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1. Yes 2. Anyone remaining on Gigas 3. Yes 4. Yes 5. No 6. No 7. HBar fucked around with this message at 04:57 on May 13, 2017 |
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May 13, 2017 04:54
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| # ? Apr 25, 2024 23:50 |
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Also recover the springy old mattress set we couldn't bear to part because it's so fun and bouncy. It ain't not nothing on Erb anti-grav sleeping plates but Tone's kids should get a kick out of it. 
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May 13, 2017 05:25
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Plan Blasphemaster
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May 13, 2017 21:33
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Blasphemaster posted:1. let our crew decide individually Blasphemaster posted:Also recover the springy old mattress set we couldn't bear to part because it's so fun and bouncy. It ain't not nothing on Erb anti-grav sleeping plates but Tone's kids should get a kick out of it. Yeah I don't think anyone's coming up with better than this by now, so this.
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May 23, 2017 11:35
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I swear I'm not a Blasphemaster alt, but plan Blasphemaster hits all the right notes.
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May 23, 2017 20:03
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 BY ORDER OF BLASPHEMASTER In the stygian, crushing depths of the world-sea of Gigas, a newborn giant stirs. Massive through she is, Breaker’s voice is imperceptibly tiny, a tight-beam tachyonic pulse with a wavelength measurable in ångströms. The transmission, encrypted to the point of hazard by inscrutable alien protocols, soars at the speed of absence, seeking the clearest beacon of Erbtech on the ramshackle station called Thoon: An ancient Erb ansible painstakingly tended for hundreds of iterations by Warclade Kros.  In the bowels of Thoon, the most vital of Khaldean rituals takes place: The installation of a warrior’s soul into the body of a mindless larva. The assembled clade watches in rapt silence, not the whirring of a single servo betraying their reverence as Archivist CXII-Glaster steps before them, bowed beneath the weight of the ancient Tomb he bears. The senseless larva upon the altar snaps its needled fangs and fights sluggishly against its restraints, and a wave of approval washes over the clade; to struggle so against the flood of sedatives in its system, this iteration will surely prove a strong one. Long, taloned fingers gliding longingly over the surface of the Tomb, never quite touching, the Archivist traces a labyrinthine pattern before lightly tapping its graceful fuselage. With a gentle tone, a single crystalline spindle emerges from within the Tomb, plucked and delicately cradled by the Archivist as the clade’s eyes and visors follow, unblinking. “LXI-Krovian,” the Archivist intones, “her flesh consumed.” “Its lessons imparted to the soul ever-striving,” comes the prescribed response. “Her wisdom shall be lost beyond the Ending of Flesh,” CXII-Glaster calls somberly. In lieu of a verbal response, the assembled clade lets out a bone-chilling chorus of hisses, snarls, and clacking fangs, some going so far as to rend their garments or gnash their mouths bloody. “How then,” the Archivist asks, wide-eyed and theatrical. “How then shall the gaze of oblivion be turned aside?” “Iterate,” a single voice gasps, as if in pain. “Iterate,” two more growl, with furious insistence. ”Iterate,” comes the great cry from the clade. “So be it,” declares CXII-Glaster, his icy voice cutting through the din. “CII-Batruzii, is the vessel worthy of our warrior?” “The vessel is strong,” the named Khaldean responds, standing over the larva with a sinister-looking set of forceps. In the back of the chamber, the long-dormant ansible hums to life, scattering piled offerings and ritual implements as it extrudes a projection array. Most of the Khaldeans are too caught up in the reiteration ritual to notice, but a few cast glances that quickly turn to alarmed stares. “The vessel is swift,” CII-Batruzii continues, apparently beginning to notice more and more heads turning. As the device awakens, an image flares to life with a brief stutter of nauseating meta-static. The clade begins to murmur in agitation. “The vessel is cunning,” CII-Batruzii hisses in agitation as the ritual is increasingly disturbed. “LXI-Krovian will return to—What is the meaning of this?!” The Khaldean whirls in outrage, fangs bared, only to see the remainder of her warclade gazing in a mixture of confusion and indignation at the sacred relic of the Prophets, now displaying the image of some…grinning Troodontid interloper. “The sleeper has awakened,” the Troodon speaks. “And I have need of your service.”  Your anxiety swells as CII-Batruzii steps off the lift into Vrade’s sanctum, stress exacerbated by the added immersion of seeing the scene through her eyes. You’re still not entirely comfortable riding a sapient’s perceptions as you would a drone, but CII-Batruzii seems oddly unperturbed the the entire scenario. You imagine the experience is far from new to the Khaldean, and you find yourself curious about her experiences in the Drift Wars. Making a note to inquire at a more opportune moment, you return your focus to the scene before you, as a handful of CII-Batruzii’s clade stride fearlessly between totems of stacked and polished bones toward a heaving, quivering wall of Vrade. The Rigele gangster is enormous, its biomass filling most of the chamber. The vague forms and rubicund eyes of dozens of vassal Rigele press out from Vrade’s membranes, and you are forced to consider Voulge’s comment about all Rigele on Gigas being Vrade is an entirely new light. A bulky Juranoid form extrudes itself from the amorphous mass, squaring off before the Khaldeans, and one of the clade whips free a heavy, bladed pistol, training it at the emergent shape. CII-Batruzii hisses in agitation, and the anxious being grudgingly lowers his weapon. “CII-Batruzii ki-Kros,” Vrade burbles in many voices sourced throughout their mass, ignoring the momentary breach of discipline, “Your visit is not unexpected, but…curiously timed.” A set of hard, resinous pincers emerge from one of the gangster’s pods, and they clack them in idle and understated menace. “Representing,” the Khaldean growls, “the Interlocutor-Commander of Breaker-of-Chains. Known to you as Regal Kore.” Vrade’s gel quivers in what you take for pleasant amusement. “Then our Kore succeeded beyond our expectations,” they ripple. “To command the loyalty of a Khaldean war-clade and, we are to presume, far more?” “Data for you,” CII-Batruzii replies curtly, waving one of her clade forward with a flick of her tail. The Khaldean thus prompted steps forward, a bulky hardened datavault cradled in her claws. “Erbtech,” Vrade croons liquidly, flowing a pod over the vault as the Khaldean hastily