Mission 17 - The Magi Cabal - Part 2

  TA419 - 21/04,

  TSU Assault Carrier Curadh, Hangar Bay.

  Moncha had never thought much about parenthood. He was, for a start, unlikely to ever sire a child, being gay and that. Moreover, he considered his first love to soundly be combat. He had no particular shame in admitting he felt battlelust more keenly than most, got off on it a little even. Not that his second preference for members of the same sex was a significant issue. TSU were a lot of things, and not all of them good, but at least in the country he originated from, a homosexual couple could feasibly adopt.

  No, The Commander simply didn’t see himself that way. Maybe it was because he’d grown up without parents and was raised in a TSU-sponsored orphanage. Around age twelve, or maybe fourteen - it was a long time ago - he had gotten a funny little idea into his head that joining the Union military would be a ‘right and proper’ way to pay back those who’d funded his orphanage. At age sixteen, that minor niggle of an idea had become firm when a TSU fleet had sailed past their little seaside town.

  Moncha, even now, was unaware that his thoughts were common, as TSU planned such things. The orphanages were deliberately staffed by those positive towards the military, playing the children’s programs and supplying toys, likewise all commissioned by TSU. The driveby of that fleet had been no different, a preplanned bit of idea-seeding. The man carrying it out, however was different. Most TSU captains would do the bare minimum: Sail by in the distance. If some orphan urchin got inspired, so be it. Fred Synapse was not most TSU captains. He believed in doing things right. The fact there had been no major wars in the Third Age yet didn’t mean there wouldn’t be someday; how tragically right he was…

  The aircraft carrier had sailed right into port, much of its crew on deck saluting. Even a couple of the jets were on display in their pristine glory. Flying them would have been pushing things, but it was enough. The fact that the ship and aircraft were both ‘pristine’ due to lack of use and woefully outdated didn’t matter. The children, especially Moncha, were enamoured. Synapse, foremost of all, stood proud, a gleam in his eyes, a crisp white uniform with little gold flourishes - medals on his breast and a grin on his face even at a distance.

  Working his way up the military was no easy feat for Moncha. TSU sponsored the tuition for any orphan trying to join the navy or army but only for the most basic footsoldier level. But Moncha worked hard and, as it turned out, was good at it too. A few years later, he was granted the honour of being a standing fighter jet pilot. Year after year, he ranked higher and higher in sparring matches, the sole use those planes ever saw back then.

  He ‘found’ Synapse too. It wasn’t hard; the military had plenty of peppy propaganda about the man. That had felt a bit stalker-y to him, maybe, but he was a youth back then and had yet to discover adrenaline and battle lust, still firmly in the grasp of his burgeoning primary preference.

  He refused honours as a matter of course. He felt he hadn’t earned any. They hadn’t fought anyway, so why would he be awarded? He was here to repay his upbringing and, perhaps, the small dream, to stand by that man’s side. Ten years into his career, he was the best pilot in TSU that no one had ever heard of. A superior had taken him aside and insisted he take some sort of commendation, if only for the superior's reputation. He’d asked to join Captain Synapse's ship. The rest was history.

  All this was to say that Donald Moncha was pretty content in life. The Curadh was his home now, and he spent his days standing beside his inspiration. But, if, he had considered a kid, an heir or whatever - it would surely have to be the boy before him now.

  Chas, Gemon and Yazan stood at attention among the hustle of the U-shaped hangar bay. There was a buzz about that his squad had picked up on too - this was looking to be the final battle after all.

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  “Alright, lads, we’re gonna’ be splitting up. You two lug-heads with me, Chas, you’re gonna’ head for the Grand Admiral.”

  The trio exchanged looks, then saluted, “Roger that boss!” Moncha smirked; what an odd group affirmation.

  “Don’t you go getting all angry now,” Gemon elbowed Chas from the left.

  “Or overcomplicating’ simple things,” Yazan added from the right.

  The young man smiled brightly, nudging them right back, “Same to you guys! Don’t be too laidback, or you’ll start growing red flags.”

  Moncha smiled. They were a good little squad. He’d once thought Chas was a useless test pilot, but that view was soon dashed. The boy had become a light they could follow. He’d stumbled, no doubt. He’d sinned and would have to live with those memories for sure. But to Moncha, Chas had grown into a bright young man before his eyes these last couple of months, and he reckoned well that this pride in his chest probably wasn’t so different to a father’s love.

  “Good luck out there, boss-man,” Chas said with a smile, turning to Moncha.

  “Same to you lad. Meet ya on the other side of this whole mess”, Moncha grinned. “One last sortie, let’s finish this up, lads,” he smiled.

  The two Casnels took off in opposite directions, Chas’s with the long-distance booster Vanadis had gifted them, Moncha’s towards the glowing shield wall in space - a contrail line with the Curadh at its centre, stretching long across the sky. The G-types went their separate ways.

  Moncha took his eyes from the small monitor that pointed backwards and focused forward; the energy shield of the Fortress was fast approaching. If his mech couldn't pass through it, he'd go up, relying on the Casnel's speed to be faster than the Fortress could rise. The wall couldn't possibly be more than a kilometre high; what was that in space to a Casnel built for speed?

  Moncha needed have been so worried.

  Bracing himself to be repelled or damaged upon contact, Moncha rammed into the shield - and passed right on through, "The fuck?!"

  Coming to a harsh halt, the Commander spun around to check what had happened. Sure enough, he was on the wrong side of the wall. Looking out showed the rogue unit launching the rest of its mechs under his wingmen's command.

  Was the wall incapable of blocking physical matter? Did that make sense? But then Moncha's eye found it. The panel he'd passed through was gone. Just the one, the rest all still solid, and a moment later, the hole flared to life and filled back in, a dull orange shade of translucent energy.

  "It, let me pass?"

  "Hark," a voice called. To his shame, Moncha had been distracted and left his comm lines open. It was a poor mistake, given the audio attacks the enemy had used at Platform 2.

  Still, he was here now. Turning inwards, he gazed upon the eight Remembrance ships he was now sitting in front of. They weren't firing at him, which he found awfully strange. He flipped the return switch on the radio while keeping a wary hand on the kill switch should some sort of transmission force its way in. "Hark?"

  "I am Seth Sturman, third-ranked among the Five Great Aces of Remembrance. ‘The Mind Warper’. And I challenge you to a duel, TSU ace!"

  Moncha blinked, dumbfounded at both the style of speech and the preposterous offer. Did this guy not know they were at war? Heck, was he their leader? What sort of weirdo had he stumbled upon.

  "Is that why you let me in?"

  "Indeed, my comrade, the fourth-ranked will keep your allies occupied. A whole fleet is nothing to us! These other ships need be nought but our spectators as we duel to a glorious death."

  Moncha found himself genuinely speechless. A mech had come into view now; it looked like the Chevalier units but made on the cheap. It had a rapier-shaped Calabar Mk 2 blade but was holding it like a regular short sword.

  It was about two metres shorter than the actual units, too. It lacked a lot of the other knightly stylings of the prototype Chevaliers, a flat chest and helmet, and more rounded limbs. If Moncha had to guess, it was still a Casnel in terms of the amount of Gobhnui put into it, but it lacked the refinement of the other units.

  That was no reason to underestimate it, or even the lunatic inside, but Moncha was finding it hard not to crack up laughing. Even his mech was floating with something of a slouch.

  The commander rubbed his head, "I mean, sure thing, bud?"

  "Excellent! En garde," the third-ranked declared.