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Would you put your brain in a robot body?

Captain’s Log, Nov. 11, 2491
Void, En Route to New Xanaphia

Nothing could ruin my mood right now. There’s more here than I could’ve hoped. Jonathan, my very own boy, he found old Unitalia, all right, and the planet is full of light and life. It’s beautiful, too. Just like the old days, except now there’s no one to try and destroy them. They’re a small civilization, but they don’t need to grow any bigger. They landed right on the ruins of Sionia’s Refuge and started working, now the planet’s just like we left it.
I’m waiting for the drive to recharge here in the void so I can make a straight-shot to New Xanaphia, I can’t wait to give the Legion the good news. We can just run away from this clusterf… this crap that’s taking shape. No more deaths.

Hang on, computer again.

Brother Daniel terminated his entry and strode the SRA Vagabond’s length from his quarters to the cockpit.
“Yes, computer?”
“Speaker, we’re picking up another ship.”
“What?”
“Another ship, speaker.”
“I’mnotadamnspeakeranymore and are you serious?” stammered Daniel, taken completely by surprise.
“I’m always serious, Spea-Emissary. Oh, and they’re right next to us.” Daniel rushed for the porthole and there, shining brightly, was indeed another ship, a billion billion kilometers away from any known star. A quick inspection confirmed the ship’s origin… This was a Firm vessel, the gold trim and sleek construction style made it certain. He had no quarrel with the Firm.
“Computer, transmit docking request.”
“Transmitting to the Dawnstrider now, speaker.” Daniel resisted the urge to reprimand the exasperating machine, then the request was accepted and the vessels rotated into docking position. A few moments later, the atmospheres equalized and Daniel stood on his end of the docking bay. A figure appeared at the end of it… it limped forward, possessing a somewhat inhuman quality. Then the face came into view.
“…Mike?” stammered Daniel.
“Hello, old friend.” Said Mike, his voice possessing a drone that was half human, half machine. His right arm and leg were built of a golden metal, and moved as such.
Daniel took his old friend’s hand in the old Sionian greeting, and surveyed the metal limbs and scars on his face.
“What happened to you, man? We thought you were dead! Mosely saw your ship blow up!”
“Looks like I have some stories to tell.” Said Mike. “Have you got any beer on this rig? Nothing fit on the Dawnstrider. I’ve been drinking scotch for a week and I’m tired of it.”
Daniel laughed and gestured for Mike to come aboard, sat down in the galley and tapped two tall glasses of dark porterhouse. Mike took a long drink, cleared his throat, and began his story.

