NationStates Jolt Archive

Flickering gas lamps dimly illuminated a cobbled street, the distant murmer of revelling partygoers interspersed with the sound of a horse trotting along the road, cart rumbling after. The stars were shining brightly upon the large city, glittering off of slated rooftops in a mass of chimneys. In the central square, thousands of people gathered for a momentous occasion, dressed in their finery, the gentlemen in grand top hats, expertly tailored suits, and more than one pair of dirt and grime covered flight goggles. The ladies wore elaborate hairstyles, too much perfume and ridiculously large skirts that the servants, hulking green skinned oafs wearing white coats with black bow ties had to weave through, berated furiously if they dared make contact. The screech of a rocket could be heard, and all eyes turned to the sky, as it erupted in flares of gold and silver and deep reds and blues. The crowd gasped appreciatively at the spectacle, ignorant of the hiss of a steam powered crane raising a large flat panel into the sky. Cogs and gears whirred roughly, and jets of steam shot from the engine as it strained to elevate its load. Rumbling to a halt, several grimey engineers in blue overalls, far shorter than a person, hurried from the sight of the gathered nobilities. A servants job, after all, relied on discretion. From an extended balcony on the city chambers building, on the south side of the square, a thin, youthful man with sheet white hair and an impeccably tailored black suit, clinging to his graceful body, stepped out into the open. He tapped the microphone, a bulky brass device the bulk of which was concealed within drapes below the balcony, though it made a dim drone that could be heard if one was listening, to attract the crowds attention. Taking their eyes from the sky, they gazed at him as he dramatically took a pocket watch from his coat. Staring at it intently, appearing to ignore the crowd, he spoke with a southern twang most people associated with the far continent.

"Good citizens, today is a most momentous day for all of our people, around the globe. It has been but one hundred short years since we laid tracks around the globe, and embraced the advent of the steam engine. Since then, it has affected every way we live, ushering us, single handed, into an era of unforetold luxury. When not one of us is untouched by the power of these machines to take us effortlessly round the world, to tend our fields, and even replace the need for a living being to die in battle. Now they will not take us around our world, but beyond. Ever since our finest minds used their fantastical far-seeing lenses to spy water, and forests, and mountains made of gold itself on the surface of our moon, you, the good and brave people of Artanus, have invested your fortunes and times to construct a craft capable of travelling there. We have watched with fascination as one hundred ships have raced through the void to claim the new world for Artanus, and win the grand prize of Ten Thousand Lorans. Of those brave pioneers, all but 8 have turned back, or vanished under mysterious circumstances. But! One soul sent us a wireless telegram yesterday, stating he was far in the lead, and would be landing on the surface of the New World tonight! This night, this time is now.He confirmed not one hour ago that he would be landing any second." He gestured at the panel held in the cranes arm with his left arm, casually, the crowd looking at the monstrosity as it thrummed with energy. The panel flickered with a static image intermittently for a few seconds, before once again resuming a plain black colour.

Speaking again, the gentleman continued. "In a few moments, we will be receiving the first wireless telegram from another world! I implore you, do not take your eyes from the screen, lest you miss the defining event of our Steam-driven age."

He set the microphone down, and looked at the panel. For nearly a minute, it was as motionless as the people watching, but without warning, it flickered into life. White writing appeared.

"Successful Landing stop Looks like the prize is mine stop very glad to be here stop No natives so far might go for a stroll stop Can see my house from here stop Feeling quite far from home Stop Will begin return voyage soon stop Don't touch my cheque stop"

The crowd exploded in an outburst of joy, hats were flung into the air, and songs of celebration cast about with abandon. Servants flooded in from all angles dispensing drinks to the jubilant crowd, whilst the fireworks once more drowned out the stars with their blossoming colours.

Far above the city, looking down on the lit roads as they crossed the city like arteries, a zepellin hovered motionlessly. Aboard, their was a room lit with garish filament bulbs, oversized globes of glass sheltering a white hot piece of wire. 15 people sat round a table, chairs and bodies of various sizes. The white haired man on the balcony was also at the head of this highly polished oaken table, and was named Maximillian Radcliffe.

"The council of technologists will come to order. Taking minutes this evening is Paula Gravenlass." he waved his arm towards a very small, stocky woman with a thick jaw and a none too happy demeanour.

