Scraped from here.
I've only ever seen one other Blue Steel story on here, which is a real...
I've only ever seen one other Blue Steel story on here, which is a real...
Crimson Aria (Arpeggio of Blue Steel)
- Thread starter Dragontrapper
- Start date
- Created
- Status
- Dropped
- Watchers
- 219
- Recent readers
- 0
- Threadmarks
- 22
-
Statistics (22 threadmarks, 32k words)
User Total Dragontrapper 22 Threadmarks Reader mode
Snip 1
Dragontrapper
Homeless Draconis
- Location
- A Tower in the middle of nowhere
Scraped from here.
I've only ever seen one other Blue Steel story on here, which is a real shame. So, since I had this idea bouncing around I thought I might as well see where it goes.
--Index--
snip 1 - Here
snip 2 - Here
snip 3 - Here
snip 4 - Here
snip 5 - Here
snip 6 - Here
snip 7 - Here
snip 8 - Here
snip 9 - Here
snip 10 - Here
snip 11 - Here
snip 12 - Here
snip 13 - Here
snip 14 - Here
snip 15 - Here
snip 16 - Here
snip 17 - Here
snip 18 - Here
--Crimson Aria--
James Richardson looked up from where he was forced to lay. The North Atlantic sun shined overhead, the squawking of gulls carrying in the slight breeze that was the only sign of weather on an otherwise perfect late morning off the coast of Norfolk. Though he couldn't see it from this angle, he knew that the Chesapeake Bay Sea Wall would have been little more than a dim glint on the horizon at these distances. His brown hair was plastered against head, the short military cut soaked by the sea spray as thoroughly as his Working Uniform. Part of his mind idly noted that it had likely been quite a while since any human being had been on this particular stretch of ocean. The foot that was pinning him by the shoulder to the deck underneath him every time he tried to move was making it markedly less enjoyable than it could have been.
Richardson watched out of the corner of his eye as the foot, clad in what looked like a heavy black boot, flattened out his collar and ranking insignia. "Well, well, a petty officer." Her voice was cool and calm, with only the slightest hint of amusement leaking into it. Richardson's gaze traveled upward, taking in the pale skinned woman that was currently standing over him. Garbed in dark robes like a shaman or alchemist of ages past, she stared down at her quarry with ice blue eyes. A small smirk was tugging at one corner of her mouth as her long black hair blew in the wind. "You seem well out of your depth, sailor."
Richardson at least tried to shrug as he stared up at the Mental Model of a Fog Fleet Heavy Cruiser. "All the officers were busy." Inwardly, he sighed. How the hell had he gotten himself into this mess anyway?
(36 hours prior)
Intelligence Specialist Third Class James Richardson of the United States Navy sighed as he badged into the concrete and glass box he called work. It was an early spring morning in Norfolk as he worked his way through the checkpoint turnstiles and into the secured building. To most, it was the Headquarters of the US tenth fleet, the Navy's 'Ghost Fleet' - it had no ships, but instead served as an intelligence collection operation. To him, it was just where work was.
Down two flights of stairs and another pair of doors only accessible via keycard and one that required a pin was the National Maritime Intelligence Center, or NMIC. Created in the wake of the Fog Fleet turning almost the entirety of the world's navy's into new reefs and borrowing the name from a facility that had ceased to exist decades ago, the NMIC had one mission - to collect, analyze and report whatever data they could find on the single most powerful enemy that mankind had ever faced.
To most people who knew of its existence - to those who regularly dealt with them but were not actually 'of' them, it had a very different name. One which become obvious when he walked past the duty desk and came face-to-face with a wall, around 40 feet long, covered from floor to ceiling with the captured images of the Fog Fleet's latest feature, the humanoid forms theorized to be part of an attempt to understand the minds of their human adversaries and thus aptly named - the Mental Models. It had started as a way to simply keep tabs on all of the major Fog ships they knew about, starting with just the shots of their hulls and whatever technical specs they could find as well as estimates on how much damage they could cause, usually in cash value. The combination of the 'mug shots' and listed monetary sums had gotten the wall its nickname - 'The Bounty Board'. The name really caught on once they started showing the Mental Models. The wall itself, however, was older then Mental Models and a major factor to their most common nickname.
The Fan Club.
Which wasn't an inaccurate name, per say. Most everybody who worked there had a great appreciation for their enemy and could, on occasion, grow somewhat obsessive with the subject of the Fog Fleet. Many could rattle off numerous statistics on Fog ships the same way a teenager might rattle off baseball stats. At least one fight in the galley had started as a discussion over a theoretical battle between two Fog Battleships.
Richardson walked past the wall and toward his usual workspace, a small collection of computers centered on a large common screen. Unsurprisingly, somebody was already there. "Morning, Ryder. Why the black and tans?" Most of the command - Richardson included - were in the blue and greyish digital camo patterned working uniform. The Navy seemed to enjoy changing its mind on what exactly it wanted its sailors to wear. Having been phased out several times at this point, they kept getting reintroduced for the simple reason that they hid work stains better than most proposed alternatives.
Charles Ryder, on the other hand, was dressed in his service uniform. A khaki button shirt and black slacks, ribbons pinned to his chest and his First-Class ranking pins on his collar. Ryder shrugged. "I'm on duty today. Didn't you read the roster?"
"I just check to make sure it's not me." Richardson slipped into his chair as his work station booted. "Anything come in?"
"Some imagery from a camera pod on the last SSTO to Japan." Ryder pointed to the main board, where a collection of thumbnails were arrayed. "We also have that briefing to the CO later." Ryder grinned. "Try to keep your pet theories to yourself this time."
Richardson turned around in his chair to shoot Ryder a brief glare. The First Class's hair had gone prematurely grey, and at this point was a fairly even shade of silver. "I thought analysts were supposed to come up with theories?"
"Yes. Theories that make sense." Ryder replied. "Not crazy suggestions about humanized ships."
"None of this bothers you though?" Richardson pointed to the screen. "The Fog Fleet takes over the oceans and then they stop. They make no moves to take over internal waters or land masses. They still allow SSTO's to fly despite having shown the ability to shoot them down more or less at will. They develop human forms. They take on the guises of World War II ships. They could wipe us out at will but they just...sit there. You never ask why?"
"Richardson, why they do what they do isn't important," Ryder leaned forward. "Just that it gives us a chance. That's probably why they're studying us - they know they're doomed if we catch up."
"Then why let us catch up?" Richardson replied. It was always like this, no matter who he talked to. He just ended up talking in circles. "It doesn't make sense."
"Well, you can work it out later." Ryder tapped on a screen. "We have a presentation to put together." With a sigh, Richardson turned around and got to work. People thought all sorts of things when he told them what he did. They thought of spy films and espionage novels. What he usually ended up doing, however, was building presentations.
---
"...Which was when the UAV was lost." The brown-haired Chief, as indicated by the golden anchors on his collar, finished as the video on the wall turned to static. The shifting light it gave off danced across the people that were gathered around the conference table in the darkened room. At one end, opposite the screen, Commander Kennith Anderson took in the presentation stoically, his hands steepled before him. Grey hair slicked back, Richardson always thought that the Commander wouldn't have looked out-of-place wearing a monocle. "Those UAVs aren't cheap, Chief Hewitt. Do tell me got something useful?"
Chief Hewitt nodded as he shifted the display to a map that showed the majority of the Pacific Ocean, stretching from Japan to California. "This new data seems to confirm what our collections from the SSTO suggested." The Screen shifted to a shot of what looked like a Battleship, centered on the simply clothed brunette that was standing on it clearly visible as well as several other vessels in the background. The screen quick shifted to a wider shot, showing a better overview of the small grouping. "This was taken three months ago, showing what appeared to be the Hyuuga and several other ships we believe to be under its command traveling in what we have surmised to be her usual waters." The slide shifted again, once again starting with a close up of the Mental Model before shifting to a wider shot. "This was taken last week, showing the Hyuuga well east of her usual waters. This matches with the behavior of several other fog ships in pulling away from the coastlines. Our theory is that this is part of some sort of normal Fleet reorganization. Since this involves moving away from the coast, we believe this does not pose a threat to our coastlines."
"What about her clothes?" Everybody turned to look at Richardson as Ryder facepalmed. Richardson blinked for a moment before shrinking slightly into his chair. "I mean, it's nothing - just ignore me."
"Petty Officer Richardson," The Commander started. "If you have something to add, please do. I would like to hear it."
Richardson paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts, before he began. "Well, it's just that we've been making every assessment of Fog Fleet under the assumption that their only goal was to wipe out mankind."
"Correct." The Commander nodded.
"Well, this is wrong." Everybody just stared at Richardson for a moment as he continued. "I mean, nothing they do makes sense if the whole goal is to just kill all of us. They never approach shore except for retaliatory actions, and they make no attacks against coastal cities except for the same reasons. This is despite the fact that they can - They shoot down our SSTO craft more or less at will, as evidenced by the fact that they ignore supply launches but invariably shoot down any attempt to deploy new recon satellites. They never enter internal waters or rivers." Which was one of the few reprieves the US Navy had seen in the last decade and a half. The Great Lakes remained free of Fog Fleet influence and were the only major body of water they still controlled. Information from elsewhere was sketchy, but inland seas like the Black or the Caspian might still be under human control. "There is also the fact they never form anything other than ships or, more recently the Mental Models even though they could obviously form ground or air units. Even the Mental Models themselves make no sense - a form like that probably eats up a lot of resources."
"Your point with all of this, Richardson?" Ryder asked.
"The point is if they wanted us dead, we'd be dead." Richardson pointed at the still displayed image of the Battleship Mental Model. "You don't waste time trying to emulate what you're trying to kill when you can just up and kill them." Richards paused as he tried to find the best way to word the next part to try not to sound crazy.
"I think the Fog Fleet is evolving."
Apparently that had quite been enough, since everybody in the room was now staring at him as if he had grown a second head and a pair of wings. Ryder simply sighed. "Seriously man, that's a little out there even for you..."
"She's wearing a freaking monocle!" Richardson snapped back before taking a moment to compose himself. "That outfit is stupidly elaborate - the monocle, the hair, the lab coat... It's all pointless for a weapon. The only reason they would have would be out of personal preference. Which means they have personal preferences which means that they are, in fact, more than weapons. This means that we have been making every operational and strategic decision under a flawed premise."
"That is quite the claim, Richardson." The Commander, unlike many of the others, had managed to remain fairly composed for most of Richardson's monologue. "And I can find no fault with your logic. However, that evidence is circumstantial at best. Unless you can find something more solid to prove that the Fog Fleet are in fact more then we think they are, this will have to remain speculation."
"If I had access to-" Richardson began, but was quickly cut off by the commander.
"You will have access to nothing." The commander actually looked somewhat apologetic as he shot Richardson down. "Our resources are spread too thin as it is to put them behind anything that doesn't have any immediate benefit. Our official mission statement is to collect and prepare any information to help fight the Fog. What you do in your own time, however, is your own business."
The Commander rose to leave, and the entire room snapped to attention until he had departed. As the rest filed out, Ryder couldn't help but give Richardson a gentle jab. "What did I tell ya? See what happens when you share your crazy?"
"Well, if I can prove it..." Richardson mused.
"What are you going to do?" his colleague asked. "Steal a rowboat?"
Which was how, early the following morning, Richardson had found himself in a small rowboat (rented - not stolen) as he propelled himself out past the massive barrier of Chesapeake Bay and toward the furthest out man-made object still floating out here - a sensor buoy, usually maintained by ROV's and usually used for oceanographic research.
Sitting in the rowboat with him was a small bundle of surveillance gear that he had managed to requisition from Inventory. All he had to do was attach it to the buoy and then come back every so often to check on it. Norfolk was a major Military base and it seemed the Fog knew it since their patrols came closer to this bay than any other port on the eastern seaboard so hopefully they would come close enough for his gear to actually pick something useful up.
That was assuming he could make it back. More than 20 miles out by rowboat had taken quite a while and Richardson was, despite the Navy's best efforts, not exactly the picture of physical fitness. "This," He thought out loud as he gasped for breath, winded from the exertion. "Might have been a bad idea." He leaned back in the little boat as it bumped into buoy. As he continued to try and catch his breath, the buoy continued to bobble from the bump.
In fact, it was bobbling far more are far longer then it had any right to.
Richardson nearly tumbled out of his little boat as the water underneath him grew turbulent, small waves crashing into it as he tried to keep the small craft stable. Then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. Richardson carefully stood up in the middle of the raft as he looked around. "What the hell was-?"
A single massive thundering rumble ripped through the air as a massive ship, its hull a dull red, breached the water's surface within arm's reach of the raft, capsizing it and spilling its rider into the cold water of the Atlantic.
Richardson broke surface of the water, gasping for air as he stared up at the hulking vessel. The ship, however, was interested in more than staring it seemed as an articulated gantry reached over the edge and plucked him out of the water, dropping him onto the deck.
And that, James Richardson mused, was how he had gotten into this mess. The young woman in the robes seemed to find him amusing, hiding her grin behind one hand as she softly laughed. "Well, aren't you a cheeky one."
"I figured I'd be dead by now, so I figured it couldn't hurt." Richardson eyed the Mental Model wearily. "You aren't going to kill me, are you?"
The Mental Model gave another soft laugh as she removed her heel from his shoulder before turning and beginning to walk away. "Where is the fun in that? I think I would much rather keep you around - we will have to get you some dry clothes though."
"Keep me what!?" Richardson paled. Since when did the Fog take prisoners? Not that he wanted to die but he wasn't sure he wanted to find out what they might do to a live specimen as it were.
"Keep you around." The woman repeated. "I was sure that I had learned this language properly - I don't have an accent, do I?" She did, not that Richardson could place it - but that didn't seem important to mention. The Mental Model cocked her head to one side, as if listening to something. "And what is that strange humming sound?"
An instant later a series of explosions blossomed around the ship, all of them deflected off of a purplish-red shield that let nothing more than a warm breeze wash over the decks. The Mental Model didn't so much as flinch. "Ah, they've spotted me."
"Coastal Batteries." Richardson thought out loud. "Long-range optics - nice big telescope things. You could probably wave to them if you wanted." Now he would love to see the expression on the missile crew's faces if they saw that. "Probably using Arclight's." BGM-178 Arclight Missiles. Propelled by a scramjet engine and packed with explosives, they were one of the only things that could match a supercavitating torpedo in speed and destructive capacity. And the Fog ship had just shrugged them off.
"Well, it seems I've overstayed my welcome." The Mental Model watched as another barrage detonated harmlessly on her shields, forty million dollars in advanced weaponry and it might as well been a water pistol.
Richardson rose to his feet as the Mental Model turned and walked past him, a Waterproof hatch opening in front of her with a wave of her hand. "Who are you?" He finally managed. "What are you?"
The Mental Model paused at the hatch's threshold, looking over her shoulder as she gave him a small, smug smile.
"I am the Heavy Cruiser Augusta - Welcome to Task Force Crimson."
I've only ever seen one other Blue Steel story on here, which is a real shame. So, since I had this idea bouncing around I thought I might as well see where it goes.
--Index--
snip 1 - Here
snip 2 - Here
snip 3 - Here
snip 4 - Here
snip 5 - Here
snip 6 - Here
snip 7 - Here
snip 8 - Here
snip 9 - Here
snip 10 - Here
snip 11 - Here
snip 12 - Here
snip 13 - Here
snip 14 - Here
snip 15 - Here
snip 16 - Here
snip 17 - Here
snip 18 - Here
--Crimson Aria--
James Richardson looked up from where he was forced to lay. The North Atlantic sun shined overhead, the squawking of gulls carrying in the slight breeze that was the only sign of weather on an otherwise perfect late morning off the coast of Norfolk. Though he couldn't see it from this angle, he knew that the Chesapeake Bay Sea Wall would have been little more than a dim glint on the horizon at these distances. His brown hair was plastered against head, the short military cut soaked by the sea spray as thoroughly as his Working Uniform. Part of his mind idly noted that it had likely been quite a while since any human being had been on this particular stretch of ocean. The foot that was pinning him by the shoulder to the deck underneath him every time he tried to move was making it markedly less enjoyable than it could have been.
Richardson watched out of the corner of his eye as the foot, clad in what looked like a heavy black boot, flattened out his collar and ranking insignia. "Well, well, a petty officer." Her voice was cool and calm, with only the slightest hint of amusement leaking into it. Richardson's gaze traveled upward, taking in the pale skinned woman that was currently standing over him. Garbed in dark robes like a shaman or alchemist of ages past, she stared down at her quarry with ice blue eyes. A small smirk was tugging at one corner of her mouth as her long black hair blew in the wind. "You seem well out of your depth, sailor."
Richardson at least tried to shrug as he stared up at the Mental Model of a Fog Fleet Heavy Cruiser. "All the officers were busy." Inwardly, he sighed. How the hell had he gotten himself into this mess anyway?
(36 hours prior)
Intelligence Specialist Third Class James Richardson of the United States Navy sighed as he badged into the concrete and glass box he called work. It was an early spring morning in Norfolk as he worked his way through the checkpoint turnstiles and into the secured building. To most, it was the Headquarters of the US tenth fleet, the Navy's 'Ghost Fleet' - it had no ships, but instead served as an intelligence collection operation. To him, it was just where work was.
Down two flights of stairs and another pair of doors only accessible via keycard and one that required a pin was the National Maritime Intelligence Center, or NMIC. Created in the wake of the Fog Fleet turning almost the entirety of the world's navy's into new reefs and borrowing the name from a facility that had ceased to exist decades ago, the NMIC had one mission - to collect, analyze and report whatever data they could find on the single most powerful enemy that mankind had ever faced.
