Cusp

by RazorsKiss

Chapter 1 – Fallen Angels

– Sunspot Cafe –

He slouched in a booth, brooding, eyes hooded, seemingly oblivious to the ripping Bora technofunk beats shaking the establishment. A slightly disheveled mop of platinum-dyed hair obscured much of his face; parted off to the side, slightly longer than shoulder length. Firmly ensconced in his leather trench coat, head down, one thing moved. His eyes scanned the crowd frequenting the Sunspot rapidly, and thoroughly. He disliked being surprised, for one. He was also looking for someone.

Duncan dropped his guitar into it’s upright cradle, and slowly sauntered off the stage. His customary sardonic grin adorned his face. He wends his way to Butcher’s table, commenting briefly, chats for a moment with Faerie, and settles into conversation. It is his bar, after all.

A trio enters with a swagger – and stagger. The indomitable Misterfour, and his erstwhile companions; SFA and Griffin Moone. At the bar, Scarlet is gesticulating wildly to Dark Ice, recreating a recent engagement. Lucifer makes his way off the dance floor – with a madman’s walk, but a self-assurance only the founder of the Devil’s Fist can assume. A dark frame fills the doorway for a moment, an aura of menace momentarily palpable. One more step reveals the sober mien of the Pegasus master – Herr Bloodstar. The observer’s head shakes imperceptibly. What business would they all have here midweek? The question hangs unanswered as he spots a Lucri Causa patch on a nearby flight jacket. Jaycex back in the Fringe. Must be important for him to leave his tow untended in Solrain space. Quite the baron he’d become. He watched Jaycex make his way to Scarlet. Another familiar face also greeted him. Q, in Sunspot. Now this was getting interesting.

He listens in unobtrusively. “Yeah, we have our pirates, and dereg can be as bad as the Fringe sometimes. But the money!” He chuckles under his breath. Jaycex always was eloquent when the subject turned to money. Some things never change. “Glad to hear you’re doing well, Jaycex.” Came Q’s calm reply. “We need our interests represented in that part of the galaxy.” Jaycex’s reply is low and indistinct.
Time to mingle.

Dragon has somehow procured a pretty brunette on one side of him, smiling congenially as he regales her with tales from the life of a starpilot. Bloodstar sits alone, back to the wall, with a dark mug between his hands. His eyes follow the dark-clothed figure across the room. He knows him, but can’t place him. It bothers him.

Misterfour has both booted feet up on his table, laughing uproariously at a comment from SFA. His eyes light in recognition of the man walking by, but he stays as he is, content in his circumstances. Lucifer smiles quickly, arms crossed over his chest, watching the goings on. He motions the black clad pilot over.
“So, kid. How’s the flux treating you? You made a little bit of a stir I hear. You were what rank?” He says quietly. “Well Dev, I’ll tell you. Nothing like flying a Peg. Those Phoenixes took getting used to. How’s IK treating you?” He replied. “You’ve certainly changed, kid. Not for the better, either. You left in a hurry a while back. Not a word on the comms for quite a while. Now the dye job. Why no word? I know it’s not money. I saw your stats through Octavia command a while back. You did rather well for yourself. Not to mention what you already had in contracts. So tell me, Razor. What’s eating you?” It was SoulReamer, Captain of the Devil’s Fist, who leaned forward now. Concerned.

“You ever felt stretched, Dev? Too many wars? Too much blood? I’m 23, man. Too young to be jaded. But it’s a struggle to get in that cockpit and face another flight – another loss, another friend gone, more on my conscience. Invasion threatening our Octavius holdings, or a Mech battalion to today’s hotspot. A fighter wing has to be deployed to protect a new colony. Search and destroys out of GBS, recruit flight training. Agents, counteragents, infiltration, diplomacy, alliances, non-aggression pacts. Expansion, beauracracy, gunning down Eels in Four Fingers, at the conference table an hour later. It’s too much. I really need a sabbatical.”

Dev studied his friend sympathetically. A few heads turned at his last outburst – a little overloud. Some in recognition, some in annoyance. Devil doubts if he cares. He shrugs off the heavy leather jacket, revealing a black uniform with yellow trim. New Dawn insignia emblazoned on the back, he notices as he turns to adjust his jacket. Military style side-pocket pants. Commander’s insignia on a short chain. He rakes his hair back from his face. Stylized Archangel and Phoenix earrings in one ear, New Dawn crest in the other. He looks tired. “Raz, I don’t know what to tell you. If you need to take a break, take one. Take all the time you need. Just don’t get too out of touch, you hear me? We need you around every once in a while.” “Alright. I’ll keep in touch.”

– Nuevo Dia Starbase –

He clicked off his comm with a wry smile. Zajj was at it again. It was a good sim, though. Got a little bit toasted last round, but that tends to happen with Zajj, Xander and Werewolf in there. Even semi-retired from ND, Wolf was good. He yawned as he popped the hatch on his sim pod, stretching to get rid of the inevitable cramps after two hours of the same seat. They’d been working a wing scenario – light assault versus heavy assault, to gauge the effect the lighter fighters could have on a heavier attack mix. Zajj, Tafflaff and Falcon were in their Pegs, along with Xander in his ubiquitous Mako. He and Rstar were in Archangels, with Shadow and Wolf in Warhammers. Werewolf had the highest rating, as a past master in Peg-railing. But the Solarii favored by the Archangel pilots were rendered almost completely ineffective by the speed and agility of the smaller craft. Not anything the Archy pilots weren’t accustomed to, though.

Werewolf and Zajj were already comparing notes on the sim, as usual. Not everyone knew they were close – but they were as closely matched a pair as any he’d seen. Seamless when they flew together. Xander was on his way over. “Sorry I kept tagging you Raz. Archys are too tempting from up top” he said. “I kept trying to stay edge-on to Zajj – only way the bugger misses!” Razor replied. They both laughed. “Trouble was, man, I was snipin. Pick em off from the edges. When you’d turn to avoid Zajj, you’d be screamin ‘shoot me’ from where I sat.” “Live and learn, man, live and learn.” Razor clapped him on the back and they all headed for quarters.

Maybe try a free-for-all next time. Razor sighed. Solers just get the shaft. Powerful, sure. But so slow. When it hits, they complain – when they live. “Too powerful.” Never mind the fact that it takes hundreds of hours to achieve a modicum of success with them. The instantaneous explosion of a full sol impact does look impressive though. Almost looks easy. Oh well. Enough whining. He thought.