-----------------------------

Faith’s Bastion was a dead planet. The once-bustling mine world, where millions made their homes, was reduced to a blackened rock, where icy wind blew the remnants of a departed civilization under the glare of a dim, scarlet sun that hung over the horizon like the eye of an angry God.
This is what the Firm surveyor saw on its approach to the planet, its two-man crew expecting to find nothing.
“Come in Mayflower, this is Espoir 7, beginning our scan of sector 11, Faith’s Bastion.” Said Robert, scratching his three-day beard and swiveling the fore lights around.
“Go ahead Espoir 7, commence scan.” Crackled the officer.
“This place is dead.” Said Chrisanne, cutting the comm channel. She took her infrared goggles off and rubbed the lenses with her shirtsleeve. “Just like every other damn planet we’ve scanned. The top says we have the technology to get out of here, so why are we staying behind in this dump?” She massaged her temples and closed her strained eyes.
Robert and Chrisanne were part of the Firm Reclamation Survey, basically a desperate alliance of the remaining powers of the universe, who pooled their resources to figure out a way to survive. These particular two, a brother and sister from Nemesis, were assigned to the southern, formerly Unitology arm, attached to the survey cruiser Mayflower.
“Oi, there’s the name. Steadfast. What’s that symbol?” Robert gestured at the dusty, bent sign.
“What, the Unitos symbol?”
“No, dumbass, the other side.”
“Don’t you call me a dumbass!”
“I’m sorry, geez. Do you know that one or not?”
“Symbol’s Sionian.” Chrisanne rolled her eyes and turned her head to the side.
“Ok. Did you type that in?”
“Yes!”
“Don’t bite my head off, I was just asking.”
Robert steered the craft away, passing over abandoned and destroyed houses, defense posts, spacecraft, and mines. Suddenly, the ground disappeared, and Espoir 7 found itself hanging over the gaping blackness of a vast abyss.
“Ho!” Exclaimed Robert as he double-checked stability. The lights couldn’t penetrate the inky blackness, and a radar sweep produced nothing of interest. “Well, I dunno about you, sis, but I’m not going down there.”
“Hang on…” Said Chrisanne, tying her hair back in a ponytail and putting her infrared goggles back on. A tiny flicker of heat registered from far below. “I got something.”
“What? Probably geothermal.”
“No… no, it’s concentrated and persistent. Looks like a signal flare.” Chrisanne magnified the thermal image and sure enough, there was the distinctive flicker of a flare, and some lesser reflection off nearby surfaces. “We’ve got to go down there.”
“Why? We could be done with this scan in a half-hour and be back on the Mayflower in another ten, then get our checks and drink ‘em away.” Said the exasperated Robert.
“Because if we find survivors, we get 700-credit bonuses for each one that makes it to the Mayflower.” Said Chrisanne, decisively. “Now let’s get down there.”
Robert sighed, pitched the surveyor down, and began the descent. This was a huge cavern once, but the roof had completely collapsed. No signs of armed struggle, just like on all the other worlds, this was purely the universe’s doing.
“Point the nose about two meters to your left.” Ordered Chrisanne.
Robert rolled his eyes and obeyed, constantly vigilant for unexpected rock formations. Finally, the radar picked up a floor survey. Rocks, rusted and crushed spacecraft and miscellaneous organic debris. This didn’t look too promising.
“Whoa!” yelled Chrisanne. Robert abruptly stopped, jerking the spacecraft into an unstable waver.
“Keep it together, spaz, I’m picking up a human outline!” She yelled, staring at the faint, moving, female silhouette that wasn’t more than a few hundred meters below. “Dead ahead, keep going down.”
“Yeah, down, I was getting there.” Grumbled Robert, and the Espoir 7 dropped steadily. 200…150…100…50…the landing clamps grabbed rocks and the surveyor was grounded.
“Check atmosphere.” Said Robert.
“Well, it appears to be a stable oxygen mix, pressure slightly above normal, temperature 11 degrees centigrade. We should be fine without helmets.”
“What, we’re both going?” Asked Robert. Silenced by his sister’s glare, he trudged back to the airlock to suit up. Minutes later, the hatch opened and the two dropped out onto the bouldered surface. The flare burned meters away, and they made the approach a few inches at a time, allowing their spiked boots to grip rock steadily each time, not trusting the terrain for a second. As Chrisanne finally stepped onto the last boulder, a Templar impact round slammed into the rock inches below her feet. There stood a shivering, disheveled young woman, holding the Templar rifle with a terrified trembling. Robert came up behind Chrisanne and recognized the girl’s face.
“Sister Thadmor?” He stammered. She fired into the rock again. “No! No! We’re not here to hurt you, sister!” He took another tentative step. “We should’ve taken the helmets, methinks.” He whispered to Chrisanne. He held up his FRS badge and waved it at Thadmor. “We’re the good guys. We’ve come to rescue you.”
“FRS?” Thadmor looked at them wildly, her reddish hair falling over her eyes.
“Firm Reclamation Survey.” Said Chrisanne. “We’re searching for survivors, Miss Thadmor, and we’re honored to have found you.”
“I’m not… trapped… father…” Thadmor brushed her hair out of her face and gestured at a small flickering within a tiny, child-sized opening.
“Your father’s in there?” Demanded Robert.
“Yes.”
“Wait, what difference does it make? Who’s her father?” asked Chrisanne.
“Brother Michael, high consul of the Dark Templar, one of the most important members of the former Unitology. If he’s still alive…”
“Hey. Idiots.” Said Thadmor, suddenly sounding much more coherent. “I assume you have some rescue equipment? I mean no disrespect, but please, get to work.” The two looked at each other and started towards the opening. Fusion cutters, blindingly bright, melted away rock and steel, eventually clearing a large enough opening to get at the concealed figure within.
There was Brother Michael, right limbs apparently crushed completely under massive boulders, bearing burns on most of his body. The tatters of a Templar uniform clung to him, a paltry defense against the harsh climate. He opened his eyes and turned towards Robert and Chrisanne, and opened his mouth to speak. Nothing came out.
“Brother Michael? We’re with the Firm Reclamation Survey. We’ve come to rescue you.” Said Chrisanne, stepping through the opening. “Can you move your right side at all?” Mike wearily shook his head no. “Any feeling in that area?” Another Negative.
“Then I apologize, sir, this is procedure.” Chrisanne’s fusion cutter blade sprang to blinding life and sliced off Mike’s right arm and leg. Mike became immediately aware of the nerves he could still feel, and a low gurgle in the place of a scream escaped his mouth. Chrisanne winced and realized she’d forget the tranquilizer. She stuck the syringe into Mike’s left arm and gave him the dose of heavy painkiller. His eyes closed and he slept.
“Um… sis? You done in there?”
“Yep. All according to procedure. Don’t you worry.”
“I didn’t ask…”
“Shaddup.”
Chrisanne bore the bi-limbless Mike out of his prison of three weeks and started towards the surveyor. Robert took Thadmor’s arm and led her after her father. Soon, they were safely in sterile recovery chambers onboard the Espoir 7.
“Come in Mayflower.” Said Robert, “Survivors located on Faith’s Bastion.”
“Designate faction and empire.” Crackled command.
“One male, one female, both Unitology, both Dark Templar.”
“Do they have names?”
Robert said them, and there was a pause from the Mayflower.
“Return to the Mayflower immediately, Espoir 7.” Said command. “You two have some substantial bonuses coming your way. Good work.”
“Remind me to listen to you more often, sis.” Said Robert.
“Oh, I will.” Said Chrisanne. The surveyor tilted upwards, and rocketed towards the Mayflower. A good day. That liquor in the galley deck wasn’t going to drink itself.


-----------------------------


“Christ…” Said Daniel, as he finished listening.
It’s quite an earful, I know.” Said Mike. “But all’s well that ends well. Thadmor’s been making a steady recovery, and I hardly ever notice my metal arms and leg anymore.” There was a short pause.
“Ever punched anyone with your metal arm?”
“Yes.”
“How was it?” Mike paused.
“Fantastic.”
“Now… I know you. You didn’t come out here in what I assume is my stolen technology to say hello.”
“Yes, that’s true.” Mike took another drink from his porterhouse. “And yes, it’s stolen, sorry about that. I swear it wasn’t me.”
“Okay, spit the news out.”
“Have you talked to the Legion lately?”
“No, I’ve been out here. Waves can’t reach NewXana.”
“Take my advice, Dan. Get home as fast as this little ship can carry you.”
“What? Why?”
“You remember the Crimson Nation?”
“Yes.”
“Remember how they got slaughtered… by themselves?”
“…yes.”
“Get home, Dan.” Mike quaffed the rest of his pint. “Can I have one for the road?”
“Know how to pour it right? I don’t know what kind of piss-poor beer you brew in the Firm.”
“Of course I know how. We brew a knock-off of this. No chance you’ll reveal your secret recipe?”
“I’m carrying that to my grave. Unitos himself couldn’t wrench it out of me.”
“Well, in that case, safe travels, old friend.” Said Mike, as he filled his pint again. “Oh… and don’t go anywhere near Krynn. Or Banedonia. Or the core. Hell, you’re not going to have too much of a good time anywhere.”
“Rarely do.” Daniel raised an eyebrow. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
“Trust me on this.” Mike turned and walked back towards the airlock. Within minutes, the Vagabond and the Dawnstrider went rocketing off in different directions, leaving only faint particle trails in their paths.

