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As usual, anything in brackets [] is my comment.
Judy Byington of Dinar Chronicles summarizes the current GREAT Current Reset goalposts. She even gives her sources. (Note the similarities to the; last 87865 goalpost announcements. Will probably be moved by the time I post this.)

On On Tues. 6 Dec. a small amount of monies was set to be released to some in Tier 3, while a week later on Tues. 13 Dec. Tier 3 could be fully liquid. …a High Up Source.

Redemption Centers should get notified tomorrow Wed. 6 Dec. on their schedules. …Bruce

A German source said we should see the Iraqi Dinar International rate on the Forex after 12:01 am tonight. …Bruce

Tier 4B should be notified to set appointments sometime on Wed. 7 Dec. for exchanges to begin on Thurs. 8 Dec. If we don’t get notified Wed. we should get notified Thurs and begin Thurs. …Bruce

On Thurs. 8 Dec. is the date that all monies flow in to where they are supposed to be such as Bond Holders, Bond Sellers, Farm Accounts, CMKX, etc. …Bruce

On Tues. 6 Dec. a small amount of monies was set to be released to some in Tier 3, while a week later on Tues. 13 Dec. Tier 3 could be fully liquid. …a High Up Source.

Tier 4B could be notified of appointment setting at any time from now to Jan. 2023. …Dr. Tom

[Source: absolutely guaranteed to be real JFK Jr. Telegram Channel] Tues. 6 Dec. Mission 1 Complete 7:15 pm EST
[Source: Benjamin Fulford, conspiracy theorist based in Asia. Definite antisemite. Excerpts]

Lost tribes of Israel and space Nazis come out of closet as Satanic rule collapses. There can be no doubt the planet earth is going through changes that are beyond biblical in proportion. That is why an ancient secret society -with roots going back to the biblical Jacob in Egypt- as well as space Nazis on flying saucers are coming out of the closet. This is happening because an esoteric war that has been raging for thousands of years is coming to an end. What we are witnessing is an end to millennia of Satanic rule on this planet.
Let us start with events in China because they hold the key to so much else that is happening and is about to happen. China was touted by top Satanist Klaus Schwab Rothschild (Rothschild=red shield of satan) as the model for their digital human animal farm New World Order. he plan the Satanists had for this planet was to genetically modify every human into farm animal-type obedience, microchip their brains and control every aspect of their lives through constant, intrusive digital surveillance. In other words, literally, turn the planet into a giant human farm. [China implemented all this, blah, blah blah]
Well, the Satanists underestimated the Chinese. Chinese history shows that people will put up with a lot, but, when a certain point is reached, they simultaneously explode into rebellion. That is exactly what happened last week after Asian secret societies mobilized. First, top enforcer and former Chinese President Jiang Zemin died suddenly “after a long illness.” Following that, police and soldiers moved in and started dismantling PCR testing facilities and arresting the white-suited zombie enforcers.
The Asian secret societies are also aware the so-called pandemic was a combination of a 5G electromagnetic attack with the release of viruses by Rothschild-controlled laboratories in China. It is no coincidence that Klaus Schwab Rothschild was spotted at the Waldorf Astoria hotel in Washington DC last week.

[Source: Sorcha Faal. RationalWiki says "Sorcha Faal is the alleged author of an ongoing series of "reports" ...whose work is of such quality that even other conspiracy nutters don't think much of it."].

Putin And Dolly Parton Slap Down Satan As West Realizes Russia Will Never Run Out Of Ammunition. An intriguing new Security Council (SC) report circulating in the Kremlin today first noting President Putin signed into law a bill passed unanimously by the Russian Parliament completely banning LGBTQ propaganda of nontraditional sexual relations, gender reassignment and pedophilia on social networks, in the mass media, films and advertisements, says at near the exact same time this bill was signed into law yesterday, ...but joining President Putin to defend Christianity against socialist Western colonial demonic ideology, world-renowned American music legend Dolly Parton performed her hit song “Go to Hell” during a leftist NBC special programme, where she rebuked the Devil on prime-time television, proclaiming “Satan is real” and warning “He is trying to destroy everything good and beautiful”. [And a bunch of stuff about Western colonial bloodlust & Russia wonderfulness]

[Latest from Real Raw News. RRN is 100% fiction, but many Qs believe it. Can't link to it, so here are excerpts.]

Inside Biden’s Billion Dollar, Drunken Gala Dinner [for French President Macron]. Thursday night’s liberal lollapalooza at Tyler Perry Studios’ “White House” was a farrago of drunkenness, paranoia, chicanery, pomposity, and alcohol-fueled rage toward Donald Trump and Elon Musk...Pelosi was tipsy when she arrived at the feast and sauntered to an open bar replete with scintillating bottles of pricey liquor–Clase Azul tequila, 50-year-old Appleton Estate Rum, Macallan Sherry Oak whiskey, and, to top it off, Chateau Margaux grand vin. Chilled decanters of 1959 Dom Perignon sat in ice buckets at every dinner table. As guests donned in tuxedos or ballroom gowns funneled inside the imitation White House, Pelosi lingered at the bar, heartily sampling various liquors while the bartender stared at her in dazed bewilderment...Meanwhile, Pelosi continued indulging in drink and, therefore, losing her inhibitions. At one point in the evening, she made a comment so cringeworthy that those within earshot feigned deafness or simply distanced themselves. Her speech slurred, she said she had “the best and biggest boobs in the House, better even than,” she added with distaste, “AOCs or MTGs.”...Later in the evening a splenetic, irascible Biden was overheard saying that “I need my candy,” after which his personal physician, Dr. Kevin O’Conner, escorted him from the banquet hall to a private room. Biden reappeared 20 minutes afterward, rejuvenated and refreshed, and loquaciously touted his “accomplishments” to rapturous applause. “Candy is Biden’s codeword for Adrenochrome,” our source said. “He was going downhill, so got his shot or infusion, then came back to serenade his sympathetic audience.
[As previously reported, Pelosi was arrested after the banquet & hauled off to Gitmo] AG sources told Real Raw News Saturday morning that Pelosi has been charged with multiple counts of treason and seditious conspiracy—coincidentally, perhaps, the very same charges she told the Department of Justice to level against Oath Keeper Stewart Rhodes, [also] The United States Navy Judge Advocate General’s Corps has released the name of a Hollywood producer who was arrested after attending the criminal Biden regime’s banquet last Thursday evening. That person is Eli Roth, an American film director, screenwriter, producer, and actor whose name is synonymous with torture-porn: Roth is best known for directing the film Hostel, a ghoulish fright-fest in which attractive, scantily clad young women lure horny college boys to an industrial warehouse owned by a secret society...According to a military arrest warrant reviewed by RRN, Roth’s snuff flicks weren’t entirely fictional. The document alleges that Roth sought to make his films as realistic as possible; Before principal filming began on Hostel, Cabin Fever, and The Green Inferno, Roth rented property in Bilisht, Albania, and used his underworld connections to hire members of the Albanian mafia to torture and murder people in ways that would eventually appear in the films.

[Source: AMG News which is becoming a rival to RRN. AMG's source is---Sorcha Faal!] The Ark of Gabriel: Unearthing an Ancient Secret Weapon – What Do the Russians, the Pope, and the Patriarch Kirill Have to Do With The Ark of Gabriel?

Not to be confused with the Ark of the Covenant, which houses the two stone slabs of the Ten Commandments, the Ark of Gabriel, which is not mentioned in the Christian Bible, is a mysterious device, a secret weapon that many people are only beginning to learn about. Its legend has been perpetuated by the havoc it has wreaked over the centuries, as well as its potential to be unleashed upon the world.
Wild rumours that a fabled device or weapon called the “Ark of Gabriel” has been found under the Masjid al-Haram Mosque – the holiest site in Islam – are sweeping across the darker corners of the internet.
Legend tells the Archangel Gabriel – who told the Virgin Mary she would give birth to Jesus and dictated the Koran to the Prophet Muhammed – also entrusted an ark or box of “immense power” to the founder of the Muslim faith.
Muhammed was told to bury the ark in a shrine at a “place of worship” – for it to be brought out as the end of the world approaches.
Paranoid survivalists believe Saudi Arabia has uncovered the ark during a major construction project at the Grand Mosque – and handed it to the Russians.
They claim the Russian military is taking the ark to the Antarctic – possibly to a former Nazi UFO base.
...[An] attempt to remove the ark on September 24 caused a massive “plasma emission” that resulted in more than 4,000 deaths – Sorcha Faal claims. More than 2,000 were indeed killed in Mecca on that date – but the deaths were blamed on a stampede during the Hajj pilgrimage...
On hearing the news, Russian president Vladimir Putin reportedly dispatched the naval research vessel Admiral Vladimisky to collect the ark from the Saudi port city of Jeddah – the gateway to Mecca – and take it to the Antarctic. Two Russian battle satellites were launched to protect the Admiral Vladimisky and its precious cargo and a fleet of Russian warships, a salvage tug and oil tanker – carrying out manoeuvres in the Indian Ocean – have been ordered to rendezvous with it.

In other news

[Source: anonymous. Ellipses in original] Electric Cars Can Sterilize And Damage The Unborn?? Oh geez… did anyone do any testing on the electromagnetic fields of electric cars and human health? Well, there’s at least ONE study… yup… ONE. People… DNA is very sensitive and easily affected by EMF. One has to wonder if the push for electric cars, had something to do with depopulation… I wonder about these things… do you? Wanna wonder about something else? If graphene oxide and electric car combination is a recipe for early death!!
[Source: anonymous, who provided no more details] The New Hybrid Humans Can Be Used As Local Wireless Networks – Gates Owns the Patent For Exclusive Rights Over Human Hybrid Bodies!! This Is NOT Science Fiction!!
[Source: crackpot video I didn't watch] Real Reason Elon Musk Bought Twitter!! Elon Musk To Start Brain Chip Trials In Humans!! Chinese WeChat Is The Model!! The idea that he wants to emulate WeChat… which probably has something to do with the hellhole China has become… while people’s brains are hooked up to the grid… talk about the devil’s champion!
[Source: crackpot video I didn't watch] Reptilian News Update! Elon Musk Working With Disguised Aliens! Giants In Statis On Earth!! Buried Upside Down Black Pyramid In Canada Older Than Egyptian Pyramids!! Great Lakes Underground ET Bases!! Magnetic Pole Shift!! "Grindal the reptilian channeled by Jim Charles at the weekly Hucolo Webinar, begins around 25:00 mark, and he covers a wide range of hot and hidden topics."
[This picture has been widely shared as proof that the Army is allied with Q. It actually represents the patch the soldiers in this group wear. But, wait! There's more! It proves JFK Jr. is alive. There are a couple of comments in that Tweet, but this guy really nails it down.]

JFK Jr.: Most Convincing Photograph That He’s Still Alive And Is Q, Is This!! For me this is the most convincing photo proof that JFK Jr. is still alive. Notice a portion of the US military and others not in uniform… there’s the grey haired fella at the bottom of the Q wearing a dark suit… JFK Jr.? This is a photo of JFK Jr. with the Q team? Sure seems like it don’t it. This photo needs to be shared widely… it needs to be debated… it needs widespread presence on social media. Are we all in this together or what? I do believe so. It’s time we got more familiar with those protecting us.
The people in this photograph are the masterminds and higher levels of the greatest military intel drop in the history of the world, with the founder and original editor of George Magazine… who knew he would have to go away, to be part of the secret mission to not only save America, but also save humanity.

[Source: Enlightened Contact with Extra Terrestrial Intelligence. Paraphrased.] The eruption of Mauna Loa is due to the Military slapping Pele in the face. (Pele is the goddess of fire & volcanos. In popular culture, she is supposed too be vengeful. In traditional beliefs, volcanic eruptions are for purifying & cleansing.) The government claims those structures on Mauna Loa are observatories, but they are really entrances to deep underground military bases (DUMBS). What's really happening--"[We] are well aware of what goes on in some of those deep underground facilities, things so decadent experiments beyond most people’s ability to comprehend. There are also, 'rumors' they are being destroyed, cleaned up, filled with sea water or lava, or blown up to put an end to the evil operations. Knowing this puts a whole new spin on what is unfolding. For all we know Pele just might be cleaning up all the desecration of sacred lands or a combination of both." Expect UFOs. They always show up around major eruptions.

