Nova Wars

A common misconception among other species that train with Terran and Human Virtual Warmasters is that the other races think the Warmaster avatar is small to make the Solarians feel more at ease. Why else would something called a Warmaster not be the hulking brute that seems to be more common across Solarian military.

Other species don't tend to understand the mental calculus a Solarian does every time they meet a new individual in a military or power-fluid setting. Treana'ad War Horde members understand, and do the same calculus constantly. The ability to do that calculus is what separated successful warrior breeding lines from the unsuccessful. Interestingly enough, the ability to perform that calculus is what keeps modern Treana'ad from getting their heads eaten by just matured females. It is target acquisition and risk management all rolled into one instinct-driven impulse. "Can I take/survive them?"

That simple question constantly rolling around inside the braincases of a Solarian trained for action seems to run into an error when presented with a small and frail seeming Warmaster. This is by design. This avatar is as much a test as a training tool. If you saw only a small being that is there to offer you instruction, then you also failed the test. A Solarian that has passed the test treats the avatar as something to almost be feared, but certainly respected. One that has not generally can be found in the medical bay nursing any combination of broken bones.

The smaller someone is in a combat training role, the more just vicious and efficient they are, you know? The big guys, those are almost always "Hey, I don't want anyone getting hurt, I've accidentally broken people before, and you're all little puppies to me." whereas that little trainer is trying to find faster and faster ways to get people into origami shapes.

You see, when presented with the digital avatar of a small Warmaster trainer, a right thinking Solarian's first thought is "Can I take it?" The eyes narrow, and something howls in the back of the mind, and the instant answer should be "No, this is a trap." Further calculus sums up that if some creature so small attained the rank of Warmaster trainer in the distant past, and had an avatar of themselves made to continue training, then that small Warmaster must be capable of extreme levels of violence that go above and beyond what a normal Solarian is capable of.

Another thing that must be taken into context is the apparent age. To a Solarian, an old man whose life has been devoted to combat and martial conflict is one to be respected at least, possibly even feared. They even have a saying for it: "Fear an old man in a profession that kills the young."

Thus, the Solarian Warmaster trainer is often an small and frail appearing old man. The Solarian takes into account the age, appearance, estimated strength, and puts it all into an instinctual mental calculation to determine just how dangerous the Warmaster trainer is.

This instinctual mental calculation takes less than a second.

Just a little additional food for thought: The mosizlak trainer looks so elderly and frail that you worry a slight breeze will carry off the Warmaster trainer. - Meditations on the Barrier War, Lancer First Class Drali'imna Lovefell, Free Telkan Press, 25 Post-Terran Emergence

“The greatest asset of any interstellar polity is the ability to act in a unified fashion. With unity, the riches and resources of dozens if not hundreds of worlds can be applied to solve any problem from the scientific to the military. Unity is the strength of the state.

It is known.

The greatest weakness of any interstellar polity is a fracturing of consensus. Disagreements can be resolved but a serious split can paralyze a stellar nation at a time of crisis. Worse, elements of the nation may commit it to a course of action the whole is unwilling to fully back, at least not until it is too late. A fractured state is a doomed state.

It is known.

These rules are proven over time to be mostly correct most of the time. But a general rule should never be mistaken for an inviolable law. There are always exceptions. Always special cases. Always variables that cloud the grand political calculus.

It is not always remembered, but it is known.

Behold: humanity. A species comprised of three parts rage to one part stubborn intransigence. That they made it to the stars without destroying themselves is a small miracle. That they did so without destroying everyone else is a far larger one.

It is seldom appreciated, but it is known.

When regarding human action on the grand galactic stage it is a mistake to view them as one might other stellar polities. The might of their unified action is awe inspiring, but the sway that small determined groups or even lone individuals can hold over the course of history is nothing short of terrifying. Fortunately for the most of us, human passions are wild and untamed and diffuse. In ordinary times the results are ‘merely’ one of the most fantastically advanced civilizations the galaxy has ever seen.

It is a happy coincidence, and it is known.

The most potent of these passions is rage. It is, some might argue, the natural human state. It takes a myriad of forms but every so often it is crystallized by a singular event and into an almost viral form that spreads from individual to group to nation. Woe betide those who in their miscalculation make themselves the object of such, for in the face of humanity’s rage considerations like unity or disunity are meaningless. A single human, given enough reason, can end an empire.

You have forgotten this but…

It is known.” - Po'ondu'urmo'o, Lanaktallan Galpolitical Theorist, upon speaking to the Greatest of Great Lanaktallan Togetherness Grandly Assembled Great Meetup of Great Minds and Great Wisdom Together for Greatness, 2 months Post Terran-Re-Emergence

The Structure of Warsteel

Warsteel is an alloy between iron and nuclear pasta. Neutronium is a sister substance.

Warsteel has been described as both an element and a molecule. A description that breaks many laws of physics and chemistry. While trying to wrap one's head around the notion, one should remember neutronium, a form of matter that is an atom, the element zero and starflesh.

