Pseudonym for Armageddon

Book I

SKYFALL

by Maxtac Jurai

[rpOFF] This RP is to explain in RP terms the events bring House Jurai (TD) to fold into the

Minnesota Tribe. We hope you enjoy it. [rpON]

Pseudonym for Armageddon

Book I - SKYFALL

by Maxtac Jurai

Post 1

“…Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof…”

Holy Christian Bible, Mathew 6:34

Translation – “Don’t go looking for trouble, it’s already looking for you.”

Royal Maple Leaf Hotel, Penthouse Suite, Planet Maple.

29th January 3070

The sounds of the regular breathing of two people sleeping off a night of passion was

interrupted by a coms system alarm beeping as the early morning light filtered through the

sheer curtains flanking tall windows. The woman mumbled something unrepeatable and

rolled over, stuffing her head under a large pillow, a style once referred to as European. The

man was driven more by duty, however, and knew, even in his groggy state, that for the

front desk to have put a call through at this God forsaken hour – especially after the short

sleep period they’d had – it had to be important.

His body protesting, he forced himself to rise and pad toward the televid link on an ornate

writing desk against the far wall. As he shuffled away from the bed, the sheets dragging

away from his naked form, the woman in the bed turned her head and looked out from

under the pillow to admire her lovers retreating form. Even after all these years, she still

couldn’t get enough of that well muscled back, those tight buns, and those well

proportioned thighs. If it wasn’t for the grey at his temples, few would realise from his body

that he was approaching late middle-age, and fewer still knew the truth of his birth, nearly

three-hundred years previously. Yes, this man’s partner considered herself a lucky woman;

lucky because she had such an able bed partner, and a powerful man as well – which was an

aphrodisiac in itself – and yet also lucky because he had to get up and answer the damn

coms, not her.

As the woman slid her head back under the pillow to try to slip back into blissful slumber,

the man reached the ornately carved matching chair at the writing desk, and slid into its

confines. He reached up to fiddle with the controls, entered his security code, and the

screen came to life. Bathed in its glow, and with his forehead creased in consternation,

three things immediately came to his rapidly clearing mind. He found himself looking at the

face of one of the last men that he should be seeing out here in this backwater, this was a

highly secure transmission seeing the front desk hadn’t prefaced the call with an

introduction and query about disturbing him, and this was a live transmission, no HPG

message, and that meant the man was close, very close.

The man on the screen inclined his head, about all you could do for a bow when head and

shoulders were all that was visible over the comlink. He wore the crisp military uniform of a

Warlord of the House Jurai, and the insignia at his collar clearly showed the crucifix and swirl

of the Royal Family of Jurai itself. His dark hair, shot through with grey, framed a pleasantly

masculine face, with hazel eyes, dark brows, a straight nose, and fullish lips over a dimpled

chin. This Warlords face, like the viewers own, showed signs of middle age, however he was

far, far younger than the man who he was in contact with now.

“Tai-shu Jurai Maxtac,” the seated man addressed the Warlord on the screen, inclining his

head in way of returning the bow, his eyes intent yet guarded. “This is indeed a surprise.

Shouldn’t you be back in the Dominions overseeing the defences against Taurian Concordat

raids?” A strange, inner fire glowed in the Jurai’s eyes for a moment, and he looked slightly

annoyed at the unwelcome reminder.

“Tai-shu Tokomi Arizona,” Maxtac replied, “I’ve got Tai-shu Jurai Misato overseeing the Kell

Hounds fulfilment of that particular defence contract. There was nothing I was greatly

needed for back home, so I thought I’d pop up this way and see what’s what.” A smile crept

onto his face. “And here I thought you’d be happier to see me than this!” He rolled his eyes

slightly.

“I’m not happy to see anyone at this God-forsaken hour,” Arizona noted, his hands busy

ordering a full breakfast from the digital menu pad on the desk next to him. A glance at the

pad told him the ETA on breakfast was twelve minutes, and his accelerated metabolism was

telling him that this was twelve minutes too long. “And I know you take your work back

home seriously – there is no way you’d just ‘pop up here’ to Maple to chat in real-time.

Where are you anyway?” Arizona resisted the urge to look around the room or out the

window. It would be just like the head of the Internal Security Service, or ISS, to be standing

behind him having a good ol’ laugh.

“Oh I’m in orbit, aboard the Nodachi,” Maxtac noted offhandedly.

“You brought the Flag with you?!!?” Arizona exclaimed, leaping to his feet to glare down at

the coms screen.

“You’d best sit down,” Maxtac stated calmly, “because where your camera is situated, I’m

seeing way more of you that I ought, and we have some Gunsho’s on the bridge here that

might have delicate sensibilities.” There was a wry grin on the Warlord’s features now.

Arizona plonked back down into his chair, only a slight ruddiness about his cheeks giving

away any sign of embarrassment. You didn’t get embarrassed being naked when you grew

up a clan warrior. He closed his eyes for a moment, reigning in his surprise, and his

gathering anger – one emotion that Arizona could NOT let off its leash.

“So what was so all fire important that you flew all the way up here personally in a

flagship?” Arizona asked, his voice steady after his moment of meditative exertion.

“That... I won’t divulge over a comlink, secured or otherwise” Maxtac said, and the steely

look in his eyes broached no argument, “but I will say it’s of great importance to Jurai, and

to you personally.”

“Oh great, another one of those,” Arizona mumbled, as he began gathering up his papers

and digital pads from the desktop.

“I’ve sent a shuttle to retrieve you,” Maxtac continued, “it’ll be there in eighteen minutes.”

“Oh good,” Arizona stated, looking back up at the screen, “that’s just enough time for me to

eat breakfast.”

“Is it enough time for you to dress too?” Maxtac asked with a cheeky tilt to his mouth.

“More than plenty,” Arizona noted. “Now get off my com so I can eat, clean up and get up

there.” Arizona’s gruff tone softened a notch. It’ll be good to see you in the flesh again, my

friend.”

“Hopefully not quite that much flesh,” Maxtac chuckled, and then his face took on a far

more sombre cast, “and don’t count your winged, flightless food sources too quickly,” he

warned, “you are not going to like what I have to tell you.”

“Oh, so it’s status quo then?”

“Basically.”

“I’ll be there within the hour, then,” Arizona stated, and then he glanced over at Helsy, who

was giving him a come-hither look, knowing from the overheard conversation that she

mightn’t see her husband again for some time. “Better make that two,” he amended.

Maxtac’s brow creased at this adjustment, until Helsy stepped into view, wrapped demurely

in a bed sheet, behind Ari’s shoulder.

“You can have him back, after I’m finished with him, Tai-shu,” she stated firmly.

“Yes ma’am,” was Maxtac reply, and only recourse. The last thing he saw was Helsy

depositing herself onto Arizona’s lap, and reaching over to kill the link.

“So much for our full vacation schedule,” Helsy muttered, turning back to her man to nibble

on the Tai-shu’s ear. “Do you ever think we’ll get some decent time off to enjoy each

other?” she queried forlornly.

“I wouldn’t worry myself about that, if I were you,” Arizona said, fire in his eyes from his

lover’s foreplay. “What you have to worry about right now is surviving the next hour or so

intact!” His powerful legs bearing him to his feet easily, even with his woman’s weight upon

him, Helsy squeaked in surprise and delight as Arizona effortlessly bore her in his arms back

to their conjugal bed.

to be continued...

Post 2

“…Chaos was the law of nature; order was the dream of man…”

Henry Brooks Adams

American Historian (1838-1918)

War Room, JNS Nodachi, breaking high orbit of Planet Maple.

29th January 3070

The sounds of quiet, intense discussion drifted from several knots of people scattered

around the War Room aboard the Jurai Naval Service Flagship Nodachi. The muted

exchanges all held a tension of purpose, of planning for an operation that could not be

permitted to fail. All movement held great poise, practiced efficiency, almost unintentional

perfection, as the occupants of this room were highest trained, most talented officers and

specialists within their fields in all of Jurai. Something of great import was being planned

here, and the last cog within the great war machine slid into place as the main access doors

slid open, and an immaculately dressed and seemingly reinvigorated Warlord Tokomi

Arizona strode purposefully into the room. He moved directly towards the two high-ranking

officers standing at the central mapping table. All conversation ceased, and all eyes fell upon

the aging warrior, as those watching knew that now the powerhouse of Jurai’s strategies

and plans within and without of the Inner Sphere had arrived, and the operation would soon

be underway in earnest.

Arizona stopped on the door side of the map table from his targets, half bowed from the hip

to both of them, and while they were returning the official Juraian proffered greeting, he let

rip.

“Ok, so what’s so all-fire important that you drag me away from my first decent planned

vacation in four years?” Arizona demanded of the Warlord of the pair, Jurai Maxtac. “Helsy

just reminded me of what I was going to miss out on, for an hour and twenty minutes no

less, and I have to tell you, I’m feeling the loss already.” There was a feral look in Arizona’s

eyes, one that would have said to a lesser man ‘you have interrupted me at your peril.’ It

was lucky for Maxtac that he’d was neither a lesser man, nor had he summoned Arizona

without good reason.

“The reason for you required attendance will become crystal clear momentarily, Tokomi

Prime,” Maxtac replied in a formal manner, quite at odds to Arizona’s colloquial

questioning. “But first...” Maxtac turned to the other groups of officers and specialists at the

consoles spaced around the walls of the small amphitheatre-like room. “All Jurai of

clearance level less than Black Omega please take your meal breaks, now.” The tone of the

way ‘now’ was delivered broached no arguments.

The groups of Juraian’s locked their consoles and converged on the shipboard exit, which

was flanked by two lithe-looking ISS officers, dressed from head to toe in matt black. After

the final ejectee had exited the room, and the doors hissed closed. The ISS guards had not

moved an inch.

“Ok, now can you tell me...” Arizona began, yet he was silenced by a quickly raised index

finger on Maxtac’s left hand. This finger then pointed at the ISS guards, and then swung left

and right quickly. The guards clearly knew what this non-verbal signal meant, as they

withdrew hand-held sensor units from their belts and began to sweep the room. The Tai-sa

standing next to Maxtac was doing likewise.

Arizona moved round the table to stand next to Maxtac. He was nearly a head taller than

the younger Warlord, and although he’d never had reason to test his cunning against the

younger man, he expected that the match would be too close to call. All the better for Jurai,

as they were both fiercely loyal.

“Would you mind not calling me Tokomi Prime,” Arizona mumbled to Maxtac, his curled lip

showing his displeasure.

“I wouldn’t, if it were not the case,” Maxtac mumbled back, as the Tai-sa completed his

fruitless search for bugs around the mapping table, and moved out to the four rows of seats

surrounding the central pit in tiers. “With Tokomi Avenger retired, and Tokomi GnuZ on a

long term undercover mission, you are the most skilled and experienced Tokomi warrior we

have.”

“But the concentration of power...” Arizona’s hushed tones held a clear note of concern.

“Is not inconsiderable, yes,” Maxtac finished for him, “however I don’t see any harm in it in

this case, and Jurai Lynxcat is not exactly around these days to be concerned. I realise that

you are not keen on going back to herding cats, but it won’t cut into your time overly with

Tokomi Kickaha looking after the day-to-day. And didn’t you tell me that Tokomi are so

nearly Ronin they don’t need much leading anyway?”

Arizona had little choice but to nod assent; he had said that, and it came back to bite him on

the posterior, like most things in his long life.

“Look,” Max began, in a clearly conspiratorial tone, “you look after our heroes and our

attacks, and I’ll look after everything else. Deal?” Arizona couldn’t decide if he was being

serious or not. The two Warlords locked gazes.

Maxtac looked into the – much – older man’s eyes, wondering what marvels those eyes had

seen. He knew that Arizona could be trusted with such power within Jurai, as the older

Warlord had proven himself time and time again the House’s most loyal servant. The fact

that he didn’t want the power was clear justification for him having it; the old ‘reluctant

leader makes the best leader’ idiom. And yet Max felt that Ari would take a little convincing

yet. However, this discussion could wait. There were far more important considerations on

the table today.

Arizona looked into the younger man’s eyes. What he saw there was a mixture of raw power

that had been thrust on the man - with the introduction of the Royal Jurai gene seed to his

makeup – a desire for ‘a fair go for all’ which made him a natural administrator, and an up

and coming tactician, as well as an accomplished Mech pilot to boot. You needed to be a

renascence man – or woman – to rise this high in the House Jurai.

“All clear,” the Tai-sa said, having returned to the Warlord’s side. Max glanced away from

Arizona to see the ISS spooks back at their posts beside the door. The one on the right gave

him the slightest of nods. Maxtac visibly relaxed a few degrees.

“Okay, it’s secure,” he announced, like this was a new thing, “and I can finally tell you why

I’ve called you here. So very few outside this room know these details, and all are either

trusted beyond reproach, or dead.” Max said this like it was standard operating procedure,

and nothing to be surprised about. Neither officer that looked at him presently was

surprised. “Since Heng Taipan, your usual XO, arrived onboard before you, I’ve filled him in

on the operational requirements for this operation, but as yet I haven’t told him our

objectives or their reasons. I decided to save that for the both of you at once.”

“Thanks for waiting,” Arizona replied, somewhat drolly.

“Let’s answer your curiosity with a question,” Max went on. “What, Arizona, would be the

absolute worst part of your private research that could fall into Clan hands?”

Arizona’s stomach began to sink, like his pelvic floor had been ripped away. An enemy

couldn’t possibly have gotten their hands on that, surely. It was only now being

implemented on the first tier and front line ships.

“Your Sodium Drive research,” Maxtac stated, confirming Arizona’s worst fears. The older

Warlord stared into the eyes of the younger yet again, this time his gaze begging the other

to deny what he’d just said.

“No, that’s just not possible,” Arizona stated, less than confidently. “That refit facility is

triple secured, with round the clock guards, the best we have available...”

“And yet it wasn’t enough,” Maxtac affirmed. “I’ve had the facility packed up and moved to

a new location, executed half the staff and the ones we couldn’t do without now have

cortex bombs implanted. If there is even a sniff of someone betraying us, that person’s head

will be visiting parts of the planet Rivers that their body will likely never see.” Maxtac’s eyes

crackled with barely contained anger, its power leaking out of him through the windows of

his soul. Due to their telekinetic abilities, it was considered a ‘bad’ move to aggravate a

member of the Royal Juraian Family, as if their absolute rule of the House wasn’t enough.

“How could this happen?” Arizona asked no one in particular; he was deep in thought,

rubbing his chin absently with his hand. This was turning out to be a day of unpleasant

surprises. “So do we know which government made off with one of our most valuable

research projects ever?”

“Clan Cloud Cobra,” Maxtac replied, deadpan.

Arizona drew a breath in through his teeth. A clan with this sort of advantage, it didn’t bear

thinking about. They had to get it back.

Excuse me, Sirs,” Taipan piped up, “I respectfully regret my ignorance, but I’ve yet to hear

what a Sodium Drive is, and why it’s so bad that the Cloud Cobra’s might have stolen it from

us.”

“Oh sorry, Tai,” Max said, “I forgot you haven’t been briefed on this one. It was decided that

it was an eyes only, need to know basis, and it was hoped that the less people that knew

would reduce the chance of this sort of thing happening. Seems it didn’t work.”

Arizona snorted. “Okay, seeing this is my baby, I’ll do the explaining. Current drive

technology is based on a Kearny-Fuchida drive, coupled with bank of capacitors, which is

recharged by either a solar sail alone, or the sail and a lithium based battery reactor in the

case of warships, with occasional outside help from a charge station if one is present. Speed

in hyperspace is determined by how much power you can dump into the drive at the right

moment, and turnaround time is determined by how quickly you can recharge the

capacitors that do the dumping.”

Taipan was nodding along, so far. He’d passed basic drive physics at the academy.

“For more years than I like to admit I’ve been toying with an idea for not only increasing the

speed of our jump capable vessels, but their turnaround times in N-space, by creating a

reactor that can significantly boost the power output of a lithium battery reactor by

piggybacking on it. Sodium is the next element up the imperial table with the right

properties to make it suitable to base a compatible reactor system on. It has been theorised

for some time that an additional sodium reactor coupled to the current system would give

much greater speeds at a considerable saving in reactor mass. So basically, whoever nuts

this one out first and fits their jumpships with it will go much faster, be in system for a

shorter recharge stay, and will have a greatly increased range of their fleets. Imagine a Clan,

or even all the Clans able to push much further into the Inner Sphere, at far greater speeds.

Not a pleasant prospect, I’m sure you understand.”

Taipan’s eyes went as wide as saucers, and it was clear that the implications were not lost

on him. “We have to get it back,” he said, stating the obvious.

“Well the good news there is they haven’t got a working prototype, yet,” Max said, and

Taipan let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. “It’s much easier to steal data

than it is to make off with a honking great jump drive. Thing is, we’ve only had a production

model for about six months. It’s been successfully fitted to eight ships so far, and four more

are in spacedock right now being retrofitted. It’s far too early for our advantage to be

stripped away...” Max shook his head, eyes down. Then he glanced up at Arizona. “My ISS

have let you down, and for that I am truly sorry, Tokomi Arizona.” He gave Arizona a short,

stiff from the waist bow.

“Well I’m not about to request you commit ritual suicide, if that’s what you are concerned

about,” Arizona said, and patted Maxtac on the shoulder. “And didn’t your External

Intelligence Assets discover the whereabouts of the stolen research?”

“Yes, they did,” Max acquiesced, “and it was only by sheer chance as well. A cadre of EIS

agents were sent along with your daughter, Jessica, to have a poke around on the CCC

occupied worlds of DCM Salford and Brihuega during our raids there. As the stealth shuttle

passed the second moon of Salford, it picked up a coded signal from the dark side of the

planetoid. While the group set forth to spy around Salford, one of the techs left aboard the

shuttle spent his down hours running decryption algorithms on the coded message, for fun,

no less. Again by chance, he lucked upon and old clan algorithm that they were using, and

had the message decoded a full day before the EIS team were due to leave. The contents of

the message included a reference to House Jurai and drive research, and as the lead Agent

on the mission knew of the Sodium Drive project, having been involved in security at the

conversion spacedock prior to her current deployment; she called off the general

information gathering mission on Salford and they headed for the moon’s orbit.”

Arizona nodded. “Right thing to do, too. I bet she was surprised hearing about such things

related to the House so far from home.”

“Indeed,” Max agreed, “and they collected thirty six hours of coded transmissions, which

they decoded about ninety percent of by the time they took a returning jumpship back to

the Dominions, verifying that CCC did indeed have a bulk of the research data, and were

setting up a hidden research base to bring the research to fruition. They brought the news

straight to me when they arrived, and I set out for Maple the same day, being yesterday.”

“You got all the way up here in, what, hours?” Taipan exclaimed, nearly dropping his

digipad.

“The Nodachi was one of the first group of ships to be retrofitted with the Sodium reactor,”

Maxtac informed the startled Heng. Taipan nodded in understanding.

“Ok, so that’s the why,” Arizona stated after a few moments of assimilating the data, “but

what are we going to do about it?”

“Well,” said Max, taking a deep breath, “I plan to stage a small false planetary assault on

Salford, while a second force hits the hidden moon research base, interrogates the

researches and their keepers, destroys the facility and gets the hell out of there.”

“Ok, well presuming that works, what’s to have stopped other copies of the data being

elsewhere, and why the hell would they be doing that sort of research way down here in the

IS?” Arizona pushed.

“Well our analysis suggests that they only recently gained our research,” Max began, “that

this research lab was set up in a hurry, hence the older Clan codes, and that they set it up at

Salford because it is away from the other Clans. Basically, they don’t want to share this one

with their buddies. So, when we get in there we’ll have to backtrack along the supply route

for the data, and do our best to find out if it went anywhere else. In the mean time, I’ve

doubled the funding and workforce at the new Sodium Drive retrofit facility. It’ll take a big

chunk out of our overall naval and security budgets, but I figure if someone is going to work

up a similar drive system to our Sodium Drive, I want us to have it fitted to our fleet long

before they have a chance to follow us.”

“Sounds fair,” Arizona said after a moment, “so when do we head out to get my research

back?”

“We’ve been on hard burn toward the Maple pirate point for thirty minutes now,” Taipan

broke in, “and we should be on station, jump ready in three hours.” Arizona never ceased to

marvel at the artificial gravity generators that enabled them to stand here talking while the

ship was pulling many G’s of acceleration, another marvel of the House’s heavy research

focus. It was much preferable to being pancaked on the rear bulkhead.

“To jump to?” Arizona added.

“Mimic,” Maxtac said.

“Ah,” Arizona replied. It was all coming together for him now. That was the name Juraian’s

had given to the south-of-the-galactic-plain star where Jessica was resupplying before

hitting No Where. That was where they would get their extra mechs, ships and personnel to

hit Salford with the double pronged attack. Jessica wouldn’t like one, much less two

Warlords showing up to take over.

“I realise your daughter, Jessica, is in command in that sector,” Maxtac said, choosing his

words carefully. It was not lost on him that Jessica was a temperamental offspring of the

Warlord he was addressing. “And we will be surprising her, so it will be your honour to

explain why we require to requisition of the bulk of her forces, without giving away any

classified data.”

Arizona sighed.

“You’ll have roughly six hours to work on your presentation,” Maxtac added.

Arizona sighed again.

‘Well at least I might have a chance to get to the bottom of all this business with the extra

raid, and what went on during that furlough,’ Arizona thought.

While Arizona considered this change of fortunes, the Flagship Nodachi powered on

towards the Maple Pirate point.

to be continued...

Post 3

“…Nothing travels faster than light, with the possible exception of bad news, which follows

its own rules…”

Douglas Adams 1952 – 2001 AD

“…Bad news isn’t wine. It doesn’t improve with age…”

Colin Powell, Chairman of the US Joint Chiefs of Staff (1989-93)

North Nadir point, Mimic system, 10 LY south of the galactic plain.

30th January 3070

The Northern Nadir jump point of the system that had become known as Mimic to the

Juraian Raiding Forces working out of it was busy. Just off the point itself, a safe distance to

prevent collision with any surprise jump in by ship or ships unknown, final preparations for a

new raid were coming to a head. The last supply shuttles had finished their runs between

the merchant vessels and their battle ready counterparts, the departing warships had

moved into jump position around the point, navigational links between the warships were

established – despite some strange background interference - and the three minute

countdown to jump ordered given. In a few short minutes the four warships would depart

the area. But before they could, a much larger ship jumped in.

A moment of panic ensued; that first few seconds when the tracking officer yells out

‘contact’ and the rush of adrenalin makes everything slow down and swim slightly. However

before any orders could be given, the Identify Friend or Foe - or IFF - circuitry kicked into

action, and screens across both present and newcomer’s bridges notified their crews that

they were all on the same side. The departing fleet was informed that this larger ship,

bristling with weapons, was no less that a Flag Class Battleship, the JNS Nodachi, and the

Flag was told automatically that the two medium warships on its port side were the JNS

Asagiri and JNS Tokomi, while the two heavy warships to starboard were the JNS Lynxcat

and the JNS Lightning Lance.

Aboard the bridge of the Flagship, Jurai Maxtac sat in the command chair, surrounded by his

highly experienced naval crew, and a dedicated naval XO to turn Maxtac’s orders into

action. Although there can only be one commander on the deck of a ship at one time, there

were two Warlords of Jurai present in this one. Tokomi Arizona stood at ease to the left of

the command chair, deferring command to the Royal Juraian as was correct conduct for a

Tokomi, and Arizona was a very correct ‘defender of the Royal Family.’

“Tai-shus,” a sensor officer spoke up, “these ships are in nav link mode, and are in

countdown to jump.”

“Then get us out from between them, preferably down,” Maxtac ordered.

“Z minus two-thousand metres and set station keeping,” the XO, Tai-sa Diaka translated for

the helmsman. The Nodachi began to descend.

Maxtac leant toward his fellow Warlord. “Ari, I believe it’s your stage.”

Arizona sighed and waved at the bridge coms tech to activate the main screen. “Get me my

daughter,” he said with some gravity. The coms officer set to work and moments later, the

main screen above the slit windows was filled with the head and shoulders of Tai-sa Tokomi

Jessica, looking none too pleased at the interruption to her jump countdown. Jessica looked

about to reprimand whoever she found looking at her from the video screen, and was visibly

taken aback when she picked out not one but two Warlords of Jurai looking back at her, one

her own father.

“Lord Maxtac, Father,” she intoned, bowing with the perfunctory tilt of the head to each.

“This is indeed a surprise. I am in final phase of jump countdown to leave this system for the

triple-C held world of No Where. Unless there is any grave reason why I should abort, I

would like to make this jump on schedule. Several organised plans depend on my timely

arrival at my target, and...”

“There is indeed a grave reason why you should abort your jump,” Arizona cut in when he

realised his daughter was going to try to talk non-stop until she jumped out. “Your ships and

mechs are hereby ordered to stand down from your current intended plans, to be re-routed

for other operations of high import.” Although Arizona’s tone breached no argument,

Maxtac could tell that this headstrong young Tokomi wasn’t about to change her plans

without at least attempting to coerce her father into allowing her to continue.

“That would be... ill advised, Warlord,” Jessica replied, picking her words carefully. “I have

agents in action and forces in motion that would be left ‘hung out to dry’ if I was not to

continue on with at least a minimal force.” Jessica’s eyes were pleading with her father not

to order her to abort, and the desire was not lost on Maxtac.

A pregnant pause, that was really only a few seconds, seemed to stretch out over the com

link.

“Perhaps you and the Tai-sa could continue this discussion at a coms terminal,” Maxtac

suggested in a clear voice to Arizona, who was well within whispering distance. “Just make it

quick,” he added in that whisper, “I don’t want her leaving with all that hardware. We need

most of it.”

“Hai,” Arizona whispered, and then realising that the rest of the bridge crew would have

missed his agreement, repeated it with more volume. He then moved over to a side console,

and the bridge crew nearby dutifully locked their consoles and moved away for the duration

of the discussion. Jessica’s tense countenance left the main screen, and while his fellow

Warlord negotiated with his pretty blond daughter, Maxtac bent to other tasks in

preparation for their somewhat desperate gamble.

“Coms,” Maxtac called out, “contact Chu-jo Tokomi Teralitha and Tai-sa Heng Asmudius and

have them meet Chu-jo Heng Taipan in the war room. Inform them that once we have a

count of the mechs and ships will be using on this mission, it will be forwarded to them and

they can start strategising for the op.”

“Hai, Tai-shu,” the Coms officer, Tai-i Ozora Nebuku replied.

Maxtac leant back in the command chair, and flexed his right hand to ease the soreness

from an old battle wound. The leather glove he was wearing creaked at the movement, and

he was for a moment distracted by the sound. This needs to come off perfectly, he

considered, or CCC will just activate another research group with those data and well be

right back to square one. Max was sure that leaving the trace of the thieves from the other

end to his aunt, Jurai Misato, would likely generate results. She was as ruthless as she was

devious. She would root out the trail of thieves and traitors, and probably quite relish the

task. She was, after all, the previous head of the ISS and ESS. She had pretty much written

the operation doctrine of both services singlehandedly.

The Juraian Warlord’s thoughts were brought back to the moment when he noticed the

sounds of heated debate coming from the direction of Arizona’s current location on the

bridge. He turned to look at his good friends back, and saw from the set of his shoulders

that Jessica was being her usual disagreeable self. Maxtac considered this was taking far too

long, and was about to stand to go over and inform the arguing family members of such

when the muffled sound of Jessica’s voice stated something in a strong tone, but was still

too quiet to make out over the rest of the bridge. Whatever was said seemed to push a

button within Arizona, and none too good a button at that.

“WHAT??!!??” he bellowed, launching himself to his feet in a movement Max was well used

too. Unfortunately for the tall ex-clanner, this time his prodigious height worked against

him, and he slammed his head into a bank of overhead readouts at the station. He grunted

and slumped back into the chair, one hand over his bruised forhead, just in time to hear the

statement repeated to him from the coms unit. Max had also launched himself to his feet,

abet a little more carefully, and started to make his way over to the quietly swearing Tokomi

Samurai. Even while closing the distance, Max couldn’t make out Jessica’s last comment, but

her tone suggested sorrow as much as it had anger moments before.

“OK, go,” Arizona said as Max arrived at his chair-side, a near mirror image to the pair’s

position at the command station mere minutes before. “I suppose it can hardly get any

worse,” Ari added, his voice barely more than a growl. Max had time to see a grateful

looking Tokomi Jessica bow crisply from the hip before her image vanished from the screen,

and he looked down at the injured Tokomi, who looked back at him with barely controlled

rage.

Max had known Ari for many years, and despite their long friendship, through trials and

tribulations, war and devastation, having saved each other on the field of battle and off not

an insubstantial number of times, Max knew that it was time to tread carefully around the

Tokomi Samurai. He was mad, and only barely reigning it in.

“Sirs,” the situation officer chose to add at this juncture, “the CCC raiding group lead by Tai-

sa Tokomi Jessica has broken their nav linkage for jump, and three of the ships have begun

powering down their K-F drives. The JNS Lightning Lance...” he paused for a moment, and

there was a bright flash like lightning outside the slit windows, “... has jumped away.”

“Thank you, Chu-i,” Maxtac replied, and then returned his gaze to the fuming Tokomi. “Ari,

are you okay?” he asked, a genuine concern evident on his face.

“Not really, no,” the large Tokomi replied, still struggling with his inner deamons. “But

despite my personal concerns, we have work to do here for the House, and to do it, I must

be functional.” Arizona rose – without impact this time – and walked around the curious-

looking Maxtac.

“Officer of the watch,” Arizona growled, “get me a bottle of vodka, tequila, whatever we

have on this tub that is strong! Bring me a glass and leave the bottle.”

“Hai,” the addressed officer said, and scurried from the bridge. Max watched him go,

knowing that Ari wouldn’t have requested hard liquor whilst on duty unless he really

needed it. Max gazed at Arizona’s back, wondering what could have upset the Warlord so.

As if Arizona could feel his fellow Warlord’s gaze on his six, he turned, and put one sizable

paw on the shorter man’s shoulder.

“When we get finished with triple-C,” he said, his eyes still shining with barely contained

madness, “I have something important to do, and someone to kill.”

Max decided, somewhat sensibly he considered, not to push for details at the time.

The Officer of the watch returned moments later, weighed down with a silver serving tray, a

crystal shot glass, and a full bottle of premium Scotch whisky. As Maxtac began organising

the feet and overseeing the Nodachi resupply, Arizona sat quietly in a unused seat in a dark

corner and emptied the bottle. The entire bridge crew did a splendid job of pretending he

wasn’t there.

to be continued...

Post 4

“…death will come on swift wings to any who open this chest…”

Ancient Egyptian Curse

North Nadir point, Mimic system, 10 LY south of the galactic plain.

30th January 3070

Planning as delicate an operation as a faint and thrust on a planetary assault scale is not a

simple task. It requires a strong grasp of tactics, intimate knowledge of your enemy’s forces

and deployment, and the delicate balance of enough force and yet not too much. Losses

need to be kept to a minimum, while still convincing the enemy that you are actually

assaulting the world. This had been made worse by Arizona’s deliberate goading of the

Cloud Cobras with his daughter’s raiding parities; it had been a little too successful, and the

Clanners had moved further assets into the Salford system. That may have actually been to

protect the fledgling, hidden research base on the second moon, but the raiding gave the

Cloud Cobras an excellent excuse without raising suspicions about heavier than expected

forces in the area.

All in all, this made things harder for the op planning team. Chu-jo Heng Taipan, now

furnished with a full listing of war materials and personnel available to them for the op, was

acting supplies officer, while Chu-jo Tokomi Teralitha was in charge of the phantom

planetary assault, and Tai-sa Heng Asmudius was tasked with hitting the research base,

extracting any and all research materials and data, detaining any enemy personnel with

relevant information – for later questioning – and blowing the place to kingdom come, after

extraction.

The three men stood bent over the mapping table in the middle of the war room. Debate

raged back and forth, heated at times, regarding the best way of achieving their aims. Each

man having years of experience in their assigned roles, and determined to do their utmost

best to make sure Jurai prospered.