-----------------------------

You’re listening to WSCO, Scorpion Pirate Radio, laying down the finest waves, guaranteed to go well with explosions in the background. That was “Remember Crimson Moon” with their new hit single, “Bomb Caelestis Dead”. This track has actually climbed to #1 on Overwatch and Firm Top 40 charts, and it keeps its place at the top for our listeners in the Unitology. Coming up next, it’s “Venombourne” with “Shard in my Brain”. Um… actually, hang on. I’m getting a broadwave from RadioVenimus; they say they have some kind of urgent announcement. I’m patching you through… now.
“-Eccomend that all Vincere Venimus Foundation citizens go immediately to their designated raid shelters or defensive positions. Attacks are ignoring Scorpion Pirate forces and colonies, and show no signs of stopping their course of action. Again, Boomsma Jonge IS attacking major VVF installations, and the Legion of Scorpion Pirates does NOT appear to be concerned. Civil Defenders, try to hold until help arrives. Further bulletins as events warrant.”
Allright, listeners, looks like we have a crisis on our hands. I’ll decline to comment for the Legion, but I believe… hold on… incoming broadwave from WSSR… yes, it’s Emissary Deirdre MacManus herself. Here she is in 3…2…
“Attention to all Scorpion Pirate warfleets in the Krynn system. Your refusal to defend against obvious invaders has caused us to declare the Sionian Republic a separatist state in reference to the Legion. We will stand by the Crusaders, as will anyone with the brains and the bollocks to realize that the Don’s fist needs to be broken now, quickly, and without hesitation. The 103rd, 4th and 5th Partisan brigades are now accepting volunteers at central systems. I implore anyone who wishes to retain their freedom and dignity to join them. Don Julio does not know mercy. MacManus out.”
…Well! I’m not going to say this, but I’m going to IMPLY that MacManus, Daniel, and the rest of the Sionians are a bunch of disloyal backbirths, and traitors to the legion. Good news on that, however, is that I just got word that Mr. Tuson of the former Institution has been given the position of Legion Commander. He is known, I can assure you, for his violent anti-separatist behavior. I’m sure we can count on a bit more noise from Ms. MacManus.

Gaian Mustang If you vote for me i will stab you, if you dont vote for me i will stab you, then again, i think i will just stab you.   Genesis cohenman1 Its importent to build the Gensis faction again. I will try to do my best   Overwatch T1000 I am fiercely loyal to those who don't betray me. I am also friends with several upper members of Vincere Venimus. Vote for me, and I will strive to help make the overwatch strong and unified. I also will not tolerate people being a menace to the general public.   Shelter Defense Legion SolarCat I want to help the SDL rise to be one of the most effective and closely-knit factions in the game. The SDL is free, and I want to make sure she stays that way. If any of you guys need anything from me, let me know. :) It's good to be home.   Technocratic Initiative SP Apropos I, Apropos, Will do all i can to help bring this faction back to life, and take it to a whole new level once again!   The Cosmic Ballet Brother Knaar I declare peace on all nations of this fair universe. Fear not, for I am not a power hungry octopod. Thine spawn are safe.   The Crusaders Krazy Eyez Killer I am a man of little words and much action.   The Firm Ogini Yes, Vote For Ogini!   The Institution pill-boy2   The Spectre Order Tchocky Thanks for voting me into office! You won't be let down :) This is my second round and this faction will prevail with my help. I'm very active for improved faction unity and teamwork. My initiatives: *research! *explore, explore, explore *setup a system wide large scale defense *make money and GROW With everyone's help and input, we can become the largest and most effective faction this round. Keep up the good work people!   Unitology Wynnyk Imagine theres no Heaven Its easy if you try No hell below us Above us only sky Imagine all the people Living for today Imagine theres no countries It isnt hard to do Nothing to kill or die for And no religion too Imagine all the people Living life in peace You may say that Im a dreamer But Im not the only one I hope someday youll join us And the world will be as one Imagine no possessions I wonder if you can No need for greed or hunger A brotherhood of man Imagine all the people Sharing all the world You may say that Im a dreamer But Im not the only one I hope someday youll join us And the world will live as one

This distress call wouldn't be taking place in someone's pants, would it?

The road to Tortuga shines like a thousand fireworks, billboards and signs the size of football fields advertising corn chips, next-generation fractal guns, prostitution firms and everything in between.
Dierdre MacManus, a surprisingly adept pilot for her seventeen years, piloted the tiny revolver drive vessel SRA Vitessary into the maw of the Spectre Order homeworld's customs station, a bright red reminder of the continued existence of the Hedonists and their allies, and a source of extraordinarily persistent and invasive strobe lights.
“I understand that they like discotheques, but do they need to have them RIGHT next to the inspection tunnel?” Brother Mosely grabbed a pair of sunglasses from the copilot's glove compartment and stuffed them onto his face, grimacing again at the ultra-bright flashes illuminating the Hedonist zero-gravity disco, and the inebriated dancers within.
“Get used to it.” Said Dalen, poking her head into the cockpit, wrapped in a towel after a quick shower. “I understand that strobe lights make you feel incredible under the effects of Euphorika grade 3 or 4. I think grade 5 just came out... everyone gets a free sample.”
“I'm not afraid of the Hedonists.” Said Dierdre, who seldom spoke. “They're just a happy people without a care in the world- kind of like a nation of puppies.”
“That's one way to put it.” Said Mosely. “They still know how to fight.”
“They use formation tactics, concentrating on precision strafing maneuvers, often trying to overwhelm with force of numbers. They have no regard for casualties.” Said the girl, cutting the forward thrust and jetting upward, into their designated 'foreign visitor' tunnel, closer to the customs office.
“Where'd you learn about the Hedonist military?” Asked Dalen, now dressed in her simple tank top and khakis again.
“My mother taught me a lot of things.” Said Dierdre.
The Vitessary pulled up to the customs airlock. Pressure was equalized on the exchange hatch in the cockpit, and the Hedonist customs agent appeared behind the window.
“Passports, please.” Said the thin, bleary-eyed man, his deep red uniform unbuttoned to alleviate the uncomfortable heat of his office.
Dierdre passed him the three booklets, face stony. The agent sent them through a validation scanner, and looked at the names and titles. His eyes opened a little wider, not expecting Grey diplomats, and he immediately replaced his hat, a woolen black officer's cap, which had been lying next to a half-empty bottle of scotch.
“Ah! Speaker, Finne, Emissary, please, pass, I know Mr. Tchoky and Mr. Seldon are expecting you.”
“May we have our passports back?” Inquired Dierdre without enthusiasm.
“Oh!” Squeaked the customs agent, “Of course!” He fumbled the passports back through the airlock. “I hope you all enjoy your stay in Tortuga, Sir and Madames!”
Dierdre closed the airlock without a word, and continued flying past the customs chambers that promised long lines and latex for less prioritized travelers. Brother Mosely stood up. “I'm going to get a beer from the galley. I hate AtmoBurn. Anyone else want anything?”
“Bring me two.” Said Dalen. “What the hell, we're going to Tortuga.”

