NationStates Jolt Archive

“You are hereby ordered to cease all current activities and cancel any planned, and repair yourself with immediate and prompt dispatch to the capital of Solomon. You will then present yourself before your God. You will present yourself unarmed and in the proper humility; you have been given automatic clearance for the Sanctum.”

Montague de Serrat pondered that message as he rode the elevator down into the deepest recesses of the Imperial Palace. As a FS Customs Operative on Mahon, he had a successful career of ferreting out pirates and smugglers and hadn’t violated any laws, so far as he knew. Returning from another successful mission he had received summons at the dock, obligating him to jump on the next transport to Solomon. Now he was there, hurtling down a armored tube under the Imperial Palace, about to come face to face with a living god.

The elevator lurched to a halt, the reflective steel doors hissing open. Serrat blinked. He heard descriptions of the Sanctum almost every week at Chapel, but none of the sermons had ever suggested something like this. Almost a quarter mile underground there was a lush world, resembling the temperate rainforests of Feerott. A rock path led into the woods, but soon disappeared around a bend. Of course, thought Serrat. The childhood refuge of God.

Stepping through the lift door, Serrat’s eyes swung to the left and right. Two huge guards stood flanking him, both easily eight feet tall. An average seven, Serrat was dwarfed by the two armored men. Both stood motionless, prompting Serrat to wonder whether they were even alive. He thoughts were answered when the one on the left turned towards him, fixing him with his helm’s dark eyeholes. Slowly an arm rose, pointing deep into the forest. “The Monolith awaits within.” Bowing to the guardian, Serrat turned on his heel and walked into the forest.

He followed the rock path for what seemed like hours, twisting and turning throughout the woods. The greenery seemed to be closing in and alive, discomfortingly primeval, especially for one who has spent most of his life on arid worlds or space cruisers. Strange sounds and dark, flirting shapes filled the trees, only increasing Serrat’s anxiety. Suddenly the path straightened, passing through a stone arch. A faintly glowing Spoot Star, symbol of the Skeelzkaiser, was embossed at its apex. Emptying his mind of treasonous and heretical thoughts, Serrat marched beneath the Star.

The sounds of the forest were replaced by the splashing of running water as Serrat entered the clearing and immediately kneeled. Soft green grass stretched from the trees to the rock pool, or what little of it Serrat could see. For on a stone bench directly in front of him sat the Monolith. Even sitting with his back turned, slouched a bit forward, he was easily eight feet tall and probably closer to eleven when standing. He wore the same black armor of the lift guards, only his was embroidered with gold, with the golden dragon heads on each shoulder. He was helmless, and the crown of his bald head could be seen peeking over his back. Without turning, and with no discernible effects on his voice, he began to speak. “Montague de Serrat, son of Clarence de Serrat, Operative of the FS and servant of God, do you know why you are here?”

Serrat remained kneeled. “Because my God has summoned me, and his will is Law.”

“Very good.” Said the Monolith. His voice was somewhat creaking but still impossibly deep. “But do you know why I have summoned you?”

“I do not, O Lord.”

“Then I will enlighten you. Sit, Serrat. We have much to discuss.” As Serrat shifted his position he momentarily lost sight of the Monolith. When he looked up he was taken aback: in less than a second God had positioned himself so he now sat facing the young man. He now saw what the Monolith was hunched over. A (relatively) small cat was resting in the palm of one hand, while the other absently stroked it between the shoulder blades. How the creature got any satisfaction from this when God wore armored gauntlets, Serrat did not know.

Picking up the cat by the scruff, God gently placed her on the bench. “Now, business. What is it that makes a God God, Serrat, and not merely a demon or avatar?”

“The ability to create Life, O Lord.”

“Correct.” Placing his hands on his the Monolith straightened himself. “I wish to create life, Serrat. A new race, to act as a shield for the Volkskeelz and a hammer with which to batter our enemies.”

“Are not the people of Skeelzania, your sons and daughters satisfying?” Anxiety swelled within Serrat’s breast.

