Empires: The Story

Discussion in 'Worldbuilding' started by DonMegel, May 10, 2006.

  1. DonMegel

    DonMegel Member

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    -- 17 --

    “But mom! Snowflake is MY cat!”

    “I know that Nathanial, but we all talked about it, and-“

    “I said no! I said I didn’t want to!”

    “We don’t have a choice, you know how tight things are right now.”

    Not willing to concede defeat but knowing in his heart the hopelessness of his cause, the seven-year-old’s big brown eyes began to fill with salty alligator tears. He had received the white feline years earlier as a tiny kitten and together the two had grown up, explored their limited world, been surprised, hurt, happy and sad within the dozens of yards surrounding the meager farm house. So far as the child could remember his seldom clean companion had been with him all his life. His parents had struggled over what to do about the animal for weeks and, only after speaking to the veterinarian for the third time, made the decision to have “snowflake” put down.

    The cancer had spread. Children just don’t understand.

    “Bu- bu- bu-“ his protests sputtered out like a Bi-wing fighter of years past before finally crashing amidst a torrent of wailing tears. Out of genuine pain and loss the freckle faced boy raced across the room and fastened his dirty hands around the woman who had been his mortal foe moments earlier.

    “It’s alright baby” she said as gently as possible while rubbing his dirty-blonde hair, “I know…”

    It was a cruel twist of fate that the boy’s last feelings were that of sadness and anger. Fate, of course, would argue that it had been kind, as the boys death was swift, leaving no room for fear or pain. But that the boy died in the first place, regardless of his last thoughts or methods by which it happened, was another mark against remorseless fate, for the boy and his family had done no wrong, committed no trespass, not that fate cared for reasons. Fate cared only for what was, what is, and what will be; everything else was the trappings of the living.

    A lone figure shimmering against the setting sun pondered these things as he crouched not one hundred yards from the burning homestead. Even from that distance the heat radiating from the towering flames warmed his exposed forehead and evoked tiny beads of sweat who each raced to reach the bottom of his unshaven face.

    Carl shuttered. He had done many things for king and country over the course of his lengthy military career; objects had to be destroyed, people killed, lives changed. But, this was different, this war was different, everything was. Then again, twenty seven years was a long time.

    At fifty-nine, Carl Vahn was the oldest Lt. Commander in the new Jekotian, the new “Northern Faction” army. In the old Jekotian Military, 60 was the date for mandatory retirement and although there was no such restriction in this new world, any one still in the service at that age who had yet to promote past Lt. Commander was in need of psychiatric help. However, most people couldn’t claim to have been in stasis for twenty five years.

    Sergeant Carl Vahn, along with several thousand of the bravest and most talented men and women still fighting with the defeated Jekotian Empire, had volunteered to be entombed together with a smattering of hardware in the hopes of giving Jekotia another chance after the war. Each was promoted to Lt. Commander in a massive ceremony the night before the risky procedure (163 died while asleep) as a way to say thanks for giving up the honor of dieing with their comrades in the glorious last stand that was to come.

    Carl wished he had. Faces of friends and families long dead paraded through his mind as he leaned against the pot marked boulder, his tattered, gray Jekotian tunic flapping wildly in the brisk evening air. When he had settled down in that chamber so long ago he was doing so as a sacrifice for a beloved nation. He went to sleep as a Recon Force Operative, a highly skilled scalpel with which to sever enemy diseases. He had gone to sleep as a hero, as a hope, as a soldier.

    He woke up a scout.

    When High Commander Patterson, then only a prominent citizen investigating a rumor of military stores, discovered Carl and his small army, there was initial conflict. Obviously there was a question as to how these units should be employed but more importantly what role would these elite men and women have in the rebellion? Should they be leaders and command the new army? Should they be dispersed as agents within the enemies land? Clumped together to form a steel hammer to pierce enemy lines? In the end, Patterson and the other men who would become High and Supreme Commanders, decided raising an army from scratch would require experience that could not be taught from books. And so it was that the pride of Jekotia were distributed as mere scouts to front line units up and down the lines; their years of experience and skill employed as nothing more than a prop to a crippled, under trained civilian army.

