Three Gal Civ stories written by Chat GPT » Forum Post by BohandiAnsoid

Because there is little human - written Gal Civ stories since the end of Gal Civ II era (and those that are are mostly wirtten by myself), I have turned to Chat GPT. I still prefer human - written stories, they feel better, but tyhis AI does quite a good job, especially with short stories. I would like to share three of such stories, along with their prompts.

1.

Prompt:

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Write me a long, detailed story, with dfialogues, about an Arcean. Set in 23rd century of Galactic Civilziations universe. Do not stop writing. Do not divide it into chapters or scenes. Begin

Response:

The stars of the 23rd century burned cold and distant, yet for Commander Kael Varnak of the Arcean Empire, they were closer than ever before. The command deck of his cruiser, Shield of Kaelor, hummed with the deep resonance of impulse engines, each vibration echoing through the armored hull like the steady heartbeat of a living beast. Arcean ships were not sleek or elegant like Terran designs, nor jagged and cruel like Drengin vessels. They were fortresses in space—brutal wedges of steel, covered in armored plating, built for the certainty of war.

Kael stood rigid at the viewport, his broad shoulders framed by the banners of the Empire, crimson and black, draped behind his command chair. His scaled skin caught the dim light, rough as ancient stone, and his eyes, deep amber, burned with discipline. He spoke little, but when he did, his crew listened as if a mountain itself had shifted.

“Report,” Kael said, his voice gravelly, carrying the weight of command.

The helmsman, a younger Arcean whose crest had not yet hardened with age, bowed his head. “Commander, long-range sensors detect a Terran Alliance scout vessel on approach. They are transmitting recognition codes.”

Kael’s jaw tightened. “Terrans.” His tone held neither hatred nor warmth, only the acknowledgment of a people tested. The Arceans respected humans more than most—warriors who had risen from obscurity to carve a place among the stars in mere centuries. But trust was never given easily. “Put them through.”

The holographic projector flickered, bringing forth the image of a human officer, his features sharp, his eyes wary but not hostile. “This is Captain David Mercer of the Terran Alliance. We request parley. Our course intersects the neutral zone claimed by your Empire.”

Kael crossed his arms, massive forearms rippling under ceremonial armor. “Neutral zones are not claimed, Captain. They are tolerated. Speak your purpose.”

Mercer shifted slightly, clearly unsettled by the towering reptilian’s voice, yet held his ground. “We are pursuing a Drengin raiding flotilla. They struck one of our colonies at Eta Phoenica. Civilians slaughtered, infrastructure destroyed. We tracked their path to this sector.”

At the mention of Drengin, Kael’s nostrils flared, a low growl building in his chest. Few words ignited the fire in an Arcean more swiftly. The Drengin were everything the Empire despised—slavers, deceivers, scavengers of weakness. For generations, Arceans had waged war against them in endless cycles of blood and steel. “You would hunt Drengin through Arcean space?”

“If necessary,” Mercer replied. “But not without your leave. I ask only for permission to pass. We share a common enemy.”

Kael paced before the viewport, claws clicking against the steel floor. His crew watched in silence; discipline forbade them to speak unless summoned. At length, Kael turned, his amber eyes narrowing. “Permission is not given, Captain. It is earned.” He gestured sharply. “Transmit coordinates. We will intercept the Drengin together. You will see how an Arcean fights.”

Mercer gave a short nod. “Then we are allies for this hunt.”

The hologram vanished. Kael turned to his crew. “Set course for the Terran’s coordinates. Ready weapons. Drengin filth trespasses in our stars, and we will answer them with fire.”

The cruiser surged forward, engines roaring like thunder. Hours stretched as stars drifted past, until the enemy appeared—three Drengin warships, angular and cruel, drifting near an asteroid belt like predators waiting for prey. Their hulls bore the crimson insignia of the Krath Legion, infamous for burning colonies to ash. Rage tightened Kael’s chest.

“Lock weapons. Target their lead ship,” Kael commanded.

One of his lieutenants hesitated. “Commander, the Terrans request we coordinate—”

Kael’s eyes snapped toward him, blazing. “An Arcean does not wait. We strike first, with honor. Fire!”

Lances of plasma burst from the cruiser’s broadside, striking the Drengin vessel with enough force to peel away armor in molten streams. The Drengin returned fire instantly, crimson beams tearing across the void. The Shield of Kaelor shuddered, alarms blaring. The Terran ship darted in at flanking speed, lighter and faster, peppering the enemy with missile salvos.

“Commander, shields at 63%!” cried the tactical officer.

