OT: Hell is For Heroes.

[Ragnarok]

Wow. Most excellent story I must say. Keep it up!

[narf poit chez BOOM]

YOU MANIAC! YOU BLEW IT UP!

[El_Phil]

BLAM! Sweet, beautifull BLAM.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Wonderful

More please

[AgentZero]

Sorry Narf, but you should take solice in the fact that the name Narf will live on forever as the official scientific term for a triple supernova: A Narfsplosion. More to come when I'm not so sleepy.

[TurinTurambar]

Loving the story.

My my. Suddenly a plethora of phan phiction. (<--artificial alliteration... handy ain't it?)

I especially like the alien feel of the communication between the First and the Second. Mind your modifying pronouns in there though m'lad. Coupla slip-ups.

Excelsior!
Turin[img]/threads/images/Graemlins/icon42.gif[/img]

[AgentZero]

Right, well I got myself nice and drunk and made a bit more progress on the ole story, so here it is. The following has been edited for language, and following segments will need to be edited for both language and content, but a complete version may get put up onto Spaceempires.net, as long as I don't get too naughty. Anyway, forward, not backward, upward, not downward, and always twirling, twirling towards freedom!

Two days later, James Kagan, sleeping aboard the decommissioned assault cruiser Daedalus was woken from a most pleasant dream by the spectacular death of a star system.

