• Welcome to the new COTI server. We've moved the Citizens to a new server. Please let us know in the COTI Website issue forum if you find any problems.
  • We, the systems administration staff, apologize for this unexpected outage of the boards. We have resolved the root cause of the problem and there should be no further disruptions.

Space Monsters

Here's another :D


Flight captain George Ebersole marched down the corridor of the depot on Gamma-Stignis Five, a remote Jovian satellite that served as a base at the outer rimward portion of Norris'es Marches. He'd been in command of small escort carriers, scout flotillas, a variety of squadrons, usually in a Comet or Banshee class long range attack craft (an effective design hailing from the Terran Design Bureau that had been exported happily to the Imperium), and even a squadron of patrol cruisers, but rarely had he ever had to administer justice beyond a few sessions of captain's mast, and certainly not investigate reports of a colony decimated by a society wide psychosis. He'd rather be intercepting a pirate strapped in his Banshee, which ironically enough was a superior design to the Rampart, the so-dubbed "flying bullet", but no one but Duke Norris were willing to take a chance on it. A chance that paid off and saw Ebersole rise in the ranks of the border defense squadrons as the attack craft, and her predecessor, the comet, proved to dominate high-performance records.

But this was different. He wasn't intercepting pirates or Vargr corsairs, but now had to listen to some "fat slob" as his friend and squadron mates put it. Ebersole was the local ranking officer, and as such was called to interview a man from a colony that had only been tacitly approved by the IISS some years before. A colony comprised of zealots, in Ebersole's opinion, that had built a massive space station in addition to their farms and churches on the planet surface, with the intent that they would import new converts in an attempt to give them a place to start anew. The converts in question being mostly ex-convicts. They had now populated the station and filled it with the worst crime ridden orbiting metropolis that Norris had quarantined it.

For years no one had heard from them. A variety of species had moved there and populated the place. For all of its problems, because of Norris's actions, they were out of sight, and out of mind--until now.

Flanked by several marines and assistants, Ebersole lead the team down the corridor to one of the many interrogation rooms, usually reserved for debriefings of all sorts. This time it held one man. Around six feet tall, a pudgy face, portly body, blue eyes, cross cropped curly hair, glasses, goatee, black t-shirt and shorts, with thongs on his feet with scars and tattered on his body as well as torn clothes. He looked like he'd seen better days.

Introductions were made and Ebersole listened to the man's story. It was one tinged with ceremony of founding a new colony, greeting converts and giving them tasks, problems with tempers and petty crime, then something else happened. Something inexplicable--above and beyond the normal antics one might suspect of a penal colony. Terror. Horrible terror striking several hamlets. Entire villages being wiped out. Men and woman running around insane.

Ebersole listened intently, but didn't believe most of what the man was telling him. A colony run amuck by some invisible power that was foretold in some religious text. A battle of good and evil, and it had finally come. Ebersole listened and kept his professionalism about him, no matter preposterous the tale.

"It happened!" the man yelled.

"And how did you escape?" Ebersole queried.

"I don't know. I found a scout ship. An old type-S. The pilot was still there. Said he was passing through, and couldn't find anyone manning the downport facility. It's rated type-E, but we usually have a few fuel bins and a maintence shed with donated tools from the colonists. Anybody's welcome to use the place. But by that time most everyone was dead or raving mad!"

Ebersole looked at him with a knitted brow. "This pilot, he agreed to take you off planet?"

The man nodded, "I had to give him all my cash, but he took it without any questions."

Ebersole found it ironic that this was the exact same kind of thing that a criminal would use to get anywhere, and this man, this devout individual, resorted to basic survival skills of paying for service to get out of a bad situation.

"And what did you see as you left the world." Ebersole asked.

"Hell. It was pure hell. I can't explain it any other way...I saw a face in the sky as we lifted off. A dog. It had this grin, like it was going to swipe at the ship, but it never did."

"Did you think it wanted you to leave?"

"I don't know. Maybe. It didn't want us there, or it was sadistic. Like it wanted to toy with us. It was pure evil!"

The man ranted for a few minutes. Ebersole asked a few more questions, then thanked the man before leaving the room.

