-Thunder Down-

They ride the lightning. Masters of beasts made of steel and iron. Enshrined in thrones of plastech and foam, the straps of their harnesses pull tightly against grey-brown flaksuits. The dim whine of the auxiliary engine plays against the hard hitting scratch-music squealing out over anguished internal speakers. They are no eye of calm in a storm, they are the storm itself surrounded by savage seas.

The driver exults in the cramped closed in confines of the cockpit. Penned in on all sides by screens, armored paneling, and flowing metal cables that socket into his helmet like a wire-fiend high on a line of purified Astryum. His teched-up brain-bucket bobs in time to the synthetic beat of the stuttering scratch as he drums cybernetic fingers off his twin-stick control rig, his boots tapping locked-out drive pedals. A slave to the rhythm of the rough pitched voice of the bombshell Valku singer as she belts out lyrics like her throat owed her cash and she was meaning to collect.

Behind him and above was the gunner, locked into his side seat and surrounded by 'The Big-Hurt.' Massive racks of jacketed 120mm hyper-velocity shells, ready to feed the hungry autoloader system of their war-machines main cannon. He leans back against the curving turret case with arms folded and bored. Like a giant atop a stool made for a man, a brute crammed into a tin can and expected to play nice. He jawed loudly on a ripped up piece of recyc-jerky, steel capped teeth chomping on the stimm-laced strip of reprocessed corpse-waste.

Behind the giant and to the right the Lt sits with all the cool authority of a digital god on his durex and plastech throne. Old-school TT-Screens crackling on standby blazed around his head in the command cupola like a florescent halo. He impassively flicks across dusty and worn analog keypads and watched as the scraped up screens cycled through view feeds reflected on the half-visor of his bucket.

Mounted below and behind the commander, in a claustrophobic workstation, but fully in his element, was the Tech. Surrounded by auxiliary controls and looking like an Aerospace fighter jockey in a full-face immersion helmet that was all wires and neurolink cables. Readouts and blister-feeds showed throbbing green wavelengths from the cold-cell fusion powerplant at the heart of the machine, sitting idle with impatient need.

Tankers, armored praetorian, cataphracts, they were all these things. They sat within their war machines on the drop-decks like black beasts of ill omen. Dangerous demons getting payed to do dangerous things. Machine god masters pumped full of fire and hate, piloting mad metal monstrosities on slick soundless repulser engines with vectored anti-grav plates and rock crushing wheels. Gunmetal grey cannons and jet black barrels, cold, idle, and impatient, exultant in the desire to lay hate at the flick of a cap and press of a button. They alone sat still as the drop-deck blazed with red and yellow lights and screamed with mind-bending sirens. The drop deck shudders, deck crew sprinting up and down, gun-trucks race past on greased wheels, but the beasts sit quietly. They hum, and wait.

Blurred static over the speakers, cutting out the last few clipped curses of the alien singer and her backup posse of scratch and synth. The driver curses, slapping the side paneling of his cockpit with a metal fist. “Fuckin' heechie, just when she was getting to the good part.”

“Lock it down,” The Lt replies, and flips his headset down to let the mic dangle just over his chin.

“Scope-god to Paugui-2 Actual, your drop vector is clear, LZ bombardment is complete, escort is on station, standby for drop order, over.”

“Paugui-2 Actual to Scope-god. Awaiting drop order. Over.”

More electronic voices, cutting into the freq.“I put ten on Jack blowing late again.”

“Fuck that, double on Ace.”

The gunner chimes in, massive slab arms finally moving to rest on padded knees as he leans forwards. The same stick of Recyc jerky grinding between steel capped teeth. “Queeny went thermal after her clamps pre-fired last time. I put stack on that bitch plowing dirt this time 'round.”

“I heard that. You better not come crying to me when the scrapers start walking on you.”

The gunner snorts, “Eat ass, Queen.”

The driver leans back and tips the visor of his helmet up, “Yo, Lt, can you make them shut the fuck up? Tryn'a get zoned down here, ”

“Leave me out of this Perr'.” The Lt answers, sliding his command screens around his throne in preparation for the drop. One of the screens went on the fritz, flickering out and going blank. Without so much as hesitating, the Lt slams his fist against several million chits of Duratech touch screen with a crack. The screen snaps back on like a chastened dog. He tilts the screen up, inspecting it for damage and rubs clean a smudge before sliding it back into position.

“Scope-god to Paugui-2 Actual drop clearance granted, prepare for drop, repeat, prepare for drop. Copy?”

“Copy that, we're standing by.” The Lt taps his coms. “Alright, we got green light for drop, buckle up!”

“Les' fuckin do this- lets pound some plate!” The gunner shouts, clapping gloved hands and drumming his fists on the steel and carbon side paneling like a wild beast in a tin-can cage.

“Settle down- Paugui-2 to Scope-god, give us the count. Over.”

“Roger that, Paugui-2, launching in T-Minus fifteen, fourteen, thirteen...”

The Lt clips in, pulling tight the slack on his harness, he sucks in a lungful of rank air that smelled of recycled sweat and ionized gasses. He checks his harness one more time and then tightens up his helmets chin strap. “Stations, report status. Perr,”

“Driver aye, strapped in.”

“Reese,”

“Gunner aye, strapped in.”

“Jiro,”

“Systems aye, strapped in.”

“Commander aye, strapped in. All stations say aye, Paugui 2-1 is aye.” The Lt announces, toggling a key on the side of his helmet, he swings a trio of the TT panels around to hang before him and lock in place.

“Alright people, here we go! Green to green across the board, Jiro, how we looking for power?”

“All systems read nominal, bringing the reactor up to combat output.”

“Perr?”

“Just finished checking the blow-bolts. Manual and auto both come back green, same goes for the secondaries and tertiaries.”

“You sure about that? You heard Reese talk mad smack 'bout Queen going thermal last drop, would be a real shame if that happened to us.”

“Checking them again, sir,”

“Reese?”

“Lt, you know me, guns are green and feed is running smooth, smooth as that Valks' tight little ass I banged last time I was on leave.”

“That was a bot and we all know it, Reese, don't matter how many times you say otherwise, we know that's all you could get.” Perr chimes in.

“You're just mad that all you can get with your wired up brain are simul dances, ain't no girl wanna get the pump-pump from a 'borg.”

“Honestly, and truly, eat my metal ass, Reese.”

“Cut the chatter. King to Lance, locked up and strapped in, all copy?”

“Queen copies aye. Strapped in. Rocker nominal.”

“Jack copies' aye, were rocking.”

“Ace copies aye, strapped in. Rocker nominal.”

“King copies all, strapped in, Rocker is go, all rockers go. Prepare for drop.”

“...three, two, one, launching, launching, launching. Good hunting, gents, see you on the other side.”

The locking clamps release, retaining bolts slide clear, the hiss of pressure seals releasing and the wailing, flashing bright of sirens and klaxons. The world falls away, the ceiling becoming the sky, the world below becomes a pinprick of looming light. Gravity loses its bid for power and all things become as weightless as a dream.

The Mothership fades away. The viewscreens track its rapidly shrinking form. An armored hulk of launch-ports and point-protection cannons, all surfaces painted in blue-on-grey style of the 44th Interior Guard Defense Fleet. It becomes a single point of reference amidst the sea of electronic noise as it fades away into a blur amongst the rest of the fleet. Transport cruisers and bulk carriers holding formation in geosynch' high defensive orbit around the target planet. Small clusters of light amidst the hateful black beyond painted with a million on a million staring eyes.

Further out, along the farthest outreaches of the debris field orbiting the planet, cataclysmic flashes could be mistaken as short-lived stars. Brief instances of brutal confrontation as the main fighting force of the 44th Fleet – Arrogance class battle cruisers and heavy Mauler class frigates – locked horns with the Custodian purifier swarms that were determined to hold this vital system in a stranglehold. Their unfeeling mechanical minds uncaring of losses, and unknowing of any other concept outside of blind obedience and scorching hate.

