Tales from the Inbox: The Councilor’s Trust

2951-09-27 – Tales from the Inbox: The Councilor’s Trust

Drase was gone only a few minutes, but it was plenty of time for Nestor Palazzo to wonder if his suggestion had been somewhat less than wise. In truth, he didn’t want to get mixed up in the secretive doings of any of the Sagittarius xenos, be they Gilehdat, Kyaroh, or anything else. If Hoyr agreed to let him in on this supposedly important secret, it might bring all sorts of trouble far in excess of any pay.

When he spotted the slim, hooded figure slipping back across Lawrence’s dingy dining room, he was already hoping that she’d received a negative answer. The deliberate strut she’d used to turn every head and clear a path for Hoyr before was gone, now; she was gliding through the space like a ghost, almost without touching the floor, and with barely any eyes fixing on her.

“I was able to make Hoyr understand the problem.” Drase spoke without sitting down.

“Ah, well.” Nestor sighed. “There’ll be other jobs. Drase, I really appreciate-” Nestor stopped. Drase was still standing there, her glinting eyes boring into his. “What?”

“Had there not been these complexities, would you have accepted Hoyr’s task? Even if it meant trusting me with the navigation of your ship?”

Nestor shrugged. “If it were just a matter of you entering in coordinates without me knowing them? Sure. I could show you how to do it with the navcomputer in a couple hours.”

Drase nodded, her shoulders slumping slightly to communicate relief. “Then perhaps I will not come to regret vouching for your honesty.”

“Wait.” Nestor slid out of the booth to stand, towering over Drase. “He agreed?”

Drase nodded and held out her hand. When she opened it, he saw the Hoyr’s black token resting on her palm. “Take this.”

Nestor reached out to take the metallic disk, but before his fingers could close on it, Drase grabbed his huge hand in both of hers and pressed the token into his palm. “My fate is staked with this secret, Nestor.” She whispered, barely audible over the hubbub in the diner. “If it were to ever get out, you cannot conceive of the consequences for us both.”

Nestor shook his head. “If it’s too much a risk-”

Drase released Nestor’s hand and stepped back. “It was mine to risk, and it was risked.”

Nestor held the token in front of his face. It was heavier than it had looked, and covered in tiny symbols that he couldn’t possibly make out clearly in the dim lighting of Lawrence’s. “What now?”

“Hoyr will have the cargo at Macie Kurtz sometime next shift.” Drase turned around, reached up, and pulled Nestor’s hand down toward his pocket. “I will show you how to use this when we have departed this station.”

Nestor nodded. “What’s he paying?”

“Of your credits…” Drase paused and looked away for a moment. “One thousand times five hundred plus fifty. And there’s-”

Nestor steadied himself against the table. “Five-fifty thousand credits, Drase?” The sum was nearly half of the total value of Macie Kurtz, even with all the modifications he’d made to it over the years. Running back and forth from the Sprawl to the outlying stations, even with the most sensitive cargoes, didn’t pay that much in ten runs.

Drase nodded, unsurprised by Nestor’s reaction. “As I said, he pays very well. Your government issued the Kyaroh credits, so they spend them far too freely.”

“Clearly.” Nestor grinned, then reached back into the table to close out his tab with the diner, his tab still sitting at zero despite the drinks and food. “Come on. I was going to make this a surprise, but we don’t have enough time for me to sneak it back to the ship anymore.”

“You have ordered some amenities for my space aboard the ship.” Drase’s lips tugged upward into a smile. “I have known since the day you radioed ahead and placed the order, but I do appreciate the gesture.”

Nestor frowned as he led the way toward the exit. He had of course worried she might be able to guess that he was up to something, but he hadn’t expected her intuition to be so specific. “Are you sure you people aren’t mind-readers?”

As they stepped out into the better lit concourse outside Lawrence’s, Drase flicked her brown hood back across her shoulders. Her golden, almost cherubic face and hairless head shone in the harsh light, and the faint freckles below her huge eyes almost seemed to twinkle. Her appearance turned a few heads, but only a few – the Gilehdat had been a common enough sight on the Sprawl almost the moment it had been constructed.

When Nestor led her into the lift, Drase slid one slim arm into his and leaned against him. “Would you have preferred me to pretend to be surprised?”

Nestor shook his head, looking down at her. “You know what I think about white lies. People are easiest to deal with if they’re honest.”

