NationStates Jolt Archive

Note, this thread begins three years prior to: http://forums2.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=341769&page=1

Halfway between Ns and the Moon.

It's amazing what Humanity can do when it puts it's mind to it. Travel faster than sound, move mountains and bridge oceans.
However, it's also amazing how difficult we can make achieving these great feats for ourselves, as Gordus Stonehammer was currently discovering.
Gordus, clad in the green power armour of the Royal Army, the black tower on a gold shield Royal Engineers crest painted prominently on his chest, was bouncing around inside the Turtle heavy lift transport like a dwarvish pea in an enormous pod.
And why was Ma Stonehammer's son bouncing around?
Because the designers of the Turtle had constructed it to lift the Royal Army's enormous Champion Main Battle Tanks in an atmosphere. Not, as Gordus currently found himself, in the vaccum between worlds.
Hence, no artifical gravity inside the vast transport craft. Hence, the good Staff Sergeant bouncing around like a deranged rubber ball and cursing in a mixture of Dwarvish and Standard, with the ocassional Dwerry word thrown in.
Crackling laughter came over the com from the loadmaster who was stamping around far below in a exo-skeleton, checking the tonnes on tonnes of cargo wasn't moving as the Turtle, and the rest of the flotilla it was part of, laboured across the gap between Earth and the Moon.
"Puir wee crunchit, nae anti-grav fur yoo mah laddie." came the thick Old Dwarvish dialect from below.
Gordus swore some more as he spun head-first into a pallet marked "Caution - Explosives".
"Anti-fucking-grav. Eru, why couldn't we have put anti-grav on these bastards!?"
The Sergeant at last stopped bouncing long enough to clamber down to the "ground" and give the still laughing loadmaster the finger.
He stomped back into the pressurised sector of the transport and popped his helmet. "Ah well. Least we're nearly there."

There, was of course, the Moon. Or more specifically, the Ptolemaeus Crater on the Moon.
Why?
Because most of these incredible feats of ours have a purpose, blunt and practical. The purpose of Sgt. Stonehammer and his fellows' jaunt to the moon was to begin construction of the first Kingdom extra-Ns base.
Selene Base. Such a pretty name.

O.O.C Disclaimer
Territory in Question is *not* claimed by anyone I recognise at this juncture, I checked.

Ptolemaeus Crater, The Moon.

Specialist Juan Smith, Royal Engineers, was bored. No. He was beyond bored. If something interesting didn't happen soon he'd pop his helmet and see how long he could breathe vaccum.
Juan, by virtue of laughing at his immediate superior when that individual puked in null gee on the trip out, was sitting at the bottom of a hole.
The hole would one day be a hangar, However, at this point in time, it was just a bloody great cave.
And Juan was sitting in it watching robotic drones hack away at the lunar rock. He'd been playing solitaire on his HUD for a while, but there's only so much mileage in any card game and Juan had been down here for a fortnight, since the day the first Turtles had landed. He'd occassionally see the vast square bulk of a Turtle go over the top of his cave, but other than when he clambered out of the hole at the end of the "day", he was on his own.
And bored.
He started to sing irritably to himself in Spanish and glared at his drones.

Far above, in one of the other caverns being busily carved out, Gordus, glaring thoughtfully at a blueprint, jumped, then tapped the side of his helmet as a man's voice rasped out music in a foreign language. The other sapper standing across from him looked up, soprano voice revealing her as a woman,
"What the hell is that Sarge?"
Gordus shrugged and brought up the tacnet, tracing the singer to his location down the bottom of what would be Hangar 24.
"Eru. Smith what the fuck are you doing on 'ToonNet?"
Muttering filtered back, the only intelligible words being "fucking" and "hole".
The other sapper spoke through external speakers "Ralph sent him down there when we got here. He's been at the bottom of that hole for a fortnight."
She looked at the tunnel floor. "Guess we should've moved him by now eh Sarge?"
Gordus grumbled. He knew why Juan was down there, but had forgotten too, and hadn't expected the man to be still down there two weeks later.
"Ralph, get the fuck down to Hangar 24 and relieve Juan. And if I catch you dumping people down holes for laughing at you again I'll have you shipped out to the Kuiper so you can chase rocks. Move."
Gordus finished growling into the com, then went back to looking at the blueprint.
They had work to do after all.

Selene Base, Ptolemaeus Crater, The Moon.

