As Expected
“Ahhh, shit! They’re at it again, Captain!”
Julian Kel toggled over to a local overlay and grimaced. The deceptively harmless little red icons representing hostile forces were closing – again – with his dug-in squads. Three days into the fight, and his units were short of everything but foe, of which there seemed to be a limitless supply.
Indeed, the fieldworks his men were fighting had been shored up several times with the large corpses of slain Piggies – for over two days now, the most abundant resource had been slain foe. Piggies. Presumably they had a proper name for themselves, but whatever it was, Julian Kel had absolutely zero interest in learning it, right at the moment. They looked like bipedal boars. Thus: Piggies.
“So they are, Sergeant. So they are. Aimed fire once they are within range – conserve ammunition. No automatic fire unless absolutely necessary.”
The NCO grunted in assent, and ducked back into the firing trench. Julian, meanwhile, remained crouched in his command hole, up to his ankles in a combination of water and Piggy blood, which would have been extremely nasty, had he not been in armor. He’d passed out his remaining ammunition the day prior, leaving him with naught but his Warblade with which to fight, if it came to that. So far, it hadn’t…but ammunition was critically low, and the Piggies had enough mass to them that they could absorb one impact from CR-17 battleshot in a non-critical location without going down.
Which essentially guaranteed that it would come down to steel and speed, and the Piggies had a general advantage in strength and mass – there was a lot more to your average Piggy than there was to your average Revenian, and while the Piggies didn’t have powered armor, there were also something on the order of ten of them for everyone one of his Marines. Which was not exactly what you’d call favorable odds, especially when his Marines were down to their very last magazines.
He sighed, then, and let his hand come to rest on his Warblade’s hilt. Only a matter of time, and it wasn’t like there was anything else he could do. He’d already sent through enough requests for fire support that the battery controller had probably placed him under a spam filter…
All things considered, pretty much following the recent negative turn of his life – and thus, expected.
First Lieutenant Vladimir Burke was not having a good day. Quite the opposite, in fact. It had started off poorly, when he discovered that all of the eggs prepared for breakfast had been contaminated with ketchup, and had only gotten worse, culminating in the trio of Piggy light-fighters buzzing about somewhere to his rear.
He could feel them back there, like an itch between his shoulderblades. The urge to swing back and knock the little pests off was eating away in a corner of his mind, but he had thusfar resisted it, and intended to continue resisting it until he'd delivered his payload. They weren't a threat to him, after all. Piggy air-to-air munitions were noticeably deficient in their ability to track and engage Revenian fightercraft.
Simply, they were too slow -- in any situation other than nose-on, Revenian fightercraft had proven able to simply out-accelerate the Piggy's air-to-air seekers, and even in a nose-on situation the superior maneuverability of the Revenian machines had, by and large, allowed their pilots to generate misses. There had, of course, been exceptions to that, and the Piggy seekers were not deficient in payload whatsoever...which had left a handful of empty bunks back on the assault ships. Not many, but enough to be noticeable.
A soft chime-sound indicated that he was closing in on his designated target, and he brought his vertigrav out of HELT mode, the large 'bloom' from the HELT thrusters fading rapidly as the gravitics were brought fully online. Burke had programmed a relatively casual transition, in order to avoid the unpleasantness of an abrupt transition from HELT mode to combat gravitics. He was fairly certain that the morning's horrible eggs were fully down, but had no wish to find out for sure unless absolutely necessary.
A few toggles were thrown, and a final once-over confirmed that everything was in order, so Burke pulled up a tactical overlay in a corner of his visor HUD and identified his target -- a relatively large Piggy ground force engaging a short company of Fleet Marines.
Burke called up the designator feed, reviewed it, found no obvious signs of mistakes (such as designated coordinates being uncannily similar to the coordinates for the designator unit itself...), then dumped the feed to the VGAM controllers for dispersal to the weapons themselves.
The Versatile Ground Attack Munition was the AFESSR's present-generation air support ordnance solution, featuring a number of weapons and a 'controller' unit, either integral to the fightercraft or mounted in the 'pylon' to which the weapons were attached. The weapon itself was modular, allowing it to be tailored to different roles through the application of different warheads and guidance systems.
