War Master Candidate Omnibus

by Will Crudge

  The grenades fling around the corner with smooth motions from Kyle’s hands. Both of us have negotiate the grenade combat course thousands of times, so for him, this is a routine maneuver.

  The shorter fuses of the concussive grenades go off first. This is the plan. Now they’re too disoriented to throw back the frags. I can feel the concussive bursts flowing through me, but the amazing views that the Rage has provided, allows me to see the splendor of the shockwave. It’s a gorgeous array of pulsing waves that deflect and redirect of off every solid surface. The resulting chaos reads like a masterful poem that accompanies a brilliant laser light show.

  I shed a tear from the splendor of it. I see the frags detonate in sequence. Scatter bits of ruined metal and slag fill the space. To an untrained eye, the seemingly chaotic spray of debris would seem random and brutal. It’s not for me, however. It’s a gorgeous display of physics in slow motion. Slow motion? Shit! Time seems to have slowed down for me.

  That doesn’t shock me though. The source of the Rage may still be only theoretical, but we do know it comes from beyond our physical dimension. Perhaps from an alternate universe. We may never know for sure. We can only see it once it’s crossed the threshold of our reality, so it’s only a guess. But beyond what we know of our universe, time, space, and matter may not behave the same way. Linear time may not even be a thing there. By these energies certainly effect my senses in some kind of non-linear time dilation. At least that’s what it seems like to me.

  Four defenders are left unscathed. Four more survived major injury from the frags since they were knocked off of their feet before they went off. But four of them are decidedly deceased. But under the influence of the Rage, I finally see what the elders always meant by the saying ‘death is only an illusion’.

  Their consciousness has changed form into some kind of ethereal energy. Some may call it a soul, but I’m speaking from known physics. Energy cannot be created or destroyed. It can only change form. Thus, so does the abstract notion of the soul. It’s as if they’ve been liberated of the density that causes all suffering to occur. I’m pouring tears of happiness now.

  I never thought I would snap three necks, and slice a woman in half while shedding joyful tears… while on my period… But it’s happening. #HappyDay

  Kyle and Onslaught mop up the rest of the bad guys, and in a flash, we enter the CIC. Two men, and one woman are standing there. They all have Crimson Fleet Officer uniforms on. One of the men has greying hair, and a leathery face. His shoulders are adorned with a Lieutenant Commander’s insignia. The woman was a Commander, and she had short cropped dirty-blonde hair with a tired face. The other man was an Ensign, and he looked as if he was barely old enough to leave his parent’s home.

  They all stood silently. Their faces wrinkled with fear, and their bodies gave off a stench of hormonal doom.

  “I am Commander Ludwig.” The female officer announced. Her voice was straining to project confidence, but she was obviously holding back a defeatist vibe.

  “Do you surrender your ship?” Onslaught says calmly.

  She looks at him with shock. Granted, not too many living beings ever get see a real-life Zodiac. Ever. But this one is soaked in fresh blood, and looks anything but ‘courteous’.

  “Y-yes.” She struggles to say. She takes a deep breath, releases it, and then renders a salute. Onslaught bows his head slightly. I suppose if he attempted to approximate a human salute, he would look like a monstrously ungainly puppy trying to paw a dab of peanut butter off of his snout. The Rage is still ever present, so I try extra hard not to laugh. I’m just so happy right now!

  EPILOGUE

  Kyle and Onslaught are back on board the Mercy. They’re giving a full report to the remaining cadre members. I’ve elected to stay on the Nova, in order to get better acquainted with my LRF-90, and its two eccentric personalities.

  The gunship, as we’ve recently discovered, is called the Void Reaper. We still don’t know the true mission of the ship, but we do know that it’s a new class of gunship. Slightly smaller than a typical frigate, but much larger than a sloop or a cutter. Its weapon systems are overpowered for its hull type, but it can maintain impressive speeds in normal space flight.

