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Hey, guys.
I was in school, and I decided to write a story. A long, crazy story. About magical turnips.
So here it is, I hope you enjoy.
The History of Turnipia
Turnipia started out as a humble village for those few evolved turnips who popped out of the ground on planet Turniptron 34 in the binary star system of XG-36. Living near binary stars (two stars revolving around each other) is rather dangerous. The magnetic fields colliding often causes strange phenomena that can be similar to an electromagnetic pulse. As the population exploded, more and more megacities began to dot the horizon of our sphere of soil. With overpopulation being a real hazard, we contacted one of our many allies: the Ice Wolves. Tensions were high as we negotiated for assistance to build our newer, larger planet (or as their ambassador put it, “a ball of dirt”). Suddenly, a large solar flare from the unstable stars cut out our communication systems. The Ice Wolf colony, seeing it as a threat, dispatched their entire fleet to our home world to destroy any and all threats. When our systems came back online, I ordered a complete evacuation of the planet and put our defensive outposts on full alert. However, loading up twenty billion panicked turnips onto twelve hundred ships is easier said than done.
I loaded up my belongings, said goodbye to my family and went on my personal frigate to assist in the inevitable battle. When I arrived at the outpost nearest to our planet (which was twenty AU away), I docked and sifted my way through the chaos to find the commander. After a brief discussion, I decided to man a battle laser and wait for the epic battle. In the distance, I saw explosions in the same direction as the outermost outposts. When I saw that V shaped formation of destroyers gleaming in the light from our stars, I gawked. As I prepared for my quick and painless death, they fired some strange projectile into our airlock and just as quickly as it came, it left.
Unsure of the contents or even the safety of the object, we suited up in our hazard gear and treated the capsule with extreme caution. Upon opening the object, we found a hastily scrawled note in Ice Wolfish. Obviously not knowing how to translate it, we piled into our ships and traveled to the Communications Center to see if we could find an Ice Wolf who could translate it. Upon receiving no luck, we tried our best at going back to their ambassador at the United Intergalactic Peace Hall in the X-137 star system. His silver, translucent skin sparkled as he laughed heartily at our seemingly idiotic request.
“You declare war on us,” he spoke in rough Turnipish with a thick Ice Wolfian accent, “And now you crawl back to us after we destroy your home world?” I knew nothing of the destruction of our planet. Shedding a sorrowful tear, I thought of an appropriate response.
“Yes,” I attempted to stall for time, “But… Your captain fired this note. I simply ask you for a translation of this, and that will be all.” Holding up the note for the putrid beast to read, he finally rolled his eyes and spoke.
“This note appears to read as follows. ‘I have decided to spare your lives so you can eventually regret the decision of declaring war on our empire. Your Kingliness, Ice Wolf.’” I sighed and hit the “End Conversation” button. At least, I thought, if you were going to taunt us, have some witty joke or insult; not some love note! Now that we were homeless, and had our population problem was solved, we needed to find someone to help us build our new home world. I originally though that the Tri-Edge Clan would help us, but they cost a pretty intergalactic penny for even a small space station, let alone an entire planet. Going down the mental list, I came upon a suitable group: The Meow Empire.
Bringing their leader Potato up on the communications deck, I couldn’t help but adore their race. As the name states, The Meow Empire are kittens. Their ears flapped with joy when they saw us, for years earlier we had assisted them in defending their home world from the evil Eninac Tyranny of HG-384. We discussed the possibility of an alliance and the properties of it. With the deal set, we set out on a journey to find the ideal spot for our newer, bigger home world. Ideally, we would have chosen a spot in a small star system, with only four or five planets to get our minerals from (and maybe two bedrooms). However, with the accidental war raging on, I had to settle for safety over luxury. The system we chose was an astronomical rarity: three stars locked in a death dance. These types of stars can be compared to a jugglers balls in motion, and are often very unstable. Though it is unstable, it is the farthest, most livable star from the brutish Ice Wolves. I opened my cargo bay and sent a marker into the orbit in which I wanted the planet to follow. I just hoped that Potato kept his side of the deal.
A while later, a fleet of Cat-headed ships approached the marker cautiously with huge external cargo bays stuffed with all of the materials needed for planet creation. I began a discussion with Potato about how this would go about.
“You see,” He smiled, “I need to get the iron sphere hot enough first – which wouldn’t be hard with all of the stars we have around here.” He paused for a moment to chuckle at his poor joke. “Then, I need to quickly get it into place and dump the layer o Catonium to make it denser and have a greater gravitational pull. I will then have my drones take it away from there.” He pointed behind his shoulder to a team of robots controlling the external bays.
“So be it,” I said eagerly, “Do you require assistance?” The cat simply shook his head and began to work. First, he opened the cargo bay, revealing a huge ball of iron. Gently, Potato flew the ship a distance safe enough to be from the star, but hot enough to begin to melt the metal. Then he placed the semi-molten core into orbit, and released it.
Next, Potato released a white gas onto the newborn planet, which turned the surface of the core from a rustic color to an orangish hue. This strange element, known as Catonium, is one of the densest elements in the universe, and is often used for making stable planets. Potato finally ordered his drones to drop the billions of tons of nutrient-rich soil onto the planet. In a show of respect, he wagged his ears, let out a meow, and flew back to his empire. I stared at my new planet in awe; I had seen what would take naturally billions of years in just an hour.
