StarDestroyer.Net BBS

Cananaan

“You know Venn, did you read this weird spike in the sensors in the asteroid field on the way into this wretched rock of a planet?”

“Weird spike in the asteroid field? My sensor officer did mention something. It was fleeting though.”

“It lasted rather long when I came in. My sensor officer thought it was someone going into hyperspace, but he was wondering very hard about it. The signature doesn’t match any known hyperdrive signature, and the signature lineshape was just wrong. I don’t know what mambo jumbo he was talking about, but whatever it is, I thought it curious.”

“Curiosity could kill the cat,” the trader gestured to a shady corner. Someone was listening a little intently. Too intently in fact. The other trader nodded, and the two walked out. Mindful that someone was following, they quickly slipped into an alley, and waited for their stalker to walk by the alley. When they tried to grab the stalker, the stalker simply melted away right in their arms.

“Wait what?” stammered one of the traders.

“Nothing much gentlemen. Only an apparition, intended to lure you two out, so that I could kill you two and dump your bodies in some innocuous place.” Before they could even so much as scream for help or react to the stunning proclamation, they both dropped dead. The man in the shadows smiled. “Now, I will take what I need.” He stooped down and chopped off their hands, He scanned their palm prints with a scanner embedded within his own palm, took the command keys and slipped back into the shadows.

A few hours later, two transports in the local space port suddenly exploded in flames. Their crews were all dead by then however, and as the local space port fire teams rushed to put out the fires, a man watching from the sidelines smiled. He activated his iris imaging device and summoned up the data containing all the sensor logs from the two vessels, as well as their flight plans. He studied the data curiously, and felt that this might be something worthy of bringing to the attention of his master.

==============

While Guynald went off on his “desert escapade” to prove his “manliness”, as Petr had put it, the Lord Inquisitor Tyrus went about his personal business of finding the albinos. He was particularly thankful that Guynald was finally gone however. “The mad man stank of so much body odour, I think even bathing wouldn’t have done much to cleanse him of that stink,” muttered Tyrus. He was studying the data Guynald had given him on the albinos closely when Petr Solms finally returned. Tyrus turned and asked, “So Petr, what have you found for me?”

Petr had just returned from his tour of the marketplace which had lasted a few weeks, gathering intelligence. Tyrus could not possibly go on such a tour, since he was needed at the palace dealing with the politics surrounding the deal between the Imperium and Guynald. In any case, an inquisitor walking around in powered armor, while it did inspire a fair bit of intimidation, did not quite qualify as discrete. Petr handed Tyrus his data slate. “I think we should investigate this peculiar asteroid in the local asteroid belt.”

“Another asteroid? These damn midgets sure love their asteroid lairs do they?”

“Not quite.”

“What do you mean?” Tyrus arched his eyebrows as he read the data slate.

“The data Guynald handed me does not quite pinpoint the location of the albinos, but recently, there has been a spate of energies emanating from this asteroid which was picked up by traders passing through this system, and some of these traders were overheard talking about it in the local bars. The energies were generally weak, and the traders generally ignored them or avoided them. However, I took the liberty of ‘procuring’ some of this data from some of the traders.”

Tyrus read the report extremely closely and his eyebrows arched even further when he had finished the report. “Warp energies?! What in the name of the God Emperor are these energies coming out from this random point in the asteroid field? And the type of warp energies... the signature... the frequency everything. What damn dimension is this? This is in fact in the forbidden dimensions the Adeptus Mechanicus explicitly state we should never use!”

“Exactly. I think albinos or not, they warrant some kind of investigation.”

Tyrus thought hard. Sending the frigate that he had been given command of might be too obvious. He needed something more discreet. “Petr, get me a link to the Ordos Sicarius. I need some favours and get me that contact from the Adeptus Mechanicus I have as well.”

===============

And that favour was granted. A small stealth ship arrived in the Cananaan system bearing a team of six assassins and they landed in the dead of the night on the outskirts of the system. Petr stood quietly in his stealth suit waiting for them to disembark their vessel. Petr had submitted himself to training in the Ordos Sicarius before like many of his fellow Inquisitors and he had a certain familiarity with their techniques. The leader of the assassins was a man, if one could call him one, named Michek Shoven. “You are Petr Solms?” asked Shoven.

“That is correct. And you are Shoven?”

“Yes I am.” The man made a sign of the Aquila, as customary a greeting between fellow men of the Inquisition. “What mission does your Lord Inquisitor Tyrus wish that we pursue?”

Petr took out his hand, and opened the data port embedded discreetly beneath his skin. Shoven gestured to one of the Assassins, a specialist in information technology, to receive the data. Once the data was transferred, the assassin shared it with the rest via their shared encrypted quantum wireless network. “I see. Your master wishes that this part of the asteroid field be scouted and investigated and we are to report back with information gathered.”

“Yes, that is his wish. And yes, one more thing.” Petr handed a special device that Tyrus had received from his contact within the Adeptus Mechanicus.

“What is this?”

“My master wants you to slave this to your ship sensors, and to bring it aboard the asteroid when you board it. He wants the readings and data collected on the device when you return.”

“It will be done. And oh, my master Lord Inquisitor Manuel sends his regards to Tyrus. He says that they should share a drink again one day, in that same old bar, on Terra.” With that, the assassin team boarded their stealth craft, and disappeared into the night.

================================

“How do we approach this, Michek?” asked a brute of an assassin named Carlos Galatia. His muscles rippled with a certain silent pleasure, as if a rifle uncocked and ready to fire. Michek Shoven was quietly looking at the stars as the stealth craft cruised towards the region indicated on the map. On his right, was the pilot who was directing the spacecraft via the mind-machine interface. Behind Michek was Mikela Nikka, the information specialist who was busy working the special sensor recording device, slaving it to the sensor relays of the stealthcraft.

Michek turned around and simply replied, “Well Carlos, we will first try to gather some sensor data first. Mikela, what is this device Petr passed to us?”

Mikela shook her head. “It’s a special recording device with a recording module that is tuned to record certain parts of the sensor spectrum. What those imply, I’m not sure. Whatever it is, our Warp space sensors are at their highest level in their current passive state. I am not sure what we are trying to sense. Certain special dimensions of Warp travel?”

Michek shrugged. He did not know what Tyrus wanted with the device, which was obviously of Adeptus Mechanicus manufacture. Whatever it is, and if Mikela did not know herself, then the security clearance was clearly above them.

“Heads up, we are approaching the asteroid field,” said the pilot, and the asteroid field began filling the viewscreen.

Montgomery, Shepistan
Unreal Time



GAINUS BALLTAR staggered into the man bar. He started stripping off his jacket and undoing his belt buckle, and was assisted by a burly man decked out in black authoritarian fetish-gear. Balltar sighed as the man helped him remove his clothes before massaging his back, expertly judo-chopping the tension knots that had formed on his posterior. The burly military man worked his way downwards. Balltar groaned. Suddenly, the man reached into Balltar's pants and groped. Balltar squealed and squirmed in slight discomfort. The man's hands were firm, rough and calloused from practice, and Balltar could feel them on him. The movements were ungentle, but the man was in control and caused no undue discomfort. The opposite, in fact.

"Now I know why they call you BALLTAR," the man said, whispering into his ear with a gruff voice. "Ganus."

"That's Gainus..." Balltar corrected, looking a little hurt. Together, they moved as one to the beat of the man bar's tunes.

Pound me, macho man, just one more time! It was a Nova Terran classic, a favorite of couples everywhere in Shepistan. They moved in silence for a while, bodies rubbing against one another, hands held in places, just moving with the beat. All night long!

Their movements were controlled, to be as normal as possible taking into consideration their surroundings. As a normal dancing couple would, they gradually drifted over to the bathroom. They went in and locked the doors, making sure they were the only ones there.

With sweat dribbling, and breaths gasping, they went about their business.

Balltar retrieved the document the man had inserted inside him.



"The Battlestar Analpolis," the man said as Balltar looked the doc over.

"Annapolis," Balltar corrected again.

"It is under the command of Admiral Rho," the man continued.

"The Iron Bitch," Balltar added.

"It is on the way to Bragspace and will be joining their eventual operations in the anti-spinward," the man went on. "Serving under Rho will be the Analpolis' commander, Hushy."

"...yes." Balltar nodded. The mention of that name brought back memories from a long time ago. Bittersweet memories, hurtful memories, wonderful memories. He had loved Hushy more than any other man in his life, and Hushy had loved him back. They were passionate, though Balltar wanted to preserve himself until after marriage. But Hushy... Hushy couldn't wait, and Balltar accepted him that fateful night. Except something horrible had happened. Hushy had betrayed him. Rejected him. Threw him out. Hushy left him for that little manwhore Gayeta. And for that, Balltar would never forgive him. "They proved themselves well in Pendleton, dealing with a Bragulian representative and a Collector Monolith. Their tenacity and ingenuity, and willingness to risk their lives, makes them best suited to be sent to the most daring missions available. They will be put to good use in the antispinward."

"High command took your recommendations very seriously, Ganus," the burly man whispered into his ear. "You're one of our foremost scientific minds, and your decision to send then to that dangerous mission on Pendleton gave us valuable information on those Collector toasters. Hopefully, Hushy will be able to do this extremely dangerous special mission in the antispinward and come back in one piece."

"Yeah..." Balltar said flatly as both of them walked out of the bathroom, holding each other in hand and returning to the din of dancing couples and grinding guys. "I hope so too... I hope so too."

Hushy...

Except he didn't.

Previously on SDN Worlds 4:

Mayniland, Feelipeens
Unreal Time

"So this is the local Bank?"

"Looks good for a Feelipeeni building. Pity."

In front of the individuals was none other than the Feelipeens National Bank, where the people of the Feelipeens stored their hard-earned money, only for Shroomarcos to steal it for himself. Most of it was in New Switzerland, but the Feelipeeni ruler still kept some of the cash in the Bank. The Bank itself was indicative of Shroomarcos's care of his people, which wasn't saying much.

"You have the IID?"

"Yep."

"Good. Let's do this."

Two men entered the Bank, and went to the receptionist.

"Hallo!", said the cheerful receptionist. "What can we do for you handsome Shepistani men?"

"Ma'm, I suggest you evacuate the building."

"Huh? Why?"

The building suddenly shook, and there was the smell of smoke.

"That's why! The communistas are attacking! Get the hell out!"

Everyone screamed, and ran to the exits, stomping over whatever poor soul that happened to trip up.

The two "Shepistani" men simply walked to the exit, smiling.

All had gone according to plan.
-----------------------------------------------------------------

The IID (Improvised Inciendary Device) worked wonderfully. It was placed secretly near some flammable material that was also explosive, and activated remotely. The flames had not yet reached the vault, but that didn't mean the disguised CIS agents were any less hasty.

"Once again, I don't like wearing the red star on my sleeve!"

"Can it man! We're on the clock here!"

The CIS agents were careful to destroy all cameras in the vault, since none of them wanted to have their voices recorded on camera. Right now they were busy hauling off the cash inside, but they knew they couldn't save them all.

"What do we do with the money?"

"'Fraid we have to give it to the commies."

"Hey, there's centralists here too!"

"Well, maybe we can give half the money to each."

The agents, after stuffing their loot on their bags, ran as fast as they could to the back door.

When they left, a car was waiting for them.

"Get in now!", shouted the driver.

As the agents got in, they looked back and saw the bank burning down.



"Pity. It was such a nice building."

"Well, it'll certainly make Shroomarcos mad."

The car dissapeared into the traffic...

The New Humanist

Criminals Responsible for November Bombing Apprehended
The Federal Civil Protection Service and Department of Internal Intelligence revealed today that the criminals responsible for the November 1st suicide bombing that took the lives of Foreign Relations director Amos Bowman and six others have been apprehended. The plot was apparently initiated by New Havonian seperatists, taking advantage of recent protests over talks with the Centrality to conceal their plot's actual purpose. The seperatists, consisting mostly of disaffected military and government bureaucrats who the government has declined to name at this time, hoped to use the death of Amos Bowman to deteriorate federal-to-sector relations. Director Bowman was well-known for his ties on New Haven and in sector eight, where his efforts were integral in quelling unrest. The FCPS and DII have vowed to continue investigation into the plot to track down and neutralize any remaining loose ends. The DII has also commissioned an investigative task force to discover how the November Plot went undetected and unprevented.

Director Hugh Bishop Announces New Plans for Sector Eight
Director Hugh Bishop today announced his intention to promote several individuals within the Office of Foreign Relations to new positions aimed at improving relations between the sector eight systems and the federal government. Though a part of the Humanist Union, the federal government has relied on the Office in addressing the concerns of the only recently-liberated sector. Political analysts have noted that the promoted individuals all worked closely with the recently-deceased Amos Bowman in his efforts in sector eight diplomacy, which Bishop himself had little personal involvement in. This announcement comes on the heels of a recent rise in unrest in sector eight and especially on New Haven following Bowman's November first assassination.

Federal Navy to Participate in Naval Review
The Department of the Navy has publicly announced its intention to participate in the 3401 naval review in the Nova Australia system, an event announced by the Nova Atlantean Republic. Scheduled for the early days of the new year, the event is expected to attract participation from several powers, including the Centrality, the Federated Ascendancy, and the Bragulan Star Empire. Critics of the announcement have charged it as a needless waste of time and money, with some also objecting to friendly association with anti-human powers such as the Bragulan Empire. Officials in the Federal Navy and Office of Foreign Relations have called the event a chance to strengthen international relations in the interest of preventing unnecessary violence. It is unclear at this time what assets and which individuals the Federal Navy will assign to the event, and the Department of the Navy has declined to comment.

Prussian Intelligence Service, HQ

'Are you certain where these Atlaskinder are getting weapons from?'

'Yes, unfortunately,' the spy said to his superior. 'The Prussian Mafia.'

The superior fought a chill. The Prussian Mafia were an organised crime gang, with fingers in many pies. They seemed to be dominated by several large crime families, with the biggest based in Königstadt, at an elusive brothel and general den of debauchery known simply as the Badhaus. The other major families ocassionally met there as well, making it a key point for anybody wishing to decapitate the Mafia. The only problem was, all the people the Prussian police sent to find it either vanished or never did.

But now that they had conclusive evidence linking the Mafia with the Atlaskinder, a known anti-democratic revolutionary group, Prussian Intelligence could get involved. And they would most definitely not use half measures.

'So, what do we now?' the spy asked.

'Simple,' the superior replied. 'Send in our best agent.'


Reichskanzler's Castle

Karl Kaiser, now Reichskanzler of Prussia, looked at the report. The Atlaskinder were inciting violence; demonstrations and so forth. Fortunately, the people seemed not to be stirred by their words of hate and anger. He was troubled however; recent raids had uncovered an Atlaskinder arsenal including K-bolters (modified for human size) with a strong indication that they had been smuggled in.

He wasn't going to take this lying down, that was for sure.

Force Lord wrote:Alexei Masonov was not the man he once was. What was left of him was buried beneath a shell created by his captors that would fool everyone who knew him. Especially CEID.

And now, he was now a tool. A tool for revenge.

Execute Operation Charybdis.

The ship continued to it's destination...

Gateway Station
Kuiper Belt of the Solaris System



Gateway Station. Arrival point for everyone that didn't have high-priority clearance for the inner system. Cargo transshipment terminal, immigration centre, submeson hub... Titanic locus. The second-largest construct in the system, after the Solaris Stargate. A beacon of spectral emissions visible from across the galaxy: visible light, e-mag, grav-pulse, hyperwave. Daily, a trillion containers. Daily, a billion tourists. At any moment, one hundred ships docked or departed. Even greater was the number of hyperlight x-buses, intent on the inner system and the trillion enticing lights of faraway Solaris.

And among the teeming masses at one of thousands of checkpoints, Alexei Masonov.

