The Last Battlefield

VERY Good keep up the good work themocaw!

Bookmarking...

Heh, I often wonder how we can all get away with being pals with the universe up until the end game when we have the upper hand, and start getting the itch to get a higher score... then we kill everything in our path.

It's just a game of course, but looking at it from this perspective has intrigued me in the past. I just can't put it into a nice tidy little story so well

Looking forward to the next episode, bookmark is in place

"So, what are you going to do when this war is over, Vashti?" Lieutenant Quinn O'Malley asked, looking up from his plotting boards at the

pretty, dark-haired weapons officer to his left.

"Catch some rays," Vashti Saint-Marie said. "I'm going to break out the skimpiest, most non-regulation bikini I can find, plomp down on

some sunny beach on some gorgeous planet somewhere with a mojito in one hand, and just soak up enough sunlight to make up for all these

years spent working under artificial light."

"Can I join you?" Quinn quipped.

"No. I prefer my vacation plans not to include annoying tech-nerds."

"Ouch," Quinn grabbed at his chest in mock pain. "You wound me milady."

"I hope it's fatal," Vashti griped.

"How about you, Petrovich?" Quinn asked, spinning around in his station chair to regard the hard-faced engineering officer. "What are you going to do when this war is over?"

"I'm going to sit myself down on the first barstool in the closest bar I can find, order a beer, and repeat step two until I'm broke or drunk," the big Russian said.

"Beer, not vodka?"

"Ha! Vodka is the single vilest invention that Mother Russia ever produced, a blight on her good name. Give me a good stout or a lager any day, the only thing the Germans ever did right in their lives."

"I'll drink to that. How about you, Commander?"

"Get married. If he'll still have me." First Officer Allison Keller stroked the ring she wore on her right hand, the one that she had once worn on her left before being called up out of the reserves. "If not. . . I don't know."

"Of course he'll still have you, Commander," Quinn said confidently. "Who wouldn't want a hot babe like you?"

Commander Keller had long-since exhausted the whole, "flirting with a superior officer is a court-martial offense" speech, and just settled for giving the incorrigible Quinn a stern look. "People change in three years. Sometimes, they change a lot," she said wistfully.

Quinn nodded and spun around in his chair again. "Doesn't anyone want to ask what I'm planning on doing?"

"No, because no one cares," Vashti said.

"Ouch. . . another palpable touch, my lady. Anyway, I'll tell you guys anyway. First, I'm going back home. Then I'm going to find the prettiest, most gorgeous lady in the world. . ."

"Stop right there, Quinn," Vashti groaned.

". . . and eat my mom's lo mai gai and shumai at our family restaurant until I pop," Quinn concluded. He gave the rest of the bridge crew an innocent look. "What?"

"Nothing," Vashti sighed. She'd been had again.

There was a long pause.

"Hey, Quinn, I was just wondering," Anton Petrovich asked. "You're full-blooded Chinese, right?"

"100% yellow, baby," Quinn quipped.

"And you're not adopted?"

"Not at all."

"Hm. I was just wondering, how'd you wind up with a name like Quinn O'Malley, anyway?" Petrovich asked. "It's not exactly common."

"Well, actually, it's pretty funny," Quinn said. "When I was born, there was this long line at the clinic for names registration, and the lady behind the desk wasn't really paying attention."

"Oh god, I don't like where this is going already," Vashti sighed.

"So my dad is standing in line right behind this Irish couple," Quinn went on. "They come to the desk, lady asks them, 'Name of child.' They say, 'Quinn O'Malley.' 'Right then, here you go, have a nice day, next. Name of child?' My dad says, 'Sam Ching.' 'Same thing, Quinn O'Malley, right then, here you go, have a nice day, next.'" Quinn snapped his fingers like a flamenco dancer.

There was a long pause.

"That's retarded," Vashti groaned.

"Hey, I thought it was pretty funny," Quinn pouted.

"That's because you're a retard too," Vashti said snidely.

"Aww, you know you love me, babe --"

"Captain on deck," Commander Keller interrupted.

The bridge crew snapped to attention as a tall, lean black man stepped out of the elevator lift and onto the deck. "At ease," Captain Solomon Dube intoned in his deep, bass voice. "Mister Keller."

"Captain. 1117 and all's well. No further updates since my last report. Star Force One will be arriving in half an hour, as scheduled. You may take the conn."