An hour later, they were on the ground. The Vitessary cooled down on the priority starport tarmac as the three stepped onto the blinding floor of the Ammaretta, Tortuga's largest and most celebrated casino, as well as the intended meeting place. Tigers, genetically engineered to sport fur in every color of the rainbow, begrudgingly trudged around the floor in a drugged haze while beautiful, topless girls carried drinks of every imaginable color, shape, flavor, chemical content and luminescence to the patrons, who smilingly tugged at the handles of five-meter high slot machines, then gleefully watched the hundreds of spinning dials align with flashing lights and more renderings of nudes than previously thought possible, and then almost died of ecstasy when the machine dispensed maybe a handful of credit chips.
“Dierdre, are you seeing this, or did Mosely put something in my beer?” Quipped Dalen, feeling out-of-place with her clothing.
“No, but i almost wish this was a trip. Imagine what it's like for those partaking of the fruit of hedonist pharmaceuticals. For example, Mindexpander 27.” Said Dierdre, putting her hair into a bun and piercing it with a throwing spike. “Possibly him.” She gestured towards a young man with neon orange hair, stumbling through the rows of machines, swatting at imaginary butterflies.
“I assure you, milady, there's nothing unacceptably dangerous in any of our enjoyment assistance supplements. And that's not Mindex 27, it's Hyperion 51. The minty version, I think.” Mike Amidon smiled as the startled greys turned to face him. “My my, looks like my old friend Daniel picked a pretty one to run Sionia. How is old Brodee, anyhow? I read the newsfeed that said he was taking a sabbatical on Krynn. Great barbecue there.”
“He's doing just fine, Amidon.” Said Mosely with a taste of poison, obviously not appreciating the surprise greeting. “I'm sure he's barbecuing all manner of rare and delicious beasts. Are we here to negotiate or swap recipes?”
“All in good time, Speaker!” laughed Amidon, who then turned briefly to cough in a handkerchief. Before he hid it away, Mosely glimpsed red blood on the cloth. “Follow me, Brother and Sisters, this is only the first floor. Would you like a tour of the building? It's really quite incredible, I take personal pride in this facility.”
“Do we have time?” Asked Dalen, shifting to avoid a group of military students as they stumbled past.
“Of course. You're in the recreation capital of the universe, Milady. We don't put a high priority on rushing things.” He took Dalen and Mosely by the shoulders and led them into the crowd, with Dierdre following behind, looking straight ahead with her icy blue eyes. “I myself designed the primary blueprints for the Ammaretta. We're going to be taking the glass lift in the center, it's reserved for VIPs... Rockstars, Euphorichemists, the like... In a moment, you'll see why.”
Mosely, Dalen & Dierdre entered the gigantic lift alongside the Hedonist figurehead, hands never more than inches away from their weapons. Mike Amidon smiled proudly and fiddled with the buttons on his red silk accouterments, then punched a number onto the lift's keypad and closed the door. Not even the smallest jerk came from whatever mechanisms lay beneath the polished black marble floor as the lift began to elevate.
The scenery changed almost immediately. The casino floor disappeared and a beer garden took its place, the whole floor singing loudly and happily while quaffing imports from as far away as Caelestis. After that, a brightly lit stage and hundreds jumping up and down to the riffs of the popular Gaian rock band Venombourne, who thrashed their guitars and screamed their lyrics into the microphones. And so the tour continued, Amidon explaining the more unique floors... every one was different, each catering to its own particular brand of recreation. Finally, after passing a petting zoo and a holographic gaming chamber, the elevator began to slow down. The next floor, a hot spring complex made entirely of jade slid from view and the doors opened to reveal a colossal library, dimly lit and silent, without a computer terminal in sight. A few old, bespectacled patrons sat quietly, indulging in the ancient, yellowed volumes that were replaced centuries ago with steel, glass and silicon.
“A library?” Stammered Mosely in disbelief. “The top floor is a library?”
“The charter of my empire provides for anything that brings our citizens pleasure. The pleasures of substance and of the flesh are eventually lost to some, replaced by the evasive pleasures of the mind.” Said the Hedonist, walking out the door and fondly patting the oak timbers of one of the giant shelves. “That, and... well... a fad amongst the young people is to 'do it in the library'...” A few moments of silence produced barely audible sounds of love, muffled by the vastness of the space. Dalen Tri shook her head. Mosely blushed slightly.
He began leading them through the rows of books, looking at some of the titles, and eventually saw what he was looking for. He pulled one of the ladders over, climbed up several levels and pulled a green-bound, official-looking volume from among the others. He slid down and handed it to Mosely.
“What's this?” Asked the speaker, beginning to leaf through the pages.
“This is a documentation of every piece of what we call 'God Graffiti' that we've found in our mines and excavation sites. We can't read it, but I know you people have a ministry of this stuff on New Xanaphia. There's quite a lot, i thought you'd be interested.” Amidon continued walking, and they again followed, Mosely walking slowly, translating the words. They were genuine, alright. In that same language. It was a miracle the Hedonists had given it to him, they couldn't possibly realize what this book is worth.
“And if you'll follow me up these steps, we'll get to the roof. My ship is waiting.” A flight of stairs later they opened the door to the windhammered roof, where a small luxury corvette hummed brightly. The four piled in the open doors, and were greeted by a small, stately, blue silk lounge, where two men sat, sipping dark red drinks, watching the greys with hollow eyes.
“Mosely, Tri, MacManus, I'd like you to meet Seldon and Tchocky, the political leaders of our cause.” Brief introductions were made, and Amidon gestured to the young woman at the controls and the young man in the copilot's chair. “My personal pilot, Rosalie, and her gunner Wilhelm. Now, my friends, shall we get down to business?”
“Yes, if it's alright with you all I'd like to get straight to the point.” Said Seldon, an exhausted-looking man in a dark red leather Hedonist military uniform.
“We're losing. Little by little, Anatidus Quackor and friends are boring holes in our defenses. If we have a chance, it's very small.”
“So what do you want from us?” Asked Mosely.
“We can't negotiate a ceasefire on our own. We need leverage. We need allies.”
“So... what is that supposed to mean? You want a Crusader warfleet to clip the duck's wings?”
“No... it's too late for that to make a difference. I need the promise of warfleets.” The yacht now banked to the side, and presented a spectacular view of the city, looking much more peaceful from several thousand meters in the air.
