Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR

[lancer]

Big news. Excitement at the Palace.

James Wong, a.k.a ‘The Blob’, the pointy end of our espionage effort, has – amazingly - returned. Infiltrated the Icky Apes and stole their territory map.

Couldn’t believe it. Had Son of Igor run a few checks. Ensure the Blob’s map correlates with known space.

Can’t understand how he did it? Even with a top of the line Ape Suit disguise he would still look like a Blob on a hover chair. A hairy, red-eyed Blob on a hover chair. Surely somebody, somewhere in the Ikkuro Sovereignty would have noticed?

Feasibly he could fill out his suit with bionic limbs and change out his optical inserts but there would be no getting around his flabbly blob-like dimensions nor the need for a hover chair.

How would he communicate? In his best robo-Ape synthesised voice?

Bit of a giveaway.

Perhaps he hasn’t been further than the Blob Central right here on Zion. Figured out a way to hack into the Apes data-net.

No. In order to do that he’d need to interface with the Ape net. Can’t do that here.

Maybe he went lurking in a small ship. Concealed himself on the dark side of a moon and hoovered up just enough SigInt to find a way in?

However he managed it, he wasn’t as discrete as I had hoped. The Apes are aware that we are spying on them. Diplomatic representation from some stroppy Ape Ambassador. Not happy.

Told him to go frolic in Capitol Park. Eat as many squirrels as you like. On us.










The Apes are exactly where I thought they would be. West and south of Zion.

The surprising revelation is how close their nearest colony is to FredTopia. The dills at StarFleet HQ must have been asleep at the wheel. Three years of searching and they couldn’t find what was right under their nose.

Strategically I – speaking here on behalf of my fellow homosapiens – find myself hemmed in by the Cannibal Sirens to the East and the Icky Apes to the West.

Expanding core-ward (south) would be technically difficult due to the vast expanse of the intervening void. There is a sprinkling of intermediate systems that could be used for staging posts but the overall logistical stretch required would likely break the back of any meaningful attempt.

Philosophically I’m disinclined to even make the attempt. Humans are destined to dominate the known galaxy. Forgone conclusion. Given that I’m in charge the time is now. Both the Apes and Sirens will have to go. The only decision that needs resolving is which one to take out first?

I vote for ...

The Icky Apes. They are both closer and uglier.

Also we are, embarrassingly, short of a buck. Our free trade agreement with the Sirens brings in more credits than any blackmarket dealings between Zorg Industries and the Ikkuro Sovereignty.

The Apes it is.

Before rushing off to war I take a moment to review what we know about them.









Eight colonies. Can only see seven on the holo-map. Must have doubled up somewhere. A multi-colony system.

Despotic form of government. Couldn’t be anything else. Go down to your local zoo and put the Apes in charge. Note carefully the abject failure of democracy.

Almost six billion of them. Interestingly there are only five billion Apes, give or take. The remaining billion is made up of humans and other, unspecified creatures of dubious origin. Must be with a nose like that. Reminds me of something I used to have.

Clearly the Apes have a significant number of humans held in brutal captivity. Some bright spark must have actually given the Apes the keys to the zoo and before they knew it, they had run riot. Taken over the planet and locked up the real people.

Caged them. Brutalised them. Fed them bananas.

Crimes against humanity.

Thank the stars that I’m here to sort it.








Militarily they appear to be weaker than us but not by much. Son of Igor points out that the Apes appear to be fearsome fighters on the ground. Anything that can swing from tree to tree with an automatic weapon clenched between its teeth is to be respected.

Invasions will need to be carefully managed. Overwhelming force and space superiority.

My Chancellor will also be pleased to hear that my - our - legions of expensive troops have finally found a raison d’état.

The problem of finding a suitable new colony location in order to be able to bring the fight to the Apes has been solved by the near proximity of the Adarluun system.

Taking and holding this provides a convenient launching pad towards the Ape capitol of Bacora and their two mid-empire periphery systems of Faliin and Myror. Doing so also immediately negates a potential Ape Pearl Harbour assault on FredTopia.

