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The Shaming of the 200th Legion

4 (14.8%)

Mistakes

5 (18.5%)

Starfarer

6 (22.2%)

Battleground

3 (11.1%)

End of Shift

4 (14.8%)

Flashes from Hyperspace

2 (7.4%)

The Age of Eggplants

3 (11.1%)

Total Members Voted: 17

Voting closed: December 22, 2012, 04:59:45 AM

[Gothars]

It is time! Welcome to the voting phase of the first Starfarer short story contest!

The topic this time was:

History
Use the frame of a story to describe an event in the (canon) history of the sector, for example the closing of the gates, arrival of the Hegemony fleet, the fall of the Exar system or something different. Tip: A subjective perspective allows for a broader margin of canon-error.

Here are the rules:

-   Read the stories! I am a realist here, you don’t have to read every story to the end. But please read at least one third of every story before you vote, so you can evaluate it. If you can’t do that, please come back later when you have the time or patience.
-   Judge the stories! There are two criteria. The first and more important one is overall quality, that includes everything from plot over style to suspension. The second is how well the story fits the contest theme (History). Please try to be objective.
-   Vote for the best story! You have up to two votes. You don’t have to use both, if one story is the clear winner (in your opinion) please vote only for that one. Poll results will be invisible until the end of the voting period (December 22).

There are seven entries, they are listed in the order they were submitted in.
If you have further questions or want to report any irregularities, please contact me.
Have fun reading!


Without further ado, here are the contestants:



Entry 1
The Shaming of the 200th Legion
Author: Pendragon
Words: 977

Spoiler

General Arthur Warden of the 200th legion of the Dominion stared at the display in front of him, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched the shapes move back and forth across the projected terrain. He stared for a long time before reaching out and taking the proffered headset from his technician.

‘This is General Warden.’ His voice was scholarly, clipped and controlled, matching his slight build and solemn featured face, his head slightly balding. But for the fatigues and colonel’s pips at his collar he looked like a school teacher incongruously placed in the military command post.

He heard his commander’s voice, Lord General Orgeen Pattinoss, bluff and angry, they had never got along well. ‘Warden, we're moving the time-table forward. You are to retire to alpha-four-four immediately and link up with elements of the 130th.’

Arthur lowered the mic and glanced at his second in command, ‘Colonel Montague, what’s the ETA to civilian evacuation?’

Montague was a tall, heavy-set man, well-fed but powerfully built, he had a gruff, grave voice. ‘At least thirty-six hours sir.’

Arthur nodded and closed his eyes, to say anything was useless, to say nothing was cowardly. ‘My Lord, civilian evacuation is not complete. These are slavers sir, if we…’

Pattinoss’ voice cut across him. ‘Dammit Warden! I do not give a rat's arse about the civilians! We are here to secure the auto-factory and mining facilities and ensure these seditionists are not able to salvage anything!’

‘Sir, the 130th and 51st are both entrenched with air support! The auto-factory is in no danger. I respectfully request permission to have the 200th remain on-station to defend the civilian population!'

‘I am giving you a direct order! Grid alpha-four-four! I expect your men in position in eight hours to act as a reserve.’

Arthur lowered the microphone and looked around his small command post, knowing already that he would not, could not obey. Somehow he had known it would come to this. Montague watched him with the other colonels and a score of his majors and captains, the officers that directed the thousands of men under his command. The sergeants that manned the comms equipment grew quiet too, joining the silent tableau of watchers, their eyes on him. He met their eyes, their fatigues stained and battle-worn by the year-long campaign to quell the seditionists in this system. Many of them were from this planet, he knew at least two companies in one of his regiments had been raised by recruiting parties in this very city.

Arthur swallowed, ignoring the insistent voice in his ears as the general roared at him for acknowledgement. He pressed the transmission button, then released it, then pressed it again, the words refusing to come. His eyes rose and his men who knew him so well saw the hesitation on his face. When he spoke it was to them, simple words. ‘I cannot order you, so instead I ask you, will you stand with me?’

For an endless moment there was no response. Then one of his Colonels stepped forward, a tall, broad shouldered man in his forties, he had the vaguely up-turned eyes and small nose that the colonists of this planet bore. One hand racked the slide on his concussion rifle, the mechanical click sounding clearly in the quiet that enfolded their small group. ‘With your permission sir my regiment will begin establishing static positions in the western suburbs of the city.’

He stood apart from the rest for only a moment before another stepped forward, ‘Sir, with permission, I will move my regiment to the northern western residential district, reports indicate that evacuation efforts there are proceeding slower than anticipated and the civilians will need cover.’

Another, ‘Sir, the third engineers request permission to deploy alongside to offer logistical support.’

Another, ‘General, forth regiment requests to be posted to grid cappa-four-two.’

Another, ‘Sixth regiment requests permission to accompany the forth Sir.’