backpedals. “Exclusive?” “Mostly,” CII-Batruzii affirms. “Serious edge over the competition. Run this place with what you don’t sell for an obscenity.” Vrade narrows their eyes, or more accurately, recedes them. “An exorbitant gift. Why do we feel as though we are being cheated?” CII-Batruzii huffs air through her fangs, a Khaldean shrug. “Don’t care to lie. Commander Kore gives you Thoon on a tray…more, if you feel ambitious? For this, Commander Kore wants two things from you.” “Do tell,” Vrade drawls with a dangerous calm. “Voulge,” the Khaldean barks. “The Commander requires their culture.” “And the second,” Vrade inquires without further comment. “Transportation. To the orbital with a pallet of...pharmaceutical supplies, my clade, and a few…auxiliary personnel.” “She’s leaving,” Vrade asks. “Unexpected, given what we are led to believe is the caliber of her haul, and perhaps ill-advised.” “We’re going off-world,” CII-Batruzii asserts with a tone cold and prickly as a vac-urchine. “You can profit by this, but don’t stand in the way.” You can almost see the quiet calculation in the gangster’s gelatinous matrix. “As compelling a spectacle as it would be to see the functional immortalities of a Rigele consensus and a Khaldean war-clade pitted against one another,” they muse, “We are inclined to humor your proposition. We feel you are missing an opportunity, but nevertheless, we accept. Conditionally.” “What condition,” CII-Batruzii snarls with distaste. “The Deepdweller will be of no use where you're going,” Vrade rumbles. “We want that sub.” When the Khaldeans shift, the Rigele continues hastily. “We'll give you a good price,” they assure. “Better than anything you'll get now, after recent...escapades.” 1. Do you accept the deal? A. Yes. B. No deal. C. As B, but insist on getting Voulge's culture anyway. 2. If you voted to refuse the deal, or simply prefer not to take Vrade's assistance, to whom do you turn for transport? D. Fury Praxis. E. Recognized Yngado. F. You've got a Khaldean war-clade. Steal a shuttle. G. Someone or Something Else: __________________.  You are warm. In the guise of cargo inspection, you and Vare sampled approximately a bottle and a half of shimmerswig and a flight of tante, and jetted two caps of hydrophine III. You are only now emerging, blinking like a newborn vere, from the tangle of giggling limbs into which you tumbled four decicycles ago. You are warm. “You seem more relaxed,” Vare notes, idly tracing her claws over your flank. The intoxicants lend the light pressure of her clawtips a warm, pulsing afterglow on your skin. "We're almost off this scabrous ice-pile," you note, "we're in the black for once, and I managed to convince CII-Batruzii not to render Poole into his component parts. It's a chel sort of cycle." “Still, though. I've never known the weight of command to loosen someone up.” “Look,” you tease, “you knew I was a weirdo when you got involved. Too late to back out now.” “Underestimate my determination at your peril, Regal Kore.” “Never that,” you protest. “I'm...glad you're here. With me, I mean. Not just because you can help me wrangle this tangle of skull-flukes we've got on board.” “Likewise,” she purrs, gliding a leg against yours affectionately. "Did the clade have any trouble getting Tone's mates and juves on board?” You hesitate for a moment...  “No,” you finally declare. “No problems.” “Chel,” Vare replies, “I was worried there might be...misunderstandings.” Vare is quiet for a long moment, then rests her head against yours. “Re-sa,” she inquires. You cock a brow by way of response. “Speaking of that. Juves, I mean. Did...have you ever thought of...trying again?” You reply with a surprisingly articulate gulp. “I know about the germline issue, Re-sa, but things are different now.” “I have some new parts,” you retort, “but it's not like I rewrote my chromosomes.” “No,” Vare sighs, tugging your crest. “I mean you have money now. You think beings with creds stacked need to worry about genetic hygiene? That drokk's for poors.” “I guess,” you hedge, “but...” “And if you don't feel like bribing a gene librarian, we can always pay for a bootleg culture. Re-sa, we have options now. At least...tell me you'll think about it?” 3.Will you seriously consider creating an offspring with Vare? H. Yes, and you shouldn't wait too long to do it. I. Yes, but there's no hurry. J. No, but you're open to revisiting the question later. K. No, that's not really on the table. Bee Bonk fucked around with this message at 02:19 on May 24, 2017 |
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May 23, 2017 22:53
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1. Audit the sub first. Figure out what Vrade wants of it. On the phone so I can't easily look up whether the sub is straight-up ours now or still in trust for Tone. 2. Contingency: F. Wait, why is this a no-voter only thing? 3. Yes; not the priority but a priority.
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May 24, 2017 01:09
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dont be mean to me posted:1. Audit the sub first. Figure out what Vrade wants of it. That's the way I was leaning too, flexing the clade if we have to could be fun. I almost voted to outright refuse solely for F.
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May 24, 2017 02:06
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dont be mean to me posted:1. Audit the sub first. Figure out what Vrade wants of it. Fluke is a very formidable sub; offensively and defensively potent, and capable of deeper operation than probably anything on the station. It would give any operator a serious advantage on Thoon, which is assuredly why Vrade wants it. You currently own it, and were going to give it to Tone before he decided to come with you. You could still do so, and let his assorted non-immediate relations operate it, or sell it to Vrade as offered, and give Tone a significant cut of those proceeds. dont be mean to me posted:2. Contingency: F. Because if you sell Fluke to Vrade, Vrade will shuttle the Khaldeans and Vordubiri into orbit to rendezvous with Breaker after launch. This vote is for how to make this happen without Vrade's assistance. Hexenritter posted:I almost voted to outright refuse solely for F. However, given this sentiment, anyone can feel free to vote for #2 regardless of answer to #1, and I will edit.
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May 24, 2017 02:18
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dont be mean to me posted:1. Audit the sub first. Figure out what Vrade wants of it. All of this. A child probably won't be good for the kind of adventure we're going on, but it would be nice.
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May 24, 2017 02:27
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Im gonna go with the  here, and add a suggestion that if necessary our new warbuds steal that shuttle from the Crocs because gently caress them that's why.Bonus...transmute the Croc Habitat's ruling inhabitants into fuel or whatever while you're at it, ship. You can do that, right Breaker?