"The successful landing brings us many new opportunities for Artan, ladies and gentlemen. I know several of you even now are constructing shipyards anchored only by momentum and gravity in the void, for a vast fleet to sail to other stars like our own, and set up new business opportunities, and advance the destiny of the people of Artan. I believe, however, that the council must remain thoroughly unified so we do not squander this great new opportunity on petty infighting." The council murmered its assent quietly."I propose that each of us combine our efforts in creating these shipyards by combining labour forces and raw materials - in the short term - so that we may reap higher profits when the time has come. Those that contribute to this process I assure you, will be reimbursed for their expenditure. Are we agreed?" Again, murmers of assent, this time, less enthusiastically. "Excellent. Now, another matter. There is an experiment of great scientific importance a week from now. It has attracted much interest amongst the minor industrialists, seeking ways to enter our market with innovative ideas. I anticipate this experiment, if successful, will allow them a way to do so, if we are complacent. Therefore, I, and any of you amongst the council who desire, should attend. I believe it is concerning the astronomical physicist Riddendorf, a gnome of some repute amongst the scientific community, and a breakthrough into his experiments to manifest matter, with the power of steam and electricity, in a new location, instantaneously and without having to travel the intervening distance. The applications for this in our efforts to seek out new peoples to civilise, are obvious..."

The council meeting continued for many hours until it eventually dispanded, the council of technologists each with their own tasks and goals for the coming months.Riddendorfs experiment was a success of sorts, riding high on a wave of achievment in Artan, and his "ingenius technological matter transplacer and relocation device" was sure to become a fundamental part of navigating the uncharted deeps of the void, even if it was widely regarded as needing a little more refinement. Only half of the intended article, a steam locomotive, appeared in its intended location. The other, as people found out to their surprise a minute later, manifested itself 1 mile above its destination, and caused nearly a thousand Lorans in cleaning expenses. To further the complications, it took 3 days to restore the electronic power within a 5 mile radius. Still, industrialists and entrepeneurs siezed the potential of the gadget. Barely a year later, it was complete. A single ship, governed by the most advanced clockwork calculator ever conceived, as launched from Port Radcliffe docks and shipyards. It had a simple goal, its calculator would cajole the matter transplacer into manifesting the void-going exploration vessel in several neighbouring (and further) star systems, and send a wireless telegram, a greeting from Artanus, throughout the vicinity. then it would spend a day waiting for a response, which would be stored in newly designed cards, that punched the information in a simplistic manner on the surface, for later reading. It would then move on to the next, and repeat the process, until its winding tour brought it back to Artanus, where the cards, if any, would be collated and read. the systems without a response would be marked for further expansion and exploitation by the Artan people.

A civilisation waited, as its mechanical messenger vanished to the unknown, to see who would say hello.

(OOC: Basic contact RP, introducing the nation of Artanus to NS at large. Open, of course.)

OOC: I am confused... you have horses and cobbled streets...? Yet you claim your FT. Could I have some Clarification?

OOC: I am confused... you have horses and cobbled streets...? Yet you claim your FT. Could I have some Clarification?

It's steampunk - like most FT, it requires some suspension of disbelief to work :) - Also, just because the technology is futuristic, does not mean the society is.

OOC: gotcha...

The universes always had something new to offer, something different was always awaiting on the other side of a planet or a moon. And this day was no different. the Hobbeebian Explorationary Fleet had seen some of the strangest things in their voyages: Alien life that should be alive, living machines , and ships resembling one of the ancient earth. This kept the job from getting stale, as most in the explorationary fleet only went home 3 times during their 10 years of duty. But this day would Herold a new discovery as the explorationary fleet would discover a planet just discovering its space travel systems.... The Explorationary fleet would make a friendly welcome..

" The is the Hobbeebian Imperiums Explorationary Fleet. I am Commander Lehigh. We would like to meet you people..."

Legion ('Ant Farm')

Like most of the Hypocrisy's extrasolar 'Colonies', Legion was little more than a sizeable rock, converted into a similarly sizeable habitat to house a few thousand or so occupants, more often than not occupants who'd difficulties living in the population centres of the Hypocrisy as they diverged too far from the mainstream - assorted ethnic groups wanting to keep to themselves, religious cults, the likes.

Legion housed one of the most peculiar subsocieties the Hypocrisy had to offer - a Gestalt, some hundred thousand strong, who arose from a people almost literally worshiping individualism, perfect uniformity in thought and deed from within a culture where everyone defined him- or herself by how different they were from each other.

It came as no surprise that they chose to live away from the hubs of activity in Sol, away from those of their kind who still, well, almost reviled them, instead choosing an isolated existence, connected with the Hypocrisy proper only by the most flimsy of ties.

Legion itself was surrounded by a surprisingly large - most certainly above average - grid of sensors (And other, somewhat more dangerous items), constantly monitoring its surroundings - the Gestalt wasn't the most adventurous entity in the universe, and didn't go for the exploratory escapades of the mainstream society, but it was careful enough (Not to mention highly interested in its own security) to watch its immediate surroundings, a dozen or so exametres or so in every direction.

Sometimes, it even kept contact with passing ships, although the relative lack of trade in the Hypocrisy in general and for the Gestalt in particular made this a rare occurrence, and nothing interesting had happened outside the 'Hive' for months.

