deathzealotzero
Mecha Guru
- Location
- Las Vegas, NV
So Breetai and the Fleet going to arrive now right? Other then that an interesting chapter all around.
Command [Robotech]
- Thread starter Blackleaf
- Start date
- Novel Sci-Fi
- Location
- South Wales, United Kingdom
Hopefully.
York is probably feeling very confident by now that a hard won and costly victory will be there's. It would be the opportune time to bring that all crashing down on them and not just drive them from Manhattan but to force the facist, racist leadership of the rogue state to surrender. Especially as with the losses they've taken - there air force is to all intents and purposes gone and there ground forces seriously mauled - they probably will no longer have the strength to repel an attack by seriously pissed off RDF forces if the UEG shows some backbone for a change and sends them in more than a token force.
Hi everyone! Thank you for continuing to read and reply! We'll be returning to Vanessa and the fleet very soon - I'm as excited as everyone to see the return of the Zentraedi from orbit! I know it's been quite a long time since our brief peek in chapter 7. There'll be just one more post next week before we get back there. After that, buckle up, because chapter 9 is going to be wild!
All of your feedback going forward is going to be especially important, because there are now so many moving parts at work in the city, across the Hudson River, and in orbit. All the events on Earth are grounded in real places, and all of the groups involved are going to start colliding. It'll be a big help if my readers can point out potential inconsistencies or confusion. Thank you all for reading and participating!
GiovanniBlasini
Transhumanist Nutcase from Niops IX
- Location
- San Diego, CA, USA, Sol III
- Pronouns
- He/Him
As much as I've enjoyed the parts of the story from Vanessa's viewpoint, I've really been digging the view from the ground with Rick and especially Brom as viewpoint characters. I won't be sorry to be back with Vanessa, but I'll probably miss Brom a bit.
I've been so glad that I took my wife's advice way back while I was writing part one and decided to include Bron's point of view in part two. The storyline as it developed would have been impossible to tell otherwise. Don't worry - Bron's not going to disappear, but the time spent in his and Vanessa's points of view is going to start balancing out a bit more. Now as for including Rick, I'm going to admit that putting a chapter length interlude from his point of view was a bit self-indulgent, but man, I just couldn't resist dropping him in the cockpit of the Lightning and grabbing that chance for one last ride to the rescue! I don't think anyone is going to complain!
I think a lot of great stuff is yet to come, and I hope you all enjoy it!
Descend Chapter 8.3
Bron and Eckert reached the simple glass and metal push bar door that was the building's main entrance, and the sergeant stopped him, shouldering the police issued shotgun he had picked up along the way.
"It's complete chaos out there, sir." He drew his service pistol from its holster, and offered it to Bron. Bron hesitated. He looked at the weapon cast in cold black steel. How long had it been since he wielded any weapon? It had to have been before his first visit to the SDF-1. Before he met Vanessa. He realized with a shock that he didn't want to take the gun.
"You know how to use it, right?" Eckert prompted. "I mean, you're a 'Zentraedi Warrior,' and all of that?"
Bron sucked in a breath.
They were all enjoying a late meal one hot July evening, on the terrace of Adoclas Center. Mary had a few beers in her, like most of them did, and was going into her 'Professor' mode, as Rico jokingly liked to call it.
"No, no!' the rosy-cheeked woman admonished, shaking a forefinger for emphasis. "That's what I'm trying to explain. Vanessa's not a 'warrior,' she's a soldier!"
Bron, Rico, and Konda all blinked, almost in unison.
"I do not understand," Konda said, shaking his head muzzily. "Are they not the same thing?"
"I can't say I've ever felt much like either one," Vanessa interjected, smiling. "General Maistroff once asked me if I joined up for the education benefits."
They all chuckled, and Mary nodded emphatically. "But that's- that's what I'm talking about! It's a question of identity. A 'warrior' is who you are. A 'soldier' is an occupation you take up, and can set down again."
"I don't get it," Bron admitted, his brow furrowed.
"Ok, let me think." Mary took another long pull from her pint glass and set it back down on the table with a heavy thunk. "So, you could say a warrior is someone who was born to be a warrior. On Earth we had knights, samurai, janissaries, norsemen, numerous Native American societies, and a bunch of other cultures that taught skills at weaponry and war from a young age, or else, it was that the skills you needed for survival overlapped with those needed for war, like the horse-mounted archers of the Asian steppes. Being ready to go to war was a societal expectation."
"You didn't mention the Spartans," Konda interrupted. "I have read their name many times among those counted as great warrior societies."
"I knew somebody was going to bring up that pack of sociopaths!" Mary groaned. "They were terrible. And overrated. Don't get me started on them or we'll be here all night," she added, pointing an accusatory finger at Konda. "What I was trying to say is that for a warrior society, when a war ended, when the army was disbanded, you were still a warrior. It was who you were, your core identity. Understand?"
"Ok." Bron looked over at Vanessa, who was listening to Mary with attentive interest. For his own part, he was beginning to feel an undertone of discomfort that was clashing with the general good feelings of an evening shared among close friends. He found himself thinking of his earliest memories. Of the chill, misty air on his wet, naked skin as he stepped from the cloning tube. Of his powerful giant's hands, hands that already knew how to hold and fire a weapon. The commands and skills and proscriptions that had buzzed constantly in his newly formed mind.
"So then, what's a soldier?" Mary went on, oblivious. "That word goes back hundreds of years, it can be understood to mean 'one having pay.' A civilian volunteers or is compelled to military service. They are an adult, they come from a non-military background, they are trained to a specific task, and when the war, or an agreed term of service ends, they become a civilian again. A soldier who leaves the army, for whatever reason, stops being a soldier. They go back to civilian life, their old job, or a new one."
"Well we chose to leave the fleet," Rico pointed out. "Haven't we stopped being warriors?"
"Technically, no. That's the point. It's at the center of who you are. It's why so many Zentraedi have struggled to adapt to civilian life, and to life on Earth."
"But I have read about the aftermath of past wars in your history books," Konda said. "There are many accounts of those you would call soldiers who suffer from the effects of the wars they fought in long after they ended. Injuries. Grief. Illnesses of the mind."
Vanessa squeezed Bron's hand, and he started. She was watching his face.
'You ok?' she mouthed silently, concern visible in her eye.
Bron forced a smile, and squeezed her hand back, squeezed her artificial fingers. 'Yeah, fine,' he murmured.
Mary nodded to Konda. "That's all true. Wars always leave a mark. Which is why many societies had mechanisms in place- ideologies and art, bonds of fellowship, rewards, and rituals - designed to cushion the traumatic effects of war for the participants, and help the transition from wartime to peacetime. Unfortunately, we're not as well-equipped for that now. The UEG can provide training, resettlement, and jobs, but most Zentraedi are going to have to find their own way forward."
"Well, Professor, my way forward involves another round of drinks!" Rico loudly proclaimed, raising his empty glass, and everyone laughed. Everyone but Bron.
Bron stared at the pistol Sergeant Eckert held out to him, then looked him in the eye. 'Zentraedi Warrior,' Eckert had said. The words echoed in his mind, though he knew there was no ill intent behind them. He gently but firmly pushed the pistol away.
"I think it's best if you hold onto that, Sergeant. Let's go."
I reject that identity, he thought. I am Zentraedi, but I'll not be a warrior or a soldier. You were right, Vee. My path is not yours.
Next week… intervention…
"It's complete chaos out there, sir." He drew his service pistol from its holster, and offered it to Bron. Bron hesitated. He looked at the weapon cast in cold black steel. How long had it been since he wielded any weapon? It had to have been before his first visit to the SDF-1. Before he met Vanessa. He realized with a shock that he didn't want to take the gun.
"You know how to use it, right?" Eckert prompted. "I mean, you're a 'Zentraedi Warrior,' and all of that?"
Bron sucked in a breath.
They were all enjoying a late meal one hot July evening, on the terrace of Adoclas Center. Mary had a few beers in her, like most of them did, and was going into her 'Professor' mode, as Rico jokingly liked to call it.
"No, no!' the rosy-cheeked woman admonished, shaking a forefinger for emphasis. "That's what I'm trying to explain. Vanessa's not a 'warrior,' she's a soldier!"
Bron, Rico, and Konda all blinked, almost in unison.
"I do not understand," Konda said, shaking his head muzzily. "Are they not the same thing?"
"I can't say I've ever felt much like either one," Vanessa interjected, smiling. "General Maistroff once asked me if I joined up for the education benefits."
They all chuckled, and Mary nodded emphatically. "But that's- that's what I'm talking about! It's a question of identity. A 'warrior' is who you are. A 'soldier' is an occupation you take up, and can set down again."
"I don't get it," Bron admitted, his brow furrowed.
"Ok, let me think." Mary took another long pull from her pint glass and set it back down on the table with a heavy thunk. "So, you could say a warrior is someone who was born to be a warrior. On Earth we had knights, samurai, janissaries, norsemen, numerous Native American societies, and a bunch of other cultures that taught skills at weaponry and war from a young age, or else, it was that the skills you needed for survival overlapped with those needed for war, like the horse-mounted archers of the Asian steppes. Being ready to go to war was a societal expectation."
"You didn't mention the Spartans," Konda interrupted. "I have read their name many times among those counted as great warrior societies."
"I knew somebody was going to bring up that pack of sociopaths!" Mary groaned. "They were terrible. And overrated. Don't get me started on them or we'll be here all night," she added, pointing an accusatory finger at Konda. "What I was trying to say is that for a warrior society, when a war ended, when the army was disbanded, you were still a warrior. It was who you were, your core identity. Understand?"
"Ok." Bron looked over at Vanessa, who was listening to Mary with attentive interest. For his own part, he was beginning to feel an undertone of discomfort that was clashing with the general good feelings of an evening shared among close friends. He found himself thinking of his earliest memories. Of the chill, misty air on his wet, naked skin as he stepped from the cloning tube. Of his powerful giant's hands, hands that already knew how to hold and fire a weapon. The commands and skills and proscriptions that had buzzed constantly in his newly formed mind.
