NationStates Jolt Archive

Without any further explanations, the following advertisement appeared in the local equivalents of Soldier of Fortune across a dozen systems:

Would you or someone you know like to have their greatest wishes granted? If you're the captain of an experienced team of explorers and mercenaries, you can! The producers of this address want YOU to fulfill your true potential, and will pay for you to get there.

Just have a representative of your company meet us at the Light's Blessing Resort Complex on Darsalin Base, Mars. All expenses of staying at the resort will be met for your agent, just advise the staff you've seen this advertisement and you'll be taken care of.

Two columns down and one column across, the following advertisement was printed:

An anonymous individual seeks a personal military group to solve a potential problem on a new colony. Major rewards offered regardless of discoveries in the line of work. For details, be at the Light's Blessing Resort Complex, Darsalin Base, on the first day of the next solar month.

And on the other side of the page, a massive picture of a chest full of gold with gems and rubies. At the bottom, in big letters,

THIS COULD BE YOURS!

Just be at the Light's Blessing resort Complex, Darsalin Base, for you to find out how you and your men can be wealthy beyond your wildest dreams!

"Well, Captain, here you are."

Julian raised an eyebrow, "Yes, here I am."

The suit shook his head, "No, no, here. Take this."

Julian blinked, "Take what? I'm sorry?"

The suit frowned, then his eyes widened, "Oh! You're not...?"

Julian shook his head, trying his hardest not to glare, "No, no I'm not."

The suit walked over to a nearby console and ran a cord out from his forearm. A few moments later, he waved Julian over.

Julian read the advert and scoffed, "You've got to be kidding me. That is way, way, way below our level. You don't hire the goddamn White Shields like that. You hire them by contacting Corporate directly."

The suit smiled, "Yeah. But this was...a request. Read it again."

Julian didn't look at the advert. He looked at the suit. Long and hard. Then he lifted his right hand slightly and twisted the ring he wore about his middle finger -- a band of black metal with a solitary Ascended rune in silver located on a slightly raised surface.

The suit removed his right hand from the keyboard and mirrored Julian's gesture. He wore an identical ring.

Julian nodded, "Dra sa turan, yl Rekh."

The suit rolled his eyes upwards for a moment.

Julian was already on his way out, clipping his earpiece into to place -- he had calls to make. Travel wouldn't be an issue, he had Resolute all to himself...

“Too good to be bloody true, I tells ya.”

“Who’s it from, that’s what I want to know.”

“Who indeed. Whoever it is needs to hire a better marketing director.”

The two conversing men sniggered. They were used to reading such advertisements during their short times ashore, almost invariably for amusement purposes only, despite the magazine, Practical Agent, being aimed squarely at them and their line of work. That such advertisements were rarely worth responding to had been drilled into them by bitter experience.

“Still, that one down below looks more appealing. Bit more serious, like.” The first pointed to the second, rather less gaudy advert.

“True, true. Might as well pick it up.” The man rummaged in a battered wallet for some kind of useful local currency, and took the magazine to the counter. A distinctly bored-looking cashier – quite a feat, since the cashier was in fact a machine, devoid of much in the way of a face and anything in the way of emotion – accepted the sum without question and handed the magazine back.

“You two sailors, then?” it asked curtly, as if to imply that merely by existing they were causing it intolerable suffering.

“Yeah, something like that,” replied the buyer absently, despite the fact that both his and his companion’s dress belied the statement. They were, in fact, officers – lieutenants, not mere seamen. But, they reckoned, the robot didn’t know and wouldn’t care. It evidently didn’t regard their somewhat hotchpotched “uniforms” as hostile, but it might do so had they told it precisely what ship they were from; discretion was usually the better part of valour in such backwater ports as this, a dilapidated space-station orbiting Neptune, which had once been a purposeful, graceful ellipsoid and had now devolved into a messy muddle of additions, half-derelict hulks and recycled junk. The two men strolled out into the worn space station’s main ring corridor, and set about searching for their companions from the wardroom.

They found them, a short while later, enjoying the last of their shore leave in a slightly less restrained fashion. Specifically, they were engaged in a heavy and prolonged bet with the owner of a distinctly seedy bar on the result of a race. This wasn’t, in itself, a problem; the problem was that the bet hadn’t come off, and now, rather short on cash, their colleagues were in trouble.

“Look mate, I swear I’ll pay it back next time we’re passing through…” began one officer, only to be cut off by a guttural bellow from a strange, multi-limbed creature which was evidently either a hired goon or just a very loyal regular.

The thing roared. “We don’t care for your sort around here!” A murmur of agreement ran around the hushed bar, and the two young officers started backing towards the exit, making conciliatory gestures which were probably gratuitously offensive to at least half of the customers. The writing limbs of the creature shot towards them, as with its remaining appendages it hauled itself from its seat. “Get ‘em!”

“Oh, fuck.”

The two young officers turned on their heels and ran, pursued by glasses, a glob of viscous fluid (which impacted a wall and left a large, smoking hole) and a horde of aliens, humans, and things stuck somewhere between. The two lieutenants sighed and unholstered their sidearms, joining their colleagues in a sprint to the nearest airlock – which led, by the greatest of good luck, to their ship’s shuttle, hovering motionless in the desolate vacuum beyond.

One of the sub-lieutenants stammered an apology as he ducked into the hatch. “I’m sorry, sir! I didn’t think they’d…”

“Oh shut up, Redman!” bellowed the senior, First Lieutenant John Cannon. “Just bloody get in there and keep quiet, and hope the Captain doesn’t crucify you for getting us barred from yet another bloody place!” He raised a long, sleek, black pistol and discharged a round into the milling crowd at random, frankly not carrying about the law at that stage, before leaping through the hatch. “Fucking hell, Third Lieutenant, launch this blasted thing and get us back to the ship! Before they figure out which one it is!”

The Third Lieutenant, Hanro Shei, did as he was told, suppressing the smirk on his face as he thought of their Captain’s response to the latest incident the two SLs had gotten them into. The smirk faded as he realised that this might well mean yet another dock was barred to them, and for the rest of the trip back to the ship his face was a mask of indifference.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The four officers stepped gratefully from their cramped shuttle through the airlock, into their ship’s great bridge tower. A brief decontamination later, they parted their ways, the two SLs heading into the depths of the ship to conduct their duties, and hope the reports reaching the Captain weren’t too damning. Seldom had the four been happier to see their battered ship, by turns home and battleground: SBS Venerable.

And Venerable was the only right name. Laid down during the frenzied period of naval construction in the run-up to the First Belt Wars, she was an old ship. In her youth she had been among the most lethal weapons of her day; even during the Second Wars, after a complete and comprehensive refit, she was a force to be reckoned with for any capital ship, and more than a match for anything smaller. But that was a long time ago, and since then, everything about her had aged. She had more than four score years of experience beneath her pock-marked armoured belts. Her age was little more than a wry joke for her crew; “they only called her Venerable”, they said, “’cause they couldn’t call her Ancient.” Her main armament, a dozen huge, large-bore coilguns, was disposed in a fashion more akin to seaborne ships than a starship, in great turrets that had been, for many thousands of men, the harbingers of a swift and terrible end. Her long, fat hull bore the scars of battles beyond count, interrupted only by a spell in the great, silent ranks of the Telhar Graveyard, last resting place of the last of her kind; banned by treaty following two ruinous, hideously destructive wars.

For the past six months – Neptunian months, moreover – Venerable had been laid up in dock, undergoing repairs to her weary frame. She had come out of them well; her guns were as good as new, give or take an inch here and there; fresh layers of steel and other, more exotic substances protected her densely-compartmented, packed hull; even her ancient (and in many places grossly regulation-violating, though they were nowhere near so dangerous as her nuclear salt-water rocket torpedoes) open-cycle fusion engines, along with her steam circuit, were operating at as near to peak performance as they ever could. But for all that, she was, by modern standards, slow, slow and overlarge. But a fine command for a mercenary captain, and a part of her crew’s hearts and minds, for all that.

Cannon reported to the bridge and clicked his heels, saluting smartly. “Captain, sir! I have here an advertisement for services, which we thought you might find interesting.” He pushed the magazine onto the control desk in front of his Captain, whose lean back was facing him. Without turning, the Captain nodded.

“I’ve seen it, Number One, thank you. Got it on the electronics, don’tcha know.” He turned and grinned, exposing a row of yellowing teeth, punctuated by shining silver replacements, and a viciously-scarred but still well-appointed face. The scar stretched from his right eye socket down to his jawline, crinkling as he smile, to look like a miniature river. “The other officers and I have conferred and agreed it’s worth a look. It’s only Mars, after all.” He turned back to stare from the bridge windows. “Always worth popping in for supplies. Anyway, if you’re in agreement, we’ll have a unanimous vote. Well, except the Fifth Lieutenant.” The Captain flicked his eyes to a dour, portly man in an overstretched uniform, who flushed and concentrated very hard on observing his repeater of the local traffic.

Cannon replied without hesitation. “I say we go, sir. We’ve got the rest of the crew aboard. Unless the Chief’s having problems, I see no reason not to.” He leaned closed to his Captain and dropped his voice. “Besides which, I think our welcome in this port might be – ah – shortened considerably, sir.”

“Ye-es.” The Captain frowned, setting the scar into another shape. “I did hear about young Redman’s little mishap.” He seemed to perk up, his expression becoming one of indifference. “No matter now. I’m surprised that once the saw the name ‘Captain Aran Vannerman” on the List they even let us in.”

“Your notoriety that great, sir?” Cannon gave a lopsided grin.

Vannerman frowned in mock reproach. “That was almost bordering borderline, Number One.” He checked the nearest chronometer. “Take her to sea, Mr. Cannon, and jump to Martian orbit. I’ll be on the upper bridge if I’m wanted. I’ll notify Mars traffic control from the upper bridge, so you needn’t worry about that.”

“Aye, sir!” Cannon took in the displays as Vannerman disappeared into the main lift. From his position, everything looked ready. The Captain had already piped hands to stations for leaving harbour, and the Fourth Lieutenant, a gangly man of 29 by the name of Frederickson, reported that the crew were all aboard, all hatches had been checked shut, and the usual paraphernalia of preparing to leave had been carried out.

Cannon coughed and began. “Attention all compartments! Prepare for Jump. All compartments report readiness for jump immediately.” He watched, thin-lipped, as one by one the green lights appeared on the computer diagram of the ship, accompanied by verbal confirmation. Without a word, he nodded to the helmsman, who pushed the great brass telegraph to Ahead Slow and began pointing the ship in the direction for her jump to Mars.

The manoeuvre took five minutes, five seemingly endless minutes while the fusion drives flared into spurting life and the steam-operated telemotors adjusted the great thrusters’ angles in response to the helmsman’s deft commands. Ponderously, uncomfortably, Venerable answered her helm and swung her graceful, tapering prow towards Mars.

“Stop engines! Prepare drive and sound Jump Stations!”

Venerable’s engines petered out, suddenly silent in the endless vacuum of space. The ship edged slowly forward, like an old dog stretching after a long sleep, glad to be free of the docks.

“Give me status reports on Jump preparation.” Cannon rested his palms on the desk and was surprised to find that they were layered with sweat. The first jump after a long dry-dock was something he never got used to.

“Pulse emitters active,” intoned the wall-mounted monitor, showing the steady, shrewd face of Chief Engineer Reanar as he concentrated on the mighty machines in his charge. “Stage One pulse formation complete, link preparing.”

Cannon felt the ship seeming to tense, kept watching the green compartment lights. One red light would mean disaster if the jump took place; without everything properly prepared, and the men suitably positioned, there was no telling what the ship’s old teleporters might do.

Reanar didn’t even look up as he continued his reports. “Stage Two complete. Pulse link with destination field established.”

Behind the bridge, the enormous vertical cylinder of the teleporter housing began to hum, silently, in the vacuum of space, the small circular emitters surrounding it searching out in every direction, readying themselves for their part.

“Termination backup and reconstruction systems active. Drive charging at fifty percent.” Reanar scratched his bent, multiple-broken nose absently. “Jump commencing in twenty seconds.”

A pause. A pause while the ship vibrated, quivered with energy, a great beast about to spring forward.

“Ten seconds.”

Venerable’s company steeled themselves. Each jump was risky. There were too many stories for comfort of men turned inside-out on materialisation, of ships rent asunder by unknown forces, of vessels found weeks after they had made a slight calculation error and jumped in the wrong place, riddled with holes from meteor showers. Every jump was a potential death sentence. But it was too late to stop now.

“Drive fully charged. Jumping in Three. Two. One.”

On the upper bridge, Vannerman held his breath.

“Commence jump.”

Venerable shuddered. A great, low growl emerged from the huge teleporter tower, the round, glassy emitters projecting a green field around the old ship’s form, a field that grew and grew, becoming brighter by the second, until the moons, the planet, even the distant sun were consumed in its eerie beauty. The growl became a scream, a demented banshee whine that sawed through the ears and clawed at a man’s brain with demented fury.

Then there was an almighty crash, the sound of a thousand and one great sheets of lightning tearing between cloud and ground, all utterly silent in the empty void, and Venerable vanished.

Assault Frigate Resolute, docked at Calirnevris, RSN Sol Station, Sol

Julian slung his duffel over his shoulder and kicked his grav-carrier into motion. Airlocks were a pain, but at least it was a Revenian 'lock, which less of a pain than most 'locks. If it'd been a non-Revenian station, he'd have almost been guaranteed to have to use the universal 'lock, which was a pain in the ass, especially with the grav-carrier.

As it was, it was relatively simple -- step, pause, step. A few words with an official, and he was on his way to the shuttle. Behind him, his picked companion, Inquisitor Irian Chellavan, followed, his gray robes swishing -- but making little enough other sound. Dogging Irian's heels was the Inquisitor's acolyte, a sandy-haired youth by the name of Todd, which was a damned silly name for an Inquisitor, even a larval one.

Dogging Julian's heels was 2nd Lieutenant Barnabus T. Gurdnyr, recent graduate ('2nd in my class!') of the Horatrian Academy of Military Science, and officer of the Horatrian Armed Militia.

And an annoying little bipedal insect.

He timed his entrance onto the shuttle so that the door would snap shut behind him just as Gurdnyr reached it. It was a good thing that Gurdnyr couldn't see his face, too, because he was grinning.

Courier 871

He stowed the grav-carrier with all the heavy boomities in the shuttle's secure compartment -- it was a white RDS diplocourier, so the secure compartment was, honestly, secure...which was a good thing. He'd packed heavy. The Ring didn't get involved in kid-stuff.

All Revenian-flagged starships (and small craft, which were considered to be extensions of their motherstarships) were considered to sovereign territory of the ESSR, so it wasn't really a big deal, he could have left the carrier anywhere he liked, but knowing what was in it...well, the secure compartment just made sense.

Arrival was quick, customs was annoying -- and he had to shell out twenty standard for some kind of doofus license, just to carry his sword -- he wasn't expecting trouble on Mars...and there was no real reason that the others needed to disembark -- they'd wait in the shuttle. Courier. whatever.

Light's Blesssing Resort, Darsalin Base, Mars

Julian was getting a little tired of the nasty vibes that the snively little mini-elves were giving off, though the Empress had been nice enough. But, that was the past -- and he didn't have time for the past when he was on an op, especially an op that was in some manner connected to the Ring.

He sighed and adjusted the lay of his jacket, checked the run of his warblade -- didn't want it banging him in the back of the leg every time he took a step, though that would have required some serious mis-alignment -- and looked around for where the deuce he was supposed to be.

Travis Noel Tenkiller was bored out of his skull. And it really took a lot of nothing doing to bore Ten. The fact that his partner was curled up asleep and Zen was playing one of his interminable games of 5D chess with Basttle Cruiser Tormented Space's C.S. ( Cybernetic Sentience ) who was in the middle of a middle age crisis - could a CS who might well live forever have a mid life crisis ? Ten figured 'No that it was just throwing a hissy out of boredom and changing it's name for the hell of it.'

Men' dhek's himmone' aur Navris - better known to all and sundry by the much more pronounceable monkier of 'Nervous' opened one currently emerald hued eye and remarked "You know if we took the early out clause all we'd lose it the bonus at this point. And given that eighteen months of nothing, and nothing to spend paychecks on we've all saved up enough for four years worth of over the top luxury vacation at any resort planet in the Empire. You're twitching is driving me nuts." The Grendel took a swipe at his shoukler with a rough tongue. He looked, at the moment, for all the universe like nothing more than roughtly ten pounds of hairless feline. But then again in mere seconds he could look like a Eookie if he chose. Ten had seen him assume the shape and manners of a Tanaran Kodiak Maximus - a ton of raging fury with claws that would give a Raptor nightmares. But then again Nercous's normal attitude generally scared the pickens out of any one who didn't know him well. But Grendels were like that. Ten privately suspected that as bad attitudes resulted in more fights, and if there was anything Grendels loved more than a good fight, they'd never mentioned it to the rest of the universe, it was deliberate. But he'd never put that suspicion to the test.

Zen pulled a minute fraction of his attention away from his game - an even smaller part of him had been keeping a eye on Ten - when one was a CS, and could divide oneself and one's attention even more effortlessly than a Grendel could -it happened without conscious thought, or so Zen claimed. "It might not be illogicaL. the bonus is not that substancial, they really hired us just for the prestige of having a Cadre on payroll. And ..this caught my attention just a bit ago...

Would you or someone you know like to have their greatest wishes granted? If you're the captain of an experienced team of explorers and mercenaries, you can! The producers of this address want YOU to fulfill your true potential, and will pay for you to get there.

Just have a representative of your company meet us at the Light's Blessing Resort Complex on Darsalin Base, Mars. All expenses of staying at the resort will be met for your agent, just advise the staff you've seen this advertisement and you'll be taken care of.

Two columns down and one column across, the following advertisement was printed:

An anonymous individual seeks a personal military group to solve a potential problem on a new colony. Major rewards offered regardless of discoveries in the line of work. For details, be at the Light's Blessing Resort Complex, Darsalin Base, on the first day of the next solar month.

Just be at the Light's Blessing resort Complex, Darsalin Base, for you to find out how you and your men can be wealthy beyond your wildest dreams

Ten looked at the hologram and snorted "Oh please the Old Man would have a fit if I hired out to an unapproved company, especially something utterly fishy..." His voice died away "Oh no..." He protected vehemently "He doesn't"

"He does. and with even an 'can unlock the armory' and enjoy yourself to the fullest" Zen replied, wicked delight in his voice. Zen wsa no peaceable civilian CS he was one of the Phoenix Empires finest Combat and Intellegence- C&I- dedicated CS's and while he refused to mention it he'd been even more bored than Ten had of late.

Ten thought a long minute. The Phoenix Empire had just turned loose a Cadre and his partners on someone - the whom as yet undetermined, but that didn't bother Ten - He'd, or more likely Zen would figure that out quick enough.

"Well we've been sent our marching orders. Wake the Bara'Dur up and send in our resignations poste haaste. And let this..." He reread the ads again "Light's Blessing Resort Complex, Darsalin Base on Mars know we're coming and want a suite for one." Between them it wsa pretty much standard ops for Nervous to go in looking like something other than he was and his current form would do just fine. And Ten always looked pretty much like people expected a soldier to look like - fit, a few scars here and there, nothing really noteworthy, and with an general air of military competence that most beings translated to 'dangerousness' about him.

And every bit of that was camoflauge. Cadre were the Phoenix Empires elite, the best of their best, and less than ten in a million soldiers had the basic qualities that were the Cadres minimum requirements. And Captain Travis Noel Tenkiller was one of the Cadre's best. A multiply decorated vetran - most of his awards couldn't be openly worn - he'd been Cadre for over eleven decades, even if he only looked in his early thirties at best.

"Wake the Damn Thing up"

The head on a Curiosity-Class Light Explorer was surprisingly well appointed for a ship with a crew complement of five and a total complement of seven. Perhaps it was because the crew was expected to spend years and years at a time far from any recreational facilities aside from those they stumbled across. Or perhaps it was because they had been designed by an ex-patriot Menelmacari who had a minimalist fetish. Either way they were quite nice and both of the two spacious stalls were being given a test run, as it were, by the new captain and one of his (very few) junior officers.

"No paper? What the hell!" The strangled voice of 2nd Lieutenant FeeBeeJee - or Feeb - echoed off the tilework walls and the sounds of frantic scrambling at the dispenser could be heard by the ensign in the next stall. "Even in the future nothing works!"

"You have to..." There was a momentary pause and then a whirring sound. "...ah, yes, press the blue seashell. Sir."

"Thank you Ensign. I'll make sure to note your helpfulness on your monthly review..."

'Not that it really matters... Half of the crew isn't even my crew,' the ArAreBee thought as he continued about his business. 'A Knootian - how the hell that happened - a Dominioner, and a Cetagandan. Well, sorta a Cetagandan...' All of which meant that he didn't actually decide on any promotions and his crew reviews probably counted for all of crap.

He sighed and exited the stall. A quick wash and he stepped into the common room that directly adjoined the command stations. Very directly. As in he could see the main holosphere from the very nice couch that the SDF had decided to pay for.

"Lieutenant... Message for you from Command."

"Yes? What's it say?" Feebs scowled at the Dominion woman. 'Insolent... Gah.' She refused to call him 'Captain' unless he was actually sitting in the chair so he promptly went over and took his seat just to make her do it.

"Orders, Captain..."

"Orders? Already?" He was honestly surprised. Not least of all because the whole crew had boarded the tiny scout for the first time about an hour ago. Long enough for the Dominioner to decide she didn't like the ArAreBee but certainly not long enough for everyone to familiarize themselves with their new stations in his opinion.

"Orders. Quite specifically you have been ordered to respond to an advertisement placed in 'Fist of Ares' magazine by an organization operating out of Darsalin Base in the Roanian territories."

Jeebs looked at her slack-jawed and she didn't look back but continued to study the screen. After a moment he brought up the orders himself and began to peruse them.

"...Roanians are a relatively unknown... Believed to originate from inside EOTL government... Opportunity for contact and intelligence... Why us?"

The ArAreBee asked the question and the furry Cetagandan who had just taken his place on the bridge answered. "Probably because we are expendable. And reasonably low profile. Yet we would create a problem for the Roanians if anything happened to us because we are a multi-national crew."

"He's probably right. Five will get you ten that those orders originated inside of someone's intelligence branch..." The Knootian took a seat on the couch. "Which means you should probably be very careful about how you follow them."

"Intelligence you say..." The ArAreBee looked rather pointedly at the Dominioner. "Lieutenant De Luca, what would you recommend?"

"Well..." she turned around and straightened up, suddenly all business.

'Ah ha!' Jeebs thought to himself...

"I would suggest going to the surface and then taking commercial transport to this resort and representing yourself as an agent of an independent mercenary company out of New ArAreBee. Plausible, and with the lack laws of the territory it would be impossible for them to check your story. Get the information, collect the money, get back here, and off we go to see what the Roanians are up to..."

----

"...HeeHeeHee of the mercenary company YreVeeBee. I've come about the advertisement in 'Fist of Ares'... I was told you would take care of my stay..."

Jeebs looked down at the lady behind the counter with what he hoped was a fierce looking scowl to match the fierce looking outfit he wore. Bulky torso and leg armor with no sleeves, a thick mane of some presumably dead animal draped across his chest, and a combination eyepatch/HUD as well as a number of empty holsters did their collective best to give him the appearance of an out-system mercenary though he wasn't too sure they were succeeding. People were generally cutting him a wide berth though.

"Yes... I've got a room booked for you now. If you'll just follow the instructions on your room key..."

The gunfire echoed and spattered around ruins as the gunfire increased tenfold.

Grunting and hurling his Pericles-Plasma rifle up the man grunted as a couple of bullets smacked and rang off of his suit, a laser blast seemed to hit him next and it rippled around his dark blue suit, crackling and fizzing leaving a burn-mark on the highly polished powered armour he was wearing.

Next to him, leaning up against the wall casually smoking a cigar and flicking through the pages of Martian Soldier, the Martian equivalent to “Soldier of Fortune” published by the Midlonians and distributed to pretty much every Martian Nation on the planet.

“Huh” the figure grunted as he took another puff on the cigar and flicked a page. “Hey Jack, look at this.”

The figure firing a long burst from his rifle ducked back behind the ruins, the servos in his suit whining as he did so, throwing up the blank, light blue face plate that covered his features. “Taz, you gunna fucking help me here or not? The bastards have managed to scavenge another one of those old fucking tanks you know!”

“Look here.” the figure said tapping the magazine’s advert. “Not too far from here you know, hours trip max, could be a good contract that.”

“I’m sure Sharton is more than aware of the fucking thing, but right now, if you didn’t notice, we’ve got the small trouble of the Remnants trying to overrun this fucking Observation post, Taz!”

Taz looked at the blue strained figure. “Pfff.” he said simply as he began to get to his feet, he kicked a long tube off of the floor, with a wire running to the back of his helmet, which clicked down as he stood up. Shouldering the launcher quickly he simply fired it in the general direction of the gunfire.

The skyline lit up with the power of a small sun, and the dust and dirt around them was kicked up by the blast as the small nuclear explosion climbed high into the air.

“You worry way, way too much Jack.” Taz said simply as he threw the launcher to the ground again and opened up a centre-fold in the magazine. “Huh, that Roanian Empress Chick looks quite nice you know.”

--------------------

“Training exercise complete.”

“Exercise complete, shutting down simulation grid now.”

The martian scenery vanished with a simple “blip”.

“Impressive.” commented a cool female figure. “Though I don’t appreciate your lackadaisical attitude Taz.” the voice had a slight Asiatic burr to it, the unmistakable Birchestese accent.

“Well Miss, it’s not as if I can’t be accurate with this thing, is it?” Taz said as he waved the rocket launcher.

“Leftenant. I do not appreciate insubordination in the Sentinel Assasins, understand that.”

“Yes Mistress Azriel.”

“Just for that, you’re representing with me in this stupid cheese and wine thing at Darsalin.” The voice continued.

“Shit.” was all Taz could manage as he stepped out of the suit.

"Good evening, gentlemen. And lady, of course." The figure at the head of the table said, running his eyes along the crowd of mercenary officers along it. "I trust you are all finding your stay quite comfortable?"

The doors along the conference room's walls slipped open. Several scantily dressed young women, their eyes vaguely unfocussed, walked in and took up seats next to each of the men in the room. The figure raised his glass to Asriel. "Not, of course, that I've forgotten you." He clapped his hands. "Buffone! The chest!" A thin, snivelly little felinoid (not that felinoids in general aren't thin or snivelly) walked into the room carrying an awkwardly sized metal container which he placed in front of Asriel. "Now. Say when..."

A felinoid upended a sack and began to pour diamond dust into it. "Consider this a sign of our esteem. And, of course, there is much more to come, should you agree to help us. Let me advise you now, however, that this work will be potentially very dangerous. If anyone wishes to leave, they may do so now." He waited a moment, and then continued. "We have recently lost contact with one of our new colonies. We do not know why, nor do we understand why. We have also lost contact with our military teams sent to investigate."

The scantily dressed girls tugged spacecharts out from their cleavage and lay them out before the men next to them. "Your mission is to travel to SGV78 and find out what is going on and use extreme prejudice to stop it. Do well, and you will be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams. Are there any questions?"

Travis Noel Tenkiller ignored the overly endowed, scantily attired female that slid into the seat next to him. He waited, knowing what was coming...

The bunny screached, jumped and vacated the seat with a promptness that probably saved her life. Ten managed to keep a blank face, though internally he was grinning wickedly. Nervous really didn't like being sat on, and he disliked sitting in Ten's lap, even if he was masquerading as something cute and cuddly. Pretending to be a 'pet'.

Though Ten wasn't necessarily sure if a Grendel passing as a Terran Sphinx Cat was all that cuddly; and the cute seemed to be 'So ugly it had to be cute' sort of feminine thing. And he had no idea where the Grendel had ever gotten the coding for that form anyway. He'd been using that particular shape when they'd first met, just over a hundred years ago. And to the best of his knowledge the Grendels hadn't visited Terra before the reintroduction some forty years ago, but that was speculation for another time...

Carefully reaching past Nervous the bunny handed Ten the chart pack then stepped back just a little further. Neverous was playing with her - one fang was showing. Ten looked at the chart then turned his attention back to the speaker. But he was more interested in the others in the room, and he'd half guessed at the real reasone he was here.

Your mission is to travel to SGV78 and find out what is going on and use extreme prejudice to stop it. Do well, and you will be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams. Are there any questions?"

However he damned well wasn't going anywhere on that scant a database.

"Yeah. You have copies of your last comminucations with your colony, and or the teams you sent in ? Have you sent in telemote op'ed probes? Dangerous we get, and no big huhu, but what data you have is more than just appreciated, it's manadatory."

Mina, still enoute from where ever she'de been holed up, might not have asked, but Ten wanted to live another day thank you very much

Taz grinned inanely at the woman next to him and even took the liberty of touching, not just looking.

Azriel however, simply raised a cane with a diamond ontop and banged it on the table, snapping his attention back for a moment before he gave her a look, then went back to the scanty female.

"To me," she purred, "It seems like a very simple, if dangerous mission, why the need to hire mercenaries at great expense? Why haven't you just tried looking from orbit and then wiped out whatever the problem was? It's not as if the RSN isn't good enough at killing things."

"Maybe their lost colony isn't so much lost as much as lost control..." The ArAreBee tried to look as gruff as he could manage as he continued, "...and they just don't have the nuts to do the job themselves. Whatever. Their money is good which means their reasons have little concern for my company."

Taking the star chart he looked it over and data started to stream through the green lens on his eye patch.

"I do have questions though... First off, we all get paid the same, right? And you are willing to accept any and all damages that we might cause doing this job? And what about salvage... Cause if there isn't gonna be salvage I think we are probably gonna need some more for expenses."

Somewhere, Deep Space

Sky Marshall Jack Valkyrie wasn't a foolish man -- he'd been on the run from the authorities for more than a decade and wasn't about to surrender his freedom on the back of some 'anonymous' advertisement. With a warrant for his arrest and twenty-five million dollars for the delivery of his head, he knew he'd have to be careful and trust literally no-one for at least a good while. Which is why, when he chose to respond to the advertisement, he didn't attend either in person nor did he order the entire First Fleet to relocate itself to Sol. But from the bridge of Orion's Dagger he chose a representative out of those most faithful, a selection made on the basis of a combination of loyalty and willingness to die quietly for his or her cause. Finally, after much internal debating within himself Valkyrie settled upon a young and upcoming within the Imperial Force--Lieutenant Commander Samantha Bullsworth.

Bullsworth was a young woman, probably in her mid-twenties. With long blond hair, average bust, and a 'gorgeous' smile, she was popular with her fellow crew members. Her most notable features however included her bright blue eyes which carried a piercing stare--almost to the point where it seemed she could see through to the innards of your soul. No secrets could be kept, no excuses could be made, and having been promoted to the position relatively quickly in comparison to most of her fellow servicemen, she subdued the role immediately, developing a sense of command and leadership in whichever was her sphere of immediate influence. Happily accepting the opportunity, the Lieutenant Commander left nigh immediately for Sol, home to a vast majority of the crew members who made up the Imperial Military.

