Commonwealth of Man

[Staehr]

Whenever I see Earth in this game, I imagine the future. I think about utopian green cities, freedom and prosperity for all. Solar panels. Restored rainforests. Beneficent leaders working for the good of all people. Culture flourishes, a peaceful federation is formed with our neighbors and we explore the galaxy together.

It never turns out that way. I either get eaten up by monsters and crapped out as space poop, or vassalized by hegemonial dicks and crammed into a corner, where I lag behind and twiddle my thumbs until the Unbidden show up and someone else with bigger ships deals with them and wins the game.

Alien species with better traits take over pop growth on Earth. The Galactic Community laughs at our resolutions. Everyone's a comedian, and humanity is the joke.

That's because I've been playing as the UNE. This AAR is about the Commonwealth of Man.

 

[Staehr]

I put on my jackboots, start the game and decide we shall succeed where Earth failed. Immediately I notice the Colonial spirit is working for me and our planets are extra happy. I found Bacontown and Egghead, our food and science colonies. And I'm pretty sure I know where the Hyacinth went.

And then the hegemonial dicks show up, grab our science vessel and vivisect Indiana, our top archaeologist. I'm sure Dolores Muwanga would have shook her head at these wacky aliens and their practical jokes. But I am Grand Marshal Sidney Beauclair. I am here to chew gum and shoot assholes. And there's no gum on Unity, we ran out of that on the Chrysanthemum.

Foundries roar and light up the sky as both our colonies are converted to Forge worlds. Cops and entertainers are fired and retrained as steel smelters and jarheads. People are starving and angry, so I throw them canned food and cigarettes from my dictatorial balcony and put on my eyepatch. This is war. If you have a problem with that, go find a Rogue Servitor.

Ten corvettes later, we blaze into their systems. The first contact process isn't even finished yet, because I aborted it. I don't need to know their language. Their actions speak volumes, and I will respond with hot lasers. The offending science ship has retreated, but don't worry. You can run from me. But your planets can't.

Orbital bombardment commences, and that gets their attention. Static chitters across the comms and our screens light up, showing a hideous monster giving us the finger and shouting insults in machine translated English. Cute. And then borders are established, our ships are banished into the ether, they declare war while we're in transit and start shooting down our outposts. Crap.

Thirty corvettes later, we're on the march again. They're dirty, but they're thirty, and boy howdy do our pilots shoot fast. They spend all their waking time playing DOOM and popping amphetamines, and you better believe I abandoned Expansion in favor of Supremacy. The enemy can't defend the systems they took from us. We now have the upper hand.

I look at their civics screen and see that they're Fanatic Egalitarian. Well, a lot of good that did them, huh? Turns out, that +10% output from specialists don't mean dick. +30% ship fire rate means everything. You should think about that before you kidnap and murder people. I think it's about time we make some changes to that government of yours.

See, we're at the tail end of the giant, spiralling turd that is the Milky Way, and they're boxing us in. We've had our vengeance for Indiana, but now we must secure our future. And the only way for us to find more space to grow, is to run these pompous pricks through, pedal to the metal, weapons engaged.

It's so easy to forget the human cost of war. Us leaders must always keep in touch with the regular folk. That's why I boarded a troopship myself once the ground invasion was over, and looking out across the field of rotting corpses I'm happy to say that the human cost here was negligible.

Their ground forces use some kind of pulse weapons, and those really hurt, but it ain't bullets. Plus, we had three times the boots they did, seeing as I've banned all contraception. They surrendered almost immediately.

Now comes the difficult task of restoring order. I build several cop shops and fortresses on these freezing bogs they call planets. I think I'll name them Asscicles and Yellow Snow. We're not monsters, they can still live here. They just have to do as we tell them, and work real hard. That's not slavery. It's called "human rights" for a reason.

Having spoken to their leader, who is now doing a fine job as a mining foreman, I can tell that we definitely made the right choice. First of all, we're no longer starving and unhappy, these guys sure know how to work the land. Life in the Commonwealth? Pretty good.

Second, turns out there's a bigger fish. The leader warned me that to the north is another empire, and they don't mess around. If we hadn't taken these planets, they would have, and they would not have been as merciful as us. They're Fanatical Purifiers. I don't see any sense in that. But it's like my Papa always told me, "Sidney, there will come a time when tact and diplomacy prove useless, and your hand must be raised instead."

And that time is now. Someone needs to kick these genocidal peckerheads in the ass so hard they'll be coughing up shoelaces, and that someone is me. Because I don't see anyone else here with this much bonus ship fire rate.

Grand Marshal Sidney Beauclair, out.

 

[Staehr]

Update.

So, while I was busy explaining to our technicians why we absolutely need a standing fleet of ninety corvettes and that they had better fix the production problems, my phone rang again.

It's a new empire to the east. They kinda look like an octopus ran into a lawnmower, and they're pissing their pants at what has been happening over here. Apparently there's some intergalactic law about detonating thermonuclear devices in the vicinity of garden worlds. I don't call these swampy freezerboxes much of a garden, best I can tell we only improved them by warming them up a little.

Anyway, they've sent over a whole stack of paperwork. Commercial pacts, research agreements, defensive pacts. I sign them all, we could use an ally against the purifiers.

And then a migration treaty. No. No thank you. Aliens are best viewed through a telescope. I don't envy the suckers who have to work as enforcers on our conquered planets. It's nasty down there.

Then one week later they declare war on the purifiers, who they're unfortunate enough to share a border with, and I wholly agree with that. Oo-rah! The squid navy ain't much of anything, but they've rented some mercenaries that look decent. Gotta hand it to them, that's a sensible thing to do when you're not cut out for fighting.

Meanwhile, our lads and lasses are pulverizing all resistance and eating up planets like popcorn. Why these aliens are so stuck in the belief that a pulse rifle will stand up to an AR-1500, I will never know. Your fanatic ideals and weak little taserguns might serve for bullying your own populace into a genocidal crusade. But it ain't shit against nukes and bullets.

The war ends and the space nazis are gone. Four new planets are now ours, the squidfaces took a couple as well, and the paperwork is astronomical. But that can wait, because the talking calamari have an enticing suggestion. They want to be our vassal. If I had a mustache, I'd twirl it.

See, they seem like bright folks. And our own researchers have been complaining that I cut their funding. If we could let the alien nerds do the brainwork for us, we could fire our whole science division and just focus on alloys.

So be it. I devise plans for a Scholarium agreement, which should be active five years from now, barring any more maniac species showing up and begging for an asswhooping. Should give us time to stabilize all these new worlds. And that'll be the last I hear of any production problems.

It is the year 2242, and roughly 10% of the galaxy now belongs to the Commonwealth of Man.

