NationStates Jolt Archive

CentGov Buildings

"Slide please."
The projector clicked over and a graph appeared on the screen. A sharp red line angled upward, almost vertically.
"That, ladies and gentlemen, is our current population growth trend. Slide please."
Another click and the red line was contrasted with a dropping black one.
"This is the amount of free space within the nation. As you can see, the numbers don't match. CentGov planners give us another decade before we hit a billion and a half citizens at current trends of birth rate and immigration."
One of the figures seated in the darkness around the long table harrumphed. "What if we stop immigration?"
The figure giving the briefing scowled at the seated man. Her light soprano rapped out her reply, "Then we break a centurys' old tradition, in addition to blocking a path for highly trained technicals to enter the country. Your Grace."
The figure nearest the woman giving the briefing made a placating gesture. "Easy Honor. Vlad was merely making a suggestion. An ill-advised one, but just a suggestion. So, our population trends are skyrocketing. Do we have the ability to keep food production apace with them?"
Honor shook her head. "No Air Marshall, we do not. While this land of ours is defensible, beautiful and quite comfortable for us, it doesn't make good farmland, with the exception of Warwick Duchy of course."
One of the seated figures nodded in acknowledgement.
Honor continued "So we will either have to begin heavy importation of foodstuffs...or find some way of gaining farmland. We've got numerous suggestions, ranging from undersea farming, to orbital production to underground production."
The figure seated at the end of the table leaned forward, leaning his chin on interlaced fingers. "Honor, are you done with the projector?"
"Yes Owen. Lights up."
The room's lights gradually slid up to a pleasant daylight visibility and Honor, now visibly in the uniform of the RBAF went and took the empty seat next to the Sky Marshall.
Owen, chin still resting on his hands eyed, for want of a better word, his cabinet. "Suggestions, opinions?"
A brownhaired, dwarven man sitting about halfway down the table scratched at his beard with a thick finger. "Underground farming is out. The dwarven population is expanding as well, and frankly there's barely enough room for us and our industry to move into based on the Ministry's Projections. Those clash with your figures Squadron Leader Harrington?"
Honor shook her head. "No, our figures agree. It's not really an option, listed only for completion."
Owen nodded. "Well that was simple enough. How about undersea production?"
A heronlike man with thick, horn-rimmed glasses, shook his head. "Sorry Owen, even with the warm current on our east coast, our waters just aren't warm enough for anything like what we need to survive. Domes wouldn't work for the kind of production levels we need either, as well as being extremely technically demanding. We could have some, but only as a last resort. The same, sadly, also applies to orbital production."
"I'm sure we could talk someone into helping us with the technical aspect Ian, and"
"That's just it John. Our food production wouldn't be our food production anymore. It'd be at whoever's mercy. Added to how exposed both orbital and oceanic structures are and well.."
Owen held up his hand. "So you've ruled out all three options. What ideas do you have?"
Ian shrugged, head bobbing on his skinny neck. "I'm sorry Owen, but Sci/Tech has absolutely no ideas, short of buying one of the Hack's islands. But they're insanely costly and crappy farmland to boot."
A murmur of agreement came from Durotai Warwick.
Owen leaned back in his chair. "Well shit." He looked down the long table to where Alex Dumas and Andrew Edinburgh were discussing something quietly. Becoming aware of the King's scrutiny the two men looked round and Andrew tugged at his pointed beard. "Owen, we may have a suggestion."
"I'm listening."
"Apparently there's a continent sized island in the Southern Ocean that's totally uninhabited and is extremely fertile. But...it's apparently inhabited by some form of extremely vicious animal which wiped out all attempts to colonise it when such things were in vogue. The place has been avoided for about two hundred years apparently. We're just thinking.."
"Um. I take it you've thought about this reasonably thoroughly..?"
"We've done feasibility studies, have observed the place from satellite imagery. Jungle and grasslands. Few robot probes to the grasslands, eminently suitable soil. It's just whatever the critters in the jungles are.. we'd have to get rid of them so whoever ended up farming there didn't get bounced all the time."
Owen looked around the table. "Does anyone have a better idea?"
Heads shook.
"Then we'll take a look at it."

Approx. 500m Offshore, the Southern Continent.

"Cheer up Alecksi, maybe it'll never happen."
Senior Chief Alecksi Mayer jumped, snapping from his brooding position on the rail of the flight deck of the HMS Joanna Von Sachshausen.
He turned around and glared at the grinning Marine behind him.
"Dunno what you're so cheerful about Ella." he told the gangling female marine NCO. "You actually have to land on that miserable rock." He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder at the barely visible island, shrouded under early-morning mists.
The Marine Master Sergeant grinned at him, gap teeth clearly visible. "That's why I'm cheerful. The Corps hasn't had anyone to play with in years. The damn doggies have all the fun, it's about time we got to play with our toys."
The navy man eyed the grinning Marine with amused distaste. "Lunatics, the fucking lot of you."
Ella kept grinning. "Aw c'mon honey. It's just some dumb critter hiding in the jungle. It may have kicked the shit out of whoever the colonisers were, but they were rubes with muzzle loaders or something. Not His Majesty's Marine Corps."
Alecksi rubbed at his cap's brim. "I suppose. But.."
The Marine hugged him. "Look, I'll be fine alright? Now stop brooding, you're on duty in five and I'm on in three, so I'll see you later?"
Alecksi hugged her back. "Of course. Damn shellhead."
"Sticks and stones boat driver."
The couple parted and whirled off to their seperate duties.

Another nation owning a continent...how intresting...I bought mine cheap...

The Southern Continent, Zero Hour, The Jungle.