"Thank you, Mister Keller. I have the conn." Allison Keller saluted and stepped aside from the commander's station, taking a seat at her usual position behind the tactical displays. Captain Solomon Dube of the "TAS Birmingham" was a South African wet navy officer who had transferred to the Star Force after the Drengin attack on Johannesburg. Rumor had it that he was also pureblooded Zulu, and a descendent of the legendary Shaka himself. The rumors were probably false, but it was clear that under his command, the Interceptor-Class destroyer had amassed a remarkable number of enemy kills, the most of any ship in the Alliance fleet. Stern, efficient, and courageous, he was the poster child of the war PR effort, and the obvious choice to for the Presidential honor guard escorting Star Force One to Piers.

Two other Alliance capital ships had been chosen for that honor. To starboard, the TAS Shanghai, an Atlas-class heavy cruiser bristling with missile and mass driver banks, the ship that had broken the back of the Korath invasion fleets. In the lead position, in the place of honor, was the TAS Terra itself, commanded by Admiral Montgomery Burnside, High Commander of the Star Force Navy. TAS Terra was one of the new Stormseeker-class battleships, six times larger than the old Birmingham, armed with state-of-the-art photon torpedos, protected by top-of-the-line Kanvium armor that could halt a Korath nano-ripper dead in its tracks. Her weapons had never once been fired in anger, and with the war now over, it seemed that TAS Terra would be the first and the last ship of her class. But, for now, she would serve an honored role as a symbol of Terran determination and military might, a reminder of the price that was paid on the eve of galactic peace.

"Sir?"

"Mmmm? Yes, Mister O'Malley?" Captain Dube asked.

"I was just wondering," Quinn said. "Do you have any plans on what you're going to do once the war is over, sir?"

Captain Dube thought for a moment. "Let's make sure the war is over first, Mister O'Malley."

Bookmarked (this work week is looking up   )

Shhh! I'm trying to watch the movie!   

**********
I keep forgetting how tall the Arceans are, Alan Bradley thought. When your main mode of communication was through a telescreen, it was easy to forget that the being on the other side of the monitor was, literally, twice your size. Lord Vega was easily the tallest being in the room, his twelve feet of height looming nearly to the ceiling of the ornate meeting hall. His two bodyguards were slightly shorter, but far larger: the heavy-worlders looked like they could tear the entire building down barehanded, rather like Samson in that old Bible school story. Not that they would need to, for all three carried traditional Arcean battle-hatchets in ceremonial belt scabbards, and the bodyguards were resplendent in their golden plate armor and polished phasor rifles.

They were not, by far, the most scintillating sight in the room. Elys Mue, former leader of the Altarian Resistance (now the First Premier of the New Altarian Republic), was far and away the brightest thing in the room, her formal gowns of silver and baby-blue shimmering as she moved. Standing next to Jennifer, the two of them looked like darkness and light: Jennifer glowing as softly as the stars, Elys as bright and scintillating as the moon. More than one pair of eyes surreptitiously glanced at the two women chatting amiably over flutes of Dom Perignon champagne specifically imported from Earth just for this occasion.

If Elys and Jennifer were the moon and stars, then Kralax was certainly the darkness. Bradley felt his hackles rising at the sight of the blank-faced Korx Executive picking his way through the refreshments table. It wasn't so much the Korx himself who bothered Alan, as it was his bodyguard. The Drengin looked uncomfortable wearing Korx livery, and he regarded the other guests at the conference as if he would be happier dining on foreign dignitary hors d'ouvres, but in the words of an old writer, it was safer nowadays for a Drengin to eat arsenic than a human. Bradley had to applaud the Korx for their ingenuity in manipulating the economics of the war, slowly eating away at the Drengin treasury with usurious loans until, with Terran and Krynn fleets poised to strike a final blow, the desperately cash-strapped Drengin had "sold off shares," in their homeworld to the Korx conglomerate in return for their aid and protection. The resulting "hostile takeover" had resulted in the termination of several heads of state. . . literally in the case of Lord Kona. . . and the installation of a puppet regime colloquially referred to as "Drengin Security Services Inc."

Bradley still wasn't sure whether that made him feel more or less comfortable. Lord Kona had been a thug, but he'd never been sly or cunning. Kralax was both. The idea of Drengin military prowess in the hands of one as devious-minded as Kralax made him shudder.