An organization not claiming citizenship to any particular nationality, people came from a variety of backgrounds. Murderers, rapists, and mostly criminal folk with no-where to hide but under Valkyrie's supervision and leadership, they joined a cause in which was largely to oppose the leadership of Secretary-General Carmine Goodchild in the Unione of Capitalizt States and to prepare what was basically, a coup d'état. They believed firmly that in some way, their government had snubbed them, and that violence had become the only alternative. For Valkyrie, he had much more personal gripes with the Secretary-General, most of those being from prior to his ascension as head of state, military, and government. Meanwhile, years of preparation had passed and they still had many more waiting and biding their time in the future. As the Secretary-General and his government worked to strengthen itself so did the Sky Marshall, to the point where he had recently been able to consider Imperial Forces thus the First Fleet. With an Orion-class Superdreadnaught as its flagship, they were strong but not yet invincible. Still at the mercy and whim of the Unione of Capitalizt States Military, they remained exiled primarily on the outskirts of Sol and beyond.

*~*~*
Light's Blessing Resort Complex, Darsalin Base

Gathered in a small conference hall at the Light's Blessing Resort Complex was a mix of mercenary and military personnel. For much of the time already passed, Sam had worked carefully to stick to herself mostly, keeping her identity revealed. Given that some of them may and would almost probably turn on her if who she worked for was revealed, keeping her name and employer secret even from the most curious and seemingly friendly individuals was mandatory and made common sense. Instead of introducing herself eagerly to her multiple counterparts, she became the silent and mysterious type. Positioning herself to lean against a wall in the corner with both arms crossed and assuming a permanently bad mood, she remained as unfriendly and unsociable as possible. She wasn't there to make contacts, she was there to extract details of a contract and report to Valkyrie immediately.

" Are there any questions? " asked the host of the meeting.

" I have a question, " the Lieutenant Commander stirred for her silence and unfolded her arms, resting one hand on her sidearm and allowing the other to fall beside her. " Who the fuck is my employer? I mean for who this is all for is fairly obvious but you could be anyone. Also, are you going to expect us to work together or are we competing for some prize? "

She turned to the rest of the gathering, " If so, all of you might as well leave now. "

Vasynaer eora’Violet shifted very slightly away from the human female seated at his side, the overpowering smell of false-thing in the room intensified by the creature’s presence. He slowly blinked purple eyes devoid of pupil or white and looked at the chart.

Vaysnaer was slender enough that he looked as though his bones could be broken with little effort, his armour hugs his body and is a dull, matt silver colour with narrow purple veins running across it in simple patterns bearing little resemblance to the ornate examples seen upon senior members of his race. Long and delicate fingers picked up the chart, turned it over so his eyes could see the reverse, and replaced it upon the table.

“You know nothing of the threat? Reports prior to losing contact, hazardous research projects, or communication traffic? What are the limitations upon ‘extreme prejudice’?”

He appeared to glance at the arrogant woman with a hand on her sidearm. The corners of his mouth twitched the tiniest amount in derision. This is the first expression of any kind of emotion from the fragile-looking Onarran, excepting the brief uneasy look when the scantily-clad being had sat herself next to him.

“Details about ‘rewarded beyond your wildest dreams’ would be helpful.”

With others chiming in about lack of detailed - and thus helpfull information - Ten sat back and prepared to listen. Others concerns were just laughable.

From the snobbish loner lady - still in someone's official military he'd guessed - the stick up her ass was too big for otherwise.. " If so, all of you might as well leave now. "

That brought an unamused chuff, form both Ten and Nervous.

First off, we all get paid the same, right? And you are willing to accept any and all damages that we might cause doing this job? And what about salvage... Cause if there isn't gonna be salvage I think we are probably gonna need some more for expenses."

"What part of 'rewarded beyond your wildest dreams.' don't you understand" Ten muttered very low. The presumedly dead animal draped across the being's chest had had him fighting off laughter from the moment he'd first blinked in astonishment back in the hotel's lobby.

The fragile-looking Onarran had held his respect with his first questions, but lost it on the last.

Until Zen, currently residing in the discrete bracer on left arm reminded him sharply through the link that he was supposed to be interested in that as well. Yes you have to be alive to enjoy said reward, but you also want the reward.The CS noted before going back to hacking out all the data on the Roaninas and SGV78 that he could get his happy little cybernetic fingers on. And as Zen, despite his peacefull name, had been born of one of the finest sentiences ever designed to crack any other cybernets around, he wasn't doing half bad.

Julian's face was perfectly calm. He had plenty of concerns -- the present situation was 'minimal intel, none reliable' which wasn't his preferred line of work, but it wasn't anything he wasn't intimately familiar with. You didn't...you weren't what he'd been without becoming intimately familiar with that sort of thing.

Besides, he'd come to know a thing or two about Roanians...and one of those things was that with minimal exceptions, they were all Tools. Capital T. As a result, he was fairly certain that if the obscured spokesfly had further information, it would have already been given out.

He wasn't happy about it, but he had a hunch.

He closed one eye, then turned his head to look over the cleavage of the floozie sitting next up at Irian. The Inquisitor shrugged, snapped his fingers -- the 'public' initiator for battle sign -- then flashed a rapid series of gestures.

Julian nodded once, his hands working a response. Then the two men sat back in their chairs. If one looked close, one could notice that they wore similar expressions -- impassivity and half-lidded eyes.

If he was at all aware of the scantily-clad female next to him, he didn't show it beyond peripherally -- she wasn't as pretty as the Roanian Empress, and he the glassy-eyed look wasn't really his thing. Nor did he study the map over-long. Eidetic memory. Real one. Halfling Ascended. Never forget.

He didn't have a damned thing to say -- his contract was secure, though amusingly worded. Bond was placed an everything was done the right way -- he had people to handle that sort of thing.

So he radiated 'stay the fuck away from me' vibes at the creepy-doll-thing next to him and puzzled over the input he was getting from the others -- the input from the doll was too creepy to examine at length. Irian agreed -- the Inquisitor had called them 'marionettes,' which was...creepy.

Barnabus hadn't caught the vibe, of course, and 'his' doll was...engaging him. There didn't seem to be malicious intent on either part, and Irian would have acted already if there was anything harmful in the dolls. He was subtle as Inquisitors went, but there were touch points, and stuff like this -- 'use for control' -- was a huge one. That the flamegun was still slung was a minor miracle.

Irian's acolyte -- Todd -- was unable to keep his discomfort from his face. Kid...had a lot of learning. Probably.

If he lived.

If any of them did.

One moment, there was nothing. The vast emptiness of space, somewhere near the planet Mars. The next, a colossal wall of metal rent the black void asunder, screaming through its infinite bleak fastness on its way to a distant world. And another, and another, and more still in the opposite direction. This was one of the many, seldom-quiet trading lanes that existed around Mars, the paths along which interplanetary commerce flowed. Many millions of dollars, pounds, or whatever currency unit the ships’ owners and operators used, moved there every minute of every day; interruptions to the flow were something to be avoided if at all possible. And Venerable was a fairly hefty interruption, entering the scene with no warning whatsoever in a burst of greenish light like metallic St. Elmo’s fire. It was really not the fault of the Master, who had painstakingly programmed the calculations for their jump into the ship’s computers and had no idea whatsoever that he had come straight into a shipping lane; nor, really, could the first lieutenant, whose duty was not to make such calculations, be held to account. In fact, in the view of the entire crew, it was the rest of the galaxy’s bloody fault for being in their way.

Still, that wasn’t much comfort when you teleported straight in front of a ship laden with four thousand million tonnes of goods. Fortunately for both ships (though more for the cargo carrier than Venerable), there was no collision – though a man with a good telescope aboard the battleship could see the captain of the freighter bellowing curses at them from his bridge. On all sides, ships slammed into reverse thrust, dropped out of hyperspace, and generally became very hot under the collar very swiftly. Vannerman strode calmly onto the bridge and took a look at the bridge sensor repeater, puffing on a suitably plain-looking pipe.

“So, Mr. Cannon, what’s all this then?” he gazed indifferently at the panorama of ships near and far, all jerked to a bone-jarring halt by his craft, as though it were an ill-trimmed lawn, and drew on the pipe, sending a puff of blue smoke from his mouth as the tobacco – actually a strange local variant that tasted strongly of spinach – burned merrily away.

Cannon sighed. “We seem to have jumped into the middle of a shipping lane, sir. Or maybe a floating dock. Either way, we’re sitting here and this lot are getting annoyed.” He rounded on the portly Fifth Lieutenant, who continued to peer dourly at his repeater. “Mr. Stand, what’s out there?”

Stand looked up reluctantly, dark eyes locked in a permanently miserable expression fixing themselves squarely on Cannon’s buttons. “I count upwards of forty ships halted, sir. It’s like an accordion out there. God alone knows how much we’ll be charged for this one, sir,” he added, seeming to brighten a little at the thought of everyone being as unhappy as he was.

Cannon scowled. “Thank you, Mr. Stand. Carry on.” He turned to Vannerman. “We’ve got a transmission from Mars Traffic Control, sir. They’re asking us to dock at this station here.” Cannon gestured to the monitor.” “Problem is getting out of this flow without hitting anyone.”

“Easy enough,” Vannerman replied with a smirk. “Second Lieutenant! What’s the status of our armament?”

The second lieutenant, jumped like a startled deer, peering at the monitor before him. “All turrets and casemates manned and ready, sir. Sensors are operational and torpedo tubes unloaded.” He looked at Vannerman with slight alarm. “Are we to use them, sir?”

Vannerman waved a hand. “Ye-es, but only a little. Sound Action Stations, Mr. Cannon, and somebody time how long it takes for us to get ready.” He fished in his pocket for a tin of tobacco. “And somebody ask Chief what the engines are looking like.”

Vannerman strode to the window as the klaxons blared around him. Red lights came on to replace the normal white, and the bridge seemed to tense as gas-tight doors throughout the ship slammed home. Four minutes later, Vannerman knew exactly what his ship was doing and about to do. Her guns were loaded and ready to fire, both primary and secondary; her torpedo tubes primed for action; her point defences stood at the ready, she was on a direct course for the port, and the engines were looking like engines.

“Mr. Shei!” Vannerman swung to face the Second Lieutenant, his pipe smoking away. “Main armament to maximum elevation. A, B and C turrets train port, Q, X and Y to starboard. Fire one round per gun as you bear, please.”

Shei stared for a second, unable to believe the request, but gathered his senses and went to work with a crisp, “aye, sir!” Ten seconds later, the main coilguns fired, their magnetic accelerators launching huge projectiles at several thousand metres per second over the “heads” of the nearby ships. Recoil-absorption jets came on to steady the ship’s course and stop her from assuming a steady rotating movement, and, her path suitably clear of (now thoroughly worried) ships, proceeded in a stately fashion towards the docking station under the careful guidance of Martian Port Authority drone tugs. Even this did not go quite to plan; unfamiliar with the huge battleship’s bulk, the tugs momentarily made an error in their movements. It was only a minor error, corrected masterfully in a second, but it was still enough to make Venerable’s heavily-reinforced stem gouge a neat, almost perfectly straight line in the hull of a Midlonian Tea Consortium freighter. Those who could see from scuttle or monitor watched as crates of tea, liberated from the ship’s temporarily-disabled artificial gravity, floated merrily into space in search of a new home.

All in all, it was hardly a surprise that there were no welcoming shouts for the three chosen to make their way to Darsalin itself aboard one of the ship’s smaller shuttles: The Captain, of course, was the natural choice, leaving Cannon in command. With him he took two others; the boatswain, a short, stocky and immensely burly man who had, it was rumoured, only joined the ship, after her Navy career was over, by beating the other potential boatswain until he had no teeth remaining. Over his shoulder he had slung a monstrous weapon, a six-barrelled break-action shotgun aptly nicknamed “The Dragon’s Tongue”, which he carried and used in battle with the ease of other men using the smallest of pistols. It was intended as protection from danger, and nothing more; Vannerman himself was unarmed, while the other member of the party, the luckless Sub-Lieutenant Redman, carried only the same long, sleek pistol as his companion from before. A gesture of faith, and a show that he was fearless.

The boatswain grinned a gap-toothed smile at Vannerman as he seated himself in the little shuttle’s tiny seats, watching the nervous Redman taking the controls. “Reckon ‘e’ll make an ‘ash of it, sir?” he asked, sotto voce.

Vannerman chuckled, filling his pipe and wondering whether he should, by now, have bought an Arran sweater. “If he does, boatswain, I can only hope you’re below me.”

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The shuttle ride was the normal, bone-jarring, routinely terrifying experience that all of them had come to expect. Even the landing at Darsalin Base was routine enough, giving the trio the opportunity to inspect the arid sands of Mars - and, in the distance, shining like an over-bright star, the gleaming disc of the Homeworld. Earth. A brooding, almost reverent silence fell upon the three as they approached the central admission point; they wordlessly signed their names, gave blood samples, handed over their meagre arsenal, and generally let themselves be subjected to the ordeal that was Roanian customs procedure.

Then, however, came the paperwork.

And boy, was there a lot of it. The grey-suited Roanian behind the desk stared at them with utter, but veiled, contempt, and said curtly to Vannerman: “you’ll have to fill in Form 72B.” This seemed a reasonable request to Vannerman, who, in the interests of diplomacy, did not enquire from this infuriating, stuck-up, smug little office boy precisely why he needed to engage in yet more useless bureaucratic codswallop.

He was still smiling politely, in fact, until the dumb-waiter produced a sheaf of papers the size of the Versailles Treaty, apparently written in at least thirty languages, and requiring to be signed in triplicate. It was without much protest that Redman set to the task, less because he enjoyed filling out the forms and more because he didn’t want to face the wrath of his Captain, who had so far been torturously silent on the topic of his confrontation near Neptune. As they left him, Redman was just starting in on page three.

“If,” he muttered, already sounding weary, “you found a large pile of your chosen currency lying in the street in a Roanian-controlled city, town, village, hamlet, farm, factory, personal transportation mechanism (mechanical), personal transportation mechanism (non-mechanical), mountain, hedge, tree (ground or other surface around base of)…”

The conference, if one could call it such, was apparently being held in Chamber 14. Chamber 14 turned out to be guarded by what amounted to a particularly brain-dead gorilla, which, despite numerous requests, would not budge; the meeting had already started, it said. Vannerman simply nodded at the boatswain as he dismissed the door-thing, and before it could move to stop him, it was feeling the full force of the boatswain’s right hook. Vannerman left them to their work and quietly opened the door, standing in its frame so as both to hear the proceedings inside and keep an eye on the combat outside. Catching the spare full-chested woman – though something told him that this thing was far from human within, which chilled him more than a little – he read the message, espying the diamond dust on the table (though not recognising it as such) and listening intently to the questions. It was only when the woman leaning against the opposite wall had spoken up that he felt it worth speaking himself. He drew on his (by now lit) pipe and looked at their host.

“Right, right; this all seems simple enough. A couple of things, really. First of all, pay distribution. Not only does it only seem fair for all parties involved – those who do some actual work, rather than merely talk, that is – to get an equal share, but I’d like to know exactly how the payment will be made.” He coughed, took a relaxing suck on the pipe, seriously considered the Arran sweater look, and remembered his other question. “Oh,” he added absently, “and do you mind if I bring our battleship along?” he smiles serenely, first at the Roanian, then at the woman, and turned round to address the boatswain. “That’s it, Philipson, you give the hairy bastard what for!” he called jovially as the boatswain drove home a heavy straight left, which sent blood spurting in all directions and burst the thing’s nose like a squashed orange.

Vannerman turned back and smiled. “Terribly sorry about all the noise, folks!”

On the face of it, nothing much was of interest to the man, riches, well interesting but not exactly worthwhile in themselves. On the other hand the potential for future gains was there, a subtle request and he could at last move his aims forward. Unlike other outcasts he had rejected the traditional path of the Corsair, it was, not as it once was. He wanted the excitement of getting one over the Mon-Keigh, of taking from them, but the Corsair could rarely in this day and age truly raid worthwhile targets.

Dull he had therefore concluded, what adventure in tackling peoples who could barely understand how to get a rocket in the air yet alone take on his vessels? No for this man, he wanted something else, something more.

He had tried a few ventures, dipped his toes in the water, acting behind the scenes, but the biggest prize for now would be… a way to smuggle goods onto Mars itself. Not just smuggle them but also to have them pass inspections from legitimate authorities have them state his goods where clean and then pass them on…

Once on Mars they could move freer. Oh in theory he had an easy in Kionash rarely looked too hard at their own, but people Knew that, it was not a long-term option. On the other hand, access to another nation upon mars ahh now that changed thing, access to a different port authority would get him in. The right request as a reward would get him in.

On the other hand although he was after excitement, this was not for him, he viewed himself as taking on his inferiors in a game, of outplaying them. Not as a bounty hunter or mercenaries or whatever was being requested here. Yet he hadn’t come alone, he had others to get their hands dirty for him.

Others who craved excitement of a different sort, it was an easy enough to task to send one of them to answer the call.

Shuresh was, well he was odd, that was the kindest thing a viewer could say about him as he stepped off his transport at Darsalin base. A quick hop from the Martian territory’s of Yvresse he walked with a strangely clumsy gait. As through he was long unused to actually walking. As he stepped into a wider area it became clear he was unused to walking as he, for lack of a better term got a floating surfboard out and jumped on the back with a laugh. Now he was to go to some resort or was he there, details never really mattered to him as he yanked out the adds from his back pocket and shot of, a blur of colour as the ‘craft’ sped up

The man checked his notes and smiled serenely. "Quite. I'm afraid that such information as we have is limited, however I would be more than happy to provide each of you with a data slate containing such information as we do know. In brief, you should expect this to be a hostile landing and plan accordingly."

He flipped open his notepad and ran through it. "As to how much you'll be paid, I believe that a lump sum of 300 million Menelmacari credits per group will be more than enough." He nodded to those who had asked about payment. "But, of course, I'd imagine all of you could dream about that sum. Hardly 'beyond your wildest dreams'. Therefore, I am authorised to grant a very rare distinction to those who face danger on the planet's surface and," he coughed, "survive. Lady-Empress Alessa Annire herself shall grant each of you an audience, and grant each of you one boon. You might wish to think now about what boon you would wish for."

The shadowy figure turned to face the Onarran next. "By terminate with extreme prejudice, I mean I want you to find out who or what has cut us off from contact with the colony and kill them, their friends, their neighbours, and their pets. I trust that is clear?" He returned his attention to the RRB. "I believe that we will consider expense requests following your success. As for salvage..." There was an eloquent shrug, as if the Roanian considered the question too stupid to even answer. "I, and my employer, do believe that it would be better if you all were to cooperate." Leaving unsaid the fact that the Roanians were unlikely to mourn unduly if some extra foreigners died in their service.

Meanwhile, in the hallway, a 10' tall lizard grabbed the angry boatswain and lifted him off the unfortunate felinoid. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

And, of course, the Roanian on customs duty was peering over the man's shoulder. "Now, just sign here, here and here, and initial there and there." He pointed with his own pen. "And there. That's all 29 pages of customs and landing permission, short term, for mercenaries, completed." Before Redman had a chance to leave, though, the ponytailed bureaucrat dropped a bigger pile of forms in front of him. "Now just complete these auxiliary forms and you'll be at leave to go, sir."

Julian yawned as the shadowy Roanian continued talking. It felt good to not have to play nice around the bipedal horseflies, and, indeed, the bulk payment would absorb the medical bills he'd incurred after his last trip to Roania. His left arm still wasn't up to snuff, but it was getting there -- the hand was, if anything, iffier. He wasn't clumsy with it, exactly, it just felt kinda wierd.

His right hand was just fine, though, and at the moment, that was what mattered. His right hand was his gunhand, his swordhand -- and his left had no trouble reloading.

The idea that he might end up encountering the Roanian empress again was...interesting. He decided that it would require further thought before a final judgement was made.

She'd been very nice, though he rather thought he owed her grand high poobah rumdum some serious inconvenience. The RDS would have flipped if he'd told them what had happened. He...hadn't be ready, or willing, to start a war over something that stupid.

Nevermind that there was recorded material displaying him relatively unhurt after the explosion, and nevermind that ten foot lizards and explosions inflict noticeably different damage. That was irrelevant. He had his reasons -- stupid explanations amounted to exactly that: 'Oh, he has his reasons.'

And he had his reasons.

His right hand stroked Peacekeeper's hilt. He smiled.

It was not a pleasant smile.

Being late to the meeting might have caused a problem, except someone had been kind enough to remove the obstruction at the door, so he just slipped in, and got caught up. The talk of pay was of less interest to him than might be expected, the man who had sent him, had sorted that out for him already. He was being more than rewarded for his time, although the bonus on the table pleased him, he could do a lot with that much cash. The boon belonged to his contact of course, that had been bought and paid for.

He simply demanded space be made for him amongst the inferiors. He was in short loud.

‘I have a question, you know from what I gather we are to go and deal with a lost colony, all well and good, and your paying a nice sum of money here, should please the others, but here’s my question. What happened when you sent the vaunted Roanian military in to deal with the potentially rebellious colonial possession, because I somehow have my doubts that when part of your empire rebels or goes silent your first act is to call in the rag tag band of misfits to go and deal with it.’

HeeHeeHee looked the Eldar over as he entered the meeting in the fashion typical of both the Eldar and the ArAreBee's piratical neighbors to the south. At least he wasn't wearing a brace of pistols. Still he was a welcome distraction and the lieutenant took the opportunity to contact the Leakey through his FleetComm.

A chime sounded from her station and Lieutenant De Luca turned to it, cappuccino in hand, as data started to stream into the communications system from the meeting Jeebs was attending. Setting her cup down she piped the stream through to the main holosphere so that the gathered crew could watch as well. There was another warble and Jeebs himself opened a connection to her station and a miniature ArAreBee appeared in one corner of the holosphere.

'Lieutenant, do you have the star chart?'

She nodded and opened it up, filling the rest of the holosphere with a three-dimensional representation of the chart. "I've got it, sir. Looks like it's on the other side of the galaxy. I'm verifying the location now."

'Good. Once that is done, send a request for VDA deployment through to Fleet. What can you tell me about the other mercenaries here?'

The ArAreBee looked slowly around the room, focusing on one face at a time.

"Metternich, give me a hand here..." The Knootian complied and as each face came up they isolated it and tagged it. "Not much yet. I'll run them through TYCS and SDF intelligence databases..."

'Hold on a sec...'

In the resort far below Jeebs began to look around the room as something began to probe at the external connection on his wireless datajack. Bleeding edge military hardware against an overly ambitious AI... Well, it didn't matter much as the wireless datajack wasn't connected to anything except his own AR-ware and the local internet but still it started to flash at him about an attempted breach.

'I've got something beating on my external datajack. Apparently it really wants remote access to the internet. Seems awful hostile of the Roanians.'

"Pretty bad manners for the Roanians, but I wouldn't put it past them. It could be someone else at the meeting though."

'It's not stopping at the 'Keep Out or Be Throttled' sign so I'd guess it's an AI or at least an II. We'll let it play for now but I'll want to review the access logs when I return. I'll move around a bit, get a fix on what the source is. If there is an AI or hacker in this bunch it could be really useful versus whatever the Roanians had at their colony.'

"Right," De Luce looked over to the holosphere where the star chart was flashing an alert message, "The star chart is verified. Fleet has authorized VDA deployment to the system and has ordered SDF-Fermi to undertake. Orders have been confirmed by Fermi and it's moving to deploy. Fleet also recommends secondary deployment of IntelX assets for initial site survey."

'Depends on what the Roanians have in the system already. If they have anything in the system.' The 2nd Lieutenant paused and looked at one of the participants who had just asked slightly the same question as everyone else had. 'I'm not sure if I'd make a terrible mercenary because I'm asking the same questions, or if that would make me a good mercenary... If Fermi is willing to hang around long enough to get them close to the planet then I'll agree. No reason to have them risk their butts for our assignment though.'

"I'll ask Fermi then. Anything else?"

The ArAreBee nodded, seemingly in response to an answered question, 'Yes. Order all crew to stations and land the Leakey at the closest facility in New ArAreBee. We'll leave as soon as I get there so run through any additional supplies you think we might need.'

"Yes sir."

In the far-off star system occupied by SGV78 local space distorted and a sleet of energy accompanied the SDF-Fermi (http://www.sunsetrpg.com/yappa-ng/index.php?album=%2FSpaceships%2F&image=SDFCuriosityA.jpg) as it emerged far above the system plane. The energy released by the tesseract drive had barely begun to disperse when the light explorer began releasing ordinance from it's dorsal mission pod then abruptly stopped and disappeared as space warped around it. Speeding outward the torpedoes formed into a rough web pattern hundreds of thousands of kilometers across before they stopped and turned their collective passive sensors on the world far below.

“The payment is acceptable.” Azriel said, glancing up to the Roanian with her azure eyes. “We’ll take on your little job.”

“I want one of these girls as a down payment” Taz said to the side.

“Quiet.” Azriel said curtly. “Mind, why the dodged question, hmm? What sort of threat are me and my men expected to face?”

Azriel picked some fluff from her burgundy cufflinks, she wore a Victorian style black and burgundy overcoat that trailed right down to her knees, she merely looked over to the others before turning back to the Roanian with a smouldering gaze. “After all, I dislike wasting man and material for something as petty as sport.”

Vannerman went back to sucking on his pipe, considering quietly what had been said, no longer paying any attention to boatswain Philipson as he replied to the Salamandr’s challenge by swinging a steel-toed boot into its face and making a spirited attempt to climb onto its back, bellowing “bonzer, mate!” at the top of his lungs. He was busy thinking.

Whoever his hosts were – and he had no clue who they were, nor what their history was – they didn’t seem poor. They certainly didn’t seem lacking in the capacity for viciousness; a single look at the Roanian host’s teeth suggested that here was a predatory species at heart, but little removed from the plains, where the fires of the Stone Age gleamed and flickered in its eyes. The casual dismissal of the other mercenary’s question of salvage told him something else: they were hell-bent on setting the bounds and losing as little as possible of theirs. He didn’t much like that, but it went with the territory; nobody hired in mercenary forces to do a job when their own forces could be spared for the task. The third action was, in its way, just as revealing: the Roanians, he surmised, were the most staggeringly dull-minded, bureaucratic oafs anywhere in the universe. No other species could possibly even think of adding that innocent-sounding little caveat in anything but jest; yet there had been not a flicker of amusement onm their host’s impish countenance as he had informed them of the possibility to meet this Empress of theirs. A strange people. Not ones he particularly liked, it had to be said.

He checked his watch and backed slightly behind a convenient pillar as the Roanian fielded more queries and one of the “women” handed him a small package, presumably the “data slate”, which appeared to bear no connectors or sockets of any kind with which he was familiar. Another job for the CPO (Communications), perhaps. As the creature sauntered vacantly away, he could not help but shudder at the thought of what might really lie beneath that helpful, beguiling mask. Something less than human… or something that had once been more? No use thinking about that, he chided himself. He had more important work to do. Carefully slipping the slate into a pocket, he removed a small videophone and checked for a signal. The phone stared back at him balefully, informing him that he had “No Network Coverage” once again. Figures. He sighed and made for the door, quickly attaching a small portable camera from the phone’s body to a shadowed area of wall. It wasn’t much – it had been put into the device as little more than a novelty item, designed to allow people to film themselves and others at a distance – but he had found it extremely useful in discreet surveillance, and the replacement cameras were plentiful. At least, at home they were plentiful.

It was time to return to the ship, he decided, sighing inwardly as he did so. They had learned precious little; he was, he was keenly aware, taking his ship, and his crew, blindly into combat. But the Roanians were unlikely, he reckoned, to give him much more information than they already had. Bureaucratic dullards to a fault, they could see nothing to be gained by openness to the strangers they had recruited to sort out their mess. Vannerman didn’t like that, either. He disliked it so much that he practically stalked out of the chamber, grabbing the bloodied, furiously wrestling boatswain by the collar as he did so. He didn’t stop stalking until he heard, over the boatswain’s furiously abusive shouts at the lizard-thing behind him, Redman’s bored monotone.

He rounded the bend to see Redman staring listlessly at the paper before him. “Question thirteen. In the event of a fire, what is the most important item in the immediate area to preserve? A) Yourself. B) The Empress. C) The Empress’ gown. D) The Empress’ jewellery. E) The Empress’ parquet floor.” Redman stared, open-mouthed, at the form. “Parquet floor? Parquet fucking floor!?” he shouted, in a voice that was already dancing on the rim of madness. He was still muttering the words as the shuttle departed Darsalin on its long journey back to the Venerable. Vannerman stared from the heat-shielded window alongside his seat as it ascended, fingering the data slate with a certain foreboding. The future was uncertain; it would always be so, of course. But it wasn’t his habit to enter a future, whose one certainty was danger, with so little knowledge in his grasp. As the shuttle swung past Venerable’s weather deck, he spied two of her automated probes and felt a little more at ease. He would not be blind much longer; and, whatever lurked on this distant world, he knew that his ship and his crew could withstand it. Knew… or hoped.

Light's Blessing Resort Complex, Darsalin Base

As the conversation carried forth and an amount of commotion erupted more towards the doorway of the conference room, Samantha appeared more interested in a tiny handheld comms device than anything else. Taking the opportunity to relay all known information to her superiors back with the First Fleet, she was able to receive confirmation that the general leadership of the Imperial Military, including Sky Marshall Jack Valkyrie himself, remained interested in executing an agreement. Procuring an understanding that the mission would be incredibly lucrative but equally dangerous, and their acceptance of such, she pocketed the device and took more attention of her ability to sign various contracts required by their Roanian contact.

Stepping forward, she indicated to the man that some degree of anonymity on her behalf would still be required but that she represented a 'large, military-esque organization'. Payment could be handled through a various amount of bank deposits and withdrawals, and account details were to be destroyed as soon as he was finished with them. At this point, any wanted fugitive from the Unione of Capitalizt States might question the wisdom of revealing such details to someone they knew very little about, but neither the Imperial Military nor Lieutenant Commander Bullsworth did. It had been determined that the organization as a whole under the command of Sky Matshall Valkyrie had enough resources to close any connections from details given and themselves quickly enough should it prove indicative of a government conspiracy to locate or trap them in any way.

Meanwhile, she signed all documents with a dotted 'x' and agreed on behalf of the Imperial Military to abide by the terms and conditions of the contract set forth. In short, the operation was to be carried out with the maximum amount of discretion possible, and this suited both parties well.

Taking her leave, Samantha wasted no time in gathering what few possessions she brought with her and made her way to the Merchant Vehicle she had arrived in. Scanning for bugs or tracking devices, she found none and shot up into the upper atmosphere of Mars before entering space. From orbit, she input all information into the vehicle's guidance systems and as quick as a button, both her and her vehicle were gone.