With new clans rising and falling daily, it seemed, the political landscape was eminently mutable – especially in the Expansion Regions. Add the influx of the formerly unobtainable “pirate” vessels, and the Fringe turned into a hotbed almost overnight. As a result, everyone had been spending more time in Expansion lately. The Flux wars were at a fever pitch in TRI space, New Dawn was pursuing a growth policy in the newly discovered “3rd world”, and that made things a bit tight. From the Fringe to the Inner Sphere, Sol to Unregulated, TRI to the 3rd World, New Dawn had their hands full. Flux, bounties, pseudo-mercenary contracts, and a lucrative smuggling business had helped defray costs somewhat. But ships were expensive. As the recruiting influx reached it’s peak, TRI, not to mention the collective Fringe splinter groups, absorbed a huge pool of largely untested pilot trainees. The corporate sector accounted for a good number of jobs – freighters, shuttles, tows, and their like all required the services of dependable pilots. On the other hand, the trade upswing revived another time-honored branch of big business. Piracy. With TRI’s suspension of law in their space, and the customary absence of Star Patrol in Fringe affairs, both sectors now required bristling escorts to ensure much-needed cargo reached it’s destinations. New Dawn fighters were left unmolested in TRI space for the most part, by tacit agreement, but resupply and shipping convoys still had occasional forays attempted on them. Combat pilots who should have been fighting flux, on crew rest, or in training were assigned increasingly heavy schedules for patrol or escort duty. Quite a dilemma. Falcon’s extensive experience in TRI diplomacy had proven invaluable for them – as did the excellent veteran skills of Werewolf and Zajj in the Fringe. A great bunch of pilots. But he only had so many. He mulled all this over on his way through Nuevo Dia Starbase – passing crew chiefs, controllers, techs, mechanics, and fellow pilots on his way. Absently returning smiles, salutes, and cheerful greetings, he finally reached his quarters. He palmed open the door, unsealed his boots, and activated his terminal. Time to start the other part of his workday.

– Praxus Starbase –

Misterfour paused outside a doorway. Just like every other doorway in the behemoth structure. Except this door bore the nameplate of one “SuperFurryAnimal”. It was time. Time to go clubbin. “Shuttle 07685 leaving in 12.5 minutes. All passengers please prepare for transit to New Vegas” the loudspeaker announced serenely. He smiled mischievously. He clicked the intercom. “You ready to go yet?” “Just one more minute!” The room’s occupant yelled. “If you don’t hurry up, I’m leaving without you. We both know your chances of acquiring a date without my help…” The door slid open. “Jase, fashion can’t be hurried.” “That requires fashion sense to begin with, numbwit. Hurry UP!” “Ok, ok, coming.” SFA muttered something about ancestry under his breath and grabbed his jacket.

Knight Lucifer sat in front of his triple encrypted, 250,000 credit terminal, and completed the final keystroke on the latest contract notice. Part of his agreement upon joining the Knights was unrestricted encrypted access to the outside datanets, free of surveillance. He laughed at the contract he just posted. Misspelled, illiterate, and uncouth to boot, the contractor was definitely no prize.. But he had cash. These punk kids were proliferating like rabbits these days. No doubt the contractee would be a contractor as soon as he saw it, he supposed. The money was great in the hitman business. Oh well. Sucks to be them. One of his enforcers would be dogging him shortly, no doubt. Very shortly, he amended. That kid’s been asking for it from a few of my guys. He attached his signature block perfunctorily to the notice. “Reamer.” Running a merc outfit had it’s perks, he supposed. Nice to be close to a wingleader or two now, also. Iconia had it’s connections. As well as it’s drawbacks. He shrugged. The man formerly known as “The Devil” signed off. Time to play.

– Nuevo Dia Starbase –

He checked the sims of the weapons loadouts again, to make sure they matched the energy ratings listed for the particular ship. In the real world, an energy guzzling weapon matched to a power light fighter could spell disaster. Careless pilots didn’t last long in the Fringe. He sighed. A lot of new ships to get checked out in. On the one hand, it was good to have a wide array of fighter chassis to choose from. A lucrative business for the design team, now gone their separate ways. Devilsclaw, Bloodstar and Shadow’s lament had done very well with these imported “Pirate” designs. Their respective shipyards were pumping out ships by the dozens, daily. Devil wasn’t too far off about his money situation. His private hangar had a dozen or so ships parked here and there, in various states of repair. His crew chief was doing a great job refitting and maintaining them all. His assistant was working out well, too. 2 Archangels, a Mace, and a Pegasus were parked neatly toward the door. “Sunrise”, his pride and joy, had it’s quad solarii powered, at the ready in all other respects. He noted the extra polish and new insignia added recently. Chief is getting a bonus, he thought. He walked down the line. A brand new shipyard-fresh Demon, a Hawk, Shrike, Gar and Piranha were lined up down one side. An antique Demon in the mid-stages of refurb, along with a Bora-era Mace were on the other. The spot for his long-awaited replacement Enforcer was still empty. There was a waiting list from here to the Hub for that one. He had thought about buying a Treg – maybe a Midge, too. But who knows. The second Phoenix was still in the yard back on Octavia, not to mention the new Gunship he was paying on. The Condor he rented out would pay for it real soon though. He inspected the exterior hoses on his dropship. Maybe need a leak check. But they can wait. He smiled. His MadCat II, Daishi, and Vulture sat powered down against the hangar wall. Hadn’t jumped in one of them for a while now. Busy, busy. Good mechs, though. He laughed. A snapshot of clan life. Holdings in the Fringe, TRI, Clan space, 3rd world, and on the cusp of expansion everywhere. Getting stretched. Ha. To the breaking point maybe. Onward and upward, he thought.

– New Vegas –

A smile threatened to come over the comm in spite of himself. “Yes, my callsign is ‘Big Fat Jerk‘. So?” “Well, Pegasus 01974, it just seemed…. odd. Sorry.” “Control, do I have clearance for New Vegas 7, or not?” “Affirmative, uhh.. Pegasus 01974. Stand by for vector transmission.” “Roger, tower. Let’s just say… the Devil went down to Vegas, and leave it at that.” “Uhh, roger that. I think.” Devil banked into the holding pattern, per the flight plan, still grinning.

– Neechi Command –

Dragon stretched and picked up his guitar. He and Nasty had a jam session planned later. Aimlessly plucking at the strings didn’t get him much into the playing mood, though. A ground strike on Telaxon tomorrow – hopefully break up a pirate’s nest. He hoped his Mech jocks were up to it. And that there weren’t any surprises for them. Maybe brief them again before they went out… No. Can’t micromanage. Patrols were picking up an increased level of dAb incursions along the Twilight border, though. High rate of shipping attacks by the so-called “Rock” ships in Ripstar shipping lanes. Probably just more pirates. Still a big headache. Which he was definitely feeling right now.

