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A DEVIL’S BARGAIN

(Sidebar A)

  The overcast sky hung low over the rural farmlands of Valhalla, with nothing but the echoing sound of DropShips in the distance to hint at the news that the New Clans had finally been discovered.

  “Do you think they suspect?”

  Angus didn’t take his eyes from the far end of the runway, watching though the overcast and light rain for the first glimpse of the new arrivals.  “No,” he said.

  “Good.”

  The silence stretched on, the rain beginning to clear somewhat as the landing lights on the massive runway suddenly came to life and the Doppler sound of engines began to fade in the distance.

  Reaching into his poncho, Angus was unsurprised when the small radio speaker forestalled his question with a status report.

  “Crater bombs are armed, mortars and turrets on standby.  Lawn darts incoming.”

  He grunted.  The DropShip in orbit operating as orbital traffic control had warned them the visitors appeared heavily armed, nor was it surprising they had the resources to provide an ASF escort into what may turn out to be hostile airspace.

  Clenching the squelch button twice, he turned back to the runway.

  The high-speed pass of an unrecognizable ASF at what must be maximum burn broke the monotonous cloud cover drawing the attention of both men for several seconds before disappearing once again.

  “Looks new.  White to black livery?  Isn’t that the religious nut jobs?”

  The low rumble of the sonic boom covered the sound of the rest of the welcoming party coming up behind him.

  “Medium to Heavy.  Interceptor, mostly lasers, centerline PPC by the look of it,” came the excited voice from behind him.

  A second ASF making a pass almost directly above them was gone in seconds, giving them a good glimpse of the glowing afterburners before seeming to turn off one side to throw off any ground fire.

  Angus scowled, making his own assessment.  “Veterans, probably Elite pilots.  Good equipment, well maintained.”

  The hammer of the sonic boom was far louder.  The tension seemed to rise slightly as the incoming DropShip finally descended under the cloud cover.  Somebody just had to give a low wolf whistle.

  Glistening white fading to dirty black.  Laser ports, barrels, and huge missile racks unmasked.  The pilot seemed uncharacteristically clumsy, giving a slight bob before correcting – but the bright flares of Jump Jets clearly marked the squad of Battlearmor dropping just short of the runway.

  Snatching at the radio again, he lifted the neck of the poncho slightly and turned to speak clearly into the handset.

  “Battlearmor on the apron.  Scratch and cover.”

  Dropping the handset, he turned to leave for the converted bunker on the side of the runway.  The Word had lived up to their reputation so far.  Time to prove the Pythons were worth of their own among the New Clans.

  The clicking of the radio was a welcome sound as the rest of the party began to follow.  The sharp cracks of the mortar’s A-P rounds drowned out the sound of smoke rounds concealing the scouts and denying them the chance to secure the airfield.

(Sidebar B)

  The howl and shake of re-entry into Valhalla’s atmosphere was a welcome break to the monotony of the trip, heralding a long-awaited return to the open sky and fresh air soldiers and spacers always looked forward to.  In contrast, the short flight to the landing field was simply more of the same.

  “Do you think they suspect?”

  Berith glanced at the ground commander of his security team at the console beside him and shook his head.  “Unlikely.  These are one of the poorest groups of these ‘New Clans’.  Barely any weapons and trained personnel to go around.”

  He shook his head again, turning back to the screens and controls in front of him.

  “This is diplomacy.  The only ones that are going to have any fun are the locals, getting to see what front-line equipment looks like.  I’ll be lucky if they serve anything recognizable at the banquet welcoming us to the planet,” he said in resigned amusement.

  “Blake Flight, peel off.”

  The calm order of the Captain of the Blake’s Rage brought a rustle as the rest of the greeting party that didn’t have the Blessing of Blake’s enhanced hearing brought headsets up to listen in.

  “ETA in five.  Apron Team, stand by.”

  These heretics couldn’t do more than make faces at the Rage, but the 49th Shadow Division had a reputation to uphold and the prospect of a change of scenery was good for morale.  Seeing the cascade of video begin as the Rusalka ASF make a recon pass he stared at the screen, not trying to catch all of it, but noting the above Mach-1 fighter added an extra bob-and-weave intended to throw off ground fire and visually scan for pursuit or targets of opportunity on the ground.  Seconds later his wingman uploaded the same stream of imagery with the same maneuver from a different angle.

