RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR

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Brainsucker -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (8/25/2010 5:45:31 AM)
WHAT? He died? is it OVER? Or... perhaps we will see Emperor Fred MK2, a combination between what left of him and the Son of Igor [:D] [:D] [:D]

2guncohen -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (8/25/2010 9:49:46 AM)
Cyborg - Fred ? Zion needs him [&o]

Sheytan -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (8/27/2010 12:50:57 AM)
Simply a outstanding write. Bravo![&o]

2guncohen -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (8/27/2010 8:44:02 AM)
I think I enjoyed this saga as much as the thread of ugly shepard on the mass effect2 forum. [&o]

Tophat1815 -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (8/27/2010 3:29:14 PM)
Bravo

Brainsucker -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (8/28/2010 2:36:10 AM)
will the story continue? and what is ugly shephard thread?

lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (8/29/2010 12:07:15 AM)
[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/chapter_thirtyfive_earth.jpg[/image] I’m the world’s worst patient. Giving the nurses ten kinds of hll. Can’t stand the inactivity. The helplessness. What really irks me is my total dependence on other human beings. That’s just wrong. Emperors shouldn’t have to be told to lift their bottom so some cranky nurse Ratchet can wipe it. Demeaning and demoralising. Emperors without arms or legs don’t have a lot of say in the matter. All that’s left of me is a head attached to a battered torso. I’m a human with all the appendages (ALL of them, damn it) missing in action. Like a venomous spider that’s had all its legs plucked off by a demented kid wanting to know what happens next? Doctors insist it’ll be alright. Prosthetics are very advanced in this day and age. Bound to slow me down but, hey, you’re still breathing. Isn’t that a wonder? The shock of the blast. Multiple simultaneous involuntary amputations. Can’t understand how your heart did give up. Amazing. Medical marvel. Most have been all the liquor I’ve been consuming of late. Lathered it up. More able to roll with the punches. I can turn my head and watch my new limbs growing in the bio-vats lining the walls. Mechanical skeletons covered by layers of pink/grey vat-flesh. Gross. Two more weeks. Grow it too fast and you get lumps of the stuff suddenly losing its adhesion and falling off, like slabs of greasy pork fat, at the slightest knock. Important to give the molecular binding time to form. Another week to connect everything up. Already have the power pack implanted. Cold fusion. Synched with my pulsing heart rhythms. Unavoidable technical glitch with the fact that the power stops once my heart rhythms cease. I’d be instantly immobilised. Frozen like a statue. Not a big deal given that I’d already be dead. Artificial limbs have never, it turns out, been given to a person in such a state of cryogenically induced decrepitude. A medical first. Doctors very excited. Gazing around at the numerous ghostly vats I ask where my new manhood is? I hope that they remembered to give me the full set of man-plums and not just replace what was there. Shaking of heads. Sorrowful looks. Apologetic murmurs. Show me pictures of a state of the art mechanical manhood. Looked like something a junkyard dog could chomp down on if it ever felt like losing a full set of teeth. Good for levering open paint cans, not much else. More articulated joints in it than a yard full of prime movers. Doomed to spend the rest of my life with an oil can down my trousers. I pass on the metal snake. * * Son of Igor, parked in the corner, feeds me the daily news. Lot happening. Shouldn’t be here. Palace needs me. Have a fake Emperor doing the rounds. Standard practice. As soon as you reach the dizzy heights you clone yourself. Not the brains and grit, just the body. Keep a couple in the cupboard for occasions just like this. Maintain a public presence. Hide the fact that you are a legless, armless, less wonder convalescing in a high security medical facility. The Fake Fred has an implanted voice synthesiser. Sounds just like me. Told what to say. Basically say nothing. Just look the part. Keep the show on the road while I gather my thoughts. And appendages. Doesn’t mean I can’t still issue orders. Head survived the blast. Podium apparently had a metal plate insert to protect my torso against stray sniper rounds. Ducking down behind it meant I kept my head and lost everything else. Them’s the breaks. * * Exciting news. They’ve found the Solar System. Yep, good ‘ole Sol is on the map, not all that far from Zion. [image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_sitrep_sol.jpg[/image] Unfortunately it looks like that PLANET-REMOVERS-R-US have been in action. Sucked up the Earth, Venus, Saturn and a whole lot more. Only thing left to colonise is a desert moon orbiting a Gas Giant. Mars on tilt? Have the Gods being playing 8-ball and potted most of my planetary heritage? Perplexing. It’s getting a bit vague now but I’m certain that I was born on Earth. An Earth that was part of the Solar System. An Earth that is, for reasons unknown, no longer part of the Solar System. Maybe all those years in the cryogenic coffin have scrambled my neurons. Perhaps Earth is just a figment of my fevered imagination. Maybe my whole life is a mirage. Nothing but somebody else’s memory construct. Nah. Don’t think so. But Earth? If I keep thinking about it I’ll soon be trying to whack my own shadow. Neurosis city. Funnily enough, though, on the habitable desert moon in the Sol system, resides a small human colony. Spooky. I ask Son of Igor get the Minister for Industry to prioritise a Colony Horror-Hulk to the moon as soon as possible. Once I’m back to whatever the hell constitutes normal I may well pay a personal visit to the Sol System. A man needs to know his history. It’s important to be grounded in the roots of your ancestors, to feel part of a continual, uninterrupted flow of humanity. Confronted by my own mortality I feel the need to reconnect. To be continued... Lancer

