Soldat du Roi

[Bannorn]

Lasalle instinctly held his breath as the shadow of the triumph class destroyer passed above him, looming in the clouds like a spectre of death. He could almost feel the ships gaze on him as its scanners pierced the nebula, relentlessly searching. Her weapons were charged - he knew that all to well; not minutes ago they had fled from its batteries back into the eastern smog cloud. The crossing had gone well enough, but at the last moment this consillard - or rebel- he did not know, ship has sighted them and taken up the pursuit.

Little by little the shadow passed, the triumph slowly moving along a search pattern away from him. He waited what seemed like an eternity; the hulk of the ship had long since disappeared from his view in the clouds, but be dared not power up his systems lest they should spot him again. He might not escape a second time. Dying at the hands of rebels wasn't part of the plan.

He waited. And waited. Eventually, half an hour or so he estimated, he finally felt secure enough to take a look on scanners. He thumbed the power switch, and moments later the gentle hum of his engines kicked in as the screens in his cockpit flickered back to life. A dozen warning lights immediately came online, but his attention was on the scanners. [color=#1F618D]Clear, thank god's good grace. Now to find the others.

His hands raced across the console, tapping out a series of instructions for the communication relay. It would fire a series of broadband static bursts on a rarely used frequency, seemingly static to the untrained eye. There, go. The system beeped affirmation, and sent it. Moments later a series of static beeps returned to him, each carrying an embeded location signal. All at once several dozen dots appeared on his tactical sensors, as the ragtag fleet of survivor ships he had assembled in the last few days reported their positions. Another series of beeps confirmed that the vocal network had been established.

"Last known position?" Lassale had to fight the urge to whisper as he asked for the report. The answer came quickly, though he had not yet had time to learn the man's name. "Heading south, toward the Jumpgate in pursuit of an evacuation ship." Piere pondered the situation for a moment, gently bouncing his head off the cushioned, if worn, headrest of his Lynx. "Bien. Move into starting positions," he pushed the throttle forward, his Lynx immediately leaping forward, inching toward the edge of the nebula, "if we are going to be successful we must get on-board ze vessel before we are spotted."

Leaning forward, he looked out of his cockpit. All around him ships were closing in. It was a bizarre assortment of vessels. Caracals, Lynxes, Servals and Cougars were intermixed with civilian Eclipses, and Sunbeams, a pair of badly damaged Perilous' and even a handful of freighters of different types. A far call from the mighty Gallian fleet of old, but it would do. Ahead of them, beyond the edge of the nebula, he could just make out the form of their target: a seemingly abandoned Triumph Class Destroyer. It was listlessly drifting in space, keeled at an odd angle with shields and engines offline. And yet, for all the obvious failures the ship was experiencing, there was only limited damage visible externally. Piere hoped, prayed even, that it would provide their weary group with the shelter and safe haven they desperately needed.

"Remember, mon amis: 'ard and fast. The primary bay seems jammed open, so head for there." He kicked his Lynx into gear, the full power of his cruise engine rocketing him forward. "Aloonsiiiii." He came slicing out of the cloud ahead of the others, thin whisps of nebula and smog clinging to the shield-induced static of his hull. The distinctive whine of dozens of cruise engines around him let him know the others were following. Here we go again.

"300 meters. Danger: Navigation Lock Failed, Abort. 200 meters. Danger: Navigation Lock Failed, Abort. 100 meters. Danger -" Ignoring the robotic drone of the navigational system, Piere worked his ship like he was born in the cockpit. Engines flared and faded into silence and momentum carried him beneath the jammed bulkhead into the docking bay. 3-2-1, now. Engines roared back into life at full reverse, stopping the ship nearly dead in its tracks. Piere slammed forward in his seat harness, the burn wounds on his chest making him immediately regret it. Instinct saved him, as landing gear came sliding down and he brought the ship to rest on the bay floor with a shudder. He sat there fore a moment, blinding pain rolling over him. As the others began to arrive, ships slamming down around him, he donned his helmet, re-checked his flight suit for integrity, and opened the hatch.