This changed when a smallish sensory installation, pretty close to the rock in question, picked up the faster-than-light echo of a teleport (A very peculiar kind of teleport, if the data was to be trusted - certainly nothing anyone had seen before), quickly followed by more specific information - mass and density (Both pretty low), EM emissions (Extremely low, as if someone had pushed a Victorian ironclad into space), and-

And then there was a message. Pretty simple, low-frequency EM. Clearly organised - a language.

Nearby sensory installations conducted a number of scans of the rather curious object, quickly confirming its somewhat anachronistic properties (And incidentally, showering it in a pretty dense congregation of EM, some of which it'd doubtlessly 'Understand' - but only as random gibberish, which was what they were, in a sense), and at the same time confirming it as a 'Minor' threat - technically 'No' threat, but everything capable of teleporting was by its very nature a threat capable of not inconsiderable feats of destruction -, although the message it was sending, untranslated as it was, suggested quite peaceful purposes.

The Gestalt's curiosity was piqued, and a few more (And somewhat more importantly, significantly more detailed) surveys of the object were conducted.

The information the Gestalt received was somewhat lacking, though, and the Gestalt being a little more pragmatic than it was polite, it eventually instructed one of the sensor pods to simply rip out all available information from the object, which it promptly did, engaging its effector and taking everything it could get, be it electromagnetic or optic media that were hosting the information.

There was only a small problem with this, the problem being that 'Everything it could get' essentially amounted to 'Nothing at all'.

There were no electromagnetic, nor optic media inside the ship. There was a radiotransmitter, but it alone helped, well, not at all, either. It took the Gestalt a while to instruct its sensors to do an analysis of the object's internal structure - and this was what eventually informed it of the mechanic calculators and punchcard mechanisms used inside the ship, on a scale never before seen - or indeed, imagined - by it.

Within the Gestalt, a hundred thousand minds sharing ego(s) and opinion(s) thought about this for a moment, suggestions and ideas passing through poorly defined ego boundaries and permeating the whole.

Then they fired off a response to the unexpected visitor, unmistakably a message - while it was, of course, not in the language of the people this ship came from, it did contain reasonably obvious suggestions (In graphical form, sort of... Well, it probably wouldn't be understood immediately, but...) on how to meet next - an invitation, so to speak.

-=Scout Flight NCS-149-87A, On Perseus Run - Coreward

Captain Banko picked his teeth with a toothpick, eyes glazed over as he viewed the streaming readout on the console of his Hughie. This particular vessel was fit out for exploration, the modular nature of the Hughie making it lend readily to the task; various sensor domes and communication antennae sprouted out of the squat turrets on the vessel's spine. Not as impressive as certain Allanean takes on the Hughie, Captain Banko admitted, but then they tended to be hard to outdo in anything - flamboyancy numbering one in the list.

He leaned over to the console, and began scrolling through the messages on the comm channels. Same fare as usual - dire pronouncements, emerging FTL powers threatening universal conquest, war declarations - typical Orion-neighborhood bilge. Command mandated fairly relaxed reactions to them; essentially, make sure nobody that mattered was involved and delete the message. These emergent powers usually burned out fairly quickly.

He was about to go back to picking his teeth when another communique came in. He cocked an eyebrow as he checked the hardware it came from - radio transponder? Only ships which would send that sort of message must have gotten messed up enough that nothing else worked. He sighed, and punched a big red button labeled "Good Samaritan" - an alarm sounded in the crew bunks, rousing them to possible rescue duty.

Then he read the message though. His eyebrows furrowed... what kind of ship sends out official communiques on a radio band?

His scrutiny was interrupted by the entrance of Lt. Espen.

"Sir?" She asked smartly, "Whats the trouble?"

He continued to stare at the message, but replied, "Well now I have no idea. Message came in on a radio band but it's a communique, not a distress signal... the hell... it's got stops everywhere..."

"A telegram?" Lt. Espen hopefully offered.

"Sure," he grunted. "What pre-FTLs do we have on record for this sector?"

"Not many," she said. Going to another console, she brought up a window with a local map. "Closest one just went industrial."

He scratched his head. "We got a radio transponder in this mess?"

"I believe so sir," replied Lt. Espen.

"Okay then," he said slowly. "We'll play their game." He pulled over a keyboard, and wrote up a simple message:

Greetings from the Federal Republic of Ilë Sornë!

(OOC: Due to various chronological difficulties, I will be marking all posts (or segments therein) concerning details garnered from the punchcard scout as 3 months onward, when it is scheduled to return back to Artanus. Anyone who arrives at the planet directly without prompting from the punchcard scout will not have a chronological identifier as it is assumed to be 'now'.)