Foraven -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (8/29/2010 1:32:05 AM)
I'll agree with everyone else, you are good at it lancer. Aren't you a professional writer? If not, you should try it.

Brainsucker -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (8/29/2010 3:35:07 AM)
Mr. Lancer, you are a good writer!!! Oh yes, just one thing, why don't you edit the sol system and put Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, etc on it. Of course you won't be able to create the exact Saturn. But at least you can create the star system that we know in real life I have always do it in my own game with game editor and it is fun to do it

vonboy -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (8/29/2010 5:41:35 AM)
nice job staying quite for a week and making everyone think he's dead. now lets get back to the galaxy conquering! [&o]

2guncohen -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (8/29/2010 1:36:57 PM)
Be aware toads!!! he is back [:D]

Shark7 -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (8/29/2010 2:55:54 PM)
And one of my evil thoughts... If they cloned his body, why not just um...neutralize mr clone and replace appendages from there? [sm=00000622.gif]

thiosk -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (8/31/2010 6:23:01 AM)
i keep saying, space opera comedy is an untapped market; and this little story is downright riveting. Flesh out the overall story, span it over a series tracking the human imperium from ****nugget to superpower-- glorious

torrenal -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (8/31/2010 4:15:26 PM)
quote: ORIGINAL: Shark7 And one of my evil thoughts... If they cloned his body, why not just um...neutralize mr clone and replace appendages from there? [sm=00000622.gif] Synthetics might culturally be be considered superior to the authentic parts... (You had the six million dollar man, the bionic woman...) Funny thought -- could they make Frogs that survive in the vacuum of space? Probably. Scary thought too, from Fred's viewpoint.[sm=00000622.gif] On the thought of bionic parts... will any of them contain a personal shield generator? Was one omitted from the podium during the appearance? Hmm... Methinks the general has real ambition. //Torrenal

lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (9/1/2010 2:29:49 AM)
[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/chapter_thirtysix_scum.jpg[/image] I totter from room to room, a 500 year old robo-man with glued-on arms and legs. Methuselah in the making. Fluid motion, I’m told, may take a while. Such things don’t come naturally. My neuro-mechanical interface needs time to adapt. In the meantime I bang into walls and furniture and make so many involuntary spasms that I’m not safe to be near. Limbs twitching worse than an electrified Toad once you ram an electrode up its rear orifice. As you do. Particularly if you don’t like Toads. Which I don’t. Army has strict orders to capture the remaining Toads alive. Bring them all to the Palace for a quiet chat with their Emperor. Palace dungeon turned into a transit lounge for Toads. A paradise of peace and tranquillity before making the final, inevitable journey to Toad Heaven. I view myself as the bus conductor. Punching tickets. Assigning seats. Rerouting the bus. Buses, even metaphorical ones, tend to travel downhill faster than up. Gravity assist. Buses wheezing their way uphill, full of blissed out Toads constantly wanting to stop and enjoy a Kodak moment, slows the whole production line. Better to pack ‘em full of Kentucky Fried Toads that are frizzle-eyed and gasping ragged, painful lungfuls of air. No-one wants to pull over and take pictures on those buses. Doesn’t matter that the sign on the front of the buses no longer reads ‘Toad Heaven Express’. Nobody notices that the destination has subtly changed. They don’t care. As long as they are on a bus heading somewhere. Anywhere. Toads, bless their little amphibian hearts, are all part of nature. Important that they remember their place in the universe. Swamp dwellers. Mud suckers. Unsightly scenery decoration for especially ugly natural environments. * * * The day of reckoning has arrived. Suddenly and unexpectedly. A spaceship of unknown origin has been detected in the Dispayri System. Made contact. Representatives of a sentient, alien species. The bugs have come ‘a knocking. The scum of the universe have crawled out from under their rocks and found us. Monkeys, not bugs, monkeys. Wannabe humans barely half-baked in the evolutionary oven. [image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_ikkuro_face.jpg[/image] Mutated monkeys. Eon’s of cosmic rays have given them rabbit ears and a nose that looks like the back end of a horse. Son of Igor has run their diplomatic communiqué through a personality profiler and come up with a concise overview. [image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_ikkuro_stats.jpg[/image] The Icky Apes are manage to be both Aggressive and Cautious. Had Son of Igor run the profile a second time and double check the result. No change. Confused Icky Apes. Given that they are also unfriendly and intelligent it’s clear that they are a race of dangerous Psychopathic Primates hell-bent on destroying humanity. Reckons they are also dependable. How any creature with brains scrambled every which way but blue can be described as dependable is beyond me. Probably the only thing you can depend on is that they will try and fang you in the jugular. Son of Igor managed – don’t know how – to give an assessment of their empire capabilities. Did the Icky Apes big note themselves to the first responder? Did they have a glaring neon billboard on the side of their exploration craft that told anyone that wanted to know about how many apes are running around so many colonies producing so much economic activity? I don’t think so. Obviously all made up. Decide to ignore it. Psychopathic Apes on the warpath. All I need to know. * * * Lot of decisions to be made. Icky Apes made contact with us, not the other way around. Don’t even know where they come from. Emerged unannounced from the Sakurrea Gloom. Both of the Empire’s Explorers are off exploring in other directions. No help at all. Have to send a frigate westward ho. Find the ape-cave. Fredtopia vulnerable. Need to immediately raise half a dozen battalions of grunts. Conscript settlers if need be. Declare a planet-wide state of emergency. General Huss and the Second Fleet off gallivanting around the Aquareos Corridor. Need them orbiting FredTopia, refuelled and raring to go, pronto. First Fleet already in position. Actual first responders to the Icky Apes in the Dispayri System. Unfortunately First Fleet has been depleted down to a couple of Frigates. Pathetic pacifists rattling around the ex-High Council dropped the ball big time here. Memo to Minister for Industry. Cancel all current civilian construction and instigate a crash building program for another four destroyers. The worry of it all is the communication lag. General Huss won’t receive my orders for another month and a half. Two more months for him to transit the Second Fleet to Fredtopia. By the time the message drone reaches him he may not even be there. Wandered off to strut his stuff at another planet. Best to send drones to them all. Jeez. If the Icky Apes have their act together they could conquer Fredtopia before the colony even knows that a threat exists. It’s not right. In the year 2758 I should be able to pick up a vid-phone and talk to whoever I want to, where-ever they are. Instead I find myself running a space age empire with a medieval message delivery service. Cursing I revise my memo to the Minister for Industry. Tell him to double the destroyer construction program. To heck with the budget. And where the h*ll is the Minister for Science? I yell to the nearest flunky to get the fuzz-ball into the nearest hover car. Fast track him into the Palace hanger, pronto. I want a word. [image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_sitrep72580701.jpg[/image] To be continued... Lancer