    Carl had been one of the lucky ones, if any role in this disgusting “military” could be considered such, chosen to be deployed in a Special Forces role. Yet, in all his years of honored service against worthy Brenodi foes, never had he been called upon to kill women and children for something so pointless.

    Of all the fronts in this latest war, the south with its swamps, islands, jungles and rocky cliffs, was the most porous and undecided. Over the centuries the people of the south had belonged to both Empires in their various forms and even, for a few dozen years, existed independently of either. Such a history of loose allegiances made occupation and conquest difficult at best.

    If it were not for the areas rich resource deposits and ideal naval staging areas, the Northern Faction would simply ignore them and hold the tall bluffs on their side of the sea. But, the area was vital for setting up a firm forward operations base from which a concentrated push could be made into the delicate underbelly of the Brenodi Empire and, in so doing, force recognition of sovereignty to end the war.

    What all this meant was a tiny family eking out a living from a little parcel of land in the middle of no where had to die. The culprit was, so far as the locals would be able to tell, was an Imperial Hellcat retaliating for supposed Factionalist sympathies in the region. The fact that the captured aircraft was piloted by a Jekotian pilot and targeted by a Jekotian scout would remain conveniently unknown.

    Carl really couldn’t care less. What sort of man would murder innocent women and children as some sort of deception in the hopes of garnering favor with other equally helpless women and children? That’s what he had done, he realized as he quietly faded into the brush and rocks that would lead him to his pick up area, committed murder. Sure the airplane dropped the bomb but it was he who pointed it to the house, he who gave the go ahead, he who sealed their fate. Their deaths were on his head and their weight was heavy.
     
  2. Superlagg

    Superlagg Member

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    It looks like a good batch of prose, but with the big blocks of text, it gets rather hard to read through. Paragraphs typically denote the change between a general subject or idea, or where flow would be better, and doesnt often get to more than a few lines. It's gotten better, the blocks are shorter and a little more concise, but it still needs work. Though, remember that flow comes before formatting, do what reads the way you want it read. Other than that, I love it to pieces, hun!

    Also, I gotta say something about the general story. This claims to be true to the world its created in, but not once were there any commanders driving their vans into the enemy tank, APCs used as spawn points (or any spawn points at all), circlejerking turrets to death with calculators, nukespam, high-centering a tank on a wall, water making everything it touches explode, the commander researching nukes without heavies, the commander researching anything (which I guess isnt a problem, it holds true to some battles), SMG3s, grenadiers flipping their own Comm with mines, grenadiers launching the Comm into the water with mines, engineers walling in the Comm, people spawning a pile of jeeps just to waste res, people repeatedly suiciding to waste tickets, using the mortar as a melee weapon, the shotpistol kicking so much ass, jeeps flipping tanks, jeeps pushing Commanders into the ocean, any reference to any commander who has in some way fallen into any body of water (ocean, river, puddle, broken sprinkler, etc) and exploding (We should weaponize this water!), teammates stealing your tank to push the commander into the ocean, teammates stealing any vehicle whatsoever, bio weapons sucking so badly, composite armor ruling, reactive armor's ability to turn any useful vehicle into a useless rocket-induced deathtrap, accidentally doing donuts everywhere with a 3-stage electric Arty, 2-standard shell arties, NF raping bases with missile spam, any form of spam whatsoever, "TAKE COV-ARR!" shouted constantly, scouts requesting artillery on the commander, scouts requesting artillery on the commander for the 50th bloody time, constant requests for nonexistent aircraft, heavy tanks breaking when their hit a small birch tree at full speed, APC drivers filling up the APC then dumping it off a cliff, buildings not able to be built because someone dropped a turret there, any buildings being spawned, or Conan O'Brien's Hair mentioned.

