Post by him on Jan 23, 2022 14:08:54 GMT
"I am convinced of the profundity of military men. Their stupidity is bounded by no limits; their conceit knows no borders. I have always heard them talk as if there was nothing above, only below them. They look down on everything. The truth is this: we do not fight the battles so much as these same men think up reasons why we should win them."
-Zintael Trogelaen, prominent Zetyan antiwar activist, on the generals who lead the Gulf Offensive in WW2(1949)
78/5/21 - 6:05 AM SGT
YHA’KOLI, KA’LI’BAN
GRAND POLITBURON
A sunny morning on Ka’li’ban shone into the windows of the Grand Politburon, as a board room’s worth of Zetyan politicians sat in the middle of a chamber meant to hold thousands more like them, in quiet debate.
Today’s session was a closed meeting, privy only to the uppermost echelons of the Zetyan leadership; normally the Council would have made show, but their matters were many and their hands were tied. In less than 12 hours, Project Dreamweaver would make it’s grand activation, and all hands needed to be on deck for when it happened. As such, the warlords collected and the many advisors could only make do with themselves as their audience.
The matter of their debate, in turn, was simple. Normally, if they hadn’t covertly thrown in their lot with Orillia but a mere month ago, they’d be debating whether or not to join up with CONA or SAGA. After all, from a layman’s view, they seemed to be playing both sides of the argument, as they formed alliances and deals with whatever Unaligned they fancied while also sucking up to the Isoterrans. But their lot had been cast long ago; the only issue now was how to go about declaring their intent for all to know.
No doubt their canid friends would make issue over the act no matter how softly they whispered it; they were colonials, the very sort the dogma of CONA decried, and should one declare their side the other would have had but little choice to follow along, feet plodding as they made themselves their own Judas Iscariot.
And elements within their empire would no doubt flare up in lockstep. Redflag had become more active as of recent, staging protests and the occasional riot with increasing frequency as the events of the galaxy came upon their upstart empire, and the establishment of ICA had brought Shattertooth’s confidence up as well, as far-right xenophobia gatherings had also begun to crop up more and more.
But such issues could be ironed out as they came. The Isoterrans were wiser than to abandon both a useful ally and a megastructure project, no matter how minor both were on the grand scale, and those extremist groups were just that; extremist groups. Easily solved with application of force if things got violent. And so the zets in suits continued their quiet debates, questioning their venues of announcement and ironing out the draft of their speech as the bars of their windows trickled down to their faces, bringing a subtle golden hue to their black, beady eyes…
—-------------------
78/5/20 - 12:00 PM SGT
TADUSI, ICA TERRITORIES
ICA PRIMARY EMBASSY
“Comrades, friends, today we now stand at a crossroads, and today we must make a decision that impacts untold quadrillions…”
The chittery, husky voice of the Koluran representative brought the Isoterran Vendazi back to attention, as he…she? It? Began to expand on the events of the galaxy, and of CONA, and SAGA, and all the other sorts of stuff that they really should have gone over several weeks ago in that pseudo-pretentious tone they all seemed to have.
He had a feeling which side they were going to take already. Of the eleven founding members of ICA, the majority had some form of anti-colonial sentiment, and the rest either had no opinion or elected not to share it. He didn’t like the thought much; his homeland certainly hadn’t the brightest views of the trans-galactic alliance and it’s founder, and the other side was likely to agree. Not to mention they were already fractured and seditious within themselves; already he had heard tales of infighting and intrigue, the seeming fellowship of natives apparently just a mask to hide decades of grudges and wars.
But the other side wasn’t much better off. The most SAGA had over CONA was press support and the lack of the illusion of some unifying, grand goal beyond opposing CONA. He suspected they were just as likely to tear at their own throats as the natives, just under the pretense of self gain rather than some rivalry or slight from ten years ago.
His eyes came to the Zetyan representative opposite him, the somewhat hunched figure listening to the ant as he twiddled his fingers and fidgeted slightly. Species-wide tics, he had been told by the AncNet. Vendazi chose to believe it as boredom instead; it made it easier to emphasize and believe.
Their internal rhetoric was less nativist and more self centered, if memory serves right. Their ruler had spouted things about an empire having the right to do as they please, and the citizens sharing those same rights in tandem to create a truly free state. Freedism, they called it. In a twisted way, one could call it utopist, but having seen some facets of Zetyan society it was oddly fitting. Perhaps it was little more than empty rhetoric, but from the little times he had been in contact with… Vol’nisa, was it? He seemed to be an ardent believer.
Vendazi’s thoughts, however, soon found themselves brought to the present, as the Koluran fellow finished his tangent. In lockstep, that chittering voice gave a call to vote-CONA, or SAGA, or remain neutral.
And to neutrality, says the men of Kless and Soore. For this struggle shall ultimately reap nothing, and sow only sadness and destitution. Let the fools fight; the better men shall be left, and that alone is enough.
Now the eyes in the room shifted to the elephant occupying it. The only colonial in a room of natives, all awaiting Vendazi's response.
A moment’s pondering was needed. But a moment is just that, a moment, and soon his vote was cast.
“I say we join
—
SOMEWHERE
A pup sat in a room with a wolf. The pup had said something the wolf wanted to know about. The pup didn’t know if it was good or bad, merely that he said it.
“You really voted for CONA?” Said the wolf to the pup.
“Yes.” Said the pup to the wolf.
“Hm.”
Vendazi’s superior seemed to lapse in thought over his response. It certainly wasn’t undeserving of analysis; a colonial recommending a colonial nation to join an explicitly anti-colonial alliance? How queer, the thought of becoming a political pariah.
“I presume you’re clear on how this will look for us, correct? How we’ll have to act from how on, what we’ll have to say, the works?”
“Crystal.”
“Good.” A moment’s silence. “May I inquire as to your reasoning?”
“The Nucleans, as predicted, have joined up with SAGA, spouting the same old ‘We don’t want to, but we have to’ rhetoric they’ve used for the last two wars. Were I to vote otherwise, our position in ICA had the potential to become destabilized; we are the only colonial in a group of natives, sticking out like a sore thumb. It’ll help us accrue allies quickly if we appear as sympathizers, and our position in ICA will remain secure and allow us to build up assets on all sides in turn; we’ve already made exponential headway with the Zetyans, their lackeys will likely be even easier.