– Chapter 2 – Recognizance –

Dead at Birth. We live, we die, we leave a small legacy. nothing in the grand scheme of things. Maybe a footnote in a history book somewhere. But it’s something. It’s a tiny, iridescent blip on the radar of life. it might be enough. That small blip may be in indelible ink. It may change the course of this river called day to day existence. It may even matter. Or it may not. Who cares. Let’s blow something up. Ernesto P. Gallivani looked up from his datapad. A rictus of a smile took shape. “We ready?”

The convoy winked into existence 65 clicks from the starbase. A medium size convoy, as convoys go. A carrier, a cruiser, 3 heavy freighters, 8 light freighters, and 2 Phoenix bombers riding herd. Quick stopover, and off to the Twilight.

“Freedom tower, Independent shipping group “Tartarus”, with escort requests fuel and resupply accommodations at your convenience.” “Tartarus, request acknowledged. Please enter holding pattern and await confirmation.“ “Affirmative, Freedom Tower. Matching vectors accordingly. Deploying escort screen – notifying you per regulations.” “Roger, Tartarus – keep em in hand.” “Will do.” 6 fighter craft launched from Tartarus‘ bays. A trio of Demons, a Hammer, and 2 Pegs. Taking up a spherical defensive posture around the convoy, they settled in watchfully.

Beyond Asteroid 787 (according to the chart), sat a cruiser, with a small frigate in tow. 12 small objects stealthily exited the frigate’s hangar. “Awaiting signal, One.” “Adjust vector to 129,71 on my mark.” “Roger.” The fighters slowly distanced themselves from the capital-class vessels. “Remember – the cruiser, the hangar bay, and the Phoenixes – in that order, Two group. We’ve got the fighters. Curse their paranoid hides.”

“Copy, One. Listen up, Two Group. Ceta, objective is the Poshedi’s shield generator. Delta, you’ve got powerplant.” “Copy Two.” “Roger.” “Uh-huh.” “Copy.” “Yep.” “One Group. Alpha, you’re on the Hammers, secondaries are the Pegs. Beta, take the Dems. On my mark.” Ernesto began some much-neglected Zen breathing practice. In, out. 1. 2. 3. In. 1. 2. 3. Out. “Mark.”

The Warhammers and Midges shot out into the deep like thunderbolts. Their cruiser dropped directly in the midst of the freighters with a microjump, and began it’s assault. The frigate appeared under the group, and began harassing the convoy’s underbelly. It was blessed insanity. A gossamer web – constructed solely of light – focused and deadly, growing brighter by the moment.

“Tartarus to Tower. We are under attack. Repeat, we are under attack.” “Tartarus to Central, we are under attack. Estimate, 2 capital, one squad of fighters.” Breaker01 flipped off the comm. Back to business.

Ernesto latted right at 3/4 throttle, dumping twin plasmas into the besieged Warhammer – then reversed with a left lat, to watch 4 rockets pass through the space he had recently occupied. “Not bad. Little quicker next time, though.” Two sets of rocket trails converged on the Hammer. Rails flashed immediately after. Scratch one Hammer.

SoulAssassin04 tore into the fray like a madman. Triple hit, single hit. Triple hit. The Warhammer reversed, trying to escape the gnat that had bloodied it. SoulStealer03 cut the attempt short with twin solaris. Scratch one Hammer.

Adulterated Jedi burned up and over the crippled cruiser. It was dead in space. Quick left lat… and he was clear. Vectoring in on the carrier, he quickly assessed the situation. “Ceta, Delta, we are go for secondary. Rendevous at 64.” Chorus of “copy”s.

The Demons were in an inverted triangle. Having downed a Midge, they were now facing a Warhammer and the unfortunate pilot‘s wingman, another Midge. “Break left, 07.” “Copy.” “Second Midge at 8.” “I see it.” “Low-high?” “Rog.” Passing within a yard of each other, the Demons scissored vertically, sending two sets of contrails in to converge on the Warhammer. Followed by 12 deimos impacts, the Hammer became so much superheated debris.

“Uh, boss. You do know this is a DF convoy, right?” “Yup.” “So why are we attacking it?” “For fun.” “Just wondering.” Two Group darted towards the carrier’s hangar bay. Delta Two met 4 plasmas head on, shields flickering briefly, and impaled himself on a turret. “Have we met? I’m SoulBreakerXX. You would be?…” His only answer was 3 helios rockets streaking by him towards the hangar door. The resulting explosion effectively barred it from entrance.

Down two Warhammers, and 3 Midges, but with all objectives complete, Ernesto decided they’d had enough fun for the day. “One, Two, Abort. Anvil, rendezvous.” “Copy One.” Two ships winked out of existence. 7 fighters fought a retreat action to the gate and effectively disappeared.
“Tartarus, status please.” “We got beat up. But we’ll make it. Poshedi needs a tow ship, though.” “Copy Tartarus. These pirates are getting bolder and bolder. We’re sorry we didn’t get there in time.” “Save it, Tower. I lost a pilot.” “Condolences, Tartarus. Acknowledged.” 01 hated composing messages to nearest kin. Especially when the pilot technically didn’t exist.

Ernesto brought his Hammer into the bay, landing it with a barely perceptible bump. His comm activated as he hit the deck. “We recovered 3 pods on our way out. The other two didn’t make it.” “Culling, man, culling.” “That’s pretty cold Mr. Gallivani.” “But true.” Ernesto regarded the image of his bridge officer curiously. “More than acceptable losses for a cruiser and a partial on a carrier. Add in the bombers and tertiary damage on the freighters, and its a good day. Besides, combat experience is a sorely-needed commodity.” “But 5 fighters lost, not to mention the 2 pilots?” “That was DF, man. we should be jumpin for joy.” The officer wasn’t happy. Not convinced either. Ernesto didn’t care. Any day was a good day to die. Not that he intended to, of course.

‘They what!” “Took out a cruiser. 7 casualties. Nailed the Tartarus’ hangar. 1 casualty. Crew chief that prepped XX’s Hammer was still in there. 3 lights dead in space, one heavy limping badly. 04 got splashed, but we got his pod. He downed 3 before they got him, they said though. 08’s Demon got lit up, but he made it back to the hangar. Landing was a little ugly.” A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, despite the circumstances. “Better than it could have been. But I think it’s time for a payback. Past time. Call up that contract on dAb we got today. Start getting some input from the wingleaders, and have them contact me at 2300.” “Right, Boss.” Big Fat Jerk was feeling just that.

