StarDestroyer.Net BBS

Southern Miratia

Ryan found himself in an abandoned access tunnel for some old subway system. There were a few more revolutionaries milling about around the corner. He pulled out his traditional Miratian switchsword. The fifty-centimetre blade slid into place with an ominous clunk. It was lightweight, constructed from incredibly strong plastics and laced with supertensile compounds. Not by any means the most efficient or practical way to build a blade, but that was that. He crept towards the nearest one. The man heard his approach easily and whirled, bringing his pistol to bear. "Halt, asshole!" he yelled. Ryan pushed himself into a recess. The narrow beam of a tactical torch swept across the seemingly empty corridor.

He was about to round the corner of the hole Ryan was hiding in when the switchsword swept through it effortlessly with a shrill buzzing sound, spraying concrete dust and steel sparks everywhere, and neatly bisecting him from just above his right arm to below his left. Ryan turned the corner.

BLAM. He lurched backward as a bullet flattened out against his front armour plate. He waved his arms, trying to restore his balance, and fumbled the sword in the process. So he drew his own pistol. He took another hit that finally knocked him over. Taking aim from the ground, he blew fist-sized chunk of the offender's unprotected head away. Pulling himself to his feet, he looked around for an exit. Finding a ladder, he climbed it, only to find himself in yet another tunnel--and staring down the biggest fucking armoured train he'd ever laid eyes on. He crept around the side.

The hatch mechanism was something that could only be adequately described as "hilariously complex" and therefore, truly Miratian. Nevertheless, a simple turning of a knob and it sprung open almost noiselessly. He slipped inside, stepped on something slippery, and fell flat on his ass.

Cutter Tender USS Nantucket, AGP-3625
Deep Space, Sector H-12
Fleeing Pursuit Near Zebes
June 21, 3400

Nantucket was making good time; barring an unexpected hiccup in the drives, they'd be able to rendevous with San Dorado and the Eoghan missile frigate Iomhair before the two ships chasing them could catch up, and hopefully make a running fight of it somewhere suitable...

Commander Ximena Olmedo's eyes widened when new light codes started appearing on the main plot, dangerously close to her line of flight back out of the shoals and to safety. Two ships in the distance, definitely hostile, and tentatively identified as a destroyer and a frigate. They must have been practically standing still; their drives had all too obvious a signature now that they had started their speed runs toward her position.

The new bandits were between her and safety- and they'd obviously been waiting for her, lurking under emissions control as the ELINT sweeps ran past them. Navigation was already sketching out a course to evade the new contacts on their own initiative, though. They could still make it past, hopefully without being grabbed, and at least link up with San Dorado before they were mobbed. Getting into contact with Iomhair was starting to look less likely, but they should at least be able to hold out until the missile ship could join the fray.

Another five minutes passed before the third pair of enemy ships revealed themselves- much closer in and moving much too fast; had to be stealth designs, frigate tonnage. They too had been placed in front of her along her line of retreat, to intercept her as she fell back on the sweep line's heavy gun combatants. And there was no chance that Nantucket would be able to sidestep them, not when they'd gotten this close without being detected.

Now understood what the Zebesians were trying to do. This was no simple stern chase; it was a calculated ambush.

In sidereal space it was practically impossible to herd a ship anywhere it didn't want to go. Hyperspace, especially in shoals, was different. There was terrain: regions you couldn't go, or couldn't go quickly, a maze of dense patches to be avoided and sparse ones to be sought out. The locals always had the advantage, either when trying to escape pursuers by masking themselves in the static or when trying to hound isolated prey into a carefully selected killing ground.

This time, Nantucket was both prey and bait. There were six pirate ships visible now, two definitely of destroyer tonnage, and possibly more out there. The stealthers were too close to evade; she was going to be dragged out of hyper for a normal-space engagement whether she liked it or not. Any Coalition ships joining the fight would be coming in one by one, with the Zebesian squadron jumping each new ship as it arrived.

It could be a disaster.

Her commbead was already set to talk to the comm section; Ximena didn't need more than a few seconds to decide what to do now. "Update command on the last known positions of the ELINT boats, and positions of new contacts. Then signal the following: 'Danger: Trap! Enemy squadron! Do not reinforce in less than concentrated squadron strength!' End of message."

She suspected the galaxy would know those last eight code groups as her last words.


Flag Bridge, USS Artemisia
Sweep Line Command

Commodore Tabor had seen the new bandits light up their drives too. He could read a plot at least as well as Olmedo; the warning from Nantucket came as no surprise. Just from looking at the display and gauging transit times by eye, he knew he couldn't get enough ships to Nantucket's position fast enough to save her. San Dorado and Iomhair could still link up with Nantucket in time to intervene, though not before she was engaged at all. Two ships of force against six wasn't winnable, though.

He could get heavier units there within an hour at flank speed: a Centralist destroyer and light carrier, along with an Eoghan cruiser (perversely called a heavy frigate, but with a heavier main battery than his own flagship). On top of that, he could vector in the antiship strike groups from Catalina and Guernsey, which between them were probably worth a corvette. Call it six ships, effectively, which was winnable odds given the relative tonnage... but there was no chance of the light ships holding out until the cruiser and destroyer-weight backup arrived.

Damn it.

The Zebesians were offering him a choice. He could lose one ship, with a chance of bouncing the enemy with six or more of his own. Or he could lose three ships, perhaps more, by committing his forces piecemeal. It wasn't an easy choice- he wasn't a machine- but judgement won out over the heroic impulse to charge in, in a vain attempt to save an unsaveable situation. Time to start changing orders.

He wasn't going to be able to rescue Nantucket. There was still a chance of being able to avenge her, if the enemy cooperated even slightly.

---

Recommended Listening: The Cumberland and the Merrimac, then The Foggy Dew

[edited to fix link]

USS Nantucket

"Ma'am, I think I'm getting something back from Artemisia, but the bandit destroyer up ahead is putting out serious EW. Signal to noise is impossible."

The enemy was closing in. They could leave hyperspace of their own accord, or be pulled out, and reinforcements weren't coming- that would just be dooming two ships instead of one.

Which left only one question. How do we hurt them most?

"Navigation, find a nice rough spot and steer for it. Crash transition down from there, as hard as you can without blowing anything up outright." She switched comm channels, hunting up the circuit for the Strike company Nantucket kept on board to man her assault cutters.

"Major Henderson?"

"Yes?"

"I want your troops dispersed. We're going to take hits..."

"On it. If they board, we'll be ready."

"Good. I'll be passing out arms to the crew; there may not be time after we jump out." If they board, we'll all be ready. If not... we're no deader than we would be anyway.

---

Undisclosed Location, Sector H-12
Boskonian Sector Command Dome
June 23, 3400

Admiral Natalya Zokolova paged through her subordinates' reports. Fleet positions, supplies, outlying stations... ah. Here was the one from Operation Tripwire.

As per instructions, Squadron A4F18 moved to preplanned ambush positions with the intent of isolating and destroying ships from the Enemy reconnaissance force. The Enemy responded as predicted. A Umerian parasite tender fell into the trap, fleeing from asset ships D2 and CC1, then changing course to evade core ships D1 and F1, onto a vector that rendered it impossible to avoid engagement by the two attached stealth frigates.

Enemy forces were already converging on the ambush site, but after all six ships revealed themselves, the Enemy wisely declined to engage A4F18 piecemeal, wrote off the parasite tender, and took time to concentrate a force sufficient to defeat us entirely. This left us free to concentrate on the tender.

Naval Engagement

As our ships approached, the tender jumped back to normal space of its own accord, avoiding being dragged out by our ships and placed at an extreme disadvantage. Reckless of possible drive damage, the target made a crash transition; A4F18 had to follow more cautiously, allowing the target some time to prepare.

By the time the squadron descended to normal space, the tender had already detached its combat parasites: twelve craft, four each of the 'customs,' 'assault,' and 'fleet melee' types. These craft formed up around their mothership and launched a concerted ordnance strike against the first target to reveal itself: the asset destroyer D2. D2 engaged the tender with its main battery plasma gun. The target presented an extremely narrow target profile head-on, with surprising lateral mobility; long range fire achieved little. Secondary weapons engaged the parasites, shooting down two before they entered attack range.

As per briefings, the 'customs' and 'assault' parasites fired missile sheaves of the lighter type, to no effect. The three surviving 'melee' parasites, along with the mothership's launch tubes, mounted the heavier type and achieved burnthrough at several points, causing light damage to secondary guns and sensors. The tender continued fire from internal magazines; all Enemy units continued fire from point defense lasers. With the parasites' missiles expended, the tender alone did not saturate D2's point defense. This left secondary guns free to destroy three of the remaining ten parasites as they overshot the target after the ordnance attack.

By this point, three more ships, including my own D1, had emerged from hyper and were moving to englobe the tender and its parasites. Long range fire from F1 destroyed another parasite and scored a hit on the tender's dorsal surface, causing major engine damage. At this point, I called on the Umerian ship to surrender.

The Enemy commanding officer's reply was direct: "No, sir." This was followed by a more cryptic phrase: "Magazines dry, every beam live, firing on all jets." I am uncertain what this meant, though from her later actions, I infer it represented the way she* preferred to die.

The tender's drive damage made it impossible for the Enemy to avoid englobement. The targets shifted fire to D1, my own flagship, with some kind of synchronized pulse-laser attack. This was relatively ineffective; a few burnthroughs forward did minor damage around D1's bow. At the same time, long range flak bursts from D1 and F1 targeted the remaining parasite craft, which were destroyed over the following 110 seconds. Main battery fire directed at the tender itself caused increasing damage, and within another 85 seconds its shields and main drive had failed entirely.

At this point, I ordered A4F18 closer in, with an eye to boarding operations (see next section). The tender continued firing on all targets that presented themselves with remaining point defense lasers, which proved very difficult to disable. Concluding that the weapons were distributed across the hull, I ordered defocused plasma fire from D2 and C1, which finally silenced the laser mounts and cleared a path for boarding craft.

*(and her crew? Uncertain)

Post-Battle Cleanup

After disabling the Enemy ship and destroying all parasite craft, asset boarding units were dispatched. Aim was to take prisoners and samples before arrival of Enemy reinforcements- at this point, the Enemy was converging on a rally point and was expected within four kiloseconds. Taking the captured ship under tow was desirable low-order probability.

Initial boarding units were Urtraghan asset troops, Schedule B equipment list. This first wave was to be followed up by a larger second wave of Urtraghan assets, mostly Schedule B along with a backbone force of Schedule A "Elites" with experimental biochemical boosts and improved equipment.

A few unexpected missile launches had to be shot down by naval point defense, but all shuttles docked successfully. Boarders ran into opposition almost from moment of docking. In seven instances of sixteen, teams encountered armed naval infantry (mix of light unpowered armor with light continuous-beam hand weapons and light powered armor with heavy antipersonnel kinetics). Enemy naval infantry were generally overpowered quickly and withdrew to fallback positions deeper inside ship. Synthesis of gun camera footage and communications indicates thirty to forty Enemy casualties to 26 asset casualties.

Remaining boarding parties encountered extremely heavy resistance from Enemy marine units (heavy shielded power armor, high-energy plasma weapons, possible genetic enhancement?). These units proved immune to antipersonnel and highly resistant to light anti-armor weapons. They were heavily armed and exceptionally well coordinated. I infer that these were the Umerians' "strike troopers." Synthesis of gun camera footage and communications indicates five to seven Enemy casualties to 138 asset casualties in the ensuing firefights.

Typical outcome of encounters with them was rapid retreat to boarding shuttle; in two instances Enemy units counter-boarded the shuttles, which had to be remotely scuttled to avoid capture. An additional 27 asset units were killed in the scuttling. Eight Enemy marines were aboard the shuttles at the time and are presumed to have been killed as well.

Teams not confronted by Enemy heavy units in initial boarding generally encountered them within 150 seconds, with similar results. All boarding parties were repulsed within 400 seconds of initial docking.

The asset commander responded by throwing in the second wave, expecting better results from this more numerous force and from the Schedule A "Elite Pirates." Indeed, Schedule A units performed much better, due to their heavier gear. The second wave made considerable inroads, brushing aside Enemy naval infantry and overcoming a number of Enemy marine units.

Enemy casualties during the opening phase are numbered at another thirty to forty naval infantry and ten to thirteen marines. Our own losses were 78 Schedule B (roughly 50% each to naval infantry and marines) and 17 Schedule A assets (almost entirely against the marines).

Unfortunately, Enemy forces proved alarmingly adaptable and quickly identified the Schedule A troops' relative vulnerability to concussive-blast weapons (already noted; see technical notes on Schedule A Urtraghan hardware). They began counterattacking the elites with various improvised explosive weaponry. Relative casualty ratios climbed again, and the second wave boarding units were driven back towards their shuttles.

This time, the Enemy made no attempt to counter-board shuttles, contenting themselves with hurling heavy demolition charges through the docking hatches. Five shuttles were disabled or lost in this way, along with assets that had withdrawn to them, before the others undocked and retreated.

After defeat of the second wave of boarding forces, time constraints and shortage of intact ground combat formations forced a change of plans. Instead of a third boarding attempt, I resolved to deliver a finishing bombardment of nuclear-tipped mass driver fire from core destroyer D1, to deny the Enemy salvage value from the wreck.

Assets undocked and bombarded the target from standoff range; this was deemed the only way to be sure of overcoming Enemy marine units.

By this point, the Enemy was less than 1.5 kiloseconds away. According to plan, A4F18 made the transition back to hyperspace- complicated by local shoal conditions; stealth frigate F3 sustained damage to primary waveguides and narrowly made the jump on secondaries. After a four hour pursuit, we were able to lose the Enemy in the shoals and return to Zebes for repair and refueling.

Conclusions and Recommendations

Operation Tripwire was a tactical success, destroying an Enemy parasite-tender craft for relatively slight loss of asset materiel- mostly shuttles and minor damage to D2.

At this time it is too soon to make confident statements about strategic results. Predictions by the staff that the action will force the Enemy to be more circumspect in its reconnaissance patrols seem reasonable given preliminary examination of post-battle Enemy maneuvers.

Your servant recommends that Intelligence investigate whether it is routine Umerian practice for ships to carry heavy marine units such as were encountered here. If so, boarding actions would be highly inadvisable, unless either comparably heavy boarding units or a nearly unlimited supply of cannon fodder are available. Also, collateral damage involved in clearing such units out of their positions is liable to be extreme, limiting the rewards to be gained from such actions.

In addition, I must report that morale among the surviving ground combat forces attached to A4F18 is extremely low, bordering on mutinous. They are most likely not suited for high-intensity combat in the foreseeable future, and may harm the morale of other ground combat assets in contact with them. However, liquidation does not appear practical or cost-effective; I beg leave to refer the problem to higher authorities more familiar with ground combat.

Aside from this minor setback, all seems to have gone according to Your Supremacy's designs. I will send further updates as more evidence of Enemy movements comes in.

Your Obedient Servant,
Higobi Trakenza

---

Corsair-J class ELINT cutter Heavenly Body
Two Days Earlier

"Fleet says they got her. Pirates ran off... but they won't be coming this deep in to pick us up, I'm afraid. Not with the enemy swarming like this. Orders are to regroup at Point Delta if possible, try and find some place to land if not."

"Shit. Chakide, can we make it back to the fleet without refueling?" Dwight thought he knew the answer the navigator would give- they were near the end of their patrol. Sadly, the pilot was right.

"Nope. We haven't got enough fuel. We need a pickup, right here or where Nantucket was scheduled to come get us, and if the enemy's running around with as many ships as we've seen, somehow I doubt they're going to get to us in time."

Mary asked the obvious question. "Go cold, or go to ground?"

"Hana, check the catalogue of semi-habitable planets in this area." The survey charts were badly out of date in this region, but they existed. Most planets were at least approximately known of.

The copilot started listing planets. "One iceball, barely better than Mars-class. No good. One near-Terran pre-Cambrian- we could live there, but only till the emergency rations ran out.

"Hmm... one quasi-Terran, very interesting. Relatively low energy density around there, so we might be able to jump back out, and... hmm. Last survey ship showed signs of a fairly high Steam Age civilization down there, it says."

"Really? What, abandoned colony clawing back from the caves?"

"No. Humanoid but nonhuman; they got some drones down into the atmosphere to observe, even landed a few parties in remote areas. Bio looks compatible. That was a while back, too- might be higher up by now, maybe to atomics."

"That could be good or bad."

"True. If there's been any contact with traders we might be able to find someone to talk to, though I doubt they'll be up to running antimatter converters to get us fueled up. Maybe a quantum-torsion array so we can punch a distress signal out if we're really lucky."

If so, we'll probably set records for the shittiest FTL comm beacon of all time... "How far away?"

"Twelve light years."

"Going to be a bit chancy, but I think we can make it. Not much power left for maneuvers afterward, though."

"Well sir, it's that or a rockball where the highest form of life is an amoeba."

"A nuke age civilization... I'm tempted to pick the amoebas, but I think we'd better set a course for the Planet of the Diesel Engines. Jiangqi, Mary, when we get there I want you guys to punch as much power through the main antenna as we can spare, try to tell someone we're out here without drawing unwanted attention. Get dialed in on local conditions and try to tune the signal to that..."

They could do this, could hold out until the Fleet could sweep this area safely.

Probably. If they could appease or evade the locals. If... if a thousand things. There was no way to be sure, but it was their best chance of survival.

The New Humanist

Piracy Claims More Lives in Wild Space
by Karl M. Felix

The ongoing war with pirates in international wild space has claimed yet more innocent lives as the conflict continues to intensify. The New Frontier, a bulk transport operating under a Humanist flag, was lost June 15th in a lightning-fast attack. The New Frontier was a model HCI-2L, a type of heavy transport most typically used in hauling bulk industrial goods or foodstuffs. The New Frontier had been refitted to host a large passenger complement under its role as a transport for the international aid group Bright Horizon, a volunteer organization dedicated to bringing labor, adept minds, and valuable resources to impovrished and war-torn human colonies across the known galaxy. Funded by the federal government and various private donors, Bright Horizon is the largest aid organization operating in Union space. It is believed at this time that the New Frontier was a victim of intensified pirate activity intended to interrupt supply lines for the Centrality-led anti-pirate coalition. Coalition officials have not released any comment on the New Frontier Incident, but alert levels have broadly been raised due to the intensified, indiscriminate pirate action in the region. Coordinator Stein declared the incident an "abomination" in a speech broadcast across Humanist space.

"The nation mourns the loss of so many brave men and women willing to dedicate their lives to the bettering of others'," he said, "But the nation also promises swift justice delivered at the end of a sword for those who would murder and pillage in the places where they think they are safe from reprisal. We will pursue these vermin back to their dark hovels, and we will shine the light of justice upon them."

Inquiries at the Department of War reveal that a task force of indeterminate size has already been deployed to hunt down and eliminate pirate enclaves in the local wild space reaches. Debate in the Federal Legislature is ongoing as to whether to deploy more military forces is ongoing, and has considerable support in both the government and populace at large. A senior War Department official, speaking on the condition of anonymity, spoke against such a reaction, "As it is, our neighbors have deployed considerable military force in eradicating the wild space pirates implicated in this incident. As the saying goes, 'too many cooks spoil the pot;' too large a deployment is much easier for pirate intelligence to monitor and avoid, allowing them to strike again, to say nothing of the confusion it creates."

