Allanea
26-09-2006, 17:41
The White House
“Mr. President, we have hideous news.”
“What happened?”
“Our expedition to the Scupltor Galaxy was exterminated almost completely.”
“What the…” – the President raised his head in surprise – surprise that was completely concealed by his voice modifier and faceplate.
“We estimate ten thousand or more dead. The survivors describe it as a pirate attack. Sensor drone readings gained before the attack state that the entire sector of space is populated by pirates. I kid you not, Mr. President. Hundreds of habitable systems full of them, Sir.”
“Mother of god. How, precisely, do these pirate support themselves? What, precisely, do they pirate? Apart, of course, from settlers from other galaxies.”
“We have no idea, Sir. The point is, however, that they are pirates and they call themselves the Gradasi. And they killed ten thousand or more innocent Allanean citizens.”
“Good.”
“…good? How?”
“In that I don’t need the approval of Congress to fight pirates. Prepare the Second and Third Force Projection Fleet. Pick some random planet and attack it. Oh, and give me my yacht."
“The Miriel? But Mr. President, you’re not going to travel there in a completely unarmed yacht…”
“It’s not completely unarmed. It has CIWS. Now go on my orders.”
The Miriel Nos Feanor Presidential Yacht
The long –insanely so - craft ascended from drydock and through the athmosphere. Around it, clouds of brightly-painted Hughies that became the trademark of the Allanean space fleet hovered.
Deep in the body of the unscrewed ‘yacht’ was a single room in which nobody was ever invited, except the owner of the yacht himself. The walls of the room were decorated with clippings of dozens of Menelmacari newspapers, blogposts and websites from Menelmacar detailing the lives of the rich and famous. And a single rich and famous person was shown on each and every one of them.
“Miriel….” – the President’s lips moved slightly, but there was no sound. Even had a man been standing right next to Alexander, listening carefull, he would not have heard him. And yet the President was not wearing his battlearmor, his cape and helmet were not with him today – the pain in his face would speak louder then himself.
He sat down and began to write – yet another letter.
Miriel dearest,
As I write, the ship I named after you (after the hospital ship was decommissioned, of course) is about to take off for the Sculptor Galaxy. I decided to partake myself in the fighting. I cannot be killed – only disembodied. While that condition is unpleasant, I do not believe I should fear danger while the men who have trusted their very lives to my guidance are indeed exposed to a much greater one.
Regardless, I considered this a good occasion to write to you. Around me I see Allanea – a nation which I have built with my own effort, and which is now blooming and more beautiful then ever before. It pains me infinitely that I will never be able to share its beauty with you, to stand with you on a tower in Liberty-City, to show you the ski slopes near Deriksburg and the endless forests of Ngmweni. The pain I experience, knowing that your will never see or understand the full beauty of that which is Allanea is almost as much as the pain that is caused to me by the knowledge I will never see you again.
Within hours, we will enter hyperfold. Even with our drives it will take a long time to take us to Scupltor. Once we are there, a war of incredible violence will begin, and will be fought until the Gradasi are taught their lesson. I hope you will not despise me or hate me (although I suppose you are laughing at me as you read this) for what I am about to inflict upon the Gradasi.
Yours truly,
Alex.
He sat there, pondering for a second. Should he send this letter? Would it explain anything? Or would it only hammer the nails further in whatever falsehood (or truth) she must already believe about him?
He grabbed the letter. Within a second, it was a small paper ball. It flew through the air – and landed just short of a small basket filled with others of the same sort. It only took the electronic cleaning gear a few seconds to dispose of it.
Aboard the other ships
The preparations went into their final stage. Inside the ships, dozens and dozens of Hammerhead-R robotic tanks and their Sec-3 counterparts were secured in position, and next to them, thousands of infantry drones and airborne drones. Space Marines checked their battle rifles and knives – and on the intership communications, a patriotic song played.
This time, the song of the Gravbike Cavalry was chosen for entry into hyperspace.
Tis Cameron the rebel who leans on his sword
And while we are mounting praise low to the Lord
Now each cavalier who loves Honor and Right
Let him follow the flag of Allanea tonight.[/j]
To the bigger ships Rube-class cargo freighters were attached in a rather lazy fashion. Even if some of them detached accidentally during hyperspace-fold transit, the Allaneans would not mind much – and the likelihood would be that they would not be detached, but instead arrive safely in Sculptor Galaxy. After the arrival, the Zero One products would likely soon be used, and then would cease to be needed.
President Kazansky exited the room in full armor, cape flowing proudly behind him. From his ships’ control room, he watched quietly at the lights of Allanean cities – Liberty City, Port-Allanea, Randsburg, Gush-Katif, and so forth – as they blinked at him for one last time as his finger hovered over the HYPER button. And somewhere out there was Vinyatirion, too… and one of those stars must have been Duat…
[i]Now gallop, now gallop to swim or to ford
Our Admiral's still watching, praise low to the Lord
Goodbye Dear Old Rebel, the river's not wide
And Allanea's lights in her windows to guide.