– Chapter 3 – Out of the Void –

The carrier reverted to realspace in a wash of light. A tiny satellite noted it’s presence, dutifully reporting the information to Command. The carrier’s hangar containment field flickered briefly, then deactivated as fighters emerged in pairs into the the empty blackness, settling into a loose escort formation. “Central, we are in position. Awaiting further orders.” “Copy, Avengers. Will advise.”

Icefox turned to the comm station. “Ensign Ridick, I need a long range thermal and emission scanof sectors 82 and 64.” He turned to the Special Ops station. “Rapscallione, I need a recon patrol through coordinates 173, 91, 220. Set for passive, maximum stealth, comm silence not required, but keep it encrypted, narrow band only. Telemetry only back to the battle group.” “Yes sir. Prepping now.” “Thank you, Lieutenant. I’ll be in the briefing room if you need me.”

The cruiser Mischief orbited the small base in leisurely fashion. It’s fighter complement buzzed aimlessly around it in a loose sphere. A small frigate eased up to the docking pylon with a slight limp. “Entropy station, docking sequence initiated. Standing by for permission to disembark.” “Copy, Issuant. Will transmit.” “Thanks Entropy.”

Adulterated Jedi, Dementia 13 and Psycho Blasto waited at the crew entrance, discussing the raid. “Why in the blasted Twilight were we after a DF convoy? Not saying it wasn’t fun to thumb our noses at them. But I would have liked, you know, a rewarding haul.” “I’m thinking it was a move to show those DF twits we’re serious, man. We’re not going anywhere. The Boss rarely does things without a reason, Dem.” “I’m with Dem. A paying reason would have been better.” “Shut up Psycho.” “Whatever.”

Echoing footfalls on the metal decking caused them all to glance up suddenly. Middle height, dark eyed, dark haired, still attired in a worn, slightly baggy flight suit, Ernesto Gallivani’s bootheels clicked loudly up the corridor toward them. Supercilious smile firmly in place, he spoke. “Indeed, I did have a reason, my numbwitted sycophants.” His hands went in his pockets as he began pacing slowly. “Part of it was indeed to demonstrate our intention to become lasting Fringe ‘players’. Astute of you to recognize that, my dear Jedi. May be hope for you yet. But the primary reason was to disguise a trend. A deeper stratagem. What would you say that is?”

Adulterated Jedi mulled the question over for a moment. “We’ve been working the shipping lanes, harassing freighter traffic. Ambushing patrols, interdicting common travel sectors, and generally raising Cain in Void space. New Dawn’s been hit hard, as they have almost no presence in the Fringe anymore – we’re all sad about that.” He smiled rapaciously. “VA is getting rather annoyed with us, and we’ve driven the newer clans to isolationism. I see the trends, I think. No one is out in force, just us. But I don’t see the goal of it.”

“That’s what I hope they’re wondering right now.” Ernesto rejoined. “Hopefully the DF raid will throw them off balance. Maybe we’ll get lucky, and they’ll let DF ‘take care of the problem’ for fear of getting in their way. I hope it turns out that way. DF is fearsome. We saw that today. But the Devil’s Fist is a part-time mercenary outfit. Their reputation is their continual bluff to dissuade reprisals. And their weakness. If the Fringe thinks DF has dibs, they’ll give it to them. DF will safeguard their rep by a big symbolic retaliatory strike with little tactical value but plenty of PR value. Then we’ll be free to do as we please as they get back into their little thing. Complacency is our ally. I’m digressing, though. Your answer : the ‘Defense of the Fringe‘ in recent history has revolved around 3 groups. The prized and praised Royal Guard, the combined forces of Razors Rabble and the Void Pirates.. oops, I mean Alliance.. and the vaunted, honorable Neechi. New Dawn and VA shared sock drawers not that long ago. But look at ND now. They’re almost out of the Fringe completely in their various incarnations. They got drug into TRI’s money-grubbing paws, and now they’re fractured, undermanned, and preoccupied. Our beloved Void Pirat… Alliance is retooling with an emphasis on ground combat, while trying to keep a viable space force. With me so far, ladies? So, we now face a fragmented and behind the times Royal Guard, a large but scattered and largely untrained Neechi regime. An almost non-existent Iconian presence, and the defensive-minded and growth-oriented assortment of “Expansion” clans. The Fringe is ripe for the picking, kids. I propose you bone up on your looting and pillaging skills.” Grinning ferally, he stepped into the freshly cycled airlock, and into Entropy Station, leaving 3 gape mouthed members of Dead at Birth staring at his back.

His heels clicked in a perceptible rhythm. The subconscious rhythm of the Hammer pilot. The primal click of the deadly toggle between rockets and rails. Contrails and flashes. A veritable morse code for death. He palmed the door open with a grimace. Duty rosters. Thinner every week, as pilots went. The veterans, at least. Their training program was top-notch, but trainees weren’t exactly flooding in anymore. He rubbed his temples tiredly. New Dawn, their time-honored ally, was less and less of a presence in their Ripstar holdings, forcing him to discreetly beef up their own patrols in the area. Iconia’s insular policies had made the trade corridors through the Frontier much more of a risky gambit to run. The upstarts in Ripstar and the Expansion territories were just beginning to hold their own, let alone police their shipping routes regularly – so the lucrative trade benefits they could have gleaned had not yet materialized. The Fringe wasn’t at all what it used to be. Mech jocks with a penchant for faster thrusters were trying to make names for themselves. Piracy was booming due to the relative laxity of patrol frequency and duration spreading like a virus across Clan-controlled space. At least the money was still decent. For now. But ships sporting dAb sigils were upping the ante on them all. Something was going down. But he couldn’t, for the life of him, put his finger on it.

Wing Zero banked his Peg toward the asteroid field that had been nagging him. You could hide a battle fleet in that sucker. “Raps, this is Wing.” “Go ahead Wing.” “I have an anomalous reading at mark 2-8.” “Copy. Go to quiet running. Let’s check it out.” The Hammer latted around the initial roid in its path, and went to black. All lights out, power reduced, nois and static emission reduction systems engaged. Slowly, quietly, they converged on the “anomaly.” “Raps?” “I see it.” Maintain 150 clicks. Passive scan only.” “Looks like some kind of farpost. Pirate base?” “Maybe. I have a sneaking suspicion, though.”

Cats slipped in the new TJack chip. It was supposed to have some good live stuff on it. good improvs, too. He’d only been to one concert, but it was a good show. The music began with a mournful spacer ballad. never again to see his home. “Forever doomed…. to roam….” For whatever reason. He skipped forward a track. The next song started with some kickin crysguitar riff, segueing into a hard technopunk kickbeat on some wailin vocals. Tough stuff, man. Tight as you could be. TJack always rocked, man. Motion on his HUD caught his eye. State of the art detection system in this Hawk, man. Meant it was always picking up stupid roids. Always getting ghosts off of the heavy metal ones. TJack had a good metal album that one year. Stuff you could get hyped to, man. Two blips, now. Slow. Too slow for ships. Stupid Hawk. Man, for a nice, old-fashioned Hammer. Now that’s flyin.