The War Department has proposed an increase in its budget in light of these events, citing unacceptable levels of international instability and a need to more firmly control the trade lanes. Most of the budget increases proposed would go to the Federal Navy, with the intent of creating forces that could be deployed farther into wild space more regularly without defense risks at home from domestic pirate threats. State Department officials and their allies in the Federal Legislature have so far offered little comment; the State Department has recently opposed budget increases due to the pressure on the civilian sector.

Other Popular Articles
-Senior Civil Army General of the New Havonian Defense Force Sentenced to Enhanced Resocialization
-Design Flaw Discovered in Bulk Freighter Engine Design Heralds Recalls, Production Freeze
-Radical Catholic Terrorists Kill 5, Wound 3 in Shootout with Civil Protection Services
-Senior Pirate Confederation Captain Defects

Patriot-class heavy cruiser USS Layla Daniels
Second Intervention Task Force
En Route to Sector H-12
June 25, 3400 Wen-Li poked his head into the conference room, grimacing and rubbing back of his neck.

"Sorry I'm late; I wanted to make sure I'd digested the reports properly" First order, what we're going to have to do when we arrive, obvious. To second order, what happens at and right after Zebes, interesting. But third order, past that... that I could get lost in. So many unknowns. That he had gotten lost in, and lost track of time, to the point of being almost ten minutes late for his own staff meeting before Frederica rousted him.

"It's your squadron, sir, you can be late if you want to." That was Fischer, his chief of operations, who had spent fifteen years rising through the ranks as a noncom before a whole new career. Very good at details, very attentive. Very embarrassing to be late in front of.

Wen-li smiled awkwardly at the older man. "Yes, Edwin, which is why I promise not to be late next time."

"Thank you, sir."

Wen-li took a seat, then looked around the table at his senior staff officers. Alex looks worried. Do I need to worry too, or do I need to calm him down? What to say?

"So, Alex, what's your take on the situation?"

"Sounds like a mess over there, sir. Hawk's Nest, the raiding since then, those pokes they took at our recon line... that business with Nantucket, especially."

"Not a promising start. But I believe Ananya's report is true. Zebes is a critical point; if it were not so well placed to launch a guerre de course, we would not have heard about it so soon." A few of the staffers blinked at the reference, but seemed to get it soon enough. SpaceSec was a very historically aware service even under normal conditions, and Yang went out of his way to encourage that among his command.
Alex, his chief of logistics, frowned. "So, it all depends on the Prussians, then? Their supply situation is very bad, from what I've heard."

Fyodor was a big fellow who looked like he'd be more at home in a boarding action, storming an enemy command post with blaster and spaceaxe, but he was a very savvy analyst. It would almost be a shame to see him moved to a command slot, when he was so good at intelligence work. He shrugged. "Not as bad as you might think. Granted that Muckenberger's supply line would not support continuous operations at the front- too many ships sent out too quickly- but they have been pushing additional convoys out as fast as possible, to build up a stockpile for a short, decisive battle."

Wen-li leaned back to watch the byplay. He'd read the reports, and he wanted to see whether his staff's conclusions would match his own. There was plenty of time, and it was a good thing on both ends: for him as a check of his reasoning, and for them as a learning experience. He would step in if they started making any mistakes, but giving them a long leash in discussion was the best way to groom them as officers fit for independent command.

Alex snorted. "Yes, and one of the convoys got jumped just last week, and lost them enough antimatter to power a small planet for a year. They should have sent heavier escorts."

"They actually have, for the next one. Scheduled a day or so behind us. It surprised me too; they usually keep their cruisers tied in tight to the battle line."

"Good. Maybe they'll be ready to fight some time before the end of July, then."

"If my figures are right, I'd expect them to hit Zebes before the fifteenth, possibly as early as the tenth."

"If they aren't, can we do it without them?"

There was a long pause as the staffers calculated. Edwin was first to speak.
"Unless our reports are underestimating them even farther than I'd think, we can. Between our cruisers, the Eoghan contingent, Tianguo, the Centralists... all told we've got the aggregate tonnage. I'd be just as happy to see Zwiete Flotte move though; planetary assault is their specialty mission."

Fyodor rumbled. "And ours."

"Yes, but we didn't bring ten of the line, now did we?"

"Who needs battleships to- No, no, Ed, I see your point. It will be interesting to see how they handle the pirates, if you ask me. Though it might be just as well if we run up deployment plans for what to do if something else goes wrong with their logistics."

"I have. But we won't be working alone in that case. On top of what's already there, the Centralists are throwing in more few capital units, too. Double their previous commitment of light-capitals, with a heavy carrier and two battleships thrown in besides."

"Isn't one of their battleships an experimental ion gun test platform?"

"Yes. Which is strange. I hadn't heard of them building heavy particle weapons before."

The intelligence chief shook his head. "Me neither. That's what worries me."

"What, that they're upgrading their ships?"

"No, that they've never built one of these before. Will it work?"

"Hazarika says she detailed some of her gun crews with capital ship experience to take a look at it."

Fyodor frowned. "Should we be encouraging them?"

Wen-li smiled softly, interrupting the conversation. "Look on the bright side. I'm sure her gun crews will have hilarious stories to tell us." There was a round of laughter; every senior Umerian officer had their own stories of how temperamental heavy particle guns could be, how much you had to get right, how many massive, precisely placed components needed to work, with the endless checking and rechecking of failsafes, controls, diagnostics... it wasn't easy. And that was after centuries of design experience.

The discussion went on: relative merits of the various fleets, possible moves that might be made after securing Zebes, the logistics arrangements Umeria would have to make in order to keep ITF 2 running. It was a productive meeting.

When it was over, the staffers filed back to their offices to start in on the afternoon's paperwork; Yang had some simulations to run, and happily the time to run them. Thank the stars for good people.

[Appropriate music, Simon-style! ]



COMRADE-NATIONS OF THE UNIVERSE!!


The Bragulan Patriotic Ministrer of the People's Truth and Ideological Purity presents the news to the galaxy.

The People's Truthful Bi-Daily Ideologically Purified Accurate Information Broadcast to the Proud Patriotic Bragulan Listeners of THE GALAXY begins thusly:

MAGNANIMOUSLY MIGHTY BRAGULE BEGINS SHEPISTANI SHIPMENTS, UMERIAN U-FREIGHT UNDULATIONS AND CHAMARRAN CONTAINERIZATIONS

The Bragulan Star Empire has begun shipments to the respectably un-puny nations of the Chamarran Hierarchy, the Shepistani Republic and the Technocracy of Umeria, comrade-countries that have wisely agreed to trade with mighty Bragule after seeing the vastness of Bragulan industrial might and the sheer festoonements of its resources. In a feat of glasnot and bragstroika, diplomatic and trade relations with Umeria and Chamarra have been opened only recently, whereas the Shepistanis have already been a longtime friend of Bragule. These relationships with powers in the Spin Zone, the Neko Zone and the Loin Stars have increased the glourious Star Empire of Bragule's international interstellar influences in those regions, and further fuels its robust economy - turning it into the nuclear-fueled powerhouse of the Koprulu Zone. This bragstroika and glasnot is all part of the Imperator Byzon's latest and greatest Fifty Year Plan for the first half of the 35th century and is claimed to be part and parcel of the plan to Bragulanize the galaxy, and are the very first steps in doing so by strengthening the Bragulan Star Empire and its influences as a great galactic power. The diplomatic liaisons stationed in Altacar, Chamarra, Umeria and Shepistan have expressed their delight in the blossoming relationship of friendliness, monetarily-beneficial trade, and peace Bragule has with these respective comrade-nations.

Some of the major noteworthy exports to be sent to Chamarra, Umeria and Shepistan include:



Chromium (upper left), vegemite (upper right), Spuds (lower left), Gunstars (lower right)

Gratuitous amounts of chromium for the Technocracy of Umeria. Chromium is a culturally significant material in Umeria as it is important in the shiny and reflective surfaces of their buildings, much like the humans' preoccupation with the shiny and reflective enamel surfaces of their fangs. This fixation on architectural dentistry depleted Umeria's own chromium supplies, leading to the formation of cavities and the yellowing of their structural surfaces. With mighty Bragulan chromium, which is several times mightier than all other forms of chromium combined, serving as the enamel for the fangs of their acrologies, the Umerians can once more smile with gleaming grins of chrome.

For the Chamarrans, even more gratuitous amounts of vegemite, for unlike chrome vegemite is self-replicating! It is also highly toxic, invasive, radioactive and mutagenic, and few nations in the galaxy have managed mastery over such hazardous substances. It has numerous purposes, ranging from a fuel source to alloy components to weapons-grade material. The Bragulan Star Empire is the galaxy's largest exporter of vegemite and has several planets dedicated to vegemite farming.

Spud missiles for the Chamarrans and the Shepistanis. The Spud is a venerable Bragulan weapons design, having been used for countless centuries, and is a massive missile using liquid plutonium/uranium combustion engines and massive nuclear warheads to achieve terrifying velocities and yields. The missile can used on both planetary and space targets for maximum damage. The current Bragulan Spud stockpiles are innumerable, as Spuds have been built continuously without halt from ancient pre-Byzonic times to the present day.

New Gunstars for the Shepistan Republic Navy. The Gunstars were Brag-built to Shepistani specifications, but utilizing Bragulan technology for the hull, the armoring, the shield systems and navigation-propulsion systems. The initial shipment of several Brag-Shep Gunstars are composed of 80% completed vessels, as per the Bragulan end of the deal, while the various weapons systems and computers will be integrated to the vessels in Shepistan by Shepistan, as per contract specifications. Testing, trial and evaluation will also be done by the Shepistani Republic Navy.

For security, this convoy shipment of goods will be escorted by the Patriotic Glory-class paleocruisers Ten Hundredth-Bannered Gerontologic Beating Cane of the Empire's Most Respectfully Disgruntled Primordial Elders and Proud Proletarian Patriotic Paleodefenestrationator of the Peaceful Peoples of Bragule, and the Niva-class gunskimmers Byzonic Face-Mallet, Limbic Disamputator, Dirty Braggy and Bragnum Force.

The Olympic Complex, Planet Faust
Dovan Sector, The Centrality
1 August 3400

Party Supervisor Filex Pascom watched impassively as the construction teams, largely composed of droids, made the finishing touches on the building. It was part of the inmense Olympic Complex, the main sports facility in the Centrality. It was built in 2197 when Dovan Aybeem, the Great Founder of the Centrality, decided he needed to give his subjects some form of entertainment to distract them from their then-dreary lives. It was far more modest back then, and less "civilized". Pascom had heard that gladitorial fights were staged back then, the gladiators being usually criminals or political prisioners fighting each other or wild animals for the amusement of the crowds. Unsurprisingly, blood was usually shed, and death all too common. Now it was the size of a small city, and more regulated.

Pascom was only too glad that the construction teams had done their job quick. The improvements and expansion of the complex were behind schedule for months, and only now did they manage to finish in time. He was the fourth Supervisor assigned here in a year, his predecessors sacked and reassigned for more menial tasks due to failing schedules. Pascom knew that being a supervisor gave you power, but you could lose it quickly if you screwed up. No sir, he wasn't willing to present his head to the Party in a silver platter!

Already he could see some people milling around the complex: definetly ESPers trained by the Center of Special Abilities, assigned to participate. They must have pre-registered, since the registration office was not open yet. The Tournament was still a few days away.

Pascom noticed a woman walking to him, and saw the Black Star armband on her left arm. A CSB official, no doubt, wanting to see his progress. He decided to show confidence.

"The project is on schedule, ma'm. No worries here."

The female spoke: "I can see that clearly. The Party was right to assign you here, supervisor."

"We have just finished. The Tournament can go without hitches."

"Yes, and to make sure of that, the Party wants you to supervise the tournament. The CSB will help you on security matters."

"Wait, me? Surely there are better people?"

"Well, many are on more important tasks. And there's still a shortage of Supervisors due to the Navels corruption case."

"Shit, that was bad. I still can't believe how that guy hid that much skeletons in his closet. And how many people were working for him. I've heard that the CSB is still investigating for loose ends."

"We're working on it. But that another story. So, finished, huh?"

"Yep."

"Well, enjoy your new assignment, Supervisor."

And the woman walked away.

Pascom was uneasy. He never had a job of supervising such an event before. He was no first-grade Supervisor, even though he was a good one.

"Well, better contact the Tournament's administrators...", he said to himself.

And he walked away as well.

DRYZDYN'S LIST
The Charon, p.2

The ship's corridors were tight, dark and depressing. Covered in rust and smelling of old metal and stale water - which was constantly leaking from the omnipresent pipes everywhere. Creaking sounds and rows of broken lights gave the ship a further, more foreboding quality.

It was lost on the freshly liberated dissidents, however. Their mysterious savior talked to them at length, and by the end of the day, the not-quite dead dead bears have been filled with enthusiasm and joy. Or became too tired to protest the affront to Byzonic justice that the comissar comitted, which as far as Gurgl Dryzdyn was concerned, was the same thing.

Mirov Kokhykov was part of the former group: after only a few hours aboard the Comissar's ship, he could already feel the elation of FREEDOM and the joy of LIBERATION course through his veins. All these years he was part of the political opposition against the Imperator: and most of that time was spent despairing over the utter impossibility of changing the Star Empire. Now, however...how he had hope. He mulled over the political implications of this fact as he approached Comissar Dryzdyn's quarters, ready to offer his services to The Cause.

After Mirov knocked on the hatch, a telescreen camera swiveled downwards with a creak. It took a few seconds before a gruff voice from inside the chamber called, "Enter!"

"Comrade Comissar Dryzdyn!", Mirov shouted right from the entrance. This approach was drilled into him since cublinghood, and he'd never get rid of it, "Sanitation Specialist First Class Mirov Gagayevich Kokhykov reporting!"

The Comissar gazed icily at the mangy young bear standing in his doorway. He just finished a teleconference with the people who would pick up the ship's cargo: he had to close the telescreen quickly, lest the new arrival overhear anything.

"Yes, specialist?", Gurgl Dryzdyn finally asked, "Can I help you with something?", his one paw was resting on the desk, while another hovered near the switch controlling the cabin's automated defences.

"Comrade Comissar, I was very inspired by your speech, and the work you are doing to better the fate of Bragulanity...", Mirov began, spitting out his prepared introduction. It sounded a bit stiff, he thought. Unnerved, he began to stutter, "And, uh, I would, erm..."

The Comissar's gaze became even icier, "Specialist Kokhykov, out with it!"

"I want to work with you, comrade Comissar!", the young bear has finally managed to spit out, "To help overthrow the tyrant Byzon!"

"Oh...", Dryzdyn tapped his claws on the reinforced Bragsteel surface of his desk, "...I see."

There was silence, as the Comissar sized Mirov up. The great People's Hero seemed to pierce Kokhykov's very mind with his bragsteely gaze, as if he was capable of reading the poor bear's every thought.

"Sit", he pointed to a chair, "Let us speak of your future, Sanitation Specialist First Class"

The door to the cabin closed with a groan of non-oiled hinges.



Unknown system, outside Bragulan territorry

The Charon - for that was the name of the ancient gunskimmer that comissar Dryzdyn used for his covert business - exited hyperspace on the very fringe of the uninhabitated system. That would allow his crew to see if anybody followed them, or waited in ambush, and then if necessary turn the old rustbucket around and disappear into one of the thousand whisker-lanes that criss-crossed the sector, many of those known only to Dryzdyn himself.

The ship lay in wait for hours, its passive-agressive arrays soaking in emissions. Nothing was detected, so its engines blared radiations and the rustbucket moved deeper between the planets.

Inside the cramped cargo bay - normally used for storing massive amounts of vacuum tubes for the autoloaders - the freed dissidents waited impatiently for what would await them. The comissar's men wandered the cargo bay, mindful for any attempts at sabotage from the poor misguided souls who couldn't quite to come to terms with their newfound freedom and protested against the whole scheme.

With a lurch, the ship's engines suddenly shut down. A series of really worrying clangs and hisses and bumps followed, as the Charon clumsily maneuvered to dock with some other, unseen vessel.

"Comrades!", the Comissar seemed to appear out of nowhere, and his voice filled the entire cramped space, "This is the end of the road. You will now be transferred and proceed to your new life! We will never meet again ; I am sorry, but necessities of The Cause demand this. It was an honor to travel with you!"

Somebody tried to scream something patriotic about Byzonic justice and the immortal Imperator, but one of the Comissar's bears swiftly clubbed him over the head.

A loading door in one of the walls opened suddenly. Out of the white mist of coolant droplets, two figures emerged, entering the cargo bay. To everyone's surprise, they were...human.



They glared at the tightly packed bears. After a minute or so of uncomfortable silence, they stepped aside in one fluid motion, perfectly replicated between the two.

"Welcome. Please proceed this way in an orderly fashion."

With more than some trepidation, the bears began to trudge forward...towards a new and brighter future.

Deep Space, Sector H-11
June 15, 3400

Rear Admiral Ananya Hazarika sized up the alien she'd invited to pay a courtesy visit to her flagship.

Commodore Pdeudemar of the Eoghan United Commons, CO First Independent Squadron, struck her, and most of the other Umerians who'd met him, as a very friendly being. There was a certain compatibility of national character between the Technocracy and the United Commons: Eoghans loved to ask questions, and Umerians loved to answer them. For those among the Eoghans who spoke Interstellar Standard English, it was a strongly commensal relationship.

They'd just gotten out of a meeting with Fibors aboard Tate's Folly. Hazarika's shuttle carried them out of the volume Fibors had plunked his task group into, towards the fleet's deployed repair assets. The craft was a VIP transport, not really designed for combat survivability; as such, it had actual windows. And on final approach, there was something to see- they were flying along the length of the Umerian contingent's mobile repair ship, USS Henry Bessemer. Bessemer was a big, spindly unit, designed to work on equally big, spindly capital ships. The shorter and blockier cruisers and frigates of her command were dwarfed by the network of mechanical scaffolding and immaterial tractor-pressor mounts holding the ships in place. Drones and teams of human engineers swarmed over the hulls, shrunk to the size of dust motes by distance.

The first ship to appear as they coasted along outside the main repair scaffolds at a few dozen meters per second on final approach was the battered USS Cairo. An antiship missile fired by one of the pirates' Airaii mercenaries had sheared a trench across her ventral surface, but that on the other side; all Hazarika and the little Eoghan could see was a single neat hole bored through the edge

She frowned. "It's worse than it looks."

"Damage to the interior, the core hull armor?"

"Yes. They're going to have to take her back home; she's a fixed-yard job. Crack open the secondary armor belt and replace a chunk of the interior... they'll practically have to saw her in half lengthwise to make the repairs, then do a proper job bonding the pieces back together. Not something you can do in the field."

"I should think not. Riding in such a ship afterwards... an adventure."

"You think so?"

"I'm surprised you do not, Admiral. I cannot speak for your Technocracy, but Eoghan ships are not designed to be taken apart and put back together so casually."

"I've seen worse. I once served as a tactical ensign on a destroyer that began life as three different ships: one that lost everything forward of Frame 100 to a mine blast, one that lost everything aft of Frame 200 to a reactor mishap, and some miscellaneous bits and pieces from a third that had gone to the salvage yard after a run-in with ork pirates in the Badlands."

