Flavorful
A TWILIGHT IMPERIUM 3^rd EDITION (Shattered Empire) PBeM

:: MAIN ::	:: MAP ::	:: SUMMARY ::	:: POLITICS ::	:: FLAVOR ::
:: CARDS ::	:: TECHNOLOGY ::	:: DISCARDS ::	:: RULES ::

:: PROLOGUE :: CHAPTER 1 :: CHAPTER 2 :: CHAPTER 3 :: CHAPTER 4 ::

:: CHAPTER 4 ::
:: PART 1 :: PART 2 ::

"You expect me to authorize this?" Rosa Takahashi took a deep breath and resisted the urge to roll her eyes.  She had known that Vito's reply was coming, had known that he would say this by reflex.  One more reason to get offworld, she thought.  "Only if you want that readership spike," Rosa said, smiling sweetly.  "I know the advertisers do." Vito snorted.  He hated being reminded about the advertisers.  "I hate being reminded about the advertisers," he growled. "I know," Rosa replied, still smiling sweetly. After she had endured a ten-minute tirade that touched on such farflung issues as the cost of fuel in the middle of a war and why he found N'orr so disgusting, Vito finally thumbed Rosa's datasheet and slid it into the appropriate slot on his desk.  He shooed his subordinate out of his office. Rosa triumphantly exited Vito's office to jealous glares from her co-workers.  As she gathered her personal effects, Diego leaned on her cubicle wall. "Hey, Rosa," Diego said. "Diego."  Any niceties beyond that unnecessarily encouraged him. "Bring me back some of that stuff from Spehat, huh?" he said.  "Maybe we could share it." "Not now, not ever, Diego," Rosa said, straightening and pushing past him.  Yes, a nice three-month trip to Arretze was just the ticket . . .    Rosa's heart thudded in her chest as the Quieron took his seat.  It had been a major coup for the Hacan leader to grant this interview to a foreign news agency like hers, but Rosa kept thinking the deal would fall through and the long trip across the galaxy to the Hacan homeworld would be for nothing.  But here he was in all his lionlike glory. Protocol demanded that she wait for him to speak first.  It wasn't a long wait.  A low growl began deep in the Quieron's chest before he opened his mouth to issue a short roar.  The babelfish earpiece translated: "Greetings.  Welcome to Arretze.  What do you wish to ask?" Rosa smiled.  The reporter's implant had been recording all of the information that her eyes, ears, and nose took in since she stepped down in the spaceport.  With a mental nudge, she bookmarked a spot in the recording so that she would be able to skip to this moment later in the editing room.  "My name is Rosa Takahashi from the EastHemi Times.  Thank you for granting me an audience." She paused.  The Quieron didn't move, but simply continued sitting there, looking regal.  She realized that she hadn't answered his question.  "The biggest question we all have relates to the military buildup going on in the galaxy, of which the Hacan are certainly aware.  Several of the great races of old are clearly making a bid to be the replacements for the Lazax.  Why haven't the Hacan decided to make such a bid?" The Quieron blinked, pondering the question.  He then began a long dissertation of roars and barks -- some long, some short -- ending with him baring his teeth in a semblance of a smile. Due to the nature of Hacan grammar and syntax, the babelfish had to wait until he was completely finished before it could begin the translation. "There was certainly much talk of doing such a thing," the translator said.  "Perhaps if my opponent had been elected Quieron instead of me we would have pursued this course.  But I feel that it is not in our best interests to rule.  We work far better outside the fray.  We have much to gain from a lengthy war and very little to lose if we are not directly involved in it.  And the races who have signaled their lack of interest in galactic domination still have a great interest in gerr root, starflowers, and all the other things that the merchant fleet of the Hacan have to offer.  These things, and the proceeds from them, are far more important to us than ruling.  Your next question." Rosa nodded in understanding.  She knew that this translation would have to be trimmed down in editing and overlaid on top of the growling of the Quieron.  But now wasn't the time to worry about such things.  Now was the time to move on to the next of her questions.  "You seem to indicate that trade is going well.  Can you give me any hard numbers on that?" The Quieron bared his teeth again.  Now he was in his element.  This reply was four times longer than the first. The crowds gathered around the Citadel numbered in the millions.  Many had traveled from all parts of Muaat to hear the high fire warden speak.  It was true that the announcement would be broadcast over the entire planet, it was no substitute to hearing their beloved leader speak directly to them. The hovering recording devices began spinning to life as the great doors leading to the pedestal Azh was about to ascend to.  