The flashes of light were minutes old. The fading passage of actions already committed and mistakes already made. The rupturing of a primary reactor, the firing of a capital grade weapon. Twinkles of light several hundred thousands of miles away, and only now reaching the optical lenses of a four-vehicle drop lance of orbital insertion tanks that were burning hard towards the ebony and sapphire dewdrop below that was a world under siege.

Inside the tank – a warbeast worth several billion stack - The Lt grips the arms of his seat, thinking about all the things that could go wrong. A look of constant consternation on his face as he dares the immortal spirit of the ancient space war-wizard Murphy to send him another crisis. Perr lets the rocking of the hull echo through him. He eyes a pinup holo on the side of his cockpit, the naked alien woman, a white furred arctic valku winked and smiled back at him with a come-hither look, playing her long tail between teasing fingers. “C'mon baby, hold together for us.” He whispered unheard. Reese looked for all the world like he's sleeping, head tucked forwards, hands clasped over his lap, while Jiro elates in silent enjoyment, terabytes of data scream through his brain as he guides their machine through the cold void. A ration wrapper drifts past his unseeing visor.

Micro-RCS jets slapped onto magnetized plates along the cylindrical outer hull of the beast fire and roar. Directed thrust and attitude control surfaces flaring to life in the void like brief flashes of shining crystal comets. The Lt marks the progress of their descent, one of his countless screens tracking their approach onto the black and blue-on-grey world below, their mothership shrinking behind them like the last sight of a baby bird falling from the nest, with nothing but the cold hard ground filled with hungry teeth to meet them below. He felt sorry for the ground. This baby bird didn't leave home without some serious hurt to throw around. He toggled several red inputs on another screen to green and kicked the back of Perr's chair with a steel capped boot.

“Driver, go to manual, releasing the lock on your link early. Don't want to wait for start-up lag while we take fire.”

“On it, boss.” Perr reaches up and flicks a row of switches, pinpoit lights along his consoles status readout flicking from amber yellow to pulsing steady green. He rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck as several needles affix themselves into the back of his skull through implant ports. He hisses in a sharp intake of familiar pain. He takes his controls, and is no longer the driver of the tank, he is the tank itself. “Link established.”

The Lt checks one of his screens and nods as his Driver takes the wheel, his Link to the tanks movement and propulsion systems online and reading steady. Eager and willing to take them where they need to go, like the wild-riders of the outskirt feral planets that hunted their game on the backs of vicious beasts.

“Lance, form up and sync to my vector. Perr, give me the entry plan.”

“Already on it, Lt, atmospherics are linked up with Grouse-Mother and we're online, entry-vector is-”

“Danger! Danger! Danger! Fast-movers coming in hot!” The radio squeals in the Lt's ear, he jerks his head back and claps his helmet.

“Vector!?” The Lt snarls.

“Oh-three-three high! Blackbirds coming in! Escorts on intercept!”

“How many-”

“What's happening?!”

“-Ace! How many bandits!”

“Shit,” Jiro pivots in his harness, his oddly shaped helmet whipping bundled cables behind him as he remotely controls the drop-tank's camera clusters. “I'm getting two wings, no return on IFF, shit- they're burning in fast!”

“We gonna make it?” Perr shouts from his seat up front.

“Keep it in check, we hit atmo' and we're home free!”

Reese says nothing, he pulls back a latch along the top of his cupola, and slides a feed tray into the opening. Next he drags a line of cruel grey belts interwoven with alloy jacketed bullets, and feeds them into the chamber “I'm arming the red-line, give me the word and we can go Buzz-saw.”

“Lost two escorts, no ejects, Grouse-Mother's vectoring in another flight- Shit!” Jiro reports

“What now!”

“Two squirters just blew past-”

“Queen to King, we're taking fire!”

“Jiro!” The Lt shouts. “Get Grouse-Mother to cover Queen! We're fucking open-targets!”

“I'm trying! I'm trying-”

“Shit, shit-” The Lt hammers his comm. “Grouse-Mother this is Paugaui 2-1 we need-” The comm screams before he can report, Queen's voice echoes out in the Lt's headset.

“Queen to King we're off vector, we're- we just lost aft thruster!”

“Compensate and burn!”

Jiro has his attention next. “Queen's out of the funnel- we're goin' lose her!”

“-just blasted another three escorts, they're breaking through the picket line-”

“Get Queen back in the funnel and get Grouse to do something about those fucking bandits!”

“-just passed exosphere!” Perr shouts.

“Hit! Lost power to port thrusters!”

“-this fucking sector was supposed to be fucking clear-”

“Hold it together we hit heavy-atmo in fifteen seconds!”

“I can't hold her! We lost all thrusters! King-”

“Laurie, pop your shell, and arm your Bastion!”

“-us out of here! They're on our tail-”

“Lt! Pop this shell and let us shoot!”

“Bandits closing! Three lining up on Queen!”

“-Help! H-”

The dull thud of an explosion, the hull rocks, a wave washing over a ship, Reese curses, Perr fights the controls. “We're holding!”

“Queen's down! Coffin's tumbling! Wait- Shell just popped I got pods in the air!”

“Get SAR!” Perr shouts.

“No fucking way, we're in hot-shit, they'll be picked apart-” Jiro protests.

“Fuck them! Scrapers will be all over those pods! Get SAR in here now!”

“Not until the fucking zone is clear!” The Lt interjects, “Maintain course!”

“We'll all be dead before it's clear!”

“We just need to hit low orbit, Perr, what's our distance!”

“We're impacting troposphere now!” The hull groaned, infrequent rumbles turning into violent shaking.

“Prepare for touchdown!”

“Fuck! Fuck!” Perr curses. “What about Queen!”

“Perr! Do your fucking job! Prepare for touchdown!”

“Shit, preparing for fucking touchdown!”

“Prepare to fire retrothrusters! Arm first stage!”

“Thrusters armed! Bolts armed! Shell Armed!”

“Fire now!”

“Shell firing!”

The drop-tank rocked, its crew smashed down into their seats as the armored sarcophagus of the drop-shell erupted into bright violet flames.

“Prepare to purge first stage!” The Lt grunted out through grit teeth and protesting lungs.

“First stage armed!” Perr shouted back, flipping open a a case along a side panel and hovering his thumb over a flashing red stud.

“Purge first stage!”

“First stage purged!” Perr slammed his thumb down, explosive detonations rattled outside, heavy armored plates blown away, burning up as the heat paneling burnt up over exhausted retrothrusters.

“Arm second stage thrusters!”

“Second stage armed!”

“Flare seconds stage now!”

“Second stage firing!” The second stage fired, six violet flashes of heat that fought against gravity and inertia.

“Prepare to purge second stage!”

“Second stage armed!”

“Purge second stage!”

“Second stage purged!”

High pitched whines scream from outside, the rattle and smack and clang of high energy rounds impacting against an armored hull. Bright red flashes of instantaneous light scoring up from the rapidly growing surface below.

“Taking hits! Ground fire!” Jiro shouts, Reese lounges in his seat, lazily licking his lips.

“We can take it, hold us steady!” The Lt replies, pulling down the periscope screen, hands shaking. “Prepare to shed final heat-shell and prepare to flare final stage!”

“Bolts armed! Master arm on! Third stage armed!”

“Purge!”

“Shell away!” The outside exploded, heavy tungsten panel caging blowing away as reactive bolts blew the slabs of metal clear to reveal the angled savage shape of the tank at last, a black metal thing covered in high-grade deflector plates and close-in defensive systems.

“Flare third stage!”

“Third stage firing! Touchdown in progress!” Four auxiliary boosters erupted, clean yellow flame, solid-fuel tanks emptying as the scorched black ash and cinder of the world below came into detailed view. Great swathes of charcoal and soot billowed upwards from the wash of heat from the descending drop-armor. The point of insertion is a wasteland of scoured, burned earth. High frequency laser strikes from orbit having cleared a path for a clean touchdown. The same could not be said for the shielded planetary defenses that had spent the last four days dueling with in-system drop ships and transports.