The hologrammatic imprint on his credentials were scanned into a computer system by a bored-looking CBI officer, who handed them back after only the briefest of glances. "Have a nice stay, Mr. Masonov." The woman spoke with the bored tone of someone who was already forgetting his face, staring through him at the next person in the Immigrations line.

Masonov ghosted through the check-out lines. He collected his sparse luggage and, as numbers roiled before his mind's eye, boarded one of the hyperlights for the capital planet.

Home at last.

Prussian Intelligence Service HQ

The room was dark, as Helene Jaeger received her briefing. She was far from the best assassin in the Service, but had a niche of her own, primarily due to her esper abilities. Oh, there were stronger ones than her in Prussia, but her powers were primarily combat-oriented, and that was a great boon for the Service. She was sent on missions that generally required a lack of subtlety, to rip out the enemy's beating heart and make his compatriots feel true terror, and that meant that she rarely received such missions.

She was to recieve police backup for this most peculiar mission; a raid on the headquarters (if such a term could be used at all) of the Prussian Mafia, the Badhaus.

Of course nobody knew where it was, which was where she went in. It was known that it was most likely somewhere in Königstadt, but not precisely where. It was hoped that an Esper (she had some degree of training in telepathy, most of it combat-oriented) would be able to sense it. And of course, if the Mafia managed to fend off the police, then she would be necessary.

As the briefing ended, she went away, thinking. Those mobsters would soon learn the reason she was called 'the White Death'.

The Badhaus

Johann Weiss laughed inside as the various mob bosses walked into the meeting chamber. It was a room that was all-white, with a circular table in the exact centre. He looked at them. A Russian, nobody had dared to ask him his name. A man with a cybernetic jaw, Karl Schmidt to be precise. A fat man, Ludwig Mayer. And a figure with a limp, with a sword contained in his cane. Nobody knew his name, either.

The Badhaus was, to put it bluntly, neutral ground. No matter what a gang's hatreds were, they all dissolved once they entered the Badhaus. Next to Weiss' seat stood his henchman, Schwarz. A common thug, Schwarz existed to kill.

'So,' Weiss began the meeting. 'Let us have a toast. To profit!'

He raised his glass, and drank it. The others did so too.

The meeting's five days had just begun.

Derelict: Part 2, “Cut The Knot”

Control Room, Copacabana, Deep Space, A10

Mr. Harris, agent of the Paladins, stared with disbelief at the scene he was now a part of. It was like a bad joke, really, a Gorilla, a Koalazoid, and a Government Agent walked onto a derelict starship. And then something interesting happened, Mr. Harris wasn’t a comedian.

The silence as the Professor worked annoyed Mr. Harris, not because Mr. Harris was against silence, but rather because he was not fully aware of what was going on. The smug bastard, now nowhere to be seen, that had organized the trip had walked up to Mr. Harris while on assignment, flashed a copy of Sentinel-signed documents in front of Mr. Harris and commandeered him for his little side trip.

Mr. Harris may have been annoyed by Michaels, but he had not become annoyed with Professor Haban. The Professor had been oddly informative the few times Mr. Harris had requested information to send to the Polysyllabic Designation, a ship he never expected to have the opportunity to work with. The largest and most powerful ship in the Paladin fleet, the backing power behind Mr. Harris.

The work had not been swift as Professor Haban had worked to communicate with the Copacabana AI. Eventually, contact was made with the AI. Professor Haban said, “All right, Mr. Harris, Joe, if my guess is correct, doing this, should bring…”

The shipboard AI’s avatar appeared in the cabin, first as a amorphous blob, after a moment a young man with a headband reading “COLTCABANA,” “Greetings Sentients, I am Colt Cabana of the Copacabana. It is my duty to inquire as to why you three are wandering my ship’s bowels.”

Mr. Harris spoke before Professor Haban could formulate a response, “We represent the Unified Kingdom of the Knights of Order, and the Most Sacred Order of the Paladins, we wish to understand how your ship works and what forms you, Colt Cabana, as such we request that you submit yourself to study within one of the Paladins secure research facilities.”

The AI paused again, this time for show. “I would posit then that the ships nearby, on a system-wide scale of course, are of this Most Sacred Order of the Paladins then? Interesting.”

“Your answer?” Harris asked.

“I do not believe I will have a choice in the matter, eight ships set against one is hardly fair odds for a choice. But I will go quietly to this ‘secure facility’ of yours. I would also like to work with whomever awoke me, as I was in my most defensive hibernative state during that period, so I feel their mind is worth the discussion and research on my part. I would also require…

Colt Cabana’s spiel did not trail off so much as completely stop, the AI’s avatar paused mid sentence before fading to the floating words “Buffering/Loading, Unprecedented Action.”

Colt Cabana reappeared as if nothing was amiss seconds later, and said, “Mr. Harris, message for you, if you would operate the communication equipment behind you and respond.”

Harris turned around, ignoring for a moment that the AI now knew who he was, and turned to a fairly standard communication suite.

“Copacabana, here” Mr. Harris said, “What do you want, Polysyllabic Designation?”

“Mr. Harris, you are to prepare to receive a group from the Polysyllabic Designation and to continue on with a member of said team on his journey, acting as a bodyguard for him. Do you understand?”

“Yes, PD. Prepare to receive borders, and prepare to babysit someone.”

“Indeed, Polysyllabic Desgination, out.”

Thanks to Alyrium Denryle for the names and approval.


Major Banquet Hall, Diplomatic Arcology, Ranus-Sylvatica, Technosocialist State of Ranoidea


It was another working dinner.
“Your planoforming tech is...mmm, this is just exquisite...your tech is very impressive, though I don't know if that's a high priority for us right now. 's seen as a luxury when we're all spacebound.” Then Sleuth, the Refugee ambassador, gulped down another thing she couldn't identify but was absolutely delicious. Safe too, because her guards carefully tested everything she ate in case of poisons, nanites, parasites, microbes, toxins, allergens or just plain incompatible biology. Sometimes the Ranoid chefs had to guess at the flavor of things that they could not taste but the Avians could consume, or alter recipes that were safe for them but would cause organ failure in the Avians. The chefs, though, were very, very good at what they did, and their educated guesses were spectacular.

“We can give away a few pieces, another gift for continuing good relations between our nations, etcetera,” said Sentripiontalis, the Ranoidean envoy. “And we would be interested in seeing more of your...” and he waved his webbed hand to indicate the technology that Sleuth had been showing off, since they both knew what he was talking about and he wanted to eat a heaping mouthful himself.

They met in-person infrequently since most communications did not require face-to-face interactions. Also, when they did meet, they were most efficient if both sides were also hard at work demolishing a feast. There had been some awkwardness in their early proceedings until an esper aid by the name of Coqui made this recommendation.

“Another consequence of our spacebound living,” Sleuth responded, once she had more food in her crop. “Miniaturization is important to save space, and longevity is important to keep from having to fiddle with all those tiny pieces all the time when they break.”

She couldn't explain it, but when Sleuth looked at the Ranoideans, it made her hungry. She looked at their legs and thought of succulent synthesized protein fresh out of the vats when it was still oh so juicy and couldn't figure out why. It was a puzzle, and she loved solving puzzles, but she didn't even know where to start on this enigma.

Ranoideans were famous for being able and willing to eat anything that they could fit down their throats, so it wasn't entirely a surprise when many of them looked upon Sleuth and her Aggregate aids and felt a bit of hunger themselves. When Coqui realized that the feeling was mutual, the idea of the diplomatic banquets was an obvious one. Fetes were traditional, after all, and they possibly could avert an Incident which could be rather bad at this early stage of contact.


And then they were done with their business, and they both stumbled away from the table. Sleuth planned to spend the rest of the day the way she always did after a feast-meeting: writing an outline of her report for later, then crashing and sleeping it off. She would finish her report once she awoke, during those two or three days when she wouldn't need to eat.

Sleuth flapped her wings to see if she could lift herself off the ground, maybe even fly, but she couldn't. She'd eaten too much. Not again.

Undesignated Asteroid
Undisclosed Location

The shuttle touched down perfectly, hardly stirring the dust that caked the landing bay's floor. The sharply-pointed craft sat motionless for a few moments, then an opening hatch shed bright light on the Ascendant Army uniform of the lone man there to meet the shuttle. A stocky man wearing high-quality traveling clothes walked - almost stalked; there was a certain predatory air to his steps - down the set of stairs that unfolded from the shuttle, and the uniformed man bowed slightly to him.

"Your Grace, a pleasure to see you here. I trust the journey was pleasant?"

"It was not, as you know very well, Colonel. Traveling incognito is easy, as is avoiding official attention - both at once, however, are rather difficult and not conducive to a pleasant voyage, even for a Duke."

"Ah, I'm sorry to hear that. How are things in Inception Sector?"

"Tolerably well, though they'd be better if our dear Lady Ascendant would stop her 'modernizing' and leave well enough alone - but I didn't fly all this way for pleasantries. You said you had a proposal for me?"

"And a group of like-minded individuals, yes, Your Grace. If you'll just come this way..."

Ah, thought the Duke, so it is going to be an invitation to a coup, then. Could it be any more obvious?

The two men walked in silence through the twisting corridors, paradoxically well-lit and dust-covered, except for multiple sets of footprints running up and down the hallways. The Duke's curiosity got the better of him, and he turned to his companion:

"What is this place? Some kind of pirate base?"

"Almost, Your Grace. It's an old French listening post from the War of Self-Determination - my group found it last year, but we haven't had cause to use it before now. It was perfect for our needs, so we had an exploratory team here a few days before the guests started to arrive - they turned on the gravity and the power, but didn't get around to dusting, as you can see."

"Quite." The two turned a final corner and ducked through a doorway. There, seated around a metal table, were five people: Another nondescript man in Army grey, a tall, blonde woman in the Starfleet's black, two men in civilian clothes, and a Formic hive queen sitting on what looked like a couch that had been dragged into the otherwise Spartan room. They acknowledged the Duke, who sat down between the Formic and the naval officer. His guide strode to the head of the table and clasped his hands behind his back.

"Lady, gentlebeings. You are not fools; you know why we are gathered here today. The Lady Ascendant has betrayed our trust in her. The one who should be the preserver of all we hold dear, the one who should keep our society strong in the face of chaos, the one who should keep our military ready for action against foes external and internal - has not done so. 'Modernization' has become a cloak for the destruction of the social structure that has kept the Ascendancy strong these past two centuries. The Lady Ascendant will, if allowed to continue with her foolish plans, see us subordinated to the perfidious French again, or worse!

It falls to us, lady and gentlebeings, to do something about it. Will you fulfill your sacred Duty to the nation and the people? Will you?"

Missile Frigate Gacknik
Boskonian Starboard Flank
2104 Hours

AAAAAH! Wait for it... AAAAH! AAAAH! MAKE IT STOP!

Dumping a whole missile magazine out the tubes at maximum rate of fire was a lot like being trapped inside a garbage can while angry giants played crashball with it. Nugak felt miserable, and he was pretty sure he'd chipped a plate or two.

The chief was calling this "smoke 'em if you got 'em time;" he was a long-service guy who remembered the days before the big fleet expansions and the new service regulations, when you could get away with stuff like that. Nugak had always tried to be a good boy, though, so he just said no to hoppasticks. He only sort of got the reference.

Jobblod's voice quavered and wobbled. "How... many more of these are there, chief?"

"Eight more salvoes, then we're shot dry. Nugak, how's our lead wave doing?"

Nugak checked the fire mission monitoring plot- the human fleet swam, doubling in numbers and dodging crazily... no, wait. That was him. He shook his head and tried to refocus his eyes on the plot...

"They sure have a lot of bullets to throw." Holes kept popping up in the fogbank of missiles that the flanking group had lobbed towards the humans' railgun cruisers.

"That's point defense, kid, they were probably saving it for later anyway. How's it look?"

"Umm... um... Woo-hoo! Hits!"

What've we got?

"Looks like Target Forty-Six is taking the worst of it for now... ouch. That's a lot of missiles. Man, I feel sorry for those guys... wait, the ship's still there! Or- not. Never mind. OK, Target Forty-Six is a goner, lead waves mostly through, here comes the follow-up. Oooh. Sweet."

The Jackhammers rained in on Target Ninety-One now, aiming for another kill of the humans' heavy railgun cruisers after blowing away Target Forty-Six. And it looked like they were going to get this one too...

"Hang on, kid, they're emptying the last magazine. Hear that rumbling?"

"Oh Zarquod no!"

AAAAAH!

---

Recommended Listening: Boskonian Naval Anthem

Type 22 Core Ship, Serial Number 12E886C8
Flagship Boskonian Core Subfleet
2106 Hours

The Urtraghan-Boskonian whose grim, flame-eyed visage appeared before him gestured in mild abasement. "Milord, the missile frigates report three Enemy battlecruiser kills, a destroyer and a frigate; damage to several other ships." Cosmog nodded- he felt his pompom bob slightly, and wondered again about trying to find some kind of unobtrusive brace to hold it steady.

"Noted, Junior Admiral. Keep up pressure on the Enemy flank until and unless ordered to withdraw; missile ships will support and draw fire from the remaining plasma destroyers."

"Yes, milord!"

The situation on the flanks was... satisfactory. The Enemy's heavy missile cruisers' few antiship missiles had been expended against the Zebesian center hours ago, and they were mostly loaded with dedicated ground attack munitions- thermobarics, cluster bombs, and the like. The Prussians had viewed the bombardment of Zebes with great anticipation, and accordingly they'd come loaded for Bragulan- or at least, thought they had. Being piled down with weapons more suitable for making rubble bounce than killing armed and operational battleships, the missile cruisers were effectively out of the battle.

Their railgun-armed battlecruisers were more of a threat, but except for von Musel's Valkyries, they were shorter on fuel and ammunition than the battleships of the Prussian center, having fired off great quantities against the Zebesian defense force, much as the battleships had during the bombardment. With von Musel off the field, freeing the Kavoolites to support his attack on the Enemy's center, the situation on the flanks was in Cosmog's favor... for now. But knowing von Musel might return at any time, with heavy reinforcements if he could break the interdictor defenses, placed the Boskonian moogle on a tight time constraint. Hence his decision to order the Urtraghan ships at his command to launch as many missiles as possible into the Prussian flanks, trying to do as much damage as he could before being forced to withdraw.

He'd had high hopes for concentrated attacks against the Enemy battleships in the center, and the first strike had worked quite well- how he'd relished the sight of that accursed flying brick boiling away under the lash of his weapons! But the humans seemed to have found a way to defeat the Kavoolites' crude semi-active targeting systems, throwing off their torpedo attacks... and without their torpedo support, concentrated macrobeam fire made less of an impression against the Prussian shields than Cosmog had hoped. They seemed most resistant to heavy beam attacks- the Boskonian found himself wondering how, and why, they had designed their ships in such a way.

Damn you, why won't you DIE?

Fortunately, his irritation faded in the face of some minor entertainment from the battle before him. Cosmog cackled as what he'd awaited for over two hours happened to the first of the Prussian ships.

The captain of the destroyer Z-1148, part of Second Battle Squadron's escorts and a hand-picked favorite of the Operational Staff, had been particularly liberal with his ship's fuel during the first half of the battle. He'd directed his ship in sweeping evasive burns and fired off his railguns with great enthusiasm during both the battle against Frugus and the bombardment of the planet. Now Z-1148 faced a difficult choice: she was nearly out of fuel. Her captain, forced to decide between keeping up high-energy maneuvers and power to shields, chose shields.

This turned out to be a tactical blunder.

At the time, only one of Cosmog's destroyers had turned her macrobeams on Z-1148- a level of fire the Prussian was well equipped to handle, being shielded and powered far better than any of the Boskonian light units, at least as long as the fuel held out. But now that the Prussian no longer darted across the sky at speeds great enough to throw off the targeting of even lightspeed weapons, a pair of cruisers decided to go after the easy target.

