Just curious, by "now" do you mean in real life or in this story?Simon_Jester wrote:Amusingly, we're probably ahead of the Elder Things (the ones with the Antarctic city) technologically by now; forming a pact with their survivors is a very interesting possibility.
The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch. 7 - 9/15/11)
Moderator: LadyTevar
Re: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch. 3 - 8/18/10)
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Simon_Jester
- Emperor's Hand
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- Joined: 2009-05-23 07:29pm
Re: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch. 3 - 8/18/10)
In-story.
In real life, the Elder Things are ahead of us in a wide variety of fields. Among other things they have some kind of exotic means of space travel, conveniently portable directed energy weapons, and very sophisticated biotech and/or nanotech (whatever the hell the shoggoth is made of; I'm with Charlie Stross in speculating that it's a blob of free range utility fog gone mad).
But in the Boloverse, things are different, and human technology may well be on par with that of the Elder Things or even superior in some respects.
In real life, the Elder Things are ahead of us in a wide variety of fields. Among other things they have some kind of exotic means of space travel, conveniently portable directed energy weapons, and very sophisticated biotech and/or nanotech (whatever the hell the shoggoth is made of; I'm with Charlie Stross in speculating that it's a blob of free range utility fog gone mad).
But in the Boloverse, things are different, and human technology may well be on par with that of the Elder Things or even superior in some respects.
This space dedicated to Vasily Arkhipov
Re: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch. 3 - 8/18/10)
LionElJonson wrote:Uhhh... Nyarlthotep is the one best suited for interaction with humans. He's quite capable of planning. Not only does he fully understand science (to a degree that he probably knows more than the humans do), he's also a highly skilled social manipulator. He wouldn't be that if he was nothing more than a random number generator; I think you might have confused him with Azathoth, which he's the servant of.
Yeah, I confuse the two. Quite often actually.
Macross Daedalus Attack: Because nothing says "Frak You" like punching them in the face with an aircraft carrier.
Macross Frontier Version: Unless you use 2 aircraft carriers.
☟ Named after a g/f! Sheesh, stop asking. ☟
Macross Frontier Version: Unless you use 2 aircraft carriers.
☟ Named after a g/f! Sheesh, stop asking. ☟
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White Haven
- Sith Acolyte
- Posts: 6360
- Joined: 2004-05-17 03:14pm
- Location: The North Remembers, When It Can Be Bothered
Re: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch. 4 - 1/28/11)
Yeah, yeah, belated as all hell. Blame gaming, it distracts me so...
________________________________________
Firebase Nameno, Trellis II
February 17th, 3231, Earth Standard Date
As my warhull clears the doors of the shielded maintenance bay, my receptors are greeted by a cacophony of emissions, everything from active sensor pulses to communications channels, targeting systems, side-band scatter from laser rangefinders, waste heat from dozens of fusion reactors ramping up to full power. All normal. I spare a fraction of a second's thought for the consternation the Battalion's mobilization must be causing the stealthy Melconian reconnaissance vessels doubtlessly observing the Concordiat facilities on this world. Doubtless they were expecting such an immediate reaction to such a subtle electronic warfare effect. It remains to be seen whether this is a probe, a systems test, or the prelude to an all-out offensive.
Immersed in the Total Systems Data-Sharing network with the rest of the Battalion, I feel them deploying, the exercise forgotten in the wake of my commander's orders. A fresh set of emissions stab up into the night sky as heavy hellbore turrets unmask themselves from behind armored shutters. The firebase's fixed emplacements exist for a reason; they free us to maneuver without being tied down to its defense. We stream forth through portals in the base's walls, our own turrets tracking smoothly to cover all angles.
“Echo-actual, Resolute-actual. No sign of Melconian mobilization prior to your alert. They're clearing for action now, though, your little light-show spooked them,” Admiral Waheen's voice relays through her secure communications channel. My commander frowns slightly as she continues, “Are you sure about this? Judging by how long it's taking them to mobilize, this is all taking them by surprise. I would have expected them to be ready if they were triggering some new type of EW.”
As my commander begins to reply, one of my earlier diagnostics signals completion. The results compel me to interrupt his discussion in mid-word, ”Commander. Further diagnostics indicate multiple deviations from physically possible norms in addition to the previously-logged sensor area inconsistency. Containment field density of my fusion reactor with relation to power consumption violates the inverse-square law. Laser rangefinding indicates inconsistent distance between this unit and Unit Two-Niner-Zero-One-VTR when compared to TSDS-derived geographical positioning data. In addition, the sensor-arc inconsistency error has worsened to a total of 361.52 degrees. Effects on combat systems impossible to accurately quantify, but accuracy may become problematic.”
A stunned silence follows my report on both ends of the communications channel for a few seconds, until my commander speaks again in a harsh, clipped tone. As his mouth slowly opens, I confer with the rest of the Battalion, sharing the results of my own diagnostics and attempting the pool our resources to devise a method to counteract the distortion's effect on our combat performance. ”Admiral, I have reason to believe that this effect will be mirrored across the Batallion, if the dog-boys give them the time to finish their own diagnostics. I recommend a preemptive strike on their fleet elements before they can take advantage of the situation on their own terms.”
-~~~~~~~~-
Flag Bridge, CNS Resolute
February 17th, 3231, Earth Standard Date
“Agreed. You have work to do, and so do I. Watch the back door in case they snuck something planetside in preparation for this.” With that, the dark-haired woman in the uniform of a Concordiat fleet admiral tapped a control on her earpiece to cancel the secure channel and straightened up in the restraint webbing holding her to her station in the center of the Resolute's flag deck. A breathless pause stretched out for a few seconds, uniformed crew trading nervous glances between each other in the red-tinged light filling the compartment.
“Fleet orders,” Admiral Waheen's voice broke the silence, every eye snapping to her in an instant, “Fleet to cut inwards between the Melconian formation and Trellis II. Once in position, TF 1 is to hold position, TF 2 is to continue around their formation and block a path between the Melconians and Trellis IV. Fire control, prioritize any ships attempting to make a run for either planet. Tactical, get me a firing solution on their battleships.”
“...shit...” came the whispered response from a comm tech near the rear hatch to the compartment amidst a quiet rustle of gasps. Up until the last two sentences it had been possible to pretend that nothing new was going on, just the maneuvering, probing, prodding, and saber-rattling that had become the norm between the Concordiat and Melconian forces stationed so close to each other. The flag bridge remained quiet for another long, strained moment, then exploded into motion as seated figures spun back to their consoles.
“Captain Wilcox, fight your ship,” the admiral spoke in a quieter tone, her eyes focusing on the holographic plot hanging in the air in front of her as the clusters of brilliant points representing the fleet – her fleet – lunged forwards. Seconds ticked away, the red rings of active shielding signatures flickering into place across more and more of the Melconian fleet.
“Reading radar and lidar pulses from the Melconian formation as well as increased encrypted communcations.”
“FTL communcations signature from the Melconian heavy squadron.”
“Melconian screen shifting to clear the arcs of their heavies.”
“All units report closed up at condition one, missiles in the tubes, hellbores fully charged.”
“Recon elements report they have been tracking four Melconian stealth scout ships, with probable locations on two more. Commodore Gustav is requesting permission to engage.”
Admiral Contessa Waheen watched the plot intently as status reports washed over her, nodding every so often to one of them. At the message from the commander of her recon screen, she swiveled to face the comm rating, still red-faced from his earlier outburst, and nodded curtly, “Signal Commodore Gustav that he is weapons-free. I want them blind. Detatch Commodore Holstein's destroyer division to assist.” After a moment's frown, she turned towards a console with two officers leaning over either shoulder of one seated figure and snaps out, “Tactical, why don't I have that firing solution yet?”
One of the figures turns away from the station and straightens up, revealing a frowning face above a set of commander's insignia, “Ma'am, the computer is rejecting the firing solution. I've double-checked it myself, but it keeps returning a targeting error and I can't see why.” Tension visibly drained from the seated woman's shoulders at those simple words; her relief at being able to pass the blame palpable. The admiral's reaction was somewhat less calm, first a flash of irritation, then an equally-brief flash of realization tinged with a touch of fear before her control could banish it.
“Fleet orders, all ships are to commence rapid fire on all tubes, but do not program precise targets. Set to independent tracking and proximity fuses. Be advised, unknown electronic warfare in effect. Sensors, find out what's causing it and how to cut through it.”
