> Under a blood red sky
> A crowd has gathered in black and white
> Arms entwined, the chosen few
> The newspapers says, says
> Say it's true, it's true
> And we can break through
> Though torn in two
> We can be one
U2 - “New Years Day”
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“...again.”
Taichist sighed and rose to his feet, planting all four hooves on the deck. His breath came in pants, but his opponent seemed as fresh as the proverbial daisy, although she was three times his age. It wasn’t a fair comparison since humans and Saurotaurs aged at different rates...though it had more to do with the fact he had yet to lay a glove on her. He could not say the same for Tango, as his many lumps and bruises could attest.
“You’re still hesitating, kid,” she clucked, shaking her head. “You’ve got a weight and short distance speed advantage on me, so use that. You should have no problem knocking me on my ass, so quit screwing around and do it!”
“Yes Ma’am,” he nodded, taking a deep breath and digging in his hooves. He knew she was right, despite his and Chechla’s impassioned speech to their father they both still had a lot to learn. He glanced over at the side of the compartment where his sister was recovering from her last match with Tango. They’d been swapping out back and forth, and while both of them were edging towards exhaustion, the human just grinned and motioned him forward.
The young Saurotaur charged, his hooves hammering the deck as he ran full tilt to bowl the human over, his hands low and loose as she’d showed them. In just a few seconds he’d closed the gap, and this time he vowed to run her down instead of veering off to the side as he had been. She called it “Chicken”, though he was unsure of the word’s meaning. He thundered across the compartment, his fists ready to strike as he closed in…
...only for her to dodge at the last second, her foot slamming hard against the inside of his knee joint. His eyes went wide as the leg buckled, his forward momentum pitching him onto his face and into an awkward tumble until he came to a halt several meters away.
“...ow...” he groaned as Tango’s face appeared, looming over him.
“What was your mistake?” she smirked.
“But...I did what you told me to do!” he protested.
“And that was your mistake,” she chuckled. “Sure, you used the speed, but you came in too fast and overcommitted. All I had to do was wait until you couldn’t turn and then use your momentum against you.”
“Then how am I supposed to beat you?” Taichist demanded.
Tango laughed. “Kid, if you ever beat me, there’s something very wrong in the universe,” she grinned. “Now let’s get you back up and try it again.” She extended her hand, and he took it gratefully, leveraging himself back towards a sitting position.
Only to collapse in a heap yet again, as she let go without warning.
“Never trust your opponent, kid,” she snapped, her hands now on her hips. “He ain’t looking to do you any favors.”
“...yes ma’am,” he sighed, as he struggled back to his feet.
“Again!”
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Marshal Fujimoto just shook her head. “And I’m telling you that until we get the Ronin situation under control, there’s no way in hell I can kick off Operation Phalange,” she growled. “We’re short of hulls, both military and transports. Until that’s resolved...forget it.”
“...what about the freighters that transported the Khonhim children to Mars?” Leandra mused. “Can we use those?”
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“Already snagged them,” Hélène fired back, “though it took a fair bit of wrangling with the Deputy Dhyaksh.” She contemplated her drink for a moment before gazing at the Prime Minister. “I’d monitor that one if I were you,” she advised. “She comes across as pleasant and thoughtful, but I’m warning you, she’s the camel’s nose under the tent. She’ll worm her way in and you won’t even realize it until it’s too damn late.”
The other woman smirked. “Don’t worry...she’s been on my radar for some time now.” Her eyes twinkled as she sipped from her tumbler, prompting a groan from her counterpart.
“Damn it, what sort of deep game are you playing now?” the Marshal grimaced.
The Prime Minister chuckled. “You just worry about the war. Leave the politics to me.”
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Fabrication of the nanomachines needed to cure the Ronin plague had absolute priority over everything else. As soon as they manufactured them they were immediately loaded onto transports and rushed to the affected worlds, but it was a race against time.
Σ10 had been one of the first Ronin worlds to be hit by the plague, and given its size and location, it was the perfect choice to test the nanomachines effectiveness. The precious cargo had been offloaded to every ship, shuttle, and fighter in the system for delivery, but by necessity, it was up to the Tetrarchy destroyer Typhon to carry the lion’s share of the burden. Its holds were just large enough to handle the distribution over the planet’s surface, and when given a rather unhelpful shrug as her captain asked how best to deploy said devices, she muttered some rather colorful pejoratives under her breath before telling her helmsman to do his best.
With the problem now dumped in his lap, the helmsman considered and rejected a dozen different scenarios, before settling on the one that seemed to offer the best planetary coverage, while requiring the least amount of orbital acrobatics on his part. The Polar Orbit was a tried-and-true method for covering the surface of an entire world, designed for the first primitive Reconnaissance Satellites of old Earth. The satellite would orbit from pole to pole as the planet rotated beneath it, giving it complete coverage.
Simple and effective. Just what the doctor ordered...only with one tiny wrinkle.
They needed to get low to deliver the nanomachines well within the atmospheric envelope. This presented two problems...the first being heating and drag caused by friction with the atmosphere itself. The Tetrarchy vessel could handle that, though it would require constant monitoring by the crew.
The second problem was more immediate...by diving that low into the atmosphere, Typhon was making herself a nice juicy target for the infected Ronin. They’d proven again and again they not only had the capability, they were more than happy to use it. Maybe they could deploy the nanomachines fast enough to avoid that possibility...but no one would place a bet on it.
So, the simple orbital plan got a lot more complex. By the time he’d finished adding all the bells and whistles necessary to keep them from being blown out of the sky, the orbital diagram resembled something out of an M. C. Escher fever-dream. The computer could handle most of it, but computers were also predictable when going up against a machine intelligence, no matter how badly warped.
Humans, on the other hand, were decidedly un-predictable.
So he’d be flying this one by the seat of his pants. They had backup from the shuttles and fighters, but that was a mere drop in the bucket. It was up to Typhon.
As the countdown clock ticked down, the captain hit the intercom. “All Hands, battle stations. Brace for hard burn.”
At “Zero”...Typhon dove.
Not ten minutes into the run, the missiles and shells began to fly. He dodged and jinked while the gunners picked off what they could, but they still got through. He felt the ship shudder with every hit, even as the loadmasters dumped the nanomachines out the airlocks as fast as they could, but was it enough? He redlined the engines, bobbing and weaving, leaving an ever-expanding cloud in their wake, and still, the hits came. Sweat poured down his forehead and stained his undershirt, but he held the controls steady with a death grip as he flew his way through the flak.
They had to make it. They had to.
...still taking too much fire, so he did the unthinkable…he dove even deeper into the gravity well, the flames of ionization roaring around the destroyer, throwing off the incoming projectiles. It made for a longer trip, but a safer one, though at this point he was no longer sure of anything. The trajectory he’d chosen took the ship to the absolute limits of endurance and skill...perhaps even beyond.
But Typhon held. By God, she held.
It wasn’t until he felt the captain’s hand on his shoulder he spared a glance at the objective map. What had started as an angry red orb was now a lush green, her words seeping through to his addled brain, at last, ordering him to pull up. Typhon....wounded, battered, scorched...breached the atmosphere like a dolphin, as he put her back into a standard orbit, his chest heaving as he collapsed in his chair.
He looked up at his captain; the pair sharing a weary moment...when the communicator sputtered to life.
“...can anyone hear us? This is the Adjutant Minister, for planet Σ10...please respond. Can you hear us?”
The captain pressed the glowing icon on the panel and smiled.
“...this is the Tetrarchy vessel Typhon. We hear you...loud and clear.”