An unexplained vortex in the center of the Universe

The people in the Technocratic Initiative homesystem of Asgard cowered at the tremendous storms, whipping over the Homeworld of Noalearialis and the other worlds of Atlantis, Polaris, Freya and Merlin.

Hobbes, feared leader of the Hobbesians, Tiger Smurf of the Smurf Liberation Front, Vice-President and Treasurer of the Technocratic Initiative lit up a cigarette and drew a long puff, staring at the sky through tightly clenched eyes. He stood with the rest of the TI council and his friend the Death Knight, staring up a whirling vortex spinning above them. Lightning and thunder crackled and clapped far above the planet's surface.

"What's all this then?" Hobbes asked the huddled group of diplomats. The wind began to steal his cigarette, but he clenched his jaw closed harder.

"Beats me," answered Musashi, President of the Technocratic Initiative and Papa Smurf of the SLF.

"Hrm..." said Hobbes, and looked up again.

As if this was a cue, a thunderous commanding voice descended down from heaven.


Dear Instance 2, It began

The moment you all have been waiting for (or dreading) has arrived --- well, sort of. We officially will be closing this instance as of January 31st. Now that we have the bad news out of the way I would like to mention that the closing date will not necessarily coincide with the launch date of the long-awaited instance #4. If any of you had some major plans in the works, now is the time when you might want to launch them, or if you are striving for any medals now is the chance to earn them as quickly as possible. Within the last week best of's/most of's will be given out in the general chit chat for us to brag/whine about. So I ask you now to go forth and raise a little H*ll while the instance is still alive and kicking.

In regards to the best of's/most of's I will be putting up a thread for people to request what statistics that you would like to see.

And then, as an after thought, the voiced added in:

From your friendly local admin,

Savage.


The six men stood in stony silence, watching as the spinning vortex faded. The system broadcast wasn't particularly new, but this method of addressing them directly was. Usually, just general announcements were made.

"Kill Cult trick, do you think?" asked The DeathKnight.

"I don't think..." began Vzydom, First Advisor to the TI and Leader of Lythium, Inc, an empire friendly to both the Kill Cult scourge and the SLF guerillas.

"Nah, neither do I," said Hobbes. He looked at Musashi. "You know Savage was God, then?" he asked his commander. Savage was another SLF member, a critical one at that. He shared Joint Command with Musashi over the SLF.

"I had an inkling," replied Musashi, still staring up at the sky.

"Oh," said Hobbes, making a considering face. "An inkling." He took one last draw from his cigarette before tossing it on the ground and snubbing it out with his toe.

"Well, screw this," he said. "I'm going home." And with one last glance to the sky, he left them standing there.

President Amydros issuing a Proclamation of Remembrance

From the memoirs of Zen Amydros
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Ah, where do I begin?

Let us start with an overview of events which led up to this tragedy...

Relations between the Gaians and the Firm Conglomerate have always been on edge. Perhaps a decade or so ago, the Legitimate Businessman's Social Club entered into a contract with the Firm's leadership as part of peace negotiations. It allowed for the Gaian's dominant power to set up bases in the Firm's inner arm for the purpose of large silver extraction operations. The Gaian territorial claims were almost completely lacking in this valuable resource.

Mining operations began, and we continued to look on with envy...

The annual silver imports sustained the Gaian economy for a time, but demand again outgrew supply. Trade in general was booming, but the price of silver continued to climb... and climb..

A political debate within the Gaian parliament continued to increase with intensity. The Legitimate Businessman's Social Club was pushing for a mutual defense pact with the warmongering and ever expanding Kill Cult empire. There were factions within the parliament, and indeed within LBSC itself, which were fundamentally and ideologically opposed to the idea.

The hostile environment led to a general military buildup on outlying worlds and Gaian holdings in the core. Genuine distrust of Kill Cult was held by the majority of the faction. Engineers had been working for years to reduce their dependency on silver alloys used in most ship designs, but the breakthrough did not come before this new military push. The price of silver reached record highs, again..

At perhaps the worst timing possible, the founder of LBSC was met with a sudden and unexpected death. Irate's artificial liver failed him in his sleep, and he had unfortunately drank excessively at a banquet in his honor the night before. Cultadium, a relatively inexperienced freshman senator, was named for succession in Irate Pirate's Will. He was overwhelmed, and had no personal experience on the battlefield.

Commodore Cappy quickly exploited Cultadium's uncertainties and managed to obtain leadership. Cappy was the leading protestor of the proposed Kill Cult alliance. He rapidly instituted radical changes in LBSC's foreign policy, and attempted to remobilize Gaian offensive capabilities, but intended on pointing his guns at it's proposed ally. Silver demand exploded, and hyperinflation began to ensue. Cappy's approval ratings plummeted, and his empire loudly protested his actions.

In a fit of rage, Commodore Cappy abandoned his post as leader of the Gaian superpower, and created an opposition party with loyal members of his ideological splinter group. The Legitimate Businessmen's Social Club was effectively split in two, and could no longer push its agenda on the entire faction.

Talks of a mutual defense pact with Kill Cult were stalled as the Gaian political landscape attempted to resettle itself. Upheaval continued for months as Cultadium again tried to faithfully execute Irate Pirate's wishes, and with the full loyalty of his remaining followers. It was at this point that I was forced to step out of the shadows and take on a major advisory role, trying to avoid the reigns of power myself. I had sworn to myself that I would not re-enter the political landscape, but I had a duty to aide in the transition.

It was at this point that LBSC became known as Black Watch Plaid. We worked on co-existence with Cappy's rival party and other more moderate parties of the faction, but the debate always resettled on our differences involving Kill Cult. Then, another significant shock came to the faction. It was widely known that Cappy had made himself a target of both Kill Cult and rising power to the far east: the Imperial Dominion of Lord Prosoft. It is unclear to this day exactly what happened, but Commodore Cappy mysteriously disappeared.

Perhaps the most influential blow was the destruction of the long coveted Silver Highway, of which Cappy had formerly managed. He had apparently took the warpnet with him. Supply lines began to struggle, and the Gaian economy faltered. The supply of silver came to a trickle.

Again, we looked onto the Firm with envy. So vast where their natural resources, which had gone virtually untapped.

Unemployment exceeded 43% of the working population, and it was during the worst economic depression in Gaian history that I took command of Black Watch Plaid.

Finally, I was able to push the mutual defense pact with Kill Cult through the legislature. Following my empire's reconstruction of the Silver Highway, popular support for my policies became overwhelming. Hyperinflation was contained, and the annual silver imports resumed. The Gaian economy flourished, and we became a galactic power once more.

Following my first re-election, from which I garnished over 80% of the total popular vote, I admittedly took advantage of my mandate and reformed the government completely. Black Watch Plaid was again reorganized into the Galactic Chancellors' Social Club. Silver extraction operations were diversified and our territorial claims in the Firm's arm grew, even as relations remained uneasy at best.

Surveyors spotted a virtual Garden of Eden, completely uncolonized but dangerously close to the Firm's central metropolitan and military areas. A terrestrial 115b km in landmass and having all the natural resources befitting a faction homeworld was simply unheard of. I considered the risks and cleared the expedition. Unfortunately, once the long mission reached its destination, the Firm had in fact claimed the planet.

I could not turn the faithful Gaians back. In fact, I refused to. They proposed colonizing the opposite side of the planet on a deserted continent, in hopes of not being detected. They established Xenopolis, which became a central trade-route once a direct warpnet to the Gaian homeworld was established.

Time passed, and Xenopolis flourished, remaining unknown to its adversaries on the opposite side of the globe. President Colm mistakenly made some disrespectful comments about his Gaian neighbors on public announcement channels, and I eventually was forced to address the comments. Relations continued to sour. The Firm had never been considered a very good neighbor to the Gaian people.

Threats were eventually circulated by power-hungry members of the Firm, and I took pre-emptive actions fearing that the secret existence of Xenopolis had been compromised. The heavy traffic of resources going through Xenopolis were seized by Executive Order for a period of months, and a magnificent fleet was rectified, implementing the experimental technology of the Instable Anti-Matter Drives.

Billions upon billions of credits were thrown at IAMD Spheres, as their explosions were frequent and Gaian sacrifices high. Regardless, the gambit afforded me enough victories to effectively take control of Eden by clearing out the surrounding systems of any opposing military presence. Xenopolis claimed former Firm colonies across the planet.

Colm wished to pursue peace talks. Negotiations with the Firm were always regarded with great suspicion, ever since the earliest days of formal relations. I entertained his bidding, for a time, and acquired most of the peace terms I sought. Hostilities were called off, and an uneasy truce prevailed. In the meantime, hundreds of thousands of trained pilots where flown in from the Gaian homeworld, to man a new breed of Gaian fighters and warships being engineered and mass produced at the Xenopolis shipyards. It was widely understood that our presence so close to the center of their powerbase was very fragile. I wanted insurance...

...I got vengeance.

I began employing spies, and through them I began to understand the hidden intentions of Colm's uneasy peace. Fortunately, I began to identify those who did not support the policies of their faction's leadership. Secret talks with certain revolutionaries became the true fuel which tore the Firm apart. Their allegiances divided more than once.

I had a long standing agreement with Kill Cult in regards to Firm territory. Silver extraction was crucial to the Gaian economy, and I did not want instability in the region to compromise my steady operations. Given the Gaian's now formidable military presence in the Firm, I truly had a free reign over the region. I am not a tyrant, though, and I did not wish for the genocide of any foreign peoples. I gave many groups of the Firm many chances to sustain themselves. The wrong people seemed to be consistently making the final decisions, though, and at the expense of those who were more apologetic towards my disposition.

Lord Prosoft and his personal dominion had made moves towards a merger with the Kill Cult Empire some months earlier, and was still pursuing his own personal agenda. His agenda circumscribed my previous agreement with his new kingdom, and mounted a fairly successful assault on the Firm homeworld.

Instability was my worst fear, and a vacuum formed when a fatal flaw in the computer systems at Prosoft's imperial central command post was exploited. Almost simultaneously, across the universe, self-destruct sequences were initiated in every flagship at his command. His assets were left defenseless and subordinate populations rose up across the universe to steal from him what he had once stolen from them.

This unfortunately happened in the middle of his invasion of the Firm, and his assets were consolidated by a single leader of said faction. This stood as a real threat to my perpetual peace, so I swept into their homesystem with superior firepower and neutralized the major threats immediately. In this way I intended to insure perpetual peace, on my own terms.

Again, I offered a deal.

I sat above the remaining capitals on the Firm home planet and issued an ultimatum. The leadership of the Elite Guard were the only dignitaries who accepted my terms. In return, I was to give them until the coming Thursday to organize a mass exodus, and flee to a new homeworld of their choosing with the understanding that they may never return. They were to leave the infrastructure of their capitals intact, and I stipulated a minimum density of 1.0 to maintain order in their deserted territories.

I spared members of the Hegemony unconditionally, as they have been a staunch supporter of my people and my polices since we first established contact through our mutually governed wormholes.

BlackMamba robbed his faction's reserve funds for the benefit of his own empire, and then in the final hours before his scheduled departure, the agreement was violated. Twice.

BlackMamba organized a mass exodus fleet of thirty-seven large colony ships and supporting escorts. In the process he left his former capital in complete chaos. My temper had exceeded its limits, and I sought no longer to be a benevolent overlord. I took every remaining capital relentlessly, and Black Mustang proceeded to genocide his entire population. His was perhaps of noble intentions, holding that his people would rather die than live under foreign rule. But is such a choice truly his to make? Regardless, their combined actions in the end destroyed the futures of those attempting to flee.

Furiously, I attempted to scan for the enormous fleet, but could only find a fighter blockade in its place. Feeling my chance to exact revenge escaping me, I quickly sent into the surrounding space a defense wing from a neighboring planet and managed to intercept BlackMamba's massive escape attempt before it could exit through the system entrance.