Meanwhile, on the bridge of the JNS Nodachi, Maxtac continued with the preparation of the

fleet and the resupply of the Flagship. It wasn’t really his job, but it was busy work, to keep

his mind off the problems at hand, both with the theft of the research data, and the still

moderately drunk Warlord humming to himself in a back corner of the Flag bridge. ‘At least

I’m being productive,’ Max considered, trying not to glance over his shoulder – again – at his

old friend, ‘and I hope that Ari will snap out of this soon so we can get on with things.’

As if the older Warlord had been listening in on Maxtac’s inner dialogue, he rose somewhat

shakily from his seat and wandered up to the raised command dais, to lean over the back of

Maxtac’s command chair. Max could hardly miss Arizona’s looming presence – or the

alcoholic fume that preceded him - and turned to eye him warily.

“Put me down on the pilot roster for the op,” Arizona said. “I need to shoot someone, and

for now, it might as well be our enemies.” Maxtac had seen this look in the Tokomi’s eyes

before, and he knew better than to argue the point.

“Sure thing, Ari,” Max replied, and keyed the adjustment in mech pilot staffing levels into his

chair-arm keypad. He’d like to be a fly on the wall when Teralitha saw who was going to be

dropping with him, but Max didn’t think it prudent to leave the bridge just to satisfy his own

amusement.

“You should put yourself down, too,” Ari continued, his voice sounding a little less than

sober this time round. “As leaders of the House we need to keep our battle skills sharp, and

it’s been ages since we went ‘hunting’ together.” Arizona looked down at Maxtac, with a

meaningful glint in his eyes.

Maxtac considered for a moment, and mentally shrugged. Couldn’t hurt, he considered, and

then immediately thought of famous last words. Not that any Samurai of the House would

shirk from battle, far from it. The House was often led into battle by its Warlords. However,

Max had been on the sidelines for quite a while, working on the home front, with

organisations and defences to plan, new pilots to train and an economy to nudge along. All

of this had kept him out of front line combat for some time. It was well past time he got

some good practice in, and fighting Clanners was about as good as practice got these days.

“Okay,” Max replied. “Together we ride.” Max added his own name to the pilot roster. It

would be good to see action again, up close and personal.

Arizona looked pleased, and it was a nice change from his demeanour of the past few hours.

Perhaps a bit of combat would chase away the daemons of his family life for a while, and

reduce that family’s negative impact on Jurai operations. Well, one could hope, anyway.

“Tai-shu?” Coms Officer Nebuku asked, requesting his Warlord’s attention, as Tai-sa Diaka

re-entered the bridge after inspecting the resupply operations. He stepped up near the

command dais and waited.

“Hai?” both Arizona and Maxtac said as one. They then looked at each other, and smiled. Ari

waved his hand in a gesture of ‘after you’ and Maxtac repeated the gesture.

“I’m having trouble contacting some of the merchant vessels on the periphery of our

formation,” Nebuku began by way of explanation. “There seems to be a background

interference that’s been steadily increasing for the past ten minutes.”

“Hrm,” Maxtac considered aloud. “Sensors, are we reading anything. Are we being

jammed?”

“No, Sirs,” Tai-i Jensen replied. “However I’m seeing climbing levels of...” The Tai-i never got

to finish his statement, as he was cut off by several exclamations of surprise from the back

of the room. Maxtac spun his chair to face the direction of the disturbance, nearly knocking

Arizona down in his near drunken state. Maxtac was not at all ready for the sight that

greeted him as he looked back towards the door to the War Room. There stood Taipan and

Teralitha, supporting between them a nearly comatose Asmudius. Blood leaked from his

eyes, ears and nose, and he barely managed to lock his gaze on the startled Warlords. Diaka,

off to the side, was dumbstruck.

“Get that man to the infirmary,” Maxtac bellowed, almost rising to his feet. He’d seen sights

like this before, when he was the Patriarch of the Heng family. Heng’s ‘gift,’ if it could be

called that, was limited precognition, or seeing into the future. It was random, hard to

control, and if it came upon a Heng suddenly... well this sort of thing happened.

“We tried,” Taipan said, adjusting his grip on his fellow Heng so as not to drop him,

Asmudius being an almost total dead weight by this point, as Diaka stepped up to help. “But

he insisted that he be taken to you immediately.”

Maxtac’s eyes narrowed, but knowing the oddness and importance of Heng visions, himself

still being gifted with them from time to time, he motioned the group of three officers

closer, so as to have a chance to hear what the barely conscious man had to say.

Max lent in towards the still bleeding Asmudius, and the pained Mechwarrior licked his lips,

in an attempt to make his voice better heard.

“What is it?” Max asked, in a quiet, almost reverent voice. The bridge went silent so as to

better allow Asmu to reply.

“Death comes... on swift wings,” Asmu managed to breathe out, little more than a whisper.

“We needs must flee.” Then he grunted in pain, his head lolled forward, and he passed out.

The blood on his face began dripping onto the metal deckplates.

There was another moment’s silence, and as Taipan and Teralitha drew Asmudius back

away from the dais, Maxtac spun back around and let loose a tirade of orders.

“Engineering, spin up the K-F drives, emergency jump procedure. Coms, fleet wide

emergency alert, all ships are to jump out to assigned emergency rendezvous points ASAP. If

there are any shuttles still in the air, leave them if they can’t get docked in time. Sensors, full

report. Batten down the hatches, get that man some first aid, but keep him on my bridge,

and get us the hell out of here.”

A chorus of ‘Hai’s’ sounded from around the various stations on the bridge of the Nodachi as

well trained crews leapt to their orders. Tai-sa Diaka moved between the stations, gaining

an idea of how the tasks were progressing, while in the command chair, Maxtac held a grim

countenance. Arizona, still looking mildly bemused, leant down to speak quietly with his

long time friend.

“So why are we leaving again?” he asked, his quiet but tense tone only heard by Max on the

suddenly noisy bridge. “I didn’t catch a reason from that exchange, and I don’t see any

immediate danger...” Arizona looked around the bridge as if to demonstrate the lack of

threats.

“Listen,” Max almost growled, his furiously whirring mind impatient with his fellow Warlord,

“I know you haven’t had much personal experience with the Heng gift, but I have. I was their

Patriarch for five years, and a member of the Family for ten. I know that if a vision messes

you up like that, you bloody well better take notice. You don’t think Heng bleed like that for

the hell of it? It is only a matter of time, probably mere seconds before we find out just how

much trouble we’re in, and...”

“Sirs. S-sirs?” Jensen stammered out of nervousness, either caused the sudden activity or

fear of interrupting two Warlords talking quietly and intently. Both Tai-shu’s looked up, and

the Coms officer visibly wilted under their combined gazes. “Ah, there is something odd

about the external radiation sensors. I can’t seem to get a reading from them.”

“Can’t get a reading?” Diaka repeated, moving over to the station to double check the

readings. “Did you run a diagnostic?”

“Hai, Tai-sa,” Jensen replied. “They are apparently in working order, but the readings are

nonsense. They are all off-scale.”

“Off scale,” Maxtac repeated slowly, realisation blossoming on his face like a cactus flower

opening in the night. “Check the internal sensors, NOW!” Jensen bent to the task, while Max

hoped he was wrong. The Nodachi had good shielding, but if the external radiation sensors

were being burnt out... then the internal ones would be picking up readings, and...

“I have readings from the internal sensors,” Jenson reported, cutting off Max’s thoughts. “X-

ray and gamma ray reading are high and rising. They will set off the internal contamination

alarms in moments.” Maxtac glanced up at Arizona, who suddenly looked far more sober.

The internal radiation alarms sounded, and Max motioned to have the siren cut off after

only a few seconds.

“Nebuku, patch me through to the entire ship,” Max requested.

“You’re on,” Nebuku said a moment later.

“Fellow Juraians,” Maxtac began, “for reasons unknown we find ourselves suffering severe

radiation exposure. As far as we can tell, this is not an attack, but some form of natural

occurrence. Begin radiation protocol Gamma and X-ray. All crew not involved in jump

activities or mission critical tasks such as sick bay are ordered to move as far as possible

from the surface of the ship, to reduce your exposure as much as possible. All mission

critical personnel who need to stay at their posts are to don radiation suits immediately, if

available. Please check your radiation badges if you have them to see how much exposure

you are receiving. All Mech pilots who are in or near the dropships are to climb into their

mechs immediately. They will provide you extra radiation protection. May your God of

preference, and Tenti-taisho Lynxcat, have mercy. Command out.” Many grim faces around

the Flag bridge turned from their Warlords back to their tasks at the end of the

announcement.

“Nebuku, can we get that warning out to the other ships of the fleet?” Max asked.

“Negative, Sir,” Diaka cut in from near the sensor station, sounding disappointed, “the

radiation levels outside are now effectively blocking all forms of transmission.” Maxtac

shook his head at this news.

“They’ll just have to work it out for themselves,” Max stated.

“Tai-shu?” Jensen asked again. Maxtac nodded for him to proceed. “We need to close the

shield plates on the outer bridge windows to reduce our exposure. I can activate the main

screen to give us external views if you’d like?”

“Do it,” Max said. As the shielding came down over the small external viewports across the

front of the bridge, the main screen above them flickered to life, and the scene around the

Nadir point became visible, enshrouded in an ever increasing shower of static. Ships moved

in numerous directions, some powering toward the Nadir in preparation for jump, some

drifting, and some moving erratically.

“Jensen, what effect will this sort of radiation level have on ship’s systems?” Arizona asked.

“If levels keep increasing as they are, we will start losing non-critical systems within the next

minute or two, and critical systems a few minutes after that.”

“Not good,” Arizona stated. “And how long to jump?”

“Three minutes until the K-F drive is spun up and ready,” Jensen stated after looking at his

readouts. “But we don’t need to move closer to the Nadir to jump, like the smaller ships. A

warship has a greater gravity tolerance than a freighter.” Max nodded at this. “However,”

Jensen continued, “if levels keep rising like this, we will all have probably taken a lethal

radiation dose before we can jump anyway.” The bridge went silent at this statement, and

many a tense face turned toward their leaders.

“You know more about stellar events than I do, Arizona,” Max said. “What could be causing

this?”

“Well, it could be a radiation surge from an accretion pulsar explosion,” Arizona considered,

“but to get off the scale readings, it would have to have been massive, and there are no

pulsar stars within sixty light years of here.” Arizona shook his head. “And if it was from a

pulsar explosion, there should be a shockwave...”

Arizona’s timing could not have been more perfect if he’d planned it.

“Look, on the view screen, the ships...” Diaka blurted out.

On the main view screen, both merchant and warships could be made out behind the snow

of the radiation caused interference. Ships on the left of the Nadir point – relative to the

Nodachi’s position - had begun shaking and electrical discharges flashed across the surface

of several vessels. Two showed minor explosions, trailing debris and vented gases as they

began to tumble. On the Nadir point, two merchantmen managed to jump out, while the

next two, waiting for the point to clear, were brushed together, where they folded into each

other, momentarily becoming one before exploding in a fiery conflagration.

Moments later the Nodachi set to shaking like a leaf on the wind as the twin shockwaves

reached it. Crew were thrown from their seats, alarms wailed, sparks flew from

workstations, and the sound of straining and buckling metal could be heard through the

walls and decks of the ship. Behind the cacophony of sound, the hissing of escaping gas was

clearly audible, and the clang of emergency bulkheads sealing off sections of the ship

reverberated above the wailing claxons. More sparks and the main lights went out. Locally

powered red emergency lighting flickered to life.

Max had managed to keep his seat, while Arizona had latched onto the back of it. His sizable

frame, added to Maxtac’s weight, had caused the swivel pinion of the command chair’s base

to bend, leaning it slightly toward the port bulkhead. Crew regained their feet, and those

that did not move were checked over, and then moved over to where Asmudius was laying,

near the back of the command dais, in a makeshift first-aid centre. Stations were remanned,

and a situation update was called for.

“Countdown to jump still running,” Diaka said, his temple red and bleeding slightly from

connecting with a console in the shockwave. “Two minutes remaining. Ship appears still able

to jump, despite some structural damage, but the nav system is offline.” This engendered

numerous concerned looks.

“Radiation levels still rising,” Jensen added. “I estimate critical radiation doses will be

experienced by all in the bridge in ninety seconds, unless we can evacuate into a more

protected part of the ship.”

“We aren’t going anywhere,” Taipan stated, standing near the rear hatch, “this bulkhead is

sealed shut, and the readouts say there is hard vacuum on the other side.”

Arizona stepped round the leaning command chair to look at Maxtac, who looked up at his

old, and quite possibly soon-dead friend. Those of the bridge crew not unconscious looked

to their Warlords, waiting for orders, and hoping for salvation.

to be continued...

Post 5

“…May death come to you only when you wish so! Death will wait upon your wishes.…”

Holy Christian Bible, Deuteronomy 32:50

Bridge, JNS Nodachi, North Nadir point, Mimic system, 10 LY south of the galactic plain.

30th January 3070

“Ok, let me get this straight,” Chu-jo Tokomi Teralitha stated, stripping off blood stained

disposable gloves as he walked around from behind the command chair on the bridge of the

JNS Nodachi, where he’d been helping a trauma specialist apply first aid to the injured.

“We’ve been hit by some sort of radiation storm, it and the accompanying shockwave have

badly damaged the ship, and quite possibly trashed our fleet,” he glanced up at the main

screen, but all it was showing now was static, and likewise the radar station was dead, it’s

main display surface sparking and smoking; “we’ll be able to jump out in about eighty

seconds, but we’ll be on our way to dead in fifty, and we can’t navigate as the navcomp is

down, so we’d end up floating in J-space forever if we jumped away anyway.” Teralitha

glanced around to verify that he had it covered, his breathing ragged. “Oh,” he added, “and

we’re trapped on the bridge.” He waved a hand toward Taipan, standing, shoulders

slumped, near the exit hatch.

“Yep, that about covers it,” Max replied with a sigh. Teralitha and Arizona looked at him,

both faces showing determination to survive.

“Well I’ve been shot, blown up, tossed from a ship into hard vacuum, and nearly incinerated

in my Mech command couch more times than I’d like to admit,” Arizona said, his jaw set,

“and I refuse to die of radiation poisoning at an uninhabited, two-bit, no-name star’s Nadir

point.”

“And you won’t,” Max said, his eyes literally shining as he called upon his Jurai mind powers.

“But you’ll all have to trust me.” He glanced around the room at the injured and grubby

faces of his crew, his Juraian’s looking back at him, and saw them all nodding. “Good.” Max’s

tone changed to one of a commander that expected to be obeyed.

“Taipan, stop lollygagging ‘round that hatch and get over to the navcomp. Get it up and get

us a jump destination, any jump destination, within the next minute, or we’ll all die.” Taipan

didn’t take any convincing. He’d completed a sub-major in computer technology and its

applications at the Academy, and he’d keep up with the innovations that the hard working

Jurai science division had made in the computer systems that completed jump calculations,

amongst others. He bolted across the damaged bridge, and tore a panel off the navcomp

station. He was into the wires and circuit boards, a penlight clenched between his teeth,

within seconds.

“The rest of you, slave your stations to my chair-arm station, and then gather on the

command dais, as quickly as you can,” Max instructed between deep breaths. He was

working extra oxygen into his body, hyperventilating in preparation for something. “Ari,

Tera, Diaka, get the wounded as close to the back of this chair as you can. Hurry.” As the

orders were carried out, precious seconds ticked away. Max adjusted his seating position to

cross his legs, and he sat in a lotus position with his eyes closed, focusing inwards.

Maxtac had been studied by the Royal Jurai Family physicians after his bonding with the

Royal Family gene-seed, due to the unusual presentation of his mind powers. They had not

actually expected him to survive, but Max knew he had to undergo the procedure to mend a

rift in the House balance, and prevent internal politics from tearing the House Jurai apart.

The Heng and Jurai gene-seeds had never before been successfully combined in the same

individual, so Max, according to the medical world, was quite the oddity. His telekinesis had

been affected by the Heng part of his makeup, and it had been documented that for short

periods Max could throw up a shield that would deflect even laser energy, as he’d

demonstrated deflecting a small laser blast from the head of a heavily damaged Atlas

Battlemech while Max was on foot, during a battle with the Free Worlds League. Max now

hoped that if he could deflect the intense power of a small laser, he might also be able to

deflect X-ray and gamma radiation, at least for the thirty seconds or so they needed to get

the hell out of this Gods-forsaken system.

Eight seconds later, all the bridge crew were huddled around the chair and the wounded

were all on rear section of the dais.

“Ready,” Arizona informed Max, and then the artificial gravity went out with the low wine of

discharging capacitors. The huddle of crew began to drift upward with small noises of

protest, as any movement against the deck caused movement away from it.

“Oh great,” Ari groaned, his disappointment evident. “Just what we need.”

“It will be fine, old friend,” Max said in a surprisingly relaxed tone, placing a reassuring hand

on Arizona’s shoulder for a moment and using the contact to float two feet up off his chair,

still in lotus position. “Ari, you drive the jump from my chair arm. Everyone hang onto the

chair, or someone who is. If you pray, now’s the time.” The crowd on the dais took this

suggestion to heart, and mumbled prayers joined the burnt wiring smells that pervaded the

bridge.

Max took one last deep breath, held it, and relaxed his face. A furrow then developed in his

brow, and it became deeper and more pronounced as he concentrated harder. Then the

muscles in his neck began to shake, and finally there was an audible ‘pop’ as a silvery sphere

of energy formed around the dais. Arizona stared, amazed, at the sphere of power that his

fellow Warlord had created, and hopefully, if it was working as they all hoped, would save

them from a horrible death. He glanced back at their protector, and gasped as he saw Max

had opened his eyes, and they were glowing with a pulsating purple light. Ari didn’t know if

this was ‘normal,’ if that word could even be applied to this situation, but he didn’t have

time to wonder. He glanced at his chronometer.

“Max, can we pass through this... globe, safely?” Ari asked quietly.

“Yes...” Maxtac replied, through gritted teeth. Arizona could tell it wasn’t a good idea to

engage his fellow Warlord in conversation at this point.

“Nebuku, give us a countdown. Tai, situation update,” Ari bellowed.

“Thirty-six seconds to K-F drive charging complete,” Nebuku intoned, glancing at the

readouts on the arm of the command chair.

“I’ve nearly got it,” Tai said, his voice muffled, not even wasting the time to pull his head out

of the console hatch to reply properly. “Ten seconds.”

“Too long,” Ari stated, kicking off from the dais and out of the safety of the silver bubble, he

floated across the bridge, grabbed the subordinates foot, swung around in the air, and

kicked off a nearby console, pulling Taipan, protesting all the way, out of the console hatch

and back into the silver sphere around the command dais. Their flight was broken by the

knot of people round the command chair.

“Damnit, Ari,” Tai said, forgetting his place for a moment, “I nearly had it.”

“And you were nearly the walking dead too,” Ari said. “Unacceptable. We all need to survive

this, or none of us.” They looked back to Max, who was sweating profusely and shaking

visibly. “Presuming Max can last eighteen seconds more,” Ari added, checking his

chronometer again.

“I... will,” Max said in a voice that was halting and sounded far away. “Just get... it... done.”

Blood trickled from Max’s left nostril, down over his lips, to drip from his chin.

Tai went to kick off to finish his task, but Ari grabbed his shoulder. “You can’t, too much

exposure,” he said by way of explanation, “and neither can I.”

“Ten seconds,” Nebuku called. Obviously more than one of the bridge crew were concerned

about the time. Tai and Ari looked at each other, knowing that to finish the task meant

death.

“But I can,” said Teralitha. He pushed off, floating up above the pair, and with a graceful

kick-off from the top of the slightly tilted command chair, somersaulted over the crowd,

kicked off the ceiling, and dove down into the open access hatch at the navcomp station.

“Six seconds,” Nebuku added. Max’s head began to loll, as if he was struggling to remain

conscious. Around the group, the silvery shell began to flicker.

“Splice the red cables, and hit the reset,” Taipan called, and Tera must have done so,

because the readouts at the navcomp station suddenly came to life.

“Three seconds.”

Ari glanced down at the command chair readouts. The nav console data flashed up on the

command chair screen as the nav station shut down, and only one set of destination co-

ordinates were listed. “They’ll have to do,” he thought as he selected them.

“Two.”

The silver bubble protecting the bridge crew was flickering wildly now, as Tera came sailing

through it to crash into the huddle in front of the command chair. Max looked pale and

drawn, and tears of blood leaked from his unearthly, purple, glowing eyes.

“One.”

Arizona held his finger over the ‘initiate jump’ tab, prepared for the moment it turned

green.

“Zero.”

The silver bubble shattered outwards, the movement coincided with Arizona’s finger coming

down on the jump tab just as it lit. Arizona sent of a silent prayer to the laws of physics, and

they answered him. The expanding globe of silver sparkles slowed as the familiar

disorientation of transition to J-space kicked in.

And then the purple glow of power from Maxtac’s eyes exploded outward, engulfing them

all.

to be continued...

Post 6

“…a fronte praecipitium a tergo lupi...

Translation - a precipice in front, wolves behind (between a rock and a hard place)

North Nadir point, The Stepps system, Outworlds Alliance.

2nd February 3070

The North Nadir point of The Stepps system had fallen back to Minnesota Tribe control

several weeks previously, and had remained that way since. It was the entry point from

which Nailor Grey of the Minnesota Tribe intended to launch his latest counter offensive to

retake the planet. However, plans were stalled, and that situation didn’t look like it would

change any time soon, according to the communiqué he had just received from Leopard

Grey, Minnesota Tribe’s C.O.

As Killer Bee de Vega, primary drop lead and tactics officer for this MT taskforce, walked

into Nailor’s office aboard the flagship Insanity, Nailor was expressing the disappointment

he felt with a hearty tirade of vehement cursing.

“Hey, take it easy there, Boss,” KB said, trying to lighten the mood of the office he’d just

walked into as he leant up against the side of one of the overstuffed office chairs. “I haven’t

even opened my mouth to say ‘g’mornin’ and you’re cussin’ at me?”

“Oh no, it’s not at you, Killer,” Nailor said with an audible sigh, “it’s this damn reply from

Leo. He says, and I quote; ‘...I regret that we have no reserve naval forces that can be

released to you at this time. All are engaged in combat manoeuvres in other theatres of

operation, and cannot be freed up in the next three weeks to a month...” Nailor threw the

printout onto his desk, and KB snatched it up to check the exact wording. KB knew that Leo

often hid hints in these messages that might give them an idea of what he actually could

manage, just in case they were intercepted, but on scanning this particular message, the

meaning was clear. No extra naval forces, for at least three weeks.

“This is bad,” KB said absently as he finished scanning the printout, then dropped it back

onto the desk, and slumped down into the chair he’d been leaning against moments before

on Nailor’s hand-motioned behest. KB stared out the bay windows behind Nailor for a few

moments, taking in the activity around the Nadir, before continuing. “Does Leo realise that

we can’t push on to the planet without risking a good percentage of our dropable forces

even before we hit dirtside?” Nailor nodded, his glum countenance reflecting the ever

increasing frown developing, like a storm cell, on KB’s forehead.

“And he knows the Flag could be badly damaged?”

Another nod.

“And he knows they are reinforcing the planet almost daily from the Southern Nadir?”

Yet another nod, this time with eyes rolled towards the heavens, if there were such things in

deep space.

“So he wants us to push on regardless?” KB asked with an accusatory glare.

“That,” Nailor paused for a moment, either for effect or to consider, KB couldn’t be sure,

“he didn’t say. Either he’s leaving it to my discretion – great – or he wants to wait it out and

see what happens. Either way,” Nailor paused once more to sigh again – he’d been doing

that far too much of late – “we’re between a rock and a hard place. We wait and face

massively over-garrisoned forces on the planet, or we push on, and face to lose a lot of our

mechs before we even get down there.” It was KB’s turn to nod knowingly.

“It’s not a decision I’d want to be making,” KB added, looking hard at Nailor again, but his

eyes betrayed a hint of pity for his ‘boss,’ and the weight that was on the man’s shoulders.

“Oh trust me, I don’t want to call this one either,” Nailor shot back, leaning back in his

leather executive chair – yes real leather – and folding his arms behind his head. “If only we

had one more heavy naval vessel or better. It’d almost be enough to...”

Nailor never got to finish his sentence.

A blinding flash from the direction of the bay windows turn everything to painful white for a

moment, then their ears were assaulted by a low pitched ‘whump’ as the Insanity began to

shudder and buck. Being a large Flag class vessel, this was highly unusual. Nailor grabbed

the table and blinked rapidly, trying to get his eyesight back. As it returned a stunned KB de

Vega swam into view, perched on the edge of the overstuffed seat opposite Nailor’s desk,

staring, wide-eyed, over Nailor’s shoulder. A feeling of dread overcame Nailor Grey as he

watched his long-time friend gawking like a schoolboy at his first topless woman. Nailor

swivelled his chair slowly around as the Insanity’s shuddering ceased, looking trepidatiously

over his right shoulder. The external view that greeted him had his own jaw on his

breastbone in rapid order.

Sailing languidly through visible space on a thirty-odd degree angle off the vertical no more

than a kilometre distant was a large, dark vessel, easily a match to the size of the Insanity,

but of a non-standard design. She was clearly not one of the Minnesota Tribe’s, Nailor noted

quickly, as he braced himself to rise and rush to the bridge. Then, with some relief, he began

to notice details that made him uncoil and continue to observe.

All spacecraft, from the smallest shuttle to the largest flag cruiser, produced light, and ran

with lit running lights, as humans of all political and social persuasions tended to spot them

better against the inky blackness with lights on. This was even more important around Nadir

Points, where ships often manoeuvred in plain sight of each other. Despite this point of

etiquette, Nailor noted, this ship was completely dark. Added to this was the obvious

damage to the surface of the vessel, and the trails of gas and debris, sparkling like

diamonds, that it left in its slowly drifting wake that made Nailor suspect it was little threat

to anyone at this point, unless it accidently rammed them. Nailor squinted, noticing the

derelict had a slight spin on her, and a new face of the vessel was turning towards the sun

even as it began leaving his field of view through the bay windows. He could just make out

the name of this ship, written in five-deck high characters. JNS Nodachi.

“The Nodachi. That’s a Juraian Flag, out of the Tortuga Dominions.” Nailor near mumbled to

himself, “but what the hell’s it doing here... and what happened to it.” He rose and turned

to find that KB had already left the office, probably for the bridge, and more information.

Nailor followed along as claxons began to echo throughout the ship. The beginnings of a

smile playing along his lips as the vagaries of a plan, depending on the outcome of a search

and rescue, was already forming in his mind.

to be continued...

Post 7

“…To err is human; to forgive divine…”

Alexander Pope, 1688 - 1744

Bridge, MTS Insanity,North Nadir point, The Stepps system, Outworlds Alliance.

2nd February 3070

By the time Nailor reached the bridge, the command deck was abuzz with activity. KB was in

the thick of it, firing off questions to Captain Pertelli, Naval commander of the Flagship MTS

Insanity. Question which, for the most part, Pertelli had no hope at all of answering. Nailor

decided to save the man the rest of KB’s grilling.

“What have we got, Captain,” Nailor asked, and saw the relief spelt out on Pertelli’s face as

he turned away from the Colonel firing questions at him to answer the most senior officer

now on the bridge.

“It looks to be a derelict flagship, Brigadier,” Pertelli began, pointedly refusing to meet Killer

Bee’s annoyed gaze, “her IFF is down, so we don’t have an identification as yet...”

“It’s the Juraian Flag Nodachi,” Nailor cut in. Pertelli looked like he wanted to ask Nailor just

how the hell he knew that, but decided against it, while and aid standing next to Pertelli

added the id to a wireless electronic pad. Almost immediately, the id came up on the main

view screen, which was showing a view of the derelict spinning slowly in space.

“Okay, well the Nodachi has suffered considerable damage, but if you look here, and here,”

Pertelli adjusted zoomed the view on the main screen using his own data pad, showing

damaged sections of the outer hull, “the ship seems to have suffered internal explosions, or

buckling of certain bulkheads, rather than weapons fire.”

Nailor nodded, while KB looked on impatiently, keen to continue with his barrage of

questions.

“In fact,” Pertelli continued, “it’s quite a surprise that she made a successful jump here in

the state that she’s in. It’s a tribute to the designers and builders that she could be so

damaged and still arrive relatively intact.”

“Um,” Nailor said, his thoughts coalescing. “Are any of our ships in danger from the drifting

hulk?”

“No Sir,” Pertelli said, a slight smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I took the liberty of

ordering all ships and transport shuttles at least five kilometres from the Nodachi, just in

case of explosions or debris spread.”

“Very good, Captain,” Nailor said, nodding. “Right KB?” he added, a slight smirk playing at

the edges of his own mouth.

“Yeah, just dandy,” KB shot back, still sore about being interrupted.

“Pertinent questions now are,” Nailor said after a moment, “what the hell happened to the

Juraian Flag, is there anyone left alive on board, and did she bring any of the trouble she

suffered with her?”

“Only clue as to that,” Pertelli added, a cautious look on his rugged face, “is trace spikes of

gamma and x-ray radiation emanating from the vessel. We don’t know what it means, yet,

but we’ll know a lot more once we get rescue and salvage efforts underway. With your

permission?”

Nailor nodded, looking thoughtful. “Make sure all the teams you send over are kitted out

with radiation suits and badges, and Captain,” Nailor paused to make sure he had his

subordinates full attention, “send them armed.

“Yessir.”

******Two Hours Later******

“Why the hell do we always manage to pull this sort of duty, Zy?” Rebakka grumbled for the

fourth time in an hour as he and Zymoses trudged down an internal corridor of an Overlord

class dropship. Reb’s voice came over all tinny due to the radiation suits they both wore,

and he almost missed Zy’s shrug in the folds of his fellow Mechwarriror’s suit. They were at

the head of a team of Naval yeoman, all suited and armed, heading for the mechbay of the

dropship, which was tethered to the Juraian Flagship they were running search and rescue

on.

“Probably because we’ve both spent too much time in dropships,” Zy’s canned reply came

back moments later, “we know our mechs back-to-front, are handy with assault rifles in

confined spaces, and,” he flipped his suits radio channel to Reb only, “these Navy pukes

wouldn’t know the dangerous end of a rifle if they were fed it, let alone how to survive a

firefight.” Both men chuckled at their private joke, and then turned as one to consider their

charges. The Naval yeoman looked clumsy in their rad suits, and where almost comedic as

they stumbled along, their rifles pointing every which way, nerves evident in their every

step. Naval crew, especially nubs like these guys, didn’t see much face to face action. Their

battles were fought over many kilometres of range. Their deaths usually came suddenly,

with little or no warning and with no idea who was responsible for the deed. This was not

the way of the Mechwarrior.

The two pilots looked at each other, and laughed again. It was fortunate they were still on

their private channel, for they may have had a mutiny on their hands! Their amusement

soon turned to seriousness, however, as they both knew they need to keep any eye out for

potential hostiles.

“That, and we don’t exactly have anywheres to drive our mechs just at the moment,”

Zymoses finished, as they reached a corner in the corridor. With practiced precision, Reb

waved the Navies back against the wall while Zy slid up to the corner, dropping to one knee

with his rifle cradled in his hands, to slide his silver shielded head around the corner just

enough to glance down the new corridor with one eye.

“Clear,” Zy reported, getting to his feet.

“This is kinda weird,” Reb said as they moved slowly down the next corridor, checking the

crew compartments on each side as they went. “Haven’t the other groups been reporting

radiation-burnt bodies scattered around the main ship?” Zy exaggerated his nod so that Reb

could see it. “Well we haven’t seen any. Where there no crew in this dropship, or did they

all go someplace to die?”

“I know about as much as you do,” Zy replied. “Besides that one badly burnt guy in the

engine room that Delta team hauled off to the Medical Ship double-time, they’ve found no

one else alive. And that guy mightn’t be alive too much longer, either.” They both grimaced

behind their radiation face shields; radiation sickness was a horrible, slow way to die.