Drase laughed, a crystalline tittering sound that, though pleasant, was nothing a human could possibly have made. “Then I will remain easy to deal with, as long as I am permitted to give no answer when all answers risk being misunderstood.”

“I know.” Nestor wondered why he knew this, but he did, and that bothered him more than being uncertain. He was only too aware of how easy it would be for her to manipulate him – but he was also confident that she would not do so.

As usual, Drase seemed to read Nestor’s thoughts. “You see why, but it eludes your active thought, so it passes upward as intuition.” She craned her head back and closed her eyes. “It is the seed from which the tutors coax our art, and it would make you mad if you were not a recluse.”

Nestor rolled his eyes. “I’m terrible at reading people. That’s why people drive me mad.”

“And yet, for your instincts, it seems my disposition is quite naked.” Drase opened her eyes into alluring crimson slits, and despite himself Nestor found that comparison arresting. “Do not ask me to teach you the art.”

“Because you aren’t a tutor?”

Drase shook her head, just as the lift doors opened onto Merchant’s Row. “It is not a matter of capacity. I do not wish to be so cruel.” With one motion that seemed too fluid to be the work of a limb containing bones, she extracted her arm from his.

Nestor frowned at this enigmatic answer, but something in her demeanor suggested that he wouldn’t get any more out of her on that topic, at least not then. With a sigh, he led the way toward the shop which had a crate of luxuries waiting for them.

This is, I am afraid, the end of Mr. Palazzo’s account, at least the part he sent. It makes sense that, if it is accurate, he would not detail any part of his work for the Kyaroh for fear of betraying their secrets, and if the account contains embellished elements, that he would leave it there for fear of betraying the fact that he did not in fact work with them.

The focus of his account is obviously on the relationship between himself and his erstwhile fellow spacer, the Gilehdat envoy Drase. Her suggestion that a human might learn the arts of the Gilehdat diplomats is interesting, though I’m sure their kind would deny that officially. If half of what is said of them is true, they are a potent weapon for the Grand Journey in its diplomatic endeavors which I’m sure this organization is not interested in sharing with the Confederated Worlds.

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Tales from the Service: The Quickley Drop

2951-10-04 – Tales from the Service: The Quickley Drop

Planet Quickley in the Lee-Hosha system was planned to be a major colonization site on the Sagittarius Frontier before the War; apparently most of the orbital and groundside factory hardware had already been delivered and was being set up when this side of the Gap was overrun. Since then, it has reportedly been an Incarnation depot world, a forward base manufacturing and storing spare parts and equipment.

Last week, our very own Nojus Brand made landfall with a Marine contingent dispatched to retake Quickley. Though I had other content prepared for today, Navy Signals brought in his first report earlier than expected. Evidently, the first forty-eight hours of the operation went well, and he was able to interview some of the Marines from the first wave.

I have only lightly edited his report for clarity and to remove a few points that Naval Intelligence was not willing to let me include.

Sergeant Myron Vergossen watched the scouting drone rise into the air until it was lost from sight. He missed operating on the other side of the Gap, where he would have F.V.D.A. troops handling little things like drone ops for his boys; out here on the Sagittarius side, a Marine had to do it, and that meant the squad had one less weapon pod, and Private Morello was doing what no private should ever be trusted to do – more than one thing at once.

So far, other than a spirited but ineffectual rocket bombardment of the LZ, and a few brave but equally ineffectual sharpshooters lurking in the lush canopies of Quickley’s towering tree-analogues, Myron’s squad hadn’t seen anything of the enemy. The briefing had suggested they would encounter a significant garrison and many fortified strong points with interlocking fields of fire, but so far, he and his boys had seen nothing of the kind, not even a smoking crater where such a fortification might have once existed.

Myron had been around long enough to Intelligence was usually wrong, but he also knew that it was never wrong in the favor of the Marines. Anyone who’d ever spent any time in a Rico suit knew only too well that suspiciously good news was evidence of enemy action.

At least Quickley was a beautiful place. They had landed in the temperate zone, on a small continent that was relatively flat and mostly forested, save for the broad, grassy coastal plains which had made such an ideal landing area. The roads were little more than dirt tracks winding through primeval woodland untouched by homesteads or villages. The only settlement that had been built on Quickley before the war was Q-S1, the partially complete spaceport site on the central plateau which hadn’t even been given the dignity of a proper name; most of the Incarnation effort on the world had been focused on this same site.

