty years ago, the sons of bitches had invaded Big Sky, following a vote they hadn’t authorized, and a decision that had been decidedly non-Canon.

Two relentless decades of war, almost a trillion dead on the deck.

The unlucky ones having ended up worse than dead....


....oh, dear Jesus God, she was a skeleton with skin, sores and bruises and welts all over her naked body, her eyes vibrating with fear and fever as she got up to the limit of the fucking chain around her neck, kneeling on a floor full of piss and shit and hoarded food amongst the crap....


...they grabbed her arms and legs, slammed her down onto the freezing, cold ferrocrete, as she stupidly tried to climb the walls of the fuck tank, opening her mouth to scream, as they held her down and shoved themselves into her, only to have a mistress ram a fucking strapon down her throat, and tell her ”bitch, that whut yo’ fuckin’ mout’ good fo’....“


...no, not now, God damn it, not now.

Always plenty of time to cry later.

Right now, she had to be the commander of the Ariel, directing the efforts of 97 other women and men toward making the Christnazis pay .

It was the only thing she and hers could do for the Wanderer’s crew of 24 scientists, explorers, and students.

It wouldn’t even come close to being enough.

6 NOVEMBER, 2275 11:38:00

“It was communicated to me,” the Roadie bastard calling himself an expert on children and relationships said, as he stood before the Apostolic Minister of Baldwin Church,“ by one of Alexandra’s teachers, that her mother’s non-Canon relationship with the non-Canon sex criminal Victoria Jean Ford was causing her to act out and rebel, possibly even leading to another Girasol incident in the near future.”

“Mama,” Lexie Watson whispered to her mama,“ that’s a goddamn—”

There will be no profanity in the house of Our Vindicator, and your Lord!” Minister Wilbur Owens III barked, as he looked down from his throne at them, Susan Watson gently squeezing her oldest daughter’s hand.

“Pray continue, Apostle,” he said to Flynt Church Minister Franklin McKinley Spiers, standing to the right of Owens’ throne.

“I’ve nothing further to ask of this witness, Apostle,” Spiers replied.

“The defense may cross-examine,” the minister said, Susan getting up, Spiers saying,“ Apostle, I simply must renew my objection at this time. The defendant is not permitted, and has no business—”

“Sister Watson,” the minister said, looking down his nose at her,“ if memory serves, this court instructed you to secure the services of a patriarch to speak—”

“I’m more than capable of speaking for myself,” Susan replied.

“Hundreds of years of empirical data and scientific research say differently,” the minister coldly replied,“and your obstinate refusal to submit to an anointed magister, and permit him to speak for you, says more than I need to know concerning your ability to be a fit mother for these children.”

“Forgive me, Apostle,” sixteen-year old Syuzenka spoke up,“ but I believe you are editorializing, and that’s not allowed under the—”

“As does,” the apostle snapped,“ your daughters’ lack of discipline and self-control.”

“No,” he concluded,“ I am going to have to agree with the plaintiff’s expert witness—”

“He hasn’t offered one solid shred of eviden—” Susan objected.

“—these children are all clearly suffering the effects of Stockholm syndrome; it is obvious they—the two girls in particular—have all been brainwashed by their mother and her non-Canon sexual partner, and thus are incapable of making an informed decision concerning who they wish to live with.”

“Pastor Cheney—” Lexie started to say.

Goddamn, fucking little bitch, one more word out of you, and that’s a legal, fucking jury trial right here, right now!” the minister roared.

You don’t call my sissy a bitch, you goddamn motherfucker!” fourteen-year old Joshua said, on his feet, his face red.

“These outbursts,”the apostle replied, as Susan felt her heart sinking,“ just prove the poisonous influence the lack of a patriarchal role model in the home has on the development of young ladies...and young men.”

“As none of the children are capable of making any informed decisions for themselves,” he concluded,“ the Apostolic Authority of His Church of Baldwin has no choice, but to make its ruling based on the indisputable, Canonical, scientific facts in the case.

And, those facts are that the relationship between the lesbian sex criminals Susan Renee Watson and Victoria Jean Ford is non-Canon, and harmful to the—”

The Throne Room of the Baldwin Church Hall shuddered to its foundations, the lights went out, and sirens started to wail, as Susan gathered her children close to her, and held on for dear life.
"When you send a man out with a gun, you create a policymaker. When his ass is on the line, he will do whatever he needs to do.

And, if the implications of that bother you, the time to do something about it is before you send him out."
—David Drake


"Oh, but you did! You turn on any of my crew, you turn on me! But, since that's a concept you can't seem to wrap your head around, then, you've got no place here. You did it to me, Jayne, and that's a fact."

—Malcolm Reynolds, captain of the Firefly-class hauler Serenity,in a nutshell

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U.P. Cinnabar
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Joined: 2016-02-05 08:11pm
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Re: Let Us Sleep Now(new story thread; NSFW)

Postby U.P. Cinnabar » 2016-06-24 03:22pm

6 NOVEMBER, 2275 11:39:05

This was why starships did not jump into, or out of, atmosphere.

The inside of Jami’s helmet was alive with alarms, as she fought her ship, following her return to norm eight and a half goddamn klicks over Atlantis, the sky livid with roiling, forking scarlet-violet lightning ripping through.the dome of the Capitol, leaving a gaping wound bleeding molten dysprosium foil down its sides.

“Weps, Defense,” she snapped at Phylicia and Simone , as she focussed on what they’d come here to do, “target all military, commercial, and government starships and facilities, and shoot!”

The point-defense railguns spat out a buzzing blue death ray of 2cm STP boosting to one-half c, shedding their torch-only sabots, and stippling the 71 square kilometer area of the capital city of the Chalcedonian Union of Churches with flowers of fire, while the 240s drove their STP into Star Fleet fighters, scout-escorts, destroyers, scout cruisers, heavy explorers, dreadnaughts, and star carriers salvoing SMWs seeking Ariel’s destruction.

Jami nudged the RCS thrusters with the joystick in her left hand, working her station’s MFD with her right, programming nanoseconds of war emergency burn into the shipnet, twisting and turning Ariel along every vector at once to dodge the incoming meson warheads for as long as she could.

The master holoprojector along the bulkhead in front of the five control stations flashed blue-white, and the 03 went dark a second, the ship shaking, more alarms going off, Chelsey shouting from the Pit, “primary electrics completely burned out, secondary electrics 70% disrupted, radiators two, five, and eight destroyed, internal temperature now 63.3 degrees, continuing to rise!”

6 NOVEMBER, 2275 11:40:20

Someone mind telling Me what the actual fuck is going on?!” His Imperial Majesty Guy Thomas Zellner, anointed President Of His Chalcedonian Union Of Churches, Father and rightful King Of Man, demanded of His Consuls, as the chambers of the Union’s First Presidency shuddered and trembled.

“We’re under attack,” Consul Pacis Archangel Michael Zephiniah Lang replied, after consulting his head-mounted comm unit.

“Well, no shit, Dick Grissom!” the President Of the Church sarcastically rejoined, as He held onto to the semi-circular polished steelwood table in front of Him. “I could have figured that out for Myself!”

“Then,” Michael dared talk back to Him, as the only begotten Son and Heir of Iosue Mahadmedus Caesar Christus calmly spoke his name, ”why didn’t yahahahahahahaahahahhAAAHAHAHAHAAA AAHHHHAHA!

And, His so-called Consul Of Peace was rolling around on the floor, shivering, twitching, pissing, shitting, jizzing himself like the insolent little non-Canon, lesbian bitch he’d let himself become.

P-pleeeassse, G-guy,” Michael sobbed and shrieked in lesbian sexual ecstasy,”I-i-iiiiiii a-am Y-your F—”

“You are nothing to Me,” the rightful King Of Man coldly whispered. “You get Me, bitch?! You! Are….”


“…nothin’,”Daddy said, looking down at him, shaking His head,”but a fuckin’ disappointment to Me.”

Been better,” He added, turning to Daddy Michael now,”if We had aborted this waste of Our precious Seed while it was still in the fuckin’ tube.”

I know, Benjamin,” Daddy Michael said, looking down at Guy as he lay twitching on the floor, foaming at the mouth, lips working manically to try and tell Them he could be every bit the man his Fathers wanted him to be, just, please, give him one more chance.

He could only manage incoherent gibbering, Daddy, with a snort of contempt, turning and walking out of the living room, Daddy Michael spitting in His only begotten Son’s spasming face, telling him,”you fuckin’ make Me sick,” before following His anointed King out of the room, leaving the six-year old boy alone to flail about and babble helplessly on, not even able to keep himself from crapping and peeing….


all over herself, the little bitch flopping around on the bed, messing the sheets up underneath her, the monocarbon wire binding her by her wrists and ankles to the footboard and the headboard, the cut extension cord taped to her dykehole and her other dykehole spitting electrcity up in that shit, little Gilda screaming like the little bitch she was, begging her bubba for more of the same, just like all ‘em other sluts in ‘em pornos begged their bubbas—and their sissies too—to do all sorts of nasty things to ‘em.

“What the actual fuck is this shit?!” Daddy roared, storming into Gilda’s room, ripping both cords out of her stinking assholes, giving the horny little girlie the back of His hand across her screaming cooter head.

Goddamn horny fuckin’ lil’ ape!”He spat out. “What the fuck’s the idea of rapin’ your own brother, huh?! What the fuck is that?!”

G-guy,” that deceitful little Gilda dared talk back to her Daddy,”w-was the o-one—“

Oh, hell no, hell no!” Daddy screamed, slapping the shit out of that nasty little cooter again and again and again.”Hell no, you just didn’t try putting this off on your bubba, you goddamn fuckin’ little whore! Fuckin’ look at him, he’s a goddamn cripple, for fuck’s….”


...sake.

The First Presidency chamber shook again, His Consul Unitas, Doctor Samuel Brannen III, telling Him.”It’s a single Earth battleship, positively identified as the Ariel.”

“The fuckin’ Angel of Darkness,” whispered Iosue Caesar’s begotten Son, nodding His head at the same time, His good Sam adding:

“Power’s out all over Atlantis, and all across the North Chalcedonian continent; several of our Star Fleet bases, including Starbase Freeman Lang, have been heavily damaged, along with at least six of our orbital facilities, and fifteen Starfleet vessels.”

“Fuck’s sake,” interjected the Inheritor Of the New Jerusalem.”She’s just one ship, with technology that’s two hundred years out of date. Can’t Our Star Fleet deal with one ship?!”

“One ship, two hundred years behind us technologically, biologically, socially, and morally, my Sire,” His handsome, intelligent, insightful Consul Of Unity reminded His Father.

“Commanded by a non-Canon sex killer,” remarked the Progenitor Of Mankind, and Dominus Christus over all apes.

“Yes,” His wise Samwise agreed.” By someone decidedly non-Canon.”

“Speaking of which,” whispered the He who was over all Others, as He walked over to where Michael continued spasming and soiling himself.

“On your knees, bitch!” Caesar Christus commanded.

6 NOVEMBER, 2275 11:43:14

Particle beams and saboted meson warheads streaked past them from both ground and orbital defenses, Jami just barely managing to evade them all, as a trio of 24cm STP slammed into a Christnazi Sovereign-class dreadnaught, smashing through his Whipple armor to open him up like a flower from nose to tail, the gutted, spinning corpse bouncing off the forward armor of another dreadnaught now hosing the sky down with his 35 SMW launchers, Simone driving 24cm STP through his hull in reply, as Ariel shuddered, and her 03 deck went dark again; more alarms howling in Jami’s com, as her chief flight engineer rattled off the further damage to and status of her ship, and Simone again returned the 350,000-ton dreadnaught’s fire.

Flight crew, 03, stand by for atmospheric SATAN field event!” Jami shouted, after a glimpse at her comm’s holofield to make sure Ariel still had the necessary three kilokips of entry velocity, before stabbing the virtual key on her MFD, which had the SATAN field jenny howling as it kicked Ariel into hell.

The battered Federal Starship Force main-battle starship jumped back into norm 112 and one-half kiloklicks from Chalcedon, Simone goring the asterisk formed by an orbital facility’s ten 20-megaton O’Neill cylinders, while Jami jinked and burned her ship away from a volley of SMW, before pivoting on Ariel’s short axis to bring her guns to bear on a 190,000-ton Received Canon-class heavy exploration cruiser.

6 NOVEMBER, 2275 11:45:12

Launch fighters!” Rear Admiral Henri-Phillipe Benoni Omer Joseph Picard barked into his comm’s mic, the holo of USS Enterprise’s launch officer, Lieutenant Dwight Barclay, quick to reply: “Combat, Shooter, all birds are away!”

In the red-lit CIC’s master holoprojector, the commander of the Enterprise Elite Star Carrier Expeditionary Force watched his four and a half-megaton Galactica-class flagship launching its 62, twelve-ship squadrons of 300-ton Predator warp fighters at the primitive Earth so-called battleship vainly hurling its rocks into the shielding and hulls of modern peacekeeping, scientific, and exploration platforms.

That was why His Star Fleet would always prevail; they were peacekeepers, scientists, explorers, and diplomats, fighting radfemperv apes with no genetic heritage of Patriarchy and Biological Authority, so they could only ever be militarists, corporatists, and statists.

Their defeat, thus, was a near-cer—

The CIC briefly went dark, Enterprise’s captain, Captain David Ryker screaming “Pilot, evasive maneuvers! Defensive, increase PHASAR rate fire, burn down those rocks! Tac, quantum torpedos, full spread, max rate fire!”

Now, Enterprise’s 150 turreted quantum-torpedo launchers came to bear on the so-called Angel Of Darkness, as she jinked, burned and salvoed more of her rocks into the star carrier’s forward saucer, the ship’s chief engineering officer, Lieutenant Commander Levar Scott, screeching hysterically in Picard’s com:

Primary electrical system completely burned out! Secondary el system 84% disrupted, teritary el system 62% disrupted, radiators four through nine destroyed, internal heat now 54 degrees, and continuing to rise; warp engine offline, impulse engine severely damaged, impulse engine restricted to 1.5 kilograv max burn, impulse engine thermopile shorting out! PHASARs 16 through 50 have sustained heat casaulties and are offline! PHASARs 62 through 80 not answering firing commands!”

Tell the warp fighters to form a defensive globe around the ship!” Ryker ordered out of sheer panic.

NO!” Picard roared.” Air boss, fighters are to englobe and engage Earther warship! Ops, order all scout, explorer, and destroyer tactical wings to form a defensive globe around Enterprise; all pilots and tactical officers to link their controls to Enterprise piloting and tactical!”

“Really, Captain,” Picard then chided Ryker,”have you bought into the politically-honest claptrap about warp fighters being useless in space com—”

Starships warping in!” one of the sensor watchstanders shouted over Picard’s com.”Am reading fifteen, one-five thousand, Nemesis-class main-battles at zero by twelve point eight-three, one-one-two point five kiloklicks downrange, closing fast at three kiloips!”

6 NOVEMBER, 2275 11:48:36

“Oh, hell yeah!” Jami exulted, as Simone put the pipper on that star carrier, and sent a volley of 24cm STP screaming into the son of a bitch to send him down to where Christnazi SOBs burned best..

“Additional starships jumping in,” Master Corporal Caitlin McDonough reported from the sensor and comm station.“ Another 25 Federal Starship Force main-battle groups at zero by zero, 112.5 kiloklicks downrange, closing at three kilokips. Incoming communication from Secretary-General Suzannah Gorbachova aboard Earth Federal Starship Dauntless.”

“Let’s hear it,” Jami replied, as Ariel gutted a 70,000-ton Christnazi Intrepid-class scout cruiser.

6 NOVEMBER, 2275 11:49:00

“People of the Chalcedonian Union of Churches, I am High Admiral Suzannah Mikhaila Gorbachova,” the holo of some goddamn little Russkie dyke bitch said, as she stood before the First Presidency of His Perfect Union,“Secretary-General of the Federal Republic Of Earth.

Your leaders, your leaders, ordered a warship of your Star Fleet to violate the territory of a sovereign polity and carry out an act of piracy against an unarmed survey vessel, for reasons we cannot determine.”

She paused, as the Dominus Christus of His Government of Churches struggled to gather His wits..

“Nor,” the little blonde monkey bitch spoke again,“does it matter.

We cannot allow this to go unpunished. Therefore, as of this date, all space within 450,000 kilometers of Chalcedon has been declared a zone of exclusion by act of Parliament; all League military starships entering or leaving the exclusion zone will be shot down without challenge.

All starliners and commercial transports entering or leaving the exclusion zone, save those carrying food, clothing, medical supplies or similar such materiel, will be challenged, crippled, boarded, evacuated, and destroyed.

All medical starships will be allowed to enter and leave the exclusion zone at will.

The blockade will remain in effect until such time your leaders choose to apologize. That is all, Gorbachova out..”

“That’s all?!” commented His handsome Consul Unitas. “Goddamn, that’s enough.”

“We aren’t just going to take this lying down, are we?!” Michael, even after choking down His Magisterial Essence by the bucketload, still had the stupidity to fucking challenge his True Father.

The President Of His Government Of Churches was already on the com with Admiral-Apostle of the Fleet Benjamin William Tell Ross, his holo standing directly in front of His Lord and Master, instantly insisting,“Sire, we can take ‘em, just give the word, and—”

“Stand down,” Caesar Christus reluctantly ordered.

“Sir?!” His Apostolic Minster Of Peace asked dubiously..

“Fucking stand down!” the Dominus Christus Of His Perfect Union bitterly spat the words out, his voice echoing in the pitch-black of the First Presidency chamber.

“For now,” He added quietly.

6 NOVEMBER, 2275 11:51:05

“Enemy machines standing down,” Jil reported,“ returning to their bases.”

“Stand down from battle ready,” Jami said, her whole body starting to shake in spite of her.

She could just barely control her trembling hands, her fingers fumbling with the buckles of the command station’s restraining straps, managing to undo them, her knees almost going out from under her as she stood up, eyes on the master holoprojector and its cloud of faintly-glowing hulks tumbling through the dark, on her own shambles of a third deck, on the final casualty report floating in front of her com’s eyepiece..

Nineteen people.

A little over a fifth of Ariel’s crew.

And, they weren’t coming home alive, because of their...commander’s insane, futile, pathetic fucking need for closure.

“All crew, assist in repairs,” she said quietly into her com,, as she turned and rapidly climbed the ladder leading upship. “Number One....”


...has the ship,” Ariel’s shipnet told her , as....

... a burning white light blinded her, his voice, stinking of alcohol, screaming at her, calling her a bitch, grabbing her, turning her around just so he could knock hell out of her, Jami making the mistake of trying to get back up, Daddy stomping her into the pavement, kicking her, hauling her back up onto her feet, slamming her up against the hood of the car, ripping off her jeans and panties, laying into her ass with his belt and his boots, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he called her a murdering goddamn bitch, telling her she did it, she fucking did it, she was the one who’d run over her own mama, because she was a chicken-headed goddamn fucking, dykeholing, non-Canon bitch who hated other bulldyking non-Canon bitches, even the one that gave birth to her, and how dare she fucking try and put this all off on him.

Blue lights were strobing in the darkness, another man telling Daddy,” we got this, Brother Selkirk, “ before he grabbed hold of her hair, and shoved something hard and metallic up her ass, to make Jami scream her head off, pissing and shitting herself, every last nerve in her body on fire, a hand reaching up into her t-shirt, snatching off her bra, grabbing her tits, another hand slapping her ass, wrenching her arms behind her back and slamming her onto the deck, stomping her face down into the ferrocrete.

You,” the man spat at her,” are under arrest for unforgivable crimes against His Received Canon! You have no rights whatsoever, only the privilege of loving judgement and final punishment by one of His Patriarchs and anointed Magisters! I, your legally-constituted jury under the Second Amendment of His Received Canon, will now conduct your trial! Trial begins! Guilty as charged! Sentence: Sexual correction and repenitive education! Appeal denied! May He have mercy on your soul…”

...Jami fell down onto her hands and knees on the now-repressurized crew deck, gakking up all over the floor and herself, her body heaving and trembling, her stomach tearing itself apart, her breath coming in ragged sobs, Ariel’s pilot in command unable to do anything else except puke, shake.

And cry.
"When you send a man out with a gun, you create a policymaker. When his ass is on the line, he will do whatever he needs to do.

And, if the implications of that bother you, the time to do something about it is before you send him out."
—David Drake


"Oh, but you did! You turn on any of my crew, you turn on me! But, since that's a concept you can't seem to wrap your head around, then, you've got no place here. You did it to me, Jayne, and that's a fact."

—Malcolm Reynolds, captain of the Firefly-class hauler Serenity,in a nutshell

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U.P. Cinnabar
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Joined: 2016-02-05 08:11pm
Location: Aboard the RCS Princess Cecile

Re: Let Us Sleep Now(new story thread; NSFW)

Postby U.P. Cinnabar » 2016-06-24 03:24pm

6 NOVEMBER, 2275 12:02:19

Ariel,” the holo of the traffic controller said,“Earth Highport Tracking; you are free and clear for final decel for Middenhall Station, North Airdock, bay four-two-niner.”

“Copy, Highport,” Starship Commander Jami Lee Selkirk replied.”Middenhall, North Airdock, four-two-niner; beginning decel burn.”

She nudged the joystick in her left hand, programming the burn into the shipnet, as Ariel’s RCS thrusters pivoted the ship around her short axis, so that her antimatter-fusion torch now pointed toward the asterisk of ten twenty-million ton, forty-klick long O’Neill cylinders in geostationary orbit over Earth’s North Pole.

Ariel, Middenhall Station Operations,” another traffic controller’s holo now told Ariel’s pilot in command, “Welcome home; vector’s looking good, just ease her on in, Commander.”

“Copy, Middenhall, and thanks,” Jami replied.

No joy in either the homecoming or the view of her adopted homeworld.

Not with .nineteen crew coming home in metal boxes draped with the Federal Sunburst of Earth and the Union Jack of the Federated British Commonwealth, guarded by a section of the main-battle’s Starship Infantry company.

On top of the 24 civs she’d been too late to save from a salvo of Union saboted-meson warheads.

“All running lights on,” she said, switching on Ariel’s navigation lights, as she slowly backed into the North Cylinder’s ship-handling airlock.

6 NOVEMBER, 2275 12:05:26

“Doctor Raghu,” the Apostle Franklin McKinley Spiers asked the dot sitting in the witness stand,“ how long have you been a practicing evolutionary psychiatrist?”

“Fifteenth December,” Doctor Casmir Raghu replied in a cultured voice with only the merest hint of accent,“will be my thirtieth year in practice.”

“And,” the Flynt Church Minister asked,“ is it true that you practice child psychiatry as well, Doctor Raghu?”

“Child,” Raghu so helpfully volunteered,“and family psychiatry; as a matter of fact, I belong to the Affirmative Parenting network established by my colleague Doctor John Thomas Whitebird.”

“Outstanding,” Spiers editorialized, though his fellow apostle sitting on his throne looking down on Susan and her kids—Vicki had to work, and wasn’t allowed to attend the custody hearing in any case—took no notice of that either.

“Have you had an opportunity,” the apostle then asked Raghu,“to interview the Watson children?”

“And their mother and....” Raghu replied, hesitating for a second,“... ‘er non-Canon sexual partner as well, at His First Presidency’s request, two days ago.”

“Your opinion?” Spiers asked, with the certainty of a man expecting validation.

“No harm,” Raghu replied, Spiers—and everyone else— reacting as if he’d been shot through the heart.

What?!” the apostle demanded, abruptly advancing on the much-shorter, skinner Raghu, until he was standing nose to nose with him.

“I don’t believe I heard you correctly, Doctor,” he hissed.

“The children are in no way being adversely affected by the relationship between their mother and Victoria Ford,” Raghu calmly replied. “Nor are they being adversely affected by their mother and Sister Ford rearing them; in fact, all three children are healthy, well-adjusted—”

Liar!” thundered the Apostle Franklin McKinley Spiers, before whipping out a Colt, Smith & Wesson M2049 53kJ phased-particle array pistol, shoved it in Raghu’s face, and decreed:

You are under arrest for unforgivable crimes against His Received Canon! You have no rights whatsoever, only the privilege of loving judgement, and final punishment by one of His Patriarchs and anointed Magisters! I, a legally-constituted jury under the Second Amendment of His Received Canon, will now conduct your trial! Trial begins! Guilty as charged! Sentence: Death and eternal damnation! Appeal denied! May He have mercy on your soul!”

“Mama?!” Josh said, as two men wearing flak jackets, web gear, holstered PHASAR pistols and zapsticks, slung PHASAR rifles,, and the five-pointed white and gold stars of His National Militia stood behind Susan and her kids.

And, a blue flash turned Raghu’s head into a column of smoke rising from the corpse now falling forward at Spiers’ feet.

Get them out of my sight!” Owens imperiously ordered the two men on Militia duty.”We’ll pick up where we left off tomorrow! Escort them to their work assignments!”

“Move,” the shorter, uglier of the two men grunted to Susan, before the two Militia men hustled her and her kids out of the Throne Room, through the security checkpoint manned by a uniformed Security Service and Intelligence Directorate corporal, down corridors, and through the Church Hall's main entrance.

The Militia men kept on rushing them through the crowds of people chanting JUSTICE FOR SUSAN!” and “GET WITH THE TIMES!” as they waved signs about, and sang an old song about the times, they were a changing, reporters coming toward them like a school of littlefish gathering around krillian, which prompted the two Militia men, and several others, to point their rifles in the general direction of those reporters.

Media coverage of this event has been declared non-Canon by order of His First Presidency!” Short and Ugly, tats of sexual correction and redemptive cleansing covering his hairy, disproportionately-muscled arms,

Get in your fuckin’ vehicle,” he then hissed at Susan, when they reached her ‘72 Windstar minivan,”and go straight to fuckin’ work! No stops on the way, not even for fuckin’ hydro! We know how long it takes for you to get to your work, so best do as you’re told! Get me?!

“I get you, Brother,” Susan said, using her com to remotely unlock and open the doors.

That’s fuckin’ ‘Magister’ or ‘Sir’ to you, bitch!” Short and Ugly spat at her.”Fuckin’ problem with this Union, ever since ol’ Gotchanow bent over an’ spread ‘em for’em fuckin’ Dirts ten years ago, apes gettin ’it in their uppity, fuckin’ little heads that they’re the same as His anointed Magisters! Well, you fuckin’ ain’t, understand?!”

Get the fuck out of here!” he hollered at her, as Susan and the others got in the van and pulled out of the parking lot onto Greene Street.

6 NOVEMBER, 2275 12:11:21

Just what the actual fuck were you thinking, having that goddamn fucking dot run his fucking mouth before the Baldwin Church Throne, Sam?!” Caesar Christus demanded, pinning his bitch of a Consul Unitas by his pale fucking throat against the far wall of His inner sanctum.

“The SSID psych profile on Raghu—” Sam had the fucking gall to sass Him back, the President Of His Church Government, Progenitor Of the Race Of Adam, giving the insubordinate little bitch the back of His firm hand of loving judgement and final punishment.

“Shut the fuck up,” the Dominus Christus Of His Most Perfect Union ordered,“ before I put something down your fuckin’ throat you will not fuckin’ like!”

“In any case,” the sawed-off fucking runt of a Rhodesian CEO so helpfully observed,“ the damage has already been done; with insufficient warning, J.D.’s people were unable to interdict what—”

“Thank you, Ian, for that fuckin’ ray of sunshine!” snapped the rightful Heir of the New Jerusalem, as He finally let his bad little Sammy boy go..

“We simply surround the truth with our truth, Zellner,” Ian Mackenzie Real replied,“same as always.”

“Speaking of which,” asked the President Of the Church Government, turning to face the Roadie, and His Consul Pacis,“ did we get ‘em all?”

“Most of them,” Michael replied.

“’Fuck’s sake, Micheal, can’t you even fuckin’ do a simple redemptive cleansing?!”an exasperated Iosue Caesar asked.

“Most of ‘em ain’t fuckin’ good enough!” the He who was over all Others screamed in Michael’s fat, bald, ugly face.

“Of the 2,927 faculty and students who signed the petition in favor of that filthy ape being permitted her non-Canon sexual relationship, and to rear her children in that toxic enviroment,” Michael calmly replied,“ the SSID, the Military Assistance Command, and Militia volunteers succeeded in rounding up 2,184 for repenitive therapy, and were forced to defensively purge 727 of the remaining 743.”

“Sixteen at liberty, then,” the King of Kings, Lord of Lords concluded. “That’s not so bad; hell, we can play those bitches up as the worst fucking thing to happen since those bull-dykes Ruth Stapleton and Margaret Thatcher tried to steal Our Biological Authority from Us almost three hundred years ago .”

Ten Most Wanted,” Jefferson Davis Doyle, Chairman of the Vargas Movie Board, spoke up,“is already planning to produce a special series of shows dedicated to them and to Susan Watson as well...the first airs tonight.”

“I’ll want to see it before you echo it to the Net,”He replied. “Ian, arrangements on your end?”

“All seven transports plus escorts lifted from Atlantis earlier this morning, on vector for their designated coordinates,” Real replied.“ It’s all been echoed to your com, if you’re really curious as to their final dispositions.”

The anointed President of His Union nodded His head.

“I’ll review it at My leisure,” Caesar said, liking the Roadie CEO as much as he disliked the runty, arrogant little bastard.

Especially when the uppity, sawed-off little son of a bitch asked questions like his next one:

“Owens was prepared to rule, when the Dirts so rudely interrupted him. Why are you prolonging this, Zellner?”

The Dominus Christus Of His Union, Lord of even this little fucker’s worthless Roadie life, stood toe to toe, nose to nose, with Real, and told him, flat out:

“Because I fuckin’ CAN!

And, I want to make that perfectly, crystal clear.

To everyone.”


...her eyes were rolled back into her head, Jami cradling her against her breasts, telling her over and over it was going to be all right, pleading with her to get up, ”Onward, Christian Soldiers,“ getting louder, closer, the headlights getting brighter, hotter...brakes squealed, a door opened and slammed shut, a hand…


6 NOVEMBER, 2275 12:12:19

...grabbing her from the shadows of her mind, Jami almost losing control of the Sable 1500 motorcycle, cursing herself for allowing herself to be distracted as she just barely managed to keep the motorcycle from crossing over from the rightmost lane into the lane next to her and collide with a ‘55 Humber Bulldog dualie-dualie pickup loaded down with farming gear at over 550 klicks per hour.

With no one ahead of her, she kicked the motorcycle up to 570, its two-stroke, hydrogen-burning internal combustion motor making one hell of a racket, hopefully enough to drown out her thoughts...she still had seven more calls to make, all either near Cliff Field, or in and around the former British Royal Marine training camp, now the Federal Forces Basic Training Complex.

The main one, at least, the specialist schools being scattered across what remained of the island of Great Britain, plus the Advanced Infantry School in Djibouti, the Starship Training School at Guiana Downport, and the Armed Forces Technical School in the North American Wastelands’ Bibb Valley Metroplex.

She’d spent her first ten months on Earth literally all over the map completing her training.

She sighed, as she turned onto the A376, the scenery going by her in a blur of speed, which was somewhat of a shame, since it was pretty country out this way, almost like what it had been before the Twilight War of the 1980s had damn near demolished the planet, and the terraformers still had a long way to—

Another sigh, another failure she didn’t want to remember.

Yet, it waited for her, every time she closed her eyes, and it was as vivid now, as it had been thirty years ago.