And… honestly?
As weak, and fractured, and completely and utterly disjointed and disorganized as they are, they outnumber the opposition by a large margin, and we’ll need all the help we can get. Especially if they get control of the corridor.”
“..good. Very good. We’ve trained you very well, haven’t we?” The wolf was pleased.
“Yes. Thank you, sir.”
“Of course. You may leave.”
The pup left the den. The wolf was pleased. The pup was not like the rest of the litter, the pup was not weak, the pup had the heart of a wolf. And soon, very soon, he could finally grow up…
—
78/5/21 - 11:11 AM SGT
TADUSI, ICA TERRITORIES
ICA PRESS HALL
The Umpretan adjusted his tie. A league of androids gave his suit the White Maginot shine.
It felt like yesterday already that he had come here, announcing the founding of ICA, and bathed in the white sheen of light. He was the organization’s face, of course, and a part of him likely had tans from all the paparazzi flashes he saw on a day-to-day basis.
Five, said the director. Five minutes he spent walking in lockstep to the meeting hall, and five he spent waiting for the queue to enter, each plodding step waking a sense of deja vu he never knew he had. But he pushed it to the back of his mind. He was the Face, and the face must speak.
The que called, and again he was bathed in a sea of flashing light. The shades did their duty, as he stood at the podium and prepared to recite the words he saw trailing down his retina. His vocal chords moved to say the words, and his lungs gave them their ammo.
“Friends, colleagues, and all who have come to watch this occasion.
Again, we have gathered here this day, and again shall a great bonding occur. Only, now it is not between nations, but groups, groups which share a common bond and goal, and ultimately a common understanding.
It feels like yesterday that we were here, as we called for unity amongst the galaxy and decried the horrors of war. Yet fate has seen that unity shall not be achieved easily, and now we all sit at home and count down the weeks until it all kicks off. It is not without hefty price that unity can be achieved.
Our fellow alliance, ACOM, I believe would agree. It is not with honey and silver on my tongue that i say this, but certainty and knowledge; they too were founded as a response to the anarchy of the galaxy, and they too have called for a unity and found their call unheard.
And I suspect, like us, that they too shall pick their side. We have both been founded on similar principles, and on similar principles we are bound to act. To stand by idly and watch brother tear upon brother would not just be hypocritical, but an offense to our very morality.
SAGA has promise. But they have no unifying goal, no sense of brotherhood. Should they win this war, things will merely go back to how they were; a house of cards, constantly squabbling and on the edge of collapse-the very thing we and many others have come together to oppose.
CONA, meanwhile, was founded on those very principles. We do not endorse some of their views, but of the same token we sympathize with their cause. Their collective voice is but a response to what the ‘status quo’ has brought us; chaos, disorder, disunity and more. We must come together under a common banner if we are to achieve our goals, and SAGA is sadly in opposition to what we stand for.
Therefore, ICA declares its allegiance as a member of CONA, and we implore ACOM to do the same. Though we may both have our grievances, now is no time to act on them. We must stand for a common cause if we are to achieve our own, and as I have said before: I believe you would agree.”
The Face had spoken. And for some reason, it felt good.
—-------------------
78/5/21 - 3:02 AM SGT
SPACE, KA’LI’BAN
DREAMWEAVER CORE
“All systems ready for activation?”
“Check.”
“Weird magic brain hub thingy working fine?”
“Double check.”
“Shiny new fleet working OK and on their way?”
“Verified thrice over.”
“The other three guys doing OK?”
“Haven’t heard complaints.”
“My suit look good?”
“Che-…uh, yeah. Check.”
“Groovy.”
Today was the day, and today was his lucky day. Ki’nak Vol’nisa stared into a portable mirror, admiring himself as his head buzzed lightly with a sort of mania. He hadn’t felt this excited since he became Voriarch, and as his hands trembled he questioned whether or not he was dreaming.
His advisor stood opposite, having been reviewing a checklist under the bright lights of a giant reactor core and tuning into the hums of the machinery around them. They had been reviewing this since 1 in the morning, and a part of her was grateful there was some white noise so she could ignore the buzzing in her head.
As they stood there, the three guests of honor soon entered the core area, lead by Fg’han. P’tala walked in tandem, making sure T’lajoa didn’t try to itch at all the bandages under his spiffy suit and rub the area where his eyes were bandaged up. Despite their differences, right now they all shared one common link-irritation at having to wake up at midnight 12 hours before the main event.
“Hey man, is there-”
“Oh hey! All ready, I see.” Ki’nak said, barely able to hide his excitement.
“...are there any bedrooms, like, anywhere? It’s like… six hours b-before the thingy.”
“Uh… maybe? Ask around. Don’t know why you guys would wanna nap though, I’m fuckin’ buzzing right now!”
“We can tell.” snarked P’tala.
“How the hell can you stay up so fuckin’ late, anyways?” asked T’lajoa, unable to hide his annoyance.
“Oh, it’s my new sleep schedule. I stay up all night doing paperwork and take a one hour nap during the day every few hours.”
“That sounds like shit, dude.”
“Blame the flesh ball and the pug people.” His voice betrayed no annoyance, yet the pain was still felt.
“Yeah, fair. Alright guys, lets-s find somewhere to crash…” Fg’han, evidently still adjusting to his transition as ringleader, began to head off somewhere else with the other two.
Satisfied that they were ready and waiting, Vol’nisa turned back to the mirror. A part of him wished the Council warlords were here-he was way more chummy with them than with those diplomats, in honesty-but they were plenty fine as standins. The rest of the warlords were pretty shitty, anyhow, and no way in hell was he gonna listen to three of those koadamned nasal-voiced nosy advisors complain for 12 hours.
“You want me to ring up the navy, make sure they’re ready?”
“Hm? Oh, yeah, do that, they better be ready.”
Admiral Th’atla wanted to punch something.
Sure, you can’t exactly refuse a curtain call from your nation’s figurehead leader. And he couldn’t deny it; this new ship generation was really, really swanky. But even his drill sergeant at boot camp had better sense than to wake up his men 12 or more hours before anything would even be happening. He usually sprung for six, at least.
His fellow admirals seemed in agreement. The only reason noone had complained was because they’d already been complaining about way worse shit than a really early wakeup call, and it was the big reveal day. Best not to piss off Mr. Important when he wanted things to be in tip-top shape.