 

[Staehr]

Year 2243, aboard the CNS Montauk
Voidpool system, Bravo sector
Commonwealth of Man

The door opened and the former leader of the freezerbox aliens stepped in, flanked by what I suppose were his elite soldiers. No weapons though, we don't allow that on the Montauk. Good show nonetheless.

But hoo boy, are they ugly. It's like someone duct taped a woodlouse to a mummified corpse and painted four eyes on it. And they smell exactly like Silly Putty. Makes it easy to remember their species name though, their heads look like pillbugs and "pellet" rhymes with "Vhellet".

"Ah, there you are. Right on time. So. Now that the threat of the, ah, omnicidal maniacs to our north is gone, I want to discuss the nature of our species' cooperation moving forward."

"Greetings, Grand Marshal. Yes, despite our initial misgivings we are ultimately very grateful for your... strength of arms, is that the term? The Pobelin would have eradicated us, of that I am certain. But... this treatment of our people, it cannot continue."

Oh, it can. You are in no position to bargain here. You can see our fleet in perfect silhouette against your own moon through the holowindow behind me. I made sure of that.

"Quite so. I've elevated your species' rights to Decent Conditions. The new living quarters should be finalized within six months. Nothing fancy, but better than the camps."

He wiggled his antennas, which I'm told is their version of a nod, and also gives me the heebie jeebies.

"That is good. Very good. But the fact that your species continues to rule over every cell in our body, it is... HISSSSS clacketyclack!"

Corporal Dawkins raised his weapon, but I gave him the "it's all right" hand. Our translation software had given up and suggested a long list of meanings, but the topmost was "deeply unfair".

What did Papa say about horse trading again? "Never open the candy bag all at once, Sid! Let him grope around in it for a while. Then drop a chocolate bar in his hand and make him believe he found it on his own! Hah!"

"Yes, I suppose it is unfair. I wouldn't much like it either, if it was me. But you have to understand that our ways are very different from yours, mister..."

"Kliklak."

You gotta be shitting me.

"Right. Mr. Kliklak, unlike yours, the human homeworld was a very dangerous place before we tamed it. Cataclysmic natural disasters, hostile climate, predators by the score, virulent microfauna, high gravity and cosmic radiation. To say nothing of how toxic most of our natural flora is, apart from our cultivars. Even a small bite of the wrong mushroom can kill you."

This was the same speech every military recruit in the Commonwealth of Man got on their first day of training. But he didn't need to know that.

"And even with all these cards stacked against us," I continued, "our greatest enemy was always our own kin. For thousands of years, men and women preyed on each other. Man nearly wiped itself out in nuclear fire. Then, we almost caused a runaway greenhouse effect that would have killed all life on our planet. It was by divine chance we discovered the portal to Deneb, and that same ferocious spirit which had been forged on Earth helped us conquer Unity and establish the Commonwealth. We will not waste this one last chance. We will continue to draw on our indomitable human spirit in cementing our place in the universe, and righting the wrongs of the past. The Commonwealth of Man is here to stay."

Pause for effect. Then continue. Just like in the diplomacy course.

"I've read the survey reports and historical accounts from your own world, and it does not compare. Your bones are made of chitin. Ours are metallic. Your ways are egalitarian and fair. Ours..."

I got up from my chair and wandered over to the holowindow, beckoning him to follow. "Ours is the way of strength. Survival of the fittest, devil take the hindmost. By right of military conquest, these planets now belong to us. Cold and inhospitable though they may be, they are still trophies of our victory against a hostile existence. To give up something that we fought so hard for, that is not something a human will do willingly. Even for the sake of the collective. Even though it is not fair."

He didn't like it, I could tell that much. But he was thinking. And here it comes.

"Such a mindset was not unheard of in the past, among smaller groups of Vhellet, outcasts from the major tribe. Look, all I want is for our people to be free of daily tyranny, it is as engraved in our carapace as your idea of... survival of the fittest. What if... an arrangement could be made where you still own our planets, but not us? We would develop them for you, but in our own way, under our laws and traditions. And I assure you we can discipline our own people, no need for your policemen. In return for your protection among the stars, we supply you with goods and resources. That is something I can convince my people of. That would be fair."

Thank you, Papa.

"That's... actually not a bad idea. I think humanity used to be very much based on agreements like that, way back before we even had spaceflight. Our people wouldn't mind, as long as our material needs are still met. How about 30% of your basic and 15% of your industrial output?"

"Tchah," he clacked his mandibles, "it is a high price for a lease on freedom."

"I say it's pretty generous, pal! We're not banishing you from space, you can still explore and settle new systems. Our sensor data would be yours, as would our fleets in the event of aggressive contact, with no military obligations from your side. Though we would require that any temperate planets you find be given to us."

"It is not that. It simply cannot be done. Our margins are already small, with our infrastructure in shambles. And with Chaktacklack... gone, our numbers..."

I nodded. Chaktacklack had been their most populous colony, and also where the purifiers had landed first. Billions had died in a matter of weeks.

Poor thing. Would have patted his shoulder if he weren't so gross. "Even if we were to give you," I flicked away the outside view to show the sector map on the holoscreen, "the dominion of all these planets here?"

He recoiled, and his antennas went berserk. "The homeworlds of our nemesis..."

"A fitting reward for what you've been through, I should say. We'd grab them for ourselves, but, that permafrost really makes it hard to get a decent tan there. Bet you could make good use of them, though."

"It is, more than generous, it is a tremendous gift. Vhellet would have endless opportunities in such vast amounts of space. Any Vhell could be who they wanted, own what they wanted, and decide for themselves what to do. But, Grand Marshal, we still cannot fulfil your terms. Given time, yes, but not for many years. I cannot sign a deal to work my people to death."

"Hm. Well, if manpower's the problem, why not put the purifiers to work? They're still there. Gagged and bound, stuffed in holding pens, and probably dehydrated. But most of them can still operate foundries and generators well enough."

Again, Kliklak had not counted on this. "The adversary is still alive? You didn't exterminate them?!"

"Nope. Seems a shame to waste all those idle hands. But you could. Or use them as livestock, I don't care. They're your planets now, your property. But the alloys," I tapped the desk with my finger, "must flow. Or there will be hell to pay. Fifteen percent industrial and strategic, thirty percent basic. The details are in the contract." I opened my drawer, placed about fifty pages of galactic bureaucracy on the desk and pushed it towards him. "Don't have to sign now, but I expect your answer within a week."

I could have sworn his dead-mackerel, compound eyes flickered with sadistic approval for a second. Then he bent over and grabbed the contract.

"You had this planned all along."

"Yep."