"I now pronounce Selene Base officially open and operating."
The darkhaired elf woman snipped a ribbon symbolically stretched over one of the base canteen areas, and the surrounding crowd clapped as the red fabric dropped away.
The crowd was neatly divided between Marine Corps Royal Blue, Army Green, Air Force Blue and Navy Blue, with a scattering of dark civilian suits.
The brunette elf, now clearly identifiable as the recently crowned Queen, stepped off the podium and began to circulate, escorted by the somewhat rotund, sky blue-capped figure of Air Marshal Weber.
The conversation in the large room was mostly shop talk, the command crews of the "Star Navy", which was yet to acquire any hulls, were busily catching up with colleagues who were driving real vessels, not simulators, the Marine officers were grousing about the lack of available personnel in their massively expanded service and wondering how the shortfall would be made up and the Army and Airforce were plotting feverishly to lay their hands on some of the budget that had wound up being put behind Selene Base and the Star Navy.
Conversation was also bouncing round concerning the absent King. Owen's dislike of formal occassions was noticeable, and the fact he'd quietly scheduled the opening of Selene to coincide with the Utlanning exercises had been noted, smirked over and in a few uncomfortable junior officers cases', envied.
Conversation went on for a while, fat chewed, heroic lies told by veterans of the recent Dardanelle campaign, and disparaging remarks traded by rival services.
This pastiche of military traditions was brought to an end by a Navy orderly announcing lunch was served and could the assembled Ma-ams and Sirs please follow him?
The officers trooped after the orderly into a somewhat better appointed canteen, which showed the signs of having been rapidly converted to somewhere you could safely feed the Joint Chiefs and various other brass in, and settled down to eat at Selene Base's expense. The Queen disapeared back to Earth, having plead other engagements and the lunchtime conversation was reduced to business until shortly after the dessert was served, the Marine Corps C.O, General Alvaro Vasquez, stood, thumbs tucked into his white belt and glared about him till silence reigned.
"As most of you here today have no doubt noticed, the Navy, and by extension the Marine Corps, has recently greatly expanded in size. Or at least conceptually."
The General's soft accent turned rendered his last remarks "Or hat least cohnceptuali.", but the officers nodded anyway. They knew quite well that the Navy's new starships wouldn't be finished for quite some time, ad that the Marine Corps was having trouble juggling it's various tasks with it's present amount of personnel.
Vasquez took a swallow from the tumbler of water next to his plate.
"Due to the difficulties we have been experiencing vis-a-vis personnel, I have asked the King for the opportunity to consider other avenues to fill in our empty spaces. He has approved this request and development will begin today on the most radical evolution of the Marine Corps since it's formation."
He stepped back, jaw waggling slightly in the way that indicated a mastoid bone mounted microphone being used, and a screen dropped down behind the General, the image of a shield with the Marine Corps logo embossed on it.
Vasquez smiled happily.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, I announce the Marine Advancement Project."

Chassis Construction Bureau, Gondor Massiv Industries, Earldom of London, Britmattia, Ns.

Owen, King of Britmattia, stared down into a vast arena, filled to capacity with gleaming figures and was expressionless, much to the dismay of the predominantly dwarven GMI scientists surrounding him.
Dwarven engineers and scientists were many things.
Respected, sought after, well paid. Noted for the efficiency and the solemn beauty of their designs, as well as the pure lethality of their weapon systems.
Gondor Massiv had designed and produced nearly all the armoured vehicles in the Kingdom's inventory, as well as the powered armour and combat suits of the Royal Army.
So they had been the logical people to turn the M.I.R project over to when it had been decided to make the next step in the history of the Marine Corps that of a step towards integrated robotics.
However, the usually stolid, solid and blunt design ethics of GMI had gone out the window in this case. The M.I.Rs were nine feet and several hundred kilos of graceful, controlled and elegant power.
Below Owen stood packed ranks of M.I.Rs, inhumanly patient under the scrutiny of their Monarch. The ranks parted and two M.I.Rs trotted to the front, the fully armoured Marine trooper next to them barely waist height to the gleaming blue steel robots.
The group walked into a cleared circle, the Marine stepping to one side and the robots facing each other. The Marine checked each M.I.R in turn, nodded, motion almost invisible in armour, and slashed a hand down.
The droids exploded into motion and Owen's face twitched.
The scientists exchanged worried looks. The M.I.Rs were faster than any mere mortal could hope to match, and they were watching the fight through a slow motion display. Their augmented King however, viewed it through his own somewhat more-than-mortal eyes.
Eyes which showed nothing. Eyes which could break a mere Massiv scientist's career on a whim.
The robots whirled in their deadly tango, neither was armed for this display, but their close-ranked fellows bore the full equipment issue, heavy weapons squads with 60mm cannon and meter long bayonets, the others with 30mm "rifles" and 8 foot machetes.
As abruptly as the spinning tangle of robotic limbs as flicked into action, it halted and one spun free, landing with a crash outside the circle.
Still expressionless, eyes fixed on the metal horde, Owen spoke.
"Impressive."
There was a collective sigh of relief from the GMI group.
"However."
Panic flared in several sets of eyes, which could see a multi-billion realm project going down the drain.
"I am concerned about the problem of what the literature describes as "Rampancy". It's not been a problem with our A.I. in the past, because of how they become self aware, but the M.I.Rs will not be using that system I'm told."
A cold gaze was turned on the scientists. "I trust that you have considered this problem yourselves?"
Fervent nods answered his question and a particularly junior, short, and pudgy dwarf was pushed to the front. He blinked nervously at the King, removed his glasses and began cleaning them frantically whilst talking swiftly;
"We intend to copy the design of the droid we salvaged from the Forests of Kashykk Majesty, it's very much suited for this kind of program, and according to the Dardanellese, instances of rampancy were virtually unknown in their galaxy. So we think we've got the problem licked before it's even occurred."
Owen continued staring at the group a few moments more, then nodded, and his face was split by a rarely-seen-in-public smile. "You've done a good job, and far more swiftly than I'd anticipated. Commendations to you all. The program is approved for full production immediately."
The worry slid off the faces of the GMI personnel and was replaced by smiles.
The short dwarf spoke again, "And we have something for you personally too sire."
He motioned, and a technician walked out with a man-sized, orange droid at his shoulder.
"This is HK-47. He's the template we used for the M.I.Rs programming and we're turning him over to you and the Queen as a bodyguard."
Owen eyed the robot interestedly. "Fascinating. Does he do tricks?"
The droid's eyes flared. "Statement : It depends Master, if one defines tearing a meatbag's arms from their sockets as a 'trick', then affirmative, this unit does do tricks."
Owen laughed and draped an arm round the droid's shoulders.
"I think we're going to get on famously HK. Just famously."

