The Union Is Not Yet Lost (Closed)

[The Solar Cooperative Union]

PORT VALENTINE, LUSTON, SOLAR COOPERATIVE UNION

Port Valentine had never been a particularly tranquil place. One Hundred years ago it had been founded in the tempest of the Niltheim Uprising as a staging ground for the Corporate Fleet that would go on to crush that uprising. A little more than year ago it received more than fifteen million refugees, desperate people fleeing from the firestorm of war that was swallowing the core worlds or the sinister alien forces that had been silencing the isolated colonies of the Fringe. Now with the inferno calmed to a tentative peace and a hypothetical sense of safety returned to the Fringe, millions of those refugees had returned home. Yet that had not come soon enough or in great enough strength to hold off the economic and political crisis that had been threatening to topple the Union which had only barely survived the Civil War.

That crisis on Luston in particular had taken the form of massive riots over a varied mix of grievances including food prices, unemployment, strife between citizens and refugees and an apparent apathy from the Federal Government. In truth, it was not apathy but insufficient resources and qualified personnel. On this particular morning one of those riots was brewing around the Space-Port of Port Valentine, typically a bustling facility it was at the moment completely shut down by the assembled crowd. This crowd was composed of many different professions, all employed by the Space-Port or attached industries and all very disgruntled at the closing of the Space Port. The local government assured it was only until funds could be found to maintain the Orbital Tracking Array, after all you couldn’t have spacecraft coming and going without someone to make sure they didn’t crash into each other. As was true throughout history, the disemployed employee cares little for how his sudden lack of income is justified. This anger was only amplified by the fact that food was growing increasingly expensive.

Authorities had been monitoring social media but much to their chagrin, word of mouth had propagated city-wide and the crowd they had hoped to contain to a few hundred had now grown to thousands. Counter to this collection of angered unemployed, a lesser but still large crowd of refugees had gathered. They were there to protest the fact that they were trapped on the planet for the foreseeable future. A thin line of justifiably nervous riot police contained a swollen mass of protesters that outnumbered them by the thousands between a high concrete embankment and high chain-link fence of the Space-Port. The riot police were backed up by a number of dog-sized 4-legged drones which carried large net guns and concussion grenade launchers. With this robotic assistance they had so far managed to keep the workers and refugees apart and violence had been limited. However, this was not to be as a particularly aggravated local pushed his way past the edge of the police line and threw himself upon an older refugee.

The locals name, if one bothered to ask, was Allen Tarasa, a former Space-Port maintenance technician, he was now pummeling seventy-six year old Calloway Rurh. A police officer broke off from the main mass, baton raised. However, he was unable to insure that he wouldn’t bring a blow down on the old man. So he shouted a warning at Allen, who continued his attack. The officer stepped forward but was stopped cold in his tracks as a sharp crack echoed over the constant low hum of a discontent but placid crowd. Allen stumbled back, a crimson hue expanding from the center of his chest as the elderly Mr. Rurh fell onto his back with a compact pistol in hand. Before the officer, or any organic being could have time to react, one of the drones cycled its net gun to a life weapon and blared a brief warning with a robotic voice.

‘CITIZEN, DISARM- COMPLY, COMPLY, COMPLY”

Stunned by his tumble backwards, Calloway didn’t comply in time, first trying to sit up-- gun still in hand. A second crack echoed, but now the crowd had loudened to a growing roar. Calloway slumped back, a smoking hole in his center of mass. As one would expect, things exploded. A water-bottle filled with concrete came hurtling over the police line and smacked a refugee in the head, and with that two human tidal waves slammed into the woefully undermanned police. In moments the police line had dissolved as two indistinguishable masses slammed into each other with a full sprint and all the vitriol needed for things to very quickly get ugly. The drones fired off nets and loosed concussion grenades that sounded like over-close thunder but to no avail.

In only a few minutes the refugee crowd realized they too were woefully outnumbered and turned from one of two angry mobs to one of one panicked groups fleeing as fast as they could as a flood of disenfranchised and desperate locals found the perfect outlet for all their anger. Those who fell behind and were inundated by their pursuers were not granted any mercy as fists, feet and makeshift weapons were all used to inflict grievous damage. As the number of victims grew a PVPD Gravcraft swooped in over the scene and cast down multiple high intensity spotlights on the helpless victims. A demanding voice came over loudspeaker.

“RETURN TO YOUR HOMES, DESIST VIOLENCE OR WE WILL USE DEADLY FORCE!”

The Gravcraft held its position but the attacks only grew in number, finally as it became apparent this would become a full blown pogrom unless something was done, police units on the ground opened fire, and with that the governments fate was sealed. First Allen Tarasa, now dozens more of the locals had died, and this lit the fuse of a bomb ready to go off.

Later that same day, the violence had seemed to subside. This was not the case, in contrast, it was building up for an even more violent eruption. Near sundown as police were changing shifts, a crowd gathered outside of the Port Valentine Administrative Complex. A half circle of brutalist, angular buildings with a wide plaza in front it was a typical city hall. Before any sort of real police presence could be mustered the crowd sprung to action. A molotov cocktail, an ancient and crude, yet effective weapon, came flying from the crowd and impacted the center building of the complex, shattering through a first story window and setting it alight. Invigorated the crowd stormed forward, and within minutes had dragged Governor Arnold Vashnata into the Plaza along with his governing staff. A man dressed in a black coat and wearing a red bandana stepped forward from the crowd, gun in hand. He aimed it at the Governor and then pulled it away before turning to the crowd and speaking in a voice that nearly trembled with emotion.

“What do you folks think we should do to these ‘Fugee loving rats?!”

A nearly unanimous answer of “Put ‘em down!” gave the masked man the answer he needed.

He turned back to the Governor, and executed him wordlessly. His staff screamed but the callousness of the man extended to them and they were soon executed in similar fashion. Many in the crowd quickly lost their stomachs, and departed quickly, but many more cheered at the absolutist expression of their discontent.

As the execution of the Governor and his subordinates occurred, a cadre of sympathetic police officers had finished subduing their loyalist compatriots and were now dispensing weaponry to a group of citizens wearing red bandanas or armbands who were calling themselves the ‘Peoples Militia’, this militia of the people immediately set about inciting similar uprisings across the planet and within twenty-four hours Luston had declared itself the Communal Republic of Luston. Refugees unlucky enough to find themselves still on the planet were quickly forced to flee to the countryside or face brutal reprisal from the local population.

--------

“The Union is not yet lost.”

Vice-Admiral Connor Lasseter had been repeating that statement in his head for the entire journey to Lustons gravity well. He wasn’t sure if it was to strengthen his resolve or convince himself of a lie, regardless of the truth in the statement he found himself compelled to make his best attempt at bringing it to reality.

To that end he looked down on the spider-web lights of Port Valentine from the Planetary Command Center of the SCUN Creature Crusher a Sentinel-Class Assault Carrier. He was tasked with leading Special Task Force Libra in the pacification and re-integration of Luston. Hopefully bloodshed would be minimal but he had received specific instructions to make an example of any of the leaders of this so called ‘Communal Republic’. The importance of this operation extended beyond the atmosphere of this planet, he and all his officers recognized that this mission could very well make or break the Union. Should they be successful it would show that the government still had the stamina and force to maintain itself even in the face of outright revolt. Should they fail, it may very well be the start of the Unions slow unraveling.

To insure success, the Federal Government had attached an force of LOTUS troops and craft equal to his own in size. Admiral Lasseter resented this profoundly and saw it as defeating the symbolic importance of an operation to enforce unity. If the government needed outside assistance to maintain itself, was it even worth maintaining?

Regardless, he had his orders and did not dare refuse them after the fate bestowed upon those who had sided against the government in the Civil War. The lucky ones were shot, the unlucky ones vanished into the possession of who knows what. That in mind, and increasingly convinced by the repetition of that statement-- he pressed down a button on the command console and spoke confidently.

“Alright, STF Libra begin your deployment to the planet, remember, no free fire under any circumstances.”

With that nearly a hundred shuttles and dozens of gunships began their descent towards the rebellious surface.

[Auman]

The action alert had come through the net about an hour earlier. Commander Stogryn had taken his time reading It over and researched the details before calling together his officers. He stood in the briefing room of the flagship of his frigate flotilla, the AuF Vancouver, straightening out his shoulders as the first holographic flickers poured in. He was joined by his men, all snapping crisp salutes which he returned tightly.

"You were all privy to the deployment order, so I'll skip the basics. We're responding to a call from our LOTUS allies in the Solar Cooperative Union. One of their worlds, Luston, is currently in the middle of a bona fide collectivist revolution and we are to respond vigorously to this provocation. While we are certainly outside of our traditional zone of control here in the beta quadrant, the Overlord believes it is worth the effort to demonstrate our willingness to support our new allies in whatever way is deemed appropriate. Having built my career hunting down collectivist pigs, I can tell you from experience that the most appropriate response is non-verbal."

Stogryn's men shared a brief and professional chuckle. The commander swept his men, looking them all in the eye, before asking if they had any questions. He could already tell some of them were apprehensive about taking on a new mission so soon after deploying to Dezhnev.

"Sir," captain Lancer was the first to pipe up, his company was beat up pretty bad by the Dergh, "The Metacom Brigade is closer to Luston than we are, wouldn't this figure under Colonel Nibrayu's jurisdiction?" Stogryn didn't see Lancer as a fearful man, at least he never worried after himself. If anything, the young captain was just looking after his own men. Good soldier.

"Yeah," Stogryn considered his words thoughtfully, "Metacom may be closer. But this is our mission and with all due respect to Colonel Nibrayu, he can go fuck himself." Another round of clipped laughter.

"They're fresh and my men need time to get their heads on straight, sir." Returned Lancer, sobriety in his voice.

"I understand, captain. We all do. I will keep your company in reserve, give you some time to reorganize."

"Do we have any rough estimates on enemy dispositions?" Captain Tanner was next. "We don't have much to go by, initial numbers are anywhere from sixty-thousand to one-hundred-thousand combatants in the People's Militia. Judging from the intelligence provided, it's mostly a disorganized mob loosely organized on social media. There have been a number of murders so far, government officials and their staff mostly. Dragged out into the street and shot. The People's Militia is a bunch of knuckleheads and bored teenagers. The part that concerns me are the police defections. Cops suck, but they're better organized than the mob and they can always teach them what they know." Stogryn's voice was smooth and cool, he didn't seem bothered and seeing that, neither would his men.

"So we get in there fast and start grabbing these traitors up?" Asked Captain Danilov, of Aleph company.

"It is what we do, but details are still scant. I'm beaming over what I could dig up on the Solar Cooperative Union and Luston so you can get a good look at it. If you find anything new or useful, tell me right away. We need to know as much as possible before the pow wow with the allies. Any further questions? No? Dismissed."

His officers saluted again, Stogryn snapped it back and that was it.

When flotilla jumped into Luston, the turn around time was one hour and forty minutes.

[The Solar Cooperative Union]

The Port Valentine Crisis: Day 1

Port Valentine was typical of a medium sized Unionite city, or at least it had been until a populist revolution had thrown it into profound disorder. The Financial District was a dense core of towering skyscrapers as to announce the wealth and affluence of the owners. Around this glitzy core was a wide berth of shopping establishments, theatres, restaurants and even an Opera House. This formed the attractive and well kept center of the city, at its edges the towering homes of finance and wide architectural wonders of leisure gave way to mile upon mile of stout housing complexes occasionally broken up by a park, school or other public space. Small shops served to these complexes, embedded in their ground floors at street level. Finally at the edge of this urban sprawl was a maze of industrial facilities and warehouses that fueled the industry of Luston. To the North of the city was the vast Bay of Luston, a body of water which marked the end of the planets singular continent and the beginning of its massive planetary ocean.

Currently a small swarm of landing shuttles and gunships roared over this body of water, low as they were they sent a towering plume of water erupting in their wake as gravity drives and conventional jets worked in tandem to propel the cumbersome looking craft at high speeds. The outline of Basta Ilsadore came over the horizon and each pilot would find a luminous diamond designating the wide plaza of Basta Ilsadore that was the forces landing zone. The Basta was a stadium with a storied history, holding the central space on a wide peninsula that stuck out into the bay called the Ilsadore, the wide flat plaza around it made for an excellent staging ground. The collection of aircraft closed in and begin to drop speed as to be able to bank around and drop their payloads. Communications came to life with coordination.

“Alright fellas, we got people on thermals in the buildings around the plaza.”

“Arctic 2, Arctic 3, you’ve got first go to drop your baggage and scoot back to mama-ship”

“Uh, copy that, Artic 3 moving to drop bagga-”

An invisible line of death tore out from one of the mentioned positions and caught the unfortunate landing shuttle in the cockpit. A spray of red coated the inside of the flight canopy and with the people flying presumably dead it spiraled into the ground with a catastrophic meeting of metal and stone sending a thunderous crunch into the air. Before the insurgents could fell Arctic 2, a trio of the escorting gunships were raking their auto-cannons in long lines across the building from which the shots had erupted. Survivors from the crashed shuttle began to stumble out and immediately came under fire, this fire was met by the gunships with almost immediate destruction as high explosive missiles rammed through the front walls of the enemies positions and erupted within, sending waves of obliterated furniture and structure bursting outwards.

“No one left on Thermals, drop your chalks and get out of the hotzone.”

The dozens of shuttles immediately took up the task of unloading nearly 5,000 troops into the wide plaza. These troops wore the dull grey armor and uniforms of the Federal Marines, armored vests were reinforced with heavy alloy plates that extended up to the bottom of the chin. The Federal Marines had learned horrifically costly lessons about urban combat on Poltaur, with underslung flechette guns and even sawed off shotguns as sidearms demonstrating an understanding of the brutality of urban warfare. They were also supported by a small herd of autonomous support units, much more heavily armored variants of the 4 legged base which had been overwhelmed at the riot-turned-revolution. They were equipped with a protruding sensor suite that quite resembled a head, and armed with an auto-cannon and rocket pods. The forces first task was to set up a perimeter around the plaza which they did with quickly deployed coiled barbed wire fences. The ASU’s helped to further reinforce these positions as their machine patience and unfailing focus granted a sense of security that human watch couldn’t. With the hypothetical green zone demarcated, the vanguard force went to work changing that hypothetical to a reality.

This particular unit was the 203rd Marine Division, a unit brought into existence at the beginning of the Civil War and one which had served with substantial distinction in that conflict. Its famous reputation for excellence in Urban fighting came in the Battle Of Poltaur. The majority of the Division were veterans of Poltaur and wore the experience in stoic, hard faces.

Thermals could only penetrate so far into the density that was urban architecture in a newly Post-Colonial World so rooms often had to be swept manually. The typical marine solution to this was to add as many doors to a room as needed until angles were cleared, a quick 4 round burst from a flechette gun on wide-spread was typically enough to make a man sized hole in the drywall or other common interior materials. However, if there was fear of exorbitant civilian casualties the favored tactic was to bring in an ASU and have it precisely neutralize the shooter through the wall. The first sweep did indeed face stiff resistance, the winding maze of halls and rooms proving a terrible environment to clear. Long snaking lines of grey uniforms would press themselves against one side of the hallway and advance in a half-crouched, hushed procession. The line would come to a corner and the second trooper in line would press their back against the opposite wall and peer around the corner while the first trooper in line would rush around to secure the hallway in its entirety. The majority of these corners proved uneventful, but enough were host to a gun wielding combatant that losses were unavoidable. The heavier armor would often save a marine who would have otherwise been mortally wounded, but many were still unlucky enough to be caught in a gap or weak point. As for the enemy, once they fired on the first marine the second one was to happy oblige them on their deathwish.

The reality of Urban Combat was pure horror, regardless of all the tactics and equipment designed to mitigate that horror. With every wall and room threatening death it became necessary to shed any sense of security. This mental state took an obvious and large toll on those who immersed themselves in it, sunken eyes and gritted teeth becoming standard wear on the faces of the men and women tasked with clearing the area. It was a significant effort to maintain discipline in a fresh force when faced with the absolute inhumanity of fighting a compact battle.

Within an hour the thick band of buildings between the Basta Stadium and the base of the peninsula it resided on had been cleared. It was with the plaza secured that the rest of the force broke holding patterns in the upper atmosphere and began to unload at the makeshift air base. Prefabricated command buildings were deployed in the wide expanse of the Stadium along with a field hospital to treat civilian and soldier alike. Along with the bulk of the Task Force, the second wave brought a dozen Heavy Infantry Support Platforms. Bulky six legged armored vehicles that carried a host of weaponry suited to urban combat. The task force was awarded no peace for its efforts however as improvised mortars, made of the grenade launchers used by riot police no less, were fired at the staging ground from hidden positions deeper into the city. The ASU’s and HISP close-in weapons systems erupted into roars of incredibly rapid fire as they swatted the majority of the explosives out of the sky, but enough reacher their targets to inflict a brief defeat to the taskforce. A particularly well crafted homemade-mortar slammed into the historic stone facade of the Balta and sent huge chunks of the aged structures entry-way and stands collapsing outward onto the plaza. The response to this was an attempt to quickly strike the launch sites of these attacks. ASF-1’s, affectionately called the “brick with wings”, roared over the city as LOTUS forces began their descent into respective landing zones. The ASF-1’s made sure to avoid interrupting the landing procedures of their allies, taking no small pleasure in the bobbing and weaving to do so. Guided missiles lanced out from the fighters as they passed over a few of the many hidden sites throughout the city, each targeted site quickly exploding a combination of the incoming missile and the stowed makeshift explosives. This sent plumes of dark smoke churning skyward, the ominous sight seemed to announce darker days yet to come.

[Numeriga]

Private Denny Williams felt his stomach lurch as the LCVP disengaged from its mother ship, one of the Navy’s Arcturus-class attack cargo ships. He had hoped his regiment would be one of the ones left up above and held in reserve. But this day was not his lucky day.

The LCVP’s thrusters fired a few times and the metal box drifted away from the huge troop transport and towards Union planet Luston. Denny knew some of the other guys in his unit were excited to see some action but the pit in his stomach continued to tighten as the metal box holding his company dropped through the planet’s atmosphere. The view screens in place of windows showed nothing but fire outside as the landing craft dropped out of space.

Denny looked around at the smiling faces of his comrades and he saw them joking and laughing. Some of them had even dug out their cigarette packs and where lighting them up. They all seemed to be too relaxed Denny thought.

“Lighten up son.” came the familiar voice of his platoon’s LT.

“I am sir.” Denny said meekly as he looked up at the officer that seemed to tower over everyone else in height and presence.

“This is going to be a nice little easy walk in the park.” Lieutenant Simmons assured the younger man who seemed ready to jump out of his skin. He shifted nervously in his seat and the armor covering his torso and shoulders shifted around with him.

Denny didn’t like how the crap rode on his shoulders and he fiddled with the adjustment straps again.