“Hold course. Forward batteries, full power. Ram their leader if we must,” Kael roared, his voice carrying above the chaos. He slammed a clawed fist against the armrest of his command chair. “Arcean steel does not yield!”

The crew answered in unison, voices guttural and fierce: “For the Empire!”

The cruiser surged forward, smashing through debris and fire, its prow colliding with the Drengin ship in a deafening crunch of metal and void. Explosions rippled across the enemy hull as its reactors tore themselves apart. The blast flared white-hot, scattering wreckage through the belt.

Kael rose to his feet as the remaining two Drengin ships attempted retreat. “No mercy,” he growled. “Hunt them down. Show them what honor demands.”

The Terran captain’s voice crackled over comms. “Commander Kael, impressive… but reckless.”

Kael bared his teeth in something that was not quite a smile. “Reckless is waiting while prey flees. Strike hard, strike true, leave nothing to rise again.” He turned, barking orders. “Bring engines to full. Destroy them!”

The chase was short and brutal. The second Drengin warship was torn apart by coordinated Arcean plasma and Terran missiles. The third tried to slink into the asteroid field, but Kael’s gunners tracked it relentlessly, every strike hammering it until it split open like a gutted beast, spilling flame and broken steel into the void.

Silence fell at last, broken only by the soft hum of damaged systems. Kael stood tall at the viewport, watching the wreckage drift among the stars. His chest rose and fell, the fire of battle slowly fading.

The Terran ship hailed again. Captain Mercer’s voice was steadier this time, touched with respect. “Without your intervention, we’d have lost them. You fight with ferocity I’ve never witnessed.”

Kael inclined his head slightly, a gesture rare among his kind. “Ferocity is survival, Captain. It is discipline forged in centuries of war. The Drengin have taught us this lesson again and again.” His gaze hardened. “But remember this: Arceans do not fight for slaughter. We fight for honor. For order. Do not mistake one for the other.”

Mercer gave a faint smile. “Perhaps our peoples are not so different.”

Kael turned away from the viewport, his cloak brushing against the cold steel floor. “Perhaps. But difference is not weakness. It is strength.” He motioned to cut the transmission, then faced his crew. “Log this engagement. The Terrans fought with courage. They may yet earn the Empire’s trust.”

The helmsman spoke softly, almost reverently. “And what of us, Commander?”

Kael’s eyes burned like molten gold. “We did what Arceans have always done. We met dishonor with fire, and left nothing standing. Remember this day, for the Empire watches, and it remembers those who uphold its name.”

The crew bowed their heads, silent in pride, as the Shield of Kaelor turned slowly toward the next horizon. Somewhere beyond the stars, more enemies waited, but Kael Varnak welcomed it. For an Arcean, war was not merely survival. It was truth. It was destiny. And it was eternal.

Prompt:

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Write a story where an Arcean ship got reckless beause of its honor and did not exploit an oppoortunity in battle and had to be saved by Terrans

Response:

The Arcean heavy cruiser Iron Talon was the pride of the 7th Imperial Battle Line, its hull bristling with plasma batteries, armor layered like the scales of an ancient beast. Its commander, Lord-Captain Tharek Jorn, was a veteran of countless engagements with the Drengin. His name carried weight among the Empire, a warrior who never turned his back, never allowed dishonor to taint his record.

But pride is a heavy burden in war.

The year was 2242. The Arceans and Terrans fought side by side against the Drengin’s relentless push across the spiral arm. On this day, the Iron Talon patrolled near the Carthos Nebula, where Drengin fleets had been raiding outlying colonies.

“Lord-Captain,” the tactical officer reported, crest shimmering with unease, “we detect three Drengin frigates ahead, escorting what appears to be a troop transport. It is unshielded, vulnerable. If we cut their escort down, we can destroy it swiftly and save the Carthos colony.”

The bridge crew murmured low approval, but Tharek raised a clawed hand. His amber eyes burned, his jaw set in iron. “The transport is prey. It will die easily, and prey does not earn us glory. No—strike their lead frigate. We will break their formation and show the Drengin what it means to face warriors, not hunters.”

The helmsman hesitated. “But, my lord—”

Tharek snarled. “You question my honor?”

The helmsman lowered his eyes at once. “Never, my lord. Course set.”

The Iron Talon roared forward, plasma lances lighting the void. The lead Drengin frigate buckled under the first salvo, but the others swung into position, covering the transport. The opportunity was gone.

On the Terran ship Valiant, a sleek destroyer accompanying the Arcean patrol, Captain Elena Ward cursed as she watched the battle unfold. “What in God’s name are they doing? The transport was wide open!”

Her first officer, Lieutenant Mercer, frowned. “They’re chasing glory, Captain. Typical Arcean honor-code. They want a fair fight.”

