Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR

[lancer]

Warning

If you’re of a sensitive, politically-correct disposition or happen to wear fluffy slippers then all power to you. Stop reading right now. This isn’t your kind of thing.

For those that eat their meat raw and live life sans underpants then I’d suggest you also keep moving. While there are the occasional rough edges there isn’t enough to keep you slugging down the Bourbon.

Leaders

Distant Worlds doesn’t – yet – feature leaders. Given the effort that has gone into developing an immersive, living game world it’s probably inevitable that at some stage leaders will play a role as they are a natural fit to what is there already.

Nothing gets you more immersed than dealing with characters. They’re people. You can relate to them. Alien leaders? Could you form an attachment? Don’t know. Maybe if they have legs or tentacles all the way up the wazoo or perhaps if you’re heavily into the study of insects.

Most game worlds that have leaders in some shape or form are hindered by the sterility of their worlds. DW doesn’t suffer from this handicap. This AAR is an effort to portray a Distant World game that is not only immersive but brimming with living characters.

This isn’t being done as a one-man PR push to implement leaders into DW. There is probably an element of that (would be nice but it’s probably too early in the games development cycle) but mainly because I like to personalise a story. It makes things a whole lot more interesting when you are dealing with people instead of objects.

There is a sizeable cast of characters holding down most of the roles that you would imagine being key positions in a Distant World environment. They appear at appropriate points in the story which – in the case of some – may not be for a while. Rest assured they are lurking in the background. Scheming.

How have I dealt with these important individuals?

Well firstly I’ve found a picture on the internet to represent each of them. I’ve chosen to standardise on bobble heads. Unfortunately bobble heads represent current, historical or media personalities. So rest assured no offence is intended nor is any likeness intentional.

Any problems with this then speak to my lawyer. She’s plain nasty.

I’ve dredged up some RPG stuff from the net and rolled up a personality profile for each of them. Naturally I’ve fudged it. I’ve also assigned some basic agendas that they can be assumed to be following. Other – hidden – agendas will become apparent as the story develops.

Initially I developed a system to randomise the actions of the Leaders. I wasn’t happy with this so I read an officious article entitled ‘How to effectively develop characters in your Story’. Decided that was all horse sh*t so in the end I’ve just let them be themselves.



Enjoy.


Lancer

[lancer]

[reserved for INDEX]

Read this if you are offended

Prologue
Chapter One "A Rude Awakening"
Chapter Two "An Unexpected Setback"
Chapter Three "A Change in Direction"
Chapter Four "A Dubious Encounter"
Chapter Five "A Well Kept Secret"
Chapter Six "A Sudden Urge to Travel"
Chapter Seven "A Little Misdirection"
Chapter Eight "A Naval Education"

The Voyage of the 'Lazy Sal'

• Chapter Nine "The Curse of Space"
• Chapter Ten "Knee Deep in the Swamp"
• Chapter Eleven "Unforseen Dangers"
• Chapter Twelve "The Joy of Travel"
• Chapter Thirteen "Survey Duties"
• Chapter Fourteen "Red Faced in Space"
• Chapter Fifteen "The Tyranny of Distance"
• Chapter Sixteen "Action and Excitement"
• Chapter Seventeen "The Depths of Darkness"
• Chapter Eighteen "A Blast from the Past"
• Chapter Nineteen "The Demons Within"
• Chapter Twenty "Homeward Bound"

Chapter Twenty One "The Return of the Emperor"
Chapter Twenty Two "A Great Honour"
Chapter Twenty Three "Quameno Crisis"
Chapter Twenty Four "A Grab for Power"
Chapter Twenty Five "The Send Off"
Chapter Twenty Six "The Mystery of Man"
Chapter Twenty Seven "Foreign Relations"
Chapter Twenty Eight "A Rising Tide of Discontent"
Chapter Twenty Nine "Death of a Friend"
Chapter Thirty "The President Lays Claim"
Chapter Thirty One "The Great Debate"
Chapter Thirty Two "When the Going gets Tough, the Tough get Going"

Coup d'etat

• Chapter Thirty Three "The Perils of Power"
• Chapter Thirty Four "Karmic Retribution"
• Chapter Thirty Five "The Return of Earth?"
• chapter Thirty Six "The Scum rises to the Surface"
• Chapter Thirty Seven "Waxing Philosophical"
• Chapter Thirty Eight "Humble Pie and the Leech"
• Chapter Thirty Nine "The Drums are a Beating"