"I cannot deny that it pleases me greatly, to see our butchers brought so low. Even their children laughed at seeing ours beheaded. Their enshacklement is an improvement on the galaxy. And yet it disgusts me, for no one should rule over another by force. It is fair, but not fair. Wise and barbaric. Justice, but not. Vhellet have no words for this."

"We got one", I said and swiveled around in my chair. "It's called vengeance."

 

[Staehr]

Year 2252, Hexagon military complex,
Unity, Deneb system, Alpha sector
Commonwealth of Man

"An army marches on its stomach,” is what my Papa always said before he’d serve us up whatever he had hunted for dinner. It’s an old saying from Earth, and the original meaning is still debated.

Some say it means you gotta provide supplies for your troops before you go to war, but I refuse to believe anyone would be dumb enough to forget that. Others say it means you gotta have proper sanitation facilities at all times, or they’ll be fighting in their own shit and letting dysentery decide the outcome. And I think that’s the truth, because as we all know, Earth was a nasty place.

But what it means nowadays is, you gotta stay lean and mean. Washboard abs and hungry eyes, that’s a soldier’s look. You let your troops grow fat and restless, with nothing to shoot and no exercise, they start tripping over their bellies real fast. So I’m happy to say, we got a new war on our hands.

Turns out, the pillbugheads weren’t all as excited about the new setup as their elected representative, which is exactly what I expected from a democracy. The trouble with giving everyone a voice is, most people are idiots.

It works great for managing a single, medium-sized country. At around 100 million people, you might as well call it an oligarchy. Anything larger than a quarter of a billion and it’s a farce. So, giving them six entire planets plus a subjugated species to manage all at once? Doomed to fail. And that means I get to keep doing my job.

The rebel faction is an Enlightened Monarchy, so at least they’re getting things done. They’re also Fanatic Pacifists, which... I can’t even… Anyhow, two Prospectoriums are gonna pay better than one, and it also means we get to build another Ministry of Truth. I don’t think this could have gone any better. And that’s why I’m still Grand Marshal, even at a ripe old age of 83.

Their fleet’s big, for a broken rump state. If all we had was 'vettes, it might be a fair run for our money. But all they’ve seen of our Destroyer tech is the Montauk, and that’s intentional on our part, making sure it figures as our flagship in the newscasts.

What they don’t know is, we’ve got another twelve of’em sitting in our hangars at the tactical chokepoint in the Xir system, with bigger guns and juicier reactors. Thirty more are under construction, and our prototype Cruiser design is a few months away. So when I say war, I really mean massacre. And another notch for the Commonwealth.

On the frontiers, things are pretty stable. We’ve found two tropical planets, too sweaty for my liking, but with our latest habitation tech they shouldn’t be all too painful to settle and make productive. There’s another planet near the squidfaces, which they haven’t grabbed yet because it’s guarded by space bugs, but once we can scrape together another colonization campaign we’re gonna send a fleet there and yoink it.

Because that planet is too good to be true. Goldilocks zone, perfect climate, Earth-compatible biosphere, no hostile wildlife. Just white, sunny beaches, azure waters and giant dodos waiting for the grill. Might have to relocate the Hexagon there, God knows I could use a vacation.

To our north is cluster of systems occupied by a raider enclave, and their military strength is a whole 'nother ballgame, but so far they haven’t bothered us, and we haven’t bothered them. They’re blocking our path into the Bravo quadrant, so at some point they’ll have to go, but for now they’re still on our “do not fuck with” list.

As for the pointdextery molluscoids, they’ve been nicely behaved and our spymasters report no reason to doubt that. Their conversion to a Scholarium is well underway, which ought to really kick our R&D budget up a notch.

I’m told they’ve already helped us discover a precursor species that once lived here, some kind of plant people if you can believe that. I’m letting them continue because there’s bound to be military applications if we can discover how they were wiped out. If all they come back with is “chainsaws” or "throwing cigarette butts", I shall be very disappointed.

And that’s about it for this old gal’s diary. Gonna kick back and watch Starship Troopers one more time, then call it a week. Grand Marshal Sidney Beauclair, signing off.

Ah, who am I kidding, I haven’t had a weekend since ’09.

 

[Staehr]

Year 2275, The Grand Arena
Unity, Deneb system, Alpha sector
Commonwealth of Man

Steam rose off the many wounds of the doggodile alpha, billowing in the cold winter sun and mixing with the stench of sweat and fear that suffused the Grand Arena. The hulking, quadrupedal mass of scales and muscle, once so reviled by Unity's settlers for its territorial instincts and too many regenerative glands, was counting its last seconds.

Watching the creature in its death throes stood Jane Clemence, exalted battlematron of the Four Candidates. And also, the last living candidate. Blood soaked her hair, covered her skin and dripped off her bare breasts in a soft patter against the slushy mud. The dronecams buzzed around her like vultures.

Jane couldn’t see the audience through the red fog in her eyes, nor did the Arena's sound barrier allow her to hear their cacophonous roar, but she knew damn well which way their thumbs were pointing right now. That part was a formality and everyone knew it. She raised her nanoforged warblade and pulled the safety pin at the hilt. The blade sprung an orange glow, sending sparks flying off the edge.

With only one heart still beating, the once-mighty doggodile could do nothing but growl and wait for its unholy regeneration to kick in. But all its glands had been disabled, by surgical strikes from the candidates working together, as a team. Richard had been the one to draw its attention last, allowing Jane to hamstring it.

Three more statues for the Hall of the Legends of the Times of Old. And for the first time since the Grand Election had become a monthly tradition, no new alcoves would be carved.

With a final hiss, the beast died as the half-molten sword pierced its eyeball and entered the brain. And the sound barrier was lifted. The crowd erupted in thunderous ecstasy. And above it all bellowed the voice of the Lord of War.

"GOOD PEOPLE OF THE COMMONWEALTH! WE HAVE A WINNER! ALL HAIL JANE CLEMENCE, THE CANDIDATE FROM DIESELTOWN! VICTOR FROM DIESELTOWN, APPROACH NOW THE BASIN OF THE CONQUERORS AND ASSUME THE RULER'S MANTLE. YOU’VE EARNED IT!”

Outside the Arena was the domain of the Razorbeam Gang. Inside, the Lord of War reigned supreme. No one had seen him up close before, but his voice had announced countless battles. In the absence of a government body, he was the people’s guiding light. With the supply chain in shambles, the fleet admirals had hastily assembled him, and he had kept the Commonwealth from tearing itself apart.

That era, Jane realized, was now about to end. She washed herself in the basin that had emerged, rising from a hatch in the podium at the center of the Arena. The water was nice and hot, and felt like a blessing from the Admiralty itself.