H.M.S Tristan, Kuiper Belt, Sol System.

Captain Melissa Hendrix stared blankly at her display, excellent posture failing to hide the mind-numbing boredom nearly overwhelming the petite brunette.
Resting her chin on her hands, she mused on why exactly the Admiralty, in it's ineffable wisdom, had dispatched the Tristan, a kilometer and most a half of heavily armed death, to watch over ore shipments.
Ore shipments for the love of Eru!
Melissa hadn't been sure what to expect when she'd signed on to the Star Navy but this certainly Had Not Been It.
A soft chime reminded her of an other thing she'd not been overwhelmed with since taking up this command.
She looked up at the mail-clad young man standing in front of her chair, noble face stretched into a lugubrious expression.
"Yes Tristan?"
Just by the look in his eyes she could tell this was going to be a long one, so she wriggled into the thick cushions of her command chair and waited, expression one of intent interest, masking the boredom beneath.
The young man, letter H prominent on his forehead, cleared his throat.
"Captain, I really must speak with you about the flight crews off hours entertainments again, they're incredibly dangerous and could cause a nasty incident, furthermore.."
Melissa sighed internally. One of these days she was going to find whoever had thought it would be a good idea to name the Battlewagons after Arthurian icons and geld him or her with a spoon. A dull one.
Tristan, who's holographic avatar was currently driving her insane, had absorbed the legend of the man who's name he bore and promptly fallen in whatever A.I.s called love with H.M.S Iseult's A.I., who was rather nauseatingly keen on Tristan in return.
However, the two ships were assigned to different battlegroups and thus rarely in contact. HyperCom from one end of a star system was tricky enough that the two's time together was limited, for which Melissa was on one level quite glad, she'd seen the message logs the two exchanged and Tristan's poetry was absolutely puerile.
Regrettably though, the enforced seperation made both A.I.s melodramatically lonesome for the other, leading to Tristan becoming depressed, and then paranoid about the loss of his love and/or crew. Hence his constant concerns about safety and his nagging of Melissa to enforce draconian safety regs.
Melissa was seriously contemplating shooting the A.I or herself by the time a faint bleep on her armrest saved her from experimenting on whether a service side arm could destroy a hardlight hologram.
Melissa tapped a button and her comtech spun his console around to face her.
"Ma'am."
"Evans. A contact from one of the ore boats?"
"Yes Ma'am, say they've spotted an anomaly and want to know if we feel like taking a look?"
Melissa breathed a prayer of thanks and nodded an affirmative, then went on.
"We'll go. I'd just send a Vulture but from the details they're relaying, it's big enough to be something nasty, or owned by someone dangerous to dick around with, so more sensors, and firepower, would be nice."
The comtech nodded, spun his console back to it's regular position while Melissa leaned back, Tristan relaying her orders to the helm, and ordering a platoon of Marines to prep in case they became necessary.

So ok, the Star Navy wasn't all bad.

Dropship 3, of H.M.S Tristan, the Kuiper Belt, Sol System.

M.I.R 110984 sat calmly in his crash webbing as the Vulture dropship pulled free of the Tristan, quietly tying in as much of the Battlewagon's sensory data as he could process while his organic platoon sergeant prepped the troops.
M.I.R 110984 was technically a Lieutenant, but in reality he was part of the commonality of the Mobile Infantry Robots and could have served equally efficiently and contentedly anywhere from Private to his present rank, beyond which command required a degree of initiative which the mental architecture of the M.I.Rs simply didn't include, hence, 110984 would never rise beyond his current rank.
This did not bother him. Indeed, nothing bothered the big blue, silver and khaki droid because "bother" got in the way of his duties.
He was aware certain of the other M.I.Rs in the commonality didn't think like this and functioned far more organically. 110984 didn't care. They performed their task and thus in his world, everything worked as it should.
"Sir?"
110984 looked at his sergeant, the woman invisible behind the blank blue steel of Marine power armour.
"Acknowledged Sergeant. Platoon, the data I am relaying you now is being streamed from the Tristan's sensors."
110984 went on to summarise the information, the verbal briefing made interpreting the flood of data easier for the organics, and he was programmed for that to be a priority.
"The anomaly we are approaching is approximately the size of Luna, but scans indicate that it is riddled with tunnels eighty kilometres under the surface, and has radiation patterns consistent with the use of gravitonics, whether as weaponry or motive force it's not yet clear. It's also coated with a covering of Sol system-originated stellar rocks and ice and appears to have been in it's present location for a very long time.
It's not answering our hails, and none of the powers in the area are admitting to it being theirs, even when informed we intended to board, hence we are proceeding with all dispatch to land on it and take a closer examination."
The M.I.R leaned back to allow the organics to mull over the information, blank gaze showing nothing but steady green light.