Port Radcliffe, high Artanus orbit
A single harsh bulb mounted on a wall clicked on and off repeatedly on the bridge of the Pilum, a message in morse from the seaman in the crows nest that his clockwork watcher had come across something curious, and unexpected, in its perpetual watching of the void. The New Artanian Void Navy had been sensible enough not to put all of its observational eggs in one nest, so to speak, however, and had scattered the watchers across the hull of the vessel, as they peered outside into the void with periscope-like devices, so the crows nest was less of a precarious position atop the ship, and more a cramped, almost subterranean burrow, surrounded by potentially hazardous cogs and a flurry of mechanical activity, supplemented by the incessant ticking of the clockwork watcher as it gazed into the unknown. This particular nest, at any rate had spotted several lumps of metal, closing swiftly, and looking somewhat more man-made than the vast majority of asteroids.At almost exactly the same time, the telegram operator slapped the side of his machine in frustration, as it whirred and clacked, printing out a steady sheet of gibberish, presumably the source of the operators ire. Almost instantly after that, several more lights from the other crows nests began to flash, almost immediately, their messages vying for attention against each other.With the ambient sounds of activity echoing through the whole ship, the entire scene could be considered a little overwhelming. To rear-admiral Eddington-Swithe, however, it merely evoked memories of simpler times, when he was commanding a flotilla of destroyers against some elven pirates in the tropics. His professionalism taught him not to reminisce, however, and to concentrate on whatever task was at hand. What was the task at hand? he thought to himself.

The centre of the bridge was a nexus of wires, expanding outwards throughout the vessel, all of them connecting a vital officer who could not afford to be at the bridge, instead supervising the men directly, to the captain, who was strapped into a chair, where all of the wires ended. On one of the arms of that chair, was a panel with sections of the ship marked down, like "engine room", and "crows nest fore", and a single socket next to each, where a wire from any portable morse generator could be slotted, allowing for nearly instantaneous communication across the entire ship. This device was more necessary than ever now, given the comparatively sedate pace achievable by floating through the air, and the ever increasing size of Artanian ships. Slotting the morse generator into the socket marked "crows nest fore", he tapped out a brief order to repeat.

"APPARENT MAN-MADE OBJECTS (LOOK TO BE FOREIGN VESSELS) ON COLLISION? COURSE WITH PORT RADCLIFFE"

The task at hand clarified, Eddington was still unsure on how to act. The wireless telegram operator sighed with frustration and leaned back into his seat as the device he manned spat out another load of garbage. It was then Eddington realised it wasn't a garble at all. It was another language in its entirety. It was obviously having some difficulty receiving the communication, however, so Eddington instead, tapped another order to the crewman in the nest.

"USE TORCH TO GIVE VISUAL SIGNAL TO FOREIGN VESSELS WITH MESSAGE AS FOLLOWS "THIS IS ARTANIAN" he stopped to think for a moment. What was it out here that belonged to Artanus? "TERRITORY ORDER ALL STOP RESPOND WITH MORSE AS TELEGRAM MACHINE INOPERABLE THANK YOU"

Eddington sat back in his seat, waiting to have the response relayed to him.

(OOC: Der Angst, and Arizona Nova, I'll respond ASAP, I'm just far too tired for anything more at the moment.)

OOC: This thread is open, right?

Ic: John let himself drift through space, taking in the vast emptiness. He spun around, and around, and around, until a voice echoed through his mind. John, come here. He turned to look around for his companion, a most beautiful woman named Autumn.

He drifted over to where she was. "Over there." she said, indicating. He reached out with his mind to the farthest reaches of his range... and barely detected a ship plucking out radio signals.

"Should we drop by?" He asked. Autumn nodded, and gathering up the nanites that made up her body, dropped into the alternate dimension known as the Vendakilian realm. John quickly followed.

When they were within range, Autumn and John quickly looked it over, studying it. After studying the system, Autumn quickly thought up a message and sent it to the ship. Then, they waited.

3 months later - 100 miles from Graventon, provincial capital of Rakanar, ancient region of the dwarven people.

In a deep valley, surrounded by snowcapped mountains, 3 dwarves stood next a small zepellin, somewhat larger than a contemporary triplane. They were standing, motionless, and none of them spoke a word, though it was clear from the look on their face that this was a very tense moment, and all of them were uncertain of its outcome. It would please them, then, that a few short moments later, there was a rush of air and a loud thunderclap, and barely 10 metres in front of them, a large brass clockwork machine manifested itself in front of them, falling a few feet and hitting the ground with a thud, still ticking away. Cogs whirred and gears scraped loudly as though they were in severe need of oiling, and there was the sound of metal tearing, and then a loud ding of a chime. Its activity stopped, and it spat out a handful of neatly ordered punchcards. Their feelings of relief were palpable, and in the middle of nowhere, they erupted into celebration in the quiet of the countriside, scattering birds and wakening the sleeping wildlife. Eventually, they clambered into their zepellin, shut the hatches, and left, leaving the historic vessel to rust. It did not occur to them that thousands of museums may want their hands on such a piece of equipment; after all, museums were for items of the past.