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May 24, 2017 04:49
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Blasphemaster posted:Im gonna go with the Also this.
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May 24, 2017 04:55
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Especially if it's queenycloaca's pleasure barge or some poo poo like that. Bust in, wreck up the place, space the crocs. Unless we want to flense them for more cushy seats on the ship and then dimensionally ferment them or something something erbtech.
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May 24, 2017 05:05
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Blasphemaster posted:Especially if it's queenycloaca's pleasure barge or some poo poo like that. Bust in, wreck up the place, space the crocs. Unless we want to flense them for more cushy seats on the ship and then dimensionally ferment them or something something erbtech. You keep doing this, and all I can do is keep voting for it
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May 24, 2017 05:12
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1. A. Tone doesn't need it, the deal sounds acceptable, and I'd rather have the sub go to Vrade instead of someone we trust even less. 2. 3. H. We don't know if Erbworld is going to have anything like a gene librarian, legitimate or otherwise. So if it's going to happen we better start the process now.
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May 24, 2017 05:19
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“And if you don't feel like bribing a gene librarian, we can always pay for a bootleg culture. Re-sa, we have options now. At least...tell me you'll think about it?” “We should look into it,” you agree with a haste that leaves you briefly startled. Vare seems similarly taken aback, and simply gazes at you for a long moment. “Re-sa,” she says guardedly, “don’t just agree to agree. I need you to mean it.” “I do,” you insist, “that’s the torqued part. There’s no internal debate on this…I want to make a family with you.” “You’ve caught me off balance, Regal Kore,” Vare replies, chagrinned. “I was expecting to have to talk you around to this, but I suppose—“ “That I talked myself around? Poz. We can agonize over whether it’s the right time, but it will never be ideal, so better just to pull the trigger on it.” “It’s really more of a plunger than a trigger,” Vare notes. “Well I do strive for clinical accuracy,” you reply, lifting your nose into the air. “One would hate to misapprehend the provenance of a thingie.” Vare nips your exposed throat playfully, then takes one of your synthetic hands in both of her organic ones. “Re-sa,” she purrs, the servos in your knuckles whining almost inaudibly as she idly manipulates your digits, “while you’re possessed with this sudden spirit of transparency, would you care to clear up a few…concerns?” You blink with sudden dread, gently trying to extricate your hand, but find it firmly in Vare’s grasp. The expression on her face is placid, but her gaze is frighteningly intense. “C-concerns?” “Just a few little trifles,” she insists sweetly, teeth gleaming. “Like why we’re interlocked with an O-Barvanja pleasure yacht?” “It’s…” you stumble, wincing as Vare flexes one of your fingers back to the back of your hand. It doesn’t hurt, but the sight of it still makes you uncomfortable. “Well, the thing is…Why don’t I just start at the bit where Vrade wanted us to sell them the Fluke in exchange for Voulge’s culture and transporting our guys.” “My membranes tremble with anticipation,” Vare drawls. “Since we’re taking Tone’s people with, I figured we could sell Fluke to Vrade if they really had their organelles set on it. It’d take cycles to make a sale otherwise, assuming Praxis or the Synod didn’t come down on us in the meantime. We could take the quick ducats and give them to Tone to disburse at his whiskery little discretion.” “I’m sure Tone was thrilled,” Vare cuts in, “but you’re starting to bloviate.” “Must be something in my diet,” you observe. “Anyway, I thought to myself, I’ve got a Khaldean war-clade on the ground, why am I taking a glorified strato-taxi?” “You…” “And I wasn’t torchy on owing Vrade any more favors, perceived or neg, so I…decided to exercise another option.” “Another...” “Well,” you explain, “I after consulting with CII-Batruzii, elected to put Kros through their paces, and snag us a shuttle in the meantime…”   Vare painfully jerks a feather from your crest. “You jacked the matriarch's qwag-wagon,” she snaps as you yelp and squirm away. “I thought you were just going to go lean on Yngado!” “There was leaning,” you insist weakly, shuffling to keep out of Vare’s reach. “Very assertive leaning…with big kniv—stop biting me!” “And here I thought the Syndies were overreacting,” Vare hisses. “Did you really think we needed that kind of heat?!” “It all worked out,” you protest, “didn’t it?” “If you try to sell me on that whole cluster in orbit being all according to plan,” Vare trails off, glaring.  Sensors arrayed throughout Gigas and scattered through her orbit light up at once as a missile of exotic matter translates into orbit in an eye blink. From the clean cylindrical bore left in the uncanny object’s journey through the planet’s ice crust billows an immense plume of vapor, an untold volume of vaporized, pressurized seawater and flash-ignited ice thrusting high into the stratosphere before beginning to freeze and fall back down upon the planet in drifts of shimmering, opalescent mineral ice that shroud the world’s entire circumference.  Weapons platforms hum to life, angling solar reflectors and powering up their rail cannons as operators scramble to respond to the alert. The orbital drones track the alien signal with ruthless efficiency, but as they prepare to fire their hyperballistic payload of tungsten rods, a quick-thinking operator notices that targeting parameters have been mysteriously altered. The operator, a Rate 6 with a history of arriving to shift visibly impaired and general insubordination, nearly lets the platforms destroy one another, but ultimately gives the emergency standby order, largely to impress the Rate 4 Analyst seated at the station across from him. He receives a Rating upgrade for his initiative, which decidedly does not make up for the 200 credit citation issued him for breach of procedure. The Analyst consents to two dates before freezing him out. The captain of a planetary interdictor, responding to the insistent coaxing of the vermiform custodian lodged in his skull, plots an intercept course with the Erb craft, but Sigoblinidae is strangely unresponsive to control, and Breaker of Chains has slipped the picket and broken for L3 before the cruiser can acquire a firing solution. A later audit reveals a malicious software attack on the systems managing fuel intermix and distribution. Captain Schridlavt is Removed for failure to maintain proper information hygiene aboard a Synod vessel, and his custodian is returned to the boil for reeducation.  “We handled emergent circumstances as a crew, and handled them well,” you conclude. “A fine exercise of adaptive tactics.” “I’ll adapt your tactics,” Vare snaps, pouncing with a snarl. “That doesn’t even make sense—Stop biting me!” “Commander,” Echo Four’s voice chimes gently over the intercom, “we are approaching point L3. Additionally, inspection of the captured craft has produced actionable intelligence.” “On my way,” you state. You glance at Vare uncertainly, not wanting to leave matters unresolved. “Go,” she sighs, beginning to collect her scattered bangles. “Just try not to get any vendettas declared on us before I get to the bridge.” “No promises, but--” You duck a flying bracelet and flee the cabin.  