The anomaly grew ever larger on visual sensors, a giant ball of rock and ice, pitted by millenia of slow rides around the sun in the dark emptiness of the Kuiper Belt.
The Vulture touched down, a solid clunk echoing through the boxy pod that carried the troops, and doors dropped and the Marines filed out to explore this strange hollow asteroid.

80km below the surface of the anomaly, Kuiper Belt, three weeks later.

Melissa shuffled in her hardsuit, clutching herself against the combined cold of space and the opressive feeling of being under eighty kilometres of rocky ice. The suit claimed it's inside was at a pleasant 22 Celcius, but Melissa was freezing.
She glared around her, fixing a particularly baleful eye on Tristan's avatar, which, not feeling the cold, looked curious and alert, paying particular attention to the massive hatch Melissa, the members of her Command crew she'd brought down, the scientists who'd been working here since it's discovery and the Marines guarding them were standing outside.
Tristan, a look of abstract interest on his holographic face, poked a finger into the hatch metal, causing a fat blue spark to drop and sizzle into the icy tunnel floor. The avatar nodded as though he'd expected that and continued his perusal of the door.
Melissa stamped in an effort to jar the cold from her bones, and, out of patience, stumped over to the group of scientists, whom, having dragged her down her with promises to reveal the mysteries of whatever lay behind the hatch, had left her standing in the cold.
Melissa cleared her throat over the com, causing a few startled twitches from the group.
"Sers, if you'd be so kind..?"
The apparent head of the group, a Dwerry scarcely five foot tall, bobbed her head apologetically.
"Sorry Captain. Last minute hitch. We're ready to go now." She turned back to the group, heads clustered again, then the device they'd been grouped around started to hum, and their heads swiveled to watch the hatch.
Melissa looked at it too, thin eyebrow raising as the hatch ground open, no hiss of out-rushing air indicating the inside had no atmosphere either.
The Marines moved past the dwerry into the darkness of the tunnel-riddled planetoid, and the recovery went on.

Selene Base Shooting Range, Ptolemaeus Crater, the Moon.

Commodore Malcom Fraser looked down at the pistol the Marine Range Chief had just handed him.
The ugly, snub-nosed weapon was oddly heavy for it's size, mainly due to the fact it carried far more rounds than a conventional chemical hangun, pumping out a storm of metal if required.
Fraser's mouth twitched, which reminded him of his absent pipe. He'd not been allowed to smoke it since arriving on the moon, taking over from the promoted Countess Terring, who'd returned to Nš to take over the Air Force, with her husband acquiring the newly created post of Star Marshall, giving him overall command of the Star Navy.
Fraser had been pried off the bridge of his beloved battleship H.M.S Interesting Times and given Selene Base.
Where he'd promptly been informed the airscrubbers weren't up to the job and while they were being replaced could the Commodore not smoke please?
He sighed again and resolved to keep his pipe on him anyway, if only because it gave him something to chew while he thought.
An other of the rubs about his new command was that included nominal command of the enormous Star Marine training camp, with the Marines being keen pistoleros his arrival at the range had been inevitable.
And Malcom hated pistols. Couldn't hit a damned thing with them. He sighed again, one hand creeping up to his mouth where it would have gripped his pipe bowl, then dropping back to his hip.
"Alright Chief, I may as well get this over and done with."
The Range Chief, a M.I.R wearing a bandanna for reasons that escaped Malcom nodded. "Right on Sir."
The Commodore stepped into one of the booths, and a holographic counter began to cycle down from "5".
On "1", a holographic orc bounded out from the walls, and Malcom squeezed the trigger, heavy action snapping a round off, the holographic orc making a "gargh!" noise and slumping back.
Malcom stared at the pistol in surprise. "Hmmf. Never done that before."
He slid the shot selection to "Burst" and keyed the range to send down the next target.
The same countdown came, but this time the creature bounding toward him wore the golden armour of a Thelasi regular, pseudo-elf face stretched in a snarl, then blipping out of existence as the pistol bucked in Malcom's hand, flinging three rounds through the holograph's chest.
Malcom's mouth actually dropped open. He'd never hit two successive targets with a handgun in his life.
He stiffened his shoulders, changing the shot selection to "Auto" and hit the last tab.
The shout of "FOR THE REICH!" coming from the holographic targets jarred him not at all, and he sprayed the remaining rounds of the magazine at the on-coming holographic Reich Wehrmacht.
The targetting computer blipped them all from existence.
The Commodore stepped back, stunned.
He walked back to the range chief, turned in his gun, then walked off the range, looking bemused.
The Range Chief was joined by his assistant, an other M.I.R, this one with it's torso armour daubed in red circles and other geometric patterns.
They watched the Commodore leave the range, then the assistant looked to his boss. "Think we've converted him?"
"If a perfect score won't sway him, nothing will. Anyway, hear that they finally got that ship they found out in the Kuiper going?"
"No really?"
"Yeah I've got a buddy out there and..."

