This is a short story written mostly to add flavor to
the PbP RPG that I am preparing to run. In a ways, it's also an advertisement. It is a short tale, a quick bit of action and plot hopefully to add feel to the universe and what to expect. It's also a bold-faced challenge to the idea that planes are useless against giant robots and vice-versa. I hope you enjoy it, but if not that's fine, but if you do... I hope it maybe convinces you to have a look at the game I am creating.
= = =
At 500 knots and at an altitude of just under 50 meters, two jet fighters carved their way through the cold, night sky of the northern Britannian Coast underneath the brilliant colors of an aggressive aurora borealis. They were a pair of twin-engined F-15C Eagles, state of the art and kitted out clearly for air and ground targets, in addition to a sensor suite underneath their fuselages. Both planes, painted a light gray, had no markings. No flight numbers, no national emblems, even their lights were taped over to evade any sort of detection.
These planes were not supposed to be here.
With a hiss of static, and a slight crackle, the voice of a young woman filled the helmets of both Eagle pilots. "This is AWACs Wind Fish, radio silence has been lifted, Garm Team you are now inside the operations area and free to commence the mission."
The pilot lead element of the plane, Garm 1, responded gaily to the information. When he spoke his voice was young but worn, like a man who just reached a milestone in his life and knew it. "Thank you, Wind Fish… are our hosts expecting us?"
"Britannian Air Defenses are in low power mode as expected; they don't expect anyone to come in over the pole like we did," Wind Fish answered, "Still, it'd be good for your health if you stayed below seventy-five meters until you reach the target."
The pilot of Garm 2, despite the high speed and low altitude, made a show of yawning loudly into his headset. "We've been on autopilot for hours, I'm just glad to have something to get my blood pumping."
Garm 2 was a young man as well, but a little jaded drawl in his tone, like he was weary of the world and the money was the only thing that made it worth keeping going.
"These are Britannians, so get ready to have your blood going back and forth between freezing and boiling when we get in the thick of it," Garm 1 instructed his wingmate.
"Copy that," Garm 2 replied.
"Approaching initial point, three miles," Wind Fish then spoke. "Garm Team, once past IP break off and line up your approach to take the photos of the training area and the units on the ground. Make sure your photos of the units are as clear as possible, we're not getting a second chance."
"That goes without saying," Garm 1 said, "But it's nice to hear your pretty voice."
The voice of pitch-perfect professionalism, Wind Fish ignored that. "Reaching initial point, break off and get into position."
With similar professionalism, the two F-15Cs broke off as a dark shape grew larger on the horizon, an immense dark spire that rose among the steep, rugged cliffs of the northern coast and the glaciers that spilled over them. Garm 2's Eagle raced inland, dipping even lower and making use of the plane's terrain following suite to stay above the ice and rock. Garm 1 went out over the ice-choked sea, the spray and chunks of ice flung up by the action of the waves pelting the underside of the plane.
Several kilometers away, the target of the two aircraft stood like a monolith in the polar night. This desolate location, formerly a Sakuradite Ore mine long run dry, was now a state of the art facility for the recently established Britannian Special Research Division, Camelot. Overlooking the jagged, snow-covered field from a covered platform on the lee side of the island, a boy in elegant royal attire oversaw the movement of tanks and armored personnel carriers moving through the snow.
The boy, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, and adorned in vestments that clearly denoted his rank, was Schneizel el Britannia, First Prince of Holy Britannia. Only twelve years old, the prodigious youth was already taking his brilliant intellect towards the betterment of his country and his people–and his recent acquisitions highlighted it.
"They're all quite wonderful aren't they?" Another older boy then said, garnering the young prince's attention. He was lavender haired, with grayish blue eyes, and wore a lab coat that seemed more like a straight-jacket with its somewhat long sleeves that fell past his hands.
The other boy, Lloyd Asplund, looked back out at the neatly parading vehicles moving to and fro in the snow. "Yuktobanian Research and Construction Cooperative Design Objekt 188 Main Battle Tank, and Objekt 688M Infantry Fighting Vehicle. They are representative of the best tracked land fighting vehicles on the planet."
Alongside the tanks, stomping through the deep snow, were slightly hunched, egg-shape bodied combat mecha. They stood over the tanks at just shy of nine meters in height, and were armed with assault rifles and RPGs.