Graventon - the next day

An automobile, expertly crafted and polished to a black sheen, covered with light gold etchings in intricate patterns, rumbled along the street as its primitive petroleum engine spluttered and coughed, occasionally shooting a burst of smoke from its exhaust, startling horses and near choking passers-by. Its owner could only be identified from the white hair that trailed in the wind, barely contained behind an obscuring set of goggles. It pulled up alongside the entrance to a building, sturdily stonebuilt as per the common fashion, and rising at least 30 stories into the sky, its top obscured by a layer of afternoon smog as the factories some miles away churned out the myriad technological wonders of the age. The cars occupant, Maximillian Radcliffe, neatly climbed out of the car in a single motion, removing his goggles to let them hang around his neck, and checking his pocket watch. It was about the time estimated that the automatic translator, an immense gadget that took up the entirety of the upper five floors of the building, would have finished with the first of the punchcards returned from the explorer ship. Sure enough, when Maximillian reached the 25th floor, a brass arm was putting the final full stop on a document of considerable length. Fascinated dwarven engineers gathered round the manuscript in hushed awe, an entirely un-necessary and overly dramatic gesture to a machine they had built, that Maximillian found ridiculous, though he would never say that. Striding over, his shoes, impeccable like the rest of his attire, clacking on the marble floor, he took the document from the tray it had been left on, and leafed through it. Everything was in order, and the contraption worked. It even included diagrams, something the engineers had been skeptical it could translate with any accuracy. It also seemed to be a favourable response. Everyone, even Maximillian, though he would never admit it, had been concerned that the inhabitants of one of the worlds would be someone frightfully brutish, like ogres, who would not be worthwhile people to converse with at all. This was not the case, however.

The elevator doors opened with a chime, and a man, making far too much effort to appear dignified for the occasion, stepped out. He was the Artanian ambassador, an office hastily founded yesterday evening, now the Artanians had a use for one. Maximillian walked up to him, and with a deft smile, handed him the manuscript, confusing the man terribly. He only had time to turn around and see Maximillian happily wave him farewell before the elevator doors closed behind him. At almost exactly the same time, the stairwells doors themselves flew open, and an irate dwarf with a considerable beard and face red with rage stormed out. He ran surprisingly fast at the unfortunate ambassador, and collided with him at such a speed that his top hat flew into the air, and into the cogs of the machinery, where it was promptly mangled to the horror of the engineers. The ruination of a finely made hat was one thing, but their automated translator was simply not made to consume them. It would take them another day to replace the machinery affected and remove the offending pieces of torn fabric. Unfortunately, the ambassador had other things to worry about, pinned as he was to the floor by an angry dwarf. As he raised his fist to perform some impromptu dentistry on the ambassador, he stopped for a second.

"...Wait a moment. You're not Maximillian." was all he could muster.

"No?" The ambassador whimpered in reply

In a flash, the dwarf was off of the poor man, and with one arm, pulled him to his feet. Looking as embarassed as a dwarf could, he shook the terrified mans hand quickly, and said, in a gravelly tone, yet precisely pronouncing each word:

"Ah, good sir, you have my utmost apologies. A case of mistaken identity, I assure you. Hopefully you can forgive my rude handling of you, mr....?"

"Moore." He responded, still shaken.

"Oh yes, the ambassador. Wonderful to meet you!" the dwarfs face brightened considerably, and Donald Moore, the full name of the ambassador, gave a nervous laugh. "You see, Maximillian Radcliffe is a man of considerable influence. A household name, as I'm sure you know. The problem with this particular bloody household name is that he walks into far more households than he is welcome." at this point, the dwarf recalled he had not introduced himself in return. "Forgive my rudeness. I am Horatio Graven. I own this building, and many more like it in this city and beyond -I'm sure you're aware that we Gravens are renowned as some of the foremost developers of technology that eases living for thousands, tens of thousands of people all across Artanus. Maximillian is a colleague - of sorts - though he does not appear to grasp where his jurisdiction ends. The messages collected, and indeed the entirety of the ship sent to explore the void some 3 months ago were property of Graven and sons Industries and Inventors. The manuscript in your hand, is the product of its voyage. The first rights to void exploration was gifted to us as the foremost shipbuilders in Rakanar. Well, that bastard may just have taken a note of the first message we received back from out there, meaning he's competition now. So you can see why I was angry to find someone holding onto it, just as he was reported to be in the building. Speaking of which, did you see him?" Horatio queried.

"Why, yes, actually. Just before you arrived, he past me and left on the elevator. He handed me this, actually." Donald gestured towards the manuscript.