Short note on Queen Romana. She has been under the weather, but treated herself with roasted garlic. She got better "after a visit from BLUE Light Beings/ Friends on her Temples" and has been photographed "out grocery shopping [in Newfoundland] and showing We The People that there is no food shortage." New convoy member Leona. Posting some hard core antisemitism from her followers, not to mention pro-Putin stuff. Also pics of "our Earth Alliance SSP - Solar Warden Space Fighter Crafts".

A Pirate's Life - Chapter 7

My Patreon page: http://www.patreon.com/hewholooksskyward
Link to the Wiki page, with additional links to Clan information and background Lore.
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Chapter 7: Casualties Of War
“Cap’n? Picking something on sensors,” Xuilan reported, two days after Gyrfalcon departed from Bzaachyojdham.
“Is it Yīqún?” Remi queried, as the bridge crew instantly went on high alert.
Working to clear up the signal, the pilot finally shook her head. “No, definitely not,” she reported, much to the relief of the others. “Signal return shows something much larger… battlecruiser, maybe.” She scowled as she worked to refine the data before looking back at her commander. “It’s Tu’udh’hizh’ak, and it appears to be drifting. I’m reading elevation radiation levels, signs of vented plasma, and its engines are offline.” She met Remi’s gaze. “It may not be Yīqún, but it looks like they tangled with them.”
The captain leaned back in his chair and considered that. “Any signs of life?” he asked her.
Xuilan shrugged. “Hard to say, Cap’n. Not getting any comm traffic, and I’m not seeing thrusters or anything else under manual control. It’s possible there are survivors, but there’s no way to tell from here.”
“What are you thinking, Cap’n?” Slavko inquired.
“I’m thinking it might be worth a look,” Remi mused. “Could be something of value aboard.”
“Too bad our cargo holds are full,” Xuilan pouted.
“If their databases are still intact, that could prove valuable in its own right,” he said thoughtfully. “Plus there’s bound to be a few odds and ends lying around we can find room for.” The pair grinned in anticipation as Remi thumbed the intercom button. “Isi, Mairead, suit up. A target of opportunity just presented itself.”
The other crew members commed their acknowledgment as he nodded at his gunner. “Slavko, you’re with me. Xuilan, slave his console to yours. If that ship powers up weapons, dissuade them.”
“With all of you on board?” she said apprehensively.
“If you could avoid killing us, that would be appreciated,” he grinned. “I’ll keep an open link so you can track us. Questions?”
“No Cap’n,” she answered. “Be careful.”
“We will,” he assured her, as the two men headed aft. They met Mairead and Isi near the airlock, the pair already donning suits. Entering his command authorization, Remi opened the weapons locker and started doling out boarding gear. Slavko accepted a riot gun with a drum magazine, checking its action before securing it to his harness, while Isi took a heavy plasma thrower. Mairead reluctantly procured a sidearm, strapping it down opposite her favorite wrench. Never entirely comfortable with firearms, the Tinker at least recognized her preferred weapon’s lack of range. Remi was handing out grenades when Genvass appeared in their midst.
“I overheard the message,” he said. “What’s going on?”
“Salvage job,” Remi explained, lifting out his own weapons of choice; a slug-throwing sub gun and a beefy beam pistol, slipping them both into their custom holsters.
The Dharmist looked askance at the arsenal being parceled out. “... salvage?”
“Sometimes the original owners don’t like to share,” Slavko explained, clipping the grenades to his web belt.
“I see,” Genvass said carefully. He observed their preparations in silence until finally speaking up once more. “May I join you?” he asked.
The others froze. “Why would you want to do that?” Remi asked casually.
Genvass struggled to respond. “Honestly, I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I spent my entire life hidden away from the realities most Terrans face daily. Ever since the last mission, I’ve been trying to expand my boundaries, but there are still plenty of things I haven’t done.” He nodded at their gear. “Like this.”
Remi folded his arms as he regarded him. “You ever been part of a boarding action? Ever used a weapon… hell, ever held a weapon before?”
“No,” he shrugged.
“And yet you want to board a Tu’udh’hizh’ak battlecruiser, potentially filled with hundreds of Chell, ordered to fight to the last, and for what? The experience?” He shook his head. “This isn’t a pleasure cruise, and I’m not a tour guide. Forget it.”
“Captain, I can be of service,” he said in a rush. “I speak Chell fluently, remember? What if you need to communicate with the crew? Or decipher some bit of data you find?” Genvass pointed out, pleading his case.
“Not a lot of conversation during a boarding action,” Slavko chuckled, cradling his helmet, only to stare at his captain in alarm as Remi held up his hand.
“You realize if there are Chell aboard, they’re not likely to be in a talkative mood,” the captain pointed out. “It’s far more likely they’ll just shoot you full of holes, without bothering to say ‘Hi’,” he informed the Dharmist, approaching him. “Your inexperience could get you killed, or worse, get us killed, so you need to come up with a better reason than wanting to fill out your bucket list.”
Genvass stared at the deck, working his jaw. “The other clans have long accused us Dharmists of being traitors,” he said quietly, though they could hear the anger in his words he was desperately trying to suppress. “Collaborators, alien-lovers, sellouts, quislings, suck-ups, heretics… oh, I’ve heard them all. All the accusations we were taking the easy road, that we had abandoned humanity. No one ever says that about the Avatars, or the Proteans, no matter how queasy they might make them feel. No, they still get a pass, they’re still considered ‘human’. But not us.”
He lifted his head and glared back at the captain. “If my clan is to ever be accepted as equals, it will only come if they see us share the same hardships, take the same risks, hazard the same fate. I’m fighting for not only the lives of my people, captain, but their dignity as well.” He took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax. “I can be of use,” he petitioned the Corsair, “and I won’t let you down. Please… let me do this.”
The two men stared silently at one another, neither of them moving, while the crew looked on in morbid fascination while holding their collective breath. Finally, Remi reached into the locker and pulled out a compact beam pistol, holding it up to him. “This light shows green, it’s safe. Flip this switch here,” he pointed out, “and it glows red, which means it’s ready to fire. You stay in the rear, you do exactly as I say, and if you shoot one of us, it’ll be the last mistake you ever make.” His eyes bored into the Dharmist’s. “Are we clear on the rules?”
“Yes, captain,” he swallowed, “quite clear.”
Remi gave the Dharmist a final once-over, before handing him the weapon.
“Then gear up.”
Unsurprisingly, they had to hold Genvass’ hand as they transferred over to the Tu’udh’hizh’ak ship. Remi had considered taking the shuttle over, but if the Chell were still actively defending their ship, it made for a rather convenient target. Instead, they went EVA, with Xuilan piloting Gyrfalcon to a safe stand-off distance once she made the drop. Isi took charge of the Dharmist, shepherding him across the gap by tether, his calm and reassuring nature making the transit a much smoother journey for all concerned.
Remi and Mairead landed on the hull first, near an Emergency Airlock, followed by the others. “We’ve landed,” he informed the ship. “No problems yet.”
“Copy,” Xuilan replied. “Keep this link open.”
“Count on it,” he growled, glancing to confirm there was no one in sight before stepping aside. Mairead moved in to check the controls. “Power’s offline,” she announced. “It’ll take me a few minutes to engage the manual override.”
“As quickly as you can,” he urged her, before checking on the others. Slavko and Isi were old hands at this, and both were doing exactly what they were supposed to be. Genvass seemed to be looking in a dozen directions at once, no easy feat in a suit. Switching to a private comm channel, he spoke to the Dharmist directly.
“Do I need to leave you outside?” he demanded. “I’m not taking you if you’re having a meltdown.”
His breaths were quick and ragged as he struggled to respond. “I’m… okay,” he gasped. “Just… getting… my bearings.”
“Get it together,” he snapped. “I don’t have time for this shit.” He glared at the Dharmist, though he couldn’t see his expression through the tinted visor. His words seemed to have struck a chord, as he watched him struggle to regain control. Genvass’ movements became less frantic, his breathing now noticeably less like hyperventilating and better regulated. It still couldn’t be called good, not by any stretch of the imagination, but at least it was appreciably better.
“Got it!” Mairead announced as she cracked open the airlock’s outer door. Slavko joined her and helped muscle it completely aside as they entered the enclosed space one by one. The Tinker went to the inner door and plugged into its controls, examining the conditions inside.
“I’m reading some power, but it’s weak and sporadic,” she informed him. “If I had to guess, I’d say they were down to batteries. No air on the other side, though. Looks like this section’s been holed.”
“Copy that,” Remi nodded, as he started passing orders. “Once you get it open, Isi and I will take the lead. Slavko, you’ve got trail, and Mairead, you hang in the center. Genvass, you’re between them. Stay out of their way and don’t make me regret this.”
“Yes, captain,” the Dharmist said nervously.
There was a tremor beneath their feet as the inner door lurched open in fits and starts, before finally grinding to a halt just shy of a complete cycle. “Good enough,” Remi shrugged, as he and the purser stepped through the hatch, each immediately facing out as they swept the corridor.
Debris lay scattered throughout the space, while a handful of bodies were visible as well. Here and there electrical currents arced and sparked, further signs of just how badly damaged the ship was. “Clear,” Isi announced after a moment.
“Clear,” Remi confirmed. Taking his bearings, he gestured forward with his weapon. “Bridge is that way,” he informed them. “Move out.”
The group cautiously made their way down the passageway, pausing to check the intersections and open hatches. Remi called a brief halt while he inspected a Chell corpse, the body’s condition telling him a great deal.
“Explosive decompression,” he said grimly, spotting bloody discharge from the eyes, mouth, and ears. A quick glance at the other bodies confirmed his suspicions. “None are in suits,” he observed. “The Yīqún must have ambushed them.”
“Typical,” Slavko grunted from the rear.
Glancing back at the team, he spotted Genvass hovering over the cadaver. “You still with us?” he snapped.
The Dharmist’s head snapped up. “Yes… I’m fine,” he swallowed.
“Uh-huh…” Shaking his head, Remi headed out once more, as the group… with one exception… moved like a well-oiled machine. They were forced to detour around one section where the ship no longer existed, as if some giant predator had come up beside it and taken a bite. It was far more likely an explosion had caused the damage, of course, but he couldn’t quite shake the mental image of some enormous space-shark swimming through the cosmos, attacking ships at random.
Terra knew it wouldn’t be the strangest thing he’d ever stumbled across in the Perseus Arm.
They worked their way through the Tu’udh’hizh’ak ship, pausing here and there to examine areas of interest, but nothing worth salvaging made an appearance. Actually, that wasn’t exactly true. There were a few items they might have grabbed under normal conditions, but given their current mission, the lack of space back on Gyrfalcon, not to mention Genvass tagging along, Remi kept them moving forward instead. They’d found no survivors, though they hadn’t checked the locked hatches. It was possible some were trapped in various locations throughout the ship, but they weren’t aboard on a rescue mission. If there were survivors, they were on their own.
There was one section of the ship Remi was intensely curious about, and after conferring with Mairead… or more accurately, once she’d plugged in and found some schematics… they’d taken an alternative route until they found what he’d been searching for. It was an enormous risk, but as they forced open the hatch, the group stared in horror.
While the mammalian Chell were the empire’s labor and military force, the amphibian Tu’udh’hizh’ak themselves were its true masters. The last time the Admiral had sent Gyrfalcon off on a special assignment, they’d uncovered many secrets, not the least of which was that “Masters” were telepaths, mentally coercing the Chell to do their bidding. They’d kept that hidden from the other races, though of course now the secret was out, thanks to them. Aboard ship, they lived in a carefully recreated aquatic environment, their every need seen to by their brainwashed slaves as they swam amidst the fronds of their faux lagoon.
The water had all boiled off, ablated away into space once the Master’s chamber had been exposed to vacuum. Dried mud caked the inside of the compartment, while scattered bits of plant life were spackled everywhere they looked. There were bodies here as well, both Master and servant, but that wasn’t what had left them nauseous and dismayed.
There were perhaps half a dozen of the Tu’udh’hizh’ak scattered across the chamber, their elongated bodies and triangular heads in stark contrast to the furry Chell…. and before each Master’s body lie a pile of their equally dead slaves, many of them clutching what appeared to be Emergency Rebreathers.
It was all too clear that none of the rebreathers had been used by the Chell.
“Holy Mother Terra,” Isi whispered, the normally sanguine purser thunderstruck at the sight.
“... they let themselves die,” Mairead said quietly, her voice threatening to crack. “They had life-saving oxygen in their very grasp, but…” she trailed off, unable to finish.
“But instead of saving themselves, they gave it to their masters,” Remi finished, shaking his head, “because they didn’t have a choice. Worse, it honored them to do it.” The others turned to him, as the true depth of the tragedy was made brutally clear. “It was all they knew.”
“As much as I wanna blame them for unleashing the Yīqún, after seeing something like this?” Slavko’s tones were hushed and subdued. “Man, I fucking get it. Don’t get me wrong, I still hate them,” he said in a rush, “… but I get it.”
Genvass had remained silent until now but could contain himself no longer. “No, the worst part is it didn’t make one damn bit of difference,” he said bitterly. “The Chell might have made it somewhere safe, a few of them at least… but the Tu’udh’hizh’ak? Even with that bottled air, they only survived a couple of minutes before the vacuum sucked them dry.”
“And by then, the Chell were already dead,” Isi said sadly. “What a goddamn waste.”
They stared at that awful tableau, frozen, until Remi finally snarled.
“... Fuck the Troika.”
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The church instigated an attack on a police station in protest to stop construction at Vizhinjam port. Do you know why?

