A Season Of Darkness(re-worked; NSFW)

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A Season Of Darkness(re-worked; NSFW)

Postby U.P. Cinnabar » 2016-09-15 11:24pm

A Season Of Darkness

01: First Casualties



24 DECEMBER, 2275 11:30:31 Zulu

The Anarcho-Confederate Starship Defiance exited warp 900 kiloklicks from a barren, barely-habitable worldet in the middle of the Kuiper belt between the stars Asterhoth and Kolob, its helmsman and executive officer, Major Thomas J. Selkirk, expertly flipping ship and beginning his decel burn, while the 33,500-ton Avenger-class cruiser's commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Avery Winfield, relaxed in his chair at the center of the ship's red-lit Combat Information Center, and thought about the price the shipment stinking up his payload deck would fetch himself in particular, and the rest of the crew in general.

He also thought of the loving judgement and final punishment he would be delivering them to, and the start his and his crew had made in the sexual correction and repentive education of the procreator and the fornicator, the harlot and the sod—

Abruptly, CIC went dark, alarms screaming inside Winfield's helmet, as the holo of Defiance's chief flight engineer, Captain Edward O'Bannion, shrieked in his Personal Heads-Up Display:

"Primary power grid 61% disrupted! Secondary power grid 44% disrupted, radiators one to seven, nine and fifteen have been destroyed; internal heat now—"

"Helm!" Winfield barked out, ignoring the rest of his sparkchaser's bleating,"counter burn, now! Drones, release the hounds, downfire one squadron for point defense! Ficon, fire at will, all MAHEMs!"



“...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....


...flooded the Pit, more alarms screaming in her head, goddamn Snakes, Mountaindicks, and Roadies everywhere she looked in the flickering master holodisplay, and not one hope in Hell's chance of making it out of this alive.

““Primary and secondary electrics are burned out!” Red shouted from the weapons engineering station to Jami's right. “teritary electrics 78% disrupted, antimatter pulse torch severely damaged, APT thermpile shorting out, auto-repair system off line, Mounts Alfa Two, Bravos One and Two offline, penetrations on all decks, radiators one to three, four and six have been destroyed, internal heat now 62 degrees, rising rapidly.”

“Number One,” she then pleaded,“ baby, I know you want to save as many of them as you can, we all do...but—”

[/i]“SHUT THE FUCK UP, AND RETURN FIRE!” the frightened senseless nineteen-year old girl now at the conn of this busted-up warbird screamed.

“—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....”


24 DECEMBER, 2275 11:32:31 Zulu

“...release the hounds! Downfire one squadron of Raptors for point defense!” ordered Starship Commander Jami Lee Selkirk, skipper of the Commnwealth Forces Starship Unbroken."Number One, three seconds, emergency burn! Fusiliers to the stage, I say again, Fusiliers to the stage, and stand by!"

"Three seconds, emergency burn, aye, Skipper," Flight Lieutenant Scarlett "Red" DeLong calmly, professionally, replied from the piloting station at the front and center of the crampled, red-lit systems deck(more commonly, the Pit), as she inputted the necessary commands into her multi-function holodisplay, and jiggered the stick in her left hand to briefly fire the RCS thrusters.

"Downfiring one squadron of Raptors, keeping them close to the ship," Flight Sergeant Erica McClure reported from her station immediately to Red's left.

Another eighteen silvery-blue bolts of light hissed out of the 30,000-ton Dauntless-class cruiser’s six 24cm Magnetohydrodynamic Explosive Munition guns, those bolts screaming toward its thirty-three and a half thousand-ton antagonist at 0.95c, all of them burning through his Whipple armor and his spaceframe, as he brought his six track-mounted eight-inch MAHEM guns to bear on Unbroken, while three of his four squadrons of QA22C Predator combat drones burned hard on an interc—

Shit!

The systems deck briefly went dark, and more alarms inside Jami's helmet, her starship engineering officer, Flight Officer Chelsey Ford, shouting from her station on the far right-hand side of the forward rim,“primary electrics 64% disrupted, secondary electrics 47% disrupted, internal heat now 44 degrees, continuing to—”

“Wee-O, return fire!” Jami ordered her weapons engineering officer, Flight Officer Phyllicia Gaines(seated between Chels and Red), as her avionics operator, Master Corporal Caitlin McDonough, reported,"starships egressing hyperspace, zero by zero, 900 kiloklicks downrange and closing us at three kilokips."

"Confirmed," Unbroken’s intel officer, Flight Officer Celina Albright, wedged between Erica and Caitlin, reported."One America-class heavy cruiser, eighteen Avenger-class cruisers, probably the survivors of the expeditionary force which bounced the Sweet Jasmine at Summer Rain's 900-kiloklick limit."

"Correction, it's definitely them," she then added, as eleven other Dauntless egressed hyperspace, and rained fire down on the newly-arrived Anarcho-Confederate Starforces machines, as they closed them from astern.

24 DECEMBER, 2275 11:33:04 Zulu

“I didn't recall this topic as one being open for debate,”Sean Missouri Ferguson, anointed King of the Anarcho-Confederacy of Galt coldly said, 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 Krantz, President of the Mountaindove Republic, 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 Iosue Madhadmedus Caesar Christus cannot be wrong!” the He Who Was Over All Others reminded the rodenty little Mountaindick, as He rose majestically 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,” Albert Lord Drake, Viceroy of the Principality of New Dominion, remarked,“haven't yahahahahahahaahahahahaha hahahaahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam-makeitstaaaaahhp!”

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

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

Might."

“He’s right, gentlemen,” Harrison Braidwood, President of the California Free State, spoke up. “Now is the time to show the spoiled, ungrateful inmates of Earth 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 dared defy Our inalienable right to govern them almost three hundred years ago; 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 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 was too much to ask of them 291 years ago, und it is still too much to ask of them now. They would rather talk of democracy than do anything which would actually improve their lot.

And, they call us the bigots.”

“We,” Ian MacKenzie Real, 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,” Eugene Herman, Chairman of the Vargas Movie Board, 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,” Tomas Krautmann, Princeps 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 Anacrho-Confederacy snapped. "Only statists and Jewnazi banksters give two shits about reports! His anointed Patriarchs and Biological Authoritarians are interested only in doing His Work of Evolution!"

“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 from the pain centers of his tiny little bitch brain being overstimulated by the cerebral implant granting him life eternal.

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

"Deal with it!" He barked.

[b]24 DECEMBER, 2275 11:33:57 Zulu[/b]

“— internal heat 67 degress, still rising!” Captain LeVar Scott reported from engineering, adding to the litany of disaster, as ACS Enterprise's Combat Information Center went dark a second time, Captain Walter Takai desperately trying to jink and burn the 190,000-ton America-class heavy exploration cruiser away from the crude, blue-on-grey, needle-shaped Communist warship's antiquated drones and primitive laser armament, while her fire-control officer, Pavel Rozhenko, replied with Enterprise's arsenal of 45 cutting-edge, track-mounted eight-inch MAHEM guns.

CIC went dark again, more alarms screaming in Colonel Jean-Claude Gilbert's helmet, along with Scott's damnable bleating, as his first officer, Major L.B. Spiner, ordered “Drones, have fifty Predator squadrons assume escort formation around Enterprise, and downfire them for point-defense! I want all remaining birds to converge on that Dirt war machine and take it out of my sky!”

Aye, sir!” Chief Master Sergeant Eladio Sifuentes quickly replied, as this modern, 23rd -century platform of peackeeping, science, and exploration continued fighting the militarist, the statist, the procreator and the fornicator.

"Colonel!" the avionics watchstander then reported, as CIC went dark yet again."We've lost the Reliant and the Intrepid! Hornet reports his impulse engine is offline!"

"Take control of their drones!" Gilbert ordered, ignoring Scott's hysterical caterwauling."Add them to the point defense of this ship! Helm, ten seconds, emergency burn!"

"Ten seconds, emergency burn, aye," Takai responsed, Enterprise executing a brief four-kilograv burn, with the slightest viff from the RCS thrusters to complicate its vector.

While bringing its arsenal to bear on the Communist war machine which had been dogging the ship's every move, Rozhenko, to his credit, hardly needing his commander's shouted order to "take the shot, now!" even as the doomed enemy cruiser's drones stabbed Enterprise with silvery blue-hot eight-inch beams.

[b]24 DECEMBER, 2275 11:34:00 Zulu[/b]

Unbroken’s evacuated, blood-lit systems deck went dark again, while Chels reported over via the ship-wide AI network(or shipnet):

“Primary electrics 77% disrupted, secondary electrics 52% disrupted, radiators four and five destroyed, internal heat now 52 degrees, continuing to rise!”[/i]

At the same time, her Red tearfully whispered:

“Fuck! Oh, fuck, Skipper, Defender...C-cat...she's...they're...”


"...dead," Mordy's holo whispered, cradling the Skipper's burned, blasted, barely-recognizable body in his arms, as he dazedly stepped off the telegate stage, and the shipnet dutifully informed her...


"...Unbroken has command of the squadron," Caitlin reported.

"Additional starships egressing hyperspace," she added. “Zero by zero, and plus fifteen by twelve decimal five, 288 kiloklicks downrange and closing us at three kilokips.”

“One expeditionary force of Starforces hired out to the Rhodesians,” Celina further elaborated,”another expeditionary force hired out to the Timocracy.”

“Fifteen seconds, emergency burn!” Jami ordered, angry at herself for not being able to save Cat or console her little sister.”Drones, keep those point-defense birds tight and close...”


“...I can't e-evade, so, you're going to have to keep them off us; Drives, stand by the teleg—"

Fuck.

Two dozen eight-inch MAHEM beams burned into Bearclaw Station's East Cylinder just ahead of Unbroken, the silver blue-hot shafts of molten tungsten...


...snapped the mast of the Avenger her ship had pursued here from Summer Rain like a dry twig, after shredding and slagging his drive housing.

The oblong main hull continued drifting toward the planetoid at slightly less than hyperspace ingress velocity, as Jami ordered Red to close to assisted telgate range, and started to tell Chels to launch a telegate targeting beacon, and stand by to bring the gate on line.

Before the Snake son of a bitch blew his payload hatches, and the 168 people they'd abducted from Sweet Jasmine flew into the unforgiving void, where they would die ninety seconds later.

Because she'd failed them too.

“You miserable sons of bitches!” Jami screamed impotently at the hulk, as it blew itself apart. “You cocksucking sons of whores!”


[b]24 DECEMBER, 2275 11:35:23 Zulu[/b]

"You have reached your maximum allowed daily caloric intake limit," her PHUD said to Susan Watson. "It is a violation of His Received Canon, punishable by sexual correction and repentive 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 Intercorporate Highway 49, and on IC75 passing underneath, while the holoprojector in the corner by the bathrooms nattered on, in the voice of Intercorporate Media Syndicate's Rachel English:

“That was Captain Shoshanna Nyree Johnson, chief medical officer of the ACS Intrepid, described by her father—himself a retired Starforces Security chief master sergeant—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 Anarcho-Confederate should be committed.

At this time, her father, confined to an automedic due to exposure to Communist biological agents during the Ninth Interstellar War, 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 even now, 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 Masters 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 Anarcho-Confederacy, 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 American fuckin' freak wants to negoiate with 'em?! Really?!"

"Yep, Marc," another, twangier male voice replied,"that's what He wants to do, Him and the Intercorporate Council, they all wanna just give our Anarcho-Confederacy away to the foreign Jewnazi banking syndicates 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 banksters that have been trying to subvert us economically by forcin' the Council to pass so-called 'free-trade laws' that load the dice in favor of the elites and against the corporations in order to turn us into a Jewbankster 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 America's been trying to ram down the throats of Him and His Council," 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 Natural Aristocracy 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.

[b]24 DECEMBER, 2275 11:36:19 Zulu[/b]

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 in the Anarcho-Confederate Security Service Incorporated's Internal Surveillance Center—one klick directly underneath the Museum Of Arts and Sciences in Payne City—a good thousand or so klicks to the north and west of Hilton Head Island, as He sipped a waterglass of Burbon and kike, propped His feet up on the desk of His private study, 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?" Doctor Samuel Brannen III stupidly asked.

"Til I'm damn good and ready to stop, Samuel," the Heir to the New Jerusalem replied to His Chief Executive Officer, moving on to the holo of still another therapy session with one who didn't get away with her non-Canon bullshit, 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.

That smile faded, the King Of Kings, Lord Of Lords staring uncomprehendingly at His workstation terminal,as, with a scream of animal fury, the uppity, goddamned little black bitch somehow broke free of the restraints binding her to the metal chair, before she picked up that fucking chair, and cracked the skull of the nearest dop, before snatching its arcwhip, firing it up, and using the flexible pinched charged-particle stream to take out the others, even as more dops charged into the room.

And, it was at that point Commanding General Freeman Zephiniah Ezekiel Lang, Executive Vice President Of His Anarcho-Confederate Starforces, Inc., demonstrated his usual indecency in comming his true Father at preciesly the wrong moment.

To tell Him precisely the wrong thing:

“We've got a breach in containment on Vieques. Apparentally, the apes saw the Commie warbirds in their sky as a sign t'set it all off.”

Ya think?!” was the nasty response the Rightful Inheritor of the New Jerusalem.

“They've overwhelmed the the colony's Corporate Defense Agency, and its SS contingent, and local management's put out the call for all male associates t'report for Militia duty.”

“Son of a bitch!” swore the Dominus Christus of His Intercorporate Government, before telling Freeman:

Well, don't just stand there with your itty-bitty little fuckin' clitty in your pasty fuckin' hand, Freeman! Get on the line to Gilbert, and tell him to fuckin' put the boots to those ungrateful, goddamn, lazy little sluts!”
"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: A Season Of Darkness(re-worked; NSFW)

Postby U.P. Cinnabar » 2016-09-15 11:26pm

[b]24 DECEMBER, 2275 11:37:03 Zulu[/b]

“Drives, fire the soddin' assault shuttles, now!” Jami screamed, as Unbroken jinked and burned her way to 88.5 kiloklicks from the barren planetoid Celina had identified as Vieques, in the Algeiba binary's Corrdio asteroid belt "Drones, downfire another Raptor squadron for ground-support! Concentrate on shooting down those damned TGTs."

“Skipper,” Caitlin reported,"am receiving fragmentary comms from Vieques Base One, and all outlying mining facilities; the inmates have revolted, and the both the local CDA and the SS contingent are hard pressed to stop them; local management team have called up all male workers for Militia duty."

"Opfor now 150 kiloklicks from assisted telegate range," Unbroken's sensor and comm tech then added."Meteors 25 seconds from drop altitude."

"Number One," Jami said to her Red, as Unbroken swung round the dwarf planet, and up the drive flares of the six Narkies raining down fire with their MAHEMs,"Wee-O needs numbers for her firing solutions."

“She's got 'em, babe,” Red calmly, professionally, replied, in spite of herself, as Phyllicia drove 24cm MAHEM up Snakehead asses to eviscerate an America and two of the five Avengers, before the other three machines jinked and burned hard, as Jami did, at the same time one of the Avengers wheeled about on his RCS thrusters and pumped eight-inch MAHEM beams into the dark where she'd been.

"Opfor firing assault shuttles!" Caitlin reported."Estimate 27 decimal one seconds to drop!"

“Starships egressing hyperspace,” Celina reported. “Four squadrons, Dauntless-class cruisers, zero by six, and plus fifteen by eight decimal five, both at 112.5 kiloklicks from Vieques, closing at three kilokips.”

“Additional hostiles,” Caitlin then reported, as Red jinked and burned her way round incoming MAHEM,”plus ten by twelve, plus thirty by six, 225 kiloklicks from Vieques, closing us at three kilokips. Two Starforces expeditionary forces, both flying Narkie colors.”

[b]24 DECEMBER, 2275 11:37:15 Zulu[/b]

"—most emphatically did not start this war," Freeman Lang corrected a Rhodesian Broadcasting Network reporter."His Anarcho-Confederacy does not, has never, will never be the first to attack; every war we have ever fought has been forced upon us by the radfemnazi, liberal, Jew conspiracy, and their greedy foreign banksters and statist monopolies interested in profit above all! His anointed Masters 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 EVP of Anarcho-Confederate Starforces Incorporated 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, bankster-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, piracy 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 interfering with Our inalienable right to conduct business and to make a profit, however We see fit, anywhere We see fit!"

Those sons of bitches, Ennis Macleod, Director-General of the Terran Commonwealth Security and Intelligence Service inwardly thought, 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.

As today bore witness to.

The head of the CSIS checked the telemetry from the Drumbeater early-warning platforms deployed at the edge of Earth's Solar System, and along the outskirts of Commonwealth and Allied star systems.

Nothing.

So far.

So far, Ennis thought to himself, continuing to stare at the holoprojections in the War Room, watching Commonwealth Starship Corps machines taking up blockade station along the 900-kiloklick limits of Galt, Terra Nova, Rhodesia, Vulcan(named thus, so the wankers could point to something else allegedly predicted by their Received sodding Canon), and the other Narky and League worlds, while, in the holoprojection of Lang's press conference, a balding, older man in a rumpled suit, rose from his chair, identified himself as "Sir, Jamie Murdoch, CBS News," and asked:

"What about the rights of the Communists to not be assaulted and abducted in their own ho—"

The elder viper of the Snakeheads' brood tossed back his head, and laughed, before remarking:

"You liberal Jewnazi, radfem media shills are really somethin' else, ain't ya?! Well, lemme remind y'all of somethin', Brother Murdoch: Rights are given by Him to Us, for Us t'enjoy, while laws—real laws, not those statist pretensions y'all go on about—are imposed on them by Us, for their good, as well as ours.