“Fair fight?” Ward spat. “There’s no such thing against Drengin.” She slapped the comm panel. “Iron Talon, this is Captain Ward of the Terran Alliance. You had a clean shot at the transport—why did you break off?”

Tharek’s voice growled back over the comms, pride cutting through static. “We are not assassins, Terran. We fight warriors, not helpless freighters.”

Ward slammed her fist against the console. “Those ‘helpless freighters’ are carrying troops to slaughter civilians! You’ve doomed Carthos if that ship gets through!”

“Then we will meet them on Carthos, blade to blade, honor to honor.”

Ward grit her teeth. “You arrogant lizard.”

On the viewscreen, the two remaining Drengin frigates closed in on Iron Talon, hammering its flanks with pulse cannons. The Arcean cruiser returned fire with brutal salvos, but without pressing the transport, the Drengin fleet had room to maneuver. Plasma scorched across Iron Talon’s starboard side. Warning klaxons echoed in guttural Arcean voices.

“Lord-Captain!” cried the engineer. “Shields failing! Hull breaches on decks five through seven!”

“Hold course!” Tharek roared. “We will crush them or die with honor!”

Ward’s eyes narrowed. “Not today.” She turned to her crew. “Helm, bring us around. Weapons, lock on the transport. Fire everything we’ve got.”

The Valiant surged forward, missiles streaking across the black. The Drengin transport shuddered as explosions ripped through its unshielded frame. Within seconds, it tore apart in a flash of white light, troops and wargear consumed by the void.

The escorts reacted too late. One swung toward the Terran ship, leaving itself exposed to the wounded but still furious Iron Talon, which unleashed a killing barrage, vaporizing the frigate in molten fragments. The last Drengin ship turned to flee, only to be caught between Terran missiles and Arcean plasma, ripped apart in a storm of fire.

The battlefield fell silent.

On the Iron Talon, the bridge was chaos—smoke, flickering lights, wounded officers dragging themselves to stations. Tharek stood in the center, one arm scorched, armor blackened, but still upright.

Captain Ward’s voice cut through the comms, sharp and cold. “You’re welcome. If not for us, that transport would be landing troops on Carthos right now. Thousands of civilians saved—no thanks to you.”

Tharek’s head bowed, but only slightly. His voice rumbled low, a mix of pride and bitterness. “You fought without honor, Terran… but you fought with purpose. The result cannot be denied.”

Ward leaned close to the comm pickup. “Honor doesn’t stop Drengin shock troops from butchering children. Next time, put survival before ceremony.”

For the first time, Tharek did not answer immediately. His crew watched him, eyes uncertain. Finally, he spoke. “Perhaps… there is a kind of honor in victory itself, if it spares the weak. Perhaps.” His tone was grudging, but the silence on the bridge said his crew heard something deeper: doubt, rare among Arcean captains.

Ward exhaled slowly, tension easing from her shoulders. “Good. Because next time, we may not be there to clean up your mess.”

The comms went dark.

Tharek turned to his officers, his amber eyes no longer burning as fiercely. He placed a clawed hand on the command chair, the steel still hot from battle. “Log this battle. Record that the Terrans saved Carthos. And record… that the Arceans must learn more than one kind of honor, if the Empire is to survive.”

His crew bowed their heads in silence. For the first time, Tharek felt the weight of honor not as a shield, but as a chain—one he would have to break, or be broken by.

The Iron Talon limped away from the field, smoke trailing from its wounds, following the Valiant back into the stars.

Prompt:

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Write me a long, detailed, funny story, with dfialogues, about a Drengin. Set in 23rd century of Galactic Civilziations universe. Do not stop writing. Do not divide it into chapters or scenes. Begin

Response:

The 23rd century was supposed to be glorious for the Drengin Empire, but for Gorath the Mildly Adequate, it had been mostly paperwork and insults. He was not, as he often pointed out to anyone who’d listen, the best Drengin. He wasn’t even the most fearsome. He was just the one who showed up on time and remembered where the staplers were. And that, unfortunately, got him promoted to Regional Sub-Governor of an Incredibly Insignificant Sector—a title so long it barely fit on his armor plating.

The day began as usual, with Gorath stomping into his office—a cavernous space filled with trophies from battles he had never fought. He had ordered them from ConquestMart, the galaxy’s leading supplier of pre-bloody trophies. A bronze statue of himself, purchased on discount, leaned slightly to the left because he had assembled it wrong.

His assistant, a scrawny Torian slave named Kwelp, shuffled in carrying a datapad.