A sudden call from the station caused his hand to be at his head in mere moments, almost unconsciously pressing the comms bead as he roused himself from a slump.
“Shipcode 2937a1, name The’ropa, statrep on subject and followers?”
“Well and functioning on all counts. Just waiting for the big reveal.”
“Good. Leader to arrive in 8 hours. Checkup in 7. Core out.”
—
78/5/21 - 11:11 AM SGT
SPACE, ZETYAN CORE SYSTEM
DREAMWEAVER CORE
It was time.
He stood at the podium, waiting for the cameras to turn on, as the three diplomats stood at his side in fidgety anticipation. He had been reciting this speech since three weeks ago, and ever since he arrived on Dreamweaver proper his hands never stopped shaking. It still felt unreal, but no part of him wanted to wake from this dream.
A big red button was in front of him, on the podium stand. It gave the activation signal. He wanted to press it now, to hear the roar of his brainchild, to see the lights behind him turn to a bright neon blue as he could know that his empire would enjoy his creation, after so much waiting and so much anticipation. But not yet. Once the speech was over. The speech. Yes.
The cameras turned on. It was time. Automated press drones, in lieu of paparazzi, began silently taking pictures, disallowed from using flashes for ‘photogenic’ reasons.
A moment’s anticipation, then he spoke.
“My friends. My countrymen.
Ever since I was a child, I stared up at the sky and found only wonder consuming me. What sort of things were out there to discover, what wonders could we claim as ours? What alien beasts could we destroy in a wondrous adventure? It seems quaint, but these thoughts have stuck with me all my life.
Even when I became your Voriarch, I still looked up with wonder. I am older now, yes, and wiser, but these thoughts I shall claim as ubiquitous to all who watch this feed, who see the clips posted online, who have met and seen and known. Perhaps you filed them away, perhaps you embraced them as I have. But at least once, I guarantee you have gazed up, and seen only awe and wonder in the endless stars above.
Today, my brainchild… Our brainchild, shall make its maiden voyage. It is the stepping stone to greater things, to greater possibilities, to a great future for our Clanholds. To you, my countrymen, I am eternally grateful. For your sacrifices, your contributions, even your existence. This is the culmination, the apex, the summit of all our hard work and more.
I give my thanks in particular to the Isoterrans. Without their contributions, I would not be standing here today, addressing you. They have given much for our cause, and they shall receive much in return. For their assistance, I give my appreciation-may our futures grow ever brighter.
No matter your views, your grievances, your sins, today we are all countrymen. Today, we are all Zetyan. Today, we are all family.
And today, I declare Project Dreamweaver…”
The button called to him. His hand acted as ambassador.
“Online…”
Click.
“AND FUNCTIONAL.”
The hum turned to a roar. The light became blinding. The Voriarch smiled, and closed his eyes.
—-------------------
78/5/22 - 10:21 AM SGT
SPACE, ZETYAN BACKWATER TERRITORIES
PIRATE BASE
This week, all things considered, had been pretty good.
Lkoj’ir had grown to appreciate the craft he had salvaged from the weird place they had gone to. He still pined for the spiky thingie-the interwebbies had told him it was called a ‘blinker’-but these things, on closer examination, had enough spikes to make him happy. The blue wasn’t very pretty, but there wasn’t nothing a can of paint couldn’t fix.
What he never expected was for the prissy gits to send them a ship of their own along with them. After initial confusion as to why they had seemingly decided to follow them-apparently they had come with more ships than they had left with-the only thing keeping it intact right now was because the good captain wanted to decide what to do with it himself.
He did have to shoot a few people to get his point across, but then again he did that every tuesday. What’s a few more? There’s always runts and more convicts to plug the holes, anyhow.
Right now, he was busying himself with observing a line of Minsinese ‘prisoners’ they had managed to drag out from the wreckage ball, unfortunates whose escape pods were simply dragged along by the unwitting lot in their depressed taking to leave. Their fates were unknown, but likely not pretty-the last time they had prisoners, the batch either served in the runt fight pits or as ‘advisors’ for trigger-happy psychopaths with fragile egos.
He eyed one in particular with a cool scar over his eyes. People with scars were pretty cool. Always had some cool thing they did, by his count.
“Whotsch disch finky on yer eye? Wher’d yew git it?” He said, poking at it roughly with a mechanical claw.
“In conflict with the Eosians. Kinetic impact scar.” He spat.
“But itsch a cut… ‘ittin’ schtuff duschynt mayk it cut.”
“Have you never faced them in combat, barbarian?”
“Nou?”
“Hmph. If only Tyrandis had noticed your little mockery of a fleet and wiped it from the view of the Isochroma, perhaps you could understand even slightly.”
“‘Oo? Wot?”
“I swear, when the Republic hears of this-”
“Wot’re yew tawlkin’ abowt?? Yewsh schpeekin’ nawnschenshe.”
“And you aren’t? I’ve heard what you troglodytes consider ‘entertainment’, what horrors the last prisoners you took endured! You think we will suffer that lightly?!”
“Yesh.”
“Such arrogance-”
“Wosch dat meen? Isschit when schtewpyd peepul gyt schawt up buy ‘bar-bear-reee-ahns’? Oi may nawt bee da scharpist tewl, but yewsh a reel panshee lawt iyf a buncha ‘traw-go-lo-dy-tesch’ cahn beet yer shpiffy schyps ter junk, harhar!”
That shut up the pansy real good, as his crew members chortled at his joke. Perhaps it was that effective, or perhaps he just found communication to be a fruitless endeavor. Whatever the case, it was time to move on. The rest needed eyeing, and the good captain had a good eye for who could do wha-
“Mr. Lkoj’ir?”
A foreign voice caused him to swing his head around. That definitely didn’t belong to one of his crewmates.
Two spiffy-dressed weirdos stood, escorted by some of his men.
“...who tha’ ‘ell isch yew lawt??”
“Official diplomats, Council.” They seemed unfettered as they moved towards him. What the hell did those gits want with him? Why weren’t they afraid? Did they not know who he was??
“I will be blunt here, Mr. Lkoj’ir. You’ve done very well for yourself, but you have something we want.
And we are willing to give a lot…”
One of them opened their briefcase, and-
Holy shit.
Holy SHIT.
M O N E Y.
P O R N.
“To get what we want. Let’s t-talk, shall we?”