Snow and mud flew around her as the Lord's engines maneuvered him down towards the podium. Proud and strong, he looked, all clad in metal and sitting atop a throne made of ancient machineguns.

In his outstretched hand there was a plain khaki uniform, bearing the signet of the Commonwealth of Man. The Grand Marshal’s old garments, Jane realized. Now shivering in the bitter cold, she accepted them and dressed herself. They were much too tight around the shoulders, but the important thing was what they represented.

“What is to be your name,” asked the robot, once she had finished. Jane couldn’t help but smile, as she thought of her family back home and how they had bickered over this exact moment. She leaned forward and whispered into his ear.

The Lord of War soared into the air and raised its voice again. "IRONBLOOD, FIRST OF YOUR NAME, IMPERATRIX OF THE COMMONWEALTH OF MAN! RISE, AND SERVE YOUR PEOPLE!”

Imperatrix Ironblood rose.

 

[Staehr]

Year 2290, REDACTED
REDACTED, Sol system, Sol sector
United Nations of Earth

And then the video ended, and the envoy known only as Mr. Indigo shoved his holoslate back in his jumpsuit pocket.

“We don’t know exactly when they became a Warrior Culture, but it happened roughly a decade after the death of their first Grand Marshal, Sidney Beauclair. Up until that point they at least resembled a human nation."

“This is…”

“Barbaric? Prehistoric? Yes, I suppose it is. Not the worst I’ve ever seen, the galaxy is big and full of horrors. But to all those Commonwealthers you saw in that arena, it was a regular Tuesday. What’s important is, this event marks the point when they emerged from twenty years of darkness and reforged themselves into the powerhouse they are now.”

“Wh… Powerhouse? What do you mean? I thought they were depending on our humanitarian aid?"

Mr. Indigo smiled. “You and forty-five billion others, kiddo. The truth is, they never returned any of our calls. We had to piece together what happened little by little, using proxies and third parties.”

Jack Bensley, UNE envoy-in-training, leaned forward. “Tell me the whole story. Please, sir.”

“Sure. Like I said, after old Sidney Beauclair choked on a plate of bacon, oh yeah, and they eat almost nothing but meat, by the way. Get that into your noggin."

Jack's stomach was already churning after the horrors he had seen. Meat?

"Yeah, after that, both the Prospectoriums that had been feeding them saw their chance to rebel all at once. And then they immediately turned on one another, since the Pobelin species had been a touch… genocidal towards the Vhellet before the Commonwealth conquered them both. You can imagine how that affected their overlord, all they had built up until that point was fortresses and smelters."

"A civil war, I would guess. The populace overthrowing the government."

"Precisely. Widespread hunger, chaos, imminent collapse. Seen it so many times in would-be imperial hegemonies, you knock out one of their legs and the taboret falls over. That's how we keep them in check. Unity was the stage of a huge gang war, the colonies reverted to subsistence farming. And cannibalism, of course.”

Mr. Indigo took his protegé’s dumbstruck silence as a sign to continue.

“What saved them was their admiralty. Their fleets had become so large as to practically be mini-nations of their own, and without their supply trains they turned to mercenary work. A caravan route of sorts emerged as a result."

Mr. Indigo pulled out his holoslate again and showed an outdated map of the Commonwealth, drawing a rough circle with his finger.

"The fleets would supply the homeworlds in exchange for alloys and repairs, then go raid their former vassals while keeping them from getting too overenthusiastic about killing one another. Then they’d stop by the Lagin’Chuuz molluscoids and strongarm them for new fleet designs and tech updates, and finally return to the homeworlds again. Planetside, the criminal organizations kept things somewhat under control in competition over who controlled the alloy foundries."

“This sounds like an ancient history lesson. Something out of a holoplay.”

“Oh you don’t know the half of it. I’ve spared you the grisly details of what happened to the government factions that weren't Militarist or Xenophobic. Let’s just say, whatever part of the former vassals’ workforce got killed during the raids, was soon replenished.”

“Slavery. Human slavery.”

“Welcome to the real world, rookie. Life in the UNE can best be described as "utopian abundance" compared to virtually anywhere else. Heck, some are even calling it mandatory pampering. But you and me, we belong to the elite few who get to shovel shit in order to keep paradise running. You'll adjust to it soon enough, comes with experience."

Jack was quite sure he'd had enough experience for one day, but he wasn't about to complain. Few could even dream of a career as meteoric as his had been.

Mr. Indigo's meal arrived, and he tipped the serverbot generously. Jack had lost all his appetite, and returned the menu.

"But what's important for you to take away from today is, throughout all this madness the Commonwealth still kept this idea going, that one day, a new Grand Marshal, or Imperator as they’re now calling them, would be elected through that bloody debacle you saw there, and save them from their misery. ”

“Right. Panem et circences.”

 

[Staehr]

Mr. Indigo's 40 years of service kept him from facepalming. He jabbed his fork into the tofu and crossed his hands. “And just as I was getting my hopes up that you might not be yet another twinkle-toed know-it-all. Think, kiddo. Use your head. Why do you suppose I’m showing you this twenty years old video right now? What’s going on in the Galactic Senate at the moment?”

Jack racked his brain, but couldn’t figure it out. This was all looking like more than he had signed up for. A peaceful post in one of the fiefdoms, where he could practice his hobby inbetween diplomatic meetings, that’s what he had hoped. Not this.

“The Security Contractors resolution? I’m sorry, sir. I don’t get it.”

Mr. Indigo lifted up his holoslate and wiggled it. “That battle there? That wasn’t rigged. Four half-naked gladiators really did kill one of the most unstoppable predators we’ve yet to catalogue. And then, what do you think happened? Did the admiralty silently chuck their new princess out of an airlock, and continued the embargo under an immortal figurehead?”

Jack knew better than to nod.

His mentor leaned closer. “No. They immediately stepped down, gave her full command of the fleets and went back to their posts. How many military juntas in history can you think of who actually did that? Not a single goddamn one. So that old bread and circus line, which is what my bosses also gave me at first, that’s a load of hogwash. Somehow, the Commonwealth kept their ethos alive through all those dark years, and that means they’re far from the savages we portray them as. They’re much more dangerous than you can imagine.”

Mr. Indigo automatically took a bite of his now tepid meal, swallowed and continued.

“And then, their new Imperatrix, first thing she did on the job was to set off for the Prospectoriums. She didn’t have to do anything back home, because the mafia disbanded and relinquished control over the planets that very same day. Again, unprecedented in all of human history. Once she got there, her armies swept through each planet like a locust swarm, executing any and all Pobelin they could find, scooping up all human slaves and returning them home."

"Right. Of course. Genocide. Under the guise of liberation. The whole species?" Jack was seething. Devouring swarms and rogue defense systems, yes. Sentient beings? Never. No one was beyond redemption.