“I just got a bad feeling about this.” Denny said as he looked at the viewscreen again and the glittering spires of Port Valentine came into view as the LCVP screamed along at full thrust. Denny watched as several more of the boxy LCVPs spread out across a wide area and each pointed themselves towards their targeted landing zones amongst the suburbs of Port Valentine.

A shadow passed over the viewscreen and a second later Denny saw why as four of the double tailed Lightning attack planes sped past the landing boats and dipped low towards the city to try and gather information before the LCVP rolled in and unloaded.

An alarm sounded and the amber light began blinking as the boats closed in on their landing zones. Denny felt his stomach start doing spins and he closed his eyes as he felt his breakfast try to crawl back out of his gut.

“Alright boys you know what we’re up against here, this is going to be a nice easy little trip and I don’t want anyone getting any itchy trigger fingers.” explained the company’s Captain over the loudspeaker. “Intel suggests that there will only be light resistance from groups of disorganized youth lightly armed, there may be more zealous elements but command has assured me they won’t put up much of a fight against you boys.”

The last statement was followed by laughs and jeering from some of the other guys as a wave of excitement seemed to pass through the boat as it dropped down.

“Hey what the hell is that?” yelled one of the other troopers as he pointed towards a screen. Denny turned and looked just in time to see some sort of rocket slam into the nose of another LCVP. The craft crumbled like a drunken college kid taking a punch from the heavyweight champion and it’s nose dipped towards the earth as flames and smoke billowed out the front.

“Oh dear god.” came the whispers around Denny as he felt the atmosphere inside the boat change from excitement to trepidation. Denny gripped his rifle tighter and closed his eyes and rocked back and forth as he began chanting a prayer he learned as child. He hoped God was looking over him today.

Suddenly light poured into the cargo space as the ship came in for it’s landing in the middle of a park out in the suburbs. Denny opened his eyes at the same moment the boat lightly impacted the ground.

“Go go go go.” came the screams of sergeants as troops already on their feet sprinted out of the front of the boat and out into the light. Denny followed along, his feet taking him outside were it wasn’t safe as if they were on autopilot. He could see other boats had landed in odd places all around as his eyes adjusted. Some had landed right in the streets so they could quickly unload.

His eyes glanced around suspiciously as if he was looking for the bullets to begin flying any second. But after a minute or so Denny relaxed a little when he saw most the other guys were moving around somewhat lazily as they waited for some of the smaller tanks, deuces, and warframes to finish unloading.

After what seemed like an eternity the platoon’s LT approached the unit. His bright white smile seemed to reflect the sunlight and from his demeanor Denny hoped the battalion would be used in a rearguard action instead of pushing through the city.

“Gentlemen 1rst battalion will be the tip of the spear.” Simmons announced, a little to cheerful for Denny’s liking but there was nothing the young private could do except groan inwardly.

“We will be pushing through the Residential East District first and securing the area for the rest of the regiment before pushing north and securing the Financial District. There are multiple friendlies on the ground as well and there are LOTUS allied troops operating in the area as well so do not shoot first and ask questions later unless you want your stupid ass hung.” Simmons explained to his unit as several of the huge deuce and a half trucks rolled up.

After getting out of the boat, getting back into a dark confined space was the last thing Denny wanted as he slowly trudged towards the back of the vehicle and climbed inside. After everyone was loaded the engine roared and black smoke bellowed out of it’s stacks as the truck lumbered down the road towards the Residential Districts.

[Auman]

In the south, a huge fire was burning uncontrolled at the Vetamin Consolidated Energy plant. One of the biggest refineries on the planet burning off crude hydrocarbons, letting off an equitably sized plume of rich, black, smoke that rolled eastward for hundreds of kilometers. These mingled with the ash and soot put out by the blazes in Port Valentine which, while not as awe inspiring from orbit as the refinery, were impressive in their own right. When Stogryn used the zoom function, he tracked flights of dropships from the SCU Marine Corps zipping in towards the city, hugging the nap of the Earth. They had lost one already, the Numerigans had one of their LCVP's shot put from under them as well, so this ruled out using his Hypercubes. He finished up his notes and entered the briefing room, he was met by captains Lancer, Tanner and Danilov... Salutes around the table, and then handshakes.

They met in person this time, platoon leaders and warrant officers came along as well. Stogryn's Sergeant Major greeted the enlisted as warmly as a man in his position dared, with a hard and disapproving stare made all that much chillier by the presence of a leather riding crop tucked under his armpit. The Sergeant Major, master of every non-commissioned member of the battalion, even put a chill down Stogryn's spine as he remembered his days on the rifle line.

"Sergeant Major, to order please." Asked Stogryn, neatly.

The Sergeant Major merely glared and the others took their seats. With a wave of the hand, the projector flicked on and a presentation of the battlespace appeared before them, casting the darkened room with a blue glow.

"This is the city of Port Valentine. It's a pretty nice town when it's not on fire and brimming with raging collectivists. The space port is a good one... They have a Pink Bunny. I think it might be fun to take the kids down there and get a Kazansky burger." Stogryn was so funny, he didn't even have to force his own laughter. The men, on the other hand, knew what was best for them and laughed along with him.

"Solar Cooperative Union's Marine Corps and the Numerigan Army have already landed in the city and are moving along lines of advance that are advantageous to our mission. However, since they have lost a few transports to anti-aircraft fire, we will be leaving the S-42s onboard, it's simply too risky. Which is why Danilov and Aleph company will perform a red bull jump into the ocean twenty-kilometers north of the space port and swim towards shore where they will begin their assault." Stogryn could hear a derisive snort from the back of the hall.

"Aleph company can't even pack a lunch, let alone a drop chute! Send Bakr company, we were born with wings!" Bravado was common from Sergeant Tagon.

"Yeah Pallas, but you were born with the wings up you ass!" Shot back Danilov, before realizing what he had done. He had gotten so used to bantering with the man that he had forgotten he was dead. They all had, he was lost so recently. Warrant Officer Pallas' seat was next to Captain Tanner, they all seemed to notice how empty it was now. They shared a moment of silence.

"Charlie company," the commander continued "will land in the Eastern Residential District and follow the Numerigans along their line of advance before leap frogging them and assaulting the space port with the support of their frigates Vasco Nùñez de Balboa, Hong Bao and Livingstone. Rules of engagement are pretty strict, but we can just pretend we haven't read them. Regardless, we're keeping the railguns to a minimum." The men groaned, but accepted it as a reality of doing business.

"One and Three platoon of Bakr company will land in East Residential in reserve of Charlie's advance. Two platoon will remain in orbit in a QRF capacity. Hopefully we don't need you, but we will see. We will assault the space port, seize it if possible or pin down the enemy there until heavier forces from the SCU can take over and then that's it. We're done. Wait until relieved and then back home to Oxus for rest, refit and relaxation. Good end to a five year jig, eh?"

[Alexzonya]

Suthfur Naval Base, Numeriga, Beta Quadrant, Milky Way
GRA Marine Corps Forward Staging Area
T-48 Hours, Operation Steady Heart

Lieutenant Katherine Renault strode into the briefing room just a few minutes early, a slight frown coming to her lips as she looked around. It didn’t much resemble the briefing rooms she was used to back home, but they were guests here in Numeriga, so they were making due with the section of Suthfur Naval Base they had temporarily occupied with the men and equipment of the Marine 4th Expeditionary Force. There were other GRA forces that were due to be stationed in New Dornalia on a rotating basis as a show of commitment to LOTUS’ operations more generally, but for this particular mission the Suthfur staging area was the most efficient given the participants in what the GRA had internally termed Operation Steady Heart.

She takes a seat on a folding chair and folds her arms across her chest. In her early 20’s, with a stocky build and cropped red hair folded into a bun, she looked approximately like a recruiting poster, or what one would look like if there was any such need. She, and the other Marine and Starfleet officers present, were in mixed uniforms; the Starfleet in their usual day-to-day, while the Marines tended towards combat uniforms; many officers, herself included, were coming here straight from drill.

A few minutes pass, and she exchanges pleasantries with a few other junior officers before a man in a navy blue Starfleet dress uniform with Admiral’s’ insignia makes his way to the front. Admiral Nathan Braddock, the officer in charge for all GRA operations in the Beta Quadrant, was in his 50’s, with greying hair, and it was clear from his gut that he had a physical readiness test exemption. Nonetheless, a hush fell over the place as he taps the communicator.

“Good afternoon. I know that you all are busy, or are about to be, so I’ll make this brief. We have a go-ahead from Meridian on Operation Steady Heart. The first drops are in 48 hours. Plans will be forwarded to each regimental commander shortly, and should work their way down to the company and platoon levels thereafter. We going to be coming in on the outskirts of Port Valentine, the capital of the planet and also the stronghold of the so-called ‘People’s Militia’ that’s seized the planet.”

In the background, a map of the city came up, showing the landing zones for the GRA forces as well as rough-but-not-exact indicators for the other nations. There’s a slight murmur through the crowd.

“We’ll be working with the Numerigans and the Unionites, as you know, but the Perseids and Aumanii will also be contributing. Rules of engagement are to only fire if fired upon, and using proportional force. We expect resistance will be random and light; if all goes according to plan, we should be in and then out again in a month or two.”

Admiral Braddock pauses, and surveys the room for a moment. “Specifics will be coming down the line. See that your men are ready to deploy; we’ll be boarding transports in 12 hours, give or take.” He pauses again. “I'll let you see to it, then. Dismissed!”

Luston, Solar Cooperative Union, Beta Quadrant, Milky Way
ARS Splendid, a Verdant-class Auxiliary assigned to the Marine 4th Expeditionary Force
T+0 Seconds, Operation Steady Heart

Renault clasps her armored hands tightly around her coilrifle as the Osprey Gunship shutters, disconnects from its docking port on the Verdant, and then began plummeting towards the planet’s surface. Luston lay below them, a glimmering gem of a planet; from orbit. The darkness festering on its surface wasn’t visible, but by the time the thrusters fired to slow the descent, it was clear that all was not well in Port Valentine. Already, smoke billowed from a dozen or so sites around the city, and from an enormous fire at an energy plant to the south. To their North, East, and West, allied SCUnion, PersFed, and Numerigan forces were landing; she almost gasps as one of the Numerigan land ships takes anti-aircraft fire and plummets uncontrollably towards the surface. She feels the hard burn as the GRA Ospreys break formation and take evasive action, rockets missing by mere meters in many cases; she watches with a knot in her gut as an Osprey from another platoon takes a hit and begins an overly-rapid spiral towards the ground.

There’s no roar, but Renault recognizes the whine from the power system as the gunship’s magnetic autocannon opens fire, and then the shutter of a missile launch as the pilots send a pair of Recurve Shortbow missiles screaming towards the rocket launch sites. Two Spathas streak by, their metal storm cannon emplacements firing in a flash of high-intensity strafing fire that finishes the job; the amount of smoke billowing from the GRA sector had increased about three-fold, but no more AAA dared show itself for now. It seemed about proportional, at least to Renault. While she had kept quiet, doing her best to project the image of the in-control junior officer, the joking that had filled the rear compartment of the gunship had suddenly ceased. Random and light, my ass… She presses her communications control, patching her through to all of the Marines in her platoon..

“Alright, boys, looks like things might get a little more spicy than those oxymorons in military intelligence said,” she starts. “Keep your heads about you, watch your corners… you know the drill.”

A series of green lights flicker back acknowledgements; easier than 40 marines trying to reply at once on a voice channel. A few more seconds pass, now in silence as the AA fire had ceased.

“We’re clear, LT,” reports one of the pilots over the communicator, and there’s a whir as the gunship comes into a hover about 30 feet from the ground. The rear hatch begins to open, and a drop-line deploys. “Good hunting.”

“Rodger. Thanks, birdman,” she replies, using an old (and surprisingly non-derogatory) Marine term for strike craft and shuttle pilots. She hadn’t had to give the order to disembark; the squad sergeant had it under control, and the GRA Marines were already heading planetside. Renault was the last one off the gunship, which then retracts the dropline as it climbs and takes up a covering position for the GRA Airborne. On the ground, the GRA marines spread out and begin making their way into the city cautiously. Things were eerily quiet… too quiet. She ignores her gut and signals the advance. Maybe the rockets would be the worst of it.

Across the middle section of the outskirts of Port Valentine, the scene repeated, with variation. Sometimes the GRA shuttles landed, and disgorged light IFVs, reconnaissance vehicles, and light mecha to begin the push. Others, with heavier shuttles, unloaded heavier fare: main-battle IFVs with heavier cannons and layered armor and shielding systems that would prove difficult for the ‘People’s Militia’ to overcome. The Battle of Port Valentine was just beginning.

Edit: Adjusted weapon composition to atmosphere-capable small arms.

[The Solar Cooperative Union]

Port Valentine Crisis: Day 2

Pilot First Class Rodrigo Amertue, Southern Luston

Few people could appreciate a horizon as much as a pilot could, the flat line of where their domain of sky meets their limitation of ground was the only constant barrier in the otherwise limitless and free world of aerial maneuvering. In this moment, Rodrigo could not rely on this crisp divide to orient himself, his instruments taking up the mantle of keeping him appropriately aware of his distance from the ground. This lack of horizon was due to the vast cliffs of oily black smoke that towered skyward from the sprawling inferno that was previously Vetamin Consolidated Energy Luston. The massive installation had refined both the crude hydrocarbons needed for the day to day plastics of civilian life and the potent exotic compounds that powered everything from starships to the Light Support Craft Rodrigo was currently piloting.

Hydrocarbon fires were potently bad for the environment, but Rodrigo and his Wing had been dispatched here to insure the fire didn’t spread to the fusion array and blow away half the continent. Rodrigos craft took the lead with two on either side to form a classic delta formation that tore at supersonic speed towards the city sized firestorm. Typically the LSC was loaded with weapons and instruments of destruction, but for this mission they had been given special fire-suppression pods. Rodrigo noted as the flight roared over the perimeter set up around the refinery by the Luston Regular Army. Apparently Militia had taken up in the refinery and the fire had started in the fighting between them and the local military, however the fact that Rodrigo could feel the heat of the fire from a few kilometers off and through the sloping acrylic of his cockpit did not leave much room for survivors in the hellish maze of molten pipes and exploding storage tanks.

The flight came upon the designated drop zone and in practiced formation they split into individual paths and each began to dump a massive wall of shimmering grey fluid that immediately snuffed out flames upon contact. They formed tight spirals and looped back and forth several times before a sufficiently thick barrier had been made between the unburned exotic fuel storage and the roaring flames of the conventional refinery. Rodrigo nodded in satisfaction, it felt good to stop destruction for once in service of his country rather than inflict it. Calm and not attempting to hide his satisfied attitude he spoke to his flight.

“Alright Guys, excellent work, let’s get back to PV and get back to starting fires instead of putting them out.”

A subdued chuckle went through the pilots before they reformed their delta formation and tore off at full clip northward towards the heart of the conflict in Port Valentine.

-------

Hours Earlier
Mutahar Aklibari, Port Valentine

Excitement and fear coursed through the halls of Olberra Secondary School, not unusual for students fearing grades and anticipating the opposite sex, but the inhabitants of Olberra Secondary School in this particular moment were far from students. The sprawling but organized and compartmentalized layout of a large school made for an excellent command center as it turned out. When Mutahar had checked his messages and seen a call for ‘all loyal friends of the populace’ to assemble and take up arms at his alma-mater he couldn’t resist the chance for excitement and reprieve at the crushing lack of opportunity this place had offered him and those like him.

He went over the justification for his violent rejection of the status quo in his head constantly. He had graduated with average marks, he was no genius but certainly no idiot. Since then, two years ago now, he had been working low paying jobs as a bouncer or janitor, excluding people like him from enjoying the establishments meant for his betters and cleaning up the vomit and piss of those same betters the next morning. His mother was sick, and while the pills they could afford kept her alive they did not keep her healthy. Mutahar could recall the bubbling, white hot rage that about escaped from him as his former boss had explained that bouncers weren’t offered health insurance because of the danger of the job, and that should his mother need more expensive medication he could always forego a paycheck and buy the companies policy directly. It was the cold, empathy-free look in that mans eyes that had motivated Mutahar to make his way to this place and join in violent rebellion against such things.

He sat in a classroom he remembered well, Ms. Amerett had taught Literature here. She was a kindly old woman who wasn’t cut out to contain the energetic sociopaths that composed most of her classes. Mutahar sat next to one of those classmates now, cots and makeshift beds ringed the walls of the room with a table in the center where he and his ‘comrades’ were seated. The former classmate, Ryan, was Mutahars oldest and best friend. He had a mop of curly blonde hair and a lean build, he had been popular among the women in the old days. In contrast, Mutahar was heavy-set and had greasy black hair that did him no favors with girls. This rift in social success hadn’t frayed their friendship however. Ryan passed Mutahar a ‘communal crossword’ as they had begun calling it and spoke in his typical tone.

“Your turn Moot, looks like a real doozy”

Mutahar looked it over and reached for a pen.

“Down, Sub-Par Performance… looks like “Ryan in Bed” is too long”

His friend slapped him softly on the back of the head while laughing then kicked his feet up on the table. Mutahar looked up from the distraction at the others in the room, across from him was a thin man or boy more accurately who looked like he was right at home in a Literature Classroom. Mutahar raised an eyebrow at him then put the Crossword down.
“What’re you doing here kid?”

The boy gulped and spoke in a shaky tone.

“The-y shot my dad dead at the riots and I th-thought I should come here, there was.. No food in my apartment and I don’t have any money.”

Ryan and Mutahar looked at each other, silently agreeing to protect someone who had no place being here. Mutahar tossed the kid the crossword and pen, he caught the paper but fumbled the pen. Mutahar spoke as calm and impartial as he could manage in an attempt to soothe the youth.

“You look smart, solve that for me and I’ll get you more food than your skinny ass can handle.”

The kid nodded, wide-eyed and went to work solving the puzzle, sure enough he was smart. A few minutes later he slid it back across the table with his distraught face slightly lightened. In return Mutahar reached for the duffle-bag that he had brought from home and withdrew a tightly wrapped bundle that was fragrant with spices and still warm.

“My Mah made that for me kid, appreciate that shit and then get the fuck out of here. Go home.”

Again the kid nodded, stared at the bundle of deliciousness then shakily left the room. Ryan looked surprised at the interaction but not displeased.

“Your mom always did make some damn good chow, I wouldn’t give that stuff up.”

Mutahar shrugged and replied.

“I can get more.”

A moment later the door to the classroom swang open as a booted foot kicked it and their ‘commander’ strode in. Everyone immediately sat up in an attempt to look like soldiers instead of 20-somethings with guns. She herself was only a few years their elder but had the look in her eyes of someone who had seen the end of the world and come back from it. She called herself Joan, but whether or not that was a real name was a mystery. Her and those who had that same look in their eyes all wore red bandanas around their arms or foreheads. On her shoulder she was lugging a bulky olive container that she slammed down onto the table. Mutahar winced as the pen exploded and poured ink all over the crossword. She unclipped the lid and pulled it back, immediately Mutahars eyes went wide. Before him was a long cylinder with several smaller brick shaped protrusions. Ryan spoke first.

