The Trespasser, and Justice.

[Koolmo]

The gunboat pilot hung, held by an intricate web of gravity-projectors, and more mundane chains. A dozen uniformed men gathered around, hands on hips or with arms folded. One smoked a long cigar, and puffed in appreciation of the sign in front of him. After a mere 24 hours, the Jupiter Guild pilot was but inches from death, and had spilled all that he knew in the process. The men gathered around him were members of Marine Intelligence, Coalition Intelligence, the feared Commisariat, and the secretive GRU. All of them had given a shot at the broken body in front of them, but the man who had enjoyed himself the most was three quarters of the way through what he called a 'Cuban'. Grand Admiral James McIntosh had had an excellent time battering the hulk of meat in front of them with both fists and other impliments, causing the most pain for the least lasting damage.

"Well gentlemen... go back to your various sections, and start finalizing those reports. We'll reconvene tommorow after the execution, and see what you think they're really up to. I suspect we all know the answer, but that's the price of running a war. Have a good night."

With a chorus of "Good Night Sir", and "Will do Sir", the men filed though the single door, and out into various portions of the Coalition Intelligence ship. McIntosh and another, smaller man were soon the last ones remaining.

"What do you think Kirk? Is it true? Are they trying to provoke us into open war with the Zoners? Or is this pilot cooked so full of lies we're getting nothing but trash?"

Coalition Admiral Tyler "Ty" Kirk, Admiral of the Combined Fleet, shrugged.

"I can't tell Sir. Either is possible, although the JG must be insane to provoke us. They know we're now discussing co-operating with the Corsairs against the Nomads, and so far we're the only ones who have evidence of the Outcast-Nomad collabaration. They also know the rest of the Zoner Council is dead against a war with the Coalition. Why, Commander Weise had a bleeding polite conversation with an Asgard Flagship a couple of days ago! I don't know what they want us to believe, or what's true, but either way, they're trying to mess with us. A Couple of Gold Squadron reported Jupiter Guild in '52 again, though they didn't catch the ship type or registry."

"Damn it! I hate it when other people are the ones messing with us! I want them bloody shadowed, followed, and generally made to feel unsafe. If they're not already begging for us to refrain from smashing them, they soon will be."

"Righto Sir, I'll get on it"

"Good. See you at the execution, about 5 hours I think."

As Kirk exited, the Grand Admiral strode closer to the hunk of meat suspended before him. He looked carefully over the injuries, noting the multitude of broken limbs, ravaged skin, and shredded tissue. The bones jutted through the man's legs, and his eyes were naught but empty, scorched holes in a mask of blood. Fluids of every sort dripped to the floor, and the breathing was punctuated with small wimpers and gasps of pain, although the victim was surely unconsious.

Several hours later, the holo-cams flicker on...

A man, battered and bloody, stands on a crude metal platform, raised above the crowd. In ranks, and perfectly still, hundreds of Coalition Pilots, Soldiers, and Crewmen stand, watching, and waiting. Hammer and Cog emblems, gold on red banners, adorn the walls of the massive room. Not a noise is heard.

From below the camera's view, a rustle spreads through the massed revolutionaries. From the bottom of he frame, a man marched, dressed in midnight black, escorted by a dozen suited marines. Tall, chiseled, and with an intensity of character visible even through the lens of the holo-cam, Grand Admiral McIntosh walks to the platform, and mounts it, along with a single marine. The reaminder hold at the steps, and adopt te same posture as their unsuited bretheren, with not a ruslte to betray that the suits hold men, and not machines.

With a flourish, McIntosh turns to the assembled troops.

"Comrades!" His voice echoes through the room. "This fool though to invadeour space, to steal our secrets, to undo everything we all have worked so hard to build! This piece of excrement sought to undo the work of the Revolution!"

With that, McIntosh strode to a lever protruding through a crude slot in the deck. As he reached it, the man on the platform sought to escape, to kick his was free of his bonds, to elude the noose wrapped about his neck...

With a maniacal grin, McIntosh snapped the handle back. With a short, pathetic scream, the man on the noose dropped, and twisted. The knot had been specially cut so that the Jupiter Guilder's neck would not break, instead, he twisted and spun, face turning purple as his desparate search for oxygen became more frantic. Slower and slower he twisted, more and more frantic his quest for air became. With a final twitch, he was gone.

From the massed ranks, applause grew, swelled, and boomed from the walls. The noise was incredible, the hatred on the revolutionaries' faces even more so. Louder still was the cry of McIntosh, just before the camera shut off.

"So die all enemies of the Coalition!"

---

<span style="color:#FFFF00">&quot;General Solo, is your strike team assembled?&quot;
&quot;Barely, they're pretty drunk.&quot; </span>
SCRA Recruiting--SCRA Feedback--SCRA Message Dump--SCRA Faction Status

I can picture in my mind a world without war, a world without hate. And I can picture us attacking that world, because they'd never expect it.