Examining the intelligence provided by the Blob it’s evident that strange things are happening at Adarluun. There is – as far as can be ascertained – a sole Ape gas miner on one side of the sun and an independent human colony of sizeable dimensions on the other. Swarming around the human habituated moon are a collection of freighters and a fleet of half a dozen pirate vessels.

Are the pirates in league with the human colony? Do they work for the Icky Apes? Is this an elaborate hoax on the part of the Apes to lure us to our demise?

Don’t know. Only one way to find out.

Second Fleet currently on standby at FredTopia.

General Huss, you’re on son.

Green for Go.





To be continued...
Lancer

[thiosk]

What the heck? Navy is in collusion with someone. Ardalun absolutely surrounded.

[2guncohen]

Pinks away some tears of joy [&o]
Marvelous Long life to emperor Fred!!!

[lancer]

The good General is giving me the grits.

Put the little Napoleon in charge of Second fleet to keep him happy. Wound him up with visions of fame and glory then sent him off to, supposedly, lead the fleet into battle. A great honour.

Runty little weasel has done nothing since except complain. Bored, says he. Nothing to do. Parked in a never-ending low space orbit around FredTopia. Generals, he informs me with monotonous regularity, are born to lead. To fight. To conquer.

Suck it up, I tell him. Patience is a virtue.

Suggested he have a day off and shuttle down to FredTopia, paradise of the empire, for some R&R. Take in the sights. Have a nice meal. Carouse with the local lovelies. Bound to feel better.

Son of Igor intercepting all manner of intra-Starfleet comms detailing the dramatic ‘fall-of-the-edge-of-the-cliff’ drop in morale within Second Fleet’s officer corps. General Huss has not, it seems, endeared himself to the navy.

What do you expect? He’s a General, not an Admiral. No concept of shipboard life.

Plus there is the issue of height. Doesn’t like tall people. Specifically people taller than himself. Which is just about everybody.

The General, it appears, also isn’t big on listening to advice. Second Fleet has been reorganised to be able to properly exploit an armoured bridgehead.

Which is fine, but until Grav-tank columns obtain space-going capabilities his operational foresight is destined to be ahead of its time.

To date I’ve deliberately ignored his petty mishandling of the fleet and its’ long suffering personnel.

As there was no immediate danger of him actually coming to blows with the enemy I haven’t been concerned. The advantages of having the General in a distant space orbit has the overwhelming advantage of preventing him from causing mischief here in the Capitol. I’m willing to wear the drop in Second fleets readiness and performance.

To keep him busy I even requested he investigate Zorgs’ wild claims of freighter losses in the vicinity of FredTopia.

Duly reported back that, yes, there have been civilian ship losses recently. Probably due to pirates operating in-system.

Right. Tally ho then, says I. Hunt them down. Exterminate the parasites. A chance to exercise your military muscle.

No, no, harrumphed my belligerent status-conscious General. Beneath the dignity of an Imperial Fleet Commander to swat flies. My function is to fight operatic space battles on behalf of the Empire.

My bionic legs, upon receipt of this humble missive, took on a life of their own. Kicked everything in site. Twice.

Well the time for action is nigh. To h*ll with the his sensitive disposition.

I order General Huss to jump to the Adarluun system in nearby Ape Space and clear it of any foreign shipping. Specifically told him NOT to attack any Icky Ape structures or vessels.

We aren’t at war yet and if we can sneak in an establish a foothold on the independent human colony there prior to the inevitable commencement of hostilities then all the better.

To wrap the mission orders up in an acceptable format to the glory seeking General I omit to mention that ‘foreign shipping’ is actually a bunch of wishy-washy pirates. Once Second fleet drops out of hyperspace in-system they’ll have no choice but to deal with them regardless of what the General wants.

Sent an officially authorised network media crew along with the orders. General Huss, strutting peacock that he is, bound to perform better if he is being filmed for posterity.

Admittedly there is the danger of making a hero out of one of the few potential threats to my throne but holoVid footage can always be edited prior to release.