“Is that a fuckin-”

“Fuck yea it’s a missile launcher, Archer 2 Mark 3, and we’re gonna blow those alien fucks out of the sky with ‘em.”

Mutahar had fired a rifle once in his life previously, he and his uncle had gone hunting in the marshes when he was twelve and he had shot a Marsh Elk. The next hour and a half was spent sobbing over how cute his victim was. His Uncle never quite looked at him the same after that, maybe he’d respect him now with a missile launcher entrusted to him. Ryan, always the confident one asked Joan a simple but equally dangerous question.

“Where’d we get these?”

Joan looked at him, or more accurately at where his forehead was. She never quite made eye contact because if she did one could tell there was something off about her. Her tone was a barely disguised threat.

“Don’t ask questions like that.”

Ryan nodded.

Several hours later and Ryan, Mutahar and Joan were crouched in the small alley between two stout shops. They had made sure to check they were empty before taking up the position as a firing location. Now they watched silently as the specks of light in the upper-atmosphere grew until they were visible outlines of alien landing craft. Joan held the launcher proper while Ryan held a bulbous box that they had been told was the targeting assistor, meanwhile Mutahar watched for anyone who might interfere. They waited longer, and longer still until a singular buzz came over their short-wave radio. With a manic smile Joan hoisted the launcher into a firing position and compressed the trigger.

A clunk echoed in the alleyway before the missiles thrusters engaged and it tore skyward towards a bulky landing craft. All three watched as it impacted squarely in the front of the craft and sent it crumpling into a burning meteor that plummeted out of the sky. Joan nearly shrieked in joy at the sight, while Ryan and Mutahar both remained silent and pale at how quickly their involvement had escalated.

Remembering the instructions at base the two friends immediately tore off down the street away from their firing position. Joan shouted after them as they distanced themselves.

“Where are you limp-dicks going we have three more mi-”

Joan never got to finish her question as a white object strieked from overhead and impacted the launch site. The two stout shops were turned instantly into an eruptive pillar of rubble and masonry while Joan and her beloved toy disappeared completely. Mutahar dived for their predetermined entrance to the city's sewers as fist sized chunks of concrete began to rain down around them. He looked around in the dimly lit concrete tube, noted that Ryan was already making his way back to their hideout, and then slid the entrance closed behind them.

-------

Specialist Riad Jones, 145th Marine Division, Port Valentine Government District

Riad had come to accept the counter-intuitive fact that quiet and calm indicated danger and noise and chaos indicated danger as well, but the chaos and noise was always preferable. A soldier was trained to exist in chaos, defeat the source of the chaos and make it into peace. There was no training for suppressing the fear of the unknown, that was too deeply ingrained. That fear gripped him intensely as he stared at the back of one of his comrades helmets, the name “Ellison” stenciled in white on the back.

Ellison was the point-man of a long row of Federal Marines stacked up against a thick wall that divided two properties from each other. One of these properties was secured and safe as anywhere in the Union, the other was a complete unknown besides the fact that it hadn’t been swept yet. Riad took a deep breath, checked his rifle then let his training carry him forward as the sergeant several men back in the line barked “Go, Go, Go!”. Staying close on Ellisons back the duo whipped around the corner and immediately spotted a pair of women cowering against the very same wall. Ellison moved past them and pushed them back towards Riad who gestured frantically with his hand to come his way, the women were hysterical and followed the orders automatically. With the civilians around the corner two more of the unit came to reinforce Ellison and Riad, the squad advanced down the space between the wall to their left and an industrial building to their right. Riad could hear the stomp of boots behind them as the rest of the unit spread out to secure the various other buildings and spaces of this sector.

Riad fell to the back right of the four man unit, accompanying Ellison and him were a marine named Beaz, and his friend Rylee. They advanced down the alley with two rifles pointed forwards, one pointed upwards at the edge of the buildings roof and one watching the high-set windows that ran the length of the building. Riad wore a thick cloth band over his mouth and nose but couldn’t help but notice that something within in the building was producing a potently nauseating smell. Ignoring all senses besides sight and sound, the squad came to the end of the alley and a heavy metal door that opened into the building to their right. Beaz stuck up a closed fist, indicating they prepare to breach the door.

Riad and Rylee pressed themselves next to the door, while Beaz let her rifle hang on its sling at her side and be replaced in her grip by a stubby sawed-off shotgun. She blew the doors lock and hinges apart and then Ellison slammed a heavy kick into its center, sending it flying backwards. In practiced form Riad and Rylee stormed through the opening and swept their rifles over the hallway before them. The smell inside was nearly overwhelming, this combined with the sickly light that filtered in through the windows to create a profoundly unpleasant place to be.

The squad carried on nonetheless, and soon found another closed door, they repeated the earlier maneuver and charged through into the space beyond. What they saw made Riad wretch immediately and sent Rylee stumbling back through with vomit seeping from beneath her face mask.

The room was a plain concrete box with the door they had entered through and another at the far end that led to a small segregated office. In long rows between the far walls of the large space there were bodies, hundreds at least. A cursory check indicated they were all men, stripped nude and executed where they kneeled. Riad stumbled back through and carried on all the way out of the building and into the alley where he doubled over, pulled his mask away just in time and vomited that mornings rations. Rylee was in the same position. Their two squadmates came soon after, wise enough to forego a full entry into that place but shaken all the same.

Ellison was the first to collect himself enough to communicate with their CO. His voice was shaky and the upset was apparent even through the radio.

“Uh, Cap, we found something that you should see.”

[Numeriga]

Denny’s platoon has dismounted as soon as their convoy had reached their checkpoint near the edge of Port Valentine’s Financial District. They had left their trucks the day before and holed up for the night before they began moving forward upon foot slowly making their way amongst the towering buildings. Denny was constantly looking ahead, expecting something to jump out from the corners of the buildings ahead and begin shooting at him and his squadmates.

Lieutenant Simmons stood in stark contrast to Denny, him and most of the rest of the unit seemed to be unconcerned by the fact they were moving through enemy territory. Most of the men in the unit were laughing and making jokes again, the incident from yesterday with the LCVP already almost forgotten from their minds it seemed.

For Denny however the memory still seemed fresh in his mind, he was still replaying the smoke and fire billowing from the craft as it plunged towards the ground. Denny could just imagine the pain those men went through as they had their lives so easily snuffed out.

With how things seemed to him, Denny figured caution was better than being reckless. So he moved quickly from cover to cover even though nearly everyone else in his unit seemed to not care.

“Sweet Jesus Denny quit being such a coward.” laughed one of his squadmates. Denny felt the familiar feeling of anger swell up in his chest. Franklin had been a frequent tormentor of Denny all through his tenure with First Battalion. Denny wanted to scream at the man and to tell him that he was being a fool.

“It’s nothing but a bunch of dumb college kids trying to fight the system, and someone was dumb enough to give them guns so they can feel ‘empowered’, so man up Denny and quit making the rest of us look bad.” scolded Franklin.

Denny rolled his eyes as he moved behind a car and looked through its windows down the street that seemed to be abandoned. The hair on the back of Denny’s neck stood up as he began to get the uneasy feeling again.

“Something doesn’t seem right.” said Denny quietly to himself as he felt the fear grab ahold of him again.

Franklin shook his head at Denny as he pulled a pack of Lucky Charm cigarettes from his breast pocket and he tapped the pack and pulled one of the smokes out and put it in his mouth.

“You really need to quit being such a pussy man.” said Franklin as he pulled out his lighter and flicked the striker and held the flame close to the end of the smoke and lit it. Taking a big pull off the cigarette he blew out the smoke and laughed.

“I mean it’s not like anything is going to happen.” laughed Franklin as he held his arms out as if to reassure Denny everything was ok. Denny heard the whir and the wet smack of the bullet as it caught Franklin in the chest and punched through his armor and launched him several feet backwards.

“HIT THE DECK.” roared Simmons as more bullets cut through the platoon and several more men were caught in the gunfire.

Denny curled up behind the car and tried to make himself a smaller target as he heard more wet thuds and felt the car rock as bullets slammed into the front of it.

“Where the fuck is it coming from.” yelled one of his squadmates as he tried to peek out from behind the concrete barrier he dove behind to try and see where the gunfire was coming from.

“Gray building! Second floor in the middle.” shouted Denny’s corporal as he leaned out and raised his rifle and pulled the trigger several times. Denny heard the air sizzle as the death beam lanced out from the rifle in barely the blink of an eye.

“They’re all fucking gray buildings.” roared Simmons as he tried to see around the edge of the car he dove behind when the firing started.

Denny was curled up behind his car trying with all his might to make himself smaller. He heard men screaming in pain as some tried to crawl towards cover before more bullets cut through their bodies. Denny opened his eyes long enough to see one of the guys, a man named Harland from another squad near him. The Harland’s eyes locked onto Denny’s and they seemed to plead for help. Slowly the man reached out him, trying to reach Denny.

“Oh shit oh shit oh shit.” Denny whispered to himself as he felt his stomach lurch. Taking several deep breaths and feeling sick Denny reached out and grabbed the Harland’s arm and he pulled him over to cover.

“I don’t feel so good man.” said the barely alive soldier as Denny looked him over. Seeing the huge hole in the man’s stomach caused the vomit to rise up in the back of his mouth. Denny closed his eyes as his head swam.

“You’re gonna be ok man, you’re gonna be fine don’t worry.” said Denny shakily as he reached into Harland’s meds pouch and pulled out the morphine injector. He stabbed the man in the leg and hit the plunger. Denny knew it wouldn’t do Harland any good, there was nothing a field medic could do much less a medical bot with half his stomach missing. Denny figured the least he could do is make the man’s final moments a little less painful.

“Concentrate fire on those positions.” yelled Simmons as he leaned out from behind cover and raised the submachine lasgun and let loose with a hail of death rays at the men who had ambushed the platoon.

“First squad forward.” yelled Denny’s sergeant as what was left of the squad began to dart from cover to cover while the rest of the platoon laid down covering fire.

Denny looked down at Harland’s lifeless body and felt tears coming from his face.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t save you man.” Denny apologized to the body in his lap.

His sergeant dove next to him and curled up next to Denny. The man looked at the body and looked at Denny’s face and nodded.

“Best thing you can do for him now is to get the sonuva bitches that killed him son.” said the sergeant as he leaned around and let of a burst of death rays. His gun clanged as the empty battery clip ran empty. Digging into his ammo pouch the man jammed another clip into the rifle and cycled the charge port to rearm his gun.

“Come on son, lets let these motherfuckers know why you don’t mess with Hell’s Platoon.” said the sergeant as he stood up and fired more death rays towards the enemy before sprinting to the next row of cover.

Denny wiped the tears and snot from his face, he felt bad for being such a coward, he wished he was brave like the sergeant and Simmons. Maybe if he was he could have done more for Harland or some of the others. Gripping his rifle Denny took several deep breaths as he turned around and got up into a crouch. Closing his eyes he whispered his prayer again and stood up and blindly fired at where the gunfire seemed to be coming from as he sprinted after his sergeant.

[The Solar Cooperative Union]

Port Valentine Crisis: Day 2 Continued

Pilot First Class Rodrigo Amertue, Staging Area Ion

Rodrigo had spent the last few hours relaxing in the prefabricated box that passed for a barracks in the hastily assembled center of this whole operation. The plaza once home to eager spectators waiting to enter the venue it abutted with and ticket collectors making sure those spectators had paid, was now a nerve center of a much less jovial sort. Landing pads were surrounded by barracks and combat coordination centers which in turn were surrounded by a low perimeter of stacked earth-filled blocks that separated the fuel and ammo storage from the rest of the impromptu facility. Along the outer perimeter a sloping concrete wall had been erected, in reality security was offered by the open space between the edges of the plaza and the Staging Area, which were watched over by unblinking, unwavering Autonomous Systems that would quickly shred anything moving too fast in their wide field of view.

The venue to the north of the Staging Area was badly scarred by the makeshift mortars of the first day, but with the field cleared and structural integrity secured it had become an exceedingly busy hospital. Relatively few wounded combatants were being tended to relative to the nearly overwhelming numbers of civilians seeking aid. A direct order had come down from Vice-Admiral Lasseter that no unarmed and cooperative individual could be turned away from the ‘green zones’ that the ground forces were quickly setting up across the city. The news of the atrocities committed against refugees and non-locals had spread quickly among the ranks and as a result morale had swelled with the justness of their cause affirmed. Rodrigo had come to regard the Vice-Admiral as a paragon of what the Union had to offer in contrast to the brutality it was so ready to produce. He had toured the Staging Area in person briefly, making sure his troops had what they needed and the civilians they had come to protect were being treated well. The man had a sense of honor that was a rare commodity in a nation so ravaged by division and conflict.

Rodrigo’s reflection was cut short as the announcement system in the barracks blared to life and blasted forth a message in a volume that would send even the heaviest sleeper jumping out of bed.

“WING PILOTS TO CRAFT, WING PILOTS TO CRAFT”

Without a second of hesitation he sprung from his reclined position on his bunk and snatched the bulky helmet that allowed him to effectively navigate the heavily coordinated airspace of an active operation. He sprinted out of the barracks and into the bustling late day scene of a half dozen different craft arriving and departing, ignoring the commotion he made a beeline for the landing pad where his flight had been assigned. Already fuel lines and ammo racks were being unhooked and emptied, final flight checks finishing as he slid himself into the cockpit of his very own LAC Bumblebee and let the hatch slide to a pressurized seal while he clipped himself into the flight seat and connected his helmet to the augmented reality battle-net. As the link completed, his objective was highlighted as a brilliant red diamond that marked a target for close air support. He slammed on the throttle and the nimble craft leaped skyward then banked south towards the designated building. Roaring over the city Rodrigo had little time or want to take in the vista of sporadic destruction and conflict that he knew he would find, as an alternative he trained his eyes on the red diamond, sensing the corneas trained on that specific spot the ARBN narrated the specifics of the mission. A friendly force had been pinned down on one of the many wide avenues of the Financial District, hostiles using the the posh skyscrapers as elevated firing positions to great effect.

Sparse moments later he banked the craft around and noted the platoon of LOTUS allies being savaged by a superior firing position. A half dozen of them were splayed out in the street, mangled by the sudden torrent of magnetic accelerator fire. Assessing the enemy position Rodrigo made the call to pull up and dance around the far side of the building so he could line up at a high angle and rake the position from above. As he swept horizontally a round knocked a splinter out of the composite canopy that divided him from the wider world and a hundred foot plunge. With his shot lined up he squeezed the trigger and let a torrent of dagger-length tungsten spikes roar forth and puncture the ‘soft’ concrete and glass structure. Rodrigo whipped the craft in the other direction and strafed across the length of the target building, unloading a continual torrent of thousands of rounds from twin chain-accelerators. The second and third storey of the building was chewed into billowing clouds of dust and sparks as the resistance inside was snuffed out by a tidal wave of speed and metal. Satisfied that his target was saturated with devastation, Rodrigo banked low over the avenue and shot the Numerigans a wry thumbs-up before pulling off and rapidly gaining altitude.

[Auman]

The Sergeant Major slid across the hull of the Diego Dias, one of the Pioneer class frigates belonging to Danilov's company. He inspected the Rapid Insertion Pods, nothing more than a heat shield bolted onto some directional thrusters and parachutes, that they would be using to drop on the space port. He was not impressed. Small metallic perturbations had encrusted them, stored improperly between uses and not properly maintained by the Fleet ratings responsible for them. One swift kick and a jagged hole appeared. He crouched down low and examined it closely, breaking off a section of metal like it was a piece of chocolate. He turned it in his fingers and scoffed on disgust.

Selcanrab.

Creatures that could not only exist, but thrive, in the vacuum of space and derived sustenance from consuming metals. No one knew where they had come from. Theories suggested that they had evolved from organic compounds within asteroids or comets, the same thought to be responsible for seeding life through out the galaxy. Others claimed they are engineered lifeforms meant to degrade starships. Either way, they spread quickly through out the galaxy during the peaceful lull of the Cold War and have been a maintenance nightmare ever since. Corrosion, rust, a problem that was once exclusive to ocean going vessels, was a common inconvenience in space as well. They would have to scrub this mission.

The Sergeant Major radioed Commander Stogryn, a gentle and crisp static emitted by Luston adding an air of ominous wisdom to his voice as he explained the situation.

"No plan ever survives first contact with the enemy." Said Stogryn, echoing the ancient law of combat. "Alright, we will head back to the drawing board."

"Sir," said the Sergeant Major "If I may offer a suggestion."

"Of course, Sergeant Major."

"The plan may proceed with only a slight modification. We can take the Diego Dias, Herodotus and the Semion Chelyuskin down into the atmosphere and attack as planned."

Stogryn thought about it for a moment. Intelligence kept coming in by the minute. Every report suggested that the rebels lacked the kind of firepower necessary to damage a frigate like the Pioneer class. But was he willing to risk them? It was entirely possible that they hadn't yet shown all their cards. It was unlikely, on the other hand, that they had much else better. There were many advantages that he could see and he determined the risk was worth it.

"Report to me with Danilov and we will figure something out. The attack will go as planned, with modification."

---

Six frigates burned through the atmosphere of Luston, on a terminal course with the eastern suburbs. The ships used the cover of the smoke put out by the refinery fire to conceal their descent. The turbulence was terrible and everyone was strapped into their crash couches. A strong jolt shook the vessels as they turned their engines dirtside and fired their thrusters, slowing their fall quickly and coming to a gentle rest on the ground. The hot exhaust annihilated everything within a few hundred meters of the vessels, sparking small fires in a wide circle around them, when the engines cut out suddenly, a vacuum was created and air rushed to fill the void, snuffing out the flames. Large ramps appeared from seamless hulls and in moments, convoys of light armored vehicles trundled down to the scorched earth. Eight infantry fighting vehicles to a platoon and one light tank. Significant.

The company was now underway towards the eastern suburbs which were just on the other side of the horizon. Static artillery emplacements were established in the fields to the south of the workers housing complex they were gearing up to assault, engineering teams were busy digging defenses and the support element was scattering supplies by category in well organized rows. The robots they used for the task were the size and shape of a man, artificially intelligent and working for a pay cheque like anyone else. They did their jobs well and bravely.

"Big Sun Ray, this is Yellow Knife Actual, we are oscar mike."

[Alexzonya]

Luston, Solar Cooperative Union, Beta Quadrant, Milky Way
Industrial District East, Port Valentine
Time T+18 Hours, Operation Steady Heart

Everything was on fire.

Ok, maybe not everything. Not even most things. Corporal Ulysses Wilcott, for example, wasn’t. Nor was most of his squad. The surrounding buildings, while some were pocketed from weapons fire, weren’t on fire. Yet.