"Objekt 332 Second Generation Arm Slave, Osean designation 'Rk-92 Savage'," Lloyd introduced. "The premiere Arm Slave in numbers on the planet."
He looked back at Schneizel, a smile growing across his lips. "You assembled all of this here, for me?"
Schneizel nodded. "You've been telling me for weeks how confident you are in your designs, so I elected to make this proving ground test reflect that. The best weapons in the world will be going up against your whispers."
Lloyd frowned at that. "Whispers? I don't listen to
those, I'm so hard at work that I've drowned them all out!"
Lloyd turned back to the window, and pressed his hands and face against it. "These breakthroughs are all my own hard work. I didn't need
help like the others."
As soon as he said that, a stiff monotone sounded from the speakers of the observation room the two stood. Also present in the room were various researchers, generals, and nobles. Almost all of them extremely interested in the course of today's demonstration.
"Test of the Prototype Unit Morgana will be commencing in ten seconds. All non-essential personnel please remain in assigned areas until the conclusion of the test."
Far below the observation deck, as wind and snow whipped by the base of Camelot's spire, a set of doors split down the middle and slowly retracted open, revealing a violet painted humanoid mecha. To those who watched the screen, there were murmurs of discontent as the machine's origins were easily identifiable. Despite the coloration, and the addition of equipment, the extremely human-like frame and fighter pilot-inspired helmet made it readily apparent that "Morgana" was an XM9 Gernsback Arm Slave, an Osean design currently under development in that country.
Unlike the standard XM9, however, the "Morgana" sported several different equipments. On its forehead was a large round camera-like sensor that gave off a glimmering red light at its center. On its hips, extra armor supported a pair of vice-like clamps connected to launchers. Similar launchers existed on the machine's forearms. On the backs of its legs, connected to the calf and ankle of the machine, were a set of rigs that ended in a single large wheel.
Schneizel could hear the uncouth murmuring behind him from his generals. The mere sight of Morgana disgusted them, the pride of the Britannian military allowed for no Black Technology–the origin of the Arm Slave–let alone Arm Slaves themselves. However, none were about to let the First Prince know of their displeasure.
Lloyd ignored it entirely as he watched Morgana step into view. He looked like a boy who'd just completed his first model ship and was watching it set sail in a pond without issue, no one could damper how proud he was at that moment.
"Look at it, Schneizel, it's beautiful!" Lloyd declared. "Sure, it's still an Arm Slave, but everything upon its body that I have built will make it better than any Arm Slave in existence!"
"Yes, it's fetching," Schneizel said.
When Lloyd nodded eagerly, the young prince then announced, "Commence the live fire exercise."
Lloyd's smile fell off his face. "L-live fire?"
At once, the tanks and APCs moving in parade turned and began approaching the Morgana, their stabilized barrels swiveling into position to target the Morgana, while the Savages advanced from slightly further behind with rifles raised.
Lloyd looked at this new development, and then back to Schneizel. "My lord, this can't be a live fire exercise! If Morgana is destroyed-"
"Then that is that," Schneizel said.
Lloyd looked back again. "Not that, your highness, what about the pilot?!"
"What about the pilot?" Schneizel said. "If your machine can't do what you believe it can… then their death is on you. The strong survive, while the weak perish. That is the credo of our Empire, is it not?"
"Y-yes, but…!" Lloyd looked back down at the field, the maddened boy looking a little crazed with fear now.
"So, show me if your design is worthy of Britannia," Schneizel commanded just before the first tank achieved a firing solution and fired.
The round was across the range in an instant, but rather than impact and destroy the Morgana, it whipped over its shoulder and struck the closed shutter doors with a great explosion. Morgana had simply leaned to the side, avoiding the hit.
Schneizel lifted an eyebrow, while Lloyd froze.
The rigs on the backs of Morgana's legs then swung down and struck the snow. Spinning up, the wheels caught into the snow and then the Arm Slave was
gone, hurtling towards the tanks as it drew from its back its standard weapons–the 57mm Smoothbore rifle.
Another tank opened fire, and then the APCs as well, and Morgana seemed to dance in the snow, spinning and evading the fire to close in on the lead tank. With a graceful leap, Morgana cleared the tank and landed behind it as a fountain of flame sprayed up from its destroyed turret.