“If you do that,” Continued Tchocky, “We can make the Duck stop where he is, which might give us a chance to build enough forces to eventually take our holdings back.”
“You're asking for a-” Started Dalen, when suddenly the corvette was slammed in the stern with a cannon shot. Warning sirens went off as Rosalie took evasive maneuvers, trying to figure out where the shot came from, as all around them similar shots lay waste to the city below. Wilhelm ran from the cockpit and seized control of the ship's battery, and began scanning the skies for attackers.
And in they came. Thousands of ships appeared above Tortuga, unleashing broadside after broadside onto the unsuspecting city. Troop transports also approached, bulkier-looking versions of the unmistakable Jonge ship aesthetic, black and angular, with no care taken to conceal their weapons' presence. An occupation force, thought Mosely. They're getting ready to set up shop here.
Dalen jumped up to the cockpit, struggling against the vicious G-forces assaulting her system. “Hey!” She yelled, trying to get Rosalie's attention.
The pilot did not turn, concentrating on dodging the burning wreckage of a Hedonist bomber falling from the sky. Instead she spoke through the intercom, giving her voice a metallic tone.
“What is it, Finne? I'm a little busy at the moment.”
“I need you to get us to our ship. It's in the priority starport next to the Ammaretta.”
“That'll expose us to bombardment, debris fall, and a whole list of other things.”
“I'd care in other situations. But we need to get to our ship.”
“Can't do, Finne.” Dalen drew a short dagger from her belt and held it to Rosalie's neck.
“Ammaretta starport. Now.” Rosalie glared at the Finne for a split second, then banked hard to the side. By this time, battalions of Hedonist fighters and bombers were streaking up to meet the attackers, guns blazing.
Rosalie's expertise was immediately evident. She avoided fire by concealing herself with buildings, darting between skyscrapers like a dragonfly, allowing Wilhelm the chance to return fire against any Jonge fighters following them. Then, a squadron of five fighters locked onto their tail, hammering the rear shields and engine column with persistent energy blasts that Wilhelm simply couldn't match shot for shot. Rear shields at 38%. Another blast. 15%. Mosely had his arm around the reeling Dierdre, holding himself steady with an ornate Bacchus statue.
“Hold on, kid. Dalen's going to get us back to the ship. Are you going to be able to fly the Vitessary when we get there? You're the only one who knows how.”
“I never been in a real battle before, mum couldn't' teach me that.. ugh... I'm blacking out...” Mosely shook her, and her eyes struggled to focus. “Do. Not. Black. Out. You black out, we all die. We need you.”
Rosalie then ducked into a ground vehicle tunnel. One fighter pulled away, and another exploded on the side, while the remaining three fought hard to avoid crashing into each other and the surrounding cars and hovercraft.
Now, Wilhelm had the fighters where their maneuverability wouldn't help them. He spun the Tachyon batteries to full power and gunned down the pursers, puncturing armor, hull & flesh within seconds of first impact. The tunnel ended and Rosalie pulled up and away, firing the braking thrusters as the Ammaretta starport came into view not 200 yards off. The corvette made ground, landing claws ripped into the tarmac, and the ship jerked to a stop dangerously close to the Vitessary.
The hatch jumped open just in time for the passengers to see an invading troopship begin to unload her soldiers. Tchocky instinctively opened a hidden weapons locker and tossed carbines to Seldon and Amidon, while the three greys snatched their shard pistols from their holsters and screwed on long-range barrels. The soldiers noticed the corvette and began firing sporadically as Wilhelm swiveled his turret around to bring to bear against the troopship.
“Don't hit our ship, kid!” Yelled Mosely at the gunnery hatch, while squeezing a couple shots into the troop column, while the soldiers' impact rounds bounced off the ship's shields or ruined its upholstery. A moment later, Wilhelm's barrels began spinning, and he began to carve a bloody swathe through the black-clad troops. The greys took their chance and jumped from the corvette, hitting the ground in a flat-out run for the Vitessary. The corvette took off, and Wilhelm's battery stopped its rampage.
The invaders began to regroup. Many of their number lay dead or dying, but the troopship was far from empty. Dierdre reached the ship first and leaped gracefully onto the still-lowering ramp, then turned to help Dalen up. Mosely covered them with a hail of shards, kicking the weapon into the extremely risky full-automatic mode. Blood spurted where his shots hit home, but there were simply too many to stop with a single gun. Impact rounds struck him twice in the shoulder and in the solar plexus. Mosley screamed expletives and triggered the gun's self-destruct, grabbed it by the barrel and hucked it at the troopship. The resulting bloodbath bought him enough time to grasp Dalen's hand, clenching his jaw against the ear-splitting pain in his gut. She pulled him onto the closing ramp as the Vitessary roared into the air.
In the cockpit, Dierdre seized control of the ship's fore cannons and armed them. Her eyes glittered as she placed the HUD's crosshairs on the troopship.
“Ex spiritus Unitos, Amen.” She squeezed the trigger and four fractal charges screamed from the cannon mouths, ripping the remaining troops to bloody splinters and puncturing the troopship's hull. She annihilated it with another salvo. She watched the aftermath in silence. A smile crossed her lips for the first time she could remember, and a profound sense of serenity took her.
“Dierdre!” Yelled Dalen. “Get us out of here! Make straight for the nearest friendly port!”
“That would be here.”
“Don't be smart. This war is already over.” Dalen looked out of the starboard porthole as as a battleship's broadside tore through the Ammaretta, and the massive casino began to collapse. She abruptly stopped looking and applied pressure to Mosely's stomach wound. “Dammit. Where's the Medikit?”
Dierdre set the ship's batteries to auto-engage and kicked the Vitessary to full throttle. You can't use the revolver drive in an atmosphere. The fragile physics involved with the design didn't need an outstanding element like air resistance. Instead, Dierdre snaked through the chaos of the battle, taking care to engage only fighters that started in on her. Then, of course, there were the battleships. One of them now hovered across Tortuga's moon, casting an eerie shade over the destruction. Right above the atmosphere, they continued to fire into the city below with merciless precision. Ten seconds until atmoclear... Dierdre started up the drive and closed out of the dozens of messages from Hedonist and Jonge commanders demanding that they identify themselves. Five. Four. Three. Two. One. The grip of Tortuga's atmosphere cleared, Dierdre locked on to the Sionian beacon at Banedonia and activated the revolver drive. There was a bright white flash and the Vitessary was gone. Commanders ignored it and pressed the battle. A few hours later, Tortuga fell.