The libration point directly opposite Gigas is a lonely outlook, kept clear of navigational hazards by order of the Hegemonic Survey Buro. Only a small nav-buoy, no larger than a small skimmer, drifts here in the dark, pulsing out its existence in ninety-four spectra. “Neg pursuits,” notes Tone. “So fars.” “That’ll change in a krumping hurry,” growls Kamula, “if we float around here slapping our flaps all cycle.” “Agreed on sentiment if not syntax,” Voulge comments. “We will be brief with our findings. After Griswold kindly rendered any remaining...biomass on board, we audited the shuttle's systems. After disabling the transponder—“ “—And fourteen tracking devices,” snipes Midas. “And fifteen tracking devices,” corrects Voulge, “we discovered an interesting entry in the navigati—” “—How much do you know about the Matriarchal Conclave, Kid,” Midas cuts in with a devious twinkle in his eye. “Not much,” you admit, “but if our little palaver with Yzbeyl—“ “—Your constant interruptions are becoming tiresome,” Voulge snaps icily at Midas. As you stand with jaw still hanging open in mid-phrase, the Rigele extrudes their eyes back toward you. “Apologies, Commander. Shall we continue?” “Just get to the point,” you sigh, smoothing your crest in irritation. “Cut the foreplay,” rasps Kamula, eyeing Voulge and Midas with a wry grin. “The leadership of the O-Barvanja Syndicate,” Voulge powers on, unperturbed, while Midas sputters, “assembles regularly at a time and location divulged through encrypted transmission to the respective Matriarchs.” “Including,” Midas states, glancing sidelong at Voulge, who gestures permissively, “a certain Matriarch whose shuttle we may have nicked.” You struggle to keep the predatory grin off your face. “The coordinates,” you say, “and a shuttle with the authorization to be there.” “How long do you think that will last,” Vare asks, slipping onto the bridge. “You think they’ll just let us fly in a stolen shuttle?” “They just might,” replies Midas. “Admitting the loss might prove an unacceptable loss of face for Her Scaliness.” “Wouldn’t be the first time we banked on Verdugar being conniving qwag-biters,” you say, turning to Vare. “I’m not committing to any course of action. As much as I’d love to roll in on a tide of Erb-tech devastation and eliminate a fair chunk of the slave trade’s moving pieces at a go, we’re going to play this one smart. The stakes are too high to krump this one up.” “Just promise me,” Vare says, “that we're not going to go half-burn on this and get ourselves zeroed. That if we don't put together a plan with a real chance of success, that you'll let this one go.” “I promise,” you say earnestly. “We'll even take a vote if you want.” Turning to face front, you bring up Echo Four’s navigational array on the main display. “Voulge,” you say as the view local system zooms out to a longer scan of this region of the cluster, “how long until the Conclave?” “Two hundred fourteen cycles,” Voulge replies, “Jus-standard Reckoning, on Sizbula Thule, in the Slough.” “Then we have just north of two hundred J-cycles to put together a plan and a force that can take on what might be the largest private military in the Cluster, and decapitate its leadership.” “No pressure,” Midas quips. “Good to have a timeframe,” Kamula agrees unironically.  What is your initial destination? A. Estichi, Imkadi System: Resort World Travel Time: 3 Cycles. A small, heavily volcanic planet in the Drift. While the middle latitudes are largely uninhabitable due to heat and toxic gasses, the polar regions are tropical and hospitable. Forests of a coral-like organism covers greater than half of the inhabitable area, and the skeletons are used as building material by native and immigrated inhabitants. Estichi is known for a number of private retreats and resort colonies, and the volcanic ejecta in the atmosphere is said to grant the infrequent sunsets an enchanting quality. Vare: “It's a private playground for a lot of rich, influential beings. Relaxed beings that may not guard their secrets as well as they should. We could accrue some serious resources with minimal risk. That, and I've always wanted to go...It's a nice place.” B. Nomengus-K2, Veloka System: Fuel World Travel Time: 2 Cycles. The nearest destination, Nomengus-K2 is a frozen planet orbiting a red dwarf star in the Drift. The atmosphere is methane-heavy, and the frequent torrential rains are liquid methane, as are the rivers and streams winding through the planets extensive and labyrinthine canyons. The planet is a major hub of core-drilling, and several chemical interests have facilities here to extract the rich fuels to be found beneath the surface. Midas: “I have an old acquaintance, used to run with a load of anti-Hegemony anarchist sleebs. She makes bombs for one of the Petrocorps now...exceptional krumpers, thermobaric jobs. She's a deniable asset, so if we could disappear her just right, there shouldn't be any fallout. We could use the hardware if we plan on kicking over the croc nest.” C. Trosidreus, Mercudo System: Chem World Travel Time: 5 Cycles A small, flat, muddy planet. Though supporting no oceans, much of the surface of the planet is covered by an extremely shallow sea. The single large moon creates a strong tidal effect, rendering the entire planet essentially a tidal mudflat. Population is centered in sprawling cities suspended on immense pillars over the frequently-flooded landscape. Trosidreus supports no native fauna apart from a wealth of microscopic organisms that dwell in the mud, and the planet is a major source of pharmaceutical lifeforms. Voulge: “There is a substantial population of Rigele on Trosidreus; they could be helpful to us. Additionally, with the advanced fabrication capacity we now possess, the possibilities for drug synthesis are...intriguing.” D. Deshu-Sweron, Kashides System: Agri World; Class B Interdict Travel Time: 6 Cycles A warm agricultural planet in the Greater Reach. It has no axial tilt, giving it a mild and predicable climate, and boasts vast grasslands over the majority of its landmass. Despite its seeming habitability, the extreme hostility of the native fauna, and its tenacity in the face of neutralization attempts, have rendered past colonization efforts a failure. Deshu-Sweron serves as an agricultural source-world for the Hegemonic core, all labor performed by mechanical units, either automated harvesters, indentured synthorgs, or drones operated from orbital stations. Echo IV: “While not technically slaves, the exploitative contracts binding the synthorg laborers make them effectively so. If we could emancipate them, they could prove valuable allies. Additionally, I can't help but feel as though the natives could prove an exceptional candidate for cybernetic uplift. Simply a thought.” E. Gresater X, Agmus System: Rogue Moon Travel Time: 10 Cycles. A dense, rocky moon on the edge of the Slough with far greater gravity than suggested by its size. A barren rock with a solid nickel core, Gresater creates its own heat signature from dense pockets of heavy elements in the interior. The native lifeforms utilized advanced gravitic technology to disrupt the moon's orbit to escape subjugation by the Verdugar, but ensuing internal conflicts have lead to Gresater being set literally adrift. Kamula: “Never crashed a krumping moon into a planet. Be a damned sight to see. Grife. Even if that's not the play, Commander, we've got a drokk-load of radioactives to play with, and a whole race of qwag-biters who'd like nothing krumping better than to stick it to the Syndies and break it off.” Bee Bonk fucked around with this message at 18:21 on Jun 2, 2017 |
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Jun 1, 2017 18:03
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Crashing a moon into a planet would be great. Or, am I the only one who thinks filling the guest pass ship to the brim with the most reactive explosives and nuclear weaponry available and setting it to auto piolet is a great idea?