Chapter Forty "Sisters are Doin' It for Themselves"
Chapter Forty One "Waiting for the Starter's Gun"
Chapter Forty Two "The Return of Fred"
Chapter Forty Three "A Close Encounter"
Chapter Forty Four "The Personal Diary of Lady Donald"
Chapter Forty Five "Broken Cogs"
Chapter Forty Six "Outmanoeuvred"
Chapter Forty Seven "Colonies of the Empire"
Chapter Forty Eight "Undercover Operations"
Chapter Forty Nine "Know Thy Enemy"
Chapter Fifty "Loose Ends"
Chapter Fifty One "Geopolitics"
Chapter Fifty Two "Death of a Giant"

The Great Ape War

• Chapter Fifty Three "Saga of the Blind Lady"
• Chapter Fifity Four "Saga of the Blind Lady, Part 2"
• Chapter Fifty Five "Saga of the Blind Lady, Part 3"
• Chapter Fifty Six "Expanding Horizons"
• Chapter Fifty Seven "An Unexpected War"
• Chapter Fifty Eight "So it came to pass"
• Chapter Fifty Nine "Hidden Horrors"
• Chapter Sixty "Mortal Combat"

[lancer]

Emperor Fred. That would be the tall handsome gentleman standing in the corner. Me.

I’m mad, bad and heading for the stars. Destiny is the key word here. I’m destined for greatness. Galactic greatness. Head honcho of all those bright little dots in the sky. Galactic Fred. Man on a mission.

Destined to spread humanity far and wide like a drunken Picasso with tub of warm butter and a greasy spatula.

Plan on meeting all the hairy, slimy feral cockroaches that lurk out there in the darkness of space. Ambassador for the greatest species in the universe. Mankind’s friendly face of welcome for every bug-eyed alien that wants to say hello.

Yep, meet, greet and try not to get flash burns after I nuke the f#@#’s back into interstellar sludge.

~ ~ ~

Diplomacy is a wonderful thing.

That’s how I got to be Emperor Fred. As opposed to plain old Fred from Planet Earth. Lots of pretenders to the throne here on earth.

Billions of people. Millions of Politicians, idols, military leaders, charismatic gurus, captains of industry.

Diplomacy was the secret to my success. I formed committees. Focus groups. I consulted far and wide. I subscribed to the wisdom of the crowds. The importance of listening to everybody’s point of view. I knocked on doors, addressed eager crowds in the park, letterboxed pamphlets.

I epitomised the personal touch.

Eventually the world realised that I, Fred, was the one and only man who could lead it forward into the twenty second century. ‘Fred’, they cried, ‘show us the way’.

Of course I refused at first, not wanting to step into the limelight before other, more worthy candidates. But they insisted, pleading ‘Fred, Fred, Fred!’

Eventually I was forced to humbly accept the position of Emperor of the Known World.





Pigs ar*se.

I might have kicked in the odd door, I don’t remember ever knocking.

The only time I exercised my diplomatic muscle was to send the Pan-Asian Confederation a small gift. A gene-tailored virus that managed to take out a full third of them before burning itself out.

Made them think they had fire-ants crawling through their neural nodes. Maggots on the brain.

Got some great high-def satellite imagery of the main streets of various state capitals. People everywhere banging their heads into the nearest wall like demented woodpeckers. Frantically flapping their arms. Up and down, up and down.

Had some bright spark splice it all together. Put it on weekly rotation.

Called it the Chicken Movie.

Big hit here at the palace.



* * *



Tough love. That’s the secret.

Be nice to somebody and before you know it you’re down to your last testicle.

Happened last spring. DC. Doing something official.

Damn cyber-pumped rat-dog out of a Siberian black bio-lab flashed through three lines of security faster than you could blink. Sysdyne Personal Laser array fried it to a crisp but not before it de-nutted me.

No more public appearances after that.

No sir. Emperor Fred, down to his last remaining testicular asset, no longer does diplomacy.


To be continued...

