The Sentinel Gate Affair, Episode III: Step Into My Parlor

. . .  Said the Master to the Spy.

Continued from our last episode, A Bounty on the Mutant.

     The bounty hunter Tommy Takara waited near the hulking guards in the catacombs beneath the palace for what seemed a dog's age before their subtle separation heralded the arrival of the two cardinals tasked with the inquisition into what they called the "Frei matter."

     Takara was glad he was accustomed to industrial worlds, as the atmosphere was dank and acrid. In fact, the two high lords both wore masks and respirators so large their faces were either completely, or nearly completely obscured. Even in armor that was clearly ceremonial they looked surprisingly formidable. He was not eager to deliver disappointment to men such as these. While the first fellow stroked some kind of animal the second waved a greeting and began.

     "I understand you have returned empty handed."

     "Yes, your eminence. A team of local operatives found Frei and moved him into the hinterlands before I was able to secure him," Takara answered. "After that I quickly found my transit permits had disappeared."

     The air hung silent for a long moment as Takara sweated over his fate. Eventually the first fellow, the taller one with the . . . cat Takara decided, spoke out almost inaudibly.

     "Do you care to add anything before we dispatch you?"

     The word hung in the air like an axe.

     Takara swallowed before he replied. "No, your eminence. My failure is my own responsibility."

     "I'm not seeking excuses," the cardinal continued. "Merely information. What else did you observe?"

     Takara thought long about his reply. If his information was useful perhaps he would still have breath when this audience ended. Maybe even a career.

     "There seem to be quite a few parties interested. There was a second bounty hunter. Some kind of orc. Or troll, maybe."

     "And he was permitted to search freely?" the shorter cardinal interrupted.

     "Yes your eminence. It appears there is some kind of peace between the local officials and a wide variety of xenos. Maybe not trust, but tolerance. Orcs were allowed access to the administrative seat. It wasn't even walled."

     Takara paused for a moment. "Go on," prompted the quiet cardinal.

     "The operatives who secured Frei are apparently a rather well known local group. They've done a lot of work for the Rex-Avis clan in the past. And Rex-Avis seems to have some association with the Proconsul."

     "Anything else?" the shorter cardinal queried further. (Though the difference in height probably came down mostly to the size of their hats.)

     "No your eminence. I think that's all."

     The quiet man dismissed him with a nod and Takara was happy to take his leave of the place. And he made a note to himself not to accept any more jobs from the bloody cardinal electors if he could possibly help it.

. . . . .

     A short time later the two prelates turned to welcome a gentleman with heavy grey armor and a data pad.

     "Ah, Augustus. Thank you for coming," said the shorter cardinal, waving once again.

     "It seems we have need of an inquest, and we would like to ask you to lead it."

     "Absolutely, your grace," Augustus replied confidently and rather more familiarly. The two cardinals were old associates of the grizzled investigator, who was himself sworn to the service of Holy Terra; a priest inquisitor in the Imperial cult. "What do you require of me?"

     "We need you to investigate rumors of apostasy in the north; in the Tartarus Rim. Perhaps the whole of it. The very highest levels of provincial government may not be keeping full faith with Terra. There are even rumors of peace with hostile xenogennimous races, which would be a most foul heresy if it were true."

     Augustus merely nodded at this and tapped a few notes into his pad before the cardinal continued.

     "We will dispatch a force to support you, should our fears be true and invasion necessary. We cannot immediately spare much more than a squadron; a few galleons and cruisers. But they should suffice to hold any local forces at bay until the Armada can be mustered."

     Again Augustus nodded. "Do you wish me to await this force? Is it prepared?"

     "We will send you aboard the flagship, IMS Periastron," the shorter cardinal continued. "You should probably approach in secret. Perhaps leave the squadron near, but outside the province. Lord Simon will provide you with a list of suitable contacts with ships that can carry you the last few parsecs. Most likely tramp traders, but reliable and known to us."

     "Very good," Augustus said. "I pray all the fates and his Divine Majesty will smile upon you in my absence, and that they will grant this enterprise good fortune."

     "Calm spaces and prosperous voyage my friend," the cardinal replied.

     With that the three bowed slightly and made their individual ways to their appointed tasks.

. . . . .

     When Augustus reached orbit, he found a small, but formidable force awaiting him. The Periastron was a little older, but she was still a powerful warship. With her he saw the Furious class great galleon Sacrosanctus, two Comitatus class cruisers, and several smaller escorts.