With a new planet to colonize, I led the surviving Turnipians to our emerging planet. As the first transporter attempted to dock, the last of the Turnipian race held its collective breath. Finally, the connector made contact with the surface of the new planet, and small cheers erupted from the observation deck. The stalwart explorers were the first to check the stability of the surface, and gave the okay. A mass of turnips flowed from all of the ships in glee. Cargo ships dropped millions of tons of supplies and resources to help build colonies on this blank canvas. Soon, small homes were popping up as our telekinesis lifted and placed all of the Turnipite Alloys.
After the first few days, the first major city, Norcno (being the inventor of the planet, it was obviously named after me), was formed. The industrious society of Norcno heavily contrasted the wind farms and growing fields that surrounded it. As the first major election was around the corner, I was the top contender for the office. Being that there wasn’t any other candidates, I got the office of Emperor of the Turnipian Empire. As I sat upon my throne, I looked out upon my vast fields of greenery – perfect breeding grounds for our kind. In lieu of servants, I had built many robots to accomplish my bidding, for I had always been against the use of Turnips for slaves. My robots were the jack-of-all-trades for everything: war, work, hunting, and anything imaginable.
I had been floating in space, watching my new creation – my planet – being blown to pieces. I noticed a strange object that was doing the damage: an Ice Wolfian space cruiser. Unable to scream, it turned its sights on me. Awakening from a dream, I got the idea of a lifetime. The robot servants were L’kleman Army knives, they could do anything you program them to do. Scrambling out of my golden bed, I rushed to my computer and began to make a robotic command to have an autonomous attack on the frozen dogs. At first, I tested the killer on a prisoner sentenced to death for his treasonous acts on the Empire. Dicing the convict to small pieces, I realized that the real victims were made of a very hard material. Seeing as how conventional saws or guns couldn’t do the job, I attached a Mach 28 TKD Laser to the death bringers. A few bugs and tweaks later, the attack was on my colander.
After the mass-building of the billions of robots, I ordered a full attack to occur in a few hours. As zero hour came near, I planned for the worst: an intergalactic missile war. With the robots en route to Ice Wolfian soil (or should I say “ice”), I prepared the defenses. Our scientists reported that the robots had began their attack, and the death toll counter began to rise. One… two… seven… fifty… the suspense was building with each number. Ten thousand… fifty thousand… one-hundred thousand… the numbers were rising exponentially as the robots came closer to major cities. Looking through the telescope, the entire planet seemed to be alive with mechanic parts; wriggling and burning everything in its path. One million… one and a half million… three million… ten million… suddenly the counter stopped at ten-million, seven-hundred eighty-two thousand, six-hundred forty-three. The scientists shrugged and panicked as the kill count remained static. Apparently, they were about as lost as I was.
On the Ice Wolf planet, the scene was pure chaos. The melted corpses of millions of Ice Wolves lie in the streets. The once snow-covered mountainsides were slowly melting, creating the possibility for major flooding. Buildings burned with great intensity; making the frigid tundric air warmer bit by bit. A panicked race, still traumatized by the brutish violence against them, trembled in fear. However, amidst the disorder, one billion robots stood still; staring off into space, awaiting orders.
Back at the military base, the Turnipian scientists were still trying to figure out the problem. Unknown to them, the program simply had run out of command lines, and needed to be restarted. This smart idea was thought of by myself, and was obviously met with great praise. With the massacre continuing, I gleefully watched the kill counter. Twenty million… Fifty million… One hundred million… At this point I had to make a decision of when to call the attack off. Knowing that the Ice Wolves are fifty billion strong, I decided to stop at nine billion – or one hundred more restarts of my program – a small dent. Needless to say I didn’t want to be up all night pressing the “start” button over and over again, I decided to put one of the spare drones on that boring duty. As I went to bed and let my ‘bot do all of the heavy lifting, I knew I won the war… at least I hope.
The next day I checked the kill count: seven and a half billion. I told the robots to retreat, and considered the mission a huge success. As I walked to the communication center, I thought of the possibility of a counter-attack. Knowing the mind of small-brained Ice Wolf however, the brute wouldn’t even think of wasting the effort of crushing us. I guess now we are at a stalemate.
From an economic standpoint however, we failed miserably. The billion robots, custom fitted with lasers and guidance chips, were very expensive per unit. Therefore, the total cost was roughly over a quadrillion dollars. In order to make the huge purchase null, I decided to sell seventy-five per cent of our food supply (we magical turnips have evolved to not photosynthesize, a bad loss, but it adds a new market). That put us in positive numbers, seeing as we sold it to starving planets for bigger profit. However, there was another problem at hand. The food that we sold was needed even more as a turnip boom swept the planet. This lack of food caused a panic; however I had the perfect solution.
