Thrust Vector - Log 5: Ties of Blood
From the outer docking lanes, the distant city was incredible. Without the stresses and occupation of repairing a combat damaged warship, there was a replacement of pure amazement at the view.
Industrialist construction was layered with megastructure, cities rising skybound atop the levels beneath them. Rusting metal ubiquitous in composition, centuries old platforms a foundation to the giant constructs that held countless souls.
The gravity generators, beyond the count of trained eyes, were scattered almost randomly across the metal horizon. Such decaying pillars of the modern world were thinner and taller than the massive sole stem of Ledenoft, the relative size of the populous city a necessity for chaotic placement.
Instead of the growing fields of engineered foodstuffs, the lives of this city state was its battery. Millions strong, a thinking, breathing, unliving creature that produced the greatest asset of this broken world: blood and flesh.
A hard, clean wind blows past the four pilots from the open air to the south. Hair and uniforms are picked up by the natural force moving between the grand desert behind them towards the cold north.
“Chaddesion.” Mei opens her arms as if she was trying to embrace the metal horizon. “Didn’t think I’d ever get to see it, but look at me now!”
The noise of an active loadyard overwhelms all thought as a convoy of shipping trucks roars past them a dozen meters away on the road. Clean air is suddenly filled with the stench and black pollution of biodiesel, and Mei’s amazed expression dissipates at the broken idealized image.
“Wonderful.” Colonel Perez coughs as the smell hits his middle aged lungs. “A few million souls packed into this place really is perfect isn’t it?”
The pilots all take a minute to expel the corrupted air out from their systems, stubbornly unmoving from the base of the Decimator’s unloading ramp. Behind them, the never ending movement of machinery and materials grows as trucks and workers load supplies onto the warship behind them.
In the tiny period of time since she arrived to Chaddesion, the Decimator was already being worked upon. Her internals a dozen meters below her topside deck were stripped out in open air for an extremely fast and dangerous field upgrade. Giant strips of armor plating were held in place by thick cabling and controlled gravitons, sparks flying across the exposed guts of the warship as plasma cutters do their surgical work hanging in sky.
An explosive noise sounds across the air as a giant sheet of steel is slammed haphazardly onto the hull of the vessel, turning surprised heads from across the open skyway.
“What the hell are they doing back there?” Mei asks.
“Reactor upgrade?” Perez takes the question up to Case.
Silence.
They all look to the metal suit behind them, whose frame looks extremely shaken from crossing the personnel ramp behind them.
“Case you alright?” Perez asks with concern to his voice.
The metal frame doesn’t translate subtle movements well, but the instability of Case’s legs were evident.
“Heights…” Mei shakes her head. “You know of all the things you could be afraid of…”
“I am fine.” Case insists nervously, helmet turning towards the Decimator’s hull.
Three pilots look at the metal suit, concern with a hint of pity in their eyes.
Mei looks at Case with a slightly mischievous smile. “Are you sure Case? I mean we’re going to be walking on a lot of very…”
“It. Is. fine.” Case stares at Mei’s youthful frame with intimidating optical sensors and a harsh filtered voice.
Mei audibly gulps.
“Question Case.” Colonel Perez raises a finger as he tries to delay Mei’s imminent obliteration. “How are you going to keep pace with us?”
Case taps the metal. “This suit has the ability to walk up to twelve kilometers before recharging. I believe your plan today does not require that sort of physical exertion.”
“So you eating and drinking with us then?” Perez continues.
“The life support system maintains my systems, therefore you, Colonel, will not need to spend kebs on alcoholic beverages and food for me. I am here for the social aspect.”
“Makes sense.” Perez looks to the pilots, then frowns as he goes over the words one more time. “And wait, who says I’m paying?”
Case’s suit’s speaker system plays Colonel Perez’s voice. A remembrance of the birth of Gaea come to bit him in the rear. “... I’ll buy you all beer at the end of it.”
“Oooooo.” Mei claps her hands, rubbing her soft palms in anticipation. “It's gonna be a good day today.”
“One round of drinks, that’s it.” Perez says. “I can’t afford buying a Major Yuryev’s worth of vodka, especially a week away from payday.”
“You have one hundred seventy nine point four kebs in your savings account Colonel.” Case supplies from their suit. “Is that considered poor?”
“That’s the Joint savings account.” Perez proudly corrects. “That’s both my sons’ salaries in there as well as my severance. It’s paying off Daniel’s University and keeping them comfortable.”
He pauses. “How much is in my checkings right now?”
“Zero point three kebs.”
“Nice, sounds about right.” The Colonel stops. “Wait Case, how the fuck do you know how much cash I have.”
“It is not secure to have your passcode as your first born son’s name followed by his birth year.” Case mumbles.
The howling wind was the only word in the sky.
“Fuck.”
“I have already changed it to a more secure code. You will find the new one in your personal messages.”
Perez stares at the metal machine. “Ok… thanks Case? I suppose its… well… ”
“Colonel!” A voice on the unloading ramp reaches the pilots.
Four pairs of trained eyes stare at the two approaching figures with dead surprise.
The black tactical vests and strung rifles atop light blue naval fatigues said enough of the two soldiers carefully jogging down the metal decline. No other introduction was needed.
Between the Vector Corps and Marines there was an unspoken respect.
For the Pilots, their wars were fought in constant and endless carnage, a mesh between man and machine beyond what could be achieved in any other place.