An estimated 962,000 civilians were helplessly caught in furnaces of death which were to be their salvation.

I may not be able to sleep easily at nights ever again, but my actions will ultimately be justified by historians hundreds of years from now.

And here it stands. The homeworld of the Firm has fallen. Like dominos, the opposition seems to fall in place against our mighty coalition.

Let this day be known as Black Thursday, forever more. The day in which millions of innocent lives were sacrificed because of the mistakes of their leaders.

Now, let us see what Friday brings..

The Stapler of Milton

The Firm had just provided another round of 'Faction career change opportunities' to some workers. And the Shift Manager of the Galactic Antiquities Division was feeling vulnerable.

"So, let me get this straight. One of your people signed for a package without checking to see if the routing, disposition, tracking, and integrity numbers all matched?" The Recieving Foreman shrugged out a "Yup." "And now you have a package from an archaeological dig but no idea where to send it or who to notify that its arrived?" "Yup" "Let me see..." The Foreman slid the small box over to the Shift Manager, who briefly glanced at the contents.

"Garbage. Pitch it in the incinerator and delete any record of it. I smell another reorg and I won't have my efficiency rating narfed by your ineptitude. And when you're done report back to me so I can fire you." The Foreman gulped, nodded, and quickly left.

Later, in a stockroom next to the main boilerroom and incinerator, Invoices Department, Shipping Unit, Galactic Antiquities Division: A small group of clerks huddle around an impromptu altar. Laserpointerlight illuminates the reverent faces of the corporate workers as they stare in wonder at the Holy Relic before them. Mail Clerk forth-sixth class Murat, who recognized and saved the Lost Stapler of Initech from the burn bin, leads the first service of the Miltonites.

Unitos has heard the cry of his people, but is unable to act himself because of a previous agreement with Quax under Paragraph 12 subclause 31 Title Five of the Intergalactic Diety Fair Trade and Competition Act of 2379. So he will send his minion Milton instead.

So, beware all you overserious WF Lumberghs. Initiate all the operations improvements you want, dehire or remix skill sets to your hearts desire. We will not sit idly by while you downsize our fun, rightsize our enjoyment, surplus our happiness.

We are the Miltonites; in these trying times of layoffs and outsourcing, we turn to the Red Swingline Stapler. For yea it is written (we know, we just wrote it)

"And there shall come to pass a dark time of great oppression, a time when cubicle mate will turn against cubicle mate. Efficiency Experts shall draw nigh, and soon too the slips of pink shall come. 'Have Fun' shall be replaced with 'do what is good for the company.'

But keep the faith, and fear not. Ignore your voicemail. Shred your memos. Above all, do not file your TPS reports. Be ready. For true followers will be spared on the terrible day, the day of Holy Fire, the day of... Milton.

The path to the core just got a lot shorter.

Very little is known about Quax. It seems that it appears during times of great change or strife, and it acts. Quaxs actions are often unstoppable, from a highly more advanced civilization. I am not surprised Quax decided to appear now; the destruction of a wormhole and the tearing of our universe in two was quite an event. My probe was the first to feel the might of its guns. I, along with many rulers, have been watching the signal countdown with much apprehension.

I sent another probe after the two battleships. I could not lose sight of them, the unmentionable amount of power they displayed frightened me. But they did nothing. In fact they had not moved at all. Just staying in orbit around the barren planet, as if waiting.

After arrival my probe detected a transmission from the Battleships. Apparently they had come here to enrich the core; many people are suffering under the myriad low resource planets. I say 'had' because when my probe encountered them they changed their minds. The Quax have decided to share some of their technology to ‘help’ the outcasts. Oddest use of the word help I've ever heard. Instead of enriching our worlds they are going to send ‘warp-gates’ to all faction members every fourteen months. Warp-gates that teleport ships to the core. Some say it’s for transports full of relief minerals, but I can see war-ships appearing near my systems soon. All because of that damn probe z2.

After the broadcast the two ships disappeared. No trail, no wormhole, just gone. Their warp-gate technology, I’m sure. But those two ships don’t matter anymore. Only one thing matters.

The factions are coming.

Power

An odd report surfaced from one of my probes. Probe z2, the third wave meant to explore any systems I missed in the first two. An odd report is a rarity, usually it is just boring drivel that only interests geologists and astronomers. But odd probe reports, ah, they are the light of my day. Especially from wave three, the ones closest to my homeworld. Whatever appears in this report I will be able to capitalize on practically immediately, ever since the new drives were sent from pbhead. Almost every anomaly is good, usually either a wormhole or a colony. This odd report was not any of the above.

I have my probes set to scan anything they find, which sometimes leads them to getting too close to war-ships. Not really a big deal, put a big red x on the map where the probe was destroyed and avoid it in the future. But what z2 found was of a magnitude higher then that of a system blockade or traveling war fleet. I stare blankly at the report. It’s not possible, nothing this big exists in this universe. It was immense: 1,111 cannons, who knows how much armor and shielding, 969,870 metric tons. I do a double take reading the mass, but it was scanned three times before it destroyed my ships. Nothing we could build could even scratch the hull.

What have we awoken?

A look into how one such ruler deals with the sub-par researchers that are still working.

Written By Hobbes

Hobbes, feared ruler of the Hobbesian people of the Guardians (elected annually, without fail each year by a special electorate composed of himself), CEO of GROSStech Enterprises and Vice-President of the Technocratic Initiative, stared blankly at the young scientist in front of him, one Miss Laura Myers. In the good old days, thought Hobbes, we'd have a ton of scientists like this one working on a project. Funded with a ton of money. In fact, I gave this one a large sum of money. What happened to the good old days? Myers scuffed her feet a little bit.

"Do you know why you're here?" asked Hobbes.

"Because of my project, I assume," she replied. And then, wilting under his stare, "sir."

"Yes, that's precisely why. And where is my fighter hull, might I ask?" said Hobbes, perfectly aware of the piece of paper in his hand with the well drawn blueprint of a fighter hull.

"In your hand," said Myers. "Sir."

"No, its not," said Hobbes.

Now, Myers knew that it was in his hand. And Hobbes knew that she knew that it was in his hand. And she knew that he knew that she knew that it was in his hand. And when faced with this level of logic, the important thing, my friends, is never point it out. So she said nothing.

Hobbes sighed a little bit and opened his desk and rooted through his brandy. "How much do I pay you?" he asked. He also knew the answer to that.

"A little over 10,000 credits," Myers said, pleasantly.

"Indeed," said Hobbes. "And that's well over what anyone else gets. Workers here get 500 credits, less than 1/20th of what you make. And you hand me this," he said, waving the blueprint. "A one gun fighter that barely out-does a Shelter Defender's hull. And you try to tell me that this blueprint is the fighter hull I asked you for. Why do I even keep you around?"

"Because I'm likable," replied Myers, earnestly.

"No, you're not," replied Hobbes. He pressed a buzzer that hailed his personal secretary, Mr. Drumknott. The terrified little man, who, in his early thirties was nearly completely bald from stress, rushed into the room.

"You...you...you...buzzed, s..s...sir?" he stammered fitfully.

"Mr Drumknott, have our friend here escorted away from here. Then I want you to take her to the Punishers, have them deal with her, then give her body to the university for a medstudent autopsy, so maybe, just maybe, we can get something useful out of her," ordered Hobbes.

Myers turned to run, but Hobbes was much to quick for that. He smoothly pulled a stunner and shot her in mid-dash, her body crumpling to the floor. Drumknott stared, horrified, at the gun.

"Well, Drumknott? Go on then," said Hobbes, gesturing with the gun.

Drumknott nodded, mouth still agape and then started to move. However, it was mainly just downward force, for, you see, he'd feinted.

Hobbes sighed and pressed the buzzer again. "I'll need a security detail and Mr. Drumknott's smelling salts please." He thought about it a little bit and then pressed the buzzer again, adding "Oh yes, and send those Genesian girls up now."

Infinitely Beautiful Intensity

Written by Reillan, Leader of The Hegemony

Lieutenant Sel stood at his monitoring station aboard the transport ship Hegemonic Resources. He faithfully watched for incoming ships, though his job was extremely boring with no activity outside of the routine docking procedures made by small robotic trade vessels docking to sell or buy resources. It would be enough to drive any normal Genesai insane, but Sel was not normal. He watched with a studiousness that defied logic for someone whose death would come so quickly, but he had been genetically designed to handle strict focus. He could remain fixed on the screen for his entire eight-hour shift without so much as flinching a muscle. This day seemed routine like any other day.

When Sel noticed a group of 21 targets appear on the screen, he thought neither good nor ill of it - he simply sent the normal transmission requesting identification. For a moment, everything seemed standard as he liked it. He received a reply and routed the identification data into the computer. He kept his eyestalks focused on the screen as the computer processed the data with the galactic net. Then he noticed the ships spreading apart, and instantly recognized the pattern - it was a Alpha-6 attack pattern, with the smaller ships spreading foward in a semicircle around the largest ship of the fleet. He immediately sent a telepathic communique to his commander.

Captain Jen asked the data to be patched through to his console. As soon as he saw the ships, he knew Sel was right. He ordered the ship to retreat and try to reach Oldehome, but before they could make it they were cut off by the advancing fighters. The battleship began bombarding his unarmed and unarmored transport, and before Jen could make another communique, his cabin exploded, turning the Captain and his engineered mates into green mist.

Sel began sending urgent transmissions, and ordered that every bit of cargo in the hold be put into the robotic trade vessels and launched to the planet. He moved all of the remaining Genasai into the middle of the ship and waited, drifting slowly along in the blackness of space, with the outer hull being slowly vaporized by the onslaught.

* * *

In his throneroom, President Reillan sat in a meeting with his top research staff. Science had always been his forte, and the projects his facilities had been producing were amazingly advanced. He had smiled as he presented the findings of the scientists, and had begun collaborating with councilman Mesaia and his research team to improve the projects. Now he was growing bored as the talks droned on, little knowing that his boredom would be soon broken.

A messenger - the President recognized him but didn't know his name - entered and whispered into his ear node, "our trade station is under attack." Reillan didn't look up from his research notes, but replied back in a equally quiet voice - "build and deploy a single fighter wing." The messenger saluted and stiffly marched from the room. The talks continued.

Moments later, he returned. "Sir, the fighter wing is taking heavy casualties," he said in a sombre voice. The President looked the messenger squarely in the eyestalks and, for the first time, appeared to take notice of the severity of the situation. "How many ships are there?" "20 now, sir, including one battleship." Reillan looked at each of his researchers. They appeared to be clueless, which is how he decided he would keep them. "Ladies and gentlegen, excuse me for a moment. I have a little business to take care of, it won't take long." The President stretched his tentacle-legs to the floor, lifting himself from the chair, and slided out of the room.

He took his station in the command center next to General Dis. "Excellency," Dis said, "we have continued to build wings of fighters and have gloriously destroyed several of the enemy's ships, but we cannot match the shields of that battleship." Reillan nodded and sent his telepathy-thoughts out to his fellow emperors. None responded. That was a crushing blow to his psyche, one strong enough for Dis to detect. "We shall double our production, my lord. We have stalled the ship for a while now, we can continue to do so." Dis turned away to give orders to a few nearby underlings, and Reillan looked to the battle monitor. The lights of his fighters he could see winking out, though occasionally their strafing attacks against the larger ships of the enemy were effective to knock out one or two ships. As he watched, he could see his forces overwhelmed, but soon they were receiving backup of additional fighers. The battle appeared to be turning, but looming over it all was that massive battleship.