Almost as strange was the League of Independent Worlds. Also known as the I-League, it was a conglomerate of independently governed planets, mostly made up of minor races that had never expanded beyond their local solar systems, as well as a few dissident worlds who had broken away from their home nations in search of better things. Their delegation was easily the largest, for each of the nation-states had insisted on sending their own ambassador to the conference: their seats took up nearly half the table. Their leader was a somewhat dour looking amphibian named Wardle: he seemed preoccupied with some astropolitical simulation, taking notes on the pad of paper by his desk and muttering dark imprecations to himself about the artificial intelligence's reactions to his simulation parameters. Bradley reminded himself not to underestimate the unusual looking politician: that froggy looking man had succeeded where other, larger empires had failed, carving out a niche for himself and his followers in a hostile galaxy. That in itself was an accomplishment that could not be denied.

Last, but not least, the guests of the hour. Alan knew when Ynrhed Eidden and his ministers had arrived by the sudden applause that started at one side of the room and spread through the conference hall like a wave. The Krynn Speaker emerged from the double doors to the north of the conference hall like a reigning king descending from his throne, flanked by the five ministers of his cabinet. All were dressed in the strangest outfit that Bradley had ever seen a Krynn wear: black flowing robes that floated behind them like wings. He realized that there were small antigravity orbs sewed into their clothing that gave them the strange effect. The result was. . . ethereal. Other-worldly, to say the least.

The others saw it too. Alan prided himself on his ability to read a room: it had served him well in his early political career, cavassing for votes in VFW halls and grassroots fundraisers, and he knew when the mood of the room changed. The Krynn, mysterious and unscrutable at the best of times, had just passed into the realm of utter strangeness. He saw more than a couple of pairs of eyes turn and look to him for reassurance.

He only wished he had some to give.

"When you're most scared, that's when you should act decisively," his father had told him, so Bradley mustered up what courage he could and strode confidently towards the Krynn delegation, glancing over at Jennifer as he did so. His wife excused herself from her conversation with the Altarian Premier and put her hand in the crook of his arm. "Alan," she whispered. "I have a bad feeling. The Krynn. . ."

"I know," Alan Bradley interrupted. "Me too."

"What do we do?" Jennifer asked.

"What a politician always does when he's scared shitless," Bradley muttered. "Smile for the camera."

He walked directly up to the Krynn ambassador, noting out of the corner of his eye how the other delegates backed away a subtle half step. Summoning up his failing courage, he decided to opt out of the Western-style handshake: he wasn't sure if the Krynn could even untangle his hand/claw from that cascade of robes. Instead, remembering the lessons he'd learned from his political campaign in Japan, he chose to put his hands at his sides and bow from the waist. He saw Jennifer follow his lead. "Welcome to this conference, Ynrhed Eidden," Bradley said. "May this meeting be the beginning of a new age of peace and friendship for all our peoples."

There was a moment of tense silence. Finally, the Krynn Speaker folded his hands at his chest and returned the bow, followed by the other six members of his staff. "We greet you, Alan Bradley of Earth," the Krynn said, in his strange, buzzing voice. "We too, share your desire for peace in the galaxy."

There was a silent sigh of relief, and the tension dissipated. Conversation resumed. Bradley felt himself go into autopilot, introducing his wife to the Krynn delegation, going through all the diplomatic niceties that he'd done so many times before and could do in his sleep. His mind was elsewhere.

Peace, the Krynn had said. Not friendship. Had the omission been deliberate, or just an oversight? What had that little pause meant, before the Speaker had responded?

And why did he keep remembering the words of Emperor Iso the Wise, that a dead, lifeless pond was very peaceful indeed?

**********

**********
"Has the Admiral gone completely nuts?" Allison Keller asked. She tugged at the skirt of her dress whites, wondering why, after all these years, female military uniforms still looked like something out of an office lady fantasy. The men got to look sharp and cool with their crisply pressed trousers and the red blood stripe running down the side, but the girls were stuck wearing tight skirts and silly hats. At least they didn't have to wear high heels.

"As long as the politicians are having their day, we military types should also do our part," Captain Dube rumbled. "Besides, you can't tell me that you've never thought about what it would be like to have dinner with a Drengin officer?"

"Only in nightmares," Commander Keller admitted. She'd finally arranged her skirt into something resembling a comfortable fit as the elevator doors opened and a nervous looking shavetail ensign welcomed them to the TAS Terra's formal dining hall.