*~*~*

Imperial Fortress, In Space Near the Alpha Centuri Star System

Docking was a non-issue, as the Imperial Fortress' Traffic Control already had her vessel's markers logged and flagged to be accepted nigh automatically. Computing an approach and vector, the computer's systems calculated the best method of approaching the fortress and did so. Meanwhile as she waited, Lieutenant Commander Bullsworth thought on what she had learned on her visit to Darsalin Base, Mars. The mission intrigued her, and she was eager to examine the data slate as soon as possible. Not nearly as much as the Sky Matshall himself she found however upon entering the docking arm as her vehicle came to a halt. Personally organized by Valkyrie himself, two heavily armed military personnel awaited her arrival and quickly escorted her to the higher chambers of the Imperial Fortress. And within minutes, she found herself standing in the company of the most powerful man in what was also considered 'the Imperium'.

" So, " the Sky Marshall wasted no time in getting down to business. " You've served me well Lieutenant Commander, I appreciate you representing me. "

Bullsworth remained at attention, " Just performing the duties of my service, Sky Marshall, Sir. "

" I believe you have something for us to examine? "

" Sir yes Sir, " she replied formally. Pulling the data slate out of her packet she held it out for Valkyrie's taking. " My contact gave me this device. It contains all information on the subject at hand. "

Valkyrie smiled and took the device, looking it over. " You've executed your orders perfectly. Ms Bullsworth, I'd like to give you the permission to speak freely; I'm aware that it's below your duties as a Lieutenant Commander, but I need someone I can trust. I need someone, possibly you, to lead a squad for this mission. What do you think? "

" It'd be an honor, " Samantha relaxed some, but remained formal with her superior. " I know the importance of this operation to you, so it's not below my rank at all. In fact, I'm privileged you've chosen to offer me the job instead of one of your colonels or generals. "

The Sky Marshall nodded, " Good. Well the details of your mission will be forwarded to you within the next twelve hours. But I want you to lead a squad of thirteen soldiers, made up of three fireteams. One fireteam of five, and two fireteams of four. Your squad may be made up of whoever you want, and you may select your Team Leaders accordingly. I'd like to be briefed by twenty-four hours from now according to who is on the team and each of their roles in it, but you effectively have the entire Imperial Military at your disposal. Do you understand? "

" Perfectly, " the Lieutenant Commander saluted.

Valkyrie bowed his head, " Then you are excused. "

The expression of the Roanian froze at the Eldar's question. A moment passed, and then another. The answer was a long time in coming. "We don't know what happened to the Host force we sent. We lost contact with them as well. We have suspicions, but none we're willing to share at this point." He rose to his feet. "Well, no point in hanging around here. You all have work to get on with and I have some forms to fill in." He stood up and walked to the door, but lingered there for a moment, as if waiting for any final remarks from those still present.

Not seeing any questions, or deciding discretion is the better part of workplace relations, he vanished in a swirl of smoke.


-----

The Very Dangerous Array revealed (as did the databoards, when activated) a large, rocky world with the scars of a thousand years of mining visible from miles away. On the northern continent a massive city, almost reduced to ruins, stretched for miles along a mountain range. In the centre was a large hole in the ground, possibly from an asteroid collision or the like, and seemingly predating settlement.

The weather by the ciy seemed cloudy and rainy, and certainly the surface was obscured. However, in breaks in the cloud cover, evidence of recent reoccupation appeared at a relatively intact site a few miles west of the crater, where the old shuttlepad had been cleared by the new colonists and their military successors.

No signs of life immediately visible, of course.

Sadly, approximately 45 minutes after the VDA had arrived and begun scanning an energy pulse fired from the planet and shattered its shields, followed less than fifteen seconds later by a pulse of destructive energy that hit the array and caused it to explode into a million pieces just in time for the mercenaries to watch.


On their way, those who opened their databanks received the environmental information above, and a special message from a very special Lady-Empress.

Alessa was sitting on her throne, a soft litle smile on her beautiful face. She was dressed in a soft blue gown that clung tightly to her perfect curves, not really hiding much apart from that which absolutely had to be hidden. She nodded her head offcamera, and then smiled once more, lighting the room with her presence. With a simple swish of her long blonde hair she began to talk. "I just thought," she murmured in a quiet voice that still managed to carry to all listeners, "that since you're risking your life help me solve a problem, the least I could do is wish you good luck. And say thank you." She inclined her head and looked back up, gently fiddling with the pendant hanging between her pleasantly-sized breasts. "Do your best! I look forward to granting your wishes, so be sure you make it through to see me and ask for them." She blushed, but did so prettily, and covered her mouth to hide a giggle. Then the camera shut off.

Shuresh’s reaction to well, the Roanians answer was odd to say the least, first he frowned, not so strange then he grinned widely and laughed. ‘So they expect is to go to a world where they managed to lose contact with an entire army, and survive. Oh and they won’t tell us what they think might have happened to their previous attempt at re-establishing contact! I like it, this sounds like fun.’

Pausing before continuing to speak he took a moment to examine the reactions of the rest of his companions before speaking in a very loud and carefully selected tone of voice.
‘Although I might add to whoever is listening to our conversation out there, and I know you are… the first person to hand me a form with more than one page on it to fill in gets to find out how long they can last missing internal organs. The second person I get creative with.’

Having said that he turns and leans over to stage whisper into the nearest person’s ear, ‘With Roanians best to let them know you’re not going to take their crap early on, or they will keep throwing forms at you. Then we’d likely never actually get to the fun, the universe would have ended and we’d still have forms to fill out…’

Continuing to mutter even as he looked at the databank he whistled ‘Still, she looks fun.’

Julian examined the databoard as he rose from his chair and led his little party from the briefing room. Exactly how he was able to avoid bumping in to people, walls, other such things, without actually looking where he was going...was not apparent.

He smiled somewhat in spite of himself at Alessa's message, and indeed looked forward to seeing her again, but knew that he couldn't afford to let himself become distracted. Still, it was nice to have a decent reason to do his job.

Julian handed the datapad to Irian after he had committed the contents to memory. The Inquisitor would have several hours during the shuttle-flight back to Calirnevris and Resolute to study the information. Barnabus and Todd could look it over on the frigate. Julian was already planning his insertion.

--

RV Resolute, outbound from Calirnevris, RNS Sol Station, Sol

'All Hands, All Hands, stand-by for Starfall. Stand-by for Starfall. Starfall.'

The assault frigate Resolute vanished, tearing its way into drivespace, leaving behind a lingering after-image and little-else.

--

0-Dark-Hundred, ship-time, onboard RV Resolute, enroute to SGV78. ETA: Resolving.

He couldn't sleep. Nothing unusual in that, though - what was unusual was that he couldn't enter the near-sleep pseudo-trance that at least shut up the march of his thoughts, either. Generally, the latter was a symptom of the former. One without the other was...weird. He sighed and rolled over, burying his face in his pillow.

"grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrngghhhh..."

He lifted his head off the pillow, then slammed it down in frustration. He needed his sleep -- he doubted he'd have the opportunity once they made Starrise, and he'd need to be his sharpest through the whole thing. He needed to survive, needed to survive. If he died...

<If I die, I die a meaningless death.>

The thought that he might die was not foreign -- he knew the risks, accepted them because this was what he did. The thought that his death would not have meaning -- that was disturbing. That was frightening. That was new. And he knew what had changed.

<Damnit, Julian! If you'd just done your damned RESEARCH! If you'd thought /at all./ If you'd been prepared -- if you'd not been so damned /blind,/ then...>

He lifted himself up off the surface of the bed, pulling his face from the pillow, sucking in a lungful of air. He coughed a little, trying to clear his throat, hating himself for his weakness, hating himself for his stupidity, hating himself because...

<Because she hates me.>

He rolled over onto his side, drawing his knees up towards his chest, giving his hands something to do other than ball involuntarily into fists while he squeezed his eyes shut and strangled off any sound he tried to make, his body shaking -- shuddering -- in silence. No-one onboard Resolute would understand, and he knew, knew, that he wouldn't be able to let it lie, to let them believe that he was asleep and dreaming and that it was all just a nightmare, because it wasn't. It wasn't the faces of dead men that haunted him.

<She hates me. I left her and she hates me.>

It began somewhere down in the pit of his gut, partly that horrible feeling you get when something goes horribly wrong, partly a white-hot rage the likes of which he had never experienced. And he knew why.

He knew exactly why. The memories came unbidden -- standing atop a tower on Morgathi <Which tower, Julian? Which tower?>, looking up at the stars. Asking the same questions.

<Why? Why did you leave? What did I do wrong? I was just a child -- just a child. Why did you leave me here, alone?>

Atop a tower, the highest tower, <always the highest tower> of the Spire he'd been sent to for that <day? week? How long before I move again?>, on a planet where life could only exist sheltered in highest reaches of the Spires, where you flew before you walked...

He had learned to hate.

<FUCK YOU, YOU WHORE! YOU COULDN'T FACE YOUR MISTAKE!>

He shots his legs out, stripping the blankets from his chest, compacting them into a ball at his feet. His arms trembled, his hands were taught, spread, grasping. Rolling out flat, he lay with his arms flung out, staring up at the cabin's gray textured ceiling. It never got dark enough to really make him happy in this damn ship. Not like the total blackness you got when the lights went out and your room was in the middle of a mountain. Not that kind of dark.

Not dark enough to pretend he was dead. Not dark enough to project his fears, like he'd used to, so he could wrestle them -- assert his control, the way he'd done as a child. He couldn't do that in this damned gray room. Could he?

His left hand -- ungloved, which was unusual for him -- quivered. The little lights -- green, yellow: the alarm, the clock, the damned coffee-maker, the electronics that he'd never needed as a child, that he didn't need now -- went out. He closed his eyes, bit his tongue, and pushed.

I hate you. You left me, and I hate you.

"I'm sorry."

Sorry doesn't make it better -- you ran away from me.

"No, I didn't. I made a mistake..."

"I don't make mistakes." Who said that?

"I did."

He opened his eyes. He jerked -- he didn't remember it being this real. Merciful Pancreator, she was beautiful...

"But I didn't run away. I didn't. You've got to believe me -- I don't run from my problems!"

You ran from me. You left me. You left me, and I hate you. I hate you, Julian Ezrah Kel-Fang. I hate you, and I hope you die.

He'd never told her his middle name -- Ezrah, for Ezrah Yrro, the Pyrite Lord who had commanded Felix Kel's Spire Lancers in the War of Reclamation -- who had died on that final night, thrown himself upon a sword that was meant for his liege, dying so that Felix Kel could live. Ezrah Yrro, who had won the love of his liege through selfless service and absolute reliability, who won the love of his liege's eldest daughter with his wit and charm. Ezrah Yrro -- who died and shattered a dream. Died and shattered a heart. Died and drove Rhya Kel to the stars, to return only once.

Only once, to deliver an infant child with hair the color of white-gold. To speak but one sentence: "His name is Julian, but I didn't name him; He came out of me, but I don't want him; He's your problem, now."

Felix had named him that: "Julian Ezrah Kel! My Grandson!"

Felix had been so proud just to have a grandchild, but Felix was also Duke Kel...and it hadn't been long before one of the myriad Kel relations added the 'Fang' to his name, the mark of a bastard. The mark of an unwanted child -- the mark of a mistake.

"I don't make mistakes."

You said that. You left /me/.

"I'd change it if I could, I'd change everything."

You can't. You can't change the past.

"I wasn't given a choice."

What? It's not your fault?

"I didn't say that. I failed. I didn't leave because I wanted to."

You left because you failed and you failed because you left. You failed /me/.

His eyes widened -- he'd failed before. He'd failed his power armor quals, the first time -- they'd tried to force him into flying Vertrigravs...

That's why they keep you around, isn't it? Because you can fly?

"Because I can teach. Because I can look at a pilot and know how to make him better. I don't fly. Not anymore."

He'd begged, cursed, threatened, used every ounce of pull that he didn't really have to make them let him retake the AI quals, and he'd aced them, he'd done it right. Years later, he'd learned that they'd rigged the first qual to try and push him into vertigravs. He'd laughed about it, then, but hated them for it. Doing it right the second time through, getting a perfect score, he'd never felt a greater sense of accomplishment.

He could fix this, too.

He looked up into her eyes -- so real, they were never that real.

"I don't make mistakes."

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, the room was dark and empty -- cool.

He rolled over onto his side, again, settled his head into his pillow, closed his eyes. Saw blue. Opened his eyes. Saw black.

"My way."

Closed his eyes. Saw blue. Opened one eye.

"And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none; he rode all unarm'd and he rode all alone. So faithful in love and dauntless in war, there never was Knight like the young Lochinvar."

Closed his eye. Saw blue. Kept them closed.

"Read the poem. You might learn something. Love. War. My Way."

Saw black.

Slept.

--
Some time later, onboard RV Resolute, enroute to SGV78. Arrival: imminent.

Julian settled his helmet onto his head and checked the seal with the rest of his armor. Satisfied, he worked his jaw. The helmet's screens flickered for a moment, then went live. Telltales were green, diagnostics were clean, everything seemed to be in order.

Like the vast majority of the Revenian mercenary outfits, the White Shields made extensive use of surplus AFESSR equipment. As a rule, AFESSR kit was effective, reliable, appropriately priced, and most importantly, available. The Supremacy was very lenient on non-military ownership of weapons, but military-grade power armor was pushing things.

Of course, the vast majority of mercs were former AFESSR personnel, which changed the rules considerably. For certain individuals, Julian amongst them, who opted to remain with the AFESSR in a reserve status, the rules effectively didn't apply.

In return for spending a few weeks a year training RFM Vertigrav pilots -- long story -- he got to play with all sorts of neat toys. A good example was the armor he was wearing at the moment. It was quite different from the SORA II armor that the rest of the Shields used: cleaner lines, sleek, and significantly less bulky.

The Cataphract I suit had been intended as a potential replacement for the Myrmidon armor used by the Seraph regiments. That hadn't worked out, and the suits had been floating around since then. A number of them ended up with Dysaryn Stark's Swordsworn, which made sense -- the Cataphract suit was more-or-less ideal for the sort of work that they did, and the Swordsworn were one of the few groups who could swing funding for the things.

Julian wasn't Swordsworn himself -- there was a reason that the Swordsworn 'pin' was virtually identical to the old House Stark retainer flash. There was a reason why no Kel wore that flash -- they had given Dysaryn Stark their support as allies, not subjects. Complications aside, he was Duke Felix Kel's grandson, and he was no man's 'retainer.'

Of course, the 'improved' model, designed specifically for the Swordsworn, was being field-tested, which was probably why he'd gotten the suit he had. Nothing but the best for Dysaryn Stark's picked men. Didn't bother him -- the Cata I was plenty good for him, better, really, because it was a battle suit that also just so happened to be a really good 'ninja' suit.

The suit's command capabilities were unparalleled in Julian's experience -- and completely un-necessary in a ninja-suit. Swordsworn worked solo or in small groups -- they didn't need the ability to coordinate large numbers of soldiers. Julian did -- that was the 'official' why: the suit was being re-evaluated for adoption by the Fleet Marines for some purpose or other.

He sighed, shook his head, and grabbed his carbine from the rack, mooring it to mount-point on the suit's back. His warblade was already in place -- the 'Advanced Melee Weapon Mounting' would keep it out of his way until he needed it. Creepy to look at but a dream when engaging in complex maneuvers.

With a grin on his face he slapped up his visor and headed off to the drop room...because he didn't have much time lef--

The assault frigate made Starrise in SGV78, announcing its arrival with a burst of multi-colored light. The frigate had sited its insertion point precisely, and if all was to continue according to Julian's plan, planetfall would occur in a matter of minutes...

t. He started to run.

De Luca rolled her eyes as the last bit played over several times in the holosphere, "Perché non ha collocato appena lí con le sue gambe ha steso?" she muttered as she pointedly looked at the Knootian until he turned it off.

"Whatever you think of her character," the Kitsune Lieutenant llwynog replied as he pulled the whole recording up on his station and began running various analysis tools on it, "It does provide an interesting amount of insight into Roanian culture and some tidbits about their technology and military strategy."

"Suggestions of sexual availability as military strategy? Sign me up..." Metternich laughed. The Cetagandan answered him with a stern look and he changed topics if not his train of thought, "We should be landing at SDFFLC Seven-Two in five minutes. I've talked to the base supply officer and passed on our orders from Fleet..."

'Good work Ensign,' Jeebs voice came from the holosphere. 'I've left the meeting and I've got a sub-orbital in five minutes. See if the FLC can swap our supply pod for an intelligence pod. We'll have to cram stuff into the existing storage but we need the extra sensor suites to get everything we can.'

"Yes sir. Anything else?"

'Gallon of milk and some cigarettes. We might want to pull some non-standard weapons and armor from storage as well. Tell you what - check with the mercenary supply companies and see if you can get some quick 'Been approximations for what we've got as far as gear goes. It won't be as good but if things go pear-shaped we can pull out our own stuff.'

"What then is your plan for approaching the situation?" De Luca asked, her question and comment typically Dominion. "It would seem to me that we don't seem to have the numbers of any of the other 'mercenary' groups and I'll be surprised if someone doesn't end up with a knife in their back."

"And if I were looking to be the last man standing I'd try to pick off the little guy first. Which means we should try not to look like the little guy."

Jeebs nodded in agreement with llwynog. 'I'll consider that on the flight over. Get everything there ready. If we are first to the punch we can at least keep the Roanians, and everyone else's, heads down long enough to make the next one count.'

Forty minutes later the Leakey lifted off from a landing pad perched on the side of one of the dizzyingly chaotic mega-buildings built along the northern shores of the ArAreBeen main island and headed for orbit. Thanks to the switch from a sub-orbital to an inter-city maglev to the transit structure inside the mega-building the 2nd Lieutenant was reasonably sure his destination and thus identity had been obscured. Still, on making orbit as just another one of the thousands of ships arriving or departing Mars that day, the Leakey headed for the line of mixed civilian and military traffic moving through the Aurora wormgate.

While she waited the assembled crew looked over everything they had gathered so far, including the incoming data from the wide network of torpedoes that made up the VDA (Very Dangerous Array).

"Well, at least they were honest about what little they gave us..."

"Captain!" Lieutenant llwynog punched up the VDA on the holosphere. An array of tiny dots spread out symbolically over nearly a hundred thousand kilometers they were now one by one winking out like a curtain being rapidly pulled back.

"What the hell... Can you..."

"Realtime, mainscreen!"

The kitsune hit the controls and behind the holosphere a flat monitor lit up with the external visual camera from one of the remaining torpedoes. There was a moment of flare before the camera compensated and then they could all see a massive beam of energy moving from point to point as it shot out, presumably from the planet, crackling tendrels of energy whiplashing off to hit torpedo after torpedo as it moved towards the camera's position until the camera itself went dark in a flash of mauve energy.

"Well crap..."

"Seems the Roanians missed something in their briefing." De Luce turned to her station and started replaying the last minute of the VDA's transmission. "The question is whether it was intentional or not."

"Mmm. But it also tells us a little more. First, that beam was definitely enough to vaporize this ship." llwynog brought up a series of energy output graphs on the holosphere. "Knock a big hole in a cruiser if it hit it too. But the second bit is good news - based on the time that the VDA was deployed to the time it was destroyed, and the distance it was from the planet, I would reasonably assume that it's sensors are limited to speed-of-light only. Which means we can use our maneuverability to our advantage. We also know where it is..."

"Though we shouldn't assume there isn't another one that covers the other side of the planet."

"True enough. My basic suggestion would be that we come in and land on the dark side of one of the planet's moons. From there we should be safe from any direct planetary defenses. This also suggests we will want to communicate with the other groups to coordinate a mass landing. If we don't it might pick us apart piecemeal."

"Suggestion taken. Everyone into the pods then. As soon as we come out on the Bright Morning side we'll jump and come in hot with the EW gear up."

"Yes sir..."

One by one the crew moved into their escape pods and settled in. Once inside they jacked in and went virtual as the ship locked itself down for combat. As soon as they were out of the traffic lanes over the Triumvirate colony of Bright Morning the ship accelerated and activated it's tesseract drive...

The distinctly elfin Onarrán smiled faintly at Shuresh’s comment.

“Beaurocracy is tedious. A lord or captain should be free to do as he will without chains of paper.”

Purple eyes look at the Eldar for a moment.

“It is also a symptom of a lack of imagination. Whatever one can ask for cannot be beyond that individual’s wildest dreams.”

He turns to look once more at the others in the room, appearing to focus in turn upon those whose appearance most denotes attachment to a formal military structure.

“Good luck, ladies and gentlemen, may They Who Went Before guide your footsteps and firearms. I shall see you on the surface, no doubt.”

So saying, he rises smoothly and bows ever so slightly to the room in general and walks out of the door.

Onarrím Warcraft Light of the Moon Ascendant , in-Realm over district of Leaves Whispering to Stars, territory of the High House Violet, en-route to Gateway appropriate for SGV78

The ‘bridge’ of the Ascendant would be rather confusing to human eyes, with its walls that seem at times a few inches away and at others a good two-dozen metres. There are only three of the Onarrím in this particular room aboard ship, and indeed ‘bridge’ would be a rather misleading term. There is no apparent window, nor is there much in the way of a control panel. Three ‘seats’ apparently formed of ivory-white branches hold the delicate forms of the three in the room, their eyes are closed and they do not move. Their three ‘voices’ echo in the elegantly empty chamber, and speak of the movement of the ship.

“Adjusting to nine points by the Crown”

“Compensating for temporal variance, District Shadows before Sunrise time-debt will have elapsed by the count of twelve.”

“Passing the gate in four, slowly to allow for debt”

“Cloaks are awake. The hob will steer us through.”

Elsewhere in the three hundred metre long ship another three Onarrím, Vaysnaer eora’Violet among them, are strapped securely into individual drop-pods all fashioned of the same strange material as the warcraft itself – a material designed to allow sensors to ripples past it as if nothing was there. The voice of the hob whispers into the helmets of their hunting-rigs.

...Lords and Lady, we enter the false-place in moments. Descent pods are ready, Honoured Ones. Glory be to High House Violet, the Faithful and Eternal. Humble reminders to be silent, swift, and patient as were your forbears, the way of the Everlasting Empire is not the brute way of non-things...

The warcraft vanishes from the sky above a forested land with no horizon, reappearing in space some distance from SGV78 with its cloaks carefully arranged – the ship is much like the Onarrím themselves, fast and hard to find when they don’t want to be found, but frail.

...The world is suitable, matches dataslate, calculations complete, returning to the Realm...

The Ascendant vanished from the system, reappearing in what the Onarrím call variously ‘real’ space, the ‘Realm’, and home. The ship moved on to another point, before winking out of the Realm.

The plan was quite charmingly simple – the hob and the ship’s pilots would bring the warcraft into high orbit, descend rapidly and ideally undetected, fire off the three in their drop-pods and withdraw to a safer position further from the planet to observe and aid.

In Orbit Around Planetary Designation SGV78, Space

All was quiet, until a number of vessels suddenly appeared each of them from different sources, nationalities, and interests. Included among them was the ISS Inquisitor, an Imperial Cruiser chosen specifically for its mobility and ability to navigate dangerous situations. The mission, notable for its lack of briefing, thereby became a life threatening one, and all staff and personnel had to be prepared for nigh any situation upon their arrival. Just emerging from the wormhole the vessel had created, staff on board were already preparing for a drop from which soldiers of the squad Lieutenant Commander Bullsworth had chosen would descend upon a surface unknown and presumed out of control.

" Commander on deck! "

The organized squad of twelve soldiers (not including Bullsworth herself) rallied themselves into a ready position.

" Gentlemen! " the Lieutenant Commander shouted at the top of her lungs literally on deck. " You are the finest sons of bitches of the Imperial Military, and I expect that not all of you will return to tell the tale of what the hell's been going on down there! "

Around them, personnel were running back and forth in preparation for what was to come as sirens and emergency warnings sounded.

" You are scum, you are pathetic, but unfortunately, you've all we've got and completing the mission successfully is not only critical, it is compulsory! "

She turned to one of her assistants, an old drill instructor named Norman Walsh. Aged one hundred and twenty-two years, the Sergeant Major remained one of the oldest men in Imperial Service. (Average lifespan of an Austarian exceeded two hundred years).

" Roll Call! " the man's voice growled loudly and over the top of organized chaos around them.

The soldiers twelve in number all stood at attention, ready to be counted and organized into each of their fireteams.

" Sergeant Rob Nicholson, Fireteam ALPHA, FIRE! "

" Aye Sir! "

" Lance Corporal Thomas Ornberg, Fireteam ALPHA, ASSIST! "

" Sir Yes Sir! "

" Lance Corporal William Newman, Fireteam ALPHA, READY! ... "

It wasn't too long before all the servicemen were counted and assigned to their relative fireteam. It had presumed, that on the Planet's surface that all hell had broken loose and the soldiers considered themselves prepared to face even anarchy. Years of training and preparation had brought them here, for this day, for the moment of 'do or die', for the time that the Imperial Military and more importantly Sky Marshall Valkyrie required their every ability to kill or be killed. For man and for military, they believed that they had what it took to succeed.

With a disposition of confidence and organizations, each man organized himself to be ready for the drop. Team ALPHA, to which the Lieutenant Commander would join as its fifth member; Team BETA, which carried the strength necessary with four soldiers; and Team GAMMA which was made of equal power to match and compliment the others. Together they made for an awesome squad of military men and more importantly, dangerous warriors--a squad of three major powers equally as reliant on each other as they were able to fight and take the territory necessary to complete all mission objectives.

Meanwhile, a large mechanical door opened revealing the 'drop zone', a designated sector of the Planet itself. Wearing a certain amount of powered armor, the thirteen were unaffected by the vacuum of space that took over and sucked every inch of oxygen out of the area. Outside, the orbit and surface of the Planet was revealed to which an angry storm was brewing, swirling as if it 'knew' of what terrors awaited below, secrets yet to be unlocked. Rather than just dropping and hoping for survival however, a mechanized drone had been sent ahead of them, providing all reconnaissance and information which was vital to the mission's success.

The Lieutenant Commander peeked over the edge that made for a divide between the ship's comfort and the beginning of hell. " Are you ready Soldiers?! "

Well this seemed to be a problem, no one told him they where expected to make their own way to the world. An odd choice by what he knew the Roanians, to basically allow a group of well armed maniacs to go flying about their territory. The problem was, while the Eldar had been in space a very long time, they had a specialised FTL system. Oh it was possible a web gate was near the world in question but even a short STL trip would put them so far behind on the job it would be over well before they got there…

It seems lads we have a problem, but never fear I have us a solution, go to the port and have a look around. We need a ship so, well I’m sure the authorities won’t mind too much if we borrow one. I’ll be there in hmm fifteen minutes and pick our ride.

For the next fifteen minutes roughly Forty Eldar or so scurried around Darsalin spaceport leaning against pillars talking to workers, slipping them a few creds for minor details on the various craft parked. How new it was, how fast the model went, how long a particular ship class had been in production because their boss was thinking of getting himself one. Fourteen minutes into the very quick casing and they had narrowed the choice down to two ships. One was old, really old, it seemed at times the paint was only thing holding it together; the advantage was that the security on it was just as bad. Then there was another ship far newer, shiny in fact with a full crew, the advantage was it had a full crew, if they struck quickly enough they could use the crew to take them to their destination. The final choice was Shureshs.

Shuresh on the other hand was about to discover that he wasn’t going to need to make a choice…

‘For Khaines-Sake I… I… well he is good I’ll give him that.’ Shuresh said as he turned the corner and arrived back at the spaceport. His reason for the odd comment immediately clear as a man stood at the door with a sign held over his head, stating in clear letters ‘Shuresh’.

Within minutes he was the proud owner of a ship capable of transporting them to their destination and providing extraction quickly. Nothing too fancy, the ship in question wouldn’t stand for more than a few minutes before a Corsair vessel of a similar size, but it had an actual functioning FTL drive and one remarkably quick to pick up. While it would certainly be quicker, Shuresh was disappointed, as where his men. They had been looking forward to the heist, but well, it was likely more important that they actually get a move on, before the planet was looted, sorry before the job was done.

During the Journey itself Shuresh looked over the databank a little closer ‘Hmm so who wants to poke around the Crater that the original inhabitants decided was too dangerous to bother doing anything with even through it had been there before them?’ Despite the question the hands of most of the Eldar present rose with eagerness at that question. Shuresh grinned and nodded right back. ‘So that’s our target then we’ll land in the old city away from the new settlement, the others will look there in all likely hood, and draw the attention of whatever killed the previous two expeditions so we’ll get a clear look at the enemy poke around a weird crater and have as an added bonus the more likely untouched parts of the old city to loot.’

Cheers went up at that followed by drinking, substances that in many cultures would be illegal and last of all, well free relations. Life as an Outcast mercenary was rarely dull, and they still had a few hours to kill.

The two sleek ships of the Sharton Assassins crackled slightly as their pulse drives wound down from the jump. It had been hard on the engines as they weren’t designed to come all the way to the centre, or even reach the fringe in just two or three jumps, but they’d managed it. Only problem was that it would now require them to vent the engines and try to cool them.

Lead Ship, Masayaf

“Has the Hassashin reached us also?” Azriel said as she peered at the star charts.

“Hassashin is reporting minor engine trouble, Madam.” the helmsman replied. “But is now making geosync orbit with the planet.”

“Good, have them prepare for landing in half an hour.” She replied simply as she left from the bridge to her quarters.

Taz merely sighed as he sat back in his chair, his suit was being busied around by three or four techies and there were several other men now limbering up for their suits. The problem with the Mercenary company that used high tech gear was to trade off between maintenance and men on the ground. Sharton tried to have it both ways, so she had a medium sized maintenance team of 6, and 12 men. It really wasn’t always enough and he bitched about it, but hey, he got paid and laid, what did he care?

He checked over his Pericles A2 Plasma Rifle again, and checked the sights by plugging them into a box on the side of his neck, it clicked and fizzled slightly before a targeting reticule blipped up on his vision, he shook the rifle around a bit, before stopping and letting it settle. Good. That worked.

"Christ she looks hot in that dress." remarked one of the men as the recording from Alessa played.

"Bet she looks better out of it." One remarked as he put down a boot and came over to look at the floating holographic message from Alessa

"Yeah, you think she'd grant us any wish?" another said.

"Like what?"

"Well ya know, anything at all?" the guy laughed before the others joined in laughing too.

Ten put the data padd aside ignoring the Roanian Empress's image and her offer.. He had a real woman waiting for him - or she'd be there shortly. Mina could and would make utter mincemenat of the little Roanian chick.

"I mean why settle for second rate when one can have the best?" He laughed as he moved through the shuttles that sat thick on the red dusted Martain ground side spaceport.