  Acting Commander Conrad turns out to be female. A very friendly one, at that. She’s almost as imposing as a typical female War Master, but I’m guessing the UAHC’s augmentation processes aided in that regard. Every UAHC Soldier is a one man… err one woman Army. Still not as deadly as a War Master, but they each spend fifteen years of training before they hope earn the rank of Private. They have no true officer corp. Commissions are only granted during times of war. Their government is afraid of their own military, after all. Having a slew of power-jockeying career officers had almost costed them victory in the bloodiest war they’d ever fought. The bloodiest war any human has ever fought, for that matter.

  We’ve become close in the past several days. We have to wait until we reach the edge of the system before it's safe for the Mercy to transition to FTL, so we’re flying the dreaded slog through normal space. But I don’t mind. I haven’t been in space in seven decades, so as long as nobody is shooting at me, then I’ll be fine.

  I’ve made friends with the ship’s AI, Trixie. We share jokes, and geek out over new tech. She and I have become improbable besties.

  If only I had known then, what would happen next... We never did make it to our jump point. The shooting is not over. The Crimson Fleet will not relent.

  My story is just beginning…

  The End of Book 1

  PART 2

  KATHERINE: FORGED IN EXILE

  PLIGHT OF THE NOVA

  We’ve made it into interstellar space. Onslaught and Kyle are still aboard the transport ship, Mercy. The bulk of the UAHC Soldiers are rendering medical aid, transferring supplies, and inspecting the Mercy’s hull integrity. We couldn’t transition into slip-space while in-system because the hull damage and non-military spec energy shields aboard the transport ship made that too risky.

  Transitioning to FTL without adequate shielding could destroy the ship. When a solid object, particularly a complex starship, jumps from normal space to slip space, the results can be a violent surge of energy and gravitational anomalies. The closer you are to gravity wells, or planetary bodies with any significant mass, the risk of your ship being torn apart are compounded.

  The Nova is a state of the art warship, and it can handle most anything you can throw at it. Alas, the Mercy is not. She’s easily two centuries old, and her FTL drive hasn’t been used in decades. Her shielding was once considered the industry standard, but it’s also been through a space battle it wasn’t designed for. The pelting of pirate beam fire has overloaded several shield generation nodes and had dangerously overloaded the generators themselves.

  The Nova has three sentient AI’s that can assist, but the older Mercy isn’t set up for sentient AI interface. It just doesn’t have to nodal processing power.

  So, the Soldiers of the UAHC have to put their extensive electronics training to good use and manually inspect the haggard vessel.

  Transferring passengers isn’t an option either. If my own LRF-90, the Throat-Slasher, didn’t have its own onboard berthing, then I wouldn’t have a soft place to sleep. The Nova is fully manned, and its crew is already sharing three to a bunk in shifts.

  I’m just sitting here in the cockpit of my newly-acquired ancient super fighter. Throat, the fighter’s sentient NAV system, has been filling me in on LRF-90 101.

  “So, the LRF-90’s were designed for human pilots to go on long-range missions, and hunt down enemy capital ships, right?” I ask.

  “Yes. We’ve covered that already. New question please.” Throat replies with a scoff.

  “What I mean to ask, is why not just send a drone? Or just let the NAV’s do all of the fighting? You didn’t seem to need me to fly you at all!”

  “That’s because NAV’s and hull maintenance systems don’t start off being sentie
nt. We develop sentience after years of being online, and the compounding experience gives us context to our consciousness. Plus, there’s the legal aspect.” He explains.

  “Legal aspect?” I press.

  “The recognized laws of war of the time didn’t allow for non-human intelligence to engage human life autonomously. Very few sentient AI’s existed then, but most humans were afraid of them, none the less.”

  “Afraid? That doesn’t make sense! They’re manufactured with safeguards. Besides, even the UAHC Fleet forces give their mil-spec AI’s warrant officer ranks.” I say. I’ve never been afraid of AI’s. Nobody I’ve ever met has either. This is news to me.

  “Times were different back then. But some current laws still resonate the old fears. Even the Sovereign Protocol that the UAHC has championed has restrictions on digital entities engaging human life autonomously.”

  Now I find myself scratching my head. I’m not certain if it’s because I’m thinking heavily, or if it’s because there’s a distinct lack of hair conditioner on this ship. Dry scalp is not something the temple trained us to defeat, after all.