"So then, what's a soldier?" Mary went on, oblivious. "That word goes back hundreds of years, it can be understood to mean 'one having pay.' A civilian volunteers or is compelled to military service. They are an adult, they come from a non-military background, they are trained to a specific task, and when the war, or an agreed term of service ends, they become a civilian again. A soldier who leaves the army, for whatever reason, stops being a soldier. They go back to civilian life, their old job, or a new one."
"Well we chose to leave the fleet," Rico pointed out. "Haven't we stopped being warriors?"
"Technically, no. That's the point. It's at the center of who you are. It's why so many Zentraedi have struggled to adapt to civilian life, and to life on Earth."
"But I have read about the aftermath of past wars in your history books," Konda said. "There are many accounts of those you would call soldiers who suffer from the effects of the wars they fought in long after they ended. Injuries. Grief. Illnesses of the mind."
Vanessa squeezed Bron's hand, and he started. She was watching his face.
'You ok?' she mouthed silently, concern visible in her eye.
Bron forced a smile, and squeezed her hand back, squeezed her artificial fingers. 'Yeah, fine,' he murmured.
Mary nodded to Konda. "That's all true. Wars always leave a mark. Which is why many societies had mechanisms in place- ideologies and art, bonds of fellowship, rewards, and rituals - designed to cushion the traumatic effects of war for the participants, and help the transition from wartime to peacetime. Unfortunately, we're not as well-equipped for that now. The UEG can provide training, resettlement, and jobs, but most Zentraedi are going to have to find their own way forward."
"Well, Professor, my way forward involves another round of drinks!" Rico loudly proclaimed, raising his empty glass, and everyone laughed. Everyone but Bron.
Bron stared at the pistol Sergeant Eckert held out to him, then looked him in the eye. 'Zentraedi Warrior,' Eckert had said. The words echoed in his mind, though he knew there was no ill intent behind them. He gently but firmly pushed the pistol away.
"I think it's best if you hold onto that, Sergeant. Let's go."
I reject that identity, he thought. I am Zentraedi, but I'll not be a warrior or a soldier. You were right, Vee. My path is not yours.
Next week… intervention…
- Location
- South Wales, United Kingdom
Interesting update. I like that Bron while he is still a Zentraedi is choosing another path other than being a warrior. Hopefully more Zentraedi will follow that example and become the people that they could have been, were becoming on Fantoma after they were first created to be miners on that world before Nimuul and the other Robotech Elders repurposed them into warrior-servitors.
deathzealotzero
Mecha Guru
- Location
- Las Vegas, NV
Blink. Okay, I did expect that! Still quite an interesting chapter!
Thank you so much for the feedback!
You know, DZZ, I kind of wondered if this scene would come off a bit unexpected. I'm hoping that read continuously, instead of in small bites like on the forum, that it will flow a bit smoother, but it just came to me as Bron was about to head back into the embattled streets that his feelings about being a warrior had to be addressed. Why not take up arms like so many of the other Zentraedi in Manhattan, and join the fight directly? But I think it's been brewing for some time that that is no longer who Bron is. He's very consciously choosing a different path. I feel like he's in the odd position of not being a pacifist (he doesn't disapprove of Vanessa being a soldier, or of the defense forces being prepared to use violence to protect Earth) but personally being a conscientious objector, if such a thing is possible.
I'm still after all of this time grappling with the experiences of all of the demobilized Zentraedi. I look at their position as being similar to that of child soldiers - not that they are themselves childish, but that they were effectively cloned 'innocent' and then thrust into a life of extreme violence, with no real coping mechanisms in place and no way out. I don't buy into the idea of the 'Zentraedi Imperative' from the comics and novels. I'm not criticizing the writers, because it's their story to tell in their adaptation. What I mean is that I don't see anything in the original series to establish such an idea. There is no indication I see that any of the Zentraedi characters were operating under some sort of programmed mental compulsion to be violent and fight, or to be loyal to the Robtech Masters.
Khyron is cruel and insane, but that's just his personality - he's a clear outlier among the Zentraedi. Miriya is originally motivated by extreme pride in her abilities as a pilot, not loyalty to the Robotech Masters or the Zentraedi chain of command (she talks back to her superiors and disobeys orders!). Bron, Rico, and Konda are fascinated, not repelled by the idea of rejecting war and pursuing a life among Terrans. Breetai and Exedore, once their decision is made, show no regrets about betraying Dolza or the Masters, and also show no restlessness or a desire to engage in violence for violence sake. Furthermore, there is a clear difference between the Zentraedi and the Tirolian clones of the Robotech Masters' city ships. There are much clearer indications of indoctrination, emotional manipulation, and mind control - the next step, as it were, in the Master's plan to reshape sentient beings to their whims. And there are clearly deep cracks in that plan. Their artificial society has all but fallen apart by the end of Southern Cross, completely aside from the damage done by combat.
As to the matter of 'malcontentism' and insurgency among demobilized Zentraedi soldiers - they've been set adrift in a devastated world they do not understand, cut loose from the armada (their community), the skills they do have are devalued, and they are placed in menial jobs. Any present day military veteran might experience similar feelings in a similar situation. And some do become embittered, reject that society, and lash out in violence just to feel some kind of catharsis. To me this is the true struggle of the Zentraedi - not to battle some kind of programming which has deprived them of free will and accountability for their actions, but to find a meaningful place in a world that is all but destroyed and has no systems in place to properly help them, and in some cases is actively hostile to them.
I think I said while writing book one that there wasn't a lot of action, because that wasn't the type of story I was writing- it was an exploration of grief, healing, and identity. Well, with book two, it looks like we're getting all of that and a big heaping helping of mecha action as well!
Descend Chapter 8.4
"Now."
The command reverberated in every corridor and compartment of the vast warship.
"Our enemy's main strength is at last revealed to us. Begin the operation."
After the long hours standing by on high alert, the bridge of the Sal-Dezir exploded with activity. Vanessa did not sag with relief at Captain Gotta's words, if anything the tension she felt wound even tighter in her body until she thought something might snap within her. Bron was down there, somewhere in that churning maelstrom of war, perhaps dead or injured already, and they were all about to plunge straight into it themselves.
"…. Do not be mistaken in thinking we, who were offered up as a sacrifice upon the altar of war by the tyrants who created us, do not understand the terrible gravity of this moment. It is only to put an end to this mad act of conquest, this suffering and bloodshed not seen since the end of the Robotech War, that we choose to darken Earth's skies with the shadow of a Zentraedi warship again. One ship. The last ship. From this day forward, the Zentraedi fleet will be no more. It is time for this legacy of death and empire to end. The future lies ahead of us, for a reunited humanity. I call upon the leaders of York to withdraw their armies and surrender their mad dreams. I call upon the United Earth Government and all non-aligned governments to work alongside me, to bring about Earth's rebirth…"
As pre-occupied as Vanessa was, she barely noticed Breetai's pre-recorded broadcast. Exedore had written it during the trip back to the Sal-Dezir, and she and Straza had vetted it and offered their revisions during the hours of waiting. It was a good speech. Exedore was a gifted writer, and matched his words well to Breetai's incredible presence. She had no doubt that his words would put all the major factions on the back foot. The UEG would be forced to come to terms with granting the Zentraedi a real role in the new order and the Pioneer Mission. The independent city-states would have most of the justifications for their paranoia and oppression toward the Zentraedi cut right out from under them. And York… York would now face its reckoning.
Gotta turned to Straza, who was refreshed, re-bandaged, and back in a clean flight suit and battle armor.
"Ready your cohorts, Group Leader. The assault landing is yours."
"Aye, Captain," she answered, saluting in UN Spacy fashion. A reminder, perhaps, of her true allegiance. Was that a flicker of distrust in both their eyes, as they looked at each other? She turned to Vanessa's tiny station in the command bubble before she left for the launch bays.
"Good luck, Straza!" Vanessa called.
"You as well, my Commander. May this battle be ended soon, and all of us reunited with those we care for."
"I, too, shall be departing now, Lieutenant Commander Leeds," Exedore said. "With the planning complete, and the operation under way, I expect my Lord Breetai will be receiving a great number of urgent communications from Earth government and armed forces officials."
"Thank you for your help, Minister Exedore," Vanessa said, shaking his offered hand.
"And thank you for your efforts on our behalf. I leave the rest to you." His face was grave as he spoke.
Vanessa frowned. The operation was in motion, the Zentraedi forces minutes from deploying. She could already feel the ship beginning its long awaited descent from orbit. Much as it pained her, wouldn't she be little more than a passenger until the battle was over?
"I don't understand."
"I believe your leadership will be needed before this day ends," he said quietly. "Farewell, Commander."
She was stunned for a moment. "But Exedore, I-"
It was too late. The gap between them widened. A giant crewman was already wheeling away the cart Exedore stood on, to convey him to the shuttle bay. She watched him go. She didn't want to consider what he might be suggesting. Finally, she turned to May, who was monitoring the station next to hers, crisp and efficient in the last clean uniform she had brought with her aboard the ship.
"Lieutenant."
"Yes, Commander?"
"Where is Lieutenant Reyes?"
"Already waiting in the launch bay, ma'am. I believe he's checking over the Valkyries with our support crew. They're removing the FAST packs to be ready for atmospheric operations."
"Contact him," Vanessa ordered. "I want the Gold Sabers on ready standby. When the Sal-Dezir's flight group launches, the squadron is to take up a reserve position ten kilometers to the stern, and await further orders."
May's eyebrows met. "He's not to engage alongside the rest of the relief force? He won't be happy about that."
"You have your orders."
"But-"
"May!" she snapped.
Allison blinked in surprise, and swallowed her protests. "Aye, aye!" she sang out, and bent to her task.
Vanessa felt a presence, and looked over her shoulder. Amid the controlled chaos of shouted reports and commands, overlapping projec-beams, and bustling officers and aides, Captain Gotta stared down at her, his eyes unreadable green pools.
Next week… combat drop…
The command reverberated in every corridor and compartment of the vast warship.
"Our enemy's main strength is at last revealed to us. Begin the operation."
After the long hours standing by on high alert, the bridge of the Sal-Dezir exploded with activity. Vanessa did not sag with relief at Captain Gotta's words, if anything the tension she felt wound even tighter in her body until she thought something might snap within her. Bron was down there, somewhere in that churning maelstrom of war, perhaps dead or injured already, and they were all about to plunge straight into it themselves.
