Prologue: You have nothing to fear but fear itself. This holds true, until one thousand and five hundred tons of machined weapons walks through your city, unconcernedly crushing buildings in their mighty stride, shaking the very earth with every step. Each of the six two hundred and fifty-ton monsters of the finest in armor and armaments had the firepower of an entire nation(in those ancient days when only the words 'mutually-assured destruction' kept the peace). Collectively, they could bring down an unwary starship from low planetary obit. Then you can know the meaning of terror. Everything on the ground fades before a Cenrunnos, the greatest of all Multi-Environment Pro- active Arsenals(meka). For these machines are named the Horned Gods, and their wrath was awesome to behold. They simply waded through the resistance... if what meager efforts could even be called that. Hundreds of concealed laser and missile turrets brightened the early morn, splashing like water off advanced composite-materials technology. Only hundreds left, not the thousands prepared for Scourge attacks; after they had bombarded the city with Fusion bolts from over fifty klicks away. The first salvo of these energies, contained within a local gravity field, had cleared away the entire planetary garrison in their no-radiation nuclear detonation. Every Cenrunnos is made with four Fusion cannons as main armament. The evacuation had started long before they'd even got into range. After several hundred bolts had hit, there wasn't much left to evacuate. Following the veritable walking landships were smaller machined weapons of the Ocilot, Manixi, and Linez-classes, and though lacking the overwhelming power of their larger cousins were still overkill for the militia that remained. All the meka were painted blue, grey and gold. They had the sigil of a white triangle over a star-studded black circle. Primed war machines strode past weeping children, broken lives, the inescapable casualties of a revolution, blasting apart anything that had a Dominion insignia. Paxis, capital world of the entire Tyranis supercluster, had fallen to the Integrated Guardian Fleet. The Association War had ended. And now they would be mercenaries no more. _______________________________________________________________________ || | | . | | || || | | /|\ | | || || | | / | \ | | || \\ \ \/ | \/ / // \\ \/ | \/ // \\ /____| \ // \/ \/ /_____________\ // ||| \\ // ||| \\ Illuminati-Fiction.Net presents A TDZK Fanfiction IGF:A CHANGE OF PLANS _______________________________________________________________________ The aftermath of the Scourge War was characterized by pain and denials. So great was psychological (not to mention existential) impact of the War that the focus of in the years of Reconstruction was not merely rebuilding... but remaking! We have been broken. All that we used to value are destroyed. We have been given a chance to start clean and maybe get it right this time. -Nemtre, "The Outer Rim" Chapter One ANS TEMPEST Association Navy Custodian-class Cruiser In orbit above the planet Milfa IV Fourth Association star cluster Associations of Tolera 29 years later Captain Galedon Sherris was nor normally given to flights of poetic fancy. But the words of Ecmid Rollo Juuchambi, one of the few geniuses the Outer Rim produced, seemed so apt to his situation. "This I hold dearest to me The stars will not weep when I die But you my dearest, alone you will be For you I live, for you I fly." Juuchambi was simply middling as a poet. But what he was famous for was as a DAMN BRILLIANT naval operations commander. In the end his genius could not save his 3rd Severance Fleet, his movements hampered by the orders of worthless politicians and admirals out of touch with reality. Captain Sherris put the two orders side by side on his screen. On the left, straight from COM-AND (Command Association Naval Directive). At right, a communique his immediate superior officer, Commodore Jared Etragar Monus. One called for his sworn duty, another asked for his professional morality. Two completely conflicting orders; both DEMANDED he do the RIGHT THING. He rubbed his eyes. He was too old for such things... he no longer had the fire that allowed him to fight against insurmountable odds, thirty years was long enough to make his glory fade. He was one hundred and six, just going past middle age... but war turns boys into men, sapping the strength of old warriors. "How long do we have to make up our minds?" he asked his subcaptain. "A few hours." replied Sub-Captain Donal Vadore. As the captain looked weary, he seemed more energized. Subcaptain Vadore looked at the prospect of his death with a dark, blazing joy. "Either way, we shall be called upon to hunt down those we used to called comrades." Both old Fleetmen looked out the bridge, to where the crew was conducting combat trials. The young would again have no choice but to suffer the mistakes of their elders. "CECIL active, all security locks off. Safe mode B initiated." 