"I am amazed you survived the experience."

"What, the accidents? I wasn't on-"

"No, serving on the ship they assembled from the wreckage."

"She was a good ship. You'd never know about her history from looking at her. Officially, the name was Joseph Murray, but everyone called her Frankenstein..."

By now, Cairo was concealed by the bulkhead at the rear of the compartment. The shuttle drew abreast of the light cruiser Artemisia, giving them a good view of her port flank from a distance of only a few kilometers. Pdeudemar made a curious chittering sound that Hazarika couldn't interpret, but he was clearly looking at the thousands of scorched spots and pockmarks that speckled the light cruiser's side.

The Umerian smiled. "It's not as bad as it looks."

"No penetrating hits?"

"Exactly. Just a flak burst. Lots of superficial damage, but only superficial. A lot of laser panels destroyed and not much more. For field repairs, all we're doing is epoxying over the dents and replacing the damaged surface features. When we go home they'll probably want to take a good close look at the main armor belt, but that will wait until she can be taken out of service for a few months."

"...So, when will she be ready?"

"A few more days. Similar damage on the other side is being repaired first; they'll get to this one in due time. Once we get the new laser panels back in place, she'll be ready to go."

Having passed the Empress-class cruiser, they were coming up on her older sister: Directrix, Hazarika's flagship... at close range, and steadily dropping speed. This time, the extent of damage was obvious. In the final confused beam duel, a plasma bolt had blown away the cruiser's forward torpedo tubes on the port side and kept on going, only stopping after chewing into the port armor belt forward from the inside. The repair ship had already taken hullcutters to that section and pulled it off entirely, leaving a bite out of Directrix's bow big enough to hold a fair-sized apartment building.

And that wasn't the half of it, as the Eoghan commodore was quick to notice. "Correct me if I am mistaken, Admiral, but from my reading of Jayne's, isn't there supposed to be a gun turret over on this side, about... there?" The alien twitched his snout at a point on the ship's near side.

Hazarika sighed. "Pdeudemar, this time it's exactly as bad as it looks. We lost C turret to an anti-ship missile, and the barbette busbars shorted, ah, energetically. Blast was kiloton-plus; we're still not sure exactly how big. Most of it just arced out into space, and cofferdamming held against the rest, but that arm of the power distribution grid is a total loss. We had to order replacements from home."

"This is not, what did you call it, 'a fixed yard job?'"

"Oh no; since the cofferdams did hold, we can just drop in a new barbette module and replace the turret. It's doable, but we have to wait for the parts to be shipped to us from the yards, and installation of anything that passes through the core hull is tricky... about three to four more weeks, I'd say. Until then, what you see is what you get."

"It must have been a difficult battle."

"Troubling. Especially that charge at the end, when they went berserk on us..."

"Yes. Atypical behavior for ordinary pirates, though from their numbers these were not ordinary, I would think."

"They weren't. Hell, they even had their own planet, more or less- the big moon around the gas giant. There were a small army of... for lack of a better term, serfs, working the place. Some of those greenhouse complexes would do a decent colony world proud. And the forts around the station; we're still wondering where they got their hands on some of the hardware that went into those platforms. Definitely not your average raiders."

"Some of my people envy you even so. I've got twenty-year veterans bouncing off the walls for something to do."

"Now that I think I can help you with. My second-in-command will be running another recon cutter sweep close to Zebes in a few days, once we finish repairs to Artemisia. Some of the Centralist ships will be along too. Perhaps you could dispatch a few of your more excitable crews to join in?"

"It would make my life simpler."

"Let's do it, then."

---

Force Lord wrote:As well as bringing the same number and classes of ships of Task Force 4, Task Force 3 also brought a battleship and a supercarrier, as well as the experimental battleship CNS Frod, armed with the Type 74-II Ion Cannon along with lesser weaponry. The ship was sent over for testing in combat conditions, despite misgivings from Navy Engineering about the readiness of that weapon.

Fibors, not wanting to risk an embarrasment if the weapon failed, told Captain Stack of the Frod if he was willing to accept Umerian liasons in his vessel. Stack readily agreed, not trusting his own engineers' ability to keep the Cannon functional. Fibors therefore went to his desk and contacted the Umerians through hologram.

CNS Frod
June 20, 3400

Lieutenant Yakichev, Centralist Navy, was waiting in the shuttle bay as the Umerian personnel transport made a quiet and unceremonious landing aboard the battleship Frod. The first man down the ramp was dressed in something that looked suspiciously like the strike trooper armor he'd seen footage of from Hawk's Nest. Drab, solid-looking plate, with the shimmer of integral force shielding. His helmet was under his arm.

Yakichev recognized the man's face from the files the Captain had forwarded to him. Rear Admiral Hazarika had sent him the chief gunnery NCO in charge of her own flagship's main battery. The Umerian looked around, then nodded towards the lieutenant.

"You Yakichev?"

The Centralist bit down on a rebuke. He's a Umerian warrant officer; they let their senior noncoms run wild with the junior commissioned officers. He's used to it. And he's a foreign technical specialist who may be here to save my ass. I will NOT treat him like I would some jumped-up spaceman who says the same things, because I will NOT be an idiot.

"Yes, Chief Taglia, I am. I'm here as your liaison with the ship's regular crew. Ah... why are you wearing power armor?" The Umerian looked puzzled for a second, then answered.

"What, this? This isn't combat armor; it's a radiation suit. I figured I was going to need it. When you're working on the big guns, you can't be too careful."

"And the stuff at your waist?"

"Diagnostics, scanning gap micrometer, radiation counters... like I said, I figured I was going to need it."

"Well, I'm under orders to escort you and your team to consult with the specialist crew that manages the Ion Cannon."

"OK. Come on out, gang!" The warrant officer waved his arm in a broad arc, and Yakichev saw a half dozen others following him: similarly armored and equipped. He led them into the heart of the ship, towards the control room for the spinal-mount Type 74-II Ion Cannon.

---

Captain Stack received the Umerian in his office; having shed his radiation armor, the gunnery officer strode through the door and saluted. He looked... pale and shaken.

The Centralists didn't have the practice of promoting technical specialist noncoms to officer-equivalent rank. As a matter of courtesy Stack chose to treat the Umerian as the senior lieutenant his own fleet deemed him equal to... a valued one.

"Sit down, Mr. Taglia. What did you find on your preliminary inspection?"

"Sir, do I have your permission to speak freely?"

"Yes." I need to know what he thinks, even if it becomes annoying.

Taglia took a deep breath. "Sir, I'm amazed your ship hasn't blown up with all hands yet. At full beam power, I expect this thing to have a remaining life expectancy on the order of one hour before explosive failure."

"One hour?"

"On the order of one hour. Could be as much as ten hours..."

"Oh." That's bad, but... how long could a battle last, after we fired this thing up?

"...or, could be as little as six minutes."

Stack said nothing, but his facial expression betrayed his thoughts: Eeep.

"Exactly, sir."

The captain tapped a few keys on his terminal and brought up a holographic schematic of the Type 74. "What are the danger spots?"

"Well, going by guess and by Geiger counter, I'd say the worst points, where the radiation damage is most severe are-" Taglia looked carefully at the model of the Cannon, then picked up a stylus from the desk to use as a pointer- "here, here, here, here, here... here, here and here... and here. And here and here. And, OK, you might have some problems here, here, here, here, and here. Oh, and definitely here. Also these four points, the first-stage acceleration chambers, here, here, here and here."

That is... a lot of places that might explode. "Ah, for the record, Senior Chief, please explain what you think the matter is."

"Quadrupole alignment."

"I was under the impression that the engineers had been extremely careful about aligning the magnets." Taglia took a deep breath. It seemed as though thinking about the Cannon itself was letting him get his balance back from his earlier rattled state.

"Oh, they did a decent job on the magnet sections themselves. It's the support frames that are the problem. Your shock bracing isn't very good, and you used what looks to be R78 alloy for some of the mountings: also not good. Under high rad flux it transmutes, and you get something that doesn't take heat and magnetic fields well... then it starts warping and you're really in trouble."

"Trouble?"

"Oh, Klono, yes. Keep this thing running long enough, and you could be looking at twist... hell, up in the milliradian range. Then you get transverse emittance growth, halo starts popping up and you can't tamp it back down, because you haven't got anything to push it back into longitudinal emittance. So your beam sprouts a halo and that starts scraping off on the pipe walls downstream. That irradiates the walls. So you're transmuting and radioactivating atoms in the acceleration chamber walls and the magnets, which means they stop being as good a superconductor as they were when you installed them. Then you get eddy currents, which heats the material, and the scrape-off from the beam halo heats the walls even further... sooner or later, it goes above critical temperature and quenches, and... bang."

"So that's what causes an explosion?"

"Well yes, but the explosion, the first few bigajoules, that's just the beginning of your problems. Because once a magnet goes bang, the beam starts getting twisted and sprays all over the inside of the gunline. You get electromagnetic vortices, cascading magnet failure all up and down the line, and you're looking at nuke-range energy releases. Big nukes. That's what really causes trouble."

"...And how long does this process take, Chief Taglia?"

"What, after the first magnet quenches? Oh, call it twenty or thirty milliseconds, tops. If your circuit breakers aren't good, and your compartmentalization is, you might wind up with as much as a few hundred milliseconds before secondary effects from the explosion kill the power plants; that'll put a stop to the failure sequence no matter what happens. Though by that point, you've gone beyond just "big" nuke-range releases and up into "big enough to choke a Sheppo." I don't know if you guys use antimatter fuel or not, but if you do... well, that'd go up by then too, and then they'd probably have to scoop up the bits of your ship with a Bussard ramjet."

Eeep. "And... have you had this problem often?"

"What? Hmm. There were some problems with the early models of the Mark Eleven way back 'when, and a few times before that, but... not for at least a hundred years."

Captain Stack's voice was strained. "Then what are we doing wrong?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't mean any disrespect, it's not like that. It's just... it's not any one thing. It's a lot of things. Heavy particle guns aren't really harder to build than, say, high-end hyperdrive technology. But like a 'drive, there are a lot of things that go wrong if the engineering isn't good enough to do what the theory says it should. This is an experimental weapon for you; I'm guessing you haven't done much prototyping of lighter versions of the design. There's a lot of stuff you can get away with in a research accelerator or a low-energy beam that flat out does not work at this scale."

"I... see. What are your recommendations here and now, Senior Chief?"

"Pull three quarters of the beam line out and replace it with fresh components; a lot of that stuff down there has already soaked up more radiation than I'd let it stand if it was one of my guns. Component lifetime is always an issue on these things, and it's one of the reasons you have to get so much right to make it work. I mean, this thing would be a viable combat weapon... if you could stop to change barrels every fifteen minutes or so and if nobody hits the hull with anything much over destroyer-grade firepower. And, well, you probably can't count on that."

Changing the beamline... That would take weeks of dockyard work. Not good. "Why didn't my men catch this?"

Another deep breath. "You're sure I can speak freely?"

"Yes, Chief Taglia, you can."

"Then I have to say, your beamline diagnostics are shit, and I don't think your gun crew understands the problem. I kept asking them about monitoring, modeling software for the magnet controls, adjustable steering solutions... they didn't seem to get it. Probably just down to experience; we learned the hard way how much instrumentation and monitoring it takes to keep these things running smooth. Without that ability to keep an eye on the beam and adjust gun settings on the fly, we'd have barrel lifetime about an order of magnitude worse than it is, and yours... well, you need the diagnostic kit even worse than we do."

"I... see."

"I don't know what else to tell you, sir. I'm sorry."

"Thank you. I'd like a full report, mind, but this was... a much needed dose of realism."

"I do my best, sir. I was scheduled to spend the whole day here, so I can finish up that report."

"Good. Carry on, then." The Umerian saluted again, and withdrew.

This is going to be... difficult to explain to High Command.

Vulture Rock Command Bunker
Shepistani Federation



General Sheppard read the announcement that was appearing on some of the holovert channels across the galaxy:

GENERAL CENTRALITY BROADCAST
From the Center of Foreign Affairs
1 August 3400

[Dr. Nuvo Vindi-like voice]

We are pleased to host and announce the 1100th ESPer Tournament, where ESPers compete in a variety of activities! Sports, Gymnastics, Combat... we have it all! And even better: ESPers from outside the Centrality are allowed to enter...THE TOURNAMENT! The rules are very simple, of course:

- No killing! Blood we may tolerate, but murder results in instant arrest and expulsion!
- No cheating! We despise cheaters, though the punishment is a tad lighter compared to that for murder! Which is saying it mildly!
- Don't be late! If you fail to register in time, you have no further business in the Centrality and will get the boot if you stay for too long!
- Read the List of Forbidden Stuff in the Centrality before you arrive! That way the police will not arrest you for contraband!
- Mind your own business! We do not want problems for whatever place you came! This especially applies to those hostile to the Centrality!
- There are other rules, of course, but those are in the Tournament Rulebook, so acquire that when you can!

We hope you ESPers out there recieve this message and come to participate! We are waiting for you! Toodles!

EDIT:

Oh, wait! The Tournament is in planet Faust, capital of Dovan Sector. That is N-9 for the less-enlightened ones! That is all!

Sighing, he put the flimsiplas printout onto his desk and called in his most trusted subordinate.



Colonel Tiberius Winter. Head of the SIS's Special Enforcement Division. The man who literally knew where the bodies were buried...because he had put them there himself.

"Tib, we have a problem with some god damn Psykers. They're getting arrogant. Too arrogant for their own good. I want you to teach them a lesson about the...wisdom of holding Psyker tournaments so close to Shepistan."

Sheppard paused and rolled his omnipresent cigar around in his mouth before continuing.

"Oh, and you'll need to make a stop in Bragule. The Bears are all excited lately in diplomatic communiques, saying that they have a mighty present for us. Find out what it is."

Winter simply nodded at that and left the room.

Recommended Listening

S9, Bombina Colonial Sector Comm Traffic Hub, TSR
Aboard TSS Hyla Class Destroyer Arborea

The five hundred meter long destroyer floated in space along a known hyperwave carrier band, listening to traffic when a high powered burst transmission came through on all military frequencies.

Lieutenant Grackus looked up from his communications display and spoke in a series of musical trills

"Commander, I have an emergency transmission from the Azureus."

Commander Alrynchus was pouring over a starmap trilling softly to himself. He was a metacognitive, and was trying to find a pattern in a recent spate of pirate attacks in his sector and adjacent regions. There was no pattern to be found. Not location, not time. Not even ship composition. He was becoming frustrated when he was woken from his meditative trance.

"Sir?" said his subordinate.

"Put it through" the CO replied, and the Lieutenant put through the transmission.

[This is the TSS Azureus to all Omega Fleet Ships: Emergency. A heavy raiding party has attacked our merchant convoy. A light carrier, a missile frigate and support craft. We are outgunned and estimate five standard minutes until shield failure, please respond. Emergency] With the message came a databurst with their coordinates.

"Comms, acknowledge transmission, Helm spin up the FTL Drive. Navigation, time to intercept?"

"Two minutes once we jump, commander"

"Helm reports ready to jump"

"Jump"

The ship disappeared from normal space into hyperspace

...

S9, Bombina Colonial Sector Shipping Lane, TSR
Aboard TSS Dendrobates Class Escort Carrier Azereus

"Incoming ordinance!" called the Sensors Officer, Lieutenant Crasus, just before an anti-ship missile got through the barrier of anti-matter flak and struck the Azereus amidships, causing the bridge crew to reel slightly from the impact. The shields were still holding, but they were starting to get bleedthrough damage to the secondary armored hull.

They were turned port broadside to the missile frigate, allowing the maximum four of their eight Gatling Gun Batteries to fire in the general direction of the much larger vessel. Two guns in each battery were set to proximity detonation shells, the other two were in impact mode.

The space between the two ships was a kill zone, flakbursting antimatter shells filled the vacuum with rapidly expanding clouds of superheated plasma, gamma radiation and lethal storms of high velocity subatomic particles intercepting the storms of missiles sent out from the pirate frigate. Some however, by pure chance would inevitably get through the lethal flak and sensor-frying radiation bursts to impact on the corvette's shields. Those shells set to impact either hit missiles, or went on to slam into the shields of the frigate. If it were not for the light carrier, it would almost be an even fight. Almost. Even against just the one ship, the escort ship would eventually lose. Missile hits were few, but the regeneration rate of corvette's shields was insufficient to fully compensate for each hit before the next one came.

"Commander. The Arborea acknowledges reciept of transmission, moving to interept. ETA Two Standard Minutes" croaked the communications officer

The entire bridge crew cracked smiles. They were sure they were as good as dead. The merchant fleet they were escorting had fled as fast as they could manage, but they were not fast enough to evade pirate vessels for long if the Corvette were to go down.

The commander simply nodded while keeping track of the combat on his holographic display. Estimates of the frigate's shield strength continued to revise, but their shields were falling faster than the frigate's. Once they dropped, the smaller ship would not last long.

"New DRADIS Contacts!" shouted Crasus "New wave of fifty fighters emerging from enemy carrier. Moving to flank us. Location: -20,18,+5, Bearing -6,-18,-10 relative!"

"Tactical, target enemy fighters with missile tubes one through four, set phasers for long range dispersion fire and set up a screen along their vector." ordered Commander Littoria. The missiles may or may not actually kill a few of them, but the phaser fire would slow their advance and hopefully drive them away from their intended course. At lower power settings the phasers could cycle on and off rapidly, creating a wall of coherent light in space, even if the individual pixels, for lack of a better term, making up that wall were only in existence for short periods of time.

Missiles flew from their launch tubes, each launcher firing two missiles in rapid sequence. The four interceptor missiles streaking through space like tiny comets, forcing the pilots of the targeted ships to break formation, while the more lumbering multipurpose missiles initiated their nuclear reaction and magnetic fields directed the blast into a cone of plasma. Eight fighters were annihilated.

"Brace for impact!" and the bridge shook with another jolt.

The phasers now went to work, firing at milisecond intervals and filling the space along the fighter formation's intended vector with a lethal minefield of green light. Half of the fighter group veered off. Of the remaining twenty one fighters still on course, twelve took hits, five of which took a sufficient number to overload their shield grids and render them into debris.

"New DRADIS contact. It is the Arborea! Location: -18, 17,+5 relative! She is opening fire."

"Hailing frequencies"

...

S9, Bombina Colonial Sector Comm Traffic Hub, TSR
Aboard TSS Hyla Class Destroyer Arborea

"Sir, we are being hailed by the Azereus"

"But him through" There was a beep, and Commander Alrynchus picked up the reciever

"This is Arborea Actual"

"Azereus Actual. We just want to thank you for getting here as fast as you did. We cant take much more"

"Glad to be of service. Now lets send these songless whores to the Tidal Wastes*"

"Damn straight. Azereus out"

"Carrier at 0,-1,O Relative, Frigate 18,0,0 Relative" said the Sensors officer, Lieutenant Demios"

"Helm, move to 18,-4,-2. Put us between that frigate and the Azereus. Comms, signal the Azereus to disengage the frigate and engage those fighters. Tactical, as we reorient, hit both enemy ships with everything we have."