Erewhon Station’s broken, ruptured, still-spinning cylinders catching fire, as the station plunged into Big Sky’s atmosphere, and the Christnazis and Middies swarmed all over its wreckage to get the ones who had the misfortune to still be trapped there, because she’d abandoned them, and run straight the fuck into hell.

Every mistake, every person she’d hurt or killed, because of those mistakes, waited for her in her dreams, called out to her in her waking moments.

And, she didn’t even have the goddamned common courage to face them.

Even in dreams, she ran away.

She always ran away.

Some fucking hero she was.

Sniffling, Ariel’s pilot in command swallowed hard, and concentrated on driving toward Lympstone.

6 NOVEMBER, 2275 12:26:04

“Is this Canon?!” asked Captain T.J. “Amazing Magister” Selkirk,, pointing behind him to the holo of a blonde, bull dyke spanking the bare little brown ass of a horny, fucking little schoolgirl bent over her lap, with her plaid microskirt hiked up past her waist.

“Is there anyone out there who hasn’t been brainwashed by the liberal, radfemmed, dykehole media, anyone with half a brain, who believes that nonsense?!” the host of The Amazing Magister vidcast further asked of his online audience.

“No, but hell no!” Johnny Ford shouted at the top of his lungs, as he dug his heels into his bitch of a little sister’s back, and told her to stop her fucking squalling.

“‘No, but hell no!’ is right, boy,” the Amazing Magister assured the ten-year old boy.” All the political honesty in the worlds can’t change what empirical data and scientific research have proven, time and again!”

Said to shut up, bitch!” Johnny spat, as the licentious goddamn little howler made her victim mash his lit cigarette right in the crack of her fat coochie.

Quit makin’ me fuck you!one of His anointed Magisters ordered the little monkey beneath his feet,

The Amazing Magister then switched to another scene, same horny, little schoolie, skirt still hiked up, the bull dyker from the last holo pulling on the gook slut’s long, dark hair, and mashing her slant-eyed self into a black baboon’s stinking, rancid cooch, as the blonde bull dyker did the flip bitch up the butt with a motherfucking huge strapon.

“Yet,” the Amazing Magister said in the background, as the blonde(probably German) bulldyker spanked the schoolgirl’s twat cheeks, at the same time she was tearing that ass up, and forcing the little slut to eat out the other bitch’s stinking black ass,”some still insist Susan Watson be allowed to selfishly indulge in such a non-Canon relationship, and, worse, subject her children to that toxic enviroment, so they too, can be degenerated into apes right along with them!”

Johnny lit up another Lord Reefer full-flavored short, took a long, healthy pull, and, when his head was sufficiently buzzing, burned that one on his little Shelby’s coochie crack, spanking those pussy cheeks rose-red, when that ass whimpered and whined.

Just like the little bitch wanted him to in the first place.


...nothin’,” Daddy repeated, as Chelsey buried her face in her pillow to muffle her whimpering,“ but stinkin’-ass fuckin’ pussy...thinks she got a head on her shoulders, but the only head she’ll ever have’s between...”

...your fuckin’ legs, bitch,” Mistress Kym snapped, spitting on Girlie’s rancid twat, standing over it in the cage, men on all sides cheering, as She ignited Her arcwhip, and....




6 NOVEMBER, 2275 12:29:47

...Lieutenant Chelsey Ford flinched, swallowed hard, cursed herself, since she did not have the time for this shit right now, not with a broken ship which needed fixing.

Thankfully, she was the only one in the Pit, and Number One, in the co-pilot’s station topside, had her back to the twenty-four year old chief flight engineer.

While the five surviving members of Chels’ engineering team, plus most of the crew still onship were in the ’tween decks, busy(along with Middenhall’s own engineering team) fixing all the bits they’d broken, when they’d bombed Chalcedon in retaliation, after they had taken out the Christnazi who’d killed Wanderer.

She turned her attention back to the multi-function holodisplay in front of her, now echoing the status of the antimatter-fusion pulse torch, its thermopile, and the triple-redundant power-distribution grids it fed; Master Corporal Thania Morden and Senior Technican Lise Deveraux would have the primary electrics completely replaced and rewired inside of a couple hours, at their present rate, with the secondary electrics already back online.

She then echoed the coolant systems board to her MFD; Chief Technician Khryste Pollard, Tech Sergeant Susan Poole, and Middenhall Station’s engineers were out on the mast and drive housing, replacing the three radiators shot away by Christnazi particle beams and SMWs.

They’d replaced two of them, and were now fitting the third into place, while the station pumped cryogenic lithium into the seventeen-centimeter void in the ship’s Whipple armor belt, and the coolant tanks buried in the mast between the drive housing, and the main and weapons hulls.

Chels now checked the the network of diamagnetic field generators housed inside the void, connected by dysprosium wiring to the seventeen-centimeter thick tungsten-carbide/depleted-uranium composite of the armor belt’s outer and inner shells; the loss of three radiators had sent the temp skyrocketing to over sixty degrees Celsius, and had damn near caused the lithium in the armor belt to boil off , the mag field jennies to burn up, and just the interior and exterior plate left to protect the ship.

There’d been no lasting damage to the generators, bots and nanos inside the void having done their job and kept them working throughout the fight.

Thank fuck for that.

She nodded, checking the weps deck and its eight turreted 24cm railguns’ supercooled gun tube jackets, secondary thrermopiles, linear and helical motors, gun directors, fire-control linkages, training and traversing gear, recoil absorbers, pusher plates, diamagnetic field generators, and magazines of saboted tungsten penetrators, moving from there to the forty turreted 2cm point-defence railguns.

Finally, the credit-card sized AIs and optical cabling comprising Ariel’s shipwide artificial-intelligence network(shipnet, for short), and the phased-arrays of radar antennae, image-intensifying optical telescopes, and various other electromagnetic sensors, which Senior Technican Florida Swallow and Flight Sergeant Rikki Skinner were working on restoring to full function.

Chels nodded her head, as...


“...you ain't fuckin' entitled to no fifteen goddamn minute break every fuckin' hour, you lazy, fat, little fuck!” Roberto Griego screamed down at the fourteen-year old girl he'd stomped down into the deck.” You fuckin' ain't! That is unacceptable! And, sleeping on the fuckin' job on top of that! You're fuckin' servicin’ replicators and their operators, for fuck’s sake, are you just too fuckin’ stupid to realize that’s an accident waitin’ to happen?”

I-i'm t-ti—” Chels was stupid enough to try and tell her supervisor, who gave her another taste of boot, as he mocked her:

“‘I’m tired, I’m tired, I’m tired!’Always the same God damned excuse from you zorras perzorrezosas , isn’t it?! ISN’T IT?! GODDAMN YOU, FUCKIN’ LITTLE WHORE, ANSWER ME!”

And, he stomped on her again, when she was stupid enough to try opening her mouth again.

Well, that’s why the fuckin’ vending machines are stocked with energy drinks, you stupid, fat lazy slut!”
Roberto shrieked. “ If you drank you a KikStrt or a RkStr like you're supposed to—”

I-i ain't a-allo—” Chels was just too stupid to not say, getting her still another taste of boot, Juan then spitting on her, asking her:

Well, is it my fault you were born a good for nothing, non-fuckin’-Canon, goddamned dykehole?!”

No,” he said, before stomping her face down, ass up into the deck,”it is…”


...nothin’,” Mistress Kym said, her boot pressing Girlie’s face into the floor of the cage,“but stinkin’-ass fuckin’ pussy, no better n’ all the rest!”

Girlie bit down on its lip, as the arcwhip tore through its fat ass in a single white-hot slash, Mistress ordering Her brainless slave girl slut to tell her what it was, right shaggin’ now!

And, Girlie, trying not to cry....


...instantly snapped awake, cursing herself fluently and vociferously for being a lazy fuckin’ cunt who always fuckin’ fell asleep on the goddamn j—

Fuck!

Her arcsabre was already out of its sheath and fired up, before she even thought to go for it, screaming at whoever had fucking put her hands on her that she’d just fucked u—

Or, she had...big time, First Lieutenant Kalsi was standing less than a centimetre from the pinched charged-particle beam Chels had aimed at her right eye, the ship’s second in command having her hands out, palms flat, as she calmly replied:

“I’ll take that on board for next time, Drives...sorry,”

as Chels shut down her sabre and put it back in its sheath.

“My f-fault, sir, I-i—” she started to say.

Number One held up her left hand, shook her head.

“It’s all right, Chels,” she said, in that husky Cockney-accented voice of hers, the older woman smiling, looking at her...goddamn, even in her late forties, early fifties, she was freakin’ gorgeous, dirty blond hair in a mop underneath her black Starship Force beret, and tall, willowy even, at least a meter-eighty, pale green eyes framed by wire-rimmed round glasses, set on a kind face used to laughter rather than....

Fuck.

Chels rapidly looked away from Ariel’s 2ic, down at her own big feet, blushing, dryswallowing.

“Sir, I-i....” she stammered, trailing off, the First Lieutenant. blowing it off, remarking,“ you haven’t been sleeping, have you?”

“I’ve got a lot of work to do,”Chels managed to say, turning back towards her MFD,“sir...I-i....”

“You also have five sparkchasers and a station full of engineers who can spare you for at least the next six soddin’ hours,” Number One remarked, chuckling…


...as they talked about Meredith, pointing not so discreetly at her....


...nothin’ but motherfuckin’ cut,” Hugh screamed at her, holding her down in the mud with a forearm across her windpipe, shoving....


...Her pulsing, throbbing eighty-centimeter strap into it, hissing,“you hear me, bitch, you’re nothing but a stinkin’ piece of fuckin’ arse, not even another fat fuckin’ cunt’s got any other shaggin’use for a uppity, bloody little slag! You ain’t nothin’....”


...but what I fuckin’ say you are, goddamn fuckin’ little whore!” Daddy screamed at her, pinning her to the bed as he went at her,“and, that ain’t a....”


...whole hell of a lot, now is it?

“I’m good, sir,” she whispered, wishing the First Lieutenant would just go away and leave her alone.

“Bollocks,” was Number One’s firm reply.

“Go fuck off to your rack,” she ordered, jerking a thumb toward the ladder.“ I don’t want to see you down here, ‘til you’ve had at least six hours’ kip.”

“Sir,” Chels whispered, before shuffling to the ladder, and climbing upship.

6 NOVEMBER, 2275 14:18:16

Mechanically, Susan’s fingers played across the replicator’s MFD, printing more Model 190 shopping carts to join the line of carts being herded toward the front docks by the forklifts, while the cacophony of lifts, golf carts, machines and gossip was just background noise irritating her sense of frustration.

“Itn’t dat where Susan go to school at?!” Roland “Duke” Mabry asked Rick Mashburn, on the two-kilometer long 3D industrial printer next to hers, like Susan wasn’t right fuckin’ there!

“Yeeeup,” replied Rick’s slow-moving voice.

“Dam’ sure is,” he added, the twelve-foot holoprojector on their end re-running all the graphic footage from this morning’s “redemptive cleansing” of Wesleyan Union University, including pics recovered from the solid drive of one of the members of the lesbian sex-slave ring that was supposed to have been operating on campus, pics that the host of the Chalcedonian Broadcasting Network’s 700 Club went on to say were a matter of Union security and therefore not supposed to be flashed all over the goddamn Net for fifty creds an echo.

Her right hand balled itself up and shook of its own voilition, while her left kept working the multi-function holodisplay.

“Dat,” Duke remarked,“whut I thought.”

“Baby?” whispered Vicki’s sweet voice in her ear,as Antonio Simmons commented,“ dem’s some sick fucks right dere.”

Antonio’s fellow lift driver, Darin “Tin Woodsman” Searcy then remarked,“ dam’ sho’ is,” while their lead man, Johnathan Davis, added,“ bitches like dat ain’t got no dadgum bidness raisin’ chillun.”

“Hail naw dey don’t,” that four-eyed fat piece of shit posing as their line supervisor then added his two centicreds’ worth to the conversation going on beside Vicki and Susan,

As the manager of Unarco Prosperity Gospel Church’s Ford’s Valley Facility, Roberto Griego, put his skinny brown paw on Vicki, wrenched her away from Susan into the aisle, and screamed in her face “you fucking stay away from my bitch! I will not have non-Canon bullshit going on anywhere in my facility!”

“You take your fuckin hands off of her, puto pendejo!” Susan screamed, as she hauled off, and knocked the fuck out of Rubber Toe’s worthless greaser ass.

Rubber Toe, of course, just picked himself off the production floor, spat out a couple teeth, and just fucking laughed in her face.

“Fine,” he whispered, continuing to chuckle. “Still gonna get those fuckin’ kids back. I’m still gonna see you, and this licky-lick fuckin’ whore over here—”

He jerked a bony, brown hand at Vicki.

“—fucking repent, as many fuckin’ times as it takes for both of you to hate bitches the way I do

“The way,” he hissed,”you’re supposed to!”

Let’s get back to work!” Rubber Toe then screamed, before stalking off toward the canteen.


6 NOVEMBER, 2275 14:34:00

Christnazi fucking wankers, First Lieutenant Jillian Kalsi thought bitterly to herself, echoing the hellspace systems board on her MFD for the fifteenth shagging time this watch, just so she’d have something to take her mind off the things she could not change.

Ariel’s second in command sighed, swallowed hard, thinking about poor Chels, probably tossing and turning in her rack, or climbing the sodding walls of her quarters,

And, about her Jami, downside on Earth, visiting the families of the nineteen crew who’d lost their lives avenging those aboard Wanderer.

Taking those deaths personally, and blaming herself for them, because she never thought she did enough, or was good enough.

Jil sighed, leaning back in the co-pilot’s chair, staring up at the ceiling a moment.

She could just strangle the woman she loved sometimes.

Jami had never made it easy for either of them, but...it hadn’t really been her fault, had it?

It had been at the NAAFI at Lympstone, when they’d first met, over...bugger...over thirty years ago.

They'd both been up, cos neither of them could sleep, and they'd both drifted into the NAAFI, Jami cursing her for a clumsy cow, cos Jil had tripped and bumped into her at the counter, and almost made her spill her black coffee, Rolos, and vanilla ice cream(something Jil still considered rather a queer combination), before she'd relented, and they'd just started talking 'til well past reveille, causing both of them to almost be late for morning parade.

Jil sighed still again, swallowing hard, as the tears came, bad memories and worse memories mixing with the good, as she tried keeping her focus on her work.

Even then, Jami drove herself into the deck, always worried she was going to be back-flighted at any moment, regardless of whether there’d been good cause, or any cause, for those worries.

If anything, her being upflighted for Officer, Ship, and T-Schools at the end of week ten had just made it worse, especially after they’d both ended up rivals.

Rivals, of all bloody things...when Jil had nothing against her, she could never hold anything against Jami, she was always better than she ever could be, better than she ever thought she could be.

And, Jil had loved her from the beginning.

It had taken the Mids and Christnazis almost killing her over Big Sky, and her damn near doing that to herself with her drinking, but she’d shown up at Jil’s hatch, six months after Big Sky, sobbing, vomit on her breath, and telling Jil how much she’d always loved her, no matter how much it still scared her senseless sometimes, or how little she thought she deserved to be loved, or forgiven her doing everything in her power to hurt Jil, and push her away, every shagging time….

Ariel’s first lieutenant closed her eyes, let the tears and past frustrations come up and out, and she let them go, forgave her Jami for what hadn’t really been her fault, because she deserved to be forgiven, and to be loved.

She reached for the steel chain with the gold wedding band, felt the diamond within it, and smiled.

Almost thirty years.

Well and truly stuck in, through war, something not quite resembling peace, and all the pain in between.

And Jil regretted not one sodding thing, no matter how bad it hurt.
"When you send a man out with a gun, you create a policymaker. When his ass is on the line, he will do whatever he needs to do.

And, if the implications of that bother you, the time to do something about it is before you send him out."
—David Drake


"Oh, but you did! You turn on any of my crew, you turn on me! But, since that's a concept you can't seem to wrap your head around, then, you've got no place here. You did it to me, Jayne, and that's a fact."

—Malcolm Reynolds, captain of the Firefly-class hauler Serenity,in a nutshell

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Re: Let Us Sleep Now(new story thread; NSFW)

Postby U.P. Cinnabar » 2016-06-24 03:25pm

6 NOVEMBER, 2275 23:00:16

“...shocking revealation that Susan Watson and her non-Canon sexual partner,” CBS’ Katy Snowe said, over the holoprojector on the far bulkhead,“ agreed to make a series of explicit non-Canon sexual vids for Penthousevids featuring, amongst other things, sadomasochism and homosexual rape of a young girl by both women—for a sum of fifty million cred—”

Captain T.J. “Amazing Magister” Selkirk, commanding USS Yorktown, snorted his contempt at both the nasty little blond hoochie shifting her barely-skirted legs in flashes of pantiless shame, and the depraved acts of non-Canon monkey sex taking place on the holoprojector behind her.

Radfemnazis and their emasculated little bitchboys are gonna be crying “misogyny, misogyny, misogyny'”all over the goddamned Net, when the real misogynists are those two uppity, fuckin' little apes, and those two uppity, ape brats, spanking and raping little girls with strapons, and making a mint off it in the process.

He sipped his coffee, as he relaxed on the sofa in the 190,000-ton Received Canon-class heavy exploration cruiser's wardroom.

And, the veteran Union Star Fleet officer—an Admiral-Apostle of His Fleet once upon a time, before that goddamn little fuckin' bitch of his fucked him up, like she always did—further, bitterly mused, the goddamn liberal femnazi statist, corporate Jew elites, and their foreign, corporate-owned liberal media are going to force everyone to go along with still another perversion of His Received—

His comm bleeped, just as the holoprojector abruptly cut out, and the wardroom plunged into red-lit darkness.

“Sir,” the holo of Yorktown's science and executive officer, Commander Israel Spock, reported,”we've exited warp at Heaven’s Gate, and have blacked down.

“Very well, Brother Spock,” Selkirk replied, as he drained his cup of coffee in one gulp, rose from the sofa, and stepped through the airlock between the wardroom and the CIC proper, taking his place at the center seat, Spock turning from the science station at the far left-hand corner of the CIC's forward rim, the master holoprohector showing him the twisted wreckage, cold rocks, and faint, blue glowing nimbus which was all that remained of Heaven’s Gate, what the ignorant apes, in their religious zeal, had dubbed Inferno’s Gate, and destroyed out of jealous spite of the science they were incapable of comprehending, and the knowledge this had been just one of so many things predicted over three hundred years ago by His Received Canon.

Silly, superstitous, religious savages still think that subspace is literally Hell , he observed with a chuckle, before asking aloud:

“Have their early-warning platforms detected us, Brother Spock?”

“The residual radiation from the Eye's destruction 148 years ago,” his science officer replied,”masked the radiation emitted by our exit into normal space, easily masking us from their primitive detection gear.”

“Good,” Selkirk remarked,”good. Shooter, Bridge, prep the Starstalker for launch.”

“Let's go be explorers, gentlemen,” he added, with a satisfied grin.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 00:06:19

“Hey you,” her Jil whispered, as she warmly hugged Jami, and snogged her good and proper.

“Sweetie, you didn't have to wait—“ Jami started to whisper, after she came up for air.

“It wasn't any bother at all, babe,” Jil whispered in reply, as she took hold of Jami's hands, leading her away from the dorsal airlock, and across the crew deck to one of the tables in the common area.

She gave Jami another peck on the cheek, before letting go, walked behind the serving line of the galley area, fixed a cup of black coffee and Corona Real, and poured a cup of straight black coffee for herself.

“You probably haven't even eaten yet, have you?” Jil said, not asking, taking a plate from the front end of the serving line, and rummaging around in one of the coolers.

“I'm fine,” Jami insisted, finally sitting down, while Jil fixed her a chicken sandwich and crisps. “Baby, you don't have to—“

“Don't have to what, lover?” Jil looked up at her and asked. “Take care of you, way you take care of me, and the rest of your crew?”

“Sweetie,” she reminded Jami, as she went back to fixing her a plate,”I'm your wife, and your 2ic.”

“Comes with the job,” she added, taking the plate in one hand, both cups in the other, as she walked back to where Jami was sitting.

“Rather like my job, “ she whispered, a million-candle grin on her face,”if you want to know the truth.”

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 02:16:27

“There you are,” Vicki whispered, padding her way along the front porch to where her wife—in fact, if not by law—was sitting, staring up at the rising suns, blurred by the tears in her eyes.

“I was worried about you,” Vicki added, sitting down on the swing next to her—they’d both spent the better part of a day working on this part of the front porch, installing the swing, falling on their asses when the hooks had given way the first time they and all the kids had tried sitting on it.

“Baby—” she whispered, taking Susan’s left hand in her right.

“Don’t fucking tell me,” Susan half-sobbed, shaking her head,“it’s gonna be all right...it ain’t gonna be all right, what the fuck are we gonna do now?!”

Vicki sighed along with her, Susan bitterly remarking, after a pause,“wish the fuck I did have the fifty megs they said we took for that sick shit they’d echoed across the Net in our names...least be enough to get the fuck off Chalcedon, get us anywhere but here...goddamnit, Lexie deserves her chance to shine, that greaser son of a bitch’ll just slap her down, like he did to her all along, he won’t fucking let her out of the goddamn house, let alone off this shithole planet...same with Syuzenka...she was just a baby when he did all that to her...and, God only knows what he and the rest of ‘em have in mind for your babies after they make you have ‘em, and fucking make you watch them....”

Biting down on her lip, Susan closed her eyes, still looking up to where Kolob and Asteroth were rising for the second time today.

“They’ll make you have ‘em, or force you to get an abortion, one,” she whispered. “Rubber Toe was right, baby, he's gonna make you repent, they're gonna make you repent, as many fuckin' times as it takes to break you, all ‘cause of—”

“Baby,” Vicki whispered, gently squeezing Susan’s hand,“I got me into this ten years ago, and I know, I always knew, what I was letting myself in for...we will pull through this, together, you, me, and the kids, I promise.”

“Honey,” Susan told her,“I really wish I could believe you, but I don’t see how, unless God Himself lends a hand, and it don’t look like He’s listening to anyone’s prayers these days, let alone mine.”

“I know,” Vicki whispered back, giving Susan’s hand another squeeze.

“Even if, by some miracle,” Susan said, after a long silence,“ we do get through this...it’s just me, Lexie, Josh and Suschenka bringing home paychecks now, now that Roz's fired you for insubordination and Rubber Toe's fined you your entire last paycheck, and denied you unemployment...and, that’s just for a star—”

“We’ll find a way,” Vicki, with the simple faith Susan always envied in her, whispered.

“We always find a way,” she said softly.

“Always,” she repeated.

“Hell,” she said, after another long silence,“I’ll wait tables at the Chick n'Waffle, if I have to...even the Receieved Canon don’t seem to matter to ‘em when they hire folks.”

“They’ll make it matter in your case,” Susan said,“ even if it is the the Chick n'Waffle, and they’ll hire fucking child molesters and geek monsters...you just don’t know....”

“You’re right,” Vicki conceded.

“I probably wouldn’t even get welfare,” she added,“ not that I’d ever sink that fucking low.”

“No, baby,” Susan said, shaking her head,“nothing’s worth that...believe me, I know only too well.”

“Lexie, Syuzenka all,” she added, after another pause,“deserve better than life imprisonment in this fucking hellhole.”

“And,” Vicki, squeezing Susan’s hand gently,“ they’ll get it, baby, we will find a way.”

“We will,” she repeated softly but firmly,“ find a way.”



...white-hot light, blinding her, “Onward, Christian Soldiers” blaring in her head as she flew over something hard, hitting the ferrocrete, more white light, just for a second, then red-edged darkness...then, it was all too clear, she heard brakes squealing, a 454 cubic-inch displacement gas-burning motor growling...struggling to her hands and knees, she turned, saw him, saw her mum trying to get up from the crosswalk, before white light and “Onward, Christian Soldiers,” blinded everything...she screamed for her mother, fought the pain needling through her body, got up onto her feet....just in time for him to scream right past her, a shower of sparks down the street indicating where he was turning around, coming back for another run at them, Jami running desperately to where her mother was, screaming as the light and the national anthem got to Mama and her unborn sister first, the crunch they both made when they went over onto the street one last time echoing in the night, as did the thirteen-year old girl pleading for her mother to be all right as she cradled her broken body in her arms, sobbing, brakes squealing, lights coming rapidly back up the street, “Onward, Christian Soldiers” howling in triumph, his voice, reeking of fucking alcohol, screaming at her as....

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 04:16:27

...she woke up screaming and sobbing for her Mama to get up, be all right.

And, Jil was there, like she always had been, from the time she'd bumped into her at the NAAFI all those years ago, only Jami had been too blind scared to see that, and had never appreciated it.

Sweet, wonderful, awesome Jillian whispered that Jami had nothing be sorry for, not a sodding thing, as she stroked her hair, softly kissed the nape of her neck, held her closely against her breasts, as all Jami could fucking do was shake like a leaf in her arms.

“Too good to me, baby,” she blubbered.”Way too good.”

“Stop that,” Jillian whispered gently.

“You deserve someone being good to you,” she softly insisted. “Way you've been to me, to—“

“I've put you through so much shit,” Jami whispered.

“You had your reasons,” Jil reminded her.

“But, no excuse,” Jami told her.

“No,” Jil conceded,”no excuse. And, yes, it fucking hurt, everything you said, everything you did, even knowing you couldn't have helped it.”

Gently, softly, her lips brushed against Jami's neck, as she sighed, whispered:

“I stopped hating you for that long time ago.

Cos, I never, for one second, stopped loving you.

And, you've nothing to be sorry for.”


7 NOVEMBER, 2275 04:37:26

“Matching vector with object,” Earth Federal Research Vessel Lord Kelvin's pilot, Jess Farnham, reported.

“No farting round, then,” said the Kelvin's skipper, Doctor Bianca Vasquez, replied.”The big brains back at Middenhall Station can study the jodito thing to their heart's content; I just want to bring it aboard and burn for home, before we're next in line for a dose of saboted-meson warheads.”

“Mag beam set for attraction,” Jess reported, as Bianca looked past her, past even the object that Wanderer had found, before 24 of her comrades had been blown out of the sky for no good reason.

For the only reason, Bianca then bitterly observed, anyone's ever needed to shoot someone else in the face.

Because he has a gun, and he can.

The veteran of the recent unpleasantness known as the Ninth Holy War sighed, as her ship's diamagnetic beam dragged the object inexorably toward Kelvin's ventral payload hatch, Jess firing brief bursts from the antimatter-fusion torch to counteract the beam pushing against the ship, as it pulled the object toward it.

“Anything?” Bianca asked her sensor and probes operator, Diandra Childs.

“Nothing since you asked me three minutes ago, Doc,” Deedee flippantly replied.

“And, I'll ask you again in another three minutes,” Bianca snapped at her.

“Sorry,” she added regretfully.

“Glad to know I'm not the only one scared shitless,” Deedee remarked.

“No,” Bianca acknowledged,”no, you're not.”

“Object's aboard and secured in the payload deck,” Jess reported a few moments later. “Mag beam secured. Cargo arm secured. Ventral payload hatch secured; entry vector burn for Middenhall Station in five, four, three, two...”

“Deedee, send to Invincible,” Bianca said, “ 'Object aboard and secured; on entry vector for home.'”

Invincible acknowledges, Skipper,” Deedee replied, as Kelvin boosted toward entry velocity, then executed a hellspace jump for Middenhall Station.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 05:02:31

Good.

She smiled, as her Jami lay cuddled up next to her Jil, Jil planting the softest, gentlest of kisses on the top of her head, lightly tousling her long, straight blonde hair, twirling some of it idly in her fingers.

She was asleep, for the moment at least.

She shagging well deserved at least a good night's sleep.

Or as close to it, as was possible for her.

Jil looked over Jami's head—easy to do, as she had twelve centimeters on her wife—eyes falling on the cube of the two of them, newly-married, space-cadet blue No.1 service dress and garlands of flowers round their heads, Jil's head leaned against her Jami Lee's shoulder, both (then-)young women grinning like idiots, as they'd stood on Ariel's crew deck(just outside Jil's quarters, as a matter of fact)while Mordy Blum had snapped their holo.

She grinned wider...Jami hadn't made that easy either, even after she'd told her she was “madly, scarily, hopelessly in love” with Jil.

No, Jil relented, the sodding Christnazis had gone out of their way to fuck up what should've been simple. They'd sicced clones of their shaggin' wet dreams[/i] on her, for shit's sake.[/i]

Of course, it'd taken another six months for her to even try making love with me for the first time.

And, Jami, cos she's Jami, wouldn't dream of marrying me, until she'd gotten past being scared of having sex with me, even though I would've waited, the rest of my life, if need be, because she was just that special.

Still is.


7 NOVEMBER, 2275 05:38:19

Vicki gently stroked her sleeping lover’s long, wavy blonde hair, smiling as she slowly swung the swing with her feet, the smile fading as she wished she had the simple faith she’d made Susan believe she had...she didn’t have the first clue as to how they were going to survive this, it all looked like dead ends from where she was standing, and she hadn’t any right to lie to Susan about it being otherwise.

Asteroth and Kolob were high in the sky now...about an hour and a half from now, Lexie and Syuzenka would need picking up from work, Josh sleeping in til way past eight, it being Sunday, and maintenance wasn't scheduled to work, even though Unarco had scheduled the production workers for twelve hours.

She decided to pick the girls up herself, and let Susan sleep.

All this worrying was killing her, she needed to rest...smug, goddamn wetback motherfucker, hadn’t he put her through enough hell already...she was standing on her own feet now, nothing like the mess she’d been when Vicki had first met her...it hadn’t been easy, for either of them, but Susan had to get clean, had to heal, and everything which had come after had been well worth the wait, well worth everything they’d been through....

She sniffled, smiling in spite of the tears.

Ten years, ten good years, all in all, she thought, still stroking her lover’s hair as she lay her head on Vicki’s lap.

Ten damn good years, all in all, she repeated to herself, drwswallowing, more tears still running down her cheeks, and, now, we’re gonna have babies together, on top of the children she’s done so well with...just look at Lexie, ten years ago, she’d been the mama, crushed down underneath all that weight, all the things no eight-year old should’ve ever had to know, and, now....

She sighed, the suns swimming in her field of vision.

Now she’s all grown up, grown into her own, it hurts me to look at her, but, at the same time, I am so very proud of what she’s become, of the great things she will accomplish if only....

A final sigh, and she trailed off, shaking her head as she looked back down at Susan, whimpering in fitful sleep, Vicki shushing her gently, telling her it was only a bad dream.

Which was not far from the truth, it was all a bad dream, one they couldn’t escape from in the waking nightmare that was Chalcedon .

One which was threatening to tear everything apart, simply because the men who’d dreamed their dream and infected others with their nightmare could do it; Susan was right, the raid on the University, even the attack on Wanderer(especially that), had proven as much.

Twenty-four innocent people murdered, because Lexie had wanted to be amongst them, that had been Guy Zellner’s “fuck you” to someone who had done him harm simply by having been born with tits instead of balls.

That, on top of the over seven hundred killed in yesterday morning’s raid on the University, and God above only knew what was being done to those who’d been taken away.

God above only knew, and, as Susan said, He didn’t appear to be answering anyone’s prayers these days, let alone theirs.
"When you send a man out with a gun, you create a policymaker. When his ass is on the line, he will do whatever he needs to do.

And, if the implications of that bother you, the time to do something about it is before you send him out."
—David Drake


"Oh, but you did! You turn on any of my crew, you turn on me! But, since that's a concept you can't seem to wrap your head around, then, you've got no place here. You did it to me, Jayne, and that's a fact."

