by Will Crudge
“I was hoping you may be able to tell me where my commandos and I can get settled in.” He says cheerfully. I tilt my head and squint my eyes at him involuntarily. I’m so confused right now.
“I’m sorry, but I haven’t been briefed on any GBE personnel being a part of this mission,” I say politely, but with a palpable tone of confusion. The Brits are polite as a rule, so I take care not to offend him in any subtle way.
“Ah! Of course not, War Master.” He chuckles lightly. “I believe our leadership has been advised to make our entrance subtle. Apparently, the joint command staff didn’t want to break the news to Crimson Military Chancellor until it was too late for him to respond with any potential – subterfuge – as it were.”
I blink wildly. His words hit me like a mental hammer. But it makes perfect sense. Having a significant non-Crimson presence would counterbalance any schemes that may be going on in the background. Besides, I feel at ease with the knowledge that the Royal Marines are loyal allies. They won’t allow the Crimson commandos to take control over anything more than what I decide to delegate to them.
“How many marines do you have?” I ask.
“One squad of twelve, and a heavy weapons fire team. Including myself that adds up to thirteen.” He says cheerfully. “My name is Percival, by the way. Archibald Percival.”
“Excellent!” I say with a smile. “I am War Master Katherine.” I pat him on the shoulder and begin to lead him to an adjacent corridor to the left.
“Oops!” I say with a light chuckle. “You’ll be going to the officer’s berthing. This way.” I say as I lead him to the right.
*****
“Hey, drone!” An arrogant sounding voice spouted. Marbles sat up slightly from his reclined position on the plush seating arrangement. He saw a group of Crimson commandos walking up the entrance ramp while they dragged duffels. “Grab my bag, and show us the berthing area.”
“No.” Marbles replied dryly. The man cocked his head to the side and then threw his helmet down in anger. The helmet bounced across the deck and stopped a meter from Marbles’ feet. He watched it until it stopped, and then rotated his head towards the man. His visual field made the head moving irrelevant since he had a near two hundred and forty-degree field of vision, but he decided to play the asshole.
“Are you malfunctioning, drone?” The man shouted. The other men and women stopped dead in their tracks and seemed to look indifferent to the exchange. “Get. My. Shit. To. Berth-ing. Now!”
Marbles decided he’d had enough of this man’s shit. He knew full-well that drones were often used as manual labor when they weren’t catching bullets for the Crimson Alliance, so he decided that he needed to prove a point.
Marbles deliberately walked towards the bag, slowly picked it up, and then stopped to look at the man in his eyes. He had sergeant stripes stenciled into his left breastplate, and his bright red hair looked matted from wearing his helmet.
“That’s a good little, toaster!” The sergeant said as he bent his lips into a crooked smile. “Now take it to the berthing area.”
Marbles heaved the duffel back over his shoulder, stepped to his left, and threw the bag down the ramp. It impacted the ramp’s surface, before sliding across the docking deck, and tumbled another thirty meters. Marbles could see the wide eyes of the other Crimson troops. They were obviously not accustomed to an infantry drone that had that much strength… or rebellious tendencies.
“What the fuck!” The red-haired sergeant said with a gasp. Marbles noted that the man was slowly stepping backward, and his vitals went through the roof.
“Get it yourself, sergeant!” Marbles said as he stepped up in the man’s face. The sergeant eased his fingertips onto the handle of his side-arm, but Marbles didn’t give him the satisfaction of flinching. “Let’s get one thing straight. I may resemble an infantry drone, but more than half of my tech is UAHC. Not to mention, I don’t work for the Crimson. Especially not arrogant fucks like you, understand?” His words were cold and sinister.
“Stand down, Marbles!” A new voice boomed out. Marbles knew that it was Jefe, the UAHC Sergeant. The drone slowly stepped back while squaring his shoulders, and then he turned to give Jefe a nod of acknowledgment.
“You’ll have to excuse, Marbles,” Jefe said as he walked up to the group of Crimson troops. “The Crimson haven’t been too – kind – to him, plus he’s also a sentient.”
Gasps filled the air, and many of the Crimson troops were sharing whispers and glances. Marbles could hear their chatter and knew they were shocked at the news of his sentence. The Crimson may not like sentient AI’s, as a rule, but even they have laws that somewhat protect them.
“I’ll get you all settled in, ladies and gentlemen,” Jefe announced. “Follow me!”
Marbles watched the troops follow Jefe towards the enlisted berthing area, and then took satisfaction as the sergeant trotted after his displaced baggage.
This is going to be a hoot! He thought to himself with a sense of pride trickling through his synthetic neural pathways.
THE BRIEFING
“This place has huge meeting space, at least!” I say to Major David as we walk into the room. The room is fully occupied, and attention is called by some anonymous person. Just this morning, he was ‘Captain David,’ but apparently, he was ambushed with a promotion sometime in the past few hours.
“Carry on!” Major David sounds off, and everyone takes their seats. I’ve already made it a point for Major David to handle the receiving end of customary military curtsies. I may be in charge, but I am not a commissioned officer. I want to make sure that my War Master Status doesn’t cast a shadow over David’s newly acquired authority.
