Recent history of Quadrant: Adamant 4

[dumbluck]

Naxiv was having a bad day. They had just deployed to the Canus sector of the Adamant 4 quadrant (already affectionately called Adam's Mutt by some, Naxiv included). Upon deployment, everyone in the Vaxin Expeditionary Force had been assigned a living space and a work detail. Most everyone had a living space on the planet below, but not Naxiv. He had to live in one of the temporary (and very cramped) Hab units. It orbited not far from where he now was working. His work detail was in the construction of a system of orbital construction platforms. If there was anything Naxiv hated more than cramped living quarters, it was space construction.

"Why couldn't I have been assigned to a nice organics farm", he muttered to himself as he tried for a third time to align the support beam up with the rest of the platform framework. He inched his forward thrusters up a bit. "Dammit, missed again." He was struggling to overcome the inertia of the beam and bring it back into position for another try when his comm chirped, "Naxiv, you worthless hunk of space rubbish, haven't you attached that beam yet??? I've got 3 teams waiting to get started on the ventral section, and they're all waiting on YOU!!!"

Ah, yes. Just when he thought that his day couldn't get any worse, he'd reported to his work detail to find that his supervisor was "Hardnose" Hadix. There was no love lost between them ever since that "incident" on Ortega 3, some 7 years previous. "If you'd just get off my back for 5 minutes, Hardnose, I'd have gotten this beam and three more connected", Naxiv grumbled under his breath as he carefully aligned the beam for his fourth try. Just as he activated his jets, his comm screamed in his ear, "What in Nivax's Comet is the hold up down there?!?!?!"

Hadix watched as the beam missed the mark yet again. He was so raging mad he felt like his head was about to explode inside his helmet. "Damn that Naxiv!" he screamed to noone in particular, "We're already behind schedule!"

--

"We're already behind schedule. The Platform 1 framework has yet to be completed, and the schedule calls for starting the framework for Platform 2 in 8 days."

"So, Xidan, what you're saying, basically, is that we are already off to a bad start."

"Not entirely, sir." Commadore Xidan managed to maintain a perfectly smooth hover, despite how much her jets were quivering. Admiral Daxin Cavix was not known to believe in the addage, "Don't kill the messenger because the news is bad". Not that Cavix had killed anyone, of coarse. He was known, however, to be rather liberal with handing out demotions. "The main colony forces have settled in quite nicely, all our production facilities are Online, and already Mineral production is above expected levels." It's always nice to have some good news to help offset the bad, she thought to herself. Even if none of the good news is under her perview.

Cavix hovered perfectly still behind his workstation. From here he could access information on any aspect of his command almost instantaneously. At the moment, however, all his concentration was focused upon his Construction Minister. He watched as her attitude shifted slightly to the left, then as she quickly corrected it. After a moment more of silent vivisection, he released her from his gaze and replied, "That's all well and good, but we need those Platforms operational on schedule. If you have to, have Commadore Vacix pull some workers out of the Organics Farm, and you put them to work on the platforms. I don't care how you do it, Xidan, just get those Platforms Online! Dismissed."

Cavix watched impassively as Xidan tried not to rush out the door. Of coarse, Vacix will throw a fit about losing production in our already weak area of Organics. Which he should; otherwise he wouldn't be a good Production Minister. Cavix sighed. It wasn't an ideal startup, but it could be worse. After all, the accursed Rage Collective could be just beyond the warppoint. Initial intelligence reports indicate that there is no Rage presence in this quadrant (yet), but he won't know that for sure until he can send a scout craft out. "And we can't do that," Cavix mumbled to himself, "until we get those Platforms operational."

--

Naxiv finished packing his bag. He glanced once more at the tellex floating over the now empty bunk. "Naxiv Civix, E4, demoted to E3 due to substandard performance. Transfered to Organics Farm, Alpha Continent. Effective immediately." "Hardnose" had ranted and raved for 30 minutes about his "slow and sloppy workmanship" that would "probably all have to be reworked anyway". He had especially enjoyed telling him about the demotion, and had insisted on removing the rank slash himself.

"Yea, well, it was worth it to get out of this miserable place", Naxiv muttered, rubbing his chest where the rank slash had been. "And it was definately worth it to get out from under ol' Hardnose." He started towards the door, but misjudged the proper vector and smacked into the doorframe. For a moment he just hovered there, nursing both his bruised shoulder and his simmering frustrations. Then he stormed back to his bunk, grabbed the tellex, and ripped it into tiny little shreds.

As he floated out of the cloud of confetti, he smiled glumly, knowing how much of a pain in the jets it would be to clean all that paper out of the atmosphere scrubbers. Then he glanced at the wall-clock as he reached for his bag as it gently bumped into the far bulkhead. He put the bag over his shoulder and started for the door. Then it hit him. "0958! Oh no! The Transport!"

He jetted out the door and slammed his head into the upper doorjam. Cursing profusely and holding his now bleeding forehead, he rushed off towards the airlock, and arrived just in time to see the transport pull away from the hab unit. "Damn, Naxiv, you'll be late for your own funeral", Bevix, his former (well, soon to be former) hab-mate chuckled. Then he glanced at Naxiv's forehead, shook his head, and went back to his dinner. Naxiv stared dumbly out the small porthole; watching the transport disappear from view while blood oozed out from between his fingers.

