Issue #82
This week brings much exciting news to the Universe. Stories that must be told lined up at our doorstep, banging to be let onto our pages. Unfortunately, we have limited space, and some stories were turned away. With no further ado, the Tribune is proud to present this week’s issue.
The Ballad of Walkingrazor (Walkingrazor)
Chapter 1 - Prologue
It was 0-dark-30 when I’d pulled myself through the hatch of the airlock and stepped out on the planet-side defense deck of the Nebula plant. The planet hung like a blue and green jewel over the turrets and even after 29 years of living in her shadow, the view never failed to give me a sense of awe, beauty, history, and peace. I felt truly happy in that short moment.
More pressing and far more irritating, especially at this time of the morning, and with half of my regular dose of caffeine-analog, were the repairs to the string of Advanced Defensive Drone’s lining the plant. “Another damn Mooninite raid,” I thought, irritated at having to deal with another round of repairs. Since I’d gotten smart and went high tech, I actually enjoyed these encounters slightly. It became amusing to watch the ships ghost the defenses and peel off when they saw all the turrets come to life at once and the combat robots emerge from the hatches ready to make repairs.
However, even joy in superior firepower couldn’t get the sour taste out of my mouth… Each round of damage took me farther from my goal and gave me less funds to contribute to the independence of the planet.
I’d come here as a child long ago, they tell me. I was found, dirty and mute, at 5 years old in a cluster of maintenance machinery for one of the Eco-preserves on the planet floor. No one knew who my parents were and even my birth records and gene coding had been missing. Both Usube and Sol showed no record of who I had been and where I’d come from. Of course, I didn’t find this out until much later, when the census was taken and Usube began to change. You always hope that your story is going to be the one where the abandoned child is taken in by a loving family, nurtured and cared for, and makes something of themselves while learning valuable lessons about life. Mine didn’t turn out that way.
From the beginning, I was forced to work for my living in the preserve. I hauled resources from jump-ship drop zones, pulled guard duty to keep poachers at bay, wrenched on the various types of machinery that we used to maintain the property for the Usube Northwestern Regional Protectorate, and did the work that no one else wanted to do. I remember being tired all the time and lonely, but I’m still grateful for the administrators that gave me the opportunity. They may have not been much in the nurturing department, but they did leave me to my own devices (including allowing me use of the preserve’s data-link), and trusted me with jobs that allowed me to learn.
Then in the year of the 12 comets, things began to change… We heard word of the first sale of a small preserve in the second month. It seemed strange to us that the Usube government was trading our precious natural resources to a Vacation Time-Share company, but at the time I didn’t think much of it. The “native” population of Usube had been in decline due to our ever-increasing energy shortage and I’m sure those in power thought they needed to do something. However, they didn’t foresee the huge increase in energy consumption brought about by these vacation palaces. It became a vicious cycle, with more land being sold and more resorts being built. Soon, Usube was booming with off-planet business and travelers, but with success, corruption breeds and soon the entire sector began to change.
With our politicians happily in bed with new developers, graft flourished. With our increased traffic of rich traders and dilatants, piracy flourished. It was only a matter of time before the prime land that our preserve occupied was sold. The natural hot springs and beautiful boreal forests with their amazing wildlife were to become mid-rise arcologies catering to a variety of artificial and often illegal pleasures. Those folks who were real Usubean citizens had the opportunity to transfer to arcology work, but yours truly with his lack of papers and his menial spot sleeping in a repair shed was not legally able to make the change. By fall, I was watching concealed from a distance while arcology land-movers broke ground in the south sector and officials locked the gates to the former research station forever.
It was a simple matter to catch a ride on a land-barge transporter if you knew what you were doing, so when the sensors were confused by some dense undergrowth along the barge mag-rail, I grabbed a side support and swung myself into the hold with a load of fruit bound for market. 12 hours later, I found myself entering the regional capital.
Although the city was small, the ring of plains surrounding the city made it ideal for dealing with matters related to interstellar trade and repair. This was where the famed shipyards of Usube stood, huge structures that ate up most of the plains area. Ships of every description could be found here, from Sabres to larger transports and fighters. The yards were arranged in a star pattern, centered on the central repair and equipment sales area. The barge took me down one of these spokes that crossed the plain, heading through the shipyards on the way to deliver it’s cargo of floidan fruit to the local markets beyond. As we reached the repair area, I noted some old tugs, known as “Rustclaws” sitting after repair, waiting to be launched to service the trans-orbital spindles that produced zero-G specialty goods and local trade in the sector. One of those ships was my ticket out of here.