Less than a minute later, the first dashed lines of missile salvos began to appear on the holographic plot, stretching towards the sullen red dots of the Melconian fleet.
-~~~~~~~~-
Near Firebase Nameno, Trellis II
February 17th, 3231, Earth Standard Date
The best solution that I and the rest of the Battalion have been able to devise to the electronic warfare effect is to run constant diagnostic tests designed to evaluate perceived alterations to universal constants so as to compensate for them. It is an unsatisfactory countermeasure, as it is inherently reactive, extremely expensive in terms of computational resources, and only addresses the symptoms of the effect, not the underlying, still-unknown cause. It is, however, better than nothing. Unfortunately the firebase's defenses do not possess this capability and as such its effectiveness will doubtless be impacted negatively.
We remain on the move, weaving about in an effort to spoil precision orbital targeting, although none of us detect any contacts within bombardment range. My commander's attention is largely taken up monitoring the developing engagement far beyond my own orbital interdiction range, trusting me to inform him of any devel--
“Unknown contact, no response to active sensors, passive visual and electromagnetic receptors register an airborne circular anomaly, size and distance unknown due to lack of frame of reference. Correction, size and distance observably inconsistent depending on source of observational data.” I speak, flashing a picture of the impossible contact onto one of the interior displays. Even as I do so, my Hellbore elevates, training on the contact and then wobbling unsteadily around as I attempt to lock onto it. I access the looping diagnostic routines and discover the cause, Electronic warfare effect fluctuating wildly, perceived universal constants unstable. Accuracy degraded to an unknown degree.”
My commander swears through gritted teeth and then snaps an order as the circular formation begins to expand. Whether it is growing closer or larger is impossible to determine; different units of the Battalion report different, conflicting answers.
“Battalion, engage the enemy.”
That is all the order the Dinochrome Brigade requires. Coordinating through the TSDS network we each choose slightly different aim points, attempting to saturate the electronic warfare field's ability to disrupt our targeting.
We fire.
________________________________________
Firebase Nameno, Trellis II
February 17th, 3231, Earth Standard Date
As my warhull clears the doors of the shielded maintenance bay, my receptors are greeted by a cacophony of emissions, everything from active sensor pulses to communications channels, targeting systems, side-band scatter from laser rangefinders, waste heat from dozens of fusion reactors ramping up to full power. All normal. I spare a fraction of a second's thought for the consternation the Battalion's mobilization must be causing the stealthy Melconian reconnaissance vessels doubtlessly observing the Concordiat facilities on this world. Doubtless they were expecting such an immediate reaction to such a subtle electronic warfare effect. It remains to be seen whether this is a probe, a systems test, or the prelude to an all-out offensive.
Immersed in the Total Systems Data-Sharing network with the rest of the Battalion, I feel them deploying, the exercise forgotten in the wake of my commander's orders. A fresh set of emissions stab up into the night sky as heavy hellbore turrets unmask themselves from behind armored shutters. The firebase's fixed emplacements exist for a reason; they free us to maneuver without being tied down to its defense. We stream forth through portals in the base's walls, our own turrets tracking smoothly to cover all angles.
“Echo-actual, Resolute-actual. No sign of Melconian mobilization prior to your alert. They're clearing for action now, though, your little light-show spooked them,” Admiral Waheen's voice relays through her secure communications channel. My commander frowns slightly as she continues, “Are you sure about this? Judging by how long it's taking them to mobilize, this is all taking them by surprise. I would have expected them to be ready if they were triggering some new type of EW.”
As my commander begins to reply, one of my earlier diagnostics signals completion. The results compel me to interrupt his discussion in mid-word, ”Commander. Further diagnostics indicate multiple deviations from physically possible norms in addition to the previously-logged sensor area inconsistency. Containment field density of my fusion reactor with relation to power consumption violates the inverse-square law. Laser rangefinding indicates inconsistent distance between this unit and Unit Two-Niner-Zero-One-VTR when compared to TSDS-derived geographical positioning data. In addition, the sensor-arc inconsistency error has worsened to a total of 361.52 degrees. Effects on combat systems impossible to accurately quantify, but accuracy may become problematic.”
A stunned silence follows my report on both ends of the communications channel for a few seconds, until my commander speaks again in a harsh, clipped tone. As his mouth slowly opens, I confer with the rest of the Battalion, sharing the results of my own diagnostics and attempting the pool our resources to devise a method to counteract the distortion's effect on our combat performance. ”Admiral, I have reason to believe that this effect will be mirrored across the Batallion, if the dog-boys give them the time to finish their own diagnostics. I recommend a preemptive strike on their fleet elements before they can take advantage of the situation on their own terms.”
-~~~~~~~~-
Flag Bridge, CNS Resolute
February 17th, 3231, Earth Standard Date
“Agreed. You have work to do, and so do I. Watch the back door in case they snuck something planetside in preparation for this.” With that, the dark-haired woman in the uniform of a Concordiat fleet admiral tapped a control on her earpiece to cancel the secure channel and straightened up in the restraint webbing holding her to her station in the center of the Resolute's flag deck. A breathless pause stretched out for a few seconds, uniformed crew trading nervous glances between each other in the red-tinged light filling the compartment.
“Fleet orders,” Admiral Waheen's voice broke the silence, every eye snapping to her in an instant, “Fleet to cut inwards between the Melconian formation and Trellis II. Once in position, TF 1 is to hold position, TF 2 is to continue around their formation and block a path between the Melconians and Trellis IV. Fire control, prioritize any ships attempting to make a run for either planet. Tactical, get me a firing solution on their battleships.”
“...shit...” came the whispered response from a comm tech near the rear hatch to the compartment amidst a quiet rustle of gasps. Up until the last two sentences it had been possible to pretend that nothing new was going on, just the maneuvering, probing, prodding, and saber-rattling that had become the norm between the Concordiat and Melconian forces stationed so close to each other. The flag bridge remained quiet for another long, strained moment, then exploded into motion as seated figures spun back to their consoles.
“Captain Wilcox, fight your ship,” the admiral spoke in a quieter tone, her eyes focusing on the holographic plot hanging in the air in front of her as the clusters of brilliant points representing the fleet – her fleet – lunged forwards. Seconds ticked away, the red rings of active shielding signatures flickering into place across more and more of the Melconian fleet.
“Reading radar and lidar pulses from the Melconian formation as well as increased encrypted communcations.”
“FTL communcations signature from the Melconian heavy squadron.”
“Melconian screen shifting to clear the arcs of their heavies.”
“All units report closed up at condition one, missiles in the tubes, hellbores fully charged.”
“Recon elements report they have been tracking four Melconian stealth scout ships, with probable locations on two more. Commodore Gustav is requesting permission to engage.”
Admiral Contessa Waheen watched the plot intently as status reports washed over her, nodding every so often to one of them. At the message from the commander of her recon screen, she swiveled to face the comm rating, still red-faced from his earlier outburst, and nodded curtly, “Signal Commodore Gustav that he is weapons-free. I want them blind. Detatch Commodore Holstein's destroyer division to assist.” After a moment's frown, she turned towards a console with two officers leaning over either shoulder of one seated figure and snaps out, “Tactical, why don't I have that firing solution yet?”
One of the figures turns away from the station and straightens up, revealing a frowning face above a set of commander's insignia, “Ma'am, the computer is rejecting the firing solution. I've double-checked it myself, but it keeps returning a targeting error and I can't see why.” Tension visibly drained from the seated woman's shoulders at those simple words; her relief at being able to pass the blame palpable. The admiral's reaction was somewhat less calm, first a flash of irritation, then an equally-brief flash of realization tinged with a touch of fear before her control could banish it.
“Fleet orders, all ships are to commence rapid fire on all tubes, but do not program precise targets. Set to independent tracking and proximity fuses. Be advised, unknown electronic warfare in effect. Sensors, find out what's causing it and how to cut through it.”
Less than a minute later, the first dashed lines of missile salvos began to appear on the holographic plot, stretching towards the sullen red dots of the Melconian fleet.
-~~~~~~~~-
Near Firebase Nameno, Trellis II
February 17th, 3231, Earth Standard Date
The best solution that I and the rest of the Battalion have been able to devise to the electronic warfare effect is to run constant diagnostic tests designed to evaluate perceived alterations to universal constants so as to compensate for them. It is an unsatisfactory countermeasure, as it is inherently reactive, extremely expensive in terms of computational resources, and only addresses the symptoms of the effect, not the underlying, still-unknown cause. It is, however, better than nothing. Unfortunately the firebase's defenses do not possess this capability and as such its effectiveness will doubtless be impacted negatively.