The Vitessary fell into orbit around Banedonia. Dalen had stabilized Mosely's stomach and shoulder wounds, and now the three gathered in the living area, Mosely's head resting on Dalen's lap, reading his new book, while Dierdre sat, smiling.
“So, kid,” said Mosley, groaning a little. “Your first battle. Are you ok?”
“At first, I was terrified.” Admitted the girl, intertwining her fingers and staring straight ahead. “But then... I remembered something my mother taught me. 'those who fear die first, whether in body or spirit'. And then...” She paused, and met Mosely's look with her icy, piercing eyes. “I liked it. I really, really, liked it.” She looked straight ahead again, eyes darting back and forth, recalling every detail of her last couple of blood-soaked hours. Dalen's worried gaze met Mosely's. She's young. I hope it's just a phase.

A short time later, Mosely was in the governor's chambers of his colony Ryalen on Banedonia's surface. His wounds were dressed and healing well, the worst of it a couple of shattered ribs and shoulder plates that could be replaced easily. The governor had given him full control of the colony, of course, for the duration of his stay, although the weak painkiller he had finally caved in to taking was making sleep seem a more sound option than leading an empire. As he reached for the button to reach Ryalen's espionage command to make sure their path hadn't been traced, a familiar face came up on the link screen.
“Anatidus Quackor.” Said Mosely.
“Hello, Brother.” Said the General, a fake grin on his face. “How are things?”
“Lovely, General. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Yes, actually. I was wondering what you could tell me about why one of your ships was seen on Tortuga earlier today?”
“I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“Don't play dumb, Mosely. The Legion and Unitos symbols were both identified.”
“Might've been a businessman out on a pleasure cruise.”
Quackor paused and scowled at Mosely. “For now, you're under the legion's protection, so I'll tolerate insolence like this. But don't get to comfortable. A friend of mine's about to turn up the heat.” The hologram dissipated, and Mosely sat alone once more. He pressed the intercom button on his desk.
“Ms. Secretary, I need a shot and a brew. Keep 'em coming, please.”

Nevermind the bollocks, here's the Crusaders.

The Rending Pt. II

Brother Mosely paused for a moment, and then lunged. Dalen Tri turned aside the rapier with her scimitar, and then transitioned smoothly into a counterattack that chopped downward at the pirate’s exposed neck. However, Dalen’s blade bit only air as Mosley darted backwards and flicked a main-gauche from his belt, then immediately flew at her again with his sword’s menacing point, the three-pronged main-gauche ready to parry any surprises from the Finne Lillard.
“So, tell me, Brother,” Said Dalen as she ducked beneath the attacks and slashed laterally, making Mosely jump back again. “My warriors have spilled more than their fair share of blood to turn the traitors Gigot and Tuson back. When will Xanaphia’s soldiers arrive?” Dalen followed through, attacking with a vicious flurry of slashes that drove the speaker of Xanaphia back several meters, ending with a spiteful disarming sweep that sent the pirate’s main-gauche clattering to the stone floor.
“It won’t be long, Finne. You have my word. However, we too have had battles that have been very, very taxing.” Mosely circled around Dalen, stabbing with lightning speed wherever he saw a possible opening. Finally, Dalen shifted her stance in preparation for an attack, wide enough to guarantee a hit. His circle having brought him near the wall, Mosely jumped into the air and pushed off, lunging venomously at Dalen’s exposed side.
“DRAW.” Said the simulation computer. Holograms above them displayed the final clash, Mosely scoring a deep puncture wound to the abdomen while Dalen’s blade slashed a foot into Mosely’s shoulder. The Nanobot sparring blades disintegrated slowly and returned to their holding cases on the combatant’s belts. Mosely and Dalen stood, panting. Four white-clad handmaidens entered the sparring chamber and brought them towels and water. Then they turned about-face and left.
“But seriously, Dalen, let’s drop the pretext. The Entente is counting primarily on you and your elite forces to break the back of the purples. Nothing Gigot has can match them, your casualties have been the lowest of all of us.”
“I assume you know your history, Mosely. Our situation reminds me of the Institution’s campaign against the old underground, where General Amidon rallied the shattered Greens and conducted an effective and deadly guerilla war against the invaders. Some still believe that it was because of the Underground’s actions that the Unitology invasion of purple space went so spectacularly well.”
“So what are you saying, Dalen? We get Mike Amidon and the Spectre Order to fight Gigot for us?”
“It was an example of how a long war in one place inevitably leaves your flank open.”
“I know. I was joking. What do you want from us, exactly?”
“You’re the acting pirate king, Mosely. I’m sure Apopros put you in charge during his absence for a reason. And you are now in charge of a force to be feared and crushed by.” Dalen draped her towel around her shoulders and put on her simple brown sandals. The sparring room’s ceiling opened up, revealing a spectacular view of Caelestis, now known by many as New Abrigo. The world’s two moons shone white, diametrically opposed, peppered with new craters where quick-response interceptor fleets met their demise. Mosely sat down next to the Finne and took a long drink from his icy water and looked up at the spectacular view that never seemed to get old. The UEV Dawnherald, on which they now sat, deserved its reputation as the finest vessel in the Unitology-Crusader Entente, serving as the Unitology’s command center in the Institution campaign. Dalen stood up, walked to the double doors, and pressed her palm to the side. They silently opened, and Mosely followed her through the portal onto the long hallway towards the Dawnherald’s bridge.
“Well, it’s not so easy, you know? It was different back in the old days, fighting the old-guard purples we’d been fighting since we can remember. But this time, it’s definitely not the same. It feels all wrong.” Mosely put his glasses back on and donned the jacket of his Scorpion Pirate ‘uniform’, a hodge-podge of leather, synthmat and plasma steel that looked like it could be a weapon on its own.
“How is this different?” said Dalen, brushing wrinkles out of her simple, white clothing. The two, side-by-side, looked like anything but allies to the casual observer, the only similarity the Unitos pendants hanging from their necks.
“Gigot and Tuson were friends of mine back in the old days, in the Expedition Armada. We fought the purps together. I know their tricks and they know mine. But beyond that… of all the places to defect to… why our most hated enemy?”
“They’re traitors. This should make you even more willing to thrash them once and for all.”
“It should, you’re right. But all the same, it makes you wonder…”
“War is not a good time for wondering, speaker. You can do that all you want when they’re sitting in a prison cell on Basilica Luminarium.”
“Okay, you’re right. I’ll wave the cabinet, you can expect backup within days.”
“Thank you.”
Then, they reached the end of the corridor and stopped.
“I’ve got to leave for New Xanaphia.” Said Mosely, hanging his bag’s strap over his shoulder. “We’re sending a diplomatic envoy to the Hedonists. Traditionally, diplomacy with us is Brother Dan’s thing, but since he’s off looking for his son’s flying city in distant, presumed dead galaxies, we’re sending the girl he gave his mantle to. I guess she’s only 17, so I’m going with her. You know how the Hedos can get.”
“You may want to take care yourself, speaker,” smirked Dalen, “Again… you know how the Hedos can get.”
Mosely laughed and winked at the smiling Finne as he turned away, then walked alone down the corridor. He looked down at Caelestis and the thousand of spaceships in low orbit, and at the dark wisps of oily smoke that still hadn’t disappeared after the long, bloody battle. He stopped and turned back to the Finne with a roguish smile.
“Say, Dalen. Have you ever wanted to visit Tortuga?”

