The Republic of Deus Planitia was a small collection of 15 planets, only 3 of which were inhabitable. It had been created for freedom from religious persecution for those who believed still in Zeus, and the ancient Greek’s rendition of polytheism. Those years had come and gone, and yet, the country had somehow survived. Transformed from the ‘archaic’ ages when theocracy was the machine that ran it all to the much more modern republic that it had become.
President Michael DuValier sat alone in his office, staring out over the city as he thought of the decisions that weighed on him. His country had just received an incredible economic boost from the payment that his country received from the Union of Allied Planets. The war they had been fighting with the Talu’pal had become a southward journey when the ammunition had begun to run low. Deus Planitia, more specifically, the capital of Deus Prime was home the largest weapons producing facility in the region- Majestic Ammunition Co., and had donated almost 3 trillion tons of ammo to aid the effort. Deus Planitia’s militia was something to be desired. 17 ships to defend their little area of space. It had been well worth the investment to let someone else fight that war- the support was his way of winning friends.
Even with that boost, the economy had been failing. The purchasing of weapons from Planitian-based companies had fallen steeply. The UAP and other countries in the region had either ceased purchasing because they were no longer in need of ammo, or they had formed their own production facilities. It was his family that had once built Majestic, and he was quite frustrated with the current predicament. The economy had always been based on the idea that weapons would be purchased until the end of time.
DuValier slammed his fists on his desk, and stood up. His blood pumped quickly through his temples, and he grimaced a little. The wars that had taken place because of misunderstanding, and intolerance had ended. His country was going to collapse economically, because they had nothing else materially to put forward. Weapons, that was all he knew.
In fact, he’d been the CEO of Majestic Ammunition for the past 15 years. He still would be if he hadn’t decided that he wanted to take a turn for the presidency, and there were laws that restricted the current president from having anything to do with the weapon producing firms in the country- an attempt to keep power spread, and not concentrated in the president’s hands.
The comm unit on his desk chirped high and shrill, startling him slightly, “Mr. President?” the voice was of his secretary, Meredith Schiller.
He swiveled around in his large armchair, and pressed the button to talk, “Go ahead, Meredith.”
“Sir, Admiral Kahin is here to see you.”
“Well, send him in,” He straightened out his clothes, and stood, looking as official as he could with the way his day had gone. The door opened after a few seconds, and Admiral Kahin walked in.
Admiral Kahin was an older man, complete with hair loss, and a right-legged limp. He had a darker complexion, and piercing blue eyes that always said ‘I mean business, and if you don’t believe me, I’ll beat the sense right back into you’. He’d been the Fleet of Deus Planitia’s Fleet Admiral for almost 30 years now, and was looking weaker by the month, which was unfortunate for him, because he wasn’t what you would ever have described as ‘weak’. Eventually, DuValier would have to replace him, but he did value this man’s opinion more than just about anyone else. He thought that maybe he’d keep Kahin around until there was more pressure focusing on getting rid of the man.
“Admiral Kahin,” DuValier smiled brightly and extended his hand as Admiral Kahin struggled to get to it. DuValier leaned as far forward as he could from behind the desk to lessen the distance for the old man.
“Mister President,” his voice was shaky, and a little bit hoarse, “I have come to discuss an urgent...,” he turned to locate his seat, and then lowered himself very slowly into the chair, grunting the whole way, “an urgent matter of our national security with you.”
“Go ahead, Admiral, I have as much time as you need,” DuValier sat back down in his chair, and leaned forward, trying to put as much interest on his face to ease the old man’s stress.
“Mister President, somewhere in this country, a group of people are now... Right now, attempting to thwart your presidency. They believe that you are leading this country into chaos, and anarchy by not taking precautions against the inevitable change the reign of peace is going to bring. They are planning to do whatever it takes to stop you from being able to continue producing weapons en masse, and force you to change our main domestic product.
“Our intelligence operatives confirm that this group exists. They believe that the leaders of this organization derive from the UAP, that they are trying to stabilize the market for ammunitions in their own country, while eliminating the absolute collapse of our economy. This is not proven, and we have much researching that must take place, but, we are in a very delicate situation.
“As our policy has been to punish terror groups in the most brutal of ways, I would like to submit, sir, that we should refrain from that action- that even though this is a domestic terror threat, you would consider changing our economic policy- that we begin to plan for the future, and that we take our country to a new level of economic growth, in the which we increase our GDP and capital, and become more of an influencing factor in the region. If we do this, we are certain that the threat would disappear, and that our ability to remain a stable government will be greatly enhanced.”