Nervous rode on his shoulders and gave a most unfeline grin "I've never undstood the matging urge" He admitted smugly. "but then again most of us Grendels don't mate untill were a couple of mils old. Humans are in such a hurry...But Mina...now thats sex and danger on two feet and by the Universe that's an attractive combo if I do say so myself."

"Don't let her hear you making commentls like that.... And there she is over there." Zen's sensors were exceptionally sensitive, even as mircronised as they had to be to be held by the bracer.

"Oh yeah danger in one gorgeous package" Ten muttered under his breath as he looked at the woman waiting for them by the shuttles boarding ramp.

Hours later in deep space - well outside the system of SGV78 the Damn Thing sat running silent - and that meant no emissions other than what it's spoofers were able to hide - and that was considerable, what they could hide that was. Anything active would ripple across them and be told there was nothing there, passive? What never reached them couldn't be detected.

A probe did a micro jump into the system, and then began pretending it was nothing more than space debris. But it had a ring side seat for what all the others involved in this little 'intervention' were doing. The information the Roanians claim to be all they has was so minimal as to be oh so less than believeable. Zen intended to rectify that situation - and taking ones time never hurt in a situation like this.

A second probe sized vehicle had micro jumped in as well, in the shadow of the first one - so that none would notice it, a ghost a sensor revenant had any one been looking for the first one anyway. It was slower, moving and bumbling along just as any space rock would as it headed in system, looking for all the universe just as it ws intended to - 'asteroid, one each', inbound on reagularly scheduled zip through the solar systems of SGV78.
. It would take three months to reach the system's stellar primary, and that was just fine. And completely unsuspicious.

Mina and Ten spent the time readying their suits. All Cadre were minimally qualified armorers, they had to be. Both Ten and Mina had spent time as part of the Cardre's armoring teams, so they were more knowledgeable than their teammates.

Dust bloomed outward from the Leakey as it settled to the dark surface of the starkly barren moon orbiting SGV78. Most of it shot away to slowly float back to the surface but some swirled in the centimeter-thin atmosphere that barely clung to the surface long enough to be stamped into the surface by the descending landing gear. From their new vantage point the crew could see the near-dozen probes that were lazily maneuvering their way around the moon to begin their trip towards the planet's surface.

The tiny ship hadn't been particularly circumspect about their launch: There was plenty going on in orbit already and they were not the only ship chucking probes and drones around. Based on the information gathered by the ill-fated VDA they would head for the surface at a variety of locations both close to and far from the city to deposit their cargo. There they would, hopefully, provide more detailed information for the crew's own landing...

"Speaking of landings... What were you able to hook us up with, Metternich?"

The Ensign stretched - escape pods were not meant to be overly comfortable - and walked over to one of the storage bay doors that was conveniently near the pod they had shared. "Well, take a look for yourself..." The door slid open and he continued as Jeebs started to walk over, "I was able to get a great deal on some Pilonese bio-armor..."

"Err..." Jeebs looked into the dim storage bay where a row of crates stood secured against one wall. Metternich ducked inside ahead of him and they were followed by some of the crew who had overheard their conversation.

"Yeah," The Knootian started to poke at the keypad that would unlock the standing crates. "Now I hope no one is allergic to peanuts..."

The 2nd Lieutenant's strangled 'What?!' was not the only outburst but the ensign continued to open the crate. Finally it swung open and everyone breathed a sigh of relief and then started laughing as regular old mechanical power armor was revealed. Then they started to laugh again as they got a closer look at the units.

"MNN? What the heck there Metternich..."

MNN - Martian News Network - was the dominate information source for the Red Planet and given the warlike tendencies of both the inhabitants and their visitors often needed to offer their reporters more than a flak vest. The white suits of armor were notably blazoned with the stylized MNN logo in a number of places. Also notable was their lack of weaponry.

"Well, no mounted systems..." Jeebs commented as he looked the units over.

"His choice was reasonable," the kitsune interjected, "They have a high level of personal protection, built-in drone control systems, flight capable..."

"Mmmhmm. But unless we want to look like we are going for the scoop of the day we will need to repaint them," De Luca said as she put a hand on one of the breastplates while she looked up into the transparent faceplate. "Have to do something about that too," she rapped on the faceplate.

"It's a screen..." Metternich demonstrated, opening up the helmet to show a thick faceplate. "So they can do battlefield interviews while still showing off their four-hundred-di-coin haircuts. I've got paint in this crate too. We can all paint our own while we wait for the probes."

De Luca nodded. "Very mercenary. Though I'm going with black and red... Mia patria."

"Permission to do hentai, Sir?" The Knootian asked, prompting everyone to grab a can of paint and point it at him. "Kidding, kidding!"


For most of the crew the job of repainting their chosen armor was simple. Some went for general utility patterns - stripes, blotches, and the like - while the young ensign took his time. When everyone else was done he was still just starting after first scanning the armor's dimensions into the computer and then taking a long look at the dataslate provided by the Roanians before deciding on a dark gray basecoat. While this dried he fed instructions into the ship's fabber which began to churn while he then started slowly painting a figure down the left side of his armor.

"So... What's it gonna be? Betty Page? Greta Garbo?" One of the engineers had stopped to watch him between retrieving the other suits to make the necessary modifications. "It's definitely a woman, though I don't get you mammals."

Metternich nodded at the Therian. "Sure is, but not just any woman..." He held up the dataslate, "I scanned her little teaser from the end and had the computer extrapolate her body based on the available angles. Then I used that model to create this pose."

"Ah. A half-naked Roanian Empress clinging to your side. Tasteful."

Screwdrivers, in the right hands, are invaluable tools. Apart from their propensity for screwing and unscrewing things – and they are unrivalled masters of the art – they have several other capabilities, all of which have been explored and re-explored by the clever, curious creature that is mankind. This particular screwdriver belonged to the Chief Petty Officer (Communications), a man whose normal day-to-day screwdriver-related activities were mostly to do with screwing and unscrewing the covers of boxes. The sort of boxes that have those clever red “high voltage” flashes on them and tend to hum. In its day, it had been used as a bottle-opener, a crude chisel and a drumstick, to name but a few of its past deeds. If screwdrivers could talk, it would have had a lot to say about the lot of the screwdriver. In fact, it could probably have made a decent stab at a new set of lyrics for I am the Very Model of a Modern Major-General.

Today, however, the screwdriver was being used as a crowbar. It wasn’t really used to this, but accepted it with good cheer, if not a little surprise.

CPO (Comms) Ackerman stared spitefully at the Roanian “data slate”. It looked like a simple enough contraption; probably solid-state, or maybe magnetic storage if it were old enough. Under normal circumstances, it was the work of a moment to read the contents of such things. But, being foreign, this device had no intentions of making life easy for Ackerman. He could see no connector or port of any kind he recognised as even resembling standard, which was bad. What was worse was that there were no screws; whoever had designed this thing had clearly not wanted it to be easy to get into. Ackerman swore as the screwdriver jumped out of the little seam he had found running along the device’s perimeter.

“For fuck’s sake!” he shouted, ignoring the cut the screwdriver had gouged into his finger, and concentrating hard on working out how to get into the thing. “Fucking foreign crap”. However, all was not lost. The chief problem was that the device could keep slipping about on his desk. Ackerman considered momentarily, snapping his fingers with satisfaction as he reached the solution. He glared at the recalcitrant device.

“Now we’ll see who’s smart, won’t we, ya little fucker?” he growled, nodding aggressively at the small black box as he boarded one of the ship’s lifts, on his way to the Chief Engineer’s workshops.

*****

Captain Vannerman sucked on his pipe, filling the wardroom with blueish smoke. The well-appointed room had come positively reeking of tobacco smoke, and Vannerman had seen no harm in adding to it, nor allowing his fellow officers to do likewise. He leaned nonchalantly against one of the beautifully-panelled walls, made in some wood once derived from cypress, and observed the last of the officers approaching through the narrow door, including the hapless Sub-Lieutenant Redman; still, he noted with amusement, the young man avoided his eye even for a second, expecting an upbraiding that would never come. This wasn’t the Navy. The ranks might be roughly the same, but things were different here. He looked around. Cannon, dependable as ever, shrewd eyes darting from the Captain, to the as-yet unoccupied projector screen, to the rest of the officers, studying them in turn. Second Lieutenant Shei, a glimmer of surprise still hiding in his bright eyes, as though he still couldn’t believe he was here. Third Lieutenant Shei, who was no relation whatsoever and took great pleasure in confusing the newer members of the ship’s company, busily ribbing Redman, periodically making cocked pistol gestures in Vannerman’s direction with a brawny arm; Frederickson, his Number Four, evidently still occupied with his usual duty of monitoring the ship’s status with regard to damage, atmospheric integrity, hull integrity, and the hundreds of other conditions that had be watched vigilantly for the ship to remain safe, staring vacantly into a small personal repeater, though Vannerman knew he was a bright lad. Stand, the most junior of the lieutenants, entrusted primarily with the work of monitoring the bridge’s repeaters from the ship’s sensor station, had occupied a seat in one of the corners, and now sat forlornly, deep-set eyes gazing at the tarnished wood with his usual perennial expression of dissatisfaction. In all his years in space, Vannerman had never known an officer so determinedly miserable. He was competent, and steady, but utterly lacking ability to deal with personnel; in the sensor post, he was probably as isolated as he was going to get from the crew.

Vannerman glanced over the rest, too; the four SLs, most of whom were engaged in teasing Redman, had gathered together in a gaggle under the watchful eye of Abel Hiraga, the Master – the title was dated, to be sure, but it had seemed most appropriate to Hiraga, tall, lean, almost aristocratic, and harder than the toughest granite, with only the gleam in his eye and the smile lines on his face to betray the fact that he was no ogre. The Chief Engineer Officer, too – inevitably referred to simply as “Chief” -, was with them – albeit by video monitor, for he had refused to leave his beloved engines to their own devices even for the short time it would take to watch the data slate’s contents, and was evidently busy trying to instruct several Seaman Engineers in the arcane art of maintaining, operating and getting the best out of the gigantic power plant under their charge. Vannerman smiled; CEO Reanar worked himself far too hard. He knew that, at that moment, as his ship floated carefully in a Roanian dock, he had another party under one of his subordinate Engineer Officers outside, delicately welding spot patches onto particularly large punctures in the ship’s outermost layer of plating. He loved Venerable like a second wife; as he had a habit of saying, emphatically, to anyone who would listen, she was a living, breathing beast, with a temper of her own, sir. Vannerman finally stood, finishing off the last of the tobacco, as the highest-ranking Supply Officer, Surgeon (who doubled as Science Officer) and Chaplain – for even Venerable had the same needs as any other warship – drifted in and settled themselves down around the long, careworn table.

Vannerman took out his pipe. “Are you sitting comfortably?” he smiled, raising a chuckle from some of the officers in the crowded room. “Then I’ll begin. Our thanks are due to CPO Ackerman, for finally making this… contraption work, by the way.” He gesticulated with the pipe stem towards the ramshackle assembly on the table. The data slate had been prised in half; its adroitly-constructed innards had been exposed and connected, with some rather threadbare spare wire, to the projector’s ports, and now, battered and defeated (and slightly compacted, owing to Reanar’s workshop vice), stood waiting for its master’s command. Vannerman stared at the construct for a moment, then settled for prodding at it with a screwdriver – was there anything it couldn’t do? – at which point it obligingly went into action with only a merry “fzzt!” and a small tail of smoke to betray the somewhat crude nature of the arrangement.

The gathered officers watched in silence the projection from the data slate. SGV-78 appeared on the screen, a shadow-ridden, rocky wasteland of a planet, riddled with rifts and crests, peaks and troughs that nature could never have formed, stark and sharp and ugly, out of place on the planet’s smooth-edged surface. Nothing grew or lived there without the intervention of intelligence; the sole major object of any interest was the great city that jutted out from the northern mountains like some ill-formed tooth, surrounded and layered with periodically parting clouds, evidently moved by a powerful upper atmospheric wind that seemed to centre about the place. Vannerman tried to make some sense of the constant jabber of mechanised, disjointed speech accompanying the recording, but it was entirely meaningless to him, as were the strange sequences of lines and dots that persisted at the bottom right of the screen, bunched up and layered like Morse code drawn by a clumsy child. No life stirred; none of them, really, had expected any different. The recently-used landing pad betrayed the ease with which whatever lay on the surface had snuffed out the lives of those so lately there; the room became more sombre, the gibbering voice from the recording seeming still more out of place, as the officers regarded its blasted, distant emptiness. All around them, Venerable was being reprovisioned; the noise of her crew at work could be heard throughout her long, fat hull, as men carried crates of supplies back and forth, chattering en route to or from her cavernous stores, or shells and shot slammed into her magazines down the vast hoists. Right at that moment, Frederickson’s repeater – though he was not watching it – was reading off the progress as thousands of tonnes of reactor mass for the ship’s eight giant deuterium-tritium fusion reactors was pumped into the carefully subdivided tanks that formed part of her bottom. The ship was alive and cheerful, a beast enjoying a good meal. But in the wardroom there was silence.

Second Lieutenant Shei shook his head sadly as the recording finished, sighing as he ran a hand through his short black hair. A sensitive man, he never took any pleasure in seeing the death and destruction his profession tended to bring; he had often asked himself precisely why he joined the company in the first place, though he knew the answer well enough: he loved the challenge, and in a way, he loved the Captain. Shei knew the Aran Vannerman of old, from the days during and just after the Second Belt Wars, when he had commanded the cruiser Starwitch, and been Flag Captain during the great Battle of the Diamond Rock. Venerable had been there too, Shei remembered. He had been a mere SL then, only just out of college, thrown into the midst of the greatest fleet action in history aboard their cruiser. He could still remember the awesome sight of the First Fleet drawn up in a long, arcing line, their turrets all training the same way – out towards the sun of that distant system, from which tongues of flame and clouds of smoke and dust emerged, as though to challenge its omnipresent glow. Even out on the rim, it was still a bright star; he remembered the pain of staring through the protective lenses on his own binoculars – a pleasant anachronism that had gained the status of a talisman – and feeling his eyes water as he picked out the distant, wavering black shapes of the enemy fleet, running parallel to them for all it was worth. The horror of watching ship after ship on both sides wheel out of line or fall to a stand, billowing flame and smoke and steam, and of knowing that a single hit from one of the projectiles flying from the battleships’ main batteries could tear the Starwitch, seemingly so substantial when he had first set foot on her, into little more than tiny islands, barrelling through space, the men on them waiting to die.

Vannerman had been there, on the new cruiser’s bridge, even then calmly smoking his pipe. Had seen Shei, a much younger Shei, standing petrified at his station, and simply laid a hand on his shoulder and grinned. Shei smiled thinly at the memory of their brief conversation.

“What’s your name, lad?”

“S-s-Shei. Sub-Lieutenant Shei, Sir.” He had stiffened and saluted optimistically.

Vannerman had looked ceilingwards for a minute, a delightful expression of concentrated puzzlement on his face, and smiled again. “Ah yes. Fourth in your class, specialising in the Gunnery branch?” Shei had nodded. “Well listen here, Sub-Lieutenant Shei. The Admiral’s a good man. Knows his stuff, as they say. And I know mine. Luck permitting, we’ll get through all right, and if you keep your head, that’s more likely than if you don’t, eh?” The Captain had nodded conspiratorially. “So go on, Mr. Shei, with your duty. You’re an example to the men, remember.” It hadn’t been much, but it had done the trick. Shei was still terrified, but he kept his head. He’d even kept his head when the Admiral had ordered a turn to starboard, and the cruisers had accelerated headlong towards the enemy line. He could still feel the vibration of the huge shot fired by the big coilguns as they flew past the cruiser, grazing her flanks ever so slightly. Somehow they had made it, had closed to within a reasonable torpedo range and fired off a spread of their lethal cargo into the line, wheeled around, knowing that they would have to fight past the same cruisers and destroyers they had fought on their way through, and be sandwiched between their guns and torpedoes, and those of the battle line. Even at that stage, Shei had been no fool; he had known that he was going to die, had watched one of their number, the old Ramandra, simply tear herself to pieces as a lucky shell touched off her nuclear armaments and blew her tired frame to shreds in the space of a second, taking three hundred men with her to patrol for all time. Yes, Shei had been ready for death. Not glad of it; he had kept his head, his jaw set. One must be an example to others, and do one’s duty, for Captain, ship and country. But he had still stared death in the eye, and been chilled as death approached him and extended a fleshless hand…

And then, he remembered, smiling once more, this old warrior had turned up; he pictured it as though it was a moment before, Venerable roaring through the ranks of destroyers like a demon of old, her main battery firing every which way, her clusters of secondaries hurling five-and-a-half inch slugs and shells into destroyers, weaving and waving madly to avoid torpedoes and gunfire while pouring them out herself from every point, at every opportunity, even her point-defence cannon seemingly to spray fire towards the small ships with the fury of a hissing cat. Charging madly, rolling and pitching and yawing furiously as her helmsman threw her about like a sports car, Venerable had come to their rescue, smashing aside the destroyers and cruisers like a plough through warm snow, seemingly oblivious to the battering impacts of coilgun shot as she drove through their number, swept past the retreating cruisers, swung round behind them to broadside the enemy at point-blank range. Shei still saw, in his mind, the beautiful sight that greeted anyone who glanced astern at that fateful moment; Venerable, silhouetted against the sunlight, roaring out her fury and defiance, her shot and shell crashing into the opposing battleships at point-blank range as she turned to follow the Starwitch back to their own line. And all the while, Vannerman had simply stood, calm as a summer breeze, watching, thinking, ordering where necessary as his men did their work. Unflappable, and still utterly in command, with only a satisfied smile on his lips to betray gratification at a hard job well done.

But that had all been in another time. Shei stared at the dead world on the screen, frozen at the recording’s end, and drew himself slowly back from the deep pit of memory, forcing himself to focus on the job for today. He was just about to put a question to Vannerman’s thoughtful countenance when the second part of the recording flashed onto the projector. He watched, askance, as the alien Empress – or so she claimed herself, anyway, thought Shei cynically – made her offer. For several seconds there was a puzzled, almost embarrassed silence; then one of the Sub-Lieutenants, a short, cheerful young man known universally (and inscrutably) as Shakey, gave a loud guffaw. The ice broken, the other officers broke into grins themselves; only Stand’s face remained as aggressively unimpressed as ever.

Vannerman coughed, waving the stem of his pipe like a conductor, and shook his head in astonishment. “Well,” he said, unable to stop grinning at the image of Alessa’s carefully-orchestrated suggestiveness – which was overwhelmingly reminiscent of a series of adverts for scented soaps – “I think that’s suitable recompense for our efforts, plus the usual payment.” He sighed and shook his head again. “Thoughts?”

Shei took the opportunity to launch his question. “What data did the slate yield on the atmosphere and other such conditions, sir?”

“None, I’m afraid.” Cannon looked disgustedly at the slate from his seat. “Of course, it may well be that some of that gibberish it was spouting earlier was pertinent data; in the absence of some kind of magical translation device, however, we must go with what we can see.” Vannerman coughed again, a deep-throated rumble, which was followed by an unpleasant hacking noise as he brought his catarrh up into a handy spittoon. “It is my intention to launch probes, from as far off as we can, into the planet’s atmosphere.” Shei nodded, satisfied, as Reanar’s sweat-beaded face spoke up over the monitor.

“Is this to be a surface engagement, sir?” Vannerman nodded as he lit up his pipe again. “Well in that case, sir, d’you want me to see that the ground equipment’s readied for you?”

Vannerman nodded once again. “If you would, please, Chief. I know you’re busy, but I suspect we’ll be orbiting for some time anyway.”

Reanar gave a bass chuckle. “Not ter worry, sir. I’ve enough juniors to get everythin’ done!” His face disappeared as, his query answered, he went to work. Vannerman turned to the remaining officers.

“Anything else?”

“Yes, sir.” Cannon looked straight at the Captain, unusually grim. “What did they actually say down there?”

“Very little, I’m afraid, Mr. Cannon. The most they have us was that whatever’s down there has been killing the people they sent onto the planet, and we are to eliminate it by any means necessary.”

“Then why haven’t they simply destroyed it from orbit?” Cannon asked, his jaw thrusting as though it were a challenge.

“Because, Mr. Cannon, there are things down there which they would rather like to keep, and an orbital bombardment, while requiring minimal effort and risk, does not necessarily allow you to keep things. It’s not my fault, Mr. Cannon, much as you might be frustrated by it. Believe me, I would just as much like to know what we’re up against and why they won’t tell us.” Vannerman’s eye seemed to harden ever so slightly, and Cannon took the point.

“Yes sir. Sorry, sir.”

Vannerman brightened. “Quite all right; I don’t much like how damned quiet they’ve been, either.” He turned to the rest again. “Anything else?”

“If I may, sir,” asked Third Lieutenant Shei, “what did the other outfits look like? Are we in competition or co-operation?”

“Good question”, replied Vannerman amiably. “Short answer is, I don’t know. I strongly suspect they’re not anticipating many of us surviving to have to compete, anyway.” The simple acceptance with which he delivered the verdict was worrisome, and he pressed on quickly. “As for the rest; they looked pretty good, if a little melodramatic.” He chuckled gently. Between the girl who things she’s Wonder Woman, the man with the sword, the shapeless blob and the people who look like they should be whipping dark-skinned foreigners on a plantation for entertainment, we’re going to look positively normal.

“Any further questions?” This time there came none, and the officers rose to their feet. “Excellent. Return to your duties, gentlemen. Mr. Frederickson, keep an especial eye on that fuel influx, if you please. The Supply Chief has enough to do without having to scuttle back and forth to the fuelling points every ten minutes.” Frederickson nodded soberly, aware of the trouble he would find himself in if an overflow left a sheet of frozen deuterium on the ship. “It is my intention to jump to SGV-78 as soon as we have completed fuelling and revictualling; I aim to be there by 1400 hours of the day after tomorrow, so inform your subordinates and set things up accordingly. The early bird catches the worm, eh? Good day, gentlemen.”

"Took your sweet time, hmm?"

Julian sighed as he sealed the boarding hatch, then thumped his fist on the hatch dividing the assault shuttle's cockpit from the troop bay. The shuttle rumbled as the pilot tested thrusters, and Julian hurriedly sat down and strapped in.

The others were already there, had been for some time -- Irian had made certain of that. The veteran Inquisitor had his faceplate lowered, and the gray robes of his office concealed the Cassock Superior power armor that Julian knew the other man wore.

The inquisitor's deadly flamegun hung on a sling from one shoulder, and the the hilt of a two-handed old-style warblade protruded over one shoulder. There was a short-barreled shoulder-weapon of some variety slung cross-wise the sword, and Julian saw the outline of a holstered pistol under the robes. Quite the arsenal.

Lieutenant Barnabus had a suit of Horatrian ZV-49 Powered Armor, which was a knock-off of the Fleet Marine standard-issue Armel Military Technologies 'Crusader' battle armor. Not quite as good, but decent. Nothing wrong with the bog-standard CR-17 the lad carried, though.

Acolyte Todd...attempted to mirror his master, and failed. Julian saw the distinctive outline of an adapted suit of SORA powered armor, last-generation 'reaction armor,' designed for RSN security personnel. It wasn't bad armor, but it wasn't great, either.

Julian ran a lead from his helmet to the jack next to his seat's headrest and called up several projections, running over his plan and the available data. Beside him, Barnabus stirred.

"Ah, sir?"

Julian inclined his head, "Yes, Barnabus?"

Barnabus was faceless behind his helmet, but Julian could imagine the young Horatrian chewing his lip...

"Shouldn't we be gathering information before we insert, or somesuch...?"

Julian chuckled, seizing control of one of Barnabus' quarter-projection screens -- the Cataphract I's command functionality was very powerful -- and running through a brief feed summary.

Barnabus made an odd gurgling noise, "How...?"

Irian Chellavan chuckled, "Ah, boy, that'd be an Inquisitorial Secret."

Julian smiled, was about to say something, but fell silent as the assault shuttle's thrusters lit fully. It was...'go time.'

---

The assault shuttle cut away from Resolute, hitting atmosphere in good order.

Todd cleared his throat, audible since he was using comms.

"Ah, where are we planning to set down?"

Julian flashed the acolyte a map of sorts, with the shuttlepad-like structure circled in red.

Todd seemed to choke, "Isn't that a little...obvious?"

Irian's voice was remarkably calm, "How do you get a hog to follow you, boy?"

Todd seemed to think for a few moments, "Ahh...?"

Julian laughed, "You punch him in the nose, Todd. You punch him in the nose."

The red light came on. Julian released his harness and reached behind him, releasing his carbine from its mount and bringing it around. The weapon synced with his suit instantly, and he reviewed the diagnostic data one more time...

The assault shuttle came to hover about a meter above the shuttlepad's tarmac. The "pilot"'s voice came over the comm, dull, like the guy did this every day...which wasn't too far from the truth.

"Clearing LZ..."

The assault shuttle in question was a Fleet Marine 'double-squad' transport, carrying two ten-man squads at full capacity. Of course, here, it was only four men, but such was life. The shuttle's armament was identical to the military model, though, and the area-suppression subsystems were quite nice. Panels along the shuttle's sides flipped up and the shuttle was momentarily wreathed in a cloud of smoke. The end-result would be a ten meter 'clear zone' around the shuttle.

"Landing...

The shuttle touched down. The ramp lowered. Julian stepped down, his carbine up at a ready position. Barnabus followed, then Todd. Irian was last off, his bulky carbine in his hands.

Julian didn't stop once he was off the shuttle, hand signals indicating that the four men should fan out and scour the hut-like edifices on the pad's perimeter. Mostly to get out of the open, really...

The shuttle lit its thrusters, returning to Resolute which would head outsystem and find a place to sit quietly until it was needed. The planet's PDS had made an impression...

--

Julian put his boot into the hut's door, followed up with his carbine's muzzle, then the rest of his body, swarming into the structure and making a very good run at looking everywhere inside at once...

Once again, space was torn apart unexpectedly. Venerable plunged back into existence after her infinitesimal time as part of the ether, regaining her form several thousand miles from the surface of SGV-78. Most of those who had access to a drink partook of it gladly; the teleportation process always seemed to leave an unwelcome dry feeling in the mouth and throat. The bridge was silent for a little while as the ship seemed to regain her composure; it was Fourth Lieutenant Frederickson who spoke first.

“All compartments report conditions normal, sir.” He coughed noisily in the quiet, echoing chamber. “Engineering reports reactor checks complete, all systems normal.

“Very good.” Vannerman stared out of the bridge windows. “Engines stop; prepare to launch probes.” The orders ran away through the ship, and Venerable rolled slowly to a halt under the influence of gentle reverse thrust, her scanners caressing the atmosphere of SGV-78, now visible clearly from the bridge windows. She had a brief interval during which her scanners were in the planet’s line of sight, before its swift-orbiting moon hid the world from view, and during which she discovered slightly less than nothing, a fact which Fifth Lieutenant Stand was again almost pleased to point out to the bridge at large. The probes would have to do the leg-work on this one; in the steel superstructure at the base of Venerable’s after mast was a small honeycomb of cells, each carrying a single probe; the probes were small, fast, and very much (in this case) single-use; nothing could survive impact with the planet’s rocky surface at the velocity the probes would be making by the time they hit the ground. Aboard their small, rounded bodies they carried a brace of sensors for the detection of electromagnetic radiation, temperature, atmospheric content, weather conditions, and the other usual things a crew had to worry about prior to setting down on a planet. As well as this, they were equipped with a small, and not particularly effective, sensor suite for the detection of threats, as well as the ubiquitous video cameras. They were under the control of Fifth Lieutenant Stand, who managed to look even more pessimistic than ever as he launched four of them towards the planet from behind its moon, his face like a bloodhound that had just received a very large rent demand.

The four tiny probes soared out from behind the orbiting satellite and careered steadily towards the atmosphere of SGV-78; behind them, acting as a relay for the sensor data they were gathering, a fifth probe hovered motionless in space, mingling with the disturbing amount of debris that littered the vicinity. They could - or at least, Vannerman hoped they could - map out a fairly sizeable area of the planet’s surface before they met their maker, especially the landing area near the ruined city that dominated its northern continent. Thankfully, Stand would not be giving him the readout; the Chief Surgeon/Science Officer, a gaunt, horse-faced man by the name of Horton, was responsible for actually interpreting the data relayed to the ship by the probes’ delicate sensors. He scratched thoughtfully at his stubble in the science station, which unsurprisingly doubled as the ship’s sick bay, as the probes dived into their gradual descent towards the planet, the roar of the atmosphere’s friction emerging through the speakers as the bellow of some ancient beast awakened from a long slumber. Horton watched as the screens began to resolve into something resembling a slightly more sensible image, and on the bridge, the video link played out his sombre, fatalistic commentary; while not in any way so bad as Stand, Horton was certainly given to that variety of scientific curiosity which comes from the conviction that death is around the corner, and therefore one had better gather as much knowledge as possible.

“Ambient temperature average nine degrees centigrade in stratosphere,” Horton intoned, reading the data off mechanistically. “Composition largely S-3; oxygen content nineteen percent, nitrogen seventy percent, carbon dioxide approximately seven percent; breathing gear probably won’t be necessary, Captain.” He paused as the probes continued their flight, eyes darting over the static-muddled imagery. “Predominantly glacial rock formations, with extensive mining damage evident; there seem to be at least a few shaft sunk straight into the sides of the mountains here. No evidence so far of any sort of automated systems; not even beacons. Landing pad area looks clear, with signs of recent use. Temperature at forty thousand feet fourteen centigrade and climbing as descent completes… wait, what the hell…” Horton’s voice tailed off momentarily. Vannerman glanced at Cannon, who opened his own voice channel.

“What’s happening, Mr. Horton?”

Horton looked back,. A puzzled expression on his face. “Probes have started tracking a continuous signal. Low-frequency electromagnetic, most likely a tracking unit of some sort. It’s only registered in the last thirty seconds.” He paused again, a frown on his bespectacled face. “Another signal now, higher-frequency, originating from multiple points.” Horton seemed to dismiss the emissions for a second, and concentrated on the by now rapidly approaching city; “ambient temperature now twenty-two degrees centigrade and rising slowly, altitude nineteen thousand… what in God’s name!?” Horton’s shocked voice rang around the quietened bridge as he watched the screen. One of the probes’ cameras had caught sight of something, something which could only be bad news; a brief, bright streak of light had flashed past it, missing by a mere few hundred feet as the little probe screeched through the planet’s atmosphere. As Horton watched, a second pulse rippled behind the probe, flinging itself into space. Horton glanced despondently at the monitors, expecting any or all of them to vanish at any second; the last readings would be valuable indeed. Yet, to his surprise, it was the probes which brought about their own end. One by one they thudded with sickening force, force that no material could possibly withstand, into the stone surface of the planet, their readings flickering out. It was the bridge crew, instead, who saw the spectacle that Horton had dreaded. From windows and sensors alike, the effect of the weapon on the fifth probe, patiently acting as a relay, could easily be seen; the probe first went completely dead, its delicate electronics ruined by the initial blast which easily overpowered its comparatively light EMP shielding; a second later, a flash of blue light became its funeral pyre as the probe’s on-board fuel cells were ignited by the immense energy of the main beam.