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Jun 1, 2017 18:21
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Brilliant update, as always.  your writing.Also I'm heavily leaning toward A because our waifu's always wanted to go  .
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Jun 1, 2017 20:47
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Always trust Kamula E
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Jun 1, 2017 23:57
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E, if not now then soon
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Jun 2, 2017 00:31
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How long do we expect we might need at the initial destination? Is travel time an issue? If there's time to do something at several locations, I vote A first to get more information. And after that we should be looking at liberating Deshu-Sweron and preparing mass destruction with Gresater X.
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Jun 2, 2017 03:51
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Paradise World sounds fun but, it never works out, So E
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Jun 2, 2017 04:02
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We should do A way the hell before we do E. Get at least some intel before we begin playing Bocci Ball with stellar bodies. Also we absolutely need to win back some Vare Points. And possibly make a baby who knows.  FakeEdit: Yes I know we need to test tube it or some shizz but it's the thought that counts. Also we can probably ErbTech ourselves up a fully reproductively functional 'aid' of some kind. as long as we avoid rule 34 territory.
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Jun 2, 2017 06:09
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HBar posted:How long do we expect we might need at the initial destination? Is travel time an issue? An oversight on my part; I've edited the map and post.
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Jun 2, 2017 18:22
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D also, Hexenritter posted:Brilliant update, as always.
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Jun 2, 2017 18:25
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B, let's shortest path this piece
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Jun 7, 2017 00:35
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  The Khaldean gazes inscrutably with her crimson visor at the proffered seating, before clicking her fangs in resignation and mounting the chair with a surprising degree of delicacy. Long, furred limbs fold in a way that suggests a high degree of either flexibility or internal cybernetics, and she hunches over, the awkward posture bringing her head to a level with yours. Politely ignoring CII-Batruzii’s struggle with the furniture, you greet her with a bob of your head. “A drink,” you offer, reaching over to gently tilt the canister of shimmerswig on your desk. “Chalcopyrite upsets digestion, Interlocutor-Commander,” the Khaldean hisses, temporal vanes flattening in distaste as she regards the currents of glittering particles floating up through the syrupy fluid. “Results are…unfortunate.” “Thank you for failing to elaborate,” you reply with genuine gratitude. “So…Echo tells me there is a…dispute in the clade that requires my attention?” “Correct,” the Khaldean affirms. “Fourth-Obverse backslash Counter-Boarding glidus Executor seeks integration with Warclade Kros.” “Fourth-Obverse backslash…” you mutter absently, consulting your too-deep database of ship’s functions. “Ah,” you brighten, “right, the command-bit of the Raikk killteam. I’m given to understand they are somewhat outside the normal clade structure?” CII-Batruzii grimaces widely, baring a disheartening array of flesh-rending teeth. “Somewhat,” she agrees vaguely. “Clades called to service by Prophets frequently reorganized; single Khal called to bear a Raikk pack-network merely more extreme example. Such are welcomed back after service, but soul’s song often irrevocably altered.” The Khaldean’s vanes flatten again. “Only one in six deemed suitable for reiteration.” “Were many of your iterations called to serve the Erb,” you ask, curious. “Did you fight anyone other than the Jurani?” CII-Batruzii’s vanes erect in interest, her snout wrinkling. “Sixty-seven,” she confirms. “Forty in Jurani Crucible, twenty-four in Kruthari Reconciliation, remaining three in simple harvesting raids.” “Kruthari Reconciliation,” you muse, cocking your head. “Can’t say I’m familiar with that one. A private squabble among the Erb Supremacy?” “Something like,” the Khaldean agrees. “New servitor caste proved…unequal to utilization. Were required to redress...intransigence.” “A politic synopsis,” you grin wryly. “Sounds as though you’re talking your way around saying the Prophets torqued up.” You quickly audit the Khaldean’s body language, fearing you may have crossed a line. You know intellectually that CII-Batruzii won’t attack you, but wariness of Khaldeans is a skill that has rarely served any being in poor stead. “Irreverence is prerogative of your caste, Interlocutor,” CII-Batruzii replies flatly, but without anger, and you relax slightly. “Suffice to say, Kruthari were neither as powerful nor indispensable as they believed, were given demonstration to that end.” “I’m sure you and Kamula could swap a campaign tale or two,” you note. “Kamula K’s soul-song...eloquent for Jurani,” the Khaldean admits. “Regret not arraying force against him. Has returned many Khal to their Tombs; his battle-wisdom will prove asset to Kros.” You nod, leaning forward with chin on knuckles. “And you doubt that…Fourth-Obverse backslash Counter-Boarding glidus Executor…will prove an asset? That she is, what, damaged goods?” CII-Batruzii exhales heavily, neck drooping. When she looks up, her expression seems weary. “Sacrifice was great; term of service unprecedented. Has no clade; with the defeat of S̶áu͢͝-̵̧Ŗ̡r̡͟t̀͟, in ancient battle that buried it at bottom of worldsea, has no Tomb to shelter soul. Archivist CXII-Glaster wars with self. Instinct to preserve souls to sing wisdom to future iterations, but would not lead clade to destruction with unfit warriors.” “Seems like a raw deal for Backslash Glidus, but isn’t this your decision as leader of the clade?” It takes a moment for you to recognize the odd, hissing wheeze that puffs CII-Batruzii’s sides as laughter. “I serve,” she gasps, “as agent of Kros. In outside dealings. You claimed service. Leader is you, Interlocutor-Commander.” “Glad I could lighten the mood,” you offer flatly, “but what do you want from me, here?” 1.”First,” CII-Batruzii replies, “proper name for warrior, not duty designation.” 