Lancer

[Dadekster]

Wow and I thought I had an avid imagination

Very promising start and certainly one of the more unsual AAR's. [8D]

[lancer]

Headache. Huge damn headache. There’s an entire industrial revolution hammering away between my ears. But that’s the price you pay for the long sleep.

‘Drink this’, said the nurse. ‘What year is it?’ croaks I.

‘The year 2754 my Lord’.

I’ve been out for five hundred years. No wonder I’ve got a head that thinks it’s a steam engine about to pop its main pressure valve.

I carefully squint through the pain of my cryogenic fugue at the nearby nurse and breathe a deep sigh of gratitude. Time may have leached away many things but at least girls still look like girls.

Time to go to work. Emperor Fred is officially in the building.

‘Assemble my advisors!’

‘Oh but they are already here, my Lord,’ croons my nubile carer, nodding at a box in the corner.

Small looking box. Shiny. Very shiny. Lots of flashing lights. IGOR Decision Maker Mark V.

Girl’s clearly on drugs. Half an Epoch later and you still can’t get decent help.

I flop a hand out from under the blanket and grope around for a weapon. Something loud and ballistic.

‘Let me help, my Lord’, says the crazed one, reaching over to the box and switching on a button.

‘Welcome Emperor Fred!’ squeaks the box.

Holy Batman! It sounds just like my Mother! I lurch over and whack the thing hard on its shiny chrome-dome head.

I’m physically restrained by my captor.

“No, no, my Lord, you talk to it. This is an advanced Expert Decision Making system specifically built to help you run your empire”.

“Real men,” I grunt, “don’t commune with a box. Real men run their own bloody empires”.

With a heaving chest I vomit all over the flashing box of brains.

Take that Mum.



automation options


Charles introduces himself.

I stare at my ‘Chancellor’. Can’t say that I’m impressed but at least he looks human.

Not sure about his name though. Charles? Had a dog once called Charles. Present from my ex-wife. Appropriate.

Insensitive woman gifts incontinent dog. Man shoots dog.





“My Lord, here is the map of the known Galaxy as you requested”

That big, huh?

Frowning I notice something. “Where’s Earth? When I went to sleep I was on Earth. Definitely Earth.

This”, I state in my most ominous voice, “isn’t Earth.”

“Ahh, My Lord. Let me explain…” Charles paused, collecting his thoughts.

I wait. Impatiently. Man, this should be one heck of story. What have they done, repainted and renamed the planet in my absence?

“Historically –“ began Charles before I cut him off.

“Listen fella, I don’t need a school lesson. I want to know why I’m not on Planet bl**dy Earth!”

“In order to explain this, my Lord, I need to –“

Jeez. “And what exactly is with all the ‘Lord this’ and ‘Lord that’? Speak up man, before I lose my sense of humour!”

Charles looks at me askance. “But you are the chosen one, my Lord according to the legend of the Seeker.”

Ahhhhh. Yes. Of course. The good ‘ole Legend of the Seeker.

I made that one up way back when.

The problem with doing the long sleep is that somebody at some point has to voluntarily choose to wake you up.

While I’m cute and cuddly on rare occasions I didn’t think it likely that anyone would want to reinstate Emperor Fred and willing hand over the keys to the world.

“Right, O.K. Charles, I’m here. I’ve returned to save humanity. Everyone can relax. Thank the stars for that one.”





“And this, my Lord, is a map of our local sector. As you have already seen we are situated on the extreme outer rim of the galaxy in the Aquareos quadrant”

Yep, figured that one out. Whole lot of empty real estate out there.

“Charles, point out where the bugs are”

“Bugs, my Lord?”

“Yeah, the bugs. The Slimy Green Aliens. The scum. Where exactly are they?”

“I’m not sure I follow, my Lord?”

Bad attitude there. I make a note. “Hey, does anyone else live in the galaxy apart from we humans?”

“Undoubtedly, my Lord. Our Xeonologists estimate that the Galaxy is teeming with a multitude of different lifeforms.”

Boatloads of bugs. Good oh. For a moment there I was thinking life was going to be boring.

“But the Xeonol…, whatevers, haven’t found them yet, is that what you’re telling me?”

“Yes, my Lord”





Right. I’ll need weapons. Big ones.

“Who’s in charge of the Royal Space Fleet?”