Flanked by his guards and assistants Ebersole put the question to everyone, "Has he bee evaluated by a doctor?"

There was an affirmative. He had been, and was listed to be suffering from several disorders. Had the same thing happened to the colony?

"Captain, we got the scout ship's logs. We can have a look at them any time you're ready."

Ebersole nodded, "Let's have a look."

A dozen men, Ebersole, two of his pilots, a few marines, a couple of doctors and others interested in the case loaded up the logs and watched them for a half hour until they saw the unimaginable. A three-headed dog that would dwarf skyscrapers, one of its heads snarling at the type-S as it lifted off and headed for orbit.

P.S. I stole this one from Stewart Cowley's "Great Space Battles" as an example where you can get inspiration for your gaming sessions.

*I think I got a few more in me. More Space Monster goodness to come! :D*
 
Last edited:
I'm on a roll ;)


Captain Samuel Samaha greeted passengers embarking on the massive Altair shipyards behemoth White-Star liner with a professional smile and guarded handshake meant for the upper crust of society that usually booked passage on only the finest ships to take them to the finest destinations. Minor nobility, mostly, with the odd cousin of a duke and occasional self proclaimed princess stepping with purpose and the occasional armed entourage.

"How do you do, and welcome aboard." Sam said with a smile. Again putting his best smile forward. Nothing too enthusiastic, nothing too daring, every bit the reserve that the exceedingly wealthy and overly polite expected.

All the more his shock and delight when a familiar face came prancing up the deck. The two men ddn't recognize one another at first, but then stared, mouths agape, with smiles creeping up on their edges.

"Sam?"

"Scott?"

"Sam!"

"Scott!"

Things broke down in terms of decorum as both men embraced one another. The fifth frontier war was years ago. Heady days of gallivanting around the Spinward Marches with Jeff, Mike, the two Marcs and others coursed through one another's blood. Facing armies of Vargr mercenaries, fighting through blockades of Zhodani cruisers; squaring off against Aslan mercenaries bent on occupying Imperial lands, escaping the crushing atmospheric depths in a dilapidated ship held together by bailing wire and duct tape. They had shared life and near death.

"Look at you! In command of this tub?"

But Sam couldn't answer just yet, "What're you doing here? It's good to see you!"

"I won first class passage to Ghibli.

"Ghibli?! It costs an arm and a leg just to use the head there!"

Sam's crew were shocked and stared at his change in demeanor and language. Prestine white uniforms with gold bars amidst an opulent foyer with ornate carved wood and brass trim glass elevators, the scene was in direct contrast to the normal reserve adhered to during normal operations.

"Scott, I got to get back to work! But go to your stateroom, unpack, then tell one of the stewards that you're dining with me after we enter jump."

"Okay, I'll talk to you later then!"

Captain Samaha suddenly enthusiastically shook every hand and greeted everyone with his smile of old, much to the chagrin of his well healed crew.

"Uh, sir? Perhaps more comport?"

But the words fell on deaf ears.

The following week was a miracle of catching up on old times. Sam still did his job, and regained some of his stuffy act for the ultra privileged, and even though he was a man of means, command and authority, particularly a behemoth like the White Star, a ship that dwarfed most naval vessels, he was still Sam, and Scott was still Scott.

Sam, after all the years of being trained to cater to the mega-rich, felt his swagger return. He was more authoritative but more familiar and caring, like in the days of old. More of a leader than a faux naval officer meant to impress the clientele with a facade of ultra-discipline.

His crew even questioned his inviting Scott to the captain's table every night during jump. "What, you got a problem with my friend?!" Sam retorted. "During the siege of Efate he and I ran weapons and supplies between cities and holdout to Imperial Army units under fire! You ever down a Vargr corsair with a fusion man portable? Well he did! And I was there to help! Show a little goddamn respect! Without him and me you'd be having your goddamn mind scanned by the Zho-nobility! You want that?!"

Sam was a different man. A better one. Perhaps more rough. Less refined, but one capable of delegating authority verse remaining stiff and wooden for the nobles who paid top credit to ride an overpriced and over-sized luxury vessel.

