This was sort of vaguely inspired by the bit about engineering Homo 
Impericus in the most recently posted chapter of Quantum Destinies.  Not 
to say that particular fact means the honourable author of that fic 
bears any responsibility for this.  What follows is entirely my own 
fault.

Kasumi no Draka!
Or Kasumi, the Genetically Engineered Conquering Warrior-type Person

A Ranma � Spamfic by Andrew Carey
		<ap_carey3@hotmail.com>

The following contains characters derived from Ranma �, belonging to 
Takahashi Rumiko, and situations from S.M. Stirling's Draka series, 
mashed together into an uneven paste by yours truly.  If you like 
anything at all in it, it's theirs; if you hate anything, I'm the man to 
blame.  This is a work of non-profit fanfiction, and may be archived or 
distributed freely so long as this disclaimer and my name are not 
removed.
	I would like now like to offer my humble apologies to Mr. Stirling and 
Takahashi-sama for so grievously misusing their creations.  I also most 
sincerely apologise to Tendou Kasumi, un-questioned goddess of the 
kitchen and nicest person in all Nerima, who will probably do something 
horrible to me when Revengefic season comes around.  God knows I deserve 
it.

C&C welcome, public or private.  Flames deleted, unless they're 
exceptionally amusing, or written in idiomatic Middle English.  In the 
latter case, I'll want to carry on a long, boring dialogue about the 
loss of case structure with you.  You have been warned.

Thought is delimited by <  >

Now, on with the show:

	In an alternate universe, far, far away, scores of thousands of 
mercenary samurai were hired by the English Crown (don't ask why, or 
where they found that many samurai to begin with) to fight a nasty 
little colonial war in a place that would later call itself the United 
States.  When that conflict ended in defeat, they had no place to call 
home, other than a struggling colony conveniently seized from the 
Netherlands.  So there they went, along with assorted Germans, 
Icelanders, and Carolinians.  
	Soon their little enclave became the ultimate dumping ground for 
deposed aristocratic elites, who would spend their mornings training in 
the martial arts, their mid-afternoons honing their sophisticated 
artistic sensibilities, and their nights in plotting revenge on the 
vulgar bourgeois forces who had damaged their cultural integrity and 
destroyed their traditional lifestyle choices.  Over time, they would 
become one people, adopting a drawling, German-inflected dialect of 
Japanese as their mother tongue and (for no particular reason) the name 
of the great explorer/pirate Sir Francis Drake as their ethnic 
designator.
	And so they became...the Draka!  And the world trembled at their feet 
and bent its collective neck to their wolfish Will to Power, for they 
had the almighty author on their side.

Three Hundred Years Later:

	Kasumi Tendou-Ingolfssen lounged comfortably on the veranda of her 
ancestral manor, watching the sun rise over the fields.  The serfs were 
already at work, singing their cheerful little working songs.  Kasumi 
was supremely happy, for she knew that all was right on the plantation.  
And how could it not be?  After all, the whole place was under the 
benevolent boot of her very own beloved family, just as it had been for 
centuries.  
	She hitched at her gun belt, settled the weight of her ten millimeter 
automatic back into the comfortable place on her hip.  Little birds 
twittered cheerfully in the trees.  She took a sip of coffee.  "Hmm, 
tastes a little funny, doesn't it, Nabiki?"
	Her younger sister took a meditative sip.  "That it does.  Strychnine, 
I think.  Feral serf agents in the kitchen staff again.  Foolish of �em, 
ain't it?"
	"Indeed, Tendou Nabiki, it is foolish of them.  Do they not realise, 
the vile peasant scum, that our superior genetic science has rendered us 
invulnerable to all poisons?"
	"Kunou, dahlin', you're a fine lay, and your fightin' skills are a 
credit to our Race, but frankly you're a pompous ass and you know it."
	"You utter fighting words, Tendou Nabiki.  Do you seek to challenge the 
Blue Thunder of the Archonal Guard Legion?  Do you... Are those pictures 
of the pigtailed girl I see before me?"
	<Silly children.> Kasumi thought to herself.  When would they learn?  
She took another sip of coffee.  Yes, it was definitely strychnine.  "Oh 
my, I guess I'd better go execute the kitchen staff." This wasn't going 
to be such a good day, after all.  Kasumi wasn't squeamish, but 
executions were never fun for her.
	"I could do it, Sis, if you'd rather." Nabiki said quietly.
	"No, Nabiki, it's my responsibility."
	"Ranma, you fool!!!"
	"Gods curse it, Akane, I didn't..." He leapt over the orbitally-forged 
alloy head of her war mallet.  "Really, Akane..." she swung again.  
	<This is getting very tiresome.> A few days earlier they'd been up in 
the hills exchanging gunfire.  Only 5mm, of course, hardly more than a 
bee sting to the genetically engineered elite masters of the world, but 
still... "Akane, stop trying to club your fiance.  And Ranma, you're not 
being very nice to Akane.  �We are not a numerous people, and nobody 
loves us.'  Remember?"
	"But he insulted my shooting, Kasumi!  Said I couldn't hit a running 
feral serf in the back of the knee with an unfamiliar weapon at 
midnight!"
	Kasumi sighed, and took the stairs to the kitchen.  Midway down she 
drew her pistol and chambered a round.  Absently she whistled a little 
tune.

Endnote:
	For the record, I am completely opposed to scary genetically engineered 
people of any ethnic extraction (including my own) taking over the 
world.  (Even if they have appealing manners and an endearing tendency 
to say "Oh my!" in response to any event.)  This is an evil thing, and 
screws up a lot of people's lives.  I'm also most definitely opposed to 
summary executions of the hard working people who provide others with 
food and coffee.
	I am also quite aware of the fact that I am arbitrarily mixing "New 
Race" (H. Drakensis) characteristics and technology with those of the 
old style H. Sapiens Sapiens Draka.    Given the other things I've done 
in this fic, I hardly think that's notable.
	Free virtual beignets and cafe au lait to the first five people to get 
the silly direct _Drakon_ ref!



Andrew Carey -- ap_carey3@hotmail.com
"Mirie it is, while sumer ilast,
With fugheles song..."

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