“Give me the count!”

“Eight till down!”

“Arm Bastion! Gunner, weapons up! Main-gun is armed, safety disengaged! You have the turret! Load High-Ex and take out their Triple's! Fire at will!”

“Hoo-yah! Fuckin' payback time!” Reese claps, the autolaoder spins, clamps lock into place and raise a red and yellow magazine into position along the mounted track, yellow 120mm shells load onto the ready rack, ready to be chambered by the autolaoder.

“Jack touchdown in, three, two, one- Impact-”

“Ace, touchdown now,”

The Lt pulls up a surround viewfeed and splices it onto his main screen. The tank is rocked as it disengages its final thruster pack and purges it all the same. The jarring impact of scorched earth against eight metal studded wheels vibrates through the machine in an all too familiar fashion.

The Lt thumbs his com, “Paugui-two actual to Scope-dog, Lance is touchdown on LZ-Market and is in contact, reporting loss of Paugui two-four, requesting SAR teams be deployed, over.”

“Scope-dog to Paugui-Two actual, confirming your arrival at LZ-Market, proceed on mission and eliminate priority Opfor anti-orbital assets in the area, SAR teams as of this time are grounded until enemy air-cap can be neutralized, it's too hot up there. Over.”

“Roger that Scope-dog, Paugui-2 is on task, over and out.” The Lt curses. “Fuck.” A steadying breath, he swallows, and taps the side of his com. “Actual to Lance, assume breaching formation and prepare to move to contact, we have tasking from Scope-Dog, primary targets are the Custodian heavy orbital-defense sites, expect heavy resistance and mobile AT, I want active protection on full readiness for the whole lance- Iron Curtain, nothing gets through.”

“Roger Lt, Jack is forming on you. Out”

“Ace, falling in, first-line active defense systems operational and in cohesion with bastion systems. Out.”

“Driver, get us clear of the landing zone, I want us moving full tilt.”

“Yes sir, pedal to the floor.” Perr leaned the control sticks forwards, power flooded the repulsers and the drop tank lunged forwards on whining plates of anti-gravitic force.

“Gunner, get the hammer down on any rust-fucker that even takes a squint at us, ready burners in the reserve feed and prime the Hell-laser, I'm directing power focus from the secondary drive engines to you.”

“They won't even see us coming, Lt,” Reese pumps a fist. “Hoo-yah.”

“Jack to King, any word on Queen? Over.”

“SAR can't reach her. Zone's too hot. We'll have to wait for our squids to clear the skies before we can launch a rescue. Nothing we can do from here so just focus on the mission. Out.”

“Probably got vaped' on reentry. She was way off course and out of her vector.”

“Probably would be better if the Rust-fucks got them. Burning in like that is a helluva way to go out.”

“Don't think like that, Perr, focus on the mission.”

“Contacts on scope,” Jiro says, “Got targets for you Lt, forwarding to your tacspace now.”

The Lt keys in one of his screens, the targeting package feeding him digital clarity of what lay ahead. Several dozen burning red target markers hilighted amongst a forest of alien stone pillars. “Got them. Rust-fucks a'plenty, confirmed for Custodian Cyberlegion Legionaries, forwarding priorities to you, Reese, fire at will and start laying them out.”

“Hoo-yah!” The turret whines, the magnetic drive almost soundless, Reese working the controls, head down and over the viewfinder. He shouts, “Firing!”

The Tank barely rocks, the concussive thud external as an 120mm high explosive round is accelerated down the length of the intrnal coil accelerator and ejected out of the tank at eight times the speed of sound.

“Solid kill, count five bots down, pass em again.”

“Mark em up-”

Jerr interrupts, “Enemy armor- Shrike! Shrike! At Six-Four!”

“Lance, mark Six-Four, PC times one! Watch for Bogarts!”

“Hit! No effect!”

“Rounds out!”

“Hit, no effect, King to Ace, launch HK!

“Missile out, tracking- Hit!”

“Rounds out!”

“Hit again! Dead in the water, pound them!”

“Hit! Hit! That's a kill!”

“Bogarts in the treeline- AT! AT! AT!”

“Evade- launch countermeasures!”

“Bastion engaging-”

“Counter-fire, rush them down, H-laz engage!”

“Firing Laser,” Jiro barks, voice cracking. “Got a score of em, need to recharge- give me the juice, Lt,”

“It's yours, capacitors unshackled. Driver, get us through this stone forest, Lance, form column, center gets port duty,”

“Scope-God to Paugui 2 actual, hate to break it to you, but we have confirmed sights of Battlecores in the AO, confirming classification as 'Atreus' pattern, they might be older models but they can still do a number on you if they get too close. Keep an eye out, over.”

“Paugui-2 copies, watching for defenders. Out.” The Lt hits his headset, cycling the freq, “Actual to Lance, chrome-domes - Atrie's - on the field, keep your eyes open, out.”

“Nothing's ever easy, Lt, never easy.” Perr laments.

“Just do your job, keep us moving.”

“Incoming!” Jiro interrupts again, the screens shrieking warning alarms of an impending lock-on.

“Bastion firing!”

“Jack just took a hit!”

“Gunner traverse left! Left- Left! Steady- fucking steady! Gunner! Three rounds, fire!”

“Tracking- Out! Out! Rounds complete!”

“Scratch target one ACV, Shrike pattern, shit,”

“Fucker snuck right up on us.”

“Jack, respond, over!”

“Still in the game, King, repulser's are knocked out and the backup is unresponsive, need to go to wheels, sorry, over.”

“Gonna have you take rear then, cant afford to get held up but we're not leaving you behind-” The Lt jerks away from his command scope as the world outside goes red, a blinding flash of heat-light that scars his retinas even as the shockwave slams into him from behind, sending the tank careening forwards.

“Crossfire!”

“Blast cannon!”

“Sensor's just lit up! Just ahead! Heavy just came out of cloak!”

“Take that fucker out!” The Lt screams, marking the massive heat spike on his tac-screen and locking in the sensor array. “Load hypershot and lock in at three-zero-seven and fire on my mark!”

“Targeting position at three-zero-seven!” Reese cycles the chamber as the autoloader whines, locking in a feed of blue tipped, white ringed rounds and pulling them onto the firing track as he spins the turret to the facing, the magnetic drive screaming as the massive tri-barrled weapon is brought to bare, the powerful laser range-finding packages dialing in and pre-adjusting. “Locked!”

“Fire one!”

“Still loading!” Reese shouts, the autoloader quickly slotting twelve individual rounds out of the clip and into the magazine.

“It's firing!”

“Brace!”

The hull shudders, a rolling impact washes over the tank.

“Deflectors still up!”

“Gunner, fire! Fire! Fire now!”

“Loaded! Firing! Round out!”

The cannon shrieks, a high velocity shell screams out from the first barrel before it rotates and locks the second into place. The 120mm tungsten rod shatters against an invisible wall of force- a high pitched scream of burning ozone cuts through the air.

“Hit! Still up! Fire two!”

“Firing two! Round out!”

The cannon fires again, a second shell cuts through the air, smashes against the shield, spanking off at an impossible angle and cutting a furrow through burnt and blackened ground. The massive cannon- a thing of blocky design with red cables and open venting chutes, begins to hum as red bridges of energy crawl up the barrel.

“He's charging!”

“King! Move your ass! Give us a shot!”

“They can't move, we're pinned in here!”

“Hit, Fire three!”

“Firing three! Round out!”

The third barrel rotates and speaks, the shield flares and for a split instant a burning hot cylinder of tungsten hangs suspended in mid air, caught in the center of a glass window before the shield shatters, it's momentum resumes, and it cuts through the cannon with a screech of shattering metal, the weapon dies, sparks cascade through a meter wide hole in its center.