  Sophisticated filters highlighted terrain features of interest, buildings, vehicles, suspected weapons emplacements, and...  Sheep? Caught off-guard and frightened by the sonic booms of the escort flight.

  “Commencing final approach, crew, strap in.”

  They were committed, now.  Clearly the bridge crew shared his assessment of the risks here, choosing to ignore any irregularities as the rising howl of the Rage‘s engines made clear their agreement.  Manipulating the keyboard set into the console he began idly searching the surrounding area.  The patched but well-maintained airstrip was only the first question.  Why here?  Where were the supports every well-designed facility needed?  Where were the bars, the hotels, the people?  Other than a group of twenty or thirty people and what looked to be a pre-cast bunker and control tower, there was nothing here.

  The small, tell-tale change in cabin pressure was as good as the sudden drop to alert the Servants of Blake around him – Holy Blake, let me serve you in battle, again! – that the first of the apron security teams had dropped, relying on the Battlearmor’s Jump Jets to get them to the ground safely.

  Another waste of time – but the personnel behind the frightening visage of the Battlearmor on perimeter watch would be glad of the opportunity to escape the confining DropShip, and the habits of survivors trained in a harsh school would help keep them alive in the next fight.  Selecting a view from the exterior cameras to observe the dropped security team, he noted the well-executed landing, rapid spread to avoid presenting an attractive artillery target – and sparks in mid-air above them.  The sight brought him instantly to attention and he reached for the headset racked neatly on one side, but the second of the three security teams were already jumping to starboard as the crew remained focused on their tasks.

  “Smoke, smoke, smoke!”  “Mortar fire from 216!’”

  The Rage had passed the half-way point on the runway seconds before they could respond, and the high-pitched roar of the engines never faltered.  Coincidence? Or Overconfidence?  Slipping the headset on, his world narrowed to the professional, clipped voices of the crew and security teams.

  “Casualties?”

  “None, smoke and Anti-Personnel.  Minor damage.”

  Berith leaned back, considering, as the Starboard Security team prepared themselves.  1.. 2.. 3.. 4.. 5.. 6.. 7.. 8.. 9..  He made it to 22 before the terse voices of the veteran BA troops began reporting the same attacks.

  “Abort the Port Security team, Captain.  Recall the security teams, leave a squad around the Rage on the tarmac,” he said thoughtfully.  “Where’s the greeting party?”

  “Moving into the bunker along the Port side of the runway, Precentor.”  He nodded.

  Running away?  He shook his head.  The fearsome reputation mentioned in the derelict’s database would never support such behavior.  Avoiding the possibility of friendly fire, rather.

  As the Rage rolled to a stop, he racked the headset again, watching the rear camera for the smoke to fade.  It didn’t.  Rather, the Djinn broke through the low-hanging smoke in mid-air to observe and report over the console speakers as they began to follow the DropShip to the end of the runway.

  “Rage, it’s a trap.  I see buried turrets coming up beside the runway - they look like buried tank turrets.”

  The remaining Djinn must have been in communication with their leader, as they undertook the same maneuver.  “Rage, there are some kind of pop-up missile turret further out past the turrets.”

  “Roger, Starboard, what type?”

  “Looks like a mix, SRM close up and centered around the AP turrets, LRMs further back with the heavy weapons..  No reloading method seen, I think these are single-shot.”

  Berith listened to the bridge crew for a moment, beginning the landing checklist to shut down the DropShip as bodyguards and diplomats began conferring.  Trap or not, without the assistance of a friendly ground crew, the Rage would find it difficult to maneuver on the narrow runway.

  He leaned back again to consider his options.  Staying put and waiting was cowardly – out.  Leaving without completing the mission – out.  The Rage was helpless, unable to even turn around on the narrow runway without help.

  Surrender – out.  The Pythons had clearly prepared for a massacre of whoever landed on this runway, but except for some livestock, the welcoming party entering the bunker and a few vehicles kilometers away nothing moved according to Blake Flight, now recalled to their carrier.

  Negotiate?  With who?  For what?  He mulled the possibilities over in his mind.  The decision had to be made promptly, or stalemate – in their favor – would ensue.  His decision made, he tilted the seat fully upright and came to his feet.

