SysNES 1: A Murky Pool of Light
- Thread starter Disenfrancised
- Start date
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
Riiight. I should have phrased that to say 'can an interceptor protect an entire fleet from missile attacks or an individual ship,' but I get it.
The new speed rules are good, as long as you update the front page with the new mechanics; it continues to be a pain to search across the entire thread for relevant data.
The new speed rules are good, as long as you update the front page with the new mechanics; it continues to be a pain to search across the entire thread for relevant data.
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
Yeah I saw that, but it was seperate from your better formatted ship movement orders later on, I had no clue which ships you wanted, and as has been pointed out, it wasn't a valid action.
Thus I left your ships out of the line of fire.
Missed your armies, I'll amend that.
But it builds character!
alex994
Hail Divine Emperor!
OOC: I agree. As I searched the last 10 updates for the rules on the Trading Center, the Space Elevator and the other Space thingy, I came to realize how much character building had just occurred.
In other words, I'll just like to politely remind you about my missing divisions from the map (no hurry) and the shipyard over Horn III (unless I wasn't able to build that and if that's the case, I want my 15e back)
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
Do you guys not know how to use the search function? Search this thread->Advanced Search->Keywords=Whatever, User name=Disenfrancised.
@alex, yes yes you have that shipyard.
In other news I have stuff on pretty much up until the deadline, so further questions aren't going to get answered. Cheerio!
@alex, yes yes you have that shipyard.
In other news I have stuff on pretty much up until the deadline, so further questions aren't going to get answered. Cheerio!
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
Working on a story now to placate the wrath of mod. I'm going to assume that we can modify the gravity constant directly for storywriting purposes, because constructing everything like a torus or mass accelerator is annoying.
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
Nope, the only gravity control is with large amounts of mass - altering the gravitational constant would be the hugest of deals!
The pirates are pretty okay with microgravity anyway.
The pirates are pretty okay with microgravity anyway.
Shadowbound
Incorrugible
- Joined
- Mar 4, 2007
- Messages
- 4,078
For the record, all my ships incorporate toruses.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
Well, might as well queue up a few more questions for when you get back, dis.
1. For trade routes, what's the maximum amount of e that can be shared across systems? The cargo capacity of the trade route vessels, or what? Also, does trade route e sharing take a turn or can it be spent immediately? And what does 'a low efficiency' translate to quantitatively? Also, wouldn't a trade route remove the necessity for a metals mine in system to build ships?
2. Now that speed actually matters, are you still going to give the entire fleet the speed of the slowest ship? If I have a fleet composed of pulse drive ships and ion drive ships about to engage, can I order the slow ships to detach from the fleet to avoid tanking the speed bonus?
Thanks in advance.
1. For trade routes, what's the maximum amount of e that can be shared across systems? The cargo capacity of the trade route vessels, or what? Also, does trade route e sharing take a turn or can it be spent immediately? And what does 'a low efficiency' translate to quantitatively? Also, wouldn't a trade route remove the necessity for a metals mine in system to build ships?
2. Now that speed actually matters, are you still going to give the entire fleet the speed of the slowest ship? If I have a fleet composed of pulse drive ships and ion drive ships about to engage, can I order the slow ships to detach from the fleet to avoid tanking the speed bonus?
Thanks in advance.
Actual s is a combination of Net s and RC s. All updated to turn 21.
Gardeners - 2164 s
Vazan - 1844 s
Ik - 1617 s
Kations - 1480 s
Lantians - 1333 s
Akresians - 799 s
Esani - 770 s
Soulon - 641 s
The 'Al - 406 s
Liberes - 253 s
TOTAL - 11307 s
Kations - 2368 e
Vazan - 1973 e
Soulon - 1955 e
Esani - 1620 e
Lantians - 1400 e
Ik - 1278 e
Gardeners - 907 e
Akresians - 609 e
Kausian Wars - ~600 e
The 'Al - 529 e
Liberes - 266 e
TOTAL - 12905 e
I'm open to suggestions on how to do total divisions, warship tonnage, and civilian ship tonnage graphs as Dis said, but without having to do pre/post combat phase inputs for each turn to represent the fact that there's been a few occurrences of divisions/ships being destroyed the same turn they were built.