Burke's VF-11 Bloodfury carried two VGAM 'clusters' under each wing, with the VGAMs configured as submunition carriers, necessary to attain the coverage required by the mission. This increased the risk to engaged Fleet Marine unit, but there was no better alternative available, thus the risk had to be taken. Burke final-checked the controller feeds, ensuring that the controllers had not made any obvious mistakes (the kind that tripped telltales) during the calculation and dispersal process, then initiated a weapon release.
As the VGAMs dropped away from his vertigrav, Burke peeled away from the drop-site, drifting up and piling on acceleration as he 'cut and ran' in accordance with doctrine. In this case, it was an unnecessary response as the threats the doctrine were designed to combat were not present in this combat environment, but Burke did it anyway, because it had been drilled to the point where it was as natural as breathing. 'Don't stick around a nanosecond longer than you have to.'
A sideways glance triggered his strategic overlay, and a mental calculation confirmed what he'd suspected -- he had more than enough flight time remaining to see off the three lightfighters in his backfield, which should, hopefully, help out the indigs a little bit. While Fleet Marine pilots like Burke were essentially untouchable in the execution of their missions, the indig's air assets were essentially on a level with those of the Piggies, and while the indigs had been managing, thus far, to hold their own in the air, a lack of significant doctrinal or technological advantage on either side turned the whole thing into a battle of attrition, which was a battle that the Piggies would inevitably win.
Burke smiled beneath his helmet as he tapped the sector recon probe and set his vertigrav onto a high-angle programmed course which should place him at a more-or-less ideal location to strike at the lightfighters, if said lightfighters maintained their current vectors. That location was, of course, essentially directly above them. While Revenian vertigravs were not completely liberated from the requirements of aerodynamics, those requirements had been eased significantly...and Vladimir Burke intended to demonstrate a small portion of exactly what that meant.
Command Post, AFESSR Expeditionary Force, Delilah
"Julian Kel, reporting as ordered, Sir!"
Alexander Kincaid resisted the urge to bring his right hand up and brush fingers over the paired silver swords of a major general on his epaulets. He'd never -- really -- expected to attain staff rank, fully expected to retire as a Colonel for reasons of political expediency, for Alexander Kincaid was also Count Scar Mountain, and a Kincaid of Armel...
But he hadn't. Not even when the AFESSR's offensive ground force had transited to the GFG model, stripping RevArm of its offensive infantry assets. Not even when the Fleet Marines were, essentially, made the senior service -- something he had expected to result in an accelerated return to civilian life, in his case. But it hadn't, and here he was, commanding an operation. Not a full-scale GFG, certainly, but GFG command was about ninety-nine percent paperwork and listening to bitchy RSN officers, neither of which appealed to him.
He returned his attention to the young officer before him, finding himself somewhat at awe at the decorum Kel projected, when one considered that the Captain had been in the field a mere hour prior. A closer glance picked out the signs of fatigue that Kincaid would have expected from someone who had spent the last three days in an essentially endless dug-in trench-brawl, but Julian Kel did a remarkable job of hiding them.
Kincaid grinned wryly, "At Ease, Captain. Have a seat, please. Your men, by all reports, are, to a person, racked out, and the reports I have read make it clear that you were spared none of their exertion -- the least I can do is offer you a chair."
Once Kel was ensconced in one of the marginally comfortable chairs in front of Kincaid's desk, the Major General opened a folder, his finger-tips tapping out a simple rhythm as he reviewed his notes for dramatic effect.
"It will please you to learn that I intend to allow your company to remain inactive for a few weeks, to allow for a full resupply, as well as the return of the unit to combat strength. Don't thank me yet, son. You're an officer, and we don't get downtime."
Kincaid chuckled at Julian's blank expression, then removed a small box from a drawer of his desk and passed it across to the other man. Control of one's facial expression was much-prized among the Revenian nobility, and considering that both Julian Kel and Alexander Kincaid were members of the very highest tiers of that social class, there was something humorous in the recognition of 'noble' traits.
Julian took the box with some hesitation, opening it with a thumb to find exactly what he had expected to find -- the quadaxe and planet of a Major. Somehow he managed to contain his enthusiasm. It probably helped that there wasn't much to begin with...but Kincaid was talking again.
"As I said, you won't be getting any downtime. It has come to my attention that you have some experience with vertigravs, so I'm giving you Bravo of the 112th Assault. I've had about enough of this static defense crap -- it's bleeding my people for no actual progressive effect. Bravo's CO is due a promotion, so he's out and you're in. I want you integrated and prepared for combat ops in, oh, a week. Think you can do that, Major?"