     For the most part the journey was smooth. They encountered no serious storms in transit space, and much of the journey was within the boundaries of Imperial NavAid control. Only in the far galactic north was the skilled reckoning of a bound navigator required. With the aid of arcane half-alien implants in their brains, bound to them and passed down through families and guilds, navigators were able to sense the subtle metaspace currents travelers called "the warp." And indeed, Augustus found the act of looking out his porthole in transit space deeply unsettling. The other ships in the squadron seemed warped and distorted; almost monstrous. Barely recognizable as ships at all when they were visible. So he was glad when Periastron once again dropped into normal space. Ironically, it was there that his troubles began. Upon warping out the fleet found a soldified gas tanker, presumably servicing some automated mining platform.

     The commodore immediately fired a warning, seized the vessel, and took the crew into custody. Neither EM nor gravitics had shown anything that looked like a transmission. Upon inspection, there was nothing in the tanker's memory banks, but those could be scrubbed easily enough. It probably wouldn't change much if the Rimmers knew there were a fleet nearby, but it would make investigation more . . . challenging.

. . . . .

     Proconsul Commodus was deep in conversation with Marcus Camber when his chief of staff interrupted.

     "This had better be good," Commodus muttered.

     "Sir, we just got a waveless flash from a rim flagged tanker: DePCoPro Vacuum 2. It seems an imperial fleet has taken station on the border. Vac 2 shot out a coded tightbeam to a gas platform that they were servicing that had an automatic waveless reporting feature that mostly sent tech information back to corporate. The report came through buried in the regular data, but according to the timestamps it seems like this probably happened about six hours ago."

     He handed the Proconsul a flimsy with the basic details. Commodus examined it for a moment and Camber observed silently.

     The tall official pondered to himself. He wasn't prepared for open rebellion against the Terrans, but he also didn't care to sacrifice the tenuous peace he was building to political expediency in a far away and notoriously xenophobic court.

     "What do you make of this, Alex?" he asked.

     "Not much sir. There's really nothing in the report beyond the seizure itself and some probable ship IDs. Unless they were really paying attention to their EM and gravitics they may not have had any warning until the first coms came in and they popped up on visual. I doubt there was much time to react. I'm pretty impressed they got off what they did. Given everything I can't imagine the Terran intents are completely peaceful and above board. But what their aims and reasons might be . . . Your guess is as good as mine."

     After a brief pause he added "Hell, your guess is probably a lot better. Have we done anything since Project Iowa that would set the council off?"

     Commodus was honestly rather annoyed at the timing, but he tried not to let it show. "Clearly we have," he answered slowly and evenly. "Or they wouldn't be here. I have an idea, but I'd like to keep it close to my chest for now. I'll read you in later, Alex."

     With a nod, he dismissed the aide and turned to Camber. "Marcus, we have a problem. And we're going to need eyes and ears. Who do we have?"

     "That can operate in the south? Maybe the Duchess," he answered.

     "Can you get word to her? Call her in?" Commodus asked.

     "Not personally, no. But Rex-Avis might be able to."

     "Dear lord, I'm getting tired of this. Do we have to run all our ops through her?" Commodus let his cool demeanor slip a bit at this last part.

     Camber, who was personal friends with Colorado Rex-Avis thanks to his gibsonite ventures on Moab III, let the jab slide. "Well, she and Ursaline-Drakemore have built a hell of a network on their own dollar. We're deeply lucky she's on our side."

     "I begin to think de Bayamon and the Dragons answer more to her than to me!" Commodus huffed.

     "They're both on Moab, sir. While we're usually on Proserpine."

     Commodus had to grant that point. "Very well. Send word. And by the way . . . Thank you. And Rex-Avis. I'd appreciate a more redundant operational structure. I hate relying on a system so apparently susceptible to a single-point failure. But I am truly grateful for your help."

     Camber nodded at that. It was a small apology, but it was an apology. "Very good sir. By your leave . . . "

     Commodus waved him off and Camber hurried below to the code shack to make a secure transmission. Soon after Sergeant Maxim Wether was on a Logansport terrace opposite Sir Stanley Ursaline-Drakemore.

     Wether had arrived in Logansport in a great hurry. "Sir Stanley, I urgently need to speak with Rex-Avis."

     Sir Stanley replied calmly "I'm afraid she's out of the system at present."

     Wether looked a little surprised at this. "Oh?" he asked.

     "She got an invitation to observe a fleet exercise near Starship Rock," Sir Stanley answered. "Not the sort of thing you turn down. She's not expected back until next week."

     "Starship Rock is actually perfect. Commodus is hoping she can contact the Duchess," said Wether. "Do you have a secure line of communication with her? It's really quite pressing."

     "Of course," Stanley replied. "Follow me."

. . . . .