Then, all of a sudden, something happened that Reillan didn't expect. A new group of dots appeared on the screen, and flew into the battle and back out. "What was that?" the President asked, watching intently. Dis looked at the screen. "I don't know, my lord. It wasn't one of our fleets." Then, the dots appeared again, rushing directly into the heart of the battle. "Pull our ships back, anything that's nearly disabled, get it back." Dis jumped to the order. Reillan turned to the window and watched as the massive transport ship fell from the sky, one engine burning just enough to keep it mostly aloft. Support craft took flight and helped the ship to land. Reillan rushed out to meet it.

In the command center, General Dis coordinated the return and repair of his ships. He sent a transmission to the ships that had interceded, only to see emperor Calthor's picture appear on the screen. "Greetings, General. I had hoped the President would be overseeing this personally." "He was, your honor," Dis replied, "but he had some emergency operations to oversee. Thank you for coming to our aid." Then, just as this first initial message cleared, additional ships appeared on the screen. More emperors of The Hegemony, may its name be glorified in our history books forever, had sent fleets into the fray. Hundreds of small ships dotted the screens.

Meanwhile, Reillan was present when the metal slag of the transport was cut away to reveal almost all of its passengers still alive, and the majority of the ship in relatively good working order. Lieutenant Sel stepped forward from the debris, and when the President went forward to shake his pads, Sel collapsed. The President knelt by his side, and began HPR, with medics taking over as soon as they arrived.

* * *

Private Hasen flew as a wingman in Emperor Andistyr's blockade. He had logged many hours beside Colonel Amass, but only in simulations. As the hundred ships of his fleet assembled into groups for the attack, a shudder of dread and excitement passed through him. He could tell by looking at the ships already engaged, and the blips behind him that indicated additional reinforcements coming in droves that they were already well positioned to win this battle, but that goliath of a battleship still had full shields, and even he could see their combined efforts wouldn't be enough to overwhelm them.

Still, Amass ordered his wing to attack, and attack they did. By the hundreds, the combined fighters and bombers of The Hegemony straffed the shields, battering them with as much fire as they could. Hasen saw right before him the gun battery of the battleship spin up, and its fire laced through one of Reillan's fighters, ripping it to tiny shreds. Hasen held his breath as the wing dove again, blasting away at the shields. He could see that the shields seemed to be getting weak near the end of their blasting runs, and watched as bombers pounded through the shields and began slowly wearing down the armor of the ship. Then again, he also watched as his friends and empiremates were being torn apart by the guns. He prayed a audible prayer that more reinforcements would arrive. Then, without warning, blaze of light shot past his wing, and he looked to his right and found that Amass was gone.

With no wingman, Hasen tried to find ships to regroup with. The radio chatter was utter chaos, with no capital ships to be found and many of the captains of the assault destroyed. As he flew, he found a lone bomber attempting to strafe the underside of the battleship, and he formed up with it as though he were its natural wingman. The bomber pilot's eyestalks turned to regard him, and then turned back ahead. It was as though it was the natural order of things, and the pair began again their attack.

The battle raged on for days, ships occasionally being destroyed or retreating to safety, but Hasen and his bomber pilot knew no such rest. They constantly pressed the advantage, their Genasai DNA working to keep them alive and stable for the moment. With his mind on the bring of losing its sanity, and his tentacle-arms exhausted from the effort, it was a fight for Hasen just to remain in control of his ship. Then he saw it. The shields flickered, and as the pair rounded the tip of the battleship, they could see the bridge shields flash and fail. They simultaneously throttled up and fired everything they had at the ship, and that was the last thing Hasen saw for a while.

Waking up a day later in a hospital in his homeworld colony, he could see the bomber pilot lying quietly on a bed next to his. Flowers of all kinds lay placed around the room, and a solemn President sat waiting alone, quietly, on the chair near the wall. Hasen tried to speak, but his voice was too weak. The President looked up and stood, sliding over to his bedside. "You did it, lieutenant," the President said, "you and your wingman over there." Hasen smiled, and then the world went black again.

The Temptation

A few weeks ago, Lunian received a notice informing all residents of the universe that the Universal Banking Guild (UBG) was having difficulties with their money. He wondered what could possibly be the problem. He sent a u-mail back to the UBG asking if they could further elaborate upon their notice. Their response was brief and to the point:

We have received an influx of counterfeit money in the past few days, and need time to sort out the problems. As a result, all banking functions will be closed.

Lunian didn’t take kindly to this message. In fact, he went into a tirade and began to throw anything he could get his hands on, for not only was money frozen between him and his friends, meaning they couldn’t play games of poker, it was also frozen throughout his colony. As the money was all frozen, work couldn’t progress on the hospitals his people desperately needed as a result of the high gravity, and on top of that, he couldn’t collect taxes as the UBG handled that as well in an attempt to lower corruption.

Over the next few days, Lunian sat restlessly about the capital building while receiving news from the UBG abut the situation, even giving speeches to calm down the outraged citizens.

Finally, the news that Lunian had been waiting for arrived. The UBG said that they had captured the criminals of this scandal and that those persons responsible would be punished to the fullest extent of the Universal Laws set down at the Terran Convention of 2389. They also informed Lunian that they were sorry for any troubles caused by this incident, and that they would do all in their power to prevent something like this from happening ever again.

Lunian finally let out a sigh of relief and prepared one final speech to the people of Hydrogen:

“I thank you all for bearing with me through these very troubling weeks. According to the UBG, everything should be back to normal within the next few days. I hope that all of you have not suffered too terribly from this fiasco. The local news station, News 1, will be on the air ‘round the clock until this whole mess is cleared up. Again, I thank you for your patience in this matter of highest importance.”

Computer Simulation of Wormhole #25-1c

“Limitless systems don’t exist! The energy had to come from somewhere! We thought we had found a treasure but we were playing with Pandora’s box all along!” – final message from Alpha Arm 3 S243, 1-27-2206

“We never really understood the wormholes” This statement was heard all over the galaxy after the . . . I don’t even have a word for it. And the remaining scientists are no help at all. Those that didn’t disappear have all but started speaking in tongues. “Quantum this, and parallax that;” they go on and on until you shout, “put it into plain words!” The silent reply is paired with dumbstruck faces before they go off on some tangent. It is practically impossible to get the stories straight but this is part of what I’ve pieced together.

Wormholes. Every child knows they were the beginning of the scattering, but what are they? When they were encountered at first everyone was cautious as can be but after a few safe manned flights all precautions took a back seat to expansion. ‘Faster than light travel can’t exist,’ said a small group of scientists. They were silenced rather quickly; no one could be opposed to this new technological marvel; it was the savior of our people. And everyone forgot about it, even me. Hell, even a lowly spacer can see the advantages of wormholes. Using them we grew mighty, trading with people who would make us rich and conquering those that wouldn’t. But then it happened.

It was the littlest thing. Just another probe. Thousands go through wormholes every day. We still don’t know why this one was any different. Maybe it had a fission device in it. Maybe the probe had a black-hole generator. Maybe it wasn’t the probe at all, the wormhole was just at the end of its life. The reason doesn’t matter, they rarely do, what does matter is what it did to us, to this universe. The most coherent sentence I ever got out of a physicists is that, “space and time tore. It’s not supposed to do that.” The sensors watching the wormhole all suddenly filled with a white light. Now these aren’t ho-dunka sensors that can only record our visual spectrum, these were made to record everything: Radio, Microwave, Infrared, UV, Gamma, a few more words I cant pronounce. And all at once they just started recording at the highest possible levels. It was something never seen before and hopefully never again. The levels went down to normal, the only thing wrong was that the wormhole was gone.

At first it appeared as a little blurring. Many people barely noticed it. It crept up, first very slowly, then very quickly. Everything split into 3, 4, a dozen different angles. It’s impossible to describe. The other worlds were there but they weren’t there. Frankly it didn’t matter in the end, there was nothing anyone could do. Most of civilization was destroyed. The way I understand it was that computers were also split, all having the same electrons firing but going along several different paths. Control systems failed. All fusion reactors went nova. It’s funny that the most backward people were the safest. Science was pushed back a thousand years. Now humanity is scattered without technology and just the barest means of survival. The dispersal of the matter of the most advanced worlds means that more planets will be habitable, but so many were mined dry before the divide. I hope these people have learned not to mess with the wormholes, but I doubt it.

I doubt it.

Karnejj writhed unceasingly as the pain racked his body. "Can't breathe!" he thought. He couldn't see but he felt hands pulling on him. He felt himself being removed from a container of foul, viscous liquid, much of it still clinging to him in heavy gobs.

He instictive coughed releasing more of the goo from his airways, and gasped for air. "Who ... what the Hell is going on?!?" He hissed.

"Calm down, sir. You're safe. Your transfer was successful, Emperor" was the response that Karnejj heard.

The details started coming back to him now. Ahh, yes --- the "transfer" from Alpha Universe, which means that, he must be in Beta, now. So, this is what it feels like to be copied. Ununsed to kneeling helplessly, he tried to stand, but found his legs failing him.

"I know you're just getting here, Emperor, but urgent matters have come to our attention," said a familiar voice.

"Ressbin??"

"Yes, sir. My twin from Alpha has just sent a quantum message informing of a scientist missing from the primary research team. There's evidence that he may have been a spy. So, we'll need you handling things, Emperor ... looks like we may have company in this Universe."

It's all right... I'm a leaf on the wind.

From: Bro%Dan@sionia.freelink.lsp
To: Mosely%Absolute@xanaphia.messenger.lsp
Subject: The big man writes again

My team found it about an hour ago, written in the same script we found on chatelleraut - a lot shorter, but if what happened last time we found an inscription is any indicator of things to come... well... I'd appreciate it if you get your girl to intervene as quick as possible, kay? Anyway, try to make some sense of this.

The eye and ear of man shall surely know
The lust of one, to fight the other’s greed
The victor, he who strikes decisive blow,
Will have no qualms to other lands proceed
- Inscription found on cavern wall
New Xanaphia Archaeological Survey
Haut-Sec Scriptorium 3 , Freehold Prime

Dan

P.S.: Finne Lillard is getting a copy, too. Don’t tell Paranoia, you know how they get.