    I thought this was Empires 2.0! Though, I would like to see this server.
     
    Last edited: Dec 16, 2007
  3. Superlagg

    Superlagg Member

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    I thought this was Empires! Though, I would like to see this server.
     
  4. Superlagg

    Superlagg Member

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    Please, there's always tons of noobs.
     
  5. Silk

    Silk Mapper

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    Not while we were testing the new version and the 1.071 servers were empty.
     
  6. Superlagg

    Superlagg Member

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    Well, yeah, Edwin's First Law of Noob Presence states that as player population X decreases, the amount of Noobs N decreases. But even so, Edwin's Second Law states that there is always at least one ton (2000 pounds, or 900 kilogrammes) of Noob is present in any game at any given moment. Therefore, 4 noobs can, in fact, count as a ton of noobs, granted they are greater than or equal to 500 pounds ($1,016.25 US) when dry.

    So yeah, tons of noobs.
     
  7. Angry

    Angry Junior Member

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    Don isn't man enough to write a story about the desert theater...

    "Post in the story thread so we can have interactive stories!"

    Pff
     
  8. Ikalx

    Ikalx Member

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    Since 2.0 came out i've still been on some good servers. They're out there if you can find 'em ^^

    Btw the other day on a server I shot a dude 6 times from 5 feet (while we were running around the cv) with the shot pistol, hitting him at least 5 times out of those 6 before he died. Also...I almost had nukespam in my thread ^^
     
  9. angry hillbilly

    angry hillbilly Member

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    crap thats alot of writeing!!!
    i copyed and pasted up to page 8 and its 30 pages solid of A4 writeing

    i havent had time to read any yet but it looks good!!

    (u should send it off to a publisher and get the £'s rolling in!!!)
     
  10. KILLX

    KILLX Banned

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  11. DonMegel

    DonMegel Member

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    The bottom of the Ocean is a surreal place that defies description. Extending out in all directions is and endless void of black that, devoid of stars or planets, made outer space seem bright and cheerful. Not a single ray of light manages to traverse the fathoms of water overhead too break the oppressive curtain of total darkness. Not wishing to be alone, darkness finds an easy companion in below freezing temperatures; the lazy undersea currents and immense pressure preventing the water from freezing as would be the case in the world above. Unlike space, the only expanse that can even compare to the world of watery darkness, the cold black is filled with thousands of pounds per square inch of pressure squeezing in from all sides, every side, all the time, without ever ceasing or changing. It’s almost like being submersed in solid, yet pliable, ink.

    This is not to say the sea is without change. Tall spires of stone belching blazing plumes of superheated water dot the ocean floor, their fury fueled by geothermic energy and nearby magma deposits. Around these towers of fire exists full ecosystems of creatures that, despite a host of circumstances that would kill a man in moments, thrive and excel. In other places different levels of salt content created under water seas of brine surrounded by sandy shores spotted with pink anemones and crustaceans.

    It was in this alternate universe of contradictions and alien worlds that the Jekotian Ship Nassarat glided seamlessly without effort. At either side of her oval shaped hull, a pair of thermal caterpillar sea jets leaking an eerie green into the ink through which they pushed. Unlike the various forms of propellers used by the Brenodi, a caterpillar drive worked like an underwater jet engine that was almost undetectable. Jekotia had no less than 300 fast attack submarines equipped with such drives before their collapse; of the 42 stored away for later use, only 15 were currently operational. The Nassarat was one of them.

    “All stop. Answer bells on fore and aft batteries.”

    With quiet precision the small command crew carried out the series of actions required to stop their vessel and make sure their captain’s maneuver was successful. Unlike the majority of the new Northern Faction military forces, the crew of the Nassarat were almost all experienced submariners. After the Brenodi victories, Jekotian submarines were in a unique position to carry on operations, or at the very least remain undetected, for months at a time. Costal cities sympathetic to anyone willing to carry on the flag of their conquered nation, would give anything they could in order to keep these silent warriors alive and well.

