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Horror in the North, and other tales of the Revolution. - Koolmo - 12-06-2009
Hundreds of feet rang on the decks of the Coalition People’s Warship Popular Front as the call to action stations rang. Admiral Ty Kirk, Commander of the Combined Fleet, Hero of the Revolution, sat slumped at the Captains chair and stared in horror out the view screen.
“Damn,” he muttered to himself, “I knew there was a bloody bounty, but this is getting silly…”
A pair of Bounty Hunter Destroyers and a half dozen bombers sat in space before him, weapons charged and ready. He’d already had the Lieutenant on duty shot out of hand, for letting them sneak up undetected, but there was no way to get out of this now. The bombers would hem him in, and pull his teeth, then the destroyers would close and shred him.
“Commander B’horan! Drop shields, and open a channel to the commander of the destroyers!”
“Uuh, sir? Did you just say to…”
“I Know exactly what I said! Now do it, we’ve no other choice! Then come up here, and bring your reactor key.”
Kirk stared out the viewport, knowing it was already too late. At least he could hope to save the pilots they had been sent to get, and some of his crew. He closed his eyes, and remembered what had brought them to this end.
The Popular Front and two Storm class gunboats had set out from Omega 52 as a new day dawned on Planet Volgograd. Contrary to normal operating procedure, they had not taken a single fighter. They knew their shields couldn’t stand the stresses of where they were going. Distress signals had been detected from a system in the far north of the sector, a system known as Bastille. Sketchy reports from the pilots had confirmed that the only things the system contained were a pair of stations, barely able to sustain the lives of those aboard them, and mines. Millions upon millions of mines, a minefield to cover the system, and leave it eternally dark and shadowed, hunkered under the weight of impending doom. It was unknown who had brought them there, just as it was unknown as to who had imprisoned the pilots. All they knew was that someone had, and they needed to get them out.
The mission went as expected at first. Using all their firepower, they had blasted enough holes in the mines to allow the Popular Front and a supporting gunboat inside the cordon of mines, leaving the other escort within the gap, to stop the rapidly approaching mines from moving back to fill the holes left by their bretheren. They were so tightly packed, Kirk recalled, that shooting a single one would detonate a hundred, but there were still a thousand more behind it, pushing closer all the time.
The mines seemed malignant, almost aware of their intrusion into their realm. They used their thrusters to toss themselves at the Coalition vessels, even smashing into each other in their race towards annihilation. Their deaths sent crackling screams of static through the ships systems, shaking the nerve of even the most experienced veteran aboard Kirk’s flagship. Arks of energy exploded against their shields, but they made it, barely, into the clear zone.
There, as arranged, the three pilots met them, landing one by one on Kirk’s vessel, and immediately being carted off for medical treatment. It was there that the plan, as it was, went all to hell. Dozens of condemned souls, flying anything from converted torpedo-bombers to tiny runabouts, rushed the Coalition Flotilla. Without hesitation, Kirk gave the order to open fire. It was unknown what cosmic diety brought these convicts here, but it was known by one and all that they were the damned, condemned forever to live in this bleak hole in the mines, or to die attempting to rush out.
Backing away towards the hole, it seemed that there was a wall of flame about the Popular Front, as scores of the damned, driven insane by their imprisonment, rushed the guns of the Coalition. They died at the helm, firing all cannons in a suicidal bid for freedom. Their escort died in seconds, rammed and struck by hundreds of rounds and small ships. Their comms stayed open as they died, and many a coalition spacer cried to hear those four brave souls open their vessel to space, rather than allow the insane inmates access out of their eternal prison.
The Popular Front backed through the hole, finally clearing it with seconds to spare before it closed around them. Their other escort was aflame, caught by a string of seeker mines just as they seemed clear. Another four good men left in this hellish place.
Just as Kirk began to give the order to enter the jump hole, he found himself, for the first time in many long years, at a loss for words. He stared in horror at the minefield in the viewscreen. A black, metallic tentacle stretched from the field, chasing them into the depths of space. A roar of static drowned out all systems, causing crewmen to rip their headphones off and stare into the face of the field in horror. Kirk had the terrible feeling that is was laughing at him, knowing he couldn’t run, couldn’t hide, couldn’t fight back. This was really the end, the end of the road for them all. The minefield could feel his despair, he was sure. His crew was struck, helpless in the name of such horror.