I had a contact in the Oblunin Nebula who could supply me with a black market duplicator. Duplication devices are strictly prohibited across the universe, however many people have been able to create their own and use them for their own needs. Of course there are some downsides to this great technology. Inflation has been on the rise since duplicators became available on the black market. I don’t plan to use it for a gain in wealth, because I don’t want to make any mercenaries suspicious. With the homemade duplicator on its way, I had to find a way to discreetly duplicate enough food for the brimming populous. Obviously, you can’t just pull hundreds of tons of food out of thin air (though we are magical). With lying not being one of my specialties, I decided to just go with the first thing that came to me: the UIPH (United Intergalactic Peace Hall) sent us the food to assist in the effort to stop famine. Meh, I guess it’s better than saying that I used the black market, and therefore am corrupt.
When the unmarked package with no return address arrived, my security drones definitely went to full alert. I arrived just before they opened the package, which would have most likely been a media firestorm. Taking the package back to my quarters, I knew that I was going on a hunch. I mean, I didn’t know for sure if this was my duplicator or some sort of lethal device that was hell-bent on assassinating me. I cringed as I peeked through the opened top and found my gut to be rather trustworthy.
A glass beaker filled with a bluish liquid connected by plastic tubing to two safe-like objects. Electronics whirred and beeped as the box was illuminated by buttons and lights. “Ghetto” would be an overstatement for this crazy contraption. However, as long as it got the job done, I – and every other turnip – would be happier than Potato in a catnip factory. To test the device, I put something expendable in. A simple pencil was placed into one of the two metal boxes, and the button was pressed. A great flash of blue light from a ball of plasma forming in the chamber with the liquid and a faint fizzing sound instantly occurred. As the unneeded effects faded away, I opened the chamber on the right. Surprisingly, there was a second pencil in it. I wondered to myself if I could get this to work on a bigger scale.
I guess ordering two one-hundred cubic foot crates was a bit out there for a simple ruler. Maybe they thought I was going to be one of those insane-but-excellent kind of rulers. Nonetheless, the next day in my courtyard stood my new containers. Of course, hooking up tubes to the thirty-foot-tall containers in private was easier said than done – let alone stuffing all of the food you could possibly find into said containers. Some button pressing and food stocking later, the four-thousand pounds of food had grown by a power of five (roughly fifty-one quadrillion, two-hundred trillion tons). The city of Norcno and the rest of the planet has food for quite some time now.
During a press conference, I made the announcement that could change the tides of Turnipian History.
“Ladies and gentleturnips,” I began the glorious speech, “I have the announcement that you have been waiting for. I have enough food for every man, woman, and sprout to have seventeen hundred tons – or three and one half million pounds – of food.” Cheers erupted from the massive crowd before me. I had them hanging on my every word. “This food was delivered by a source that does not want to be named, to prevent unneeded praise. He says that he ‘was only doing what he found was right for our species to survive.’ I thank you for your time, and your food will be doled out amongst this wonderful city and all of the food stores. That is all.” Cheers and a standing (or floating) ovation followed my awe-inspiring speech.
With the food problem solved, I could finally rule my kingdom in peace. However, I have no name to call my kingdom; my planet remains nameless. To be fair, I decided to call a vote for the name of our planet. The five names were Pinrut, Inliun, Turnip Pitrun, and Rnocon. The results were in: Pinrut has won by one hundred percent. All the maps were to be renamed, and all of the Pinrutians were content with their decision.
The Ice Wolves had yet to retaliate to the robot attack. I guess that they had thought we had known we had made a mistake and that we were to embarrassed to confront them. Maybe, I thought, we should send some of our surplus food to them as a “I’m sorry for attacking your race and would like to apologize with this food” gift basket. Then again, I’m not that sure if Hallmark makes a card like that. Blowing us up seems like a decent retaliation for them. If they were going to, however, then they would have already done that and I would be dust in the solar wind. What if there was a spy? That could make up for their lack of killing us; they could be getting vital information. Or they could just leave us alone… either way is okay.
Even though I have solved pretty much every problem that has overcame me (other than the whole not being blown up problem), there was still one major situation on the table: ships. Apparently, to help our shipbuilding efforts, Potato put in a vein of Turnipium – our shipbuilding material which he must have saved from what was left of our former planet – in our new planet as a gift. Without the duplicator, however, I would have to resort to mining as much as needed to make a large fleet of merchant ships, defense ships, and offense ships. Said mining would take the bulk of the drones from the attacks (reprogrammed and given new tools, of course) roughly a day and a half – not including the time it would take to code a new program and refit the robots with mining tools. The billion robots were easily changed from killing machines to humble miners within a few days. Of course, volunteer turnips would join in with pickaxes and cutting lasers. By the end of he day, Turnipians and robots alike, we had gathered more than enough Turnipium to make the ships that was needed.
The ship building factory was more or less just a mile long assembly line. The first station melted the Turnipium into the shape; the second station would add the thrusters and so forth. Once the first ship – a destroyer – was out of the factory, we had finally completed one one-millionth of our time-consuming objective. Five days later, our fleet was complete: one million ships for defense, one million for offense, and ten million merchant ships. The bill was “nonexistent” because of my newly obtained gold. Pinrut finally had a fleet of spaceships, and it only took five days.