------------------------------------------

Ship’s Log, SRA Vagabond, August 2, 2428, Uncharted Star Cluster
Captain Brother Daniel reporting.

How can I be a captain if I’m the only one on the ship? Well… the only one, besides computer. I thought of giving it a name, or a gender, but then I realized that it’d be kinda creepy. I’ve been on this ship for two weeks and, to be honest, I don’t think it’s good for me.

At least I’m getting somewhere. Progress is slow, but the pieces come together a little more every day. For example… out here, on the fringes of the galaxy, we have these little clusters. The stars are really, really dim. They shine greenish, which makes one’s skin look like a corpse. Or maybe it’s just my skin. I don’t know. I can’t make comparisons because there is no one, and I mean no one, anywhere near where I am.

The only transmissions I get are very old, latent radio waves and the like from largely indiscernible sources. I’m still searching for any signals that might denote present civilizations in the galaxy.

I did a chem scan on some rocks, and it’s definitely the same stuff I’d expect. Sodium, for example, explodes again. I’m a little skeptical, though. This cluster wasn’t here before. It’s been far too short of a time for them to form naturally, I’m still looking for explanations. There are a couple of these clusters, and they all surround a galaxy that looks very, very much unlike the one we left behind. But whatever. The revolver drive will be ready to fire again tomorrow, and we’ll see what we can find.

Ok, computer’s calling me. Laters.

------------------------------------------

To: Pirate%King@xanaphinet.lsp.gov
From: Gigot%Secureline@invictus.lsp.gov
Subject: (No Subject)

Apopros,

You and I have never been on the best of terms. Hell, I hardly know you. All the same, I ask you this chance to explain myself.

I was a Unitologist once. I believed before you were crawling. I stuck with the greys for a long, long time. Under Zen, under Brother Dan, I fought harder and loved the cause more than anyone.

And I never stopped. During my time in the Expedition, I learned something. Freedom is the most precious thing anyone can hope to have. And by the power of Unitos, said freedom is possible.

And now, it’s threatened again. In the old days, that threat was the Institution. Now, however, it’s you. Damn you. Can’t you see that what you’re doing is directly opposed to everything you say you believe in the scriptures? We’re not infidels, we have the same name, and fly the same flag, but the real enemy is not among us. We were a peaceful nation. The real enemy is somewhere else, flying red, green, white, or any number of other shades of the same evil.

You have effectively destroyed the meaning of your title. I ask you as a believer and as a human being to stop this slaughter, because it’s the right thing to do. Then, as an individual, I say, ‘Apopros, go to hell. Go to hell for every drop of blood that you’ve made my people spill. Go to hell.’

Gigot

------------------------------------------

From: Finne%Lillard@clanlink.uni.gov
To: Mosely%Absolute@xanaphinet.lsp.gov
Subject: Thank you

Well, send my commendation to your generals. Word has it that Gigot’s body was found just a few hours ago, in an underground bunker in the ruins of capital city. Poor bastard took his own life… couldn’t take it anymore. I must say, though… video feeds of some of your commanders’… tactics… left a little to be desired in the human rights department.

Well… regardless. Tuson’s got nothing left, and the rest aren’t even worth mentioning. Looks like we won.

Looking forward to Tortuga.

Dalen

I gotta get the hell off of this rock.

To: Mosely%Messenger@xanaphinet.lsp.gov
From: Bro%Dan@sionia.freelink.lsp
Subject: Free Home Mortgage Estimates!

Hey, Mose. This'll be my last e-mail for a while, as you know. Shouldn't be a problem, I've planned this thing for months, and nobody will miss me. Tomorrow, I'll announce that Dierdre MacManus will take the mantle of Sionian Emissary until further notice. She's a good kid, daughter of one of Sionia's original infiltrators, the one that took down Tomb of Unitos.
Anyhow, since the revolver drive makes communication effectively impossible, I'll be very out of the loop. I know you haven't been a Sionian for a very, very long time, but do me a favor, for old times' sakes. Apopros Listens to you.
Stop these wars. We're moving at a pace we can't hope to maintain for long, and in the end it'll boil down to the same thing it always does: Our forces using genocide against the enemy, and the complete dehumanization of the survivors. On both sides.

If i find what I'm looking for, then nothing else matters. The legion will finally have a place to have its promised land.