“Whatever happened here, it seems to be over now,” Reb added, as they approached the

end of this corridor. “You’d expect if it was sudden, that there’d be some casualties in the

bunks here, so there probably was some warning. But as to where they went...” It was Reb’s

turn to exaggerate a shrug.

There was a sudden crackle of static over the suit coms, and then a new voice broke in over

the Mechwarrior’s conversation.

“Charlie team, report!” came Killer Bee’s gruff tenor through their earbuds.

“KB, Reb here,” Rebakka spoke up, “it took us longer than expected to pick the docking lock,

however we are now working our way down to the mechbay. Radiation levels are,” he

stopped to check the Geiger-counter hanging from his shoulder pad, “high background, and

we are yet to find any corpses in the upper levels or the bunk area. We should have eyes-

on-mechs in the next ten minutes.”

“Good,” KB commented offhandedly. There was a moment’s pause. “What’s happening with

the power over there?”

“Powers fine over here,” Reb replied as he made his way out of the last empty bunkroom to

rejoin the rest of Charlie team. “Lights are on but no-bodies home.” Zy chuckled at the

intended humour.

“Hrm,” KB replied again. “Consider that hostile territory, men. Likely someone’s gone and

cleared the dead, cos there is no shortage of bodies in the main hull.” Reb and Zy looked at

each other while the cogs turned in their heads. Zy looked down the corridor to the main

hanger, his eyes narrowing with suspicion, while Reb clutched his rifle a little tighter, still

concerned with the lack of tactile sensation though his radiation gloves.

“What’s the condition of the main hull, Sir?” Zy asked after a moment, when his scouting of

the corridor ahead came up empty.

“Considerable damage,” KB replied in a clipped tone, “several key compartments open to

space. We’ve just managed to pressurise the outer chamber to the bridge, so we’ll be going

in there shortly. We should then know who was commanding this screwed up shindig, just

what sort of horrible day they had, and just how the bejezus this ship managed to jump here

in the state that it’s in.” KB sighed audibly over the comlink. “Even if no-one survives, the

salvage on the tech in this ship will give our science boys and girls years of fun to reverse

engineer and apply to our ships. But that’s for the future. You pair of nitwits get down to the

mechbay and do a stock take of the goodies. And fer goolies sake, keep an eye out for the

corpse shifter.”

“Yessir,” both Mechwarriors replied just before the external signal cut out.

“Well you heard the man,” Reb said to Zy and he folded out of his crouch and hefted his

rifle, “let’s get these yeo-ho-ho’s down to the mechbay, pronto.”

to be continued...

Post 8

“…Never tell people how to do things. Tell them what to do and they will surprise you with

their ingenuity…”

General George S. Patton, 1885 - 1945

Overloard Class Dropship Fateful, coupled to the derelict Juraian Flagship Nodachi, North

Nadir point, The Stepps system, Outworlds Alliance.

2nd February 3070

“This is not going well,” Zy commented absently as he tried in vain to pick the electronic lock

sealing the access to the mechbay. Running a bypass was hard enough at the best of times;

these Juraian locks were hardcore, but doing it with rad gloves on turned it into an exercise

in frustration.

“Well we need to get in there,” Rebakka stated, not for the first time, as he leaned over Zy’s

work.

“Yer blocking the light, again!” Zy stated, followed by an exasperated sigh as he turned to

look up at his fellow Mechwarrior.

“Oh, sorry,” Reb mumbled as he stepped back, rubbing his palms together absently. “I’m

just antsy to get in there and check out all the sweet rides. Spent too much time in space,

man, too much time. Need to get planetside and mechup.” It was Reb’s turn to wistfully

sigh.

“I realise that, bro,” Zy said, nodding, as he turned back to his task, “and I’m giving it all I’ve

got, but these damn gloves...” As if to punctuate his point, the probe Zy had been using to

manipulate the dismantled keypad slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

“DAMNIT!” Zy swore, and then suddenly whipped his rad gloves off and retrieved his fallen

tool.

“Woh woh woh, wadaminute!” Reb began, concern evident in his voice, “you don’t wannna

go exposing yourself, bro.”

“Bah, it’s fine,” Zy countered, returning to his task with gusto now he had more control over

what he was attempting. “There’s only background radiation levels here, and unless there is

an unshielded mech reactor behind this door, the worst I’ll need is a few tablets for a couple

of days. Don’t sweat it.”

“Well it’s not me that’s worried, you understand,” Reb back-peddled, “it’s the yeo-ho-ho’s

that are getting uptight about it.” They both simultaneously stole a glance at the group of

Naval yeoman milling around just up the corridor.

“They do indeed look worried," Zy commented with a sly smile, “but they looked that way

ever since they were put on this assignment. Just take a good hold of your cojones, Reb, and

we’ll be inside before you can say...” Zy never got to finish his sentence, for the seal on the

door popped and the heavy plate door swung back and up into the wall, as if on a pivot from

the top of the arch it had been resting in.

Zy was so surprised he fell backwards, and skittered to the side, knocking his hacking tools

everywhere in a rush to grab his rifle. Reb also took a couple of steps back and to the side,

raising the barrel of his weapon up to cover the impenetrable darkness of the cavernous

mechbay beyond.

“Nice work,” Reb stated without taking his eyes off the opening for even one second. “I

knew you could do it,” he added as a form of congratulation.

“I don’t think I did anything particularly,” Zy stated as he scraped his scattered tools onto a

strip of leather, and hurriedly rolled them up to shove in his belt pack. “It’s as if it came

open all on its own.” Both men stared at the opening, not really daring to move.

“Huh,” Reb added, as if that would explain things.

“Well you got your access,” Zy added after tearing his eyes off the gaping maw of an

opening to stare pointedly at his fellow Mechwarrior. “You’d best be getting in there to

check out your booty.” He waved his arm toward the open hatch to punctuate his

statement.

“Okay, okay,” Reb acknowledged, fumbling at his belt, “no need to be hasty. I’m gonna

chuck a flare inside to give us some idea of what’s in there. I’m not liking this situation

particularly much.”

“No arguments there,” Zy replied. Reb tossed a small object through the hatch moments

later, and the flare hissed to life, throwing flickering light across the floor of the mechbay.

The Mechwarriors could make out equipment strewn around the decking, as if at least some

mechs had been in the process of refit when the ship had been hit by whatever it was that

had caused the damage. As the pair looked up, they saw the legs of several chassis; Avatar,

Rifleman, and standing in the middle, it’s deaths head staring down at them with unmasked

malevolence, an Atlas.

Reb whistled low and long. “Jackpot,” he added.

“Hey I think I can see a bank of light switches on the inside wall on your side,” Zy said,

pointing, as the flare began to flicker and die.

“Cover me,” Reb said, his desire to get to the battlemechs outweighing his caution just at

that moment.

“Wait...” Zy began, but too late as Reb slid inside, his rifle ready at his hip, and flicked the

banks of light switches. The big spots and high general lighting all flickered to life and the

space was filled with illumination.

“Let there be light,” Reb said, triumphant, and then he whistled again as he looked back into

the cavernous space, now lit, and saw row after row of mechs in their cradles. “Nice.” He

glanced around some more, and not seeing anyone in the vicinity, he waved Zy and the

yeoman forward. “Let’s get to what we came here for.”

“But what about what KB said...” Zy began.

“It’s fine, there’s no one alive on this tub, besides us, that is,” Reb cut his fellow tribesman

off as he moved forward with some considerable confidence. His weapon was still sweeping

with his gaze, however. Zy shrugged, and waved the yeoman to follow and he also moved

into the mechbay. Just after the last yeoman walked through the hatch, there was a grinding

of metal on metal and the hatch swung quickly back into place, sealing Charlie team in the

mechbay with a resounding boom.

“Oh crap,” Zy said, throwing himself behind some nearby storage containers. Reb crouched,

swinging his rifle around madly looking for a target, and the yeoman just huddled up by the

hatch, not even canny enough to seek cover.

“You can throw your weapons down now, if you’d be so kind,” a voice boomed from above

them. They looked up to see the torso of the Atlas shift to ‘look’ down more directly at

them, and they could now see that the giant war machine had been shut down until the

moment the door had slammed shut. The noise of the echoing boom had masked the

sounds of the mech power-up.

“Cover,” Reb yelled, combat-rolling to the side and ending up behind a rack of diagnostic

equipment. The yeoman shuffled of comically in the other direction, heading for the relative

cover of some shelving.

“And just what good is that going to do you?” the amplified voice asked in an exasperated

tone. “Why the small laser in the head of this mech could burn through any of that cover

and roast you alive in seconds. Face it, you are my prisoners. Give in and save us all a lot of

time.”

“Maybe so,” Reb yelled from his cover, “but you’d also burn though the hull of the dropship,

and that wouldn’t be doing you any favours now, would it. And here’s betting you are a lone

survivor of whatever befell your ship. Where’re you going to go, and what you going to do,

one man against an armada in a crippled dropship?” Reb finally ran out of points, and they

all waited while the Atlas pilot had a think about what was said.

“And just who’s armada is it?” the booming voice asked.

“I’m proud to say we are the Minnesota Tribe,” Reb replied, “here on a search and rescue

mission, to help you out of your... predicament.” Reb leaned back and grinned at Zy across

the mechbay deck. Zy’s face looked less than pleased through his face-shield.

“Here to salvage and take Juraian mechs, more like,” the voice countered.

“Okay, yes, we were intending to salvage from this vessel until we found you alive,” Reb

conceded, while Zy waved a ‘no’ signal at him which Reb ignored. “But now that you have

been ‘rescued,’ you can represent the Juraian high command in this system until we get this

mess sorted out. All you have to do is come down out of the mech and shuttle over to the

MTS Insanity to have a chat with our C.O. about the situation.”

By this stage, Zy was nodding again.

“As your prisoner,” it was more a statement than a question.

“Ah, no, as an honoured guest of the Minnesota Tribe,” Reb countered.

“Hrm,” the amplified voice said. “You present a compelling argument. It’s a shame our two

governments parted under difficult circumstances, and have raided each other since,

because if we were on better terms I’d be much more likely to believe you’d keep your

word.”

Zy scratched his... suit helmet, grimacing when he couldn’t reach his scalp, wondering how

he could help the situation. Then it came to him. “We have Nukies!” he stated, walking out

from behind his cover to show his eagerness to give and receive trust in kind. It was Reb’s

turn to wave him back without success.

“What?” Reb added, confusion evident in his tone.

“We have Newcastle Brown Ale at the bar on the Insanity,” Zy repeated. “Nailor had them

stocked a few years ago when he’d taken a liking to them on a visit with your leadership. If

you’ll come down and talk, I can organise you a fresh brew at the bar after the debrief.”

“Hrm,” the voice said again. “Okay, you have a guest. Let’s just hope I don’t turn into a

political prisoner...” The sound of the Atlas’s hatch popping followed soon thereafter.

to be continued...

Post 9

“… melior diabolus vos teneo…”

Translation: better the devil you know

Medical Shuttle Nightingale, on route to Minnesota Tribe Flagship Insanity, North Nadir

point, The Stepps system, Outworlds Alliance.

2nd February 3070

“So you’re telling me I’m the only conscious survivor found so far?” Ozora Tiny, technician

and Mechwarrior of House Jurai asked of his ‘rescuers’ as a doctor checked out the radiation

burns on his left arm; the worst of his current wounds. Tiny looked somewhat worse for

wear, despite a clean set of clothes he’d hunted up since the incident. His shaved head, for

that ‘cue ball’ effect, showed the dried blood of sealed abrasions, and the right side of his

face sported the purpling of a significant deep bruise. His split lip, nestled in his well

trimmed goatee and moustache, and the burns to his arm rounded out the ‘been in a nasty

bar fight, or worse’ look he was cultivating. Despite his injuries, he was still quick to smile,

and although his six-foot-one, wide shouldered bulk should have been menacing, he exuded

a calm reassurance that put people around him at ease. Few could understand how such a

big guy could crawl around inside a mech and work in the cramped spaces as Ozora did, but

Tiny seemed to manage it without hardship, and his muddy brown eyes were always active,

picking up every small details he could feed to his analytical brain to solve whatever

problem faced him at any given moment. Currently, he was watching with detached interest

as the doctor unwrapped his makeshift bandages to treat his radiation-burnt arm.

“Well, so far, yes,” Zymoses said, in a tone that was half admission and half apology. He’d

recognised the enigmatic Ozoran the moment his ‘guest’ had exited the Atlas’s main hatch,

and it had been a cordial nodded greeting of past comrades who’s paths had diverged.

“We’re still working on accessing the bridge of the Nodachi,” Zy continued somewhat

sheepishly. Tiny chuckled, the sound expressing far less warmth than it had in better times.

“Oh yeah, I can understand that,” he replied, showing one of his trademark grins – tinged

with sadness - “I have trouble with them myself from time to time. The Kagato-Armatage

locksmiths are legendary. Freakin’ weirdos!” Tiny chuckled again, more naturally this time,

and Zy discovered he was smiling despite himself.

Rebakka had remained on the Overlord dropship to complete the survey, while KB had

assigned Zy to be Tiny’s escort to the Insanity. Zy liked the thick-set Juraian, having fought

with him during combined manoeuvres several years previously, and the technician-come-

warrior had helped him out of a jam with a frozen leg actuator that had put Zy back into the

fight, a fight he thought he was sidelined from, and the extra mech had definitely made a

difference. Zy hadn’t liked the political shakeup that had caused the rift between the two

pirate bands, and was secretly pleased that MT had been looking to re-establish contact

with the Juraian High Command on matters of reconciliation. He’d not heard how that first

olive branch offer had gone, but with the current situation, despite the Juraian casualties, it

could bode well for more combined operations in the future.

“You know,” Tiny began, wincing now and again while the doctor worked on his injured arm,

“I could slip your guys a few codes that might help them get through the bridge security.

That is if your commander gives me his word that he only intends to provide aid to anyone

he finds alive in there, and that we won’t be held as political prisoners.” He finished his offer

with a conspiratorial wink.

“That’s very amenable of you,” Zy said, in his best genial tone, “and I’ll just radio that off to

my superiors now, so they’ll have an answer for you by the time we reach the ship.” With

that, Zy left the treatment cubicle and moved off down the corridor to the coms station.

“There, that’s all I can do for you at this point,” the doctor said, wrapping fresh gauze

around Tiny’s wounded arm. “It’s a fairly serious burn, but you took your rad meds soon

after you woke up, and your bandaging job was pretty good one-handed, so with a week or

so of treatments and this course of radiation meds I’m prescribing you, you should be ready

for active duty again in a fortnight. You’ll need to report to the hospital ship three times a

week for the treatments.”

Tiny grinned. “I don’t know what sort of Mechwarriors you’re use to, Doc, but in Jurai, we’d

slap a dermal regen patch on that, implant a slow release rad med capsule, and yell ‘You’re

good t’go, get back into the fight!’” The doctor grimaced.

“Well,” the doctor began, his tone haughty, “it would seem that your Jurai medical facilities

have some equipment and techniques that we don’t have here, yet. Perhaps if the situation

between our two governments improves, an exchange of equipment and training staff

might be considered?”

“Hrm, yes,” Tiny said, he look thoughtful, “I will definitely suggest that to my superiors, once

I’m reacquainted with them.” The doctor looked happy as he finished the bandaging, packed

up his medical kits and moved off to his office to fill in the paperwork that was still needed

for records. Tiny had re-buttoned the sleave of his shirt and was just testing the movement

of the bandaged arm as Zymoses returned to the cubicle.

“Cornel de Vega informs me that Brigadier General Nailor Grey has given his personal

assurance that you and your command staff will be given full rights as visiting dignitaries,

and full treatment at our best available hospital facilities, presuming they are injured,” Zy

recited, and Tiny could tell he’d been told to get the wording correct. Tiny reached up and

patted Zy on the shoulder with the hand of his good arm, a half-smile on his face.

“That’ll do me,” he said, leaning forward conspiratorially, “now here’s what you need to

input...” Zy pulled out a notepad and started scrawling quickly as Tiny talked into his ear in

hushed tones.

******Twenty Minutes Later******

“Nailor has a noice office,” Tiny mumbled towards Zy as they both stood at ease in the

middle of Minnesota Tribe emblem embroidered into the carpet of the floor. “Is that real

leather?” Tiny pointed out the commander’s chair with his chin.

The two men stood there watching the vacant desk, and the view of space beyond, part of

which was taken up by the sight of the near derelict Nodachi. Tiny could see, even from this

distance, the flashes of welding torches and the like as they worked on and within the hull

of the ship, either cutting into new sections or repairing ruptured sections, he knew not.

Added to this, a swarm of small utility craft hovered and buzzed around the ship like fleas on

a mongrel dog. Tiny let out a little sigh to see the great ship brought so low. Being an Ozora,

he disliked seeing any technological equipment he worked on being in a state of disrepair. It

was probably that one trait in a Mechwarrior that drew them into the Family Ozora in the

first place. A lot of high-ranking Mech pilots might bemoan Ozorans when something went

wrong with their technology, but they all knew deep down that it was a very good thing to

have an Ozora along on an extended campaign or mission. No one could undertake a field

repair and do a proper job of it like an Ozora Mechwarrior.

Zy nodded slightly and rolled his eyes a little, which Tiny’s ever-vigilant gaze caught. Tiny’s

beginnings of a chuckle died in his throat as a rear side door opened and through it strode

Nailor Grey. After Nailor took his seat, Zymoses saluted his superior officer, while Tiny gave

a stiff, from-the-waist bow, and a salute was returned.

“Nice to see a conscious survivor of the Nodachi,” Nailor began, his face grave, “we were

beginning to think you all’d been wiped out.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Tiny replied. “If I may ask, how many non-conscious survivors are there, so

far?”

“Current count is twelve,” Nailor answered, his look still grim “and of them, nine are not

expected to survive.” Tiny drew a whistling breath through his teeth.

“Damn,” he said in a very quiet voice.

“Yes,” Nailor continued, “so you can see why we were glad to find you.” Tiny nodded in

understanding. “So what can you tell us about what happened to your ship?”

“Unfortunately not much,” Tiny replied. “I was working in the stripped-out reactor of a

Hauptmann, looking for an elusive hair line fracture in the shielding, when I noticed the faint

sound of alarms. Before I could make my way out, there was another garbled

announcement and then the mech I was in shook like it was a rag doll being waved around

by a four-year-old, and after that I think I might have come in contact with something hard,

and been knocked out.” He rubbed the bruised side of his face with the remembering.

“You were actually inside the reactor shielding?” Nailor asked.

“Yes, which explains why I only have a mild burn on my arm, due to that damn hairline

fracture, and I’m not a crispy critter, like the rest of the crew of the Fateful at the time,” Tiny

added in way of clarification, his own face showing sadness at the loss of his fellow Juraians.

“Speaking of the crew, what happened to the bodies?” Nailor queried. “Zy’s initial reports

state that there were no bodies in any sections of the ship he’d visited.” Nailor looked over

to Zymoses for support, and Zy nodded in agreement.

“Oh that,” Tiny said, looking a little sheepish. “Well that’s an easy one. I didn’t know how

long I’d be sharing the dropship with them, so to prevent things getting a little stinky, I

moved them all to the port airlock, and partially evacuated it to chill them.”

“Like a big morgue freezer,” Zy said, nodding.

“Exactly,” Tiny said, turned slightly toward Zy. “If you and Rebakka had chosen that airlock

to enter by...” Tiny grimaced, and both the MT warriors got the idea.

“Zymoses,” Nailor said, “you’d best go and pass that little gem of information onto Bakka’s

team before he stumbles on them, to avoid any, um, unpleasant surprises.”

“Yessir,” Zy said, and disappeared through the main door after a crisp salute. Just after he

exited, a marine that had been standing outside the door stepped in and closed the hatch,

taking up a position opposite the one he’d just been maintaining outside the door.

“So you cleared the dead,” Nailor continued, “and you didn’t find any injured?”

“I don’t know how long I was out for, Sir,” Tiny said, “nearly all the electronics were fried to

some extent by whatever it was that hit the ship, and it took me a fair while to get the life

support and lighting back online. I checked every body I came across, but none were alive by

the time I got to them. I guess with the dropships lower shielding...” Tiny left off his line of

answering, and swallowed hard.

“I see,” Nailor replied, his own shoulders sagging slightly at the thought. “Well, thank you

for trusting us enough to provide the codes for access to the bridge. It’s taken our teams

quite some time to reseal the corridor leading to that area, and delays opening the hatch

once that was done will just hamper any timely assistance we can render to your command

staff.” Tiny nodded, having recognised the situation as described. “So while we are waiting

for them to breach the airlock, can you tell me, to you best knowledge, who might be in

there?”

“Well,” Tiny began, and was interrupted by an insistent beeping from the coms unit on

Nailor’s desk.

“Excuse me,” Nailor said, and answered the call.

“Sir, this is KB, over on the Juraian hulk,” KB’s tinned voice came out of the speaker on

Nailor’s desk. Nailor winced slightly at KB’s terminology, then glanced up at Tiny, who

nodded to continue.

“Go on,” Nailor said.

“We’ve just breached the bridge airlock,” KB stated, “and you’re not going to believe this...”

to be continued...

Post 10

“ …Time heals all wounds, unless you pick at them…”

Shawn Alexander, 1977 - 2024

Minnesota Tribe hospital ship MTS Strider, North Nadir point, The Stepps system,

Outworlds Alliance.

9th February 3070

Tokomi Arizona did up the last buttons on his recovered and cleaned Jurai Warlord’s

uniform as he watched the view through the window of his medical suite aboard the MTS

Strider, noting the repair work going on around the surface of the JNS Nodachi. As he

straightened the cuffs on his jacket, Ari considered what a rush job MT was doing on the

repair and refit, and he stifled a grimace. Just about anyone who could operate a vacuum

welder was out there cooking up a storm, and Ari silently prayed they weren’t screwing up

one of his flagships permanently. After all, there was technology on the Nodachi that MT

crews had never even seen, let alone dealt with before. Not that he minded MT doing the

repair work in good time, as long as it was all up to standard, however, Arizona had the

distinct impression that Nailor had more motivation that just ‘helping out a past ally in

trouble.’

Arizona had done his level best to find out all he could about the tactical situation of the

system he now found himself in. The Stepps had fallen into Outworlds Alliance hands quite a

number of months ago, and the Minnesota Tribe wanted it back... badly. Problem was, the

warriors and mechs on its surface had been shipped in from the front lines with the Clans.

They were hardened vets with some good Clantech, and they wouldn’t be easily shifted.

Add to that the reinforcements they were getting almost on a daily basis via the Southern

Nadir Point, and the naval blockade protecting the planet, which Ari suspected Nailor didn’t

have the Naval strength to drive off, and it all added up to a stalemate that just kept getting

worse for the aggressors. If it had been his campaign to plan, by this point he would have

just left the system, after concentrating so much of OA’s regional forces here, and hit two or

three other systems nearby, gaining mechs and damaging industry until OA started stripping

The Steppes to help shore up these other problem areas. Then Ari would sweep back in,

with the required Naval forces and blitzkrieg the planet. But then Ari was not in command

here, and it wasn’t his fight to plan. Also, he didn’t really know what the state of MT’s other

combat arenas were, and so he really shouldn’t take this one in isolation. There may be a

need to concentrate OA forces here for other attacks, but then again...

A knock at the door drew Ari’s attention back to the here and now. He glanced up to see the

liaison officer assigned to him at the door, Staff Sergeant Happy. The man was well named

too, as his demeanour was almost as likeable as Jurai’s own OzoraTiny, however Tiny had to

be assigned to the repair oversight detail to make sure that the Nodachi was put back

together properly – and secretly, Ari suspected he couldn’t have stopped the Ozoran from

fussing over the ship!

“It appears initial reports of my grave health situation were mildly overstated,” Arizona

quipped as he waved Happy into the room. Happy looked a little confused by the statement,

so he decided to play it safe, starting out with a proper salute to a superior officer – despite

being in a different military, he had been assigned to Arizona and so deference was

required.

“It’s good to see you up and around again, Sir,” Happy added, “but don’t you think you’d be

better off staying on the hospital ship under observation for a few more days?”

“Nonsense,” Arizona assured his assigned aide, “I feel better than I have in quite a few

years, I have no signs of radiation sickness and my few physical wounds are all but

completely healed. I’m more than ready to get out of this luxury resort and get back to

work. I’ve even put on a few pounds, which I’m keen to deal with in the gym.” To punctuate

that thought, Arizona gripped his belt buckle and shook it back and forth, to demonstrate

the lack of space beneath it.

Secretly, Arizona wondered exactly why he’d healed so fast. He could put a certain amount

of the fast healing down to his enhanced genome, and another chunk down to the excellent

tho quite IS standard medical facilities available in this new medical ship, but still he felt that

it didn’t quite account for all of it. By all rights he should have needed another week or two

at best in the doctor’s hands before being ready for work, but here he was, feeling fine and

ready to get back to the fight. It seemed that the majority of the staff that had been on the

bridge that day when the radiation wave hit the Nodachi were also either ready for release

or a short few days away from it. Miraculous recoveries all, that is, except for the one

person Arizona was sworn to protect with his own life – Maxtac.

“I’d like to stop by the ICU to check in on Jurai Maxtac before we shuttle to the Insanity,”

Arizona added as he handed his leather carry bag to Happy. The staff sergeant took the bag

dutifully, and waved the Juraian Warlord towards the door.

“Certainly, Sir,” Happy said as he pulled the door closed behind himself after they had

entered the corridor. “I believe we have sufficient time before we are due at the staff

meeting.” Happy silently suspected even if they didn’t have the time, he could hardly stop

the Juraian Warlord from doing so. From his time working in joint operations with the

Juraians some years previously, he’d discovered one of the Tokomi Families titles meant

‘defender of the Royalty.’ Happy didn’t know much about Jurai Royalty, either how

someone became one, or what it really meant within House Jurai, but he did know that if

you wanted a piece of a Royal Juraian, you had to go through each and every Tokomi in the

room first. And considering Tokomi were the cream of the Jurai combat forces that took

some considerable doing.

The pair moved along the gently curving corridor of the hospital ship, past large windows

that also afforded a view of the work going on in and around the Nodachi. It seemed to

Arizona that the Nodachi was the most interesting thing to happen to this otherwise dead

boring area of The Stepps system since MT took it over. After all, being stuck on a Nadir

point wasn’t exactly exciting.

They reached the lifts in silence, and while Happy hit the call button, Arizona considered the

Nodachi one last time before heading to more internal areas of the ship. He’d contacted

Tortuga Prime shortly after regaining consciousness and being informed of the state of the

flagship, and it was pleasing to know that within the day the Ozora Tender Class repair

jumpship Reliable would arrive to assist with the final repairs to the ship, and to provide

much needed replacement Naval crew. But that would hardly solve the other major staffing

problem that had come to light since Ari’s return to the land of the conscious, and he

reminded himself that he needed to contact Misato for a face-to-face just as soon as the

Ozorans had the com’s centre on the Nodachi put back to rights. Behind him, the lift dinged

and the chrome doors slid apart, allowing Happy to enter. He turned and waited patiently,

holding the lift door until the Juraian Warlord was ready to join him.

Ari’s eyes stung at the thought of so many loyal Juraians meeting untimely, pointless deaths.

There would be a mass burial in space the following day, once the Ozoran detachment

commanded by Tai-i OzoraWolfsaber arrived. It wouldn’t be right to have the funerals

without the other technicians present, seeing so many of their brethren lost their lives at

[/i]Mimic[/i]. Ari’s deep pool of anger flared up at the thought of the senseless loss of life,

and he clenched his jaw in an attempt to reign in his legendary temper.

Happy watched the back of the chief Warlord of the Tortuga Dominions, wondering what

thoughts flowed through the mind of such a powerful leader. As he watched, the man’s

body shuddered and stiffened, as if all his muscles were clenching. Happy was so focused on

this physical display that he almost missed the purple flash reflected in the glass of the

external viewing window. Had he imagined it, a flash of purple light from the reflected eyes

of the Juraian Warlord? He couldn’t really tell; it was gone almost as quickly as it appeared.

Whatever the strange sight, Arizona seemed to gather himself up, tear his eyes away from

his damaged flagship, spin sharply on a heel and join Happy in the lift. As the two men stood

silently in the lift, facing the closed doors, Happy stole a glance at the man he was assigned

to assist. There was now no sign of the purple light he thought he’d seen reflected in the

window, and Happy put it down to some trick of the light...

The mood in the ICU was quiet and efficient, but with an edge of tension. Patients here

could go from stable to dead very quickly, and all the staff were trained and ready to react

to save lives at any time. The room of the current star patient of the Strider’s ICU was quite

busy. Flowers – all artificial due to the lack of a planet to grow them on – adorned nearly

every unoccupied flat surface, surrounded by small gifts and get-well cards. Several visitors

stood in the room, a respectful distance from the patient, while others were just leaving as

Arizona and Happy approached. Several more were waiting to enter, however they deferred

to Arizona’s authority and he entered without delay, while Happy waited in the anti-room.

The current occupants of the ICU suite were Nebuku Kai and Karl Jensen, both looking fully

recovered from their ordeal on the bridge of the Nodachi, and both sharing concerned looks

for their still unconscious Warlord.

“Konnichiha, Tai-shu,” both men intoned, and they both bowed stiffly from the waist in true

Jurai military fashion. Arizona tried not to smirk as he returned the bow. These men were

both excellent naval officers, and handpicked to be part of Maxtac’s command crew. They’d

been with him for four years now, and it looked like his recent efforts in saving the

occupants of the bridge at Mimic had only improved their respect for him. Arizona turned

his attention to the occupant of the bed.

From his vantage point, Arizona considered that Maxtac looked perfectly well, at ease, and

could easily regain consciousness at any time. That was probably what made his coma seem

so unreal; the fact that there didn’t look to be anything wrong with him at all. His wounds

had also healed quickly and completely, well the physical ones at the least. When Ari had

awakened in his own ICU room down the hall, he’d immediately asked about the condition

of the Royal Juraian, his crew, then his ship and where he was. When he’d been informed of

Maxtac’s unconsciousness, he’d nearly ripped out all the tubes and sensors and raced off

down the hall to check on Max. It took a rather strong willed matron and a compelling

argument about Ari’s lack of medical training and the fact that he couldn’t do a damned

thing to help that had finally quietened the Tokomi’s need to ‘be there.’ Still, his first trip

after that first shaky one to the bathroom was to trundle down the corridor to check on his

Royal charge. And yes, they were right. There seemed to be nothing he or anyone else could

do for whatever it was that was keeping Max under. Even brain scans came up showing no

damage, however there were sections of the Royal Jurai’s brain that were firing way more

than they had any right to be. Arizona was no brain specialist, but he figured that it must

have something to do with Max’s mental powers, and decided to prohibit any more brain

scans unless there was some compelling reason to believe there was new damage to his

friend’s cerebrum. It all came down to waiting for whatever was causing the coma to come

good, and for Max to wake up of his own accord. Arizona didn’t like having to wait, but

there was nothing else for it, and he had plenty to do in the meantime.

Ari came back from his thoughts to the current situation just as the two Nodachi bridge

crew were giving their excuses, expressing their hopes that Max would recover soon,

commenting on how fortunate they were to be alive, and taking their leave of the room.

Arizona made some standard reply, bowed in return again and returned to considering

Max’s repose as Nebuku and Jensen left.

They’ve both healed in record time, just like me, Arizona thought as he looked at his fellow

Warlord. Was that something to do with you, and your powers, my friend? Arizona shook his

head. There was no way of knowing. So little was known about Jurai Family mind powers,

and actually, the Royalty wanted to keep it that way. The less other’s knew about their

abilities and limits, the more mysterious and surprising they could be. Understandable

really, Ari considered. That’s the way I would want it, if I was one of them. Ari had had his

offers to join the Royal line in his many years of service to the House, yet he knew that he

was better suited as a Tokomi than as anything else, and so he graciously declined on each

and every occasion it was offered.

Ari stepped closer to his prostrate friend, and leant down to whisper in his ear. An old habit,

after years of being concerned about listening devices planted in rooms of high ranking

officers on non-home soil, as it were.