"Bloody bastard!" Horatio yelled, causing everyone in the room to start suddenly. "I've got some 'business' to attend to. You take that, and go home - You're going to be leaving first thing tomorrow, we've already prepared a voidsailer for you. You should be proud, you'll be the first interstellar Artanian. Could be good for you and your family. Take a notebook. Accounts of famous explorers often sell for quite a penny. Take care, Mr Moore." With that, the dwarf departed down the stairwell, eschewing the elevator. Mr Moore, on the other hand, was still feeling rather faint, and decided to wait for more convenient conveyance.

Port Radcliffe - next day

Port Radcliffe, the first, and largest orbital shipyard and dock yet constructed, and owned by "Radcliffes finest astronautics and void ship suppliers", was the dock from which Donald would be leaving on. It hung in the void with a bulky grace, the upper side looking like a perfect model town, with brick-built houses, and warehouses to the fore, except for the massive glass dome that was used to keep in the air. The underside, however, was filled with machinery, though across the distance he could hear no sound of it. It was assuredly active, however, as the mass of movement indicated. It was like the largest automobile plant he had ever seen, though he could only assume the actual manufacture took place in the yards on the upper side. As his ferry sailed closer to Port radcliffe, details became more obvious - the apparent wall his ferry was sailing towards was no such thing, and was dotted with surface structures, and in particular, a massive iron gate, presumably to stop all of the air escaping. The ferry drifted inside, through that gate slowly, and into a chamber lit with only a few filament bulbs. The gloom was quite tangible. He was stood up front with the captain, who told him of the procedure involved. Firstly, the ferry was to be gripped by several mechanical claws which sprung from concealed compartments, to rob the ferry of its momentum. Meanwhile, giant pumps would circulate air into the chamber, and then finally, the door would at the other end of this huge room would open, and they would dock at the mooring, where he would quickly transfer to his own yaught, without any time for sight-seeing. Indeed, as the ferry slid up to the moorings, he caught glance of the yaught he was travelling on. It was fine, to be sure, looking much like a conventional yaught without any sail, and the mast replaced with some form of wireless communicator. It was also far larger, as it had to be - another automatic translator was housed within, though this was modified so it could actually translate incoming signals from the wireless telegram without the use of punchcards. Circular portholes dotted the hull of the ship, and, Donald was told that it had many of the luxuries he associated with travelling on the waves, though the bed had several straps, so that even without the re-assuring pull of the planet, he would be able to lay on a bed without excessive difficulty. Even so, the lack of such a pull was having disconcerting effects on his breakfast, and he felt foolish for not denying himself it like was recommended. With some difficulty, once his ferry had come to a stop, donald made his way to the yaught. the docks were of a peculiar design, being endowed with a particularly low roof, with hand grips built in frequently. Clearly the idea was to clamber along the roof, and propel yourself into the target vessel. It certainly bloody well wasn't for convenience, anyway, Donald thought, as he wrestled with his case and slowly made his way to the yaught, his clumsiness causing amusement to all watching.

Once he was settled aboard the yaught, called RY "Venture", and accustomed himself to his cramped surroundings, he was greeted by the gnomish crew. It dawned on him who the scale of the ship was designed for. Donald, being of greater 'stature' to them, was only interested in meeting with the captain, one miss Luttheim. Her temper, he quickly concluded after being yelled at for being so clumsy as to bump into her whilst passing, was as short as she was. At anyrate, she gruffly told him that they would be leaving in a few moments, and would be arriving a few moments after that. Hopefully. She seemed to find the uncertainty of their arrival a lot more amusing than Donald did, though, who gulped nervously. Thankfully, such was the circumstances, that Donald merely thought they were casting off, as they vanished towards their destination. He doubted he would ever get used to Prof Riddendorfs "fantastical" device.

Site of the explorers first foreign contact

Donald buckled himself into a seat next to the wireless telegram, and opened the manuscript at the page he had highlighted last night. it was a second greeting message to his hosts, whose territory he occupied, providing them with the official greetings and whatnot. It was written in their language, though had it been written in Artanian, the translator would have amended it to read otherwise. As it stood though, Donald had no idea what it meant - he simply sent it off, and hoped for the best.

(OOC: that's all for now - United law, yes, it's open. More responses later. If there's anything glaringly wrong, Angst, tell me - once a post reaches a length like that I find my mind cannot really comprehend it so well. But minimalism is hard to accomplish when I'm trying to flesh my nation out to everyone.)

It is, of course, not the easiest task in the world to discern all of a language's peculiar particulars from a relatively simple 'Hello there, and welcome. Would you like to talk or maybe visit us?' message, even when the means to translate it are attached.

Still, with almost all the right words being there (If, at times, in the wrong form. Verbs tend to be awful like that), not to mention them being in almost the right order, it wasn't overly difficult to figure out what the second message meant - the usual diplomatic chatter, basically, greetings from who- or whatever was presently occupying the spot of 'Leader' among this people, and whatnot.