Groups of soldiers were already spreading out around the bay, weapons drawn. Piere followed suit in reaching for his firearm as Henri and a few others came walking across the cold steel deck toward him. "Ah, Henri, get somebody to get the hangar bay door functional again, then-" Henri pointed across the deck toward a small group, clustered around an access hatch, cutting torches already at work. "Jaqueline is already working on it."

"Ah, bon. Then," he hesitated a moment, looking around the bay and getting his bearings, "-then you take a group down to main engineering. Rene, secure the rest of the flight decks. Alain, go find mission control and sweep the ship for survivors or holdouts." He gesticulated to emphasise each point, nodding at the end to indicate his satisfaction with the orders. "I will take the rest and go check out the bridge. Lets hope she'll fly. Alonsi." He looked around the bay to find men to come with him - the other leaders were already forming groups, calling names as they went. Piere waved the rest to him, taking an extra moment here and there to ensure the newest members of their little band were informed. Within a quarter of an hour they were ready; setting out first, Piere led his group up toward the bridge.

The corridors were deserted. The ship was as if asleep, not a single light or system remained online. Not even emergency lighting was functional. Even so, wherever they went, they could find no major damage. To the contrary, the hallways were pristine and everything in its place. Somehow, that made the absence of the crew even more disturbing. They pushed forward nonetheless until, at last, the looming bulkhead doors of the bridge appeared before them.

The squad stacked up around the bulkhead door, guns at the ready. Taking a deep breath, Piere gave the nod to the man standing at the console. A few seconds later an alarm sounded as the bridge opened up to them. Stepping out into the corridor, he was nearly knocked off his feet by the blast of air that came rushing out into the depressurized hallway. Bracing himself against it, Lasalle took aim, but the bridge was empty. "Clear." The weapons around him lowered, and they moved forward onto the bridge proper. "Search the forward module. Go."

Piere let the men spread out, taking to the task of clearing the bridge's various ancilliary rooms. He stood there for a few moments before noticing the ship's plague, attached to a nearby wall. Here, for the first time, he saw the signs of trouble: a series of small explosions and blaster impact marks had scarred the wall, leaving it blackened and scorched. Small tears, micro-fractures and impact craters pocked the surface. Whatever had happened here, it had been explosive, and contained. Reaching for the manual release, he let the secondary bulkhead door drop about half way - here, again, scorching, worse at the top than the seal. It must have closed as the explosion went off. The thought made him pause for a moment, resetting the bulkhead door, and turning to the bridge access doorway. Again, covered in sorching. Intermingled amongst the explosive marks were the telltale signs of massed laser fire. Defending the bridge, perhaps.

At last, his attention came back to the plague on the wall. Once it had no doubt shon in glittering bronze-gold, proudly displaying its heraldry. At the top he could still just about make up the royal emblem of Gallia, but beneath the plague war scorched and buckled. He laid his hand on it, gently feeling the groves and markings. Beneath his fingers, he could feel there was still something of the inscription left behind. He closed his eyes and focused, letting his fingers slip across the uneven surface. Napoleon. A good name. Below the name, much of the plague had melted in the intense heat of the explosion, but right at the bottom, scrawled across a faintly etched banner, a phrase that would stay with him for many years to come: "Vers l'inconnu." Words for the moment.

The sound of boots on the deck approaching him brought Piere back from his thoughts and into the moment. He turned to see Rene approaching him. Before Lasalle could speak, the former navigation called out: "Piere, there's something 'ere you should see. Its..." The officer trailed off, leading the way toward the captain's ready room. "Well, you'd best see for yourself." Rene thumbed the door control, and gestured inside. The room was something to see: almost decadently decorated, with fine quality heavy woodshelves storing a collection of ancient books and holopads alike. Around the room, comfortable upholster seating stood doted around, some heaved on their side by some impact or other. Clearly the captain had fine tastes. In the center of the room sat a desk of massive construction, behind which sat the captain. Or, at least, what was left of him. Slumped back in the grand chair was a man whose features marked him to be perhaps in his fifties. His face was weathered, with a stern look of a school-teacher about him, but the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth hinted at a jovial man. His uniform was neatly arranged, with nothing out of place, bar for the large burn hole above his heart. On the floor beside the former captain lay the means of his demise - a standard issue duty pistol on the max setting - and a datapad, screen still unlocked. Kneeling to pick the pad up, Lasalle read the document on the screen, what he presumed were the final words of this gallant officer of Gallia:

