Gwalihir
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(Main site: Futuristic - Juggernauts: Mechs vs. Bugs )
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PART ONE:
The Dying of the Light
Orange light from the second sun, Aetrobus II, was casting long shadows across the ground as Johnny swept up his latest hand of cards and presented his poker face. Deke, who had just dealt, watched him like a hawk, then picked up his own hand and let his face turn to stone. Rachel grinned at them all as she chewed her gum, and kept the grin intact as she checked her own cards. Given the stack of chips on her side of the table, she had plenty to grin about. Wanda slumped back in her seat as she raised her cards to her face, betraying nothing. The bidding started.
Sergeant Johnny Tamer was the sharpest dressed of the bunch, his regulation long sleeve still creased at the edges, not a sign he’d been wearing it all day. Same for his slacks, shiny boots and Sergeant’s bars: he could have stepped out fresh dressed an hour before. His blonde hair was clipped short, no buzz cut but too short to ever ruffle. Specialist Deke Sutherland’s hair under his faded, tattered cap was dirty blonde, both in color and literally, hanging down just past his shoulders. His short sleeve was unbuttoned over a tee, creases long gone if they had been there at all, boots looking like he’d just got back from a hike through the desert all around them.
Corporal Rachel Cross’ short sleeve and slacks looked good, but most things did on her. Her brunette hair was tied in back, a rough ponytail. Specialist Wanda Fearing’s wifebeater looked like it had been used to wipe Deke’s boots, and her slacks about the same. Her hair, aside from brunette, looked a lot like Deke’s.
Johnny tossed out four chips and laid his hand down, letting his eyes drift lazily around the table. Rachel and Wanda both saw him, and as usual Deke raised everybody four more. They all saw, and Johnny called for one card. Rachel and Wanda each took two, and Deke one.
Johnny fought the corners of his mouth: his gambit had paid off. Now the game was on…
Sergeant First Class Lincoln came out of the hut, and boots hit the ground. “Sir?” asked Johnny.
“Look alive, troops. We got a new walker pilot and a techie coming in. Wrap it up in five, you hear?”
Lincoln strode away, and the bidding started in earnest. Knowing it was the last hand made everyone a bit more competitive, and only Wanda folded. Deke had two pair, Rachel had three nines, and Johnny covered them both with his flush. Chips were passed, and by mutual accord would be traded for cash later.
The Cerberus hovercraft was perhaps one of the most heavily armed HC’s in the field. Featuring a mid-range Ultra AC20 (capable of double firing rate), a long range Gauss rifle (rail gun) and an Extended Range PPC, its variety of weapons meant it could cripple even a heavy or assault mech in one volley with just a little luck. For smaller targets in large quantities it also featured four .50 cal heavy machine guns, each mounted over where a wheel base would be if a HC had such.
So it was unusual to see such a craft out here, especially when the main purpose of the trip was merely personnel transport. The three squads stood at attention as the HC cruised slowly to its assigned parking space and powered down.
The hatch on the side of the Cerberus opened and the pilot emerged, followed by his crew and passengers. All saluted and waited for Captain Powell to return the salute, which she did promptly. The pilot approached the Captain.
“Corporal Guy Chavez reporting, ma'am. I have your reinforcements, and was instructed to stay with you temporarily as intelligence reports what appears to be a massing of Bugs possibly headed in this direction. I understand you have some of the heaviest mechs ever developed in your squads, but they wanted to give me a blooding in the field as well. Hope you don’t mind.”
Captain Powell was one of those diminutive women who, at around 80 pounds, almost made one believe that humanity was composed of two different-sized races. Nonetheless she had proven her capability time and again, and was a force of nature to be contended with.
“Welcome to the team, Corporal Chavez. If intelligence is correct, you’ll get that blooding soon enough. Just keep that behemoth back with our forces and don’t run forward, do anything stupid, and you might survive it.
“Now: my replacements?”
A tall black man and medium sized caucasian woman, both in impeccable dress whites, stepped forward and saluted again.
“Sergeant Cyrus Brown, at your service, ma'am.”
“Specialist Randy Tyler, ma'am, likewise.”
Captain Powell returned the salutes and stepped forward.
“Sergeant Brown: what is the largest mech you have experience piloting?”
Brown smiled. “100-ton Mastodon, ma'am. Quad mech, dual Gauss rifles, sir.”
Powell nodded. “Congratulations on your promotion, Sergeant. Your new mech will be a 200-ton centaur Mastiff, code named Darkstar. You will be pilot and forward gunner: Specialist Zachary Wilson will be your rear gunner.”
Zach stepped forward. “An honor and a pleasure to meet you, sir. I am sure we’ll make a great team.”