Assimilation 1.4

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1.4 THE MISSION
Human bodies were strewn across the hallway like a giant petulant toddler had decided to trash his toys and go home. Blood and excrement painted the walls in sickening hues, and grayish organs spread along the floor like a living—or in this case—dying carpet. Aidan heard muted groans from those still alive, and he detected a man gasping his last breath just a foot away from where he stood at the threshold between two realities.
The scene was so realistic that Aidan felt acidic bile rising in his throat. He took a steadying breath and glanced back the way he had come. It was strange, the warrior realized. Not a single sound had emanated from the other side of the door. If Aidan had studied the carnage around him, he would have assumed it had just happened. If it was just a simulation, it was probable that this scene hadn't even existed while he was looking through those crates. Likely, this scene had generated just before he passed through the door—the same as when a video game loads content just before the character enters the room to save processing power.
Turning back, Aidan wondered what this hallway of death was designed to test. His resiliency? His morality? He wasn't sure, and it didn't matter. There was a reason the Fed had refused to clue him in on the contents of the test. Whatever happened here was a gauge for the kind of man that Aidan was. His only option was to soldier on the best he could, and to do that, he needed information.
He slowly walked through the nightmarish tableau and looked for anyone alive. As he searched, he realized that it wasn't just human bodies present. He squatted down to study the corpse of what looked like a giant otter. It was far taller and leaner than the average human. Due to its slumped position, it was challenging to assess precisely how large the creature was. Aidan estimated it was at least 10 feet long from fur-covered tip to tail. He didn't get any helpful information from the System, either.
??? Technician Lvl ???
Aidan frowned at the notification but continued his inspection. The being—alien—he amended to himself, had six limbs ending with claw-tipped fingers. It sported a long tail and looked as if it could walk on its two hind legs. It was clearly dead, with a shotgun-shaped weapon lying lax in its paws.
Further study showed quarter-sized cauterized holes punched through the thin armor plates on its chest and the fully-enclosed helmet. The Marine didn't detect any other wounds, so Aidan surmised that the laser holes were the cause of death. The impacts looked about the same size as those left by his weapons.
An enemy, then, Aidan noted to himself.
Looking closely at the equipment itself only brought more question marks to his HUD.
He was about to rummage through the alien's gear in search of more clues when a loud groan disrupted him.
Aidan glanced up and saw a nearby human reaching weakly toward him. The Marine hastened over to the man and started to check his vitals. The soldier's pulse was erratic, and his breathing was labored. A cursory inspection showed that there was either a large wound or a series of minor injuries in the man's gut. Blood was freely running and pooling on the metal deck below him.
"Water," the soldier gasped.
Aidan knew the man was going into shock. He didn't have a first aid kit, but he wasn't sure it mattered. There wasn't a first aid kit in the world that could fix such a large gut wound. The best he could do was scrounge up some water.
"I don't have any on me," Aidan replied. "Where can I find some?"
The man blinked slowly in apparent confusion.
"Check your inventory," he rasped.
Aidan frowned. He figured the man hadn't understood him and was about to repeat his question when a prompt appeared.
Success! Inventory unlocked.
The Marine stared at the message for half a second before he thought the word "inventory." A small five-by-five grid appeared in his vision's lower right-hand corner. It was mostly empty, but he found a metal canteen in the first slot and a couple of bricks that could've been ration bars in the second.
He mentally selected the canteen and was shocked to find the item in his hand. Gently putting his rifle across his thighs, Aidan unscrewed the top of the canteen and then held it to the wounded soldier's mouth. The man drank greedily as the water splashed across his lips. When he started to sputter, Aidan pulled the canteen away and screwed the lid back on. With another thought, the canteen returned to his inventory.
"Thank you," the soldier's voice sounded a bit stronger.
Aidan knew that the man didn't have much time left, so he tried to collect more information.
"What happened?" He asked the man.
“We were…attacked…” The soldier replied. Each word sounded like it cost the man just a little bit more of his life force. "Routine patrol…the Ornychi…boarded us."
The man took a deep breath and spat a bloody projectile at a nearby alien corpse.
"Big bastards…not normal techs."
"Where are we?" Aidan asked.
The dying man blinked in confusion again. "We're in Sol…this is our starship…UNS Vanguard."
A prompt appeared in Aidan's view as the last words passed the soldier's lips.
Mission updated. The UNS Vanguard (AA-1) is on a routine patrol in the Sol System. The Ornychi have boarded it and slain the majority of the ship's defenders.
MISSION: Repel the boarders and regain command of the ship
REWARD: Variable
Aidan dismissed the text with a thought and refocused on the soldier. His eyes narrowed as he realized that the man had passed while he was reading the mission update. With a sigh, the former Marine rose to his feet and glanced around for other survivors. He didn't see anyone else who could provide more information, but now that he had an inventory, Aidan realized he needed to stock up on more weaponry if he wanted to retake the ship.
The Marine silently apologized to his fallen comrades and searched their equipment. He picked up plenty of batteries for both his rifle and pistol. Aidan didn't find a limit to the number of batteries he could stack into one of his inventory squares. He did find that he couldn't mix the two types of batteries. Pistol ammunition had to go in one square, and rifle ammunition had to go in another.
Beyond that, he found a few black spherical objects with small circular indentations. His HUD identified them as grenades. He found a pulse grenade that could've been akin to an electromagnetic pulse and another two that were fragmentation grenades. These items took up another two spots in his inventory.
Aidan experimented with trying to put more weapons in his inventory and found that each weapon took up a whole slot. He couldn't stack them like he did the ammunition or the grenades. The Marine picked up another rifle and pistol but left the other where they lay. He liked the idea of having a backup but wanted to fill his inventory with something other than useless items. The casual gamer knew it went against every video game rule in the book, but he didn't think there would be some vendor waiting at the end of this simulation to help him salvage all the useless items.
Beyond the automatic weaponry, he found a sword of all things.
XSM-1/F Psionic Sword
Aidan picked it up and twirled the blade around in his hand. He had no experience with such weapons, but the description intrigued him. Psionics were the same as psychic abilities. Their wielders were supposed to be able to move things with your mind or enact other seemingly magical effects. He couldn't imagine the battlefield applications of throwing a sword with one's mind beyond entertainment value, but he stowed the blade in his inventory anyway. He hoped to find an opportunity to use it in the future.
Looking around, the Marine didn't find anything else of interest. There were a few tactical helmets, some boots, and gauntlets that would protect his body more than the black skin suit he was wearing, but it felt wrong to pillage the dead to that degree. Likewise, there were several alien weapons and body armor, but they wouldn't fit his shorter, bulkier frame. He was unwilling to use weapons even more unfamiliar than those he currently wielded. He wouldn't object to taking their equipment if it were helpful, but nothing caught his eye.
Newly equipped and holding his rifle at the ready, Aidan advanced through the next door. As he passed through, the heavy door closed softly behind him. The room beyond was something of a ready room. It was relatively small and served as a gateway for the passages beyond. In the back corner, a man lay half-collapsed against the single table in the room. A pool of his blood obscured the glowing screen embedded in the metal furniture. Above the corpse, a hologram of the solar system rotated slowly in peaceful contrast to the violence below. There was a door directly across from Aidan and one on either side.
Keeping his rifle pointed at the center door, Aidan checked the door behind him. It wouldn't budge. The lack of movement didn't surprise him. Every part of his journey was a test, and it wouldn't make sense for him to go back and change his answers. The Marine inferred something important was in this room, and picking one of the three available doors in front of him represented a choice.
Assuming he was safe for the moment, Aidan walked toward the fallen soldier. He confirmed that the man was dead and then placed his rifle down while he shifted the body away from the table. Once the man was down, Aidan raided a couple more batteries for his pistol and inspected the table.
There wasn't a straightforward method of navigating the cracked panel, so he placed his palm on the screen. A confirmation message rewarded his behavior.
Access Granted. Steele, Aidan. ID: T1US1O3G7
The hologram switched off, and only a navigation menu remained for Aidan to manipulate. He scanned through the options and found what he was looking for.
Ship Schematics. Download? Y/N
Aidan selected yes, and a progress bar appeared in a hologram above the screen. The download was completed in seconds, and then the progress animation disappeared.
Success! Mini-map Unlocked.
Aidan allowed himself a slight smile. Now things were beginning to look like the games he was used to. He experimented with the map in the upper part of his vision. He could resize the window, zoom in and out, and extend his range as far as the available schematics. Overall, he had a better grasp of the situation on the ship.
Beyond the map, Aidan found little use. He found an access log that he promptly downloaded, but everything else required more access than he had been permitted. The Marine would check the records for any valuable bits of information later. At the moment, Aidan felt like he was competing against the clock.
There were an unknown number of enemy hostile on board, and the kills he had stumbled upon were recent. He imagined that he was following just behind the boarding party. There weren't any explicit fail conditions for the scenario he found himself in, but it would be difficult to regain control over the ship from an entrenched and prepared enemy. Right now, his adversaries didn't know that he was following them.
With those thoughts in mind, he pulled up the map again to study the ship's layout. The storage room that marked his start point in the tutorial was no longer visible on the map. That probably meant that in regular times, the room didn't exist. What had replaced it was a docking interface that led to the ship's exterior. It was a safe assumption that an enemy spacecraft was currently attached to the UNS Vanguard. The hallway he had found the dying soldier in was still on the map and looked like it was a direct path to the ship's center. The ready room he was currently in was a form of access control for the rest of the Vanguard.
Aidan glanced up from his map to survey the ready room. He noticed two smoking craters in the ceiling where automated defenses had likely been deployed. Now that he knew what to look for, the veteran remembered that there were similar smoking scars in the long hallway. The dead soldiers had been stationed in the access corridor to repel the boarders, but the alien Ornychi had quickly overrun their position. With a likely fact pattern established, Aidan looked back at the map.
He was in the upper fore portion of the ship. The only thing higher was the command and control spaces toward the aft. On his level, there looked to be maintenance shops and gun emplacements on either side. He found the mess, crew quarters, and various small armories directly in front. Beyond those, there was a large drone bay and dedicated maintenance pay for the craft.
One level down, he saw a larger bay for shuttles in the aft, propulsion and more crew quarters in the center, and various maintenance shops in the fore of the ship.
The lowest level held dedicated ship stores and huge cargo bays. There were about half a dozen access ports to these areas of the ship, but Aidan didn't think it would be prudent to explore in search of more equipment. Anything down there would be too large to make a difference, and he might need more access to use them. For those same reasons, he discounted raiding the crew armories or trying to get into the shuttle and drone bays.
His only real option would be to choose a side corridor, salvage what he could on the move, and attempt to disrupt the raiding party before they made it to the command and control sections of the ship. There wasn't a direct path to those areas of the Vanguard for a good reason. In the event enemies boarded the starship, the defenders would seal the hatches in case of rapid decompression or funnel the boarders in particular directions. Typically, these redirections kept the enemy away from vital areas of the ship and gave the defenders more opportunities to ambush them.
A horrifying realization struck Aidan. These hatches were designed to limit flooding in naval ships, but they had a different purpose in space. There wasn't anything to stop the defenders from sealing portions of the Vanguard and opening the rest to the void. Suddenly, the closed helmets the aliens were wearing made a lot more sense, and Aidan felt a sense of foreboding. Any reservations about raiding the gear from his fellow humans went out the window. One of his highest priorities was now to be able to operate in the absence of breathable air.
He finally dismissed the map and readied his rifle. It didn't matter which direction he chose at this point. The boarding party likely split up to cover both sides of the ship. They needed to clear out most of the defenders to prevent potential ambushes and advance toward the bridge. With any luck, Aidan could defeat half the invaders, claim the bridge, and then use the fortified position to kill the remaining enemies.
Aidan turned toward the starboard side door for no reason other than being left-handed. If he had to shoot around a corner, it would be less awkward on the ship's starboard side. After a quick touch of his palm, the Marine was through the door and into the corridor beyond. As soon as the door opened, he could hear the sounds of conflict further down the hall. He listened to the clanging of metal on metal, the percussive sounds of projectile weapons, and the screams of the dying.
The veteran didn't break into a run, but he did stride confidently down the hallway. He quickly cleared the rooms to his left side but didn't enter them to raid equipment or look for survivors. There was the remote chance that a hiding enemy could pop him in the back, but Aidan took the calculated risk. He wanted to get to where the action was as quickly as possible, and the boarders weren't likely to be hiding around the ship when the bridge was still untaken.
He caught sight of his first alien in just a few minutes, which surprised them both. The Ornychus had just stepped from a gunner's nest and was carrying his shotgun-styled weapon at the waist. He didn't get a single shot off before Aidan nailed him in the throat with two trigger pulls.
The alien clattered to the deck, and Aidan rushed forward and kicked the shotgun out of the alien's writhing hands. Another front kick to the skull put the alien prone, and Aidan advanced to clear the gunner's nest beyond. He found two dead humans carrying pistols but no other enemies. Aidan reached behind him and pulled the dying alien into the gunner's nest. He was surprised at how light the creature was despite its height.
Task completed; Aidan put another round into his enemy's skull, but the creature's helmet ablated the laser. It took two more shots before the projectile finally pierced through the armor and left a smoking hole in the creature's skull.
Ornychus Technician slain. Experience gained: ???
The implications of the message weren't lost on Aidan, but he didn't have the time to explore the ins and outs of the system. It was enough to know that there was experience, which likely meant levels and stats were a mechanic in this scenario.
He briefly rummaged through the alien's gear and snagged another fragmentation grenade. Aidan was slightly surprised that the aliens were using what sounded and looked like projectile weaponry on a ship. Maybe they weren't concerned about the bullets punching holes in the bulkheads. Regardless, Aidan preferred his near-silent directed energy weapons. Hopefully, he could eliminate the threat to the ship before they knew he was there.
He looked over at the dead gunners and saw that they wore gray armor, complete with helmets, atop their black suits. Aidan debated whether he should take the time to equip himself or continue hunting for more enemies. He could hear sounds of conflict beyond his position and wanted to avoid being caught flat-footed.
After a half-second deliberation, he decided that the risk was worth the increased protection. A glance fed him a stream of information about the items.
SM1/BDA Modular Integrated Gunner Helmet
SM2/BBA Outer Tactical Panel
SM1/BDA Integrated Gunner Gauntlet (LH)
SM1/BDA Integrated Gunner Gauntlet (RH)
SM3/BBA Space Combat Boots
Aidan cursed whatever government bureaucrat decided to use acronyms for every set of military-issued gear. Some of it looked familiar, and some of it was utterly foreign to him. At least the names told him something about the functionality of the items. He set his rifle down and scavenged undamaged components from the two dead men.
The first item, the MIGH, looked like a basic motorcycle helmet and a combat helmet had a baby. It was more angular than an aerodynamic motorcycle helmet but was fully enclosed, unlike a combat helmet. There was no visor or any other indication that the wearer would be able to see from within. Removing it was pretty simple. It detached from the dead man's head with a slight hiss, and a second later, it was sealing itself around Aidan's own.
As soon as the helmet was fully sealed, hidden external cameras activated, and Aidan could see everything around him. He was amazed at the clarity. If Aidan didn't know any better, the veteran would think he wasn't wearing a helmet at all. He wished he had time to study everything in detail, but the boarders wouldn't wait for him to test out all the new gear.
The tactical panels came next. They were just a series of protective plates that covered the man's shoulders and encircled his thighs. They stuck directly to his skin suit without needing straps or buckles. The thigh plates even adjusted themselves to fit his taller frame. He had to remove his thigh holster to put them on, but when he held the pistol near his left panel, it attached to the equipment via a magnetic strip. Smiling beneath his helmet, Aidan tossed the unnecessary holster aside.
After securing the panels, he slipped his hands into the slim gauntlets. The IGGs had the same resizing properties the OTPs did, and soon he could barely feel them. As soon as Aidan equipped the gauntlets, a System message appeared.
Calibrating…
Calibration Complete.
A series of numbers appeared in the bottom right of his vision. It looked like the gauntlets had calibrated the number of shots he had in his rifle for the first digits. After a slash, the second number had the available ammunition on his plate carrier and in his inventory. Below those numbers, a smaller set appeared for his pistol. For a second, Aidan wished he had this kind of technology in the real world. Everything was helpful without being distracting.
A glance at the right-hand gauntlet revealed a small view screen networked to the ship computer. Just like the interface in the ready room, Aidan needed higher access to see more than he already had.
Finally, Aidan slipped on the boots. They were a similar fabric as his plate carrier with a protected toebox and a slightly heavier sole. As he slipped the shoes over his skin suit, they slightly resized to fit him better and sealed themselves along an invisible seam.
He quickly realized where the additional weight came from when he stood up. The boots had affixed themselves to the metal deck with a magnetic lock. Walking around required a shuffling gait that the Marine wasn't used to. He was thinking about taking them back off if he couldn't get the magnetism to disengage, but another message hit his screen a second later.
Magnetic lock disengaged.
Encouraged, Aidan practiced engaging and disengaging the boots with a thought. They worked perfectly and would save him if the artificial gravity on the ship suddenly stopped working. Geared up, Aidan picked up his rifle and moved back toward the entrance to the gunner's nest. The whole process probably took a minute and a half. He had been aided by the equipment's intuitive design and ability to resize and respond to mental commands.
Newly equipped and more lethal than ever, he was ready to bring the fight to the aliens.