Now that we have the ships, we need the trade routes. However, being in a secluded place due to necessity is not very helpful with finding people to trade with. Nonetheless, I packed the merchant ships to the brim with goods, added external fuel tanks, and sent them off. Being the handsome and charismatic turnip, I piloted a ship of my own, leaving my most trusted underling to take my spot in the unlikely event of an attack. As a token of respect, the citizens of Norcno had spray-pained a crude shadow of a turnip on the tail of my ship. Taking off while trying not to hit a million buildings and a trillion turnips is actually a challenging task of it didn’t sound like it. Breaking through the atmosphere, I was free. I turned in a random direction and set off.
I don’t know why, but there is something magical about seeing the universe go by at light speed. My carbon detector was beeping rhythmically in time with the solid stream of stars, only interrupted by the occasional nebulae. The radio scanner was making a tune of static with the distant calls from the outer universe. Suddenly, an alert from my carbon detector said that sentient life was in the immediate area. My scanner confirmed it as strange languages began to call out nearby. Following the voices, I found a large red giant with what looked like a ball of jagged metal poking out of it. Wait a second, I thought, those aren’t jagged random pieces of metal, those are skyscrapers! A thriving metropolis seemed to hug the small planet, and with nowhere else to build, they went the only way they could: up. I began to tune into their communications, then using my universal translator, prepared to greet them.
I took a deep breath in as I went over my options. The could be nice and offer to begin a trade, which is the way I want things to go. Or they could shoot down my ship, probe me, torture me, starve me, and kill me in a slow, inevitable death. Yeah, I’m not really fond about that idea, to be honest. Flipping my transmit button into the on position I spoke nervously,
“Greetings! I am an outlander wishing to install a trade route with your kind race. How do-“ I was cut short by a large amount of lasers and explosive ammunition heading towards my ship. Right about now I was thinking the same four-lettered word you would be thinking: oops! Cursing, I spiraled out of control into the planet covered in cities. Bailing out would most likely result in impaling, but before I could even undo my seatbelt, I carved a wonderful crater into an intersection surrounded by screaming pedestrians. As I awoke from my brief concrete nap, I was greeted by translucent blue-skinned three-eyed gelatinous civilians. The military soon arrived to retrieve a bruised turnip and what was left of its spaceship. Great, I thought, They’re going to use me for their inmates stew. Well, I guess it would be better than being an inmate.
Riding through the jungle of skyscrapers in a covered truck must be the most boring thing I have ever done. Apparently, my injuries were more serious than I first thought. As soon as I was thrown (literally, they picked me up and threw me like a sack of potatoes) into the back of the truck, the adrenaline wore off. Every little bump was like being shot in the chest repeatedly. The only thing I could do was stare at what was once my ship. The metal was deformed from the impact as well as the lasers and missiles. I tried to find the tail with the turnip on it, but it was nowhere to be found – most likely still in orbit. Our convoy stopped eventually outside what looked like a random hill in the middle of the only greenery in the entire planet: the park. A button was pressed, and it became clear, it was an entrance to a secret military base! Computers buzzed and whirred as we passed through different sectors of brushed metal. When we finally reached our destination, the overpowering scent of antiseptic filled the air. The gelatinous snot monsters loaded me onto a stretcher and carted me off to repair my gashes.
We turnips obviously don’t bleed. However, cuts can both cause infections and – if the cut is deep enough – the moisture that helps us be our cheery selves can evaporate out, killing us. Trying to tell the medic that, however, is actually rather hard. My translator was destroyed in the crash, and it didn’t look like anyone had one on them. At least, until the lead surgeon came in the room. Angrily, he shoved the small device on my bed and waited impatiently. The whole idea of a talking vegetable from his produce aisle seemed not to phase his brain (or, from what I can see, lack there of).
Unsympathetically, he jabbed some needles into me, attached an IV tube of water, and left. Gee, I thought, he really cares for the alien that could hold valuable information. Without much entertainment to be found amongst the polished walls, I promptly fell asleep. I had dreams of a dictatorship state in place of my system. The turnip I left in charge has learned of my crash, and he declared himself dictator. Genocide swept the cities under his rule. It was just pure chaos; I need to stop him – and fast.
I snapped awake to find the snot species poking and prodding my body. In the translator, I simply stated that I was from the planet Turnipia in the trinary star system Z9-274 and came to their planet in peace. The snonster (see what I did there? Snot and monster! I crack myself up sometimes) simple laughed in my face and spoke into his translator,
“If you come in peace, then why do you say that you wanted to kill us all?” He shrugged, “If it were up to me, I would believe you. However the great king requires all outsiders to be imprisoned until their trial.”
I nearly fainted as he said that. I merely come to the planet as a merchant, and they treat me like a criminal? Then again, he did say something about me threatening their race in some way, so I guess they have some grounds to be suspicious. Did the translator malfunction? Maybe, I wondered, because I know it can sometimes misinterpret two different words. Sighing, I slowly drifted asleep.
I awoke to a lack of the odor of antiseptic, which told me that I was in another room. Instead, a musky scent of mold and stale air. A single light illuminated the small room. It became clear to me as I noticed the tally marks chiseled on the wall – I was in jail. Through the walls, I heard screams of agony. Great, I though to myself, I’m on death row – and from the sound of it, I’m nearing my turn in line. In my realization, I decided that if I value my life, I need to get out of this barbarous place.