     Starship rock was three jumps and a good several parsecs distant, but the entangled particles of a secure waveless network made transmission nearly instantaneous, with the lag between repeaters being the only delay. Waveless required linked sets, and their use tended to produce localized high energy radiation that could be detected, but the sets were slowly catching on, making communication across galactic distances much simpler than it had been even just a few years ago.

     And in barely any time at all, Rex-Avis and the notorious Duchess of Pain Court were face to face in an abandoned section of the starport terminal.

     "Elaine," Colorado Rex-Avis began. "Thank you for coming."

     "It's no trouble at all. I owe you one for sorting things out with Commodus and Snakeskin. I really had no idea Penny was his daughter."

     "Water under the bridge," said Colorado. "And the official story was quite useful. I'd been trying to talk Commodus into peace for years, but without a lever he wasn't willing to go there."

     "Well," replied the self styled Duchess, "I'm glad it worked out. It really was not what I envisioned. And getting bested by a gob doesn't really help your reputation any."

     "Snakeskin is pretty special, even as gobblins go," Colorado replied. "Anyway, it was actually Commodus that wanted your help."

     "Oh really?" Elaine replied. "I'm just glad not to be rotting in jail. I'm really genuinely surprised he's willing to speak to me."

     "He's looking for a spy, not a friend."

     At this Elaine grew more visibly interested. "That is not at all what I expected."

     "There's a bunch of Terran warships gathering just south of the Rim," Colorado said.

     "I know," Elaine replied flatly.

     It was Colorado's turn to be caught flat footed. "How on earth would you have heard about that?"

     "They called me."

     "You can't be serious?" Colorado said, utterly shocked. "And who, precisely, are they?"

     "An inquisitor named Augustus. He wants me to pick him up and play nanny for him while he's on Moab looking into something or other."

     "Oh ho? Is that why they're here?" Colorado began to put the pieces together. Moab meant it was more likely related to Gordon Frei than Project Iowa. They really needed to slow the pace of diplomatic incidents. She was privately glad it wasn't Inquisitor Guimar this time. That man had been a complete boor. Though . . . this did mean the present fellow was more likely to be at least somewhat capable. Which would complicate matters.

     Colorado spoke again. "Commodus is hoping you can ingratiate yourself to the Terrans. Maybe pretend you're still on the outs with the local Spacing Guild, smuggling and tramping as you are able. Your network is . . . formidable. Especially in the French sector."

     Elaine could only agree with that. She nodded for Colorado to continue. "It's a pretty thin cover, really. But it sticks at least somewhat close to the truth, which makes it easier. And we're short on leads in that direction, and coming perilously close to conflict. It will be dangerous. Of course. You are welcome to use your judgment to feed them whatever information to which you are privy you feel is necessary to win their trust, just so long as it's short of causus belli."

     "I'll do what I can," Elaine answered. "I should get back to the Boudoir," she said, as she turned. "If I'm to pick this Terran monk-spy up I'll need to get back warpside chop chop."

. . . . .

     A few day's spacing later the Duchess of Pain Court and her Boudoir Noire were outside the Tartarus Gate meeting an imperial, by god, galleon. One of the big ones with the huge temples tacked on all antique style. A real first rate, by the look of it. Maybe even a bona-fide relic from the Terran Reconquista. (They kept ships that long, she'd heard. Maybe they'd plum forgotten how to build them and didn't care if hull plates rotted out from warp radiation. Or maybe they just plassed them over and pretended they were fine. Hell, maybe they really did make them better back then like the oldest spacers sometimes said. Though Elaine rather doubted the truth of that.) Anyway, there it was, right on time. Marked up with a big red V and a stripe. Probably squardon markings, she decided. One stripe for the commodore and two for the flag? Ah, who knew how the Terrans did things. Didn't really matter anyway. She wasn't fighting it, just meeting a launch to carry the contents a few jumps back into what passed for civilization so far north.

     And just like that Inquisitor Augustus and the Duchess were planetside in yet another bland pre-fab starport terminal. What was it the princess had said in the classic play? "Aren't you a little short for a storm trooper?" Yes. That was it. She'd had the chance to play that part when she was a girl on Vide Poche. Fun little roll for a ten year old girl. She smiled at the memory.
     "So Augustus," she said. "Where can I take you first? I love a good mystery novel and I hope you will let me help you solve yours."
     "That, madame, is precisely what I'm hoping. We have so few reliable contacts this far north. And his majesty, may he live ten thousand years, informs me you have a solid network. We can, of course, make the matter worth your while."

     "It will be my pleasure," Elaine smiled. It would, she realized. This should be the most exquisite fun.

. . . . .