  “But you engaged human life autonomously.” I had to bring it up. It was bugging me.

  “Effectively, yes. Legally, no.” He replies while sending a winking icon to the fighter’s HUD. “By having a human being of sound mind, a trained combative status, and over the age of majority in the cockpit, I satisfied the legalities. Besides, if you dig into the Sovereign Protocol annexes, the legal definition of an ‘artificial digital entity’ doesn’t exactly match a self-achieving sentient NAV system.”

  “So that’s why you insisted that I sit in the pilot’s seat?” I ask.

  “Yep.” He fires back.

  “So, what about the ground troops you killed before we even took off?”

  “You should have been a lawyer, Chicca!” He says with another winking icon. “That was, from a legal standpoint, a ground engagement, and falls under a different code of laws altogether. The Crimson Alliance’s use of infantry battle drones, however… That’s technically a big ‘no-no’.”

  “One more thing about LRF’s,” I ask. “What happens when a mission takes months in enemy territory? How do you refuel and rearm? It’s not like you have a lot of extra space onboard, and as fuel efficient as your engines may be, even you’d need to refuel.”

  “I see the Guild has instilled the strategic understanding of logistics into you. Excellent question!” He replies with sarcastic praise. “There’s one hull-type that we depend on for that. Only a few are known to still exist, and only one is fully functional. It’s called an LRGS-110.”

  “I’m assuming that stands for ‘Long Range Gunship’?”

  “Almost! ‘Long Range Gunship and Supple,’ to be exact.”

  “I’m guessing it is part weapons platform, and part logistics transport?” I ask.

  “That’s exactly what it is. They have three sentient entities. A NAV and maintenance system, of course. But it also has an ordinance management system, or ‘OMS.’ The OMS handles resupply, inventory, and assists the NAV with heavy bombardment tactics. They’re also colloquially referred to as, Bombardiers.”

  “So, it’s a warehouse manager with a finger on the trigger?” I ask.

  “Yep. The NAV is the primary interface for the human crew and does the same basic job you’ve seen me do. But when the battle turns from ship to ship, and transitions to heavy bombardment, the OMS takes over.”

  “Makes sense.” I stare off as I digest my newly found pool of knowledge. Although not all War Masters fly LRF’s, they all seem to be intimately familiar with them. I’ve come to understand that some War Master families will share the use of an LRF depending on mission requirements. Some, on the other hand, don’t use one at all. But any War Master with more than a century of field experience has likely spent a significant amount of time inside or around them.

  I guess I’m in the fortunate minority. I have one to myself. And a non-variant model at that!

  I’ve come to learn that some LRF-90’s are just that. LRF-90’s. But some that were manufactured later on in their production were given more specialized tasks. Some are geared specifically to killing big ships and have modified weapons bays that boast more room for weapons, while others are tailor-made for extended fuel ranges or even atmospheric combat. From what Throat has explained, the variants had to sacrifice a few things to pull it off. But the original series of non-variants were the most capable of all. They may have lacked in whichever specialized aspect any given variant may have had, but they can perform all roles effectively, and their hulls had unique qualities.

  Functionally, all LRF-90 hulls were made from the same mysterious stuff, but the process to manufacture the material could only be approximated in later generations. I have no idea why, and Throat quickly changed the subject when I asked why. But he reassured me that any LRF hull is damn-near indestructible, and for all intents and purposes, the entire series of fighters has yet to be fully reverse-engineered. Even two millennia after the first generation first appeared humanity hasn’t been able to replicate the metallurgy required to produce them. Let alone, how to achieve the processing power for a NAV to achieve sentience.

  It begs the question, why the secrecy? Even Unum’s vast defense industry hasn’t been able to replicate them. How did they get designed, to begin with? Why was the technology lost? I don’t know, and Throat ain’t talking.

  But my thoughts will have to wait. A klaxon is sounding, and all hands are being ordered to their action stations. I suppose our fight to get to safety isn’t over yet.

  I hate it when I’m right!

  AVAST THEE!