It’s the kind of deft, subtle touches like this that ensure that I am, and will remain, Emperor. There is, I’m finding, truth in the old adage that age begets wisdom.

Two other matters, Son of Igor reminds me, require my immediate attention.

Zorg and the Blob.

Start with the Blob. Easy. Award him a ticky tacky medal for excellence in espionage and then sent him straight back into Ape Space. Undercover. Come back with their galaxy map. Twelve months.

No point allowing the Blob some intervening R&R. He’s a Blob on a hover chair. What would he do? Plug himself into a power point?

Nope. Blob is a spy. Spies spy. Expensive spies, like the Blob, finish one mission and transition straight into their next. Earn their pay.

Son of Igor cautions me to the risk of burnout. Overwork leads to carelessness. Blob could get caught.

Good point. Inform the Blob that if he gets found out again then don’t bother coming home. Pop a melt pill or something. Do the right thing by your Emperor.

You’re on your own, Blob. Flying solo.

Act accordingly.







Zorg. Tricky.

Decide that I need to shore up the home front before heading off to war. Decisive action required. Asked Zorg to drop by the Palace for a ‘chat’.

Zorg duly arrives. Flanked by his lawyers and bodyguards.

Tell Zorg that I just wanted a friendly chat with my ‘ole buddy. No need for all the hangers on.

Casting me a suspicious look, Zorg agrees that his assistants could wait in the adjoining ante room. I have, of course, access to the big red button that seals and gasses aforementioned ante room.

Know that it works. Tested it once. Accidentally. Leant on it. Asphyxiated the entire Consonian goodwill delegation. Oops.

Would have liked to test it some more. Got some fun vid footage of the Consonians thrashing around, tearing at their throats.

Tyderios gas, unfortunately, also acts as a delayed muscle relaxant. Poor drainage in the ante room. Cleaning issues.

Zorg. It’s been a while since we last met in person. Still the same megalomaniac money-grubbing predator.

Not big on small talk. Immediately launching into a diatribe about my warmongering ways. Definitely does not wish for war with the Icky Apes. Adverse business ramifications.

I give him my best smile and tell him that we may have to agree to disagree. Friends can do that.

Zorg becoming agitated. Upset.

Appears that we aren’t the friends I imagined. Zorg transitioning into threat mode. Highlighting the necessity of his continuing support if I wish to remain on the throne.

Might be overstating your own importance, I diplomatically suggest. Just a tad.

Wait till Zorg turns red before hitting him with the zinger.

Treason. Withholding vital information on the Apes. Illegally trading critical raw materials with them. Treason.

Punishable by firing squad. Definitely not allowed under any law of the realm. Traitor to the human race. Prepare to die, *ssh*le.

Zorg unperturbed.

Probably hard of hearing. I spell it out for him. ‘T-R-E-A-S-O-N!’

Zorg casually tossing a small container up in the air. Whistling.

Rattling noise every time the container goes up and down. Sounds like pills. In fact it looks a lot like the pill container I crack open four times a day in order to keep my aging heart from expiring.

The very same, says Zorg. Happened to have bought a few pharmaceutical factories of late.

Frowning, I glare at him.

Cornered the market, continues Zorg. Nobody else makes them except me. Recalled all existing retail stock. No longer for sale.

I need my pills. No pills, no me.

Not to worry, says Zorg. I’ll personally make sure you have an adequate supply.

Like the cornered rat that I am, I reluctantly agree that treason is a flexible term with a multitude of definitions, not all of them accurate.

Zorg tells me he has other, more pressing matters to attend to. Wishes me good day.

Stressed that he really would be very unhappy if he woke up to find us at war with the Ikkuro Sovereignty. Most unhappy indeed.





To be continued...

Lancer

[lancer]

General Huss and Second Fleet enroute to the Adarluun system. Hope the pr*ckly little peacock remembers not to shoot at the Apes.

Not yet, anyway. Not until I manage to obtain a secure supply of heart pills. Son of Igor confirmed Zorg the only manufacturer. Worse, Zorg has moved production to mobile zero-g facilities that change planetary orbits on a random basis.