One would have been too many. Against two, Z-1148 died fast. Shields crackled, streaming reflected macrobeams into the heavens in all directions, then failed. The Star League's destroyers were built to the same magnificent standard of internal durability as their battleships, scaled down but still durable in the extreme- it only delayed the inevitable, as a second destroyer joined in with the three ships already firing on the increasingly helpless ship.

Z-1148 vanished from both sides' displays, carved into a dispersed mass of charred and half-molten sections by the Boskonian assault.

Heheheehahahaa!

But that was only a destroyer- he wanted to take down their heavy ships, and there was little time for that, little indeed. For all he knew, von Musel had already cleared the interdictor array and was pursuing him, a powerful Coalition fleet in his wake. So far, he saw nothing... but what did that prove, with conditions this bad and the unknown electronic warfare capabilities of the Enemy to consider?

It was entirely possible that those accursed Prussian capital ships, with their zombie-like refusal to admit they were dead, would still be there when reinforcements arrived. They would taunt him with their slow, clumsy blasts and incompetent commanders, as his peerless command was forced to flee for its safety. Unthinkable humiliation. He needed a gambit- something, anything.

Hmm.

Perhaps. Cosmog had enough minutes to score kills... but only if the Enemy ceased their resistance. He could offer them a deal, one they would find tempting if they didn't know reinforcements were coming- and if von Musel had indeed committed mutiny-to-avert-crisis*, they might not know, or not believe, anything the young cruiser officer had to say. Cosmog's own subfleet was certainly jamming the Enemy hard enough to stop them from hearing clearly- some of their ships might have gotten messages back and forth to the other Enemy fleets before von Musel's escape, but he had ordered his communications minions to redouble their efforts afterwards.

A bluff seemed in order. If they agreed, he'd even honor it. After all, if it let him kill their damnable, absurdly resistant battleships, allowing the fools to escape with their insignificant lives would be a small price to pay...
*This is all one word in Boskonian, and carries a positive connotation

---

Kaiser-class Battleship SMS Prinzregent Luitpold
Flagship Second Fleet
2106 Hours

Arnold, chief of staff to Second Fleet, growled as ships vanished from the plot. The battlecruisers Reisige, of the Third, and Thron, of the Eighth, had been blown away entirely by the flanking ships' missile strikes. The flagship of the Third, Herrscher, was still on the plot, but that rain of kinetics had knocked them back hard. There was no contact from them; was Rear Admiral Meurer even still alive?

Then Herrscher broke up.

The chief of staff's growl rose a notch as one of the destroyers in Second Battle Squadron's screen flared her shields to peak emergency recharge rate... and tuned down evasion almost to ballistic flight. The shields flared brighter, and brighter still, as the Zebesians started concentrating on Z-1148; Arnold turned his eyes away in disgust as the ship burst into a hail of molten fragments.

It was starting to come apart. Fuel levels for most of the fleet gave them- what, twenty minutes? Perhaps time for one last charge, and hope the Zebesians were stupid enough to let them into range...

"Sir! There's a message from the Zebesians! Putting him through!"

A corner of the viewscreen showed black- no video footage, and wasn't that strange- but there was an electronically distorted, booming voice to make up for the lack of picture.

"Admiral von Mückenberger! Officers of the Kaiserliche Marine! Your position is hopeless- soon, your ability to resist our onslaught will fade away with the last of your fuel and ammunition. Reinforcements are blocked from you, and already three of your squadrons have fled rather than face our superior weapons and tactical position. Continue to fight, and you will all be killed.

"So I urge you to surrender, rather than die pointlessly. Lower your shields and power down your weapon systems. Abandon your ships, and I will spare your lives. You have two minutes to decide, before I open fire again."

Arnold looked around the bridge. No one spoke. Some were calm, others pale and shaken. Then, he looked to the command chair. Admiral von Mückenberger looked like he'd aged forty years in the past few hours; he was stock still, seemingly muttering something under his breath. It was too much for the fellow- to go from overwhelming victory to utter defeat so soon.

Arnold felt rather sorry for his commanding officer; von Mückenberger was not a bad man. But perhaps, unlike Arnold, not a man of action. And this was a time for action, for Arnold was furious! These alien monstrosities, with their will-o-wisp ships that refused a straight fight, mocking his nation and people as they murdered men he knew and respected, one by one- Bödicker, Meurer- it was intolerable!

"You cold blooded bastard! I'll live to see you eat that surrender demand. But I hope you leave enough room for my fist, because I'm going to ram it into your stomach, and break your goddamn SPINE! AAAAH!" Arnold's vision blurred in a sea of red. He seized the monitor, with all its unresponsive black, wrenched it from its mount, and hurled it across the room.

Type 22 Core Ship, Serial Number 12E886C8
Flagship Boskonian Core Subfleet
2109 Hours

I'm going to remember that one for a long time...

"All ships, open fire. Signals, which ship sent that transmission?"

The senior electronic warfare minion swallowed, which always looked rather interesting for one of his long-necked species. "Ah... Your Supremacy, all nine of the battleships issued it simultaneously..."

"Noted. Return to your tasks." Score one for Prussian counter-ELINT protocols... Curses!

Police HQ, Königstadt

Maximillian Mayer looked on, they were raiding the Badhaus soon. The thing was, there were several things that had made it hard to find for all these years. The first was its location, the Badhaus was underground under an abandoned hotel, several feet below in downtown Königstadt - somewhere, to put it simply, nobody had thought to look. The second was that the Badhaus was covered with so many privacy devices that it was completely impervious to most police sensors - but not to military or Intelligence ones. This in itself created the illusion of nothing but unusually impermeable rock to most police sensors. The third and last was that those who had looked had simply gone missing, making the police give up for a long period.

Mayer looked around, they had 89 men, 70 police, 18 gendarmes and an attached esper from Intelligence. She was a platinum blonde, but her eyes were those of an assassin, and Mayer knew for a fact he didn't want to cross her.

He got into the truck, rifle loaded. The rules of engagement were clear, the police were authorised to shoot to kill if engaged. Those not following police instructions would simply be stunned.

The Badhaus

The old classic began to play from the speakers, the artist had been long forgotten but the work remained:


Rah, rah, ah, ah, ah
Roma, roma, ma
Gaga, ooh, la, la
Want your bad romance...


Below, in various rooms, various partiers endulged in practically every form of vice known to man, Johann Weiss watching over it all. Various other crime lords, practically all in Prussia (of course, excepting those in prison) had gone to this place, his place - the Badhaus. He, well he himself was smoking a fat cigar - nicotine had always been his greatest sin, above all the others he indulged in. His guards were everywhere, brandishing replica M16s (firing modern bullets of course) and K-bolters designed for humans. The room was white, the floors shining with light in an eerie way that Weiss nevertheless preferred over more traditional decor that others favoured.

It was almost perfect, save for one nagging detail - what was the time? It felt like hours, but Weiss knew it couldn't be that. He didn't know how long most of his guests and his guards had left to live. It was only a few more hours.

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


It was nearly the size of a small national pavilion, for it catered to every whim and the basest desires of many beings. Within were rooms for privacy, aisles of the vilest material, tastefully decorated ballrooms with displays, every sort of manner of downloading possible, and CIs that could custom-produce those rare things that could not be found. Vendors from across the galaxy assembled there to pimp their goods.

It was the Pavilion of Pornography.

The stranger, more bizarre and obscene media got the most attention and press, but most sales came from the traditional sections. There were the cheap mass-produced knockoffs that had been produced since the dawn of the space age, the elaborate and high budget classy vids that sometimes never even got to the fucking, the dating sims (if you know what I mean), Anglian lesbian porn (complete with supplementary materials that analyzed why exactly it was that the Anglians got to be known for that, and never coming to a definitive answer but managed to be quite sexy), multi-species orgies, and so on to the hot man-on-man action of Shepistani porn, the polar opposite of the Anglians (also with supplementary materials).

One of the tropes of Shepistani porn was that it had to disguise itself as miscellaneous graphs. Look out of the corner of your eye, and you see two muscular and possibly adorable boys snogging. Look directly at it, and it's about the performances of something or other, often with a coy euphemism hidden in the lines. Also sometimes there was a mushroom cloud background. But just in case anyone would get confused, there was a helpful flashing sign above the cases reading, “Shepistani Porno's.”

“What the shitholes?” declared the manager of the section. She was generally a good boss, but there was one thing she hated, and that was the presence of terrible writing. “Who did that? Who did that?”

The responses came back, “We didn't touch it!” And they all knew better than to do it, because she set all of the signs herself to prevent stupidity from appearing.

And then she spotted a sign in another section: “Zigonian Rave's.”

“What is this shit?” she cried. “Who is screwing with the sign's?”

“...what?” asked one of the confused workers.

“The signs, you nimrod's! Who is fucking with the sign's...” Then to her horror, she noticed it too. She tested it. “Put the toy in it's box! No!” The manager pointed at two of the hapless employees. “You two! Go in the back and get them started on a bio-grammatical scan! Yes, that's a real thi'ng. Oh fuck! It's getting worse! Hurry!”

The bio-grammatical scan confirmed what she 'had been fearing: a Nova Atlantean apostrophe worm was lo'ose!

In the early day's of the decay of Nova Atlantean s'pelling, some far-seeing grammarian's tried in vain to stop the progre'ssion, going to increasingly extreme lengths'. One went too far, researching into things language was not me'ant to know. The worm was orig'inally meant to eat excess letters only, but as a byproduct it' produced apostrophe's and no matter of lingual engineering could make it produce any'thing els'e. The problem it created was worse than it's cure for a minor detail of poor spelling, so they were syste'matically destroye'd.

Unfortunately, a few had gotte'n loose. This one must have stowed a ride on someone's' ship and found the absu'rdly long Bragulan names to be a wo'ndrous fea'st. It had grown large and 'strong, and now it was ensconced with'in the Pavilion of Porn'ography.

A quar'antine was quic'kly estab'l'ished outside' the pavilion to prev'ent the wor'm and overf'low of apo'stro'phes from escapi'ng, tr'apping the workers and' shoppers alike wi'thin. Commun'ication became increasing'ly diff'icult, and finally trans'mission's out were entirely banned. The managers' huddled' together, tr'ying to thin'k of so'mething, anyt'hing they coul'd do to preserve their' sanity a's they waited. The 'Bragulans, with their experience han'dling vowel' shortage's, had so'me kno'wledge of h'ow to cont'ain such threats', but the ne'arest team tha't could de'al with the apo'stroph'e worm wa's at le'ast three day's away.

“It's o'ka'y,” sa'id a'nothe'r m'an'ager. “We 'can h'old o'ut for a' while. We''ve got s'upplie's.” He' ope'ned a pack'age of e'dible' pant'ies t'o de'monstrat'e, but' the 'underg'arments' had c'ongealed int'o a vagu'ely ap'ostroph'e-shap'ed mess'.

He o'pened his' mo'uth 'to scr'eam b'ut on'ly apo'stro'phes ca'me out'.


Outside the quarantine, the authorities knew the situation was getting dire. It would look bad internationally to not rescue the people trapped within, but they couldn't wait. The apostrophes would be hitting critical mass within a day. Unless they could find another solution, they would have to bombard the pavilion with f-bombs until it was grammatically-correct molten slag.

Fortunately, they were approached by an Umerian teenage girl. “This might be able to help,” she said, holding out an elaborate box.
“I made them for my SCIENCE! Fair project,” she explained. “They are special pet crickets that can eat almost anything, and they make soothing sounds too that you can use to determine the ambient air temperature.”

“Da!” said the Bragulan security. “Your crickets will eat the bourgeois apostrophe worm!”

“I don't know if it's bourgeois or not, but I think it's worth a try. But there's one problem. My crickets are really shy. If there's a lot of noise or light, they want to hide in the box. I've been carrying them around to try to break them of that, but it hasn't worked so far. It'll have to be dark and really quiet inside for this to work.” The Bragulans approved of the plan and blared their loudspeakers at those inside, giving them their instructions.


T'he'y fr'antica'lly s'hut off' 'everything':' light's, the speaker's that w'ent “umf' u'mf u'mf,” ev'e'n plu'mbing t'o keep the 'gur'glin'g dow'n. Th'ing's th'at glowed' wer'e co'vere'd up', a'nd ma'ny o'bliv'iou's p'eop'le who ha'd 'be'en in' pri'vate r'oom's the 'entire' time' a'nd hadn''t no'ticed 'a thi'ng g'ot sm'acked up'side the' head' an'd we're or'dere'd to k''eep it d'own.

'Soon 'it wa's dark' an'd q'uie't, an'd pe'opl'e d'ared' not e'ven br'eath 'heavi'ly. Th'e b'rave U'mer'ian teen'ager went' in w'ith he'r S'CIEN'CE! i'nfus'ed cric'kets'. She' open'ed the bo'x, a'nd far 'more tha'n the' vol'ume of t'he b'ox-wort'h of cr'ickets' cam'e fo'rth'. It' to'ok a mo'ment, bu't soo'n they' be'gan to 'chirp at 'the sp'ee'd tha't sa'id it w'as a c'omforta'ble twenty 'two degree's.

'The' en'ormous'ly 'bulgin'g ap'ostr'ophe w'orm h'ad qui'ckly 'run out' of sp'are letter's to e'at. It' also' be'came c'onfused 'at th'e su'dden 'sound's of silence'. Th'en it' hear'd the 'chirpi'ng of the c'rickets' and' fo'llowed i't to it's sou'rce, hopi'ng to fi'nd more s'ustena''nce.

''The Um'erian te'en saw' th'e lon'g sha'ft of 'the w'orm a's it a'pproache'd. “Ge't it!” sh'e whi'spered,' and p'ointed 'her cr'icket's at th'eir ne'xt mea'l.

Th'ey hop'ped' as one' large' group, 'engulf'ing th'e apos'troph'e worm'. It 'vomited! ::one last, pile of ?half-dig.est,ed punctuation; be'fore it' succ'umbed, an'd wh'e'n th'e crickets' were 'done, th'ey had l'eft n'ot a 'trace.'

W'hile t'hey we're th'er'e, s'he had the 'crickets ea't all the excess apostrophes', which they did very quickly and efficiently, to the great delight of everyone trapped within.

“We're saved!” they said. No f-bombs would be dropped that day!

The very grammatical manager went looking for the girl who had rescued them from an unmentionable fate. She deserved a hearty thank you, at the very least.

“Don't know where she went. She was just here a moment ago,” someone said, and they searched for her.

As it turned out, she had not wandered very far. Once she had gathered her crickets back into their box, the Umerian had gone to check out something that had caught her nerdy curiosity.

“Hey, these aren't graphs at all!” she said, as she peeked at “Inside the Nuclear Bomber XIX” and blushed a deep crimson.

Planet Locri
Homeworld of the Locrian Collective

Locri. A planet of mysteries for all who travelled the stars. An enigma, wrapped inside an ancient empire of insects.

Its owners, the ever-mysterious Locrians, had had no contact with the rest of the universe other than a recorded message for the past 17 millenia. And yet, the Locrians were not dead. Their empire was alive, and well... and asleep. Countless mindless drones toiled day after day to maintain the Collective's worlds, but the true intelligences governing them had been asleep for an age, since before the unification of Krypton, let alone the rise of Man.

Some things never change. The Bragulans never stop being warlike. The Karlacks never cease in their attempts to devour the universe. The Collectors are, and always will be, an enigma.

But some things do change. Today is the day of a change of potentially the most profound importance.

Today is the day the Collective awakens.

It begins with a simple counter on a monitor satellite passing a certain threshold of hyperspace communications within a certain timeframe. The next part is just as simple, just as inconspicous... but ever so important.

The monitor sends a single signal to the planet below. Just a beep. But the most important beep in the planet's history.

In hundreds of heavily fortified and thoroughly hidden bunkers, countless rows of drones awaken from a millenial dream. The mind of a world awakens, and begins to live for the first time in an age.

