RHYTHM OF VIOLENCE
Part 4 of the continued events from the Freelancer Evolved and Freelancer Shattered Worlds communities.
This story takes place a short while after the events of 'The Scarman Enigma'.
* * *
ANOTHER TIME. ANOTHER PLACE.
BRETONIA. NEW LONDON.
Hell had descended upon the capital planet. Orbital bombardment had reduced vital militarised zones to rubble, while the combined infantry and armoured divisions of Liberty, Rheinland, and the Sigmas illuminated major cities with furious cannon fire. Field Commander Marcus Scarman raised his carbine high, his voice carrying over the chaos as his battalion surged around him.
“Push forward! Thirteenth to victory!”
The First Fleet 13th, known as Scarecrow’s Luckiest, found themselves at the spear tip of the invasion force. Three days ago, their drop pods had launched from the LNS Avalanche in high orbit, punching down into New London’s central districts. It marked the beginning of an audacious push toward the heart of the Imperial Defense Forces- Canary Wharf Tower, where the rumoured shelter of Emperor Obediah Krazier lay within its armoured structure.
As the war entered its third year, the Allies had breached the skies of New London. Nine months prior, a turning point had come, and they had begun the push-back into Bretonian space. The turn had come at great cost. Much of the Liberty second and fifth fleets lay in ruin, and the Freedom Fighters, the First Fleet, had stretched themselves thinly across all defensive lines. Each soldier within the company had risen through necessity to take on commanding roles, and Marcus was no exception. In the midst of the bitter fighting, he had led sorties with his Umbra Squadron, and applied his experience as a boarding marine by taking command of units on the various battlefields. Despite the best efforts of the First, Liberty had almost collapsed. Rheinland’s welcome intervention in the nick of time had prevented the loss of the California System and turned the tide of the war.
Despite the resounding heroics of the RNC, the conflict had shattered the time-honoured bonds between the houses. Bitter infighting had broken out, even with the joint cause against Bretonia. The orbital zones around the colonised Border Worlds were now graveyards of destroyed starships, and planet Curacao had been rendered uninhabitable, its surface ‘glassed’ by Imperial bombardment. The once-mighty Kusari flagship, IKN Mikasa, had joined the fallen, its back broken by a brutal Imperial ramming attack. Following the loss, the Kusari government had withdrawn much of their fleet, creating a defensive gap that frustrated the other allied leaders. Yet, there was no time for prolonged discussions; the war demanded action on the front line- ship to ship; within drop pods, and along the length of pulse carbines. The withdrawal of Kusari reverberated across the warfront, increasing pressure on the existing units already entrenched in combat. The burden grew heavier, and the embattled forces found themselves more dispersed. The warriors of the allies now faced a steeper hill to climb than ever before.
The battalion surged forward, and Scarecrow stood tall, his head held high as he surveyed the chaos unfolding before him. Flames burned in his eyes as buildings crumbled. Amidst the turmoil, a voice cut through.
“Rotolaser! In the tower!”
Marcus spun around to see a young soldier, weapon in hand, pointing toward the looming threat.
“In the tower!” The soldier shouted, his gaze fixed firmly on Marcus.
“Negative!” Scarecrow countered, firm in his belief, “It’s clear! Keep the pressure on!”
The soldier shook his head, anger evident in his eyes.
“You’re wrong! Look out!”
Searing beams of white-hot energy erupted from the remnants of a commercial block ahead, slicing through the 13th like a blade through butter.
“Get to ground!” Marcus yelled, attempting to dive for cover, but the onslaught was too swift. Infantrymen were cut down, their bodies sizzling as the rotolaser’s beams tore through them. Marcus forcefully hit the deck, splitting his head on some debris. His face sunk into the bloody mire. Death surrounded him, the stench overwhelming.
“No!” He bellowed, forcing himself up to his feet. Gripping his pulse carbine, he pushed through his stalled battalion and charged toward the base of the tower.
“With me! Thirteenth!”
* * *
ROCHESTER BASE
JANUARY 316AS
The hinged canopy on the Patriot class starfighter whined as it descended into its berth. Marcus “Scarecrow” Scarman felt a surge of melancholy as he gazed upon the pock-marked vessel. Hawthorne Twenty-One-Oh-Three.
It had carried him this far, but visible signs of wear and tear hinted at fatigue. Numerous confrontations with the native police forces had only worsened its condition. Marcus had restrained his actions, reluctant to add more unnecessary deaths to his conscience. However, his caution had made him a more vulnerable target. The ship’s rear superstructure bore the scars of burns and damage, though fortunately, none of the attacks had struck the drive cone.
For nearly ten days, he had been on the run, navigating obscure routes through the California and New York systems. Fortunately, the smugglers paths were still etched into his memory, from his time in exile many years ago. Despite this, progress had still been slow, and he had run afoul of the law more than once. The events at the Starwood hotel had painted a conspicuous target on his back, and he’d had no time to try and rendezvous with the Tuatha de Danaan, or any of the other Freedom Fighters. Turning sharply, he confronted the large bulkhead hangar door that led into the main concourse of Rochester Base. This was the place where Sayne Jadyn had beckoned him- an enigmatic scrapyard nestled deep within the New York Jersey Debris Field. At least there was no heat here.
The hangar doors laboured in discomfort as they slid open, revealing a scene of relative normality beyond. The concourse buzzed with activity- a mix of Junker pilots and engineers briskly traversing the decks to and from their hangar berths. The crowd consisted of freelancers, traders, scrappers, and pirates. Marcus noticed a few dirty looks thrown his way, but he otherwise stirred no more dramatic responses.
“Sayne Jadyn”, he muttered to himself as he set off into the station, “Find you, find the girl.”