lancer
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Joined: 10/18/2005
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Anthropological thoughts, surprisingly, are uppermost in my daily reflection. I am, in my own modest manner, developing a theory.
The galaxy, possibly even the entire universe, has been seeded from the well spring of humanity. Mankind, the ultimate expression of evolutionary perfection, has been blown hither and yon by a benevolent Solar Wind. Offshoots of Man’s genus have taken root throughout the galaxy. We humans are everywhere.
All different in their own ways as you would expect from pockets of humanity that have experienced long years of isolation. But all recognisably human, derived from the great mother lode of genes that, I’m convinced, exists on a mystical, missing Earth.
All other forms of sentient life forms are nothing but rotting, dying branches that fell off the great tree of humanity. The T-Rex pirates and the Icky Apes being classic examples.
Doubtless there are also other similar examples of evolutionary dead ends lurking out there in the void.
Nature does this kind of stuff. For every winner there are numerous hopeless experiments that all turn out badly.
Yep, you might get to be a smart T-Rex or a space going Ape but one day you are going to bump into the top of the food chain who will, inevitably, terminate your evolutionary license.
That would be us. Humans. Licensed to kill. Natures’ Double-O Secret Agents that keep the weeds out of the garden.
What about the Quameno, you ask? Clearly they have nothing in common with humanity. No connection whatsoever.
That’s because they are slimy, stinking Toads. They don’t count.
Anyway, I have it on good authority that they are an endangered species, soon to be extinct. Good riddance to the b*stards.
Humans. Greatest species in the Universe. Here, there and everywhere.
Patiently waiting for a strong leader who will join them into one great race and propel them forward to galactic dominance.
Rubbing my hands, I start dictating notes to Son of Igor. Important to promulgate the message. Issue a small booklet to all concerned citizens.
‘The Thoughts of Emperor Fred’. Max out the print runs. Bound to be a hit.
An angry Zorg is a sight to behold. Doesn’t yell or shout. Furniture remains intact. Just stands there, eyeballing you. Intense, unblinking stare.
Telepathically communicating that I, Emperor Fred, have messed up.
Going to war with the Icky Apes apparently isn’t in Zorgs play book. Forming mutually beneficial trade agreements with the harmless, loveable, merchandise-buying Monkey Men, is.
War, so I’ve been told by my favourite Merchant Prince, is bad for business. As in B-A-D. Expensive freighters get blown up. Even more expensive mining bases get blown up.
Profits head south. Keep heading south and all you’ll find is cold, ice and Purple Polar Bears.
Profits, explained Zorg, should go north. To the sun. Where Merchant Princes can relax in their fake Mediterranean Villas surrounded by like-minded Nuevo rich. Where they can safely lie back amongst hangers-on and assorted social parasites dreaming of endless rivers of wealth.
I’m puzzled by this sudden change of face. Zorg is – was? – my friend. A dependable rock in amongst the turmoil of recent events. A supportive shoulder ever willing to lend a hand.
Yet here he is, upset. Angry. At me. Inferring that I’m a one-track, mono-neuronal warmonger.
Threatening to reinstate the High Council if I don’t revert from my business devaluing ways. Demanding that I instigate diplomatic communications with the Monkey Men and sign a mutually advantageous trade agreement.
Not listening when I explain the necessity of eradicating a race of unpredictable psychopathic Apes. Doesn’t appear to understand that the future of the human species is at risk.
Fixated on profits. Visions of huge potential new markets of consuming Monkey Men clouding his vision.
Telling me that I’m only sitting on my throne because of his support. Reminding me what Caesar giveth, Caesar can also taketh.
Leaves me to ponder the best course of action. Strongly suggests that it involves diplomacy rather than torpedoes. Dark undertones of steel-eyed threat. Closes the door behind him with an eerie, measured politeness.
Gasping, I slump back into my chair. The Royal Throne. You have to be an Emperor to sit in this chair.
Being Emperor, I’m learning, doesn’t necessarily equate to being a man of power and influence.
Here I sit, with artificial limbs and an irregular heartbeat, caught between a rock and a hard place. On one hand I have a diminutive, not-to-smart, General with aspirations of being the next Napoleon Bonaparte and on the other a ruthless Merchant Prince.
One has the Empires entire armed might at his disposal, the other has defacto control over the Empires purse strings and resource flow.
Depressingly, my only power base, nebulous at best, the general public, are currently in two minds about their Emperor. Exterminating the Quameno has given Mr and Mrs Average stomach indigestion.
A clean, surgical strike that wiped out the Toads in one fell swoop would have been accepted as a necessary evil but the ongoing daily news stories of half-starving, terrified Toads being hunted down by power-suited Death Squads has only encouraged sympathy for their cause.
Lapsing into a black mood I angrily lash at my thrones fancy ornamental woodwork. Crux of the matter is that I need both General Huss and Zorg onside if I’m to have any hope of remaining Emperor.
I find myself in one of those rare situations where patience is a virtue. Wait them out. Be at one with yourself, grasshopper. Bide your time.
Cr*p.
I don’t do patience.
To be continued...
Lancer
< Message edited by lancer -- 9/5/2010 2:49:59 AM >
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