We remain on the move, weaving about in an effort to spoil precision orbital targeting, although none of us detect any contacts within bombardment range. My commander's attention is largely taken up monitoring the developing engagement far beyond my own orbital interdiction range, trusting me to inform him of any devel--
“Unknown contact, no response to active sensors, passive visual and electromagnetic receptors register an airborne circular anomaly, size and distance unknown due to lack of frame of reference. Correction, size and distance observably inconsistent depending on source of observational data.” I speak, flashing a picture of the impossible contact onto one of the interior displays. Even as I do so, my Hellbore elevates, training on the contact and then wobbling unsteadily around as I attempt to lock onto it. I access the looping diagnostic routines and discover the cause, Electronic warfare effect fluctuating wildly, perceived universal constants unstable. Accuracy degraded to an unknown degree.”
My commander swears through gritted teeth and then snaps an order as the circular formation begins to expand. Whether it is growing closer or larger is impossible to determine; different units of the Battalion report different, conflicting answers.
“Battalion, engage the enemy.”
That is all the order the Dinochrome Brigade requires. Coordinating through the TSDS network we each choose slightly different aim points, attempting to saturate the electronic warfare field's ability to disrupt our targeting.
We fire.
Last edited by White Haven on 2011-01-29 12:18am, edited 1 time in total.
Out of Context Theatre, this week starring Darth Nostril.
-'If you really want to fuck with these idiots tell them that there is a vaccine for chemtrails.'
Fiction!: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch 7 9/15/11), Living (D&D, Complete)
Re: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch. 4 - 1/28/11)
And? AND? What effect does a Hellbore have on a Lovecraftian Portal, DAMMIT!!
*gets out the baseball bat* POST DAMN YOU POST!!!
*blinks, puts down the ball bat* Post... or I'll bring Jules over for a weekend visit
*gets out the baseball bat* POST DAMN YOU POST!!!
*blinks, puts down the ball bat* Post... or I'll bring Jules over for a weekend visit
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
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White Haven
- Sith Acolyte
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Re: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch. 4 - 1/28/11)
And to make it even worse, the pattern of chapters so far would have the next chapter in the present-day. *cackles*
Out of Context Theatre, this week starring Darth Nostril.
-'If you really want to fuck with these idiots tell them that there is a vaccine for chemtrails.'
Fiction!: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch 7 9/15/11), Living (D&D, Complete)
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White Haven
- Sith Acolyte
- Posts: 6360
- Joined: 2004-05-17 03:14pm
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Re: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch. 4 - 1/28/11)
Trellis Memorial Academy, Planet Dassault, New Quebec system.
September 8th, 3254, Earth Standard Date
“This is fiction.”
The instructor's simple words drew frowns of consternation as they carried through the auditorium, drawing attention to the thick, antiquated paper book in his upraised hand. With every eye following it, he dropped it to the podium with a booming thud faithfully picked up and relayed about by the sound system.
“The Complete Works of Howard Phillips Lovecraft. Rife with internal inconsistencies and observationally-demonstrated inaccuracies. Clouded by dubious characterization and the social biases of his day and age. And yet.” His chuckle was grim, the accompanying smile thin and short on humor. As he began to speak again, images formed on the wall behind him, gun-camera footage, optical sensor feeds, autopsy images of amorphous fiends, beings with wings and tentacles and bizarre, unsettling symmetries, and human bodies wracked and twisted and altered in bizarre fashions.
“And yet, despite dying one thousand, two hundred and ninety-four years before the incursion in the Trellis system, Mister Lovecraft got enough right to heartily confuse and confound a great many Concordiat scientists and historians. Enough that you'll find annotated editions of this volume in your personal data stores. Passages discredited by modern observation of our enemy will be noted as such, along with other corroborating evidence to aid you in sifting potential intelligence from misinformation or simple ignorance.”
With a barely noticeable grimace, the instructor limped around from behind the podium and gestured for the assembled cadets to follow him towards a side door in the auditorium. The room beyond was packed with ranks of bulky simulator pods, each yawning open and revealing a recreation of a Bolo command console. The instructor turned and leaned against one open pod, this one much larger and studded with displays on every interior surface.
“With sixty-seven of you, we have enough for five short battalions and one full. Your recruit company officers have already broken you down into units, and if you consult your comms you'll find your simulator assignments there. There are two things you need to know about this session and the simulators here as a whole, both of which are different from your earlier training. The first,” he counted off on a finger, “Is that this particular session will be run with brand new Bolo brains and pre-war psychotronics. No distortion-compensation systems, no Bolo accustomed to sorting through it all, none of that. Today, we see what you can do with the same hardware and software Echo Battalion had at Trellis.”
With a pause, a smile spread across his face, true pleasure this time, not his earlier cold mockery of the emotion, “The second difference is that these are not Academy Bolo brains. These are your Bolos. Their psychotronics won't be installed into proper warhulls until graduation, but I have argued and Brigade command has agreed that we cannot afford to send out raw, untested and inexperienced Bolo-commander partnerships into a war like this. There are no guaranteed milk runs, no safe deployments to shake down on, so we have, at substantial expense, shipped every last bit of Bolo psychotronics that will go into your commands here, should you graduate.”
With a wave, the instructor signaled the assembled cadets to head to their pods, grinning at first, then letting the smile slide off of his face to be replaced with a melancholic expression, “Gentlemen, ladies, you have fifteen minutes to acquaint yourselves with your Bolos and go over the pre-engagement intelligence. I suggest you make the most of it.
-~~~~~~~~-
Camp Bastille, Planet Dassault, New Quebec system.
September 8th, 3254, Earth Standard Date
“Whoever named this place was a sick, sick motherfucker,” James Grayson Hall, former trainee Bolo commander and present boot infantryman groaned as he let himself tumble to the mattress of a narrow bunk. The welded steel frame creaked alarming under the impact, but held; given the mass of the many sleeping bodies in their own bunks, he was hardly the only exhausted, muscular figure to flop bonelessly down onto this particular bunk, nor would be he the last.
“You said it, Bolo. I can't even fucking argue with you, that's how right you are and how fucking tired I am,” rumbled a voice from the next bunk over, one belonging to a wiry-looking, tall figure wearing the same plain gray undergarments.
James' lips quirked in a wry smile at that; friendship could crop up in the strangest places. The rumor mill of a Marine base being the only form of communication to rival proper starcomms for speed, the fact that the incoming late transfer was a Bolo washout had actually managed to beat him to the camp. The hazing and mockery had been legendary in scope and would continued to be; the opportunity for Marines to take a Bolo commander down a few pegs wasn't about to go to waste among the Brigade's traditional rivals.
“So go to sleep, Mudslogger. Or are you just that eager to face the next day in your Glorious Fucking Co—oof!” His yawning reply was cut off by a lazily-swung pillow, one that quickly resumed its place under its owner's head as the barracks lights dimmed and then shut down entirely. Conversation dimmed in short order as well, darkness combining with exhaustion to send the recruit marines to sleep. James could hear his own voice running through his head as he began to pass out, 'I fit in better here, but damned if I want to die like this.'
September 8th, 3254, Earth Standard Date
“This is fiction.”
The instructor's simple words drew frowns of consternation as they carried through the auditorium, drawing attention to the thick, antiquated paper book in his upraised hand. With every eye following it, he dropped it to the podium with a booming thud faithfully picked up and relayed about by the sound system.
“The Complete Works of Howard Phillips Lovecraft. Rife with internal inconsistencies and observationally-demonstrated inaccuracies. Clouded by dubious characterization and the social biases of his day and age. And yet.” His chuckle was grim, the accompanying smile thin and short on humor. As he began to speak again, images formed on the wall behind him, gun-camera footage, optical sensor feeds, autopsy images of amorphous fiends, beings with wings and tentacles and bizarre, unsettling symmetries, and human bodies wracked and twisted and altered in bizarre fashions.
“And yet, despite dying one thousand, two hundred and ninety-four years before the incursion in the Trellis system, Mister Lovecraft got enough right to heartily confuse and confound a great many Concordiat scientists and historians. Enough that you'll find annotated editions of this volume in your personal data stores. Passages discredited by modern observation of our enemy will be noted as such, along with other corroborating evidence to aid you in sifting potential intelligence from misinformation or simple ignorance.”