"…. Do not be mistaken in thinking we, who were offered up as a sacrifice upon the altar of war by the tyrants who created us, do not understand the terrible gravity of this moment. It is only to put an end to this mad act of conquest, this suffering and bloodshed not seen since the end of the Robotech War, that we choose to darken Earth's skies with the shadow of a Zentraedi warship again. One ship. The last ship. From this day forward, the Zentraedi fleet will be no more. It is time for this legacy of death and empire to end. The future lies ahead of us, for a reunited humanity. I call upon the leaders of York to withdraw their armies and surrender their mad dreams. I call upon the United Earth Government and all non-aligned governments to work alongside me, to bring about Earth's rebirth…"
As pre-occupied as Vanessa was, she barely noticed Breetai's pre-recorded broadcast. Exedore had written it during the trip back to the Sal-Dezir, and she and Straza had vetted it and offered their revisions during the hours of waiting. It was a good speech. Exedore was a gifted writer, and matched his words well to Breetai's incredible presence. She had no doubt that his words would put all the major factions on the back foot. The UEG would be forced to come to terms with granting the Zentraedi a real role in the new order and the Pioneer Mission. The independent city-states would have most of the justifications for their paranoia and oppression toward the Zentraedi cut right out from under them. And York… York would now face its reckoning.
Gotta turned to Straza, who was refreshed, re-bandaged, and back in a clean flight suit and battle armor.
"Ready your cohorts, Group Leader. The assault landing is yours."
"Aye, Captain," she answered, saluting in UN Spacy fashion. A reminder, perhaps, of her true allegiance. Was that a flicker of distrust in both their eyes, as they looked at each other? She turned to Vanessa's tiny station in the command bubble before she left for the launch bays.
"Good luck, Straza!" Vanessa called.
"You as well, my Commander. May this battle be ended soon, and all of us reunited with those we care for."
"I, too, shall be departing now, Lieutenant Commander Leeds," Exedore said. "With the planning complete, and the operation under way, I expect my Lord Breetai will be receiving a great number of urgent communications from Earth government and armed forces officials."
"Thank you for your help, Minister Exedore," Vanessa said, shaking his offered hand.
"And thank you for your efforts on our behalf. I leave the rest to you." His face was grave as he spoke.
Vanessa frowned. The operation was in motion, the Zentraedi forces minutes from deploying. She could already feel the ship beginning its long awaited descent from orbit. Much as it pained her, wouldn't she be little more than a passenger until the battle was over?
"I don't understand."
"I believe your leadership will be needed before this day ends," he said quietly. "Farewell, Commander."
She was stunned for a moment. "But Exedore, I-"
It was too late. The gap between them widened. A giant crewman was already wheeling away the cart Exedore stood on, to convey him to the shuttle bay. She watched him go. She didn't want to consider what he might be suggesting. Finally, she turned to May, who was monitoring the station next to hers, crisp and efficient in the last clean uniform she had brought with her aboard the ship.
"Lieutenant."
"Yes, Commander?"
"Where is Lieutenant Reyes?"
"Already waiting in the launch bay, ma'am. I believe he's checking over the Valkyries with our support crew. They're removing the FAST packs to be ready for atmospheric operations."
"Contact him," Vanessa ordered. "I want the Gold Sabers on ready standby. When the Sal-Dezir's flight group launches, the squadron is to take up a reserve position ten kilometers to the stern, and await further orders."
May's eyebrows met. "He's not to engage alongside the rest of the relief force? He won't be happy about that."
"You have your orders."
"But-"
"May!" she snapped.
Allison blinked in surprise, and swallowed her protests. "Aye, aye!" she sang out, and bent to her task.
Vanessa felt a presence, and looked over her shoulder. Amid the controlled chaos of shouted reports and commands, overlapping projec-beams, and bustling officers and aides, Captain Gotta stared down at her, his eyes unreadable green pools.
Next week… combat drop…
- Location
- South Wales, United Kingdom
Nice update.
And so the Zentraedi intervention and with it the end of York begins. I imagine that with Breetai's speech there will be no small amount of panic in the UEG at the idea that the Zentraedi are disbanding there fleet. Looking forward to seeing how this goes.
And so the Zentraedi intervention and with it the end of York begins. I imagine that with Breetai's speech there will be no small amount of panic in the UEG at the idea that the Zentraedi are disbanding there fleet. Looking forward to seeing how this goes.
deathzealotzero
Mecha Guru
- Location
- Las Vegas, NV
Huh. Some parts of the ending there I do not get all that much, but still I can finally! Here goes Breetai! York, you are so fucked!
The true end-game begins, and yes, York is about to have a lot more on their plates than they ever bargained for! The events of the following days will shake the UEG, York, and the entire world.
Don't be too worried if you're left feeling a little confused, DZZ, because Vanessa is feeling just as confused. Exedore has decided to be mysterious...
Descend Chapter 9.1
Chapter 9
Bron felt shell-shocked by the time he reached the docks. The first surprise was waiting for him outside the MTA building. A bright yellow taxi cab trimmed in black checks idled at the curb, somehow still clean and shiny in the midst of the warzone. The window lowered, revealing Aria Stockton at the wheel. She tipped down her mirrored aviator shades to regard Bron and Will Eckert.
"Where would you like to go, Inspector General?" the war correspondent asked coolly.
"Miss Stockton? What are you doing here?"
"Giving you a ride. After that interesting day with Lieutenant Commander Leeds in Monument last year, I decided to make it a tradition."
Bron shook his head. That doesn't really explain anything! "But where'd you get the taxi?"
"It doesn't matter. Get in, I assume you're in a hurry?"
There was a dull crump of cannon fire from somewhere several blocks closer to the center of town and Bron felt his hair ruffled. Then a storefront a hundred meters the other direction was blown to pieces. He and Eckert wasted no time climbing in after that.
"Where do you need to go?" Aria asked again.
"The cruise terminal. That's where the dock master, Aderac, will be."
Aria nodded, and smoothly accelerated while both her passengers were still buckling themselves in. "We're only a few blocks east of the waterfront. It should be possible."
She bounced the cab onto the sidewalk, avoiding the burning pile of masonry and broken glass from the blasted storefront, and Bron held onto the armrest for dear life, while Eckert swore from the back seat, clutching his shotgun tighter to his chest. Bron noticed Aria's camera drone, which had nestled itself atop the dashboard, had sprouted two lenses from its upper casing, one above the other. The lower was aiming itself out the windshield, while the other spun to face Aria and her passengers.
"Wouldn't you normally be out, uh, recording?" Eckert asked.
"The fighting in Manhattan has degenerated into a hundred small skirmishes. I saw what was coming while I was up by Riverside Park. We happen to be headed the same direction. That's where the outcome will be settled."
"I'm grateful for the help, Aria, but you could get killed over there!" Bron said.
She kept her eyes on the road, but the right side of her lips quirked upward slightly. "I could die anywhere in Manhattan, Inspector General," she said softly.
And then a roll of thunder washed over them that Bron had not heard since he fought in campaigns on alien worlds half a galaxy away, and he pushed his head and shoulders out the passenger side window, twisting around to look behind the cab. He saw the shape in the sky, driving the clouds before it, and laughed.
"Ha. Ha! It' s her! It has to be! 'Inter-service training on the Sal-Dezir,' that's what her last message said!"
"Who?" Eckert asked, craning his neck to peer out the back window. "That's- that's a Zentraedi ship!"
"Vee!" Bron answered excitedly. "Vanessa Leeds, my- my girlfriend! The bravest officer in the whole fleet!"
"Wait, Leeds… the Survivor is on that ship?"
"Indeed," Stockton said, watching the shadow of the great warship passing majestically over them and darkening the streets. "And it appears that she brought us substantial reinforcements."
Down through the layers of Earth's atmosphere came the Sal-Dezir, a dragon of the void, its reptile green hull wreathed in blue fire, and the Earth trembled at its approach. The command ship cast forth a great bow wave of superheated air that effortlessly blew away dense clouds and mountainous plumes of smoke. Thunder went ahead of it, and azure lightning crackled in its wake. Where it passed, true dawn broke in beams of golden sunlight over embattled Manhattan. For a brief moment, the guns went silent, the hundreds of mecha locked in murderous combat stopped in their tracks, and tens of thousands turned their eyes to the heavens and looked upon the thirteen hundred meter beast of metal and star-fire that was descending upon them in a great arc.
Vanessa gripped the sides of her console as the last shudders of reentry traveled through the Sal-Dezir. She tracked the ship's rapidly decreasing altitude, and at the planned moment, Captain Gotta gave the order.
"Group Leader Pentiet, begin your drop."
"Acknowledged, Captain," came Straza's instant reply.
The nimbus of fire that had announced the Sal-Dezir's arrival was now snuffed out by the flow of wind across its armor plating. All along the length of the ship's primary hull, bay doors half as wide as city blocks ponderously slid open. Out leaped serial waves of battlepods of every type, into a free-fall of more than a kilometer to the battlefield below. Morning light shined on the blue and white mecha as they launched in their hundreds, and at their head was Straza, at the controls of a Glaug officer's pod, it's gunmetal armor highlighted in mauve. At her back were a dozen elite Queadluun Rau units, and ahead of her were scores of supporting Gnerl tri-thrusters, diving nose first to strafe the enemy battle lines.
And for all this power, Vanessa knew that the battle would not be a swift, easy victory. Proper doctrine would be to drop the ground force several kilometers clear of the combat area, carry out a preliminary bombardment using the command ship, and strike a devastating blow from one of the flanks. But they could not follow doctrine. York's forces were too close to entering Manhattan to risk firing the Sal-Dezir's planet-wrecking armaments, or to drop Straza and her troops at a safe distance. York's generals had out-planned, out-numbered, and out-maneuvered their opponents at every step so far. It was only by the sacrificial bravery of Manhattan's defenders and the skill of a handful of Valkyrie pilots that Manhattan still stood at all. Now Straza's troops would be offered up as a new sacrifice, dropped into the teeth of the foe, all to prevent the enemy from overrunning the city and reducing it to a ruin before they could be stopped.