Thank you dear readers for joining me on this adventure. It's shaping up to be a wild ride. Please do tune in next time for episode IV of the Sentinel Gate Affair: A Fine Day for a Parade.

Sincerely,

The Composer

Snakeskin and the Duchess

In the annals of the free goblin heroes of the Tartarus Rim none rise higher than Pliss Snakeskin.

His gang, the Veridian Boyz, are among the most renowned sneakers in the known galaxy, having quietly smuggled all manner of contraband and even people through their network of agents and unlisted shuttleports, extending to even some of the most secret facilities on the most heavily guarded planets. He himself can generally be recognized by his two most prized trophies: his eyepatch, won in a long ago fight with an orc who tried to enlist his involuntary assistance, and his lucky scarf, which the story says he found while escaping a prison on the old moon of Terra itself. As with all such rumors it is impossible to confirm it, but whatever the truth the original meaning of the design is long forgotten. For Snakeskin it apparently has a newer and more personal meaning: Freedom!

Perhaps his single most notorious exploit on the Rim involved rescuing Proconsul Christos Commodus from a carefully orchestrated kidnapping by none other than the notorious Duchess of Pain Court and her gang, the Boudoir Noir.

This event that was the single most key driver behind the current Treaty of Proserpine, which grants full rights to all goblinoid and orkoid inhabitants of the sector. (At least so long as the Terran Imperial Council remains unaware of this purely local situation.)

. . . . . . . 

This particular duo is of interest since the second provided me with the name and background for the first, thus linking the two of them together. The second, a limited edition Citadel Chaos Warrior, often cheekily referred to as the "Kinky Chaosette," was my first personality of 2020. I was struggling with how to paint her when a friend posted a picture of a bit of fan art to his facebook page: The Duke's Limousine out of Escape from New York. The things was, for reasons of finance, not actually shot in New York. Instead, my hometown provided the setting. Which of course endears it to me and virtually everyone else in my part of flyover country. With that car firmly in mind The Duchess was born.

(Incidentally, Pain Court was apparently once a nickname for the town, back in the very early days of French colonization. Before some other French colony asserted the trademark on the the nick. And you know what? Given what we're infamous for these days . . . I want it back!)

The preceding green fellow was actualy the penultimate miniature of 2019, and one about which I quite forgot. I think I might even have finished him in "Orktober," though don't quite me on that. He is, in point of fact, a Demonblade "Blood Claw Frother" originally released by Grenadier as a part of their K-Force range. I'd already painted the gobbo with the missile launcher out of the same pack, but what to do with the large headscarf? Of cousre! A 'Murican Flag! Why a goblin on the far reaches of space should have a U.S. flag unceremoniously draped about his noggin I didn't know, but . . . where there's a will the imagination writes a way. And really, what's more American than being rebellious and freedom loving, like our little green guy. He's an American knockoff on an Anglo classic, after all. (Which is itself a knockoff on an American knockoff on an Anglo knockoff on a bunch of Euro classics all wrapped up in a copy of the Sunday Times and served with a side of mixed pickle.) Ordinarily this much copying is supposed to lead to a grey sheet of paper, but maybe that theory isn't entirely correct. To paraphrase another son of St. Louis, ideas stolen from creations sufficiently diverse in time and culture can lead to a remarkably convincing simulacrum of greatness. (Maybe the only true genius that's out there.)

Anyway, both of these are pretty straightfoward builds. My paint slapped on someone else's sculpt. The only bit of deviousness was using a shield from the Bizaza Guard. The Duchess was supposed to have one of those generic plastic shields we all know and love. Strange as this may sound, I have so very very little fantasy in my leadpile that I have none. But I figure on converting the Bizaza gang over to outer space, so they didn't really need the shield especially. (I hope.) Eh, for better or worse . . . it's hers now!

Anyway, thank you for following along. Hope you enjoyed this little detour through the realms of imagination.

Sincerely,
The Composer

Uncivil Servant

A year or two ago I backed a kickstarter by a company called Blind Beggar Miniatures. Like so many things I've purchased over the years the set of miniatures thus acquired is . . . not yet fully in paint. But slowly, bit by bit, it's getting closer. This is the story of one miniature in that set: They Mayor. Quite a few of the miniatures in the range seem to refer to a property called "Outlanders." As best as I can figure this might be related to a movie and its novelization from the late seventies or early eighties by the same name. (Could also be a novel and its dramatization. Not quite sure which way the two fall there.) Most of the miniatures have a sort of space western feel to them. There was quite a lot of that going around thirty years ago, and it's an ethos that appeals to me particularly. I'm not really sure who "The Mayor" is, or how he fits into the Outlanders story, whatever that might be. But he clearly has a rather ominous vibe, with his almost plague doctor like mask and his villainous tophat and umbrella.