-----

The journalists must be having a field day, thought Don Julio as he walked down the corridors of his flagship, the BJS Distilarica. The hull shuddered and Julio grabbed a handrail - just for a moment. Nothing to worry about, the attacking partisan fleets of the Spectre Order had been launching attacks on his ships constantly for the past couple of days. He was safe in his secondary invasion force, removed from the main action taking place in the high atmosphere miles below him. The ship shifted a second time as the reactor core transferred a surface charge back to the tachyon field that was serving him so well. It was almost pathetic, really.
The Don took a long drag from his cigar and paused to look down from the catwalk into the war bays where his boys were set about, firing the Distilarica’s cannons like deep, cavernous drums while the higher-pitched keen of the gun batteries fired at attacking Spectres, their sporadic shots sounding almost like a melody. The sweet, sweet music of war.
The cigar was freshly looted from the plentiful stockhouses of Blood Cove, the planet over which they hovered. Hedonist hydroponics were still the best in all the galaxies, there was no denying that. Almost a shame we’re so irrevocably at war. The week had been a blur, since his initial victory and subsequent celebration. A blur with explosions, screaming diplomats and battle reports. Oh, and gin. Julio screwed the cap off his hip flask and drank. Hedonists still can’t beat my liquor. No one can.
As he reached the bridge, he was greeted by the sight of the grievously damaged hull of a Spectre Destroyer, still leaking burning plumes of oxygen, directly in the Distilarica’s path. The captain of the destroyer, a young man with pale Underground features, was on the wave display, begging the Brig Major of the Distilarica for his crew’s life.
“Please, Major. We are without arms, without armor, and we are losing oxygen fast. We’re no threat. Please, I beg you, accept our surrender.” Don Julio paced around the back of the bridge. The Brig Major began discussing terms, he as well as the rest of the crew unaware of the Don’s presence.
“Seal your hatches and prepare to be boarded, SOIV Redwind. Jettison all personal armaments from the hatches, we will expect no resistance from your crew. Troop transports will arrive in...”
As the Brig Major spoke, Julio worked the armaments console. All fore cannons ceased other operations and trained on the structural strain points of the Redwind. Years of practice, years of practice. And here I am, I still gotta do the grunt work.
“Your surviving crew are to remain silent and complacent. Do I ma-”
Julio slammed the “engage” button, and the fore cannons fired. The redwind never saw it coming.
The bridge was silent as the shattered destroyer’s atmosphere burned in spectacular, weightless plumes of orange flame. Every hand on deck waited on the Don’s words.
“You let one go, they’ll expect it every time. This is not a goddam charity boat. Major, I expect immediate destroy orders against all disabled enemy craft. Am I crystal?”
The major nodded, looking pale. Then Julio’s bracelet chimed, Creator on the intelligence deck paging him. He took a long drink from his hip flask and left the bridge as the charred fragments of the Redwind were brushed aside by the tachyon field.
The intelligence deck was dark and smoky. The odor of tobacco mixed with the fumes from the dozens of machines purring out data stung the don’s nose as he walked inside. The ten screens representing individual factions were chock full of messages, messages from a bunch of diplomatic weasels under every flag trying to divert attention or liability from themselves. Pathetic.
The unmistakable Creator swiveled around from reading some incoming bulletins from the Firm. At six feet, seven inches tall, Creator served as Julio’s top lieutenant and doubled, though unofficially, as his bodyguard.
“Read the Spectre Order’s latest waves, Julio.” Said Creator. “It’s a madhouse with the press on this one. I just got off the phone with a couple Sionian entrepreneurs looking to buy the movie rights.”
“What’d you tell ‘em?”
“I sold for twenty mil credits.”
“That’s it?”
“Some good flicks come out of Freehold Prime. Just helping the industry.”
“I gotta tell you, compadre, I don’t feel like reading right now. Care to paraphrase?”
“No.”
Julio shot Creator a venomous look as he took the seat in front of the Spectre Order’s wave screen. The latest message was from Sir Killzalot, who was bowing out of the conflict. Huh. Without Killzalot, the Spectre Order was down a major combatant. Julio liked the sound of that. He quickly typed a smug reply and posted the wave.
“Julio, are you in the least bit suspicious?”
“No, why would I be?”
“Spectre Order Morale is high again. After that idiot Chris was dethroned, they got a second wind. Not to mention what happened to the first invasion fleet.”
“Wait... what?”
“Oh, right. Classified wave, it skipped my mind. Here.”
Creator reached into his vest pocket and produced a datadisk, which he threw to Julio. Julio inserted the disk into the SO console, and the combat recorder on one of his battleships began to play. The ship’s vantage point on the battle was good. Capital ships bombarding the planet below, fighters swooping around like hornets, everything seemed normal. But then, he spotted a cloudbreak in the planet’s atmosphere, out of which spilled thousands of Spectre Order ships. Their weapons blazed and punched a hole through his front lines, while Spectre fighters successfully outmaneuvered his own and lit up the sky with their destruction. In a few minutes, his fleet was decimated by the surprise attack, and shortly thereafter the battleship recording the scene was flanked by a pair of destroyers, which blasted through shield and armor, at which point there was only static.
“You know, Creator, it may have been a good idea to tell me about this sooner.” Said Julio, dangerously.
“Don’t worry about it. My boys went in and cleaned up afterwards. We’re still winning.”
“That was a slaughter. It shouldn’t have happened.”
“Don’t let it get to your head. That was a combined SO attack group, which is mostly destroyed by now.”
“Understand that I'm still pissed.”
“I do. Understand that I don’t care.”
“Of course.”
“Go take another vacation, Julio. I can handle the Spectres from here.”
“Don’t push it, Creator.”
“I’m not the one that lost an entire Jonge armada to a rabble of pirates.”
Julio shot one last glare at Creator before storming out of the room. At least Killzalot’s declaration of withdrawal was good news. He shook his hip flask and it was empty. I need a goddam drink.

-----

From: Finne%Lillard@clanlink.uni.gov
To: Pirate%King@xanaphia.messenger.lsp
Subject: Danny’s Find

Apopros,

I’m sure you’ve read the latest inscriptions, and I'm equally sure that you’ve seen the news from Blood Cove. If the almighty is referring to this war, then I believe we have cause for concern. I think that ‘the lust of one’ refers to the Hedonists, and ‘greed’ to Don Julio’s boys. Whichever one wins won’t stop. History has shown we’re usually the next target.

Ex Spiritus Unitos,

Dalen

-----

Rosalie barely had time to take her Euphorika tablet and put her hair up before she went into the air. Her fighter was finally a smooth-handling, top-of-the-line starship, none of the synthmat crap that so many of her comrades had gone down in. Rosalie Delaterra was a Lieutenant Orderly in the Hedonist navy, and the squad leader of thirteen other spacecraft. Her Euphorika tablet kept her feeling calm as her wingmates pulled alongside her in preparation for their attack run. Her craft rocketed through the ruddy twilight atmosphere of Blood Cove towards the Jonge battleships in low orbit. Her fingers flexed against the fighter’s controls, this design was ideal for atmo combat.
Sorties happened often, ever since Sir Killzalot pulled one of the greatest diplomatic maneuvers in history and caught Don Julio and Creator completely by surprise, knocking out a previously thought unbeatable fleet with ease. The new president was overjoyed, obviously, now that his administration was finally seeing some success against the invaders. Now, however, Boomsa Jonge was back to reclaim what they had originally won, and Rosalie’s wing was one of many ordered to stop the powerful Jonge flotillas before they had a chance to decimate more Spectre Order outposts. Losses had been horrendous.
“304th Hedonist Marauder Flight, report in.” She spoke softly over her comlink. Her wingmen and women confirmed their preparedness, and she breathed out. Forty kilometers to engagement zone. She looked behind herself at her gunner, William. It was the Hedonist norm for pilots and their gunners to live, enjoy life and, of course, sleep with each other. She reached her arm back, William took her hand and squeezed it. Twenty kilometers to engagement zone. William armed the Marauder’s guns, and their representations on the craft’s overhead display lit up a bright green. Suddenly, the incoming linkscreen came to life, and Commodore Michael Amidon, the governor under which they all served, as well as the spiritual leader of Hedonist culture, looked at them.
“My dear friends, we go now to defeat the most powerful enemy we have ever faced. Fight for your way of life, for if we lose today we will lose all the pleasure we have worked so atimately to gain. But we will not lose, because our will is strong and our goal is clear. Get the Jonge out. Kick them back to the core. I trust in you all.” The transmission ended. Two kilometers to engagement zone. A few moments later, they were there. The bulk of the Jonge warships floated ominously before them, casting huge shadows on the monstrous thunderclouds below them.
“Begin attack pattern Omega Nu capital variant, aim for the cannons!” Rosalie cried into the comlink as defensive fire from the battleship in front of her began to zip dangerously close to the wings. Rosalie tugged the joystick and her fighter dove fast, falling below the battery fire. She rolled and brought herself into a spinning arc across the battleship's underbelly. Her wing followed behind her, executing the maneuver near-perfectly. William opened up with the guns, which rattled off pulse after pulse of impact energy into the belly’s weaker armor.
As her wing reached the end of the ship, they broke formation and fanned out, leaving fourteen exhaust trails that snaked through the sky behind them. For the first time, Rosalie got a good view of the battle. Many more wings like hers were peppering the Jonge ships, while a flotilla of friendly destroyers emerged from a cloud bank and began firing freely on their larger opponents.
Rosalie took another dive, preparing to make a second pass, and one of her wing’s fighters pulled alongside her. Suddenly a shot from the battleship’s defense system struck the fighter dead-center, making it lurch and pull upwards. Rosalie looked after the damaged marauder and saw it get hammered by battery crossfire and explode in a blood-red fireball. She shrugged her feelings of sadness off and rolled away from the sheet of fire that now lanced at her, while William continued to let off bursts of energy at the Jonge vessel.
The destroyers were taking their toll on the invading Battleships. One after another tried to pull away from the conflict, dark smoke trailing from massive open wounds where the Hedonists had scored critically. These ships were set upon by the Hedonist high-altitude bombers, which unloaded their charges from above at the retreating ships, which soon took too much abuse to remain airborne.
The Jonge fighters still in the area were attempting to cover the remaining battleships’ retreat. As Rosalie’s squadron regrouped and went for another pass, a Jonge group broke their flight patterns to try and take down the Hedonist craft. Lances of bright energy shredded the engine of the marauder third on Rosalie’s right, which spiraled down towards Blood Cove’s surface. By now, the sun was nearly set, and the light was just present enough to make night vision equipment impossible to use. The best illumination came from the explosions that still surrounded the sky around her, on both sides.
Suddenly, a triad of Jonge fighters dropped in behind her. They opened fire and scorched a wide gash across her wings and engine, setting off a cacophony of beeps and alarms that persisted angrily as Rosalie’s fighter fell out of formation. The overhead display showed heavy damage to the right wing and engine group, and that half their guns were gone as well.
“William, hold on tight.” Said Rosalie with the last ounce of calm that her Euphorika pill could offer her. Rosalie ducked into a cloud bank, swiveled her left engine column around, and reversed thrust. The marauder pulled a crazy ivan, engaging both engines when it was fully turned around. The G force was unbearable. Rosalie and William were next to unconscious as they darted out of the bank and William lit up two of the Jonge fighters, killing the pilots with shots through the cockpit. The third disengaged and raced to join the rest of his fleeing comrades.
“Allright, squad, that’s it. Leave the destroyers to clean up. I believe we have a celebration to attend. Good work, everyone.” Said Rosalie, breathless. She let her hair down as she guided the nose of her marauder towards home. This was a good day. Any day you didn’t die was a good day.


-----


From: Mosely%Absolute@xanaphia.messenger.lsp
To: Bro%Dan@sionia.freelink.lsp
Subject: Holy Hell!

I don’t think anyone saw that coming. Apopros just found out and told me, so you probably know already. I’ll bet you a credit good ‘ol quacks had something to do with this, he usually does. Revenge, maybe? I think we’d best look over the meaning of that inscription again. I believe there’s more for interpretation now.

Mosely


-----



General Anatidus Quackor chewed slowly on a stick of rubber as he watched the devastating war of attrition going on far below him. Suddenly he noticed that the stick he was chewing on was falling apart... a side effect of constant gene therapy and nanomedicine, all your bones got stronger. A lot stronger. Quackor threw the stick into a dustbin and reached for the plate of sweetcakes on his desk. Sweetcakes killed the stress.
The pressure on the General had mounted recently, and he had responded relatively well. He and Creator had fought the Spectre Order to a bloody stalemate, which each side seemed reluctant to accept but was the only reasonable end to the war that had torn Blood Cove’s landscape and people to shreds. Now both Boomsa Jonge and Spectre Order colonies dotted the landscape, with only a fraction of the original fighting still going on.
The sweetcake was good. Damn good. Quackor let his mind wander over the week’s events... Julio’s departure and the subsequent splitting of the once unmatched Boomsa Jonge had come as a shock to most of the universe. Quackor himself had given several press conferences to concerned news agencies with the Crusaders, Unitology and Institution, but had accepted his money without giving out too much information. Only a few knew the real reason the great empire had split, and it wasn’t about to go public if he could help it. The General popped another sweetcake into his mouth and snapped his fingers, at which time his pet duck, Francesca, waddled out of her cage in the corner and hopped into the general’s lap.
As he stroked Francesca’s feathers, Quackor brought up his console and issued orders to his forces. Constant patrols of the surrounding region, making sure that a large Hedonist armada would be noticed in time to make preparations. At the present time, there was no real danger from the remaining Spectre Order inhabitants. Most were too small or disenfranchised to seriously consider taking on the small, but substantial forces that he, Creator, Dragon, and other warlords still held in the area.
Sometimes the General actually tired of war. He remembered the old days, before the Great Sundering, when he had his own private estuary on Abrigo, where he could go to forget. Francesca was all he had left of that world. A single tear fell down his cheek as his secretary spoke over the comlink.
“General, Creator and Dragon are on the wave. They want to discuss certain things with you.”
The General brushed his tear away and switched back to warlord mode. No time for sentiment. The boss needs some killin’ done.


