It’s strange to know that I am better at fighting space ships than a few companies of cats. The space operas of old taught me that small, fast moving assaults are hard for ships of the line to target. In the age of sail, it was just hard to hit things with mounted cannons. In the industrial age, targeting was much improved by the more compact and high-powered nature of artillery, and ships moved relatively slow relative to each other—say twenty knots. Once airplanes were introduced into maritime combat, the game changed dramatically. The computer age saw some very impressive advances in targeting, but planes started carrying M5+ missiles that didn’t quite give all of the advantage back to the fast movers, but pilots survived more. Space age, that I’ve only been a part of for five years or so, has moved into comparative tech and speed just as in the computer age, but pushing against materiel and biologic limitations. Which would all be fine and understandable if you didn’t still need ground troops to hold territory.
Back to reality, I made some emergency purchases for this Company of Marines and spent the rest of my credits on t-2 gear for my boys and girls. It’s not enough. The specialized Vanguard still stands with their tower shields, but it’s not enough. The snipers are shattering shields and killing three cats every other shot, though, one might guess correctly, but it’s not enough.
/Titania, how long would it take to reconfigure the shuttle shields to absorb a napalm explosion?/
\Cannot be done completely, Admiral.\
/How long would they last under Napalm?/
\Up to 90 seconds, give or take.\
/Please make it happen within two minutes./ I change channels and talk to the company officers. /Marines, Titania is going to create an opportunity to shield yourself from a major attack that will occur in approximately three minutes. Do not die because you are slow./
I fade to the back as I recharge my aether stores for a horrific bombardment I plan to levy. Sure, pulling back affects my Marines, but I feel that if I don’t at least attempt this grand gesture, many more will die. I line up shots while I eat and take singles out of hundreds while bayonets and sabers are tussling with gunfire below. While the Phaseblades would have ruined all but the Vanguard, I am surprised at the fighting ability of the Marines that volunteered for this assault—holding their own with a war-bred race is no small feat.
Two minutes come and go and Titania alerts me to the shield extension and the limits of extension. I forward that to the officer corps and to order the retreat while I spool up as much void energy as I can hold. Just as all of my troops slide inside the shield’s barrier, I teleport and broadside the Herrati forces with [Nightmare Napalm] as wide and as thick as I can push it. Less than ten seconds later, I’m tapped and my ripple drive drops me from the sky. The suit switches over to my small emergency supply of thruster power so that I can land, but my teleport doesn’t take Aether. Too bad my Will is nearly gone, as apparently most of it is committed to my follow-on engagement. I did not know I could commit Willpower to a future thing. Today I learned.
Normally I’d complain about such things, but I’d like to think I’m growing as a person in realizing that I get away with a lot of shit. My teleport messes with my thrust vectors so I begin tumbling. It’s fast enough that I don’t care to correct it and just tuck and roll. I feel a few legs worth of resistance before I roll to a stop. I pop my visor, stuff some fruit in my mouth and sip on my victory Horchata.
/I pumped it thick Titania, share integrity updates with the officer corps./
\As you say Admiral.\ à “Marines, shield integrity is at 85%, failure estimated in 63 seconds.”
That is less than expected, I muse as I roll over and summon myself a weapon and try to line up some shots. High impact sniper rounds are key at this juncture, as I can throw napalm covered Herrat into the clean pockets to spread the flesh and reality melting substance.
“Admiral! A cargo shuttle approaches from the South!”
“Take it down. That’s either rigged to explode or has a hundred cats on it.”
“We can’t Admiral, by the time the shuttles are in a position to fire, or a Missile from Titania gets here, it will already be upon us!” Major Stokes panics.
/Titania, is there any way you can teleport me a missile in the next ten seconds?/
\ . . . Yes, but it will permanently disable our elevator transport network. The physical ones will still operate.\
/Do it. Teleport any type of self-propelled warhead to my location in 7 seconds./
I immediately blast off with my thrusters and streak toward the inbound industrial shuttle. Seven seconds later a full-sized space torpedo is teleported on top of me. I task my remaining parallel minds to interface with the torpedo’s interface and program it to take out the incoming cats. The torpedo’s thrusters pop and burn my suit on the way by, my Aether stores insufficient to prevent all damage. I realize I made a fucking backpack for suit-powering purposes and swear as I summon it and struggle to put it on as the burns restrict me.
Self, that is a .5kg A-M torpedo. Evasive teleportation advised.
Fuck me sideways. “All moonside personnel. Board the shuttles and employ personal shields. Six MT Blast incoming in 15.”
Do we survive this?
Long term, yes; short term, no.
Well, that’s a bitch. Is there any reason I can’t use the committed willpower now?