I knew unless I could find gainful employment, that my days on the planet were numbered. In order to keep the local population under control, they’d instituted a citizen registry, which would be populated by data from an upcoming census of the planet. Fortunately for me, they started the collection in the south-eastern capital sector, so I’d had a number of years without fear of deportation or imprisonment. But the days of freedom were quickly coming to a close and I had six months at best until officials came knocking on my door. The thought made me laugh. I didn’t even have a door anymore!
The only possibility to escape this was to jump ship to one of the spindles in dark geo-synch orbit and wait it out. I’d heard tales of hackers who would be able to create a valid Usubean identity, for a price. I was hoping that with some luck, I could find one that would be able to do the job.
Just then, I heard a sound tear the sky, a sound so massive and huge that I could feel my organs vibrating in my chest and begging for mercy. Over the mountain range to the south came two perfectly matched Liberators flying in formation. The shape of the huge and predatory ships were unmistakable, even though I’d only heard whispered stories in the night and seen pictures on the sens/view. Seeing them now in the flesh made my knees weaken and my spine tingle with a mixture of fear and excitement.
As they came closer, I noticed that though they looked the same from a distance, they were actually slightly different. While both bore a stylized scorpion emblem on the fuselage, one scorpion clutched a pole in its claw. The pole held a pink flag with these words “Task me not greatly or die!” As they circled and came gently to rest at the repair hangers, I noticed smaller letters underneath the emblems: LS SG-001 on the first and LA SG-002 on the second with the flagged emblem. The ships were more than impressive and were fully loaded for combat. I’d never seen so many Imperial MKIIs loaded and ready for battle, and judging by the way the ships moved gracefully into dock, these pilots obviously knew what they were doing.
As much as I wanted to stay and take in these vicious, predatory and very sexual flying machines, I noticed that everyone else was looking at the big ships as well. Talk of “Scorpion Guard” and “The Guard is here!” was coming from little clustered groups of pilots and workers, causing some to look longingly, some to look uneasy, and some to look away.
Time to GO!
I slipped around the corner of a conveniently placed Harrier during the commotion and sprinted for the tug yard, keeping low to the ground in a slight depression that was used for emergency water control if the elaborate system of cisterns and pumps failed to drain the yard. My head swung constantly as I kept alert and watchful for any attention that should come my way, but I reached a cargo storage yurt made from nano-fibers and slipped beneath the skirts of the tent. In the shade of the tent, all was dim, but in a moment my eyes adjusted and I was able to find what I was looking for: a larger crate marked VIVARIUM: DO NOT OPEN IN USUBE WITHOUT PERMISSION FROM REGIONAL GOVERNMENT.
I was familiar with these crates from my work at the preserve. Certain Usubean flora grew twice as fast using a special regime of zero-gravity, in-vitro fertilization. Due to some anomalies in the original gene lines, there were occasionally “throwbacks,” animals that were not considered fit for production and export to the preserves. Because of this, it became simpler to grow the animals to adulthood in space where they could be carefully monitored and only the top selections shipped down to the surface to be released and breed with the native stock. Fortunately for me, most of the species were oxygen breathers.
I quickly grabbed a tank of 80% O2 and hooked it up to the charge valve on the crate. Three seconds on burst and the small tanks contained within the walls of the crate were full. The ship had already been partially loaded so I quickly grabbed an anti-grav harness and hooked it over the crate. In three more seconds, I had the crate in the hold of the Rustclaw tug, the “Marcus Garvey” and the harness disengaged. I could hear voices on the tarmac now that the Liberator engines had wound down for final docking.
Frantically, I pitched the harness through the air and back into the yurt. Years of playing around, tossing things around the shops served me well… The harness landed on its assigned place where I had grabbed it from moments earlier. I could hear footsteps round the side of the Garvey as I keyed the final commands for the support systems and delayed closure on the crate. I slipped inside as I felt the rush of O2 begin from the vents and the door slid shut, blocking all the light from the shipyard. Only darkness and the sound of my breathing remained.
About an hour later, I could feel the increase in pressure as the Garvey lifted off the field. A short but tense period followed as outbound launch cargo computers scanned the ship. I’d stacked three cartons of radiation modules around the crate before lift-off, hoping that the shielded crates would protect me from the life-scanners that prevented unauthorized live cargo from leaving the planet. After what seemed like hours, I heard the drives on the Garvey wind up and I knew I had escaped.
