Templar Header [https://i.imgur.com/xVOD5AQ.png]
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Chapter 2 - Ambush
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Of all the mechanics and engineers I've met, both at the academy and in my still somewhat brief career, all have sayings, little mantras and repeated complaints. The older the mechanic, the more they have. Chief Gros has dozens, and even Mr Shane, a mechanic of around ten years, has his fair share.
But I've noticed they all have one saying in common. As the new kid on the block, everyone seems very intent on telling me; “You don't even start to know what it means to be a wartime mechanic until something you've poured hours of blood, sweat and tears into is destroyed in a single instant.”
I'd honestly started rolling my eyes at this. If things weren't easily destroyed, we would be out of a job in no time. That was until today.
It's been twenty days, exactly two weeks since I joined the Caravel's crew. Today, like all the rest, we were simply patrolling the supply routes. Supply convoys come in all different shapes and sizes, some are guarded by our ships, others have some light defences of their own, and more still are just civilian vessels that are effectively defenceless.
The Caravel is actually smaller than a lot of the freighters we pass by, but apparently, there is only one of its class in the entire Remembrance Navy, and as such, it's pretty famous. A lot of supply ships get a sense of reassurance simply by seeing a renowned ace like Templar, out on patrol.
There are also cases of two supply ships from either side of the war simply passing one another. If both have no escort, there is a sort of gentleman's agreement not to open fire with whatever measly weapons you have but rather to pass peacefully and simply report the sighting to your own side. Which makes sense – most freighters are crewed by civilians or even mercenary types with no real stake in the war past a profit margin – they will avoid combat whenever possible.
So then it was quite the surprise when we came across two such freighters, massive bland rectangles in the vastness of space, with nothing more than a few point-defence guns and little to no armour – Duking it out to the death.
The Caravel acted fast, orders came from the bridge for all to take our positions, and before long, I was in the hangar watching the Crusade and the Type-C take flight. Still, the battle alert was a low one. Two Vijiaks can wipe out a freighter with their eyes closed, so there was no real threat here. We'd simply have Templar and Birgit fly over and put a quick end to the fighting. After that, we'd make sure the freighter from our side could still get wherever it was heading and arrest the enemy supply ship. A rather simple procedure all told.
One hundred and twenty-two seconds. That's how long it took for the Type-C, the machine we'd all spent two weeks getting into working order, the machine I had personally spent a copious number of hours painting into a colour scheme that matched the Crusade, to get utterly wrecked.
They had daintily stepped out; the freighter probably had doors barely tall enough for them. Birgit, perhaps trying to impress everyone, had taken point, flying ahead of the Crusade. When five Union mechs had appeared from behind the enemy supply vessel, he had been far too ahead to avoid their barrage of fire. He had also panicked.
As soon as the bridge spotted the threat, they ordered Birgit to raise his shield and slowly retreat, but the young man had been too alarmed. He'd turned and ran, showing his back to the enemy, not even trying to use his defences.
The Type-C is what a layman might call a 'grunt-mech', or more officially, a 'Main-Battle-Type[MBT]'. It has four thin and somewhat lanky limbs, thrusters everywhere and a rectangular head that looks like an old film-set camera. Its main feature is an inbuilt adapter that can be hooked to extra fuel tanks, allowing the Type-C to travel further and faster than any other mech currently in service.
A very common Remembrance tactic is to spend a couple dozen Type-Cs ahead of our fleets, hitting an enemy that still thinks it is outside of mech deployment range. So, all told, it is an excellent MBT, even if it looks like a weird stick insect. Then again, against five enemy machines and with a panicking pilot, it was truly a miracle that Birgit wasn't immediately blasted to pieces.
As he ran, not blocking any of the incoming fire, he rapidly gained scorch marks and dents all over, my paint job soon peeling away. Finally, a duo of bright orange rifle blasts that flew like lightning bolts across the sky slammed into the thin limbs and obliterated them. Cut from the thighs down, the Type-C’s legs were simply gone.