Exiting jump was uneventful. But coming into orbit was a different story.

Like many a captain, Sam's words were not earth shattering; "What the hell?"

Another vessel, one of similar size and pedigree was in the grips of something. Some thing coiled around its superstructure. A definite Signal-GK came over the com system. Samaha's face hardened.

"Gimme the phone."

His exec handed him the small receiver. Sam's words were no surprise to anyone, "Would Passenger Scott Heath Brody report to the bridge at once. This is an emergency. All hands, prepare for emergency procedures. Once again, passenger Scott Heath Brody report to the bridge, this is an emergency."

One of the pursers looked at Captain Samaha, "Sir?"

Sam was decisive; "Plot an intercept course, and get someone on the defense turret!"

The navigator looked at him ashen white, "Plot an intercept course?"

Captain Samaha; "Right now, mister!"

The ship's communication's officer stared at Sam for a full three seconds before speaking, "But, captain, no one's qualified on the ship's gun. I don't think anyone's ever fired it!"

"There's a first time for everything." Sam replied.

Just then Scott burst through the door, "What's up? What's wrong?!"

"What do you think of that?" Sam gestured with a nod of his head at the scene before them.

"Where's the ship's turret?"

"The weapon's chair is topside. You got two turrets and one forward missile battery."

"That's it?"

"We're a liner, Scott, not a destroyer or patrol cruiser."

"Captain!" it was the entertainment coordinator, "What are you doing?!"

"Engaging the enemy, mister. Shut up and sit down, or go aft and tell the passengers to suit up, because we're going in."....
 
In honor of Tokyo's urban renewal plans as envisioned by 50 years of kaiju movies... :smirk:


Brigadier General Michael P. Cancilla stared at the thing with his mouth agape. Pressed out of retirement to deal with something out of a bad b-movie, the Imperial Army officer widened his eyes and watched as the thing bellowed out a deafening roar and swiped a row of small office buildings with its massive scale clad tail. If it weren't real it'd be part of a bad joke. A real bad joke.

Tall, bipedal, reptillian, was that fire it was breathing?

"Artillery's in position, general. Grav tanks reporting ready. Shall we open fire?"

Mike was tempted to blurt out a "Huh?!" but begged off, instead holding his professional soldier demeanor as much as he could. "Have our armor move in as close as they dare. Make sure they're careful where they fire. We don't want to add to the damage."

"General, fleet captain Cronin reports a detachment of type-Ts closing in our position to assist with the assault."

Mike nodded, "Have them make a single strafing run, then let our armor have a crack at the thing."

"Artillery sir?"

"All guns, fire at your discretion."

"Yes sir."

Elsewhere the air erupted with the thundering boom of traditional percussion weapons, accompanied by the more contemporary EM cannons and energy support weapons that needed line of sight to be effective.

Again, it was like a bad b-film as the creature rampaged through the financial district, tearing into sky scrapers, shattering glass, crushing vehicles, and scattering what few stragglers there were.

Near the fire zone retired Major David James Baker, medic in the marines and scouts, a former IISS free agent and mercenary, heard the familiar howl of incoming shells. Instinctively he ran for the nearest street gutter and and hugged the concrete curb as the monster raged mere dozens of meters away.

Trying to apply his hard earned medical skills he learned as a field surgeon, the monster, where it come from, had tasked him heavily. Dead bodies were mixed in with the dying, and Baker did all he could to sort the wheat from the chaff, and give those with a fighting chance the best treatment he could under the circumstances.

Lo and behold the shells did not crash down on the ground destroying vehicles and lives as he had witnessed so many times in years past when he adventured with the likes of Cronin, Ebersole, Samaha and the rest. This time the shells found their mark in the huge beast which roared in defiance. Dozens and dozens of detonations spotted the creatures carcass, but they only seemed to make it angrier.

Baker got up, grabbed a little boy and girl from a car that was half crushed, their parents dead in the front seat. Both children, old enough to talk, but too young to understand, cried out of fear and misery of the situation. Baker struggled to find a working vehicle, all the while hearing the cries of the people had helped moments before. If only he had a bus...

