Petals of Titanium -- My Life as a Mecha Setting Bridge Bunny Quest

I could make several excuses for how long it's been since I posted an update, but at this point I'm just glad that it is posted. I'll hopefully be able to keep my momentum up as we head toward the final stretch of this story.


Space, ahead of the HIMS Titanium Rose

Gloriana maneuvers past a chunk of half-finished habitat twice the size of her Artemis. Inside her helmet, she's frowning. Scouting in a debris field: By now, it's entirely familiar in a deeply unwelcome way. And this time, she's not dealing with one rookie balanced out by a more experienced, if reckless pilot. Ensign Song's death was a tragedy, and one that Gloriana cannot help but view in the light of a personal failing, even now. It's Sub-Lieutenant Ito's death, however, that she currently regrets most keenly.

Ito had been a capable and dedicated pilot who could be relied on to perform under pressure, whose quirks and failings Gloriana well understood, could work around, balance for or endure. She'd known what orders he'd carry out gladly and what he'd balk at. And as much as she'd been grudging at best at his mother hen-like attempts to look out for her well being during periods where she had been pushing herself hard, at this point she'd have welcomed an unasked for tea pouch and a when-did-you-last-sleep-ma'am.

Song, while inexperienced and headstrong, had at least been new enough that Gloriana had felt confident in her ability to shape the girl's outlook long-term. To make sure that when she moved on to another posting, she'd be a better officer than she had been when she'd first been placed under Gloriana's command. On one hand, Gloriana should be grateful that her two new pilots are more experienced than Song was. On the other hand, a potentially active combat scenario is far from the ideal circumstances under which to ascertain the sort of details of a pilot's temperament that can only really be learned through putting them in the cockpit.

If it hadn't been for how it had ended, it was almost enough to make Gloriana regret the loss of the strange, makeshift squad that she'd been commanding during the Battle of Iapetus. It was a large almost, however.

"It feels like the view just keeps getting better and better all the time." Sub-lieutenant Sylva's voice was surprisingly thin and reedy, for a man who stood as tall as he did. A seasoned pilot according to his record, even if his only major engagement had been Iapetus, during which the ship he'd been stationed on had been sunk. He looks like a solid, broad-shouldered, dependable officer. Serious face and well-maintained uniform.

"It's the same fucking view. It doesn't change."

"I don't get tired of looking at Saturn. We're closer to it every second."

"Fucking really, sir?" Loboda's Saturnian drawl somehow makes the obscenity not sound disrespectful. Or at least not intended to be disrespectful. It reminds Gloriana unavoidably of Ensign Li, whose voice over the comm she finds herself still missing far more than she would have ever credited.

Sub-lieutenant Qui Loboda, by point of contrast with Sylva, is a wiry, doe-eyed woman who looks at least five years younger than she really is. A good combat performance record salvages a career marred by several write-ups for insubordinate conduct that have held her back from promotion. The longer Gloriana is around her, however, the more she's willing to believe that this has more to do with Loboda's incurably inattentive appearance and foul mouth than any deeper lack of dedication. The Saturnian remembers everything said to her in surprising detail, no matter how distracted she'd seemed at the time.

"Stow the chatter," Gloriana says, voice sharp. She ignores the pair of 'yes, ma'ams' that follow the order, frowning at her scan display in intense concentration as she pilots her Artemis among the debris.

The next several minutes elapse in a silence filled with the familiar digital beeps and faint, mechanical whirs of the cockpit. With the steady sound of Gloriana's own breathing in the confines of her helmet. The next voice that comes over the comm isn't one of her pilots—it belongs to the Rose's mecha control officer.

"Lady Perbeck, we are picking up a suspicious signal right at the edge of your scans. Pinging it now. Do you see it on your end, ma'am?"

"I see it," Gloriana confirms, frowning in deep suspicion at her scan map, icy blue eyes boring into the point of light in question as if she can simply will it to give up any secrets it carries. "Sylva, make a closer approach of the object in question. Pinging on your map now."

"Yes, ma'am."