The pit in my stomach told me all I needed to know – it's true – you really don't know what being a wartime mechanic is like until you watch something you poured hours of blood, sweat and tears into get destroyed in a single impact...
****
“Kris, lower the overrun gear. Shane, get on the damper controls. Someone get me a fire crew and the doc!” Chief Gros shouts across the local comms line to those of us watching the battle from the Caravel’s hangar. See, while we were dismaying the destruction of all our hard work, Birgit had arguably been rather lucky. Somehow, he'd just about avoided any direct hits to his cockpit and thus was still retreating, alive, and heading straight for us.
Through the massive doors, which made for quite the front-row window, I watched as the Type-C grew larger and larger in my vision. Over the shipwide comms feeding straight into my spacesuit helmet, I could hear Sue up on the bridge, trying to calm Birgit down, urging him to slow his approach. Birgit's only reply is a sort of strained, hyperventilating moan; “Ahhhhhhhnnnnnaaaaaaaaa!”
I do as ordered, hopping up to one of the raised gantrys linging the hangar walls, and start activating these massive levers, which in turn begin to lower metal meshes from the ceiling down to the floor. After all, while the hangar is the largest room of the ship, certainly bigger than the house I grew up in, it’s still a relatively small runway. If Birgit comes in too fast, it’s entirely possible he could crash right into the hangar's back wall and do severe damage to himself and our vessel. The many layers of mesh and wire walls down now are an emergency measure intended to slow his approach forcefully if need be.
‘Course, that is only if he doesn't miss the door entirely. Instead, he could be so hysterical that he slams into the side of the ship… All the levers in motion, I look up to check his progress. It would only be a few more seconds until we knew what was to become of Birgit, but then my eyes catch something else out on the black canvas of space, the sight of Templar.
Having very successfully run off the Type-C, the five enemy mechs are now unleashing a barrage against the only other threat, Templar’s Crusade mech. Unlike Birgit however, there is no panicking. With careful, fluid movements, the Crusade swishes from side to side, avoiding each rifle blast with ease, blocking the odd one handily with its shield or lance.
The five enemy machines are Mleue, probably a Seeker unit, just like the ones in the video we watched last week. These sorts of ambush tactics are very in keeping with their standard strategies, and the metallic-blue, avian-looking Mleue is no ordinary MBT but rather a high-spec specialist unit.
Each unit is keeping its distance from Templar, no doubt having already realised his mech only has close-quarters weapons. They circle around him, just out of range, hoping to eventually pierce his defence. Except they are wrong.
Over these last two weeks, I've learned that the Crusade’s lance holds a number of secrets, and now one was put in action. Templar surges forward, his cape billowing behind him as he lunges at top speed towards the nearest foe. Said enemy predictably begins to back away without much concern, until that is, the lance's four pocket indents, which no doubt looked like a simple design choice to his enemies; flare to life.
Four, eight, twelve, sixteen small yellow energy bolts are loosed from the weapon instantly, the SMG equivalent of energy rifles. The unsuspecting Mleue has no time to deal with this unexpected ranged attack and finds itself riddled by the sixteen rounds of pale light. Before it can regain its footing, the Crusade has already caught up.
The Lance surges forth to finish the job it started, its gleaming white tip spearing through the Mleue’s proud chest in a violent shower of sparks. A couple long seconds later, the lance emerges from the Mleue's back, a fountain of hydraulic oil and the blood of the pulverised human inside, emerging and staining the lance tip. Now the battle has begun in earnest.
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With a level of menace no machine should be able to convey, the knight-shaped mech slowly, deliberately slides its weapon back out of its foe, leaving only the massive hole where its cockpit, the heart of its torso, had once been. Turning towards the remaining four, it swipes the tool left and right as though to clean off the stains. All while the hot, red dot of an eye inside that bucket helmet glows vibrantly.