"Alright ladies, we're go. Visors shut, safeties off."
The cabin of the Greyhawk echoed to the "chunk" of visors being closed and armour being sealed, and the slight "clack" of the GMC built standard rifle's action being worked.
The troopers leaned back as the shuttle lifted off the deck, thrusters blasting. The Greyhawk was still a new ride for most of the Marines, having recently replaced the UH-60 most of them had trained on.
Faintly audible over the roaring of the thrusters was the sound of the door gunpods spinning up, barely worth it for the short hop from the transports and Marine Corps carriers.
The shuttle had scarcely gotten to cruising speed before it was over the designated landing spots, jets flaring as it barely touched down, Marines rolling out the sides, targeting systems sweeping the surrounding jungle. The last Marine dismounted, and the Greyhawk's engines blared and it hurled upward again. All across the clearing the shuttles were disgorging blue-armoured Marines and lifting back for the carriers. The last shuttle vanished upward and the Marines waited, weapons tracking across the edge of the clearing.
A humming became audible and a faint shiver of relaxation went through the crowd as several huge Vulture cargo SolidRotors® touched down, bay doors opening and ramps dropping to disgorge a Charger IFV apiece.
The Chargers, hovering on the ground effect jets that let them skim over shallow water, glid into a cover pattern.
As the last Vulture hummed back to the carriers there was silence. Deathly silence. Not even insects were audible. Weapons tracked the forest edges and the Marines edged together.
The commander of the Company cleared his throat over the radio net. "Fix bayonets."
The rhythmic action flowed through the armoured mass of men and women, acting as a soothing ritual in the face of the still ominously quiet jungle.
Far off, there was a single howl. Then another. Then the jungle seemed to howl itself, and the targetting displays went insane with heat signatures as..things hurled themselves out of the undergrowth, bounding toward the Marines.
An enemy you can see and shoot is always nicer than one you can feel watching you, and the Marines responded, the clearing suddenly an explosion of sound as two hundred and fifty assault rifles and ten 30mm gauss cannon tore into the bouncing, scuttling creatures pouring out of the jungle. The crash of grenade launchers soon joined the cacophony, and less noisy, but more ominous, the sound of magazines being changed as the mass of things seemed to absorb the fire of the rifles.
The gauss cannon of the Chargers blew holes in the glob of creatures, but there were simply too many of them, and they were very swiftly within the rough circle the Marines had formed, clawing and scraping at the armour of the invaders.
Bayonets became of use for the first time in the history of the Royal Marines, and the butts of the rifles and it became a desperate scrabble of flaring weapons and struggling figures.
Just as quickly as it had begun the...melee was over. Marines stood up, or were hauled up by comrades. The clearing was a mess, covered in the creatures' bodies and blood. Weapons were reloaded, and the tacnet checked. No casualties. No wounded. The armour had defeated the teeth and claws of the creatures with ease, and modern weapons had exacted a hideous toll of the things before they learned.
The company commander popped his helmet off and grinned at his men, tapping his throat mike and waving for attention.
"Hard Corps."
"HARD CORPS!" boomed back at him.

Science and Technology Ministry Buildings, Biology Department, Birmingham, Birmingham Duchy, Britmattia.

"And that's the complete report on these things. We've cloned a few from the tissue samples, and they're all as insanely territorial as the ones encountered in the wild."
"Uh huh. Well, they seem to have evolved along the same principles as the creatures we've been herding out of the grasslands. However, the grasslands ones, which I'm informed the Marines have taken to calling bugffalo, seem to less suicidal, if just as homocidal. They're triggered by too close an approach, but can be kept away with electrified deer fences. The robo farms are proceeding well apace incidentally, in case anyone cares."
"Heh, not our baliwick old man. So, the jungle bunnys, have the Marines named them yet?"
"They're calling them bughogs. Awful name, but looking at them..I can't really think of anything better. Depressing though."
"Oh?"
"Well, both the bugffalo and the 'hogs are herbivores. What the hell eats them?"
"Ah."
"This chimes in with a point I was intending to make. Traditionally the less competitives species wind up on the edges of ecospheres."
"So...?"
"Whatever is further into the jungle is going to be even nastier."
"Rad."

The old man leaned back in his chair and smoked leisurely on his pipe. He picked up a newspaper and cast his eye over the various trophies of animals that he managed to bag over the years. Ah, those Wargs were fun to kill! he fondly recalled. But now, he devoted his efforts to preserving various animals and, due to his vast fortune, had several zoos devoted to exotic animals from all over the Klatch and abroad.

But, we was always interested in new acquisitions. Lately, there haven't been too many nibbles from his various agents that roam the earth. But perhaps his luck would change.

====

The newspaper ad, typically found in the major daily in different countries, usually ran like so:

[code:1:c6a4729824]
Seeking exotic animals for its preservation. Please contact The Apollo Group.
[/code:1:c6a4729824]

With the usual phone number and address of the local office given.

The old man leaned back in his chair and smoked leisurely on his pipe. He picked up a newspaper and cast his eye over the various trophies of animals that he managed to bag over the years. Ah, those Wargs were fun to kill! he fondly recalled. But now, he devoted his efforts to preserving various animals and, due to his vast fortune, had several zoos devoted to exotic animals from all over the Klatch and abroad.

But, we was always interested in new acquisitions. Lately, there haven't been too many nibbles from his various agents that roam the earth. But perhaps his luck would change.

====

The newspaper ad, typically found in the major daily in different countries, usually ran like so:

[code:1:af49e76b39]
Seeking exotic animals for its preservation. Please contact The Apollo Group.
[/code:1:af49e76b39]

With the usual phone number and address of the local office given.

