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Blades

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  1. Yeah, I'm pretty much used to short answers. Still, rather short and to the point as opposed to being 'Poriased'. heh Anyhow Lynx, your right on da moolar with the type of CO is got in mind for Commander Blades. And yes, the character isnt your typical square jawed hero type that the propoganda machine likes to advertise. Still, this character will surprise you from time to time. What I am actually considerin doin is creating an form of story telling based upon ACM scenario scritps, but this kinda depends on how Derek feels about it. If I get the green light (With a long list DO NOTS I should imagine) I'll start churning out one after the other over the next few weeks/months. Whatever the case, I dont want to be writting anything that will infringe on existing storys or the games history at all. But, like I said, I'm interested in all ideas and would really appreciate the SC's ear input wise. Anyhow, must get back to it. I got to write myself out of a sticky situation . . . ------------------ Commander Blades GCV - TSUNAMI Ôäó PRIME Fleet 'For Queen and country' ICQ#31927230
  2. I awoke retching. ItÔÇÖs funny how stomach twistingly painful it is to do that when theres nothing left inside to chuck up. For some strange reason, it made me think an antique ÔÇÿPlastic manÔÇÖ toy my grandpa handed down to me when I was a kid. Dunno if youÔÇÖve seen them, but there like these little guys that you can twist and contort into all sorts of grotesque shapes. I always imagined exactly how excruciatingly plainful that must have been for the little fella, with his torso twisted a full 720 degrees and his arms stretched to an absurdly long length. Right at that moment, I felt something akin to the imagined agony of the poor little plastic man. Oh how he would laugh and taunt me now . . . It took a little while, but the pain from my stomach subsided. It wasnÔÇÖt long, however, before the boot bump on my forehead reminded me that pain and missfortune was my constant companion. Somehow, I got myself to my feet and grogily took a step or two forward. I immediately banged my head on a bunk railing, knocking what little sense I had left in me by that time right out of my skull. I careered backwards in an almost impossibly ridgid fassion and colapsed again onto the cold floor. I decided just to lay there for a bit, not wanting to risk movement, sound or even rational thought. It was probably for the best right now, since the entire universe was apparantly against me. ÔÇÿYou allright down there sweety?ÔÇÖ As if I wasnÔÇÖt tense enough allready, my testicles retreaded quickly into my scrotum. That voice, that BIG MAN IN TIGHT LITTLE SPEEDOÔÇÖs sounding voice sent another jolt of pure terror rampaging through my system. I guessed (Although I couldnÔÇÖt possibly veryify anything considering the fact that my mind had sensibly decided to vacate my body) that I had curled into a foetal position and was weeping quietly to myself. ÔÇÿDid you bang your head hun?ÔÇÖ The voice was accompanied by the sound of buckling metal. Movement. ÔÇÿWould you like me to rub it better for you?ÔÇÖ The slap of bare feet on the cold, hard surface. ÔÇÿDid Captain Hasenau leave you here as a present for me?ÔÇÖ I felt like squealing, then quickly dismissed it as a really bad idea. ÔÇÿI didnÔÇÖt even know it was my birthday . . . . . ÔÇÿ Something clammy gently flicked across the back of my leg. I tried to flinch, but was having enough trouble controlling my bowels to be concerned with that. ÔÇÿWhats your name cupcake?ÔÇÖ I tried to speak, but ended up sobbing instead. I really wished I hadnt watched that prison film on the way out of Sol space. Or that old Burt Reynolds flick. I just couldnÔÇÖt seem to get the words ÔÇÿSqueal little piggieÔÇÖ out of my head. Gahhh. Clanging from somwhere behind startled me out of my paralysis. In one remarkable movement, I was up on my feet, backed away as far from my companion as the architecture would permit and screaming into the face of a surprised looking guard. ÔÇÿAs you were commie!ÔÇÖ he briefly shouted before proding me through steel bars with a shock prod. Again, I fell to the ground. This time I danced as I did so. Hmm, that was novel. Fortunately, the guard turned his ranting from me and onto my potential assailant. He barked something, I forget what it is now, but whatever it was, it made the big man retreat back to his bunk very quickly. Whatever my present state, and given that the guard had just shocked me, I was still extreemly greatful for his assistance. I dread to think what might have happened if good ol sparky hadnt happened along and done his thing. Curiously, it was just about then when I recalled a great deal of the details relating to my particular perdiciment, and although disturbing, It was also comforting in its own special way since now at least I understood where I was. For the most part anyway. In all honesty, I should have realised immediately where I was. It wasnÔÇÖt as if I hadnt ever spent time in a brig before, although to be fair the majority of brigs I had spent the occasional boozy night in were significantly more hi-tech than the squaller I was currently forced to reside in. For instance, in this place there were bars preventing me from leaving, where your normal brig type establishment had a variety of force projection fields. This place had a slop bucket to do your business in, as opposed to a sophisticated waste extraction cubicle with privicy screen. As poor as the scenery was, however, at least in this cell there was a variety of literature to indulge in. That was, of course, providing you didnÔÇÖt mind reading ÔÇÿChoir Boy MonthlyÔÇÖ or peeking through a copy of ÔÇÿSteel Workers of America : 3000ADÔÇÖ calendar. Moden brigs didnÔÇÖt have any of those. Then again, neither did they have brutes the size of my companion sizing me up for a St. Trinnians girls school uniform. Sigh . . . . Oh for a hockey stick! Anyhow, there I was, like I said before, on the ground for at least the fourth time since my improbably escape from the transport with a jab happy guard on one side of the bars and a man with serious social problems on the other. I decided, rather prudently I might add, to attempt to make conversation with the guard. It went something like this . . . . . ------------------ Commander Blades GCV - TSUNAMI Ôäó PRIME Fleet 'For Queen and country' ICQ#31927230
  3. Just to quickly clear somthing up, in my previous post I mentioned I was working on somthing else but made it look like I was going to alter the style of the current thread by mistake. I am in fact going to continue with this style of writing for the remainder of this story, but the completely new story I'm in the process of creating is going to be written differently. So, what I was really asking was whether this new story should be of a more serious content, written in a different style etc, or keep to the same format I'm using in this thread? Again, I'm all ears. Anyhow, heres more for ya . . . . . ------------------ Commander Blades GCV - TSUNAMI Ôäó PRIME Fleet 'For Queen and country' ICQ#31927230
  4. Thanks for the praise guys. It's nice to get positive feedback from my postings once in a while. Lynx, just in case my previous thread sounded a bit short, I apologise, It wasnt meant to sound quite as it reads. Anyhow, more to follow shortly on this thread and I'm in the process of putting another together for your viewing (dis)pleasure. I'm curious though . . . . would you prefer somthing a bit more serious, or stay with the anarchic style I'm currently using? I can write seriously as well you know . . . ------------------ Commander Blades GCV - TSUNAMI Ôäó PRIME Fleet 'For Queen and country' ICQ#31927230 [This message has been edited by Blades (edited 05-22-99).]