Spoiler Population :
Spoiler Gross S :
Spoiler Actual S :
Gardeners - 2164 s
Vazan - 1844 s
Ik - 1617 s
Kations - 1480 s
Lantians - 1333 s
Akresians - 799 s
Esani - 770 s
Soulon - 641 s
The 'Al - 406 s
Liberes - 253 s
TOTAL - 11307 s
Spoiler E :
Kations - 2368 e
Vazan - 1973 e
Soulon - 1955 e
Esani - 1620 e
Lantians - 1400 e
Ik - 1278 e
Gardeners - 907 e
Akresians - 609 e
Kausian Wars - ~600 e
The 'Al - 529 e
Liberes - 266 e
TOTAL - 12905 e
I'm open to suggestions on how to do total divisions, warship tonnage, and civilian ship tonnage graphs as Dis said, but without having to do pre/post combat phase inputs for each turn to represent the fact that there's been a few occurrences of divisions/ships being destroyed the same turn they were built.
Kentharu
Zebra Commander
Seon, am I to assume your lack of an answer to my PM is no answer at all?
From The Republic of Ik
To Pirate dudes
No.
From The Republic of Ik
To Pirate dudes
No.
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
Okay I have 6/9 orders, waiting on Seon, Kal and Mil.
Due to changes in my workload and the busy time of summer update will be much less frequent than the earlier ehctic pace (also more is going on in the NES), I'm aiming for under a fortnight between them however.
Due to changes in my workload and the busy time of summer update will be much less frequent than the earlier ehctic pace (also more is going on in the NES), I'm aiming for under a fortnight between them however.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
" ‘The greater the power of an empire, the greater the likelihood it will be consumed from within, than from without.’ That is the classic explanation. But in truth, the deaths of empires can be traced to charismatics, who in their wanton destruction of the previous imperial paradigm, cause empires to thrust daggers into their own breasts."
-Jean-Claude Remier, c. Late Solar Federation
“He was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad."
-Rafael Sabatini, Scaramouche
---
The hiss of white noise gradually broke up the transmission. Three of the four techs looked up from the apparatus. "Relay that data to Highpoint, Remy," the senior one said, gesturing to the com-link. The fourth tech was still looking at various screens, lost in the readouts. "Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer..." he muttered. The other three looked at each other, rolling their eyes and making various 'you know he's crazy' gestures while they shut down the equipment. The fourth tech jumped a little when they cut the power, his screens all going black at once. "Alright Melk, that's it. Dusk [1] is in two, you want to hit the tavern with us?"
The tech, one Melchior, blinked a few times. "No...no. Did you notice that the cosmic background electromagnetism is completely absent from the transmission area when we receive and send Ansibyl messages?" They all stared at him blankly. Finally, Remy said, "Yeah...that's great Melk. You let us know if you can harvest any data from Terebellum, ok?" "Sure...sure." They all tramped out of the telescoping post, dreadlocks flying in the low G, already engaging in the usual smack-talk about Remy’s latest love interests.
The typical nightly carousing of the Liberes had been curtailed a bit with so many new crops of proto-clans being raised to maturity by the mentor groups, who were now themselves starting to impregnate and feud with each other under the watchful eye of the Royal Genetics Monitor, and all this had of course cut down on food supplies for now. The weapons ranges and sim hubs were packed like nobody’s business, and it seemed like the Isles were finally starting to fill to capacity. Melchior liked the days when there weren’t so many people scrambling around like rats, packed in the corridors and causeways. It was better here, him and his screens. But he had to leave now, go back to Clan Electric Weasel’s den, and throw his mind into the latest mathematics problems sent down from Above.
Even in a loosely regulated, libertarian kleptocratic autocracy like that of the Liberes, there were certain things that needed to be managed in a city floating in airless vacuum. Radiation exposure needed to be prevented, construction and currency standards had to be enforced, clans had to be cajoled and threatened to support His Most Devious Majesty’s plans with their labor and materials, since TAXES were a barbaric rockball custom [2] of course, and new implements with which to kill others and not be killed BY them had to be developed. They also had to do other stupid tasks like communication and research, I suppose. It was this implementation where Clan Electric Weasel, among others, came in. Tech specialists, the clan was composed mostly of weapons mechanics with a side of pure theoreticians, (who most people thought were just babies that got the wrong drug cocktail in the womb,) and these poor souls were squeezed for all their cerebral cortices were worth.