‘First regiment requests permission to begin deployment along highway one-oh-four.’

‘Second regiment requests permission to deploy to highway one-two-six.’

More joined them, each man stepping forward until they ringed him and Arthur felt his heart swell at the faith and loyalty in their faces as each in turn, captain, major and colonel not only pledged but begged to stand with him. Montague advanced through them, the rest parting until he stood before his general and snapped to attention. ‘Sir, it has been the greatest honour of my life to serve with you.’ The words were all the more meaningful for being spoken with Montague’s customary candour. ‘I have stood beside you on every battlefield from Harlech to Boron Ridge. I will stand beside you now.’

Arthur swallowed, tears shining in his normally solemn eyes as he met the gaze of each man in turn, emotion threatening to crack his voice as he nodded his thanks and raised the mic to his lips, his eyes moving from officer to officer in the command post as he spoke. They were words that ultimately sealed the fate of the men of the 200th legion but words that not one man would ever look back on with anything but pride. When they faced the martial court of enquiry not a single man broke the pact they made that moment. Arthur clicked the transmit toggle on the headset. ‘Command, last transmission unclear. Suspect comms interference. 200th will remain on-station.’

Men of honour, wake from sleeping
See their ships and ranks a’ seething,
Hear their savage war cries leading,
To this battlefield.

Men of honour, stand ye steady,
It cannot be ever said ye,
For the battle were not ready,
We shall never yield.

Men of honour on to glory,
This will ever be your story,
See these burning words before ye,
Our line shall not yield.
-   (Excerpt) Anthem of the 200th Legion – Men of Honour

[close]

How does this story concern the lore and history of SF:

Spoiler

This story is how the 200th Dominion legion who would go on to become the founders of the Hegemony earned their exile in cryogenic storage aboard the battle group that would eventually arrive in the Corvus system.

About three months after the Collapse, a Domain task force emerged from hyperspace in the sector. It was named Strike Force Pollux, and consisted of elements of the 14th Domain Naval Battle Group. The ships were running on full automation, as it was sent many years ago with the objective of studying the effect of long term cryo-sleep on human beings. Soldiers from the disgraced 200th Legion constituted the bulk of the test subjects.

[close]

Entry 2
Mistakes
Author: Veneke
Words: 914

Spoiler

Within a week of the Collapse, as it was being called, colonies sent supply ships to the dead gates. Their intent was simply to be first to go through and resupply, hoping that the gates would miraculously open. Some colonies sent their own patrol craft to maintain order...


   In an abandoned government archive on the backwater planet of Yorelius II an old man sits shuffling through yellowed papers held loosely together by long-rusted clips. Taking another off the pile the old man, Bracchus, carefully repositioned it onto the reading frame; even under the magnified display the faded pencil marks were barely legible. It would take several minutes for the reading frame to scan and display the page in a manner which was recognizable, a process which allowed Bracchus altogether too much free time in which to wonder if this was yet another dead-end. There had been so many of them over the years. Still though, this might be it... The faint print at the top of the ancient paper was becoming clearer -  Doc. 1789 CY435 Patrol Log Y2921.

Log entry:    P/18/10/387
ID Capt:    Richard Falmore
ID Ship:   CY435 'Radiant'

Log begins

   <<You have to understand, none of us meant for this to happen. It was meant to be a simple op. We were to turn up and put ourselves between the Gate and the supply ships and just keep an eye on things. The admiralty were worried that some of the supply ship captains might damage the Gate or each other in their panic. There had also been reports of mutinies and sabotage and all manner of crazy things. So the decision had made sense, right up until the point where we arrived. It was pandemonium. There were ships scattered all around the Gate, big ones, little ones, every kind imaginable. There were a few military ships too, including a small squadron of frigates that had either become separated by the dangerous manoeuvrings of the other ships or had decided to join in with them.>>

   <<On arrival I called the senior staff together as we stood off at some distance to discuss our options. We were, by a good margin, the largest military vessel around and certainly boasted more guns than anything nearby, including that disorganized frigate squadron. Its remarkable just how easily several metres of hull and a half-dozen weapon systems can turn you into an arrogant sod. AT any rate, it was decided pretty quickly to make directly for the Gate and establish a perimeter. It went well too, for a time...>>

The reading frame had reached the end of the page and Bracchus pushed the next one in, impatiently waiting for it to finish its analysis.

