Post by Shipfish on Dec 4, 2011 11:53:20 GMT -6
>> COMMAND LINE ACTIVATED
>> WHAT IS YOUR COMMAND
open log 23-14-6657 annotated version
>> COMMAND OPEN LOG 23-14-6657 ANNOTATED VERSION RECEIVED
>> OPENING
“They say I am quick; quick I may be, but no quicker than I must: to hurry is to waste.
They say I am cold; cold I may be, but no colder than I must: to care is to waste.
They say I am false; this is a lie.”
Your name is remembered. Only the half of your life was forgotten.
Your name was Kyachril, and you always wanted to make things happen. At a very young age, you would train with weapons for hours until you got the forms exactly right. At a slightly older age, you would tolerate only the tiniest of excesses from your friends. As an adult, you found that people were stupid. They were predictable. They were easy to beat.
You think it all began with the simulator. The thing was either badly programmed or simply too easy: it ran sim after sim after sim against you and you always won. You looked for a difficulty meter, and found one: it was set on ‘Impossible.’ The thing was badly designed, you were sure. But it attracted the interest of the Military, who were always combing through the sim logs for good players. Within a perigee, you were a cadet; within three, a lieutenant; within a half-sweep, a sub-commander. There were ten thousand soldiers under your command.
The second turning point was the battle for Fortentious. The natives were naturally war-like; they were excellent at scavenging and so had copied the design for a stardrive from a single cruiser. Soon, they were all zipping around in their little scrap-heap devices, causing mayhem among the infantry. You, a general at the time, were not stupid: you’d read the reports from the Battleship Condescension’s science people. The science people had of course underestimated the militant potential of the Fortentians. Poring over the reports once more, looking for a solution, perhaps a weakness, you found an interesting fact: their biology was built to crave sugar. Inspired, you snagged some cotton candy from the mess and commandeered a cruiser to take you to the surface. Having fought your way to the palace of their ruler with the help of the cruiser’s troop (most of whom were now dead) you presented the cowering fellow with the treat. The rest is not important. You won.
It was after that momentous and unprecedented victory that you were told you no longer existed. It was all done in the debriefing room of the Condescension: a tiny, dark, cold thing designed to unnerve. “You are a significant asset to the military. You serve us well in your current position, but you could serve us better elsewhere,” they said. “You no longer exist except to yourself and your ship,” they meant. And so you died, on Fortentious, by the hand of an assassin.
But you didn’t. You carried on. World after world, battle after battle, victory after victory they all blended together. You lost your name; you were no one for a time. When you rediscovered a self, your name was gone and now you would be known only by your function. The Catalyst. You tipped the balance, evened the odds, made things happen. At what cost, though? You had no identity.
An order was sent. “You are required on Alternia. A young troll goes before the Summoner who is essential to his success. It is imperative that she be kept alive, that she may be made an example of, to tear the soul out of the rebellion.” And orders must be followed.
It was not a hard thing. She was easy to follow: She left the villages and settlements behind her riled, awaiting the glory of the Summoner’s revolution. There were less obvious traces: you knew whose home she had sheltered in, inferred from silences and glances. You knew who she was, you knew her as only the hunter can know her prey. Often, you would leave your second to the command, and walk among the peoples in their lives before the main force arrived. Soon enough, the people were warned against accepting a greenblood who walked with entitlement into their dwellings.
When the fleeing party split, you knew which way your quarry had gone. She, no doubt, knew that capturing a Mother Grub was a futile prospect, and took her most ardent supporters with her in her flight to the mountains. You split your force as well. Taking only those soldiers who were part of your ship, you sent the rest into the caverns. In a fit of spite, you named your group the Reagents, a play on your own title. Nevertheless, you relished the opportunity to truly track a being who wished not to be followed in territory you were familiar with. It was glorious to be among the trees again, but it brought forth memories that were not of importance to the task.
She proved to be more intelligent than you had given her credit for. She made it through the thickest of the forest, into the coniferous parts on the shoulders of the mountains. She hid in the tower of the local recluse, a blueblood rumored to be of a frightening disposition. It was saddeningly easy to capture her, even though you lost a few of your Reagent force. First, you smoked them out of the tower using heavier-than-air smoke bombs aimed at the open wall whence you had witnessed the blueblood’s lusus entering and exiting. You let the whole band run a decent way into the forest, and sending the seventh and eighth to cut off any egress back into the tower.