“Thank you for what you did,” he mumbled to the unconscious form in the bed. “I get the

feeling that it cost you dearly, and I hope that whatever it takes to bring you back from

wherever it is you’ve gone, happens soon. We need you here, old friend.” With that, Ari

reached out to touch the skin on the back of Maxtac’s hand. He hoped that familiar things,

like the touch of a friend whom Max had sparred with many times in the dojo, might stir him

closer to consciousness. What Arizona wasn’t ready for was the chill of Max’s skin. It was

like he was hovering on the edge of a precipice that led to death, or beyond.

Ari straightened and closed his eyes, mumbling a silent prayer of restoration for his fallen

comrade. When he opened his eyes again, it was like he was back on the bridge, just as the

countdown reached zero and he’d hit the jump stud. Now he could recall it, the purple light

engulfing them all, and suddenly it seemed as if the whole world was full of that light again!

But then he realised it was his vision that was coloured, not the room about him, and it

suddenly faded, and he felt a shock of... something... electricity... flow down his arm and

into the hand that he was still in contact with. Max’s hand glowed faintly purple for a

moment and then the colour faded away there too.

Surprised, Ari withdrew his hand, looking around as he did to see if anyone noticed the

goings on through the viewing window. Happy was out there, but he didn’t seem to

interested in what was going on in the ICU suite, so Arizona turned his attention back to

Max, and touched the back of the unconscious man’s hand again. To his surprise it felt

warmer, as if he was somehow closer, more alive than he had been moments before. The

thought gave Arizona pause, and then he nodded once to himself, and left the room with

the hint of a smile on his face.

Outside the ICU suite, Happy took great interest in some trashy, months-old magazine

detailing holiday destinations around the Fed Suns. He was sure he’d seen the purple light

flare in Arizona’s eyes this time, and he was going to make sure to report it to Nailor at the

very next opportunity. He didn’t know what it meant, but it might be important. One thing

was for sure; these Juraians sure were weird!

to be continued...

Post 11

“ …The most important thing in communication is hearing what isn't being said…”

Peter Drucker 1909 - 2005

Minnesota Tribe shuttle Doughboy, North Nadir point, The Stepps system, Outworlds

Alliance.

9th February 3070

“Excuse me, Tai-shu, but why are we diverting to the Nodachi again?” Happy asked for the

third time as the small passenger shuttle closed in on the Nodachi’s dorsal docking bay.

Arizona considered the man, noting his somewhat concerned look and repeated questioning

of Arizona’s motives for this diversion gave him the distinct impression that Happy didn’t

exactly believe him.

“I’m meeting with OzoraTiny to ascertain the current condition of my flagship, before going

on to the staff meeting,” Arizona replied simply. “Just like I said the other two times you

asked. It wouldn’t do to arrive without the required information to go into negotiations,

now would it?” Arizona gave his best ‘that’s my line and I’m sticking to it’ smile.

Happy sighed.

“Yes, I understand that,” Happy continued, his tone reverent to a senior officer but still

determined to do his job, which was to unofficially keep tabs on the Minnesota Tribes

‘guest’ in charge of the Tortuga Dominion forces in the area, “but why don’t you just have

him transmit the data to the memory pad you are holding? There really isn’t a great

necessity to see him personally, and risk us being late for the meeting?”

“Oh but there is, there is,” Arizona disagreed, trying to keep the smirk from his features.

“The best way I can ascertain the condition of the ship is to see it for myself, and then frame

the appropriate questions to get a full picture. That’s why inspection tours were invented,

after all.” Noticing the sides of the docking bay swallowing the small passenger shuttle,

Arizona reached into his pocket and pushed a small recessed button on a device his hand

found there. Deep inside the Nodachi, a similar device received a pre-typed message, and

it’s owner dropped what he was doing to follow the instructions contained therein.

Happy sighed again. He knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere with this stubborn a

commander, and he might end up pushing his luck too far if he kept it up. This wasn’t at all

an enviable job, he considered ruefully.

“Don’t fret so much, Son,” Arizona said, actually reaching out and patting Happy on the

shoulder, “I’m sure Nailor and KB can come up with enough to talk about to keep them busy

if we are a few minutes late. You can blame it all on me and my ‘whims’ when we get there

if you like. If they are angry, it’ll put MT in a slightly better bargaining position, after all.” The

older Juraian winked at the surprised looking Staff Sergeant, deftly undoing his seatbelt and

stood just as the seatbelt lights went out in the small passenger cabin. He stepped into the

isle, and headed for the now opening airlock door.

“You can stay in the shuttle, if you like,” Arizona suggested without turning, a wry grin on his

face, before stepping out the hatch and heading down the stairs. It was all Happy could do

to jump up and follow his charge out the hatch and onto the recently derelict Nodachi.

Arizona ran his hand over the wall of the docking bay, where some rushed repair work had

been done. He felt the difference in the grain of the plates, of the bubbled weld job and the

odd shape of the patch. His eyes took in the different colour, grey instead of matt black of

the original wall, and his heart ached. It ached for the great ship brought low, and for those

that had perished upon her.

“You will be returned to your former glory,” Arizona mumbled the promise, laying his cheek

against the cold steel.

“What was that, Sir?” Happy asked as he hurried up behind the Warlord.

“Oh nothing, just planning,” Arizona said, gathering himself up and heading into one of the

main thoroughfares of the ship, Happy doing his best to stay on the older man’s heels.

It wasn’t long before Arizona met up with OzoraTiny, in the pre-determined section of the

corridor system that ran through the ship like a venous system. Ari approached a section of

the corridor that was still under heavy repair, and the background noise went up

considerably in this area compared to other parts of the ship. At this point Tiny stepped out

of a side utility corridor and fell into stride beside Arizona, giving his superior a quick nod in

place of the bow that would have slowed his step, while Happy was still six paces behind.

“Is all in readiness?” Arizona asked in a hushed voice, barely audible over the background

cacophony.

“Hai, Tai-shu,” Tiny replied in the same muted tones. “It is functioning as well as can be

expected from replacement parts that I personally salvaged and fitted from throughout the

ship. It has left some other ships systems dangerously inactive, but I’ve cordoned off those

areas, and they will be repaired just as soon as replacement parts arrive aboard the Reliable.

The power system is also stable enough for activation.

“Very good, Tai-i,” Arizona said, noting that Happy was all too aware that he was missing out

on some conversation, and thus it was likely to be about something his superiors would

want to be privy too. “So, how is my ship?” Arizona asked in a much louder voice, and Tiny

took his cue from his superior officer.

“Repairs are coming along well,” he replied, “if you’d just come along with me to my office, I

can give you the files pertaining to the current repair condition and schedule, and I can

answer any questions you might have, to the best of my ability.” All the time during the

conversation, the pair of Juraians kept up a cracking walking pace.

“Very good,” Arizona stated, finishing his part of the verbal shadow play, and let Tiny take

the lead toward the man’s temporary office, a location that was already well known to the

Warlord.

All Happy could do was to surge along in their wakes.

“You can wait here for me, Staff Sergeant,” Arizona stated after spinning on the hurrying MT

warrior as they arrived at the ante-room to OzoraTiny’s office. “I shouldn’t be too long.”

Happy had to pull up short to prevent himself from physically running into the Jurai

Warlord.

“But Sir...” Happy began.

“WAIT. HERE.” Arizona repeated in a tone that broached no argument. His deep blue eyes

bored into Happy’s, and the younger man found himself flopping down into a comfortably

padded waiting room chair almost without deciding too. Arizona nodded down at him, and

continued after Tiny who had already entered his office.

As the door closed behind the Warlord, Happy sighed. It would just have to come down to

the tracking and listening devices that the MTIA had planted on and around the Warlord

now. Happy hoped that Nailor would understand.

Inside the office, Arizona quickly shrugged out of his uniform jacket, and slid into the

replacement one Tiny held up for him. It wouldn’t do to take too many listening and

tracking devices along with him, and the uniform jacket was the most likely place for such

devices to be placed. His belt and shoes were also suspect, however there was no handy

replacements for those, and it wouldn’t do to be talking to who he intended to contact with

his pants about to slide off!

Arizona handed Tiny a small recording device which the Ozoran had slipped to him while he

was still in his hospital bed, and a rough script on paper for him to follow. Ari then smiled at

his junior officer, quite enjoying all this cloak and dagger play, and then slipped out the back

door of the office which Tiny held open for him.

Walking quickly and intently down a service corridor, Arizona crossed a main thoroughfare

and stepped into an unassuming looking doorway on the far side. From there he crossed

under the large and noisy bulk of a capacitor bank and generator system, and grinned as he

imagined what all that energy was doing to any tracking and listening devices still about his

person. At the far side of the room he pressed his thumb into a print reader while

simultaneously looking into a retina scanner. A short moment later the door hissed open,

and Arizona slipped inside.

The door opened into another short corridor, the surfaces of which were of unusual

construction not unlike the materials from which it was made. As the door slid shut again

behind him, the noise level from the heavy machinery outside dropped to zero. It was a

welcome change, and Arizona shook himself in preparation, then strode purposefully

forward, glad that this area was heavily shielded and proof against any transmission for any

device that may or may not be about his person. It had to be, for the room ahead to fulfil its

purpose.

Stepping through the final doorway to his objective, he walked around a comfortable-

looking command chair and took a seat within its welcoming leather embrace. The room

was quite small and barren, besides the chair, and totally lacked control surfaces besides yet

another fingerprint scanner on the armrest of the chair, which Arizona now touched his

index finger too. There was a flash of blue light from the scanner, and then a whir of servos

as the automatic weapons of this facility were deactivated. Only now did the door slide

closed, and the room grew gradually darker. None of this surprised Ari, however; he’d used

this room many times in the past.

Arizona lifted his hands from the armrests of the chair, and control surfaces coalesced in

front of him. Resting his elbows on the ends of the chair arms, he could comfortably work at

these holographic controls for several hours, and while inactive, there was no sign as to

what this room would be used for by an interloper. Touching a few controls, Arizona

activated the device the room operated, and on the surface of the Nodachi facing toward

the Tortuga Dominions, two dozen small transmission dishes extended slightly from the

ship’s surface.

“Time to make a call,” Ari breathed to himself, and pressed the connection activation stud.

The controls surfaces dimmed as the whole wall in front of Arizona seemed to dissolve into

a HD image of the Jurai Cruciform, replete with actively circling chains and then it dissolved

to show the head and upper torso of Jurai Misato, Home Warden of House Jurai, Warlord,

oldest surviving Royal Juraian, and head of the Internal Security Service – ‘retired’.

“Misato-sama,” Arizona said in a reverent tone, bowing as well as he could from a sitting

position. The old, yet remarkably well preserved woman on the screen did not return the

bow, and looked little impressed at the Tokomi’s honorific, yet Arizona could see the edges

of a smile tug at the facade she showed the world.

“Agh,” Misato began, “are you still alive, old man? What does it take, to kill such as you, if

even a star cannot manage it?” Her face did not smile, but her eyes did.

“Oh the star would have managed the job quite well, as it did with the bulk of my crew, if

not for your nephew Jurai Maxtac,” Arizona replied, trying to keep his tone jovial, but as he

mentioned Max, his brow furrowed just slightly.

“And how is he?” she asked, an edge of concern creeping into her voice.

“Whole, but unconscious,” Arizona reported, “I have never seen the like of what he did to

save the bridge crew of the Nodachi, and I suspect it cost him far more than he had at the

time to give.” Misato considered this, then nodded lightly several times.

“Yes, my... nephew as you put it, is overly fond of sacrificing himself for others. A wholly

non-Jurai Family trait, for the most part,” Misato said, and despite her tone or words,

Arizona could tell Misato was glad he did. Despite her harsh exterior, Ari knew well that

Misato loved Jurai and those that strove to make it great. She would be as glad as any that

Max had saved who he could, and doubly glad that he’d not quite managed to kill himself

doing it.

“Well the staffing situation would be far worse if he had not,” Arizona added, “and I have a

feeling with those he’s saved around him, he’ll recover eventually, perhaps sooner than

expected.” At this Misato raised a questioning eyebrow, and the pre-smile played around

the edges of her mouth again, but she didn’t enquire further.

“Ah yes, the staffing situation,” Misato said, steering the conversation along the path both

parties knew it needed to go, her face turning grim. “There have been no reports of any of

the other jumpships turning up in any star-systems in which we have a presence.” Ari

winced at the news. “However a scout I sent in to Mimic reported that only one of the

medium jumpships and a handful of merchant ships were in-tact and depopulated at the

site. There was considerable wreckage, however investigations suggest that it was not from

military vessels. Those vessels that were intact and repairable within a sensible timeframe

were extracted.”

“So what you’re saying,” Arizona said, as the signal broke up for a few moments, and he

waited for the disturbance to pass, “is that it’s likely the other warships got out, but as to

where they ended up, is anyone’s guess.”

“Indeed,” Misato verified, “but the ships aren’t really the issue here...” She let the

statement hang, unfinished.

“Yes, I’m well aware,” Arizona chimed in, “we are desperately short of experienced pilots.”

Misato nodded, her face still more grave. “What is the situation at home?”

“I have things in hand, for now.” Misato replied. “We have mercenaries fighting our

defensive actions, and no new raids are pending. However, if the mercs get wind of our lack

of loyal Mechwarriors, they might consider a hostile takeover is in their... best interests.” It

was Ari’s turn to nod, his concern also evident in his features. “We need those pilots back,

but until their fate is known, we need some way to keep ourselves from being absorbed by

someone else.”

“That... may not be possible,” Arizona said honestly, and Misato’s ire at his statement was

evident. “Now don’t get me wrong,” he continued, raising his hands in an effort to beg

Misa’s forgiveness, “I don’t want that any more than you do. However it is a likely outcome

of the unfortunate times we find ourselves facing.” It was Misa’s turn to reluctantly nod

assent. “So what I’m suggesting, is instead of having absorption forced upon us by whoever

works out first that we are vulnerable, we go and deal with a preferred party to get military

aid, without the deposed government and possible execution angle.” Arizona grinned in an

attempt to diffuse another possible outburst from the Royal Juraian, but she only looked

thoughtful.

“And I suppose you’ve found a viable second party for this... deal of yours?” Misato asked,

knowing full well Arizona’s answer.

“Why yes, as a matter of fact, we sort of ‘fell into their laps’ you might say,” Arizona said.

Misato smiled at that, but the smile lacked any warmth. “With your agreement, I intend to

present this very case to the leadership of the Minnesota Tribe just as soon as I head over to

their flagship. And I believe Max would agree to it. He was never happy with the schism

between our two governments.” Misato looked into Arizona’s eyes for several long

moments, and the reception began to flicker and fade.

“Okay, very well,” Misato said at last, looking crestfallen that this was the only viable course

of action left open to HJ at this time. “I just hope you know what you are doing.”

“So do I, Misato-sama, so do I,” Ari agreed, glancing down at the holographic readouts. “The

connection is steadily losing signal, so we’ll have to cut this short, but before I go, I was

wondering, has there been any more progress from your end with the Sodium drive

situation.”

“Why yes, there has,” Misato confirmed. “I’ve been working on the trail from this end, and

have had considerable success at tracing the path the thieves took with our data. I’m

gathering the net, and the breach will soon be... closed.”

“Oh,” Arizona said, mental gears whirring, treading carefully though a minefield of

possibilities that Misato’s comments had just revealed before him. “Have you activated a

final solution yet?”

“No, but very soon now.”

“Ah, I see. Well can I ask one favour?”

“Name it.”

“Can you not obliterate any inhabited worlds, this time, please?”

“Not inhabited, per se.”

“Okay, close enough,” Ari almost audibly breathed a sigh of relief. “Well the signal will cut

out here soon. Keep things in check till I can get you some experienced pilots down there,

order any of our forces in this area that contact you to report to me here in The Stepps, and

let me know by coded transmission if any of our lost ships turn up.”

“Sure thing,” Misato said, “and Arizona?”

“Yes?”

“I am glad you are okay. You are very important to me, and Jurai, you know.”

“I know, and thanks. Stay safe.”

“I will, you too.”

“Bye.”

Misato’s last words were bathed in a sea of static, and Arizona shut down the transmission,

returning much needed power to the rest of the ship. Running a ship-based HPG was power

taxing at the best of times, but with the Nodachi still being repaired... Of course this one had

a few ‘added extras’ that made direct connections over long distances possible. Ari expected

that when MT found out about this little goody, they’d be keen to get their hands on a few.

TD itself only had them installed on Flag class ships at this point, and there weren’t too

many other classes that had the space or the power output to mount them, not to mention

how Comstar might react if word got out...

“And thinking of MT,” Ari said, deactivating the chair and heading for the door, “I’d best get

moving.” He jumped up and headed for the door that whooshed open as he approached. Ari

had his go-ahead, and now it was time to negotiate a future for House Jurai and the Tortuga

Dominions, where currently there wasn’t much of one.

to be continued...

Post 12

“ …Diplomacy – the gentle art of letting someone else have your way…”

American Proverb

Minnesota Tribe flagship Insanity, North Nadir point, The Stepps system, Outworlds

Alliance.

9th February 3070

“So, what’s the delay, KB?” Nailor asked, drumming his fingers on the conference tabletop

while he waited for Arizona and Happy to arrive for the meeting.

“How the hell would I know... Sir,” KB added the honorific after Nailor glared at him. “I’ve

been in this room the whole time with you, so I have no more information that you do.”

Nailor sighed. “Yes, I understand that,” he said after a moment. Leaning across, the MT

commander hit the coms stud on the televid. “Communications, any word from Arizona’s

shuttle?”

“No, Sir,” the coms officer reported from the other end of the line. “Last reported position

of the shuttle was docked with the Nodachi.” KB and Nailor glanced at each other.

“Very well,” Nailor replied. “Inform me as soon as you hear from them.”

“Yessir.” Nailor closed the connection, and glanced around the room. He’d spent some long

hours preparing for this meeting, and being delayed in settling the agenda here and – finally

– getting back to reclaiming The Stepps didn’t sit well with him. He needed a distraction so

he wouldn’t sit there mulling over the details too much, and the only other person in the

room besides himself and KB was Deathwing, KB’s green Exec of the 382nd. Nailor

considered the young man for a moment. DW was sitting there, staring at his hands,

obviously lost in thought. Little did the Brigadier General know that it was not his ‘hands’

per se that Deathwing was so engrossed in, but one finger in particular; the ring finger of his

left hand.

“So Deathwing,” Nailor began, and KB’s exec jumped like a current had been applied to his

chair, turning to stare at Nailor like a startled rabbit, “how did your mission to Pirate’s

Haven end up? I understand from the reports that you didn’t have any luck contacting the

Juraian command group, but that little problem has sort of taken care of itself now,

anyway.” Nailor waved at the expansive bubble window showing the Nodachi in full

exposure, flickers of vacuum welders evident across her surface.

“Oh, you are quite right there, Sir,” Deathwing said, stealing a glance at KB as Nailor looked

down again to his datapads. KB’s carefully blank expression told Deathwing that the

complete outcomes of his mission were not yet known to Nailor, and at this juncture he

probably didn’t need to know, or be distracted by, the upshot. “Mondo and I didn’t exactly

manage to open dialogue with the Jurai Command Cadre, but we did actually make contact

with some Jurai Officers, although we didn’t know it at the time.” KB face started to redden,

as if he was desperately holding in the urge to wack Deathwing upside the head. The young

officer hadn’t exactly told a lie, but he was massaging the truth into a very relaxed

semblance of its former self.

“Oh, I suppose it was in a bar fight, or something like that,” Nailor quipped, remembering

his early days with a wistful smile, when the missions he was sent on usually ended up being

practically holidays, full of wine, women and song.

“You could say that, yes,” Deathwing said, thinking that the actual truth was far stranger

than fiction.

“So, did you get names of these Juraian Officers, or...” Nailor began, but was interrupted

when the televid chirped. “Excuse me a moment,” Nailor added, and took the call.

“Sir,” the coms officer on the screen said in a businesslike tone, “we have just received word

from Staff Sergeant Happy that he and the Jurai Warlord have recommenced their journey

to the Insanity and will be with you inside five minutes.”

“Very good,” Nailor said, and closed the connection. The Brigadier General busied himself

with the contents of his datapads, going over the figures and arguments one last time,

thought of Deathwing’s impromptu report forgotten... for now.

Deathwing breathed a sigh of relief, while KB mouthed the word ‘lucky’ at him.

* * * *

“Tai Shu Tokomi Arizona,” Nailor said with a smile, standing and shaking Ari’s hand as he

entered the room, while Happy followed him in, dropped a datapad onto Nailor’s already

considerably pile, and took his leave from the room, “it’s so good to see you up and around

again. And so quickly too.” KB and DW also stood when Nailor did, and all the men sat down

together around the conference table.

“Thank you, Brigadier General Nailor,” Ari replied. “It is good to be here, and among

friends.” Ari’s smile was just as practiced as Nailor’s, but with perhaps a slightly more

predatory lean, due to his longer history.

“Just so,” Nailor agreed. “And it is in this new era of friendship that I wished to discuss with

you ways in which we can help each other, government and military of a friendly

independent power, to government and military of another friendly independent power.”

Arizona nodded, the practiced smile settled upon his face. ‘Here we go,’ he thought as he

organised his datapads in front of him, relaxing his mind as he did into a clear thinking state

that would aid him best in the expected hours long negotiation that was about to begin.

“Why don’t you go first,” Ari said, and leaned back to hear the first offer to hit the table.

* * * *

“So, let me see if I have this straight,” Ari attempted to sum up a few hours later.

“Minnesota Tribe is willing to provide Mechwarriors and associated personnel in sufficient

numbers for the defence and expansion of the Tortuga Dominions...”

“That’s correct,” Nailor cut in, “if there is something we aren’t short on, it’s active

Mechwarriors.” KB nodded, DW looked bored and distracted.

“And seeing as you did so well out of our last ‘joint operations,’ receiving in return the

gravity plating technology that you’ve installed throughout your fleet,” Ari tapped his boot

on the deck plating to punctuate his point, and Nailor smiled graciously, “and this time

round, for continued military support, you would require other specific technologies

including but not limited to, high precision navigation technologies, stealth materials, and

our latest drive technologies.” Ari’s brow furrowed as he mentioned the last point, the theft

of which instigated this whole sorry chain of events.

“Yes, that’s fairly much the crux of it,” Nailor said, leaning back and looking pleased. He

knew he was in a strong bargaining position, and he intended to get all the good tech out of

Jurai this time. There was very little Arizona could do at this point but capitulate. “After all,

you don’t want to have Kell Hounds or some other foreign power taking advantage of your

misfortune and walking in to take over.”

Ari looked annoyed at Nailor’s suggestion, staring at his opposite across the table, but he

knew that there was little he could expect in such a cutthroat galaxy. After all, he’d do the

same in another’s place. Ari guessed he was lucky that MT was actually negotiating here,

rather than expecting Tortuga Dominions to surrender to MT outright on the spot.

“Quite,” Ari said finally, looking guarded.

“Oh and we’d like to add your long range coms tech to that list, if you please. Your

demonstration of it a few hours ago was quite impressive,” Nailor said, his smile settled

onto his face like sunshine on a desert planet. However, he did resist the urge to wink.

Arizona’s sigh was almost silent. “So you picked that up, eh?”

“Well we didn’t get to listen in to your conversation,” KB said, “but we were monitoring the

Nodachi when the communications array activated. We picked up the carrier wave, and

extrapolated its purpose, but it was kind of obvious what it was for.” Ari nodded. He’d

figured it would have been a stretch to get away with activating the coms array without it

being spotted, but he had to know what the situation was back in the Dominions.

“So do we have an accord?” Nailor asked, the look on his face telling Ari that he figured he

had this wrapped up and the Juraian Warlord should just roll over. “It’s a real shame we

don’t have a good way to ratify this symbolically...”

“Not quite,” Arizona said, squaring his shoulders. He wasn’t finished, not yet. “There are

some caveats I need to add before I sign off on any transfer of technologies. Basically,

seeing TD would lose any advantage in this deal if you chose to remove your military

support after receiving said technologies, I require a slightly different arrangement. Firstly, I

require your assurance that said technologies will never be handed on to other

governments, IS or – heaven forbid – Clan, and that you will accept said technologies will be

installed and maintained in your ships and installations by Jurai technicians, and you won’t

attempt to reverse engineer said technologies.”

Nailor nearly leapt to his feet. “That’s preposterous,” he bellowed, “we’d be beholding to

you for any little thing that went wrong!”

“Ah yes,” Ari said, his grin wry, “which is exactly the situation Jurai would be in, with the

personnel issue.”

“And just what makes you think MT would accept those terms?” KB growled, closing ranks

with Nailor. Even DW was taking more notice now. “It’s only our good history that stops us

from walking in and taking over your government.” Ari nodded, but his wry grin refused to

slip from his face. This had the desired effect on the MT leaders; they had the sneaking

suspicion that Ari knew something they didn’t. They were right.

“Well,” Ari said, speaking slowly so that it would be unlikely that he would be

misunderstood, “it wouldn’t do for MT to be organising unfavourable deals with the Juraian

government, when someone from their own Cadre had fathered a child with one of the

leader’s daughters.” Arizona’s tone by the end of this revelation had gone from controlled

to ice-moving-over-lava as he clamped down on his anger.

“What??!!” all three men sitting across from him exclaimed in unison. Arizona nodded, his

eyes like flint.

“Presuming this is true, do you have any idea who it is?” Nailor asked, his voice tense.

Beside him, KB shot a sidelong look at Deathwing, who looked back at his C.O. and shrugged

almost imperceptibly, then licked his lips and looked back across the table at the man who

might just be his ‘father-in-law.’ ‘It couldn’t be, could it?’ DW thought desperately.

“At this point,” Ari growled, “all I know is that he was on Pirate’s Haven doing some recon

work for MT several months ago now. My daughter, Tai-sa Tokomi Jessica of House Jurai,

the pregnant young woman in question, spent time with him there, where he took items of

personal value to her, and fled through the No Where system where she left to search for

him just before my ships were hit by the radiation surge. I expect she’ll arrive here in a few

days to report her success in tracking his sorry ass down, or to continue her search among

your men stationed here.”

DW swallowed heavily when he heard the given name of Ari’s daughter, and all his thoughts

were of being as far from that room as possible. ‘Of all the people to hook up with on an

assignment... Jessica TOKOMI! A senior officer; exactly what I was sent to find! Right under

my nose and I never knew it! And Arizona’s daughter. Crap crap crap! And pregnant? I’ve

skipped out on my ‘wife’ after drugging her, who is pregnant and the daughter of the

recognised leader of Jurai. Holy fraking hell. Is the man wearing his sidearm? Oh crap he is...

Mother!’ DW stole a glance at his superiors, who were both staring at him now, their various

shades of red and angry faces quite evident; they’d clearly put the details of his report

together with what Arizona had just said, and reached the same conclusion he had. If DW

could have shrunk to the size of a nanite and wandered off, he would have.

“And, what would you do if you were to discover the identity of the man in question?” KB

asked, knowing full well the stories of Arizona’s few notable fits of rage, and their reported

consequences.

“Well,” Ari said, trying to sound more genial and failing miserably, “that would all depend on

the scoundrel’s intentions towards my daughter. If he’s willing to make her an honest

woman, and proceed in an honourable fashion, and MT was prepared to deal with an even

hand in these negotiations, I’d be willing to resist the urge to shot the dezgra in the head the

moment I identify him,” DW flinched at this, “and, I might even convince my daughter not to

do the same thing, or worse, when she catches up with her... errant lover.” Arizona’s grin

was feral, and he seemed to be concentrating on Nailor and KB, not noticing DW’s reaction

to his statements, as Ari caressed the pistol holster at his hip absentmindedly.

“Well,” Nailor began, the tone of the negotiations having taken on a decidedly more

personal tone, “I can certainly understand your... displeasure at this news, Arizona. Certainly

considering the new, closer relationships between your Family and one of my Cadre, who

we certainly will assist you in tracking down, we will accept a fair and equitable

arrangement to our mutual satisfaction.” Nailor’s smile was the epitome of genial, while he

wished KB was on his other side so he could kick DW under the table.

“Good,” Arizona said, his rage subsiding slightly, but only slightly. “Once we get all these

formalities out of the road, and your man faces up to his responsibilities, we can combine

forces and go kick OA’s butt off The Stepps. It’s been way too long since I was seated in a

mech command couch, and as you can probably understand, I really need to shoot

something.”

Both Nailor and KB nodded, not wanting to speak and give away more than they absolutely

needed to, while DW swallowed hard once again.

to be continued...

Post 13

“…That which does not kill us makes us stronger…”

Friedrich Nietzsche 1846 - 1900

Tortuga Dominions flagship JNS Nodachi, North Nadir point, The Stepps system,

Outworlds Alliance.

10th February 3070

It was turning out to be a rough day for Deathwing Tor; and if understatements were

racehorses, Deathwing would be winning any horse race you’d care to name by many, many

lengths. It all started just after midnight, when the big meeting finally finished. Both sides

were mostly satisfied with the results, however Nailor’s expectations of the outcome was

hardly what was achieved. MT’s position was undermined by Deathwing’s own indiscretion

with none other than Tai-shu Tokomi Arizona’s daughter, Jessica, not that DW knew that at

the time. He thought she was some bit of periphery fluff that he’d hooked up with, fell in

love with over the course of several weeks, and gotten married to in a drunken haze one

night. Then the orders had come through to wrap up the stakeout of Pirate’s Haven and for

Armondo and Deathwing to get their sorry butts back to the Minnesota Tribe territories in

preparation to attack The Stepps. This hadn’t sat well with the guys; Mondo was gone over

Jessica’s friend – and subordinate – Amanda, and at least they had become engaged whilst

sober. They had also been married in that same drunken haze, but at least it had been

premeditated. Deathwing and Jessica’s marriage had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, and

under-the-influence. Whatever feeling they had shared, it hadn’t been discussed and

considered, and DW was still torn over the actions he’d taken that night, and their

implications.

Yet worse still was the fact that Arizona had revealed during the meeting that Jessica was

now pregnant, and DW had little doubt as to who was the father. It was probably all his life

was worth that the MT side of the table had connected the dots and knew that DW was the

father, while Arizona, on the far side of the negotiations, seething in barely controlled rage,

had not had the presence of mind to work out that he was in the presence of the father of

his future grandchild. Of course, as soon as the meeting was over, DW was summarily

marched into Nailor’s office for the dressing down of his life!

They’d taken turns. When one ran out of puff yelling at him, the other one took over. They’d

yelled questions at him they didn’t really expect him to be able to answer, and when he

tried they’d just got angrier. It was lucky they’d started late at night, or it could have gone

on for hours. It was a close thing, but he wasn’t busted out of the Cadre, or demoted. It

appeared that despite his abject failure in his mission, and his undermining of MT’s position

in the negotiations, once his commanders had blown off steam, they actually found the

whole situation rather funny. Regardless, Deathwing had fallen face first into his bunk, and

had troubled dreams during his short sleep period.

Mondo hadn’t been available during DW’s dressing down, so he’d got his the next morning,

while the Juraian tender class ship Reliable had been docking with the flagship Nodachi. It

hadn’t been as bad as what DW had received, mainly because DW was in charge of the

operation, and some of the edge of anger his commanders had vented on him had been

dulled in the action, and in sleeping it off afterwards. DW had managed to slide into the

background a bit, to watch through the big window at the back of Nailor’s office as the

Reliable began to work on the Nodachi.

It really was an impressive sight. The Ozora Family had developed the ship to be a mobile,

near-automated repair dock, and once it got to work, the final repairs possible on the

flagship – outside a full space dock - were to be completed within ten hours. During that

time, external robot arms snaked out, scanning the surface of the ship, making repairs and

replacing components to bring the ship back up to spec. While this went on, semi-

autonomous drones of all sizes flew, crawled and walked inside the ship, doing a similar job

within that their more static brothers did outside. Warm bodies were minimised in the ship

during this time, and little did Deathwing know he’d be visiting the ship during the

finalisation of the repair process and seeing things up close.

Finally Mondo’s ‘debrief’ was finished, and the two friends slunk from their commander’s

office like two schoolboys who had been caned by the headmaster. In a feeling of solidarity

with his fellow truant, Deathwing walked Mondo to the shuttle that would take Mondo back

to his assigned station on the dropship Cordaline.