   <<It's truly amazing what the presence of a well-armed destroyer willing to take a couple of clear-miss pot-shots at freighters will do for establishing order. It wasn't long, however, before it all went horribly wrong. Some of the more ambitious captains decided to try and jump the informal queue that had developed by moving ever closer to the edge of the exclusion zone. The first few intrusions we let slide but that only prompted more incursions and eventually we were forced to open fire. That certainly got their attention and some less-than-courteous calls from other patrols that had recently joined the small flotilla that was trying to maintain the exclusion zone around the Gate. Of course we were all vastly outnumbered by the increasing volume of supply ships all waiting for the Gate to reactivate even had we been unified under a single banner. In hindsight we should've turned tail and ran right then and there or maybe forced the supply ships to withdraw. It all seemed to be going so well though and, I admit, I smelled a promotion in the offing; maintaining order during this desperate hour at one of the most strategically significant points in the system? That would definitely get me on the short-list.>>

   <<The Lioness, however, changed all of that. She was one of the big supply ships and captained by the type of man you hope never to have to deal with. You know the type, brash and bullish in equal measure. He made right for the Gate, full-speed. Who knows what he was thinking, he certainly wasn't responding to our hails. We fired a number of warning shots but he wouldn't be dissuaded. I ordered the Radiant into position at her stern and aimed for her engines with a pair of precision lasers. It was only meant to have disabled her but whatever it was she was carrying caused her to erupt like a supernova, her lifeless hulk sent careening through space. The radio chatter died for a moment, an otherworldly calm before the storm. It would've all still been fine but some random frigate raised his shields to protect itself from the debris. That prompted some fool captain to scream something about being under attack over the open radio and soon enough everybody had shields raised, lasers firing at random and, when the missile tubes went active, we had a full-scale battle. It was a bloodbath.>>

   <<Things could've been done differently that week, though I'm not sure it would have made a difference. We certainly didn't mean for any of it to happen. That has to count for something, right?>>

The log ended there and Bracchus pulled the paper out, smoothing down a crease and placing it carefully back in the pile.

“No, it doesn't.”
 

[close]

How does this story concern the lore and history of SF:

Spoiler

I think my story's relationship to the theme is pretty clear, but just in case there's any confusion it refers to the following incident and more specifically the part in bold:

Within a week of the Collapse, as it was now being called, colonies sent supply ships to the dead gates. Their intent was simply to be first to go through and resupply, if the gates miraculously opened. Some colonies sent their own patrol craft in order to maintain order. Tensions rose and the inevitable occurred – a patrol craft attempting to place warning shots instead found its mark, and blood was spilled. Others immediately avenged their losses. The sites of the dead gates became the first battlefields of a conflict that few yet dared call war.

[close]

Entry 3
Starfarer
Author: Gothars
Words: 629

Spoiler

„Uhhh, scary!“ The young girl jumped down from the ventilation shaft, she did not appear to be scared at all. “Why would you do such a thing?” she asked the man, tilting her curl-framed head to the side.
“You should not be here,” the bearded man said, calmly sweeping the blood from his hands with a black handkerchief “it would have been better for you if you had not seen this.”

 She shrugged. “I’ve seen worse.“

He frowned. The world really had changed, he thought. How old might she be... 8, 10 at best? When he was that age, before the calamity, no child would have dreamed of talking casually to a man with bloody hands.

“So, what did you kill him for?”

The man had finished cleaning his hands and now grinned at the girl. “For the good of the Sector, naturally”. He wrapped the small shimmering chip he had held into the now stained handkerchief and let the little package glide into a pocket of his suit.

“So, he was a bad man?” The red haired girl had started to slowly stroll towards the intercom panel of the small storage room, on which one button press would be enough to call for station security. The man followed her movements with his eyes without as much as a twitch.

“You have many questions for a little girl. But no. Worse. He was a small man. He was a man who clung so tightly to the seeds of the past that they’d never any chance to bloom again”

“And what kind of man are you? Are you great?” the redhead asked with an eerie little smile.

The bearded man chuckled. „I am as great as history will make me out to be. I am merely the beginning, the first of a new kind. Of me there will be thousands more. Thousands who will gather a crew and steer a vessel into the darkness as I did, so the darkness may not fall upon us all.
The man did not know why he was answering all her questions. Maybe it was because there had never been anyone outside his crew before whom he could tell who he was. Maybe it was just her piercing grey eyes that gave him no other choice.

“So… who are you?” She had stopped at arm’s length from the comm panel. He felt the weight of his silenced blaster pistol heavy on his side. He knew that he could draw and fire before she had any chance to reach the button, if must be.

“I am… a hunter. I hunt for my prey so it may not consume us all. I hunt to feed the machines which humanity once created, so that they may not devour their creators. I hunt the memory of mankind, and I kill those who seek to destroy or keep it for themselves. I reassemble the technology the exploding chaos of the calamity scattered in every corner of the Sector. I and those who will come after me, we will be the thin line that separates the dying civilization that is from the ignorant darkness that could now, and eventually will be.  
Some call me a thief and marauder; some call me scavenger or vulture of the stars. Few call me hero. I just call myself a Starfarer.

“Now I know who you are. But you are wrong in one thing.” Her steel grey eyes seemed to pierce him.
“You are not the first. “

The bearded man gasped as he felt a sharp pain in his back, swift and hot like a flame. His eyes widened in disbelief as he saw the tip of a knife loom through his chest on height of his hearth.  Then the darkness found him.