You are low on Aether, so you will be unable to finalize your plans, but beginning them is . . . possible even from a different system than planned.
/Captain, you have command of the engagement area. Titania, interface with Tessa until I return./
Before I can alert the officer corps directly, my parallel mind takes over and taps into the core of the System Host in orbit around Solastra and Solastrb by stretching my consciousness through aether space. I whisper a hope that my Marines and Zia make it out alive before I am stretched too thin for consciousness.
***
The Marines in charge of the stealth unit are treating me like a baby and a drone, and I want to shank the squad leaders. Momma gave me Lieutenant access to the interface but I have no idea what that means. I see a bunch of info on each of the Marines around me, but the leaders appear to be Corporals? A brief AI assisted search tells me that only platoons are led by officers, squads are led by PFCs or Corporals. Whatever that means.
I’m starting to get why Momma asked if I was ready for a real mission, as these missions are primarily boring with waiting before moving, more waiting before planning and yet more waiting before doing. How can grown-ups handle so much waiting. I bet Jenna asks the same thing, she’s always active.
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“The Herrat response from this building has mobilized. Activate active camo, use AI comms from here on out.”
A round of clicks roll through the network as they non-vocally respond to the Corporal.
/T minus 5 minutes Corporal./ I message as I pull up my visual diffusion aeromancy.
\That’s it? I thought . . .\
/It’s wasted on waiting and thinking, Corporal./ His eyes go wide with surprise and anger, but he finally realizes that times a wasting as he issues a hand signal for us all to move.
The team was briefed that my conjuring is a complete camo at 10m, but as that gets closer, the sound and wind of the spell are detectable with the right instruments. Within 3 meters, anyone could tell something was wrong with the air movement and smells were detectable. Visuals were iffy within 3m as well, so hopefully the Corporal figures that from the briefing.
He signals to hold 10m from the door as more cats pour out. A minute later, we rush inside and find a cozy corner of the large warehouse to drop the spell.
\How long to recharge?\
/Two mins/ I say, stuffing my face with aether food and juice. /Aether fatigue after 5 uses? Unsure./
\That’s not very long kid, why the hell would . . .\
\For fuck’s sake Mike, she’s an asset with limits. Figure it out. It is literally your job.\ The squad weaponeer chides the squad leader.
/I am trained in blade combat and can blink up to 10 meters. Takes Aether though./
\Hmm, camo and silent strikes, this is good info, kid.\
/Name’s Zia or ‘Sir’, you pick, Corporal./ My throat reverberates sub sonically and the Squad raises their eyebrows as the wave impacts them. Corporal motions for us to take two, activate, and move up toward the offices on the second floor.
Mike kicks Gunner’s boot and we get kicks a round, telling us to begin. I raise our obfuscation field and we advance up the stairs to the gangway terrace thing. As we approach a window, Mike calls for a halt and pies the window with his eyes and his ballistic rifle. He motions that there are two people inside, makes claws for cats and motions for stabbing?
/Uh, who is engaging second cat?/
\Gunnar and Gillie will rush as you appear.\
Like O-M-G, you are such a good leader! Gag, what an ass. He signals to watch him and starts counting from 5 with his fingers. I unsheathe my daggers, hoping nothing the cats have can resist the arcane bronze in my left hand and the titan steel in my right. Not that I’m sticking around, I’m level 9 for Andromeda’s sake.
I hold my arms and blades in a circle and blink to put the cat’s neck in the ring. When I appear, I lean back, digging my knees into the furry back, and pull my daggers back and apart with a ‘shing’ of metal sliding across metal. I blink back immediately to escape a situation I am under-leveled for as gunshots and plasma splashes fill the small office.
\Zia, quit hanging your ass in the wind and get in here.\ Corporal poo head chats to me.
The cat I attacked sprayed a lot of blood everywhere, the other is mostly just bleeding on the floor. I shut the door behind me and I get the idea that the team is searching for something. I start looking for secret compartments. Not sure how to find them, but there are already eyes and hands on the desk and the cabinets. Ten minutes later one of the privates brings a folder to Corporal poo.
“Excellent. You sure this was all we found on the Automation Algorithm Housing.”
“Positive Corp.”
“Jonesy, take five to look at these schematics and tell us where we’re headed.” He slaps a paper to another man’s chest and he unfolds it quickly without tearing it. “Zia, I want you to use your wind trick to get us off this catwalk and into cover. Once Jonesy tells us our route, we’re pressing forward silent and dark until we get eyes on the device. Once we do that, you blink in, grab it and blink to safety if you can. Otherwise keep one of the Marines between you and the enemy.”