The feeling of awe among those who witnessed the emergence was palpable. <uncompleted section> The Mindnet never sleeps.  On [0.0.0], this has lately become very evident.  Production of warships has increased, presumably upon the mandate of the secret controller of the L1Z1X. Yet, in the shadows of Mecatol Rex, a small cloaked figure continues to monitor the progress of the other races.  Silent, yet very alert, he infiltrates buildings without leaving a trace.  Occasionally, an aide will swear they saw something, but dismisses those feelings after they search further. Yet nobody can explain the strange encryption emanating from Mecatol to Perimeter and relayed onto [0.0.0] itself.  The Winnarans are concerned, though they know not why. On [0.0.0], a silent ceremony welcomes the creation of several new L1Z1X cruisers, ready to protect the L1Z1X at whatever cost necessary. Mig31 had been on Lesab for almost a year now. His daring conquest of the fungi-covered planet was now famous throught the Coalition.  Of course, finding the legendary Lazax armory had been the real clincher for Mig31.  He was even considering that perhaps this feat had given him enough clout to wrestle the head of the Table of Captains from Ervana Mentak. But first he had to deal with this curveball. Special Ambassador Suffi was coming to Lesab. Mig31 had met her once. She was a young up-and-coming star from the Mentak's diplomatic corps. A protégé of old Gambrinus but more importantly, a favorite of Ervana Mentak herself.  "It figures," scoffed Mig31. "The chicks will stand together. The 'good old gals' network."  Mig31 secretly wished that one day he could go through that glass ceiling. All Mig31 knew of Suffi's mission was that it was sparked by the heightened military activity around Mecatol Rex. The latest report stated that military ship movement had increased 824% in the immediate vicinity of Mecatol and thus diplomatic "help" had been dispatched to help secure the Lazax Armory. Much had changed since the founding of the Federation a few short years ago.  From it's beginnings on Jord, the Federation now contained dozens of star systems, including six habitable planets: the garden world of Lisis, the industrialized cultural backwater of Velnor, shattered Capha, heavily urbanized Mehar Xull, and the mysterious floating cloud cities of Mirage.  Yet there were other great races competing with the Federation to found the new Imperium, and obtaining that prize would not be easy.  Humanity was as consumed by its internal disputes and petty bickering as ever, wasting the energy of countless billions throughout the galaxy.  But slowly things were changing.  More and more people began to believe that recreating the Empire was a worthy cause. The center of the Federation, Jord swarmed with activity.   A massive starship production program was underway, and the orbits of Jord and nearby Mars were filled with new fleets.  Massive fleet carriers launched and recovered clouds of fighters, while cruisers and destroyers practiced maneuvers in the asteroid belt between Mars and the gas giant Jupiter.  Preparing for what, exactly, was a closely-guarded secret. Almost lost in the shadow of the huge new fleet carrier Vanir, a small ship hurled towards a small continent on the southern hemisphere of Jord known as Australia.  The fast transport Rodger Young was almost unarmed.  Its distinguishing feature was two large rows of capsules on a rotating conveyer belt attached to the bottom of the ship.  These capsules were just large enough to house one man in full combat gear.  Cap Troopers: the elite force of the Terran Mobile Infantry.  The Rodger Young was built to take a company of Cap Troopers into the hot zone and get them out again, relying on speed and stealth.  It was a dangerous job, and Cap Troopers wouldn't have it any other way.   In the launch bay, the Rodger Young's new XO was finishing his inspection.  Lieutenant Commander Bismark was staring at the last Cap Trooper in line, a young man with the name RICO on his uniform.  Bismark looked over his gear, pretending that he had even the faintest clue of what he was looking at.  These inspections were really more for the benefit of the the new officers than anything else; it taught them what the Cap Troopers did and how they maintained their gear.  The trick was to learn all this without letting the men know you were learning.  The good master seargeants knew this and played along.  All indications were that the NCO in charge here was good and was playing the part.  For this, Bismark was grateful. He turned to the master seargeant and gave the go-ahead, then strode out of the bay.  