With a barely noticeable grimace, the instructor limped around from behind the podium and gestured for the assembled cadets to follow him towards a side door in the auditorium. The room beyond was packed with ranks of bulky simulator pods, each yawning open and revealing a recreation of a Bolo command console. The instructor turned and leaned against one open pod, this one much larger and studded with displays on every interior surface.
“With sixty-seven of you, we have enough for five short battalions and one full. Your recruit company officers have already broken you down into units, and if you consult your comms you'll find your simulator assignments there. There are two things you need to know about this session and the simulators here as a whole, both of which are different from your earlier training. The first,” he counted off on a finger, “Is that this particular session will be run with brand new Bolo brains and pre-war psychotronics. No distortion-compensation systems, no Bolo accustomed to sorting through it all, none of that. Today, we see what you can do with the same hardware and software Echo Battalion had at Trellis.”
With a pause, a smile spread across his face, true pleasure this time, not his earlier cold mockery of the emotion, “The second difference is that these are not Academy Bolo brains. These are your Bolos. Their psychotronics won't be installed into proper warhulls until graduation, but I have argued and Brigade command has agreed that we cannot afford to send out raw, untested and inexperienced Bolo-commander partnerships into a war like this. There are no guaranteed milk runs, no safe deployments to shake down on, so we have, at substantial expense, shipped every last bit of Bolo psychotronics that will go into your commands here, should you graduate.”
With a wave, the instructor signaled the assembled cadets to head to their pods, grinning at first, then letting the smile slide off of his face to be replaced with a melancholic expression, “Gentlemen, ladies, you have fifteen minutes to acquaint yourselves with your Bolos and go over the pre-engagement intelligence. I suggest you make the most of it.
-~~~~~~~~-
Camp Bastille, Planet Dassault, New Quebec system.
September 8th, 3254, Earth Standard Date
“Whoever named this place was a sick, sick motherfucker,” James Grayson Hall, former trainee Bolo commander and present boot infantryman groaned as he let himself tumble to the mattress of a narrow bunk. The welded steel frame creaked alarming under the impact, but held; given the mass of the many sleeping bodies in their own bunks, he was hardly the only exhausted, muscular figure to flop bonelessly down onto this particular bunk, nor would be he the last.
“You said it, Bolo. I can't even fucking argue with you, that's how right you are and how fucking tired I am,” rumbled a voice from the next bunk over, one belonging to a wiry-looking, tall figure wearing the same plain gray undergarments.
James' lips quirked in a wry smile at that; friendship could crop up in the strangest places. The rumor mill of a Marine base being the only form of communication to rival proper starcomms for speed, the fact that the incoming late transfer was a Bolo washout had actually managed to beat him to the camp. The hazing and mockery had been legendary in scope and would continued to be; the opportunity for Marines to take a Bolo commander down a few pegs wasn't about to go to waste among the Brigade's traditional rivals.
“So go to sleep, Mudslogger. Or are you just that eager to face the next day in your Glorious Fucking Co—oof!” His yawning reply was cut off by a lazily-swung pillow, one that quickly resumed its place under its owner's head as the barracks lights dimmed and then shut down entirely. Conversation dimmed in short order as well, darkness combining with exhaustion to send the recruit marines to sleep. James could hear his own voice running through his head as he began to pass out, 'I fit in better here, but damned if I want to die like this.'
Last edited by White Haven on 2011-06-21 10:04am, edited 1 time in total.
Out of Context Theatre, this week starring Darth Nostril.
-'If you really want to fuck with these idiots tell them that there is a vaccine for chemtrails.'
Fiction!: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch 7 9/15/11), Living (D&D, Complete)
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Vehrec
- Jedi Council Member
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Re: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch. 5 - 1/29/11)
You know, the Mi-go would be downright normal foes for most Bolos. 'Lovecraftian' covers a huge variety of things, from the mundaune clarke-tech of the Mi-go and the Eldar Things to the Crawling chaos and the Daemon Sultan himself.
I guess we'll see just which end these are closer to.
I guess we'll see just which end these are closer to.
Commander of the MFS Darwinian Selection Method (sexual)-
White Haven
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Re: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch. 5 - 1/29/11)
Well, it remains to be seen whether Lovecraft had any accuracy at all, or just happened to have enough elements of what they're dealing with that it's noticeable. With well over a millennium of recorded horror and science fiction to draw from, he might just have scattershotted some similar elements together by chance. Or he might have known sometime. If the latter, the questions are how much, and HOW.
And of course simple sane high technology probably wouldn't produce alterations in universal constants as a side-effect of being used in the vicinity.
And of course simple sane high technology probably wouldn't produce alterations in universal constants as a side-effect of being used in the vicinity.
Out of Context Theatre, this week starring Darth Nostril.
-'If you really want to fuck with these idiots tell them that there is a vaccine for chemtrails.'
Fiction!: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch 7 9/15/11), Living (D&D, Complete)
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DKeith2011
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Re: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch. 5 - 1/29/11)
More More More!!!!
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White Haven
- Sith Acolyte
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Re: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch. 6 - 6/16/11)
Near Firebase Nameno, Trellis II
February 17th, 3231, Earth Standard Date
We miss.
Eleven Hellbores speak with one voice, the night lighting up for kilometers in every direction as the fusion beams spear up into the sky in a tangled pattern that bears no resemblance to the tightly-organized fire plan formulated bare seconds ago. My own shot flashes wide of the target despite being centered perfectly in my guncam. This is of secondary concern to the fact that there should have been twelve shots. The telemetry feed shared between the battalion tells us little.
"Unit Eight-Zero-Nine-Three-TTR severely damaged, main battery offline."
I begin report to my commander even as the battalion races to adjust our targets and discern the fate of our brother. Close examination of recorded sensor readings can find no trade of Enemy fire prior to or during Unit Eight-Zero-Nine-Three-TTR's apparently-disabling strike. Instead, I determine that TTR has suffered a critical failure of Hellbore containment in the moment of firing.
This is most unlikely and very suspiciously timed. 1.52 seconds have elapsed since we fired. The cycle time of my Hellbore is 4.07 seconds, adjusted to 4.25 for the purposes of coordinated fire. This leaves 2.73 seconds to formulate a replacement fire plan.
A frown of intense concentration and consternation rides my commander's face as my brief verbal report finally comes to an end. His eyes flick across the crowded displays that surround his command station, sliding slowly from one to the other with subjective glacial speed; he is no match for my computational speed in full Battle Reflex mode. In times like this I do not wait for his command to act, he trusts me to fight just as I trust him to lead. He does not disappoint.
"Battalion, disable TSDS network, all units to local control. Assume spatial EW renders third-party observation unreliable."
Obedient to my commander's orders, the Battalion's Total Systems Data-Sharing network falls silent, leaving each of us reliant only on our own sensors. With no alternative fire plan, the Battalion had held its fire at the end of our Hellbore cycles. Under local control, we adjust to our best guess as to the unidentified contact's position and open fire once more. My commander's exultant shout rings out as all eleven remaining Hellbores reach at least the vicinity of their target. Many of them approach from improbable directions, positions that to the best of my knowledge do not contain any units of the Line.
My own attack misses by an amount that stubbornly refuses quantification, as do most others. Three beams of tightly-focused fusion strike the strange, oval shape that stubbornly refuses to register a return on any active sensor system. Two appear to pass into the flat, circular shape to no effect. The third, arriving 0.07 seconds later, just grazes the edge.
-~~~~~~~~-
Flag Bridge, CNS Resolute
February 17th, 3231, Earth Standard Date
The rapidly-dwindling fleet ammunition counters glowering from the holographic plot gave lie to the seemingly endless torrent of missiles the Concordiat fleet was spraying towards their Melconian opposites. 'Spraying' for once was actually quite an apt word, Admiral Waheen couldn't help thinking with a slight trace of a smile. One more glance at the shrinking munitions supply dispelled the moment of levity in short order, however.
"First salvo entering estimated Melconian point defense envelope in ten seconds," a scan rating spoke up, more to break the tension-laden silence of the bridge than out of any need to make such a report. All eyes were fixed on the thick swarm of dashed lines stretching out between the two fleets, more specifically on where they were about to connect the two and cement the Trellis system's place in history.
Surprise colored the next words, an emotion mirrored by most of the rest of the uniformed figures on the flag bridge as the uncoordinated, disjointed salvo passed inside the glowing red shell of the Melconian point defense envelope.