He's clearly a rather affluent fellow, given his somewhat antique business garb, so I've decked him out in pinstripes and an ascot that probably refers to some lair where the children of similar fat cats grow into the maneaters they ultimately become. (No evil overlord is complete without a good evil overschooling, right?)

Like so many Blind Beggar miniatures the Mayor's details run a little to the softer end of the spectrum and the scale to the larger. Not everyone will appreciate this, but I feel it gives him a very nice comic-book kind of style that stands him well on the gaming table. Below you can see him next to another unusually tall and slightly ominous sort, in this case one of the Society of Intrepid Explorers from Curtis Fell's Ramshackle Miniatures.

And below you can see him with a variety of other upper crust sorts from various manufacturers: two leftmost from the Space Lords adventurers range now available from Moonraker, two from Ramshackle, our Mayor, and three from Colony 87.

 All in all, I'd say he stands in good stead. He's clearly a little bigger than some of the older models, but not so much so as to seem inappropriate. (We humans are, after all, quite variable in our own size and shape.) And his style of dress fits in quite well with the other sculpts, both modern and historic. And if his details provide a most interesting canvas for a painter to express themself.

Lastly, below I give you the Mayor with the other miniatures from the range: assorted civilians, colonists, aliens, and mysterious strangers wandering about the wastelands. Blind Beggar may be a bit of an acquired taste, but . . . I do believe I have acquired it. Lovely stuff.

As always, thank you for reading along. And have fun gaming out there, whatever miniatures and rules you care to use.

Sincerely,

The Composer

Another Space Ride

Things have been quiet around Tartarus lately, but there have been a few new arrivals. Some months back a talented Spanish artist released his contribution to the growing Oldhammer hobby into the wild as part of a project called Space Riders. This was the first kickstarter I had the pleasure of backing. Things got a little hairy, what with the intercity move and some familial complications, but I've finally had a chance to brush up a few more of them. To refresh, the first member of this set I painted was the "Reptyle Centaur," who joined up with my crocs in a post called Reptiliad Revolution. Now he as a few friends . . . or maybe enemies. Frenemies with benefits? (It can be so hard to tell out in the wilds. Enmities can dissolve quickly in the face of a sand cyclone. And alliances even quicker.)

Recently arrived on Moab III are two particularly dangerous looking characters. The first, Tommy Takara, has used many aliases over the years: The Max, Angel Max, Max Power, and Max Engel. Takara landed at the starport about a week ago. Rumors have it that he's chasing some kind of Imperial bounty, though how far Imperial papers will get him is a matter of some conjecture.

Takara is a large man, noteworthy for mechanical prosthetics reputedly bequeathed him by the Martian Tech Cult. (His lack of official status has led to some suggestions that he was either born to someone from or himself enslaved in the penal test corps; the so called test bed slaves.) Even without the militarized limb he has the appearance of a powerful and aggressive human.

At almost the same time a tall orcoid called Gobbrott landed somewhere out in the wastes; reputedly also chasing bounty, though probably not for the Terrans.

His friends, such as he has any, usually call him Gob or Gobber. Equipped with a variable dispersion plasma rifle and a high intensity arc tracker he can be a fearsome opponent.

Adding to the strange and troublesome news from space comes a sighting from the ground; the giant Hulkus umberei. 

The Hulkus umberei, or ambler, is a semi-bipedal omnivore that has spread from coreward to many rim worlds. Their hardy desert metabolism has served them quite well in the galaxy's many hot and arid zones. Bull amblers stand from two to three meters at the shoulder and cows have occasionally been recorded with heights in excess of four. While slow appearing these giants can move quite quickly for short bursts, not unlike many cold blooded Terran species. The hulks are also fairly intelligent animals, occasionally fashioning  simple tools from logs and boulders. On some planets entire groups of amblers, called tanks, have passed missile weapons from generation to generation; using it as their principal hunting technique. Given their prodigious mass it is doubtless evident that these are not creatures to be trifled with.

How the hulk arrived on Moab III isn't precisely known, perhaps a collector brought one or several for a private menagerie and it escaped into the wild, but once established the creatures are virtually impossible to eliminate. They spend much of their life burrowing underground and hunt by detecting surface and subsurface vibrations, so traditional chemical and biological means of control are often ineffective. Trophy hunting has been known to help to some limited extent, and their flesh is a fairly prized delicacy . . . to those hunters able to catch them.

One final new arrival: a Ramshackle fellow known to the Rim as Gordon Frei.

