Mission 9 - A Warrior's Dedication - Part 2

  19:23

  TA419 - 01/04,

  TSU Defence Platform 2.

  “Sarge, get out of here!” Corporal Jenkins’s young voice roared over the oppressive din of gunfire. The corridor was a total mess. Parts of the rough barricade blown to bits, and two of Mike’s men already lay sprawled out, dead. The enemy had taken a couple of flesh wounds at most as they continued advancing down the short distance, armoured shields in front, assault rifles in between the gaps, a walking fortress. His men, the marine core of TSU in general, were by no means poorly trained or lacking in spirit. But the Remembrance infiltrators were simply on another level. Not only had they spent five years training to do this one specific type of mission, but they had been doing these raids day after day, getting more field experience than any conventional defence force could hope to match.

  “Now’s not the time for stupid talk!” Mike roared back before tossing a grenade over his metal box defence. The Corporal gave him a sympathetic look. So, too did everyone else in earshot.

  “We’re not gonna make it, are we, Sarge,” Jenkins said, his youthful features and the moppy brown hair beneath his domed helmet smeared already in the blood of a fallen subordinate.

  “Not if you keep talking like that,” the Sergeant scowled, rearing up and letting off two quick bursts of his rifle to no avail.

  “Come on, Sir, make it count,” Jenkins replied, quieter now, barely audible over the gunfire.

  “He’s right, gaffer,” a private to their left smiled

  “Give ‘em hell for all us grunts!” another cheered.

  “I- I can’t just leave you…”

  “Course ya can, Sir, if it means making all this worth somethi–” Jenkins began when a bullet burst through his part of the barricade and out through his neck. His eyes immediately lost focus. He crumpled forward into Mike’s arm.

  “JENKINS!” he roared.

  A few dreadfully long seconds passed as Mike held the dead man. Surrounded by gunfire, the enemy was almost upon them.

  “Alright then, screw this.”

  ****

  19:23

  TA419 - 01/04,

  Orbit TSU Defence Platform 2.

  Chas’s G-type and the two angular Vijiak Speicals of Yazan and Gemon quickly made their way through friendly TSU ships and mechs. Those forces were reorganising, readying to fight the approaching Remembrance ships. It was up to Chas and co to route out the enemy inside the base.

  They landed near the cross shape’s centre point; to their far left, the smooth metal surface bumped out into a mouth of sorts, the same to the far right - the Platform’s two hangar bays.

  “Let’s try bay Beta first,” Chas said into the radio. Based on what they’d heard on the way here, that was the one the enemy had entered through. The two wingmen offered no objects.

  Just then, the outcrop in front of them, beta-bay, exploded.

  Metal sheets jettisoned out in all directions before their momentum died, and they floated softly in space; at their centre stood the perpetrator, tossing aside a spent rifle and beginning to stride out onto the Platform’s outer surface towards Chas’s team.

  A Chevalier type Casnel. Its armour modified: a curved helmet sat on its head, no shield, instead interlaced shoulder armour. The torso looked a little slimmer than when Chas had been a test pilot; on it was some foreign character he couldn’t read. A long curving sword lay scabbarded at its side, and on its shoulder was the number 001.

  Chas supposed the enemy could have changed the numbering of the stolen prototypes, but he doubted it. No, maybe more so that he could feel it. This was the mech he had once test-piloted. This was his unit 001.

  "Woah there, lad," Ensign Gemon said over the close-range comms.

  Chas blushed. He'd unconsciously had his mech step forward, totally ignoring Moncha's order to engage the enemy as a team.

  "Ah, sorry, my bad. What formation are you thinking?"

  Before the wingmen could answer, all three found their comms boards flashing, "An open channel?" Yazan mused.

  "I'll answer it, you guys listen in. That sound good?" The ensign duo agreed. Chas flipped the dial.

  "Greetings, TSU pilots," a stern, commanding, but calm voice sounded out.

  Chas blinked. He knew that voice; he'd heard it back when all this had started. It was that voice. For just a moment, he was back on the moon: On the cross-shaped Vanadis compound roof. Moncha dragging him by the arm as a bomb exploded and reduced everything he’d held dear to ash, as this very man’s voice spoke.

  "S-state your name and intention," he replied, surprising himself at his timidity.

