Redoubtable Downtown Space Abbey - You Say You Want a Resolution

[Quick Link: Table of Contents]

[The Space Hussars have either decamped to the front or are even now on their way. The Space Dragoons have scattered to their designated launch sites hoping to contest the gravity well. The remaining Leviathans have cast their respective lots. An entire world holds its breath in anticipation as viewscreens once more reveal the noble visage of Admiral Pandora.]


“Alas. I am disappointed in you, Weatherby. You have been offered the opportunity to embrace a better way of life, and yet you predictably refuse to accept it. No matter. I received no pleasure in reducing the Ajax colony to rubble, it brings me no pleasure now to do the same to your world. I sincerely hope that you retain faith in your decision as your lives are extinguished. Gunnery, prepare the mass drivers for orbital bombardment of the city.”

[This final message from New Prussia is broadcast only once. Anxious citizens turn their eyes skyward or rush toward shelters in equal numbers.]


[GM Note: Given the number of individuals that have chosen rather ambitious courses of action in the moment, the resolution of the final turn will take place over the next few days as the various machinations are resolved. Once complete, character statuses will be updated as we enter the epilogue.]


[In the dark recesses of Castle Ponscfleischmann, Dr. Heinz Franksenketchup’s (@old) bold experiment is just barely successful. Although the precipitate meets the exacting requirements in terms of volume and potential, moderate agitation will cause it to re-dissolve into solution with catastrophic consequences. The resulting product must be preserved in an aqueous medium at all times and any sudden movement risks premature activation.]

[Fusion engines are warming up as the pre-launch checklists are being attended to by the brave Weatherbean Space Dragoons. Lacking proper naval support, they are launching into almost certain death. Let it be noted that given the choice between survival and duty, the Dragoons have chosen duty.]

[In the pre-dawn gloom along the front, the horns of the New Prussian Cuirassiers begin to sound. Outnumbered, outclassed, and outgunned, the Weatherbean Space Hussars take up their weapons and steel themselves for the desperate battle ahead.]

[On the journey toward the front, Ensign Brummell makes a brief stop at the Governor’s Mansion to meet with those that have already gathered…]



“Congratulations, Doctor (@Old). Your magnificent skills may well be Weatherby’s savior. Still…”

The Ambassador glances askance at the uncomfortably large ampoule filled to the brim with the bubbling substance, which struck the eye with a baleful, malevolent glow.

“…it’s gotta get inside the… er… delivery mechanism. Jane (@penguinchris) , my dearest…”

And here the old Lizard clambers up onto the Doctor’s cleanest slab while Igor aims the worklights just so.

“I trust you implicitly, Jane, dear. No, do not permit your ocular sensors to leak, I need them operating at their clearest acuity, even at high magnification. We’ve been over this, Jane, you know it must be me. And you must do your finest work now. Little Mechaootokage needs at least one mother with all her limbs intact!.”

After one more tearful hug, Ambassador Honeyvenom presents the target for payload insertion.

“Now, just talk me through it, dear. Tell me all will be well.”



The consciousness that others know as Ambassador Carcinogennifer Honeyvenom floats in a semiconscious state. She’d be only slightly alarmed at the heavier-than-usual pressure deep inside her cloaca; perhaps a bit more vexed at the unaccountable cool breeze that seems to be circulating there in a vaguely widdershins direction. But when her heavy sedation permits a couple of lucid thoughts to coalesce at all, she frowns at the idea that this procedure seems to be taking an awfully long time. She begins to wonder: did it fail already, and she somehow missed experiencing any violently explosive sensations? She hopes not. For most sentient species who are not Reptiloid, the lack of pain and terror would seem a mercy. But this Space Lizard just wants to wake up.

She neglected to pack a lunch and a paperback novel.

“Oh, Jane (@penguinchris), is this your vengeance for bugamy? Bugamy? Bigamy. Vengeance? What a weird-looking word.”