2guncohen -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (9/1/2010 8:04:36 AM)
Outch they own 7 Colony's [&o]

vonboy -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (9/1/2010 11:14:37 PM)
i wonder how fred will react when he finds some securans[;)]

lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (9/5/2010 1:17:08 AM)
[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/chapter_thirtyseven_philosophy.jpg[/image] 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 bstards. 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. [image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/little_red_bookcopy.jpg[/image] 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

torrenal -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (9/5/2010 1:35:36 AM)
The bliss of utopia plus emperor Fred? I don't have to wonder. I fully expect the Securans would find a new form of Utopia, living optional. //Torrenal

vonboy -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (9/8/2010 10:29:47 PM)
i was thinking more along the line of sex slaves, but that works too [:D]

lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (9/9/2010 1:24:37 AM)
[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/chapter_thirtyeight_leech.jpg[/image] Grinding my teeth, choking on my revulsion, I begrudgingly stand in front of the VidCam and compose a diplomatic missive to the Icky Apes. Zorg intently watching my every utterance. Offer the Monkey Men a trade agreement. Barely manage to refrain from asking if their nose functions as a multi-purpose orifice, ‘cause it sure looks like it. Send it off. Wait several months. Icky Apes still have an explorer in the Dispayri System so communication exchanges are relatively fast. Zorg turns up to view their reply. Big event. All kinds of hangers-on poised on the edge of their seats waiting to see how the Monkey Men reacted to our friendly overtures. Just to be on the safe side I’ve kept my foot down on the war machine. By now it should be ramping up to a decent hum. Icky Apes ambassador in life-sized HoloVid. How do they manage that? Superior technology. Difficult to place the expression on his face. Keep thinking I’m going to have to duck if he suffers an involuntary bowel movement out of his crazy honker. He speaks. Zorg sucks in his breath. No go on the trade deal. Monkey Men have as many fancy new Vidplasmas as they need. Don’t call us, we’ll call you. Shucks. Ain’t that a shame. Better fire up the Phasors. No, no, NO! shouts Zorg, red with rage. ‘Negotiate with them! Talk to them. Do a deal.’ Isn’t that what I’ve just done? Apes said no. General Huss and the Second Fleet will be in position soon. Let loose the dogs of war. Zorg failing to grasp the big picture. Insisting I ‘grease their palms’. Dark, dirty looks clearly stating what is left unsaid. Snaps his fingers. Diplomatic Team enter with VidCam, ready to record. With a herculean effort, I suppress my own demonic urges and man up to the challenge. Putting on my grimmest smile, I make the magnanimous gift of sixty credits to the pucker-faced primates. Suggest that they may want to revisit the Trade Agreement in light of our benevolence. Sixty credits might just do it for a cheap nose job at a back-alley chop shop here on Zion. Knock yourself out. * * * Icky Apes aren’t going to give us a trade Agreement. Not interested in dealing with somebody whom they are about to attack. But Zorg won’t let it go. He’ll keep pushing the Trade barrow until he rolls it straight off the edge of the precipice. Zorg, for all of his wicked, Machiavellian ways, has no concept of true evil. Nor of destiny. What he needs is a reminder. A small memory jogger of the imminent danger that the Icky Apes present to his Merchant Monopoly. Can’t make money if you’re dead, can you? So say a big