-----

From: Bro%Dan@sionia.freelink.lsp
To: Finne%Lillard@clanlink.uni.gov
Pirate%King@xanaphia.messenger.lsp
mosely%absolute@xanaphia.messenger.lsp
Subject: I rock.

Found another one. After Mosely hypothesized that ‘Lust’ meant Don Julio and ‘Greed’ meant Creator and Dragon, it wasn’t an hour until miners on Basilica Luminarium found this inscription.

And when the serpent bites himself in two
His seed will spread into contested lands
The sigh that others calm themselves into
Will soon be broken by four iron hands
- Inscription found in 21st Silver Vein
Basilica Luminarium Archaeological Survey
Haut-Sec Scriptorium 1, Sionia’s Refuge

I think he’s telling us to keep our guard up. This situation is getting more unstable by the minute. You wait and see how long that stalemate lasts.

Perfection starts with 'X' and ends with 'anaphia'.

Raistlin – SRA Archangel en route to Abrigo

Brother Raistlin got a visual on the incoming fighter before the Archangel’s crippled sensors picked anything up. He recognized it as Sionian immediately by the aggressive shape, and as it drew closer he saw the complicated green and gold insignia that indicated the rank of High Avenger. Mosely and Engel, thank Unitos.
Raistlin had been in charge of the multitude of ships that, for the past several hours, had been docking consistently with the Archangel and transferring personnel. Transports, colonizers, system defense forces, everyone had simply quit their posts. The abandoned ships now drifted lifelessly in space, leaving a trail of silent metal behind the lonely vessel.
Such desolation… Brother Raistlin was not so young anymore, during his time serving in the Sionian Republic Armada he had witnessed in war’s savagery the darker side of human nature. All the battles he had seen, however, paled in comparison to what had happened to Persephone. Persephone was a darkly beautiful world, a paradise to many, where several relatives of his had held positions in freehold government. Raistlin had seen nothing but an ember, a still-glowing funeral pyre for Persephone’s people, except for the few that had been sufficiently lucky – well – if you could call it lucky – to escape aboard charter transports. They were all near catatonic, the doctors probably still hadn’t gotten them to talk yet.
Raistlin looked up as Brother Daniel walked onto the deck.
“Hello, speaker.”
“No need to call me that anymore. Expedition’s been disbanded.” There was a profound neutrality in Daniel’s face that disturbed Raistlin somewhat.
“Disbanded?”
“There’s no expedition because every world in this galaxy has either become a new hell or has embarked on its way to becoming one.”
“But we’re still here, Speaker.”
“One battleship doesn’t make an empire.”
“Actually, we’ve got somewhat more than that.” Brother Mosely and Dr. Engel walked onto the deck.
“Mosely. Engel. Glad to see you’re alive.” Said Daniel, still so damned detached-sounding.
“We’re not at all far from Abrigo, Daniel.” Continued Mosely, “And the good news is that Abrigo has not been touched by any of this, not yet anyway. The star is steadily increasing in its electromagnetic activity, but the planet itself is fine. I think that we got waves through to headquarters, all worthy Armada ships are being requisitioned for the next trip.”
Indeed, Abrigo still shone blue and green as the Archangel made its approach. The four silently waited for orbit. As they came close, they saw the pulsing star’s light glinting off the hulls of hundreds of civilian and military craft, all turned towards the great battleship, waiting. They know what’s happening.
“We have five hours. As many as can dock and jettison in that period can come along. Call in every favor you can muster, get every vessel that can make the trip here a tout suite. We’re somewhat less prepared for this particular Exodus.”

DANIEL – SRA Nouvel Espoir – Uncharted Space

“And therefore, my brothers and sisters, I ask you stand firm. The Sionian Covenant was founded on the principles of the sanctity of human life and the paramount importance of personal freedom. Now, as so many times before, our faith, our families, and our way of life are threatened, not by the purples, but by the simple fact that our engines are not carrying us fast or far enough away from our charred former homes. I do not ask you to forget the souls of those friends and family left behind. Far from it. I would ask you to remember these people every day, and for their sake, work towards the goals that will save us all. Do not let their loss be in vain. Food, water, energy, and morale are in short supply. I will not deny that. There is nothing pleasant about our current situation. We can only hope that Unitos, wherever he is, will someday bless the journey of his people in this, our time of need. Until that day, the shifts of work in the laboratories and machine shops must never stop. I ask, sons and daughters of Unitos, that in our plight we find the spirit to help one another. Let us pray."
The huge gathering of people in the cavernous habitation level all made the sign of Unitos on their foreheads and bowed their heads. The Covenant prayer, said in unison, sounded truly powerful, shaking the hull with the faith of its people.
Brother Daniel stepped down from the crate he had been standing on, into the citizens that had gathered to watch him preach. He took the hands of his countrymen as he passed through and offered smiles of encouragement, weak as they were. He took the lift to the bridge and stood behind the commander’s chair.
Twenty ships. That was all. The Archangel’s hull loomed to the bottom starboard side of the smaller, newer Nouvel Espoir, which had taken over as his flagship. From his vantage point, the ship looked like a ghost, nothing but a few desperate points of light huddled together against the infinite blackness of space.
“Father, I’m not ready.”
“Jonathan, I don’t give a purple’s damn whether or not you think you’re ready. It doesn’t matter. Right now, you’re our best chance. The Vigilance has the coordinates of old Unitalia stored in the computer, who I’ve programmed to help you with your responsibilities. For example, in thirty minutes, after my Armada leaves, every citizen of the freehold will get a message explaining everything. There won’t be any riots.”
“Father, we don’t even know if the old galaxy’s still there.”
“Jonathan, don’t be ridiculous.”
“It could be gone. It could easily be gone. The final war ravaged every world in the galaxy, and that was before we lost contact. I might be flying a city into the black, looking for a world that isn’t there.”
“Unitos will watch you, son. I pray for it every night. You’ve been trained for this, Jonathan. Everyone will know that you’re the only one ready for the weight on your shoulders.”
“Hell, dad. I’ve never flown a city before.”
“You’ll be the first one in the family. Now gerron.”
That had sure looked weird from high orbit. Quite an engineering feat, too. The Vigilance, once one of the mightiest vessels ever seen, now just the command bridge of an entire gorram metropolis. It had looked weird. Who’d have thought.
The XRA Xanaphia’s Mercy became visible to port. Mosely’s flagship was even bigger than the Archangel, and the Armada further owed Mosely for the tube system. Every ship connected through a series of supertensile null-G passageways to transfer personnel. Out here, there was nothing to collide with, and it was a slight boost to morale knowing you weren’t any more isolated then you had to be.
“That was a nice sermon, Speaker.” Said Mosely from directly behind Daniel, who whirled around with a startled grunt.
“Mosely!” yelled Daniel, red-faced. “How in the hell did you manage to sneak up on me?”
“Could be you’re getting old… or maybe it’s just that I don’t make much noise while I’m floating.” Daniel suddenly realized he was weightless. “Grav system is down 12 hours per cycle now, took too much power. I’ll be sure to add that to ‘food, water, energy and morale’ on the list of things we’ve got to do without.” Mosely gestured towards the corridor.
Daniel silently assented, pushed off from the bridge railing, and floated out of the door. The two drifted along for several minutes in silence, occasionally passing citizens or commandoes going to and from their daily tasks. Nobody smiled, not anymore.
“I need the revolver drive, Mosely.” Said Daniel suddenly, stopping himself with a handrail. Mosely stopped a couple of feet further and turned.
“Slow, Dan. It was just a sketch when we started out.”
“Right. When we started out. A year ago. Now look where we are.”
“Our facilities-”
“We have no cryogenics. We have an ever-diminishing energy supply, as well as a handy list of other troubles that our citizens are hardly unaware of.”
“We’ve made progress. But it’s still as much madness as it was the day you suggested it.”
“And that’s the irony, isn’t it. In much madness is divinest sense, Mosely. I’ve seen the schematics. Not only could it be feasible, it’s also the only logical choice. Antimatter drives in series around a central point, each activating for a millisecond each in a certain sequence.”
“I know the plan, jackass.”
“This effect will warp spacetime enough to allow the jumping vessel to enter a small, straightshot teleportation rift, slinging us within sublight range of the new galaxy cluster.”
“And if it doesn’t work, we’ll have used up 98% of our fuel reserves. These ships are designed for endurance. They’re not spheres. A sphere wouldn’t be able to make this trip without three times its weight in uranium onboard. This idea has about a one in seventeen thousand chance of success. Are you willing to bet the lives of every citizen that still follows you on that ratio?”
Daniel’s pupils narrowed and he drifted slowly towards Mosely. “Every day, new pieces fall off these ships. And that’s the problem with being out here. There are no replacement parts. Sure, we can send it to the Machinists’ bay and they’ll probably be able to patch it up fine enough… but eventually, friend, they’ll wear out. The metal won’t be able to go on because it will have exhausted everything it has to give. Same thing happens to us. Every day these people see nothing but black, they wear out a little bit. Every day we have to cut something more back. Less food. Less gravity. Less privacy. Every day these people stay on this ship, they wish a little more that we had let them burn with the others.”
Other people in the hallway had stopped moving, giving Daniel and Mosely a wide berth. Daniel looked away, through the visteel window into another one of the hab wings.
“Our way of life has fled from galaxy to galaxy. One way or another, we are always broken and driven further and further away from what we first set out to do. And here we are again, chasing the dream to yet another promised land. We pass this chance up, or screw it somehow, or let someone else to the punch, there well may never be another shot.”
There was a pause.
“One week.” Said Mosely, looking into the hab wing. “One week and I’ll have it done.”
“What do you need from me?”
“Seventy percent of the power, full grav on the Mercy and triple my staff.”
“You’ve got it.”
Then Daniel pushed off and started drifting back towards the bridge. Neither one spoke. You had to do what you had to do.

