SDNW4 Story Thread 2

[Shroom Man 777]

Originally written by, and reposted with the permission of, my good friend Crazedwraith!

An Old Orthii Proverb

There are some things that never change. Thought Tourff Risto as he entered the Sub-Basement Gambling Facility he had once frequented in better times. Then he considered his purpose here and mentally added and some things that do.

The room, nicknamed “The Den” by its criminal occupants, was much the same as it had been three years ago when Tourff had last been there: small and square with a bar and a bank taking up one wall and numerous round cards tables in the middle. There was only the one door and no toilets or fire exits. In short it was a dump that nearly everyone in this city avoided. Making it a perfect gathering place for the criminal underground.

“The Den” seemed to have more bullet holes and scorch marks on the wall than before and all the faces had changed. It seemed that “The Boss” as Risto’s former employer liked to be known, had fallen upon hard times without him. At least if he was judging by the lamentably poor quality henchmen that welcomed Tourff to their card game but only after he flashed some suitably high denomination cash, of course.

Risto had always found gambling with someone was an easy way to a size people up. Unfortunately that only accounted for two out of the dozen odd thugs in the room, but still you couldn’t have everything in life. These two were both Orthii (Damn it was good to be back in home space, even with the legal complications) and neither looked particularly dangerous. One was of the same pack as Tourff himself with the wispy starts of a mane. Such a young fool had no business being in a bar let alone moonlighting as a gang’s heavy. The other, who was of a pack humans would refer to as ‘Pantherish’, was older and had gone slightly to seed. Neither could intimidate him if they tried. Still, even such poor fare could, in such numbers, prove lethal enough.

Risto resisted the urge to stroke the butt of the Ocelot Revolver that he had strapped to his left hip and instead lit the foilweed cigar he had been twirling through his fingers and took a long drag, feeling the noxious chemicals spread through out his system with a pleasant tingling sensation. He exhaled and was just going to raise Panther a few more pounds when there was a loud click and what felt uncomfortably like a pistol barrel was jammed into the back of his head. Hard.

“Ah,” said Risto as calmly as if this happened to him every other week which, upon further reflection, it actually did. “I was wondering when someone would notice. Congratulations, at least you took under an hour.”

A deep bass chuckle sounded from behind Risto and ‘The Boss’ slowly limped around the table into Tourff’s limited line of sight. He was a heavyset cat and his whiskers drooped with age. He brought another couple of henchmen with him. The odds were now: Fifteen to one, Against. Almost a fair fight by Risto’s standards. This might even be fun.

“Long time, no see, my friend. You got a lotta guts coming here after what you pulled!”

“What I pulled?” Tourff muttered sarcastically.

“Yeah. You landing me in the shitter, with no less than three high profile deaths attributed to my little syndicate. Do you know how hard it is to land deals when your gang is on the most wanted list?”

“You sent me there! To collect something that never existed! You set me up and now your whining because I got recognized?”

“Hem. Me? Set you up? I might think you’re smarter than you look for figuring that one out. Then you walked into here alone to pick a fight.”

“Hey,” said Risto, flashing his teeth. “What have I got to loose?”

‘The Boss’ gave him an incredulous look.

“Your life.”

Risto’s grin grew wider,

“But why, that’s true of everyone here though isn’t it?”

He gave them a couple of seconds to reflect on that, ominous statement. Then it began. The fight everyone knew was going to happen ever since the ‘Boss’ had walked in. And seeing as Risto had a gun pressed to his head, most people were only casually gripping their weapons. No one was expecting what happened. That's what killed many of them.

Risto kicked off the edge of the table. Sending it flying forward and him flying backward, drawing the Ocelot as he fell. The table meanwhile impacted the two thugs he’d been gambling with, showering them in money, cards and various drinks. Delaying their shots.

Risto hit the ground and swung his left arm up, swinging the Heavy revolver in a perfect arc into the crotch of the thug behind him. Risto's right hand grabbed the agonized Orthii’s shirt and pulled him down on top of him just as the thugs all around the room managed to finally fire. Tourff felt several impacts through the struggling thug before the cat went limp. Throwing the dead thug aside, he fired the Ocelot back over his shoulder hitting the second thug ‘Boss’ had brought with him beneath the ribs. Lifting the Orthii several inches off the floor before he collapsed boneless and dead. Risto quickly swung the revolver to face the two in front of him, his hands a blur as he cocked and fired the Ocelot twice in quick succession. Splattering ‘Panther’’s brains across the room and spilling the kid’s guts on the floor.

‘The Boss’, never one for confrontation, had made a run for it as soon as the situation had escalated beyond a simple execution. Risto regained his feet and sent a forth bullet after 'The Boss', it blew through the man’s leg hurling the crime lord to the floor.

Now Risto was in trouble, there were ten thugs and two bullets and they didn’t seem particularly inclined to line up in rows of five for him. As bullets zoomed all around him, he considered that it just might be a good idea to take cover. He ran for the bar. Emptying the Ocelot as he went. His fifth shot caught a thug full in the chest, sending him smashing into a wall. His final shot narrowly missed its target, instead punching a fist sized hole in the wall and showing the thug (now diving for his own cover) in hot plaster and dust. Reaching the bar, Risto easily vaulted it on one hand and came face to face with a cowering human bartender pulling out a sawn-off shotgun. One judicially applied revolver end dropped the alien into a heavily concussed mess on the floor. Risto followed him down too as two bullets zinged off the drinks cabinet next to him.

As Risto crouched behind the bar, he very quietly reloaded the Ocelot, holstered it and pulled the Bartender’s sawn-off towards himself. He looked over the weapon and listened to the thugs' unintentionally humourous dialogue.

“Where is he?” a worried voice from the far right said.

“Shut up,” said a gruff voice from further back.

The sawn-off was a good model, not very well cleaned but still highly functional and semi-automatic. Good

“-anybody get him?” said the said the worried voice speaking through the gruff one, “Did anybody get him!?” Tourff could almost hear the man looking frantically around at his comrades for confirmation.

“Shut up,” said Gruff more forcefully. “Listen.”

Risto popped up with the sawn-off in his off right hand and the Ocelot in his left. He was normally considered dual wielding to be the height of folly and inaccurate to boot but one didn’t need to be accurate with buckshot and he was rather out numbered. He crossed them over as he cocked the Revolver, the sawn-off perforated a goon to the left, the Ocelot blasted one to the right. He uncrossed them to re-cocked the Ocelot and fired again. Strafing along the bar to avoid the bullets. Finally both guns clicked empty. There was no more return fire.

Tourff bared his teeth to show off a rictus grin, a nasty habit he’d picked up in Solarian space, and wondered over to where ‘The Boss’ was lying and, thinking him already dead, kicked him over on to his back. Then cursed as he almost lost an ankle to ‘The Boss’s knife. Snarling, Risto stamped down on his former employer’s knife hand and heard a satisfying crunch.

“Not dead yet?” Tourff said, his voice still as calm as it had been before he’d almost died a dozen times over. “Pity.”

Tourff hauled ‘The Boss’ to his feet and then smacked his face into the floor again. It made an even more satisfying crunch. Then Risto dragged the soon-to-be-ex-crime lord towards the bullet-wrecked bar and threw him as hard as possible into the spirits section. Several bottles smashed all over “The Boss” (who’s title was seeming more ironic by the nanosecond)

Risto knelt next to the cat, pulled out another cigar and bit the end off. Very courteously spitting it out away from “The Boss”.

“I’m sure you know the old Orthii proverb that tells us that ‘Revenge is a dished best served cold?’ It used to be one of your favourites as I recall.”

Risto stood and bit into the cigar again, now talking out the side of his mouth. He pulled out a match.

“Well I want you to know…”

He lit the match on the back of his glove.

“It is complete…”

He held it up to the cigar.

“…and utter…”

He threw it onto the alcohol soaked crime lord.

“...bollocks.”

FWHOOSH!

[Siege]

Norad II crash site
Lipitor 5, the Outlands



General Edmund Duke was not a happy man. This was mostly to do with the fact that his ship had just crashed from orbit, only to come down on one of the most miserable fringe world shitholes he'd ever had the misfortune to lay eyes on. The rest of it had to do with the Karlacks who, or so the viewscreens in his grounded starship told him in a series of increasingly sterner warnings, were crawling up and down the external structure of Norad II.

That's when the garbled radio message came in. "Hold fast, Norad II!" a voice hazy with static replied. "Will attempt to reach crash site! High improbability of success!"

Crashed. Sectors from home. Cut off from all friendly aid, and even from the aid of men he'd come this far to fight. Bleeding from a nasty cut in his forehead, the result of the far from gentle collision with the surface of this world. Half his ship's vital systems disabled, and who knew how many loyal crewmembers dead or dying. And worst of all, the full wrath of the Swarm right on top of him. A lesser man would have wept in despair.

But Edmund Duke was cut from sterner stuff.

"Been a General for fifteen years..." he growled dazedly, and clawed his way out of the g-webbing that had retarded his impact and quite probably saved his life. Around him, the members of the bridge crew were waking up from unconsciousness one by one. Good. Duke's gaze slid across the sturdy viewscreens, many of which had surprisingly survived the descent. Maybe there was some truth to the rumors that the battlestar design had been stolen from the Bragulans after all. But that was a thought for another time. Now, he had to deal with the Karlacks on the outer hull. His eyes narrowed. "Y'all need some good ol' fashioned discipline" he gnarled.

Armored gloves punched override commands into battered consoles. Systems deep inside the Norad II responded, and hatches slid open. Surprised Karlack bioforms cautiously slithered toward those suddenly revealed openings.

Rookie mistake.



The anti-boarder sentry guns had originally been installed to deal with the exotic and unlikely threat of hull-to-hull boardings, but they sure came in handy now. Chainguns opened up with a withering fusillade of rapid fire, mowing down the Karlacks on the hull where they stood and buying the dazed crew in the coffin-like interior of the downed battlestar vital moment to recuperate from the crash.

In armored panic rooms and in cavernous, brass-bound hangars burly, self-confident Silent Star Marines righted themselves and stamped toward weapons lockers. Medics rushed to tend to the wounded, and technicians hurried to activate the myriad weapons stashed inside shielded depots deep inside the battlestar's hull.

More armor-plated doors inside the battlestar's hull slid open and troops poured out to establish a defensive perimeter around the crashed flagship. Cracks of hypervelocity gauss guns soon followed as the marines engaged the few bioforms in the immediate surroundings that had survived both the crash and the sentry guns' onslaught. Shortly behind them followed their mechanized contingent. Few in number but thickly armored and heavily armed, these massive tanks from the Arclite factories were all painted with the motto of 1st Silent Star Marine Corps Cavalry Regiment: "Transform, and roll on out."

[Force Lord]

CIS DOCUMENT #4019

CLASSIFIED!

FOR PARTY LEADERS ONLY!

GENERAL STRATEGIC SITUATION (INTERNAL AND EXTERNAL) OF THE REPUBLIC OF CREVECIA

Introduction

Hail the State!

Sires, I'm pleased to present you this document, produced by the combined findings of our CIS operatives working in Crevecia, regarding the crisis that is afflicting said nation, though I must warn that my own opinion will be present here. We hope you gather the right conclusions from this.

Let us start with these preliminary statistics. The Republic of Crevecia, located on Sector O-7, holds sway over Crevecia itself and the planets of its star system, the 'solid' ones named Oprium, Helcan, and Laguna (not including Crevecia), and the 'gas giants' named Kradok, Loomer, Eixes, and Tarsus. Dividing the solids and the gas giants is an asteroid field, which is calm enough to allow pirates and insurgents to hide, but we'll leave that for later. They all orbit a star called Appora, which is the same type as the good ol' Sun.

The population of Crevecia is approximately 8 billion, divided as such in the following continents (note that following numbers are also approximations):

Lexica: 900 million
Carima: 900 million
Kafka: 2 billion
New Legnica: 4.2 billion

Humans: 60%
Aliens: 40%

Turns out that the biggest, most populous city of the biggest, most populous continent (New Legnica) is the capital city (named Salin City). Who knew?

Internal Situation of Crevecia

Now I believe you want to go to the good stuff, right sirs?

The Crevecian Government was, in its better days, a representative republic, hence why it was called a Republic. Was, you ask? Well sirs, here's the reason: the local government became corrupt and stale, as politicians took advantage of kickbacks given to them by unscrupulous foreign companies (not including us, luckily) and letting the Crevecians rot. They also brought in large numbers of alien migrant workers, creating inter-species tensions. All of this gradually radicalized the population, made them rebellious, in a repeat of what happened in the old ICR. This time though the military was less inclined to take orders from Salin, as the ranks had become too politicized. They also feared a repeat of the ICR civil war, so they planned a coup, but cut a deal with, you guessed it, the local Centralists to give the new regime an illusion of civilian rule. From what I've seen, that illusion was too thinly veiled, since guerrilla groups that had been formed pre-coup gained a major boost after the event. Sure, maybe it's the fact a Centralist has become the public face for the regime that made things worse, but even if it wasn't, it wouldn't make a difference.

The current situation in Crevecia is one of growing chaos, and could be called an incipient civil war, though the government still retains the upper hand at this point. That is not saying much, however, as significant areas of the planet have either fallen to enemy guerrillas or are disputed territory. Who are the guerrillas? Here are the largest groups:

People's Alliance of Crevecia- Your typical left-wing revolutionaries. Doesn't make them any less dangerous to the Loyalists. Their support is highest in the industrial and agrarian areas of Kafka and very small areas of New Legnica that the Loyalists could not reestablish control in time.

God's Own Crevecian Warriors- Local variant of time-honoured fundamentalist Christians, of the Protestant and Catholic flavors, so don't expect Byzantine interest, but another state may try to fill in the void if they hate the Loyalists enough. They have support of many areas of Lexica and Carima, and very small areas of New Legnica that, again, the Loyalist forces were too slow to take over.

Non-Human Entente- The smallest of the big groups. As the name says, they are a group that intends to form its own alien-only nation, with no humans allowed. Of course, they have radical factions whose sole intention is to kill all humans. Their support is mostly limited among the widely spread aliens, and the human groups occasionally ally with them out of expediency, especially if the Entente is in a good mood.

There are smaller groups with a bewildering variety of names, but are not significant enough to get a mention here.

The Loyalists fully control about 60% of Crevecia's surface. 25% is disputed by the guerrillas, while the remaining 15% see the Loyalists confined to very small enclaves and the guerrillas in control of the rest. While the firmly Loyalist territories show no signs of a new crack, anything is possible in the next few weeks.

Loyalist space forces are few in Crevecia, but that's because they've been chasing mutinous anti-Loyalist ships in the system. So far most engagements have been limited to skirmishes due to the disunity of the anti-Loyalist forces.

External Situation of Crevecia

Surprisingly, the local and not-so-local powers have been relatively quiet regarding the crisis in Crevecia. I blame the whole fracas in the Outlands, something I'm sure you're painfully aware.

While there has been some Nova Atlantean investment in Crevecia in the past (I suspect the reason their corporations didn't send more money was the fact that we were next door, but this is entirely unsubstantiated, ergo, personal ranting) the main investors have been Solarian and Anglian corporations, which enjoyed government protection pre-coup. Now, however, even though these foreign companies have remained in areas dominated by the loyalists, some holdings have been nationalized, and their operations are more restricted.

Foreign support for the guerrillas has been so far limited. The left-wing groups have received a few arms shipments from the Commune and the Humanist Union, but most use weapons captured from the Loyalists or other groups. The fundies use weaponry bought from the black market or captured from other groups. The aliens have been using Bragulan weaponry in limited quantities, but the bulk of their weaponry is captured from other groups.

The Central State's Options

There are three main options we can take: no intervention, limited intervention, or full intervention. No intervention means leaving the Loyalists on their own, risking our security if they suffer a collapse. Limited intervention may either help the Loyalists triumph or delay their end, as well as attract foreign scrunity. Full intervention may save the Loyalists' position, but the Centrality would face condemnation from foreign states and end up being embroiled in a long counterinsurgency.

Currently we have settled on limited intervention. Special ops forces have been sent to assist Loyalist forces in the field, while military advisors and aid are arriving. Economic aid is also being sent, but the uneasy economic situation means it's a band-aid at best. I assume this decision hasn't been taken lightly? For I think that the Crevecian Loyalists are a bunch of third-rate rabble that are barely qualified to administer the Crevecian nation, let alone fight off the opposition decisively. If they screw up big, sooner or later we have to pick up the pieces.