“Hit! Smashed them! Target killed!”

“Fuck, yeah, that's how we do it!”

“King splashed a blaster tank!”

“There's going to be more, keep moving, Jack, you still with us?”

“On your six, King, can't get rid of me that easily.”

“Couldn't even if we wanted to, keep your eyes peeled and sensors peaked.”

“Lt, pushing us through the stone field now, gonna be a tight fit.”

“Just shoot us through, secondaries have the ball, Jiro, that means you, back Reese up on the drones, take manual of the Spiker.”

“You got competition now, Reese.”

“Bull, you can't hit shit.”

“Big words coming from the guy who needs a frag round to get anything on target.”

“Hah. Hah. Hah.”

“Launching Spiker one, it's away.”

A top panel on the top of the drop tank slides back, two small chutes exposed. One of them erupts, a pop of smoke and a small black cylinder launches upwards. The dish-shaped object expands, small sweeping propellers flicking out and knifing through the air as it arrests its descent and buzzes upwards.

“Spiker up,”

“Give me a full spectrum scan, no use playing it safe, if they don't know we're here yet, nothing will wake them up.”

“Launching burn-through sweep, output at maximum,” Jiro whistles, “Getting returns already, we got hostiles inbound from all over the compass, but looks like other elements are drawing the heat away for the most part. We still got a fight.”

“Local area?”

“Nothing concrete, you know how it is with Scrapers, their cyber tech outstrips ours.”

“Keep looking, they got a reaction force vectored in on us, I'll bet tickets on it.”

“Sir, got a message coming through from overhead, Pauguai-one is on site of Custodian orbital emplacement, and three is following up on their objective. We're falling behind.”

“Driver, pick up the pace, King to lance, we need to get the lead out, lance-one and three already have eyes-on. Over.”

“Can't make this thing roll any faster, Lt, terrain ain't exactly friendly to rollers.”

“I'm not asking you to do the impossible, I'm telling you to do it. We gotta open a landing corridor.”

“Techs are going to fucking kill me when we get back, and you better be damned sure I'll let them know it was you who ordered it, over.”

“I'll take all the heat they can throw so long as we get back, and only way to do that is to get these batteries down.”

Jiro cuts through the chatter, “Depression in the terrain ahead, eyes on Scraper hard-points just below the ridge line, defenses are weak, no heavies, they didn't expect us to get here so fast, but I'd bet they're looking to get heavy guns trying to set up just behind.”

“Prep the Archer and ready a chaff package on their loc, I want them firing blind for the first salvo. Reese, load High-ex, set the cycler for rapid and prep the cannon for burst fire.”

“On-it,” Reese ratchets back the loading mechanism, dragging the current belt free and slotting it back onto its loading track before dragging in a fresh belt. He flicks a set of switches on the side of his gunners sight, three lights switch from yellow to green. “Barrels primed, loader is set for automatic, thirty rounds in the belt.”

“Archer pod is open, ready for tasking.” Jiro relates.

“King to Lance, moving to contact, enemy fortified position ahead, we're going to crash right into them. Prepare for mobile engagement, King is gonna hit their defense tower. Ace, you're my wingman, we're going down and right through them, keep the heat on any enemy armor suppression teams, Jack, you move right along the ridge line, target their backline and kill anything that moves back there, copy?”

“Copy that,”
“We copy,”

“Clocks ticking, lets get this done and get home. Over and out.” The Lt puts his eye to his scope. The world outside filters through the sight. He grits his teeth. “Chaff on identified gun-pits, one per each and set the Spiker for manual tagging, Reese, you got drone targeting online, wait for my order.”

“Launching Chaff- Chaff out,” Jiro states.

“Driver, throttle up, take us in,”

The cannon whines, barrels beginning to rotate with an electronic hum. “Pre-set targets locked,”

“On my target,”

“Target locked,”

“Three-rounds fire,”

“Rounds out!”

The grav-tank peaked over the rise and slid down the gentle slope. A custodian fortification lit up at the base. Heavy duraplast walls disintegrated, burning holes appearing as the tri-barrels of the Rocker spun, blistering 120mm rounds with sudden concussive cracks of atmospheric pressure breaking. Eruptions of white hot flame tore apart several domed structures of white cream metal with blisters of black barrels at each apex. They fragment apart in explosions of electrical discharges and fire.

“Targets hit, destroyed!”

“Next target, mark,” The Lt spun the command scope, lasing and designating three further heavy emplacements.

“Target locked,”

“Three-rounds fire,”

“Rounds out!”

The trio of rounds slammed home, this time, their target a massive pillar of white rectangular metal, piercing upwards towards the sky like an accusatory finger lain against the heavens. The 120mm rounds hammered home, spraying hot alloy across the dead earth.

“Again!”

“Rounds out!”

Another volley, the pillar shakes, cracks forming around its center where scorched metal splits and fragments, and then snaps. Wires, cables, delicate electronics twist and tear as the upper half of the pillar is pulled down.

“Target destroyed!” Reese gnashes his steel teeth together, hard, sparks fly from his lips. “That'll teach em!”

“Not done yet, drones got eyes on scrapers moving to flank, they got AT,”

The Lt curses. “Set new targets, enemy infantry. Lance, you get that?”

“Marking concentrations now-”

“Break- Jack reporting enemy armor sighted at two-six-oh, range eight-oh-seven, engaging!”

“King to Ace! Move to new position and advance, watch the outside flank and keep the pressure on, copy?”

“Ace copies, moving to marked location and advancing, eyes on outside flank, out.”

“Jack has visual on the Legionary AT teams. Taking them out, over.”

“Let them have it, get that shit stomped. Out.”

“Got more scraper Atrie's in the open, full squad- fuck they're fast,”

“Tech, that's you, burn 'em!”

“Spooling up, capacitors primed, here' goes!” “

“Solid shit, still more, hit them again!”

“Jack to King, AT is down! Now engaging any stragglers, over!”

“Good shit Jack, Letting Command-”

“Break- Break- Ace to King! Fast-Armor squadron my position! Requesting support!”

“Gunner!”

“Already on it!”

“Spiker has visual, Goblin class, full hunting pack, they got Ace penned in!”

“King to Ace, throttle back and go defensive, we're bounding up on your right flank, copy?”

“Taking hits! Deflectors can't take much more!”

“Jack to Ace, we have a shot, firing at marked target Alpha-four, out!”

“Gunner, hypershot, prepare for contact!”

“Switching belts, AT, twenty-rounds! Ready for rapid shot, cyclic fire!”

“Driver, forwards fast glide, angle front two-two-oh! Gunner; burst fire on my mark, target Alpha-three, ready- Fire!”

“Firing!”

“Hit! Destroyed! Swap target two-”

“On target!”

“Fire!”

“Firing!”

“Hit! Destroyed! Swap-”

“Break! Target three active! Active! Active!”

“Jink right!” The Lt screams, “Gunner! Target three, fire! Fire!”

“Shit!”

“Fire!”

“Brace-”

A clap of thunder and the fist of a god, pounding against the forward hull, King is rocked back, helmeted heads slam into protective padding placed around the odd angles of the interior hull, Reese curses through clenched teeth, Jiro shouts a warning and Perr rams the sticks forwards, trying to stabilize as the back end of the tank drags along the grounds for a moment, digging a furrow in the earth.

“Full evasive! Smoke now!” The Lt shouts, clawing down his command scope.

“Jack to King, status, over!”

“Perr, get us covered! Reese fire at will! Jiro! Spike them for Reese! Laser targeting! Jiro get our deflectors operational! Divert power from engines to active defenses!”

“Roger!”
“Die you fuck!” The gun growls, a long, ripping humm as ten rounds are ejected in a single brief burst of mechanical violence. “Scratch that fucker! He's down!”

“King to Jack, operational, took a hit- armor ate it. Out.”