Marines were of the same cauldron, but different products. Their battles were ever rare, but such situations almost always enacted massive and horrendous casualties. Close quarters combat within salvaged corridors and tight vessel hallways had metal and flesh blended together in deadly combinations. Shotguns and grenades shredding souls as both sides rip and tear mere meters from each other.
It was the singular duty that was comparable to the Vector Corps in both chaos and casualties.
But despite the connections between them, there was separation. Pilots were hot headed and arrogant, while Marines were strict and stubborn. The clash of cultures created a rift that was bridged by pure and utter respect. A bridge that was burned and rebuilt at convenience.
The lead marine, a young female Lieutenant with short cropped dark hair fluttering over brown eyes speaks first, handing the Colonel an almost translucent sheet of cane paper. “Colonel Perez, I am under carried orders from Captain Ano to be your guard detail for today.”
“Really?” Perez snatches the thin paper from calloused hands, exchanging glances between the words an her young stature. His wise gaze turns into surprise, then a frown. “Really.”
“Correct sir.” She responds without humor.
Colonel Perez looks to her compatriot, an enlisted soldier that was taller but thinner than his officer, a ballistic helmet on his head and a mismatched rifle on his hip. “You sure it was Ano?”
“Yes sir.”
“Well you better actually read your orders next time.”
Colonel Perez stacks them in his head, deconstructing each probable movement of the incoming conversation like a tactication predicting an upcoming engagement.
The immovable object of discipline was about to take to battle a tough, but not unstoppable force of downtime. Impatience from the four pilots ready for weekend leave would always break against the tried and tested mountain of duty and service.
It was better to retreat if defeat is certain rather than to stand and die without meaning.
“These are direct orders from Admiral Balmer.” Colonel Perez waves the paper. “And far be it from me to go against him.”
The pilots all stare at their Leader like he just handed their souls over.
“What?!” Mei gives her commanding officer a look of shock.
“Ok, you want to go against direct orders from the Admiralty? No?” Perez chuckles as he sighs. “Seems like we got some stragglers today.”
The reaction from the Marines is minimal.
“You guys hungry? Want a few beers? I’ll buy first round.”
The Lieutenant pauses. “We are not permitted to engage in activities that will incapacitate our ability to carry out our orders sir.”
Suddenly, there was an objective. No longer under aimless seekers of base hedonistic instincts, the pilots now were the actionable limbs of corrupting activities.
“Oh…?” Mei’s smile turns evil, within her eyes a preparation of the upcoming events. “Is that so?”
“Correct Major.” The Lieutenant nods to the younger frame.
Perez ignores Mei’s intents, his eyes moving up to the suit’s helmet. “Well, Case. What’s first?”
Still connected to the network aboard the Decimator, Case accesses almost all data on Chaddession. Recreation in this city was all focused near the shipyards and military districts. Food and drink, as well as other more illegal activities, formed a block like chain surrounding the edges of the state’s dockyards. The exploitation of payed sailors the market niche for many living in the outer rims of the platforms.
“There is a bar frequented by naval personnel three blocks away.” Case raises the suit’s finger towards the city center. “Twenty drinks per keb paid.”
Mei blinks. “Ouch, I might want to go slow on that.”
Perez scratches his greying hair. “Anything closer? Dalsma wants us in the Military Center at 1530. Said he wanted to watch the Decimator Project’s public announcement with us.”
“Them there is a restaurant four blocks away from our current location, two blocks then to the Military Center.”
Perez nods. “Sounds like a better course for us.”
“Colonel.” The marine interrupts. “Do you have a plan for today?”
They all look at her.
“We’re on weekend leave!” Mei answers instead of her superior officer. “Why the hell do we need plans?!”
The Lieutenant blinks. “Well, I think it is necessary to have at least an idea of your planned route?”
From a face staring towards the distant sky, Alek Markov speaks. “We do not have a plan because it is not necessary.”
All conversation stops, the answer fulfilled.
For a minute, there was nothing other than the sound of wind and machinery. In the empty sky, they all were speechless.
Mei turns around to her compatriots, her arms outstretched; one towards Gaea the other towards the city. Long sand colored hair flies as a fresh new wind blows through them all. “Well come on then! Not like the world’s gonna wait for us!”
Chaddession was a state of many cities. The platforms that created the single being were connected together, clamped down by holding claws the size of battleships. Each metal finger was welded shut from its connection point down to its base, a permanently held union between mobile steel now pressed into one.
Bridges of ancient metal and polycrete connect the tied platforms, the trade lanes of people and vehicles filled to the brink of overload in an economy of ordered chaos. The blur of faces blend together, uniforms of the peace keeper indistinguishable from the sooted black fatigues of the factory worker. From the upper reaches of the gravity generators to the lowest levels of the recyclers, there was a constant drone of beating blood and moving flesh.
The laughter of children echoes around the polycrete structures as the young frames of life play and run the alleys around hab blocks. Held within delicate hands, small constructs of hammered metal were shaped into the crude frames of vectors. An imaginary dogfight splits as children break and run, in their mouths an attempt at making the incomprehensible noises of war.
Clothes lines are strung between dirty concrete habitation blocks, beneath the fluttering articles of attire nothing more than five kilometers of open air. Cars rumble past crowds, the vendor sells his wares towards a passerby, a beggar receives the tiny shred of a keb, an argument breaks out between drunks.
