lancer
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Joined: 10/18/2005
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Sadly, it has come to this.
Emperor Fred, mighty ruler, having to hustle his ancient bones onto a hastily commandeered shuttle and conduct a hasty, undignified entrance onto the flagship of the soon-to-depart Imperial Third Destructo Fleet.
Up and went on a mere hours notice.
Everything and everybody in a state of chaos and confusion. Unclear whether the Fleet is even fully refuelled. No matter. We are off. All missing planet-side personnel to be abandoned, fate uncertain.
Bad news can do that. Really bad news can put a rocket under the entire Imperial edifice. Certainly shifted me into a higher orbit. I’m seeing stars out the view port instead of trees.
Long forgotten hyperspacial nausea coiling its serpentine tendrils around my intestinal tract.
Woke up this morning in the Palace. Had a breakfast fit for an Emperor. Will sleep tonight strapped into a zero-g couch as Supreme Admiral, Mankind’s last remaining bastion holding back the scum of the universe from lapping up and over the lip of civilisation.
Yesterday was one of my better days. No inkling of what the ‘morrow would bring.
Son of Igor tracked down the handful of citizens within the Imperium currently taking identical heart medication to myself. Sent out a special invitation to each and every one.
I, Emperor Fred, a fellow sufferer, felt the need to form a support group. The inaugural meeting of our fledgling self-help organisation is about to be held here at the Palace. Your presence would be greatly appreciated. Travel arrangements in place and paid for. First class. Bring your spouse. Bring your family. Heck, bring your dog. Emperor Fred would love to see you all.
Oh, don’t forget to bring your supply of medication. Rumours of fake pills. Placebos. Ineffective and dangerous. Fear not. Emperor Fred has expert medical practitioners on hand to verify all prescriptions as genuine or otherwise.
My little throng of fellow string-bean heart muscle syndrome sufferers duly arrived yesterday for our inaugural Palace get-together. Shook a few hands, slapped a few backs. Even air kissed some ladies and patted the odd pimply kid. Smiles all round.
I’m a h*ll of a guy. Apparently.
Asked them to wait as a group in the Palace ante room while I gathered my thoughts. Which pretty much consisted of do I use my right hand or my left hand?
Went with the left. Caesar was done over by lefties.
Banged the big red button hard. Gassed the lot. Entire family units flopped lifeless to the floor in messy, stinky bundles of limbs and leaky orifices. Had the flunkies riffle through the pile of bodies and collect up all the pills. Tyderios is an inert gas, doesn’t affect the medication.
Six months extra supply. How about that? If my bionic legs were up to it I'd have danced a jig. One in the eye for Zorg, evil schemer that he is.
Happy times, in my experience, are ephemeral will o’ the wisps. Temporary interludes between crisis management sessions of varying intensities.
Which is exactly where I found myself immediately after breakfast this morning. In crisis.
Son of Igor opened up a dozen vid feeds on the walls as I lingered over my morning coffee. All Zion’s major news outlets. Simultaneously pumping out the unedited, unexpurgated, last moments of General Huss in full technicolour IMAX holoVid.
Aghast, spluttering hot coffee all over, I stare goggle eyed at the unfolding disaster.
Here’s the good General waxing lyrical about the importance of a strong Military.
Here he is whimsically recounting his days as a tank commander. Vroom, vroom.
Expounding, heaven forbid, on the subject of tall people. Those taller than himself. Chronic sufferers, I learn, of poor indigestion, bad backs and little d*cks.
About to drop out of hyperspace into the midst of the Adarluun system. Strutting about giving meaningless orders to the rest of Second fleet. Shouting nonsense about extra food rations for those that volunteer for mine clearance duties.
I shudder at the sudden public reality of the Empires Second Fleet being commanded by a military moron for all to see. I wonder how the News Orgs managed to swipe the footage off the inevitable drones and smuggle it past Starfleet HQ?
That wasn’t the plan. Not at all.
More footage. General Huss sporting a look of surprise. Blurred view ports on the flagship’s bridge gradually sharpening into focus as the effects of the jump wear off.
Second Fleet not alone. Adarluun system looking busy. Crowded even.
Takes a moment or two for the tactical plot to catch up. Six Pirate vessels and an independent freighter, the ‘Merry Endeavour’.
Lots of naval trash talk. Stuff like ‘hostile intent’, ‘powering up’, ‘locked on’, ‘imminent threat’.
General Huss, head up, shoulders back, preening for the cameras, insisting that he should communicate with the Pirates before opening fire. Give them the opportunity to flee.
That’s what gentlemen do, says he, flicking hair out of his eyes. Chin thrusting forward. Nose in profile. Stern, confident visage.
They are, the good General states, only Pirates after all. Wimps. Not real fighters. No backbone. Hit and run cowards. Chocolate soldiers. Doomed to melt in the heat.