  5. Lynx, I donÔÇÖt even understand what it is your trying to tell me . . . Anyhow . . . Space is an astonishingly big and empty place. Indeed, there is something like 30 billion or so stars in our own galaxy, with the posability of millions of life sustaining worldÔÇÖs orbiting them. And there are, what? Millions of galaxyÔÇÖs in the universe? Something like that. ItÔÇÖs staggering really when you think about it. I mean REALLY think about it. There are all sorts of things to consider, all sorts of questions to ask. One such question I often found myself pondering on long space flights was where, when and how it all began. Firstly, there is the thoery that the universe was born in some sort of huge cosmic explosion that created the foundation of everything. Fair enough I say. Sounds like a promising idea. Thing is, how could something like the big bang begin if there was nothing before it to create such an event? Prehaps there was. ÔÇÿAhhhh . . . .ÔÇÖ I would say to myself . . . . . ÔÇÿbut . . .ÔÇÖ Thing with me is, there is always a but. From what little I know of life, the universe and everything in general is that there are no absolutes. You cant, for example, say that you know for sure that every snowflake in the universe is unique in design. Sure, nobody has ever found two identical snowflakes, but that doesnÔÇÖt mean there CANT be an exact duplicate. I mean, itÔÇÖs unlikely that you would ever find two identical snowflakes, but itÔÇÖs not impossible. ItÔÇÖs improbable. Think about this one . . . Say one morning I get up, drink a chocolate milkshake, eat some bad Thai food and regurgitate it onto my shagpile carpet. What do you get? You get a pool of vomit in your carpet is what you get. But why? Why cant you vomit up, for example, a nubile Sweedish woman clad in leather and nicely oiled up with peppermint smelling mouthwash? Ah . . because itÔÇÖs impossible, I hear you cry! Actually, no. ItÔÇÖs not impossible, just extreemly improbable. And this is where the argument starts to spiral off and get really weird. Ok, some would argue that vomiting up a nubile Sweedish woman clad in leather and smelling of peppermint from a combination of milkshake and Thai food is just plain dumb, but whoÔÇÖs to argue that It cant happen? Science screams ÔÇÿNo! This cannot be! ItÔÇÖs against the laws of physics and blah blah blah.ÔÇÖ Well, I say ÔÇÿPishÔÇÖ to those that claim that. What makes science, or for that matter the laws of physics and whatever else you care to throw in right? ÔÇÿCos it just ISÔÇÖ is the universal answer. Ok, so they give you examples as to why it cant happen and why given such n such a rule exists and why such n such determines such n such and blah blah blah . . . It can go on like that forever, but the basic way out of it is the same. Ok, itÔÇÖs unlikely, but itÔÇÖs not impossible. Another thing, say for example the greatest minds in the universe come together, argue for a thousand years over the Sweedish chick argument, discount every single possible, probably, impossible and improbably argument they are still left with one completely uncertain rule which cannot be discounted. The rule is, simply, that just because you cant vomit up a Sweedish, peppermint smelling chick from your hungover breakfast according to all the laws, rules and whateverthehellelsetheycomeupwith universal proof, the fact is that those rules and laws may only apply to the universe as WE know it. Whats to say that there are no other universes with different rules of physics? WhoÔÇÖs to say that somwhere in, say, a distant dimension that PianoÔÇÖs cant be the dominant species on any given pinhead? WhoÔÇÖs to say that when a cat farts a volcano doesnÔÇÖt erupt from a sponge pudding? Given that the universe is infinite, or at least infinate in the sense that we can understand, whoÔÇÖs to say that there isnt an infinate number of universes, with an infinite number of probablilties? Like I said before, there are no absolutes, unlikely as a given scenario may be, you cannot discount anything. And that brings me back to my initial point . . . . . what was there before the big bang? Something? Nothing? ItÔÇÖs all one in the same really. Nothing is somthing, after all. Think about it . . . As I said, I often had these delusional thoughts during a long space flight, but happily, on this occasion I was distracted by a rather rotund man (I later nicknamed him Rotundo) with really bad, flakey skin. I said happily simply because after a normal ten hour or so flight rationalising existance in all itÔÇÖs intricicies, I would have to check myself into psyche rehab for a day or two to calm myself down. This time round, RotundoÔÇÖs flakey skin rash kept me distratced as I tried my best to avoid organic snowflakes from landing in my mid flight refreshments. Sadly, this wasnÔÇÖt to be, which could be considered fortunate in itÔÇÖs own way since in flight meals were still substandard despite the millenia since itÔÇÖs initial introduction. Of course, I tried conversation, but that didnÔÇÖt ammount to much. It was difficult looking at the toast man, especially since he had no eyelids. It was just plain unnerving . . . Still, I gave it a shot, although RotundoÔÇÖs lips were severely cracked and blistered, and his toung was so swollen it was difficult to tell when he responded whether he was speaking or choking. Despite the difficulties in conversation, I managed to learn that the unfortunate Rotundo had recently been exposed to a malfunctioning reactor core on the GCV Winterhawk, and was traveling to the new grafting center at WRAITH HQ for treatment. Apparantly, he had been stabalised for the trip, but his shipmates had refused to allow him back on board their Battlecrusier for a quicker trip, claiming that his flakey skin condition was being interpreted as a bio hazard by the ships computer and worrying the crew. That and the fact that his repulsive appearance had given the ships cat dihorea. I could have sat there quite happily avoiding the skin snowflakes for the rest of the trip, but after about 6 hours of enduring RotundoÔÇÖs one man blizzard, he leant forward, attempted a smile and did something really disgusting. ÔÇÿWould you be so kind,ÔÇÖ he asked ÔÇÿto moisten my eyeballs for me?