“Rear Admiral Wanda, my Lord”

“A woman?” I ask incredulously. “They’ve put a woman in charge of the navy?”

“R.A Wanda is an extremely capable individual, my Lord,” huffed Charles. “She has been promoted strictly on merit.”

Bollocks to that. Admirals should have deep voices, jutting chins and low hanging tackle. Nothing to do with being sexist. That’s just the way it is.

“Mmmm. Then I’d like a word with Wanda the Wonder Woman. Sharpish.”

“Yes, my Lord”

How did the kings of old put up with all this bowing and genuflecting?

Painful. That’s what it is. Painful.






To be continued...

Lancer

[Grotius]

Fun!

[Tophat1815]

 Yea,I'm caught watching and waiting for the train wreck also.......then again I even like British humor.[:D]

[Erik Rutins]

Excellent read so far, and very unusual. [8D]

[lancer]

Goodaye,

Yea,I'm caught watching and waiting for the train wreck also.......then again I even like British humor.[:D]

Australian.

Cheers,
Lancer

[Shark7]

Ok, this one is definately the one to watch. Only in the first part of it and you've already had me laughing enough to make my side hurt.

[&o][&o][&o]

[martok]

ORIGINAL: Erik Rutins

Excellent read so far, and very unusual. [8D]

Yeah, this is definitely a different type of AAR. Very amusing so far, though. [:D]

[Tophat1815]

 Come now Fred,what did Wanda have to say? Is she still in charge of the fleet or is she scrubbing a lower deck somewhere?

[lancer]

I repose on my throne in a suitably manly and regal manner. First impressions matter.

When it comes to jettisoning flaky female upstarts I’m a past master.

Who knows what the previous administration were thinking when they gave the job to a woman? Standards have slipped. They should have defrosted me a few hundred years earlier to head off this kind of nonsense.

No matter, I’ll sort it.

“My Lord, Rear Admiral Wanda is here to see you.”

“Right. Send her in.”

Immediately I sense attitude. Serious attitude. Not the subservience and grovelling I was expecting.

I’m being stared at. Wanda the Wonder Woman is standing there, saying nothing, eyeballing me. It’s a little disconcerting.

I stare back. I’ve stared down many a drunken squaddie and rebellious mob in my time.

Time passes.

Wanda appears to have eyes of stone tuned with a laser-like steadiness.

This could take a while. I have an empire to run and haven’t got time for silly games with silly women.







Hit her hard with the full force of my authority.

“State you name and business!” She’s only a woman after all.

“Rear Admiral Wanda,” comes the reply in a measured, even tone. “Who are you?”

What, the wench asks who I am? Do I kill her now or later?

More staring. This is getting tiresome.

“Guards!”

Nothing happens. What the h*ll?

“The Guards,” says the Witch Woman, “are Naval personnel. I, Admiral Wanda, am head of the Navy.

“AND I’M EMPEROR FRED!” I bellow, livid with an all-consuming rage. My vision starts to blur. I feel the big one coming on.

“No,” states Wanda, “you are nothing but a tired old sad little man.

What? WHAT?

I leap to my feet. Damn Witch. I’ll deal with her myself.

Wham! Bam! Boof! Oomph!





Somehow I find myself sprawled across the floor, dribbling bloody saliva onto the marble.

It seems that I’m not the man I used to be.

Witch Wanda has an elegant, uniform issued, boot straddling my throat. I’m unable to talk.

“Now listen to me you little red-necked throwback specimen of all that is bad with humanity. I’ll let you stay in charge but there are going to be a few changes.”

Witch Wanda peers at me quizzically, awaiting an acknowledgement of the sudden power shift. I’m confused and struggling for breath. I have a choice?

Unable to even croak with the increasing pressure on my windpipe I slap the marble with a free hand signifying my helpless assent. It suffices.

“There will be,” Wanda tone changes to that of master addressing her servant, “no more talk of ‘bugs’ and ‘alien scum’. We are humans. We deal with other sentient species with respect. On occasion we may choose to go to war. But only if the High Council gives consent. Military matters are my domain. I will listen to your requests but be aware that this is how I will treat them – as requests.”

The Witch pauses for breath. I gasp in a lungful of air as her foot lifts off my throat.

“Any misbehaviour on your part and you’ll be our first Emperor Eunuch.”