"Hello, is this the Apollo Group?"
*unintelligible phone noise*
"Ah, grand. This is the Britmattian Conservation Ministry."
*more noise*
"Yes I'm quite aware you've never heard of us, we were only formed about 20 minutes ago. We've never had bugger all to conserve before."
*hurbubleblologongbwak*
"Yes I am coming to a point. We've recently acquired a number of specimens of a rather vicious critter. The thing is, it's so incredibly nasty we intend to wipe the species out, so we thought you could do with some specimens to preserve."
*BOLONGANWAKAK!*
"Yes I do sleep at night as a matter of fact, quite well actually. Look, do you want some specimens or can we continue blowing them into little bits and so forth?"
*BWAGHR! HRALTAR!*
"Does your mother know you use words like that?"
*HAEGRFRAGH!*
"That's a yes to the specimens then. Great stuff. We'll crate them up and ship them to your address. They'll be the violently bouncing crates with enraged snarling coming from them. Pleasure conservationing with you."
*AHRGHHANAF!*
"Yes, bye to you too."

OOC: Lol!

IC:

A fax rolled off in the old man's study, just as he was about to get one of his favorite books from his extensive private library. He pushed his glasses up his nose and mused, Hmmm? What's this? A new species?

He clapped his hands together in a child-like way.

"Excellent!" he exclaimed out loud to no one, for the room was deserted and all his servants were asleep. Quickly he dialed the phone to the particular office and asked for more details about this new creature.

Imperial Colonial Fleet
Off the Coast of the Southern Continent, 1871

The magestic white metal hulls of the colonial fleet came into sight of the coastline. Sails billowed in the wind as smoke was blown back over the waters from the engines of the amazing ships.

They had come in hope. They had come to find a new home. And an entire empty continent was too good to pass up. Almost too good to be true, but it was the Age of New Imperialism and the world powers were expanding.

As was the Drakonian Imperium. It had been forty years since the last major war with Drakonia's arch-enemy The Sanctus Empire, but the latest conflict with the national powers of the Nusquam Esse continent was over foriegn power. Imperialist was on the rise and Drakonia was again expanding. This continent would be the first.

People crowded the decks of the colonial ships as they saw their new home. There were cheers as the coast appeared before them. It would be there home. The military officers among them also crowded to see the jungles of the new strange land. It would be there they would be called on to protect those aboard the ships.

It would be colonized, it would be Drakonia's, and it would be a challenge...much more than they would know.

Imperial Colonial Fleet
Along the West Coast of the Southern Continent, 1871

The coast seemed pleasant enough, at least that's what the Drakonian Regulars thought as they waded ashore from their little boats. The colonial fleet was clearly visible to them if they turned back to look, but they were not looking back. They were looking forward into the jungle.

Who had first explored the Southern Continent no one knew. That had been lost in time. Yet, it was known that during the last century a Sanctan Expedition had done some extensive scouting of the great lands. Although, their fate was unknown. None had ever returned alive. Only one skeleton and a ruined journal were discovered by a later Drakonian Expedition to gather that little information about what they had discovered.

Diamonds, the word was entrancing and amazing altogether. And, Diamonds was what brought the Drakonians. Few knew the true reason for colonization, but the Diamond were that clandestine reason. Drakonia was hoping to find new richs and power on the continent and control it for the Imperium's own.

A rustling in the grassy dividing line between sand and land startled the Regulars. In their Red Uniform they stood out boldly in the tropical sun. All guns turned toward the rustling. The guns leveled, and boldy a rabbit-like animal hopped onto the beach. The soldiers relaxed, joked, and signalled the next wave to come ashore. Soon the Southern Continent would be Drakonia's and the soldiers and colonist were going to make sure of that.

Somewhere in the Jungle, The Southern Continent.

"Come to Mummy little piggies, come to Mummy." Ella whispered quietly as bughogs trotted towards the huge cage sitting in the middle of the clearing. Dominating the interior of the cage was a massive Combat Suit, containing one very bored Raven's Own trooper who'd been bitching steadily about being bait for the pigs. Something about it being beneath her dignity. Ella smirked, the Own were an elite unit, it was always fun to screw with them.
The 'hogs trotted close enough to confirm that the Combat Suit was foreign to their environment, howled earsplittingly, and charged the huge figure.
Ella chewed her lip as the entire herd of 'hogs, including piglets, poured into the cage and leaped at the armour, the owner of which was now complaining about the noise. "Turn your bloody exterior speakers off!" came from somewhere on the tacnet and Ella smiled again. The last 'hog hurled itself inside the cage and Ella prodded a few buttons on the control pad she was holding.
A crackling noise came from the cage, blue lightning spitting and bouncing from 'hog to 'hog, knocking them flat on their cloven feet. A faint smell of burning hair rose and the complaints from the R.O trooper kept coming, the insulation of the massive armour keeping her safe. A hatch opened in the top of the cage, and the R.O trooper leaped upward, kicking free of the uncumbering and unconcious 'hogs. The powerful servos of her Suit easily pushed her through the hatch and she picked her way over the cage, then dropped with a thud to the far side of the cage.
Ella prodded an other button and the hutch clanged closed. She tapped her throatmike "Huff & Puff, this is Big Bad Wolf, piggies are in the cage."
"Roger that Big Bad, we're inbound. Incidentally, any idea who picked the callsigns for this mission?"
"Huff, if I knew I'd kill them myself."
"Who said the Corps aren't nice folks? Heh. ETA in 2."
"Acknowledged Huff. Wolf out."
Ella wandered over to the cage and eyed the recumbent pigs. It was the first time she'd had the chance to look at one that wasn't either trying to kill her, or in bullet-holed pieces. They were rougly the size of traditional warthogs, very definitely pig shaped, but chitin-covered, with flexible pincers where a warthog would have tusks. Also interesting was the length of the body-long tail, which ended in a lethal looking ball of spines. All in all the ugliest creatures she'd seen since the time she'd been on shore patrol and had had to drag some Marines out of a Knootian brothel.
A limb twitched in the mass of unconcious hogs. Ella looked at the twitching, chitin covered mass and wished she could scratch her head through her helmet.
Why on NS would anyone want to save these horrible bloody critters? I don't envy their keeper whoever the poor sod is. Ah well. No skin off my nose.
A humming broke her train of thought, and she looked up to see a Vulture Cargo SolidDisk loom over the clearing, magnet lines dropping down to each corner of the huge cage. There was a clang as the magnets locked, then the huge chopper pulled up and away, cage lifting free from the undergrowth it'd been camouflaged with. The Vulture swung about, cargo of unconcious pigs uncomplaining of the manouvere and headed out to sea.
Ella watched it go, then turned to her section. "Righto boys and girls, we're all done here. Standard patrol pattern, I want to be home in time for lunch."
A chorus of "Yes Sarge"s came over the tacnet. The R.O trooper, who'd finally shut up as the pigs lifted off, waved a lazy salute, and took off into the jungle, Combat Suit travelling far faster than the Marine's armour.
Ella watched her go, shrugged and headed to the middle of her section, mind on automatic, considering extracting a massage from a certain Senior Chief after she went off duty. The blue-armoured group trotted into the jungle.