The shrill squeal of the ship's alarm brought him suddenly to full consciousness.
“Status report!” he barked before realizing he was alone on the bridge. Nonetheless, the ship's AI obliged him by activating the main view screen with the ship's cameras centred on the source of it's concern. Kagan,'s brow furrowed as he stared at the star field shinning in front of him, trying to establish what had caused the AI to rouse him from his slumber while he tried vainly to ignore his parched mouth and pounding headache. And then, suddenly, the cause of the AI's concern became blatantly obvious as the entire bridge exploded into brilliant white light. Kagan cried out in pain and pitched out of his chair.
“Filters to max!” he cried, writhing about on the deck in futile attempt to escape from the piercing whit light. “Filters to bleedin' maximum!”
“Filters already at maximum capacity,” the AI informed him emotionlessly.
“Then turn the damn screen off!” he shouted. “View screen off!”
Kagan released an almost orgasmic sigh as the bridge was plunged into blissful darkness, illuminated only by the faint light of command consoles. Slowly, he dragged himself back up to his command chair and activated a communications channel.
“Kaelan, you see that?” he asked, transmitting to the destroyer holding off his port side.
“Jasus, I'm still seein' it, mate,” was the groggy reply.
“So you didn't slip something in my drink after all,” Kagan replied with considerably more relief than he felt.
“Would I do that?” Kaelan replied indignantly.
Kagan let the silence drag out until Kaelan added, “Again?”
“I was hoping you learned from the last time,” Kagan replied with a small grin. “How's the arm, by the way?”
There was a chuckle from the speaker. “Well, I can amuse meself and abuse meself and let's just leave it at that, shall we?”
“So, what are your sensors telling you?”
“What are yours telling you?”
“Mine can't tell their arse from their elbow, that's why you're tagging along.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Got Me Own Assault Cruiser, and here I was thinkin' you had me along for my brilliant wit and unparralled sense of style.”
“I could have brought along a drunk chimp with a learning disorder that'd have more with and style than you, Mr. O'Shea, now make yourself useful.”
“Right so. Looks like the Narf System is after blowin' itself up.
Kagan paused, not quite managing to comprehend what he was hearing.
“What?” he asked. “The stars in Narf were all midlife, and none of them were big enough to go nova. Check your instruments.”
“There's nothin' wrong with me instruments,” was the displeased reply. “All three stars just went nova, and if they didn't do it themselves, then someone else did it for them. Few Nova Bombs and Bob's yer uncle if you ask me.”
“But there aren't supposed to be any nova bombs left,” Kagan replied, confused. “Let alone three of the Divine-forsaken things.”
“Well if you got any idea what would make three midlife stars go pop that doesn't involve Nova Bombs, I'd love to hear it,” said Kaelan. “Probably give you a bleedin' prize or a medal or somethin'.”
“I'm sure,” Kagan replied dryly. “Listen, you head back to Pellus with those sensor logs. I'll meet up with you at Fyron's Star, OK?”
“You sure you'll manage with them bolloxed sensors of yours?” asked Kaelan, managing to sound genuinely concerned.
“I'll be fine,” Kagan told his friend, “As long as I don't run into any anomalies in dire need of a good scanning.”
Kaelan barked a laugh. “Only you could make that sound filthy, mate,” he said. “Take care, and I'll see you in a few days.”
“Cheerio,” Kagan replied with a grin.
On his tactical plot, the small icon representing the destroyer Defiant pulled away from the Daedalus and accelerated quickly back in the direction they'd come from. After a moment's contemplation, Kagan brought his sublight drive to full power, and the converted warship thundered forward. If there were people around here blowing up stars, he mused, then around here was not a good place to spend to much time. Three hours later, he received a message from Kaelan informing him that he and the Defiant had safely made the jump to null-space. Eight hours after that, the Daedalus was approaching the jump nexus when the communications console began chirping insistently, the tone and pitch indicating an emergency message. Kagan hurried over to the comms console and attached the ear piece to the obvious orifice.
“-ello?” a female voice inquired. “Can you hear me big ship? This is little ship to big ship, can you hear me?”
“I can hear you alright,” said Kagan. “But I can't see you.”
“I'm over here.”
“Where?”
“Over here. I'm waving.”
“That's not going to do me a lot of bloody good, now is it?”
“Well, what should I do?”
“Does your ship not have a transponder?”
“Dunno.”
“You don't know? How can you not know if your ship has a transponder?”
“Well, it's not really a ship. More of a pod, I guess.”
“Like a life pod?”
“Dunno.”
“Were you on a big ship before?”
“Yup.”
“And you got shot out of it in a little ship?”
“Yup.”
“Then you're in a life pod.”
“Great.”
“You lookin' for a rescue or would you prefer I jump out and leave ya here?”
“I think I'd rather be rescued. Um, what does the transponder look like?”
“It's a square orange thing, about the size of your head.”
“How do you know how big my head is?”
Kagan pinched his nose in frustration. “An average person's head, OK?” he snapped. “You know most people try to make it easy to get themselves rescued.”
“Sorry. It's cold and I haven't eaten for a few days. I'm feeling a bit odd. I see the transponder thingy now, so what do I do?”
“Open the lid and press the big red button.”
“OK. Oh, and one thing?”
“What?”
“My head's not square.”
Any reply was cut short but the sudden appearance of a life pod icon on the tactical plot, and the corresponding shrill alarm.
“I see you now,” he said. “I'm sending out a recovery drone now. We'll have you nice and warm and fed in no time.”
“Thank you very much, big ship.”
“You're more than welcome. Although most people just call me James.”
“Thank you, James, then. My name's Alice.”
“It's a pleasure, Alice,” Kagan replied. “Now you'll feel a bump in a moment, but don't worry. It's just the recovery drone latching on to your pod.”
It took a total of thirty seven minutes to get Alice out of the life pod. Ten minutes were taken up getting the pod back to the ship. Twenty minutes were devoted to decontaminating the pod's exterior, during which James hastily showered, dressed in his uniform and administered himself a hefty dose of De-Tox. Five minutes were needed to to heat the pod's outer surface to an acceptable level, and the last two involved Kagan ensuring his hair was in order and all insignia were attached properly, just in case. The pod door opened, the girl stepped out, and Kagan was suddenly very glad he'd taken the time to clean up. In an age of life-extending therapies, it was impossible to determine her age, but chronologically she seemed to be in her mid twenties. She was petite, neither tall nor short, with shoulder length shockingly red hair and large green eyes that she cast about the hanger bay with great interest.
“This is a very nice ship James,” she said before pitching forward and landing face down on the hanger bay floor.

[narf poit chez BOOM]

James T. Kagan, by any chance?

[AgentZero]

Sorry folks, no addition to the story yet, but more is in the works at the moment. Just been playing around with Doga and made a pretty decent renditon of the Daedalus. Those of you with a bit more experience with Doga's texturing capabilities please don't hesitate to critisize (constructively) since I'm not 100% happy with it yet.