This training exercise would launch forty capsules - each with a Cap Trooper - down to the great Australian desert, where they would have six hours to complete their objectives and get back to the lift point.  It was Bismark's first drop and he was looking forward to seeing how it was done on the bridge.  Actually landing on a planet at the speed they were going was something he didn't want to miss. The tests were not going well. Admiral Sskyrll was getting frustrated. It had been two months now, and he was already on Prototype 7. The first six were failures. Admiral Sskyrll predicted that a new Twilight War was looming. The Great Races had amassed large fleets and were surrounding Mecatol Rex. The powder keg was set; all that was needed was a spark. Lieutenant Llucizez approached the grumpy admiral. "Sir, the results of Prototype 7 are compiled." The admiral snatched the report from the lieutenant's hand. He glanced with disgust at the header: FAILURE.   The Scientific Consortium on Retillion was baffled by these failures. "The simulations we ran indicated that the design would function properly," one scientist said. "Well it FAILED!" the admiral snapped. "I cannot guarantee the security of our homeworld if you scientists cannot research new technologies!"   A young scientist named Ylabaz took a fresh look at the blue prints. "What if we used Hylar lasers as the basis for this project?" And what happened next was historic. The request for permission to initiate distribution of mining equipment starts as a simple data pulse directed towards the labyrinthine, networked systems within Arc Prime.  Upon reaching the system the pulse is checked for authenticity and completeness by the Office of Interstellar Communication and then a reply is sent back acknowledging receipt.  At the same time as the reply is sent the message is sorted and filed somewhere within the huge databases that are the heart of the Letnev bureaucratic systems.  At this point the request is flagged for action and more pulses of data are sent throughout the system.  The first goes to the Office of Information Storage where the request will be filed in a linked backup system.  A copy is also written into a data crystal which is shot through a maze of tubes, ultimately to be stored in a separate vault deep within the core of the planet.  An alert arrives with the Office of Engineering and Manufacture for confirmation of the goods to be distributed.   Another is lodged with the Office of Extraterrestrial Management to approve the recipient.   As with all changes within the data stores, a notification is sent to the Internal Security Office and the Office of the Baron – these are scrutinized by aides to see if they need to be bought to the attention of their superiors. The Office of the Lord Knight Commander is notified of the original request and of any updates as each Office approves, alters or disapproves it.  Sir Urqan Zi`el will be required to grant the final approval once all other approvals have been applied to the request. As each Office is notified there are automatic return messages acknowledging both receipt of the notification and any action taken on the request. All of this is automatically added to the various reports for perusal by personnel from these and other offices. The Letnev BureaNet manages in excess of 15 million such requests, orders and other jobs every day.* *galactic standard time   In all the centuries that have passed since the surface of Mecatol was reduced to dust, the sea of desolation had resisted all of the Winnaran’s efforts to heal it.  The only habitable place left on the planet was the city of Old Mecatol, and it was my intention that we, the Letnev, would provide aid to the custodians of this beleaguered city.  I had been pleasantly surprised when the Baron had approved my plan and astounded at the degree of aid he was consigning to the Winnarans.  The majority of our production capabilities over more then half of our worlds for the next two years would be going into providing mining equipment, oxygen-pumping machines, organic materials and other resources to aid in efforts to expand living area and repair or replace the planet's biosphere.  We were experts on living beneath the surface and believed this had been a neglected avenue of research and expansion for the Winnarans. All the leading news channels and of course every channel on Arc Prime were carrying the story.  The speech the Baron gave was truly historic and something I believe I will remember for the rest of my life.  I have never been more proud to be Letnev.  I only hoped our example would lead the other great races involved in the downfall of the old empire to provide reparations to those who preserve the once, and hopefully once again, seat of a grand empire.