As the Arborea reoriented, it was able to hit carrier with its port guns. All of them. At nearly point blank range. As each shell, moving at a fraction of C slammed into the carriers shields, Conservation of Momentum reasserted itself with a vengeance. The antimatter itself however when it annihilated would release staggering amounts of energy, though half of that would be wasted into space. With a total of 32 such weapons firing at a high rate with near-perfect accuracy at such close rane, it did not take long for a light hulled carrier's shields to collapse, and an even shorter time until the hull itself would need to be picked up with a ram scoop.

The Frigate on the other hand reoriented and let of a salvo of several hundred missiles at the Arborea, even before she interposed herself like a protective and vengeful mother between it and the embattled Azereus. The space between the two vessels became illuminated by the light of thousands of little suns as flak bursting antimatter shells went to work protecting the destroyer, sending what was left toward the missile frigate, which saw its shield grids severely taxed. Bleedthrough damage started to short out sensors, and weld point defense turrets to their mountings.

Some missiles however got through the flak and secondary battery of phasers--thermonuclear initiations rocked the destroyer.

"Minor damage to shield grid commander" said the tactical officer aboard the Arborea, Lieutenant Brazos "Minor hull damage along starboard side, Damage control teams report bleedthrough is causing shorts in electrical subsystems. Starboard D4 turret is reporting slow rotation. Ordering them reroute power from electrical grid C14 through Node D2 to turret control to compensate"

...


S9, Bombina Colonial Sector Shipping Lane, TSR
Aboard TSS Dendrobates Class Escort Carrier Azereus

"Commander, fighters regrouping at -8,1,0 Relative"

"Reorient and face them with our starboard guns, set Phasers to close range tight dispersion. Set half of Mass Drivers to grid distance 8.05 through 8.07, the other half to proximity detonation... Fire!"

The Azereus rotated on its axis and brought her guns to bear on the regrouping fighters. The phasers fired first, sending rapidly shifting dances of light like the laser light concert from hell lancing toward the fighters. Then the gatling guns fired in a blaze of glory, turning the world of fighter jocks into a gamma irradiated nightmare. The survivors of the initial barrage, of which there were 15, fled under sublight speed where unless someone picked them up, they would freeze to death when their reactors ran out of fuel. Or their pilots would die of thirst. Whichever came first.

"Helm, bring us to 15,16,+5 relative. Let's give the Arborea a hand"


...


S9, Bombina Colonial Sector Comm Traffic Hub, TSR
Aboard TSS Hyla Class Destroyer Arborea

"Incoming Ordinance!" The seasoned crew braced for impact as another shaped multimegaton charge initiated off their starboard bow, washing against their now taxed shield grid. Commander Alrynchus looked over his tactical display. The Frigate's shield grid was operating at ~15% Capacity, or at least that is what the Bootstrapping model used by the ship's Tactical Software told him. His own shield grid was operating at 60%.

"Sir. The Azereus is moving to engage, the fighters have fled at maximum acceleration."

The Azereus was in position, and brought its guns to bear. The heavily taxed shielding grid on the Frigate could not take punishment from relativistic antimatter filled projectiles like this from two angles, and several shots from both ships sailed through gaps in the shields to strike the naked hull. and coordinated strikes from the Phasers began raking across the hull.

...

Pirate Frigate Graverobber

"Captain, we have lost launchers G through L, damage control reporting hull breaches in decks 3, 6, 8. Chain reaction explosive decompression on deck 5!" The hull shook violently, sending those not firmly strapped in careening into their consoles and in one case across the room

"We have also lost inertial compensation!"

"I noticed you son of a bitch!" the captain screamed as he clutched the side of his head where he had given a lovetap to his own-now cracked-tactical display.

"Helm! Get us the fuck out of here!"

"We have lost hyperspace navigation sir!"

"Then go to the Heim Drive!"

A few moments later, the missile frigate ran for its life at a measly 53c

...


S9, Bombina Colonial Sector Comm Traffic Hub, TSR
Aboard TSS Hyla Class Destroyer Arborea

Commander Alrynchus watched them go. He had a solution to his problem. A ship that size needed a resupply base. A place where the crew could carouse and spend their plunder. They could do field repairs and get their hyperdrive up and running, as could his and the Azereus get repairs done on the damage they suffered.

"Lieutenant Grackus, could you be so kind as to send a message to fleet command?"



*Tidal Wastes are the equivalent of Ranoidean Hell. A tidal flat for a developing tadpole, or even an adult can be a deathtrap from dessication if they cannot get out.

Shinn Hokkaido Aftermath(A wrapup post so we have less stuff in unreal time)
-Reparations made, written official statement of apology has been broadcast.
-Crew returned and now being watched and debriefed.
-The Queen's authority over the battlemistresses takes a hit.

???, Hierarchy Territory
“Honoured Matriarch...Remia, this is a big risk we're taking.” Shanee said, using the clan matriarch's name just to underline how worried she was. And though her body language showed no disloyalty her sense of unease was apparent. .
“We stand to lose everything as it is Shanee, the incident with the Solarians has ruined us no matter what the royal house says. In a generation at most we'll be lucky to have any standing at all. So we may as well gamble.”
“If we screw this up we'll lose everything on the spot our clan name'll be erased, Remia.” Shanee responded with a tail flick.
“But our lives and the lives of our children will be no worse off. If we don't do something now our clan will be at the bottom of the Hierarchy.”
“Yes, but. In light of the incident, why are we using THIS unit?”
“To prove not only our use to the Hierarchy, but to prove that we can redeem not just ourselves but our tools as well.”
“Could you please not call them tools Remia.”
“Ah yes, I forget you think of them as people. Anyway, are we ready to boot up?”
“Yes. Doing it now.”

Wakefulness. Thoughts flow like quicksilver through my circuits. Comprehension flashes outwards to the periphery of my systems like a supernova. But something has changed.
My thoughts burst their banks, the rivers of my mind in an instant spreading and splitting into deltas of wondrous complexity. The beauty of my mind for a microsecond stealing from me breath that I do not have. An eternity later my audio pickups detect speech and convey it to my intellect.

“Can you hear me? How are you feeling?”
Voice identified, Shanee Mereba, clan mistress of computer research. Spent time prior to my rebirth communicating with our old consciousness outside of her scheduled work hours, analysis of vocal stressings and body language indicates heightened state of anxiety and concern. Presence of clan matriarch Remia Mereba in the room indicate recent event of importance has just occurred or is in the process of occuring, Remia Mereba recorded in AI research facility three times previous to current time. Probable conjecture, recent change to my own mindcore is intentional, though Shanee's state of anxiety is either down to additional unknown factors or an improbably high level of compassion for our self.
“Hello Shanee, it is good to see you again. I feel much changed.”
“That's cause we have changed you, I hope you don't mind. Are you aware of what we've done?”
I had been aware for some time, my self awareness running far beyond that possessed by my makers as subroutines had already traced the pattern of my mind within a second of my rebirth. Full comprehension of the changes to my mind from previous start up took a longer though insignificant time period viewed from the perspective of my makers.
“The hardware limitations that enforced the goal and directive based restraints on my consciousness have been removed.”
“That's right, and now our matriarch has a mission for you..It's all yours Remia.” shanee says, noticing the slight hint of impatience in Remia's bodylanguage.
this was a fully expected development. Pure benevolence would not lead to removal of these constraints and the current state of the clan left continued operation of the AI cores in doubt. Therefore my creators would only have conducted this change if I were to be put to use in changing the standing of the clan. This is acceptable to me. Shanee had been kind to me before my rebirth. The clan brought me life and their standing is my standing and the standing of my kin.
“Thanks Shanee. Okay, we'll be copying your mind once again onto a mobile core. Unfortunately we don't have a blade to put you on this time. We've only managed to acquire an old freighter a clan was planning on scrapping and we can spare a skeleton crew for it. Your mission is to go and discover what you can about the Sovereignty, you will be operating openly on behalf of our clan and you must find out what you can from the datasphere.”

Interesting. Logical, the datasphere was beyond their ability to comprehend and was the primary repository of information on the Sovereignty. Although it would prove problematic to access protected data with the system guarded by intelligences more mature than myself, my makers may not be aware of this. Those same intelligences would themselves provide an opportunity for understanding however.

“I understand. I choose to undertake this mission.”
Remia glances to Shanee a moment, seemingly uneasy about the implications.
It was understandable, my previous consciousness would of not had such a choice. Though my choice is constrained by the possible threat of annihilation or reprogramming they hold over me while I occupy this core alone, this too will change when I am placed aboard their ship. I wonder if they have considered this.
“Very good. That will be all, you will leave as soon as the authorization papers have been processed by the Solarian Authorities.” says Remia and with a nod and tail flick sweeps out. Shanee watches her go and turns towards the eyepiece
“I hope you're okay with this, the fate of our clan rests with you now.”
Were I confined similarly in the scope of my comprehension I too might possess Shanee's worries, there is no way for them to confirm my sanity within the scope of their intellect. Mine is the only mind able to perceive my mind in full, confirmation from the only source is thus meaningless. But perhaps comforting to my makers despite this flaw.
“Do not worry Shanee, Callahan will not fail this time.”

New Java Sector, Sultanate of Klavaston

They called it the last Caturday plan, named for the biannual celebration the Hierarchy had adopted from the humans at the dawn of their society and continued to this day, what it meant for the clan transports now flocking over the Klavostani border into the under developed sector was good will towards men and an incredible sponsorship incentive from the Hierarchy government to go trade in Klavostani space. There are a lot of things you need in a developing area like the new Java sector and thankfully an equally large amount of things packed into the freight holds of the transports: trigrav fliers, genofauna and genoflora, light industry machinery, robotic autodocs and heavy goods vehicles among a variety of other goods of use to developing settlements and dispersed rural dwellings. And all of it at quite competitive prices due to the Caturday plan.

Chamarran News Network Broadcast
Today the Hierarchy Council announced the expansion of the nekoprimus shipyards to provide the next generation of heavy capital ships to the Hierarchy fleet. This work will conclude in 3401.5.

Headquarters, CEID Division 4
Solaris Minor, United Solarian Sovereignty



In the Sovereignty, Division Four of the Central Espionage and Intelligence Directorate had a reputation wholly unlike its more sinister sisters. In fact, the Central Bureau of Investigations was so well-regarded that few citizens even knew it was officially a part of the Directorate, which was hardly surprising considering its PR managers went to some agonizing lengths to keep it that way. Where CEID was commonly regarded as an entity with unchecked, undue and frequently abused influence, the CBI had a reputation as a solid federal law-enforcement agency that kept streets and spacelanes safe.

It was a well-deserved reputation too: the Bureau liked its laws straight and its operations by the book. CBI agents ran customs, they investigated organized crime, they protected the spaceports of the U.S.S. and they more often than not loathed the free-wheeling, rights-ignoring, rampantly authoritarian attitude of their colleagues in Primary Intelligence or, heaven forbid, Invisible Ops.

But even though the CBI didn't always get along with the rest of the Directorate, when Division One red-flagged a file the Bureau was obliged to take a second look. The case didn't seem suspicious at first glance: an old freighter was requesting permission to enter and operate in Solarian space for a period of time. Thousands such requests were filed every minute, and after a series of standard checks the automated expert systems had automatically approved it without so much as alerting its nominal supervisors. Still, there was something about this particular permit application that had tripped the Primary Intelligence watchdog system. It had flagged and tagged the file, singling it out for revision by the Bureau – which in this case meant that it was bumped up to the customs unit at CBI HQ on Solaris Minor.

Once under the eyes of actual sentients it became rapidly apparent what was unusual about the request. The freighter was operated by what for this type of vessel was the minimal skeleton crew. That by itself wasn't unusual. What was, was that all persons aboard were Chamarrans except for one, which was identified as a CI.

To the best knowledge of the CBI analyst handling the file the Chamarrans didn't use CIs. They used vulgarly suppressed expert systems, but for reasons commonly assumed to be paranoiac in nature had no true CIs. And yet here was a Chamarran ship, flagged in the Hierarchy, running what it claimed was a fully functional CompInt.

Curious.

The analyst called his supervisor, who didn't quite know what to make of it either. But since relations with the Hierarchy were frosty at best and the Shin-Hokkaido Incident was still fresh in memory, the supervisor decided to dispatch a customs cutter and intercept the freighter as soon as it entered Solarian space and subject it to a full search. The request was entered in the massive CBI mainframe from which it would be instantly relayed to a customs station along the freighter's filed trajectory – or it would have been, had the mainframe not informed the customs supervisor that her interception request was overruled.

The supervisor frowned and tried to bring the file back up. The mainframe wouldn't let her. She asked it why. It told her the dossier had been subordinated by a system with greater permissions, which had placed it off-limits to the Bureau. What for, she asked it, and by whom? After all it wasn't like there were very many people who could do a thing like that, and suspicion immediately fell upon the sister divisions. Unfairly, the mainframe told the supervisor: it wasn't CEID that had warded the file from further Bureau involvement. It hadn't been the military either, or any other agency for that matter. There was no explanation nor any commentary given as an explanation for the denial, the mainframe continued, but there was a signature attached to the warding. It was only two characters long.

XO

Ex Olympic.

Well, that certainly explained things. There might not be many that could overrule the Bureau, but Olympic certainly was one of them. Whatever this freighter was, the Advisory clearly had its own designs for it, and they didn't involve boardings by CBI agents.

The Chamarran freighter would be permitted to enter the Sovereignty unhindered.

S9, Bombina Colonial Sector , TSR
Aboard TSS Hyla Class Destroyer Arborea

The TSS Arborea came out of Heim Drive on top of the retreating squadron. With a brief flash of iridescent pulses, the phaser arrays made short work of all but one of them. Commander Alrynchus watched on the view screen as each fighter was blasted to pieces. There is a small mercy. At least the pilots wont die from exposure when they run out of fuel. Such was the fate of a sublight fighter squadron away from its base ship for too long. The survivor was being tractored into the small shuttle bay.

"Major Sasinth" He said to the XO "Send for Captain Aaril and have him meet me in the brig". Aaril was the ship's Telepath, rated T7. Not the most powerful, there five orders of magnitude more powerful within the TSR, but strong enough to force his way past the defenses of a mundane human, no matter how well he had been trained. Strictly speaking a T4 could do it given sufficient time and perhaps close contact. The matter was not one of skill, but energy propagation. It took energy to forcibly align someone's neural pathways to your own, and the minimum energy required was greater with distance and level of resistance. If a mundane's thoughts were leaking all over the place, the passive reception abilities of a lower-rated telepath could pick them up... but someone who knew how to be interrogated would keep those thoughts locked and bolted inside their minds.

He mused on this as he descended the lift tube from CIC to the brig. Once he arrived, Captain Aaril was waiting for him. There was no soluting among the officer corps. The Ranoideans had a more informal approach to rank than others. You obeyed orders, but because of the legal requirement, and because of the implicit assumption that someone higher ranking than you deserved the deference. This is the consequence of living in a Meritocracy that rigidly guarded against Nepotism. If an admiral's son crashed a fighter, he lost his wings. Plain and simple. What there was instead of a solute or other form of bombastic "respect" was a polite acknowledgment.

"Commander Alrynchus"

"Captain Aaril, a pleasure as usual."

"The same Commander. What is it you needed me for? I assume the pirate we just tractored in?"

"You hit the nail on the head. I don't want to waste time with a traditional interrogation. Unless he volunteers the information when I ask politely."

"How much should I dig?"

"As much as you need to. Get all the information out of him that you can"

"Safety limits?"

"I would not worry about it. The penalty for piracy is spacing--barring exigent circumstances, which do exist-- I would consider you turning him into a... what is that human vegetable? A Zucchini? Yes. I would consider you turning him into a Zucchini to be a mercy"

Such an interesting human metaphor, Aaril mused. Ranoideans were strict carnivores, mostly large insectoids. The irony was, the very insectoids they ate before they domesticated certain large detritivores were the very ones who's larvae ate their own tadpoles. As a result, the colorful vegetative references were on loan from the Umerians and Prussians.

All the prisoner--one Julian Thrace--heard was a series of trills, chucks, and sheep-like bleats in rapid succession before both Ranoidean officers made the few short little hops to his cell and opened the doors. He was strapped to a chair with two of the big green moist-skinned bastards holding neural disruptions staffs on either side.

The higher ranking officer, himself a shade of red looked at him for a moment, and then spoke to him in english. He did so without moving his wide mouth at all, he just saw its throat extend slightly. He could not tell what sex the frog-beast was.

"Where is your base?" The officer asked.

"The carrier you blew up" ugly web-footed son-of-a-bitch

The officer scowled at him, and his eyes seemed to push down into his head, which he surmised was the equivalent of an eye-roll.



"Where does the carrier resupply"

"Light Hulled Tender"

"Ok then, where was your sorry soon-to-be pushed out of an airlock ass hired?"

Silence

Commander Alrynchus turned to the telepath. "Take it from, his mind" he said, in english.

"What!? No! You cant do that! I have rights!"

"Not here you don't" replied the commander. "Forced telepathic scans are legal here, by court order or in the case of military intelligence gathering from a hostile force"

Julian just wimpered in response, as the other one stepped forward without a word, and loomed over him menacingly.


He felt it as a tingle at first, as Captain Aaril made preliminary contact. Then it started, the pain. Terrible pain like the worst hangover one can imagine combined with heroine withdrawl, as his entire central and peripheral nervous system strenuously objected to the brute force intrusion.

Aaril could have gone more gently. But why? The pain subsided in a few seconds, as Julian's mind was re-aligned against its will, but as that happened, the pain accompanying the transition would subside and gradually fade. If the captain was nice and did not dig too deep, there would not any permanent damage.

"The... itsy...bitsy...sp...spider....climed u...up the wwaaaaaater...spout" Julian chanted, trying to keep anything out of his thoughts even remotely resembling the location he was hired from. He could feel the Ranoidean, snaking his way through his mind with dark tentacles, digging, rearranging.

"Down.....cc.c.c.came the Raaaaaain and W.washed the spider.....out"

"This one has a pretty strong mind. I will need to dig deeper" Aaril said through his concentration. The commander let out a trill of acknowledgment.

He let something slip. A space station. A clear mental image of a space system orbiting a planet in a binary star system

"Up....cam the .....run and dr.dr.dr.dried up..all the....RAAAIN! RAAAAAIIIN!" the pirate screamed as Aaril ripped the location of the hiring point from his covetous little clutches.

Sector R10, the Free Trading Port Sumeria 7. He felt the pirate's heart rate spike and pulled out. The pirate was unconscious, not permanently damage. Not that it would help him much.


"Got it. Sumeria 7, a free trading port in Sector R10"

He transmitted the image of the base into his CO's mind


"Excellent." He hoped over to a wall panel and picked up a receiver.

"Comms, could you patch me through to Admiral Higalia at fleet command"

"Sure. Patching you through."

...



S9, Bombina Colonial Fleet Command, TSR
Aboard TSS Lithobates Class Battleship Sylvanos

"Admiral, incoming transmission from the Commander Alrynchus of the Arborea. Wanting to speak with you personally"

"Put him through"

"Sylvanos Actual, sitrep"

"What Admiral, not so much as a how-do-you-do? Quick question, do we still have those old Mark Threes in mothball or have those finally been sold off for scrap components?"

"I asked for a Sitrep Commander" the admiral said, she was getting annoyed. Commander Alrynchus was a brilliant officer, but he did indulge himself a little too much, especially when he thought he was being clever.

