OT: Hell is For Heroes.

[narf poit chez BOOM]

Original is hard. Creative, not so hard.

Personally, I'd shoot for creative and just be really happy at anything that happened to be original.

[TurinTurambar]

Well put, mousey-wousey.

[narf poit chez BOOM]

Thank you, human bean.

[AgentZero]

OK, given that I'm away from home at the moment, I don't want to write up TOO much, since all my notes & reference material is 3000km away and as such inconsitencies and plot holes would likely result, but I figure I've left you poor guys in suspense about what that boom was for a couple months, and that just ain't nice. So here ya go!

After extraditing himself from Alice, Kagan rose and surveyed the chaos all around them. People, as they do when the universe is not so kind as to provide forewarning before it does something unusual, were running quickly back and forth, although aside from managing a quite heroic amount of arm waiving, it wasn’t entirely clear what, if anything was being accomplished. Some semblance of order was restored as a few began to realize that not everyone had gotten back up, and various people began attending to the wounded. The semblance of order was quickly shattered, however, as a great number of people realized exactly how badly, or rather, how gruesomely, some of their fellows had been injured. This caused a great many people to hastily depart from the promenade, ostensibly having decided they’d much rather waive their arms somewhere much further away. It is worth noting at this point that having a Traxian knife-stand fall on you holds the record as the fourth messiest way to die in the universe. This holds little relevance to the story at hand, aside from explaining why Alice glanced down and said, “Ewwww!” This was followed shortly by, “Smoke. Smoke is bad in space.”
Kagan followed her gaze to the other side of the promenade and one floor up, where smoke was indeed drifting lazily out from one of the corridors. Without a second thought, he charged forward, nimbly weaving between the wounded and crowds of arm-waivers. As he neared the far side of the promenade, genetically and technologically enhanced muscles flexed, and he hurled himself up into the air, landing heavily at the entrance to the smoking corridor. He had just enough time to reprimand himself for being thoughtless enough to leave Alice behind to muddle up the stairs, and turn halfway around before she landed nimbly beside him.
“We’re going to talk about this later,” he said, eyeing her warily.
“Won’t help,” she informed him. “Don’t know.”
Kagan made a noise that perfectly transmitted his doubt on that particular subject, along with the slight sense of worry that she might be telling the truth, before the two of them jogged down the corridor. It wasn’t long before they came across someone who obviously knew something important, since he was busying himself with exhorting people to keep moving, and reminding them that despite evidence to the contrary, there was nothing to see here. Kagan caught a glimpse of his name-bade and raced up to him.
“Corporal Jonestown, report!” he barked authoritatively.
The young corporal snapped immediately to stiff attention. “Admiral Kagan, Sir!” he bellowed with such enthusiasm that Kagan had to suppress a wince. “There’s been an explosion, Sir! Berth 117A, Sir!”
“At ease, Corporal,” Kagan said, rubbing his right ear. Then in a more conversational tone asked, “What else do we know?”
Jonestown relaxed –slightly- and replied, “Not a lot sir. The Barinas –the freighter- was on final docking maneuvers when there was an explosion. Looks like something in one of the docking clamps blew, shot the clamp out like a kinetic warhead. It must of hit the Barinas’ main grav-thrust array, I don’t know that for sure, but she dropped all the way down to Tango deck.”
Kagan winced openly. That was a drop off a little over one hundred meters and probably hadn’t left much of the freighter intact. Or of Tango deck for that matter.
“Sabotage?” he inquired quietly.
“Well…. That hadn’t occurred to me sir, but now that you mention it, there isn’t anything in the docking clamps that can explode. You don’t think-“
“Admirals don’t think, Corporal,” Kagan interrupted. “We have people who are much better at it to do it for us. Give me a dump of the bay’s sensor logs and I’ll have my people take a look at it.”
“Aye, sir.” Jonestown’s fingers flicked across his handpad and a second later there was a beep from Kagan’s pocket indicating a successful transmission.
“Keep up the good work, Jonestown,” said Kagan as he jogged off.
“Admiral?!” Alice exclaimed as soon as they were out of earshot. “You’re an admiral?”
“Not any more,” was the reply.
“But he-“
“Sometimes, when everything has just gone horribly horribly wrong, people just want someone else to take charge, and they’re usually not to particular about who it is, at least, not until later.”
“Oh,” Alice said, the simple expression coming out far to thoughtfully for anyone’s liking.
“This, by the way,” Kagan pointed out. “Is why we should be running faster.”

A few minutes later, Corporal Jonestown was still basking in the glow of having met the legendary Admiral James Kagan, and even better, the admiral had known his name! Jonestown’s mind was running through the impressive list of accomplishments the admiral had racked up over the years until it hit the most recent event, namely the admiral’s honorable discharge at the end of the war. Jonestown turned back to the direction the admiral had disappeared and slowly uttered the immortal catchphrase of the duped.
“Wait a minute…”

[dogscoff]

Nice. Of course it only replaces the suspense with more suspense...