As her subordinate approaches, worry sprouts out from the seed of anxiety that's been living in Gloriana's chest ever since getting within sight of this debris belt. If the Rose is pinging her about this, then that means that they're incorporating her advanced scans. More specifically, that Amani is incorporating her advanced scans. Gloriana trusts her to do her job well.

"Rose, may I request a firing solution for the object?"

There's an imperceptible pause, before the Rose's control officer comes back, voice doubtful. "On... an unconfirmed point of scan data, ma'am?"

"Yes," Gloriana snaps. "If it turns out to be nothing, I won't take the shot. I want to be tracking it if it turns out not to be nothing."

"Ma'am... I... we're getting into more inhabited space, ma'am, and—"

"Oh, for the love of Sol, just get me Grayson!" Sylva is halfway there now. Loboda isn't close enough to reach him precisely in time if anything goes wrong.

"Lady Perbeck," First Officer Grayson's deep voice is tense, but also irritated. "Is there any need to shout at my subordinates?"

"Grayson, we don't have time for this." Gloriana restrains her annoyance just enough to try and convey some fraction of her apprehension. "If this goes wrong, I take full responsibility."

"You know that's not how this works." He was silent for an ambiguous moment, before, with an air of extreme reluctance, he says, "I trust your judgement. We will transmit a firing solution for the object's probable trajectory."

Gloriana deliberately kills her audio pickup momentarily before muttering: "It's about time." With the pickup back on, she says only: "Thank you, Lieutenant."

"Approaching target, ma'am," Sylva's voice says. "No movement. I think it's just— it's heat's spiking!"

Gloriana has not had confirmation of this being an enemy machine, either by her own observation or that of her squad members. Going off of instinct, however well informed by experience, with a weapon as deadly as the Artemis's main gun is beyond irresponsible, by most reckoning. She takes the shot anyway. Sylva is just far enough away that he's unharmed as the object violently explodes ahead of him, struck by railgun fire.

The Artemis's oversized thrusters combat the shot impressively, not letting Gloriana's unit be destabalised too badly. "Conta—" Sylva's voice catches in his throat, as he reorintates his Banner to avoid being thrown off course by the shockwave. "Hostile destroyed, ma'am!" he says, sleepy voice suddenly a little high-pitched. "Fast shooting, ma'am."

Grayson's voice comes in over the comm—evidently, he's been listening to this channel personally. "Very fast. Almost as though you fired before the scan had registered, ma'am." Perbeck doesn't respond to the comment, and Grayson isn't petty enough to waste too much time on it regardless.

"Two more hostiles moving on my scan, ma'am!" Loboda cuts in. "Pinging you now!" To Gloriana's intense relief, she sees that Loboda has moved into position where she and Sylva can cover and support one another.

"They're scrambling," Gloriana says. "We have the drop on them. For once." She switches channels. "Attention, Rose, are you seeing these signatures on your end?"

"Affirmative, ma'am." The control officer is back on the line. Evidently, Grayson's desire to shield her from Gloriana's displeasure does not extend to actually compromising the ship's combat performance.

"Rose, we are in position to safely eliminate remaining targets. Engaging now"


Onboard the HIMS Titanium Rose

It's impossible not to feel some level of unease still as the abstract dots that represent Lori and her squad in combat flit across your scan map. At the same time, though, this situation is decidedly favourable. The mood on the bridge is torn between elation at good odds, for once, and stomach-clenching dread at the presence of the enemy at all. At the workstation beside you, Mazlo is busy issuing a report to the main fleet.

You watch as the Rose's mecha squad surround one of the enemy units while the second is still too far away to assist. This very quickly takes a backseat to a larger concern as something much bigger comes into the edge of your scan range, from the far side of the debris field. "Sir, unknown ship sighted!" you say, addressing Grayson.

The First Officer, currently in command of the bridge, reacts with a start, eyes tracking the indicated object coming across his display. "Class?"

"One moment, sir. It's a Herald."

A little bit of the tension leaves the bridge—any enemy contact is bad at this stage, obviously. But if you have to run into a hostile vessel, another scouting ship with weaker armaments than the Rose's own is far from the worst case scenario.