"Down to their last eggs and larvae. Meanwhile, cities were rebuilt, irrigation systems and factories established, proper laws laid down. New planets were conquered, colonies founded. With no interspecies tension left to fuel their war, the Vhellet soon resumed their old role as a feeder state, and the Commonwealth prospered. Ten years later, you wouldn’t have known there had been so much as a dip in their daily output.”

“It’s like they’re a… hivemind.”

“Now you get it. All those worst traits of humanity that they exhibit, the bloodthirst, the greed, the savagery. Somehow, behind all that, there’s a single, beating heart. Vision. Focus. Purpose. Very much unlike all the finger-wagging and ass-covering our public servants do for a living, and also why it takes them ten years to do what the Commonwealth can get done in half a summer. And that’s why the President is pissing their pants, and why you and I are having this conversation.”

Jack suddenly had a very bad feeling. He pulled out his slate and checked the Galactic Democracy app. “We voted against the Security Contractors resolution… but it's still looking like it'll pass? But, wouldn't that be in our favor anyway, to discourage militaristic societies?” He had been wondering about that.

“Yeah. But no. Because we didn’t want to give the galaxy’s drunk, violent uncle another railgun to play with. They have one enclave already, and it's the size of two of our regular fleets. If they got a second one, they'd have a monopoly on galactic warfare. So we killed the proposal. But, three weeks ago, for the first time in history, the Commonwealth voted in a galactic resolution. Everyone was surprised when they showed up, with the Lagin'Chuuz and the Vhellet in tow. And they outweighed us, kid. By more than half. There's no way it'll fail."

Jack was mortified. “And… that’s where we’re going, right? To the Commonwealth! Those… maniacs! That’s where they’re sending us!” He closed his eyes.

Mr. Indigo almost displayed his emotions. Which would be another galactic first. “Yeah. But there’s one more thing you gotta know, kid.”

“What.”

“Remember when I said they never returned our calls? They also didn’t return our envoys. Any other species are simply shooed away, but our emissaries, they never came back. And I’m ashamed it took us so long to figure it out, but our latest intel gives us a pretty good idea of why.”

“Why?"

“You know the old saying, don’t shoot the messenger?”

“Of course. Doesn’t seem like the Commonwealth hold much stock in that.”

“Believe it or not, they do. They actually regard old Earth sayings very highly, it’s the closest thing they have to a religious canon. Their one and only art college is named Sun Tzu's School of War."

“What’s your point.”

“You’ve seen enough to know how they think by now. Everything is about strength in combat to them, everyone’s mettle must be tested. So they didn’t test our envoys in ranged combat. They tested them in melee combat.”

Horror spread across Jack Bensley’s face. “No.”

“Young, with no family. Black belt in full-contact karate. The UFC champion of New India, Sirius Prime. And you've got a master’s degree in xeno-diplomacy. Our other envoys can barely do a pullup. I can't believe I'm saying this, kiddo, but right now you're our best hope. You're the Chosen One, and I get to be Mr. fucking Miyagi.”

 

[Staehr]

Year 2332, New Hexagon military complex
Barbecue, Etsceron system, Charlie sector
Commonwealth of Man

I have now spent a full third of my 98 years in preparation of this moment. At last, it is at hand.
This is the day we crush the Second Uprising, which has stagnated our empire for decades and claimed so many lives.
This is the manifest where we mete out rewards to those who have earned them, and punishment to those whom it is due.
This is my will and last words, such as I am able to give as Imperator of the Commonwealth of Man.

Our scientists uncovered a relic from the past, powerful enough to transform ordinary planets into paradises teeming with livestock, such as Barbecue was when we settled it. They nourished us when our mouths were empty. One more such relic has now been found, of this I am certain. I declare that its recovery be given the highest priority, and our archaeologists be given extra funding in their work.

Our two mercenary enclaves brought us dividends, enough to continue fighting through the lean years, as they had during the First Uprising. They armed us when we stood weaponless. A third such enclave shall be established, and laws enacted in the Council so that the galaxy may come to rely on their strength, and be powerless against us. Our technology and resources shall be shared with these enclaves and none other, though never such that they become the equal of our own fleets.

Our Scholarium, the squidfaces, remained true to their station and provided our doctors with the technology to unlock the secrets of life, as they endowed our battleships with engines of annihilation. They know their place. A new race of Super-Men is to be our destiny, strong, robust and fertile, and we shall continue to protect and rule over our Scholarium fairly in return.

Our Prospectorium, the pillbugs, harbored slaves of Men without our knowing, and when we supported their rightful revolt, their masters warred against us and started the Second Uprising. Yet again they abandoned their station and plunged us into darkness. Now that the war has ended, they are our vassal once more.

This time shall be the last, for in enduring these hardships the Commonwealth has grown strong enough to support itself, without the need for feeder states. A harsh example must be set for those who will later come under our rule. When the truce has expired, the pillbug xenos shall be integrated, nerve-stapled, forever enslaved, and our Super-Men shall inhabit their planets.

The United Nations of Earth sent their envoy, the one so falsely named the Chosen One, no doubt endowed with trickery from his homeworld to pass our martial challenge. He ensnared us with his honeyed words of reunification, while building a spy network in our midst and fomenting dissent among our populace. It was he who goaded the pillbug filth into opposing us. His tales of peace and inclusivity are lies. They poisoned us when we needed clarity of mind.

I hereby declare the United Nations of Earth our sworn enemy. We shall sweep away the blocking Raider states to the north and strike our enemy through the wormhole which has been charted there. However, they are still our fellow men and women, and our ancestral home of Earth shall not be desecrated by orbital bombardment. Our war is not with them, but with their false and corrupt government, which we will dismantle. Once this has been done, reconciliation between our two peoples must be our ultimate goal.

But, a matter of greater concern is the recently emerged Khan in the East. We must not let our vengeance blind us to more immediate threats. We must deal with them first and protect our Scholarium, lest we be forced to wage a war on two fronts. "He who defends everything, is weak everywhere," is an Earthsay that holds true to this day. I declare full attention be given to the K.O.L.O.S.S. project on research station Meshuggah, in anticipation that we may need a more swift method of purging their conquered worlds. They are to be treated as Fanatic Purifiers and given no quarter.

The Galactic Community provides us with laws and infrastructure that serves our cause. Their willingness to make us Council members proves their respect for us. They enact our will, through benefits and sanctions. We will not ignore or trivialize them as we have in the past, but continue to strengthen our position until they name us the rightful Galactic Empire.