I began to consider my options of escape. For one, there was the normal exit that leads to the corridor. However the white-hot lasers seems to be a bit of a deterrent, as well as the frequent guard patrol. Then there was the floor, which was made up of a few millimeters of concrete followed by the natural material – in this case clay – under it. It seems that under the bed (which was bolted in, making it hard to get into there) had the thinnest concrete. Of course, however, you need to have a tool in order to dig. My initial thought was to form a crude spade out of the tough plastic trays and forks we are given three times a day for meal time. However, the fork and spoon, even when tired together end-to-end, was rather flimsy. Being my ever-so-thoughtful self, I decided to use the entire days worth of utensils, as well as molding the plastic around them, to make a sturdier handle. You may be asking why do telekinetic turnips need handles? The handle on a shovel is actually used to gain leverage and pull the material from its position (in this case, clay). After a few hours, I finally completed my makeshift shovel. Now I just need to find a way to put this to work, I thought to myself.
It was the dead of night on this horrid planet, and I had decided to make my move. The guards had “secured” all of the cells and left to get back to their families, and it would be a few hours before the night shift arrived (it’s a big city). I took the edge of the handle of my shovel and bashed it through the bit of concrete. The stupid blobs had thought that no one would decide to go through the ground. Dish-tray full by dish-tray full, I shoveled out clumps of clay and flushed them down the toilet, which was useless to me (for obvious reasons). My telekinesis took up a large part of my energy and made me extremely fatigued. By the end of the shift change, I had gotten through a foot or two, but that was because most of my time was spent making a comfortable position to be in under the bed. I used one of my spare sheets as a rug to cover up my hole. Fortunately, it didn’t need to be too hidden, because the brainless blobs never did cell checks like most prisons do.
I slept most of the day, and the time I didn’t sleep I spent repairing and modifying my shovel. A few modifications include a thicker handle, a larger head for more clay extraction, and a few locking hinges so it can fold easily, but is stable when in use. With the shovel all nice and pretty, I finally slept in peace until the day shift left. I made a discovery the night before: I don’t have to be very close to the object I am moving to have the telekinesis work. Laying on my bed, my shovel seemed to work on its own as inch by inch, the clay began to leave the hole. Each tray full was a morale booster on my part – it meant that I was one bit closer to freedom.
Shovel in, dirt out, shovel in, dirt out. The repetitive cycle of each night seemed to get at my brain. Shovel in, dirt out, shovel in, dirt out. No matter what I do, I am always thinking of shovels or clay – I think I’m starting to go insane. A few nights ago, I almost got caught digging. Apparently, the guards needed a raise and came to work earlier, causing me to panic. Fortunately, however, I hid just my shovel and hole just in time and went to sleep.
My hole has reached three feet down, enough to fit more than half of my “body” into there. A few more feet down, then a long way in any direction, and I’m free – well, technically not. It just occurred to me that I need to know where to go before I dig (so I don’t pop up in the guard headquarters or the mass vegetable steaming room). I knew that the blacktop – which was close to the borders of the prison – is roughly five-hundred feet east. The evacuation center, however is seven hundred feet west, but to make up for the distance, there are escape pods that can travel to any destination. However, the time it would take to travel that extra two hundred feet could give away my plan, or die in the process of protecting my secret.
I surveyed my current situation at the end of the first week: Ten feet down, and twelve-and-a-half feet west. A good start, but in order to make good progress, I need to make more than two feet a day. However, without any help, I couldn’t do much more than that with my current tools. On that thought, I used the excess trays to make a set of carts to carry the clay to the toilet once I push it. The momentum of the cart hitting the toilet will cause it to tip over and empty its contents. When it goes back on all four wheels, it will return to the tunnel and back to where I would be. If my mental calculations were correct, each night I would get on average of seventy-six feet per week (or roughly eleven feet per night).
By week three, I began to get stir crazy. The walls seemed to be closing in rapidly and the tunnels looked like they were collapsing. Illusions, I thought to my ill self, simply illusions issued onto the insane mind of my intrepid self. Insanity re-ignited my will to get out of this prison and back home, which was possibly the only good thing that came out of being isolated for three weeks. Speaking of isolation, the medics had yet to see me for the entire time I was trapped. Maybe they did want me to rot in this vile vise.
No books, no contact with other living beings, nothing. The only thing to comfort me were four words: shovel in, dirt out. There was no thought of escape anymore; no thought of what I would do when I got back home. It was all just shovel in, dirt out. However, that phrase did work when by the end of the fourth week I had extracted over three hundred feet of dirt (insanity plus turnips equals good, who thought of that)! I was more than half way to my goal, and I had no idea what I would do when I popped out of the floor. All that mattered at his point was shovel in, dirt out.