Spoke to a physician. Alternative medication? Not possible. Do the long sleep and you pay the price in wasted, string-bean, heart muscle. Very specific, niche-market, drug regime.

Tallied remaining supplies. Enough for a year.

What to do? Metamorphose into a business-loving peacenik and play Zorg’s game? Give up on galactic conquest. Like a hungry piglet searching for its mother’s teat I become nothing more than a junkie dependant on my next hit?

Emperors don’t stoop this low. Not ones with balls and grit.

Metaphorically speaking. While I, admittedly, come up short in the tackle department I still consider myself endowed with the state of mind that low-swinging anatomy of a rigid, metallic origin provides. And grit. Loads of grit.

So to h*ll with Zorg. I’ve got a year to figure something out. Ample time.

In the meantime I find myself knee deep in galactic geopolitics.

Disturbing reports have arrived from the captain of a freighter trading with the Sirens way out east.

I normally wouldn’t expect to hear anything from the Zorg Heavy Lifter Seven as all communications are internal to Zorg Industries. Luckily the Captain sent a faulty drone. Picked up by Starfleet HQ when it prematurely dropped out of hyperspace near a convenient Lagrange point.

Captain visiting the Aredos system with a cargo of Carbon Fibre. Backloading Vodkol. Sirens providing useful trade income and luxuries. Keeping the plebs back home happy.

While approaching the Aredos star port the Captain picked up two other unknown freighters on scanners. Both hailed him and dialogue ensued.

The long and the short of it is that there exists two other empires to the east of the Sirens. One being human. The Dagru Empire.








Informed the captain that they were very small. Single planet but quite advanced. Visual confirmation of a recognisable humanoid form on the freighters Comm link.

Immediately offered to trade with us. Official treaty. Captain, of course, accepted on behalf of Zorg Industries and, no doubt, we other, non-important, humans.

Dagru co-ordinates provided to the Captain. Long way to the east. Hard to imagine a viable trade route given the distances involved but who am I to stand in the way of Zorg and a dollar?

Quid pro quo is that the Dagru are requesting our assistance. Military assistance.

Having a few troubles. Currently at war.

Normally I’d automatically brush them off with promises of furry pink battleships and giant laser robots just as soon as we can manage it. File and forget.

Of course I wasn’t asked. Captain of the freighter was. Works for Zorg.

Don’t expect Zorg will bother me with such trivialities as Empire to Empire relations.

Captain gave no commitment either way. Hedged and stalled. Sent off the drone to Zorg to ask for instructions. Drone didn’t arrive. Currently in my possession. More or less. Starfleet HQ have it under lock and key but Son of Igor is able to hack their data core so I’ve got skin in the game.

I’m getting ahead of myself. Tin-pot little human empire way out east. Need help. Nothing to be concerned about.

Except for the fact that they are at war with the Toads.









Bl**dy Toads. Bane of my life. Just when I think that I have them at heel up pops another lot.

The Shatoon Sovereignty. Don’t know a lot about them. All the freighter Captain was able to ascertain is that there is a great big cesspit of ToadDom somewhere further east. Seriously large amounts of slimy amphibians lurking out there in the void.

Strange looking heads. Mutant Toads. May not even be related to the Quameno but anything with slime on it clearly suspect. Captain mentioned a definite 'glint' reflecting light from their picture on the Comms link. Note that they have a captive human population.

Food supply? Slave labour? Cheap reactor fuel? Bound to be bad.









Even worse is that there is a Quameno colony nearby on a swamp moon in the Lambda system. Share the same system with the Sirens.

The billions of wart-faced Toads living on the swamp moon are an independent colony. Uncertain whether they have any connection with the Shatoon Empire.

What is clear is that there are a h*ll of a lot of Toads out east.









Can’t imagine that I’m on their Christmas card list. Could be awkward if I start up a war with the Icky Apes in the west and the Toads suddenly go on the rampage.

More like a Toady Jihad against frog-hating Emperor Fred. Find myself fighting on two fronts at once. Nasty.