That, sir, is Canon.

Of course, Ennis silently reflected. You bastard.

It is also Canon that—what the actual fuck?!” Lang interjected in mid-sentence, as Ennis watched even more Commonwealth machines egress hyperspace inside Galt's 450-kiloklick limit.”

“Sir,” one of the War Room watchstanders reported,”incoming comm from the SecGen, aboard Defiant.”

“Echo her to the Net,” the DGSIS replied.

[b]24 DECEMBER, 2275 11:39:00 Zulu[/b]

“People of the Anarcho-Confederacy of Galt, I am High Marshal Amelia Seldin,” the holo of some uppity, goddamn little redheaded dyke bitch said, as she stood before Him and the Others in the resort's conference room,“Secretary-General of the Terran Commonwealth of Nations.

Your leaders, your leaders, ordered warships of your Starforces to violate the territory of a sovereign polity and carry out acts of piracy against its citizens.”

The Dominus Christus of His Intercorporate Government snickered, replying via comms:

“Bitch, what you call piracy, We call defending Ourselves and doing business. And, since only Our point of view matters, We are automatically in the right. That is Canon!”

“We,” the little redheaded monkey bitch ignored Him and prattled on,” cannot let this pass. Therefore, as of this date, all space within 900,000 kilometers of all League worlds has been declared a zone of exclusion by act of Parliament; all League military starships entering or leaving the exclusion zones 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. Seldin out.”

“Well, now,” Freeman's insubordinate, insolent image smarted off to Him,”this is another fine mess You've gahahahahahahaahahahhAAAHAHAHAHAAAAAHHHHAHA!”

The rightful King of the Israelites snickered again, as He watched His so-called EVP of Starforces Incorporated rolling around on the deck, shivering, twitching, pissing, shitting, jizzing himself like the insolent little non-Canon, lesbian bitch he’d let himself become.

P-pleeeassse, S-sean,”the alcoholic old goat 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 Freeman now,”if We had aborted this waste of Our precious Seed while it was still in the fuckin’ tube.”

I know, Benjamin,” Daddy Freeman said, looking down at Sean 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 cuffs chaining 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?!”

S-sean,” 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 [/i]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.

"Ready or not," He slowly said,"We have a war to fight, gentlemen. So, We fight it. No more squabbling, no more excuses.

We fight. Is that understood?!"

All of the Others, Sam as well, all either spoke or nodded their assent.

"Good," said the Inheritor of the American Legacy. "Eugene, schedule a press conference for ten minutes from now. I have plenty to say about the matter at hand."

[b]24 DECEMBER, 2275 11:41:19 Zulu[/b]

"Drones, downfire ten squadrons of Preds for point defense! Keep 'em tight and close to the ship!" Major Randy Buchannan ordered, as nine-inch silvery blue-hot beams screamed toward the 190,000-ton America-class heavy explorer Galactica."Throw every other drone at those Commie dyke bitches!"

Brigadier General William Adam Alexander Koenig, the Liberator and Redeemer of Big Sky during the last war, smiled thinly, as this modern flagship of a modern exploration, scientific and peacekeeping expeditionary force, fired salvo after salvo of MAHEM from Galactica's 45 eight-inch guns at the miserable collection of flimsy, primitive 30,000-ton hulls cowering a little over 100 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 Galactica 's chief engineering officer, Captain William Logan:

"Primary power grid completely burned out; radiatiors three through ten, sixteen, eighteen through twenty, destroyed; internal heat now 64 degrees and rising rapidly! Warp engine, offline, impulse engine severely damaged, impulse therompile shorting out due to heat accumulation! No better than 500 grav max burn avail—"

"We've lost the MacArthur!" 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 Galactica's wingmates gone, and the heavy cruiser left wide open to these bullies and cowards sniping at his 75th Starship Expeditionary Force, and the other ships of the Vieques Liberation and Redeemption Fleet, from long range.

"Avionics," said the commander of the Vieques Liberation and Redeemption Operation,"order all cruiser wings to fall back, and form up on the Galactica. Once we are reformed, we will warp down their fucking throats!"

"Aye, sir," the avionics watchstander replied, as the savage, brutish ape descendants of the Great Harlot Lolita hammered the powerless Coral Sea to a gutted, lifeless hulk.

[b]24 DECEMBER, 2275 11:48:04 Zulu[/b]

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 repentive laborer struggling to reload the Palmer/Walker Slammer triple-barrel MAHEM scattergun she’d taken from a Defenseman 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 casaba mag in there in time, aiming at those damn things and pulling the trigger, over 500 2.5mm MAHEM sizzling out of each of the three barrels, Trina reloading as she turned and ran like hell, heading toward 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 mags she’d taken off that jackboot, she couldn’t, not with those sleds full of Defensemen, SS men, and Starforces Security bulleting down the street behind their hounds, all of them hooping and hollering as they let fly with quad-mounted 7.62mm and 20mm Gatling-barrel MAHEM guns, MAHEM assault rifles and scatterguns, 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 education sessions—

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 education 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 tribarrel scattergun again, reloading it, as she forced herself to keep going.

[b]24 DECEMBER, 2275 11:51:24 Zulu[/b]

“This is a war for the very survival of Our Race,” Sean Ferguson's image ranted and raved from the twelve-foot holoprojector set into the ceiling of the hallway just outside the Baldwin Corporate Center's Throne Room,”Our God-fearing, responsibly-individualistic, biologically-authoritarian 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 anointed King of His Intercorporate Government paused, Susan only paying partial attention to the newscast from IMS, as she sat on one of the padded leather benches, concentrated on taking deep breath after deep breath, and tried to keep her body from trembling with fear.

“There are no rules in any fight for survival,” Ferguson told the worlds,”that is what they have seduced Us into forgetting!

Time and again, they have used rule of law as an excuse for 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 intellectual honesty, and the worship of their baser pleasures!”

She struggled to breathe, feeling their eyes on her, and seeing nowhere to turn and no light at the end of the tunnel.

“We are good and decent men," the King Of His Anarcho-Confederacy 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 all the world of His Creation by any and all means necessary!

“Hey, baby,” Vicki Ford whispered, as she sat next to her, and gave her a gentle, little squeeze, the senior ranking of the two Baldwin Corporate Defense Agency enforcers standing guard outside the Corporate Throne Room advancing on the two of them, and Susan's three kids, bellowing “no non-Canon sexual contact is permitted!”

“What the fuck?! She's my mama's girlfriend!” replied Susan's oldest daughter, eighteen-year old Lexie, as she looked the Defenseman square in the eye.

“SHUT UP!” the Defenseman spat at her. “That is not Canon, and it is intellectually honest to insist that it is! The two of you will move to separate benches, NOW, or it's a legal jury trial on the fuckin' spot!”

“Aw, c'mon, Sarge,” the other Defenseman insisted,”it's Chris—“

The sergeant rounded on his subordinate and screamed in his face:

That's right, it's Christmas, His day, and His Day will not be profaned with non-Canon sexual displays!”

“They're just holding hands,” Susan's youngest child, fourteen-year old Josh insisted, causing the senior Defenseman to turn back, get in her son's face, and hiss “boy, you're really wantin' that jury trial, aren't you?”

His hand tensing on the butt of his holstered Colt, Smith & Wesson M87 MAHEM pistol, the Corporate Defense sergeant added:

“That's what happens, when fuckin' apes get it in their heads an' think they make fit parents; even goddamn boys turn into femperv monkey-sex freaks, cause of them. Bet they got ya suckin' cock, and licking slit, just like they do, and I bet they got you forcing real men to—“

“You leave my bubba alone, you fucking prick!” sixteen year old Syuzenka, as she got in the senior Defenseman's face, the sergeant, in turn, chuckling, as he remarked:

“Yeah, you little bitches got him trained real good, don't y—“

as the doors to the Throne Room opened, and another Defenseman stepped out, and announced “Summoning all persons appearing in the matter of Anarcho-Capitalist Corporation of Forte versus Watson, et. al!”

“That's our cue, babe,” Vicki calmly said, as she and Susan, still holding hands, walked into the Throne Room with their family not too far behind them.


[b]24 DECEMBER, 2275 11:51:24 Zulu[/b]

Major Mauricio Gomez, commanding Bravo Company of the Vieques Corporate Defense Agency, moved cautiously through one of the narrow streets of one of Base One’s many ghettos—housing projects, if you wanted to use the liberal IH 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 paternal authority figures had tried teaching her, and surrendered herself to the howling jungle within all those monkeys.

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 Ninth Interstellar War 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 silver death ray of tungsten, Gomez just as quickly recovering from his shock.

Now was the time to run away, and pronto.

The mottled green on grey Standard Powered Armor of Commie Starship Fusiliers 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 20mm M82A2 man-portable MAHEM cannon, as he backpedaled as rapidly as his armor's 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 Defensemen 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 MAHEM Cannon she was holding in her hands like they were Lodi McQuaid’s trademark pearl-handled CS&W M116 12.7mm MAHEM pistols.

He took dead aim at that blonde Amazon, as she reloaded both SPAMs, Gomez smiling, as he put the pipper dead center, and his weapon told him to fire.
"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: A Season Of Darkness(re-worked; NSFW)

Postby U.P. Cinnabar » 2016-09-15 11:27pm

[b]24 DECEMBER, 2275 11:53:00 Zulu[/b]

"Fuckin' die, Narkie cockwhore!" Flight Officer Mordechai Blum spat over PHUD, as he drove a firestorm of deuce and half from his M2166 MAHEM assault rifle through the back of a Defenseman's powered armor, and out the other side in a geyser of blood and white-hot plasma, while Flight Sergeant Rikelle Skinner continued walking both of those heavy soddin' SPAMs across 180 degrees of arc immediately in front of her.

Thudding and ripping through a squad or two of Starforces Security the commander of Unbroken's company of Commonwealth Starship Fusiliers had only now just seen pepperpotting their way behind Unbroken'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 Yellow Stripes, and their sodding Bradbury's hounds.

"What Narkie plonkers do best, Corporal!" Starshipman Elyse McDonnell reminded the assistant section leader, as 1/1 Flight separated into its two component 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 Yellow Stripes took them under fire, being sure to turn their hounds loose beforehand, bloody mechanoids bolting toward the ten Fusiliers, slaver hot with cerberal-paralytic virus dripping from double rows of very sharp monofilament-edged steel teeth.

While a pair of ADV-128 Kickapoo diamagnetic-assist, vectored-thrust merkavas snapped and crackled 4cm MAHEM from their remotely-turreted main guns, and fired 2cm MAHEM from the coax and sponson-mounted secondaries, while more Defensemen deployed from the rear-mounted troop bay.

"Carl Gustavs, deal with those merkavas!" Mordy ordered."Everyone else, take out those Defensemen!"

Starshipmen Anne Shipp and Claudia Radebrecher took aim with their M2150 Carl Gustav XVI 4cm soldier-portable MAHEM cannon, and fired silver-hot streams of tungsten 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 mech infantry in the midst of deploying from their vehicles.

"Downfire on those damn hounds!" Mordy then ordered his two Carl Gustav gunners, as the rest of the section concentrated their fire on the Defensemen still wiggling, 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 Snakes and their subsidiaries.

The MAHEM still airborne after shredding the hounds into so much bloody meat and spare parts ripped into the mech 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 Yellow Stripes on either side of the street.

"Downfire on the remaining Defensemen," Mordy ordered his Carl Gustav gunners."Clear the street of those bastards, and keep fucking moving!"

[b]24 DECEMBER, 2275 11:55:28 Zulu[/b]

¡Puta!

¡Pinche puta!

Brigadier General Don Alejandro Hererra ground his teeth, as the black ship of la Angela de la Muerta jinked and burned in ACS Fransisco Franco's master holodisplay, trying desperately to escape the judgement about to be visited upon her by the America-class heavy exploration cruiser's three salvos of eight-inch MAHEM, even as the coño tried to defy the judgement He had laid against all her subhuman monkey kind by salvoing more of her primitive laser beams at the flagship of the 19th Starship Expeditionary Force, the 190-kiloton ton exploration vessel's 45 cutting-edge MAHEM cannon having little trouble shooting down those—

¡Pinche coño!

Franco's CIC went dark, alarms howling in Hererra's PHUD, as Major 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 crew and fire-control decks, crew deck gutted, MAHEMs ten through 20 offli—"

"Kill her!" Herrera screamed at his fire-control officer, Captain Akira Sifuentes."Helm, evasive maneuvers! Drones, downfire all remaining Predators, nothing gets through!Avionics, order the Columbia and Argentina cruiser wings to converge on Unbroken, and cut off her maneu—¡pinche!"

CIC went dark yet again, the little blonde statist bitch who had unmanned and humilated him over Big Sky ten years ago driving even more of her damned lasers past the drones' downfired MAHEMs, and through his ship's Whipple armor, as Kekkonen proved disgustingly quick to report:

"Patrón, warp engine is offline! Impulse engine severely damaged, 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! MAHEMs two through eight have suffered heat casaulties and are now offli—"

Damn her!

She would not win, not again, not against a veteran 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.

[b]24 DECEMBER, 2275 11:57:02 Zulu[/b]

"Fuck," Jami swore, as Araxes and Arcadian both died under volleys of Narkie MAHEM beams, Unbroken's two squadron mates taking five Avenger-class cruisers with them as they went.

Not that it does their families any good, the acting commander of 633 Cruiser Squadron bitterly mused, as Red 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 eight-inch MAHEM flying from the Timmo-warpainted Narkie heavy bearing down on Unbroken with a bone in its teeth, Phyllicia vectoring more 24cm MAHEM his way, three more enemy cruisers intercepting three of the inbound tungsten penetrators with terminal results.

As the Pit went dark a second, alarms screaming in her com, Chels reporting:

"Primary electrics burned out! Secondary electrics 84% disrupted, radiators three and eight destroyed, internal temp now 70 degrees, continuing to rise! Bravo Turret locked forward, unable to traverse!"

[b]24 DECEMBER, 2275 12:00:00 Zulu[/b]

"On it!" Chief Technician Khryste Pollard replied via com, as she squeezed herself through the weaps deck to the turrets holding a sextet of violently jackhammering 240mm MAHEM cannon, their slamming, cacophonic vibrations causing the ladder she climbed to access Mount Bravo Two to shudder and tremble, as Unbroken's chief technician double-checked her safety harness, while she continued making her way to the turret.

Where the jackhammering was at its worst, as the six guns recoiled against their turrets' pusher plate and diamagnetic field jennies, before returning to battery, chambering 200-kilogram casabas, 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."Systems, am taking Mount Bravo Two 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.

"Systems, am returning mount to service," she then said, as she unlocked the breaker, and threw it,"going hot!"

And, the turret's MAHEM took up its part in the hellish anvil chorus precisely where it had left 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.

[b]24 DECEMBER, 2275 12:05:04 Zulu[/b]

Not right now, damn it, Flight Officer Chelsey Lynn Ford cursed herself, as her fingers flew over her MFD, guiding repair bots and nanites in fixing the Rittermark hyperspace 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 Unbroken'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, even the tiniest fraction of energy from an eight-inch MAHEM that leaked through to the 'tween decks left a less than pretty corpse.

As it might do to Khrys, if I fuck this up, like I've done—[/i]

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 Rittermark field jenny.

"Am returning hyperspace 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 Number One took the starship engineering officer's report as good, and ingressed and egressed hyperspace in less than an eyeblink, so that the Wee-O could slam eighteen 24cm MAHEM into something at point-blank range, before Unbroken again ingressed and egressed hyperspace, fired another salvo, ingressed and egressed again, jinked and burned hard, even as she unleashed another salvo.

"Starships egressing hyperspace, plus sixty by 12.7, 112.5 kiloklicks downrange, closing at three kilokips!" Master Corporal McDonough reported."Four squadrons Dauntless-class machines escorting two Bedivere-class regimental transports; transports are releasing dropships!"

"Drones," the Skipper ordered,"stand by to engage any hostile small craft attempting threatening those dropships!"

"Skipper," Flight McClure replied, as Cor McDonough reported:

"Additional starships egressing hyperspace, plus thirty by five decimal two-three, 225 kiloklicks downrange, closing at three kilokips! Two Narkie expeditionary forces, hired out to the Roadies!"

[b]24 DECEMBER, 2275 12:05:04 Zulu[/b]

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 BANKSTER JEW MONOPOLIES!" clashed with "FIGHT THE GOOD FIGHT!" which clashed with "MAKE LOVE NOT WAR!" which clashed with "GALT: 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 Sean Ferguson’s liberal, radfem, Bilderberger monpolizing Jewnazi bankster friends have slashed, burned, raped and stripmined yet another world to the point—“

Hold on just a second!” the opposing image of His EVP of Starforces Inc., 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 CEO talking right over Freeman’s fat, ugly, wrinkled, alcoholic self:

“—after our peacekeepers, scientists, explorers, and diplomats have bled themselves dry fighting for the foreign, right-wing, Illuminati, femnazi, Bilderberger, bankster Jew conspiracy—“

“It was you liberal Republican, Bilderberger, foreign corporate Jewnazi elites,” Freeman shouted, turning as purple as an eggplant,” you and the radfems jerkin' your chains, who are tryin' 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 whooopwhooopwhoooop!ing, the anointed Dominus Christus Of His Intercorporate Government, Peacemaker and Lawgiver Of Man having had the tactical display from Starforces' Inc.'s subterannian Situation Room deep underneath Henry Arnold Starbase echoed here, so He could watch the 48,000 Dirt warships now parked along Galt's 1450- and 900-kiloklick limits burning down commercial transports, as they tangled with the modern, twenty-third century peacekeeping, scientific, and exploration platforms of a modern, professional, private-sector peacekeeping, scientific and exploration agency organized along a modern, anarcho-capitalist economic model.