ÔÇÖ My stomach cramped, but I managed to look from one side of him to another, searching for a bag with some eye bath lotion or something. I found none and made quiet apologies. Rotundo didnÔÇÖt seem phazed. ÔÇÿOh, IÔÇÖm sorry. I left it back on board ship. The nurse said a saliva bath would work just as well.ÔÇÖ I heaved. I was good at excuses, and I managed to quickly recite one to get away from there before my breakfast came up for a visit. I muttered something about going to get him some skin cream and I bashed past his legs (I was in the window seat) and watched with quiet fascination as an avalanche of skin poured from his trousetr leg and piled up on his medlab issue flip flops. I apologised again, and barley managed the thirty foot dash down the cramped corridor to the bathroom and emptied myself gurgling into the sink. What happened next is still something of a blur, although I do remember sifting through the transports med bay for anything and everything I could find to help moisten Rotundo. The staff nurse on duty was drunk as a skunk and offored no help to me whatsoever, so I helped myself to a bottle of medicinal alcahol on my way out as compensation for shitty service. I seem to remember I was almost back to the passenger deck from midship when the alarm claxons started screeching. I must have frozen for a second, cos a flight attendant ran almost through me on her way to the midship. I turned and watched as her slinky figure darted quickly into the rescue deck, just as the transport rocked from a barage of laser fire. Screams of distress came from behind me, and I swiveled back just in time to watch a sea of bodies come charging in my direction, led by the menacing (yet somehow comical) figure of flakey Rotundo. I screamed, dropped everything in my arms and began running backwards at an inadvisable speed. Something hit the back of my head just moments later and as the blissful darkness of unconsciousness overcame me, I felt myself rolling backwards through an accessway, collided with the blurred image of an instrument panel and heard the word ÔÇÿCommitÔÇÖ just before everything went dark. Er, yeah . . . I seemed to have skipped something important . . um . . Yeah. Like I said a while ago, I got a name and a commlink channel from Barney back at GHQ. I went back to my office, wrote a quick ÔÇÿTaken leaveÔÇÖ message on a post it pad and slapepd it onto my superiors terminal. From there, I booked myself passage on a transport heading for WRAITH HQ, aranged some transport from the Hertz rent a suttle depot on WRAITHÔÇÖs promenade, packed a few belongings I couldnÔÇÖt do without (Hairspray, deoderant ÔÇô the usual stuff) and headed down through the stations superstructure to the boarding deck. I pretty much covered the rest. Um . . . right. So, there I was, unconscious. Utterly clueless as to what was goin on around me. For all I knew, the ship could have been boarded by whoever was attacking us, or even destroyed. After all, I didnÔÇÖt know. I could have been dead and known nothing about it. Who says you know when your dead and when your not? How would you know anyway? Whats there to tell you that your alive or dead? Uh . . . best not get into this one. Anyhow, sooner or later I woke up and was immediately sick again. I guess in that respect, I pretty much concluded that I was alive, and not dead. Since dead people donÔÇÖt feel sick, or vomit, or do anything much else for that matter. So I assume. I was, however, cold as hell . . . . . something of a contradiction now I think about it, but you know what I mean. Oh yeah, and dark. Not dark dark like pitch black or nothing, just dark and murky. There were a few bright lights, from the terminal behind me, and it illuminated just enough of the area to give me a rough idea of where I was. From what I could tell, I was alive, which I already covered, and was utterly alone in a small, cramped box. The box, it seemed, was not a box at all, but en escape pod from the rescue deck. I surmised this from the words ÔÇÿEscape PodÔÇÖ in big red letters just over the blinking terminal. That and the fact that I was looking out of a porthole into space, surrounded by spinning stars and distant nebulae. Oh yeah, and the huge, hulking MK2 Battlecruiser moving slowley through ship debris towards me. Considering the unpleasent circumstances that had brought me thus far in my advenbture, I was getting into a pretty jovial mood. I wasnÔÇÖt exactly sure why, but thinking back to the excitement at the Supreme Commanders inspection tour, the mystery at the Academy, and now my sudden and impossible, ahem, improbable survival against all odds, I felt pretty chippa. That was, of course, until I noticed the oxygen supply meter had run down to nothing, and I was beginning to suffer the initial effects of suffocation. That more realistically explained my jovial mood. My brain was starved of oxygen. Hurruh! What adventures I was going to have in the next few moments. Imagine the things my delerious mind would conjor up prior to my expiring in agony on the cold metal floor. In a way, I was almost sad when I was towed into the Battlecruisers shuttle bay and a large man with a gun dragged me out of the pod and dumped me onto the oxygen rich flight deck. I was even more sad when I realised after a few more seconds of frantic panting that the uniforms being worn by the now gathering armed contingent were not standard Galcom issue. What really made me sad, was that with growing certaincy (Although not complete) was that I was shortly due to experience a similar, although none the less fatal, spacing related death from my devient Insurgent captors. I whimpered, then fell under a boot . . . . . . . ------------------ Commander Blades GCV - TSUNAMI Ôäó PRIME Fleet 'For Queen and country' ICQ#31927230