—
78/5/22 - 6:09 AM SGT
ZETODA, ZETYAN CORE SYSTEMS
How long had it been ever since that fateful day?
Ji’najka had kept ample count. 6 months, 3 weeks, 1 day, 2 minutes, 53 seconds and counting. It had been the day everything changed, after all; where a stupid decision had cost him his job, his reputation, and earned him a shadow over his shoulder he could never seem to get rid of.
He’d managed to get a job at a Juice and Naps installation. They paid him jack shit, but it was fine, he could pay rent at least. He spent all day browsing on his computer and watching TV, because what else was there to do but see the fruits of his own mistakes?
Those fucking bugs had taken up every inch of his life, and many times he’d wanted nothing more to do than to strangle whoever was the other admiral that day, just so he could come home with a victory like he had before and drank some champagne and oh look a hot babe and life would have been fine.
But no, now there was an eye shadowing him everywhere he went, the eye of the Council stuck on him like a plague even when he knew it couldn’t have been there. The knowledge of futility was painful, it made him paranoid and afraid. Yet it was also comforting, in a way, to know that he hadn’t been completely forgotten to the outside world. That still, no matter how pathetic, he could affirm his existence.
He stared into his fridge. There was a steak, a half eaten burger, some booze. How far he’d fallen. He closed the door, sighing-
Light. Why was there light whos here who-
A government agent stood in his doorway. The same kind he’d seen on street corners out of the corner of his eye. The same kind he had nightmares about where they knocked him out cold and sent him to drown. A part of him began trembling.
“Ji’najka Vel’tous. It’s time. They want you.”
“...what could they possibly need me for?”
“Many thi-”
He reached for a convenient knife, and held it to his own throat. The agent remained unfettered. Probably because of how he looked, honestly.
“I’m going to kill myself, right now! And you, and all your friends won’t have their special asset! How’s that sound, huh?! HUH?!”
A moment’s anticipation. He waited for his bluff to work-he didn’t have the balls, he just wanted an answer. Something, at least.
“...You’re an official liaison to ACOM on behalf of ICA. Specifically to the Lithorian section.”
…He really, really, really wished that he had the balls to do it right now.
—
78/5/22 - 5:00 PM SGT
SPACE, TO’OORA
“Well, we have good news and bad news.”
“Do tell.”
The fleetmaster sat, awaiting the response of the two diplomats. Despite their intertwinedness in Zetyan politics, the military rarely called upon the diplomatic section, and when they did it was usually for making sure a corporation didn’t implode on itself.
“Well, the good news is that we bought him out. We’ve managed to secure both the wreckage as described and an additional Eosian warship intended as a gift, and have relocated them to To’oora for industrial and scientific study.”
“Ah, good. Very good. The bad news is that it was very expensive, I assume?”
“...In the long term, most likely.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, we, uh… we bought him out.”
“..you said that already?”
“Sorry, emphasis. We bought, him, out.”
Realization soon set upon the fleetmaster’s face. Denial soon rushed to shield him.
“What, you mean his crew? His, his ships?”
“All of it.”
“...are y-”
The door barged open, as a very giddy Lkoj’ir practically danced into the room, a Minsinese advisor with an eye scar in tow looking almost despondent.
“HAR, HAR, HAR, HAR! OI EM A BYG GIT, OI EM A BYG GYT, HAR HAHAR HAHAAAR!”
His routine over, he noticed the fleetmaster.
“Oh, oh, yer da byggscht git! Whodsch me fyrscht asshingment?! Oi’m reddy fer anyfink! Juscht shay da werd! Oi’m reddy!!”
“Help me.” Said his advisor.
“Forgive me.” Said P’tala W’toal.
“Kill me.” Said the fleetmaster.
—-------------------
A fire crackled, and the Voriarch was content.
Ki’nak Vol’nisa sat in his personal lounge. It was dark, and the lights of the capital city Yha'koli shone even through the thick smog layer into his room, the only other source of light beyond a nice little fireplace he had. This week had been the best week of his life yet, which was a surprise-even with all the bad in the galaxy, there was still plenty of good he could dredge from it’s depths.
As he lounged on a couch, staring at the remains of a dinner setup. He had just finished eating two PB&Js, a nice little snack to round off the day. The plate and silverware were simple, and he only had a nice glass of water to go with it. If he was being honest with himself, a part of the ‘humble man’ persona that every politician trains to emulate had really rubbed off on him.
…
It was a forbidden pleasure of his, making things float.
The dinnerware now hovered off the table, his hand making them do a little carousel dance as orange glows surrounded them. Boredom manifesting into childlike fiddling.
He was a psyker. A psyker who knew how to mask his nature very, very well, but a psyker nonetheless. He never got diagnosed at an early age purely because it didn’t manifest as the traditional signs.
As he grew older, he always found it strange how he always got what he wanted. A wayward remark, an offhand joke, then suddenly he was being fed everything he asked for on a silver platter with a blowjob to boot. At first, he was a true spoiled child, arrogance and all, but as the true nature of things became evident to himself he became much more reserved, quiet, introspective. By the time he started making things float in the air he had completely and utterly changed as a person.
Being taught from birth to hate those like himself was a bit hard on the mind. Perhaps it’s what kept him from abusing that silver tongue of his to its fullest extent, that strange period in his teens of questioning and self loathing mixed into a cocktail of confusion that muddled his thoughts until his early political careers.
As he stopped the dance of the dinnerware, and set them back upon the table, he ruminated a little. What would have become of him had he not been given this gift? Where would he be now? How would things have been different without him in the pilot’s seat? Such questions he asked often, but could find no answer.
His little secret he could take to the grave. With age comes wisdom comes experience, and at the prime age of 58 he certainly had plenty of all three. As he began to work his way to bed, he reviewed what he could make in the morning for breakfast, as the clock struck midnight across the galaxy…
-Zintael Trogelaen, prominent Zetyan antiwar activist, on the generals who lead the Gulf Offensive in WW2(1949)
78/5/21 - 6:05 AM SGT
YHA’KOLI, KA’LI’BAN
GRAND POLITBURON
A sunny morning on Ka’li’ban shone into the windows of the Grand Politburon, as a board room’s worth of Zetyan politicians sat in the middle of a chamber meant to hold thousands more like them, in quiet debate.