2. “Second, must approve induction into the clade, Poz/Neg.” “And her...place...in the Tomb,” you ask, anxiously rubbing your temporal implant, dreading the answer. “Honoring and reiterating fallen,” CII-Batruzii assures you, “responsibility of CXII-Glaster. Though input welcome. Gratitude for audience, Interlocutor-Commander."   The methane-breathing assailants reel before the fury of Kamula's roaring lancejet, their armored suits as nothing before the cyborg's hail of explosive micro-missiles. Kamula strides purposefully forward, a rictus grin etched upon his face as he mechanically whirls and fires upon all comers. ”K,” Vare groans over comms, “hurry! We can't--” “Astrapovrontokhalazorithrodamástou,” cries an attacker in one, long, flatulent exclamation as pressurized gas spews along with his life from his breached suit. “Kasalvopornomakhloproktepem-krumping-vátis,” growls Kamula, reaching for his thermablade as more attackers pour from the surrounding structures.  The Vuha sloshes another long glug of 'swig into your glass, shrugging xir cranial polyps graciously. “Leave the can, if you please” you direct. You let your eyes drift across the star-strewn viewport and profoundly empty bar for a moment, before coming back to meet the bartender's doubled gaze. “Local holiday,” you offer, “or are new arrivals just that popular?” The bartender stares at you blandly for a moment, then flutters xir brachial polyps in what you're fairly certain is either a sigh or a proposition. The former, you decide, as xe reaches up to fiddle with the vocabulator around xir neck. A burst of soft static hisses forth, the visualizer spiking wildly. “--damned woojib held together with scrab bubbles and ill intent,” xe mutters, the device's output normalizing mid-sentence. “I could take a look at it for you,” you offer casually. “I've been known to know a thing or two about damned woojibs.” “And leave me at the mercy of overly-chatty aliens,” the vocabulator warbles, “I'll pass.” “Message received,” you acknowledge. “I can see you're...busy...so I won't keep you. I just need a little intel.” The Vuha flutters once more, then gestures permissively. 3. You think back to the briefing aboard Breaker, and go forward with your cover story. “I'm looking for... A. “...repairs on our grav-plates,” you lie smoothly. “Had a bit of a shake-up, and I've heard the Gresatrine have a torch hand at that sort of tech.” B. “...somebody with some influence,” you blurt, feigning frustration. “I'm looking to set up a profitable venture on this rock, and it seems like everyone's avoiding me. You interested in earning a finder's fee?” C. “...a chem dealer,” you say, with mixed honesty. “We're looking to exchange a few exotic pharmaceuticals. Very exotic.” D. “...someone in the Defense Commission,” you admit cagily. “I've got a stable of top-tier mercs who wouldn't mind vaping a few Syndies for a fistful of ducats, and I hear the Gresatrine might be...sympathetic to that pursuit.”
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Jun 7, 2017 15:48
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1 and 2 I'm honestly a bit fuzzy on. GOON DISCUSSION ACTIVATE! D. Lets off some people we want dead anyways and make some cash, which we are going to need lots of now that we have this full time venture of running a ship and crew.
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Jun 7, 2017 21:10
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While I really appreciate the world building, a lot, including the cants you provide for each species and culture, I'm not sure I understand what the discussion with the war clade was about. Are we deciding if Colonel Kurtz should be allowed to reproduce?
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Jun 8, 2017 14:53
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Blasphemaster posted:1 and 2 I'm honestly a bit fuzzy on. GOON DISCUSSION ACTIVATE! Volmarias posted:I'm not sure I understand what the discussion with the war clade was about. Sorry, guys; it's sometimes easy to assume reader familiarity with a situation that is only well-fleshed in my own mind. When slipping in background where applicable and avoiding infodumps, sometimes editorial oversights can occur.  This is Fourth-Obverse\Counter-Boarding|Executor, the Khaldean that attacked Ramadi and Crossbones during exploration of the S̶áu͢͝-̵̧Ŗ̡r̡͟t̀͟, . From what you know and have learned from CII-Batruzii, she was part of a warclade at one point (whose other members are long dead), and was selected by the Erb for a special security position. Specifically, to receive a cybernetic node making her packleader of a pack of Raikk. The Raikk, a species of savage flightless avians, are an Erb uplift who have a networked intelligence, and are collectively sapient. Backslash Glidus (\|), as Regal referred to her to save saying the entire mouthful, suspended in stasis until you showed up, is now at loose ends. Her old post aboard S̶áu͢͝-̵̧Ŗ̡r̡͟t̀͟, is gone, her clade is gone, and her clade's engram archive, or Tomb, is gone. Khaldean ferocity is largely contingent on their breed of effective immortality; kill a Khal and a new khal with its memories will just use the experience to come back and kill you harder. The idea of one's experiences simply being gone after death is an alien and terrifying one. Incidentally, this is how the Jurani managed to force an armistice after a long and grueling conflict: Once the Hegemony discovered why these creatures treated combat like a game, and literally didn't care if they lived or died, they were able to take steps to break the cycle of cybernetic reincarnation. Once the Khaldeans realized they could be killed for good, the war lost its savor. \| doesn't want to die forever. The members of Warclade Kros don't want any Khal to be lost like that, either. And while sympathetic to \|'s situation, they know that inducting someone whose sensibilities don't line up with the clade's could be problematic. If she proved insane, they wouldn't have to reiterate her; leaving her "soul" in the Tomb would be wasteful, but as far as you know, preferable to her being lost to the void. CII-Batruzii wants you to give \| a proper name, instead of an obnoxious title, and she wants you to make the final decision on her induction. She's asking you because she literally requires your approval to do it. If you say no, \| will live, largely isolated, until she dies, then be dead. This will be a serious bummer to your Khaldeans. Say yes, and \| will have a chance to reintegrate with her people after what was effectively a long imprisonment. She could also lose her mind at an unfortunate juncture, causing a delicate situation to explode with murderbirds and a neutron annihilator.