Most of what was on fire was the squad’s Fencer. Thank God they had been moving dismounted, for all that didn’t help Specialist Lefain, their pilot. One second they had been moving down the street, and then the next… the mortars had come out of nowhere. Their air cover had blown up the launch site (Wilcott could see a new column of smoke from a few blocks away where the missiles had impacted), but the mortars had blown up Lefain and the squad’s IFV. The status indicator reported him flatlined, KIA.

“First missiles, now mortars… where the fuck are these scumbags getting all this shit from?” seethes Duncan, a private in Wilcott’s fireteam, his head on a swivel.

“Fuck me…” mutters one of the other Marines.
“Nah, fuck them,” retorts the squad Sergeant. “Form up, let’s go!” He pings on the battlenet, which relays the coordinates to the maps on the Marines’ HUDs. “Wilcott, take your fireteam and confirm that the mortar site is neutralized, then meet us at Rally Alpha” Another point appears on the map, marked ‘Alpha’.
“Aye, sir!”

Wilcott signals, and half of the Marines peel off and head for the column of smoke.

They arrive at a hustle, a few minutes later, to a scene of devastation. The air cover had done its job well, and the mortar emplacement had been scattered across the street, as had most of its crew. In a gutter, a man struggles with a piece of debris on top of another man, who looks injured. Probably dead. The man has a rifle of some kind over his shoulder, a camo-bandana around his head, and a metal plate awkwardly strapped to his chest with an anarchist symbol spray painted onto the front. Still, when he sees the GRA Marines, he turns and slowly raises his hands.

“Help! Dont’ shoot! I need a medic!” The GRA Marines point their rifles at him.

“Don’t move! Identify yourself!” As if it wasn’t obvious he was one of the bad guys.

“I’m… I’m Jim. My name’s Jim, and that’s my brother, and he needs a medic and… oh God, why…”

“... were you on that mortar crew?” demands Private Duncan. Wilcott looks at him, a bit alarmed… but he does nothing to stop what was coming.

“I... yeah, but…”

Before the man can finish, there’s a click, a nearly inaudible whir, and Jim’s chest explodes; the armor plate does nothing but add shrapnel wounds against a five-round burst of penetrator sabots from the coilgun. Duncan lowers his weapon, minus a few rounds.

There’s a tense pause.“That’s for Lefain,” he tells the corpse, though its as much for the benefit of his squadmates. Another pause, before Wilcott nods.

“Spread out. Check for survivors. Don’t shoot any more of them.” It’s not much an admonishment. Because fuck that guy… commie bastard.

He wanders over to the man under the debris, and puts his armored glove to the man’s neck; the software can’t find a heartbeat. He leaves him in the gutter and goes to inspect the remains of the mortar; it was massive, more of an advanced field gun than a conventional infantry mortar. It had been impressive kit, once… not at all at home among the improvised weapons and armor most of the ‘People’s Militia’ were running around with.

Son of a bitch… If he ever figured out who gave these half-ass schoolkids all these weapons, he’d shoot them, too.

“No one still here’s alive,” he says, to his squad and over comms to the Sergeant. “We’re on our way to Rally Alpha.”

FOB Alabaster, Industrial Sector East, Port Valentine
Time T+40 Hours, Operation Steady Heart

It was the second day of the push into Luston’s capital city. In the outskirts of Industrial Sector East, somewhere between the various GRA landing zones, an impromptu operations base had sprung up among mothballed and partially-dismantled factories. Called FOB Alabaster, it was part field hospital, part logistics depot, part barracks, and part staging area for the third wave of troops that were landing to reinforce and relieve their comrades.

In front of the gates, a Fencer IFV coasts to a halt, and the rear gate drops. A small group of Marines pile out; two are carried, on stretchers. The next 3 are limping or otherwise walking wounded, injured in the conflict still raging on further towards the core of Port Valentine. The last one out of the transport is Lieutenant Renault, the majority of her mobility now courtesy of her armor’s power assist.

As Renault limps towards the front gate of the base and past the guards posted to the front entrance, she notices a pair of flags snapping briskly in the wind on an old flagpole; a GRA flag on the top of the pole, with some sort of purple monstrosity of an ensign flying beneath it; she could only assumed someone had improvised it on the ground. Frankly, she was just as amazed that whatever officers they had on the ground had let it remain; maybe they hadn’t noticed it yet.

She was limping because, despite the protection afforded by her powered combat armor, she had taken shrapnel to the knee earlier in the day, from some sort of IED. These “militia” commie shitheads couldn’t stand up to LOTUS in head-to-head fights… so they had stopped trying. Now the GRA was flushing them like rats wherever they could find them, but mostly the bad guys were scattering before the advance, many ditching their “uniforms” and equipment before vanishing back into the civilian population. Others didn’t die so easily, and set off IEDs or tried to pick off Marines with sniper rifles. The one who had gotten Renault had gotten away, much to her annoyance, but he was too stupid to put on a balaclava or a bandana. They had his image, his face, and the rat bastard would have his commie-loving ass backed against the wall soon enough, she hoped.

Inside the gates, a sympathetic-looking MP directs her towards what had been the skeleton of a mattress factory, now freshly-renovated by the GRA’s field engineers and fabrication nanites as a field hospital. A larger factory complex, situated across what must have been a side street before it had been walled off, had been razed, and an enormous interlocking-slab tarmac dotted in landing craft of various types had replaced it. The barbed-wire fences that protected both in their heyday had been replaced, in most spots, by rapidly-fabricated military barricades, nearly 6 meters high and stretching out of sight in both directions; an umbrella shield projector loomed in the middle of the parade grounds further into the complex. Maybe calling the compound an FOB was a bit of an understatement.

“Where are you hit?” the nurse asks her, when she limps through the door of the infirmary. Given some of the injuries he’d seen in the last day, it was hard to sound concerned about a limp.

“Knee,” she grunts, in reply. “Shrapnel. Still mobile on it in armor and the field nanites stopped the hemorrhage, but I need it patched up before we rotate back in.”

“Right,” he replies, and gestures towards a hallway that obviously hadn’t existed in the original structure. “Room 63-B. We’ve got a hell of a lot of bigger problems than you…” It takes him a moment to find her rank. “... Lieutenant, but we’ll get to you as soon as we can. Don’t wander off.”

She narrows her eyes at him, but nods, and begins making her way towards the indicated room. Its further down the hallway than she would have liked, but she makes it fine and sits down on the low table inside. She would be waiting a while yet before someone would come to handle the shrapnel extraction and get her fighting fit again.

[Numeriga]

“I need heavy support now!” screamed Simmons into his radio as more bullets tore into the car he had taken cover behind.

“Simmons there’s been multiple platoons across the front that have been ambushed, Central is trying to respond as best it can.” came the dispassionate response from the radio.

“Sons of bitches.” spat Simmons as he leaned out and fired of another burst of death rays towards the buildings.

Denny sprinted from behind the car he was hiding and dave behind a concrete barrier. Breathing heavily he patted his pockets down looking for something. Sergeant Mickey slid across the ground next to Denny as more bullets chewed up the asphalt where he been moments ago.

“What the hell are you doing private!” questioned the grizzled veteran as his piercing gaze looked over Denny.

“Just a goddamn second.” answered Denny as he finally found his shaving mirror. Mickey raised an eyebrow as he watched Denny attach the mirror to his rifle and raise it up so he could see where the gunfire was coming from.

“Goddamnit why didn’t I think of that.” grumbled the sergeant as he looked at the mirror. “Right there, in that building.”

“Let’s pop up and give them a salvo before they can hide.”

Denny shook his head in agreement and took several deep breaths. As they got ready to raise up the loud scream of jet engines could be heard from overhead.

“What the hell is that?” screamed Denny as the roar became louder and louder as it closed in on their position.

“Central says it’s not one of ours. Hit the fucking deck!” yelled Simmons just barely over the sound. Windows began bursting and glass rained down on the platoon who were quickly trying to find whatever cover they could.

Denny began to hyperventilate as he figured his time was up, between being trapped by the ambush and now what might be hostile air elements coming in he didn’t know what to do.

The scream of the engines cames to a crescendo as the craft hovered somewhat overhead. Denny noticed that the gunfire on his platoon’s position began to slow down and nearly stop.

“Simmons, Central says that’s allied unit assisting.” came the radio voice again.

“Oh thank fucking god.” cried Simmons.

Denny looked out in time to see the building of glass and concrete seemingly melt as the allied craft unloaded into the enemy positions.

“HA! Take that you filthy sons of bitches.” yelled Sergeant Mickey over the roar of cannonfire and jet engines.

Seemingly satisfied with the destruction he had wrought the allied banked over Denny’s platoon and gave them a thumbs up before his craft screamed away.

“Alright, let’s get up there and see if any of those bastards are still alive.” ordered Simmons as most of the platoon started to come out from behind their cover slowly.

“Let Central know I need a couple body buses at this position.” Simmons said grimly over the radio as he looked over the street at the bodies of several of his troopers strewn across it like broken dolls. He shook his head at the carnage.

So much for it being just a bunch of college students Simmons thought as he looked from where they had been ambushed back up towards the enemy’s firing positions. He pulled the pack of smokes from his pocket and dug around trying to find one that wasn’t crushed from him diving for cover.

“Here you go sir.” came the familiar voice of one of the corporals. Simmons took the smoke from him and lit it up and took in a big puff.

“Something not right sir?” questioned the corporal

“Yeah there is corporal, this ambush seems a little too perfect for college kids.” said Simmons as he took another pull from the cigarette.

“Alright let’s get moving.”



********************************


Denny walked behind the M-2 Leeson tankette as what remained of his platoon made its way towards the center of the financial district. Most of his fellow troopers had an almost shell shocked look on their faces. After the initial ambush had taken place Denny and the rest of 1rst Battalion had been fighting a running battle for the last twenty four hours.

Minor skirmishes for the most part but the repeated attacks had whittled down the Numerigan forces slowly. Denny’s platoon had been able to repay the favor several times over though.

A loud thump shook Denny’s reverie. Looking over he realized it was one of the warframes coming from a side alley. Denny noticed several pock marks and weld spots over the front of the warframe from where it had been shot at several times apparently.

“CONTACTS.” screamed a voice up ahead and Denny instinctively sprinted towards a building corner. The man riding on top of the tankette dove inside of it an slammed the hatch shut.

Denny peaked around the corner and watched as two of the warframes advanced forwards with their las-cannon raised.

“ALLIED UNITS STAND DOWN STAND DOWN NO ONE FIRE DAMNIT.” screamed a voice over the radio.

Simmons breathed out a sigh of relief and loosened his grip on his las-gun.

“That could have turned into a fucking mess huh.” SImmons stated to Denny as they both turned around the corner and headed towards the allied unit.

[Auman]

Captain Tanner was in the troop bay of an IFV in the middle of a staggered column that was racing down a highway that cut through the Eastern Residential District. He was busy updating tactical readouts, transmitting them to the rest of the company as he received information from coalition allies. This was no easy task, since LOTUS had no official standardization system that he was aware of... Tanner was juggling an assortment of radio handsets that he had to scrounge for. A big, blocky, green handset with a long antenna had a strip of tape on the side that read 'Numeriga', a small black walkie-talkie for the Solar Cooperative Union, a flat matte khaki touch screen device for the Alexzonyans and so on. While he was furiously re-writing the map of the battlefield to include updates on the position of allies, he also had to take time to listen in on chatter on these radio devices and, of course, update his friends on the other side of the line of advance of his own position. It was tough work, but a job's a job. While this was all going on, his company had been tearing ass through the suburbs, which was mostly drab worker's housing. Large concrete blocks, street level businesses and light, intermittent, fire from high above. There was no time to stop and clear these buildings, so the attacks were responded to briskly by large bore coilgun turrets on the IFVs, their positions tagged and reported. Far ahead, at the tip of the advance, a few light vehicles had been spotted and engaged by drones flying overhead and those lay burning at the side of the highway as they passed, corpses in various states were scattered around them. Secondary explosions from destroyed vehicles, probably ammunition cooking off in their turrets, popped and oily black smoke rolled into the sky. Debris choked the roadway. The convoy drove around it when they could or went right over top of it when they couldn't. Tanner was distracted for a moment by tense chatter from the Numerigans, they were heavily engaged just a few klicks over and the Aumanii captain huffed, glad he hadn't dealt with any of these sorts of complications yet. Suddenly, three tightly spaced sonic booms resounded to his left and then a pretty big explosion rattled the turret hatch just above his head. The sound of tearing paper. He took hold of the periscope and scanned around. His men were blowing the third floor of an apartment into chunks, he flipped over to IR so he could see through the dust. For a split second he could make out a few human forms making a run for it before their suite was demolished by gunfire. He couldn't tell if they were armed and he didn't quite care. He was alive and he still had his radios to attend to.

At the very tip of the spear was the lone AuT-67A2 main battle tank of Charlie company. It was old and had been upgraded many times in the last two hundred years, there had never been any reason to replace it, when tacking on new equipment would do. You could hardly see what the tank had originally looked like under it all. Grills had been welded around the hull and the turret, to prematurely detonate warheads. Smoke and anti-personnel launchers flanked each side of the main gun, which had been wrapped in heat dissipating fabrics. A plasma-toroid defense system, much like the one that had just saved Tanner's life, stood tall on the rear of the turret, scanning rapidly for incoming fire, like a hyper-aggressive fire hydrant. Reactive bricks covered every other surface that wasn't occupied by high end electronic systems. The crew had access to a full suite of sensing equipment which very well could have overwhelmed them if it weren't for the intrinsic artificial intelligence unit that managed it all, parsing out relevant information and taking immediate combat action if time didn't permit the human crew the luxury of doing it themselves. This proved to be a life saver, the commander had grown used to the resounding blasts of secondary explosions and didn't catch on to an enemy tank that missed them with a shot from it's cannon. The turret spun swiftly and destroyed it before either crew knew what had happened.

Resistance was light.

After about thirty minutes of this, East Residential opened up and the starport was visible in the distance. Rockets still sat on some of the launch pads and these towered high on the horizon, this was the first indication that they were getting close. The company crested an overpass that straddled a switching yard, it was choked with rail cars which stood still, waiting for gangs of workers to send them on their way. Tanner got a call on the radio and it took him a moment to sort out which handset he needed, it was from his company which meant it was the lean black handset he placed on a shelf above the others.

"Yellow Knife Actual, this is Yellow Knife One-One, take a look out at your right side and tell me what you see."

Tanner grabbed the periscope and saw a bunch of drab looking train cars. Nothing special, really... Except, a string of tankers were barreling down a track from the far end of the yard towards them. He looked down and realized the rebels had blocked that track off with a single boxcar.

"Punch it!" shouted Tanner and the company stuck it into high gear, flying across the overpass just in time. The tanker cars derailed and exploded with a terrible crash, the overpass was completely engulfed in flames. Tanner watched the drone feed, everything collapsed behind them.

"Nice catch, One-One."

Popular uprisings were an interesting phenomenon. Rebels often made for poor soldiers, civilians that had taken up arms to speak truth to power weren't hardened combat veterans like his men... But they had other types of useful knowledge that made them unpredictable and dangerous. Tanner filed a report with his allies. East Residential's railyard was enemy held territory and they were now cut off from their return route, arrangements would have to be made.

Tanner's IFV ripped apart a refueling station that was hiding an anti-aircraft autocannon.

He could see the starport's interstellar terminal now, a massive block of tan colored concrete protected against crashes and rocket explosi-

Another enormous fireball ignited off towards the beach, drone feeds showed Tanner that the fuel tanks had been touched off by a stray artillery round.

"Yellow Knife Actual to Big Sun Ray, we are on final approach towards the starport. Do you require an update on the situation or are you seeing this shit for yourself?"

[The Solar Cooperative Union]

Port Valentine Crisis Day 3
Specialist Riad Jones, 145th Marine Division, Port Valentine Financial District

Since their grim discovery on the edges of the Government district Riad and his co-discoverers had been subjected to a lengthy battery of debriefing, questioning and screening. Despite the insistence of the leadership on the ground, the game of telephone that was soldier to soldier rumors had quickly disseminated the news of atrocities occurring under the control of the so-called militia. Luckily for Riad and his companions the identities of those who had discovered the initial evidence had remained secret, thankfully sparing him the endless questions his comrades would have doubtlessly been asking him had they known the extent of his experience. After their half dozen interviews and a brief but welcome rest at Staging Area Ion the small group of soldiers was ferried back to the frontline with the rest of their unit and plunged back into the mental and physical condition that was combat.

He took what could be called solace in the simple directives of combat compared to the swirling storm of uncertainty and doubt that had consumed him in the quiet moments away from the tip of the spear. Now he could focus on the street in front of him and his comrades pressed against whatever cover the sidewalk and storefronts offered. His unit was again snaking forwards in two long lines along both sides of a long straight street; moments earlier they had taken fire from an obscured shooter which had opened up a hornets nest of incoming fire from the buildings further down the street.

At the moment they were holding position while a six-legged Armored Assault Platform stomped down the street, small arms fire pinging ineffectively off of its armor. Riad watched as its main cannon elevated, and quickly looked away to avoid the flash of its firing. A noise like a tremendous hammer on concrete shook the air and echoed off the walls of surrounding buildings, an imperceptibly small moment later the third floor of a battered glass building erupted in fire and shrapnel.

The uninformed may have observed this and raised a just concern that loosing high energy rounds into residential and commercial buildings brought an unacceptably high risk of civilian casualties. However, by the third day of the operation it had become clear that the militia was going to put up a real fight and anyone with a vested interest in staying alive had made their way out of the path of the Marines advance. That advance was the culmination of a well executed plan as the eastern pocket of militia forces was rolled back into the financial district core as the Union forces advanced from the North and West while LOTUS allies came from the South and East. The price of concentrating the enemy was that it was also concentrating their resistance.

As the dust kicked up by the firing began to settle Riad and his unit hopped to their feet and quickly stormed forwards with the AAP stomping on behind them. Sporadic fire erupted from the fifth floor of a beige concrete building, and was quickly answered with another shot from the AAP that sent a cloud of pulverized concrete blooming outward. Riad exhaled as the incoming fire finally fell silent and joined in the rapid movement of his comrades to the wide avenue that seperated the periphery of the financial district from the towering buildings of its core. Weary of the danger posed by the open space the AAP clunked forward ahead of the infantry, Riad noted that a second AAP was emerging parallel to the first. It seemed his unit and the others pushing towards the district core were well-coordinated in their attack.

However the appreciation was short lived as multiple rockets lanced out from the upper floors of the skyscrapers ahead and impacted the unfortunate armored vehicles. Riad threw a hand up to shield his face as the hulking armored vehicle ahead of him shuddered and then burst into a terrible fountain of sparks and melting metal. It wasn’t until he had stumbled back into cover that he realized the rockets had been joined by a torrent of fire from almost every level of the posh residential skyscrapers on the far side of the avenue. Riad went into survival mode as the incoming fire went from substantial to staggering and rounds began to punch through the cheap concrete and plaster walls of the buildings around him.