[narf poit chez BOOM]

Suspencefull Suspence!

[AgentZero]

dogscoff said:
Like the defiant pic. It looks like something that could be successfully piloted by one drunk dude, too.

Thanks. As a matter of reference, it's about the size of the Serenity, and while that means nothing to those of you who haven't seen Firefly or Serenity, tough. Watch 'em both, you won't regret it.

Now, I've got a lovely treat for you all today, more story, AND another picture. Who loves ya? BTW, the pic isn't the finished version, which will be unveiled at the appropriate time, but can anyone tell me how to get rid of those 'stripes' on the rear section of the ship?

And now, the next installment!

Kaelan O’Shea stretched comfortably in his destroyer’s control chair. A small smile teased his lips as he allowed his mind to wander back towards the delightful young midshipwoman he’d encountered on McArthur’s fine, shiny station. As his mind slithered about the memories of their time together, the warm tingle of love spread through his body, starting in his belly and slowly spreading out towards his limbs, ending with a pleasant tingle in his fingertips. Of course, he reflected as he reached behind his chair, the warm glow might have less to do with love, and more to do with the case of Guinness he’d liberated from McArthur. Those Ruskies, he decided as he cracked open a can that had changed remarkably little in over 30,000 years, had absolutely no business hoarding that much fine brew. It just wasn’t right. As he poured the can carefully into a well-used glass, his shipboard detection system began beeping quietly.
“Ye can wait,” he informed it as he gazed intently at the glass, waiting for the perfect moment to complete the two-part pour. Completely unfazed, his ship to beep, albeit slightly more insistently. “I said ye can bloody well wait!” he snapped at it. Taking no heed of the alarm’s increasing volume, he completed his pour and set it in his chair’s armrest to settle. “Now, what’s all the commotion about?” he inquired placatingly as he slid his command chair forward to the control panel. “Oh,” he said as his eyes swept the sensor readouts. “Well now that’s hardly good now is it?”

The Defiant was a decommissioned Revolution-class destroyer, one of the newer models the Empire had produced before the end of the war, and the haughty title bestowed on her class was not undeserved. The Revolution-class was markedly faster and more maneuverable, while still boasting significantly heavier weapons, shields and firepower than any of her predecessors. Of course, all of the decommissioned ships in the fleet had had their power plants, shields, armor and weapons stripped out, since the Navy was hardly going to release it’s most advanced equipment to the general public. That being said, if one knew the right people, it was quite possible to grease a few palms in the now cash-strapped Navy to have all of the above –save weapons, unfortunately- put back in. Which had been the second thing O’Shea had done after acquiring the Defiant. The first thing had been to have a Navy quartermaster sign off on the forms stating that all power plants, shields, armor and weapons had been stripped from the ship. He’d also managed to pull a few strings and have his ship fitted with the Komsa-class reconnaissance destroyer’s sensor suite. Which is why his ship was beeping at him far before any ship his size should have been able to see the light cruiser and two corvettes bearing down on him on a direct intercept course. O’Shea sat and watched the three blips moving steadily closer to him, though any ship moving on a course that direct and at that speed didn’t leave much to the imagination as to their intentions. The vast majority of the Revolution-class that had been decommissioned had found new employment as courier ships. Stripped of their weapons and magazines, they had a surprising amount of empty space to them and shipping companies had been eager to buy them up to use as high-speed transports to deliver valuable, time-critical goods across the Empire. This of course, made them a tempting target for pirates, and the three ships heading towards him seemed to be following the standard (and successful) tactics for capturing a speedy prey. Even with commercial power plants, the Revolution-class were still extremely fast ships, but even the fastest ships need time to accelerate, so the usual intercept was to use a light cruiser with a powerful sensor rig to pick targets from outside their own range, then build up enough speed before being noticed to make any attempts at evasion completely futile.

From his readouts, it was readily apparent to O’Shea that the three ships barreling towards him had already built up enough speed to overtake him well before he reached the nearest jump-node, even if the pirates hadn’t been in between him and said node. Faced with the prospects of certain death if they ran, versus only probably death if they didn’t, most pilots chose the former, hoping calm co-operation would save them from having their cockpit decorated with their own intestines. But O’Shea wasn’t worried just yet. These could just be a couple fine ordinary, entirely peaceful folks who just happened to be in an extraordinary hurry. He wouldn’t know for sure until they entered what they figured to be his maximum sensory range, which wouldn’t be for another –he consulted his readouts again- eighteen whole seconds. Kaelan O’Shea amused himself by inscribing a cloverleaf pattern into the head of his pint. The reasons for his fascination with the symbol had long been lost in the mists of time, but it always drifted into his mind when things were looking grim. Nineteen seconds later, his com-screen beeped and the words