“Oh man oh man oh man, we are so for it,” Mondo almost whimpered as the pair slunk

down a corridor of the Insanity toward the docking area. “Nailor was so mad, and I know KB

had kept things quiet about our ‘wives’ to protect us since we reported back to the fleet,

but he couldn’t go easy on us once Nailor knew the full extent of the situation.” DW just

nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“And you, going to be a Da!” Mondo added. “Congrats man.” His face brightened.

“Yeah, great,” Deathwing replied, his tone anything but bright. “I marry a girl in a drunken

haze on Pirate’s Haven who at the time I think is just some periphery fluff and she turns out

to be the daughter of a Juraian Warlord, and a Tai-sa in her own right.” DW looked down

and shook his head. “I fail my mission, while spending the time I should have been meeting

with a Juraian Senior Officer making love to one instead, and to top it all off, I get her

pregnant as well.”

“Hey, it’ll be okay, man,” Mondo said as they stopped at an intersection. He gripped his

friends shoulder to steady him. “These things tend to happen for a reason. It’ll work out.”

“It’ll work out? IT’LL WORK OUT??” DW’s voice rose as near hysteria gripped him.

“Shhhh,” Mondo hissed as he squeezed DW’s shoulder til it hurt.

“Ow,” DW said, pulling his shoulder out from Mondo’s grip. “How the hell is it going to work

out?” DW asked somewhat rhetorically; he knew well enough that Mondo had no more

answers than he did. “We left them there, Mondo. Drugged, and Jessica a pregnant woman.

We took money and belongings that weren’t ours to take, and we left them there...” DW

started shaking his head again, as if trying to clear something that just wouldn’t budge.

“Yeah, I know exactly what you mean,” Mondo said. “We have our first loyalty to the Tribe,

but hell, I love Amanda. I wanna grab the next jump capable ship and go out and find them,

and then somehow convince them we do still love them and are worthy of their love... but

we’ve fraked it all up.” It was Mondo’s turn to shake his head. “From what I’ve been told

Arizona said, they are out there right now ‘hunting us down’ like dogs! Like dogs.” DW

nodded, looking none too happy at the idea. They continued on, walking toward the shuttle

dock.

“I’m torn between staying here for this important battle, and stealing a ship to go find

them,” DW said. “But it really doesn’t matter. Jess is in command of a jump capable

warship, and if what Arizona says is true, she’ll be showing up here sooner rather than

later.” Deathwing sighed. “Perhaps we do need to steal that ship to get away,” he

considered aloud. Mondo glared at him. “I wasn’t serious,” DW said. “We’ve run away once;

I don’t think we should be doing that again. From either situation.”

“For once I fully agree,” Mondo said as they rounded the corner to the shuttle departure

gate. “We’ll just have to acquit ourselves well in the Planetary Assault and convince our

superiors that they should keep their faith in us, and hopefully win back the hearts of our

‘wives’ at the same time.”

“If they’ll have us back,” DW added, and Mondo nodded, closing his eyes as he did so.

Mondo then turned and swiped his electronic dog tag key through the reader, and turned.

“Keep in touch,” he said, “and I’ll see you dirtside.”

“You know it,” DW added, and clasped arms with his friend in farewell. Then Mondo turned

and strode onto the shuttle. DW watched him go, then turned to walk away. As he did, he

noticed a small vibration in an electronic tag he kept on his own dog tag chain, along with

the rings he’d ‘borrowed’ from Jess. That buzzing was a signal, and it meant only one thing;

he was summoned, and not by his commanders in MT. He was summoned to a meeting with

someone he was hoping not to see again for quite some time, his gene-brother that worked

in House Jurai.

“I should have known,” he mumbled, and went to find a datapad to read the time and

location of the meeting from the message. “It never rains bad news, it pours!”

* * * *

Deathwing was playing a dangerous game. He’d stowed away on the only shuttle headed for

the Juraian Flagship, and then snuck off while the cargo was being unloaded. There was only

a skeleton crew aboard the massive ship, and that was probably just as well, for the Ozoran

repair and refit robots weren’t exactly gentle or careful as they went about their tasks. It

was just a better idea all round not to be sneaking around in this ship during a refit. But

that’s what Deathwing had to do; it was his duty, not to MT, but to his genetic line. He just

hoped that his absence aboard the Insanity would go unnoticed long enough for him to get

this meeting over with and get back. This was an awful risk all round, but he dared not

disobey.

He stood now in a darkened hallway, a low priority access to a bunch of maintenance shafts

and some storage rooms. It had been a tough job getting here from the docking bay whilst

avoiding security cameras, sensors, and repair automatons of various kinds, but he’d

managed it. Now DW hoped that neither the Juraians nor MT had any surveillance devices in

this area; he really needed this meeting to go down with the utmost privacy. If anyone even

suspected... There was the slightest sound in the darkness off to his left, and Deathwing Tor

swung around, producing a knife from his combat suit, ready to defend himself, and that’s

when the blow landed squarely on the back of his skull.

to be continued...

Post 14

“ …You can choose your friends but you can’t choose your family…”

Unknown

“ …A brother is not always a friend, but a friend is always a brother…”

Samuel Richardson 1689 - 1761

Tortuga Dominions flagship JNS Nodachi, North Nadir point, The Stepps system,

Outworlds Alliance.

10th February 3070

Deathwing Tor awoke sometime later. He was bound and lying on cold deck plates, and as

his eyes began to pick out some details thanks to the light coming in from around the edge

of the door, he could make out that he was in some sort of utility room. It seemed to house

repair and cleaning equipment and supplies, and also had a workbench and tools for repair

jobs. DW pushed himself up on one shoulder, and began dragging himself across the floor

towards the tools that might help him free of his bindings. It was slow going, and that gave

him plenty of time to ponder just who had completely blindsided him, and trussed him up

like a turkey for Thanksgiving. It had to be someone who knew he was going to be there and

could lie in wait, and while he inched his way across the floor, his mind clearing through the

ache of the blow to his head, he realised that it was probably the ‘person’ who had

summoned him to a meeting in the first place, and that ‘person’ must be far from happy...

As if on cue, the unoiled hinges of the door gave away its movement, and a shaft of light

from outside spilled into the room, illuminating Deathwing’s feeble attempt to free himself

before being noticed. DW sighed and slumped to the ground as a silhouette filled the

doorway, a mountain of a man, shaped like a weightlifter, and nearly seven feet tall. DW

recognised this impressive and generally fearsome silhouette, and decided his day had just

about hit rock bottom. He’d been right.

The tall figure bent down to enter to utility room, gripping the top of the doorway as he

entered. As his shadow fell across Deathwing he stopped, and DW could sense more than

see the feral grin slinking across his features.

“Trying to crawl away like a feeble pup, eh?” a voice strangely similar to Deathwing’s own

asked, as the large man entered the room proper, flicked a light switch near the entry, and

shut the door with the sound of finality itself.

Now DW could see his captor, wearing standard issue Ozora overalls; the grin was there, in

the face that was totally familiar to him.

“So, taken to clubbing your brothers instead of shaking hands, eh?” DW asked of the hulking

man standing over him. “And what’s with the zipties cutting off my circulation?” His voice

was far more relaxed than he was feeling.

“I had to make sure you weren’t going to wander off and get caught, didn’t I, brother,” the

standing man said, moving over to DW and leaning down toward him. “You don’t seem to

be able to do anything else right, so why should I expect you could manage that small task,

eh?” To punctuate his sentence, he hefted DW up one-handed by the uniform collar, and

tossed him across the room! DW slammed into the far wall, luckily not being impaled on

anything hanging there, and slid down to the floor, pain from the impacts evident on his

face. His assailant stalked across the room towards him.

“WOLFSABER 2!” Deathwing growled, his blood thundering in response to the pain. “IS THIS

HOW YOU TREAT A GENE-BROTHER?” He flexed, and the zipties binding his arms bit into

them as he strained against them. They creaked as they began to stretch and weaken.

Wolfsaber 2 reached the spot where Deathwing had come to rest, and bent down to grasp

his uniform front again.

“It is when that gene-brother has been so STUPID, Wolfsaber 12, or should I be calling you

by your assumed name, Deathwing Tor now?” Wolfsaber 2 growled at Deathwing, spitting

the Knighthood surname at his gene-brother like a curse. That made DW angrier than being

thrown across the room had.

“Keep your opinions to YOURSELF, OzoraWolfsaber 2,” Deathwing spat back, staring up at

his captor. “You act just as proud of your Family honorific from the House Jurai. Well I’m

proud of mine. I EARNED THIS.” In response, Wolfsaber 2 hauled Deathwing up by his

uniform coat, so his feet were dangling a good foot off the ground.

“Just remember who you are speaking too, pup,” Wolfsaber 2 growled at Deathwing, their

faces inches apart. “I speak for the creator, and all Wolfsabers live to serve him. Even you.”

With that the huge Ozoran swung his body round, and with a massive punch-throw hefted

Deathwing over his shoulder and sent him flying back across the room in the opposite

direction, sailing head-first toward the far wall.

Deathwing could see the wall approaching rapidly, and in fear and desperation drew deeply

on his inner strength. A growl of rage erupting from his throat, and then flexing his not

insubstantial arm muscles he shattered the already weakened zipties with the sudden

pressure. His arms suddenly free, he used their movement to flip himself around in mid-air,

so when he arrived at the far wall it was feet first, which allowed him to absorb the impact

by folding his legs. At the end of his travel he pushed off from the wall and completed a

forward combat roll to come up in a combat stance. When he realised that Wolfsaber 2

wasn’t about to leap on him again, he shook himself, took a deep breath, and rubbed at his

damaged wrists.

“Impressive,” Wolfsaber 2 said almost involuntarily, taking several steps towards Deathwing

but stopping just outside engagement range. “I’m glad to see you haven’t forgotten

everything you were taught.” Then he noticed Deathwing’s wrist rubbing. “Bah, why

bother,” Wolfsaber 2 commented, “now your blood is up, your wrists will heal in a few

minutes.”

“Sure they will,” Deathwing said, straightening his uniform as best he could, “but my

uniform won’t. I don’t want to have to explain my sloppy dress, on top of everything else

that’s happened recently.” Wolfsaber 2 snorted.

“And that’s the big problem, isn’t it?” the big Ozoran said, planting his hands on his hips,

“you’ve drawn too much attention to yourself. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’m

concerned about your screwing up the Master Plan. That’s why I’ve had to discipline you.”

“Bah, you worry too much,” Deathwing replied, checking his uniform over one last time and

then his chronometer. “What I’ve done is look stupid and human, which is far better cover

than being seven feet bloody tall and looking like a fraking wolfman!” Wolfsaber 2 growled

low at this, but rubbed his hand across his face, as if testing his several days of facial hair

growth, and his sizable sideburns.

If a bystander were to see these two men staring at each other over several feet of space,

they’d likely notice the considerable similarity in their facial features. Although their heights

and builds were clearly different, those body characteristics not affected by environment

were near identical. Eye colour, hair colour, facial bone construction, nose shape, lip size.

These men were more than brothers, they were clones.

“Bah,” OzoraWolfsaber 2 said finally, turning away from his gene-brother to start fiddling

with a pressure release valve that had been lying on the bench. “I speak for the creator, and

you just better not screw everything up for us. We haven’t spent the time inserting 99

operatives in nearly every unit and government in the known galaxy just for you to go

stuffing up the Master Plan.”

“You know,” Deathwing said, his tone conversational while his eyes bored into the back of

his older brother, “it would be nice to have some idea of what this Master Plan is so we

could better prepare for it. I understand your desire to keep it known only to a select few so

if any of us are discovered we can’t give it away, but there is such a thing as ‘too much

secrecy’ you know.”

“YOU COULDN’T HANDLE KNOWING!” Wolfsaber 2 seethed at Deathwing after spinning on

him, and with a gigantic heave throwing the pressure release valve at the far wall. It

slammed into the obstacle with a resounding boom, bending and breaking before coming to

rest on the floor. Both men stared at the broken valve for a moment, and Wolfsaber 2

heaved a sigh.

“You will be informed of your part of the plan as soon as everything is in place,” Wolfsaber 2

informed Deathwing for the who-knew-how-many thousandth time. “Just make sure you

are convincing, and don’t get found out. Now get out of here.”

Deathwing snorted. He’d heard it all before, over and over. Wolfsaber 2 had taken over

when the first had ‘been retired.’ More likely had gone crazy, other Wolfsabers had

suspected over the years, and it had been many years since this had all begun. Who knew

how long it would be before anything would come of it. Deathwing secretly considered that

nothing would ever come of it, and was doing everything he could to build a life with MT,

and to be as loyal to them as possible. Without another word he turned and left the room,

closing the door with a resounding boom behind him.

OzoraWolfsaber 2, head of the 99 clone strong Wolfsaber Infiltration Force, turned to stare

at the door that Wolfsaber 12, now known as Deathwing Tor, had left through. He was

troubled, not the least reason being that 12 was right; he would like to be able to tell the

others more of what they were meant to do, what they were created for. And he would

have already, if he knew it himself. Wolfsaber Prime had taken most of those secrets into

the pits of insanity with him, and no treatment thus far has awakened him from the

madness. The head was off the snake, as it had been for a long time. Wolfsaber 2 feared

that he too would end up going mad. He also feared that he would never know his purpose,

and in failing to find out, he would fail his other 99 brothers, and their creator. He prayed to

anyone who might be listening, on a regular basis, that he might find out. It was all he could

do, for now.

Wolfsaber 2 checked his own chronometer, and realising that the funeral ceremony was

only an hour away, left the room to go change into his dress uniform for the service.

to be continued...

Post 15

“ …They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old.

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them…”

Laurence Binyon 1869 - 1943

Tortuga Dominions flagship JNS Nodachi, North Nadir point, The Stepps system,

Outworlds Alliance.

10th February 3070

There was a hushed atmosphere in the observation deck overlooking the aerospace fighter

bay of the Nodachi, as the time came to honour the Juraian dead from what had become

known in the Dominion news as ‘The Mimic Tragedy.’ Arizona had sensibly decided to break

the news, now that the agreement with MT was made and any perceived weakness in the

TD military would be quickly shored up by fresh MT Mechwarriors. Also, it explained the

absence of contact from so many military personnel to their families, friends, and loved

ones. Revealing the tragedy also set the grief machine in motion, allowing families to come

together to start dealing with the losses in their lives. Hence this ceremony was being

recorded for transmission to Tortuga Prime, there to be edited into a fitting memorial, then

to be aired on a pre-chosen day of mourning throughout the Dominion. It was partly to

control the spin, to bring the Tortugans together in their sorrow, not to have feelings

fracturing, blame being laid, and the like. A show of solidarity, rather than weakness, and for

Arizona to fully express to his people the sorrow he himself felt over the untimely deaths of

so many loyal warriors.

Arizona stood, resplendent in his full dress uniform, to the left of a bleacher of seats that

had been set up to give an unobstructed view of the forward launch doors. These seats

were almost fully occupied, as invited Juraian’s and MT guests waited for the memorial to

begin. Ari noticed familiar faces in the small crowd, safee to say that there were far more

still missing than were present in the Mechwarriors that Ari was used to commanding and

fighting with. He saw the Ozora Family was well represented, with Cyph, Wolfsaber and Tiny

present. Not surprising really, these officers were not always present on the battlefield,

rather they split their time between running the work crews repairing and maintaining

mechs and other Juraian equipment, fighting on the front lines, and tinkering in research

facilities. Tiny had been the only one of the group at Mimic during the incident, and good

fortune more than anything had facilitated his survival. Many others hadn’t been so lucky.

Wolfsaber and Cyph had arrived with the Reliable. There was a smattering of other Families,

however those warriors were not well known to Arizona. The rest of the waiting guests were

naval crew and non-com’s who may have known Juraian’s who had lost their lives at Mimic,

or MT guests. Ari noted the late arrival of Deathwing Tor, looking a little flustered, probably

due to almost missing the start of the proceedings. It was good to see some of the old MT

pilots that had fought with HJ in the past being present to show their respects.

There were five seats behind Arizona on the small podium, only one of which was currently

occupied. Nailor himself sat on the middle seat, next to the seat – on Nailor’s right -

reserved for Ari. Nailor looked a little preoccupied, his mind probably awhirl with

considerations for the upcoming naval battle. Arizona was pleased that Nailor had taken the

time out from his busy schedule and preparations for this, but then Ari considered that

Nailor probably had the plans for the upcoming battle worked out mere hours after the

Nodachi had arrived. Still, details could always be tweaked, and he expected that KB de

Vega was on the Insanity at that very moment, doing just that.

The two seats to the left of Nailor were reserved for Chu-jo’s Tokomi Teralitha and Heng

Taipan. They would be arriving at any moment from their work in the war room, and their

appearance would signify the beginning of proceedings. Arizona was glad both had

recovered well enough to return to duty. He needed whoever was left to maintain order in

TD’s offensive and defensive operations. The vacant chair to the far right of the row was in

honour of Jurai Maxtac, still unconscious on board the MTS Strider. Also nearly ready for

return to active duty was Heng Asmudius, however he was still confined to bed-rest until

the following day, and had to settle for a video feed of the ceremony. Likewise Diaka, in

command on the bridge of the Nodachi, was unable to directly attend.

Arizona glanced toward the plasteel separating the crowd from the aerospace fighter launch

bay. Today the bay was clear of fighter craft; instead five rows, each consisting of three

casket-sized shapes, were laid out on its surface. Each of the coffins were covered with a

Juraian Flag and a Tortuga Dominion’s Flag, representing the combined allegiances that the

dead warriors had fought to protect. Arizona sighed as he considered that this was just a

token sample. Over a thousand more were stored in a temporary mortuary that spanned a

full deck of the Nodachi where the heating had been turned off to prevent decay. Ari

thanked his lucky stars that he wasn’t a resident of that deck, and mentally prepared himself

to give a fitting memorial to their passing.

As if on cue, Teralitha and Taipan stepped out from behind a curtain and took their seats.

Ari glanced back to see that all was in readiness, and noted that Nailor looked a fair bit

happier to have company in the seating arrangements. Arizona nodded to an attendant, and

the Dominion’s national anthem that had been playing in the background increased in

volume to quieten the hubbub of conversation. As the anthem faded out, Arizona stepped

up behind the lectern and began.

“Juraians, Tortugans, distinguished guests. Thank you all for your interest in this most

sombre of occasions. We come together today to bid a sad farewell to all those brave souls

who lost their lives in what has been dubbed ‘The Mimic Tragedy.’ Although you only see

fifteen coffins here today, know that many more loyal Tortugans lost their lives, and those

that have family back home will be returned, where able, to their loved ones for proper

burial or cremation as their own religions dictate. These fifteen bodies here today are those

that did not have family to return too, and did not have a specific religious affiliation

requiring specific funeral rights. For these people, the Juraian Military Service was their

family, and we will remember them, and all the others that lost their lives in the defence of

Jurai and the Tortuga Dominions.

“Although their deaths were caused by a natural phenomenon and not through an act of

war, they were where they were in pursuit of fulfilling their military duties, and as such, all

will be farewelled with full military honours.

“What can I say about these brave men and women who have found death far too early in

their young lives? They were all brave, loyal souls. They went forward, for many reasons, to

do what needed to be done to safeguard their nation from external threats. All military and

support personnel, living or dead, who work for their people’s protection and freedom,

should be treasured. It is by their sacrifices, often to the point of life itself, which gives those

that live on a chance to enjoy those freedoms and benefits purchased with so much blood,

sweat and determination.

“So on this day, and on every 30th January from this year forward, we will stop and

remember the fallen of Jurai and the Tortuga Dominions, and relish the freedoms and

prosperity that their sacrifices have provided us. In reflection of their deeds and sacrifice,

we surrender their bodies unto the void. Dearou senpou amari oite kyuui.”

The anthem music resumed, and Arizona stepped beside the lectern as seated command

officers came to stand beside him. A military aide shouted ‘Attention’ and the seated

audience stood in unison, as the fighter bay doors began to slowly swing open. The bay

began to depressurise, and the outrushing of air dragged the coffins off into space, as the

far off star of The Stepps system broke past the prow of the Nodachi. The same military aide

shouted ‘salute,’ and the Juraian/TD members of the audience half-bowed at the waist,

holding the bow while the coffins left the fighter bay. The MT soldiers performed a classic

held salute. Naval laser cannon fired down the side of the flagship as the coffins sailed off

toward the system’s star so very far away.

* * * *

Arizona stood just off to the side of the drinks table in the reception room a glass of old

Scotch whisky - chilled, no ice - in his hands. He’d had to work hard not to get choked up

during the proceedings, and now, at the wake, he was also doing it hard. That’s what the

contents of the glass was for, to calm things down a bit. Glancing around, he saw small

knots of people, talking quietly. Nailor was notably absent, having to return to his flagship as

soon as the ceremony was completed. Ari felt like gauging what an MT officer felt about the

proceedings, however as Nailor wasn’t available, he looked around for another MT face

familiar to him. There were few, as Ari suspected they were all making ready for the push to

orbit of The Stepps in a few hours time. Ari knew the Nodachi was as ready as he could make

her, but still the wake would be finishing up sooner than it otherwise might have.

Still looking for an MT officer to converse with, Arizona spied the young Exec that had been

at the staff meeting the day before, and strode over to cut off the Tor knight as he was

heading for an exit.

“Excuse me, Deathwing Tor, isn’t it?” Ari said as the man passed him, clearly focused on

other things not to notice the Allied Warlord in his path. “May I speak with you for a

moment?” Arizona was quite surprised when the man stopped dead, and turned slowly,

with the stunned look of someone that had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar on

his otherwise somewhat-drawn face.

“Uh, certainly, Tai-shu,” Deathwing replied, as if searching for the right words. “What can I...

uh... do for you?”

“Ah, no need to be so withdrawn, my boy,” Ari said, trying to put the young officer at ease

as the Warlord walked up to him. “I just wanted to bother you for your opinion.”

“Oh,” Deathwing replied, seeming somewhat lost in what Ari considered was not too

complex a conversation. “What would you like me to comment on, Sir?”

“Well I won’t keep you long,” Ari continued, “I just wanted to ask you what you thought of

the ceremony, from a Tribesman’s perspective?”

“Oh,” Deathwing said again, the fingers of his right hand playing with some loose fibres on

the left cuff of his uniform. “It was...” he searched for the right words, “very poignant.”

“Ah, thank you, Exec,” Ari said, eyeing the lad critically. He got the feeling that Deathwing

was feeling rather uncomfortable, probably because he was due back at his duty station and

an Allied Warlord was keeping him from his duty. “I won’t keep you any longer, you must be

keen to get back to your duty station and prepare for the upcoming battle.”

“Yes Sir, thank you, Sir,” Deathwing said, already starting to back away from the

conversation.

“I look forward to fighting with you down on The Stepps,” Ari said in way of a rejoinder,

smiling at the young officer as he moved away.

“With me, Sir?” Deathwing said in a confused tone, pausing momentarily in his retreat.

“Why yes,” Arizona explained, “I plan to be there on the front line, piloting a mech with the

rest of the rank and file. It is expected in the Jurai Military that the lowest pilot to the

highest Warlord is ready to drop in battle at any time, and as I said at the staff meeting, I’m

very keen to shoot something.” Arizona’s grin was not as collegiate anymore as he

remembered his reasons for needing to shoot something, and Deathwing’s hard-swallowing

habit returned.

“Well, good luck and good hunting on the field, Tai-shu,” Deathwing said, starting his retreat

again. “I should be going...”

“Very well,” Arizona said, shaking himself slightly to calm down. “I’ll be keeping my eye on

you, Deathwing Tor.”

“You will?” Deathwing queried, stopping motionless like a deer caught in headlights.

“Yes,” Ari said, then took a sip of his drink. “I’ve heard good things about you, so far, and I

want to see what you’re made of.” Deathwing’s mind boggled at the possibilities in that last

statement.

“Thank you, Sir,” Deathwing said hurriedly, “may I be excused?” Arizona waved the lad

away, and after a quick salute, Deathwing scurried out the door like an alert had been

sounded.

“Odd lad,” Ari mused, sipping his drink, and glanced around again. The wake was breaking

up, and Ari himself should be heading for the war room sooner rather than later. He threw

back the rest of his drink, dropped the empty glass onto a passing waiter’s tray, and headed

for the lifts.

* * * *

Several hours later Arizona sat in the command chair on the bridge of the Nodachi. In a few

short minutes all preparations would be complete. To bring about that readiness state, he

passed an order on to Coms.

“Nebuku, patch me through to Taipan aboard the Strider.”

“Yesir.” Moments later the face of Chu-jo Heng Taipan filled the main screen.

“Hai, Tai-shu?” Taipan asked, reflexively proffering a clipped bow.

“How is your Patriarch doing?” Arizona asked.

“Asmudius is doing well,” Taipan replied. “He will be released in several hours.”

“Very good,” Ari said. “Now when he can travel, I want you to both visit Jurai Maxtac, and

touch the back of his hand.” Ari knew it was an odd request, but he hoped it would be what

was needed to revive the unconscious royal.

“Touch his hand?” Taipan asked, obviously confused.

“Yes,” Ari said, “both you and Asmu. That is an order.”

“Hai, Tai-shu,” Taipan said. “And then?”

“And then, I want you to travel on the light MT jumpship Nailor has put at your disposal

back to the Dominions with a relief force of MT pilots. There you are to help Misato organise

the integration of forces and the defence and offence in the southern area of operations.

Once the Nodachi is finished in this system, she will immediately return to the secured Nadir

and jump out to Tortuga Prime, to return the deceased to their families. Then I want her

reloaded with supplies and assault-ready dropships, and prepped for immediate departure.

Heng Asmudius is to stay with Jurai Maxtac until such time as he awakens, then update him

on the current situation and make himself available under Max’s command. I will send

regular info packets back to the MTS Strider to keep Asmu informed.”

“Hai, Tai-shu,” Taipan said again, and bowed. “Sore mune seiritsu.” Arizona nodded in

satisfaction and closed the connection.

“You all followed my orders, didn’t you?” Arizona asked of the bridge crew moments later.

“You all went and visited Jurai Maxtac, and touched his hand, to give presence to your

gratitude?”

“Hai, Tai-shu,” Diaka replied for the crew on the bridge, “I made sure, personally, that they

all followed that order, to the letter.” Diaka’s meaning was not lost to Ari.

“Good good,” Arizona said, his mood lightening. With any luck, Maxtac would be conscious

by the time Jessica arrived. They could catch up the attack forces in time for them all to see

action. It was a good day to start a fight! “Coms, put me through to Nailor Grey aboard the

Insanity.” Moments later, Nailor’s face occupied the main screen.

“Ah, Tai-shu Tokomi Arizona,” Nailor addressed Ari formally, as was proper at a time like

this. “Are you all ready to help Minnesota Tribe go kick Outworlds Alliance off our planet?”

“Everything is green and ready to go, here,” Arizona said, his feral grin reappearing.

“Very good,” Nailor said, and moments later his visage was seen throughout the Allied ships

at the North Nadir point of The Stepps. “Nailor to all ships of The Stepps Liberation Force.

We are go actual, full burn for The Stepps orbit!”

Out on the Nadir, the twenty odd ships facing in-system, nine warships and the rest

dropships including two Flags, began the slow creep that would become a rush towards

their goal, with bright blue-white engine exhausts flaring out behind them.

to be continued...

[rpOFF] This post is in honour of the ANZACs on this, ANZAC day in Au. Lest we forget[rpON]

Post 16

“ …Faith... is the art of holding on to things your reason once accepted, despite your

changing moods…”

C. S. Lewis 1891 - 1963

Minnesota Tribe flagship MTS Insanity, coasting run towards orbit of planet The Stepps,

Outworlds Alliance.

11th February 3070

Omega minus six hours, eleven minutes

Nailor looked up as Killer Bee da Vega stepped into his office. Nailor struck the gallant

scholarly-commander pose; data pad in one hand, small pool of light to read by thanks to

the gilt edged lamp on his desk, and he had always imagined glancing up at his friend and

subordinate over horned rimmed glasses, however modern medical technology being what

it was meant never having to wear spectacles. Still, he felt comfortable with the mental

image as he waited expectantly for his friend to speak.

“Boss,” KB began once he’d taken up his favourite position in the overstuffed chair on the

guest side of Nailor’s desk, “I have my doubts about this plan of Arizona’s.”

“Understandable, KB,” Nailor replied, nonplussed at the directness of KB’s statement. “It

does rather rely on untested technologies of the Ozora Family of House Jurai.” KB nodded.

“However,” Nailor continued, rubbing his jaw with his left hand, “I do feel that even if the

more overly-complex part of the Juraian Warlord’s plan fails, the presence of his flagship

more than makes up for any shortfall in our naval strength.” Nailor rubbed his chin some

more. “No, I think we have the firepower required to punch through to the planet. It’ll all

then come down to our Mechwarriors and chassis supplies by then.”

“Aye,” KB nodded, distracted from his original argument by talk of Battlemech forces, “and

let’s just hope that OA haven’t managed to cram as many mechs onto that dirtball as I think

they have, or we’ll be up against it.” It was Nailor’s turn to nod agreement.

“We just have to give it the best stab we can, KB,” Nailor said at last. “We have good pilots,

including some aces from HJ, and a good selection of mechs. I feel confident we can return

The Stepps to the Minnesota Tribe’s hands.” KB nodded again, preferring that to revoicing

growing concerns about the current op.

“Well we’d best get up to the bridge,” Nailor said, shutting off his reading pads and stuffing

them into a desk draw. “Arizona’s estimate on target resolution is fast approaching, and if

his new sensors are as good as he’s making out, we’ll have a distinct advantage over the

Outworld Alliance fleet protecting The Stepps.”

“That’s a big if right there,” KB said, snorting his disbelief even while he raised a questioning

eyebrow at his superior. Nailor returned a crooked smile.

“In for a C-bill, as they say,” he replied.

The two men got up to leave. Nailor grabbed his uniform jacket from the rack in the corner

on the way out, heaving it on and buttoning as he went.

Bridge, Tortuga Dominions Flagship JNS Nodachi, coasting run towards orbit of planet The

Stepps, Outworlds Alliance.

11th February 3070

Omega minus six hours

The crew on the bridge of the JNS Nodachi wore the intensity and tension they felt on their

faces as they went about their jobs with practiced efficiency. All knew that battle was fast

approaching, and that Juraian and allied lives, possibly even their own, depended on the

quick and accurate performance of their duties. None was more aware of these facts than

Tai-shu Tokomi Arizona, perched on the command chair, his chin resting on his fist, body

leaning forwards, brow furrowed in thought as he stared ahead at the main screen. Bridge

crew passed in front of the Warlord, some glancing his way, likening his pose momentarily

to the great warlords of eras past; Julius Caesar, Genghis Khan, Napoleon, Macathur,

Alexander Kerensky, however they didn’t disturb his mental ruminations unless it was

absolutely necessary as they hurried past to fulfil their appointed tasks. They reported to

the [/i]Nodachi’s[/i] XO, Tai-sa Diaka Kobi, and the Tai-shu could interrupt as it pleased him

to.

Arizona’s mind was spinning wildly as he considered every step of his audacious plan from

every angle he could devise. It has it weaker points, he was willing to admit, but overall, if it

went to plan with above 80% hit rate, then they would reach the planet with a much greater

survival percentage than the frontal assault the fleet was currently feigning.

“And on that thought,” Arizona mumbled to himself, glancing at the mission clock and

coming more upright to allow more air into his lungs, “it’s time for action.” Arizona looked

to his left.

“Coms, get me the bridge of the Insanity, tight beam,” he bellowed in the iron tone of

command. Any lesser crew would have jumped at the sudden sound, but this crew was used

to surprises.

“Contacting now,” Coms Officer Nebuku replied. Moments passed, and then a view of Nailor

and KB on the bridge of the MTS Insanity coalesced on the main viewscreen.

“Gentleman,” Arizona began, leaning forward as if he wanted to rise from his seat, his tone

fully conspiratorial, “are we ready to bait the switch?”