Comms from the Others—still on Hilton Head Island—indicated They were having similar infestations of Earth monkeys in their home space.

"Well?!" His EVP of Starforces Incorporated stood behind Him, and had—in spite having swallowed His Aristocratic Essence by the bucketful moments ago—the nerve to demand.

"Well, what, Freeman?" Iosue Caesar calmly replied.

"Oh, those Dirt warships," He added, smiling, as He kept His back turned to him.

“We ain't ready to take 'em on,” that drunken old fool said, like a goddamn broken record.

“We are a modern, 23rd Century, responsibly-individualistic, anarcho-capitalist enterprise of peacekeepers, explorers, and scientists,” the King of King, Lord Of Lords reminded this throwback to the bad, old days of the 1980s,”while they are militarist, statist, bankster femperv Jew apes, whose technology is almost three hundred years behind His Natural Aristocrats and Biological Authoritarians, Freeman. That is Ca—“

“That's You breathin' y'own ass fumes again, Sean,” Freeman dared compound His insolence,”jus' like that Ginnie fagboy was tellin' y—“

Apparently,” Israel coldly said,”you didn't get enough femsex the last time you made Me do y—what the actual fuck?!”

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 along Capitol Avenue, across from the West Entrance of His Capitol.

Fucking three times as many protesters as yesterday jammed the West Entrance 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, Lords, and Masters.

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 Anarcho-Confederacy 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.

“Gene did say t'Board was havin' trouble keeping their people in line,” the alcoholic old bastard observed ever so helpfully.

“I'm aware of what Gene had to say on the matter,” hissed the King of His Anarcho-Confederate Enterprise through gnashing, painfully-gritted teeth, this fucking close to saying Freeman's name.

"And, thanks to the Commies interfering with our business practices," He added, clenched jaw giving way to a broad grin,"I know just what to do."

"All Atlantis Corporate Defense units assigned to Capitol security," spoke the Father of Mankind into His PHUD,"carry out redeemptive cleaning of all protesters along the West Entrance; 101st Starforces Light Infantry are to deploy from Starbase MacPherson to assist in cleansing operations. 2nd Starforces Mechanized will deploy from their base and cordon off the Capitol reservation; no one in or out.

No survivors."

24 DECEMBER, 2275 12:07:16 Zulu

“Doctor Raghu,” the Honorable Franklin McKinley Spiers, Forte Corporation's Chief Corporate Officer asked the dot standing before the Baldwin Corporate Throne,“ how long have you been a practicing evolutionary psychiatrist?”

“Thirty years, Your Honor,” Doctor Casmir Raghu replied in a cultured voice with only the merest hint of accent.

“And,” the Forte Corporation Corpo 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 Corpo sitting on his Throne looking down on Susan, Vicki and the kids took no notice of that either.

“Have you had an opportunity,” the Forte CCO 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 Board of Directors’ 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 Corpo 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, in spite of the non-Canon nature of their relationship,” 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 Honorable Franklin McKinley Spiers, before whipping out a Colt, Smith & Wesson M2049 2.5mm MAHEM 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 Natural Aristocracy! [i]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 blue-black armored Defensemen stood behind Susan and her kids.

And, a silvery 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!” Baldwin Chief Corporate Officer Robert G. Owens imperiously ordered the two Defensemen.”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 Defensemen hustled her and her kids out of the Throne Room, through the security checkpoint, down corridors, and through the Corporate Center's main entrance.

The Defensemen 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 Defensemen men, and several others, to point their M32A4 MAHEM assault rifles in the general direction of those reporters.

“Media coverage of this event has been declared non-Canon by order of His Imperial Majesty!”Short and Ugly growled in warning.

Get in your fuckin’ vehicles,” he then hissed at Susan, when they reached her ‘72 Windstar minivan, and Vicki's '52 Lakota pickup,”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 PHUD to remotely unlock and open her driver's side door.

That’s fuckin’ ‘Master’ or ‘Sir’ [i] to you,[/i] bitch!” Short and Ugly spat at her.”Fuckin’ problem with Galt, ever since ol’ King Sean 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 Natural fuckin' Aristocracy! Well, you fuckin’ ain’t, understand?!”

Get the fuck out of here!” he hollered at her, as Susan and the others got in their vehicles, and pulled out of the parking lot onto Greene Street.
"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: A Season Of Darkness(re-worked; NSFW)

Postby U.P. Cinnabar » 2016-09-15 11:28pm

24 DECEMBER, 2275 12:07:16 Zulu

Look at those motherfuckers run now!

All Shoshanna had time to think as she and the others with her ran towards the Defensemen, SS men, and Militia, all guns blazing, Shana ducking behind someone’s brand-new ’76 BMW S80 ragtop to reload her tribarrel, slamming one of her nine remaining casaba mags 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 body.

Grinning like a damn fool, before Shanna 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 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.

24 DECEMBER, 2275 12:07:16 Zulu

With Yukikaze and Potempkin on either side, Unbroken charged the ragged remnants of a hostile expeditionary force, as it swung round Vieques on a direct intercept, two cruiser wings and their drones forming a V directly ahead, screening their America.

"On 'em," Erica reported, as the squadron's four hundred surviving Raptor.QA2 combat drones swept the immediate battlespace clean of Preds and inbound MAHEM, while Red punched scant microseconds of eight-kilograv burn into the shipnet, and fired the RCS thrusters to put still another wobble into her ship's vector.

"Skipper," Caitlin tersely reported, as the America broke apart under the hammering of Phyllicia's guns."Half dozen Avengers, plus thirty by eighteen, fifty kiloklicks from Vieques, boosting toward atmospheric insertion!"

"Yeah," Jami replied, even as she spun up the hyperspace systems, and plotted an intercept for the Narkie Avengers burning hard for atmospheric re-entry."Potempkin, Yukikaze, on me!"

24 DECEMBER, 2275 12:08:54 Zulu

In the end, they were all just holes.

As Major Steven C. Webb—commanding USS Enterprise's Security battalion—thought this, he was pumping deuce and a half from his M32A4, his johnson pushing up through the crotchplate of the veteran security manager'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 Webb 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 silver-hot MAHEM 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, Senior Starman Aaron Fielder reporting,”corporate net offline, s—“

“Good,” Webb 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 tribarrel scattergun 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, Webb loved her enough to—

24 DECEMBER, 2275 12:10:18 Zulu

"Plot an intercept, now, damn you!" Gilbert screamed at Takai, even as Enterprise's helmsman plotted the necessary course, and took the 190,000-ton America-class exploration vessel into warp, bringing them back into normal space, so that Rozhenko could ram salvo after salvo of MAHEM straight up Unbroken's drive flare.

Being the insubordinate, willful child all her subhuman monkey kind were, however, the bad little girl did a counter-burn from her primitive rocket engine, a quick viff from her clumsy, unsophisticated RCS thrusters, and Unbroken weaved, bobbed, and flipped herself round on her short axis to rain fire down on his ship with her Stone Age, fucking lasers, even as her drones continued burning into Avengers with their eight-inch beam weapons, in a little girl's childish defiance of His inexorable Will.

"Evasive maneuvers, Brother Takai!" Selkirk ordered, as CIC went dark, and Scott bitched and moaned via comm about what systems were offline this time.

"Return fire, Brother Rozhenko!" Enterprise's commanding officer shouted."Drones, downfire all Predators; those laser beams she's throwing will not get through, understand?!"

"It is His Will that Vieques 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!"

"MAHEMs one, three, five, six through ten, and fifteen through twenty have all suffered heat casualties, and are offline!" Scott screeched in Gilbert's PHUD."Radiators four, seven, nine, ten and twelve have been destroyed, internal heat now 80 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!" Gilbert repeated, as the little bitch twisted her way out of target lock, and hammered his ship again.

"Sir!" the comms watchstander reported," Galactica reports it is under heavy assault by Dirt warships, and is requesting support."

"You heard what I said!" was Gilbert's reply, even as he watched 24cm beams tear through Galactica, and send what remained of it spinning end over end into a wing of Avengers.

"His Work comes first!" the commander of the starship Enterprise—sixth to bear that holy namereminded the others, as Takai violently wrenched his ship to bring its ten working MAHEM guns to bear on a very, very naughty little girlie.

24 DECEMBER, 2275 12:10:18 Zulu

"Downfire on the Yellow Stripes!" 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 SPAM right next to him, while Claudia downfired nine thousand 2.5mm MAHEM to rip through Starforces Security thugs 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 Narkies 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 Unbroken's Fusiliers 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 Yellow Stripes who hadn't been flattened by chunks of the carpark's upper level falling down on them, forcing the Snakes 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.

24 DECEMBER, 2275 12:12:47 Zulu

"Return fire, Brother Rozhenko!" Gilbert shouted over PHUD, while ignoring Scott's caterwauling about damage and the increasing heat.

"Evasive means to evade, Brother Takai!" he then shouted to worthless wog excuse for a helmsman, as Rozhenko fired salvo after salvo of 8” MAHEM at the three Dirt warships who dared defy His Will where the Vieques Corporation 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 Gilbert did not question what was Canon, for Canon was truth, and truth was Canon.

As more Avengers died under inferior, primitive Dirt lasers, Takai did something right for a change, and brought Enterprise's 31 working MAHEM guns to bear on one of the enemy hulls, Rozhenko 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—

Merde!

CIC went dark yet again, alarms screaming in his ears, Scott reporting,”primary and secondary power grids completely burned out! Teritary power grid 65% disrupted! Internal heat 90 degrees and rising! ”

24 DECEMBER, 2275 12:14:05 Zulu

The Pit went dark again.

"Primary gun computer offline!" Mister Gaines reported via PHUD. "Switching to secondary!"

"Primary drone-control computer offline!" Flight McClure reported. "Switching to secondary!"

God, Chels thought, as she frantically shunted ancillary coolant through the ship's Whipple armour belt, Khrys.

Out loud, Unbroken's chief flight engineer reported,"Secondary electrics now 90% disrupted, teritary electrics 47% disrupted! Radiators eleven and thirteen destroyed, internal heat now 72 degrees, continuing to rise! Am flushing ancillary coolant through the armor belt! "

Chels' stomach lurched, the deck's diamagnetics fluttering, as Number One wrenched her ship in several directions at once, firing the torch at war emergency burn for the slightest of instants, while Mister Gaines hammered the America that had fastened itself onto their ship like a Satan's helper round a girl tossed in the pit during Sunday meeting at the municipal meeting hall, eighteen 9.2" MAHEM flensing more of the enemy warbird's skin from bones glowing white with heat, as they boiled themselves off into space.

While Flight McClure's drones savaged Avengers by the score, into gutted, drifting hulks, as scores more tried getting past Unbroken to boil everything on the surface of Vieques into space.

"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 heavies disengaging and ingressing."

"Remaining enemy cruisers," Unbroken's avionics tech then said, as the heavy fixated on their ship fell away eviscerated and spinning through space,"converging on Vieques, burning hard at four kilograv."

24 DECEMBER, 2275 12:15:26 Zulu

“Shit,” Flight Officer Nigella Huntsall whispered, even as she drove 24cm MAHEM into enemy capital ships now clustered round Galt's 225-kiloklick limit.

“Yeah, High Marshal Amelia Diane Seldin, Secretary-General of the Parlimentary Assembly of the Terran Commonwealth of Nations, grimly acknowledged, glancing at the remnants of the orbital glowing soft white in Defiant's master holodisplay, as her second in command, Flight Lieutenant William Wilson, punched scant nanoseconds of war emergency burn into the shipnet, while violentlly jerking the stick in every direction, eight-inch MAHEM, like the ones which had “redeemptively cleansed” the orbital and several others along the 450-kiloklick limit, screaming past the ship in every direction, as Flight Sergeant Sofia Romistrova's downfiring Raptor IIs shot as many of them down as they could, at the same time they continued cruisers left behind to deny the stations orbiting here to the Commonwealth Forces.

“Death toll on West Virginia Station in excess of fifteen million,” Master Corporal Donitra Pugh grimly reported,”including 50,000 Terran Commonwealth Army and Starship Fusiliers.”

“Fuck,” Amelia poisonously replied, as Will whipped his ship about again, MAHEMs meant for Defiant instead sailing harmlessly past, into the downfiring drones of another Dauntless-class machine, while Defiant's main guns knocked an America-class heavy out of the sky and sent it spinning toward Galt.

“Force commander, Vieques,” Flight Officer Li Peng reported,”reports enemy have left their cruisers behind, while disengaging their heavies.”

“Enemy cruisers,” Defiant's intel officer added,”attempting to exterminate all life on Vieques.”

“Of course,” the Commander in Chief of her Commonwealth's Forces bitterly remarked. “Of course.”

24 DECEMBER, 2275 12:15:26 Zulu

Clutching the Barret Duo 12.7mm dual-barrelled MAHEM rifle 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 Defensemen and the 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 Duo’s casaba cartidge mag 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 coming from outside and down the hall from the OpsCenter, 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.

24 DECEMBER, 2275 12:16:00 Zulu

Captain Ignacio Sifuentes formed the survivors of his Delta Company, the VCDA's Mechanized Infantry Company, a Starforces Incorporated Security 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 subterranian 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 Fusiliers 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 Defenseman 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 2.5mm, silver-hot MAHEM beams 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 VCDA officer 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 ensign now commanding what remained of the Mech Infantry Company from directly behind Sifuentes.

“What the fuck do you mean, pushed back?!” Sifuentes demanded.”There is no pushed back in the pinche VCDA, 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' VCDA-issued tribarrel.

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?!

24 DECEMBER, 2275 12:18:11 Zulu

The women and girls from the parking garage poured through the stairwell access, the black one in front decapitating the lead Narkie officer with a blast of her tribarrel, as she led the others past the Commonwealth Starship Fusiliers and into the surviving hostiles, now compacted into a single knot by the women charging on them from the colony's operations center.

“Hold fire, and stand by !” Mordy ordered, as Vieques' inmates slaughtered at least some of their jailers and tormentors.

Until Unbroken'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-shanna" 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.

24 DECEMBER, 2275 12:18:11 Zulu

“Targets acquired,” Captain Reuben Tallent reported, as Colonel Trevor “Prim” Grey led his wing of three advanced Avenger-class scientific, exploration and peacekeeping platforms into atmosphere, some 750 klicks over Vieques, and another 2,000 klicks from Base One.

“Then,” Grey demanded of his fire-control officer,”what are you waiting for, Brother Tallent. Fire at will! Drones, you will add your—“

Alarms then screamed in his com, the veteran Starforces officer fighting his ship for control, as Captain Jethro Chegwidden shrieked from the Valiant's science station:

“Twelve Dauntless-class cruisers closing us rapidly from dead astern! We're the only ones still in the air, everyone else has been shot down!”

“Helm, hard about! Ficon, return their fire! Drones, downfire your birds; nothing gets through, understand?!” Grey demanded, even as Major Howard Spaatz violentlly whipped Valiant in every direction at once to shake the fire from the twelve Dirt cruisers' MAHEM guns.

Valiant's bridge went dark in the middle of one of Spaatz's evasives, Captain Tyrell McClendon reported:

Primary and secondary power grid burned out! Teritary power grid 84% disrupted! All radiators destroyed, internal heat now 94 degrees, continuing to rise! All MAHEMs have sustained heat casualties and are now offline! Warp engine destroyed, impulse engine—“

“No!” Grey screamed, hearing that little bitch Angela Puller laughing at him, at him, same as she had, when he caught her in his bed with that fucking little black bitch Shanna Johnson.

“No,” he resolved, as Spaatz pushed 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 Grey screamed for him to “fucking ram the little bitch!”

24 DECEMBER, 2275 12:20:01 Zulu

“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 Unbroken and the fifty surviving crew flying and fighting her, while Number One whipped her ship in every direction, and the last Avenger still in the fight matched her evasives, and continued burning hard for a terminal intercept.

Bastard really wants us bad, doesn't he? Chels had time to observe, as she spared the quickest of glances at the Avenger still charging and firing at them in the master holoprojector, just in time to watch Unbroken's MAHEMs burn through the enemy hull from stem to stern to open him up like a flower.

“C-cor McDonough,” Chels heard the Skipper stammering.

“Done for, the whole lot of 'em,” was Cor McDonough's breathless reply.”All enemy cruisers have been destroyed, all hostile drones dispatched, all enemy heavies have fucked off home.”

“Starships egressing hyperspace, multiple vectors!” Mister Albright then reported. “Ten mobile-base cylinders, being maneuvered toward linkup by jump tugs, plus one group of Dauntless-class machines, all at 112.5 kiloklicks from Vieques, beginning decel burn.”

“G-good,” the Skipper whispered, as she started shaking uncontrollably in her seat. “G-good.”

24 DECEMBER, 2275 12:21:00 Zulu

“S-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 holodisplay and its cloud of faintly-glowing hulks tumbling through the dark, and on the final casualty report floating in front of her PHUD’s eyepiece..

Thirty people.

Twenty of Chels' engineers.

Ten of Mordy's Fusiliers.

A fifth of Unbroken's flight crew.

And, they weren’t coming home alive, because of their...skipper...just fucking wasn't good enough.

She never had been.

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


...Number One,” Unbroken’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 beat the shit out of her some more, 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 Biological Authoritarians! 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 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, Unbroken's commander 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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Re: A Season Of Darkness(re-worked; NSFW)

Postby U.P. Cinnabar » 2016-09-15 11:32pm

02: Selah


24 DECEMBER, 2275 12:30:16 Zulu

"We're scientists, diplomats, and, explorers, are We not, Freeman?" He decided after watching the Communist ape descendants of the Harlot Lolitu pretty much secure everything within Galt's 450- and 900-kiloklick limits.