He noted that Ellison, who he had come to regard as a close friend among the already close unit was slumped face down next to a ragged hole in the wall of the storefront he had been using for cover. Terror flooded Riad for a half second before his training willed him towards the fallen friend. Sprinting with his head down he came to a sliding stop as one of the marines closest to Ellison gestured urgently for Riad to go no further. Riad was about to ignore the man, apparently with the last name Yun, and continue his effort to save the obviously wounded Ellison. However, Yun managed to croak out a hoarse shout above the roar of combat to clarify himself.

“It’s a fuckin’ murderhole, they’ve got a clear L.O.S from wherever the fuck they are.”

Riad could barely contain his boiling rage at being feet away from his dying friend and unable to aid, he felt heat flood his cheeks and hot tears well in his eyes. The feelings found their release in a desperate and angry exclamation.

“Fuck!!”

It really did sum up their situation concisely as any one word could. Riad joined the men and women around him in their desperate hugging of the earth as the continuing torrent of fire further eroded the cover they found themselves relying on. A modicum of assistance finally came in the form of an unseen aircraft roaring low overhead and letting a thunderous salvo of rockets tear into the entire row of hostile positions.

The relief was momentary however as before a second could pass the majority of the unseen hostiles were again raining death down on the stalled and largely helpless advance. Riad flipped onto his back to assess the scene behind him without exposing any more of his body and saw that Ellison had been dragged away by some unknown saint; even more heartening was Yun shouting again over the din of combat.

“Sarge says there’s an armored column coming south down the avenue, should be here soon!”

Riad steeled himself and pulled away from the helpless desperation he was being smothered by, he would have to be back on his feet and ready to fight before long. Fear and Helplessness were no friends to a soldier, he remembered an old trick his father had taught him about externalizing his goals to make himself accountable to someone else and shouted back to Yun.

“You ready to turn those fuckers into abstract art?”

Yun nodded and to accentuate just how ready he was he drew a blade from his belt and slid it on to the barrel of his rifle. Riad let a devilish grin spread across his dirt and dust covered face as he followed suit and before long the entire line of pissed off and battered marines had mounted bayonets with a glee that would be perverse in any other circumstance. A few more minutes passed as the militia slowed their fire but kept up enough that a wrong movement could mean grievous injury.

Finally a new pitch of fire interrupted the status quo, the roaring and high pitched clatter of small arms and crew manned machine guns was suddenly punctuated by the even louder but much deeper thumping of autocannons and heavy machine guns. While Riad and his fellows couldn’t see the reinforcements themselves it was hard to misinterpret the sudden room sized bites that had been taken out of the hostile controlled towers. With their foes focus now split the marines rushed to their feet and stormed to the shredded buildings that lined their side of the avenue then quickly opened up on the positions which had been tormenting them. Riad joined the rush and watched with satisfaction as a line of AAP’s and ASP’s stomped towards them while they trained their cannons and myriad secondary weapons upwards. From the marines positions a volley of thermobaric rockets lanced forwards and plunged into the interiors opposite of their origin. The aptly named vacuum-bombs did their work first bathing the lower sections of their targets in fire; then as the flames collapsed inward the atmosphere rushed to fill the vacuum, and brought the weakened floors of the structure with them.

A cheer went up among the troops as expanding clouds of dust and ash rushed outward from the base of the buildings. The walls crumbled downwards moments later and added to the eruption of debris. What had once been a row of posh high-rise apartments was now a row of skeletal frames surrounded by bases of smoldering debris and settling dust. When the rumble of collapsing engineering finally subsided Riad sat silently finally allowing himself a full breath. Seizing on the momentum, his unit was ordered to storm across the now rubble strewn avenue and into the heart of the Financial district.

As the marines traversed the jagged terrain of collapsed buildings the armor crawled over in their wake. Much to the delight of the advancing force, resistance appeared to have been broken as a trickle of surrendering militants grew steadily into a solid flow. In a refreshingly easy push they swept to the center of the district and emerged into the cities largest public square that marked it. Bordered on all sides by mostly untouched skyscrapers whose lobbies were as glitzy as their patrons, the emerging dust coated marines were very out of place. Ragged and weary with bayonets still fixed he imagined he and his comrades would present quite a surreal sight to the Numerigan forces now emerging from the far side of the square.

One of the Numerigan troops waved the purple flag of their alliance in a victorious arc overhead and Riad felt compelled to join in the celebration with a skyward fist.

----

In the eastern stretch of the battle rocked city, far behind what most understood to be the front line a creeping band of bandana clad warriors slunk like forest predators through the deserted commercial and office blocks that composed the eastern half of the city. They were hard to distinguish from their supposed comrades, surplus military fatigues and worn boots accentuated by primitive rigs of ammo belts and grenades tied in belts and repurposed waistbands seemed to imply they were as amateur and unprepared as any rebel. However, if one watched their movements it was obvious they were no freshly agitated youths, each step was a calculated progression towards an objective, practiced precision meant no piece of rubble or loose trash crunched under foot and no opened door creaked with too sudden a movement. If one listened close they could hear the rub of cloth on cloth, but even the apparently makeshift harnesses were silenced with strategically taped sections. To observe more than two dozen combat loaded individuals moving in complete silence might have made such an observer doubt their senses.

With not more than the jerk of a closed fist downwards the entire progression of phantoms spread out to take positions on each side of a small parking lot that granted passage between two otherwise rubble blocked roads. Quickly and as quiet as expected the band settled into their surroundings, a ravaged apartment block serving as host to most of the force. Their militia facade disappeared as they retrieved thermal camouflage cloaks and slipped into near invisibility in the unlit interior of abandoned urban architecture. There they sat motionless as a half dozen flights of patrolling aircraft roared overhead, finally their wait was made worthwhile as the hum of a hovering armored vehicle and the rustle of displaced air grew from a barely perceptible whisper to a nearing buzz.

An Alexzonyan IFV slipped into the killing field that was the parking lot, it stopped momentarily as the ten man squad following on foot came around. They were right to be cautious about the open space but had likely assumed that being so far from the fighting only a moment of apprehension was needed. If the leading Alexzonyan possessed the hearing of a heavenly being he may have perceived the sliding of a rocket into launch position, but even if he had there would not have been time but to let out half a shout. In an instant the dusty air of the parking lot turned firing zone was filled with electronically charged blankets of conducting silk-wire. The Alexzonyan operating the IFV would first notice that the comforting din of radio chatter had suddenly died to absolute silence, secondly he would notice the lancing spear of molten metal erupting into his cockpit and severing his spine.

As the IFV shuddered and fell ungracefully to the ground with an inappropriately festive shower of sparks erupting from its center the ambush came to life. The lead Alexzonyan had made a valiant effort to raise his rifle to a firing position before a peppering of rounds sent him crumpling to the ground. Two more of the unfortunate foreign troops were struck still before they could make it to some semblance of cover, not that anything in the parking lot besides the flaming bulk of the IFV would protect them. If the Alexzonyans managed to keep their wits about them in such a terrifying situation they would have immediately noticed that the shot grouping and cadence of fire were coldy professional and dispassionate, the work of professionals. Confident that his victims were sufficiently corralled the leader of the ambushing operators ordered a stop in the firing and spoke into a compact loudspeaker.

“Your fight is over Alexzonyans, surrender and you’ll all make it home.”

His voice was cold and devoid of empathy but equally devoid of deceit, at least one of the Alexzonyans had good instincts however as he shouted a defiant “Fuck off!” and fired blindly over the concrete barrier he and his comrades were huddled behind. The man with the loudspeaker gestured with a nonchalant swipe of his hand and an unseen sharpshooter put a heavy caliber round through the barrier and the defiant foe on the other side. The ringing echoe of a shot and the clacking of an armored body slumping forward were the only sounds in the parking lot for what seemed an hour, but was far less than ten seconds.

Realizing the futility of dying when there was even the slightest gap in the odds in favor of getting back home the six remaining Alexzonyans emerged from their concealment with hands raised. In contrast to the makeshift combat rigs and decades old fatigues of their attackers the Alexzonyans wore full suits sturdy materials and instead of bandanas their faces were obscured behind helmets that practically glittered with technology, not that it had saved them.

The man with the loudspeaker pulled back his bandana and goggles to reveal a black head of greasy hair and a dirty face hard etched with years of stress. Green eyes seemed to glitter in his skull, perhaps it was their clearness contrasted with the dirty surroundings or perhaps not. Regardless of their exact nature they now scanned over the line of foreign soldiers, on their knees with hands behind their heads and hot death a few inches from some very important bits of their biology. Some trembled visibly, one sat rock solid and unflinching. The Leader walked over to him and squatted down on to meet him at eye level. With a casual nod one of his subordinates ran his hands down the back of the prisoners helmet and along the seam where it met the neck armor. Finally the invading hands found a small latch and pulled it up and the helmet off in one fluid motion. The man revealed was a tan skinned fellow, he looked like someone the Leader would have had a beer with in a past life, cropped hair, tired but determined face, anger in his eyes.

“What’s your name soldier?”

The question was sincere and he received a sincere answer.
“Gabriel Cooper”

The Leader nodded, drew a cigarette from one of his many pockets and lit with the strike of a match on Gabriels shoulder-plate. He took the first long drag then offered his prisoner of interest a puff, apparently the gesture was not appreciated as all Gabriel did was bear gritted teeth and rage filled eyes. The Leader shrugged took another drag and stood up. Unknown to the helpless Alexzonyans one of their captors had drawn a camera and was now positioning it to film the spectacle so long in the making. A thumbs up followed by a balaclava pulled over the Leaders face indicated the time had come.

He looked directly into the camera as he began to speak.

“Our people have long suffered at the hands of outsiders, Solarians of all creed and world turned to ash under the insidious heel of foreign boots. Daggers forged under distant suns driven headlong into the hearts of our children and our cities. Even now in our so called peace a beast of foreign steel and hatred looms over what was the crown atop the head of our people. Even now foreign troops slaughter and rape their way through our cities devastated at the behest of so called leaders. Leaders who are nought but cowering slaves to these foreigners, leaders who invited outsiders and aliens to slaughter our people.”

He took a drag from his cigarette while the camera panned to the line of captured Alexzonyan troops then back to him.

“Yet with all the might of alien fleets and salient cruelty of alien minds no alien slime can endure the truth of our struggle. These beasts, pawns of foreign agenda have been ferried to our world, our city to destroy our revolution. They thought themselves invincible, us yet more prey to the endless hunger of these foreigners and aliens, but there is no weakness here except for what is brought. The suffering of our people has seemed unceasing, the torment at the hands of foreign financiers and spineless leaders submitted to them has felt endless, but there is an order to this universe that these blind fools could never understand. A great pendulum swings in the cosmos, and as we have been tormented so shall they, and as we have felt great loss, so shall they. We are the instrument of that pendulum, the Solarian now carries on their shoulders the immense weight of righteousness, a mandate to repair our nation and repay a galaxy infested by parasites and murderers. A mandate to right the countless wrongs visited upon us, a mandate to avenge our loss and rebuild our greatness. There will be no more suffering, only justice and there will be no more surrender… only retribution.”

The last word came out a near shout, as it did the Leader whipped a pistol from his waist and loosed a round into the back of Gabriels skull. A scream of dread and rage escaped from the soldier nearest him while his body slumped forward lifelessly.

With that the recording ended and the attackers vanished into the city with the rest of their prisoners.

----

Port Valentine Metroplex Starport, Michael Renlat

Captain Tanners observation that rebels weren’t hardened combat veterans was only partly true in this case. Less than a year ago more than half of the men now huddled behind the thick concrete walls of the starport had taken part in the unbridled brutality of the nations civil war. The rail yard trap had failed to yield any enemy casualties in its impressive blast, but had succeeded in prompting the armored column to rush across the bridge and into a second set of traps.

Michael suffered from what had unofficially been deemed ‘Poltaur Syndrome’ by the Union medical community. A mysterious and not yet fully understood condition that affected a large number of veterans from the Battle Of Poltaur. The most revealing symptom was the sunken and wide eyes of those afflicted, but the invisible effects were the ones Michael felt the most. As he held the remote detonator in his hand, they trembled violently, not with fear, but with nearly unbridled excitement at the coming violence. Sufferers of Poltaur Syndrome were known to have an almost physical addiction to conflict, something that was already inflicting a toll on countless families and loved ones across the Union, and was now about inflict quite a toll on several dozen unfortunate Aumanii vehicles. The enemy armor clanked over the barely perceptible patches of fresh concrete that marked massive bundles of ordinance rigged to explode and buried mere inches underground, and Michael wasted no time in slamming a shaking thumb down on an appropriately red button.

The blast hurtled the leading IFV skyward in a vortex of futile defensive plasma and vaporized concrete. In the following microseconds the second and third buried explosives erupted with volcanic force and caught two more of the IFV’s unprepared, while the first victim had the good luck to escape some of the energy with its skyward trajectory its two followers suffered the full impact of high-grade explosives. Both were shattered into unrecognizable scatterings of metal and fire, the passengers turned to dust in the immense heat and pressure. Another second passed and the lead vehicle slammed down onto its roof and crumpled helplessly, it’s tracks and weaponry spread out over the entire street and its passengers dead or grievously wounded.

The Aumanii were clearly not ones to take such a transgression sitting down as the MBT which had just been showered in the metallic viscera of its comrades loosed a round into the front of the starport mere meters down the wide platform that offered a vantage point on the starports approach. The impact sent a fist of masonry, plumbing and shrapnel erupting inwards and through a now intensely dead militia fighter. Behind and beneath the platform was the central ticketing atrium of the starport. In a better time it would be teeming with passengers-to-be receiving tickets and checking luggage, families and lovers embracing in passionate reunity and distraught good-byes. Now it was filled with concrete road barriers reinforced with metal plates, sandbags piled in tall pyramids against the walls, stacks of weapons and munitions, crew manned weaponry and the muddled collection of determined freedom fighters and terrified students hoping they would survive to see another sunrise.

The line of sloping, obviously battle tested armor now crunching over the cratered parking lot and unloading zones of the Starport did not bode well for that hope. Another tank round punched a wide hole in the face of the Starport, the building was designed to survive rocket fuel explosions, so while a hardened projectile would punch right through the spot it hit the structure itself would withstand anything shy of a full scale bombing run.

Michael had been a major proponent of filling the parking lot with yet more IED’s, but too many of the militias munitions had been reserved for the forces defending the Government Complex and so it was instead decided to draw the attackers into range where missiles would be effective. That range was now and Michael couldn’t be happier about it as he slung the half-brick/half-tube weapon over his shoulder and peered around the corner of one of the newly created holes in the building. Outside the Aumanii force was proceeding in a professional advance, slowly and with liberal use of covering fire, towards the Starport. Over the roar of vehicle engines, weapons fire and aircraft overhead some strong chested militia managed to roar out “LETS DO IT FELLAS!” and with that the die were cast.

A two stage armor defeating rocket lanced out from the weapon on Michaels shoulder and slammed into a wall of plasma that sent it slamming into the ground. The IFV’s attempt at defense had been futile however as the rocket exploded close enough to tear apart the track and another munition slammed into the space between the turret and hull. As it became apparent this was now a stand-up fight the IFV’s disgorged their passengers who wasted no time in pressing their assault. Below him a section of the sandbag ramparts gave way as a Aumanii tank shell punched through with ease and met the unfortunate crew of a mounted machine gun face to face. Michael whipped his head around to the noise but quickly regretted the decision as brilliant light and heat sent him throwing up an arm to shield his face. The onslaught did not pause however, as some unseen aircraft loosed a line of rounds in a horizontal slice across the front of the building. More of the militia manning the platform Michael was on were dead then alive at this point, he hugged the ground and crawled his way to the nearest descent.

The situation on the ground floor was no better than that of the now devastated platform, dozens of militia lay dead or dying across the wide space and the formerly sturdy front of the space was nearly more hole than wall. Michael kept his head down as Aumanii fire continued to pour in and the crew manned weapons which hadn’t yet been obliterated by tank fire tried their best to answer the enemy tit for tat. The militia had another trick up their sleeve however; as the last surviving member of the shredded force that had occupied the platform made it off and clear of the space beneath a string of det-cord came to life. The platform shuddered and was held aloft only by a few inches of unreinforced concrete for a fleeting moment, then collapsed as a solid peace at an angle that sealed off the front of the Starport and bought the surviving militia in the Atrium precious moments to flee deeper into the sprawling structure and continue their resistance. Michael joined the retreat, doing his best to soak in the carnage around him before ducking away towards the boarding zones, a rifle in his hands and a grin spread across his face.

----

Vice-Admiral Connor Lasseter, STF Libra, Staging Area Ion

Connor Lasseter liked to believed he was the most sickeningly disappointed individual in a many light-year radius as he surveyed the holographic tactical map projected on the fold out table before him. He had headed an assault on corporate forces on Galan at the outset of the civil war, overseen the reclaiming of the third largest city on Tauris from Militarist Armies and spent a decade of his life studying success and failure on the battlefield. In all those experiences he had never seen such a lopsided operation spiral so out of control. When word had come of the atrocities committed by these so called ‘militia’ against their own countrymen, he had nearly lost his composure as he felt hot rage bubble to just behind his teeth, when intelligence came that someone had supplied the militia with a divisions worth of anti-vehicle munitions he had calmly excused himself to his chambers. When he reached the prefabricated room that granted him privacy he grabbed a pillow from his bed, pressed it to his face and roared a desperate and hateful scream into the fabric.

Connor loved his nation, but increasingly felt he was the only person in the upper-strata of its government that had any sense of right or wrong. He was the rare outsider granted a place near the real decision makers, not close enough to make his voice heard but close enough to have insight into the process, or so he had naively believed. It now seemed increasingly apparent to him that his government was no longer the government that had lifted him from the streets of Strinda and given him a sense of duty and purpose. Connor had to believe his sentiment was shared widely, but in the wake of the Civil War dissent was not only discouraged but outright taboo. Connors long-time friend and mentor General Vatrys Cavilo had informed him that the Intelligence Directorate was almost certainly monitoring their communications, and to be careful what he said aloud. The idea that it was the machinations of his own government that were responsible for feeding so many into the hell of war seemed increasingly valid. The thought had seeped into every inch of his being, and saddened him profoundly.

Regardless, he had to stay focused on overseeing the sprawling job of coordinating a half dozen different combat operations while also coordinating those combat operations with three other ground forces who had their own host of equally complex operations. While the LOTUS forces had added administrative complexity, their physical assistance had proven invaluable thus far. Despite the Union suffering the brunt of casualties the numbers would be horrifically higher if they had been at it alone. In light of that he was currently watching a real time feed of Aumanii forces plunging headlong into the Starport, he muttered a silent prayer that the fighting inside wouldn’t be too ugly, but if the approach was any indication it was going to be a bloodbath.

The Vice-Admirals focus was stolen away from the battle at the Starport by the snapped salute of a junior office in his peripheral vision. The man spoke quickly and without mincing words.