All because we can't trust each other! Vanessa thought furiously, and bitterness curdled in her heart. Manhattan, standing alone for so long, because they could not trust the UEG. The Zentraedi, kept out of the crisis until it was almost too late, because they were not trusted. The betrayal that nearly prevented Vanessa and Straza from reaching Breetai. The long hours of radio silence, not responding to Lisa's attempts to reach her or Breetai, because they couldn't trust the comms channels - because I can't even trust people wearing the same uniform as me! And then the arrival of York's main attacking force, under a cloak of subterfuge provided by turncoats on the Factory Satellite, had proven that distrust to be justified, and that pain sank itself deep within her.
"Altitude four hundred meters. Fire retros!" Straza ordered.
"I should have known she'd find a way! We're saved!" Bron yelled.
"Don't be too hasty," Aria warned. "This battle is far from over."
"But just look!" Bron said, pointing. "They're dropping a whole assault force!"
The Sal-Dezir was already across the river, and the taxi was driving in full sunlight now, under blue skies. They could see the thruster glow, like winking fireflies, of hundreds of Zentraedi mecha falling from horizon to horizon. Aria slowed down, and they watched the descent, mesmerized.
"Geez, that's an awful lot of ground fire," Eckert muttered.
Bron's enthusiasm began to ebb as he watched explosions blossom by the dozens among the relief force. How high would the cost of saving Manhattan be for the Zentraedi?
Thrusters burned bright, slowing and controlling the battlepods' dizzying drop. The numerical tags on Straza's troops ticked down, and the moment Vanessa had braced herself for arrived, as that black host of stolen battlepods waiting below responded to the counterattack. Fierce lines of energy and hundreds of missiles swept the skies, and in seconds, the advantage in sheer numbers began tilting back towards York. Straza lost a quarter of her force in the first minute of the drop, stricken battlepods falling like blazing meteors, and holed tri-thrusters plowing into the sterile earth and leaving behind craters that shimmered with the heat of burning embers. But the Zentraedi were all too familiar with this kind of battle.
"Maintain your formations!" Straza commanded. "Return fire!"
There was nowhere to go, no effective way to evade that tempest that rose up to meet the Zentraedi, and they would only have scattered themselves beyond any effectiveness if they had tried. Instead, they held together and struck back even as they fell, making an inferno of the ground York's troops stood on, and leveling the few buildings still standing in Hudson County. They touched down in rapid succession in West New York, on the Jersey side of the river, shaking the earth with their arrival. Straza rallied her cohorts in a clearing provided by three sprawling cemeteries, and the Zentraedi charged south to confront their own dark reflections head-on.
Straza's onset was terrible to behold. Although her battlepod had already been scorched and lost its dorsal cannon before she even landed, she fearlessly leapt into close-quarters combat, firing continuously and reaping the enemy as the rest of her troops crashed over the first line of York's mecha. Overhead, the powered armor suits darted in and out on their boosters like enormous angry bumble bees, missiles volleying. The pilots of York's battlepod corps soon learned that a few months' training and drill did not make them a match for Zentraedi warriors born to battle. The micronian crews' reactions were slower, clumsier, grappling with control interfaces the battlepods had never been designed to use. Though professional and disciplined, their tactics were unrefined - clustering up into vulnerable groups when threatened, at other times scattering and becoming isolated when they should have kept in mutually supporting formations. They jumped on thrusters when it would have been better to stay in cover, becoming easy targets, or ran in awkward, unsteady strides and fell into dangerous terrain. The Ghosts regrouped and redoubled their assault, soon finding their battloids fighting shoulder to shoulder with their Zentraedi counterparts. And yet, York's forces were many. They gave ground, but did not break. They called up reserves, massed their own firepower, and within moments the slaughter on both sides was like nothing Vanessa had seen since the day of Dolza's global assault. To make matters worse, she could see that Manhattan was still in imminent danger, because a heavy detachment of nearly a hundred of York's battlepods was forming up to cross the Hudson River in a last ditch gamble to complete the occupation of the city. But beyond that threat, York's generals had more destructive weapons at their disposal than obsolete tanks and salvaged battlepods.
The Sal-Dezir cruised westward, past the battle zone, and beyond it, Bron saw at least a dozen dark shapes, so tiny at this great distance, but approaching fast and leaving white lines across the sky.
"What's that? What are those?"
"Missile launch!" Vanessa called out, a second before the Sal-Dezir's sensors officer gave the same warning from his station on the main bridge deck below her. She tracked sixteen monstrous missiles, launched from mobile crawler units laboriously moved in secret to points just outside the theater of battle. She quickly confirmed what she had already expected.
"Reflex missiles, targeted on us! Thirty seconds to contact!"
"Gold Sabers, get clear!" May ordered urgently.
With all the weaponry that York had acquired, the armor and aircraft, the falsified records that would have been needed to secure nearly a thousand battlepods, the cooperation of disloyal inspectors, technicians, and communications officers, it came as no surprise to Vanessa that York had also managed to steal a handful of Reflex missiles big enough to knock out a Zentraedi capital ship.
"It appears you were right, Commander Leeds," Gotta said with a shrug. "Is the evacuation of the primary hull complete?"
"Yes, my lord!" the operations officer replied.
"Good. Then commence separation."
As the swarm of Reflex missiles arrowed towards them, the Sal-Dezir shook again, and a great clang of metal moving against metal rang through the hull. Vanessa and May held on tighter to their consoles to avoid falling, while Gotta and the others were barely moved. The missiles spread out, leaving contrails like deadly tendrils on their final approach, and came in from all sides.
Aria looked where Bron was pointing, and slammed the brakes. Her passengers cried out in surprise, bracing themselves as she hauled the taxi, tires squealing, into a tight turn and brought it to a stop facing sideways in the street. She grabbed Bron's shoulder and shoved his head into his lap.
"Get down! Don't look!" she ordered.
Eckert put a hand on the window, trying to see what had alarmed her.
"Why'd you-"
"I said get your head down you bloody-!"
Everything went white. The ground quaked, rocking the cab, and the windows shattered. A hot, dry, gritty wind blasted over them, and they covered their ears against a drawn out, horrible roar like the death cry of the whole world. The series of explosions was bigger than anything Earth had felt since the Rain of Death, and on the floor of the UEG Assembly in Monument city, half a continent away, Rico and Konda lifted their heads at the sounds, and wondered. Finally, the noise subsided, and Bron, lowering his hands from his ears, sat up to look at the wound that now covered half the horizon. Overlapping spheres of yellow orange destruction slowly spread across a blood red sky. Behind Bron, Eckert was cursing at the broken glass lodged in his hand, cursing at the flash-blindness that had stolen his vision. But Bron didn't hear him, because the Sal-Dezir was gone. The rearmost portion of the drive section was briefly silhouetted against the giant fireballs, but even it disappeared seconds later, disintegrating as it fell from the sky.
"That's… that can't… VEE!" Bron screamed. She was gone. His brave, beautiful girl. The woman who had accepted him, and never once called him an alien. Who had treated him as human, taught him how to be human. Once before, he thought she had died, had stared in horror at the smoldering carcass of the SDF-1, but that was nothing compared to the agony he felt now. That was before he watched that broken woman rebuild herself through sheer belief and willpower. Before she adopted his cause as her own. Before she had accepted his love, and returned it, heart, body and soul. He sobbed, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, tears streaming down his cheeks, and laid his head against the passenger door frame. His heart was completely hollowed out. That better world we've been fighting for, Vee, it was supposed to be for both of us! Together! He sucked in a deep breath and let out a long, anguished groan. But then, when he thought to retreat into his darkest, loneliest place, long, thin fingers took his hand. There was a voice at his ear, stern, but soft.
"You're still here Bron. You're still here."
"But she's gone!" he wept.
"I know. But the people she loved and fought for are still here. You're still here. You know what she believed in."
Aria's fingers were cold. The coolness reached him somehow. Calmed him enough that he could rub his other sleeve across his face and look at her. Aria's face was an impassive mask, like always, but the shades were gone, and her golden-amber eyes were filled with compassion.
"You know what she would want, don't you?" she asked.
He forced himself to swallow, and though his throat was so tight it felt like swallowing razor blades, he managed to draw in another breath.
"I… I do."
Aria released his hand and gripped the steering wheel again.
"Where should I take you, Bron?"
He thought, and twisted around to face Eckert, who was grimly pulling small pieces of glass from the palm of his left hand by touch.
"Will," he said. The sergeant turned sightless eyes toward him.
"Yeah?" His voice was tense with pain.
"Do you need to go to a hospital?"
Eckert shook his head. "I'll be alright," he said through gritted teeth. "Don't worry about this damned idiot. Do what you need to. We've still gotta save the city."
"Go on, then," Bron told Aria, "to the docks." He pressed a fist to his chest, putting pressure against the unendurable pain in his heart.
Vee, I don't think I'll be able to face tomorrow. But I'll try to make it through this next hour, and do whatever I can, like you would want me to. For you, my love.
Next week… a fire from the sky…
I'm not sure which makes the UEG look more unstable - almost being overthrown by a military coup, or leaking WMD's to a rogue state.
- Location
- South Wales, United Kingdom
It wouldn't be the first time since there were quite a few in the Pre-Rain UEG who would funnel money and weapons to the Anti-Unification League as they were useful pawns in there power games.
Descend Chapter 9.2
The shuddering of the hull subsided. The defiant shouts of the giant crew quieted. The shipboard lights flickered, then returned. Everyone but Captain Gotta was sprawled on the deck. It had been far too close for comfort, but the Sal-Dezir's strike module, a detachable combat vessel one third the total length of the ship, had successfully undocked from the bow of the primary command/carrier hull seconds before the missiles struck. Vanessa put her cybernetic hand on her station, took May's elbow with her other hand, and hauled them both back up. The sensors were still blinded by the effects of the multiple close Reflex reactions, and May, shaking, activated her comms.