"Melconian PD is firing late...and missing. A lot. Uh..." The same scan rating's cheeks flushed at the imprecise report, but no one called him on it before he hastily updated it, "Current rate of interception suggests...approximately seventy percent penetration."
Admiral Waheen's voice cracked out, harsh discipline overriding hope, "Tactical, confirm that." The best-case scenario projections that Concordiat Intelligence could supply had suggested no better than a twenty percent penetration rate; one in five missiles surviving to strike their intended target when fired on roughly-equivalent fleets.
Seconds ticked away as the salvos streamed down on the waiting Melconian battlegroups through ineffectual, panicky defensive fire. Finally, an older, slightly raspy voice called over from the tactical section, Waheen's flag captain straightening up to face her, "Confirmed. It doesn't make any sense, but their PD is all to hell and gone. Projection's firming up at about 74%, actually." Left unsaid was the message that passed between the two with the certainly of long, long experience working hand in hand.
Did we make the wrong call?
Captain Wilcox settled himself back down and strapped into his shock frame before opening a private channel to the admiral from across the compartment.
"This isn't right, they'd never kick something off with their defenses in such a shamble. They didn't know this was coming."
"I know, but what can we do now? Melconian launchers don't have the range ours do, but they'll be firing soon enough. I don't think they'll take 'Sorry, misunderstanding' as an answer."
The captain grimaced at the reply, sagging in place for a moment before nodding and murmuring into his headset mic, "I was hoping you'd have an answer for that. I've been coming up empty."
"No such luck. Punch the Melconians out, then we can figure out what the hell is actually going on."
With a quiet sigh, Wilcox nodded once and cut the channel. Seconds later, another call crossed the bridge.
"Missiles entering engagement range!"
All eyes focused on the tactical plot as Melconian icons began to vanish. First one or two at a time, then by threes and fours, then by dozens. The defenses that were supposed to have attenuated Concordiat missile salvos to manageable size failed catastrophically even in the face of missiles lacking centralized fire control, and the results were... formidable. A strange mix of horror, confusion, and triumph suffused the bridge as little red lights blinked out with improbable speed.
Amidst the one-sided slaughter, it took quite a long time, relatively speaking, for the scan watch to notice anything else. Finally though, onepaled visibly and went stiff, her voice cutting across the bridge, "Status change on Trellis II!"
A report like that was unusual enough to draw all eyes, especially when it was followed up by a flabbergasted expression rather than an explanation. Finally, Waheen's voice broke the silence with a severe tone and a single word, "Meaning?"
"I don't even know, ma'am...nothing on active, but...routing you the visual." The rating wilted visibly under the leaden word, quickly crosslinking the visual feed she'd found. In her haste, however, the feed went not to the admiral's personal station but to the holotank itself. All eyes turned to stare including the admiral's own, recriminations dying unspoken as the impossibility of the display registered.
Something eclipsed much of the planet itself, fire seeming to dance in a ring around the arguably circular shape. Something was all the word that even seemed to apply. It wasn't an object, according to active sensors. It wasn't a shield, according to passive sensors. No sensor could see what was behind it. Its angles seemed to shift about even as it stubbornly maintained a circular shape, rippling and bowing outwards and sinking inwards from moment to moment.
Waheen's eyes began to circle the shape, trying to follow it in a complete circle around its arc...only to find that she couldn't stop; despite making circuit after circuit around the holotank's display, she hadn't reached the end and couldn't stop trying. A low whine escaped from her lips, joining with several other similar sounds from other watchers. As more and more of the ships in the Concordiat fleet noticed the... thing, the ongoing missile fire grew more and more disjointed, often aimed at areas that no longer even contained targets as those directing the attacks found their attention drawn away from the task.
Missiles began to spit from the remnants of the half-shattered Melconian fleet, panic-fire sprayed back across the void as their own more primitive launchers found the range at last. By the time they entered the Concordiat point defense envelope, the defensive fire wasn't just inaccurate; much of it was simply absent. As ships began to vanish in spalls of light and fury ,the unexposed began asking for and then demanding direction from the flagship.
When they were able to find an open channel at all, it was full of nothing but incoherent crying and screaming.
-~~~~~~~~-
Near Firebase Nameno, Trellis II
February 17th, 3231, Earth Standard Date
Between one moment and the next, the sky vanished.
Within 0.12 seconds of the hellbore striking the rim of the unidentified contact, the beam had wrapped around its circumference without visible attenuation. 0.02 seconds after that, the contact began to expand and recede at the same time. This anomalous movement ceased after another 0.41 seconds, the anomaly now occupying an indeterminate altitude and expanding in all directions to the point that it eclipsed the view of space from my position.
"What in the blue fuck--"
"Contact! ...Big contact!"
"The sky is gone. Did anyone else notice that?"
"Shitshitshitshitshit!"
"Clear the channel!" the black-haired man snapped, concealing his own shock as he struggled to override that of his subordinants. He continued, riding over the last few oaths mercilessly with a simple, blunt order, "Weapons free, engage all non-Concordiat targets. Stay in range to provide Firebase Nameno with support if needed." He glanced down at the satellite surveillance display mid-sentence, grimaced, and added, "All units, launch recon drones. Assume satellites either destroyed or compromised. DO NOT fire on targets only detected by your recon drones, assume positional data unreliable. Echo-one clear."
With the channel closed, he allowed himself a quick blasphemy of his own, then turned his attention to attempting to make sense of the impossible sensor readings.
The deep voice of the Bolo itself spoke suddenly, accompanied by the bloom of red sigils on the tactical plot, "Contact. Multiple contacts closing from above. Count uncertain." The voice managed to sound decidedly miffed by the uncertainty in its last words, but they were certainly accurate. Icons merged and split and wheeled about wildly on the display even as almost every weapon belonging to Echo Battallion, Dinochrome Brigade began to shriek up at the impossible sky.
February 17th, 3231, Earth Standard Date
We miss.
Eleven Hellbores speak with one voice, the night lighting up for kilometers in every direction as the fusion beams spear up into the sky in a tangled pattern that bears no resemblance to the tightly-organized fire plan formulated bare seconds ago. My own shot flashes wide of the target despite being centered perfectly in my guncam. This is of secondary concern to the fact that there should have been twelve shots. The telemetry feed shared between the battalion tells us little.
"Unit Eight-Zero-Nine-Three-TTR severely damaged, main battery offline."
I begin report to my commander even as the battalion races to adjust our targets and discern the fate of our brother. Close examination of recorded sensor readings can find no trade of Enemy fire prior to or during Unit Eight-Zero-Nine-Three-TTR's apparently-disabling strike. Instead, I determine that TTR has suffered a critical failure of Hellbore containment in the moment of firing.
This is most unlikely and very suspiciously timed. 1.52 seconds have elapsed since we fired. The cycle time of my Hellbore is 4.07 seconds, adjusted to 4.25 for the purposes of coordinated fire. This leaves 2.73 seconds to formulate a replacement fire plan.
A frown of intense concentration and consternation rides my commander's face as my brief verbal report finally comes to an end. His eyes flick across the crowded displays that surround his command station, sliding slowly from one to the other with subjective glacial speed; he is no match for my computational speed in full Battle Reflex mode. In times like this I do not wait for his command to act, he trusts me to fight just as I trust him to lead. He does not disappoint.
"Battalion, disable TSDS network, all units to local control. Assume spatial EW renders third-party observation unreliable."
Obedient to my commander's orders, the Battalion's Total Systems Data-Sharing network falls silent, leaving each of us reliant only on our own sensors. With no alternative fire plan, the Battalion had held its fire at the end of our Hellbore cycles. Under local control, we adjust to our best guess as to the unidentified contact's position and open fire once more. My commander's exultant shout rings out as all eleven remaining Hellbores reach at least the vicinity of their target. Many of them approach from improbable directions, positions that to the best of my knowledge do not contain any units of the Line.
My own attack misses by an amount that stubbornly refuses quantification, as do most others. Three beams of tightly-focused fusion strike the strange, oval shape that stubbornly refuses to register a return on any active sensor system. Two appear to pass into the flat, circular shape to no effect. The third, arriving 0.07 seconds later, just grazes the edge.