From what I've heard, the Central Armed Forces already have a contingency plan in case we have to invade. The idea is to send a Task Corps to clear up the system of enemy ships, so that the landing of troops is not impaired. The Army estimates that to occupy Crevecia around 200-300 million troops would be needed in a worst-case scenario, with lower numbers in more optimistic situations. Much depends of the condition of the Loyalists in any possible occupation.

Conclusion

So there you have it sirs. Crevecia has become an...interesting place. I myself dodged a few hairy situations that would have gotten me killed, if not of the laughable aim the guerrillas posess. Alas, I may soon have to go back into the field, protected by incompetent buffons shot at by stupid garbage. Hail the State!

Head of Operations Kanek Chago

---

Officially, Chago would later be killed, not by enemy fire or by any kind of explosion, but due to throwing himself through an edged pipe by accident while searching for cover.

[Shroom Man 777]

Villi, Cilia
Outlander Commissions
Space Sector BB-25 bordering AA-24



The Karlack ruination of Aray, the splinter strain attacks on the neighboring systems, and the continuation of violence between the Centralists, Orthodox fanatics and mutant man-Tau, saw the displacement of millions of people to worlds untouched by the violence and madness. Even before the scourging of Aray, many of these poor souls were already refugees seeking shelter in the relative stability of the Centralite worlds, and they were promptly forced to relocate to safer ground when their old camps were subject to sudden gene-eater outbreaks, Nova-Atlantean nano-bomb attacks, miniature Byzantine crusades or other equally terrible things.

Cilia was located just at the border of the Arayna sector. Originally, the refugees there were mostly political cases fleeing Centralist persecution. Cilia’s guest population had increased by nearly ten times in the last five days as the situation grew increasingly dire. What was transpiring now was the worst in/humanitarian crisis in the former Outlands ever since the Commissions’ dissolution.

Cilia was also the main stronghold of communist activity in the sector. The base of the Interstellar Internationale Outlander Commissions Communist Co-Prosperity Sphere (IIOCCCPS). Discount arms sales made sure the world had a healthy supply of Spud batteries and other weaponries to keep it safe from attack, though the Party had feared that they were to be the targets of the (relatively) massive Centralite fleet just prior to the inexplicable Karlack decimation of Aray. The sudden change of fortunes since then had cemented their once-tenuous foothold in the region and ensured their continued survival, at least in the interim.



Thus it was of great relief then to the dislocated peoples when Secretary General Grem Lyn of the IIOCCCPS, the Tym Transnational Trotskyism Transition Trust and the Tym Internationale Trotskyite Socialists declare Cilia to be an open world for all Araynan refugees. This was so for the Tym, so physically small and diminutive, were the largest and most influential group in the Outlands socialist scene. Coming to the aid of so many dislocated peoples would be a boon to the cause of communism, in showing the superiority of the peaceful proletarian people’s way of extending multiple hands to a neighbor in contrast to the war-like natures of Centralism, Byzantinism and Nova-Atlantean nano-terrorism. The mercy they would show would be a mark of their greatness, the people’s greatness!

The communists also opened Cilia to outside aid organizations, in a gesture of internationalism and in/humanitarianism. Aid started to trickle in from far and wide, coming from all those who had grown tired of the scenes of misery and death, who just wished to help all these people who just couldn’t get a break. The largest in/humanitarian crisis in decades was met by by an outpouring of aid that was also the largest in recent years.




Altruistic organizations came, motivated by an actual desire to help people, like the Jema’Araynah Islamiah Crescent workers. The sultan worlds were known to be amongst the beacons of civilization and hope amidst the new dark age of technology that had befallen the Outlands, and these theists were a stark contrast to their grimmer and darker Orthodox Byzantine rivals. They sent their physicians, who did good work in curing the sick and alleviating the plagues, for amongst the Outland remnants the Islamiah were the ones who best preserved the ancient institutions of medicine.



Even those unaffiliated with governments or NGOs came to help. The galaxy’s rich and powerful, trillionnaire philanthropists, popular holo-celebrities and the like, came together to lend their considerable resources to the aid organizations already helping in the Outlands.

Charities donated food, water, shelter, medicine. Fundraisers were held, and the holonets and dataspheres soon became filled with variety and talent shows to raise funds for the devastated peoples of the Outlands. Many gifted individuals partook in the Centrality Esper Olympics were seen in these shows, some to raise money for victims of Centralist political persecutions, others to raise funds for Centralite victims of Karlack infestations. Zigonian reptile-rap artists held concerts together with famous Anglian rock bands bigger than the Man Jesus, the estate of CJ Motonow held film festivals of his greatest works. Byzantines and Centralites in their own worlds held book burnings and hate rallies to try and sour the mood, Nova Atlanteans boasted on the superiority of their post-human ways. Checks were written, pledges were made, food and grain was shipped. Help was coming through.

Even the Bragulans were helping. Their regular discount arms shipments to the Trotskyite Tym, said to be for the cause of comradeliness, were now joined by massive quantities of salmon, berries and jolibee honey. The bears even sent medical personnel trained to administer vegemite therapy to mutant man-Tau, and emergency vowels for those who, though un-mutated by the nano-retrovirals, were still somehow adversely affected by the terror of the Nova-Atlanteans. The Tym accepted these suspiciously, knowing that they were not in the position to refuse help even if it came from such brute self-serving tyrants. Antibiotics that glowed in the dark were still preferable to nanobioweapons that turned people blue.



This influx of comfort and aid was like a sip of fresh water to a region of space dying of thirst, a thirst not for water but one for compassion, of basic decency and kindness. In a tender moment, Angmarids and human children who shared nothing in common except that they had lost everything in these past few days, quietly drank clean filtered water together.

[Akhlut]

Aboard the NSAS Turtles All the Way Down

Commander Djangles sighed deeply. He was happy Obi-Wan was learning a great deal from Master Yogurt. The kid's legs were healing up nicely, too, all things considered. Djangles was worried about his old friend Walter, though, as he was becoming more and more incoherent with rage due to constantly flying the ship for days on end without break now. Following this small orkish incursion into MEH space was tiring. Luckily, there were only a few ships that were going to meet a larger part of the WAAAAAGH that was forming against the MEH, so the stealth concerns weren't overly high for Walter to deal with.

That thought, though, was replaced with a new one as a warning siren howled throughout the ship.

"Walter, what's going on?" Djangles demanded.

"MEH ships have arrived! I repeat, MEH ships have arrived!"

Djangles sprinted to the bridge to check it out.

"Walter, I want you to slow down and try to stop, the orks and MEH are engaging and I don't want to be in the middle of that firefight."

"Will fuckin' do, commander!" bellowed Sobchak, the sensor orbs behind him iridescent with information.



Djangles let Sobchak handle the ship while he gathered the rest of his crew.

"Men, I want all of you to help me use your psychic powers to analyze this MEH ship we've encountered. What preliminary reports we have seem to indicate we're dealing with a Vindicator class ship. Be careful, we don't know what sort of psychics they might have, so use your own psychic shielding to hide from them!"

Everyone then turned toward the ship and began to meditate and send out psychic feelers, trying to comb through the ship. No one was really feeling anything, though. Small blips, at best, while they concentrated as hard as they could.

Djangles carefully scoured the ship, trying to find anything of use for the Great Space Master. While passing over the ship, he felt a small headache. A small, throbbing pain began to grow in him. It ceased to be a headache and spread throughout him, each pulse growing in strength, passing from pain into agony, the dolorous intensity cresting over him and consuming him. He couldn't even scream. His mind had met something terrible. His third eye could discern it wasn't of MEH origin, but of a Shepistani cryo chamber. He somehow felt confusion through the spikes of agony.

Djangles began to feel something reaching back at him. He saw a face through his mind's eye.



I am awake.

Djangles physical eyes snapped open in terror.

-----
note: Steve authorized this!

[Shinn Langley Soryu]

Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Fire
Planet Eretz-Nod
Former Outlander Commissions, Sector AA-24
IN GODDAMN UNREAL TIME/Early 3401



The few inhabitants of Aray who had managed to evacuate the planet before the Karlacks had consumed it were forced to scatter to the nine vectors and settle down wherever they could. For most of these newfound refugees, it meant the end of their troubles (at least for the time being), but for an unlucky few, their trials and tribulations were only beginning. The crew of the curiously named Araynan light cruiser Adam Smith Hates Your Guts found themselves firmly in the latter category when their ship and the two transports they were escorting were forced to drop out of hyperspace over Eretz-Nod...and right into the middle of a Scron formation over high orbit.

The skipper of the Adam Smith Hates Your Guts, an ever-so-slightly eccentric young woman named Lisette Rapeweed, was about to heave a sigh of relief at having escaped from Aray in one piece when her ship dropped from hyperspace. However, she was forced to draw it back in at the first mention of unknown ships approaching them. "They don't match anything in any of our databases!" a sensor officer called out. "Should we try hailing them? Wait, scratch that. I'm detecting energy surges from several of the ships. Looks like they're...charging weapons? Oh, no. Oh, no! Oh, HELL no!"

Lisette gritted her teeth. "Redirect as much power as you can to shields and engines!" she ordered. "Send that order in the clear to our transports and tell them to engage evasive maneuvers! I'd like all of us to make it planetside in one piece!"

"Acknowledged, Captain Rapeweed!" a comms officer replied as he fiddled with the transmitter. While the Adam Smith and the two transports had been banged up quite a bit during their escape from Aray, they were still more or less in one piece, and maybe, just maybe, they could get through this.

"Unknown ships seem to be launching fighters," a second sensor officer said. "Hang on, boys and girls! Looks like we're gonna be in for some chop!"

"Unknown ships are opening fire! I say again, unknown ships are opening fire!" the first sensor officer said.

"Hopefully, our shields can hold against their assault," Lisette said to herself. "Ready all cannons and missiles! If they get in range, return fire! We'll try to draw off as much fire from the transports as possible so they can make it!"


A Scron Assault Carrier (left), Devastator (center), and Stormrider (right)

As the two transports attempted to discreetly make their way past the Scron forces, a swarm of Stormrider gunships, accompanied by several Assault Carriers and Devastator frigates and spearheaded by a Mothership, greeted the Adam Smith with a hail of plasma fire. The wayward Araynan warship responded in kind with a barrage from its own railgun and missile batteries. "Okay, guys! Let's give 'em all we got, and then some! Keep firing, and keep me updated on the status of our shields!" Lisette called out.

The Araynan cruiser's initial barrage sliced through the Scron gunships, though more fighters were still inbound. Scron Assault Carriers carried large amounts of drone fighters with them into combat; what these drones lacked in firepower and durability, they more than made up for with sheer numbers, and a truly massive swarm of them was about to bear down on the Adam Smith like a plague of locusts.

"You gotta take a look at this, Captain Rapeweed! They're clogging the screen with fighters!" the second sensor officer called out.

"Reload the missile launchers and set the warheads to proximity detonation!" Lisette ordered. "Clear 'em out!"

The Adam Smith's point defense guns chattered rapidly as they attempted to intercept and take down the swarming drones, but it soon became clear that they were soon going to be overwhelmed unless something was done. For every drone that was shot down, two more seemed to emerge in its place. While the Devastators took potshots at the Araynan ship from a more or less comfortable distance, the drones and the remaining Stormriders spat out a staccato barrage from their light plasma guns as they made their attack runs, rapidly chipping away at their enemy's shields.

"Overall shield strength is dropping rapidly! Seventy percent, sixty-five percent, sixty percent...!" a defense systems operator announced.

"Auto-targeting isn't doing SHIT!" a weapons operator exclaimed. "The damn things just keep coming and going as they please!"

"How are my missiles coming along?" Lisette asked.

"All batteries are loaded and ready to fire, ma'am!" a second weapons operator replied. "We got just enough for one more salvo, se we gotta make this one count!"

"Yayness! Now, sweep 'em away!" Lissete ordered.

The Adam Smith launched its missiles in a wide spread, hoping to catch as many of the drones and gunships as possible while they were still going back around to make more passes. Against all odds, Lisette's latest ploy more or less succeeded in clearing the space around her ship of those pesky fighters, with the missiles practically vaporizing the drones as they detonated. While the Assault Carriers were now rendered harmless by the elimination of their fighter wings, the Devastators were still plinking away, and who knew what tricks the Mothership was still hiding up its sleeve...

"Shields are now down to fifty percent!" the defense systems operator announced.

"I'm detecting a massive energy surge from one of their ships!" the first sensor officer said. "Looks like the leader's charging up something big!"

"Redirect all remaining power to the shields! Target the lead ship and launch all remaining missiles! Everyone, brace for impact!" Lisette ordered.

The Adam Smith made a beeline for the Scron Mothership, hoping to at least wound the larger ship before its inevitable doom. Once it was in range, the Araynan cruiser launched the last of its missiles before following up with a railgun salvo. At the same time, the Scron Mothership counterattacked with its catalyst cannon, the same weapon that had burned what was left of Eretz-Nod's cities to the ground.

While most of the incoming missiles and railgun rounds were caught in the path of the catalyst cannon and destroyed, a few still managed to hit home, tearing into the Scron Mothership's central command module and dealing just enough damage to cripple the cannon assembly. It was too late to save the Adam Smith from the catalyst cannon, though, as the cannon's beam burned through what remained of its shields like a hot knife through butter. While the beam narrowly missed the bridge, it speared right through the top of the ship, melting away the dorsal antennae and weapons mounts and severing the main communications and sensors pod from its prominent position atop the elongated dorsal fin that dominated the stern. Mortally wounded, the Adam Smith began plummeting towards the surface of Eretz-Nod. Lisette could still save what remained of her ship, but she and the rest of her crew would have to work extremely fast.

"Reverse stabilizers, and fire the emergency boosters!" Lisette ordered. "I don't care if it overloads the reactors! We're still going to lose this ship, but I'd much prefer it if we all live!"



As the Adam Smith entered Eretz-Nod's upper atmosphere, a series of blast shields began clamping down over the main thrusters in an attempt to redirect their output in the opposite direction. The emergency boosters erupted to life shortly afterwards, adding their own reverse thrust to the ongoing effort to slow the ship's descent. Slowly yet surely, the Adam Smith leveled out, but the stress of planetary reentry was starting to become too much to bear for the stricken cruiser. It began to break apart.



"We're rapidly losing hull integrity near the stern!" the bridge engineer called out. "We're gonna lose it pretty damn soon!"

"Tell everyone in the stern to get to the escape pods or move towards the bow if they haven't already! Even if we're going to be flying half a ship, at least we can still get this part under control!" Lisette ordered.

Before anyone could react, though, the stern suddenly broke away from the rest of the ship, tumbling and burning away as it went its own way through Eretz-Nod's atmosphere. Lisette could only vaguely imagine the literal hell those unfortunate souls in that section of the ship were going through. Those who were unable to seal themselves in the escape pods or the few intact bulkheads were left to be cooked alive by the intense heat of reentry. The high terminal velocity and erratic flight profile of the stern during reentry would mean that remaining inside would almost certainly mean death. Once jettisoned, the escape pods would land wherever gravity and their own limited thrusters would take them, which could potentially mean slamming into the middle of a Scron encampment or a rubiconium field.

Meanwhile, back in the bow section, the helmsman of the Adam Smith, Louis Dupont, was attempting to land what remained of the ship without crashing it and killing himself and everyone else. "Okay, emergency airbrakes are out," he muttered to himself as he tried to keep a steady hand on the controls and an eye on his instrument panel. "Got some slight vibrations in the controls, but we should be good. Come on, baby, hold together, just keep holding together until we can hit the ground..."

Just as the inhabitants of Eretz-Nod beheld the Scron Motherships as they fell from the heavens like lightning, so did they behold the flaming hulk of the Adam Smith Hates Your Guts. What remained of the once-proud Araynan cruiser finally made a more or less controlled touchdown along a thoroughfare running through one of Eretz-Nod's ruined cities, narrowly missing the buildings during its approach and landing; after skidding for just over a mile along the road, the battered, half-melted hulk finally ground to a halt.



"I am a leaf on the wind, watch how I soar," Louis proclaimed confidently, panting profusely as he did so.

Lisette could finally breathe easy, now that she and what remained of her crew were now safe for the time being. Even though she had lost contact with the transports shortly after her battle with the Scron, she was confident that they were able to run the blockade. Still, the fact still remained that she and the rest of her crew were now in the middle of hostile territory, surrounded by hostile aliens and cut off from supplies. It was only a matter of time before the Scron would locate her and the two transports. Lisette would have to locate the transports and the crash survivors before the Scron could get to them, and she wasn't even sure if the locals would be cooperative with her, even if they were now temporarily united against the Scron threat.