The engineer saved them all. Seeing in his screens their doom reaching out to them, he did the only thing he could. Firing the Cruise engines, he pushed them into the jump hole, leaving unspeakable evil behind. He saved them, Kirk remembered, but now he had doomed them. As the cruise engines exploded in protest at the stresses put on them by the transition through the jump hole, the engineer and his men perished in a blast of fire. Though they were the cause of the explosion, Kirk would have forgiven them anything, had they lived to fix it. However, his sole remaining engineer was so badly burned they were already considering prosthetics from the collarbone down. The man was in such pain that to wake him from his drug-induced slumber was to kill him, and that was no reward for the man who had saved them once. Better to die here, fighting like soldiers of the revolution, than to leave their souls to be damned in the hell of the minefield.
They had limped south, arriving in Omega 50 scant minutes before. They were still too far though, for they had no comms systems left to call for aid. The might of the defensive fleet could be here in a second, but they would never know what had befallen Kirk and his men, unless he made sure that there was no-one left to harm them. Kirk snapped back to the moment, aware of the entire bridge crew staring at him in horror, and the Ship’s Commissar fingering his pistol with a grim look on his face.
“Gentlemen, sound the evacuation chime. Commander, tell those capitalist scum that the first hunter to find me on this ship may have me, alive. I’m sure that will entice those dogs. Commissar, I want you to make sure the pilots make it back home, they are your only priority now.”
They stared for a second or two, then turned away to their tasks. As the Commander opened a channel and began speaking to their adversaries, Kirk turned the command panel, taking the keys of the dead Chief Engineer, the Commander’s, and his own out of his pocket. One by one, he inserted them into the panel, and waited for the holographic button to appear.
As the Commander finished talking, he shut off the channel and turned to his Admiral. “Sir, I… I don’t know what to say.”
“Don’t say anything, comrade. It only takes on to push the button, now get yourself to the lifeboats. I’ll take care of this.”
“But- Yes Sir, Comrade Admiral. It’s been an honour, Sir. I shall tell the Grand Admiral, and all the revolution of your sacrifice.”
As the commander fled the bridge, Ty Kirk opened the top button of his uniform jacket, and poured a generous slug of Vodka. As he watched, the capitalists abandoned all formation, each one eager to be the first to claim him. As they sped towards him, his own men passed them, fleeing towards the Omega 52 hole with all speed. Kirk sighed, and downed the Vodka as the first docking clamps hit his ship.
“Well, this is it I guess. For the Revolution…” Kirk laughed as he pressed the button, and the world exploded.
Horror in the North, and other tales of the Revolution. - Koolmo - 01-02-2010
Grand Admiral James McIntosh stared at the man before him. His face slack with rage, hands twitching, he turned, and stormed back into his office. Swinging about again, he bellowed at Commander Bhoran.
Gone? Kirk, gone? His ship, gone? All Bloody Gone? What the hell?
Sir, its he had no choice. The rest of us lived because of him, and he wiped out all the hunters. His-
Shut UP! Why are you trying to justify him? He doesnt need justifying man, he was a bloody hero! He doesnt need the likes of you licking his boots!
Uuh, Sir, hes dead, he doesnt ha-
Doesnt have boots? Screamed McIntosh. I bloody well know he doesnt have any boots! And hes not dead until I say he is, and I do, damnit! Now, get the hell out of my office, and get to Mykolaiv. Commander OShaunessy is about to take command of a new destroyer, stop him this minute, and take whatever miserable rabble of a crew you have left with you!
Uuh Yes, Comrade Grand Admiral! As the man turned, and fled the office, McIntosh stared moodily at his reflection in the mirrored viewport. At six foot three, he was an imposing man, and the massive muscles of his arms and chest were complimented by the reddish beard hed grown in the years since leaving the BAF. Neatly trimmed, and blending into his brown hair, it had never shown signs of grey, but he felt that it soon would. With a snort, he turned and stormed into the halls of Zvyozdny Gorodok.
Several days later, he presided over Admiral Kirks Funeral. With full military honours, a coffin filled with sandbags was ejected into space, watched over by nearly a thousand soldiers of the Coalition, including most of his former crew. A Blast of heavy cannon fire from the massed capital ships of the fleet sailed past, and Kirk was gone. McIntosh had new plans.
Commander OShaunessy stormed off the shuttle, his uniform boots clicking loudly on the deck as he marched past the honour guard of marines. At the end of the line waited his leader, and he wanted to kill him. As he approached the Grand Admiral, he opened his mouth, and prepared himself to be shot out of hand for what he was about to say.
Grand Admiral, this is bull-
Holding up both hands, McIntosh silenced him with a glare, and nodded his head for OShaunessy to follow. Curious, he did as he was told, and fell into step beside the gigantic patriarch of the SCRA.