[ May 20, 2002, 11:44: Message edited by: dumbluck ]

[Fyron]

Interesting, some RP for one of my games.

[dumbluck]

Just fulfilling my game obligations. You did say it was a role-playing game.

[Fyron]

All of my games have said that. You are the only person that has done anything external with it.

Anyways, I didn't say to stop doing it or anything. I might even decide to join in at a later date when something interesting happens with my empire.

[Wardad]

Beware of the Spartan Dogma empire.

I took over the Spartans slot, kept the name and ship set. The new empire description can be found in the Who let the dogs out? thread.

--------------------------------------------------
We live for the walk, we die for the walk. Woof!

[dumbluck]

TerranC: LOL! Now there's an original race history! Hope to meet you soon in-game!

IF: I used to think I could be a writer. Every so often, the delusion sets in and I try my hand at it for a while. Besides, I was inspired by all the other game stories running around lately. (Even if they haven't been updated in a while...)

[TerranC]

What did I do?

[dumbluck]

OOPS! I meant Wardad!!! Where did that come from???????

[Wardad]

dumbluck: Don't stop writing.
It's good intel

[TerranC]

Here's My shot at a story; please don't mock me, as I don't have the mind of a pulitzer winner.


As Fallon looked at the torrent weather from his dorm room on his homeworld, he could think nothing but this space race his race had entered into.

Fallon was a scholar in the Academy, where he was training to fly the latest fighters developed by Hypersonic Aeronautical labs, some of the finest research institutes for matters in physics, and aeronautical research and development, which included researching deadly fighters that could rip through hostile skies and satellite link-ups. From since day one of his life, Fallon was fascinated with all things flying. His first interest with birds made him an ace student in Nature and head student in a presentation about birds native to his continent in grade 10. Soon, he signed up for a doctorate in ornithology at the Washintowsky University, but he dropped out due to lack of interest.

What was interest to him were planes. Fighter planes, Fusion planes, Ordinary Jet planes, anything that flew and he could control, was of interest to him. After dropping out of the Washintowsky University, he quickly enrolled and enlisted at the Academy. It had no formal name, really, as the Federation denied the existence of a Full-fledged paramilitary program, but it was there, nonetheless, under the guise of training people for rescue patrols and jobs in the private sector. Fallon had no interest running courier for people, but he dreamed of piloting the fighters and “airboats”, aeronautical search and rescue platforms, for his nation, for the Federation.

But Fallon’s interests quickly ended planetside. He was one of the supporters of banning Ion Drives and Ion-drive equipped ship launches. He also condemned the use of Depleted Uranium cannons and Nuclear weapons in space, as anything used in space, it was sure to affect his planet. But even with strong sentiments, his group could not discourage space travel and development. Space fever grasped the countryside. Everybody was doing the “Spaceage” Dance. Anything commercial now had a space theme in it; and the colonizing of the nearby rock planet of Gillana 3 was heralded as the greatest achievements of their time. Space fever was in full force, and no political movement could stop it.

But he was soon put into a dilemma.

As Fallon progressed in the academy, word spread among recruiters in the Nation self-defenses forces and the commercial sector of his top score in the unbearable Gillana Gorge scenario, which had broken more than one cadet over time, and his aptitude in weapons control was deemed extraordinary. As the days approached to his graduation, a woman walked into his room, asking for Fallon Kronavesky.

Fallon answered the door. The woman described herself as Talon Cealto, an officer in the Federation Intelligence Service.

Fallon heard of the FIS, and wondered why they were named the “Intelligence service”. All they did was work as a planetary police service. Nothing like the ruthless former intelligence services of Nations long dead.

Fallon had an interest in history also, and he liked reading about past events such as the big food shortage and the Vertisan affair.

The FIS had come knocking once or twice before. Only to issue warnings about protesting responsibly, and not to disrupt daily life patterns anymore. They also broke up some of his protests that got out of hand, especially one fanatic began throwing homemade exothermic reaction devices; affectionately named Osomo Bombs.

The FIS officer began to speak. She began to speak in a hush-hush voice, telling Fallon of a secret project to launch a fully functioning interstellar vessel complete with a full set of Ion Engines and One Capital ship missile launcher, as they were called when they were used in space. They also began to talk about the launch date and the rate of construction, and that it would be finished in one month.

When Fallon asked her if she is telling this to him in order to scare him into silence about the protests, she said no, and said this simple sentence:

“The Federation wants you to pilot this vessel, following your graduation.”

Fallon became enraged by this offer, and politely asked the FIS officer to step out. The Officer stepped out apologizing about her remarks, but only asked him one favor:

“Please consider this offer. Our race’s survival depends on it.”

Then, she left into the elevator.

After calming down, he began to think about what she said, explicitly the Last sentence she said: “Our race’s survival depends on it.” What did she mean? What is so disturbing that the Federation wouldn’t tell its citizens? Why did they choose me?

Then, he decided to accept the offer, not to be a pundit, but to find out what’s going on.

As Fallon looked at the torrent weather from his dorm room on his homeworld, he could think nothing but this space race his race had entered into, only to realize that this space race is anything but a race.

[ May 23, 2002, 01:01: Message edited by: TerranC ]