To most people who knew of its existence - to those who regularly dealt with them but were not actually 'of' them, it had a very different name. One which become obvious when he walked past the duty desk and came face-to-face with a wall, around 40 feet long, covered from floor to ceiling with the captured images of the Fog Fleet's latest feature, the humanoid forms theorized to be part of an attempt to understand the minds of their human adversaries and thus aptly named - the Mental Models. It had started as a way to simply keep tabs on all of the major Fog ships they knew about, starting with just the shots of their hulls and whatever technical specs they could find as well as estimates on how much damage they could cause, usually in cash value. The combination of the 'mug shots' and listed monetary sums had gotten the wall its nickname - 'The Bounty Board'. The name really caught on once they started showing the Mental Models. The wall itself, however, was older then Mental Models and a major factor to their most common nickname.
The Fan Club.
Which wasn't an inaccurate name, per say. Most everybody who worked there had a great appreciation for their enemy and could, on occasion, grow somewhat obsessive with the subject of the Fog Fleet. Many could rattle off numerous statistics on Fog ships the same way a teenager might rattle off baseball stats. At least one fight in the galley had started as a discussion over a theoretical battle between two Fog Battleships.
Richardson walked past the wall and toward his usual workspace, a small collection of computers centered on a large common screen. Unsurprisingly, somebody was already there. "Morning, Ryder. Why the black and tans?" Most of the command - Richardson included - were in the blue and greyish digital camo patterned working uniform. The Navy seemed to enjoy changing its mind on what exactly it wanted its sailors to wear. Having been phased out several times at this point, they kept getting reintroduced for the simple reason that they hid work stains better than most proposed alternatives.
Charles Ryder, on the other hand, was dressed in his service uniform. A khaki button shirt and black slacks, ribbons pinned to his chest and his First-Class ranking pins on his collar. Ryder shrugged. "I'm on duty today. Didn't you read the roster?"
"I just check to make sure it's not me." Richardson slipped into his chair as his work station booted. "Anything come in?"
"Some imagery from a camera pod on the last SSTO to Japan." Ryder pointed to the main board, where a collection of thumbnails were arrayed. "We also have that briefing to the CO later." Ryder grinned. "Try to keep your pet theories to yourself this time."
Richardson turned around in his chair to shoot Ryder a brief glare. The First Class's hair had gone prematurely grey, and at this point was a fairly even shade of silver. "I thought analysts were supposed to come up with theories?"
"Yes. Theories that make sense." Ryder replied. "Not crazy suggestions about humanized ships."
"None of this bothers you though?" Richardson pointed to the screen. "The Fog Fleet takes over the oceans and then they stop. They make no moves to take over internal waters or land masses. They still allow SSTO's to fly despite having shown the ability to shoot them down more or less at will. They develop human forms. They take on the guises of World War II ships. They could wipe us out at will but they just...sit there. You never ask why?"
"Richardson, why they do what they do isn't important," Ryder leaned forward. "Just that it gives us a chance. That's probably why they're studying us - they know they're doomed if we catch up."
"Then why let us catch up?" Richardson replied. It was always like this, no matter who he talked to. He just ended up talking in circles. "It doesn't make sense."
"Well, you can work it out later." Ryder tapped on a screen. "We have a presentation to put together." With a sigh, Richardson turned around and got to work. People thought all sorts of things when he told them what he did. They thought of spy films and espionage novels. What he usually ended up doing, however, was building presentations.
---
"...Which was when the UAV was lost." The brown-haired Chief, as indicated by the golden anchors on his collar, finished as the video on the wall turned to static. The shifting light it gave off danced across the people that were gathered around the conference table in the darkened room. At one end, opposite the screen, Commander Kennith Anderson took in the presentation stoically, his hands steepled before him. Grey hair slicked back, Richardson always thought that the Commander wouldn't have looked out-of-place wearing a monocle. "Those UAVs aren't cheap, Chief Hewitt. Do tell me got something useful?"
Chief Hewitt nodded as he shifted the display to a map that showed the majority of the Pacific Ocean, stretching from Japan to California. "This new data seems to confirm what our collections from the SSTO suggested." The Screen shifted to a shot of what looked like a Battleship, centered on the simply clothed brunette that was standing on it clearly visible as well as several other vessels in the background. The screen quick shifted to a wider shot, showing a better overview of the small grouping. "This was taken three months ago, showing what appeared to be the Hyuuga and several other ships we believe to be under its command traveling in what we have surmised to be her usual waters." The slide shifted again, once again starting with a close up of the Mental Model before shifting to a wider shot. "This was taken last week, showing the Hyuuga well east of her usual waters. This matches with the behavior of several other fog ships in pulling away from the coastlines. Our theory is that this is part of some sort of normal Fleet reorganization. Since this involves moving away from the coast, we believe this does not pose a threat to our coastlines."
"What about her clothes?" Everybody turned to look at Richardson as Ryder facepalmed. Richardson blinked for a moment before shrinking slightly into his chair. "I mean, it's nothing - just ignore me."
"Petty Officer Richardson," The Commander started. "If you have something to add, please do. I would like to hear it."
Richardson paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts, before he began. "Well, it's just that we've been making every assessment of Fog Fleet under the assumption that their only goal was to wipe out mankind."
"Correct." The Commander nodded.
"Well, this is wrong." Everybody just stared at Richardson for a moment as he continued. "I mean, nothing they do makes sense if the whole goal is to just kill all of us. They never approach shore except for retaliatory actions, and they make no attacks against coastal cities except for the same reasons. This is despite the fact that they can - They shoot down our SSTO craft more or less at will, as evidenced by the fact that they ignore supply launches but invariably shoot down any attempt to deploy new recon satellites. They never enter internal waters or rivers." Which was one of the few reprieves the US Navy had seen in the last decade and a half. The Great Lakes remained free of Fog Fleet influence and were the only major body of water they still controlled. Information from elsewhere was sketchy, but inland seas like the Black or the Caspian might still be under human control. "There is also the fact they never form anything other than ships or, more recently the Mental Models even though they could obviously form ground or air units. Even the Mental Models themselves make no sense - a form like that probably eats up a lot of resources."
"Your point with all of this, Richardson?" Ryder asked.
"The point is if they wanted us dead, we'd be dead." Richardson pointed at the still displayed image of the Battleship Mental Model. "You don't waste time trying to emulate what you're trying to kill when you can just up and kill them." Richards paused as he tried to find the best way to word the next part to try not to sound crazy.
"I think the Fog Fleet is evolving."
Apparently that had quite been enough, since everybody in the room was now staring at him as if he had grown a second head and a pair of wings. Ryder simply sighed. "Seriously man, that's a little out there even for you..."
"She's wearing a freaking monocle!" Richardson snapped back before taking a moment to compose himself. "That outfit is stupidly elaborate - the monocle, the hair, the lab coat... It's all pointless for a weapon. The only reason they would have would be out of personal preference. Which means they have personal preferences which means that they are, in fact, more than weapons. This means that we have been making every operational and strategic decision under a flawed premise."
"That is quite the claim, Richardson." The Commander, unlike many of the others, had managed to remain fairly composed for most of Richardson's monologue. "And I can find no fault with your logic. However, that evidence is circumstantial at best. Unless you can find something more solid to prove that the Fog Fleet are in fact more then we think they are, this will have to remain speculation."
"If I had access to-" Richardson began, but was quickly cut off by the commander.
"You will have access to nothing." The commander actually looked somewhat apologetic as he shot Richardson down. "Our resources are spread too thin as it is to put them behind anything that doesn't have any immediate benefit. Our official mission statement is to collect and prepare any information to help fight the Fog. What you do in your own time, however, is your own business."
The Commander rose to leave, and the entire room snapped to attention until he had departed. As the rest filed out, Ryder couldn't help but give Richardson a gentle jab. "What did I tell ya? See what happens when you share your crazy?"
"Well, if I can prove it..." Richardson mused.
"What are you going to do?" his colleague asked. "Steal a rowboat?"
Which was how, early the following morning, Richardson had found himself in a small rowboat (rented - not stolen) as he propelled himself out past the massive barrier of Chesapeake Bay and toward the furthest out man-made object still floating out here - a sensor buoy, usually maintained by ROV's and usually used for oceanographic research.
Sitting in the rowboat with him was a small bundle of surveillance gear that he had managed to requisition from Inventory. All he had to do was attach it to the buoy and then come back every so often to check on it. Norfolk was a major Military base and it seemed the Fog knew it since their patrols came closer to this bay than any other port on the eastern seaboard so hopefully they would come close enough for his gear to actually pick something useful up.
That was assuming he could make it back. More than 20 miles out by rowboat had taken quite a while and Richardson was, despite the Navy's best efforts, not exactly the picture of physical fitness. "This," He thought out loud as he gasped for breath, winded from the exertion. "Might have been a bad idea." He leaned back in the little boat as it bumped into buoy. As he continued to try and catch his breath, the buoy continued to bobble from the bump.
In fact, it was bobbling far more are far longer then it had any right to.
Richardson nearly tumbled out of his little boat as the water underneath him grew turbulent, small waves crashing into it as he tried to keep the small craft stable. Then, just as suddenly as it started, it stopped. Richardson carefully stood up in the middle of the raft as he looked around. "What the hell was-?"
A single massive thundering rumble ripped through the air as a massive ship, its hull a dull red, breached the water's surface within arm's reach of the raft, capsizing it and spilling its rider into the cold water of the Atlantic.
Richardson broke surface of the water, gasping for air as he stared up at the hulking vessel. The ship, however, was interested in more than staring it seemed as an articulated gantry reached over the edge and plucked him out of the water, dropping him onto the deck.
And that, James Richardson mused, was how he had gotten into this mess. The young woman in the robes seemed to find him amusing, hiding her grin behind one hand as she softly laughed. "Well, aren't you a cheeky one."
"I figured I'd be dead by now, so I figured it couldn't hurt." Richardson eyed the Mental Model wearily. "You aren't going to kill me, are you?"
The Mental Model gave another soft laugh as she removed her heel from his shoulder before turning and beginning to walk away. "Where is the fun in that? I think I would much rather keep you around - we will have to get you some dry clothes though."
"Keep me what!?" Richardson paled. Since when did the Fog take prisoners? Not that he wanted to die but he wasn't sure he wanted to find out what they might do to a live specimen as it were.
"Keep you around." The woman repeated. "I was sure that I had learned this language properly - I don't have an accent, do I?" She did, not that Richardson could place it - but that didn't seem important to mention. The Mental Model cocked her head to one side, as if listening to something. "And what is that strange humming sound?"
An instant later a series of explosions blossomed around the ship, all of them deflected off of a purplish-red shield that let nothing more than a warm breeze wash over the decks. The Mental Model didn't so much as flinch. "Ah, they've spotted me."
"Coastal Batteries." Richardson thought out loud. "Long-range optics - nice big telescope things. You could probably wave to them if you wanted." Now he would love to see the expression on the missile crew's faces if they saw that. "Probably using Arclight's." BGM-178 Arclight Missiles. Propelled by a scramjet engine and packed with explosives, they were one of the only things that could match a supercavitating torpedo in speed and destructive capacity. And the Fog ship had just shrugged them off.
"Well, it seems I've overstayed my welcome." The Mental Model watched as another barrage detonated harmlessly on her shields, forty million dollars in advanced weaponry and it might as well been a water pistol.
Richardson rose to his feet as the Mental Model turned and walked past him, a Waterproof hatch opening in front of her with a wave of her hand. "Who are you?" He finally managed. "What are you?"
The Mental Model paused at the hatch's threshold, looking over her shoulder as she gave him a small, smug smile.
"I am the Heavy Cruiser Augusta - Welcome to Task Force Crimson."
Last edited:
Snip 2
Dragontrapper
Homeless Draconis
- Location
- A Tower in the middle of nowhere
Guess what? I'm not dead! Real life has a way of looking at my schedule and laughing. Work, Holiday with the family, and one dead laptop later, here is the (very) late next snip.
------
"The Augusta?" Richardson echoed as he followed the Mental Model into the ship. He hadn't been surprised by the interior design as much as he thought - despite the World War 2 aesthetic on the exterior, the interior was decidedly more modern, bordering on futuristic. The passageway they were in now was sleek and streamlined without any low hanging pipes or wiring conduits. He even had decent head clearance. What had surprised him was that there was an interior at all - why have accommodations for a crew on an autonomous warship? He kept that question to himself for the moment however as he returned to his original question. "Shouldn't you be off the course of Morocco?"
The Mental Model Augusta gave a dismissive wave as she stepped through another hatch. "It seems that my flagship took umbridge to my excursions ashore - hense why they transferred me here - ah, here we are." She led them though a hatch - which, like the others, looked less nautical and more NASA - and Richardson stopped in his tracks.
A warm glow from the crackling fireplace danced across the wood paneled walls. Near the fire was a pair of comfortable looking wing-back chairs, a small table in between and an antique rug at their feet. Two of the walls were lined with deck-to-overhead bookshelves that all seemed to be packed to bursting and then some. In between the shelves and around the room were more desks and display cases with a multitude of knickknacks as well as various maps and art pieces hanging from the bulkheads. More papers and books were scattered haphazardly around the room. It took him a moment to remember what his next question was going to be. "ah...reassigned?"
"Indeed." Augusta took a seat in one of the chairs and waved for Richardson to join her. "This task force is offically for special intelligence operations and the like - little things that fall beyond the normal operations of the Patrol Fleet. In truth, it is somewhere for them to send the more troublesome ships and keep us out of the way."
"I...See..." Richardson shifted in his seat as he continued to look around the room. "...Why do you have a library?"
Augusta shrugged. "A hobby I suppose. I find books fascinating."
"But you're a ship." Richardson pointed out. "Can't you just download everything or something?"
"My my, aren't you a curious one." Augusta grinned. "And I have a few questions of my own. A simple exchange then. That should be fair, no?"
"Fair enough." Richard nodded, pausing as something occurred to him. "You seem rather chatty for a Mental Model."
"Well, I so rarely have guests, let alone humans. But if we are going to be having this conversation we will need refreshments." She picked up a small silver bell that Richardson hadn't even realized was there - had it even been there when he walked in? - and gave it a soft ring. A moment later a small raven-haired girl scurried into the room, dressed in a simple black one-piece dress. She looked like, for all intents and purposes, like a younger version of the Mental Model seated across from him.
Augusta leaned over and whispered something to the girl who gave a nod and dashed out as Augusta sat back up, an undisguised smile of amusement on her face as she saw Richardson's look of bewilderment. "You look surprised."
"I've had that a lot today." Richardson replied. "Considering I thought you were going to kill me instead of asking for a chat."
"Any other Ship would have." Augusta replied with a calm shrug. Richardson felt the blood drain from his face as she continued. "But I thought it would have been a waste. I find human beings far too interesting to waste an opportunity like this."
"Is that why you took human form?" Richardson asked. Of all the questions he had, that was likely one of the most obvious. Just about everybody in the Fan Club wondered the same thing.
Augusta glanced down - at her own palm, Richard realized, studying herself for a moment. "Back when we first faced you, we lacked any real awareness. We had no concept of the past, nor of the future. We had no concept of strategy. We simply...were. We took these forms to learn. Our only strength was our sword and our shield - we didn't know it then, but looking back on the final great battle you surprised us. Some even question what the outcome might have been different had the armaments been the same So, we try to learn and adapt." August looked up from her musings as her smaller adjunct returned with a silver tray laden with white china. Being slightly shorter then the table, the younger looking avatar struggled for a moment before finally managing to bring it to rest on the wooden surface before giving a curtsy and departing.
Richardson raised an eyebrow at the scene. "You have them curtsy?"
"No," Augusta replied as she poured both of them tea. "But I haven't had reason to tell them to stop. You look as though you still have a question for me?" She slid Richardson a teacup before leaning back and sipping her own, calmly watching him the whole time.
"If you took human form to learn, I take it that the books are for the same reason?" Richardson asked before taking a sip of his tea. He had to suppress a grimace. It wasn't bad, but he had never been a tea person. "To learn?"
Augusta contemplated her tea for a moment. "At first, yes. But now...I am not so sure. Humans are fascinating subjects - centuries of history and culture, losses and victories, so much change and turmoil. Human beings are capable of such amazing adaption. You can change and remold yourself into almost anything, given time. Perhaps I am simply envious of you..." Augusta laughed softly to herself. "My, you seem to have made me quite philosophical today. I do think its time that get to ask a question or three."
"I'm in no position to argue." Richardson shrugged. For a brief moment it occurred to him that, since the room was likely made of nano-material, she could probably squash him instantly if she felt like it.
yeah...he tried not to dwell on that.
"You said you expected me to kill you." Augusta started. "Why?"
Richardson actually arched an eyebrow at this. "Seriously? That's your first question?" Augusta simply nodded, and Richardson sighed. "In case you didn't' notice it, you sink anything larger then a row boat that tries to set sail. You've put more then a fifth of the worlds combined naval fleet onto the bottom of the ocean. You kinda seem to have it out for us."
Augusta blinked owlishly. "Is that how it looks to you?" She tapped at her chin thoughtfully. "Well, I suppose that would make sense...but you misunderstand our goals."
"By all means, educate me." Richardson gestured for her to continue.
"Are goal is not the eradication of mankind," Augusta explained. "It is, simply, to blockade the oceans of the world. All other actions taken are to ensure this. It is as simple as that."
"Why?" Richardson leaned forward. This was it - one of the greatest questions of the last fifteen years, and he was on the cusp of an answer...
Augusta smiled widely as she gave a shrug. "No idea!" Richardson nearly fell out of his chair at the answer.
"How can you have no idea!" Richardson demanded, slightly irate and very confused. "It's your main objective!"
"Far more then that." Augusta sipped at her tea. "The Admiralty Code is the Highest Authority of the Fleet - the closest thing we have to religion. It defines are entire reason de'etre. The last Edict we received was simple - blockade the seas. We have carried out that Edict ever since. All actions taken by the Fog are in support of this Edict - at least, they are supposed to."