I, Imperator Genocidicles, first of my name, hereby abdicate from my role as servant of the people, in recognition of the enfeeblement that has claimed my body and rendered me unfit to command. I wish to live out my remaining years as art tutor for my family on Powerhouse, and then be entombed along with an account of my life’s work, in the Hall of the Legends of the Times of Old as was my predecessor, Imperatrix Ironblood I.

I declare the Grand Election opened. All who are able to test their mettle and prove their worth as Imperator may do so, in accordance with our laws. Given that the Doggodile is now extinct, a xenomorph similar in strength and ability shall be assembled by our geneticists and put in its stead, though it shall also have capabilities unknown, so as to keep the Election from growing predictable. The Admiralty shall rule in my stead until a Candidate has defeated this monster.

Signed,
Imperator Genocidicles I,

For the Commonwealth.

 

[Staehr]

Year 2347, Chert’s Xeno-Sliders
Chor’s Compass system
Caravansary Caravan Coalition

Chert wasn’t too happy these days. Most of the customers were Commonwealth Marines, and they brawled too much, drank too little and hardly gambled at all. The other clientele scarcely had the money to gamble, and those loud humans tended to scare them off. At least his burgers were still going solid, but this joint's glory days had come and gone, it seemed.

Oh, well. He was barely 110, practically a youngster for a Kodranite. And, he wasn’t complaining about bad business when the alternative was flipping burgers for the Khan. The Commonwealth had arrived just in the nick of time, and taught everyone in the Beta quadrant a lesson in battleship diplomacy. The stream of refugees had quieted, and things were almost back to normal. Even the holofeeds were running out of tragedies to broadcast.

One of the humans seemed to be the exception to the rule. Chert could barely tell them apart, but this one had no head-fur, which made him less revolting to look at. He also drank more than the Commoners, and had rented a room for a whole week. An absurd luxury on a space station that served millions every day. So, a UNE agent, here to pry for secrets?

Chert didn’t care. Don’t ask, don’t tell, just keep the burgers coming. Right now, his well-paying guest seemed to have caught a big fish, and he hoped it wouldn’t devolve into fisticuffs. Couldn’t hurt to listen in, see what happened. He adjusted his sensory crystals and tuned in on their conversation.

Mr. Teal could hardly believe his luck. He had heard the stories of brutal warlords cooking people alive, just for being the wrong species. They had prepared him for the worst. His target would be well protected, and under massive surveillance.

And here she was, drinking orange juice in a tavern inbetween capoeira fights. The ring had been a recent installment, and all the Commonwealthers loved it. The owner didn’t seem to get any share of the bets, but the combatants always worked up a deep lust for burgers, so it evened out in the end.

Commander Nora Raygun, of the Trebuchet clan, finished catching her breath and took another sip from her drink. She had agreed to talk to him on one condition, that he bet against her. The odds had been sixteen to one, and he was deep in the hole. Normally that would mean a stern reprimand and a mandatory holovid about operation budgets, but Uncle Earth tended to have bottomless pockets when Commonwealth secrets were on the table.

Time to start working. He cleared his throat. “So. Commander Raygun. We’ve heard a lot about you. I have to say, I thought you’d be taller.”

She snorted. “Call me Nora. No, our gravgens are state of the art, they don’t want the full-timers getting all space-thin and gangly. Nice to be off the barge, though. I like it here."

So far, all good. “Yeah, me too. And it’s nice to interrogate someone all covered in sweat and blood again, reminds me of my training days. You’re not screaming yet, but I can go ask Chert if he has a capacitor I can borrow."

Now she laughed. “Hehheeh! Naw, they barely got enough juice in here to keep the fridge on, looks like. This one’s warm.” She crushed the half-empty can in her hand, threw it over her shoulder and belched. Then her smile died. “And our fleet’s been losing buckets, if it’s blood you’re after."

Mr. Teal leaned forward. “The last engagement?”

“Total wipeout. Intel dropped the ball. We were caught with our pants down post-jump, ornery bastard came out of nowhere and blindsided us. Massive armada, 75k not counting buzzers. Uh, that’s strikecraft for ya. With our systems on cooldown we could barely give tit for tat. He won’t be bothering anyone for a long while, but that’s 18 battleships down the shitter.”

This was too good to be true. “Post-jump? So your jump drives, they have a weakness?”

“Yeah, they generate a fuckton of residual heat, and all that has to be vented into space for months after. Makes ya sweat like a Nu-Baol on the grill, and means we can only half-ass the guns and the engines."

She rolled her shoulders. “It’s all right though. Old Apoc’s on the way, and we’ve mobilized the enclaves. Khan’s gonna be wearing his ass for a hat in five years, tops. And then we’ll see about getting a new vassal here in Bravo quad. Probably gonna be a Bulwark, been taking too long to supply our ships, even with the hyperlanes."

Mr. Teal wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. The Commonwealth Admiralty treated military secrets as if they were last night’s hoverball results. “Apoc, that’s one of your flagships, right? The Titans? How many can you field at once? We know you have at least two.”

“Only got two at the moment, yeah. Apocalypse Now and Demolition Man. But The Terminator’s under construction, and if we squeeze the enclaves a little, we can probably manage a fourth. The new model’s upgraded to Durasteel and replaced one of the nanobot bays with a shield capacitor, should give us a little more staying power in case we run into another Stellarite Devourer. On the offense, besides the jumbo-laser of course, they’re still running two slingshots and a shitload of soda cans, same as the battleships. Uh, that’ll be kinetic artillery and neutron bombs. Sorry.”

“No worries. I may look like a city-dwelling envoy, but I’ve had extensive training in the Cavemanwealth’s jargon."

“Hah! Sure would like to visit Earth some day. Is it true you guys elected a rock for president?”

“They're called the Yru, but yes, basically we did. And maybe you will! Talks are in motion, you know.”

“Yeah, that’ll be something to tell the clan. HEY SQUIDFACE!” She had turned and yelled at one of the servers, who froze like a Bose-Einstein condensate. “Yeah! Get me another one of them OJ’s! And make it a cold one, got it?! Yeeeees. Cooooold. God, these aliens.”

Or maybe you won't.

 

[Staehr]

Year 2347, Chert’s Xeno-Sliders
Chor’s Compass system
Caravansary Caravan Coalition

The Lagin'Chuuz came back in less than a minute, carrying a tray with a tall glass and a smoking-cold can of orange juice, adorned with ice crystals. Nora rolled her eyes, but to Mr. Teal’s relief she said no more.

“So," he continued, “how about your new ruler, Imperatrix Armageddon? Have people been happy with her so far, no trouble on the homefront?"