“All preparations have been completed, here,” Nailor replied, sporting a confident look in

his seat in the Insanity’s command chair, while KB’s look of concern counter-set his

commanders apparent ease. “Are things ready your end?”

“Final preparations are underway now,” Arizona replied. “All will be in readiness by launch

time.”

“Are you sure about this tactic of yours, Arizona?” KB cut in, his concern bubbling over, “it’s

relying on mainly untested technology, and…” Nailor lifted his hand up, and KB clamped

down on the rest of his statement, his unhappy glare deepening. Nailor turned his head to

address his subordinate.

“Your concerns were heard and taken into consideration before this course of action was

undertaken,” Nailor said in a deliberately neutral tone. “I agree with Arizona that this ploy

has a good chance of success, as long as we adhere to the plan.” Nailor gave KB a pointed

look.

“Fine,” KB replied in a near whisper, crossing his arms, “just keep my misgivings in mind

when the operation goes tits-up and we’re back to square one.” A look of distaste crossed

the grizzled Mechwarrior’s face.

“Duly noted,” Nailor said, ending the conversation. Both warriors looked back at the Juraian

Warlord waiting patiently on the other end of the comlink.

“So how soon will your advance sensor suite have isolated and painted the enemy fleet?”

Nailor asked, moving the conversation back on track. In answer, Arizona just lent back and

smiled, then noticing the puzzled looks on the Tribesman’s faces, he pointed to Diaka off

screen, who leant over the situation officer’s shoulder, passing on orders in response.

Moments later, Ari’s image on the Insanity’s bridge was replaced with tracking data of a wall

of ships. They were denoted by class and size, range and speed, with trajectories, time to

target and distance all clearly denoted on each one. Arizona’s face appeared in miniature

near the top right of the screen. Nailor couldn’t help but whistle quietly at the convenience

of it all. Before he could ask anything further, Arizona spoke.

“All they have on us so far is vague gravimetric readings, which will be firming up in the next

fifteen minutes.” Nailor nodded to this.

“Well you’d best be getting the Nodachi in the pocket then,” he replied, expecting Arizona

to give the order to his bridge crew.

“Check your chase cam,” Arizona said, a smug grin occupying his features. With an

involuntary gulp, Nailor hit the corresponding button on his armrest. On a secondary screen,

an image of a huge, dark, almost black shape, like the shadow of the Insanity itself, was

poised in the wake of the MT flagship. If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought the

shape nothing but a shadow. “Going dark,” Arizona stated from his corner of the main

screen, and the already shaky radar signature of the huge Juraian flagship wavered and

dimmed until it was almost gone. On the screen, running lights went out, and the surface of

the huge vessel began to almost literally eat up any light that fell upon it. “They will not be

able to make out the Nodachi until it is too late,” Arizona stated. “Ready for umbilical

attachment at your pleasure.”

Nailor nodded and shut off the tight beam transmission, then turned to look at KB, who was

giving him an ‘I told you so’ look.

“Well you’ve got to admit, the technology is impressive,” Nailor replied, rolling his eyes and

curling his lip.

“If it works,” KB rumbled, then turned and walked away.

Bridge, Outworlds Alliance Corvette Galetaea, The Stepps System.

12th February 3070

Omega minus three hours, forty-seven minutes

Commodore Dimetri Garret had a hard decision to make. He’d been stalling for weeks, and

would have continued to do so, if MT had been kind enough to stay parked on the Northern

Nadir. But now the pickets had announced that their fleet was moving in system, so the

need to decide had become critical. Garret was tasked with stopping MT from assaulting

The Stepps; and unenviable job, by anyone’s current estimations, and the method by which

he should go about this task was the decision that weighed heavily on his mind.

“Bring up the enemy’s fleet signature on the main screen,” Garret requested of his bridge

crew, and moments later, the screen was covered with a grid, showing The Stepps at the

bottom, the approaching Minnesota Tribe fleet at the top, and his defensive force spread

out just before the planet. Garret examined the telemetry, noting the preliminary paints of

the ship sizes, and their probably classes based on a fly-by of the nadir not long after the MT

fleet set up out there. It looked to him as if they hadn’t even brought their entire force from

the nadir. One medium-sized ship and several smaller ones had been left behind, probably

to guard the back door. Garret shook his head. That was no reinforced battle group out

there. It was hardly as big as his defensive cordon. No, something was up. Either the

pressure was on from MT high command to get The Stepps back with what they had, and

Nailor was getting desperate, or, they were up to something... but what?

“Sir, a coded message is coming through for you from the planet,” the coms officer intoned.

Garret sighed, knowing who it would be, and fairly sure what would be said, and knowing

this, he unbuckled himself from his command chair and pushed off, executing a barrel roll in

the zero G of the bridge and shooting off towards a more private coms booth. Once he

reached it, he clipped himself in, and inserted the earphone, activating the screen in front of

him.

“Commodore Garret,” AC, member of the Outworlds Alliance Review Board, Chairman of

Avellars Guard, and supreme commander of defensive forces on The Stepps greeted the

Commodore with a scowl. Garret saluted the camera, and a few moments later AC

reluctantly returned the honorific.

“Chairman AC, to what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of your call?” Garret asked with as

much forbearance as he could muster.

“I’ve contacted you,” AC began, his tone brisk, “to find out why your fleet is still in orbit!”

Garret swallowed, giving himself a few moments to mentally compose his reply.

“I’ve yet to order the fleet to leave orbit as I’ve yet to ascertain why MT has chosen this

moment to attack, with less than the required force of ships to guarantee victory.” AC’s eyes

narrowed at this.

“They’ve picked now, Commodore,” AC’s vitriol was plain, “because they are idiots who

don’t know when they are beaten, and they have gotten desperate.”

Here it comes, thought Garret, and tensed, ready for the decision to be made for him.

“So I want you to break orbit, immediately, and go out there and blow them into the middle

of next week. Are we clear, Commodore?” Garret sighed.

“I would much prefer to intercept them in high orbit, Sir,” Garret explained, “to give us fire

support from the defence grid, just in case they have some advantage we are yet to become

aware off.” AC rolled his eyes, and Garret knew his desires had fallen on deaf ears.

“That’s a load of bull,” AC said, his tone inescapably firm, “just get out there right now and

kill me some MT ships. Do you UNDERSTAND me Garret, or do I need to replace you?”

“No need for that, Sir,” Garret said, resigned to the course of action being enforced on him

by a ground-pounder. “We will break orbit immediately and hard burn for an intercept with

the MT strike force. Garret out.” He shut off the comlink before AC could have the final

word. His day was going to get bad enough without having that ringing in his ears while it

did.

Bridge, Tortuga Dominions Flagship JNS Nodachi, coasting run towards orbit of planet The

Stepps, Outworlds Alliance.

11th February 3070

Omega minus three hours, thirty-two minutes

Arizona sighed. If the OA fleet didn’t take the bait and come out of orbit, it would almost

triple the difficulty factor of the naval portion of this op.

“They’re not going to go for it,” Arizona said quietly to Tai-sa Diaka. “They’ve got a smart

Commodore holding his forces back near the planet, for defensive cover from the satellite

net and...”

“Wait,” Diaka cut in, pointing to the side of the screen showing the OA forces. Arizona

stared, and could just make out a small movement of the dots away from the orbit of The

Stepps. Moments later, the computers did a full update, and course-speed lines were added

to all the targets of the defensive wall. “Yes!” Diaka exclaimed, “they’re coming out to meet

and greet. We’re back on track!” Arizona let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been

holding.

“Coms,” Ari called, “double check that the Swordfish will be ready to swim on schedule, and

let Nailor over on the Insanity know that now would be a really good time for him to launch

his entire fighter wing.”

to be continued...

Post 17

“ …A casual stroll through the lunatic asylum shows that faith does not prove anything…”

Friedrich Nietzsche 1844 - 1900

Fighter launch bay, JNS Nodachi, MT/TD fleet approaching The Stepps, Outworlds Alliance.

12th February 3070

Omega minus fifty-seven minutes, seventeen seconds

The launch bay of the Nodachi was a hive of activity. Four sleek, black aerospace fighters,

their designs never-before seen outside the research centres of the Tortuga Dominions, and

weighing in somewhere around 80 tons were sitting in the otherwise vacant launch cradles.

These dark craft, their every line and curve suggesting lethal precision, were being swarmed

over by an army of technicians, most of whom had Ozora patches on their overall sleeves.

The few that didn’t belong to the Ozora Family of House Jurai were working on the outskirts

of the frantic aerospace fighter preparations, preparing and checking the equipment for the

launch that was not directly associated with the top-secret craft.

Targus Fuller, Technician First Class and proud of it, stood off to one side watching the

frenetic activity. His friend and workmate, Jeremy Rhymes, was nearby running final checks

on the launch system while Targus leaned against the wall, mouthing off.

“Just look at them, Jer,” Targus growled, indicating the black clad technicians with his chin.

“All high and mighty, just because they come from the Ozora Aerospace Research Facility

back in the Dominions. Fancy clothes, fancy tech, fancy tools... Hell I bet their damn planes

don’t even...”

“Tar!” Jeremy shot back, giving his friend a pained look. “You’ve been bitchin’ about them

ever since they arrived with the tender class the other day. Can’t you give it a rest and

actually help me finish our job here? Look, hold this.” Jeremy shoved the diagnostic unit into

Targus’s hands, and set to work adjusting the pressure on the door hydraulics. Targus

sneered at his overzealous workmate, and then turned the heavy duty diagnostic pad

around to consider the readout.

While the two technicians were otherwise engaged, a personnel lift hummed down to the

main hanger deck and stopped, locking into position before the doors hissed open. Four

black-clad men stepped out of the lift, three quite tall while the last was shorter, their flight

suits adorned with many attachment points for tubes and sensors, their faces obscured by

helmets with black tinted visors. The only marks of identification on their gear were the

Jurai/TD symbols on their right shoulders, Orzora patches on their left, and their nametags

over their hearts, which read OzoraCyph, OzoraTiny, OzoraWolfsaber and OzoraNekekami.

Targus glanced up as the sound of the arriving lift, and elbowed Jeremy to get him to turn

his attention to the developing scene.

The four men strode across the hanger, and if the scene had been in a movie, they would

have undoubtedly been moving in slow motion, with some suitably stirring music playing.

The group of pilots stepped up to the technicians who where hard at work on the black

fighters. As the workers noticed the pilot’s presence, they stopped what they were doing

and stood respectfully facing the new arrivals, heads bowed. Targus snorted at the

seemingly overdone expressions of respect, and Jeremy elbowed him, not wanting to get in

trouble. Then the chief technician rushed up, bowed deeply to the four men, and waited

while the lead pilot, OzoraTiny, took off his helmet.

“What the hell,” Targus spoke up as the conversation progressed on the other side of the

hanger, standing up to stare at the pilots facing away from them, “I think I know who these

guys are.”

“Tar, sit the hell down,” Jeremy pleaded, dragging ineffectually on Targus’s arm, “don’t

attract attention to us, not again.” Targus was having none of Jeremy’s dissuasion, however.

“Yeah, I’ve seen these guys, they’re Mechwarrirors, not Aerospace Pilots,” Targus said in a

louder voice. “What the hell are they doing flying these blackbirds?” At this, the shorter

pilot at the rear of the group turned toward Targus’s disturbance, and Jeremy, in a fit of

desperation, grabbed his friend’s overalls with both hands and dragged him down behind a

stack of transfer crates, out of sight of the group conversing on the other side of the hanger.

“Are you trying to get us in trouble, or are you just so naturally skilled at it?” Jeremy

demanded of his colleague in a terse whisper, gripping the front of Targus’s overalls and

shaking him. Then, sighing, he relented to his friend’s curiosity. “Look, I heard that these

aren’t your run-of-the-mill Aerospace Fighters. Apparently they are special, and it takes the

right sort of pilot to fly them, and if what I’ve heard is true, these guys are probably the only

ones in the Dominions capable of doing it.”

Jeremy’s explanation ended abruptly as a shadow fell across the pair of them. He carefully

released Targus’s overalls front and turned towards the shadow-caster behind him. It was

the shorter pilot, callsign OzoraNekekami, looking down at the two technicians. He cocked

his head sideways, and as beads of cold sweat formed on the foreheads of both Targus and

Jeremy, Nekekami undid his chin strap and took off his dark-visored helmet.

From under the head protection a young man’s face appeared, looking quizzically at the two

technicians huddled behind the transfer crates. He had short cropped, almost vertically

spiked dark-brown hair, over moderate brows, large brown eyes – vaguely Asiatic in

appearance – bisected by a long, mostly European nose, full lips surrounded by firm cheeks

and a moderate chin, it was the face of a young man, not yet in his prime. However, the two

technicians knew that to be in the company that Nekekami was keeping, he had to be a

Samurai of the family Ozora, and highly skilled and trained in not only combat, but design

and repair of technology as well.

“Well well well, isn’t this interesting,” Nekekami began, his voice neutral in almost every

way possible, “you pair do seem to know rather a lot about a classified project. Perhaps you

need to have... individual discussions with the ISS representatives aboard ship, just to make

sure that the scuttlebutt that is circulating isn’t making it way to... unfriendly ears. Yes, I

believe that would be prudent.” With that he waved two large security men over from the

main hatch, both sporting sidearms, swords and the latest in designer, black body armour.

The ISS guards each clamped onto a technician’s arm, and hauled the pair to their feet.

“Have you finished your task here?” Neke asked the pale faced techs, who both nodded.

“Good. Guards, take them to the aft security station. They have some explaining to do to the

section warden.”

“Hai,” the guards barked in unison. The last Nekekami saw of them was their dismayed faces

as they were unceremoniously escorted from the launch area.

Donning his helmet, Nekekami nodded in satisfaction, and then strode back to the group of

pilots waiting for the handover of their craft.

“... and they will be ready for launch within three minutes,” the chief technician said,

clapping his hands together. The sound seemed to reanimate the stationary technical staff,

who rushed back to their allotted tasks. Tiny nodded, looking pleased, and after

repositioning his helmet, the four Ozorans moved to climb into their new rides.

Two minutes and fifty eight seconds later, the four Kei ‘Swordfish’ Heavy Aerospace Fighters

were outside the [/i]Nodachi[/i] keeping pace with the flagship, which was in turn snuggled

in behind the MTS Insanity. With these two massive flagships travelling so close to each

other, the Swordfish were like pilot fish to whales.

Cruising along in the shadow of the two great ships, Tiny gave his systems a final check, and

took in a deep lungful of ‘new Aerospace Fighter’ smell, hoping as he did that these ships

that were yet to be battle-tested would perform as required. He and Cyph had spent a lot of

time over the past few years working on these fighters, and the cost of each prototype had

been considerable to say the least. Presuming they made it to full production stage, they

would still cost far more than a standard fighter, but it would all be worth it, if they worked

as planned. This was the litmus test, and Tiny, along the other Ozora Samurai involved, were

determined to make them them work.

Tiny mentally cued his TD coms channel.

“School Lead to Home Reef.”

“This is Home Reef, go ahead,” a small voice in his head said.

“The Swordfish School is in the water and ready to swim,” Tiny informed command. “We are

ready to receive The Package.”

“Roger that, School Lead,” the voice in Tiny’s head replied. “Package being launched now.

The ball is in your court. Good luck, good hunting.”

“Roger that, Home Reef,” Tiny replied. “We will dock and leave when ready.” Tiny switched

over to flight coms. “Ozora Samurai, form up. We dock with The Package and we go. It’s

time to prove our worth to the Tortuga Dominions, and to Jurai.”

A chorus of determined “Hai’s” greeted Tiny’s ears through the comlink.

The four sleek, black aerospace fighters moved forward and gathered around a large, bullet

shaped object, about twice the length and four times the height of the manned craft coming

to surround it. Using manoeuvring jets, each fighter took up a position equidistant around

the centre of the package, the bottom of each fighter’s fuselage facing in. Once they were in

position, Tiny sent a mental command, and a beam of concentrated gravity from The

Package anchored the four fighters to it.

“All fighters’s tethered, the countdown clock is at Omega minus forty-eight minutes,” Tiny

mentally intoned. “Engage engines.”

Brilliant purple gouts of plasma thrust blossomed from the Aerospace fighters’ exhausts as

they quickly accelerated away from the two flagships and headed into the fray occurring

closer to the planet.

Minnesota Tribe fighter wing Plunderer, combat near planet The Stepps, Outworlds

Alliance.

12th February 3070

Omega minus thirty-four minutes, eleven seconds

Major Corbin MacMannus, or Mac to his friends and wingmates, was having one of those

days. First there were the orders to take his flight group of Aerospace Fighters, mainly Turk

Omnis and Visigoth Omnis, into the teeth of the enemy advanced aerospace wing,

consisting of Stingray F-90s, Manta MTA-T2cs, Lightning P-38s for anti-aerospace and

Ensensturm EST-0 to go after the Minnesota Tribe’s fleet’s dropships and warships. Orders

then required a fighting withdrawal back towards the still approaching friendly fleet,

drawing the enemy aerospace wing into a trap of some kind. This part of the plan was not

working so well, however, and Mac’s flight group was taking much heavier than expected

losses.

Barrel rolling through a Lightning’s gauss fire, Mac pulled his Visigoth up through the general

melee. Space was full of enemy birds, and friendly losses were mounting. Something had to

change, and soon, or the whole plan would go to hell. Glancing quickly at his controls, Mac

flipped the encrypted channel toggle.

“Wing Lead to Nest, Wing Lead to Nest, come in Nest,” Mac growled into his mic as he

threw his craft to the right, avoiding a volley of rockets.

“This is the MT Nest,” came a static sheathed reply, “what is the condition of the

migration?”

“Birds are falling out of the sky, Nest, and fast,” Mac replied, firing on his selected target, a

Stingray. “I require clearance to return the flight to the nest before there isn’t anyone left to

land!” The channel remained quiet for a few tense moments. In that time some of Mac’s fire

hit home and the Stingray in his sights weaved back and forth in a vain attempt to avoid its

fate.

“Neg, Wing Lead,” that same voice said, and Mac’s face fell, “a flight of allied birds is

enroute, and will arrive within minutes. You are ordered to fall back and regroup with

them.”

“A flight?” Mac queried, jinking wildly as medium laser fire tore through the rear edge of his

port wing. “Just how many birds are we talking here, Nest?”

“One moment,” the voice said, and a few long moments later, during which Mac’s target

exploded in a rippling vortex of burning gas and a detonating fusion core, it finished. “Our

allies have sent four birds to assist.”

“Four? Just four?” Mac demanded as anger and the hopelessness of the situation coursed

through him. He knew that his wingman would probably survive the ejection from their

birds, but if MT didn’t win the day, those escape pods would be picked up by the enemy at

best, resulting in prisoners of war, and at worst would be fired upon or just left to die. Either

way, the newly formed alliance needed to win, and MT’s new allies didn’t seem to be doing

enough. “What difference are four birds going to have on this rout?” Mac demanded, the

venom in his voice clearly audible to ears back on the MT Flagship.

“Well,” the Com’s Specialist began, sounding rather sheepish, “according to the Juraians,

these are flying fish, and... well... to quote the source, ‘...four is all you’ll ever need...’” Mac

shook his head, the comment being lost on him as his concentration was being better spent

keeping his bird from being blown to pieces.

“Roger, Nest,” Mac said after dispatching a Stingray that had been mauling an MT Visigoth,

“we will comply. I just hope these Jurai ‘Flying Fish’ are all they are cracked up to be. Flight

Lead out.” Mac then switched channels to the Flight Coms.

“Wing lead to all birds,” Mac spat into his comlink, sliding his aerospace fighter sideways to

avoid an exploding Visigoth, all the while pouring medium laser fire into a Manta, “break

contact as you can, flank speed withdrawal until we contact friendly reinforcements.” Mac

didn’t have the heart to tell the remnants of his men the quantity of reinforcements they

were expecting.

Four indeed...

Juraian experimental combat core Crushing Victory, approaching combat theatre near

planet The Stepps, Outworlds Alliance.

12th February 3070

Omega minus thirty-one minutes, forty-seven seconds

OzoraCyph’s mind interpreted the visual, auditory, and non-human telemetry the Swordfish

was feeding him as well as two years of training with the as-yet experimental synthlink

technology allowed him. It still felt like there was a worm in his mind, squirming around,

trying to get out through his skull, however he’d almost perfected the ability to block that

feeling out. At least the migraines were a thing of the past... he hoped.

While he watched the battle data firming up as the Swordfish closed on the MT/OA

Aerospace battle, he considered the downsides of the advanced mental link technology

worth the risk considering the upsides; zero physical action delay in orders passed to the

craft, and a much greater mental picture of the battlespace around it. Near perfect

situational awareness as it were. These birds acted like a true extension of the pilots body,

and in the hands, or rather the mental grip, of a properly prepared pilot, it was expected

that the Swordfish would be a thing of devastating beauty. And that expectation was about

to become a reality.

Cyph’s mouth grinned in anticipation.

As the battle data firmed up, Cyph could see the MT flight wing in full rout, perused by

about four times the number of enemies. It was easy to determine that without help they

would be shredded before they made the approaching allied fleet. That was something the

Swordfish were tasked with preventing.

“The Package has reached target velocity,” Cyph felt Tiny say in his brain. “As long as the

approaching OA fleet maintains a similar course and heading to the one it is now on, Omega

will occur within operational limits. Prepare to detach, activating Package stealth unit.”

Moments later the large shape below his plane all but vanished as sophisticated holo-

emitters and other sensor shrouding devices activated.

“Detachment in three, two, one.”

The four Kei Swordfish detached from their near invisible core unit, and slowed to allow it to

move off from their position. Once it was clear, they swung expertly around and formed a V-

formation.

“Okay, Ozora Samurai,” Tiny’s voice flared in Cyph’s brain, “let’s go show our allies what sort

of help they can expect from Jurai’s best.”

to be continued...

Post 18

“ …Cry ‘Havoc,’ and let slip the dogs of war…”

William Shakespeare’s (1564 – 1616) character Mark Antony, Scene 1, Act III of the play

Julius Caesar

Outworlds Alliance Aerospace Defence Wing Vermillion, pursuing MT fighter wing away

from the orbit of The Stepps, Outworlds Alliance.

12th February 3070

Omega minus thirty-one minutes flat

“Just look at them run,” Lieutenant Swift exclaimed over coms as he brought his Stingray F-

90 into formation with the other remaining Stingray fighters of his battle group. “Do we

pursue to finish them, Captain?” The Captain Swift was referring to, one Arthur Forbes,

pursed his lips in concentration in the cockpit of his Manta MTA-T2c.

“Well our orders are to repulse the MT attack on The Stepps, and those fighters look pretty

repulsed to me,” Forbes replied, considering out loud. “However, if we let them off the hook

now, they’ll just go back and form up with the main body of their fleet, and we’ll be seeing

them again later. Either way, we need to protect the Ensensturm wing while they make their

attack run on the MT fleet. I think we’ll stick to them and see off any threats along the way.

Wisest course and all that.” However Swift was not going to give up on his fun so easily.

“But Sir, they’ll be much easier to finish with only their chase weapons trained on us, and

less likely to cause us more losses while in full retreat. Strike while the iron’s hot, and all

that,” Swift argued, parroting his senior’s turn of phrase. Forbes rubbed his chin,

considering. He did have overwhelming force superiority on the enemy, they were in

retreat, and wiping them out now meant less work to do later.

“Okay, Swift,” Forbes said, relenting, “you get to finish what was started.” Swift’s wasn’t the

only cheer to be heard over the OA coms channel. “The Ensensturm can look after

themselves for a bit while we go finish off the stragglers. There should be little trouble.

Commander Fisher?”

“Aye, Sir?” a new voice came over the channel.

“Take your wing directly toward the MT fleet. Strike at the Flagship to cripple; you’ll be

returning later to destroy it, or the capital ships of the defensive screen will finish the job. If

things get too warm, extend. We should be reformed with you by the time you reach target.

The MT interceptor flight is not heading directly back to their fleet, so you shouldn’t have

any trouble from them. Copy?”

“Aye, Sir,” Fisher replied, no question in his tone this time. It was clear he was a man of few

words.

“All Stingray, Manta and Lightning pilots, full military thrust, heading two-forty-three,

declination seven point two,” Forbes continued in a hard tone. “Webber, take your

Stingray’s in and hit them at max range. Push them until they have to turn to fight you or

die. That will give the rest of us a chance to close and join you.”

Forbes pushed his throttles to maximum. It was odd that the MT interceptors were not

fleeing directly toward their fleet, but commanders could easily make navigational errors in

the heat of battle. No matter, it made it all the more easy for him. He keyed his coms stud

one last time.

“All remaining aerospace fighters, chase the pirate scum down and wipe them out.”

Minnesota Tribe fighter wing Plunderer, in full retreat near planet The Stepps, Outworlds

Alliance.

12th February 3070

Omega minus twenty-seven minutes, thirteen seconds

The damaged Visigoth on Mac’s right wing exploded, as extreme range PPC fire tore through

its weakened rear armour. Mac jinked to avoid the worst of the rapidly expanding debris

cloud, and heard the rattle of finer particles hammering against his own degraded fuselage.

He swore. They were out of time. They were either going to be shot down and wiped out by

long range fire as they ran, or they could turn to rejoin the melee and be defeated by the

superior forces following up the Stingrays now firing on them. Mac had been promised

support, but where was it? There was nothing but red blips on the radar. If the damn

Juraians didn’t arrive within moments, they were all as good as...

Mac’s perception of time slowed to a crawl. A light flared ahead in the distance, and Mac

recognised the flicker of the missile drive of some kind. A missile that was coming straight

toward him. He glanced at his sensors and saw no forward ship contacts, but it had picked

up the missile, a small torpedo of some kind, probably area burst, and reported the launch

as possible enemy fire. Mac sighed, gritting his teeth as the torpedo closed on the remains

of his flight group with their combined closing speeds. Too fast to dodge, too late to avoid.

He waited the scarce few moments for the end; an end that didn’t come. The torpedo

passed through the MT flight without detonating, jinking randomly with some sort of

advanced enemy-fire-avoidance programming. Mac checked his chase cam; a useful thing

for avoiding the enemy fire he’d been dealing with for the past few seconds. The torpedo

disappeared down-range, its engine flare melding into the midst of the chasing Stingrays,

and then... the universe held its breath for just a moment.

There was a flash, that seemed to suck back in on itself, and then the area directly behind

the MT flight, which had been occupied by the OA Stingrays moments before, went dark.

Milliseconds later, Mac felt the Visigoth around him shudder, as if a giant hand had reached

out and grabbed them, and he was renched in his harness as the damaged aerospace fighter

was hauled backwards towards the darkness that had enveloped the chasing planes. Mac’s

jaw dropped as he glanced first at the thrust indicator, which told him his Visigoth was at full

military thrust, and then at the speed indicator, which said he was going backwards!

“What the...” he mumbled into his mic, as similar exclamations of alarm filtered through the

wing’s com channel. Mac glanced out the cockpit window, to see the other planes of his

flight likewise tumbling, or perhaps falling, back towards the dark expanse behind him.

Then, as suddenly as the effect had begun, it ceased.

Mac checked his instruments again; his radar, which had flickered and went out for a few

moments, settled down and showed that there were no enemy signals within range, and

Mac noted that the chase fire was no more. His fighter’s thrust was once again moving him

in the desired direction, away from the still closing OA Manta’s and Lightning’s.

“What the hell was THAT?” Stimpson, the Turk flight lead, demanded over coms to anyone

who had an answer.

“Another good question,” Mac replied, glancing up out of his cockpit, “is what the hell are

they?” Gliding along above Mac’s command were four aerospace fighters of unfamiliar

design, that seemed to have been made out of the stuff of space itself. Mac checked his

sensor sphere and located only weak signals to even show that the fighters were there, and

after another moment, IFF designated them as allied.

“MT flight wing,” a vaguely human-sounding voice, tinged with a mechanical overtone,

broke into the flight com channel, “we are the Jurai Experimental Combat Core Crushing

Victory, sent to assist.”

“What the hell sort of weapon did you just use on the trailing enemy forces?” Mac

demanded.

“That information is... classified,” came the emotionless voice. “We will now deal with the

other enemy threats in the area.” Before Mac could argue, the flight of black aerospace

fighters peeled off in exact synchronisation and headed in the opposite direction.

“What do you want us to do?” Mac asked before the Juraians closed the channel.

“Stay out of the way,” was the flat, emotionless reply he received.

The MT fighter flight limped on, its pilots stunned by the interchange.

“Well that was perfunctory,” Stimpson commented, his tone less than satisfied.

“No kidding,” Mac agreed. “We’d best tail them, to make sure our new allies don’t need our

assistance.”

“Quite,” Stimpson replied. “But even if they did, would they accept it?”

Mac made an unsure noise, then turned his fighter back the way they’d came. His flight

dutifully turned to follow him.

Outworlds Alliance Aerospace Defence Wing Vermillion, pursuing MT fighter wing away

from the orbit of The Stepps, Outworlds Alliance.

12th February 3070

Omega minus twenty-six minutes, forty seconds.

“What the frack was that?” demanded Gibbons, leader of the Lightning P-38 MkII’s assigned

to Defensive Wing Vermillion. His voice sounded strained over coms, and with good reason.

There had been some sort of detonation ahead, and a gravity wave had hit the flight,

increasing the forward speed of the Lightning and Manta groups. Once the accompanying

sensor interference cleared, Forbes checked his readouts, and his face fell.

“What in hell?” Forbes wondered aloud, his tone likewise tense. “Where’s the Stingray

group gone?” Forbes was not the only one who’d noticed their absence.

“Have they been nuked?” Gibbons put in. “It’s about the only weapon I know of that could

take them all out that quickly.”

“Can’t be,” Lucas replied. “We’d have seen a much bigger flash if that was what they used,

and we’d be picking up a radiation wash.” Forbes glanced at his radiation readout and noted

that it was still reading background levels. “And what about that gravity disturbance; that

‘drawing in.’ A nuke would have pushed us back, not drawn us in. Whatever it was, it wasn’t

a nuke.” The silence on the coms channel seemed to suggest agreement.

“So what was it?” Gibbons repeated, as they flew on, the tension over the coms almost

palpable. No one had an answer, and it seemed that they’d suddenly gone from the hunters

to the hunted. The silence dragged on, and Forbes’ mind was whirring. His men were

waiting for instruction and finally Forbes made a decision.

“I don’t like this. The tactical situation has changed, and not in our favour. Vermillion, we’re

bugging out of here to join back up with...” Forbes never finished giving the order. Spinning

blue plasma discs rained down on the cockpit of Forbes’ Manta, scything through it and

causing the two ends of the fighter to fold up on the centre before it exploded. As the debris

cloud was dissipating, two more OA fighters exploded, and four dark, wraithlike shapes

dropped through the middle of the rapidly disintegrating OA formation.

“Oh frack THIS!” Swift exclaimed, yanking his flight yolk roughly to the side. “Break break

break. Form up with your wingmen and search for targets.” Swift glanced at his sensors. He

was sure he’d seen some partial contacts, but they weren’t showing anymore. He turned

hard, searching visually while his wingman, Horner, formed up off his port rear quarter.

After a few seconds of scanning, Swift still couldn’t see anything.

“Somebody please tell me you’ve got a target. Anybody?” Swift practically begged into his

mic. There was silence for a few more seconds, then...

“I’ve got something over here,” Wiggins replied, “intermittent contact, bearing 342 mark

43... Aaaggghhhh!” Before Wiggins could finish, his fighter exploded around him, the flash of

his demise visible to Swift from his position. Moments later, Wiggins’ wing mate joined him

in oblivion.

“I’ve got the remains of the MT flight we were perusing,” another voice said, “but they are

on long range scan, and are well outside any effective weapons range.”

“It’s not them,” Swift replied, jinking his Stingray all over the sky in an attempt to not be the

next OA fighter to die. “We are faced with something totally different here.” He glanced

down and found that long range coms were jammed. Swift swore vehemently. This was not

how he pictured his day going when he got up this morning.

Juraian experimental combat core Crushing Victory, in combat near planet The Stepps,

Outworlds Alliance.