    For years the Jekotian Resistance ran hit and run attacks on Imperial shipping, raided supply lines, ferried important men and equipment, anything to encourage revolt and hinder the Brenodi efforts to “civilize” Jekotia. After 10 years most of the fleet had either been destroyed or hidden away, her crews too disillusioned by failure to continue living under the sea. Only the Nassarat had refused to acquiesce to attrition or tyranny and, as a result, had sailed for over 25 years as a ghost. Of course much of the original crew had been replaced over the years. There was always youth willing to take up a post on Jekotia’s Ghost ship but some of the originals remained, namely her Captain.

    “Captain Brunswick” a young Ensign announced, since the onset of war a handful of graduates from the reopened Jekotian Naval Academy had found their way onboard. “All stations report ready. Nothing so far.”

    “Mmmm” Brunswick grunted. He didn’t really expect to hear anything, the Brenodi Navy was as much a joke as a Jekotian Opera but he had ran such drills through 25 years of “peace” and it seemed silly to stop them now that an actual war had come on. “Make rotations for 15 knots. Bring us out of the ice flow.” The navy hadn’t used screws and thus rotations, for nearly half a century but the term had proved unwilling to die.

    “FLASH traffic sir,” a rather old Master Chief, he had been aboard for nearly 10 years, announced as he wove his way through CIC. “Just decoded.”

    Captain Brunswick took another sip of coffee from his stained and cracked white mug before taking hold of the dispatch, “Thank you Frank.”

    The message had actually been received 45 minutes earlier during the Nassarat’s last communication buoy deployment. Being in code, the message had to then be decoded and delivered to the officer on deck, in this case the Captain. Urgent messages were passed on a little more quickly but the tag on this failed to demand such attention.

    After sliding on his slim, rectangle lensed reading glasses, the 58 year old began reading;

    FLASH: Imperial action in southern straits. Rendezvous with Fleet South at specified coordinates. Detection risk minimal, use best possible speed. All other orders rescinded.

    He slightly nodded as the corner of his mouth pulled into a half smirk. He and his crew had been under the northern ice cap looking for Brenodi surveillance or outposts for a month now. No contacts, no fighting, no action. For 25 years he sailed his ship as the last remaining evidence of Jekotia and now that war had again come he had been sent to chase ghosts. Now he was to sail half way around the world to defend a rust bucket fleet from imaginary Brenodi subs.

    Damnit to hell he thought crumpling the paper in his free hand, Are we going to loose this one too?

    “Helm!” He spat aloud as he rounded the periscope and approached the illuminated chart table, “Come right to 143. Full speed. Make your depth 2-0-0 feet.”

    “Problem Will?”

    William Brunswick shook his head and tossed the crumpled message to his first officer. “Some things never change. We’re off to baby sit.”

    “Fleet action?

    “Yeah, Brandy is trying to push up through the islands. We’re supposed to patrol the picket line.”

    Brunswick’s first officer tilted his head and tossed the paper ball into a near by recycler. “It’s better than the ice flows. Maybe she’ll have some subs out for us.”

    “Bah!” Will scoffed without moving his gaze from the charts below, “Brandy never did like being on the water, let alone under it. I doubt a quarter century of peace has changed that.” A pause. “No my friend. I fear all we’ll be doing is dodging the burning hulks of our own sinking fleet.”
     
  12. DonMegel

    DonMegel Member

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    -- number --

    Looking back on it I know it was the first time I had ever been thankful for those god-awful glossy visors that hang over brandy's eyes. We had always mocked them, likening them more to a Cyclops or robot than a man. But in truth the opaque lenses made every one uneasy. Its not natural to interact with a being devoid of eyes, as brandy would seem to be, even beasts have eyes into which you can gaze, probe their soul, read their emotions, intentions, their humanity or lack there of. But not brandy, she sported only a glossy black façade of heartless evil; an artificial alien in a world of frightened humans.