And ever so quietly, something watched them go.

Excerpts from General Progress Report - Southern Continent Project.

"In summation we've taken approximately 70% of the island, this includes the entire plains region and the northern portion of jungle. The bughog population is dropping exponentially, their pheromone coding is actually working in our favour, we drop a Marine Company, the hogs pick them up and charge till they're all dead. As far as we can tell, they've stopped coming out of the southern jungle, this is arguing for a very small population in relation to the north, barely enough to fill the fringes of the southern area, what this signifies we do not know, however...
...also important to note is that the southern landscape changes radically, the gradient begins to scale up, till it reaches cliff height at the far point of the peninsula. The climate also changes somewhat, from tropical to temperate. What effect, if any, this has on the wildlife is as yet unknown."

Somewhere bordering The Jungle, Southern Sector.
"Alright kids, let's go to work."
A chorus of genial abuse greeted this remark, Work Gang 32's supervisor grinning at the catcalls greeting his statement. "You bastards don't know you're born, why my old grandfath"
"Jesus God Chief, not an other "My old grandfather" story, the son of a bitch must have been built of iron." Agreement echoed all round the hut.
The supervisor threw up his hands in pretended disgust. "You fuckers are as lazy as they come. I dunno how I justify paying your wages."
Witticisms such as: "You don't, you thieving bastard!" and "If I'd wanted to work hard I'd have been a Marine" rained from the bunks. The supervisor grinned some more. "Alright. That'll do laddos. Get up, there's a tree come down on the of the fences, we're ta fix it it stat." He shrugged. "If you fuckers don't want to come, well, I'll have to take a leaf from my my grandfather's book and build" He didn't get any further before a boot bounced off the wall next to him. Still laughing quietly, he ducked out of the hut.
Inside men and women rolled off the bunks, bitching and reaching for various bits of gear, hauling junkfood out of packs, and in the case of a few couples, untangling each other's kit. Slowly the gang ebbed out of the hut and onto the waiting truck. The supervisor wasn't to be seen. "Bah, lazy sods probably buggered off for a smoke." was the considered verdict. A man was despatched to collect him from behind the mess building, the designated "Smoker's Spot." The man jogged across the muddy clearing and disapeared behind the hall.
And then the screaming started.
The work gang didn't hesitate. Picks, shovels, axes were grabbed and they charged off the bus, across the clearing and around the hall.
The screaming stopped about halfway across the clearing, replaced by a bubbling gurgle. They sped up. The group slid around the corner, ready for anything...or so they thought.
"Jesus."
The jungle was deathly quiet. Deathly.
There was no immediate sign of the supervisor, though a forensic team would later find his cigarette butt (and hand) on the roof of the mess hall. The man who'd gone to find him however, was still there. Messily disembowelled, but still there. According to the autopsy he'd been hit in the chest with some sort of barbed spike, and then had it ripped out again, and then had the same done in the stomach. This wasn't immediately visible to the work crew confronting his jerking corpse, and the scattered pieces of his organs. And the blood. Lots of blood. Everywhere.
"Oh God Oh God."
Swearing and vomtting were the last acts Work Gang 32 took as a group. They called for back up, and got a Company of Marines. The fence was fixed. Work Gang 32 were disbanded, most reassigned to the tundra, at their own request.
After all on the tundra, you can see things coming. And that had become very important to Work Gang 32.
The razing of the jungle pressed on.
And things kept watching.

The first batch of the new creatures arrived safely in Vrak at the old man’s estate. Barely containing his excitement, he went out to the cargo plane itself to watch the unloading and subsequent transfer to his private zoo. His staff was quite used to his presence since it was customary for him to view various odd creatures firsthand upon their arrival.

“And what are they called again?” asked the old man.
“Well, they are referred to as ‘bughogs’ sir.”
“Not such a pleasing name. Certainly there must be scientist around who knows of such creatures.”
“I haven’t a clue, sir.”
“Ah, very well.”

The old man strode off and chattered into his cellphone. In another part of the country, a top biologist was informed of the arrival and of the buyer. Having done work for the old man before, and knowing that she would receive adequate compensation for her services, her schedule was altered in lieu of these new events. Besides, her employer was always keen on knowing what types of creatures the old man imported.