12th February 3070

Omega minus twenty-four minutes, four seconds

“This is just a little too easy,” Cyph thought to himself as another OA fighter exploded under

a hail of plasma shuriken. They others agreed, and Cyph remembered that he didn’t get to

think to himself while in the combat link.

“The remains of the MT flightgroup is approaching,” Nekekami added, from his wingmate

position on Tiny’s rear quarter. “They will be in combat range in twenty-two point five

seconds, however, by that time the predictive combat effectiveness of the OA flights will be

below twenty percent.” Another OA fighter disintegrated under Tiny’s guns.

“That threat level is acceptable,” Tiny replied. “We should be finished here within the

minute, and then we move on to phase three.” A volley of ‘Hai’s’ echoed across the

synthlink.

With practiced efficiency, they got on with the job of demolishing the OA fighters.

Minnesota Tribe fighter wing Plunderer, returning to combat zone near planet The Stepps,

Outworlds Alliance.

12th February 3070

Omega minus twenty-three minutes, thirty-six seconds

“Are they still dying, Stimpson?” Mac asked, too busy arranging his damaged flight into its

most effective battle order considering their damage to check his scope.

“In droves,” Stimpson replied, an edge of awe in his voice. “And I still can’t pick up the TD

birds, despite my BAP suite. By the time we get there, there’ll be hardly anything left for us

to clean up!”

“Well if that don’t beat all,” Mac said, checking the shared telemetry after issuing the final

placement order. Contact after contact flickered and died, like moths reaching the open

flame and being consumed. Mac shook his head. “Prime your weapons, pilots. Use only long

range laser and PPC weapons for now. We might need the ammunition later. Let’s at least

get a few licks in before these Juraian wraiths have all the fun.” There were a few tense

chuckles at that. With a deep breath to settle his battered nerves, Mac flipped up the cover

on his trigger stud and opened fire.

It was all over in less than a minute. The last OA fighter, a severely battered yet doggedly

determined Stingray, finally succumbed to the combined laser, ppc and... some strange sort

of plasma weapon fired by the Juraian stealths, the fire of six fighters in all. It had nowhere

to jink, run or hide, as the space it occupied and the area around it was filled with death. An

escape pod tumbled away as the plane vaporised, the detonating gas cloud expanding

momentarily until its combustibles were consumed, and then collapsing back in on itself, to

be overtaken by a wave of shrapnel.

“Well that was satisfying,” Stimpson commented, reforming on his commanders wing. “It

was good of the Juraians to leave us something to shoot at.” There was general agreement

across the coms. Mac wasn’t quite ready to relax just yet.

“Remember they’ve also got some fighter/bombers headed for our fleet, and a fleet of their

own closing fast,” Mac stated, and the coms cleared of idle chatter. “We’re going to join up

with our new allies and...” Before Mac could finish there was a buzz and a metallic click that

some in the MT flightgroup, including Mac and Stimpson, now recognised as their encrypted

coms channel being broken into.

“MT flightgroup,” the same metallic sounding, dispassionate voice addressed them, “you

are to head directly back toward the fleet and engage the OA bomber group before it

reaches visual range on the Flagship. If they realise its two flagships and not one before the

fleet gets in range, the jig is up.”

“And what are you going to be doing?” Mac asked, his ire at being summarily ordered

around by a practically unknown pilot of indeterminate rank, if an ally, obvious.

“We will be herding the OA fleet into position,” the voice came back.

“Herding? Their fleet?” Mac said, incredulous. “And just how do you intend to do that?”

“We have our ways,” the voice said, after a moment’s pause. “We require the OpFor to be

in position to receive a package we sent them some eight minutes, forty-two seconds ago.

We would recommend you not be in the sphere of the enemy fleet in twenty-two minutes,

three seconds.” The voice paused for a moment. “It would be... unfortunate.”

Mac grimaced. “I’ll take that as a friendly warning,” he said. “I suppose you sent them one

of your fancy new torpedoes?”

“Oh no,” the voice said, some emotion – rapture – finally colouring its tone. “Something

much more interesting.” With that, the hum left the coms channel, and the MT flight felt

alone in their space.

“Well we’d best get about it,” Mac said, turning his flight towards home, with a stop-off

with some OA bombers along the way. “Full military thrust.”

“Cap, do you think our exchanges with these Juraian pilots will ever seem more... normal?

Stimpson asked as they rushed after the slower enemy bombers.

“I sincerely doubt it,” was Mac’s reply.

to be continued...

Post 19

“ …I am become death, the destroyer of worlds…”

J. Robert Oppenheimer (1904 - 1967) on the occasion of his first nuclear weapon

detonation, July 16, 1945

Bridge, JNS Nodachi, TD/MT fleet approaching The Stepps, Outworlds Alliance.

12th February 3070

Omega minus fifteen minutes thirty-two seconds

Arizona considered the combat plot, and then took a glance out the main windows to view

the butt of the MT Insanity, sitting relatively close ahead of the TD flagship, masking its

signature from the approaching OA defensive fleet of The Stepps. It would still be a close

thing, he mused, but they were still within the sixty-five percent envelope for success of the

strategy. If the technology worked as planned, they’d pull it off easily, and if it didn’t... well

they might take such a beating that the attack on the planet in question might be pointless.

Still, it was wonderful to finally get a field test of some of the newly developed weapons,

and if their efficacy could be clearly demonstrated, perhaps more funding could be directed

to...

“Tai-shu?” coms officer Nebuku asked, his tone exploratory, interrupting the Warlords

musings. “We have an urgent request to speak with you from Colonel deVega on the

Insanity. Should I put him through?” Arizona leaned back, a smirk forming around his lips.

He’d been expecting this call.

“Hai, Tai-i Nebuku,” Arizona acquiesced, crossing his right leg over his left knee, and

steeping his fingers in front of him. “Put him through, and we’ll get this over with.”

Killer Bee deVega’s face appeared, five feet high on the main screen of the bridge. He was a

little flushed, and his eyes flashed as he focused on Arizona.

“Tokomi,” KB growled across the link, “just what the hell do you think you’re playing at?” KB

glared at the seated Juraian Warlord, as if there was no other information that required

imparting. Ari let him wait.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Arizona said finally. “I’m fulfilling the agreed upon

support of your forces to break through the OA naval defences.”

“That’s ****, and you know it!” KB stated, his tone and volume both rising. “I've just been

contacted by the Wing Commander of the MT flight group your support fighters left hung-

out-to-dry. You let more than half of the MT fighter cap be destroyed before your fancy

birds intervened, and then you used some sort of unknown weapon to wipe out their

immediate pursuit.” On the screen, KB took a deep breath in an effort to get himself under

control, and his next statement carried an ice-cold tone. “I submit that you are using

experimental weapons that could severely hamper the success of this mission.”

“That,” Arizona said after a pause, “is a fair, if one sided, assessment.”

“Fair... if one sided...” KB blustered on the other end of the link, and while the MT Coronel

was distracted, Arizona took up the initiative.

“Yes,” Arizona stated firmly. “What did you expect me to do, lacking pilots and having a ship

held together with duct tape and bailing wire?” It wasn’t exactly true, but the Nodachi

wasn’t exactly in great shape, either. “Jurai’s one advantage that I could extend to the Tribe

is the small amount of experimental technology that I had available. Now that technology, in

such small quantities, wouldn’t make enough of a difference if used front on, so I had to

devise a strategy that would use it to its maximal potential.”

“But sacrificing our flight to protect your precious toys...” KB began, his ire building again.

“Killer Bee deVega,” Ari said slowly, leaning forward and fixing the angry Tribesman with a

hawkish glare as he cut the Coronel off, “you may be an expert tactician and strategist when

it comes to ground engagements, but you should leave the naval planning to those that

have had far, far more practice at it. If we were to rush headlong into the OA defensive line,

we may well be victorious, but at the cost of dropships and mechs that you yourself insisted

be saved at all costs for the ground war. I am simply working the battlespace to our best

advantage to minimise loss of said material, and if all it costs you is a few aerospace fighters,

I think the exchange will be well worth it, don’t you?”

KB’s face lost some of its ruddy glow, and he swallowed.

“Yes, well,” he said, gathering his thoughts as he went, “as part of the terms of our mutually

beneficial military arrangements, MT will require supplies of said craft and munitions for our

own forces, and...”

“That... will not be possible,” Ari spoke over KB again, and the MT Coronel’s face reddened

up again as he went to complain, “...in the short term,” Arizona finished. KB’s mouth shut

with a snap. “These craft and munitions are highly experimental - as you correctly surmised

- and of great expense. We ourselves only have the working prototypes you see here, and

they have taken the better part of a decade to work up. It will likely be a similar period

before we can have any great numbers of them in production, and then we still have to

analyse the test data to determine if it is ethical to even consider producing anymore.”

“What?” KB finally found his voice again. “You mean to say you have such powerful

weapons and you wouldn’t put them into production?”

“Exactly,” Ari said, his tone grave. “They may be too expensive, too powerful, and too

dangerous... even for us.”

“I don’t think some small gravity torpedoes is such a bad thing, nor stealth craft with fancy

plasma weapons,” KB stated, folding his arms across his chest.

“Oh that was just the entrée,” Arizona said, a wicked grin sneaking, unbidden, onto his

features. “You wait til you see the meat and potatoes in the main course.”

KB’s mind could naught but boggle. He was about to ask for details when a proximity alarm

went off on the Nodachi bridge, and Arizona requested an update from his XO. Diaka lent

down and whispered in Ari's ear for a few moments, then retreated back to the plots. Ari

turned to face KB's less-than-patient visage on the main monitor.

"KB," Ari began, his tone clam and all business, "if you refer to our shared plot, a flight group

of OA Ensensturm aerospace fighters, that have obviously slipped past the fighter screen,

have been resolved directly ahead, in high closing V to our fleet. There is a high probability

that their mission is to strike at the Insanity, to cripple or destroy, and at the very least

damage your flag enough to prevent it escaping the follow-up capital ships."

The Nodachi bridge, and KB on the tight-beam coms link, went quiet. The silence hung

heavy in the air, and Ari waited patiently for KB to comment. Finally he did.

"So? You're the great naval commander, you do something about it!" KB's tone was laced

with frustration... and accedence. Arizona's smile was small, yet weighty.

"As you wish," Ari said, and then turned to his XO. "Diaka, begin launching the stealthed

jammer drones, the Talent Scouts, prepare to link the advance navigation sensors into the

defence grid, and disengage the umbilical." Diaka nodded and got about the preparations

while Arizona turned back to the screen to see a confused look on KB's face.

"Talent Scouts?" deVega stated in way of a question.

"Yes," Ari began, "I'm sure with your intelligence assets trained on the Dominions from time

to time, you are aware of our Energina designs?" KB nodded. "Well consider these a scaled

down and stealthed version. They don't have any anti-warship capability, but they excel at

anti-fighter and anti-missile. Between them, and the rest of the fleet's point defence

capabilities, I calculate we have a..." Ari glanced down at the armrest readouts "...eighty-six

percent chance of wiping out the approaching fighters without them getting word back to

their fleet. Even better, if you order your remaining fighters to close to engage at max

range." Ari smiled at KB; a hopeful smile.

"Very well, Tai-sa Tokomi," KB said finally. "We'll play it your way, up here. But you better

just fall into line dirtside, or I'll kick your sorry arse back into orbit, you hear me? And this

better work!" KB added for good measure.

"Received and understood," Ari said, and cut the connection. He was playing a dangerous

game - as per usual - and he seriously hoped that he'd not overlooked anything, in this latest

gamble.

Outworlds Alliance bomber wing Fisherman, approaching MT fleet target near planet The

Stepps, Outworlds Alliance.

12th February 3070

Omega minus eleven minutes sixteen seconds

Fisher went over his attack strategy one-more-time as his flight of twelve Ensensturm

aerospace fighter-bombers approached the tactical commitment point. Attacking at full

thrust from the front combined the closing speeds of his fighters, the MT flagship, and the

extra speed provided by the ordinance thrust. It would make them almost ballistic by the

time they reached target, which would not be all that long after launch, all things

considered. Very hard to track and kill with point defence, and if enough got through to

damage the flagship - well there might just be a promotion in order. It was well known how

much the Alliance's leadership liked to see the blasted Tribeman's noses bloodied.

And bloodied they would be, with these new "Son of Barracuda" fighter-launched

torpedoes. Almost as much punch as the naval fired sires, the "Sons" as they had been

dubbed didn't have the range the bigger torps did, but that hardly mattered on a more

manoeuvrable and faster launch platform.

Yes, it was a good attack plan, the best Fisher could come up with after losing contact with

Forbes. It would have been nice to have some interceptor cover, but Fisher guessed that his

fellow fighter jocks were busy finishing up the MT flyers, and would eventually show up.

Perhaps too late to steal any of the glory!

An alarm beeped on Fisher's console, and he silenced it. It would beep again within the next

minute, and then continue to do so. That would be their last opportunity; the point of no

return. He was taking his men in close to the quickly approaching target, knowing that the

less flight time the enemy had to lock up the torpedoes, the less chance they had of

shooting them down. However at such a closing speed, his own flight group would barely

avoid the outer edges of the MT point defence network. But it was worth the risk to splash

the flag.

"Ah, Sir?" Joe McCarthy - Fisher's second - began, his tone sounding unsure across the short

range coms. Joe's Ensensturm mounted space based bap and an advanced imaging suite. "If

we don't launch soon, we'll be right down their gullets." There were mumbled agreements

over the coms from other pilots. "Hell we'll be in image-enhancement visual range in less

than one minute..."

"I'm quite aware of that, Joe," Fisher said, using the subordinate's first name to try to calm

him. "And we will be launching presently." Fisher flicked some switches in his cockpit.

"Fisherman wing, prime your torpedo release mechanisms and prepare to launch in T-minus

twenty, nineteen..." The other members of the flight group made their preparations, and

they flew on as the countdown ran in the background.

"Three, two, one... launch!" Fisher finished, and as one, twenty-three armour-piercing, high

explosive, anti-warship torpedoes sped off towards their target; the MTS Insanity. It was all

but one that the flight had to launch. Fisher hung on to one of his, as a contingency.

The wave of torpedoes accelerated away from their launch platforms, becoming extra stars

in the forward sky after a few seconds.

"Okay gents, adjust your course to three-four-seven mark two, to avoid a nasty dance with

the MT fleet..."

"SIR!" McCarthy interrupted, practically shouting over the coms. "There's a group of fighters

resolving on our six, heading straight for us at what I calculate would be max thrust for the

gravimetric tonnage readings. And they're not ours." Joe finished, his voice tense.

"It'll be okay, Joe," Fisher replied, his own tone suggesting frustration. We'll stay our new

course, avoid the MT fleet, and keep ahead of these enemy fighters, as we have a higher

acceleration threshold now we've lost our disposable tonnage. Fisherman flight, full military

thrust." His subordinates followed the order, and they began to drop down out of the plane

of combat.

"Enhanced visuals now available of the MT fleet," McCarthy said, his tone going from tense

to curious. "You're going to want to see this, Sir."

"Shoot it across," Fisher said, and a moment later, his main cockpit screen lit up with stills

taken at extreme visual range. The tactical computer analysed the image, picking out and

highlighting the outlines of dropships, four smaller warships, the MT flagship, and...

something else. It was big, tucked in down and behind the MT flag, and the ship ident

software went into overdrive, flicking through hundreds if three-d ship models in seconds

until it came up with a matching outline. It said, Tortouga Dominions Warship - Flag Class.

"Oh.... FRAK!" Fisher exclaimed, glancing around as if he could see a way out of this mess

he'd just found himself in. "There's a second Flag tucked in behind the first! We've got to

warn the Galetaea or the defensive fleet will be slaughtered." Fishers mind swam. "Joe,

send off a burst encoded transmission to the command ship. Tell them about the second

Flag, tell them..."

"I can't," Joe said, his tone apologetic this time, "long range coms are being jammed.

Multiple localised sources, it just sprang up then. I..."

"Look, the enemy fleet..." somone else threw in over the chatter. Fisher looked. Over the

now real time streamed visuals on the monitor, he saw the two flags break formation,

adjusting for better firing solutions on the missiles now tearing down their throats. Then the

space ahead of the fleet lit up like a Christmas tree, with tracer rounds of multiple weapon

systems all pouring fire into the vector of the approaching missiles. Fisher knew with the

extra firepower of another flag the missiles had less than a twenty percent chance of

reaching their targets, and...

"Oh frak," Fisher said again, as he noticed three far smaller ships, out ahead of the flags, for

the first time. They must have been stealthed, because they were near invisible until they

opened up. A hail of weapons fire from them formed a sort of curtain in front of the MT

command ship, and as the OA torpedoes reached the artificial barrier, nearly eighty percent

of them blossomed into flowers of light, evaporating into space as their reactive mass was

hurriedly spent. As the remaining torps travelled on, they were picked out of space, one by

one, by amazingly accurate point defence fire.

Fisher slumped in his pilot's chair as the last torpedo disappeared off the short range track,

a mere hundred metres from the prow of the MT flag. His chance to do good, and be

noticed by his higher ups gone... and yet...

"All pilots in Fisherman flight, scatter. Preferably away from the trailing enemy fighters AND

the enemy fleet. They are jamming our long range coms somehow, and one of us has to get

outside the jamming range to tell the Galetaea about the second flag. Joe, I'll wing you as

you're our best chance of punching through their jamming. COMMAND HAVE GOT TO BE

WARNED!"

Fisherman flight scattered as the MT aerospace fighters opened up on them from extreme

range.

Minnesota Tribe fighter wing Plunderer, returning to combat zone near MT Fleet, The

Stepps System, Outworlds Alliance.

12th February 3070

Omega minus nine minutes, ten seconds

Cheers had overrun the coms as the long range visual enhancement cameras of the savaged

fighter wing Plunderer had shown the pilots the destruction of the OA missiles. And then

they were in weapons range.

"Just look at 'em scatter," Stimpson said, from the cockpit of the lead Turk Omni. Fire from

the flight group reached out, and two of the scattering OA planes exploded in plumes of

nuclear fire.

'It seems what we lack in serviceable fighters we make up for in enthusiasm,' Mac thought

wryly, lining up on the trailing wingman of two OA birds that were fleeing together. PPC fire

lanced out, catching the Ensensturm a glancing blow. It slowed slightly, trailing gas and

debris from a hole in the starboard wing.

"MT Nest to Plunderer flight, MT Nest to Plunderer flight, come in," a tinny voice came over

the flight coms.

"Go for Plunderer flight," Mac replied, his voice strained as he tried to keep to his target.

"MT Nest to Plunderer flight, your orders are to cripple or destroy all birds in OA fighter

group. Repeat cripple or destroy all enemy birds ASAP."

"What's the hurry, command?" Stimpson asked, his tone jocular as he lined up on his next

target. "They've spent their heavy munitions to no effect, and there is little harm they can

do to the fleet..."

"Plunderer flight," the voice over the coms was flinty-edged, "be aware that if any of the

enemy units escape long-range coms jamming and report back to their command, the

Defensive OA Fleet attack could very well be a scrub. We can't afford this to happen.

Command is relying on you to do your job as quickly and effectively as possible. MT Nest

out." Mac stared in the direction of the Flagship for a long second.

"Typical," he said into the coms as he lined up his wildly jinking target as his PPCs recycled.

"It all hangs in the balance and we have to bring down eight..." another OA fighter

blossomed with nuclear annihilation off to Mac's right, "...no seven, fresh birds with our

depleted ballistics and damaged ships. I'll be pushing for extra pay for all of us if we pull this

off, see if I don't!"

Another cheer went up across the flight coms as the weary pilots of Plunderer flight got

about their grim business.

Bridge, MTS Insanity, MT/TD fleet approaching The Stepps, Outworlds Alliance.

12th February 3070

Omega minus eight minutes thirty-two seconds

The tension had been almost palpable on the Insanity's bridge as the fleet fought off the

attack by the OA bomber group. Nailor had returned to the bridge when the proximity

warning had gone off throughout the MT flagship, and he now stood beside KB deVega,

watching - seemingly nonplussed - the battle playing out between the allied and enemy

fighter wings. However, KB saw Nailor's white knuckles as he gripped the railing in front of

them both. KB had known his commander long enough to see these little slips in his

composure. deVega chuckled once to himself under his breath; he had no time for such

unnecessary social mores as composure.

"She-it," KB said, suddenly breaking the tense silence, "I nearly ducked as that last torpedo

came in on us. It was targeted right on our bridge."

"Yes," Nailor agreed, "it was particularly well aimed, just like the point-defence fire from the

Nodachi that splashed it before impact." KB nodded. "Still, it was a bit too close. I heard

debris from it bouncing off the hull!" KB chuckled aloud this time, although he hadn't felt

jovial when it had happened.

"Look," KB said, point to the battle space representation on the main screen, "OA are down

to five functional craft now, and we've only lost one more of ours." Nailor nodded. the MT

flight group had had the advantage of attack angle, they were taking full advantage of it.

"Oh no!" Nailor added, in mock disappointment, "two more of the enemy have drifted back

towards the fleet. One of those Talent Scouts of Ari's have splashed them in short order. We

really should get some of those."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," KB replied, "I understand you have to be at least half-

cyborg to pilot them. Takes a terrible toll on the pilot and the electronics." Nailor nodded,

sombre this time. "Only the Kagato-Armitage samurai family of House Jurai are crazy

enough to even attempt it." Nailor rubbed his chin in contemplation, still looking grim, his

gaze fixed on the final stages of the battle.

"Erp, and then there were two," KB said a moment later, as another symbol denoting an OA

Ensensturm flickered and died away.

"But it looks like those last two that have stuck together are getting close to the edge of the

jamming bubble set up by the Juraian drones," Nailor noted astutely, lines of worry creeping

onto his face.

"C'mon, Mac, don't fail us now," KB mumbled. Nailor silently prayed to whatever deities still

listened to the rambling prayers of men that Mac could get the job done.

Remnants of Outworlds Alliance bomber wing Fisherman, fleeing MT fleet near planet The

Stepps, Outworlds Alliance.

12th February 3070

Omega minus seven minutes fifty-one seconds

Fisher threw his plane all over space in a desperate attempt to avoid the increasing volume

of incoming fire, to protect McCarthy in the fighter just ahead of him, and to get away from

the Gods-damned jamming in time to get word to his fleet. Even damaged, as the MT birds

so obviously were, the enemy pilots were like death on two legs, come to claim him. It could

only be a matter of time.

"Joe, any luck?" Fisher queried through gritted teeth. 'Tell me you've got signal, please!'

Fisher thought desperately to himself.

"No, still blocked," the despondent voice of McCarthy replied, "we just can't quite seem to...

wait..." Fisher perked up and Joe's change in tone. "jamming is diminishing. We must be

outpacing the enemy emitters. If only we could disrupt the chase for a few seconds..."

And then the answer hit Fisher like the large laser fire that raked his port wingtip. Without

stopping to consider, he set the proximity fuse on his last "Son of Barracuda" torpedo,

disabled the drive system, and punched the release switch.

The freefall torpedo tumbled, end-over-end, back towards the perusing forces, and

detonated with a blinding flash at the absolute minimum safe distance behind the OA craft.

The shockwave caught up with Fisher, and tossed his bird around like a leaf on the wind,

nearly shaking him into the path of three PPC blasts that he'd just jinked to avoid. As the

flash dissipated behind them, Fisher realised that the chasing fire was greatly diminished.

Even if it hadn't killed all their pursuers, it would have blinded them for a time. Free of some

of its previous weight, Fisher's Ensensturm put on a burst of speed, starting to catch up to

McCarthy's plane.

"How about now?" Fisher asked, still clinging to a glimmer of hope. "Can you get tracer

signal now?"

"YES! Oh yes!" McCarthy cried, almost rapturous in his relief. "I've got sporadic contact.

Patching you through to the Galetaea." Fisher cleared his throat.

"Fisherman flight to Galetaea, come in," Fisher rattled off, then hurried on before receiving

a reply. "The MT flagship is not alone, I repeat, the MT flagship is not alone. There is a

second flag with the fleet. Both flags are undamaged! Recommend you retreat to the

protection of the defence grid immediately!" Fisher breathed out in relief.

Then he drew his last ever breath...

"Did it get through, Joe? Tell me it got..." Fisher never finished his sentence. Five particle

beams turned his figher into swiss, and it exploded around him milliseconds later.

In the barest of moments, before Joe McCarthy had time to mourn the death his close

friend, he too was converted into so much space dust.

to be continued...

Post 20

“ …The object of war is not to die for your country, but to make the other bastard die for

his…”

George S. Patton (1885 – 1945)

Bridge, Outworlds Alliance Corvette Galetaea,[i] approaching the MT fleet, [i]The Stepps

System.

12th February 3070

Omega minus six minutes, four seconds

Commodore Dimetri Garret of the OA System Defence Force, The Stepps Contingent, sitting

belted into his command chair on the bridge of the Corvette OAS Galetaea, was worried.

The fact that the ships under his command had been moving out-system, away from the

assistance of the planetary defence network, had not been his choice; he'd been ordered

out to intercept the enemy fleet by a higher - and possibly ill informed - authority. Garret's

mood had been buoyed by early reports of the MT interceptor force being routed by his

own fighter groups, and had almost changed his mind about the enforced strategy when

reports had said things were going well.

But that was then, and as Garret sat contemplating OA's possible misfortune, things were

considerably different. Something... had happened while the fighter battle was playing out;

the tide seemed to have turned against his forces, and then they'd lost contact with the

fighter group all together. As usual with space combat, sensors and coms were jammed and

counter jammed, and the tracking of targets, especially small targets, became less than

accurate. But to lose a whole flight group altogether, with no idea of what may have

happened to them... well it was unusual, and it filled Dimetri with even more unease.

And then the unease had bubbled over into worry.

The last report he'd had from bomber wing Fisherman had informed him that they were on

course and on target, about to deliver their full payload to the MT flag. Garret had been

pleased about that, but their last report and last sensor echo was a good ten minutes ago.

Had they been successful... was the MT flag splashed? Damaged? Were his bomber crews

fighting for their lives with surprise forces that MT had, for some reason, kept in reserve

from the initial fighter engagement?

Garret sighed. He should have sent the reserve fighters with the Ensensturms, with strict

orders to fly cap for them. But he had kept them with the fleet. He considered them a

necessary part of the fleet's point defence, and if MT did have some sort of secret weapon

with them that gave them the balls to approach his seemingly superior force now...

"Commodore," a communications tech said, "contact from Fisherman wing."

"Put it on speaker," Garret demanded, straining against his harness in a futile attempt to get

to his feet - not a good idea on a zero-g bridge.

At first all Garret could make out was the crackle and hiss of jamming, but then, as he

strained his ears for all they were worth, he caught snippets of speech.

"Fisher... ...ight to Galetaea, co... ...in. The MT flagship is... ...I repeat, the MT flagshi...

...alone. There is a second... ...are... ...damaged. Recommend..." The transmission trailed off

into a sea of static.

"Aw crap," Garret said, his frustration bubbling over. "What the hell is that supposed to

mean?" There were shrugs from several of the crew members.

"Sir, if I may," Captain Wilson Pickett, Galetaea XO, offered in his usual superior tone.

Handpicked by the Alliance Council, and, Garrett suspected, their informant no less, the

Commodore had to be ever on his guard around Pickett. Garret could do naught but nod;

the captain would continue regardless, feeling secure with his political connections. "It

seems to me from that message, as incomplete as it may be, that the MT flagship is either

disabled or destroyed, and the second largest ship, the MTS Cordova if I'm not mistaken, is

damaged. I conclude that Fisher is suggesting we move at best speed to pick off the

remaining ships before they scatter and return to the Nadir. This will be a great victory for

the Alliance!" Garret sighed. The man surely had a paid up subscription to his own bullsh*t.

"I would be inclined to disagree, Captain," Garret spat the rank a Pickett, as he knew the

man neither had the wit nor combat experience to have eared the honorific. Without

further consideration of his minder, Garret turned to his coms station. "Lieutenant Swindon,

run that message through every filter you've got, and get me something, anything to make

that message clearer."

"Yessir," Swindon snapped off as he set to work. The Commodore then turned to his sensor

tech.

"Martinez, push the gain as far as you can and get something, anything, on Fisherman

flight's IFF. I want to know if they are still in the battlespace, and if they are, where."

"Aye Sir," came back the sensor officer's baritone.

"Cooke," Garret addressed his operations officer next, "tell the fighter cap to fan out, in

pairs, and run sweeps around the fleet, looking for trouble. They are to report back anything

suspicious, immediately." Garret received the expected reply.

A few tense seconds ticked by, and an angry looking Pickett floated up next to the

Commodore's chair. Garret locked eyes with the man that had been pushing his luck for

months - ever since he settled in to the assignment. The Commodore hoped Pickett would

put one foot over the imaginary line that was labelled, 'too far.' He looked forward to that

moment with great anticipation.

"Commodore Garrett, with all due respect, what possible reason do you have to be so

fearful of this enemy. We've bested their like before and I..."

"Because I've lived this long by respecting my enemies, and the craft that we all practice,"

Garrett growled as he cut his supposed subordinate off. "Now get back in your seat, before

I..."

"Sirs," Swindon said, an edge to his voice that cut through the anger between the two

commissioned officers, who both turned to face him. "I've cleaned up the message, but

you're... you're not going to like it."

"Play it, NOW!" Garrett said, the blood beginning to drain from his face.

"Fisherman flight to Galetaea, co... ...in. The MT flagship is not alone, I repeat, the MT

flagshi... not alone. There is a second flag with... ...fleet. Both... ...are [i]undamaged.

Recommend..."[/i] The transmission trailed off into static once again.

There was stunned silence across the bridge for just a moment, then a message broke into

the ship coms on the OA emergency band.

"Flight Commander Johnston to Galetaea. Momentary sensor contact on the fleets port-

forward quarter. Small echo, possibly fighter class, continuing...." The message ended

abruptly, the static burst shut off by the coms system automatic level controls.

"We've lost Johnson's fighter off the track," Martinez stated.

"What about his wingman?" Pickett asked, before the Commodore could speak again.

"He appears to be..." Martinez began, as the wingman's battle marker on the plot winked

and disappeared. "...dead," the sensor officer concluded.

A moments silence hung heavily across the bridge, then the Commodore, knowing all the

lives in the fleet were depending on him, snapped into action.

"Helm, sixty-degree slide to true starboard, full thrust. Plot a parabolic course to take us

back to The Stepps orbit. Pass the navigation orders on to the other ships of the fleet, ASAP!

Operations, have all point defence batteries come to high alert, and load all missile tubes." A

number of 'Aye's' echoed round the bridge.

"Damn you, Garrett," Pickett growled, grasping his superiors arm to punctuate his

statement. "You are defying a direct order from your superiors."

"And you are defying mine," Garrett replied, his tone piercing, his eyes like flint. "Sergeant

of the Watch," he called out to the security guards stations near the hatch into the bridge,

"this man is to be taken to the brig, the charge 'disobeying a superior officer.' Get him off

my bridge."

As the protesting Pickett was hauled away down the zero-g corridor, Garrett studied the

plot again, and saw that two more of his fighter cap had vanished... and there was no sign as

to what had attacked them... yet. Discretion... better part of valour and all that. Time to get

out of here.

Juraian experimental combat core Crushing Victory, attacking Outworlds Alliance

Defensive Fleet near planet The Stepps, Outworlds Alliance.

12th February 3070

Omega minus five minutes, three seconds

Cyph watched as another of the near-oblivious OA fighters died under his guns. It was fairly

easy to stay undetected out here away from the capital ships, but if Crushing Victory moved

into the large vessels interlocking web of sensors, then his fighters would 'be made,' and

that would change the game considerably.

"Winglead, the OA fleet are preparing to change course," Nekekami's voice swam across

Cyph’s consciousness, sounding like it was coming to him underwater. Cyph checked the

track data, and sure enough the lead Corvette was swinging away and bring its main engines

up to full throttle. Moments later, the rest of the fleet started to move to match her.

"They must have deciphered more of that degraded message that came in from their

bombers," Tiny added, his mental tone darker, but with an edge of admiration. "I didn't

think they would be able to."