  "So the Casnel giving us so much trouble has a young pilot, does it? I am the Bane of Konpei, leader of Remembrance."

  It happened in an instant. Chas's head swirled, his throat heaved, the scar on his cheek ached. The moon was gone, replaced with the image of Mercy with his head blown open and the marine with the torn apart neck, both hit by a Remembrance bullet each, flashed through his mind. The site of Dunlop, the nameless soldier and his best friend Philipe, blown to pieces by the RPG. Chas’s cheek throbbed. This was the same man. The man who'd caused it all.

  On his monitor, the Chevalier drew its sword, a long curved Calibar mk2, a ‘Katana’.

  Taking it in both hands, feet planted like a human rather than a lumbering mecha, the machine swiped its blade through the air as though practising a drill, "Hiyah!" the enemy voice sounded, but it wasn't alone.

  As though the sword cutting through the air had deployed a shockwave, that shout of battle transmitted into the cockpit of the trio at incredible volume. It rebounded and looped; its pitch shifted constantly, and it wailed into the pilot's ears, "SCrReReErRRReEEeeeRrEReReeerRR."

  "My ears!" Gemon yelled, and Chas understood why. Between his nauseating memories and the constant sound attack, he could do nothing but clasp his hands over his head, shuddering in waves of pain; the young ace rocked back and forth like a child.

  "The open channel, bastard hacked us!" Yazan growled through bared teeth, but neither of his comrades could hear him any longer.

  "Not the most honourable method I appreciate," the calm voice of the enemy said, only barely registering beneath the echoing noise, "but when have TSU ever treated us honourably? Though it may break my pride as a warrior to do this, it is the pride and honour of my people I fight, and for that, I must shame you with this least honourable of deaths!"

  The Chevalier began to stride forward, rapidly covering the short distance, sword at the ready. Chas couldn't move. He wanted to vomit, and scream, and cry all at once. The images of his dead friends, the endless screeching sound rebounding over and over and over.

  For the second time in his life, Chas Collins thought to himself, ‘I'm about to die.’

  ****

  19:24

  TA419 - 01/04,

  TSU Defence Platform 2, Hangarbay Alpha.

  A mad dash led Mike to the hangar. One filled with the screams of his last men falling. Of the enemy gunshot tracing all around him. He wasted no time climbing into the white mech that awaited him, key already in the ignition, a small group of mechanics covering him from behind their own even more hastily prepared barricade that doubtless wouldn’t last long.

  Mike slowly felt around the controls, getting used to them and moving his machine out of hanger Alpha. 'His machine' was selling it a bit; it was his first time inside. He wasn't a pilot any longer, and he was glad of that. The demotion had been a relief. What did A+ rank matter when flying one of these things was a death wish, in his opinion.

  He briefly considered turning and shoving the mech’s rifle into the corridor he’d come by, to eviscerate the attackers - but that small revenge would no doubt kill the mechanics, too.

  Still, he couldn't help but admire this machine now he was inside. Exceptionally clean buttons and dials, crisp monitor images, and a plush chair - it blew any fighter he'd sat in before out of the water. It had a good two metres from round wall to wall, plenty of room to swing the controls and stretch your legs. If any machine was refined enough to allow his out-of-practice self to thrive, it was this Casnel.

  His radio was buzzing; some commander was ordering all those in range of a 'Chevalier' to disable communication owing to some cyber attack. Mike didn't need telling twice. He hit the dead switch, killing all communications inward.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  For a moment, that struck him. Isolated, utterly disconnected from any sound in the entire universe.

  He decided not to dwell on it long, for things other than sound would probably not leave him so lonely. On queue, he noticed one such intrusion just outside the hangar’s gaping doorway.

  A ‘knight’ of some sort, twenty metres tall, with a horned helmet, overlapping shoulder pads, and a long curved sword, was bearing down rapidly on three fallen machines, one of which looked a lot like his own. Mike was seldom one to overthink or talk much in battle; quickly finding the trigger, he raised the Casnel’s hand with the in-built minigun and fired a slew of tiny lightning bolts at the enemy. The weapon had proven weak at range, its impact not even scaring the Chevalier's armour, but it did garner him its attention.

  It turned cautiously to face him.