hello to the Leech. A man with a cutlass, no morals and sporting a brain that emanates more bad radiation than a throbbing, out of control, giant Pulsar. [image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_leech.jpg[/image] General Huss and the Second Fleet accidently found the Leech in a life support pod. Drifting through the void. All alone. Dying a slow death from oxygen starvation. Apparently an ‘advisor’ to the Ardaluun Gangsters. Telling the big-toothed T-Rex’s how to make it as a pirate. Lost his job once their base was deep sixed by General Huss. Miracle he wasn’t immediately put to death by the good General upon discovery of his pod. A traitorous human willingly aiding and abetting reptiles has no right to a new life. I suspect that the only reason he was kept alive was for purposes of creative entertainment for our sadistic, dwarf-sized Commander. Threw him into the brig and, in his typical absentminded manner, forgot about him. Son of Igor heard snippets of this and that on intercepted comms from the Second Fleet. Put two and two together and brought it to my attention. Immediately sent a secret communiqué to the Emperor’s representative onboard the flagship. Every significant naval vessel has one of these. Undercover, of course. Given extra pay and special privileges back home on Zion. Recycled secretaries actually. Zorg gives the girls to me and once I’ve finished the paperwork I parcel them off to the rep’s as trusty ‘companions’. System working well. Nobody from Fleet HQ suspects anything. Even General Huss is ignorant of a fifth column aboard his flagship. Given that the Toads managed to explosively terminate my interest in all things paperwork I can afford to be more generous with my Secretaries. In fact I’m sending them all off, bar a couple, to await the rep’s return. Downside of having secretaries is that Zorg knows everything that I do. Wasn’t a problem before but now that our relationship has become more adversarial I need to close down his information pipeline. Throttle it back and feed it carefully crafted morsels of misinformation. By now the Emperor’s representative on the Second Fleet’s flagship will have received my secret message and hopefully Captain Crazy, a-la ‘The Leech’, will be heading to the outer reaches of the Dispayri System in a beat-up old Escort with a small automated robo-crew. Instructed to blow up as many of Zorg’s freighters as he can find. Act as if he is an Icky Ape. Allowed to have as much fun as he wants. Right up until the self-destruct timer reaches zero. Doesn’t know about that. Can’t be trusted to keep a secret. Unstable. Unhinged. At least he will die happy. Can’t have Zorg realising anything other than the threat posed to his Mercantile ways by the assumed Monkey Men. Should be enough to shake him out of his profit-obsessed stupor. Son of Igor handling all communications. Fully encrypted. The Emperors’ Rep in question earmarked for a priority sticky ending just as soon as he returns to Zion. Trademark Emperor Fred move, that one. Always clean up after yourself. Never leave the garbage lying around where somebody may stumble over it. Neat and tidy, that’s the secret. To be continued... Lancer

Shark7 -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (9/9/2010 5:25:16 PM)
60 credits?! No wonder they want to go to war, that's insulting. Hahahaha! [:D]

J HG T -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (9/9/2010 5:58:00 PM)
Just had time to read this whole thing and my feelings are... [image]http://i168.photobucket.com/albums/u200/mlempire13/so_much_win_graphic.png[/image] Now I really need to make my own AAR once I get my DW back to the speed (Stupid "out of memory" bug).

2guncohen -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (9/9/2010 7:02:24 PM)
Loved the new twist. [:)]

lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (9/13/2010 12:18:18 AM)
[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/chapter_thirtynine_drums.jpg[/image] I could moonlight as a fortune teller. Got the touch. Icky Apes declined our further offer of a trade agreement, as expected. Zorg having second thoughts in light of recent reports of several missing freighters on the FredTopia – Zion run. No surprise there. Still pushing the path of peaceful cooperation but not as confidently as before. A measure of uncertainty has crept into his steely, stern-eyed visage. The Leech, having performed his assigned function, should, by now, be well on his way to the after world. R.I.P one first class ratbag. Traitor to his own species. Everything on schedule, everything as predicted. The Imperial Third Fleet is currently assembling around Zion Space Port. Four new Destroyers, a complicated Cruiser resurrected from the sand dunes around Conson and the Empires first ever Troop Carrier. The Third Fleet is the mailed fist of humanity. Second Fleet, under General Huss, being the strong left jab. Lacking a suitably senior naval officer to take command of our most important military assets I am seriously considering assuming the role myself. Who better to than the Emperor to take the fight to the enemy? With my extensive space-going experience and proven command qualities I am the natural choice. My urge to sail off and splat the Apes is tempered by the realisation that a prolonged absence may not be a wise move given my precarious perch on the pointy end of power. Perhaps. Might not be so. General Huss will be with me and effectively not in a position to launch a military coup from the deck of a spaceship. Besides, most of his Zion-based battalions will be hunkered down in the Troop Carrier within my Third Fleet command. Admiral Wanda is M.I.A, the High Council are in hiding and the Toads contained. That only leaves Zorg. Zorg unlikely to topple an Emperor. More of a backroom operator. Happy while-ever he is making money. Perhaps if I offer him exclusive ownership of all captured Icky Ape freighters and bases? Would that swing it? Maybe. If I threw in monopoly access to all new luxury resources currently owned by the Monkey Men then I’m reasonably certain that he would be prepared to countenance a war. A short, sharp war with a clearly defined end point. Which would, naturally, be the total extermination of all Icky Apes. De-Primate the galaxy. Not that I’d tell Zorg this. Keep it simple. Capture a few key colonies with luxury resources then negotiate a profitable truce with the Monkey Men. Peace and goodwill to all thereafter. Blow that kind of smoke up Zorg’s nose and he can sleep at night. A well rested Zorg is a happy Zorg. Total nonsense of course. Apes that want to swing from tree to tree are fine by me. Space going Apes that have delusions of grandeur are an aberration. A ugly blot on the natural way of things. I see it as my evolutionary duty to drop kick the bstards back to banana land. Just to be on the safe side, Zorg wise, I authorise the hiring and training of a spy. James Wong. Master of the Ninja spreadsheet. Ostensively to maintain a counter-intelligence capability here on Zion but in reality to dig up some serious dirt on Zorg. Bloody expensive. Five thousand Credits! I could purchase a fully manned Destroyer for that kind of money. James Wong, I’m told, knows more about corporate intrigue than most. Freelancer. Hacker. Dirty deeds done dirt cheap. Cheap being a relative concept with Mr Wong. Not only has he stiffed me five K up front but he demands a hefty annual retainer. Son of Igor assures me he is the man we need but I’ll be keeping a close watching brief on the world’s most expensive Ninja accountant. Could have hired any of a half a dozen other, traditional, root and shoot spies but none of them would have lasted five minutes in the ring with Zorg and the heavy hitting security halo that permanently surrounds him. No, Mr Wong and his specialised analytical skills is just what I’m after. Hope he is up to the job. Results. I’ll be wanting to see results. Personnel dossier states he has a competence rating of 115. Is five a lucky number for the Chinese? Can’t remember. Normally the Prime Minister would deal with intelligence matters but as all that remains of our PM is a fading remnant blood stain on the floor I have stepped up to the plate. James Wong, Super Spy, will report directly to Son of Igor in my absence. Plan to depart within the fortnight. As soon as Third Fleet is assembled and troops embarked. Lots of administrative odds and ends to deal with before I go. New colony started way down in the Omgal System. Good oh. Empire spreading its wings. Omgal more of a claw. Or talon scything down towards the galactic core. [image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_sitrep27581023.jpg[/image] One of Second Fleet’s Destroyers immobilized in deep space as a result of damage sustained in wiping out the Adarluun Gangsters. Had to pull the Empires main constructor, ‘Bob the Builder’, of a mining base worksite and zing it off to rescue the wayward navvies. Minister for Industry lodged a protest. Research. We are going to war. We need bigger and better weapons. Fuzzball, the Minister for Science, finally turns up to explain all the wonderful advancements that have occurred in the several years since we last spoke. Lot of techno-speak and assorted like-minded nerd-babble. Fuzzball not used to explaining himself. Doesn’t he realise who I am? The gist of his demented ramblings are that we have managed to research three fifths of bugger all and that we are still destined to discover many wonderful breakthroughs in advanced storage. Instead of weapons we are on track to have bigger and better boxes. Fuzzball gesticulating all over the shop. Trying to explain the importance of fancy new industrial boxes. Linking it to quantum physics and quarks and all manner of head-up-the-ss nonsense. [image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/dw_research_27580908.jpg[/image] Do I have the guards take him out the back? Who would I put in his place? I haven’t got time for all this brain-bending techno stuff. Pushed for time, I reluctantly resist the urge to dispose of the Fuzzball and settle on telling him to forget about boxes and keep researching weapons. Make a mental note to review matters when I get back. Important not to get distracted. Focus on the big stuff. The Great Ape War is about to begin. To be continued... Lancer