The City State was a independent creature: an amalgamation of polycrete and metal meshed with the living flesh in a desperate sacrifice of humanistic values for survival at the edge of existence.
But if anything, mankind was adaptable in whatever was called for.
At high altitude, the lungs of old humanity were left grasping. But the slate cliff of life itself forced adaptation to the the brink of nothing more than total and absolute change.
If you could not breathe in life, nature would never let you leave the womb.
The thin air that once left climbers dead became as normative as the red blood flowing through veins.
Children were all born sickly, yet grew strong as their bodies were twisted by their unnatural existence in the sky. The dead were placed through the recyclers in a procession of complete custom and utter necessity, their very fibers turned into the foundation of a generation anew.
It was simply the normality of life.
Though, the pilots tried not to think of the baseline origin of the meal placed before them.
A fattening stack of deep fried soy protein breaded by crumbled pastry was smothered in a sauce of blackish color. Piled on a mound of puffed rice atop a thin metal plate, one wondered if it was possible to even consume such a meal without allowing any sort of spillage onto the imitation wood table.
“Oh yes.” Mei is the first to dig in. In an uncontrolled gluttonous spike of unfalliable hunger and grotesque excess she shovels in a mouthful of the meal.
“Manners…” Perez mumbles as he clasps his hands in silent prayer.
“I haven’t had lunch since yesterday.” Mei insists through a full mouth. “I’m hungry ok?”
“Your required daily caloric intake is two thousand two hundred and one calories.” Case adds at the end of the table. “This meal is estimated at one thousand and seventy four. Therefore it is recommended to add thirty calories to this meal if you are to only eat one other meal today.”
Mei looks to the sole waiter at the end of the empty establishment. In the man’s tired eyes, unrecovered shock at the militant collective of pilots and marines. “Beer please!”
“Shitfaced at 1230.” Perez finishes his short communion and opens his eyes. “And I thought we were visiting Dalsma this afternoon.”
“Ah it's fine!” Mei laughs, then turns her eyes to the Marines.
The soldiers both stood at the entrance way, uncocked assault rifles hanging from their hips. The pair almost looked like toy soldiers, each stringently standing upright as they stand on each end of the doorway.
“Hey!” Mei motions for the two. “You guys hungry?!”
They look at each other in unison.
“Come on you gunheads!” Mei waves them down.
The young Lieutenant blinks. “Sorry but…”
Case doesn’t move, but their machined voice shatters the thought process. “Lieutenant Tiana. You have consumed a total of two hundred calories today. By falsely assuming you would be let on shore leave at 0742 this morning you decided to drink two glasses of carbonized soft drink added with hard liquor along with Squad Four, smuggled from Ledenoft’s central brewery. It is medically recommend you to consume a high caloric meal, in order to better allow for the digestion and expulsion of previously consumed substances.”
Mei glances at Case, then to the pair of marines. “Case has more dirt on ya, wanna see?”
The Marines exchange a strange glance between themselves and pilots.
Colonel Perez stops the metal utensil. The piece of precious nutrition hanging between destination and origin as uncertain feelings run through its pilot Master. Learned wisdom and earned power flows through the saged glance he shoots at them. “I don’t think that would be necessary. Will it?”
Rifles are placed leaning on the table, tactical vests unbuckled as chiseled and built frames sit upon uneasy chairs.
“Two more meals please!” Mei yells.
The bridge between worlds was extended, a forced migration by wisdom and experience utterly killing all resistance. First step towards corruption complete, the game commenced.
It was all entertainment, Pilots trying to carve through the Marine corps was nothing more than an attempt to undermine the values built into them. Mountains never broken, but still fun to squeeze a few beers into such a construct.
The marine Lieutenant sits next to Mei, finding her presence most close to home within the band of intimidating gods.
As the conversation moves towards Colonel Perez, Mei leans into the marine’s ears. “You know who you’re sitting in front of right?”
Lieutenant Tiana looks up, finding herself in front of Lieutenant Alek Markov.
The Alek Markov.
“I’ll give you half a Keb if you manage to talk to him.” Mei offers.
“What?!” Tiana looks.
“If you get something personal out of him, I’ll give you a whole keb.”
“I am sitting right here.” Markov shoots.
Mei winks at Lieutenant Tiana. “Goooood luck.”
Despite the separation between the services, the propaganda that sung the songs of the Vector Crops was incredibly and insanely invasive within all levels of society. The combat, the personalities of every individual within that cockpit was so foreign in the military they were practically living in their own universe.
It was no surprise, with such daring combat and grand characters that the propaganda basically wrote itself.
The two marines that sat at the table were overshadowed by the reputation of the divine, the laughter and language of such conversations so utterly beyond their scopes of knowledge that they only could remain in quiet awe.
Her eyes watch the silent frame of Lieutenant Markov sift through his meal.
In his slow movements, there was a strange sort of instability. The darkened eyes completely different than those of his comrades, deep thought behind them consuming the marine’s gaze into oblivion.
It was like staring down the barrel of a thermobaric grenade launcher, an absolute trigger pull away from the end of nothing.
She looks away when the Pilot turns his head towards her gaze, an awkward exchange of sight lines destroyed in a matter of seconds.
Mei signals Case as she sees the observed exchange at the end of the table, a low glance of her grey eyes held intent within.
The beer comes down to the table, the precious gold liquid within a steel tumbler darkened to black without clear light. Carbonization crackles onto the surface as Mei brings the vessel close to her face.