I feel what’s left of my manhood retreating into my body. Traitor.

“Furthermore you will address me by my proper title and treat me, along with all other women, with appropriate respect.”

With this final humiliating ultimatum Wanda leaves.

I remain supine on the highly polished marble floor and ponder the vagaries of the year 2754. Many battles have I fought. Most I’ve won, a few I’ve lost. Never have I been humiliated as I have today.

Emperor Fred doesn’t forget. Memory like an elephant.

Nor does he forgive.




To be continued...

Lancer

[lostsm]

feed wanda to a kaltor!!

[Shark7]

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned...except perhaps a 500 year old megalomaniac humiliated. This will get interesting... [:-]

I can also see Witch Wanda taking a free flight out an airlock...hehehe.

[lancer]

Sipping tea, I consider fate.

Being a supposed religious deity myself I’ve never placed much weight with the guru’s or holy men. Which left Lady Luck.

In my previous incarnation as Emperor Fred, way back when, I made my own luck by sheer force of will and a belief in my own destiny to rule the stars.

Perhaps I should have stayed there and forgone the cryogenic horrors of the long sleep?

No, not really.

Five hundred years ago the only place I would have been able to reach out and conquer was the moon and – at a stretch – Mars. Not much fun in that. Can’t call yourself Galactic Emperor if all you rule over is a couple of sterile, frigid rocks and one pint-sized Earth. The technology of the day just wasn’t up to the job.

So down I go for a prolonged cryogenic count. Wake me up when we are good and ready. Wrap it all up in some religious mythology to ensure that they don’t forget about me and – viola – here be I.

Unfortunately it isn’t as straightforward as I thought.

Did I even think beyond crawling out of my plastic coffin, jumping into the nearest mighty spaceship and zooming off to splat bugs?

Doubtful.

Well I’m thinking now. Long and hard. Sipping tea.

When you have serious mileage on your long suffering body you do the smart thing and forgo hard liquor. Reluctantly.

The religious hocus pocus did it’s job in making sure the alarm clock went off at the right time but I’m now Emperor Fred without a power base. Worse, important people view me only as their puppet.

Nobody knows who I am, that’s the nub of the problem.

I’ve turned up out of nowhere, unannounced. Yes, yes, there is a certain percentage of the population who buy into the ‘Legend of the Seeker’ nonsense but they don’t count.

Maybe that’s a bit harsh. If they weren’t there then neither would I be. But sadly they are all the plebs. The little people.

The big people with the influence appear to have a dim view of me and my quest to be the Dark Overlord of the known Galaxy.

They don’t fear me. They have no reason to as I’ve unexpectedly entered stage right with flabby forceps.

Even the mirror thinks I’m a retread.

More to the point I’ve got no track record of ruthlessness on display. In the year 2754 I’m a blank slate.

Never mind. One way or another I’ll figure out a way to get my sweaty paws on whatever constitutes the levers of power.

I might be trapped inside a shrunken old wrinkly body but I’m still Emperor Fred, once feared by all.






The plan. Got to have a plan.

“Charles, tell me how the government works.” I pause for a moment, deep in thought.

“Is there a government?”

“Why yes, my Lord. Under the Imperial Constitution we are a declared Monarchy.”

“Righto, so that means there is a King…”

“Yes, my Lord. You are our Emperor.”

“O.K, so as Emperor Fred it behoves me to make all the difficult decisions on behalf of my people.” Take that Admiral Wanda. Give it a month and I’ll have this place humming. Watch out bugs.

“Errr, not quite, my Lord”, replied Chancellor Charles, anxiously looking at the door.

“Not quite? What do you mean man? Surely if I’m the Emperor then ultimate executive authority resides with me and me alone?” I resist the temptation to pound the table into the floor.

Charles clearly was an individual unaccustomed to conflict or the argy bargy of the political process. Bloody wimp.

“No, my Lord. Not exactly.”

“Well what is it? Am I Emperor?”

“Yes, my Lord”

“Are we are monarchy with myself as head of state?”

“Yes, my Lord”

Get them saying ‘yes’ often enough and they forget how to say ‘no’.

“So it appears that I am in charge and I make the decisions. Right?”