Empires, however, aren’t created by timid Prince Charlies, afraid of the dark and all those, possibly, nightmarish outcomes that inevitably form a boisterous crowd on the nearby event horizon.

Nope. Empires are forged by those will the b*lls and fortitude to do what has to be done. Those that stride manfully ahead and seize the situation by the short and curlies are those that prevail.

The Toads can sit tight. Wait their turn. Too far away to be of any immediate threat. First cab of the rank are the Icky Apes. Consolidate the western front then swing east.

Better tighten up my personal security detail. You never know. Toads way out east could be in contact with the small number of ferals still roaming the wilds of Zion. Toad telepathy.

Also need to schedule a session with a head doctor. Amputated limbs and all. I appear to have tackle on the brain. Can’t be healthy.











To be continued...
Lancer

[rtrapasso]

This has gone from "Emperor Fred Goes Postal" to "Emperor Fred Goes Missing"... [:(] [:(]

[Data]

going postal is not something you easily recover from....don't tease or he will be back some fierce [:D]

[elanaahova]

Did you pick the name "fred" from the original star trek series....?

[lancer]

G'day,

The Emperor's Official Scribe has been away on the annual family camping expedition.

The kangaroo, unhappy at not being invited, chewed through a power cable in our absence. As a result the scribe's main computer is currently at the doctors, suffering from a fried motherboard.

A recent and unexpected opening has arisen in the family pet department.

Mail all applicants to Australia.

Those that turn up DOA will be returned to sender as our backyard has maxed out.

Cheers,
Lancer

[2guncohen]

[:D] bbq ?

[elanaahova]

Frogys as food? Now thats a smart meal!

[Data]

i think we're starting to go postal lol
we need Lancer to take it all on himself

[Shark7]

ORIGINAL: 2guncohen

[:D] bbq ?

hamburgers maybe...though would would you actually call it?

[lancer]

Sadly, it has come to this.

Emperor Fred, mighty ruler, having to hustle his ancient bones onto a hastily commandeered shuttle and conduct a hasty, undignified entrance onto the flagship of the soon-to-depart Imperial Third Destructo Fleet.

Up and went on a mere hours notice.

Everything and everybody in a state of chaos and confusion. Unclear whether the Fleet is even fully refuelled. No matter. We are off. All missing planet-side personnel to be abandoned, fate uncertain.

Bad news can do that. Really bad news can put a rocket under the entire Imperial edifice. Certainly shifted me into a higher orbit. I’m seeing stars out the view port instead of trees.

Long forgotten hyperspacial nausea coiling its serpentine tendrils around my intestinal tract.

Woke up this morning in the Palace. Had a breakfast fit for an Emperor. Will sleep tonight strapped into a zero-g couch as Supreme Admiral, Mankind’s last remaining bastion holding back the scum of the universe from lapping up and over the lip of civilisation.

Yesterday was one of my better days. No inkling of what the ‘morrow would bring.

Son of Igor tracked down the handful of citizens within the Imperium currently taking identical heart medication to myself. Sent out a special invitation to each and every one.

I, Emperor Fred, a fellow sufferer, felt the need to form a support group. The inaugural meeting of our fledgling self-help organisation is about to be held here at the Palace. Your presence would be greatly appreciated. Travel arrangements in place and paid for. First class. Bring your spouse. Bring your family. Heck, bring your dog. Emperor Fred would love to see you all.

Oh, don’t forget to bring your supply of medication. Rumours of fake pills. Placebos. Ineffective and dangerous. Fear not. Emperor Fred has expert medical practitioners on hand to verify all prescriptions as genuine or otherwise.

My little throng of fellow string-bean heart muscle syndrome sufferers duly arrived yesterday for our inaugural Palace get-together. Shook a few hands, slapped a few backs. Even air kissed some ladies and patted the odd pimply kid. Smiles all round.

I’m a h*ll of a guy. Apparently.

Asked them to wait as a group in the Palace ante room while I gathered my thoughts. Which pretty much consisted of do I use my right hand or my left hand?

Went with the left. Caesar was done over by lefties.