Today’s session was a closed meeting, privy only to the uppermost echelons of the Zetyan leadership; normally the Council would have made show, but their matters were many and their hands were tied. In less than 12 hours, Project Dreamweaver would make it’s grand activation, and all hands needed to be on deck for when it happened. As such, the warlords collected and the many advisors could only make do with themselves as their audience.
The matter of their debate, in turn, was simple. Normally, if they hadn’t covertly thrown in their lot with Orillia but a mere month ago, they’d be debating whether or not to join up with CONA or SAGA. After all, from a layman’s view, they seemed to be playing both sides of the argument, as they formed alliances and deals with whatever Unaligned they fancied while also sucking up to the Isoterrans. But their lot had been cast long ago; the only issue now was how to go about declaring their intent for all to know.
No doubt their canid friends would make issue over the act no matter how softly they whispered it; they were colonials, the very sort the dogma of CONA decried, and should one declare their side the other would have had but little choice to follow along, feet plodding as they made themselves their own Judas Iscariot.
And elements within their empire would no doubt flare up in lockstep. Redflag had become more active as of recent, staging protests and the occasional riot with increasing frequency as the events of the galaxy came upon their upstart empire, and the establishment of ICA had brought Shattertooth’s confidence up as well, as far-right xenophobia gatherings had also begun to crop up more and more.
But such issues could be ironed out as they came. The Isoterrans were wiser than to abandon both a useful ally and a megastructure project, no matter how minor both were on the grand scale, and those extremist groups were just that; extremist groups. Easily solved with application of force if things got violent. And so the zets in suits continued their quiet debates, questioning their venues of announcement and ironing out the draft of their speech as the bars of their windows trickled down to their faces, bringing a subtle golden hue to their black, beady eyes…
—-------------------
78/5/20 - 12:00 PM SGT
TADUSI, ICA TERRITORIES
ICA PRIMARY EMBASSY
“Comrades, friends, today we now stand at a crossroads, and today we must make a decision that impacts untold quadrillions…”
The chittery, husky voice of the Koluran representative brought the Isoterran Vendazi back to attention, as he…she? It? Began to expand on the events of the galaxy, and of CONA, and SAGA, and all the other sorts of stuff that they really should have gone over several weeks ago in that pseudo-pretentious tone they all seemed to have.
He had a feeling which side they were going to take already. Of the eleven founding members of ICA, the majority had some form of anti-colonial sentiment, and the rest either had no opinion or elected not to share it. He didn’t like the thought much; his homeland certainly hadn’t the brightest views of the trans-galactic alliance and it’s founder, and the other side was likely to agree. Not to mention they were already fractured and seditious within themselves; already he had heard tales of infighting and intrigue, the seeming fellowship of natives apparently just a mask to hide decades of grudges and wars.
But the other side wasn’t much better off. The most SAGA had over CONA was press support and the lack of the illusion of some unifying, grand goal beyond opposing CONA. He suspected they were just as likely to tear at their own throats as the natives, just under the pretense of self gain rather than some rivalry or slight from ten years ago.
His eyes came to the Zetyan representative opposite him, the somewhat hunched figure listening to the ant as he twiddled his fingers and fidgeted slightly. Species-wide tics, he had been told by the AncNet. Vendazi chose to believe it as boredom instead; it made it easier to emphasize and believe.
Their internal rhetoric was less nativist and more self centered, if memory serves right. Their ruler had spouted things about an empire having the right to do as they please, and the citizens sharing those same rights in tandem to create a truly free state. Freedism, they called it. In a twisted way, one could call it utopist, but having seen some facets of Zetyan society it was oddly fitting. Perhaps it was little more than empty rhetoric, but from the little times he had been in contact with… Vol’nisa, was it? He seemed to be an ardent believer.
Vendazi’s thoughts, however, soon found themselves brought to the present, as the Koluran fellow finished his tangent. In lockstep, that chittering voice gave a call to vote-CONA, or SAGA, or remain neutral.
To CONA, said the Helisian. For they are not unlike us, and we each have had our fair share of colonial mistreatment. Who are we to deny them now?
To neutrality, says the Umpretan. Let the two blocks fight their foolish wars, for there are more pressing issues than petty rivalry and bigotry.
To CONA, chime the Andisan and the Blitsan. The colonials have no focus, no unifying fellowship beyond hatred of their fellow man. How can we trust them to help any other than themselves?
To SAGA, says the Jarolean. As much as Orillia has a point, their opponents have much more weight to throw around militarily and economically. Especially with the relocation of the Grindstone, and the burning of Lost Star.
To CONA, says the Tarman and the Zetyan. We’re in too deep to back out now; a union of brothers united by hardship. Better to stick true than to fall flat.
Now the eyes in the room shifted to the elephant occupying it. The only colonial in a room of natives, all awaiting Vendazi's response.
A moment’s pondering was needed. But a moment is just that, a moment, and soon his vote was cast.
“I say we join
—
SOMEWHERE
A pup sat in a room with a wolf. The pup had said something the wolf wanted to know about. The pup didn’t know if it was good or bad, merely that he said it.
“You really voted for CONA?” Said the wolf to the pup.
“Yes.” Said the pup to the wolf.
“Hm.”
Vendazi’s superior seemed to lapse in thought over his response. It certainly wasn’t undeserving of analysis; a colonial recommending a colonial nation to join an explicitly anti-colonial alliance? How queer, the thought of becoming a political pariah.
“I presume you’re clear on how this will look for us, correct? How we’ll have to act from how on, what we’ll have to say, the works?”
“Crystal.”
“Good.” A moment’s silence. “May I inquire as to your reasoning?”
“The Nucleans, as predicted, have joined up with SAGA, spouting the same old ‘We don’t want to, but we have to’ rhetoric they’ve used for the last two wars. Were I to vote otherwise, our position in ICA had the potential to become destabilized; we are the only colonial in a group of natives, sticking out like a sore thumb. It’ll help us accrue allies quickly if we appear as sympathizers, and our position in ICA will remain secure and allow us to build up assets on all sides in turn; we’ve already made exponential headway with the Zetyans, their lackeys will likely be even easier.
And… honestly?
As weak, and fractured, and completely and utterly disjointed and disorganized as they are, they outnumber the opposition by a large margin, and we’ll need all the help we can get. Especially if they get control of the corridor.”