 

[close]

How does this story concern the lore and history of SF:

Spoiler

Starfarer takes place a few years after the collapse and is pondering the possible dark origins of the starfarer profession (and how they might have justified what they do).
This is the underlying lore from "The State of Affairs" blogpost:

The people that had access to the chips were rarely able to benefit from this value, as others, a more cunning and ruthless lot, were quick to ‘liberate’ the UACs from their rightful owners. Whether it was a forced barter, a theft, or worse, the chips quickly found their way into the hands of the highest bidder, no questions asked.

[close]

[Gothars]

Entry 4
Battleground
Author: The Soldier
Words: 933

Spoiler

“Well, fuck.  Prepare an attack formation!”  The flight officers gave him a crazy look.  Drake responded, “This is a game of cat and mouse, predator and prey.  The hunter will always win.”
Hours later, the small patrol was still trekking through the nebula, silently searching, hunting its prey.  The sensor technician suddenly yelled, “Torpedo!” Drake eye’s flashed across the command panel, issuing free-fire to the gunnery officers, ordering his fighters to scramble, closing the viewing window and taking evasive action.

The room became dark in the absence of starlight.  Only a thin slit of light emanated from the now-blocked window.  The command panel emitted a faint blue glow.  The constant beeping of the incoming torpedo, now 4 of them, identified as Atropos-Class Guided Torpedos, closed in.

As they moved within range, the dull thud of the Flak Cannons could be heard.  One down, then two, three.  One pesky one made it through, slamming into the shield.  For a small torpedo, it still rocked the HSS Shogun considerably.  The command crew held on tighly as the deep rumble of the ship ceased.
A pair of Trident-Class Torpedo Bomber wisped by overhead.  All weapons started firing, but their shields held.  Just then, the Broadsword wings emerged from the HSS Elixir and started strafing the pair.  With a massive amount of incoming lead, the Tridents took heavy fire and one eventually exploded, leaving behind a small cloud of dust and debris.  The other limped back to the rest of the fleet.  Drake asked the sensor technician to track the trajectory of the Trident, perhaps to figure out where the main fleet was based.

“More incoming bogies, captain!” the sensor technician shouted franticly, “No, six!  Twelve!  Eighteen bogies, sir!” he added anxiously.  Drake peered down at the command panel.  Three Wasp wings approached the Broadswords, now out of range of the protective veil of Flak Cannons.  PD Lasers started burning and melting through the Broadswords, and Drake heard the frantic cries of pain and anger through the radio.

“Return to the HSS Elixir, now!” Drake ordered.  The trio of Broadswords was more than happy to follow through, retreating back into the carrier to take repairs and rearm.  They’d managed to inflict a reasonable amount of casualties to the enemy, taking down a handful of Wasps.

Lured by a retreating foe, the Wasp wing commander was dense enough to give chase.  The Flak Cannons made short work of them, leaving behind smoldering bits and pieces of charred metal and plastic.

Calmly taping the command panel, Drake ordered a methodical advance on the enemy.  According to the sensor report, there appeared to be two destroyers and perhaps another wing left.

But he was wrong, very wrong.

Out of the nebula came a massive, hulking shape.  Drake inhaled a sharp breath.  According to battle reports, there had been an Astral-Class Super-Carrier stalking the system.  And he’d just run into the TTS Ephemeral, one of the most revered carries in the Tri-Tachyon arsenal.

“Predator or prey, captain?” the sensor technician asked with a grin.  Drake cracked a smile, the first one in hours.

“All-in, Charlie!”  Drake shouted.  Giving a quick salute, Charlie, the First Mate retreated down into the bowels of the Dominator to give the crew the order for no quarter.  “Burn drive, Mike! Get us as close in as possible to launch our Reapers.  Don’t want any missing.”  Mike, the Flight Engineer, nodded and flicked a switch.  Drake felt himself getting pulled into the back of his seat as the HSS Shogun raced up into the face of an extremely annoyed, irritated, and angry Astral-Class Super-Carrier.

The Mark IX Autocannons roared, spitting hot, dense uranium at the shields of a weakening ship, now severely low on armor and hull.

“Flux levels at 95%, captain!  Lowering shields!” shouted the logistics officer, “Ordering Flak to stop firing!”  As flux levels grew higher and high, the TTS Ephemeral still had a trick up her sleeve.  From above her decks, a Dagger-Class pounced up and flew above the Dominator without releasing ordnance.  Puzzled, Drake watched as the Dagger wing turned around.  Now in terror, Drake desperately tried to order his Broadswords to intercept the wing, but to no avail.

Three massive Reaper Torpedoes slammed into the thrusters of the HSS Shogun.  Alarms and lights flashed as the entire ship rocked.  Many of the command crew had their heads slammed into the screen in front of them, knocked unconscious.  “Rear armor at 5%!  Hull at 25%, goddamit captain!”  screamed the logistics officer.  The radio screamed with activity and the pleases of mariners.  