The Jungle, Southern Continent, Sector 98
After the third work gang had been hit it’d been decided that whatever was hitting them was intelligent enough to know the difference between a Marine Encampment, with the guns, armour and claymores that entailed, and a Work Gang one, with only an electric fence between them and the Jungle.
It’d also been decided that whatever was hitting the work gangs was a big predator with an equally big range, thus hunting it down and killing it would guarantee peace of mind.
The Marines had taken this with a liberal sprinkling of salt, but the opportunity to find whatever it was had to be taken.
So Master Sergeant Ella Mayer was currently shepherding her little blue horde through some Gods-forsaken hunk of Jungle, hoping rather fervently whatever it wasn’t all that cunning, and tried to attack them. The jungle was a big place after all, she didn’t want to be criss-crossing it in patrol patterns for the rest of her combat-nano extended life.
A rattle of swearing came over the radio from the Marine on point, informing her they’d just hit a swamp. Fervent cursing turned the air inside several suits blue.
Southern Jungle mud had high sulphur content, so it stank, in addition to eating into the enamel of the Marines’ armour. The thing Marines really hated about it however was the way it set like concrete if left to set in the sun, making cleaning it a horribly difficult and time-consuming process.
Ella scowled through the tinted lenses of her helmet. “Scout, any way around the crap?”
A negative reply crackled back.
Ella set her jaw. “Alright boys and girls, it’s unpleasant but it’s our job. Understood?”, taking the lack of reply as agreement, she motioned the section into the swamp.
Wading into the waist high muck, the Marines trudged into the swamp, quiet suit-to-suit radio chatter crackling as squelching progress was made.
Ella moved up and down the squad, nearly all of who were watching their progress on their map displays, encouraging the normally ebullient marines to keep moving.
“The Crap” as the Corps knew it was the most depressing part of the entire deployment. One or two marines had been quietly sent home after being found throwing frag grenades at it, screaming in frustration as the swamp burped and ignored them.
A bit past the halfway mark Ella motioned the squad up onto a rise in the swamp. “If you’ve got em smoke em boys and girls, we’ll take five.” Eying her squad she decided against posting one of them as guard, and climbed to the top of the rise herself. Pleasingly, the rise was rocky at the top. Ella took a seat and scowled out into the misty gloop below. She was contemplating the long leave coming up after this trip when something hissed behind her. A low, menacing hiss. Of some duration. She whispered into her radio “Look alive kids.” and carefully leaned out from behind her outcropping.
A monstrous green shape was slinking along the ground, more spider-like limbs than anything should have flowing through complex movements holding a thick, circular body with a hideous beak off the ground. A massive stinger lashed around behind it on a powerful looking tail. The lashing made an odd “shwoop, shwoop” as it carved through the air.
The hiss came again.
The first Marine topped the rise, and the spidery movements stopped in surprise, then the massive thing hurled through the air, tail stabbing at the Marine. As the needle point scraped over the armour a fan of barbs popped out behind it.
The hissing stopped and was replaced by a frustrated screeching as tentacle-like limbs flailed at the Marine. Ella rolled fully out from behind her rock, rifle coming up and blue fire lancing from it, flaying into the shrieking beast.
Limbs whipped around, cracking into armour as more Marines arrived and poured in fire. The creature’s thick body was surprisingly hard to hit in the ball of threshing tentacles, but rounds found it, and the screeching was replaced by gurgling and then the sound of the thing flailing to the ground, tentacles spasming.
Ella slapped a new magazine into her rifle and prodded the thrashing corpse with an armoured boot. Breathing hard she stepped back, looking around to spot a small cave in the hill. She flicked a selector on her rifle, and pointed it at the cave one handed. A “chtonk” noise game, and a red nosed grenade spun into the cave. A ball of flame licked out of the entrance, and anguished howling came from within, eventually fading to a death rattle.
The Marines radioed in, dropping into a guard pattern on the hillock.

Something watched from the mists. And considered.

Dr. Kianna Presvar arrived at the old man's manion by the end of the day. She didn't mind.

"Thanks," she said to the limo driver as he held the door open for her. One long, well-tanned leg extended and the limo driver cautiously took a look as he bowed. Kianna smiled and toted her backpack with her. The driver made a motion to help but she shrugged and said, "It's okay. I can manage."

She made her way into the huge foyer after being let in by the butler. He scurried off to announce her arrival so she paused and looked around.

Not much has changed. I wonder what it would be this time. He was quite vague over the phone.

Soon, the old man came in. He extended his arms in greeting and they gave eachother an embrace.

"Ah, Kianna. Good of you to come."
"I could hardly refuse Professor."

A chuckle. They made their way to the back of the sprawling complex and soon arrived at the old man's latest find. The bughog twitched and grunted in its new quarters, its barbed tail lashing at the bars.

"We don't know yet if they can be safely stowed in our regular pens. They could climb out."

Dr. Presvar crept a wee bit closer, being mindful of the pinchers and the tail. Her gaze narrowed and she inhaled sharply.

"Quite interesting Professor. You've outdone yourself this time."

Old Drakonian Colony, Southern Jungle, Southern Continent
The sound of armoured Marines walking across the cobbled street echoed eerily in the deserted, jungle-covered town. The only other noise audible was a faint buzzing of insects, and far off the sound of logging. And faintly, the skittering of something running through dusty rooms.
The Marines’ audio sensors picked it up and weapons came up, tracking the sound. It faded, and the Marines’ weapons lowered. They continued their patrol through the empty street and deserted buildings.