Julian found himself nodding, "I suppose I can manage that, sir."
Lead Vertigrav, Bravo Company, RFM 112th Assault Regiment, presently over Piggy Strongpoint codenamed 'Big Sty'
Julian exhaled, flipping his visor down and ensuring that he had a good seal. Inside the vertigrav, things were more-or-less nice. Well, as nice as things ever got inside the troop bay of an AFESSR vehicle, which was pretty nice, if you didn't mind brushed metal. The chairs were pretty horrific, but they had to be -- they were designed to hold up a trooper in full battle kit, armor and all.
It'd been a...while...since he'd been in a vertigrav. He'd joined the Fleet Marines as a foot-grunt specifically to avoid vertigravs -- too many bad memories. But it'd always been there in his record, his stupidly high aptitude scores on the vertigrav sims at the DSSC, and the competition wins of his youth.
He was from Morgathi. You didn't grow up on Morgathi and not learn to fly. From ultralights to vertigravs to whathaveyou, it was the only way to really get around a planet where civilization existed solely in the peaks of mountains.
He was also a little too familiar with jumping out of vertigravs for his own tastes. Indeed, that was why...but he shook his head slightly, blocking off that line of thought. He'd gone over it in his head a thousand times, laying awake at night in his bunk, staring at the ceiling, and the bullets he'd soon be facing said that this wasn't the right time to do it again.
Exhaling slowly, he pulled his carbine from the overhead rack and gave it a once-over, then hooked the retention straps into place -- if he dropped it, it would automatically be drawn out of his way and onto the hard-point on the side of his armor's 'backpack.' Handy.
And then the little orange light lit, and he rose calmly, moved to the door, and touched his command squad off, one by one. Tick, tick, tick...then there was no-one left, and he was faced with that gaping maw pointing directly downwards, plummeting...and he let out a soft moan, and stepped into the void.
He was seized instantly in a gravitic field, aimed, and hurled groundwards. This was a 'casual drop,' not the usual simultaneous deployment, but it was the casual drops that got to you. The squad-drops were fully automated.
Blading his body, he let himself drop for a time, his suit's external mics disabled. It was a surreal experience, watching the ground come closer in utter silence, and he couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to drop all the way, smash into the ground like a living kinetic munition. That though lasted for a few moments, before he laughed and feathered his gravitics, inching himself back onto course. He might get killed, this drop, but damned if the piggies wouldn't have to work for it!
Julian maintained a steady stream of muttered curses as he spun back behind the questionably-valuable 'cover' provided by the large stack of supply crates across from what he had just learned was one of Big Sty's primary barracks installations.
He lifted his carbine up over his head and braced his off-hand on the stock, then pulled up the gunsight camera and let off a few bursts. They were inaccurate as hell because this was no way to be shooting a gun, but it was enough to put a lot of holes in the front of the barracks and keep some heads down long enough for him to drop his off-hand to his belt and pull a tracer grenade from the dispenser.
Rolling out from cover, he gave the grenade a light toss and followed up with a long, wild burst from his carbine. Moments later, the grenade detonated...and the tide of Pigging pouring out of the barracks was reduced, presumably due to the shock of seeing several dozen of their comrades blown into ugly chunks.
That shock gave Julian time. Time to rise into a low-running position and get the hell out of there -- he wasn't Dysaryn Stark, taking on a few hundred Piggies in hand-to-hand wasn't anything he was going to do by choice. In fact, he was going to do everything he possibly could to ensure that it didn't happen, and, for the moment, he was going to be successful, as two squads had peeled off the primary sweep and were now bringing the barracks structure under fire, battleshot punching through the thin walls and turning the interior of the structure into an abattoir.
Julian fell back to the second sweep-line, cursing himself the entire way -- he'd sent his command-squad to guard a secured objective of particular importance, namely Big Sty's CP. As a result, he'd been completely uncovered when the Piggies had come swarming out of their barracks like so many disturbed hornets. Now, safe, he flipped up his visor and took a few deep, gasping breaths. Then the pain spiked, and he felt his legs begin to give way. A panicked thought locked his armor, keeping him upright. A few moments later, he was alright.
A few moments after that, he was laughing.
"ILLEGAL TO OWN BRIGHTLY COLORED BALLOONS!"