Charles scrunched up his face and tried hard not to say ‘no’ but I could see that his heart wasn’t in it. Charles was the most negative, obstructionist, defeatist Chancellor that I had ever met. He had to go.

“My Lord, it is correct that you are our Head of State but under the Imperial Constitution this is largely a ceremonial position. Decisions are made by the relevant authorities. You do –“, he hastened to add in the face of gathering storm clouds, “- have the privilege of Review. Any decisions that you aren’t in agreement with will be referred to the High Council where you have a deciding vote in the event of a deadlock. You also have the theoretical ability to veto any Council approved decision.”

I have the privilege of Review. How about those cojones. Some Serious Political Mojo there.

Frowning, I subjected Charles to the Freddo Power Stare of Death. “Theoretical. What exactly is theoretical about it. I either have a veto power or I don’t?”

“Yes, my Lord, I sense your confusion and I would love to help you work through the issues at hand” Charles advanced towards me, arms outstretched.

“DON’T HUG ME! Don’t even touch me!” Nothing I hate more than creatures invading my personal space. I’ve strangled countless cats for overstepping the boundaries of acceptable contact. Charles, I decided, had an especially cat-like demeanour.

“Sorry, my Lord. It is my duty to console you. Perhaps you would prefer that I refrain from doing so in the future?”

Where, oh where did all this touchy feely cr*p come from? What has been going on for the last five hundred years? Mass group hugging sessions?

The Freddo Power Stare of Death amped up a notch.

Chancellor Chuck got the message.

Stomping out of the room without another word I realised that I had would have to brush up on my book of Machiavellian Manoeuvres.

I’m Emperor in name only, kow-towing to an unnamed High Council of dills. I can’t arrest them, I can’t shoot them and I probably can’t even poison them. Brute force, my trusty all-purpose problem solver, won’t work here.

Switch to plan B.

Deviousness and rat-cunning.







To be continued...

Lancer

[lancer]

Did it. Fired my creepy, tree-hugging Chancellor from his post of personal assistant. Speak to me only on matters of finance and be off with you!

But I need a right-hand-man. A partner in crime. Somebody who understands that the ends justify the means.

Several days of surreptitiously examining all available candidates for the requisite low moral standards and I can only come up with one possibility.

A robot.

Not even a soft cuddly female Android. Nope, a retro, bucket of bolts, robot. Son of IGOR. One of the very early prototypes. Powered down. Stored in a cupboard in a forgotten corner of the palace.

Fired it up. Turns out that Son of Igor has a touch of the psychopath about him.

Robots tend to go that way when you hotwire their Ethics chip backwards.

* * *

As ruler of the known world I request – and receive – a tour of such.

I shake an awful lot of hands. I visit in front of and give my blessings to countless civic monuments dedicated to the ‘Legend of the Seeker’.

I speak to untold dignitaries, VIP’s and other assorted parasites. I dutifully provide them all with a holographic opportunity.

Throughout the lands I travelled, spreading my person far and wide. Emperor Fred suddenly became an accessible face to millions of people. They began to know me and love me.

Of course I smiled a lot. Charmed them in my ineffable way. All major networks gave blanket coverage to their new sovereign and – naturally – long lost legend that was I.

It went well. My popularity soared.



Until I met the toad…



There it was, coming straight at me and giving every indication that it wanted to touch me.

Mumbling some foreign tongue. Oozing smells. A massive domed city lurking behind it.

Instincts kicking in hard, I unsheathed my QuickSilver blade and lunged for it’s jugular before anyone could react.

Except the toad. Fast. Reflexes of coiled rubber. It jumped. Straight over my head.

Didn’t do it any good. Human Supremacy got it anyway.

Flopped down on the ground with a putrid wet splat.

Stayed there. Amphibian gizzards all over the shop.

Instead of garrotting the thing I ended up gutting it. Serves it right for jumping at the wrong moment. The decent thing would have been to stay still and not make a mess.

Still alive. Mumbling at me. Looking a mite perplexed. Clearly not happy with current events. Neither was I.

Time to find out if those vitamin pills work. Running over to console it I jumped up and landed on it’s squishy, froggy face.

Did it again. Several times. Till the thing stopped moving and the natural order of things had been restored.

Talking toads wandering around the streets of humanity. Can’t have that. No sir.