Our enemy, The States Union or ‘TSU’ for short, has spent the last thirteen years repeatedly trying to stop our attempts at the independence we rightfully claim. Powerful factions like TSU-s have been formed with the sole purpose of using any means necessary to wipe out our people's dream of sovereignty, but they always fail. Earlier this year, Remembrance’s great leader, Grand Commander Omaes Agagite, 1st ranked of The 5 Great Aces, single-handedly wiped out the TSU-s and IAFS factions.
That day, I finally decided it was time to do my part for our planet's dream and signed up for training. There are those among our countrymen who claim what we are doing is wrong. That the war for independence ended ten years ago, that we have to accept that defeat, but how can we? Give up on everything we deserve, give up on the sacrifice everyone who came before us has made?
Even if we wanted to, the enemy would never let us. This ambush is just another in a long list of evidence to that effect. The Seekers, yet another group dedicated to wiping us out and denying our dream, and maybe they’d succeed too. If we were like those IAFS Neos, perhaps this would be where we die. But we are Remembrance; we have fought for over a decade and will fight for a decade more if that's what it takes. And Templar is our ultimate proof of that desire. I don't feel fear for him or myself, that we could end up the same as that battleship, that a Seeker might point their rifle at me once again. Instead, I feel nothing but anticipation.
With the Crusade having slain one of their friends, the four remaining seekers waste no time getting into a new formation. The four Mleue begin circling in an orbit around the knight. With each loop, one swoops down, firing all the while but never getting entirely within reach, then swoops back up to the formations. Before it has finished this, another is already starting its assault.
In this manner, Templar is pinned down, having to block wave after wave of fire with his shield and lance. Should he try and advance, he'd have to take at least some damage.
Moreover, the enemy circling effectively means two are permanently in front and behind him at all times. Even with the rear-view camera, that has to be unnerving.
After a few waves of this, I wondered if the Caraval would have to fire its cannons to try grant Templar an opening, but it seemed that concern was wholly unnecessary. Having waited just long enough to be sure of the timing – just as the newest Mleue flies in, guns blazing – Templar flips his mech's wrist with an uncannily accurate motion. A thin blue sliver of metal, a shard of the first enemy he slayed, zooms up and slams into the incoming foe's primary camera. The confusion this must have caused, leads to the second Mleue dropping just slightly faster than all the rest before it, into Templar's range.
The Crusade raises one chunky arm, steps to one side, and slams down. Its elbow rocketing in, smashing into the back of the passing Mleue and crushing its rear thrusters. No more than a second later, the Crusade’s whole body swings ninety degrees to the right. Lance first, a third Mleue that had tried to get a direct slash on Templar's open back finds itself just seconds too late as the superior reach of the lance slams into its side, knocking the whole mech away.
As though all this had been nothing more than swatting insects, the lance immediately begins firing its small cannons at the two remaining Mleue, who, perhaps warier than they need to be, spread apart to avoid the fire. In a matter of five seconds, the enemy's expert formation has collapsed.
From there, it devolves into an outright massacre; Templar dodges, ducks and dives between attacks, moving with speed unsuited to such a heavy-looking mech, and cuts a warpath across the night's sky one slash and stab at a time.
Having caught up to a fleeing enemy, he lets go of his lance and uses his freed left hand to grab the Mleue by its pointy head, stopping it from running further. With his right hand drawing his calabar longsword from the waist, a sort of chainsaw shaped like a sword spinning so fast it looks aflame, he rams it into the small of the Mleue's back. The enemy bows out in a U-shape, were it human, its spine would surely have shattered, and as is the pilot inside is instantly gouged out.
Meanwhile, another unit lunges for the lance, perhaps thinking of stealing the weapon before Templar can reequip it. It charges towards its tip. It is an understandable mistake – by all accounts, the lance was floating free from this Seeker's perspective, a weapon for the taking – except, of course, for the beefy cable running from the lance’s back all the way to the palm of the Crusade’s left hand, painted black to blend in with its surroundings. And while still pulling his sword free of the second dead enemy, the lance remotely fires a slew of rounds into the approaching Mleue. The poor mecha trembles and flounders as each almost point-blank impact burns into its helpless core, its whole body trembling and tumbling from the sudden declaration.