[Shroom Man 777]

A Free Lunch

Omentum
Sector B-26
Unreal Time



A great and terrible famine had fallen on the planet Omentum. The crops wilted and browned. The rivers and lakes dried, inexplicably. A plague befell upon the livestock, and the red tide ruined the fisheries. Starvation and drought wracked their populace. All hope seemed lost for the people of Omentum, so far away from aid. To their spinward were the callous Chamarrans who cared little for the sufferances of humans. To the rimward, the mysterious Xylyx. The coreward spaces were dominated by the greenskin brutes. To the antispinward was the great emptiness across which legend said were monsters and, even further away, the very edge of the universe.

The small world's pleas of help were ignored by the greater galaxy. It was but an insignificant drop in the ocean of space, a disaster for its peoples meant nothing to the powers that were. Still, their cries of help echoed on, unanswered.

Until someone finally took notice.

Help came from an unexpected source. The new nation that had emerged so suddenly almost right on top of their system, the Multiversal Empire of Happiness. Its appearance had been so recent that many were still unused to their presence, still thinking that the space around them was empty. A response from the MEH was also unexpected, as while the nation boasted its cultural and technological achievements through loud hyperwave broadcasts, it did nothing to answer the diplomatic overtures made by the small nations suddenly buried under the bulk of its newly-arrived systems. It was as though the loud, fat and obnoxious whalemen of the MEH chose to ignore the nations that occupied the space it now proclaimed to be part of its territory.

The sudden response of the MEH thus came as a genuine surprise to the Omentumites, who had resigned themselves to being ruined by calamity. That surprise was followed by joyous celebration as the MEH chose to share their bounties with Omentum. The people had seen how well-fed the MEHmen were and knew that they must have had abundant food, grain and water. Now, Omentum would be gifted by these blessings.

For saving them from famine, the MEH had the people of Omentum's eternal gratitude.



So it was then that the previously starving and despondent people welcomed their saviors with much fanfare when the MEH had declared that they would come to Omentum to not only share their blessings in food and grain, but also to share their faith in Happyness.

Great gingerbread citadels were erected with startling speed, and the people took to them as the Saints of the Goddess held masses where copious amounts of food were given. To the Omentumites who had previously been so hungry and so unhappy, this new faith of happiness that brought so much bounty to their lands caught on like wildfire. The divine experiences that the Saints gave in their gingerbread masses, the visions of light and magic, the pleasures and delights, and the delicious food.

It did not take long for the people, who once worked hard and toiled in their fields believing in a day's work for a day's pay, to become fat and spoiled in the likeness of their saviors. There were some who cautioned against this, but after harrowing famines and droughts, who were they to deny the people their foods? It came for free, after all!

Happyness spread amongst the people for its blessings were undeniable, the gifts of the Goddess were irrefutable, the Saints had proven themselves where the old prophets and faiths had not. They had brought salvation, while the old beliefs had only false promises and nothing else to show. The most devout of the Omentumite believers were given a chance to go to the sacred food lands of the MEHmen themselves, an opportunity to meet the Goddess and commune with her. The people flocked to prove their faith, and when the most faithful returned from their pilgrimage to Earth - the fabled home world of mankind - it was clear that they were changed by the religious experience. Their bodies were more bountiful, thus beautiful to the standards of the Omentumites who were previously so emaciated from hunger. Their minds too were more happy, cleared of trouble or excess thought, achieving a state of serenity unlike any other. These most faithful exemplified the virtues of contentment, honesty, and... fatness.

The leaders of Omentum were also given the honor of meeting the Goddess herself, and when they returned they were changed men. They also proclaimed that in return for the kindness of the MEH, the people of Omentum owed them something in return. It was a trivial thing, a tiny token of their appreciation in comparison to all the MEH had done for them.

They would give their gifted, their espers, to the MEH, give her to the Goddess. In return, the bounties she gave them would be increased thricefold.

The Omentumites agreed to this without question. The people of their insular planet had long since regarded the espers with suspicion, some even going so far as to accuse them of witchcraft. That sending them to the MEH to receive the Goddess' blessings, to undergo the religious experiences that gifted the faithful pilgrims, was considered a good thing. Many were even envious of them for this.

After the first shipment of gifted to the MEH, the Goddess repaid them with the greatest gift of all. She turned their land into food.



Omentum became the land of chocolate. To the formerly starved people, this was a miracle unlike any other and further cemented their faith in the Goddess.

Yet even with this great showing of divinity, there were still those who doubted. Some casted suspicion on the timely intervention of the MEH and how their presence seemed to have cured all ails, even going so far as to accuse the MEHmen of engineering the famines and droughts and algal blooms to allow them to dominate Omentum. Others concurred, pointing to the transformation of their leaders into fat gibbering fools subservient to the Saints on their gingerbread fortresses and how the 'enlightenment' the MEH gave them was akin to a lobotomy. A few even dared to ask what ever happened to the gifted espers sent to the MEH, for unlike the other pilgrims, none of them were ever returned.

The people, fearing the Goddess' wrath, the withdrawal of her gifts and the return of famine, chose to silence these ingrates lest they offend Her Divinity. The ingrates doubted Her goodness, rejected her Happyness, and were not thankful for the bounties given to them through the Goddess their Leader.

It was decided then that these ingrates were not to be punished. Instead, they were to be shown the error of their ways. They would be made to see, smell and taste the Goddess' blessings and experience its full glory until they repented.

They were exiled.



To the dessert.

[Force Lord]

Planet Arpad
Former Outlander Commissions, Sector BB-24
Unreal Time/Early 3401

Arpad was no Aray, but the local Centralists did the best they could to create a viable State while the rest of the Outlands burned, which was easier said than done. Arpad was less developed than Aray, with a smaller population, which lead the Centralist Mechanicals ruling the planet to adopt a more cautious policy: Arpad would concentrate it's military strength at home and only attack others if there was a reasonable chance of victory. Otherwise Arpad would focus on economic development, set an example to the other Outlanders.

Of course, it was rather hard to do when your patron was far away.

"I understand the difficulties of shipping raw materials and industrial equipment from such a distance, but we need these if Arpad is to develop properly," said the humanoid Mechanical.

"How much you would need?", said the CIS agent.

The Mechanical procured an envelope and presented it to the agent, who opened it and read it for several minutes.

Finishing, the agent said, "This is actually manageable, though we cannot gurantee its early arrival. Our ships would either have to cross dangerous Shoal sectors or take a roundabout route around many nations. Also, there is the threat of piracy from other Outlander factions."

"We will worry about the pirates. Your concern is to get those supplies here."

"Yes. Well, have you heard the whole issue of the Scron returning?"

"The Eretz-Nod crisis? Yes, we have, but there is little we can do right now. Our naval forces were damaged by the recent string of disasters. We are still rebuilding, and some time will pass before our previous strength can be rebuilt, let alone increased."

"I see. Then I must inform my superiors about this. Farewell."

[Force Lord]

Kierger's Office, Presidential Center
Centrum, The Centrality
Unreal Time/Late February

You know, we need aliens like that in the Centrality. Guys like exotic gals, thought Dirad Kierger as he admired the looks of the Trill woman from the pages of the Space Playboy magazine. Sometimes Kierger wondered how the Centrality would have looked like if aliens had inhabited some of the planets the Party now controlled. We'll probably be a bit more cosmopolitan, he thought.

There was a knock at the door, and then a voice, "Permission to enter, sir!"

"Just a sec!", Kierger shouted, as he frantically tried to hide his small collection of pornographic magazines. There would be hell to pay if someone tried to pry open his little secret...

Another knock. "Sir?"

"Who is it?", Kierger shouted.

"The ambassador from the MEH, sir!"

"Just a moment!"

Kierger managed to stash his collection inside his desk, and made for the door, opening it. He saw the corpulent form of the MEH Ambassador in front of him.

"Sorry for the delay. Come in."

Both men entered the office, the MEH man taking a moment to observe some of the decorations in the office. There were paintings and busts of some of the Centrality's most celebrated leaders around the place, as well as the infamous Black Star symbol on the ceiling and the floor. Kierger's desk was made out of traditional hardwood, though it had some of the most sophisticated communications technology grafted in. His chair was more futuristic, composed of the most comfortable materials produced in the Galaxy.

"I apologize if the seats are not to your liking, Mr. Ambassador. You should have warned me first," said Kierger.

"My task was urgent, sir. I won't keep you for long," responded the MEH Ambassador.

"Task? What do you have to say to me?"

"Mistress Sasha wishes to speak with you personally regarding...certain things."

"Certain things? She's getting better with her secrecy."

"I don't like it, of course, but who am I to to defy the Leader?"

"Hmmm. It regards our past deal, right?"

"Yes, of course."

"Well, if she wants to speak with me, then I'll pay a visit. See how she's doing."

"Very well sir! I shall tell her."

Before the MEH Ambassador could leave, Kierger spoke, "Oh, and tell her I'll arrive in secret. I'm hardly interested in causing a scandal. Nooooo sir..."

A few days earlier at the MEH border...

Commodore Samul Mobudu, commander of Stealth Squadron 1, watched from his stealth ship, the CNS Count Dracula, the vastness of open space. He wondered how many foreign stealthers were around, probing for MEH dispositions. It was natural, after all the MEH had pulled. His own force was there simply to watch, not doing much.

A comms crewman walked up to him. "Sir, message has arrived."

Mobudu walked to the comms console, and saw something that made him frown:

Code: Select all

ENCRYPTED TIGHTBEAM MESSAGE TO STEALTH SQUADRON 1

COMMODORE SAMUL MOBUDU, HIGH COMMAND HAS SEEN FIT TO SEND YOU TWO NEWLY REFITTED DESTROYER-SIZE STEALTH VESSELS TO THE MEH BORDER. SHIP NAMES ARE THE FOLLOWING:

-RAIDER
-DATTON

WE LEAVE THESE VESSELS AT YOUR DISCRETION.

The comms ensign was slightly pale. "They sent us the kriffin' Datton!?"

Mobudu was scowling. This must be High Command's idea of a joke...

"Sir! Another message!"

This one was from the Datton itself:

Code: Select all

ENCODED TIGHTBEAM MESSAGE

THIS IS CAPTAIN FORG OF THE DATTON.

REQUESTING TO BE POSTED AT A-27, NEAR MEH BORDER. WILL ARRIVE SOON.

So it wasn't a joke after all.

"At least Forg wants to be in that sector. Wouldn't want to contract his bad luck. Send off a coded tightbeam reply and change our position discreetly."

"Yes sir."

The Count Dracula sent off it's reply, then moved slowly from its previous spot.

CNS Datton

This is the farthest I've gone, thought Forg. And probably the most difficult mission of my life.

The Datton, freshly refitted with the new stealth package (including a new engine), would now have to watch the MEH's activities while trying to avoid other stealthers from foreign nations. A mission, Forg realized, that had a high chance of killing him and his crew.

As soon as the C-6 mission ended the entire crew of the Datton, with Forg himself, requested leave from stealth missions, but were denied. The mood of the ship was thus even gloomier than ever. At one point Forg had to send one crewman to the brig in a straightjacket for trying to kill himself, and had considered executing the man to end his suffering, but decided not to.

As the Datton neared its destination, Forg vowed that this time things will be made different...

---

EDIT: Datton will arrive at A-27, not C-26.

[Siege]

Presidential Palace
Solaris Major



"So if black is the new white, and ninety the new eighty..." For once President Sinclair actually appeared thoughtful. She sat in her massive leather chair like a bored schoolgirl: crosswise, one leg draped over the armrest, another folded athletically beneath her, wrinkling her white suit. "Then are the Outlands the new Koprulu Zone?"

"With fewer interesting people and more tedium perhaps." The holo of Abielle Magritte was removing some imaginary grit from under her fingernails with a golden pen. "Especially now that the Centralites and their oracle got themselves eaten for their trouble." She snorted. "Amateurs."

"They hardly could have foreseen someone'd sic the Karlacks on them," Sidney riposted. "That was a rather disproportionate solution. Though indubitably effective," he admitted.

"So it's proven then? Someone directed the Karlacks there?" Lyra Saxon seemed a little queasy. "Who? And why would they do such a thing?"

Sinclair shrugged. "We can hardly prove anyone's direct involvement, on account of the Karlacks not having left much of anything intact in their wake. But we can draw some conjecture from the fact that the Centralites were the target, rather than any of the other warring factions."

"The Imperium?" A white-nosed Saxon ventured.

"Possible. Or the Bragulans."

"Always with the Bragulans," grumbled Sidney. "Has it occurred to you it might just as well have been the Hiigarans, or the Refuge, hell even the Empire Star Republic?"

"It has," Magritte retorted. The CEID director twirled the pen in her fingers, dancing over-under from index to middle to ring. When it reached her pinky it disappeared, to reappear a moment later in her other hand where it continued its little walk, over and over again. Every time the pen vanished her hologram buzzed with psionic static. "But according to our profiles it is highly unlikely the Hiigarans or the knickerbockers would want to draw the Karlacks toward themselves."

"That still leaves the Refuge."

"Well yes." Magritte's holo threw him a dirty look. The DCEID gave her pen a psychogenic push. There was a popping sound and the ancient stylograph disappeared, only to rematerialize in the Presidential office, hurtling toward Sidney's face. With catlike reflexes he plucked it out of the air at a few centimeters' distance from his left eye. "But the Refuge ain't sending a fleet into the Outlands and the Bragulans are," Magritte continued as if nothing had happened.

"Fair enough." Sidney shrugged and examined the pen. "Cute trick."

Magritte jabbed a holographic finger at him. "I'm going to want that back."

"What about the Anglians?" Sinclair cut in. If she was at all fazed the DCEID had managed to penetrate the shields around the Palace from as far away as Solaris Minor she wasn't showing it.

"What about them?" Saxon frowned.

"They're obviously interested in the Outlands. Maybe they drew out the Karlacks. We know they have the technology to construct psi-emitters. Or the Dorei do, at any rate."

"It's not their style," Sidney dismissed the theory. "They're far too hoity-toiti for this, wouldn't let an entire planet get eaten just to make a point."

"Brosnan might," Magritte opined. "Him and his boffins at SIS have always been rather more practical than the rest of the lot." She considered the possibility for a few seconds, then shrugged. "But no, I'm still going with Bragulans."

"What with their fleet and everything," Sinclair nodded. "It makes sense." She frowned. "For a given value of sense anyway. They are Bragulans after all."

"Two Bragulan overfleets are out of position," a nasal voice chirped up. The attention of the room focused on the diminutive grey alien who'd spoken for the first time. Mr. Twennysex was invited as a courtesy - the delegate of the Apexai state rarely attended, much less addressed meetings of the government. But today was different. The alien made a minute hand-motion and a hologram swirled into existence. It showed two red arrows departing Bragspace, each represented a significant percentage of IBN assets. One was aimed toward the Outlands; another was vectoring anti-spinward along the southern galactic edge. "This means a window of opportunity has opened."

Saxon didn't follow. "An opportunity to do what?" From the look of it, Sinclair was just as mistified. Magritte watched impassively, her expression inscrutable.

Twennysex focused his big black eyes on Sidney. Something passed between them, and the special emissary scraped his throat. With a hyperpulse from his implants he connected to the holographic equipment and zoomed in on an area of space on the very border of galactic sectors V and W-27. The holo zoomed further, and further, until a burnt-out husk of a solar system resolved into view. "Thyiiluue. Former Apexai crown world. Until the Bragulans fire-bombed it in 3031. After that an IBGV xeno-archeology team was digging on the planet until they disappeared, to a bear, somewhere in the early 32nd century. The planet's been deserted ever since."

Sinclair narrowed her eyes. "Yes, and?"

The Apexai statesman tugged his old-fashioned tuxedo. "And we have reason to believe many very valuable artefacts are still buried on Thyiiluue." The alien pronounced the name differently, as if there was some aspect to it humans couldn't quite get, something that reverberated in dimensions the human ear had no hope of reaching.

The President shrugged. "So you want to dig up your old family album. I'm not seeing how that's relevant. What's so special about this planet?"

"There were only ever seven Apexai crown worlds. We needed no more -- otherwise we would have seeded the galaxy long before you apes ever got the idea to come down from the trees." Twennysex seemed annoyed he had to explain this. "This planet," he pointed a tiny, crooked finger at the hologram. "Was our main technological laboratory."

Magritte suddenly looked interested. Sinclair raised an eyebrow. "Alright, go on."