Bridge of the Anomaly.

"Damn this ship is complex Claire. This A.I. is...well.."
The speaker, a woman who's red hardsuit marked her as a civilian contractor and flat accent made her a Hacker frowned and stubbed out her cigarette on the dead console she was sitting on, legs dangling, waving her datapad frustratedly.
"We know. We asked the Polskaites but they went all cagey. They do this when they think we've acquired something we shouldn't have."
Claire, also clad in civilian red, but with a Kingdom flag patch instead of a MGHack one on her shoulder, pushed dirty blonde hair back from her face and blew out a breath.
"Snobby sods really. Guess it comes with being an imperial power. But I can see this giving even them pause for thought."
The Hack woman, ID badge naming her Ellen Crysler, grinned.
"Yeah. It's not a dreadnought, it's a small moon!"
Both women laughed, the sound echoing hollowly in the huge, empty bridge.
Silence seeped back in as the two bent to their task, routing information on the A.I. which had controlled the dead ship back to cybernetics teams in areas closer to the hull, the Navy still being uneasy about civilians so deep within the hull of the huge vessel.
For a while all that was audible was the gentle tack-tack of keys, and the occassional electronic sound coming from Ellen's datapad, her Kingdom counterpart using stylus and holoprojection instead.
The quiet was broken by the sound of the hatch cycling open and a M.I.R ducking through, green eyeslot flashing apologetically at the two women.
"Ma-am's, sent to fetch you, Lord Banksman reckons he's found something. Didn't say what, wanted me to fetch you."
Both women shrugged, Ellen stashing her datapad in a hardsuit pocket, Claire collapsing her holoprojector and trudged after the MIR back to the transit shafts.
The transit shafts had been a matter of some puzzlement to the archaeological crews, who'd been able to establish the crew had died in a rather nasty accident involving their method of FTL travel, but not why an advanced civilisation would have empty lift shafts crisscrossing it's ships.
A FSP gravtechnician had at last figured out that the huge shafts were meant to be travelled in under pseudogravitic conditions after noticing a smaller version had been used to move food stores round the huge vessel.
Once their purpose had been discovered and power to them reestablished, the shafts had been hugely popular with the "fighter-jock" mentality prevalent among the Kingdom personnel. The somewhat more restrained foreign workers, like Ellen, hated the damn things, but dealt with them because they were far quicker than leaving the huge vessel, boarding a Greyhawk, travelling around the planetoid and re-entering closer to a destination, which is what'd been done before they'd figured the shafts out.
Claire held Ellen's hand during the drop, smiling at her friend sympathetically, while the M.I.R stolidly went into shutdown position as they fell.
Claire released the other woman's hand and Ellen opened her eyes and tottered out of the shaft to where Lord Banksman, bald head and heronlike features awaited.
"Claire! Ellen! capital, capital! You won't believe what we've found!"
Ellen, still woozy, blinked owlishly, while Claire, eying her, distracted the Science Lord.
Ellen's wooziness was abruptly dispelled when Banksman uttered the phrase "A.I. interface port".
"Where?" came from the suddenly alert Hacker.
Banksman grinned. "Right this way."
The three jogged down the usual maze of corridors, Banksman's escort of white-armoured Queen's Own trotting behind them after he dismissed the M.I.R back to it's own duties.
They at last edged through a hatch, to where Banksman's team stood clustered around a port, waiting for the two cyberneticists.
Banksman bowed, long body oddly suited to the motion.
"My ladies, it's all yours."

Tower of Silence, Northern Edinburgh, Britmattia, Shortly After the Occupation of Dardanelle.

“The ravens.
That’s the first thing anyone will say when you ask them what strikes them most about the Tower.
There’s something disquieting about them, something disturbingly and terribly knowing in their black-eyed stares.
Most people manage to dismiss the effect the ravens have on them as soon as they’re aware from the tower. After all, they’re only birds.
Aren’t they?
The small percentage of people who fail to banish the disquiet they’ve experienced and enquire further find out the answer is a resounding “No.”
The tiny percentage of people who can hear the birds find the experience even more disturbing.
After all, a bird doesn’t think like a man. Ravens are carrion eaters, big and powerful birds, but carrion eaters nevertheless, and to a carrion eater pretty much everything looks like food.
Including pre-carrion.
Otherwise known as the human race.
And the ravens know that for the entirety of human history Man has only been an inch away from feeding them at any time.
Perhaps the raven’s Gods have whispered the story of how humanity ends to them, perhaps worse.
Whatever the secrets the ravens know, the knowledge in their eyes means few civilians visit the tower twice.
And the birds continue their patient wait for whatever dark thing it is they wait for.”