  6. . . . . . Download complete . . . . Updating Log . . . . IÔÇÖm something of a scrimper when it comes down to it. Sure, IÔÇÖve had the occasional mad spending spree from time to time, but with the military accomodation provided by my beloved GalCom, as well as the standard three meals a day package, (Grunt food in the 31st century has improved vastly since pre stellar days) I tended to end my 42 hour week with a hefty wage packet. Ok, so itÔÇÖs not exaxctly the fortune that Starship Commanders receive at the end of the Week, but itÔÇÖs more than enough to support a lowly file clerk with enough alcahol, pronography and cleenex to support all but the most indulgent of teenagers for a year. In short, I had an abundance of cash, and since the Insurgents had recently breached the enviroment dome on Pluto's ÔÇÿCastaway Reserve', it didnÔÇÖt look like I was going on holiday anytime soon. The promise of blowing 8 months wages on an assortment of pig ugly (Yet drunkenly alluring) women at the resort just wasnt going to happen. Not this year anyway. So, I had an abundance of cash to purchase a sophisticated holorecorder, but still no way of obtaining one through legitimate channels. Thing is, like all security related merchandise, itÔÇÖs not technically legal to go out and pick one up at the local mega mart, especially if you just so happen to be a file clerk with access to all sorts of top secret related GalCom nonsense. Activities like that tend to get internal security buzzing over you like flies on a turd, and thatÔÇÖs not exactly something an aspiring startship commander really wants to have to deal with. Having said that, legitimate means of getting the holorecorder wasnÔÇÖt the only means of obtaining said item . . . . Barney was someone that under normal circumstances I would never socially interact with. He was, and IÔÇÖm being fair about this, the most fundamentally unlikable person in the entire galaxy. In fact, during the time that we spent in shared quarters together during our 2nd year at the academy, I was often found at the center of plots to have him brutally killed. Fortunately for me, I was so inept at executing these assasination attempts, that Barney meerly laughed the 'incidentsÔÇÖ off and put them down to jovial pranks. What was it that made him so unlikable? Well, it wasnÔÇÖt that he was unpleasent or anything, nor was he a snitch, a pervert, a teachers pet or anything else that would normally have the vast majority of the students baying for his blood. It was simply because he was soooooooo nauseatingly nice and courteous at all times that made him sooooooooo hateable. This wasnÔÇÖt the worst thing of course. The worst thing about Barney was that he was completely oblivious to the fact that he was so despised, and that no matter what you did to upset him, he meerly shrugged it off with an inane grin, wave his hand in front of his stupid fat head and mumble ÔÇÿYou guys . . . ÔÇÿ EVERY SINGLE FRIGGIN TIME SOMEONE DID SOMETHING TO IRRITATE HIM. I MEAN GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH ! So, you can probably imagine exactly how hard it was going to be for me to see him again after all these years, and even worse, involve him in my plans to obtain a holorecorder. I had to involve him you see, since Barney was the only person I knew that could help me with my procurment without landing myself into any serious trouble. That was, of course, providing Barney was still as fundamentally unlikable and blissfully clueless now as he was fifteen years ago. It wasnÔÇÖt likely that he had changed since those days, not when you consider that Barney was, after all, a member of GalCom intelligence and as such, by association, about as popular as a wart on your favorite palm. Meeting him that afternoon for a drink and a bite at the sportsmans lounge on GHQÔÇÖs K deck was the hardest thing in the world for me to do. It was, however, also the most important thing in the world for me to do. That by itself was something that made it possible for me to stay focused long enough to get what I needed from the gibbering simp and not gauge out my eyes or bite off my toung in an attempt to end his cheerful prattling. As expected, Barney was just as irritating as he had been back in the academy. In fact, it was entirely possible that his years as an Intelligence officer had made him even worse than before. It seemed that for much of his tenure in intelligence he had been stationed on far off outposts, sometimes entirely alone for months at a time sifting through space garbage that drifted in from the Gammulan sector. It seemed likely that his superiors at Intelligence found him equally as troublesome as I had previously. That would go a long way to explain the seventeen purple heart awards for injuries sustained during the course of active duty and the fact that when he spoke, he often refered to himself in the third person. Hmmmmm. However, by the end of the meeting, I had indulged him in enough pointless conversation to screw him for all the info I needed and had a bette idea as to what to do and better still, a name and a commlink frequency. I was so greatful for what Barney had inadvertantly done for me, I almost regretted spiking his Shepards Pie with a flesh eating bacteria sample IÔÇÖd snatched from the bio lab earlier that morning. Uhhh . . . . thatÔÇÖs another story. Last I heard, Barney had been awarded yet another medal for surviving a near death experience and had been shipped to Pixan on yet another intelligence gathering operation. HQ is expecting the station to surrender within the week . . . . . . . ------------------ Commander Blades GCV - TSUNAMI Ôäó PRIME Fleet 'For Queen and country' ICQ#31927230
  7. Dammit Tac, why is it I always find out interesting stuff AFTER it's already been done? Anyway, just in case there is another fleet meeting (WRAITH or whatever), dont forget I'm trying to get STILLETTO together here, and I need all the insider info I can get. So, if you got a copy of the meeting, pass one over for a quick look see (If it's appropriate) or the WRAITH related need to know stuff if not. Or both. Anyhow, hope everything went ok - Fleet action in 3020 is gonna rock! ------------------ Commander Blades GCV - TSUNAMI Ôäó PRIME Fleet 'For Queen and country' ICQ#31927230