-~~~~~~~~-
Flag Bridge, CNS Resolute
February 17th, 3231, Earth Standard Date
The rapidly-dwindling fleet ammunition counters glowering from the holographic plot gave lie to the seemingly endless torrent of missiles the Concordiat fleet was spraying towards their Melconian opposites. 'Spraying' for once was actually quite an apt word, Admiral Waheen couldn't help thinking with a slight trace of a smile. One more glance at the shrinking munitions supply dispelled the moment of levity in short order, however.
"First salvo entering estimated Melconian point defense envelope in ten seconds," a scan rating spoke up, more to break the tension-laden silence of the bridge than out of any need to make such a report. All eyes were fixed on the thick swarm of dashed lines stretching out between the two fleets, more specifically on where they were about to connect the two and cement the Trellis system's place in history.
Surprise colored the next words, an emotion mirrored by most of the rest of the uniformed figures on the flag bridge as the uncoordinated, disjointed salvo passed inside the glowing red shell of the Melconian point defense envelope.
"Melconian PD is firing late...and missing. A lot. Uh..." The same scan rating's cheeks flushed at the imprecise report, but no one called him on it before he hastily updated it, "Current rate of interception suggests...approximately seventy percent penetration."
Admiral Waheen's voice cracked out, harsh discipline overriding hope, "Tactical, confirm that." The best-case scenario projections that Concordiat Intelligence could supply had suggested no better than a twenty percent penetration rate; one in five missiles surviving to strike their intended target when fired on roughly-equivalent fleets.
Seconds ticked away as the salvos streamed down on the waiting Melconian battlegroups through ineffectual, panicky defensive fire. Finally, an older, slightly raspy voice called over from the tactical section, Waheen's flag captain straightening up to face her, "Confirmed. It doesn't make any sense, but their PD is all to hell and gone. Projection's firming up at about 74%, actually." Left unsaid was the message that passed between the two with the certainly of long, long experience working hand in hand.
Did we make the wrong call?
Captain Wilcox settled himself back down and strapped into his shock frame before opening a private channel to the admiral from across the compartment.
"This isn't right, they'd never kick something off with their defenses in such a shamble. They didn't know this was coming."
"I know, but what can we do now? Melconian launchers don't have the range ours do, but they'll be firing soon enough. I don't think they'll take 'Sorry, misunderstanding' as an answer."
The captain grimaced at the reply, sagging in place for a moment before nodding and murmuring into his headset mic, "I was hoping you'd have an answer for that. I've been coming up empty."
"No such luck. Punch the Melconians out, then we can figure out what the hell is actually going on."
With a quiet sigh, Wilcox nodded once and cut the channel. Seconds later, another call crossed the bridge.
"Missiles entering engagement range!"
All eyes focused on the tactical plot as Melconian icons began to vanish. First one or two at a time, then by threes and fours, then by dozens. The defenses that were supposed to have attenuated Concordiat missile salvos to manageable size failed catastrophically even in the face of missiles lacking centralized fire control, and the results were... formidable. A strange mix of horror, confusion, and triumph suffused the bridge as little red lights blinked out with improbable speed.
Amidst the one-sided slaughter, it took quite a long time, relatively speaking, for the scan watch to notice anything else. Finally though, onepaled visibly and went stiff, her voice cutting across the bridge, "Status change on Trellis II!"
A report like that was unusual enough to draw all eyes, especially when it was followed up by a flabbergasted expression rather than an explanation. Finally, Waheen's voice broke the silence with a severe tone and a single word, "Meaning?"
"I don't even know, ma'am...nothing on active, but...routing you the visual." The rating wilted visibly under the leaden word, quickly crosslinking the visual feed she'd found. In her haste, however, the feed went not to the admiral's personal station but to the holotank itself. All eyes turned to stare including the admiral's own, recriminations dying unspoken as the impossibility of the display registered.
Something eclipsed much of the planet itself, fire seeming to dance in a ring around the arguably circular shape. Something was all the word that even seemed to apply. It wasn't an object, according to active sensors. It wasn't a shield, according to passive sensors. No sensor could see what was behind it. Its angles seemed to shift about even as it stubbornly maintained a circular shape, rippling and bowing outwards and sinking inwards from moment to moment.
Waheen's eyes began to circle the shape, trying to follow it in a complete circle around its arc...only to find that she couldn't stop; despite making circuit after circuit around the holotank's display, she hadn't reached the end and couldn't stop trying. A low whine escaped from her lips, joining with several other similar sounds from other watchers. As more and more of the ships in the Concordiat fleet noticed the... thing, the ongoing missile fire grew more and more disjointed, often aimed at areas that no longer even contained targets as those directing the attacks found their attention drawn away from the task.
Missiles began to spit from the remnants of the half-shattered Melconian fleet, panic-fire sprayed back across the void as their own more primitive launchers found the range at last. By the time they entered the Concordiat point defense envelope, the defensive fire wasn't just inaccurate; much of it was simply absent. As ships began to vanish in spalls of light and fury ,the unexposed began asking for and then demanding direction from the flagship.
When they were able to find an open channel at all, it was full of nothing but incoherent crying and screaming.
-~~~~~~~~-
Near Firebase Nameno, Trellis II
February 17th, 3231, Earth Standard Date
Between one moment and the next, the sky vanished.
Within 0.12 seconds of the hellbore striking the rim of the unidentified contact, the beam had wrapped around its circumference without visible attenuation. 0.02 seconds after that, the contact began to expand and recede at the same time. This anomalous movement ceased after another 0.41 seconds, the anomaly now occupying an indeterminate altitude and expanding in all directions to the point that it eclipsed the view of space from my position.
"What in the blue fuck--"
"Contact! ...Big contact!"
"The sky is gone. Did anyone else notice that?"
"Shitshitshitshitshit!"
"Clear the channel!" the black-haired man snapped, concealing his own shock as he struggled to override that of his subordinants. He continued, riding over the last few oaths mercilessly with a simple, blunt order, "Weapons free, engage all non-Concordiat targets. Stay in range to provide Firebase Nameno with support if needed." He glanced down at the satellite surveillance display mid-sentence, grimaced, and added, "All units, launch recon drones. Assume satellites either destroyed or compromised. DO NOT fire on targets only detected by your recon drones, assume positional data unreliable. Echo-one clear."
With the channel closed, he allowed himself a quick blasphemy of his own, then turned his attention to attempting to make sense of the impossible sensor readings.
The deep voice of the Bolo itself spoke suddenly, accompanied by the bloom of red sigils on the tactical plot, "Contact. Multiple contacts closing from above. Count uncertain." The voice managed to sound decidedly miffed by the uncertainty in its last words, but they were certainly accurate. Icons merged and split and wheeled about wildly on the display even as almost every weapon belonging to Echo Battallion, Dinochrome Brigade began to shriek up at the impossible sky.
Out of Context Theatre, this week starring Darth Nostril.
-'If you really want to fuck with these idiots tell them that there is a vaccine for chemtrails.'
Fiction!: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch 7 9/15/11), Living (D&D, Complete)
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Simon_Jester
- Emperor's Hand
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Re: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch. 6 - 6/16/11)
Good to have this back.
[takes mental notes, cross-references with own Bolo reading, contemplates internal qualia of tactical AI...]
[takes mental notes, cross-references with own Bolo reading, contemplates internal qualia of tactical AI...]
This space dedicated to Vasily Arkhipov
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DKeith2011
- Padawan Learner
- Posts: 195
- Joined: 2010-04-22 01:43am
Re: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch. 6 - 6/16/11)
Been waiting for this.
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White Haven
- Sith Acolyte
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Re: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch. 6 - 6/16/11)
Huh. Poking writers actually works.
_________________________________________________________
Trellis Memorial Academy, Planet Dassault, New Quebec system.
September 12th, 3254, Earth Standard Date
Alex Masterson’s eyes flicked across the array of projected screens that surrounded his command station, looking for any of the signs that the last two decades of warfare had taught anyone with a pulse to look for. Cammy had already sounded the alarm about universal constant variation; the enemy had to be nearby, but where? There were no portals in sight as his Bolo’s bulk rumbled through a young forest, leaving a pulped and splintered trail in its wake. No aerial contacts at all, barring the flights of birds that sprayed into the air as broad treads toppled and crushed tree after tree. Intellectually, he knew Cammy would see anything long before he did, but he couldn’t stop looking.
“There’s too much ground cover. Anything on seismics?” he called into the hushed air, the command deck barely even rocking as the enormous war machine traversed the forest.
The response was immediate, a professional, clipped tone with a carefully-neutral accent, “Negative, commander. Ground shocks correspond with Battalion positions, plus or minus five percent to account for universal constant drift.”