Fleet Captain Jeffery Robert Cronin had rejoined the Scout Service, thinking his talents better servied in a dual role of exploration and defense of Norrises portion of the Imperium. So it was that he stood on the bridge of the lead type-T leading a flight of six patrol cruisers in a diamond formation.

Cronin himself couldn't believe the reports, and figured it was a training exercise, but wondered why he was given green lights to remove the safety on his weapons. He remembered an incident with a purple and pink goo that erupted on a world in the Marches some years back, the cause of some Ancient experiment gone haywire, and he wondered if maybe this wasn't a practice run against a possible event of a similar kind.

But the facts would soon speak for themselves.

As the six type-Ts streaked through the ionosphere and screamed into the lower atmosphere at multiple mach, he hit the data feed and and fed the fire control imagery to the captain's tactical display, a flat screen situated in front of the captain's chair.

There it was. A real honest to goodness bigger than life monster. Cronin hit the com button. "General, this is saber flight, you're kidding. That's a real target, right?!"

"It's real, Jeff. Kill it!"

Within moments LASERs and missiles speared the creature. It roared once more in defiance, and spat a lethal flaming ray at one of the type-T's sending it spiraling out of control and crashing into a city sky scraper. The chaos was immense....
 
Last edited:
Just tell me when you're sick and tired of these :devil:

Getting back to basics; there's variations on themes of space critters--large and small alike. It seems like a lot of the space-beasties I've read about in sci-fi novels or seen on TV or movies tend to be large in scale and size. And also destructive, but I guess that goes without saying.

The one time I did see non-destructive space-critters was in an episode of ST;-Voyager, where there were a couple of creates that were like space-whales or space--cows or something. But, beyond that, I don't remember much...I think I flipped the channel as there were not shots fired in anger :smirk:

Space "here be dragons" kind of thingys, I think, tend to be on the traditional wild and destructive side. Otherwise what fun are they? :D

Behold;


Master Sergeant Marc Grendel walked down the main causeway of the destroyer escort Bright Tommy. Technically he was the ship's master as he owned the thing via salvage rights, and, being part of a mercenary unit under contract, was allowed to refit and rearm her, as opposed to operating her as an overpriced and ill-equipped private liner or transport. The Gazelle Class escort was a warship, it was that simple, and Marc's line of work had him ordering men and lugging the gyroscopic-ally mounted M1601A when out on the field. His men respected him for it, but also for his general demeanor. He was a big man. Muscular. Able to heft the weapon without too much effort, and don a full suit of combat armor (not the sissy battledress stuff other marines wore), and live to tell about it.

But it was more than that. He was an honest and gregarious man, in spite of being a big NCO with more stripes on his shoulder than anyone had ever seen on any NCO in any service. Grendel was a leader through and through, and also a caring man, which seemed to go in direct opposition to his position. But not all sergeants were overbearing, over-ego, maniacal and delusional jerks. Most of them were just men.

His long time friend Mark Cancilla, was at the controls sitting next to a former scout, and son of a megacorporation CEO by the name of Scott Mottern. An older man who was army all the way, and an officer. Marc could tell, but didn't mind. Scott may have been more intellectual than the rest of the grunts on board, but everyone liked him.
'
The Bright Tommy careened through the upper portions of a Jovian atmosphere. The planets massive girth had more naturally occurring fuel than could be used in a lifetime by all of the Imperium's ships and that of neighbors. Nature, even in interstellar space, was truly vast, wild, untamed, and beautiful. The multicolored clouds streaming past the canopy were a mere fraction of what was visible. A layer and cavity between boundary layers was more massive than a thousand standard size worlds combined. How could that be, and yet a single man take it all in as if it was nothing? Marc wondered as he stepped onto the bridge watched the incredible visage unfold before him.

He was on his way back to Earth. Having had his share of adventure with the likes of Ebersole, Cancilla, Brody and Samaha, he longed to reconnect with a special woman, settle down, and share his good fortune with her. Mark, the General's younger brother, had the same yearnings, and had decided to accompany his good friend on the two year long voyage back to the homeworld.