"Gold Leader, respond!" She swallowed, her face pale with worry. "Please, Jose! Respond!" There was a pause, with only the squall of the explosions' after effects coming through the comms frequencies, and then-
"Still here, Control! That was quite a ride!" They could both hear the grin in Reyes's voice in spite of the distortion. "Won't get rid of me that easily, Hazard," he added, his tone softening. May's shoulders dropped in relief.
"Resume your squadron's standby position, Lieutenant," she told him, regaining her composure.
"Status report!" Gotta demanded, as the projec-beams began to clear again.
"All missiles detonated. The primary hull has been vaporized," came the answer from Sensors.
"All systems aboard the strike module are still functional," Operations confirmed seconds later.
"Good. Comms?"
"York's jamming is preventing any further communications with the relief force."
"Understood. We must trust now in Group Leader Pentiet's skill for the ground battle. You have a fix on the launch sites?"
"Yes, Captain."
"Increase speed. Set course to bring the launch sites and staging areas for York's army under our guns!"
"At once, my lord!"
Gotta turned his attention to Vanessa.
"You believe you can identify the positions of any other Reflex missiles they may have hidden within range?"
Vanessa nodded. "I can. I'll mark them and send everything I find to Fire Control."
"Very well. We will destroy them."
On the surface of the strike module's spined, bestial hull, scores of round, armored shutters retracted. Heavy, dual-barreled beam cannons, pale gray, and sharp-tipped like giant claws, were driven into position, rotated, and ranged in. Kilometers now from the battle between mecha, a sinister light bathed the land in and around the remnants of Teterboro airport, where York had entrenched the support and logistics hub for its invading army. For a few seconds, reserve troops, rear echelon soldiers, and staff officers gazed up, awestruck, their faces tinted a poisonous cobalt blue by that light, while the ominous hum of the immense beam capacitors buzzed in their ears. Then, fully charged, the main batteries of the Sal-Dezir's strike module unleashed torrents of energy that began systematically erasing York's supply depots, artillery, motor pools, encampments, and missile crawlers from the face of the Earth. In seconds, hundreds of soldiers, along with their machines and materiel, were gone, leaving only glowing craters behind. A distracted part of Vanessa was disturbed to realize how little empathy she felt at the horrible manner of their deaths. And as she marked out still more sites for annihilation, she kept part of her attention always on Manhattan, because she knew the battle remained undecided.
Bron, please hold on just a little longer.
Next week… final gambit…
"Gold Leader, respond!" She swallowed, her face pale with worry. "Please, Jose! Respond!" There was a pause, with only the squall of the explosions' after effects coming through the comms frequencies, and then-
"Still here, Control! That was quite a ride!" They could both hear the grin in Reyes's voice in spite of the distortion. "Won't get rid of me that easily, Hazard," he added, his tone softening. May's shoulders dropped in relief.
"Resume your squadron's standby position, Lieutenant," she told him, regaining her composure.
"Status report!" Gotta demanded, as the projec-beams began to clear again.
"All missiles detonated. The primary hull has been vaporized," came the answer from Sensors.
"All systems aboard the strike module are still functional," Operations confirmed seconds later.
"Good. Comms?"
"York's jamming is preventing any further communications with the relief force."
"Understood. We must trust now in Group Leader Pentiet's skill for the ground battle. You have a fix on the launch sites?"
"Yes, Captain."
"Increase speed. Set course to bring the launch sites and staging areas for York's army under our guns!"
"At once, my lord!"
Gotta turned his attention to Vanessa.
"You believe you can identify the positions of any other Reflex missiles they may have hidden within range?"
Vanessa nodded. "I can. I'll mark them and send everything I find to Fire Control."
"Very well. We will destroy them."
On the surface of the strike module's spined, bestial hull, scores of round, armored shutters retracted. Heavy, dual-barreled beam cannons, pale gray, and sharp-tipped like giant claws, were driven into position, rotated, and ranged in. Kilometers now from the battle between mecha, a sinister light bathed the land in and around the remnants of Teterboro airport, where York had entrenched the support and logistics hub for its invading army. For a few seconds, reserve troops, rear echelon soldiers, and staff officers gazed up, awestruck, their faces tinted a poisonous cobalt blue by that light, while the ominous hum of the immense beam capacitors buzzed in their ears. Then, fully charged, the main batteries of the Sal-Dezir's strike module unleashed torrents of energy that began systematically erasing York's supply depots, artillery, motor pools, encampments, and missile crawlers from the face of the Earth. In seconds, hundreds of soldiers, along with their machines and materiel, were gone, leaving only glowing craters behind. A distracted part of Vanessa was disturbed to realize how little empathy she felt at the horrible manner of their deaths. And as she marked out still more sites for annihilation, she kept part of her attention always on Manhattan, because she knew the battle remained undecided.
Bron, please hold on just a little longer.
Next week… final gambit…
A fairly short section tonight, to finish out Chapter 9, but some pretty substantial updates are coming in the following weeks. I think the book will be wrapping up around the end of the year, at my current rate. I've written about half of the final chapter so far. I don't know how soon I'll have anything for book three. When I originally completed posting 'Salvage', I already had five chapters of 'Command' written. I don't know yet whether I'll dive straight into writing the next book or not, but I'm sure I'll have some idea as I get into writing the epilogue. Anyway, I hope you all enjoy!
- Location
- South Wales, United Kingdom
Nice.
The loss of the logistical support hubs and their follow on forces is an absolute disaster for York. An army cannot fight without a steady flow of supplies which have now been annihilated by the Zentraedi particle beams - incidentally Vanessa need not worry as those killed by the beams would have been vaporised long before they could feel any pain - which should leave York no choice but to surrender or withdraw. Of course being the bastards that they are York would likely try to destroy everything as they retreat in typical scorched Earth 'if we can't have it then nobody else will' tactics.
The loss of the logistical support hubs and their follow on forces is an absolute disaster for York. An army cannot fight without a steady flow of supplies which have now been annihilated by the Zentraedi particle beams - incidentally Vanessa need not worry as those killed by the beams would have been vaporised long before they could feel any pain - which should leave York no choice but to surrender or withdraw. Of course being the bastards that they are York would likely try to destroy everything as they retreat in typical scorched Earth 'if we can't have it then nobody else will' tactics.
On the scale of painful deaths, it probably isn't the worst. I think of it as horrific simply from that moment of anticipation - watching that enormous ship charging its weapons, knowing you and everyone around you is about to die, and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it. Terrifying, especially when you consider that everyone present has witnessed the Rain of Death.
You're quite right that York is spiteful enough to adopt Scorched Earth tactics. We are talking about the people that just set off Reflex weapons about two kilometers from Manhattan island.
Descend Chapter 10.1
Chapter 10
It was fortunate that the remaining distance to the docks was short, because in spite of the titanic battle raging across the river, the fighting within Manhattan had not ended. Aria drove Bron and Eckert by burning buildings, blackened fighting vehicles, and the bodies of the fallen. Just before reaching the waterfront, they passed a beautiful public park with a green baseball diamond surrounded by a chain link fence. A giant Zentraedi lay spread-eagled there, her arm and leg thrown across the pitcher's mound and home plate. Bron had seen many other battles firsthand, but he knew that he had changed, and his feelings about battle had changed as well. If he weren't already numb with shock, he doubted he could have accepted the sight of so much senseless loss of life in silence.
The taxi pulled onto 12th Avenue, right in front of the long brick building that served as the harbor's cruise ship terminal. The front of the building had five large sets of doors, but a firefight had taken place outside the nearest entrance. Two of York's infantry fighting vehicles were in the parking lot, stopped askew, their passenger hatches open, and oily black smoke spilled out of them. A wide hole had been blasted in the wall of the building, and crumbling bricks were scattered in every direction. The huddled bodies of soldiers in the black of York and the drab gray of the Borough defenders were intermingled. The structure was big enough to block their view of the battle beyond the river, but they could see and hear the continuous explosions beyond its roof. Aria stopped in the street, and Eckert finished wrapping a bandage around his wounded hand. They all cautiously left the taxi behind, Aria's drone whining softly as it spun up its fan blades and obediently followed her.
"You're going with us?" Bron asked Aria quietly, keeping one hand on Eckert's shoulder to guide him.
"I think you're where the story is now, Inspector General."
They began crossing the parking lot, and were halfway to the hole in the wall when Eckert's foot struck a broken brick, sending it skittering across the asphalt. They heard a small exclamation, and then a York infantry trooper stumbled out from behind the nearest armored vehicle's hulk. He wore black fatigues and bulky body armor, with a heavy load of ammunition and grenades webbed across his chest. His thick-rimmed helmet rested on tinted goggles. What little could be seen of his face was pale under the soot that was smeared on his cheeks. His lips peeled back in a grimace, showing too-white teeth as he raised an evil looking submachine gun and leveled it on the three of them.
"Move and I swear to God I'll f-!"
BLAM
The point blank shotgun blast tore right through the soldier's chest plate, blowing him off his feet. He landed on his back, arms thrown wide, and his weapon went spinning away. He did not move again. Eckert racked his shotgun, and the spent shell casing hit the pavement with a clatter. Bron looked at the police sergeant's blank, staring eyes.
"Will, how did you-? I thought you were-"
"What? I'm blind, not deaf."
Aderac was waiting inside the terminal.
"Yes, all of the evacuation boats and ships are ready, as planned. With the landlines down, I didn't know whether to move forward on my own, or send my people to the sub-basement and wait it all out."
Bron looked through the landscape windows of the terminal's waterfront side. A blizzard of weapons fire, smoke, and burning cinders obscured the far shore, except for the opposite dock area, where black armored battlepods were trooping into position, squad by squad.
"It's time," he said. "The President has given the order."
Aderac grunted, and turned to his assistant.
"Inform all crews. Prepare for immediate launch."
He, the Dock Master of New York Harbor, was about to send all of the boats and ships he was responsible for directly into the warzone.
"You don't have to do this," Aderac repeated, after showing Bron the throttle, wheel, and few other controls he would need to steer the mid-size yacht out into the harbor. A rich man's toy, it was simple to operate, and its idling engine, readied ahead of time by Aderac's workers, was purring beneath them. Bron, an experienced pilot of battlepods and small scout ships, was certain he could manage. Aria had remained ashore, camera at the ready as always, promising to look after Eckert until his injuries could be properly treated. Before they parted, Bron thanked her and hugged her goodbye. She had stiffened in surprise, then returned the hug, admonishing him in clipped tones not to be reckless with his life. He didn't answer that. Now he kept his eyes on the view out the tinted windshield of the yacht's small but plush pilot-house.