DuValier leaned back in his chair a little bit. For centuries, Deus Planitia had been an unstable, loosely governed country. Regime changes, radical changes in foreign policy, and economic stability drastically changed from dictator to dictator, viceroy to viceroy, and president to president. It had only started to sure up about 70 standard years ago, and now that the age of conquest was ending, opening up to an era of peace, there was surely going to be trouble for the country. Even if DuValier found some way to produce a different product beneficial to the neighboring countries, it would be several years from now, and there was no way he could save the country from killing itself off before then.
“You are right, Lorence. You are absolutely right. But, we don’t have the means, or the resources to change our country’s output. We don’t have anything else to make, build, or sell. We are at the mercy of wars, and needs for weapons. If we don’t have that, we have nothing to stimulate this economy. We will wither like a dried reed.” DuValier shook his head.
“Then sir, we must make sure that war does not cease. That it continues for the time we need to find a new ‘power product’ that makes us useful.”
“Well, Admiral Kahin, what would you suggest? That we wage war?”
“No, no Mister President. That we make it.”
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
Silhouette
The blue sunset mirrored off the polluted sky of Miotus’ atmosphere. It was a spectacle to see. Though the world was no longer inhabitable outside of the ecospheres, it was still beautiful in some ways. The sunsets were often this brilliant blue, the stars were illuminated because of the magnification effect the pollution had created. It was a sight to see.
Commander Brock Alexander Stanbol looked out the window of his preparation room, and watched as the blue seemed to shoot through the atmosphere. His green eyes, tall stature, and dark hair made him look very powerful, and quite dashing. He smiled a little as he thought how beautiful this was, he didn't take a lot of time to notice these things. Miotus was, after all, just an information stop, so he felt he could relax for a second, and take it all in. He was meeting a native of the planet, who’s name he couldn’t spell, or pronounce, on request of Fleet Intelligence. The translator was set up on his desk, he was just waiting now. Reflecting on the years of missions it took him to get to this point. All of the undercover work, all of the lives that had gone into this one moment. He was very excited, if this panned out, this was a very strange ending to a very long string of leads.
The informant was supposedly bringing him information regarding a known terrorist group’s plans to bring down one of the local governments. Brock had worked undercover himself for a time trying to get information on which government, why, and what the plan was. He hadn’t been successful, however, with the list of names his informant was bringing him, they could begin arrests, and interrogations, and hopefully everything would pan out. Another undercover operative was going to be part of this meeting, but not much else was known about that aspect.
Several minutes later, the chime on his door rang. He turned to look at the door, straightened his uniform, and opened his mouth to allow entry. He paused. There was a strange sound on the outside of his door, a little bit of scraping, followed by a very light tap. His gut told him something wasn’t right, and he always respected the opinion of his gut- it hadn’t failed him yet. He grabbed his 9mm from under the desk, and crouched underneath it for cover. Three beeps could be heard, muffled by the door, and the door exploded. Shrapnel and shards of glass impacted the front of the desk. Though slightly deafened from the blast, Brock heard quick footsteps. His ears told him three men had just entered the room, and were moving towards him quickly. Two on his left, one on his right. He saw the legs of the first man through a hole that had been blown through his desk in the blast, and sprang into action. He leaned out from behind the desk a little, pointed, and shot quickly, dropping the first man to the floor, his shot impacting the man's kneecap. He threw the desk in the direction he had last heard movement from, which nailed another assailant, throwing him into the wall. He rolled quickly towards the man he’d just shot, searching for the third man. He tossed the plasma pistol away from the man he’d shot, and kneeled up, still searching for his target. The man he was next to was writhing in pain, he couldn’t see anyone else. He looked over to where he’d tossed the desk, and noticed that the life form there had four legs. A smile crossed his face “Well, at least my ears aren’t failing, yet”.
He heard running down the hallway. Unsure of who was coming, he figured the plasma pistol was going to give him more shots than the 9mm. He moved quickly towards the plasma pistol, charged it, and put it in his right hand. The 9mm was placed in his holster, and a clip was readied just in case. He shot the 4 legged alien in the leg quickly with the plasma gun, rendering it unconscious, and he pulled the desk forward enough that he could use it as a shield.