"What do peaceful people do," the Dominus Chirstus of His Anarcho-Confederacy added,"but talk peace talk?"

"We'll appear weak," His Freeman stupidly said.

"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 Freeman could think to say to that.

"With loaded dice, Freeman," the rightful King Of the Israelites reminded His EVP of Starforces Inc.. "With loaded dice."

“If you would,” He reluctantly gave the Word Of Command,”kindly give the order for Our Starforces to stand down.”

“For now,” He whispered.

24 DECEMBER, 2275 16:40:22 Zulu

“Is this Canon?!” asked Lieutenant Colonel T.J. “Amazing Darwinist” 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 Darwinist 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 Darwinist assured the ten-year old boy.” All the intellectual 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 Natural Aristocracy ordered the little monkey beneath his feet,

The Amazing Darwinist 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 Darwinist 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...

24 DECEMBER, 2275 16:40:22 Zulu

...Flight Officer Chelsey Lynn 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 no one could see her screw up.

While the ten surviving members of Chels’ engineering team, plus most of the crew still onship were in the ’tween decks, busy(along with the newly-arrived Vieques Station’s own engineering team) fixing everything they'd broken.

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

They’d replaced five of them, and were now fitting a sixth 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 hull.

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 so many radiators had sent the temp skyrocketing to over eighty degrees Celsius, and had damn near caused the lithium in the armor belt to boil off completely, 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 six turreted 24cm MAHEM guns’ 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 casaba magazines, moving from there to the thirty-seven surviving Raptors being tended to in their racks, and their replacements being inserted into empty launch rails along the head of the mast.

Finally, the credit-card sized AIs and optical cabling comprising Unbroken'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 lazy coños, 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 to answer her line supervisor's question.

“ 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 long-blade MAHEM cutter 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, Mister DeLong was standing less than a centimetre from the pinched MAHEM 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 longcutter 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, Unbroken's second in command was freakin’ gorgeous, bright red hair in a mop underneath her black Starship Corps 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 Unbroken's 2ic, down at her own big feet, blushing, dryswallowing.

“Sir, I-i....” she stammered, trailing off, Number One 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 almost forty 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 tart! 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 Number One 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.

24 DECEMBER, 2275 16:40:22 Zulu

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 Anarcho-Confederate Broadcasting Network’s 700 Club went on to say were a matter of Intercorporate 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 Forte Corporation's Forte's Valley Manufacturing 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, bitch,” he whispered, continuing to chuckle. “Your day's comin'. I’m gonna see you, and this licky-lick fuckin’ mother of a murderin femperv 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.

24 DECEMBER, 2275 16:45:04 Zulu

Narkie fucking wankers! Flight Lieutenant Scarlett “Red” DeLong thought bitterly to herself, echoing the hyperspace 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.

Unbroken's senior pilot 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, offship, probably in the gallery overlooking the ship's assigned docking bay, trying to figure out just how in the hell she was going to explain the deaths of Defender, Araxes, Arcadian, Unbroken's twenty sparkchasers, her ten Fusiliers, and all those poor sods aboard that sodding Avenger to those loved ones left behind.

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

Scarlett sighed, leaning back in the 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, on Earth, 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 Scarlett had tripped and bumped into her at the counter, and almost made her spill her black coffee, Rolos, and vanilla ice cream(something Scarlett 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.

Scarlett 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 at all, 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 Scarlett 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, Scarlett had loved her from the beginning.

It had taken the Narkies and their League bitchboys almost killing her over Big Sky, and her damn near doing that to herself with her drinking, but she’d shown up at Scarlett’s hatch, six months after Big Sky, sobbing, vomit on her breath, and telling Scarlett 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 Scarlett, and push her away, every shagging time...

Unbroken's second in command 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 Scarlett regretted not one sodding thing, no matter how bad it hurt.

...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…

24 DECEMBER, 2275 16:58:24 Zulu

...touching her shoulder made Jami flinch, Unbroken's skipper just barely throttling the reflex to turn around and knock the fuck out of whoever had touched her.

“Shit,” she heard Mordy Blum curse, as she turned around to face the commander of Unbroken's Fusiliers.

“Forgot,” he tonelessly whispered, sighing.”Sorry, Skipper.”

“No harm, no foul, Mordy,” Jami replied, as, slowly, she relaxed.

“Are you making any more or less progress on those than me?” Mordy then asked, taking the seat opposite hers in the docking bay lounge overlooking the beaten, battered, and mending Dauntless-class cruiser.

“If you're past the first name on the list,” she joked half-heartedly,”then, you're ahead of me.”
“Not really,” Mordy remarked.

“You'd think that I'd be good at this by now,” Jami whispered.

“You and I both know that never happens, Jami,” Mordy replied.

“I bumped into Celina on my way offship,” he added a moment later. “They've recovered the bodies of those from Sweet Jasmine.”

“A hundred and sixty-eight goddamned civilians,” Jami swore.”All they wanted to was get fucking home for Christmas, see their families, get stuffed on turkey, goose, hell, maybe venison steaks too, and...”

“Not your fault, Skipper,” Mordy told her.

“Yeah,” Jami bitterly replied,”not my damn fault. Except...”

She sighed, swallowed hard.

Commed the first name on her list— the wife and family of Defender's Squadron Commander Kate Hutchens—via Unbroken's hyperdrive transceiver.

24 DECEMBER, 2275 17:12:53 Zulu

“...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 Penthouse—vids featuring, amongst other things, sadomasochism and homosexual rape of a young girl by both women—for a sum of fifty million cred—”

Lieutenant Colonel T.J. “Amazing Darwinist” Selkirk, commanding ACS Reliant, 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 33,500-ton Avenger-class exploration cruiser's wardroom.

And, the veteran Starforces Incorporated officer—a by God four-star general once upon a time, before that goddamn little fuckin' bitch of his fucked him up, like shealways did—further, bitterly mused, the goddamn liberal femnazi statist, corporate Jew bankster elites, and their foreign, bankster-owned liberal media are going to force everyone to go along with still another perversion of His Received—

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

“Sir,” the holo of Reliant's science and executive officer, Commander Israel Spock, reported,”we've exited warp in the Earth system's Kuiper Belt, 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 to face his commanding officer.

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

“We are not under thrust or using any power, other than for life support, Colonel,” his science officer replied.”Their primitive detection gear is incapable of detecting a starship which has been blacked down.”

“Good,” Selkirk remarked,”good. Drones, launch one squadron of Preds for recon; coordinate with Brother Spock.”

“Find us a fat prize, and let's go be explorers, gentlemen,” he added, with a satisfied grin.

24 DECEMBER, 2275 17:14:27 Zulu

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

“The SS psych profile on Raghu—” Sam had the fucking gall to sass Him back, the King of His Anarcho-Confederacy, 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 Intercorporate Government ordered,“ before I put something down your fuckin’ throat you will not fuckin’ like!”

“In any case,” the sawed-off fucking runt of a Roadie CEO so helpfully observed,“ the damage has already been done; with insufficient warning, Gene’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, Ferguson,” Ian Mackenzie Real replied,“same as always.”

“Speaking of which,” asked Iosue Mahadmedus Caesar Christus, turning to face the Roadie, and His Starforces' EVP,“ did we get ‘em all?”

“Most of 'em,” Freeman replied.

“’Fuck’s sake, old timer, can’t you even fuckin’ do a simple redemptive cleansing?!”an exasperated King Of Man asked.

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

“Of the 2,927 protestin' in favor of that filthy ape being permitted her non-Canon sexual relationship, and t'rear her children in that toxic enviroment,” Freeman calmly replied,“ the SS, the Defensemen, Starforces Army, and Militia volunteers succeeded in sexually correctin' and redeemptively 2,911 of 'em.”

“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,” Gene Herman, with just the slightest hint of Junker accent,“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.

“Of course, Sire,” Herman replied, as that runty, little Rodent son of a bitch just had to fucking ask:

“Why are you dragging this out anyway, Ferguson?”

Iosue Caesar walked over to Real, standing nose to nose, toe to toe, as the Lord of his worthless Rodent life told him, flat out.

“Because I fucking CAN!”

“And everyone needs to understand that,” He whispered.

Everyone.”
"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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Joined: 2016-02-05 08:11pm
Location: Aboard the RCS Princess Cecile

Re: A Season Of Darkness(re-worked; NSFW)

Postby U.P. Cinnabar » 2016-09-16 12:56am

24 DECEMBER, 2275 18:20:00 Zulu

“Madame Secretary, I must object to any idea that we can even negoiate with these animals,” Ennis MacLeod's image said in Amelia's PHUD, as she forced herself to eat dinner, spearing a portion of fried Earth whitefish, a couple of chips and some mushy peas on her fork, and popped it into her mouth, chewing the bite over, as the holo of High Marshal of the Commonwealth Lenore Kaplan, the uniformed head of the Commonwealth Forces, added:

“Let alone negoiate with them in good faith.”

“Agreed,” the image of Field Marshal Sir Hilary Edwards, commander of the Terran Commonwealth Army, remarked, as Amelia sprinkled liberal amounts of malt vinegar all over her food, before using her fork to scoop up some mushy peas with another piece of fish, and adding some chips to the mixture.

“The Snakes can't even be trusted to honor the soddin' treaties they signed to begin with,” Hilary elaborated further.

“When you're dealing with people who think piracy and human trafficking are legitimate business activities,” the image of General Dunstan MacDowell, Commissioner of the Terran Commonwealth Police Service, spoke up,”and who think laws and treaties aren't good business at all—“

“Bottom line is they're not to be trusted,” Foreign Minister Brynne DeWitt's holo said flat out, as the Secretary-General of the Commonwealth finished her bite, washed it down with a mug of strong tea, and replied:

“I'm only too aware that the Snakes are called Snakes for a reason. The mad emperor Ferguson has no real intention of talking peace; he's just trying to lull us into letting down our guard, so the Narkies and their League bitchboys can hit us by surprise.

“But,” she added, gesturing at her PHUD's multiple holos with her fork,”going along with his little charade will let us consolidate our positions for when the war does start back up. So, if the son of a bitch wants to talk, I'll let him talk. Not that I'll believe a goddamned thing he says, but...”

“Yeah,” Star Chief Marshal Catherine DeLong's holo said.”It'll buy us time.”

“Yeah,” Amelia repeated, as she took another bite of fish, chips and mushy peas.

Fifteen thousand ships—two and a quarter million starshipmen—lost already throughout League-controlled space, six hundred of them over Vieques.

Plus the 168 crew and passengers of the Sweet Jasmine who the Snakes had vacced, when it seemed they would be liberated.

Not to mention all those poor souls on all those orbitals the enemy had destroyed, rather than let fall into Commonwealth hands.

She slowly, silently chewed her bite, remembering everything she'd just as soon forget.

A trillion people on both sides had lost their lives during the last war, a quarter of those during the liberation of Big Sky which had forced the Snakes to sue for peace, or, in their case, a peace between wars, with occasional unprovoked acts of aggression on the side.

That didn't even count the billions, if not trillions of unidentified, uncounted dead in Big Sky's Happy Valley, an atrocity to which the Snakes not only denied, but actively rewrote to make themselves appear the victims of the evil Commie statist drones.

Same as they'd re-written history to say Galt was the homeworld of humanity—of Homo magister and the lesser species he had created through Evolution, rather—and Earth had been a prison planet to which the losers of the Twilight War had been exiled—out of kindness, she supposed—and had proceeded to turn into a pile of shit.

“Amelia?” Lennie asked, after a few moments.

“Just thinking, Lennie,” Amelia told her wife.

“It's snowing in Sinnamary, right now,” Lennie remarked.”That's according to the latest weather report.”

“Yeah,” Amelia replied, sipping her mug of tea.

“Yes, it is,” Ennis spoke up. “Our oldest was supposed to be coming home tomorrow, but, I suppose that's not on now.”

“No,” Amelia whispered. “No, I don't suppose it is.”

24 DECEMBER, 2275 18:28:24 Zulu

“Fuck,” Lance Corporal Anne Giddings' young wife tearfully whispered from Mordy's PHUD.

“Fuck,” the grieving young woman(maybe a year or two older than the eighteen and half years of 4/2's ASL) repeated.”T-this was supposed to be our first Christmas as a family, God damn it. A fucking family; our daughter turns one on sodding New Year's Day.”

“She told me,” Unbroken's company commander whispered, goddamn near choking on the words. “She told the whole shagging ship, every chance she got.”

“Yeah,” Jami observed, Anne's widow smiling a bit at that, in spite of her tears.

“Mum and Dad are gating in from Colchester,” she said.”Her Mums are—“

“They already know, baby,” Jami softly said, brushing her face with the right sleeve of her No. 14 flight dress. “They'll probably tell your people, but, things being what they are...”

“Yeah,” Anne's widow said, rapidly nodding her head.

Both of Anne's parents were in the Forces, as their families before them, going all the way back to before the Twilight War, when the Commonwealth had just been Britain and her former colonies.

Same with his family and Micah's.

He sighed, swallowed hard.

“We'll have her things packed and ready for you, when we reach Earth,” he said.”It'll be some time, though, ship took a hell of a beating, and we're still working to fix her.”

“If there's anything of hers you want sent ahead of us,” Jami said,”we can—“

“No,” Anne's widow replied,”no, it's fine, really, thank you, Commander. I don't know if I have the strength to go through any of her things right now, the next few days...”

Try the next thirty sodding years, Mordy bitterly thought, closing his eyes to forestall Micah's ghost from haunting him just now.

“Of course,” he said aloud,”I quite understand, we both do.”

“I-i have to go,” Anne's widow said, as a baby cried in the background.

“She doesn't know about these things,” she added. “I don't even know how to explain it to her, when she gets older, and asks.”

“Give me a call, when you do decide, five, ten however many years down the line,” Mordy volunteered.”I mean it; I will help you tell her how her mum lived, and why she died. It's the least I can do.”

“Thank you,” Anne's widow replied, nodding her head.”Thank you both, for...for everything.”

And, she discommed, leaving the two of them in silence for a long time.

“I was always told,” the Skipper spoke up to eventually break that silence,”Christmas was supposed to be a time of joy, peace and good will to all men.”

“A load of bollocks,” Mordy spat in reply, as he sipped at a mug of black tea.

“Utter shite,” he repeated.

“Yeah,” Jami whispered.

“Yeah,” she repeated, before she commed the next set of loved ones.

24 DECEMBER, 2275 18:58:17 Zulu

She couldn't sleep, of course.

So, Unbroken's starship engineering officer found herself in the quarters of one of her slain engineers, Leading Technican Lori DuPré, carefully gathering her things, and packing them into boxes for delivery to her family on Firestar.

She had a lot of stuff, Chels mused, as she briefly examined a holo of Lori passing out from T-School in the Bibb Valley Metroplex of Earth's North American Wastelands.

Four years on, she thought for a moment, and I still basically only have my uniforms, couple books, and, that's pretty much it.

She didn't even have pictures on the walls of her quarters, something Khrys would tease her about from time to time.

Nodding her head, Chels placed the cube in the box with all the other flatpics and holocubes, gently sealing it closed, after she'd made sure she hadn't missed any.

She liked poetry, she mused, as she started removing the collection of bound books from the workstation just within arm's reach of the edge of the rack, pausing just long to look at the spines, before laying them at the bottom of another box. I never knew that, and an officer's supposed to get to know the members on her team, way the Skipper, Number One, or Mister Blum know every one of their subordinates.

“But,” she remarked aloud,”I'm not them, am I?”

What you are is a fuckin' joke, Rubber Toe Griego's voice mocked her from inside her own head, and not a very fuckin' funny one, either.

She breathed deeply, closing her eyes tightly against the tears, forcing herself to concentrate on the packing away of Lori's things, fiddling with the arrangement of the books, so that she'd have room to pack the rest of the slain leading tech's stuff, a couple of dragon statues, one purple, one green which had served as Lori's bookends, an old-fashioned, honest-to-God letter, sealed in a cream-colored envelope, and neatly affixed with the ship's official postage stamps in the upper-right hand corner.

Messy handwriting, she mused, as she used her thumbprint, DNA pattern, (taken from the sample of blood the biometric lock had taken from her) and her ident and authoization passphrase to access the workstation's locked drawers, retrieving even more handwritten letters—trying not to read them, as she placed them gingerly in the box with the books and dragon bookends—and random knickknacks and keepsakes, including a screaming orange yo-yo.

Chels couldn't resist the urge to try a couple tricks with the yo-yo, but it was soon evident she was long out of practice, so she untangled it, carefully wound it back up, and whispered “sorry,” as she put the yo-yo in the box with the rest of Lori's things, and sealed it up.

24 DECEMBER, 2275 20:22:17 Zulu

Even with the bustling crowd of starshipmen, MilPo Redcaps, MedCorps personnel, and LogCorps techs and ops watchstanders, Vieques Station's East Hab was a pretty quiet and desolate place.

Which suited Jami fine.

Mordy as well, she supposed, since he'd decided to shadow her, once they'd finished with all the comms to grieving loved ones.

Of course, she mused, the real reason he's following me around, is that neither of us can be trusted to not fall off the fucking wagon.

And, the bitch of it was, Mordy had been a complete teetotaler.

It was her fault he wasn't anymore, and she'd give anything in the worlds to undo that.

She sighed.

Wish in one hand, piss in the other, as they say, she reminded herself. No amount of wishing and saying “sorry” is going to bring the Skipper back, now is it?

The hab was set to Cor Leonis time, so the fiber-optic light guides were starting to tinge the blue of the artificial sky a deep purple, as if Regulus was actually setting in the western sky of that pelagic world, the lights and street signs coming to life, as the sky gradually darkened.