God chuckled at him. “Do not worry yourself, Serrat. I find my people to be strong and virile, and well suited to the tasks set before them. However, I perceive a great war approaching, when skies will boil and rocks burn. Battles will rage on planets and among the stars, and losses will be grievous for all. I wish to shield the Volkskeelz from some of that destruction by throwing out new life to absorb the fires.”

“What do you propose, O Lord.”

“Elves.”

Serrat couldn’t of been more surprised is God had turned into a cereal-peddling leprechaun. Elves? Keeblers? The race of the Enemy, the Bitch, those who had opposed the Chosen People since the dawn of time and the Spoot Wars? He opened his mouth to object, but God cut him off. “Hear me out. Our people are strong, yet are the claymore to the Elven rapier. Where we destroy utterly they can remove selectively, leaving more spoils to the victor. And of course, if we do not need them they can be frozen indefinitely, or even sealed away on a planet. Humans invariably go mad with immortality, yet the Elves seem adept at it.

“Before we were expelled by the arrogance of The Mindset, Skeelzania developed ties through the ESUS with the ‘Human Imperium’ of Central Facehuggeria. Although their faith is misplaced their souls are true; they seek for humans to resume their rightful place as masters of existence. Among their many differences they practice the curious institution of slavery; apparently their warriors find pointed ears attractive. As such they are constantly hunting out new supplies of Elf-flesh, to slake their thirst. They have been contacted and know of our request. You will meet with their representatives and negotiate a purchase.” He paused, reaching underneath the stone bench. “Here. This dossier contains all the details of your quest. It will tell you what to look for and what to demand, it also lays out how far I am willing to go for Elf-flesh. Your history and experience have deemed you suitable for this task, and I have utmost faith in your capability. Return to the surface Serrat. Rooms are ready for you, though I expect you will need to travel shortly. The meeting place is as yet undetermined. Go with confidence, for you will be my Harbinger.”

Serrat blinked, and God was again facing the other way. The meeting was over. Rising up from the grass, he made his way back to the lift.

*** *** *** *** ***

Shooting through the sub-ether a message arrived in Central Facehuggeria.

“The Skeelzanian Sternreich requests assistance from our human brethren. Our God has decreed that a new race is to be established, and that He requires Elf-flesh to achieve this. We respectfully request to meet with a representative to discuss purchasing arrangements.”

It would take a high-grade military AI a dozen cycles to churn through the all the data present in the Slavers' Guild messaging systems. Slaves being transferred to and fro, food being procured to feed them, the shipment of 'training' devices to their new masters. The sheer volume of logistic messages alone would give most accountants pause. Slavery in Central Facehuggeria was big business, and it certainly seemed as though they had a new customer. The Skeelzanians’ message was shunted through underling to underling until it finally crawled up the guild’s hierarchy into the upper echelons of power. To the very top as a matter of fact.

The air was thick with sweat, and it had the stench of humanoid filth, of blood mixed with other, less savory body fluids. Overseer Vraan strode through the guild-halls easily, confidently. He had walked them a thousand times before. The miserable and perverted sights there, the ones that cause most decent men to retch, had never affected him. Indeed, to become a leader in the Slaver’s guild requires two things. Total moral bankruptcy, and a patent hatred for the ‘lesser species.’ The Elves, Wookies, and other aliens that were considered too valuable for total annihilation at the hands of the Imperial military, but not worthy of respect or freedom. Vraan’s eyes were blinded towards the secret atrocities of his profession by hatred and indifference towards the pitiful slaves’ situation.

The man that Vraan was going to meet was the absolute pinnacle of the Guild’s pecking order. Guildmaster Heinrich, a wizened old man who has led the Guild for decades. Heinrich may have been old, but he was by no means senile. His old and decaying form hid a malevolent spark of intelligence as befits one of the most powerful men in the Empire.

Finally, Vraan entered the marble and obsidian throne-room where Heinrich resided. Everything in the brilliantly lit room shined, from the careful mix of Marble and Obsidian walls to the vivid and gaudy Arabian rugs, to the extraordinarily rare jewels that encrusted the Guildmaster’s throne, to the ever-shifting crown on his head that seemed to change color and hue from one glance to the next. Oddly, the man did not seem to have any slaves in his public domain, something patently strange for the most important Slaver in the Empire.