Alex concealed a sigh, nodding towards the displays and replying, “Thanks, Cammy. Dammit, there’s got to be something out here...” With a frown, he again looked from console to console, thinking back to the mission briefing a few hours earlier. It had, admittedly, been vague. ‘Civilian government reports indicate unaccountable activity in the wooded region indicated on your tactical maps. Deploy, investigate, and purge as necessary.’
Did we get the wrong location? No, Cammy’s reading UC variance, they’re around here somewhere... Thoughts raced through his head, uncertain edginess flicking his eyes back and forth until finally they came to rest on the output for one of the main visual sensor heads, specifically on a blob of sap thrown up from a crushed tree and splatted onto the camera. As he watched, it began to twist and writhe into a nauseating icon before his eyes.
The forest! It’s the for-- Breaking off his own inner thoughts, he slapped a hand down on the communications panel and shouted, “It’s the forest itsel--”
The cadet Bolo commander recoiled violently against the padding of his seat as a sharp, tearing scream drowned out his frantic transmission. The agonized, insane sound warbled up and down in in an erratic rhythm, barely pausing for a gasp of breath now and again. It took him a few seconds to realize that his own controls had gone dead, his transmission cut off. It took him longer to recognize the horrible shrieking as an exact match for his own voice. Finally, he noticed the words overlaid on the main tactical display. They were...new. Every Bolo cadet sees the old standbys. ‘You have been disabled.’ ‘You have been killed.’ ‘Mission Failed - Unacceptable Civilian Casualties.’
‘You have been compromised’ was new. While Masterson was still staring at the unfamiliar phrase, bright white light streamed into the simulation pod as the side hatch slammed open. The other ten members of his training batallion were visible outside, confusion and concern plastered across faces staring in at Alex. Faint echoes of ‘his’ continuing scream could be heard through the hatches of ten other training pods, a scream that was demonstrably not coming from Alex himself. He gave an expressive shrug, a bemused expression on his face.
“This exercise was designed to teach you at least one thing, and possibly two,” the familiar voice of the still-nameless instructor dropped into the awkward silence. The cadets outside the pod turned to face its source quickly, one who’d had his head partway in the hatch slammed it against the threshold with a resounding *clunk* and a muffled curse. Alex himself scrambled out of the padded seat and through the open hatchway. As he came into view of the instructor, a thin smile cracked the uniformed figure’s lips, head inclining slightly towards the cadet. “Three, actually, although only one reliably communicates itself. First, of course, is that you will lose comrades in precisely this fashion. You’ll hear screaming, and the balance of probability simply states that by the time you hear it, they’re already beyond saving.
“The second, which I’m somewhat disappointed that you did not learn, was that the battalion commander always keeps to the mission. Detail someone to check on a potentially compromised officer if you must, but the battalion’s mission is prime.” A look of chagrin passed over more than one face, most notably the black-skinned woman with the rank tabs of a cadet battalion commander on her collar. Without taking apparent note of the embarrassment of several of the cadets, the instructor turned his attention to Masterson, the only one of the cadet battalion who hadn’t had cause to feel sheepish over his own conduct. The cadet straightened up to attention as the still-nameless figure locked eyes with him, only to relax slightly as the smile beneath the intense gray eyes registered.
“Cadet Masterson, excellent reaction time and threat-identification. Had the rest of your battalion stayed on-mission, your dying words might well have saved all or most of them. The fact that they didn’t doesn’t reflect on you as you were too busy having your heart raped to death by your lungs, or some such similar unpleasantness. There’ll be a commendation in your file by tonight. Now, all of you,” the instructor’s eyes swung across the assembled cadets, “Today’s exercise will not be recorded as a black mark in your record. It exists to teach you this important lesson in a fashion that is difficult to forget or ignore. Similar performance in future simulations, however, will be recorded and scored accordingly. Dismissed.”
-~~~~~~~~-
“You sure scream well for someone named Masterson, y’know.”
The jibe drew a snort and a mimed blow at the short, black-haired woman, her grin shortly spreading back across to Alex’s face. He shook his head back and forth while the other cadet struggled to contain a giggling fit, muttering, “You bastards aren’t going to let me forget that, are you?”
At which point, her attempts at containment failed entirely.
Red-faced but chuckling as well, Alex leaned against the corridor wall with one eyebrow arched upwards to watch the receding tide of laughter. With a shrewd eye and a glint of mischievousness, he picked exactly the right moment to interject, “If you’re quite finished?” to set the other cadet off again. By the time she finally managed to straighten up and recover, he was waiting with a smug grin and arms folded over his chest. The answering glint of mischief in her own eyes brought a slight furrow to Alex’s brow, but not quite in time.
Cadet Lisa Everett pitched her voice just loud enough to carry through to the nearby cadet common room as she barked out, breathless, “C’mon, Alex, a girl’s gotta breathe sometime!” For a few long, slow seconds, she managed to hold her silence behind a vaguely serious expression...but then she lost it again, thumping back against the wall in a gale of laughter and wheezing, breathless words, “God...you should see your face...”
Alex, now very red-faced, dropped his head forward into his hands and groaned theatrically, spitting out words in an overly-exasperated tone “You’re impossible.” After a short pause still filled with helpless giggling, he added, “Utterly and in all ways impossible.”
“Naah, just improbable. Very, very improbable. Come on, I’ll buy you a coffee to make it up to you.” The shorter woman gestured down the hallway towards the nearby commons, still wearing a broad grin.
Alex replied in a dry voice, still grinning, “The coffee’s free, Lisa.”
“Of course, why do you think it’s my treat?”
“...Impossible...”
The two turned and began walking down the corridor towards the commons area and its small self-service cafe.
-~~~~~~~~-
Two men stood looking at a display showing Alex Masterson and Lisa Everett walking side-by-side. As the two cadets stepped through an open doorway into a dormitory commons room, they ran right into a laughing reception from a few other cadets who’d heard their exchange in the hallway outside. Subtitles scrolled across the bottom of the screen in realtime, compensating for the quiet volume of the accompanying audio feed. The figure in the uniform of the academy commandant shook his head slightly, not looking away from the display, and said, “I’m still not entirely comfortable with encouraging this level of informality among your cadets. It goes against centuries of Brigade tradition.”
The instructor adopted a lopsided smile and shook his head slightly, riposting simply, “Is informality really what you see?” with an arched eyebrow.
“Some days...” the commandant began, smirking slightly and shaking his head, “Some days you layer the cryptic a bit thick.” At the instructor’s nod, he snorted quietly and then shrugged, “Still, I’ll bite. If it’s not informality, then what is it?”
“Informality is just a byproduct. It’s encouraging properly-channeled emotion. None of them even realize just how carefully I’ve set up their battalion groups or how much I know about them as people.” Seeing a questioning look, he elaborated, “Formality and protocol don’t help, not in this war. Precision coordination’s half-useless when the constant-disruption gets bad enough, and nobody’s testing on parade-ground maneuvers. It all comes down to individual emotional strength often enough, and for that, I think a bit of joy helps. Besides, when you can laugh at the universe, you’re not screaming.”
With a lopsided, widening grin, he added, “And if that makes my commanders a bit manic, so be it.”
“Fair enough, I suppose. I’m honest enough to admit it’s mainly tradition that makes your style hard to swallow, and you’ve got free reign anyway. Dump a tentacled head or two on my desk and all’s forgiven, eh?”
Another snort, this time from the instructor, preceded a simple reply, “I should disseminate this conversation. Half the academy would keel over dead, the other half would collapse laughing if they found out you had a sense of humour installed.”
“You...hey, wait, you’re not recording this room, are you?”
“You’re too easy, Garcia...”
_________________________________________________________
Trellis Memorial Academy, Planet Dassault, New Quebec system.
September 12th, 3254, Earth Standard Date
Alex Masterson’s eyes flicked across the array of projected screens that surrounded his command station, looking for any of the signs that the last two decades of warfare had taught anyone with a pulse to look for. Cammy had already sounded the alarm about universal constant variation; the enemy had to be nearby, but where? There were no portals in sight as his Bolo’s bulk rumbled through a young forest, leaving a pulped and splintered trail in its wake. No aerial contacts at all, barring the flights of birds that sprayed into the air as broad treads toppled and crushed tree after tree. Intellectually, he knew Cammy would see anything long before he did, but he couldn’t stop looking.