“Let’s proceed to take roll call.” Major David says, as he nods at Sergeant Jefe, who’s standing in the corner, and to the left of the podium. Jefe walks to the podium and begins calling off names. I only halfway listen, as I prefer to take visual stock in the crew for myself.
The seats are arranged in two sections with one on either side of the room. There’s an aisle down the center that splits the two groups down the middle. On my right, as I face the back of the room, are predominantly Crimson personnel. Four women, and two men. On the other side of the isle is Major Ives with her short light-colored hair, and she’s seated next to Captain Kelley... Kelley has also been ambushed with the rank of Captain, it would seem... Ives is wearing a garnet-colored Unum dress uniform, and Kelley is in full matte silver UAHC issued armor.
The Royal Commandos fill the rows of seats behind them, and I see Captain Percival seated directly behind Ives. They all have loosely fitted fatigues, as is their standard duty uniform, and it appears to resemble like a small ocean of loam green fabric.
What I wasn’t expecting was the lone UAHC Air Force pilot. He was seated all the way in the back, and behind the Crimson folks. I’m assuming he’s the pilot who calls himself Turnbuckle and will be manning the Throat-Slasher.
The names are read off one by one, but something grabs my attention. I feel the presence of my own kind approaching. Four in all.
Elizabeth enters the room first, and Jefe pauses to look over at her. “I’m sorry we’re late!” She declares but doesn’t seem to be speaking to anyone in particular.
“No problem, War Master!” Jefe says with a curt nod. “I started with the roll call a few minutes early, anyway.”
I look around at the faces of the Crimson personnel. I can’t wait to see the looks on their faces when the next person… creature… comes in. They’ve probably never seen a Zodiac before, and I want them to feel humbled.
Sure enough, eyes went wide, jaws dropped, and a few of them seemed to nervously shift
in their seats. I hear the massive paw pads smack the deck plating, as Napo walks in. The half-ton tiger’s shoulders come up to ribcage level on the average person, and it turns the intimidation factor up to eleven!
Jack, formally ‘Peterson,’ walks in next. I’m less pleased about his presence, of course. I haven’t seen him since the incident on the Titan orbital habitat, and I would have preferred to keep it that way.
Entering right behind him was Shade. The silky black-furred panther is a Zodiac of legendary pedigree. Though noticeably smaller than Napo, she’s no less intimidating. There’s something scary about a confident female dressed in black!
The four newcomers move off to stand by the bulkhead on the far side. Napo plops his bulky tiger frame on the deck below, and then he lets out an audible grunt, as his mass impacts it. Shade gingerly seats her hindquarters down, while keeping her posture fully erect and attentive. Jack leans back against the bulkhead, as he folds his arms. I can’t help but notice a tinge of lethargy in his eyes.
Elizabeth presses one elbow against the bulkhead and then nods at Jefe to continue. The Soldier nods in turn and finishes his task accordingly.
“All are present, sir,” Jefe reports to David. But before David could respond, an audible voice ranged out into space.
“You didn’t call my name, sergeant!” A sassy female voice spoke.
“Forgive me, chief!” Jefe responded. “Ladies and Gentlemen, let me introduce you to our ship’s AI, Chief Warrant Officer Lillian.”
My eyes go wide. Lillian? Where do I know that name? I ask myself mentally. But after a few seconds, I know the answer. She must be the former UAHC Command Chief Warrant Officer that I heard about. She had been heavily damaged when a Chimera subverted her. The Mwargoth-based digital entity had corrupted so much of her core coding that only Midas was able to prevent her from going into a state of rampancy.
“Greetings, everyone!” She said cheerfully. “Please proceed.”
“Very well, Lillian,” David replied warmly. I can’t help but notice the uneasy vibes I’m getting from our Crimson guests. They’ve been fed anti-AI propaganda for decades. Granted, it was perpetuated to cover up the lack of technological resources that the Crimson Alliance had experienced for two centuries, but it’s hard to reprogram one’s self, I suppose.
David takes the podium, and Jefe goes back in the corner from whence he came. “Welcome aboard the UAHC Intimidator.” He announces.
I’m glad he did too. It’s been a such a rapidly thrown together mission - that I’m in charge of - and I haven’t taken the time to find out what the ship’s name was… Or the compliment of crew, for that matter.
David continues. “By now you are likely aware that this is a search and rescue mission. It has been jointly classified by the combined fleet, and is considered top secret at the highest level recognized by all factions.”
Shit! I didn’t even know that. I’m grateful that David offered to open up the briefing.
“Expending resources for a search and rescue of a vessel during a time of full-scale war isn’t ideal. Especially, when we have no confirmation if the vessel we’re looking for has even survived.” He continued.
A hand goes up in the back. I see Turnbuckle stretching out his body to the side, so as to be seen amongst the ocean of red Crimson Armor.
“Yes, Turnbuckle?” Major David says to him. Turnbuckle drops his hand and then stands.
“Sir, are we to understand that this – vessel – may not even exist anymore?” Turnbuckle said with a slouching motion as if to accentuate his confusion.