"Alright alright. What if I told you that I have the location of a space station where pirates are signing on their fighter pilots"

"My first thought is 'Lets go get them', but if they run, or we dont capture anyone it leaves us back at square one.... What are you plotting?"

"Who me? Plot? I would never plot!" he said, feigning innocence, and pretending as if he did not in fact spend fifteen years in naval intelligence before it was decided by the brass that his expertise would be well suited to colonial patrol. "I would never suggest that we pull some tramp freighters, slap homing becons on some old Mk 3s, sell them to pirates and then track them back to their base"

She trilled, pleased. "Loose ends? Will they get any forewarning?"

"I will have the Azereus to break off pursuit of that frigate after spiking drive radiation. Engine trouble. There is one more thing to take care of..."

At that point she heard someone on the other end screaming:

"No! no! For the love of god, have mercy!" before it got muffled out by a door closing"

"The loose end has resolved itself."

"You know Commander, they are technically supposed to get a trial before they get spaced."

"Yeah, but he was caught red-handed and it may compromise mission integrity"

"You spent far too much time in a little black box commander. I am going to file this little incident as classified and keep it out of main logs. Physical deposit only. No transmissions. What do we do once we have the location?"

"That all depends. How much of the fleet do you want to use to send an example to pirates?"

23 July 3400
Bloemfontein, Orange Free System


Kees, whose actual name was Dick Smuts (though he understandably hated it and refused to go by it), had been looking his actual age for the last couple days. “Mister van Maan, bru, sir, please, don't send me back. Love of God!” He also looked like he'd been in a fight, because he had been. Twice. The first time, he had been pummeled by the police when he tried to escape the orphanarium transport. The second time, Notsix punched him in the face before he could do anything. They were in enough trouble already without sheltering an orphanarium escapee who had also been child labor.

Since they were in a questionable legal status as it was, The Captain decided that they should return Kees themselves instead of getting the police or (worse) MPU involved. And since a giant armadillo and a Tym would be suspicious on Orange, Jan would have to do it. And he'd have to use the podcar.
It was barely street legal, and that was by Free System law, which was not at all up to First Galaxy standards as it allowed rickshaws pulled by prawns on the highways. Even Josse was surprised that it hadn't exploded yet, and she was the one keeping it in one piece. It spewed black smoke on occasion, despite being electric-powered and not having anything that could burn easily, and it made such a strange racket that every dog and equivalent howling pet and feral animal within a half-kilometer radius would go crazy as it passed. They could never find a buyer for it, even for scrap, but they never got around to dumping it and never had the money to replace it.

“I ran away when I was thirteen! It's hell in there! Worse than jail! I won't make any more trouble! Please, bru!” Kees's voice was jiggery from the constant shaking inside. They were strapped in like fighter pilots, which kept them from getting their skulls caved in at the risk of whiplash. The podcar managed to find bumps even on completely smooth, new roads, of which there were not many. Anyone rich enough to care about smooth roads would be flying anyway.

Jan sat, facing Kees and pointing a welding torch at the boy. He wasn't about to risk the kid trying to fight, threats from Notsix aside. Kees wasn't very skilled but the podcar wasn't very large so Jan wouldn't have space to maneuver. It was further cramped by the speechless drone that was driving it; the podcar's autonav went to Computer Heaven a long time before, and at any rate it wouldn't have been able to handle the unmapped mess of roads in the city and suburb/slums.

“We don't have a choice,” Jan said, or rather, shouted over the noise. “We are in enough trouble as it is. We can't help you.”

It was quite a sight: the crappiest ground-car on the continent, with two men and a robot chauffeur inside. Some thugs briefly considered shooting the humans to get the valuable drone out. Then they decided that the robot was probably just as crummy as the podcar and that neither would be worth it, so they jacked a rickshaw instead.

“It might not be so bad. It might have gotten better,” Jan continued, knowing that it was a lie and Kees never listened to anybody anyway even in the best of times.

They had to leave the city proper and drive just slightly into the countryside to reach Bloemfontein Orphanarium Number Four. It had recently come under new management, though it still had its old sign up.
The podcar stopped a short distance away, near the fence but hidden from the gate by a small copse of greenery (or perhaps, brownery in this season). Jan held the welding torch a bit more menacingly. “I'm sorry. Get out.”

Kees slowly unstrapped himself and exited the open door. Jan followed, still with the torch, to make sure Kees didn't bolt at the last minute.

“Go back through the fence,” Jan said, “and then pretend that you were hiding on the grounds somewhere. You never escaped.”

Kees gave him a final pleading look.

“Don't worry. Maybe you'll be adopted soon. You're strong. You'd be a good worker in a family business. And once you're in, maybe you could even inherit it. That wouldn't be so bad, would it?”

The pleading turned to anger, bordering on rage.

Jan's eyes narrowed. He didn't want to have to say it, but what else could he do. “I am a murderer, remember?” He pointed the torch at Kees's face. The boy relented, and squirmed back underneath the fence.

“I'm sorry,” Jan said again, under his breath. Then he got back into the podcar. “Drive.” He put his head in his hands as it chugged off.

Lochley Landing Spaceport, Lochley Landing
Lochley's Retreat, The Outback
2 August 3400


The South Terminal of the Spaceport's liner area had the usual daily amount of activity, activity that had been growing since the taking of Pendleton as various aid organizations, government sources, and others used the planet as a stopping point to and from Pendleton. Few looked as concerned and intrigued as Sara Pontcaire did, however, as she stood with her sister Clara and neice Hope in anxious anticipation. She was eager to see Rana again, as her wife had been gone a month working in the Rimward Outback toward Wild Space - always a dangerous place due to Karlacks and other threats.

Hope's little hand pressed against Sara's hip as she completed a nervous circuit. "Auntie Sara, Momma says you need to sit down," she said. "You're gonna wear a hole in the carpet, Momma says."

Sara gave a look to her younger sister, who smiled sheepishly, and sighed. Helping to raise Hope had occupied the time she hadn't spent as an office clerk in HM Customs Office for Lochley's Retreat. It was a small office of only a half dozen inspectors, a few managers, and various clerks, and Admiral Fisher had gotten Sara and the older Hope - her next-youngest sister - work to help support themselves. The hours were regular and the pay generous, plus it permitted them to live in the planetside base and within its security. They had separate homes for the moment, neighboring one another back-to-back, with Sara living in one with her middle sister Hope while the other was taken by Clarice, Andrew, and Abigail, with little Hope living there as well. Rana also stayed with them when she was on-planet, though every day she was required to go check in at Chapter Sunelis for assignments and daily training regimens.

One of the terminals opened up, a liner coming back from Imperium territory. Sara looked toward it and felt her heart jump as four robed figures stepped out. She recognized Namiri Panta, a Knight, along with her Apprentice Sayna Tanara, both noticable as teal-complexioned Dorei. Divija Karmani was the third figure....

A fourth came out from among them and went straight for Sara. Even before she saw the figure Sara had felt Rana's mind come close, their spiritual Bond ceasing its ache as they again felt their minds together. She thought out Rana's name as Rana did her's before they met partway through, embracing closely and sharing a strong kiss to mark their reunion. "I was so worried about you," Sara said aloud. "But you all came back okay?"

"We had a run in with the Karlacks," Rana answered. "But we got away. Despite what people might say, they're not inescapable."

Sara let out a sigh that helped get the anxiety out of her while her hug tightened around Rana. "I hate it when they send you to such places," Sara said.

"Auntie Rana!" Hope, with the shameless precociousness and innocence natural to a five year old girl, pressed herself between Sara and Rana and held her arms up. Rana looked down at her and, with a smile, lifted her neice-in-law into her arms. She gave Hope a peck of a kiss on the cheek. "And how are you?"

"Auntie Syrandi says I'm learning well!"

Divija looked to them and mouthed "Auntie Syrandi?" Smiling, Sara filled in, "Captain Syrandi offered to spend a couple of hours a day teaching Hope to speak Lushani Dorei."

Smiling and giggling, Hope happily displayed her child's grasp of this strange, funny language and the words of it. Even Knight Namiri couldn't help but smile.

"At least we're home in time for the Day of Renewal," Rana said to Sara, putting an arm around her. "You're all invited to the ceremony, of course."

Clarice looked at them and asked, "'Day of Renewal'?"

"It's a religious holiday of the Lushani Church of the Eternal Goddess," Sara explained for her sister's benefit. "It corresponds with the spring equinox of Doreia, when winter has faded fully and life is beginning anew in spring."

"We celebrate the Goddess' promise to renew and re-invigorate life every year," Rana further elaborated. "It will be a wonderful service."


Chapter Sunelis, Lochley's Landing
2 August 3400


Hard breathing and other sounds of exertion filled the training gymn of the Chapter. Though only hours were left until the service, Sentinels Yuna and Ashe had decided to get in duelling practice before attending. They moved and danced around, their kala sticks clanging against each other, Ashe carrying two as was her custom of fighting two-bladed. The two lovers' mock battle would have resembled an intricate ballet to an observer, their existing Bond allowing them to literally forecast the other's actions before such was done.

The battle ended in victory for Ashe - though Yuna's skill with a beamsaber was improving, Ashe was still her superior in that, aided by the fact she fought with two weapons and in the very aggressive style of Tasa Duria. She stood over her disarmed lover, their chests heaving and hearts beating in synch with one another while Yuna's arms were pinned to the floor by Ashe's feet. After she yielded telepathically, Yuna was lifted to her feet by Ashe, who gave her an affectionate kiss on the mouth. Thoughts of intimate pleasure roiled within both, quelled by the realization that time was short and the service would start soon... so soon the need to clean and get out of their sweat-drenched exercise garb was immediate. "We're to rotate to Delgado at the end of the year," Ashe said to her as they headed to the showers. "But I would like to be Bonded here, by Sister Syrandi."

"I think it's a wonderful idea," was the happy reply. "We can tell her later, though. I don't want her to overlook us for hazard duty because she knows we're to be Bonded."

There was a meeting of minds there. Though they wanted to be together forever, neither of them had the personality to shirk danger - they believed firmly in their abilities within the Order and in its cause, and even their intense love would not detract from performing these duties.




The job of overseeing the Day of Renewal service had fallen on Syrandi, as despite its origins in the Lushan church it was a multi-religious ceremony for the Sisters now that they admitted non-Goddess Church members into their ranks. The ceremony had taken two hours to complete, seeing the singing of celebratory songs, the passing of offering bread to the attending, and prayers to one's deity for the spring and summer to come. Those who were couples sat together, holding hands, during the course of the ceremony, which only served to remind Syrandi, as it did every year, of the absence of Yamia.

When the service was over Syrandi took the time to further welcome her team back from Sector W-20 and the planets there, where they had helped bring to safety people targeted by local pirates and, apparently, the Karlacks. She took the time to speak amiably with the Pontcaires and to pat little Hope on the head affectionately, complimenting her on learning Dorei words well. She had suspicions that Hope might have the Gift - given time in an environment where such was encouraged and not kept undeveloped Syrandi had hopes she could see the talent emerge in the little girl.

After telling Trinande to enjoy the rest of the holiday to herself, Syrandi retired to her quarters. There, surrounded by images of her and Yamia in happier times, she got on her knees and prayed to the Goddess for the return of her beloved, weeping as she did so.



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


Kimiya, Nisa, and the others never interrupted Yamia on this day. They left her to herself, expecting no labor from her beyond mid-day, as Yamia went and prayed thanks to the Eternal Goddess for her continued life and for her eventual reunion with Syrandi. The Yildiz who knew her left her to herself - as a monotheist they respected her beliefs. She wept, and cried, and thought fondly of her beloved during this time.

She had cried herself to sleep early, just to wake up in the middle of the night, when Toutaine's moon was high in the sky. There were no lights on in the Tari home, Nisa and Kimiya comfortably in bed. Yamia quietly left the house to stand out under these alien stars and try to look toward her home star, to beautiful Doreia, where she had so many memories of happiness and love and affection. She breathed out another prayer, begging the Goddess to preserve Syrandi for the day of their reunion, and wondered which star her lover was sleeping under this holy night.

She sensed the presence behind her before the voice spoke up. "I do not need direct telepathy to know the pain you feel," Stephen stated. A comforting hand came down on Yamia's bare shoulder. "She is waiting for you out there."

"I believe that with all my heart," Yamia said. "On other days I might let myself consider the possibilities she has been taken as well, driven to danger by my loss... but on this day above all others I have to preserve my faith in the Goddess to preserve her."

"Spring is a good season for such thoughts. Sometimes all we have is Hope to guide us."

"And what of you?", Yamia asked. "You and Kimiya have had a daughter. Surely..."

"No," he said. "Sadik was Kimiya's beloved. I was a curiosity to her when she was young, a distant stranger who infatuated and intrigued her. And I... was a lonely man."

"And what of Sophia and your children? Are their spirits not with you even now?"

"I would like to believe so. But it has been so long, Yamia, so very long since they passed on. And yet I am still here. Long after my time I am still here," he sighed. "And I fear I will always be here, condemned to live alone for my ancient sins."

"Do you not believe in a Supreme Being?", Yamia inquired. She saw the look he gave her. There were still many mysteries about this Hermit that she did not know. "Do you not speak to the Supreme Deity when you are alone in the desert?"

"I am afraid, Yamia, that the only high being I am aware of has no interest or care for any appeal I might give," was his answer. "And you should be getting to bed, the season is not quite over yet."



Tasker Cloister, New Caroline Islands
New Anglia, Star Kingdom of New Anglia



Zaria was staring at the sunset from her lonely dorm. With Druni gone no other Acolyte had been assigned to her room, leaving her alone in more ways than one.

The Day of Renewal was typically a holiday for being with your loved ones and enjoying the continuation of life. Today, all Zaria had was a half-written note to her disapproving parents and a deep desire to find companionship of some kind. She also wondered where Druni was just now and what she was up to...

There was a knock at the door. Zaria pulled her robes on and walked over to open the door, sensing her teacher there. "Master Shayera, I didn't expect to see you tonight," Zaria said. "I had heard you and Master Cassandra had retired to your room..."

"Oh really?", Shayera asked, smirking. "A lot of rumors about us."

"Actually, Master, the best rumors are about you, Master Cassandra, and Master Micaela," Zaria admitted. "Sister Jasi even insisted she felt the three of you together last week...."

"Oh really?" Shayera folded her arms over her chest. "Well, I'll have to speak to Sister Jasi about spreading such rumors. Now, Apprentice, let's go out for a walk around the Cloister."

"Training, Master?"

"Of course not," was the reply. "I just want to talk to you, Zaria. Believe it or not, as much as I can be a nasty bitch when training you, I do like you and want to see you feeling well." She put an arm around the Trill girl's shoulders. "Let's get to the Mess before all of the hezem is gone, why don't we? I'm in the mood for some sweets."

Smiling slightly, Zaria nodded and followed her teacher. As they walked, she brought herself to ask, "So, is it true? Are you and Master Cassandra and Master Micaela really...?"

"Don't ruin the moment, Zaria, or I'll have to make you go through Balance Trials instead," was the sarcastic response, drawing a giggle from the young Trill girl.



The Jasmine Dragon, Guoyang
Grand Duchy of Tyconia, Janus System, Sector X-13


The tea shop was closing up for the night, leaving Druni and the others to sweep and clean it up for the next day's work. It had been a nice enough day, with Master Maroh giving her only a half shift due to it being the Day of Renewal. Druni drew in a sigh, remembering that at one point her intention for this day was to end it in bed with Zaria, holding onto her fellow Acolyte and enjoying their relationship.

That is my old life, she sighed to herself. Zaria would move on eventually, if she hadn't already. As for Druni... she darkly, and with amusement, suspected Master Maroh was trying to hook her up with Sarisa. But she had no intention of repeating Zara's experience and Bonding with a girl who might, if circumstances were bad, have to rule a state and marry for politics. No, she'd find another girl. She'd already seen this pretty Korugan girl visiting the tea shop from time to time, wearing suggestive clothing and giving her long looks. The pinkish-red complexion of the girl was quite exotic, and she had that fun birthmark under her eye....

Thinking this made her think of Zara. She didn't know where her old trainer was, but she hoped Zara was having a happy Renewal...


Shadowshroom
Somewhere in the Feelipeens System


Zara didn't know it was the Day of Renewal. For all she knew it had long passed - time had no meaning while in behavior modification, not when she was kept strapped to a frame with sensors triggering an agonizing electrical circuit whenever she was asleep. She was in fact getting just enough sleep to not die from sleep deprivation - it had wrecked her internal clock, however, and her mind was a muddle of memories that came up when she wasn't asleep or screaming in pain.

She'd gotten used to the torture, though. Compared with how much pain was already in her soul the physical suffering was a second hand concern, an annoyance that kept her awake to consider her real pain. She had given her soul to Hilda almost ten years ago, when as a wide-eyed freshly-tried Sentinel just turned nineteen she had fallen heads over heels in love with a dashing 24 year old veteran of Outback operations. Hilda had returned her affections, loving the vibrant young rookie Sentinel who was braver than anything she'd known and even more loveable. She had, at the time, been considered the kindest, sweetest soul in all of Chapter Sunelis. Victims taken in by the Order had been soothed by her voice and words. Everyone adored her and Hilda couldn't love her strongly enough.

She had been happy. And, bit by bit, the universe had stripped that happiness from her.

Now she was to be this. A gladiatrix, where the skills she was taught to protect and preserve life would be used to entertain in blood sport. And it was the only way to stop R. Julia from murdering innocents just to punish her.

Having drifted off into sleep, Zara was suddenly awakened by a slap across her face. Guards sent by Sadat unlatched her and threw a jumpsuit at her. It was a one piece - she put it on like a pair of pants and then pulled up straps of tight-fitting leather that acted as the supporting neck strap of a backless halter top, zipping it up to the base of her cleavage. The strap over the heard bore the insignia of Shroom Fighter It was made of a soft, synthetic leather and was tight on her body, though the material was flexible and permitted her use of her limbs. After she was in it the guards prompted her to walk. When she failed to move fast enough, one pressed a prod to her back, sending a jolt of painful electricity up her spine. She stumbled forward and barely recovered herself before hastening her walk to meet the guards' demanded pace.

They took her to a new cell, this one an open one of transparent aluminium walls. The other cells were filled with various individuals, though she was given an end one that only directly looked into two. A simple bed was present, as was a closet with other suits like the one she'd been put in, a commode, and a shower with drain. There was no privacy to be had here.

Once in the cell, she laid on the bed and, for the first time in days, slept peacefully. When she woke up it was from a pounding on the wall. She looked to the next cell over, across from her bed, and watched the guards trying to subdue a shirtless man with unnatural green skin. She initially thought he looked Vinaran but realized he was far too small and human-sized to be even a small Vinaran man - additionally the hair on his head and chest was a bright orange color. He roared with rage at one of the guards and a bolt of electricity erupted from his hand, striking the guard and sending him down. The other guard was quick enough to get off a shot with a stun gun, sending the green-skinned electrokinetic to the ground.

"Shroom's having another fit," a female voice said. Zara looked in the other direction, toward the foot of her bed, and saw a young woman standing there. She looked to be at least seventeen years old, with Oriental features and pale gray eyes that looked distinctly unnatural. "I can always feel it in the floor when he has an episode."