"I'm not going to fight anymore, Aderac. There's no way to talk to anyone, to try to stop the battle, and we're certainly not surrendering. So this is what I'm going to do."
Aderac raised his eyebrows at Bron's words, then nodded.
"Very well. I'll order the tugs to start. Good fortune, Inspector General." He saluted, Zentraedi fashion. Bron held out his hand, and Aderac took it. They shook.
"I'll cast you off myself," Aderac called from the doorway. "Remember, the harbor lights will flash three times. Then, you open up the throttle. The rest is in Fate's hands."
Bron sat in the cushioned seat, and waited. Fires were igniting on barges spread all along the length of the Manhattan docks. A mixture of tires, garbage, and various accelerants were set aflame and began spewing thick, noxious black smoke. Tugboats nudged them out into the Hudson River, forming a concealing cloud. Bron could still hear the constant rumble of explosives and the rattle of cannon fire, interspersed with the scream of beam weaponry, but he could see only the choppy blue-green water out to two hundred meters ahead of him. He held his breath, and all of the harbor's illumination and signal lights flashed once, twice, three times. Bron released his breath with a gasp, took the red rubber grip of the throttle, and threw it forward to 'ALL AHEAD FULL.'
The yacht's diesel engine growled, and the boat bobbed as it began to gently pull away from the pier, picking up speed quickly. He gripped the wheel, and a clangor rang out across the docks, briefly drowning out the sounds of war. The bells, horns, and high pitched synthesized tones of scores of watercraft were sounded by their volunteer crews. Bron reached across his console and activated his own boat's air horn, looking left and right as he did so. He was surrounded by the most motley assortment of vessels New York Harbor had ever seen launch together. He saw tour boats, yachts and other pleasure craft, alongside sluggish fishing trawlers and marine research ships. Police patrollers and fire boats slipped between bulky passenger ferries, and behind them all came hulking freighters and slim coast guard cutters. What had Director Carstein compared it to? 'Like our own miniature Dunkirk.' Only it was different, in some very important ways. The UEG, the Zentraedi in orbit, the various relief forces, would be panicking at the move, because attempting to evacuate in the face of that assault group on the opposite shore, with no escort, no air cover, and no navy task force waiting to receive them, was suicide. There was no way that York would ever let their prey escape- their pride and hatred would not permit it.
Already, Bron saw lurid energy beams and hot yellow tracers pouring out of the smoke towards him and the other boats. A barge ahead and just to the right blew up, and he threw a hand over his eyes against the glare as his yacht wallowed from the explosion, water washing over its bow. Nearby, a fishing boat was on fire, and in the opposite direction, a rocket barrage struck the deck of a freighter, blasting shipping containers fifty meters into the air. Some of the crews were abandoning ship, leaping from pilot-houses and over gunwales to splash into the river.
Though he still could not see through the smoke screen, with the weight of firepower coming at the evacuation flotilla, Bron imagined that York's battlepods must already be breaking ranks to participate in the massacre, peeling off from the greater battle with the Zentraedi and the Ghosts to line up along the Jersey docks and blaze away. A growing number would be down in the water, eager to come to grips with their victims, or else carelessly knocked off the piers as more and more mecha crowded the waterfront. Exactly as planned.
It had taken half the previous night, but Bron and Mary had convinced Manhattan's leaders to trust the UEG, and to abandon the risky plan to evacuate by boat. The bulk of Manhattan's civilians were relatively safe in subway stations turned shelters throughout the city. The Joralemon Street Tunnel had been cleared of mines early this morning, and Metro trains were now continuously spiriting evacuees away to the east, under the Harlem River to the station in Brooklyn Heights. There were no UN Marine destroids waiting to meet them as originally planned, but it was safer than anywhere else around Manhattan. There was hope - for the Terrans and micronized Zentraedi. As for the giants… he couldn't bear thinking about it right now. At least the evacuation boats were serving their new purpose of disrupting the cohesiveness of York's battle formations.
A hundred meters away, the Staten Island Ferry, a four decked boat painted a cheerful orange and blue, was pierced by a hungry particle beam that split it amidships, and its two halves sagged toward each other, taking on water fast. Bron pulled the yacht's throttle back to neutral, and stepped out onto the upper deck to watch. All around him was smoke, fire, oil slicks, and burning debris. Most of the barges had been sunk, so the previously impenetrable wall of covering smoke had gaps now. He could see the flashes of weapon fire on the Jersey side of the river, see the baleful red of the enemy battlepods' visual sensors. It looked like a quarter of York's army might be over there, and dozens of pods were awkwardly wading through the mud of the harbor bottom, with still more spilling off the piers and tumbling into the churning water as he watched. A few seemed to be stuck.
This was it. He had done all he could. This might be enough to turn the battle, but from everything he had seen, it was quite likely to end in a Pyrrhic victory for everyone fighting to stop York. How many Zentraedi giants would be alive by the end of this day? He looked down at the sloshing waters of the river, teeming with danger. He could not swim. What use was swimming to giant warriors equipped with war machines and planet destroying weaponry to match their stature, the Masters had reasoned. Perhaps better to stay up here, and wait for whatever came next. A less messy, less painful end than facing tomorrow in a world that lacked Vanessa.
Bron grabbed the hand-rail as an exploding missile launched a geyser high above his head, and the cold spray of water blasted him in the face. It was like he woke from a daze. He couldn't do this. He remembered Mary's tearful words when they last spoke. More than that, he remembered Vanessa's words from a year ago, after she had nearly despaired at losing the people most important to her. He remembered how he had reminded her of the people that still lived, still cared for her. After all she had been through since that day, she would never have agreed with this… fatalism. He could almost see the look on her face, the tears glistening in her beautiful violet eye, almost hear the words she would say to him, and he felt ashamed. The only proper way he knew to lessen the pain was to honor her beliefs. To not give up, to continue on, and return to the people they both loved. Though his vision was blurred, he put a foot on the railing, pushing himself up, preparing to leap into the water.
A burst of heavy autocannon fire ripped through the yacht, bow to stern, tearing the thin aluminum hull to shreds. The upper deck flipped upward under the force of the attack, catapulting Bron through the air. He cried out in surprise and fear, then choked when he hit the water and liquid rushed into his mouth and nose. He surfaced, coughing and gagging, trying to blink away the brackish water in his eyes. If Aderac hadn't insisted Bron put on a bulky yellow life jacket before he would even be allowed aboard a boat, he would already be drowning. As it was, he flailed, disoriented. He felt a sudden heat and light on the right side of his face and the back of his right hand, a heat that rapidly became intolerable. He screamed, awkwardly kicking in the opposite direction. His vision cleared, and he could see the wide, burning oil slick that he had come close to drifting into. The heat lessened, but the pain did not, and he realized that patches of his skin had burned.
Tracers flew over Bron's head, and so he at least knew which direction the enemy lay, but he didn't have any sense of where to find safety. Every boat he saw was on fire or sinking. He could hear other survivors splashing and calling out in alarm. A life preserver floated within reach, and he grabbed the orange and white ring with both hands. Only a quarter kilometer away, a black Regult unit was striding along the harbor bottom, smashing aside debris, water lapping around its red sensor lens. It fired its particle beams almost continuously, the white hot lines of energy leaving strobing black and green streaks across his vision.
Then, in the distance, he saw something else in the water- something big enough to capture his attention and stand out from the vaporous stew that New York Harbor had become. It came from the direction of the bay. First, Bron saw a great wave, pushing all before it, leaving only pure white sea foam in its wake. Then, the water's surface broke. Metal, on metal, on metal. Crystal clear waterfalls spilled off walls of steel and alloy that were banded first in somber industrial gray, then in bright crimson, and had been touched by burns and rents where the emerging leviathan had suffered and survived dozens of beam and missile strikes. It rose higher and higher, until its deck was more than fifty meters above its waterline, and still it rushed nearer, its speed and mass as majestic as they were terrifying. As Bron watched, dumbstruck, Submersible Landing Vessel 114 entered New York Harbor. Persephone had returned from the Underworld.
Next week… rise from the depths…
- Location
- South Wales, United Kingdom
Nice update.
The reappearance of the Persephone and the UEG forces aboard her are going to come as another very nasty shock to York. It will make there position even more untenable than it already is. Not that they'll surrender as they're too arrogant and prideful and will just try to do as much damage as they can before there army is annihilated.
The reappearance of the Persephone and the UEG forces aboard her are going to come as another very nasty shock to York. It will make there position even more untenable than it already is. Not that they'll surrender as they're too arrogant and prideful and will just try to do as much damage as they can before there army is annihilated.
Descend Chapter 10.2
In the following days, the whole world would learn the story of the Persephone and her crew. It was a story that would pass into legend, to be mentioned in the same breath along-side Launch Day, Dolza's Global Assault, and the Battle of New Macross. Long were the hours, lost in darkness, lying at the bottom of the North Atlantic, where the water pressure set the damaged carrier's hull groaning. Unknown to York's ambush force, Commander Amelie Lacroix, after standing up from the burned body of her beloved captain, had carried out his intentions, evacuating the ravaged navigation bridge, securing the ship's hatches, and flooding the ballast tanks. The Persephone quickly sank beneath the waves, trailing smoke, fire, and molten metal. The crash as it struck the seabed resounded on every deck. The remaining battlepods, convinced of their victory, sped on towards the invasion of Manhattan, leaving their intended victim behind. Without, were the broken wrecks of the rest of the task force, and within, the crew battled hell-fire and icy black water.
Hundreds of sailors died in those depths, cooked in the oven that entire sections of their ship had become, overwhelmed by smoke and fumes, or simply deprived of oxygen, while others screamed out their final breaths, to be replaced by invading seawater in the cold darkness. But thousands more endured, extinguishing flames, sealing water-tight doors, working emergency pumps, and restoring power to vital systems. Acting Captain Lacroix directed the efforts with the utmost urgency, because she knew there would be no rescuers coming to their aid. She knew that even if they refloated the ship, they could not simply steam away to safety. Captain Kekoa had charged them all with a task. Their mission was not yet complete.