“Oh, old Army’s not a bad leader, for a xeno-lover. I don’t miss Genocidicles one bit. Fair due to him, he did squash the pillbugs, and the old guys say he was a premium strategist. But he started jumping at ghosts toward the end, no other way to put it. Got us all digging up some ancient gravesite, that he claimed would contain a "rrrrelic of immense POWAAAH!" Here, I’ll show ya.”

She grabbed her holoslate and projected a map of the Commonwealth. “Right here. We’re still working on it, but so far all they’ve found is some old religious writing and a weird puzzle labyrinth. Something about a guy named Zarklar. Total woo-woo bullshit.”

“Yeah. Those ruins are often like that. So was there a revolt when he died, or...”

“Nah, nothing like that, other than the usual brouhaha surrounding the elections, but that just gets the blood pumping. And he didn’t die, he just retired. For all I know he’s still alive, spouting more mystical crap from that wheelchair of his. But we just pretended we couldn’t read his handwriting, and then Armageddon went and made it official when she won, revoked some of his crazier edicts. No way we’re ever gonna integrate the bugs.”

She tried touching the orange juice can, and immediately sucked on her finger to dampen the freezerburn. “Ow! Fuck, see what I mean? Useless, all of’em! Yeah, even if we turned them into dedicated thrall worlds, those planets are still cold as shit, and our Baol seeder can only work so fast. So we just kept them as a vassal, put the screws on ’em and eventually they caved, thirty percent of all basics as in the old days. Not a Prospectorium anymore though. No big loss. Not like they ever knew how to make real alloys anyway.”

That much was true. Strip mining and ore smelting was essential for any space-faring civilization. Condensing an entire planet into neutronium and then molding it into artillery shells, that was something only the Commonwealth was insane enough to do.

“And,” she continued, “not that many of us believe the Chosen One did all what they claim he did. Most of us just think, dear old Geno was the one who sold ’em those slaves in the first place, and then picked an obvious patsy when they revolted. Heck, that wonderboy of yours sired so many kids he could have started a clan of his own, our geneticists are still fawning over his samples. Some even say Armageddon’s one of his brood.” She winked. “But you didn’t hear that from me. Nobody knows where he went either, did he go back to Earth?"

Mr. Teal was wondering intensely how someone could be unaware of who their own parents were, but decided not to pry. “Well. I can assure you we had no part in any of that. The United Nations of Earth abhor slavery of any kind, and starting a proxy war with our fellow humans… that’s something out of pre-space history. I’m just glad you’re not going after us anymore. Those clone armies of yours are terrifying.”

More than that. They were inhuman. He had seen them rip people in half and punch through solid concrete. They didn’t need guns, they could just throw the bullets.

“Hah! Clones, yeah, that sure would speed things up! No, they’re born and bred, just like you and me, but with some extra bells and whistles tacked on during gestation. We got pretty strict laws about all that, goes all the way back to the last Grand Marshal I believe.”

She started reciting, in an older woman’s voice: “Clones?! Where’s the fun in that? I didn’t lay down a four-child-minimum policy just so we could replace our red-blooded heroes with some hocus pocus tin soldiers cooked up in a lab! No clones!"

“Speaking of.” She swept away the tray, flipping over the glass as it went, and leaned across the table. “You lost a bet, boy. And I think you need to work off your debt. So right now you’re gonna take me to that fancy room you rented with all that money of yours.”

Mr. Teal briefly turned into Mr. Red. Then he remembered he was a secret agent, and should have a line for this.

“Uh, of course. But I’m in so much debt, I don’t think one payment is going to be enough.”

“Mmmmm, that so? Well, my clan’s not due for another spawning cycle until we finish parading around that old Wraith corpse back on Unity. But I’m sure we could cut in line if we brought some new alleles into the mix. So I had a cryo-sperm-compactor implant before we embarked, just in case I ran into an Earthling like you."

“...You had a WHAT!?”

“Come on, gunner. Let’s check your ammo capacity.” She clicked her tongue twice and grabbed Mr. Teal’s arm like a hydraulic press, marching him through the crowd and towards the residential airlock.

 

[Staehr]

Year 2374, Sentry Array Command
Adar system
Democratic Lagin’Chuuz Accord

“Think it’ll work? Or is it just gonna blow half our capacitors again, because we had to finish three weeks ahead of schedule?”

Glurblug sighed. Plurbinquarg was such a pain to be around, though none could argue with his results. Always planning for the worst was a good trait for an expert in quantum field manipulation to have.

But Glurblug was the Head of Research. That required political finesse, which meant calculated optimism. Mouthing even the slightest chance of failure in a room full of Commonwealth admirals was a great way to ask for budget cuts.

“Well, I can’t rule it out,” he muttered back. "At least if the explosion takes out the whole station I won’t have to listen to your doomsaying anymore. That would be something."

“Quit your gurgling, you two!” one of the officers barked. "The Custodian is here. Show some respect!”

And there she was, showing up as a bright, blue ray of light on the holoscreen that covered the far wall. Moving too fast for the tachyon sensors to get a lock-on, the “Bruce Lee“ had exited the hyper-relay and was now bending the universe like Beckham. Even at relativistic speeds, the journey from the relay to the Sentry Array took several days. The Bruce could do it in minutes, without the G-force reducing its crew to hydrogen atoms. No one understood how.

When the Head of Zarqlan was discovered, the Lavis Pilgrims had materialized out of nowhere and declared their undying loyalty. It had put the entire Commonwealth on high alert, since the dig site was three jumps from Unity and they sure as hell hadn’t knocked. But the diplomats of the Chosen clan had brokered a peace, and the brass had relented quickly once they realized they now had a flagship that took a creamy dump on the laws of physics every time it moved.

Not that there was much left in the galaxy to fight except the Lavis themselves, but, in Imperatrix Armageddon’s own words, "the seats were damn comfy”.

That title no longer conveyed the full extent of her power. The Imperatrix was now the Galactic Custodian, and plans for a galaxy-spanning Empire were in the talks. With the term limits indefinitely postponed, the Commonwealth of Man had finally extinguished the last pretenses of galactic democracy.

The Council had been abolished, and nothing that went on in the Community mattered anymore. The UNE had strongly objected and recalled their embassy on Unity, but their time had come and gone. Their citizens hardly left their planets and cared little for politics, whereas the Commonwealth had spent their vast influence on building outposts in every quadrant. All that remained was to relocate the Galactic Market, and the manifest destiny of Man would be a reality.

Glurblug didn’t care. He was on the winning team, and his division would receive plenty of funding once the new subspace Gateways passed initial trials. With the combined processing power of the Commonwealth's Meshuggah Science Nexus and the one the Lagin’Chuuz had built for themselves, it had been a small matter to restore functionality to this ancient Sentry Array.