Kronologi Indra Kenz yang sebenarnya?

3WJ Prologue, Articles of Geneva Intervention

Hey there HFY, it’s been a hot minute! Decided to get off my butt and try writing again, plus try and make a bit of a series rather than a bunch of vaguely connected oneshots.
Edit 1: Thus begins the 'Third War Journals,' or 3WJ. Other entries will fit into the narrative despite sometimes being a little removed from 'current events' starting now.
Third War Journals TOC
An ambassador petitions help from the reclusive sentients who call themselves Terrans after nothing but deaf ears results from pleas in the Galactic Senate.
///
“Friend Scrawls-Paper-Terms, how should I address the assembly?”
The bird-like alien fidgeted with the aural implants. Well, ‘earbuds.’ She was informed that they were both to help translate as well as protect her sense of hearing from the race her ally had recommended entreating for assistance. In secret, of all things. A diplomatic envoy spirited away through multiple back channels to the seat of government.
“Be easy, Envoy Triska. Your nerves are lacking the calm and composure required of your station,” Scrawls replied, shifting in place, rolling his shoulders. Robes of office did not sit well on his tall frame, but he had made the mistake of showing aptitude in social graces. How the four-armed Skitarrl longed for a proper uniform and a holstered gun at the small of his back. “You have nothing to worry about.”
“Friend Scrawls, it is not your race who stands to lose life and autonomy,” Triska snapped venomously. The avian sentient affixed their wide eyes down a narrow beak suited for the consumption of plant and insect. Feathers ruffled and comb rattled in her chest.
Hers was not an overtly carnivorous race. Certainly not a Deathworlder. They were humble folk called the Orparadi, agricultural and pharmaceutical producers. Their position in the Minor League of the Galactic Senate seemed to be overlooked.
Unlike the Coelcatha, another Minor League member, who were currently ravaging her home system. An aquatic race who delighted in drowning their conquests, figurative and literally. Scorched earth was replenished with public executions to fertilize forests clearcut by the captured, making invasive species proliferate. They fought for pleasure, not economics.
“Triska…” he sighed, folding his arms in an attempt to appear nonthreatening. “It is not my intent to cheapen your dire situation.”
She turned from him, looking out of the room they were sequestered within. A large glass window, one-way they were assured, overlooked a cavernous expanse of buildings and gardens dotting the cylindrical inside of the station they were within. Centrifugal artificial gravity was so low tech yet cost-effective. Triska was surprised it was being employed by a race, these Terrans Scrawls-Paper-Terms held in such high regard.
What could they possibly offer her people? Some unaligned interstellar government that kept to themselves for the most part. Individual members distinguished themselves in small ways. Some privateers, smugglers with codes of honor, mad scientists, paramilitary or mercenary groups. One that caught her interest and helped win her over was this whole concept of Doctors Without Borders. The mere idea of helping out groups of differing affiliations and races was so foreign. Likewise curious was how they managed to stay a neutral party in all conflicts, untouched as they treated all affected.
“Apologies my friend. My tail feathers have been askew during these past few standard months. Resistance is crumbling at home and in this week I have felt useless.” Triska deflated, burying her face in her taloned hands. “Less than useless. A coward safe behind the shadow of these beings.”
A few raps on the door caught their attention.
“Mister Scrawls-Paper-Terms, Miss Triska?” a higher pitched voice said through the ornate wood. A female Terran, if the avian wasn’t mistaken. “We’re ready for you.”
“Would you allow me to lead the way?” the Skitarrl dignitary offered.
“No, thank you,” she quickly said. Smoothing her plume feathers, Triska preened for a few moments before walking to the door. “If what you tell me about these Terrans are true, they respect confidence and initiative.”
Thrumming deep in his chest, he nodded approvingly.
Talons wrapped carefully around the doorknob, she considered the fact the beautiful door was a solid piece of material affixed to a frame with hinges. Hardly the most secure entryway. Were these Terrans so confident in their position in the universe that they brazenly displayed such lack of caution in their seat of power?
Triska felt a shadow of dread. Her wings – though vestigial, on her back, still useful to the Orparadi for body language – were clipped and crippled. There was no way to fly away from this den of curious beings if things turned sour. Neither was there a safe harbor to return to.
No, she couldn’t hesitate. Even if this was the smallest chance she had at finding help when all others turned deaf auditory organs, she had to muster all the charisma and political acumen she had trained over the years.
“May fair winds bless us,” Triska whispered.
///
The approach to the senate holding the United Nations of Terra was dimly lit. A raised dais and podium were at the end of the hall. Stepping out of the glorified tunnel revealed a massive auditorium and dozens of seats.
Triska’s heart sank as she looked around.
These Terrans were truly alien.
Front-facing eyes bearing hallmarks of prey and predator. Ears flaring to the sides, crops of fur across face and hair across scalp, two arms with wide range of motion. Colors across swatches as varied if not more than the bright and dull ones of her own race. All were sitting so she couldn’t be sure, but they must have two legs to achieve symmetry, unless they were like Scrawls’ race down there.
Murmurs between various parties arranged in rows separate from each other. Oddly, groups were marked by large chunks of rock on each of their spaces. Each had a distinct color and also had a light source planted atop it.
“The Terrans maintain political factions on each of their own planets,” Scrawls whispered to Triska, sensing her concern. If anything it was a welcome distraction. “Each leader has a piece of their planet of residence in front of them as a reminder of home.”
“A perplexing system. So each planet is fractured like this central body?” she replied, trying to count the number of heads in the room. Counting was helpful to calculate a majority she needed to win over. “That seems unnecessarily cumbersome.”
“It is and is not, Envoy. While they all represent different planets, different political parties, they are unified as a race. Grievances are addressed as one,” Scrawls-Paper-Terms countered, almost in awe of the tableau before them. “I have seen infighting break out in one planet’s cadre only for another to suggest an answer – in that case, providing financial relief to the other’s resource depletion until they could adjust their industry. However-“
A gavel banged. Loud. Again and again, a total of seven times.
“What is the meaning-!“ she jumped at the sound, neck flitting this way and that searching for the source.
“Terra,” he replied quietly, nostrils flaring with concern.
Seven seats were arranged behind a special desk on its own deck of office. Smooth marble of vibrant green, ocean blue, cloudy white. Male, female, pale, dark, brown, Triska couldn’t place their physical origins but a cursory glance revealed they were perhaps the most… solid, if that were valid.
Wait.
“Scrawls, what is the gravity on this station?” she asked quickly.
“Zero-point-seven standard units. If I’m not mistaken, your homeworld’s. Why?” he replied, scratching behind his ear.
“Those seven. Terra. I imagine Terrans,” she quipped, wringing her hands together. “What do they usually conduct themselves in?”
“Ten.”
“T-t-ten?”
“Mhmm,” he hummed.
“But Skitarrl Prime is pushing six, seven units!” Triska keened.
“The Martians, from the red dust rock of Mars, live at three-point-eight units. The Centaurim, from the jade planet Alpha Centauri, enjoy seven units,” he explained casually. There was a hint of admiration in his own voice. “But Terra is indeed their mother. Hence why everyone is now waiting for one of those seven to speak.”
The two diplomats waited as well.
The center figure stood, white skin burnt a tinge of red, a male who wore a wide-brimmed hat and held an apparatus that looked like it was for nicotine plant burning. He took off the hat, holding it to his chest as some sort of gesture of conciliation.
“Members of the assembly, the points and counterpoints raised have no doubt caused much concern for your homes. We are not saved from the stress developing around us,” the male began, a slight twang to his timbre, turning to address both sides of the auditorium. “While we ourselves have not been affected by these border disputes and piracy, the pleas of galactic neighbors, these matters must be handled tactfully.”
Disgruntled murmurs sounded throughout the air, infighting between planetary entourages quietly beginning.
“Gunboat diplomacy will certainly not smooth things over, but-,“ the male tried to continue over the din before being cut off.
“What the North American representative means to meander around to,” a female interrupted. Dark skin, opulent cloth arranged in billowing dress, braided black locks, “is that while the Diaspora is dealing with their own issues, our position in the Galactic Senate as an Unaligned sovereignty requires to act with tact. Cunning. Subtlety.”
“Thank you, miss representative of Africa,” he replied with a stilted smile. “However, if I’m not mistaken, we need to table this discussion for later. A guest of honor is in attendance.”
Triska’s heart fluttered as the entire room shifted, readying themselves to observe her entrance.
“You are among those sympathetic to you,” Scrawls encouraged, fixing his robes.
“Yes. Right. Ancestors give me strength,” the Orparadisian female gulped. Tenting her talons, she stepped forward into the light.
The tick-click-clack of her feet on the floor felt like the tremors of ground quake. She stifled the desire for her neck to snap back and forth, utilizing its impressive rotation to look for potential exits or guards or anything else that might encourage her to leave.
Before she knew it, the podium was in front of her.
“Welcome to you, Envoy Triska of the Orparadis Congregation,” one of the seven at Terra’s seat said, voice amplified slightly so that all could hear. Or was it just coming through her ear?
“He-hello,” she chirped. If her kind could have a dry throat as a nervous response, Triska imagined this would be the time they would all be set off. “I thank you for this opportunity to stand before you.”
Her mind went blank.
Where did her speech go?
All these eyes on her like predators on the forest floor, looking at a hatchling who fell out of the nest. Even with Scrawls-Paper-Terms building her confidence, she felt like some imposter enjoying a reprieve from the death and destruction and malice permeating the newsfeeds.
The tap of a pen here, a cough there, rustle of clothing everywhere.