By the time the Persephone rose again from the deep and entered the harbor, every destroid and Valkyrie was armed and crewed, every beam turret charged, every missile rack loaded and ready. Exterior hatches slid aside, the great lifts on the flight deck ascended, and the ship unleashed its arsenal before Bron's eyes. Defenders and Phalanxes manned the fighting platforms. Quad-barreled cannons raked the waters, tearing apart battlepods as if they were toy targets at a carnival attraction. There was no escape this time - the muddy bottom of the harbor provided no refuge to shocked pilots who lacked the special marine training the ones who had attacked Persephone earlier that morning had received. The closest battlepod in the water to Bron was perforated over and over before its legs gave out under it, and it sank beneath the water, bubbles boiling out of the hull breaches.
The battloid Valkyries of the Fire Bees and the Silver Lancers arrived next, charging off of the lifts to the edge of the flight deck, their steps weighed down by an augmented armor and missile loadout, giving them the appearance of hulking body builders. Protective shutters flipped open and the veritechs lofted hundreds of missiles at the hostile shoreline, then went to one knee and fired their gun pods in turn, suppressing the nearest concentrations of York's mecha. Meanwhile, the Phalanxes coordinated their barrages through the ship's advanced fire control computers and emptied their enormous missile drums, the smoke of the mass launch momentarily shrouding the Persephone like a brooding mountain peak. The largest wave of heavy warheads spread over five kilometers of waterfront and broke apart. Thousands of deadly submunitions scattered and went off like giant strings of firecrackers, damaging or destroying dozens of pods and sending the rest reeling. Through the chain of destruction flew a second, smaller wave of anti-radiation missiles that ruthlessly homed in on the jamming emissions of York's scout variant battlepods and exterminated them. Abruptly the airwaves cleared of static. Bron gagged and spat out a mouthful of water. He was so entranced by the sudden reversal of fortunes that he was not concentrating on keeping his head above the surface.
"Stop rubbernecking and help me!"
The voice came from over his shoulder, startling him so much he almost let go of the life preserver.
"I'm here, I'm here!" another voice called back, annoyed.
"We've got you, sir! Just hang on a second!"
Strong hands seized Bron under the armpits and by the collar of his life jacket and pulled him from the water. He was dragged over the bright orange side of a large inflatable raft, and rolled into the bottom, where a small amount of water washed back and forth under him. There were five other exhausted boat crewmen there with him, shivering where they sat watching the battle, and two New York Fire Department search and rescue specialists leaned over him, while a third manned the rescue boat's outboard motor.
"We're going to check over your injuries, sir. You're going to be okay," one of his rescuers told him.
Bron struggled into a crouch, craning his neck to observe the battle.
"Oh, ok, I guess you're sitting up then," the first firefighter, whose name tag read FOLEY, said, eyeing Bron's burly build and deciding not to try to wrestle him back into a prone position. "I see that you're burned. Are there any other injuries I should be aware of?"
"I'm fine, I think," Bron answered distractedly. "I just really need to see what's going on."
"I can handle this, Mike. Get back to watching for more survivors."
"Right," the second firefighter said, moving away.
"And keep your eyes on the water, not the battle!" Foley called after him, and turned his attention back to Bron. "Ok, if you could just hold still, I'm going to check your vitals."
"Sure."
Bron barely heard him, barely noticed the man's touch as he checked his pulse, shined a light into his eyes, and began examining his burns. The Persephone wasn't slowing, was in fact picking up speed, and angling in toward the Jersey shore. Bron began to feel panic returning.
"What are they trying to do?"
The docks were a whirlwind of weapon exchanges and burning or fleeing battlepods, but there were still hundreds of foes out there, and a number of pods hopped onto the wide concrete and steel piers, seeking a good line of fire on the Persephone. The ship shrugged off the few solid hits like they were biting gnats, and then three blinding white circles of light snapped into existence over its hull. The air buzzed and crackled, and the energy barriers zipped to the bow of the ship, completely covering and reinforcing the heavily armored prow. The Persephone, running at flank speed, narrowly skirted the old Hoboken shipyard before plowing directly into the more than thirty meter wide pier for the Midtown Ferry. Solid concrete, steel, and earth were all smashed aside, and the carrier continued straight on through the equally massive yacht pier beyond, barely slowing as it battered its way through a third pier, cutting off the ruined restaurant at the end of it from the shore. The battlepods lining the piers were utterly annihilated under the grinding weight of the ship, leaving behind unidentifiable scraps of compressed metal, or were tossed into the water to become trapped in the mud or to be picked off by destroids and close-in defense turrets.
Bron shook his head in disbelief. "Just like Daedalus," he murmured.
Persephone cruised on another hundred-fifty meters or so, it's hull not even fully clear of the last pier yet, and then drove itself aground at Lincoln Harbor Park. The jutting prong of its bow turned up tons of earth before finally coming to rest, partially buried, right at the edge of an ash-covered running track. At the far end of the park, still more of York's battlepods were approaching from the north and west, forming up to counterattack, but before they were ready, the great hatch that formed the forward edge of the flight deck folded back, exposing a yawning cavity from which the assault landing ramp deployed. The world lit up again.
Tightly clustered lines of energy and endless missiles poured out of the Persephone's hold like a dragon's breath - enough firepower to tear through the core of a Zentraedi heavy cruiser. Any opposing battlepod within a narrow cone stretching two kilometers of open space in front of the ship was cut apart. Somewhere, off to the west, a desperate battle was continuing across former Hudson County, but for a few seconds, everything along the shore was still.
Foley was as slack-jawed as Bron, the sterile bandage he was holding up to Bron's cheek forgotten. Everyone watched now as rank after rank of Tomahawk destroids, loaded down with heavy weapons like anthropomorphic battle cruisers, trooped down the assault ramp. The green and red mecha filed out, team by team, into Hoboken, Union City, and West New York, searching for fresh prey. The other survivors in the boat were beginning to chatter among themselves, realizing that the tide had turned decisively. Even Bron smiled slightly, in spite of the aching pain and loss he felt in his chest.
A clatter of metal reached their ears, staggeringly loud even with the distance to the Persephone. Then another. Another. Two vast shapes, barely able to fit side by side, emerged into the daylight from Persephone's hold. The inhuman bulk of a pair of Monster mobile assault cannons laboriously walked down the ramp. Each slow step thundered across the battlefield, sending up dust devils of ash. The squat, bipedal mecha, slab-sided and lobster-like, and each massing more than a dozen lesser destroids, reached the center of the running track and planted immense recoil absorbers. The four gargantuan battleship-sized cannons each one carried on its back whined, elevated, and made minute adjustments, aiming toward the main battleground.
"Cover your-" Bron started to say, and the main batteries fired. He felt the salvo as a pressure on his face and eyes, a shock through his bones. The Monsters disappeared for a moment in a great puff of ash, and a glittering spray kicked up off the surface of the river under the vibration of the blasts. Everyone else was cheering, but Bron could only dully hear them over the ringing in his ears. Seconds later the shells detonated down the length of York's main line of resistance, spreading destruction on an apocalyptic scale. Already, the Monsters were ejecting spent shell casings half the size of compact cars, and heavy tractor trailers were rolling down the Persephone's ramp, bringing fresh ammunition. Marine infantry were deploying in their armored vehicles, and the Valkyries on the flight deck were jettisoning their spent armor and missile addons so that they could transform to guardian mode and take off, clearing the way for helicopters to be brought up on the lifts.
The search and rescue boat was bobbing gently in the water, bathed in warm sunlight. Foley and the other firefighters bent back to their tasks, treating the wounded, including Bron, and motoring on to pick up more shipwrecked survivors. This battle is almost over, Bron thought, wiping tears from his eyes, heedless of his burned cheek and hand. If only the peace could be as simple. Oh, Vee, what do I do now?
The strike module vibrated again, releasing another wave of destructive energy. A red icon disappeared from Vanessa's screen, and she nodded curtly to herself. That was the last of the ground-based missile batteries she had marked for the Sal-Dazir's gunnery crews.
"Now estimating ninety-eight percent destruction of York's rear echelon and reserves," Sensors reported. Captain Gotta gave a satisfied grunt.
"What of the ground battle?" he asked.
"With the entry of the destroids and heavy artillery into the battle, the enemy's main battlepod force has broken and is in complete rout. Group Leader Pentiet is pursuing them with maximum aggression."
May, who had taken over coordinating communications between the Zentraedi and Army of the Southern Cross forces after the jamming ended, spoke up. "The Persephone's air group is assisting the pursuit. Ghost Wing is heavily depleted, and Colonel Edwards has ordered his squadrons back into Manhattan to take care of the mop up."
That was fine, as far as Vanessa was concerned. With Captain Kekoa's untimely death, Edwards was now the senior ASC officer in theater, which made it his show to run for now. She watched Gotta carefully as he responded to May's report with a dismissive nod.
"Very well. Instruct Group Leader Pentiet to proceed at her own discretion." Then he squared his shoulders, and his chest rose with an indrawn breath. "Conn, steer course two-six-seven! Engineering, ahead full atmospheric!"
Vanessa's eye narrowed, and May blinked in confusion. The agreed plan was to come about and splash down in New York Bay. The strike module's Reflex furnace was badly degraded, and would soon fail without a full rebuild. With the Zentraedi fleet disbanding, this was to be the Sal-Dezir's final voyage.
"Sir, I don't understand," May said. "Aren't we supposed to return to Manhattan now?"
They could already feel the ship's motion as it changed course under them. Vanessa knew what Gotta was going to say before he spoke the words aloud.
"We're not going back to Manhattan," he announced, his face set in stone.
"We're going to York."