—Malcolm Reynolds, captain of the Firefly-class hauler Serenity,in a nutshell

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Re: Let Us Sleep Now(new story thread; NSFW)

Postby U.P. Cinnabar » 2016-06-24 03:27pm

...it had to be done.

The whores had been allowed to get out of hand, use the law that was meant for them against Him, and the Others of His Race of Man, and now, one of them had become so uppity, as to call herself a leader, to stand up to those set in authority over her subhuman kind.

And, that damned hick still occupying the White House, in spite of the best efforts of the Others and Him, him and his bull dyking, false-preacher sister of his, had spouted off some bullshit about blood being thicker than water, and had sent a carrier battle group and a Marine expeditionary force to assist the effeminated soldiers of the Great Harlot in the so-called liberation of those insignificant damned piles of nothing at the bottom of the fucking world.

Even the military, Their military, had turned against Them, something He'd tried to warn the Others of since the disaster in Vietnam, the theft of everything that was Theirs, by right, by the dyke feminist apes, and all their feminized subslut bitchboys—such as that heretic and race traitor Jimmy Carter—everything they held on to that much more firmly, since the Iran operation had ended in disaster three years before.

Their soldiers had betrayed Them, forgetting they were meant to defend and enforce Their will, not uphold and defend some damn Constitution or the democratic heresy which had gradually taken hold over and weakened Their country.

His country.

There were a few still loyal to His Work, though those few were fewer with each month that damned Carter and his witch-dominatrix, bull-dyke sister remained in power, and, through them, all the emasculating dyke femnazi whores who refused to let themselves be broken to the places made for them by their Lords, for their own good, as well as for the good of their anointed, biologically-selected Masters.

Thankfully, those loyalists controlled the cleansing fire by which, first America, and then the world, would be redeemed in advance of the New Jerusalem.

“Target in sight,” said the Rooskie captain, as he peered at the feed from the onboard cameras. “Solution ready, all birds armed and ready.”

“Then,” He demanded,”what are you waiting for?”

“Fire!” He said....

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:52:11

...as He heard some whore’s voice softly exclaim “son of a bitch.”

“Son of bitch,” the stupid cunt now looking at Him repeated, as Benjamin Israel Zellner, President of the American Union of Churches, righful Heir to His Kingdom, appraised the little slut in return.

She was blonde, green eyes, not half bad in the ass or the titty department, wearing some sort of spacesuit, instead of what He'd preferred she'd wear.

What she was supposed to be wearing, as a reminder of why they had to be kept broken and subjugated, for their own good, as well as for the benefit of the anointed Lords and Masters of their worthless lives.

Except, of course, they'd won.

They'd won.

And, He and His, along with everything, everyone They could take with Them, before the harlots could come hungering for Their blood, had fled into space, with no goal other than to run away.

Until They'd happened upon the Gateway around Pluto.

An alien artifact dwarfing the planet itself, none amongst Them able to determine how it got there, or why it was there.

Not really caring either.

All that mattered was it was a gateway leading somewhere, opened unintentionally by a simple radio broadcast.

The roiling inky blackness, at the center of scarlet-violet lightning had been the last sight He'd seen.

His contemptious rebuke of His worthless son the last words He'd spoken.

Before He'd been sentenced to death and eternal damnation by His only begotten Son.

And, yet, He was here, in this place, wherever this place was.

When ever this place was.

Everything was holograms and tech straight out of Star Trek or that Star Wars shit that tried to fucking ride coattails off Jim Kirk, Buck Rogers, and Flash Gordon.

All of those holograms had the same time, same date, either near the top or along the bottom.

Seven November...2275?!

What, in the actual fuck?!

“His vitals,” another whore said to the first,“ are strong and steady, blood pressure now 140 over 90, pulse 100 and steady, respiration normal, heart rate 115 and rising.”

Then, He heard something which gave him hope things weren’t as fubar as He thought they were.

A man’s voice in the background, shouting into an intercom:

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:55:16

Starship Infantry to med section, at the double!” Squadron Commander Zebidiah Ezekiel Golden, Middenhall Station's chief medical officer, said into his com. “Ops, Med, tell the Port Admiral I need her here, ASAP!”

“That’s not really necessary, is it?” his chief surgeon, Major Kendall Strangis, asked him.

“That's Benjamin Israel sodding Zellner on that slab,” Zeke replied, looking this bad memory from the past dead in the eye, hand hovering over the butt of his holstered Martian Ordinance M2140 2.5mm rail pistol, and the sodding Oath be God damned.

The doors of the main ward opened, a section of Federal Starship Infantry moving around a willowy, ageing redhead in No. 14 Starship Force flight dress, the section bringing their MarsOrd M2166 assault railguns to bear on the corpsicle who wasn't worth the 43 lives lost on his account.

“Fuck me,” whispered Vice Admiral Sibohan Kelley, as her hand went to the butt of her M2140.

“All you have to do is ask, darling,” the bastard Benjamin Zellner said sweetly, as he sat up on the examining table.

“So, if I ask you to fuck off and die in a fire,” Sibohan calmly replied, “you'll do that for me?!”

“Why the hostility, little girl?” Zellner had the fucking nerve to ask. “Y'all won, remember?”

“And,” he then said,“ it seems, in spite of your own innate perversity and clear biological inferiority, you somehow managed to stick around for almost three hundred years, and get into space.”

“Granted,” the prick then just had to add,”We got there first, but Star Trek, and the rest of His Received Canon predicted We would.

“You ran away like little bitches,” Zeke put in a boot of his own,”with everything that wasn't nailed to the fucking deck, and with every one of your victims you could round up, before you nuked everything on an entire continent out of existence, because the sodding human race wouldn't stand for your bullshit, and came knocking down your door.”

“So,” he added,” why in the fuck aren't you dead?!”

“Don't know,” the monster Benjamin Israel Zellner honestly replied.

“And, I don't care,” Sibohan said, her voice chill, as she turned to the section corporal and said:

“Keep him under guard. He does anything you don't like, shoot the motherfucker. Savvy?!”

“Sir,” the section commander replied, before the Port Admiral of Middenhall Station barked out,”Doc, you're with me. Ops, Port Admiral, flash the SecGen, Alfa priority, tell her Zeke and I are riding downstalk to Sinnamary, and I need to see her and the Command Staff, ASAP.”

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 09:11:01

”As you all know,” said See BS' Brian Garret on the crew deck holoprojector,” solid information on the true state of affairs inside the Earth High-Risk Penal Colony and its so-called Federal Republic is nearly impossible to come by.
The radfemnazis, their foreign corporate-owned liberal media, and the rest of the well-placed statist, corporatist, militarist Jew elites would naturally have you believe that the Dirts are in Paradise, wanting for nothing, free to do and live as they please, even though we know perfectly well what happens when the patriarchal, biological authority of His natural Aristocrats and anointed Magisters is denied Them, and given instead to conformed, uniformed, fanatical minorities.”

The holo dissolved to scenes of ragged, dirty men huddling together against bitter cold over guttering fires, digging up food from dispose-all units, coughing their lungs up, as what were supposed to be Federal Police constables, all blonde women in full dominatrix kit, went in and beat the shit out of them.

”When the State happens,“ Garrett’s voice added in the background.

”Regardless of radfem media lies, the inmates of the former Union High-Risk Penal Colony and the worlds they've enslaved under the relentless, hopeless brutality of their radfem, National Socialist State struggle for the things we here in His Perfect Union, and throughout the Interstellar League Of Brotherhood, take for granted.

As our own A.J. Schafer , moving in secret through the Prison Planet's slums, has revealed, time and again. A.J.?”

The holo dissolved to a picture of the reporter in question, a still of Earth and a caption saying ”A.J. SCHAFER, SINNAMARY.“

”Brian,“ a whiny, nasal voice spoke in the background, ”the Dirts are becoming more desperate by the day.

A recent Resistance raid against the largest of the re-orientation camps has prompted the radfem sex killer Suzanna Gorbochova to cut off all rations to her captives; there've already been several food riots in Sinnamary in the past week, all of which have been met with the Amazon shocktroops and their casual, almost cheerful brutality.“

“Yeah,” Jami sourly replied, before washing down another spoonful of cheese grits with a cup of coffee and Chalcedonian bug juice,”you know what?! Fuck off.”

The holoprojector switched off, to the applause of those of her crew gathered in the commons for breakfast, before riding the stalk downside for the funerals of their nineteen comrades.

Chels walked by her, cup of coffee in one shaking hand, a plate of barely-buttered toast in the other.

“Sweetie,” Ariel's commander said, before she could stop herself,”you gotta have something more than that for breakfast.”

Chels flinched, tensed up, looked up, then looked away from Jami, mumbling a quick,”I-i-i'm fine, Skipper,” as she started to walk away.

“Damnit, Drives,” Jami said, her chief flight engineer flinching and tensing up again,”I don't bite.”

“No,” Jil's sexy voice tickled her wife's ears,”but you have been known to nibble on occasion, dear.”

“You get some rack time, Leftenant?” her second in command then asked Chels, as she sat down with her plate of bangers, egg and chips.

“A little, Number One,” Chelsey half whispered, as she started sloshing coffee all over the deck.

Four years.

Four years, since Chelsey had came on board, straight from passing out of T-school, and she'd worked her way up to being the head of the engineering team in eighteen months.

And, she was still scared of her own damn shadow.

Not that Jami could blame her in the least.

“Baby,” she said,”come over here, and sit down, before you get coffee all over your dress uniform, kay?”

“Skipper,” Chels replied, shuffling back to Jami and Jil's table, and, reluctantly, sitting down.

She began nibbling at her toast, then sipping her coffee, then another mouse-like nibble of toast.

“You need to eat, keep your strength up,” Jil admonished.

“N-not really hungry,” Chels insisted.

Of course she was, Jami thought, but she's scared of eating too much, of being declared non-Canon for obesity.

And, punished accordingly, she added, flinching herself at the memories she'd dredged up.

“Go back through the line,” she ordered,”and come back here with your plate piled up with food. I won't have an officer setting a poor example for her team by not taking care of herself.”

“I'm too—“ Chels started to insist.

“Bullshit,” Jami told her flat out.”Now, go, get some real grub, then come back here.”

“S-skipper,” Chelsey stammered almost inaudiably, as she got up from the table, and half-shuffled toward the serving line.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 09:20:00

”How in the actual fuck is that son of a bitch still alive?!“ High Admiral of Earth Dina Kalsi asked Group Commander Sibohan Kelley, as Earth's highest-ranking officer and the members of the Federal Forces Command Staff filed into the conference room just off to the side of the War Room five and a half klicks underneath the FedForces Headquarters Complex in Sinnamarie.

High Admiral Suzanna Gorbochova, Secretary-General of the Republic for the decade of war-like peace following the bloodbath of the Ninth Holy War, entered last, taking a seat at the head of the table.

“We don't know, sir,” Zeke Golden replied.”We just got the bastard out of his coffin and revived him; we haven't had a chance to determine all the whys and wherefores.”

”We do know,“ Flight Admiral Lenore Kaplan, commander of the Federal Starship Force, said,”he couldn't have been dumped into Solar orbit when the Exiles made their gravity-assist maneuver to slingshot themselves onto the vector they took to enter Inferno's Gate 286 years ago; radio telescopes and spectrographs both on Earth, and in orbit, would've detected it long before yesterday.”

“But,” Director-General Ennis McLeod, head of Earth Federal Intelligence, observed,”if he'd been dumped into space around Pluto, or anywhere along their vector to Inferno's Gate, it would have arrived in Solar orbit long before yesterday as well.”

“Unless,” the Earth High Admiral pondered,”whoever dumped him into space had him inserted into a cometary orbit; unpowered, the Sun's gravity would've gradually caused that orbit to decay, as it dragged the coffin toward it.”

“Makes sense,” Flight Admiral Kaplan replied, nodding her head.

“Okay,” the DGEFI remarked,”now that we have a working hypothesis for the mechanics of the operation, we need to touch upon the 'why' of it.”

“Benjamin Zellner was reported as having 'ascended,'” Field Marshal Hillary Edwards of the Earth Federal Army spoke,”immediately after He supposedly had our ancestors sent through Inferno's Gate into exile on the 'penal colony' of Earth 286 years ago.”

The commander of Earth's ground forces then chuckled a bit at the Christnazi version of history, as the Comissioner of the Earth Federal Police Service, General Dunstan MacDowell, commented,”which, when one reads between the lines of utter shite, is generally interpreted as young Guy Zellner having done away with his father.”

“Which still doesn't explain the why behind him being a corpsicle,” Zeke reminded Earth's chief law-enforcement officer. “The usual fate for someone like him would have been eternal damnation.”

“It might still have been, Doctor,” McLeod slowly spoke.”It's entirely possible that this wasn't young Mister Zellner's idea. He might have wanted the destruction of all his father's remaining clones, while echoing his memories into a dop for his personal use and abuse, and that might have actually been what was done.”

“Except,” Kaplan said,”Death Angel Lang might have had other ideas.”

“Precisely,” the DGEFI replied.


7 NOVEMBER, 2275 09:27:22

You fuckin' cheated Me of My just and righteous vengance!” roared the President of His Church Goverment at Micheal's twitching, bleeding, pissing, shitting, jizzing, screaming like a goddamn little bitch body, as it lay at His feet, the pain center of his tiny, fucking little brain under constant stimulation from the cerebral implant which granted all His magnificent Race of Homo magister life eternal.

You fuckin' cheated Me of My right, My right, to administer loving, violent judgement and final punishment to all who betray their Genetalia, their fellow Magisters, and His Received Canon!” Iosue Caesar screamed, foam flecking His lips, as He struggled to breathe.

What, Micheal?!” He demanded of the flailing lump of flesh beneath Him.”Were you actually hoping to stash a copy of him away, for when We were strong enough to redeem Earth?!”

“Doubtlessly,” the goddamn, runty, weaselly, fucking Roadie spoke without permission,”that was his plan, Zellner.”

“Yeah,” remarked the Dominus Christus of His Most Perfect Union, as He sneered down at Micheal,”and, it worked out so fucking well, didn't it, Micheal?!”

“W-when We c-c-came back through the Ga-gateway h-hundred seventy-eight years ago, s-sent a destroyer to re-recover, recover the copy of Benjamin, I-i-i, s-some of the Others were g-gonna claim He'd come back, a-as was predicted in H-his Canon, and—“

The King of Man could only snicker at the ambitions of a pathetic little bitch cowering at His feet.

“S-ship We s-sent,” Micheal continued stammering, and whimpering, even after the Lord of his life had long since ceased punishing him,”disappeared, n-never had the chance to send another, n-not then, not since.”

”Leaving Me to deal with your fuckup almost three hundred years later,“ the anointed President of His Church said sourly, as He sipped from a waterglass of straight Evan Wilson, no ice.

”I could've had Defiant,“ He added, after a long silence,” deal with that problem too, if I'd been given a heads-up, from My own people, Samuel, before I had to fucking find out, ten fucking minutes ago, from this little Roadie bastard,“ He jerked a hand at Real,”and his Corpo Intel dumbasses!”

“Sire, I—“ Sam started making excuses.

“Shut the fuck up,” ordered the He who was over all Others.

”Damn lucky We have an asset in the Solar System, engaged in...exploration,“ He added. “It makes things considerably easier.”

”Get up, Micheal,” the Lord of life ordered His worthless servant.”Get up, get your sorry ass to the Union Peace Mission reservation, and have a Starstalker take you to the Yorktown with orders for Selkirk to clean up your mess, by any and all means necessary.”

“Fucking do it now,” He whispered.




7 NOVEMBER, 2275 09:30:36

The Dominus Christus of His Church sat on the bunk in his cell, watching as much of the Net as he could, thirty channels’ worth of it at once, at the same time he was accessing the historical database of this so-called Federal Republic of Earth, trying to figure out just what the hell had happened while he’d slept nearly three centuries’ of his life away.

“…she laughed in our faces,” a well-dressed, well-spoken nig said to some blonde bull dyker in a pinstriped suit, “when we caught up with her and her girlfriend on Tybalt Island, showing absolutely no remorse for anything she’d done.”

“But,” the bull dyker replied, her voice dropping into the background, as the holo now showed a skank-nasty little blonde bitch being led out of a throne room somewhere in handcuffs by the plug-ugliest uniformed fucking butch lesbian He’d ever seen in His life, the little blonde whore looking back toward something just outside the camera's field of view “as your book, The Girl Gangster, and, my own lesbian expiriences both point out, Colonel Brown, that’s just par for the course for our kind.”

“Yes, it is,” Brown's voice said, while Plug-Ugly threw Skank Nasty ahead of her and off camera. “In recent studies conducted by the Union Women's Ministry, we have found all you radfemperv apes fit the textbook description of sociopathic behavior—“

“My therapist always told me that was just one of the many symptoms of my underlying lesbian pathology,” Bull Dyke dared interrupt the handsome specimen of African manhood, as the foreground now dissolved to show some dead, naked chick with its face buried in the bloody wound where the seated dead man's prick used to be, with said prick now wedged firmly up the bitch's dead ass.

“And,” Brown replied, Blonde Skank Nasty now beating down on a raven-haired skank nasty in the foreground,”there is no more pathological a lesbian than Jami Lee Selkirk herself.

It comes as no surprise that a search of both Heather Savidge’s and Jennifer Duncan’s bedrooms both produced identical copies of Selkirk’s Confessions Of a Lesbian Sex Killer, both bookmarked to the same pictures, the same identical passages highlighted in both books…they even scrawled the same identical comments in the margins…Savidge’s copy was stolen from the library of the North Coast Regional Youth Repenitive Ministry in Marietta, where she’d been incarcerated following conviction on charges of both sexual assault against a female and possession of controlled substances, while her non-Canon sexual partner stole hers from the library of the YRM in Flyntsboro where she’d been transferred following the incident in the Baldwin Church Hall you and your viewers have already seen.”

“...according to a survey conducted amongst the inmates of the Earth High-Risk Penal Colony,” said His timelessly-beautiful Micheal in another holoprojection,“98% of Earthers said their health system was in crisis, and the facts bear them out...did you know, that none of their Federal State's hospitals are any better equipped than the so-called free clinics in the worst parts of most human cities.

In fact, health care in the Earth National Socialist State is so bad, that even their own Ministry of Health, in a confidential report, admit that 82% of their own people went outside Earth territory—most of them to advanced medical facilities in Atlantis, Oglethorpe, New York, and elsewhere in Union soil—to have simple medical proceedures performed on them, because the hospitals on their own soil were inadequate to the tasks at hand.

In fact, their Minister of Health was quoted as saying ‘socialized medicine is a last vestige of the State and its centralized planning and control of our daily lives, and it simply does not work.’ ”

“Is there anyone out there who still wants Earth National Socialist-style price controls on medicine and on the medical profession,” His sweet, dear Micheal then asked, smiling into the holocam—the first beautiful thing He'd seen, since He'd awakened in this horrible future—“ knowing it will result in the highest infant and adult mortality rates in the human worlds?

I should say not.

I know you're all to be sensible, practical, good people, and it is clear that the only common-sense option to health care is a medical profession whose services and practicioners are governed by natural economic forces, rather than by a series of flawed five-year plans imposed upon them by some central Politburo.”

Another winning, beautiful smile, then,“ Socialism died with Eleanor Roosevelt, Virginia Woolf, and Adolf Hitler 330 years ago...anyone who still thinks it’s a good idea really should...get with the times.”

“Paid for,” some guy sounding like Kasey Kasem then said in the background,“ by the Citizens for Responsible Medicine.”

Israel grinned.

His Micheal was still alive in this future, and he had probably been the one who'd saved his Sire and anointed Patriarch from the vengance of Their only begotten Son.

All the whys and wherefores behind His handsome young man's decision were irrelevant.

Micheal knew He was here.

He would doubtlessly know Their enemies had awakened Him.

And, he would come for Him.

The rightful Heir of Iosue Caesar Madahmedus Christus simply had to bide His time.
"When you send a man out with a gun, you create a policymaker. When his ass is on the line, he will do whatever he needs to do.

And, if the implications of that bother you, the time to do something about it is before you send him out."
—David Drake


"Oh, but you did! You turn on any of my crew, you turn on me! But, since that's a concept you can't seem to wrap your head around, then, you've got no place here. You did it to me, Jayne, and that's a fact."

—Malcolm Reynolds, captain of the Firefly-class hauler Serenity,in a nutshell

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U.P. Cinnabar
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Re: Let Us Sleep Now(new story thread; NSFW)

Postby U.P. Cinnabar » 2016-06-24 03:29pm

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 10:01:22

She never even visited Mama’s grave.

Ariel’s pilot in command thought about that as she stood in the pouring rain at the head of nineteen draped with the Federal Sunburst and the Union Jack of the Federated British Commonwealth, reciting the burial service for her fallen crew.

She’d failed to bring them home; least she could do was send them off.

...nevertheless the poor man’s wisdom is despised,“ she spoke the words from Ecclesiastes,”and his words are not heard.“

I’m sorry, if these words don’t fit everything you were, she said silently to her dead crew, at the same time thinking about Big Sky, not wanting to.

Tomorrow was the tenth anniverary of the planet's liberation.

Ariel was heading there next, once her repairs were complete.

...so doth a little folly outweigh all wisdom and honor,“ she finished, pausing, looking at nineteen flag-draped caskets, the command section of Lieutenant Mordechai Blum's Starship Infantry company lined up beside it, assault railguns at the ready, Mordy rigidly standing at the end of 1 Section of 1 Flight, facing Jami, ignited arcsaber in his right hand.

”One Section!“ Mordy barked out,”Teennnnn-SHUN!“

The nine women under his direct command came to attention with a stomping of feet and clacking of rifles.

READY!“ Mordy snapped.

AIM!“ he added a pause after 1/1 Flight came to the ready.

FIRE!“ he then said, chopping the air with his saber as seven assault rifles fired into the leaden sky over Lympstone.

Doing so twice more at the order of their OC, before lowering their weapons to port arms, and coming to attention.

As Jami and those of her crew still living came to attention, while a lonely bugle wailed the “Last Post.”

Then a long, silence, as the wind picked up.

“ 'They shall grow not old,” said Ariel's pilot in command, tears running down her face,”as we who are left grow old. Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them.'”

“'We will remember them,'” promised those of Ariel's crew still alive.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 10:05:18

“'We will remember them,'” whispered High Admiral Suzanna Mikhalia Gorbochova, Secretary-General of the Federal Republic of Earth, eyes on EFS Dauntless' master holoprojector, as 1/1 Flight of the ship's SI company limpeted a beacon and a wreath of imitation poppies to the outwardly-intact, inwardly-gutted, highly-radioactive shell of the EFRV Wanderer.

The beacon would inform all and sundry that the ship was a war grave now, to be left undisturbed, until it was crushed and burned up inside the Sun.

The Secretary-General of Earth stood in front of her flagship's pilot station for the time it took the Meteor SU.12D assault spaceplane to recover its section of SIs, then match vectors and burn for home.

It would be war, and soon, she feared.

“Take your stations,” she ordered her 03 team, as she sat down at the command pilot's station, and programmed the entry vector back to Middenhall Station into Dauntless' shipnet.

This had been her flagship during the war, the last war, she should say; so many friends, children, grandchildren, all killed, the woman she'd loved killed, and, for what?!

And, what choice did her people have?!

They could lay down and sleep, because they were so very tired of war, except, of course, those vicious Christnazi suki would just cheerfully cut their throats, as they slept; the bastards had condemned their home world to thermonuclear war, and nuked North America into wasteland, as they ran away, just to spite the then-Atlantic Global Alliance.

Then the sons of bitches had denied the world of their birth more feverently than Peter had denied Christ.

They'd declared Homo sapiens an abomination in their God's sight, insisting they, so-called Homo magister, were the true humanity, with a biological destiny to redeem the worlds in their God's name, and build the New Jerusalem over everyone else's dead bodies.

There was no choice, then.

None, she observed, as Dauntless boosted to three kiloklicks per second, and jumped into hell.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 10:06:12

Sir!” Selkirk barked as he snapped to attention, saluting His Consul Pacis, as he stepped down from Yorktown's transporter stage, and returned his subordinate's salute.

“I have orders for you, Captain,” said the Archangel Micheal Himself. “You alone.”

“Get out,” Selkirk ordered the transporter operator, waiting until the lesser man had left the ship's hangar and payload deck, before prompting,”sir?”

“The Dirts recovered something from Solar orbit yesterday, and took it to Middenhall Station,” the Consul Pacis of His Church Government said. “I want you to recover it.”

“No matter the cost,” He added.

“Does His Consul Pacis know what the package is?” Selkirk asked.

His Consul Pacis bristled at the word “package.”

“I do,” He replied coldly.”You don’t. Nor do you need to.”

“For now,” He added.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 10:06:18

“—that Ford, Watson, and Watson's two daughters all participated in graphic and sadistic femsexual scenes for Femperv Lessons, the Net-zine of the University’s College of Women’s Studies,” said Telenet 424's Deanna Sawyer.“ According to statements made by several former professors in the College of Women’s Studies, made during their initial repenitive therapy sessions, those majoring in women’s studies had to, in order to receive their degrees, engage in at least one femsex scene to be included in the zine, as well as to produce and participate in their own originial pornographic vids.”

Susan gasped, gritted her teeth, and tried forcing herself to concentrate on her work, so as to keep her distracted from the disgusting things the bastards were saying Lexie did, and from the tears she so desperately wanted to cry.

She didn't succeed in doing either.

Lexie—what those sons of bitches were saying was Lexie—was fucking a blonde girl in the ass with a goddamn strapon, while she pulled on her hair with one hand to keep the blonde girl's face mashed up in the twat of a tall, heavy-set girl with long, dark hair, and spanked the blonde's ass—with the words “SPANK DAT A$$!” carved and burned into her right buttock—with her free hand.

“—have positively identified as fifteen-year old Heather Savidge and her thirteen-year old non-Canon femsex slave Jennifer Duncan, both recently convicted for the brutal lesbian sex killings of Duncan's parents, and of a six-year old girl they had been babysitting,” Sawyer continued speaking in the background.

” Also, Susan Watson's non-Canon sexual partner, Victoria Ford, is convicted lesbian sex killer Chelsey Lynn Ford's au—“

They fuckin' go all out putting the boot in, don't they?! Susan angrily, tearfully thought, as Lexie screamed over the Net that none of that shit was her.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 10:06:38

“Oh, be still my heart,” some slant-sideways piece of yellow stink stink mocked little Lexie Watson,”she's a fucking misogynist.”

Well,” the slope, with the screen name Tawny Nekomimi Miyoko, sniffed and prated,”lemme tell you something, you spoiled, little white bitch. I'm proud of what I am, proud of all the little girlies I've used, abused, seduced into being my horny little monkey sluts, and thrown away like the disposable little bitches they all are, and I won't be bullied by elitist bull dykes like you who want me to be otherwise.

You hear me, you stuck-up little cunt?! I am a proud, millitant femperv ape, who trains up uppity, bullying little whores like you to be good, little girls for their Mistress, and I won't let any more bullies rape and beat me into being a misogynist hating what I am, afraid and ashamed of who I am, like they did to me in basic!“

Ensign Eugene Wheaton, commanding the Starstalker-class scout Pueblo, lay in his rack in the ship's bunkroom, and watched femperv animals slag each other, at the same time he continued watching—purely for intel purposes, cause he simply could not think like them—the self-hating little blonde misogynist going at another blonde, teenaged, femperv sex killer, spanking her tight, sweet little, fifteen-year old ass, and “forcing” her to slurp, slurp, slurp her little girlfriend’s shit, little Heather's pink, steel-studded tongue probing as deep into fat, thriteen-year old ass pussy as it would go, while her little Lexie screamed for her to “go deeper, fuckslave, dee—

Fuck!

“What?!” demanded Wheaton in answer to his com, Master Chief Petty Officer Robert Locarno, Pueblo's chief engineer and second in command, replying:

“Sir, I have an incoming eyes-only message for you from the Yorktown.”

Sighing, Wheaton banished the femperv from his comm unit, zipped up his flight suit, and said,”fine, echo it to my com, Master Chief.”

Pueblo's master chief of the ship disappeared, replaced in his com's holofield by Captain Selkirk, who, as Homo magister always should, came immediately to the point:

“Ensign, you are to close with Middenhall Station, gate aboard a package from its brig facilties, and warp back to the Heaven's Gate area for rendezvous with Yorktown. That is all. Yorktown out.”

and immediately discommed.

“Chief Locarno,” Wheaton then ordered,”how soon will the rock we're parked on cross Earth's orbit?”

“MPC433Eros will close to within 26.7 megaklicks of Earth in another three hours, sir,” Locarno replied.

“When we reach that point in Eros' orbit,” Pueblo's skipper decided,”we are going to obtain sensor data on the inside of Middenhall Station's brig; we'll then make as many orbital passes as necessary to refine that data, until we have the precise mathematical conditions to open a subspace rift inside the target area, at which point, we will separate from Eros, and make our run.”

“Aye sir,” Locarno replied. "The crew'll be ready."

“Good,” Wheaton said.”Wheaton, out.”

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 10:10:24

“—a terrorist State,” old Gotchanow Guy’s proudly homosexual holoimage prated on the floor of the Christnazis' Assembly of Five Hundred,“ who uses a hardened lesbian sex killer—an animal who murdered her own mama in cold blood—to carry out its criminal agenda.”

“Her own mama,” he repeated softly, before Lieutenant Mordechai Blum re-directed the dart in his hand toward the holoprojector over the bar, the man behind the bar ducking, and interjecting “shit!” as the dart sailed through the projector's holofield, interfered with it enough to switch the sodding thing off, and embedded itself in a black and white flatpic of the former City Of London.

“Sorry,” Mordy cheekily said, knocking back another pint of lager, before turning back to the dartboard, picked up another dart, and remarked “I believe it was still my turn, Sarnt Major.”

“Technically not, sir,” Flight Sergeant Rikki Skinner replied.”The dart did leave your hand, after all. It's not my fault you chose to throw it at the wrong target.”

“Not even a bull's eye,” the officer commanding Ariel's SI company forced himself to joke. “Damn.”

He handed the dart to Ariel's company sergeant major, who promptly fired the thing straight between the eyes of the mad emperor Zellner's flatpic.

That,” Rikki remarked, as Mordy called a robowaiter hovering nearby over for a refill,”is definitely a bull's eye.”

He sighed.

The Christofascist bastards had taken fifteen of his kids from him yesterday, though the Skipper, being the Skipper, blamed herself for what had to be done, cause Guy Zellner and his mad mob could not be allowed to get away with murdering even one civ his Forces had sworn to protect, let alone 24, let alone still as some twisted reminder that he fucking could take those lives, because he thought they belonged to him anyway.

Now, it's your turn, Mister Blum,” Rikki prompted, Mordy picking up a dart, taking the stance, eyeing the board, taking a healthy gulp of lager, when the waiter came round with another pint, and finally throwing the dart.

Right into the tip of Zellner's nose.

"Ah, fuck me!" Mordy lamented, Rikki quipping, "with that kind of aim, I suppose the safest place for a Christnazi would be directly in front of your weapon, sir."

"I can handle a deuce and a half just fine," Mordy replied, draining the rest of the pint and sending the still-hovering bot back for another. "I just can't seem to throw a dart for shite."

That fucking song played in his head; usually did on rainy days such as today.

While tomorrow...was ten years, since the Treaty of Sirius and the official end of the last Holy War, following the bloodiest battle in history, three days, a quarter-trillion dead on the deck, the remnants of eight decades' of terraforming undone.