Edit: See the attatchment for bigger version

[AgentZero]

Oh look what we have here? Could it be? It is! More Hell is for Heroes! A fairly short installment this time, to set the stage for the thrilling finale. I planned to finish it tonight, but the pig I ate for dinner seems to resent me for it, so I'm going to curl up in a ball and try to sleep, and try to get the last chapter out by lunchtime tomorrow.

-----

A million is a very large number. The frequency with which it is used has robbed it of much of it's significance, because there are a lot of very big things out there. A million light years. A million credits. A million years. A million ships. Even something small multiplied by one million wound up being something awfully large. A million seconds was nearly two weeks. A million minutes was a couple months shy of two years. And a million hours was a bit over a hundred and twenty years.

Yes, Grand Admiral Angus McArthur mused, a million ships was an awful lot of ships. Seven million ships, on the other hand, was an awful lot more. And while a million fighters was the stuff of nightmares for any point defense operator, one hundred and forty million fighters was enough to drive that same poor PDO absolutely mad. And yet, for better or worse, that was exactly what he found himself in command of. News of the Great Enemy's return had reached the Empress rather quickly and McArthur had just as quickly found himself promoted to Grand Admiral of the Fleet and put in charge of nearly every single warship in all the Imperium, even if it had taken the dissolution of Parliament and the execution of a few rebellious Senators, it was still a rather remarkable feat for the amount of time it had taken the headstrong young lady.

The Armada, as it had begun to be called, was the single greatest concentration of firepower ever mustered in one place by the Terran Imperium, or for that matter, any known sentient race in the galaxy. Save one, McArthur thought with a shiver, although it was debatable whether the Great Enemy could be considered sentient. It was also debatable, he admitted to himself, whether or not his mighty force would be enough to overcome the Enemy fleet that had just begun to show up on the tactical plot in front of him.

“All fleets, enter attack formation,” he said calmly, rising from his chair. The phrase 'all fleets' still felt strange on his tongue, for a man used to commanding task forces and squadrons.

It took nearly ten minutes for all fleets to report ready status. McArthur cringed inside. For a single fleet, such a response time was thoroughly unacceptable, but his armada consisted of over twenty thousand fleets trying to work together as one with far, far too little time to practice.

“All fighters, assume standby positions.”

This time it only took a shade over four minutes for Fighter Control to report readiness. Of course, the fighters didn't have to do much maneuvering, they just had make sure they weren't in the flight path of any of the countless missiles McArthur was about to unleash. The fighters themselves would go in behind the the Armada's third missile salvo, to make sure that the Enemy was suitably tied up not to notice the fighters bearing down on them until it was too late. Every single one of McArthur's one hundred and forty-plus fighters was either equipped or retrofitted for anti-ship duty. The Enemy did not employ fighters, despite the horrific destruction the Imperium's fighters had wrought on their most recent assault, even despite the truly appalling casualties the Second Dynasty's fighters had inflicted so many thousands of years ago.

The enemy did not seem to adapt well, if at all. It was their one, perhaps their only weakness. From mankind's first encounter with them up to the present, they had always favoured big ships. And when their big ships fell prey to small nimble fighters, their solution was simply to build bigger ships. Not ships with more point-defense, not dedicated point-defense cruisers. Just bigger ships. Of course, their biggest ships still fell prey to the Second Dynasty's fighters, it just took a lot longer. The fighters were a tremendous advantage for the Imperium, and McArthur was willing to take all the advantages he could get in this fight. Especially since from the reading coming in to the tactical plot, he was going to be outnumbered almost two to one.

“Missile Control, status report,” said McArthur, his eyes fixed on the tactical plot.

“All fleets report firing solutions locked in, sir,” came the response.

“Very well,” said McArthur. “All fleets, prepare to fire salve one on my mark.”

“Five...”

“Four...”

“Three...”

“Two...”

“One...”

“Fire.”

[dogscoff]

*dogscoff dons his "I am a rabid HifH fan!" T-shirt, then straps on his bumpin' boots and does the laces up reeeeal tight.

Ker-BUMP!



BTW, what kind of editting did you want? I'd love to be involved. I've done a fair bit of writing myself, as well as some translation/ editting of other ppl's work on xenology.