Admiral Montgomery Burnside was one of the few men in existence who could wear massive muttonchop sideburns and not look like a fool. A portly man with white hair and a lined face, he wore the authority of his rank with a practiced ease born of long years of service. The Terran Medal of Honor, a gaudy golden sunburst awarded only to the most valiant of warriors, hung around his neck, over the impressive array of battle ribbons and decorations on his chest. "Captain Solomon Dube," the old soldier said, with a slight cough. "Allow me to introduce Centurion Naga, Imperial Arcean Space Navy, Second Division. Centurion Naga, Captain Solomon Dube, of the TAS Birmingham. If you will excuse me, Centurion Naga, I will be back shortly."

The massive Arcean's hand engulfed Dube's in a viselike grip as Admiral Burnside walked to a nearby communications panel. "Captain Solomon Dube," the big alien intoned. "I have heard of your exploits behind enemy lines. You do well killing unarmed enemy troop transports. One might say you have a talent for it."

Allison was furious. "Why that. . ."

Keller halted as Dube twitched his hand at her in a quelling gesture. "The talent, Centurion Naga, is not in killing unarmed transports," the Captain rumbled. "It is in avoiding and evading the extremely heavily armed cruisers that are protecting them."

"Ah yes. . . strike at the enemy's vulnerable points and run away from their ships of war. An effective, if cowardly tactic," Centurion Naga sneered.

"Of course. Would you say it is more or less effective than sending an unarmed alien race plans for a stargate that cannot be turned off that, in the process, also opens up their world to foreign conquest?" Dube asked innocently.

For a moment, Keller thought that Naga was going to take Dube's head off right then and there. The big Arcean's face turned even greener, and his eyes bulged out as if they would pop out of his head, and his hand tightened on his hatchet in a white-knuckle grip. Keller was already reaching for her sidearm when a clear, bell-like laugh interrupted the confrontation. "You will find," the newcomer said, "that the Terran reputation for rhetoric is not exaggerated. I myself have been on the recieving side of it myself many times."

If Allison had thought that her uniform was impractical, this woman's was even worse. She was dressed in a jet-black, skin-tight bodysuit adorned only with the blue crest of the Altarian Republic. The glowing tattoos of a Field Commander shone on her left temple. She was completely unarmed, but she carried herself with a catlike grace that emanated an easy menace, rather like a caged tiger. "I do think it would be better if we allow ourselves to let bygones be bygones. After all, we are all friends now, aren't we?" She placed a hand on the Arcean's forearm.

"And who is this female who thinks that she can dictate terms to a warrior?" Centurion Naga sneered.

"Saya La'ir," the Altarian said softly. "First Altarian Resistance Fighters. Silver Blades."

The Arcean blanched, and Keller saw Dube take a step back. The Silver Blades were legendary Altarian commandos, particularly trained in hand-to-hand combat, and Allison saw now that Saya had positioned herself within reaching distance of the Arcean's ceremonial hatchet. Centurion Naga paused, then took a deep breath and let his hand fall from his weapon. "My apologies," he growled, every word sounding like it was forced from his scaly green lips. "I seem to have consumed too much of this. . . 'wine' you humans serve. Excuse me." He strode off into the mingling crowd, body-checking a hapless Carinoid into the punch bowl in the process.

Saya turned to the two Terran officers, and her eyes were cold and angry. "Baiting an Arcean is a dangerous game," she said. "You're lucky I was here to head him off."

Captain Dube just smiled. "Actually, my subordinate Allison Keller had it all in hand. Didn't you, Allison?"

"Of course, sir. Had you covered the whole time." Keller let her hand drop from the pocket phasor strapped to her thigh, hidden under her damn impractical uniform skirt.

Saya just shook her head. "Terrans," she muttered.

There was a ringing sound as Admiral Burnside tapped his fork against his glass. "Thank you for coming," he said. "I'm afraid that Executor Lorlei Ygdrii and his lieutenants will not be joining us for dinner tonight. So if you will take your drinks and follow me, we can get started."

"That's too bad for the Krynn, isn't it?" Dube murmured. "I hear that TAS Terra has the best ship's cook in the fleet. They're missing out on a great meal."

Keller glanced over at the still-fuming Arcean Centurion, who was glaring daggers at Dube as he stooped to fit through the (for him) low-hanging doorway. "On the whole?" Allison admitted, "I think I'd rather be having burgers and beer with O'Malley and the men righ now."