As the drone reached its optimal height, it started sending back thermal-image data of the ground ahead. The squad network used this to put the locations of anything alive on the various Marines’ helmet heads-up displays. Most of the glowing blips in front of them were probably animals cowering from the strange mechanical monsters tromping down the road that had been cut through their home, but it was impossible to be sure.

As the drone moved farther ahead, however, it spotted something that was definitely not an animal. A huge blob of heat in a thicket right next to the crossroads a kilometer ahead had a distinctly trapezoidal aspect. Most likely, it was a well-camouflaged bunker whose internal electronics were bleeding waste heat.

“Looks like we found the perimeter, Sarge.” Private Morello straightened, probably instructing the drone to circle the target.

“Probably.” Myron checked his map. If they followed the road, they’d be in that bunker’s field of fire before they could see it, and artillery capable of ranging the area wouldn’t be set up for a few more hours. The forest would slow them too much for a proper assault, and in their Rico suits, there’d be no way to sneak up on an Incarnation bunker, which was generally outfitted with more electronic sensors than a Confederated Navy destroyer. The engineers who’d built the bunker couldn’t have picked a bigger spot.

“What’s the play, Sarge?” Corporal Columbera waved one gauntleted hand toward the forest. “Think we can bypass it?”

“That’ll take all day.” Their suits had jump rockets, of course, but those had limited fuel; if they burned it all hopping around one bunker, they wouldn’t be able to use that mobility in assaulting the next one.

“We can get close enough for V-E if we stay behind this rise.” Columbera pointed to a slight, thickly wooded hillock on the left side of the road. “Maybe within a hundred meters.”

“Could be.” Myron followed the rise on his terrain map for a moment. “Take your section and get as close as you can.” He waved down the road. “Everyone else, on me. We’ve got front door duty on this one.”

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Tales from the Service: The Quickley Fortification

2951-10-04 – Tales from the Service: The Quickley Fortification

“In position Sarge.” Corporal Columbera sounded out of breath; on a world with more or less Terran gravity, like Quickley, that probably meant he and his detachment had been forcing themselves through thick underbrush for most of the last fifteen minutes. “I think so, anyway.”

“Understood.” Sergeant Myron Vergossen took one last look at the terrain map, then dismissed it and called up the targeting display instead. A haloed cross-hair appeared in the center of his helmet’s face-plate, then slid off the lower edge of the armor-glass screen as the display detected which way the railgun attached to his right arm was pointing. Just to be safe, he raised his arm and pointed the weapon toward the underbrush beside the road, and watched the cross-hair reappear.

Around him, most of his squad of Confederated Marines had probably already tested their targeting systems and warmed up their various weapons. The unit’s Rico suits were tough, but something always seemed to break in one of them after several hours of tramping about in the dirt and dust of an alien world; being caught by surprise by a failed targeting optic after the shooting started was not an option.

“Everyone ready?” Myron turned a half-circle to look at each of the men in turn. Less Columbera’s quartet, he had fourteen Marines for the frontal assault. Most of their weapons would do little against the walls of a hardened Incarnation bunker, but that was all right; knocking the position out was Columbera’s job.

Nobody answered vocally over the radio channel, but within two seconds, a series of blue status indicators in Myron’s HUD winked out and returned green.

“Follow me. Heads down.” Myron had already set the position and rough size of the enemy fortification, so it was a matter of two commands to call its virtual likeness up on everyone’s HUD. With as thick as the local underbrush was, the position would probably be invisible in visible-light optics if the Marines didn’t already know where it was.

A drainage ditch with several inches of slimy mud at the bottom provided cover for most of the approach, and within two minutes Myron had his suit’s back pressed to the root-choked slope facing the enemy. He waited as the other Marines, their suits hunched over and almost crawling on their hands and knees, took up positions on either side. No doubt the enemy knew they were coming and already had their guns pointed at the ditch; Incarnation sensor-nets were notoriously good.

“Let’s ring the doorbell, boys.” Myron turned around until it was his suit’s hardened chest-plate, not the weaker back-plate, that was facing the enemy. He reached down to the infantry micro-missiles racked along the sides of his leg, pulled two free, and held them in one huge alloy palm. The missiles, being on the tac-net, had already acquired the target, and now as each Marine readied his own, the weapons automatically established a saturation targeting pattern. A lucky missile could possibly sneak through a firing port, but Myron wasn’t counting on that. He wanted the smoke and debris cloud the salvo would throw up.