“I come as summoned, Guildmaster.” Vraan’s voice was a careful mix of subservience and contradicting independence. He was still inferior in status to Heinrich, but he was not a lowly guard by any means.

"Ahh, Vraan. I’m glad to see you. Punctual as always, I see. Good. I have need of your unique skills. You are my most promising Lieutenant, Vraan. I need you for a very special transaction. Here…” Heinrich’s voice was old, wise, and totally malevolent. But Vraan sensed that malevolence was not directed towards him. Indeed, it seemed to be aimed at some other event or person far removed from... Vraan’s thought was interrupted however when Heinrich held out a small holopad, presumably containing information that he would need for the task ahead.

Once that was done, Heinrich continued. “I have received word that the Skeelzanians wish to buy Elves. This is good because I wish to sell Elves. I am sending you to negotiate this deal. But remember we do not cheat good customers because they are as rare as an obedient pony. And more importantly, understand that we are looking to unload these Elves for any price, no matter how low. I have it on very good authority that the Elvish slave market in the Empire may be hitting rock bottom soon, at least if what my sources in the government tell me about this slave revolt is true.“

“I understand, Guildmaster. I shall get as high a price as I can, but I am to unload these elves no matter how low the Skeelzania government demands. May the Empire and the Guild last for time eternal.” Vraan said, nodding his assent before he turned on his heels and sped to the hangar. Time was of the essence.

Moments after entering the hangar, Vraan saw his ship, parked and ready for take off. Her blue-white surface glinting harshly in the well-lit facility. Within minutes, Vraan had strapped himself into the pilot’s couch and engaged the auto-launch protocols. Only once the tiny vessel had erupted from the atmosphere and entered quasi-space did he dare to view the holopad that Heinrich had given him. It contained all the basic information he would need. But most importantly, it gave his destination coordinates a name. Vraan smiled. Officially it was ‘Habitation and research station 01/138,’ but Vraan knew it as slave-station Triangle Trade, named after one of the key trade-routes of pre-Elf Old Earth. He had much experience there. He was familiar with it.

The station itself was small, cramped, and thousands of years old. Hardly the first place some slobbering anti-slaveryite would come looking for trouble. And the best part? There wasn’t a slave on the station. Any would-be liberator would most assuredly be in the wrong for raiding an innocent civilian research colony…

There was but one problem with the place, and that was its lack of modern amenities. No holo-orbs, Stim circulatories, or even parks. It was even too small and old for redundant docking rings. It had but two docking ports. One for Vraan’s ship, and one for the ship of any prospective customers or ‘visitors’ who came to see the old and decrepit station.


ESUS-Encrypted Encoded response to the Skeelzanian Sternreich:
Subject: Purchase.

Very well. We shall have a representative meet with you at the following coordinates. *Coordinates lead to a small civilian habitation station in deep space some distance outside of Sol.*

Your representative may come armed as he wishes, but we request no more then four bodyguards and one small ship present at the meeting. The coordinates are sensitive and there are many nations out there who would like nothing more than to shut our operation down. The less who know of our meeting places, the better.

We look forward to your business.

The black ship exited hyperspace a few hundred miles from the station. A Mahon Xebec, it was a small, speedy craft whose crew had been recently hanged on smuggling charges. Officially it had been scraped, but unofficially it served as a covert transport for FS and DIED agents. Serrat had hunted many of these vessels, and knew they made hardly a blip on most scanners. Perfect for traveling to a secret meeting practically in the Keebler’s backyard.

Currently he was in his cabin, his steward putting the final touches on the jet-black FS uniform. Both were looking at the station on the in-room vidscreen. “Ugly little stub of a station, isn’t?” Remarked the steward, a long-time employee. “Don’t seem ah right place to be meetin’ ah Skeelzanian.”