“Ace to King, targets destroyed- took damage to our radar and countermeasure systems, Archer is offline and H-Laz is gone. Copy? Over.”

“King copies, keep an eye out for tanks, leave the infantry to us for now, out. King to Jack, good support on Ace-”

“Break! Break! Break! This is Command, to All council military units in the AO, we have confirmed reports of a Custodian Warspire entering the Operational Area, all forces prepare for hard enemy counter-”

“Oh fuck,” Perr laughs, a spiteful cackle. “That's it, we're fuckin' dead.”

“Did he just tell us a fucking Warspire shunted in?”

“Is it the Bastogne?”

“Maintain comm discipline, lock it down- I'm getting a burst from Command. Paugui-two actual to Scope-Dog, say again, over.”

“Scope-Dog to Paugui-two Actual, I repeat, we are scrapping the invasion. Council High-Command just ordered an immediate withdrawal from the battlespace. We have Custodian forces vectoring in aerospace assets to cut you off. Your new orders are to double-time it, and secure LZ-Market and defend. We're vectoring in heavy transports to extract, but expect heavy enemy contact inbound, do you copy? Over.”

“Paugui-2 Actual copies, secure current location and await exfil. Do we have any support? Over.”

“First wave drop infantry are already moving to your location, marine vanguards, two platoons, callsigns are Spice and Pepper. Grouse-Mother is doing what they can to provide Cap but they have their hands full trying to keep the skies clear, so don't expect strikes anytime soon. Transports will arrive in three-mikes. Over.”

“Understood Scope-Dog. We'll hold for as long as we can. Over and out.” The Lt leans his head back against the seat, eyes squinted shit he bites his lip until he tastes blood. The rest of the crew crane their necks in a deliberate manner to appear to not be looking at him, expectant for a new fresh hell.

“Alright,” The Lt breathes. “King to Lance, listen up, we're pulling out. We have transports inbound to get us out of here. Two platoons of marines are double-timing it to our loc, get this LZ clear, now. We need to dig in. Expect heavy enemy contact any minute. Copy me?”

“Fuck.”

“Ace copies, they better bring the shit if they want to party with us.”

“Good shit, now find cover. Jack, set up on your ridge and go silent. You'll be overwatch. Make sure you entrench, deploy cover if you have to but make sure they can't see you until you start hitting them. Over.”

“Roger that, King. We'll set up back in the rock towers where we can still see. Might not do much but it'll do something. Out.”

“Ace, you're the react force. We're gonna soft-entrench around the orbital site, gives us places to set up and room to maneuver. You'll be doing the latter of that. When they hit us it'll be a full-court press with strike squads punching through from behind their main assaulting force. You have to head off those attacks. Just like on Calusia. You copy?”

“Copy that Lt, but we had Queen with us there.”

“No use crying about it now, save it for later, I have incoming on freq. Out.” The Lt taps his com set. “This is Paugui-two actual, callsign 'King', I'm reading you, over.”

“Paugui two-one, this is staff-sergeant Oscarra of the two-twenty-third marine vanguard, callsign Spice, we have you spotted from three-oh-six of your loc, we're coming in hot, requesting fire-support on our rear, over!”

“Copy that, Spice, establishing link, send targeting data, over.”

“Sending L-dez now, full fucking company of bolts, need whatever you can spare!”

“You get it, Jiro?”

“Link confirmed, targets on display,” Jiro whistles dryly. “Shit, that's a lotta them,”

“Shit,” The Lt curses, pulling his TT screen in close, getting a feed from the point of view of the marines. It was a see of outgoing yellow tracer“ clashing against a storm of incoming red and black blaster beams. “Jiro, Shooting-Star times one, maximum area of effect!”

“Roger, Archer primed, Shooting-Star loaded,” The tech swam his hands across his own station of TT screens, locking in the Archer missile system to fire one of the tanks potent anti-infantry air-burst directional fragmentation missiles.

“Send it!”

“Sending package, now.” The tank rocks, a hollow whooshing sound from without.

“Missile is away, eta in ten, standby for impact. Over.” The Lt says nothing in return, instead he coms the Marines, sweat leaks from under his headset.

“King to Spice, times one SS inbound- five, four, three-”

“Spiker has them on visual,” Jiro reports. “Splash, recording hits.” the screen feed from the Spiker observation drone is grimy, dirty with smoke and soot. The advanced optical overlay does what it can to filter out most of the debris and ash and shows the white streak of smoke that is the Shoot Star missile burst apart. The warhead fragments, hundreds of interdependently tracking micro missiles separate from the main missile housing and flare off into the forest of stone pillars, each one finding its own target and detonating respectively. Several pillars of stone collapse, victims of improperly guided submunitions, or simply old, faltering things that only needed the impetus of a close proximity explosion to send them tumbling over.

That's the shit! Hoo-ah! Scrapers are down!”

“Roger that Spice, any still standing?”

“Just a few, nothing we can't handle, thanks for the breathing room, we'll be on your loc shortly. Spice actual, over and out.”

“Bastards are lucky those were just bots,” Perr remarks. “Raiders would've been a different matter,”

“Oh, don't worry, we'll be seeing those soon enough. Up to our assholes in those.”

“Positive thoughts, you two.”

“Got them on scope Lt, friendlies coming in.” Reese interjects.

“Spice to King, we see you, coming in from your left. Copy?”

The Lt swings his command scope around, pulling into frame a trail of ragged, weary men in heavy recon armor, sporting piggish and cruel rifles. They looked more like machines then men in a strange twist of irony.

“King to Spice, we have you on visuals. Take a seat, you're all early to the party.”

“Glad to hear it, and don't worry, we brought party favors.”

“At least someone is having a good time.” Jiro mutters darkly. “Hostiles on approach, spiker is picking up a whole fucking flood of them.”

“So, King, how you wanna play this?”

“We fort up here and push them back until we get pulled out, that's how.” The Lt called back.

“Nothing fancy, just hold the line until they break, or we do.”

“That sounds stupid and bullheaded. I like it. We'll deploy along your flanks, try to keep them off you for as long as we got mags.”

“Try not to get yourselves killed. King, out.” The Lt clicked onto a new channel reserved for his lance. “You all hear that?'”

“Best plan I've ever heard, can't wait to tell my kids about it.”

“We're all going to die.”

“Positive attitudes people, sides', you don't get a say in the matter. Contact incoming, assume battle conditions and prepare to repel. Evac is in just ten mikes. Over and out.”

The shells started falling in at that moment. Blaster Bombs, screaming pulsating red cylindrical rounds launched from distant gun-drones on massive double tracks with quad barrel turrets. The first salvo was short by several dozen meters.

“Fire up the Bastion, switch it to area defense!!” The Lt shouted, on top of each of the tanks, two squat headed short framed gatling guns spun up into active defense mode as laser imaging systems spied the incoming blaster bombs. A groaning shriek erupted as each tank traced a stream of burning orange lead into the sky. Bright red explosions painted low hanging clouds of soot and ash a gruesome crimson and scarlet.

“Iron Curtain is in effect, interception rate calculated at over eighty-five percent.” Jiro clipped out. “bettery pray they don't add any further batteries to the barrage or else we're gonna have problems.”

“How long can we keep this up?”

“Just under five minutes.”

The Lt swore, biting his lip he thumbed his coms set. “King to Spice, we got most of the incoming locked down, but be advised if they keep up this current rate of fire our Bastion systems will run dry, so you better dig in.”

“Jack to King, contacts to our front. Company's arrived, counting three platoon's worth of bots with heavy armor in support, tagging targets now, lets kick some plate!”

“Gunner, weapons free, waste these assholes the moment you get a sight picture on them. Driver, get us into cover behind that collapsed wall. Tech, fire up the H-laz and start picking them off, I'm taking control of the Archer and the Spiker.”

“Handshake protocol sent, drone's all yours, Lt.” Jiro called up.