  8. Well gee Tac, thanks for the praise but I am but a lowly ameture with delusions of grandeur. I've been writting a variety of short stories for donkeys years now, had somthing published many, many years ago and had enough rejection letters of my manuscripts to cover my wall. So, no, I'm not a proper writter, and havent actually done anything too creative for a long while now. This little BC venture is somthing I did (And am doing when I get the time) on the fly, just grabbing at ideas as I go along. No format, no real idea as to where it's goin, in fact, every time I finish a segment I try and throw somthing silly into it and write around it for next time. Incidently, I've been real busy in RL recently to continue with the story, but I'll try and manage a few paragraphs here and there for some time over the weekend. So, until next time . . . . . ------------------ Commander Blades GCV - TSUNAMI Ôäó PRIME Fleet 'For Queen and country' ICQ#31927230
  9. Hrumph. Well, since you asked sooooooooo nicely . . . . . Update on it's way. Check back here late friday. ------------------ Commander Blades GCV - TSUNAMI Ôäó PRIME Fleet 'For Queen and country' ICQ#31927230
  10. -----MOVED AS REQUESTED BY CMDR AKIRA----- Ahem . . . . . uh, computer? [TWEEDLE] Uh . . begin recording . . . [RECOGNISE BLADES, COMMANDER, GCV TSUNAMI] AHEM! Captains Personal Log, stardate 04.04.3000 13.31 local time Sigh . . . . I must admit, I do like the sound of that. Quite like the look of this new, whatsitcalled, 'BattleCruiser' thingie command assigned me. I mean, WOW, it's just too cool for words. All these underlings scuttling around doing, uh, whatever it is they do. It looks kinda technical mostly. Lots of button pushing and spacey talk type stuff. Brrr! Anyhow, we got officers, pilots, engineers, flight technicians, medics and some real hard as nails marine types on board as well. Some of these marines look like they been bred in those big assed tanks back on earth. Big n burly they are, but sadly lacking in any real smarts. I saw a bunch of them trying to squeeze into a turbolift on my way up to the bridge. They just kinda stood there, pushing and shoving in a vain attempt to get inside. I watched this for a few minutes until some flight engineer guy oozed out from between them and collapsed unconscious on the floor. Comical really. Some medic type turned up a bit later and dragged him off to sickbay. Still the marines shuffled and grunted as they tried to gain access to the turbolift. I guess it didnt occure to them to push the antigrav cargo transport out of the hatch to make more room. Ah well . . I got this really cool uniform as well. All shiney and new. Pressed to perfection. Oh yeah, apparantly I'm a commander now and not some lowly Leutenant J.G. But they call me captain. Guess that has somthing to do with being the boss guy on this here ship. Commander by rank, captain by nature. I dunno, the navy never really appealed to me so I never really bothered to get up to spec on rank and insignia and naval REG-U-LATIONS. I mean, what was the point? Up until yestoday I was only a file clerk. Last few years went kinda quickly for me. Only a few brief things to sum up my life to date. Lets see . . Born, went to school, got engaged to some real ugly chick from Geneva, got really drunk, enrolled in the navy and served far too many depressing years as a file clerk for a variety of dickwad higher ups who spent more time getting wasted on contraband alcahol and chasing Empirian skirt than containing Gammulan agression. And what is it with the Empirians anyway? I mean, have you seen them? Gah! I'll never understand that kind of command descision. Anyhow, I'm moving off point . . . The sad truth of the matter was though, that I was a pretty damned good file clerk. I was always getting 'GalcomHQ File Clerk of the month' awards and the occasional promotion here or there, but always managed to fluff it by getting W-A-Y too wrecked at the party and barfing on the master of ceremonies or streaking through the precession hall during a diplomatic meeting. If it hadnt been for the fact that I was such a damned good file clerk, and the fact that no other sentient (I use that word loosley) at GHQ could fathom, or be assed to reconfigure my file system, I would have been court martialed, sent to the stockade and shot in the face until I was dead dead dead many times over. As such, I was usually just broken back to Ensign, or Lt. Jg and even on one occasion to (Brrrr!) crewman. I mean a 'Crewman'? Thats not even like an officer. No private room, no decent rec facilities, no friggin women and an all in one uniform that does it's best to advertise just how little you have in your utility pouch! Hmm. Mental note - must remember to omit previous sentance prior to publishing mission memoirs. Erm . . . . . . oh yeah, during that particualy unpleasent episode I was sent to serve a two year tour on a tow ship in the Syrion quadrent and told to think about what I'd done. Yeah, I thought about it allright . . . . Whatever the case, it was that stint as a crewman that made me realise that I wasnt being all that I could be. I needed new challenges, new experiences. I wanted to breach the frontier of human existance, explore strange new world, seek out new life and new civilizations. Sigh . . who was I kidding? I just wanted a nice new office, a stash of illegal alcahol and an Empirian 'chick' or two to intern with. Only problem was, I needed to be one of those hob nobby higher up types to do that, and with my record, It didnt seem likely that I was going to get there any time fast. I finished my stint on GTV 'Abandon All Hope' and reaplied to my old job as a file clerk back at GHQ. Hehehe . . I got back there and found that the buerocratic machine that is Galcom had nearly ground to a halt in my abscense. Everything was chaotic and really messed up. I found requisition forms for new Battlecruiser supplies and a huge backlog of unfiled MIA reports from my office to the medbay. It's no wonder so many Galcom commanders defected to the insurgents in the time that I was away. Hehehe . . I still chuckle at that one. Oh mercy . . It took me a few weeks, but i managed to get things back on track in my little corner of Galactic command. The brass were impressed once again (No surprise there!) and promoted me directly from crewman to Lt.Jg. Um . . why is a Leutenant Junior grade a junior grade anyway? I mean, you dont get Commander Junior grade, or Admiral Junior grade. What gives with that? Hmmm. Additional mental note - When I am Supreme Commander, abolish the Lt.Jg and create a new rank. Somthing like, uh . . Ensign plus or perhaps Ensign Leutenant. Somthing which lets you know your