Not to mention, the ‘university’ was not exactly a university as such, more of a networked command center where His Dread Majesty’s lieutenants posted the things he needed done, and the tech clans pooled their resources to produce the ideas or prototypes or whatever was asked for, sometimes in cooperation with other clans. It was not the most nurturing environment for a mind such as Melchior's. Still, he worked as hard as he could, and the complimentary access to the data nets was a godsend for someone like him. It was easy to drift off in the flow of information for hours at a time, losing oneself in the data...if only he could be a cyborg or an 'Al and link directly with the collective knowledge base. How glorious that would be...
Melchior felt a tap on his shoulder. What? He was in a causeway. He blinked, surprised; apparently he had walked [3] this entire way lost in thought. Non-familiar faces on all sides, a few women with those shiny braids, walking in that way that always caught his attention...and everyone making space around him, as if he was some sort of pariah. This was strange...usually people just jostled or shoved him if he was holding up the foot traffic. Someone said they were going to install magnetic railcars in the main ring next year, that would be helpful. But the continued tapping on his shoulder cut through these thoughts, and so he finally turned around.
Standing in front of him was a tall, thin man dressed immaculately in a slashed doublet of black and some purple-red color, perhaps burgundy or amaranth. A representative of Apollinaire IV, wearing his colors, and clearly the reason why the passerby gave them a wide berth. He smiled, handed Melchior a letter (how archaic!) and turned silently to walk away. That was certainly strange. Everyone heard stories about the Lord of Avarice, how he was a genius, a madman, a demigod, a demon, a savant, a brute. But in truth, the Emperor of the Liberes was relatively unknown outside of his inner circle, the First Captains, and the occasional hilarious speech ridiculing this year's preferred target.
He was summoned, apparently. It vaguely occurred to him that he might die. Oh well. The Imperial Palace was a large, conical structure composed of impressive rooms, a command bunker, and observation decks, much of it sustained roughly at 1g via centrifugal force. Most of the nice parts of the old worldship had been incorporated into the design in one way or another. Because it was the 'highest' point in the station, 'down' being the direction of Avarice's gravity well, Apollinaire's complex was colloquially called Highpoint.
The abrupt increase in gravity made him cough, and wipe his eyes. That was always weird when it happened. Silent men wearing the same livery as the messenger escorted him into a dining chamber. There was a frieze of something, looked like the famous battle at Tannhauser Gate. Melchior reflected on how strange it was that people would use perfectly good minerals to create a representational image that could be created far easier on a display. Still, he had never seen physical art before. It was interesting in its' way.
"You like it?" a silky smooth voice said. Holy hell...the Emperor of the bloody Pirates was sitting at the other side of the table. "The Nova Cappadoci commissioned it to celebrate their greatest victory." He made a look of faint disdain. "Before the Iskandrians wiped them out. When we dropped into Zemlya, we took it for our own."
Melchior stared at the floor. Shiny tiles. "I...ah, is it, very true to life?"
Apollinaire stood. "Oh yes. You see that ship, the fusion core going nova, right there? Yes, that was my mother's. They really captured it perfectly." He paused, looking thoughtful. "Though of course, the explosion was more spectacular in real life. You could almost hear the screams." He grinned, showing far too many teeth, and the look in his eyes was murderous. "But enough family history. I'm ravenous."
The food was...royal, to say the least. Highpoint had an impressive collection of edible organisms, even in these times. The fruits de mer were followed by a roast fowl with truffles, and so on. Apollinaire filled the dinner with pleasant chatter, only occasionally prompting Melchior for some sort of response. Every few minutes an aide came in with a request or some information, and the Emperor would make a few taps at a screen with a stylus, or speak soft instructions, before returning his attention to his bewildered guest. Finally, after the traditional profiteroles, Apollinaire stood. "Ah, these old bones. Even with the drugs they can only keep me so young. I'd like you to look at something."