“We’re within easy jump distance of Sol, true, but it is also discreet. The Keeblers would feel something is up if we arrived with a twenty-gun salute.” Giving a small shrug of his shoulders, Serrat switched the view screen to reflective, showing the room from many different angles. “Perfect. Go tell comms to tell them that I’m heading over.”

A few minutes later Serrat was speeding from the Xebec to the station, his small shuttlepod zeroing in on the one remaining dock. As the ship trembled with deceleration thrusts, Serrat placed his hand protectively on the dossier. He had been reviewing it almost constantly since he received it, and was now intimately familiar with its details. The base stock must be of physically strong material, preferably with psychic abilities…all females must be of fertile stock and not pre-subjected to mind or body altering procedures…Quendi -phenomena sought…

The pod gave a lurch; the blackness of space had been replaced with the cold interior of the Central Facehuggerian station. Releasing the hatch and firmly gripping the dossier, Serrat climbed down the outside of the craft to the station floor. Dropping the last few inches with a thud, he turned to meet his hosts.

Vraan looked upwards as the giant climbed down the rickety metal ladder into the cramped and almost dusty space-station, landing with a heavy thud on the metal and plastic deck. "Ahh... Greetings. You must be the representative of Skeelzania. My name is Overseer Vraan, and I speak for the Facehuggerian Slavers’ guild at this meeting.” Vraan was not a short man by any stretch of the imagination, but even he was dwarfed by the seven foot giant now standing before him. The man looked strong enough to break Vraan’s neck with a single hand, if he should so decide.

”I better be careful not to arouse his ire.” Vraan thought to himself as he shook hands with the man and lead him to the ‘meeting’ room.

Indeed, the meeting room was not even worthy of the name. It had a pair of large, metallic, and overall austere chairs. In addition to a small coffee table, and a small holoprojector/communications device that Vraan had added only recently. No plants, no paintings, no signs of life in general. The walls were unadorned, white, and metal. Even a professional detective would be hard pressed to find something of interest in that room. It seemed made for business deals, not idle chit-chat.

“Why don’t you take a seat?” Vraan said as he gestured towards one of the large chairs.

After sitting in the other, he placed his fingers together like a real salesman and asked “Now, I understand you are looking for Elves. We have plenty of every variety, but I need to know more. I need to know what you’re looking for, and more importantly, how many you want....”

Serrat quickly took in the room. Rather austere, but not much worse than what you would expect on a poor man-of-war. In any case, Serrat was not expecting luxury at this meeting. The small chair skid back with a screech as the Skeelzania lowered himself into it, giving a few noticeable creaks but holding. Placing the dark leather dossier on the table, he leaned back and began.

“Overseer Vraan, my name is Montague de Serrat, Special Operative of the Imperial Guard. I have been tasked by God to negotiate the purchase of a large supply of Elves from your nation. However, we are not looking for some cheap comfort women; our troops would never demean themselves so.” A lie, Serrat having seen the full spectrum of debauchery following large boarding actions or liberty after extended patrols. “We have rather specific goals in mind, though of course they are subject to some flexibility.

“To be frank, the Divine Emperor requires a new source of cannon fodder. He does not wish to sacrifice Skeelzania’s young and poor in large-scale planetary assaults, nor in costly boarding actions. Through his divine wisdom he has settled on Elves as the logical choice. Our scientists and bioengineers can do amazing things, but we still require a base stock.

“The men in white coats have given us an estimate that 40,000 elves, with 75% of them female, shall provide a sufficient base. These elves must be of strong stock, we are not looking for dwarfish shoe-makers. Elves of the Eldar, Noldor, or Sindar race have been judged most suitable for this requirement, although perhaps you are aware of more varieties.

“Secondly, these elves should be possessed of good intellect and preferably “psychic” powers. Our own race is naturally retarded concerning the latter, and undoubtedly God seeks to balance this. Remember that all candidates must meet both of these requirements; I do not wish to see an Ork of an Elf nor some sort of telepathic midget.

“Furthermore, there is a third test: immortality. You can spend thousands of baskzs training millions of troops to fight a hypothetical war, only to have them age and die before battle is joined. Elves do not suffer from the effects of age, and thus can be bred, trained, and stored indefinitely. We are aware that there has been some genetic deviance among the Elfoid races, and that many no longer possess the ‘Quendi-phenomena’. For that reason we are willing to compromise on this prerequisite, with extremely long life being an alternative.”