better than an ensign, but not good enough to be a spanking Leutenant, but not somthing that is going to constantly remind you just how lowly you really are. Except for an ensign of course. Or a crewman. Or somthing . . . . Damn, I'm doin it again. Right, so there I was, saving Galcom with my impressive filing clerk related skills when I was given the honor of meeting the main man himself, Supreme Commander Karl Reines, during an inspection visit of the red tape infested corridors of E deck. Me and my staff (Yup, I had a staff by that time - Two geeks on loan from the machiene lubrication requisitions office) were to be presented with good conduct certificates, and I was also to be presented with yet another long service medal. Normally it would fall to some staff commander to handle the formalities of presenting the awards, but it was thought that since Karl was in the area it might be good for moral to see him hob nobbing with the lackeys. And so it began. Rub shoulders with this twassock, hob nob with that twassock, listen to annoying PR PR types telling painfully unfunny jokes and watch with embarisment as the Supreme Commander repetedly blew the punchline, snorted with laughter and sprawed those assembled with coagulated puff pastry and ceremonial wine. Good fun it was not. Thank god for the Insurgent attack . . . To say we were surprised was an understatement. The sudden, brutal and utterly unprovoked attack came as somthing as a relief from the Supreme Commanders spluttering gourmet barrage. It was, however, rather unnerving to see from a side portal the twelve or so medium attack craft emerge from hyperspace and begin sprawing GHQ's exterior with laser fire. Alert klaxons broke the near silence almost immediately, and the low rumble from the fighter deck confirmed the launch of several of the stations fighters. The Supreme Commander took off immediately, changing within the blink of an eye from appearing as a slightly dim witted, poorly mannered and tragically unfunny individual into a powerhouse of a man, taking charge with frightening speed and ice like composure. Barking orders as he went, I was lost in the moment and stood in near awe as he strode off like some ancient earth cowboy, although I think his swaggered walk was largely due to an old war injury rather than dramatic posturing. Childish as it may seem, by the time he had sauntered out of sight I had decided that when I grew up I wanted to be just like him. The attack lasted a few minutes before the Insurgent scuzzballs were driven back to the Pluto jump point. Galcom HQ had taken minor damage from the barrage but quickly got back to normal. Oddly, I was still In awe of the man that only a few moment previously had been a huge dissapointment to me. I say oddly because I'm not normally one to stay impressed with anything for more than a few consecutive seconds. I guess that has somthing to do with being a file clerk. More than ever now, I wanted to make somthing of myself, even if It meant enrolling in command school and putting my life on the line to become a starship captain. Anything to one day command the respect and admiration of those serving under me, just like my buddy Karl. Sigh . . Sadly, my psyche profile had destined me many years ago to being nothing more than a lowly pen pusher or WAX-O-MATIC floor polisher. Somthing to do with being indecisive and lacking the neccesary aggression to make it as a captain. Pah! What did they know? I could be aggressive and decisive. A few days later I expressed an interest to apply for command school and was laughed at by my supervisor. Circumventing my supervisor I applied directly to command school, only to be told I needed an endorsement by an officer of commander rank or higher. Undetered, I waltzed into the officers club that very same evening, found a likely candidate and got them drunk off their bollocks. After assisting the drunken commander to scrawl a partial signature on the enrollment form, I skipped back to the enrollment office, sat a 25 minute psyche exam and was promptly informed that I lacked the neccesary aggression and decisiveness to attend command school. They recomended I consider a career in file management or housekeeping services. *******s! It looked like I was going to have to do this the hard way. It was just about then when things got kinda interesting . . . . . . . . . . . . . and I discovered blackmail was a viable method for rapid career advancement. . . . . . Admiral Jethro was the unwitting target of my nefarious blackmail scheme. The old, mostly bald man had spent his final years of dedicated Galcom service as the Commodant of the Naval Academy. He took great pride in moulding new recruits into outstanding officers, and took a great deal of personal interest in a select few - what he dubbed as his 'Special Pupils'. What made these pupils 'Special' wasnt exactly known, although with only a few exceptions, they all appeared to be rather demure, sensitive students with little in the way of any real intelligence or talent. Anything but special I would say. Walking, talking rectums would be more realistic. Anyhow, from time to time, the word 'Succeptable' would also crop up in conversation with some people I knew on the Academy staff. Of course, I enquired further, but was mostly answered with things like, 'Well, you know . . Nod nod wink wink' and 'The Commodant is always keen to help out with 'Extra' curricular activities.' Ok, call me dense if you like, but I didnt have a clue as to what they were going on about . . . . it obviously needed further investigation. I continued my enquiries as the days went by, talking to some old friends and new alike from the bustling center of excellence that was the Galcom naval Academy. Over many drinks in the rec club, I extracted with the aid of a vast ammount of alcahol (Why is it that students are the most capable of drinking themselfs to a near death without suffering too many ill effects the morning after?) a variety of rumors, near truths and some bare faced lies, but one rumor/near truth/bare faced lie remained constant, and that was the admirals relationship with his 'Special' students was far involved than was previously believed. Of course, what I had learnt was only rumor, and as