Next week… the Second Rain of Death…
Hundreds of sailors died in those depths, cooked in the oven that entire sections of their ship had become, overwhelmed by smoke and fumes, or simply deprived of oxygen, while others screamed out their final breaths, to be replaced by invading seawater in the cold darkness. But thousands more endured, extinguishing flames, sealing water-tight doors, working emergency pumps, and restoring power to vital systems. Acting Captain Lacroix directed the efforts with the utmost urgency, because she knew there would be no rescuers coming to their aid. She knew that even if they refloated the ship, they could not simply steam away to safety. Captain Kekoa had charged them all with a task. Their mission was not yet complete.
By the time the Persephone rose again from the deep and entered the harbor, every destroid and Valkyrie was armed and crewed, every beam turret charged, every missile rack loaded and ready. Exterior hatches slid aside, the great lifts on the flight deck ascended, and the ship unleashed its arsenal before Bron's eyes. Defenders and Phalanxes manned the fighting platforms. Quad-barreled cannons raked the waters, tearing apart battlepods as if they were toy targets at a carnival attraction. There was no escape this time - the muddy bottom of the harbor provided no refuge to shocked pilots who lacked the special marine training the ones who had attacked Persephone earlier that morning had received. The closest battlepod in the water to Bron was perforated over and over before its legs gave out under it, and it sank beneath the water, bubbles boiling out of the hull breaches.
The battloid Valkyries of the Fire Bees and the Silver Lancers arrived next, charging off of the lifts to the edge of the flight deck, their steps weighed down by an augmented armor and missile loadout, giving them the appearance of hulking body builders. Protective shutters flipped open and the veritechs lofted hundreds of missiles at the hostile shoreline, then went to one knee and fired their gun pods in turn, suppressing the nearest concentrations of York's mecha. Meanwhile, the Phalanxes coordinated their barrages through the ship's advanced fire control computers and emptied their enormous missile drums, the smoke of the mass launch momentarily shrouding the Persephone like a brooding mountain peak. The largest wave of heavy warheads spread over five kilometers of waterfront and broke apart. Thousands of deadly submunitions scattered and went off like giant strings of firecrackers, damaging or destroying dozens of pods and sending the rest reeling. Through the chain of destruction flew a second, smaller wave of anti-radiation missiles that ruthlessly homed in on the jamming emissions of York's scout variant battlepods and exterminated them. Abruptly the airwaves cleared of static. Bron gagged and spat out a mouthful of water. He was so entranced by the sudden reversal of fortunes that he was not concentrating on keeping his head above the surface.
"Stop rubbernecking and help me!"
The voice came from over his shoulder, startling him so much he almost let go of the life preserver.
"I'm here, I'm here!" another voice called back, annoyed.
"We've got you, sir! Just hang on a second!"
Strong hands seized Bron under the armpits and by the collar of his life jacket and pulled him from the water. He was dragged over the bright orange side of a large inflatable raft, and rolled into the bottom, where a small amount of water washed back and forth under him. There were five other exhausted boat crewmen there with him, shivering where they sat watching the battle, and two New York Fire Department search and rescue specialists leaned over him, while a third manned the rescue boat's outboard motor.
"We're going to check over your injuries, sir. You're going to be okay," one of his rescuers told him.
Bron struggled into a crouch, craning his neck to observe the battle.
"Oh, ok, I guess you're sitting up then," the first firefighter, whose name tag read FOLEY, said, eyeing Bron's burly build and deciding not to try to wrestle him back into a prone position. "I see that you're burned. Are there any other injuries I should be aware of?"
"I'm fine, I think," Bron answered distractedly. "I just really need to see what's going on."
"I can handle this, Mike. Get back to watching for more survivors."
"Right," the second firefighter said, moving away.
"And keep your eyes on the water, not the battle!" Foley called after him, and turned his attention back to Bron. "Ok, if you could just hold still, I'm going to check your vitals."
"Sure."
Bron barely heard him, barely noticed the man's touch as he checked his pulse, shined a light into his eyes, and began examining his burns. The Persephone wasn't slowing, was in fact picking up speed, and angling in toward the Jersey shore. Bron began to feel panic returning.
"What are they trying to do?"
The docks were a whirlwind of weapon exchanges and burning or fleeing battlepods, but there were still hundreds of foes out there, and a number of pods hopped onto the wide concrete and steel piers, seeking a good line of fire on the Persephone. The ship shrugged off the few solid hits like they were biting gnats, and then three blinding white circles of light snapped into existence over its hull. The air buzzed and crackled, and the energy barriers zipped to the bow of the ship, completely covering and reinforcing the heavily armored prow. The Persephone, running at flank speed, narrowly skirted the old Hoboken shipyard before plowing directly into the more than thirty meter wide pier for the Midtown Ferry. Solid concrete, steel, and earth were all smashed aside, and the carrier continued straight on through the equally massive yacht pier beyond, barely slowing as it battered its way through a third pier, cutting off the ruined restaurant at the end of it from the shore. The battlepods lining the piers were utterly annihilated under the grinding weight of the ship, leaving behind unidentifiable scraps of compressed metal, or were tossed into the water to become trapped in the mud or to be picked off by destroids and close-in defense turrets.
Bron shook his head in disbelief. "Just like Daedalus," he murmured.
Persephone cruised on another hundred-fifty meters or so, it's hull not even fully clear of the last pier yet, and then drove itself aground at Lincoln Harbor Park. The jutting prong of its bow turned up tons of earth before finally coming to rest, partially buried, right at the edge of an ash-covered running track. At the far end of the park, still more of York's battlepods were approaching from the north and west, forming up to counterattack, but before they were ready, the great hatch that formed the forward edge of the flight deck folded back, exposing a yawning cavity from which the assault landing ramp deployed. The world lit up again.
Tightly clustered lines of energy and endless missiles poured out of the Persephone's hold like a dragon's breath - enough firepower to tear through the core of a Zentraedi heavy cruiser. Any opposing battlepod within a narrow cone stretching two kilometers of open space in front of the ship was cut apart. Somewhere, off to the west, a desperate battle was continuing across former Hudson County, but for a few seconds, everything along the shore was still.
Foley was as slack-jawed as Bron, the sterile bandage he was holding up to Bron's cheek forgotten. Everyone watched now as rank after rank of Tomahawk destroids, loaded down with heavy weapons like anthropomorphic battle cruisers, trooped down the assault ramp. The green and red mecha filed out, team by team, into Hoboken, Union City, and West New York, searching for fresh prey. The other survivors in the boat were beginning to chatter among themselves, realizing that the tide had turned decisively. Even Bron smiled slightly, in spite of the aching pain and loss he felt in his chest.
A clatter of metal reached their ears, staggeringly loud even with the distance to the Persephone. Then another. Another. Two vast shapes, barely able to fit side by side, emerged into the daylight from Persephone's hold. The inhuman bulk of a pair of Monster mobile assault cannons laboriously walked down the ramp. Each slow step thundered across the battlefield, sending up dust devils of ash. The squat, bipedal mecha, slab-sided and lobster-like, and each massing more than a dozen lesser destroids, reached the center of the running track and planted immense recoil absorbers. The four gargantuan battleship-sized cannons each one carried on its back whined, elevated, and made minute adjustments, aiming toward the main battleground.
"Cover your-" Bron started to say, and the main batteries fired. He felt the salvo as a pressure on his face and eyes, a shock through his bones. The Monsters disappeared for a moment in a great puff of ash, and a glittering spray kicked up off the surface of the river under the vibration of the blasts. Everyone else was cheering, but Bron could only dully hear them over the ringing in his ears. Seconds later the shells detonated down the length of York's main line of resistance, spreading destruction on an apocalyptic scale. Already, the Monsters were ejecting spent shell casings half the size of compact cars, and heavy tractor trailers were rolling down the Persephone's ramp, bringing fresh ammunition. Marine infantry were deploying in their armored vehicles, and the Valkyries on the flight deck were jettisoning their spent armor and missile addons so that they could transform to guardian mode and take off, clearing the way for helicopters to be brought up on the lifts.
The search and rescue boat was bobbing gently in the water, bathed in warm sunlight. Foley and the other firefighters bent back to their tasks, treating the wounded, including Bron, and motoring on to pick up more shipwrecked survivors. This battle is almost over, Bron thought, wiping tears from his eyes, heedless of his burned cheek and hand. If only the peace could be as simple. Oh, Vee, what do I do now?
The strike module vibrated again, releasing another wave of destructive energy. A red icon disappeared from Vanessa's screen, and she nodded curtly to herself. That was the last of the ground-based missile batteries she had marked for the Sal-Dazir's gunnery crews.
"Now estimating ninety-eight percent destruction of York's rear echelon and reserves," Sensors reported. Captain Gotta gave a satisfied grunt.
"What of the ground battle?" he asked.
"With the entry of the destroids and heavy artillery into the battle, the enemy's main battlepod force has broken and is in complete rout. Group Leader Pentiet is pursuing them with maximum aggression."
May, who had taken over coordinating communications between the Zentraedi and Army of the Southern Cross forces after the jamming ended, spoke up. "The Persephone's air group is assisting the pursuit. Ghost Wing is heavily depleted, and Colonel Edwards has ordered his squadrons back into Manhattan to take care of the mop up."
That was fine, as far as Vanessa was concerned. With Captain Kekoa's untimely death, Edwards was now the senior ASC officer in theater, which made it his show to run for now. She watched Gotta carefully as he responded to May's report with a dismissive nod.
"Very well. Instruct Group Leader Pentiet to proceed at her own discretion." Then he squared his shoulders, and his chest rose with an indrawn breath. "Conn, steer course two-six-seven! Engineering, ahead full atmospheric!"
Vanessa's eye narrowed, and May blinked in confusion. The agreed plan was to come about and splash down in New York Bay. The strike module's Reflex furnace was badly degraded, and would soon fail without a full rebuild. With the Zentraedi fleet disbanding, this was to be the Sal-Dezir's final voyage.
"Sir, I don't understand," May said. "Aren't we supposed to return to Manhattan now?"
They could already feel the ship's motion as it changed course under them. Vanessa knew what Gotta was going to say before he spoke the words aloud.
"We're not going back to Manhattan," he announced, his face set in stone.
"We're going to York."
Next week… the Second Rain of Death…
Last edited:
deathzealotzero
Mecha Guru
- Location
- Las Vegas, NV
OH SHIT! The Zentradi are PISSED!