Stand was, surprisingly, the first to speak. “Probe lost, sir. The last readings from its relay to my station showed a huge electro-magnetic pulse. I’d suggest it was designed to neutralise electronic systems and disable ships, prior to… well, peppering them, sir.”

Vannerman nodded, staring from the reinforced Plexiglas windows at what had been their relay probe. “That seems a reasonable suggestion. Mr. Stand.” He reached into his pockets, extracting his pipe and tobacco, and looked thoughtfully at the officers; “suggestions?” he enquired pleasantly, filling the pipe and lighting it with a battered Zippo which resided in yet another pocket.

“Well, sir, I…” Third Lieutenant Shei trailed off as he looked around the room.

“Yes?”

“Well sir, I was thinking. This thing might have a fairly long charge time; the probes showed that another force had very recently been at the landing pad, so it may well be that we can get away with it, if you like, providing we provide cover for the ground teams as they descend.” Shei looked slightly startled at the length of his speech, but ploughed on anyway. “After all, if it does have a long charge time, we can contain the damage it can do as we make our way across its arc, and if it doesn’t… well, I don’t know what we’ll do, frankly, sir, but it seems a bit foolish to come all this way, with that much promised to us, and give up at the first hurdle.” He considered his conclusion and then added hastily, “not that I was implying that you were about to do so, ‘course, sir.”

Vannerman nodded, unusually distant. “Yes, Mr. Shei, I see your point. Mr. Cannon, plot a course for that debris field. With luck it’ll hide us from the sensors, or the blast. Mr. Frederickson, have words with our Chief Engineer and tell him I need every ounce of power he’s got.” He turned to the helmsman, the scar flexing into an ugly grin as he glanced at Second Lieutenant Shei. “Just like old times, eh? Helmsman, ring down engines ahead full!”

*****

Down in the deepest parts of Venerable’s deep hull were the machinery spaces, domain of Chief Engineer Officer Reanar. As the probes went about their work, however, he was far away from his normal world, the world of the humming reactor and the hissing steam circuit, the heart and muscles of the ship, driving her steering, her power, everything that kept her a fighting ship, rather than a hulk. He was, at that point, up in the Shuttle Bay, putting the last finishing touches to one of the machines he lovingly called his “children”. As he applied yet another layer of Hammerite to one of the machines, he felt the ship’s behaviour change, and realised that she was moving, and moving fast. Around him, the shuttle bay lights began to flash a deep, malevolent red. Time.

*****

On the bridge, things were getting interesting. Venerable had lurched clear of the moon’s shielding, and now awaited developments. The bridge crew stood or sat tensely at stations which might, in a moment, become death-traps, watching the suddenly malignant-seeming planet as it seemed to gaze at them, the crater just visible if one had the right equipment and the clouds had parted sufficiently. Yet still there was nothing; no terrible flash attempted to send the ship and her crew to the grave. Yet.

“Mr. Cannon!” Vannerman called out across the crowded bridge, having emerged a moment previously from his cabin. “You have the command. I am going with the landing party.”

“Landing party?” Cannon looked astonished. “But sir! If you should fall…”

“If I should fall, Mr. Cannon, you are more than able to command the ship yourself.” Vannerman smiled wanly. “Besides, a good officer leads by example, does he not?” He stepped into the main lift and pressed the keys for the shuttle bay. “The team have been notified, by the way, though I would like one more man if I could get him.” Vannerman knew well enough who he could rely on to volunteer; true to form, Second Lieutenant Shei rose to his feet, saluted, and walked silently to the adjacent armoury.

*****

In the shuttle bay, five minutes later, Vannerman looked over his scratch team. Himself, leading from the front as a good officer should; Second Lieutenant Shei, ever-dependable comrade and friend of old, who had volunteered despite his vital (and comparatively safe) duty aboard; Boatswain Philipson, who stood fingering his Dragon’s Tongue idly, his bandolier belt and kitbag full of shot for the monstrous shotgun; Engineer Officer Vemanu, a hulking bear of a man second only to the boatswain in sheer heft and responsible for maintaining the Children on the ground; Horton, who in his capacity as Chief Surgeon was just as valuable on the ground as in his role as Science Officer; and three seamen, picked at random from the ship, who stood nervously watching the big, bulky, snub-nosed shuttle as its pilot prepared the ship for launch, carefully checking her ship’s systems with the same trouble as the landing team were taking to check their armaments, their rations and their other miscellaneous items. Boatswain Philipson gave an inquisitive thumbs-up to the pilot, who nodded happily.

“Sir, shuttle’s ready for launch,” Philipson burred, his face still cut up by the encounter with the Salamandr.

“Thank you Mr. Philipson. Landing party to the shuttle!”

*****

Precisely one minute later, the shuttle blasted clear of Venerable’s docking bay and began its near-vertical dive towards the planet’s surface, screaming madly towards the desolate world in an attempt to get out of the range of the defence system that waited for them, like a trap with primed jaws; they needn’t have worried, however. One of the seamen looking nervously out of the rear view port abruptly gasped, a look of horrified fascination on his face as he looked back at the battleship; the weapon had locked onto the largest target, and had discharged straight into Venerable’s heavily-armoured starboard side. As they watched, a silent drama unfolded; reaction mass, heated by the blast, escaped as steam for the briefest interval, mixing with the dust from the ship’s ablative armour to drift astern in a frozen cloud. Venerable tore on, her compartments fully sealed against any expected strike; Cannon was handling her well. The ship weaved and dived well for a vessel of her size, the steam telemotors giving rapid, powerful movements to her directional thrusters as she sought to minimise the odds of a hit. It was an impressive piece of ship-handling, especially given the amount of debris in the area; so impressive, in fact, that the watchers were surprised when the battleship settled onto a straight course for a moment, not noticing her big main battery training to starboard.

But then Venerable opened fire, and they couldn’t fail to notice that. There was no spectacular discharge of smoke and flame, none of the dirt of the powder guns of old; just a faint crackling blue at the muzzles as the magnetic coils accelerated each of their 900-kilogram projectiles to speeds in excess of four thousand metres per second, hurling them with staggering force at the planet below. It wasn’t much; the odds of the HE shells hitting their target were minimal, and they probably wouldn’t do much if they did. But Venerable was fighting back, and it was a heartening sight to watch her main armament firing, regular as clockwork, every twenty seconds, the huge broadside rippling down her equally huge hull. She was still firing madly into the atmosphere as they entered it; the thought occurred to Vannerman that he hoped Cannon would have the sense to cease firing, lest one of her own shells hit the shuttle; the idea of being killed by friendly fire this early into the proceedings didn’t hold much appeal. Nonetheless, whether by luck or by design, the shuttle made it to the surface; the men within emerged, counted their cuts and bruises, and unloaded the Children, the supplies of armour, gas masks and other accoutrements in its cavernous cargo bay quickly and wordlessly, conscious of the oppressive nature of the place, the chill it set in their hearts, and of their deep and profound loneliness as they gazed after the shuttle, ascending rapidly back to space and the safety of Venerable’s mighty hull.

“Right, lads!” boatswain Philipson bellowed. “Two of you to help Engineer Vemanu, and one of you with the Surgeon Officer to set up a quick link with the ship. Jump to it!” The seamen scuttled off to their tasks, the heaviest of which was giving the Children a quick check-over before starting them up. Vannerman sauntered over to Philipson’s side, pointing to the huts that surrounded the pad.

“Something wicked this way comes…”

Julian stepped out of the hut, his carbine muzzle-upward, canted back to rest on his shoulder. He had, of course, found nothing. Moments later, a series of "Clear!"s indicated that the huts searched by the other Revenians had little of interest within them, either.

He had not, of course, failed to notice the arrival of Venerable's shuttle -- quite the opposite. He had just wished to complete the task he had been engaged in -- thoroughly searching the hut -- before he considered the fresher stimulus. This was not, normally, the way he operated, but he had been fairly certain that the newcomers were not, exactly, hostile.

If they had been, then he would have gotten to them somewhat sooner. His CR-17C -- the short-barreled variant of the AFESSR's standard combat rifle -- was relatively compact, but it was also A. a Gravdriver, and B. of a bullpup design. Though the CR-17C was of a size with the AR-36 which was beginning to become prevalent among armor-troops, the CR-17C actually had a significantly longer barrel, which allowed the weapons gravitics to be 'fields on' the projectile for a longer period of time.

The AR-36 was a superb weapon, but the CR-17C was slightly less complex. It was also a weapon that Julian was intimately familiar with -- he had trained with a CR-17 in the Fleet Marines, and the carbine variant had very few differences.

The point to this entire digression was that the CR-17C was a gravdriver, its effective range was essentially 'line of sight.' If you could see it, you could shoot it. He could see the Venerables, therefore, he could shoot them. Hopefully, this would not become necessary.

He raised his hand, executing a series of signals that brought the other three members of his little squad into a sort of widely spread out formation, then took off at a jog towards the newly-arrived Oyadan landing party.

Judging by dress, the commanding officer would be...there. A few steps further and Julian stopped himself.

"I was wondering when somebody else would decide to show up. Julian Fang, Captain, White Shields." He didn't offer his hand -- one did not generally shake hands in power armor. He probably could manage it, but it would have been awkward, and...well. It just wasn't done.

The small, quiet ships from the Masayaf arrived next.

Sleek with a slightly elegant design, the ships only real sounds was that of the trusters to stabilize the craft and that of the hydraulic ramps which clanked when they hit the ground.

Moving neatly off of the shuttle came two small squat looking micro-tanks. Old designs with single 0.5cm hellbore cannons fitted to them, they were effectively micro-nuclear reactors on wheels.

Moving off next came the dozen or so men in their blue armour, face plates locked down and clicked heavily in place they all seemed to have the same relatively blank expression. A single band visor along the top for eyes, with a second slit for a mouth.

“Any idea on this dump?” Taz clicked over the internal communications.

“Nope, though looking at the architecture and comparing it it’s all ostentatious.” Greg, his number 2 replied.

“Definitely Roanian then.” Taz chuckled.

“Black too, very…. Emo.” Greg muttered and shook his head. “I’ll get onto the weapons and diagnostic checks. God knows if these Micro-tanks will work around here for long before something effects their electronics.”

“Everyone been issued the slug throwers instead of the Plasmas?” Taz turned to look at the similarly suited man, an icon of Greg’s face hovering over the aiming reticule, which identified within the suits IFF systems, it helped with the whole ability to tell who the hell each person was talking to.

“Yeah, from those EMP bursts and shit we found we felt to not risk it too badly, we’re running a risk in these suits in my opinion, them lot over there,” Greg nodded to the Venerables that had landed and were now chatting to the White Shields.

“Right, so we’ve got something trusty for a change, the old Pericles A1. Great.” Taz voice sounded like he was salivating, and how. The Pericles A1 was an old fashioned 8mm slug thrower used by the Midlonian Defence Forces on Mars and various smaller units within the MAF as a whole.

“Oh, and two guys got rocket launchers like you too.” Greg nodded to another pair, identified as Tom and Dick. “I’ve also issued a Chemical thrower to Harry over there.”

“Right, lets get this show on the road, shall we?” Taz said, turning and moving over to the others cautiously, his tube-like rocket launcher in contrast in bulk and size to the slightly boxy rifle he held casually in his hand.

He clicked on a loudspeaker and turned to the others nearby. “So, anybody up for some fun? We‘re from Sharton Industries by the way.”

The first thing anyone landing at the shuttlepad would notice was the quiet. Not a sound disturbed the air. Even the wind seemed oddly muted. A few scraps of trash gently sailed through the air, the only sign that anyone had been on the planet in a few thousand years. Around the shuttlepad, the remains of hundreds of quietly rusting shuttles sat, bright patterns of orange interrupting the monotony. Here and there, newer shuttles of more recent make and model dotted the grounds. More ominously, in the distance of the shuttlepad loomed a large Imperial Host Armoured Troop Transport. Nowhere, however, were their signs of life at any of these vehicles, old or new.

A banner near the terminal building fluttered in the air, changing from the gridlike language of the Roanians and then to Galstandard. "The Recolonisation effort of Planet SGV78 welcomes you!" Then images: A family inspecting their new home, felinoids cheerfully mining, salamandri basking in a pool of water.

In typical Roanian fashion, bureaucrats should now be rushing up to greet the mercenaries and forcing them through the procedures of landing. But no one arrived. Overhead, as the other mercenaries arrived, the sky started to darken. Then, once everyone was landing, purplish lightning filled the air and it started to rain.

Hmm glad to see we seem not to be the first in the system.’ Shuresh said as their vessel dropped out of the highly unfamiliar FTL system of whatever Mon-Keigh had built their vessel. Not that it really mattered, they didn’t plan on using it as anything other than a means to get to, and from, the system. Already the Twenty Outcasts who where to ride to the surface with him where aboard the first of two highly modified Eldar ‘Transports’ originally a rush conversion of the more standard model, the purpose had been to test a concept for the rapid deployment of Swooping Hawks onto a world from the Badbaltrias Network. Since then the final design had been, perfected and these older prototypes left to gather dust on Yvresse. Which suited Shuresh and his band, such was often the way with Outcasts, when they left a Craftworld they took what was not needed, and put it into use.

The problem with this model had been the seats, far too unwieldy for a man with wings strapped to his back; they had been, uncomfortable to sit in. Since then they had modified other parts of it, mainly the guns, it was designed now to be more of a heavy support for the team once they landed, something to call in when the backs where to the wall and they needed to bug out fast. They had brought two.

One to land in and one… in case the original craft was destroyed, the spare unfortunately wasn’t as good a fit as the main, if they actually had to use the spare the journey back would be… very uncomfortable. Hopefully that wouldn’t matter, hopefully.

‘Lot of debris in this system, a lot of it looks Roanian but not everything, seems the world below has teeth…’ The woman standing beside Shuresh was strangely smiling as she said this; the smile was matched by the others looking on. ‘Yes, well we wouldn’t want it to get boring now would we?’ Shuresh said again oddly for what on the face of it was a highly sarcastic answer he was it seemed genuine.

Then all conversion stopped as the chosen few left for the planets surface the grav engines on their vessel compensating for the heat of re-entry. Even as on the surface rain began to pour the streak filled the sky and then for a second the craft levelled off. An observer watching, even through the purple lightening and rain might have seen the underside of the transport open and the shape of twenty humanoid figures riding boards drop from inside the craft, on many hair seemed to flap behind them whipping about in the air. Behind five of the boards, and attached by chains where it seemed heavy weapons that where being pulled along behind the whooping and cheering Eldar.

Then they vanished for a second as a flash lit the sky obscuring them from view until the light returned to normal, by then they seemed to head towards a building a fair distance away from the shuttle pad. The roof would serve as a home for their transport and a base of operations. Besides it looked like a good place to begin the hunt for loot.

Close to the edge of the landing pads was a small ridge with a relatively gentle rise on the other side and it was here that the 2nd Lieutenant had decided to make planetfall. As the pods streaked towards the surface they suddenly slowed dramatically until they were only traveling a bare hundred kilometers an hour at about a kilometer up. Then as they got within a hundred meters aerobrakes and manuvering fins popped out and in the final ten meters they split open to disgorge the power armor inside which then hit the ground in a sudden blast of flame and smoke from their own jump packs. The pods dropped to the ground and the suits ran forward to the ridge line in a crouch with their weapons out.

Part of this was a dry run for any future encounters they might have, and part of it was just plain best practice, at least to Jeeb's way of thinking. 'Pull us together as a team,' He thought as he waited for the last of his team to come into the line. Down below he could see the tiny dots scattered among the larger dots that were those that had already landed standing among the shuttles and transports. Between the ridge and the shuttles there was another object that he could see from his position: One of the probes that they had dispatched earlier. It was now upright, casing split and legs deployed, with a number of sensor stalks just poking up over the surrounding terrain. Which also meant that it's cargo of IntelRats was already sniffing their way through the shuttle craft and nearby buildings.

'Looks like we are in for rain,' llwynog said as he pushed a weather radar image out to everyone's HUD.

'Good times, Lieutenant, good times.'

The ArAreBee studied the scene before him for a moment and then connected to the tiny electronic gestalt that was the collective IntelRats. 'Given all the humans with guns running around, I think it would be best to have our furry friends stay out of sight. But that Roanian transport looks interesting...' He marked the large transport on his HUD and pushed that to everyone. 'That might just be our ticket off this rock.' He didn't want to have to land the Leakey if he didn't have to and the large craft looked big enough to hold his squad as well as anything that wasn't nailed down.

"...anybody up for some fun? We‘re from Sharton Industries by the way."

The first 'Rat had come within audio range and was now relaying back to the squad and everyone took the opportunity to listen in for a moment.

'Looking it up now...' Ensign J'ssrt'rah, the Therian, was alone on the bridge. The huge tail and snout had something to do with it but he was handling the isolation admirably.

'Good. We'll hold this position for now and wait for everyone else to land. If a firefight breaks out right away I'd rather we safely watch from a distance."

One after the other, thirteen heavily-armed, heavily-trained soldiers of the Imperial Military jumped into orbit from a Needle-classified cruiser. In a manoeuvor commonly known to military experts as 'orbital insertion', each member to the drop was navigated to a location on the surface identified 'safe', a designation made by drones sent ahead of them just minutes prior on the fulfillment of various conditions and expert calculations. A landing pad not too far from the crater by several kilometres had been selected from a long list of several candidates, a decision further solidified by the actions of fellow mercenaries. It no longer became the most obvious choice, it became the only one and reconnaissance efforts by the ISS Inquisitor thus focused on this and the surrounding areas.

Making touchdown several minutes after the first precise moment of the insertion, the first thing Bullsworth would have noticed would have been the extreme emptiness of the area. The Lt Commander had done her research and was able to acertain the general conditions of locations such of these from information she was able to find on the other colonies of the Empire of Twin Lamps. Notorious for being busy and swarmed with sentients of every kind going in his or her own direction, it made for a seemingly unreal feeling to observe the area so literally and suddenly abandoned. As her troops organised themselves for insertion to battle and potential hostility, Samantha began to wonder almost with a sense of dread over who, or what caused the residents to empty themselves from the surrounding area--a consideration only made until she was forced to realise the possibility that the citizens were not cleared of their own volition but of something else.

" Fireteams! " she barked loudly, her voice almost drowned out by the sound of another vessel landing on the pad just several yards away, quickly becoming filled. " Forward to the huts on my lead! "

She indicated a set of targets with a signal of her fingers and hand.

" ALPHA, forward to precincts one and two! BETA and GAMMA, onto two and three! "

Surging forward, the units made up of mostly Austarians readied their weapons and executed orders and raids according to their organised training. In teams made up of either four or five each, the Imperial Military employed by the techniques of their Unione of Capitalizt States equivilant, with frontrunners moving ahead under the cover of the other two or three members and the remainder of the unit playing 'catch up' under the cover of fire from frontrunners, otherwise considered the main gunmen of the unit. Where there was no enemy, there was no fire, and an area was considered 'all clear'. Nevertheless, stealth was thus employee as a general tactic and engaging an enemy that could engage them or defend themselves was avoided where possible. Where not possible, the Team Leader was forced to make a decision on the best method of assaulting the enemy or enemies, in a way which was quick and decisively favored to thier victory. And then if nessassasy, a Team Leader would contact that of the other two for assistance as required, or both in exceptional circumstances.

With little information to go on, Bullsworth was forced a decisive leader and aware that other forces not under her command were doing the same, chose to cut her own pathway toward the city-crater several miles away. She wanted to as much as possible, avoid a 'friendly-fire incident'--not that she explicitly cared about their safety but for the welfare of her own team.

Advancing quickly and effective according to the techniques deployed, Bullsworth and her team worked forward under the general supervision of Imperial intelligence gathering efforts above.

Planet surface, 6.3 kilometres from city

The three seed-shaped Onarrán descent pods rested a few inches off the ground as their occupants exited them and checked over their hunting rigs once again.

The hunting rigs of the Onarrím are peculiar creations, works of art and craft more than the product of an armourer. Each one is fashioned by the artificers of its owner’s house and created specifically for its wearer, designed to embrace the Everlasting Empire’s military philosophy – grace, subtlety and speed. Unlike the powered armour of other races, the hunting rig is not designed to provide much in the way of protection against weaponry – its purposes are rather to enhance strength and speed, provide personal cloaking, serve as a platform for weaponry, and to allow the wearer to survive in hostile conditions for lengthy periods of time. Due to the personalised and often formal nature of the rigs their appearance varies between Houses, with these examples being smooth (rather than for example the plated form favoured by the High House Orchid, the complex mailed design of the High House Lily, or the segmented style of the High House Rose) and are dark blue inlaid with violet enamel and precious stones.

The armaments selected for the operation follow the standard Onarrán format for expeditions against unknown opponents, force-stones in the palms of their hands, a Realm-powered energy weapon upon the left shoulder, discreet solid ammunition firearms upon the forearms (one envenomed needle, one shell, the latter having only a four-round magazine), energy and monofilament grenades, monofilament coils, and the ever-present House sword and knives. Each of the Onarrím also carries a pair of explosive charges in inert form.

“Drones.”

A half-metre long arrow-shaped matt black object detaches itself from the interior of each pod and moves to wait behind each of the armoured creatures.

“Hob, are you with us?”

...always, Honoured Ones. Light of the Moon Ascendant is safe and awaiting word. Numerous non-beings have landed upon the surface, most gathering at the landing structure...Advise the construction of a Hill in case of emergency...

“Too time consuming, hob, we are not Posy House, and without their Gift it would require far too long. We have the drones and the warcraft if necessary.
“We move toward the city, the non-beings are already at the shuttlepad.”

His two companions nod their heads, faces hidden by ornate helmets – one showing the face of a Onarrán boy that appears to laugh one moment and cry the next, the other a seemingly random creation of leaves, vines and flowers that looked at one moment is meaningless, and the next appears to form what is quite recognisably a face.

Vaysnaer eora’Violet makes a gesture to the pods, which rise a few metres and fade slowly into the background amongst the branches as their basic active-camouflage systems initiate. A moment later the more sophisticated systems in the hunting rigs activate and the three Onarrím vanish from sight, moving quickly toward the shuttlepad with the drones darting through the trees ahead of them toward the ruined city.

Second Lieutenant Shei was carefully checking one of his pair of pistols when the White Shields’ leader emerged. Vannerman’s muttered jest to the boatswain reached his ears as little more than a murmur, utterly indistinct, but he understood it nonetheless; for the duration of the short exchange between his commanding officer and the besuited mercenary, the high-velocity pistols were in his grip, if not actually aiming at anyone. No sense in causing a fuss, after all. Behind him, Engineer Vemanu gave a quick glance at the stranger and carried on with his two-fold role: supervising the two seamen as they fired up his Children, and extracting painstakingly his own weapon, a gargantuan two-bore rifle dating from some time around the turn of the 20th century. Originally conceived for hunting particularly intransigent elephants and other large big game animals, the weapon’s monstrous weight – some sixteen kilograms – and the enormous recoil created by firing its half-pound bronze slugs made it a distinctly challenging toy; but Vemanu was nothing if not receptive to a challenge, and he had at least the frame for firing it. He hefted the big weapon from the case he had brought it in and began painstakingly unwrapping it from its grease-paper, in which he always kept it encased, reaching around for a handy can of spray-on grease to lubricate the hammer. He was lost in his own world, periodically keeping an eye on the Children as they were prepared by the seamen according to his instructions, and very happy, humming an old tune, half-remembered down the years, as he lovingly wiped away the excess grease with a cloth. When asked why he had bought such a contraption, (for he rarely actually used the gun, since he very rarely had cause to; it was certainly not the sort of weapon one used for home defence) he had a tendency to smile warmly, a twinkle in his grey eyes, shake his close-shaven head, and turn to his interlocutor with a slightly pitying expression. “Because”, he would usually reply, his strongly burred voice tired and sad, as though explaining death to a young child, “it was there, wasn’t it?” It was there, in front of him, a sample of the art of mechanical engineering, and also something which he had known, had a gut feeling, would come in handy some day. So he had bought it. Like Mount Everest, it was there; and like Mount Everest, its lure was incomprehensible to those outside a select few.

Away from them, while Horton and his helper concentrated on setting up some kind of communication with the ship, Vannerman and boatswain Philipson turned to the now-visible White Shield, clad in what appeared to be a giant Buzz Lightyear costume, and did a double-take. He’d been right; they were going to look normal next to this sort. Vannerman had to wonder exactly what the purpose of such constructions were; he’d seen enough powered armour suits before now, and very seldom got used to thinking of them as anything more than giant codpieces, masks for the owner’s vanity or inadequacy. He was a Navy man; to him, the proper way to fight was in space, not on land, but if one was to fight on land, in his view, one didn’t want to be moving around in stoking great Tonka toys such as that. It looked impressive, and it might well keep one safe from a fair bit of fire – though from the manner in which Philipson was fingering his slowly-unslung Dragon’s Tongue, he was confident that its six 18.5mm slugs would still give the suit’s wearer something to chew on – but to Vannerman’s mind, trained through bitter experience to value stealth above brute force when on land, such value was more than neutralised by the fact that it would attract fire from every source for miles. Philipson summarised it nicely as the White Shield walked towards them, clomping along the ground as though they were trapped in a decidedly bad ‘70s sci-fi B-movie – the sort where the sets wobbled, men chewing grass stalks occasionally flashed onto the screen from the sides, and all the protagonists wore armour suits made from Bacofoil while kissing a green-skinned C-list actress, who swooned and proceeded to request that they show me some more of this beautiful earth thing you call kissing, captain.

“I tell you what, sir”, he muttered, mentally seeking a plug of something chewy to chew, “I know we’ve brought down our suits and vests and helmets and such, and I know we look bloody daft in them; but I’ll tell you what, I ain’t never seen anyone manage to look that bloody daft for so bloody little, sir. I bet we could ‘it ‘im from all the way up there, sir, given half a chance. He stands out like a sore thumb with a bull’s-eye on it.”

By the time Philipson had finished delivering this exposition, the White Shield had already clomped his way to them, waving around some small but doubtless very clever weapon before greeting them. Vannerman noticed him evidently consider a handshake, and smiled. “Quite all right, Captain. I understand that these devices make it somewhat difficult to perform some quite normal functions, eh?” he smiled some more, very pleasant and pretty well hollow, and saluted smartly. Aran Vannerman, Captain, SBS Venerable. Anything interesting in there?” he enquired, not really expecting much.

Behind him, Philipson gradually lost the glare that had come to his face as Fang emerged from the hut, and slung the big shotgun back over his shoulder, peering around him at the skeletal forms of shuttles, once proud, shining like their newer and more recently deceased compatriots. The time they had spent on the planet had taken its toll; though the atmosphere might not be particularly active, at least in comparison to some worlds, and though the dust wasn’t particularly violent, they had, between them, done a good job of dismembering the mute sentinels where they stood, waiting for a journey that would never come. Sheets of browning, corroded metal drooped from their frames, swinging fitfully in the gathering breeze, the occasional segment polished bright by the dust glinting as they turned slowly, this way and that, corpses hanging from a rotting gibbet; the wind whistled between the exposed, rib-like girders, the ships’ own song of sorrow at their miserable fate. Had he been a religious man, Philipson would have crossed himself. As it was, he swung his attention from the dead ships and towards one of the huts, little more than a portable cabin, which clustered around the landing pad, as though seeking to escape the planet’s sullen desolation, striding towards it and carefully prodding the door open with a foot before cautiously stepping through into the spartanly-furnished chamber. The punctured, rotting ceiling loomed uncommonly low as he flashed the torch mounted beneath his weapon around the room, casting shadows from the uninviting metal furniture. Beneath his feet came only the occasional crunching sound of cracking glass; the majority of the floor was slowly disappearing beneath a thickish carpet of mosses, happy to dwell in such a sheltered place, racked with damp during any wet period. Deeper into the room were the few, fragile remains of occupation. Philipson shouldered the heavy gun and paced solemnly to the double bed that occupied one wall’s space entirely, the cracked, stained white-painted wall behind it occupied by a lengthy rank of mirrors, all but two of them cracked and rusting, their glass pock-marked with dust and congealed fluids. Philipson grunted a laugh. “Vain buggers”, he growled softly, seeking not to disturb those gone, smelling the faint residues of their life as the odour of the damp, the mosses and the moulds slowly but inexorably took its place.

Outside, the cloud system folded in upon itself once more, descending like an angered beast upon the city and its outskirts. Above his head, Philipson heard the long, low peals of thunder that accompanied the clouds’ furious clashes; he looked up, and felt the beginnings of the rain, shaking his head wearily. “Bloody great,” he muttered, staring accusingly at the bed and moving back from the collapsed ceiling he was under as the first droplets began blatting through the gap that lay, for some unaccountable reason, at the edge of the wall. The spattering soon became a river, and then a torrent, the rain intensifying by the second, seeking to drive them from its domain; it poured in through the ceiling, dragging with it tiny specks of dust and earth, what little of it there was to be had on SGV-78. It ran in rivulets down the shattered mirrors, reflecting Philipson’s reflections within its swirling, ever-changing channels, soaked into the austere bedsheets, trickled down the backs of the walls, up which black mould grew enthusiastically. Philipson didn’t notice any of this; he was busy looking around the rest of the room, taking in the empty frame by the bed which should, he thought, have held some sort of photograph, the strange-looking kitchen and its utensils, around which were arrayed yet more mirrors. Before him, a long-dead computer lay overturned on the mossy floor, the plants making a home inside its dead innards; around the round table that sat in the middle of the room, four empty chairs lay. As he stepped closed the boatswain noted that each one was set. Ready for a meal that had never come to pass. He peered into one cup cautiously, seeing a darkish red fluid slowly bubbling out of it, diluted and displaced by the rains, splashing joyfully into the silent, dead place around him. He did not resent Second Lieutenant Shei calling him from the hut, with its remains of recent occupation, its reminder of the swiftness with which the planet had destroyed them and their dreams; it might yet destroy his with equal speed, and leave no more memorial than his bones.

Shei was outside, still shouting; their radios were battery-powered, naturally, and Shei and Philipson both saw no sense in wasting charge when a shout would do the job. “Mr. Philipson! Come on, bosun!”

Philipson jogged out of the hut, to see Shei staring around like a confused dog, his expression becoming irritated as he spotted him. “Be quicker about it next time, Mr. Philipson! We’ve some new visitors!”

“Sorry, sir.” Philipson grinned, slightly sheepishly. “I was just ‘avin’ a look-see at what’s inside them huts, y’see, sir. Figured it’d ‘elp me get what these buggers were like,” he added, trying to put the best spin on things, though he knew Shei was not a man of so periodically short a temper as the First Lieutenant.