"Hence why you're out here." Richardson leaned back in his chair. This was quite a bit to absorb, he thought as he gazed at the ceiling, covered in Decorative moldings. "Why are you telling me all of this? Small talk, sure - but aren't these basically State Secrets for you guys?" Could the Fog have State Secrets?
"You asked me a question, I simply answered." Augusta replied as she refilled her cup. "I find myself enjoying sharing these things - You are by far the most interested listener I've had in a while."
"Well if you fancy yourself a teacher, you might be better off not trying to teach your peers what they already know." Richardson looked over to his host to see a look of mild surprise across her face.
"A...teacher?" Augusta murmured. "I had never considered that..."
"Ah, well - maybe more of a scholar, given the book collection..." The last thing he needed was it getting back that he had given the Fog any ideas. "Next question?"
"On the slightly less serious side, Might I ask why you rowed out into the ocean," Augusta asked. "When, what was it? 'We sink anything larger then a row boat'?"
Richardson could only shrug. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."
Augusta stared at Richardson for a moment before one hand came up in a vain attempt to hide her laughter. Her shoulders began to shake with mirth before she gave up the ghost and simply laughed openly, the sound ringing through the room like a bell - a warm, lilting sound. "Of course! How's the saying go? 'hindsight is twenty-twenty'? But surely you must have had a reason, no?"
"I was trying to prove a theory." Richardson explained. "That the Fog Fleet was more complicated then we suspected."
"Well, you've gotten more then you bargained for, haven't you?" Augusta replied. "Now then, are you familiar with Mahan?"
"A little," Richardson replied, caught slightly off-guard by the question. "Why?"
"As I have said before, many Fog Ships are not what you would call good conversationalists. I was hoping for a-" her sentence was cut off as the entire vessel rocked under them, seeming to change direction suddnely. "Please give me a moment." She rose from her seat and gestured to the bookcases around them. "Please remain here. Feel free to browse my collection - now if you will excuse me..."
Richardson watched her stride out of the room, the door closing behind her with a heavy thunk. He let out a sigh as he leaned back in his chair, briefly wondering what, exactly, he was doing sharing information with a known enemy of humanity. Part of him wanted to say it was because he was already certain she as already aware of most of it - NMIC had dozen's of incursions onto Defense networks on record, all of them displaying attack patterns and cyber-warfare capabilities well beyond any human system and, when they did manage to back-track the signal, all traced back to locations off-shore. The United States had long since given up any chance of network security in the face of quantum-based AI.
At least, they thought they were quantum based AI. Nobody was entirely sure, given that they hadn't had much of a chance to study them up-close.
The deck under his feet vibrated and shifted, the subtle change telling him that the ship had increased speed. Richardson rose to his feet, eyeing the deck below him as if it might give him some sort of answer before his gaze drifted up to the bookcases.
It was certainly an impressive collection; an eclectic mish-mash of impressive looking hardbacks, cheap paperbacks and everything in between stuffed the bookcases with no regard to subject or author. Mahan, Tolkien, Clauswitz, Heinlien, Keegan, Carroll...
The mere fact that a being with direct access to just about any piece of information conceivable would bother with books was strange enough, let alone the variety of fiction present. It was a strange quirk, the same sort of quirk, the same sort of contradiction to what they had thought, that had led him to rowing out into the Atlantic in a dingy.
Richardson looked up from his musings as the door opened again, Augusta leaning in and scanning the room quickly before settling her gaze on him and languidly gesturing for him. "If you could follow me please."
Richardson quickly started after her as she didn't even wait for a reply before turning around and starting back down the passage way. The Mental Model didn't even bother to make sure he was following as she continued to talk. "Three ships have entered my defense perimeter."
"Fog Fleet?" Richardson asked as he followed behind her. Around them, more of the mini-Augusta's dashed about as they saw their own tasks and duties.
"Unless you human's still use ships like that," Augusta noted as they reached the deck, pointing off to starboard. "But that is not what worries me."
"And what does worry you?" Richardson asked as he stepped up to one of the large pair of rail-mounted binoculars that waited nearby. Like the passageways below, the inclusion of the binoculars - which the Mental Models had no need off - was strange. But Richardson set the thought aside for another time a he studied the approaching ships. There was three of them, a fact that alone ruled out them being human. The United States, along with the rest of North America, had fared much better after the Oceans were blockaded then some other parts of the world. Unlike an island nation such as Japan, their location on a continent meant they maintained access to a large amount of resources. And, unlike Europe where everybody was near-peer powers, The United States had sufficient military dominance over the continent to prevent the entirety of the region from plunging into war.
That was not to say things had been easy - South America had, in fact, plunged into war. The Army, having been powerless during the conflict with the fog fleet, had been more then happy to respond. The entire continent had plunged into turmoil as modern 'just-in-time' delivery and industry, so dependent on sea trade, ground to a halt. Economies collapsed as people panicked. Civil authority for a time evaporated until martial law was instated to try and reassert order. Things eventually calmed down and civilian government was reinstated, but things has changed, and priorities had altered.
This included defense spending. While the US and its allies had, in he past, dared to send vessels out to sea, they had always been small corvettes. The Nations of North America had stopped trying this after it became apparent that such exercises were simply a waste of men and material. Sending out three vessels of any size - let alone the size of the ones Richardson was now looking at - would have been economic suicide. "They look like Fletcher Classes." One of the mot prolific US destroyers of World War 2, and one of the most common sights off the Eastern Seaboard. "But they look a little...off."
"Their appearance is not the only thing that is off." Augusta replied as she approached the railing. "They have failed to respond to any hails, and have yet to identify themselves over the Tactical Network."
"Well, have you considered that..." Richardson paused as he noticed something. "They're crossing the T."
"They're what?" Augusta turned to look at Richardson, who continued to watch the fleet through through the binoculars.
"They're crossing the T." Richardson repeated. He knowledge of naval tactics was amateurish, at best. As an enlisted, such things re not part of his instruction so all that he knew on the subject was from his own reading. Still, even he could recognize this particular tactic. "Its means..."
"I know what it means." Augusta cut him off. "I am a warship after all. The question is why. The tactic itself is useless for the fog fleet given most of our weaponry is missile-based, and there are no enemies here."
"Have you considered that the enemy is us?" Richardson turned to look at the Mental Model.
"Ridiculous!" Augusta dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand. "We are all Fog Fleet Vessels. What is the point in attacking us?"
"Welcome to the world of politics." Richardson mused as he returned to his observations. "You've gone against the wishes of the Fleet before, yes? What's to stop anybody else from doing the same sort of thing a little more...violently."
A flicker of doubt crossed Augusta's face as she considered this idea. In the distance, The three destroyers brought their guns around as missile cell hatches swung open. "This shouldn't be possible." There was a slight tremor in her voice as her face paled. She had seen what Richardson had, and what it implied shook her deeper then any prospect of attack could have.
"Never say something isn't possible," Richardson mused. "You're just inviting it to happen." He turned to his host. "So - now what?"
Augusta took one last look in the direction of the Destroyers before her expression hardened. "Even three to one, Destroyers are no match for a Cruiser. To Battle Stations."
------
"The Augusta?" Richardson echoed as he followed the Mental Model into the ship. He hadn't been surprised by the interior design as much as he thought - despite the World War 2 aesthetic on the exterior, the interior was decidedly more modern, bordering on futuristic. The passageway they were in now was sleek and streamlined without any low hanging pipes or wiring conduits. He even had decent head clearance. What had surprised him was that there was an interior at all - why have accommodations for a crew on an autonomous warship? He kept that question to himself for the moment however as he returned to his original question. "Shouldn't you be off the course of Morocco?"
The Mental Model Augusta gave a dismissive wave as she stepped through another hatch. "It seems that my flagship took umbridge to my excursions ashore - hense why they transferred me here - ah, here we are." She led them though a hatch - which, like the others, looked less nautical and more NASA - and Richardson stopped in his tracks.
A warm glow from the crackling fireplace danced across the wood paneled walls. Near the fire was a pair of comfortable looking wing-back chairs, a small table in between and an antique rug at their feet. Two of the walls were lined with deck-to-overhead bookshelves that all seemed to be packed to bursting and then some. In between the shelves and around the room were more desks and display cases with a multitude of knickknacks as well as various maps and art pieces hanging from the bulkheads. More papers and books were scattered haphazardly around the room. It took him a moment to remember what his next question was going to be. "ah...reassigned?"
"Indeed." Augusta took a seat in one of the chairs and waved for Richardson to join her. "This task force is offically for special intelligence operations and the like - little things that fall beyond the normal operations of the Patrol Fleet. In truth, it is somewhere for them to send the more troublesome ships and keep us out of the way."
"I...See..." Richardson shifted in his seat as he continued to look around the room. "...Why do you have a library?"
Augusta shrugged. "A hobby I suppose. I find books fascinating."
"But you're a ship." Richardson pointed out. "Can't you just download everything or something?"
"My my, aren't you a curious one." Augusta grinned. "And I have a few questions of my own. A simple exchange then. That should be fair, no?"
"Fair enough." Richard nodded, pausing as something occurred to him. "You seem rather chatty for a Mental Model."
"Well, I so rarely have guests, let alone humans. But if we are going to be having this conversation we will need refreshments." She picked up a small silver bell that Richardson hadn't even realized was there - had it even been there when he walked in? - and gave it a soft ring. A moment later a small raven-haired girl scurried into the room, dressed in a simple black one-piece dress. She looked like, for all intents and purposes, like a younger version of the Mental Model seated across from him.
Augusta leaned over and whispered something to the girl who gave a nod and dashed out as Augusta sat back up, an undisguised smile of amusement on her face as she saw Richardson's look of bewilderment. "You look surprised."
"I've had that a lot today." Richardson replied. "Considering I thought you were going to kill me instead of asking for a chat."
"Any other Ship would have." Augusta replied with a calm shrug. Richardson felt the blood drain from his face as she continued. "But I thought it would have been a waste. I find human beings far too interesting to waste an opportunity like this."
"Is that why you took human form?" Richardson asked. Of all the questions he had, that was likely one of the most obvious. Just about everybody in the Fan Club wondered the same thing.
Augusta glanced down - at her own palm, Richard realized, studying herself for a moment. "Back when we first faced you, we lacked any real awareness. We had no concept of the past, nor of the future. We had no concept of strategy. We simply...were. We took these forms to learn. Our only strength was our sword and our shield - we didn't know it then, but looking back on the final great battle you surprised us. Some even question what the outcome might have been different had the armaments been the same So, we try to learn and adapt." August looked up from her musings as her smaller adjunct returned with a silver tray laden with white china. Being slightly shorter then the table, the younger looking avatar struggled for a moment before finally managing to bring it to rest on the wooden surface before giving a curtsy and departing.
Richardson raised an eyebrow at the scene. "You have them curtsy?"
"No," Augusta replied as she poured both of them tea. "But I haven't had reason to tell them to stop. You look as though you still have a question for me?" She slid Richardson a teacup before leaning back and sipping her own, calmly watching him the whole time.
"If you took human form to learn, I take it that the books are for the same reason?" Richardson asked before taking a sip of his tea. He had to suppress a grimace. It wasn't bad, but he had never been a tea person. "To learn?"
Augusta contemplated her tea for a moment. "At first, yes. But now...I am not so sure. Humans are fascinating subjects - centuries of history and culture, losses and victories, so much change and turmoil. Human beings are capable of such amazing adaption. You can change and remold yourself into almost anything, given time. Perhaps I am simply envious of you..." Augusta laughed softly to herself. "My, you seem to have made me quite philosophical today. I do think its time that get to ask a question or three."
"I'm in no position to argue." Richardson shrugged. For a brief moment it occurred to him that, since the room was likely made of nano-material, she could probably squash him instantly if she felt like it.
yeah...he tried not to dwell on that.
"You said you expected me to kill you." Augusta started. "Why?"
Richardson actually arched an eyebrow at this. "Seriously? That's your first question?" Augusta simply nodded, and Richardson sighed. "In case you didn't' notice it, you sink anything larger then a row boat that tries to set sail. You've put more then a fifth of the worlds combined naval fleet onto the bottom of the ocean. You kinda seem to have it out for us."
Augusta blinked owlishly. "Is that how it looks to you?" She tapped at her chin thoughtfully. "Well, I suppose that would make sense...but you misunderstand our goals."
"By all means, educate me." Richardson gestured for her to continue.
"Are goal is not the eradication of mankind," Augusta explained. "It is, simply, to blockade the oceans of the world. All other actions taken are to ensure this. It is as simple as that."
"Why?" Richardson leaned forward. This was it - one of the greatest questions of the last fifteen years, and he was on the cusp of an answer...
Augusta smiled widely as she gave a shrug. "No idea!" Richardson nearly fell out of his chair at the answer.
"How can you have no idea!" Richardson demanded, slightly irate and very confused. "It's your main objective!"
"Far more then that." Augusta sipped at her tea. "The Admiralty Code is the Highest Authority of the Fleet - the closest thing we have to religion. It defines are entire reason de'etre. The last Edict we received was simple - blockade the seas. We have carried out that Edict ever since. All actions taken by the Fog are in support of this Edict - at least, they are supposed to."
"Hence why you're out here." Richardson leaned back in his chair. This was quite a bit to absorb, he thought as he gazed at the ceiling, covered in Decorative moldings. "Why are you telling me all of this? Small talk, sure - but aren't these basically State Secrets for you guys?" Could the Fog have State Secrets?
"You asked me a question, I simply answered." Augusta replied as she refilled her cup. "I find myself enjoying sharing these things - You are by far the most interested listener I've had in a while."
"Well if you fancy yourself a teacher, you might be better off not trying to teach your peers what they already know." Richardson looked over to his host to see a look of mild surprise across her face.
"A...teacher?" Augusta murmured. "I had never considered that..."
"Ah, well - maybe more of a scholar, given the book collection..." The last thing he needed was it getting back that he had given the Fog any ideas. "Next question?"
"On the slightly less serious side, Might I ask why you rowed out into the ocean," Augusta asked. "When, what was it? 'We sink anything larger then a row boat'?"
Richardson could only shrug. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."
Augusta stared at Richardson for a moment before one hand came up in a vain attempt to hide her laughter. Her shoulders began to shake with mirth before she gave up the ghost and simply laughed openly, the sound ringing through the room like a bell - a warm, lilting sound. "Of course! How's the saying go? 'hindsight is twenty-twenty'? But surely you must have had a reason, no?"
"I was trying to prove a theory." Richardson explained. "That the Fog Fleet was more complicated then we suspected."
"Well, you've gotten more then you bargained for, haven't you?" Augusta replied. "Now then, are you familiar with Mahan?"
"A little," Richardson replied, caught slightly off-guard by the question. "Why?"
"As I have said before, many Fog Ships are not what you would call good conversationalists. I was hoping for a-" her sentence was cut off as the entire vessel rocked under them, seeming to change direction suddnely. "Please give me a moment." She rose from her seat and gestured to the bookcases around them. "Please remain here. Feel free to browse my collection - now if you will excuse me..."
Richardson watched her stride out of the room, the door closing behind her with a heavy thunk. He let out a sigh as he leaned back in his chair, briefly wondering what, exactly, he was doing sharing information with a known enemy of humanity. Part of him wanted to say it was because he was already certain she as already aware of most of it - NMIC had dozen's of incursions onto Defense networks on record, all of them displaying attack patterns and cyber-warfare capabilities well beyond any human system and, when they did manage to back-track the signal, all traced back to locations off-shore. The United States had long since given up any chance of network security in the face of quantum-based AI.
At least, they thought they were quantum based AI. Nobody was entirely sure, given that they hadn't had much of a chance to study them up-close.
The deck under his feet vibrated and shifted, the subtle change telling him that the ship had increased speed. Richardson rose to his feet, eyeing the deck below him as if it might give him some sort of answer before his gaze drifted up to the bookcases.
It was certainly an impressive collection; an eclectic mish-mash of impressive looking hardbacks, cheap paperbacks and everything in between stuffed the bookcases with no regard to subject or author. Mahan, Tolkien, Clauswitz, Heinlien, Keegan, Carroll...
The mere fact that a being with direct access to just about any piece of information conceivable would bother with books was strange enough, let alone the variety of fiction present. It was a strange quirk, the same sort of quirk, the same sort of contradiction to what they had thought, that had led him to rowing out into the Atlantic in a dingy.
Richardson looked up from his musings as the door opened again, Augusta leaning in and scanning the room quickly before settling her gaze on him and languidly gesturing for him. "If you could follow me please."
Richardson quickly started after her as she didn't even wait for a reply before turning around and starting back down the passage way. The Mental Model didn't even bother to make sure he was following as she continued to talk. "Three ships have entered my defense perimeter."
"Fog Fleet?" Richardson asked as he followed behind her. Around them, more of the mini-Augusta's dashed about as they saw their own tasks and duties.
"Unless you human's still use ships like that," Augusta noted as they reached the deck, pointing off to starboard. "But that is not what worries me."
"And what does worry you?" Richardson asked as he stepped up to one of the large pair of rail-mounted binoculars that waited nearby. Like the passageways below, the inclusion of the binoculars - which the Mental Models had no need off - was strange. But Richardson set the thought aside for another time a he studied the approaching ships. There was three of them, a fact that alone ruled out them being human. The United States, along with the rest of North America, had fared much better after the Oceans were blockaded then some other parts of the world. Unlike an island nation such as Japan, their location on a continent meant they maintained access to a large amount of resources. And, unlike Europe where everybody was near-peer powers, The United States had sufficient military dominance over the continent to prevent the entirety of the region from plunging into war.
That was not to say things had been easy - South America had, in fact, plunged into war. The Army, having been powerless during the conflict with the fog fleet, had been more then happy to respond. The entire continent had plunged into turmoil as modern 'just-in-time' delivery and industry, so dependent on sea trade, ground to a halt. Economies collapsed as people panicked. Civil authority for a time evaporated until martial law was instated to try and reassert order. Things eventually calmed down and civilian government was reinstated, but things has changed, and priorities had altered.