"You and me both," Dube admitted. "You and me both."

**********
Things were going much better than Bradley had expected.


They were coming to the end of the rather boring round of opening statements that marked the beginning of most of these diplomatic conferences. There had been no surprises. Bradley's speech had spoken about Terran hopes for peace and prosperity. Elyse Mue had spoken about the end to long years of bloodshed. Lord Vega, the need to remember the fallen. Kralax had basically given an economic report and a plan for future mergers and acquisitions. Each of the dozens of races in the I-League had then gotten up to say their own version of the usual diplomatic song and dance.

By the time Ynrhed Eidden rose to take the podium, the audience had mostly devolved into small packets of silent negotiations through instant messenger and datavise, small electronic negotiations hammering out minor agreements like trade pacts and non-aggression treaties. So it was a bit of a surprise to Alan Bradley when he heard the Krynn Premier speaking his name.

"Alan Bradley, of the Terran Alliance," Eidden repeated.

"I'm sorry, Premier, could you repeat the question?" Bradley admitted, straightening his tie.

"Alan Bradley, of the Terran Alliance," Eidden repeated. "To your nation, the Krynn Consulate grants the star systems of Vega, Bond, and Alcont, along with all planetary colonies and mining bases in those star systems. Do you accept?"

"Wait, what?" Bradley glanced at Prakash, who had already brought up the star system data on his datapad. "My God, that's seven planets. . . are you serious?"

"Yes," Premier Eidden said softly. "What is your answer?"

"We. . ." Bradley took a deep breath. "We accept!" he finally said.

The room erupted in surprised murmurs. Bradley glanced through the datapad. Not only had the Alliance just been given nine new habitable planets, three of them were PQ 10 or higher, and the others could be improved to that level with some minor terraforming: a piece of cake for the Alliance. Good God, this is a 25% increase in our planetary assets. . .

"Elyse Mue," Premier Eidden went on. "Your race has suffered most grievously in the war. To you, we wish to grant the star systems of Aldaran, Hoth, Betelgeuse, the former home system of the Dark Yor. . ."

Within moments, the Krynn had finished giving away over half of their stellar empire to the other races. Bradley did some quick calculations: the Krynn had come into the meeting controlling over 75% of the known galaxy. By the time they were finished, they controlled barely a third: still a strong plurality, but nowhere near the dominance they had once enjoyed.

"A second gift," Eidden continued. At the gesture of a hand, Eidden's cabinet ministers each approached the head of a different stellar nation and handed over a small box of datachips, representing something along the lines of a thousand exobytes of data. "These boxes contain the sum of our technological and scientific knowledge. The data will require careful study and even more careful application, but we have confidence in your ability to do so."

i]My God, is he serious?[/i] Bradley glanced through the index file. My God, he is! It was all here, all of the technology that had given the Krynn such an edge: Doom Rays. Massive Scale engineering techniques. Hyper-Warp drive. It was all there.

The room was on the verge of chaos. Elyse Mue seemed on the verge of tears. Lord Vega looked awestruck. The I-League was nearly beside itself with glee. Bradley felt his head swimming, turned to regard Kralax of Korx, but his smile faded when he saw the posture the blank-faced alien had assumed. He had his hands on the edge of the table, as if waiting for a signal to spring away. . . and Alan Bradley felt a chill run down his spine as he considered that Kralax was the top negotiator in the galaxy.

"And now," Ynrhed Eidden said. "Our final gift." The Korx unrolled a parchment from under his cloak and began to read, the repulsors in his cloak forming the black cloth into a pair of demonic wings that seemed to flutter in the breeze from the room's air conditioning.

Bradley listened in stunned silence. "My God, this is actually happening," he whispered. "Laramie. . ."

"I know, sir," Bradley's grim-faced Secret Service head said. "We're on it."

Ynrhedd Eidden finished speaking. He rolled up the parchment and nodded.

"Are there any questions?"

The room exploded in shouting.

**********

"Captain Dube, you have a message from TAS Birminham. Priority Red."

"Priority Red. . . let me see it Ensign."

"Here it is, sir."

". . . has this been verified?"

"It has, sir."

"I see. . . Allison, we need to get back to the Birmingham right away. Admiral Burnside, I'm sorry, but a matter has come up that demands our immediate attention."

"Captain, what is it?"

"No time, I'll explain on the way. . ."