“I…”
Maybe she should just reach down into her chest. Pull out her heart and offer it to them.
“I come to you as a coward.”
A few scoffs, hums. Dismay? Ridicule? Well, it was a reaction.
“I flee from the roosts of my mother and her mother and her mother before her, away from the plight of my people. Our borders are violated and people tortured by the Royal Coelcatha Protectorate,” Triska’s voice quavered. “Diplomatic channels to the Galactic Senate go unheard. We do not know why. The Major Council turns a blind eye while the Minor Council provides token support. Our neighbors shun us in hopes of avoiding our fate.”
The first speaker of Terra, the man with the hat, squeezed his pipe tool. The male to his side stopped him from breaking the innocent implement. She wasn’t sure if it was a good or bad sign.
“The one who facilitated my appearance before you said to tell you an idiom. That the Coelcathans were salting the earth behind them. Ravaging our worlds and rendering unusable even after they might leave. Or rather, making it usable for themselves,” Triska continued, losing more of her decorum. It was like giving her adult education flock graduation speech all over again. “As if they expect to own these planets after the conflict ends. If the conflict ends. They show no sign of stopping.”
Looking down at the podium, the wood was of exquisite craftsmanship. Polished so smoothly and given detail work she could appreciate with her naked eye, once suited to hunting from high above in the skies. It was handmade. No technical perfection, no machining beyond hand tools.
“Nearly all our border worlds have fallen. They are within two jumps of our homeworld,” she murmured. Hopefully they heard her or there was some sort of amplification. “We are no fighters. We used to enjoy the protection from trading partners. But we, like some others in the Unaligned and even Minor League systems, are being sacrificed to our aggressors.”
Her wings slowly extended outward from her dress. Hands stretched outward as she bowed forward in shame.
“Please, help my people.”
Triska waited.
And waited.
A pin could drop and sound like a slugthrower shot.
“Please, raise your head Envoy,” the female Terran of Africa urged.
Triska straightened, supporting herself on the podium. So strange, she felt drained doing this. Even if it was her race’s gravity that the centrifuge was set to, the weight of so many worlds were sitting on her shoulders. Crushing her hollow bones.
“If I might,” a voice from higher in the auditorium rang out.
“Senator Harad of the Ursa Constella,” one of the Terrans responded.
“What do you mean by your people being tortured?” Senator Harad inquired. A few voices called out his insensitivity. “I apologize in advance for making you relive the trauma, but I-, we need a complete picture.”
“The practice of slavery was revived from their ancient traditions,” Triska replied, feathers flattening and fluttering across her wings. “Prisoners are executed, televised, blood used to feed the earth-salting.”
A much more visible, even violent, clamor from across the auditorium. It seemed almost like political factions were breaking within their planetary sections, scheming with each other, forgetting about her presence. Had she said something wrong?
“Thank you, Miss Triska,” Harad sighed politely.
“Brothers and sisters of the Human Diaspora, I would like to submit Articles of Geneva Intervention,” a loud female voice rang through the cacophony. She wore a gray uniform tailored with red accents, blonde hair in a regulation bun. “Do I have a second?”
“Senator Talia of Mars, you are out of order,” the American Terran retaliated. His teeth bared and eyelids closed as he made a weird noise, shaking his head. Showing teeth to someone of his species, wasn’t that an act of aggression, to a female no less? “As usual, but sustained.”
“Senator John of Orion’s Belt, seconding,” a male from the other side of the room said. “Do we have a third?”
“Senator Kyara, Auriga,” another female somewhere. “Do we have a fourth?”
“Senator Callahan,” from a male next to her, “Perseus, fifth?!”
“Senator Alexei,” one more male, Triska could see him to her left, “of Draco. We submit the request to vote on the Articles to Terra.”
All eyes, all seats shifted to watch the Seven.
Six then looked over at the female of Africa. She sighed, standing to address the senate.
“On the issue regarding the conflict between the Orparadis Congregation and Royal Coelcatha Protectorate,” she officiously proffered in a fatigued tone, “are the Articles of Geneva Intervention to be enacted?”
Immediate were the responses.
“Mars, nay.”
Triska gasped. What?
“Alpha Centauri, nay.”
“Orion’s Belt, nay.”
“Draco, nay.”
Nay after nay after nay. Why were they saying no?
Unanimous.
“Motion passes,” the American announced, banging the gavel. “Now, about that news about this bell gad consortium thing?”
The Envoy failed. Where did she go wrong?
“Th-thank you for your time,” Triska whispered, turning and quickly making her way back toward her suite.
The Skitarrl who brought her here full of hope chased after her. Why did he bring her here? Some sick game to bring him pleasure as he was forced to sit behind a desk rather than in a battleground fort?
“Friend Triska, why are you-, wait! Allow me to walk beside you,” Scrawls entreated, doing his best to not activate her prey response. “Why are you distressed?”
“Why do you think?!” Triska snapped, all feathers ruffled and rattling on end. She was almost of a mind to take out the earbuds and take a spacewalk with no suit. “They said no!”
He stopped.
Her hand hovered over the handle to exit. Curiosity cut through her sorrowful anger as the male didn’t pursue.
“They said no,” Triska said again, turning slowly to regard him. “Did they not?”
His hand was trying to hide the fact he was baring his toothy maw. Keeping his chest from heaving, making small noises. Much like the male Terran who banged the hammer, in fact.
“I must apologize, my friend. The Humans, Terrans, have a curious method of conducting politics and legal issues quickly,” Scrawls stated, trying to get ahold of himself.
“That does not answer my question,” the avian sentient took a step towards him.
“They had already decided to assist your race before you arrived. The vote was how severely.”
///
He was a carefree man. Oilcloth bomber jacket smeared with vehicle fluids, thick cargo pants, baseball cap with the text ‘Go Falcons!’ and a buff cartoon mascot covering his brown hair and blue eyes. His gait might have said lazy, the glimmer in his eye shone with purpose.
Spying his target, he bumped into an alien wearing an exosuit sitting at a café table.
“Ah, Magistrate Thulissiak, just the sentient I was hoping to run into!”
Almost spilling the creature over to crack open their suit shell – potentially fatal for aquatics or pressurized gas breathers – he deftly manhandled his victim into their chair in the same swoop.
“Pfagh! Terran-ape!” the carnivorous piscine Magistrate spat through crackled speakers. “I have no time for your games, money-changer Luke. There have been… issues.”
An ugly piece of work, Thulissiak’s kind resembled the piranhas in Lucas’ old textbooks. Bottom feeders that frenzied with blood in the water, too many teeth, extremely unfashionable. No wonder they had to plop eggs into spawning pools and never look at each other.
“Oh, that’s a shame. I was going to cut you a deal on some fancy new tech that you might find interesting,” he sighed, wobbling down to sit across from the Coelcatha bureaucrat.
“I really have no time for your nonsense right now, money-changer. Now, I will-“
“Sit down and listen.”
Thulissiak froze, turning with a gurgling hiss. Fanged maw chattered soundlessly in his exosuit’s watery enclosure.
“How… dare.. you… presume to order me, land dweller!”
“You will because I got something you want,” Luke countered while tenting his fingers on the table. “It’s hot. You could say, radioactively hot.”
If eyes could bulge out further on the impressively ugly fish than they already were…
Luke gestured to the seat again. Adjusting his own posture, he massaged at his temple. The hat’s falcon mascot was the first thing Thulissiak saw before they properly looked at each other eye-to-googly-eye.
“Hey, first let me tell you a story. See if it rings any bells, jogs that ancestral fish memory you guys seem to have,” Luke continued, taking out a datapad from his pocket. “Suppose that a fish decided to bully a bird that was minding its own business.”
Thulissiak watched the screen with one eye while recognizing the bird of prey on the land dweller’s hat. An astoundingly fast raptor whose favored meat was taken from the water.
“Then three big bright stars flash in the atmosphere of a couple of the mean fish’s major planets. Snow that is not snow starts falling and iodine pills are getting shorted in the galactic market,” the Terran continued. His visual aide showed three different videos shot from orbital perspectives. Explosions in the atmosphere. Mushroom clouds.
Poisoning the water and air.
Nuclear fission. An illegal tech. A banned weapon. A deadlier type but how, how could there be something greater than uranium?
“Then after the big bad bully fish decided they were flukes, another cute little cloud went kaboom over their homeworld’s atmosphere,” Luke sighed, eyes trained on the Magistrate. The last nuke detonated just above the magnetosphere, incinerating some military spacedocks. Surface below was more or less fine, but things could have been dire if the bomb went off in the atmosphere of the global sprawl of aquatic cities and flooded swamplands.
“Your kind is responsible for this?!” the Coelcanthan growled, hidden blade unsheathing from his suit’s forearm.
“Please, let me finish the story.”
One of the Terran’s eyes flashed red-green-red. The exosuit locked up as its systems were hacked, Thul struggling to make it function correctly before becoming paralyzed.
“Big bad fish bully looked up and found the bird he was tormenting begged for help. And even though they asked a baker’s dozen,” the Terran smiled whimsically, “the fish got complacent and didn’t think someone would hear.”
“Is there some point to this pointless hostage taking?” the Magistrate hissed.
“Yeah. The falcon asked nicely. Twice. This is the third time the falcon’s interceding, and now it’s a demand. It does not go to fourths.”
Luke’s eyes glided over the datapad, replaying the fission bombs again.
And again.
And again.
And again. But this time there wasn’t just one payload. Many, many more across each world. Consuming cities.
Thul hoped that the excrement he released was going to be caught by the waste recycler.
“Oh, snap, where’s my manners? I said we had business together!” the Terran exclaimed, flicking through his datapad.
Special nanobots that perform air scrubbing of radioactive material, iodine, other pharmaceuticals for irradiation treatment.
“I can cut you a sweet deal for these. Won’t be able to find anything like them anywhere else.”
Who says that humanitarians couldn’t also turn a little profit after sending a warning shot heard across the galaxy?