Donuil, Im not taking your ship away from you. Confided McIntosh as he strolled towards the lift. Im taking your ship with you. He stopped and turned, to find OShaunessy staring at him in apprehension.
What, youre actually taking command? Youre going back out? Youve not been out in over a year, Sir.
McIntosh raised an eyebrow, and crossed his arms over his massive chest. His ever-present bodyguard slid their safetys off in anticipation, and the Captain of Marines held out a pistol with a half-inch muzzle, butt first. OShaunessy stood his ground.
Captain OShaunessy. And yes, its captain now. When I tell you Im taking your ship, the appropriate response is Yes Sir, can I be your XO please. Now, give me those.
McIntosh took the pistol and a set of Captains stripes from the Marine, and pinned them on OShaunessy. The then pointed the muzzle of the pistol downwards, and blew off the newly-minted Captains left knee.
Congratulations Captain, and go see the medics about that. We launch in three days, as soon as youve got a replacement. Well be going to Dublin, so get ready to speak to your former brethren. Well be taking Major Bigeards Marines, so make sure weve enough provisions for them.
Horror in the North, and other tales of the Revolution. - Koolmo - 01-02-2010
Fourth Day in the Dublin System, Flag Captains Log Wrote:Weve managed to ascertain who tipped off those Bounty Hunters as to where Kirk and his ships were. Apparently, theres a weapons dealer on Trafalgar Station, a Junker hole. Ive seen McIntosh torture people before, but this, this was something special. We caught the entire crew of an IMG Battlecruiser, pretty much intact. Came up from behind, broke them in half with mortars, then boarded. Got about four hundred of them in the hold, all together, and put up a spill barrier on the floor. The he took the crew, all that wed taken, and lined them up around the edges, each with a marine at his back. Put the captain face-down in the middle, and stood on his back. Asked him once, just once, where the spy was, and what was his name. Guy spat on the floor.
That was it. McIntosh nodded to that marine major of his, Bigeard, and every damn marine there killed the guy he was behind, just stuck a knife in his throat and sawed it across. Blood everywhere, pouring across that spill mat. McIntosh stood on the captains back, cool as anything, and watched as all that blood filled up the barrier. Guy he was standing on was screaming, yelling, trying to get away. The captains clothes were soaked, his hair, and it was coming into his mouth. Finally yells uncle, and gives us a name and a place. McIntosh leans down, says thanks, and snaps the guys kneck. Left him to drown in his crews blood.
I knew he was bad before, but this is getting a little silly.
The Terra IV and her consorts dropped out of cruise, 3k from Trafalgar. As Junkers and other pirates attempted to flee, a dozen fighters and bombers engaged everyone and anyone, and soon the only ships still moving flew the flag of the coalition. Two hundred marines in small vessels launched, and smashed into the habitats and areas surrounding the arms dealers shop. As they moved in, they rounded up his family, friends, anyone who appeared to be close enough to cause him pain.
As suddenly as they had appeared, the Coalition warships left, striking to the north, and disappearing into Leeds, then Dublin. Aboard the Terra IV, McIntosh and his closed advisors stood in a semi-circle around the arms dealer, strapped securely into a metal chair bolted to the deck. The room was dark, illuminated by a single flickering bulb of a red-orange tint. The lighting oscillated, becoming brighter and darker, and never at a steady rate. To even stay in that room, with the smells of blood and pain, and the brown stains on the floor and walls, was torture enough. What McIntosh had planned for the arms dealer was infinitely worse.
Mister Clarke. I understand youve gotten above your station of late. Youre having delusions of grandeur.
The man tried to splutter a protest, but a gloved hand smashed into his mouth, tossing teeth to the floor.
This is the part where I get to talk, and youre happy to listen. Youll get your chance soon, I promise. With a terrible smile lighting his face, he reached behind him, and a cloaked man in the uniform of the Commissariat handed him a bayonet. The Bayonets used by the Sirius Coalition Marines were known in some circles as power knives, due to the fact that they were not only twelve inches of incredibly sharp alloy, but also contained a power cell. When turned on, the power cell would infuse the blade with power, usually giving such a shock to the victim that they would pass out on the spot, allowing the wounds caused by the bayonet to end them quietly, and without fuss.
McIntosh made no motion to turn on the power.
So, Mister Clarke. We know youve been giving the names and locations of my troops to the Bounty Hunters for a while now. We even know how you did it. What we need to know is, who got you on this little trend, selling information, instead of weapons. We need to know who pays you, what they pay you in, what you do with that money. We need to know this, and we need to know it now. So, as you may have guessed by now, Im a reasonable man. Will you tell