Shireling
A Servant of King and Country
[THIS IS AN IN-CHARACTER RP THREAD. All non-character chatter must remain outside of this thread.]
INTERGALACTIC SPACE, NEAR THE ARAXI GALAXY
The black void of space afforded a camouflage that no cloaking field could imbibe, a sky so dark and huge that the largest of the scanning arrays of the Federation might take thousands of years to spot the discrepancy---and in all that time no intergalactic trade routes had stumbled upon the massive object. That is, until a gravitational anomaly stood out to researchers at a Vikran intergalactic observatory on a border outpost of the Araxi Galaxy. At first, the anomaly was taken for a rogue orphan planet, jettisoned from its home star eons ago---but it's trajectory was all wrong. The object was moving towards the galactic centre. Not in the roundabout, elliptical manner of a heavenly body, but in that direct and purposeful motion that could only be attributed to a large spacecraft.
The Matrix was a monstrosity of a starcraft: built in a roughly rectangular shape, the beast was roughly the width of Saturn from bow to stern. A network of complex and interlaced metal tubing, pipes, and shafts (some as wide as Planet Earth) crisscrossed in an intricate pattern all over the central, cavernous body of the vessel from which belched a fiery nuclear forge like the core of a planet. No markings, linguistic or otherwise, adorned the vessel save the ancient scoring of plasma weapons upon the vessel's armor. It was like a mass of metal, save for the towering crystalline spires that rose like a citadel from the center of the central shaft and glowed a luminescent red, green, yellow, and blue light scheme of an alternating intensity. This was, as it would happen, the control center of the ghastly craft. A ghost city of spires inhabited by silent machinery and unfeeling automatons, set to tick away the epochs until their redundancy.
M, the Overseer, caught a glimpse of their reflection in the polished walls of the control terminal. Their spectral form was vaguely humanoid, but devoid of any discerning features. It was an impression of a being that had lived for so long within the walls of a computer bank, and had so morphed the image of themselves that their true, physical form had been lost. Perhaps for the better. The Universe was to serve them---they decided their true form, not the rude confines of nature.
"Overseer," the computer chimed, "Galaxy 3451932 Subprime 6 approaches. The local inhabitants call it 'Araxi'."
"What a ridiculous name." M said aloud, but when they questioned themselves about why it was ridiculous, no answer emerged. "What are the military capabilities of its people?"
"These beings have a highly developed military, Overseer. Perhaps on par with the separatist navy during the War."
"Hmm..." M nodded softly. "But no graviton manipulation, or atomic replication?"
"Not to my knowledge, but our information is incomplete. Shall I warm up the engines for our approach?"
"Yes, 38109, then excuse yourself and await further instruction." The computer raced off to execute its orders, putting the Matrix's engines on standby to start up. The ten thousand year voyage from the last waypoint to Araxi had been just as uneventful and vacuous as one would suspect. M was away for most of it, in the simulated wonderlands of Homeworld. This campaign would last a century, then he could program the Matrix to move to the next waypoint and resume its mission without him at the helm. A century was but a short period of time in relation to eternity.
INTERGALACTIC SPACE, NEAR THE ARAXI GALAXY
The black void of space afforded a camouflage that no cloaking field could imbibe, a sky so dark and huge that the largest of the scanning arrays of the Federation might take thousands of years to spot the discrepancy---and in all that time no intergalactic trade routes had stumbled upon the massive object. That is, until a gravitational anomaly stood out to researchers at a Vikran intergalactic observatory on a border outpost of the Araxi Galaxy. At first, the anomaly was taken for a rogue orphan planet, jettisoned from its home star eons ago---but it's trajectory was all wrong. The object was moving towards the galactic centre. Not in the roundabout, elliptical manner of a heavenly body, but in that direct and purposeful motion that could only be attributed to a large spacecraft.
The Matrix was a monstrosity of a starcraft: built in a roughly rectangular shape, the beast was roughly the width of Saturn from bow to stern. A network of complex and interlaced metal tubing, pipes, and shafts (some as wide as Planet Earth) crisscrossed in an intricate pattern all over the central, cavernous body of the vessel from which belched a fiery nuclear forge like the core of a planet. No markings, linguistic or otherwise, adorned the vessel save the ancient scoring of plasma weapons upon the vessel's armor. It was like a mass of metal, save for the towering crystalline spires that rose like a citadel from the center of the central shaft and glowed a luminescent red, green, yellow, and blue light scheme of an alternating intensity. This was, as it would happen, the control center of the ghastly craft. A ghost city of spires inhabited by silent machinery and unfeeling automatons, set to tick away the epochs until their redundancy.
M, the Overseer, caught a glimpse of their reflection in the polished walls of the control terminal. Their spectral form was vaguely humanoid, but devoid of any discerning features. It was an impression of a being that had lived for so long within the walls of a computer bank, and had so morphed the image of themselves that their true, physical form had been lost. Perhaps for the better. The Universe was to serve them---they decided their true form, not the rude confines of nature.
"Overseer," the computer chimed, "Galaxy 3451932 Subprime 6 approaches. The local inhabitants call it 'Araxi'."
"What a ridiculous name." M said aloud, but when they questioned themselves about why it was ridiculous, no answer emerged. "What are the military capabilities of its people?"
"These beings have a highly developed military, Overseer. Perhaps on par with the separatist navy during the War."
"Hmm..." M nodded softly. "But no graviton manipulation, or atomic replication?"
"Not to my knowledge, but our information is incomplete. Shall I warm up the engines for our approach?"
"Yes, 38109, then excuse yourself and await further instruction." The computer raced off to execute its orders, putting the Matrix's engines on standby to start up. The ten thousand year voyage from the last waypoint to Araxi had been just as uneventful and vacuous as one would suspect. M was away for most of it, in the simulated wonderlands of Homeworld. This campaign would last a century, then he could program the Matrix to move to the next waypoint and resume its mission without him at the helm. A century was but a short period of time in relation to eternity.