Like Powell, Zachary might well have been the runt of a litter. Either that, or his body just stopped maturing. He looked to be about fifteen years of age, and the three week-old crew cut he wore did nothing to help.
This time Sgt Brown did not smile. He gave Zach a cold onceover and turned back to Powell. “I am a mech pilot, ma'am. I thought it was understood that I do not carry excess personnel into battle.”
“That is well understood, Sergeant.” Powell’s voice had turned quite sharp. “The day that Specialist Wilson comes in from the field with fewer confirmed kills than you is the day I will eat my hat. Wilson will have your six, your three and your nine: all you have to do is take out the nasties directly in front of you. You will learn to appreciate his handiwork, and you will grant him your respect starting now, Sergeant, or find yourself piloting a whirlygig solo until you do.”
The Sergeant straightened up and turned back to Wilson. “My apologies for my conduct, Specialist Wilson. There are aspects of this assignment about which I was uninformed. Please accept my apologies.”
Wilson nodded. “No hard feelings, Sergeant. If you like, we can make it a friendly competition. Your drinks are on me for a month if you ever score a higher kill rate than I do. My drinks are on you until you do.”
The Sergeant rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Let me see the specs on the Mastiff before I go writing checks my guns can’t cash.”
Wilson nodded. “Fair enough, Sergeant.”
Powell turned to the lady, Specialist Randy Tyler, giving her a quick once over.
“Specialist Tyler: what is your area of specialty?”
Specialist Tyler stood to attention. “Hexapodal drive trains, ma'am. But I do have other more useful skills, ma'am. In field weapons maintenance, engine maintenance, heat sink maintenance--”
Powell raised a hand to stop her. “Have you any experience or knowledge concerning octopodal drive trains?”
Tyler laughed. “Experience? No, ma'am: they haven’t built any yet. But I did study the theory and application, ma'am.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Specialist. They have built three octopodal mecha, and this unit has command of one of them. It is an 800-ton Tarant310, and you will soon be her runner. Until then, you are under the command of Chief Isaac Saenz, who will instruct you in the repair techniques specific to the octopodal drive and other elements of an 800-ton mecha. You will meet the Chief shortly.”
Tyler nodded. “Ma'am, yes, ma'am!”
Powell appeared to relax a bit. “Your timing was perfect. Find your tents and spruce up; mess is almost ready in the chow hall. Please inform the Cerberus crew they are welcome to join us.”
Characters
OOC
Recruit
Lore
PART ONE:
The Dying of the Light
Orange light from the second sun, Aetrobus II, was casting long shadows across the ground as Johnny swept up his latest hand of cards and presented his poker face. Deke, who had just dealt, watched him like a hawk, then picked up his own hand and let his face turn to stone. Rachel grinned at them all as she chewed her gum, and kept the grin intact as she checked her own cards. Given the stack of chips on her side of the table, she had plenty to grin about. Wanda slumped back in her seat as she raised her cards to her face, betraying nothing. The bidding started.
Sergeant Johnny Tamer was the sharpest dressed of the bunch, his regulation long sleeve still creased at the edges, not a sign he’d been wearing it all day. Same for his slacks, shiny boots and Sergeant’s bars: he could have stepped out fresh dressed an hour before. His blonde hair was clipped short, no buzz cut but too short to ever ruffle. Specialist Deke Sutherland’s hair under his faded, tattered cap was dirty blonde, both in color and literally, hanging down just past his shoulders. His short sleeve was unbuttoned over a tee, creases long gone if they had been there at all, boots looking like he’d just got back from a hike through the desert all around them.
Corporal Rachel Cross’ short sleeve and slacks looked good, but most things did on her. Her brunette hair was tied in back, a rough ponytail. Specialist Wanda Fearing’s wifebeater looked like it had been used to wipe Deke’s boots, and her slacks about the same. Her hair, aside from brunette, looked a lot like Deke’s.
Johnny tossed out four chips and laid his hand down, letting his eyes drift lazily around the table. Rachel and Wanda both saw him, and as usual Deke raised everybody four more. They all saw, and Johnny called for one card. Rachel and Wanda each took two, and Deke one.
Johnny fought the corners of his mouth: his gambit had paid off. Now the game was on…
Sergeant First Class Lincoln came out of the hut, and boots hit the ground. “Sir?” asked Johnny.
“Look alive, troops. We got a new walker pilot and a techie coming in. Wrap it up in five, you hear?”
Lincoln strode away, and the bidding started in earnest. Knowing it was the last hand made everyone a bit more competitive, and only Wanda folded. Deke had two pair, Rachel had three nines, and Johnny covered them both with his flush. Chips were passed, and by mutual accord would be traded for cash later.