“Engines down!”

“Taking casualties, captain!”

“Left Flak down!”

Drake, in a daze, ordered all Reapers fired.  The TTS Ephemeral at high flux never stood a chance.  She went down with a massive start-like explosion, lighting up the entire room through just the small slit.

Recovering, Drake ordered a damage report.

Minutes passed without a word.  Slowly, but surely, the rest of the crew recovered.  Trickles of information came through.  Of the bits and pieced he caught, he heard that Johnson had miraculously lived, as did Charlie, but not unscathed.

He’d lost his frigate, the HSS Roebuck, in the explosion of the Astral, and one Broadsword wing.  He’d taken 122 casualties, 37 dead, 85 wounded.  An Omen-Class frigate has made it’s escape, seeing the largest ship in the Tri-Tachyon navy being destroyed, and has slipped out into the nebula.

As the HSS Shogun and her surviving ships limped back to Hegemony space, she related her battler report to High Hegemony Command.  Her crew and fleet would eventually receive the Iron Eagle for valor.
 

[close]

How does this story concern the lore and history of SF:

Spoiler

My story takes place during the "Predator or Prey" mission.

[close]

Entry 5
End of Shift
Author: medonca
Words: 656

Spoiler

-x-

480kg Caesium.

Check.

3.6 tonnes hyper-aligned copper wire at 120 square millimetres.

Check.

419 tanks of supercooled cellulose substrate.

Check.

13 grammes of Platinum. 95 square metres of 35 mil cerami-glass. An adult Komodo Dragon.

Check, check, check.

How much infernium?

Damn those kids in stock control. You’re not telling me we’re sending a wire back to the Domain and we aren’t going to be putting in an order for some more infernium?

“Jake here. I’m going through this latest manifest and I need to know how much infernium we are approved to request …”

“Well, I’ve worked this post for thirteen cycles and …”

“… I just think we should …”

“… Okay. But be it on you.”

Zero kilos of infernium.

Check.

…

“Jake Grinweld of Corvus II Outpost, submitting manifest for resupply. Signatures received from Marten Kohl under-secretary to vice-quartermaster, copy submitted to Quartermaster’s Office. Please confirm and submit by response preferred window of arrival.”

“ … Well, I need a formal date for arrival. We can’t …”

“ … with respect, sir, I’ve worked this post for thirteen cycles and … “

“ … as you wish. Procedure for receipt of goods will follow on arrival to the system.”

God damn it, how can I do my job if people can’t be straight with me. Pound to a pinch-of-crap once that load comes through the gate we’ll have a hundred Buffalos sitting in dock and no way in hell to get these guys in. This ain’t right, and I ain’t gonna be the one to take the heat when it all goes to hell.

…

*At the beep, please leave a message*

“Jake here, sir. Informing you formally that manifest six point two-three zeta for communications manufactory three hundred and twelve has been unable to secure a window. Forwarding four-signed confirmation from Domain supply station to that effect.”

…

That clock is going slow today and I just need it to run through another few minutes and I can get out of here, get back to my pod and sleep off last night’s hangover for good. The noise of the water and fuel running through the tubes in these walls is louder normal and this chair is squeaking for the first time in weeks, and to top it all off nobody is listening to me. But at least there is no time for anything else to go wrong today, after I’ve filed down this meaningless manifest of useless crap.

But the keyboard is covered in dried fruit juice from earlier and nothing seems to be registering properly.

Somebody has discarded what looks to be a sock on the floor of my canteen, which will do for now. I run it through the basin to get it wet and wipe at the sticky stuff on the glass of the screen.

Oh crap.

How in seven hells … the keypad has gone black and cleared itself of all information under the rag. How am I gonna explain this one? But I can’t have broken the screen with the wipe of a damn cloth …

And why has the room gone quiet?

The flow in the walls has stopped.

The screens over my head have gone a pure white.
And the lights have gone out.

I think I can hear a noise like scraping metal, which seems to be getting louder …

…

Jake Grinweld was the only casualty in a freak accident at Corvus II Outpost today, when communication with the domain unexpectedly went down and an unmanned Buffalo freighter undergoing automated dockside manoeuvres crashed in to his control room, killing him instantly. Relatives have been notified and there is no further cause for concern. Engineers are investigating the incident and are confident that communication channels will be re-opened shortly. Employees and Citizens wishing to pay their respects should make an application to visit his memorial, at The Quartermaster’s office on Corvus II.
 

[close]

Entry 6
Flashes from Hyperspace
Author: Cosmitz
Words: 997

Spoiler

The sound of a hyperdrive churning a ship through fractured dimensions is the sound ship crews learn to love. Be it a gentle hum, a raspy low roar or a persistent but detached murmur, the sound of a hyperdrive is unmistakable. It doesn't matter how it works or sounds as long as its purpose is accomplished. To allow  humans to move between the stars effortlessly and to spread their influence. For better or for worse...