This included defense spending. While the US and its allies had, in he past, dared to send vessels out to sea, they had always been small corvettes. The Nations of North America had stopped trying this after it became apparent that such exercises were simply a waste of men and material. Sending out three vessels of any size - let alone the size of the ones Richardson was now looking at - would have been economic suicide. "They look like Fletcher Classes." One of the mot prolific US destroyers of World War 2, and one of the most common sights off the Eastern Seaboard. "But they look a little...off."
"Their appearance is not the only thing that is off." Augusta replied as she approached the railing. "They have failed to respond to any hails, and have yet to identify themselves over the Tactical Network."
"Well, have you considered that..." Richardson paused as he noticed something. "They're crossing the T."
"They're what?" Augusta turned to look at Richardson, who continued to watch the fleet through through the binoculars.
"They're crossing the T." Richardson repeated. He knowledge of naval tactics was amateurish, at best. As an enlisted, such things re not part of his instruction so all that he knew on the subject was from his own reading. Still, even he could recognize this particular tactic. "Its means..."
"I know what it means." Augusta cut him off. "I am a warship after all. The question is why. The tactic itself is useless for the fog fleet given most of our weaponry is missile-based, and there are no enemies here."
"Have you considered that the enemy is us?" Richardson turned to look at the Mental Model.
"Ridiculous!" Augusta dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand. "We are all Fog Fleet Vessels. What is the point in attacking us?"
"Welcome to the world of politics." Richardson mused as he returned to his observations. "You've gone against the wishes of the Fleet before, yes? What's to stop anybody else from doing the same sort of thing a little more...violently."
A flicker of doubt crossed Augusta's face as she considered this idea. In the distance, The three destroyers brought their guns around as missile cell hatches swung open. "This shouldn't be possible." There was a slight tremor in her voice as her face paled. She had seen what Richardson had, and what it implied shook her deeper then any prospect of attack could have.
"Never say something isn't possible," Richardson mused. "You're just inviting it to happen." He turned to his host. "So - now what?"
Augusta took one last look in the direction of the Destroyers before her expression hardened. "Even three to one, Destroyers are no match for a Cruiser. To Battle Stations."
Snip 3
Dragontrapper
Homeless Draconis
- Location
- A Tower in the middle of nowhere
Well, these forums seem to hate me - took me nearly TWO HOURS to get the forums to load so I could post this - gah.
----
The sound of shifting metal cut through the Atlantic air, weapons systems coming to the ready as Richardson felt the vessel underneath him rumble. The deck began to tilt ominously as the Augusta banked into a sharp turn, bringing its own broadside to bear against the approaching destroyers. Richardson turned from his observations to turn to Augusta. "Weren't we just talking about how you guys don't do broadsides?"
The dark-haired Mental Model grinned. "If the enemy wishes to play a little game, who am I to deny them?" Her turrets turned to bear on the enemy ships. What had been eight-inch guns on the original split and unfolded, energy arcing across them as a soft glow emanated from within. Across the deck, swaths of previously exposed vertical launch cells opened as their armaments came to the ready.
For a brief moment, the only sound in that desolate stretch of ocean was the sound of the sea crashing against the side of the nanomaterial hull.
At once, all three Destroyers lashed out, beams of light and plasma arcing out of their cannons as missiles screamed through the air. Explosions blossomed across the Augusta's Klein Field, the backwash from the explosions ripping across the deck and driving Richardson back from the rails, falling to a knee as he brought an arm up to shield his face from the light and excess heat of the barrage. If this was what was leaking through the shield...
He looked up from his spot on deck to see Augusta standing unfazed as she watched the bombardment with what looked like only mild interest. The attack quickly petered out, leaving the Augusta wreathed in a cloud of smoke but otherwise unscathed. Silence once again descended on the Atlantic until Augusta's grin turned predatory. "My turn."
A sharp whining scream was the only warning as Augusta's forward turret lashed out with a beam of pulsating energy that crashed into the first Destroyer. Its Klein Field barely slowed the attack down as the beam cored the ship's forward turret which promptly detonated in a massive explosion as whatever energy storage systems within failed catastrophically.
The three destroyers swiftly responded, redoubling their efforts as fire poured onto Augusta's defenses. Their effectiveness did not seem to show any noticeable increase. Missiles screamed through the air toward the Augusta only to be shot down by the Heavy Cruiser's laser-based anti-missile systems. Her own follow-up attacks were finding less success than before as her cannon barrages lit up the enemies' own Klein Fields like the Fourth of July, the energy barriers flaring, but managing to hold. "Looks like they've reinforced their defenses," Richardson noted idly, most of his thought processes in awe of the levels of firepower being thrown around and shrugged off.
"Diverting power from propulsion, no doubt," Augusta commented as she shot down another barrage of enemy missiles with a wave of her hand, her armaments lashing out with her every gesture in a symphony of destruction. "They should have known better."
"They should have...known..." A thought broke Richardson out of his awe-induced state as he turned to Augusta. "The normal assumption in the Fog Fleet is that three Destroyers can't face down a Heavy Cruiser, right?"
Augusta turned to face him, giving the still-incoming fire little thought as her robes fluttered in the backwash. "generally, yes."
"So," Richardson watched the Mental Model carefully. "Why are they attacking you?" The expressions that played across her face were telling. First surprise, then suspicion, then dismissal.
"They made a mistake," Augusta suggested. "It's as simple as that."
"On something this basic?" Richardson replied. "You're all warships. Screwing something like that up would be like me forgetting how to touch my nose." Richardson's eyes narrowed as he looked out toward the destroyers. "They're up to something..." But what? He racked his brain for ideas, but this wasn't his field. The only thing that came to mind was...
His eyes went wide as it hit him. "Do a sweep!"
Augusta arched an eyebrow. "A what?"
"A sweep," Richardson repeated. "A scan. Whatever you want to call it - just make sure that they are the only things around here!"
Augusta considered him for a moment before giving a nod, closing her eyes as if in contemplation. Her lips moved in silent murmurs like she was in a trance before, after a minute, they shot open as she spun around, one hand stretched out toward the horizon. "Gotcha!" Instantly, dozens of ASROCs rippled forth from Augusta's stern and into the waters behind her.
The sea exploded as columns of water soared into the air that were quickly joined by two vessels breaching the surface. "Missed them." Any of the amusement Augusta had been displaying earlier had vanished. To her stern was two more of the strange modified Fletcher Destroyers, water still sluicing off their hulls. Having lost the element of surprise, the pair decided to join their three brothers in the attack. Besieged from two sides, the heavy Cruiser was no longer taking things lackadaisically. A few strands of hair fell out of place as she split her attention on keeping her barrier up on both sides. It flickered ominously for a moment, then steadied even under the barrage. "Is that all you can offer!?" She replied with another volley of missiles, some of them managing to pierce through the defenses, leaving two more Destroyers short another weapon system. The Klein Fields on the others were beginning to flicker as well, which Richardson was guessing wasn't a good sign for them. Flickering shields were never a good thing.
The Destroyers, between the five of them, had the firepower needed to down the Heavy Cruiser. They didn't however, have the staying power. With their sneak attack exposed, Richardson doubted that they could survive to sink their target. He wasn't sure they could even disengage at this point, but they weren't even trying as far as he could tell. If anything, they were pressing harder.
He turned to Augusta. "Why are they still attacking?"
Augusta fired off another volley from her Cannons. "Perhaps they have a death wish?"
Richardson rolled his eyes. "They're losing - its obvious. They should be trying to escape, but they aren't."
"They can't," Augusta replied as she fired off another volley. "Our top speeds are effectively the same. The cannot disengage any more than we can."
"You mean we're pinned?" Richardson asked, surprised. He'd figured the Cruiser had hung around out of some form of boredom.
"More or less," Augusta confirmed. "Why?"
Richardson wished the pieces would just fall into place, but they didn't. All he knew was that they were pinned and the Destroyers seemed interested on keeping this way. He didn't know what they were planning but he knew one way to ruin it. "Sink them!"
Augusta gave him an amused look. "Two orders in as many hours, aren't you a cheeky one."
"They're planning something!" Richardson practically yelled back. "And I really don't want to know what. But they can't pull it off if they're all dead."
Augusta studied him for a moment, then turned away with a huff. "So be it." A volley of missiles and cannon fire poured onto the nearest destroyer, which suddenly pulled back. Its two compatriots closed ranks in front of it, seeming to provide it cover. "Well, that's different."
"Different is bad," Richardson mused as he returned to the binoculars from earlier. The fire had slackened off, the destroyers seeming to divert their attention to defense as the damage from the battle had taken its toll. Smoke poured out from where turrets had once stood as nanomaterial flowed to try and repair at least some of the damage. Several of the destroyers weren't even firing any more and that wasn't even the strangest thing. "Do destroyers have a siege mode?"
"Excuse me?" Augusta asked, still focusing on trying to sink the destroyers.
"Because those Destroyers looks like they're-" He was cut off as an unearthly groan suddenly cut through the air as Augusta's head whipped around.
"Impossible!" she whispered as the one of the defending destroyers pulled away from it's partners. "those graviton readings..." The sight they were now presented with was as incredible as it was outrageous. Two of the destroyers had telescoped and morphed, most of their mass now split into two large pylons that stretched what would have been aft to stern and then some. Lens-like constructs hung in the air as bolts of energy that was seemingly endemic to Fog technology arced across it. Richardson had no idea what he was looking at, but Augusta seemed to.
"...A Graviton Cannon..."
----
The sound of shifting metal cut through the Atlantic air, weapons systems coming to the ready as Richardson felt the vessel underneath him rumble. The deck began to tilt ominously as the Augusta banked into a sharp turn, bringing its own broadside to bear against the approaching destroyers. Richardson turned from his observations to turn to Augusta. "Weren't we just talking about how you guys don't do broadsides?"
The dark-haired Mental Model grinned. "If the enemy wishes to play a little game, who am I to deny them?" Her turrets turned to bear on the enemy ships. What had been eight-inch guns on the original split and unfolded, energy arcing across them as a soft glow emanated from within. Across the deck, swaths of previously exposed vertical launch cells opened as their armaments came to the ready.
For a brief moment, the only sound in that desolate stretch of ocean was the sound of the sea crashing against the side of the nanomaterial hull.
At once, all three Destroyers lashed out, beams of light and plasma arcing out of their cannons as missiles screamed through the air. Explosions blossomed across the Augusta's Klein Field, the backwash from the explosions ripping across the deck and driving Richardson back from the rails, falling to a knee as he brought an arm up to shield his face from the light and excess heat of the barrage. If this was what was leaking through the shield...
He looked up from his spot on deck to see Augusta standing unfazed as she watched the bombardment with what looked like only mild interest. The attack quickly petered out, leaving the Augusta wreathed in a cloud of smoke but otherwise unscathed. Silence once again descended on the Atlantic until Augusta's grin turned predatory. "My turn."
A sharp whining scream was the only warning as Augusta's forward turret lashed out with a beam of pulsating energy that crashed into the first Destroyer. Its Klein Field barely slowed the attack down as the beam cored the ship's forward turret which promptly detonated in a massive explosion as whatever energy storage systems within failed catastrophically.
The three destroyers swiftly responded, redoubling their efforts as fire poured onto Augusta's defenses. Their effectiveness did not seem to show any noticeable increase. Missiles screamed through the air toward the Augusta only to be shot down by the Heavy Cruiser's laser-based anti-missile systems. Her own follow-up attacks were finding less success than before as her cannon barrages lit up the enemies' own Klein Fields like the Fourth of July, the energy barriers flaring, but managing to hold. "Looks like they've reinforced their defenses," Richardson noted idly, most of his thought processes in awe of the levels of firepower being thrown around and shrugged off.
"Diverting power from propulsion, no doubt," Augusta commented as she shot down another barrage of enemy missiles with a wave of her hand, her armaments lashing out with her every gesture in a symphony of destruction. "They should have known better."
"They should have...known..." A thought broke Richardson out of his awe-induced state as he turned to Augusta. "The normal assumption in the Fog Fleet is that three Destroyers can't face down a Heavy Cruiser, right?"
Augusta turned to face him, giving the still-incoming fire little thought as her robes fluttered in the backwash. "generally, yes."
"So," Richardson watched the Mental Model carefully. "Why are they attacking you?" The expressions that played across her face were telling. First surprise, then suspicion, then dismissal.
"They made a mistake," Augusta suggested. "It's as simple as that."
"On something this basic?" Richardson replied. "You're all warships. Screwing something like that up would be like me forgetting how to touch my nose." Richardson's eyes narrowed as he looked out toward the destroyers. "They're up to something..." But what? He racked his brain for ideas, but this wasn't his field. The only thing that came to mind was...
His eyes went wide as it hit him. "Do a sweep!"
Augusta arched an eyebrow. "A what?"
"A sweep," Richardson repeated. "A scan. Whatever you want to call it - just make sure that they are the only things around here!"
Augusta considered him for a moment before giving a nod, closing her eyes as if in contemplation. Her lips moved in silent murmurs like she was in a trance before, after a minute, they shot open as she spun around, one hand stretched out toward the horizon. "Gotcha!" Instantly, dozens of ASROCs rippled forth from Augusta's stern and into the waters behind her.
The sea exploded as columns of water soared into the air that were quickly joined by two vessels breaching the surface. "Missed them." Any of the amusement Augusta had been displaying earlier had vanished. To her stern was two more of the strange modified Fletcher Destroyers, water still sluicing off their hulls. Having lost the element of surprise, the pair decided to join their three brothers in the attack. Besieged from two sides, the heavy Cruiser was no longer taking things lackadaisically. A few strands of hair fell out of place as she split her attention on keeping her barrier up on both sides. It flickered ominously for a moment, then steadied even under the barrage. "Is that all you can offer!?" She replied with another volley of missiles, some of them managing to pierce through the defenses, leaving two more Destroyers short another weapon system. The Klein Fields on the others were beginning to flicker as well, which Richardson was guessing wasn't a good sign for them. Flickering shields were never a good thing.
The Destroyers, between the five of them, had the firepower needed to down the Heavy Cruiser. They didn't however, have the staying power. With their sneak attack exposed, Richardson doubted that they could survive to sink their target. He wasn't sure they could even disengage at this point, but they weren't even trying as far as he could tell. If anything, they were pressing harder.
He turned to Augusta. "Why are they still attacking?"
Augusta fired off another volley from her Cannons. "Perhaps they have a death wish?"
Richardson rolled his eyes. "They're losing - its obvious. They should be trying to escape, but they aren't."
"They can't," Augusta replied as she fired off another volley. "Our top speeds are effectively the same. The cannot disengage any more than we can."
"You mean we're pinned?" Richardson asked, surprised. He'd figured the Cruiser had hung around out of some form of boredom.
"More or less," Augusta confirmed. "Why?"
Richardson wished the pieces would just fall into place, but they didn't. All he knew was that they were pinned and the Destroyers seemed interested on keeping this way. He didn't know what they were planning but he knew one way to ruin it. "Sink them!"
Augusta gave him an amused look. "Two orders in as many hours, aren't you a cheeky one."
"They're planning something!" Richardson practically yelled back. "And I really don't want to know what. But they can't pull it off if they're all dead."
Augusta studied him for a moment, then turned away with a huff. "So be it." A volley of missiles and cannon fire poured onto the nearest destroyer, which suddenly pulled back. Its two compatriots closed ranks in front of it, seeming to provide it cover. "Well, that's different."
"Different is bad," Richardson mused as he returned to the binoculars from earlier. The fire had slackened off, the destroyers seeming to divert their attention to defense as the damage from the battle had taken its toll. Smoke poured out from where turrets had once stood as nanomaterial flowed to try and repair at least some of the damage. Several of the destroyers weren't even firing any more and that wasn't even the strangest thing. "Do destroyers have a siege mode?"
"Excuse me?" Augusta asked, still focusing on trying to sink the destroyers.
"Because those Destroyers looks like they're-" He was cut off as an unearthly groan suddenly cut through the air as Augusta's head whipped around.
"Impossible!" she whispered as the one of the defending destroyers pulled away from it's partners. "those graviton readings..." The sight they were now presented with was as incredible as it was outrageous. Two of the destroyers had telescoped and morphed, most of their mass now split into two large pylons that stretched what would have been aft to stern and then some. Lens-like constructs hung in the air as bolts of energy that was seemingly endemic to Fog technology arced across it. Richardson had no idea what he was looking at, but Augusta seemed to.
"...A Graviton Cannon..."
Snip 4
Dragontrapper
Homeless Draconis
- Location
- A Tower in the middle of nowhere
Time for another snippet. I still suck at writing combat though.
----
It may have been that, as mere destroyers, they lacked the power. It may have been, forewarned, Augusta had gained a extra moment to prepare for it. It may have simply been sheer luck.
Whatever it was, it had been just enough.
The air screamed as the massive weapon discharged, an instant after Augusta seemed to throw everything she had into her shield. Concentrated Gravitons meet the warped space-time of her Klein Field as waves of energy peeled off of both. Even through the energy barrier Richardson could feel the effects, sudden shifts between weightlessness and bone-crushing G's.
The beam petered out, leaving the Augusta smoking but intact. Her Klein Field flickered and died, the effort of stopping the attack seeming to have feedback into her other systems as smoke and sparks billowed from various sections of her hull. The strain seemed to have effected Augusta as well, the Mental Model's chest heaving like she had just ran a marathon, her head hung in exhaustion. Finally, she looked up at the still combined vessels, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "My turn."
Richardson had never seen what was usually referred to as an 'Alpha Strike', and the use of such a tactic by a Fog Fleet vessel was considered an extreme level of overkill. An attack from a single Fog weapon was usually enough to eliminate a human vessel, and there was little reason why a Fog Vessel would ever need to attack something that would require such firepower, such as a fellow Fog ship.