Two Weeks Later
Mosely – XRA Xanaphia’s Mercy – Uncharted Space

The last ship locked into place as Brother Mosely gave the order from the bridge of the Xanaphia’s Mercy, which protruded as the nose of a massive conglomerate of the Sionian, Xanaphian, and Templar ships in the armada. Daniel had come up with the arrangement to lock the vessels in place, with the Archangel, Longbow, St. November’s Rage and Divine Gale riveted into place surrounding the Mercy, in who were all in turn flanked by the Nouvel Espoir, Ailleacht, Redeemer, Soulriser, as well as eleven other small ships in a circular pattern surrounding the five core vessels. Raistlin, Engel and their staff had developed the final AMO Oscillator Driveshaft, which was now complete, attached to the mass epicenter of the conglomerate. Now Mosely had connected it all, and it was ready to go.
“Daniel, confirm structural integrity.” Said Mosely over the com.
“Confirm, all vessels tangentially and centripedally balanced, relative equilibrium detected at all stress points.”
“Raistlin, confirm antimatter conduit stability.”
“Confirm, conduits reading at 100%, Antimatter is prepared for distribution upon command.”
“Engel, confirm AMO activation sequence and prepare for countdown.”
“Confirm, AMO has begun turning and is prepared for jump sequence.”
Mosely inserted a key into his command console. Lights from the Nouvel Espoir, St. November’s Rage and Archangel turned on, and the blue activation button lit up.
“We’re go.” Said Mosely, and he pushed the button.
Immediately, the space around them was brilliant white. Structural and AMO readouts immediately showed areas of weakness, unforeseen flaws in design that the revolver drive was pushing to the limit. Warning sirens. Lights flashing. Mosely closed his eyes to the brilliant light, there was nothing he could do but wait. This was a one in a million shot. Very easy to miss.
Then, he slowly opened his eyes. He wasn’t dead. The white light persisted, but he could now see that the readouts were stable, and that nothing was falling apart. But… why? By all logic, he had to deduce that the revolver drive was a deathtrap. And yet they weren’t dead.
“It was a good design. I only intervened a little.” Came a female voice from directly beside him. Mosely looked, saw who it was, and immediately fell to the floor and bowed his head.
“Get up, Brother Mosely, High Avenger of Sionia, servant of Unitos. You need not bow before me.” Mosely got up, slowly, and looked into the eyes of the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Xanaphia’s luminescent gaze met his own. She was clothed in white spirals of cloth that floated weightlessly around her.
“We are in a pocket in time. Daniel, Raistlin and the rest are frozen and will not experience more than a moment’s time passing.” She spoke with a cosmic resonance that brought joy to his heart every time she uttered a word.
“To what do I owe this divine grace, my lady?” Said Mosely, grasping for words.
“Your role in this new universe is to be somewhat different than before. Have you ever heard of the outcast Apopros?”
“I have, my lady. He was listed on Sionian datalinks as a pirate, we had a reward on his head briefly.”
“He now leads the Legion of Scorpion pirates. You are to unite with his forces upon reaching your new home.”
“Pirates, my lady?”
“I will return to you when the situation unfolds further. For now, you must trust me. Bring Daniel and Raistlin along with you, they will be necessary for the trials to come.”
“I shall obey.”
Xanaphia smiled and touched Mosely’s cheek with her slender hand. Suddenly the white in space around them turned back to the standard starscape. Mosely looked out the observation deck and saw a great terrestrial planet sitting in front of them. A vessel hailed them and the transmission played on the com.
“By the authority of the Great Crusade and the jurisdiction of Vincere Venimus, you are bound by law to report vessel designation and commanding officers or be destroyed immediately. You have ten seconds to comply.”
Mosely looked back to where Xanaphia had stood.
“This is Brother Mosely of the Legion of Scorpion Pirates, requesting permission to rest planetside.”

The evil otter lord Feck stood on the bridge of his Tyr II Class Battleship, The Unwashed Otter, he stroked his overly evil little otter whiskers and smiled gleefully. "Today Musashi, is the day I get my revenge on you for refusing to make me, the noble and elegant Feck, the official mascot of the Overwatch!" He cried aloud, in front of all his brain dead and drunken crewmembers, who just mumbled jibberish to themselves and went back to pushing buttons and inserting square shaped blocks into triangle shaped holes. "Lord Feck, your bath has been prepared" said one of his man-servants. The evil otter smiled "Thank you nameless servant" he said, and with that he walked into his private bathing area. The strong smell of Gin and german man musk hung in the room, Feck removed his grease stained cape of otter evil and stepped into what what he called "the tub of the gods" which, in reality was only a small polka dotted kiddy pool with the words TUB OF THE GODS in big bold letters marked on the side of it. The evil otter plunged into the small, wobbly rubber pool and sighed, "being an evil otter overlord was hard work" he thought aloud as the Gin swirled around him, he slowly dipped his evil head under the alcohol and started thinking of ways to embarass Musashi.

The Great and Kind Lord Musashi of the Overwatch Economic Union sat upon his handmade throne and wrote limericks to the lovely ladies of Lunar Gate. He enjoyed such popularity, he never needed to go to war, so he never had any fleets. As he finished one of his finest pieces of work, His Chief of Staff Blackvoid rushed into the throne room. "Lord Musashi! Lord Musashi!" He cried "The Dark Otterlord Feck is preparing to attack us, his fleet is growing near!!!"
Musashi stopped smiling, "How close is he?" he asked, in a serious tone. Blackvoid sniffed the air, "Well judging by the stench of Gin and wet fur, about 10 minutes away from the outskirts of Lunar Gate." Musashi muttered a prayer, he had to rally the troops and prepare for war.

The Demon Otter walked out of his bathroom with a gigantic and evil grin "Attention, my loyal followers" He bellowed "I would like to wish you luck in conquering that merciful moron Musashi, For the Glory of Gin, we will take away his people's freedom and give them what they want, oppression!" The crew mumbled somemore and went back to their simple workings. Feck picked up his Gin bottle walkie talkie, and after a long refreshing drink from it, ordered his most feared stormtroopers, the wasted weekend Warriors, to begin assaulting Lunar Gate. He smiled joyfully and did a fruity and drunken dance to celebrate his nearing victory over all things good and fair.

The Civil Defense of Lunar Gate was failing, the onslaught of Valhalla Class bombers was tearing apart the already outdated defenses of the peaceful city-state. Musashi grimly staired at the raging battle and cried out "If only I had let that evil otter become the mascot, this never would have happened!" He then realised what he had to do. He picked up a laser spear and rushed out to help the valiant civilians. As he lept from the gates, he noticed a large group of stumbling, mumbling and bumbling men in stained halloween costumes. "Oh No!" cried blackvoid in horror "it's the dreaded wasted weekend warriors, Feck's evil, and drunken personal guard, we have no chance against their party-going ways!!" Musashi muttered a prayer and watched as his citizens were slaughtered by their drunken combat styles and then in a last ditch attempt ,gathered his remaining loyalists in a final attempt to drive off the drunken foes.


The dark drunkard Feck danced with joy as he watched Lunar Gate burn, his drunken Army quickly overwhelming the pure hearted and freedom loving citizens of Lunar Gate, he started thinking of how he would humiliate Musashi in front of the remaining, and heart broken people of the once great colony. "My Eternal Master" shouted another nameless minion "Lunar Gate has been captured and the citizens have been put into place using our mass Gin saturation bombings, they now await you to tell them their fate" Feck grinned from ear to evil ear
He began to make his long, boring and severly slurred speech, when like a shooting star, a shelter hope, carrying Musashi and some remaining loyalists disappeared towards his new base of Operations, Moria Mines. The overweight otter stamped his paws in anger. "WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR YOU FOOLS" He roared "SHOOT HIM DOWN!!!!!!!!!" His crew shook their heads "Sorry sir" said one "we're on our Union mandated Hour long Gin Break"
"Damn Unions" Muttered Feck under his breath "I should never have listened to Jello's Advice about giving them a union" as the hero of Lunar Gate disappeared into the inky blackness, Feck poured himself another bottle of Gin and thought of how big the statue to his glory should be...

*To Be Continued*

When this is over, you and I are gonna have a little chat.

Leadership is hard. Duncecap, heavily favored Chairman of the Shelter Defense Legion, reclined in his gyroscopic leather chair. Video screens and black wiring snaked out from the ceiling of the meticulously crafted room, showing the Chairman what most faction leaders would be overjoyed to see; the surprise conquering of a powerful enemy’s homeworld. The Technocratic Initiative’s intricate flag had fallen in all but a few strongholds on Serenity, replaced by force with the Legion’s tan shield. Duncecap sighed and clapped his hands twice, upon which three young hairdressers entered the chamber and immediately began pampering their Chairman’s distinctive hair. Duncecap enjoyed his favorite pastime for a few moments, but couldn’t shake his distinct feeling of discomfort. The vanquishing of the Technocrats’ military had not been without consequence. The Legion embassies with the Gaians and Overwatch had been bombed by partisans, and talks with the Crusaders were becoming increasingly hostile.
“Away.” Said Duncecap, to his staff’s surprise. He had never stopped in the middle of a hair maintenance session. The hairdressers hurried away, leaving the Chairman alone in his chamber once more. There was silence for several moments. Duncecap entered a code on his chair’s side console, and suddenly every door and window was sealed with a soundproof barrier. An electromagnetic interference device activated, blocking all communication in and out of the room. Duncecap turned his chair slowly around.
“Greetings, Chairman Duncecap of the Shelter Defense Legion. You already know why I’ve come.” An average-sized man stood in the corner, dressed in simple grey clothing. His presence made Duncecap feel claustrophobic, and he instinctively avoided eye contact.
“Quax, I’m unwilling to pack up and order our forces to leave Serenity. If I do, I condemn millions to death.”
“Explain.”
“A pull-out will appear weak. Some up-and coming empire is going to leap on the chance to try and take us down. You know as well as I do that we won’t respond diplomatically, and nothing you do will ever change that.”
“I have an alternative solution.”
“Already?”
“I’ve been observing the leaders of your race for millennia. I know what you must do to end this.” Quax let a smirk come to his mouth.
“What would you have me do?” Said the Chairman, standing turned to the side, eyes still averted.
“General Anatidus Quackor the second, commander of the legion, conqueror of worlds, must be cast from the order and then struck from Serenity by your hand.”
“What?” Said Duncecap, almost making eye contact by accident in his surprise, “Madness! Quackor is a friend and a brilliant commander. The Legion has been made leagues mightier by his presence.”
“You know the truth in what I say. To this end, i will provide you with a single wormhole, from Shelter to Serenity... just one. Now, I will leave you, Chairman.”
Duncecap blinked and the figure in his peripheral vision disappeared. If he never had to deal with one of those beings again, he would be content. As the claustrophobia passed, he stumbled back to his chair and released the lockdown. As his servants and bodyguards peered around corners, assuring their Chairman’s safety, Duncecap patched himself through to Legion War Command. He left them a simple message.

> SDL Command Override. Terminate ties with Gen. Anatidus Quackor. Eliminate any and all holdings and warfleets on and around Serenity. Execute Immediately.

Three Hours Later - Surface of Serenity, Alioth System
by Karnejj

Lightning streaked over the Colony Command Center. Another crack, and a third whipped across the sky in odd formations. Though thunder had rumbled the ground for hours now, there was no sight of any rain.

The people feared this unnatural scene, but the faces of all the bustling workmen rushing to get home insisted that they were pleased. Infused with more power to compensate for the howling winds, the "Love Speakers" blared: "The General is watching --- make him proud; The Ducks are never wrong."

The General was indeed watching. Although normally pre-occupied with spreading his water-fowl propaganda amongst the denizens of the galaxy which were NOT under his thumb, he was currently poring over reports of planetary instability throughout Alioth. His "Entertainment Facilities" were starting to have the desired effect on select members of the trouble-making populace, but unexepected events like this could nullify their recent re-education. He ordered his Elite Duck Research teams onto the case. As he finished sending the authorization, a blinding flash spilled in from the window, bathing the office with scintillating colors.

Emergency sensor scans picked up the opening of an unregistered wormhole and the signature of thousands of ships pouring through ... an Armada. A million souls looked to the heavens in unison as they felt their inner Quax surge with reborn hope; their prayers to the mighty Spirit have been answered. Though bombers were soon to rain down liberation across the land, many took to the walkways tearing at banners and posters, to remove them from sight and spread their insidious claims to the winds: War is Peace, Freedom is Slavery --- rubbish.

Drawn also by this disturbance in the Quax, the General approached the window and gazed sternly upon retribution. "Little do they know what I have in store for them!" Activating his comm relay, he shouted "Admiral, ready the new Duck Class Mark IV battleship for my arrival, and launch the Ducklings!"

"Already done, sir" was the response, as expected.

Entering his transport tube, he keyed the code for the Command Dock and was whisked to the entrance for his Flagship, the SDS-1. Various quacks greeted his arrival into the Battle Bridge and he responded curtly, getting into business. The ship lifted gracefully from the polished plassteel floor, and the hanger door opened above them. With deadly purpose, the crowning jewel of the Imperial Fleet streaked into the atmosphere to meet destiny.

Somethin' sure as hell ain't right.

DANIEL – In orbit above Three Rivers, New Amelie
………………………………………………………………….