Scott Mottern, whose real first name was Chris, just like his father, but wanted to distinguish himself, had trained as a business man and pilot afterwards. His missed Earth--Terra, but not the political climate. It was the whole reason he left to follow Ebersole to the stars in the first place. But, maybe things were better now, though he had his doubts.

"Get ready to open scoops." Scott said, his usual pilot's professional tone kicking in; a nuanced disimpassioned cadence that had the edge of optimism without being overly avuncular. It was known as maintaining an even strain. The kind of tone anyone heard when they eased dropped in on pilots chatting amongst themselves.

"Opening ports." Mark replied.

The destroyer escort took on the gas giants amonia atmosphere, crammed and liquified it via a small processor similar to a purification plant, but much smaller and not as complex, before delivering it to her main fuel tanks.

Marc Grendel watched from the rear of the bridge, and took in the scenery. No Zhodani cruisers, no Vargr pirates, no privateers on either side looking for an easy kill by preying on his ship. Just open space, unpatrolled maybe, but safe in the heart of the Imperium.

He smiled, and recalled the battles he'd fought under Ebersole's direction, and the close calls. Holding onto a battlecruiser's hull as it ascended through clouds towards orbit, or being caught in the barrel of a planetary defense battery as it fired, or the high speed chases through downtown Regina, Efate, Minorb and many other places where his name and that of his mercenary group became paraiahs.

There were no armies of Vargr shock troops here. No Aslan soldiers-for-hire willing to die for a few thousand credits and the honor of helping settle a new land, no mischevious Droyne in alternate space trying to enslave his troops, no firefights on far off distant worlds for causes he knew little about, other than he was there because the Imperium or some paying client demanded he be there, weapon in hand.

Peace at last.

That's when the hull vibrated.

"Our speed's dropping." Mark Cancilla blurted.

"Go full thrust." Scott replied, thinking that if they were to suffer engine failure at this low altitude, then buying time was a must.

"Are we on grav drive or wings?" Cancilla asked.

"'Ship doesn't have wings. It's all grav." Scott replied as he tried to tap more power from the plant in engineering. "I'm not showing any power failure. The engines are kicking out thrust, no sign of malfunction, then why are we..."

That's when the first of the creatures speared across their view.

"What was that?" Cancilla blurted out.

Then another. And another. Then more, and another yet. Then even more and more. Each one like the last, but of a different size. An X-like cross sectional profile with wings and small sharp sighted eyes at their noses. They battered the vessel. Rocked it. Forced it to move this way and that, diving at it, spearing her, trying to find a weakness in this new source of food.

"What now." was all Marc Grendel could think.

"Jesus! They're latching onto the engineering spaces!"

Both Scott and Cancilla looked at Marc who was already on the move. He donned his light combat armor, strapped on his LMG via a harness, had his men help him into the top hatch, then sealed the lower hatch to act as a makeshift topside air lock.

He climbed the last few runs, then threw the switch. Blue sky above streaked with lots of other colors billowing in the distance, Grendel felt the air trying to yank him out of the ship, but his size and weight kept him firmly in the gangway. He brought his weapon above the top of the hull, saw his targets, several creatures the size of vehicles trying to spear and gnaw their way into the ship's bulkhead, and pulled the trigger.

The rapid pulses were deafening in the predominant ammonia atmosphere...

P.S. a small tribute to Sagan's Jovian hunters, with a little bit of "Aliens" tossed in there as well.
 
Sorry for posting so many. Those were some tributes I felt I had to pay, and to show how traditional sci-fi themes can be fit into contemporary sci-fi settings.

New topic!
 
You must log in or register to reply here.

Similar threads

RossWinn
General Traveller: The Lost Prince
Replies
2
Views
469
RossWinn
RossWinn
S
A better subsidized merchant
5 6 7
Replies
131
Views
3K
spank
S
T
French Version of Mongoose Traveller update 2022
Replies
0
Views
830
Tauther
T
M
Vargr society and sex
Replies
0
Views
333
MontyLovering
M
Black Vulmea
2025 31 Day Character Creation Challenge: Beltstrike encounter table
2
Replies
33
Views
4K
coliver988
coliver988
Back
Top