Mission 18 - Beginning of the End - Part 2

  TA419 - 21/04,

  Orbit of Planet Bhaile, TSU Defence Platform 1, Fleet Command Centre.

  Grand Admiral Columbae stood proud on the topmost shelf of Defence Platform 1’s command centre. The room was like a reverse lecture hall all in black; the Admiral at the top, banks of computers on each layer down, a hub for the one thousand ships defending this place.

  The Defence Platforms were the largest weapons TSU had ever built, bigger than any warship, even the dreadnaughts of the last war by some distance - made of two intersecting ‘tubes’ to give the effect of a cross - the main tube had a cannon running through its entire length (the biggest ‘firearm’ in history) capable with a direct hit of even sinking a Nation-Satellite in one blow. Two lightly spinning blocks were on either side; these housed supplies and thousands of people - Admin staff, marines, meeting rooms and sub-strategy centres - a population comparable to a small town. This command centre, however, was located on the main tube, above the cannon, at the very heart of the platform. Armour-wise, they did not lack either, on par with any battleship, unless you made your way inside, rigged a few bombs and forced the generators into overload - that was what Remembrance had achieved twice already.

  Columbae would have liked to assert it would never happen here, not now that he’d increased the fleet guarding the place to one thousand ships, doubled the platform's soldier presence, and had only his beleaguered personal assistant screen all deliveries and dockets in and out.

  But that wasn’t their plan this time. This time, a meteorite of all things was coming for the old Admiral. He could do nothing but hold firm as the ultimate bait and hope the Curadh succeeded. But he was far from idle waiting.

  Remembrance had arrived. First, a battalion to their left and right flanks each, attacking the outermost ranks of warships and mech defenders. They’d used the absurd Goibhnui armour of their Casnels and large specially made assault shields combined with an insane charge to close the distance and plunge into the defending mecha.

  The left flank he’d moved Elton to stop quite successfully, but the right flank had fallen into abject chaos. A second Chevalier, 003, and its forces were running riot. Seldom stopping still, they simply flew at mechs and ships, unloading bursts of rifle fire before zooming off in another direction. The right flank had predictably been forced to compress backwards, desperate to fight back without causing friendly fire. While this was happening, the main Remembrance fleet had arrived.

  Columbae felt there was a nobility to their approach. Below was not an option, given the planet was down there, but above or behind were just as viable approaches in space - one reason to come from the front like this was the atmosphere. Both the Platform, its fleet and now Agitate’s were in Bhaile's orbit, which made targeting more complicated, thanks to the blue planet’s gravity below them; this would mess with the Remembrance ships just as much, of course, but they weren’t here to win with conventional firepower.

  Moreover, mechs could be pushed into it; perhaps the enemy planned to knock out the odd pilot rather than going for kills, leaving them to float downwards where gravity would deal the killing blow. Finally, it had also allowed the Remembrance ships to get very close. Generally, while mechs had limited range, warship battles could last hours, even days, without ever coming within sight of each other except on a computer readout. Remembrance had used the curvature of the planet below to effectively come within mech range right from the get-go, something that would have been impossible if Platforms 2 and 3 still stood vigil.

  Those were possible reasons, but Columbae doubted them as only secondary. They were probably doing this because they wanted to; because they had suffered enough ignoble battles and desired nothing more than one last honourable encounter. Whether civilian killers deserved such a thing was questionable, but as a fellow soldier, Columbae felt a genuine pity for the warriors arrayed before him. Still, that pity did nothing to slow the Agaitate fleet. At its fore, the mighty dreadnought, last of its kind Columbae was confident, ‘His Majesty’s Axe’.

  He had no doubt standing on its bridge would be Agatate, staring out at the Platform and the massive thousand-ship swarm surrounding it.

  One hundred and thirty-four ships. It had nearly taken Columbae’s breath away when that number had come in. Given the Magi Cabal’s escort and whatever the enemy was holding in reserve, that was a staggering number of warships for a rebel force isolated on one barely habitable sub-continent. Even so, that meant he had a ten-to-one advantage. It really would all come down to the meteorite shower.