He heard the klaxon too late. Just enough time for a strangled “what the…“ before punching out of his state of the art Nighthawk while it disintegrated around him. More heavy metal to distract those scanners, man. I just bought that chip, too. That sucks.

“Any transmissions out of that one, Raps?” “Not a squawk. Good timing on the plasmas. Followed the ruptors perfect.” “Thanks, man.” “Anytime.” “Got enough on their hideyhole?” “Yeah, lets boost it. Club’s still open.” “Heh. Got that right, man. Seeya in the hangar.” “Copy.” Entropy’s duty tech registered a small thermal emission, cooling quickly, lasting perhaps a fraction of a second. “Why can’t roids sit still?” He asked the empty room. “Who’s bright idea was it to build a base in an asteroid field anyway. I’d go to the bar if I wanted freakin billiards. Stupid scanners go nuts when they collide. Always ghosting.” The “ghosts” made their way out of the asteroid field, back to the hangar, and hit the clubs. Cats had that stupid TJack song stuck in his head. “Forever to roam…..” For whatever reason.

Chapter 4 – Retribution

He downed his caf in a gulp, before resuming his restless pacing. “What results did we get back from the reconsats?” “A full flight of bandits – mixed Shrikes and Hawks. Looked to me like a quick hit and run setup to me. Reminded me of a dAb sensor suite when I got their return passives.” “Interesting. Keep an eye on them, and keep me informed. I don’t like no-ID thugs in our space. Gets me on edge.” Wildfire turned on his heel and headed out the door, and towards the hangar. Once he reached the ready room, he threw on a flightsuit and jumped into his Pegasus. He initiated his powerup checklist, got clearance from the tower, and eased his interceptor into the icy darkness. Time to check up on these punks.

He supposed he was enjoying himself. The blonde next to him was not only a looker, but a lively conversationalist – in her own way. “So then he just up and told the bar ‘That raid on the outpost went so well, everyone’s drink is on me – next two rounds!’ Pirates are so flamboyant, you know? He must have been good at it, too. Being a pirate, I mean. He was throwing money around, making a fool of himself. He and his friends were so, I don’t know… cool and cocky. Like they were untouchable. Said he was a “Void Pirate”, whatever that is. Imagine it! Just like nothing was strange about being a pirate! Or even a fighter pilot, at that. Oh, you’re a pilot too. I forgot. But you’re not like they were. You’re all quiet, and calm. How are most pilots? Like you or him?” She finally took a breath and waited expectantly. Misterfour smiled amusedly at his chatterbox of a date.

“There’s different kinds. Just like everywhere else. Brash, cocky, calm, quiet. It doesn’t matter. Would you believe I was going to be a lawyer at one time? Big shot corporate lawyer. But here I am. The pay’s better in the military.” He smiled thinly.

“So you make a lot of money flying for… Iconia? My brother moved there a few months ago. Says it’s a nice place. He’s a dropship gunner. Always loved those ’Mechs. They flunked him from pilot school cause of his reflexes. Good enough for a gunner, but not for a pilot.”

He smiled politely, his mind elsewhere. Let her exercise her voicebox. The RoughNecks had a… rough drop tomorrow. They’d take the objective, of course. But he was here to relax, not talk about work.
He tuned back in. “So have you heard the new TJack chip? He’s a friend of mine.” He said to turn the conversation down a different track. “We grew up together. Got into a lot of trouble together, too.”
“Wasn’t he a pilot, too? Void Alliance or one of those clans out there. Clans, clans, clans. That’s all TNS talks about anymore. You’d think there was something different to talk about, huh?”

Misterfour laughed. She wasn’t the brightest glowpane in the strip. “I fly for a clan, babe. The Fringe is clans now. Hold on for a second.” He turned away from the embarrassed barhopper to find the overly loud conversation that caught his ear.

A man kicked back in a rickety barchair, feet up on his table, gesturing with a beer-laden hand to his earnest-faced companion, a younger pilot – maybe 19. “I’m telling you, Junior. The status quo is over. The new ships are rendering these old farts in charge of the clans nothing but anachronisms. If you don’t get with the times, you’re sucking plasma through a straw. Like it or not. Your run of the mill pilot is now outclassed, out-gunned and out-matched by half of the ships on the market if he sticks to the familiar ‘golden oldies‘. That’s all there is to it.” Superbad smiled lazily, eyeing Misterfour as he approached. He turned back to his dutiful audience. “But on the other hand. It doesn’t matter what you fly, Kid. Doesn’t matter a bit. If you think the ship you fly is what matters in a fight, you’re already dead. Half the Fringe hates my guts. I don’t care. I’m a flying corpse. But I’m still alive after all the crap they slung at me. Doesn’t matter what they fly, what you fly. If you know how to fly your ship, you’re a step ahead. But that still doesn’t matter that much. The most important thing to remember is this. If you go for the throat – each, and every time – no matter the situation, the opponent, or the target, you’ll beat them. The pilots here are soft, kid. All worried about honor, chivalry, all that crap. Doesn’t help you if you’re dead. Not a bit. Kill them first. Just like a bar fight. Break their shins, break their elbows, so they can’t hurt you. Then beat them until they’ll never bother you again. If their friends show up, beat the tar out of them, too. Or they’ll kill you. Same rules apply in space. Kill or be killed. Nothing else matters.”

The Enhanny glanced dubiously back at him, but declined to argue. A pilot lived on the knife’s edge between braggadocio and despair. He knew enough not to tend too far in either direction. It paid to be cautious sometimes.

“What brings you to New Vegas, Super? Not enough action out your way? Or just corrupting the youngsters?” Misterfour cocked his head to one side, smiling mirthlessly.

“Well, it’s like this, boss.” Slightly emphasizing the word. “I’m sitting tight. Someone told us to sit tight, I recollect. Oops. I’m giving away private intelligence info, aren’t I. Such a shame. Isn’t it… boss.” Superbad found his personal space abruptly invaded. “You’re probably right, Super. Iconia would love to question you concerning certain… activities. Or we could release you to Griffin. VA has a bounty on your head, don’t they? Whatcha say, Super? Or a short comm to DF…” All softly. Very softly. A lover’s whisper, almost. “You can play all the games you want, Super. The playing field doesn’t change – and we both know I’m a ref, don’t we, Super. Keep… your big mouth… shut.” He released the brash pilot with a shove, almost sending him crashing to the floor.