Well. Three months ago, the Gestalt had sent them an invitation to return, and even to meet, and as such (After a brief period spent on considering whether it should just start screwing with the now-present neurons of these people to make things easier - but it eventually decided that doing that with what were presumably diplomats was not only impolite, but also involved a risk of causing permanent damage to relations), the appropriate reply was sent back.

Thank you for your kind words - I/ we are of course returning your warm greeting.

To be honest, I/ we'd expected you a bit earlier - it's been a while since you first arrived here. Nonetheless, welcome - and I/ we guess you're intend on entering my/ our little world sooner rather than later. And since it's always better to talk face to face...

Environmental conditions will be appropriate for your physiology - potential species-jumping of assorted microorganisms might become a problem, but I/ we believe that I/ we can keep it under control.

Other than that, welcome to my/ our little world.

Oh, and you may want to enter through gate #6 [coordinates]. Just follow the guide beam. I/ we hope you wont mind it clogging your receiver...

The tiny moon the Gestalt was living on (Or rather, in) was seemingly no longer in its natural state - assorted sensory installations, a few domes, and lots of smooth surfaces were spread liberally over its surface -, the result of maybe ten percent of its mass having been used to build up the habitat the Gestalt was now occupying.

Probably not the most inviting place around, although one could call it 'Pretty', in a sense.

Gate #6 was wide open, a flimsy field preventing the atmosphere from escaping without denying access to larger (Or more to the point, more energetic) objects, and ready to embrace the rather odd fellows that'd come to meet the Gestalt.

oocness: Sorry for the lateness. 'tis always a problem with me, I'm embarrassed to say. Should probably have tossed in more, particular with regards to what awaits inside the moon, but I'm a little out of ideas for the moment. Gah.

Several ships belonging to the Dominion of the Emerald Flame jump into the system occupied by Artanus while a few more swallow in through wormholes. The small fleet consists of ten ships. Four Heavy Command Carriers, three Apollo class destroyers and three organic, ovoid-shaped ships known as Vio-Ravens. The lead Command Carrier, Pegasus is covered in scorch marks and missing hull plating in certain sections. This is the same all over the fleet as they have just come from an all out war between multiple factions.

"Status report," Admiral Maxwell requested.

"Jump drives are going to need several hours to recharge with all the cobbling together we've had to do," Lt. Commander Tack stated, "They're only going to hold out for a few more jumps the engineers inform me though."

"Admiral, I'm getting some interesting readings from one of the planets in this system. Looks like an industrial level world but they appear to have discovered space travel. They have a few ships out there currently and I'm also detecting a rather large orbital facility. Might be worth checking out since we're in the system," Lt. Archer reported.

"Catalog as much as you can with the remaining sensor clusters and then get engineering to see if they can build a radio transmitter similar to what we're detecting on those ships. I'd like to talk to them so they don't assume we're an invading fleet here to destroy them," Maxwell said, "I'll be in my ready room. Let me know when the transmitter is done."

I know it's rude of me to leave it, but I'm moving house, as well as having repeated headaches and sorting various stuff out... I'm making slow progress on responses for everyone, so everyone should have their reply by tomorrow evening and earlier.

(OOC: Nova: Due to the fact the punchcard scout wasn't there to talk at all, and so your ship would have to wait some time (several IC months) for a response, I've used the power of magick - you'll have to forgive me, and landed your Hughie in-system so they can have a more lively conversation.)

ARV Pilum, docked in Port Radcliffe, exterior moorings.

Once more the telegram aboard the bridge of the Pilum burst into life, etching out a message onto the waiting piece of paper. Its operator read it in baffled relief, a look of happiness washing over his face at the prospect of not having to spend hours repairing the thing when he was off duty - the look of relief faded, however, to be replaced with one of intense confusion - even some fear. That language wasn't Artanian, of the humans, or even Rakanese, of the dwarves... it was Sorn. Elvish. Unbuckling himself, the operator propelled himself over to Eddington. and passed him the message. The same look of confused fear washed over Eddingtons face, too. He imagined he may have some reputation amongst them, after all, it was the Artanian navy, a detatchment under his command, responsible for causing the majority of the elves to free their tropical islands, somehow unseen - explorers claimed to find evidence of the largest magickal outburst ever recorded on Artanus, but its practitioners, by and large could not be found. Those that did not leave hadn't been treated by society particularly well, either, besides a few fortunate individuals - their innate magickal spark made them unemployable by industrialists, and that was virtually the only employment to be found, by and large, beyond begging. The few that did make their way were ones 'fortunate' enough to be born without such a spark. This could be them returning home in force! The proper authorities would be notified. Mr Radcliffe would know what to do. But he couldn't just ignore their message - it didn't seem too hostile, but the elves were notoriously tricky buggers. They could be up to anything. He thought to himself. We have an elf, don't we? Ta'tala, yes, in gunnery. Very young, no spark about her. Intelligent, aren't they always. Might be better if she done the talking.

