It had all started so simply, eleven thousand years ago. The odd replacement leg here, the odd augmented eye there, and for a while everyone on the Vla-hurk home-world was quite happy with the trend towards cybernetic augmentation. Then along came the New World Religion, and the obsession with 'biological purity', and before you know it, half the Vla-hurk population is being shunned for having so much as a hip replacement operation...

The galactic war has gone on long enough. There is only one power in this galaxy that has the common sense to bring the fighting to an end, and now that power is about to be unleashed. Ladies, Gentlemen, Entities, I present to you the almighty power of the pan-species collection of idealistic space-hippies and bringers of galactic peace (through a short-term period of intense furious stellar warfare) - The TRIBE....

Be warned heathen un-believers. The Galaxy is not your plaything. This galaxy was created in a weekend by the one true god, and he has no room in it for the likes of heathen aliens such as you. If your species is not listed in the holy book of the one true god, then it's pretty clear you are a mistake, and the order is here to rectify mistakes. For is it not written (depending on translations) that the total destruction of all alien species with devastating radioactive cannons and nuclear space-missiles is the will of the one true god? So say us. So say The ORDER....

Pack up your spacesuits and head for the exits. Your time in this galaxy is over. The swarm is on the way. They are heading towards us, and like the tide, they cannot be stopped. Your lasers and missiles may destroy the first wave, but that is the first of many. There seems to be no end to their numbers and they will never give up. The swarm have no home to retreat to, no territory to fall back to. They will attack in wave after wave with suicidal determination. There can be no negotiation, we must flee. THE SWARM are upon us....

It's not about the destination, it's about the journey. You journey is to your death, preferably by high-powered plasma torpedo volleys, if the armada of aliens known as 'the nomads' are to be believed. The nomads have no homeworld, they don't believe it's time to 'settle down' as a species. They are still looking to find the right planet, and killing time (and aliens) in the meantime. It's nothing personal you understand, it's just the way the nomads entertain themselves. Galactic genocide is their sport of choice....

If you catch them at the wrong time the parasites are a race to be reckoned with. Every 200 years or so they travel the galaxy looking for new hosts, and we're not suggesting that this is a race that excels at making people feel welcome at parties. The hosts they are looking for will provide the much more vital role of keeping the parasites' immature larvae alive and prospering. For 198 years they have survived by feeding off a species whose own offspring have provided them with essential easily digested nutrients and regenerative salves...

There will be a time for peace in the galaxy, where life-forms can skip through the fields and read poetry, unworried by the threat of war, but this is not that time. There will be a time for song, time for cakes, time for long afternoon strolls, but this is not that time. There will be time for love, time for joy, time for writing that novel you know you have in you somewhere, but this is still not that time.
This is a time for war. Huge war, galaxy-spanning war, where the cries for mercy from the citizens of captured worlds will reverberate around the bridge of your flagship...