“Now.” Myron flicked the two missiles into the air. On either side of him, a swarm of gleaming tubes rose into the sunlight as thirteen other Marines did the same. Infantry missiles were more precise if fired out of launchers, but at close range, against a static target, it didn’t matter. Each one oriented itself with a puff of compressed gas, then zipped away as its solid-fuel rocket kicked in. The thunder and hail of dirt-clods that followed gave no indication of how many the bunker’s point defense had shot down, but Myron didn’t care.

Without needing orders, the Marines around Myron popped their heads and shoulders out of the ditch, leveled their weapons, and let loose. Most of them, armed like Myron himself, sprayed the target with high-velocity ferroceramic projectiles. Aliev and Kinneman pierced the explosion-thrown dust with yellow tongues of flame from their plasma lances, and Singh let loose a four-round burst from his armor-piercing autocannon.

Only a few seconds after the Marines started shooting, Myron sent a fall-back signal, and his Marines ducked back under cover just as the dust plume began to disperse. Most likely, they’d done nothing but rattle the defenders, but rattling was more than sufficient; even as Myron verified that everyone had pulled out of the firing line cleanly, lasers began to slash through the underbrush over their heads.

“Drone shows no obvious damage.” Private Morello, still in control of the tiny scout-drone circling a thousand meters above their heads, sent updated imagery to Myron’s HUD. “But we definitely got their attention, Sarge.”

“You don’t say, Private.” Myron heard a tree, cut in half by high-wattage laser fire, crash down behind them. ‘They’re not saving power, so they’ve got a reactor in there.” This wasn’t too surprising, but it did make their task a bit more dangerous; it meant their enemy could keep up continuous fire forever.

“Sounds like the party’s started, Sarge. Ready for V-E?”

Myron winced as Singh clambered back up to fire a few more cannon rounds and fell back almost immediately with a pair of glowing spots on his chestplate. “Not yet, Columbera. But get ready.”

“Aye, Sarge.”

It sounds like the bulk of the fighting in the Lee-Hosha system is over, but this account from the first day of the battle will take at least one more week to relay in this space.

Our own Nojus Brand, who went groundside with the Marines, reported back that he and the other civilian correspondents have entered the spaceport site at Q-S1, which was incomplete at the time the Incarnation occupied the world, and which they finished to use the place as a depot. Unfortunately for Seventh Fleet, the garrison slagged most of the infrastructure when it became clear that they were doomed, and the place needs almost as much work as it did to begin with before the world will be good for anything.

Nojus has taken many stills and many hours of footage of the battle’s aftermath, most of which should be available on our corporate datasphere hub within a few days of this posting. Obviously, any imagery that shows Confederated casualties will not be shown, out of consideration for the families of those wounded and killed.

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Tales from the Service: A Vertical Envelopment

2951-10-18 – Tales from the Service: A Vertical Envelopment

Though the concept of vertical envelopment has existed in combat doctrines since before the First Space Age, I doubt most of our readers are familiar with the concept as it is conducted by Confederated Marines in this conflict. In brief, it is the act of attacking an enemy from an unexpected direction through the air while that enemy is already engaged in battle. We’ve covered unorthodox uses of the jump rockets on Rico suits many times in this text feed, but this tactic is one of the most orthodox uses of this equipment.

Video recordings of this tactic are quite spectacular; though there are no good videos available on the datasphere of its use in combat, there are a number of videos of Marines performing vertical envelopment in training exercises which can be found with a few searches, and I highly recommend doing so. Such video would make an excellent visual reference for this account of the tactic from the now-concluded assault on Quickley in the Lee-Hosha system.

As soon as he had checked that Singh was all right, Sergeant Myron Vergossen consulted the drone’s overhead view of the situation. The rocket swarm had cleared most of the concealing brush from in front of the enemy bunker, but had done little real damage. The squad couldn’t go too much farther in the drainage ditch before it turned and became exposed to enemy fire, and the crashing of fallen trees behind him was sufficient proof that there would be little benefit in pulling back into the woods. The bunker’s lasers would scythe through the trees for hundreds of yards.

In the privacy of his helmet, Myron winced. As usual, the enemy had set up their defenses well; there was no way to draw sustained fire from the fortification without giving them something to shoot at. Singh’s armor had withstood a few hits from a small-wattage pulsebeam, but there was at least one heavy emitter in there capable of severing thick, ancient tree-trunks in an instant; their armor probably wouldn’t be able to shrug that off so easily.