He set the morse generator to send a message to the gunnery officer, and tapped "SEND SAILOR TA TALA TO BRIDGE IMMEDIATELY". He then waited for her to arrive. When she did, swinging through the opened hatch with typically elvish dexterity, stopping perfectly in front of Eddington, still seated, he gave her a disdainful frown. It was all he could do to stop himself telling her to stop bloody showing off. Pointing at the telegram machine, he said,

"We've just had a message from your relatives. Apparently they hadn't completely vanished when they done that magick trick a while ago, and have come back to say hello. I believe that it would be best if they first heard back from one of your kind, in Sorn. My operator here doesn't speak it fluently enough and neither do I. If they want to meet in person, you'll be escorted over in a shuttle - you'll keep them talking until Mr Radcliffe arrives, clear?"

Ta'tala nodded, and drifted towards the telegram machine - she tapped a message out, and it was sent towards the Sorne.

"GREETINGS THIS IS TA TALA OF THE LERANA FOREST I AM GLAD TO HEAR FROM MY COUSINS WOULD LIKE TO TALK IN PERSON REQUEST PERMISSION TO BOARD"

Ta'tala, and Eddington waited from the response from the foreigners.

(more soon.)

.:ooc:. All bear in mind that any perceived IC hubris has no bearing to any actual OOC attitudes.

Captain Banko had a mind to just pull out of the system in the interval. Everyone else went back at ease, leaving him alone in the cockpit. To be honest he wasn't expecting a response, indeed the message he sent wasn't intended as a serious extension of diplomatic relations. The rules governing contact with pre-FTL powers were vague and ill-defined, and as consequence such jocular communiques sent to them, while not strictly illegal, were only frowned upon by those beings who considered themselves the "authority" on international relations - of course, the Diplomatic Wing.

When a response did come, though, it was cause for the slightly concerned cocking of an eyebrow. It appeared the foregone conclusion - there was no chance in hell an industrial could seriously hit the void before at least a couple of centuries of widespread global pollution and a couple of World Wars - was not holding true. This was a little disturbing.

He began wracking his memory for similar events. Try as he might, though, this was fairly unprecedented. There might have been a couple cases where some idealistic industrials had beamed messages into the void, but follow-ups just tended to freak the hell out of them. They were never seriously expecting someone to talk back.

He reviewed the message - no, definitely not freaked out. The response was confusing him though; Ta-tala of the Lerana Forest? It wasn't that it looked elven... it looked like an attempt by a human to ape elven-ness. Something was definitely strange here.

He pulled up sensors, and focused the considerable faculties of the vessel upon the nearby planet. He soon found an orbital installation of considerable size in orbit, with one half-kaelom at dock. What weapons they might have were of course unknown, but the fact remained that when one is going into the arms of something kilometers in size while riding in something which is, at best, only twice the size of a school-bus, extreme care was warranted.

He weighed the decision carefully. Once again, D-Wing was fairly insistent on handling the veritable sausage-factory that was first contact and diplomacy in general, but this only applied legally where FTL civs were concerned. He recalled to mind the dire pronouncements they made during his training, especially the "Lessons from the Tsurani War:" a huge imbroglio was ignited by the "bumbling" of military into diplomatic affairs (never mind the fact that according to the military, the scouts were sent in on purpose by the old D-Wing to ignite a war of expansion), a little morality play on how the military needed to stay far afield of anything remotely resembling diplomacy. But this was different.

He pondered for a moment, then scratched off a message to the relevant D-Wing contact - industrial requesting contact, no liasions on hand, going in to check it out. They couldn't discharge him, after all, that was the Navy's job, and what he was going to do wasn't strictly illegal. If things progressed to the point that their intervention was deemed necessary, they could. This ship was here now, and bugging off now, and telling whoever waited below to wait a couple hours for an official diplomatic entourage, would look ridiculous.

Come what may, he hoped, serious retribution would be beyond these people.

Captain Banko fired the engines.

Two and a half hours later, the Admiral was disturbed by a communication from engineering.

"Admiral, It took some doing but we got a working telegraph system set up. It's a tad more complicated then you'd think but it works," Lt. Scott said, his hand behind his head ruffling his own hair.

"Transmit a message to the nearest ship then. Something to the effects of 'Greetings from the Dominion of the Emerald Flame. I am Admiral Jack Maxwell of the starship Pegasus and we happened to be passing through your system when we saw your ships. We'd love to visit your world at your earliest convenience. Thank you.' Something like that," Maxwell said, "Lt. Commander Tack is the diplomatic officer so run it by her before you send it."

"Aye, sir. Will do," Scott said as the screen went dark.

Maxwell picked up the datapad he had set on his desk to take the call and went back to reading Jules Verne's From the Earth to the Moon. As the Admiral read, Lt. Scott and Lt. Commander Tack took the Admiral's message and transmitted it to the nearest ship using the new wireless telegraph system.