Deep breath. Heave. He pulled himself up, muscles straining, held his position, his body dead weight, dragging at his hands. The gravpad beneath him pulling at his body, dragging at his hands, his grip. He held himself vertical, knuckles white against the bar, toes dangling two, three feet from the ground.
Sweat beaded along his forehead, dripping into his eyes. He blinked madly, trying to clear them. Grunted, closed his eyes, let the sweat run down his eyelids. His fingers began to ache, from gripping the bar so tightly for so long. He gritted his teeth, listened to his heartbeat. Traitor heart, belying the pain he felt with its unchanging rhythm.
He lowered himself gently, until he was hanging from lax arms, then dropped the rest of the way to the ground. His hands were numb. He mopped at his forehead with the back of one of them, while inside he snarled. He longed to prowl the camp, snarling and spitting fire at anyone who interrupted him, but that would have been bad for morale. So he stalked about in his mind, growling and snarling and raging at his own inability to play the game like a game.
His own inability to control his body. To repair the disconnect between mind and body. The doctors said he hadn't recovered from the fatigue, that whatever had made him freeze up at Big Sty was still affecting him, the doctors said that his present state of weakness was understandable, that he'd pushed his body too far.
He'd believed them, at first -- it all seemed so logical, so simple. Just fatigue, simple, honest fatigue. Pushed himself too hard, getting Bravo ready for Big Sty, ten paid the price when the adrenaline wore off. Made sense...but it wasn't true. His constant ability to perform above what the doctors considered to be his 'proper level, considering the burnout' confused him significantly more than it confused them. They assumed he was trying too hard.
His body told him that he wasn't trying hard enough.
He walked with his eyes still closed, to the showers, to the cold and the hot and a farewell to tension, but tension remained, though it was not physical. He hadn't felt...right...for a while, now. Partly because of who he'd become -- who he'd found out he was, and what that knowledge did to him.
Which, probably, explained why the doctors couldn't get a handle on him -- he wasn't the person their charts said he was, not any more. When his father, when his father found him, and Chovas had an heir, he'd changed. Become what the heir to a Great House should be -- Ascended. But he'd always been that, Halfling, anyway, but...what was the difference? Halfling Ascended weren't fullblood, not the child of two Ascended. But that was it -- the visual cues -- silver eyes, hair -- appeared without regard to logic. A half-Ascended child could exhibit none of the outward traits, but that child's grandchild, without any further input of Ascended blood, could.
Then there was himself -- Julian Fang, bastard son of Kethvae Chovas, Lord Chovas, who was of as purely Ascended blood as Adrian Stark, and Rhya Kel, a Halfling. Julian was, thus, Halfling himself...except. Except that Halflings weren't supposed to be able to do things he could do, weren't supposed to inherit House Talents, just whatever they got from whatever lottery gave out talents. There was Chovas blood in Kel, and no Kel had ever expressed Chovas House Talent until Julian.
But, then, Julian was a Chovas, not a Kel. But, at the same time, he wasn't. Didn't want to be, didn't know how to be the heir to that name that still meant...enough to make him afraid. Stripped of all the nobility, stripped of all the influence and the political power...the essence of Chovas was more than he could stand. What had been, before Chovas was a Great House, what had made Chovas a Great House -- that terrified him, and it was an inheritance he wasn't sure he could survive accepting.
Not that he had a choice. He could do things that had left him screaming in frustration a year earlier without breathing hard, without realizing what was happening until he got ready to push again and found that he didn't have to. Like living in a stranger's body.
It got worse, of course -- his talent sharpened. It always had, when he was feeling vulnerable or under stress, but now it sharpened whenever those things happened to others. He'd been wrapping himself in armor, building walls since the moment he was born, but those walls were almost a joke now, considering the ease with which the emotions of others speared through them, walls that he had raised to keep the outside out, to keep his mind his own.
He'd had to relearn everything he thought he'd known about that part of himself, had to build new barriers, and even then, still wasn't able to keep them all out. He'd get used to it, he supposed, or go insane. The silent cries for help that no-one was supposed to hear, that he heard, that he could not answer, because he had sworn to never use his talents to fix people. To guide, to ease, to aid, but never, ever to inflict his own vision of rightness upon another.
He slipped from the water, then, opened his eyes. Silver fading to blue. Old to new.
And back again.