"Have we gotten an answer yet?"
"None, and the perimeter patrols are still sizing us up."
"Keep me apprised and keep trying to reach the colony, but no ECM, we don't want to appear hostile. We'll take her in after they're gone."
"Shouldn't we try and..."
"No. No idea what reinforcements they have behind the sun so let's sit tight Liutenant."
"I'll notify you as soon as the pirates leave orbit, Capt'n."

With that,  the Operations-Lieutenant faced back at the brightly glowing terminal trying to cover her blemished ego with stern discipline. As she hashed away commands on her screen, the wish that the pirates would finally commit to an assault grew stronger. After all, the Galatea was a decently-armed ship for a cargo freighter, thanks to the Captain's quick thinking and a few lucky UAC's found stashed during a milk-run through an asteroid belt.

Universal Access Chips, UAC's in short, specifically weapons and systems chips were worth small fortunes since the Collapse. These chips, blueprints for use in anything from small dispensers to orbital factories, due to industrial espionage and competition existing before the Collapse were impossible to duplicate or hack. A standard of a bygone age.

So when the Captain stumbled over a hidden cache of some poor, now literally poor, bastard, he did what any other enterprising captain would do and 'acquired' them. As such new AVC-50's lined the forward hull of the ship, freshly manufactured off one of the autofactories on Citrus V, while Burst Laser PD's were charged to protect the aft of the ship in case of any pirates that plagued the tradelines nowadays.

Today was one of those days. Some go-lucky pirates decided to raid a small settlement on the other side of the planet where the Galatea had her drop-off-point scheduled. They were loaded for ground assault with Valkyrie transports matched with a few Talon wings, so they were not risking engaging in a full-fledged starship engagement unless necessary. An unspoken truce was holding in the air and beginning to wear on the Lieutenant.

As she waved the Junior Lieutenant to take her place, Operations Lieutenant Selma Barmez rolled her seat around and headed out in the cramped hallway, more maintenance shaft in permanent repairs than an actual passageway. Ducking outdated plasma manifolds blending with new and barely compatible flux distributors, the sign of a ship that has seen too many captains and name-changes, Selma tried to make her way across. Lunch-time was almost over, and she missed the last two meals thanks to successive issues that culminated with the standstill that was currently visible outside the port window.

“Out of the all the days in the cycle...”, muttered Selma under her breath. Not that any other day would be good for dealing with the more nefarious elements of society, but she had a saying “if you have to have a bad day, might as well do it on a full stomach”.

The makeshift food dispenser sat in the middle of the mess hall, nothing more than a clumping of chairs and tables, almost looking like a cheap bar off Corvus II. The screen dimly listed the biomass cost of each meal, and once Selma logged in her security ID, the daily ration allocation.

“Grodon souffle and tomato soup, that'll hit the spot.”, thought Selma to herself as she nodded her head decisively. The dispenser whirled to life and in a matter of seconds dropped the first course on a tray. The souffle looked delicious, like any other grodon souffle she ordered before, and like any other grodon souffle that will ever be made. The benefit of having a database of food UACs mean you would have your crew fed, but having a chef onboard that could prepare meals, even if not very pleasantly-tasting, from raw food that had flavor through variation would make for a happier crew.

Selma rushed to push the selection for the tomato soup, blissfully ignoring the warning as her mind wandered through protocols and parameters, mentally checking systems in case they'd have to open fire and run the blockade.

Her train of thought was stopped like it was rammed at hyperspeed into the middle of a hard-iron core planet as the stench of rot attacked her senses. As she looked down at her tray, what was supposed to be tomato soup looked more like liquid magma than anything edible, and smelled even worse. She quickly retrieved her previously ordered souffle and pushed the recycle button on the dispenser. One of the other disadvantages of modern automated 'makers', from factories to dispenser, is that even the all-precious UAC's can end up corrupted or permanently damaged.

As the Liutenant dipped the spoon again and again in the souffle she fell in her own thoughts. “Maybe the Ludii have a point, the gates will not open again, and we're just scraping by on hand-me-downs and leftovers. I remember my grandfather telling me of the Domain of Man... of machines and techniques that sound like stuff from cheap infonovels nowadays. How long can we hold up until we don't know how to even make our ships. Stranded on a single planet?”

Her spoon was left in the barely-eaten souffle as a shiver raced through her entire body. Just the thought of being stuck in one system, let alone one planet, was like regressing to molecular life for the young Lieutenant. She barely managed to recomposed herself before the comlink in her ear sounded:

“Lieutenant Selma Barmez report to the bridge, we have incoming.”
 