Serrat let that soak in for a moment before continuing. “Within that dossier you will find much more detailed lists of traits that I am to look for, but those three are the basics. However, know that I do not wish to see any changed or altered or damaged merchandise. Any tampering on your part may destroy any value the stock has to us, and if it was to enter the general gene pool might prove disastrous. For that reason I will only be purchasing fresh Elves, free of any tampering your people may have indulged in.”

OOC: I would question the divinity of any ‘god’ who lacks the ability to create an intelligent life form without having another one to make it from. That’s little more than genetic modification. Why, even Lord Atum, the most fraudulent god on NS (as far as I know) has that knowledge.

It’s also none too nice to deny so-called ‘keeblers’ the chance to act against you. And ‘psychic’ Quendi are what one would call… incredibly rare.

Eldar is, in the Quendi context, a term reffering to the Noldor, Vanyar and Teleri. It is not separate from the Noldor or Sindarin group. If you refer to WH40K Eldar, then I would point out that they are both incredibly rare in NS (I have only encountered 2 RPing nations) and categorically not Quendi. They are not descended from Quendi, nor are they based on Quendi. They are not possessed of the same characteristics as Quendi, and they are simply not Quendi-Elves.

Anyway, happy oppression of the 'inferior species.'

OOC: I would question the divinity of any ‘god’ who lacks the ability to create an intelligent life form without having another one to make it from. That’s little more than genetic modification. Why, even Lord Atum, the most fraudulent god on NS (as far as I know) has that knowledge.

It’s also none too nice to deny so-called ‘keeblers’ the chance to act against you. And ‘psychic’ Quendi are what one would call… incredibly rare.

Eldar is, in the Quendi context, a term reffering to the Noldor, Vanyar and Teleri. It is not separate from the Noldor or Sindarin group. If you refer to WH40K Eldar, then I would point out that they are both incredibly rare in NS (I have only encountered 2 RPing nations) and categorically not Quendi. They are not descended from Quendi, nor are they based on Quendi. They are not possessed of the same characteristics as Quendi, and they are simply not Quendi-Elves.

Anyway, happy oppression of the 'inferior species.'

OOC: The reason this is closed is because I know the Elven nations would overreact, and don't want that right now. Also of course my god is a fraud, he isn't divine and he's quite insane (or at least getting there). He is capable of creating "life", though their really just nanite replicas of himself. However, thanks to some of the features he built into himself he does have rather remarkable "powers" and simply inserted himself into the gaping Messiah hole in Skeelzanian religion. Also technically speaking he isn't the God, but rather some sort of metaphysical rebirth of the original Skeelzanian god. Assuming he's really a god in the first place (which he isn't).

I'm also aware of the difference between Tolkienite Elves (Quendi and the subgroups[Noldor, Sindar, etc]) and WH40K Elves, commonly referred to as the Eldar. Since Tolkien's Elves also referred to themselves as such it does lead to confusion occasionally, but know that whenever I refer to "Eldar" its the WH40K type, and not the ones found in the Silmarillion or the Lord of the Rings. I said their suitable because, although they are not related, they meet the same general requirements. The only thing wrong with them is that they are not truly immortal, though having very long lifespans.

The only thing wrong with them is that they are not truly immortal, though having very long lifespans.

And their habit of turning everything in a five thousand light year radius into a literal hell if you breed them too hard.

And, given the lack of a legitimate IC reason to know, I see no reason why you'd get swamped by elves.

And their habit of turning everything in a five thousand light year radius into a literal hell if you breed them too hard.

And, given the lack of a legitimate IC reason to know, I see no reason why you'd get swamped by elves.

At least one of them has some super detect-all monitoring system which I would assume is set to keep an eye on hostile countries, of which Skeelzania is one.