More shells, joined by the tracers of the Savages, converged upon Morgana, which was on the move and out of their way. As it strafed perpendicular to the advancing targets, round after round from the Smoothbore Rifle impacted the lighter APCs, destroying their ammo stores and turning them into exploding pillars of fire.
Doubling around with a quick spin, Morgana charged the slower firing tanks and jumped again. Smoothbore rounds punctured their turrets, striking the stored ammunition and creating catastrophic explosions that lifted the turrets of the vehicles completely. As it fell, Morgana angled itself and from the hips the vice-like anchors fired, rocketing towards one of the Savages.
One of the Anchors missed, but the second was dead on, crashing into and crushing the chest of the Savage like a tin can.
The anchors drew back, reconnecting with their launchers one after another, causing Morgana to spin again before it landed atop another tank. Firing down into it, the Arm Slave leaped again, leaving it to explode.
Morgana's performance had left the room stunned, none more than Lloyd himself as he watched his creation run rampant all over the weapons of war from far afield.
"It's… it's incredible," Lloyd murmured in awe.
Schneizel, without looking back to the nobles, spoke. "There are many of you who believe that humanoid combat vehicles hold little place on the battlefield. You all came here not to see a demonstration of new technology, but the execution of an insane philosophy."
Morgana was swift and methodical for its seeming insanity of movement, one by one it dismantled tank and Arm Slave alike. Its agility and ease of movement was far too much for the slower Savages and even slower tanks to even attempt to protect themselves.
As another tank exploded, Schneizel held out his arms.
"This is the undeniable truth of the future. The art of war has reached a new plateau, and the one who holds that future in his hand, is whoever can climb the highest the fastest and then aim down at those following after."
Only two units remained, a single tank and a single Arm Slave. Morgana was quick to approach them, all but gliding across the snow as it abandoned the smoothbore for a sword hanging on its left shoulder. As it brandished the blade, it fired the anchors, one striking and bending the barrel of the tank attempting to bring it to bear, while the other disarmed the Savage of its assault rifle.
Closing in then, Morgana ignored the tank as the shot it had planned to fire struck and destroyed its bent barrel, and drove the sword it wielded into and through the remaining Savage–right as Garm 2's F-15C passed right overhead in a gentle right hand turn away from the scene, exposing its belly and the reconnaissance pod underneath it completely to the test range.
Schneizel regarded the intrusion with muted surprise. "… Where did that plane come from?"
The officer in command of the base was similarly stunned. "That's not one of ours! Is that Belkan?!"
Lloyd was also curious about it. "Wouldn't we have detected it?"
"Send up the alarm! Shoot down that plane!" The base commander yelled, right before the second Eagle appeared, skimming low over the battlefield from the opposite direction, also exposing its belly to the firing range, particularly Morgana.
Lloyd then realized it. "Reconnaissance planes."
Garm 2's F-15C was coming back around, and loosed a missile straight for Morgana, causing Lloyd's surprise to become dread. "Armed reconnaissance."
Morgana accelerated backwards, and began a slight turn to bring the missile after it. At the last possible second, it veered off, causing the missile to overshoot and hit the ground before exploding. As he came back around, Garm 2 was surprised to see that he had missed.
"It dodged?!" He exclaimed before Garm 1 had his own go.
"Whatever the hell they did to this Gernsback, they didn't spare a cent," Garm 1 said before firing two missiles. "I hope it's insured."
The missiles accelerated ahead of Garm 1, but Morgana was more prepared. This time, it fired both of its anchors, the cabled projectiles meeting the approaching missiles and impacting them to Garm 1's own incredulousness.
"Holy shit!" He announced before tracers warned him to accelerate into a climb.
"Well, now I wanna have a drink with this guy," through the tracers of the anti-aircraft guns, Garm 2 was rolling in and unleashing bursts of the Eagle's 20mm cannon upon Morgana, which narrowly evaded the shots as it went towards one of the wrecked Savages. With a final leap and a tumble, it picked up the destroyed Arm Slave's assault rifle and fired back.
The lead on the burst was awful, and Garm 2 made short work of the attack. "If he had nine more in the clip, he'd be pretty good. I almost don't want to kill him."
"I kind of want to do it as a matter of professional pride," Garm 1 informed his wingmate as he came around with three missiles fired ripple style. "And it's magazine, you don't want to get the gun nuts after you."
