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.

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.

The seat of De Toil Goverment

TO: GOVERNOR OF DE TIOL IN ARM.1 S.524

Record levels of depression are being reported all over the universe. It seems to spread from planet to planet, but planets under strict military quarantine still have been affected. Looking at the progression of planets we can find the epicenter of this ‘disease.’ The center seems to be Wormhole #25-1c. As you know the wormhole disappeared on 1-27-2206 at approximately 5:21. Immediately the area was quarantined and everyone involved was arrested and interrogated. Nothing was gleaned from this; the crew of the monitoring station was barely coherent enough to talk. It seems some sort of dementia affected them. Many were only able to say they were, ‘looking for something they lost.’ I am including one of their description of the events:

------------
When the ‘hole collapsed all hell broke loose. The computer were all giving off strange readings, overloading the circuits and exploding. It sounded like popping popcorn in the protected viewing chamber. One after another ‘pop-pop-pop-POP!’ Suddenly my vision was blurred. At least I think it was blurred, everything was wobbling slightly to the left. It felt like something was about to snap inside my brain. It was horrible. Horrible. And then with a wrenching tear it was gone. I remember just standing there staring glassy eyed into the viewer at nothing. Blackness. There was nothing out there! Where did it go? Who took it? Why did they take it? WHY DID THEY TAKE IT?!
-------------

The man became violent at that point. They all did, those who were in the crew. The operation had strict order at that point, neutralize and cleanse. This event seemed to have a profound effect on the monitors, and on the group sent to cleanse the station. Half the group was unable to continue citing ‘unbearable loss’ as the reason for resigning from duty. It seems that the collapsing wormhole had a profound imprint on the universe. And it’s getting larger. The ‘wormhole wave’ is set to hit your planet in 1 standard month. To maintain control of your populace here are some recommendations… PAGE 2

8-23-2424
To: Fleet Commander Trazicke
Re: Probe Scan Fault
Source: New Hope SciDiv, Unit B --- Chief Ressbin

Commander, we have analyzed the faulty probe that your analysts brought to us, and can find no apparent reason for the sensor inefficiency for sweeps inside of the Wormhole. Our researches believe that there may be structural anomolies within this wormhole that have not been documented in any previous scientific reports. I'm requesting payload space to include a more comprehensive sweeping package.



5-2-2423
"A science report, sir," squeked the assistant as she tip-toed around the Commander's plush office.
"I should be receiving military orders, dammit! Another farkin' report. The Boomsma Jonge are massing for Muerta and this is what I'm stuck doing!" boomed Trazicke. Noticing the winces of his assistant, he calmed a bit. "I hope the research team has invented something useful this time."

Reading over the report, with it's schematics and techno-babble, the Commander couldn't make heads or tails of it, but the tone indicated it was something exciting for the Reseacrch team. Something about leaks in the nearby wormhole, or some such.

"Call Ressbin up here," ordered the Fleet Commander.



5-9-2423
"Everything looks good so far, Captain," stated Researcher Gotz. "The package is ready."

"Launch the payload, Ensign."

And the ovule leaped from the NIF Wellington, speeding towards the wormhole. The nanobots inside programmed to scatter and conduct surveys.



6-11-2423
"Absolutely astounding!" cried Ressbin, after the analysis of the nanobot reports were complete. "The wormhole has microscopic holes leading into a parallel universe. So many possibilities .... I must inform the Commander."

....

"Another Universe? Good job, Chief --- if it's true," said Trazicke. "So, let's go check it out then. Organize a team and see what's over there."

"Well, there's a problem with that. We've sent signals to our nanobots so they should be assembling some equipment over there, but the holes which leak into the other Universe are quite microscopic. Also, it seems that there are multiple leaks which don't seem to lead to the same place. Our nanobots have been divided into a large number of groups. We can't even be sure that they're in the same Universe."

"Microscopic??! What the hell is all of this fuss about then, if the only thing we can send are the damned nanobots?" belted the Commander, as he began to glare at the bespectacled scientists. We have families DYING in defense of Muerta, and this is what you give me? 96.3% of the projections show that we're going to lose this farking war. I need something we can use, dammit!"

"Well ... ahh. Hmmm... what if we could escape to this Universe, Commander .. yessss, if we could just stretch the holes to fit our ships, we could resettle there. That's it, Commander!" burbled Ressbin, excited about this new train of thought.

"Get to it, Chief!"


3-8-2426
Karnejj, stepped off of the Cruiser surveying the colony. "Heh, and I thought THIS would be our new home after Muerta falls ... but, could it be? An entire new Universe..."

....

The briefing wasn't turning out to be the good news that he dreamt of. "..... As you can see, the massive power requirements show that it would be impossible to open the portals large enough for us to pass ships through to the new Universe. However, what we can easily send is information. In particular, this allows us a use for our quantum scans. The scans can allow us to record every single thing about an object down to the subatomic level. However, as you know, quantum recordings don't last very long, and were nearly useless because of their volatility. We have now devised a use for them! We can scan a person and launch this into the new Universe."

"How does that help us escape," interjected Karnejj with his patience wearing thin.

"Pardon, Great Emperor. Let me get to the point. Unfortunately, our attempts to send our people to the new Universe have failed, but, we can send a copy of ourselves. I know this is not ideal, but, it is the next best utilization of these portals to the Universe."

"A copy ... of me? Wha--" started Karnejj, but he was not in the habit of showing ignorance or indecision. "Continue, Chief Researcher..."

"Yes, sir. We can send a specialized ship into the wormhole and copy the occupants and send their data to our nanobots. The nanobots can then reconstruct the person down to the last electron. A perfect copy."

Karnejj sighed, exasperated by this strange solution. "An evacuation of Tortuga is to begin soon. Make plans to begin the transfers, immediately."

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.