They must have had a way to communicate with the traiteurs. As soon as that Consildard ship fired on us, the revolt started. They barricaded the main engine room, left us dead in space with no power. They tried to storm the bridge, but they failed. I tried to set the self destruct sequence - I do not know how, but they must have disabled it somehow. That function only works on the bridge, so I must assume sooner or later someone up here will show their colours. In response, the damn consillards have taken everything off line: power, guns, shields, communications, and we are trapped in here. I don't know what is going on in the rest of the ship. I cannot hold the ship, so I will give the order to evacuate, and turn off the life support. Without life-support, rebels and loyalists will die. Holding the ship now would be of no use, better to deny it to the enemy. Hopefully a few of my men get out. Long live Gallia, long life Le Roi!

"At least we know what happened." Piere's heart was heavy reading the words. He looked up at Rene, but was created by a blank stare. Tossing the pad to his fellow officer, he repeated himself: "Now we know what happened. I hope most got out." Taking one more look around, he led the way back out to the bridge. "I doubt anyone is still alive. We need to get life support back online, and make sure nobody left us any nasty surprises. Then, engines, we need to get to safe ground as soon as possible."

He slumped into the captains chair. Resisting the urge to simply fall asleep where he was, he set to work trying to bypass the ships security systems. He had been gathering every command code he could - from every ship he encountered, and from every person that joined their rag tag group of survivors. Now he had to hope one of them would do something. It was not easy work; while others busied themselves around him, Piere became locked in a battle with the computer. Code after code was rejected, until at long last one of them allowed him access to the communications relay. Waving over a young engineer whose name he did not know, Piere kept working, indicating for the technician to isolate the system.
"Warning, Security Breach Detected." Finally. "Warning, Security Breach Detected." The monotone drone of the ships' security system blared on, and finally the command center came to life. Quickly re-entering the command code, Piere instructed the system to locate the captain. Moments later, the screen produced the information he already knew: the captain was dead. Now, for my next trick.... Piere chuckled inwardly as the system requested a new command level officer. Scanning his identity badge, he set the final command, entered a new access code and waited. In just a few moments, the klaxon ceased, and full power returned to the bridge. All across the room screens came to life. "Ah, there we go. Now we should find out everything we need to know."

"And I thought you were going to get us all killed there, Lasalle!" Henri's booming, jovial, voice called out from the bridge access corridor. Striding up the hall, he was beaming, accompanied my several men Piere could not place. "You won't believe what we found. I was going to call, but," the large infantryman gestured vaguely toward the klaxon's in the ceeiling, "you seemed to have your 'ands full." Half-turning, Henri indicated the men about him. "Survivors, Piere! About two-hundred in all, it seems they barricaded themselves in a secure cargo bay and jury rigged the life-support system. The traiteurs didn't know they were there! Ingenious!" The man's tone and face darked after a brief pause, his feelings as always written all over him: "But, they 'ave wounded. Alot of the men will need medical attention, and recovery from Oxygen deprivation," he hesitated again, "it is not pretty in there."

Piere nodded his greetings to the men. "Proper introductions will have to wait mes camerades, but the bridge is secure, take whoever you need Henri." He half-turned on himself, barking at nobody in particular. "Anyone with medical training, or any knowledge of engineering, get down to the cargo bays and main engineering. Get those people the help they need, and get this ship moving again. Go." He turned back to Henri, inquisitive look ready on his face: "Anything else?" The infantryman shook his head by way of response, before turning on his heel and heading off the bridge, followed by the bulk of the group.

Suddenly the bridge was quiet again, with just a few lonely souls going about systems checks and cataloguing damage. Lasalle sat himself down on the captains chair again. At last exhaustion had caught up with him. He would rest, just for a few moments. Slumping back into his chair, he immediately fell into a deep sleep.

---

---

Remove the SNAC for good

[08.07.2019 03:20:17] =CR=Zulu: Situations like these makes me wish they left me behind in Crayter.