Morgana destroyed all three missiles, but its bursts aimed at the Eagles missed, the targets were too fast, and they seemed to know when to avoid the bursts soon as they saw the tracers.
"Then we'll at least pour something out for him," Garm 2 decided, before Wind Fish spoke up.
"Fuck, oh fuck! Garm 1, Garm 2! Enemy aircraft!"
In the midst of lining up for his run, Garm 2 looked around. "Where?"
He then looked up, and against the aurora as a black, rounded yet angular shape was directly above his plane. A twin-engined stealth fighter, not unlike his own but more advanced in every way.
Garm 2 damn near shat himself. "F-22s!"
Abandoning the attack, he broke hard left, the F-22 Raptor having no problem turning inside and staying on him. Rolling over, he went the other way, but the Raptor moved as if the pilot already knew where he was going to go.
As the F-22 locked him up, Garm 1's Eagle loosed a burst of cannon fire forced him to break off.
"Damn stealth assholes," Garm 1 muttered as he quickly formed up on Garm 2's wing. "Keep an eye on him!"
"Yeah, I know!" Garm 2 said before he scanned the sky. "Where are the others? These guys don't fly solo!"
Missiles fired from the Raptor forced both Eagles to unleash chaff and flares and turn in towards each other to maximize their use. It worked, the heat and foil confusing the warheads and causing them to miss.
Though that seemed to be the plan of the Raptor, which glued itself again to Garm 2's tail.
"Garm 2! Check six!" Garm 1 shouted out.
Garm 2 obeyed, and tried to bank, but a quick burst from the F-22's cannon danced along the Eagle's wing and with a great explosion most of said wing came off, sending the Eagle into a rising spiral.
"Garm 2!" Wind Fish cried out in shock.
"Damn bastard!" Garm 1 quickly brought the plane around as the F-22 tucked and weaved through the air to face him. Their position immediately placed them on a head-on course.
Placing the F-22 squarely in his sights, Garm 1 fired off a quick burst–only for each round to spark against the F-22's fuselage as it minutely adjusted its position with the movement of its flight surfaces and vectored engines.
Reacting with his own split-second reflex, Garm 1 barely evaded the burst of fire that the F-22 returned, and both aircraft missed one another.
"Damn, damn, damn…!" Garm 1 shouted as he pulled hard on the stick, G-Forces smashing him into his seat as he tried to bring his plane back to bear. The F-22 was turning back around, and it fell in his sights just long enough for him to get tone and then fire his missiles.
To his stark disbelief, as he leveled out, he was able to see the F-22–without flares or any other countermeasure–simply avoid the missiles like they were straight out of the Rectan War era.
"Wind Fish, forget that Arm Slave… I wanna know where they get these pilots from," Garm 1 murmured.
"Garm 1, bug out of there, a tanker is waiting!" Wind Fish warned.
Garm 1 was not about to bail on avenging his wingmate, however. "Not before I take this freak down!"
The F-22 had come back around, and was lining up for the joust again. Switching from missiles, Garm 1 readied his gun. "This time you're not getting away!"
The two aircraft hurtled towards one another, their combined speeds approaching 1500 kilometers an hour and rapidly increasing. Rather than fire right away, Garm 1 waited. He wasn't going to give him a chance to dodge or deflect this time, even if it meant he went down too.
"I've got you in my sights, bastard…!" The pilot said before the F-22 suddenly broke off early, narrowly avoiding another missile. "The hell?!"
Following the trail of the missile, Garm 1 spotted another unbelievable sight: Garm 2 was flying towards them, smoke trailing from what was certainly a destroyed right wing.
"Hey buddy," Garm 2 asked, "Still alive?"
"You son of a bitch," Garm 1 muttered before he shouted,
"How?!"
"I am barely keeping this thing together! Let's get out of here!" Garm 2 said.
"Yeah, sure, let me just take down this Britannian son of a…"
"You're free to go," a voice then came in on the radio, and both pilots looked towards the F-22, which had curiously formed up on their wing.
"What a defiant tenacity," the pilot said to him, "I had foreseen something completely different when I took off your wing."
Garm 1 stared at the F-22. "So you're letting us go?"
"… Consider it a favor, I've achieved my objective, and you have impressed me enough," the pilot said, "My charity is a rare thing, don't waste it."
With that, the F-22 turned back towards Camelot, leaving both pilots confused, but not complaining.