“..good. Very good. We’ve trained you very well, haven’t we?” The wolf was pleased.
“Yes. Thank you, sir.”
“Of course. You may leave.”
The pup left the den. The wolf was pleased. The pup was not like the rest of the litter, the pup was not weak, the pup had the heart of a wolf. And soon, very soon, he could finally grow up…
—
78/5/21 - 11:11 AM SGT
TADUSI, ICA TERRITORIES
ICA PRESS HALL
The Umpretan adjusted his tie. A league of androids gave his suit the White Maginot shine.
It felt like yesterday already that he had come here, announcing the founding of ICA, and bathed in the white sheen of light. He was the organization’s face, of course, and a part of him likely had tans from all the paparazzi flashes he saw on a day-to-day basis.
He just never expected to come back so soon. Barely even a week had passed, and so much had happened in so little time he wanted to stop and question if he was just in a very prolonged Rhizome training simulation. But he was their Face, and the face must speak.
“Hey, you ready, Joleth? It’s on at five.”
The que called, and again he was bathed in a sea of flashing light. The shades did their duty, as he stood at the podium and prepared to recite the words he saw trailing down his retina. His vocal chords moved to say the words, and his lungs gave them their ammo.
“Friends, colleagues, and all who have come to watch this occasion.
Again, we have gathered here this day, and again shall a great bonding occur. Only, now it is not between nations, but groups, groups which share a common bond and goal, and ultimately a common understanding.
It feels like yesterday that we were here, as we called for unity amongst the galaxy and decried the horrors of war. Yet fate has seen that unity shall not be achieved easily, and now we all sit at home and count down the weeks until it all kicks off. It is not without hefty price that unity can be achieved.
Our fellow alliance, ACOM, I believe would agree. It is not with honey and silver on my tongue that i say this, but certainty and knowledge; they too were founded as a response to the anarchy of the galaxy, and they too have called for a unity and found their call unheard.
And I suspect, like us, that they too shall pick their side. We have both been founded on similar principles, and on similar principles we are bound to act. To stand by idly and watch brother tear upon brother would not just be hypocritical, but an offense to our very morality.
SAGA has promise. But they have no unifying goal, no sense of brotherhood. Should they win this war, things will merely go back to how they were; a house of cards, constantly squabbling and on the edge of collapse-the very thing we and many others have come together to oppose.
CONA, meanwhile, was founded on those very principles. We do not endorse some of their views, but of the same token we sympathize with their cause. Their collective voice is but a response to what the ‘status quo’ has brought us; chaos, disorder, disunity and more. We must come together under a common banner if we are to achieve our goals, and SAGA is sadly in opposition to what we stand for.
Therefore, ICA declares its allegiance as a member of CONA, and we implore ACOM to do the same. Though we may both have our grievances, now is no time to act on them. We must stand for a common cause if we are to achieve our own, and as I have said before: I believe you would agree.”
The Face had spoken. And for some reason, it felt good.
—-------------------
78/5/21 - 3:02 AM SGT
SPACE, KA’LI’BAN
DREAMWEAVER CORE
“All systems ready for activation?”
“Check.”
“Weird magic brain hub thingy working fine?”
“Double check.”
“Shiny new fleet working OK and on their way?”
“Verified thrice over.”
“The other three guys doing OK?”
“Haven’t heard complaints.”
“My suit look good?”
“Che-…uh, yeah. Check.”
“Groovy.”
Today was the day, and today was his lucky day. Ki’nak Vol’nisa stared into a portable mirror, admiring himself as his head buzzed lightly with a sort of mania. He hadn’t felt this excited since he became Voriarch, and as his hands trembled he questioned whether or not he was dreaming.
His advisor stood opposite, having been reviewing a checklist under the bright lights of a giant reactor core and tuning into the hums of the machinery around them. They had been reviewing this since 1 in the morning, and a part of her was grateful there was some white noise so she could ignore the buzzing in her head.
As they stood there, the three guests of honor soon entered the core area, lead by Fg’han. P’tala walked in tandem, making sure T’lajoa didn’t try to itch at all the bandages under his spiffy suit and rub the area where his eyes were bandaged up. Despite their differences, right now they all shared one common link-irritation at having to wake up at midnight 12 hours before the main event.
“Hey man, is there-”
“Oh hey! All ready, I see.” Ki’nak said, barely able to hide his excitement.
“...are there any bedrooms, like, anywhere? It’s like… six hours b-before the thingy.”
“Uh… maybe? Ask around. Don’t know why you guys would wanna nap though, I’m fuckin’ buzzing right now!”
“We can tell.” snarked P’tala.
“How the hell can you stay up so fuckin’ late, anyways?” asked T’lajoa, unable to hide his annoyance.
“Oh, it’s my new sleep schedule. I stay up all night doing paperwork and take a one hour nap during the day every few hours.”
“That sounds like shit, dude.”
“Blame the flesh ball and the pug people.” His voice betrayed no annoyance, yet the pain was still felt.
“Yeah, fair. Alright guys, lets-s find somewhere to crash…” Fg’han, evidently still adjusting to his transition as ringleader, began to head off somewhere else with the other two.
Satisfied that they were ready and waiting, Vol’nisa turned back to the mirror. A part of him wished the Council warlords were here-he was way more chummy with them than with those diplomats, in honesty-but they were plenty fine as standins. The rest of the warlords were pretty shitty, anyhow, and no way in hell was he gonna listen to three of those koadamned nasal-voiced nosy advisors complain for 12 hours.
“You want me to ring up the navy, make sure they’re ready?”
“Hm? Oh, yeah, do that, they better be ready.”
“Alright, I’ll be in the comms zone.”
And with that, she headed off, as the good leader returned to admiring himself in the mirror…
—Admiral Th’atla wanted to punch something.
Sure, you can’t exactly refuse a curtain call from your nation’s figurehead leader. And he couldn’t deny it; this new ship generation was really, really swanky. But even his drill sergeant at boot camp had better sense than to wake up his men 12 or more hours before anything would even be happening. He usually sprung for six, at least.
His fellow admirals seemed in agreement. The only reason noone had complained was because they’d already been complaining about way worse shit than a really early wakeup call, and it was the big reveal day. Best not to piss off Mr. Important when he wanted things to be in tip-top shape.
A sudden call from the station caused his hand to be at his head in mere moments, almost unconsciously pressing the comms bead as he roused himself from a slump.