[close]

Entry 7
The Age of Eggplants
Author: Gothars
Words: 946

Spoiler

“And you’re still protecting those bastards!”  Isaac clenched his fists, his face distorted by a grimace of anger.  “It is not them that I am trying to protect. My only concern is our safety!” Alberon tried his best to keep his voice down. He was the father here, he had to stay level-headed. Even if his son was not making this easy on him. “How?” the young man shouted now, “How does is help our safety if we starve to death…” He picked up one of the rotten little things that should have become a succulent eggplant  “…while those corporate *** sit in their comfy armchairs and dine on protein steak!?” He flung the plant towards the sky, where somewhere above the atmosphere the administration station orbited.  
“Isaac, listen! I understand that…”
“You understand nothing! If you won’t do anything about these void damn technocrats then I will!” With that Isaac turned and stomped away over the field, forcefully squashing a rotten plant with every step.  
The worst thing was that his son was far from wrong. Pardision III had entered the last stage of its terraforming process only a few years ago. The planet’s biosphere was still in need of heavy artificial regulation, the freshly matured soil was still in constant danger of reverting back into the barren grey mass it came from. Without technological help from the Tri-Tachyon concern which supervised the colonization on behalf of the Domain, there was no future for this planet. But that was why they had to convince the corporate officials to support them, to make it possible for the thousands of farmers already on the planet’s surface to sustain themselves. That was why he had send countless mails, had been writing petition after petition to get through to those blue suits above the atmosphere. That many of the farmers, especially young ones like his son, were now on the edge of open rebellion certainly did not help his cause.

-  Two month later -

„Mr. Grekov, take a seat, please“. The man behind the desk waved vaguely in the direction of a simple metal chair, his eyes fixed on the little blue pad on his desk since Alberon came in. But the farmer was certainly not about to jeopardize the success of his efforts by showing impatience now. That he had been received in this “audience“ was the best news since the closing of the gates. His new title of “Spokesperson of the United Agriculturists of Pardision” paled against the “Chief Logistics and Alimentation Officer” that his counterfeit held.  Still, he was not about to yield his position easily, there was far too much on stake for that.  He sat down.
“Mr. Grekov, I have good news for you.” He was still rearranging figures on his tab. “We from the Tri-Tachyon concern have decided on the best course of action concerning the Pardision III business.  All settlers will assemble in the central space port within 4 days, where transports will be waiting. All personal and agricultural equipment will be carried to Verdaria II where they are to integrate into the existing colony. Verdaria II is an agricultural planet like Pardision III, so we are confident that everyone will be able to get accustomed swiftly.”
Alberon was speechless for a moment. “What…what is the meaning of this? Why do you want to bring us off planet? Pardision is a good planet, a fertile planet, it is our home planet! I have come to negotiate a new shipment of soil-nites, not to let you make a fool out of me!”
“We are sorry if this measure causes you discomfort. I assure you that everything has been considered and this has been confirmed as the optimal solution.”
“Op..Optimal!? You Tri-Tachyons have shiploads full of nanites but you are to …”
“Mr. Grekov!” For the first time the man in the suit looked the farmer directly into the eyes. “We have shiploads of nothing. There are no nanites. There is no fertilizer left, no harvesting drones and most of all there is no food. You don’t seem to realize the state the sector is in.  We are starving, we are all starving. This is a famine. Pardision is a luxury food planet, but nobody needs eggplants and bananas right now. What we need is rice and wheat.  The age of eggplants is over!”  
 
Alberon was still processing what had just been disclosed to him, when suddenly a loud alarm started ringing. “Bwee-ooop! Bwee-ooop! All personal to security stations! Unidentified contacts incoming at high velocity!” Snow rushed to the intercom interface on the side of his desk and hastily opened a channel to the command center. “What is this about?” he asked as soon as a face appeared on the screen. “We are not sure sir, we have eleven signals, closing in fast from the night side of the planet, no response to hails”. “Have you informed system security?” “Yessir, but they will take at least an hour to get here!” Snow was about to ask another question, but suddenly a violent shudder ran through the station. It was followed by more impacts and loud explosions that seemed to come from every direction at once. “They are firing, they are firing on us!” the young man needlessly exclaimed before the comm link was cut and a voice began to pour through all internal speakers. “We are the children of Lud! We are the saviors of mankind! Death to all technology! Death to all who worship it!” Hearing those words, Alberon had frozen stiff. But not out of fear  – he had recognized the voice that rattled out of the intercom. It was that of his son Isaac.
 

[close]

How does this story concern the lore and history of SF:

Spoiler

Eggplants takes place between the calamity and the arrival of the task force Pollux (later Hegemony) as indicated be Tri-Tachyon's access to Verdaria II, which is a Hegemony core world later on. It's meant to show the overall sudden decay of civilization and shortage of most basic resources just after the sector has been cut off from the Domain.
It's basically based on this bit of lore (from "The State of Affairs blogpost):

Sadly, most of the settled worlds were nowhere near autonomy from this logistical juggernaut when the calamity struck. Only a few of the worlds had received the necessary shipments of soil nanites.  Fewer still had actual farms producing foodstuffs.