That song was playing in his head, and he saw Micah as she was, playing Grizzabella, in sodding Cats; the ship's company had put that on for Erwhon Station's staff, families, and other permanent residents just the night before.

The night before the Magrathea Cooperative permanent terraforming station had died in fire.

Before Micah...

He took a deep breath, bit his lower lip, looked down into the pint he'd just taken from the bot.

Drained it dry.

Drew his pistol and sent everyone diving for cover, when he ripped the dartboard to bits of kindling hanging by a nail in front of a smoking, rather large hole in the wall beyond.

"See," he quipped, as he sent the bot off for still another pint."I can handle a deuce and a half just fine."

"Sorry," he then said to the everyone in the common room, before walking out of the pub.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 10:15:37

“I didn't recall this topic as one being open for debate,” the Dominus Christus Of His Church said coldly, as he glared at the Others in the conference room of the Hilton Head Island Resort.

“Well, then, you were wrong, weren't you?!” Theodore IV, anointed King and CEO of the Incorporated Anachro-Confederacy Of Midnight Sun, dared talk back to Him, the ugly fucking troll of a man staring back at him through horn-rimmed bifocals. “And, not for the first time.”

“The race of Adam cannot be wrong!” the He Who Was Over All Others reminded the rodenty little Mid, as He stood to His full height. "We were made in His stainless image, and He is incapable of error!"

“Now,” He added,“ is the time to take back what's Ours; they have been free far too long, and it would be cruel of Us, their anointed, evolutionary Lords and Masters, to let them continue being free.”

“You've been breathing your own arse fumes again,” Sir Albert Drake, Chief Executive of the Commonwealth of Nova Regina, remarked,“haven't yahahahahahahaahahahahahahahahaahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam-makeitstaaaaahhp!

Beg!” the Lord of his worthless life spat at him.“Then go down!”

"Maybe then," He whispered to the mewling Ginnie bitchboy,"I might be inclined to stop."

“Guy’s right,” Harrison Braidwood, President of the California Free State, spoke up. “Now is the time to show the spoiled, ungrateful brats on Big Sky what liberation truly means.”

“They were free,” Rashad Malcom Muhammed, President of the Secret, Supreme, Exalted High Committee of the Thirteen of the New Confederate Order, reminded the Others, “before their pathetic little vote; they had every modern convenience, access to modern healthcare, food in their fat guts, clothes on their ungrateful backs, roofs over their pointed little heads, the latest tech toys for the asking; all We wanted in return was simply an honest day's work out of them.”

“Und,” Leopold Eichmann, Fürher of the Bundesnationalsozialismusrepublik, added, “that is still too much to ask of them. They would rather talk of democracy than do anything which would actually improve their lot.

And, they call us the bigots.”

“We,” the CEO of the Honourable Rhodesia Company plainly said,“ simply are not ready to resume our campaign against them. We haven't made good the materiel losses we sustained from fighting the last war.”

“Morale,” Maximillen II, King of the Restored Burbon Monarchy, spoke up,“amongst our people is at an all-time low.”

“And, they’re getting ready to pounce,” HIM, the Prophet Morris Hatch, President of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, and absolute ruler of Deseret, remarked.

“We’re having difficulties keeping our people in line,” J.D. Doyle spoke up,“and I don’t mean just amongst the rank and file either.”

“We are stretched thin enough trying to keep the animals in the places We have made for them,” Duque Patrick Carrera, President of the Timocratic Republic of Terra Nova, spoke,“ without having to commit to another war against the Dirts.”

“Same with us,” Samuel Charles Bush, President of the Republic of New Liberia, said. “Every rape/murder I sign off on only seems to strengthen their resolve to oppose the natural order of things.”

“The same is true,” Real said,“ for all of us, I have the reports here if you—”

“Reports don't mean shit!” the Dominus Christus Of His Union snapped. "Only corporatists and statists give two shits about reports! His anointed Patriarchs and Biological Authoritarians are interested only in doing His Work!"

“Your opinions also don't mean shit," He added."Catering to the opinions of others is another sign of a statist, a procreator, and a fornicator!"

“Doesn't matter,” Theodore replied. “We have the votes. Deal with it.”

Caesar Madahmedus Christus simply chuckled in response.

"You have the votes," He said.

"You have the fuckin' votes!" He repeated, laughing harder, jerking His hand at the Ginnie bitchboy still in the throes of lesbian sexual esctasy.

"Well, I have THIS!" the Spiritual Liege of Mankind reminded His vassals.

"Deal with it!" He barked.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 13:00:00

This was the kind of shite which should’ve discouraged any alcoholic.

Struggling to his feet, spent, shaking and sweating, Mordy cursed himself for his weakness only for the millionth goddamn time, since the first drink he'd taken.

He looked in the mirror above the washbasin.

Even cybernetic eyes could get bloodshot, as the aerogel replacements had everything the organic ones he'd lost in that ratfuck firefight thirty years ago, including blood vessels.

His eyes certainly were bloodshot.

And, the purganol wasn't done purging the last of the lager and hard liquor he'd drunk.

Someone would have to rap on the hatch to his quarters, just when he was bent over the loo puking up the remaining alcohol in his system.

"Fuck off!" he shouted in between heaves, and the locked hatch buzzed and clicked open in reply.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 13:04:12

"'Fuck off?!'" Jami asked, as she stood outside the bathroom of Mordy's quarters.

"Excuse me, Leftenant?!" she angrily demanaded, fists shaking at her sides.

"What the hell, Mordy?!" she snapped, as he finally stopped puking his guts out. "You fuckin' shot up a pub!"

"Only the dart board," Mordy weakly replied, as he stayed on his hands and knees. "And, it was Zellner's pic; it was such a tempting target!"

"This isn't funny, goddamn you!" Ariel's pilot in command snapped. "You're a Federal Forces officer, for fuck's sake! You're supposed to be better than some drunken fucking pub crawler with a fuckin' gun!"

"Fucking STAND UP!" she screamed at him."COME TO ATTENTION!"

"Fucking give me that much respect," she growled.

Mordy stood up, swaying a bit, as he came to some semblance of attention in his rumpled No.1 service dress.

"Oh, look at you," he mocked."Little Miss Commander Perfect, never sodding done no wrong her whole—"

"We both know I've fucked up, Mordy," Jami whispered, her voice taut, the barb hurting in spite of her. "I've fucked up, and I've hurt people, because I fucked up.

And, I know, thirty-odd years ago, it was you kicking my ass, when I was bent over the shitter puking up all the booze I drunk to try and run away from everything little Jami couldn't handle."

"Least," she added, after a tearful silence,"when we weren't beating the shit out of each other in every pub the Skipper had you drag me out of."

"I miss her too," Mordy whispered.

"I'm so very sorry she died on my watch," Jami said, voice choked with grief. "That's the one mistake I'm never going to forgive myself for, I want you to know that."

"I'll never forgive myself," she added,"for letting you go to hell, because of that."

"There's nothing to forgive, Skipper," Mordy softly relented."She stayed behind to help get the civs off that sodding station, and ordered you to take the ship out with a skeleton crew to buy what little time you could, cos...cos she couldn't ask her SIs—most of the rest of her crew—to stay behind and face hopless odds, without asking that of herself."

"I'm the one who should apologize," he added,"for being an arse, and lashing out."

"Been there, done that, remember?" Jami replied, smiling bravely.

"Yeah," Mordy replied.

"Your account will be debited four times the amount of damages you caused," Jami decided,"and you will personally apologize to the pub staff the next time we're here. I further award you ninety days' stoppage of leave, effective upon arrival at Big Sky."

Mordy nodded.

"The pub owner's one of us, thank God, and he understood. But, I can't be so understanding the next time; servicemen must be held to a higher standard, and officers higher still. The more responsibility, the more duty must bind us, you know that."

"Sir," Mordy replied.

"Next time this happens," Jami warned him,"I draw up the damn charge sheet myself, understand?!"

Mordy genuinelly came to attention, saluting her.

"Sir!" her Starship Infantry commander barked in response.

"We leave airdock in thirty mikes," Ariel's commander told him."I expect you to be cleaned up, sobered up, and at your station five mikes before that. Okay?"

"Will do, Skipper," Mordy answered.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 13:12:14

"Alexandra, I'm afraid my hands are tied," Rosalind Murray reluctantly said, as Roberto and she sat across the table from Alexandra Watson in the small conference room."We can't accept any non-Canon behavior on Church property, or on Church time—"

"I just said—" Alexandra started to say, before Roberto cut her off:

"That's your problem," Roberto spoke." You think you have freedom of speech, and that freedom entitles you to question Canon."

"And, we can't allow that, Alexandra," Roz said, hating every fucking word coming out of her mouth, but what choice did she have?

"We're gonna go ahead, and terminate you," she added."Per Canon, we are also required to fine you your entire last paycheck and your paid time off, for questioning Canon, and the Church, and any of its represenatives, reserve the right to give you a legal jury trial."

Alexandra opened her mouth, but no words came out of it.

"We are also going to have to confiscate all safety, attendance, and productivity awards," Roz continued,"meaning we'll have to debit your credit account for any monetary value of those awards. Also, we will have to conduct a search of your premises and your personal computers for any Church property in your possession, including any mail or Network vids where you so much as mention Unarco PGC. We'll contact you to let you know when to expect Chruch represenatives to visit your home."

"Roberto," she then said,"if you'd please escort Alexandra off the premises."

"Get up," Roberto barked, jerking a bony, brown thumb toward the open door. "You're to talk to no one about what happened, not on the premises, off the premises, on-, or offline. You do, and that's defamation of the Church, which is a crime against His Received Canon, and an automatic jury trial."

And, all Alexandra could do was get up, and walk out of the small conference room ahead of Roberto, as the Ford's Valley Facility's personnel manager completed her paperwork, including work orders for the Movie Board hax to begin breaking into all of Alexandra's credit accounts, online vids and emails, as well as the files stored offline on her com's and house computer's solid-state drives, work orders drafted by Rubber Toe, but which had to be signed off by her, so that the blame always rested with a woman, if none of the actual authority.

She sighed, fishing in her purse for her pack of Chronic Blonde 100s in a box, fumbling a cig out of said box, struggling to light it with the laser lighter, then hungrily, greedily sucking it to life, inhaling deeply, then explosively blowing smoke toward the ceiling.

How the hell did I ever get myself into this? Roz asked herself for only the umpteenth time today, to say nothing of the last thirty-seven years, since Apostle Nunn, in Freeman Lang, had sent her offworld for repen—

She flinched, closed her eyes tightly, trying to force away the ten years of being sent from one repenitive ministry to another, being—

Deep breath, she told herself over and over, taking another shaky pull on the cig, with no buzz forthcoming.

"Deep breath," she whispered aloud, before sucking down hard on the cig.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 13:18:47

"That's right, bitch," whispered the He who was over all Others,"deep breath."

"Lemme see those titties flop up and down," He added, standing in the forest of holoprojections and multi-function holodisplays which was the Security Service and Intelligence Directorate's Internal Surveillance Center, two klicks deep underneath the Mark Smith Museum of Arts and Sciences in Flyntsboro, 160 klicks due south of Atlantis along InterChruch Highway 75.

The Center, in fact, was directly underneath the first starship Enterprise, SCC-1701, now permanently airdocked as the centerpiece of the largest and most accurate Star Trek exhibit anywhere in the human worlds; this Enterprise—a Starship-class heavy exploration cruiser—had been the flagship of the First Great Crusade to redeem the monkey sluts of Earth, and make them repent, as all their kind were destined by His Great Work Of Evolution to do for a thousand years, before their final cleansing from all the worlds of His Creation.

He smiled, watching titty mountains rise and fall on the little blonde monkey slut, before turning to another holoprojection, this one from the onboard cam of a Star Fleet officer's com.

Through it, he watched a SeeBS anchorslut show cleavage and flashes of bare-naked shame underneath a wind-blown, pin-striped microskirt, as she stood on the steps of the Baldwin Church Hall, and said:

“—still covered in the blood of little Jenny’s murdered parents, the two lesbian sex killers ate at the very Chik n'Waffle where both of them worked as waitresses; workers and customers both recall them being high on dancer, huffing at least a thousand creds’ worth of it in plain sight as they ate cheeseburgers and home fries scattered, smothered and covered, and drank sodas as if they hadn’t just brutally raped and savagely murdered two people…one waitress even recalls Savidge grabbing her by her arm and forcing her down into the booth with her, right in front of her scantily-clad femslut.”

“Heather,” a girl in a tight-fitting, halfway-unbuttoned Chick n' Waffle uniform shirt, said in the thick, trashy accent typical of an ignorant, inbred monkey slut,” grabbed my arm, jerked me down into the booth with her, started spanking my butt when I tried to get away from that bitch, telling me to ‘lay quiet and take it like a good lil’ girl,’ just before she untied my apron and pulled my pants and my panties down to the floor, shoving my face right up in her cooter…it was disgustin’, fuckin’ bull dyker was stickin’ her fangers in m’cooch, slapping it as hard as she could, tellin’ Jenni, ‘see, bitch, I can get any ol’ pieca ass to do what you can do.’”

“Did anyone—“ Mona, truly named, started to ask, the other trashy little ape slut saying,”hell naw, Heather fuckin‘ got half ‘em bitches strung out on her, includin’ MacKenzie Meadows, the cook that was there that night, and Kelly Bullwinkle, the seventeen t’slow girl…they all go to game every Tuesday night, fuckin’ made Lyssa—that’s our store manager—and her girlfriend, Pam Snyder—our district manager—give ‘em that night off.”

“Go to game?” Mona asked, the other white-trash piece of pussy explaining,”they go play Sisterhoods40K down at Liz Reed’s, where they’re all power-armored nuns, witches, werewolves, vampires and demons turnin’ each other out and doin’ all kinds a sick shit to each other and any bitch they can trick into playin’ with ‘em…first dam’ thing Heather did when she saw a new bitch with a nice ass and a good set a titties on the floor was to try and get her to go to game—“

"If," the rightful Heir to the New Jerusalem said into his com,"you can take some time from your busy masturbation schedule, Captain?!"

T.J. Selkirk, beautiful even in His fall, fell off his rack, fumbled with his clothes a moment, then knelt and bowed his head, before the image and likeness of his Lord.

"Yes, Sire?" asked His Amazing Magister.

He came straight to the point, as an Adamite always should:

"Thomas, there's something I need you to do for Me."
"When you send a man out with a gun, you create a policymaker. When his ass is on the line, he will do whatever he needs to do.

And, if the implications of that bother you, the time to do something about it is before you send him out."
—David Drake


"Oh, but you did! You turn on any of my crew, you turn on me! But, since that's a concept you can't seem to wrap your head around, then, you've got no place here. You did it to me, Jayne, and that's a fact."

—Malcolm Reynolds, captain of the Firefly-class hauler Serenity,in a nutshell

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Re: Let Us Sleep Now(new story thread; NSFW)

Postby U.P. Cinnabar » 2016-06-24 03:30pm

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 13:34:01

The last crew—the last replacements included—were aboard, the final checks completed, and all stations manned and ready.

"Cor McDonough," Jami said, after a final deep breath,"signal readiness to depart to Station Operations, please."

"Stations Ops acknowledges, and has granted us clearance to depart, Skipper," Caitlin quickly replied."We are currently number one for hellspace jump."

"Drives, seal locks, retract umbilicals," Ariel's pilot in command then ordered, as the same time she programmed a 75-second, four-kilograv burn into the shipnet. "Number One, please check my entry math, and echo corrected entry vector to the shipnet."

"Locks sealed," Chels said via com, as the soft clank of the umbilicals retracting reverberated through the ship,"umbilicals retracted. We are floating free."

Not for long, as the torch's magnetic vector nozzles opened wide, and a antihydrogen-lithium deuteride remass pellet detonated inside liquid deuterium-tritium fuel, compressing it, the resulting thermonuclear reaction pushing against the torch's diamagnetic field and pusher plate to kick the thirty-kiloton Nemesis-class main-battle starship forward, her velocity building toward the three kilokips necessary to initiate a hellspace jump, as Ariel's tapered cylindrical bottle-shaped hullform sailed along the airdock, through the shiplock, and out into the darkness that was her true home.

"Final corrections made; hellspace entry vector echoed to shipnet," Jil reported.

"Hellspace systems on line," Chels reported from the Pit."SATAN field generator spinning up, hellsail array en—"

WHOPWHOPWHOP! WHOPWHOPWHOP! WHOPWHOPWHOP!

"Skipper, passive sensors detecting a Starstalker-class starship on Eros!" Caitlin shouted. "Active suite confirming!"

"Battle ready, battle ready, battle ready! All crew, secure for violent maneuvers and war emergency burn!" Jami shouted over shipnet, as the 1,500-ton Christnazi "scout" powered up, and lifted rapidly from Eros on an intercept with Middenhall Station.

"Aborting hellspace entry vector!" she then shouted."Intercept plotted and echoed to shipnet! Number One, plot firing solutions for Weps and Defense! Initiating war emergency burn!"

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 13:34:01

"Sir, we've been made!" shrieked Crewman Greg Davies, Pueblo's science officer, as Wheaton pushed his impulse engine to the firewall, rocketed up from the surface of MPC433Eros, and screamed for Middenhall Station at twelve kilograv max burn.

"Red alert! All hands, battle stations!" Pueblo's skipper shouted over shipnet, though all five crew were already on the bridge manning their stations.

"Sir," Locarno reported what Wheaton could already see on the master holoprojector,"Nemesis-class battleship, zero by zero, 26.5 megaklicks downrange, closing rapidly at three thousand."

"Quantum torpedos, full spread!" Wheaton ordered, without hesitation, as he jinked and burned, and saboted tungsten penetrators from the enemy's primitive main guns warped in, dropped their sabots, and came hungering for his blood.

At the same time, Chief Petty Officer Joshua Albert, Pueblo's tactical officer, salvoed modern quantum torpedos from both forward tubes at the clumsy, outdated warship of the militarists, statists and convicts of the Earth Penal Colony, while Crewman Ronald Moore easily burned down the rocks the Earther apes threw at them with his quartet of five-petajoule phased-particle arrays.

In summary, the small, nimble science and exploration vessel was more than a match for the crude, militaristic technology of the procreator and the fornicator, the harlot and the sodomite, which was why peace, science and exploration always defeated war and intolerance, just as it had over Big Sky ten year—

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 13:35:50

"Multiple Chernekov radiation traces closing fast," Caitlin shouted out, even as the port turret slewed its guns around, and started pumping 9.2" STP into hellspace to intercept the oncoming threat,"plus thirty by 17 decimal 83, 5.5 gigaklicks downrange, moving at nine point four terakips!"

The 150-kilo penetrators made contact just as Ariel's sensor and comm tech finished her report, 28 of the thirty-five Starstalkers knocked back down into norm still able to jink, burn, and return fire, salvoing SMWs into hellspace, Ariel's point-defense railguns shooting most of them down half a light-second away from the ship, with the point-defenses of the Defense Star orbital-weapons platforms, additional Starship Force main-battles, and of Middenhall Station itself , accounting for many of the rest.

So, the 1,500-ton "scout" vessels vectored more saboted-meson warheads through hellspace.

While a 190-kiloton Received Canon-class heavy "exploration" cruiser jumped in one kiloklick from Middenhall Station.

Fuck.

"Comms, advise the station to prepare to repel boarders!" shouted the commander of the Ariel, before jumping her ship.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 13:35:50

"MACOs to the transporter stage, now!" Selkirk shouted over shipnet the instant Yorktown warped into unassisted transporter range of the Earthers' primary orbital facility."Quantum torpedos, full spread, continous salvo, hit everything on that damn station, but the brig! Spock—"

The CIC went dark, alarms screaming in Selkrik's com, as Lieutenant Commander Seamus Tucker, Yorkie's chief engineering officer, reported:

"Primary electrical system 84% disrupted, radiators two, five, eight through twelve destroyed; internal heat now 58 degrees and rising rapidly! Penetrations on hangar, engineering and crew decks; hangar and crew decks completely gutted!"

"Pilot, evasive maneuvers!" Selkirk ordered Lieutenant Walter Takai."Come about, and engage that Dirt bitch!"

"May I remind the Captain," Spock reported,"the ship must not maneuver if it is to achieve a transporter targeting solution; combat maneuvering introduces too many variables for the calculation of precise mathematical conditions necessary to establish the subspace ri—"

"You will do the fuckin' mission!" His Consul Pacis screamed in his com, as he held on to the back of Selkirk's chair.

"Or, are you afraid to die?!" he demanded.

"Carry out my orders, Brother Takai," Selkirk simply replied, as he glanced at the master holoprojector, catching a glimpse of an airship(like something out of Jules Verne, not a frickin' Zeppelin) outlined in black along the sides of the Earther battleship's two noses.

It would have to be that fucking little bitch.

"Brother Pavlov, return Ariel's fire," he whispered into his comm unit's microphone. "Keep firing til either the tubes run dry, or you kill that little bitch."

"Spock," he then spat,"launch a transporter targeting beacon, and have it home in on the station's brig."

"I have no intention," he said for the benefit of His Consul of Peace,"of letting her win."

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 13:37:40

"Ops boss, increase rate fire on all point-defence batteries!" Sibohan shouted into her com, as she sat at the central command station of Middenhall Station's red-lit Operations Center, at the nexus of its ten O'Neill cylinders, unable to do a fucking thing except watch holoprojections of the battle raging outside her station.

"Weps, Ortillery," the station's Port Admiral further ordered," concentrate your fire on that damned Canon! If you can't shoot the bastard down, you can at least force him to maneuver and screw up his attempts at a hellgate targeting s—"

Soon as she'd said that(of course), one of the Ops watchstanders reported,"enemy has launched a hellgate targeting beacon; it's evading all point-defense fire, and heading straight for the Dorsal Rim!"

"All Starship Infantry flights assigned to Dorsal Rim EVA!" Group Commander Ansel Peck shouted."HTB is inbound to your position, and about to limpet itself onto the hull! Remove it!"

"Done, sir!" came a reply from a Starship Infantry section corporal. "But, we've got assault shuttles inbound; ETA, two mikes thrity!"

"I'm starting to believe our guest is more trouble than he's worth," Ansel quipped.

"Oh," Sibohan replied archly,"you're just now starting to think that, are you, Number One?"

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 13:37:40

"Let's go, people! Move your asses!" Master Chief Gunnery Sergeant Charlie Zim shouted over battalion tacnet, as the SU-130H assault shuttle limpeted itself onto Middenhall Station's Dorsal Rim, and the cutting PHASARs built into its airlock's umbilical blew through an inspection hatch located at that point.

Major Clayton G. Webb, commanding the military repenitive therapists of Yorktown's attached Military Assistance Command battalion, then released his seat's restraints, made a brief check of his M32A4 PHASAR rifle, and dropped through the ventral airlock and the inspection airlock beyond it, the mag harness built into his suit of powered armor slowing his descent, as his boots touched deck inside the Dorsal Rim.

Where his specialists and he came under immediate fire from the primitive slug throwers preferred by warmongers, statists, corporatists, procreators and fornicators, because they were primtive, therefore simplistic and easily maintained by ape-creatures brainwashed and indoctrinated in their State schools.

As opposed to modern PHASAR weaponry, and all the other tools of the 23rd century military repenitive therapist and peace emissary.

Webb vectored streams of bright blue 53kJ charged particles in a 180-degree arc around him, as he moved from cover to cover along the otherwise-deserted street leading to the station's brig, as he'd been taught in countless sims and field exercises during his training and internship in evolutionary psychology, military profiling, and repenitive therapy.

That was why it was Military Assistance Command, after all; the MACOs were created early in Star Fleet history, to assist its scientists, explorers, peacekeepers, and diplomats in understanding the militarist, statist, radfemnazi mindset, and with the proper application of scientifically-proven theraputic tools to combat the Great Harlot Lolitu's race of apes and their innate pathology.

Zim cured several of them of their innate pathology with a burst of nine-megajoule particle pulses from his M82A2 man-portable PHASAR cannon, which obliterated their guard post, leaving the entrance to the brig compound wide open, Webb leading his specialists through the still-smoking breach, theraputic tool dispensing a hard but loving cure to those who refused to be healed any other w—

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 13:40:16

Lance Corporal Joseph Dean blew through the armored door with his M82, only to be decapitated by a 20mm railgun round which travelled onward to take out Claypoole and McIlargie, Sergeant Charlie Bass charging through the smoking hole, his M32A4 on rock n' roll, spraying pulse after pulse of blue-hot ions in every direction, as he continued moving toward the objective.

He didn't even check tacnet to see if anyone else from his squad had followed him in, or if anyone else from the battalion had survived the initial assault, because the thirty-five year veteran applied behavioral scientist knew it didn't matter.

His Work required sacrifice.

Those willing to make that sacrifice, without question or hesitation, he'd see again, when he got back to the ship.

Those who weren't...he'd see them too.

As pretty little yeomen working the Tail on Chalcedon Starbase.

Bass turned right, fired blindly, and ran like hell down another corridor, lather, rinse, repeat at the next right, and the left after that, 53kJ particle pulses chewing into another armored door ahead of him(the package having been the brig's sole occupant, according to the telemetry from Yorkie's sensors), as Bass charged forward.

"Well now," Benjamin Israel Zellner Himself quipped, as He rose from His rack,"you must be the cavalry."

"Hold one, sir," Bass replied, painting the Dominus Christus of His Church with every passive and active sensor in his weapon's targeting suite.

"The fuck?!" He quite understandably demanded, since Bass would've done the same, had someone been pointing a weapon at him.

"Yorktown, are you receiving?" he asked.

"Stand by," Commander Spock's holo replied over com.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 13:44:43

Behind the soldier pointing his weapon at Him, a nimbus of scarlet-violet lightning surrounding an inky darkness formed.

A smaller version of the Gateway which had orbited Pluto.

Of course My Race would master its secrets, the President Of His Church Government thought with a smile, as he moved past the soldier, and stepped through the portal, just as that soldier was brutally gunned down in cold blood by some murdering ape bitch now turning her weapon toward—

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 13:45:06

"NO!" His Consul Pacis screamed, drawing his M2049, and cranking off pulses through the subspace portal, while a spray of 2.5mm conventional tungsten penetrators ripped through Yorktown's hangar and payload deck, chopping into the tech working the transporter's multi-function holodisplay, as Selkirk hit the deck.

"You fuckin' bitch, you fuckin' little whore!" Archangel Micheal Lang continued screaming, as he charged up the transporter stage, over his husband's cooling corpse, toward the roiling lightning and inky-black void.

Which promptly exploded in a roar of hot, white light whose shockwave buffeted and singed Selkirk, who remained facedown and prone on the deck, as alarms stridently screamed in his ear, along with his chief engineer's report.

"Brother Spock, recall our remaining scoutcraft, and get us the fuck back to Chalcedon, ASAP!"

"Warping now," was Spock's ice-cool reply.

Selkirk stood up, floating a couple centimeters off the deck, as he faced the charred, slagged hole where the transporter's dysprosium gateway and warpfield generator had been.

His Consul Pacis was, for the moment, a crispy critter.

While the hangar above/forward of him, the launch rails for the scoutcraft and assault shuttles, and the armored hatch at the very top/bow of the ship were just...gone.

"Fuck," interjected the captain of the USS Yorktown, before kicking off toward the ladder leading downship.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 13:47:23

He saw the gape-mouthed look of utter stupidity on His resurrected Consul Pacis's face, and He couldn't help but laugh in it.

"You son of a bitch," Michael spat at Him, as he slowly rose from his silvery-metallic coffin, and tenatively stood on his feet.

"If so," the He who was over all Others reminded this worthless servant of His,"then that would make you the bitch in Our relationship, wouldn't it?"

"He was Our only—" Michael then had the stupidity to say to Him.

"Get this through your thick, Neanderthal, fuckin' skull!" said the Lord of his life. "I, and I alone, am the only hope in hell's chance of you and the Others finishing what you and He started almost three hundred years ago!"

"Your only hope," He whispered.

"Now," He warned Michael,"I can do this with you, or on top of you, for as I long as I permit you to live. Which is it going to be, Michael?"

"W-with you," His Archangel and Consul of Peace answered quickly, if with some understandable hesitation.

"For now," he added.

"And, I'll accept that answer," He magnanimously offered.

"For now."
"When you send a man out with a gun, you create a policymaker. When his ass is on the line, he will do whatever he needs to do.

And, if the implications of that bother you, the time to do something about it is before you send him out."
—David Drake


"Oh, but you did! You turn on any of my crew, you turn on me! But, since that's a concept you can't seem to wrap your head around, then, you've got no place here. You did it to me, Jayne, and that's a fact."

—Malcolm Reynolds, captain of the Firefly-class hauler Serenity,in a nutshell

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Re: Let Us Sleep Now(new story thread; NSFW)

Postby U.P. Cinnabar » 2016-06-24 03:34pm

...Mama?!” the thirteen-year old girl screamed, kneeling over her mama, holding her hand...she was bleeding from the ears and the mouth, her chest was all crushed, legs bent out of shape...she wasn’t moving.

Mama,” Jami pleaded, hearing the engine roaring, tires squealing as he turned around again, “ you gotta get up, now, please, he’s comin’ back, Mama, please, please, you gotta get up.”

The roar of the gasburner’s engine grew louder, he had gotten up speed, Jami felt the headlights burning into her as he charged back down Long Street, horn blasting the first few notes of “Glory to the Union,” into the night, he’d be on top of them any second now, out to finish what he’d started doing.

Mama, please,” Jami sobbed,“please, get up, please get up, please....”


“...do as I sodding tell you for once!” the Skipper barked at her.”Get the ship out there, and fight her, Number One; buy us as much time as you can to evacuate the station. No more arguments, girlie, just do as fuckin' told! Kaplan out!”

And, she was....

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 17:00:00

...gone.

Along with sixty other crew.

Two and a quarter million civs.

The lucky ones.

Starship Commander Jami Lee Selkirk took a deep breath, looked out into the lake formed from the blast crater left by a saboted-meson warhead, the ring of trees—evergreens, shipped here directly from Magrathea Station, in geosynchronous orbit over Mars' Syria Planum—surrounding the lake.

And, the rank upon rank of graves of the four and one quarter million poor souls who had not been so lucky.

She knew, only too well, how much worse than death repenitive therapy could get.

Another deep inhalation, the cold wind ripping through her, in spite of her space-cadet blue dress uniform greatcoat, as she stood on Cenotaph Hill, facing said obelisk, the single grave fronting it, and the thirty graves flanking it on either side, the simple inscription JOHN 15:13 carved into the black, granite sunburst atop the obelisk.

"I'm sorry, Skipper," she whispered, the wind chilling the tears running down her face.

"I'm sorry," she repeated, before laying a wreath of poppies against Micah Kaplan's headstone.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 17:26:12

It had come sooner.

Just as she was afraid it would.

The Secretary-General of Earth just sat there, staring out into the Atlantic Ocean washing over the Dreyfus Tower and onto the Guiana coastline, her feet on the window sill, a cup of coffee, kept warm by its heating circuit, still untouched, in her hands.

One hour.

That was how long the mad emperor Guy Zellner, in an announcement broadcast throughout human space ten minutes ago, had given her Republic to withdraw all of its personnel from the Sirius system, and for Big Sky's Public Safety Committee to stand down its Defense Authority and surrender their hard-won world to "the rightful Lords and Masters of your lives."

"It's no bluff," Dina's barely-audiable voice said. "We have confirmation now: The Christnazis, the Californios, the Mids, and the Roadies are staging forces at Vulcan," 40 Eridani Alfa's sole habitable, unimaginitvely-named world, the capital world of the alleged California Free State, and the nearest enemy base to Big Sky, since the liberation of Wainwright(in the Tau Ceti system) near the end of the last war.