“Shipcode 2937a1, name The’ropa, statrep on subject and followers?”
“Well and functioning on all counts. Just waiting for the big reveal.”
“Good. Leader to arrive in 8 hours. Checkup in 7. Core out.”
The bead clicked in his ear, as he slumped back with a sigh. The hum of the… maner? Mona? The red and green and white stuff made good sleeping noise, at least.
Very, very good…
sleepimgn…..nose….
no…is……
…….
78/5/21 - 11:11 AM SGT
SPACE, ZETYAN CORE SYSTEM
DREAMWEAVER CORE
It was time.
He stood at the podium, waiting for the cameras to turn on, as the three diplomats stood at his side in fidgety anticipation. He had been reciting this speech since three weeks ago, and ever since he arrived on Dreamweaver proper his hands never stopped shaking. It still felt unreal, but no part of him wanted to wake from this dream.
A big red button was in front of him, on the podium stand. It gave the activation signal. He wanted to press it now, to hear the roar of his brainchild, to see the lights behind him turn to a bright neon blue as he could know that his empire would enjoy his creation, after so much waiting and so much anticipation. But not yet. Once the speech was over. The speech. Yes.
The cameras turned on. It was time. Automated press drones, in lieu of paparazzi, began silently taking pictures, disallowed from using flashes for ‘photogenic’ reasons.
A moment’s anticipation, then he spoke.
“My friends. My countrymen.
Ever since I was a child, I stared up at the sky and found only wonder consuming me. What sort of things were out there to discover, what wonders could we claim as ours? What alien beasts could we destroy in a wondrous adventure? It seems quaint, but these thoughts have stuck with me all my life.
Even when I became your Voriarch, I still looked up with wonder. I am older now, yes, and wiser, but these thoughts I shall claim as ubiquitous to all who watch this feed, who see the clips posted online, who have met and seen and known. Perhaps you filed them away, perhaps you embraced them as I have. But at least once, I guarantee you have gazed up, and seen only awe and wonder in the endless stars above.
Today, my brainchild… Our brainchild, shall make its maiden voyage. It is the stepping stone to greater things, to greater possibilities, to a great future for our Clanholds. To you, my countrymen, I am eternally grateful. For your sacrifices, your contributions, even your existence. This is the culmination, the apex, the summit of all our hard work and more.
I give my thanks in particular to the Isoterrans. Without their contributions, I would not be standing here today, addressing you. They have given much for our cause, and they shall receive much in return. For their assistance, I give my appreciation-may our futures grow ever brighter.
No matter your views, your grievances, your sins, today we are all countrymen. Today, we are all Zetyan. Today, we are all family.
And today, I declare Project Dreamweaver…”
The button called to him. His hand acted as ambassador.
“Online…”
Click.
“AND FUNCTIONAL.”
The hum turned to a roar. The light became blinding. The Voriarch smiled, and closed his eyes.
—-------------------
78/5/22 - 10:21 AM SGT
SPACE, ZETYAN BACKWATER TERRITORIES
PIRATE BASE
This week, all things considered, had been pretty good.
Lkoj’ir had grown to appreciate the craft he had salvaged from the weird place they had gone to. He still pined for the spiky thingie-the interwebbies had told him it was called a ‘blinker’-but these things, on closer examination, had enough spikes to make him happy. The blue wasn’t very pretty, but there wasn’t nothing a can of paint couldn’t fix.
What he never expected was for the prissy gits to send them a ship of their own along with them. After initial confusion as to why they had seemingly decided to follow them-apparently they had come with more ships than they had left with-the only thing keeping it intact right now was because the good captain wanted to decide what to do with it himself.
He did have to shoot a few people to get his point across, but then again he did that every tuesday. What’s a few more? There’s always runts and more convicts to plug the holes, anyhow.
Right now, he was busying himself with observing a line of Minsinese ‘prisoners’ they had managed to drag out from the wreckage ball, unfortunates whose escape pods were simply dragged along by the unwitting lot in their depressed taking to leave. Their fates were unknown, but likely not pretty-the last time they had prisoners, the batch either served in the runt fight pits or as ‘advisors’ for trigger-happy psychopaths with fragile egos.
He eyed one in particular with a cool scar over his eyes. People with scars were pretty cool. Always had some cool thing they did, by his count.
“Whotsch disch finky on yer eye? Wher’d yew git it?” He said, poking at it roughly with a mechanical claw.
“In conflict with the Eosians. Kinetic impact scar.” He spat.
“But itsch a cut… ‘ittin’ schtuff duschynt mayk it cut.”
“Have you never faced them in combat, barbarian?”
“Nou?”
“Hmph. If only Tyrandis had noticed your little mockery of a fleet and wiped it from the view of the Isochroma, perhaps you could understand even slightly.”
“‘Oo? Wot?”
“I swear, when the Republic hears of this-”
“Wot’re yew tawlkin’ abowt?? Yewsh schpeekin’ nawnschenshe.”
“And you aren’t? I’ve heard what you troglodytes consider ‘entertainment’, what horrors the last prisoners you took endured! You think we will suffer that lightly?!”
“Yesh.”
“Such arrogance-”
“Wosch dat meen? Isschit when schtewpyd peepul gyt schawt up buy ‘bar-bear-reee-ahns’? Oi may nawt bee da scharpist tewl, but yewsh a reel panshee lawt iyf a buncha ‘traw-go-lo-dy-tesch’ cahn beet yer shpiffy schyps ter junk, harhar!”
That shut up the pansy real good, as his crew members chortled at his joke. Perhaps it was that effective, or perhaps he just found communication to be a fruitless endeavor. Whatever the case, it was time to move on. The rest needed eyeing, and the good captain had a good eye for who could do wha-
“Mr. Lkoj’ir?”
A foreign voice caused him to swing his head around. That definitely didn’t belong to one of his crewmates.
Two spiffy-dressed weirdos stood, escorted by some of his men.
“...who tha’ ‘ell isch yew lawt??”
“Official diplomats, Council.” They seemed unfettered as they moved towards him. What the hell did those gits want with him? Why weren’t they afraid? Did they not know who he was??
The guy who talked continued talking. They had suitcases. But they always have suitcases? Why were they big? What was in those?
And we are willing to give a lot…”
One of them opened their briefcase, and-
Holy shit.