Your force fell upon then as a wolfbeast does a frightened leopor. Two were slaughtered quickly, from the back, as they attempted to run. Another as he tried to strike your second with his weapon. Another, with an arrow through the heart, as she attempted to protect her liege. After that, there were only five. With a few quick warbles in the ghostly tongue of Arath, you set your third and fourth upon the two who were not your problem. You dealt with the blueblood while your second was for the orange and the fifth and sixth for the quarry. The blue was indeed crazy; he was clumsy with the knife he wielded and was easily disarmed. Multiples times, he gestured forcefully at you and uttered strange words, but his gesticulations were for naught. You poked him in just the right place, leaving him paralyzed but alert.
Meanwhile, your fifth was wounded and your sixth killed by the quarry. The third and the fourth had subdued the two. Your second held the orange in place, not yet bound. You saved him the trouble by knocking her unconscious with an offhand blow. The quarry tossed your fifth to the side as you approached her.
“Surrender and I will not harm yyou,” you told her. She attacked; you knocked her aside and assumed a more threatening posture. “Surrender and I will not harm yyou.” Her hand was broken from the forceful removal of her weapon. She did not answer: you immobilized her.
You ordered the eighth, who you knew had been bonded to the sixth, to prepare the body for burial. The seventh tended to the wounds of the fifth. You yourself took the task of transporting the quarry to the waiting cruiser. You watched the med bandage her hand before locking her in the brig. From there she was the Empress’s, not yours.
You have never wondered if you did the right thing. There is no right or wrong in war, only orders. You tried to minimize damage to the quarry’s group, though if what you learned was her punishment was true, perhaps it would have been better to kill them all. Your part was done. The rest is much the same as the first, except for the night you died, in your sleep, by the hand of the Empress’s assassin.
>> COMMAND LINE ACTIVATED
>> WHAT IS YOUR COMMAND
close log
>> COMMAND CLOSE LOG RECEIVED
>> CLOSING
>> WHAT IS YOUR COMMAND
end command line
>> COMMAND END COMMAND LINE RECEIVED
>> COMMAND LINE CLOSING
>> WHAT IS YOUR COMMAND
open log 23-14-6657 annotated version
>> COMMAND OPEN LOG 23-14-6657 ANNOTATED VERSION RECEIVED
>> OPENING
“They say I am quick; quick I may be, but no quicker than I must: to hurry is to waste.
They say I am cold; cold I may be, but no colder than I must: to care is to waste.
They say I am false; this is a lie.”
Your name is remembered. Only the half of your life was forgotten.
Your name was Kyachril, and you always wanted to make things happen. At a very young age, you would train with weapons for hours until you got the forms exactly right. At a slightly older age, you would tolerate only the tiniest of excesses from your friends. As an adult, you found that people were stupid. They were predictable. They were easy to beat.
You think it all began with the simulator. The thing was either badly programmed or simply too easy: it ran sim after sim after sim against you and you always won. You looked for a difficulty meter, and found one: it was set on ‘Impossible.’ The thing was badly designed, you were sure. But it attracted the interest of the Military, who were always combing through the sim logs for good players. Within a perigee, you were a cadet; within three, a lieutenant; within a half-sweep, a sub-commander. There were ten thousand soldiers under your command.
The second turning point was the battle for Fortentious. The natives were naturally war-like; they were excellent at scavenging and so had copied the design for a stardrive from a single cruiser. Soon, they were all zipping around in their little scrap-heap devices, causing mayhem among the infantry. You, a general at the time, were not stupid: you’d read the reports from the Battleship Condescension’s science people. The science people had of course underestimated the militant potential of the Fortentians. Poring over the reports once more, looking for a solution, perhaps a weakness, you found an interesting fact: their biology was built to crave sugar. Inspired, you snagged some cotton candy from the mess and commandeered a cruiser to take you to the surface. Having fought your way to the palace of their ruler with the help of the cruiser’s troop (most of whom were now dead) you presented the cowering fellow with the treat. The rest is not important. You won.