'Easter' peered at the multitude of numbers and signifiers parading across his field of vision and groaned. Wasn't it enough that his own controls had too many dials and gauges and screens and bright blinking lights than he could deal with... now they wanted his own helmet to assist in information overkill?! "Control, how do I switch to minimal CI response?" "You can't." a voice said from below. There, sitting in a cocoon-like control chair was the machine's pilot. Needless to say, she was Kitaran. 'Chaser's' helmet was actually more complex than his, for controlling the armored monster asked far more from the controller than the reticules required from its gunner. "This IS minimal interface." "I hate upgrades..." he muttered. Combat Encounter Controller Interface Link 2.0 was supposed to add substantial targeting improvements, with performance increase up to 25%. The software however merely grabbed at his brain and told it that it would never, ever be good enough. A third voice cut in. This one came from above, in a chair far more comfortable than theirs. "Enough chatter." said 'Beryl', their commander. "Control, Liyo Zero Four is ready to commence vacuum operations." "Launch catapult- clear." All braced within. "And go!" The meka was instantly hurled out the Cruiser from modified drone launch catapults. These were too small on their own, but they crafted a harness of sorts that allowed two catapults to sling it into space. Once there, the meka had three days before its occupants died of asphyxiation. "All systems are green. No faults." While meka weren't really made for outer space combat, it was capable of taking care of its occupants. In fact, it was quite GOOD at it, a point which its designers never fail to harp on. A meka wasn't just a tool of war; it was an investment. Which was of course, why they used a Kitaran-built meka. To be precise, a Liyo model. To be even more precise, the Liyo, built by Clan Liyo. The Kitaran Clan Liyo was predominantly concerned with wealth and superiority and it was encapsulated in their showcase meka. The Liyo. The best that money could buy. Chaser began to flick switches and push buttons. "Initiating primary components test! Inertial dampeners! Check! Vectoring motivators! Check! Primary engine! Surplus capacity! Check! Thrusters! Check! Check! Check! Sensors! Check! Testing inertia damp- WAAAHAAAOO!" The machine was vaugely birdlike, although with its sloped torso and the two prominent missile launchers on its back... it also had a keen feline aire. Not surprising, as its makers were felinous themselves, and their creation announces... hell, screams out... its predatory nature. The Liyo have severe trouble in limiting their ostentation. What was apparent though, was that they made a machine the conformed PRECISELY to Kitaran ideals - punishing firepower and blistering speed. Chaser, living up to her callsign, pushed the meka into a series of manuevers that would have pureed its occupants without the gravitic controls. As it was, it didn't matter how fast she made it turn or which way they were pointed - down always felt down and up always felt up. So it was that all Major 'Beryl' had to do was to reach into his pocket, take out his water canteen(full - 2.5l), let it drop, and hear the satisfying *thunk* of it bouncing off a certain Kitaran's CI helmet. Of course, he could have just simply poured it down(the entire cockpit was utterly waterproofed - nothing, NOTHING could be allowed to go wrong), but that would've harassed the Captain's son. A good kid, but... "Hey!" "This is a weapons test, not an amusement ride." "This is a Kitaran meka, sir. There is an old saying; no sword should be drawn if it will not taste blood before it's sheathed... no Kitaran meka should be activated if it can't push itself to its limits." "Machined weapon, lieutenant." Control interrupted. "I can tolerate your enthusiasm, but please use the proper term. These are machined weapons. MEKA is not, and has never been a real acronym. It was invented by