The Emperor took Melchior to the summit of Highpoint, a private observation deck, lavishly appointed in zero G. The two men floated, looking at the trackless gas giant glowering below them. An order of mass beyond comprehension, hundreds, if not thousands of T units. [4] "Chemically, she isn't very interesting, hydrogen and carbon. But aesthetically..." Melchior frowned. "The dark heart of Avarice." "Indeed. Pink on the outside, the covering of flesh, over our blackened souls. What better place for us to live? We few, we band of bastards."
Melchior had nothing to say to this. The Emperor turned and fixed him in a stare. "You really are an impenetrable motherer, aren't you?" Apollinaire demanded harshly. Startled, pupils dilating, Melchior stammered, "Er, I'm, what would you know, sir?"
Apollinaire snarled, tossing Melchior something long and thin. A sword. "Careful, it's an antique."
"What...what have..."
"You know your Code. Steal a man's bandwidth, steal a man's honor. And you stole MINE."
"I..." What could he say? He had.
"I strung up the last bastards who tried to hack my networks, trailed them behind Highpoint from a tether for a few hours, and then cut them loose. But they failed. You, though...you actually succeeded. So I believe you deserve something slightly better. A duel, then?"
He clapped his hands, and the gravity slowly engaged, this deck level's centrifuge humming as it began to rotate. "One quarter G should do it. En garde!" It was over before it began. Melchior stammered something, His Quite Proficient Majesty batted the rapier out of his hand, and the steel blade was pressing oh so coldly against his neck. "Now," Apollinaire said calmly, "Besides the fact that bleeding you out will ruin the plush, why should I let you live?" A thin line of sweat trickled down his neck. Oh wait, that was blood.
"I...I, didn't mean to harm, I just wanted...the science data, I got carried away."
The king frowned. "Yes. Electric Weasel, was it? You aren't good at fighting at all. Nor are you a conversationalist, at that." He smiled, lowering the sword. "Refreshing. You get to live. I need a man to help my team with some data transfers from the Esani. But you're still an Electric Weasel. You're just my weasel now." He waved idly, turning back to the view. "Ta ta."
Melchior walked toward the door in a state of shock. One thought kept flitting through his head. "What a strange...job interview."
---
[1] Artificially generated, to keep the Liberes in some sort of circadian rhythm. The day-night cycle is useful for organizational purposes.
[2] His Magnanimously Munificent Majesty prefers to collect 'voluntary' tribute.
[3] In 0 g areas, Liberes usually wear adhesive shoes, and the floors are also adhesive, allowing them to walk around.
[4] Terra units, or T. 5.9742×10^24 kilograms = 1 T. Standard mass unit for astronomical calculations, based off of the legendary Terra/Laterre.
-Jean-Claude Remier, c. Late Solar Federation
“He was born with a gift of laughter and a sense that the world was mad."
-Rafael Sabatini, Scaramouche
---
The hiss of white noise gradually broke up the transmission. Three of the four techs looked up from the apparatus. "Relay that data to Highpoint, Remy," the senior one said, gesturing to the com-link. The fourth tech was still looking at various screens, lost in the readouts. "Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer..." he muttered. The other three looked at each other, rolling their eyes and making various 'you know he's crazy' gestures while they shut down the equipment. The fourth tech jumped a little when they cut the power, his screens all going black at once. "Alright Melk, that's it. Dusk [1] is in two, you want to hit the tavern with us?"
The tech, one Melchior, blinked a few times. "No...no. Did you notice that the cosmic background electromagnetism is completely absent from the transmission area when we receive and send Ansibyl messages?" They all stared at him blankly. Finally, Remy said, "Yeah...that's great Melk. You let us know if you can harvest any data from Terebellum, ok?" "Sure...sure." They all tramped out of the telescoping post, dreadlocks flying in the low G, already engaging in the usual smack-talk about Remy’s latest love interests.
The typical nightly carousing of the Liberes had been curtailed a bit with so many new crops of proto-clans being raised to maturity by the mentor groups, who were now themselves starting to impregnate and feud with each other under the watchful eye of the Royal Genetics Monitor, and all this had of course cut down on food supplies for now. The weapons ranges and sim hubs were packed like nobody’s business, and it seemed like the Isles were finally starting to fill to capacity. Melchior liked the days when there weren’t so many people scrambling around like rats, packed in the corridors and causeways. It was better here, him and his screens. But he had to leave now, go back to Clan Electric Weasel’s den, and throw his mind into the latest mathematics problems sent down from Above.