Holy SHIT.
M O N E Y.
P O R N.
“To get what we want. Let’s t-talk, shall we?”
—
78/5/22 - 6:09 AM SGT
ZETODA, ZETYAN CORE SYSTEMS
SOMEWHERE INSIGNIFICANT
Ji’najka had kept ample count. 6 months, 3 weeks, 1 day, 2 minutes, 53 seconds and counting. It had been the day everything changed, after all; where a stupid decision had cost him his job, his reputation, and earned him a shadow over his shoulder he could never seem to get rid of.
He’d managed to get a job at a Juice and Naps installation. They paid him jack shit, but it was fine, he could pay rent at least. He spent all day browsing on his computer and watching TV, because what else was there to do but see the fruits of his own mistakes?
Those fucking bugs had taken up every inch of his life, and many times he’d wanted nothing more to do than to strangle whoever was the other admiral that day, just so he could come home with a victory like he had before and drank some champagne and oh look a hot babe and life would have been fine.
But no, now there was an eye shadowing him everywhere he went, the eye of the Council stuck on him like a plague even when he knew it couldn’t have been there. The knowledge of futility was painful, it made him paranoid and afraid. Yet it was also comforting, in a way, to know that he hadn’t been completely forgotten to the outside world. That still, no matter how pathetic, he could affirm his existence.
He stared into his fridge. There was a steak, a half eaten burger, some booze. How far he’d fallen. He closed the door, sighing-
Light. Why was there light whos here who-
A government agent stood in his doorway. The same kind he’d seen on street corners out of the corner of his eye. The same kind he had nightmares about where they knocked him out cold and sent him to drown. A part of him began trembling.
“Ji’najka Vel’tous. It’s time. They want you.”
“...what could they possibly need me for?”
“Many thi-”
“No.” For the first time in a while, the disgraced captain could feel his old rebelliousness coming back.
“The bugs, they have experience with other captains, other fleets, they can’t possibly need me as an ‘advisor’ against those shits. I know they’re not stupid enough to put me in command of a warship again, and I know for a fact they’re not going to press me into command roles, ever. You, you’re going to tell me what they want with me, or I’ll-!”
He reached for a convenient knife, and held it to his own throat. The agent remained unfettered. Probably because of how he looked, honestly.
“I’m going to kill myself, right now! And you, and all your friends won’t have their special asset! How’s that sound, huh?! HUH?!”
A moment’s anticipation. He waited for his bluff to work-he didn’t have the balls, he just wanted an answer. Something, at least.
“...You’re an official liaison to ACOM on behalf of ICA. Specifically to the Lithorian section.”
…He really, really, really wished that he had the balls to do it right now.
—
78/5/22 - 5:00 PM SGT
SPACE, TO’OORA
VAS’TADA DOCKING YARDS
“Do tell.”
The fleetmaster sat, awaiting the response of the two diplomats. Despite their intertwinedness in Zetyan politics, the military rarely called upon the diplomatic section, and when they did it was usually for making sure a corporation didn’t implode on itself.
“Well, the good news is that we bought him out. We’ve managed to secure both the wreckage as described and an additional Eosian warship intended as a gift, and have relocated them to To’oora for industrial and scientific study.”
“Ah, good. Very good. The bad news is that it was very expensive, I assume?”
“...In the long term, most likely.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, we, uh… we bought him out.”
“..you said that already?”
“Sorry, emphasis. We bought, him, out.”
Realization soon set upon the fleetmaster’s face. Denial soon rushed to shield him.
“What, you mean his crew? His, his ships?”
“All of it.”
“...are y-”
The door barged open, as a very giddy Lkoj’ir practically danced into the room, a Minsinese advisor with an eye scar in tow looking almost despondent.
“HAR, HAR, HAR, HAR! OI EM A BYG GIT, OI EM A BYG GYT, HAR HAHAR HAHAAAR!”
His routine over, he noticed the fleetmaster.
“Oh, oh, yer da byggscht git! Whodsch me fyrscht asshingment?! Oi’m reddy fer anyfink! Juscht shay da werd! Oi’m reddy!!”
“Help me.” Said his advisor.
“Forgive me.” Said P’tala W’toal.
“Kill me.” Said the fleetmaster.
—-------------------
A fire crackled, and the Voriarch was content.
Ki’nak Vol’nisa sat in his personal lounge. It was dark, and the lights of the capital city Yha'koli shone even through the thick smog layer into his room, the only other source of light beyond a nice little fireplace he had. This week had been the best week of his life yet, which was a surprise-even with all the bad in the galaxy, there was still plenty of good he could dredge from it’s depths.
As he lounged on a couch, staring at the remains of a dinner setup. He had just finished eating two PB&Js, a nice little snack to round off the day. The plate and silverware were simple, and he only had a nice glass of water to go with it. If he was being honest with himself, a part of the ‘humble man’ persona that every politician trains to emulate had really rubbed off on him.
…
It was a forbidden pleasure of his, making things float.
The dinnerware now hovered off the table, his hand making them do a little carousel dance as orange glows surrounded them. Boredom manifesting into childlike fiddling.
He was a psyker. A psyker who knew how to mask his nature very, very well, but a psyker nonetheless. He never got diagnosed at an early age purely because it didn’t manifest as the traditional signs.
As he grew older, he always found it strange how he always got what he wanted. A wayward remark, an offhand joke, then suddenly he was being fed everything he asked for on a silver platter with a blowjob to boot. At first, he was a true spoiled child, arrogance and all, but as the true nature of things became evident to himself he became much more reserved, quiet, introspective. By the time he started making things float in the air he had completely and utterly changed as a person.
Being taught from birth to hate those like himself was a bit hard on the mind. Perhaps it’s what kept him from abusing that silver tongue of his to its fullest extent, that strange period in his teens of questioning and self loathing mixed into a cocktail of confusion that muddled his thoughts until his early political careers.
As he stopped the dance of the dinnerware, and set them back upon the table, he ruminated a little. What would have become of him had he not been given this gift? Where would he be now? How would things have been different without him in the pilot’s seat? Such questions he asked often, but could find no answer.
His little secret he could take to the grave. With age comes wisdom comes experience, and at the prime age of 58 he certainly had plenty of all three. As he began to work his way to bed, he reviewed what he could make in the morning for breakfast, as the clock struck midnight across the galaxy…