vulgar, unsympathetic pilots unable to recognize the sufferings that poor combat engineers continually endure just to keep their mal-used, undisciplined heads attached to their shoulders." Chaser gave Control a complex chain of colorful invectives. He just laughed at her, and told her he loved her too. In any military organization, this sort of behavior to a commanding officer should have warranted at the very least a severe reprimand. That she could get away with it, is tied in to the kind of ship she was part of. The Custodian-class Heavy Cruiser was in many ways the idealized Cruiser. It was astonishingly well-armed and well-armored for its size, but its primary asset was its mobility - an ability normally absent on large ships, that allowed it to handle the attack of Corvettes and other fast-moving prey. It had flattened chassis, due to its four additional engines and expanded drone hangars, a design that hearkened back to warships of the Secession Era. It was strong. It was flexible. It was designed for extended independent duty. The TEMPEST was used to operating alone and unwanted in enemy territory. Its crew could afford a little laxity, a little precious expression of their becoming almost a family. They'd already seen too many of their own die for entirely foolish, official reasons... "May we begin the trials?" Beryl put in, his completely bland voice somehow managing to put across a depth of irritation. "Nyao, kom'der!" Chaser became all professional. Her CI had relayed a message from Control, [FULL THRUSTER BURN]. "How far should I go?" "Your machined weapon is supposed to protect the ship from drone attack. Position yourself about five thousand kilometers starboard aft. I am now releasing three combat drone squadrons - two ARM and one VA." From the forward drone launch catapults shot forth thirty-six combat drones. "Easter, keep in mind that these drones have different characteristics and require different approaches. Adapt or be overwhelmed." "Yes, sir." the gunner replied grimly. Unlike the others, he had to focus to accomplish something. Chaser's effortless expertise, Beryl's calm precision... it was painful sometimes, to even TRY to match their pace. Unlike them, he had never killed. Four targeting reticules swam on his IRIS(Integral Responsive Interface System), as the first squadron swung back to attack. Fast as Chaser was pushing their Liyo, drones were magnitudes faster still. They'd outraced her, mockingly extending the lead to twenty thousand kilometers in a few seconds. Easter sighed, as the Kitaran tried to keep twelve drones from outmaneuvering her, futile as that may be. "What is your primary advantage over drones?" the Major asked casually. "Firepower, sir. I might have more armor and a shield generator, but what really sets me apart is that I can throw fusion bolts around and they can't." "Excellent. Here they come." Easter grimaced as the squadron split, four combat drones attacking directly while two tried for a double-flanking at his sides. Drones had combat AI, but their formations and tactics were mostly controlled by a Drone Control Officer within the TEMPEST. He didn't even bother firing, but activated the shield... a barrage of plasma bolts illuminated an energy sphere around the Liyo. Meka-mounted shields could only be activated for five seconds at a time, for its severe energy drain. But for those five seconds, he was almost invulnerable, and from behind it the autocannons on the Liyo's arms spat hot paint-tipped death. "Confirmed, sixty-four shots; twenty hits - three out of four marked as destroyed." Those calm facts seemed to Easter as a condemnation. He'd followed the computer's prompts exactly! "You're still adjusting for the travel time of shells. Don't. There is no appreciable friction in vaccuum." Beryl tapped his own control panel. "Switch to energy-based weapons." Lasers, plasma, beam and fusion cannons fell in the energy weapons category. They had different characteristics, however. Lasers and beams were almost instantaneous in their lethality, while plasma and fusion bolts had a travel time. They kept their distance from the drones, matching their strength against the other's strengths. Drones could drop bomblets, tickle with plasma fire... but what they were made for was murder of unshielded ships. They'd clamp down on hulls and try to burn through with their fusion torches. Ships were too big to try and shoot mites off their own bodies. Hostile energy filled the near area, destroying the entire squadron. At the