:: PART 1 :: PART 2 ::

The Winnaran shuttle made its final approach into Perimeter, carrying many of the High Council of Custodians with it.  They were invited by the Mindnet's diplomats to see the work they've done on this planet.  It's widely known that Perimeter never gave up their loyalty to the Lazax emperors, even after the scourge that all but wiped them out.  The Winnarans were impressed when they landed, seeing that the hard-working natives seemed to be working even harder now that their former masters had returned. It seemed obvious what the purpose of the invitation was - to reaffirm the L1Z1X right to the throne by showing them that there were still some in the galaxy willing to accept the former emperors, regardless of what they have become.  This caused the Winnarans to renew their own debates and discussions, as well.  Should this strange cybernetic race really be crowned once more? Overhead, in the massive L1Z1X dreadnought, however, the L1Z1X soldiers continued their training excercise, though they knew that they would not have to engage in battle for at least a little while.  Even the most warmongering of races wouldn't dare attack the Winnaran High Council, since doing so would cause irreperable harm to their chances of winning the throne. "Punishment!" the councilor from Sol was saying, clearly reaching the end of an emotional speech.  "There must be punishment for this insubordination!" Gambrinus led his two junior councilors to the Mentak delegation's section, which was emptier than normal due to many of the Mentak representatives having traveled back to their home planets for higher visibility, as was common when any planet's entire work force had been put into overdrive by the need to provide raw materials for the construction of new military units.  In fact, only the representatives from Lesab and Rigel III were present. Both planets were lightly populated.  That strange, almost-sentient fungus on Lesab limited the number of residents on that planet.  And the lack of any new syrophic gem mines on Rigel III meant that the cold, distant world with its dim sun was only inviting to exiles descended from the Letnev, though the world was almost too bright for them.  The end result was that each planet, like Moll Primus itself, only warranted one representative.  Instead of the full contingent of eleven councilors, then, only three were present. This seemed to be a common theme, Gambrinus noted as he looked around the hall.  The only race that seemed to have its full strength was those strange little green men, the Yssaril.  Coincidence?  Gambrinus had to wonder.  Though he had nominated Sol to put forth an agenda in order to attain the Speakership for himself, it seemed as if the forces that he had put into motion might be moving in unexpected ways. The odd visitor from Null, the L1z1x homeworld, respectfully abstained from the voting.  No wonder, Gambrinus thought.  They've already got a target on their backs from the last election; they hardly need to make enemies of somebody. The lone Sol representative, whose stirring speech had perhaps been wasted on the half empty hall, cast his vote for the Embers of Muaat.  Gambrinus found this interesting.  Did Sol, in fact, feel that the Embers were an Enemy of the Throne?  (In his mind, Gambrinus capitalized the agenda; that Sol rep had just made it seem so important.)  Gambrinus himself felt a certain amount of wariness toward the strange race.  After all, none of them had been exiled to Moll Primus.  If they weren't untrustworthy criminals, how could they be fully trusted?  Gambrinus smiled and wrote that thought down; it was the kind of circuitous logic that played well at the Table of Captains. As with the previous two voting races, there was only one vote forthcoming from the Barony.  As with the Mindnet, this was an abstention. "So," Gambrinus said softly to his fellow councilors, "it looks like Yssaril's going to decide this one."  He watched with interest as the lizardy little senior representative blinked quickly when the spotlight lit up the Yssaril delegation.  The poor little guy wasn't used to being out in the open like this; his kind certainly did not like the limelight. "The Yssaril Tribes are in agreement with the Federation of Sol on this," he said formally (and a bit stiltedly, in Gambrinus' opinion).  "The Embers of Muaat should be constituted an enemy of the throne." Gambrinus had to agree with that decision.  After all, it was the same one he had come to.  With Muaat bordering Yssaril and Mentak, it was natural that both of those races would view that ungodly War Sun as a threat.  When Muaat abstained from the voting, Gambrinus rose.  He did not shy away when the powerful beam fell on him, lighting him up for all the cameras so that his image could be broadcast across the galaxy. "The Mentak Coalition also casts its votes against the Muaat."  