"For reasons too obvious to mention it was very much impossible to go back after the Fall. It is Wild Space and within range of IBVG listening posts; the Bragulans would be on us in a matter of days. And with their patrols it was far too dangerous to risk a Saucer on. Until now. The Bragulans are preoccupied and out of position. With the help of-"

"I'm sorry -- I don't understand a damned thing you people are talking about," injected Saxon suddenly. "But I do know one thing: there's no way we can take and hold a world that far out in Wild Space. Byzon will never let us get away with it. You've seen how he reacted to Majella, if we claim a planet that far out," she pointed at the holo, "and a former Apexai world no less, the Bragulans will throw everything they got at us. They'll eat us for breakfast. And if we don't watch out they'll do it literally."

"I hate to say it but she's got a point," Sinclair admitted. She looked at the Apexai. "We can't reasonably expect to hold that world. It's too far away, and too deep in the wild."

"Perhaps a snatch-and-grab could work," Sidney suggested. "How long would you need to extract the knowledge?"

"Days. Weeks. Months." Twennysex shrugged. "There is no way to tell. Thyiiluue has been dormant for four hundred years. It will take time."

"Question," Lyra Saxon interrupted. "Who's to say the Bragulans didn't plunder your labs? And what's so special about this place it needs to be recaptured?"

"If they did penetrate our laboratories they would not have disappeared," Twennysex said as if that explained everything. "The fact that they did... The fact that the planet is still there, means the innermost defenses have not been breached. And the fact that no-one ever returned means the Bragulans didn't know what they had."

"The fact that the planet is..." Sinclair sucked in a breath. "Just what kind of artefacts are we talking about?"

Twennysex and Hank exchanged another look. "Does the name Sisyphus mean anything to you?" Sidney asked the President.

"The Imperial ghost ship? Augur Aeternus, the dread in the stars, bloody scrawls on the reactor core?" Sinclair shifted in her seat, rested her head on her fists. "I thought that was hyperbolic nonsense, something made up so the Mechanicus could sell its fuck-up."

Magritte shook her head. "It wasn't. At least, not all of it."

"Sisyphus was predicated on research conducted at this planet," said Hank, obviously in the know.

"Stolen and misapplied," Twennysex snarled vindictively. "Serves the thieving bastards right. But Thyiiluue..." The alien stared longingly at the hologram. "If the laboratories are still there... If the crystal thrifts are still intact..."

"Oh ho ho," Sinclair realized. "The shoals..."

Twennysex nodded. "The shoals, and beyond." Something in his voice hinted that the Apexai wasn't talking about space in the three-dimensional way humans understood it.

Something changed about the atmosphere in the room. A decision had been reached, even though no-one had said it yet. There was an accord. A raid would be planned. It was worth the risk of re-igniting the war with the Bragulans. Everyone agreed on that.

Everyone, except Lyra Saxon. The senator shifted uncomfortably and shook her head. "I don't know about you guys. But I have a bad feeling about this."

[Shroom Man 777]

The Mercy of Admiral Shlork

Airaii flagship Inmacabora
Somewhere in the Outlands

"Mighty Grand Admiral Shlork," the IBGV Bragulan abased himself before the undisputed Airaii warlord. "Thank you for receiving me in these most -"

"Spare the unpleasantries, Bragulan," Admiral Shlork snapped with his pepipalps. "I know why you have come here. Speak quickly lest you run out of breath."

"It is to ferment friendship and cultivate comradeship between our mutual inhuman peoples," the bear gasped. He was breathing heavily. His radioactive atmosphere field formed a bubble of breathable air around him, but the air recyclers on his belt were doing their job poorly. The 20% methane, 70-something% carbon Airaiian atmosphere that filled the bridge was slowly overpowering his air supply. He sucked in some of his remaining oxygen and continued. "Bragule is aware of the encroachments of foreign nations upon your Outlands. We believe that it is in both our interests to cooperate in ensuring that the humans do not interfere with Outlands affairs. Bragule does not wish for human influence to expand so close to Bragspace, and I am certain the Airaii Swarms would likewise be displeased with more human interventions, considering all the good the Centralites have done in unifying your enemies."

"And what of your Bragule's plans with the Outlands?" Admiral Shlork asked. "Do you not have designs of your own, which would be better suited without the interference of your human rivals?"

"Bragule merely wishes for the stabilization of the region," the bear stammered. "The continuing violence, which in turn brings about more human interventions, is something undesirable for us all. To return the Outlands to its state prior to the Centralist interference, prior to the escalation of violence between them and the Byzantine fanatics, to restore the state of affairs to what it once was before all of this madness, that is our goal."

"You mean, to keep the Outlands nations disunited, weakened and feeble?" Shlork stabbed an accusing claw towards the Bragulan. "That is what you want."

"No! Nyet! Of course not!" the Bragulan protested. "In egalitarian inhumanism, we are more than willing to support you, noble warlord. We can give you arms, we can recognize your faction as a legitimate state, we can..."

The Airaii emitted a sick gurgling sound, their species' equivalent of derisive laughter, and sneered at him with its grotesque visage.

"You lie. You Bragulans are like all other mammals, no matter what your pretensions are. To us, you are little different from the humans you so loathe. Warm-blooded fleshlings all, so tender with your soft meat wrapped around your little endoskeletons. We see deceit in your words, in your exposed flesh, no different from those Centralite fools now being digested in Karlack gullets. Such a convenient scourge too. Tell me, did you put your Karlack allies up to it, bear?"

"Of course not! The devastation of Aray was not only to humans, but also to inhumans as well. It was great tragedy for all peoples," the Bragulan, of course, didn't know the truth and so in his mind he was speaking what he thought was true.

"We also know that you are aiding and arming the Tym," the Airaii hissed. "Oh yes, we do."

"What? Nyet! How?" the Bragulan sputtered.

"We tried to raid Cilia. Tried. We used one of your Spuds to vaporize their refugee camps, so full of Araynans. Yet their encampments were defended by Bragulan weapons too, and that Spud we launched veered back towards our ships. You clever bears with your clever Identify Brag-or-Foe." Shlork snickered as he watched the Bragulan sweat and gasp for air.

"Nyet, it cannot be. I was not told of this!" the Bragulan blubbered.

"Of course you weren't," Shlork turned away from him and skittered to the control panel of his bridge. "Come, I have something to show you."

He pressed a button and a holographic display resolved in the image of an inhumanitarian aid ship. It belonged to one of the miscellaneous alien species native to the Outlands, one that was cooperative with Bragule.

"Another mammal ship," Shlork snorted. "Bringing aid, bound for the refugee camps of Cilia, I suppose. Or some other place, Pritaiy perhaps. It doesn't matter. It will never make it to its destination."



With a command, the Inmacabora opened fire on the aid ship. An angry red beam stabbed the vessel, exploding it and sending the corpses of its passengers scattering into the nine vectors. Their aid supplies too were torn asunder, atomized. The bridge was filled with the sick gurgling sounds of many Airaii laughing.

"You see, Bragulan? That is what we Airaii think of your inhumanism, your egalitarianism, and all of the other empty things you say. It is hollow like a shed carapace. We know you lie. We know all about your so-called inhumanism, and we know you believe in it just as much as we do. Which is nothing. We do not care. This violence in the Outlands, it will continue. It will never end.

"So, you may play your little games with the Refuge, with the Karlacks. You may fool everyone with your inhumanism and your diplomacy, your calls for stability and peace while your war fleet flies in Outlands space. You can do these things. So you can keep the humans away, because you Bragulans are so scared of them. We will let you do these things. But know this. If you cross us, there will be no mercy, there will be no pity, no quarter. You soft-skinned pupae are no different from the humans. In the end, you will all die here all the same.

"And unlike you mammals, we Airaii do not lie."

[Shroom Man 777]

As the parents of these children withered away in the lifeless ruins, thus turning them into orphans, their new Bragulan caretakers finally found what they were looking for. They had scavenged the technological carcasses of Pritor to finally recreate a functioning communications array, and with it they contacted Bragule - and told the Imperator of their good works.

NO STEALTH, NO FAIL


Kinzal, Pritor Prime
Sector BB-25, Former Outlander Commissions



Bragule had established a small outpost on Pritor, in the city of Kinzal, centered on their embassy - which was the single most fortified structure remaining on that planet after the various native factions atomized each other in their civil strife. The embassy was now an Imperial Forward Operating Base, an IFOB linking Kosmoflot Oktyabrsky to Bragule in terms of not only communications but also matériel support. Warship ammunition stockpiles were stored in the embassy-fortress' bunkers, even more massive military-grade communications arrays were set up, listening posts were seeded in the system and military intelligence agents analyzed information relayed from the other sectors in the Outlands.

A most disturbing rumor was heard, originating from Sector AA-24. From the Eretz-Nod system. It was unbelievable, for according to all intelligence and to Byzonic edict itself, the subjects of this rumor were long extinct. Obliterated. The ultimate victory of Bragule, surpassing even the Running of the Apexai in the sheer completeness of the eradication. It simply couldn't be.

But what if it was?

With the deployment of multiple Bragfleets to the anti-spinward, and Kosmoflot Oktyabrsky itself acting at 60% capacity, its warships already overburdened with their space patrols, they could not spare a conventional force to aggressively reconnoiter a single star system just because of a preposterous rumor. Nyet.

Instead, what was proposed, and accepted, was to deploy Bragule's long range recon assets to scout the system. If the rumors proved false, then they would not have wasted time and energy in sending a flotilla on a wild bragchase. If the rumors were true, then they could prepare for the worst.

So it was that they deployed one of the most special vessels in the Imperial Bragulan Navy's arsenal.

The recon gunskimmer.



Planet Eretz-Nod
Former Outlander Commissions, Sector AA-24



The Niva-RS recon-strategic gunskimmer Black Bear disengaged its silent hyperdrives and re-emerged into realspace, at the very edge of the Nod system. It spared no time, reactivating its sublight systems and engaging its triple-redlined hexate nucleonic drives. With a powerful burst of alpha, beta, delta and gamma radiation its atomic pulse engines propelled its bragsteel bulk towards the inner system at ludicrous speeds.

If its entrance into the system had not been detected, its atomic acceleration definitely had. Hostile targeting sensors swept the space, illuminating the Black Bear as it sped towards the system’s core. Warships, patrol craft and fighters were vectored towards the intruder, weapons primed, to engage and destroy it and maintain the impregnable blockade on Eretz-Nod.

The Black Bear fired with its own weapons. Five massive Spud missiles bolted on external hardpoints on the gunskimmer’s belly were released. The vacuum was filled with the deafening roar of internal nuclear explosions as the strategic missiles launched themselves towards the enemy formations. But instead of multiple independent revengeance vehicles, the Spuds were mostly filled with penetration aids - jammers and decoys, razzlers, blinders and spoofers. These were specially calibrated, designed to mimic the Black Bear’s radioactive sensor profile, and to the enemy’s electronic eyes the intruder ship was suddenly multiplicated and there were inexplicably several gunskimmers.

To further add to the confusion, many of these decoys steered themselves towards the enemy ships in collision courses, and instead of trying to find the real gunskimmer they were instead distracted and busy shooting down these kamikazes.

Meanwhile, the Black Bear unleashed its true armamentations. The K-bolt cannon turrets on its hull had been replaced by some of the most powerful passive-aggressive arrays in the Bragulan Navy, and now they were set to full active aggressive-aggressive. As the Black Bear made an arcing course across the inner system, it bombarded anything and everything with the emissions of its sensorium - lighting up the planet Eretz-Nod and the mysterious blockade ships in its orbit with waves of irradiated tachyons, filling the vacuum of space with deafening subspace sonar pings loud enough to disorient space beasts and cause them to beach on planets.



The gunskimmer had also launched several disposable drones rigged with high resolution cameras, to go dangerously close to items of interest and transmit as much information as they can before being shot down. Even the Spuds and their penetration aids were rigged with sensors and antennae to transmit back to the Black Bear their findings.

It didn’t take long for the enemy to figure out that this was not an attack, but was instead a very daring and obnoxious sweep by a scouting ship. They immediately intensified their jamming and electronic countermeasures to thwart the Black Bear’s efforts, and even the most actively aggressive passive-aggressive sensors Bragtech could make had their limitations...

Which was why several of the Black Bear’s K-bolter turrets were also replaced by enormous film cameras, with lenses as wide as little league cub scout bragsketball courts. These big Braglaleika cameras shot thousands of pictures, filling entire truck-sized drums of macrofilms containing extremely detailed high resolution images. Their contents, Bragulan high command would later find extremely disturbing.


Photographs of Scron Assault Carrier (left), Devastator (center), and Stormrider (right) taken from several million kilometers away.

The cameras’ finest shots came when the Spud decoys were finally shot down or otherwise neutralized along with the camera drones. Their demise was marked by the detonation of thermonuclear failsafes, turning them into the galaxy’s largest flash bulbs as their multi-megaton whiteouts illuminated the final shots for the Black Bear’s cameras.

With all the decoys shot down, the enemy ships concentrated their attentions on the last remaining target in their sights. Pursuit ships were sent to chase the Black Bear down, but its six redlined atomic pulse drives proved too powerful. It reached the hyperlimit before the fastest pursuers could even get within weapons range. It engaged its hyperdrives and disappeared from Eretz-Nod.

Only to re-emerge a lightyear away, in deep space.

After the microjump, it launched a dozen decoys equipped with hyperdrives of varying signals amplitude and sent them scattering in random directions. This would confuse any pursuers, who would have to pursue all of them to find the Black Bear.

The gunskimmer itself quickly engaged its silenced hyperdrive. It was not exactly silent when reemerging in realspace or jumping into FTL, but when inside hyperspace itself it was optimized for slow but silent running. With all other non-vital systems shut down except for passive-passive sensors and life-support, the Black Bear could be pretty quiet when in FTL transit. That was, really, the stealthiest feature on the recon gunskimmer - the only one, in fact. In sublight it was everything but, as Bragulan space reconnaissance strategy emphasized speed over stealth, in the quickness (and loudness) of data acquisition. This may have something to do with technological limitations, Bragule could hardly design something like a Solarian Spystar, but it was nonetheless effective.

A stealthy approach would be rewarded with plenty of informations, but it would take so much time in slowly and stealthily maneuvering a spy ship in a hostile system. A quicker, louder approach would also be rewarded with plenty of informations, though with the risk of capture or destruction substantially increased, but the use of active sensor scans could present a clearer picture of the enemy’s activities. Then again, with the enemy would be aware that they were being watched by a non-stealthy observer, rather than ignorantly continuing their activities without knowing that a stealthy spy ship was watching them. It was all a big trade-off in the end.

A trade-off that the Black Bear had come out on top of, this time, as it silently sailed for Bragule with the informations it had gathered. Unlike other navies' botched attempts at stealthy reconnaissance, the Bragulans on board the recon gunskimmer had succeeded and would have fucking laughed at their successes (and the failures of others) had their disturbing discovery not shocked them into silence.

What they had found on Eretz-Nod was impossible. How could they be still alive? They were all killed in Zynziybar!

Nyet, it couldn't be.

But it was.

[Steve]

Office of the Foreign Secretary, Westminster
New Anglia, Star Kingdom of New Anglia
17 November 3400

With the start of the work week on New Anglia, Lord Prestwick had opted to use this day to get the usual monthly meeting with the Imperium's Ambassador. Theodore Patroklos, done and over with. He invited the imposing, armor-clad man into his office and offered him tea. As usual, His Excellency dressed for effect, wearing a suit of battle armor that at least looked ceremonial and looking very much like he would behead the first non-Human he walked across (though thankfully not, since some of the government workforce was composed of them), while Lord Prestwick was in formal business attire like the Anglian gentleman and peer that he was.

The Ambassador, as usual, declined Lord Prestwick's offer of tea, and instead chose to stand when offered a seat. He had the air of a man looking very forward to getting this business out of the way so he could return to his embassy and the seclusion of its harsh gothic-style architecture (and well secured from any approach by the non-humans that milled through the capital of the Empire). As the day-to-day issues between the two powers remained of importance that never went past the level of the Charge d'Affairs, the Ambassador was a rare sight in the Anglian capital, only being seen or heard from when protocol demanded, like the King's Birthday, or when he opened the Embassy to his fellow Emperor-worshippers to celebrate Emperor Day. Even today he would have been quietly spirited to the Foreign Office in a private limo, with only a few security personnel and carefully-picked Foreign Office workers seeing him come and go.

Finishing a sip of tea, Lord Prestwick decided to get the customary exchange done and over with - he had more important work to do, with this blasted Outlands situation going on. He took in a breath and began to speak. "We might as well get this business out of the way, Your Excellency. Has the Imperium decided to stop insisting the rest of Humanity worship your Emperor as the Second Coming and demanding we slaughter all non-humans as soulless abominations, regardless of whatever actual threat, if any, they pose to the Human race as a whole?"