"Wind Fish, are there any other aircraft in the vicinity? Any other stealth planes?"
"My screen appears clear, but keep on your toes and focus on getting out of there. Hélène is waiting for your arrival at the rendezvous point."
"Roger," Galm 1 returned, "Galm 2, you point the way, I'll stay close."
"Thanks, buddy," Galm 2 replied as the two planes left out towards the sea.
"Knight Five, what is the meaning of this?! Those aircraft may have recorded the entire operation!" The base commander howled into the radio.
"They most certainly did, commander," the F-22 pilot returned, "But I did not journey here to protect your demonstration."
Lloyd and Schneizel went from watching the base's commander having a conniption fit to the Morgana, which had pulled up to within view of the observers and opened its cockpit up. Overhead, the F-22 was circling the area.
"Only the most important part of it."
From within the machine, a woman with long wavy hair stood up and waved up to the passing F-22, assuring the pilot that she was well.
= = =
With arrestor hook down, Garm 2's F-15 landed on the back of an old aircraft carrier steaming hundreds of miles away from Britannian waters. The Eagle barely snagged the fourth wire, and the landing gear almost buckled from the strain–as the normally land based planes weren't meant for such abuse.
Garm 1, a more experienced naval aviator, brought his plane down and stopped it in time, though his plane's gear was similarly damaged. As both planes were brought under and the carrier changed to a more southerly course, a third plane, a radome-sporting E-2D Hawkeye AWACs Plane came down next much more gracefully.
In a mess hall aboard the carrier, Garm 2, a man who went by Larry "Pixy" Foulke was shooting the shit with his wingman and lead, Garm 1 Nicholas "Nick" Fontaine Sherman.
"One wing, you flew a God damned F-15 on one wing," Nick said. A bearded, dark-haired man with piercing green eyes, he wore a disbelieving but happy smile to his wingmate. "I don't think I could've done that."
"I'm still in a bit of shock," Pixy, a rugged yet clean-shaven man with brown hair graying in parts admitted. "And that Raptor pilot, where did that guy come from?"
"It was probably Bismarck Waldstein," Wind Fish, better known as Helena "Wildcard" Sherman said as she walked over. "You know, the Knight of Five?"
Both Nick and Pixy blanched, before the latter palmed his face. "Fuck, he really did let us off the hook."
Nick was a little angrier than relieved. "You mean I could've taken down a Knight of the Round?"
"No you couldn't have," Wildcard snapped at him. The brown-eyed blonde sat down next to Nick and gave him a piercing look. "This could've gotten you both killed in so many ways, or worse–captured."
Nick shrugged his shoulders. "It couldn't be helped. Besides, with proof that Britannia's breaking into the mecha scene, we'll give guys like Osea and Yuktobania a huge leg up in their arms race. We'll have enough money to get to work on the next phase of our own in-house project."
"About that, how are we going to be able to run this company if its CEO is getting personally involved in high-risk missions?" Wildcard asked.
"She's got a point," Pixy said, "You can't keep doing this anymore. You're the only thing holding this company together."
"Yeah, but it's fun," Nick argued.
Wildcard frowned. "I can think of a few things more fun than living life on the edge. Like, I don't know, spending time with your family? The one that you decided to gamble on this gig?"
Nick sighed. "I guess?"
Pixy watched the two go back and forth, amused.
"You guess?! I'm your wife, and you're saying this to me?!"
Nick groaned. "I guess…?"
"Oh my God."
"Look baby, I'll stop with the high risk missions… but you know if you want something done right…?"
"Then use your money to hire people good enough to do this kind of work! We cannot lean on you and Solo Wing here for every mission!"
Pixy perked up. "Solo Wing Pixy, huh?"
"Okay, okay, look… pitch me a good reason to hire someone on to take over flying missions-"
"I'm fucking pregnant, asshole!" Wildcard shouted.
Pixy had to laugh at the look of stunned silence on his boss's face.
Wildcard glared hotly at her husband, daring him to argue the point any further.
After a few moments of processing that, and thinking better of it, Nick lowered his head and sighed. "Pixy, remember that up and comer we talked about?"
Pixy looked over at him. "Wait, Cipher?"
Nick nodded slowly. "Go find 'em, and see if they're hurting for work."
= = =
Welcome to the Strangereal World, we gots giant robots.