    That day was different though. Countless abuses had left my face akin to raw meat, actually that's what it was, raw, exposed flesh. Later I discovered part of my cheek bone was exposed and my left ear missing. I had washed off most of my blood before donning the new attire and, with the liberal use of dermal regenerators and coagulants, prevented new flows from areas anyone was likely to see. Still, despite my hurried efforts my face was so shattered that, without the soul robbing visor, I would have been exposed immediately.

    The layouts of Brenodi camps vary very little as to promote unity between Divisions as well as efficiency through repetition and familiarity. I had been, I saw, in the outer "interrogation" hut, there being two in ever camp, one at the center for all to see and the other out of sight and, thus out of mind.

    With the best Imperial saunter that I could manage in my compromised state I wove my way towards a nearby armory, brandy placed them every so often along the perimeter of camp so as to allow rapid rearmament in case of attack, in the hopes of finding additional weapons and medical supplies. The SMG I had borrowed from my now extinct former captors was not well suited for the wide open areas in and about the camp.

    Faking salutes and greetings to soldiers as I passed, I made it without major incident and quickly dispatched the staffer charged with administering the supplies within. As I felt the muffled wet snap of his neck against my chest I remember feeling a sort of sick nausea flow over me that I had not felt since that first day in the badlands so long ago. It could have been my mutilated humanity reaching out from beyond the hell that I had resigned too or maybe I had just lost too much blood. Either way it wasn't that important at the time.

    I suppose I spent twenty minutes or so in that stuffy little room whilst I tended to my wounds and stocked up on gear and weapons. I could have stayed longer but armories never stay empty for long, someone is always needing a spare clip, a bandaged wound or just a snack. I buried my kill under some sacks of old potatoes and left as casually as I had arrived, although with a bit more bounce to my step. Any one arriving after me would wonder where the Armory keeper had gone to but would think little of it and help themselves.

    Looking up and over the forest of buildings and turrets I could see a mountain of black steel taller than any I had ever seen. The structure, at least three miles away, stabbed into the baby blue sky with such contrast and severity that I had to stare for a moment to be sure it was real. It was still under construction judging from the ant like transports and cranes swarming in and around it but already I could make out shapes and trends in design.

    What I could see of the base was a massive complex at least three or four stories high and riddled with storage tanks, pipes and ventilation shafts. From there rose a trio of long slender black pylons nearly ten stories high on their own. Nestled within the trinity looked like a blocky transportation conduit of some sort. As it turns out that's exactly what it was only for a much more sinister cargo and purpose than I had imagined. Atop the pylons rested another base, only much smaller than the first and significantly less complete. Missing panels, exposed beams, and showers of fiery sparks littered the glossy exterior. Connected to this was only a rough frame of what was to come. Even at that early stage though the foot print was astounding. From end to end the assembly stretched at least two-hundred feet and another forty or fifty tall. Back then it was still hallow but the four main beams were connected with eight thinner circles in the center running from one end to the other.

    But I remember what really caught my eye was at the center of the exposed tube. It was fastened at the pivot coming out of the base but was otherwise free floating. Ringing the long shaft were massive coils and disks that lead up to some sort of cone on the far end.

    Until the war I had never been outside Powtang province, never seen a city, never looked on the wonders of old Jekotia let alone the world beyond but as I looked out over the bustling plain carved out from the icy blackness of the badlands, a shiver ran up my spine. This thing was evil.

    Three months earlier, when I had a commanding officer who was living, my decision would have been railed as fool hardy. I was a sergeant, the only anchor my squad had, and deep in enemy territory no less. Those decisions aren’t always made with logic, however, nor training nor good sense.

    As I stood there gaping at the nightmarish tower I just remember thinking of her the last time we saw each other. Her angelic face was bathed in tears but brilliant with pride, she always was more patriotic than me. She took my own face, clean shaven for my departure to boot camp, and leaned in close so that I might hear her emotional whisper.