"Ten fleets per," she added,"24,000 ships total, plus assault carriers holding at least fifty army corps."

"Exactly the strength we threw at them ten years ago," Suzannah remembered, only too well.

"Initally," Dina reminded her.

Suzannah flinched, swallowing hard, tears running down her face...250 billion Federal and Allied soldiers were dead on the deck, by the time they'd forced the sons of bitches to surrender.

By then, the miserable bastards had murdered most of the planet's captive population of eighteen billion souls, plus at least another quarter-trillion prisoners shipped there from throughout their damnable League, and detonated emplaced meson devices to destroy what they couldn't have, just as they'd wrecked the North American continent on their way out 286 years before.

Only four and a half billion natives, and thirty-six inmates of what the svolochi had had the balls to call Happy Valley, had been left more or less alive at the end.

Eighty years of terraforming undone in a quarter of that time.

The Magrathea station in orbit now—Mag Mell, named after the paradise of ancient Irish mythos—had scarcely begun starting over in the decade which had followed.

"'At the going down of the sun,'" she whispered,"' and, in the morning. We will remember them.' "

With that, the Secretary-General of the Parliamentary Assembly of the Federal Republic of Earth, a High Admiral once and always, rose from her chair, straightened the creases in the No.14 flight dress she still was wearing, turned, and faced the woman she loved.

"I'm taking Dauntless to Big Sky as planned, moya zhena," she said, looking into her Dina's ice-blue eyes. "You will be joining me, won't you?"

"You shagging well right I will," Dina replied, smiling, in spite of her own tears.

"With our Forces at my heels," she then resolved.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 17:30:00

“Ship and crew at battle ready, Skipper,” Jil reported, Jami staring straight ahead at the master holodisplay, nodding her head in acknowledgement of her first lieutenant’s report, while Chels sealed locks and retracted umbilicials.

And, Jami fired the RCS thrusters, then the torch, at war emergency burn, Ariel leaving Mag Mell's Ventral Airdock at eighty kips and accelerating rapidly toward hellspace jump.

Jil checked her wife's entry math, and echoed the corrected entry vector to the shipnet.

And, Ariel's pilot in command stroked the key on her MFD which...


...sent the ship running into hell, Erewhon Station burning up in the atmosphere, Christnazis and Mids closing in to gate troops aboard it, the last thing Jami saw, before she...


...jumped.

Thirteen and a half seconds later, Ariel exited hellspace in company with 23,999 other Nemesis-class main-battle starships in forty main-battle groups, one light year out from 40 Eridani Alfa's third planet, and, as one, they opened fire, pumping salvo after salvo of saboted-tungsten penetrators into hellspace.

Saboted-meson warheads flew back at them from hellspace moments later, Jami jumping the ship, jinking and burning, when she returned to norm 303 kiloklicks from the complex of asterisks orbiting Vulcan's twilight zone, the orbitals' ruptured cylinders and orbital-weapons platforms firing SMWs and particle beams in continous cycle, as League combat starships launched warp fighters, and scouts/escorts, while lobbing SMWs into hell to shoot down as many Earth main-battles as they could; Phylicia, in turn, vectored a firestorm 2cm STP to intercept those warheads before they got close enough to damage the ship.

And, Simone drove 24cm STP through hellspace into enemy starships, and orbitals, sending one of the stations comprising the Eridani Starbase complex...


...tumbling down into the planet, shattered cylinders still rotating, as they flung themselves apart...



...a pair of 150kg tungsten penetrators slammed into a 300,000-ton Anachro-Confederate Star Fleet Stevens-class star carrier at one-half lightspeed, and spun him around, as they tore through his drive housings and his nose at the same time, the resulting stress snapping his spine like a dry branch, the momentum of his spinning along what had been his thrust axis carrying his hulk into a 190-kiloton Mid Adak-class heavy cruiser.

Jami punched scant nanoseconds of war emergency burn into the shipnet, jerking the stick in her left hand to fire the RCS thrusters at same time to complicate her vector through space, dancing underneath and to the right of a salvo of SMWs screaming past Ariel...


...detonating five meters from the skin of the East Cylinder, ripping the shit out of the interior of the East Rim, blowing out the hatches of the East Shiplock, expelling the broken hull of an A'ko Maru-class commercial transport from the airdock and out into space.

"S-sensors," she stammered out, correcting her vector into a nice, straight orbital approach, "find our people; Defense, overfire PDRGs, I can't e-evade, so, you're going to have to keep them off us; Drives, stand by the hellg—"

The ship's third deck...


...went dark, Chels reporting:

"Primary electrics 50% disrupted; internal heat 47 degrees, rising."

as more of Ariel's STPs struck home, goring a 190,000-ton Roadie Merchant Escort Service Prometheus-class escort cruiser, flensing the armor from his frame, as they scooped out his interior spaces in a jet of white-hot plasma exiting through his drive housing.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 17:34:18

"—most emphatically did not declare war," Bright Angel Lang corrected a Rhodesian Broadcasting Network reporter."His Chalcedonian Union of Churches does not, has never, will never be the first to attack, the first to declare war; every war we have ever fought has been forced upon us by the radfemnazi, liberal, Jew conspiracy, and their greedy foreign corporations interested in profit above all! His anointed Magisters and natural Aristocrats have always been forced to defend Ourselves from bullies hellbent on persecuting Us, because they hate Us, and are jealous of what they could never, ever BE!"

The Consul of Peace gathered his breath a moment, leaning against his podium in the Capitol's East Lawn, as he continued:

"And, those enemies, the ape descendants of the Great Harlot Lucy and the race traitors who aid and abet them, have conned the masses, through their foreign, corporate-owned, liberal Vargas media establishment, and intellectual and academic traitors and their historical negoiationism, into believing that our attempt to defend ourselves, to survive, was aggression, bullying, and persecution.

But, no slick Vargas media campaign, and no left-wing psuedo-intellectual elite can disguise the truth, and the truth is: They attacked us! They attacked the natural order, and His Received Canon, and they did this by filling some girl's head with nonsense about being a scientist and an explorer!"

Those sons of bitches, Susan thought inwardly, as she continued printing 150 Model 125 shopping carts each second, as, on the holoprojector above her, a balding, older man dressed in a suit costing more than her take home for the week, rose from his chair, identified himself as "Sir, Jamie Murdoch, CBS News," and asked:

"Are you saying the attack on the Earth ship Wanderer was, in fact, an act of self-defense?"

The Angel of Death bored into the CBS reporter with his hard, bottomless eyes, and whispered just loud enough for his comm unit's mic to pick up:

"They filled her head with nonsense, Brother Murdoch, thus becoming an intolerable threat to His Received Canon and Our way of life. It most certainly was not an attack.

It. Was. JUSTICE!"

Susan shivered, a cold chill passing through her at those three words.

Those sons of bitches, she thought again, as she ground her teeth, clenched her jaw, and forced herself to do her job.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 17:36:12

"Those sons of bitches," Director-General Ennis McLeod swore, as he stood in the center of the War Room, and listened to the Angel of Death admit what the head of Earth Federal Intel hadn't wanted to acknowledge, even with the evidence of the North American Wastelands there for everyone to see.

The Christnazis really could be that fucking petty.

"Send this on to the SecGen aboard Dauntless," he said, as he turned his attention to the rest of the holoprojectors and concentric rings of workstations manned 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, including holidays.

There were two holidays still considered Canon by the Christofascists.

Not that they wouldn't defend themselves from bullying on those days either.

"Sir," one of the War Room operators replied.

He took a deep breath, as he studied holos of the fighting over Vulcan(named that, just so wankers could point to another prediction made by their fucking Canon that had come to pass), ships, orbitals, and those aboard them dying by the hundreds, on both sides, and that was a teaser for the war that was to come, too soon after the last one, even if some would talk about the decade of peace alleged to have taken place between the two.

He touched Sirius' image in the starmap occupying the War Room's central holoprojector, expanding it to show the forty-one main-battle groups—one Big Sky Defense Authority Space Command, the other forty Federal Starship Force—patrolling round Big Sky and its orbitals, anticipating an enemy assault from somewhere else in League space, now that their forces over Vulcan had been surprised.

The head of EFI also checked the telemetry from the Drumbeater early-warning platforms deployed at the edge of Sirius' astrosphere following the end of the recent unpleasantness.

Nothing.

So far.

So far, Ennis thought to himself, continuing to stare at the holoprojections in the War Room.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 17:38:19

"Quantum torpedos, continous salvo, full spread!" Captain Randy Buchannan ordered, as saboted tungsten penetrators screamed toward the twenty-two and a half mega-ton Christian Dominion-class super star carrier America."Defensive, overfire all PHASAR generators!"

Vice Admiral William Adam Alexander Koenig, the Hero of the Wanderer Incident, and the Liberator and Redeemer of Big Sky, smiled thinly, as this modern flagship of a modern exploration, scientific and peacekeeping expeditionary fleet, fired salvo after salvo of quantum torpedos from America's 750 torpedo tubes at the miserable collection of flimsy, primitive 30,000-ton hulls cowering less than 300 kiloklicks downrange, because they were afraid to face their enemies, afraid to fight like one of His Natural Aristrocracy would, when forced to stand up to their bullying.

CIC went dark, then slowly came back up, alarms screaming in Koenig's ears, along with the shrieked report of America's chief engineering officer, Lieutenant Commander William Logan:

"Primary electrical system completely burned out; radiatiors three through ten, sixteen, eighteen through twenty, destroyed; internal heat now 64 degrees and rising rapidly! Starboard impulse engine offline, starboard warp engine, offline, port impulse engine severely damaged, port impulse therompile shorting out due to heat accumulation! No better than 500 grav max burn avail—"

"We've lost the Venture!" the watchstander at sensors screamed like some goddamned old biddy."Coral Sea reports it has lost all power, and is falling out of formation!"

Damn.

Both of America's wingmates gone, and the SSCV left wide open to these bullies and cowards sniping at his 75th Exploration Fleet, and the other ships of the Big Sky Liberation and Redeemption Force, from long range.

"Comms," said the commander of the Big Sky Liberation and Redeemption Operation,"order the dreadnaught escort wing, and both explorer wings to fall back, and form up on the America. All fighters, scouts, and scout cruiser wings are to warp down their fucking throats!"

"Aye, sir," the comms watchstander replied, as the savage, brutish ape descendants of the Great Harlot Lolita hammered the powerless Coral Sea to a gutted, lifeless hulk.


7 NOVEMBER, 2275 17:41:50

They didn't know shit about power projection, as it related to modern peacekeeping strategy and self-defense tactics.

Otherwise, the apes and their fellow travelers amongst the liberal psuedo-intellectual elites wouldn't always be so quick to dismiss warp fighters as ineffective space combatants.

Lieutenant Trevor "Prim" Grey had time enough to think this in between warping into knife range of the primitive, clumsy, twin-nosed enemy hulls, and pumping quantum torpedos into space from his twin torp tubes, while firing pulse after pulse from his nose-mounted Blue Lightning 5PJ PHASAR generator.

"Prim," nagged his squadron commander, Lieutenant Commander Allen Maris,"eyes open, you're about to fly right into a shitstorm of metal there, buddy."

"Copy," Grey replied, resentful at still being treated like a rookie, even after five years in the cockpit, if only half that had been trigger time.

He jinked and burned, still driving q-torps toward enemy hulls struggling to match his SF-15E Predator's agility, Grey easily matching their pathetic attempt at evasives, as his Blue Lightning stutter fired to clear his ship's path of the penetrators being hosed out of their 20mm point-defense railguns.

Until blue lightning forked and danced along a blue and silver bottle, the side of its forward blade embalzoned with the black outline of an airship out some Victorian sci-fi novel.

Well now, he thought, as unpleasant memories of Star Fleet's little liberal social experiment flashed through his mind, if it ain't the so-called Angel of Darkness.

He pressed the firing key for both torp tubes, even as he remembered Angela Puller thinking she was better than him.

Daring to say no to him.

"No one's afraid of you either, b—" were his last, defiant words.

For now.


7 NOVEMBER, 2275 17:44:09

CIC went dark again, alarms screaming in Captain Thomas Eugene "Proton" Paris' head, as he shouted for his tactical officer, Lieutenant Commander Harry "Buster" Kim to "fucking keep firing!"

Voyager's chief engineering officer, Lieutenant Commander Maxwell Burke, reported:

"Primary and secondary electrical systems completely burned out; teritary electrical system 64% disrupted; warp engine off line, impulse engine severely damaged, no better than 250 grav max burn available, impulse thermopile shorting out; penetration in hangar deck, hangar deck is gutted! Radiators three to eight destroyed, internal temp now 78 degrees, still rising, armor belt undergoing boil-off!"

"Pilot, what fucking part of evasive maneuvers do you not understand?!" Paris demanded of his pilot, Lieutenant Sam Lavelle, even as the 70,000-ton Intrepid-class scout cruiser twisted and turned in every direction in an attempt to avoid all that incoming fire being vectored its way.

"Defensive, overfire all PHASARs!" Paris shouted, as CIC went dark again."Shooter, recall all scoutcraft! Have them form a defensive wedge around Voyager!"

"All scoutcraft have been destroyed, Skipper," Lieutenant Carlos Coyne reported from air ops, as the MFDs and the red lighting of the CIC were restored.

"What about our wingmates?" Parris asked.

"The Ticonderoga has been destroyed," the watchstander at sensors reported."MacArthur is still in the fight, but falling out of formation with Voyager; its impulse engine appears to have sustained critical damage."

"All other scout cruiser wings," he then added,"have been destroyed."

And, there she was, in Voyager's flickering master holoprojector, the black ship of the Angel Of Darkness herself, just as she'd been, when she'd so contemptiously flown past his deadstick Proton Flyer tumbling end for end through the Corrdio, past the Galactica's broken, gutted hulk smashed against the asteroid Gregorio Cortes, and just warped out, with Merry Issacs and Angie Puller safely on board, safe from the loving, violent judgement due them from the rightful Lords and Masters of their lives for their unforgiveable crimes against His Received Canon.

The Angel Of Darkness was coming for him, to finish what she'd started last Christmas Eve.

"Quantum torpedos," he shouted at Buster Kim,"full spread, continous salvo!

Shoot the fuckin' tubes dry!"

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 17:44:09

The Intrepid-class hull leaked coolant and drive plasma like a blood trail from its mangled drive housing, the gaping wounds in his spaceframe bubbling and boiling with white heat, as they slowly consumed the ship's forward hull.
And, still he came, salvoing SMWs nonstop, arcing blue-white lightning from his PHASAR antennae, Jami jinking, and burning, while Jil fed numbers for Simone to set up her firing solution, and Phylicia vectored 2cm STP from the point-defense railguns to try and shoot down as many meson warheads as she could.

"Got 'im," Ariel's pilot in command heard her weaponeer whisper, before a salvo of twelve rounds from the main railguns shot out of the barrels, boosted instantly to 0.5c, dropped their sabots, and utterly eviscerated the enemy scout cruiser, arresting its forward momentum, and driving the glowing, broken hulk backward.

"All enemy cruisers destroyed," Caitlin reported."Surviving enemy destroyers, scouts, and warp fighters have cleared our formation, and are now flipping and decelerating, most likely for another run at us."

"Most likely," Jami repeated, as she executed still another jink and burn, while her sensor and comm tech added:

"Continuing to close with enemy main body."

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 17:46:00

He watched them stomping their feet, waving their signs about, chanting their slogans, singing their songs, as they stood in their ranks, their multitudes, and their factions in the street in front of—and on the front steps of—His Capitol.

"NO WAR! FOR JEW CORPORATIONS!" clashed with "FIGHT THE GOOD FIGHT!" which clashed with "MAKE LOVE NOT WAR!" which clashed with "CHALCEDON: LOVE IT OR BURN!" which clashed with "NO MORE! DEMOCRAT WARS!" which clashed with "NO MORE! REPUBLICAN LIBERAL HIPPIE APPEASEMENT!" which clashed with "GIVE PEACE A CHANCE!" which clashed with "NO TRUCE! BETWEEN MEN AND APES!" which clashed with "NO FEMPERV MONKEY MILITARISM!" which clashed with "NO FEMPERV APE IMPERIALISM!"

While, on another holoprojection:

“After the foreign Jew corporations and their radfemnazi handlers ,” His Samwise’s handsome image said from one cozy chair,”all con His Natural Aristocracy into invading Big Sky to rape and murder its inhabitants, after Guy Zellner’s liberal, radfem, Bilderberger corporate Jewnazi friends have slashed, burned, raped and stripmined yet another world to the point—“

Hold on just a second!” the opposing image of His Consul Pacis, halfway out of his cozy chair, snapped, the violence of his reaction causing Telenet 26’s Carl Flores to jump back with a start.”It was you liberal Republicans—“

His Consul Unitas talking right over Micheal’s fat, ugly, chrome-domed self:

“—after our peacekeepers, scientists, explorers, and diplomats have bled themselves dry fighting for the foreign, right-wing, Illuminati, femnazi, Bilderberger, corporate Jew conspiracy—“

“It was you liberal Republican, Bilderberger, foreign corporate Jewnazi elites,” Micheal shouted, turning as purple as an eggplant,” you and the radfems jerking your chains, who are trying to lead us down the path of militarist statism, don’t you dare try backing out of this now!”

So many sides.

All of them His.

The Internal Surveillance Center's lighting was a blood-red now, an alarm klaxon occasionally whooopwhooopwhooooping, the anointed Dominus Christus Of His Church Government, Peacemaker and Lawgiver Of Man having had the tactical display from the Peace Mission's subterannian Situation Room deep underneath Freeman Lang Starbase echoed here, so He was aware of the 24,000 Dirt warships now parked along Chalcedon's 450-kiloklick limit, weapons hot, and spooking commercial transports into dumping their containers, and running back to airdock with their tails between their legs, while the ships of His Star Fleet were facing them off, but, as of yet, not engaging.

Comms from the Others indicated They were having similar infestations of Earth monkeys in their home space, while the 40 Eridani Alfa system was a shooting gallery, with anything not having a prominent red cross painted on its hull being fair game.

"Well?!" His Consul of Peace stood behind Him, and had the nerve to demand.

"Well, what, Micheal?" Iosue Caesar calmly replied.

"Oh, those Dirt warships," He added, smiling, as He kept His back turned to him.

"We're scientists, diplomats, and, explorers, are We not?" He then remarked.

"What do peaceful people do," He added,"but talk peace talk?"

"We'll appear weak," said His Micheal stupidly.

"No shit," replied the He who was over all Others."We'll appear weak."

"Which," He explained, for the benefit of the slow learner in the room,"We can play up, as We always do, as a shining example of everything that's gone to shit in Our society, meaning, of course, it will be something else We can blame them for, and We can spin things, so they can be blamed for it by liberals, conservatives, centrists, and woo woo whack a loonies alike."

"You're gambling," was all Micheal could think to say to that.

"With loaded dice, Micheal," the rightful King Of the Israelites reminded His Consul Pacis. "With loaded dice."

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 17:46:00

"Incoming Forces-wide comm from Sinnamary," Caitlin said, as the surviving Federal Starship Force main-battles inexorably bore down on the survivors of the main enemy forces, the broken wrecks of League scout cruisers, destroyers, scouts/escorts, and warp fighters littering the space between the two.

Jami bit down on her lower lip, fighting to keep the shakes at bay.

"W-what is it, Cor McDonough?" Ariel's pilot in command asked.

"Zellner's issued a cease-fire order to all League warships," Caitilin replied, hardly believing what she was saying. "The League Executive Council have voted to support the cease-fire order."

Jami nodded, eyes on the shattered hulks of starships, both Federal and League, drifting in the ship's master holoprojector, and in the tactical display window of her station's MFD.

"Over ten thousand of ours," Jil whispered on their private channel,"and roughly fifteen thousand of theirs.

Fuck."

"Th-they'll just 'r-resurrect' their d-dead," Jami reminded her love, every word dripping sacrcasm,"a-an' the b-bastards can always build more ships, s-since they've eliminated m-materialism, g-greed, and m-money."

"Yeah," Jil bitterly observed, as Caitlin reported forty additional main-battle groups jumping in and assuming station roughly 150 kiloklicks directly astern.

"Never ceases to fucking amaze me," she added more words of gall," this optimistic future what Jack has built, as predicted by their Received sodding Canon."

"Y-yeah," Jami stammered, reaching out for her Jillian's left hand with her right, holding on to it.

"Orders from commander, Daring," Caitlin reported a moment later."We're to disengage, and return to Mag Mell Station."

"Very well, then, Corporal," Jami replied, reluctantly letting go of her wife's hand, so she could begin calculating the entry math for the hellspace jump back to Big Sky.
"When you send a man out with a gun, you create a policymaker. When his ass is on the line, he will do whatever he needs to do.

And, if the implications of that bother you, the time to do something about it is before you send him out."
—David Drake


"Oh, but you did! You turn on any of my crew, you turn on me! But, since that's a concept you can't seem to wrap your head around, then, you've got no place here. You did it to me, Jayne, and that's a fact."

—Malcolm Reynolds, captain of the Firefly-class hauler Serenity,in a nutshell

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Re: Let Us Sleep Now(new story thread; NSFW)

Postby U.P. Cinnabar » 2016-06-24 03:35pm

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 18:02:06

“The Lilitu’s railguns,” Lieutenant Commander Simon T. Jekyll contemptiously assured Ensign Anton T. Merriwether,”will have no effect on our shields, Ensign, while the Enterprise’s turbocharged, phased-nadion-particle arrays, all three hundred of them, can deliver yields in the high gigaisoton per second range, to say nothing of our 275,000 quantum torpedos, each with a yield of six hundred billion isotons, more than a match for their primitive railguns, I’d say.”

“As would I, Mister Jekyll,” the Enterprise’s Skipper, Captain Matthew T. Dylan then remarked,”as would I.”

However,” the handsome Captain Dylan then said to the senior staff assembled in the ship’s conference room,”the Federation doesn’t attack first, and we don’t attack unarmed terraforming ships, even those belonging to the Collective Sisterhood.”

"They,” groused Lieutenant Commander Charles Zelazny Harper III,”wouldn’t hesitate to attack an unarmed ship.”

No, they wouldn’t, observed Roberto Griego, as he watched this week's Star Trek episode, "The Enterprise Incident," on the canteen's twenty-four foot holoprojector, sipped his can of Sprite, and leered at little Suzy in the corner, all alone.

Good.

"No, they would not,” Enterprise’s beautiful, black Nietszchian-Vulcan first officer, Benjamin T. Anasazi, agreed with the ship’s chief engineer. "Were the Lilitu in our position, Enterprise would be destroyed in a sneak attack, along with that alleged terraforming ship, and anyone unfortunate enough to survive would almost certainly undergo forced assimilation into the Sisterhood.”

"Because they don't think like us, Ben," the good, pious Captain Dylan reminded his inferior."They can't think like us; we are a tolerant, peaceful race of explorers and scientists, while they know only war, aggression, brutality, and the cold, grey, soulless hive of Collective Sisterhood, driven by one will alone: The need to assimilate others and make them their Sisters, because they know they are on the wrong side of Nature.

They are beyond the pale of redeemption or reason, which is why we must stay the course of reason and hold out hope for their redeemption."

Damn straight, the manager of Unarco PGC's Ford's Valley facility thought, sparing another glance at poor, little Suzy, nervously nibbling at her bologna and mustard sandwich, furtively looking around her.

Like she used to.

When he had her and those brats in hand ten years ago.

Before Icky Vicky fucking Ford just had to go and put ideas in her stupid, pointed little head.

And, he mused, with a smirk, they call us the misogynists, when we're the only ones who love them enough to try and make them do [i]right, while the[/i] real misogynists just want their own kind to wallow in their innate depravity, the real misogynists are the ones whinging and moaning about how they're being [i]oppressed by the big, bad Patriarchy, when they're safe, healthy, well-fed, and have everything they could ever possibly want. [/i]

Little Suzy caught him looking down on her, and she flinched.

Good, Griego thought, as he turned his full attention back to Star Trek.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 18:41:12

"—We predicted the impulse engine, We predicted the warp drive, We predicted an end to corporations, money and greed, We predicted the quantum torpedo, We predicted the PHASAR, We predicted the existence of Vulcan," said Doctor Shemun Netanyahu to Telenet 424's Nata Leigh Fox,"We predicted the comm unit on your pointed, little blonde head, and We predicted the optimistic future of brotherhood, while all any of you have ever done...."

Star Trek's Simon T. Jekyll snickered, before the smug little shit added:

"Well, the legacy of feminism, secularism, social justice, democracy, corporatism, and...other scientific heresies, speaks for itself, doesn't—"

"No," Mordy said to his comm, as he sat in the 03's command station."So, fuck you."

"And, fuck off," he added, banishing the Vargas version of the sodding news to the nonexistence where it truly belonged, the commander of Ariel's Starship Infantry company turning round in his chair, staring down into the Pit, and the ship's young chief flight engineer hard at it.

"You know what they say about all work and no play, Leftenant," he remarked, the short, chubby, bespectacled, red-headed girl flinching in response.

Well, fuck me running, Mordy silently observed, if that don't remind me of someone else.

"S-sir?" Chels stammered.

"You've been off-duty for at least the last hour," Mordy said, consulting shipnet,"and there's a whole bloomin' station up here, and whole planet down there for you to find something to do, other than be cooped up on the 03."

"W-wouldn't know what to do with myself, sir," Chels replied with almost indecent haste, as she bent back over her MFD.

Also sounds familiar, Mordy observed, having often felt the same way himself.

Just hope to God she isn't handling that same way I am.

He sighed, an exhalation wet and heavy with grief.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Not wanting to, he called that song up from the shipnet's music library, piped it through the speakers on Ariel's third deck.

It wasn't Micah's voice singing, and thank fuck for that, cause he really wouldn't have known what to do with himself, if it had been.

" 'Daylight. See the dew on the sunflower. And the rose that is fading—'"

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 18:43:24

"'—Roses wither away. Like the sunflower. I yearn to turn my face to the dawn. I am waiting for the day,'" a woman's voice reverberated through the mostly-deserted third deck, as Chels turned her attention back to re-calibrating(re-re-calibrating, to be honest) the ship's SATAN field generator.

She smirked.

Coming up, she'd believed that shit about Earthers thinking subspace literally was Hell; of course, she'd also had it drilled into her skull that Homo magister invented the warp engine to begin with, when they'd just ridden coattails off the work Katana Marshall and her team had done studying the alien artifact called either Heaven's Gate or Inferno's Gate during the late 2090s.

Whatever one chose to call it, the Gateway(as Earth scientists dubbed it)had required an input energy of 10,314 yottajoules in order to stay open.

A number which someone on Marshall's team(who'd also been a fan of Heinlein's later works) had been quick to realize could be expressed as six raised to the sixth power raised to the sixth power Joules, which, of course, was the number of the Beast, according to Canon, and the number of possible realities accessible to Jacob Burroughs' gizmo from The Number Of the Beast.

So was coined the term Space And Time Anomaly Nexus field generator, SATAN field generator for short.

"—Turn your face to the moonlight. Let your memory lead you. Open up, enter in. If you find there. The meaning of what happiness is. Then, the new life. Will begin."

Pretty song, Ariel's chief flight engineer, glancing up at the ship's SI commander sitting in the command station, looking off into the distance.

He was crying.

Fuck.

"You'd think," he slowly said, soft, sad voice also echoing across the 03,"that after...thirty sodding years...that it would hurt just a...little less."

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 18:58:43

But, it didn't.

Jami sighed, as she again stood in front of the Cenotaph, the poppies same place where she'd laid them, before going off to Vulcan.

"I'm back, Skipper," she whispered. "Thought I'd visit, before I head over to Happy Valley, to...."

She sighed again.

"Pay my respects, I guess," she whispered."Hell, that's all I could've done for most of them to begin with; I couldn't even save them, and I got more crew killed, because I was stupid enough to fucking even try."

"Left Jil," she added, a silence later,"topside by herself to fight the ship, my ship, cause—"

"—it had to be done, Commander," the Skipper's big sister said from directly behind, Jami flinching out of reflex.

"Just as my little sister," Flight Admiral Kaplan added, her voice raw-edged,"left you and the 03 team to fight the ship, because...it had to be done.

Otherwise, then as now, no one would've come out alive."

"Sir," Jami whispered, turning to face the Flight Admiral of the Starship Force.

A silence, as the two women regarded one another.

Then, Flight Admiral Kaplan said:

"This was thirty years overdue."

"Sir," was all Jami could think to say to that.

"Sir," she then said, the words tumbling out of her," I t-tried, I...tried, b-but...."

She trailed off, mopping her face with the sleeve of her greatcoat.

"The Christofascist bastards killed my baby sister, Jami," Flight Admiral Kaplan said."You did everything duty required, and more; you brought her back, so she could at least be properly buried, not left behind for them to..."

"You know the things those sons of bitches do to even our dead," she then whispered.

"I do, sir," Jami whispered.

"I do," she repeated, dragging the greatcoat sleeve across her face again.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 19:08:02

"You can't possibly..." Jil sputtered, her forkful of food stopped halfway to her mouth.

"Of course not, poppet," Mum replied dismissively, admonishing her eldest daughter to "eat."

"That's my line," Jil remarked, Suzannah chuckling from the right-hand side of the table they were sharing in the commons of Nemesis' crew deck.

She popped the bite of med-rare steak in her mouth, chewing it over, while Mum cut into her bit of well-done-to-death cow.

"Honestly," she remarked, holding a grey blob of what might have been meat in front of her,"I really don't know about you, Jillian, how you can think we'd even consider making peace with those wankers, or how you can eat steak that's barely a breath from still mooing."

Jil grinned.

Steak on Sunday night, and Mum still being Mum.

Some things do stay the same.

"Oh," Suzannah said, in between bites of slightly-pink meat,"I'm going to Chalcedon, and put myself in the snake pit, just to see how and when the mad emperor Zellner will try and bite me."

"And, in the meantime," Mum explained further, as she took a generous forkful of twice-baked potato and asparagus,"both sides will be preparing for the fight ahead."

She sighed.

"I do wish Nemesis' squadron was accompanying yours, though, dear," she said to Suzannah.

It was Jil's turn to sigh.

Both Suzannah and Mum had lost their partners early in the recent unpleasantness, and it had taken a great deal of coaxing for the pair of them to give things a go.

And, now, they were faced with the prospect of one, or both, of them not surviving this war.

"I need you fighting the war to come, moya zhena," Suzannah finally whispered, reaching out to hold Mum's free hand.

"Besides," she added,"I've Defender and her squadron accompanying me."

"That," Jil observed,"might be somewhat of a problem. Jami's—"

"Da," Suzannah replied, with a wicked grin."I hope very much she is a problem for those Christofascist bastards. A big, glaring, fuck-off problem for them."

"A 'fuck off'," Mum said, with an equally-wicked grin on her face,"and a 'fuck you.' "

"And," Suzannah remarked,"there is no one truly more deserving of both than the Christnazis."

"Now, eat," she admonished."Your food's getting cold, and we wouldn't want your mother's First Lieutenant thinking you don't like his cooking."

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 19:16:51

This side was decidedly not His.

His Imperial Majesty balled His fists tightly enough to hurt, as He watched the feed from the cameras positioned across Atlantis Church Highway 154 and the front steps of His Capitol.

Fucking three times as many protesters as yesterday jammed the front steps, bitching and moaning about some little girlies’ little rights being taken away from them, when they should've known goddamn good and well that rights had only ever been meant for His begotten Sons and anointed Magisters.