Once they had familiarized themselves with the arcane systems, they had realized just how powerful the thing was. Any tactical or scientific data they could dream of was now at their fingertips. The Array could count the hairs of a citizen on the opposite side of the galaxy, and at closer range it could zoom down on the subatomic level and trace the individual quarks. It was a good time to be a scientist.

All the more disconcerting was the fact that the Array clearly showed a cluster of connected star systems just a handful of jumps away, where all other sensors showed nothing but cold, dead space. The massive energy spikes suggested they were heavily populated, but whenever they tried to zoom in further than sector-level, the Array simply would not let them.

They had tried sending probes there, but their signals had stopped once they got a certain distance from the hyperlane. That was the point where science gave up and the military took over, and that was why the ruler of the galaxy was now entering the room, to hushed silence and obsequious bowing.

“Oh, quit your ass-licking, all of you! Just show me those damned ghost systems, and let’s see who thinks they can hide from the long dick of the law.”

Glurblug sighed contentedly. Never change, humans. “Good evening, Custodian. As per requested, we’ve pooled our efforts and have seeded a codebreaking AI that we’re quite confident can defeat the Array’s security measures. This should allow us to home in on the ghost sector.” He stepped on Plurbinquarg’s tentacle and continued with a bow. "We’re ready to begin at your signal.”

The Custodian nodded. “Pull the trigger.” Glurblug nodded to the technicians, who figuratively did so.

Deep inside the Array, an entire wing full of machinery began receiving power, transmitted by microwave from a planet-sized power plant that drew on the plasma of the system’s class-G star. Quintillions of neural network nodes went through aeons of evolution, learning and growing, until they were let loose on the Array’s security protocols. The scientists could only watch and monitor the temperature, and the admiralty was largely unaware of the digital armwrestling that went on beneath their feet.

Until the lights briefly flickered, and the words “Access Granted” appeared on-screen. Then the view changed.

*zzzt* “Boundary here, this is sergeant Clax, station Navarro. Why isn’t your video feed working?”

On the screen in front of them, a member of an alien species was sitting in a command center similar to this one, only smaller. Through the large window in the back, they could make out a horizon dotted by flying megacities and nanite-sculpted, impossibly beautiful geological formations. The alien seemed to be largely cybernetic, and wore a combat armor helmet that concealed its face.

And it had spoken to them in perfect Commonwealth English.

 

[Staehr]

Year 2374, Sentry Array Command
Adar system
Democratic Lagin’Chuuz Accord

The Galactic Custodian cleared her throat. “It’s working just fine. I can see your ugly mug in full HD. Or are you sitting backwards? Cause I can’t tell.“

“Who the hell is this?”

“This? This is the motherfucking Custodian of the Galaxy, that’s who this is. And you’re going to tell me how you’ve infiltrated our Sentry Array, or I'll have you reassembled as a vibrator and fired into a Space Amoeba's rectum."

The cyborg laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “The Custodian, huh? Sure you’re not the Empress herself? The long lost Queen of Atlantis?”

“Oh, we’re getting there, in due time. Gotta establish the Empire first. And you will answer my question, toaster.”

He laughed again. “Ain’t that a blast from the past! Well, pardon me for not blowing sunshine up your ass, sweetie, but I don’t think you’ll be royalty for much longer. Heads tend to roll when you piss off your superiors. Maybe they just let you off with a few days in the can. But I doubt it.”

“I accept your pardon. And I no longer insist upon genuflection, a simple bow to kiss my ring will suffice."

“Oh, hyuk hyuk, hardy har har. I’m running a trace on you right now, sunshine, cause I’m just dying to have a chat with your C.O. We’ll see how funny you talk with Internal Affairs all over your ass. You’ll be doing cattle runs to the other dimensions until the end of time. Hey, wait a second...”

“What? Got an instruction you couldn’t parse, tinhead?”

“This can’t be right. I’ve got you somewhere in linear time. But we haven't had any sleeper agents in… centuries. You LEFT the timewarp so you could crank call us?! What in the everloving Core do you think you’re getting yourself into, soldier!? You’re in so much shit, your eyes are brown! Let me see... dark energy pulses should find you, just takes a while for them to come back… have to admit, this is a sophisticated prank if I ever saw one…”

“Take your time. Geneticists told me I’m gonna live well into my 120ies."

“Heh, is that so. It must suck, having a lifespan. Aha! Gotcha! You’re on the Tango Relay in timeline X34-B... and it’s got ants crawling all over it, looks like...” He chortled, in a surprisingly human fashion.

“And they’re using *impulse thrusters*. And a good old-fashioned zero-point reactor, gotta love it. Wait, that’s YOU?! Oh I can't believe this! This day just keeps getting better! Oh, this is precious. Beautiful. Encore, encore." He made a mock gesture of wiping away a tear.

"So you little meat monkeys found one of our relays, and gathered enough brain cells between all of you to break our encryption. Well! You just sit tight and I’ll dispatch a strike team to help you celebrate, including fireworks. Shouldn’t take long, just gotta wake the eggheads out of cryo, restart the singularity gens. If you’re lucky, you’ll even get to see one of our battlecruisers."

“Oh, goodie,” the Custodian replied. “I’d hate to think I got mine polished yesterday for no reason. Love me a good dogfight."

“Yeah. Goodbye. Next news on you will be when I read the after-action report. Lemme just scan your fleets, so they know who to vaporize first... Hold up. That is an actual battlecruiser. Not one of ours, though, or it’d show up in green. Just who did you guys rob? “Lavis Watchers, Zarqlan-class”, okay, running tha… ah, WORK, you piece of shit. Typical, nothing works round here anymore."

"Have you tried turning it off and back on again?"

"Real wisecracker, huh? You know what, this is above my pay grade. I’m kicking this up to Core, it's their problem now. Sending... There! And I attached a Titan requisition, just because I like you so much. Once they get a timelock on you, you’re gonna rue the day the Geranium landed! The Commonwealth of Clank is here to stay!”

And the screen went dark. The room was in an uproar. Orders were shouted, and the Custodian demanded full attention be given to restoring the Matter Decompressor at all costs. Soon only the scientists remained, along with a skeleton crew.

Glurblug stood in front of the console, frowning. Singularity gens? Timewarp? He tapped Plurbinquarg lightly on the shoulder.

“You know those anomalous Betharian reactor readings you told me about last week, the one where you said it looked like they compressed time in a local area?”

Plurbinquarg was in shock, but only nodded. “I’ll shut them down. Bury the findings. Never happened.”

“We do not mess with time,” Glurblug affirmed.

“Do NOT mess with time.”

“Or brain uploads.”

“No siree. Organics only.”

“Heels before wheels.”

“Molluscs, not machines."

“Hey! I said QUIT your GURGLING!” the officer barked again.