Shei harrumphed. “And did you find anything?” he asked, the aggravated tone still in his voice, but diminishing, as they strode off in a new direction.

“Vain buggers, sir. More mirrors’n you can shake a stick at.”

“Very helpful.” Shei paused and jabbed a finger towards a nearby dip in the ground. “See them?”

Philipson shielded his eyes against the pounding rain, now being blown at an angle precisely calculated to irritate them. “Aye, sir, well enough. More bloody Tonka toys by the looks of it!”

“What?”

”Sorry, sir.” He grinned. “As I was sayin’ to the Captain, these power armour suits are more like Tonka toys than summat useful for a landing team, don’tcha think sir?”

“I’m not so sure about their value myself, Mr. Philipson, although I’ve been in enough firefights where something a bit heavier than our standard kit wouldn’t go amiss! However, I suggest you don’t inform our new colleagues of your views quite yet.” He nodded towards the besuited men. “They’re from Sharton Industries, by the way,” Shei added sardonically. “Come with me, Mr. Philipson, and we’ll get the formalities sorted out.”

“Yes sir”, Philipson grunted. “Shall I be at the ready, sir?”

“No, I don’t think that’ll be necessary quite yet. Just try not to look too annoyed, will you” Shei added resignedly. They strolled over to the Midlonians, one of whom removed both helmet and glove, set down his rifle, and greeted them with considerably more warmth than the cold-faced White Shield. He even managed to get round to shaking hands. The leader – identifiable by his Extra-Shiny Tonka Toy and evidently known as “Taz”, had just finished filling Shei and Philipson in on his team when there came from behind the two Venerables a lightning crack, accompanied by a deep, powerful report that set a vibration echoing around the floor of the valley. As the puzzled Sharton men watched, Engineer Officer Vemanu ran forward at what could best be described as a lope, carelessly thumbing another round into the massive rifle’s breech and slamming the barrel closed. He bellowed something incomprehensible to the Second Lieutenant, then unexpectedly stopped, dropping to one knee and cocking the gun’s hammer. A moment’s hesitation, and Vemanu set the same deep, snapping concussion cascading around the area again. This time he seemed satisfied, and walked toward his target calmly, or at least as calmly as a man can walk after he’s just been practically knocked over twice by his own gun.

“Mr. Vemanu, what the bloody hell are you doing?” Shei screamed across the (comparatively short) distance between them.

“I saw a rat, sir! I got ‘im, too!” Vemanu appeared to pleased with himself to notice Shei’s bemused irritation at his actions. In fact, it was only when he picked up the “rat” that he looked annoyed.

“Well I’ll be damned!” He shook the dead, slightly mangy-looking rodent in Shei’s general direction. “Bloody thing’s got metal in it!”

The Second Lieutenant’s onrushing question was deflected by the sudden emergence from among the pair of seamen of a low, discordant bellow, the noise of a beast in pain as it charged its foes. A small wisp of smoke drifted slowly upwards from the pod which had contained the Children as the three took their first sight of their new surroundings in. Judging by the noise they had made, Shei thought, they didn’t think much of it; he’d never got used to the Children’s characteristic roar. Leaving behind the Midlonians, Shei and Philipson joined Vemanu, who was peering with an expression of mixed disgust and curiosity at the rat – which seemed less and less to be a rat, and more and more something altogether more clever – and made their way back to the Captain, who was engaged in conversation with Horton, his features amused.

“Ah, Mr. Shei.” Vannerman had once more fished out his pipe, and was sucking genially upon its worn stem, the blue clouds flavouring the air around him with the distinctive aroma of burnt spinach. “It appears we have some more guests.” He gestured with the stem to the distant panorama of shuttles, huts and windswept rocks on one side, apparently quite unperturbed by (or indeed unaware of) the stuttering drumming of the rain, as he flicked shut his own personal favourite weapon, a gargantuan break-action hammer pistol, chambered for a cartridge whose manufacturers (who also made the gun) had never really recovered from the loss of the world’s Empires; their clientele had been drawn almost exclusively from the ranks of men who wore pith helmets under any and all circumstances, and spent their twilight years residing in very expensive clubs, drinking port in hefty measures and beginning every sentence with, “do you know, during the war”, and the ranks of such men had been distinctly thinned over the years. Vannerman liked the giant, double-barrelled creation; he had bought it in the same distant, flea-bitten market in a far-off system as Vemanu had used to acquire his two-bore, and had bought it for much the same reasons. It was a wonderfully intricately-made weapon; its foot-long octagonal-to-round barrels, though aged by many years of use and ten thousand powder burns, were inlaid with delicate filigree work that had once contained gold, its hammers ornamented with representations of spears; even the stock, which Vannerman had carved his own notches in over the years, was decorated on both sides with a beautifully-drawn figure of a leaping tiger, unfaded from the tough teak that had been used for the grips. Right down to the butt, which was covered by an ornate impression of a lion, jaws agape, in what appeared to be silver, it was a handsome machine. And best of all, it fired a pair of bullets 0.62 inches in diameter. They were slow, of course – they had to be, lest firing them break the user’s wrist – but Vannerman had found that the impact of a large piece of metal, even at the comparatively low speeds the bullet travelled at, usually put off most targets. Whether it would put off these ones was another matter. Chief Surgeon Horton had just informed him that one of the Children had sent an automated report to his communications station. It had seen something in the distance, something moving fast towards them. Vannerman was fairly sure that, if given enough warning, the total number present at the landing pad could deal with whatever it was; he was less certain of whether they would see it in time. However, he was also aware that this might yet be more mercenary forces. He waved Shei, Vemanu and Philipson into positions of concealment and waited.

He did not have to wait long, for the Austarian mercenaries were apparently of the school of thought that considered military operations to suffer irreparable degenerations in their success rate unless they were conducted with lots of running around, and probably shouting, either by radio or by voice. It was what Cannon tended dismissively to call “the hoo-AH!” school of tactics, which Vannerman thought summarised it pretty well, and their new arrivals seemed very taken with it. He could hardly suppress an inner groan; it was going to be like working with one of those actors who became convinced that their depiction of a job was true to life, and spent the rest of their time advising their lucky recipients precisely why it was vital to charge around bellowing “hoo-AH!” or having a Team Chant, Team Anthem and Team Soap. Fantastic.

Julian turned away from the Oyadans, resisting the impulse to shrug. Or, rather, to waggle his hand, which was the equivalent. Even though he really could shrug in Cata armor, it was force of habit.

A thought -- his dislike of GP implants didn't mean he didn't have implants at all, indeed, the Fleet Marines implanted those who weren't already implanted, because the Crusader armor used a neural-interface. He'd had CI since he'd stopped growing, so that hadn't been an issue.

Just no GP implant. It didn't make sense, but it didn't have to make sense. He didn't like people having wireless access to his damned brain. That was creepy. He liked things wired. It wasn't an uncommon sentiment in the AFESSR.

It was at that point that decided that he didn't really care to be social with the other mercenaries. Bad vibes, man, bad vibes...and he'd gotten all the bad vibes he needed for the next thirty years from the Roanians, thank you very much...

He realized he was impatient, and he understood why -- he didn't like standing around doing nothing, but he wasn't ready to move out yet...

and why the hell not?

Something wasn't right. He trusted his hunches. He checked his local scans, but, of course, didn't see anything of real interest...decided to check out that Roanian-looking troop shuttle, and thus waved his lads over to him and set off at a good clip...

Nothing better to do, might as well check it over. Maybe find a log or summat, and if not, well...he had his methods. One of which was the Subjugator CI he'd been fitted with for most of his life...

It was about the only thing that was likely to be done to a routine in the entire drop. Secure the landing area, in this case a building tall enough to make the landing possible, as agile as the Eldar vehicles where, and they where extremely such, they had no desire to dodge around buildings. Besides they had no deep need to allow taller buildings to surround their base camp, buildings that might allow a shooter to pin them down. It all meant they had a large building to secure. Two teams peeled off, the first to ensure nothing made it onto the roof while the others made their way up from the bottom.

On the ground four Kionash landed one on each facing of the base camp, and flipped up the boards, taking cover behind them, and watching outwards for signs of intruders, while the rest of the team broke in. The goal was simple, search the ground floor for occupants, and assuming there where none blow the stairways, and any other access points to the rest of the building. The kionash could fly after all; they had no need for the ground floor, and saw no reason to make it easy for an attacker to strike at them.

Once that was done they make their way to the second floor and repeat the procedure, destroying any and all access points for the first five floors, after that, a quicker survey of the building would be conducted, and then the real fun could begin.

Five of the landing party would remain behind, along with the Pilot; one of them was pulling a Grav Platform. The other four would between them handle sentry and looting. Two keeping watch while the other two emptied the place of anything… interesting looking. Then they would move it upwards to the roof, one load at a time. There they where able to exam the goods in greater detail. Most of what was recovered was soon rejected to be thrown off the roof of the building to tumble down to the streets below occasionally through something would be kept, then the sentries swapped with the looters, and the process began again.

As all this went on the Suresh reached a decision. ‘Well then folks time to go greet the neighbours say hi, and get to know the neighbours.’ Although the Outcasts did intend to use the Mon-Keigh as bait, that was n reason to be rude after all, besides he didn’t want any of them stumbling upon this place when they began looking for themselves and mistaking his people for the enemy. That wouldn’t be fun.

Not inclusive of intelligence gathering efforts to compliment Bullsworth's mission to secure the surrounding and most immediate areas, mechanical eyes above turned their attention to the actions of fellow mercenary groups. Notably, whilst others took similar action to inspect the surrounding huts and buildings, some predispositioned themselves to be particularly safe and to make camp, and a few even seemed to take particular attention to meeting other units which would make for their companions for however long they remained alive and mid-operation.

So once it became apparent that the most immediate precincts were safe to Bullsworth and the officers under her command for at least the time being, she commanded them to likewise take positioning in one of the surrounding towers to which they would be fully prepared to defend and similarly destroyed most if not all methods of entry. Bullsworth and her own unit would in the meantime go out to 'coordinate' her efforts with fellow mercenaries.

With intelligence feeding her information on each of the different groups around her, Samantha decided to approach a group who appeared thus far; similar in mind, similar in method. Friends would be useful, especially if it meant a difference between life and death. Naturally, it was her ego which made them however 'non-compulsory' but 'preferred luxuries' to the success or failure of her mission.

Approaching the Yvresse in a way which was obviously peaceful, she and her unit of four other operatives made themselves non-anonymous, and non-hostile. Guns slung around their backs instead of at the ready as they came closer to the compound which was made theirs, she raised both hands as if to indicate her intentions.

" My name is Lieutenant Commander Samantha Bullsworth, of the Imperial Military! " she called out as soon as her and her fireteam came into effective hearing distance. " I come in peace, to discuss coordinating our efforts! "

It may have not been her preferred apporach, quite, she was far more gung-ho than her superiors was comfortable with. Nevertheless, her role she played was one of submission and she effectively complied to follow advice fed to her from Tactical Intelligence, the eyes and ears of the Imperial Military Forces.

" Slow down, " they effectively told her. " Once you're in hell, you'll rue not having fully prepared for it. "

OOC although originally I had intended to be further away from the others, it did make it harder to interact with people so... I guess we could be closer for the purposes of, well, not roleplaying by myself.

IC

Shuresh and his companions hadn’t quite secured the building by the time they where approached still he felt secure enough to, float on down, with four of his companions, settling down in front of Samantha with actually very little fan fair. A smile crossed his face, and he sized the woman up. ‘Well I guess hello there Lieutenant Commander Samantha Bullsworth, of the Imperial Military’ Shuresh said seemingly absent of mocking, seemingly anyway, a slight hint of lurked somewhere just not something that could actually be placed. ‘I’m Shuresh of..’ Stopping mid-sentence he turned to one of his companions.

‘Hmm what are we calling ourselves this week, anyone got a suggestion?’
‘Fist of light?’ The man to his left piped up only to be hit over the back of his head lightly, almost playfully by the woman standing next to him ‘Stop suggesting that, really, you just sound pompous’
‘Hey I have it the Norrin-Rad.’ the others grinned at that and Shuresh nodded, sure it was worse than Fist of light, or whatever, and was inspired by Mon-Keigh but, at least it wasn’t pompous.

‘Right, so Lieutenant Commander your suggestion to co-ordinate our efforts is, acceptable, but I think we would be better served discussing it somewhere, a little safer. So, can I give you a ride?’

As if to add emphasis to his words behind him something crashed to street, seeming tossed from the rooftop above, the remains seemed suggest a cup or a plate, it was soon followed by another crash.

OOC: That's fine, you can probably still RP a certain amount of distance if you want, probably a precinct or so. It just means Samantha would have had to trek a little bit to get there, but I don't mind in the least making her walk.

Samantha smiled a little at the Yvressis as they selected a name for themselves, realising a massive difference in formalities between themselves.

" Well it's a fine pleasure to meet you, Shuresh of the Norrin-Rad, " she replied politely and without any hint of sarcasm herself.

The Lieutenant Commander turned to her four companions, each of them stepping forward to shake hands with each of the Yvressi soldiers immediatly present, or at least the closest ones. One of them was obviously a large gunner, with the rest of them carrying more light weaponry albeit holstered in one way or another for the time being. They wore combat-ready uniforms, an armor of some sort.

" This, " she indicated as they began to step forward. " Is my immediate crew. There are more of my unit temporarily based not far from here--a kilometre or two perhaps. "

As each side finished their greetings to one another, Bullsworth listened as Shuresh suggested a more suitable location--a point made ironicly obvious by a large crash not far from where they were standing.

" So long as I'm free to communicate with the rest of my team at base, " she replied jokingly. " Gladly though, you lead the way. "

'Looks like they are moving in...' The Kitsune pointed out the two groups who were busy rampaging through towers relatively near the landing facility. '...and making themselves comfortable.'

'I thought we were here to investigate and neutralize,' De Luca said as she watched. 'Though our goals don't precisely match the Roanian's own either.'

'Yes, well... If they are moving in we should move in as well. We don't want them to get all the good stuff, do we?'

'No sir.'

'All right then. Pop your drones and follow me then.'

Each of the suits had come with small camera and microphone drones, normally used for interviewing crowds of people and getting multiple camera angles for a story, now used as impromptu reconnaissance units. These spread out around the officers in a small cloud like insects swarming on a hot summer evening. Moving to the edge of the ridge Jeebs turned, set his feet, and lit up his hither-to untested jump pack.

With a whoosh he sailed across the sky in a trail of fire with the tiny drones struggling to keep up. Then the rest of the team followed, blazing fire brightening the sky as the sun began to sink on the horizon and rain poured down.

'Hooooly crap!'

The suit jinxed and dodged this way and that as the ArAreBee struggled to learn the controls but finally he got the system under control just before smashing through the windows of the tower next to the building the Yvressi were using. Glass sprayed and he sprawled as furniture obstructed and then splintered as he barreled through it before hitting an interior wall solid enough to stop him but soft enough to leave a generally man-shaped impression as well as some of his paint job behind.

'All right... We are definitely setting up here!'

'Don't you think we should scout around first, sir? Check for a better location?'

'Certainly. As soon as I get my leg out of this desk.'

The rest of his team had come in for a far more gentle landing on the roof of the towering structure and were now looking around at their new digs. There was a lot of polished metal and glass around, as well as lights (currently unlit) that would make the roof sparkle at night normally but now it was getting rapidly dark and was getting somewhat creepy in that 'alone in the office building with the weird old janitor' kind of way. The rain did nothing to help either, nor did the polished statues standing lonely at each corner of the roof.

'We should go over and say hello to our neighbors. What do you think Sir?'

There was a crash from below and some swearing over the external speakers as Jeebs accidentally toggled them on and taught everyone nearby several useful words in ArAreBee at two hundred twenty decibels.

'...great idea Lieutenant. Why don't you and Metternick fly over there and introduce yourselves?'

The two went sailing off in gouts of flame as the rest of the squad spread out on the rooftop and the top floor. A sensor pod was placed - the tall building would give them a good unobstructed view over a large area - and the various entrances were checked and marked with remote sensor strips. A couple more 'Rats were released as well to wander the building.

"...Roanian?" An Eldar woman in the revealing half-armor of the corsairs walked up to one of the stylized sculptures lining the edge of their building. "Roanian? This... is... garbage!" Just as the two officers landed she reared back and with a mighty kick sent the stature tumbling to the ground far below.

Inside his armor the Knootian whistled as the Eldar woman posed there for a moment as the other corsairs cheered her on. 'Why can't you wear outfits like that De Luca?'

She didn't answer but instead stepped forward and tried her best to look impossing in her black and red armor despite the Ensign's grey and naked-chick painted armor behind her.

'Err...'

'Err what?'

'We don't have a name, do we?'

'Crap. I signed the forms as HeeHeeHee.'

De Luca sighed and tripped the external speakers. "I'm De Luca with Triple-H MercCo. I want to talk to your Captain."

"Please."

'Mercenaries don't say please Metternick...'

'And that's why they are not welcome in a civilized society!'

The shot, and the succeeding swear, echoed through the ancient city streets. As did the sound of the statues falling to the ground. For a moment or two, the city was silent once more. Then, from the large terminal building, there came a loud shriek from the nightmares of man. As if in answer, the skies above the shuttlepad darkened still further. Then, suddenly, bolts of purple lightning shot from the clouds and hit the ground near the ships that had been used to land on the planet's surface. One of them hit one of the ancient shuttles, which exploded in a fireball, scattering rusty metal across the shuttlepad.

Answering shrieks came from various points within the city, and the lightning faded after a moment. Then, the sky split open as another burst hit the Angelic Host Transport square in the bridge. An explosion scattered pieces of control panel and leather seating across miles of terrain. Then the sky cleared somewhat, only to reveal a significantly worse problem.

The air itself had a purple haze now. And around the city, ziggurats rose slowly into the ground, exceptionally ancient machinery grinding grudgingly into activation. Dirt and ore shattered on the tips of each ziggurat, revealing glowing orbs. Crackling energy shot between each orb, and then all was still.

If someone had concentrated really hard, they might have spotted a shadow glide across the moon for a second or two, landing on a building outside of the inhabited zone's boundaries. Perilously close to TripleH and the Corsairs, in fact. But it might just have been some of the ship's debris landing, of course.

Julian picked himself up off the ground. He hadn't, exactly, been expecting the overly large transport-thingus to explode while he was near it. In fact, he'd been planning for it to explode after he'd put some distance between his personage and the thing. He supposed this just saved him time.

A glance at his diagnostic display confirmed what he already suspected -- his suit was fine, and he was a bit bruised in certain locations, more from the abrupt negative acceleration when the suit's gravbelt slammed him into the ground than anything else. He should probably hunt down that glitch...it wasn't supposed to floor him quite that hard.

And, oh, look. Lightning pyramid things.

Julian groaned, dusting himself off, then checked that he still had his carbine, which he did. Retention straps were lovely things, all he had to do was reach behind him and remove it from its mounting bracket, which he did more because it was something to do, and things did look to be getting slightly more worrisome.

He jogged over to where Irian was smacking dust from his gray robes.

"What do you think?"

The Inquisitor waggled his hand, "Not sure. Something's not right here -- call it a seventy five percent probability of Ancient Evil. At any rate, I don't think we'll be getting any support from Resolute for a while."

Julian moved his hand on a horizontal plane, back and forth, "No. Standing orders are to stay the hell away, and I'm not going to counteract them until I'm sure that it's safe, which...it, ah, isn't. I suppose we should probably get to trying to find out what the hell is actually going on on this damned planet."

Irian chuckled, "Oh, yes, indeed..."

Julian turned about, signaled his little squad into a loose formation, and headed towards the terminal building at a somewhat slower pace than he'd effected thus-far, and he had his carbine at a low-ready, rather than the 'not-ready-at-all' position that he'd been using more often than not...

He did not, as a rule, enjoy getting knocked on his ass. That sort of thing tended to make him angry.

“Gregory!” Taz snapped as he put his helmet back on, it glowing as he did so. “Do you have any readings?”

“Yes sir, minor paranormal traces, plus some odd energy spikes that I can’t identify,” Gregory suddenly smacked the side of his head a couple of times. “The damn scanners are going on the fritz too. Whatever it is, I suggest we switch right down to the basics only. None of the fancy arsed suites, just down to some radio communications and power to the motors.”

Taz nodded and turned to shout to the others. “Minimum suite AA1. All close communications is to be verbal, long range is radio only. Right down on the shiny toys for this lads.”

“Greg, keep your sensors up for as long as you can though, you’ve got the special comms suit after all.” Taz said as he leaned towards the other suited figure, who had a bulk box pack on his back.

“Sir.” he tapped his head again. “Reading from the terminal building sir, where the lightening struck it seems… beyond normal levels for electricity dissipation.”

“Alright, Jim, Yan on me, we’re gunna go check the Terminal building and tower.”

Two suits nodded and moved with Taz as they went towards the terminal building, pushing a door open on it’s largely rusted runners which promptly cracked and fell off of it’s rails.

“Everyone ok in here?” Taz shouted cautiously into the terminal.

Well, will you look at that" Mina exclaimed as she finished off her evening minosa.

The large chunk of 'space debris' had been 'captured by the palnets gravity well' several hours ago. But it had oddly ehnough chosen to come to rest in a La Grangian point directly over the city, thenh split into five smaller units. The larges unit remained in that position, the other four maneubvered clandestinely into other orbits. It wasn't the best compromise, but it would give those still aboard the Damn Thing some what better than 'merely adequate' over views of the goings on on the planets surface.

"I haven't seen ziggurats appearing since...Hmmm... didn't they show up on Telluride just before those 'tentacle things' came though back about seven years ago?" Ten mentioned an incursion from the Shadow Realm's multi thousand years war against the invaders from the Hell Dimention. The Cadre had been at thr forefront of the fighting there and every current member of the Cadre had served many tours there.

"Yeah and that weird purple haze too." Mina took another sip but leaned forward to study their scans much more closely now.

Just as the Kionash on the roof where considering their replay, and of course checking out the visitors with more than the occasional suggestive wink, aimed at both the guests from a wide selection of the roof top denizens. ‘Do we have a, oh wait you mean Shuresh, he’s downstairs meeting some other houseguests, but I think the plan was to bring them up here so if you want pull up a statue and have some fun…’ Of course it would choose that moment for the situation to change.

As the Ziggurats rose and shuttles exploded the Kionash got ready, the Grav platforms where positioned around the building already, either actually inside or on the roof, some turned to scan the ground below, others the air, but it seemed for now nothing was coming too close.

‘Hey you guys staying or would you prefer to return to your own home for the duration, we have drink and later when things calm, well you never know, we might be ‘grateful’ for the company we’ve already heard each others jokes…’ The kicker from before said with a wink, aimed well actually it seemed to be aimed for both De Luca and Metternick.

****On the ground****

Shuresh was just about to explain that he had meant to give Samantha a ride up and not simply for her to follow him, since there was no ground access now, the lighting changed. ‘Hmm well I would say this might change things somewhat. May I recommend you take what may be the last few moments of calm to return to your people, I think the next few hours will need only a minimum of co-ordination. We fight whatever comes our way till it stops coming.’

Pausing he offered his hand anyway. ‘Then again if you’d prefer my people and I would still enjoy your company, we have drink and I suspect better food, although I might have to be rude and go and get rid of an unwanted guest or two…’

If she and her accepted the offer, the Kionash each gave a lift to one of her companions if not they left soon afterwards, spiralling back up the building, pausing at the top to re-examine the surroundings and then all of them turned to face towards where the unknown watcher waited.

‘I hate voyeurs, either get out or join in, but watching, someone should really do something about his sort, get me my lance I go hunting.’ Ramu your in charge if I don’t come back, Sang, Drax, Chelsatara, you three are with me. Let’s go and bag us a watcher.’

OOC: takes place at the other end of the Terminal building from Tor and co…


The Terminal

Taz stepped into the main body of the Terminal building first. “Christ this place is in the shits.” he commented as his boots crushed glass shards underneath him. Around him were the remains of the terminal, baggage handling and the such like, all with bits and pieces of moss and various other things that once suggested a sign of life a while ago.

He moved over to an overturned desk covered in a thick pile of dust, with it was some form of tannoy or communications device, broken and shattered on the floor in a couple of pieces. Some moss was being nourished from a crack in the ceiling which still dripped from the downpour. But there were no cobwebs, and that was what had been niggling at the back of his head. No wildlife, or indeed life in general bar some moss. They were standing on a Necroplagiarius. A Planet of the dead.

He looked around the desk, which he assumed had once been for form filling, if the numerous drawers and the large blob of strangely coloured moss was anything to go by, it was slightly blue in colour, having, he assumed, absorbed ink from the paper it had grown on.

Jim, one of the other recruits that had moved over to another door, that had itself fairly well closed, or so it seemed. He brought his boot up to it and gave it a kick.

The door cracked somewhere along the middle and simply collapsed into two pieces, both falling inside the small side room.

Jim brought a hand up to the side of his head and tapped his helmet. “Dammit, the Night Vision stuff doesn’t work in here. It’s also on the screw up. Bloody high-tech crap just cuts itself out and down completely here.”

“If it gets any worse and is unit-wide I’ll order everyone into the old fashioned helmets and body armour at this rate.” Taz snarled as he smacked his helmet again, the heads up display fading, before coming back on upside down. “Oh for the love of…”

“Ta-” His radio crackled. “egory, sui----------------------------do?”

“What?” Taz shouted and hit his helmet side again.

“-az, suits are --------------------------- we do?” the suit hissed again before cutting out completely.

“Oh for the love of christ, you two, stay in here and snoop around, I‘ll go see what‘s wrong.” Taz snapped to his subordinates before heading back outside, well, tried to anyway, the motors in one of his legs promptly decided to goose step randomly whenever he tried to imput any commands via his leg, giving most people a chuckle as he came goose stepping out of the terminal building. Though it seemed this wasn’t the only problem, several other suits were actually smoking and a couple had leapt from them, patting their backs which smouldered slightly.

Outside

“-ucking Jo---” the voice said again before the figure that had spoke tore his helmet off, it was Gregory who looked very annoyed. “Taz the suits are completely fucked, the damn electronic interference and the odd activity seems to be screwing everything over and we haven‘t even set off yet. We’re going to have to ditch the suits.”

“Alright, get everyone into the basic kit instead, body armour and helmets then, like the Venabals.”

“Venerables.” quipped Gregory.

“Don’t give a shit if they’re Venerable or Terry sodding Venables! We’re downgrading.”

Taz sighed in frustration as he goose stepped back onto the shuttle and took off his helmet, before activating the suits removal procedure, which unwound and undid various parts before allowing the user to slip off the suit. He opened a storage closet that ran down the main body of the shuttle, which for it’s highly confined space actually had enough room on it for a small armoury and suit storage facility. Inside were their “low tech” replacements, surplus scrounged from the main Midlonian military, old pattern bowl helmets with the “SI” symbol painted onto them and small eye patch computers that hang down off of the front of the helmet, this was backed up by a thick old fashioned bullet proof jacket and ammunition webbing, the magazines for which they recovered out of their suits, well, most of them did anyway. One of the suits decided that it would be more fun to shoot the magazines up 20 feet into the air.

Eventually though, after a bit of waiting and after Jim and Yan wound up coming back because Yan’s glove was spontaneously burning of it’s own accord and giving off random Roman salutes whenever he so much as moved it, the Sharton lot were in their more basic gear, and thankfully, it wasn’t malfunctioning.

“Right, lets try this again, shall we?” Taz growled as he smacked the bowl helmet onto his head. “Jim, Yan, back into the creepy terminal building.”

The two groaned again and hefted their rifles, now feeling much heavier without the luxury of powered assistance.

The Terminal

Moving back into the foyer area they had previously been snooping around in Taz stopped and frowned, the desk that had been overturned had been neatly set back into place, and the broken and shattered communication device that had lain on the floor with it had also been set neatly back into place. There was even a form sitting waiting on the table, though it’s edges had turned to dust by whoever had put it there.

Taz simply stared at the desk for a moment or two, before the communicator on the table crackled, it‘s light feebly flickering on and off as the voice came out. “Fill in the form” it crunched out before hissing some static.

Taz glanced to the other two behind him. “This better not be you guys dicking around.”

The two younger men behind him shook their heads vigorously, their rifles now at the ready, looking above and around them.

“Fill in the form, procedure must be adhered to, and all forms must be filled in for any non-Roanians.” it cracked again.

“What happens if I don’t?” Taz snarled at the device on the table.

“Fill in the form.” it replied again, before the form lifted itself up off of the table, and smacked itself into Taz’s face, turning into powder as it did so, causing him to spit and splutter.

“Now you’ve gone and spoilt that one, I’ll have to get another one.” the voice crackled.

“Don’t bother, I’m not going to fill it in.” Taz snapped, spitting bits of powdered form out of his mouth.

“I’m afraid I must insist.”

“Tough.” Taz snapped back to the machine, before slapping it off of the table, it’s power wire whipping around as it did so.

“I must strenuously insist that you fill in these forms.” the device continued, apparently unphased by it’s lack of power source as the corrupted and rotted away wire showed.

Suddenly, from the room that Jim had earlier tried to inspect, hundreds of forms, most disintegrating as they did so, flew out of the doorway, hitting into the three men, causing them all to yelp at the strange goings on, Jim and Yan simply opened fire, shooting into the doorway.

“Oh this is fpt! Bloody Ffffpt! Ridiculous!” Taz shouted over the fluttering and crackling of the paper as it smacked into him harmlessly, most pieces disintegrating as they did so.

“You’ll need pens too!” the device crackled as whole boxes of fountain pens, nibs sharp despite the rust, followed the forms, one found itself buried into Yan’s eye, causing the man to scream loudly before falling down under a further barrage that smacked into his body armour and right leg.

Taz had tilted his head down, affording maximum protection from the helmet, the pens pinging off of it and hitting into his body armour. “Screw you and your forms!” he roared as he grabbed a small circular device off of his belt, pulled a cord and then threw it like a Frisbee into the room.

The explosion sent more dust, forms and pens rattling out onto the floor, it also managed to tear a hole in the wall, showing the city outside and below them, followed by another inhuman squeal that had a different character to it, one of a dead or wounded animal, which steadily got further away as it faded.

Jim was knelt beside Yan, a pool of blood forming under the body. Jim was crying and simply looked up to shake his head at Taz before sobbing “He’s bought it sir.”

Taz punched the rotten desk with his fist, which cracked in two, before stamping on the small communications device rather thoroughly. He then carefully picked up one of the remains of the forms. It was a Roanian resettlement and means testing document. Designed, apparently, to ensure the suitability of new colonists.

“Well, seems somebody wants us to stay at least.” Taz muttered under his breath as a half dozen other of his men came in through the terminal doors. “Two of you put Yan’s body back on the shuttle.” was all he snapped to them.

With a nod, two men bodily, and rather unsubtly, carried the body of the dead merc back out of the building and across the landing pad to the shuttle, his head bobbing and rolling as they carried him, the pen sticking out gruesomely leaking both blood and ink onto the surface with sickening sloppy drips.