The Lt swiped away his superfluous TT Screens current feed, pulling down the feed from the Spiker observation drone and targeting systems for the Archer Missile system. He made a cursory check of his missile reserves, the various types he had available and decided to hold nothing back. He quickly established a rapid fire barrage of SS missiles to launch at the flick of a finger. The drone feed came into view, advancing into the terrain depression from the forest of stone pillars that surrounded them, he could make out the movements of machine bodies moving in precise, coordinated formations. Skating on columns of energy, the sleek, narrow, rounded forms of Custodian armored vehicles nimbly weaved through the columns with the same grace that one would expect from a reef going fish. Flickers of movement, quick and erratic drew his attention. He panned the camera the drone around, catching a glint of dark metal for the briefest of seconds, and he knew at once that he was going to need every weapon at his disposal – and more. The groaning stint of a prolonged burst from the Bastion defense system cut off any curse he might've uttered.

He hammered his comms, uncaring if he broke the transmit button. “Break! Break! Break! Paugui-two to Scope-God! Reporting confirmed sighting of Custodian Elites, Over!”

“Standby Paugui-two,” The normally calm voice of Scope-God came back pinched and hard, an undercurrent of stress to what was often seen as a voice of reason.

“Incoming! Going live!” Reese crowed, the turret of the tank whined, swinging around and without warning the barrels roared as Reese sent two three-round-bursts screaming out from their cover behind a semi-collapsed wall. The Lt had time enough to peer through his command scope and spy the distant targets emerging from the pillars at nearly twelve-hundred yards out.

“Gunner, traverse left- there! Acquire target designate Calixo-three and fire at will!”

“Scopedog to Paugui-two, come in, confirm pattern, over.”

The Lt hastily returned his focus to the TT screens. “Tac-comp return reads them as 'Warmace' type, please advise, over!”

“Highly capable assaulters, expect coordinated anti-armor tactics to be used against you. Situation has escalated, expect Corvus pattern overwatch, extract in four-mikes.”

“Understood Scope-Dog, Paugui-Two out.” The Lt thumbs his com and curses silently, sweat runs down the back of his flaksuit “Actual to Lance, enemy air assets vectoring in, Corvus pattern, get your Bastions ready to prioritize.” He hits his com again. “King to Spice, extract in four, be advised enemy has raider air-cap coming in fast, our Close-in might not be enough. Over?”

“Copy that King, ain't nothin' but a thing, my boys got somethin' for that, manpads' aplenty, just keep putting the hurt on them on the ground and we'll play fly-swatter. Over.”

“Finally some fuckin' luck. Copy that Spice, you scratch our back we scratch yours. Over and out. Okay, Lance, lets kick this up a notch. Jack, next wave is closing in, soften them up, we got three mikes, just three more minutes till we're home free, you get that?”

“Copy that King, Archer system is going hot, Shooting-Star times-two going out. Over.”

“Good shit, keep hitting them with all you got, don't worry about ammo. Ace, keep moving, I got eyes on mazer' tanks hiding in the pillars, don't let them tag you, you copy me?”

“Ace to King, I see them, can't pen the fuckers!”

“Hit them with your Archer!”

“Tracking system for the Archer is out, bastard's shot it off!”

“Shit, Okay, we'll play it like this, Ace swing back around and swap with me, I'll take up the flank, you take anchor position. Copy?”

“Copy that King, ready for the handoff. Out.”

“Hear that Perr? Get us moving, we got hunting to do,”

“Roger that Lt, lets get some!”

“Jiro, can you get another drone up?”

“Can do, Lt, but those Raiders wont like it when they vector in.”

“We just need it until the drop gets here, get us eyes on those mazer's, we're gonna hit them with a full HK volley, I need targeting data, now.”

“Already on it, drone up and ready to link.”

“Good shit, driver, get us into position, behind that barricade, creep us around. Just like that, gunner, turret rotate to oh-two-three, pop the cans, and get ready to fire on my mark!”

Three two-foot long cylinders along the exterior cheek of the tank popped their covering caps clear, and extended several inches away from the tank.

“Targets on grid, times three Cyclops, tracking on Cyclops two!” Reese reported, face pressed tight against his gunners scope.

“Fire missile one,”

“Missile out!”

The first missile shot out of the topmost tube, a spurt of flames followed it, as a tight nano-thin cable trailed after it. The missile hung low and close the ground like a terrestrial predator fish.

“Tracking, tracking...” Reese muttered. “Impact!”

“Missile hit, Cyclops-two down!”

“Target Cyclops-one and fire missile two! Fire! Fire!”

“Gon' learn this fucker, just you watch! Firing two!”

“Jack to King, encountering heavy push to my front, times six Shrikes, radar has double that in enemy air just behind them, twelve klicks closing fucking fast, over!”

“King to Jack, hold and repel, just keep them hurting, out! Jiro, get drone feed on Jack,”

“Cyclops-two down! Fucked him up good!”

“Good shit, take out the third!”

“Roger that!”

“Lt, I got drone-feed on Jack! They're onto him, he's got battlecores closing in from his three and twelve! Must've been running cold, only reason we didn't pick them up till they started firing,”

“Send me a targeting package, I'm putting times two Spearhawks onto them, get the pressure off of him!”

“Copy, lasing targets- you have the stick!”

“Firing! Missile away, eta in three, two- shit, lost the missile! They got active defense up!” The Lt curses, eyes flickering across his screens, he can feel it, the sensation of losing control. He kept a running count in his head the eta of their ride out. Just two minutes more, just one-hundred and twenty seconds. An eternity.

“King to Jack,” The Lt spat into his comms. “pop smoke and disengage, fighting withdrawal, pull back to our line so we can cover you, copy?”

“Cannot comply, lost back right and both center rollers, we're immobilized- Shit! Fire! Gunner swing left hit that fucker- repeat, cannot move!”

“Oh that just beats all-” Perr cuses.

“Ace to King, raiders front!”

“Say again?!”

“Raiders incoming, they're here!” Ace repeated.

“Lt!” Reese calls up from his position. “Still got one more bastard to worry about Lt, last Cyclops is still up!”

“Quit screwing around and waste him! Give him the whole Salvo!”

“Fuckin' love it when you talk dirty to me Lt, here we go! Missiles three and four! Out!”

The Lt didn't have time to track the shots himself, instead he relied on the prowess of his gunner while he spun the command scope around, and found himself disoriented as his driver cursed and jinked the tank hard to the right.

“Shit!” Perr cursed.

“Lost the cable! Fuckin' A, Perr! Give me a warning!”

“Status?!” The Lt snapped his cameras optics left and right, and then finally up.

The Bastions buzzed and groaned out a long ripping line of high velocity rounds. The Lt spun the optics around, trying to keep track on a flight of six humanoid machines that had buzzed low over the battlefield, dark grey with silver hints, but each spitting red hell-beams that tore through materials like steel and duraplex, and left great scouring rents in armor.

“King to Spice! Could use your flyswatter right now!”

“Workin' on it! Workin' on it! Jus' keep us covered!”

The Lt didn't get a chance to reply. The tank rocked, hard. A solid impact from the front that through the crew in their seats, harnesses biting into flaksuits.

“What the fuck!” Reese cursed, blood leaked from a cut above his right eye where he managed to bang his head against an unprotected part of the interior.

“Damage report!” The Lt snapped.

“Direct hit from a Blaster Cannon,” Jiro replied, quick and direct. “frontal arc deflector array just fucking exploded, but our hull is in tact and armor is holding.”

“Can we get them back up?”

“Negative, it's trashed, suggest we angle a new array into place.”

The Lt checks his screens. “Cant do it, we're the flank guard.”

“Without our deflecters, enough fire from even their small arms against our armor and they'll pick us apart, sir.” Perr doesn't quite shout, but his voice is high, his nerves straining.

“I know, I know, we'll just have to kill them-”

“Incoming!” Jiro interrupts, “Raiders! Two-eight-five high!”