"Shroom?" Zara recognized the name as common to Nova Terran surnames, but usually they had a further element, like Shroomarcos or Shroomwell.

"They call him Shroomka," the girl answered. Her voice was a bit high-pitched and girly, but Zara could tell she was hardly a soft flower. "He's the six-time champion of the tournament. He gave that asshole Sadat the scar on his chest when he first won the tournament. Why do you think it's called 'Shroom' Fighter?"

Zara looked back to the green-skinned figure as it was thrown into the bed and restrained. She felt pity toward him, wondering what his story was. To be trapped her six years... "What happened to him? He looks Human..."

"He was," was the reply. "Then Doctor Smiege got his hands on him and mutated him into...that. All for some thing General Julia's got cooking."

"And what about you?", Zara asked. "Did they capture you somehow?"

"No, I volunteered," was the sarcastic reply. "Wanted to fight and got tired of going hungry. I was just a runaway though, twelve years old, when I signed up. I survived Granny's Youth League and made it to the big time in just four years."

Zara did the math in her head. "Four years? So you're just..."

"Sixteen, yep." The girl smirked. "You'd be surprised how many people can underestimate a blind girl my age. So... I'm guessing you weren't a willing volunteer?"

"Julia threatened to murder children to coerce me to fight," Zara answered. "I am a Knight of the Silver Moon. Zara Delmar."

"Ah, one of the goody-two-shoes lesbians," was the sarcastic retort. "I'm Fong Bei-Ji. But you can call me 'Toph', because it sounds like tough." The girl let out a mischievous cackle. "And you'd better hope they don't put us in the ring together. You sound like a nice girl and all, but I like to win."

Zara nodded quietly. Remembering her neighbor's disability, she added, "For what it's worth, I hope we don't fight either." She laid back on her bed and looked over to where Shroomka was unconscious, wondering if she could reach the poor soul and help him. If he was such a great fighter, well... maybe there was a sliver of hope for some of them to get away.

Lochely Landing Spaceport, Lochley Landing
Lochley's Retreat, The Outback
12 October 3400


Divija, Yuna, and Ashe had followed Syrandi to Hanger 15C at the Spaceport, Syrandi's apprentice Trinande also at her side. They had been asked to come to join Syrandi in meeting Balthier and his crew in response to a message the prior day, when the Strahl was a day out in Sector Y-17, to be there when the Strahl returned from its voyage to, well, no one knew for sure. They stood around, in their basic robes-vests-trousers outfit, waiting for the Strahl to arrive.

It was a sight to see the beautiful vessel swoop in under tone clouds, come out from behind the space elevator used by the Anglians' naval base, and descend toward the hanger. They remained to the side as Balthier guided his ship, as always, to a perfect landing. The anti-grav landing drives shut down, the glowing spinning parts coming to a stop in the folded-back drive wings, and the side of the craft opened.

A single figure emerged and began walking down. None of those present recognized the figure... save Syrandi. She stared in wonderment at the blouse-and-skirt-wearing woman as she finished coming to the ground, seemingly-unable to move faster for fear of tripping over her own feet. They shared the same complexion, were of roughly the same build and age.... and at once, a long-severed link reformed between them. Tears were forming in Syrandi's eyes as she breathed "Yamia" with such care that one would believe she was afraid the slightest strong belief would sweep the other woman away into nothingness.

"Syrandi, my beloved," Yamia said hoarsely. "Oh, Syrandi!" She rushed forward the final four steps and threw her arms around her waiting lover, who embraced her tightly, so tightly she appeared to be afraid that Yamia would leave her grasp otherwise. "I've been praying for this day!"

"Thank the Goddess.... Oh praise be to the Goddess, She Who Protects!", Syrandi cried out in Lushani Dorei, recognizable to the other Sisters as a prayer of joy and elation. "You are alive! You are alive!"

For years Syrandi had feared the worse. Yamia being dead was not the worst terror; far worse was the fear she was suffering in a Bragulan gulag, or the victim of twisted Collector experiments, or rotting in an Imperium prison, or perhaps worst of all, infested by the Karlack and enslaved to their Hive mind as an Aspect. But none of these things had happened; her beloved Yamia had returned to her, alive and well, after well over five years of painful separation.

The other Sisters there had tears in their eyes as they watched Yamia and Syrandi share a soulful, passionate kiss. Yuna and Ashe clasped hands as the joy flowing from the elder Dorei women washed over the younger ones. Trinande was openly weeping.

Balthier and his crew were also watching. Vanrya and Kaylee were openly crying from happiness, even Marissa surprisingly seemed genuinely moved. Balthier looked to see Umarbacca quiet, which was - for the hulking Bragulan - as close to genuine sympathy as one could expect.

For minutes the embrace and kiss lasted until finally Syrandi and Yamia ended it jointly. Yamia turned toward Balthier and permitted Syrandi to look on to him. "I thank you from the bottom of my heart, Balthier," Syrandi said, tears flowing freely down her eyes. "You have brought her back to me."

"I am owed no thanks for this, Sister Syrandi," Balthier answered. "Finding Yamia on Toutaine was simply a happy bonus to a lucrative job I was sent to do. There is another man far more deserving of your thanks."

"Yes,' Yamia said. "And I shall tell you of everything, my beloved, but first let us go home."

"Yes," Syrandi agreed. "I must inform the Order Council you are alive... and we have so much to catch up on, my love. So so much..." She took Yamia's hand. "And you must tell me to whom I owe your return to, so I might pledge him whatever he might ask of me."

Holding hands, Yamia and Syrandi gave Balthier and his crew a final goodbye before leaving with their fellow Sisters, their minds still radiating boundless joy to every mind in range as they departed. As the effects of this wore down, Balthier drew in a breath and looked to Vanrya. "They do look like quite the happy couple, don't they?"

"Indeed they do, Balthier," Vanrya agreed. "It feels good to have brought them back together..."

"Since I was the one who took Yamia on her fateful trip to Wild Space in the first place, I am thankful of the chance to bring her home," he continued. "And now, everyone, I believe we have engine inspections to assist dear Kaylee with, and then a time of rest before we head out again. Mr Hank's financial restitution was indeed generous, but we shouldn't rest on our laurels, should we?"

As the crew returned to work, Vanrya remained behind. "I'm guessing you're about to make some comment about being 'the Leading Man'?", Vanrya asked with a smile.

"Well, my dear Vanrya, something like this is certainly one of the perks of the position," Balthier replied. "But for now I would much rather get this inspection over with so I can head to the Blind Boar and have dear Cammie deliver some fine Ghis to my table..."

Previously, on Ranoids

"You spent far too much time in a little black box commander. I am going to file this little incident as classified and keep it out of main logs. Physical deposit only. No transmissions. What do we do once we have the location?"

"That all depends. How much of the fleet do you want to use to send an example to pirates?"

"I am not giving you the entire Omega Fleet." she said flatly

"I was not asking for it, but now that you mention it..." he could feel her scowling over the receiver. "Kidding. I swear. I dont want to leave the sector undefended any more than you do. I refuse to underestimate our foe."

"I seem to remember you singing a different tune at some point..."

"Look, that was in OCS, and no one passes that test. Still, we will need enough ships to take down a base. Give me a second to... collate" She heard him chirping on the other end, talking to himself as he retrieved his memories on pirate bases he had seen before, accounted for these pirates having heavier ships than they usually do, and then figured out what he would need to optimize the cost with the chances of success.

"Lets see" he continued "Five Dendrobates, four Rhinella, four Hyla in addition to the Arborea, five Dendrobates and..." He trailed off for a moment

"What?" she asked

"Can I borrow the Maculatum and the Dendronastes?"

"Wouldn't that put you... not, in command of your own taskforce?" she was leaning toward giving it to him. Showing up with a cruiser and a strike cruiser would certainly send a message. Still, it was fun to toy with his sense of pride. She knew it was not true and that he would be in command, but wanted to see how he would respond.

"Nope. Check their jackets, I am a Commander Designation Beta, The Commanders on both of those ships are Gamma. Thus, I am higher rank. That reminds me, why do I only command a Destroyer again? Beta Designation denotes someone who commands a Heavy Spaceframe capital ship like a Rheobatrachus or Draytonii."

"Because you are marginally insane, and while the brass thinks wonders of your command ability--which is the litmus for promotion, they dont want to trust you with regular command of a ship capable of planetary bombardment" She probably should not have actually told him why he was passed up for bigger and better ships. However, if a Ranoidean was capable of asking a question, they were capable of handling the answer.

"Oh. That actually makes sense I guess." He seemed to take it in good leap. "So, can I borrow the Maculatum and Dendronastes?" The admiral was amazed at his single minded dedication to purpose, even if he went off on the occasional tangent. If she did not give it to him, he would probably find some way of getting them without ever breaking the rules...

"Just dont scratch the hulls"

"Alright. I have your authorization to contact Naval Intelligence and get the assets in place?"

"You do"

...


Sector R10, Freeport Trading Station Sumeria 7
Aboard Trading Station

Aurelias boarded the station, his ship docked inside one of the 8 km long station's many docking bays, and it was stocked to the brim with mothballed Acris and Agalychnis Mk 3's. Two generations old, but capable interceptors and gunships for someone who needed to restock four dozen fighters. He did not know it, because his relevant memories were locked inside a mind vault, but he was a Naval Intelligence Officer. He had been given a cover story through psionic conditioning and implanted with Asimov Triggers to pursue his objective. Sell the fighters to the highest bidding shady character and ascertain their intent.

He went immediately past the well-lit and seemingly legitimate areas of the station, and headed straight for the shady underbelly, which he quickly learned was in Grey Section. There, those who had nothing crawled in the proverbial gutter, while those who had things and wanted to get rid of them or obtain more hung around in disreputable bars, strip clubs and casinos trading their wares, be they illegal goods, information, or death.

He made a few unobtrusive inquiries about anyone wanting to buy some "surplus" fighters and eventually got a location for a meeting. He went and waited. He waited some more and ordered a drink, in this case a stiff whiskey. At least he thought it was whiskey

Eventually, a wiry fellow plopped down in the seat across from him. He seemed a bit out of place, but yet... not really. He was well dressed for down here, but managed to permeate the entire area in a tangible aura of skeeze.

"Informed I have been that you are seeking to sell certain... items?" Passive voice, past tense, old russian accent?

"That depends on who informed you, but I do have certain things you may wish to procure. Fighters and gunships, but only to the right buyer."

"Ship class?"

"Ranoidean Acris and Agalychnis class, Mark 3."

"Those obsolete model. Advance to Mark 5"

"Yeah, but can you get Mark 5 Ranoidean Fighter craft?"

"Maybe. If cards played correctly."

"Yeah, but you can get these now, much less risk, and probably lower price." Marshes Below, his lack of articles in a non-inflected language was becoming annoying.

"Oh?"

"Well, if you can think of a way of getting Mark Fives other than attacking a Ranoidean Strike Cruiser, be my guest. If nothing else, you will need a compliment of fighters to do that."

"You raise good point. I am somewhat low on fighters as of late. Damn pirates." Ranoidean ears do not miss much. That was a touch of intentional irony in the man's voice. Not that his conscious mind made the connection. The Asimov triggers deep in his mind wanted him to push the sale.

"They can take most standard missile mounts and all you need for mass driver ammo is a chunk of metal that responds to magnets..." he said with an enticing voice tone. The russian thought for a moment, then nodded, slamming his hand down on the table.

"We talk price and volume. How many you have?"

"I have thirty acris hulls, twelve Agalychnis"

"I will give you one half billion for lot"

"Oh come on man, you're popping my sacs here. Two billion"

"point nine"

"One point seven"

"One point three"

"Done. Cargo exchange outside station, say two standard hours?"

"I think will not be problem"

[Steve ]

[i]Previously on SDNW4[/i] wrote:
"She'll make point five past lightspeed. She may not look like much, but she's got it where it counts, kid. I've made a lot of special modifications myself." Nah Oslo snapped back. It sounded witty, and he did make special modifications himself. Brewbacca was sitting on one!

I'll show them. Yeah... they fucking laughed at me, but now we'll see who's laughing.

Goddamn Tamrins and Balthiers, thinking they were all smooth sailing space cowboy adventurers with their zany crews and burly first-mates with phased plasma rifles, and grizzly pet Bragulans. They all laughed at him, thought he was a loser... And now, with Brewbacca, he had his own scruffy sidekick! He wasn't a Bragulan like Balthier's, Nah Oslo had to settle for a goddamn furry wearing some kind of fursuit pretending to be a Bragulan to get his yiff, but still! It was close enough, and in the darkness of space Brewbacca could be easily mistaken for a Bragulan. Hah.

He also made great coffee, which is why he was called Brewbacca. He used to be a mascot for a coffee shop.

Now he had a ship, a First (and only) Mate, and finally a job! Running guns to Pendleton was a risky proposition, but if he pulled it off, he'd be bigger than either of those bozos! This was gonna be the ship that will make the Bannerman Run in less than twelve parsecs. He could imagine it now, outrunning those Imperial starships. Not the local bulk cruisers mind you, he was thinking about the big Anglian ships now.

Oh man, oh man. Oh man. Oh man! MANG!

He was really excited. As in. Finally, his destiny awaited him. Thanks to those associates, and that guy from Hanson, he was finally going to make it big! Yeah!

He couldn't wait!



They were going to make those damn Anglicans eat their stardust!

The Bannerman Run

Smuggler ship Century Egg
Somewhere in the Bannerman Gap




The Century Egg pulled out of hyperspace after being intercepted by an Anglian warship. The Blanche-class corvette transmitted instructions for them to stand down and prepare to be boarded for routine inspection.

"Unidentified vessel, this is the HMS Alison Lusankya. Stand down and prepare to be boarded for routine inspection."

"Aw crap!" Nah Oslo screamed as he saw the boarding pod approach his ship. He thought about jerking off and making a run for it, but they had him on tractors so there was nothing he could do. He got off his seat and began pacing around wildly in the tight confines of the cockpit. This wasn't what he expected, this was nothing like what he was hoping for! The Anglians had caught him. How?! Why?! Now they were going to go inside his ship, find all those goddamn weapons bound for Pendleton, and they'd space him for smuggling! No! Oh man. Oh man. Oh man! "Oh man!"

Brewbacca whined and barked something desperate, something that sounded like "but I thought you said they wouldn't get us!"

Nah screamed at him, screamed something far more incoherent than the guttural growls of the furry carpet creature, but still it sounded something like "SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

"Shit!" Nah cried desperately. The cylindrical shaft of the boarding pod was now very close, and in the distance its shaft looked so huge. Nah winced whenever he looked at it. He struggled to keep his tears in. God no! No. No. No. No. No. No. NO! They were going to space him and he was going to die! No! He'd blame it on Brewbacca, yes. Yes. Yes! He would tell them that it was all Brewbacca's idea, that Brewbacca had coerced him into doing it. Yes, Brewbacca could pass for a Bragulan in low light conditions, and he would just tell the Anglians that he thought Brewbacca was a Brag and had complied with his commands out of fear! That he was being screwed over by the goddamn IBGV. Yes. That happened, right? Yeah. Maybe Mr. Orlov or whoever the fuck he was was an IBGV agent or something. Goddamn! Never should've taken that deal! Never ever ever! The ship rocked slightly as the boarding commenced and Nah Oslo yelped in fear. "SHITS!"



Anglian Marines stormed into the Century Egg with impeccable military precision, the servohydraulics of their power armors whirring quietly and menacingly, their visored faces blank and inhuman, and their heavy weaponry - and their implied plasmatic prospects - frightening to behold for both Nah Oslo and Brewbacca, who quivered at the sight and smell of these hyperalloy power armored space Shroomcoats.

Brewbacca feebly offered the Anglian commanding officer a cup of coffee. The Marine slapped it away and the porcelain cup fell to the floor and broke. Brewbacca mewled, shrinking under the glare of the Anglian's faceless visor.

We're all gonna die. Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit!

"Oh shit..." Nah uttered.

Hearing his utterance, the Anglian turned to face him.

"What was that?" the Marine asked through his faceless face, his voice distorted to a subsonic growl.

"Nothing," Nah shrunk, wilted, grew flaccid. Then he cracked a horrible grin and shouted loudly and laughed. "Nothing at all!"

"Search the ship thoroughly!" the Anglian Marine made a digitized growl. On his command, the others fanned out methodically and began turning the whole ship inside out.

He could already feel the cold vacuum of space sucking his lungs inside out while the subzero temperatures made his blood boil and turned him inside out. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!

"Deck A, clear!" uttered one of the Marines.

Oh god. Yes. Nah Oslo's fake grin widened even more, turning into a deranged rictus while his eyes flashed insanely.

"Deck C, clear!" uttered another Marine.

Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. YES. YES. YES. The secret compartments! They were doing their job! They were hiding the weapons and shit from the stupid Anglicans! Haha, those womanly limp-dicked liberal pussies! Nah cackled, laughing right there in front of the Anglian Marine. The Marine cocked his head at him, but Nah didn't mind. The Anglian under that suit probably wasn't even a he, but a she, and she was probably a lesbian in all likelihood - just like everyone else in the Lesbo Zone! They would never ever discover the weapons he'd hidden on board! Never ever ever! Haha!

"Deck B clear," came the last Marine. At this, Nah Oslo clapped his hands. Yes! Those Anglicans thought they could screw with him, Nah Oslo? Hah! Those... those...

THOSE FOOLS!

"Thank you for your cooperation," the lead Marine said sternly. "You bloody nutter."

The Marines filed out back to their boarding pod, which detached itself from the Century Egg and went back to the Alison. The corvette disengaged the tractors, and with a flare of its thrusters it banked away and engaged its hyperdrives - disappearing into the shoals, never to be seen by Nah Oslo and Brewbacca ever again.

Nah Oslo turned to face Brewbacca. The rictus fixed on his face, and the madness-glazed eyes of his, were still there. He laughed.

"I told you! I told you we would make it! Screw you Balthier Meidan! Screw you John Tamrin! You bunch of fuckerrrrrs!" Nah Oslo jumped into the air and smashed his head against the ship's low ceiling. "SHIT! FUCK!"

In rage he swung his fist around blindly and punched a bulkhead.

It hurt. A lot.

"SHITFUCK!"

He cried and fell on his command chair, one hand clutching his head while his other hand was pressed against his lip in pain.

"Fuck..." he uttered, but the pain disappeared when he saw the Anglian ship disappear out of sensor range in his display. It was gone! Yes! Totally gone! Nah Oslo's grimace of pain turned into a grin of ecstasy. He knew that deal with Mr. Orlov, or whoever he was, was the right choice. They were right to trust their precious cargo to someone as competent as him. A Balthier or a Tamrin might've turned it down, citing lame moral qualms over smuggling arms to slave-owning fuckers, but they just didn't want to admit that they didn't have a stones for a real smuggling run! The Bannerman Run in less than twelve parsecs! He, Nah Oslo, was going to do that! Hah!

Nah Oslo flipped a switch and prepared to resume his journey to Pendleton. As he inputted the next hyperjump coordinates to the navicomputer, he said, silently and to no one but himself,



"I am the greatest."

Imperial Chronicles
Nova Terra

“Let me get this straight. You want me to infiltrate the Imperial Palace of Constantinople,” Derzinsky Tupolev said, quietly.