    "Don't let this all be for nothing, you hear me?" The vista spread before me melted into that bittersweet memory, she said the same thing again coupled with my name and "do you hear me?" for effect. I always loved to hear her say my name, as if she put a spin on the syllables that no one else could.

    What ever this thing was, the Brenodi thought enough of it to deploy the Sixth Infantry Division and part of their limited air assets to protect it. I swung my head back toward the mountains skirting the edge of the camp. My squad was there, they had all survived the bombardment I'd find out later, and along with them the safety of the rocks. I looked back again at the tower surrounded by three of the best divisions in all of Brenodia. It should have been difficult but only a moment went by before I released the safety on my rifle and began walking towards a nearby Jeep. It was at least three miles to the tower and I was going to need a ride.
     
  13. KILLX

    KILLX Banned

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    Paragraph 3, you tried to say every, but forgot the y.

    Will update as I find more, I love proof reads :D

    Edit: very well done, loved it.
     
    Last edited: Mar 25, 2008
  14. Solokiller

    Solokiller Mapper Staff Member

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    Very good, i started to realise that he was an NF soldier rather than a BE soldier. The tower you described sounds an awful lot like something i thought a few weeks ago, but this tower appears to be some kind of weapon, like a giant railgun, rather than anything else. I could be wrong.
     
  15. KILLX

    KILLX Banned

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    A temple of war? I'm bored, hyper, and using my imagination. TO THE BLACKHOLE WITH ME!
     
  16. LordDz

    LordDz Capitan Rainbow Flowers

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    The snail is waiting for you.
     
  17. DonMegel

    DonMegel Member

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    -- Number Again --

    "Sure, why not go with them? You could lead from the front and not have to worry about loosing communications. that would be really unfortunate!"

    "Shut the hell up Charles!"

    Borodin swore under his breath after admonishing his friend and second in command. Of course he was right, the whole idea had been fool hardy and he had said so but Borodin, with uncharacteristic stubbornness, refused to listen. He thought it might be the Lt. Commander left in him, the longing for the excitement of the field rather than the darkness of the command vehicle, or, in this case, the CIC aboard the near by MAC. Reasons aside here he was, pinned behind a pair of disintegrating boulders by a sheer cliff face bristling with Factional weaponry; all of which firing on his position. The attack wasn't going well.

    From his command interface pad, Borodin could see the Airborne Armored Division had landed safely and made headway in the south but had then run into stiff resistance. Word was a break out was unlikely unless the factionalist could be roused from their nests.

    Second squad had managed to knock out the long range communications but short range backups remained active and enabled a coordinated defense to defy the efforts of the other squads, including Borodin's.
    "I’ve got Admiral Beaks on the horn sir." a freckle faced boy announced handing the tiny ear piece to his Commander.

    "Ralph?" Borodin screamed into the headset, "I've got some problems down here-"

    "We've got problems of our own up here Commander." the voice said interrupting, "Someone has let the Jekotians have some aircraft and they are giving us hell."

    Borodin unconsciously looked skyward. He had not been raised as a believer but he was finding that there was indeed no atheists in foxholes. "Understood, can you spare us a flight of Hellcats to pepper this cliff? We could really use it."

    For a few seconds Borodin heard only static, presumably while the disembodied voice checked to see if its owner could honor his request. "I've got a pair enroot to four-seven. I'll divert them."

    Borodin tossed the ear piece to the boy without another word. Thank yous were always reserved for after the battle. "Cavalry is on the way boys." He couldn't see his men's reaction, so low had they ducked to avoid the sustain river of lead being poured down upon them.

    Lush jungle had provided ample cover for the invaders for the majority of their trek but had faded into rolling, rock studded hills over shadowed by a massive shear cliff face to once side and an equally impressive precipice to the other. After nearly a thousand yards the jungle began to return and continued as such around to the mountains base. It was perhaps for this reason that the Northern Faction had elected to implant dozens of heavy gun emplacements and fortifications into the monuments face. These fortifications, apparently manned by at least half way intelligent crews, had waited till Borodin and his men had reached the middle of the open field to begin their assault. Nearly half of the Commander's men perished in the opening volley and, unless relief came soon, the remainder were sure to follow.