It only made her think even more of Bearclaw Station.

A failiure, one of many, 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.

Broken, ruptured, still-spinning cylinders catching fire, as the station had plunged into Big Sky’s atmosphere, and the Narkies and all their little bitches had 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 hyperspace.

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.

“Skipper?” Mordy softly asked, when he heard her sniffling.

“I'm fine, Mordy,” she replied, as she swallowed hard, forced herself to put one foot in front of the other, and keep moving forward.
"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: A Season Of Darkness(re-worked; NSFW)

Postby U.P. Cinnabar » 2016-09-17 12:34am

24 DECEMBER, 2275 22:27:44 Zulu

She smirked, as she found Chels curled up around packing crates on the rack of one of her slain engineers.

Unbroken's 2ic sighed, as she entered Master Corporal Alannah Deneuve's former quarters, and sat at the very edge of the rack, sealing two of the crates shut, and placing them on the deck, whilst putting the third on the workstation chair, and began packing those of Alannah's things that were in the chest of drawers above the bunk.

Underthings and civilian clothes mainly, along with a toilet kit, sewing kit, knitting needles, several rolls of yarn, a tin of old coins, and a ancient, yellowing, color flatpic of an aviatrix in full kit standing on the wing root of what Scarlett believed was called a Tornado jet fighter-bomber, amidst a scene of utter, barren wasteland.

She nodded her head.

Two hundred and eighty-six years on, and Earth was still recovering from the last of its world wars, Magrathea's terraformers hard at it, since at least the early 2000s...the ancestors of the current Snakes, then calling themselves the Fellowship, had devastated their world during the seven years of the Twilight War, and then, when the nascent Terran Commonwealth was close to winning the war, and were about to invade North America in a multi-pronged assault(including orbital insertion), Benjamin Ferguson, Freeman Lang, and the rest of their followers had taken their toys, and their surviving victims, and fucked off toward deep space, setting up pre-placed nukes to leave nothing behind for their enemies to take.

The result being the howling, mutant-infested hell known as the North American Wastelands, on which only the metroplexes of Bibb Valley, Dalworth, Nowata-Montgomery, and Cascadia stood.

Scarlett’s family had originally migrated to Cascadia from what had been Lousiana, and, from there, helped to colonize Firestar, in the Denebola system, once the Rittermark generator had opened the way to the stars in the early 2090s.

Another nod of her head, and Unbroken's senior pilot gingerly placed the flatpic in the packing crate, along with the last of Alannah's things, before checking the billet(including the phone booth of a washroom) to make sure Chels and she had gotten everything, sealing the crate, and gently placing it on the deck.

Chels whimpered, and thrashed about in her sleep, Scarlett sitting back down on the bed beside her, whispering,”it's all right, poppet, it's all right, just a bad dream, you're safe here, kay, you're safe,” like she'd do with Jami, when her nightmares got too bad.

She smiled, even as the tears came, and she breathed deeply through her nose.

No point in waking Chels, and bundling her to her own billet; best to just go ahead, and let her sleep best she could where she was.

So, she got up from the bunk, shut the lights off via PHUD, and quietly walked out og what had been Alannah Deneuve's cabin.

24 DECEMBER, 2275 23:21:08 Zulu

The Dominus Christus of His Intercorporate Government relaxed on the padded leather sofa in the penthouse suite of His Capitol, watching a random talk show on the Net.

“…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 Repentive Education Services Incorporated, 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 Atlantis Corporate Youth Repentive 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 Payne City where she’d been transferred following the incident in the Baldwin Corporate Center 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 Samuel 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 National Socialist Communist State's hospitals are any better equipped than the so-called free clinics in the worst parts of most human cities.

Fact: Health care in the Terran Communist 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.

Fact: Their Minister of Health, in a recent CBC interview, 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 Communist National Socialist-style price controls on medicine and on the medical profession,” His wise Samwise then asked, smiling pretty for the holocams,“ 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,“ Fact: Communist National 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, as the real thing, Masculinity and Aristocracy in the flesh, saunted into the living room, fetchingly dressed in a towel, His Samuel giving the anointed Father of Mankind and Lord of his life a come-hither look.

“Loved that turn of phrase at the end, Samuel,” the Rightful Heir to the New Jerusalem remarked, as if He didn't notice Samwise's bedroom eyes.

“Thank you, Sire,” Samuel coolly replied, refusing to be frustrated, as one of them would be, when her victim failed to comply with her unnatural sexual demands.

The King of Kings, Lord of Lords then tinkled the melting ice in His empty waterglass, and as a Natural Aristocrat would, His wise Samwise put His needs above his own carnal appetites by taking the glass from His hand and refilling it with aged Burbon whisky, and dissolving just a pinch of the reddish-brown powder called dancer by those that mattered, and kike by the lesser races who were prone to being addicted to it.

“Thank you, Samuel,” He told His handsome young man, as He took the glass back from him.

“Of course, Sire,” Samwise said, as Iosue Madhadmedus Caesar Christus, relaxed further, and watched some more HV.

25 DECEMBER, 2275 00:06:19 Zulu

“Hey you,” her Scarlett 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,” Red 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?” Red 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 sweet, sweet Scarlett fixed her a plate of fish and crisps. “Baby, you don't have to—“

“Don't have to what, lover?” Red 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.”
"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: A Season Of Darkness(re-worked; NSFW)

Postby U.P. Cinnabar » 2016-09-18 07:54pm

03:The Night Time Is the Right Time


25 DECEMBER, 2275 02:16:27 Zulu

“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 Galt, 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 Tau Ceti was 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 Syuzenka 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.

“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.”

25 DECEMBER, 2275 04:23:12 Zulu

She awoke screaming, her heart racing, breathing in great, heaving, shuddering gasps.

Shaking and drenched in sweat.

Chels tightly hugged the pillow, way Mama used to hug her, before all the bad shit had just caused her to turn away.

Way Merri had held her, wiped her tears away, blew her nose for her, as she‘d sat there huddled up in the far corner of the women's bathroom.

Just before Rubber Toe and the men on his line had come back to finish what they‘d started, only to catch the two of them together, and—

Chels shuddered again, biting down on her lower lip, pillow pressed against her, blanket wrapped even tighter around her.

She took another deep, shaky breath, trying to will away the things which had caused her to wake up screaming and shivering in what had been Alannah Deneuve's rack.

She couldn‘t.

Any more than she could chase what that the thing—that never could've been Merri—had done to her while she'd been on Witch's Tit, before she'd been shipped offworld to that club on Vargas.

But, that's what girls who like other girls like doing to other girls, you know that, baby, baby , her mind continued taunting her, ever as she hugged the pillow harder for protection that was never there, no matter how deeply she hid under the pillows and the covers at night.

She‘d made a fort of every pillow in the house, when she was six, hid underneath it, and Daddy still fucking found her, dragged her across the floor, beat the living shit out of her before he—

It was worse now, and she just tucked the pillow underneath her chin, and closed her eyes tightly, tears running blindly down her cheeks.

Just as unable to hide now, as she always had been.


“...hold them fuckin' back, God damn it! Micah shouted via PHUD for only third or ten thousandth time, since they’d gated into Erwhon Station to fight a lost cause, her Twin Six spitting white-hot deuce and a half past her husband's helmet to obliterate everything immediately in front of him, as he barked out the order,”All sections, advance by fire and m—“

Before he jerked, and whirled round too late in response to the echoing thunderclap from directly behind him.

From his wife's position.

“YOU BASTARD!” Mordy screamed, hosepiping streams of deuce and a half into the Narkie son of a bitch who’d killed his Micah.

“WANKERS!” he kept on shrieking, ripping into arseholes all round his wife's killer. “WANKERS....”



25 DECEMBER, 2275 04:24:28 Zulu

“....FUCKIN' WANKERS!” he screamed, as he fought the covers.

“AH, SHIT! he then swore, as he slammed his head into the bottom frame of the chest of drawers above his rack. “Fuck!”

All four limbs throbbed painfully in accompaniment to the pain drilling through his skull.

No sodding point trying to sleep now.

Without thinking, he climbed out of bed, digging out a pair of jeans and an Arsenal jersey shirt from one of the drawers, fumbling round one of the other drawers for a pair of socks, before getting dressed.

He hadn’t a clue where he was going.

He only knew he had to get off this ship.

Now.

Find someplace on station where he could drink it all away in peace.

He sat in the workstation chair, pulling his socks on, finding his battered pair of black boots underneath the desk, pulling them on, lacing them up, ejecting his M2142 from its holster and transferring it to a shoulder holster which he tucked securely into place round his left armpit, strapping the sheath with his longcutter round his right ankle, smoothing the leg of the jeans over it to conceal it, as he reached for a battered grey armorjacket and slipped it on.

With a sigh, he reluctantly got up from the chair and headed out into the crew deck proper, walking towards the ventral airlock, before stopping halfway.

Someone was crying her eyes out from behind one of the other hatches.

From behind the hatch leading to Alannah Deneuve’s former quarters.

Except, that was unmistakably Chelsey Ford sobbing.

With a deep breath, Unbroken’s company commander stroked the doorbuzzer next to the hatch

“I-i’m okay,” came Chels’ shaky voice over the speaker above the buzzer.

“Bollocks,” was Mordy's reply, trying to regain his own composure.

“C’mon out into the commons, and let’s talk, Mister Ford,” he ordered.


“...just what the actual fuck,” Mordy demanded, as he made the fucking mistake of approaching Unbroken's eighteen-year senior pilot sitting at the bar, “do you think you’re doing to her?!”

None of your fucking business, Mister Blum,” Jami replied, as she knocked back her fourth, maybe twenty-fourth, tumbler of Cuervo in the past...hour, maybe two, three...before banging the glass on the bar for a refill.

“None of hers either,” she added, banging her glass even louder on the bar.

“You’ve had enough, Number One,” Mordy then had the fucking nerve to tell her.

Jami just laughed in his ugly, furry, fucking face, as she shook her head at him.

“Fuck you, an' fuck off!” she spat at him, and...



25 DECEMBER, 2275 04:25:00 Zulu

...she nodded her head, sniffling, blinking back tears, as she kissed her Scarlett’s namesake mane of bright red hair, stroking it, whispering:

“I’m going to check up on Mordy, kay, babe?”

as she slowly, reluctantly disentangled herself from her lover, slipped quietly from her rack and put on the deep cornsilk blue terry housecoat Red always said went with her eyes, before padding her way out into the crew deck proper.

Her eyes adjusted to the ship’s dim night cycle lighting, and Jami walked over to the table where Mordy—dressed to go bar-crawling on station, just as she’d suspected—was sitting opposite Chels, as the two of them talked and drank coffee.

“Skipper,” Mordy said, as he noticed her.

“Mordy,” Jami said, as she took the chair between the two of them.

“Any more of that coffee?” she asked.

“Yeah,” her Fusilier company commander replied, quickly getting up.”I’ll get you a cup.”

“Appreciate that,” the commander of the Unbroken replied softly, smiling, as Mordy walked back behind the galley serving line and poured another cup of coffee.

“S-skipper,” Chels stammered out, Jami taking one of her starship engineering officer’s flailing hands in hers.

Holding it, as she told Chelsey everything was all right.

Because it was.

For now.

25 DECEMBER, 2275 04:25:00 Zulu

“Did I wake you, lover?” Lennie's image softly whispered.

“I'd have to have slept,” Amelia replied to the image floating above her quarters' workstation terminal,”in order for you to have awakened me, baby.”

“You too, huh?” Lennie remarked, with a sigh.

“Yeah,” said Amelia, as she sat up at the edge of her rack.

“We're supposed to be home, waiting for the grands to try sneaking into the living room to open their presents,” she remarked, with a sigh of her own.

“Yeah,” Lennie replied.

“Yeah,” was all Amelia could think to say back to her wife.

“But...” Lennie started to add, before trailing off.

“Yeah,” Amelia repeated.

'Peace and good will toward men,' my ass,” Lennie bitterly observed.

“Don't speak to me of their 'peace and good will,' “ Amelia said. “It's all rape, murder, and the torch for us, remember?”

“Of course,” Lennie sardonically replied.”How could I forget ?!”

“Santicmonious sons of whores,” she spat.

She sighed.

“I spent all last night online with the families and loved ones of everyone we lost yesterday,” her wife, and High Marshal of the Commonwealth then said.

“Same,” Amelia said. “You'd think after a while, it gets...”

Now, it was the Secretary-General of the Commonwealth's turn to trail off.
“It doesn't,” Lennie remarked. “Never does, never will.”

“No,” Amelia softly replied,”I suppose it never will.”

“The worst,” she added,”was talking to those who lost loved ones aboard the Sweet Jasmine. Servicemen, at least, choose to be in the Forces; these were civs, they had no choice in being hijacked, abducted, likely sold into slavery on that fucking rock we fought and bled ourselves white over.”

“I know,” Lennie said.

“This sucks,” she then remarked. “Truly fucking sucks.”

“It does,” was all Amelia could say to that.

“Like Erwhon Station and Happy Valley all over again,” Lennie whispered, tears running down her face.

And, there was little Amelia could say or do that would comfort her wife over the sister-in-law whose death haunted her, even three decades on...Unbroken had lost forty percent of her crew, including Squadron Commander Micah Kaplan-Blum and an entire flight, four whole sections, of Fusiliers, and had evacuated just under a million and half civs, during the opening battle of what history now called the Ninth Interstellar War.

Those, and the two and a quarter million of the station's personnel and permanent residents killed during the battle, had been lucky ones.

The rest...were buried on Big Sky.

“Sucks,” Amelia whispered.

“Yeah,” Lennie whispered.

“Yeah,” Amelia softly said in reply.


...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 fuckin' 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 space cruiser 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, General,” said the Rooskie polekocknick, or however the fuck you pronounced the Commie word for bird colonel, as he peered at the feed from the onboard cameras. “Solution ready, all birds armed and ready.”

“Then,” He demanded,”what the fuck you waiting for, boy?!”

“Fire!” He said...


25 DECEMBER, 2275 05:04:09 Zulu

...as Commanding General Freeman Zephiniah Ezekiel Lang, Executive Vice President of Anarcho-Confederate Starforces Incorporated, had himself another talk with Jack Daniels in the solitiude of his study, while gazing out into the skyline of a city named after one of the many who'd given their lives for His Work.

His Benjamin's Work, which He'd taken up, after Carter's treason had almost completed the undoing of it, which had begun...

Shit, where had it started?!

There'd been so many points between 1945 and 1975 that the EVP of Starforces Inc.—the private defense agency he'd founded three hundred years ago—could point to and say “yup, this is where things started fucking up for Us, all right,” such as the failed attempt to force Churchill from power at the end of WW 2, the equally failed attempt to prevent LeClerc from becoming head Frog over all the Frogs, following the very public(and fucking unauthorized)assassination of DeGaulle after the equally fucking unauthorized liberation of Paris back in '44—1944—the Limeys, the Frogs, and the fucking sabras clubbing together and forcing their man Nasser from power in the late 1950s, then working together to fucking steal a goddamn march on both NASA and the Rooskies by developing a working Orion engine—except, they called it fucking Daedelus, cause they were just that way—more failed coups against Churchill and LeClerc in the 50s and 60s—capers which had been traced right back to the fucking geniuses at Langley in a very public and embarassing way—followed by the twin disasters in Indonesia and Vietnam, which had turned Their country, and worse, Their soldiers, against the Others and Him, and got Their US of A kicked out of NATO, right along with West Germany.

Lang snorted, as he knocked old Jack back like he was just water, before pouring himself another from the bottle on the minibar beside the window of the study overlooking the front campus of the Starforces Command reservation at the center of Robert Scott Starbase.

Putting the Nazis back in power in their half of Deutschland was about the only thing which had gone right in the years leading up to WW III, what the liberal Jew media and the drones in the education industries insisted on calling the Twilight War; that, and propping up the old Soviet Union, so Their America would have the enemy it needed to justify(and cover up)its actions against the real enemy.

And, the bitches had still fucking won.

Nature had finally done to LeClerc and Churchill what the Others had failed to do, but in their places had risen Chirac in Frogland, and that fucking whore Maggie Iron fucking Dyke Thatcher in England, and even fucking worse, Nixon's fall had taken Ford down with him, and that goddamn treasonous, pussy-whipped fucking peanut farmer had risen to the Presidency, while nothing the Others could do could stop him ultimately undoing everything his Benjamin, the Others, and He had worked so damn hard to accomplish, especially not with the rank and file of the military—most of the officers and many of the generals as well—completely on his side.

He knocked back another glass of Mister Jack, and poured himself another.

And, They'd tried, Jesus Saint Pete, They'd tried, first by engineering an oil crisis and inflation, then with that whole business in Iran which had blown up in their faces, on account of one God-damn fourteen-year old overprivileged Yankee brat in At-fucking-lanta(or near enough as made no difference)getting a letter from his little friend in motherfucking Tehran, who just fucking happened to be the sister of one of the college boys Assahollah Homomeni had called in to do the actual deed.

And, unfortunately for Them, Clarence Kelly was not amongst the Others, not like (the aptly-named) Hoover had been, and his FBI was not on Their side.

End result: Four more years for the peanut farmer and his false-preaching dyke of a sister, Uncle George completely humiliated in the 1980 elections, after ol' Cowboy Ronnie had had the bad manners to kick the bucket right in the middle of giving his keynote speech in Detroit, and, two years later, Their Argentine friends' attempt to take the Falklands and speed the removal of the Iron Bitch from power(based her deciding just to give them the worthless piles of nothing without a fight, just cause she didn't have the right gear for doing man's work)had been met with defiance from her, and from fucking Carter, who decided to steal Tattnall Junior's quote, make it his own, then deploy the America SCBG from Mars to geosynchronous orbit over South America, along with the Royal Aerospace Force's Falkland Islands Orbital Task Force(dispatched from Phobos).