Super fingered his flight jacket absently, visibly containing himself. “Ok, hotshot. Loyalty isn’t one of my virtues, big man. Don’t push your luck.” “Shut up, Super.” Super replied with a mock salute.
“C’mon, guys. Let’s get out of here. I’m in a bad mood. Will you find someone to annoy me? I need to beat the crap out of something.” SFA and Griffin laughed.

24 hours later

“01, this is Lead. We go for primary?” “Roger, Lead. On your mark.” “Copy. Ok, from the pirated recon footage we were ‘given‘, they have a sat network in two rings. 100k and 50k. Minimal patrols, medium to light defensive emplacements. Keep your targets in mind. I don’t need to tell you anything else. You’re the Devil’s Fist, and you know your job. Let’s do it. We’re the best – they know it, we know it. Let’s remind them. Mark.”

The sable Pegasi of Lead’s group rocketed forward, with Nighthawks trailing slightly behind. 01’s Hammers and Demons followed leisurely, confidently. “Engage stealth systems. On my mark.” 250. 200. “Mark.” The fighters became darker, if possible. The background hum of generators, converters, and couplings muted into a nearly negligible murmur. The pilots smiled grimly.

The tech pressed the “next screen” button on his pad. He rubbed his eyes sleepily. He was getting into this “Burning Void” story. To think, some people believe in people like Comerca, or whatever his name was. Good story, though. Takes your mind off of things. Night shift sucked. The sensorsats hummed along in their eccentric orbits, registering nothing out of the ordinary in their vicinity. There’s black market – and Black Market.

12 blast torps impacted in unison. “11 directs, 1 partial, Lead. Finishing up.” “Good targrec, 01.” Double click in response. “We are go for cover, 01.” The six Pegasi took up escort postures on the six larger ships, protecting against possible counter-strikes.

“We have positive on all 4 primaries, Lead. Beginning secondary runs now.” “Copy 01. At your discretion.” Two fighters, ‘Shrike’ make, approached from 6 o’clock. “11, 5, all yours.” “Thanks, Lead. Thought we weren’t going to have any fun today.” SoulBreaker05 dropped on Bogey1 from 12, shredding the Shrike’s shields to 60% on the first pass with unerring marksmanship. Breaker11 darted directly in front of the second fighter, dropping triple deimos into his forward shields. The dance began. 05 feinted a left lat, reversed, latted right and took his opponent’s shields down to negligible levels. 11 reversed, latted left, passed directly over05’s adversary, causing his wingman’s plasmas to impact on hastily replenished shields – effectively negating his efforts to recover. Left latting with a quick burn, 05 flanked Bogey1, sending deimos fire over top of the (by now) madly transferring Shrike – using him as a shield while reducing Bogey2’s forward shields. The pair of Shrikes reversed at full burner, attempting to escape the DF interceptors. But with power draining more and more by the second, the Shrikes found themselves unable to outpace the black Pegs. Bogey 1’s shields collapsed abruptly under the concentrated fire, while Bogey2, attempting to assist his wingman, found himself out of position, facing two Mercenaries with fully charged shields. They circled him crab-like, and his afterburners lit briefly, reflecting off the glossy black fighters, then disintegrated as the two fighters pierced his rear shields and targeted his engine pods. Dead in space, he could do nothing but watch as both pilots slowly circled his damaged ship – ensuring he was, in fact, disabled – then shot off to rejoin the attack.

“Sir, we have damage to comms, powerplant, life support, weapons, and control. Tertiary damage on the hangar deck. Can’t find functional systems to get a report from, there. Another report coming in… stand by… Uh, sir? The Tower… it’s gone, sir.”
“Get damage control off of battlestations and begin dispatching them to the hardest hit areas.”
“Sir… I…”
“Just do it man. Get them moving, and shut up.”
“Yes sir.”
“Sir, we have incoming on narrow band. DF freq.”
“Patch it in. Let’s say hello to our guests.”

“This is SoulBreaker00 of the Devil’s Fist. This is a retaliatory action for the unprovoked raid 48 hours ago. Any further attempt to prey upon our shipping, space craft, or possessions will henceforth be met with swift and brutal response. I trust our message today is clear. That was only 12 spacecraft. We won’t be so lenient next time.”

“Ok, we all happy kids? Eye for an eye and all that. We’re sufficiently cowed and penitent. Thanks for stopping by, boys and girls. It’s been fun.” The screen cleared abruptly with a chopping motion from Ernesto. “Hey, have to look after the rep, you know?” In response to the gape-mouthed looks from the command center crewmembers.

“Let him bluster. He just got wasted, and we both know it. Contract complete. 11, send the footage to TNS on our way out-system – immediately forwarded to our contractor. Good work. You certainly earned your pay. Rendezvous and regroup.”
“Roger, Lead.”
12 warships made their way to the gate and disappeared.

“So, what does damage control have to report?” Ernesto had his arms on the railing, leaning over the top of the comm station from the upper deck, a self-satisfied smirk on his face.
“No… fatalities… sir.”
“Cool, huh? Good thing I evac’d all of the usual targets. As for Dementia… he really needs to listen to the hints I give him. Once the tow crew can get out of the hangar, send it out to get those two. Eventually.”

“TNS news, reporting. Following an alleged pirate attack on an unidentified convoy not 24 hours ago, Devil’s Fist pilots staged a daring raid on a “Dead at Birth” outpost last night. We have exclusive footage, directly from DF itself, documenting the execution and completion of one of their most daring and devastating contracts ever! Access it now, via your commpad at….”
SoulReamer turned off his pad, and smiled devilishly. “Dead at Birth… you don’t know the half of it.”

“Aww, what’s the matter, Super? Did the big, bad DF shoot you up? “ Ernesto laughed mockingly. Super restrained himself, a muscle in his jaw twitching with the effort. Ernesto just smiled. “You almost got me killed.” “A flying corpse, right? Do I need to remind you of the details of our little arrangement, Super? Shut up. I’m really not kidding. I can’t tell you everything that goes down. You were an impressive decoy. you’ll be paid handsomely for your work today. If you don’t like it, go back to flying solo.” “You’re going to slip up one day Ernesto. Trust me, I’ll be there to watch.” “I bet you will. I have no doubts about it. Jedi! We ready?“ “Yeah, boss. I saw the briefing chips. That target looks familiar.” “Indeed it is. Just wait. You’re going to love this one.”