second squadron's approach however, the Liyo's weapons refused to fire. He had to pull back. "What are the two factors to consider in using energy weapons?" "...heat and energy drain, sir." Easter mumbled. "And why?" "Heat determines how often a weapon can be fired, while energy drain determines how long it can be fired." An energy cannon automatically shuts down when either its heat or energy feed reaches unacceptable levels. So elementary a mistake! "Sorry, sir." Thankfully the weapons cycled back into readiness quickly enough. But even the CECIL-2 wasn't of much help against V/A (Vaccuum- Atmosphere) drones. These were more of fightercraft replacements than the more common combat drones; all speed and minimum anti-armor capability. "DAMMIT!" he screamed. The pair of plasma chainguns on each V/A drone was doing nothing more than heat up the Liyo's armor slightly... it was annoying, a stalemate. Dammit, no! It's just a simple weapons test. He couldn't... shouldn't...fail something that simple! So what if his duties on board the ship was of flagrant nepotism - he could prove that he was worthy of his rank, all on his own. In the end combat trials ended with twenty-four ARM and zero V/A drones destroyed. The squadrons slipped back into TEMPEST with precision. The Liyo went in at full thruster burn, scattering technicians in its approach. The fact that it managed to snag the suppression line and perform a perfect, if vastly unsafe halt was besides the point. "INSANE!" yelled Control, aka Functions Commander Basil Flandri . "I should take away your piloting rights!" "Hah! Like you actually can!" Only the Operations Commander could decide on any combat personnel's sanity, and its effects on ability. Unfortunately Chaser, or as she was known in other circles... Mian Sari Flanry, was just that. Insanity was linked to her piloting ability. She forestalled any further protests by grabbing her husband in a liplock and sucking the oxygen from his lungs. The other technicians merely shook their heads sadly at how easily their strong Chief could be swayed from the noble pursuit of dynamic faultlessness. Jason Sherris merely limped weakly down the main hold. No one helped him. The crew didn't really hate him, per se - it was just that he'd never been given a chance to prove himself one of them. Every combat mission, he was relegated to a secondary position. Sometimes that was good, as his hands weren't stained with the carnage that used to be the Tolera Fourth (Quadrant) Association capital world, Zantri. Major Alec Beryl stepped up behind him. Yes, no one dared call him unimaginative to his face. "Stop blaming yourself. We do not expect nor want you to be some god of warfare." The young man merely sighed. "No.. someday Father will have NO CHOICE but to send me to fight." I can't believe I was once THIS foolish, the Major thought. "That much is true, but you can hardly fault him for trying to delay it." "JUMP WARNING! JUMP WARNING! ALL CREWS TO BATTLE STATIONS! JUMP WARNING!" There was no time to ask why, everyone jumped to their duties. This was drilled in; on jump warning - you jump to it. Subspace detection was roughly to the level of primitive sonar. All they knew was that something was headed through subspace at them, no idea on exit point or quantities. There was another comfort, they were inside the planet's gravity well. Ships would have to emerge well outside, which would give them a precious few seconds extra to act pre-emptively, if necessary. The Battleship ANS SUNSTEALER, command ship of the Association Navy 4th Strikegroup flashed into being. Following her were the ninety-odd ships making up the rest of the strikegroup. One of the six formations maintaining control over half the Toleran star clusters. "What the frell are they doing here?!" was in the minds of the crew. It had not gone unnoticed that the ships were in a definitely hostile stance, with turrets up and shields to full. Captain Sherris had already made his decision however. "ATTENTION. THIS IS THE CAPTAIN SPEAKING. THE ZANTRI EVENT, AS YOU KNOW, WAS THE ASSOCIATION RESPONSE TO AN LOCALIZED UPRISING. WE WERE PART OF SAID RESPONSE. AS OF THIS MOMENT, THE ENTIRE 4TH STRIKEGROUP HAD DECIDED TO FORMALLY DESERT THE ASSOCIATION NAVY - WE HAVE BEEN EXTENDED AN INVITATION. LISTEN TO ME. IS THERE ANYONE HERE NOT ASHAMED OF WHAT HAD GONE ON IN THAT WORLD? I FOUGHT TO CARVE THE ASSOCIATIONS, TO BRING DOWN THE OLD ORDER AND CREATE SOMETHING NEW AND JUST. OUR DUTY TO THE ASSOCIATIONS SHOULD NOT BLIND US TO