A lump of rock fell to earth from one of the ziggurats, prompting one of the Onarrím to leap and roll to one side as it crashed into the ground, shrapnel whistling through the air and causing Vaysnaer to twist violent around as a fragment of stone whistled past where his head had been. The voice of the hobinsinuated itself into his consciousness and those of his companions.

...Honoured Ones, this place is wrong. The non-being items containing Lectrice you carry are malfunctioning. Advise removing them and items with Lectrice components...

The three come to an agreement instantly, the electric sky already urging them to do so. Onarrím being as suspicious of the inhabitants of this side of the Wall as they are the only items actually containing electric components were the two monofilament weapons, with everything else functioning upon Realm technology. The offending items are quickly removed, save only Vaysnaer’s grenade.

He looks up at the nearest ziggurat and thinks for a moment.

“Drones, map area and locations of the structures and determine any emergent pattern, analyse air composition. Alraen, Hælild, filter the air you breathe.”

He looks up at the orb atop the pyramidal structure, touches the wire-grenade activation crystal and throws it toward the glowing orb, arcs of glowing golden wire emerge from the sphere after it has left his hand and as the three Onarrán hunters sprint to put distance between themselves and the ziggurat.

Samantha grimaced as their surroundings suddenly erupted into activity, and was forced to make a desision on behalf of the team. On one hand, she could return to her soldiers and risk getting picked off by whoever or whatever was out there. On the other, she could stay and risk having her entire team at base lost because she hadn't been present to provide the leadership and combat strength to fend off an enemy. To say the least she found herself between a rock and a hard place, with either desision procuring the ability to produce both positive and negative concequences.

Gritting her teeth loudly, she came to a personal concensus.

" Thankyou, " she bowed her head respectfully. " But as you say, I probably should be with the rest of my unit coordinating their efforts while things remain as calm as they are. "

She looked around, swearing in some foriegn language.

" Actually, " Samantha turned her attention back to the Yvressi. " I wonder if there's any way I can communicate with you wirelessly? "

*~*~*

Once Samantha and her unit had been reunited back at the compound they had established for themselves, the men she had brought with her had become incredibly hungry and sat down to chew on some of the basic elements the Imperial Military had provided them. One of those being billtong, Samantha herself took a large chunk, using the time to recoup at least a portion of her energy.

" So, " one of the three team leaders came to sit beside her. " Action plan? "

Samantha swallowed a chunk, " Intel's been tracking a few things from orbit--it seems that our sweep, although effective, couldn't nessasarily account for all dangers. So far, we've been able to identify at least six creatures of interest and are tracking their locations. "

" There also seems to be some kind of energy flying about, unidentified. I'm curious to find out exactly what it is and where it's coming from. I suspect this whole thing's tied into it somehow, but that's just a hunch. "

" Alright, " the CO responded. " So what would you have us do? "

Samantha paused, thinking for a second. " Well we have mercenary groups everywhere basically; we've spotted the Yvressi's investigating an unidentified creature not far from them, the Midlonians checking out the Terminal where another is situated, and others spread about, doing their own thing. I want you to work on locating the source of that energy. Find a way to track it, sensor it, then we'll scan the entire area for concentrated amounts. It might take a while, but I think that once we have that we'll have the source of this colony's problems. "

The CO, named Daniel, smiled, " I already have some ideas. "

De Luca and Metternick watched from the roof as purple lightning arced and flashed through the pouring rain that was now already flowing in thick rivlets across the roof. Their helmets kept them dry but the rain pattered down and washed across them in thin waves but behind them the Eldar seemed to exhult in the chaos around them despite the danger.

"...we've already heard each other's jokes."

Metternick grinned. He had practically been recruited into the Knootian service with the idea of exploring strange new worlds and getting it on with hot alien women, but De Luca was of a more practical persuasion.

"Let me ask my commanding officer..." 'Sir,' formal for once, in the face of danger, 'The Yvressi are offering to let us stay here with them.'

'Accept the offer graciously Lieutenant. According to our remote near the landing pad those things blew up a shuttle and took a big chunk out of that transport. I don't want you two jumping back over and looking like targets unless you have to.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Woohoo!'

'What was that Ensign?'

'Nothing...'

De Luca triggered her speakers again, "Thank you for your offer of hospitality. We should probably get off this roof and out of the open in case something else has been activated as well."

In the opposite building Jeebs had finally extracted himself and was now peering out of the shattered window towards the ground below. The rain was blowing in and quickly soaking all the furnishings that remained near the window after his wild flight. Then the building started to shake.

Not the mild shaking of before but a sustained rumble that started at the bottom and began to move upwards until the whole structure was moving wildly. Doors blew open and furniture moved across the floor and panels and fixtured began to plummet and shatter all around the team.

'What the hell!' Jeebs stepped back from the window to avoid tumbling into the darkness as everyone else moved into the open center of the room. 'An earthquake?'

'It's not shaking the other buildings,' Someone pointed across the way to the building that housed the Yvressi. 'Just this one! A structural collapse?' Everyone turned and looked at Jeebs.

'Hey now. These buildings have been abandoned for thousands of years... I really doubt it was...'

All around them the windows suddenly began to explode in their frames and doors spun wildly off their hinges as the building shifted noticably while still continuing to shake.

'Forget it! De Luca, we are coming to visit!'

The ArAreBee jumped for the window and ignited his jump pack with the others rushing close behind. His suit dodged and weaved though not of his own design but the others followed pattern as they sought to avoid any fire from the ziggurats. Then they all suddenly shot forward as the building behind them now exploded and began to collapse, sending out a pressure wave that sent some of them tumbling just as a brilliant purple beam sliced through the air and into the mass of falling wreckage.

One by one the fleeing officers righted themselves and landed wherever they could on the nearby building. Except for Jeebs who, in a parody of his first flight, pinwheeled into the building with a loud crunch and crash as he slammed through a curtain pillar and the ajoining windows before smashing headlong through two inner walls and winding up wedged in the second with his helmet caught in the Roanian equivalent of a urinal.

Destruction intensified, and Daniel Simmons soon regretted having been so eager to lead a mission outside of the compound. With nobody to 'hold his hand' so to speak, he assumed a Commanding stance and prepared himself for quite possibly, the worst and most battle intensive time in his life. Within an hour, he and his team had prepared and were now gun-slung, packed and loaded with some of the most destructive weaponry in the Imperial Military. Bombs, guided missiles, and giant metal slugs were their specialty, but there was still no telling as to the hell they faced ahead.

" READY, FIRE, ASSIST! " he called to his team, which was now overlooking the great divide which safety in the compound to the twisted metal of destruction and collapsing infrastructure.

" WE WILL TAKE-OFF ON MY COMMAND! "

Plotting a course on the map which would (hopefully) mean avoiding a meeting between himself and his maker, Daniel took a deep breath as wind whisked around him--his pack-engines powering for ignition.

" FIRE! "

Simmons and the remaining three soldiers of Fireteam GAMMA found themselves suddenly accelerating at neckbreaking speeds as they were thrown from zero kilometres per hour to faster-than-a-speeding-bullet immediately--the abilities of their powered armour becoming the only thing that prevented them from becoming a flattened pancake. With a mix of fire and propellant fuel blazing behind them, they were a conspicious addition to a sky filled with thunderbolts and lightning, a ground covered with almost entirely new forms of destruction as they trailblazed a course to hell.

Selecting one of the many ziggurats, GAMMA circled around and landed somewhere they would be able to take cover as much as nessasary. Some called it reckless, Daniel called it mission-focused--drawing their weapons he and his team readied themselves into an aggressive posture, prepared to face what had suddenly become their greatest challenge yet.

If there was any consolation for the mercenaries who confronted the ziggurat, their deaths, if the blast hit, would almost certainly be instantaneous. The purple orb radiated heat for a moment and thin lines traced from the base of the column to the orb. A sharp, crackly voice filled the air, saying words that couldn't be made out in a language that couldn't be understood.

Purple bolts of energy than suddenly fired from each orb, hitting amongst the Austarians who had hovered up to them, arcing back and forth. The air filled with the sharp crackle of ozone. While not as powerful as that burst which had extinguished the VDA, nevertheless these energy blasts were far stronger than any power armour could possibly withstand.

The reason for this was, quite simply, that by flying through technological means so close to the ziggurat, the guiding force for the machine had picked them out as potentially speeders, or even bombers. Jolted into activation, the energy beams slowly began to climb towards the Tanaran craft hovering above the city, leaving the Austarians, however many of them were left, alone.

<Edit to come when I've had a chance to talk to Tor.>

As the Onarrians trekked their way into the city, entering the truly abandoned zone, signs arose that things were not, perhaps, as they should be. Occasionally dust had been disturbed by more than just the wind and sounds echoed from around them.

Then, suddenly, came a very specific sound. There was definitely a footstep, coming from down one of the alleyways. And then something worse.

Something was hunting. Hunting them, more likely than not. From one of the buildings, but not the alleyway, came, almost beneath the wind, the sound of something sniffing.

It did not take the running Austarians long to pass by, their powered armour hissing and clunking away as they vanished towards the distant colossus of the city, looming over the desolate scene. Like a mute sentinel, Chief Surgeon Horton thought morosely, as he checked the communications link with Venerable. Watching them, waiting for their attempt to violate its confines and despoil whatever it held within its forbidding, scarred edifices, jutting up from the far-off hills like the broken teeth of a giant pike. But at least he had no worries, for the present. The newcomers had paid them nary a backward glance as they had lumbered off, looking for all the world like ill-evolved gorillas in their massive suits. Horton watched them depart, then turned back to the console, patiently watching the link with their distant ship for however long he could manage to hold it before the planetary defence system forced her to seek refuge from its fire.

So far he had been in brief communication with his staff aboard; the attack had left two casualties, both wounded badly as their compartment was exposed to vacuum. One broken elbow and one badly crushed hand; the former would repair, but the latter would leave its owner a virtual cripple in one arm, and Horton knew it, his severe features softening slightly against the hard mask of years. He knew what would probably come to those two men, one of them barely out of boyhood, the other a seasoned hand. For all the advances of medical science, it was still beyond his power to knit bone so shattered, or to do any more than preserve whatever flesh still lived after being so terribly mutilated; indeed, it might be necessary for the hand to come off, if it became infected. He hoped and prayed that it would not, for he prided himself on running a clean ship; but all it would take was a single new, unknown pathogen, ordinarily little more than a nuisance, and the young man whose career had been so suddenly and grimly smashed to fragments before his eyes would have to suffer the unbearable agony of gangrene, or the equally unbearable agony of losing his hand. Time and again Horton had prayed God that it would not come to that, in a thousand and one battles.

More often than not, his prayers had, mercifully, been answered. At least the men who entered his sick bay did not have to face the knowledge their ancestors had faced centuries before, when men had still fought more at sea than in space, and when the wooden walls had been splintered and shattered by shot, and men had lain in their dozens after a battle with nothing more than a dose of rum or brandy to dull the edges of the surgeon’s saw as it tore through flesh and shredded bone. Then they had known that to be taken below was worse than death. His men knew that they could have morphine to take them away from the horrors of their wounds, and the butchery of the doctors who repaired them.

Venerable was a tough old ship, and herself seemed barely damaged; the laser had managed to expose the compartment, but had done little more then poke a hole, about the size of a two penny piece, in her thick hull armour, a hole that had been plugged in moments by the action of her self-sealing system. It had not been fast enough to save the two young men who happened to be within it at the time, but it had been enough to save the ship as a whole, or so the designer would have argued.
Horton might have had other sentiments about its usefulness.

He shook his head wearily as he read the terse report from his deputy, grumbling sadly to himself. “When are they going to learn,” he sighed, “that it’s the men who make the ship, not the ship that makes the men?”

The young seaman near him turned his head from watching the loping lumber of the Austarian mercenaries. “Sir?” he asked nervously, his head tilted like a quizzical dog’s, his dark hair, floppy and overlong, hanging down over his bright eyes, damp and matted with the driving rain.

“Nothing, lad”, Horton responded gruffly, annoyed at having been caught in his private thoughts, his voice suddenly tiring as he continued, “nothing for your concern, anyway.” He glanced briefly at the nearby Children as Vemanu’s two seamen tended to them, their bodies turning this way and that as they looked around, ever-curious, the rain flowing down their flanks and occasionally rising from their tops in a thin, steamy cloud. “What’s yer name?”

The seaman turned to face him, his voice more confident. “Stuart, sir. Seaman Gary Stuart.” He snapped off a belated salute and looked sheepish.

“Well, seaman Gary Stuart, keep an eye on this link. Inform me the moment anything important comes through, d’ye hear? I’ve never been one to leave my staff alone, and I’ll thank no-one one of your comrades has to lose a hand because nobody told me I was needed!” Stuart nodded worriedly, saluting again and sending his dripping hair flying over his well-proportioned face.

“Yessir!”

Horton nodded, satisfied. “Good man. I’ll be with the Captain.” And with that, he strode off to where Vannerman was calmly smoking his pipe, yet again filling the air with the tang of (slightly damp) burnt spinach.

He had got no more than half-way when it happened.

All at once the sky, already broiling and ugly, folded inward on itself, opening its confines to show an even deeper black, its awesome darkness blotting out the distant sun as though it were nothing more than a candle, sending stretched, weird shadows dancing across the landscape. The sky was rolling, rolling madly, the clouds breakers on the shore, curling inwards on themselves and fashioning new and ever more livid shapes by the second, while all the while the purple lightning grew in intensity, its volume drowning out the alarmed sounds of men whose hearts and minds were being probed by a fear deeper and more ancient than any they had ever faced before. But it could not drown the scream. Not the lightning, nor the thunder, nor the rain, nor the three in concert would ever be able to drown out that sound, scooped whole from the darkest recesses of man’s mind, the part that still sat around the campfire and watched the dancing shadows, expecting ferocious teeth to drag him to his doom in the unknowable dark. For a moment, the spread party of men stood in their places, frozen in mid-stride or simply staring at the heavens, so filled with hatred for the intruders.

It was Shei who broke the silence, turning to Vannerman and sprinting through the driving rain, now being moved along by a gale-force wind that only seemed to echo the mighty clamour overhead.

“Sir! What are your orders?”

Vannerman turned to him, calm as ever, the thinness of his lips the only betrayal of his inner feelings. But Shei saw that betrayal, and knew: Vannerman didn’t know what to do. And he was afraid of it, more afraid of being unable to react than of what was happening above them.

“I think”, he shouted back after a pause,” we perhaps ought to regroup our people, Mr. Shei! Go and get Mr. Vemanu to get his Children moving. We will seek refuge in that building there,” he continued, pointing with a drenched arm towards the terminal building. It was then that Horton ran up, panting, water dripping from his sharp nose and running down his saturated uniform.

“Sir! The link’s just gone down. I’ve news from the ship, sir, but…”

The sentence was left unfinished. As the three officers watched, a great bolt of lightning crashed down into the ground, finding its mark among the ranks of rotting ships. And another, and another. The world around them rang with the awful sound of the lightning bolts connecting with the ground, melting steel and burning wood and flesh like paper. Vannerman clapped Shei’s shoulder, his scarred face close, his voice bellowing above the din.

“To the building, Mr. Shei! We’ve not much time, I fear!” He shoved Shei in the direction of the terminal and ran shouting to Vemanu. As Shei watched, running madly for the structure that seemed never to grow any closer, Vemanu answered with a silent shout, nodding the water from his hair and turning to bawl at the Children; they obediently turned and began moving towards the building with their typical unwieldy motions. The two seamen followed behind, their heads bowed, terror in their eyes as the psychosis of the planet clawed at their own minds. Shei ducked into the building and watched the rain splashing down the damp walls, overrun with moss and fungus, as his comrades bolted closer, followed by the clumsy-looking but surprisingly speedy Children, helpfully bearing their equipment. above even the crazed weather, he heard one sound: the roar of an explosion, as the lightning caught one of the derelicts and tore it apart at the seams, projecting sheets of steel and heavy girders in all directions, showering with fearsome bangs and clatters upon the roof of their temporary accommodation.

Shei watched as the final Child meandered through the crumbling doorway, carelessly crunching the door into splinters with a foot, his eyes fixed on the pinwheeling remnants of the shuttle as they skipped cheerfully across the ground. Vannerman gasped, coughing slightly as he stared at the vista beyond. Neither of them had yet noticed that one of their number was not with them. For from the ground there now rose before them a towering stone ziggurat, its sides covered with incomprehensible carving, pitted and worn by aeons on the planet’s wind-blown surface. The dust and debris of ages fell from their apexes as they rose ponderously from the ground, the great spheres at their tips energising with a purplish light that glowed with the same malevolence as the lightning in the skies above. It was an altogether awesome sight, and not one for which any of them were prepared.

“Right”, Vannerman said decisively. He stood looking, disbelieving, at the pyramid. “Right. Suit up.” For the first time he looked around, as the rest of them began to put on their combat equipment. “Where’s Seaman Logayen?”

Vemanu looked up, his eyes suddenly filled with dread that seemed entirely out of place on such a burly body. “He was with me, sir! Preparing the Children! He must still be out there.” Vemanu looked straight into Vannerman’s eyes. “I should’ve kept an eye on the lad, sir.”

Vannerman shook his head glumly, looking at the continuing pandemonium beyond the doorframe. “Not your fault, Mr. Vemanu. You’d be hard-pushed to find a cruiser ten feet away in this.” He spoke to cover his own amazement, his utter incredulity at what he was witnessing, something his mind told him simply could not or should not happen. Pyramids didn’t just bloody emerge from the ground! He put on his suit almost gratefully, despite the fact it was quite obscenely uncomfortable. At least he could rely on it to remain part of the sane, sensible world he knew and cherished, when he wasn’t playing a part in wrecking it, he reflected, as he hefted the heavy, awkward sheets of armour into place. Curved panels around the legs and thighs, a heavy, thick ceramic breastplate and backplate, and curving greaves in panels for his arms. It was by no means ideal armour; it was heavy, it was cumbersome, it made the wearer sweat profusely and it rattled and bounced whenever he ran. But Vannerman knew, as did they all, that it might save their lives, and so he forced himself into the heavy armour, essentially little more than the latest in a long line of ceramic plate armours. The sole exception was the breastplates; they were made using a thin layer of the same armour as protected Venerable, whose emblem, a pair of crossed muskets over an ancient shield, adorned their right shoulders.

The final touch, unwelcome despite its importance, was the gas mask and helmet; Vannerman had never much liked gas masks, but he stuffed it onto his face anyway, feeling the clammy rubber stick to his rain-soaked skin, and carefully strapped it around the back of his head before placing his steel helmet on his head, balancing it carefully and doing the strap up with precision. As he collected his temporarily discarded weapons and some supplies, he noticed that Vemanu was gone, having shoved on his own kit faster than anyone else. Vannerman watched through the door as he ran towards the place where he had been setting up the Children, looking frantically for Logayen’s form among the wreckage. But he did not look long; and a moment later, he returned to the terminal, peeling off his gas mask as he went. His face had fallen, like a puppet with its strings cut, and his throat was dry.

“Did you find him,” Shei asked quietly. Vemanu nodded, his eyes closed.

Horton started, communicating through his mask’s vocoder. “Alive?” Vemanu shook his head. “Well then, what’s happened to him?” Horton stared impatiently, his eyes invisible behind the blue-green glow that characterised the mark’s visual augmentation systems.

Vemanu opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t find the words. Then he sighed, a great, long, weary sigh, and turned to the surgeon.

“The explosion did for your communications link, I’m afraid.” He looked down sadly, scratching his head. “It did for Seaman Logayen, too, I’m afraid.” He paused, searching, finding no adequate words to describe the sight he had seen as he picked around the remnants of the communications station. “Those shuttles were full of metal panels, about half an inch thick.” He stopped; they all knew or suspected what was coming. And although they had all seen such horrors before, they all knew that no man ever grew truly accustomed to them; he merely learned to hide them, to suppress his reaction in his own way. Some gambled; some drank; some chose the more permanent solution and shot themselves.

Boatswain Philipson, his head bleeding from a piece of flying metal, emerged from behind one of the Children in his suit, his voice distorted and tinny as it hissed from the vocoder. “And he was hit, sir?”

Vemanu nodded, his eyes distant, seeing the trailing blood as it spilled over the smooth rock, the grey, pulsating form of innards that had been severed from their ends; seeing too the young seaman’s twitching legs, kicking away in the dust, while his wide eyes stared in astonishment, utterly uncomprehending, from his dying head. “It cut him in half, Mr. Philipson.”

The Outcasts had a few minor issues with wielding laser lances on the back of the boards, not least of which was the simple fact they had not the bulk of a jet-bike behind them. This had led to a few changes as to how they used the devices, where the Shining Spear Aspect made swooping passes, like Knights charging into and out of combat the Spears, such as Shuresh made one charge, smashing into the whatever they targeted and then letting go.

The lances where therefore modified in several ways, not least being the simple fact they had no need to preserve energy, they simply expanded an entire battles worth of charge in single, blazing strike. It was quite bright to watch in fact. As was watching the Kionash make their charge, three figures wearing a strange ad-hoc mix of armour not all of it entirely practical, especially on the female that had been selected to join Shuresh, long, bizarrely coloured hair flapping wildly in the air behind them.

The other thing that differed it from a charge was the fact it was anything but, a charge is usually committed in a straight line, from point A to B in the shortest route possible, but the Kionash avoided such things. For a start those Ziggurats where not there to send out party invites, they where defences positions and nothing prevented them from firing at the three surfers. So they zipped between buildings, if any of the towers even looked like it was charging up, they zipped round, or through an intervening building, placing it between them and the defence towers.

It might not fully protect them but it was better than nothing, and it provided a little warning, which was all that the Outcasts needed…

(rooftop stuff to come, as I thought it best to post the stuff Ro needs to respond to ASAP)

"Steel, Steel, Go Scramble"

"Copy, Firebug. Scramble."

"Area clear, suggest we take a hike."

"Negative, move to the roof. Hug cover."

"Roger, Roger."

Julian checked himself against a corner, then spun about it, using the corner as a pivot point and leading with his carbine-barrel. If he'd done that little thing in Crusader armor, he'd have taken down the wall -- the Cata suit was nice like that...

It felt a little like wearing a first-gen repro thinsuit, where they hadn't really got it down right -- tried to do too much with too little. The more recent ones were supposed to be pretty good matches for the Ascended originals, in feel, at least. An actual Ascended Thinsuit had protective qualities that were unparallel in body armor of its profile -- which is to say, not dissimilar to long johns.

Distantly, he detected the distinctive sound of a CR-17 firing...

"Firebug, Firebug, Report!"

"Shooting at shadows, Steel. All Clear. All Clear."

Julian swore and put his boot through another door, sweeping the room with mechanical precision...

Horror gripped Samantha as she watched from afar, almost one-third of the soldiers under her command presumed to be killed instantly as arcs of purple-bolted energy arced upwards in their deadly embrace. Like tenticles searching for prey, the energy continued to spiral upwards and and now more toward the Tanaran vehicle looming above.

Ironically, while the beams of energy darting to and forth were indeed powerful, it was their greed to entangle and search for new victims which made the survival of just two of the original four possible. Daniel and another team-member from GAMMA having realized the error of their approach, managed to order their suits into full reverse, launching them quite suddenly an opposite but more convenient direction. The resulting forces of gravity had unfortunately made it impossible for either of the two men to keep their conciousness, but since the alternative was death by electrocution, once awake (presuming they made it that far), they would be counting their lucky stars.

Meanwhile, piece by piece chunks of twisted metal and useful equipment began to fly off their armour as the forces turned against them made for an unstoppable and destructive tide. Coming in for a landing would be one thing, having anything left that was useful would be another... soon to be proven impossible by the fact that both suits and their ability to communicate with their commanding officer was henceforth completely and utterly destroyed. Presumed and considered dead by the remainder of their force, they were instead still alive, left lying unconcious just less than a kilometre from the base of the ziggurat in a pool of broken machinery. Armed now with only the guns they were carrying and protected with only the most basic of armour (a bullet-proof vest), there would be no telling their chances of further survival apart from the hours that passed otherwise.

One of the Sharton Industry men came around the corner from the group of Venerables in the terminal building. “Eh up!” He shouted to them, before clicking a switch on his suit. “Found ‘em round here sir, turn left at the corridor bit I went through earlier.” Something fuzzled and muffled in his earpeice before he nodded. “Righto.”

“Hey, you lot, fancy hooking up?” he barked to them as he walked over. “Seems the rest of these dozy buggers are too busy playing super soldier to actually work together and get some bloody work done.”

He set his weapon down and took his helmet off. “Names Donald, by the by.” he said, offering his hand to the nearest Venerable. “Owt happened to you lot that’s odd? One of our lads bought it, somehow managed to get a pen through his eye.” Donald said pointing at one of his own. “Bloody nasty.” he added, shaking his head.

“…get any kind of contact at all?” Taz said, half looking back to Gregory, who followed him through with his ear wedged against a headphone.

“No, I can’t raise anything topside, seems I can just get Haroldson back at the Terminal entrance on his radio, shed load of static making stuff crap.”

Taz turned to the nearest Venerable officer. “You lot been having communications troubles too?” he asked gruffly.

"The sensors are registering all of that vile purple lightning as ley line energy and Damn Thing says that " Travis stopped and blinked at the rest of the report the ship's C.S. had relayed though his implant " the planet is all but a ley line dead zone."

"Damn it I failed Magery 101." Mina grumped But that was nothing news worthy. Most of the Cadre did. Most of the combat drugs in a Cadre's pharmacope would have sent a mage over the edge.

"Well we're not going down there just to add to the confusion. So far it has all the makings of a bad Pink Panther rip-off."

"Maybe we should contact them enmass, see if we can set up something resembling coordination."

"After another bucket of popcorn, and let more of that energy get used up. Your turn to toss a pouch in the nukem"

"K"

Inside the Terminal Building

Vannerman accepted the proffered hand, slightly surprised at having encountered a colleague who wasn't clad in the heavy, unwieldy mechanical contrivances of the others, and gave it a firm shake (or as firm a shake as he could give when he was simultaneously trying to force his heavy steel helmet on). "Might be a good plan, I think," he rasped through the vocoder, his unblinking blue-green eyepieces staring fixedly at Donald, pausing only to turn to the newcomer. Horton raised himself from the handy rock he had been parked on, his face not yet covered by the faceless mask, and nodded, staring beyond the two men, to the wreckage of his communications equipment. "Yes; that's our comm kit over there."


Taz shrugged. “I really gotta question some of the guys they brought along, some of them act more like damn tourists on a boys own trip rather than this kind of serious situation.” Gunfire echoed somewhere in the distance. “Seems like they’re paying for it though.”

Gregory moved forward next, standing next to Taz, rubbing his chin “This electricity is buggering everything of ours up, took down our suits, if you didn‘t notice earlier, hence why we ditched the bloody usless things and went back to basics. Good job Pinkie and Perky are ok though” Gregory said looking over to the Venerables own equipment. “Mind if I take a look and have a chat with your comms guy? Two heads better than one n all that.”

“And one of our men,” Vemanu added quietly, to a silent chorus of nods from the others. He stood abruptly, as though propelled by a spring.

“Permission to carry out burial detail, sir. I’ the absence of the Chaplain I request you perform the rites.” Vannerman turned slowly, seeing the engineer salute smartly, while behind him one of the Children puffed away to itself. Vemanu seemed, and indeed was, by now quite oblivious to the storm that still raged outside, periodically blasting slabs of metal, bits of wood and the odd item of household furniture past the doorframe; he watched a large, plush red settee bounce across the suddenly cleansed, flowing rock without any expression other than one of quiet, almost sullen determination, and Vannerman decided what he must do.

“Mr. Vemanu”, he replid quietly, his blank eyes never leaving the engineer’s, his voice distorted and robbed of almost all its humanity by the harsh, out-of-tone scrape of the vocoder, “I cannot let you go out there in these conditions to get Seaman Logayen’s body. The wind out there could lift a man up and throw him away in a second, even in this protection.” He turned back to Donald, and the unknown newcomer. “Unless, of course, you gentlemen can make any suggestions to the contrary?”

Donald breathed air through his lips and pondered a moment. “How about Tanker? He should be able to get out there easy enough.” He said, turning to Taz and grinning.

“Tanker?” Taz said pondering for a moment. “Yeah, actually he could…” Taz reached for his comms unit and clicked it. “Big T, can you come onto my position lad? Got a special job for ya.” The Radio Unit crackled.

After a moment some dust pattered down off of the ceiling, there was a thumping sound, heavy feet crunching down onto the tiles and flooring material of the Terminal. A man squoze himself through the doorway, except, as he entered the light, it was not a man, but a beast. A tall, wide creature with palid rocky yellow skin, beady eyes and a slit for a mouth, he also looked ridiculous with a tiny bowl helmet on his slightly pointed head. “You called, Boss?” the giant boomed to Taz and those assembled. “Afternoon.” he said, tipping his tiny helmet between two gigantic sausage like fingers, revealing an onion like head with a pointed tuft of white hair on top.

“Yes Tanker, we got a small job for you.” Taz said, looking up at the creature. “Apparently there’s a body out there and he needs recovering so he can be put to rest.”
“I see, would you like me to perform the ritual also?” Tanker boomed, his hands clutching slightly at his crucifix that hung around his neck that quite easily could have been big enough to crucify a child.

Taz sighed and turned “That’d depend, what religion do you lot worship, Tanker here is the closest thing we’ve got to a Chaplin, Church of Midlonia fellow.”

“Technically speaking, Mr. Taz, we’re not any religion.” Vannerman fumbled around in the suit’s unfamiliar pockets, automatically smiling apologetically as he finally fished out his pipe and began unscrewing the stem, joining his crew in looking to the wreckage beyond. “However, most of my men are Oyadan, and most of us are prepared to accept the Order of the Heavenly Orb’s ways, even if we don’t follow their doctrines.” He glanced to the assembled landing party. “I’m sorry if that’s a difficulty for anyone, but we really don’t have time to take a vote and act according to everyone’s wishes, I think,” Vannerman said, his moroseness emerging ever so slightly despite the machine’s intervention; he watched with relief as the men nodded numbly, knowing full well that Horton was in fact a Christian. But Horton could be trusted; his morbidity might not give him a brilliant bedside manner, but he knew how short life might be. Was.

Vemanu spoke up again. “Are we to conduct the full ceremonies, sir?”

“No, I’m afraid time won’t permit, Mr. Vemanu. But all we need is a little fire and some idea of where the sun is.”

“Well, if I can go get him you do as you need to.” Tanker said shrugging his massive shoulders as he moved forward towards the doorway. Pressing his fingers against the frame and pausing. “Where is he then?”

Vannerman opened his mouth, his breath rushing down the vocoder's microphone, but turned instead to Vemanu, who had finally put on his own mask, and now stared at Tanker from behind his own inscrutable, blank turquoise screen, its rounded triangular shape giving the wearer a seemingly permanent glare.

