Prologue
No one won the war.
Not the Martian Independence movement, the roar of a nation crying out to be free from it's colonial oppressors, only to find themselves not free, but trapped. Brave souls fought and died for their homeland, only to find that homeland lost to them. Only to find the sky lost to them
Not the Earth, which found itself an Imperial power without ever meaning to. Patriots were sent millions of miles from home for fight they were lied to about. Some died. Some never could return home.
A single piece of space debris, half an inch wide, can at sufficient velocity kill a spacecraft. The Martian and Earth fleets final clash, hundreds of battleships and thousands of missiles and kill vehicles, resulted in a screen of debris that would soon engulf the entire planet. Mars was won it's independence, but the people of Mars would be bound to it for many lifetimes.
People gave up. The government fell apart from within. The free-for-all in the aftermath made things worse.
Six Years Passed
/---/
Chapter I - Pirates on the Dune Sea
People make mistakes. It's the fundamental truth of the human existence. Of every existence, really. Sometimes, they are small. Sometimes they are extremely large.
Some would call Pottsfield one such mistake. A little bastion of civilization right before reaching the Hippolyta frontier, they weren't particularly wealthy nor were they particularly powerful. What they were was ripe for the picking by any pirate worth his salt. They had been struck twice in the past month, attacking the supply train that came at the beginning of every week.
This wasn't an uncommon occurrence here on the frontier. Maybe things were better closer to civilization, or maybe civilization was just better at hiding where the theft was going. Regardless, a target was a target. When everyone is desperate, it doesn't matter who you steal from or how you do it.
Like clockwork, they came a third time. This too, was a mistake.
Motorcycles and stolen military vehicles, including a nasty looking salvaged hovertank with "KILL DOZER" crudely painted on its side with a macabre smiley face, roared as the old fashion mag-rail train rolled in. Hooligans laughed as they raced next to their aging target. Another easy picking as the meager defenders of the train cowered in the face of overwhelming firepower.
And then the train's cargo stood up.
The brown canvas sheet that had covered the Armored Soldier blew off into the wind. A couple of the more worldly bandits attempted to break off, but were stymied by the rest of the mob.
It's difficult to describe an Armored Soldier in movement. They're ugly, brutal looking machines, roughly humanoid but a little smaller then a shipping container. They are oddly graceful, like a ballerina built like a linebacker on rollerblades. This one was scoured and beaten, used hard.
Those pirates who had never seen one in action before also found they hit like a truck,
Machine guns tore through bikers as the AS brought its weapon to bear. Coldly noting the decimation of the first wave, a scattered few of the enemy vanguard remaining, the pilot within clutched the stick. A robotic arm chucked with mechanical precision a harpoon, skewering one of the enemy technicals. She supposed she should feel something as she watched fellow human beings die, anger, joy, anything, but all she could feel was numb.
Utter carnage reigned. The Armored Soldier tore through the bandits, crushing their vehicles with metal fists. It didn't go through the battle unscathed, but it could take whatever else the bandits could dish out.
"WARNING: TARGET LOCK"
Except the Kill Dozer. The pilot gunned the accelerator as an anti-tank shell launched at exit velocity. It grazed the AS's "head", destroying a machine gun and blinding one of its cameras. The pilot blinked as part of her display went dark. Whoever was gunner in that thing was a good shot.
The mech charged at the tank, the pilot betting on her mech's agility over anything else. It was a suicidal gamble, but one that had become a depressing regularity for the pilot.
Someone would die here.
The Kill Dozer's cannon aimed for center mass, the pilot's cabin. The round was loaded, the finger was on the trigger. Squeeze….
The mech pilot felt the air pressure slamming against the chasis hard enough to cause her ears to pop as the round rocketed past. The tank's barrel was under the AS's arm, and she applied deliberate pressure, crushing it into uselessness. She then wound her mech's fist back.
The hatch popped, and a man in a black helmet rose out, hands up.
The battle was over. The town was saved. And Ada Lovelace, the pilot of the Warhawk class Armored Soldier that had done the job, slumped into her chair in misery. She had won. She had survived.
/--/