2guncohen -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (9/13/2010 2:57:33 PM)
So we got, death pirate T-rex'ses, Erradicated Toads , A Female Oriented planet who is getting subjugated. , A Former-Independent Human world who claimed to be the center of the sector who is now also brutatly subjugated. A puppet Governement and now Monekys who will get crisped. lancer [:D] I like your style!!! But should the emperor not consider offspring or a new AAR but from the view of a citizen of this "marvelous" empire ? [:D] Who chooses to rebel ? Greets 2gun

Seraphim_slith -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (9/13/2010 11:57:58 PM)
Highly entertaining update as always. Keep up the great work lancer. ,-)

thiosk -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (9/14/2010 9:13:07 AM)
MOAR PLZ MOAR NAOW [:-] write harder write faster

lancer -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (9/15/2010 12:32:08 AM)
[image]http://i258.photobucket.com/albums/hh262/plugger_photo/chapter_forty_mothers.jpg[/image] Sand lice aren’t a concern up here on Death Plateau. You are too busy being cold to worry about scratching random itches. Below freezing at night. What little condensation there is can be collected at dawn as handfuls of gritty pebbles. Warms only slightly during the cloudless, frigid days. A fitting compliment to the wind. Katabatics roaring straight down off the icy slopes of the Krull mountains, sand blasting exposed flesh red raw. Hydroponic pod covers are all reinforced carbofibre. Not that there is much to see. Most of it underground. Tunnels, living quarters and vegetable beds. Only the blister tops of the pod covers poking out of the sand. We are alone here on Dead plateau. Solitude, wind and cold, our only companions. State Farm Six. Underwater aquifers enable us to provide close to five percent of our moons food requirements. Quite strange how the Mother can provide such benevolence in such an inhospitable location. But only a fool questions the wisdom of the Mother. Sister Kel tried to. Caught wondering aloud about the Mother as a source of harmony. Perhaps, she postulated in her most querulous voice, the Mother has a streak of sadism in providing such a barren moon for her flock? Prefect Zelda, hearing about such heresy, banished the hapless Sister Kel to the breeding pits. Let her be pawed and mauled by the animals from Zion. Teach her where true harmony lies. Zion. Our Mother has been greatly displeased ever since the arrival of the Colony hulk from that cursed planet. The delicate balance of human and environment instantly thrown into chaos. One million new arrivals. Men. All of them men. Not the tame, anodyne males native to our moon that cater for our pleasures and perform all menial tasks. No, not those. Kidnappers. Murderers. Rapists. Arsonists. Thieves. Filthy and corrupt. Wild, uncaring. Not knowing their subservient place in our society. Expecting that we, the Sisterhood, would meekly do as they ordered. Insisting. Lashing out at any sign of disobedience. Falling upon any stray sister like packs of lustful wolves. Animals. Nothing but animals. Prefect Zelda a member of the ‘Sisters of Purity’ who stomped down hard on this abomination. Rounded them up. Contained them in caged compounds. Forcibly neutered one in hundred as an example to the others. Zionists squandering their opportunity for appeasement. Rose up as one like a single writhing, demented, multi-headed beast and attempted to surge through the containment grids. Electrically prodded back inside. Gassed and tranquillised. Woke up to find that this time one in ten of them could no longer call themselves true men. Message received. Order restored. Parcelled up and sent in small groups to all outlying farms as labourers. But our Mother does nothing without a reason. Recognising the need for an