Cut your engines and drop your shields

appeared on the screen. No voice, no visual, and completely lacking in piratiness, O’Shea reflected. No ‘Arrrr!’ and not even the essential ‘Prepare to be boarded.’ Amateurs, he decided with a snort and slipped his hands around the manual controls. The one thing O’Shea had that most commercial Revolution pilots didn’t, aside from a dangerously unstable psyche, was a gleaming new set of military grade pulse cannons that had been obtained from a heavy cruiser before it was scrapped. Their power requirements should have been a bit high for the Defiant’s reactor, but that was only if one ran the reactor at it’s ‘recommended’ output settings. O’Shea brought the guns to hot standby, transmitted a quick acknowledgment to the light cruiser, then spun his ship around and fired the engines to kill his momentum, before he spared a glance at his pint. In all likelihood, a spot of rough and tumble was about to ensue, he mused, and while there was little doubt about anything else in his mind, he didn’t much care for the drink’s odds of survival. Which only left one option. Grabbing his custom-made throttle control in one hand, and the pint in the other, he downed the whole thing in one go, tossed the glass out the cockpit door and slammed the throttle to full power. The Defiant leapt towards her pursuers, and immediately more and more severe threats began to pour across his com-screen. He let out a chuckle at one particularly virulent message which he deemed colourful enough to warrant his reply of, ‘Well, I’m definitely not gonna play nice now.’

He drew closer, accelerating all the time and making a beeline for the two corvettes, who decided they didn’t want to get any closer to a ship piloted by someone quite so suicidal and broke away from the light cruiser to set up an attack run –exactly as he’d hoped they would. A flick of a switch brought his weapons to full power, and his first salvo sliced through the cruiser’s shields to score direct hits on its sensor array. As he pealed off to set up another run, the first corvette fell victim to his cleverly hidden ventral-mounted auto-cannons, while the second was unfortunate enough to discover that, being swivel mounted, his pulse cannons could also fire backwards. The light cruiser managed to get her secondary sensors up and running and O’Shea chortled merrily as his ship flitted between interceptor bolts and point-defense beams. A single strafing run reduced the destruction being directed at him to a rather boring level. He executed a snap turn that would have made the most stringent flight instructor proud and loosed a disruptor missile (something good folk outside the military weren’t even supposed to know about). The missile struck home, and quite it’s power plants died and it’s guns spluttered out. O’Shea brought his destroyer in uncomfortably close to the light cruiser’s bridge and thumbed a com switch.
“Don’ bother tryin’ to fix it,” he said conversationally. “It ain’t ever startin’ again. Now,” he continued after a few seconds pause to let his words sink in. “Here’s what’s gonna happen…”

Within an hour, the Navy heavy cruiser Rawson arrived on the scene and took the pirate crew into custody. O’Shea was not unhappy to learn that a few of them had been daft enough to resist arrest and gotten themselves splattered all over a bulkhead or two. O’Shea shook his head ruefully as the Rawson’s extremely cute com officer relayed the news to him. Anyone who argued with an angry Marine in two and a half meters of powered battle armor had to be an amateur. He even stuck around for a few hours, but only in case the Rawson had to depart for some reason before the tug arrived to tow the damaged cruiser, and had absolutely nothing to do with the two hours he spent flirting with her com officer. Once all three ships had safely departed towards the nearest jump-node, he brought his ship back on course and continued along at cruising speed. Nine hours later, he was setting up his jump trajectory when a spike on one of his sensor displays indicated another ship was about to make transit to normal space. It was a fairly large spike, so he slowed the Defiant to give the new arrival plenty of room. Strictly speaking it wasn’t necessary, there was more than enough room at a jump-node for several dozen ships to simultaneously jump in and out, and since sensors could read into normal space from null-space, any exiting ship would have more than enough time to adjust their course in the extremely unlikely event of a collision hazard. Still, it was a courtesy that spacers extended to each other, and O’Shea waited patiently for the other ship to complete transit. Which occurred roughly ten seconds later, and O’Shea’s jaw dropped.

Pointing out his cockpit window and with the sort of indignation that could only be mustered following the consumption of a heroic amount of alcohol, he demanded, “What the hell is that?”

[sachmo]

Very nice story; thanks for writing it.

Do I detect some Terry Pratchett influence? If not, you should read his stuff. Methinks you might like it.

[AgentZero]

sachmo said:
Very nice story; thanks for writing it.

Do I detect some Terry Pratchett influence? If not, you should read his stuff. Methinks you might like it.

Thanks. There probably is some Terry Pratchett influence there, along with some Douglas Adams. I just like the way the English write.

[dogscoff]

I'm really enjoying it. It's the characters that make it work so well.