He smiled broadly, if a bit nastily.  Putting a bounty on the head of an entire race?  That was pure Mentak.  He was almost sad that he hadn't thought of it himself.  "As the new Speaker, I bring this session to a close." Johnny stood at attention while the new XO looked him over with the Sarge.  Some guy named Bismark.  He didn't know what this Bismark thought he was looking at, Sarge had already gone over everything earlier and they were ready to drop.  But the Service had it's ways and you just had to put up with this stuff. At last Bismark got out of there and they were ready.  This training exercise consisted of launching the capsules about six hours before the ship landed at the rendevous point, a large formation called Ayers Rock in the middle of the Australian desert.  The rest of the company had launched hours ago in the assault shuttles, but the cap troopers would actually be landing a half hour before the shuttles, clearing the landing zone.  Then they would take out the imaginary spaceport and power generation station and get back to the ship. Johnny hated those capsules.  It was like getting in a coffin.  The thought of being in there wrapped up like a mummy with people shooting at you was just too much.  Once he was on the ground everything was fine - you could see who was shooting at you and move and fight back.  But climbing in those coffins was terrible.  He always got the shakes before a jump. Johnny climbed into Capsule 17, fighting back his panic as always.  He could feel the gen synthesis implants working, getting chemicals into his system that fought the adrenaline rush and let him think clearly.  Once he was in that thing he was protected from up to 8 gees of acceleration, as well as all the electronic and other countermeasures against planetary defense fire built into the capsule.  But it never felt like enough. THUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUD The firing sequence had started.  The Rodger Young was firing them all towards the Earth below at an approaching speed of over a thousand miles per hour, like bullets out of an old fashioned machine gun. THUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUD Johnny braced himself.  Thank god for the gen synthesis implants; he didn't think he could get through this without them. THUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUD Johnny squeezed his eyes shut.  Then he was slammed to the roof of the capsule, a blow that would have easily killed him if he was out of the acceleration harness.  Johnny felt like he had been hit by a truck. He was free of the ship, hurling towards the planet below. For weeks, people of all variety had been streaming into the Barony.  Baron Werqan’s speech had garnered much support throughout the galaxy and given many people the idea that this was a place they could find peace, understanding and more importantly, work.  A place to raise their families and maybe even make a difference.  Certainly such influx could only be temporary but for now the Letnev were reaping the rewards of their generous act.  Production throughout their systems was increased which would enable more to be accomplished in the immediate future then originally planned for.   I listened to the report tersely given by a member of the Office of Immigration.  It was great we had managed to swing the generally poor evaluation of our dark-dwelling race so much with the general population of the galaxy, but the influx was not without it’s problems.  We needed to integrate many light-living peoples into our predominantly nocturnally-run planets, provide work, control potential dissidents, find places for people to live and so on. I had a partial solution, at least.  I would have some soldiers shipped off to Bellatrix, along with as many new immigrants as we could find who were willing to volunteer to ‘aid planetary restoration research’ and ‘make a fresh start on a planet full of opportunities.’  Bellatrix was in a very poor condition from its years of abuse as a manufacturing planet for some of the former empire's deadliest ships.  We would use the soldiers to keep the people away from the more ‘hazardous’ areas where we were still trying to find information of value.  The people themselves would help build a colony to house themselves and begin the process of bringing the planet back towards something that would be of more use to the Barony. There was one nagging thought at the back of my mind as I began making the necessary arrangements for the Bellatrix plan.   The office of Immigration had informed me that none of the planets in Elwonzewonex space were listed as points of origin for any of the people seeking integration into our society.

:: END OF FLAVOR TEXT ::
:: PROLOGUE :: CHAPTER 1 :: CHAPTER 2 :: CHAPTER 3 :: CHAPTER 4 ::