“Sir we’ve just been informed that a video was posted on multiple GalNet sites of Alexzonyan troops being taken prisoner and-”

Connor cut him off with an impatient order.

“Let me see this video.”

The junior officer handed over a data-pad, and Connors face turned from astute to a grimace and finally an exclamation of ‘Shit!” as the shot rang out and the video ended. Things were only getting worse.

[Alexzonya]

Luston, Solar Cooperative Union, Beta Quadrant, Milky Way
Residential District East, Port Valentine
Operation Steady Heart

“Jesus… sir, you see that blast?” asks the gunship pilot, as Hippogriff 1-1 maneuvers lazily through the air, periodically adjusting their pattern to keep any of the rebel ground positions from sending a burst of railgun fire into their path. The squadron was supposed to be a ready-reserve; kept in the air in case any LOTUS forces got ambushed in the operating area. After the last few days, the cadence of swooping in and demolishing ambushes and fleeing enemy formations was becoming some bizarre wartime version of routine.

“Yeah… that one of ours?” asks a Commander, the name ‘Baker’ on his name patch, in the command jumpseat. He realizes he is the one that needs to answer it, so he pages a controller back at Fort Alabaster.

“This is Hippogriff Actual, come in Alabaster.”

“This is Alabaster, go ahead.”

“We still dropping bombs on East Residential? Hell of a blast just came from that direction.”

“Standby Hippogriff.”

There’s a few seconds of pause.

“Negative Hippogriff, no friendly ordnance in that area… standbye.”

“That’s no good,” notes the pilot, to the officer, as the silence lingers. “Wanna bet we get sent to check it out?”

“No bet,” he replies, as his radio crackles to life again.

“Hippogriff Actual, maneuver your squadron to investigate the blast. Be advised, Aumanii forces are operating in the area.”

“Rodger, Alabaster. We’re en-route.”

“You’d have won, though,” Baker notes to the pilot. He opens a channel to the rest of the unit. “You all see that blast? For those in the back, something just blew up a pretty large chunk of highway in East Residential. Alabaster wants us to follow up. There’s Aumanii in the area, so don’t shoot them. Eyes peeled, good hunting.” Hippogriff 1-1, then its comrades, take up a formation and begin their approach towards the blast. This, he notes to himself, would be a hell of a lot easier if anyone had bothered to give us the communications frequencies for the Aumanii…

Another minute passes. “Triple-A, 10 o’clock!” calls Hippogriff 1-4’s pilot, over the radio. 1-1’s pilot looks there and gets ready to evade, his hand hovering over his missile controls to send Recurve Shortsbows that way. He spots the position, in a fueling station, and flicks the fire controller to active, when suddenly ground fire rips into the position from a column of Aumanii light armor; some sort of autocannon, it demolishes the gun position in short order.

Once things settle down, Baker surveys the situation.
“Stay on those Aumanii,” he directs his pilots. “They scratch our back, we’ll see if we can’t scratch theirs. Anything that tries to kill them, light it up.” He pages his HQ again.

“Hippogriff Actual to Alabaster, the blast was a rebel demolition of an overpass. Hell of a mess out here. Be advised, the Aumanii forces you mentioned are headed north, but their egress looks pretty well cut off. Bad guys come up with any more ideas, things could go south real fast.”

“Rodger, Hippogriff. Use your discretion. We’ll talk to the Aumanii.”

The lead gunship keeps paces over the Aumanii position, waving its stubby wings, such that it had, at the Aumanii column; they figured it would get the point across. A block ahead of them, a man climbs onto a roof with an RPG; he can’t even get it onto his shoulder before a burst of autocannon fire from Hippogriff 1-3 turns him into swiss cheese. And so it goes, the gunships following the column towards the spaceport. Soon, things erupt in earnest, the GRA Marines hold on as the gunships weave through the air, pouring autocannon fire interspersed with the occasional missile onto the militants. One of the GRA Ospreys is struck by yet another enemy anti-aircraft missile in return; Hippogriff 1-9 slams into the ground, with the emergency systems providing just enough cushion that rather than becoming yet another metal sarcophagus littering the landscape, it instead unloads a squad of GRA Marines into the maelstrom. Whether by design or not, the GRA was now committed to this fight.

ARS Peerless, an Infinity-class Patrol Capital Ship of the Starfleet Exploration and Patrol Corps, Luston Orbit
Operation Steady Heart

The mood in the wardroom was electrically sharp and violent. The full video of the execution of an Alexzonyian POW by militia forces had gone viral; the GRA leadership had tried and failed to prevent its rapid spread through the rank.

“... to conclude, SCU won’t support a retaliatory bombardment; PersFed and Numeriga are with them,” reports Captain Alice Kindred; she was the chief liaison responsible for coordinating with the rest of LOTUS. There’s a pause. “The Aumanii, incidentally, support it.”

“Then the Skroots can take back their own damn planet,” mutters one of the Marine commanders, just loud enough to be heard, barely.

“So what’s their plan, then?” growls another.

“Quiet,” commands Admiral Braddock, silencing the room with a word. He looks around; no one is showing outright defiance, but he could read the room. The appearance of the video on the networks had caught the GRA by surprise; before it could be suppressed, it had spread virally across the GRA’s networks. The results, perhaps, were predictable. Due to a diligent adherence, thus far, to military code, those POWs already captured by GRA forces remain unharmed… or alive, anyway. One might expect that their treatment had grown suddenly more callous. On the other hand, the number of POWs being captured had dropped steadily. The militia had said there would be no more surrender. It would appear the GRA Marine Corps, in the form of its men and women in the trenches, was willing to grant their wish.

“We can’t bomb it from orbit, but we can sure as hell storm it and make their leadership very, very quickly regret this travesty. We’re going to take nearabout a regiment and shove it down their throat. Formal mission orders and assignments will be going out to the relevant commanders and notifications to the other LOTUS HQs shortly. You know I’m not in the habit of micromanaging operations, so use your discretion on any necessary modifications in the field. Any questions, you know where to find me.” He pauses. “Dismissed.” There's a moment of silence, before the room begins to empty; a few standing to leave, while most disconnect from secure teleconferencing. Thus it would begin.

[Numeriga]

3rd battalion
67th Cavalry Regiment

Commander Louis Swanstrom sat in the hatch up position as his M-2 cruised down the war torn streets of Port Valentine. Swanstrom liked the little tank and how well it performed, it might have been a little light on the armor but the way it screamed down the city streets was what Swanstrom preferred.

“Liggety keep your eyes peeled up above while we’re headed to this damn starport, most the rebels are pushed back to a couple strongholds but all we need is one uppity asshole with a bazooka to blast us into to smithereens.” Swanstrom barked over the radio to his subordinate.

“Yeah yeah.” came a grumbled response from the first LT in the lead tank. Swanstrom lit a cigarette as he looked around the buildings they passed by. The steel treads chewed up the paved streets as the five tanks clunked down the street. Swanstrom checked the action on his heavy death ray repeater.

“You think any of those rebel idiots are still poking their heads out?” asked Gregory the tank driver.

“Dunno, guess we’ll see.” replied the Commander. “Heads up boys we’re getting closer to the hot zone.”

The five vehicles slowed down as they approached a large open intersection, Swanstrom ordered the five tanks to stop roughly fifty yards from the opening.

“I need a couple warframes up here to clear this intersection.” Swanstrom requested.

“Negative Commander, most the warframes are tied up east of you position clearing buildings.” came the reply from Central.

“Fuck.” muttered Greg. “What the hell are we supposed to do now.”

“Gotta keep heading towards the rendezvous.” said Liggety.

“Alright boys let bust across this open area where there’s likely to be an ambush and keep headed on our merry fucking way.” ordered Swanstrom

“You got it boss man.” replied Leggit as smoke bellowed out his tank’s exhaust as his driver dumped the clutch and the M-2 lurched forward. The small tank quickly reached top speed and darted across the intersection.

The next tank lunged forward and just started into the intersection when several bullets pinged off the tank’s armor.

“Taking fire, little bastards are holed up in that little store on the east side.” shouted the second tank’s commander

The third tank surged through the intersection and he the turret swung towards the store. The main cannon death ray fired and burnt through the bottom store level. Seconds later a rocket shot out from an upper floor and slammed into the side of the tank.

“Goddamnit, pop smoke and get across that damn intersection.” yelled Swanstrom as he swung the repeater towards the store and unleashed a hail of death rays into the store as his tank scooted across the intersection in a swirl of smoke.

The main turret fired a beam across the store causing it to burst into flames finally as the building couldn’t handle anymore.

Swanstrom shook his head as he heard screams coming from the building inferno.

“Pucket, your tank gonna hold up after that hit.” asked Swanstrom

“We’re hurting pretty bad here sir, Jimmy is bleeding pretty good, my head hurts like a sumbitch and there’s a good chunk of armor missing.” came the reply

Swanstrom nodded to himself, he knew they wouldn’t last the trip but there wasn’t any point in telling them that.

“Alright let’s get to the rendezvous and see if we can’t get you boys patched up there.”

“Sounds good sir.”


********************************************************************

1rst Battalion
67th Cavalry Regiment

Denny sighed as he looked through his binoculars at the the series of buildings that made up the government complex.

“We’re fucking going in there aren’t we.” said Denny as he slumped back down behind the barrier he was huddled up behind.

“Fraid so son.” said SImmons with his ever overly cheerful smile.

Denny sighed loudly, he was tired of being scared anymore. After being shot at repeatedly over the last couple days he just finally accepted his lot in life.

Simmons’ eyes narrowed and Denny felt colder as the man’s gaze looked him over.

“We’re not here to vacation and enjoy ourselves, we’re soldiers, you knew this was a possibility when you signed up for the army, so you need to stop your belly aching and put on your big boy pants and man the fuck up, there are people being slaughtered like animals here, women and children being ripped from their homes by monsters. And the only thing to stop them is us, and if that’s not a reason to drive you into rage then you’re weak and pathetic and you need to leave my command at once. If not then you better get comfortable with the fact we’re going over there to those buildings and giving those SOBs the what for.” Simmons snarled at Denny.

Denny had shrunk smaller as he received his ass chewing from the LT.

“...I’m sorry sir, I just didn’t think it would be like this.” Denny said quietly.

“You need to suck it up, your brothers in arms are counting on you, you fuck up and any of them die because you’re a coward I’ll shoot you myself you understand.” said Simmons.

“Yes sir.” muttered Denny

“GENTLEMEN, FIX BAYONETS.” roared Simmons at the troops in his platoon. The sounds of mortars thumping could be heard and seconds later clouds of thermal blanketing smoke covered the area between the Numerigans and the complex.

“GO GO GO.” came the screams of several officers as Numerigans from 1rst battalion exploded from whatever cover they had hid behind and charged towards the complex. More mortar thumps could be heard and Denny knew it wasn’t any of theirs as shells whistled in through the smoke and explosions ripped through the Numerigan charge.

Blind gunfire filled the air next as bullets lashed out as the rebels filled the air with metal as they tried to repel the Numerigan assault. More mortar fire filled the air as Numerigan pieces tried to cut down the enemy.

Denny rolled through the end of the smoke and dove next to a building. Simmons dropped down next to him.

“Good to see you made the right choice son.” said Simmons before he got up and rolled around the corner with his gun raised as he continued the assault.

“Stupid mother fucker.” grumbled Denny as he followed behind him.

[Auman]

Coilguns shredded the air, the sound reminded him of ripping paper. Continuous streams of small caliber bullets pocking the surface of the spaceport's interstellar terminal, kicking up a cloud of ochre dust. They had superiority in firepower, but that all gets pissed away if Tanner takes the men inside. The young captain was a few meters to the left of his tank now, huddled up behind some rubble with his array of walkie-talkies. He had to turn them down, there was too much activity. Stogryn called him on the network and informed him of the situation, Tanner's company was completely cut off. Lancer wouldn't be able to get to him for at least three hours and Danilov, if he could push off immediately, would take another forty five minutes... And the way things had gone, he wouldn't have time for any of it if the enemy got their act together. The GRA gunship flying overhead bought him some room to think, he owed those guys a pat on the back. Tanner presumed the gunship may herald the approach of a force of Marines coming to relieve them, his pride didn't let that sit right in his gut. If Tanner couldn't go inside to get these collectivist shit disturbers, maybe he could convince them to come to him.

He keyed his mic, "All forces, cease fire. Cease fire, all forces." The shooting died in fits and starts, slowing from a torrent to a trickling stream and then a few pops and then nothing. Tanner flipped over to the loudspeaker on his command vehicle, cleared his throat and started to talk.

"The game is up." He started, his voice was firm. "Drop your guns and come out. I want to see your hands in the air." Tanner's adjutant looked at him with an incredulous mix of awe and confusion as it dawned on him that the captain was, despite being surrounded and cut off in enemy territory, demanding the surrender of the enemy. Definitely took some balls.

"You have only one warning. Surrender now, do it soon, because in fifteen minutes by my finely crafted Aumanii watch I am going to tear this spaceport to the fucking ground." Tanner repeated his warning a few times, adjusting the timeframes incrementally. His clock ran fast. The smart ones started to climb over the rubble with their hands up. The impressionable ones followed them. The dumb ones tried to shoot the former and they were cut down by automatic gunfire. The pavilion in front of the spaceport was now full of Aumanii soldiers and their POWs, clinging to any piece of cover that they could while the diehard insurgents inside traded fire. The tank made short work of the guys that made the mistake of standing too close to a window, the gunship turned another team of riflemen into a skidmark on the roof and in a matter of seconds, everything was quiet again.

Tanner took a risk and sent a platoon out to collect up the prisoners.

[The Solar Cooperative Union]

Specialist Riad Jones, 145th Marine Division, Port Valentine Government District

Riad would have to buy himself a new set of socks once he rotated out at the rate he was bulking up his calves. The trek through the pockmarked streets of Port Valentine had been quite the exercise in adaptability as time and time again his platoon came upon a cordoned off street, a crouched NCO waving them off with warnings of a sniper or buried explosive. Much to the suffering of himself and everyone around him, the APC’s were busy transporting the other half of their division to the far-side of the Government Compound or already staged at the perimeter, and command was in no hurry to weaken its grip on the Government Compound in order to lessen the work of a few thousand grunts.

So it was that a diet of EnduraDose and HydraDose had sustained their movement. Internally, Riad had started to doubt the promises that EnduraDose wasn’t habit forming as each time he smeared the clear gel between his teeth and gums he swore for a moment that the ground fell away and he could feel himself walk on air. His last application had been about an hour and a half dozen klicks back, and even after that time and that much exertion all the strain in his legs remained a dull pressure. All things considered the amount of chemicals coursing through the platoons veins was not unreasonable, they had hardly stopped moving for the past twenty-something hours and when the EnduraDose lapsed Riad felt like he was swimming through needles, as if his muscles had decided to pay off the pain debt all at once. Nevermind that though, if they did good work in the next couple of hours this whole ordeal might be wrapped up and his unit could rotate out. There was an energy in the air and the men that things were coming to a climax. Two things, three if you wanted to split hairs, in his senses indicated this.

First, and most pertinent to himself, were the looming brutalist outlines of the Government Complex now creeping into ever clearer view beyond a final row of stout shops. As the Government Complex became increasingly present, the noise emanating from its perimeter transformed from the distant and eerie echoes of bursting shells and craning machine gun fire to the percussive and chest slapping noise of hypersonic rounds and rapidly expanding gas. Second was the echoes of what he had to imagine were breathtakingly large explosions far to the north, presumably by the Spaceport. When these two civic spinal chords turned rebellious bastions fell, Port Valentine would be all but pacified. The platoon was now coming upon the perimeter, and some perimeter it was.

A motley collection of Solarian and Numerigian armored vehicles sat apparently motionless a few yards back from a billowing wall of smoke. Stout turrets sent lines of tracers zipping off into the smoke with little pause, while the larger guns of Solarian AAP’s and Numerigian tanks would sweep long across the obscured face of the Government Complex and loose shells at invisible targets deemed deserving of a fiery death. Riad’s LT pressed himself against the rear of an APC and began typing a flurry of commands into his ActaPad. As he finished a glowing blue triangle appeared a quick jog to the north on Riads HUD. With unfortunate finality, the Sarge gave a shout.

“Alright, lets get it done!”


With that Riad, two privates Gillespie and Bakanalo, another specialist named Ellaveski and Doc Cammela, one of the platoons medics, set off from the safety of the perimeter and into the maelstrom of combat just beyond.

The smoke added uncertainty to a situation already at full chaos capacity, it was doubtlessly saving lives as the militia were certainly low on wide spectral imaging and other such technological marvels. However it was also isolating and disorienting the attacking force. Riad lept in stride over the shattered body of a Numerigan soldier, or several, in truth, body was quite a generous term and shattered was quite a weak one. An arms length in front of him the asphalt erupted into stuttering plumes of pulverized dust, only a diving stride to the left saved Riad from meeting the same fate as those he had just passed over. Another stride and--

The smoke was gone, the entire sweeping arc of Riads vision was immediately engulfed by hell. The Government Complex was designed with calamity in mind, that design was now being put to the test. The assault had stalled on the long brick shaped office buildings that doubled as walls for the imposing complex, there were no ground level windows or entrances of any kind, and the thick plexicrete walls had only just began to weaken in-spite of a continual beating. All along this wall Numerigian and Solarian soldiers were pressed into any cover they could find as they slowly built up the directed firepower to suppress the countless firing positions on the second and third levels of the building turned bunker. He didn’t have time to truly take in the sights though, he was in the most lethal of all the lethal spots to be. Acting without thinking he tore across the open space, hot death ripping either direction around him, until he came to a skidding stop and slammed into the far wall. He turned in time to see the rest of his team sans Ellaveski follow his lead. Riad didn’t need to ask to know what had happened, the Doc’s face was destitute even concealed behind a reflective visor.

Not the time to mourn though, Riad pulled a listing Numerigian back into cover, the man leaking life-giving crimson down his chest. Whichever unit this man had belonged to had lost him in their dash, regardless the Doc went about keeping him alive. A few, stationery minutes passed pressed in this position, the thump of mortars and autocannons slurring into a thunderous din. Only broken by the shrill hiss of GravTurbines, Riad was intimately familiar with the noise. The smoke, already beginning to thin out was sent dissipating as a Tyrant-Class Gunship slid in a sideways orientation across the length of the assault, all of its firepower pointed towards the offending buildings second and third floors. Riad watched with vindictive joy as the gunships autocannons stuttered back and forth without pause, its integral and mounted missile pods letting an explosive fist punch forward without warning. The autocannons roared on overhead and Riad sheltered his face as dust, rubble and what appeared to be a hand, came showering down from above.

