This is a combination of me finally making it to the Metaverse and a wish to illustrate my first battle by telling about it here.

It's my first attempt at a military victory, and my first go with the Yor. Hell, this is my first go with *any* military race. But so, without further ado, we begin:

The Expansion

Aah, space! A vast place, filled with nothing. No nothing has ever proposed such opportunities, such adventure as the particular nothing of which Space can brag.

Such was, reportedly, the words of N-1 as he stood atop a hill on Iconia, looking at the first Hyperspace outfitted spaceship. For such insolence as poetry, he was, of course, executed and his successor N-1 the Second is the glorious leader that brings his robotic majesty to space.

I have a mission. A smothering hatred of everything alive has motivated this mission. The Yor are the only race *fit* to live, in a sense, and I shall strive to make this statement fact!

The first way to do this, of course, is money. As N-1 the Second so stalely states: “With money you can buy things.” And what things! A question I would soon find answered.

As the Yor, I brave a Painful(ly) Immense galaxy. Everything is random, except for common habitable, four opponents. The Yor can conquer chaos as they conquered the Iconians on Iconia! Alliances and technology victories are off. The Yor shall triumph alone, and military power will be the way!

But first: Money. With money, things may be bought, and it is with things that this galaxy shall crumple. And so the Yor toils and produces and reproduce like the true and hardworking robots that they are.

We are alone at first, which is well. The Isolationalistic (from here on referred to as Creative Thinking) tendencies of these magnificent manufactorates means that everyone is slower around them, and combining this with a vast gulf of aforementioned nothing means that a veritable Fortress of robotics may be forged from the stars and planets.

At first, all is quiet. Money is the first order of business, and money is made in great numbers. The hungry eyes of the Yor first fall upon the humans who, unsuspecting of the great force they toy with, colonize the swath of barely habitable planets unworthy of a Yor, which is between our real worlds. Only those planets akin to Iconia and a hulking 26 quality brute, which has been elected as the purse of the burgeoning empire is worthy of initial colonization.

The Yor, however, decide to not immediately eradicate the humans, in part due to their possession of economic technologies which the Yor requires. The humans prove difficult, however, in giving away that which keeps them alive, in part because the Yor do not waste time on diplomacy. Those inferior will obey or learn their place. The humans will learn theirs in good time.

Then the Thalans declare war on me.

The Yor know mercy and permits culprits one peace treaty. The Yor kills in the second war. The Yor does not relent.

The Thalans have just spend their first one, and so soon in the game. They shall learn their mistake. I review my financial status. The five ciphers assure me of my superiority. I change focus. Weapons are needed to eradicate the Thalans, and simply because the Yor permits one peace treaty, it does not mean they are willing to give it.

Thus, I research and the Thalans consistently fail in living up to the war they themselves started. I look with satisfaction at my Star Furies. They shall blast the enemies from their own skies, and I am content. I hit turn and I’m surprised to find that, for the first time in a long time, my screen shifts forcefully to someplace to view some event, a movement which I detest as vehemently as the sun does ice. The event to review is, it seems, the Thalans picking off my Surveyor who has strayed too far from the Fortress.

Ha, I think. Is that what you have, Thalans? The strength to take out cargo hulls?

This will be easy.

Then I notice something about their ships. Something strangely foreboding.

My turn resumes, and I click back to the site. At this point, there’s a small hint of nagging doubt that’s climbing around in my head, trying to find foothold. I select the ship with increasing aggression and the computer finally reacts and brings up the information of a medium-class battleship with a 48 beam strength.

I sit for a second, staring at the ship and the hole which has appeared in my vision of a perfect future and from there climbs the thing the Yor dreads most of all. A vicious and viral thing, of un-robotic origin, this blasphemous plague spreads quickly among the sentinents of my Fortress.

The concept of losing.

I look back at my Star Furies, the boldest of which boasts 3 beam power. A bit of calculations tells me that 16 of my Star Furies should match one of those in attack power.

I hardly have ten at this point, and my screen shows me two of the hated hulls. To add to the increasingly problematic situation, I lack any but the most basic logistics.

The Thalans’ war declaration was not the insolent squeak of an organic blob we took it for.

It was the roar of a great beast, a draconic and vast force which brings back chilled memories of pre-Twilight Thalans with an 80% bonus to military and social productions, along with instant factories. There are two things left to do. First, the leadership is obviously incompetent to have let this happen. N-1 the Second is replaced by N-1 the Genocider on the eve of October, four years into the game. With this feared general in command, we begin to prepare for the onslaught that will become the First Great War.