At least one of them has some super detect-all monitoring system which I would assume is set to keep an eye on hostile countries, of which Skeelzania is one.

http://bbs.stardestroyer.net/images/smiles/wtf.gif None of the many elf nations I RP with has this ability. Menelmacar has extensive sattelite networks surveying the Earth. Which you have nothing to do with.

And, given the lack of a legitimate IC reason to know, I see no reason why you'd get swamped by elves.

OOC:
Then why were you complaining about not giving the Elf nations a chance to intervene? If they couldn’t ICly do so anyway without using OOC knowledge, why mention it at all? I am so confused. :p

Apologies for my absence BTW, I've been sick and I had to graduate before that. (Probably how I got sick in the first place! :p)

BTW, any IC opinions expressed by my characters are just that, IC opinions. ;)

IC:

Vraan smiled as he listened to the Skeelzanian’s requests. Most of them seemed reasonable enough. The dossier contained more of the same, none of them particularly difficult to provide. “Cannon fodder? But of course. Elves -when properly trained- fill that role quite admirably. Your request for physical fitness is easily met. We will merely have to feed the creatures basic protein and train them with exercise machines.”

But as he heard the request for Psychic elves, he sighed. “But, I find myself concerned about your request for psionic capable elves. Such a breed is extremely rare, and while we could produce psionic Elves with some genetic tinkering, I understand that you wish for your stock to be as pure as possible. There are only perhaps two thousand natural psionic elves total in the Empire, compared to the untold millions of mundane units we possess. Now I am of course willing to sell you our psionic elves, but understand that they will be more costly and that they are by their very nature more dangerous than a more commonplace Elf.”

“As for your other requests, they seem completely reasonable. Intelligence is something that our Elf slaves have in abundance, it is knowledge they lack. They can learn as fast as an average human, but we deliberately keep their skills stunted until they are purchased. We teach them as little as humanly possible until we’ve sold them…

…And freshness is certainly not a problem, as we are always recovering new slave stock from outlying worlds. For your purchase, I will merely give them over to your government before our beast-trainers have broken them. And that brings me to your final request. Most Elves in general are very long-lived by human standards, with many of our slaves living to their seven hundredth birthday before they die for a multitude of reasons. But interestingly enough, the ‘immortality’ seems to be more related to their own mindset rather than their genetics. If an elf simply loses the ‘will to live,’ they die. The key is to break them without destroying their hope. That is why we allow them to think there is a free elf world out there with the power and will to stop us. Not that such a world exists, of course…” Vraan explained, taking a quick swig of water to wet his dry throat, raspy from so much talking.

Vraan paused for a moment as he let his words sink in to the man mountain before him. Then, he continued with “Here is what I propose. Sixty six point six million US Dollars per psychic elf, and one thousand US Dollars per mundane elf. Unfortunately we have a very limited supply of the former, perhaps a thousand or two in all. Every unit you purchase will be untainted by genetic or psychological modification and will come ‘as is.’ All will be uncorrupted and unbroken as per your request. Sound acceptable?”

Naturally, he started at the going rate, knowing that he couldn’t really get too high a price, but hoping that he wouldn’t have to go too low either.

The Skeelzanian customs agent chuckled. "We will ensure to it that our Elves do not lose the will to live. I dare say that we will teach them to love their new existance. You cannot ride a vhorse if you have blown it's head off. Now, as to prices..." Serrat did some calculations in his head, recalling what was the preferable price for Elves.

"We will give you thirty million dollars for each pyschic elf, a thousand of them. Although God has shown an interest in them, they are a secondary objective, as I read the requirements. Frankly I think they are dangerous and of no discernable use to us. Skeelzania has survived for 450 years without pyschics.

"Pertaining to 'normal' elves, we are willing to pay $750 Universal Standard Dollars. We can do this either virtually or in hard currency, though maybe with some other nation's..." Serrat reached into his pocket and withdrew a gold coin, about two inches across. He looked at it idly before flicking it over to Vraan. It was a twenty-baskz gold peice, one side faced with the legendary admiral Van Cleef, and the other stamped with the Spoot Star. It seemed unnaturally heavy, and gave a slight hum. "Ours is a bit detrimental to other's health."