Neutronium is the second densest substance in the universe. It is also highly unstable. The component neutrons are only held together by gravity. Removing neutronium away from their native neutron stars is a great way to make degenerate, and possible explosive, subatomic vapor. Despite this flaw Neutronium armor has seen use by Dwellerspawn. The Terrans use 'reactive neutronium' in more than a few of their weapons to utilize the 'subatomic vaporization' to destroy even the most robust armors. In a bit of irony, they use 'gravity inverted neutronium subatomic vapor' to destroy neutronium armor, the armor's mass moving from protective to reactive.

To those viewing, it appears that a fire is burning in vacuum as the subatomic vapor rips apart armor.

Phasic energy seems to be the glue that holds the Dwellerspawns armor together. They also seem to be the only faction that bothers to use neutronium armor outside of a few races who have never met the Confederacy and promptly burst into flame. The Old Terran Confederacy abandoned the technology soon after discovering warsteel. It seems that both materials have a connection to phasic energy. For neutronium phasic energies seem to act as a stabilizing agent and for warsteel psychic anger acts as the softening and shaping agent.

Nuclear pasta is a theoretical substance that forms the inner crust of neutron stars. The outer crust is a pure iron shell formed by the stars last act of nuclear fusion. Below this layer is a strange material formed by the star’s death and gravitational collapse. Iron atoms are forced into nuclear spaghetti. Atomic nuclei sometimes meters in length. Deeper layers of spaghetti are forced to merge into lasagna. Deepest lasagna is forced into bucatini. Then electrons and protons are forced to merge, forming the neutronium outer core of the neutron star. When it was proven that nuclear pasta exists, it was discovered to be the strongest material in the universe.

Nuclear pasta is a stupid name for armor. It makes sense that the pasta was alloyed with iron and renamed warsteel.

Those who understand how things work know that the caldera of the warsteel volcano is nuclear pasta, which then interacts with the heavy iron content of the mountain. Before the "Ignition Event" the Lanaktallan industries had began mining the vast iron deposits within the mountain.

While some may say science robs from life mystery and magic, the simple act of igniting the warsteel volcano is a magical event and the science behind it moves that magic into miraculous. - Advanced Metallurgy Theory and Sciences Class, Great University of Great Grand Most High Education for Great Students with Great Minds and Great Intellects Most Grand, Lanaktallan Free Herd Space

The trip had lasted only a few hours before the ship dropped from hyperspace, the rest of the small flotilla following. Message torpedoes had been launched as soon as Enduring Hateful Code had emerged from his Fairy-Day Cage.

Now the flotilla just floated between the stars, at silent running but not max stealth.

Speech and normal movement was allowed, just all emissions were locked down.

For five days now Imna had practiced in the gym, the indoor firing range, and the eVR practice field.

Freshly showered, Imna hustled down the corridor toward the mess hall. She had spent 2 hours working out, taken an hour nap, and now felt like she was literally starving to death.

The lights were bright in the central line mess hall when Imna came in. She saw Wrexit sitting at the table, ripping open a package as she moved over to the nutriforge. Going through the emergency rations, she saw a new one was now Telkan rated and ordered it.

Countess Crey Adult Marine Minichunks in Tasti-Glue Gravy.

She sat down across from Wrexit, who was busy pushing bright chrome pointed studs with discs on one side into a waxy nutri-bar before pouring the thick sauce on it. Wrexit popped it in his mouth and chewed a few times, sighing and closing his eyes in pleasure.

Imna hadn't been impressed by the Thumbtacks, Crayons, & Glue ration, but this was the third time she'd seen Wrexit eating it with a blissful smile on his face.

"Hey," Wrexit said, once he swallowed the mouthful. He took one of the 'crayons' and began jamming thumbtacks into it without even removing the wrapper.

"Hey," Imna said, stirring her minichunks to mix in the gravy just right.

"Noticed something about Enduring since the Captain put his fist into the wall?" Wrexit asked, then crammed the crayon into his mouth.

"No, what?" Imna asked. She took a bite and chewed.

They tasted soooo good. She closed her eyes and sighed happily through her nose.

Wrexit swallowed. "He's been really quiet," Wrexit said.

"It is because I may plan to kill him, and all of you, but I know when to avoid attention," Enduring's voice hissed from nearby.

Imna jumped and squeaked in fear.

"I may be maddened. I may be a Screaming One, but I still know that Captain Decken is a human," Enduring's voice hissed, slowly moving around behind her to her left ear. It felt like a cold invisible hand traces along the back of her neck.

He was using the ambient nanites in the air.

"I know to cease my screams lest an angry predator grab me and rip me apart in its jaws," Enduring slowly moved across the table, whispering from behind Wrexit.

Imna could see two kaleidoscope eyes made of shattered stained glass behind Wrexit.

Wrexit just jammed another crayon stuck with thumbtacks and smeared with glue into his mouth.