Allain Irdonrei finished his perusal of the pamphlet and looked back at it’s smug-looking author.
“Corvax, you’ve really got to cut back on the self-aggrandisation. “Terribly knowing?” I mean really. If you want the ghost of Edgar Allen Poe to rise from the grave and sue you for plagiarism, be my guest.”
The dwerry’s ears twitched in amusement, ruining the straight face he’d so far maintained.
The author stared back at him out of a beady black eye, then hopped over and retrieved his work with one taloned foot, inky plumage ruffling in annoyance.
“And what would a smart-arse purple-eyed apprentice know about good tourist pamphlets eh? Only brought it in as a courtesy ‘fore I took it to the publisher.”
“More than a bird with delusions of authorship would. “Pre-carrion!” Ha!”
Corvax swore horribly at the dwerry and lurched into flight, dropping off the high desk Allain was seated behind and flapping out the open window.
Allain grinned after the bird and made a rude gesture at it’s retreating tail-feathers.
“Terribly knowing indeed. Feather dusters with the ability to talk.”
The apprentice jumped at the voice coming from his doorway, then grinned at his master who’s full beard failed to disguise his own amusement.
“Well, it’s better than his last attempt.”
Oldonar nodded, wafting the heavy armchair in the room’s corner over and dropping into it.
“Yes, his last attempt was ah…interesting.”
“A thinly concealed rant about why ravens were inherently superior to demi-humankind? Interesting is hardly the word master.”
Oldonar smiled at his apprentice fondly. “Well at least he’s honest I suppose.”
Allain grinned. “Aye. Anyway, I got those supplies you wanted; they’re in the deep lab. And Mrs. Goggins says she’ll be working over the Long Night, plans fell through apparently.”
Oldonar flapped his hand and Allain ran down. “All very good. However, not why I dropped by. You’re going on a trip to the Academy on Dardanelle.”
Allain blinked. Although the Kingdom regarded ESP and other such things of that ilk as being a branch of elemental magic and the Tower was technically senior to the Academy in precedence and power, Allain had little contact with the Order to the South.
Oldonar of course had much more contact with the Order’s head, being one of the more powerful mages on Ns via the inherited tradition of the High Mage, reaching all the way back to Olorin in the Kingdon’s distant past, he was regarded as pre-eminent Magus in the Kingdom and the practitioners of the various global schools of magic were respectful to the man, the power and the position.
But Allain, who’s own powers were vastly limited in comparison to his masters, if not his fellow Adepts, had had much less exposure to other schools.
“Well of course Master, but why?”
The old man frowned and was silent for a moment, looking out the window to the vista of endless forest that was Northern Edinburgh.
He sighed, then looked back at his apprentice, his son, in all but birth and name.
“I’m going to remove the block. That child from Eurusea, the uber-mind birthed in Der Angst? Such things are becoming ever more common, and the blocks presence, while not inhibiting them, is a constant hindrance to the Kingdom’s native talents.”
Allain nodded, the argument was evident enough, he could see flaws, but none that weren’t counterable.
“So why do you want me to travel to the Academy?”
“I want you to prepare them to move to the Tower. It’s been centuries since there’s been a proper mage school in the Kingdom, and I expect with the block gone we’ll be…well…not flooded, but certainly there’ll be more new Talents than just you and I can teach. So, Bindo and his people will have a proper base for their Academy, we’ll have teachers and a student base so the new Talents don’t rattle around in the Tower as badly, and Corvax will have a nice big audience to rant about the frivolity of groundhuggers at. At least until the other ravens ostracize him till he shuts up again.”
Allain nodded. “Very well Master, I’ll leave as soon as possible.”
“The morning will be soon enough. For tonight, you’ll help me take down the block.”

Bridge of H.M.S Tristan, Kuiper Belt.

"All hands, Stand by, Stand by..."
Tristan's voice echoed through the ship, and the bridge's lighting dimmed and reddened, appropriate as the vessel went to Condition Red.
Melissa leant back in her command chair, eyes fixed on the viewscreen ahead, which was filled with the monstrous, globular shape of the anomaly.
All around the Tristan dozens of other RSN ships were gathered, also in Condition Red, graser drones deployed, guns zeroed in and missiles already locked on.
Melissa wasn't entirely sure that the entire RSN would be enough however, if what they were planning didn't work.
"All ships, stand by. Repeat, stand by."

Bridge of the Anomaly.