Frei has been floating around the galaxy a long long time. Precisely how long is uncertain. He has considerable notoriety in technical circles. Some sources suggest he is a rogue mechan fleeing the Martian Tech Cult. Others claim he has never had any association with them, coming instead from Terra. Still others suggest a much darker origin; that he stepped out of a mysterious warpspace rift and that he preaches a terrible gospel of liberation. Whatever his history, he appears to be fleeing an Imperial warrant. Given his pallid and deeply scarred appearance the likeliest explanation is that the Imperial Cult regards him as some kind of dangerous mutant. He is also rumored to posses, alternately, either psionic abilities or alien or archaic technology of mysterious power; usually described as a variant of a graviton projector. There is no official record of his arrival in Logansport, but reliable witnesses have placed him at various locations around Moab III, primarily on the outskirts of the capital. More recently he has dropped out of view. Perhaps he has found transport off planet or maybe he is taking refuge out in the wastes.

That about sums up the recent news from the Tartarus Rim. As always thank you for listening. Hopefully there will be more very soon.

Sincerely,

The Composer

Reptiliad Revolution

In 1987 Rick Priestly created something rather new. He gave us a book we know as Rogue Trader and inaugurated a game called Warhammer 40,000. This was a rich setting, with numerous aliens and hints of dark forces and occult practices in a sort of Holy Roman Empire in space. We, the gamers, were encouraged to create our own additions, converting miniatures from Citadel and other manufacturers or even making our own entirely from scratch. The setting was a sandbox we could sculpt to our liking. And while many things changed since then more than a few of us still inhabit that ancient and war weary world. Among the inhabitants is a gentleman who goes by Diego.

Diego has not abandoned that call to create. Recently he gave us a lovely reminder of what could have been and indeed what can be with a project he called Space Riders. The names have been changed, but the limb count remains the same. Green skins might lose their k, but not their teeth. The mermen of the outer reaches still have fins and gills, much as before. Tremendous insectile predators still drag their knuckles on alien worlds. And indeed, hexapodal reptiliads might have a new taxonomy, but they surely still blend the centaur and the crocodile as effectively as they ever did, with three toes to a foot and four fingers to a hand and weapons apparently grown as much as forged. It is with one of these reptiliads that I begin my foray into Diego's "Riders."

First, let me say that this is a positively lovely miniature. It's no mean copy of what came before, but a delicate and completely new sculpt of the finest quality. The details are crisp. The casting is clean. The pose is ever so slightly more dynamic than the originals without being incompatible. In short, this thing is first rate. Rather than being a labor of love from a dedicated fan these really ought to be official sculpts from the newest employee of the Nottinghamshire juggernaut. But I'll take it any way I can get it. This may be the only way I'll ever have a half decent squad of hexapodal reptiliads. For comparison here's the new fellow with one of the Citadel sculpts that inspired his heroic form.

And here he is from another angle with the entire squad. (Minus the one sculpt not yet in my private collection.)

I feel quite certain that this is destined to be a sought after, cherished, and surpassingly unusual casting and I feel deeply fortunate that I was there to witness its release into the wilds of space. Thank you sir. And thanks to all who helped make this possible.

Until the next time . . .

We ride!

. . . (in space.)

__________________________________________________

Addendum: For the interested inquries can be sent to To those interested send inquiries on Facebook to Diego Serrate. You can also find him on the Oldhammer Forum, where he goes by Obscure Creator. I think he'd be happy to sell them directly.

Shocking Forces

In my slow quest to collect every piece of old lead I can get my hands on I've discovered a number of ranges I somehow missed back in the day. I've talked before about the Metal Magic Spacelords and Grenadier Future Warriors now available from Moonraker Miniatures. Unlike the imported German Phagons, I technically came across a few examples from the newest lead squeeze in the eighties when they were new, but not the particular sculpts that have drawn me to the line now. These fellows started life with a line that grew out of Grenadier's K-Force. Sometime later Demonblade Games bought them, expanded the range, and renamed them Shock Force. Later still Mega Miniatures came into them, but they have since sold them and I know not to whom, which is a shame, really. These are some great models. I picked up several examples in Demonblade blisters. Below you can see an "Org" called "The Bullet: Org Cleaner" and a "mutant" dubbed "Dominator."

Since their arrival on the Tartarus Rim they've become the security chiefs for the Rex-Avis clan. The fellow in the Italian suit goes by Eldovsky, or Ivan Grigorievitch to his friends. He's fond of subtle solutions to complex problems. His partner (both on and off the clock) is named Cookie Bernard. Cookie favors a more direct approach. The two of them have been traveling companions for quite a long time, but only managed to get officially hitched recently, thanks to a loosening of Imperial control in the sector. In spite of their differences they seem to make a remarkably good team.