Banged the big red button hard. Gassed the lot. Entire family units flopped lifeless to the floor in messy, stinky bundles of limbs and leaky orifices. Had the flunkies riffle through the pile of bodies and collect up all the pills. Tyderios is an inert gas, doesn’t affect the medication.

Six months extra supply. How about that? If my bionic legs were up to it I'd have danced a jig. One in the eye for Zorg, evil schemer that he is.

Happy times, in my experience, are ephemeral will o’ the wisps. Temporary interludes between crisis management sessions of varying intensities.

Which is exactly where I found myself immediately after breakfast this morning. In crisis.

Son of Igor opened up a dozen vid feeds on the walls as I lingered over my morning coffee. All Zion’s major news outlets. Simultaneously pumping out the unedited, unexpurgated, last moments of General Huss in full technicolour IMAX holoVid.

Aghast, spluttering hot coffee all over, I stare goggle eyed at the unfolding disaster.

Here’s the good General waxing lyrical about the importance of a strong Military.

Here he is whimsically recounting his days as a tank commander. Vroom, vroom.

Expounding, heaven forbid, on the subject of tall people. Those taller than himself. Chronic sufferers, I learn, of poor indigestion, bad backs and little d*cks.

About to drop out of hyperspace into the midst of the Adarluun system. Strutting about giving meaningless orders to the rest of Second fleet. Shouting nonsense about extra food rations for those that volunteer for mine clearance duties.

I shudder at the sudden public reality of the Empires Second Fleet being commanded by a military moron for all to see. I wonder how the News Orgs managed to swipe the footage off the inevitable drones and smuggle it past Starfleet HQ?

That wasn’t the plan. Not at all.

More footage. General Huss sporting a look of surprise. Blurred view ports on the flagship’s bridge gradually sharpening into focus as the effects of the jump wear off.

Second Fleet not alone. Adarluun system looking busy. Crowded even.

Takes a moment or two for the tactical plot to catch up. Six Pirate vessels and an independent freighter, the ‘Merry Endeavour’.









Lots of naval trash talk. Stuff like ‘hostile intent’, ‘powering up’, ‘locked on’, ‘imminent threat’.

General Huss, head up, shoulders back, preening for the cameras, insisting that he should communicate with the Pirates before opening fire. Give them the opportunity to flee.

That’s what gentlemen do, says he, flicking hair out of his eyes. Chin thrusting forward. Nose in profile. Stern, confident visage.

They are, the good General states, only Pirates after all. Wimps. Not real fighters. No backbone. Hit and run cowards. Chocolate soldiers. Doomed to melt in the heat.

Sudden shouting in the background. Alarms sounding. Lots of alarms. General Huss turning around, confused. Asking for QUIET PLEASE! Filming in progress.

Background noise level amping up. General looking really cross. Waving his arms in all directions. ORDERING everyone to be QUIET!!!.

Sudden jolt. Bridge of the flagship appears to lurch sideways. General knocked off his feet. Drops out of view. Uniforms staggering into control panels in the background. Huge white noise burst. View ports flaring protective gray as they compensate for the massive luminosity surge.

“Shields at 60! Reactor two offline! All weapon systems primed!”

Like a jack-in-a-box up pops the General. “Fire!” squawks he, “Fire the Cannons!”

Naval flunkies dutifully fire the ‘Cannons’ at the nearest Pirate, a small escort. Which – right on cue - goes bang. Rather big bang.

Not quite as big, though, as Second Fleet’s sole Frigate, the I.N ‘Fist of Redemption’. Spectacular explosion. KABOOM!

General Huss not taking it in. Confused. Dazed. Surprised.

I’ve seen small startled marsupials look more with it than teenie, tiny, pucker-faced Huss.

More lurching camera shots. I’m having difficulty following events. Yelling, shouting, flaring ports and confused tac-plots.

More vessels warping into the fray. Another independent freighter, “The Broken Bargain”. That’s apt.

Plus more Pirates.

And – I rub my eyes – right through the middle of the whole mad chaotic battle serenely sails a solitary Ape freighter. Blissfully ignorant of all the death and destruction going on around it.