[The delicate medical procedure that Amb. Honeyvenom has submitted to for the sake of her health has been successful. With renewed vigor and clarity and without any sudden movements, she returns to the most urgent task at hand.]

[Along the front, the first of the wounded begin to reach the medical tents where Ms. Farnsworth (@hadley) helps direct triage and application of the amazing ointment to missing and mangled limbs. As the day continues, the number of wounded individuals needing attention will almost certainly increase. Were it not for the supply caches and effort supplied by The Resistance, the situation would be more dire than it already is.]

[Unexpectedly, the unmistakable sound of laser carbines can be heard coming from within the Governor’s Mansion. A decaptiation strike by traitorous elements? A heroic stand? If only broadsheets were published more than once every three months…]


Yeah, things have gone to hell on that front ever since the seizure of the Post-Ledger, haven’t they?


Very fashionable Laser Carbines, I presume.


29 May. 0200 hours. Ssskidwish opens his eyes. Everything is blurry, dim, and indistinct. He blinks a few times.


He closes his eyes.

“Not Ssskidwish. Not anymore. For the last time… Ambassador Honeyvenom.”


29 May. 0200 hours. Carsssy opens her eyes. Everything is blurry, dim, and indistinct. She blinks a few times.

Gradually, some concerned faces come into focus. Doctor Franksenketchup, wiping blood and ichor off his fingers with a small rag, then carefully sealing the rag in a ziploc bag and tucking it into a waistcoat pocket. Igor, grinning maniacally over by the outsized knife switches. Dear, sweet, guileless Melisande, her prehensile lip quivering with jealousy, longing, relief, regret, grief, anger, and what appeared to be the beginnings of estrus, which couldn’t possibly be less fortunate timing. And Jane. Brilliant, inexhaustible Jane, showing no fatigue after what must have been, judging by the rosy fingers glimpsed through the castle’s arrow slits, an all-night surgery.

And there, nestled together in a shared hoverpram, the children. Shiny little Mechaootakage, and scaly Marmaduke Mason, sleeping hoof in caster, side by side, unaware of where fate is about to toss their family structure.

“Thank you all. Weatherby shall… remember your sacrifice. Doc, may I borrow the camcorder? Jane, can you patch the signal into the Net? I feel it will greatly help our outcome if we broadcast what transpires. Now… help me off the slab here. Gingerly! Goodness, I’m still a bit sore.”

The Ambassador reaches for her robes of office, then turns to embrace her family one last time.

“Could someone drive me to the spaceport, please?”


“I’m sorry, Madam Ambassador, but orders is orders. We’re under bombardment, see. I ain’t allowed to let nobody near the docking bays, and especially not the diplomatic corvette.”

“Why especially not that one?”

“Aw, you know as well as anyone why. It’s the fastest ship we got here, and would make an excellent getaway craft for any certain governmental types who started to feel the heat, if you know what I’m sayin’.”

“I’m sure I don’t, Sergeant. Do you mean to imply that the Governor intends to abandon their post?”

“Well, 'e’s of two minds about it. Which only makes sense for a two-headed governor, see.”

“Ah. And your job is to keep the ship safe and available until they make up their minds.”

“Got it in one, ma’am. Which is more than anyone can say for His Excellencies these days.”

“I tell you what, Sergeant. I am the highest-ranking diplomat on the planet just now, and I am charged with some last-minute high-stakes diplomacy which just might save our planet and prevent us all from being blown to flinders, or press-ganged into the New Prussian Civilians Auxiliary Service. At best, the luckiest of us will have to clean their birdcages every evening. If my mission is successful, all of that goes away, and we can go back to betting on elephant-bunny races and wondering if the sandfish tacos enjoy being eaten. So, my good man: would you like to continue to slow me down?”

“Er… no, I suppose not. I could use a couple of them tacos right now.”

“Capital. Keys in the ignition?”