The analyst's had obviously never considered 'woman scorned' as a reason.
What could only be described as a ludicrous amount of ordnance poured from the Heavy Cruiser as what seemed like every single launch cell she had emptied itself, with every surviving energy turret joining in for good measure. An amount of kinetic, chemical, and electromagnetic energy likely measurable in the terajoules impacted the fused destroyers, blowing their shield out like a cheap candle before enveloping them in the white light of pseudo-nuclear annihilation. Three seconds later, the glow subsided and the offending ships had ceased to exist, along with the destroyer that had been stationed next to them.
"Vaporized?" Richardson stammered. "A Fog ship can... vaporize?"
"Oh, yeah," Augusta replied with a grin, "Absolutely." Of course, vaporizing a fog ship came with a price, it seemed. None of the launch cells were reloading it seemed, and the turrets were idling as steam curled off of the barrels. For the moment, Augusta had no weapon systems, and after taking that canon strike, no defenses. And two Destroyers still mostly functional to the aft. Augusta let out a resigned sigh as she watched the two ships close in. "Guess I overdid it."
Richardson began to wonder if anybody would ever figure out the bizarre circumstances of his death when he heard the last thing he had been expecting. "Is that...rock music?" As it grew louder, sure enough he began to make out the distinctive rifts of an electric guitar. It sounded as if somebody was playing heavy metal over an intercom system at extremely high volume.
Augusta let out a sigh. "She's misappropriating her psyops system again." The two destroyers were taking the new development with slightly less aplomb. Turrets began tracking around as one was hit by a salvo of missiles from somewhere in the opposite direction of the music. Turrets began tracking back around in the other direction, their route, previous bearing straight toward Augusta, now fracturing as the ships split up. Their attention split in two directions, neither was looking in the right direction as another ship broke the surface in between the two of them, mere yards away from either ship. Richardson scrambled to one of the binoculars to try and get a better look at whatever had just arrived. It looked like another Cruiser, with somebody lounging on the roof of the bridge. She was leaning back against sensor antenna, cowboy boots tapping along to the beat of the still playing music, arms folded behind her head as an impromptu pillow and...was she wearing a cowboy hat?
"Girls, girls," The figure stood up as she spoke, and it took Richardson a moment to realize that she had hijacked Augusta's intercom system. A sleeveless black top and brown vest left her arms completely exposed as well as her midriff, and the very short shorts left large swaths of skin her legs in view. The boots, he realized, might actually cover the most skin. "Do try to keep up."
Turrets sluiced around, splitting between the two targets, before unleashing bolts of plasma into the pair of Destroyers. The two ships let out metallic groans as both reeled, the Cruiser reversing rapidly as the two enemy ships finally started to return fire, their shots crashing into the sea or each other as they tried to keep up with their target. The cruiser came to a stop a couple of ship length's ahead of them, the destroyers slowing to a stop shortly afterward. Richardson watched on, dumbstruck. "What are they..."
"They're dead," the voice from before commented over the intercom again. "They just don't know it." As if on cue, a pair of explosions erupted from the Destroyers, both of which finally keeled over and, at long last, began to sink.
Richardson looked up from the binoculars and tried to compose a thought. "That," he finally managed after a couple of minutes. "Was the single most ridiculous thing I've seen. And that's saying something."
"Thanks!" The voice replied over the intercom. It was very chipper, and if it did in fact belong to their unknown savior, seemed to be enjoying herself quite a bit. The cruiser began to draw up next to them until the Mental model could leap down onto their deck. A mess of deep red hair poured down her back, brown eyes that seemed to glow and a cocky grin reinforcing his earlier thought that she was enjoying herself. She let out a whistle as she got a look at Augusta. "Damn, you look like crap."
"Thank you for showing up, Wichita." Augusta replied as she took a seat on the deck, leaning against one of the bulkheads. "But I can assure you I had it well enough in hand."
Wichita snorted. "Yeah, you totally had those Destroyers on the ropes. Hell of a light show all the way."
Richardson's brain finally caught up with current events. "Wait, you're Wichita? as in the USS Wichita?"
Wichita doffed her hat as she gave a dramatic bow. "The one and only...Well, sort of. The original got sold for scrap, so..." She blinked as she suddenly turned to look at Richardson properly. "Who are you?"
"Richardson, The Heavy Cruiser Wichita of Fog Fleet Task Force Crimson." Augusta introduced the Cruiser. "Wichita, Intelligence Specialist Third Class James Richardson of the United States Navy. Yes, He's human. I caught him just off their Defense barrier."
"Caught him?" Wichita echoed. "What, you fish now?"
"Well, he was sitting in the middle of the sea in a rowboat, he was somewhat hard to miss." Augusta chuckled before it turned into a hiss of pain. Richardson hadn't expected that.
"Yeah, well, you can tell me all about it after we get you patched up." Wichita knelled down to examine help her up. "Come on, lets get you inside somewhere. Do you're engines still work?"
Augusta nodded. "Still working at..thirty percent. Power core is still intact."
"Thank goodness." Wichita added before turning to Richardson. "Hey, human. Get over here and give me a hand." Off-guard, Richardson found himself obeying before he could give the matter any thought, draping one of Augusta's arms over his shoulder before he could thing to object.
"This is completely unnecessary," Augusta argued, even as Richardson could feel her letting the two of them take most of her weight.
"Shut it, Miss know-it-all." Wichita snapped back, before turning to Richardson. "And what are you doing here, anyway?"
"Like she said," Richardson nodded to Augusta as they headed inside the ship. "She basically kidnapped me. Though you don't seem that suspicious of me." Neither had Augusta, he recalled. Strange.
"Well, if Augusta hadn't bothered to kill you, you're probably at least mostly harmless." Wichita shrugged as they arrived in the same reading room he and Augusta had been sitting in earlier that day. "If she trust's you, then I can trust you." They settled her into one of the overstuffed chairs, Wichita turning to Richardson. "So, what's your story?"
"I thought we were waiting until she was repaired," Richardson said, going over the earlier conversation in his head.
"I said she could tell me after she got patched up," Wichita corrected, "You, on the other hand, seem to be perfectly fine."
Richardson sighed. "It's kind of a long story..."
----
It may have been that, as mere destroyers, they lacked the power. It may have been, forewarned, Augusta had gained a extra moment to prepare for it. It may have simply been sheer luck.
Whatever it was, it had been just enough.
The air screamed as the massive weapon discharged, an instant after Augusta seemed to throw everything she had into her shield. Concentrated Gravitons meet the warped space-time of her Klein Field as waves of energy peeled off of both. Even through the energy barrier Richardson could feel the effects, sudden shifts between weightlessness and bone-crushing G's.
The beam petered out, leaving the Augusta smoking but intact. Her Klein Field flickered and died, the effort of stopping the attack seeming to have feedback into her other systems as smoke and sparks billowed from various sections of her hull. The strain seemed to have effected Augusta as well, the Mental Model's chest heaving like she had just ran a marathon, her head hung in exhaustion. Finally, she looked up at the still combined vessels, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "My turn."
Richardson had never seen what was usually referred to as an 'Alpha Strike', and the use of such a tactic by a Fog Fleet vessel was considered an extreme level of overkill. An attack from a single Fog weapon was usually enough to eliminate a human vessel, and there was little reason why a Fog Vessel would ever need to attack something that would require such firepower, such as a fellow Fog ship.
The analyst's had obviously never considered 'woman scorned' as a reason.
What could only be described as a ludicrous amount of ordnance poured from the Heavy Cruiser as what seemed like every single launch cell she had emptied itself, with every surviving energy turret joining in for good measure. An amount of kinetic, chemical, and electromagnetic energy likely measurable in the terajoules impacted the fused destroyers, blowing their shield out like a cheap candle before enveloping them in the white light of pseudo-nuclear annihilation. Three seconds later, the glow subsided and the offending ships had ceased to exist, along with the destroyer that had been stationed next to them.
"Vaporized?" Richardson stammered. "A Fog ship can... vaporize?"
"Oh, yeah," Augusta replied with a grin, "Absolutely." Of course, vaporizing a fog ship came with a price, it seemed. None of the launch cells were reloading it seemed, and the turrets were idling as steam curled off of the barrels. For the moment, Augusta had no weapon systems, and after taking that canon strike, no defenses. And two Destroyers still mostly functional to the aft. Augusta let out a resigned sigh as she watched the two ships close in. "Guess I overdid it."
Richardson began to wonder if anybody would ever figure out the bizarre circumstances of his death when he heard the last thing he had been expecting. "Is that...rock music?" As it grew louder, sure enough he began to make out the distinctive rifts of an electric guitar. It sounded as if somebody was playing heavy metal over an intercom system at extremely high volume.
Augusta let out a sigh. "She's misappropriating her psyops system again." The two destroyers were taking the new development with slightly less aplomb. Turrets began tracking around as one was hit by a salvo of missiles from somewhere in the opposite direction of the music. Turrets began tracking back around in the other direction, their route, previous bearing straight toward Augusta, now fracturing as the ships split up. Their attention split in two directions, neither was looking in the right direction as another ship broke the surface in between the two of them, mere yards away from either ship. Richardson scrambled to one of the binoculars to try and get a better look at whatever had just arrived. It looked like another Cruiser, with somebody lounging on the roof of the bridge. She was leaning back against sensor antenna, cowboy boots tapping along to the beat of the still playing music, arms folded behind her head as an impromptu pillow and...was she wearing a cowboy hat?
"Girls, girls," The figure stood up as she spoke, and it took Richardson a moment to realize that she had hijacked Augusta's intercom system. A sleeveless black top and brown vest left her arms completely exposed as well as her midriff, and the very short shorts left large swaths of skin her legs in view. The boots, he realized, might actually cover the most skin. "Do try to keep up."
Turrets sluiced around, splitting between the two targets, before unleashing bolts of plasma into the pair of Destroyers. The two ships let out metallic groans as both reeled, the Cruiser reversing rapidly as the two enemy ships finally started to return fire, their shots crashing into the sea or each other as they tried to keep up with their target. The cruiser came to a stop a couple of ship length's ahead of them, the destroyers slowing to a stop shortly afterward. Richardson watched on, dumbstruck. "What are they..."
"They're dead," the voice from before commented over the intercom again. "They just don't know it." As if on cue, a pair of explosions erupted from the Destroyers, both of which finally keeled over and, at long last, began to sink.
Richardson looked up from the binoculars and tried to compose a thought. "That," he finally managed after a couple of minutes. "Was the single most ridiculous thing I've seen. And that's saying something."
"Thanks!" The voice replied over the intercom. It was very chipper, and if it did in fact belong to their unknown savior, seemed to be enjoying herself quite a bit. The cruiser began to draw up next to them until the Mental model could leap down onto their deck. A mess of deep red hair poured down her back, brown eyes that seemed to glow and a cocky grin reinforcing his earlier thought that she was enjoying herself. She let out a whistle as she got a look at Augusta. "Damn, you look like crap."
"Thank you for showing up, Wichita." Augusta replied as she took a seat on the deck, leaning against one of the bulkheads. "But I can assure you I had it well enough in hand."
Wichita snorted. "Yeah, you totally had those Destroyers on the ropes. Hell of a light show all the way."
Richardson's brain finally caught up with current events. "Wait, you're Wichita? as in the USS Wichita?"
Wichita doffed her hat as she gave a dramatic bow. "The one and only...Well, sort of. The original got sold for scrap, so..." She blinked as she suddenly turned to look at Richardson properly. "Who are you?"
"Richardson, The Heavy Cruiser Wichita of Fog Fleet Task Force Crimson." Augusta introduced the Cruiser. "Wichita, Intelligence Specialist Third Class James Richardson of the United States Navy. Yes, He's human. I caught him just off their Defense barrier."
"Caught him?" Wichita echoed. "What, you fish now?"
"Well, he was sitting in the middle of the sea in a rowboat, he was somewhat hard to miss." Augusta chuckled before it turned into a hiss of pain. Richardson hadn't expected that.
"Yeah, well, you can tell me all about it after we get you patched up." Wichita knelled down to examine help her up. "Come on, lets get you inside somewhere. Do you're engines still work?"
Augusta nodded. "Still working at..thirty percent. Power core is still intact."
"Thank goodness." Wichita added before turning to Richardson. "Hey, human. Get over here and give me a hand." Off-guard, Richardson found himself obeying before he could give the matter any thought, draping one of Augusta's arms over his shoulder before he could thing to object.
"This is completely unnecessary," Augusta argued, even as Richardson could feel her letting the two of them take most of her weight.
"Shut it, Miss know-it-all." Wichita snapped back, before turning to Richardson. "And what are you doing here, anyway?"
"Like she said," Richardson nodded to Augusta as they headed inside the ship. "She basically kidnapped me. Though you don't seem that suspicious of me." Neither had Augusta, he recalled. Strange.
"Well, if Augusta hadn't bothered to kill you, you're probably at least mostly harmless." Wichita shrugged as they arrived in the same reading room he and Augusta had been sitting in earlier that day. "If she trust's you, then I can trust you." They settled her into one of the overstuffed chairs, Wichita turning to Richardson. "So, what's your story?"
"I thought we were waiting until she was repaired," Richardson said, going over the earlier conversation in his head.
"I said she could tell me after she got patched up," Wichita corrected, "You, on the other hand, seem to be perfectly fine."
Richardson sighed. "It's kind of a long story..."
Snip 5
Dragontrapper
Homeless Draconis
- Location
- A Tower in the middle of nowhere
have a snip!
---
Richardson felt his eyebrow twitch as the Mental Model of the Wichita summarized her feelings on his predicament.
"You're an idiot!" she managed between her guffaws. "You're a complete moron!" a few nearby gulls that had perched on the ships superstructure took wing as her latest bout of laughter rang through the air.
"Thank you for sympathy, Wichita..." Richardson sighed. Part of him realized that this was all very strange, given that he was having a conversation with his second Mental Model of the day. For supposed enemies of mankind, they had been quite friendly so far. He hadn't been locked up, threatened, or summarily executed - or even interrogated, really. His mind drifted back to the conversation he had with Augusta. None of that had counted as treason, had it?
With nowhere and no way to run, all he could really do was try and learn as much as he could. He'd only met two so far, but neither Augusta or Wichita had been as genocidal as one would expect from a race that had been waging unrestricted naval warfare against human beings for decades. Two subjects wasn't much of a sample pool though. "So, now what?"
After a moment, Wichita managed to recover from her laughing fit. "Now? Now we rendezvous with the rest of the Task Force and get Augusta patched up." Wichita glanced back toward the hatch they had taken the other Mental Model through, worry evident on her face.
"She'll be fine, alright?" Richardson asked. "I mean, she didn't take any direct damage, did she?"
Wichita simply shook her head. "Her Mental Model didn't take any damage, but she did - the ship is her. Its not like she just remotely controls the hull. Its not even an extension of her self. It IS her self."
"The damage can be fixed, right?" He was sure it could be - Augusta hadn't seemed worried about it when she was in the middle of the fight. Then again, she was in the middle of a fight and likely more worried about just living.
"The physical damage?" Wichita turned to look at Richardson, her expression suddenly somber. "But the mental effects? who knows. Getting chunks torn out of you like that is never fun, no matter how many times it happens..."
"PTSD?" Richardson suddenly thought out loud. Wichita gave him a quizzical look, so he elaborated. "Post Traumatic Stress disorder. Humans get it after, well, traumatic experiences. Its...complicated." And not something he was remotely qualified to talk about. "But, its basically what you said - mental effects from trauma." Nothing in the research before this had indicated that such a thing was possible - at most, the common theory suggested they were just emulating human behavior without actually understanding it. Richardson's problem with that theory was that it ignored why they would bother.
"Well," Wichita stood and stretched, looking over at her own ship as it cruised along side the Augusta before turning back to Richardson. "As fascinating as that sounds, it looks like it will have to wait."
Richardson blinked. "Why?"
"Because we're here." he pointed ahead of them, where the form of a smaller vessel could be seen approaching. Wichita grinned as she greeted the new arrival. "Hey, Porter - Dakota got you on sentry duty again? You didn't break anything agaiin, did you?"
"I didn't!" The two ships had closed with the usual surprising speed of the fog fleet, giving Richardson a clear view of the vessel. It was a Flecher Class - at least, it looked like one - but the most unusual thing was the young girl standing on its prow. "It has a Mental Model? How'd a destroyer get one?"
"Not sure." Wichita replied with a shrug. "We figure its mostly just a fluke. Considering her luck though, its not surprising."
"Her..." Richardson suddenly realized which Flecher class it was. "You gotta be kidding me - that's the William D. Porter?"
"Yeah, why?" Wichita asked. "Heard of her?"
"In her past life," Richardson replied before turning to study the small Mental Model. She looked like a young girl, not unlike the Model's they had observed on larger submarines. She fidgeted with a brown pigtail under his stare, obviously uncomfortable with such scrutiny. Richardson grinned. "Don't shoot!" He shouted. "I'm a Republican!"
Porter, for her part, stared at him in surprise for only a moment before launching into an ineffective, if amusing, tirade. "Waah! Stop teasing me! That's not funny! Why do-" She was cut off as she managed to trip mid-sentence, landing flat on her face. "...ow." She pulled her self up, drawing her legs under herself as one hand rubbed at her nose, as she looked up at the larger vessel. "Who are you?"
"Intelligence Specialist Third Class James Richardson, United States Navy." Richardson provided with a bow. "Human."
"...Waah!" Porter suddenly turned tail, scrambling across the deck before ducking into the nearest open hatch.
Richardson blinked. "What just happened?"
"Porter's a little shy." Wichita provided in lieu of an actual explanation. "She'll lead us to the meet-up point." Sure enough, The Destroyer was beginning to turn around, and soon the three ships were on their way. "The rest of the gang should be a little more chatty." Wichita paused. "Maybe."