And, that their entitlement mentality had been what had led to every war Homo magister had been forced by them to fight.

What was worse, the Dominus Christus of His Most Perfect Union spotted Movie Board camera crews and reporters amongst that pitiful, pathetic band, covering the entire thing live in 256-bit true color, a blatant violation of Canon, punishable by death and eternal damnation of the offenders, their families, their associates, anyone who so much as bumped into them on the street.

His only begotten Son would see to that.

Personally.

“Doyle did say the Board were having trouble keeping their people in line,” the runty little Roadie bastard observed ever so helpfully.

“Who fuckin' let you down here?!” demanded Iosue Madhadmedus Caesar.

“Tell me, Zellner,” the rodenty fucking Roadie ignored his Lord's demand, and had the termerity to ask,”do you think those twenty thousand-odd Dirt warships at the 450-kiloklick limit will warp in, and rain fire down on your thick Neanderthal skull, if you were to order those protesters dispersed through...your usual methods?!”

The King of Kings, Lord of Lords, breathed deeply through His nose, before tilting His head back, and laughing out loud.

"I'd had hoped it wouldn't come to this," He remarked, His strong, straight back to the Roadie CEO,"that they'd be reasonable, but reason is way too much to ask of the ape descendants of the Harlot Lucy, now isn't it, Ian?"

"It is," Real conceded.

"I got something for this," said the rightful Heir of the New Jerusalem, Shepherd and Lawgiver of the first-born Sons of Adam Yeshua ben Yaweh.

"Something that will help set things right, Ian," He added.

"A 'huge fuck-off explosion,' as you Rodents would put it," declared the He Who Was Over All Others,"and a big 'fuck you' to the Dirts, at the same time."


...ssshhh,” Jami whispered, finally managing to get that damn thing off her neck, picking the little one up, cradling her in her arms and getting her the fuck out of this kennel.

It’s gonna be okay now, sweetpea,” whispered Ariel’s pilot in command, stroking her head again, as she took her to where Celina had set up shop....


7 NOVEMBER, 2275 19:31:03

...right here, at the camp hospital, still standing, just as it was ten years ago.

Everything had been left as Jami and her crew had found it, no museum, no gift shop, no town across the way selling bits and pieces of crap as antiques, no snack bars selling overpriced hot dogs, hamburgers, fries and sodas, no 256-bit true color holos describing the official Marvel version of events, no pretty landscapes or commemorative courtyards with streams, plaques and bas-relief murals depicting suffering POWs...not even an unpaid volunteer to give a guided tour, or so much as a single war veteran/former prisoner of war, talking about the good old days, when the "monkeys fuckin' knew their places," over beer and Q.

It had all been left as it was, Ariel’s skipper standing precisely between the hospital, one of the four deadline forts with 100PJ phased-particle arrays towering over countless half-meter high metal and ferrocrete boxes sunk into the muddy ground, the residential facilities for the camp’s original garrison and “scientific” personnel, and, on a slight rise to her right, the administration building and the house of the camp’s commander, the animal now calling himself a Consul of Unity.

Beyond the kennels, the various buildings where “experiments” had been performed on the inmates of this hellhole...and the recreation facilities where they’d been forced to entertain their captors and privileged others who’d known about this godforsaken place.

To the left of those buildings, the camp latrine, a mass grave for those her people could not save, bones upon bones upon desecrated corpses, FedLogCorps sappers worked to exhume those bodies and bones, carefully, reverently, laying them down into freeze tubes, loading them onto the backs of PARAWIG lorries for transport to the morgue, 250 meters to the east of the camp, as far away from here as the Forces could build the damn thing.

There, the work of a decade continued nonstop.

Happy Valley’s cemetery held 34,186,700 bodies of those the FedMedCorps and FedMilPo forensic identification teams had succeeded in giving names and faces to, in spite of their murderers’ efforts.

She could just see the flagstaffs—the Federal Sunburst, the flags of all the Republic's Federated Nations and Worlds, and the Mount Rushmore on a field of indigo of Big Sky's flag flying at half-staff—and the tops of the barracks housing the two regiments of Fed Army heavy suits , and the other FedForces personnel assigned here....

Thirty-four million...not even one percent of those who’d been condemned to suffer and die in this miserable hole, and it didn’t count the ones brought here from Erewhon Station.

“Commander?!” a woman's voice asked.

Jami turned in the direction of that voice.

The civilian head of Mag Mell Station.

Who'd also been Erewhon Station's chief project manager as well.

“I thought it was you,” she said, extending her hand.

Utterly and completely gobsmacked, Jami dumbly took the other woman's hand.

“Mason Cline, ” the woman said,"chief project manager of Magrathea Permanent Terraforming Station Mag Mell.”

"I-i'm—" Jami started to stammer out, even though she had a sick feeling Mason knew who she was.

“I know,” Mason replied, grinning. “You're Jami Black Sun.”

Ah, fuck me! Jami thought angrily, cringing inwardly at the name some jackass of a reporter had stuck her with.

“I’m nothing special, baby,” Jami whispered, turning away from Mason, from that fucking look in her eyes, back toward the kennels.

“Only the woman,” Mason commented,”me and a whole lot of other people owe our lives to.”

“I...” Jami started to tell her.

Ariel's pilot in command then trailed off, looking out into this recurring nightmare, as it shimmered and wavered before her eyes.

"I'm...just me, God damn it," she tearfully whispered.

"Just...me."



7 NOVEMBER, 2275 19:36:47

She shook hands with the lance corporal of the SI section guarding the airlock, the pneumatic hypo built into the left gauntlet of the young woman's No. 5 Standard Powered Armor kit pricking Jil's right index finger, the blood sample it had taken now being analyzed by the armor's on-board genscanner.

Soon enough, a pair of DNA strands floated in front of Lance Corporal Sheba Mbewe's right eye, along with the words "100% MATCH" greenly flashing across her com's holofield.

"Congratulations, Number One," Master Corporal Glynnis Tyler, commanding 4 Section of 2 Flight, quipped."It seems you're still you."

"Is that a good thing, Cor Tyler?" Jil joked back.

"Depends if I piss you off, doesn't it, sir?" Glyn replied, smirking.

"You'll find Mister Blum and Mister Ford on the 03," she added."Mister Blum has been playing that song again.

Over and over."

"Of course he has, Glyn," Jil whispered, cursing inwardly, but it was better than his drinking.

Just.

And, as for Chels....

First Leftenant's work is never done, is it? Jil observed, and not for the first time.

Ariel's first lieutenant sighed, saluting the Federal Sunburst and the Union Jack, before asking "permission to come aboard, then, Cor Tyler?"

"Permission granted, sir!" Glyn replied, as Jil strode toward the serving line, where Chief Technician Khryste Pollard was serving first-cut ribeye steak and all the trimmings to crew coming off shift.

"Number One," Khryste said, as she began fixing a plate.

"None for me, thank you, Chief," Jil replied."I had dinner aboard Nemesis."

"It's...Chels, sir," Khryste half-whispered to Ariel's second in command."Leftenant Ford, I mean. She hasn't been up to eat yet, not since breakfast at least, and...."

Jil nodded, gently touching the younger woman's shoulder.

"Fix her a plate, Chief," she said."If Mohammed won't come to the mountain, then Mohammed's superior officer will just shagging well have to order Mohammed to go there."

"Sir," Khryste said, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth,"I...I don't want her thinking, I-i...that I sold her out, or anything like that, I-i just..."

"You're looking out for your officer," Jil told her,"just as you should be doing."

"It's more than..." Khryste started to say, sighing.

Yeah, Jil mused, thought as much.

Don't some things stay the same, though?

She patted Khryste on the shoulder again.

"Fix her a plate, Chief," she repeated."She'll be along shortly."

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 19:40:45

"Sir!" Mordy said, as he started to rise from his chair, Jil telling him to "stand easy, Mister Blum," as she climbed down onto the upper part of the third deck.

"How are you holding up, Mordy?" she then asked.

"Shit," the commander of Ariel's Spaceborne Infantry company told her First Lieutenant, while "Memory" played for the fourth or sixteenth time in the past few minutes.

"As you can tell," he added.

"I'll see what I can do about getting you some time to visit her grave, tomorrow, after the ceremony," Jil said.

Mordy simply nodded, as he told the shipnet to stop playing the song.

"Thank you," he softly said.

"You had dinner yet?" she asked.

"Cor Tyler brought plates downside earlier," Mordy answered. "Mister Ford claimed she wasn't hungry."

"I heard," Jil remarked. "Chief Pollard's worried sick about her."

"I think she has a bit of a crush on her," Mordy observed.

"And, vice-versa," he added. "But..."

"Yeah," Jil said, nodding her head, before climbing the ladder down into the Pit.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 19:42:16

"Sir," Chels said, rising from her workstation, as the First Lieutenant climbed down into the Pit.

"What did the Skipper tell you about setting an example, and taking care of yourself?" Mister Kalsi asked, without preamble.

"I-i'm—" Chels started to stammer.

"Nope, none of that," the ship's First Lieutenant brightly, gently, but firmly chided."Up you go; dinner's waiting, go tuck in, that's an order."

"Sir," Chels reluctantly replied, shuffling toward the ladder.

"An officer walks, Mister Ford," Number One called after her,"she doesn't drag her arse everywhere she goes! Now, back straight, shoulders back, head high, one foot in front, then the other!"

"Yes, mother," came out of Chels' stupid mouth, before she'd realized she'd spoken her mind.

"Shagging well right I am, young miss," was Mister Kalsi's reply, as Chels straightened her posture into something similar to what she'd had drilled into her at Lympstone and Bibb Valley.

"By the front," Number One then barked out, just like a damn MTI,"quick, MAARRCH!"

Chels quick-marched and right-wheeled to the ladder, then climbed up onto the crew deck, where she saw Khryste waiting for her at one of the tables in the commons, a huge, thick freakin' ribeye, dripping with butter and grilled mushrooms, along with a softball-sized twice-baked potato and a pile of grilled asparagus, along with a pair of dinner rolls and more butter on a saucer beside the platter, and a steaming cup of coffee.

It looked and smelled scrumptious, and Khryste was probably the best cook on ship, but....

"You bite it, Chelsey," Number One was at her side, gently chiding her again,"it bloody well won't bite you. Especially given the way how dead you prefer your steak."

"S-sir," Chels whispered, heart hammering in her chest, as she looked into Khrys' beautiful, bottomless, dark-chocolate eyes.

Shutting hers tightly, trying to shut up the part of her mind who just wouldn't stop telling her...showing her...what girls who liked other girls liked doing to other girls.

And, liked other girls doing to them.

"Hey," Mister Kalsi whispered,"I don't think she's going to bite you either."

"Sir," Chels said, opening her eyes.

"Stop 'sir'ing me, go sit down, and tuck in," Mister Kalsi told her."Back straight, head high, there's a good girl."

Chels nodded, swallowing hard, as she kept her posture straight, walked as confidently as she could to the table, and sat down.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 20:08:03

"You have met your maximum allowed daily caloric intake limit," her com said to Susan. "It is a violation of His Received Canon, punishable by sexual correction and repenitive therapy, for this food service provider to sell you any food items and for you to consume any further food."

"I guess it's just coffee then, sweetie," Susan sheepishly said to the young Chick n' Waffle sales associate.

"Black," she added.

"Be just a moment, ma'am," said the waitress, before ducking behind the line to make a fresh pot, Susan wincing inwardly at the pre-teen girl having to play grab-ass with the old men at the high counter, and in some of the other booths, and the look the grubby little grill operator gave her just made her almost physically ill.

She rapidly turned her attention to front windows, playing by the rules of those who'd decreed rule of law to be heresy against His Received Canon, watching the traffic streaking along InterChruch Highway 49, and on IC75 passing underneath, while the holoprojector in the corner by the bathrooms nattered on, in the voice of Chalcedon Media Syndicate's Rachel English:

“That was Captain Shoshanna Nyree Johnson, chief medical officer of the Union Star Ship Intrepid, described by her father—himself a retired MACO applied behavioral scientist—as a God-fearing Christian woman, a homebody who liked to cook, who ardently believed in her country and the just and holy cause to which every Chalcedonian should be committed.

At this time, her father, confined to an automedic due to exposure to Earther biological agents during the Ninth Great Crusade, has no idea as to his daughter’s fate...but, from what we are witnessing now, carried live on all the Prison Planet's entertainment channels three hours ago, it is certain her ordeal will be an ugly, dehumanizing brutal nightmare of ‘re-orientation’ designed to eradicate all the civilized behaviors her father and the other anointed Magisters and Lords of her life, and return her to the wild of her own innate jungle-bunny lusts, before they release her back into our Union, where she will become just another danger to our way of life."

"Another criminal misogynist what's gonna running round loose, kickin' up sand, cryin' bout oppression, where there ain't none," Susan heard a man's booming baritone, the man then snorting, before continuing:

"And, that weak-kneed, epileptic North Coast fuckin' freak wants to negoiate with 'em?! Really?!"

"Yep, Marc," another, twangier male voice replied,"that's what He wants to do, Him, the First Presidency and the Assembly of 500, they all wanna just give our Union away to the foreign Jew corporations who they've already mortgaged their souls—and Our Aristocracy—to, and to the radfemperv apes, like Gilda Schrenko,who own them."

"That's right, Len," another man's weaselly little voice then said."She owns them, owns stock in every last one of the foreign Jew corporations that have been trying to subvert us economically by forcin' the Assembly to pass so-called 'free-trade laws' that load the dice in favor of the Corpos and against the PGCs in order to turn us into a corporate National Socialist welfare State just like they did the inmates of Earth."

"Same with all that social-justice and socialized medicine shit the Bad Witch of South Chalcedon's been trying to ram down the throats of the Five Hundred, an' His First Presidency," another man spoke up. "Like that Bill a Equal Rights—"

"Now," Marc boomed and pounded,"what the actual fuck is that bullshit all about?! 'Equal rights.' Shee-it, anyone with a half ounce of brains can see that every one of His anointed Magisters and Biological Authoritarians got the same fuckin' rights as every other—hey, look y'all, in that booth over there, ain't that—"

"It goddamn sure is," Len replied menacingly.

"Ma-ma'am," the waitress then stammered, as she stood right beside her."Ma'am, I-i'm sorry, but I've just been told that you're offending the beliefs of some of the other customers, an', p-per Canon, you're gonna have to go. I-i-it ain't my idea, ma'am, b-but—"

With a sigh, Susan got up, told the young woman,"I know, sweetie," echoed a tip to the girl's com, and walked out of the store.

7 NOVEMBER, 2275 20:12:16

He decided to let the little Chick n' Head keep the tip.

"Tag her for future reference," the anointed King of Israel ordered one of the techs, as he sipped a waterglass of Burbon and kike, and kept His eyes peeled on little Miss Suzy Floozy Watson's rear view.

"How long are you going to play with her like this?" His Samuel stupidly asked.

"Til I'm damn good and ready to move on, Samuel," the Heir to the New Jerusalem replied, moving on to the holo of still another therapy session with the one who didn't get away Christmas Eve, smiling as the dops in Dirt Forces uniforms—or the tight, skimpy, pleather Movie Board versions thereof—tried their best to cure poor little Shoshanna of her innate pathology.

The King of Kings, Lord of Lords chuckled at that, before he asked His good, little Sam:

"Has the operative been briefed?"

“Brown has—” Sam started to say.

“Aw, fuck!” interjected the Dominus Christus of His Union, Samuel repeating himself:

“Brown has briefed the operative in full concerning his mission; the vessel will hold ten kilos of remass and deuterium-tritium fuel under tremdendous pressure, that translates to a yield of precisely 1.74 megatons—”

The President Of His Church Government’s only reply was a short, sharp whistle.

“It is linked to his com unit, and voice activated," His wise Samwise said."The end result will see everything within 3.3 klicks in every direction completely, utterly wiped off the face of Chalcedon, with further devastation extending out to a radius of nine klicks from Owen Basic Training School.

The town of Owen itself, will of course be largely destroyed, with an estimated death toll of 35-45,000 people.”

“Have you decided on a scapegoat?” asked the Lord of His Samuel's life.

“The operative himself has taken care of that,” Sam replied. “SSID and the Movie Board are attending to the details, as we speak.”

"Good," decided Iosue Mahadmedus Caesar.


“...FUCK!” she swore, snapped back to here and now by the KRAK! of a deuce and a half, almost too late to do anything about the MACO about to lay into her and the child in her arms with his ignited arcwhip.

Almost.

Jillian stood behind the gore and greasy smoke marking where he had been, her M2140 rock-steady in her hand, steel in her pale blue eyes, every bit the warrior goddess Jami knew she w—

“YOU GODDAMN FUCKIN' LITTLE WHORE!” another worthless Christnazi piece of shit screamed from off to Jami's left, and she was not too late—not this time, at least—to jump to her feet, stand in front of her wife, and crank off a pair of twelve-gauge high-velocity, saboted anti-personnel shells from her M2068 HISAP gun, both shells firing a cloud of deuce and a half through two centimeters of Whipple armor protecting a MACO heavy suit, and through the MACO himself at over 23 kips.

Breathing deeply to still her yammering heart, she then turned to look deep into the eyes of the one who'd saved her, whispering....


7 NOVEMBER, 2275 21:28:22

“...hey there, baby,” as her Jillian’s arms hugged her from behind.

“Hullo, luv,” her wife's soft voice tickled Jami's right ear, before an even softer kiss teased the nape of her neck.

“Would've been here sooner,” Jil then explained, even though she knew she didn't have to,”but, I got back to the ship, and...First Leftenant things happened.”

“'First Leftenant's work is never done,'” Jami remarked, grinning idiotically, and giving the hands holding on to her a gentle squeeze.

“I just now got here myself, as a matter of fact,” she added softly, as she looked out onto Happy Valley's cemetery. “Everyone in the camp wanted to give me a guided tour, even though....”

She trailed off, her Jillian squeezing her gently, as she held on tight, crossing her arms over Jami's breasts.

Jami kissed her Jillian’s long, slender fingers, the kind a senior command pilot with a Black Sun and Two Bars—and God knows how many other decorations—would have.

“Hands of an artist,” she found herself saying aloud, “and a heart of gold.”

Sweet, sweet Jil giggled for a moment, before leaning her head over her wife's left shoulder, the two women cheek to cheek with one another.

“Betcha say that to all the girls,” her wife joked.

“Only to you, baby,” Jami told her blond warrior goddess. “Only ever for you.”
"When you send a man out with a gun, you create a policymaker. When his ass is on the line, he will do whatever he needs to do.

And, if the implications of that bother you, the time to do something about it is before you send him out."
—David Drake


"Oh, but you did! You turn on any of my crew, you turn on me! But, since that's a concept you can't seem to wrap your head around, then, you've got no place here. You did it to me, Jayne, and that's a fact."

—Malcolm Reynolds, captain of the Firefly-class hauler Serenity,in a nutshell

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U.P. Cinnabar
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Re: Let Us Sleep Now(new story thread; NSFW)

Postby U.P. Cinnabar » 2016-06-24 03:36pm

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 06:08:03

One last squeeze of Jillian’s hand, before Ariel’s pilot in command picked up the memorial wreath, Jami sighing, as the sun began to rise, and “The Flowers Of the Forest” piped and drummed into the cold morning air.

Slowly, in time with the music, everyone in uniform round her came to attention,and she marched to the wall holding the names of all those who’d been slain here during the war, Jami squaring her shoulders, trying not to struggle with the wreath, composing herself as she marched past where the New Seattle Philharmonic Orchestra were set up, arriving at the center of the wall just as the New Seattle Pipe and Drum Corps were almost done playing “The Flowers Of the Forest.”

Sirius was slowly rising, the bagpipe’s final notes fading away, as Ariel’s skipper came to attention and saluted, after she’d laid the wreath of poppies in place, everything just so still and quiet.

Stayed that way for some time before a slow drumroll came from the orchestra and the pipe and drum corps, followed by the passionate opening strains of “Le Marseillaise” and a series of slow, measured BOOM!s, that giving way to string instruments raising the flag of Big Sky all the way up to the top of the tallest of the flagstaffs behind the wall, bagpipes, snare drums, brass instruments and every bell tower in New Seattle saluting that flag as it fluttered in the wind.

A final blast of “Le Marseillaise,” giving way to the driving rhythms of “God Save the Tsar,” as two by two, the flags of the Allied nations who’d fought to liberate this world went up their flagpoles, the BOOM!ing starting up again, slow and steady, the final flag, her Republic’s Sunburst, making its way to the top of its staff, flying high with the others, as the bells tolled one last time and the music faded away to echoes of itself.

Her wife took her hand again, gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Thank you, baby,” Jami whispered to the woman she would always love.

“For?” Jil whispered back.

Jami leaned her head into her wife’s shoulder, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

“Being you,” she whispered.”Being there, no matter how hard I tried to shake you off.”

“I love you,” Jil whispered.

“And, I appreciate that,” Jami replied.“Even if I don't always show it.”

“Why don’t I,” she suggested,”take you out somewhere for breakfast, whatever you want to do, doesn’t matter, as long as….”

She trailed off, Jillian whispering back,”that sounds good.”

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 06:08:03

“Take the breeders into another room,” Brother Stephan told Daddy. “I have business to discuss with young Brother Ford.”

“You heard the man,” Daddy barked, all his little bitches getting up and following his pointing finger out of the dining room, Brother Stephan sitting himself in Daddy’s chair in the dining room, helping himself to one of the biscuits in the bowl in the middle of the table.

“You can go with them,” the full colonel in His SSID said to Daddy and Johnny’s older brother James, before putting one of his feet up on the dining room table, Daddy and James both looking at him like he’d bumped his head .

“I said go!” Brother Stephan ordered them, the two of them walking out of the dining room, Brother Stephan motioning to Brother Hugh, telling him,” see to it none of them come in here until I say otherwise.”

“Yessir,” Brother Hugh replied, before leaving Brother Stephan and Johnny alone.

“Do you fully understand what is being asked of you?” Brother Stephan asked, before dunking the biscuit in his hand into the thing of sausage gravy in front of him.

“Yes, sir,” Johnny replied.

“Explain it to me, then, young Magister, just so that we are both clear on what is to be accomplished,“ the SSID officer ordered Johnny, after a bite of biscuit.

“At exactly twelve o’ clock,” Johnny said,”I am to detonate a nuke inside the school. The yield of the nuke is 1.74 megatons, enough to kill everyone at Owen Basic School, including myself.”

“Does that bother you?” Brother Stephan asked, finshing off the first biscuit, dunking a second in the gravy.

“What?” Johnny asked.

“Your dying?” Brother Stephan asked, before biting into the second biscuit.“This will be your first.”

“I am Homo magister,”Johnny replied,” I ain’t afraid to die, especially when in doing so, I advance the cause of my Genetalia, my Race, and His Work of liberation and redeemption of His Creation from them.”

“And,” he added, more to the point,”when I have a chance to make that little bitch Jaycee Murray pay for what she done to me.”

Brother Stephan simply nodded his head, finishing off the biscuit in his hand, reaching for another, telling Johnny:

“Sergeant Major Hatcher will be your backup, in case you are either unable or—God forbid—unwilling to detonate the device. “

“What about the school’s internal-surveillance network?” Johnny asked. “Won’t it detect the device?”

“Yes,” Brother Stephan said, after dunking his third biscuit in gravy and stuffing it in his mouth.

“But, we’ve made arrangements where that is concerned,” he added, reaching for a piece of country ham. “Just worry about doing your part.”

“ I’ll do my part, Brother Stephan,” Johnny, reaching for some bacon, told him.

“I know you will, young Magister,” Brother Stephan told him, as he got up from the table.

“I know you will,” he repeated.


...c’mon, baby,” Mama, gently shaking her, whispered,”get dressed, hurry, before he wakes up.”

Get dressed?” Jami, still half-asleep, asked. “What for?”

We’re getting the hell offworld,” Mama told her.

No,” Jami objected. “No, Mama, if Daddy finds out , he’ll—”

Baby,” Mama, taking the thirteen-year old girl lightly by her shoulders, looking her in the eye, whispered,”I know what they’ll do to us if they find out...but, I-i also know what they’ll do to you and your little sister, if I don’t at least try to get you all away from them.”

Now, hurry up,” she added, Jami getting out of bed, putting on the clothes Mama handed her as quietly as she could in the....


8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:00:06

...cold morning light.

Jami swallowed, saying nothing, standing off at a distance, while Mordy knelt at his wife's grave, laying a pot of violets alongside the poppies at the headstone, as he talked to her.

She sighed cold smoke into the air, swallowing the tears.

Jil was topside, back aboard ship, getting her ready for the hellspace jump to Chalcedon, which she hadn't seen in 36 years now, not since being sent to Witch's Tit, after—

She flinched.

And, thought of Roz, who she hadn't seen since they were kids, since she'd been sent offworld, a year before Mama had died.

Also because of Jami.

I got lucky, she mused. Roz didn't have a FedStarForce main-battle squadron to come riding to her rescue, didn't have the chance I got, that she should have had.

How badly did they break her, because I got her....

Another sigh, wet and heavy.

"Skipper?" Mordy asked, concern in his voice, tears in his eyes, as he stood in front of her.

"I'm fine, Mordy," she lied. "Ready?"

"Yeah," Ariel's Starship Infantry commander replied.

"Drives, gate us aboard," Jami spoke into her com's mic."Number One, sound battle ready, and get us away from airdock, as soon as gate-in is complete."

"Stand by," Chels' holo replied, before the hellspace rift formed directly in front of Mordy and Jami, and they stepped through.

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:00:06

“This is a classic balls-up,” Ian MacKenzie Real, Chief Executive Officer Of the Honourable Rhodesia Company, said to the trog put in charge of all the other trogs, at the same time he jerked his hand towards the holoprojection of unplanned and unwanted demonstrations of support for those breeders on the front steps of the Christnazi Capitol.

“Tell that to Doyle,” HIM Guy Thomas Zellner coldly replied.

“Every countermeasure was taken against those who insisted on violating Canon,” J.D. Doyle, Chairman of the Vargas Movie Board defended, looking down his glass at the Venturan Floodplain grain whisky still in it.

“Well, you didn't go far enough, did you, motherfucker?!” was Zellner's vicious response.

"Purge every network," was His decision.

“That's going a bit far, don't You think?!” Rashad Malcom Muhammed, President of the Secret, Supreme, Exalted High Committee of the Thirteen of the New Confederate Order, commented.

“Indeed,” Harrison Braidwood, President of the California Free State Board of Supervisors, said over his tequila sunrise.

Every fuckin' network!” Zellner snapped.”Every one, from CEOs to janitors, every family member, every known associate, death and eternal damnation for all the sumbitches!

"And, their little dogs, too," He whispered, with a snicker.

"Fuckin' give the orders, NOW!" the anointed King of the Troglodytes then demanded of the head of His Movie Board

“Security,” Doyle was indecently quick to say into his com,”extend the purges; everyone, top to bottom, all networks, all family, all known associates, no exceptions.

And, no fucking questions. It is His will.

Doyle, out.”

“That will disrupt Movie Board operations to an unacc—ahahahaahhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” Theodore IV, King of Midnight Sun, started to say, before Zellner said his name, and made him scream.

“Anyone else,” spat the President Of His Church Government,"care to question My Will?!"

“Your answer to everything, isn't it?” Sir Albert Drake, Chief Executive of the Commonwealth of Nova Regina, remarked.

“I go with what fuckin' works,” Zellner told him, looking the Reggie in the eye, and making him flinch.

“And, it does work, don't it...My good little cockwhore?” He then asked.

"Y-yes, L-lord," Drake stammered out, and that made the King of the Trogs smile, all his pretty shark’s teeth showing, as He added:

”I think I got something for all that. Samuel?”

“At noon today,” Sam Brannen III, the trogs' Consul Of Unity, spoke up from the foot of the grownups' table,” one of our operatives will detonate a 1.74MT thermonuclear device inside the basic school in the town of Owen, three hours to the north and west of Jekyll Island, completely obliterating the school, and much of the town, which is a bedroom community for people working in the peacekeeping, scientific, and exploration industry, as well as for civilian workers directly assigned to Starbase Freeman Lang and/or the Union Peace Mission headquarters reservation.”

Brannen paused a moment, before continuing:

“We will wait three hours, before the SSID announces they have determined the identity of the perpetrator.”

The holo of a little blonde bitch, no more than ten or eleven, already sporting a respectible pair of knockers, floated over the conference table’s master terminal.

“Her name,” Brannen said, as if that was important,”is Jameison Cara Murray, Jaycee, for short; her mother is the personnel bunny for a Unarco PGC facility in Ford's Valley; she's also an ex-stripper, multiple convictions for drug possession, rape, assault, non-Canon sexuality, the...usual.

She was sentenced to ten years' repentive therapy at the age of twelve..."

He chuckled, before favoring his Man with a insipid, sickening smile, and delivering the punch line:

"...for a non-Canon relationship with one Jami Lee Selkirk."

The CEO of Rhodesia couldn't resist a chuckle himself.

"Talk about your neat little packages," Rashad observed, a shit-eating grin splitting his dark face.

"And," an equally-impressed Duque Patrick Carrera, President of the Timocratic Republic of Terra Nova, remarked,"the Angel Of Darkness will be amongst the ships bringing Gorbachova to us."

“Just like 'em generals in that book I once read,” Zellner replied, His ego well and truly stroked,” though, I don't remember much of it, since it was all Greek to Me.”

"Since," He repeated, casually indicating the twitching, screaming, sobbing wreck of a Theodore with His hand,"it was all Greek to Me."

The Others, including Real, laughed at His shitty joke.

Just as He moted it be.

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:00:06

She drove behind the Repentive Ministry building, and pulled into the school parking lot, Brendan unlocking and opening the back door from his side, Roz glancing at Jaycee in the mirror, as she grabbed her backpack, and half-ran into the school building.

Her last year of school.

Vocational training.

Cause no matter how smart and bright and curious her daughter was, they'd only ever considered her good enough to work the rest of her life at the fuckin' Chick n' Waffle down the road, playing grab-ass, twist-titty with dirty old men drinking coffee, and even dirtier young men behind the line and in the back room.

Roz flinched, the man who'd bought her at auction almost thirty years ago picking up on that, demanding to know,"what's wrong with you now, bitch?!"

"Never mind," he added in his usual sneering tone, "I don't wanna know. I'm running late for work, as it is, so if you could please just fuckin' drive, I'd appreciate it."

"Yes, Magister," Roz whispered, putting the '76 Aztec in drive, and pulling out back out onto Main Street, and, from there, left onto IC49 at the light.

"Watch where you're fuckin' goin', you stupid bitch," Brendan growled at her, as she drove toward IC75,"you're drivin' all over the goddamn road!"

"Yes, Magister," Roz said, as she stopped at another light, Brendan screaming,"damnit, you brainless fuckin' cunt, you almost ran the fuckin' red light!"

Roz said nothing, as she waited for the light to change, knowing what saying anything at all would get her.

She bit on her lower lip, as the light turned green, and she took the on ramp onto 75, settling into the rightmost of the ten southbound lanes.

And, without warning, Brendan smacked her hard across her face, almost causing her to lose control of the Aztec.

"You were thinkin' about her again, weren't you?!" he demanded."ANSWER ME!"

"Don't fuckin' lie," he growled, hand cocked back,"like your kind always does! You were thinking about her, I know you were!"

Roz said nothing, because that was best.

"She don't give a shit about you either!" Brendan spat at her."That is fuckin' Canon!"