Things ‘settled’ as much as such a place could settle, and Riad waved his team forward, that blue triangle now just up the road. The objective was a gap where pedestrians could enter the Government Complex, though he would bet they didn’t intend this sort of pedestrian. They came to the rounded corner where the brick-paved interior flooring of the Complex met the formerly smooth asphalt of the street and sidewalk. There a large group of Numerigians and Solarian forces were intermingling, it seemed things were safe for now as the upper two floors of the surrounding structures had been depopulated, to put it mildly. The rest of the Government Complex was cut off by a security gate, which was more of a slab, that sealed the pedestrian entrance.

It seemed the assault would stall for now, an engineering group probably being plucked from rebuilding the city to again help tear it down.

Riad used the fleeting break to size up the foreigners he was fighting alongside, and immediately the difference was stark. Beyond the obvious gulf in equipment, the temperment of both forces could barely have been more different. Even the most solemn of the Solarians was busy preparing themselves for the next leg of their operation, the most jovial were dispensing high fives and trading cigars. In contrast, the Numerigians looked shaken up from top to bottom, they wore the grim horror of freshly-despoiled innocents, the reality of combat washing over some as a bumbling torrent of sobs and pleas. Scanning his eyes across the crowd he spotted Yun and Rylee, two combat-made friends, their faces were probably a mirror of his own. Leathery skin crossed by sloping lines of dirt where the visor had shielded the eyes, some sort of half-perceptible fire in their eyes, cigarettes hanging lazily from cracked lips. Yun was busy attending to a bellowing Lieutenant, but Rylee was free to make her way over to Riad and his unit. Her voice was as haggered as her appearance, but not without its usual fire.

“Look at these pansy-asses”

She gestured to the Numerigians, blatantly at that.

“You’d think Command aint trust us as far as they can fling us if this sorry sight is supposed to be our help.”

Riad raised a puzzled eyebrow, Rylee had never been one for articulation, but he had also learned to let her speak her peace. She pulled the dwindling cigarette from her mouth and used it to point at the nearest Numerigian, who was only a few feet away. His eyes were dry but he wore dread and fear all across his face.

“Look at this kid eh? What the fuck does the 145th need a bunch of goddamn kids and gym coaches taggin along for? We didn’t get no ga-ht-damn help bustin’ up those Corpies on Clovis but fuck’sforbid we blow through a bunch of angry civvie fucks without an army of these goofies’ backin’ us up!”

Riad leaned against a wall and smirked, looking from the Numerigian to Rylee.

“Give ‘em a break Ry, not everyones living such a shitshow, and most who are aren’t braggin’ about it.”

Rylee tapped her foot, took a drag, snuffed the cigarette and crossed her arms.

“Well the thing is RJ, you either got it in ya’ or ya’ don’t, and not one of these new-meri-geens got it in ‘em.”

Riad shrugged, let his lean become a slump and waited.



Port Valentine Metroplex Starport, Michael Renlat

Hot rage bubbled in Michaels gut, rage beyond rage, betrayal, hatred stewed in him and threatened to send him into a shower of vitriolic magma. All this preparation, all this time, and these fools would throw it all away and run towards the enemy. Cowards, cowards, pitiful foolish cowards. They were ALL supposed to die here, all of them! He turned his rifle on the next man that ran past him towards the foreigners, but decided in the last breath before he ended his life that it wasn’t worth the ammo. Around him the pretenders streamed towards the offer of surrender, all of them young, angry of course, but not like him, not to the end.

He and a small cohort of like-minded fanatics kept on deeper into the Starport while the wide majority ran headlong for a promise of safety as prisoners, disgusting.

Pilot First Class Rodrigo Amertue, Port Valentine Metroplex Starport

It’d been a hell of a day, that much was certain, the long angular gashes in the canopy of his craft could attest to this truth. Now he was on the last run of the day, an Aumanii convoy had slammed very effectively but violently into the Starport. His current objective was to escort a transport there and make it sure could unload its passengers without getting split in half by some smug fucker with a rocket, and of course deliver a package.

Not that it was likely, with the last big pockets of hostility capped under megatons of suppressive fire it would require a suicidal mind to stick out and loose an Anti-Air Rocket. It wasn’t worth taking chances however as the transport to his front was carrying quite the assortment of specialized personnel. A starport was not a placid place in the best of conditions, full of fuel, energizing agents and all manner of dangerous materials necessary to keep a link to the galaxy running. Now all that barely bound energy was sitting under an active battlefield.

They were coming up on the LZ now, the wide ring of parking lots and maglev terminals around the Spaceport was dotted with flattened cars, brickish Aumanii armored vehicles and a few of their terribly ravaged convoy partners. More surprisingly a stream of people, hundreds maybe, was making its way out of the ravaged front of the Starport towards a waiting Aumanii line. Rodrigo pulled in front of the transport then whipped the nimble LAC into a descending path that would bring him to a mere 4 or 5 meters off of the ground, certain that he was now hovering a few meters from the Aumanii commander, he reached into the storage net overhead and drew a beige box covered in tape and adorned with a note. In a half moment he opened the left canopy hatch and tossed it at the feet of Tanner. As he examined it he would find the label to convey a simple, but important message.

“Use this radio instead, please.”

Satisfied that his peculier job was done, he pulled up and confirmed that the transport was in tow before starting back to base and fantasizing about the shitty coffee he would enjoy there.

Vice-Admiral Connor Lasseter, STF Libra, SCUN Creature Crusher


The past several hours had been more of whirlwind than Vice-Admiral Lasseter had words to describe. minutes after news of the savage murder of an Alexzonyan POW and its publishing on the Galactic Media Web had been a hefty enough task to manage on top of ongoing combat operations, little did Connor know how much more turmoil was to come washing over him. It had been a simple enough message that initiated the latest ordeal, a lightly encrypted pulse from Fleet Command in Caliope. Its contents were as innocuous as its delivery suggested.

“Alert,
STF Libra will be reinforced immediately by Flotilla Corvid, on arrival in the Tessaly theater Junior-Admiral Tyla Maztani will subsume her command to yours. Await further instruction.
Second Fleet Command, Strinda Anchorage”

Reinforcements were a much welcome change of pace, a fresh batch of Marines and logistics support could revitalize the entire operation and help make the final push much easier. As promised the void of space a few million kilometers from STF Libras position in high orbit over Luston was freed from the bounds of euclidean geometry for a brief instant as an exploding fractal composed of infinitely more exploding fractals signalled a Hyperlight rupture and the arrival of Flotilla Corvid. However, instead of the long convoy of transports and hospital ships Lasseter had expected he instead found himself looking at a heavily armed fleet scale assembly of warships with a few transports seemingly tacked on as an afterthought. In that moment a fleeting but very real deja vu hit the Vice-Admiral as he remembered the moment the Corporate Fleet had made a surprise jump into Chaione and ignited the Civil War. Pushing those thoughts aside, he brought up his own personal command interface and immediately linked into the SCUN Curved Claws bridge.

There was his subordinate Tyla Maztani, an older woman who had always been a composed and professional, if predictable and conservative, officer. Her face and posture betrayed that her time spent at Strinda Anchorage had not been restful and she had brought whatever force had distressed her along to Luston. She snapped a brief salute then spoke before Connor had a chance to ask her how she was doing, something that immediately confirmed his suspicions of bad news.

“I’ve been told that you should put on your encryption for this Vice-Admiral Lasseter.”

He nodded and flipped an appropriately large switch next to his interface, and waited as the supercomputers did their jobs. A moment later and the communications link was protected behind a wall of code that would take the remaining life of the universe to brute-force decrypt. Now secure, Maztani spoke in a tone that was as tired as her eyes.

“Vice-Admiral I’m sure you are aware of the shifts in the government we work for, our mutual superiors have tasked me with informing you that as soon as the Government Complex in Port Valentine is secured you are to insure all LOTUS forces vacate Union space within four standard days.”

Connor felt his jaw go slack at the succinct and immensely troubling message. Maztani continued, now even more fatigued as she saw the incredulous look on her superiors face.

“With that I subsume my command to you Vice-Admiral and humbly ask to be allowed a moment to rest.”

Vice-Admiral Lasseter nodded impatiently, distracted and not particularly concerned with the formality Maztani was adhering to. Without even speaking to her he cut the feed and immediately pulled up his Tactical Display. His fleet had nearly tripled in size with the arrival of the Flotilla, and with the new context he realized this reinforcement was not meant to help pacify Port Valentine, but instead to guarantee LOTUS forces would understand their place as ‘guests’ in the Union. Personally, he thought such a slight to the group so integral in both the current operation and the Loyalist victory in the Civil War was an egregious faux paus. Yet, it was not his place to interpret the morality of orders, only to carry them out and oversee his subordinates to make sure they did the same.

That fact established, he turned his attention to the direct feed from the assault on the Government Complex and watched with bated breath.

[Auman]

The Sergeant Major had just finished detailing his plan. He wanted to take Danilov's company into the upper atmosphere, throw a parachute in their hands and kick them out of the nearest airlock. Tanner and his men were cut off and while they weren't alone, there was a very real chance that the spaceport would be snatched out from under them by their allies, which would be shameful. The clock was ticking and time was their greatest enemy right now. Stogryn was seething, his embarrassment was palpable, like a lump in his gut. The Long Range Patrol Battalion, the most elite line unit in the entire Aumanii Armed Forces, was airing their dirty laundry in front of the whole galaxy right now. Budget cuts and poor equipment maintenance, a task they never wanted to hand over to the Fleet to begin with, cost more lives today than the insurgents. "Sergeant Major, get it done." Stogryn said, a lit cigarette burning in an ashtray on his desk. His son had made it for him years ago, when he was in preschool and while it was crude, he cherished that ashtray more than anything he owned onboard this vessel. As the Sergeant Major stood and saluted, there was a gentle rapping at the door of Stogryn's cabin.

"Enter!" Stogryn called. The door slid open and Captain Terry Ranze stepped in, decked out in full Fleet regalia. Stogryn thought he looked a bit like Count Chocula, with that dumb high collared cape. Ranze's jackboots clicked on the grav plating, his hands were clasped behind his back and he held his nose high in the air as if the stench of the Army was only just tolerable. Stogryn looked at Ranze expectantly and he said nothing for an awkward moment, before the Fleet captain twirled his hand with an annoyed flourish. "Really, we're doing this?" asked Stogryn. Ranze pinched his lips, flared his eyebrows and nodded tightly. Stogryn stood and saluted in the Aumanii fashion; palm out, thumb towards the ground and pinkie finger to the sky. It wasn't common for a Fleet officer to enforce rank formalities with an Army officer, but after a few years of working together, Ranze had clearly become annoyed with them and, seemingly, felt the need to put Stogryn in his place. Captains were superior to commanders, after all. Ranze returned the salute and rounded the desk. Stogryn stood up and walked to the other side, took a seat after Ranze had settled into his chair. The Sergeant Major stood to attention by his commander's side. Ranze leaned on his elbows and interlocked his fingers on the desk, took a deep breath and said...

"This mission is over."

The Sergeant Major's face was a mask that betrayed the rage that twisted in his bowels. Stogryn simply scoffed. "Excuse me, Captain?"

"Not a difficult concept, Commander. We're done here."

"Would it be too much of a burden upon you to request an explanation?"

Ranze pretended to be deaf at that moment.

"May I please request an explanation, sir?" Stogryn added emphasis on every syllable.

"Ask and ye shall received, Commander. On top of poor planning and execution on the part of the Army, taking this battalion and my flotilla into a combat mission when we were nearing the very end of our operational endurance, we're simply spent. We're spent, commander, and we don't have the ability to sustain what may be coming next." Ranze slid a file from his tablet to the desk and flipped it over to holovideo. It was a projection of the solar system, which held tight and crisp. Green dots represented allied vessels, orange dots represented potential hostiles and there was a blob of them closing on Luston fast.

"So the collectivists call in some help and you're going to turn tail and run? Now that is the Fleet I know." Stogryn chuckled.

"No, not collectivists... Not terrorists or rebels. This is the Solar Cooperative Union. Their navy." Ranze retorted.

Stogryn didn't seem to understand the implication.

"Normally I wouldn't be concerned. However, an examination of the composition of the fleet is quite telling. These are shipkillers, Commander. They may as well be unfurling a banner saying 'please leave by nine.' I understand and empathize with your position, I really do. You committed to taking that spaceport and you were genuinely doing the best that you could with the resources remaining, but I have serious doubts about what happens next. So, to err on the side of caution, we're leaving. I will make my lifters available to you, we will land them under fire if necessary, but this flotilla is returning to Oxus and you will be facing the panel when we arrive."

The last point was something else, like a cold bucket of water dumped on Stogryn's head.

"Why would I be facing the panel?" Stogryn's eyes narrowed. "I've been diligently writing my reports, High Command has doubts about you I'm afraid." Ranze stood abruptly. "Don't worry about saluting me, Commander. I get the feeling you won't be doing it too much in the future." Ranze stopped in the doorway as he was leaving, considering his words carefully.

"You should have let Nibrayu have this one."

-

The POWs were wasting their time. Tanner was getting impatient, every fiber of his being was screaming at him to get a move on, but here they were... Cataloging, treating, administrating. The attack on the spaceport was hopelessly stalled and no matter how many calls he put in to Big Sun Ray, the only response he received was "please standby for further instructions." Tanner's adjutant had made himself busy, compiling reports on the current situation and summarizing them for the captain, but it was all nothing he didn't already know. An aircraft belonging to the Union dropped him a package, it was another radio. This was exactly what he needed, another ball to juggle.

"Yellow Knife Actual, this is Big Sun Ray, copy?"

"Big Sun Ray, this is Yellow Knife actual, what do you have for me?" Tanner held a hand to his ear and turned away from the POWs he was counting.

"Bad news kid. We're leaving. Get your men together, the lifters will be there in fifteen minutes. Do you copy, son?" Stogryn's voice was soft, almost defeated.

"Sir, with all due respect, are you joking?" Tanner was absolutely incredulous.

"I wish I were. There has been a development and it has the Fleet spooked. It will all become clear once you're back in the suck. Hate to do this to you, Tanner, but it's out of my hands."

There was a moment of tense silence. Tanner wanted to tell the commander to eat shit and then immediately breach the damn starport. He had lost thirty men. He couldn't just leave it half finished. The prize was theirs, they just had to take it! He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He clenched his jaw so hard he thought he might break his teeth and stared into the smoke filled sky, just shaking his head.

"Understood, Big Sun Ray. Do you have any further instructions? What should we do about the prisoners?"

Another pause.

"Just get rid of them. Big Sun Ray over and out."

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Several sonic booms could be heard in the distance, the lifters were coming any minute now. Tanner looked at his rifle and then at the prisoners and considered shooting them for a moment. He told his adjutant to spread the word, get the men ready for rapid evacuation. Wounded first, dead second, the usual drill. Six pillars of flame erupted from East Residential and pushed the Aumanii frigates upward toward orbit. "God help us." stuttered the adjutant. Tanner turned his attention back to the prisoners. He didn't have the luxury of time to properly decide their fate and there was no one that he could just hand them off to.

"Go home." was the only thing Tanner said. The POWs were confused and sluggish to respond. A staff sergeant from bakr section turned to Tanner with a look of utter disbelief on his face. The captain just walked away. When the lifters arrived, the company loaded up wordlessly and left the atmosphere.

[Alexzonya]

Luston, Solar Cooperative Union, Beta Quadrant, Milky Way
ARS Peerless, an Infinity-class Patrol Capital Ship, Flagship of the 39th Exploration and Patrol Group and 4th Marine Expeditionary Force Combined Command, Orbit

“New contacts jumping in… Skroots,” calls a watchstander. For a moment there’s tension, and then things relax. The Skroots were allies…

The tactical officer frowns at his readout. “Wiki,” he snaps, “can you confirm the signature readout on those contacts? This doesn’t look right...”

“Confirmed, Commander. The readout is correct,” reports the shipboard AI, appearing an a hologram pedestal next to his station.

“XO?” he calls, but the XO was already looking at his own display.

“Wiki, page the Admiral to the CIC,” he directs. She flits away to find him, as all of the watchstanders burrow into their word, an uncomfortable silence falling among those present.

A few minutes later, Admiral Braddock comes at a brisk hike into the CIC. Wiki had filled him in on the way. “Communications, can you patch me through to the Skroots?” he inquires.

“I will sir, but you’re going to want to see this first,” the communications officer reports. He steps over to her station, and views a communication from the Aumanii. He frowns. This wasn’t going to be good, not at all.

“Understood, put me through now.”

The conversation with the Skroots was terse; in reply to the Admiral’s request for additional information and a status update, the SCU flagship claimed that the situation was wholy unchanged, “good as gumdrops” in fact, and that the additional forces were only to assist in securing Luston. The Braddock buried the concern from his voice and signs off.

“Bring the fleet to heightened readiness,” he directs, as soon as the connection terminates. “And put me through to Colonel Holdduck at Alabaster…”

Fort Alabaster, Residential District East, Port Valentine

“Over the wire for you Colonel,” states the corporal, as he walks into the watch officer’s office and then salutes. The Colonels returns it, and then accepts the piece of paper. “Thank you, corporal,” he replies, frowning as he skims it and returns to his desk. He reads it twice, to be sure, and then reaches straight for a communications control.

“Captain? This is Colonel Holdduck. New orders from Peerless. Cease your advance, and commence counter-bombardment dispersion in your area of operation.”

“Pardon me Colonel, but. What!?” replies the Captain, from inside his Cobra IFV. The other crewmen turn to look at him (save the pilot, who keeps his attention on the surroundings).

“Shit’s happening Starside, Captain. Time for a debrief later. Pass it on to the rest of your command. Area of jurisdiction is still yours, but don’t cluster above platoon strength. Gunships are on their way Starside now, so don’t expect them. More updates coming later. Holdduck out.” He terminates the link, just in time to receive a message from one of his airborne units.

“Colonel, this is Captain Baker. We’ve got eyes on the Aumanii forces; they’re on their way out of here like a bat out of hell. Just landed their heavy-lift carriers under fire, and....”

“Affirmative, Captain,” Holdduck interrupts. “We just got order from Peerless. Reconstitute your gunship formation and withdraw Starside; orbital transports will be ready to receive you.”

“Colonel… I just watched one of my birds go down less than an hour ago, and we still have men on the ground. Permission to speak fre…” It didn’t sound like it was going to be a request.

“Tell me on the way home, Captain. Get your men back airborne by whatever means necessary and recall ASAP. Holdduck out.” He terminates the link. There were a lot of GRA units to inform, and he couldn’t waste time arguing with each one. After speaking with each GRA captain in equal terse, and sometime confrontational messages, he then walks over to another officer on the command floor. He hands him the communication solemnly. “Raise our umbrella shield. Execute counter-bombardment procedures.”

A few minutes later, in the air over Fort Alabaster, the air suddenly ripples, shimmers, and then solidifies in a significant arc over the GRA headquarters. Unpacking a counter-bombardment shield had been viewed as an act of ridiculous bureaucracy when the engineers had begun setting up the base; it had been delayed until just a few hours ago by more pressing tasks. Suddenly, it didn’t seem so superfluous.