“Out there, in that pile of wreckage,” the engineer replied softly, again the melancholy passing through the vocoder. “He’s… not all as he was.”

Tanker simply nodded, removed his helmet and put threw it gently to Donald, who was knocked over by the throw, then stepped outside. The wind was easily shown by his hair, it’s strength and ferocity. His pointed white hair was blown to the side and flat, with a halting step he moved slowly forward out into the wind, and began a slow walk over to the spot where the dead Venerable lay.

“Bloody brilliant people, Gorons.” Donald said, looking out to Tanker moving slowly. “Living rock, his skeleton is made of granite, literally. His skin is some sorta heat resistant stuff too. Dunno why they like eating precious rocks though.”

Shei grinned slightly at the image of Tanker slowly gorging his way down granite au vin with a dash of shale-and-sandstone seasoning, his grin fading as he thought a little on their situation. Cut off from the ship – which could provide minimal support, per se, but could always get them out of a scrap if they were in need – they had to find some means of disengaging whatever it was that was restricting their communications. Perhaps then they could find a gap or a blind spot in the defence systems of the suddenly hostile world. He came back to the moment, cursing his own inability not to wander off into a flight of fancy or get lost in thought, and had an idea.

“Captain, sir, might we not as well prepare for Seamen Logayen’s arrival?” he asked, switching briefly to the directional channel that was integrated into his mask, and which in theory only communicated with whoever it was directly facing. “We need to keep the men busy, stop them from thinking about his death constantly. Especially Mr. Vemanu.”

There was a pause while Vannerman switched channels. “I quite agree. Perhaps set the Children to the task.” Shei nodded, just an inch, and went to confer with Vemanu, who nodded, seeming by his motions glad of something to do, and set to work on the smallest Child, Little Sister, which at length wheezed herself from inactivity and set about digging a crudely-scraped hole alongside the others of the party. Only Vannerman remained, watching the weather’s rage and the hulking form of Tanker.


The hulking figure had reached the postion he had been shown, he grimaced a little and clutched his crucifix, before pulling a long sheet of some kind from his webbing, he reached down and gathered what he could of the young man’s body, closing his eyes with a single large finger, before wrapping him tightly with the cloth sheet he had. It wasn’t like he needed the blanket in his kit anyway, but still. When he had finished it seemed like he was tightly wrapped up as if asleep, nodding it picked the man up and cradled him in his arms, before grabbing what he assumed to be the communications equipment of the Venerables and headed back, the wind still doing it’s best to hack at him. But he was immovable. A titan, a rock.

Eventually he arrived back into the building, the wind mercifully dying around him, his hair sprung back into it’s regular spot and he bent down, carefully lying the body into the hole that by now was finished. He crossed himself again before moving back to where the other Sharton men stood waiting, heads slightly bowed in respect.

Vannerman looked at the tight-wrapped bundle wearily. Twenty and already dead, sliced in half like a common sausage. It was a disgrace, a horror, and a crime, but Vannerman had seen enough of it to be hardened to it. So many years in the Navy, watching men being cut down with the giant scythe of shell and shrapnel. So many dead, for nothing. So much loss, to be cast aside and forgotten by those who he and many thousands more had sacrificed health, marriages and sanity for; and the greater number, an order of magnitude greater, who had given up their lives, only for their sacrifice to be lambasted by those who had never experienced the dread in young eyes, the tired, empty resignation in old men’s frames, the dreadful scream of ships rent open to the endless vacuum of space, the silent cries of men who had been maimed beyond any hope of saving themselves as they drifted away from their craft, perhaps to be ground against the side of another in a red smear.

Vannerman’s lip curled, his head shaking involuntarily. He’d seen it a thousand times before, probably more than most of the men on this wretched planet. And still it made him angry. Nobody would know, and if anyone did know, nobody would care, apart from his relations. Just another adventurer whose death, if it was reported in any column at all, would be glanced at by ignorant civilians in the morning news and ignored in favour of the sport. A man who had chosen to risk all, including his life, was less heroic than someone who propelled a ball through the air. Such were the minds of idiots.

The great hulking creature laid the bundle down reverently in its little hollow, a pitiful and inadequate grave; the hard rock had resisted giving them even that, its triumph incomplete, but they had dug it out nonetheless, cursing all the way as they hit hard rock, grateful for the aid of Little Sister, whose bulky body could be turned well to such tasks. Now they stood, surrounding the shallow grave, watching the corpse. Shei glanced to Vannerman, reflecting on the mask’s glaring expression had now turned to one of emptiness and sadness, the cut-off triangular bottom of each lens narrowing them, until, if you squinted very hard, you could see an empty face weeping. But behind it lay Vannerman’s real face, and Shei knew he couldn’t have read it any more easily than the mask at a moment like this; the Captain was an old hand at the heart-rending business of laying to rest those who had barely awoken to life. Had he seen Vannerman’s face behind the helmet, he would have been not a little surprised.

“Right, gentlemen.” Vannerman coughed behind the mask, paused for a moment, and then bent his head to his hands, peeling it from his face, revealing his anger-gritted teeth and little more, but freeing too his voice from the cruelly mocking rasp of the vocoder. “I don’t know the full routine,” he continued, his scar cracking this way and that in the flickering light, “but I can do the basics.” He gave a fleeting look to the bundle. I wish I could do more, my lad. The heads bowed reverently, Vemanu holding a metal can of liquid over the corpse as Vannerman turned to face what he thought must be the direction of the planet’s star.

“We commit to the earth the body of our comrade and friend, Seaman Antero Logayen. He was a brave and willing young man, and will surely be sorely missed.” Vannerman glimpsed the sombre faces and hurried on. “May he be one with the Light; for although his body is dark, his spirit shall burn with the stars.” A brief “amen” moved around the circle, the men still watching the pitiful bundle, as Vemanu poured the liquid over the corpse, throwing it, splashing it across the grave until the cloth was thoroughly covered, to the point of dripping stickily in places. Without a word, Vemanu followed it up with a length of cloth, torn from the seaman’s torn uniform, stained with his own blood, and dipped in the oil that now covered its erstwhile owner; bending down to Little Sister, he lit the torch and tossed it onto the body in one swift, brutal movement, the men stepping hastily back as it caught the oil-soaked bundle.

Vannerman coughed softly, his voice harsh with the sudden influx of unfamiliar, stinking smoke. “The flesh burns that the spirit may rise. Go with the light eternal, Brother Logayen. May we meet again during the heavenly dawn.”

“Amen.”

Tanker crossed himself and muttered a few words, largely to himself. Taz sat back and watched the event, Donald stood head bowed next to some of the Venerables as they performed the ceremony.

“Amen” they all muttered as Vannerman finished.

------------------

Outside, on the Landing Pad

The men left the building quietly, subdued. Shei, bringing up the rear of the column, glanced back to watch the flickering orange light within as the flames licked hungrily at the young man’s corpse. The planet had already claimed one of them, within minutes of their arriving.

How many more by the time we’re done?

Ahead of them, Vannerman was conversing with Donald, the grim burial put to the back of his mind, while their two groups tramped towards their destination.

“Any plan of action, Mr. Donald?” he asked huskily, screwing his pipe’s bowl into a special attachment on his gas mask and carefully inserting a CBR filter into the top.

“Dunno, I never really got the idea of why we were exactly here in the first place, don’t think the chief does either.” Donald motioned back to Taz who was still conversing with Gregory who was constantly fiddling with a detachable control pannel on his communications unit, trying to boost the signal time and again, and apparently failing.

“S’far as I know we’re looking for a crashed Winger ship, and trying to find out what happened to them. Way I see it, the strange crap that’s been going on and what happened to poor Yan and your lad, I think we’ve worked that bit out.”

“Indeed.” Vannerman’s sourness at having been told to little by the Roanians returned anew. “Helpful of them to warn us what we were going to have to go up against.” He turned his lighter’s flame into the temporarily-exposed bowl of his pipe and carefully lit the tobacco, sucking on it thoughtfully and catching glimpses of the distant city above and around the walls of the scarred, miserable terminal building. Purplish light arced viciously into the air above it; the ancient engineers’ contrivance had barely begun to wreak misery on them. “Very helpful,” he grumbled, ejecting smoke through a small chimney-like addition to his helmet. “And equally helpful of them to give us an idea of where our goal might actually be.”

“Luck of the draw, sir.” Donald shrugged.
Gregory moved over to Vannerman, still playing with his panel before looking up. “What sort of system does your radio pack work on? Battery and standard Radio Waves, or what?”

Vannerman turned swiftly, distracted by the sudden appearance of the other man. “Yes, pretty much. Mr. Horton has the details – he’s the one with the red cross on his arm. However, our communications aren’t likely to get through this stuff, it seems.” He jabbed a thumb towards the tramping form of Horton, behind them and talking on his secure channel to the others of their party.

“Hmm, right. Thanks.” Gregory moved away.

“Forgive his rudeness.” Donald said as he lit a cigarette. “Too busy thinking and worrying about his toys to do much about manners.”

On the Edge of the Shuttle Pad

Gregory tapped, who he assumed was Horton. “Can I see this pack of yours? I’ve got an idea on where to get a fix on what the hell we’re doing.”

“Wrong man, sir.” Behind the mask, Philipson bared his teeth in a humourless grin. “You want the man behind me, sir.”

Horton heard the remark and turned to see who sought him. “Help you?” he asked, deadpan, through the hissing vocoder.

“He wants to see our radio kit,” Philipson supplied helpfully.

“Oh, right.” Horton shrugged and gestured towards the heap of wreckage that had been his communications equipment. “That’d be it there. I don’t know about you, but I don’t think it liked being crushed beneath half-inch sheet steel.”


Gregory nodded and closed the panel on his arm shut for a moment and stooped down next to it, his knee sinking slightly into the muddy surface around them. “Might not need all of it. Can you help me take it apart a bit? I could do with the transponder module and the power kit mostly I reckon. Might burn enough through all this electronic hazy shit to at least give us a clue as to where we should go looking.”

Horton took a look at the splintered remains of the monitor, the scattered bits of circuit boards, and the other electronic detritus that surrounded his feet, crunching beneath each heavy footstep, ignoring the red smears visible a few paces away. “The thing’s dead, frankly,” he said at length, having spent a moment scraping through the crushed remains. “There’s no way in hell you could make any of this stuff useful without a workshop, and even that’d need some luck.” He kicked a dented capacitor aside angrily. “Bloody typical. Just fucking typical.”

Forcing himself to calm down, rather than take the immensely satisfying extra step of kicking the remnants of the equipment to pieces, he flicked a look at Gregory. “Mind you, we could juice yours up a little. I don’t know if it’d do any good, but if we could get in touch with our ship, we might be able to use her sensors to find something.”

“Exactly, you’re thinking what I’m thinking. I reckon we only need some components for this.” he said, slipping the boxy bulk off of his back and clicking a couple of switches, a turning satellite dish popped out and it folded out into a keyboard, monitor and a couple of other screens and sensors, all of which showed static, only one of the four screens was slightly clear, it was a radio comms listing the Sharton Industry people, and their range. But it flickered a lot and occasionally hissed into static. “Thing’s supposed to be good against electronic interference, seems they didn’t mention it cuts down to the basic setting, that of radio.” He thumped the screen for the radio list and his flickered, the static clearing. “Could probably add your lots personal radios into this too, boost the signals.”

“Not likely,” Horton replied dourly, looking back to the now-halted party as they sought shelter from the persistent rain despite their suits. “The radios are suit-integrated. What we could do, though, is boost your signal by a fair margin. Little Sister and Big Sister both have their own generator packs.” He paused, looking thoughtfully at the radio pack. “Of course, whether there’ll be anything to find is a bit moot. Still, we can definitely boost your signals quite a bit, assuming your sets can take the extra juice.”

“Should be able to. In theory I can nab a general channel off of you guys too, regardless of suit integration or not.” Gregory rubbed his chin in thought and yawned slightly as he pondered. “Mind, we have Pinkie and Perky, our Micro-tanks, they could give me the extra juice I need. Stupidly small nuclear reactors on board or something. Radio Transponder to boost the signal specifically woulda helped more.”

Horton sighed. “Yes,” he replied wearily, I imagine it would. Unfortunately that large assemblage of squashed metal’s what’s left of our transponders,” he said, gesturing towards the heap of smashed electronics and shrugging his shoulders. “So I don’t know. If you think you can juice your signal up enough to get through this muck, you’d better do it. This lot’s about as much use as a chocolate fire-guard.”

Gregory got up and gave the pile of scrap a good couple of kicks, it fell to pieces easily, he bent down again and began to scrabble through the remains, pulling random boxes and wires out. “Seems to be a couple undamaged.” He muttered as he looked at a couple, then withdrew a small box from his webbing. It was a set of jewellers screwdrivers. “Right, let’s see now…” He sighed as he began to open up a panel on the side of the boxy machine. After a moment or two he looked up and whistled.

One of the Mini tanks scuttled its way over to Gregory, who motioned for it to turn around. It did so with a slight peep. He then lifted a slightly mud and rain splattered cover and pulled a spool of cable out, with a 3 pin female plug on it. “Hope this bleeding works.” he muttered as he clicked the plug into another panel he had opened revealing the male end of the plug, and he waited.

The set fizzled and crackled, it’s screens blinking on and off a few times before flickering on, the static was still terrible, but it was at least working.

“You h---- e?” A voice crackled.

“Hang on Musayaff, trying to clean it up a bit.” Gregory said, tapping his keys on the keyboard.

“You there then? I’ve got your location just.” The voice said over the radio set.

It then suddenly shut itself down completely. The Microtank suddenly burst steam out of he top of it’s turrent. “Oh bollocks.” Gregory said. “Looks like one of your children will be necessary after all Mr Horton.”

Horton glanced at the equipment speculatively. “I’ll get it whistled up. By the way, I suggest that the drain might be a little less pronounced if you whip the booster module off there,” he said, indicating a small box with a nod and soothing his wounded pride. “and plug it into your own transponder. Thing’s a very-long-charge capacitor, and it should still have plenty of juice.” He switched to the internal frequency, flicking a small switch near the nape of his neck. “Mr. Vemanu, could you bring Little Sister over here please?” The radio whistled gamely, picking out the planet’s own speech in its furiously writhing electromagnetic fields.

“Roger Doc,” came Vemanu’s flat voice over the speaker. A second later, Little Sister began clomping towards them.
Roger Doc,” came Vemanu’s flat voice over the speaker. A second later, Little Sister began clomping towards them. Horton could swear he felt the ground vibrate as she did so, for Little Sister weighed in at a less-than-sprightly 1.2 tonnes. Short, squat and ungainly, Little Sister was one of the family of Children CEO Reanar had constructed from sapre parts, salvaged from other ships and prised from dead men’s hands. She stood low to the ground, her body supported on two large, thick steel legs, hinged like a man’s and making her lower body resemble that of a stumpy, black-painted kangaroo; within, massive pistons served to drive her forward and backward, granting her a surprising turn of speed once she had accelerated.

Her rounded, humming, cylindrical bulk was mostly taken up by her boiler, a tiny and ingenious flash-steam generator mounted on gimbals, fed automatically with water from the tank that lurked beneath it and fuel from an oil bunker on top. Her arms, disproportionately long and built to replicate a human’s, were interchangeable; at present, they carried hands, allowing the machine to manipulate almost anything a human could, though with none of the dexterity.

Atop this collection of hot brass and steel was Little Sister’s head, swinging on its pivot, taking in her surroundings through a pair of eyes; one large, round, lidless and yet alive, glowing with the same blue-green colour as the eyepieces on their masks; the other hollow, devoid of any light or colour and using short-wave radar to help the machine map its surroundings and detect things which refused to be seen by their electromagnetic emissions.

Though intended primarily as a beast of burden, Little Sister had been designed to be as versatile as possible and could, if the need arose, be equipped with a variety of unpleasant implements of death. Her hands alone had the strength of a hundred men’s, and more than once had been used in anger, the machine quite calmly gripping some poor unfortunate and squeezing the life out of him dispassionately, the eyes never flickering for a second as they watched his death throes.

The machine trampled its way through the softened ground, rain glistening and dribbling from its rounded contours, impervious to the discomfort of its masters. Steam rose in a light, hazy cloud from around its back, and Vemanu grunted disapprovingly at his charge; evidently another condenser tube had sprung a leak. He could have gone with Little Sister, of course; the machine’s brain, such as it was, was primitive, and it was essentially capable only of simple tasks – including “enter this area and kill” – without supervision. But he liked to watch it work with others, and Horton could handle it – her – well enough.

“Little Sister!” Horton called through his vocoder. “Come here and start your generator.”

Little Sister turned obediently towards them, clanking over with a steady, rhythmic hiss that came and went in perfect time with her thrusting pistons. From within her head, a strange hissing squeal began to develop, and quite suddenly, a flat, hollow voice issued forth from the machine’s perennially-open mouth as it halted, the whine of a turbo-generator issuing from its belly.

“I am here, Mr. Horton,” the reedy voice pronounced calmly, crackling with static. “Generator active.”

“Creepy.” Gregory muttered as he pulled the cable out of the micro-tank, which hissed back into life and scuttled away, bouncing over the soft ground and back to join it’s own sibling, he handed the cable to Horton. “I’ll let you deal with that then?” he said as he bent back down to the unit and tapped it up again, removing a unit and plugging it in through a different port.

“Report.”

“Generator at seventy per cent output, rectifier disengaged. Detect current at two hundred volts,” Little Sister responded, her perfectly sculpted voice marred slightly by the poor quality of her speakers.

Horton nodded, satisfied. “Right. She’s juicing it up now. Let’s see if the combination can get through that lot,” he said, casting a hopeful glance at the pouring sky.

They were met with a string of curse words from the unit at their feet “I’d say yes, to that.” Gregory said as he knelt down.

“Musayaff, can you hear me now?” Gregory said as he looked at the screen at an irate Mrs Azriel Sharton.

“I can bloody see you too! Thinking of taking a vacation?” she snapped.

“No, nothing like that, I need you to loop the ship’s sensory signal through this unit here, the electrical storms above seem to have one hell of a disruption to them, we need a single pulse to try to get a map of the city.” Gregory said as his fingers blurred over the keypad, hammering up a scanning system and a mapping system.

“Right, I’ll see what can be done.” Azriel said before she vanished.

A few moments later several green lights flickered on and pulsed, the unit began a slightly steady almost drum-beat like sound before a lens on the outside of the case burst into life, casting onto the ground a 3 dimensional model of the city.

“That worked, thanks Azriel.” Gregory said as he severed the connection. “You can unplug her now if you want, Mr Horton.”

Taz and Donald moved over to the map, Donald lighting a cigarette and Taz lighting a large thick cigar and looking down at the model. “Big city.” Taz commented, nodding to the blinking red light that apparently represented their position, dwarfed by the size of the cityscape in the “distance” of the map, a scar across parts of the city, hidden by other parts, seemed to show a crashed ship of some form. “Seems like the crater is through the damn run of those obelisk things too, great.”

Horton looked at it long and hard. “Figures. Hold on a second.” He flicked back to the unit frequency, and Vannerman loped over the rain-soaked earth to join them, a tail of smoke issuing behind him. He looked at the projection and nodded slowly.

“Well, gentlemen,” he said at some length, sucking noisily on the pipe (which emerged through the vocoder sounding like a yak cleaning its nose), “I think we have an objective. I take that around… five miles. A fair way, but we can do that in an hour, with a little luck.” He didn’t mention the rider, which was of course avoiding antagonising the large pyramids that were now merrily raining death upon their various counterparts.

“Bloody cities.” Taz muttered, before turning to the main body of his own men and calling out. “Right, Everyone in my lots got their packs on with necessary rations plus emergency excess, right?”

There were numerous nods and agreements from the assorted Sharton Industry Mercenaries. “Looking at three maybe four hours walk here gentlemen, it’s a fair distance away.”

There were some groans at that, and loud complaints. “Gives us a couple of hours in hand, plus if we get there early they’ll be a lot happier about it.” Taz muttered leaning in to Vannerman. “Reckon we should buddy everyone up into two man teams? One of your men and one of mine until we run out?”

Vannerman considered the idea for a moment. “No, I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” he replied, satisfied with their current level of “integration”. “No sense to go forcing ourselves on one another, and in any case I doubt it would help our cohesion.” He looked at the distant city apprehensively, fortunately hidden by his mask and helmet. “Not as much as whatever’s between us and that place will help it, anyway.”

“Fair enough.” Taz shrugged. “Alright, move out in your squads, make sure you keep some spacing between yourself and the Venerables. Try and stay within shouting distance though, first way point for a break is marked on your eye pieces now.” Taz nodded to Gregory, who clicked a couple of keys, highlighting the faily tall circular building near the edge of the crater, just visible in the distance. “Lets hop to it gents!”

Moving down the shuttle pad ramp into the city proper

Vannerman in his turn took his eyes from their distant goal and flicked onto the unit channel. “Right gentlemen, you heard the man. That tall building in the distance, as fast as we can make it.” He returned to the head of the column, Little Sister thundering in beside him. “And away we go, lads.”

The column traipsed off into the haze of rain, towards the gargantuan structure that they had designated their goal, its tip reaching up almost to touch the clouds, even at that distance. Shei’s voice burst into Vannerman’s thoughts as he stared at it.

“Long way to go, then, sir.”

“Indeed so, Mr. Shei. You sound worried.” Vannerman smiled, thinking of the young Shei as he had first really known him aboard the Starwitch. He hadn’t changed much; still the perennial worrier.

Shei chuckled into the radio. “Well, sir, since it seems the very rocks around here are against us I think it’s with good reason!” But his voice, grim and strained behind the mask of laughter, gave the game away.

“Perhaps, Mr. Shei. Perhaps.”

Donald sighed and stepped into line with Jim, who still seemed a little distant and shaken. “Alright laddie?” he said idly as he sucked on his cigarette.

“Mhrm.” Jim said simply.

Donald sighed and handed him a cigarette, which Jim snatched and had lit for him by Donald.

“Thought you didn’t smoke.” Tanker said as he crunched past them both, holding a larger calibre rifle to the rest of them.

“Didn’t.” Was Jim’s simple reply.

Donald shrugged and hefted his weapon on his back, and stopped to glance back at the rest of the columns as they moved along the street towards the new objective, items of life still lay around them, street lamps fallen over, personal transports rusting still in the streets, something echoed off of the landing port walls and his shivered as he turned back, putting his weapon into his hands instead. “Bloody dead cities give me the creeps.” he muttered to no one in particular.

As the mercenaries wearily made their way into the city center, the lightning slowly faded away, the planet's defensive structure recognizing that all airborne entities were grounded once more. The sky above, however, continued to grow darker and darker. A strange wind blew from the outskirts of town, where the clouds spiraled around something set low beneath the skyline's ruins.

Around the mercenaries, spectral lights took shape and form and leapt, red outlines appearing in the flicker of a leaf on the ground or a shot from a laser, but otherwise utterly invisible against the darkness. Someone screamed as something vicious and unseen tore their arm off, and then the creatures truly were upon them.

Shuttlepad Area

Julian considered his options, perched atop a choice piece of rubble like some sort of gargoyle. He hadn't moved since attaining the perch, immersed in his maps and planning. Minutes ticked by, lost forever...but that was fine. The momentum had been lost quite some time ago, and now Julian intended to make as much use of that loss as he could.

He would, of course, strive to re-attain momentum when the opportunity presented itself. It was natural, in his blood, trained into him, instilled into him -- seize the momentum, push hard, keep the foe off-balance, keep driving into him. Denied that, plot, plan, do whatever possible to ensure that, when the opportunity to regain the momentum was presented, it could be taken as effortlessly as possible.

Suddenly, decisively, he dropped from the rubble, taking his carbine into his hands and forming his squad up for an advance. A thought: it would have been rather nice if he'd connived some sort of IFF system for the other mercenaries. Ah, well. Scans were well and truly screwed, anyway, so it probably wouldn't have helped...

Large scale, his squad was technically moving in the 'wake,' if you would allow the term, of the combined Venerables/Sharton Industries advance. For the moment, this suited him fine -- were he feeling arrogant, he would have likened the situation to using dogs as minesweepers, but that would have been in bad taste even in the present situation.

Irian, moving maybe a meter and a half to Julian's left, suddenly dropped his carbine onto his retention sling, reaching for his flamegun.

"Events are progressing, Julian, and they are progressing negatively. Be on your guard."

Julian nodded, reaching out with his talent...and understanding, quite suddenly, the instinctual reaction that had caused Irian Chellavan to reach for his flamegun. Indeed, Julian removed his right hand from his carbine's pistol grip for a second, supporting it with his left hand on the foregrip and pressure on the sling, while his right dropped to ensure that Peacemaker was loose in its scabbard. When one felt what he had just felt, one tended to seek comfort. For Irian, that was his flamegun -- proven useful against any number of unnatural threats, favored weapon of the Inquisition. For Julian, that was his warblade, his heritage, his way of life, himself.

Little enough else he could rely on these days, after all.

They moved. Purposeful and yet with senses dulled, the column began its long trudge into the outskirts of the city, each man in the group alone with his thoughts in the pounding downpour that rapidly turned what little soil remained on the scourged ground to sludge, that ran down eyepieces and dripped from masks and gloves, and sought out with unerring success the little chinks in the armour of each man, the tiny cracks that were of no consequence when it came to the matter of stopping bullets or lasers, but which would be his death warrant against toxins that could be absorbed through the skin. The suits were third-hand, first-generation equipment that had been bought from army surplus stores and flea-markets around the Empire and beyond, or scavenged from the musty stores aboard the Venerable when she had finally been awakened from her long slumber in the void, to the clatter of new boots and the breath, the voices, the sweat of new men climbing through her dark, deserted passageways, breathing life into her once more. While they had made good the cracks in she ship, they had not restored the suits to their former glory; and now, with the deluge trickling off the polymer skin that should have protected them from its excesses, the little rivulets found their way in, running down arms and necks and legs, mixing with the near-intolerable film of sweat that was the inevitable by-product of the heavy, cumbersome suits and their nearly nonexistent breathability. With seaman Stuart and boatswain Philipson acting as the vanguard, they tramped through the thin layer of muddy slime, and into the ruins of what had once been SGV-78’s sole city.

They knew they were in the city well enough. Erected proudly over the street stood a huge, spidery metal arch, evidently cobbled together in a slightly rushed fashion judging by its noticeable cant to one side, which bore a legend, outlined in silver on a jet-black background that, despite the ceaseless attacks of aeons of wind and rain, still seemed largely unmarked; in spite of this, however, it remained incomprehensible, spelled out in that curious script of lines and dots which those who had watched the data slate’s unhelpful images recognised, but could no more decipher than a man from ancient Babylon might decipher binary.

“What d’you suppose it says, sir?” asked Philipson in a gap-toothed cackle, “Arbeit macht Frei?”

Vannerman shook his head slightly, a strange sight beneath the suit. “That’s in very bad taste, boatswain,” he replied, nonetheless cracking a slight grin as he passed beneath the leaning edifice.

Philipson could hear the grin, and returned it, nonetheless replying with suitable deference. “Sorry sir.”

“Whassat mean, anyway,” chimed in Stuart. At this, three voices rose as one to supply the answer, drowning the radio net in their enthusiastic chatter; but the relaxed spirit of the men was not to last long. For they were now entering the town proper, and its ruins, little two- and three-storey houses long abandoned and in various advanced stages of decay, were too full of foreboding to be passed with any cheer. Through the long vanished windows, the column could spot some of the same traces of former habitation as Philipson had seen; but in these places, anything that could degrade had long since done so, crumbled back into the dust of this forbidding, hateful planet, to be swept into the skies and hasten the reduction of the last traces of its inhabitants into so much sand. The strengthening storm threw the rain into ever more strange patterns driving it at near-horizontal angles this way and that, pushing it in through the roofless walls of the houses and sending curtains of dirty, spraying water blasting into the faces of the mercenaries as the ploughed on, still making stolidly for the distant spire, amid the ruins of those whose deaths they had, in some way, come to avenge.

Under such conditions, then, it was hardly surprising that it took a while for anyone to notice the faint outlines that seemed to be moving, flitting, in the shadows and around, indeed upon, the tumbledown walls and doorways. The column slowed, performing a swift concertina, and then halted altogether.

“Captain sir,” murmured Horton, checking his relatively portable sensor feed from both Big and Little Sisters, “there’s something here.”

“What?”

Horton repeated the warning, breathing slowly and quietly, as though whatever it was might hear his rasping throat. “There’s something here. Objects. They’re moving.”

Vannerman thought for a moment, turning his head slowly to his right. “Where?”

“To our left and right front, sir. Now moving towards our flanks.” Horton held his breath. “By God, I see one. Captain, on top of that house, right there!” he pointed at the building in question, but his outstretched finger showed nothing; the shape had vanished, subsumed into the dying light that seemed to contract visibly around them.

Vannerman squinted carefully, uncertain and unfocomfortable, wishing above all else for a ship to command right now, not to be trapped on this barren rock with nothing but the shadows, from which who-knew-what might leap at any second. He kept telling himself it was purely him being jumpy, but the fact was that he didn’t feel right and the Children did not lie. “I see nothing, Mr. Horton. Switch to thermal imaging,” he ordered curtly over the radio, sending everyone reaching for the awkwardly-placed switch that would cycle the primate optical equipment in their masks to a thermographic setting.

Seaman Gary Stuart, looking every inch the soldier in his unusually smart and comparatively leak-proof uniform, crouched and reached up behind his head, feeling for the switch unit. It was at that moment that something caught his vision, from the corner of his eye. Instinctively, he spun to the left , forgetting the need to switch his optics and loosing a long burst from his battle rifle at the vague outline of something tall and strong and unbelievably sinuous that seemed suddenly to fill his vision. Unfortunately, and despite his quick reflexes, he was far from quick enough; and now the men knew for sure they were under attack, for they could hardly be ignorant of it as Stuart’s blood-freezing screech rang into their ears, amplified tenfold in the close-fitting earbuds. Each man, in turn, spun his own way, head and eyes scanning frantically for the new threat, while in front of them, Stuart’s agonies reached a crescendo. But there was no merciful end, no quick death; not for him the easy and noble passing so beloved of heroes in books and on the silver screen. Seaman Gary Stuart’s end would take many minutes yet, as his existence surged in sprays from his brutally severed upper arm, staining the bleached white of his protruding bones as they grated on the stones. Yet he still gripped his rifle with his other hand, and reached over the terrible mass of torn and shredded flesh that was his ruined left arm, harbinger of his imminent demise, firing wildly at what he thought was something, but might have been nothing. He was still firing when the magazine ran dry; his finger seized around the trigger as the rifle jumped madly in the sudden puddles, sending ripples dancing gaily in the water of SVG-78 and his own lifeblood, he kept firing. But his eyes were wide and unfocussed, staring dumbfounded, even to the end, at what had been his proud, strong arm.