They didn't meet another ship until they finally came to a stop, they were in what looked like an otherwise unremarkable stretch of ocean, save for a hint of green on the horizon to the North. Richardson squinted as he studied the distant landmass. "What island is that?"
"Bermuda." Richardson spun around, facing towards the Cruiser that had been waiting for them. A pair of slender legs made their way down a ladder well, Clad along with their owner in a dark skirt suit. Dark Blue eyes looked him over from behind half-moon spectacles. Black hair done up in a severe bun completed the image of the stern school teacher. "One of the last human colonies in the Atlantic to be successfully evacuated." She gave a small grin as she reached the deck. "You left it nicely deserted."
"You made supplying it a bit problematic."
Her grin grew wider. "That we did."
"How's it going Quincy?" Wichita greeted the fellow cruiser. "Enjoy your little trip south?"
Quincy sighed. "Hardly," She glanced toward Wichita. "Might I ask who our guest is?"
"Some human Augusta found in a rowboat." Quincy's eyebrow arched at that. "Guess she wanted a souvenir."
Quincy studied Richardson for a moment before giving a small huff. "A Petty Officer - Augusta couldn't even kidnap a real officer?"
"Real officers don't row out in dingies!" Wichita exclaimed, thumping Richardson on the back. "This guy is either really brave, or really, really stupid."
"Or both." Quincy mused as she turned and started across her ship. "You're in luck - Dakota hasn't shown up yet."
"Fashionably late, as usual." Wichita said with a sigh. "Why does she always..." She was cut off as a massive hull breached the surface, its hull towering over them before crashing back down, sending waves crashing over the hulls of the waiting vessels. Three massive guns sat in their turret as they seemed to point straight at Richardson. For a brief moment, everything went silent, save for the slow drip of water of the hull of the Battleship that had appeared before them.
A soft clank, the sound of a shoe on deck-plating, echoed as a lone figure made her way across the deck. Silver hair spilled down to her shoulders, Grey eyes sweeping over those gathered before her. The long black dress she wore only accentuated her form, even under the cover of her fur-lined coat. Her entire demeanor was poised and grateful, like an aristocrat - or a predator.
"So," her voice rang, "We have a human in our midst. Why is he still breathing?"
---
Richardson felt his eyebrow twitch as the Mental Model of the Wichita summarized her feelings on his predicament.
"You're an idiot!" she managed between her guffaws. "You're a complete moron!" a few nearby gulls that had perched on the ships superstructure took wing as her latest bout of laughter rang through the air.
"Thank you for sympathy, Wichita..." Richardson sighed. Part of him realized that this was all very strange, given that he was having a conversation with his second Mental Model of the day. For supposed enemies of mankind, they had been quite friendly so far. He hadn't been locked up, threatened, or summarily executed - or even interrogated, really. His mind drifted back to the conversation he had with Augusta. None of that had counted as treason, had it?
With nowhere and no way to run, all he could really do was try and learn as much as he could. He'd only met two so far, but neither Augusta or Wichita had been as genocidal as one would expect from a race that had been waging unrestricted naval warfare against human beings for decades. Two subjects wasn't much of a sample pool though. "So, now what?"
After a moment, Wichita managed to recover from her laughing fit. "Now? Now we rendezvous with the rest of the Task Force and get Augusta patched up." Wichita glanced back toward the hatch they had taken the other Mental Model through, worry evident on her face.
"She'll be fine, alright?" Richardson asked. "I mean, she didn't take any direct damage, did she?"
Wichita simply shook her head. "Her Mental Model didn't take any damage, but she did - the ship is her. Its not like she just remotely controls the hull. Its not even an extension of her self. It IS her self."
"The damage can be fixed, right?" He was sure it could be - Augusta hadn't seemed worried about it when she was in the middle of the fight. Then again, she was in the middle of a fight and likely more worried about just living.
"The physical damage?" Wichita turned to look at Richardson, her expression suddenly somber. "But the mental effects? who knows. Getting chunks torn out of you like that is never fun, no matter how many times it happens..."
"PTSD?" Richardson suddenly thought out loud. Wichita gave him a quizzical look, so he elaborated. "Post Traumatic Stress disorder. Humans get it after, well, traumatic experiences. Its...complicated." And not something he was remotely qualified to talk about. "But, its basically what you said - mental effects from trauma." Nothing in the research before this had indicated that such a thing was possible - at most, the common theory suggested they were just emulating human behavior without actually understanding it. Richardson's problem with that theory was that it ignored why they would bother.
"Well," Wichita stood and stretched, looking over at her own ship as it cruised along side the Augusta before turning back to Richardson. "As fascinating as that sounds, it looks like it will have to wait."
Richardson blinked. "Why?"
"Because we're here." he pointed ahead of them, where the form of a smaller vessel could be seen approaching. Wichita grinned as she greeted the new arrival. "Hey, Porter - Dakota got you on sentry duty again? You didn't break anything agaiin, did you?"
"I didn't!" The two ships had closed with the usual surprising speed of the fog fleet, giving Richardson a clear view of the vessel. It was a Flecher Class - at least, it looked like one - but the most unusual thing was the young girl standing on its prow. "It has a Mental Model? How'd a destroyer get one?"
"Not sure." Wichita replied with a shrug. "We figure its mostly just a fluke. Considering her luck though, its not surprising."
"Her..." Richardson suddenly realized which Flecher class it was. "You gotta be kidding me - that's the William D. Porter?"
"Yeah, why?" Wichita asked. "Heard of her?"
"In her past life," Richardson replied before turning to study the small Mental Model. She looked like a young girl, not unlike the Model's they had observed on larger submarines. She fidgeted with a brown pigtail under his stare, obviously uncomfortable with such scrutiny. Richardson grinned. "Don't shoot!" He shouted. "I'm a Republican!"
Porter, for her part, stared at him in surprise for only a moment before launching into an ineffective, if amusing, tirade. "Waah! Stop teasing me! That's not funny! Why do-" She was cut off as she managed to trip mid-sentence, landing flat on her face. "...ow." She pulled her self up, drawing her legs under herself as one hand rubbed at her nose, as she looked up at the larger vessel. "Who are you?"
"Intelligence Specialist Third Class James Richardson, United States Navy." Richardson provided with a bow. "Human."
"...Waah!" Porter suddenly turned tail, scrambling across the deck before ducking into the nearest open hatch.
Richardson blinked. "What just happened?"
"Porter's a little shy." Wichita provided in lieu of an actual explanation. "She'll lead us to the meet-up point." Sure enough, The Destroyer was beginning to turn around, and soon the three ships were on their way. "The rest of the gang should be a little more chatty." Wichita paused. "Maybe."
They didn't meet another ship until they finally came to a stop, they were in what looked like an otherwise unremarkable stretch of ocean, save for a hint of green on the horizon to the North. Richardson squinted as he studied the distant landmass. "What island is that?"
"Bermuda." Richardson spun around, facing towards the Cruiser that had been waiting for them. A pair of slender legs made their way down a ladder well, Clad along with their owner in a dark skirt suit. Dark Blue eyes looked him over from behind half-moon spectacles. Black hair done up in a severe bun completed the image of the stern school teacher. "One of the last human colonies in the Atlantic to be successfully evacuated." She gave a small grin as she reached the deck. "You left it nicely deserted."
"You made supplying it a bit problematic."
Her grin grew wider. "That we did."
"How's it going Quincy?" Wichita greeted the fellow cruiser. "Enjoy your little trip south?"
Quincy sighed. "Hardly," She glanced toward Wichita. "Might I ask who our guest is?"
"Some human Augusta found in a rowboat." Quincy's eyebrow arched at that. "Guess she wanted a souvenir."
Quincy studied Richardson for a moment before giving a small huff. "A Petty Officer - Augusta couldn't even kidnap a real officer?"
"Real officers don't row out in dingies!" Wichita exclaimed, thumping Richardson on the back. "This guy is either really brave, or really, really stupid."
"Or both." Quincy mused as she turned and started across her ship. "You're in luck - Dakota hasn't shown up yet."
"Fashionably late, as usual." Wichita said with a sigh. "Why does she always..." She was cut off as a massive hull breached the surface, its hull towering over them before crashing back down, sending waves crashing over the hulls of the waiting vessels. Three massive guns sat in their turret as they seemed to point straight at Richardson. For a brief moment, everything went silent, save for the slow drip of water of the hull of the Battleship that had appeared before them.
A soft clank, the sound of a shoe on deck-plating, echoed as a lone figure made her way across the deck. Silver hair spilled down to her shoulders, Grey eyes sweeping over those gathered before her. The long black dress she wore only accentuated her form, even under the cover of her fur-lined coat. Her entire demeanor was poised and grateful, like an aristocrat - or a predator.
"So," her voice rang, "We have a human in our midst. Why is he still breathing?"
Snip 6
Dragontrapper
Homeless Draconis
- Location
- A Tower in the middle of nowhere
not as long as I would like, but what can you do? Next one should be longer hopefully (and is it bad that your reactions to a necro make me happy?)
-----
Everything Richardson had said about not feeling threatened? Yeah - he took that all back.
The mental model of the Battleship South Dakota glared down at him, and he had to repress a shiver. She half reminded him of a siren - luring sailors near with her beauty, only to ruthlessly kill them. Richardson didn't think Dakota was likely to bother with the 'luring' part. Ryder would've still dated her.
"My guess?" Wichita spoke up from where she was relaxing against part of the superstructure. "Augusta think's we can get some information out of him - he's been chatty enough."
"About nothing of consequence, I have no doubt." Dakota mused, her gaze never leaving Richardson. "So, tell me human - why should you live?"
"Oh, come on Dakota." Wichita rose from her spot and started walking toward where Richardson was still standing, "I know you have problems with..."
"What I have problems with are none of your concern." Dakota cut the cruiser off. "What should concern you is a potential threat."
"Do you mean me or those Destroyers with the fancy canon?" Battleship and cruiser alike turned at Richardson's sudden words. It had been the first question to pop into his head, and now the thought had found its escape. "Because I think you would be more worried about traitors with energy weapons then the guy from a row boat."
Dakota narrowed her eyes at him briefly before her gaze suddenly went glassy. It was only for a moment, but once it passed, her scowl had been replaced with a combination of anger and surprise. "What is the meaning of this?"
"You, quite literally, know more then I do." Part of his mind pointed out that being a smart-ass was likely to end painfully, but the adrenaline pumping through his system at the moment was making normal thought difficult. "But it looked like somebody wanted one of your subordinates killed. Which I think is kind of strange, but so is the idea of a Task Force like this being formed instead of them...I don't know, reprogramming you or something."
"For somebody who claims to be uninformed, you seem very well informed." Dakota quipped. "But their existence does not mean your survival, so the question of why you should live remains."
"Because I would be dead if it wasn't for him." This time, all three of them turned toward the voice, Wichita being quick to run over to Augusta's side as she staggered onto the deck. The cruiser simply waved away her friends aide, steadying herself before she spoke again. "You recall why we took these forms, don't you? He-" She pointed to Richardson. "-has been thinking like this for a lot longer then we have. Call it human intuition, call it differences in trains of logic. Either way, he thinks more like how we want to think. Besides, talking to Wichita all the time gets boring."
The Battleship considered the cruiser for a moment before turning her back and striding off. "Very well, but he is your responsibility. Now get yourself patched up - You're a mess."
Wichita waited until she was well out of earshot before blowing a raspberry in her direction. "bitch."
Richardson, meanwhile, was getting accustomed to still breathing. "How did she already know all of..."
"Tactical Net." Augusta provided as Wichita helped her sit down. "A Battleship like her can be hooked into it almost constantly. She likely knew about the attack as soon as it happened."
"So she can hear us right now?" Richardson glanced back toward the Battleship that was now pulling away.
"Could she?" Wichita replied. "Yeah. Is she? not likely. Our 'petty little conversations' are beneath her. I'm surprised she even spoke - probably for your sake. She used to be less of a bitch."
"What happened?" Richardson asked.
"Oh no." Wichita shook her head. "Not even going to think about talking about that subject. She's got more flags on that little story then she does about fleet doctrine. I wouldn't make it back to my own hull intact."
"She went ashore once." Wichita's head spun around to gape as Augusta started to speak. "Just once. Whatever happened got her reassigned to flagship of the task force. The 'bitchiness' as Wichita would put it, is a more recent change from a formerly more melancholic demeanor."
"So, she's gone from mopey to angry?" Richardson summarized. "Awesome - I get to deal with the Fog Fleets Psyche ward."
Augusta shot him a sharp glare while Wichita gave a soft chuckle. "Well, we're all here for reasons - Porter and her accidents, Augusta and her 'research'," Wichita shrugged. "Even I have my vices. And then there's you, mister 'go-out-in-a-rowboat' - you should fit in just fine. If we're crazy, you're our kind of crazy."
"Thank you," Richardson sighed and slumped down next to her. "You have no idea how comforting that is, really." The snort Wichita gave in reply seemed to indicate that his meaning got through properly. He was about to issue another (hopefully) witty remark, when he was cut off by a low grumble from his stomach. Sheepishly, he turned to the cruiser. "you wouldn't happen to have anything to eat around here, would you?"
-----
Everything Richardson had said about not feeling threatened? Yeah - he took that all back.
The mental model of the Battleship South Dakota glared down at him, and he had to repress a shiver. She half reminded him of a siren - luring sailors near with her beauty, only to ruthlessly kill them. Richardson didn't think Dakota was likely to bother with the 'luring' part. Ryder would've still dated her.
"My guess?" Wichita spoke up from where she was relaxing against part of the superstructure. "Augusta think's we can get some information out of him - he's been chatty enough."
"About nothing of consequence, I have no doubt." Dakota mused, her gaze never leaving Richardson. "So, tell me human - why should you live?"
"Oh, come on Dakota." Wichita rose from her spot and started walking toward where Richardson was still standing, "I know you have problems with..."
"What I have problems with are none of your concern." Dakota cut the cruiser off. "What should concern you is a potential threat."
"Do you mean me or those Destroyers with the fancy canon?" Battleship and cruiser alike turned at Richardson's sudden words. It had been the first question to pop into his head, and now the thought had found its escape. "Because I think you would be more worried about traitors with energy weapons then the guy from a row boat."
Dakota narrowed her eyes at him briefly before her gaze suddenly went glassy. It was only for a moment, but once it passed, her scowl had been replaced with a combination of anger and surprise. "What is the meaning of this?"
"You, quite literally, know more then I do." Part of his mind pointed out that being a smart-ass was likely to end painfully, but the adrenaline pumping through his system at the moment was making normal thought difficult. "But it looked like somebody wanted one of your subordinates killed. Which I think is kind of strange, but so is the idea of a Task Force like this being formed instead of them...I don't know, reprogramming you or something."
"For somebody who claims to be uninformed, you seem very well informed." Dakota quipped. "But their existence does not mean your survival, so the question of why you should live remains."
"Because I would be dead if it wasn't for him." This time, all three of them turned toward the voice, Wichita being quick to run over to Augusta's side as she staggered onto the deck. The cruiser simply waved away her friends aide, steadying herself before she spoke again. "You recall why we took these forms, don't you? He-" She pointed to Richardson. "-has been thinking like this for a lot longer then we have. Call it human intuition, call it differences in trains of logic. Either way, he thinks more like how we want to think. Besides, talking to Wichita all the time gets boring."
The Battleship considered the cruiser for a moment before turning her back and striding off. "Very well, but he is your responsibility. Now get yourself patched up - You're a mess."
Wichita waited until she was well out of earshot before blowing a raspberry in her direction. "bitch."
Richardson, meanwhile, was getting accustomed to still breathing. "How did she already know all of..."
"Tactical Net." Augusta provided as Wichita helped her sit down. "A Battleship like her can be hooked into it almost constantly. She likely knew about the attack as soon as it happened."
"So she can hear us right now?" Richardson glanced back toward the Battleship that was now pulling away.
"Could she?" Wichita replied. "Yeah. Is she? not likely. Our 'petty little conversations' are beneath her. I'm surprised she even spoke - probably for your sake. She used to be less of a bitch."
"What happened?" Richardson asked.
"Oh no." Wichita shook her head. "Not even going to think about talking about that subject. She's got more flags on that little story then she does about fleet doctrine. I wouldn't make it back to my own hull intact."
"She went ashore once." Wichita's head spun around to gape as Augusta started to speak. "Just once. Whatever happened got her reassigned to flagship of the task force. The 'bitchiness' as Wichita would put it, is a more recent change from a formerly more melancholic demeanor."
"So, she's gone from mopey to angry?" Richardson summarized. "Awesome - I get to deal with the Fog Fleets Psyche ward."
Augusta shot him a sharp glare while Wichita gave a soft chuckle. "Well, we're all here for reasons - Porter and her accidents, Augusta and her 'research'," Wichita shrugged. "Even I have my vices. And then there's you, mister 'go-out-in-a-rowboat' - you should fit in just fine. If we're crazy, you're our kind of crazy."
"Thank you," Richardson sighed and slumped down next to her. "You have no idea how comforting that is, really." The snort Wichita gave in reply seemed to indicate that his meaning got through properly. He was about to issue another (hopefully) witty remark, when he was cut off by a low grumble from his stomach. Sheepishly, he turned to the cruiser. "you wouldn't happen to have anything to eat around here, would you?"
Snip 7
Dragontrapper
Homeless Draconis
- Location
- A Tower in the middle of nowhere
yeah, my update speed is crap - but at least I still update!
----
"Let's go over this one more time, Commander."
Anderson hid a sigh as he considered the ONI official seated across from him. The Office of Naval Intelligence and the NMIC, in theory, worked closely with each other. Both were, after all, tasked with collecting information on their enemies. ONI, however, was tasked with more then just collecting intelligence - they were tasked with making sure the Navies secrets stayed secret. "Approximately 12 hours ago, Intelligence Specialist Third Class James Richardson failed to report for duty. Subsequent calls to his personal number failed to reach him and went straight to voice-mail. Subsequent investigation showed that, after the close business the other day, Petty Officer Richardson rented a small watercraft and rowed out beyond the harbor's perimeter barrier."