Almost there, I thought to myself. The brownish clay contrasted my skin as I shoveled the last few feet west, I prepared to go from extreme claustrophobia, to a large room, and then back to extreme claustrophobia as I entered the escape pod. I reached my destination (at least I hope) and began to dig upward. Thankfully, to replace our legs, turnips can float and reach ten feet above the ground (which is how deep my tunnel is). Five feet, three feet, after a few minutes of digging, I noticed a discoloration in the dirt – the concrete. I pounded through the thin floor of concrete and climbed through. Looking around, I found the escape pounds – I was free.
The cylindrical escape pod was barely enough to fit me. All of the buttons were written in a strange language, so I picked up one of the translators in the cabinet adjacent to the pods. As I pressed the button to eject from this vile planet, I took a deep breath and heard an audible “boop” as the button went down. A huge force of acceleration pounded me into the ground as the rocket on the bottom of the pod hurled me out of orbit. I had already accelerated as close to the speed of light as physically possible before the guards even noticed I was gone. Entering my coordinates, I found myself drifting to sleep.
When I awoke, I was on a barren landscape scorched by the occasional fire. This clearly can’t be my planet, can it? As if they were reading my thoughts, a militia of turnips opened the pod door and pulled me out.
“Well hello there,” a voice from the crowd spoke evilly, “it seems that you’ve arrived a bit to late.” A cloaked figure materialized through the smoke of the crater I made. I realized the turnip easily: the underling I left in charge!
“What have you done?” I inquired, still in a daze from the tunnels, “Did you stand by and watch this happen to our – my empire?”
The figure laughed menacingly, taking something from behind his back, “Oh, I didn’t watch this happen, I caused it.” He pulled the trigger on his device and a geyser of flames jumped from the end of it: a flame thrower. “As soon as your ship left our radar, I donned your crown. Your puny citizens were easily crushed by my iron fist. Admit it, you are weak; you are powerless against me.” I responded swiftly with a crack to his face from one of the nearby branches. The rebels tightened their grip on me as their leader was recovering from the blow. He raised his weapon and let out a howl, “You have made the wrong decision, my good friend. I wish you farewell.” I closed my eyes and waited for the heat to embrace me.
Suddenly, I heard three distinct cracks and the guards grip disappeared. I opened my eyes to see both the guards on the ground with a hole right between their eyes. However, the rest of the militia or the dictator weren’t anywhere in sight. Feeling the presence of someone or something, I whirled around to find two turnips – a male and a female – clad in tattered clothes, obviously not part of the militia. The female had a scoped laser rifle slung on their back. Seeing my fear, the armed one spoke up,
“We mean you no harm, sire.” I looked puzzled at the duo, “Sire, we know that’s you. You’ve finally returned! I can’t wait until the other back at the headquarters hear about this!” I stared inquisitively at her.
“Wait just a minute,” I inquired, “I think you have the wrong person. I’m just the former king- oh. I see what you mean.” A cricket broke the awkward silence, “Anyways, I have two questions for you two. Who are you, and why did you just kill the people that were holding me and not the one with the flamethrower at me?”
The duo laughed hysterically, “You do realize that we saved your skin, yes?” I nodded dumbly, “You shouldn’t criticize the people that save you life. To answer your questions, we didn’t kill him because of the thirty some-odd people with powerful guns. For whom we are, however, we cannot say that here for they are watching us. Quick, come with us!”
We trekked for hours in the wasteland until we arrived at a small shanty made of scrap metal. In the distance, I could see a column of smoke rising from the crater where I had arrived. As we entered the shanty, I couldn’t see anyone, yet I heard the echo of unfamiliar voices. A few steps in, however, I realized where they came from as I fell down the earthen staircase. After my long fall, I was greeted by the barrels of some two dozen laser rifles. Once they realized who they were threatening, however, they lowered their guns and cheered. I still didn’t know who they were, but I guess they knew me a bit.
I later found out that the group in the shanty were rebels who were rebelling the rebellion that the rebel “king” caused rebelliously. Yes, I didn’t under stand it either, so I just called them the Rebels Against the Rebellion. Also, I learned that man and the woman who saved me were named Daniel and Saminje respectively. The underground portion of the base was (obviously) much larger than the shanty itself – at least thirty to fifty times larger. I couldn’t qualify this as a base, but more of an underground town! Noticing my awe, Saminje spoke up.
“You do realize that you’ve been gone for a month, yes?” She chuckled quietly to herself, almost unheard amongst the commotion of a returning leader, “This is Central Command. I guess you can call this more of a city than a base.” Which is exactly what I thought a few moments ago. Instead of buildings, holes were cut into walls to form a “room” which then goes upward in a multiple story building. Through the windows, you could see turnips in equally tattered clothes reading and playing about.
“Why do you have such wretched clothes?” I asked, “You are a rebellion, you should have suits of armor.”
“We need to look like normal citizens,” Daniel grinned, “If you see a group of unknown turnips waltzing around town with battle suits and laser rifles, wouldn’t you be a bit suspicious?” If turnips could shrug, I guess that would be what I would be doing at that point.
As Saminje and Daniel gave me the grand tour of the city, I realized just how intricate this place was. Thousands of tunnels and caverns and even booby traps dotted what would have only been called a “stupid shanty” that doesn’t deserve a second guess from the surface. We stopped at what looked like a simple hole in the soft dirt. When I looked above however, I noticed one window, then two, then ten, then a hundred. The windows were stacked up in columns all of the way up to the ceiling.