"We should never underestimate our enemy," Wolfsaber admonished them, in a quiet yet

firm way, as he piloted his fighter in behind two oblivious OA Stingrays, blasting them apart

with two short and highly accurate bursts of plasma shuriken. If the others could have

glared at him across the battlenet, they would have.

"Regardless," Cyph said forcefully, trying to keep the discussion - if a mental link could be

regarded as such - on track, while lining up another target. "We need to ascertain if this puts

a crimp in our plans."

"With four minutes, fifty-seven seconds to Omega detonation, and the OA fleet putting on

at least a flank speed parabolic turn, they will have an approximately fifty-eight percent

chance of being at least partially outside the radius of the Omega effect at zero hour,"

Nekekami responded. "Even higher if they risk a full-military-power turn."

"Damn," Cyph said, not liking the odds as he opened fire on fresh targets. "And how badly

will this reduce the chances of the MT/TD fleet breaking through the defensive line and

reaching orbit with the bulk of their terrestrial attack forces in tact?"

"Hardly noticeable," Neke replied quickly, as if he knew that would be the next question,

and perhaps he did. "However there is another, possibly far more important flow-on effect

to this change."

"That being... what exactly?" Tiny asked, as he banked through a pair of Mantas, blasting the

wing off one, which caused it to uncontrollably roll into the other. Cyph mentally sighed -

now Tiny was just showing off.

"We will no longer have a proper test of the device," Neke said, as if it was blindingly

obvious, "and it is unlikely that we will have the time, finances or raw materials to make

another for some years." If the four Ozorans could have nodded in agreement across their

synthlink, they would have.

"Then we must attempt to change the quarries' mind, and intended direction of travel,"

Cyph said. "This will, of course, greatly increase the danger to ourselves, and our craft, and

could quite possibly result in damage, or death." There was a short pause, and then the

three other pilots intoned "Acceptable" across the mental bridge, one after another. It was

simple; without a proper test, all their years of work would be wasted.

"It is decided then," Cyph stated, stealing his resolve. "Prime your remaining missiles, and

follow this attack order." Cyph instantaneously passed his plan on to his fellow pilots.

Bridge, Outworlds Alliance Corvette Galetaea,[i] retreating back to orbit of [i]The Stepps.

12th February 3070

Omega minus four minutes, forty-five seconds

"Order the fighters back inboard!" Commodore Garrett demanded of his coms officer. "It's

blindingly obvious that they are outmatched by whatever sort of stealth units the enemy are

employing. We might as well keep them out of harm’s way than to lose them for no return."

"Aye, Sir," Swindon said, relaying that message to the remaining allied birds.

"Helm, what's the condition of our turn?" Garrett asked next.

"Attitude thrust at ninety percent optimal," Amanda Stent, the Galetaea's helmsman,

replied. "The main engines will be at ninety-five percent of full military thrust in eight

seconds. To go higher would risk damage to the superstructure of the ship."

"Very well," the Commodore said, easing back into his chair as he felt the situation was

coming more under his control again. "Tracking, what are those bandits..."

"Fleet sensor net has isolated four targets, fighter class!" Martinez called abruptly, speaking

over the Commodore in his excitement. "They are closing in on the fleet from the upper rear

port quarter."

"Are the point defence grids engaging them?" Garrett queried, leaning forward against the

restraints again to study the four bogey signatures that had just appeared on the plot.

"Yessir," Cooke said, his face betraying some concern, "but tracking is having a hell of a time

getting clean locks." A few seconds passed. "And now the enemy targets are skirting close to

the corvettes Viron, Audacity, Echelon, and..." he paused for a moment and looked up at

Garrett, "us, Sir."

Members of the bridge crew glanced around as if they might spot the lone aerospace fighter

coming in on them. They heard the staccato rumble of the point defence cannons tracking

the bogey, and the whooshes of anti-fighter missiles launching, but the display showed the

shimmering target still closing in on them fast. The symbol for the Galatea and the bogey

merged for a brief second, before a deep, resounding boom echoed through the ship. When

it had passed, the rumble of the drives that had dominated the background of the bridge

hubbub, since the adjust course order had been issued, quickly died away.

"REPORT!" Garrett shouted, his face a mask of anger.

"The... the bogey was unaffected by both our point defence and missile fire, Sir," Cooke

said, staring at his screen as if what he was seeing couldn't be right. "It completed an attack

run down our fuselage, and hit us with one salvo of some sort of missiles that the computers

didn't recognise."

"Damage?" the Commodore asked, fairly certain that one aerospace fighter, even some

crazy advanced prototype like these things had to be, couldn't have done that much damage

in just one pass.

"Significant, but isolated to one system," Cooke said, in a tone that suggested even he didn't

believe what he was saying. "The main and backup drive control matrices have been

rendered inoperable."

"So you're saying that one small fighter, with just one salvo of fancy missiles, has taken out

our drive control capability?" Garrett asked, incredulity etched in every line of his face.

"Not just us, Sir," Martinez chimed in, then suddenly wished he hadn't as the Commodore

turned his angry glare on the coms officer. "Uh, the Viron, Audacity, and, ah... the Echelon...

well they all report similar damage to their drive controls."

Garrett let loose a broadside of vulgarity, the likes of which would make an ensigns hair curl.

He knew that all the Corvettes in his flotilla were of the same design, and he also knew that

when their drive matrices went offline the engines shut down, to prevent any random

manoeuvring that might cause a collision. Effectively, his four biggest ships were now

unguided ballistics; unable to continue to turn, change velocity, or escape.

"Cooke, get repair crews on a bypass to that system, yesterday," Garrett demanded.

"Already started, Sir," Cook said, keeping his reply to the bare minimum.

The Commodore glared at the main plot through eyes hazed with red. He couldn't believe

he'd been crippled so quickly and so completely... then he noticed that although three of

the enemy targets had streaked away from the fleet and vanished off the track, one

remained, seeming to drift along ahead of the fleet.

"What happened to that bogey, Lieutenant Martinez," Garrett asked, his curiosity getting

the better of him while he could do nothing but wait.

"According to the Audacity's fire reports, that bogey took several rounds from the point

defence while on its escape vector," Martinez replied, glad to be able to finally impart some

good news. "Scans suggest it wasn't destroyed, only disabled, however it's outside our

weapons range at the present time." Martinez paused a moment. "Ah Sir, the undamaged

ships are asking what they should do; follow along with the Corvettes or continue on the

parabolic turn?"

Garrett ran his hand through his hair, which was becoming quite unruly due to repetition of

the nervous action.

"Tell the smaller ships to stay with us; they'll only get picked off if they go out on their own.

Tell the Hornet and [/i]Minnow[/i] to move up and attempt a grapple of that bogey. I think

we just might get out of this by the skin of our collective teeth if we could bring home that

bird to examine."

"Passing the orders on now, Sir"

Moments later, Garrett watched the two patrol class vessels move forward to obey.

Juraian experimental combat core Crushing Victory, near Outworlds Alliance Defensive

Fleet of planet The Stepps, Outworlds Alliance.

12th February 3070

Omega minus two minutes, nineteen seconds

Cyph swung his Swordfish Aerospace Fighter around and headed back towards where

Nekekami's damaged plane drifted. Despite the fact that the prototype could take hits that

would destroyed a standard plane, it had still suffered enough damage to render it

inoperative. Through the still functioning battlenet, however, Cyph could tell Neke was

unhurt.

"Swordfish designation Nekekami: system functionality at thirty-two percent," the

aerospace fighter told them.

"You'd better eject," Tiny said, "we'll come pick you up."

"No can do," Neke said, his tone resigned, "the ejection system is one of the sixty-eight

percent that isn't working."

“And we will soon have company,” Wolfsaber noted, as their shared sensor net resolved

two OA patrol-class vessels coming up from the fleet towards them. “No doubt they want to

capture an example of the fighters that disabled four of their corvettes in one pass.”

"Damn," thought Cyph, running through the options in a more private part of his head.

"Swordfish School, arrange yourselves around Neke's fighter, triangle formation, and

activate graviton beams. We'll tow him outa here, and away from the enemy." After a pause

while the ships closed to dock, "make it quick. Those enemy ships are closing fast."

"Winglead," Neke said, as the other Swordfish latched onto his craft with focused gravity,

and began to take his stricken fighter away under tow, "we have more problems that those

patrol craft." His voice turned cold and clinical. "Omega zero hour is in one minute, forty

seconds by my estimation. With us moving at maximal towing velocity for the remaining

time, I calculate that we will not have reached minimum safe distance when the device

detonates."

There was a long silence over the mental link.

"I... knew that, Neke," Cyph admitted.

"What?" Wolfsaber said, his anger rippling across the lake of their shared consciousness.

"You knew we won't make it out of the blast radius, and yet you order us to drag the

crippled craft to our deaths?"

"I thought..." Cyph began.

"No, you didn't think," Wolfsaber cut him off, his tone undercut with a low growl in their

minds. "You'd kill us all to try to save one." It was a statement, not a question. "You'd throw

away our combined research and tactical value, decimate Ozora's finest and deny an already

depleted Jurai of three of its best?" Wolfsaber snorted. "That's madness."

"Maybe the device is off course enough relative to the fleet that we won't get hit?" Tiny

proposed, hopefully. They all knew the weapon had been building to detonation for hours -

there was no chance of deactivating it.

"No," Wolfsaber growled, then his tone mellowed a touch, "we did too good a job arresting

the course change of the fleet. If we stay, we'll all be hit."

"It'll be okay, won't it?" Neke asked, his tone probing. "I mean, these fighters are plenty

tough; surely they can take the outer edge of an explosion."

"He doesn't know, does he," Tiny chimed in, again statement, not question.

"Know what?" Neke asked.

"No, he doesn't," Cyph said, his mental voice sounding apologetic. "Neke... the Omega

device isn't a regular explosive."

"Well I figured that," Neke said. "But it's not a singularity device either. Has the wrong

energy signature."

"No," Wolfsaber said, almost sounding proud, "Cyph and I designed it to be so much more

than that."

"Thing is," Cyph went on, "it uses math that even we have problems fathoming, and it has

possible outcomes that... we can't really even begin to guess at."

"So what your saying is, being caught in the blast radius is, in all likelihood, a death

sentence, regardless of distance from space zero or protection," Neke surmised, again a

statement.

"Yes," the other three replied in unison.

"Right," Neke said, his tone hardening, "well you'd better get out of here then. You have

forty-five seconds to get clear. Go. Go now."

"I'm sorry," Cyph said as the towing fighters deactivated their graviton beams and boosted

away.

"Yeah," Neke sent after them though the synthlink, "so am I."

Omega minus forty seconds

“That’s odd,” Garrett noted, nodding towards the plot, “that damaged enemy fighter began

accelerating away from our closing patrol ships, but now it’s slowed again.”

“Perhaps it was being towed?” Stent suggested, and then a look of confusion overcame her

pretty features. “But if they were towing it – and we just couldn’t pick them up because they

were too far away and stealthed - why did they stop?”

“I... don’t know,” Garrett said, “unless... it wasn’t safe to be in the area anymore!” The

Commodore’s eyes went wide. “Martenez, call the patrol craft back, get them away from

that ship. Cooke, what’s the condition of our drive controls?”

“Almost patched, Sir,” Cooke replied, “the repair crews are doing a bang-up job down there.

Two more minutes, tops.”

“We might not have two minutes...” Garrett stated, swallowing hard.

Omega minus thirty seconds

The Swordfish engines howled as they were pushed far into the red. The aerospace fighters

shook and vibrated with the strain, and being linked into the planes themselves, the Ozoran

pilots were likewise affected.

“Is it... enough... thrust?” Wolfsaber asked, through the mental equivalent of clenched

teeth.

“It’ll... have to be,” Cyph replied, and mentally inched his fighter’s throttle a little further

into the red.

“There it goes,” Tiny said, indicating a vague sensor trace falling astern of them as they

raced against time.

“The Omega device, you mean?” Cyph asked, though he thought he already knew the

answer.

“No,” said Tiny, his mental tone frigid. “Death... or something worse.”

Omega minus twenty seconds

“So how long until your fancy bomb, or whatever it is, goes off?” KB asked the image of

Arizona on the main screen, from a position standing next to Nailor’s command chair on the

bridge of the Insanity.

“Oh, any time now,” Ari replied, looking distracted. Arizona could see on his personal plot

what had transpired between the Swordfish School and the OA fleet, and he didn’t like that

it appeared one of Ozora’s own was being left behind, and would be caught in the blast

radius at detonation. However, he could see why, and he knew enough about what Omega

might do that he could understand the reasoning. He didn’t want to lose all four of best

technically-minded Mechwarriors in Jurai to a weapons test. Still, it pained him to see the

stricken plane, and know one of their own had to be sacrificed.

“So what sort of result should we expect from your tidy new weapon, Arizona?” Nailor

asked, his interest piked.

“Nothing like you’ve ever seen,” Ari said, his gaze remaining fixed on his own plot. Nailor

and KB exchanged curious glances.

“But it will deal with the OA fleet so we can get finally get on with this damn PA, won’t it?”

KB asked gruffly.

“In all likelihood, more thoroughly than you can possibly imagine,” Arizona stated, his blood

running ice cold.

Omega minus ten seconds

Neke floated cross-legged in his cockpit, calming his mind with a meditative mantra. He had

decided that if he was going to die, he’d face his end calmly. He took a deep, shuddering

breath, and exhaled, knowing that there could only be mere seconds left before Omega

hour. Then he realised with a start that he was still hooked into the battlenet, and that the

other Swordfish were not going to be far enough away from his damaged craft, for his node

to be disbanded from the network, before the bomb went off.

“Ozorans of Swordfish School, disengage me from the battlenet, hurry!” Neke called out to

them across the stretched but still active link. He could tell they were startled by the

realisation that they two had failed to disconnect him, and that each were mentally racing

to enact his demand.

Neke, waited... seconds ticked by...

“It won’t disengage,” Wolfsaber cried, anguish blurring his mental speech, were stuck

together until the distance breaks the connection.

Tiny swore.

“I know what I must do,” Neke said, drawing a dagger from his flight boot, “goodbye, my

brothers.” With that, he plunged the dagger between his ribs, and into his rapidly-beating

heart.

As the dagger struck home, Omega was born in fury.

to be continued...

[/rpOFF] I don't normally borrow other's art to illustrate what's going on in my stories. I

prefer to let my words and your imaginations do that. But when I saw this - Sacrifices

wallpaper by darulian - over at deviantart, I just couldn't resist. This IS the Omega device

detonation. He must have read my mind!

Find darulian's work here.

Also, these next two will be the last posts of the Space Battle, and the last posts of Book 1 -

Starfall. Look forward to the PA story, in Book 2 - Ground War, coming 'real soon now.™'

[/rpON]

Post 21

“ …It is done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the Beginning and the End…”

Revelations 21:6, Christian Bible

The dark seed, pill-shaped, and large compared to man, but so very very small when put in

context with the grand scheme of things, travelled on, thrust-less, through the inky velum of

space. Set in motion forty-five minutes previously, and building toward detonation for the

last thirty, The Package - Omega - a device that had taken five hundred combined man-years

of effort to produce, and far more to conceptualise before that, could not be seen, could not

be found, and definitely could not be stopped.

The OA fleet was very nearly oblivious; just one man sensed that they were all in grave

danger, but he didn't know why, or from what. There was no way Commodore Garrett could

know. No device like this had ever been activated before, and, if any and all sentient

creatures that were to come after that time had any sense, would never be again. No,

Garrett sensed danger folding its black, leathery wings about him and his fleet, but he could

do nothing, prevent... nothing. It was all pre-ordained. He and his ships were the guinea pigs

for the biggest mistake mankind might ever make.

Omega, it's energies grown to an obscene level, matching small suns in photonic potential,

began to unfold. Panels swept back, enclosed equipment extended, and in less than ten

seconds it locked into position, ready to fire; not outward, as any normal weapon should,

but inwards, at the very fabric of time-space itself.

Relying on math extrapolated from theories postulated in the early second millennium,

Omega was designed to reach down into the quantum fabric of reality, tear through the

bonds that held our universe together, and allow the contents - whatever they might be - of

a very specific divergent dimension access to our universe, if only in a limited area, and for a

limited time. That was the plan, at least; it had never been tested. It never should have

been.

Juraian scientists, some one-hundred and ten years previously, had discovered that the

main energy signature of this particular dimension was completely at odds to the energy

signature of biological structures...

Energy waves rippled out from the multiple generator cores of the Omega device - enough

energy to power the IS for an entire week. These were deflected by high concentrations of

gravity waves forming a bubble around the device, and funnelled back, down and into

compression coils made of substances almost unknown to IS or Clan worlds, to be focused

on a point so small, it was to an individual atom what a person is to the entire galaxy.

At Omega hour, reality resisted the impossible breach. The Omega device pushed harder...

by exploding.

That sudden release of energy, pushed into the miniscule weakness, tore reality asunder. A

gap formed, between what we know and a dimension so unlike ours that it made dark

matter look as mundane as silly putty. This utter alienness sensed the breach, and rushed

through it, eager to find, envelop and destroy.

Through the flash of the Omega devices' demise, tendrils and ribbons, both gargantuan and

miniscule, of or rippling, wiggling, whipping, squirming, purple... stuff... rushed into our

universe. It seemed to grope around the area of space in which it found itself, searching,

grasping, desiring... and then it found the OA defensive fleet, The Stepps Contingent.

Supper, placed right on its doorstep.

Cthulthu mythos of old Earth spoke of Elder Gods, trapped in the outer darkness, biding

their time until they could return to wreak destruction and madness on all living things.

Perhaps this is what H. P. Lovecraft was referring to.

The ribbons and tendrils of wrongness reached out to the ships, some grasping them, some,

less interested in the intricacies of the physical laws of this universe, dived straight though

the outer shells of what amounted to big tin cans, and got at the gooey centres within.

Crewman working frantically on the drive control systems of the four damaged corvettes

were enveloped by tentacles that shouldn't exist. They screamed and struggled as the very

fabric of their beings was obliterated in showers of light and gore. Likewise the gunnery

crews, kitchen hands, com tech personnel and every other living thing aboard, including the

ships mascots, be they cat, bird, or ferret, were erased from reality.

For the bridge crews, it was worse. They saw Omega open the doorway to hell. They saw

what came out, reaching, searching for them. They were driven mad, and then consumed,

torn apart and all the while knowing it.

They were gone in less than twelve seconds. The fleet of ships were stripped clean of any

and all biological material. Then the thing, having gorged itself and wanting more, felt the

tug of the hole it still hung through start to close. It whipped and struggled madly, having it's

'hand' in the cookie jar, and not wanting to let go. However, just like the poor souls aboard

the ships didn't have a choice in their fate, neither did the thing. It was dragged resolutely

back towards its own domain, flicking and quivering, and just as it was about to be sealed

back in, it spotted one last, delicate morsel just within reach.

A small black fighter, damaged, with one life sign aboard. A life sign that was rapidly fading.

No matter, this biological stuff tasted just as good dead as living.

With a last flick of an obscene, purple tentacle, it snatched Ozora Nekekami from his fighter

and disappeared back to the hellhole from whence it came.

The OA fleet flew on...

to be continued...

Post 22

“ …Knowing a great deal is not the same as being smart; intelligence is not information

alone but also judgment, the manner in which information is collected and used…”

Dr Karl Sagan, 1934 - 2024

Great Library research room, Monastery of Truth, Galloway Cliffs, planet Ingress,

Dominion of Blake.

17th June 3877

The Monastery of truth was a strange, eclectic mix of natural and low-tech materials, and

technology so advanced that those not fluent with it might consider it magic. Braziers

flickered along the walls, guttering and going out when the light of morning streamed

through the high, arched, stain-glass windows, and miraculously flaring to life again at the

onset of night. As one would expect of such a wondrous place, they never needed cleaning,

nor the addition of any form of fuel. Likewise, the candelabra of differing size and

complexity that adorned the long, wooden tables running along under the windows,

required no new tallow or wax to feed their flames, and produced natural, even, balanced

light that could not have been bested by the latest in photonic generation.

Randomly dispersed along the bench-tables in this room on this night, in front of piles of

velum-covered books, ranging from pocket sized to massive, sat monastic acolytes in their

scholarly robes, seemingly simple vestments of coarse, light-brown material. Some wore

their cowls up, perhaps feeling it better to concentrate this way. Others had the hoods of

their robes down, enjoying the slight breeze that played through the Great Library of an

evening, blowing in off the Emerald Sea, below the Galloway Cliffs on which the Monastery

stood.

One particular acolyte, with a particularly large pile of books on his section of the bench-

table, was so engrossed in what he was reading that the failed to notice the Acolyte

Precentor of the Monastery of Truth himself shuffle up and standing next to the studying lad

until the man had cleared his throat - a second time. The acolyte was greatly surprised by

the interruption to his studies, and even more so when he glanced up and saw exactly who

was doing the interrupting, that he jumped, and nearly lost his grip on the book that he had

been pouring over. The volume in question was launched into the air, and the acolyte

grasped in vein at it, attempting to regain his hold on the holy text. But it was the Percentor

who snatched the book out of the air one handed, by the spine, which effectively closed the

book with a snap. He then deposited it gently on the bench, to join the multitude of others

haphazardly piled there.

The acolyte, his face reddening, bowed his head to try to hide his shame, and clasped his left

fist in his right hand, in the accepted sign of respect for the head of the acolyte training

cadre at the Monastery of Truth.

"Korvan Nathal," the Precentor began, his tone party admonishing, partly amused, "it is

good to see you so swept up in your studies, however it would hold you in good stead to be

more aware of your surroundings. If I had been an assassin, I could have killed you five times

over."

"Yes, Precentor Halatha," Krovan intoned, bowing his head respectfully and proffering the

hand in fist sign again. "I was just so engrossed in the topic of my End of Phase project that I

did not notice your approach. It will not happen again." Acolyte Precentor Ishuan Halatha

did not doubt that the lad would do his level best to uphold that oath, however, Ishuan

knew that the boy was far more comfortable in the past, his nose buried in the histories of

the IS from eight hundred years in the past, than he ever would be in the present. The boy

was sharp however, very sharp. He'd make a fine researcher by the time he finished his

training.

"And how is your project progressing?" Halatha asked, his voice taking on a more congenial

air. "'Social and Historical Factors Influencing Periphery Governments'

Alliances in the 3070's' wasn't it?" Korvan swallowed, his eyes going wide. He had no idea

that the Precentor of Acolytes had taken enough interest in him to know his chosen area of

study for his project, and was rather taken aback by this sudden interest. What he didn't

know was that the Percentor had a cranial implant, one of the features of which was a direct

link to the Monestery mainframe, and he had accessed Nathal's file the moment he had

chosen to interrupt the lad.

"Uh... yes, with a case study on the military and social alliance between the Minnesota Tribe

and the ruling power of the Tortuga Dominions - the House Jurai, in early 3070," Korvan

added by way of clarification. The Precentor of Acolytes nodded. "There is so much

information to be found on the subject, I just had to pursue it!" Korvan continued, his

enthusiasm bubbling to the surface and his previous error forgotten.

"Ah yes," Halatha agreed, "both the Minnesota Tribe and the House Jurai of the day were

excellent record keepers. Makes our job all the more pleasurable." The Precentor graced his

charge with one of the older man's rare smiles. Despite his sometimes gruff exterior, Ishuan

did harbour a deep love for the lessons of history.

"Indeed," Krovan said, the shared interest easing his nerves around such an esteemed

individual of his Order. "I've been particularly interested in the records surrounding the use

of what was called 'The Omega Device,' on a defensive fleet of the Outworlds Alliance, by

the newly formed MT/TD alliance, during a combined attack on the planet The Stepps in

February 3070."

"Ah yes," Halatha said, slipping his robe around the end of the bench seat and sitting down

next to the surprised acolyte. "Quite a few acolytes have found that little fragment of

history interesting over the years. So tell me, what reports from that incident interest you

the most?" It was like a ghost story, the reports of that incident. Again and again, an acolyte

would stumble upon the information and become enamoured with it. Halatha didn't mind.

What they took from it told him a lot about each acolyte that went down that road.

Krovan smiled at the interest taken in his work, and happily pulled his personal notes

volume across in front of him. Unlike the books of hundreds of years previously, all the

books in the Great Library of the Monastery of Truth had only two pages; those on the

reverse sides of their covers. No true information was recorded manually in said tomes, but

rather all text and images were held in the Library datastore, with wireless, instant access to

the contents of the books whenever they were opened, and access to any page out of

possibly millions at a flick of a finger, or the selection of ranges running across the bottom of

the pages. Other, more sensible methods of access could have been instituted, but the

leadership of the monastery just couldn't let go of the idea that a library was a room that

should be full of books.

Opening his personal notebook, Korvan ran his fingers expertly over the control surfaces of

the seeming parchment-like double page within the cover. Finding his place, he activated

the page display function, and the worlds filtered down the pages, filling both sides in

seconds as if a magic hand had written them.

"This first noteform that I selected is a conversation between Tai-shu Tokomi Arizona, the

then supreme commander of Juraian forces - what there was left after the disaster at star

1343-442, known as Mimic at the time - and the search and rescue crews specifically sent

out from the Nodachi - the Juraian Flag in system - to recover the experimental fighters -

codenamed Kei Swordfish - after contact with them was lost," Korvan rambled, his fingers

dashing round the controls of his notebook, bringing the referred to passage onto the

pages. It was lucky that Halatha had some prior knowledge of these events, or he might not

have followed the younger mans train of thought.

"The transcription itself isn't that enlightening when viewed in isolation, however it is

interesting to note several key factors," Korvan began to lecture, settling into the telling. "Of

the Ozora Samurai of the House Jurai that had piloted the original four prototype fighters on

the attack mission, only three were recovered, and they were unconscious when found.

Apparently their experimental shared-consciousness battlenet had failed to disengage the

pilot that had to be left behind, and the other three pilots suffered severe neural feedback

through the link when the unfortunate pilot, Ozora Nekekami, attempted to commit sepeku

before he was taken by the effect generated from the Omega Device." Korvan studied his

superior after the end of this statement, watching to see if the man corrected him about the

actual source of what had been dubbed 'The Omega Effect.' The elder man either didn't

know the full details of what the device actually did, or he didn't feel the need to correct

Korvan at this juncture. Either way, Korvan found this interesting. "Those pilots and planes

were sent back to the Dominions on the Nodachi when it returned home for final repairs

and resupply, and attached medical notes for each Ozoran suggest that they suffered post

traumatic stress and terrifying nightmares for several years afterward once they had been

discharged from immediate medical care."

"Next item of interest is a conversation between Tai-shu Tokomi Arizona and Brigadier

General Nailor Grey of the Minnesota Tribe - acting CO of MT in system - about the safety of

sending search and rescue teams into the OA ships. It would seem Arizona was sure that the

ships were no longer hazardous, and he told the MT CO that the reason no contact could be

made with any of the ships was that they were deserted, and were now spoils of war - a gift

from HJ to MT. This please Nailor in the first instance, and it was only later, when he and his

XO Coronel Killer Bee deVega found out the full extent of what happened to the enemy

personnel, that they became concerned and agitated." The acolyte drew a deep breath, and

moved adjusted the pages of his book to a new entry.

"Here's where it gets really interesting," Korvan continued, his enthusiasm obvious. "A

report from the first Search & Rescue teams into the enemy ships. It notes a complete lack

of any biological material what-so-ever." Korvan's eyes went wide at this, even though he

was the one doing the telling. The Precentor nodded along, a faint smile playing round his

mouth. "No living thing, person, animal, bacteria, fungi or virus could be found on any of the

ships. Even the bacterial cultures in the carbon dioxide scrubbers was gone. And all natural

materials, leather, wood, and even food stuffs was gone. Hell even the contents of tinned

food cans were absent, without the tin itself having been opened. The crews found it very

creepy, and several personnel refused to go back into those ships." Korvan nervously rolled

his tongue around his teeth and swallowed, before moving on.

"Then we have a report addressed to the Tai-shu, on the recovery of the damaged Kai

Swordfish aerospace fighter. It likewise had no sign of life; everything removed down to the

biofilms that are normally left on controls handled by bare hands. A lone knife, with a

synthetic handle, was found floating in the ship. It seems Nekekami had a preference for

natural fibres, and they went with him, to wherever he went." Korvan looked uneasy again,

but the excitement was still there in his eyes.

"Then things got a little tense between the MT and TD leaderships when the full extent - and

creepiness - of the weapon became clearer. In a three way conversation between Arizona,

Nailor and Killer Bee, deVega got rather angry at the Tokomi leader for using such a

horrendous device, a Grey, always the diplomat, requested that Jurai not use said weapon

again during combined MT/TD operations. As the lack of TD pilots required MT support in

nearly all their major engagements for the next twenty years, Arizona's agreement to this

stipulation meant the device was not used again in that time, and by then, the whole project

had been shelved for being too expensive, dangerous and inhumane."

"So you understand what the weapon did?" Halatha asked now, catching the acolytes gaze

with his own.

"Yes, Precentor," Korvan said, reverence one more colouring his words, "it's all contained in

the Ozoran technical report to the Jurain Warlord Council in mid-3070. And I also found the

Continuality Accord of 3099, where all major governments signed a treaty outlawing

research into breaching the barriers between divergent dimensions. That would seem to

have put an end to any of that sort of research." Ishuan nodded, pleased himself that such

efforts had been stopped, hopefully permanently.

"Good good," Percentor Halatha said, preparing to rise. "So is that everything you've found

for your report?"

"Not quite," Korvan said, and the undercurrent in his voice made Halatha take his hands

from the top of the table and turn to face the lad again. "I found two reports; the first

suggesting that... well... best as I can describe it, there were ghost sightings aboard those

captured ships for years after the incident. On some of the vessels it was so intense and

frequent that the Minnesota Tribe sold off the ships to other allied governments, the black

market, or scrapped them." Halatha found himself nodding again, rubbing his chin

thoughtfully as he listened. "But the strangest thing was a final report - a medical report -

only a header. The subject of the report was one Ozora Nekekami, same spelling as the pilot

lost, in the damaged fighter, to the Omega Effect. The date for the report is after his

disappearance, late in the same year - 3070, but the file is empty... erased." It was Korvan's

turn to lock gazes with the Precentor. "What I don't understand is what happened to the

contents of the file. If the header is still intact, and seeing as how the order is dedicated to

the enlightenment of the truth, no matter what it may be, then how could there have been

a medical report about a man who's very atoms had been consumed by an energy field from

a divergent dimension?"

"Very... interesting questions, Korvan," the Precentor said, rising and stepping around the

end of the bench seat, to stand, hands clenched together and hidden in volumous sleeves,

facing the still sitting acolyte. "And ones we may never know the answers to. The content of

that file may have been wiped before we received it, or been corrupted at some point in the

centuries since it was written. We can only know the truth as far as it is passed down to us

from times past, young acolyte." At the intonement of this sacred verse, Korvan obediently

lowered his gaze, and uttered the reverent reply.

"Truth in all its forms."

"Well I must be off," the Precentor said, before Korvan had a chance to speak again. "Very

good work, Korvan Nathal, on your research for your End of Phase Project. I look forward to

reading the final report."

"Thank you, Precentor Halatha," Korvan said, caught by surprise by such high praise.

"Truth be with you, my son," the Precentor intoned, and then turned and walked away.

"And with you, father," Krovan replied after the Precentor's retreating form, but his gaze

narrowed. He couldn't quite shake the feeling that the Precentor of Acolytes of the Order of

the Truth of Blake was hiding something.

Precentor Halatha strode purposefully from the Great Library, and travelled by the most

direct route back to his cell. The monk stepped into his utilitarian quarters, shutting the

door firmly and striding to his desk. There he sat down, and drew out his own notebook -

one with far more features than that given to acolytes.

He opened it, first noting that he would have to keep an eye on one Korvan Nathal, and

that, if he could be trusted, he might be moved on to the advanced preparative stream for

military intelligence.

Then, after flagging the Nekekami medical report header to 'hidden' so that it wouldn't

come up again in research requests, he opened the restricted file and began to read...

[end of book one]