"Enemy Herald's main guns just went hot! Its vector is off."

As you watch the projected firing trajectory on your display, you once again feel an intensely pessimistic stab of dread for what your job will be like when the enemy eventually gains access to something like the Rose's quasi-stealth technology. Across the void of space, circumstances and warring factions, you share a momentary sense of kinship with whatever Divine Navy scans officer just supplied their ship with an incorrect heading. At the end of the day, though, they are trying to kill you all.

The Rose's own return salvo is considerably more successful—it's not a killing blow, but the Herald's shields flare noticeably on your display, with the ship's own scouting mecha currently too busy trying not to be killed by Lori's squad to intervene.

From his place in the command chair, Grayson's dark eyes remain on the displays in front of him, even as he's noticeably having a hurried local-comms discussion with someone. "It's under control, ma'am. There's no need to— yes, ma'am, I understand." He sighs as the call ends. You have a feeling that once again, the First Officer's attempts to keep Captain Andre from operating on next to no rest have come up with nothing. "Does she want to go to an early grave?" you catch him muttering, before something more pressing draws his attention:

"Sir," Mazlo tells him, "reinforcements have been launched from the Hawthorne and the Champion. They're moving in to offer us support." Even as he speaks, you see one of the outnumbered enemy mecha go inactive on scans, overwhelmed by the coordinated efforts of Lori's new squad.

It's a sign of how your lives have been lately, that how well this is going is actually starting to make you more apprehensive. This skirmish isn't what worries you—you're clearly winning, even without the imminent reinforcements.

What worries you is who the Herald is scouting for.


Onboard the HDMS Righteous Fury

"We're trying to withdraw, Admiral," says the grey-faced scouting captain. The way she stares out of the display, it's hard to tell if she's more afraid of dying at the hands of the enemy, or of making this report to Lady Nakamura. "But we're taking heavy damage. Multiple squads of enemy mecha in pursuit, as well as the shi—"

The signal cuts out.

"Are they dead or are their comms out?" Nakamura asks without any trace of optimism.

"The Traveller was destroyed, ma'am," a young scans officer confirms.

Nakamura takes this in stride as best she can. She never held out much hope for the luckless Herald, from the moment it entered into this engagement. She sucks in a deep breath, flinty eyes darting around the crowded CiC, every face looking to her for what happens next.

"Do we begin the withdrawal, ma'am?" This time, it's Captain Bresden's face on the display, from the bridge of Nakamura's own flagship.

She regards him steadily, until she has the satisfaction of seeing him flinch. "Withdrawal, Captain?" she asks. She knows he's only speaking what many of the captains on conference are too afraid to say. Theoretically, his willingness to speak to her honestly is one of the reasons he has his position. Now, though, Nakamura has a strong inclination to have him pitched out an airlock.

"We've lost the element of surprise, ma'am," he says. "We'll have no hope of catching the enemy fleet out of position, let alone slipping away again before they develop a coordinated counterattack. Harrying them on the move was always risky, with our numbers—this is outright suicide."

"I would rather die in glorious battle, hampering my enemy, than I would to slink off and allow that idiot Grangier to take all the glory." Nakamura stares at the Captain through the display unblinkingly. "We will fight as planned. For the glory of the Emperor."

"For the glory of the Emperor," comes the expected chorus around the bridge, a faint edge of hysteria mixed in with the more typical zeal.

Nakamura glares at the incomplete scan map of the enemy fleet, as if her mere gaze can somehow light them on fire. Very likely, this attack will simply blacken their eye. But if that were the case, blacken their eye she would. Better that than returning from Saturn in disgrace, Duke Grangier named a hero. Or worse, Grangier somehow losing at Titan as a result of this fleet and Nakamura simply being hunted down and killed like a common pirate.


Onboard the HDMS Sacred Victory
En route to Titan

Duke Consort Renaud Grangier, husband to the Governor of Jupiter and Admiral in the Divine Navy of Correction takes a long sip from something considerably stronger than he's supposed to be drinking while on duty. Here in the confines of his study, however, there's no one to take alarm to it, and no pressing decisions to be impared.