I nod at that. Seems doable. Don’t know if I have the aether to blink as many times as it would take to escape, but I would certainly try it if I had to. Minutes later, Jonesy shares a schematic via our HUDs and show’s the route to a sub-level vault below the crystal draw chambers. I know what these crystals are, as they are the basis of the batteries that run most of the aether devices on Astoria, but the technology behind it wasn’t a part of the Hereditary Memory that I received. The route that is planned out for us seems easy enough, but the grinding and shaping floor seems like a wide open space and I can’t keep up the obfuscation field long enough for us to get across it unless we run.
With my field up, we slink down the stairs and into the adjacent building with the grinding machines. The place is dark, darker than the humans can see, save the Corporal, who must have modded into nightvision. As a blink pixie shapeshifter, I can see well in low light and can mod my eyes myself to see better in the dead of night.
As soon as we get in between the machines I have to bring down the field and recoup my stamina, or whatever stat governs effort. Perhaps it is a function of multiple things like physique and willpower, though the point is moot while I don’t have the opportunity to change it.
The Marines in front of me have their weapons pointed low and forward, anchored in their shoulders as they rush along in a smooth rolling step. When the foremost Marine pies around a large steel box labeled “powdering chamber” a searing visual of two plasma bolts flash for an instant as Corporal signals for us to hold in place and get low. We wait for what seems like twenty seconds before we get signals to close in and move out.
The hallway we enter is a trial of patience for me and a period of intense concentration for the Marines. Every closed door gets rigged, every open door gets a proper search procedure, then also gets rigged with remote sensors and an overhead flashbang. Three closed and two open doors later, we get to the end of the hall that turns toward the crystal drawing chambers and supposedly a hatch, staircase, or elevator that goes to the vault.
Corporal poo signals me forward and essentially asks me if the guards are too close to the security door for my skill. I take a peak and make gestures of punching a keypad then an overhead light on the security door I saw. He ask me if I’m sure with a dopey look on his face. I nod my fist and point at my eyes.
\Right, risking chat. Zia sees a keypad with an overhead access light. We need to either punch out the light or cover it while we try hacking the keypad.\
\How can she even see that kind of detail?\
/Both the pad and the overhead are emitting dim UV light. It wouldn’t show up on normal night vision or infravision. Not sure why, but mom had her reasons I’m sure./
\I have an idea, Corp, but it’s gonna sound dumb.\
\Lets have it Jonesey!\
\Well, I have an MRE bag and if Pinkman gave me a boost I could cover it.\
/So, a crinkly bag and some tape? We have to maximize my obfuscation field to do this guys. No time to dilly or dally./
\Okay, bag is go, Martin and Plein, be ready to full send on the two cats on guard. Zia, when we get to the panel, any ideas that would take les time than a brute force hack would be welcome\
I nod my concurrence and raise my obfuscation field when signaled. We glide forward, keeping to the walls as much as possible as my field is not true invisibility, bit in this light, it might as well be. We reach the cubby with the door and the keypad with no issues but before I can focus on the keypad, I hear a cacophony of rustling bag and unrolling tape and stare at the cats in horrified anticipation. Corporal grabs my chin and angrily gestures to the keypad.
It looks like a standard ten key layout, but it has a hex shift key. Sixteen characters would be a bear to brute force. I’m surprised she didn’t implement some sort of bypass biometric device. I study the panel and see a nail width gap in the plastic toward the face, but only on one side. I stick a nail in and try to flick it out and a piece of plastic with a finger groove and a pinhole at the end. I look up to see what Corporal poo thinks. He glares at me then gestures me to go ahead.
Makes sense, I suppose. I share bio data with mom, but would she have keyed this plant with my info? Maybe if it was tied into the Empire’s interface and she could give blanket permission or access level. I shrug and put my finger in the groove and less than a second later the damn thing stabs me. Like a grown up, I hiss grab my finger and dance around in a circle.
Suddenly I’m being grabbed and flung into a dark space. I hear the shuffling of feet and the click of a door before I collect myself and stand up. Apparently my blood did the trick as we are all standing on a landing with stairs laid out in front of me. Jerk could have hurt me. I drop the field and slink down the step in a petulant fog. I get to the end and look around to find it turns perpendicular instead of a switchback and gesture that as best I can.
Jonesy takes the lead and we descend the next set of stairs but they only have a railing and we can see into the long room that seems to have crates and crates full of crystals. At the end, however, is a few squads of cats guarding a seemingly open door with one object at the end of a banks of servers. A crystalline lattice with hunks of tech arranged in a half dome-like shape.
Oh hells. That’s a prototype brain for momma’s robots, like Owen.