I subconsciously reach for my pill container. Are they asleep? Jeez, hope nobody waxes them accidently and inadvertently starts a war.









Back to the General. Not going well. Struggling.

“Shields at 40!”

Camera man clearly nervous. Auto-smoothing failing to compensate for the shaky filming.

Wisps of dirty white smoke appearing here and there as the camera conducts a sweeping bridge panorama.

Centring back on the General. Mouth opening and closing faster than a guppy fish on a feeding frenzy. Speechless.

I peer at the screens in a state of dread-filled anticipation. Watching, along with most of the population of Zion, the self-destructive melt-down of the Empires pre-eminent military leader has a macabre don’t-go-there-but-please-don’t-stop fascination.

General Huss rallies. You can sense the relief of the camera man as he takes a deep breath and steadies. Strong leadership, noticeably absent up to this point, has finally arrived.

“Release the reserves!” commands the General.

Puzzled, I ponder for a moment where these might be. Second Fleet consists – when I last checked – of two destroyers and a frigate. Recent events have reduced it to a couple of banged-up destroyers. So what reserves are we talking about?

“Barrage fire for effect!”

Say what?

Captain of the Flagship intervenes. Points out, in his most officious, stiff upper lip manner, that it might be best to get the heck out of dodge. Now.

General Huss illuminated by the sudden display of pyrotechnics going off elsewhere on the bridge. The diminutive Huss forced to throw both arms around the captain to prevent himself being flung to the deck. Camera wildly gyrating all over. Grinding noises. Thickening smoke. Screams of pain.

“Shields down.” Quartermaster no longer shouting. More of a fatalistic monotonic delivery. “Reactive armour failing”

“Fix bayonets!” yells the crazed, red-eyed General.

Small message flashing in the bottom right of the holoVid saying an ‘emergency download’ is in progress. Cameraman must have panicked and streamed all footage direct to the ships final drone.

A sad half minute more of a mentally unhinged General attempting to rectify a terminal situation by escalating the volume and frequency of his meaningless orders.

Pitiful. Right up to the penultimate ‘zzzzzt’ with it’s accompanying black screen of death. ‘Transmission terminated’.

Short section of spliced on footage, taken from the sole remaining destroyer, of the flagship, the I.N “Short Stuff” and it’s final moment of pyrotechnic glory. The I.N “Try Harder” succumbing moments later. Black box drones from both vessels ejected on a homing trajectory back to Zion.

Flagship, gone. Second Fleet, gone. General Huss, gone.









Which is why I, along with the hastily reconvened Third Fleet, are making like fleas to a sewer rat. Warping directly to the Adarluun system.

With civilian and military morale plummeting it behoves me to lead from the front. To strive forth and smite down whatever lowlife scum I can find in order to restore pride and confidence back into the citizens of this great Empire.

I recognise that I may have the odd quirky aspect to my character. Recent, button related, activity springs to mind. Personally I think that having the occasional urge to asphyxiate kids, dogs and families only adds to my colourful persona.

Son of Igor has pointed out, delicately, that others may see it differently. Not sure about that. But who knows what crazy thoughts other people have?

Be that as it may, never let it be said that Emperor Fred runs from a fight.





To be continued...

Lancer

[2guncohen]

wow that was super [&o]

[Brainsucker]

It's crazy, the general charges a cruiser fleet with his destroyers and frigates? Superb story [&o]

Now, almost all the old characters gone. What will happen to the story then? Or... Oh no! Maybe the pirate was lead by the Witch Wanda, she's back to life! as a zombie?

[Galahad78]

GREAT!! [:D]

[Data]

"Camera wildly gyrating all over" very cinematic, i can almost see it happening [:)]

[elanaahova]

8 ape colonies noted, 7 ape colonized systems noted. One missing or 'doubled up? Your advisor said 'doubled up.' he might need some retraining - note the location of Ape capitol planet is "unknown." Watch your flank....

[Shark7]

Two problems alleviated...

First Witch Wanda and now General Huss.... [:D]