Draining the shot-sized pouch of liquor in an easy gulp, he toys with the packet in one hand, eyes scanning over his surroundings. Plushly appointed, to befit his station. Fashionably decorated tile on the floors, furnishings that would actually be comfortable in gravity... on a ship the size of the Victory, which would never be so deep inside a gravity well unless something had gone disastrously wrong. A faux wooden desk he was currently strapped in behind, for access to the drawers more than anything.

He can feel the eyes of the absurdly large portrait mounted on the wall behind him, his Divine Majesty's likeness reminding any who enter the study who truly owns this ship and everything on it and just whose authority Renaud is imbued with. Most days, he avoids looking at it.

An idle hand flicks open a folder on the desk's built-in workstation, display going blank for a fractional moment, giving him a view of his own reflection. Middle-aged, short hair gone completely grey, a face that looked like it was made for smiling, currently not. His crisp, white Divine Navy uniform, with the copious amount of decoration owed an Admiral and a Grangier by marriage, is incongruously open at the collar. There's no one in the room to complain about that, either.

His visage disappears, replaced by a collection of personal images, mostly taken by him. The gardens of the Governor's estate back on Ganymede featured prominently. Lush, old-Earth plants, a picturesque artificial lake reflecting the stars through the dome overhead. A serious looking woman his own age, most often in her governor's uniform. Their marriage had been political from the start, obviously, but that didn't mean he didn't love his terror of a wife.

Renaud pauses on an image of their youngest daughter, the teenage girl grinning at the camera, captured eternally on a beautiful day on the shores of that beautiful lake.

As the date of battle grew closer and closer, Renaud finds himself seeking such images out as often as he does discrete amounts of alcohol. Pictures of Lorelei, of Arianne and the other children, all grown by now. He supposes because, deep in his gut, Renaud always assumes that any battle he participates in will be his last. So far, he's been pleasantly surprised. He wonders if Titan will be different.

News of Iapetus has had him in a funerary mood even before it became obvious that Countess Nakamura has no intention of doing the sensible thing. In the end, he never really expected her to. He hopes, perhaps vainly, that she doesn't intend to throw away the lives of everyone under her command.

Reaching into the drawer of the desk again, he unhooks yet another shot pouch. "Here's to you, Countess," he murmurs, before tossing it back. "The most spiteful woman alive."


Onboard the HIMS Titanium Rose

Your apprehension has proved correct.

You watch an enemy cruiser blow, close enough that the point of light shows on the exterior cameras, a victim of the focused fire from numerous sources. The Rose's advanced warning of enemies in the area offered just enough notice for the fleet to get into something resembling battle readiness before the attack came.

It's less of a pitched battle this time and more a series of darting strikes, brutally repelled or destroyed by the fleet. The designations of the attacking ships are consistent with data collected during the Battle of Iapetus—it's a suicidal, desperate action undertaken by a critically wounded enemy that can't hope to win.

But delay you, hurt you, hinder you, when any one of those things may spell doom for Titan? That, more than the fire the Rose briefly draws from a larger ship, before the attack is driven away by the fleet, is what makes the knot of anxiety in your stomach harden into an icy dread you're not sure you'll be able to shake. You can't help but wonder, watching the enemy on your scan dying, if this is what you'll look like when you finally arrive around Titan, on a grander scale. If in the end, everything will only be delaying the inevitable, hurting an implacable enemy as much as you can before you die.

Combat is supposed to make things seem simple, in the short term. Boil away such longer concerns, bring things down to the here and now of surviving for the next minute. That doesn't seem to be working for you anymore.



What is the final outcome of Nakamura's doomed assault on your fleet?

Pick three. Votes will be counted in blocks.

[ ] The fleet is not meaningfully delayed

[ ] The fleet does not sustain a substantial loss to its force of ships

[ ] The fleet does not sustain a substantial loss to its force of mecha

[ ] The fleet does not suffer a grievous blow to morale