“This is your estate, Your Majesty.” They said in unison, “We built it for you quite some time ago and kept it in perfect order in case of an event like this.” Wait a second, I thought to myself. What do they mean by “event like this”? My puzzled look painted a picture of sorrow on their faces as if I was sick with a terminal illness. Well this can’t be a good sign.
I entered the estate to see the most elegant house of dirt ever made. Marble columns rose from the floor to fulfill the “I am richer and therefore superior” feel of the mansion. Velvet rugs and couches rested near a fireplace nestled in the corner nearest the door. In the ground, three plants in a row stand. Did that one just move? Suddenly, three turnips popped out with a flip from their hiding spot.
“We are your servants,” They said in unison, “Your wish is our command.” Well this seems to be a nice turn of events.
“Well, nice to meet you,” I smiled, “So what are your names?”
“I am Yothnan.” The one on the left said, “This is Tewtam and Na’Dena.” This day just got a little better. Then again, why wouldn’t three servants (though it goes against my morals) brighten your day?
As I walked into the Emperor Bedroom (much, much better than a master bedroom – I mean it has capital letters!), I almost fell over in shock. Marvelous curtains of gold silk (silk that is woven of pure Goldium Extract – a material that is refined from refined gold) and sheets of velvet coated the huge bed. The bedposts were covered with elegant engravings and astounding jewels and gems. Picking my mouth off of the silk-laden floor, I jumped onto the bed to realize that in lieu of springs, it contained powerful electromagnets so that its softness could be controlled via a remote control. Then I noticed something in the wall opposite of the bed: a door.
I opened the door to find a long corridor with rooms on either side at ten foot intervals. Entering the first room on the left, I found the most elegant robes I have ever seen. Gilded silk robes lined three of the walls and a mirror covered the last. This must be the wardrobe room, I thought to myself. As I entered the last room down the hall to find it chock full of armor and weapons. Now, I’m not a violent one, but when laser rifles and flame throwers are at your disposal, even the pacifists start grabbing guns. The only downside to such guns however are the fact that they contain many imperfections. Rebels aren’t trained gunsmiths, so most of their weapons were made from impure metals and, according to Na’Dena, are “ghetto.” As I searched through the arsenal, one sniper rifle caught my eye. It was three feet long with a scope that could magnify up to one hundred forty times and could switch to thermal imaging. My sadistic mind raced thinking of what I could do to that cursed turnip with this.
“Enjoying yourself?” someone chuckled. I turned to find Saminje with a grin on her face, “I knew you would be in here eventually.” She noticed the rifle and her smile broadened, “That would be the Killington 5000 custom built sniper rifle you’re holding there. The jerk ‘king’ shut down weapons factories a few days after he started his reign, but we ransacked the place.”
“Why is this in place connected to my room, though?” I puzzled, “And why so much? Am I going to be carrying around an entire military arsenal in my bottomless backpack?”
Saminje chuckled, “We didn’t invent anything like that yet, sorry. Find what you like, we can give you a strap. If you want to ‘test’ them, go to the fourth room on the left when you’re facing back towards your bedroom.” With that, she left me to play with my new toys.
I picked up an assault rifle and walked into the aforementioned door. In it stood large posts where you could place the cardboard cutouts of the dictator on it. The cutouts had vulgar language and insults on it. I placed one on the nearest target and loaded my weapon. It turns out that all of the weapons fire lasers and are battery powered. The battery was shaped like a cartridge from the bullet-firing weapons of forever ago. In fact, the entire weapon was shaped like an ancient SJ-74. Nostalgic memories of my friends firing the weapons during my childhood as my telekinesis squeezed on the trigger. A red trainer round blasted out of the barrel with a “pew” and hit the target square in the center. Sadistically, a smile crossed my face as I unloaded the battery on the target. When I was finished, what was left of the cutout smoldered as ashes continued to fall.
Next, I returned with the rifle I had held previously. After placing another target on the farthest pole, which was roughly two hundred yards away (it was a big room), I squeezed a few rounds off and checked the target. There was only one hole directly between the figure’s eyes but no scorch marks on either side indicating a miss. Hm, I thought to myself, Three rounds, one hole, no miss marks. I had come to the conclusion that I had sent all three lasers right through the same hole. I grinned to myself for my naturally grown marksmanship and walked back to the armory, gun in my hand.
As I entered the armory, I remembered what was also in there: armor. Hey, even vegetables need to play dress-up every once in a while – especially with body armor. Putting on the coolest piece of armor on, I felt awesome for the first time in my life. A golden breast plate, complete with spikes lining the inward part of the hero-esque abs, covered my “torso” as I waltzed (or at least tried to with the whole floating thing) towards the mirror in the first room. I couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of someone rushing into battle looking like a stud. If anything, their opponents would die laughing rather than by his rifle. I took the armor off, still stunned by the possibility that I would have to wear something like this if we were ever found out.