"You get this through your stupid, spoiled little, blonde princess skull!" he added."I am the only motherfucker who can ever love a goddamn little degenerate like you. That is also fuckin' Canon! Understand?!"

"Yes, Magister," Roz whispered, as she took the off-ramp onto Houstoun Church Highway 247, and turned left to head toward the base.

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:03:14

"Two super star carrier expeditionary forces burning on an intercept," Master Corporal Donitra Pugh reported immediately after Dauntless and the two squadrons with her jumped in at 225 kiloklicks from Chalcedon."One closing us directly ahead, one closing directly astern."

"Stand by," Suzannah said, feigning calm, glancing at her tactical holodisplay, finding little comfort in the 24,000 Nemesis-class machines orbiting at the 450-kiloklick limit, ready to pounce if the either of the two Dominions or their consorts offered so much as an unkind word to their Secretary-General.

"All ships," the Secretary-General of the Republic said into her com,"begin acquiring targets, but do not fire, unless fired upon first!"

"Orbitals and ground bases launching warp fighters and scouts," Donitra further reported, as Lieutenant Nigella Huntsall flexed twitchy fingers over her trackballs and firing keys.

"Steady, Weps," Suzannah admonished her flagship's weapons engineer.

"Skipper," Nigella tersely replied.

"Now," the Commander in Chief of Earth's military mused aloud,"how long will the mad emperor Zellner wait, until he deigns to comm me?"

"Twenty sols says he's looking for the lowest-ranking flunky he can find to make the call," First Lieutenant Alena Xidakis replied.

"No bet, Number One," Suzannah replied, grinning.

"Supers and consorts launching warp fighters and scouts," Donitra reported. "All enemy craft are weps hot, enemy capships will merge with our formation in fifteen seconds; enemy small craft have already merged with, and are passing us ahead and astern."

"Defensive, hold fire," Suzannah calmly ordered, watching the Dominion directly ahead of her grow larger in Dauntless' master holoprojector.


8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:03:50

The He who was over all Others watched the air show up top through the Union Peace Mission repeater holodisplay, sipping on His glass of Burbon and kike, as the two dozen primitive, puny hulls of Dirt warships passed through the two elite super star carrier expeditionary forces now re-arranging themselves for another close pass at Suzannah of the fucking Apes and all her little monkey sluts.

Eventually, Iosue Madhadmedus Caesar Christus would call the little Russkie dyke bitch down here.

In another four hours, give or take.

Just in time for the fireworks.

"There is the chance," the little bastard Rodent remarked, as he invited himself into His private study at the Jekyll Island Country Club's hotel,"that they may just say 'fuck it,' and start the war back up, if you keep them waiting too long."

The anointed President of His Church Government laughed, studying the holoprojection before Him, while He kept His back to the lesser man.

"Win-win, I say," He casually remarked, taking another sip of Burbon and kike.

Then spitting it back up, when His com bleeped urgently.

"What?!" demanded the Dominus Christus Of His Most Perfect Union.

His Micheal, being Micheal, being indecently quick to tell His Sire:

"We're receiving an emergency communication from the Unarco PGC facility on Judas," Kolob's ruddy fourth planet."There's been a breach in containment; Caballeros are unable to contain it."

"Fuck!" growled the anointed King Of the Israelites.

"Just when things were going good," He further observed.

"Don't just fuckin' stand there, with your itty, bitty goddamn clitty in your hands, boy," He immediately ordered."Tell Picard to warp in, and fuckin' put the boots to those lazy, ungrateful, goddamn little sluts!"

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:03:50

Goddamn motherfuckers!” Shoshanna Nyree Johnson swore, blasting another thirty or forty of those things bounding down the street towards her quick as shit, the twenty-seven year old repenitive laborer struggling to reload the Palmer/Walker Slammer triple-array PHASAR she’d taken from the Legion del Cid caballero pendejo hellbent on—fuck that, no time to even think about it or anything else, those hounds were gonna be on her any second now, white foam dripping from their double rows of gleaming, sharp metal teeth, that was what she had to think about now.

She just barely got the hafnium-isomer battery clip in there in time, aiming at those damn things and pulling the trigger, three 53kJ charged-particle beams sizzling out of the triple arrays, Trina reloading as she turned and ran like hell, heading towards the Headquarters reservation, towards the big tower at the top of the hill at the opposite end of the Downport Road.

She didn’t think about the fact she was down to the last few clips she’d taken off that jackboot, she couldn’t, not with those sleds full of Caballeros bulleting down the street behind their hounds, all of them hooping and hollering as they let fly with quad-mounted 9MJ Gatling-array PHASARs, assault PHASARs and tri-PHASARs, external speakers blaring out:

—if ya like fish n’ grits. And, all da pimpz shit. Then, all y’all say [slap!] oh, hell, yeah!

that song from Striptease X: Addicted To The Blue, the one Britnee had been humping the pole to in the club, when another dancer had gotten on stage, slapped her ass and had started humping her...the song they played in the clubs on the Downport Road, where she’d be sent after either her fifteen-hour shift on the docks, or the therapy—

She said she wasn’t going to think about that shit, or how her lungs and her legs burned like a motherfucker from the cold and the running...a whole hell of a lot worse than even therapy was waiting, if she stopped now, she had to keep running, had to reload, had to keep them damn hounds off of her, they could run a hell of a lot faster than she ever could, same with those fucking sleds full of men screaming,”shake that ass, coochie coo!” and junk like that, same kinda junk they’d holler at her when they had her on stage, tossing—

Didn’t matter...didn’t matter her bare feet felt like billions of needles shot up through her body neither...didn’t matter a damn thing, she had to get to the Tower.

She turned around just long enough to empty the tri-PHASAR again, reloading it, as she forced herself to keep going.

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:03:52

“Approaching target, “ Enterprise's ops manager, Lieutenant Commander L.B. Spiner reported, as the twenty-four impressive machines of the Enterprise Elite Super Star Carrier Expeditionary Force entered orbit round Judas.

“They’re still transmitting,” reported one of the sensor watchstanders.

“Jam their comms, then,” Vice Admiral Henri-Phillipe Picard airly replied.

“All units,” Picard then spoke into his com, as he regarded the view in the master projector in Enterprise’s evacuated, red-lit CIC,” launch scouts, warp fighters, and transporter targeting beacons; begin orbital bombardement mission. All MACOs to transporter stages, prepare for immediate gate—”

Starships warping in!” another sensor watchstander screamed, just as the f-word caught in Picard’s refined throat, and a dozen warp points spat out a dozen primitive, clumsy Dirt warships, the commander of the newly-formed 1701st Elite Exploration Fleet screaming:

Flag and dreadnaught escort wings will proceed with orbital bombardement and MACO gate-in! Scout and explorer wings, take those interfering Dirt monkeys out of my sky!

the all-too-unmistakable shape of a Dirt Forces Nemesis-class battleship—a Victorian-esque sci-fi airship outlined in black along the side of her starboard weapons hull—slamming a dozen 9.2" saboted tungsten penetrators into his flagship’s hull at one-half lightspeed.

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:04:00

Drives, fire the soddin' spaceplanes, now!” Jami screamed, as she jinked and burned her way to 88.5 kiloklicks from Kolob's barren, barely-habitable fourth planet. "Defensive, re-direct port PDRGs against military, economic and government targets on planetary surface, priority is on those damn HTBs!"

“Skipper,” Caitlin reported,"am receiving fragmentary comms from Judas Base One, and all outlying mining facilities; the inmates have revolted, and the local tercio of the Legion del Cid are hard-pressed to stop them; local management team have called up all male workers for Militia duty."

"Opfor now 150 kiloklicks from assisted hellgate range," Ariel's sensor and comm tech then added."Meteors 25 seconds from drop altitude."

"Number One," Jami said to her Jil, as Ariel swung round the planet, and up the drive flares of the six Christofascist capital ships raining down fire with their PHASARs,"Weps needs numbers for her firing solutions."

“She's got 'em, babe,” Jillian calmly, professionally, replied, as Simone drove 24cm STP up Christnazi asses to eviscerate a Galactica and a Sovereign, before the other four machines jinked and burned hard, as Jami did, at the same time one of the Sovereigns wheeled about on his RCS thrusters and pumped both particle beams and saboted-meson warheads into the dark where she'd been.

"Opfor firing assault shuttles!" Caitlin reported."Estimate 27 decimal one seconds to dr—"

Ariel’s evacuated, blood-lit third deck went dark, while Chels reported over via comm:

“Primary electrics 77% disrupted, secondary electrics system 52% disrupted, radiators four and five destroyed, internal heat now 52 degrees, continuing to rise!”

At the same time, Jil whispered:

“Fuck! Oh, fuck, Skipper, Defender, she's....”


"...dead," Mordy's holo whispered, cradling the Skipper's burned, blasted, barely-recognizable body in his arms, as he dazedly stepped off the hellgate stage, and the shipnet dutifully informed her...


"...Ariel has command of the squadron," Caitlin reported.

"Additional starships jumping in," she added.




8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:04:00

“This is a war for the very survival of our race,” Gotchanow’s holoimage said,”our God-fearing, responsibly-individualistic, biologically-authorian way of life, every good and decent thing these aliens in our midst threaten to bring down, because they can never have what we have achieved through our sweat, our blood, our tears!

They can never be what we are, it was a foolish, dangerous mistake on our part to even think they could ever be like us, to believe they could even come close to being like us, when all the evidence, all their savagery so clearly has shown they are not us, they are not of us.”

The President of His Church Government paused, Susan only paying partial attention to the newscast from CBN, her shaking hands playing over her replicator's MFD, cranking out Model 109 shopping carts by the hundreds to spill over the ramp at the other end.

“There are no rules in any fight for survival,” Zellner told the worlds,”that is what they have seduced Us into forgetting!

Time and again, they have used rule of law as a means of statist oppression, while taking our rights for themselves!

And, they have turned those rights into an entitlement mentality with which they can deprive us of our ability to defend ourselves from whatever threatens our safety and security, strip us bare of our legal protections—of the very right to be tried by our fellow men—disenfranchise His Moral Majority , and take from that majority their inalienable right to govern themselves and to choose who shall act on the behalf of the lower races created by Adam Yeshua ben Yaweh Himself through the irrefutable law of Evolution!

And, in place of that right, they have forced upon His Natural Aristocracy, His sainted Brotherhood of Man, the iron will of a matriarchy, of the State, and, in so doing, they have undermined the values which underpin our society, replacing moral rightness with political honesty, and the worship of their baser pleasures!”

She struggled to breath, feeling his eyes on her, and seeing nowhere to turn and no light at the end of the tunnel.

“We are good and decent men," the President Of His Perfect Union said, foam flecking His curled lips," artists, dreamers, builders, thinkers…it is such a terrible wrench on our souls to even think about we must do…but I ask you, My brothers, what choice have they left us, they who can not build, can not dream and can only think of themselves and their depraved, perverted lusts, can only think upon our destruction…the answer, My fellow Patriarchs, is we’ve been left with no other choice, we must take up the terrible, terrible burden of war and drive these devils from our worlds by any and all means necessary!

"Need to focus on your damn job!" Rubber Toe shouted in her ear, making her flinch."You gotta fuckin' mess on the other end of that replicator, and probably half of what you've been producin's junk anyway!"

"Probably more n'half, " he added, before reassuring her,"your days are numbered, little Suzy; mark my words!"

Then, he walked away, heading for the pile of 109s at the other end of the replicator.

"Get your lazy ass off that fuckin' machine, and get over here! NOW!" Rubber Toe screamed at her not five seconds later, Susan knowing what was coming, and unable to do one goddamn thing about it.

She choked down her tears, because she wasn't going to give him that little bit of satisfaction.

With a deep breath, she made her way round to the other end of the industrial 3D printer, and the knot of shopping carts spilled out into the aisle and halfway into wire cutting.

Because the lift drivers were fucking off again, per usual, and she wasn't allowed to stop the machine to organize the carts herself.

"Look at this mess!" Rubber Toe screamed in her face."That's all you've fuckin' done for four hours, and not even a hunner' carts there," there were in fact about four meg, give or take, and they were still vomiting forth hot off the printer like a rat dam spitting out pups,"nothing but a fuckin' mess, and all of 'em fuckin' junk on top of that!"

"You gonna say something?!" he then taunted."Huh?! Where's that smart attitude now, huh, little girl?! Where's all the non-Canon bullshit you've been squirting out your slimy hole, ever since you got mixed up with Icky Vicky fuckin' Ford?!"

He laughed in her face.

Then spat:

"You don't go back on that machine, you don't go to break, you don't go to the fuckin' bathroom every hour, like you always do, until, every one of these carts is lined up, neatly! ¡¿Comprende?!"

"Yes," Susan whispered.

"Say 'yes, Magister,'" Rubber Toe warned."If you know what's good for you."

"Y-yes Mag-magister," Susan stammered.

"Claudio, take over Susan's machine!" Rubber Toe shouted.

"And, you," he said to Susan,"get to work!"

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:05:18

Tribune First Rank Mauricio Gomez, commanding Second Maniple, Cohort Infantería Mechanizada, of the Legion del Cid’s Tercio Judas Iscariote, was moving right along, his 410-kilo mechanized infantry combat suit bulling its way through one of the narrow streets of one of Judas’ many ghettos—housing projects, if you wanted to use the liberal PH term for them—full of squat, slit-windowed, red-brick houses where licentious, welfare parasites chose to live amongst rats, filth, gangs, drugs and their own kind prowling at night, looking for some pretty little girlie they could prey upon, ply with kike rock, candy, lingerie, spankings, and gang bangs, til she'd forgotten the civilized values her anointed patriarcas had tried teaching her, and surrendered herself to the howling jungle within all those diablillas.

There went one of ‘em now.

Putacita degenerada didn’t even know what shame was, clutching one of her ten babies to her titties as she cut across sidewalks and ran down the goddamn street, nothing on that fat black ass but a fuckin’ G-string that didn’t cover shit, them titties bouncing up and down out in the fucking open, ten, fifteen, twenty white boys in gang colors running after that hoochie, one of ‘em reaching out with an arcwhip, missing that big bootie, but burning through her right Achilles’ tendon, bringing her down hard on top of the rugrat in her arms, the conchita squawling as all them men jumped on her mama, that puta just wan

¡Pinches coños!

Just for a second, the veteran of the Novena Santa Cruzada wasn’t able to do a goddamn thing except watch those men, one by one, get sprayed all over that crying-ass little bitch by a buzzing electric-blue death ray of tungsten, Gomez just as quickly recovering from his shock.

Now was the time to run away, and pronto.

The blue-grey Standard Powered Armor of Earthpig Starship Infantry was coming at him from every direction, taking down motherfuckers left and right without even giving them half a chance to defend themselves, the apes screaming,”PORT STANLEY AND NO MERCY!” at the top of their lungs, as Gomez blazed and zapped away at them with his M82A2, as he backpedaled as rapidly as his MICS' servos could drive his legs.

A squad of his guys, caught away from their hounds, tried to run for their sled, recall their hounds and return the Earthpigs’ fire all at the same time.

Their sled went up in a ball of white fire behind them, their eight Bradbury’s hounds splashed before they could even get started running off after the girlies from the prison planet.

And one Amazon-looking chica came screaming towards the Caballeros themselves, the whole front of her armor pock-marked and scorched, psychotic bitch turning that whole goddamn squad into smears on the fucking deck with the two reddish-white glowing 20mm Soldier-Portable Rail Cannon she was holding in her hands like they were Lodi McQuaid’s trademark pearl-handled CS&W M116 5.8MJ PHASAR pistols.

He took dead aim at that blonde Amazon, as she reloaded both SPARCs, Gomez smiling, as he put the pipper dead center, and his weapon told him to fire.

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:06:08

"Fuckin' die,Timmo bastard!" Mordy spat over com, as he drove a firestorm of deuce and half from his M2166 through the back of a Caballero heavy suit, and out the other side in a geyser of blood and white-hot plasma, while Rikki continued walking both of those heavy soddin' SPARCs across 180 degrees of arc immediately in front of her.

Thudding and ripping through a squad or two of Caballero Cazadores the commander of Ariel's SI company had only now just seen pepperpotting their way behind Ariel's 1 Section of 1 Flight.

"Shit, they're sneaky bastards!" Lance Corporal Thania Copeland, commanding 1/1 Flight's second gun team, interjected, even she swept 120 degrees of arc in front of her with her Twin Six, the rest of the section joining her in obliterating a trio of diamagnetic-assist, vectored-thrust gun sleds carrying three squads of Cazzies, and their sodding Bradbury's hounds.

"Timmies are only ever good for backstabbin', Corporal!" Starshipman Elyse McDonnell reminded the assistant section leader, as 1/1 Flight separated into its two gun teams, Mordy leading first gun team along the left-hand side of the narrow street, Thania leading second gun team along the right, moving from cover to cover, as more Caballeros took them under fire, being sure to turn their hounds loose beforehand, bloody mechanoids bolting toward the eight Federal Starship Infantrymen, slaver hot with cerberal-paralytic virus dripping from double rows of very sharp monofilament-edged steel teeth.

While a pair of Puma diamagnetic-assist, vectored-thrust merkavas snapped and crackled 36.2MJ pulses from their remotely-turreted main PHASARs, fired 9MJ pulses from the coax and sponson-mounted secondary PHASARs, and loosed a flight of Pilum antimatter-catalyzed bomb-pumped graser missiles from the tubes in its belly, while Caballero standard infantry deployed from the rear-mounted troop bay.

"Carl Gustavs, deal with those merkavas!" Mordy ordered."Everyone else, take out those missiles!"

Starshipmen Anne Shipp and Claudia Radebrecher took aim with their M2150 Carl Gustav XVI 4cm soldier-portable rail cannon, and fired one-kilogram solid-tungsten penetrators at a touch over twelve kilokips to hole both Pumas through their front glacis, and scoop out their insides in whooshes of white-hot plasma which also burned and slagged many of the standard infantry in the midst of deploying from their vehicles.

"HISAP on those damn hounds!" Mordy then ordered his two Carl Gustav gunners, as the rest of the section concentrated their fire on the missiles screaming toward them, picking them off one by one, as a pair of single-gauge HISAP shells vomited ten thousand rounds of deuce and a half(at over 23,000 m/s) into the midst of the preferred, sadistic killing machines of the Christnazis and their clients.

The rounds still airborne after shredding the hounds into so much bloody meat and spare parts ripped into the standard infantry attempting to move up from the wreckage of their rides, as the remainder of both gun teams, having now dispatched all the missiles, were free to engage the Cazzies on either side of the street.

"More HISAP on the standards," Mordy ordered his Carl Gustav gunners."Clear the street of those Timmo bastards, and keep fucking moving!"

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:08:19

¡Puta!

¡Pinche puta!

Legate 1st Rank Don Alejandro Hererra ground his teeth, as the black ship of la Angela de la Muerta jinked and burned in Barco de la Legion Fransisco Franco's master holoprojector, trying desperately to escape the judgement about to be visited upon her by the Hannibal-class star carrier's three salvos of quantum torpedos, even as the coño tried to defy the judgement He had laid against all her subhuman monkey kind by salvoing more of her primitive tungsten penetrators at the flagship of the Tercio Franco, the four and a half million ton star carrier's 150 cutting-edge PHASARs having little trouble shooting down those—

¡Pinche coño!

Franco's CIC went dark, alarms howling in Hererra's com, as Triarius Tribune 2nd Rank Cornelius Kekkonen shrilled:

"Primary and secondary electrics completely burned out! Teritary electrics 67% disrupted; radiators two through twelve destroyed! Internal temperature now 60 degrees, continuing to rise! Penetrations on hangar and PHASAR decks, hangar bay gutted, PHASARS ten through 120 offli—"

"Kill her!" Herrera screamed at his tactical officer, Tribune 3rd Rank Akira Sifuentes."Helm, evasive maneuvers! Defensive, overfire all remaining PHASRs, nothing gets through! Shooter, order all escorts to form up on Franco, and form a defensive wedge around the ship! Comms, order the Columbia and Argentina cruiser alae to converge on Ariel, and cut off her maneu—¡pinche!"

CIC went dark yet again, the little blonde statist bitch who had humilated him over Gregorio Cortes last Christmas driving even more of her damned rocks past the PHASARs, and through his ship's Whipple armor, as Kekkonen proved disgustingly quick to report:

"Patrón, warp engine is offline! Impulse engine severely damage, no better than one kilograv max burn available! Impulse engine thermopile is shorting out, radiators thirteen and fifteen destroyed, internal heat now 74 degrees, still rising, armor belt experiencing boil-off! PHASARs two through eight, 121 through 134 have suffered heat casaulties and are now offline; torpedo launchers eight through fifty have suffered heat casualties and are now offli—"

Damn her!

She would not win, not again, not against a veteran Caballero, a warrior for peace, unfettered by limp-wristed rules of engagement, rules of law, humanitarian concerns for those who weren't even human in the first place, all combining to prove, before Him and His Natural Aristocracy, how weak and inferior they truly were.

She would not win!

He would not allow that to happen ever again.

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:09:40

"Fuck," Jami swore, as Araxes and Arcadian both died under volleys of Timmo SMWs, Ariel's two squadron mates taking five Balboa-class cruisers(rebadged Canons)with them as they went.

Not that it does their families any good, the commander of 633 Main-Battle bitterly mused, as she programmed scant seconds of war emergency burn into the shipnet at the same time she violently jerked the stick in her left hand in every direction at once, twisting her ship out of the path of more saboted-meson warhead salvos flying from the Timmo star carrier bearing down on Ariel with a bone in its teeth, Simone vectoring more 24cm STP his way, three more enemy cruisers intercepting three of the inbound tungsten penetrators with terminal results.

As the 03 went dark a second, alarms screaming in her com, Chels reporting:

"Primary electrics burned out! Secondary electrics 84% disrupted, radiators two and four destroyed, internal temp now 54 degrees, continuing to rise! Bravo Turret locked forward, unable to traverse!"


8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:10:45

"On it!" Chief Technician Khryste Pollard replied via com, as she squeezed herself through the starboard weapons hull to the turret holding a quartet of violently jackhammering 240mm railguns, their slamming, cacophonic vibrations causing the ladder she climbed to access Bravo Turret to shudder and tremble, as Ariel's second flight engineer double-checked her safety harness, while she continued making her way to the turret.

Where the jackhammering was at its worst, as the quad railguns recoiled against the turret's pusher plate and diamagnetic field jenny, before returning to battery, and firing to start the whole process all over again, Khryste instantly locating the fault preventing the turret from traversing through ninety degrees of arc, same as its brothers.

Two broken ends of fibre-optic cabling, the end of the cable leading back into the forward wiring harness in the 'tween deck spitting and sparking electricity.

"Right," she said over com."03, am taking Bravo Turret out of service."

She flipped the breaker just above her head, using the key round her neck to lock it out, and waiting for all the energy in the cable to completely die out, before she contorted her body in the confined space to bring the two severed ends of cabling together, contorting herself again to grab the optical welder out of the toolkit slung round her shoulders, and painstakingly splice each bit of fiber-optic wiring together, before wrapping electrical tape round the splices for insulation.

"03, am returning turret to service," she then said, as she unlocked the breaker, and threw it,"going hot!"

And, the turret's four railguns took up their hellish anvil chorus precisely where they'd left it off, Khryste carefully making her way back down the ladder, climbing along another to make her way to the deck proper, then squeezing herself back through the hatchway communicating with the 'tween decks.

Immediately setting to work on restoring the primary electrics, shinnying herself past one of the ship's repair bots to reach a blown transformer, immediately printing a replacement part with the portable replicator which was part of her kit, as she checked the wiring leading into the blown transformer to ensure there was no current going through it, before she used her drilldriver to unscrew the faulty transformer from the bulkhead, and install its replacement.

"Good job, by the way," Chels said over a private channel, and part of Khryste wished she hadn't, not when neither of them knew how the other felt, both of them scared of feeling anything toward each other, but...

Damn it.

"Th-thanks," Khryste whispered.

"W-welcome," Chels stammered in reply, as Khryste concentrated on squeezing herself through the 'tween decks, and doing her job.

Nothing else.

Not right now.

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:13:17

Not right now, damn it, Chels cursed herself, as her fingers flew over her MFD, guiding repair bots and nanites in fixing the SATAN field generator, at the same time she tried everything she could think of to keep the ship's internal temperature from rising any further.

All of Ariel's other engineers were in the 'tween deck spaces, working furiously to restore the primary electrics, while their officer glanced at the status of the Whipple armour belt, diverting what power she could from the torch to strengthen the diamagnetics, cos, a meson decaying in the 'tween decks would be certain, screaming death for anyone caught in its path, and decaying mesons left a less than pretty corpse.

As it had to four of her team a couple days ago.

As it might do to Khrys, if I fuck this up, like I've done—

Damn it!

Fuck.

She couldn't think about her.

Not right now.

Not when the survival of this ship rode on her shoulders.

Not when that part of her was mocking her, reminding her what girls who like other girls did to—

No.

Just...no!

Her fingers continued flying over all the MFD's virtual keys, even as her stomach twisted and lurched in response to another violent evasive, the diamagnetics in the deck taking a moment to smooth everything back out to a steady one standard gravity, as Chels forced herself to concentrate on the heat issue, and on fixing the SATAN field jenny.

"Am returning hellspace system to service," she reported a moment later, instantly wishing she'd checked her work, because she was never sure she'd—

Her teeth rattled, and her hair stood on end, as the Skipper took her chief flight engineer's report as good, and jumped into hell for the briefest of instants, jumping back into norm, so that Weps could slam two dozen 24cm STP into something at point-blank range, before Ariel made still another hellspace jump, fired another salvo, jumped into hell, jumped back into norm, jinked and burned hard, even as she unleashed another salvo.

"Starships jumping in, plus sixty by 12.7, 112.5 kiloklicks downrange, closing at three kilokips!" Master Corporal McDonough reported."Two squadrons Nemesis-class machines escorting two Bedivere-class regimental transports; transports are releasing dropships!"

"Defensive," the Skipper ordered,"stand by to engage any hostile small craft attempting threatening those dropships!"

"Skipper," Flight Gaines replied, as Cor McDonough reported:

"Additional starships jumping in, plus thirty by five decimal two-three, 225 kiloklicks downrange, closing at three kilokips! Mid carrier group, one Stevens-class, twenty-three Adak-class!"

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:15:00

She forced herself not to flinch.

Forced herself to pretend everything was okay, even though she died a little inside, watching silent children sit silently at their desks(each inside a hush bubble), and silently take in today's lesson from the Received Canon.

Watched Roz's little girl sit in silence, as her desk's Network terminal reminded her that she was broken, worthless, unable to achieve anything on her own, innately perverted and easily pervertible, a counterproductive drain on resources who had sinned simply by being born.

Which was why the Patriarchs and anointed Magisters of her life had to decide what she was going to be, when she grew up, why they had to decide the only thing they thought she ever could be good for.

As they'd done to her, when she'd been Jaycee's age.

Fenika Thomas turned away from Jaycee, staring past the twenty-nine boys and one girl the basic training teacher had been assigned to babysit, at a point on the far wall, lest the SSID men pick up on her looking at Jaycee, and suspect she'd been looking at her too long.

The thirty-eight year old woman also forced herself not to notice Johnny Ford leering at her, even as he spared an ogling glance at Jaycee, in the uniform guranteed to mark her as not like the others, inferior to the others, deserving only subjugation by the others.

Same as the uniforms Roz and Fenika were required to wear did to them.

Just as she started thinking about Roz, and a voice in her head started reminding her of the nasty things women did to other women, Fenika started bolt upright at the click of the classroom door unlocking itself, and the buzz of it swinging open, a squad of uniformed SSID men entering the room, taking up guard positions on either side of the doorway, as Stephan Brown, expensively-dressed as usual, walked in, grinned, as he stripped Fenika naked with his eyes, and turned to face the class.

"Lower the hush bubble around Jaycee Murray's desk," he ordered the schoolnet.

The sound-cancelling ultrasonic field surrounding Jaycee collapsed.

"Jaycee Murray," Stephan barked out,"you are to accompany us. Now!"

Jaycee didn't question.

She just lowered her eyes, got up, shuffled toward Stephan, who then pointed her toward the door and the squad of SSID men ushering her outside.

Stephan then locked eyes with Johnny Ford a moment, Johnny's com unit lighting up, as the ten-year old boy met Stephan's gaze a second, then nodded his head.

"Good," the SSID officer remarked, before turning on his heel and walking away.

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:17:41

"Hey," Jimbo Fulk said, as the maintenance supervisor began helping Susan out with the tangle of carts growing increasingly tangled, as the replicator continued cranking them out at 150 per second.

"I don't think Rubber Toe," Susan started to say, Jimbo interrupting her:

"Sorry 'bout Vicky, Lexie...and Josh too, now."

"What?!" Susan, just barely catching a Model 109 before it would've rolled into her, and knocked her flat.

"Rubber Toe," Jimbo replied,"came into the maintenance shop about an hour ago, told me I had to let Josh go, or he was gonna give me and my guys jury trials right there on the spot. He took his last paycheck, all his benefits, everything, for...reasons he didn't feel he had to explain to the likes of me."

"Fuck," Susan whispered, as Rubber Toe barked out:

"What the fuck do you think, you're doing?! I told you to clean up this mess, not have the maintenance supervisor do your work for you!"

"That wasn't her idea, Roberto," Jimbo started to explain, Rubber Toe cutting him off:

"It's past time for you to start pulling your weight around here! Everybody else is sick and tired of carryin' you, lil' Suzy Floozie!"

"Now, Roberto," Jimbo started to say, as he walked toward Rubber Toe.

And, was stopped dead in his tracks by the CS&W Model 116 5.8MJ PHASAR pistol Rubber Toe now aimed right between his eyes.

"James Fulk," Rubber Toe whispered menacingly,"you are under arrest for unforgiveable crimes against His Received Canon! You have no rights, whatsoever, only the privilege of loving judgement and final punishment by one of His Patriarchs and anointed Magisters! I, your legally-constituted jury under the Second Amendment of His Received Canon, will now conduct your trial! Trial begins! Guilty as charged! Sentence: Death and eternal damnation! Appeal denied! May He have mercy on your soul!”

And, then he fired, Jimbo's head disappearing in a blue flash and a puff of smoke.

As, on the holoprojector above him, most of the town of Owen disappeared in a mushrooming roar of hot light.

"Claudio," Rubber Toe then ordered,"stop fucking off! I need each machine on this floor to crank out 400 parts per second!"

"It only go to 150," Claudio insisted. "The safety—"

"I said, four hundred parts per second!" Rubber Toe snapped."Now! Before you're next in line for a jury trial!"

"Si, patrón," Claudio replied, as he bypassed the replicator's safety interlock, and ramped up production.

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:20:00

Caesar Christus smiled, as He watched His latest work rise from the wreckage of Owen on every holoprojector before Him.

"A bit premature," the little Rodent behind Him observed.

"Couldn't have asked for better timing," the anointed President of His Church Government airly replied, knocking back another glass of Burbon and kike, as He watched His good little Movie Board anchormen and anchorsluts tell His Worlds what He wanted them to believe.

For their own good.

While, in the street in front of His Capitol, MACOs and Militia men tore into the mob howling for justice for those undeserving of such a thing, the Dirts having done Him a favor by jumping the gun and starting the war back up.

Just as He knew they would.

They were femperv apes, after all, damned by their inferior genetics to forever repeat the cycle of hatred and pain.

The King Of Kings, Lord Of Lords, chuckled, as He poured himself another waterglass of Burbon, dissolving a generous amount of the reddish-brown powder known as dancer, shiny, sheen, Jew's balm, or kike into the drink.