The footsteps were getting closer, and it was at least 4 men, maybe more. Brock searched the body of the alien for any kind of explosives, or something he could use to give himself an advantage, he had no idea how many people they'd gotten into the ship, or how they'd done it so quickly. He was baffled that they'd made it this far. He shook that thought out of his head, and prepared to fight.
“Commander?” It was the voice of his chief technician Brinx Knowlson, a native of New Zealand, and the very thick accent to prove it.
Brock quickly glanced over the desk to see who else was with him. He had a small security detail with him, none of them whom were recognizable to him. Brinx was always trying to play security guard, and was rarely found at his proper post. Brock chuckled internally.
“I’m fine Brinx," Brock said, raising both hands above his head, and standing up, showing them that it was actually himself, "who were they, and how’d they get in here with weapons?” Brock stood up, and looked at the group that had come to his ‘rescue’.
“Well, sir,” Brinx pointed at the four dead officers on the floor behind him, “I don’t think security did a good job of searching them for weapons. I don't know how else your chief of security is lying dead on the floor back here.”
Brock was surprised he hadn’t heard any sort of weapon discharge, or cries of pain. Malos was the best security officer he’d ever worked with, and somehow, he’d ended up dead on the floor outside his door. Malos was very talented in that regard. He would have issued some kind of warning.
“The weapons they brought in here weren’t their own. These are standard issue for the fleet. How did they kill my men, especially Malos?” Brock gave a very stern look.
“We can get forensics up here right away, sir.”
“Good, do it," Brock shook his head again
“Did they fire a shot, sir?” Brinx asked.
“No, Brinx, they didn’t. Blew my door to Hell, but, other than that, I got four-legs over there with the desk, and shot this guy in the leg, and I guess he hit something on his way down,” Brock was looking at a gash in the man’s head, “I want to interrogate them when we have the chance. Get medical up here.”
“Aye, Sir,” Brinx turned around barking the orders through his WristComm.
Brock went over to the alien. He figured this had to be the man he was meeting. Then he looked back at the human on the floor, he assumed that he was the intelligence operative. It didn’t make sense that he’d have specific orders to rendezvous with this man from headquarters, to have something like this happen. He grew uneasy thinking about it. An agent turned, if that's what this was, could have blown the last 5 years of work.
“I’ll be in the messhall, if you should need me, Brinx,” Brock started to walk by, and then turned and grabbed the scruff of Brinx's uniform, “and I want you out of here while the forensics teams do their thing. You’re not on their team, and no you can’t stay.”
“Yes, sir,” Brinx backed away a little, “I’ll be in engineering as soon as Kilthas is here to take over.”
Brock nodded, and turned towards the ladder shaft.
Commander Brock Alexander Stanbol looked out the window of his preparation room, and watched as the blue seemed to shoot through the atmosphere. His green eyes, tall stature, and dark hair made him look very powerful, and quite dashing. He smiled a little as he thought how beautiful this was, he didn't take a lot of time to notice these things. Miotus was, after all, just an information stop, so he felt he could relax for a second, and take it all in. He was meeting a native of the planet, who’s name he couldn’t spell, or pronounce, on request of Fleet Intelligence. The translator was set up on his desk, he was just waiting now. Reflecting on the years of missions it took him to get to this point. All of the undercover work, all of the lives that had gone into this one moment. He was very excited, if this panned out, this was a very strange ending to a very long string of leads.
The informant was supposedly bringing him information regarding a known terrorist group’s plans to bring down one of the local governments. Brock had worked undercover himself for a time trying to get information on which government, why, and what the plan was. He hadn’t been successful, however, with the list of names his informant was bringing him, they could begin arrests, and interrogations, and hopefully everything would pan out. Another undercover operative was going to be part of this meeting, but not much else was known about that aspect.