Even in a loosely regulated, libertarian kleptocratic autocracy like that of the Liberes, there were certain things that needed to be managed in a city floating in airless vacuum. Radiation exposure needed to be prevented, construction and currency standards had to be enforced, clans had to be cajoled and threatened to support His Most Devious Majesty’s plans with their labor and materials, since TAXES were a barbaric rockball custom [2] of course, and new implements with which to kill others and not be killed BY them had to be developed. They also had to do other stupid tasks like communication and research, I suppose. It was this implementation where Clan Electric Weasel, among others, came in. Tech specialists, the clan was composed mostly of weapons mechanics with a side of pure theoreticians, (who most people thought were just babies that got the wrong drug cocktail in the womb,) and these poor souls were squeezed for all their cerebral cortices were worth.
Not to mention, the ‘university’ was not exactly a university as such, more of a networked command center where His Dread Majesty’s lieutenants posted the things he needed done, and the tech clans pooled their resources to produce the ideas or prototypes or whatever was asked for, sometimes in cooperation with other clans. It was not the most nurturing environment for a mind such as Melchior's. Still, he worked as hard as he could, and the complimentary access to the data nets was a godsend for someone like him. It was easy to drift off in the flow of information for hours at a time, losing oneself in the data...if only he could be a cyborg or an 'Al and link directly with the collective knowledge base. How glorious that would be...
Melchior felt a tap on his shoulder. What? He was in a causeway. He blinked, surprised; apparently he had walked [3] this entire way lost in thought. Non-familiar faces on all sides, a few women with those shiny braids, walking in that way that always caught his attention...and everyone making space around him, as if he was some sort of pariah. This was strange...usually people just jostled or shoved him if he was holding up the foot traffic. Someone said they were going to install magnetic railcars in the main ring next year, that would be helpful. But the continued tapping on his shoulder cut through these thoughts, and so he finally turned around.
Standing in front of him was a tall, thin man dressed immaculately in a slashed doublet of black and some purple-red color, perhaps burgundy or amaranth. A representative of Apollinaire IV, wearing his colors, and clearly the reason why the passerby gave them a wide berth. He smiled, handed Melchior a letter (how archaic!) and turned silently to walk away. That was certainly strange. Everyone heard stories about the Lord of Avarice, how he was a genius, a madman, a demigod, a demon, a savant, a brute. But in truth, the Emperor of the Liberes was relatively unknown outside of his inner circle, the First Captains, and the occasional hilarious speech ridiculing this year's preferred target.
He was summoned, apparently. It vaguely occurred to him that he might die. Oh well. The Imperial Palace was a large, conical structure composed of impressive rooms, a command bunker, and observation decks, much of it sustained roughly at 1g via centrifugal force. Most of the nice parts of the old worldship had been incorporated into the design in one way or another. Because it was the 'highest' point in the station, 'down' being the direction of Avarice's gravity well, Apollinaire's complex was colloquially called Highpoint.
The abrupt increase in gravity made him cough, and wipe his eyes. That was always weird when it happened. Silent men wearing the same livery as the messenger escorted him into a dining chamber. There was a frieze of something, looked like the famous battle at Tannhauser Gate. Melchior reflected on how strange it was that people would use perfectly good minerals to create a representational image that could be created far easier on a display. Still, he had never seen physical art before. It was interesting in its' way.
"You like it?" a silky smooth voice said. Holy hell...the Emperor of the bloody Pirates was sitting at the other side of the table. "The Nova Cappadoci commissioned it to celebrate their greatest victory." He made a look of faint disdain. "Before the Iskandrians wiped them out. When we dropped into Zemlya, we took it for our own."
Melchior stared at the floor. Shiny tiles. "I...ah, is it, very true to life?"
Apollinaire stood. "Oh yes. You see that ship, the fusion core going nova, right there? Yes, that was my mother's. They really captured it perfectly." He paused, looking thoughtful. "Though of course, the explosion was more spectacular in real life. You could almost hear the screams." He grinned, showing far too many teeth, and the look in his eyes was murderous. "But enough family history. I'm ravenous."