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Jun 8, 2017 15:40
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Ok, so if she is inducted, they can't get rid of her if there's a problem.big bag of nacho cheese posted:causing a delicate situation to explode with murderbirds and a neutron annihilator. Not seeing a down side here. Induct, give the name "Crow" since she herds a flock of Murder Birds and a flock of crows is a murder. Volmarias fucked around with this message at 03:19 on Jun 9, 2017 |
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Jun 8, 2017 23:23
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Volmarias posted:Ok, so if she is inducted, they can't get rid of her if there's a problem. Sounds good to me.
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Jun 9, 2017 00:14
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Volmarias posted:Ok, so if she is inducted, they can't get rid of her if there's a problem.
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Jun 9, 2017 00:15
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I'm down with Crow. That's perfect
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Jun 9, 2017 19:58
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Volmarias posted:Ok, so if she is inducted, they can't get rid of her if there's a problem. THIS
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Jun 9, 2017 20:47
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So is it possible to integrate the DNA and memories of our slain antagonists into some kind of constant cycle of revival and subsequent torturous, slow death? Like say pick a barren planet and turn it into our personal Schadenfreude preserve using Erbtech? We're obviously slowly but surely going mad so I don't think it'd be out of character.
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Jun 25, 2017 04:33
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Blasphemaster posted:So is it possible to integrate the DNA and memories of our slain antagonists into some kind of constant cycle of revival and subsequent torturous, slow death? Like say pick a barren planet and turn it into our personal Schadenfreude preserve using Erbtech? We're obviously slowly but surely going mad so I don't think it'd be out of character. That's power, mass and cycles that are better spent on actual mad science, not something that lesswrong coughed up on your deck.
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Jun 25, 2017 04:36
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“…someone in the Defense Commission,” you admit cagily. “I’ve got a stable of top-tier mercs who wouldn’t mind vaping a few Syndies for a fistful of ducats, and I hear the Gresatrine might be…sympathetic to that pursuit.” “Mercenaries,” muses the bartender, twiddling idly with xir wristcomp. Not an unusual gesture for a bartender checking inventory…or an informant forwarding data. “What outfit you rep? Not that I’m saying I know anything as such…” ”Outgoing signal detected,” Echo’s voice informs you, ”as expected. Stand by for trace…” In position, Crow asserts without words, signal sent cortex-to-cortex. You send a signal to deploy, not wholly unlike you would command a drone in semi-autonomous mode. “We're a...franchise,” you offer with a grin as the lanky Khaldean ducks under the hatchframe and sidles into the bar.  “That…” xir vocabulator lets out a harsh quack, and you can read the sudden fear in the trembling tips of the Vuha's cranial polyps as xe looks from Khaldean to Troodon and does the mental math. ”So,” Echo breaks in, ”the good news is I’ve resolved the trace. The bad news is, they’ve fed it through a quantum dissembler. Give me a few ticks to recalibrate…”. ”I'll play coy,” you subvocalize. ”Pull on xir polyps a bit with the Erb angle.” “Can’t unload too many particulars,” you reply aloud, “you spec that. But the crocs are getting rowdy, and maybe we have a directive to...affect that scenario in some way.” “Not sure that I can help you,” the Vuha runs the same glass under the sanitizer for the third time. “This doesn't sound like a healthy sort of thing to get involved with, even if I could.” “Look, Kleih,” you reply, ‘accidentally’ letting the bartender’s name slip, “if you know the...party I represent, and it seems you might have a passing familiarity at the least, then you krumping well spec that if you're in my sights, you're already locked-on tight.” ”Got coords,” Echo issues over comms, ”prepping Red Team now…but Commander, it looks like we’re going to have company down here.” ”That’s quick for DefComs,” you subvocalize suspiciously. ”Neg,” Echo replies, ”Have a spec.”  In a corner of your optical overlay, you see a small group of figures hastening down the shadowy access way toward the bar. Definitely Sevasto (Pansevastokosmopothoproskínitos in respectable company, but you've rarely been classified thus), but their pressure suits are bespoke and immaculately fitted, a far cry from the cumbersome off-the-rack number Taliro was wearing when you escorted him to the spacedock. Even through the foggy dome of his helmet, however, you would recognize Taliro’s gleeful-if-absent expression and springy step anywhere. “—see if I can set something up,” the bartender says, though you miss the beginning of xir statement in your distraction. “I’ll be back in a tick or two.” Xe begins to sidle away from the bar toward the back room. “Stay a while,” you demand, sealing the maglock on the back door with a casual (and unnecessary, but nicely theatrical) wave of your hand. “Im going to have a chat with my old friend Ropilionitalicon Hemamikalitaliros XV, and then we can discuss the matter of how you can assist in our engineering of this particular theater of conflict.” Kleih’s selfsame polyps retract as xe startles, but the fear in xir eyes is gradually replaced with resignation. Xe crosses xir arms warily and watches as you turn to face the front door of the bar, now opening to admit the cadre of Sevastos. “Taliro, my friend,” you call as the suited beings enter. “Kleih, a round for the Ropilionitalicon’s entourage…and straws.”  