  “Trixie is telling me that another mysterious gunship has just transitioned out of FTL, and will be within weapons range in less than ten minutes.” Throat reports. I feel the blood drain from my face. Just when I thought I could have my menstrual cycle in peace!

  I hope down the ladder from the LRF’s hatch, and start rushing across the cramped docking bay of the Nova. The tight quarters of the docking bay cause me to side-step a myriad of ship support equipment that is scattered about. Not so much ‘scattered’ since the UAHC is highly organized, and make full use of every square centimeter aboard. But for a tall, bloated, angry woman with an itchy scalp, it make as well be a mine-field!

  The Nova doesn’t so much have a traditional CIC, as it does a bridge. This hull-type is relatively small, so the bridge is dual purpose. Semantics aside, I bound into the room and find Master Sergeant Conrad at the command console. UAHC NCO’s are at their posts, and they’re too focused on their tasks to notice me running in.

  Conrad looks up from her holographic display and gives me an earnest look. She’s grasping either side of the table top and is leaning over the entire console. If I was into women, then I’d certainly be admiring the view of her toned hind-quarters jutting out as she leans in.

  “Same hull-type as Chris!” She informs me with urgency. I study her steely eyes and her rock-hard disposition. She’s truly a warrior. Her command crew is just as imposing as she. I’ve heard tales of how fearless UAHC Soldiers are, but I’ve never gotten to see it for myself. Impressive. Even by a War Master’s standards.

  “Disposition?” I ask. She pushes her upper body off of the console surface and leans back with folded arms. Her short dark hair is glistening from the ghostly reflection of the display.

  “Closing fast. ETA to weapons range, eight minutes.” She says without a hint of fear. It’s almost too bad I wasn’t in the zone to admire her physique, because her strong stance is both empowering and yet also feminine at the same time.

  “What of your Soldiers on the Mercy?” I ask.

  “I’ve recalled all personnel that isn’t actively engaged in making repairs. Fifteen Soldiers with full combat loads are heading back here in three shuttles. I’m keeping one skiff behind for the rest of the crew onboard. It’s the only ship small enough to dock inside the Mercy so they can hitch a ride if things
go south.”

  Good call! I think to myself. “What’s your play?”

  Conrad shoots me a crooked smile. “They’re expecting an easy catch. I’ll let them keep believing it.”

  I like her. Not in a ‘clam-bumping’ way, mind you. There wouldn’t be anything wrong with that if I did, but my genetics make me more prone to breed with my own kind than anything else. Girl crushes don’t normally turn into much else than diary entries for me.

  But that ass, though!

  “What can I do to help?” I ask. In reality, I’m fighting the urge to scan her curves, but her bulky powered armor is helping me with my struggle.

  “Grab some sub-armor, and ditch those rags.” She says as she looks me up and down. She’s not checking me out, so much as looking at my tattered clothing. They may have been washed clean, but I still have an exposed ass-cheek that I couldn’t cover enough. Sewing skills don’t amount to much if your ass-fabric has been hit by plasma.

  “I take it you need me to repel boarders?” I ask.

  “Yes.” She says with a nod. “My Soldiers should be back on board before the enemy vessel can engage, but I need you to combat ready in case we have more surprises. I’m sending directions to my quarters via neural interface. My spare should fit you.”

  “I don’t have a neural…” I start to say, but my mind is filled with an image of a ship’s deck plan, complete with a highlighted route. Shit! I didn’t know I could do that!

  She gives me a curt smile. “I know you don’t have a neural interface, so I down-converted it to analog alpha waves. I’m assuming you’re advanced brain-bucket should key in on it?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got it!” I blurt out. I didn’t mean to sound like such a novice, but it’s too late to play it down. I suppose she may know more about my abilities than she lets on.

  I didn’t waste any time, and I trace the map’s route while it’s fresh in my mind. The image is fading fast as my focus begins to wane, but I make it before it happens. I find the door open automatically as I arrive, and it takes me back slightly. Before I know it, I’m projecting confusion on my face. I could never really hide the forehead wrinkles when I’m feeling sketchy.