Patroklos had the look of someone well familiar with the futility of the exchange he was about to partake in. After all, he and his predecessors to this position had been going through it for the last 350 years. Regardless of the futility, he put some passion into the words he spoke. "Surely you jest. Humanity is a lot safer with the deaths of all abominable beings, all of which are dying to be put to the sword. As for the God Emperor, his being is of such omnipotence, the question is when humanity would bow to him and worship him as lord and master."

"Ah. Then our positions have not changed in the past month. Thank you, Your Excellency, for your time. I hope to be seeing you at the next Ambassadors' Ball."

"We hope you will finally accept our invitation to the next Emperor Day celebrations as well."

"Of course." And, naturally, neither invitation would be actually accepted. Patroklos hated dealing with any non-Imperium Human in the capital, since to him the Anglians were all xeno-loving scum who denied the divinity of the God-Emperor, and Lord Prestwick had better things to do than celebrate a holiday that was about deifying the Byzantine Emperor and calling for the genocide of other species. "Have a good day, Your Excellency."

Patroklos made a "hmph" kind of sound and walked out, his armor clanging a bit as he did so. Lord Prestwick entered, in a matter-of-fact tone, a note to be delivered to the PM and to the King-Emperor. "They are still xenophobic Emperor-worshipping brutes. We are still xeno-loving heretics who deny the divinity of the Emperor. Business as usual."

After it was entered, he promptly resumed his other work.

[Master_Baerne]

NSA Clickclackclick*, Glorieux-class Battlecruiser
Flagship, Formic Expeditionary Fleet
Vice Admiral the Hive Queen Skrit Skrit Skree Commanding
Deep Space, Firmament Sector, Federated Ascendancy

“So, the humans finally show themselves.” Hive Queen Skrit Skrit Skree's flag captain was a Hive Queen herself, though not a ruling one. Not likely to be one soon, either, as the fifteenth daughter of an unusually large lineage. This made Captain the Hive Queen Clakclickclik understandably bitter, and that bitterness played out in nearly everything she did. It made her a tiring officer to work with, but an excellent one nonetheless.

“Indeed they do, Captain. Hardly surprising, when one considers the matter from a broader perspective.” It wasn't, either: an independent Formic expedition would make the central Ascendant government look weak at a time when it could not afford it, and Skrit Skrit Skree had been expecting this ever since the fleet left orbit around the Formic homeworld. The Hive Queen turned her massive, mandibled head towards her communications officer. “Lieutenant-Commander Crik, open a channel to the human flagship.”

“At once, Hive Queen.” A few taps from agile claws, and the other ship's bridge appeared in the battlecruiser's holotank. It was a dreadnought, one of the four in the other fleet (which consisted, apart from those ships, of a squadron of battlecruisers and a half-squadron of the new Gar Naabal-class carriers purchased from Hiigara). Seated in the dreadnought's command chair was a man whose space-black uniform bore the insignia of a vice admiral. A patch covered his left eye, and wicked-looking scars peaked out from behind it.

“Your Highness,” said the man. My name is Josbek, Vice Admiral Tav Josbek. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise, Admiral. May I inquire as to your purpose here?”

“I've been ordered to take command of this expeditionary force. I have two years' seniority and special dispensation to command Formic units, Your Highness; both can be confirmed if you wish it.”

“That won't be necessary, Admiral Josbek. We are comrades in arms—I trust your word.” Captain Clakclickclik turned sharply to the Formic admiral, outrage visible in her shaking antennae. “Calmly, Captain...”

“Thank you for your understanding, Your Highness. Please do understand that this is in no way a slight towards you or your species, but the central authority must be maintained in this time of crisis.”

“I understand perfectly, Admiral Josbek. But I will retain command of my ships, even if under your direction, and the Army units under General the Hive Queen Critskrit Click are naturally not subordinate to either of us.”

“Of course. An equitable compromise, and one that should make everyone happy, Your Highness.”

“Quite.”

“Quite.”

* A Formic clickspeech word translated either as Fang or Mammalian/Reptilian Dental Stabbing Apparatus, depending on the translator.

[Mayabird]

Refuge Embassy, Centrum, The Centre System
The Center Sector, The Centrality

“This very well could be our orders to leave,” said Epaulette. “It has been many uncomfortable shifts, hasn't it, Staffer? With the Centrality's lack of transparency, it is impossible for us to determine if our protests have simply been ignored, if they are preparing to attack our embassy, or anything in between.”

Since Epaulette had gone into lecturer mode, as he did several times a day, Staffer tuned him out and focused on the incoming message. Staffer didn't mind the talkative bird, but this was important and Epaulette probably wasn't going to say something he didn't know already.

“The explosive growth of adherence to Centralism in the Outlands was both an outrage and a cause for concern. Surely for such sudden and unexpected developments, someone with power and resources must be funding it. Due to their fixation on the center, well, the implications are obvious. No permission or notice had been passed to us, the peoples who have the most interest in the goings-on of the Outlands besides the Outlanders themselves!

“I have been expecting us to be expelled down to the bolt for quite some time. Their silence in response has been off-putting. An uncomfortable middle, the feeling of being balanced on a thread above the precipice with broken wings. It is a good thing I was able to locate that deal for the fifty boxes of cigars! (And really Staffer, you should have told me that the smoke was irritating your membranes much sooner; I would have limited my smoking to my office.) But now perhaps we are being called back, both for our safety and as a direct insult to their state. Of course, no use in speculating; I shall have to wait until you complete the decryption.”

“It is a long message,” Staffer said.

“Then it should be interesting reading. Perhaps this has nothing to do with the Centralist situation and is a response to my essay on what I deem our 'cuteness-based diplomacy.' Others have noted it; humans (and other races, though I focused on humans since they're who we deal with here) seem to find us innately adorable. Not just Avians with our big heads, warm eyes, fluffy feathers, and funny mannerisms, but also Aggregates. I've noticed that they particularly seem to enjoy those little peeps that you and Secretary will make (though speaking of, where does that fellow get to? This embassy is not large at all, and yet I can hardly ever find him around).

“At any rate, cuteness seems to be associated with children in their minds, and thus more trustworthy somehow, or simply more naturally appealing. We did not expect such a general warm reception as we received. Of course some of the credit should also go to Contact's careful work to make us seem as appealing as possible even before our appearances and voices came into play.”

“I proofread your essay,” said Staffer, who got to work on the decoding.

“And you did a most excellent job. Speaking of Contact, I wonder how much longer they will keep that name. We have done most of the major first contacting that we planned to do, and while there are many minor locations that we could contact, since they now know of our existence and location, it truly wouldn't count as a first contact but simply establishing diplomatic channels. Then again, there is always the possibility of finding new races and needing to contact them, such as these Locrians who recently awoke, or maybe a new national player rising. (Isn't it strange that all these people are showing up just now? Granted, it's possible that it's all connected, not a coincidence at all. Whatever force transported the Central Alliance may have left ripple effects on spacetime-six that caused our Emergency Drive to drop us here. Something like this did apparently happen to the shoals region that the Lost was hiding in. And also something similar with MEH but I detest them so I will not waste more words on them. With the sudden upsurge of communications traffic and spacial anomalies, the Locrians then decided it was a good time to awake. It makes sense to me but I am no physicist nor practical theologian.)

“Still, our main purpose would be to interact with other nations with contact down to a secondary role, so maybe we would simply call them Diplomacy, or the Contact section would be partially split off for their more specialized goals. I asked with our last data-dump but had not received a response back. I am not bothered, as they must have far higher priorities than answering my idle curiosity, like figuring out what in the hells just happened in the Outlands.

“I have a hypothesis: most of it is a result of our abrupt and unexpected appearance. The Outlands had reached a state of gradual but steady decay, an almost dependable stability in their decline to be slightly ironic. Everyone still alive or functioning knew their general place in the order of anarchy.
“Suddenly, the Refuge! We sweep in, claim territory, start demolishing the pirate bases (and how many of them there were!) and bringing in the Hiigarans and travel from outside. Everything is thrown out of balance. Old status is destroyed; new opportunities arise! There is a sudden mass movement of people in and out. Those of the old order cling desperately to what they still have, and desperate people act rashly. Those who see the new opportunities try to sweep in before their rivals can; hence the feud between Multi-Planetary United and the Spinward Outback Trading Company, among others (though that one is the largest, as you know).

“This could even why the Centralists are presumably sending forces in; they want to grab what they can before the Outland situation restabilizes and someone else (say, Tym Communards just as a wild example) has already established themselves as the major opposition political power. Does my hypothesis make sense, or am I simply too fond of chain-reaction scenarios?”

“It's double-encrypted, at least 60% junk, and also has a Simulationist poetic form,” Staffer said, as he hadn't been paying attention. “But I believe I...have this completed.”

“Excellent! Let us see! ...Centralist base annihilated?” Epaulette read through the reports, commenting all the while. “Well then, it would appear that the Centralist situation has been ...conveniently neutralized. Very conveniently, for both us at this embassy and the Refuge at large. By Karlacks. Indeed, indeed.”

Staffer's bodies hopped in unison. “We should response to the State immediately, let them know the details before they think that our claws were the cause.”

“Certainly, and an excellent suggestion. Staffer, send them a vaguely-worded note, 'Sorry for your loss' - no, that's too strong. 'We acknowledge that forces that share your ideology were lost and this may be something that causes you pain, and we gathered some information on the incident if you are interested in learning more.' There, but clean it up as you always do so we don't sound so unfeeling and possibly sarcastic; you're quite good at that. And that should get a response, put out our little bit of bait. See if you can hint that we haven't been too happy about any of this without actually saying it.

“Later, when you send our response back to the Complex, ask them to send a direct message to the State with word on this, be open and direct, if they have not already. Also, ask if the incoming Mechanicals can look like Avians. I don't just mean in shape, but feathers and all, so the Centralists would have a hard time distinguishing them. Mechanical-Aggregates too if possible. Make it look like we're more trusting, just a tiny bit not having a nearly-entirely Mechanical and thus unreadable staff.
“Additionally, ask if those Bragulan psi-blockers coming soon? I don't trust having the Blitzschags alone. They can be nullified too easily and I like redundancy.
“One last thing, if there is time after more important duties are done - could you or someone else look into the shelf life of cigars and the best way to preserve them for longer?”

Result: Status quo maintained!

[Mayabird]

Warning: Blasphemy Ahead!

And thanks to Shroom for inspiration.

Refueling Station 40K
Borders of the Imperium of Man Sphere of Influence

A couple guys were talking at the space diner Foodulum.

“So this is what I don't get. The Byzantines have succession, you know, emperor croaks and then one of the kids takes over, so how do they make that jive with the whole God thing?”

“Whatayamean?”

“I mean, if God dies, then would he really count as God? Is being God something that gets passed down with the throne when God bites the dust? 'God is dead. Long live God.' How are they supposed to explain that away?”

“I think this one's supposedta be immortal.”

“But he's got kids and...well that's another thing I don't get. Where'd the kids come from? Who's their mama? They got the God-Emperor, but no Goddess-Empress. Did he grow them in tubes, get eggs from Haruhi, or did they have a night of mega-psychic passion and she got knocked up and they don't wanna to talk about that?”

“The God-Princes or whatever they're called aren't all the same age.”

“Well, maybe many embarrassing nights of mega-psychic passion. Oh! Or maybe the emperor's mentallic power got so strong that he budded them off!”

“ 'Budded them off' ?”

“Yeah, yeah, like mitosis. He grew them out of his side with psionics and the babies popped off!”

“And one of them was a daughter.”

“Come on. That's easy. Just duplicate the X chromosome instead of using the Y and the X. Bam! Girl baby! If you can grow a baby outta your side, you can probably manipulate the DNA like that.”

“You make it sound like they're tumors.”

“Okay, well, maybe they didn't just fall off his sides. Maybe he gestated them in his stomach lining and gave birth to them.”

“This is possibly the stupidest thing I have ever heard from you.”

“No, no, think about it. They wouldn't want to talk about the God-Emperor going through labor because that'd be weird, so they just went straight to 'here are his kids' and left out the gory details. Hell, I wouldn't want to talk about it.”

“Or maybe he just adopted them all.”

“Huh. I guess there is that.”


The airlock doors opened and the little dingling bells at the entrance rang. Two men ridiculous guys walked in.

Nah Oslo and Brewbacca stopped in for a bite while the Century Egg got five space bucks worth of space gas pumped in.

“Well hello there boys,” said the space waitress, whose nametag said “Deb”. “Welcome to the Foodulum. You boys passing through?” She flashed them a big lipstick-smeared smile and put her hand on her hip to show off her frilly pink space jumpsuit thing.

“Actually,” Nah said, not very successfully striking a pose at the booth, “we're here on a contract.”

“Oh! How exciting!” Deb the space waitress said, feigning interest. “So what would you boys like? I recommend the Space Special and the Space Soup.”

“I'll have the soup!” Brewbacca said.

Nah couldn't let himself copy his sidekick. “Gimme the Space Special.”

“Alright then, one Space Special and one Space Soup, coming up.”



The guys at the nearby booth were still talking. “So what's this deal about Orange?”

“...the color?”

“Yes, the color. No, assface, I mean the Free Orange System. The place in the Outlands with the 'anybody can marry anybody else' laws.”

“They got those in lotsa places.”

“Exactly! So what's so special about Orange? The Byzantines have been all up in arms about it, screaming about abominations and unholy unions.”

“I dunno. Maybe because they're closer? The Outlands are like K-Zone Lite these days.”

“Eh. You're no use. Deb! Come here a moment?” He waved the space waitress over. “Me and my bud here, we're wondering why the Byzantines are all upset about Orange and their marriage laws.”

“Well...as someone explained it to me, unholy and unsanctioned marriage is worse than hordes of Karlacks, because the Karlacks only hurt people and planets, but robot and xeno sex hurts the God-Emperor.” There was a pause as the two tried to assimilate this new and bizarre thought process. “That's just what I was told,” Deb qualified again.

“So...what they're saying is, with a sufficiently large alien orgy, we could kill the God-Emperor? Then who would take over?”


At that moment at a third booth, a man surrounded by his friends began to clutch his stomach and convulse and vomit violently, to all their horrors.

Nah pulled Deb over. “What did he have?”

“Oh, he had the Space Special.”

“I ordered the Space Special!” Nah realized, in horror himself. “Change it to the soup!”

They had the man on the table. He screamed until the gene-eater forced its way out of his torso.

It was a dreaded breastburster!

It ripped itself out of the man's chest in a spray of blood and viscera. There was much yelling, except from Deb who'd already seen it all. The gene-eater breastburster stood on the defiled counter and hissed. Then, because they lived in that sort of a universe, it put on a widdle hat and began to dance and sing.

The guy who had been saying the actual blasphemies the entire time (and who had also ordered the soup, incidentally), looked in the general direction of Terra and yelled, “You missed!”

The gene-eater stopped abruptly in the middle of its dance, dropped its widdle hat, and launched itself at his face. There was much shrieking and more blood spraying.

Nah Oslo knew he was the greatest, but some things were just too weird for him. “Check please.”

And then the duo awkwardly shuffled out the door to fulfill their 'contract.' It wasn't really a contract, just a continuous offer by the Foodulum that anyone who wanted their used cooking oil could take as much as they wanted.

Nah filled the fuel tanks with thousands of liters of oil, homeopathically diluting five space bucks worth of legitimate space gas so the oil carried the memory of being proper fuel or something and could be burned for their engines. The important thing was that it was free; Nah had some good runs recently, but space gas was expensive.

When the Century Egg's tanks were full, they lifted off from the Foodulum, and space smelled like french fries...somehow.

[Shroom Man 777]

When I was just a baby,
My Mama told me, "Son,
Always be a good boy,
Don't ever play with guns,"
But I shot a man in Reno,
Just to watch him die,
When I hear that whistle blowin',
I hang my head and cry.


Mejis
Auris sector, United Solarian Sovereignty

The Century Egg landed on the dirt runway, blowing up a cloud of dust as it did so and effusing it with the scent of French fries from the turboramscramfanjets billowing forth Foodulum vegetable cooking oil. A ramp lowered from the Egg's backside, and from it stepped forth a tall and upright figure fearlessly striding into the haze of food-smelling smoke. He stood tall for he knew that there was one, single, indubitable fact that -



"I am the greatest," Nah Oslo declared once more. As he remembered how he had so cunningly avoided paying the cashier back at the Foodulum. Because of the breastburster. He threw his head back and laughed proudly. "Hahahaha!"