“Listen up, boys.” Myron kept up his gruff, hard-as-armor-plate tone as best he could, even though this was the part of being a non-com that hated the most. “On my signal, get up there and give it to ‘em with your primary, then get back down. And keep doing it again until I call a halt. Watch for friendly transponders in your fire arc.”

A series of acknowledging clicks and chirps indicated that everyone had heard. While the Marines scrambled into ready positions, Myron switched channels. “Columbera, start your V-E when you hear shooting again. Lead with rockets on the way in. We’ll keep them distracted.”

“Aye, Sarge.” Columbera sounded eager, and Myron couldn’t blame him; there was little more thrilling in the life of a Marine than an offensive jump-rocket maneuver. There was also little more dangerous, especially if the rest of the squad couldn’t keep those lasers occupied. Mid-jump, Columbera and his fellows would be totally exposed, out in the open in every sense of the word.

The danger would only last a few seconds. Whoever was going to get hurt or killed would probably not even realize it until it was all over. “Make ready.” Myron found a spot from which he could execute his own orders. After all, if someone was going to buy the plot today, he was at least as good a candidate as anyone else. “Go, go!”

As one, the Marines in the gully rose up head and shoulders above the lip and started firing. Railguns rattled, autocannons thumped, and plasma lances blazed away toward the enemy bunker.

Return fire was instantaneous. Myron’s suit flashed warnings as he took two low-wattage laser hits to his chestplate, and another to the far lighter armor on the suit’s forearm, far beyond where his own fingertips were. The hits did little real damage, but he dropped back down, moved to the side, and popped up again in another place.

When the sensors in the suit’s low mechanical head once again cleared the ditch’s rim, Myron saw a quartet of smoke-trails arcing through the sky above the bunker. He swept his railgun across the target at random as a flurry of white-hot motes zipped down from the sky to explode on the bunker’s flat roof.

Even before the explosions had faded into smoke, four Rico suits, their feet enveloped in fire, slammed down in their epicenter. Columbera and his three associates plunged right through the synthcrete roof, weakened as it was by the blasts, and vanished inside the bunker.

“Fall back!” Myron, already heeding his own recommendation, dropped back down, then turned to survey the damage.

As he’d expected, there had been casualties. Most of the Marines had scorched or still-glowing spots on their armor, but only two suits showed internal damage to systems and Marine – Kinneman was down with his chest armor melted nearly through and still red-hot, and Jedynak’s right arm hung lifeless, the machinery within spitting black smoke and occasional spurts of hydraulic oil.

Myron pointed toward Kinneman. “Get him out before he cooks. He’s still got a pulse but his suit’s a loss.”

Two Marines immediately flipped Kinneman over and began prying apart the suit’s interleaving rear plates. When they broke the atmo seal, hot, steamy air billowed out, followed shortly afterward by a red-faced and gasping Private Kinneman. Despite bearing a garish burn across the left side of his face, Kinneman got to his feet quickly, then dove briefly back into his suit to retreive his side-arm and Nine.

“Bunker is clear, Sarge.” Columbera was almost cheering his report. “Heavy weapons spiked and reactor scrammed. No casualties.”

Myron breathed a sigh of relief. Once Marines were inside a tight space like the bunker, Incarnation infantry were largely powerless and they knew it, but that didn’t mean there was no danger to the marines who’d penetrated the fortification. “Good work, Corporal. We’ll come up to you.

Switching channels, Myron raised his robotic fist. “Columbera’s cleared the bunker. Move up.” While the other Marines hurried up the slope, he turned to the other casualty. “Jedynak, are you stable?”

“Suit arm’s toast, Sarge. Mine’s pretty cooked too.” Jedynak’s voice was an octave higher than usual. “I’ll live. God bless painkillers, eh?”

Myron sighed and dropped a med-evac beacon. “Might be an hour or two before the lifter gets here and we have to keep pushing. Keep your heads down, both of you.”

“Aye, Sarge.” Jedynak waved in the direction of the bunker with his remaining arm. “Should we take cover in there?”

“Negative.” Myron stopped half-way up the slope and turned back toward the wounded pair. “Do not occupy the bunker. Take the beacon back along this gulley a little way.” He pointed skyward. “You know our artillery and air cover.”

Jedynak chuckled nervously. “That I do, Sarge.”

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