It was after that momentous and unprecedented victory that you were told you no longer existed. It was all done in the debriefing room of the Condescension: a tiny, dark, cold thing designed to unnerve. “You are a significant asset to the military. You serve us well in your current position, but you could serve us better elsewhere,” they said. “You no longer exist except to yourself and your ship,” they meant. And so you died, on Fortentious, by the hand of an assassin.
But you didn’t. You carried on. World after world, battle after battle, victory after victory they all blended together. You lost your name; you were no one for a time. When you rediscovered a self, your name was gone and now you would be known only by your function. The Catalyst. You tipped the balance, evened the odds, made things happen. At what cost, though? You had no identity.
An order was sent. “You are required on Alternia. A young troll goes before the Summoner who is essential to his success. It is imperative that she be kept alive, that she may be made an example of, to tear the soul out of the rebellion.” And orders must be followed.
It was not a hard thing. She was easy to follow: She left the villages and settlements behind her riled, awaiting the glory of the Summoner’s revolution. There were less obvious traces: you knew whose home she had sheltered in, inferred from silences and glances. You knew who she was, you knew her as only the hunter can know her prey. Often, you would leave your second to the command, and walk among the peoples in their lives before the main force arrived. Soon enough, the people were warned against accepting a greenblood who walked with entitlement into their dwellings.
When the fleeing party split, you knew which way your quarry had gone. She, no doubt, knew that capturing a Mother Grub was a futile prospect, and took her most ardent supporters with her in her flight to the mountains. You split your force as well. Taking only those soldiers who were part of your ship, you sent the rest into the caverns. In a fit of spite, you named your group the Reagents, a play on your own title. Nevertheless, you relished the opportunity to truly track a being who wished not to be followed in territory you were familiar with. It was glorious to be among the trees again, but it brought forth memories that were not of importance to the task.
She proved to be more intelligent than you had given her credit for. She made it through the thickest of the forest, into the coniferous parts on the shoulders of the mountains. She hid in the tower of the local recluse, a blueblood rumored to be of a frightening disposition. It was saddeningly easy to capture her, even though you lost a few of your Reagent force. First, you smoked them out of the tower using heavier-than-air smoke bombs aimed at the open wall whence you had witnessed the blueblood’s lusus entering and exiting. You let the whole band run a decent way into the forest, and sending the seventh and eighth to cut off any egress back into the tower.
Your force fell upon then as a wolfbeast does a frightened leopor. Two were slaughtered quickly, from the back, as they attempted to run. Another as he tried to strike your second with his weapon. Another, with an arrow through the heart, as she attempted to protect her liege. After that, there were only five. With a few quick warbles in the ghostly tongue of Arath, you set your third and fourth upon the two who were not your problem. You dealt with the blueblood while your second was for the orange and the fifth and sixth for the quarry. The blue was indeed crazy; he was clumsy with the knife he wielded and was easily disarmed. Multiples times, he gestured forcefully at you and uttered strange words, but his gesticulations were for naught. You poked him in just the right place, leaving him paralyzed but alert.
Meanwhile, your fifth was wounded and your sixth killed by the quarry. The third and the fourth had subdued the two. Your second held the orange in place, not yet bound. You saved him the trouble by knocking her unconscious with an offhand blow. The quarry tossed your fifth to the side as you approached her.
“Surrender and I will not harm yyou,” you told her. She attacked; you knocked her aside and assumed a more threatening posture. “Surrender and I will not harm yyou.” Her hand was broken from the forceful removal of her weapon. She did not answer: you immobilized her.
You ordered the eighth, who you knew had been bonded to the sixth, to prepare the body for burial. The seventh tended to the wounds of the fifth. You yourself took the task of transporting the quarry to the waiting cruiser. You watched the med bandage her hand before locking her in the brig. From there she was the Empress’s, not yours.
You have never wondered if you did the right thing. There is no right or wrong in war, only orders. You tried to minimize damage to the quarry’s group, though if what you learned was her punishment was true, perhaps it would have been better to kill them all. Your part was done. The rest is much the same as the first, except for the night you died, in your sleep, by the hand of the Empress’s assassin.
>> COMMAND LINE ACTIVATED
>> WHAT IS YOUR COMMAND
close log
>> COMMAND CLOSE LOG RECEIVED
>> CLOSING
>> WHAT IS YOUR COMMAND
end command line
>> COMMAND END COMMAND LINE RECEIVED
>> COMMAND LINE CLOSING