  “Grand Admiral, primary armament online. Firing path confirmed by the sub-room, Sir,” an officer on the nearest step called, “Also Sir, the enemy fleet has begun launching mechs. The third Chevalier has been sighted.”

  Columbae nodded, though he said nothing about the second part; all three Chevaliers were here, he couldn’t allow the concern that gave him to show. The cannon they’d have to aim carefully, given they didn’t want to hit their own ships, but for once, the Defence Platform would get to shine as his trump card, “Fire at will.”

  He stared at the back wall. Although the command centre had no natural windows, the full-length monitors gave a very convincing illusion.

  The floor literally rumbled. The barrel tip on the screen glowered brightly, a heavenly golden light. A path had opened in the dozens of TSU ships on screen, at its end lay the approaching Remembrance fleet: the manta-ray shape of the dreadnought, the slopping triangular cruisers and a dozen more cobbled-together classes of warship. The cannon fired.

  The light could have been god's own. The black vastness of space was simply cleaved in half by that bulging, gyrating, pulsing road of golden light. The Remembrance ships scattered but not fast enough. Two went up in explosive destruction.

  “Ready next shot,” the Grand Admiral instructed grimly. On some deep level, he knew this was unfair. This wouldn’t bring any kind of peace. Perhaps it was better than taking the Abhailen public hostage, but it was still going to be a massacre. Even with the three Cheavliers that so evidently counted for more than a single fighter, it was ten on one; they were putting their everything on the line for a chance. Lord Columbae supposed should the Curadh fail, so was he.

  It was going to be an incredibly long few hours.

  TA419 - 21/04,

  Far Side of Planet Abhaile.

  Moncha narrowly blocked a slash from the not-Chevalier's rapier with his arc staff. Despite the enemy's eccentric invitation to battle, this 'duel' with the strange ace was proving to be quite an intense one. The enemy had no 'human' martial arts to speak of when compared to the other Chevaliers they'd encountered over the last few months, but his Vijiak Martial Arts mastery was impressive. He knew exactly how to move his blade through space for the maximum impact, how to throw in thrust-boosted kicks here and swipes there.

  Of course, Moncha was no pushover either; thus far, neither had landed any severe blows, but that was of its own concern. Right now, the Cabal could be moving the path of meteorites. Every second he wasted locked in combat with this bincase (albeit a very good pilot, bincase) was a possible rock hurtling towards the home fleet. He felt somewhat bad about it, but Moncha would have to disgrace this enemy for the sake of saving time.

  "Ha, Ha, Huaw," the enemy nattered over the line. He was oddly talkative for someone of such skill, "Bow before my skill. Stand in awe of my prowess," the young voice shouted. Moncha frowned, suddenly feeling a little less bad about disgracing this guy.

  As he blocked another well-placed rapier slash, he took stock of his surroundings. The ships on both sides were in a bizarre state of set dressing. Mech-wise, his forces were keeping the fortress in a fierce stalemate, which was fine. The question then, which of these ships housed the Cabal? He could just randomly go around blowing them all up, but he doubted his 'friend' here would make that pleasant. He needed to focus, drown out the noise of the third-ranked, put the Fortress out of his mind with trust in his comrades to handle it.

  Stolen story; please report.

  The enemy’s carriership was the most modern vessel, but it was too obvious a choice. Besides, it was a pure carrier that lacked much firepower. The heavy cruiser, then, with its quality armour? That was far too shallow a deduction; he didn't like it but Moncha realised he'd have to try that.

  "Hey kid," Moncha spoke for the first time since their 'duel' began, "Skill is worthless if you're a moron."

  "Excuse me?!" the young man shrieked. The result was as predictable as he’d hoped; the not-Chevalier came in with a brutal slash of its rapier.