Later

“Well…that’s the conclusion we’ve reached.” The bald and bespectacled man stared out into the jungle. “The traces are clear indicators…”
“That something not immediately hostile is watching us?” The Marine General, combat fatigues crumpled flicked his cigar into the jungle. “That’d argue for it to be intelligent right?”
Banksman, the bald, heron-like scientist pulled a pipe out of his pocket, going through the methodical process of lighting it. The General, a muscular Latin man with a shaven head and neat moustache, waited patiently for the gangling scientist to finish his ritual.
Puffing contentedly and talking out the corner of his mouth, Banksman continued “Yes Alvaro, that would argue for it to be intelligent. The Drakkie records of their colony are incomplete, so we don’t know if they ran across it.”
Pipe-stem bobbing as he talked, Banksman started to pace in a small circle. “They also don’t know if they got everyone off the place before they abandoned the colony. So it could even be some poor Drakkie descendant gone thoroughly native.”
Vasquez shrugged. “Unlikely. But,”
A Marine in fatigues strolling up interrupted him. “Sir, Lord Banksman, this was delivered from the patrol in Drakkie Old Town.” He handed over a datapad to Banksman.
Pipe clamped firmly, Banksman scanned the pad. “Oooh.”
Vasquez gently pushed the datapad down so he could view it. The image that had Vasquez exclaiming was a footprint, visibly in the dusty rooms of the Drakonian ruins. Scaling information indicated the owner was a sometime biped, about 5’9” and weighing in at around 60 kilos. What however, interested General and Scientist most, was that the footprint was decidedly nonhuman. And very reminiscent of a big cat.
“Fascinating.”

Southern Jungle, "Dardanelle" (The Southern Continent)
Ella stared out into the darkness, night vision mode on her helmet letting her watch the bugs buzz and whir through the night.
Ella, and the rest of her platoon, were encamped around the Drakonian ruins, guarding Lord Banksman, who was waiting for something. Rumour had it that he was waiting for some sort of native to show up.
Ella was quietly sceptical about the existence of any sort of native in this shithole. The hogs were bad enough, but the squiddies were downright freaky. Nothing in nature evolved that mean. Hogs, once the Science boys had figured out the pheromones needed to sooth them, were actually weirdly tractable. Almost like they'd been designed as a combination guard animal and meal.
Heh. Well they certainly made good eating she thought, as various Marine units and Work Gangs had found out. But the squiddies had just kept trying to kill till they were dead. Marine units still hunted them. And shipped the odd specimen out of Dardanelle to collectors...
Ella licked her lips. The sort of spicy chicken flavour of bughog was still faintly tangy on them. She grinned out into the darkness, then jumped nearly a foot into the air as a voice spoke an unintelligible language near her ear.
"EYAGH!" she landed and the 14.5mm bore of her rifle was trained on the hooded figure that'd made her jump.
It lifted it's hands, palms outward and shook them, obviously demonstrating their emptiness. Ella stared at it. There was the suggestion of a frown inside the robe, and speech came. It was almost understandable, but not quite. Ella remained unmoving, rifle still levelled, her tutorial computer scrabbling through languages. The toot came back with a result of "Drakonian, corrupted."
Ella frowned and the creature spoke again "I don't know if you doth understand me sentient, but I meanst thee no harm. Please, I would have speech with you." The creature murmured to itself "That is if you're not a droid. I hope you're not a droid."
Ella laughed, the sound buzzing out her mike. "No, I'm not a droid. And I do understand you, I just had to wait while..well until I could understand you." She pointed a gauntleted hand to the main encampment "You probably want to speak to Lord Banksman rather than me, if you'll follow?" Subvocally, she formed her squad up around the robed figure, no sense taking chances after all.
The figure bowed, palms pressed together, "Yes, if he is your leader, that would probably be best." The figure reached up and flipped it's hood back, revealing unremarkable human features, dark brown skin and penetrating eyes, grey eyebrows giving the only hint to the owner's age. Ella nodded, the movement invisible within her armour and led the way to Banksman...

Port Colony Excidere
Southern Continent West Coast, 1871

http://67.18.37.14/118/74/upload/p608631.jpg

The work had progressed rapidly. The beginning of the Port Colony that would soon further most of the exports back to the Drakonian Homeland was built quickly and in good order. The Drakonian Soldiers and Colonists were quickly offloaded from the ships and quickly able to begin the job of establishing their new home.

It was truly amazing how fast the first small colonial town was built, Sergeant Rufus Pallo thought to himself as he called to order the regulars of his unit. They were preparing to escort a team of surveyers inland to establish the mine that would increase the wealth of Drakonia greatly.

Surprisingly, despite the still high security no one had been hurt by either any natives or hostile native wildlife. And so far there was no indication of either. The entire continent seemed a peaceful paradise. Yet, prudently security remained high.

The Sergeant's eyes again flashed over his men. "Okay, we've got a job to do. Let's do it. Move out!"

The troops replied in a shout. "Fortitudo and Decora!" Which translated from Drakonian Latin into English meant: "Strength and Honor."