Rudra Shares

Out of Cruel Space Side Story: Of Dog, Volpir, and Man - Ch 81

= Content Warning: Exactly What You’d Expect From A Centuries Old Serial Killing Cannibal’s Lair. Reader Discretion is Advised. Content starts with a sentence with the words “torture center” in it. To skip this content ctrl+f “With the situation at hand handled, it was time to deliver on that promise of justice.” Will take you past it, letting you get all the plot without the nightmare fuel. =
There was one critical flaw to ruling by fear. Beyond the obvious flaw of it being easier to become hated, the status that Machiavelli warned his Prince against at all costs, fear is a transient power to a degree. If you are beloved, it will be hard for someone to be more loved than you in many senses. For they must do more for the people than all that has come before. For fear however, the power of fear will transfer to the next greater source of fear to come along.
With Talz's tender mercies far away, the Marines were much scarier... even scarier still the furious Jaruna looming over the rapid field interrogations to try and get the location of Talz within the structure they'd opened the way to.
It didn't take much coercion. Talz's former crew gave their new "captain" up easily and readily, begging, if not for mercy, than a swifter death than anything Talz would have given them, so they could at least be free of the monster.
Having switched out of his damaged power armor and into a light infantry hard suit Jerry led the way into the building, mostly restored after the heavy fighting with the Cannidor warriors and his brief exposure to null. He found himself missing his armor. The hard suits were decent, better than anything available on Earth, akin to what scifi heroes in video games usually wore, but still. The rudimentary HUD and systems almost made Jerry feel deaf, dumb and blind. To say nothing of its greatly inferior offensive and defensive capabilities.
Still, none of the expected violence lashes out at them as the two squads with Jerry quickly glide through the building, clearing as they go, and finding nothing. No traps. No ambushes. Just a quiet, empty building for them to make their way through.They could even take a direct route. They knew where Talz's rat hole was. They just had to go and get him. Still, Jerry takes his time, circling through, clearing and sealing endlessly to lock down every avenue of escape. There would be no running for Talz. Jerry would make sure of it.
Before long, they find their destination up on the fifth deck, the former floor boss's offices.
Talz had celebrated his take over of the office, and his "field promotion" with a BBQ, many of the officers, and any living prisoners had been forced to partake in the sadistic meal. It had likely been laced with some sort of chemical concoction. Something they'd been informed Talz was fond of. Just as well that all those officers were dead. If they were willing to eat the flesh of sapient life... either desiring to, or having forced themselves to accept the trauma to ensure they survived. Well. In the former case, euthanizing the sapient equivalent of a rabid dog seemed the only reasonable way to deal with the kind of cannibalism that involved the meal still screaming while you ate. In the latter case... depending on the amount of trauma incurred by such a depraved table, euthanasia might be a mercy.
One of the younger pirates had thrown up describing what she'd seen of the scene before fleeing. A sign of the decency she'd thrown away to take her immoral trade fighting to reassert itself. Though it was hard to be too harsh to her. She was one of many young women who took up a first career in piracy out of the desire to have an adventure... It was seemingly perfect due to the general galactic lack of consequences, the perceived lack of risk in a world of near eternal life, and no long-term contracts. Throw in the romanticization of pirates in various media like tri d movies and video games and you had a perfect storm. The galaxy seemed primed to make these wayward young women into broken shells. The girl had been singled out, rescued, and would likely be in an Undaunted uniform before the end of the day if she wasn't too traumatized.
Just as had been described to them, there's a symbol painted on the door in blood. None of the surviving pirates had been past this door. Save for a few trusted officers, those who went through this door, never came back. Jerry slowly moves into the chamber with the bloody symbol on the door. The first room is more or less what Jerry had expected from Talz. He put his torture chamber up front. A reminder of the price of failure and disloyalty. A chance to unbalance friend and foe alike. A display of power and his sense of untouchable invulnerability.
His torture center away from torture center was a nightmarish tableau, a macabre hell house. While it had the walls, bells, and whistles of an ordinary room on the ship, the contents of this room were something out of a true degenerate’s fantasy; a world of terror beyond even the term of ‘degenerate’ itself existed just beyond the door scrawled in blood. Unbidden ancient words from an old story come to his mind. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here. For once, Jerry had half a mind to believe those words.
To begin with, a table sat in the middle of the room, it wasn’t even the centerpiece of everything, but it was where Talz liked to ‘indulge’. The DNA scanner within the suit kept flipping between registering blood and trying to figure out what another mystery substance was. Given how he could see a pair of large, faded chamois splatters near the head and back of the table, there wasn’t much in the way of figuring out what this indulgence exactly was. The DNA scanner blipped to life once again, detecting another life force within the room.
His first instinct was to draw the oath blade. this wasn’t long range combat anymore. As he reached for the weapon, he heard a groan. Due to the damage his power armor had taken, a more wide range scanner wasn’t available. Jerry’s lips folded inward, and he cautiously maneuvered around the table while scanning the perimeter. He heard the heavy, armored footsteps of what must have been Jaruna approaching the doorway.
The Cannidor walked in with a huff, she was clearly deeply aggravated by the state of the Cannidor they’d just captured. The girls, and they were more or less still girls, and had been brutalized extensively. Jaruna sniffed twice as she looked out into the room and grunted something along the lines of ‘fuck this noise’ before sealing her helmet back up. Near the entryway, she looked about for something that Jerry had neglected when he first came in. To be fair to him, the Skipper liked to take the quiet and methodical approach when the situation called for it. Jaruna let out a grunt of satisfaction when her fingers touched something that hummed to life. Soon, the entire room was bathed in light…
Jerry had seen many things in his line of work, dead bodies—soldier or civilian—strewn out in all manner of ways, destroyed buildings and communities, people with trauma, disorders, and diseases that made them act in such a horrific way, and horrors that his human mind couldn’t understand. When Jaruna had flicked the lights on, Jerry both thanked her and wished that she hadn’t. What lurked in here wasn’t a primal terror like the fear of the infinite strators; this fear was human. This was psychosis, sadism, and animalistic desire—the things that lurk deep within the parts of the deepest recess of the human mind—made manifest.
“W-What…” Jaruna, the normally fearless and war hungry Cannidor, had been reduced to stuttering. “What the fuck?”
Jerry only sucked in air through his teeth. There were many things Talz had seen to keep in this room. An enhanced polymicrofilliant chain that was normally used to carry large cargo pallets with ease had been repurposed into a noose with an abnormally large collar placed on the end. He winced as he saw that the entire inner ring of this collar had pieces of jagged, sharp sheet metal embedded into it. Upon closer inspection, he saw that the collar itself had a kind of clamping mechanism, meaning that it was one-size-fit-all.
To the left of that was a device from another time. They called it a ‘breaking wheel’ and the practice it was associated with was execution. Jerry had noted that this was usually used as a punishment for rapists, traitors, and thieves. Talz had made a modified version of it. Instead of doing the work himself, the wheel had four separate arms attached to the outer quadrants. Each one of them had a ball joint and a hand used for carrying tools—all of which lay nearby on a doctor’s instrument table.
The worst thing about that wheel, though, was that there was someone still on it. Jerry could see the wide-eyed, teeth clinged on a gag, red-cheeked, sweating, and pained expression on what appeared to be a Phosa’’s face. She was biting into the black sash around her mouth so hard that he could see the frayed edges of string curling. Her limbs were mangled, some of her stomach had been scratched deep with a grater, and crimson dripped onto the floor steadily.
Another whimper caught his attention, this one coming from the right side of the room. This one was muffled, and as his eyes adjusted, he could see why. The outline of a woman encased in a vat of latex was laid out on some kind of ‘waterbed’. There was a singular pipe coming out of what looked like her mouth to allow her to breathe. Near the foot of this ‘bed’, Jerry’s eyes spotted a canister of what looked to be a pesticide. The database in his armor registered it as “Shufast” and it was used to kill Hyperion Locusts; insects of school bus size. And, from the way this poor, poor girl was breathing, it was a sure bet to say that it hadn’t been being used as intended; the warning label had more or less served as a promise of a ‘good time’.
The cages had a front row seat to the whole thing. Jerry counted about ten cages all lined up in a way that forced them to stare out into the torture room. In about six of them, he could see women, of various shapes, sizes, and colors, all in various stages of capture. Some weren’t even standing up, others were rattling on their bars and calling out to him. He noticed one cage off to the far right that had a pool of blood forming near the bottom. It looked fresh. Even as his crew was falling apart, Talz had still made time for his sick pleasures.
“Get the corpsmen in here.”
“But Talz?”
“We’ll find him. Corpsmen. Quickly.”
The room surges with people as more infantry and medical personnel start to rush in, locking down the suite of rooms and quickly freeing captives and rendering medical aid to those in dire need… and they were all in dire need.
The woman on the breaking wheel was gingerly lifted off, strapped to a stretcher and immediately placed in a healing coma. The attending corpsmen felt like they had literally no other way to ensure she made it up to the Tear and the actual medical hospital alive.
The cages are emptied out next, most of these individuals were… intact. Mostly. Walking wounded in many cases, but they were all strapped down for their own safety and quickly moved out, getting them as far away from the hell room as was physically possible, as quickly as their injuries would allow.
One Human Marine suddenly leaps back from the final bloody cage, a blood soaked hand with missing fingers desperately reaching out for him. “Christ! This one’s still alive! Doc! Doc! Right the fuck now! Sweet fuck I didn’t know anything could lose that much blood and still be kicking!”
No one threw up. Jerry was quite proud of them for that. He heard a little retching, but otherwise his people stayed professional and focused on saving lives. There was… however, a deep and abiding sense of rage in the air. Not fear. Not horror. Pure, white hot rage. They wanted Talz, and if Jerry gave him to them, they’d rip him limb from limb without a weapon needed.
With the situation at hand handled, it was time to deliver on that promise of justice. There’s no escape for Talz, this part of the ship had been isolated perfectly from the compromised bridge. Nothing moved out of this part of the ship without them knowing it. Babydoll was almost as eager to do her part to put the hurt on the pirates as anyone else, but all the same, Jerry found himself thankful that Talz had disabled the sensors in his hell chamber. The sweet Gravia girl was still recovering, and a fresh dose of nightmare fuel was not what her mind needed.
Jerry steps through the door at the far end of the room of seemingly unending horror. It was the only door in the room besides the entrance. The schematics Babydoll had recovered showed a decent sized suite of offices. The door reveals a hallway, mercifully free of fresh horrors beyond the imagination of an undiseased mind. He peeks into a few offices, generally undisturbed since the take over… even the bodies of some of their occupants had been left to rot where they’d fallen. A few hadn’t even made it out of their chairs.
The next door brings him to an ante chamber with a blood splattered secretary’s desk. The heavy bulkhead door in this room glowed a merry red from its various status indicators. It was still locked up tight.
Jerry raises his rifle, and slowly pushes through the final door in the room, and into the office of the late administrator.
The first thing he sees is a Tret man sitting at a desk. The next thing he sees is that half of his head is missing, the result of a close range plasma blast, likely from the pistol laying on the desk where it had fallen from the Tret’s hand.
“No, doesn’t fit the pattern, he’s not the kind of scum that would take the easy way out… No, he's looking for a chance to escape. To get away and kill again. Where…” Jerry triggers his radio, the tongue controls far cruder than his power armor, but still broadly effective.“Babydoll.”
“Yes Captain?
”“Are there any more ways out of this room than the door I entered?”
“Nothing on the schematics Captain… Hey, that’s weird.”
“What’s weird?”
“There’s a space. A gap I mean. I didn’t notice earlier because I was going through quickly trying to lock all the actual major doors down to control the enemy’s movement, but there’s a pretty large gap between the office you’re in and the office next to that. There’s nothing to explain it on any level of the schematics.”
“I’ll have a look around, thank you Babydoll.”
“Any time Captain!”
The channel closes down, and Jerry begins to sweep the room. A quick glance at the nape of the Tret man’s neck confirms that this isn’t Talz. He doesn’t have tattoos. Doesn’t have any of the biomechanical augmentations they’d heard Talz had. What was left of his hair appeared to be dyed in a rush, possibly with Axiom of some kind.
Examining the carpets reveals an area where the carpet was a bit more worn than the rest of the area, like something had been swinging across it. Jerry wondered at the mind of the man who’d made this little secret bolt hole. What it had been for before a mad man had taken control of it for his own purposes.
A brief check of the walls and items on the shelves reveals a secret button behind a painting. A gentle press sees part of the book shelf swing out, revealing the final door. Rifle raised, Jerry steps into the room to confront the monster personally.
First Last Next