Chapter 5 – Guardians

Royal Guard Command Nexus

Q called the council to order. “Recent events have forced us to beef up our presence in the Fringe. Our bases have been virtually under siege since this influx of pilots and ships began. We’re calling this quorum to confirm our position on a few very important matters. Decker of HP gave us all quite a scare with his plan to flood the market with these new designs. The new equipment is a good addition to the Fringe’s collective fighter complements, to be sure. However, to keep the balance of power intact, prevent anarchy, we have to insert a modicum of sanity into the process. So. The floor is open.”

Skyrim spoke up first, rising to his feet. “We are the only surviving group solely dedicated to exploring the nuances of tactical warfare in the Galspan model craft. We’ve run the most successful training program the Fringe has ever known. These ships are nothing we’ve not fought before. But they were only previously in the hands of relatively unskilled and untrained pilots. Pirates, brigands, privateers. Star Patrol can no longer stem the tide of the black market, so we’re faced with trained pilots (some by us, even), with clan resources and support structures to back them. The chassis are not indestructible, by any means. But they turn our time-tested tactics on their ear! They are fast, powerful, and well armed. Do we adapt, or do we retreat into our shells like IK and BC? That’s the question that begs answering, to me.” Skyrim sat, while Jaycex rose abruptly to his feet.

“He’s got the question nailed, all right. But here’s another one. We’ve been here a long time, right? IK is almost gone. Seeing a BC is like seeing a Ghost, nowadays. Are we prepared to retool?
Relearn what we know in a fundamentally changed environment? I doubt it would take me long to get back to speed in a Cutty, or a Peg, or an Arch. But a new set of controls, different feel? It takes some getting used to, I’d bet. I’m not around here much, as you know. A different set of priorities for me. I’d fly your wing – any of you – if you asked me to. You know that. But are we willing to put in the time and resources to adjust to this new scheme of things? I’d vote no, as it stands. I left the Fringe because of the cocky mouths around here. Not you all. But you know who I mean. now, they’re cocky mouths with equalizers. I hate to be insular. But unless we’re prepared to invest in some new tactics and equipment, we’ll join the ghosts in short order.” Jaycex sat down abruptly after his uncharacteristically vehement speech. The attitude of the council was perceptibly sobering.

“It’s become a war of attrition” began Blue Max. “Not only the Bora colonists, major clans, corps, and the occasional pirate to deal with – now there’s half a dozen new clans, some with independent funding, popping up every month, it seems. The skies are awash in tags, clansigils, trash talk, and aggressive young hotshots with something to prove, looking for a hangar to call home. What does this have to do with us? Everything! They fly in ego bloated beyond belief by their few weeks of training – we know the routine. But when they can routinely beat their first instructor just because their ship can out-dodge anything we’ve ever seen, they just get worse. Not knocked down a notch. They don’t know Royal Guard from New Breed. They’ll learn as they fly long enough. But in order to remain viable, stable, and sound, we must maintain our integrity, and our reputation as an elite group. If we cannot sustain that reputation, we must find a new niche, or find new areas for expansion. Bottom line. Stay on the top rungs, or find a different ladder.” Blue Max sat down.

Rookie stood up. “I’m the perennial ‘new guy’, so I get what you mean, Max.” Scattered laughter greeted that remark. “But I still know a thing or three I suppose. I want to emphasize something. We’ve always stood for honor, chivalry, and equity. The moment we cease to stand for those things, we’ve lost our focus and epicenter. Morally, that’s who we are. Functionally, what is our mantra? Tactics! Tactics, tactics, tactics – it’s what’s drilled into our heads from day one. It’s served us well. Where’s that state of mind now? Strengths to exploit weakness – even weaknesses used as an unexpected gambit! Collective experience has always been the tide turner when it comes down to it. Experience in tactical thinking. Let’s put our heads together and work out new tactics to combat new threats. Did we tuck our tail between our legs when BC came up with something we hadn’t seen before? When New Republic tried a new maneuver? No. We found a way to beat it – maybe even to make it work to our benefit. Analyzed the tactic, worked a counter strategy, and neutralized or turned it to our advantage! And defeated them. I say we retool, I say we adjust.” Rookie sat down.

Q got up, and began pacing unhurriedly. “We’ve all fought the new ships. Little or no learning curve for the beginning pilot. Quick, fast, deadly. But they all have flaws. Demon has a light hull. Corvus has a lower cruise speed than an Angel. The Shrike has only adequate shielding. Something to exploit. I was a test pilot for a good bit of them. We can find ways to beat them. Given time, given effort, given the will to learn how to combat them effectively. It’s nothing too hard, ladies and gentlemen. These are not certainties. Not impossible tasks. Just time consuming and expensive. As you have all expressed, in one form or another, we must be willing. Collectively, I too believe we can develop tactics and strategies equal to the threat. If we desire to. As I see it, we have 3 choices. 1. Withdraw from Fringe affairs, save for our strategic and sentimental sectors. Keep in mind that they will erode over time. Expand in other sectors, other areas, other realms. 2. Pursue the status quo. Passively defend, do what we’ve always done, and passively retool as we have the time. I think we’ll slowly fade into mediocrity this way. A personal opinion. 3. Aggressively develop new tactics, expand our fighter presence and variety. Sim until our ears bleed to stay ahead of the game. Retain our reputation and status as Elite. Those are our choices.” Q sat down.
Havoc rose to his feet tiredly. “You know I respect all of you. I helped found this prestigious clan, and I’m proud to call you brothers, friends, and wingmen. This decision may very well affect how, and perhaps if, we choose to survive in this, our birthplace. Our birthright. Choose wisely, as I know you will. I don’t fly often anymore. But I trust you all to make the wise decision.” Havoc sat down wearily, as if his very bones ached. The discussion began.

VA Carrier Vengeance

“Void Keeper on deck!” bellowed Captain Tech Raines in a stentorian roar. Everyone assembled in the massive chamber snapped to attention. “At ease. Councilors, you know why we’re here. It falls beneath Councilor Icefox’s domain, so I defer to him the privilege of briefing you on the particulars. You’ve all spent tiem in the Fringe. So have I. We were born here. So it affects us all, no matter your current assignment. Icefox?” His studious gaze passed over them all as he stepped to the podium. Ghostsword, taking a seat to listen as well. Griffin Moone. Tech Raines. Skaare. ADCAP. Jaguar. Heero. Fyreheart. Amun Ra. Darkheyr. Scarlet. Smokey. Volcom. Jim Spade. Veterans all. Citizens of the Void Alliance, of the Fringe.
“To start with, this is not about dAb.” Chuckles in response. “They are a threat at times, but this is a bigger issue. We’ve all checked out on the newly available ships parked in our hangars, we know what they’re capable of. Why they can be both blessing and curse. The precarious balances of power in the region are shifting. The old “tier” system in place for quite some time, has been nearly abolished entirely. We had IK, RG, VA, ND, NR. The big 5 – after BC left, of course. Then came the Neechi and added another major power to the scene. Things are changing. New Breed, DE, GA – they are on the rise, and they won’t stop coming anytime soon. The decision we need to make is this. Is “our” VA equipped to deal with all these new pilots, clans and equipment? If so, what is our strategy? If not, how can we get there, and what are we willing to do to achieve that goal? In my mind, there is no question as to whether we stay in the Fringe indefinitely. The question – as what? Second rate power, or superpower?