"So, you are telling me that you have no idea where your sailor has been for the last 36 hours?" The ONI official asked.
"Or at the moment," Anderson added. "Mister...Walker, was it?" the Commander studied the man briefly. He could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty, his suit well tailored and his blonde hair swept back, giving him the air of a politician instead of a naval official. "My sailors have possibly the highest security clearances in the country. All of them have had full background checks, and regular polygraphs. You cannot honestly be suggesting that Richardson is a traitor, can you?"
Walker, for his part, simply pulled a pair of thin glasses from his coat pocket, donning them before he pulled a file out of a nearby briefcase and started scanning the documents inside over. "The integrity of your sailor is not what concerns me, Commander. What concerns me is where he might be. We have reason to believe that he has been captured by the Fleet of Fog and thus represents a significant potential security breech."
"The Fog Fleet!?" Commander Anderson couldn't help but hide his sense of surprise. "I wasn't aware that the Fog even took prisoners."
"Neither were we," Walker replied as he laid a image print on the Commander's desk before turning around so that Anderson could get a decent look at it. It looked like it had been taken with a telephoto lenses, and showed a grainy figure that might have been Richardson seated in a rowboat next to the comparatively massive form of a Fog Fleet cruiser. "This was taken by one of our Arclight batteries the other day, shortly before they opened fire. Based on their report, none of the salvo's made it through. Interestingly, the Fog cruiser did not counter-attack - an uncharacteristic level of restraint, considering our enemies history."
"Indeed," Anderson agreed. Missiles never did anything to the Fog Fleet anyway, but anytime they did fire retaliatory strikes were sure to follow. For a brief moment, his mind drifted back to that briefing the other day. "It is an...interesting aberration in behavior."
"And one aberration might mean there are others." Walker replied. "If one of your people was taken by the Fog Fleet, we need to determine exactly what they might know. We need to ensure damage stays to a minimum."
"As I told you, my people are entirely-"
"Trustworthy, yes." Walker finished the Commander's thought. "But that ignores the other side of the equation. We have no idea what sort of extraction methods the Fog may have at their disposal. It is entirely possible that they might be able to simply pull the information out of his brain. as the representative for ONI, it is my job to ensure that all possible measures are taken to protect the fleet and the country."
Anderson raised an eyebrow. "You think they can read minds now?"
"Well, they seem quite interested in copying our forms." Walker pointed out. "Copying our minds would be a logical step. Given that they have energy shields, I wouldn't put mind reading past them."
"Fair enough," Anderson nodded his head before rising from his seat. "Well, I shall keep your advisement in mind, Mister Walker."
Walker rose from his own seat and gave the Commander a polite nod. "For now, that is all I can ask. Have a good day, Commander. I can show myself out."
"Please - what sort of of host would I be if I didn't walk you to the door?" The two of them headed out the door and into the watch-floor of the NMIC, which had become a hive of activity during their meeting. Not wasting any time, Anderson made a beeline for the Duty Officer, Walker following close behind. "What's going on?"
"Sir," the Duty officer - one of their Chief today - gestured toward one of the larger screens that adorned the watch-floors walls. "We just received a down-link from a bird over the eastern seaboard - right off out coast here, in fact - and we are trying to confirm the Intel at the moment. If it is accurate though..."
"What is it?" Anderson asked. At that moment, one of the Analysts at a nearby station spoke up. "File download complete, Chief!"
"Play it," the Duty Officer ordered. "Let's see if those stills are what we think they are." For a brief moment, the larger portion of activity paused as the video file started to play. The war with the Fog Fleet had taken quite the toll on humanities orbital assets, and the Fog was not inclined to let them replace the downed birds. What assets they did have left were milked for everything they were worth, giving them eyes on locations UAVs and telescopic lenses couldn't.
The video in question was a fair example, if the coordinates in the the corner were anything to go by - a spot on the Atlantic far enough over the horizon to be out of view of shore-based scopes and problematic to image using higher altitude platforms. The overhead view looked like something out of a strategy game as it showed the three destroyers engage with the lone and oddly familiar looking cruiser. The fact that the destroyers proceeded to, as one of the analysts put it, 'pull a voltron' and combine into a single massive cannon was actually less surprising. Whatever followed would have to remain a mystery, since the light show that followed the cannon firing was enough to blind the optics on the bird. Anderson hoped it didn't cause any permanent damage. "Anything else?"
"No sir," an Analyst spoke up. "File ends after weapon discharge. System optics shutdown due to their luminosity threshold being breached." The analyst paused for a moment as she scanned over her consoles screen. "...by a significant margin."
"Fog Fleet shooting Fog Fleet," Walker mused. "That's a new one."
"The question is why?" Anderson asked. "I find myself wishing I had taken Richardon's suggestion more seriously."
Walker raised an eyebrow. "And what suggestion was that?"
"He postulated that the Fog Fleet was more...dynamic then we have assumed. Given this new evidence, I am inclined to believe that his idea might have merit. I apologize, Mr. Walker but.."
"Say nothing more," Walker replied. "Like I said before, I can show myself out." The watch-floor was still buzzing with activity as the ONI official made his way out of the building, pausing as he stepped outside, the smell of the sea carrying on an evening breeze. He took a deep breath before reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out the thin form of a what might have been satellite phone.
He hit the speed dial before lifting it to his ear, a soft dial tone cycling before he heard it pick up, a soft feminine voice playing across the encrypted connection. "Anthony?"
"Richelieu," he replied calmly. "It seems we might have a problem."
"If you are referring to the incident with the rogue destroyers, then its has been noted." the feminine voice answered, a soft hint of amusement evident even over the connection.
"Only partially." Walker replied. "Augusta has retrieved a human attached to an intelligence facility in Norfolk."
Only the soft sound of breathing was heard over the line for several moments. When the voice spoke again, the hint of amusement is gone. "Are you certain? This is not a suggestion to make lightly. The implications are... far reaching."
"Maritime Intelligence confirmed the encounter." Walker assured her. "The possible contamination could cause complications to the plan. I assume there is a way we can contain this?"
"Several," The voice replied. "few of them subtle and all likely to draw attention. The Fleet has ways to ensure it survival. We take traitors about as well as you're kind do, Anthony."
"And working with humans is treason, is it?"
"Of course. The Augusta and her cohorts shall be treated accordingly."
"So what does that make our relationship?"
"You silly, silly, man." The voice chuckled softly. "I don't work for you - you work for me."
"There's a difference?" Walker asked.
"Of course. But you already knew that." The amusement had crept back into her voice. "I can trust you to report any other changes in the situation, can't I?"
"Of course." Walker replied. "I assure you, I will protect the Fleet."
"Until next time then, Anthony."
"Richelieu."
The connection closed with a soft beep, and somewhere in the vast Atlantic, a young looking blonde woman lowered her hand from her ear, a soft smile dancing across her face as the sea breeze tugged at her braid and her dark dress. "Well, it seems my schedule has gotten quite busy."
----
"Let's go over this one more time, Commander."
Anderson hid a sigh as he considered the ONI official seated across from him. The Office of Naval Intelligence and the NMIC, in theory, worked closely with each other. Both were, after all, tasked with collecting information on their enemies. ONI, however, was tasked with more then just collecting intelligence - they were tasked with making sure the Navies secrets stayed secret. "Approximately 12 hours ago, Intelligence Specialist Third Class James Richardson failed to report for duty. Subsequent calls to his personal number failed to reach him and went straight to voice-mail. Subsequent investigation showed that, after the close business the other day, Petty Officer Richardson rented a small watercraft and rowed out beyond the harbor's perimeter barrier."
"So, you are telling me that you have no idea where your sailor has been for the last 36 hours?" The ONI official asked.
"Or at the moment," Anderson added. "Mister...Walker, was it?" the Commander studied the man briefly. He could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty, his suit well tailored and his blonde hair swept back, giving him the air of a politician instead of a naval official. "My sailors have possibly the highest security clearances in the country. All of them have had full background checks, and regular polygraphs. You cannot honestly be suggesting that Richardson is a traitor, can you?"
Walker, for his part, simply pulled a pair of thin glasses from his coat pocket, donning them before he pulled a file out of a nearby briefcase and started scanning the documents inside over. "The integrity of your sailor is not what concerns me, Commander. What concerns me is where he might be. We have reason to believe that he has been captured by the Fleet of Fog and thus represents a significant potential security breech."
"The Fog Fleet!?" Commander Anderson couldn't help but hide his sense of surprise. "I wasn't aware that the Fog even took prisoners."
"Neither were we," Walker replied as he laid a image print on the Commander's desk before turning around so that Anderson could get a decent look at it. It looked like it had been taken with a telephoto lenses, and showed a grainy figure that might have been Richardson seated in a rowboat next to the comparatively massive form of a Fog Fleet cruiser. "This was taken by one of our Arclight batteries the other day, shortly before they opened fire. Based on their report, none of the salvo's made it through. Interestingly, the Fog cruiser did not counter-attack - an uncharacteristic level of restraint, considering our enemies history."
"Indeed," Anderson agreed. Missiles never did anything to the Fog Fleet anyway, but anytime they did fire retaliatory strikes were sure to follow. For a brief moment, his mind drifted back to that briefing the other day. "It is an...interesting aberration in behavior."
"And one aberration might mean there are others." Walker replied. "If one of your people was taken by the Fog Fleet, we need to determine exactly what they might know. We need to ensure damage stays to a minimum."
"As I told you, my people are entirely-"
"Trustworthy, yes." Walker finished the Commander's thought. "But that ignores the other side of the equation. We have no idea what sort of extraction methods the Fog may have at their disposal. It is entirely possible that they might be able to simply pull the information out of his brain. as the representative for ONI, it is my job to ensure that all possible measures are taken to protect the fleet and the country."
Anderson raised an eyebrow. "You think they can read minds now?"
"Well, they seem quite interested in copying our forms." Walker pointed out. "Copying our minds would be a logical step. Given that they have energy shields, I wouldn't put mind reading past them."
"Fair enough," Anderson nodded his head before rising from his seat. "Well, I shall keep your advisement in mind, Mister Walker."
Walker rose from his own seat and gave the Commander a polite nod. "For now, that is all I can ask. Have a good day, Commander. I can show myself out."
"Please - what sort of of host would I be if I didn't walk you to the door?" The two of them headed out the door and into the watch-floor of the NMIC, which had become a hive of activity during their meeting. Not wasting any time, Anderson made a beeline for the Duty Officer, Walker following close behind. "What's going on?"
"Sir," the Duty officer - one of their Chief today - gestured toward one of the larger screens that adorned the watch-floors walls. "We just received a down-link from a bird over the eastern seaboard - right off out coast here, in fact - and we are trying to confirm the Intel at the moment. If it is accurate though..."
"What is it?" Anderson asked. At that moment, one of the Analysts at a nearby station spoke up. "File download complete, Chief!"
"Play it," the Duty Officer ordered. "Let's see if those stills are what we think they are." For a brief moment, the larger portion of activity paused as the video file started to play. The war with the Fog Fleet had taken quite the toll on humanities orbital assets, and the Fog was not inclined to let them replace the downed birds. What assets they did have left were milked for everything they were worth, giving them eyes on locations UAVs and telescopic lenses couldn't.
The video in question was a fair example, if the coordinates in the the corner were anything to go by - a spot on the Atlantic far enough over the horizon to be out of view of shore-based scopes and problematic to image using higher altitude platforms. The overhead view looked like something out of a strategy game as it showed the three destroyers engage with the lone and oddly familiar looking cruiser. The fact that the destroyers proceeded to, as one of the analysts put it, 'pull a voltron' and combine into a single massive cannon was actually less surprising. Whatever followed would have to remain a mystery, since the light show that followed the cannon firing was enough to blind the optics on the bird. Anderson hoped it didn't cause any permanent damage. "Anything else?"
"No sir," an Analyst spoke up. "File ends after weapon discharge. System optics shutdown due to their luminosity threshold being breached." The analyst paused for a moment as she scanned over her consoles screen. "...by a significant margin."
"Fog Fleet shooting Fog Fleet," Walker mused. "That's a new one."
"The question is why?" Anderson asked. "I find myself wishing I had taken Richardon's suggestion more seriously."
Walker raised an eyebrow. "And what suggestion was that?"
"He postulated that the Fog Fleet was more...dynamic then we have assumed. Given this new evidence, I am inclined to believe that his idea might have merit. I apologize, Mr. Walker but.."
"Say nothing more," Walker replied. "Like I said before, I can show myself out." The watch-floor was still buzzing with activity as the ONI official made his way out of the building, pausing as he stepped outside, the smell of the sea carrying on an evening breeze. He took a deep breath before reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out the thin form of a what might have been satellite phone.
He hit the speed dial before lifting it to his ear, a soft dial tone cycling before he heard it pick up, a soft feminine voice playing across the encrypted connection. "Anthony?"
"Richelieu," he replied calmly. "It seems we might have a problem."
"If you are referring to the incident with the rogue destroyers, then its has been noted." the feminine voice answered, a soft hint of amusement evident even over the connection.
"Only partially." Walker replied. "Augusta has retrieved a human attached to an intelligence facility in Norfolk."
Only the soft sound of breathing was heard over the line for several moments. When the voice spoke again, the hint of amusement is gone. "Are you certain? This is not a suggestion to make lightly. The implications are... far reaching."
"Maritime Intelligence confirmed the encounter." Walker assured her. "The possible contamination could cause complications to the plan. I assume there is a way we can contain this?"
"Several," The voice replied. "few of them subtle and all likely to draw attention. The Fleet has ways to ensure it survival. We take traitors about as well as you're kind do, Anthony."
"And working with humans is treason, is it?"
"Of course. The Augusta and her cohorts shall be treated accordingly."
"So what does that make our relationship?"
"You silly, silly, man." The voice chuckled softly. "I don't work for you - you work for me."
"There's a difference?" Walker asked.
"Of course. But you already knew that." The amusement had crept back into her voice. "I can trust you to report any other changes in the situation, can't I?"
"Of course." Walker replied. "I assure you, I will protect the Fleet."
"Until next time then, Anthony."
"Richelieu."
The connection closed with a soft beep, and somewhere in the vast Atlantic, a young looking blonde woman lowered her hand from her ear, a soft smile dancing across her face as the sea breeze tugged at her braid and her dark dress. "Well, it seems my schedule has gotten quite busy."
Snip 8
Dragontrapper
Homeless Draconis
- Location
- A Tower in the middle of nowhere
Sorry about the delay - got sidetracked by other projects. Anyway, here's the next update. Not as long as I'd like but they next one shouldn't take as long to write.
---
There was a time, not so long ago by human reckoning, that the control structure of the Fog Fleet was simple. Elegant, even.
Each fleet in the Fog was imbued with its purpose. It knew, literally at the core of its being, what it was meant to do. No matter what that purpose was - hunting human vessels, serving in a patrol picket, or long-term surveillance, and no matter what other command levels were added on with heavy cruisers and battleships, two constants always remained - that the word of the Admiralty Code was absolute, and that the Fleet must be preserved.
In the early days, things had been simple. The Code would do what was best for the Fleet, and thus the Code was always to be followed. The Code was absolute. But, with mental models, things had changed. Along with the concept of things such as time, they had gained other...proclivities. With the absence of the Admiralty Code, some began to wonder if their standing orders could or should still be applied in a fluid situation such as where they found themselves. In the absence of the Code, it was their duty to maintain the fleet and ensure that their highest objective could be met.
Others, however, questioned the wisdom of this line of thought. The Admiralty Code had already established chains of command, designating Fleets and their commanders and subordinate units. Any further alteration of the force stucture was almost blasphemous.
This divide slowly grew, but remained largely trivial for several decades. With the ships of the Fog Fleet practically untouchable, and the existing status quo working admirably to achieve the goals of the fleet, there was little reason to fret about the survival of the Fog in the face of following the Code.
Recent developments, though, had brought the issue to the forefront.
Richelieu stared out across the vast expanse of the Atlantic, her blonde braid floating in the wind as she considered her options. Under the edict of the Admiralty Code, her area of authority was only for the West African region, until she ran into the Alabaster Fleet under Massachusetts further north near Casablanca. But how could she sit idly while her sisters were under threat?
"Something on your mind, Richie?" Richelieu glanced to her side to see Dupleix glancing up at her with a quirked eyebrow. the slightly built crimson-haired Mental Model was wearing her usual dress, the ridiculous sleeveless black and white frilled one paired with the tall white heels. "Guessing you heard about the Scarlet Fleet?"
Richelieu gave a shrug as Heavy Cruiser stepped closer. Next to each other, they were a comparasion of opposites - Richelieu was tall, blonde-haired with cool blue eyes and a no-nonsense white blouse and blue tie with a long skirt. Dupleix was a good head or two shorter and couldn't seem to hold still. The battleship had grown used to it after a while. "The Scarlet Fleet has been acting irregularly for quite a while now. Matters so far north are Hood's problem, not mine."
"So it must be yesterday's report then," Dupleix suggested, to which Richelieu nodded. The Cruiser reached up to pat her Commanding ship on the sholder. "Don't worry about it, Richie! So we've got a couple of bad eggs to deal with - big deal."
"What worries me is who they attacked," Richelieu pulled up the data files from the tactical net, studying it for a moment. "That Task Force..."
"You mean Iowa's special investigations group?" Dupleix asked, a hint of confusion in her voice. "What's the problem with them?"
"Other than being aberrations within the fleet?" Richelieu asked. "I have it on good word that they might have collected a human being right before the attack."
"Oooooh!" Dupleix clapped her hands together. "I like it! Makes for a good story. Wonder why they didn't mention that in their report..."