“There’s too much ground cover. Anything on seismics?” he called into the hushed air, the command deck barely even rocking as the enormous war machine traversed the forest.
The response was immediate, a professional, clipped tone with a carefully-neutral accent, “Negative, commander. Ground shocks correspond with Battalion positions, plus or minus five percent to account for universal constant drift.”
Alex concealed a sigh, nodding towards the displays and replying, “Thanks, Cammy. Dammit, there’s got to be something out here...” With a frown, he again looked from console to console, thinking back to the mission briefing a few hours earlier. It had, admittedly, been vague. ‘Civilian government reports indicate unaccountable activity in the wooded region indicated on your tactical maps. Deploy, investigate, and purge as necessary.’
Did we get the wrong location? No, Cammy’s reading UC variance, they’re around here somewhere... Thoughts raced through his head, uncertain edginess flicking his eyes back and forth until finally they came to rest on the output for one of the main visual sensor heads, specifically on a blob of sap thrown up from a crushed tree and splatted onto the camera. As he watched, it began to twist and writhe into a nauseating icon before his eyes.
The forest! It’s the for-- Breaking off his own inner thoughts, he slapped a hand down on the communications panel and shouted, “It’s the forest itsel--”
The cadet Bolo commander recoiled violently against the padding of his seat as a sharp, tearing scream drowned out his frantic transmission. The agonized, insane sound warbled up and down in in an erratic rhythm, barely pausing for a gasp of breath now and again. It took him a few seconds to realize that his own controls had gone dead, his transmission cut off. It took him longer to recognize the horrible shrieking as an exact match for his own voice. Finally, he noticed the words overlaid on the main tactical display. They were...new. Every Bolo cadet sees the old standbys. ‘You have been disabled.’ ‘You have been killed.’ ‘Mission Failed - Unacceptable Civilian Casualties.’
‘You have been compromised’ was new. While Masterson was still staring at the unfamiliar phrase, bright white light streamed into the simulation pod as the side hatch slammed open. The other ten members of his training batallion were visible outside, confusion and concern plastered across faces staring in at Alex. Faint echoes of ‘his’ continuing scream could be heard through the hatches of ten other training pods, a scream that was demonstrably not coming from Alex himself. He gave an expressive shrug, a bemused expression on his face.
“This exercise was designed to teach you at least one thing, and possibly two,” the familiar voice of the still-nameless instructor dropped into the awkward silence. The cadets outside the pod turned to face its source quickly, one who’d had his head partway in the hatch slammed it against the threshold with a resounding *clunk* and a muffled curse. Alex himself scrambled out of the padded seat and through the open hatchway. As he came into view of the instructor, a thin smile cracked the uniformed figure’s lips, head inclining slightly towards the cadet. “Three, actually, although only one reliably communicates itself. First, of course, is that you will lose comrades in precisely this fashion. You’ll hear screaming, and the balance of probability simply states that by the time you hear it, they’re already beyond saving.
“The second, which I’m somewhat disappointed that you did not learn, was that the battalion commander always keeps to the mission. Detail someone to check on a potentially compromised officer if you must, but the battalion’s mission is prime.” A look of chagrin passed over more than one face, most notably the black-skinned woman with the rank tabs of a cadet battalion commander on her collar. Without taking apparent note of the embarrassment of several of the cadets, the instructor turned his attention to Masterson, the only one of the cadet battalion who hadn’t had cause to feel sheepish over his own conduct. The cadet straightened up to attention as the still-nameless figure locked eyes with him, only to relax slightly as the smile beneath the intense gray eyes registered.
“Cadet Masterson, excellent reaction time and threat-identification. Had the rest of your battalion stayed on-mission, your dying words might well have saved all or most of them. The fact that they didn’t doesn’t reflect on you as you were too busy having your heart raped to death by your lungs, or some such similar unpleasantness. There’ll be a commendation in your file by tonight. Now, all of you,” the instructor’s eyes swung across the assembled cadets, “Today’s exercise will not be recorded as a black mark in your record. It exists to teach you this important lesson in a fashion that is difficult to forget or ignore. Similar performance in future simulations, however, will be recorded and scored accordingly. Dismissed.”
-~~~~~~~~-
“You sure scream well for someone named Masterson, y’know.”
The jibe drew a snort and a mimed blow at the short, black-haired woman, her grin shortly spreading back across to Alex’s face. He shook his head back and forth while the other cadet struggled to contain a giggling fit, muttering, “You bastards aren’t going to let me forget that, are you?”
At which point, her attempts at containment failed entirely.
Red-faced but chuckling as well, Alex leaned against the corridor wall with one eyebrow arched upwards to watch the receding tide of laughter. With a shrewd eye and a glint of mischievousness, he picked exactly the right moment to interject, “If you’re quite finished?” to set the other cadet off again. By the time she finally managed to straighten up and recover, he was waiting with a smug grin and arms folded over his chest. The answering glint of mischief in her own eyes brought a slight furrow to Alex’s brow, but not quite in time.
Cadet Lisa Everett pitched her voice just loud enough to carry through to the nearby cadet common room as she barked out, breathless, “C’mon, Alex, a girl’s gotta breathe sometime!” For a few long, slow seconds, she managed to hold her silence behind a vaguely serious expression...but then she lost it again, thumping back against the wall in a gale of laughter and wheezing, breathless words, “God...you should see your face...”
Alex, now very red-faced, dropped his head forward into his hands and groaned theatrically, spitting out words in an overly-exasperated tone “You’re impossible.” After a short pause still filled with helpless giggling, he added, “Utterly and in all ways impossible.”
“Naah, just improbable. Very, very improbable. Come on, I’ll buy you a coffee to make it up to you.” The shorter woman gestured down the hallway towards the nearby commons, still wearing a broad grin.
Alex replied in a dry voice, still grinning, “The coffee’s free, Lisa.”
“Of course, why do you think it’s my treat?”
“...Impossible...”
The two turned and began walking down the corridor towards the commons area and its small self-service cafe.
-~~~~~~~~-
Two men stood looking at a display showing Alex Masterson and Lisa Everett walking side-by-side. As the two cadets stepped through an open doorway into a dormitory commons room, they ran right into a laughing reception from a few other cadets who’d heard their exchange in the hallway outside. Subtitles scrolled across the bottom of the screen in realtime, compensating for the quiet volume of the accompanying audio feed. The figure in the uniform of the academy commandant shook his head slightly, not looking away from the display, and said, “I’m still not entirely comfortable with encouraging this level of informality among your cadets. It goes against centuries of Brigade tradition.”
The instructor adopted a lopsided smile and shook his head slightly, riposting simply, “Is informality really what you see?” with an arched eyebrow.
“Some days...” the commandant began, smirking slightly and shaking his head, “Some days you layer the cryptic a bit thick.” At the instructor’s nod, he snorted quietly and then shrugged, “Still, I’ll bite. If it’s not informality, then what is it?”
“Informality is just a byproduct. It’s encouraging properly-channeled emotion. None of them even realize just how carefully I’ve set up their battalion groups or how much I know about them as people.” Seeing a questioning look, he elaborated, “Formality and protocol don’t help, not in this war. Precision coordination’s half-useless when the constant-disruption gets bad enough, and nobody’s testing on parade-ground maneuvers. It all comes down to individual emotional strength often enough, and for that, I think a bit of joy helps. Besides, when you can laugh at the universe, you’re not screaming.”
With a lopsided, widening grin, he added, “And if that makes my commanders a bit manic, so be it.”
“Fair enough, I suppose. I’m honest enough to admit it’s mainly tradition that makes your style hard to swallow, and you’ve got free reign anyway. Dump a tentacled head or two on my desk and all’s forgiven, eh?”
Another snort, this time from the instructor, preceded a simple reply, “I should disseminate this conversation. Half the academy would keel over dead, the other half would collapse laughing if they found out you had a sense of humour installed.”
“You...hey, wait, you’re not recording this room, are you?”
“You’re too easy, Garcia...”
Out of Context Theatre, this week starring Darth Nostril.
-'If you really want to fuck with these idiots tell them that there is a vaccine for chemtrails.'
Fiction!: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch 7 9/15/11), Living (D&D, Complete)
Re: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch. 7 - 9/15/11)
Nice! As good as always, White Haven! Keep the good stuff comin'!
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DKeith2011
- Padawan Learner
- Posts: 195
- Joined: 2010-04-22 01:43am
Re: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch. 7 - 9/15/11)
*waits impatiently for the next chapter*