Shock Force is truly a great source for interesting characters. Not only do they have sci-fi beastmen, satyrs, demons, mutants, and ambiguously vampiric sorts, but among their more distinctive bits are their space rats. They seem a little scarce at the moment, so I have only the example below, which was one of the heavies, but they had a full line with rats of all sorts and sizes. 

I've placed her with "Trooper Gaxt" for a size comparison. This boy is . . . large. I really should have put her on a square Ogryn grade base, but she came with the round slotta that I used. This is something of a problem, really, as she's so front heavy I had to add some honest to god lead to the back of the base to keep her upright. And that's not the only problem: She was also rather poorly cast, with several large voids that needed filling and a couple of large fractures. Further, the feet are rather too delicate for a miniature of such weight. They are extremely light and her pose puts her on the balls of her feet, placing a great deal of stress on the slender rat arches. Not a visual problem, mind. I think they look great. But they bend so easily that they ultimately broke under the strain of gravity and a paintbrush dumping her on the concrete floor. I solved the problem by adding in two wedges of greenstuff below his feet so that more surface area is in contact with the base, as you can see below.

For all the challenges, I must say I am fairly pleased with the result and I'm hoping I can pick up more of these rats, and more of Chaz Elliot's work in general. The details were quite compelling and characterful. This girl has a story to tell and I like having her in my world. And while this miniature had some casting problems, the others were absolutely fine. My hope is that she is the exception rather than the rule, and her unusual size and complexity masked the trouble allowing her to slip through. So far I've found no other problems in the dozen or so miniatures I picked up. On all the others the details are as crisp as any castings I've worked with; sharp, clean, and lovely. This gives me much hope.

As always, thank you for joining me. It's been a fun ride and I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I.

Sincerely,

The Composer

Enter the Rồng

Among the many sports found on the Tartarus Rim is the ancient game of Street Racing. Private parties maintain select roads especially for the purpose, though given the remoteness of the sites the tracks often serve several ends, simultaneously providing access to factories, mining compounds, or the private citadels of executives and government officials.

The car to beat in recent years has been Rồng-1, or "Dragon 1." Like all the vehicles of such races Rồng-1 is a restored and heavily modified twen-cen hydrocarbon burner. Replicas are legal, of course, so long as they follow the basic pattern, but the Dragon is an original (if any millennia old car with so many replacement parts can rightly be called original.) Her pedigree is beyond peer: a 1996 Shelby Viper with a McCullough 1710 flex-stage e-charger providing nearly optimal boost, coupled with a Christman supercooler that reduces thermal bleed and boost heat, even in hot conditions. The Dragon is currently in the stable of a Blake Walker, who makes his home near Lace Rock on Moab III.

Rồng 1 gained it's enigmatic name from an early owner, a gentleman of Asian ancestry in the ancient Earth state of Usa, where the car was built. In his native tongue rồng means dragon, and it was he that gave the car the first of it's many distinctive liveries. When absolutely correct, the name is pronounced approximately "raum", though opposing drivers generally prefer "wrong."

At the opposite end of today's lists can be seen Logansport A-1, often called "PTA" or "Smarty"

This vehicle belongs to a Logansport mining boss named Marcus Camber who has been collecting twen-cen guzzlers for many years. He has earned a rather unsavory reputation as a ruthless and remorseless competitor. Just what modifications Camber has made to his mount haven't been disclosed, but given his disregard for either courtesy or custom he is likely to be give Walker a real challenge, especially as he has had his sights on the Dragon for several years now.

Like the other cars mentioned before in Civil Transportation both Rồng-1 and LGPTA-1 are box scaled die cast toys, but they both work out well enough. Both are modified to some extent. Smarty got new interior colors, some weathering, and a coat of matte varnish to dull down the shine. The Dragon received a top to bottom repaint, with an added cowling for one of the assorted mysterious engine mods (perhaps the Christman supercooler.) All in all, I'm pleased enough. They're not perfect, but for such harsh conditions they don't really need to be. Both were the right price: free, but had I paid for them I doubt that they'd have been expensive. And they were fairly easy to break down, paint up, and bolt back together: all in all a win.

So now it's off to the races on distant Moab. As always, thanks for reading.