The S.R.A Archangel floated tranquilly around New Amelie in the Espera star system. Brother Daniel watched from the observation deck as the 31st Sionian Interceptor squadron flitted through and were lost in the brilliance of the system's sun. For weeks there had been peace in the galaxy. Great war fleets, the likes of which had not been seen since before the Exodus, orbited menacingly around Marbella, Nemesis, and Eden, but nobody had thought to fire the first shot.
The speaker had not slept in days, and it was readily apparent. He clutched a mug of coffee with his left hand while his right was busy searching through the datalinks. Every file on ancient and crimson languages, every essay written on the bizarre hieroglyphics that had recently been discovered in the Châtellerault system’s mines, every scientific theory that attempted to explain the spectacular electromagnetic phenomenon that shone in the skies of every single planet in every single galaxy, day and night, every security video, where static hadn't blacked them out, of formerly normal citizens driven mad by an unseen, incurable plague that spread like wildfire through frontier colonies.
But then, it all seemed fitting. The defeat of the Underground at Nemesis, the invasion of Institution space, the alliance with the Crimson Nation, everything was supposed to be leading up to an epic showdown, but it hadn't. An epic showdown would be nice, Daniel thought. He knew how to command ships and win battles. But when the universe starts breaking down at its very essence, one tends to be a little unprepared. Daniel took a swig from his coffee mug and winced at the burn from the liquor it was heavily spiked with.
Daniel heard footsteps coming from behind his seat.
“Yes?” He inquired into the dimly lit bridge.
“Speaker,” Started an Ensign. “The Templars got a transport to Châtellerault and have joined our cryptologists. Sister Thadmor just waved us, I think she’s figured it out.”
“Put her on the feed, computer.” Said Daniel without turning. The computer pushed the datalinks from view and brought up the caverns of the Faith’s Bastion mining station. Thadmor’s image looked gaunt and ghostlike, between the white mining lights, electromagnetic interference and her disheveled, sleep-deprived face.
“Daniel, you’re not going to like this.”
“Didn’t ever expect otherwise, Sister. What does it say?”

MOSELY – 3500 feet below the surface of Faith’s Bastion, Châtellerault
……………………………………………………………………………………………..

Brother Mosley studied the symbols again. Surely what he and the Templar girl had discovered could not have been true. The symbols spoke of death, of destruction, but...the scope it included was ridiculous.
“Out of the question, Thadmor. Do you have any idea what that would mean?” It was Brother Daniel on the wave. The speaker was almost hysterical, from the looks of him. Much scruffier than usual. “You must have gotten it wrong.”
But it wasn’t wrong. Mosley had read this script fifty times, hoping that he had misinterpreted something, anything. He hadn’t. Only thing missing was the date. Whenever one of these things appeared, there was always a date. No exceptions. Mosley glanced down. There was a layer of mine dust covering an inch or so of the floor. Son of a bitch.
“We’re absolutely certain, Daniel.” Said Michael, who had joined his daughter at the screen.
“I’ve seen it. She’s seen it. Mosley, Engel and Amydros have all read the wall and agree with me. Mosley’s seen more caves than anyone you or I know, speaker, surely you…”
Michael was suddenly bumped by a passing Sionian Guard detachment, causing him to drop the papers he was carrying. Mosley’s mudcaked boots trod on the papers, as he rushed towards the linkfeed.
“Hey!” protested Michael as he was shoved aside.
“Daniel.” Said Mosley, his face drained of all color, “We don’t have weeks or days. It’s happening. It’s happening now.” Suddenly, the feed turned to static.
“EM interference is off the charts!” Cried an engineer. There was suddenly a deep, gut-churning rumble. A huge crack rippled through the cavern wall and echoed into the darkness. Archaeologists and engineers scattered. Thadmor, Michael and the rest of the Templar detachment dashed for their transport. Sionian ridgeracers spun into action all over the cavern floor, and soon nothing could be heard but the industrial beat of engines and the rumbling of a dying world.
Brother Mosley made it to his two-man fighter. Now chunks of the cavern ceiling were crashing to the ground.
“Engel, where are you?” yelled Mosley into his comlink.
“Those don’t work, mate.” Said Dr. Engel from the gunner’s seat. “Let’s go.”
The vessel powered up. As the fighter lifted into the air, the Templar detachment transport pulled in front of them.
“Move!” Cried Engel, in frustration. Suddenly, the transport shook furiously. More boulders fell onto the hull brace, the metal groaned and the frame buckled. Oh hell. They’re going to die, and there’s nothing I can do, thought Mosley.
Suddenly, black & green clad figures leapt onto the damaged transport from an adjacent commando skiff. Magnetic grapplers struck home, fusion blades sliced metal and the Sionian commandoes boarded. Brother Mosley’s heart soared. His men to the rescue again. There was hope yet. But then, all at once, as the commando holding Sister Thadmor appeared at the hull breach, a rock the size of a house struck the transport square in the center. It dropped like lead and burst into hellfire on the cavern floor. Mosley was dumbstruck.
“Go. GO!” commanded Engel, taking command of the guns. The heavy fractal repeater fired over and over, striking rocks and instantly slicing them into sand. Mosley kicked the throttle to maximum as Engel fired hundreds of rounds into the ceiling, boring through the solid rock and creating a pathway just wide enough for the fighter. Mosley flew the tiny spacecraft expertly through the sandy, collapsing tunnel. Within moments, the fighter had cleared the surface, and the pilots were immediately struck by the hellish appearance of the once-picturesque world. Châtellerault’s sun now cast a dark red light over everything. The cities below could be seen scrambling to get everything possible off the ground and into space. Buildings were collapsing, rivers were boiling, and the thermometer read a skyrocketing temperature. Just as the writing on the wall said.
“I’m setting a course for the Archangel. It’s the only ship close enough.”
“Close enough to do what?”
“We have to leave. You read it. This entire galaxy is dying.”
“What about the others?”
“We can’t contact them. If they make it, they make it. If they don’t, well…”
“This isn’t right. We were so close. We could have won.”
“I know.”
The fighter broke the atmosphere’s pull and engaged its intersystem engines. It was time to run again.

Freedom Genesis

For millennia the menagerie of man had flourished and spread to the furthest reaches of the universe. Science and technology had dragged men to the highest pinnacle of being and society. The human race was blessed with unbelievable health and prosperity; it was as if each man had been touched by the hand of Methuselah. Society had never been more perfect, the human race was had nearly reached perfection in peace and happiness.

But alas, as is with human nature, the wars began. Never satisfied with how well things were men began to turn in upon themselves and crush their neighbors. For countless generations men ravaged each other and stripped their fellow brothers of everything they could. Worlds burned from one end of the universe to the other. Legend held that if you looked into the great filament and saw the twinkle of a star that was another world being devoured by man’s selfish pride.

Eventually, after many generations of destruction and despair, even the greatest warlords laid down their arms to tend to their wounds. Over the generations of battle technology and production had taken an abrupt halt. With the helter-skelter battling and the neglect of state affairs that go with such behavior society had set itself back thousands of years. While the great warlords of universe reined terror on their neighbors their agricultural systems and planets were being neglected, the technology and infrastructure that went into farm technology diminished and in some places vanished completely. The supply lines to and from the great capitals that were once a torrent of ships hauling all the riches of the universe had turned into a trickle, barely enough to sustain the great populations of most advanced faction systems and the great capitals of the galactic core. Even the immense shipyards strewn across the universe were left stranded with little to no communication with their supply lines. People were now forced to rely on what was readily available upon their own world. Their wealth having been wasted upon killing their brothers and their society warped towards war for so long that space travel itself had become a thing only of necessity.

Even while many leaders ceased war on their neighbors many less scrupulous men saw an opportunity to consolidate outlying areas with little hassle from the more powerful empires and factions. This only further drove man into a greater state of barbarism and destitution. Great cavalcades of fleets fled the galactic core where battle continued to rage after the great factions withdrew hoping to find homes. All across the core men set off towards to galactic arms, on journeys that would take many a lifetime to see through, all in the hopes that a newer society based upon their beliefs and practices could be revived away from the despotic barbarism of the core where man was slowly choking to death.

The great faction worlds spread across several arms were in no better condition. With the throw-back of society men yearned for the glorious stable days of generations passed. Emperors were unseated on a regular basis, regicide and assignation became a common occurrence while the people continued to suffer and watch one inept leader after another neglect them. Quietly, groups of people in the great faction arms banded together to immense colony ships to flee towards the galactic core where it had been assumed man no longer existed in any great strength, perhaps only in small tribes in far off places, since communication with the core had been nonexistent for hundreds of years.

These ships were not nearly as grandiose as the immense battleships that lumbered between the stars and nowhere near as swift as the great high-stability spheres that raced across the galaxy, but they were sufficient enough to carry upwards of one hundred thousand wayworn men, women, and children into the core to start a new life, a genesis of freedom.

Mankind now faced a new challenge, to rise from the ashes of destruction they had brought upon themselves and create a new age of man.

Submitted by Insaa of Wonko the Sane Manuscript submission to the Journal Science



Title: A theoretical examination of high tax rates.

Abstract:

The very limited number of methods for credit investment may allow for
empires to gain greater economic efficiency if high tax rates are
installed. This article examines what conditions are required for
empires to successfully utilise tax rates in the realm of 95% and the
benefits that ensue. I conclude that 95% empire tax rates may provide
for significantly increased economic growth rates stemming from less
wasted investment time for credits sitting in individuals accounts.


Article:

We start by looking at ways individuals can invest their income. Here
are the options:

1. Establishing new colonies
2. Conquering others' colonies with fleets
3. Building Malls, Schools, Police Stations, Hospitals, Empire
Administrations
4. New mines
5. Building Terraformers
6. Building Colony Defenses (AAs, GMLs, and defense fleets)
7. Research

Options 1, 2, 3
These investments directly benefit a player's income.
Therefore, money invested into these three catagories will now be worth
more because of the interest generated on that investment.

Option 7
Research generally produces prints that allow you to reduce the number
of people you need to use for the same outcome. If you want to use less
people for the same amount of resources mined, you research a better
mine print. If you want to engage an enemy with less people for the same
amount of firepower, or armour, you research a gun, armour/shield or
hull. Faster drives decrease the number of ships required to win a
battle because faster ships increase the likelihood that each ship will
win each of its one on one engagement (this assumes that you fleet
design matches the fleets/colonies you expect to defeat).

Option 4
Investment in mining does not produce any direct benefits. For the
outcast there are no active resource markets for exploitation.
Investment in mining is, I guess, an ongoing cost to any research
project for the researcher and anyone else who wants to benefit from
that print. This is because for any resource project that produces a
print requiring resources, more money has to be invested in that
blueprint in order to build it. On the plus side, each resource
requiring print can share in this investment. Therefore, the
justification of mines is the same as for research projects. That is
that less people are required for the same action.

Option 6
Investment in any form of colony, planet or system defense does not
produce any pay off directly. It only maintains the status quo.
Therefore, any purely defensive investment cannot be justified from a
purely monetary point of view. Any purely defensive investment must be
justified some other way. Perhaps therefore, attack is the best form of
defense? Perhaps losing colonies is fine as long as investment is spread
over many different colonies as that investment will keep on producing
benefits?

Option 5
The effect of terraformers is to reduce the number of people required to
work in hopitals and police stations. Last round suggested to us that it
generally costs about 17bil credits to terraform most worlds. Therefore,
any investment in terraformers can only have very long term benefits as
the immense cost is only recouped through paying less wages to reduced
numbers of people employed in hospitals and police stations. Any colony
that has any chance of being conquered by another empire does not make a
target worth terraforming by this logic. Perhaps a mining world can be
justified by other means late in the game.