Sudden shouting in the background. Alarms sounding. Lots of alarms. General Huss turning around, confused. Asking for QUIET PLEASE! Filming in progress.
Background noise level amping up. General looking really cross. Waving his arms in all directions. ORDERING everyone to be QUIET!!!.
Sudden jolt. Bridge of the flagship appears to lurch sideways. General knocked off his feet. Drops out of view. Uniforms staggering into control panels in the background. Huge white noise burst. View ports flaring protective gray as they compensate for the massive luminosity surge.
“Shields at 60! Reactor two offline! All weapon systems primed!”
Like a jack-in-a-box up pops the General. “Fire!” squawks he, “Fire the Cannons!”
Naval flunkies dutifully fire the ‘Cannons’ at the nearest Pirate, a small escort. Which – right on cue - goes bang. Rather big bang.
Not quite as big, though, as Second Fleet’s sole Frigate, the I.N ‘Fist of Redemption’. Spectacular explosion. KABOOM!
General Huss not taking it in. Confused. Dazed. Surprised.
I’ve seen small startled marsupials look more with it than teenie, tiny, pucker-faced Huss.
More lurching camera shots. I’m having difficulty following events. Yelling, shouting, flaring ports and confused tac-plots.
More vessels warping into the fray. Another independent freighter, “The Broken Bargain”. That’s apt.
Plus more Pirates.
And – I rub my eyes – right through the middle of the whole mad chaotic battle serenely sails a solitary Ape freighter. Blissfully ignorant of all the death and destruction going on around it.
I subconsciously reach for my pill container. Are they asleep? Jeez, hope nobody waxes them accidently and inadvertently starts a war.
Back to the General. Not going well. Struggling.
“Shields at 40!”
Camera man clearly nervous. Auto-smoothing failing to compensate for the shaky filming.
Wisps of dirty white smoke appearing here and there as the camera conducts a sweeping bridge panorama.
Centring back on the General. Mouth opening and closing faster than a guppy fish on a feeding frenzy. Speechless.
I peer at the screens in a state of dread-filled anticipation. Watching, along with most of the population of Zion, the self-destructive melt-down of the Empires pre-eminent military leader has a macabre don’t-go-there-but-please-don’t-stop fascination.
General Huss rallies. You can sense the relief of the camera man as he takes a deep breath and steadies. Strong leadership, noticeably absent up to this point, has finally arrived.
“Release the reserves!” commands the General.
Puzzled, I ponder for a moment where these might be. Second Fleet consists – when I last checked – of two destroyers and a frigate. Recent events have reduced it to a couple of banged-up destroyers. So what reserves are we talking about?
“Barrage fire for effect!”
Say what?
Captain of the Flagship intervenes. Points out, in his most officious, stiff upper lip manner, that it might be best to get the heck out of dodge. Now.
General Huss illuminated by the sudden display of pyrotechnics going off elsewhere on the bridge. The diminutive Huss forced to throw both arms around the captain to prevent himself being flung to the deck. Camera wildly gyrating all over. Grinding noises. Thickening smoke. Screams of pain.
“Shields down.” Quartermaster no longer shouting. More of a fatalistic monotonic delivery. “Reactive armour failing”
“Fix bayonets!” yells the crazed, red-eyed General.
Small message flashing in the bottom right of the holoVid saying an ‘emergency download’ is in progress. Cameraman must have panicked and streamed all footage direct to the ships final drone.
A sad half minute more of a mentally unhinged General attempting to rectify a terminal situation by escalating the volume and frequency of his meaningless orders.
Pitiful. Right up to the penultimate ‘zzzzzt’ with it’s accompanying black screen of death. ‘Transmission terminated’.
Short section of spliced on footage, taken from the sole remaining destroyer, of the flagship, the I.N “Short Stuff” and it’s final moment of pyrotechnic glory. The I.N “Try Harder” succumbing moments later. Black box drones from both vessels ejected on a homing trajectory back to Zion.
Flagship, gone. Second Fleet, gone. General Huss, gone.
Which is why I, along with the hastily reconvened Third Fleet, are making like fleas to a sewer rat. Warping directly to the Adarluun system.
With civilian and military morale plummeting it behoves me to lead from the front. To strive forth and smite down whatever lowlife scum I can find in order to restore pride and confidence back into the citizens of this great Empire.
I recognise that I may have the odd quirky aspect to my character. Recent, button related, activity springs to mind. Personally I think that having the occasional urge to asphyxiate kids, dogs and families only adds to my colourful persona.
Son of Igor has pointed out, delicately, that others may see it differently. Not sure about that. But who knows what crazy thoughts other people have?
Be that as it may, never let it be said that Emperor Fred runs from a fight.
To be continued...
Lancer
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RE: Emperor Fred goes Postal AAR - 
stiil Fredless...
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