Case rumbles through their suit, their equivalent of a cough for attention hailing the senses of the military personnel. “Take care when consuming that beverage Mei. It has a 24% alcohol by volume content.”
“Oh dear… ” Perez worryingly grins, in his voice a stifled and surprised laugh. “That’s basically a hard wine.”
“Oh shut up it's fine!” Mei grasps the warm container and downs a third of the contents in a single attempt.
Shock emanates at the alcoholic ability of the tiny girl sitting in front of them, her single gulp of the substance cementing itself in the tales of legends.
“Two more of these and I’ll be good.” She laughs.
Perez shakes his head as he turns to the rest of the personnel. “There are those who drink because they enjoy it, and there are those that drink to get drunk.”
“Shut it.” Mei raises a finger as she slams the steel cup onto the polymer table. “I fly a vector better shitfaced anyway.”
“46 additional points in a simulator.” Case brings up from her personnel record. “Mei also has fifty seven air kills with a .12 blood alcohol content.”
“See?” Mei motions towards Case, her cheeks ever so reddening. “The facts don’t lie.”
“I can’t even start a vector with a few light beers in my system.” Perez says. “How the hell do you do it?”
“Eh, it’s been passed down in the family. All the way back to Earth War… I think. I dunno.”
Lieutenant Tiana takes her eyes off of the girl, looking over to Alek Markov. She seizes the opening, driving the pike of words into the chink of opportunity. “Is she always like this?”
Markov pauses as he thinks over her short sentence. His response is as if he was talking to himself rather than another entity in the world. “She’s no more different than any of us.”
“Really?” The Marine takes a long gaze at the slowly descending drunk. “You pilots are… strange.”
“It is the reality.” Markov replies. “Whether or not it is reflected in our actions it's based on the person in question.”
Within that mind of his, the movement of thoughts was bottlenecked at a place unseeable. Like the marine’s stare after a brutal firefight, the eyes of Lieutenant Markov were tired and overworked. Lifeless orbs hiding something within, an utterly engrossing enigma that was almost begging to be solved by the thoughts of hers.
The Marine Lieutenant dumbly nods her head, Markov’s confusing words meaning nothing in her turning mind.
There was something attracting about the thin frame of the pilot. Not born of the drilled respect within her head, but something more meianal and personal.
She stares at him with her careful eyes. “Markov…if I may ask a sensitive question.”
His cold gaze lingers on the Marine, one that she takes as a affirmation.
“What happened in Block Nine?”
The moon flows down from the sky as tears
A bell screams sorrow into the night
And the bird takes the ashes over the cold waters.
“Have you read the commendation report?” Markov replies coldly.
The daring, the courage, the carnage. The Tale of Alek Markov’s escape from the clutches of the Syndicate was the propaganda piece of the century. Nothing could compare to the impossible odds against pitted against him alone, the triumph of a single pilot the ultimate culmination to the worship of the Vector Corps.
The man before her was nothing less than a god incarnate.
“Yes.” She replies.
Lieutenant Alek Markov’s answer is nothing more than a wall, the killing blow to the dying conversation. “Well, there is nothing more to it.”
Tiana tries to slide between the booby trapped stages of the conversation. The universe falls to nothing more than the pair, the dance of words only exclusive to the girl attempting to walk the minefield of Markov’s mind.
“What did they do to you in there?” She finally asks.
Markov looks at his food for a long time. “It wasn’t as bad as what they said. Propaganda tends to exaggerate certain things.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wasn’t starved, I wasn’t beaten.” Markov blinks. “I mostly spent time talking to others there, listening, waiting… planning.”
“Probably wanted you healthy. You were the ace pilot of the Consortium. Tried to trade you for a lot.” Tiana blinks. “Who were the others?”
“Syndicate Pilots.” Markov says.
“You talked to Syndicate Vector Pilots?”
“Every day, they would come and… we would talk.”
“About what?”
Markov blinks into the table, then looks towards the rest of the pilots. “Same thing here. Everything.”
“Why?”
“It is the reality of our existence.” Markov echoes. “Pilots live in our own worlds. We don’t have many like us. To talk to one you don’t know, it builds understanding.”
“Understanding between the Syndicate.” Tiana shakes her head. “It doesn’t seem possible.”
“Ties of the metal go beyond ties of blood. The liquid in our veins may determine those we surround ourselves with, but the metal we are bound with makes us what we are.”
He didn’t make sense, as if the conversation he was receiving was not the same as the words that came from Tiana’s mouth.
“In vector combat, it’s no longer about Consortium or Syndicate. It’s simply an exchange of skill, nothing more, nothing less. In our world, there is no such thing as war or glory. Nobody truly lives, because within the vector we all die.”
“That’s a cold way of putting it.”
“You know who you kill. That is the problem.” The Pilot’s hollow eyes lock with her’s. There wasn’t anything human within, like a monster situated deep inside the pit waiting to be unleashed upon the world. “Vectors, we exist in limbo. Nothing more than animals within the machine.”
“Oh.” The Marine blinks.
“But there is a curse.”
“What is?”
“Tell me.” Markov looks directly into her eyes, the needle thin wire of focus bridging them. “Do you ever think about those at the other end of the gun?”
“What?”
“When you pull the trigger, do you imagine the life that other person had? Do you imagine their families, their lovers?”