Several minutes later, the chime on his door rang. He turned to look at the door, straightened his uniform, and opened his mouth to allow entry. He paused. There was a strange sound on the outside of his door, a little bit of scraping, followed by a very light tap. His gut told him something wasn’t right, and he always respected the opinion of his gut- it hadn’t failed him yet. He grabbed his 9mm from under the desk, and crouched underneath it for cover. Three beeps could be heard, muffled by the door, and the door exploded. Shrapnel and shards of glass impacted the front of the desk. Though slightly deafened from the blast, Brock heard quick footsteps. His ears told him three men had just entered the room, and were moving towards him quickly. Two on his left, one on his right. He saw the legs of the first man through a hole that had been blown through his desk in the blast, and sprang into action. He leaned out from behind the desk a little, pointed, and shot quickly, dropping the first man to the floor, his shot impacting the man's kneecap. He threw the desk in the direction he had last heard movement from, which nailed another assailant, throwing him into the wall. He rolled quickly towards the man he’d just shot, searching for the third man. He tossed the plasma pistol away from the man he’d shot, and kneeled up, still searching for his target. The man he was next to was writhing in pain, he couldn’t see anyone else. He looked over to where he’d tossed the desk, and noticed that the life form there had four legs. A smile crossed his face “Well, at least my ears aren’t failing, yet”.
He heard running down the hallway. Unsure of who was coming, he figured the plasma pistol was going to give him more shots than the 9mm. He moved quickly towards the plasma pistol, charged it, and put it in his right hand. The 9mm was placed in his holster, and a clip was readied just in case. He shot the 4 legged alien in the leg quickly with the plasma gun, rendering it unconscious, and he pulled the desk forward enough that he could use it as a shield.
The footsteps were getting closer, and it was at least 4 men, maybe more. Brock searched the body of the alien for any kind of explosives, or something he could use to give himself an advantage, he had no idea how many people they'd gotten into the ship, or how they'd done it so quickly. He was baffled that they'd made it this far. He shook that thought out of his head, and prepared to fight.
“Commander?” It was the voice of his chief technician Brinx Knowlson, a native of New Zealand, and the very thick accent to prove it.
Brock quickly glanced over the desk to see who else was with him. He had a small security detail with him, none of them whom were recognizable to him. Brinx was always trying to play security guard, and was rarely found at his proper post. Brock chuckled internally.
“I’m fine Brinx," Brock said, raising both hands above his head, and standing up, showing them that it was actually himself, "who were they, and how’d they get in here with weapons?” Brock stood up, and looked at the group that had come to his ‘rescue’.
“Well, sir,” Brinx pointed at the four dead officers on the floor behind him, “I don’t think security did a good job of searching them for weapons. I don't know how else your chief of security is lying dead on the floor back here.”
Brock was surprised he hadn’t heard any sort of weapon discharge, or cries of pain. Malos was the best security officer he’d ever worked with, and somehow, he’d ended up dead on the floor outside his door. Malos was very talented in that regard. He would have issued some kind of warning.
“The weapons they brought in here weren’t their own. These are standard issue for the fleet. How did they kill my men, especially Malos?” Brock gave a very stern look.
“We can get forensics up here right away, sir.”
“Good, do it," Brock shook his head again
“Did they fire a shot, sir?” Brinx asked.
“No, Brinx, they didn’t. Blew my door to Hell, but, other than that, I got four-legs over there with the desk, and shot this guy in the leg, and I guess he hit something on his way down,” Brock was looking at a gash in the man’s head, “I want to interrogate them when we have the chance. Get medical up here.”
“Aye, Sir,” Brinx turned around barking the orders through his WristComm.
Brock went over to the alien. He figured this had to be the man he was meeting. Then he looked back at the human on the floor, he assumed that he was the intelligence operative. It didn’t make sense that he’d have specific orders to rendezvous with this man from headquarters, to have something like this happen. He grew uneasy thinking about it. An agent turned, if that's what this was, could have blown the last 5 years of work.
“I’ll be in the messhall, if you should need me, Brinx,” Brock started to walk by, and then turned and grabbed the scruff of Brinx's uniform, “and I want you out of here while the forensics teams do their thing. You’re not on their team, and no you can’t stay.”
“Yes, sir,” Brinx backed away a little, “I’ll be in engineering as soon as Kilthas is here to take over.”
Brock nodded, and turned towards the ladder shaft.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Chapter 1
"Sire," Sir Elwinoth of the High Council entered the great hall with steps that had purpose, and courage. He was a fair looking fellow, long blonde hair, green eyes, a soft face. The women in the kingdom often swooned over him as he rode past at the head of his battle group. He was a decent man, and kept aloof from many of the activities that degrade ones soul.
"You may speak, Sir Elwinoth of Bloxham," King Dilana III sat upon his throne, regal looking, and pompous at the same time. His fat was extensive, rolls upon rolls of thick fat that padded him from the cold, and from much care of his kingdom. His remark to Sir Elwinoth was cold, and uncaring.