[close]

[Cosmitz]

Voted. And for fairness sake, no selfvoting?

[CrashToDesktop]

"Age of Eggplants"

lol

I'm getting to reading all of them.

[Gothars]

Voted. And for fairness sake, no selfvoting?

I'd say yes, but there is no way for me to control that. Selfvoting is officially allowed to give no disadvantage to those who would vote with honor. That's one of the reasons everybody gets two votes, you can vote for yourself and then for someone else (whom you might even like better).

[PCCL]

really liked starfarer, not sure how it goes to history though so I can't really justify voting for it

so far one vote spent on battleground, well done soldier

[CrashToDesktop]

Thanks. You can vote twice, if you want, for another story.

[Cosmitz]

Would be nice to offer some insights into what we voted too.

I really liked "End of Shift". It's beautifully detached while still keeping a presence to show off an important moment in the universe. It's good on its own without needing the lore explained behind it. "Mistakes" also takes the same role under its hat, and works very well, with the character-narrator framing everything.  Gothar's work also deserves recognition for great writing, but i can't say i felt a decisive sense of the themes behind the stories, still, it's a damn fine read.

Then again, not like my entry was better... I actually feel a bit ashamed when comparing my work to the above, as it feels simple by comparison. In any case, i'll see about getting better and working within the constraints next time.

[Gothars]

really liked starfarer, not sure how it goes to history though so I can't really justify voting for it

i can't say i felt a decisive sense of the themes behind the stories

Thinking about it, maybe it's a bit hard to identify lore reference if you're not very well versed in the lore yourself....
Ok, new rule: All writers can send me a short paragraph explaining in what way the story is referencing the lore, possibly with sources. Take my explanation as an example. I will put the annotation in a separate spoiler below the story.


Eggplants takes place between the calamity and the arrival of the task force Pollux (later Hegemony) as indicated be Tri-Tachyon's access to Verdaria II, which is a Hegemony core world later on. It's meant to show the overall sudden decay of civilization and shortage of most basic resources just after the sector has been cut off from the Domain.
It's basically based on this bit of lore (from "The State of Affairs blogpost):

Sadly, most of the settled worlds were nowhere near autonomy from this logistical juggernaut when the calamity struck. Only a few of the worlds had received the necessary shipments of soil nanites.  Fewer still had actual farms producing foodstuffs.

Starfarer happens a few years later and is pondering the possible dark origins of the starfarer profession (and how they might have justified what they do).
This is the underlying lore:

The people that had access to the chips were rarely able to benefit from this value, as others, a more cunning and ruthless lot, were quick to ‘liberate’ the UACs from their rightful owners. Whether it was a forced barter, a theft, or worse, the chips quickly found their way into the hands of the highest bidder, no questions asked.

[Gothars]

Would be nice to offer some insights into what we voted too.

If you mean showing the poll results, they are hidden for a reason. I want to mitigate the "everyone likes that one so I will vote for it, too" and "no one liked that one, have a pity vote" effects. Also, it adds suspension

[PCCL]

Starfarer happens a few years later and is pondering the possible dark origins of the starfarer profession (and how they might have justified what they do).

fair enough, not a specific historical event, but the story is good enough to justify my vote

[CrashToDesktop]

My story takes place during the "Predator or Prey" mission.  Kinda obvious in the first dialouge.

[PCCL]

HSS shogun gave that one away....

really liked that mission, too

[CrashToDesktop]

Yea, good mission, it's always fun to throw three reapers at an Astral.

EDIT:

Now that I've read my story in the perspective of a viewer, I see that it's wopefully empty. The backstory is needed (another 1000 words, but back then I didn't know), along with some improvements to the actual combat. Might as well make a thread for it once the contest is over. (Don't let that discourage you, though - if you feel it's good, vote for it)


Oh, and medonca, very interesting story you've got there. You've got my vote.  As well as you, Pendragon, I like the story on a ground combat.

[Veneke]

I think my story's relationship to the theme is pretty clear, but just in case there's any confusion it refers to the following incident and more specifically the part in bold:

"Within a week of the Collapse, as it was now being called, colonies sent supply ships to the dead gates. Their intent was simply to be first to go through and resupply, if the gates miraculously opened. Some colonies sent their own patrol craft in order to maintain order. Tensions rose and the inevitable occurred – a patrol craft attempting to place warning shots instead found its mark, and blood was spilled. Others immediately avenged their losses. The sites of the dead gates became the first battlefields of a conflict that few yet dared call war."


As far as voting goes, I went for Costmitz's and Pendragon's. The former because I thought it was a good reflection on the gritty nature of starfarer and the latter because it deals with the 200th legion.