infusion of genetic diversity, the Sisterhood authorised a limited program of fraternisation. Naturally the animals were incapable of meaningful social contact. Confined to austere quarters in remote locations they only succeeded in fighting amongst themselves. None of the sisterhood willing to voluntarily mate with them. Hence the breeding pits. Each farm has them. Dark and deep, far beneath the desert surface. Groups of animals let loose each night. Sisters in need of clarity fed to them as sustenance. A powerful tool for control. No sister who has experienced the horrors of the breeding pits has ever relapsed. A cleansing of the soul in preparation for the rigours of parenting. But I digress. My Sand Rider with it’s octet of fat rubberised tyres bounces as it crests another endless wind dune. I notice movement off to my right. Most likely animals. Escaping. Attempting to run the gauntlet of Death plateau in the hope of finding something better. Always one or two of them trying. Security measures designed to protect us from the animals, not prevent them heading off on fools’ errands across the plateau. Cold gets most of them on their first night. Winged sand vipers home in unerringly on the body heat of the rest. Exercise in futility. Doesn’t stop them trying. The daily cargo shuttle that arrives to transport our food produce to the cities usually brings several new animals to restore our quota. Animals are expendable. Twitching the joystick to the right I swerve around a patch of pale sand. Crevasse country. Sand layer a thin veneer over the frozen tundra below. Cracks and fissures run far enough down to hit the warmer bedrock. Life giving water aquifers gurgling across the top of the bedrock through the multitude of fissures. Head up display telling me I need to swing northwards. Homing in on the weak beacon signal. Faint and sporadic, eking out its terminal battery power. The morning shuttle notifying us of its existence. Not wanting to bother with it. Prefect Zelda annoyed at their careless attitude. Reminding them of the proximity of our breeding pits. Laughed at. The Prefect, they point out, correctly, has no authority over them. Insisting that the signal is genuine. Our duty to investigate. Something I have spent the better part of a day doing. Waste of everybody’s time. Remote possibility it could be a locator beacon from a distant, doomed space station. Or an escape pod. Most likely none of the above. Simply an old message drone that drifted off course and ran out of fuel. I share Prefect Zelda’s frustration at such a waste of valuable resources. Beep, beep, beep. Signal strength increasing. I tap the joystick. A touch to the east. Sandstorm closing in from behind. Only time for one pass before it’s buried forever. It could be worse. Shuttle pilots tell of the anarchy that now exists in the Capital. Zion has landed armed battalions. Sisters of Purity no match for their sophisticated weaponry. Sisterhood no longer solely in charge of our moon’s affairs. The animals from Zion exerting their power. But I have nothing to worry about. Death plateau thousands of miles from the capitol. Whatever power the Zionists exert there doesn’t extend to our frigid, windy outpost. I glance over my shoulder. Sand storm almost upon me. Radar picking up a metallic object close by. Fat rubber tyres squelch loudly as they dig through the crust, fighting for grip. Joystick rammed all the way forward. Reaching behind me for a self-breather helmet. No time for anything fancy. Brake, stop, jump out. ID the object, retrieve any data core. Thirty seconds tops. Doable. Barely. To be continued... Lancer

Shark7 -> RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR (9/15/2010 12:40:40 AM)
OK, everyone get their bets in...Witch Wanda or The Leech? hehehe [:D]

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