<Why have I been awakened?> Said the mind of the world.
<Transmissions have passed Threshold. The galaxy is full of life.> Said the monitor.
<Show me.>

And the monitor did. For nearly a full minute, countless terabytes of data travel from the satellite, and recorders across the planet, to the mind. For nearly half an hour, the mind debated amongst itself. And it came to a decision.

It decided the time was now. It decided the race would awaken, and join the starfarers they had seen, and let be, in their infancy. It activated its hyperspatial communications, and called out across the light-decades, to its brothers.

<The time is now, my freinds. This is the time we decided to await, so long ago. This is the day we awake!>

And they did.

High Orbit over all Collective Worlds

In the upper orbit of each and every Collective world, sat a rock. Not particularly large as such objects go, the rocks were about ten kilometers long, and vaguely peanut-shaped. Just rocks. Nothing to worry about. Nothing that unusual.

Except today, there was something unusual. Today, the rocks began to glow, from the inside. The light quickly spread along their entire surface, and intensified. Then, in the blink of a human eye, all the rocks, as close to simultaneously as is possible in this relative universe, flashed like suns, and became large and rapidly expanding clouds of monatomic dust.

And in the epicentre of each explosion sat a fleet, where once there was a rock. Almost four thousand fighters, twenty-six light warships, and a single enormous carrier vessel. This was a scene repeated over twenty worlds, all at once, all the same.

The Collective was truly, and finally, awake. The automatic messages shut off. And a single, non-automated, message flashed out to the stars. To paraphrase: "Hi, nice to meet you!"

doom3607 wrote:Planet Locri
Homeworld of the Locrian Collective

Locri. A planet of mysteries for all who travelled the stars. An enigma, wrapped inside an ancient empire of insects.

Its owners, the ever-mysterious Locrians, had had no contact with the rest of the universe other than a recorded message for the past 17 millenia. And yet, the Locrians were not dead. Their empire was alive, and well... and asleep. Countless mindless drones toiled day after day to maintain the Collective's worlds, but the true intelligences governing them had been asleep for an age, since before the unification of Krypton, let alone the rise of Man.

Some things never change. The Bragulans never stop being warlike. The Karlacks never cease in their attempts to devour the universe. The Collectors are, and always will be, an enigma.

But some things do change. Today is the day of a change of potentially the most profound importance.

Today is the day the Collective awakens.

It begins with a simple counter on a monitor satellite passing a certain threshold of hyperspace communications within a certain timeframe. The next part is just as simple, just as inconspicous... but ever so important.

The monitor sends a single signal to the planet below. Just a beep. But the most important beep in the planet's history.

In hundreds of heavily fortified and thoroughly hidden bunkers, countless rows of drones awaken from a millenial dream. The mind of a world awakens, and begins to live for the first time in an age.

<Why have I been awakened?> Said the mind of the world.
<Transmissions have passed Threshold. The galaxy is full of life.> Said the monitor.
<Show me.>

And the monitor did. For nearly a full minute, countless terabytes of data travel from the satellite, and recorders across the planet, to the mind. For nearly half an hour, the mind debated amongst itself. And it came to a decision.

It decided the time was now. It decided the race would awaken, and join the starfarers they had seen, and let be, in their infancy. It activated its hyperspatial communications, and called out across the light-decades, to its brothers.

<The time is now, my freinds. This is the time we decided to await, so long ago. This is the day we awake!>

And they did.

High Orbit over all Collective Worlds

In the upper orbit of each and every Collective world, sat a rock. Not particularly large as such objects go, the rocks were about ten kilometers long, and vaguely peanut-shaped. Just rocks. Nothing to worry about. Nothing that unusual.

Except today, there was something unusual. Today, the rocks began to glow, from the inside. The light quickly spread along their entire surface, and intensified. Then, in the blink of a human eye, all the rocks, as close to simultaneously as is possible in this relative universe, flashed like suns, and became large and rapidly expanding clouds of monatomic dust.

And in the epicentre of each explosion sat a fleet, where once there was a rock. Almost four thousand fighters, twenty-six light warships, and a single enormous carrier vessel. This was a scene repeated over twenty worlds, all at once, all the same.

The Collective was truly, and finally, awake. The automatic messages shut off. And a single, non-automated, message flashed out to the stars. To paraphrase: "Hi, nice to meet you!"

CIS Sensor Station, Just outside Centralist Space
Unreal Time

"What the blazes?!", cried out a communications technician. "Sir, we're getting a strange message!"

"What's it say?", responded an officer.

"Don't know sir! The language is not on the datafiles!"

"Dig inside the archives! It may be known to us! And warn Centrum!"

Central Party HQ, Central City
Centrum, The Center Sector, The Centrality
Unreal Time

The Triumvirs were talking about some unimportant issues when the holoprojector was activated.

"Sirs, if I may, we have recieved an unknown message that is currently being deciphered, said Hoover Gates, Director of the CIS.

"Unknown message? Again?", said an incredulous Viso Fredon.

"Indeed sir. The message came lightyears away, in an area of space between the Phfors and the Chammarans. According to the archives, the only language that matches is Locrian."

"Locrian? What does it say?", asked Tagdef Borlon.

"From what we could translate, it seems that they are greeting the rest of the interstellar community, including us."

"But the Locrians are dormant. Are you saying that they have awakened?", said Falko Tredell.

"Perhaps. If they have awakened, then I believe standard diplomatic greetings are in order sirs. I shall go now and work further on this." The hologram dissippated.

"Well, now I have work to do. Better tell Nostrum of this development," said Borlon.

"Another First Contact. This year has been quite eventful. Never has there been so many new players in so little time," remarked Fredon.

"I can only hope these Locrians don't turn out to be Karlack copies," said Tredell.
---------------------------------------------------------------------

Meanwhile, in the Center of Foreign Affairs, the following message was composed, and sent towards the origin of the Locrian message. It was written in Locrian, which caused an delay due to the time takes consulting the archives and translating English words to Locrian. It was sent quicker than expected, however.

From: Tagdef Borlon, Secretary of Foreign Affairs of the Centrality, and Ravin Nostrum, Foreign Secretary of the Centrality
To: The Locrians

[Message written in Locrian]

For whom hears this message,

If you are confused that this message is in your language, do not worry. We composed this message in your language to free you from the effort of translating our language.

We are the Centrality. Our nation is light-years away from yours, yet we managed to receive your message. Welcome to the interstellar community. We hope that we establish normal diplomatic contact in the following days. We await your response patiently.

Regards:

Tagdef Borlon, Secretary of Foreign Affairs of the Centrality
Ravin Nostrum, Foreign Secretary of the Centrality

[Written with Shroom's approval.]

The Revolution Will Not Be Civilized
Washingtoff, Murca
Planet Almera, Wild Space Sector BB-25

[Recommended music: "The Coup" by Stephen Barton (from Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare)]

The students and teachers at Kunt State were not the last liberals left in Murca. Despite the best efforts of the "sovereign citizens," there were still quite a few liberals and liberal sympathizers hiding in Washingtoff and other locations all throughout Murca, all attempting to stay one step ahead of the reactionary horde that slavered for their blood. With the general mobilization of the Murcan armed forces and the start of the war against Pelania, militias and other roving bands of armed thugs took up much of the task of hunting down and and killing the last of the liberals, with mixed success; though they ended up killing regular civilians most of the time, there were still occasions when they managed to uncover closet liberals.

One such closet liberal, a former Algeiran legislator, had slipped up particularly badly and wound up getting caught by a sovereign citizen militia group. He, along with several other liberals who had similarly been uncovered and a group of other former Algeiran government officials, were to be publically executed. After undergoing the customary "enhanced interrogation" and show trial, he was beaten one last time before being dragged out to a waiting car that would take him to the execution grounds. As two militiamen took him to the car, the legislator could hear the voice of Sovereignest Citizen Shrubya delivering a speech, his voice wavering as it was broadcast through the ruined streets of Washingtoff via speakers mounted on the buildings and driven around on trucks...

"Today we rise again as one nation, in the face of betrayal and corruption!"

Thick Chinny must have written that speech for him, the legislator thought to himself right as he was shoved into the back seat of the car and clubbed in the head with the butt of a rifle. As he tried to sit back up, one of the militiamen slammed the door shut and banged loudly on the roof, signaling the driver to start moving. Sovereignest Citizen Shrubya's speech continued on as the car started up and went on its way to the execution grounds...

"We all trusted Bari'bama to deliver our great nation into a new era of prosperity! But like the other presidents before him, he has been colluding with outsiders, with only self-interest at heart! Collusion breeds slavery, and we will not be enslaved!"

Even months after the coup that had deposed President Bari'bama, it was clear that true order still had not returned to Washingtoff. Without the army to rein them in, the militias had largely degenerated into little more than roving mobs prone to robbing and outright murdering anybody they saw; such was the case as the car wound through the ruined streets, constantly passing by large numbers of militiamen engaging in random acts of violence against the civilian populace. In their eyes, everyone was a liberal until proven otherwise, and the only way to determine their guilt was trial by ordeal; anybody who tried to resist the militias was was thus deemed a liberal and thus subject to summary execution. Such was the twisted logic of the sovereign citizens.

The carnage continued all throughout as the car continued on its long and winding journey through Washingtoff's streets. Among numerous shining examples of the utter psychopathy of the sovereign citizen militias, a militiaman pinned a random civilian to the ground and proceeded to gut him with a combat knife. Several militia squads attacked shoppers attempting to make their way out of one of the few functioning grocery stores in the entire city. A civilian simply taking out his trash was shot in the back by a militiaman who thought he was a liberal. Several civilians briefly succeeded in fighting back by disarming and killing a militia squad, only to be killed themselves by another militia squad passing through.

After a few minutes of driving through the worst of the violence, the car discreetly eased into a relatively quiet back alley lined with dumpsters as it continued on its way to the execution grounds. The driver caught a brief glance at a civilian spray-painting a portrait of the deposed President Bari'bama on a wall; the would-be graffiti artist ran off as soon as he was spotted. A man hiding in one of the dumpsters briefly lifted up the lid to peek outside, only to quickly duck back down and shut the lid when he spotted the car approaching. Another civilian ran into the alley, chased by a pack of dogs set upon him by a militia squad; he barely managed to escape by climbing over a chain link fence and disappearing into one of the buildings.

"The time has come to show our true strength. They underestimate our resolve. Let us show that we do not fear them. As one people, we shall free our bretheren from the yoke of oppression, both foreign and domestic!"

The car emerged out from the alley onto a road running alongside a large river. Recent rains had caused the normally calm waterway to turn into a massive torrent; large waves were actually crashing onto the siderails as the car made its way down the road, passing by a group of marching militiamen on the right and another group of militiamen carrying out an impromptu public execution of their own on the left.

"Our armies are strong and our cause is just. As I speak, our armies are nearing their objective, by which we will restore the independence of a once great nation."

After another minute of uneventful driving, the car finally approached the execution grounds, a former sports stadium that had been hastily repurposed for its grim and bloody task. A large number of militiamen were gathered at the entrance, most of whom were drunkenly firing their rifles into the air as part of the twisted "festivities." Once the car stopped, one of the militiamen came up and opened the back door.

"Our noble crusade has begun."

The militia commander walked up to the car, grabbed the legislator by the collar of his bloodied shirt, and threw him to the ground. With a single motion, he kicked the legislator in the face, knocking him out. He finally came to as he was being dragged out onto the field to meet his fate along with the other liberals and politicians. After being sized up by his would-be executioners, he was led to his place on the line, where he would die standing up, defiant to the last.

"Just as they lay waste to our country, we shall lay waste to theirs. This is where it begins."

Amidst the final words of Sovereignest Citizen Shrubya's speech and the raucous, drunken cheers of the militiamen and other sovereign citizens gathered at the stadium, the legislator finally chose to speak up. As loudly as he could, he declared, "Come on, you bastards! Come and get me! Shoot straight for once, you militia pukes!"

He and the others were soon silenced by a hail of automatic gunfire. His final declaration would go unheard by those watching the television broadcast of the execution, complete with running commentary by Blenn Geck.

---

Outside the town of Hashpipe
Kolrado, Murca

While the sovereign citizens more or less had full control over the urban regions of Murca (the rampant anarchy that still dominated the streets of Washingtoff notwithstanding), the rural areas were far more hotly contested between the sovereign citizens and those still loyal to President Bari'bama. In the past, it had been the fascists who lurked in the wilds, waiting for their chance to strike against the Algeiran government; now that the fascists had taken power, it was the liberals' turn to form their own militias, disappear into the countryside, and wage their own war of liberation, much like the partisans of old. This was true partisan warfare, in more ways than one.

Along a deserted stretch of roadway outside of the small town of Hashpipe, a particularly well-equipped and well-organized sovereign citizen militia group was getting ready to execute a group of random civilians. In addition to the technicals and other refitted civilian vehicles common to irregular forces, this particular militia group had managed to obtain an armored car and a wheeled APC, both former Zenobian vehicles that had been given to Algeira as reparations at the end of their Cold War, placed in reserve storage, and later given out as surplus by the Murcan armed forces to whoever was willing to pay for them. As the armored car stood watch alongside the road, the APC disgorged the would-be execution squad; once they were dismounted, they walked over to the truck carrying their prisoners and herded them into a line before taking up their own positions.

The civilians would earn a reprieve, however, as the sovereign citizens soon came under attack. Just as the execution squad had brought up their rifles to fire at the civilians, they themselves were cut down by automatic gunfire from atop the cliffs overlooking the road. The civilians scattered to relative safety as some of the few surviving sovereign citizens attempted to return fire, only to be cut down from above like the rest of their comrades.



Several of the fascist militiamen attempted to take cover in their vehicles, but their respite proved to be all too brief. Two of the guerrillas on the cliff dropped grenades right through the open hatches of the sovereign citizens' APC, destroying it from the inside and killing its occupants. Another guerrilla took aim with a wire-guided rocket launcher and opened fire at the armored car, blowing it to pieces.

With the civilians safe and the sovereign citizen militia dead, one of the guerrillas took the opportunity to stand up from his position, raise his rifle above his head, and yell out a single word.



"TOOLVERINES!"

Downtown Königstadt
The Hohenzollern had been a good hotel once, until its managers had gone bankrupt and it had been abandoned some decades ago. It was in disrepair now, and as a result nobody thought much of it. Had they known that it was home to the most exclusive den of vice in all Prussia, their thoughts would have been rather different.

The police trucks stopped and the men went out. They had shotguns and assault rifles, about 89 in total, ready to begin Operation Rejoice, the invasion of the Badhaus. Helene Jaeger stood in front, plasma pistol in hand, leading the way. They broke into the hotel, heading straight for the cellar, weapons ready.

It had been decided by the planners that no offer of surrender would be given – no need to let the rats know that their ship was sinking. Surprise was vital.

The Badhaus

The beeping techno track currently playing continued, resonating throughout the Badhaus, resounding in every room and corridor. On level 2, underneath the main area, one of the technicians noted something odd.

The camera had broken down, and wasn’t coming back up. Then more cameras in the main corridor went out, until they were almost all down. This was most unusual. Suddenly, he realised what it meant, and pressed the alarm button. Above, red lights flickered and flashed as the music was replaced by a loud whining sound. Everything and everybody paused. Then they began grabbing weapons, for the Badhaus was under attack.

===

Helene Jaeger threw another guard telekinetically into a wall, ignoring his screams of pain. The police were fighting their way through, bullets were flying everywhere. Dead bodies of gangsters and a few police littered the floor, scattered around.

Beyond the door, there was a Blitzschlag field – Helene could sense it beyond the white door, rendering her powers practically useless. She guessed this was where the main area was, the most important part.

The police put charges to the lock after killing all the gangsters, blasting the door open.

===

Karl kept firing wildly at the police, the fighting was brutal. Some police began falling, overwhelmed by sheer numbers of bullets. A platinum blonde girl, some distance from the door, had a plasma pistol and better armour than the police. Where she came, gangsters fell around her, dead. K-bolter shells had eaten holes in the wall, the people using them found it hard to control the massive recoil and ended up firing even more wildly than usual.