How We Stopped the Destroyers - Chapter 20

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Liz didn’t like it.
Sure, it was a solid enough plan—covertly communicate with the freighter, board it, get what they needed and drop off the Destroyers, then be on their way—it was among the most well-planned operations Hock had had in recent memory. But the problem was that the plan was needed in the first place.
She was furious with almost every decision Hock had made for the last month. She wasn’t overly fond of the first subspace jump away from Earth, though they were still alive and any other unpleasantness only made it a bad proposition in retrospect; the Wadja had evaded system security before and possibly could have done so again. But she didn’t fault Hock too much for that one.
Everything else, though. Just playing along with their alien captors and overlords for a month, not doing anything. Hock went on and on about waiting for opportunity, but he was just as scared as the rest of them. Liz had tried sharing a few ideas with him but he’d always shot them down.
Then when he did get an idea, he’d been too distracted with his own brilliance and hadn’t been paying attention, so he didn’t realize that the Destroyer trio would be along for the ride. So he just twiddled around, said “this is fine” and “hey-hey” a few times, and… there it is, kidnapping and precipitating what could lightly be termed a diplomatic incident rather than just saying to the invading warfleet, “Hey, your ambassador is right here, maybe everyone could chill out a bit?”
An hour ago, while the Wadja was still drifting but before the Destroyer fleet had entered stage-other-galaxy to put on a light show, she’d gotten up to go to the head. Most of the crew stayed out of her way because they could tell she was upset; Carlos got in the way instead and asked what was wrong, like some kind of counselor. While everybody had been in the “playing-along-with-captors-and-overlords” mode, he’d continually done that, and of course she’d never shared her misgivings about the Captain’s actions—she wouldn’t even do so to other bridge staff, though she was getting close to thinking about maybe doing so, which honestly felt one step away from mutiny, and Would that be so bad?, and Oh, no—he still encouraged her, said that she was a great leader for the crew, and so on. Either he was sweet and naive and trying to make her feel better, or after living with non-humans for so long she’d forgotten how to hide her daily facial expressions and he’d read her like an open book, encouraging her thoughts without explicitly saying so.
Probably the second one. He’s too perfect to not be, what’s the term, “emotionally intelligent” like that.
Still. Even if he did tell her what she wanted to hear, the idea that the newest member of the crew—someone who until a month ago had been part of a system security force and, for all she knew, still felt allegiance to it—was surreptitiously telling her that she could run the ship better than Hock, made her back down from those same thoughts, at least a little. Get things done first, worry about the org chart some other time, because there was no trope she hated worse than the ill-timed mutiny.
I mean, if he’s gonna get us all killed anyway… nope, not finishing that thought.
So now, even though literally every single authority in the system was worried about the Destroyer armada, Tenta was still getting as close as possible to the PWK Swiftpack and dropping into formation like a second legitimate freighter had been there the whole time that everyone just overlooked. Hock apparently thought that showing off to the overgrown bug taking up so much of the bridge was a better use of time.
“Captain,” she finally snapped, “I bet Mr. San Martín’s seen academy grads who are less precise than this. Can we get a move on, please?”
“Yes, Liz, thank you,” said Hock, unflappable as ever. “Tenta, wonderful. Fovak, get me a link.” Fovak hit a few buttons and nodded. “To the PWK Swiftpack, this is Captain Hock Corven of the Wadja. Under the authority of, well, myself, I must regrettably inform you that we will be boarding you, taking possession of some of your cargo and software, and in trade we offer a way for your friends to get out of this whole mess. Fry, if you please?”
The Wadja reappeared, again visible to the light-viewing world as its weapons bristled in the direction of the adjacent freighter. Hock grinned, ready for the freighter’s captain to respond with surprise, to be cowed before the great Captain Corven, or to be indignant in some way for him to shut down with far too many words.
A window appeared on the viewscreen, presenting a human woman with short blonde hair, seated in a small flight deck, wearing sensible coveralls and a slight smile. “Ah, we were wondering when you’d show up. We’ve been expecting you.”
“You what?” cried Hock, and it was all Liz could do not to burst out laughing as he once again was denied his play at being a swashbuckling pirate.
“You have the Destroyer ambassadors, yes?”
“Destroyer,” mused Blade. “That is your term for us? Fascinating.”
“You, hush. Ah—yes, Miss, uh—”
“Captain Lindström. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain Corven, though I will say that yours being a pirate vessel is not a detail we had anticipated.”
“Captain… Lindström. Likewise, a pleasure.”
“By all means, Captain, please do come over and make yourselves at home. And make sure to actually bring your guests, they are doubly expected. What do they drink? We’ll make sure to have a bucket of wine ready. Or beer, whatever we can find. Jenkins probably has a few stashed flasks somewhere we could avail ourselves of.”
“Hey!” said a voice from off-screen. “That’s mine!”
This woman was out-sassing Captain Hock Corven! Liz loved her. “Better do as she says, Cap’n,” she added. “Looks like she’s all compliant-like and ready for company.”
Hock just glared daggers at her, then said to Lindström, “Yes, we will be over shortly. Let us know where to connect and we’ll get this done right quick. Oh, dear Captain, are you in possession of a navigational system for subspace drives that everyone knows our ships are too small for?”
“I may be. You are not?”
“Oh, it’s a long tale of woe that nonetheless serendipitously led to our being in this very position before you, I shan’t bore you with it, but I should very much like to avoid making any trips to another universe any time soon, so if you can make that software suite easy for my crew to grab I would be most appreciative.”
“Why, Captain Corven, I don’t know that I much like the idea of such a thing as untethered subspace jump technology being in the hands—my apologies, fins—of such a fearsome reprobate such as yourself.” Oh, God, she was enjoying the repartee, and Hock was back on his equilibrium, this was awful, Liz hated this woman.
“Well, be that as it may, due to the aforementioned pirate status of this vessel, we will be taking it anyway, and your cooperation is more to keep my talented but rushed technical team from damaging anything in the process.”
“Hm, you drive a hard bargain, Captain. Put it that way, how could I say no? Send what you require and we’ll get this done nice and quickly.” She reached up and cut the connection.
“Well.” Hock floated for a moment, then clapped his fins together. “Never a dull day. Let’s head over then, yeah?”
“And not a moment too soon,” said Ssswoo. “Looks like the Destroyer fleets are firing on each other, too. Our distraction might solve itself a bit quicker than we’d like.”
“Then we hurry,” said Blade.
Moments later, Hock, Liz, and a half dozen selected boarding crew, including Dekk with a portable workstation to grab the nav data and Blade bringing up the rear, were hustling through the Wadja’s cramped passageways. Liz was shoving an earpiece into place and making sure her weapons were all set—a matched pair of pistols fashioned after historical flintlocks and a more utilitarian spare on the tragic off-chance they got separated. (The last time she’d boarded a ship she’d been stuck on translation duty, so she wasn’t going to miss out on their comfortable wooden handgrips this time around.)
“Tenta, how are we doing?” Hock asked as the group rounded the last corner to the cargo bay.
“We’re alongside, their cargo bay access umbilical is extending now. I explained that it’d be more convenient for our guests to come through there because of their size, Captain Lindström seemed pleased to accommodate.”
“Of course she did.” He opened the hatch to the bay, where Star and Kin were huddled in conversation. They looked up—possibly surprised, Star especially had an expressive face. Was that guilt? “Blade, would you be a dear and apprise your compatriots of the plan? We make contact…” A clanging sound reverberated around the hold from an exterior access hatch. “...now.”
The Destroyers talked amongst themselves, raising their voices, and Liz wished she knew what they were talking about. Maybe it had something to do with how some stray shots from the battle had come improbably close (when then Blade had said something into a communicator of his own in his own language, and then there were no more close calls). She really should have been paying more attention, but no—and Liz saw Carlos trying to catch her eye. The devil on her shoulder himself. He wasn’t part of the boarding party and, truthfully, she didn’t have time for whatever he needed… but she went to him anyway. “Make it quick.”
“Didn’t know if you needed help. Don’t really know how many in there will be up against you.”
No, this guy definitely knew what he was talking about. Sure, there might be security troops on the freighter, but nothing that the Wadja’s crew couldn’t handle. But if she were to pull one of those famously stupid ill-timed mutinies, then maybe not everyone would take her side. It would depend on just how stupid a decision Hock would make that would necessitate such an action on her part in the first place.
Liz narrowed her eyes at Carlos, then decided she could use a wild card. “You any good with a gun?”
“Dishonor on my family, only seventh in my class.”
She rolled her eyes and pulled her spare pistol from her waistband, handing it to him. She turned back to the group and saw Hock glowering at her. “Trust me,” she said, unsure if he should. He harrumphed, and floated over to the hatch as it opened, the thicker atmosphere of the Wadja’s cargo bay rushing into the umbilical until it equalized. He harrumphed again, readied his anti-grav harness, and led the way into the freighter.
Everyone piled into the collapsible passageway and the hatch closed behind them; then, as Liz’s ears popped from the pressure change, the Swiftpack’s hatch opened.
She expected the other shoe to drop and to see a battalion’s worth of rifles pointed at them, but it was just Lindström and, probably, the flask-possessing Jenkins. She was standing at ease with a smile on her face, while Jenkins was glowering and stiff as a board. Liz was more cautious about the one with the inviting expression. Despite Liz’s expectations, they were not in fact in the main cargo hold of the ship, but a smaller vestibule of sorts, still plenty large enough for the Destroyers.
The woman addressed Hock first. “Captain. Ambassadors, I presume,” she added, looking at the three in back whose utterly alien forms towered over the rest. “Welcome to the Swiftpack. We don’t have an umbilical for our hold, but it’s just through here, if you think you can get through.”
“We manage,” said Star from the back. “Honored to be received.”
“Let’s get our esteemed guests situated first, Captain,” said Lindström, “then we will see to your other needs.”
“We are in quite a rush,” Hock said, “but as you say, the Ambassadors take precedent. Liz, take everyone into the hold, get them situated, and get us what we need. Jenkins, is it? Can you show me and Dekk here the cockpit so we can get that navigation package from you?”
Lindström nodded, and Jenkins made his way forward, the two kikan in tow. Everyone else piled into the cargo hold, though Kin needed a bit of time to find the optimal angle to squeeze in—he wasn’t quite as malleable as most other species Liz had met.
The freighter reminded Liz of a miniature version of the barge they’d stolen the subspace and stealth tech from, the kind of thing meant to haul as much as possible with as small a crew as the bean counters could get away with. She felt a moment of sympathy for the likely overworked duo operating it, but quickly got over it. The Swiftpack clearly had the payload capacity to help supply an army, but for now the central zone of the expansive hold played host to only a single oversized cargo container, while partitioned sections around the edges were filled with pallets and smaller containers. Lindström pointed at two of the bays. “Three and five have everything you asked for, if you’re in a hurry. The research installation will miss them, of course, but I was instructed to make sure the Ambassadors were safe and sound first and foremost.” She looked Liz up and down. “I don’t believe that negotiating with pirates was quite what they had in mind, but your supply request is more than reasonable.”
“The subspace nav package, less so, I presume.”
“Quite.”
The two women stood staring each other down for another moment, then Liz said, “Alright, boys, two to a pallet, get that loaded up. Not you, Zipzi.” She didn’t trust him to lift a box of cereal without breaking it. The others got to work and quickly slung antigrav pods onto the pallets and worked them through the hatch.
Liz’s earpiece pinged. “Dekk is plugged in, getting what we need now.”
“Copy, Cap’n, I got the boys pullin’ our pallets back to the ship.”
“Good.” There was a moment of silence as the unreal tableau of a fully cooperative ship let the pirates continue their boarding operations. “You know,” Hock added, more quietly, “this is a nice ship.”
“Yes, Captain Corven, it is,” said Liz suspiciously.
“You, uh… you think we might take it?”
“No, I don’t—!” Liz stopped herself, hoping Lindström couldn’t hear anything.
Unfortunately, it seemed that up on the flight deck, Jenkins had heard just fine.
There was a muffled shout, then, “No, nothing! Just admiring your vessel, my good man, hey-hey!”
There was a sound of a scuffle on the other side, and Lindström must have seen Liz’s face. She dashed to a panel by the hatch back to the vestibule and said, “Jenkins, report!”
The hatch next to her slammed shut, just as the second pallet of cargo passed through. Now the only ones left in the hold were Lindström, Liz, Carlos, Zipzi (damn), and the Destroyers. Carlos shoved his hand in the pocket he’d stuffed the pistol in, but Liz caught his eye and shook her head. Then, because Zipzi didn’t do subtlety and his damn giraffe neck was swiveling all over, his own rifle pointed any way except where he was looking, Liz commanded, “Stand down!”
“Jenkins!” yelled Lindström.
There was banging on the hatch, and a muffled question through it that came in more clearly on her earpiece. “Liz? What happened?”
“No idea,” she told her crew. “Get the cargo onboard before Lindström’s copilot does something stupid.”
“Yes’m.”
“He better not have. Jenkins!” the freighter’s captain yelled again.
The scuffle in Liz’s earpiece peaked, then stopped, and Hock’s transmission cut off.
“Captain? Captain?!”
Jenkins replied first. “Everything is fine, Captain Lindström. You’re all secure in the hold, yes?”
“Yes, Jenkins, we are, now what is going on up there and why did you close the hatch?”
“Cap’n? Liz? What’s going on?” Fovak wanted an update, and Liz wished she had one.
“I’m multitasking, Åsa, don’t worry about it.”
“Bit of trouble. You should have the cargo incoming. Do not send anyone back over, I don’t know how long we’re gonna stay connected.”
“What do you mean, multitasking? Anderson told us, we make sure the Ambassadors are here, everything else can wait! We were ordered not to multitask!”
“Copy that, Liz. Uh, getting a call from the hold, two pallets, four crew. That everyone?”
“Anderson has her priorities, I have mine. I’m afraid I haven’t been entirely forward about my prior—and, as it turns out, present—employment, and if it weren’t for a wanted criminal falling into my lap, we might’ve kept it that way.”
“That’s everyone I sent. Stand by.”
“Jenkins, I reserve witty discussion for floating beach balls with swishy jackets, from you I want a straight answer—who are you and what are you doing?” Lindström leaned on the transmit button on the console like she could use it to press a proper answer from Jenkins.
There was a sigh on the other side of the channel and Liz leaned in close, exchanging worried looks with the freighter’s captain. Finally, Jenkins replied, “I’m an agent of the Terran Intelligence Agency, reassigned to making sure that the supply lines to Alpha Point remain secure. My previous assignment was in Trappist. Where this man, this crew, and this ship are quite unfortunately well known.” There was a pause, and the next transmission was also picked up by her earpiece and, presumably, any ships within range. “Crew of the pirate vessel Wadja, you are under arrest.”