The Bastions swing around, barrels spinning and furious, they fire, another long stream of hate leveled out at the fast approaching threat.

The Lt swings a screen around, watching the six custodian machines wing low and and fast, the red belts of tracer and incendiary rounds pitch back and forth in waving loops as they try to intercept the high speed strikers. A rising horror begins to mount upwards in the LT's throat as each Raider almost lazily dodges through the wall of phalanx fire levied at them.

“Bastion at thirty-percent reserves!” Jiro warns, but the Lt doesn't reply, fixated on the scene of encroaching destruction. All at once, six columns of smoke pierce upwards and straighten out, leaping forwards, plunging in at the raiders. Anti-Air missiles, from the Marines. Four strike home, achieving intercept in the brief moment they have. Three of the machine men are blown apart outright, and the fourth loses a wing and half it's lower body, it tumbles to the ground and digs a furrow in the hard-packed earth, but two manage to jink their pursuers and strike them down with a bevy of point defense lasers, then, it is their turn to fire.

“Brace for impact!” The Lt shouts.

Red beams of death rip into the hull of their warmachine, boiling away and searing through Titanano armor. As soon as it had begun it was over, the remaining two winged devils soaring past.

“Damage report!” The Lt roars.

“Hull compromised, have breaches all over, and power leakage from the powerplant to the repulsars. Port deflectors are blown, they likely kept the brunt of the damage away from the battery's.” Jiro responds.

“We can't take another hit like that, Lt,” Reese shouts,

“I know, I know! Just focus on keeping those scrapers back!”

“Ace to King, you still with us!?”

“King to Ace, focus on your own shit, we're operational!”

“Shit,” Jiro curses. “Bastion system is losing power, something must've clipped the lines!”

“Can you fix it?!”

“Ah, gimme a minute!”

“You have half of one! Reese! Traverse left and target that Howler, Marines clipped its tracks, now finish it off! Just a minute left! We can do this!”

Not even three seconds later and the cruel war-wizard god called Murphy makes his ire known at such blatant optimism, the commander of Jack screams in the Lt's earpiece. “Oh shit- Break! Break! Massive power spike! Olympian Superheavy crawler spotted!”

A scorch of red arcs through the sky, hammering down to the ground below with an almighty crash, and debilitating wave of searing heat that washes over the battlespace, The crew of King can feel the burning sensation through the hull of their tank, and the marines outside brace and shelter behind what little cover they have available to them, exposed skin is seared red and raw, and plastic rifle handguards begin to melt. A massive scar of ruined earth and burning rock is torn through the thin defensive line, and a tunnel or molten stone has been carved through the stone forest of pillars across the field and beyond.

It was massive. The largest land-based warmachine ever seen, and fielded by the custodian machine-menace. A 500 ton beast that crushed the terrain beneath it on a plume of terrain crushing anti-grav thrusters that kept the beast from simply sinking into the earth, but only barely. It was designated as 'Olympian' after the old Lost-Terran myths, and it was nothing more than a massive plasma-cannon on an equally massive grav sled. It glowed red in the distance, the electrical, ethereal remnants of its firing floating on the wind like smoke and vapor the color of blood-mist.

“Where the hell were they hiding something like that!”

“it's got some sorta active camo field and sensory deadening system, I can barely get it on sensors now!” Jiro reports.

“All units, report in!” The Lt howls into his comms, several of his screens are dead and black, their outside optical sensors burnt out and non responsive despite their hardened casing.

“Still here, sir!” Ace reports in.

“Pepper and Spice, we've got wounded, where's our ride home!?”

The Lt waited, bangs and tings and the sound wailing beams filter through the hull into the tank, waiting for one more call. Reese looks back, as does Perr and Jiro, stalled for a moment, forgetting the fight, waiting.

“King to Jack, report in,” Nothing. “King to jack, report in!” He checks his screens, he slams his fist against a bevy, getting a flicker and then a stable readout. Out of four symbols for Pau-guai 2, only two are green.

“Jack is down!”

“Fucking whoresons!” Perr punches his seat.

“Focus!” The Lt snaps, pulling his scope down, and trying to make a picture through the scorched lense. “King to Ace, focus your fire on my target, I've eyes on that Olympian superheavy, you can't miss it! We cant let it get another fucking shot off!” He hisses, the air burns his throat, the life-support systems straining. “Gunner! Dump the belt! Load Hyperfang shot! Everything we have on those Nohj fucksticks! Full burst!”

Reese rips the current belt free, it pulls back into its track and pulls hard on the specialized anti-tank penetrators. It's a two second process- two seconds that they don't have, that none of them do. More enemy fire rips at the armor of their tank, from their front and from above. They feel the impacts through the hull, the interior warms as metal is turned into slag. “Loaded!” Reese screams. “Target locked!”

“Fire! Full burst! Empty the belt!”

“Firing!”

The barrels spin, each 120mm tube whining as its brought to full cyclic rotation. Electric blue sparks run down the length as the accelerator coils charge for a sustained burst. The weapon fires, the cannon speaks, seventy rounds of dedicated armor defeating penetrators are fired at hypersonic speed, crushing through the sound barrier and beyond. Five seconds, five full seconds of a sustained burst that, while the tank was capable of, was truly never expected to do.

“Rounds out! Belt depleted!” Reese ejects the spent belt, hauling in a fresh belt of simple Sabot shells, not waiting for the order to do so. “Tell me we got that fucker!”

“Doubtful, the Lt hisses checking the status of Ace on his screens before craning his neck back into the scope. “Bastards like that are built to take hits, but he's gotta be hurting,” He says the last part like a prayer, begging for salvation.

There's a moment of silence, and then they have there answer.

“Power spike!” Jiro screams.

“Driver! Back! Back! Back!”

The Tank lurches, thrust up on gravitic plumes, a red hell-light pierces the smoke, cuts through the vapor and ash and spears out with a deafening growl of superheated air. Their tank is not rocked this time, it is nothing less than thrown.

There is a moment of weightlessness and heat, the smell of bruning metal, crackling flesh, and smoke. Impact.

The Lt doesn't know for how long he had lost consciousness, he is woken by the sound of screaming.

“Perr! Perr!”

“He's dead, he's gone! Face is fucking melted off! Shit! Jiro, you gotta get us outa here, move up front and switch to analog!”

The Lt coughs, he sits up. He thinks he is blind, he cant see. Something hot and sticky covers his eyes.

“Shit, Lt!” Hands are grabbing him. Rough hands, familiar strong hands.

“His eyes are glued shut, shrap' didn't kill him, just nicked him bad!”

“Hold still Lt, you're good!”

The sleeve of a flaksuit scrapes against his face, peeling dried blood away, and then he can see- his eyes are sore, the light is harsh. He is still alive.

“Status,” He croaks out, his throat is burned. Jiro has him by the shoulders, his helmet is cracked, and the wires that normally connect him into the heart of their war machine are absent. Reese is behind him, cradling Perr, the face of their driver is a burned, fused mess of red flesh. Parts of his uniform are melted into his skin.

“Superheavy just ruined us.” Jiro draws his attention back. “Lines are collapsing and the rusters are pushing hard. But the Olympian is dead. Our volley must've cracked something critical, when it fired, it went up. That's given us some breathing room, but not a lot.”

The Lt sits up, pulling himself back into his seat. His screens are almost all black, showing no signal or simply dead.

“Get back to your stations, war is still on.” He readjusts his headset, a slow ache in the back of his skull begins to pound. The fighting compartment is awash in red emergency lighting. His gunner and Tech look up at him. Not moving. “To your stations!” He erupts. “Reese, get those rusters off our doorstep, the drops are coming! Hex-shot, five rounds rapid!” Reese doesn't move, still holding the body or Perr at the front of the tank. Something outside goes up, the shockwave fails to rock the grounded tank but it is felt all the same.

“Turret ring is welded, Lt, she ain't firing her main gun again.” Jiro reports.

“Then arm the pintle and give them the fifty!”