***********

"THIS IS BLASPHEMY!" Lord Vega roared. "THIS IS IDIOCY, THIS IS MADNESS, THIS IS. . ."

"This is the only path that is left to us," the Krynn premier interrupted. "Your diplomats will be given twenty four hours to vacate their embassies. They will be granted safe passage to home territory granted that they do so at the utmost possible speed. Lingering will be considered an act of aggression."

"GUARDS, seize those traitors immediately!" Lord Vega shouted.

"Stand down!" Bradley leaped to his feet. Kralax of Korx, he noticed, had fled the room the moment that the Krynn had finished their speech. "Lord Vega, I know that this announcement comes as a shock to us all, but we came here under a flag of peace! Don't make things worse than they already are. . ."

"Shut up, Bradley! It was listening to 'talkers' and 'diplomats' like you that brought us into this mess! No further! The Arcean Empire will no longer allow its path to be dictated by weaklings and morons. We withdraw from this farce of a United Planets!"

Oh God, Bradley cringed. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse.

**********

"I don't think it gets any better than this," Quinn O'Malley said. He accepted a sip of beer from one of the Carinoid twins sitting in his lap. "I gotta hand it to you, Petrovich. This was a great idea."

"I told you," the big Russian said, grinning as he slipped a five-credit bill into the garter belt of the Altarian pole dancer gyrating on the stage above him. "Find a cheap bar with some cheap beer and get drunk. It's the only way to relax."

"Quinn, Petrovich."

Quinn spewed beer all over the place in shock. "Vashti! This was all Nik's idea, I never wanted to come here, believe me, I find this place disgusting. . ."

"HEY!" Petrovich complained. "Thanks for the backup, buddy. . ."

"Quinn, Petrovich. . ." Vashti said again. She handed a datapad over to Quinn, turned and walked out of the bar.

"Wow," Petrovich murmured. "That was strange. I thought we were dead."

"Hold that thought, buddy," Quinn whispered. "All leaves were just cancelled. We're being recalled to the Birmingham. It looks like the Krynn just declared war."

"WHAT!?" Petrovich shouted, spilling his beer. "On whom?"

Quinn downed the rest of his beer in a single gulp. "Everybody," he said grimly.

Very very good so far.

I'm a little confused as to what happened when he was finished speaking, however.

The Krynn read a declaration of war on the entire Galaxy.

Well, yeah, I gathered that.

This is what confused me: " The Korx unrolled a parchment from under his cloak and began to read, the repulsors in his cloak forming the black cloth into a pair of demonic wings that seemed to flutter in the breeze from the room's air conditioning."

Care to elaborate?

The Krynn Ambassador has a flair for drama.

I think what's confused him and me is that it's the Korx ambassador reading that, when I think you meant the Krynn.

Damn typos. . .

**********
It was a strange crew that reassembled on the Birmingham's bridge that afternoon.

On the one hand, Captain Dube and Commander Keller had just arrived from the dinner party, and were looking resplendent in their gilded dress whites, kid gloves, and black leather shoes polished to a mirror shine. On the other hand. . .

"Mister O'Malley," Allison said, taking off her hat and hanging it from a hook in the wall. "Please recite for me Star Force regulation 756.451b, 'Dress-Code for Off-Duty Star Force Personnel.'"

"Yes, sir," Quinn gulped. "Ummm. . . I don't remember the exact words, but it says I need a button-down shirt and slacks, no jeans, no shorts."

"Right. I know that regulation is rarely enforced, but I think now is a good example of why it's on the books. Unless, of course, you think your current garb presents an appropriate level of dignity for the Star Force," Keller murmured.

Quinn looked down at his bermuda shorts and raunchy t-shirt ("Big Johnson HD Spike Drivers - You'll always nail your target with a BIG JOHNSON,") that he hadn't had time to change out before taking his station on the bridge. "Yes, sir," he said miserably.

"We'll discuss disciplinary action after we get out of this current situation," Captain Dube interjected gently. "Helm, bring us about and plot a course for the nearest jump point. Match velocities with the Terra and Star Force One. Tactics, I want full-spectrum scans of the surrounding area, keep me informed, I don't want to be caught with my pants down. Ops, sound General Quarters and bring our weapons systems up to Ready One. Guns, prepare firing solutions for. . ."