He kept pulling the trigger until he realised he was out of bullets.

Damn, he thought, but simply put in a new magazine, and kept firing full auto until he was out of those as well. Regardless, the police kept coming. Then a series of bullets hit him in the chest, and he felt a sudden pain before everything went black.

===

Weiss looked around; the police were winning the battle. Near him, a gang lord had gone out in a blaze of glory, taking five with him. Others were just learning they weren’t as invincible as they thought they were, via application of bullet to the chest.

‘Slow them down, Schwartz,’ he commanded, before running to the secret exit he had created as a last-ditch measure.

===

Helene watched as a big brute of a man approached, wielding a minigun, firing it at full auto at a squad and mowing them down, the bullets literally ripping through them. She fired her plasma pistol, right at him; she missed and hit the central pillar. The Blitzschlag field, the nagging pain in the back of her mind that stopped her powers, vanished.

A storm of electricity came from her hand, hit the brute, and he fell.

What followed was a massacre. Guards were killed by electricity, by fire, by telekinetic neck-snaps. She barely noticed a man running through the corridor at the other side of the room, opening a door and closing it behind him.

===

The battle was other, 20 police were dead; no casualties among the gendarmes. A number of non-combatants had been killed in the fighting; their numbers hadn’t been counted yet. A massive number of gangsters had been killed, but it remained to secure the second level.

===

Weiss laughed, he’d managed to escape. Soon, he would make a new identity, go far, far away from Prussia and make a new name for himself.

Yes, he would do that. It was the clever thing to do.

Jayakarta
Midway, United Solarian Sovereignty



The heavy-set man and the secretary sit and eat at their table. “I'm odd like that,” the heavy-set man says. Everything about him is ever so slightly disproportionate: his shoulders too pudgy, his hair too dark, his face too large and, more than anything, his voice too loud.

The native New Atoll restaurant on the outskirts of the Jayakarta Transmetropolitan Sprawl is on this Saturday evening filled predominantly with five-generation families trying to have wholesome family dinners. But the heavy-set man's basso voice manages to drown out the mewling of children and the obnoxiously loud conversations of the nearly-drunk. His monologue is audible even where I'm sitting, five tables to his left. He desperately wants to convince her – and about twenty other unlucky guests – of the unique role he thinks he has in what I think has to be a very tolerant circle of friends. Which, obviously, has the heavy-set man as its shining center. Or so he asserts, but the evidence to back up this stunning claim is clearly inadequate – and going by the mildly desperate look in his eyes, he knows this too.

A too-large mouthful of randang gives the secretary the opportunity to interrupt the heavy-set man. She's blandly pretty in the dreary way of most cheap Sovvie genhanciles and starts, husky at first but soon progressively louder, an incoherent diatribe about an employer who she is convinced treats her unfairly. She's been passed over for a promotion. She deserves a bigger office, with a nicer view. Her colleagues underestimate her capabilities. And so forth.

I look down at my table. Half a meal to go. I wish I had the augmetics to block this tedious conversation from my mind. But I don't, and am therefore sentenced to overhearing a long list of the chips the secretary has stuck in her head, and their function. I prick a fork into a slice of flambeed banana and realize there is one upside to her frustrated soliloquy: she's unlikely to give the heavy-set man the opportunity to continue his own monologue. I'm all about silver linings like that.

The English language possesses one beautiful word for those who wish to feign non-stop interest: 'yes'. The heavy man says 'yes' frequently, loudly and often randomly in the middle of the secretary's sentences. The way he dully repeats the word it becomes synonymous with 'I'm not listening; I'm waiting until you allow me to continue talking'.

But no matter the shortcomings her colleagues may perceive in her, the secretary clearly possesses a remarkable talent for ignoring the blindingly obvious fact that her companion has zero interest in anything she's talking about. This forces the man to switch to the ever-impatient 'yes, but-'. The reason he does so becomes evident when I catch him repeatedly throwing nervous glances at his watch. No doubt it has dawned on him that in his eagerness to portray himself as an exemplary model of h. sapiens, moderately upgraded he'd lost sight of his initial ambition, namely getting her into his bed.

He sees his chance when one of the youthful eaters, clearly possessive of less patience and abundantly more initiative than me, throws a spoon their way. This gives him the opportunity to show his child-friendly - and hopefully attractive - side. Unfortunately, after picking the spoon off the floor he hits his head on the underside of the table. The table that is, disastrously, still stacked with the dregs of dinner, or was until he caused a sizable portion of said dregs to land in his own neck. His curses are inaudible, because the secretary has continued the summary of her woes as if nothing happened. It clearly takes more than the scattering of fashionable New Atoll cuisine over a passably upscale suit to give her pause.

The two pay for their dinner and the heavy-set man, soiled, shamed and silent, escorts the secretary outside. She still carries on her loosely associated narrative of dejection. As the door closes, I can just make out his voice one more time: 'Yes, but-'

Previously on SDNW4 wrote:Unknown starcraft, Deep Space, Arayna Territories
Sector AA-24, Former Outlander Commissions
Unreal Time/Early 3401

The shadow looked into space, marvelling in it's glory. Oh, how many secrets it hid. Secrets hidden behind the darkness. The secrets that gave the Universe its power, its structure. This was the truth of existence: Power with Structure led to Order and Peace. Dovan Aybeem, long ago, learned of this, and made it Law. Law followed by hundreds of billons, Centralist or not. The shadow could only imagine what was it back then, when the Great Founder broke the power of the scum that had reduced millions to penury and despair, and gave them a purpose. From there, Centralism was born.

And now the shadow looked at the planet, a planet suffering from the same anarchy his ancestors had to endure so many centuries ago. Yes, this planet will be the first to begin the path of Restoration of Authority. For how beings could prosper while anarchy took everything they had? Centralism will give this world's inhabitants the stability they so desperately needed. And there was the matter of choosing a suitable leadership, one that did not surrender to the vices that Power often brought. As Dovan had said, "Power without a purpose is useless, for power is meant to be used. The State cannot survive if it fails to use it's power, because then anarchy fills the vacuum left by the State. All existence is a constant struggle for power, since no living being can do anything without power.

The shadow smiled. From now on, this unfortunate planet will witness a new definition of power. Power with a Purpose.

"For Centralism."

He heard his master's voice one last time:

Fufill your destiny, and crush all anarchy!

The black ship sped towards the planet, to begin its deeds.

For the Order of the Black Star had come to the former Outlander Commissions. And it was there to stay.

ARNS Grinning Gilgamesh, Deep Space, Arayna Territories
Sector AA-24, Former Outlander Commissions
Unreal Time/Early 3401



The Gilgamesh sailed from the wet watery world that had once been at the edge of chaos, only to have been saved and rescued by a force greater than that of anarchy, by a new order that promised stability and security and purpose. The purpose of power, the purpose of strength, which would then bring forth order from chaos, and form a state which would govern all as the Arayna Republic had tried, and failed, to do.

The world Aguamundo had once been Araynan before the dissolution of the Outlander Commissions. As a planet on the edge of Outlander space, near the border with the Bragulan Star Empire no less, it was once an Araynan military base. Then it had descended and degenerated in the ensuing turmoil of the Commissions' end, before finally becoming a haven for pirates, smugglers, mercenaries and other such scum. The once-proud sailors and spacers of the Araynan navy, and the soldiers of its armies, had been forced to become the very things they had once fought against, all in the name of survival, subsistence. They bore the shame, the indignity, as they carried out their wicked ways, raiding and pillaging just to keep their ships sailing, selling their services to the petty conflicts of the warlords and dictators who had emerged in the aftermath of the Commissions' collapse.

But now, no longer. Things had changed with the arrival of a mysterious black ship, and a man - a prophet, some said - who came bearing gifts, who came with teachings of a new way, who came bringing with him a new hope.

He came with Centralism.



Deacon Saito grinned inside the bridge of the Grinning Gilgamesh. He had found a new purpose, had been born again. Once lost, caught up with the ways of the scavenger pirate, he had been found and saved. The tenets of Centralism, of Dialectical Dovanism, resonated in his core. He had once been a captain of the proud Araynan navy, sworn to defend the state and protect the people, but in the chaos that came after the collapse he had betrayed his sacred pledges and his principles just to survive, just to make it out alive with his ship and his crew. He simmered in self-loathing ever since then. But now, with Centralism, he felt like a new man. Yes, now he would make things right again. Saito thanked the shadowy prophet who instilled these teachings into him and the others as well. There were those like him, former military men, who were now adherents of the Centralist dogma.

With the power of the new order, the stability that came with its authority and rule, they could end the disorder that still plagued the territories of the former Outlands - they could once more reunify the former Arayna nation to stand against the encroachment of the Refuge, the brutalisms of the Bragulans, and the nightmarish Karlacks. Once more, it would be morning again in Araynamerica.

And then Deacon Saito could get back at those goddamn Angmarids!

Force Lord wrote:Vijanta, Aray, Arayna Territores
Sector AA-24, Former Outlander Commissions
IN GODDAMN UNREAL TIME/Early 3401

The town had seen much in its brief exisitence.

Founded by brave colonists looking for land to call their own, Vijanta was once where the mayor took his residence, and as such was a middle-sized industrial center. It prospered while the Commissions lasted. But now the Commissions were no more, and the inhabitants left.

Now it was a ghost town. The perfect hiding place for someone with an agenda.

And that someone was already walking in its sewers.



The cloaked man, when he arrived, had looked at the ruined buildings with disgust. So much left to waste. All because the State here was weak, broken. Soon, he would rectify that. He just had to find a willing executioner of his will. And useful tools.

After all, this planet wasn't going to stabilize itself, would it?

He would find out the truth soon enough.

The shadow found he had company.

Three goons were in front of him, armed with knives and pipes, while one had a gun. The shadow did not need to turn back to know he also had two enemies behind him.

"This is our turf, cunt! Get lost, or else!"

The shadow resisted the urge to laugh. Clearly, these fools had no idea who they were dealing with.

"I do not see any graffiti stating that there is a gang here. Therefore, I can come and go as I please," the shadow said.

"You think you can come and take whatever you want, ass? You're gonna pay! Get 'im!"

Two of the goons charged the shadow, who merely smiled.

One of them swinged his pipe, but he only hit air. Before he could realize what was going on, he felt strong hands holding his neck.

*crack*

The man was dead before he hit the floor.

His buddy only had a moment of horror before a loud, red blur passed before his eyes, and then he felt he was falling. His head, to be exact.

The shadow stopped for a moment, and saw the incredulous and terrified looks on the goons' faces. He laughed.

The head goon screamed, took out his gun, and fired.

But the shadow was already on the move, and with his mind he took advantage of the weak minds of the two other goons and had them attack their boss. Thus, while he wasted his ammunition killing his cronies, the shadow took away his weapon, and tripped him.

The shadow was smirking, but the darkness hid it, so the fallen man didn't know his attacker's feelings.

As the defeated criminal whimpered, the shadow revealed what he used to kill one of the goons: he produced a thin cylinder from his belt.

A crimson blade sprang from it. A blade of pure energy.

"P-Please!", cried the fallen goon, his bravado all but gone. "I'll give you anything! Anything!"

The shadow merely stabbed him, and the stricken man heard the shadow's voice one last time:

"Thank you, for giving me your life, scum."
------------------------------------------------

The shadow climbed the staircase, deciding that he needed fresh air after being inside the sewers for too long. But scarcely he emerged from the underground that he found a large group of armed people wandering around. His curiosity was piqued when he saw some of them wearing makeshift Black Star armbands. And then he knew: his message was being spread successfully, and they were looking for him.

One woman saw him, and cried out, "It's him! It's our savior!"

The whole group cheered, and the shadow felt, for the first time, pride. Yes, he would succeed.

But first, he had to figure out why so many people had come here.

"Greetings, my friends. What brings you, pray tell, to this ghost town?"

"Sire," said one of the men, "We have come to seek a refuge for our young, old, and weak. The able-bodied men are all armed and ready to restore our country. We saw this abandoned place as perfect."

"Then you are fortunate that I came here and cleaned this place of leftover scum and criminals. Your children, elderly and women will be safe here."

"You have our eternal gratitude, sire."

The shadow merely nodded. "I presume the message is being spread?"

"Yes sire! More and more people are flocking to the Centralist banner. Already there are rumors of a Party organization being set up. It also has been said that ex-military men and women that formerly served in the Commisions's armed forces are attempting to join us. The hijackers of the State are trembling in fear, and I believe that Centralist insurrections are beginning."

"What have you done so far?"

The man grinned, and said, "The local crime lord lost his head two days ago. The Centralists of the town of Jiwahl are already in control, and we are preparing an offensive to take nearby towns. We expect the citizenry to rise up against the hijackers and join us."

"What will you do?"

"Aid the offensive, of course."

The shadow frowned. The news were good, more than he had thought possible, but he feared it may be perhaps too good to be true.

"I must contact your leaders. I need to ensure none of them make a mistake that may cost us everything."

"As you wish, sire. We will take you to them."

Kaiser-class Battleship SMS Prinzregent Luitpold
Damage Control Bunker 935
2108 Hours

Lieutenant Georg, the only engineering officer the Prussians had left behind when it was time to fix the ship, laughed, a mighty guffaw rich in bravado and stupidity.

"Don't worry, gentlemen, ah, er." He looked at Baldrick- Edmund's aide, servant, and all-round dogsbody for any purpose not requiring more than negative three brain cells. Then he looked at Edmund.

"Um, very well, gentleman. Anyhow, don't worry. For von Mückenberger is a military genius of the first order, handpicked by the Admiralstab. He'll find a way to save us!"

Baldrick frowned, rubbing his nose with unusual vigor. "I dunno. Looked like a fat git to me."

"Nonsense! If one peels away the layers of a 'fat git,' one is sure to find a-"

"Thin git?"

Edmund coughed. "Now now, Baldrick, I'm sure you're sidewaysestimating the man. The Admiral isn't fat, he just looks that way on account of his head."

"Vas? You dare insult a tactical masterm-"

"Excuse me, Georg, but before you finish that sentence, please do consider how many holes von Mückenberger has put in harmless piles of rock, versus how many he's put in the people presently trying to kill him. I'm sure he has many fine qualities which will no doubt reveal themselves in his obituary at this rate, but he's hardly a poster child for long range military planning, now is he?"

Georg folded his arms, electing to fume in silence.

Flagship Boskonian Core Subfleet
2109 Hours

"All ships, open fire."

WHAM!

The end of the world, or a reasonable facsimile thereof, boomed against the bulkhead directly above them. Shock waves rattled the occupants in their defense shelter like dried peas in a tin can. They heard horrible noises- the hissing of superheated vapor, the bubbling of liquified armorsteel, the unmistakable FSSSHOOOOM! of some of the stranger and more classified metamaterials doing... whatever it was they did when they stopped working.

There were no screams. Conspicuous lack of screams there. For a wonder, there was also no blast-furnace heat from the walls setting their faces on fire; that was a plus.

George waved a finger in the air in triumph. "HA! Do you see? This compartment, it's indestructible!"

WHAM!-cling-cling-cling

This time, Armageddon decided to pass thirty meters to their left or so. Again they were tossed about, and this time a few streaks blurred across their field of view, ringing and bouncing from the walls- a touch of spalling? Not good. NOT good...

Edmund wound up sprawled on the floor, Georg about eight feet off to the left, and his batman much nearer than Edmund would have liked.

"Hang on, Baldrick, you've got sharp bits of metal all over you." Looking frantically around for something to dust them off with other than his hands, Edmund seized on a scrap of emergency seal fabric and started brushing it back and forth across Baldrick, largely ineffectively.

"Erm, hang on, this pinches a bit..." That was when Edmund saw the large, jagged piece sticking out of the back of the man's trousers.

"Congratulations, Baldrick. You have successfully found your arse with both hands. I never would have thought you had it in you."