“No.” The Marine honestly answers.
“That is the curse of the Vector Pilot. We all come from the same alien world of reflex and instinct. There is only true understanding between us, and only us.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Tell me.” Markov takes the bite of the meal, swallowing like he was considering something else. “Why don’t you stop and think about those you kill?”
There wasn’t supposed to be this question. There was only duty to the Consortium, and nothing more. She finally speaks after thought. “There isn’t time to hesitate, if you do stop, you die. We just do it.”
A small, but infinitely large smile emerges from Markov’s eyes, as if finally, there was light in the darkest corner of the world. “That is the reality we pilots all live in. Every vector contains another one of our kind. And when we destroy them to save ourselves, there is one less in this lonely world.”
And that was it.
Mei breaks away from Colonel Perez’s war story, leaning in close to the Marine’s ears. “You know, I’ve never seen Markov look or talk at someone like that.”
“Like what?”
Mei takes a relatively conservative gulp of her beverage before continuing. “You got a chance.”
“What?”
“You know they give out serious packages to pilot spouses right~” Mei chuckles.
“I am sitting right here.” Markov echos.
Tiana leans in closer to Mei, her voice of fast concern. “Do you even know what we’re talking about?!”
“Well it sounded intense sooo…”
“He’s telling me the sick reality of being a vector pilot.” Tiana cuts as quietly as possible. “This is not something that leads to whatever you think it leads to!”
“I dunno.” Mei shrugs.
“Markov… sir.” Tiana says. “You have anyone at home?”
“Home?”
“Like… a girlfriend?”
Case stops Tiana. “Possibly a wife, those from City State of Sezuka have an average marital age of seventeen and a half.”
“Arranged?” Mei asks.
Case nods. “Correct.”
“I dunno about that. Seems kinda forced.”
Markov’s words stop them. “It works, and that is what is important.”
Silence bounces between the group as thoughts come together.
Perez doesn’t make eye contact. “What’s her name?”
As if coming from the depths, there was nothing but darkness. Words that were supposed to be as normative as the being he was born with turns into dust. “I… I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember?” Tiana blinks.
“Somethings you shouldn’t remember.” Perez answers for Markov. “Sometimes, it is easier, and less painful, to just forget.”
The minute passes with no other words.
Mei finishes her drink, her mind thoroughly inhibited by the veil of alcohol. “Well this is fucking depressing.”
Case looks to her. “Agreed.”
Colonel Perez waves them both off. The Sage of the Vector sighing as they settle down. “Finish your food people. I think we all need a few beers after this.”
Shore leave was inherently a task enjoyed most by those from the thick of combat. Marines and Pilots were bridged in this uncontrolled celebration of life, a partying culture that is as diverse as the city states themselves.
Though, Mei took it to an extreme beyond the limitations of what could be considered a normal, even as a pilot.
The influence she spread was like a cancer in its growth, consuming weak and floundering egos like a hive mind in its construction.
Like a pressurized jet of water, her words and actions cut into the bedrock of discipline. As the sun moves across the sky, the Marines ever so slightly indulge in their hedonistic desires for recreation. The strict law and cultural requirements of rationing inapplicable to the soldiers of the military, the necessity for life fattened as a gift for the risks they undertake in battle.
Even then, it wasn’t much.
Mei’s intense alcoholism only bound her above the single level of drunkenness and nothing more, Perez’s focus towards the slow enjoyment of foodstuffs only brought him a few calories over his daily requirement, and Markov really didn’t really indulge in food and drink at all.
The reality of hyper scarcity was woven into their beings, the unconscious selflessness of modern humanity a given rather than an active thought.
Drunk, full, and slightly worn, the group of pilots and marines find themselves at gates to the Chaddesion Military Center.
The constructed dome of polycrete and gunnery positions before them was a construct of brutal and industrialist warfare, a monument to the military force stationed within the city of millions.
Thick bunkering able to hold against the shells of hostile warships and enough anti aircraft defenses to shoot down an incoming army of vectors and bunker cracking missiles was the basis of the bastion. It was a fortress able to hold out underneath a total takeover of the state, an invasion that was guaranteed never to come.
The single guard behind the foot thick bulletproof polymer window looks up as Colonel Perez approaches the post.
“Colonel.” The young City Defense Trooper respectfully stands straighter as he sees the rank, eyes widening as the emblem of the Piloting Corps forms in the inexperienced mind. “Sir!”
“Good afternoon Corporal.” Perez nods as he fishes out his military identification from his pocket. “What’s the rule here on squad identification?”
“Squad ID?” The Corporal blinks. “If you are the group leader I only need to see your ID sir.”
“Thank you Corporal.” Perez waves his hand as he respectfully slides the laminated ID card into the booth.
As the young soldier reads over the thin printed polymer card he realizes the status of the man before him. His voice trembles slightly when he hands the identification back. “Colonel Perez… sir. Welcome sir.”
Colonel Perez smiles as he is followed by the his pilots and marine guards into the concrete dome, the Base Guard silently watching in surprise as almost half of the Consortium’s Military skill set strolls past him.
Within that concrete dome, there was a self sustained civilization. The military force of Chaddesion was focused in a singular building, yet split within.
The Naval forces only held a small portion of the space within the structure, the training and recruitment of marines and sailors not requiring as much raw openness compared to the storage and living patterns of the thousands upon thousands of City Defense Troopers.