“Just like always,ma’am. Oh, by the way… did Customs ask you what’s in that briefcase handcuffed to your wrist?”

“In fact, they forgot. It’s my makeup case. The New Prussians value vanity.”

“Right-o. Fly safe and true, Ambassador.”



A shot directly across the bow of the Ambassador’s ship. The Ssskipper brings the craft to an immediate halt.

Hailing frequencies open.

[What is said next? Tune in on the morrow to find out!]


Lady Elizabeth has no time to even think about he Sea Teas Flibbertigibbet. Her every moment is taken up with bringing in the injured and applying Lady Farnsworth’s Reliable Regeneration Ointment to those in need. She nervously runs back and forth checking the first round of patients to receive the ointment. She has put every last penny she has, and some she doesn’t have, into this ointment. It has got to work. Well she know it works the question is —are there any unforeseen side effects? Her lead scientist told her that it was too early to go to market, that the initial trials were too small to conclusively say the ointment was a success. But damn him, damn caution to the wind. It was now or never. Her colony needs her and there will never be another business opportunity like this, not in 1 million years. Not just money but if this works think of the prestige. This is the only way to finally establish the Lizard Farnsworth as equal in stature to the Moose Farnsworths.

she looks out at the blazing and battered ships brought in to the Medi unit and can’t help but glance at the battered and charred bodies to see if any of them are Commander D @pogo. She shouldn’t give a damn but she can’t help it. What she felt for him was different than anything she had ever felt before. She thought he felt the same way. After their most firery night together he had offere to fly her to the front with him on his ship. She had just gone back to the factory to pick up more supplies of Lady Farnsworth’s Reliable Regeneration Ointment. But when she got back he was gone. Just a note with his regrets. Why was she always the girl at the dance with no dance partners? She ate the note without reading it. And hopped on the next transport as if it meant nothing to her. Yet here she was nervously scanning bodies and thinking about him when she should had work to do.



[Exhausted from the last few days without sleep and disheartened over the bomb’s instability issues, Franksenketchup slumps over his lab table]

A few more days, Igor, and we would have had a suppository worthy of that brave lizard. May the gods bless her and favor her task. And let’s hope she hasn’t attended the good Duchess Gummibunns’ @gwwar bean salon anytime in the last month.

[snores and then starts awake one last time]

Igor, I’m in no shape to join my squadron like this. Give me 90 minutes sleep, no more. Press my uniform, and if there’s still time I’ll join them for the final push.


[For those listening, the radio crackles back to life at noon]

[The speaker’s voice is now audibly strained, but the underlying strength is undimmed]

My good friends, this is the Voice of Weatherby, bringing a message of persistence.

I have here the list of casualties from the first attacks, and I am sad to say that it’s not short. Not everyone will have a loved one on this list, but everyone will have a friend, or an acquaintance. No one has been left unscathed by the New Prussian attack; we have all lost, though some more deeply than others.

The New Prussians want to kill as many of us as it takes to make us unwilling to fight. They expect to pay no price for their crimes; they want Weatherby to pay the full cost in blood. And, if we give up now, that’s exactly what will happen. They will have hurt us, killed our friends, colleagues, comrades…

loved ones

…and not only will they not be punished if we surrender, they will have been rewarded for it!

No, my friends. We have not yet won this war, but we have not lost. Do what you can. No task is too small. If you can’t help in the hospitals, crochet blankets for the patients. If you can’t put out the fires, bring the firefighters clean water to drink. If you aren’t fighting as a Hussar or a Dragoon, write letters of support to the soldiers. If you can’t spill enemy blood in the streets, go to a blood drive and replenish the blood the enemy has taken from your brave protectors. And, if there’s truly nothing you can do to help… then help us by keeping your head down. The list of woe I hold is too long already, so just be alive and ready to rebuild when the Queen’s forces come to rescue us.

Stay strong, my friends. If we stay united, as proud Weatherbeans, loyal to Her Majesty, then we will breathe free air once more, in peace and prosperity.