policy, respected Galcom officers didnt bother themselfs with rumors. Fortunately for me, I never considered myself a model officer and was seldom respected for anything other than my filing capabilities.Such was also the case of a weary friend of mine that worked as an administrator down at the Academys housing office. How very fortunate for me. It took some doing, but I managed to convice said friend, once again using the 'Abuse of trust with excessive use of alcahol' scheme I had used previously and managed to arange to spend an exchange week as a cleaner in the block where these 'Special' students were housed. As a cleaner, my skills were sadly inferior to the majority of other walking organ doners on the job. My experience with all things broom, brush and cloth related was minimal, although I was a dab hand with the floor polisher for some unfathomable reason. Hmmm. That fact apparant, it usually took me twice as long to cleanse a recruits room than the others, although I usually finished my stint just as promptly as the professional cleaners due to my half assed efforts. Being on exchange (And the fact that I was an officer, lowly though I was) my poor form was excused for the most part, although I did get my fair share of dirty looks from the fat supervisor woman with the clipboard and pen. Eventually, and citing some obscure regulation about dereliction of duty, the old bitch had me transfered to the night shift. She wasnt aware of this, and had she ever been she probably would have burst that popping vein on her forehead, but she had just helped me out dramatically. I must remember to send a thank you note someday . . . . Uh . . . . . . oh yeah, the night shift . . during my time I occasionally wittnessed 'Clandestine' visits from members of the commadants staff during the wee hours of the night. I'd generally keep myself out of sight best I could, usually finding some dark corner to hide myself within until the sharp heel to toe tapping of staff officers boots on the marble academy floor ceased. Watching from my obscured position, I observed the same routine on a nightly basis. The commandants staff officers would quietly knock on the recruits doors, announce themselfs, exchange brief conversation, nod agreeably to eachother then part ways, satisfied with whatever arrangements they had made. Within a couple of hours on most nights (I say most nights because on one occasion I fell asleep inside a laundry basket and didnt wake until reveley) the commadant would shuffle into the recruits wing on an 'Inspection' tour, quietly sneak into the approached recruits room and not reapear for an hour or so. After a few days of observing this, I asked some of the other cleaners if they knew what was going on. Mostly I got glum, slightly startled looks from them and some lame cover story related excuse to throw me off the trail. One guy, quite probably the rebel amongst the cleaning crews did hint at some sort of dodgy goings on with the commadant and his recruits, but wouldnt venture so far as saying exactly what was on his mind. I offered to take him out to a bar that evening in an attempt to screw him for more information, but he took this the wrong way and beat me over the head repeatedly with his mop before apologising profusely for his misconduct, having some kind of anaphalaptic panic fit and running off down the corridor for an extended leave of abscence. I guess he figured striking an officer with a cleaning aid constituted some kind of criminal offence. As for me, my mild mopping had left me slightly wet and confused, but none the worse for ware. Of course, my supervisor got wind of my mopping and snooping and immediately transfered me back to the day shift. The following morning she curtly informed me the that my time as an exchange officer was to be terminated at the end of my next shift. My time for investigation had effectively run out. I had less than a day to put all the pieces together, work on a plan of action, put said plan of action into effect, reap the bounty of expected effect, congratulate myself on my brilliance by getting trashed and then getting the hell out of dodge before my smugness landed me in more trouble. Piece of cake. Well, that was the optermistic viewpoint anyway. The sad truth was I had nothing much to really go on. I knew that somthing was amis down at the academy, although not what. I hoped against hope that it was somthing revolting and depraved, but no so revolting and depraved that I was likely to be bundled up by some tough types and used as reactor shielding in a starship. Somthing mildly upsetting and embarising would be perfect. Anything too heavy would be way out of my league, and somthing barley noticiable would probably result in me returning to file management, suffering the indignity of paper cuts and triplicate urine sample analysis forms till the mandatory retirment age of 65. Either way, I would fail utterly at ever doing anything useful and worth while. I would die without ever reaching a tenth of my potential, and that wasnt somthing I particually enjoyed contemplating. Failure was not an option. I skipped work that morning and sat in the rec room downing mug after mug of hot coffee. I utilised the full potential of my brain, and attempted to gleam a modest understanding of all the facts and clues I had aquired over the last few weeks. Every conversation, every hushed rumor, every visual peice of information my brain could recall was brought into play, left to simmer in the melting pot of my mind and finally served up as a droolingly tasty theory. No, it wasnt a theory. It was a conclusion. Admiral Jethro and his 'Special' recruits were obviously Insurgent spies. I was way out of my league . . . . . . . . . . as a rule, I generally kept myself out of situations that would potentially end with the termination of my life. True, I had gotten myself in an enormous ammount of scrapes during my time as a Galcom offier, but these usually constituted being chased down by enraged husbands and frenzied systems developers who's requisitioned software update patch had invalidated their operating enviroment. Whatever that meant. Most of my run ins with those that would do harm to my bodily person were either rec facility bar staff, rec