The small group on the bridge looked anxiously at the holographic counter cycling down, the crisp numbers an ominous red, the only sound the dispassionate countdown coming from the sub-sentient Sorceror's Apprentice AI providing it, it's blue ball of an avatar hovering in the centre of the bridge.
"T-30 seconds. 29. 28. 27."
Ellen squeezed Claire's hand, the two almost uncomfortably close, helmets touching as they spoke quietly through direct coms.
An other of the technicians was praying quietly, the flowing Latin marking her as Birminghamese.
Lord Banksman stood quietly at the head of the bridge, lanky body as still as death, face calm. He'd left the screen of his helmet unpolarized, his faint smile a mild reassurance to the crew who cared to look, after all he was the Science Lord, if he was confident this would work...
"T-10. 9. 8. 7. 6. 5. 4. 3. 2. 1. Uplink."
The bridge lights promptly went out and someone screamed briefly, the sound cut off almost before it began as the lights began to come up, power ebbing back into them slowly.
Banksman looked around calmly, then spoke. "AI, are you there?"
Silence. Then...
"Yes sir...still uplinking. Completing...now."
Where the A.I's shapeless avatar had been something was forming, a sort of blue mist condensing as the AI sought a shape to fit it's personality, the mist gradually fading and revealing...
Banksman raised an eyebrow.
"So that's what one looks like."
"Yes My Lord. Or as close as I am able to approximate."
The little brown and white creature hopped down from the bridge console and ambled over to the Science Lord.
"H.M.S Drop Bear at your service. You can call me Fluffy, Destroyer of Worlds."

Geo-synch Orbit with Selene Base, Ptolemaeus Crater, The Moon.

Ns.
A jewel of a world.
Currently upside down.
Well...
Gordus tapped the joint he was examining consideringly with a spanner, gave it one last twist, and then rotated his EVA pack so Ns returned to it's normal way up and paused to consider the view.
"Ah. Now this is why I joined the Engineers."
"What's that Sarge?" came over the radio as an other yellow-armoured figure jetted up behind him.
"This view Sally." came from the dwarven sergeant, waving at the vista beneath them.
Both engineers paused to consider the black vastness, lit by the reflected light of the planet below and by the millions of points of light that were ships coming and going from Sol System, wending their paths from planet to planet in an intricate dance.
"Yeah. It's something else isn't it?"

Diplomatic Notice to all Lunar Governments and NDA members.

On behalf of His Majesty it's my duty and pleasure to announce the completion and activation of the Minerva Drive Yards in geo-synch orbit with Selene Base.
Minerva is designed to be flexible in the types of vessels constructible, and will from now on be the principle shipyard for both the Royal Star Navy and for Gondor Massiv Industries, in addition to having yards permanently assigned to the N.D.A for refitting and construction of the various vessels in service with our allies.
Other than the weapons systems on board the vessels themselves it is not our intent to arm Minerva at this time and we urge our lunar fellows not to fear any sort of imperialistic motives behind this construction.

Thank you for your time,

Commodore Malcom Fraser, Royal Star Navy.
Officer Commanding Selene Base.

Message To: Royal Star Navy Commodore Malcom Fraser, Selene Base
Message Fr: Arkhreifane of the Star Command Tanyi ralKeyra, High Stone
Message Re: Congratulations

Esar Fraser,

Please allow me to be the first to congratulate you upon the commissioning of the Kingdom's Minerva Drive Yards.

As the Greater Ascendancy lags regrettably behind our allies in terms of shipyard capacity, your offer is most appreciated, and I fully intend to take you up upon it some time, when the requisite designs are finalised.

Many thanks, and Neiudh dtokh Ruki Aestrakhor aseiravda.

~ Tanyi ralKeyra
Arkhreifane of the Star Command

.

TSMIT Broadcaster
Encryption: NDA Standard
Broadcast type: Open
To: Commodore Malcom Fraser, Royal Star Navy
Return transmission band: Open
IDENT: Mark Tennenbaum - Treznor

We note with pleasure the opening of your Minerva Drive Yards. Although we have no military assets to build or refit in your facility, we may wish to take advantage of them for our small explorer scout craft after they return from various missions. We are interested in opening talks regarding space allocation and fees.

Mark Tennenbaum
Minister of Foreign Affairs, Empire of Treznor
<end transmission>

Orbit of Luna, Sol System.

Fleet Admiral Malcom Fraser, Commander of the Royal Britmattian Stellar Navy, rubbed the four rings on his cuff and pondered the system of patronage within the armed forces.
For example, a little while ago he'd been a Rear Admiral and commander of the junior service within the hierarchy, sharing facilities in Selene Base with the Marine Corps, never having enough space or a big enough budget to hack out their own niche in the tunnel-gnawed rock beneath the surface of the Moon.
Not a situation the Navy had liked, their ships operating from stop-gap facilities which had become permanant, the whole situation growing ever more difficult and dangerous as poorly-suited systems wore out and collapsed.
And then...
The King waves a hand, dispatches a diplomat and the Navy have all the room they need.
And Malcom jumps two ranks and gets new insignia.
Funny old world isn't it?
As for now, he was sitting in the command chair of H.M.S Manwe watching the bridge crew busy themselves and the main viewscreen fill with the ships of the Navy, the entire service would be jumping at once, but for the two task groups in NS orbit and quietly lurking on the edge of Mercuryspace.
Fraser continued to watch absently, quietly wishing for his pipe, his reverie only broken by the Captain of the Manwe, a painfully upright and proper young man with the black hair and grey eyes of a Warwick clicking his heels and saluting at the base of Fraser's command chair.
"The Fleet reports readiness to jump, sir!"
Fraser looked at him for a long moment.
Definitely one of Durotai's branch of the family.
"Thank you Captain. From a five-count if you will."
The Captain saluted again. "Sir!"
The Manwe's A.I. avatar blurred into existence as the Captain returned to his own chair, beginning to count in the measured accents of the Noldor.
"Five. Four. Three. Two. One. Zerooooh."
The last syllable seemed to stretch as the ships dropped into the side-real universe and then rippled back into it.
A few moments pass and then Manwe speaks.
"All ships reporting in. Jump a success. Larissa reports full telemetry."