And, Uncle George, forced to turn his coat, and accept the Vice-Presidency, as part of his humiliation, had cut a deal with Andrei Gromyko over in the Soviet Union, to have the VKS nuke Washington, London, Paris, Tel Aviv, military targets in the US, France, Israel, and Great Britain, as well the insignificant little Falklands, leading to World War Three.

And, to Benjamin and the others using Spaceforces' Inc.'s surviving ships to evacuate North America, seven years after the Others had so severely underestimated the now-Global Commonwealth of Nations—including the capabilities of the treasonous US Armed Forces still left alive—and its ability to turn the whole fucking planet against their anointed Lords and Masters, including the fucking Rooskies, after Gromyko had had the indecency to fucking drop dead in 87, and clear the way for that bastard Gorbachev to take over, and the fucking Chinks, after their attempt to break bat on all that Democracy '89 horseshit had been all the Iron Dyke and her little bitches had needed to swarm Hong Kong and China like a goddamn plague of locusts.

The EVP of Starforces Incorporated, once one of the Others, and still loyal to Their Work of Evolution, sighed, before knocking back still another glass of Jack, before filling him back up to continue his early-morning conversation.

That led to Sean.

His son and his Benjamin's, cloned from the splicing of their DNA, after the same fashion as all His Natural Aristocracy since just before the Twilight War, had proven such a weak, epileptic failure, that both his Fathers had decided upon disinheriting him.

Halfway to Tau Ceti, Sean had other plans, those involving the back of his Benjamin's head, a .44-caliber MAHEM replica of Dirty Harry's famous pistol, and the destruction of all His backup clones, leading to His being shitcanned into the dark, Sean's tearful claim that his Father had ascended to Deo sapiens, his other claim that was what awaited His Aristocracy once His Work was done, and him rising to power of the survivors of the Anarcho-Confederacy of Columbia.

All downhill from there, Lang darkly mused, as someone rapped on the polished steelwood door of his study.

“Yeah?” the Starforces EVP demanded.

“Sir,” the voice of some enlisted piece of shit said over his PHUD, “Mister Herman to see you.”

“Well,” Lang replied testily,”send 'im on in, son.”

Tall, patrician, and elegant, just as he'd been during the years he'd ridden high as Fürher of Their Nazi Germany and near-master of Europe(goddamn Churchill and the slimy fucking Limeys, again), not like he'd been following a faked death, plastic surgery, Operation Paperclip, and his years of supervising the creation of one of the cornerstones of His Received Canon, Hermann(his given name) still could send a charge right through him.

“Thought you forgotten all 'bout me, Hermann,” Lang said, his back still to Hermann.

“Never, Freeman,” Hermann trilled, that hint of Junker accent coloring his deep baritone.

“One needs all the old and dear friends one has left,” the now-head of the Vargas Movie Board remarked,”when everything We have worked for is threatening to come crashing down around Us.”

“True,” Lang replied, turning to look in Hermann's slate-grey eyes.

“That,” he repeated softly,”is true.”

25 DECEMBER, 2275 05:07:22 Zulu

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.

Tau Ceti was 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 Christmas, and maintenance wasn't scheduled to work, even though Forte 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 sun 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 Galt.

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 assault against the protesters on the Capitol's West Entrance had proven as much.


Almost three thousand innocent people killed, and God above only knew what would be done to the few who'd gotten away.

God above only knew, and, as Susan said, He didn’t appear to be answering anyone’s prayers these days, let alone theirs.

25 DECEMBER, 2275 05:11:16 Zulu

She smiled, as her Jami came back in, shed the housecoat Scarlett had bought her a long time ago, sat along the edge of the bed, and gently kissed her cheek.

"Hey, you," Jami whispered.

"Hey, yourself, love," Scarlett whispered, as she propped herself up by an elbow and sat up.

Her eyes fell on the cube of the two of them at the left-hand edge of the workstation.

They'd just been married, postman blue No.1 service dress and garlands of flowers round their heads vice the saucer hats, Scarlett's head leaned against her Jami Lee's shoulder, both (then-)young women grinning like idiots, as they'd stood on Unbroken's crew deck(just outside Scarlett's quarters, as a matter of fact)while Mordy 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 Scarlett.

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

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.

Always would be, she thought, as, aloud, Scarlett asked,”so?”

“Mordy was about to go pub-crawling, as I suspected,” Jami whispered. “Luckily, if you could call it luck, Chels was bawling her eyes out, and...just for a while, the old Mordy, the one who'd pulled my ass out of every dive between here and Mintaka, who tried his hand at counselling me, when the Skipper...”

She closed her eyes, tears running down her face.

“Goddamnit, he needs worrying about,” she said what she'd said for Lord knows how many times in the last three decades,” 'cause I did this to him, I—“

“Did your job, lover,” Scarlett gently, firmly reminded her only true love,” the one the Skipper ordered you to, til you had no choice, but to—“

“I should have stayed,” Jami whispered.

“And lose the ship and the rest of the crew?” Scarlett reminded her.”Or worse, being forced to surrender, and...”

She trailed off, and flinched.

“Yeah,” Jami whispered, lowering her eyes, as Scarlett climbed round, sitting on her wife's lap, as she straddled her, and leaned Jami in toward her breasts, Jami, without hesitation, laying her head on her wife's bosom.

Scarlett gently stroking her long, straight, blonde hair, as she let Jami 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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Re: A Season Of Darkness(re-worked; NSFW)

Postby U.P. Cinnabar » 2016-09-20 02:14pm

04:In This Quiet Corner Of England


25 DECEMBER, 2275 11:26:18 Zulu

“—that Ford, Watson, and Watson's two daughters all participated in graphic and sadistic femsexual scenes for Femperv Lessons, the Net-zine of Galt College and Anarcho-Confederate 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 moth—“

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.

25 DECEMBER, 2275 11:29:00 Zulu

“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 [i]proud[/i] of what I am, proud of [i]all [/i]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!“

Selkirk lay in his rack, and watched, via PHUD, 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 a

WHOOPWHOOPWHOOP!WHOOPWHOOPWHOOP!WHOOPWHOOPWHOOP!

“Red alert, red alert, all hands to battle stations!” Spock's voice droned over his commander's PHUD, as the commander of the Reliant rolled out of bed, zipped up his flight suit, scooped up and buckled on his web belt, screwed on his lid, and ran like hell for the ladder leading upship from officer's country to CIC.

All hands, battle stations!” Spock repeated in the red-lit gloom of the 'tween decks.”Fire control, load MAHEMs! Helm, plot an intercept! Drones, release the hounds!”

“What do we have, Brother Spock?!” were the first words out of Selkirk's mouth, as he gained the CIC, and strapped himself into his chair.

“Commercial transport, plus thirty by eight, thirty megaklicks downrange, and 900 kiloklicks from Saturn Highport,” Spock replied from the science station, as Reliant's pilot, Captain Douglas Keith, executed a hard turn and burn out of Neptune's atmosphere, and boosted toward entry velocity. ”Godzilla Maru-class, 120,000 tons, identified as the Empire MacPherson, Cunard Blue Star Line, carrying thirty thousand tons of tungsten, dysprosium, and depleted uranium, presumably for starship construction, along with 120 passengers.”

“I believe, Colonel,” his first officer added, sotto voce,”this satisfies your definition of a 'fat prize.'”

“About goddamn time,” groused the ship's ficon, Captain Andrei Pavlov. “All we've been doing is run—“

Spock's rebuke of “Brother Pavlov!” froze in time a second, as Reliant hit entry velocity, and shot into warp.

And violently shuddered, as the lights went out, and the holo of its chief engineering officer, Captain Johnathan Kyle, began his damn caterwauling.

25 DECEMBER, 2275 11:29:00 Zulu

The ship was repaired, the last crew—the last replacements included—were aboard, the final checks completed, and all stations manned and ready for the trip to Earth.

"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 hyperspace ingress."

"Drives, seal locks, retract umbilicals," Unbroken's commander then ordered, as the same time she programmed a 75-second, four-kilograv burn into the shipnet. "Number One, plot an ingress vector for Earth, and get us away from airdock."

"Locks sealed," Chels said via PHUD, 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 cartridge detonated, the resulting annhilation reaction pushing against the torch's diamagnetic field and pusher plate to kick the thirty-kiloton Dauntless-class cruiser starship forward, her velocity building toward the three kilokips necessary to initiate a hellspace jump, as Unbroken's knitting-needle hullform sailed along the airdock, through the shiplock, and out into the darkness that was her true home.

"Final corrections made; hyperspace ingress vector echoed to shipnet," Red reported.

"Hyperspace systems on line," Chels reported from the Pit."Rittermark field generator spinning up, hypersail array energizing, ingress in five, four, three, two, one, ingress!"

And, the Commonwealth Forces Starship Unbroken displaced herself more through space than through time, travelling at 9.4 teraklicks per second toward E—

WHOPWHOPWHOP! WHOPWHOPWHOP! WHOPWHOPWHOP!

"Skipper, passive sensors detecting an Avenger-class starship egressing hyperspace, zero by two, 288 kiloklicks downrange, 900 kiloklicks from Titan, closing rapidly on a 100,000-ton Godzilla Maru-class commercial transport on final decel burn for Saturn Highport orbitals!" Caitlin shouted, after Unbroken abruptly egressed hyperspace short of near-Earth space.

"Battle ready, battle ready, battle ready! All crew, secure for violent maneuvers and war emergency burn!" Jami shouted over shipnet, as Red did a hard jink and burn, Erica punched her Raptors, and Phyllicia opened fire.

25 DECEMBER, 2275 11:32:57 Zulu

Evade as if your life depended on it, Brother Keith!” Selkirk roared at his helmsman, as CIC went dark again, and Kyle screamed in his commander's ear:

Primary power grid's burned out! Secondary power grid 62% disrupted! Radiators one, three, eight through twelve destroyed; internal heat 60 degrees and rising! Impulse engine reduced to one and a half kilograv to increasing heat, impulse engine thermopile shorting out, due to incre—“

“Drones!” Selkirk shouted to his drone operator, Chief Master Sergeant Peter DiFalco.”Downfire one squadron of Preds for point defense, keep 'em tight and close! Send the remainder in against that little bitch!”

Oh, it was her, it would have to be her, aft cams got a good look at the red horse rampant emblazoned on the sides of her crude knitting-needle hullform, as it continued raining fire down on his ship.

“Sir,” Spock said, as CIC went dark yet again,”we should turn and attack ourselves!”

“Eyes on the prize, Brother Spock,” Selkirk spat at his second in command.

“Eyes on the fuckin' prize!” he repeated. “You hear that, Brother Keith?! Keep us—“

“Sir!” the avionics watchstander reported.”Multiple enemy cruisers burning hard on multiple intercept vectors from the outer ring of Highport orbitals. Estimated time to intercept, given eight-kilograv emergency b—“

Eyes on the goddamn prize!” Selkirk screamed.

“All my birds have been shot down!” DiFalco then reported.

“MAHEMs one, two and six have experienced heat casualties, and are now offline,” Pavlov reported, as CIC went dark again, and Kyle shrieked, like some goddamn old woman, again.

“Target now on final decel burn to New Braunfels Station,” Spock reported. “Hostile reinforcements have entered and exited warp, multiple vectors, 288 kiloklicks downrange and closing rapidly at three kilokips. Recommend we—“

“You goddamn little bitch!” Selkirk screamed.

“You goddamn, fucking little whore!” he spat.

“What the fuck are you waiting for, Brother Keith?!” he then angrily demanded.”Warp us the fuck out of here, while we fucking still have a warp drive!”

25 DECEMBER, 2275 13:20:28 Zulu

"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 or off Corporate property, on or off Corporate 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 Corporation, 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 Forte Corporation. We'll contact you to let you know when to expect Corporate represenatives to visit your home."

"Roberto," she then said,"if you'd please escort Alexandra back to her ride, and 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 His Intercorporate Government, 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 Forte's Valley Facility's personnel manager completed her paperwork, including work orders for the Movie Board hax to begin breaking into Alexandra's Intercorporate Credit account, 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 Corpo Nunn, in Robert Scott, had sent her offworld for repen—

She flinched, closed her eyes tightly, trying to force away the ten years of being sent from one repentive 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.

25 DECEMBER, 2275 13:24:47 Zulu

"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 Intercorporate Security Service's Internal Surveillance Center, 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 99,000-ton 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, and His Aristocracy's final ascension to the blessed hope that was Deo sapiens.

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 Starfleet 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 Corporate Center, 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' Head 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...doing things to me...m-makin' me do things to them.”

“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 Chick n' Head 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 with her an' Jenny.“

“Mmmhmm,” remarked the rightful King of the Israelites, eyes hardening, as they zeroed in on just what two femperv sex killers had made a third to for—and to—them, the Man of the Waters instantly revolted by feminine depravity in action, as all His Biological Authoritarians should be and were.

He nodded His head, turning away from three femperv apes, and back to the blonde one, seeking a chemical escape from reality through marijuana cigarettes(typical of them as well), even as she breathed deeply, and made those titties of her move for the cams.

Her personnel file floated before His right eye.

“Mmmhmmm,” went the anointed Dominus Christus of His Intercorporate Government, this time with more emphasis.

Seemed she'd been mixed up with the so-called Angel Of Darkness when she was younger, and old Sam Nunn, in Houstoun Corp, had made her spend ten years repenting for that, til she'd been sold at auction to her current paternal authority figure, once her therapy had been declared successful.

“Well now,” the King of Man thought aloud,”looks like We may be able to use you, after all, little Sister Murray.”

“We may, at that,” He repeated.

25 DECEMBER, 2275 13:24:47 Zulu

She never even visited Mama’s grave.

Unbroken's skipper thought about that as she stood in the pouring rain at the head of thirty caskets draped with the C and Globe of the Commonwealth and the Union Jack of the Commonwealth Kingdom of Great Britain, 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.

Unbroken was heading there next, once she'd buried her dead at the Basic Training Centre's cemetery.

...so doth a little folly outweigh all wisdom and honor,“ she finished, pausing, looking at thirty flag-draped caskets, Mordy's command section lined up beside it, Twin Sixes at the ready, Mordy rigidly standing at the end of 1 Section of 1 Flight, facing Jami, ignited longcutter 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 cutter as nine MAHEM assault rifles fired into the leaden sky over Lympstone.

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

As Jami and those of her crew still living came to attention, while the pipes sang “The Flowers Of the Forest.”

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

“ 'They shall grow not old,” said Unbroken's OC, 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 Unbroken's crew still alive.

25 DECEMBER, 2275 13:40:26 Zulu

“'We will remember them,'” promised Star Chief Marshal Madeline DeLong, as she presided over the funerals of 168 civilians who'd only wanted to come sodding home for the holidays.

Half the planet had gathered here, in the Commonwealth Military Cemetery in the Commonwealth World of Summer Rain's capital of New Toronto, while the rest of her Commonwealth was watching this on line, all of them sharing in the grief of their collective loss, and the awful, bloody tragedy of it all.

The Star Officer Commanding of the Commonwealth Starship Corps swallowed hard, as she started to make the rounds of the families and loved ones holding folded, tri-corned Commonwealth flags, thinking about another Christmas, ten years ago, the first day of the Second Battle Of Big Sky, the liberation which had cost a half-trillion dead on both sides, murdered another three and a half billion civs, had seen eighty years of terraforming finally undone, and the horrors that had awaited them at Happy Valley.

Horrors they were still uncovering to this very day.

For a day of peace and sodding good will, Christmas, in her experience, had seen damned little of either one, and too much of the exact opposite.

Madeline breathed deep, smoothed creases in her No. 1 service dress greatcoat that weren't really there, steeling herself, as she approached the first set of loved ones from whom those Narkie bastards had stolen.

25 DECEMBER, 2275 16:02:01 Zulu

“—a terrorist State ,” the mad emperor Sean Ferguson’s proudly homosexual holoimage prated on the floor of the Snakes' Intercorporate Council,“ 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 Mordy 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,” Rikki 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 Unbroken's Starship Fusilier company forced himself to joke. “Damn.”

He handed the dart to Unbroken's company sergeant major, who promptly fired the thing straight between the eyes of the mad emperor Ferguson'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 Narkie bastards had taken ten of his kids—all of 4/2 Flight—from him yesterday, though the Skipper, being the Skipper, blamed herself for what had to be done, cause the right thing to do remained the right thing to do, regardless of politics.

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 Ferguson's nose.

"Ah, fuck me!" Mordy lamented, Rikki quipping, "with that kind of aim, I suppose the safest place for a Snakehead 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 Interstellar War, following the bloodiest battle in history, two 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 Bearclaw 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 smoldering 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.

25 DECEMBER, 2275 16:02:01 Zulu

“The Dark Horse’s lasers,” 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 lasers, I’d say.”

“As would I, Mister Jekyll,” the Enterprise’s CO, 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 Dark Horse 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 the Forte's Valley Manufacturing Facility 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 right, while the 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 oppressed by the big, bad Patriarchy, when they're safe, healthy, well-fed, and have everything they could ever possibly want.

Little Suzy caught him looking down on her, and she flinched.

Good, Griego thought, as he turned his full attention back to Star Trek.

25 DECEMBER, 2275 16:03:00 Zulu

She stepped through the heat shimmer of the Basic Training Center's telegate focus, displaced herself more through space than through time, and emerged through another heat shimmer-like phenomenon onto the stage at the Main Building of the Commonwealth Forces Headquarters reservation in Guiana Downport.