Tanks and urban pacification vehicles line the yard beneath the dome, lethal and angular shapes rusting upon concrete surface.
Guns of intermediate caliber are mounted atop hulls of armor and tracks. A unstandardized mixture of weapons and armor to the point of total unrecognizability, a force multiplying wall of firepower twisted to defend and destroy the homeland they were pressed into service with.
A soldier wearing the urban grey camouflage of the State Defenses gives a thumbs up standing atop one of the armored vehicles, and the roar of the ancient engine sounds as the driver within turns the key.
Unlike the wire thin wine of the fusion engine, the dirty noise of the tank was felt on the very ground they stood upon. The turret rotates, the eight wheels roll, and the machine turns towards the distant exit behind the pilots.
Every single vehicle was from the surface, remnants of the final dying battles of the wars humanity once fought stowed away and maintained for one last operation.
“Do you see that?” Perez points towards a shape in the distance. “Is that a…”
Behind a group of tracked anti air missile launchers, there was a hidden figure of a vector. Still wheeled, the Craft was probably as old as the original platform of Chadeisson itself. A fighter that was half war machine half artifact of the Exodus War.
And based off of a visual check, it probably wasn’t starting from a simple turn of the starter card.
Case runs the shape through a military database, settling on the closest match. “That is a Mark Three Vector from the United American Coalition.”
“Hmmm, seems they already salvaged any sort of Earth Tech from that.” Perez notes. “But damn, that would be great in the Fortuna Vector Museum.”
“I will take a note of it.” Case nods. “The Third Fleet can use the connections made from the donation.”
Eyes from all personnel in the dome wander towards the group of pilots as they casually stroll towards the Vector Corps building. Recognition from the years of propaganda turning into active minds, the suddenness and realization of the fame before them turns into scared and stunned respect.
Like a chapel witnessing the arrival of Angels, the voices die to a low whisper.
“We are attracting a lot of attention.” Case looks around.
Mei laughs, her slurred voice a bit too loud in the face of the silence. “Nothing is more iconic than yooOuuU Case!”
Perez looks over to Case, his eyes above Mei’s short stature. “Well between us four, there’s enough propaganda to get us to the moon and back, wouldn’t be surprised if everybody here at least has seen something about us.”
A relaxed and tired voice calls out to the pilots. “Gaea!”
The blue of Naval fatigues is plastered against the blank concrete of the Vector Corps’ building, the tall and lanky frame of a man who isn’t quite settled in the life of the two worlds is set against the degrading paint of the Consortium's spread eagle.
“Commander Dalsma!!!” Mei squeals through the blinds of alcohol.
“You guys are late.” Dalsma smiles as he shakes his metal hand at the group. “It’s already 1555.”
“Hey look at Mr. Navy here and his hourly in times.” Perez shoots back with a casual wave. “How were the rookies?”
Dalsma stretches. “Some days I think I would make a better lecturer than Tactical Controller. But you know, nothing beats sitting back a hundred miles away from the battlefield sitting on my ass and drinking coffee.”
“Still didn’t answer the question Dalsma.”
“One hundred and forty for this class.” Dalsma blinks. “Though next year’s might be up to one hundred seventy.”
Cannon fodder.
The first battle for a Pilot was always the deadliest. With a majority of the 30% dead from the Vector Corps hailing to the first twenty minutes of combat.
For those first precious initial seconds, inexperience was weighed against raw talent and pure luck. In the sky, the merciless throws of combat was blinded to the ages of combatants.
Gods were pitted against mortals, those that could barely spread their wings crushed underneath the unknowing steps of the already ascended. An accidental method of elitism, the guarantee that only a select few would truely rise to the top out of random carnage.
And a few it would be.
A hundred and fourty from a generation of thousands, the filtered elite that passed the brutal exams and heartless simulations were about to be thrown towards the meat grinder that turned their lives into nothing more than pawns.
But there was the power of Chadession.
A hundred and forty prospective pilots was better than anything less, the sheer battery of people increasing the chances of another Alek Markov by infinitesimally small margins.
If one life could change the course of history, it was easier to find it with a legion more of cannon fodder.
“My graduating class was like thirty.” Perez remenises. “I wonder how many are…”
“Seventeen have retired, twelve have been declared missing or killed in action, and one is currently in service” Case interrupts.
“Wait, who is in service?!”
Optical sensors stare at the Pilot. “You.”
“Oh.”
“We should call you the Old man.” Dalsma comments. “Perfect nickname.”
Colonel Perez shoots a look, one that desired a retaliatory shot but was held beneath the discipline and wisdom of time.
Vengeance could come later.
Commander Dalsma claps, the noise of a metallic ring upon warm flesh meeting the ears of the pilots. “Well it seems that a few of us already have had a wonderful time enjoying themselves.”
Mei looks up through drooping eyes. “Hey… I’m still mostly sober alright?”
Dalsma blinks. “Mei, Fleet’s still waiting on the combat report you were supposed send yesterday.”
Her grey eyes format a small smile into a slight frown. “Yep. The combat report that was due yesterday.”
“Mei.” Perez says. “You get that in or refs say I have to chew you out.”
Dalsma waves to the rest of the pilots. “Well I was thinking rest of us could watch the announcement in the Officer’s Lounge. It’s mostly quiet at this hour.”
“And finish combat reports.” Case adds.