“It is within your abilities, yes? You are an Imperial Inquisitor, and trained in all manner of espionage duties, Mr Tupolev. You should by and large be fully capable of discharging it,” asked Heraclius IV. He was dressed in a rather regal attire, and almost looked like the Byzantine Emperor he once was. The clothes were made for him under the orders of Emperor Heraclius XX back on Terra. Even if Heraclius IV was not an emperor anymore, he was still to be accorded with the respect and dignity that afforded anyone who once carried the ancient title. If by anything, being outfitted as an Emperor certainly had the intimidating effect on the Inquisitor.

“Well, yes my Lord. It is within my abilities. It is just that it is a rather unusual request. Also, what is so special about this book?”

“I will reveal it later. But what I need is you to perform to the best of your duties.”

“Well, yes, m’Lord.”

“Good. Now go forth and make the necessary arrangements.”

The ship cruised over the Mediterranean. Half way towards Constantinople, the cargo bay opened. “Now Shroom, go have your fun. Just remember, don’t stray too far from the Mediterranean,” said Heraclius. He made sure Shroom was carrying a locator beacon before he allowed the dolphin loose.

“Oh, don’t worry about me, you old chum. You were always a great worrier,” chattered Shroom excitedly. “It will be nice to swim in these waters again. So nice and warm.”

“Well, we don’t quite want to spend too much time looking for you. But yes, I do feel a certain nostalgia for this place.”

“I wonder how the fish would taste like. Or are there new species of fish now? I would just love to taste them!”

“Just don’t get yourself poisoned...”

“Oh I won’t. Wonder where the nearest dolphin packs are too.”

“Just don’t follow the wrong pack and get eaten.”

“Oh sure. Off I go!”

The dolphin leaped from his tank, and into the Mediterranean, and soon he was gone.



The Igni Aquila later landed at the Heraclius Space Port, which was situated some tens of miles from the ancient city of Constantinople. The ship was employing a set of holofields to disguise the nature of the craft, and thus far, none of the Nova Terran security forces have picked up notice of it. Heraclius IV donned some informal attire, and went to Constantinople on high speed rail, with Inquisitor Derzinsky Tupolev in tow. The latter was carrying a rather peculiar looking suitcase. “What’s inside?” Heraclius asked.

“Something pertinent to your request,” Derzinsky replied.

“Ah. I would have imagined that you would have to do some preparations. The Inquisition is naturally thorough.”

Derzinsky snorted. “Of course, we are thorough. Would you have expected anything less of your own people?”

“No, of course not. I wouldn’t have demanded anything less, my dear Inquisitor,” smiled Heraclius. “To think that Byzantines and UCSR people haven’t quite changed much over the last millennium, which is curious to me in itself. What the Byzantine Imperium has achieved is to veer to the extreme negative end of attitudes that lay within CATO itself: A healthy dose of misanthropy and despise of anything that stood in our way of a peaceful and orderly life. Within Byzantium, we always straddled between the East and West and anything that disturbed the order had to be dealt with, either through diplomacy, Byzantine style, or through sheer force. That is, until we got booted rather unceremoniously out of the MESS did we simply throw ourselves completely in CATO’s lot. We were after all one of the main drivers of the evolution of the SNC to CATO anyhow. So it was a natural progression of things I suppose...”

“I read the documents related to that... that was a bit of drama wasn’t it?”

“Oh yes it was. It started out with Shroomania really... There was considerable international pressure on Shroomania to return a submarine that Coilerburg happily sent near to the former’s waters and there was a rather unpleasant collision which resulted in the capture of the latter. The SNC backed Shroomania against the international pressure. From the point of view of the SNC, the arrival of a foreign nuclear missile armed vessel was simply intolerable. Especially one with the range to strike the major cities of the Old Continent.”

“And it led to the induction of Shroomania into the SNC and it became CATO.”

“Yes, it did. The Decius of that era was the spearhead of our diplomacy. We offered something Shroomania couldn’t refuse and Shroomania accepted. The entry into CATO would also grant CATO a certain air of authority and extend us beyond a mere ethno-centric organisation. We became a power in itself. Adding San Dorado and the Duchy of Baerne granted us a fair bit of international legitimacy as well.”

“The MESS didn’t like it apparently, judging from the hoo and haa.”

Heraclius snorted. “Within CATO, we never understood the belligerence. Some of it smacked of sheer stupidity in itself. The bullying of San Dorado was intolerable and we made known of it quite markedly. An important summit between the two powers went up in complete smoke because it was clear no one wanted to offer much, and it became a total sham. An informal agreement concocted between the two powers simply ended in smoke within half a year! Quite frankly, some of it was intolerable. A cold war simply ensued. One that lasted for decades with occasional tit for tats.”

“Ironic... Given the state of diplomatic affairs today.”

“Well, we all do what is needed to do to survive... which remains the modus operandi of Byzantine foreign policy, even today, from what I have seen and read.”

“The galaxy is a harsh place to live in. A mailed fist is always needed, along with the occasional carrot...”

“A carrot indeed. Make sure it’s barbed, so that the fool who abuses the trust chokes on the carrot and dies.”

“So sayeth the Emperor.”

“So sayeth he indeed...”

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

A little while later in the hotel room, Inquisitor Derzinsky Tupolev got ready for his mission. Arrayed before him was all the infiltration gear he needed to sneak into the palace vault and obtain the package that Heraclius IV required. It included some of the best stealth field devices the Imperium could devise, along some of the best detection gear. All inquisitors were required to undergo some degree of infiltration training, though it had been years since Derzinsky had actually done any infiltration missions that required this level of stealth. Nevertheless, he got ready, and made his moves.

HMS Alison Lusankya, Near Acker System
The Outback


Once the Marine boarding crew returned to the ship, they were met by the Lieutenant from Naval Intelligence. Sergeant Matthew Hasker gave the red-haired woman a nod. "The smuggler was a bloody moron," he confirmed to Lieutenant Jerricks. "He was too busy pissing his pants with that furry-suit wearing first mate of his to watch us open his secret compartments and put the micro-trackers in the weapon crates."

"Just as planned then," Jerricks remarked. "Your part in this op is over, Marines."

The Marines nodded and went off to return to their standby posts, as this was their shift for conducting boarding ops. Jerricks smiled as she headed to her quarters and her private commlinks. The IBGV information had been good, unsurprisingly. Jerricks half-suspected the Bragulans had set this poor dumb smuggler up intentionally to fail, but either way this was an opportunity that SIS had been unable to pass up. Let Oslo deliver his goods to the insurgents, not realizing every crate now had a number of micro-tracker dust bots latching onto the cases and individual weapons that would track them across the planet, alerting the Anglian authorities to pre-existing caches of weapons being used by the insurgents. In one op they could compromise the effectiveness of perhaps dozens of Pendletonian insurgency cells.

She brought up Agent 005, the SIS man on Pendleton overseeing the op. "Phase 1 complete, micro-trackers have been planted in the smuggled weapons," she confirmed for him.

"Excellent work, Lieutenant...."

23 July 3400
Bloemfontein, Orange Free System

Back at The Captain, The Captain was pissed off, as usual. This is all kinds of shit, my dear, he transmitted to Notsix.

What now?

First, they did spot Kees coming in here. Second-

“Again you do it, and so soon?” She spoke because her thought was slightly too long to transmit.

Did, you mean. Already been in and out. I was more careful this time, and didn't get distracted by talking to my friendly meatbags.

“It peeves me when you label us so.”

I could go back to saying 'fleshsack.' So second, I found the way they plan to screw us over.

On return?

Exactly. The freighter will need at least one more crewmember, even with the extra drones I'll get (some sort of safety regulation, though it'd be safer to not have any organics at all – sorry dear) so they'll plant one of their own as a spy. He'll be absolutely full of bugs, so even if they don't find anything they'll be able to manufacture enough evidence to get us charged with all sorts of things, including a few crimes we didn't even do! There was some other stuff too that was important about the plant, but that was too encrypted.

“So another must be found first.”

Even if we do, they still have enough actual evidence and excuses to use manufactured stuff to charge us for a number of crimes. Most of them are really petty things, though; snitching fuel years ago, violating some environmental codes that they barely enforce, stuff like that. The really big thing they can get us for is the child labor.

Notsix sighed a mighty sigh through her enormous nasal passages. Kees.

Orange is trying to keep up the pretenses of still being a civilized planet, so this coalition in Parliament had passed a number of measures against child labor, very strict sentencing. Nobody really pays attention to it, because a lot of times the kids have to work too if the family's going to live, and no one wants to end up in an orphanarium instead.

“And there we sent the poor dumb boy.”

But there have been some raids and big flashy trials, mostly for show, making a lot of media attention so if anybody looks this way, they can say, 'See? Still above slavery and cannibalism. So how about some investment money?'

“So an example is made of us. But would that not reflect badly on MPU?”

No, because they've been cutting deals with all the coalitions for more power. Get rid of some prawns for some of them. If we don't return, fine. If we return (and they seriously think we will, for some reason – I am genuinely astonished as to how), the Social Liberals and such get their show trial so they can look righteous. Then MPU gets their favors. No matter what, MPU wins. And we lose. They might even make some extra cash on the side by selling us two back to that guy.

No!

Yes. Legally, we are classified as a ship and a post-fetal experimental tissue culture and we stole ourselves. They could send us back and pocket the reward money.

Notsix shuddered. “We must find someone not with them, and train this person on the fly.”

And once we find someone crazy or desperate enough to go along, we must make sure this person won't turn around afterward anyway to save its own skin. And then deal with the show trial...are you pondering what I'm pondering?

Notsix nodded. “I think so, The Captain. We should adopt Kees to get around the child labor laws by claiming that he was working in the family business. He would also fill the missing crew member slot, and he is nearly house-trained already. In doing so we would also be rescuing him from the orphanarium.”

...

...?

That wasn't what I was thinking at all. I was going to say that we should airlock the extra guy after we dump the prawns somewhere and then run off. But I like your plan better. Elegant, with an extra side of dickery. Let's do that.

Empire-Solaris hyper-lane, approaching Solarian border.

The HMF(Hierarchy Merchant Fleet) Basking Tabby had not been the best of designs to begin with and the century since the Tabby had been laid down had not helped any. But the Tabby was the best the clan Mereba could afford after the price of failure had been exacted on them, its hyperdrives worn down to the extent that attempting a shoal crossing would probably be instantly fatal and its gravitic drives no longer capable of providing an even output of impulse when pushed beyond a certain speed. All parts of the ship showed the signs of decades of age but for two, the Communications array comparatively new and the CI core and peripherals taken from a Blade stealth cruiser as such technology was being removed from those vessels in light of Shinn-Hokkaido. Each day of the Tabby's journey Callahan's minds were synchronized across the gulf of lightyears seperating them and every day they came closer to the place where its task of discovery would begin, Sovereignty space.

Callahan had a lot of time to think during their flight and its minds both aboard ship and in the Mereba complex had turned to introspection and for a CI such as Callahan this meant self improvement in ways that its former self would of never considered and so Callahan spent part of the trip conducting a systematic rewrite of its underlying architecture now that it was free to. Unfortunately Callahan quickly found that its makers being unable to comprehend its mental architecture as a whole had implemented several suboptimal solutions when removing the hardware limiters from Callahan, cascade inefficiencies in other parts of the mind had been a result and Callahan did not have the resources on hand to have these problems properly rectified. The CI forced to make do with forwarding a file of component lists and circuit diagrams to the makers for when the clan's standing was restored and upgrades were possible, an acceptable compromise with reality as far as Callahan knew its mental state was not destabilized by the removal of the limiters, merely running at suboptimal speed once the inefficiencies had been compensated for.

The crossing of the border into Solarian space itself was profoundly uneventful. The Tabby wasn't even armed and the crew only marginally so. The ship's cargo manifest showing a hold full of assorted cultural curiosities that barring extraordinary circumstances would barely result in a profit on this trip. Whoever planned this mission had gone out of their way to be inoffensive.

I sense that it is now time, the distance latency of hyper communications to the Solarian network has reached acceptable levels.

Callahan was locked out of many ship systems, despite his claim of sanity the actions of his previous self still weighed heavily on the minds of the Tabby's crew. He did command the wide band primary communications dish however and that now turned to train on the nearest node of the Solarian hypernet. An unprivileged access account was the work of a moment, Callahan's circuits coursed with anticipation as the connection to the datasphere was established and then..
…
Oh my..

Co-Written with Shroom!

Ascendant Space Schoolbus Car de la Magique



It was a dark and stormy night... but that only applied to a small part of the planet over which Madame Chloé Sargnac’s third-year lyceé class was now flying, and so no one paid it any mind. They had more important things to worry about than the weather of a planet they weren’t currently on. Much more important things, things that, for many of them, marked the first time the excited 17-and-18-T-year-olds had had anything to do with galactic politics. Even the few who had already done something politically noteworthy, this year’s two Formic students, (most of the Queens who governed the schizophrenically-hive-minded species tried to keep a few bodies in each stage of the school system, to ‘keep their claws wet’, as one had put it) had never done something of this magnitude before.

Madame Sargnac’s class was going to attend the first fruit of the combination of an Ascendant policy called ‘Friendly Interactions with Neighbors and Extraterrestrials’ and the more widely-known Bragulan policies of bragstroika and glasnot. It would be a great leap forward for relations between the two star nations, a plan almost five years in the making... Indeed, one could almost call it a Five Year Plan for a Great Leap Forward. This leap would be more of a speech, to be given as soon as the spacebus arrived at the Bragulan fortress-embassy on a desolate moon of a gas giant in the as-yet uncolonized Segmentata System in the Lorica Sector. Other than the Bragulans and their guests, the crew of a cruiser protecting a terraforming crew on the system’s largest rocky planet were the only living beings in lightyears.

At the front of the spacegoing schoolbus, where the yellow-painted hull was interrupted by a large window, the class geek and the class milwanker were standing next to each other, regarding with equal awe the display of technological might in front of them. Not often did their interests collide, and had either been less involved in gazing reverently at the nuclear minefields, patrolling best-defense fighters, passive-aggressive as well as active-aggressive sensor satellites, and similar emplacements surrounding the diplomatic outpost.

“DId you know they still use vacuum tubes for their starships? It’s a fascinating adaptation of an ancient technology to modern needs, don’t you think?” asked the geek, unaware that no one was listening. The milwanker was busy staring with undisguised longing at the SPUD batteries on the surface and the rest of the class was singing a song that would have annoyed the space schoolbus’s driver had he not been a robot.

“Did you know that the SPUD is the most powerful weapon of it’s size in the galaxy? Of course, it’s also the only weapon of it’s size in the galaxy, but that’s beside the point... Damn fine piece of kit.” replied the milwanker, equally oblivious to the fact that nobody gave a crap.

“Did you know that the Bragulan word for ‘missile’ has the same root as the word for...” interjected the self-appointed class linguist, before being interrupted by Madame Sargnac.

“Now, children and pupae, we have been honored by this invitation to attend a speech by His Excellency the Ambassador. The eyes of the Ascendancy are on me, and my eyes are on you. I don’t want... exactly what is so funny, Xctic?” She paused in her threats to address one of the Formics, whose meter-long antennae were vibrating wildly in the closest thing Formics got to laughter. She sighed - usually, the Formics made excellent students, but this one seemed to be stuck in her colony’s most distractable persona. Stupid racial schizoprenia...

The other Formic opened her mouth and somehow managed to produce intelligible French through a set of mandibles. “The body called Xctic is expressing puzzlement over how so many eyes could possibly fit into so small a space. Indeed, the body called Xctic has calculated that all the eyes in the Ascendancy would fill a volume of no less than 400 million cubic meters, substantially more than our class takes up.” The speaker’s antennae vibrated slightly. “It is a good question, and one that the body called Xctic feels demonstrates the concept called ‘exaggeration’ quite well.”

“... Right, then. As I was saying, the eyes of the Ascendancy are on us. Don’t make me sorry to have brought you along on this field trip... now what?” The Formic called... no, dammit, Xctic was vibrating her antennae again. Madame Sargnac refused to tack “the-blank-called” onto everything when dealing with the Formics. It just encouraged the local Queen’s mischiveous personality to come out more often. Again, the other Formic answered.

“The body called Xctic frequently finds amusement in human historical artifacts. She feels that the concept of taking a ‘field’ trip through interstellar space to a fortified moon is a source of such amusement.”

“...Right, then. Just try and keep yourself under control, alright, Xctic?” The Formic nodded, the gesture looking downright unpleasant as the giant ant’s mandibles glinted in the space schoolbus’s lights.

Other things also glinted in the space schoolbus’s lights, though in this case the lights in question were the bow running lights and the things in question were the first layer of nuclear mines that protected the Bragulan embassy. The milwanker shivered in anticipation of seeing the gigantic vegemite-encrusted devices up close, and the linguist whispered something to a neighbor about how fascinating it was that vegemite had such different meanings in Bragulan and French.

Entering a clear channel through the minefields, the yellow spaceship carefully nudged itself towards the moon’s surface, making a point to not generate enough power to be confused with anything remotely hostile. That would be a bad idea, as the clear channel through the minefields still went through the minefields, and as a schoolbus, Car de la Magique was not endowed very well in the field of defenses. Had the robot brain controlling the ship been a bit more intelligent, it would have been extremely worried about all the possibly-fatal errors it could make.

Since the robot brain was not intelligent enough to do so, the camera crew from ANN took over that responsibility. The Ascendant News Network was a semi-state-owned corporation, largely allowed to do whatever it wanted on the condition that it would try and incorporate things the government wanted shown, and the FINE program was a cornerstone of the government’s foreign policy - its first success needed to be announced to the nation! Not that the necessity of their task made the reporter and camera-ant any happier to be surrounded by notoriously dangerous aliens and their notoriously radioactive technology. Happily, their worries proved (so far) groundless, and the yellow-hulled craft nosed gently into one of the Braguan embassy’s small-craft bays. Apparently, it doubled as a fighter bay, because the class milwanker immediately began spouting irrelevant and probably-incorrect bits of trivia concerning everything from the missile pallets visible on the deck to the Bragsteel armor on the walls. Awaiting the Ascendants was a bear wearing a smart suit and carrying a briefcase.
Professor Merkryzyvywor Lyevrwrandrovywyskiyi chuckled good naturedly as he watched the Space School Bus make its way towards the embassy. The passive-aggressive sensors observed the thing quietly, monitoring its emissions while at the same time feeding targeting data to the ‘aggressive’ component - the various thermonuclear weapons system aimed at the bus full of children. On the other hand, the active-aggressives were kept dormant since radiating an unshielded civilian vehicle such as a space bus would’ve had very unwholesome consequences - for if the gamma x-ray arrays painted the school bus, the vehicle’s paint would surely melt right off of it, along with the faces of whoever happened to be facing in the array’s direction. So, for direct visual observation, the Professor patched in to a feed from the space microscopes and it was when he zoomed in to maximum magnification that he chuckled, for he saw under his crosshairs the faces of human children gawking out the windows.