- * * * * * * *
The Cerberus hovercraft was perhaps one of the most heavily armed HC’s in the field. Featuring a mid-range Ultra AC20 (capable of double firing rate), a long range Gauss rifle (rail gun) and an Extended Range PPC, its variety of weapons meant it could cripple even a heavy or assault mech in one volley with just a little luck. For smaller targets in large quantities it also featured four .50 cal heavy machine guns, each mounted over where a wheel base would be if a HC had such.
So it was unusual to see such a craft out here, especially when the main purpose of the trip was merely personnel transport. The three squads stood at attention as the HC cruised slowly to its assigned parking space and powered down.
The hatch on the side of the Cerberus opened and the pilot emerged, followed by his crew and passengers. All saluted and waited for Captain Powell to return the salute, which she did promptly. The pilot approached the Captain.
“Corporal Guy Chavez reporting, ma'am. I have your reinforcements, and was instructed to stay with you temporarily as intelligence reports what appears to be a massing of Bugs possibly headed in this direction. I understand you have some of the heaviest mechs ever developed in your squads, but they wanted to give me a blooding in the field as well. Hope you don’t mind.”
Captain Powell was one of those diminutive women who, at around 80 pounds, almost made one believe that humanity was composed of two different-sized races. Nonetheless she had proven her capability time and again, and was a force of nature to be contended with.
“Welcome to the team, Corporal Chavez. If intelligence is correct, you’ll get that blooding soon enough. Just keep that behemoth back with our forces and don’t run forward, do anything stupid, and you might survive it.
“Now: my replacements?”
A tall black man and medium sized caucasian woman, both in impeccable dress whites, stepped forward and saluted again.
“Sergeant Cyrus Brown, at your service, ma'am.”
“Specialist Randy Tyler, ma'am, likewise.”
Captain Powell returned the salutes and stepped forward.
“Sergeant Brown: what is the largest mech you have experience piloting?”
Brown smiled. “100-ton Mastodon, ma'am. Quad mech, dual Gauss rifles, sir.”
Powell nodded. “Congratulations on your promotion, Sergeant. Your new mech will be a 200-ton centaur Mastiff, code named Darkstar. You will be pilot and forward gunner: Specialist Zachary Wilson will be your rear gunner.”
Zach stepped forward. “An honor and a pleasure to meet you, sir. I am sure we’ll make a great team.”
Like Powell, Zachary might well have been the runt of a litter. Either that, or his body just stopped maturing. He looked to be about fifteen years of age, and the three week-old crew cut he wore did nothing to help.
This time Sgt Brown did not smile. He gave Zach a cold onceover and turned back to Powell. “I am a mech pilot, ma'am. I thought it was understood that I do not carry excess personnel into battle.”
“That is well understood, Sergeant.” Powell’s voice had turned quite sharp. “The day that Specialist Wilson comes in from the field with fewer confirmed kills than you is the day I will eat my hat. Wilson will have your six, your three and your nine: all you have to do is take out the nasties directly in front of you. You will learn to appreciate his handiwork, and you will grant him your respect starting now, Sergeant, or find yourself piloting a whirlygig solo until you do.”
The Sergeant straightened up and turned back to Wilson. “My apologies for my conduct, Specialist Wilson. There are aspects of this assignment about which I was uninformed. Please accept my apologies.”
Wilson nodded. “No hard feelings, Sergeant. If you like, we can make it a friendly competition. Your drinks are on me for a month if you ever score a higher kill rate than I do. My drinks are on you until you do.”
The Sergeant rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Let me see the specs on the Mastiff before I go writing checks my guns can’t cash.”
Wilson nodded. “Fair enough, Sergeant.”
Powell turned to the lady, Specialist Randy Tyler, giving her a quick once over.
“Specialist Tyler: what is your area of specialty?”
Specialist Tyler stood to attention. “Hexapodal drive trains, ma'am. But I do have other more useful skills, ma'am. In field weapons maintenance, engine maintenance, heat sink maintenance--”
Powell raised a hand to stop her. “Have you any experience or knowledge concerning octopodal drive trains?”
Tyler laughed. “Experience? No, ma'am: they haven’t built any yet. But I did study the theory and application, ma'am.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Specialist. They have built three octopodal mecha, and this unit has command of one of them. It is an 800-ton Tarant310, and you will soon be her runner. Until then, you are under the command of Chief Isaac Saenz, who will instruct you in the repair techniques specific to the octopodal drive and other elements of an 800-ton mecha. You will meet the Chief shortly.”
Tyler nodded. “Ma'am, yes, ma'am!”
Powell appeared to relax a bit. “Your timing was perfect. Find your tents and spruce up; mess is almost ready in the chow hall. Please inform the Cerberus crew they are welcome to join us.”
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