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Humans are [Jackasses] 6 But Human Pilots can be worse

AN: New day, new story about aliens dealing with us [Jackasses]. Hope it is enjoyable. If I messed up somewhere word-wise, do let me know. I'll keep it in mind for the next time.
An Index of [Jackasses]
First story / Previously on [Jackasses] A moment was had in a college dorm

(# of known species known: 459)
Arnacka had considered herself a good worker, thought herself dedicated to the craft of aerospace engineering and the piloting-skills she cultivated along with it. She was disciplined and held a certainty that whatever job she was given, nothing would surprise her for long. So for those who knew her, it would be most unusual seeing her as she was right now, despondence hanging over her like a dark cloud, and talking about her supposed stellar qualities in the past tense. Seeing her sitting on that lonely city bench, head barely held low with all four of her nimble arms, would make plenty feel sympathy at such a sight.
Of course, few would have enough sympathy to actually reach out. And right now, the bustling crowd had other matters that took away their attention and didn't have a moment to spare to comfort an obviously wounded soul. Except for Arnacka's close friend Bejeel. In this age, seeing friendships develop between natural opposites was commonplace, if possibly looking somewhat out of place at the same time. Arnacka came from a race evolved from a dexterous and cunning line of arachnid-like creatures called the Keckree, whilst Bejeel was a sizable example of her lizard-like people of Runnse.
Natural opposition aside, Bejeel was a recent arrival to the area as well as to the galactic community at large. She had attached herself to keckree woman out of curiosity at first before that feeling transitioned to genuine companionship. Seeing her friend out in the streets in such a low state however, alarmed her deeply. Sitting on her haunches she lowered herself to Arnacka's eye-level.
Moments of silence passed between the two before the spiderlady ever so slightly raised her head to regard her friend. Slowly she started talking, clipped speech leaving her mandibles as she tried to convey her situation. She was apparently assigned a situation of a most sensitive nature, something that required a nimble appendage, calm nerves and an absurdly high degree of precision.
But her words were met with confusion. Bajeel thought she wasn't making any sense. The things she heard her friend were improbable at best, and should be going against the laws of physics at worst if she understood Arnacka's correctly; something she managed only half of the time during a good low cycle. This incensed the arachnid. Jumping up from her seat and causing the lizard to startle back and making her land uncomfortably onto the ground.
"Look," she hollered and pointed beyond Bejeel, "look and despair as you regard the work of those [Jackasses]!" Her words were acidic and for a moment one could have believed she could spit acid for real. "This can't be anything else but an attack on my record, my skills as a pilot! Somewhere, someone looked at me with jealousy and thought a getting [Jackass] would be perfect way to take me down a few rungs on the ratings boards."
[Jackasses]... It was a term connected to Species 404: the humans. One Bejeel had come across multiple times in her mandatory as she and her people were being prepared for their integration among the other races of the galaxy. There were plenty of supposed examples given that would elucidate the reason for the term. But just how she needed a lot of time to understand what 'elucidate' meant, [Jackasses] was yet hard to grasp.
Confused as she was by her small and nimble friend, she did turn and look at where Arnacka's ire was directed. Thanks to the hustling and bustling crowd packed along the pavement, it was hard to spot at first. Standing up to look over everyone, Bejeel eyes focused across the busy road. Then she looked up, and then up some more, as her eyes widened in alarm.
She turned back to look down at her friend so quickly you could hear the air woosh and her vertebrae crackle. Arnacka answered her towering lizard friends questioning expression with one of her own that very clearly and exasperatedly spoke 'I KNOW!'. Together the pair looked across the street, joining the hundreds of disparate others in gawking at the sight before them.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Right in the city centre hanging only a meter above the ground of an empty lot, near some of busiest sky-roads and ground-roads in the area, between high-rises measuring their heights in quadruple digits at the lowest, was a spaceship. It wasn't all that special looking, nothing sleek or out of place in numerous logistical routes tracing the planet surface. If one looked up, you could see plenty of its cousins flying past without a care in the galaxy.
But there it was, a common three hundred meter long freighter, hanging precariously between three mile-high office buildings. It's space-rated armour plating mere inches away from touching the comparatively fragile looking facades of the buildings surrounding it. Repulsor thrusters and anti-gravity modules on the vessel just barely seemed to keep it from creating a rather sizable reconstruction fee.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
On the other side of the street, where the two alien friends were marinating in their combined befuddlement with the rest of the crowd, a very different tableau was made. Seated on a city bench there, a young human man was trying to zone-out an older human man, who was fervently yelling at him; patience apparently gone completely.
"You Austin Powers'ed it... I cannot believe it, Mike. You managed to Austin Powers a Junker Class freighter vessel. In the busiest port district. In the busiest city on the planet! Seriously Mike, what the fuck kind of Jackass do you think you are, man?! No wonder the word is synonymous with 'humans' now!"
This wasn't actually the first time in this conversation the remark was made. In his agitated state, Foreman Lowe had repeated a multitude of curses, questions, expletives and inquiries as to the state of everything around them. The words got directed to Mike, who's irrefutably the cause of this mess, to the crowds around them gawking like idiots, to the thrice-blasted ship stuck in the air, to whichever poor sod who would soon have to try and unfuck the fuck-up the young pilot managed to create. Frankly, Mike was in awe of the foreman's vocal cords' durability. The old man had been at it for a good while now.
But Mike believed he had perfectly understandable reasons as to why the ship had ended up where and how it did. It concerned a convoluted series of events: one of failed navigation systems, glitches in the interstellar jump-drives, wacky propulsion hi-jinks and migratory bird flight patterns. Mike also 'admitted' to moment of distraction, because he wanted to change the radio channel to something other than some unoriginal country song about some guy's two-tonne truck that flew away without him. All in all, completely normal things to happen and, besides the radio thing, things that no-one could have predicted or accounted for.
But how Mike ended up outside of the ship and on the ground remained unexplained. Even the plentiful eye-witnesses around them could give no explanation as to how, when and why the young man was no longer in the pilot seat. If anything, Mike was just as confused as they were. Sure, an escape-pod was sunk somewhere in the city bay. And sure, earlier he might have peeked around in the sealed, and very securely locked, cargo containers. Containers that, due to plausible deniability, may or not have contained highly experimental and very unstable teleportation technology. Surely, Mike had more than a good cause to make sure his cargo manifest was on the up-and-up, no?
Foreman Lowe however, old and out-of-touch senior that he was in the eyes of Mike, did not share his young employee's perfectly reasonably sentiments about the situation. Lowe's patience once again reached a new low and the routine of him shouting and Mike 'explaining' started anew.

An index of [Jackasses]
Next time in Humans are [Jackasses] a heated gamer moment has occured

END AN: So... thoughts? Hope the ridiculousness of this situation presented today is appreciated. I'm sure we've all been there once, just like Mike. Might not have been with a multi metric tonne space vessel, but you know... comparable all the same.
Anyways, interesting parking jobs aside, this will definitely be the last piece I write for the next few days. Got to back to work and all that. Will likely be back around next weekend, if I remember to do so.
Goodday all.

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