Mei takes the opportunity to raise her middle finger at the metal machine with drunken uncontrollability. In her haze, it was going to take a miracle to finish a full scale combat report before sundown.
Major Yuryev was known for her incredible miracles on the battlefield, but not so much anywhere else.
Dalsma waves. “Come on, we’re on the clock here.”
The officer’s lounge for Chaddesion’s Military center was small in comparison to the numbers it served. A few booths were laid out without much thought to movement efficiency, the scattering of tables and chairs all somewhat placed facing the two sides of the room.
A single screen was mounted on one of the flat concrete walls, on it was a moving display of the horizon beyond. The simulated window was almost perfect, if not for the knowledge that beyond the thin veil of lights there was nothing but meters of metal armor and bunkering.
“Hey!” Commander Dalsma carefully gathers towards the current occupants.
The few City Defense Officers watching edited vector combat footage on the other screen turn their heads at the voice of a superior. “Yes sir?”
Eyes widen at the four vector pilots behind Dalsma. Fear mixes with utter amazement as minds crash into white noise, the heroes of the Consortium all patiently waiting for a turn at the most base line of entertainment systems.
Mortals suddenly subject to the presences of gods are frozen.
“Here’s the controller… sir.” One manages to sputter.
It was true power, to get something without even asking. Dalsma tries not to express any emotion as he takes it. “Thank you Captain.”
The screen flickers as Dalsma attempts to fiddle with mysterious technology, the remote in his hands written upon a language beyond his scope of knowledge. A level of salvaged technology diversified to a point of unreadable in the mobility of modern humanity.
Ultimately, standardization was impossible.
Case, Daslma, Mei, and the two marines all gather around the handheld controller. The deconstruction of ancient language and operations parsing through military discipline, brute force knowledge, and drunken improvisation.
Stagnation and degradation, the reality of the amount of information lost to the surface below too obvious in the attempted application of a small stick of buttons and radio towards the flat screen television.
Dalsma looks back at the cowering officers behind them. “Holy fuck how did you guys get this thing work.”
“We just uh…” One trails off.
“We just watch whatever was on sir.” The other finishes.
“The unwise masses.” Colonel Perez motions for the remote. “Let me see that thing.”
The artifact is placed within his hands, the salvaged tech nothing more than a black stick with three worn buttons and a touchpad. A long time ago, it might’ve been the pinnacle of convenience, produced at the bottom of technological requirements. Now, it was a construct to be worshiped, an idolic vessel of the paragon of humanity long before the Exodus War.
“I’ve seen one of these before.” The old pilot remembers as he depresses a few buttons. “I think it's…”
The screen makes a noise.
“Change channel.”
Digitized vector combat is turns into static, then to a civilian broadcaster analyzing the financial statements of Centauri Heavy Industries.
“Where’s the announcement Dalsma?” Perez asks.
The response from the Tactical Controller is confused. “The Third Fleet bunker?”
“No.” Perez sighs. “What channel is it being broadcasted on?”
Case raises their mechanical voice. “A general military announcement should be broadcasted on all channels.”
Dalsma shakes his head. “This isn’t some kind of incoming attack alert. It’s being presented as a new direction for the Third Fleet.”
“General governance channel then, sounds good.”
Perez speaks into the remote. “Government Channel.”
//Processing
The Emblem of the Third Fleet; the sword drawn from the spine of a thick book, rolls across the bottom right of the screen. In the briefing room, the movements of the Ministry of Truth representatives was of tired and board wanderings. Mindless souls awaiting the beginnings of an advertised announcement as they move in front of the raised platform.
From left stage, behind the podium, the frame of young, brutal, hardline experience strolls out.
Captain Sitz clears her throat into the microphone, the general noise of the briefing room dying down to a whisper underneath the authority of the military. “Representatives of the Department of Truth, Admiral Balmer will now announce the Decimator Project.”
Dalsma leans back with his heads on his head, running his fingers through his thick black hair. In his face the eyes of deep and approaching shock. “Uh oh…”
“What’s wrong?!”
“Balmer’s making the announcement.” Dalsma responds as if answering the question. “This… this is going to be interesting… ”
“The Admiral sounds like a pretty good guy.” Perez recounts. “Kinda wanted to have a drink with him before we left Ledenoft.”
“Oh he’s a great person don’t get me wrong. He’s just never gets on topic.”
“What do you mean?”
“He doesn’t convince people with facts. He turns you into a friend, and then manipulates you to his perspective.” Dalsma supplies. “How did you think he got me on the project?.”
Through the broadcast, Admiral Balmer’s frame is slightly distorted. In the lost pixels, he takes a deep breath and wipes his forehead, preparing for battle.
The Admiral’s voice from the screen seems forced and forged, as if he was a talking machine reading text from a document. “Thank you all for coming today. I understand that it is difficult for many to arrive, and your presence alone has made history for the Third Fleet and the Consortium as a whole.”
The Admiral nervously looks at the already sitting members of the media. “You may be seated.”
Dalsma wheezes from the sofa, in his eyes shock. “FUCK THEY HAVE HIM READING OFF A SCRIPT!”
“For the past few weeks, the Syndicate has been using a singular asset against Consortium Operations in the Asea and Europia continents. I am sure you have all heard of it: the vector squadron known as Sky Team.”
Behind him, the seal of the Third Fleet changes to four photos. Gaea immediately recognizes the frames of hyper advanced vectors. Fingers grip to chairs, eyes widen as the battle is recounted in memory over and over again.