"The Linnaens have breached our Northern border, and we would like to send 4 battle groups to the head to stop their progress. We believe that..." He was cut off.
"NO!" Dilana's voice rang through the great hall as if thunder had struck, "This kingdom must be protected. We cannot let the Linnaens enter here. It cannot happen, for this is home of many of my people, and there is much more that can be done here.
Sir Elwinoth's eyes flared. He had, for years, argued with the king about strategies of war. Dilana seemed fine to jump into battle with ever Henry, William, and Thomas that came along, but he hadn't the slightest idea what he was doing; though his pretended expertise of tactics fooled many. Sir Elwinoth was incrdibly angry. As the anger boiled, he turned and walked out, throwing the door as hard as he could against the stone wall. The bang echoed through the great hall, and Sir Elwinoth's captain's joined him as he stormed out.
"Who the Hell does he think he is? Just because he is king doesn't give him a bloody right to try and commandeer what I was appointed to. I know my tactics. I know the terrain. The Linnaens get here, and we'll be overrun." The three of them walked out of the castle, and headed for Sir Elwinoth's troops.
"Perhaps it's time for an internal struggle to end," Captain Freos suggested.
"We can't kill him. An uproar right now would upset the balance of the war, we can't afford to have factions fighting with the Linnaens. Too much knowledge, too much advantage already. Let's throw in our forces, and we don't have any chance."
"We don't have to kill him. I know a man that will do it for 4 bars of pressed silver. All you have to do is provide it."
"I'm not much into the business of murder, Devin, and neither should you be," Sir Elwinoth gave Captain Freos a dirty look, and boarded his horse in a suave manner. "There are other ways to resolve conflicts, and death, destruction, and murder don't really solve anything at all. They only compound the already made mistakes. If there was one thing I learned from Puxley, it was that compounding only makes matters worse. He had many stories to go along with that."
"Well, Puxley was a fool anyway; damn wizards," Captain Freos muttered as he slugged his way on to his horse.
"You may speak, Sir Elwinoth of Bloxham," King Dilana III sat upon his throne, regal looking, and pompous at the same time. His fat was extensive, rolls upon rolls of thick fat that padded him from the cold, and from much care of his kingdom. His remark to Sir Elwinoth was cold, and uncaring.
"The Linnaens have breached our Northern border, and we would like to send 4 battle groups to the head to stop their progress. We believe that..." He was cut off.
"NO!" Dilana's voice rang through the great hall as if thunder had struck, "This kingdom must be protected. We cannot let the Linnaens enter here. It cannot happen, for this is home of many of my people, and there is much more that can be done here.
Sir Elwinoth's eyes flared. He had, for years, argued with the king about strategies of war. Dilana seemed fine to jump into battle with ever Henry, William, and Thomas that came along, but he hadn't the slightest idea what he was doing; though his pretended expertise of tactics fooled many. Sir Elwinoth was incrdibly angry. As the anger boiled, he turned and walked out, throwing the door as hard as he could against the stone wall. The bang echoed through the great hall, and Sir Elwinoth's captain's joined him as he stormed out.
"Who the Hell does he think he is? Just because he is king doesn't give him a bloody right to try and commandeer what I was appointed to. I know my tactics. I know the terrain. The Linnaens get here, and we'll be overrun." The three of them walked out of the castle, and headed for Sir Elwinoth's troops.
"Perhaps it's time for an internal struggle to end," Captain Freos suggested.
"We can't kill him. An uproar right now would upset the balance of the war, we can't afford to have factions fighting with the Linnaens. Too much knowledge, too much advantage already. Let's throw in our forces, and we don't have any chance."
"We don't have to kill him. I know a man that will do it for 4 bars of pressed silver. All you have to do is provide it."
"I'm not much into the business of murder, Devin, and neither should you be," Sir Elwinoth gave Captain Freos a dirty look, and boarded his horse in a suave manner. "There are other ways to resolve conflicts, and death, destruction, and murder don't really solve anything at all. They only compound the already made mistakes. If there was one thing I learned from Puxley, it was that compounding only makes matters worse. He had many stories to go along with that."
"Well, Puxley was a fool anyway; damn wizards," Captain Freos muttered as he slugged his way on to his horse.
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