If I’m wrong, say so. The bulk of our infrastructure, resources, and manpower stems from this one small area. I think we have too much invested here to stay neutral in the political struggles going on, or to let matters get out of hand, out of our control. What is the strategy we intend to follow to retain our status and presence here? “ The pandemonium that ensued could not, in good conscience, be referred to as a discussion.

Chapter 6 – Knight and Day

The spherical dropship drifted toward the ground, surrounded by fightercraft. Two Archangels tore past it, groundward, intent on their respective targets. A Leviathan lumbered behind to clean up any accessory targets the Archangels were unable to liquidate. At 10,000 feet, the dropship began it’s braking manuevers. 2 ground-based emplaceements tagged it twice apiece before being targetted and eliminated by it’s escorts – 2 cutlass bombers piloted by Rabid Chicken and Maverick. “Railguns look cool in atmosphere, Mav. They ionize all the air – cool effect.” He zoomed in to check out the wreckageof what was originally two anti-aircraft guns. “Looks like they hurt just as bad, too.” The Lance, sitting in the Dropship, chuckled as they listened in over the comm channel. “Better take good care of us, RC. Or I’ll have to switch places with you.” MisterFour said, on open mic. “Oh, I will. But I hear there’s a kickin joint down the road from here. So if you don’t hear from me for an hour or so, blast your way over there. Don’t worry, I’ll buy.” The chuckles turned into roars of laughter. Four just smiled. RC loved an audience.

The dropship slowed, and hit the ground with a numbing bump. “Ok boys and girls. This is our stop. Let’s ride. Lance, form up on me.” “Roger.” Servos whined as the behemoths trudged down the ramp and fanned out to reconnoiter the area. “Set radar to Passive, and move out. EagleEye, get us a pic.” “Roger Lead.” The speedy Vulture set out with a groundeating lope, getting an accurate survey of the ground they needed to cover. After a few moments, he reported back. “Lead, we have a Cat2 at 235, Thanny at 230, from NavPoint Alpha. Transmitting data. Also added 8 secondaries.” “Copy EagleEye. Support, calling in strikes at 72, 35. 4 LRM platforms, 4 Laser turrets. Target at your discretion.” “Copy Riders. We’ll keep you informed.” RC responded, now all business. They heard the sonic booms even through their insulated cockpits as the bombers streaked by overhead. “Ok, you know the drill. There’s a ridge up ahead that the Cat would love to use as an LRM platform. Soon as the cuttys tag the launchers, I want the Cat down first, then we’ll deal with the Thanny. I want you two flanking, Eagle in the rear of them. When I give the signal, drop the hammer. Got it?” A chorus of “Copy”. “Let’s ride. Stick to your positions.”

The Mechs tramped up the secondary ridge just in time to see the plasmas streaking in toward the gun emplacements. As they made swift work of the guns, the Madcat swiveled up, searching for the agile fighters. “Passive off – wait for lock” The Madcat found the Cutlasses just long enough to send LRMs swirling after them lazily. “Fire!” Dozens of streaking contrails converged on the doomed ‘Mech, and it’s pilot (quite rightly) ejected to save his skin. It blew up in a shower of fire, the collapsing shell causing a small rumble as it fell. The Thanatos, realizing the game was up, circled back around the hill, but quickly lost an arm to EagleEye’s Gauss. It jetted up to the top of the ridge under fire, and managed to get off several shots before it, too, fell to the ground; a smoking ruin. “Well done. EagleEye, what’s next on the agenda?” Looks like a Command Bunker 10 clicks east, spaceport 12 clicks north. Spaceport is heavily defended, but doable. 12 ground emplacements, some LRM’s, too. 2 Lances, mixed. Bunker has 1 lance – a heavy, 3 mediums, 3 srm trailers, 2 bulldogs, Couple guns, but not much. Biggest threat is the Daishi.

“Tough choice, EagleEye. Input?” “We can get the spaceport, but it’d be messy. Air would be better on the ‘port if you ask me. We can come in on cleanup. We can get that bunker with a little effort.” “Sounds good, EagleEye. Let’s go with that. The spaceport wasn’t supposed to be frickin’ entrenched. ‘Pride of Iconia’, this is RoughNeck Lead. We could use some artillery, over.” “Confirm, RoughNeck. KEWs inbound, splash in 9 seconds.”Copy, Pride.” The two KEWs streaked in like a column of lightning, impacting within meters of the bunker entrance and directly down the center of the spaceport tower looming up over the HQ building. The tower imploded along the KEW’s passage, while the HQ building flattened outward from the blast. The bunker became a crater in an eyeblink, showering the surrounding area with dirt and debris, followed by a rolling circle of dust, smoke and ash, towering into clouds above the impact sites. “Pride, we confirm both targets are serviced. A pleasure doing business with you.” “As always, RoughNeck, we aim to please. Out.” “RoughNecks, Lead. Time to earn those lordly salaries. We have some lances to blunt. Pincer 2 on the bunker units.” With a chorus of affirmations, the IK Lance moved out in a cacophony of whining servos and ground-jarring thuds. “RC, RoughNeck. I need suppression on the remaining spaceport units.” “Copy, Four. Inbound, ETA 48 seconds.” “Copy, RC. Good hunting.” The first LRMs started in on the IK Lance, and the ground battle was on. EagleEye’s Vulture skittered all over the field, while the MadCat II found its ridge and began pumping return fire downrange. The remaining mechs began working their way into flanking positions on the enemy’s bunker support Lance, but the sudden loss of C&C had them wrong-footed. As the distances closed, the Iconians began taking more fire, but nothing their mechs couldn’t handle. With the suppressive fire from the Cat2, the enemy mechs and support units were caught between the Iconian pincer, and began to fall. Two of the RoughNecks picked up minor damage, but their opponents were down for the count. “RoughNecks, Lead. Rally on point Charlie and regroup.” The spaceport defenses were still going to be a bit of a tougher nut, but RC and Mav had already started cracking. “Let’s mop this up, folks. You heard RC. He’s buying.” The laughter over the comms was free and easy. Just another day in Paradise.

To Be Continued