A MilPo master corporal met Jami at the foot of the stage with her gauntleted right hand out, Unbroken's OC shaking it with her gloved left hand, wincing as the genscanner integrated into the MilPo's No.5 Standard Powered Armor drew blood.

“Passphrase, sir!” the master corporal shouted at the same time, Jami replying “' Angel Gabriel Blue!'”

A moment passed, before the master corporal came to attention, and barked “SIR!” as she saluted Jami.

“Stand at ease, Corporal,” Jami replied, returning the younger woman's salute, before turning on her heel, and walking toward the bank of lifts at the far wall, returning the salutes of another MilPo section stationed by twos at each of the five pairs of doors.

The third pair opened, and Unbroken's skipper stepped inside, the lift ascending gradually toward where she needed to be.

And, what she least wanted to do.

Three decades on, and she still wasn't ready to be Unbroken's commander, let alone command 633 Cruiser Squadron.

She sighed.

She hadn't been here, since she'd gone through Perisher—the Combat Starship Command Course—just after she'd been promoted to Flight Lieutenant thirty-two years ago, the youngest officer to go through one of the toughest training courses in the Forces, and she still didn't know how in the hell she'd managed to not wash out altogether, 'cause...

The lift doors opened, and Jami stepped out, shaking hands with another MilPo section leader to verify her identity, before walking straight to the picture window overlooking what had once been the French Centre Spatial Guyanis, before the Fourth Republic had ceded all of the former French Guiana to the Commonwealth for its capital district and military headquarters.

The snow was coming down heavy over the Guiana Capital District, and the waves swamped what little of Dreyfus' Tower remained above the Atlantic Ocean.

The terraformers had spent almost three centuries doing what they could, but she didn't think it would ever be the way it was before the Twilight War.

But, that hadn't been what had drawn her eye.

Same as last time, she stood transfixed by the bullet-shaped hull and mast of HMS(technically CFS) Ariel, permanently airdocked at No.1 Gantry at the center of the Headquarters Reservation, between Main Building and the Starship School's Downside Campus.

She'd been the first manned spaceship, built and launched here during the late 1950s and early 1960s, lifted from that very gantry into the exosphere on hydrogen peroxide rocket boosters, before shedding them and engaging her Daedelus thermonuclear pulse torch to begin her historic mission to Mars.

She noticed the bullet broken up by triple 16” MAHEM turrets on either flank; these had been the amongst the first MAHEM guns made, their bulky thermonuclear casaba cartridges barely able to fire their tungsten-steel beams at one percent of lightspeed.

Still, she mused sadly, she and her sisters, Explorer, Aube, Eliat, Astrolabe, Excalibur, Rahav, Jules Verne, Kidon, and Vanguard served right up through the Twilight War, which was a shame in and of itself, same as putting guns on them at all, but, even then, we knew it was hardship first, then the stars.

Then more hardship amongst the stars.

“Jami,” the voice of Red's Mom said to almost startle Unbroken's OC.

“Stand easy,” Star Chief Marshal Madeline DeLong, in No.1 service dress(including greatcoat), then said, as she stood beside her.

“Been a while, Mom,” Jami whispered.

“Six months,” Madeline replied.

“I'm not ready,” Jami then said, cutting right to the chase.”I'm not good enough, God damn it. Just not...

She trailed off.

“The rest of your squadron's just arrived in airdock,” her mother in law then said to break the silence,”after finishing their repairs, and burying their dead; Lahav encountered them, when she egressed hyperspace outbound from Summer Rain.”

“I also brought Invincible, Jacoubet, and Kongo with me to make good your squadron's losses,” she added.”They've all been pulled out of the reserve yards, with reservists for crews, but most of those fought in the last war, so, they should work out just fine.”

“Mom—“ Jami started to insist.

“You don't think you're good enough, Jami, I know that,” Mom told her.”I don't know what to tell you, except, we're at war, and things are what they are. One of those things is, ready or not, you have the squadron now, so you have to use them to kill Narkie bastards, and bring as many of them back home alive as you can.”

“Squadron Commander,” she said, as both of them fell silent, and looked out at the Ariel dusted with falling snow.

25 DECEMBER, 2275 17:12:09 Zulu

"—We predicted the impulse engine, We predicted the warp drive, We predicted an end to bankster monopolies, poverty, and greed, We predicted the use of drones in combat, We predicted the MAHEM gun, We predicted the existence of Vulcan," said Doctor Ben Robinson to Telenet 424's Nata Leigh Fox,"We predicted the PHUD 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 true star of the latest incarnation of His Canonical Work added:

"Well, the legacy of feminism, secularism, social justice, democracy, socialist Jewnazi banksterism, and...other scientific heresies, speaks for itself, doesn't it?"

“I suppose it does, Master,” whispered little Nata Leigh, as she bowed her head like a good little girl.

Yes, it does, little girl, thought Selkirk, as he watched this on the wardroom's twelve-foot holoprojector, and downed another self-chilling longneck of Red Dog malt liquor laced with sheen.

That goddamn little bitch of his, and her whore of a mother, they'd gotten him hooked on alcohol and kike, just one of the ways they'd had to keep him low and in subjection to their stinking pits of iniquity, just as His Received Canon—Star Trek, in particular, with its Terran Alliance of lesbian sex killers—said.

That was why little bitches like Nata Leigh Fox, and his irredeemably bad little girl hated Star Trek so much, and tried to suppress it and the rest of His Canonical Works.

Reliant's CO pounded that dancer-laced beer down as well, opening another self-chilling amber bottle, while continuing to watch the little blonde slut on HV try and keep up with a triple Ph.D motherfucking scientist trying to explain the science behind one of His key Canonical Works.

They don't what science is, Selkirk mused, pounding still another Red Dog down his gullet, and opening another. That's why they like that Star Wars shit so goddamn much, spending their days trying to do witchcraft—which is what the Force fucking was, that was motherfucking Canon—while their healthier, more well-adjusted, biologically-superior peers spent their days coming up with the next technological and/or scientific breakthrough for the benefit of Mankind.

Selkirk's PHUD bleeped, and Spock's image floated before his right eye.

“What is it, Brother Spock?!” the master of the ACS Reliant demanded of his first officer.

“Starbase Operations reports the ship will be repaired and ready for space in the next three hours, Colonel,” Spock answered oh so fucking calmly.”We have also received new orders from Command.”

“They are?” Selkirk prompted.

“Remain in airdock and await the arrival of the remainder of the 116th Starship Expeditionary Force,” his first officer informed him. “Further orders will be echoed to your PHUD when Nimitz arrives at Eridani Starbase.”

“Which have been our orders from the moment we got here, Brother Spock,” Selkirk reminded his second in command.

“Yes, sir,” Spock calmly said, without elaboration.

Selkirk sighed.

“I suppose I'll know what they're up to, when I need to know it,” he bitterly remarked, cursing the lack of access he now enjoyed, because of that little blonde bitch of his always fucking him up and keeping him down.

“Selkirk out!” he snapped abruptly to end the pointless convo, before drinking another bottle of Red Dog dry.
"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: A Season Of Darkness(re-worked; NSFW)

Postby U.P. Cinnabar » 2016-09-22 07:29am

25 DECEMBER, 2275 17:30:00 Zulu

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.

25 DECEMBER, 2275 17:32:10 Zulu

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

" Excuse me, Mister Blum?!" 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 Fergie's pic; it was such a tempting target!"

"This isn't funny, goddamn you!" Unbroken's skipper snapped. " You're a Commonwealth 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—oh, sorry, Squadron 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 Fusiliers—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 Fusilier commander barked in response.

"Christmas dinner is at 1900 sharp," Ariel's commander told him."I expect you to be cleaned up, sobered up, in full mess dress, and in the commons fifteen mikes before that. Get me?!"

"Understood, Skipper," Mordy answered.

25 DECEMBER, 2275 18:04:07 Zulu

Celine Aguilera's image pranced virtually naked and sang “Santa Baby” from nearly every building along Intercorporate 49.

Susan sighed, as she stuck to the right-most of IC49's northbound lanes, as the Intercorporate Highway snaked its way through Forte's Valley, then through Owen, en route to Payne City and Jonescorp, then Wesley.

Where Vicki, Lexie and Josh waited for them, with what Christmas dinner they could scrape together on their combined salaries.

More vegis, mashed potatoes, and gravy than turkey, she observed, as she kept Vicki's Lakota at 190; any faster than that, and the ancient pickup's six-cylinder engine and its diamag jenny would both overheat, and leave her and Syuzenka on the side of the road, with no one stopping to help, especially not the fucking Defensemen, who'd only be looking for an excuse to—

She flinched, as she found herself bulleting through Payne City, some asshole in a red Cabellero behind her not satisfied with how fast she was going, and whipping around her in a maneuver which almost made her and several other drivers almost lose control.

That bastard crawled right up the back bumper of the car ahead of him, both doing about 210, 215 easy, the red Caballero stomping on the hydro, and repeating his same dangerous passing maneuver to get around him.

Susan concentrated on that, on the road ahead, glancing over at Syuzenka dead asleep in the front passenger seat, before checking her cams, front, side and rear, and locking her eyes straight ahead.

Not much of a Christmas dinner, but, with her kids and her Vicki, that just didn't seem to matter as much, they made her Christmas, even a the turkey the size of Tweety Bird, and only having enough fixings for one, maybe two, pies, if they stretched it, that and coffee.

A glance at the temp displayed on the Lakota's windshield, another at her speed, then eyes back on the road.

Snow had started falling again, enough so that the defrosters on the front and rear windshields were hard-pressed to keep up.

Even the coffee had been hard to come by at fifteen creds for a dozen filter packs, and, with what all five of them took home every Thursday(and only Josh eligible for holiday and overtime pay), loose-ground coffee, either 100% real or mixed 49/51 with chicory, was just impossible, at twenty-two and a half creds for three pounds real deal, and nineteen and a half for the same amount of 49/51 mix.

“Son of a bitch!” she swore, as a dualie-dualie pickup shot past her in the next lane, doing 235, and spraying her front windshield with half-melted slush, Susan almost losing control of the elderly little pickup just from being drafted, to say nothing of the slush and gravel pelting the winshield and threatening to freeze solid, in spite of the defrost.

“Mama?!” Syuzenka asked, as she awoke with a start.”What was that?!”

“Nothing, sweetpea,” Susan replied, as the HUD started flickering, as the front windshield defroster started sucking power from the engine, and the hydro gauge showed her at barely half a tank left.

“Nothing at all,” she repeated, giving her youngest girl's hand a gentle squeeze. “Why don't you go on back to sleep?”

25 DECEMBER, 2275 18:04:07 Zulu

On the evening of His birthday, Iosue Caesar Mahadmedus Christus smiled His Work to see.

On the holoprojector before Him, a pair of Forte Corp line supervisors led Forte and Baldwin Corp Defense in the ransacking of Lil' Suzy Floozy's house, taking everything having the slightest thing to do with Forte Corporation and little Lexie Watson.

Including the food in the fridge, freezer, and laid out buffet style in the kitchen, as they had, of course, been purchased with Intercorporate funds that none of the little femperv apes cowering and trembling before two of their Biological Dominants had ever even come close to earning.

“Leave 'em be,” their anointed King ordered the two line supes via com.”Just leave 'em with nothing, or close enough to it, as makes no difference.”

“We're not quite done with them yet,” the Dominus Christus of His Intercorporate Government assured the senior of the two supervisors .

His Imperial Majesty then leaned back in His chair, knocked back another waterglass of Burbon and kike, and continued studying the footage from the SSID Internal Surveillance Center repeater holodisplay in the privacy of His study in the Hilton Head Island Resort, switching from Lil' Suzy Floozy's sick, twisted parody of a family, to Lil' Suzy Floozy and her youngest little ape slut, bravely driving through heavy snowfall in hopes of reaching the c-store at the Intercorp 18 exit, about, call it a mile, maybe two, past the toll plaza.

His Word of Command had the data from the shabby little pickup's transponder displayed on His PHUD, including the balance remaining on the vehicle's Intercorp Transit account.

The King of Kings, Lord of Lords briefly contemplated shutting off the vehicle's CorpTrans account, leaving her at the mercy of the Defensemen assigned to plaza security, rejecting it, as counter-productive to making the little bitch and her so-called family suffer as long as He felt like making them all suffer.

Besides, dinner—His birthday dinner—was waiting in the resort's Executive Dining Room, and He didn't want it to get cold.

Standing up straight and tall, the He Who Was Over All Others checked Himself over, smoothing out creases in His black Starforces Incorporated mess uniform jacket, fussing with the red cummerbund, flicking a bit of lint from the one thick and wide and five thin red stripes on His right cuff, buffing the Commanding General's six silver stars on each of His red shoulder boards, before turning on His heel, and walking out of the study.

25 DECEMBER, 2275 18:41:26 Zulu

Chels' throat was still dry, even after downing a bottle of water from the galley.

For the forty-fifth time, maybe, she fussed with the grey jacket of her No. 5 mess uniform, combed short, coppery hair which had already been combed, smoothed and straightened out her red cummberbund, checked the medals and badges on the jacket's right breast, obsessed with the line of her black tie with its embroidered red horse rampant with the center of her white shirt, the cummberbund and the belt of her gold-piped grey uniform slacks.

Swallowed hard, and not just because her throat was dry.

She had to give the toasts, both the loyal one, and the Saturday toast, as she was the most junior officer on board by at least two decades, so all eyes would be on her, and they would all see how much of an utter and complete fuck-up she was.

Deep breath.

Not that that did any good, but it was almost time for her to assemble with the rest of the command team in the commons, and she hadn't a single excuse for trying to get out of it.

Reluctantly, she turned on her heel, and passed through the slowly-opening hatch leading onto the crew deck proper.

Just a single deck(as opposed to five on League warships) to house the med section, the garden, the reefer, and the other life-support machinery, the galley and commons, the airlocks, and single berths for each of Unbroken's 150 crew, with each of the cabins barely larger than an average walk-in closet.

Not that Chels needed much room for what little she had, nor had been, by any means, the smallest room she'd ever...

She stiffened, and quick marched, concentrating on not remembering something she'd just as soon forget, on not thinking about giving the toasts, or how one of the other officers would nag her about eating her fill, even though anyone with a half-ounce of brains could see she was too fat as it was.

Surprised it doesn't spill out of this uniform, tight as it is, she mused, before rounding the main ventral corridor and walking into the commons, where the rest of the ship's officers and two of her three senior NCOs were already gathered round at a knot before the two center tables, each set for six.

The third of Unbroken's SNCOs, Chels' chief technician, was wearing a starched-white chef's coat and hat, same with Cor McDonough and a couple of the more junior NCOs, as they finished setting the tables, poured grape juice into wine glasses(alcohol having banned aboard any CSC starship for nearly three centuries), and prepared trolleys of venison steaks, mashed potatoes, giblet gravy, and various desserts.

Fuck, she's gorgeous, Chels thought to herself, against her own better judgement, as she watched Khrys, her deep chocolate eyes darting to and fro, her long black hair pulled up underneath her chef's cap, moving about the galley, fussing and fretting over every little detail, like she always did, especially, when she'd been Chels' MTI back at T-school in Bibb Valley four years ago.

Another deep breath, to divert her mind from where she couldn't let it go.

“Mister Ford,” remarked the Skipper—resplendent in her No. 5 mess dress, same as Number One, discreetly holding her wife's right hand in her left—as her steel-blue eyes locked onto Chels.

“S-skipper,” Chels stammered out, the Skipper's answering smile not reassuring her in the least.

25 DECEMBER, 2275 18:54:57 Zulu

She's as nervous as I am, Jami mused, as she gave her starship engineering officer a knowing smile, Chels responding by fidgeting in place, as, one by one, the other ranks of the ship's company began emerging from their quarters, and filing to their assigned places at the common area's tables, while Khryste Pollard and those junior NCOs tapped for mess duty changed out of their white chef's jackets, chucked them into a nearby hamper, and began pulling on their mess uniform jackets.

For the fifth, or maybe fiftieth time, since she'd changed uniforms, Unbroken's skipper looked at the four thin gold stripes circling each of her uniform jacket cuffs.

“They're not going to magically disappear, lover,” her Scarlett whispered in her ear, as Jami fussed with the four gold bars on each of her shoulder boards, before ordering the ship's company to “be seated.”

Sitting down, she then looked around her, at her crew, both those old hands still her in spite of her, and the replacements all feeling as out of place here, as Jami still did sometimes.

Only sometimes, though, she thought, smiling, as she caught herself in her Scarlett's deep green eyes, accented by the steel-framed, round Forces-issue prescription safety glasses, which, in turn, complemented her long, straight red hair, currently tied off in a ponytail per uniform regulations.

Only sometimes, she reassured herself again, as she tapped the side of her wine glass with her butter knife to bring the ship's company to order.

“If you would, Mister Ford,” she then said aloud.

Chels looked like she wanted to crawl in a hole and die, but, after a hard swallow, she raised her glass, and said:

“Our Commonwealth.”

“Our Commonwealth,” the rest of the crew said as one, as they raised and lowered their glasses.

Another hard swallow, then Unbroken's starship engineering officer offered the next toast:

“Our families, here and at home.”

Jami nodded, as her crew and their skipper repeated that toast, this time, clinking their glasses together and sipping from them.

“What the hell are we waiting for, Chief,” Jami then quipped. “Bring on the grub.”

“And,” she added,”Happy Christmas.

To all of you.”

25 DECEMBER, 2275 19:02:06 Zulu

“What the hell are you doing?!” Susan shrieked, as she came through the front door to see Claudio Lira, Phil “Rabbitf00t” Mason and a whole bunch of Defensemen violently ransacking her house, going through her things, her kids' things, Vicky's things.