“That is correct, captain.” Major David nodded. I sense a hint of frustration in his voice.
“Forgive me, sir… but this is highly irregular. We have an enemy with unknown capability out there, and as far as I’ve been told, we have no idea where their bases of operation are. If we’re going on a wild goose chase, then I can only assume there’s something significant about what we’re looking for?” Turnbuckle asked. He was correct in doing so. Everyone was probably thinking it, but he had the balls to ask the question. I take a mental note that I can trust this man to give me an honest perspective on things.
David paused for a moment, let out a soothing breath, and then nodded. “The ship we’re looking for is… the Foehammer.”
Gasps and side-bar conversations began to erupt. I look around and notice that most of the chatter was coming from the Crimson folks. I didn’t realize that they knew about the vessel, let alone its name. To be honest, I’ve only heard it in a few cases to reference Kara’s, so-called, Wrecking Crew. But obviously, it’s struck an uneasy chord with the red armored folks.
Then a hand goes up. It’s the CO of the Crimson fucks, Captain Frick. David acknowledges him with a hand gesture. “Major David, please forgive our confusion. My orders were to assist in the search and recovery of an LRF-90 super fighter. I wasn’t aware that the Foehammer was our real objective.”
Bam! Just like that Darius’ instincts were correct. Frick may be putting it out there to hide his intentions in plain sight. There’s always the chance that he’s only been given the core information, and one of his underlings has a clandestine secondary objective. Either is possible, but one thing is apparent. The Crimson focus is on LRF-90 tech.
“You are correct, in part,” David replies. “We can confirm that there is an LRF-90 on the Foehammer’s manifest. The Skull-Crusher’s recovery is a critical objective, but not the only one. This may be a little hard to hear from a Crimson point of view, but the Foehammer is a symbol of heroism for the UAHC and Unum allies. I’m well aware that the same cannot be said from a Crimson perspective.”
Frick’s lips curled inward slightly, and I can tell he was none too pleased. “That - ship – killed scores of my fellow Crimson Fleet members. Please excuse me for expressing any displeasure in being assigned to recover it.”
“I appreciate your candor, Captain Frick. And I wish you weren’t hearing it for the first time right now. But I suppose the sensitive nature of the mission is what drove your chain of command to withhold that detail until you were fully integrated.” David explained.
It was a masterstroke. The commandos are used to being poorly briefed by their superiors. It’s symptomatic of any military that has a totalitarian government, I suppose. Now they’ll believe David’s verbal slide of hand… Hook. Line. Sinker.
“Very well, major,” Frick said as he sat back down. I notice that he referred to David by his rank, and not as ‘sir.’ Doesn’t surprise me. There’s no formal agreement that requires a junior ranking Crimson officer to use the terms ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am.’ Only the UAHC, Unum, and GBE jointly recognize their counterparts in a formal capacity.
“As we speak, Lillian is conducting pre-flight checks, and coordinating our departure with Thermopylae’s CAG.” David continued the briefing. “We’ll be departing for a jump point about two AU’s out from our current locale, and then begin our search pattern. The detailed specifics should be populating in your neural interfaces now.”
I don’t have a neural interface, nor was I aware that we even had a search pattern mapped out. Now I’m wondering why the hell David wasn’t just put in charge. It’s his ship we’re looking for, after all! Then it dawns on me… David never mentioned that he’s the former skipper of the Foehammer. I don’t blame him either.
Unless it’s pertinent to the task at hand, then revealing any unnecessary information can only do harm. I trail off on that line of thinking for a moment longer, but then I realize that someone is missing.
He says with no shortage of sarcasm. But then it hit me… I was fucking told about that! Damnit!
I don’t feel like I’m leading anything. When I had FLEETCON during the Battle of Thermopylae, I had felt like I was in charge. But now it seems that everyone knows what’s going on but me. I can’t help but wonder why that was. Was this mission already being planned and I was just an afterthought? Perhaps I’m just a convenient figurehead?
Shit! Don’t get me wrong, this is a big ship for a small group like this, but I was never briefed about any of this. Crimson commandos, GBE commandos, two War Masters, two Zodiacs, Wrecking Crew members, a former mortal enemy, a fighter jockey, and now a handful of UAHC Airmen. I start to wonder if we need our own catchy name for a team.
I walk up to the podium, as David introduces me to everyone. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you our taskforce leader, War Master Katherine McAlister.”
I give him a curt nod, and he takes a seat next to Captain Kelley on the front row. Here goes nothing. “I’m going to make this short and sweet,” I say. Truth is, I have no way of making it not short and sweet. I don’t even know what I’m about to say. “We all have different backgrounds, and we all have experienced losses. You may not like the task ahead, but that’s irrelevant. This is all bigger than any of us. The loss of an LRF-90 cannot be understated. Until the Battle of Thermopylae, no other hull type has successfully engaged a Mwargoth Manowar, let alone survive an encounter with one. Humanity has very few of these ancient fighters to go around, and the loss of even one of them would be more of a demoralizing blow than the loss of three full squadrons of cruisers.