  Moncha slid in close with a minute boost of thrusters and slammed his arc staff down hard diagonally into the rapier, "That ain't a blade for swinging around, jackass." The delicate rapier shattered brilliantly. Moncha didn't let up for a second. With his machine’s free hand, he quite literally sucker-punched the not-Chevalier in the face before firing off a quick burst of point-blank chain gun fire.

  A choked "Bwah?!" sound echoed across the line, but Moncha ignored it. He'd already set his mech to fly away while the enemy was floundering to regain control.

  Moncha shut off the radio and anything else he could to reduce noise, and then he focused. Steadying his breathing, he dug deep, eyes closed, focusing on that lungful sensation, in and out, almost like mediation.

  He was no Magi himself, or at least he was unaware of any such convenient powers, but he could sense them. Back at Defence Platform 2, the one to nearly kill Chas, Kiyo Kigen, had raised his hackles. The boy behind him and the Fortress's pilots were much fainter, probably just sensitives like himself, lesser Magi powers at most.

  He had to search for more than that. One of these ships had to contain a whole group of true Magi, 'which one?'

  Moncha wasn’t conceited enough to imagine a physic power would develop within him at this optimal moment, but Donald Moncha was a hopeful man. Despite the horrors of war he’d paid witness too, he still, on some level, believed in people. In himself, most of all.

  He didn’t know that much about Magi, really, or Goibhnui for that matter. He was not the sort of man likely to praise the metal as the blood of god, nor to uncover any deep conspiracies about why the Magi existed. But he was the sort of man who could believe, believe that if a few dozen ‘wizards, witches or whatever’ were practising some massive, world altering power right here and now within reach, that he could find them.

  "There!" the Commander roared, eyes shooting open. It was the damn heavy cruiser, after all.

  He rushed in a beeline to it, but that mediation had cost him time; the not-Chevalier all but tackled his mech. The two machines tumbled in space for a few moments before bouncing dully off the green-painted metal - off the side of the crusier.

  "I have you now, cur," the third-ranked growled rather sinisterly over the physical link.

  Moncha hadn't been able to draw a weapon. His staff was lost in the impact. The enemy was holding one of his arms; its other pointed a rifle right at his cockpit. Its robotic face was a mess from the sucker punch - that almost made Moncha grin.

  The rifle glowed. The idiot had set it to max output; at this range, it really might break through his armour.

  Moncha dragged his controls. The G-type spun as only its left-hand thrusters fired up. The third-ranked didn't have time to pull back. The rifle fired right into the underside of the cruiser as the G-type slipped out of its reach.

  Now Moncha really did grin as the cruiser rocked to one side, as the ludacris power of a max output Casnel blast cut through the warship's decks. The TSU ace drew another arc staff in one hand to deflect the third-ranked’s no doubt impending next attempt while taking his own rifle in the other. He didn’t know where the meteorite shower would be by now; perhaps it hadn’t entered the solar system yet, or maybe it had long passed, and he’d failed. As was often the case, Moncha just had to have hope they’d been in time. He pulled the trigger twice, three times, four, and a fifth. Each blast slammed into the cruiser, and it began to list.

  ‘Not long now, hold down the fort for me, Chas-kiddo. I’ll be there in no time.’

  TA419 - 21/04,

  Orbit of Bhaile, Remembrance Reserve Force, Bridge of Battleship ‘Endurance’.

  Rear Admiral ‘Dave’ David Yoist was a humble man. When people spoke of the ‘Great Abhailen Admirals’, they never, ever, meant him, nor would he begrudge them it. That once great faction had used a tech advantage and patriotic vigour to terrorise TSU for two long years before the Union could catch up. They had been tenacious and cunning. Fearless and inspiring. Dave would be right there with everyone else who thought Admiral Agitate was the last of those Admirals. He also wouldn’t dare to suggest he outranked Kiyo Kigen. Technically, he did, but that was a formality, an oversight.

  Dave wasn’t a coward or incompetent by any means; he had survived where most everyone else of his ilk had not, but that was largely thanks to his lack of ambition. Reserve forces, rear guards, and home defence fleets; he had served those roles well and never felt any particular need to seek the glory of the front line.