  Mike took a deep breath, lowered the minigun, and instead drew the long sword from his mech’s waist, slowly walking his machine out onto the Platform’s surface. He loved close-quarters fighting; it gave him an exhilarating buzz - his combat lust had been one of the demotions causes. He wasn't traditionally trained more than any other soldier; he simply had a knack for it, enjoyed it - and he had a feeling the knight before him wouldn't turn down the challenge.

  As suspected, it took a stance. Its long, pointed legs close together, its sword low and outstretched. Mike followed suit, jogging his machine lightly out into the open and then spreading his Casnel's legs more broadly, holding the blade with both hands.

  The distance between them was already fairly small. The two machines began to shuffle, circling one another until Mike found himself with his back to his unnamed comrades.

  "Alrighty then," he said, licking his lips. And then he simply charged.

  The magnetic soles of his mech’s feet bounded over the Platform's metal below. One stride, two, three - the Calibar sword came down high, aiming right for the Chevalier’s chest.

  'Will you block or--' the enemy pivoted gracefully, twisting to one side to completely sidestep Mike.

  The Sergeant threw his control into a two-second forward dash, thruster flared. The mid-pivot Chevalier used the momentum of the turn to slash, cleaving through the air.

  Mike had boosted with nary a second to spare; the curved sword scraped across the G-Type’s exposed back.

  Mike manhandled the Casnel’s controls with a wild look in his eyes, almost instantly coming out of its short dash. He twisted the machine’s hips and kicked out one foot to dig into the Platform's metal surface as a physical break. It was an imperfect manoeuvre between the unfamiliar controls and the smooth surface beneath, but the mech soon ground to a halting stop in a shower of friction sparks.

  A gap of some fifteen metres had opened between them.

  Now crouched, one hand on the ground, the other still holding his long sword, Mike evaluated his enemy. The Chevalier had retaken its stance, legs tight, sword held low, at the ready for any kind of attack.

  "Pah, how about this then!" deciding to make use of their height difference, Mike charged in low this time, keeping his machine stooped. Both hands on his blade, held at stomach level, his aim to stab upwards.

  He expected another sidestep. His enemy had other ideas.

  "The fucker!"

  The Chevalier disappeared off Mike’s screen. That is to say, it jumped. Making full use of zero-G, the Chevalier twisted a complete revolution through the space above, its body turning in mid-air as nimbly as any dancer.

  Landing, it immediately went for a horizontal slash. Mike had bare moments to come out of his charge and turn around. Too slow.

  The blade cut a sparkling gouge through his chest.

  Mike’s entire cockpit shook violently as a terrible screeching rattled throughout the mech.

  Literally dragging the control handles back, he forced the mech to take one step back out of range. The Chevalier was far from done. An initial cut added, it reared back its sword so that the hilt was at eye level. One leg shot out, and a sword strike snaked forth to finish him.

  The G-type, in turn, raised its great sword. Two blades locked together.

  "SCReweWERCRErEcEErETeRR"

  "Son of a bitch!" Mike roared as the terrible noise filled his cockpit. Thinking on his feet, he'd blocked the finishing blow but at a cost, "The radios were just one method of transmission, it’s the fucking sword itself that makes the noise!" he shouted, as much to keep himself thinking as anything else.

  He pulled his blade back and set his machine to leap back again. The sword lock broke, the curved sword clattered against his armour again as his mech stumbled backwards. The sound was gone with the breaking of the contact link, but Mike knew, even without all his computers and alarms telling him, his cockpit would be breached if that thing hit him a third time.

  He raised the minigun more on instinct than anything else. The three little barrels flared to life as they spun, firing off a slew of small energy bursts. At this range, even the Chevalier was forced to step back wearily. Crouching low, it stood to one side, shoulder-mounted shield covering its profile and taking the small flurry.

  Mike's breathing had grown ragged. The exertion of an unfamiliar machine was one thing, but the stress was also mounting.

  "Shit man, am I gonn'a die?" he muttered grimly.