Ruins of Port Colony Excidere, Dardanelle
Once the strange man had been lead to Banksman, Banksman had finished exclaiming excitedly and the perimeter readjusted, the two men took up seats in the tent the Head of Sci/Tech had been encamped in.
“So…I am Lord Ian Banksman, might I have the honour of your name sir?” Banksman leaned forward, birdlike features intent on the dark-skinned man seated on the campstool across from him.
The man looked levelly back, and replied in Drakonian Latin “I have the name Augustus Bindo. I come to represent my people to you, as it seems you might have the ability to help us.”
Banksman looked back. “You might have to elaborate a little more Sir Augustus…if you care to of course?”
Augustus, looking like an ebon statue, pressed his lips together. “Very well. The tale is a complex one.
First, cast your mind back a thousand years ago. This land is a lush jungle in the south, and fertile plains, teeming with the ancestors of the hog creatures in the north. The inhabitants of the land were hunters and farmers. Comfortable and fat in their isolation here at the bottom of this world, they had no defence to offer when their enemies came.
It’s not known who the enemy was, but they were legion. The natives had no military, and thus no answer to them. They were losing badly when someone had the idea of turning the wildlife, and specifically the hog creatures, on the enemy. Of course the standard hogs weren’t vicious or powerful enough. However…the developed hogs we see today were.
The enemy was chased off the islands, and the natives rested. They tinkered with the hogs over the years. Perhaps a generation passed, their history is fragmented.
However long it was, the enemy returned, stronger, strong enough to beat off the hogs. Panicked, the natives decided to purpose build a defender for their lands. The squid creatures. But...”
The old man paused and sighed, then continued. “No sentient is immune to bribery, and the enemy were cunning. The pheromone receptors that had been built in the creatures’ genes were removed by a native traitor. The creatures couldn’t tell friend from foe. Indeed, everything was foe. The enemy had their victory on the day of the creatures’ release. The few cities of the natives were destroyed and their civilisation was lost. Perhaps karma was at work however. The squid creatures also wiped out the invaders, exactly as they had been designed to do.”
Bindo finished talking and stared into the inner distance. “That was the deep past. Now I will continue my tale to historical times…”

Ruins of Port Colony Excidere, Dardanelle
Bindo stroked at his jaw, looking at the floor of the tent. He looked up at Banksman “Do you have space travel?”
The abrupt question made the Science Minister blink. “Well…sort of. We have satellites, and shuttles. Impulse engines. Nothing that’ll travel between stars. Friendly nations have it though…why?”
Bindo rubbed his head. “Do you know of the Order? The Jedi?”
Ian blinked mildly. “No, I haven’t heard of anything named that. Uh”
Bindo waved a hand. “It’s not important, just that my father was a member. He was travelling between stars with his partner when there was an accident. It was an idle topic of conversation for years what exactly went wrong, but he found himself with a wrecked ship and an injured partner in this jungle. This was a few hundred years ago. My father was a capable man, and used to hostile jungles, more than anyone could expect. He thrived. His partner he nursed back to health and they set out to explore the jungle, and in short order encountered the natives.” Bindo rubbed his jaw and continued.
“The natives had been running and hiding for years by the time they came into contact with my father. He looked at the condition they were in; their shattered society devolved into a tribal and brutal existence and abandoned his search for a way off the continent. He and his partner, Juhani, worked for many years to rebuild the native society.
Perhaps a hundred years passed by; gradually society on the plains was re-established.
Then the men who built this place came. They…well. Obviously their colony collapsed. When it did, not everyone made it away in time. Juhani was killed during the rescue of those who didn’t.”
Bindo smiled for the first time. “He found my mother. He’d been alone, no other humans around, for a long time. I was born, and he took me as his apprentice. Eventually he and my mother died. But things were different. There is a sizeable human community here now, and my order is a strong presence. But…the creatures.”
Banksman grimaced. “Yes. We had intended to raze the place flat, but”
Bindo looked up hopefully, “You can do that?”
Banksman nodded. “Of course, we won’t wreck your people’s homes out” Bindo exclaiming in a strange language, all clicks and chirps, with the occasional Drakonian Latin word, interrupted him. A cloaked figure ghosted into the tent. Banksman blinked, there was a Marine guarding the door and he’d heard no challenge.
Bindo continued to talk, and the figure responded, then reached up, Banksman barely having time to note an oddity about the hands, before it pulled the hood back on it’s cloak. He gasped, what appeared to be a bipedal cheetah was eying him quizzically. Bindo, now all broad smiles and excited gestures waved to him “Lord Banksman, my apprentice, H!eekung.”
Banksman sucked his teeth and stood. He towered over the cheetah, but his stork-like build negated the threat of his height. Banksman stuck his hand out. The cheetah very carefully extended a furry paw, thumb clearly visible, and shook his hand.

Wreck of the Forests of Kashykk, Southern Jungle, Dardanelle
Work Gangs scrambled over the wrecked starship, covered in years of jungle growth, dirt and even a fallen tree at one end. As they hacked at the vines, foliage and shrubs covering the starship, some glanced up at the Marine guards staring out into the jungle. The Marines were unmoving statues, guns trained out into the darkness. The gangs kept working, nervous glances at their protectors notwithstanding. This was the deep jungle. It was dark in here.
Ella frowned down at the frantic-looking techs. This was a fucking bad idea. What’s some important about this bloody ship anyway? She shifted in her armour. It was like the misty darkness skulking sullenly just beyond the perimeter lamps could smell the technicians. All the Marines in the world won’t be enough if the squiddies get here before the techs are done.
The glowing lights of one Marines helmet cycled from night-vision green through to heat-vision orange, then the radio crackled “Look alive people, we’ve got movement around the perimeters.”
The native guides had drawn what looked like torches, then a beam of glowing energy hissed out, and the nervous looking guides started flowing through warm-up exercises. Well, Ella thought they looked nervous, it was hard to tell with bipedal cheetahs wearing hooded cloaks.
A shout echoed from the starship, and the tree was rolled clear. More shouts came, and Ella’s helmet pinged as something dropped into threat level in the skies. It wasn’t a threat however, it wasn’t an it at all, but a them.
The two Vultures deployed massive metallic cables, ending in a massive electromagnetic clamp. The clamps latched onto the big vessel. The moment they were deployed, work gangs began pouring into their shuttles, scrambling up the cables and into the Vultures.
The Marines continued looking outward as Greyhawkes lifted off and the Vultures spun around and lifted above the canopy. Something in the jungle howled.
“Bayonets!” Ella yelled, grumbling mentally. That command had been given more on this campaign than in anyone’s armed forces in the past two hundred years. The foliage began to shake as the squiddies hurled through it and the Marines grinned within their helmets. And started killing.