They had to take a detour after escaping Nineveh to avoid the Byzantine patrols, the extended travel time meant that they had to refuel at the Foodulum, but they had managed it and now they had arrived at their destination. Their mysterious passenger thanked them for their services, blessing them and then departing from the dirt runway on sandaled feet.

"What a weird fellow," Nah said as he shook his head, trying to get rid of the fogginess that had gotten to him ever since taking up that strange passenger. But now the old man was gone, and they were on Mejis. "Brew, get the ship ready to go while I look around and try to find a job for us."

"Sure, boss!" Brew got a bucket of bolts and went over to do whatever it was that people did to make sure their ship kept flying. Whatever, Nah didn't really know. He was the greatest.

Which was why he had to be careful nowadays. Ever since those Centraloids issued that death warrant for some reason. He didn't even do anything there when he visited Faust! People just didn't appreciate greatness. Things like that always happened whenever he visited a planet, for some reason. Why? Who knew? They just couldn't get over it, Nah guessed. Yeah, that was definitely it. He was just too suave for them, too debonair, too cool. And whenever he beat them and escaped, they totally couldn't handle how ungreat they were compared to him. The Anglians were like that, those Pendletonians too, and then the Centralites and who knows who else. The Solarians seemed pretty cool, but they were still not as great as him and there was a chance that they might get jealous, so Nah wasn't about to lower his guard.

He sighed. The only one who seemed to appreciate his greatness was Brewbacca. Good old Brew. Nah had to admit that Brew was a pretty good sidekick and made awesome coffee. It was just the two of them against the galaxy, a whole universe that couldn't hope to match their... his greatness. Yes.

It was hot on Mejis, so Nah decided to get a cool drink. He went to the Moose Easy Cantina. He'd been here before, when he was younger...

He saw a familiar face in the crowd. He couldn't place it exactly, and wondered if it was a buddy like Blando Dullrissian or some guy who he owed money. Like Mando Skullrissian. Sometimes, he wasn't sure since he owed money to a lot of his buddies, which was why when in doubt he often ran away as fast as he could whenever he ran into old friends, just to be safe.

Nah was feeling lucky today though. So he flashed his winning grin and walked over to the familiar face and greeted him.

"Hey, it's me. Nah Oslo, the grea-"



The guy stuck a gun at him.

Oh shit. Nah's eyes widened. No no no no no...

"Going somewhere, Oslo?" the man asked. Nah recognized him slightly slower than instantly. Gleedo.

"Gleedo." Nah uttered. Oh man, what does he want? He decided to wing it. "Yes, Gleedo. As a matter of fact, I was just going to see your boss. Tell Java that I've got his money."

"Who the heck is Java?" Gleedo asked, with his proboscis.

"Java the Butt!" Nah answered. It was the first thing he could think of. That fat guy from Pendleton.

"Get out of here!" Gleedo spat derisively.

"Sure!" Nah yelped happily and tried to get away. Gleedo pointed his gun at him and gave him a what the fuck look with his compound eyes. He prodded Nah and forced him to sit down behind a table. Gleedo sat on the other side, gun still pointing.

"The Centrality has put a price on your head, so large that every bounty hunter in the galaxy will be looking for you. I'm lucky I found you first." Gleedo said coldly. “Dead or alive, you’re coming with me.

No no no no no... Nah whimpered. He couldn’t believe this was happening. I can’t believe this is happening.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” Gleedo laughed. “I’m gonna be rich.”

I have to shoot first. Nah decided. He reached for his blaster, grasped it and drew it out right at Gleedo’s face. He closed his eyes and squeezed the trigger, awaiting the inevitable splatter of cauterized flesh. You die now, gosh-darnit!



Gleedo just looked at him blankly.

I left the gun back at the Century Egg, Nah Oslo thought as he realized that he had left his gun back at the Century Egg.

“If you try that again, I could get myself an even bigger bounty. The Anglians also want you, alive, so Tarkington can hang you. But I obviously can’t give you over to the Centrality if you’re too busy dancing from an Anglican noose,” Gleedo narrowed his compound eyes. He drummed his fingers thoughtfully. “But they can settle for dead, even though the bounty will be slightly less. But after they ID your body, I might be able to keep you. Then I can bring you to the Centrality, their bounty makes no difference, dead or alive, so I get to collect it in full. Add it all up together, and I can finally put my larva through cocoon school.”

Gleedo snickered.

Nah began to cry.

“No! Gleedo! Please don’t kill me! Please! I’ll pay you double whatever they’re offering you! I can give you my ship! You can take Brew, kill him, not me! Oh Jesus Man, please don’t kill me! Please don’t! I’ll do anything, everything! Please! I don’t want to die!” Nah blubbered as he buried his face on the table. “Please don’t, Glee! We’re friends, man! We were classmates in high school!”

This was true. Finally, Nah remembered where he remembered Gleedo from. They knew each other back in highschool. Gleedo was always the popular kid, just like those Tamrins and Balthiers. Goddamn them. Gleedo knew how to sing and dance, he was the best performer in their high school musical. All the girls loved him. He was so happy, so full of glee. That was why he called himself... Gleedo.

But now he’s gonna kill me! Nah knew. There was no way out of this. No no no no no no no no no no no...

“Come on, let’s go.” Gleedo said, pointing his blaster at Nah once more. "Old chum."

Nononononononononono Nah urinated on himself. Oh no...

“Ew, gross! Disgusting!” Gleedo spat. “Get up, Nah!”

Nah tried to get up. He slipped on his own urine. He fell on the table, capsizing it. The flipping table struck Gleedo and his gun-hand. His weapon accidentally discharged, filling the air with the deafening pew of blaster fire.

Nah collapsed to the floor. Something warm and wet was all over him. Was it... was it blood?

No...

It was urine. It was his own urine. He quickly patted his body, looking for the inevitable blaster burns and all. He didn’t find anything. He was intact.

Yes! he was alive. He was still alive! Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes!

He turned around to look at Gleedo. He laid there on a pool of his own blood, a huge gaping hole where his abdomen should’ve been. His dear friend from high school. Who taught him how to sing. Who taught him how to dance. His partner.

“No! Gleedo!” Nah cried as he ran towards him. He held Gleedo’s hand, squeezed it hard. “Don’t die on me, Glee!”

“Nah...” Gleedo sputtered, blood coming out of his proboscis. He raised his gun but it fell off his hand. “Nah...”

“Just hang in there, pal.” Nah shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Glee. I’m so sorry.”

“I’m... sorry... too.” Gleedo coughed. His entire body spasmed. “Nah...”

“Yes, Gleedo?”

“You... are... the greatest...”

His compound eyes rolled back into his head. His body sagged.

“NOOOOO!!!” Nah broke down into tears. He clasped his hands and pounded it against Gleedo’s thorax carapace, compressing his chest again and again. He bent down and pressed his lips against Gleedo’s proboscis, trying to breathe air into him. “Gleedo! No! Please don’t go! Please!”

He continued giving Gleedo CPR for half an hour, even after it was obvious that the guy was dead.

Nah Oslo cried. His friend was gone. The only thing he could do was make sure Gleedo still had his dignity. He lifted him off the blood/pee-stained floor and propped him up on a chair, in a sitting position, just as he was before he died.

Nah Oslo dried his tears and left. He would remember Gleedo’s last words forever.



You... are... the greatest...

[White Haven]

HMS Seraphim, Crown-class Command Ship

3rd Fleet, Royal Kingdom of Scarlet
Scylla Sector (U-19)

Darren ducked low, hiding his six-foot frame behind the younger students and hurrying along with them towards the academy's exit. His cracked ribs protested at the bent-over position as he ran along with the panicked crowd, causing him to stumble and hiss air in past his teeth at the sudden stabbing pain. Moments later, a high, tearing death-cry rising above the babble of frantic voices, then another within a few seconds, then a third as the enraged necromancer began to flay the mob of student wizards with bone-shattering spears of barely-visible force. Each scream was preceded by a sickening crunch and a wet slapping sound as bones snapped and flesh ripped apart under the impact of the furious undead.

At the sound of the rising screams, Darren gritted his teeth and stopped in place, turning rising from the mass of fleeing figures. The corpse-mage grinned coldly and began emitting a harsh, repetitive buzzing sound, over and over again.

One hand flailing at the buzzing alarm on her bedside computer, Admiral Marianne Tern dragged herself up out of dreams and into the hushed confines of her stateroom aboard HMS Seraphim. Her eyes flicked quickly across the display before she even managed to sit up in bed, tension draining away at the lack of any priority calls; the screen only holds the glowing numbers signifying 0340 ship-time.

"Six hours. Well, five. Close to five. Ah hell, it's enough."

She scrambled up out of bed, the sound of her own voice disappearing into that of rustling sheets as she disentangled herself from the bed and what's left of a truncated night's sleep. Quickly replacing her sleep-rumpled black uniform with a fresh one, the Royal Navy admiral rubbed the sleep from her eyes and restored her short, black hair to some semblance of order before opening the hatch out into the corridor. A pair of armed ratings flanking the hatch stiffened to attention and saluted as Tern passed between them, giving them a curt nod as she walks the few meters to the adjacent CIC.

A rating just inside the busy, large compartment opened his mouth in preparation for an official acknowledgement of her arrival, only to deflate like a popped balloon at a single, baleful glare from Tern. Walking casually past several other officers, she finally stopped leaning forwards against a railing overlooking the mammoth holotank dominating the center of the CIC. In it, scores of glowing shapes maneuver sluggishly, haloed by rapidly-shifting lines of text and graphs. Next to her, a dark-skinned younger man in the uniform of a Royal Navy commander began speaking without being prompted.

"Five Xerxes forced out of action, accompanied by screening cruisers. One Devastator with hull damage, also forced out of action. Their fleet's EW tried something new, guess it backfired since most of the fleet got a clean lock on the poor bastard. We're down three Claymores. That brings the total up to eleven of theirs and six of ours, although they've held missile release so far. I guess they're hoping to knock back a few of the Wardens, thin out our PD. They've got enough hulls to play for time, but..."

The man shrugged, waving at the slow dance in the tank before continuing, "We got some lucky early hits, and assuming that's still Yureh in command over there, I expect he'll disengage within...two hours?" The tone of the last few words made the estimate a question, one that drew a grin from the admiral beside him.

"I say three. Twenty crowns?"

"Twenty crowns."

"Alright then. Tell...who's most intact? Fourth division? It would be, wouldn't it. Anyway, have the Fourth bend inwards and hook around their flank, see if we can't herd them into opening the range a bit, that should do a number on their gunnery with those hellacious flashbangs of theirs."

"Ma'am."

Outside, the battle continued to rage, blazing blue-white beams slewing back and forth across the void from the fleet centered around the massive, hulking bulk of Seraphim while strobing white flashes of light and radiation spalled space from the main batteries of the Midnight Confederation fleet squared off against it. Two hours and fourteen minutes later, the remaining ten Xerxes and screening elements peeled away, accelerating out of range of the Royal Navy fleet and breaking contact. Two bank notes changed hands.

[KlavoHunter]

Wolf 359 System
EHW Onslaught
December 7, 3400

EHW Onslaught

***Suggested Listening***

The networked sensors of the Multiuniversal Empire of Happiness' second-colonized star system lit up as a small number of contacts entered at the hyper limit, and after a brief consideration by the Officer Of The Watch aboard the flagship of their increasingly obvious Orkish nature, he signaled for one-bulb Red Alert. The corridors and compartments of the cavernous carrion-beast hummed and clanked with hoverchairs, bots, and armored boots as most everything lurched into action... it was only one bulb. Meh.

"... repeat, this is not a drill. All hands, Red Alert! Grand Admiral Beose to the bridge!" As the turbolift opened, Grand Admiral Oliver Beose self-consciously tugged his uniform down tight, showing off his perfect genemodded physique and the stylish cut of his uniform - there were always enough Lipo-Bots for Grand Admirals in the MEHN. The power-armored Marines all snapped to attention, as did the bridge crew all a mere moment later in a perfect display.

"Status report!" he barked out, an order more than a question. It'd better be damn important to distract the system's highest officer away from his holosims...

"Orkish raiders, sir, at the hyper limit! Insignificant numbers, but coming in FAST!" At the last word, the flabby-armed sensor officer jiggled as he pointed at one of the holographic numbers floating in the air, the counter roaring ever upwards as da reddest, hot-rodded-est engines in all Orkydom burned as hard as they could.

"What a damn nuisance!" Beose cursed, stamping extra-authoritatively up the terraced steps to the supreme command chair aboard the Onslaught's bridge, crossing one leg over the other as he gazed unto the myriad displays offering pertinent information, absorbing and cogitating upon it all, pursing his lips. Ugh, what a bloody mess. Those greenskins never get the point, do they? the Grand Admiral thought to himself, and waved to one of the omnipresent AI-bots populating the ship, ordering it away from its usual tasks to go bring the seniormost officer a refreshment.

"Scramble all fighters. That ought to be more than enough to put paid to this pathetic raid." Beose smiled self-satisfiedly, crossing one leg over the other the other way now, in a way his far more massively-thigh'ed comrades could not, and waited, gazing upon the many displays that proffered various datums to him. When the hover-drive propelled droid returned, meal in its tensor-grip, Beose paid it no mind as he drank deeply, hormones balancing the other way in his stressed body as his taste buds sensed the ranch-baconnaise shake that drifted across his tongue.

Not that the lumbering capital vessels of the MEHN could have any chance chasing down these very fast, small attackers. They'd seen attacks like this before, and they'd inflicted negligible damage at best since the Leader had issued her Turtle Doctrine orders that restricted travel outside of their systems, and on other occasions scored devastating, utter victories, such as the Starwrath's successful engagement of three relatively large Ork craft. If that was all this strange new galaxy had to throw at them, Beose was distinctly unimpressed. He waved one hand about to organize the zoomed-in views of the multiple disparate small-craft engagements, and slurped meditatively on the food again. Well, it's not exactly the ideal engagement... he noted, recalling standard doctrine, which'd been out the window to an extent lately.

Trained to rely on the carriers that simply didn't exist in numbers enough to support him, betrayed by a fleet and nation that always left their plans about one third thought through and two thirds carried out, Pilot Second Class Zap Blubbergut was first to fall in combat against the WAAAGH! at Wolf 359.

Beose frowned in disappointment as the glittering tiny smiley-face graphics of MEH fighters began turning into X-eyed frownie faces as Orkish firepower began to take its toll. He couldn't restrain himself from a gasp as that number crawled up alarmingly faster than any previous engagement. It was bad enough in some places, but those two groups incoming on the planets Coyote and Hippopotamus were inflicting simply unacceptable casualties on the BARCAP in between them and their target. "Vector reinforcement squadrons to enemy groups Beta and Charlie," the Grand Admiral decided, of the five most discernible groups of incoming Orks.

Orkish Impressionist Art, "Da Dream uv Big Dakka"

Unlike Migwazza and 'is shiny new Zoom N Boom and DA BOMB, not everyork kame to Wolf 359 with da same intenshunz. Some kame to chalk up sum moar killz in de aynshunt Orkish art of dogfightin', and dis wuz part of Warboss Shroombad's plan too. After all, if da humies got konfuzed by da talentz of his aces, it'd be easier stompin'! And along saggy-springed, sweat-soaked couches akross da Kore Worldz, Orkish viewers raptly watched as da very finest of da Kultz of Speed got to show off dey most spectacular stuff. Reality Tellyvishun had never been so good! And so Warboss Shroombad showed himself to be quite the showsork, even if he dinn't know it, as his viewers were whetted and enticed by such an appetizer, like a Cossack horde marching into battle with its most skilled riders before it, performing circus-like tricks of horsemanship to impress and intimidate. For the MEH would learn to know fear intimately before they were confronted with da full force of da WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!

"HOY! Swing around to da left! I fink I'll kall dis wun da 'Fat Wave'!, ha ha ha!" Kaptain Morkamphell laffed, as the furball between his Korsairz and da fatties grew more and more savage. As one of his wingmates swung past his gunsights, the Ork howled victoriously as he hauled back hard on every single firing kontrol he had, unleashing a furious tidal wave of dakka that speckled the tail of his mate's tail with bulletholes, and then thundered down across the unsuspecting TOE Fighta, bashing its shields aside as Morkamphell maneuvered onto the luckless fatty's tail, continuing his relatively accurate assault upon it. Warning lights blazed crimson before the pilot's eyes for long, long moments, as the realization crept upon him that he was going to die, and the digital shrieks of his cosmodroid pierced space as an electromagnetic squeal before the glorious variety of weapons mounted across the nose 'n wingz of his Korsair skored annuver kill, tearing through the thick armor blubber of the whale-fighta in a properly spectakular explosion.