The entire mansion was – in my mind – a cross between a playground, a maze, and a house. I have lost count of the times that I had gotten lost in this magnificent place. All of the corridors look the same: dirt walls complimented by dirt floors and the occasional door – but those never helped. We need one of those “You Are Here” maps every ten or so feet, I think. Lobbies, libraries, meal halls, this place might be bigger than the entire city!
I had finally returned back to the main dining hall (yes, for some reason there are multiple dining halls) just in time for the evening meal to be served. In a gilded bowl placed in front of me was carrot soup with bits of assorted fruits and vegetables in the broth. Everyone save Saminje got a bowl, the latter party refused to eat other vegetables (similar to a vegetarian), so she got the flank of a wolf. Much like the now butt-less wolf would have, I “wolfed” down the bowl of soup to fill the gaps that the terrible food that the snot monsters fed me in prison. Even though it tasted as if it was hastily made, it tasted like the most divine thing I have ever put into my mouth. After dinner, I sprung up the stairs to my bedroom, put on my night cap and went to sleep.
I awoke the following morning to a face. Obviously, if you see a face that is watching you sleep, you need to scream – it’s like the law of physiology. However, if you are a former king whose position was stolen and you scream and you are in the underground rebel camp, a lot more armed guards come than you want – like three or four hundred more. It turns out, however, that the person who was looking down at me was just one of my servants, Yothnan, who needed to tell me about a meeting.
“Nonetheless,” I muttered as the guards left the room, “You should really be more subtle. I nearly hit you with a lamp!”
“My apologies,” Yothnan replied, “The reason I was waiting for you to awake was because Saminje and Daniel needed to meet you.”
I muttered a few unkind things as I got changed and left for the meeting. The room where we met was rather secluded from the rest of the mansion, possibly for this reason exactly. I opened the thick metal door and saw a large conference table complete with large monitors for conferences from far distances. In two of the chairs, one on each side, sat Saminje and Daniel. Being the head honcho, I got to sit in the big plush chair at the head of the table.
“Alright,” I tried to speak in my most athorative voice, but seeing as it was failing, I returned to my normal voice, “Why was I called to this meeting?”
“Well,” Daniel spoke in a voice that hid under a false calmness, “You hate the dictator as much as we do, yes?” I nodded curiously, “Well, you see, we have to do this thing that goes around and-“
“Alright, let’s cut to the chase.” Saminje cut in, “Let’s put this in Layman terms: You go to palace, you sneak on mountain nearby. You use rifle, rifle go boom, dictator – among other people – drop dead, you’re new king. Do I make sense?” Daniel and I stared blankly at her. Alright, joining an underground (literally) rebel group after they saved your life is one thing – but asking to kill a dictator? Wait, I take that back, I would actually like to do that.
As I stood in the armory, I went through my mental checklist. Super-cool battle armor complete with camouflage: check. Awesome laser rifle with thermal scope and seeing-through-walls attachments: check. Super-cool-adjective sandwich: already eaten, but check nonetheless. I think I’m ready to go with this assassination plan. With that, I got in the not-so-suspicious van and we drove off to the palace.
Laying in the sand, I made the realization that this type of armor is not that sandproof. I tried to ignore the itchy sensation of the desert sands as I scanned the rooms of the palace for the dictator. Each room brought back tearful memories of my residence there. However, said tearful memories also gave me a decent idea of the floor plan of the magnificent palace. Finally, my thermal vision noticed a crowned figure. I positioned my sights right onto the center of his dastardly body, and began to squeeze the trigger. Right before I sent the laser, I noticed three more figures around him: his bodyguards. I released the trigger and let out a sigh and tried to find another target. However, the longer I waited, and the more guards I killed, the more the risk rises. It’s a waiting game now, I thought to myself.
As always, the fact that I was secluded from anyone that was allied with me began to settle in. The endless algorithm of scanning the first floor, the second floor, and all of the other fifty floors. Finally, I saw the dictator fall asleep in the bed that was rightly mine. I checked to see if he was alone in his bed, attached my silencer, and prepared for the shot. A sadistic smile crossed my face as I took a deep breath and pressed the trigger – pew.
I rushed into the van and closed the door with a slam. The van sped off with a thump as it took off from the ground. From the driver and passengers seat, I could hear cheers of sheer joy. I couldn’t help but cheer myself, I stopped the master of genocide. During the ride home, Daniel passed me something: a makeshift crown.
“The metallurgists made this as your reward,” he sputtered, “Congratulations, Your Highness.” I chuckled momentarily, I was so unuse to being called royalty. The ride home was long and mentally painful on my part. I replayed what happened over and over in my mind, seeing if I could have improved in my technique. As I pondered my decisions, I drifted in to a doze.
I awoke in my bed the following day. Initally, I thought that it was all just a dream, until I realized I was still in my battle armor and beside me lay my laser rifle. On the shelf next to me, my crown rested upon the head of a statue. This was a good experience, I thought to myself. I killed a dictator and became the new king. However, I guess it’s all in a king’s work.
Paragraphs, more please.
use the tab button on paragraphs
Here, let me upload the Word file with the paragraphs.
[editline]01:22PM[/editline]
[url]http://www.4shared.com/document/cXNnmgkF/The_History_of_Turnipia.html[/url]
ok thank you
:byodood:
I might actaually read this some time
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