He pressed the button.
“Mr. President, we have hideous news.”
“What happened?”
“Our expedition to the Scupltor Galaxy was exterminated almost completely.”
“What the…” – the President raised his head in surprise – surprise that was completely concealed by his voice modifier and faceplate.
“We estimate ten thousand or more dead. The survivors describe it as a pirate attack. Sensor drone readings gained before the attack state that the entire sector of space is populated by pirates. I kid you not, Mr. President. Hundreds of habitable systems full of them, Sir.”
“Mother of god. How, precisely, do these pirate support themselves? What, precisely, do they pirate? Apart, of course, from settlers from other galaxies.”
“We have no idea, Sir. The point is, however, that they are pirates and they call themselves the Gradasi. And they killed ten thousand or more innocent Allanean citizens.”
“Good.”
“…good? How?”
“In that I don’t need the approval of Congress to fight pirates. Prepare the Second and Third Force Projection Fleet. Pick some random planet and attack it. Oh, and give me my yacht."
“The Miriel? But Mr. President, you’re not going to travel there in a completely unarmed yacht…”
“It’s not completely unarmed. It has CIWS. Now go on my orders.”
The Miriel Nos Feanor Presidential Yacht
The long –insanely so - craft ascended from drydock and through the athmosphere. Around it, clouds of brightly-painted Hughies that became the trademark of the Allanean space fleet hovered.
Deep in the body of the unscrewed ‘yacht’ was a single room in which nobody was ever invited, except the owner of the yacht himself. The walls of the room were decorated with clippings of dozens of Menelmacari newspapers, blogposts and websites from Menelmacar detailing the lives of the rich and famous. And a single rich and famous person was shown on each and every one of them.
“Miriel….” – the President’s lips moved slightly, but there was no sound. Even had a man been standing right next to Alexander, listening carefull, he would not have heard him. And yet the President was not wearing his battlearmor, his cape and helmet were not with him today – the pain in his face would speak louder then himself.
He sat down and began to write – yet another letter.
Miriel dearest,
As I write, the ship I named after you (after the hospital ship was decommissioned, of course) is about to take off for the Sculptor Galaxy. I decided to partake myself in the fighting. I cannot be killed – only disembodied. While that condition is unpleasant, I do not believe I should fear danger while the men who have trusted their very lives to my guidance are indeed exposed to a much greater one.
Regardless, I considered this a good occasion to write to you. Around me I see Allanea – a nation which I have built with my own effort, and which is now blooming and more beautiful then ever before. It pains me infinitely that I will never be able to share its beauty with you, to stand with you on a tower in Liberty-City, to show you the ski slopes near Deriksburg and the endless forests of Ngmweni. The pain I experience, knowing that your will never see or understand the full beauty of that which is Allanea is almost as much as the pain that is caused to me by the knowledge I will never see you again.
Within hours, we will enter hyperfold. Even with our drives it will take a long time to take us to Scupltor. Once we are there, a war of incredible violence will begin, and will be fought until the Gradasi are taught their lesson. I hope you will not despise me or hate me (although I suppose you are laughing at me as you read this) for what I am about to inflict upon the Gradasi.
Yours truly,
Alex.
He sat there, pondering for a second. Should he send this letter? Would it explain anything? Or would it only hammer the nails further in whatever falsehood (or truth) she must already believe about him?
He grabbed the letter. Within a second, it was a small paper ball. It flew through the air – and landed just short of a small basket filled with others of the same sort. It only took the electronic cleaning gear a few seconds to dispose of it.
Aboard the other ships
The preparations went into their final stage. Inside the ships, dozens and dozens of Hammerhead-R robotic tanks and their Sec-3 counterparts were secured in position, and next to them, thousands of infantry drones and airborne drones. Space Marines checked their battle rifles and knives – and on the intership communications, a patriotic song played.
This time, the song of the Gravbike Cavalry was chosen for entry into hyperspace.
Tis Cameron the rebel who leans on his sword
And while we are mounting praise low to the Lord
Now each cavalier who loves Honor and Right
Let him follow the flag of Allanea tonight.[/j]
To the bigger ships Rube-class cargo freighters were attached in a rather lazy fashion. Even if some of them detached accidentally during hyperspace-fold transit, the Allaneans would not mind much – and the likelihood would be that they would not be detached, but instead arrive safely in Sculptor Galaxy. After the arrival, the Zero One products would likely soon be used, and then would cease to be needed.
President Kazansky exited the room in full armor, cape flowing proudly behind him. From his ships’ control room, he watched quietly at the lights of Allanean cities – Liberty City, Port-Allanea, Randsburg, Gush-Katif, and so forth – as they blinked at him for one last time as his finger hovered over the HYPER button. And somewhere out there was Vinyatirion, too… and one of those stars must have been Duat…
[i]Now gallop, now gallop to swim or to ford
Our Admiral's still watching, praise low to the Lord
Goodbye Dear Old Rebel, the river's not wide
And Allanea's lights in her windows to guide.
He pressed the button.