"Sir. I've got a ping on long range sensors. . . strike that, multiple bogies, approaching from 12 o'clock," Quinn interrupted. "Arcean Heavy Fighters, three squadrons, approaching at military speed, weapons hot. ETA fifteen minutes."

"Damn. What's our ETA to Jump Point?" Captain Dube growled.

"Three hours, at current speeds," Commander Keller reported.

"Of course it is," Captain Dube sighed. "Guns, prepare firing solutions against multiple small targets, but do not lock and load until ordered to do so. Tactics, give me a scan on the bogies, composition and number."

"Done," Quinn said. "Three squadrons of Arcean Fighters. One attack squadron, nine Kig-7 'Hagfish." One recon squadron, one Jag-9 'Hawker,' eight Hagfish. One. . ." Quinn grimaced. "Lead Squadron pings as the Imperial Royal Guard squadron. Four Kig-11 'Hellblade' heavy bombers. One Erebus-Class Frigate. Looks like the "Pride of Arcea."

"Lord Vega's personal vessel," Solomon Dube nodded. Arcean military doctrine, based on an ethos of personal honor and individual prowess, tended towards large fleets of small one-man fighters. The only frigates in the Arcean armada were reserved for battle group commanders who, it was reasoned, would serve better commanding the overall flow of battle rather than winning personal glory, which most Arcean commanders had in abundance already. "Keep an eye on them, Quinn, let me know if anything changes."

"Something just did. I'm reading a secure communication between the 'Pride' and Star Force One," Quinn said. "Looks like they want to talk."

"Somehow, I get the feeling this isn't going to be a friendly social call," Dube said grimly.

**********

"Get me the head of the TIS on the phone now. I want to know why, with all the money those spooks are spending, NO one told me the Krynn were planning something like THIS!" Alan Bradley seethed.

"Mister President, with all due respect. . . these are the Krynn we're talking about. Every single agent that we've tried to send in has been neutralized," Prakash said delicately.

Bradley knew Victor was right, but it still pissed him off. With most other races, "neutralizing" a spy usually meant a plasma bolt to the back of the head in some dark alley somewhere. With the Krynn. . . every Terran agent sent in had not only disappeared from his job, but had emerged later spouting the same religious gibberish that the rest of the Krynn did. Terran Intelligence Service wasn't sure if it was brainwashing or just extremely effective proselytizing, but the end result was that spying on the Krynn just resulted in the Krynn gaining more intelligence on the Alliance. TIS had issued an official embargo on using HumInt on the Consulate, having to content itself with passive, unmanned probes.

Alan Bradley struggled with a sudden impulse to call the head of TIS out on the carpet and chew him out like a nun in Catholic school. He had to admit, though, it wasn't really Edgar's fault. It wasn't Edgar he was mad at, nor even the Krynn.

It was himself. Iso the Wise had warned him. Laramie had warned him. Even Jennifer had known that the Krynn couldn't be trusted, and he had walked into this summit as blindly as a newborn baby. The Krynn had pulled off their. . . what had they pulled off? What were they really after?

"Angie, get these things to Edgar Hancock at TIS ASAP," Bradley said, handing the datapads of information over to his adjutant. "I want them analyzed for trojan horses. Quarantine the planets that we were given, I want every inch of the planet's surface scanned for nasty surprises from orbit before any Terran steps foot on them. Tell Star Force to halt the decommissioning of those ships, we're going to need them. . ."

"Mister President, we have an incoming secure call from Lord Vega," Victor interrupted. "Shall I patch it through to your secure. . ."

"Put it on open broadcast."

"But sir. . ."

"Put the damn thing on open broadcast NOW," Bradley growled. "If that damn arrogant lizard wants to talk, he'll do so openly to the entire Terran Alliance."

"Yes, Mister President. One moment." The hapless young man ran up to the bridge of the small vessel to have a word with the captain.

"Is that wise?" Jennifer asked. She'd been watching silently from the corner, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes as inscrutable as a sphinx. "It might make things worse than it already is. Lord Vega's pride is fragile."

"Lord Vega's pride made a bad situation worse. That idiot can hang out to dry for all I care," Bradley said bitterly. He rubbed his forehead with his fingertips, sighing. "I was going to announce my resignation at the end of that conference, you know," he whispered. "Maybe I should do that anyway. I've made a mess of things, love. This could be the end of us."

Jennifer took his hands in hers, kissed the big, rough knuckles of the former corn farmer from Kansas whom she loved so much. "Do what is best for the Alliance, Alan," she said. "Do what you've always done."