Again, on several dozen holoproectors in His penthouse apartment's study, the town of Owen died in cleansing fire, and again, His good little Movie Board bitchboys and girls told His Children and the lesser races of their Creation of plots and conspiracies, death tolls and distraught family members, as deacons, pastors and ministers all offered prayers of resurrection for the most deserving amongst His martyrs.

"We will probably lose Judas," He cheerfully remarked, as he looked at the Union Peace Mission's repeater holodisplay,"and most, if not all, of Chalcedon's orbitals at the 450- and 900-kiloklick limits, but we'll definitely hold the Dirts at the 225-kiloklick limit. We have the forces sufficent to ensure they don't set boot one on Chalcedon."

"We can't launch any offensives against them, either," Real remarked."We're holding our own just trying to keep them from taking our worlds."

"We're pinning them in place," the Dominus Christus of His Most Perfect Union reminded him,"and bleeding 'em dry; futhermore, We've reinforced Vulcan from our bases in interstellar space, which was the main purpose I had behind calling a cease-fire.

Soon, We will be able to resume the liberation and redeemption of Big Sky."

"The rest," He reassured the Roadie CEO,"will follow. As was predicted by His Received Canon."
"When you send a man out with a gun, you create a policymaker. When his ass is on the line, he will do whatever he needs to do.

And, if the implications of that bother you, the time to do something about it is before you send him out."
—David Drake


"Oh, but you did! You turn on any of my crew, you turn on me! But, since that's a concept you can't seem to wrap your head around, then, you've got no place here. You did it to me, Jayne, and that's a fact."

—Malcolm Reynolds, captain of the Firefly-class hauler Serenity,in a nutshell

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Re: Let Us Sleep Now(new story thread; NSFW)

Postby U.P. Cinnabar » 2016-07-09 12:33am

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:24:03

Look at those motherfuckers run now.

All Shoshanna had time to think as she and the others with her ran towards the Caballeros, SSID men, and Militia, all guns blazing, Shana ducking behind someone’s brand-new ’76 BMW S80 ragtop to reload her tri-PHASAR, slamming one of her nine remaining battery clips into the weapon, coming round the back bumper, a Militia man—big, fat, whiter than a sheet of paper—waiting for her, looking at her blood-spattered tank top , panties, and the body it pinched and bunched up.

Grinning like a damn fool, before Shana busted him good with the butt of her weapon, knocking him down onto the ferrocrete floor of the Tower’s underground parking garage, blood, teeth and snot all over the damn place, white boy calling her a goddamn little black bitch, taking the arcwhip from his belt at the same time he tried to get back up on his feet, Shana jumping on that fat son of a bitch, both of them hitting the ground, white boy forgetting all about his arcwhip as he grabbed and groped at her with both his grubby hands, as Shanna managed to grab hold of enough of his short, bleached blond hair to drive his thick skull into the ground one, two, three, four, five times, before the motherfucker stopped moving.

She got off of him, her whole body shaking so bad she almost couldn’t stand up, covered in his blood and brains, added to the blood and brains of the sons of bitches who'd been trying to get Shana to repent of her friendship with Punky, along with all her other sins.

She couldn’t even undo this one’s belt buckle, her hands were shaking so bad, Shana getting sick to her stomach looking at all that blood and brains everywhere, so she stared down at the belt buckle instead, finally managing to unbuckle it and get it off the fat bitch, fumbling as she buckled it on over the other belt round her waist.

Taking one last deep breath, before getting the hell on.

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:26:22

With Yukikaze and Potempkin on either side, Ariel charged the ragged remnants of the hostile super star carrier expeditionary force, as it swung round Judas on a direct intercept, two wings of explorers forming a V directly ahead of a pair of Sovereigns and a Galactica screening their Dominion, while warp fighters shot ahead of the explorers and closed with the flight of FedStarForce warbirds, their PHASARs crackling blue lightning along the Earth starships' hulls, at the same time the fighters fired salvo after salvo of SMWs.

"On 'em," Phyllicia reported, as the PDRGs swept the immediate battlespace clean of inbound meson warheads and incoming warp fighters, while Jami punched scant microseconds of eight-kilograv burn into the shipnet, and fired the RCS thrusters to put still another wobble into her vector.

"Where are those scouts?!" Jami asked, as a brace of 24cm saboted-tungsten penetrators slammed into one of the two Sovereigns, and sent its gutted hull spinning into Judas' atmosphere.

"Got 'em, Skipper," Caitlin tersely reported, as the Galactica and the Dominion both warped out."Hundreds of 'em, all at fifty kiloklicks from Judas, boosting toward atmospheric insertion!"

"Yeah," Jami replied, even as she spun up the hellspace system, and plotted an intercept for the Christnazi Starstalkers burning hard for atmospheric re-entry."Potemkin, Yukikaze, on me!"

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:27:00

In the end, they were all just holes.

As Major Emory Snell—commanding USS Freedom's MACO battalion—thought this, he was pumping 53kJ bolts of blue lightining from his M32, his johnson pushing up through the crotchplate of the veteran applied behavioral scientist's combat armor, as he watched the Bradbury's hounds run down, jump on and tear up all those disobedient little monkeys, the mechanoids using their teeth and their tools on ‘em at the same time.

Which was fine, as Snell didn’t want them dead.

He just wanted them to repent.

Because he loved the licentious little femperv howlers, in spite of themselves.

Bitches shat their fucking panties when he drove blue-hot PHASAR pulses into the parked cars they were trying to fucking hide behind, all of them looking back at him like jocritters getting shined—just before they got their cooter heads blown off for being the animals in the first place—while the hounds did their jobs, not taking long at all to leave them moaning and helpless on the deck.

Lights went out in the Tower’s underground parking garage, Corporal Aaron Fielder reporting,”colony net offline, s—“

“Good,” Snell replied, his weapon’s holographic sights switching to the UV band, lighting up one little piece of ass who wasn’t running away, who was actually fucking stupid enough to stand there and aim her tri-PHASAR at dead at him.

He had to laugh.

All she was good for was three holes, and no waiting, yet here she was, childishly denying what she was, what she deserved for being what she was, simply because she was a radfemperv ape, innately incapable of distinguishing reality from fantasy, right from wrong.

And, Snell loved her enough to—

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:27:00

"Plot an intercept, now, damn you!" Selkirk screamed at Takai, even as Yorktown's pilot plotted the necessary course, and took the 190,000-ton Received Canon-class exploration vessel into warp, bringing them back into normal space, so that Pavlov could ram salvo after salvo of quantum torpedos straight up Ariel's drive flare.

Being the insubordinate, willful child all her subhuman monkey kind were, however, Selkirk's bad little girl did a counter-burn from her primitive atomic rocket engine, a quick viff from her clumsy, unsophisticated RCS thrusters, and Ariel weaved, bobbed, and flipped herself round on her short axis to rain fire down on his ship with her Stone Age, rock-throwing fucking railguns, even as her point defenses continued shredding Starstalkers all around her, in a little girl's childish defiance of His inexorable Will.

"Evasive maneuvers, Brother Takai!" Selkirk ordered, as CIC went dark, and Tucker bitched and moaned via comm about what systems were offline this time.
"Return fire, Brother Pavlov!" ]Yorktown's Skipper, once the Admiral-Apostle of His Starfleet, shouted."Defensive, overfire all PHASARs; those rocks she's throwing will not get through, understand?!"

"It is His Will that Judas be subjected to redeemptive cleansing," he reminded the others, even as CIC went dark still again. "She cannot be allowed to go against His Will and His Work of Evolution!"

"PHASARs one, three, five and six have all suffered heat casualties, and are offline!" Tucker screeched in Selkirk's com."Penetration in torpedo deck, torpedo launchers one, three and five are offline! Radiators four, seven, and twelve have been destroyed, internal heat now 71 degrees, continuing to rise! Impulse engine severely damaged, no better than 800 grav max acceleration possible! Impulse engine thermopile shorting out, due to increasing heat! Armor belt experiencing boil-o—"

"She will not be allowed to go against His Will and His Work!" Selkirk repeated, as the little bitch twisted her way out of target lock, and hammered his ship again.

"Sir!" the comms watchstander reported,"Houstoun reports it is under heavy assault by Dirt warships, and is requesting support from both explorer wings."

"You heard what I said!" was Selkirk's reply, even as he watched 24cm STP tear through Freedom, and send what remained of it spinning end over end into an even dozen Starstalkers.

"His Work comes first!" the commander of the USS Yorktown reminded the others, as Takai violently wrenched his ship to bring its three working quantum torpedo tubes to bear on Selkirk's bad little girlie.

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:29:02

"HISAP on the MACOs!" Mordy shouted over company tacnet, before adding,"first team have achieved cover, supporting by fire!"

"Second team advancing!" Thania reported, as Mordy swept the immediate area in front of him with deuce and a half, Starshipman Morgan LeFevre banging away with her 2cm SPARC right next to him, while Claudia loosed a pair of single-gauge HISAP rounds to rip through MACOs caught by surprise and their hastily-redeployed Bradbury's hounds indiscriminately.

"Second team have achieved cover, supporting by fire!" Thania announced over tacnet, even as 2 Section's Corporal Gilly Foyle shouted out,"first team advancing!"

"Second team supporting by fire!" Gilly's ASL, Lance Corporal Kishana Clarkson, then shouted over tacnet.

And, so on, 1 Flight's four sections pepperpotting their way along the Tower's underground carpark, gradually distracting the company of Christofascists from their intended prey.

Any moment now, Mordy thought to himself, sparing a glance toward the ceiling, as 2 Section of 1 Flight passed his position, and he sprang from the cover of a parked(and wrecked)car, shouting "first team advancing!" before running like hell toward the next bit of cover, sweeping 180 degrees of arc with his Twin Six.

Any moment now, the commander of Ariel's SI's thought again, not sparing another glance toward the ceiling, as he continued charging down the length of the carpark, until he reached another blazing wreck of a parked car some five hundred meters away.

Once behind cover, he risked a second glance toward the ceiling.

Any mo—

The ceiling went, and Mordy got back to supporting by fire, as 2 Flight fast-roped in with all guns blazing on top of those MACOs who hadn't been flattened by chunks of the carpark's upper level falling down on them, forcing the Christnazis to split their fire between the enemies now in their midst and the enemies charging directly at them.

"Gunners, support by fire! Riflemen, charge!" Mordy shouted, rolling out from behind cover, finding his feet, and driving deuce and a half through the nearest enemy position, at the same time he ran toward them.

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:29:02

"Return fire, Brother Kim!" Captain Thomas Eugene Paris shouted over com, as USS Independence's CIC went dark yet again, Parris ignoring Burke's caterwauling about damage and the increasing heat.

"Evasive means to evade, Brother Lavelle!" he then shouted to his brown-nosing, worthless excuse for a pilot, as Kim fired salvo after salvo of quantum torps at the three Dirt warships who dared defy His Will where Unarco PGC's Judas facility was concerned.

The fact one of those ships was the Angel of Darkness' was utterly, completely irrelevant.

As was she.

As were all of them.

That was Canon, and Paris did not question what was Canon, for Canon was truth, and truth was Canon.

As more Starstalkers died under inferior, primitive Dirt point-defense railguns, Lavelle did something right for a change, and brought Independence's six quantum torpedo tubes to bear on one of the enemy hulls, Buster not wasting a second in launching salvo after salvo at the doomed warship wriggling on the hook of the far more advanced exploration, scientific and peackeeping platform bearing down on her to administer loving, violent judgement and fi—

Shit!

CIC went dark yet again, alarms screaming in his ears, Burke reporting,”primary and secondary electrical systems completely burned out! Teritary electrical system 65% disrupted! Radiators one through eight destroyed, internal heat 70 degrees and rising! Penetrations in hangar deck, torpedo deck, PHASAR deck, crew deck, and engineering spaces! Torpedo tubes one, two, four, and six are offline; PHASARs one, two, and four are offline! Armor belt experiencing boil-off!”



8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:31:18

The 03 went dark again.

"Primary gun computer offline!" Lieutenant Montigny reported via com. "Switching to secondary!"

"Primary point-defence computer offline!" Flight Gaines reported. "Switching to secondary!"

God, Chels thought, as she frantically shunted ancillary coolant through the ship's Whipple armour belt, Khrys.

Out loud, Ariel's chief flight engineer reported,"Secondary electrics now 90% disrupted, teritary electrics 47% disrupted! Radiators eight and twelve destroyed, internal heat now 72 degrees, continuing to rise! Am shunting ancillary coolant through the armour belt! "

Chels' stomach lurched, the deck's diamagnetics fluttering, as the Skipper wrenched her ship in several directions at once, firing the torch at war emergency burn for the slightest of instants, as Mister Montigny hammered the Canon that had fastened itself onto their ship like a Satan's helper round a girl tossed in the pit during Sunday meeting at the town hall, two dozen 150kg tungsten penetrators flensing more of the enemy's warbird's skin from bones glowing white with heat, as they boiled themselves off into space.

While Flight Gaines' point-defence railguns ripped scores of Starstalker-class scoutcraft into gutted, drifting hulks, as scores more tried getting past Ariel to take out the colony below.

"Primary electrics 30% restored," Khrys breathlessly reported over Chels' com, and Chels' heart soared at hearing that, since she'd been sure her chief technician had been—

No!

Can't.

Fuckin' can't! Chels angrily reminded herself, as Cor McDonough reported,"surviving enemy capital ships are disengaging and jumping out."

"Remaining enemy warp fighters and scoutcraft," Ariel's sensor and comm tech then said, as the Canon fixated on their ship fell away eviscerated and spinning through space,"converging on Judas, burning hard at four kilograv."

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:31:18

"...as ten-year old Jameison Cara Murray," said the CBN reporter standing at ground zero over Roz's com, as she just sat at her desk, numb.

Her baby was gone.

Fenika...gone.

And, Roz couldn't feel anything.

"—poor academic performance, and a history of bullying, clashes with authority, and femsexual violence," the reporter droned on."Several sources have told CBN News that Murray was a very controlling, very manipulative, very troubled little girl, preying upon her classmates and teachers alike."

They were blaming her little girl.

They were blaming her little girl for the deaths of over 45,000 people.

She should've been angry about that, about the lies they were telling on Jaycee, but, Roz...just...couldn't feel anything.

"—her mother, 48-year old Rosalind Murray, a former sex worker and convicted sexual predator, has been linked to notorious terrorist, war criminal, and lesbian sex killer Jamie Lee Selkirk."

Fuck.

No emotion in thinking that, just simple acknowledgement they were going to use her and Jami being friends once upon a time to further implicate Jaycee.

No emotion.

Hollowed out.

She was all hollowed out inside, completely shut down, no longer feeling or thinking, just...

"I've been waiting for this a long time," Rubber Toe said, as he stood in the doorway to her office, and she didn't even flinch.

Inevitable.

She'd expected him, and the pair of the facility's SSID men standing just behind him the outer office.

"Rosalind Michelle Murray," Rubber Toe gloated,"you are under arrest for unforgiveable crimes against His Received Canon! You have no rights, whatsoever, only the privilege of loving judgement and final punishment by one of His Patriarchs and anointed Magisters! I, your legally-constituted jury under the Second Amendment of His Received Canon, will now conduct your trial! Trial begins! Guilty as charged! Sentence: Sexual correction and repentive therapy! Appeal denied! May He have mercy on your soul!”

He then nodded, and the SSID men came for her.

She didn't even fight back.
"When you send a man out with a gun, you create a policymaker. When his ass is on the line, he will do whatever he needs to do.

And, if the implications of that bother you, the time to do something about it is before you send him out."
—David Drake


"Oh, but you did! You turn on any of my crew, you turn on me! But, since that's a concept you can't seem to wrap your head around, then, you've got no place here. You did it to me, Jayne, and that's a fact."

—Malcolm Reynolds, captain of the Firefly-class hauler Serenity,in a nutshell

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Re: Let Us Sleep Now(new story thread; NSFW)

Postby U.P. Cinnabar » 2016-07-20 10:58am

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:33:02

Caesar Madhadmedus Christus thrust His left arm outward, palm flat, to return the salutes of the Cazadores of His Tercio Hólandes, as he stepped down from the Capitol's main transporter stage, and walked purposefully toward the chambers where His First Presidency and His Five Hundred were waiting, along with those of the good little bitchboys and girls of His Movie Board currently on Chalcedon deemed worthy of...repentance and rehabilitation.

Not as many of those as I would like, Iosue Caesar mused a moment, as He continued walking, a Cazadore platoon forming a shielding phalanx all round Him.

It will make a good start, nonetheless, Israel concluded, as Legate 2nd Rank Alois Draak trotted up to Him, the commander of His Tercio Hólandes coming straight to the point, as one of His Biological Authoritarians should:

“We've cleared and contained the immediate area around Your Capitol, and are proceeding, in company with the MACOs, and those of our Brothers called up for Militia duty, to extend the redemptive cleansing to the rest of Atlantis and to the whole of Atlantis Chruch as well.”

“That's why I pay you the megacreds, General,” the rightful Heir to the New Jerusalem and the Sacred American Legacy reminded the swarthy, runty, half-breed, literal son of a whore, who also held the rank of Major General in His Military Assistance Command.

“Is there a cordon round Owen, like I asked?” the King of Kings, Lord of Lords then demanded.

“There is, Sire,” Draak was quick to reply. “The Consul Pacis saw to it personally...then, I did, Father.”

“Also,” the true King of Israelites reminded the creature stinking of the taint of procreation,”what I pay you for, General. Survivors?”

“Some 2,500, so far, Sire,” Draak replied.”The men amongst them have undergone resurrection and memory rehabilitation, while the apes...”

“The apes,” Draak repeated, with a predatory smile,”are being made to repent, until either they seek true remorse for their sin of existence...or until they die, and their biomass recycled to further His Work of Evolution.”

“Very good, General,” the anointed President of His Church Government told Draak, as they stood before a pair of solid-oak over Whipple-armor doors leading into the Assembly chambers. “You may go now.

Do what I pay to do.”

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:33:02

“My brothers,” the First amongst His Race of Biological Authoritarians said, as He stood, tall and proud, before Roberto Griego, manager of the Ford's Valley Facility of His Unarco Prosperity Gospel Church,”on Chalcedon, and on all the worlds of His Creation, even those worlds illegally claimed by the whorish ape daughters of the Harlot Lilitu, I stand before all of you to tell you We have failed.”

Roberto worked on the second of the breakfast burritos his latest bitch had made for the man who'd loved her enough to waste hard-earned money purchasing her in the first place, as the Dominus Christus of His Church repeated:

We have failed, My Brothers and fellow anointed Magisters, We have failed in Our sacred, biological duty to love the lesser races, and keep them in hand, lest they give in to their innate feminine perversity, force each other, and all of Us, to become femperv ape creatures, and drag everything We have shed Our sacred blood, Our sweat, and Our tears to build into the depravity, decadence, and destruction of the their jungle, their Imperial Roman, Nazi Communist State, as was predicted by His Received Canon!

Strictly from the advanced traits of mercy, compassion, and pity only We, His First-Born Sons, are capable of demonstrating, We have made the terrible, terrible mistake, ten years ago, of thinking they were like Us, that they could be doers, dreamers, builders, thinkers, parents, and human beings!

We were misogynists, My Brothers, misogynists, because We hated them so much We were foolish enough to believe they were worthy of any rights, let alone equal rights.

And, that misogynistic sin of equality—as sin so often does, for that is Canon as well—has come home to roost in the most tragic way possible, the most tragic way! Fifty thousand people, an entire town, oblitered from the face of Chalcedon by a spiteful, spoiled little brat who just could not measure up to what We are, who didn't want to admit she was only ever good enough to sling hash in some Chick n' Waffle for the rest of whatever life We, the Lords and Masters of that life, permitted her to live, whose hateful, jealous lesbian rage drove her to such a heinous, barbaric act!”

Caesar Christus, the anointed President Of His Church Government, paused yet again, as Roberto washed down the breakfast burrito with a swallow of black coffee from his thermos.”

“But,” He then said, once the Assembly chamber had quieted back down,”she was just the instrument, a willful, spoiled, spiteful, but hurting child, taken advantage of by the true author of this terrible atrocity We allowed to happen, because of We didn't love them enough to keep them in their places!

This little girl was manipulated through her pain, her hatred, her rage, her jealousy, and her pretentions, groomed to be the latest lover of a vicious sexual predator who had forced her mother into a toxic non-Canon relationship, forced her mother—one of the Angel of Darkness' many victims—to give her little girl over to misogynistic, femperv enslavement, to let her be shaped into her eager, slobbering victim, a religious fanatic willing to kill and die for her Goddess, her Dark Angel, and their religion of Creationism and Feminist National Socialism!”

Roberto smiled, because he knew he would have his way, because he was having his way even now, as he sat alone in the break room, and finished his breakfast, while Rabbitf00t and Claudio were dragging Lil' Suzy Floozie out of his facility, and she wouldn't even be allowed to question what would soon be Canon, let alone permitted by the anointed Lords and Masters of her worthless life to ever deny it, ever again.

“—thought she could unwrite what had already been written, undo His Great and Inevitable Work of Evolution by violently lashing out and attempting to murder Us.”

And, the gallery behind Him began to fill with white-robed men and boys, led by the Pastor and Council of Deacons of His Municipal Congregation of Owen, as the President Of His Most Perfect Union pounded His podium, and assured His Brothers:

We are the First-Born Sons of Adam Yeshua ben Yaweh, Iosue Madhadmedus Caesar Christus, and the Sons Of God cannot be murdered, cannot be swayed from Our purpose, Our destiny, His Work Of Evolution which shall result in Our ascension to Deo sapiens, and in their millenium of loving judgement,and final punishment, which will precede their utter and inevitable extinction! That is Canon, and Canon cannot be questioned, cannot be contradicted, cannot ever be denied, cannot ever be thwarted! As Canon wills it—“

“So mote it be!” Roberto and his fellow Sons of God shouted in unison, as he thrust his right arm out, palm flat, at the beautiful image of His President.

“As He commands—“

“SO MOTE IT BE!”

“As Evolution dictates—“

“SO MOTE IT BE! SO MOTE IT BE! SO MOTE IT BE! SO MOTE IT BE!

“So,” His President whispered through gritted teeth, “mote it! Be!”

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:33:02

“Shit,” Nigella whispered, even as she drove 24cm STP into enemy capital ships now clustered round Chalcedon's 225-kiloklick limit.

Da,” Suzannah grimly acknowledged, glancing at the remnants of the orbital glowing soft white in Dauntless' master holoprojector, as she punched scant nanoseconds of war emergency burn into the shipnet, while violentlly jerking the stick in every direction, saboted-meson warheads, like the ones which had “redeemptively cleansed” the orbital and several others along the 450-kiloklick limit, jumping in and screaming past the ship in every direction, as Flight Sergeant Sofia Romistrova's point-defense railguns shot as many of them down as they could, at the same time they continued enegaging the scoutcraft and warp fighters left behind to deny the stations orbiting here to the Earth Federal Forces.

“Death toll on West Virginia Station in excess of fifteen million,” Donitra grimly reported,”including 50,000 Earth Federal Army and Starship Infantrymen.”

Suka,” Suzannah poisonously replied, whipping her ship about again, SMWs meant for Dauntless instead sailing harmlessly past, into the point defenses of another Nemesis-class machine, while Dauntless' main guns knocked a Galactica-class star carrier out of the sky and sent it spinning toward Chalcedon.

“Force commander, Judas,” Donitra said,”reports enemy have left their small craft behind, while disengaging their capships, and jumping them out, presumably toward Chalcedon.”

“Enemy small craft,” Dauntless' sensor and comm tech added,”attempting to exterminate all life on Judas.”

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:33:02

Clutching the assault PHASAR in her trembling hands, Pumpkin Blossom "Punky" Miller knelt down on the floor in the pitch-darkness of the Tower's subterranian ops center, ears pricked to the silence outside, waiting….

Afraid when they did the door, she wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger, that they’d take the fucking gun from her before they pinned her down onto the deck and—

The door bulged inward before being torn open, fucking hounds, their eyes glowing, poured into the room, the men outside screaming ”git sum, doggies, git suuuuummmmm!”

Punky and the others in the room opened up with the weapons they’d taken from the Caballeros and SS men, when this had all begun, the hounds still coming, jumping on those who had to reload, Punky trying not to let their screaming or the hounds’ slavering, growling, and ripping their victims apart distract her from what she had to do, at the same time, praying to God again, the CS&W M32A4’s hafnium-isomer battery clip ejecting itself hot and spent from the weapos, as three or four hounds leapt toward the twenty-five year old repentive laborer, teeth and slobber glinting in the ultraviolet light from their eyes, their fucking pricks hard as steel, as they leapt up in the air, Punky unable to make herself reload her weapon, there wasn’t any point, she wouldn’t have time before they—

Exploded, the sound of gunfire—of railguns—coming from outside, Punky breathing again, completing the motion of reloading her weapon, as, shakily, she struggled to her feet, firing as she moved out of the ops center into the dimly-lit corridor beyond.

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:34:51

Tribune 2nd Rank Ignacio Sifuentes formed the survivors of his 3rd Cazadore Maniple, the 7th Armored Infantry Maniple, a MACO battalion, SS men, and various civs called up for Militia duty into a pair of back to back lines to face the gibbering ape hordes coming at him from both directions in the dimly-lit corridor outside the Tower's underground operations center.

The sexual correction and redeemptive cleansing operations he'd been assigned were now out of the question, with the hounds slaughtered, the animals in the ops center under arms and coming toward him, and the fucking Dirt Starship Infantry ambushing his guys, and keeping them under fire, as they steadily advanced from the direction of the lift shafts down which they'd fast-roped.

Even survival was out of the question, but the veteran Cabellero knew survival did not matter, not for someone biologically-destined by Him for eternal life and ultimate ascension to Deo sapiens.

It only mattered he and his fought and killed them, even to the bitter end.

He poured blue-hot, 53kJ bolts of phased particles into the Dirt animals moving toward him by fire and movement, the weapon glowing white, and blistering his hands through the gauntlets, but the veteran Cazadore kept it up, he had to, he had to send as many of them to the Hell they'd brought upon themselves, before they took this insignificant thing the apes would mistakenly call life from him.

“They're pushing us back!” whined the signifier now commanding the 7th Armored Infantry from directly behind Sifuentes.

“What the fuck do you mean, pushed back?!” Sifuentes demanded.”There is no pushed back in the pinche Tercios, puto pendejo! There is only 'charge,' ' 'ol de fockin' line,' an' ' fockin' kill 'em all!' So, you 'old de fockin' line an' fockin' ki—“

That was when some black bitch shot him in the face with a fuckin' Legion-issued tri-PHASAR.

Stupid bitch, Sifuentes had just enough time to think, before he surrended to the brief darkness and blessed hope of resurrection. Don't she realize, death, to one of His Biological Authoritarians, is merely gain?!

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:36:36

The women and girls from the parking garage poured through the stairwell access, the black one in front decapitating the lead Timmo officer with a blast of her tri-PHASAR, as she led the others past the Earth Starship Infantrymen and into the surviving hostiles, now compacted into a single knot by the women charging on them from the colony's operations center.

“Hold position, and stand by,” Mordy ordered, as Judas' inmates slaughtered at least some of their jailers and tormentors.

Until Ariel's company and the colony's former inmates were the only ones left standing.

A tall, thin, pale young woman at the head of the group who'd charged out of the ops center stood and trembled, as she met the eyes of the young black woman leading the group from the stairwell.

“P-punky?!” the black woman stammered, Punky stammering "S-shana" in reply, both of them suddenly talking over one another, each asking if the other was okay, each telling the other how worried she was she’d never see her again.

Just before they fell, laughing and crying at the same time, into one another’s arms.

“I believe we're done here, sir,” Rikki said over company tacnet.

“Believe we are, Sarnt Major.” was Mordy's reply.

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:36:36

“Targets acquired,” Master Chief Petty Officer Reuben Tallent reported, as Lieutenant Commander Trevor “Prim” Grey led his squadron of twelve advanced, Starstalker-class scientific, exploration and peacekeeping platforms into atmosphere, some 750 klicks over Judas, and another 15,000 klicks from Base One.

“Then,” Grey demanded of his tactical officer,”what are you waiting for, Master Chief. Fire at will! Defensive, you will add the Blue Light—“

Alarms then screamed in his com, the veteran Starfleet officer fighting his ship for control, as Petty Officer 1st Class Jethro Chegwidden shrieked from the Blackbird's science station:

“Twelve Nemesis-class battleships closing us rapidly from dead astern! We're the only ones still in the air, the rest of the squadron's been shot down, along with most of Enterprise's scout wing!”

“Weps, return their fire! Defensive, overfire both PHASARs; nothing gets through, understand?!” Grey demanded, even as he violentlly whipped Blackbird in every direction at once to shake the fire from the twelve Dirt battleships' point-defense suites.

Blackbird's bridge went dark in the middle of one of Grey's evasives, Senior Chief Petty Officer Tyrell McClendon reported:

Primary and secondary electrical systems burned out! Teritary electrical system 84% disrupted! All radiators destroyed, internal heat now 61 degrees, continuing to rise! Both PHASARs have sustained heat casualties and are now offline! Warp engine destroyed, impulse engine—“

“No!” Grey screamed, hearing that little bitch Angela laughing at him, at him, same as she had, when he caught her in his bed with that fucking little Merri Issacs.

“No,” he resolved, pushing the impulse engine to the firewall, mindless of the new alarms howling in his ear, as he aimed his ship dead at the Angel of Darkness, and screamed for Tallent to “keep fuckin' firing!”

8 NOVEMBER, 2275 08:37:40

“Primary electrics 52% restored,” came Khrys' voice over Chels' comm, as she continued fighting an uphill(and slowly losing)battle against the heat threatening to broil Ariel and the eighteen women currently flying and fighting her, while, ahead and above the Pit, the Skipper whipped her ship in every direction, and the Christofascist Starstalker matched her evasives, and continued burning hard for a terminal intercept.

Flight Gaines vectored saboted-tungsten penetrators from the 2cm point-defence railguns at the Starstalker, the SMWs it continued launching at Ariel, and several other Christnazi “scoutcraft” still hellbent and determined to scour the surface of Judas clean of life.

Wanker really wants us bad, doesn't he? Chels had time to observe, as she spared the quickest of glances at the Starstalker still charging and firing at them in the master holoprojector, just in time to watch Ariel's ten forward PDRGs rip it and its latest salvo of saboted-meson warheads to shreds.

“F-flight,” Chels heard the Skipper stammering.

“Done for, the whole lot of 'em,” was Flight Gaines' breathless reply.”All enemy small craft have been destroyed, all hostile ordinance dispatched, all Christnazi capships have fucked off home.”

“Starships jumping in, multiple vectors!” Master Corporal McDonough then reported. “Ten mobile-base cylinders, being maneuvered toward linkup by jump tugs, plus one group of Nemesis-class machines, all at 112.5 kiloklicks from Judas, beginning decel burn.”

“G-good,” the Skipper whispered, as she started shaking uncontrollably in her seat. “G-good.”
"When you send a man out with a gun, you create a policymaker. When his ass is on the line, he will do whatever he needs to do.

And, if the implications of that bother you, the time to do something about it is before you send him out."
—David Drake


"Oh, but you did! You turn on any of my crew, you turn on me! But, since that's a concept you can't seem to wrap your head around, then, you've got no place here. You did it to me, Jayne, and that's a fact."

—Malcolm Reynolds, captain of the Firefly-class hauler Serenity,in a nutshell


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