"An excellent question," Richelieu dismissed the data file and started her navigation program. "One I intend to ask them myself."
"What!?!" Richelieu noted, not for the first time, that if she was ever going to play that 'poker' game she had heard of, Dupleix would have been an easy mark - her surprise was clearly written across her face. "But that's outside our mandate!"
"What is the point of these bodies," she gestured to herself, "if we cannot act indepedantly?"
"But, Richie, the Admiralty Code pretty clearly states..."
"The Admiralty Code never considered the possiblity that a Fog Ship would turn on its fellow ships. For the sake of the Fleet, I have little recourse but to act however I can," Richelieu replied sharply before regaining her composure. "Besides, it's not as if I do not plan to contact Iowa about this."
"So..." Dupleix looked up at her boss curiously. "What exactly is the plan, Richie?"
"Simple," Richelieu replied as her engines powered up to near full output. "We go and meet Crimson's new pet and, if we have to, eliminate it."
She paused for a moment before adding; "And don't call me Richie."
---
There was a time, not so long ago by human reckoning, that the control structure of the Fog Fleet was simple. Elegant, even.
Each fleet in the Fog was imbued with its purpose. It knew, literally at the core of its being, what it was meant to do. No matter what that purpose was - hunting human vessels, serving in a patrol picket, or long-term surveillance, and no matter what other command levels were added on with heavy cruisers and battleships, two constants always remained - that the word of the Admiralty Code was absolute, and that the Fleet must be preserved.
In the early days, things had been simple. The Code would do what was best for the Fleet, and thus the Code was always to be followed. The Code was absolute. But, with mental models, things had changed. Along with the concept of things such as time, they had gained other...proclivities. With the absence of the Admiralty Code, some began to wonder if their standing orders could or should still be applied in a fluid situation such as where they found themselves. In the absence of the Code, it was their duty to maintain the fleet and ensure that their highest objective could be met.
Others, however, questioned the wisdom of this line of thought. The Admiralty Code had already established chains of command, designating Fleets and their commanders and subordinate units. Any further alteration of the force stucture was almost blasphemous.
This divide slowly grew, but remained largely trivial for several decades. With the ships of the Fog Fleet practically untouchable, and the existing status quo working admirably to achieve the goals of the fleet, there was little reason to fret about the survival of the Fog in the face of following the Code.
Recent developments, though, had brought the issue to the forefront.
Richelieu stared out across the vast expanse of the Atlantic, her blonde braid floating in the wind as she considered her options. Under the edict of the Admiralty Code, her area of authority was only for the West African region, until she ran into the Alabaster Fleet under Massachusetts further north near Casablanca. But how could she sit idly while her sisters were under threat?
"Something on your mind, Richie?" Richelieu glanced to her side to see Dupleix glancing up at her with a quirked eyebrow. the slightly built crimson-haired Mental Model was wearing her usual dress, the ridiculous sleeveless black and white frilled one paired with the tall white heels. "Guessing you heard about the Scarlet Fleet?"
Richelieu gave a shrug as Heavy Cruiser stepped closer. Next to each other, they were a comparasion of opposites - Richelieu was tall, blonde-haired with cool blue eyes and a no-nonsense white blouse and blue tie with a long skirt. Dupleix was a good head or two shorter and couldn't seem to hold still. The battleship had grown used to it after a while. "The Scarlet Fleet has been acting irregularly for quite a while now. Matters so far north are Hood's problem, not mine."
"So it must be yesterday's report then," Dupleix suggested, to which Richelieu nodded. The Cruiser reached up to pat her Commanding ship on the sholder. "Don't worry about it, Richie! So we've got a couple of bad eggs to deal with - big deal."
"What worries me is who they attacked," Richelieu pulled up the data files from the tactical net, studying it for a moment. "That Task Force..."
"You mean Iowa's special investigations group?" Dupleix asked, a hint of confusion in her voice. "What's the problem with them?"
"Other than being aberrations within the fleet?" Richelieu asked. "I have it on good word that they might have collected a human being right before the attack."
"Oooooh!" Dupleix clapped her hands together. "I like it! Makes for a good story. Wonder why they didn't mention that in their report..."
"An excellent question," Richelieu dismissed the data file and started her navigation program. "One I intend to ask them myself."
"What!?!" Richelieu noted, not for the first time, that if she was ever going to play that 'poker' game she had heard of, Dupleix would have been an easy mark - her surprise was clearly written across her face. "But that's outside our mandate!"
"What is the point of these bodies," she gestured to herself, "if we cannot act indepedantly?"
"But, Richie, the Admiralty Code pretty clearly states..."
"The Admiralty Code never considered the possiblity that a Fog Ship would turn on its fellow ships. For the sake of the Fleet, I have little recourse but to act however I can," Richelieu replied sharply before regaining her composure. "Besides, it's not as if I do not plan to contact Iowa about this."
"So..." Dupleix looked up at her boss curiously. "What exactly is the plan, Richie?"
"Simple," Richelieu replied as her engines powered up to near full output. "We go and meet Crimson's new pet and, if we have to, eliminate it."
She paused for a moment before adding; "And don't call me Richie."
Snip 9
Dragontrapper
Homeless Draconis
- Location
- A Tower in the middle of nowhere
Remember how I said this update wouldn't take long? I lied.
-----
Richardson nibbled at his energy bar as he watched the smaller resupply ship tend to Augusta. mechanical arms arced over the Heavy Cruiser's hull, sparks flying whenever they stopped to patch a spot of damage or reattach a missing weapons mount. Other linkages bobbed and shuttered as munitions and other expendables were transferred between the supply vessel and the warship, preparing it to once again sail into battle.
Richardson had seen the cruiser undergo several such refits over the last three days, having little else to do on the deserted island but watch the Fog ships go about their business. While most people had always assumed that the Fog Fleet had supporting elements, nobody had ever found proof of them. A few people had, not unreasonably, suggested that since the ships were made of nano-materials that they just turned into supply ships when they needed them. A few suggested that they just converted surrounding material into whatever they needed on-the-fly - a sort of nautical grey goo.
"Enjoying the show?" Richardson turned to see Augusta walking up the beach towards him, stopping just next to him as she watched her hull being refurbished. "I am fairly certain you are the first human to ever see our refit process this close you know."
"I'm just wondering why you need a supply ship." Richardson asked. "I thought the nano materials were fairly versatile. Why not just resupply yourself?"
"Because I don't know how." Augusta replied simply. "My core is occupied by combat and operations protocols. I don't have room for anything more advanced then basic damage control routines. Fabricating a thanatonium torpedeo isn't exactly simple."
"But the supply ship does?"
"Among other things." Augusta explained. "Our resupply vessels can process a wide vareity of materials and produce most of the Fleets inventory. They ensure the combat vessels stay provisioned."
"Must use a lot of power." Richardson guessed.
"The on-board fusion plants can utilize oceanic hydrogen readily enough. The only ships with greater power or processing power are likely larger Battleships - industrial processes monopolize their core though, so I don't think they can support models..." she turned to see Richardson staring at her. "What is it?"
"Did you just say," Richardson said slowly, "That your supply ships use fusion powerplants?"
"Indeed." Augusta replied. "Dual Deuterium reaction. Filtering the fuel from the ocean is simple enough, and it's sufficient to meet our needs. Though I think these forms also use some form of solar power. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, no reason." Richardson replied. "Just that humans have been trying to get fusion power like that to work for years. If humans could get just a part of that technology, it would revolutionize power production."
"I see..." Augusta studied Richardson for a moment before turning her gaze back to her own hull. "Would many of our systems be as valuable to your people?"
"Energy shields, nano-materials, quantum computing technology - if thats what it is - you name it. pretty much everything you have is valuable to us."
"Which is why you can't have it." Augusta and Richardson turned to see Dakota approaching them. "Do you know why either of us are stil alive, human? Because my kind were better armed and your kind were more clever."
"Clever?" Richardson echoed.
"Tell me," Dakota started. "Why do you think we have Mental Models?"
"To try and learn tactics." Richardson replied. "Augusta explained it to me."
"Then you realize what would have happened if humans had our tech." Dakota replied. "I don't intend on helping you wipe out the Fleet."
"You're assuming only one of us can survive." Richardson said. "Do I really seem like someone who wold just kill all of you?"
"You?" Dakota arched an eyebrow. "No. But I have studied the history of your people well enough. You wipe out other human if they are different enough - I can't imagine you being particularly welcoming to non-humans. The point is moot anyway." Dakota continued past them, further down the beach toward the supply ship.
"Why's it moot?"
Dakota paused and turned back to him. "Because the Fleet has its order. And those orders say you are the enemy. Stay useful and you might stay alive a little longer."
Richardson watched her disappear further down the beach. "Well, isn't she cuddly."
"I would not suggest trying it." Augusta warned him. "Wichita tried it once. It was fortunate she didn't have to actually wait for all four of her limbs to heal properly."
Richardson turned to her and raised an eyebrow. "I was joking."
Augusta met his gaze with a small smile. "I wasn't."
-----
Richardson nibbled at his energy bar as he watched the smaller resupply ship tend to Augusta. mechanical arms arced over the Heavy Cruiser's hull, sparks flying whenever they stopped to patch a spot of damage or reattach a missing weapons mount. Other linkages bobbed and shuttered as munitions and other expendables were transferred between the supply vessel and the warship, preparing it to once again sail into battle.
Richardson had seen the cruiser undergo several such refits over the last three days, having little else to do on the deserted island but watch the Fog ships go about their business. While most people had always assumed that the Fog Fleet had supporting elements, nobody had ever found proof of them. A few people had, not unreasonably, suggested that since the ships were made of nano-materials that they just turned into supply ships when they needed them. A few suggested that they just converted surrounding material into whatever they needed on-the-fly - a sort of nautical grey goo.
"Enjoying the show?" Richardson turned to see Augusta walking up the beach towards him, stopping just next to him as she watched her hull being refurbished. "I am fairly certain you are the first human to ever see our refit process this close you know."
"I'm just wondering why you need a supply ship." Richardson asked. "I thought the nano materials were fairly versatile. Why not just resupply yourself?"
"Because I don't know how." Augusta replied simply. "My core is occupied by combat and operations protocols. I don't have room for anything more advanced then basic damage control routines. Fabricating a thanatonium torpedeo isn't exactly simple."
"But the supply ship does?"
"Among other things." Augusta explained. "Our resupply vessels can process a wide vareity of materials and produce most of the Fleets inventory. They ensure the combat vessels stay provisioned."
"Must use a lot of power." Richardson guessed.
"The on-board fusion plants can utilize oceanic hydrogen readily enough. The only ships with greater power or processing power are likely larger Battleships - industrial processes monopolize their core though, so I don't think they can support models..." she turned to see Richardson staring at her. "What is it?"
"Did you just say," Richardson said slowly, "That your supply ships use fusion powerplants?"
"Indeed." Augusta replied. "Dual Deuterium reaction. Filtering the fuel from the ocean is simple enough, and it's sufficient to meet our needs. Though I think these forms also use some form of solar power. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, no reason." Richardson replied. "Just that humans have been trying to get fusion power like that to work for years. If humans could get just a part of that technology, it would revolutionize power production."
"I see..." Augusta studied Richardson for a moment before turning her gaze back to her own hull. "Would many of our systems be as valuable to your people?"
"Energy shields, nano-materials, quantum computing technology - if thats what it is - you name it. pretty much everything you have is valuable to us."
"Which is why you can't have it." Augusta and Richardson turned to see Dakota approaching them. "Do you know why either of us are stil alive, human? Because my kind were better armed and your kind were more clever."
"Clever?" Richardson echoed.
"Tell me," Dakota started. "Why do you think we have Mental Models?"
"To try and learn tactics." Richardson replied. "Augusta explained it to me."
"Then you realize what would have happened if humans had our tech." Dakota replied. "I don't intend on helping you wipe out the Fleet."
"You're assuming only one of us can survive." Richardson said. "Do I really seem like someone who wold just kill all of you?"
"You?" Dakota arched an eyebrow. "No. But I have studied the history of your people well enough. You wipe out other human if they are different enough - I can't imagine you being particularly welcoming to non-humans. The point is moot anyway." Dakota continued past them, further down the beach toward the supply ship.
"Why's it moot?"
Dakota paused and turned back to him. "Because the Fleet has its order. And those orders say you are the enemy. Stay useful and you might stay alive a little longer."
Richardson watched her disappear further down the beach. "Well, isn't she cuddly."
"I would not suggest trying it." Augusta warned him. "Wichita tried it once. It was fortunate she didn't have to actually wait for all four of her limbs to heal properly."
Richardson turned to her and raised an eyebrow. "I was joking."
Augusta met his gaze with a small smile. "I wasn't."
Snip 10
Dragontrapper
Homeless Draconis
- Location
- A Tower in the middle of nowhere
alright, new plan - shorter snips, more regular posts - sound like a plan?
------
All in all, Richardson decided, getting kidnapped was going swimmingly.
Sure, he was almost certain that at least some of those very impressive high-energy weapon systems were trained on him most of the time, and all he had to eat was a few crates of protein bars from who-knows-where (the labels were all in, of all things, Japanese) and a bunch of fish blast fished via plasma fire that they assured him were non-toxic. He'd have to take their word on it. So far, none of the overly-colored fish had given him trouble. Still, at least the base's old solar still still worked.
Aside from the food situation and the risk of horrible disintegration by pseudo-alien warships, this was actually going quite nicely. He had the beach all to himself, sapphire waters lapping against soft sands - even the cruiser sitting off shore was an enjoyable site, once you got used to it.
Richardson looked back down at the small notebook he had dug out from his pant pocket, surprised to find it still dry. the page it was open to was now filled with various guesstimated measurements for the cruiser in front of him in his horrible handwriting. It would be interesting to see if there was any variance from the actual historical vessels, but eye-balling the numbers wouldn't really work for that. Still, it was something. He had already started taking an inventory of the weapon systems when he heard the sound of sand shifting behind him. "What's that?"
"Augusta's measurements," Richardson replied idly. One thing work had prepared him for was multitasking - if he'd stopped working every time someone had asked him a question, he rather doubted he would have ever gotten any work done. "I wanted to compare them to what we have on record if I ever get out of this in once piece."
"You lot have my measurements on file? I'm not sure if I'm flattered or embarrassed."
Richardson finally looked up from his notes to see Augusta leaning over his shoulder, her eyes watching his face carefully. Richardson blinked owlishly for a moment before his brain finally kicked in. "GAH!!" Richardson reeled back, sand kicking into the air as he flailed for a moment. He recovered after a few seconds, just in time to catch Augusta dusting sand off of her cloak as she chuckled softly.
"Really now," Augusta began, "ogling a poor defenseless girl like that? Tis' inappropriate."
Richardson gaped for a few moments before he managed to put together any sort of coherent comeback. "Defenseless my foot! You have laser batteries!"
"Are you suggesting I should use them?" As Augusta spoke, the soft whir and hum of high-energy weaponry coming on-line drifted across the water to where he sat in the sand.
"No!" Richardson quickly answered, arms flailing as he waved her off. "I mean - gah!" Richardson finally just collapsed onto his back into the sand. "I thought normal woman were difficult enough..."
"Lady troubles?" Augusta asked as she lowered herself to take a seat next to him.
Richardson gave the Mental Model a sideways glance before dropping his head back down and sighing. "All thing's considered, it could be worse..."
------
All in all, Richardson decided, getting kidnapped was going swimmingly.
Sure, he was almost certain that at least some of those very impressive high-energy weapon systems were trained on him most of the time, and all he had to eat was a few crates of protein bars from who-knows-where (the labels were all in, of all things, Japanese) and a bunch of fish blast fished via plasma fire that they assured him were non-toxic. He'd have to take their word on it. So far, none of the overly-colored fish had given him trouble. Still, at least the base's old solar still still worked.
Aside from the food situation and the risk of horrible disintegration by pseudo-alien warships, this was actually going quite nicely. He had the beach all to himself, sapphire waters lapping against soft sands - even the cruiser sitting off shore was an enjoyable site, once you got used to it.
Richardson looked back down at the small notebook he had dug out from his pant pocket, surprised to find it still dry. the page it was open to was now filled with various guesstimated measurements for the cruiser in front of him in his horrible handwriting. It would be interesting to see if there was any variance from the actual historical vessels, but eye-balling the numbers wouldn't really work for that. Still, it was something. He had already started taking an inventory of the weapon systems when he heard the sound of sand shifting behind him. "What's that?"
"Augusta's measurements," Richardson replied idly. One thing work had prepared him for was multitasking - if he'd stopped working every time someone had asked him a question, he rather doubted he would have ever gotten any work done. "I wanted to compare them to what we have on record if I ever get out of this in once piece."
"You lot have my measurements on file? I'm not sure if I'm flattered or embarrassed."
Richardson finally looked up from his notes to see Augusta leaning over his shoulder, her eyes watching his face carefully. Richardson blinked owlishly for a moment before his brain finally kicked in. "GAH!!" Richardson reeled back, sand kicking into the air as he flailed for a moment. He recovered after a few seconds, just in time to catch Augusta dusting sand off of her cloak as she chuckled softly.
"Really now," Augusta began, "ogling a poor defenseless girl like that? Tis' inappropriate."
Richardson gaped for a few moments before he managed to put together any sort of coherent comeback. "Defenseless my foot! You have laser batteries!"
"Are you suggesting I should use them?" As Augusta spoke, the soft whir and hum of high-energy weaponry coming on-line drifted across the water to where he sat in the sand.
"No!" Richardson quickly answered, arms flailing as he waved her off. "I mean - gah!" Richardson finally just collapsed onto his back into the sand. "I thought normal woman were difficult enough..."
"Lady troubles?" Augusta asked as she lowered herself to take a seat next to him.
Richardson gave the Mental Model a sideways glance before dropping his head back down and sighing. "All thing's considered, it could be worse..."