    Far above and slightly over the trapped squad hovered a massive Imperial Mobil Air Carrier that was fairing little better. The concept of the MAC was pioneered originally by Brenodi late in the Crimerian War on the verge of a complete Jekotian victory. Although the Jekotian Republic quickly cobbled together their own versions it was tool ate to salvage their imminent victory.

    MACs are far more than flying airports, as their name suggests, but also serve as staging areas for ground, naval and aerial operations. Massive stores of ammunition, parts, and supplies as well as the equipment and personal to use and employ those munitions made the air station a mobile invasion force ready to wreak havoc where ever it went.

    Quickly teams on both sides discovered that any platform stable enough to launch and recover aircraft was perfect for precision artillery. Carriers bristling with guns of every type began flying out of ship yards by the dozens, their mere existence becoming enough to win or loose a campaign. Naturally an arms race began for not only the highest number of MACs but also how large the canons that she boasted. By the fourth generation of floating fortresses, artillery had surpassed the sizes of those mounted onto battleships.

    The Imperial MAC Rapier was a fourth generation weapons platform commissioned nearly sixty years earlier (MACs made it to generation nine before the last Great War came to an end). At the time her main gun, a 36 inch rifled barrel, was the largest in the world. Today she was being bested by a gnat like swarm of twenty year old fighters. Designed for larger, slower, aircraft, the fourth generation MACs boasted scores of computer operated flack cannons that found it nearly impossible to lock on to their rebel adversaries. This left the Rapier reeling solely on the outdated Temptress fighters for defense, the same fighter the Raven was designed to counter.

    It was under those conditions and stacked odds that the commanding officer of the embattled MAC dispatched a pair of Pete Hellcats, a rugged ground attack aircraft even by Jekotian standards. Receiving new orders in rout to their old destination, the pair briefly exchanged words and banked hard to the lower right. No more than a minute passed before tiny puffs of flack filled smoke began erupting around the aircraft, announcing their arrival at the heavily fortified target. Ignoring the loud pangs of shrapnel and tearing sheet metal the Hellcats sank low to begin their attack run, each 2000lb bomb swung under their wings lighting up in anticipation.

    The brutal onslaught of AA fire lasted but a moment before the 8,000lbs of steel encased high explosives tore free and onward to their final resting places below. All six square miles of rocky island trembled under the combined weight of the resulting blast. Tress, rocks, earth and metal rocked forth from the cliff face, propelled aloft by spiraling torrents of orange fire. A full minute passed before enough of the dust had settled to allow Borodin a clean look at his oppressive captors.

    Borodin’s heart sank. While a fifty foot wide crater had been blasted in the muddy colored granite, the majority of the fortifications remained and had unleashed a vengeful hail of lead onto his unchanged position. Even if the MAC could squeeze out another flight through the NF attack, the bombs would be needed elsewhere, Borodin couldn’t steel them away a second time without promise of a better result.

    “Get me Beaks!” Borodin bellowed as another one of his dwindling squad exploded into a misty cloud of crimson blood. 20mm rounds? Damn…

    “Still in one piece Commander?” static bathed words professed that reception had improved.

    “Listen Bob” Borodin began as his already compacted body shrank another few inches to avoid the approaching stream of fiery bullets. “I want a complete artillery barrage on previous target.” A pause, “and the 42.”

    In what was rapidly becoming habit, the line went silent as the Admiral reeled from his Commander's unusual requests. The "42" referred to the single 42 inch main cannon mounted on the underbelly of the Rapier to be used as extreme long range bombardment. With a projectile that weighed nearly as much as a small home, the canon had to be loaded then lowered to a free floating recoil carriage in order to fire. Even then the shock knocked the entire vessel several meters back and knocked people off their feet. Later generations of MAC incorporated recoilless cannons and even gauss but the 42 was still potent none the less.