  “Negotiating team, prepare to disembark.”

(Sidebar C)

  Coming down the personnel deck of the DropShip on the near side of the runway to return the brisk salutes of the small security team a small party of diplomats, bodyguards, and advisors followed a tall man in what had to be a formal uniform, complete with robe.  Half-way across the apron a pair of the Blakist Battlearmor caught up and passed the greeting party, clearly moving to inspect the bunker.  The remainder of the apron security teams took their time, walking out of the smoke that was now dissipating to board the DropShip.

  Angus nodded to the man next to the wall screen.  The exterior cameras had caught their movement but there was no need to see more, and the screen blanked as the false wall began to come down, hiding the monitors and thick glassed window with the heavy-looking steel door beside it.

  At least the Blakists were prompt, Angus thought.  The passive hostility of Valhalla’s landing fields gave those uncertain of themselves enough time to realize just how much trouble they were in.  It said something about the man walking confidently towards the bunker to have responded so quickly.

  Men standing along the wall to watch the monitor began to move to collect some of the fragrant stew and stale bread from the small galley behind him to join their friends at the tables that filled the inside of the bunker.  Most of them were studiously paying strict attention to their meals when the first of the two Battlearmored troopers opened the heavy door to the bunker, scanning the room of scowling faces looking up from the tables before moving out of the doorway to allow the greeting party to enter.

  Keeping his gaze on the plate before him and taking another bite, he nonetheless noticed the sudden tension as the first of the robed figures entered the bunker.  The tableau stretched for another few seconds as the strangers entered the bunker, the heavy steel door closing with a heavy thud, before one of the robed figures ventured, “Mind if we warm ourselves up a bit before going back out again?”

  A rough chorus of grunts and murmured assent seemed to lessen the tension among the greeting party.

  “Quite the welcome you folk have.  I take it this is an ambush and your other assets are kept dispersed until you need them?”

  This time the low laughter was far more amused, as one of the older men guffawed before responding in a dry voice, “Welcome to Valhalla’s Merchant Field Alpha.  Do you have anything to declare?”  The diplomat essayed a weak laugh and grin – he could only have been such, Angus judged, noting the man’s lack of a sidearm.

  The overly friendly man essayed a weak laugh and grin, making himself the instant focus of the suddenly grim-faced men across the room.  The embarrassed flush on the diplomat’s face – he could only have been such, Angus judged – struck him as the most amusing incident so far.  Letting an amused snort escape him as he stood and turned to move the short distance along the rough interior wall before bending to reach past the worn floor boards to pull upwards on the hidden catch, he guided the wall upwards to reveal the security monitors still centered on the Battlearmored troops and waiting DropShip, and the heavily shielded room behind the wall’s sole window.

  Visible through the thick glass were blinking indicators and status lights on the equipment behind it, and a second, much heavier looking door to one side had the kind of mechanical lock you expected to find on an airlock made it clear access was not something to take lightly.  A fact reinforced by the small plate visible on the bottom of the window frame, with the caption, “ALM-001-SP  25 Megaton”.

So, reading a lot of Cannonshop's Kowloon stuff on the OF recently - reminded me to finish the sidebar fiction for the project.  Here it is.  What do you think?  Any comments?

Could you remind me what is the story behind these sidebars?

In a nutshell, the WOB and a faction from my New Clans AU are going to try their luck at civil war, FIRST SUCCESSION WAR-style.

The new clans have prepared for total war with Kerensky's clans since the Annihilation of the Wolverines failed and they came to the cluster.  Now, that 'total war's doctrine is going to be tested.

The WOB/Pythons are going for a pearl harbour ambush but get caught working up to it, and get wiped out in return.  The WOB will escape (some of them) but their militia and followers on a planet named Elba decide they like being secular and ambush the returning nutjobs.  The new clans show up and finish the job for them, then either plot the planet and leave them to die, nuke them to keep their existence a secret, or force them to emigrate deeper into the periphery.

I got a pdf of the project so far, if you want to see it.

Nice!

Sure.  Sent a PM with an email addy, this one even has a cover!

Not all the timeline is finished - but if you have a question let me know.

Sigh.

I mean, you send a pm.  Stupid autocorrect.

Comments?