The food was...royal, to say the least. Highpoint had an impressive collection of edible organisms, even in these times. The fruits de mer were followed by a roast fowl with truffles, and so on. Apollinaire filled the dinner with pleasant chatter, only occasionally prompting Melchior for some sort of response. Every few minutes an aide came in with a request or some information, and the Emperor would make a few taps at a screen with a stylus, or speak soft instructions, before returning his attention to his bewildered guest. Finally, after the traditional profiteroles, Apollinaire stood. "Ah, these old bones. Even with the drugs they can only keep me so young. I'd like you to look at something."
The Emperor took Melchior to the summit of Highpoint, a private observation deck, lavishly appointed in zero G. The two men floated, looking at the trackless gas giant glowering below them. An order of mass beyond comprehension, hundreds, if not thousands of T units. [4] "Chemically, she isn't very interesting, hydrogen and carbon. But aesthetically..." Melchior frowned. "The dark heart of Avarice." "Indeed. Pink on the outside, the covering of flesh, over our blackened souls. What better place for us to live? We few, we band of bastards."
Melchior had nothing to say to this. The Emperor turned and fixed him in a stare. "You really are an impenetrable mother
er, aren't you?" Apollinaire demanded harshly. Startled, pupils dilating, Melchior stammered, "Er, I'm, what would you know, sir?"Apollinaire snarled, tossing Melchior something long and thin. A sword. "Careful, it's an antique."
"What...what have..."
"You know your Code. Steal a man's bandwidth, steal a man's honor. And you stole MINE."
"I..." What could he say? He had.
"I strung up the last bastards who tried to hack my networks, trailed them behind Highpoint from a tether for a few hours, and then cut them loose. But they failed. You, though...you actually succeeded. So I believe you deserve something slightly better. A duel, then?"
He clapped his hands, and the gravity slowly engaged, this deck level's centrifuge humming as it began to rotate. "One quarter G should do it. En garde!" It was over before it began. Melchior stammered something, His Quite Proficient Majesty batted the rapier out of his hand, and the steel blade was pressing oh so coldly against his neck. "Now," Apollinaire said calmly, "Besides the fact that bleeding you out will ruin the plush, why should I let you live?" A thin line of sweat trickled down his neck. Oh wait, that was blood.
"I...I, didn't mean to harm, I just wanted...the science data, I got carried away."
The king frowned. "Yes. Electric Weasel, was it? You aren't good at fighting at all. Nor are you a conversationalist, at that." He smiled, lowering the sword. "Refreshing. You get to live. I need a man to help my team with some data transfers from the Esani. But you're still an Electric Weasel. You're just my weasel now." He waved idly, turning back to the view. "Ta ta."
Melchior walked toward the door in a state of shock. One thought kept flitting through his head. "What a strange...job interview."
---
[1] Artificially generated, to keep the Liberes in some sort of circadian rhythm. The day-night cycle is useful for organizational purposes.
[2] His Magnanimously Munificent Majesty prefers to collect 'voluntary' tribute.
[3] In 0 g areas, Liberes usually wear adhesive shoes, and the floors are also adhesive, allowing them to walk around.
[4] Terra units, or T. 5.9742×10^24 kilograms = 1 T. Standard mass unit for astronomical calculations, based off of the legendary Terra/Laterre.
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
Nice story Thlayli.
Milarqui
Deity
Orders sent. I will probably leave the NES after this update. Free time is getting hard to get here in Germany.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
Aww, sorry to hear that Mil, you'll be missed. (Maybe you can still swing it since the update pace is slowing down?)
Thanks dis.
Thanks dis.
Disenfrancised
Beep Beep
Any amount to make things easier on the player, this is balanced by the having to spend e on the move. Low efficency is the current state of having to spend 2e to get 1e to show up in another system, higher efficencies would mean spending less on the movement.
In the battlespace the ships don't move as one anyway unless your orders/a good plan is for them to cover each other short-range style.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
I was messing around with the ship designer today and I think I caught a minor error: Missile Control Centre registers as requiring Propulsion 6.
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