You watch Taliro fit a drinking bulb to his suit’s chow-lock with gusto and practiced ease; his companions appear more reluctant to tie one on, and take in their surroundings with the clinical dismay of bodyguards or minders. You mark the one in the red suit particularly; if looks were lasers, the beams he’s sending you could burn through a bulkhead. “Fancy running into you in this swath of the cluster,” you say, hoisting your glass in salute. “It sublimates my humors to see you in such a place, Regal Kore,” chatters Taliro happily, “but I do not believe for one moment that our meeting is accidental.” You take a long, sudden drink to hide your surprise at Taliro’s uncharacteristic suspicion. “How do you mean,” you offer flatly. Your optics subtly pick out the weapons attached to the suits of Taliro’s entourage, but the being himself, strangely, is unarmed. “I mean,” Taliro offers with a broad gesture that sets his arm servos to whirring and threatens to upend the local glassware, “that it is destiny!” “Of course,” you affirm, some of your fears allayed for the moment. “Seems an odd choice for you, though…Weren’t you running away from the Syndicate?” “A tale of woe,” Taliro explains, earflaps drooping. “Shortly after your daring rescue of myself, which I spoke of in glowing terms to my associates, I assure you, I found myself arrayed in quarters aboard the Jewel of Ohridae, bound for a strato-cabana on the hydrocarbon beaches of Nova Alkane. One of the ones with the synthorg butlers who—“ You zone out a bit, catching up on your crew's progres and nodding encouragingly as Taliro waxes eloquent on the amenities awaiting him on Nova Alkane. ”All teams,” you subvocalize, ”report in.” ”Gold team,” replies Voulge, ”awaiting contact with black market source. Extensive vetting; they're very wary of heavily armed outsiders for some reason.” ”Green team,” Vare reports, ”planetary scans ongoing. Heavy deposits of radioactives...Extemely hazardous levels of Getting Paid, if we can get around the locals.” ”Red team,” CII-Batruzii replies, ”standing by for deployment on your command.” ”Ships good, chirps Tone, ”all goods here.” “—wouldn’t you say?” You look up into the sudden silence and nod enthusiastically. “Definitely,” you agree with whatever Taliro just said. “Because you are a being of discrimination,” Ropilio declares. “Well, I had only just achieved a perfect atmo intermix, ordered a light supper and massage to follow, and was in the process of extracting myself from that dreadful off-the-rack suit I’d been marinating in, when I received an urgent communique of exceeding priority from my clan banker!” “Oh no,” you respond indulgently, widening your eyes appropriately. “The nest-egg I’d laid aside during my indenture with the Syndicate,” Taliro continues, “the source of the…friction you so courageously helped me evade? It seems it was…well, gone. Indeed, my account stood at a mournful negative six hundred thousand four hundred and six exo-ducats.” “Stars,” you exclaim, slapping a hand to your mouth. ”Regal,” comes Echo’s voice over comms, “is that the Ropilionitalicon?” ”Apparently,” you subvocalize behind your glass as Taliro drones on about the structure of his clan’s accounts. ”What’s the word on the endpoint of that transmission?” ”That’s just it,” she replies. ”It was sent to a hab-module operated by Collective Hemamikalitaliros” “—sort of behavior that the Collective Hemamikalitaliros of my shining ancestors would never countenance,” Ropilio exclaims, grabbing your attention. “Standards have slipped precipitously if the discretionary income of a Golden-Light-Beam Harrier-of-the-Collective can simply be…diverted in such a transparent and unseemly manner! Misappropriation of community resources indeed! Presveftokerdosinkhitospondophthóros indeed!” “That’s…something,” you mutter. “Taliro, let me ask you something?” “Of course, my estimable comrade!” “Why are you here?” “Ever the being of action,” Taliro cheers. “You see,” he says, turning to his red-suited associate, “I told you she’d be interested!” “Now I didn’t say I—“ “I was just getting to the core of it,” Taliro continues, detaching his deflated drinking bulb and regarding it with chagrin. “You see, there are certain…factions among the Collective that believe what they call an ‘Agenda of Appeasement’ has failed, and that direct action against the Syndicate should be earnestly considered.” “And you don’t share this opinion,” you probe, gesturing at the bartender for another round. “It’s not as if I’m colluding,” Taliro explains, “I suffered under the yoke of the Syndicate for rota! My acts of financial warfare measurably weakened the enemy, and I don’t think it’s so outlandish to expect a little time to enjoy the fruits of my long sacrifice, do you?” “You were embezzling from the crocs to destabilize their organization,” you ask, attempting to conceal your doubt. “Precisely so,” Taliro agrees. “Deep cover, very successful!” “But why are you here?” “My associate Pherutep here—“ The red-suited Sevasto’s eyes widen, then narrow. "Ropilionitalicon,” he barks, glancing pointedly at you. “Not in front of the laringoglaskoxestokhandoekpótis!” “Clan Hemamikalitaliros used to know when not to stand on ceremony as well,” Taliro sighs. “Regardless, my associate Kalixopalitostaphinopoliserupheruteps here has agreed to assist in the reclamation of certain ill-disbursed resources, which we have tracked to a certain untethered lunar body that we now occupy.” You eye Taliro's armed escort, and again wonder exactly whose interests they're pursuing. “Your money’s here,” you say. “Correct! Or, more accurately, it will be! Less than a cycle from now, when my feckless cousin Pelagipopudannikositorios arrives to make a deal with the Gresatrine Defense Commission for a set of miniaturized grav-poles.” “Grav-poles…” “For their flotilla of reactionless suicide drones,” Taliro explains as if it were obvious. “Reactionless suicide drones…” “Yes, that’s what—Regal?” Taliro looks at you with sudden concern. “Sa Kore? Are you feeling alright? You seem a bit...ἀstrapovrontokh...how do you say...Overcome?” “Just fine,” you assure him, unable to keep the wide grin from stretching your face. “Just fine.” “I see ruminations swimming through your thought bladders,” Taliro notes. “Have you decided to assist?” “Taliro,” you reply, “I know you want your money back, and you don't agree with a shooting war with the Syndicate...” A. “but you should introduce me to this cousin of yours. We'll bond over a common interest in dead crocs and exploding robots, and see about...outsourcing this war of yours. Win-win, poz?” B. “so let me help you hijack this meeting. You'll get your money, I'll get my toys, and your cousin gets left drifting.” C. “so let me help you steal this deal out from under Sitorio. Then you'll hire me to take the fight to the Matriarchal Conclave. Collective Hemamikalitaliros will be responsible for crippling O-Barvanja, and you'll be the Sevasto responsible.” D. Something else: "..."
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Jun 27, 2017 15:41
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A. Can't make an omelette without blowing up a few hundred robots.
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Jun 28, 2017 01:09
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C. This species is so cool.  NEVER NOT GET PAID TO MURDER CROCS.
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Jun 28, 2017 01:57
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