I spent what seemed to be an eternity in the dark until I felt the shudder of magnetic docking beams attach to the Garvey’s hull. Another further shudder came a bit later when the cargo door opened and the temperature in the cargo hold got noticeably warmer. I grew nervous as I could hear strange voices in a language I didn’t understand. Was this the orbital station listed on the ship’s manifest? The voices got closer to my hiding place and my fear grew. What if I were discovered? Would I be imprisoned to a life of forced labor in an underground plant?
As all these thoughts ran jumbled through my head, the crate door hissed open to a different atmosphere and 4 pairs of rough hands grabbed me and dragged me into the dim light. The last thing I remember was a genetic sampler being jabbed into the exposed flesh of my neck, and an immense, brawny Keldonian say in my native tongue, “We have him. The Emperor will be very pleased.”
With galactic tensions on the rise over this “trial” that has taken over the GNN newswires recently, the Tribune decided to do some digging. We managed to receive a special inside scoop on the involvement of the imperials in the weeks leading up to the Usube incident. Our source wished to remain anonymous, and we at the Tribune felt obliged to honor that request.
Notes from the Empire (Anonymous)
Two weeks before the Usube Incident, I persuaded Prince Ko’or of the Imperial Shadow Council to authorize a full intelligence operation on Usube. The records show that we failed to enter the compound.
Here is a copy of the secret instruction sent to Baroness Pe’ek and Sir Ca’in:
——–
From: No one you want to know
To: Baroness Pe’ek
CC: Sir Ca’in
Intelligence reports that the Federation has established a new facility on the border world of Usube. The building is cleverly disguised as a biophysics laboratory and registered in Usube as Propulsion Research Facility. We have a pretty shrewd idea of what the facility is for, but we need concrete proof. Your job is to infiltrate the laboratory and find out what they were really doing there. Once you downloaded the relevant data, fly back to Adaa. DO NOT pass the data through the open channel nor use couriers, you must hand the data back to us by yourself. We can’t let the Emperor know of this operation.
You might also encounter some other imperial intelligence teams in Usube. DO NOT make contact with them, even if you happened to know them well. We have info that the other imperial entities have also sent their spies and we have no idea what their intentions are and where their loyalty lies. Go there, retrieve the data, make us proud, and laugh at the dumb Feds. Do not fail.
For the Empire!
——–
This message was received four days after the first instructions were sent. Text only.
——–
From: Baroness Pe’ek
To: People I’d rather have never heard of
BCC: The Marquis, The Lord, The Prince
My lords, I am sorry to inform you that we have failed. You apparently neglected to inform us that the only entrance was covered with… Spaghetti and Lasagna. We know that we have pledged our lives and our loyalty to the empire, but having to pass through THAT is certainly not what we signed up for. Even as I’m writing this message, I can see the humans laughing with glee and throwing bucketfuls of Lasagna to the walls above the entrance, with Lasagna sauce dripping to the floor. I still could not understand how humans are capable of eating these toxic messes.
I know I’m probably going to be marched off in front of a firing squad for saying this, but ***** *** (not that it matters since we have the profanity filter). I won’t let my comrades laugh at me as they saw me covered with lasagna.
———
Over the next few days we’ve been receiving multiple reports from the surveillance teams keeping watch near the facility.
———
To: People who can make my life miserable
From: Surveillance Beta
We have spotted a couple of Ska’aris in Imperial uniform covered in purple slime entering the compound. There doesn’t seem to be any resistance from the human guards. We are unsure who they are or their intentions, but we believe this should be further investigated. My team will attempt to capture these Ska’aris soon as they emerged from the facility. In the meantime, we will continue monitoring the situation.
One more thing, where is the infiltration squad?
———
A couple of days later.
———
What is shown here is a transcript of the audio only message from Surveillance Beta
Squad Leaders’ Log, Usubedate 240750 1200. We have observed the two Ska’aris leaving the facility and have moved in to capture and interrogate the Ska’aris.
“Oh my god!”
What is that? Bu’ru, respond.
*static*
Keson, what is going on back there?
“Ahhh! My lord, he got my legs! OHHH, not my kidney!”
*static*
I moved closer to the ambush site, peering through the bushes and saw to my horror my team member Sir Keson screaming with his left leg gone being impaled on the large Ska’aris’ horn.
It’s funny that the first thing that entered my mind now is “that is a he, not a she, stupid Keldon”.
“Oh! No! Please, not my arm too!”
Keson seems to like screaming.
“AHHH!!! My Urinator! You snipped my organ!”
He seems to have a high pain threshold too.
“Ahhh!!! What is it with you and your leg fetish?! No, no! Don’t tug at it, argghh!”
I’m surprised he hasn’t died yet.