“The vectors they use are highly advanced in comparison to the standard craft we are currently fielding. So far, they have enacted casualties and damages beyond anything in history. This is the reason why we have brought you here.”
He pauses as he takes a deep breath. “The Third Fleet has developed a countermeasure.”
The outline of the Decimator is framed against a pale blue background. Lethality and destruction combined into the shape of a warship unlike any other.
“The Decimator is, and will be the Third Fleet’s only battleship. She is without a doubt, the single most powerful warship in the Consortium. Built with the best materials and crewed by the greatest sailors of our time, the Decimator is designed for a singular purpose only: the total annihilation of all Syndicate Forces. This vessel is the pinnacle of the Decimator Project.”
“Good start…” Dalsma murmurs.
As if a switch was thrown, the Admiral stares blankly. “Now, I will explain the economic impact of such a vessel in its desired role.”
The pilots sit shocked as they hear Admiral Balmer drone into the nothingness of numbers. “What…?”
The looks coming from the staff of the Department of Truth are similar: empty and bored, forced to sit and listen to the level voice of an authority figure like students in a lecture.
“Wow this is booooooooring!!!” Mei drunkenly yells at the screen from behind the lounge after the first few minutes pass.
“Finish the report Major!” Dalsma shoots back.
Perez raises his finger as if to shush children. “Wait he’s focusing on the Decimator. Not Gaea.”
“Not yet.” Case corrects. “I have acquired his speech from the Third Fleet database. Gaea is only mentioned for a single paragraph at the end.”
“How did you find that?!” Dalsma looks back.
“It is available on Central file database. I have a copy of you want one.”
“No? I think I’m fine with not spoiling this wonderful script they’ve prepared.”
“Are you certain?” Case asks.
“I’m being sarcastic Case, give it to me.”
On his phone, Dalsma scans over the pages. The words, even already familiar to the frame of the man, were seemingly created to be confusing and off putting.
There was no justice to express the importance of the Decimator Project, and this was nothing but a poor representation. “Who the hell even wrote this thing?!”
“You’re angry cause you don’t get any credit?” Perez scoffs.
“This Vector Team should literally be the greatest thing the Third Fleet has done. But look at this!”
“Perhaps you are underestimating the impact Gaea Team will have.” Case replies. “The collection of our proportions can dramatically shift the propaganda presentation of the Vector Corps. Instead of adding to the announcement, we would instead distract.”
“You know Case? We’ll see.”
It shrugs, sitting down upon the metal life of their own suit.
The twenty minutes pass as slow as the movements of the stars. Balmer’s droning voice utterly lifeless as members of the media slowly lose interest in the ultimate weapon development of their time.
Force projection reports, cost analysis, all the most foreign and technical terms were placed at priority, seemingly purposefully extending the presentation to match the most menial and boring topics available. The weapons, the engines, the armor, everything and anything remotely interesting or entertaining was glossed over without second thought.
The Admiral’s finishes the last paragraph, something about estimated return on special warfare projects before letting the room settle.
Nothing.
Seemingly at once, the Admiral turns human again. His lips focus towards a vicious smile, one of victory and nefarious manipulation. “Oh, and one more thing.”
The presentation behind the Admiral turns towards four distinct vectors, the shapes almost purposefully created to dazzle and intimidate.
Four faces are alleged to each. The ancient wisdom, the laughter of arrogance, metal, and monster.
The Admiral smiles. “We have gathered these members of the Vector crops to act as theDecimator’s primary vector team. I am sure you are familiar with them.”
Energy snaps in the room, a flood of hype surges as voices rise.
“We are calling it: Gaea. Meaning Earth in the old language.”
Combat footage from the engagement with the Covenant of Medditerria is blasted onto the screen behind him. Audio is piped from anti air gunners and the calls of Gaea Team, the voices distorted by jammers barely audible over gunfire.
Carnage and unending warfare screams between vector cameras, Covenant craft torn to shreds and strafing runs against the rogue city bringing the audience to noises of awe and terror.
“At this current moment, there is a threat within the Medditerrian Zone: A rogue nation state that is responsible for numerous disappearances of vessels from the Consortium, Syndicate, and neutral powers.”
He pauses to allow for the words to be heard. “As of this moment, a Task Force will be engaging this threat to secure not only Consortium interests, but the interests of humanity as a whole.”
Across the Officer’s lounge, phones ring. The general recall order’s shrill tone was created to incite panic, fear. Like a klaxon at combat alert, the phones come out of pockets and eyes are glued towards screens of text.
//Immediate Recall Order Issued
//Return to Assigned Deployments
//Message Begin
Operation Colossus briefing begins in one hour aboard CS Decimator. All vector Team leaders attend, Task Force Commanding Officers off-site attendance is mandatory.
//Message End
“Operation Colossus?” Perez looks to Dalsma.
Dalsma blinks, and Case looks as confused as the Tactical Controller.
On the screen, combat footage from Gaea’s engagement with the Covenant continues. The battle of gods and heretics edited for nothing less than brutal carnage.
“The Decimator and Gaea Team will be spearheading this excursion into the zone.” The Admiral says. “The intricacies of such an Operation is of course, classified. But I am allowed to disclose its name.”
Every ear turns towards it, the words calling to arms the fury of heroes and gods.
In between the existence of mortals, beings of cold metal and flesh focus towards the singular purpose of existence.
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