Baldrick seized the fragment and pulled. It came loose relatively easily; beneath was revealed about two square inches of what Edmund devoutly hoped was fabric, in an unidentifiable greenish-brownish-orangish shade.

"Ah, I can't see it. I'm not... wounded, sir, am I?"

"Can't you tell?"

"You never know sir, I once heard of a fellow who had 'is 'ead chopped off and didn't notice for a week afterwards."

"I won't ask. I won't I won't... in any case, Baldrick, it is my pleasure to inform you that you are unharmed; there are apparently some places even bomb shrapnel won't go."

"Oh good, sir. I'd hate to have to sew on a wound stripe, things always get all crooked when I try that."

"Indeed."

Georg nodded. "You don't have to worry about being wounded in here, though. This compartment is indestructible!"

WHAM!

Darkness. Eerie weightlessness.

Is this the end? Am I dead? Somewhere a Baldrick was screaming, that probably meant he was in Hell...

Then he drifted into the bulkhead. His nose flattened gently against the unyielding surface.

Oorrr... we could just have lost lights and secondary gravity, and I'm floating around the compartment weightless. Sprawled against the wall, perhaps. Or the floor.

The lights came on. Edmund could see where he was now.

Oh hell, he thought. This is the ceil...

Then the artificial gravity came online again, too.

THUD!

Edmund managed to avoid landing on his head by the expedient of landing on his left arm, which repaid him for his sudden generosity with an even more sudden stab of pain from his shoulder.

"Aaargh! Dammit, my arm!"

Georg rushed over to inspect it, with surprising care for someone who was supposedly trained to work with heavy machinery and nothing else. Then again, maybe the reason he was so useless as an engineer was that he'd accidentally learned something else- who could say?

"Sir, I think it's just a sprain."

Baldrick's face lit up. "My grandma says the best treatment for a sprain is this special liniment she cooks up out of used supercoolant and debinding agents... let me see, there might be some of the ingredients around here somewhere..."

"No! Don't!"

"Well, if you're going to be like that, I won't give you any."

"Thank the stars for small favors..." Edmund closed his eyes and tried to ignore the pain.

Georg cut in. "As you see, this compartment has its own emergency self-power based on high stability battery storage; even with the main power system and auxiliary power systems cut into little pieces, we still have lights and gravity! And the inertial compensation never even hiccuped!"

Edmund groaned and nursed his arm. "I could have done without the gravity."

"Well why didn't you say so earlier? Really sir, will you stop insulting the design of this ship, Captain? I mean really, so far it's been quite good to you, ja? All these megatons thrown at you and the worst you've got is a sore shoulder. I should be grateful if I were you."

"...You know, Georg, I think you're right."

"Glad to hear it, sir!"

"Don't be, it's making my head hurt."

Baldrick broke in. "Well, don't worry! Whatever happens, at least we're safe as houses!"

"Have you seen what happens to a house hit by starship guns? You'd be lucky to get a carbon smear afterwards."

Georg kept it up, naturally. "Hah! Houses are as nothing compared to Prussian engineering! We're in one of the safest parts of the ship; this compartment is-"

Edmund's eyes shot open wildly and he lunged across the shelter, reaching out with his one good arm, screaming "Don't say it! Don't saay it!" But he was too late!

"What, indestructible?"

WHAM!

...

...

...

They bounced around again, but by this point it was practically routine. Aside from feeling a moment's pity for Lieutenant Georg when he wound up knocking heads with Baldrick, Edmund was largely unperturbed. The blow seemed to have stimulated his manservant, though, and he asked another question.

"Sir, there's something I don't understand."

"Naturally. Do continue."

"Well. The ceiling's gone. And the stuff to our left. And the stuff to our right."

"It did sound rather thoroughly disintegrated, yes."

"And now the stuff under us is gone too."

"And?"

"Well, if the walls, floor, and ceiling around us are gone, what's holding us to the ship?"

"..."

"Sir?"

Edmund turned to Lieutenant Georg. "Please tell me he's an idiot and doesn't know what he's talking about."

"Ah, er..."

"More to the point, please tell me he doesn't know what he's talking about, I'll give you a free pass on the other."

"Mmmm, well sir, it is a recognized problem with the top-secret Indestructible Compartment design. While we're perfectly safe here, there is in principle nothing stopping the Zebesians from shooting away all the things around us, leaving us, ah, er..."

"Ah, er?"

Georg beamed. "Very much so. That's just the word I'd use."

"And this shooting away of everything around us is, in point of fact, what's happened?"

"Yes, Captain."

"So. You mean to tell me that we're now adrift in space, in the middle of the largest naval battle in recent memory this side of those bloody-handed maniacs in the Koprulu Zone, having been cut free of the ship by enemy fire, floating with no weapons, sensors, communications, external power, or life support, any kind?"

"That is about the size of it, sir."

"Oh God."

---

Recommended Listening; suits the mood in a number of ways.

Flagship Boskonian Core Subfleet
2109 Hours

"All ships, open fire."

SMS Prinzregent Luitpold
Command Bridge 2109 Hours

From the bridge, the hissing snarl of the Zebesian rays against the flagship's defense screens was at first unnoticeable: the machinery of shield generators wasn't soundless, but shock-damping and protective schemes made it so from a football field's length away. As their fire escalated, the generators' whines and groans became more penetrant; von Mückenberger's heart raced with stress. They were terribly short on fuel now, most of it burned to fire the guns and keep up the endless race to stay one step ahead of the enemy's targeting- and to the admiral's astonishment, the fire slackened once more. But it was only shifting targets; the display showed shield scatter on other ships of the fleet, damaging hits on the battleships Posen and Thüringen. A frigate melted under the guns of a Zebesian cruiser division...

"Sir! We're being hailed by the Zebesians again!"

"Let them through."

Again the blank screen and booming, possibly-synthetic voice.

"I am gravely disappointed. Again you have made me unleash my dogs of war. Look at what remains of your gallant fleet. Why? Because you are foolish! You waste your energy. Now, my sources say you plan to take your ships out of the shoals. Some of your cruisers struck out an hour ago, claiming they wanted to find reinforcements. A fleet big enough to save your fat piles of scrap. What a puny plan- a deserter's lie. Look around you. This is the System of Death. I, Cosmog, will not be defied. No more games! I call you with a purpose, an offer!"

Here it came...

"There has been too much violence. Too much pain. None here are without sin. But I have an honorable compromise. Just drift away. Give me your weapons, your ships, the Zebesian system, and I'll spare your lives. Just drift away and we'll give you safe passage in the shoals. Just drift away and there will be an end to the horror."

What does he mean- oh! Escape pods...

"Well spoken... Cosmog." Von Mückenberger's fingers raced along the keyboard, typing out a command silently, while he gazed at the screen, wondering if whatever strange, powerful alien on the other end was looking into his face.

"Time runs short... Gregor. What is your reply?"

The command finished and sent out, von Mückenberger gave his response. Both his responses.

"NEIN!"

BOOM!

The nine surviving Prussian battleships let fly with a combined broadside, targeted entirely on the two battleships of the enemy's center. Firing at nearly 30% overcharge power, for this one volley- begging for progressive barrel damage, which would matter if they had an hour to live- the cones of shot spread out at near-relativistic speeds, bracketing the fleet's best guesses as to where those battleships would try to dodge. The commlink picked up sounds on the enemy's flag bridge, something that von Mückenberger sincerely hoped translated as "Danger! Incoming!" The strange, maybe-distorted voice said "Ku-" and then cut off.

Seconds ticked by; FTL sensors tracked the Zebesian superheavies revving up their engines and to flitting out of the line of fire, their own beams still howling back. The Prussian rounds' guidance systems tried their best to compensate, jetting sideways, but lacked the sheer Newton-defying agility of the enemy's drives. Many were missing, too many, too many, but not all...

Hits! The enemy's strange four-ply shields flickered- white flash, white flash as the first two courses of shielding went down, iridescent bubbles as the third one survived an average of two railgun strikes each... then the wall shields, their main line of defense! Flares of light all along the spectrum, mostly green and higher, even into the ultraviolet. A couple of plumes of vaporized material, fairly large; those clean-lined teardrops weren't even close to the Prussian ships in internal compartmentalization or armoring.

If Second Fleet's battleships could do that about ten to fifteen more times, they'd have the enemy's flagships! Of course, if Second Fleet's battleships tried to do that about ten to fifteen more times in row, they'd probably blow up their own guns first.

And the enemy didn't let that alpha strike go unanswered. Their own raving projectors were turned up, ever upwards, to the highest pitch of intensity and penetrance. The battleship Friedrich der Große reeled out of formation, cut halfway through at Frame 400 by a long burst from the terrible beams. One of the enemy battleships poured a converged sheaf of fire into a gap opened by half a dozen of their lighter cruisers and battlecruisers. SMS Posen took a through and through burn; a blast of lambent flame compared to which the very heart of a billion-volt lightning flash would be a dead zone blew through the ship's starboard flank and raked out the port side, crumpling the armor from underneath and permanently smashing aside the ship's shields over the exit wound.

But like the Prussians, the enemy's maximum-effort fire wasn't sustainable. Even those impossible weapons had to cool down sooner or later. The blazing intensity of their retaliation slacked.

"Another message sir, you sure I shouldn't just ignore them?"

"Let them babble if they wish; we shall never surrender!"

This time, the Zebesians hadn't stopped firing. The voice on the speakers took a mocking tone, with an undertone of laughter:

"Hi, cutie pie. You know, one of us is in deep trouble. My ships seem to be taking less of a beating than yours, even after you gave us your best shot. Do you want to give up yet?"

"NEIN!"

2115 Hours

Even Admiral von Mückenberger, privy to nearly all the secrets of Prussian warship design, was amazed at what his battleships were surviving. The latest storm of energy fire, just a few minutes ago, still left ringing echoes throughout the ship. Prinzregent Luitpold had taken major penetrations of the hull aft, a block at least a hundred meters across not responding to any signal- no reports from dorsal anywhere around Frames 900 to 1000... and still the flagship soldiered on!

"Sir... they're hailing again..."

"No harm in listening; let them talk!"

The screen flashed; von Mückenberger expected to see a blank image, but this time, the viewscreen was on. At last, Gregor von Mückenberger saw his enemy's true form! The alien admiral was revealed to be... small, round, vaguely koalaform. Big pompom above his head. Fuzzy. Very fuzzy. Also looking just the slightest bit singed, though that might be his imagination.

It was... those aliens from Shinra, what were they called... a moogle!
The Prussian knew that even though the being he faced might look like a stuffed toy, he was a power to be reckoned with. And yet he couldn't help himself. He laughed. Buoyed by some external force, the spirit of the age, he fucking laughed.

Cosmog snarled. "Wait, is this camera on? You-"

The alien's hand blurred up from his waist, almost invisibly fast, holding some kind of blaster-type weapon- looking a bit like Umerian ultrawave pistols, and even more like them when a pencil of coruscating blue-green radiance snarled forth from the weapon's blackened muzzle, towards something off-screen. The screams and crackling of burning flesh from outside the microphone's pickup weren't as loud as they would have been on the creature's own bridge, but were still horrible to listen to.

"That not withstanding, I offer you one last chance to surrender your ships, and I will spare your lives. You have thirty seconds to decide, admiral. Don't waste them gawking."

Off to one side, Arnold bellowed a mighty laugh- what's he doing? Has he gone mad? Then the New Austrian stepped back into the field of view of the camera on von Mückenberger's end. He smiled and waved to the strange creature that threatened them all with death.

"Hello, cutie pie. One of us is in deep trouble."

The fuzzoid looked away, again at something off-screen, then howled "CURSES!" and shut off the commlink.

Arnold turned to him and pointed at the main display. "Look, sir! Hyperspace wakes, forty light-hours and closing!"

They must have taken advantage of the confusion...

It was much easier to sneak up on a battlefield than to sneak up on an alert outpost not preoccupied by exchanges of gunfire. Especially when both sides' electronics were engaged in a howling wizards' war- that cluttered the hyperwave bands quite effectively.

First to emerge from hyper were- mother of God- von Musel and the Sixth! At once, the picture cleared, and he could see the remaining Coalition ships streaking across the final light-days to the objective, flashing in and translating into sidereal space along a great arc. But why not concentrate the fleet...?

In any case, it didn't matter. First to arrive on von Musel's heels, and close to his position, came a great swarm of Centralist ships. There had to be around sixty of them, ranging from cruiser-scale down to the tiny corvettes and microcarriers, ships so light von Mückenberger was amazed they could find anyone mad enough to fly them. But the shower of sub-capital units came with a mighty exclamation point- the appearance of a single far larger unit, one fully equal in tonnage to any of his own battleships, or those of the Zebesians.

That had to be one of the Centralist heavy capital ships- Black Hole, Frod, or Slavering Gaoogabeast. The lack of fighter launches ruled out the last. The Prussian admiral rejoiced- here were real reinforcements: a battleship!

In the wake of that massive translation came a loose-packed array of Umerians- ten cruisers, a roughly equal number of smaller escort ships, and the usual buzzing swarm of cutters spreading out to surround what had to be Yang's entire squadron. The formation was distorted compared to a normal Umerian arrangement, roughly elliptical rather than circular once you made allowances for the usual slip-ups due to Umerian indiscipline coming out of hyper.

That wasn't in their normal playbook, at least not the part he'd heard of; he still didn't grasp what they were doing, not exactly. But his contemplation broke at the sight of the Tianguo cruiser squadron appearing, spaced out on the far side of von Musel and the Centralists. No carriers- but Tianguo cruisers were at least heavy enough to make a decent account of themselves against the Zebesians' lighter units.

Gregor von Mückenberger sat as still and composed as he could manage, but his breath came in and out in a long shudder. For the first time in over two hours, he expected to live to see tomorrow.

Amidst the cheers and relieved sighs of the saved and thankful, the Prussians almost entirely missed the arrival of the Eoghan contingent. The Commons' ships infiltrated the battlefield from its edges, baffle fields muffling their arrival out of dimensions beyond the ether, as they crept up on the targets Commodore Pdeudemar had agreed on...

---

Type 22 Core Ship, Serial Number 12E886C8
Flagship Boskonian Core Subfleet
2116 Hours

"CURSES!"

The Enemy fleets spread across a broad arc of sky, right along his least-time path to the hyper limit. His ships were fast, but not that fast; he'd have to engage for at least a brief time to get past them. Tempting to try diving towards the sun and fleeing from the other side of the system, but... no. There were a dangerous number of Enemy ships unaccounted for in those formations, and a repeat of the trick von Musel had pulled on Trakenza at the mining facility would be a disaster of the first magnitude here.

Several of the Enemy capital ships weren't accounted for here- where were the other two Centralist heavies, or the four Tianguo carriers? For that matter, he saw no sign of the entire Atlantean contingent... taken together, that wasn't a force he wanted to see leaping out of hyperspace squarely in his path.

To make matters worse, in a simple contest of straight-line acceleration he couldn't be sure of his ability to outrun all those ships; again, his ships were fast, but not that fast. Nor was he confident that they could survive running that close to his original targets, who were still closer to the star than his own fleets. Von Mückenberger's fleet was scarred, mutilated, and lamed, but not so much so that he wanted to risk coming to grips with what was left of it.

"Signal all ships. Break for the hyper limit at best acceleration. Every subfleet for themselves."

Wait for it... wait for it... he knew the call wouldn't be long in coming.

He didn't really fear the consequences of making the decision to retreat without the High Admiral's consent. Granted, his core ships were attached to Zokolova's command and her personal rank was higher than his, yes. But his subfleet was not her subfleet, not expected to fight to the last for the sake of her plan- indeed, ordered not to by the Speaker for Boskone. Cosmog had his contingency orders on that from Helmuth's own hand: his ships were too valuable to be expended for this objective.

"Casualties acceptable; annihilation not."