***

Using the above analysis we can see that the investment of cash into the
following activities will multiply the future benefits of that cash to
the investor:
1. Establishing new colonies
2. Conquering others' colonies with fleets
3. Building Malls, Schools, Police Stations, Hospitals, Empire
Administrations
7 & 4. Research and new mines

Ok, now out of these options above, the following represent a
significant investment.
2. Conquering others' colonies with fleets
3. Building Malls and Empire Administrations
7. Research

Occasionally the follow can also be added to the list:
1. Establishing new colonies when a bridge needs to be built to span
between galaxies.
4. Building a massive mining colony from scratch.
5. Building Terraformers where there is no chance of the colony being
taken over.

Therefore, if significant investment is required for most profit making
facilities, then perhaps our individual incomes should be combined using
a very high tax rate? Eg. if we only need small amounts of money for 1.
Establishing New Colonies then perhaps we should have a tax rate of 95%
(people don't tend to throw out colony ships very often). Then, if you
want to do some building of anything that comes under option 2, 3 or 7,
you just grab whatever cash you need from the bank. No one will mind how
much you take because as long as you spend that cash immediately the
vast majority of that investment will be available to everyone else from
that point onwards.

Ofcourse, together, the empire may decide to put money aside for other
projects that do require us to collectively save (eg a few billion cr
research project) but that's easily done by anyone by moving money to
another bank account.

Therefore, very high tax rates (something around 95% or so) allows for
the efficient investment of empire funds into large scale projects.

By Fluffhead

Glickeroo paced along the streets of the Hedonist Nudist Camp, looked up at the cannons washing out the stars, and smiled to himself. There was something pure about war, especially when it was easy like this. The fun his troops were having with the nudist population was not lost on him.

-What a fiendishly delightful creation, these high stability spheres. Just last week I was deep in Institution space, doing the final ship count for the fleets, and already we are demolishing our enemies.

He thought enemies in the loosest sense of the word. The Underground was more of an annoyance to his empire then a serious threat, and their heavily populated systems just target practice before the real battles began. Something to get the blood boiling in the soldiers and make them forget about their homesickness. A big battle with no real losses would do wonders for the moral which had been waining with frustration in the core.

While Glikeroo kicked some blood puddles in the street and thought poetically about life, and his power to destroy it, Pyre approached wearing a big rubber nose. Had he brought that along just for this occasion?

-Our fleets are unstoppable! We should be able to drive clear through Underground space without any obstruction. Let's start the celebration now!

The ability to transfer this many high tech ships in so little time was truly impressive, but something did not sit right with Glikeroo. Was it the dinner Soup had made? The radio crackled and Arri asked for advice.

-Glick, what should we do with all of the captured citizens?

The soldiers of the Underground were brave and willing to fight to the very end but the civilian population was easily gathered, waiting to be loaded onto slave ships.

-Load them, we can use them for labor in the mines, or maybe sell them in the core.

Arri hesitated then responded.

-Hey Glick, it was you who did the final ship count right? We didn't bring any slave ships.

A small smile crept back up Glickeroo's face as he thought back to the horrors in Utopia.

-That's right, I did the final count. If they are all together you can start execution.

That was easier then he had thought it would be. The coms crackled again. Why couldn't Arri let him enjoy this moment? He realized immediately that Arri was not sending this message.

Back in the Institution arm systems were slowly becoming silenced and it was the same story in each system. There would first be some strange broadcast about Crabrock's fleet, the one they called the largest ever constructed, entering the system. The colonists would start to celebrate as the fleet quickly approached and the broadcasts gained energy.

-This fleet is even bigger then we were told! I can not believe it is bigger then we have heard! All our enemies will be crushed under the bulk of this fleet!

When the HFE messaged back, stating that the fleet was not in that location, the colonists first marveled at the incredible speed of the fleet, then the responses became disjoint and full of panic. Duck like sounds filled the air waves then there was no response. The system was unreachable.

Blue Star: PFB Military Academy Campus

Professor Emeritus Lord Asriel
Lecture 34, PFB Military Academy
Alpha Core: Plumb University, Jackie Paper

Can I have your attention please? Thank you.

I have been called in from retirement on SC1 to give this lecture on the behest of your noble Emperor Fluffhead, given the recent genocide of over ten million Purples ordered by your higher command.

It took much convincing, but I feel this is such an important topic that is much neglected, a lost practice that is obviously shunned and thought to be an act reserved to tyrants. This is not true. Genocide can be a cleansing act, an act to benefit the greater good of humanity. Genocide is a truly misunderstood phenomenon. I hope to briefly impart some of my experience and my former colleagueís experience in this matter to you, so you can best know how to grapple with the Purple Menace.

As you all know, genocide is the systematic and planned extermination of an entire national, racial, political, or ethnic group, simple enough definition. But let us take a look at this definition. It calls for systematic planning to commit this act.

You can not just willy-nilly send your men to the stars in whatever military hardware you have on hand and expect to accomplish this on a whim. Half of the garbage that is built in the universe as defensive or offensive ships may as well be classified as space worthy brothels for as good as they are. Technology on the highest order is called for. Scientists must be pushed to the limits to produce weaponry and hulls that decimate anything in their path. What would genocide be if you did not have a force that leveled everything before them? It would be the equivalent of the piles of slag that LLJK has been throwing at you since they so naively invaded Alpha Core. Like peasants being catapulted against the castle wall.

Now that you have the correct tool you must know how to implement this tool in the most cost effective way possible. Condemning hundreds of thousands of your men to death in order to kill hundreds of thousands of Purples is indeed genocide, but not the type of genocide we are looking for here. You need to maximize your kills while limiting your losses to the barest minimum. Having the type of military might that I just discussed will accomplish this.

Once it comes time to commit this act to paper you must be willing to assume that your force is there to destroy until destroyed itself. All emotion must be placed behind you while you systematically and maniacally tear their worlds asunder. No man, woman or child must survive the onslaught.

Why do we do this? You do this because when faced with an enemy of superior numbers you must slowly and systematically crush their will and instill the seed of fear in their hearts. Only then can you take advantage of the confusion and despair you sow to slowly tear the enemy apart and watch them pass quietly into the night.

Only then can the Outcasts, the Underground, the Crimson Nation, and the faithful Unitologists live in peace never having to worry about the decadent putrid, corrupt Institution.

This dark assassin didn't choose this life... Nor was he prepared for it. He had been drifting in space for so long, abandoned and forgotten. He'd already accepted death, ready to join Unitos in the great beyond.

But no, he was rescued from his dying crimson cruiser... the only survivor by a new splinter name OverWatch. Surprise behold it was a salvage group ready to scrape the tech of the once proud ship. A group of men and women that he has come to accept as his new family, the people that he now belonged to in this new life.... A New Life without any connections from his former contacts in the Institution Goverment. Although he still has several backdoors to access the Institution Mainframes.... From HFE, LLJK, Azur3, GONADS and several dozens of groups within the purple nation.

"What now...," he speaks aloud as the comp comes to life.

"It's good to see you Jon, please accept my condolescenses with..."

"Don't Even Start... She's gone... As well as everything else I use to believe in... Now Mr. Know were you able to transfer the credits from our accounts in the Institution?"

"Well... Mr. Brown..," Mr. Know sighs," truth be told, a consortium from HFE and LLJK were able to track the accounts before it could be done... they're all frozen."

"Damn them, those beuracratic... no balls... pieces of.... Well have you contacted out source accounts in Unitology, Crimson Nation and the Undergroud?"

"We're working on it... Damn it Jon... You sure about this? You were one of the most respected Admirals in all of Institution space, if not the Alpha Galaxy. You still can go back!"

"Like I said, I have my reasons... the woman I loved is dead, the navy I called home abandoned me for dead, and the Institution & what it was stood for is dead. Why would I go back? So don't bring it up again, Understood?" Mr. Know nods, "I've transfered another set of backdoors to your system, see if you can leak some cash from those damn purples..."

"Yes I'll see it to Skipper... For what it's worth... It's nice to see you again sir."

The Screen went blank, Mr. Brown rubs his temples..,"It's just one of those days... just one of those days..."

This is not my best day ever.

Serenity Freehold was gripped in the teeth of a blizzard. The Sionian banner was tossed frenetically by the high winds of Abrigo’s northern mountains where the Freehold was nestled in-between a series of jagged peaks. The faces of the people, unlike the vicious weather, were stoic and determined. Serenity Freehold was a broken city. Charred places in the synthglass domes had been repaired, destroyed factories and hospitals had been rebuilt, but the only thing left unchanged was the moon-like reflection of Theonon covered up by unrelenting clouds. Few understood what had taken place on these grounds several weeks before, and the few survivors of the event had been taken to New Amelie for whatever treatment could be prescribed for the aftereffects of witnessing genocide. The eternal silver flame emanating from the spires of the great cathedral was the only light visible to Brother Daniel from where he sat, miles from the city's heart, in Silent contemplation after a day's work. His office had an excellent vantage point over the city, considering that it was, after all, the bridge of the IEV Vigilance. The ship had been stripped of its spaceworthiness and converted into the City's administration. The colossal ship had retained its integrity with unfailing endurance, seemingly untouched by the recent battle, built from compounds that expedition researchers had yet to rival. It was, besides the IEV Zephyr at Armalite Inc. , the only relic left over from the old days. Everything had changed so much.
"Speaker" said an ensign from a side corridor, "Investigator Perreault Greyson on the holo."
Daniel paused. The name registered.
"Isn't he that damned Institution detective?"
"He is, speaker." Stated the ensign plainly. Though not quite as vehement in his distaste for the purples as his comrades in previous generations, the officer was expectedly wary of the Institution.
"Tell him my position is the same as before. The Sionian Expedition regrets deeply the passing of Lord Asriel, and we had nothing to do with his death. I don't know why they keep eyeing us whenever a higher-up gets shanked." The security feed on his desk suddenly flashed to life with a message.
"Play" said Daniel. An electronic feminine voice gave the standard Sionian greeting.
"Ex Spiritus Unitos, Speaker. Administrative or Civil priorities?"
"Civil."
"Persephone has moved to maximum distance in relation to its star. Crop yield has dropped to 33%. Recommend replacement of crimson fields with prism nutrient towers."
"Will this solve the issue?" Brother Daniel moved to his office's sideboard and poured himself a small glass of Greysmoke Spirit, drained his portion and refilled as the screen levitated above the desk with the aid of a tiny hoverdrive. The screen floated to the speaker's position.
"Iontaobhaí Alleyne's staff gives the project a 97% estimated success rate."
"Wire the Iontaobhaí the necessary credits and resource access grants."
"It is done, speaker."
"Dea-mhéin. Move on to administrative business."
"Chancellor Zen Amydros and his staff will be arriving in the east bay in approximately 30 seconds. Your orders?"
"Dispatch a cohort of temple guard to escort them to the Link Chamber. Also, increase perimeter security to level three and put the Sionian Defense Legion on alert. Relay signal to Chatellerault and November's Star, I don't want any traffic entering Unitalia for the next half hour."
"It is done, speaker."
"Thanks, darlin'." Daniel drank the last drop of greysmoke from his glass and moved quickly to his office closet. He pulled on the ancient, ornate robe of the Unitology Presidents over his sionian-made utilitarian clothing. He only wore the robe to the highest of official functions, for the reason that he hated the robe more than he hated most space pirates. There was simply no need to spin platinum into thread and practically make a robe out of it. Hell, one could pull the platinum for two corvette engine circuit grids out of the thing. He walked out of his office and was joined on either side by a silver-and-green temple guard. The trip to the Link Chamber was not long, and as he entered the massive room, he felt blessed not to have attracted attention. Five representatives of each Unitology empire and the entire Sionian Expedition, that had been the agreement. The Link Chamber was a spectacle of modern technology. Using extensive hologram mapping and quantum signal transmission, face-to-face negotiations could take place between large groups trillions of kilometers away, if the need arose. And today was one such day. The long, elliptic table had two distinct sides, and the Holographic insignias of the Unitology's empires underneath the larger, more eminent symbol of Unitos thoroughly polarized the room. The Dark Templar's Insignia was l