Port Colony Excidere
“We have it?”
*Unintelligible radio noise followed*
“Capital stuff.”
Banksman wheeled away from the radio, arms windmilling “We have it, we have it old chap.” He grabbed the bemused looking Bindo’s hand and pumped it. The scientist waved his hands animatedly and began talking at the elderly Jedi rapidly.
Vasquez watched amusedly, then reached forward and tapped Bindo’s apprentice on the shoulder. The young…male…looked around quizzically, and then attempted a smile. It was the thought that counted Alvaro supposed, even if the furry little bugger had entirely too many teeth. He spoke quietly “Are your people out of the forests yet?”
A furred head bobbed in a nod. Vasquez grinned back, showing just as many teeth. “Excellent.”
The muscular Marine ducked out of the tent, and across the cobbles, ignoring the light drizzle, and into his own tent. He reached into his belt, and fished out a small, black box. Vasquez cleared his throat, then spat into the wastepaper bin. Then, speaking very clearly, he said three words. The little box cheeped, then started dissolving in the General’s hand, until he flipped it into the bin as well. He smiled the smile of a man who’d just unleashed some serious firepower, then walked back to Banksman’s tent, whistling jauntily.

Central Plains, Dardanelle
High above the vast open plains of the Southern Continent aircraft droned in a holding pattern. They’d been waiting for weeks for word to go. They weren’t threateningly shaped, or particularly aerodynamic for that matter, resembling nothing so much as flounder. Gigantic flounder with guns on the sides, but flounder nonetheless.

Of course, they were invisible as high as they hung in the vaulted blue sky. Down below the freshly moved natives toiled with work gangs to build modern facilities for the natives to work with. That had been the result of several hasty meetings between native leaders, Bindo’s Order and Kingdom officials. The natives, who before the shattering of their society had been a pastoral people, would tend the hogs on the plains, and the Kingdom farmers would pursue a more agrarian pattern in the north and south.
There’d been some discussion of how exactly this could be, with the squiddies swarming in ever larger numbers in the Southern Jungle. Alvaro Vasquez had grinned and tapped his nose and instructed people to prepare.

The aircraft, bored crewmen and all continued their holding pattern, bored radio chatter going back and forth. Then all stopped, as a single tone blared from their ground frequency. Shark-like grins slid onto faces, desultory poker games were abandoned as gunners scrambled to positions and the big, ugly aircraft slid into wallowing dives, aimed sharply at the Jungle below.

The whine of the strange and dubiously engineered aircraft was easily audible over the suit sensors of the Raven’s Own troopers positioned throughout Southern holding pheromone dispensers. The radio chatter between the Own troops had steadily died as more and more squiddies had boiled out of the jungle and circled, looking for the producers of the pheromones that had them in whirling, raging movement across the jungles. Now that chatter resumed, relief evident in voices. After all ACS armour was tough, but there were a lot of squiddies.

The flounder planes howled ever lower, and some of the squiddies, the ones who could force themselves away from the seething hatred currently guiding them looked up as the big grey aircraft began to slowly roll over the jungle and the small ball turrets on the side began to spew globules of plasma insanely rapidly at the boiling mess of squiddies. The blue globes flashed as they hit, splattering squiddie bits hither and yon. Gradually, the dual barrelled 155mm howitzers began to belch flame into the packed mass below. The big aircraft weaved between each others’ flight paths, firing continuously, squiddies whirling ever more frustratedly below. The crisscrossing patterns of fire seemed to carve into the whirling mass of squiddies for hours, steadily whittling them down, the flood becoming a torrent, becoming a flow, becoming a trickle becoming a drought. The Raven’s Own troopers tromped out of the jungle and shot the last few confused survivors down, grav rifles making short work of them. And that was it. The massive gunships soared back skyward, and the Own returned to their bases. The Dardanelle Campaign was over.

Aftermath

Private Sigmund T. Shatner, late of Kipling Massiv Industries and still possessed of as much of that particular corporation's...ethos as his drill sergeants hadn't managed to beat out, was thinking furiously.
You see, Sigmund, currently a private in the 29th Infantry Battalion, aka the Cheesemongers, had stumbled across a clutch of squiddy eggs.
Standing orders would have had him drop a grenade into the clutch but rumour around his hometown of Poitiers had it that people, collectors, would pay good money for squiddies, live or dead. Of course all the hatched squiddies were deceased. But these eggs...
Sigmund reached a decision, and snaffled the eggs into the transport bin on his armour, then jogged back to the rest of his section.
...
....
...
Several thousand miles, 2 bribes and one near miss with HM Customs, and the eggs were back in Birmingham Duchy, for just long enough for a certain Vrakian number to be contacted, payment recieved, and eggs shipped out. Eggs which had been unnerving the KMI flunky who'd been watching them, because everytime he looked at them they were getting bigger. But they were the Vrakians' problem now.
Six little squiddy eggs.

At the old man's mansion

-Another shipment sir.
-Indeed. And is this the one marked "Extremely Dangerous"?
-Uh, yes sir.
-Excellent! How many eggs are there?
-The manifest says six. Shall I take a look?
-NO! NO! Don't open it!
-Ah, no sir. I can look through the heavily reinforced grate here though.
-Well, keep your distance.

The man peeked inside, after sliding open the cover over the grate. Sure enough, six little eggs were nestled together. How come all babies look cute and harmless? Then he remembered the sketchy report about the adults squiddies. An involuntary shudder went up his spine and he slammed the grate cover shut.

-They're all intact.
-Good. Put each each seperately in it's cell. Make sure it is secure. If you thought the bughogs were bad, wait till you see these things.