Cosmog had been raised in a warmer culture than the one he'd moved towards. Even though he despised the native languages of Narshe for their massive reliance on tonal variations of the damnable "kupo," and found the Galstandard English spoken by the humans of Shinra to be an absurd and complex tongue... nonetheless, it had been easier to feel like he wasn't surrounded by enemies back then.

"Casualties acceptable, annihilation not" was about as supportive and jovial a sentiment as Helmuth had ever expressed, in Cosmog's experience.

The moogle's musings came to a swift end when the call he'd expected arrived. He braced to a suitable posture of attentive respect, shaded with an undertone of non-defiant noncompliance. Or at least, said posture as adjusted for his species; moogle physiology was poorly suited to standing at attention.

The High Admiral's expression betrayed nothing; her voice was the usual soft, level contralto, even at the moment of crisis. She was quite good at that normally- professional issues didn't crack her emotional control. Cosmog, who'd long had problems with emotional outbursts, envied her that.

Zokolova spoke two words, all that needed to be said:

"Admiral, explain."

"Enemy approach hidden under jamming, as you saw. Enemy reinforcements too large to overcome while continuing mission against Prussian main body. Therefore, I retreat, as Helmuth ordered."

"Understood and-" Zokolova's face rippled- "approved." The human nodded and cut communications, her attention turning elsewhere.

Easy for her to be calm about it; she wasn't the one about to get pounded on by a hundred enemy ships.

Co-written with Shroomie!

Previously on SDNW4...

“Right,” Chet composed himself and turned back to look at the librul he was about to stick with his bayonet. She was crawling away now as blood leaked from her nostrils and ears. Instead of crawling on the ground, she was crawling on the bodies of all the other student protesters. She screamed as some of the half-dead and mostly-dying liberals reached out to her for dear life, clawing at her clothes, her limbs, her hair. “And what about them, sir?”

“Don’t worry. We’ve got something special, just to finish them off,” the CO grinned. Some of the other troopers, NCOs, started throwing grenades into the heaps of dead and dying liberals. But instead of exploding violently, the grenades began to emit white smoke. The clear powdery snowflakes were carried by the wind and landed on the crippled and immobilized survivors, who began to scream as the stuff burned whatever and wherever they touched. There was fire, they could hear sizzling as flesh was chemically broiled. Men, women and children screamed as their faces caught fire, as their clothes lit up in flames. Some tried to get up and run, but they only fell as their flesh and muscles were burned away to the bone. They crumbled into ash. “I love the smell of white phosphorus in the morning. Smells like... smells like freedom.”

Almera Colony
Corinth, Pelania

“TASTE FREEDOM, BITCHES!”, Private Freedom Class Chet Fisto yelled at the top of his lungs. It was the only way it was possible to hear anything, since a squadron of helicopter gunships just flew overhead and began freedomizing a block of quite possibly threatening structures on the other side of the river.

“Fisto! Get your section moving and suppress that machine gun!”, his sergeant yelled over the sound of gunfire - gunfire directed at the National Guardsmen, as the people of Corinth opposed the freedomization of their country. Stupid sand diggers didn’t know what was best for them, was Chet Fisto’s expert opinion.

He yelled to his men and began to flank the machine gun. He considered calling for support, but the gunships had to thoroughly freedomize a temple first. They did it without lube, which made PFC Fisto feel all tingly below the belt.

Must be my gear rubbing on something, he thought, feeling pressure build in his pants. He’d have to talk to the quartermaster about that...

One of his men was hit and fell over, gushing blood. A cry of “MEDIC” barely got through the omnipresent gunfire.

“Cunther, Blanco, help him!”, it wouldn’t do to have one of his men defreedomized by those socialist bastards, those subhuman sand digger scumbags, after all, “Gordozales, lay down some smoke so that I can close in on these fucking fucks!”

“HOOAH!”, his subordinates yelled. PFC Fisto himself yelled as well and began to fire his Armalyte.



“We come in peace, MOTHERFUCKERS! DIE DIE DIE!!!”

The machine gun nest died very well and nicely, opening C Company’s way towards the main bridge that led straight into the heart of the carpet badger capital city. A rickety collection of shanties, hovels and crooked buildings hugged the river, with more solid buildings standing further back. They looked sad and freedomless: Fisto knew that, because the COLON officer in charge of Pelania’s freedomization explained how freedom made everything look nice, while lack of freedom resulted in ugliness. That made PFC Fisto suspicious of some of his comrades in arms, because damn if some of them weren’t ugly!

Still, he felt proud that his company would be first to deliver freedom into Corinth! And if anyone disagreed, they’d get bayonetted, because anyone who stood in the way of freedom was clearly a terrorist carpetbadger.

“Hit the deck!”, someone screamed, breaking his deep and thoughtful introspection. Another machine gun nest began laying fire down the length of the bridge, turning it into a murderous killzone.

“Fuck this shit!”, Fisto’s sergeant yelled, “Get me the COCK!”

Fisto himself squeezed behind a steel support beam and listened to bullets ricocheting around him. Those fucking bastards were so damn resistant to positive change!

“Walleye, walleye”, the sergeant yelled into his headpiece, “I need ding dong at grid IDIOT Gamma Charlie Eight Niner boomer shake and bake nape snape big snake!”

“HOOAH!”, the headpiece answered. Fisto pumped his fist, knowing what the incomprehensible message meant: they’d bring the fucking hammer of FREEDOM on that fucking shanty town.

“Sarge, come on, the place is loaded with civilians!”, some weak kneed sissy objected, “A REAMMS strike sounds kinda excessive!”

“Shut the fuck up you weak kneed sissy!”, the sergeant yelled back, “What are you a lieberal, caring about those terrorists more than freedom?!”

“No, it’s just that...”

The sergeant yelled again and shot the man between the yes, “Fucking traitor!”, he spat on the body, “We’re defending democracy here!”

Nobody else could comment, as all sounds were drowned out by the roar of an incoming rocket artillery barrage. The massive barrage descended upon the mass of rickety shacks and barely standing hovels, releasing tens of thousands of submunitions, that saturated the entire area. The resulting explosion was epic, rolling across the landscape, setting fires and mangling anyone hiding there. Screams of the wounded carried far, briefly drowning out the roar of tank engines - for now armored vehicles rolled across the bridge into Corinth, casually crushing any dead bodies that lay on the street, which themselves were obviously a feeble terrorist attempt to block freedom on the march. Fucking carpetbadgers, dying in the way of the Coalition.

PFC Fisto list a cigarette he scavenged off a dead terrorist. He deserved it - freedom was, after all, hard work.



Two days later
Almera Colony
Washingtoff, Murca



Shrubya was sitting in his office, the usual expression of ignorant bliss on his face. Thick Chinny was there, too, in his usual spot in the shadows behind his superior. It was quickly becoming frustrating, babysitting that idiot instead of taking his rightful place as the leader of the freeest and most glourious nation this godforsaken world has even seen.

“Our forces have secured Corinth and are now freedomizing the countryside”, the general giving his briefing to Sovereignest Citizen Shrubya seemed almost childishly gleeful, “So far our casualties have been neglible.”

Shrubya was getting bored. National security stuff and daily briefings were so incredibly dull, “So tell me, general... are the people of Pelania free now?”

“Oh yes”, the general nodded vigorously, “They have been thoroughly freedomized. As many as two million civilians are now totally free, with another million well on the way.”

“Excellent! So we are winning the War Of Oppression!”

“On oppression”, Thick Chinny interrupted, seeing the strange expressions of the gathered officers. Shruby shot him a confused look, “What?”

“It’s War On Oppression. We’re not oppressing people, we’re fighting their socialist oppressors.”

“There’s a difference?”, Shrubya asked, and it was obvious he didn’t mean the question to be ironic at all. It elicited a sigh from Chinny.

“Yes. It’s important to get it right, sir, or the Zenobians are going to get fodder for their propaganda.”

“War On Opression then! Are we winning it?”

“Yes, sir. We’re most definitely winning that war.”, the general concluded.

And the army is getting so many awesome toys to do that, the General thought, Wars on abstract concepts are great. We should’ve thought about that one earlier.

He moved on to the next item on the agenda, “We will require a budget increase of about fifty billion marks per year to maintain the occupation of Pelania.”

“Can we do it?”, Shrubya’s brows furrowed, “We are running a small government here!”

Chinny concealed his shock at the sudden outburst of deep thought, but saved the day quickly, “Of course we can, sir. We’ve elliminated all the wasteful spending and pork that the Bari’Bama administration introduced. We can now lower taxes and spend more on the military than any other previous government.”

“Oh, okay, I guess. Where do I sign?”

The general gleefully extracted a prepared budget request. The Sovereign Citizens have dissolved the Parliament, as it was a wasteful socialist invention, and now the Sovereignest Citizen made all the budget decisions. It was a lean and mean organization that saved money and made people free.

After Chinny’s approval, Shrubya signed the document, and the general quickly snatched and hid it away in his briefcase, just in case somebody would change their mind.

“That is all for today, gentlemen”, Thick Chinny announced and motioned towards the door, “The Sovereignest thanks you all for coming. Tah.”

As the gathered officers began filing out of the office, Chinny let his thoughts wander for a while. He could already see it: Almera, a world truly free of government intervention. Where men were entitled to the sweat of their brow, where the free market justly rewarded the rich and punished the poor for their laziness and lousy work ethic. Where only the deserving got health care, and the entrepreneurs was the true hero. All thanks to Murca, the greatest nation in the world, about to become even greater.

He snapped back to reality upon realizing that one officer did not leave. The shock of this insolence and breach of protocol almost gave him an aneurysm.



“What is it now?!” Thick Chinny hissed reptilianly as he glared at the officer. He swore, these long and boring meetings would never end. Murca could invade hell itself and he’d probably still be plagued by these insufferable meetings and conferences and debriefings. He knew that those military boys loved to debrief each other, but this was getting ridiculous. He had a wife! Chinny grumbled. He wanted nothing more than to go hunt ducks and shoot at his friend’s face place. “Well?”



The officer cleared his throat and spoke to Chinny without any hint of fear or hesitation whatsoever.

“Mister Almost Sovereignest Citizen,” he began, reminding Thick Chinny of his title, and not minding the fact that Chinny was growling sub-audibly because of that. “I come from a special division of COLON ASS TURDS.”

Thick Chinny stared at him blankly, before realizing that he was referring to the acronyms of the Central Observation Logistics Operations of the Nation Advanced Subterfuge Service Technical Undercover Reconnaissance Detachment Squads. “Oh,” he nodded, and then quickly remembered that he was actually quite pissed off. “And? So? Get to the goddamn point!”

The officer leaned back in his chair, seemingly oblivious to the annoyance he was causing. He leisurely extracted a thick folder from his briefcase and handed it to Chinny. He ignored Shrubya completely - not that the Sovereignest citizen noticed, as he was digging in his ear with a pencil.

Chinny glared at the officer, still hoping he’d catch fire and burn right then and there, but the man just... didn’t care. Hissing inwardly, Chinny opened the folder.

He read for a couple of minutes, and then his jaw dropped.

“Is this a joke? Who the fuck let you in? Why is a joker in my office?”

Shrubya stopped and made his puppy-eyes again.

“Yes, yes, your office, whatever.” Chinny could swear the officer smirked a bit. He couldn’t take it anymore, “Explain yourself right the fuck now!”, he roared.

“Everything is in the folder. But if you can’t comprehend it...”

Chinny hissed again, but the officer continued, “...then I will explain. Last year, an alien landing party wiped out two companies of elite X-COM troops in Pelania...”

“I read about that, dammit! Explain everything else. X-COM? Aliens? What the hell is this bullshit?!”

“Aliens?”, Shrubya’s head perked up from a particularly interesting result of his excavations, “Like those damn Mohicans that take our jobs?”

“Mr. Chinny”, the officer ignored Shrubya again, “I am being completely serious. As I said, I represent a special division of COLON ASS TURDS called X-COM, short for Extraterrestial Combat Unit. I don’t care about your politics or ideology, only the security of this planet. You would do well to listen to me.”

There was silence, as even Shrubya managed to notice the sudden change of the officer’s tone. Chinny huffed and puffed and turned red at the insolence, to the point where the folder in his hands started to shake.

How dare he speak to me like that! I am the Sovereignest Citizen! Or will be when the free market finally rewards my efforts!

“You... gentlemen were supposed to be briefed on those matters a while ago, but you were too concerned with your little revolution and ill-advised foreign adventures to care. So here I am, and if your tiny minds can’t comprehend the gravity of the situation, let me spell it out for you again: advanced extraterrestial beings have attacked and destroyed a large and well-armed force of Algeiran soldiers in Pelania. They did so without a single casualty. Furthermore, they have been visiting our planet for some time, penetrating our defences with total impunity, for an unknown purpose. The data on previous encounters is also in the folder. I would strongly advise you to familiarize yourselves with it, as this is the single most important matter you should concern yourselves with.”

“AAAAAAARGH!”, Chinny finally snapped and tore up the folder (despite it being very thick), not being able to take any more criticism of his pet positions. His eyes glowed red, that’s how pissed off he was.



“Now”, the officer said calmly, and extracted another copy of the same folder, “It is absolutely imperative we apprehend Pelania’s dictator general Corello, alive, and interrogate him to learn what the aliens were looking for in Pelania. We will give you a day to familiarize yourselves with the issue, and expect the military to receive proper orders promptly.”

The man stood up, left the second folder on the coffee table, and left like he owned the place.

“What a strange guy. So Chinny tell me what’s the deal with those Mohicans? Why are they so important?”

Chinny growled and left as well. He had to go spit on a reporter to calm his nerves.



Four Days Later
Almera Colony
Oho, Murca

“What the hell is this?!”, Joey Jojo screamed at his youngest son, Bobby Lee Jojo, “Oatmeal? What sort of lieberal hippy crap food is this?!”

“But dad...” Bobby Lee protested. He liked oatmeal.

“No butts! Butts are evil things that lead to masturbation!”, Jojo took the freshly made oatmeal and threw it out the window, out onto a pile of trash between two trailers, which had steadily been growing larger ever since the sovereign citizen movement turned the waste collector and janitor unions into compost. “You will eat manly Murcan beef slabs and you will like them! They will make you big and strong and straight like an arrow, not like those lieberal sissies! Mary Jane, fry him a steak!”

“Come on Joey, he’ll be late for school!”

“GIVE HIM BEEF, WOMAN!” he screamed and threw a piece of meat at her, causing her to quit being uppity and go back to doing her duties. Like his daddy always said, before his tractor pull accident, women were best seen and never heard. Joey Jojo ran a tight ship in his house, cause he might’ve been born in the sea, but he was no dummy. Mary Jane fired up the grill and the sound and smell of sizzling meat wafted into the air. Joey grabed a slab of raw beef and sniffed on it happily. “Awww yeah, that’s the stuff!”

Once the meat was done, Joey personally slapped it on the table. Little Bobby Lee’s eyes went wide with shock, and he looked upon his father pleadingly.



“I want to see it all eaten! You’re six years old, you’re a big boy now, and big boys do not waste food!”

“Daddy! I don’t want to!”

“Oh, what’s that? You’re gonna cry? I’ll give you a reason to cry! EAT!”

Yes, Joey thought, watching his son force himself to eat the patriotic slab of meat, He will grow up to be a fine patriot. If only homobortionists won’t convert him.

Bobby Lee puked about halfway through the steak. With a weary sigh, Joey went to fetch his belt.

Discipline had to be maintained.

After he manned Bobby Lee up and sent him to school, he told his wife and daughter to clean up the mess. Ever since the sovereign citizen movement killed all the public school teachers and their unions, the only thing that was left were the private schools and they could only afford to send Bobby there. Didn’t matter anyway, a good daughter’s place was at home, cleaning and cooking, and Joey wanted his daughter Marlene May to grow up just like her mammy, Mary Jane. He made sure she made her vows, her chastity pledges, and took her to a purity ball while making her wear the most beautiful dress he could afford for his beloved daughter.