Sincerely,

The Composer

Civil Transportation for an Uncivil World

Your typical apocalyptic wasteland is never complete without a way to get around that requires the consumption of precious and rare resources which might well have precipitated the trouble in the first place. To that end I bring you vehicles of the unarmed sort. Our first example, El Burro Grande (which I can't help but call the burrito grande) is a small utility truck of uncertain ancestry. (Which is to say it was certainly not made by Imperial Motors.) The suspension is whacked all to heck. It's welded, bolted, riveted, and generally taped together from the pieces of a dozen donor vehicles. It's bullet scarred and battle bruised, but it runs when you can find fuel. And it's available for rent on a daily or even weekly basis (for those bigger jobs), and the owners don't tend to ask too many questions about new holes and burn marks that don't interfere with the machinery. This bright orange donkey of a cart may not win at the Derby, but he'll get you there. If you want fast, go get a red one. Logansport spacers are more concerned with payload and price.

Simple and reliable older vehicles are also quite popular, though they tend to be examples too heavily modified for the collector's market in the core worlds. The "Bummer" is one such. In this case passenger seating was sacrificed for cargo capacity. The weld jobs won't win any beauty contests, but they don't seem too likely to fall off in the wastes, which is something of a bonus. And it has enough ground clearance to get you through some of the sketchier boulder fields: a nice plus.

For those not familiar, the first truck is a more or less unmodified Gorka Morka "ork truk" acquired used on the bay. It was in rather brutal shape, missing parts, seemingly painted with housepaint, and held together (where applicable) with hot glue, but that just gives it more character to fit the scene. The second was an inexpensive die-cast Hummer given to me by a friend and quickly sent off to the chop shop for appropriate modifications and new paint. The scale is one of those arbitrary "box" scales you sometimes see where all models are about the same size, no matter how big the original was, but I figure there's a good deal of room for play. The landspeeder crew models I sometimes use to size these things fit, so it's all good.

There are several box scale die-cast jobs in the same odd-lot gift, so expect more vehicles to slowly pop up. Why there are so many vintage cars on this remote dust-bowl moon I'm not quite sure yet. Maybe there was a collector. Or maybe a couple of the designs just had legs and kept getting dredged back up for millennia. It's a strange and dark age and decent explanations are sometimes dearly bought, if you can get them at any price.

But anyway . . . as always thank you for reading. And stay tuned.

Sincerely,

The Composer

The Thrown Bolt

Every time I turn around it seems I discover a new miniatures company. It's eternally gratifying to see new miniatures in the Oldhammer style. From the name alone it's is doubtless obvious that Bolt Thrower Miniatures gives you exactly that. Not only do they borrow the name of an obscure 80s band, a band that is itself making reference to Citadels's most iconic models, they also find a way to hire one of Citadel's best known early sculptors: Bob Olley. Well done Bolt Thrower. My hat is off to you.

So what do we have? Well, having gotten these in the mail . . . oh . . . Thursday last? Perhaps September 3rd, I don't have too much to show yet, but I've somehow managed to bang off nearly a miniature a day, so it's quite a lot more than nothing. Without further ado allow me to introduce the new arrivals along the Tartarus Rim:

First up, we have a fellow I've named Maxim Wilder. He is a genuine limited edition Bob Olley. I gather their number is 110 and there shall be no more. They designed this guy for a medical benefit and call him "Captain Ulfar: Space Viking." Though I cannot speak to the particulars it seems to have the backing of Mr. Olley and the good folks at Foundry, who apparently all worked at quite incredible discounts.

This is a really nice miniature. It is charming, detailed, and incredibly characterful. The casting is good and clean (to be expected from Foundry.) And it really does feel like an Olley of the old sort. If you like his Iron Claw space pirates this is a great miniature for you.

Next up, we have the flaming radula of death . . . otherwise known as a giant snail.

The beakie should give you some idea of the size of the thing. It's not small. Far from the biggest miniature I've painted, but . . . it's no garden snail. That thing could come out of nowhere and get you. As long as you're a plant and can't move much.

Last but not least we have a real piece of dangerous.

I'm calling this badboy Scorpicaudems magnificens fairlambi, or the great blue tarasque, if you prefer. The tarasque is a mythical creature described in Provenceal folklore as having six limbs, the shell of a turtle, the head of a wolf, the legs of a lion, and a scorpion's tail. Well, at least he's got one part right. Bolthrower calls him a "Spitebringer Consumed" but for Tartarus he needed a more mundane name, as there are no chaos daemons in my universe. (Seems odd, doesn't it? Under the circumstances. Sorry. It's not personal. It's just . . . we all have to have our Oldhammer limits. Those of us who are mortal, anyway.)

So there you have it, some truly magnificent little miniatures. They also offer a barbarian or two and a rat with a humanesque face that have yet to see paint. It's a small company and a small line, but I expect we'll see more in the future. Lovely stuff.

As always, thank you for reading. I hope you enjoy your hobby adventures as much as I.

Sincerely,
The Composer