Long live Weatherby, and long live the Queen!

[Dead air]

In a dark room, a figure slumps its head onto a table, roughly shoving away the now-unpowered microphone, and starts to weep, the tears causing the ink on the paper, a list of names, to run.

A door opens behind the figure, and soon a hand gently rests upon its shoulder. With a sniffle, the first figure speaks, the monotonous composure and fake accent gone. “I am asking them to die. To raise their heads when they are safely behind cover, and to become targets. To give their all, while I cower here in a bunker and give nothing but empty words.”

“Oh, my poor beloved…”

The second figure embraces the first, and the tears now patter down onto a shoulder rather than the desk. When the sobbing finally begins to subside, the second figure pulls away, and clutches the first by the shoulders.

“Tell me, oh great ‘Voice of Weatherby,’ do you truly believe rescue is coming?”

“Of course I do! *sniff* You know I do.”

“Then your words are saving Weatherbean lives, as much as the soldiers’ bullets or the doctors’ scalpels. If morale breaks, if they start fighting each other instead of the New Prussians, many more will die, and will suffer, than if you loaded your pistols and charged blindly into battle.”

“But…” A hand waves towards a smeared list of names.

“That list was never going to be blank; there is nothing you, or anyone other than that damned Admiral Pandora, could have done to make it so. You mustn’t obsess about every name that ends up on the list. Instead, take pride in every name you keep off of it, including your own. Now…”

The second figure taps a finger on a portfolio that the first hadn’t even noticed being dropped on the desk. “Don’t you have supply stash inventories to review?”

With eyes no less teary, but with the dry amusement the second figure loves so much, the first straightens, looks back and replies, “Ah, yes. The greatest sacrifice of them all, I fear.”

The two share a faint grin, and, after one more hug, the second figure exits the room, closes the door, and makes it halfway down the hall before collapsing onto the ground and starting to weep silently, hand firmly over mouth to keep any sound from carrying back to the broadcast room of the Voice of Weatherby. It is, after all, just as difficult in such a time of tragedy, and by no means less important, to maintain the morale of the one speaking the Voice, as it is for the Voice to bolster the morale of those listening to it. All these pretty half-truths will take their toll by the end of the war, but it will all be worth it when rescue comes.

Or maybe that was just one more pretty half-truth.



The streets of Whipweed Place are largely deserted as each prepares for the worst.

A single well dressed figure ascends the tower of a luxurious apartment and raises a large flag:

Shaking his fist at the sky, Johann Wentworth shouts "Come and Take It you Boche Bastards!"

The only reply is a baby crying the basement.


Liv looks over the numbers and sighs. Better than he expected, worse than he might have hoped. Some may call him a traitor. Some may call him a hero. It doesn’t matter. He’s done what he could do. He’s done what needed doing.

He looks over at the large duffle that comprises all his remaining possessions. At least the Dragoons put together a good kit. Then again, given how much he paid for it, they better have.

Vive la résistance. Viva la revolución. And of course, most important, Vive moi.


[Transmission from the New Prussian Frigate to Amb. Honeyvenom (@Donald_Petersen)]

“Unidentified corvette, this is the HRF Thetis. You are requested to immediately identify yourself and your purpose. You are presently in a free-fire volume and we will not hesitate to atomize your vessel at the slightest provocation. You have sixty seconds to comply or face destruction.”

[Elsewhere, launch systems are go for the remaining Space Dragoons. They’ll be sitting ducks until they reach orbit, and even then will be outgunned by the enemy. May God be with them.]

[And yet - a Weatherbean corvette launches from a remote site and quietly decamps from the system. Meanwhile, casualties continue to mount on the ground. The New Prussian Cuirassiers are well armed, well armored, and well trained.]


Half an AU, half an AU,
half an AU onward,
all in the ecliptic of death
rode the [checks notes] five?