***********
(Taken from the official communications logs of the TAS Terra, July 17, 2230 conversation between Lord Vega of the Arcean Empire and Alan Bradley of the Terran Alliance)

BRADLEY: Lord Vega. To what do I owe the pleasure of this--

VEGA: Dispense with the pleasantries, Bradley. I am no longer interested in listening to the moronic simperings of you hairless apes. The Krynn have betrayed us all. Your nation is weak and requires protection. The Krynn will swallow you like a fregk seed and will capture your worlds, making them even more unstoppable than they are now. For the good of the galaxy, you will submit yourself to an Arcean protectorship. We will allow you to remain as a regional governor in exchange for--

BRADLEY: Out of the question.

VEGA: What?

BRADLEY: If you want the Alliance's help, come back to the negotiating table. Rejoin the United Planets and negotiate with us as equals. The Alliance doesn't submit to terrorists or bullies.

VEGA: Equals? HA! So be it, then. You have stacked the wood for your own funeral pyre, Alan Bradley. The Arcean Empire declares its intentions to conquer the Terran Alliance and take over its worlds for the sake of galactic peace. We shall begin by making an example of you. Make peace with your god, Bradley, for you shall be meeting him soon.

(End Transcript)

Great story, Themocaw! However, a couple of your most recent plot points don't add up:

1) The Krynn declaration of war immediatley after giving away approximately half of their star systems and all of their technology to the races they are going to fight.

2) The Arcean decision to initiate war with the Terrans when they are already at war with the most powerful polity in the galaxy.

You imply that the Krynn are playing a very deep game and have probably inserted time-bomb biological plagues, software viruses, and other booby traps into the gifts they have given the other races ------ but then you don't give the other races time to take the bait! The Krynn strategy would make a lot of sense if they waited several years and then attacked. If nothing else, most of the other races would have partially or completely de-mobilized by then. This way, the Krynn's gifts are immediately suspect and all of the target races are already fully mobilized. This will make the Krynn's task of galactic conquest harder, not easier.

The Arcean decision to fight a two-front war is bizarre. Perhaps there is some Arcean strategic logic or deep cultural imperative that can explain this decision. The only explanation I can see from a human strategic perspective is that the Terran Alliance is incredibly weak and the Arcean's believe they can conquer the TA quickly with a minority of their military power while they hold off the Krynn with the majority of their strength.

Again, great story! I'm just wondering how you're going to explain these mysterious decisions.

He's depicting the Krynn as religious fanatics, I don't think their are any plagues or virus's, instead I'd suspect their actions are religious in nature. At the same time, handing over my Doom Ray Weapons doesn't bother me in game, especially if I have fully researched shields...

The Acrean's are acting stupid. You could argue they are trying to take over the Terrans so they have a larger force to attack the Krynn with, and to avoid having the Terrans fall to the Krynn (making the Krynn stronger).

Same strategy I use in games when their is a big dog on the block I can't fight. I go after a littler guy and try to get bigger.

The Krynn motivations will become clear as time passes. Suffice to say, Aluroon has basically nailed it in one: Krynn motivations are less pragmatic, and more spiritual. Also, keep in mind that it's Bradley who's suspicious of the Krynn gifts. For all we know, the Krynn just decided to give away everything they own to the poor and declare war on their friends because God told them to.

As for the Arceans, you're both right. They are being stupid, and they do think they can take down the Alliance in one go before turning around to take on the Krynn. Also, I'll try to make this clear in a later post, but there are other reasons why the Arceans believe they can divert themselves conquering the Terrans while the Krynn begin their rampage.

Aluroon,

Thanks for the insight about Krynn religious fanaticism and potential divine revelations from the Krynn deity(s). I had forgotten that aspect of Krynn culture.

I've also used the strategy of going after less powerful prey when the biggest power is too strong to attack. However, I usually don't adopt that strategy if I'm already in a war with the strongest power in the galaxy. It will be interesting to see how Themocaw explains the Arcean rationale for this choice.

Themocaw #21 --- thanks for the feedback and the additional insights about the plot. Now I just have to wait for the next installment - damn it!  

Thanks for the great stories Themocaw, including this one and "Diary of a Terran Soldier". Looking forward to reading more.

Well Arceans have so much pride that they think they can easly fight a war on
two fronts.