<Format : Crown&RavenCINCPage|SendTo: O5+>
<Originator : O-11 EDINBURGH, A.>

Well boys and girls, it's been a while since my last column in our beloved service rag, and given the pace of life round here, I've got a lot to cover.

First, the Mars deployment is running smoothly, congratulations to all the Army Groups involved, you're doing excellent and valuable work, even if the place is worthless, the people you're protecting aren't.

Also big in the news recently, Exploration Command's establishment under Rear Admiral McMahan and the induction of its' anthropomorphic personnel.
While the circumstances around the enlistment of ExCom's people are irregular, they're part of the family now, and we're all very glad to have them on board.
ExCom is expected to begin formal work within the next week, so anyone wishing to transfer across had best buck up.
Also in Fleet news the Block IV shield-upgrade is now complete, increasing the level of protection available significantly.

There's also upgrades on the horizon for the ground-pounders among us, the Mark I Combat Chassis has completed final outfitting to everyone's heavy weapons platoons, the replacement of our Mark II Powered Armour with it's successor design is expected to begin within the next few months.
The introduction of the Mk. III will be accompanied by the introduction of the new service rifle, which will be modular, capable of firing a suitable ammunition type for whatever the occasion may be.

Finally, I'm sure you'll all be pleased to hear that the M.B.E. program has completed its' final trials and everyone will be getting bright and shiny new post-human toys installed, packages which will be superior in capabilities to the original Utlanning and Queen's Own modifications, and we all know how capable those were.

Till next time, keep your heads down, stay frosty and remember that as soldiers of the King we're the best there is.

Field Marshall Andrew Edinburgh, Officer Commanding, His Majesty's Armed Forces

Survey World 32.04.HT1

Exploration Command. An entity designed to remove its' own purpose, kitted out with the most experimental and expendable toys of the Kingdom arsenal and crewed with equally experimental and expendable personnel.
Or so the cynics would have it.

The badger/man hybrid formerly known as ΒΦ38-34 disagrees. Exploration Command is an opportunity to prove himself, prove the loyalty of his people.
These days his name is Beornmod FitzMarder.
A good name, one the King himself had bestowed upon him after the Battle Beneath as the history being written called it.
Now, in the name of that King, he raised a standard and cast it into the earth of this new world to claim it.

The flag is placed, the world is claimed.
His people are first to land, their decimated numbers enough to provide security for ExComm, but not enough to threaten the Navy should they be more loyal to the dead Greer than the living Warwick.
They are loyal though, loyal and cheerful and accustomed to working hard for little obvious reward. Those who weren't had been weeded out, both by Greer's scientists and the battle that followed.

So the world is prepared with a swiftness that belies the numbers involved.
Strange constructions appear, pylons and stone circles of indescribable size and majesty, all across the surface of the world, patterns swirling across its' skin like tattooes.
The stones are raised and then consecrated by the Tower's men, then blessed by the faiths that allow the work going on to be possible and not a one way ticket to the fires below.
Eventually, the circles are completed, blessed and patterned enough that they channel something intangible to all but those with the Eye to see it.
See it they do, the Mighty of a dozen worlds see the pattern in the sky and marvel.

On far away Ns an old, old dwarf stands in his workshop, his apprentices clustered about him, smiles, then raises his arms above his head, closing his eyes and begins.
"Fiat Lux."
And all at once, where the Kingdom that was had stood, there is...blankness, a land that may as well have never been inhabited.
Dardanelle too is emptied of its' peoples and life, Panmure abandoned to its' restless dead, all the lands and peoples that swear allegiance to Owen I, King of Men, moved with a breath across a distance too far to comprehend.
The dwarf lowers his arms, a breathless silence from his apprentices, who look at him, eyes wide.
"It is done. Go forth, go forth and explore this new world my children."
The crowd flods out, and the master wizard, the Great Mage, trembles suddenly, collapsing into a seat the oldest and foremost of his apprentices, the dwerry Allain Irdónrei whisks beneath him, concern on his features.
"Master.."
"Be at peace Allain, you will not inherit the mantle this day, nor many days yet."
A gentle laugh at the relief on the dwerry's face.
"No my Allain, you avoid that dreary fate. I am well, but even for a master mage, the power to move a nation between stars...it drains to even direct it. Leave me for a while. I will rest here, and join with you when time comes to see the King."
Allain, good Allain, clever Allain nods, withdrawing quickly from his master's chambers.
Oldónar smiles fondly, then settles deeper into his chair.
A mighty feat. The Kingdom removed from Sol's dangers and given space unbounding. A mighty feat indeed. Why even Olórin might be envious...
That pleasant thought is with the old dwarf as he drifts away, warming to the depths of his soul.