New Dornalia, Beta Quadrant, Milky Way Galaxy
ARS Celestine, Flagship of the 58th Exploration and Patrol Group, Orbit
Current Assignment: Refuel, Rest, and Resupply - Beta Quadrant Reserve Force

Admiral Amanda Parmenter read the communication twice from her quarters, her scowl increasing on each pass. She turns and goes to find her formal uniform.

“Darius, I need all of the ship commanders in the holoroom in ten minutes, virtual conference,” she directs the AI, which was hovering expressionlessly on its pedestal nearby. It flickers away without comment.

Ten minutes ended up being far too optimistic. It was almost an hour later by the time all the COs could be assembled, and three were still planetside. Parmenter was ready for them, the flagship’s captain seated beside her being the only other person physically in the room.

“We have an alert from the forces at Luston,” she starts, drawing alarmed looks from most of the others seated around the table. “The Skroots just jumped in a huge battlefleet; shipkillers, not Marines. They deny any change in the situation, apparently, but Command doesn’t buy it. The Aumanii have cut and run already, but our forces and the Numerigans are in too deep to get out cleanly if it turns south. We’re jumping in to reinforce the 39th and Peerless. Get your crews recalled and ready for action. Cruisers report in when your sub-formations are flight-ready.” She hesitates. “This could get ugly. Be ready for anything. Dismissed.”

On the planet below, fleet communicators suddenly began to light up, chiming in alert tones. The messages were brief: shore leave for the entire 58th was cancelled, all crewmembers were to come as soon as possible to collection points for return to their ships, regardless of present condition; whatever shenanigans the crews were getting up to in Dornalia, they were needed back, and needed back now. They could sober up on the way to Luston.

[Numeriga]

3rd battalion
67th Cavalry Regiment

“What in the fuck is going on here?” asked Gregory as their tank rolled up to the starport in time to see several starships blast off from the starport.

“Hell if I know.” said Swanstrom as he opened the hatch up and popped his head out of the opening and grabbed onto the handles of the death-ray repeater.

Louis’ eyes scanned the starport as he watched a few groups of what appeared to be rebels look at the ships leaving and then back at the Numerigan armor squad rolling up.

“NOBODY FUCKING MOVE” came a shout from Liggety as the other tank commander pointed his repeater at the crowds.

“Now what the hell do we do and where the fuck are the Aumanii?” questioned Swanstrom’s driver

“Think thats them in them thar starships leaving the planet son.” said Swanstrom as he lit another cigarette. “Radio command and let’s figure out the hell we’re supposed to do here.”

********************************************************************

1rst Battalion
67th Cavalry Regiment

Denny peaked around the corner and then ducked back behind as bullets whirred past the corner he was hiding behind. He stuck his gun around the corner and wildly fired the entire clip of his rifle.

ping

Denny grabbed another clip from his pouch and slammed in the rifle and pressed the button releasing the action and slamming the first battery cartridge into the chamber. Looking across the street he saw Simmons lean around and raise his repeater and unleash a torrent of death-rays downrange.

“MOVING!” yelled Simmons as he advanced forward.

Denny stepped around his corner and raised his rifle. Taking up a slight jog, the two lines of Numerigans moved quickly down the street. Denny dove behind cover as more bullets tore through the air from the large building in front of them.

“Light em up.” said Simmons.

Denny popped up from behind his cover and pulled the trigger on his rifle as he pointed it at every window he could see.

ping

Denny ducked down as he fumbled around for another clip.

Cervantes one of the fresh faces from reserves slid next to Denny as he took up a position next to him.

“Fucking puntas.” mumbled Cervantes as he loaded a magazine into his Redding Automatic Rifle.

“You hear those asshole Solarians trying to talk shit?” asked Cervantes as Denny slapped his clip.

“Yeah I guess.” said Denny as he adjusted his helmet and peaked over cover.

“Buncha jack-offs if you ask me.” said Cervantes right before he popped up from cover and unleashed a hail of death-ray pulses all over the side of the building. Ducking back down, Cervantes dropped the empty clip and slapped a fresh one in.

“And you know I get it, they went through a shit show just a little while ago.” Cervantes said as he racked the action and then popped back up with Denny and each man peppered the building’s windows before slipping back behind cover.

“But that doesn’t make you the biggest badass in the Galaxy.” Cervantes said as he took a swig of his canteen.

“I told them to go fuck themselves.” Cervantes said

“Advancing.” called Simmons and Denny bailed over his cover and sprinted towards the complex.

“Alright frags at the ready.” Simmons said and Denny pulled the grenade from his vest as he slammed into the building next to lower window.

“Frag out.” yelled the LT and Denny tossed his grenade through the window.

5
4
3
2
1

Denny counted to himself and the room was suddenly flooded with light as several thousand disintegration beams flooded the room. Denny crawled through window and his feet landed on the floor.

“Oh fuck me.” said Denny as he noticed several bodies on the floor of the room. Looking closer he saw that the bodies tattered clothes looked like GRA military uniforms.

Cervantes climbed in through the window after Denny and saw the younger soldier sitting next to the wall.

“Well this blows.” remarked Cervantes before he exited the room.


******************************************


159th Numerigan Naval Task Force
NNS Yorkton
Luston Orbit

“Sweet Mother of Mary.” said Commodore Haledon as he watched the radar screen feedback the images of the Solarian fleet arriving.

“Any idea why the hell they would send heavies to a planet pacification where the rebels don’t even have an opposing fleet?” asked Executive Officer Mills

Commodoe Haledon wrinkled his brow as he thought about what his XO had just said. The only the other fleets present over Luston were the other LOTUS member fleets.

“I think they’re here for us.” said the Commodore coldly. “I want a flash alert sent out to the rest of the fleet at once, assume a defensive formation but try not to act of an aggressive manner at all.”

“Sir we’ve got a problem.” said radar officer Grissom a blank look on his the young ensign’s face as he directed the Commodore's attention to the radar screen. Haledon swore under his breath as he watch three smaller contacts from the Numerigan fleet steaming towards the ship-killers of the Solarians.

“What the hell are those idiots doing.” cursed Mills

“Don’t worry sir we’ll make sure these boys behave.” came the cheerful voice of one of the PT Boat commanders.

“You three need to turn about at once and return to formation now.” ordered Haledon

“No can do sir.” replied the boat commander “If these boys decide to get frisky you’re gonna want to let us get a few punches in before shit really hits the fan.”

“Idiots.” said Haledon as he closed the communication line

“Yeah but they got balls though.” smiled the radar officer before his smile vanished under the wither the menacing glare of the Commodore.

[The Solar Cooperative Union]

Vice-Admiral Connor Lasseter, STF Libra, SCUN Creature Crusher

The situation in orbit over Luston was immediately primed for confrontation, such was to be expected with this much weaponry and this many flags in the same place. Just a few hours prior Lasseter would have happily shared a drink with the people his subordinates were now calculating firing trajectories on with the intent to rip open their craft and send them tumbling into the depth of deep space should it come to blows. Obviously his superiors expected it to come to blows, in his initial shock at the rapid development of the situation he had failed to properly assess the ‘gift’ his distant superiors had granted him.

Previously the Special Task Force had been composed of two Planetary Assault Carriers, hulking fusions of transports, logistics and hospitals along with every other minute or massive detail needed to facilitate the gargantuan task of seizing a planetary body by force. There was the Creature Crusher, his flagship and current residence, and the Last Resort And Spa. These were escorted by a dozen frigates, or had been until the reinforcements had careened into the system. Now there was an additional PAC, the Trouble Wagon seemed aptly named as it broke from the lingering formation it had arrived with and traversed towards the orbit of Luston to loose its payload of fresh faced troops. The main formation held position in further orbit, a cloud of heavy warships and carriers that hung silently in the void. It felt tense, wrong, like a party of close friends had been interrupted by the host menacing a weapon, perhaps that’s exactly what it was.

A warning pierced the tense calm of the bridge, a holographic display bloomed to life and the combat computer belted out a mechanical briefing.

“Three Numerigian light ships on trajectory to enter our picket, closing fast.”

Lasseter quickly forgot his moral apprehension and shot back an order both to the listening machine and attendant crew.

“Alright, scramble a fighter wing to escort Trouble Wagon on its return, scramble another to ride right on those ballsy numerigians and a third, get me a bomber wing to take the exact trajectory of approach the numerigians took but towards them and make sure they know we’re not fucking around.”

With that the order shot out across the fleet at lightning speed, pilots on standby rushed to waiting craft and in a matter of minutes scores of agile escort fighters and imposing bombers were propagating from the center of the carrier Chill Hollar and then splitting into their respective formations. The bombers carried on in a curved path towards Numerigian ships, a wing of fighters trailing behind them like a pack of baby ducks following their mother. A rapid burn later and the bombers crossed ‘under’ the Numerigian patrol boats while the fighters split off and looped around to follow the patrol boats, peeling away from their bomber comrades to buzz around the PT boats. The pilots made a point of getting so close as to make a wiggle of the fighter visible to their Numerigian counterparts, as if to say “here we are, your move”.

[Auman]

"Fleet General, there is an incoming transmission request coming through on the holocall, would you like to accept, sir?" The Chimera's communications officer turned in her crash seat to look at Miller Tyz'Juan, roving commander of the Milky Way Patrol Task Force. He was tall and lanky, born in low gravity and acclimated to space through years of service. His hair was long and held tightly to the top of his head in kind of bun that was practical among spacers and fashionable with the youth. Tyz'Juan unbuckled himself from the crash couch and made his way towards the holocall center, a spacious room just off of the CIC.

"Yes," he said, turning to face the comm, "I'll be accepting it." Tyz'Juan said placidly.

He entered the holocall center and the lights immediately dimmed. A red sphere hung in the middle of the room, a band spun around it that read 'incoming call', he touched it. The form of Captain Ranze blurred into focus and the two men looked at each other, Tyz'Juan expectantly.

"Terry." Tyz'Juan nodded.

"Fleet General!" Ranze saluted in the Aumanii fashion and clicked his heels together. Tyz'Juan returned a salute in less an erudite fashion.

Combat data flashed between them now, Ranze updated his superior on the situation and Tyz'Juan understood, if only a little, what was transpiring.

"Sir, I worry that my actions may have been... Rooted in paranoia, did I overreact?" Terry allowed himself a moment of brevity.

"Judging by the screen, Terry, our allies may agree with your assessment. We have Numerigans in a sortie against Solarian fighters. The Alexzonyans are taking up a defensive posture and... Well, you're as well trained as I am on this subject. The Solarians are ready to take scalps. Chimera will be there soon, prepare for our arrival." Tyz'Juan severed the communication link and opened a new channel to the Task Force.

"Prepare yourselves for combat jump. Estimated time to contact, three hours."

[Numeriga]

159th Numerigan Naval Task Force
NNS Yorkton
Luston Orbit

Commodore Haledon cursed under his breath at the sight of incoming bombers at his fleet formation. The fleet that had been assembled had been picked with the thought of having to intercept several small craft from rebels having hijacked spacecraft from the spaceport in Port Valentine and using them in suicide attacks on Numerigan ships. So while it was perfectly arranged to easily swat away the attack craft inbound, Haledon knew that such an action would provoke a response from the heavier warcraft which he was not properly prepared to deal with.

He figured since the PT boats hadn’t been blinked out of existence immediately that the attacker run was likely a show of force from the Solarians. Haledon just needed to show a measured response that he wouldn’t be intimidated so easily while not acting offensively towards the Solarians.

“Bit of a pickle we’re in here huh sir.” said Mills, the sentence more of a statement than a question to his commanding officer. Haledon thought about the men under his command whose lives were in his hands. He could shrink away like a coward and run with his tail tucked between his legs. That course of action, however, would likely be detrimental to the men planetside as their fleet abandoned them.

“I want the Yorkton, Huntingwater Bartlan Flintlan to roll towards those attackers and present a complete broadside with every gun they can at once. Move the carriers back away from the front line with our escorts and fighters providing a screen.” Haledon ordered.

At nearly sixty years old the fleet commander suddenly much older than he should. He felt a bead of sweat drip from his forehead as he felt the rush of possibly being thrust into combat go through his body. He ran his hand through his short white hair as he watched the radar screen, the line spinning in a circle and illuminating the incoming attackers.

The soft sound of fabric tearing could be heard as the Commodore moved from the radar screen over to the magnetic board that had several markers on it that indicated where each Numerigan ship was. Haledon never did get used to the velcro that was on the bottom of his voidsuit’s feet. The soft tearing could be heard again as the XO moved next to him, each man staring at the three PT boats stranded out away from the fleet

“Contacts the Solarians and let them know we’ll need time to get our troops off the planets. And get that idiot Wilson back on the line and tell him to return to the formation at once or we’ll fire on them ourselves.” said Haledon.

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159th Numerigan Naval Task Force
PT Boat 4934 ”Voodoo Girl”
Luston Orbit

Lieutenant Commander Wilson had a smirk on his face as he watched his radar screen at the Solarian attacker craft swooping in.

“Hey Gerald keep your heavy trained on them thar fighters, this is where we’ll pull up.” said Wilson with his thick Texicanan accent over the intership radio. He cut power to the boat’s main thrusters and began the slow down procedure for his boat. He felt the pressure on his chest as the straps from his seat dug in. He chewed on his lip wishing he had put a chaw in before he put his helmet on his voidsuit in case his boat got shot up.

“Hey Commander, the Commodore is calling back.” said Slim.

Wilson rolled his eyes at the news, he figured the fleet commander would get pissy over him doing what he did, he also didn’t really care. Being a PT boat commander took balls Wilson thought, something most the upper brass seemed to forget.

“Alright, let’s identify their heavies and track their trajectories in case we gotta shoot it out with them boys.” Wilson said as he leaned forward and flipped a switch on his console.

“What can I help you with Commodore.” said Wilson with a smirky tone in his voice.

“You get your dumb ass back into formation at once Wilson or you will be fired upon.” came the voice of Haledon’s XO, Mills.

“Them boys ain’t gonna do nothin.” replied Wilson as he leaned back in his seat and watched the smaller signatures on his radar pass over his ship.

“You idiot, the Commodore means he will fire on you if you don’t get back in formation.” said Mills over the radio after several seconds of delay.

Wilson punched the console in front of him and disconnected the comm line. He took a couple deep breaths and then hit the directional thrusters to turn his boat around and head back towards the Numerigan fleet formation.

“Assholes are just lucky.” Wilson mumbled as the three boats headed back slowly.

[Alexzonya]

Luston, Solar Cooperative Union, Beta Quadrant, Milky Way
Fort Alabaster, Residential District East, Port Valentine

Fort Alabaster was being evacuated, with lift shuttles pulling GRA personnel back to the orbital transports as quickly as could be managed. It’s still a painfully slow process, as Alexzonyan forces from across the city have to be recalled, and then routed back to the egress sites in a manner that avoids clustering them; the better to foil any orbital bombardment.

Across the city, forces from three different nations scramble about, now with different objectives. From Alabaster, the commanders can only hold their breath as several reports come in of narrowly avoided skirmishes in the chaos. Fortunately, any shots fired seem to be going in the direction of the few rebel forces left active, though the Alexzonyans are directed to focus on the evacuation. As knowledge of what was happening began to make its way through the ranks, more and more Alexzonyans are happy to leave the Solarians to clean up their own mess, with regards to the rebel forces.

ARS Peerless, an Infinity-class Patrol Capital Ship, Flagship of the 39th Exploration and Patrol Group and 4th Marine Expeditionary Force Combined Command, Orbit

The Alexzonyan fleet officers held their breath, as the Numerigan patrol craft ventured forth, and then the Solarian fighters and bombers whizzed by. The bridges and CICs could collectively exhale, at least a bit, as no torpedoes or railgun slugs filled the void with destruction.

The next call from a watchstander comes a moment later. “The Numerigans are moving. Shifting their escorts into broadside firing positions. Their picket is withdrawing”

“Action stations,” calls Admiral Braddock, his voice surprisingly calm under the circumstances. “Jack in and prepare for battle. Deploy probe screens.” Following his own directive, he reaches back and connects his mind-machine interface.

The 39th moves to a combat footing, with the ships deploying their dronecraft in protective spheres around them. Orders go out, and Peerless, two of the formation’s cruisers, and six of the destroyers burn towards the bulk of the Numerigan formation. The rest of the GRA patrol ships (two cruisers, six destroyers) move to join the six escort destroyers and the transports. That formation shifts away, adjusting orbit carefully even as the evacuation continues.

A transmission is sent to the Numerigans, reporting that the Alexzonyan ships would be forming up starward of them in a supporting position. Perhaps the proximity of a non-Solarian capital ship would help soothe Commodore Haledon’s nerves. Regardless, it would present a united front, and perhaps make the Solarians reconsider… whatever it is they were planning. It was disturbing to Braddock that he couldn’t see their endgame, but he clearly wasn’t the only one who saw that this was leading nowhere good.

Edge of Territorial Bounds, Solar Cooperative Union, Beta Quadrant, Milky Way
ARS Celestine, Flagship of the 58th Exploration and Patrol Group, Orbit
“Admiral, we have a problem. We’ve received a challenge from Solarian traffic control.”

“So... reply with our LOTUS codes and proceed. There shouldn’t be a problem here.”

“I did that, ma’am. They’ve denied us permission to enter their space.”

“They’ve done... what?”

“Just now. They’ve stated that our access codes are no longer valid and that they will not allow Alexzonyan ships to enter Solarian space. They said, specifically, that if we proceed to Luston we will be fired upon by the local defense forces upon our arrival.”

There’s a dangerous moment of pause.

“Identify an uninhabited system and drop us out of FTL. Report this to Command and to the 39th, and we’ll await further instructions.” She pauses. “See if you can get Aumanii or Dornalian forces on the horn. The Numerigans too.”

The 58th EPG drops out of FTL, indeed, in a tiny and inhospitable system; a red dwarf, orbited by 3 rock ball planets and what passed for an asteroid belt. Setting an orbit near the starward edge of the belt, the 58th waits for further instructions. Meanwhile, communications go out, first to the GRA forces and then, via relay, to Numeriga, Dornalia, and Auman, with a situation update.

With updates coming in, and nothing good on the horizon, the Starfleet Command directs two additional EPGs operating in Beta to break off their patrols and jump for the 58th’s position. These forces, together with the 58th and the 39th, will constitute Task Group Arbalest. Of course, at this point the formation is largely theoretically; the 3rd and 87th EPGs were several days away at normal cruising speed, which they needed to maintain given resupply was uncertain. The 39th, meanwhile, was pinned in the middle of what was rapidly looking to be hostile territory.

Task Group Arbalest Order of Battle

• 3rd Exploration and Patrol Group
• 39th Exploration and Patrol Group (Command Formation) (Flagship: Peerless)
  Attached: 4th Marine Expeditionary Force and associated Auxiliaries
• 58th Exploration and Patrol Group
• 87th Exploration and Patrol Group