“Great and Terrible Master,” Kwelp croaked, bowing so low his forehead clonked the floor, “the Empire demands today’s productivity report.”

Gorath sighed, slumping into his throne-chair. “Productivity report, eh? Well, let’s see… Did we enslave anyone new this week?”

Kwelp scrolled nervously. “Just a minor mining colony of the Arceans. Population… three. Two of them escaped in a canoe. The third is in the infirmary because one of your warriors mistook him for a vending machine.”

“Classic,” Gorath muttered. “Mark it as ‘partial conquest, pending refund.’ Next item!”

Kwelp tapped the pad again. “The Terrans have sent another diplomatic message.”

Gorath perked up. He loved Terran messages. They always came in the same format: polite greeting, appeal to morality, veiled threat, and then a peace treaty offer that the Drengin would sign, ignore, and then use to line their cafeteria trays.

“Read it aloud, slave.”

Kwelp cleared his throat. “It says: ‘To the Esteemed Leaders of the Drengin Empire—’”

“Stop!” Gorath roared, slamming his fist on the desk so hard a fake skull trophy toppled over. “Esteemed? They’re mocking us! I’ll have them flayed!”

Kwelp glanced up. “Should I prepare a declaration of war?”

“Of course not. We’re already at war with them. Just file it under ‘Mild Insults.’”

Just then, the comm-screen flickered, and the face of a real Drengin appeared—Overlord Krull, his immediate superior and a being of such terrifying musculature that Gorath felt like a slightly damp sponge in comparison.

“GORATH!” Krull’s voice shook the office. “Why have you not conquered anything worth mentioning this quarter? Do you know what the Arceans call you?”

“Uh,” Gorath swallowed, “Their Greatest Fear?”

Krull sneered. “No. They call you ‘The Guy Who Forgot to Fuel His Fleet.’ Do you deny this?”

Gorath remembered, very clearly, sending a fleet out last month with fully loaded plasma cannons… but empty fuel tanks. They had drifted majestically into the void before being towed home by laughing Altarians.

“Fake news,” Gorath said firmly.

Krull bared his teeth. “You have one week to enslave something impressive. A planet, a people, a pet store. I don’t care. Do it, or you’ll be demoted to Assistant to the Regional Sub-Governor of the Incredibly Insignificant Sector.”

The screen went dark.

Kwelp raised a cautious hand. “Master, might I suggest we conquer something small but symbolic? Perhaps… the Human colony on New Cornwall? They are soft, round, and their cuisine consists mostly of fried fish.”

Gorath scratched his chin. “New Cornwall… Yes. We’ll enslave them and make them cook for us. Imagine: fish and chips at every Drengin cafeteria. Victory through cuisine!”

Three days later, Gorath’s mighty flagship, The Arbitrarily Violent, hovered above New Cornwall. It was a terrifying vessel, bristling with cannons, spikes, and decorative chains that served no purpose except to jingle menacingly. Gorath stood on the bridge, chest puffed out.

“Open comms to the puny Terrans,” he barked.

On the screen appeared the governor of New Cornwall: a balding man in a sweater vest.

“Good afternoon,” the man said pleasantly. “Can I help you?”

“Yes!” Gorath roared. “I am Gorath the Mildly Adequate, here to enslave your planet! Tremble before my might!”

The governor squinted. “Do you have an appointment?”

“An… appointment?” Gorath stammered.

“We’re quite busy. Fish Fry Friday, you see. Could you maybe come back next week?”

The Drengin crew muttered uneasily. Even they had heard tales of Fish Fry Friday.

Gorath pounded the console. “No! I demand your immediate surrender! Otherwise—”

“Otherwise what?” the governor interrupted. “You’ll drift away again without fuel?”

The bridge fell silent. Even Kwelp winced.

“How did you—” Gorath began.

The governor smirked. “It’s on the news. Everyone saw it. You’re a meme now.”

“WHAT IS A MEME?” Gorath roared.

The governor chuckled. “You are, my scaly friend. You are.”

That night, instead of enslaving New Cornwall, Gorath sat in his quarters scrolling through the GalacticNet. Every channel showed the same thing: little animations of his face on top of a drifting ship, with captions like ‘When you forget gas money for genocide’ and ‘Drengin Uber: Zero Stars.’

He groaned and buried his tusked face in his claws.

Kwelp entered timidly. “Master, the cafeteria is serving fish and chips tonight. Shall I bring you a plate?”

Gorath sighed. “Yes, slave. Bring me two. And extra vinegar.”

He leaned back in his chair, muttering, “One day, they will fear me. They’ll all fear me. But tonight… at least I get fish.”

And somewhere across the galaxy, the Terrans laughed and shared another meme.