With that same easy air and casual menace, Templar rewinds the weapon back onto his hand as the riddled Mleue, its engine having been breached, explodes into an awe-inspiring white ball of light. From my perspective, it was like a second sun had temporarily appeared in space, utterly blinding were it not for the natural protection of my helmet’s visor. The mother of all fireworks born from the death of this defeated enemy.
The Crusade slowly turns its back on this explosion, its sword retrieved from the other corpsed enemy, its lance firmly reattached, backlit by the fading explosion, surrounded by the debris of three felled Seekers. Templar turns his gaze on the last two.
Having either run out of energy or simply thought better of it, the two have let go of their rifles, and instead, both now draw a duo of arc-staffs. An arc-staff is a telescopic weapon that emits dozens of tiny plasma arcs to form a single solid blade of light, in this case in the shape of simple swords. One of the two charges bravely, head-on at Templar. The other begins a wide loop, perhaps trying to get behind the ace-pilot. Even I must admit that these enemies are certainly not lacking in courage.
Arc-staff smashes against calabar blade, sending out a shower of sparks to light up the night. With the second arc-staff being deflected by the lance, it becomes apparent that the Mleue might have more of a chance at close range, with the lance proving far too unwieldy for anything but defence this close-up.
The Mleue and the Crusade trade blow after blow, sparks flying with each impact. The Seeker would lock one blade with Templar's and then try to pierce in a fencing-style spike with the other. Templar, however, is entirely too fast, easily sliding back, out of range or blocking with the flat of his lance.
The short blue bird of prey and the massive white knight continue to lock blades this way. The other surviving Seeker is now behind them, rapidly closing the distance. It aims to cut into Templar’s back as it charges with its two blades held in a glowing X-shape, one blade on top of the other like scissors, a fitting revenge, I suppose. It is a doomed plan.
With that same deft timing as before, Templar let's one of the Mleue's attacks hit. Not blocking its most recent slash, the Mleue finds itself overshooting and its blade embedded into Templar’s right shoulder, sizzling as it burrows into the thick armour plating. Taking advantage of this sudden momentum, the Crusade reaches out and shoves its foe; in an instant, they have flipped positions - Just in time for the fifth and final Seeker to press both of its blades straight into its unfortunate ally.
The cut is professional. The Mleue cleanly slices through its ally's torso, claiming the pilot's life in an instant of glorious hellfire.
Before anyone like me watching or the poor Seeker pilot can even process this, their momentum pushes them into a space parallel with Templar. Mirroring a move he had used to crush some of this very unit’s thrusters mere minutes ago, the Crusade raises one arm up and slams it down mightily. It also brings up one massive knee with uncanny speed.
The two appendages meet in the middle, inside the last Mleue. With the ungodly force of a hydraulic press, kneecap and elbow smash through the back and chest of the foe, crushing its core and pilot inside with gross efficiency. I can only shiver imagining the sound that would’ve made were it not for the vacuum of space. The terrible screeching of metal on metal, the crunch as the enemy machine buckles in on itself, the damp splatter of fluids and human alike being compressed.
At the end of it all, the Crusade stands alone. Cape billowing behind it, sword and lance stained a mix of brown and red. An arc-staff is still embedded in one shoulder, and that lone eye is still glowing crimson. It was everything I imagined a fight between Remembrance’s greatest hero and our enemy's best pilots to look like. Everything a true hero should exemplify. Everythin–
“--d KID! CREWMEN KRIS!!”
I flinch, my ears ringing as Chief Gros yells my name and it echoes in my helmet. I finally take my eyes off the spectacle outside the ship and turn to look back in on the hangar.
There, tangled up in four layers of nets, is the Type-C or what's left of it. Its cockpit is open, Birgit nearby being looked over by the ship's doctor. The mech had made its emergency landing and somehow or another not crashed into anything significant; and I had been so transfixed on watching Templar fight that I'd completely missed what was right in front of me.
I'd also, it seems, missed a red-faced chief mechanic trying to give me new orders...
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