“Shut the fuck up, slag!” was Rabbitf00t's reply, as he pistolwhipped Susan to the floor with his drawn Targus 53 Champion 7.62mm MAHEM pistol, Josh calling him a motherfucker, as he charged and tackled the Roadie bastard to the deck.

“Fuck,” Susan whispered, her heart sinking, remembering all the other times she couldn't save any of her babies from them, as Claudio, with a chuckle, picked Josh up by the scruff of his neck, shoved the blued-tungsten barrel of his Colt, Smith & Wesson M116 deep into the skin, and hissed:

You are under arrest for unforgeevable crimes against 'is Received Canon—“

“No,” Susan pleaded, knowing it would do no good,”please, not my son, not my—“

I said to shut up!” Rabbitf00t screamed at her, as Claudio continued:

“—no rights, whatsoever, only the privilege of loving judgement and final punishment by one of 'is Natural Aristocracy! 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 'e have mercy on your soul!”

before he opened fire, her fourteen-year old son's brains exploded across the ceiling, and Rabbitf00t smugly said:

“Should've thought of that, before you decided to be a bloody, filthy, two-faced, shaggin’ dykehole.”
"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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Location: Aboard the RCS Princess Cecile

Re: A Season Of Darkness(re-worked; NSFW)

Postby U.P. Cinnabar » 2016-09-26 01:47am

05: All Alone In the Moonlight


...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-Blum out!”

And, she was....


26 DECEMBER, 2275 07:43:12 Zulu

...gone.

Along with sixty other crew.

Two and a quarter million civs.

The lucky ones.

Squadron Commander Jami Lee Selkirk took a deep breath, looked out into the lake formed from the blast crater left by a five-inch MAHEM beam, 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 repentive therapy could get.

Another deep inhalation, the cold wind ripping through her, in spite of her No.1 service dress' 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 five-pointed, black granite star 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-Blum's headstone.



26 DECEMBER, 2275 08:00:00 Zulu

Susan struggled to breathe, feeling their eyes on her, and seeing nowhere to turn and no light at the end of the tunnel.

"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; fuckin' mark my words!"

Then, he walked away, heading for the pile of Model 109 baskets 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 in three fuckin' hours, and not even a hunner' carts there," there were in fact a little over two 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, Master!'" Rubber Toe warned."If you know what's good for you."

"Y-yes Ma-master," Susan stammered.

"Julio, take over Susan's machine!" Rubber Toe shouted.

"And, you," he said to Susan,"get to work!"

26 DECEMBER, 2275 08:03:08 Zulu

”As you all know,” said See BS' Brian Garret on the command station's left-hand holodisplay,” solid information on the true state of affairs inside the Earth High-Risk Penal Colony and its Communist State is nearly impossible to come by.

The radfemnazis, their bankster Jewnazi-owned liberal media, and the rest of the well-placed statist, corporatist, militarist ape 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 Masters 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 CivPo 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 Anarcho-Confederate High-Risk Penal Colony and the worlds they've enslaved under the relentless, hopeless brutality of their radfem, Communist 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 Amelia Seldin 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,” Mordy sourly replied from the command station,”you know what?! Piss right off, mate.”

“Just piss off,” he spat, banishing Movie Board crap to the nonexistence it truly deserved, the commander of Unbroken's Fusiliers turning round in his chair to face the ship's young starship engineering officer at her station, her head down, and her hands flying across her MFDs. .

"You know what they say about all work and no play, Mister Ford," 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 in the Pit."

"W-wouldn't know what to do with myself, sir," Chels replied with almost indecent haste, as she bent back over her MFDs.

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 Unbroken's systems 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.

" 'Midnight. Not a sound from the pavement—'"

26 DECEMBER, 2275 08:06:12 Zulu

"'—Has the moon lost her memory? She is smiling alone,'" a woman's voice reverberated through the mostly-deserted systems deck, as Chels turned her attention back to re-calibrating(re- re- calibrating, to be honest) the ship's Rittermark field generator.

She smirked.

Coming up, she'd had it drilled into her skull that Homo magister invented the warp engine over three hundred years ago, when all they'd really done was just ride coattails off the work Christina Rittermark and her team had done during the early 2090s.

"—All alone in the moonlight. I can smile at the old days. I was beautiful then. I remember. The time I knew what happiness was.Let the memory live again.'"

Pretty song, Unbroken's starship engineering mused, as she glanced at the commander of the ship's Fusiliers sitting in the command station, looking off into the distance.

Crying.

Fuck.

"You'd think," he slowly said, soft, sad voice also echoing across the Pit,"that after...thirty sodding years...that it would hurt just a...little less."

26 DECEMBER, 2275 08:09:22 Zulu

But, it didn't.

Jami sighed.

"Thought I'd visit you a while,” she whispered to the Skipper's headstone,” 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 Red," 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," High Marshal of the Commonwealth Lenore Kaplan added, her voice raw-edged,"left you and the systems team to fight the ship, because...it had to be done.

Otherwise, ten years ago as thirty, no one would've come out alive."

"Sir," Jami whispered, turning to face the Chief of the Commonwealth General Staff.

A silence, as the two women regarded one another.

Then, High Marshal 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.

"Sean Ferguson and all his Narkie bastards killed my baby sister, Jami," High Marshal 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.

26 DECEMBER, 2275 08:15:00 Zulu

Mum, being Mum, admonished her eldest daughter to "eat."

"That's my line," Scarlett remarked, Star Vice Marshal Suzannah Chapin chuckling from the right-hand side of the table they were sharing in the commons of Lahav's crew deck.

Scarlett popped the bite of med-rare venison steak in her mouth, chewing it over, while Mum cut into her bit of well-done-to-death deer.

"Honestly," she remarked, holding a leathery bit of what might have been meat in front of her,"I really don't know about you, Scarlett, how you can eat meat that's barely a breath from still wiggling."

Scarlett grinned.

Mum still being Mum, in spite of all her responsibilities.

Some things do stay the same.

"And, I don't know how you can eat something that might as well be shoe leather," rejoined Scarlett, as she scooped up a generous portion of scrambled egg, sausage, and bubble and squeak with her fork.

"Meat is supposed to be properly cooked," Mum replied, as she took a generous forkful of bubble and scrambled egg. “That way, you don't get worms in your gut, or some such.”

“This from someone who eats raw bacon,” Suz teased, as she sipped her coffee.

The commander of 6 Cruiser Group then sighed.

“Gas leak, luv?” Mum teased back.

“Thinking,” Suz whispered, as Mum reached out and held her second wife's hand.

And, it was Scarlett's turn to sigh.

Both Mum and Suz 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'm tired of it all, as well," Mum finally whispered, reaching out to hold Suz's free hand.

“But, Fergie and all his psychotics won't have any other way,” she reminded her.

"Now, eat," she then admonished her wife and her daughter."Your food's getting cold, and we wouldn't want Number One thinking you don't like his cooking, now do we?"

26 DECEMBER, 2275 09:01:06 Zulu

"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."

"Thanks,” Susan managed to reply, as she just barely caught a Model 109 before it would've rolled into her, and knocked her flat.

"He was one of my best maintenance men," Jimbo replied,"knew all the ins and outs of everything in here. He would've..."

He trailed off, 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 pinche 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 Floozy!"

"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 12.7mm MAHEM 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 Natural Aristocracy! 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 white-hot flash and a puff of smoke.

"Julio," 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 won-fifty," Julio Murrieta insisted. "The safety—"

"I said, four hundred parts per second!" Rubber Toe snapped." Now! Before you're next in line for a jury trial for questioning Canon!"

"Si, patrón," Julio replied, as he bypassed the replicator's safety interlock, and ramped up production.

26 DECEMBER, 2275 09:05:00 Zulu

Even the sight of Lil' Suzy Floozy having just one more little bird shitting on her was not enough to make the Dominus Christus of His Anarcho-Confederacy happy.

Not with five times as many protesters surrounding His Capitol, as there had been two days ago, all of them shrieking their demands to “GET WITH THE TIMES!” and “JUSTICE FOR SUSAN!” before fucking caterwauling that miserable Jewnazi bastard's ancient, unfounded claim that “the times, they are a'chaaaannngin'.”

“Not on My fuckin' watch they ain't,” the Rightful Inheritor of the True American Legacy promised them.

“Oh, really?!” the runt of a Rodent CEO's unwelcome voice echoed in one of His innermost sanctums.

“Who fuckin' let you down here?!” demanded Iosue Madhadmedus Caesar.

“Tell me, Fergie,” the rodenty fucking Roadie ignored his Lord's demand, and had the termerity to ask,”do you think those forty thousand-odd Dirt warships at the 450- and 900-kiloklick limits won't 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," decided 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."

“Echo Rosalind Murray's personnel file to My PHUD,” the Man of the Waters ordered one of His Internal Surveillance Center's techs.


...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 Unbroken’s skipper, stroking her head again, as she took her to where Zeke Golden had set up shop...



26 DECEMBER, 2275 09:11:01 Zulu

...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, Unbroken's skipper standing precisely between the hospital, one of the four deadline forts with turreted drone racks and five-inch MAHEM cannon 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 CEO of the Intercorporate Government.

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, LogCorps 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 MedCorps and MilPo forensic identification teams had succeeded in giving names and faces to, in spite of their murderers’ efforts.

She could just see the flagstaffs—the Commonwealth Flag, the flags of all the Commonwealth 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 Commonwealth Army mech infantry, and the other Forces servicemen 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.

“Squadron 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 Bearclaw 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 Star.”

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.

Unbroken's commander 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."

26 DECEMBER, 2275 09:15:06 Zulu

She shook hands with the lance corporal of the Fusilier section guarding the dorsal airlock, the pneumatic hypo built into the left gauntlet of the young woman's No. 5 Standard Powered Armor kit pricking Scarlett's right index finger, the blood sample it had taken now being analyzed by the armor's on-board genscanner.

“Passphrase, sir!” Lance Corporal Sheba Mbewe barked at the same time.

“Butterflies are free, peace sincere,” Scarlett replied.

Soon enough, a pair of DNA strands floated in front of Sheba's right eye, along with the words "100% MATCH" greenly flashing across her com's holofield, at the same time a pair of fingerprints also displayed the same information.

"Congratulations, Number One," Master Corporal Glynnis Tyler, commanding 3 Section of 2 Flight, quipped."It seems you're still you."

"Is that a good thing, Cor Tyler?" Scarlett joked back.

"Depends if I piss you off, doesn't it, sir?" Glyn replied, smirking.

"You'll find Mister Blum and Mister Ford in the Pit," she added."Mister Blum has been playing that song again.

Over and over."

"Of course he has, Glyn," Scarlett whispered, cursing inwardly, but it was better than his drinking.

Just.

And, as for Chels....

2ic's work is never done, innit? Scarlett observed, and not for the first time.

Unbroken's senior pilot sighed, saluting the Commonwealth Flag and the Union Jack, before asking "permission to come aboard, then, Cor Tyler?"

"Permission granted, sir!" Glyn replied, as Scarlett strode toward the serving line, where Chief Technician Khryste Pollard was serving a full English breakfast—including the venison steaks which hadn't been cooked last night—to crew coming off shift.

"Number One," Khryste said, as she began fixing a plate.

"None for me, thank you, Chief," Scarlett replied."I had dinner aboard Lahav."

"It's...Chels, sir," Khryste half-whispered to Unbroken's second in command."Mister Ford, I mean. She hasn't been up to eat yet, and...."

Scarlett 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, won't she?"

"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," Scarlett told her,"just as you should be doing."

"It's more than..." Khryste started to say, sighing.

Yeah, Scarlett 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."

26 DECEMBER, 2275 09:17:12 Zulu

"Sir!" Mordy said, as he started to rise from his chair, Red telling him to "stand easy, Mister Blum," as she approched the center of the systems deck.

"How are you holding up, Mordy?" she then asked.

"Shit," the commander of Unbroken's Fusiliers told her 2ic, 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, after the ceremony," Jil said.

Mordy simply nodded, as he told the shipnet to stop playing the song.

"Thank you," he softly said.

"You've had breakfast yet?" she asked.

"Cor Tyler brought plates downside earlier," Mordy answered. "Mister Ford claimed she wasn't hungry."

"I heard," Red 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," Red said, nodding her head, before turning her attention to the ship's starship engineering officer.



26 DECEMBER, 2275 09:19:05 Zulu

"Sir," Chels said, rising from her workstation, as the 2ic made her way forward.

"What kind of an example does that set for her team, when their officer can't be arsed enough to look after herself, Mister Ford?!" Mister DeLong asked, without preamble.

"I-i'm—" Chels started to stammer.

"Not having it," the ship's senior pilot brightly, gently, but firmly chided."Up you go; breakfast's waiting, go tuck in, that's an order."

"Sir," Chels reluctantly replied, rising from her chair, turning, and 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 DeLong'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' venision steak, dripping with butter and grilled mushrooms, along with bubble and squeak, scrambled cheese eggs, and sausages all piled high, a pair of English muffins with orange marmalade 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 shoe-leathery 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 DeLong 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 DeLong 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.


26 DECEMBER, 2275 09:30:00 Zulu

“We will delay liberation and redeemption by twenty-four hours,” declared the King Of Kings, Lord Of Lords, to His Board Of Directors.

Of those, only Freeman was stupid enough to state the absolute fucking obvious:

“The Others ain't gonna like that, not one little bit, that's for sure.”

The Dominus Christus of His Anarcho-Confederacy chuckled, then ignored Freeman's worthless statement of irrelevant fact, before he asked His good little Sam:

"Has the operative been briefed?"

“Brown has briefed the operative in full concerning tomorrow's mission,” His wise Samwise replied.”He has been given a remass cartridge holding eighty grams of lithium deuteride and anti-hydrogen; that translates to a yield of precisely 1.74 megatons—”

The Shepherd and Lawgiver Of Mankind’s only reply was a short, sharp whistle.

“It is linked to his PHUD, and voice activated," His Samuel continued."The end result will see everything within 3.3 klicks in every direction completely, utterly wiped off the face of Galt, 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.”

“At the same time,” the Lord of Life then said to Freeman,”We will launch the scheduled liberation and redeemption of Big Sky and the rest of the territory stolen from Us

“What about the Others?!” Freeman stupidly demanded.

“What about the Others, Freeman?” Iosue Madhadmedus Caesar calmly replied.

"They ain't gonna like it,” His EVP of Starforces Incorporated repeated his earlier mastery of the obvious.

“They'll do as told,” the Rightful King of the Israelites reminded Freeman, a moment before he said the name of His EVP of the Church Government, and made him scream like a little bitch.

“Or else,” He airily added.

26 DECEMBER, 2275 09:34:26 Zulu

“It's confirmed, then?” the High Marshal of the Commonwealth stated, without emotion, to Ennis' image floating in front of her PHUD.

“Affirmative,” was the DGSIS' equally flat, toneless reply. “Bastards deployed the mobile-base cylinders to build all the necessary orbitals, just after the balloon went up Christmas Eve, and all our attention was focussed elsewhere; our data indicates the Starforces under contract to the Roadies egressed the cylinders into the Rho3 Eridani star system all in one go, while Starforces units, both regulars and contractors, have been gathering piecemeal there for a big offensive; Squadron Commander Jones reports ten thousand machines in airdock already and growing.”

“Any ideas on where—“ Lenore started to ask, Ennis replying:

“Our most likely prediction is Big Sky, coupled with all-out offensives against our forces elsewhere, and possibly even a strike at Earth, Mars or both.”

“That was their opening gambit after they took Big Sky during the last war,” the Chief of the Commonwealth General Staff reminded her spymaster.

“Possibly,” Ennis repeated himself. “They've pulled back all their...exploration missions,” he snorted contempt for the Narkie euphemism for commerce raiding and piracy,”from the Solar System, which they likely wouldn't do in advance of an invasion attempt against Earth and/or Mars.”

“True,” Lenore replied, picking at her breakfast, and sipping some of her coffee, before she decided:

“Have 483 Squadron continue their recce, and flash the SecGen and the rest of the General Staff. Also, flash the head of Big Sky's Defense Authority, since it's his world these bastards are likely after. Is the War Contingency Plan in full effect?”

“One moment,” the Director-General of the Commonwealth Security Intelligence Service said, consulting his PHUD, and answering:

“All reserves are being mobilized, and all robotic factories and log bases in interstellar space are either online, or are gearing up.”

“Good,” Lenore whispered, shaking her head, as she already mentally began preparing a plan of attack, and the means by which she would pass on the information to those who needed to know.

“No,” Ennis spoke aloud what was uppermost on her mind,”not really.”

“Not really,” Lenore agreed,”no.”


“...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 Yellow Stripe about to lay into her and the child in her arms with his ignited arcwhip.

Almost.

Scarlett stood behind the gore and greasy smoke marking where he had been, her M2140 rock-steady in her hand, steel in her emerald eyes, every bit the warrior goddess Jami knew she w—

“YOU GODDAMN FUCKIN' LITTLE WHORE!” another worthless Narkie 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 M2169 combat scattergun, both shells firing a cloud of deuce and a half through two centimeters of Whipple armor protecting a Starforces Army mechie, and through the Green Stripe 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...



26 DECEMBER, 2275 10:16:54 Zulu

“...hey there, baby,” as her Scarlett’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,” Red then explained, even though she knew she didn't have to,”but, I got back to the ship, and...2ic things happened.”

'2ic'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 Scarlett squeezing her gently, as she held on tight, crossing her arms over Jami's breasts.

Jami kissed her Scarlett’s long, slender fingers, the kind a senior pilot with a Black Star 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 Red 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 red-headed 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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