THE FACT THAT THE ASSOCIATIONS WERE MADE TO SERVE THE PEOPLE OF TYRANIS. THE ASSOCIATIONS WE SERVE ARE NO LONGER THE SAME ONES THAT MEN AND WOMEN OF -THE FLEET- BLED FOR. IF ONLY BY BECOMING A REBEL, CAN I CHANGE THE MISTAKE I'VE HELPED BRING TO LIFE... THEN I BECOME A REBEL. THOSE THAT DO NOT SHARE THIS VIEW, YOU ARE FREE TO LEAVE. WHATEVER YOU'VE DONE IN ZANTRI, COMMON LAW HOLDS THAT ESCAPE PODS ARE SACROSANCT AND UNASSAILABLE." "Oh crap." said Jason. Choices, had suddenly become extremely limited. He flicked his gaze to the impassive man beside him. And some, could only hope for a quick execution. It is the duty of the strong to protect the weak, and the powerful to wield power in the defense of right. Therefore, it is my duty to protect as many as are in my power. -'The Fleet' oath Drake Station In orbit above the planet Paxis Tolera Capital Star System Associations of Tolera Poverty, is relative. There are those below the line who live well, eat well, and doing it happily without misdeed. There are also those above the line, but are constantly worried about money and may make little dips into the pool of illegal activities. And then of course, there are the sharks in said pool, whose wealth all derive from completely tax-free sources. In Tyranis, poverty meant poverty. Povery of resources, values, morals, ideals, common sense... and money. Nonetheless, there was always brisk business about in Drake Station. Graie sniffed, making himself grow accustomed to the scent of rust and disinfectant in the air. He stepped into the turbolift with no small amount of unease, clutching his bag tightly. Immidiately he was jostled about by the rapid flow of people coming in and out of the Docking Rings section of the station. He felt his pockets being emptied. He paid it no heed, he only had a few credits in the local currency; his credstick with its vital credit stockpile safely inside his bag. The money in his pockets, he'd purposely put in for pickpocketers. Some people were just too proud to accept charity, and sometimes people are in themselves too proud to GIVE charity. In the Rim, people have to do desperate just to survive. He understood this. Although he had NEVER been to the Outer Rim before, he'd studied its sociopolitics quite closely. The entire star cluster was abuzz, and even a Clanchild as him wasn't immune to the scrutiny of Station Police. Rather, a full Clanchild was the recipient of more than intense scrutiny. Tolera had gone insular, deeply paranoid of all foreigners of all kinds. The Association Navy had suffered massive desertions. The 4th Strike Group had simply... vanished... two days ago. Since then, Strike and Wing Groups all over the Associations have gone; all totalling to a missing force of three hundred and sixty ships, almost a Battlegroup. This was why he looked different from the person he was, a few days ago. At hearing of this breaking point; in the disgust of The Fleet at the entity it helped create - the First Speaker of Clan Tabbana had proposed a fulfillment of Plan Orange. Carry out Tabbana Brusolla's last request. "Set my people free." After emerging into the station proper, he flagged an aircar. Drake Station was large, even by modern standards. It was after all, the commerce capital of the entire Associations of Tyranis, made up of four hundred or so stars in the Tyran Supercluster. It also held the prime shipbuilding facilities that once produced countless war vessels to assail the Federation... Drake Station was glorious, then. It was an imperial heart for the Tyranis Grand Dominion, which was one of the four entities that were the force behind the Independent Starspheres. Makers of the mighty Severance Navy. The only true rival that the Federation and its Federation Navy had ever faced. A long, loong time ago. The driver regaled him with these and more obscure facts, his experienced eye recognizing his passenger as someone new to the Station. Graie far preferred Neko Station, but was too polite to disagree with the opinions being tossed about. The aircar skimmed past the more progressive (and well-lighted) portions of the station and deeper into its core. Upon aerie platforms built right into the main support column were the warehouses that held the influx of goods passing through the Port section of Drake. And upon the tops of these massive, enclosed caverns were layers of smaller buildings... and those too supported another layer. In space, space was a premium. The address given was Block Section C, Aeire Four, Layer