Suckin' in his breff, Morkamphell leaned out the window of his cockpit, and scrawled annuver tallymark along the fuselage of his fighta, fucking laughing self-satisfiedly as he slammed da window shut, and laughed as he looked around for annuver target. Good ol' Orkish ingenuity had gotten him 'n his boyz a long long way, buildin' every single plane and weapon from scrap as wuz good 'n proper, and while average Orky engineering in these fields had been lagging behind galactic standards, some partikularly krazy examples of traditional design stood 'ead 'n shouldaz above da rest. Window closed and air supply restored, da Nob sucked in annuver big breath, and then shouted loudly into his kommunorkator. "OI! DATS ME FOIYST WUN OF DA DAY! OI FINK I GOT YOU BEAT, ORKIMOTO!"

But wif more gubbinz!

Hours of top-speed flight time away across the enormous battlefield that was the Wolf 359 System, the recipient of that taunt roared inarticulately, and squeezed even harder on da kontrols of HIS kustom fighta. Da 'ardest raida' in all da Empty Kwartuh, Kommanda Orkimoto 'n his boyz succeeded in da Mork-ier way of brutal cunning - when Orkydom didn't have such a proper grasp on space fighta design, they were not alone in the vast treacherous shoals of the Empty Quarter, and da wierd weedy Woukou 'oomies were good fer both a good scrap, and fer tradin - DEY had sum original ideeuhz they were willing to sell, since both sides equally trafficked in formerly-Klavostani loot.

Of kourse, wunz Orkimoto 'ad a look around inside, 'e knew da weedy 'oomies were muckin' about on more than just a few fingz, and da mekz had a good job kustomizin' it fer da boss. Da 'ooge energy weapon on the front that would supposedly allow the Woukou Export Heavy Fighter to prevail in a nose-on-nose pass with modern space fighters had been tinkered with and tinkered with for even more improbable of firepower, and da boss liked his ride very much, for his big zappa gun was VERY big, earning something less than a scowl from Dokta Orkenhamma when shown off.

Flying in tight formation, the oncoming TOE Fightaz plowed the road ahead of them with a storm of turbolaser fire that sent Orkimoto's flyboyz veering off in evasive maneuvers, which at worst consisted of "violently yanking the controls until you vomit all over your cockpit," before then stooping back in on attack runs from new directions. When Orkimoto lined his gunsights up wif da fatty TOE Fighta in front of him, dere wuz annuver wun roight behind 'im. He fucking laughed with glee as he hauled back on da triggers for his lesser dakka, it helped 'im get da big zappa on target. Den, he smashed da big red firing button wif a big green thumb, and let out his loudest WAAAAAAAAAAAGH! as the MEH fighter's shields that were merely lit up by the smaller weapons fire hitting it were then pierced by the corkscrewing, coruscating beam that smashed into it. Holding it steady for a long moment, the TOE Fighta exploded, hypermatter fuel explosively protesting the energies that struck it by unleashing its own.

An explosive storm of exploding energy and mass shrapnel showered the TOE Fighta's wingmate, and then the beam that slain it smashed into it as well. The drug-addled human blob inside felt a desperate high as he worked the controls to try and escape, ass to the blast, a notion the onboard cosmodroid only agreed all too enthusiastically with. But it was too little too late, as Orkimoto drilled right through the second TOE Fighta, and the blossoming explosion of both fighters was donut-holed by the Orkish ace's fighta plunging clean through it at maximum speed. "YA MIGHT BE FOIYST, MORKAMPHELL, BUT I JUS' GOT TOO AT WUNZ, WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!"



Grand Admiral Beose fumed aboard the Onslaught's bridge as those squadrons in position to intercept the Orks continued taking shocking casualties. Of the wide net his carriers had to cast to cover all the possible courses the Orks could take in pursuit of their targets, they had gotten spread thin. Damn the Orks for evading his most crack squadrons, or they would be having the worst of it now! Strange that in the hundreds-years history of the MEHN, they'd encountered Orks before out of the rift, but never had they proven themselves to be so deadly! He could not have known that he was only facing the very cream of the enemy's fungoid crop, and Shroombad again proved his tactical acumen by puttin' da fear uv Gork in da 'umies foiyst, before hittin' 'em with erryfing 'e had. Grand Admiral Beose's confidence felt the first little chink bashed into it.

It was then that Flag Lieutenant Lionel Johnson waddled over. "Sir, perhaps we should raise the Red Alert past just one bulb, sir? The enemy IS breaking through..."

"Nonsense. The orbital platforms will take care of them if they keep at it." Beose indicated the angry red translucent spheres on the map of the battlespace that indicated the effective weapons range of the space stations and autonomous weapons platforms that englobed each of the five inhabitable planets insystem. Chastised, Johnson took a step back.

Then, the fat sack of shit fell on his ass in shock.

There was a blinding flash, and a deafening report. Never before in the history of the MEH civilization had their worlds known such exploding megatonnage, not even during that bizarre experimental physics mishap that converted the entire passenger complement of a luxury spaceliner into antimatter. Which had produced great, great megatonnage indeed.

Even from the other side of the planet Sloth's close-orbital zone, Migwazza could see the objects in front of him glow sun-bright from reflected flash. He could feel his bomba's kustom force fields screaming under the distance-attenuated load. Could feel radiation pressure slamming his ship hard enough to create vibrations in the hull. Audible vibrations.

There was no sound in space. Until now. Now, there was sound in space. Because Da Bomb was just that big.

It was beautiful. It was glorious. It was stunning. Especially stunning.

The bridge of the Onslaught erupted in red warnings as the Invincible Megadeath XVI was snapped in twain, spine broken as the two halves careened surprisingly quickly away from one another from da sheer force of DA BOMB. She'd been on low-readiness in preparation ahead for her upcoming refits, many crew on shore leave, and not coming to readiness in the face of a single, gnat-like Ork raider. The Great Rift near their home had spat out innumerable horrible enemies at them, indeed, even Orks too, and the MEHN of that age had dispatched them easily. The Multiuniversal Empire of Happiness had never faced the full fury of a WAAAAAAGH! before, only random, Lost Boyz lookin' fer a scrap.

And while packing nuffing kwoit as hyooge as DA BOMB, sum da uvver boyz who were in it more for de BOMMA part of Fighta-Bomma were having a good go uv fingz. An enormous pile of ordnance slammed into the counterweight station of an orbital elevator towering above the planet. The two usually-bored, now-terrified human crew contemplated the end of their existence. "What's that?!?" one asked incomprehendingly at the blue-white-green filling the window as gravity exerted its pull more than usual on the wobbling MEHites. "WOLVERIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINE!" screamed the other in answer, as the counterweight station violently re-entered the atmosphere, before slamming itself and all its countless miles of elevator cable into the hapless planet below.

Still yet other things exploded, all in brilliant Kodakkakolor, keeping da krowds at a roar with the number of explosions, even if they did not measure up to DA BOMB, and Grand Admiral Beose's jaw dropped even further as the ship and system's sensors lit up with an event of a nature and magnitude that none of the bridge crew had ever seen before.

"Holy shits, sir... Orks! Thousands of 'em!" the wide-eyed sensor operator reported, not knowing why he cursed in quite the unfamiliar way he did, but in his stricken state of panicked terror, he felt he certinly had to. Raising a flabby arm up, he pointed to the main display.

For at the hyper limit, Warboss Shroombad, his Deff Starr, and de entire WAAAAAAGH! emerged into realspace, as the explosive crescendo of the first act reached its peak...




~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
OOC:

WAAAAAAAAAAGH! 18000 points

Da Deff Starr - 2755
Rokkz - 3211 (14 between 200-300 points)
Kill Kroozas - 5717 (128 between 30-200 points)
Runtz - 5043 (924 between 3~30 points)
Fightaz - 1274

[Shroom Man 777]

Somewhere in the Outlands

It was just days past the Hebdomas Sancta, the Emperor's Week, and the faithful in the Outlands thanked their God-Emperor for the blessings He had bestowed upon them. Like the Overpass of old, when they smeared blood on their doorways centuries ago to ward off the holy plagues that brought death to the children of Tau - from the firstborns to the lastborns - so to it was once more that the Scourge of the Emperor's visitation brought wrath and ruination upon His enemies.

What was an occasion for the Orthodox faithful to partake in a feast day became a day of slaughter and lamentation as the mutant man-Tau, cursed by the Nova Atlantean warlocks, came to commit the ultimate revengeance on the fanatics who had celebrated their demise.



Some would wonder how these man-Tau became so well-armed, at how they so rapidly organized themselves and became such a fighting force fearsome enough to decimate the uninfected populace. It was speculated, in hushed tones, that the plague the Nova Atlantean wizards made contained within it the DNA of dead Tau, those same ones slaughtered by Byzantium, and that their collective genetic memory ingrained within the new man-Tau the intrinsic hatred for humanity and the God-Emperor which was why the mutants were so eager to cast aside their humanity and slaughter their former friends. That was why they were so eager to increase their numbers, to use the Nova Atlantean nano-virus to spread their plague of deformagrotesquetitudes throughout the Outlands.

But to make this plague self-sustaining, to stop it from burning out, they needed a new stratagem. They needed willing converts, men who would cast aside their humanities and whatever pre- or intra- or post- prefixes they may have and embrace the Greater Good beyond the normal calling. They needed them to love the Tau so much that they would want to become Tau.

Yessss.....

That was what they attempted here, in this forsaken land, to convert these dregs from their primitive human forms and into the post-normal superiority of Tau. Their supremacy was obvious. Resistance was futile.

Yet resistance was what all these futile Byzantine believers knew. Once infected by the disease, many of them instead chose to kill themselves or in a panic took their cures, not knowing in their uneducation that their cure was death. Or perhaps they knew that the cure to Tau was death, and they embraced it to spite the efforts of the mutant man-Tau and the genetic memories of all the lost true Tau coursing in their veins.



The one who called himself a leader of the Ethereal Caste, for such was the extent of their genetic madness that they now took the moniker of the Tau cults of old, frowned his split lips in displeasure. His sickly blue skin wrinkled, the grotesque veins spreading across his skull like some wicked spiderweb.

"If these adults resist us then we shell take there chilldren!" he cackled. Already his speech was matching that of the Nova Atlantean posthuman/Tau postnewspeak. His formerly human body had taken up to the mutations extremely well, and already his lymph nodes and glands had transmogrified into an approximation of the true Ethereal pheromone glands, causing the Fire Caste warriors to be subservient to his will.

"It is for teh Greater Good!" he declared. For he was amongst those who believed that the nano-retrovirus contained the genetic memories of the old Tau and when they, the mutant man-Tau, fully remembered their past lives, then the thetans of the old Tau would once more inhabit their bodies in a form of nano-genetic reincarnation. His E-meter crackled. "This Byzantine-born children shell be rebourne again, baptised into the new order of the Greater Good! Than they shell inherit the genetic mammaries of our true ancestors, the true Tau of the Dead Sectors! Thru us they live again on reincarnation!"

Though the adult Byzantine believers were dead, the children were still alive. There in the chambers where they were being taught their catechisms of hate by nuns with guns. The nuns tried to protect the children, but a few pulse gun blasts burned them alive, leaving behind only their singed habits and skeletonized corpses behind. There were also many babies, for it was customary in this season to hold mass baptisms. The deacon who was to anoint them, and the expectant parents and godparents, tried to stop the Tau but they too were killed.

"WE SHALL RESTARE THE ORDER OF OLD! THE OUTLANDS SHELL BEE A NEW TAU ENCLAVE!" the Ethereal shrieked in jubilation as he brought out a syringe full of nano-virals and readied to stab it into a child's eye. "YOU WON'T KNEAD EYES WERE YOUR GOING!"

Suddenly a shadow fell on them. The man-Tau Ethereal turned to face it, whatever it was. He saw it.



A Spaceman with a Shotgun.

"Wrong."

His one-liner was followed the shotgun's roar. The depleted uranium buckshot expanded in a circular cone that roughly approximated the diameter of the man-Tau's skull. The uranium entered his face, demolishing it in an explosion of purple meat and black blood, and came out of the back of his head, showering his companions in shot.

"You cunt be against us if your with us!" a Tau shrieked cleverly as he opened fire with his nano-virus dispenser in an attempt to mutate the Spaceman with a Shotgun. But he had a spacesuit on and nothing happened. The Tau looked at him in disbelief. "Noe, its impossibel!"



"It's a 'grunge thing'," the Spaceman replied as he shot the Tau in the groin. His legs came apart from the hip like a split wishbone.

Hearing the sound of gunfire, other man-Tau came flooding into the chamber. Most of them were armed with more nano-virus dispensers, because they were here not to kill the Byzantine believers but to convert them. The believers were celebrating civilians, anyway, and didn't need heavy arms to put down. The most the man-Tau had to offer were pulse guns, which were used to vaporize the nuns and deacons, but only a few of the mutants carried these.

"Isn't that just like a blue? Brings nanites to a gun fight," the Spaceman muttered as he opened up on the inadequately armed man-Tau. Depleted uranium buckshots proceeded to decapitate limbs and amputate heads. The close quarters of the Byzantine cathedral was perfect for his shotgun to play merry havoc with. Gothic statues, gargoyles, and tainted glass became stained with half-breed blood as he continued to do his work. With each shotgun blast, with each pump and each empty smoking shell spat out, another blueskin fell. One after the other. There would be short pauses, as the Spaceman shoved more shells into his pump-action shotgun. But then the reloading would stop and the killing would continue.

In the end, the statue of the God-Emperor beheld man and Tau before Him, all equally dead.

The cries of frightened children and babies echoed through the now silent cathedral, now more like a charnel house.

The Spaceman turned to the weeping babies.

"I used to be like you. A long time ago. All brand new and perfect. No mistakes, no regrets. People look at you and think of how wonderful your future will be. They want you to be something special, like an Astartes, or a tech-priest. I hate to tell you this, but if you grow up here, you're more likely to wind up selling your bodies on the streets, or shooting cures from dirty needles in a bus stop. And if you're successful, you'll make money selling nanite junk to tauheads. And don't think twice about killing someone's wife, because you won't even know it's wrong in the first place. Maybe... you'll end up like me. A spaceman with a shotgun."



A new brand of justice had come to the Outlands.

[Force Lord]

The Central Times-Editorial

The folly of anti-ESPer prejudice

By the Editor

Countless books have been made regarding relations between normal beings and ESPers. Many speak about how both have learned to accept each others existence, which is good, by the way. While Centralism encourages and expects ESPers to assume responsibility for the administration of the State, it does accept non-ESPers that contribute to its preeminence. Thus our nation, despite accusations from certain countries that it mistreats the non-ESPer population, treats those without powers with great care, since there will never be an all-ESP society, even in the far future.

What is an ESPer? In layman terms, an ESPer is a person that shows special powers, be it telepathy, telekinesis, or pyrokinesis, to name a few examples. ESP is manifested in the early years of human beings and other races, though this can vary. As an ESPer being grows up, his or her command of his or her powers grow, the potential divided into six levels according to the standard ESP power scale, with 1 being the lowest and 6 the highest. Contrary to popular belief, power levels do not necessarily mean that the weakest ESPers are the most common, and viceversa, though again this depends on the race in question. An ESPer can chose to specialize in one power or develop affinity for all of them, depending on his or her base power level.

ESP is a wonderful thing to behold, but for some, it is terrifying. As soon as knowledge of ESP became commonplace, and ESPers became more high-profile, suspicion against them grew. It is natural, for the average person may feel insufficient compared to an ESPer, and thus possessed by fear and jealousy. But simple distrust is not the same as outright hatred. Indeed, for several ESPers, mistreatment was the order of the day, even if such did not result in death. Again, treatment of ESPers depended of the policy of their area of residence, but one could find that systematic discrimination correlated with poverty and illiteracy, since a poor and dumb person is more liable to listen to anti-ESPer firebrands.

Early anti-ESPer sentiment was relatively limited, despite the common opinion of foreign states that the Centrality was an ESPer-run despotate. We may be harsh, but not stupid to ignore the contributions of Normals. ESPers, after all, were never the majority, and never will, but I digress. Anti-ESPer sentiment began to rise from the 30th Century onward, a consequence of the Amplitur War's effects on the national psyche of Shepistan and the Grand Dominion. These states became virulently anti-ESPer, and gave moral, if not material, support to anti-ESPer organizations throughout civilized and not-so-civilized space. There was also the near-genocide of the Apexai race by the Bragulans, a people whose development of ESP was very weak, and thus made them all the more afraid of it. The fact that the Apexai were also one of the most arrogant races in history is beside the point.