Lots of noise. Huge number of Toads pouring out of the domed city. Heading my way. I know an angry mob when I see one. Into the hover car. Slam the doors shut. Off we go. Come back later with tactical nukes.

Big ruckus back at the palace. People telling me that I can’t kill citizens of the planet on a whim. My Royal prerogatives don’t extend that far.

What’s all this about ‘citizens’? I demand. Were they some horrifically modified humans?

No, my Lord, they are Quameno and they are willing, helpful members of the population. They live in their domed cities and provide many useful services. They have been here for generations.

No sh*t. Well there’s one less of them now. Emperor Fred doesn’t deal with wart-faced swamp dwellers.

Son of Igor informs me that the Quameno ambassador has placed a motion before the High Council to impeach me.





To be continued...

Lancer

[Litjan]

LMAO! [:D]  Keep ´em coming!

Jan

[lancer]

Nobody knows about my pet robot. I’ve hidden him in the back of my closet where he quietly hums away.

Thought it best to keep it quiet. Not sure how certain people would take it. Not well, I suspect.

I’m supposed to be a figurehead. A symbol. An easily manipulated puppet.

Puppets aren’t meant to have their own private robot feeding them useful data.

Of course there were technical issues.

I managed to rewire Son of Igor’s Ethics chip easily enough. All I had to do was open the hatch in his back, pull out the appropriately marked chip, flip it over and then ram in it backwards.

Getting Son of Igor hooked into the data-grid was another matter. Had to find a kid in the Palace who was good with technology.





Found this freckle faced little bruiser wasting his life away in a virtual sim-world.

Yanked him out of his rig and told him I had a much more interesting game. Took him all of ten minutes and as a bonus he even connected Son of Igor’s data-feed straight into my ComLog.

Well done. Good boy.

Strangled the little creep after that. Chopped him up in the bath and fed the bits down the garbage chute.

Secrets are meant to remain secret.

Over five billion people on the planet. Who’s going to miss a kid?



***



Reports are starting to flow in.

I’ve insisted on old fashioned paper reports. Give it to me in writing I say.

Lots of protests about the sacredness of trees and similar nonsense.

“My Lord, everything these days is electronic. No need to decimate nature. Be at one with the universe.”

I’ll recycle them, says I. Nature goes back to nature.

Can’t handle the crazy toilets they have. Way too many buttons, nozzles and automated sprays. If I want my backside to smell like flowers then I’ll shove a tulip up my *ss.

Standard issue Terran toilet circa the year 2100 for me thanks.

They had to pull one out of a museum and reinstall it. Lots of raised eyebrows over that. The whim of the Emperor. Who would have thought?

Couldn’t do anything about toilet paper. No longer made. Crude anachronism they tell me. Mutterings of how disgusting it was. Inferred that I may wish to consult a personal hygiene therapist.

Be that as it may I now have a functioning normal toilet with a ready supply of written reports that’ll do double duty as toilet paper.

Haven’t told them that. Yet.

The moment wasn’t right.


***


Got some half-baked report from the Minister for Science. Could only understand one word in three.

Chock full of words that looked like a caterpillar doing contortions. Not impressed. Fast tracked the useless report to the head of the toilet paper queue.

Asked to meet with the Minister in person.





In he stumbles, banging into every piece of furniture in the room. Tempted to put my foot out and watch him trip.

Why doesn’t he use a neural-sight implant like everyone else?

Medtechs probably can’t find the right spot to drill underneath all that crazy hair. Like he’s got his finger permanently jammed into the power socket. Buzz, baby, buzz.

“What’s happening with our research program?” ask I.

“Science,” replies the hairball, “isn’t a neat, step-by-step process with a preset linear progression along an incident-free quantum-paved pathway which leads inevitably to the singularity of a predestined outcome.”

Pause.

“Perhaps,” continued Professor Fuzz, “I’m not making myself clear”.

Perhaps not.

“I understand,” stated the Minister haughtily, “that you are not of this era,”

Nodding my agreement I braced myself for some look-down-your-nose snobbery over my lack of knowledge regarding recent scientific developments.

“Ahh. Then you clearly won’t understand anything I will be saying. Our meeting here is waste of my time. I will leave you.”

Normally at this point I would simply have the guards kneecap and execute this walking dictionary of arrogance. Times ain’t normal.