  And so David stood at the command railing on the bridge of the sole capitol ship not either partaking in the final battle or guarding the Magi cabal, in all his bland glory. Somewhere around forty with rather unassuming features, one would struggle to describe the man as anything but ‘normal-looking’. Less than thirty ships in all, made up the ‘spare’ force. Of these, eight were the other side of the planet under Seth Sturman’s command guarding the Magi. Another eight had gone on either side of the TSU home fleet to deploy the elite battalions of Sesha and Scarlet; those eight would be returning here soon.

  Technically, if something were to happen to both the Admiral and Kigen, Dave was the default ‘steward’ of Remembrance until another leader could rise. In this backup capacity, he would wait here with his small fleet, send in reinforcements whenever he could and, if necessary, direct rescue & retreat operations should Admiral Agitates’s decoy plan go astray.

  He was rather hoping these things wouldn’t occur, mind you.

  He had a good view of the battle unfolding battle from here. The two ace battalions had moved in from the left and right flanks, starting a violent melee that had pushed TSU’s outer lines inward. This created a screen that stopped the rear lines of warships from shooting upon the Remembrance fleet as easily.

  The plan was sort of working, but the right flank had stopped somewhat short, blocked, by an enemy battalion of similar strength. Sesha’s troops at least kept pushing in, but Scarlet’s were effectively blocked. That was not good; if the battalions stopped moving, they would be facing hundreds of enemies before long. The idea was to get in close, seed chaos, and then break out again to join up with Agatite’s ships and trade out with Kigen’s battalions. Not that Dave could do anything much to aid Scarlet’s group but to watch. No one had contacted him to do anything about it either, meaning it was either within Agitates’s expected range of outcomes, or he simply felt there was nothing the rear-admiral could do to help. Dave was a very humble man, but even he longed to be of slightly more use right now.

  “Admiral, Sir, there is a mech approaching us,” one of the bridge officers called.

  Dave smiled a soft smile, “On whose side would that be?”

  “O-oh right, sorry, Sir. Ummm, it has no ID, and doesn’t match anything in the database, I don’t think, but it's hailing us.”

  Dave strode over leisurely, laying a hand warmly on the officer's shoulder and looking to the screen, “Let's say hello then, shall we.”

  What popped on the screen meant nothing to the officer or any other curious enough to sneak a glance around the bridge, but it left David Yoist genuinely speechless for a moment. And then, subconsciously, his mouth curved into a borderline sinister grin.

  “Ioudas, it’s good to see you. Tales of your demise were greatly exaggerated, I see.”

  Six years ago, Dave had met this man several times at senior officer meetings. Back then, the man’s hair wasn’t silvery white; his eyes weren’t blood red either. But his noble face, his massive shoulders and height, those all remained.

  “He- he… he can’t talk,” a hacking voice coughed. Dave blinked. He couldn’t see the person, but they must have also been in the cockpit, cramped behind the pilot's chair, maybe. The voice seemed familiar, if slightly more vague than the man on screen. “Chief Mechanic Gros? Are there many more of you in there?”

  The croaking voice sounded again, “No, they died. They experimented on him, that's why his voice is gone I think, tis why he got such a weird makeover. They tried to use him as a weapon…” a pause, the voice took on a pleased darkness, “he feigned brainwashing then killed them all.”

  The officer at the station still looked utterly confused, and so was Dave, to be fair. He had no idea why two ghosts of the past were here. Gro’s explanation was light at best, but that could wait.

  “Can you fight?” he asked simply. The silent giant on-screen nodded.

  “Would you like to do so?” Dave continued. The solemn figure thumped a hand to his chest in salute.

  “Very well,” Dave grinned wildly, “Come aboard, treat this as your base. Your mechanic there will get every comfort I can give him, and I’ll get you as much fuel and ammo as you could ever need! Your timing is quite fortuitous if I say so myself. You’ll not find yourself bored today, ‘dead’ ace.”