    "You’re too close Commander." The Admiral tried to reason, "The blast alone-"

    "How long Admiral?" Borodin persisted as additional gun stations came back online and opened fire.

    The Admiral had no intention of further damaging his already sour career by inadvertently killing a well connected Commander. "I'll have another flight of Hellcats ready in 5-"
     
  18. DonMegel

    DonMegel Member

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    "Damnit Beaks!" Borodin screamed into the tiny mic, consequently creating the appearance of madness by screaming at thin air. "You give me that 42 or I’ll split you from navel to nose do you hear me!? DO IT NOW!"

    Far above the ground but equally embattled, the Admiral opened his mouth to respond but was greeted only the impartial click of a deactivate radio. Beaks was young for an Admiral but was still 20 years Borodin's senior and was completely unaccustomed to being talked to in such a manor. He made a mental note to write a formal reprimand if they made it out of this hornets nest alive. "Weapons!" He said aloud, it was better to be chastised for friendly fire than to be court-martialed for disobeying orders. "Bring the 42 online."

    Within 500 yards of the soon to be decimated mountain, Borodin was already readying his men for what was surly to be one of the more traumatic experiences of their Military careers. Packs were removed and placed over heads, weapons and equipment shouldered and maneuvered to further protect fragile flesh and bone.

    Charles exchanged a nervous glance with his friend in-between disturbing baggage to his men. In the time honored tradition of comrades who have served together in arms he wasn't going to question the nearly suicidal order, it would do no good. Besides, he really didn't have a better idea.

    "Tell me this was a bad idea later Chuck" Borodin said with a smile, recognizing the given look.

    "And if it wasn't?"

    Borodin laughed, "Then drinks are on me."

    Charles joined in the grim joke; they'd all be dead in minutes if he was right.

    The air split into a thunderous report a few moments later as the immense canon expelled its steel load. Several of the younger soldiers with Borodin, and elsewhere around the island, jumped and looked about for the source of the commotion. As children in a thunderstorm they had nothing to fear from the monstrous sound, all save the handful directly within the projectiles path.

    When objects of a certain mass travel through any atmosphere at a certain speed they build up a wall of air in its path that is to slow or too thick to escape. This air, in turn, builds up its own wall of air that is too slow or too thick to escape. This happens so on and so forth until the force of said projectile has reached several times greater than would have been the case with the object alone. It is for this reason that larger asteroids can cause planet wide destruction despite being so comparatively small. It’s also the reason the 42 inch canon is so completely devastating.

    With the kind of instant obliteration that a volcano brings when its cap is no longer to resist the pressure beneath, the sizeable mountain dominating the small valley simply ended.

    Although the event happened far too quickly to be seen, the onslaught of shell driven air impacted the cliff face just above the right peak. Angling downwards, the round tore through the interior, the high speed and great pressures involved turning the steel and lead into a molten shard of fire. At nearly a hundred feet below ground level, the forces at work became so great that the very atoms of the shell came apart and the entire thing exploded. This coupled with the countless stores of ammunition and weapons fractured what granite was left undisturbed and surged the entire mass upward and out.

    Like an earthen tsunami, the fortresses remnants charged across the plain and down upon the entrenched squad below. For nearly five minutes sand, dirt, steel and rock rained down from the heavenly home into which it had been thrown, thickening the similar layers that had come before.

    Finally the tirade ended and the once exotic tree lined valley emerged as a moon-like landscape barren of all life and riddled with rocks and craters.

    It was into this alien world that Borodin emerged, his body beaten and bruised from the ordeal but otherwise unharmed. Two of his men could not claim the same and would have to be medi-vacted, one dying enroot, the other five days later.

    The loss was regrettable but acceptable; the assault could continue as planned and a major Factional stronghold had been removed. Borodin just hoped his other obstacles were so easily taken care of. The thought made him smile.

    "So much for your drinks Chuck."
     
  19. KILLX

    KILLX Banned

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