The point is that discriminating against ESPers deprives any society of its most valuable members. ESPers can do many beneficial things for the government and the people, and it is unfair to put them to death or any such terrible fate for being what they are. Anti-ESPerism is an insanity, at the same category as Anti-Robotism and Anti-Cyborgism. Both can give splendid service, if given the chance. And they cannot rebel once they have everything they will ever need.

That is, after all, the reason why our nation gladly accepts ESPers fleeing from persecution and given citizenship. They only need to accept the primacy of the State, a State which is, after all, mostly administered by their own. As Dovan said, "Only the best can hope to rule the State."

[Siege]

Hyperspace



#4542-Delta-121 skittered through space. Or, well, it wasn't really space. But it wasn't really not-space either. Not that Delta-121 cared very much about just what medium it was skittering through, so long as it could continue skittering onward to its destination.

Humans would find Delta-121 hard to look at. But not just humans: the same was true for Bragulans, Formic, Pfhor, Thanagarians... Really just about anyone from outside the not-space-not-not-space. It wasn't because Delta-121 was particularly gruesome to behold; it wasn't. It was a very simple maintenance drone. But it was built to function in an environment quite different from four-dimensional space-time.

Not that Delta-121 cared very much about that, either. It climbed (or floated, or descended – normal verbs did not technically apply) past metal mountains mottled with clustered sub-processors; let its sensors glide with some wonder along impossible fractal cores, before recalling its mission and hurrying onward past towering analytical stacks buzzing with n-dimensional static, and the titan hyperforce arrays that kept this eddy of inaccessible space-time furrowed safely in the skein of the universe. It skidded through a farcaster and emerged, abruptly, a thousand klicks deeper inside one of the moon-sized core's maintenance corridors.

It was a tiny corridor, unlit, and it bent at weird angles that Euclydian space wouldn't have tolerated, but Delta-121 knew where it was going. It arched left, through a power trunk and past a set of tertiary dark energy reactors. The small drone knew it was close now, and accelerated excitedly, careening into a colossal cavern lit by arching electricity.

If the tiny drone had an organic intellect, it might have registered the vaulting walls of humming machinery with a kind of religious awe. But it didn't, so it just filed a cluster of data that could, creatively, be translated as a robotic whoa!

Delta-121 skidded to an abrupt halt before a technological menhir embedded in the side of the mechanical grotto, an ancient piece of complex lights and dials that looked purposefully enclosed in layers and generations of progressively newer machinery. Creeping forward, the tiny drone clamped two of its tiny manipulator appendages around one of the knobs and, with a beep! adjusted the dial.

A sense of shifting purpose. Somewhere outside the titanic artificial construct, the exotic interactions between dimensional manifolds and spacetime symmetries changed, became differently aligned. Delta-121 was aware of a sudden presence, a fraction of the attention of the computational god that inhabited this giant core turning its attention toward it. It felt the digital equivalent of a pat on the head and shivered with delight.

Then, wirelessly, a new mission and a new purpose. It shot off into one of the maintenance corridors.

In the universe beyond, in a tiny recess of one of the galaxy's most formidable minds, a log was filed:

Code: Select all

Set: System start point.
TD11 processor array: online
Checksum error: complete
System Clock: 54:87:21:39:11:25:32
Test back subloop: True
Status: Statoplane Interface functional
Confidence: High
Conditional: Dimensional bleed flux at 100.00043% efficiency
Conditional: fluctuation accepted as new baseline
Break
Conclusion: Efficiency improved
Sign log

OLYMPIC

[White Haven]

Deep Purple facility
Nova Luna sector
The Screaming Room

The room was totally sound-proof. Psychic shielding worked into the walls, floor, and ceiling baffled and dispersed attempts to communicate telempathically in or out of the small chamber. As it often was, the room was full to capacity with screaming.

A proper aficionado of human and near-human screams would have, of course, heard many different kinds of screaming, each signifying different emotional states. The scream battering at the walls of the room wasn't one of rage, or loss, or horror, or even simple physical pain. It was one of sheer, raw, unrestrained frustration. As the short, ginger-haired man standing in the middle of the room finally ran out of breath and sagged in place, a different sound made itself known: a pair of hands clapping appreciatively.

He spun in place rapidly, coming face to face (indeed, almost nose-to-nose) with what appeared to be woman just entering her thirties, although modern antigerone treatments being what they were, that number was difficult to trust. The clapping came to a halt as she reached up and pulled a pair of heavy earmuffs off of her head, brushing a few errant strands of blonde hair out of the way.

"I'm impressed, that must have been pent up for a while. I could hear it even through these," she spoke first with a wry smile on her lips, hefting the ear protection for emphasis.

The man's response was accusatory, even heated as he snapped back, "How long have you been there?"

"Oh, a few seconds less than you have.. I wanted to see just how frustrated you were, and I daresay you've surprised me."

Indignation collapsed under its own weight at those simple, amused words, slithering to a halt amidst incoherence, "You...you...what?"

"I wanted to see how frustrated you were," the blonde says with a lively grin, "I think you'll do nicely. I'm sending you to Umeria to see if you can pique their interest regarding...well, the way you were just screaming I think you know quite well."

"What? Umeria? I don't even...do you have a map?"

"Of course I do, Lionel. Unless you'd rather stay here and immerse yourself in the nuances of the Midnight Confederation Navy's affairs further?"

"...When do I leave?"

"Immediately. I've got the We Are Not Sarah Connor prepping for departure now."

"Is Sarah still the pilot?"

"Of course, she appreciates the irony, and yes, I know you appreciate her. Good work on prepping the recent Scylla engagement, by the way, no fatalities. It's always touchy when one of them rotates in a new fleet, making sure it stays well-matched." The blonde's lips curl in a smile again, "Agent Connor has a brother in the Royal Navy 3rd fleet. I'm sure she appreciates your efforts as well."

A blush creeping up onto his face, the man nodded quickly, murmuring, "Thank you, ma'am, director." and hurried out, leaving the well-shielded room behind with a spring in his step.

[Agent Sorchus]

Previously

Brewstation Part 2 almost 7 days prior to the start of the Waagh

Dharaz took a swig of water from his hip flask. He grimaced as it's sweet taste flowed down his throat. It was so very un-Orky for a hip flask to not be full of the heaviest liquor available, but in his time of need every drop of booze counted. At least the water had cleared the dust and rust of this unused crawlspace from his throat.

He was waiting, which was also a very Un-Orky thing to do. It was his own fault though that he'd gotten in place so fast and had to wait for his distraction to continue. He eyed the door across the wall from himself, which despite the rust none of the runts, grotz or slaves he had behind him dared touch yet,

Then the screaming started. Some of the slaves flopped over despite their ear protection. Dharaz himself was thankful once more for the old fuzzy pink ear thingies that protected his ears, as the loud-boy chorus got into a competition over which was the loudest amongst them. It made a good distraction though, as one of the runtz battered down the hatch with his choppa and made way for Dharaz to stand in the newly opened hallway. It wasn't quieter here, but if you ignored the cloud of rust from the door it was far cleaner here. His throat still coated with dust and rust Dharaz drained his flask and gargled. He spit the resultant product of ork breathe and rust onto the sigil of da Evul Onez, whose ship he had just boarded.

"Zogblow, you and Gegwo get down dat way and get dat cargo hatch open for da shuttle. Da rest of ya, wez got to smash some skills" As Dharaz said this he pulled out his Stabi/Slasha and one of the Zappas and did a quick pose, sort of like one of those Byzantium propaganda posters he had seen once, only orky so it was better.

His group quickly ran into the krew who were trying to find a place a little quieter to rest their ears. Dharaz shot the biggest one before wadding in with his Slasha while his orks and grechin grappled with the rest, with the occasional hearty kick from one of the slaves getting to work out some of their frustrations at their captors. It was over quick, Dharaz being just that much bigga and more orky. The last standing crew-ork took Dharaz's Slasha's handguard across the face hard enough to send him flying into the wall. The false panel he had hit crumpled, revealing a hidden still.

Dat was more like it, Dharaz thought as he dipped his flask into the still. At least it wasn't water. He drew another of his muzzle loading hand zappas and continued his charge towards the Kaptin of the ship's private stash.

A couple minutes later
This was a nice haul. Too bad the first two ships had been so dry. He wasn't going to make it at this rate, and the other Kaptins were going to grow wise to his cunning plan sooner or latter. He glanced at his gitz and slaves in the back of the shuttle, most of the latter where cuddled together after their quick swim in the void. It wasn't like he was going to be so brazen as too dock his shuttle to their ship, so he'd had to throw the loot and everybody out the cargo hatch and jump himself.

One thing was true though, he didn't pity them.

He glanced at the other two shuttles that were also coming in from their simultaneous heists. They were both loaded down decently, but with too little to change how well he was doing with this glorious and cunning plan.

That meant it was time for a new glorious cunning plan.

[Shroom Man 777]

Exercise Keeps Bragulan Armies Strong

Sector E-24
Off Chamarran Space
Unreal Time



Gunfire, sirens and screams.

Bragulans clad in their armor and gas masks stormed through the battlefield.

"Move! Move! Move!" Lieutenant 'Big' Beartha bellowed as she led her squad across the blasted landscape. They ran across the cratered urban area, gasping for breath through their multi-respirators. Their boots stomped on the ground, imprinting their soles on the mud as though it were a giant human face made out of muck and dirt. The magazines, grenades and guns strapped on their tactical webbing clattered against each other as they moved. Commands were barked, machineguns roared.

Tracer fire whipped through the air along with the occasional angry red energy beam. The ground exploded as mortars and shells fell from the skies and detonated. Sirens and macrophones blared incoherent roars, screams, screeds and snarls. Micronuke airbursts sent blast waves that vaporized everything in their paths. HR Geiger counters crackled as radioactive particulates floated down like deadly snowflakes. The smoke coming from massive bonfires and funeral pyres mixed with poison gas in the atmosphere. It rained, water mixing with the radioactive nerve gas and turning black.

"Take cover, make stand!" a mound of mud exploded before them and turned into a crater, a pre-made foxhole. They threw themselves inside the hole, ducked and took cover. “Set the ‘net! Now!”

“Da, lieutenant!” conscript Choldytz Comradskyi confirmed, crouching down the foxhole and pulling out a stake. He hit it with a beating stick, driving it into the mud. “Machine gun mount emplaced! Where’s the gun?!”

“Here!” another bear threw himself in with them. He hauled a massive machine gun and fixed it on the stake sticking out of the ground. “Ammo!”

“Here!” Choldytz pulled out a bag of bullets and shoved a belt into the weapon. “Good to go!”

“Stock the cock and blow my load!” the gunner bear laughed.

“Stuff it, Bearenstain!” “Big” Beartha barked. They all ducked as a particle beam zapped over their heads. It was coming from inside a building ahead of them. “K that building, now!”

With that command, the B-NET K-cannon roared to life and sent hundreds of emerald bolts spewing towards the offending structure. The acid bullets melted holes through the walls and splattered a cocktail of K-residue and repleted uranium all over its insides. But instead of killing whoever was inside the building, the particle beam fire only intensified and gouged burning ditches around the Bragulan fire-team’s foxhole/crater.

“Shits!” Choldytz cried as he threw himself away from an incoming beam. The others were slower, but made it just in time. Bearenstain ripped his machine gun and its mounting off the ground and rolled away while Beartha jumped out of the beam’s path.

From within the building, armored warriors emerged, their true forms were partly obscured by the smoke and fire all over the place but their menacing natures were all too clear. They raised their weapons and sent more energy beams up the Bragulans’ way.

“Fucks!” Choldytz cursed as he ducked from another crackling beam. He pulled out his K-bolter and returned fire, but the enemies seemed to withstand it. “They’re too tough to kill!”

“Then kill them harder!” Beartha snapped back as she threw a stick grenade at them. The stick’s rocket motor ignited and sent the explosive screaming towards the enemy, where it slammed on one of them and detonated in a blast of monomolecular shrapnel. The one that got hit vanished entirely, and when the smoke cleared only its feet remained. “Like that!”

“BRAAAAGH!” Bearenstain followed by unloading his B-NET at the general direction of the enemy. The much larger K-bolts punched through another one of them, melting through its chestplate and ripping it to pieces. The others decided to take cover, occasionally returning fire with their beam weapons. Bearenstain continued on with his barrage until he was running low. “Chol!”

Choldytz ran to his comrade and fed him a new belt. He also pulled out a fire extinguisher and sprayed liquid nitrogen on the B-NET’s glowing barrel to cool it. This allowed Bearenstain to continue his unending barrage. At least, until another energy beam struck his machine gun. The K-cannon exploded in a shower of sparks that set his overcoat alight, though otherwise thankfully not spewing K-residue acid all over him. He screamed as he caught fire.

“I’m on fire! I’m on fire!” he rolled on the mud, trying to get the flames off. Choldytz started spraying him with coolant to save him. The fire died pretty quickly, but now the gunner was covered in liquid nitrogen. “Nyet, too cold! Too cold! Aaah!”

“Stop double-thinking and make up your mind!” Choldytz shouted back.

Meanwhile, the beam fire from inside the building returned and more of the enemies came out and advanced towards them. Beartha was quick enough to haul them into the safety of another crater, but even there and without their heavy weapon, they were on the verge of being overrun. The enemy’s armored warriors outnumbered them, their beam weapons were far too powerful, and -

“INCOMING!”

The building and all the enemies inside it disappeared as an even larger energy beam struck it and vaporized the entire structure. The adjacent warriors were blasted away by the shockwave, and the imposing form of their attacker rose up from behind the ruinated building.



It was an Imperator Prime warmech, airdropped from a Stalag gunship that was now eggressing from the scene. A blood red targeting laser strobed out of the machine’s primary beam cannon. The walker was designed by the Chamarrans to Bragulan specifications, which simply specified the need for maximum firepower for maximum violence. As the Imperator Prime crushed the faces of the enemy under its metal feet, and exploderated the others with its many armamentations, it was clear that it had met the two aforementioned design specs.

“Holy shits,” Choldytz gasped as the war machine went on to burninate other targets. Together, he and Beartha tended to Bearenstain, whose second degree burns were now covered with frostbite. Choldytz pulled out a bottle of tsvagna and spilled it all over the injured bear to sterilize his injuries. “Waste of damn good tsvagna!”

Bearenstain whimpered like a cub as the battery acid brew bubbled on his flesh, like industrial grade hydrogen peroxide. Clumps of fur were falling off his skin from the parts the tsvagna touched.

“Stop crying you baby!” Beartha chided as she applied kevlar dressings on the affected areas and secured them with duct tape. “There, mommy will make it better. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

They crawled out of the crater together, with Choldytz supporting the injured Bearenstain. Beartha took the lead. She went over to one of the fallen enemies. It was still twitching slightly, sparks coming out from where the K-bolts had punched holes through its armor and melted its internal components. It reared up, still trying to engage them with its weapons.

Beartha emptied her K-bolter at it. A burst blew half its head off, spilling K-residue inside its hyperalloy endoskull and melting its microchips. The machine sagged, the red glow of its oculars dimmed and it fell, dead again.




“Is it dead?” Bearenstain asked feebly.

“Terminated,” Beartha quipped.

“Metal motherfucker,” Choldytz spat at the thing. He gave it an ill-tempered kick and nearly slipped on the mud. “Let’s get out of here.”

Supporting each other, they walked away from the scene. Their safest bet was to follow the path of the Imperator Prime, for the areas it passed by had been totally denuded of opposition. They linked up with an armored column of Chornybs, and medics were able to take care of Bearenstain. The Chornybs were pushing deeper into enemy territory, fighting their way through the mechanical enemies and even some of their war machines. Contra-grav tanks clashed against Dredkas while resistance eventually hardened to the point where tactical atomics had to be called in again.

Choldytz, Bearenstain and Beartha contended themselves to spectating, not that they minded. They watched the ensuing fireworks as Spuds rained down on the enemy formations and vaporized their encampments. The prefabricated bragcrete buildings, dropped from orbit to quickly set up their training grounds, were reduced to rubble. The enemy infantry and war machines themselves, facsimiles their mysterious enemy from the anti-spinward with similar appearances, were likewise atomized.

Buzzers rang, emitted from sirens and macrophones all over the now-desolated battlefield, signifying that the exercises for the day were over.