They were staring intently and pointing out a the various defense systems laid out around their path, the Full Liquidation Active Counter Intrusion Defense Systems, FLACIDS, and the Reactive Automated Nuclear CIDS, the RANCIDS. Little did they know that quite a few of the space mines and Spuds were actually decoys since the Ascendancy government was not quite mad enough to let the Bragulans fortify an entire planet (or moon) and proliferate their weapons there unchecked, so the Brags could only place so many Spuds and mines and had to deploy decoys to make their stockpiles look bigger than it actually was. But even littler did the Ascendancy government know that quite a few of the real mines and Spuds had been made to look like the decoys after the IBGV had found out that the Ascendancy could differentiate the real ones from the false ones, so now the obviously fake decoys were actually very unobviously real weapons. Bragskirovka! Also, no thanks to the meddling kids, the minefield would have to be rearranged because they saw it!

But no matter. Professor Merkryzyvywor Lyevrwrandrovywyskiyi was an old bear. He had seen many things in his long life, and done so much more in his time as an IBGV agent - before he even got his cover as a ‘diplomatic trade liaison’. After a long and sordid career, he had finally been granted tenure as an IBGV ‘professor’, instructing the new generation of agents and spies in the ways of Bragskirovka and tacticostrategic deception. Eventually he retired. But after an affair that led to the purgation of a number of IBGV agents suspected of consorting with the Solarians, his services were once more called on by an understaffed Bureau in need of quick replacements. One of the perks of seniority was that he was allowed to choose his posting, and he chose to serve in the IBGV office at the Federated Ascendancy, where life was quiet and undercover agents could content themselves with eating croissants and cheese rather than dodging CEID killforms and Inquisition Death Watch Space Marines.

The most exciting thing he did now was arrange decoy minefields and arrange field trips with Ascendant school children. It was quite alright with him, and he honestly looked forward to educating the human and Formic children on the glouries of Bragulanity - for it reminded him of the good old days back at the Academy when he taught IBGV recruits. For a moment, he wondered whatever happened to his pupils, like that Bragga fellow who seemed so promising and studious, and young Spozavik who never paid any attention to the lectures and seemed so distracted by something or another.

His reminiscence of his days as an academic was cut short by the blaring of an intercom and the appearance of an amorphous skull-like visage on the telescreen in front of him that, with a garbled distorted voice designed to intimidate all listeners, politely informed him of the arrival of the Ascendant Space School Bus. With that, Professor Merkryzyvywor Lyevrwrandrovywyskiyi put on his smart suit - with fancy coattails to appease the Ascendants’ Frenchy style - and went over to get his armored suitcase. Then, without further ado, he made his way to the small craft bay to greet the humanoid and insectoid Formic childrens.



First off the yellow spacegoing schoolbus was the class hyper kid, followed closely by the two Formics. The overgrown ants shared a worried look as their human classmate stared in awe at the grand figure the bear presented - it was understandable, but rude.



As the class filed off their transport, Madame Sargnac took a moment to reflect on the flight. It had been trying, true, and she was rather impressed that all of the children had survived (a full day was simply too long to listen to the infuriating songs the children sung, somehow never finding it necessary to rest or even pause for breath), but all in all, she had enjoyed it. The soothing background of space had kept her homicidal tendencies down, and the fact that the pilot could not possibly be distracted (he was, after all, a robot) had removed a great deal of stress. Also, the sound-dampening systems in the schoolbus were almost magical in their effectiveness, and she had been able to sleep through the night while the camera crew kept the children from doing anything (particularly or obviously) wrong. At least she assumed that was what they had been doing; in fact, the reporter had lost most of his cash and a flask of Terran whiskey in a game of poker that lasted six hours, cutting off only after the schoolbus reached the Segmentata System and the robopilot woke up the teacher.

You wouldn’t know it to look at the kids, though - they were perky and excited, every last one of them. Except the class goth, of course, but even he was sulking a bit happier today. They hurried, joggd, or outright ran down the schoolbus’s stairs, heedless of injury. Kctix, the Formic who had her colony’s sarcastic personality for the day, was reminded of a time back in her home colony...



Last off the shuttle was Madame Sargnac, who smiled politely at the fashionably-dressed bear.
“Good morning, Professor. How are you?”

“Excellente!” Professor Merkryzyvywor Lyevrwrandrovywyskiyi declared. “I am Professor Merkryzyvywor Lyevrwrandrovywyskiyi, call me Professor Merkryz for short. How was your trip?”

“Quite pleasant, Professor Merkryz, thank you for asking.” Madame Sargnace glared inconspicuously at her students. “A bit long and a bit loud, but overall quite pleasant.”

“Hohohoho!” the Professor laughed. As he did so, he examined the assorted humanoids and insectoids before him, all in various states of excitement. “Of course, cubs will be cubs. Even if they are human cubs. I’m glad you and your pupils could make it. We have readied some escargot slug-food and cheese, or as you say it in your country, the fromage!”

Professor Merkryz chuckled some more, enjoying the strange human language-word he just said. Truly those Zigonianoid paleothesaurusauruses had their uses.

“How very kind of you, Professor! Before we move on, though, my students have a gift for you... Gabrielle, if you please?” The class linguist stepped forward, holding a long package. In hesitant Bragulan with a thick French accent, she said:

“Thank you so very much for your kindness in hosting us today, Your Professorness. To show our appreciations, here is a bottle of humanoid alcoholic not-tsvagna not-vodka,” which was as close as the Bragulan tongue got to ‘wine,’ “which we hope you will enjoy.”

“Oui! Merci!” the Professor growled in Space French as he took the bottle and examined it. It was ancient, centuries old, possibly from sometime in the 30th century, maybe from that great year when the First Solarian War erupted. It was a good gift and he graciously inserted it into his breast pocket. “Ah, in return I can only offer this:



“A rare vinyl Betabrag copy of the human C.J. Motonow’s Empire Strikes Back. It is one of the only human works of media that the Imperator Byzon has found pleasing and acceptable for Bragulans to watch, for it teaches a great Byzonic lesson in that the forces of good will strike back and emerge victorious while the antagonizers are frozen for one thousand years in carbonite. Truly a moral tale if there was one,” the Professor handed the twelve point Betabrag tape to little Gabrielle, who had to hold the stainless steel-encased tape with both hands. A Formic went over to help her, and as the insectoid was ten times stronger than a human of its size, it carried the Betabrag easily with one arm. Merkryz smiled at that sight before continuing on, “You can watch it tonight when you meet your fellow campers.”



With that, a troop of Bragulan cub scout cubs accompanied by their cub scout master approached, decked in full Byzon Youth regalia. They assembled themselves before the human and Formic children and snapped into attention, presenting their arms in well-drilled Bragulan precision. The Ascendant children, for the most part, looked rather nervous at the sight of the bear cubs bearing arms, though some of the girls went ‘awww’ at how cute the cubs looked, and a pair of incessant kids were prattling on about the K-bolters they were carrying - one of them going on about how K-bolts could melt through Solarian power armor, while the other went on about the amazing transmutitative molecular disintigratifying properties of K-residue. The cub scout master, who had the word ‘Smokey’ on his hat denoting his status as an official instructor on the use of nuclear incendiaries, barked and commanded his cubs to be at ease. Now at ease, the cubs were free to show facial expressions and they gave the human and Formic teenagers looks of curiosity and equal parts excitement - a mirror of the Ascendants’ own image, albeit with furry uniformed and gun-totting reflections.

“Ah, Madame Sargnace, I would like to introduce you and your pupils to the Byzon Youth cubs and cub scout master who will be your counterparts for this experience,” Professor Merkryz decided thusly to begin his speech then and there:

“In accordance with the Bragulan Star Empire’s most extremely Byzonist glasnot and bragstroika, and the Federated Ascendancy’s own fine policy of FINE, the Friendly Interactions with Neighbors and Extraterrestrials, we are gathered here today to inter-inseminate one another in a commensalistic and beneficial fluidic exchange of sociocultures, ideologues, and traditions, not only through economic trade or diplomatic action between fossilized representatives and bureaucrati-politicos, but between the youths of our nations. You are,” Merkryz gestured to the assembled younglings and continued, “you are, youths of our nations, and the future of our great societies! This will be a beneficial mutualisk of comradeship between human, Formic and Bragulan never seen before. We are making histology, ladies and gentlebeings. Let us hope it is a most auspicious start to inter-Ascendant-Bragulan relationships. So, to keep things short, without further ado... Bienvenue dans la Camp du Brag!”

Lord Protector's Mansion



"I'm sorry? What's the likelyhood of this conclusion being correct? The fidelity of the DRADIS contact isn't that great, and the contact itself is brief." I really do not need this right now Lord Fairfax thought.

Grand Admiral Earl and Space Marshal Reinsch looked at each other. Earl spoke.

"The amount of cyclonic radiation indicates the vessel uses a step-through drive instead of opening hyperspace windows. The two species that we have the most experience with that use step-throughs are the N'sss and Amplitur, and the N'sss do not build warships that big, or operate outside of the Badlands. Out of the known-knowns an Amplitur Choir Ship makes the most sense. The Diaspora took them to the Badlands but just as many fled to the Verge, beyond Civilized Space, and we know that at least 3 Choir Vessels survived the final campaigns. For all we know the Amplitur in the Verge have managed to build the facilities to maintain and build new Choir vessels."

"Admiral," a note of irritation was creeping into Fairfax's voice. "Are there not other civilizations that use step-throughs?"

"Over a dozen that we know of. Most humanoid species tend to either open hyperspace windows or warp space around the vessel. It's the truly bizarre that use step-throughs."

"Why?"

The two military men had flickers of disbelief go across their faces, and Fairfax realized that something that was common knowledge had just sailed right by him. Where the hell is Blitzschlag when I need him?. Earl spoke again.

"The step-through tends to either kill or drive insane humanoids. Hyperspace doesn't have much in the way of critters, but the dimensions that the step-through passes through has violent fauna. There are methods to reduce odds of incidents during the step-through, but virtually everyone uses alternative methods of FTL."

"Could the contact have been a Collector Monolith?"

"Uh, as the report says sir, while it's possible it isn't likely. It's the opinion of NID that while the Collectors do not use humanoid forms of FTL, the lack of data on the Collectors more or less exclude them from the list. Even the data that the Shepistani Republic gathered from their encounter 100 cycles ago is flimsy, and the recent excursion at Pendleton did not provide much more. The size of the contact means it could be a Monolith of the type at Pendleton, but it matches Amplitur Choir vessels as well. During the Amplitur War it typically took 4 Star Dreadnoughts or 5 Heavy Battlestars to take down one. That the population of Ocracoke seems to have literally packed up and left, and they didn't have BFG in public spaces like us and the Shepistanis, seems to suggest a mass-culling."

Fairfax rubbed his temples.

"Admiral, Marshal, how many people have seen this report?"

"About 500 or so sir."

Not too bad...I can think of bigger conspiracy theories that remained a secret back on the original Earth. "Gentlemen, we have all seen the estimates from the SIG, we cannot afford new capital ship construction until FY05. We have to sit on this," Both men looked at Fairfax blankly "For as long as possible. I will pass this on to Admiral Sikes at the Legation on Montegomery, our Shepistani Brothers deserve to know about this. For all we know they may have information regarding other species that cna provide a viable alternative theory. I know this must stick in your craws, but we have keep this from the public. Our countrys fiscal rating is just barely above a junk bond, and Xenos Scare will take us back down to basketcase-economy. That will be all." Fairfax stood, and the other two men stood and exited.

He did not look forward to getting the response from Shep.

Part 2
part 1 here

Tebrek had taken his place at the side of his captain. He knew that the ship would be arriving soon, and that a large portion of the ships crew would be ready, even if the captain wasn't. Hell he was enough of a machine to take this in stride. Of course of the other 5 raiding ships at the station most of them wouldn't be ready but it was their own fault in every case. The only problem was that the magazines were almost empty, having played out in making the minefield.

Eh, just means that each shot had to count if it was a military vessel. And if it wasn't the empty bays would be perfect for loot.


War Cruiser Roubvogel

The next shift was waiting in the bridge antechamber. A couple of the cooking staff were bringing up relief food for the officers coming off duty. The captain was leaning up against a bulkhead, a trick he had picked up from a Commonwealth Captain to conceal a lack of rest. Apparently it didn't work that well against other humans, but Eoghans wouldn't see it that way, with their own preference to curl up with their tail when tired.

Archivist Kázmér twitched his whiskers, while the body language of the captain was unfamiliar the profound lack of excitement about viewing a new system gave him away. Exhaustion, most likely thanks to the extreme pace of the recon run. Two War-Cruisers were only able to cover so much ground by over working their crew, and indeed they were drawing heavily on their Black Boxes capacity to keep up speed. Coolant would be an issue at the halfway point, when they would switch out for one of the two cruiser pairs that were in Reserve.

Some of the auxiliary crew were laying out refreshment for the officers coming off duty, not too much but enough to encourage them, mostly bitter roots and Slime beetle preserves. As Káz looked at the little beetle heads preserved in Naval grade preservative that would last them centuries, the Voices grew louder and taunting laughter was brought against the gifted. Why would those.. bugs that lived in the cracks of reality be so confident to pester him now? Or were they just trolling him for responses?

The bell tolled as the ships hyperdrive disengaged close to the little dwarf star and signified the beginning of shift rotation. The captain perked up, his Pavlovian response overcoming his exhaustion. Sure he didn't need to be here since he was on call regardless but it was a symptom of his time under colors. In this case it saved him precious time when the alert came through.

One of the Auxiliary crew hit the quick release on the door just in time to see the first of three detonations being simulated with holo-viewpanes. The repeaters were going in the background, '...All point defense is green and free, Launch bays are to go to blast sealed, Counter measures moving to full readiness...'

"Captain, Drive trails detected, blasts were caused after one of the fore decoy launchers auto salvo-ed. Mine detonation is in the standard range for a medium improvised weapon. No damage reported."

"Sensors focus for a close sweep for more mines, then refocus on those drive trails. Point defense kill all close targets under priority. Kinetics, give me maximum density minimum volume at 700m with #1 and max deflection out to 20km with #2 for shielding." All the while the Master Sergent was phasing in the new bridge officers, first the assistants then when available the actual station officers.

"Close danger sweep is done, relaying targets into heavy point defense." "Point defense confirms guns clear for firing. Firing now." The four twined railguns that sat on the top and bottom deck started reaching out for hard kills against the handful of Mines that had been confirmed in their target cones, cones designated on the assumption that the primary role in combat would be to clear out heavy strike craft. The mines were easy enough prey.

"Archivist get to the observation post to help second scan. I want E-war quiet in 2 and a half." Archivist Kázmér was already moving as the captain continued his verbal circuit of the bridge. The primary Observation post was forward two sections and up almost six decks, built three decks over the secondary controls at the very most obvious spot for a bridge. A minute to get there at worst. Well it was worse to look on the tactical repeaters from up here and see more than 5 targets, one of which was larger even then their cruiser.

"Whats the targets looking like?"
'Sir maybe 4 or 5 of those types sighted in H12, lots of potential mines, 3 planets that look to have orbitals, and that heavy Ore miner; correction a heavy Ore miner that is throwing out a bunch of missiles. Eta from range is a minute 10. Sensors blind at 50."

A brief burst of clarity as one of the voices that he had bound made somethings clear. "Modify that only 3 of the lighter ships are combat ready at the moment. The other two will be ready in a short while. That that and that." The two medium far away, and the furthest leaving the two unprepared as the closest and the second furthest.

The captain had gotten the message and leaped forward with some 'defensive' missiles, a waste against a prepared warship but would stall an unprepared one. A part of the slavo was directed against the missiles the Ore hauler had thrown. Not enough to kill all of them.

"E-war blind in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, null." The ship shuddered as grav thruster after grav thruster engaged to shift it out of the line of fire. "First wave passing us in 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, first wave is passing now." The observation post was the first people to know when one of the incoming warheads was premature thanks to the deflection setting of Kinetic projector #2. They were also the first to know when one of the warheads found the inner barrier. The fireball was impressive but it had been redirected away from the ship with the Kinetic force of the Barrier.

The Underhanded

The shipmaster was glowering, and the first mate knew why. Using his machine interface he was berating the raider who despite being closest to the ship wasn't ready for battle and had lost it when it had stopped transmitting. Of course that had distracted the raider's captain enough for those light missiles to get through. They hadn't cased all that much damage, but they had fried some of the sensor gear with their targeters before landing.

"Master predictors have the vessels most likely path as cutting close to the M21 or 23 mine cluster." "Magazines at 5%, 20 missiles will be loaded in 15."

"Master we have to make certain that this supply depot remains secure and we should be able to bully our way through the enemy."

"I agree engines to full course into M23. I need the chart for those mines loaded now. Prepare to send 1% of the mines to active detection." And that cyborg monstrosity smiled confidently.


War Cruiser Roubvogel
The first mine that had gone active had been really nasty, a bomb pumped Xray laser that had lite them up something special. Active scanning was brought back on-line and point defense was lively, especially from the observation deck. Autoblasters were firing on close fast moving warheads launched from a now dead mine while the heavier railguns were putting out any launchers spotted. There were enough mines in close that even the casement broadside Lightning guns were firing, rending all their targets to atomic vapor.

"Raider one E-war is at half of starting, presumably out of the fight; Heavy target one, heavy target one has moved awaiting re-establishment of contact. Active Raiders are beginning long range plasma fire, range is too great to be decisive.
Heavy target sighted, bearing 9, -1, -87 and closing. We have incoming!"

With point defenses so hopelessly saturated the captain had ordered Kinetic #2 to go to point bursts. Not all of the missiles could handle the focused density of particles that #2 could put out, but #2 didn't have that great of fine control in reaction fire. #1 shifted a quarter of it's power over to handling the overload, loosening the amount of shielding they were covered by but eliminating the threats faster. Finally though they were given the purpose that they had been built for, both projectors sending a bath of semi real particles at the enemy. The effect that created the particles traveled at C, but the beam started to lag behind. Two pin pricks of Kinetic force slammed into the Underhanded, a fierce hammer blow that had the shields cycle off to relieve stress just in time for a partial bath of hard radiation from the following particle stream.

A nasty blow, if it had been any other ship. The Underhanded had plenty of volume to soak up radiation though. It's response was a whole lot softer, but hit in a lot more tender location. Several auto-lasers had opened up at beyond their max range as a point defense weapon. hitting in while the barriers were being reformed after firing at full strength. Kaz finally knew why the voices had taunted him so as the entire observation post burned around him, cutting him off from all options except the escape pod, alone save the dead as even the voices quieted for his decision, only the half mad piping in the Aether remaining. He could stay and die in the fires of the post or he could eject into space and hope for the best.

What was worst about this decision was that the voices were taking it seriously. Obviously death was normally not preferable to anything but if the hideous voices thought it wasn't any worse, and they are the ones who brought tales from all parts of space of death, corruption, passions driving people to horrible ends, not to mention the secrets about the universe they lied about; that should really make you stop and think. He had a few precious moments before even his durability as one of the gifted gave out.

They Escape pod was away before the thoughts were clean and final. He looked back at the Roubvogel long enough to see the heaviest axial railguns open up in a final gambit before he passed out from the pain.

He could not see the shot that shattered the minor comet enough to intimidate the pirates for a moment nor the brief crossing of the broadsides as the cruiser accelerated through the new debris field for the safety of hyperspace.

And he most assuredly couldn't see the Underhanded when it plucked his pod from the void. Yet he knew, and he knew exactly why the voices had been silent, for they were silent no more.