The usual,
BD

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The tiny settlements on the fringes of civilized space didn't have the deep technological well that their counterparts on the homeworlds knew. Defiance Steppe was one such settlement, a remote Sionian colony on the edge of what used to be the Institution arm, now a pitched warzone where the Crusaders and Unitologists brought their weight down on the few remaining Institution despots.
And so, when when the final bell sounded at the colony's small copper mining complex, a single exodus-era hovercraft pulled into the dirt plaza to take the dusty miners home. The ship had been captured at Istar by invading Unitology forces, then sold to a Crusader expedition at a steal of a bargain. The people, however, were almost all from New Xanaphia, tempted away from the safety of the homeworld by the promise of adventure and credits in the fresh new region cleared for those who flew a grey flag.
Ryan Fitzionat was one such thrill-seeker, the son of a charter transport pilot and a career soldier, ready to rid himself of New Xanaphia's crowded, uniform, steely streets. The rusty iron steps begrudgingly clamped onto the ground, producing a couple corrugated steel steps for the miners to walk on. He clambered onto the hovercraft along with the other miners, brushing some of the dirt and copper specks out of his hair. It was crowded, the ship creaking in protest as more miners mounted than the transport was meant to hold.
The pilot shifted the craft into gear, and the ship repelled the ground, pushing forward towards the road back to town. Ryan lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, as trees flew past. This wasn't exactly the adventure he was hoping for. Maybe he should join up with the Garda or the Expeditionairres, kill a couple purps or tans, join in the action.
Suddenly there was a loud buzzing noise and three rounds of energy were fired into the ceiling. A young man with crewcut blond hair stood at the front of the hovercraft, holding a handgun to the pilot's temple while brandishing a pulserifle at he passengers. Immediately, fifty guns were trained on the troublemaker, who now revealed a large purple gear on his shirt. Everybody on the bus was armed, each one ready to shoot first.
“Ah, ah, ah! Put your guns down. There is a sensor monitoring my pulse linked to a molec-deto charge bomb strapped to my chest. If I die, you all die.”
This was abundantly clear to everyone on board. Most of the guns were lowered immediately, followed begrudgingly by those who took slightly longer to fail to find a solution.
“Keep driving” Said the man, pushing his sidearm into the forehead of the sweating pilot. “Head towards the starport.”
The crowd started to mutter to one another, men and women exchanging glances of fear or outrage.
“You, you're that kid, Richey!” Said Ryan, angrily, recognizing his co-worker for the last several months. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I'm going to live with my own kind again. I've had enough. When you bastards invaded Istar, I believed your war propaganda, how a better life was waiting out here. What a load of bullshit.”
“So you hijack a gorram hovbus?” Said Ryan, stepping forward with his shard pistol pointed at Richey's heart. Everyone on the freehold had something similar, meant to prevent exactly this kind of problem. But throw a bomb into the mix and everything goes south.
“Stuff it, Fitzionet. All of you keep your backbirth traps shut.” Ritchie held the pulserifle to Ryan's forehead. “I will not hesitate to make an example out of you, comrade. Your precious Unitos will have to identify you by dental records.”
“That won't be necessary.” Said a voice from the crowd. “Put the guns down and you won't get hurt.”
“Who said that?” demanded Richey, eyes flashing. “I want to know who said that RIGHT now.”
“I did.” The crowd parted, revealing a man in a dirty brown miner's trenchcoat, face obscured by a wide-brim hat.
“And just who the fuck do you think you are, telling me what do do? I could kill every last dirty one of you if I wanted to.”
“That's true, you could.” said the man. “But you won't.”
“And just why is that, friend?” Said Ritchie, smiling a wild, toothy grin. His sweaty thumb slipped on the pulserifle's controls, switching from three-shot burst to full-auto. A silence swept the hovercraft.
“Because you know it's not worth it.” Another pause.
“What?” Said Ritchie, “Not worth it?”
“That's what i said.” The man stood up and took a step forward. “Suppose you win today. You make us fly you to the starport somehow. You get a transport headed for the Institution holdouts. There could be hostages, examples, many deaths, whatever. But somehow, you get what you want. What's waiting for you there?”
“Huh?”
“What's waiting for you when you arrive? I'll tell you. You'll get a nice, comfortable room with a minimum of three cameras checking in on you at all hours. Every other day you'll get a couple of pills from Hedonist Pharmaceuticals that will make you forget about said cameras.”
“Shut up.” Said Ritchie, beginning to sweat on his forehead.
“And then, you'll get a message on your clean, shiny console telling you to report for mandatory military service within 18 hours.”
“I said shut up!”
“You'll get a nanofibre jumpsuit and a nifty helmet with a gear on it. Then you'll get a crash course on flying a fighter made of material synthesized from plant matter and garbage.”
“I told you to shut the fuck up!”
“And then... you will either be shredded by one of our battery bays or blown to molecules by one of our fighters. No matter how much you love the Institution, they will throw to your lonely death without so much as a second thought.”
The man had been moving slowly forward while he spoke. At the same time, Ritchie was becoming more angry, indignant and hostile.
“Damn it, I told you to sHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH!” Ritchie pistol-whipped the hovercraft's pilot, and the ship lurched to the side. Like lightning, the man flicked his wrists and two spring-loaded shard revolvers jumped into his hands. He fired them both in unison, the rounds finding marks in both of Ritchie's arms, severing both of his hands. Blood sprayed everywhere, and Ritchie fell to the floor, writhing in pain as Ryan sprang forward to take the controls from the reeling pilot.
“Of course, that logic would only apply if you weren't a dumbass kid who got himself an axe to grind and a couple of black-market institution guns. By the way, the cartridge on the pulserifle is in backwards. If you'd have pulled the trigger, the energy would've short-circuited the magazine and sent a couple dozen pieces of shrapnel through your intestines.” The man tore a couple stips of cloth from his trenchcoat and bandaged the bleeding stumps of Ritchie's' arms, stopping the crimson flow. “He'll need a hospital, and then either regen therapy or a couple of metal hands. It'll be okay, son, i hear metal hands are awesome.”
Ryan looked back from the pilot's chair. “Who are you?”
Brother Daniel took off his hat and reset his pistols. “I'm just a man who's got a job to do. Irony of the situation is, I've got to get to the starport, too. But you know, I'm a little tired for space travel right now. Any of you boys going to the pub tonight?”
The miners stomped their feet and cheered as the pilot lifted above the trees and the transport creaked towards Defiance Steppes' tiny village. Barley and Hops grew well on this world, and Sionian Extra Stout was always in season. These are good people, thought Brother Daniel. He was going to miss them.

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