Mission 9 - A Warrior’s Dedication - Part 1

  19:20

  TA419 - 01/04,

  TSU Defence Platform 2.

  Mike Smidth was not a 'good guy' by most standards, least of all his own. His Xs would attest to that. He also wasn't a bad guy, certainly not in his book anyway. He mostly paid his taxes on time, had committed no crimes worse than the odd bar brawl and even kept his smoking to a moderate amount.

  What he was, was a damn good pilot, A+ no less. It all happened by chance. Tired from a gruelling jog, he and his comrades had seen the flyboy cadets (the fact they had ordinary marine and pilot training on the same base, chance all onto itself); he'd only on a whim convinced them to let him try the simulator. They'd laughed when he'd set it to the max settings but that had only encouraged him. Before long, the tension rose; the flyboys started to cheer along with every other cadet who happened to pass, and finally, it had ended in a perfect score.

  He'd brushed the compliments and cheers off; just an arcade game with a few extra buttons and levers, he said, but the one officer in the crowd had thought otherwise. He'd been transferred, passed with flying colours and just months after the war ended, dubbed A+ rank, the very best of the best. Sure, a handful of supernatural freaks were so good they stood outside the grades entirely, but their rarity made them hardly worth mentioning. No, in an organisation that needed faces of heroes for post-war morale, he'd gotten to live the highlife as a pilot.

  Mike spat the butt of a cigarette out, his grizzled face a fixed scowl, his large hands checking the ammo on his rifle for the umpteenth time. Piercing magenta eyes looked out across the corridor. A few boxes and whatever weapons the armourer would hand them, plus his men, were all that blocked this artery of the base. Fifteen metres out, the bulkhead door was glowing as someone behind it continued to burn their way through.

  His days as a pilot had ended up short-lived. He didn't have the temperament or discipline to be an officer, nor the face of a hero for anything. Sleeping with a few people who turned out to be the sons and daughters of high brass hadn't helped either.

  Eventually, he found himself exactly where he'd been aiming for in the first place. In the occupation, his parents and career counsellor had begrudgingly accepted on the career forum - 'States Union Marine Core: Staff Seargent' - just one of the hundreds of marines guarding Defence Platform 2 when a few minutes ago a cargo ship had unloaded a few dozen Remembrance boarders and a single Chevalier class Casnel right inside of the Platform.

  'Heh, what a life,' he mused. How the container had gotten the codes and documents needed to approach the station didn’t even factor into his mind; the enemy was here, and it was up to him and his boys to defend against them. Simple as that.

  He had no bad feelings about it all; he'd tasted a little fame and quite a lot of fortune, then returned to his place in life. Now, he supposed, he would die with his squad to slow the advance of this surprise force - 'Could be worse'.

  They'd been briefed on the enemy, likely weapons, and probable tactics. The rumours had been even more informative, tidbits like how Platform 3 had already fallen and was being covered up. It seemed their platform was next.

  "Come in, Staff Seargent Smidth," a female voice spoke directly into his ear through a rugged helmet comm line.

  "I read ya' ma'am. Squad twelve is holding position; my feed should be streaming right to you."

  "Affirmative Sergeant. Your feed is not an issue. I have connected the rest of your squad. You are to leave immediately and head for hangar bay Alpha, where you will find a Casnel. Corporal Jenkins will take over command."

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  Mike was genuinely speechless for once in his life, "Excuse me?"

  A little light changed in his perferial vision, indicating he was now talking just to the woman. He didn't like that; that worried him greatly, "That position will be lost in six minutes. Your death here will serve no purpose. The Casnel is without a pilot."

  "Now you listen here, lady, I won't--"

  "Do not say 'die', Sergeant. It lowers your troop's survival time to an expected four minutes."

  Mike lowered his voice to a husky growl, only partly to follow her order, mostly out of anger; "Then why just me?"

  "Should your whole unit retreat, you will all be gunned down long before you reach the hangar."

  "I'm not leaving them," Mike said firmly.

  "Then they will die for nothing. You must have guessed that position was always nothing more than a delay. The enemy was always going to get deeper into the station. If you go, you can use the Casnel to drive back Remembrance and save a great many lives. Are your men not worth that Sergeant?"

  "Screw you bitc–" Mike barked, but before he could shout any more expletives - at the voice he was beginning to suspect might well be the Platform’s rear admiral - the door in front finally fell forward with a dull metal clatter. A faint spray of dust quickly cleared, a couple of dozen invaders dressed from head to toe in black battle armour stormed through the breech. Both sides let loose a moment later.

  ****

  19:21

  TA419 - 01/04,

  Orbit TSU Defence Platform 2.

  It had been a whirlwind day for the Curadh, sent in one direction and then hoisted back in the other. The rogue unit and its escorts now found themselves approaching Defence Platform 2. A few minutes ago, things had gotten even more hectic, an emergency transmission from the Platform. There’d been no time to waste after that. Synapse had given the order, and the Curadh’s four mechs now rapidly crossed the sky towards the massive space station.

  “I don’t see any attack,” Gemon mused over the comms.

  “It’s inside. One of the Chevaliers, it's already blown multiple holes through the Platform’s internals. There nearly two-hundred ships in orbit here, but every vijaik squad that goes inside to stop it gets their ass kicked,” Moncha, who’d been the only one briefed, explained.

  Chas stared out at the approaching scene. Dozens of grey States Union ships of all shapes and sizes hung in the sky, but the Platform itself was larger than any of them at their centre. A long barrel ran directly through its centre, with smaller wings on either side to create a sort of cross shape. It reminded Chas somewhat of how Vandis production site two had once looked. Of course, instead of the moon, all this hung above the mother planet, Bhaile. The massive blue orb was all you could see if you looked ‘down’. Once they were done tidying this up, Chas felt inclined to give this incredible view a proper moment.

  The thought of any real trouble barely grazed the youth's mind. They’d been countering these raids day after day, with two Casnels and the Curadh; they always won. Defence Platform 3 had only sunk because they hadn’t been there, simply as that.

  “Eh? Repeat that,” Moncha said, though clearly he hadn’t been talking to his team. After a few silent moments, “Alright, fine, roger. You three, they want me to take field command. Apparently, having two hundred ships from different fleets altogether, only for an attack to come from inside, is confusing or something, I don’t know. More likely, they just want one Casnel up here as a spare. A Remembrance fleet is approaching, probably to pick up their Chevalier when this raid ends. Chas, that leaves you in charge, lad,” Moncha sounded rather conflicted about that. Chas presumed he just didn’t like being kept out of the fight, “But don’t be rash, we know the Chevaliers are an even match for our G-types, work together the three of you got it?”

  “We’ll watch out for him, boss, don’t worry about it,” Yazan said back, and Gemon grunted his approval to boot. Chas smiled; this would be fun. It was the first time he’d ever been allowed to engage the enemy without Moncha by his side, “Roger that, Sir, we got this.”