facility security officers and one particular rec facility patron who didnt appreciate me voicing a particually nasty rumor pertaining to his 'Alleged' preference for sleeping with the dead. I mean come on, It's not as if I started the rumor . . . . . I just made a point of informing the rest of the bar of this fact. Not one of my brightest moves in life but one worthy of a story or two . . . . perhaps some other time. Point is, although I had stuck my neck out and gotten myself in pole position for a damn good thrashing, I had never been in a position where I could quite conceivably find myself murdered. Hmmm. So far as I know anyway . . . . . Oh yeah . . . . the Insurgents . . . Well, it was quite obvious that I was in over my head, out of my league and up shit creek without a paddle.Cept when I though about it that wasnt exactly true. You see, although I had pieced together the puzzle, unless I did somthing really stupid, like alerting Intelligence (Ha! What a laugh) or mentioning, EVER, to anyone about this, I was pretty much home free. After all, they didnt know, I barley knew, and nobody as far as I knew suspected anything. Cool. Sadly, that didnt help me out none either. Do nothing and I would still in the same position as I was now, in the same useless job, doing the same useless things day in day out forever and ever and ever and ever . . . . . . I couldnt bare that. So it seemed, for better or for worse (Probably worse all things considered) I would have to act In some way or other. Alerting the proper authorities would be the logical way to procede, but that had a few inherent dangers and limitations. Firstly, If I was to blow the whistle on the Insurgent scum bags in the academy, I would likely be the target of immediate and painful reprisals, and although General Public for the most part believed that Galcom was up to scratch on wittness protection, occasional misdirected intelligence reports drifted into my office and informed me of quite the opposite. That reminds me, I must try and arrange a meeting with the General. Going by the newsthreads, he seems to have quite a lot of contact with the citizens back on earth. Might be a useful guy to be associated with. Hmmm. Anyway, the other problem with informing intelligence were reward limitations. Busting the Insurgents wide open would be good for Galcom, but bad for the career. Ok, so I would probably be promoted, but that wouldnt really help me get the command and respect I so richly deserved. After the dust settled, the beast would cover it up as best it could, and my name would go unnoticed amongst the thousands of others in the service of Galcom. I wouldnt be able to talk about my involvment, I wouldnt be able to use it as leverage at command school, hell, it would probably restrict me more than I was used to. No, uncovering the conspiricy amongst the recruits and Commodant Jethro wouldnt work. Besides, I would need proof, and that was somthing I had a huge lack of. That brought me back into focus. It didnt really matter what I decided to do in the end, without proof of any kind I'd be back shuffling papers quicker than Credian with a Vagrant up his ass. So there I was, still sitting in the academy rec room, dustpan and brush tethered to my side, still without a plan of action and quickly running out of time. Proof was needed, and the only way I imagined proof would be got would be through decietful, nefarious deeds. Perfect. I hatched my plot there in the rec room over the next few minutes. It came quickly after I had stumbled through the lack of proof barrier that woke me up to reality and forced me into some sort of action. The plan itself was remarkably simple. I needed to gain admittance to the suspected recruits quaters, (Easy since I was a cleaner) smuggle a holorecorder into suspected recruits quaters and affix to an unnoticable and electronically undetectable location, (Not so easy since I had neither the technical knowledge to plant an undetectable holorecorder OR a holorecorder for that matter) record Insurgent scum making tretcherous Insurgent like plans of evil and infimy, (Easy since part two of plan called for placement of unnoticable and undetectable holorecorder - basically I needed to press the record button) recover holorecorder with Insurgent lackys evil plot from recruits quaters, (Could be tricky considering I would no longer be a cleaner by the time I would be able to retrieve it) before confronting Commodant Jethro with the evidence and blackmailing his sorry Insurgent ass. (Easier than picking up a fat woman in a gym) BREATHE ! As I said, getting into any one the the recruits rooms during the day would be nice and easy. Only thing was, the Commodant wasnt in the habbit of visiting the same recruit over and over. As far as I understood, his visits didnt follow any particular patten (Although there was probably some Insurgent logic behind his apparant randomness) which made it kinda hard to predict which recruits quaters to bug. Sidestepping that slight oversight for the time being, I quickly considered part two of my plan. Allready I could think of a couple of probable locations to hide a holorecorder in the small quaters, but (And as per usual these days) my blasted brain reminded me that thinking of ingenious locations to hide the holorecorder didnt really help me very much since didnt know where I could get hold of one in the first place. Grrrrrrrr. The rest of the plan would probably take care of itself once the aquisition and placement of a holorecorder was accomplished. Still, I needed a sophisticated holorecorder, one that wouldnt be detectable by standard security sensors. Where the hell would I get one of those from? The answer to that question was going to land me in more trouble than any other single man in the whole of history, mostly due to poor time keeping, a need for rash ointment and an Insurgent Commander named Oliver. [Log interupted - Awaiting future download . . . . ] [Off doin some out town training for a few days, so be good and I'll seeyou on Thursday] ------------------ Commander Blades GCV - TSUNAMI Ôäó PRIME Fleet 'For Queen and country' ICQ#31927230 [This message has been edited by Blades (edited 03-27-99).]
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