He made sure she dressed modestly, not like those tramps who showed their faces outdoors. Those whores.

After he made sure Mary Jane and Marlene May knew their place in the house, Joey Jojo went to prepare himself. He got dressed, brushed his teeth and stuffed his gun and his Bibel in his pants. Bari’bama said that the true Murcans were guilty of clinging to their guns and their Bibels, that was the only thing he got right. Joey Jojo had a big day ahead of him.



Oho, Murca
Saint Murcan Administrative Building
Rally to Restore Sanity

It was a day off: while Joey Jojo did not believe in socialist inventions like holidays, the matter he had to take care of was more important than anything, even his honest labor.

The Sovereign Citizens have organized a rally at the Oho Town Hall. They’d work to restore the sanity of this great country, by chanting passages from the Scriptures and declaring their love for the flag and Mom’s apple pie.

Mmm... apple pie. The only patriotic vegetarian meal!, Joey Jojo thought as he passed another checkpoint on what used to be a public sidewalk. He paid the proper passage fee to enterprising young men who set up the toll booth: he enjoyed seeing the nation’s youth take matters in their own hands, maintaining public spaces in a free and unrestricted business environment, where men’s spirits could triumph over sick collectivism. Or at least that’s what Blenn Geck told his viewers last evening, but Joey Jojo agreed completely. The occasional turf war was a small price to pay for true freedom! Of course the sidewalks were now crooked and full of holes, but Joey was sure it was all Bari’Bama’s fault.

Fortunately, there wouldn’t be a turf war here. The Sovereign Citizens were guarding the rally, armed and dangerous, stocked, locked and cocked. The people also brought their own weapons: unlike the previous regime, men were free to defend themselves here. Opposing viewpoints would have no chance against the force of righteous argumentation.



As he approached the rally, Joey noticed he was late. There already was a man speaking, in front of about a dozen blood-stained lieberals, bound and gagged and propped up for everyone to see.

“And let me tell you: I know several Murcan Marines who would love to show these, these... terrorists to an early meeting in paradise!”, the man wore a nice tailored suit and spoke with conviction. The crowd hooted and hollered and waved little Murcan flags. Parents lifted up their children high so that they could see what was going on.

“Hey, man”, Joey tucked on some man’s shirt, “Can you give me a run down on what I missed? What did those guys do?”

“Oh, they were caught gathering money for orphans.”

“No!”, Joey exclaimed in shock

“Yeah! Man, they were going to just give the cash away. Can you believe that?”

Joey could not. Giving money away bred laziness and disdain for work! Those dirty orphans deserved to live in poverty if they were too goddamned lazy to take care of themselves. He knew from experience that a one year old could do some menial labor at home. They had no excuse, as far as he was concerned.

Joey started yelling, “Kill them! Make them pay! DOWN WITH TERROR!”

The crowd picked it up, chanting their bloodthirsty vow. Destroy the unfree doubleplusbad evildoers! No place for handouts in the land of the free!

The spokesman was handed a pistol by one of the Sovereign Citizens guarding the rally and began to restore sanity of the this great country by shooting the lieberals in the face. He was protecting public property, and so would meet no punishment. In fact, he’d be rewarded when he started a fundraiser later that afternoon, so that he could give ammunition to the military. The military deserved handouts, unlike those stupid lazy poor people.

Joey felt pumped up. He never felt so alive, participating in the restoration of sanity to his beloved nation. He hopped onto the stage and seized the microphone.

“This is Murca, guys! This is how things should be everywhere!”, he started to talk excitedly, his voice breaking down periodically due to his immensely patriotic fervor, “I mean when I get ready to buy a company that makes more than 250 thousand marks a year, why should I pay more tax on it? To support some bullshit welfare state? No! Support the troops! Go army strong! We are fighting for freedom and remember that the tree of liberty needs to be watered with oil and blood of Mohicans! Freedom isn’t free! Yeah! MURCA! FUCK YEAH! FUCK YEAH! Say it with me!”

“FUCK YEAH!”, the crowd chanted with him, and Joey was proud, so proud of his fellow Murcans that they could take a stand against the forces of terror trying even now to destroy their way of life. Fuck yeah!

“Excuse me! Excuse me!”, someone’s voice managed to penetrate through the chanting. The man sounded like a sissy, and looked like one, what with his reading glasses and nicely pressed shirt. That made him look like an intellectual, and thus suspicious, “What did you mean by ‘support the troops’?”

Joey opened his mouth, but nothing came out of them. Yeah, what did he mean? The rally’s spokesman saved him from disaster by quickly grabbing another microphone.

“Why, it is an interesting question with a self-evident answer! We need to give our brave troops their full support, whatever they do! Remember, Murca is always right! And everything she does is right!”

“FUCK YEAH!”, Joey added his own eloquent comment

“FUCK YEAH!”, the crowd answered

The sissy intelleactual, that festering sore on the body of this great nation, the most violent-prone segment of society, was not dissuaded, “But our troops are fighting and dying over in Pelania. Why not support them by bringing them home, to their families and loved ones?”

The crowd went silent. The spokesman spoke again, slowly and carefully, as if he was explaining a complicated concept to a child, because the man was indeed as naive as a child, “Because they are fighting for our freedom, and like the good gentleman here said, it isn’t free!”

“But wouldn’t you agree...”, the man did not finish, as he was struck by a rock

“TRAITOR!”, someone screamed, “He’s a terrorist sympathiser!”, somebody else added.

“Get ‘im! Get dem terror synthesizers!”

“Second amendment solution!”

Someone grabbed the lieberal sissy and spraypainted a bullseye on him, so that the electorate knew who to vote out in a completely nonviolent way.

With bullets.

Baxter City
Eta Bootis, United Solarian Sovereignty



If there's one thing that hasn't changed through a millennium of increasing human technological sophistication, it's that at some point you gotta go and get the groceries. There's not much you can do about it: you can go dine in a restaurant of course, but then you still need tooth paste, toilet paper, shampoo... Stuff to get you through daily life, you know?

Now, I'm a lucky guy, 'cause right around the corner from my place there's a supermarket. It's part of a larger Zone-wide chain, I'm told they even have supers like these in the Imperium, but this is just a small one. There it is, smack dab inbetween the apartments of the 283rd floor, right on Overzoom 18 that skirts the outer edge of the arcology. From the parking lot you get a splendid view of the highrise: on a good morning you can see the sun come up through the mist between the starscrapers, and rise behind the Skyplex. Not many people take the time to look for that kind of thing these days, but I do. It's beautiful.

Anyway, the supermarket. It's almost a community center, a place where the people that live nearby get together in order to stock up on their daily needs. The elderly get their freshly baked bread everyday; mothers take their kids for a stroll to fetch the groceries; employees happily wish you a good day...

Or so you'd think. But yeah, no, our supermarket's almost nothing like that. Well, the employees are nice. But that just about sums up their positive qualities. Cleverness, helpfulness, a high school diploma or even mastery of the English language are not things the manager considers important when she hires new personnel. Speaking of the manager... Well, let me just illustrate the problem for you. Take today, an ordinary Tuesday morning in September. The day looks to be off to a good start, weather control had the good sense to stop the rain just before sunset so the air is fresh and the weather's great. The sun is shining brightly, glinting off the thousand million windows of the neon towers that form the heart of Baxter City. It's only morning, but our small supermarket has received new stores not once but twice already today. That means that twice a large repulsorlift truck has pulled onto the Overzoom, bringing with it piles of crates and carts stacked with supplies.

Under a loud hurrah from the employees these trucks are emptied, and the hellish noise they make whilst doing that drowns out the songs of the birds that nestle in cracks and crevices of the soaring starscrapers. Imported goshawks and native windspinners make a quick getaway. Sleeping children are rudely awakened by the clatter of steel on fibcrete, a racket like something straight out of the Bragulan War. Wood strikes steel, wheels rattle across the pavement, truck engines roar. It is not the reassuring humming of a personal car. No. This is a very loud, very unpleasant sound.

At the door of the supermarket sits the ever-present accordion player. He doesn't play the accordion very well, but that apparently does not reduce his income. He sits there every day of the week, so this is probably the way he earns his bread. Bread he won't be able to buy at this supermarket, by the way. Because everything is always gone. And that includes the bread. Every single day of the week.

See, here's the thing with our supermarket. Like every Zone-wide chain it's run by computers – sorry, Computational Intelligences – who turn the lights on and off on time, make sure salaries are paid, keep an eye on supply and demand, adjust prices and do a billion other things I can't even conceive of. Thing is, our end of this chain is managed by what has to be the nuttiest CI in this subsector. I don't know what customer service paradigm it subscribes to, but I'm pretty sure it wasn't designed for humans. Because this manager apparently doesn't think it necessary to replenish the stores of sold-out goods. Its idea of a challenge seems to be to put those things in the store that are normally never there, and that nobody needs. In the place where a loaf of brown bread should be I today discovered an expensive shaving cream. And instead of mashed potatoes we eat a beach play set for children. Or a stone grill. But no meat: the meat is sold out, and if you think that second truck (or the third that pulled in shortly thereafter) came to bring it, you're wrong: they brought two truckloads of plushy cushions respectively. I don't know what for; I don't think anybody but the CI does. Alright, so the supermarket does usually do stock white wine. Never the same brand as last week, but usually a good enough one. And changing cigarette brands every week has its charm as well.

The entire neighborhood does its shopping at this supermarket. It's a little adventure, every day again.

Planet Almera, Wild Space Sector BB-25

Hunting licenses had of course been abolished as evil government control so people would have the freedom to shoot as many animals as they liked. Thus, one of the very last deer on the continent fell to gunfire.

Jimmy walked over to examine the kill, and then breathed in deeply with pride and satisfaction. “This is livin' the way the Good Lord intended, in the open air on a beautiful day like this-”

Lee Roy, his hunting companion, narrowed his beady little eyes. “Beautiful? That's sissy talk!”

Jimmy opened his mouth to say, “What the hell are you talking about?” but Lee Roy had already shot the hippy liberalhomobortionist sympathizer dead.

They'd purged the land of the evil liberals, but then the Sovereign Citizens learned the dark secret that there were many secret liberals hiding amongst their very ranks! People they'd think were proper and upstanding citizens like themselves would have dark hobbies, like debasing their manliness by cooking! (“Barbequing is perfectly fine!” they'd say before they were shot at their grills). Some of them had ridden the bus instead of driving their own trucks, or read books instead of watching sports. Maybe they cuddled with their wives or drank high-class snooty liberal wines instead of cheap beer! Some of them were even hiding parasitic layabouts who didn't earn their keep in their own houses, letting them live off their own hard work instead of throwing the useless people out to starve on the streets as they deserved, and their cries of, “She's my grandmother, you assholes!” were cut short by hails of bullets.

It had become obvious that liberalism had infected them to their very core, even to their children! Why, just the other day Horace was beating his wife for not having his food ready the moment he got home, and his own son tried to shield her with his body and cried for him to stop hurting her! It was clear that major changes had to be made to society so that they could all be free.

First, they had to stop the sissification and therefore gayness of their boys. Women with their weak and fragile minds were all too sympathetic to soft liberal lies, so boys had to be separated from the females lest they get contaminated. From the time they were old enough to walk on their own, they were not to be held, embraced, carried, or kissed, as that would encourage weakness. The only physical interaction they could have with others would be wrestling and fighting with other boys and men. Their mothers were not to talk to them or interact with them except to provide for their physical needs. Girls and boys were to be kept completely separate, and the boys carefully taught not to let any girls and their icky and strange ways near them for fear the female delicacy would be spread to them.

Praise and kindness made men weak, so the boys were beaten and screamed at to always do better by distant and cold father figures who could never be pleased. If a boy fell screaming because his kneecap was shattered, he was kicked and hollered at to get up and walk it off, and stop being such a damn baby girl about it. Deaths from burst appendices, infected wounds, and many other medical reasons increased rapidly. (It didn't help that most doctors had already been killed; in those few cases where people were willing to admit that there was a legitimate problem, there was often no medical help to be found or afforded, because the few survivors could charge so much that only the rich could pay.)

Another wave of secret liberals was discovered when these laws were passed, because they stood up and complained that they should be allowed to raise their children however they want. They were executed as the seditionists that they were.

It was soon discovered that the boys, when surrounded only by other boys and having no female contact, were becoming intimate with each other, in their violent way. Somehow, despite all their efforts, the evil lieberal homobortionists were getting to their sons! They further exaggerated their efforts to make their boys as macho as possible to un-gay them, for instance, by letting them release excess energy by destruction instead of sexuality. Vandalism was greatly encouraged as boys had to be boys. The public infrastructure left over from the bad old days before private freedom was rapidly taken apart by the escalations in frustrated destruction.


And so the first generation raised under these new laws came to adulthood, or at least the survivors did, and the males were assigned brides to be their wives (romance of course being a sissy thing and love a thing that sapped machismo, and women could not be allowed to weaken the men with their weird wiles). But then, suddenly confronted with this strange penis-less thing before them, something they had been taught had to be avoided and was full of lieberalism and crying, and they found themselves limp and impotent and unable to perform their conjugal duties to produce another generation. Their fathers tried to introduce them to the ways of making babies, but their awkward euphemisms only served to confuse their sons more, and conjugal relations became increasingly bizarre and untendable. Sometimes their fathers would even try to demonstrate for their sons how to do the dirty, but their overhanging belly flab got in the way so they could not, just as they had not for years. Some of the boys, learning that they had to be naked and embrace the women to perform the sexual act, wrestled them to death, thinking that they would squeeze babies out. Some, learning that they had to put their 'seed' into the women's 'bellies' spit into their bellybuttons. And then, after their uncomfortable and unsettling duties were over for the week, they fled back to the safe masculine communal showers where they could be with their own kind, as was right and proper.


It was said during those years that in the skies many saw a boat steered by many rugged and manly oarsmen. It was also said that those oarsmen looked down upon them from orbit, shook their heads in disgust at the farce below, and left as quickly as they could.

Mamohato sighed. It had taken months to get Dr. Roxo in some sort of shape for this ancestors'-condemned commercial, and now the damn filming was taking forever. It was already the fourth day of filming for a commercial that should only have taken 3 hours of filming and 2 hours of editing. Her patience was at an end and she had already assaulted Letsie several times. He had the good sense to not call the police, though, because he knew he'd be dead before they arrived. Plus, he kind of knew he deserved some of it.

"This pissanam-ay is some good shit, especially with my cocaine!" blared the Rock-N-Roll Clown.

"Pitsanambe, sir. Pitsanambe," enunciated his speech coach.

"Pitsnumbme?"

"Pitsanambe."

"Screw it! Just use the audio software to make him say it! We're not paying for another day of this shit! Ancestors, I hate you stupid lemurs!" raged Mamohato.

"Cocaine!" screamed Dr. Roxo.

"Fine, I'll buy you a goddamn kilo of the shit if you do this commercial in one take!" Mamohato snarled.


"Y-y-y-y-y-yeah! Fuck yeah! I'll do that, dino-bitch!" Dr. Roxo exclaimed, a devilish glint in his cocaine-addled eyes.

The camera turned to Dr. Roxo and started rolling in glorious 10800dpi SHD.

"H-h-h-hey ladies and gentlemen! I'm Dr. Roxo, the Rock-N-Roll Clown and I do PITSANAMBE PILLS! These motherfuckers will make you high! I mean, lose weight! I've already dropped 20 pounds on this shit, and I've only been using it for 3 months! So, you fat MEH-looking fatties, get some fucking PITSANAMBE PILLS TODAY! Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-YEAH!"

Mamohato looked dumbfounded for an instant. This was quickly replaced by her more frequent emotion lately: rage.

"He fucking did it. Now I have to buy him a fucking kilo of cocaine. Fuck. Cut him saying it gets you high in post, please?"

Poor Mamohato now had to find a kilo of cocaine.