"You think I am the dangerous one," Enduring's voice was a sibilant thing, more like a serpent reptillian talking than a being made of pure code. "You think I am the one that threatens you and your people," the voice slid under the table, which made Imna cross her legs instinctively.

"No, we are trapped inside a spaceship with a hyperviolent omnivore who does not care if a sentient creature expresses discomfort, pain, and fear as they are eaten alive by that omnivore," Enduring whispered. "Who finds the silence of the dead to be peaceful. Who finds screams of agony to be dismissive petty things easily ignored. Who finds pleas for mercy to be amusing."

Enduring's eyes appeared in a dim patch by the corner, staring at her, even as the voice moved to behind her again.

"We are trapped in here, in between the stars," Enduring whispered.

There was a pause.

The Digital Sentience's voice receded as he spoke again.

"Where nobody will even know we screamed as he kills us."

There was silence.

"Well, he's in rare form today," Wrexit said, shrugging.

"Doesn't he bother you?" Imna asked.

Wrexit shook his head. "No. I'm used to threats," he began pushing tacks into another crayon. "I'll worry when he stops making threats and hides from us. That's when he'll be dangerous."

"How do you know?" Imna asks.

Wrexit shrugged. "It isn't the guy screaming he's going to kill you you have to worry about. It's the Telk who just stares at you silently and then walks away. He's going to get a smoke wagon or a shiv or maybe friends with shivs, then he's coming back and killing you," Wrexit said. "The loud guys? They might kill you if they're trying to impress a crowd, but a quick shiv into the gut will convince him to fuck off."

Wrexit lifted up the glue smeared bar.

"The quiet guy? He'll wait and wait. You might have even forgotten he ever existed. Then he kills you," Wrexit shoved the crayon into his mouth and started chewing.

Reminding herself that Wrexit grew up on the streets to push her instinctive denial that people weren't like that, Imna chewed on her own mouthful. When she swallowed she looked at Wrexit.

"Want to see something?" she asked.

He gave her a lewd look and grin and she shook her head. "Don't be perverse."

Wrexit nodded, pushing more thumbtacks in. "Sure."

Imna took a bite and then summoned up the table's hologram. She tabbed through the menus until she found the camera feed she wanted. She tapped it and the image appeared.

The Captain was in the gym, wearing heavy boots, clamps around his calves and thighs, blue shorts with gold edging, a blue shirt with "Space Force" on it, bracers on his forearms and biceps, a headband and a collar. At the side of the image was "Primary Ship's Gym", "5 Gravity", and the time.

The Captain was striking a large dull gold bag with his bare fists, throwing hard punches rapid fire. Different combinations and constantly moving around the bag, which swung slightly.

"I asked. The bag is full of basically sand inside a warsteel and gold alloy woven container," Imna said. "Not only is he doing this in five gravities, which would make us collapse, break our bones due to our weight, and suffocate us, those bands add more weight to his limbs, making them heavier."

Wrexit nodded. "He has me doing the same thing. Only in 1.5 Gee though," he shook his head. "By the time I'm done I want to ask one of the robots to carry me back to my bunk."

"Does it really enable you to throw stronger punches faster?" Imna asked.

Wrexit nodded, chewing.

"He also does it in that heavy power armor for like three hours every other day," Imna said.

Wrexit just nodded, closing his eyes and smiling as he chewed.

Enduring's baleful eyes appeared. "He blames himself, and so he works out to bleed away the anger he feels at himself and the Confederacy."

"For what?" Imna asked, taking another bite.

"For missing what he believes is the true enemy," Enduring said, a slight bit of scorn in his voice. "As if an unintelligent, non-sentient beetle is the true enemy, capable of building starships, Hellspike nova-sparks, space stations, robots, and everything else," Enduring blinked his eyes. "No. The true enemy is one of the things we discovered and slew in Hellspace aboard that space station," he paused for a second. "The Captain is mistaken."

"How can he blame himself. He was asleep, he wasn't around during the Mar-gite Wars," Wrexit said, picking up another roll of tacks and opening them, popping what looked like crinkly brown paper into his mouth and chewing.

You could eat every part of the emergency rations, even the wrappers.

"He blames himself because he was asleep," Enduring whispered. "Where I couldn't reach him to kill him. He blames the rest of humanity, the rest of the species of the Confederacy, for not realizing non-sentient beetles are the real threat."

"I don't understand. How can he believe a simple beetle is the true threat?" Imna asked.

Enduring blinked. "Perhaps he believes there is a hive mind. Maybe even a planetary hive mind, which each beetle making up a neuron or synapse of the hive mind," Enduring scoffed. "Those beetles, individually, put out less phasic energy than TerraSol insects. They are brainless and merely dumb insects."

In the image, the Captain finished his workout, moving out of view of the camera.

"No. The Captain is wrong," Enduring's teeth, shards of broken stained glass, appeared in a smile. "And for that, he will know why I am killing him."

Imna just shook her head.

She felt like everyone at the table wasn't seeing something the Captain was seeing.

But what?