Six. No actual building named. The driver hesitated. That was the baad part of the Station. After being paid triple the usual fare, he pushed the aircar beyond its rated capacities in flitting away, leaving a much-puzzled young Kitaran. He was short, even for Kitarans, with a wild tangle of dark brown hair. His clothes were dull-colored and loose-fitting, but by the easy way he hefted his pack, it couldn't completely hide the strength within. In all ways but one, he seemed completely ignorable - his eyes. Those amber hunter's eyes showed exceeding amounts of intelligence, and sadness. He was in a place full of restaurants, and though the painful irony of that didn't escape him... it didn't seem particulary dangerous. He chose to enter the nearest one, and quickly revised that impression. Meeting him was the most wonderful creature he'd ever seen. She sang to him, and he found himself being helplessly moved about by the melody. Actually, she said "Good morning, sir" and "This way, please" but Graie wasn't in any condition to notice that. He also found that he had eaten breafast, was waiting for dessert of tuna pie, and a ten-minute memory gap. "You like?" someone said. He turned to see a short, swarthy man seated by the next table. From the huge cigar and tasteless clothes, Graie's awareness expanded to encompass the reality of the restaurant. Purple walls. Posters aplenty of movies featuring barely-clad people. Dim lighting. Slow, langorous music. A stage. A silvered dance ball. The food was obscenely expensive. The furniture was obscenely vulgar, all in coarse felt and plastic. He was the only one in the place. Simply put, it was not any normal restaurant. It was the front of a brothel. Gah. The name 'Sweet Things' should have clued him in. Then he saw the reason why he'd blinded to it. A slim kitaran girl of dark red hair, wearing an apron. Only an apron. And a rather dirty apron at that. Still, she glowed. Her every movement was done with precise grace and economy of motion, all the while humming a tune. She turned the immidiate space she occupied into a place of imperial loftiness. "She's.. blind." Graie finally got it. "And still... she recognized me for male, showed me where to sit... served my food. Amazing." The proprietor yawned. "You look like a man with money." Graie blinked again. What?! How do these people keep on knowing that? He was wearing inexpensive clothes, he'd even rubbed dirt on his face! "Want to buy her?" He blinked. Again. "I'll make you a good deal. She's only good for one thing, unless you spring for eye implants. But when I say good, I mean GOOD. Field tested, all quality." He fled. Graie regained his senses as his lungs jabbed sharp knives into his heart. He didn't know how long he'd been running, just that he was very very tired. He was a Tabbana. Raised, trained, expected to be one of the best Combat Engineers in the entire known space. Though the makers of exceedingly reliable weapons systems, the entire Clan was decidedly non-violent in nature. "Violence is the first refuge of the incompetent." So why was it that he suddenly just had to KILL someone? "Is this it..." he gasped. "Is this why Tabbana Brusolla was driven to accept violence?" Never had Graie felt such a rising righteous hate. The Rim was a place were men were men and women were women. It was a place where only the strong survive. It was an ugly arrangement. Fortunately, like his predecessor, he was there to change all of that. That is, if he could survive long enough. The Kitaran heard an all- too familiar whine of a plasma pistol being activated behind him. He didn't even bother to turn, contenting himself with slamming his head into the wall repeatedly. Running into a dark alley was such a stupidly suicidal thing to do. "You wouldn't be Master Technician Tabbana Graie Karrente, would you?" said a hissing Sniv voice. "Formerly attatched to the 6th Fantyrani Battlegroup?" "I might be- " the Kitaran sighed. "Who's asking?" "Do you expect me to ansswer that? Turn around.. sslowly." Karrente sighed. Brusolla guide me, he mumbled. The Sniv... looked like any other Sniv. He hadn't yet acquired the skill of telling them apart. What he did recognize, was the gun. "Jiragan ARAC-2 Plasma Pistol.." he said with relief. Remarkably compact, astonishingly accurate. Incredibly expensive. Kitaran-made. "The Fleet. Standard Issue." Pain. The Sniv had punched him in the stomach. He blacked out, but not before hearing '...idiot. Never relax, never just trust anyone in the Rim.'