  The minigun was beginning to run low. A Casnel's generator could run for days true enough, but the components of the weapon, even with the cooling of the vacuum of space, could only keep firing continuously for so long. Goibhnui was prioritised in a mech’s most vital spots, the generator for that absurd output of firepower and speed, the armour as much as possible to dissipate incoming energy blasts and for its sheer defensive strength. Weapons were simply too disposable; a Casnel would generally just use a standard rifle until its internals melted and then toss it. Some blades made use of it; both Mike’s greatsword and the enemy’s katana, he guessed, must have Goibhnui spines - but based on the graphs, his mech was blaring at him, his minigun did not.

  It was two nill he knew all too well. One more blow like that, and he was out of the running, while the Chevalier had nothing more than some pockmarks forming on its shield from the minigun.

  "Who even is this guy?! I mean, I thought I was good up close, but him! His footwork, speed, fluidity - and what's with the curvy sword-stick, eh?"

  Sweat dripped down Mike's forehead. He wiped his free hand on his uniform to keep it from getting slippy, his other still glued to the trigger. He realised then he was facing something out of history, one of those lone knights who could take to a battlefield with nothing but a sword and change everything. Could he beat something like that? He whose life had been left to the ebbs and flows of chance versus someone honed in pure skill?

  “The gun, just maybe?" the Sergeant mused. He hadn't drawn the actual rifle at his waist, but if he timed it right, set the thing to fire with an output so high it would melt right after.

  "Ya, ya, that could work - who brings a knife to a gunfight anyway!"

  The G-Type's hand immediately fell to its waist to grab the gun. At the exact moment, the Chevalier sprang. Covering the distance in two broad steps, allowing the pelting of the minigun to cut small scars in its pristine Goibhnui armour, sword hilt once more at eye level.

  Mike could imagine the battle cry the warrior within must be yelling. The minigun stopped firing as it hit its limit. The rifle barrel glowed as Mike depressed the trigger.

  Gun or sword, which was faster? The answer was surely obvious.

  Perhaps Mike hadn’t been too far off the truth in his thought of history books, of master swordsmen standing on lonely battlefields.

  What if there was once an incredible family of swordmasters so good and renowned, that the rulers of the land gifted them a noble title for their service?

  What if that family ruled well, frugally perhaps, but respected and well-liked, even as bow and blade were left behind to history's flow?

  Say a family like that was told many of their subjects would be 'volunteered' for the mass migration project, 'asked' to be humanity's first colonisers of the planet Abhaile.

  Say that family, despite its best efforts, couldn't stop this outcome, and so, on its centuries-old honour, gave up title and land and prestige and joined its people to go to new lands.

  Now say, if you will, a descendant of that family, a master in the one thing they didn't leave behind - their ancient artistry - found an outlet where, like his ancestors long before him. A single man who could control the course of a whole battlefield? What would such a man, the blood of great warriors in his veins, the teachings of noble men in his hands and a machine of unparalleled strength at his control, be like?

  With a speed that belied belief, The Bane's machine ducked low, sword on its left side.

  Mike's rifle curved up and fired. The Chevalier swept its right foot forward, bending its left knee at a bristling pace. Its larger frame betrayed its intense speed, its stance swinging onto one knee, the sword slashing across the mech as it descended.

  The rifle came up, fired - and hit nothing but the Chevalier’s shoulder, where its chest would have been a moment earlier.

  “Well Shit!!" the foul-mouthed Sergeant roared for the last time.

  His twice slighted armour melted unceremoniously. His cockpit shook violently as the curved blade cut deeper and deeper until the walls breached, and Mike’s body turned to ash.

  ****

  The downward diagonal slash finished cutting through the G-Type. The almost bisected machine naturally floated back from the impact. As the Chevalier, as Kiyo Kigen, stood back up - some of its white surfaces blackened lightly by the close-range minigun spray - it swiped its sword once more, before returning it reverently to its sheaf.

  The sparking gouged wound inside of the G-Type glowed brightly before exploding.

  It was smaller then the average mecha explosion, underwhelming even. The systems had plenty of time to shut down and stabilise the reactor while Kigen cut through them.

  Instead, only a small collection of fireworks erupted out of the Casnel’s insides, ruining its internals in the most pathetic fashion possible.

  Kigen felt a moment of intense pity for the brave warrior that had tested him so. Again, he found himself regretting this line of work; such cruelties it made him inflict on fellow warriors. He shook his head. There was no time for such weakness; he had a second Casnel to cut down.