I peered at the other body on the grass. That’s Sir Bu’ru, I can see that his limbs have been broken to pieces and his shell cracked in places. I raised my head a little, trying to see the other Ska’ari that was supposed to be travelling together with this female berserker.
“Ahhh!!! That hurts, stop*gurgle* pulling out *gurgle* intestines, you big piece of seashell. Off!!!”
I was straining my eyes around the area when I sensed a presence behind me. I turned around on my limbs and stared at the monstrosity in front of me. If I am a female, I probably would be ecstatic. His claws are wide, extremely large in front of me, his shell glinting in the sun and apparently covered with… spaghetti? His crazed eyes are looking at me up and down, while raising his magnificent claws. I wonder if the docs can surgically enhance my own.
*static*
——–
Over the next few days, we received multiple reports from the other surveillance teams, stating the same thing, that two Ska’aris covered in Spaghetti and Lasagna has assaulted their posts and apparently butchered each of them. We have reasons to believe that the two Ska’aris captured on the security video in the Federation facility were the same ones that butchered our surveillance teams. We also have reasons to believe that they are not doing this on their own will. It is obvious that either the Feds have brainwashed these once fine agents, or they have went insane upon contact with the dreaded Lasagna… and Spaghetti.
The Overflow
With galactic tensions on the rise, it was only a matter of time until the birds of prey began to circle. The first hint of the conflict to follow our troubled times was observed this week in the EPR, in Mebsuta. A Scorpion Guard task force, led by Space Cowboy and Lady Aliara descended on Mebsuta like a plague. Their target: the federation Starbase owned by Hidra of the Apathetic Pardusians. The Guard, up to their usual standards, was successful in their mission. The Starbase, a rumored safe haven for Mooninites in the East Pardus Rim, was reduced to nothing more than particles of dust floating through space. What makes this story truly interesting is the tactics used by Hidra in his desperate bid to save his base.
This reporter was relaxing in a lounge in Nusakan when the first message broke through. “HELP!!!!!!!!!” It was garbled and laced with static. An IG member pushed the comms button. “Say Again.” “HELP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” We looked around. The communication console had traced the message to Hidra. Had he been trapped by a Z-Scout? A few fighters began to ready their ships. “What’s your situation?”
“SG bomber squadrons are in the area. My base is the target!”
This wasn’t good. NAP’s were in place and had to be honored. Nobody in Nusakan could help by fighting them off. Still, we knew and liked Hidra. We’d do our best to save him. Achillia Scotia, newest member of the IG, came up with the idea. “Eldritch,” she clicked at me, “didn’t the Tribune publish something about negative reputation effects in Starbase Combat.” I blinked. Why hadn’t I thought of that? A few seconds later, Hidra reported in with the owners of the squadrons. Both were imperial. Unless the Guardsmen didn’t care about losing favor with the Emperor (and perhaps more importantly, his missiles) if Hidra left the federation to join the Empire the attack would be stalled. The delay might give Hidra a chance to scramble some better defenses.
So began the longest journey to Empire space from the East Pardus Rim I can recall. Hidra, disregarding all common sense, decided to make his way through Zuben Elakrab, the known stronghold of the Soul Reapers, while bountied. The Soul Reapers welcomed his visit in their traditional way…a pod trip home. This wouldn’t have been a big deal if Hidra had remembered to file the proper paperwork to make Phao his new home. Starbase management, however, puts untold pressures on pilots, and that little detail slipped his mind. Imagine his surprise when he woke up on Earth.
Dozens of tons of drugs later, he managed to enter the West Pardus Rim and found an Imperial Starbase. The paperwork was processed. Hidra’s hard work to achieve Lt. Commander was gone in the blink of an eye. He was now an outsider.
Space Cowboy’s bomber squadrons had already entered the inner workings of the Starbase when the change occurred. The Cowboy had already set the autopilot commands and was taking a nap. He awoke several hours later to find that the Base was nearly destroyed. Good. He cycled through the varioius cameras on the squadron ships. Uh oh. For a moment Space Cowboy was afraid that he had attacked the wrong base. What was the Red Claw doing atop the mast? He checked the coordinates. Nope. It was in the right location. Someone had hired him to blow up this base, and he was going to do it, reputation be damned.
Space Cowboy entered the sequence for the final run of the squadrons. He glanced at his Mk. II’s and sighed. Someone owed him a LOT of credits.
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Galactic Olympics!
With the potential for conflict growing every day, the Tribune began thinking of ways to ease the tension. We have come up with several games that we plan to unveil in the coming weeks. From Roullette to Marathons, this is a chance for alliances and individuals to compete for bragging rights and some prizes. Gamblers, odds will be taken on each event.
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