I say nothing and watch as he ricochets’ his way of all nearby furniture, bounces of the walls – ding! Ding! Ding! - and finally, for 500 bonus points, gets spat out the door.

Before I pick a fight with the Professor I need to know what I’m talking about.

In the meantime I get Son of Igor to tell me where we are at, tech wise.







Boxes, apparently are our special subject.

Our ability to manufacture boxes knows no bounds. Research moves ahead at a prodigious rate. We are destined to be the manufacturing Box Kings of the universe.





To be continued...

Lancer

[lancer]

Minister for Industry hand delivered his report. The personal touch. I like that.

Sadly I can’t say the same for the Minister. I have the distinct impression that the only reason he bothered to eyeball me was to make it crystal clear that he would brook no interference in his portfolio.

Knee high to a grasshopper and as mad as hornet. He smokes cigars for goodness sakes. Even back in my day nobody smoked.

Nanotech filters only managed to kill you off faster. Difference was you didn’t cough on the way out. Tobacco companies had to smarten up their act in the face of sophisticated designer drugs.

There was so much cigar smoke swirling around that I was having a hard time getting a clear view of the angry ant as he ranted and raved about his terribly important role in the world.







Told me all about what he was building. Three of this, four of that.

Who cares? Build what you want, I said, as long as it’s got guns.

Yes, he insisted, he had personally redesigned the mining bases so that they would be built with offensive weapon capability.

Colony Ships. All set to build those, says he. Waiting for the word. Planetary shipyards poised to swing into action.

Good oh. Put some guns on those to, I suggested. Got an earful for my trouble.

Getting a bit tired of all this age discrimination. What’s wrong with being old anyway?

More rants about resources and how annoying it was to waste shipyard capacity by
building freighters. Tend to agree with him on that one. Why do we need freighters?

“Resources!” yelled the furious one, blowing noxious smoke up my nose.

Have to say that I’m confused about this but I’m not willing to put up with the angry ant and his belching smoke stack any longer in order to clear it up.



* * *


Bloody kid.

They are turning the palace upside down looking for him.

Turns out he was the PrimeMinister’s son.

I’ve given the bath a decent bleaching just to be on the safe side. Still, the Palace Inquisitor is on my case.

Apparently he’s pulled footage of the kid in my company. 24/7 surveillance. Should be banned.

At least I know where the visual pickup points are. A number of them haven’t been working since I arrived. Unknown recurring faults. Funny that.

Told the repair-bot that it was worms.

Straight over it’s head.

They’ve pulled apart the garbage disposal unit but that won’t do them any good. I fed half a dozen rats down it immediately after the kid so all they’ll find is rodent DNA.

I wasn’t born under a mushroom. Three steps ahead of the plodders.

I’ve been officially informed that the High Council has decided not to impeach me.

I’m not exactly sure what this would have entailed but there were muted references to me being shoved back into my plastic coffin for another half millennium.

My excitement at not being sent to sleep was tempered by the demand that I issue a formal apology to the Quameno ambassador.

In person.

As if I’m going to say sorry to a toad.

Told them what I thought of that idea.

Ah, said they, if the High Council has ordered it then it must be done.

Of course I became belligerent. Wouldn’t you?

Toads are for treading on. On a good day you might rip their legs off and fry them up for dinner.

What if I don’t?

Oh dear, they said. That would be most unfortunate. Most unfortunate indeed.

Impeachment proceedings would automatically be invoked. No avenue of appeal. The High Council does not take kindly to wayward Emperors. Back to your coffin and we’ll continue the discussion half a millennium hence.

Mmmm.

It might, I decide, be an opportune moment to travel. Broaden the mind. See new horizons. Meet interesting people. Put some distance between me and the situation.

Disappear off the radar for a while. Come back when the kid’s compost and the toad’s been gobbled up and reprocessed as snake poo.

I query Son of Igor about transmission distances and what not.

Tells me I’m good for light speed contact anywhere within the system and at a pinch beyond that, provided there’s a string of Comm-Relay Bouys between here and there.

Ask if he can hack into the Fleet intra-net.

Work a little magic on behalf of his Emperor.

Beep, beep!

Who would have thought that a box of yesterday’s bolts could be so loveable?





To be continued...

Lancer