“Pintle is gone. Barrel is melted.”

“Sir,” Jiro cuts in. “King is out of action. Repulsers are down. All we have are secondary systems, and even then, those are failing. We're out of the fight.”

The Lt doesn't respond. He looks around the interior of his vehicle. Stunned. How many drops have they seen in this beast? How many battles have they been through together?

His headset squeals, cutting his memories short.

“Ace to King, drops are hitting atmo! Marines are pulling back! Get out of there!”

It's enough to get him back into motion. Enough to keep him from gridlock.

“Negative, negative!” He quickly replies, thumbing on what few view screens he has left. “Driver is dead and the controls are slagged, back-up system is faulty, we're stuck. We'll cover you on your fallback!”

“Bullshit, Ace to King, we're not leaving you, get your shitsack outa the rocker and and pull back!”

“I've got fucking butter-bars on this shoulder for a reason, Ace! Follow my damn orders!” He turns to Jiro. “H-Laz still up?” He asks. Jiro nods.

“Fuck your orders and fuck your rank! Get out of the fucking tank and pull back, or none of us are leaving this Nohj-infested rock!”

The Lt whirls grabbing his mike and holding it close to his snarling lips. A fresh trickle of blood runs down his cheek from his crown.

“Presso! I'm gonna fucking kill you!”

“You'll have to be alive to do that, Anton, and you'll have to do it in person.” The Radio cuts out.

“Torch, take me, I'm gonna kill that shitstain of a brother-” The Lt throws his headset off. It cracks against the interior.

“Lt! We leaving or staying!?” Jiro barks.

“I'm setting whatever remaining weapons to auto-target, Jiro, set the plant to maximum, burn the wires if you have to, this baby's gonna give everything she has. Crack open the hatch, we're hoofing it.”

The Lt crawls down from his seat, his once throne of command and kicks open a hatch along the floor of the cramped crew compartment. He pulls out a trio of short, close-in defense carbines, with six magazines of caseless ammunition each. He checks holographic sight on one and slings it over his shoulder. He holds one out for Jiro, but his tech isn't next to him, isn't opening the hatch, he's by Reese.

“He's dead, you gotta leave him, bro.”

“Not happenin', I'm not leaving him.” Reese says plainly, cradling the remains of his friend.

“Reese, he's gone. We gotta move.”

“Then comin' with, that's the only way this is gonna be.”

“Cant do that Reese. We need every gun we've got in the fight. You're the best shot, and I have a shit leg.” The Lt looks down, only now noticing the jagged piece of metal that was protruding from his left thigh.

“He's my bro, I can't leave him like this. What's his ma' gonna think?”

“We've gotta go, now.” Jiro pleads. “He wouldn't wanna leave this old battle-bitch anyways. He's the lucky one, he gets to go out with her.”

Any further arguing is cut short. Banging from the outside. Something slamming on the hull. A moment of fear screams through the Lt's head as the hatch opens, and a humanoid head stares down at them.

“Compliments go to that sergeant in Ace, said you was takin' too long.”

“Oscarra?” The Lt asks, the tone and timbre of the voice easily recognizable.

“Got it in one, now you coming are not? Drops ain't gonna wait for long!”

The Lt looks back at Jiro and Reese, the latter finally having been convinced to leave his comrade. Tears streak down his face, a mask set in a fierce snarl as he takes the carbine handed to him by Jiro.

The Lt is the first out, taking the hand proffered to him by the staff sergeant of the marines, and almost at once he wishes he hadn't left.

Smoke fills his nose and stains his face. The heat sears his flesh, and all he can smell is Heat, the scent is nothing less than the essence of Heat. It burns his nose, stifles his breathing, and he feels the need to retch.

“Chungo put fire on that Rust-fuck!”

Screaming, orders barked with a mad but disciplined fury. The Lt opens his eyes as his boots hit cracked earth. He had only seen it through the sterilized screen of his TT's, and the reticule of his scope. It is a vision of hell, no longer devoid of the clinical precision of his tanks HUD and sensor suite. Red beams of death pierced through the air, hissing and wailing as they stitched burning lines in the dirt, deflecting off of surfaces melted to a mirrior sheen from heat wash. Cracks and snaps of bullets whizzing back in return at shadowy figures that advanced through smoke and flames with implacable paces, silhouetted only by the illumination provided by the omnipresent fires of the molten rocks that were scattered about like bleeding wounds in the very planet itself. The Lt saw a man die, a Marine with a name he didn't know and story that was never told took a red beam right through the chest. His plate carrier was incinerated, the armor next to worthless. For a moment, the torso of the marine expanded like a balloon, and then exploded, as the water in his cells was flash-evaporated and turned to steam that had only one means of exit from the confines of the flesh. He popped. Nothing left except a pair of legs that kicked awkwardly before falling still and collapsing.

The Lt had seen death before, had made his own fair share of corpses, but always from the command seat of a Drop Tank, a Rocker, never like this. This was an open battlefield, and he no longer had a part to play in it.

“Keep the fire up! Second squad! Pull it back, nice and easy! Quick time, fuckers!”

He had been standing, and staring, bewildered like a child thrown into a school on his very first day. Jiro grabbed him by the arm. He shouted something, but the Lt couldn't hear, didn't make out his words, but he picked up on the intentions of his Tech. The drop ships, grey-brown metal leviathans were landed, their rear ramps open with gun-teams on mounted rotary cannons. Old-school things that had never fallen out of favor due to the level of hate that they could dish out with a single squeeze of the firing studs. These ones in particular must have been apoplectic in their delivery, the barrels were glowing scarlet.

His legs were moving but his body felt empty, he felt like he was floating even as he nearly tripped and stumbled, only for Jiro to catch him before he could hit the ground. His carbine was still slung over his shoulder, unused, and unblooded. Reese was to his left, and he had his carbine up, firing, full auto spray and pray as the electric blue flash of the muzzle roared in time with his own savage sneer. There was blood on his face, soot and ash as well, sticking to still bleeding wounds, but there were tracks where tears had cut through the grime.

“Get the fuck inside!” The Lt looked up, it was Presso, The commander of Ace, his brother, by blood and by trial. He was standing just outside the ramp, a purloined battle rifle in one hand, magazine half empty. He took the Lt's other arm and helped Jiro haul him up the ramp. They nearly didn't make it, a hell-beam glanced off the ramp not inches away.

“That's everyone!” The loadmaster screamed over the roar of engines. His visor was down, and it muffled his voice. Jiro and Presso hauled The Lt in, further into the transport bay, and past the ruined but still functional hull of Ace, the war machine was barely recognizable, it's armor was more akin to some twisted modern art piece.

The seat wasn't comfortable, it wasn't supposed to be, but he collapsed into it all the same. The heavy armor and deflector arrays of the transport provided some measure of safety and security that the Lt felt as a physical force on his soul as the four VTOL engines spooled up to maximum thrust, and began the climb to orbit. Guns still chattered at full tilt, spraying heavy caliber shells down at the world below, the Custodian machines still firing back, trying to drag them back down.

Presso was sitting next to him. His hands were shaking. The Lt looked away. Across the cargo deck there was Reese and Jiro. The latter trying to console the former.

“I should write you up and drum you out,” The Lt said, as a means of saying something, anything. “Told you to get your ass on this ship and not worry about us.”

“Yeah, well, you're still alive to do that shit cuz' of me.” Presso said. “You're welcome.”

“You hear anything about Queen?” The Lt asked.

“I was gonna ask you.”

“Nothing.”

“Then they're probably dead. This invasion was a fuckin mess.”

“Jack's gone too.”

“Yeah,” Presso nodded. A silence stretched between them. It continued all the way back up into orbit.

By the time the transport made it into the hanger of the troop ship, the Custodian Warspire had already turned the surface of the world they had come to liberate into a sea of fire and glass.

-End.

Edit
Pub: 23 Dec 2023 23:03 UTC
Views: 18