"Wormhole Command is taking their sweet time opening up this one", complained Anwar Bjornson to no one in particular. His post had its privileges, and isolation at will was one of them. He was the youngest Fleet Admiral that the Empire had ever had, and the fleet had already earned its reputation under him. He had never lost any battles, or wars for that matter. To his chagrin, he had come too late to the navy to take part in the most important war that the empire had been in, yet. The way it was looking, the battle against Adoraxas Ancients, or, Adoraxas Arbitrators, as they styled themselves now, would define the fate of the whole galaxy.
As of now, The Empire was in an alliance with the Cient K Star Coalition and Nithani Kidney-Sellers. 2 centuries ago, it had been an alliance of convenience , as the archives of shadow police described in detail. But the atrocities committed by the Waseji Remnant had changed that. His Great-Grandfather had been a cadet in the academy when the Waseji fleets had chosen three planet from each member of the alliance to 'humble the lowly fools'. 100 billion sentient life forms dead. 40 billion from The Empire, and yet they had gotten off better than their allies, as the historians in the Galactic Archive agreed unanimously. First Dawn's population had mostly been killed while they were sleeping, and apocalyptic bombardment from titans decimated all lifeforms within a day. Destroying the Empire's first colony had been meant to send a statement. But the Nithani had been faced with plague bombs, which killed off the entire planet in 7 days, with the whole thing documented by its residents. 'Remember us', most of them had pleaded as they died. 'Avenge us!', the planetary governor had said, unable to do anything as its existence was extinguished. There was a reason that even 150 years later the Nithani territories were filled with government sponspored holos, saying different words, but warning of only one thing. Never Forget.
The Star Coalition had suffered a much much worse fate. The Waseji had released their abominations on the unfortunate agricultural planet. Amlitzer's population had been divided between farmers and the ultra rich of the coalition. The abominations, curtly named 'Xenomorphs' by the alliance scientists, had wreaked havoc on the planet for one year. The damned Waseji had blockaded the sector, and in any case, there were no fleets at the time that could hope to breach the blockade. The entire populace had been killed slowly, and the massacre had been forcefully broadcasted on every coalition frequency for the entire year. Satisfied with their education of the ignorant 'upstarts', the Waseji had retreated back to their territory.
That had been a costly mistake, and the last one they had ever made. The Alliance had gone on a war footing, and 20 years later, the greatest fleet the galaxy had ever seen had been born. Even the peace loving Nithani had decided that there was a need for war. Their technical superiority had borne fruit, and the signal supressors had made sure the glorious Ancients had never seen them coming. The losses had been harsh, but bearable.
The Empire and the Nithani had avenged their planets quickly, as the outer world were decimated with orbital bombardment. No sentient beings of higher order had been left alive. The Star Coalition had other plans. Their grudge had been nurtured and fed, and now it was time to finally act on it. They had traded the massive Ring World to the Empire in return for the two ravaged outer planets of the Waseji, and every member of their species on the Ring World. A 100 billion Waseji had been transported like livestock to each planet, and at great expense, every planet had built a coliseum. And everyday, one gene warrior and one Waseji noble had been set against the very Xenomorphs that had ravaged Amlitzer. The sheer brutality of the event had been astounding, but few could say that it didn't feel like Poetic Justice. The Emperor's father, like his son, frowned on pointless waste. Waseji scientists had been acquired, their knowledge extracted and the what was left of them had been sent to work the mines with the droids.
The galaxy it seems, hadn't quite learned not to fuck with the alliance. As the wormhole opened, Admiral Anwar relished the idea of being in command of the Fleet that would bring an end to the old fools. Fate, his fleet had been named. 'Deathless' was what it was called by those who were in it. Every fight they went into, they were outnumbered. Outgunned sometimes too. But the fleet was made of only destroyers and corvettes. And one dreadnought. The only dreadnought in the galaxy, his flagship Doombringer. Though larger than a cruiser, it's evasive capabilities exceeded those of a destroyer, which is why it even had a place on this fleet. And their job was to stop the enemy from escaping the fleet Destiny.
War. War and glory awaited him on the other side of the wormhole. He walked to fleet command, and gave the order. "All ships proceed. Staggered formation." This would be a glorious year.
"Overwhelming Fleet power detected. Exact figures impossible", the ship AI warned him. Destiny's ship AIs had also warned them of a superior fleet. With 3 fleets following after them, Anwar was confident that they would have victory. They just had to stop Adoraxas from escaping. Going alone against overwhelming numbers and firepower. Just how he liked it.
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© Post "A dramatisation of the ending of my first playthrough with friends. For the approval of my fellow redditors" for game Stellaris.
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