Dropship: Prelude to Death

Ambush Bug · Post by **Ambush Bug** » Fri Oct 26, 2001 3:34 pm

Finally got some things sorted out story-wise, and I thought I'd use that occaision as an excuse to post some text. <img src=http://www.ezboard.com/intl/aenglish/im ... /happy.gif ALT=":D"> This is by  no means the complete ToB I've been working on, but rather just the first chapter. It's intentionally vague on a few points... I don't want to ruin any of the good surprises coming up. But, if you want to get some background, head on over to the www.tribes2.com site and read up on the entire 'Universe' section. That section contains a lot of good story-work by Blake Hutchins, and I've used the information on the BioDerms contained in that text for my model 'Derms in this story. Yes, now the BioDerms are getting wrapped up in things. What does this have to do with Bug's strange problem? I hope to write that very soon. <img src=http://www.ezboard.com/intl/aenglish/im ... /smile.gif ALT=":)"> Read on, and enjoy! ----BEGIN--- The vastness of space hides a great many things, even from the Great Human Empire or the Tribals. Though each has many ships, and countless explorers, there are still areas of space that no human has traveled through, planets that no human has landed on, and dangers no human has bypassed. One such area of space, on the far side of what is commonly known to space-faring humans as Hel’s Gate, remains relatively unexplored. That is because the Gate blocks all traffic into the region. The Gate isn’t actually a gate, at least in the sense of a typical Hyperweb gate. It’s not even technological. It’s nothing more than the most dense and chaotic cloud of asteroids ever seen, located right at the exit point of hypergate number 1205. No ship larger than a single-seat fighter has ever survived passage through the stony depths of the Gate, and even that vessel came back through in such a state that humans vowed that no man could explore the Gate ever again. And who would want to? There was nothing in this system anyway. Nothing, that is, save for a mediocre sun orbited by a few planets. Most of the planets were dead, lifeless things. The one planet that actually had an atmosphere was a desert world, covered in shifting sands and half-buried, half-sandblasted mountain ranges that stretched from hemisphere to hemisphere. No life moved on the surface; every probe sent through the Gate reported that this planet was nothing more than an uninhabitable ball of dust and blowing sands. It didn’t even have a good moon from which to mine ore. Worthless. To humans, that is. To the BioDerms bolting across the hot sands, this planet had just jumped in value by several magnitudes. “Run faster, Mortok! They are almost upon us!” This guttural, out-of-breath command came from a small ‘Derm, one of the lighter breeds used for scouting. Krayek was his name. Mortok, a much larger breed of BioDerm, ran as fast as his lumbering body would allow him. He was randomly dropping time-delay grenades and anti-personnel mines as he ran. He did this both to reduce the weight he was carrying and to slow his pursuers. At the moment, his pursuers resembled nothing more than a cloud of dust several hundred meters behind them. He knew better though; he’d seen them in action, been amazed at the way they’d killed his squad, and he was thoroughly surprised that he was still alive. His goal was in sight now, a battered dropship that peeked around a dune of sand not a hundred meters from his position. Krayek was already at the dropship, his lighter frame allowing him to sprint there quickly. Mortok glanced backwards, and was amazed to see that the pursuers had closed the gap by a hundred meters or so. With renewed energy, he ran for the d-ship. “They’re gaining on you, Mortok!” Mortok didn’t bother looking back this time. Instead, he put his horned head down and ran for all he was worth, his huge feet throwing up rooster-tails of sand in the process. Now he could hear the pursuers behind him. Their feet made quiet patting noises on the sand, but in such a large group, that small sound had grown to a insidious whisper that carried for some distance. He could hear their bodies clacking together as they ran, for they bumped and jostled each other in order to be the first to kill the two-legged intruder. They hissed loudly as they ran after him, the hisses sounding like hoarse, angry battle-cries from the throats of long-dead ghosts. Even in the blistering heat of this desert planet, Mortok shivered as he ran. He looked ahead, and saw that the dropship’s cargo ramp was opened about halfway, projecting from the vertical hull at a forty-five degree angle. Good. That was a trick he and Krayek had come up with ages ago; all he had to do was jet up and land on the angle of the door, which would shoot him inside the ship’s cargo bay with ease. Plus, it made for less distance to go when closing the door. Very, very handy for quick exits. Only fifty meters from the ship now, Mortok took a running leap and triggered his jumpjets. The gold-white flames shot from the implants in his feet, hurling him into the sky, above the reach of the pursuers. He heard them hiss simultaneously at him, the sound washing over him, the fear squirting yet more adrenaline into his bloodstream. He’d calculated the parabolic arc correctly, and when he came down, he did so at a perfect matching angle to the door. He landed on his feet, hunched forward, and somersaulted into the bay, the spines on his back making the deckplates gong loudly as rolled over them. Bruised, Mortok leaped to his feet, plascannon at the ready, only to see the last sliver of natural daylight leave the cargo bay as the door slammed closed. He had no more taken a deep breath when he heard the pursuers reach the ship. There was a pause, as if the pursuers boggled over the ship’s size for a bare second, and then it was over, and the hissing and clacking began anew. “Get us out of here!” Mortok yelled into his communicator. “I have no desire to wait here until they figure out a way through the hull!” In response, the mighty engines of the d-ship roared to life. Mortok faintly heard the screams of the dying from outside as the blast engulfed what sounded like several dozen of them. Almost instantly, the sounds from outside was replaced by a higher-pitched wail, a sound of pure rage. A split-second after that, the pursuers began pounding on the hull. “Engines warming up—fifteen seconds until liftoff.” The cargo door shivered in its frame as fists began to pound it. Lots of fists, from the sound. Suddenly, the middle dented inward slightly, making the door resonate like a gong. Again! Now Mortok could actually see the faint suggestions of inhuman, armored knuckles in the metal. He gripped his plascannon tighter and bared his teeth, growling quietly. If they got through, he’d make sure they paid dearly for his life. Seconds passed in an instant, it seemed, and he heard the engines cycle up again after their initial flare, bathing the perimeter of the dropship in flame from the booster rockets. Again the outsiders screamed in rage, but there was nothing they could do this time, for the ship began to lift off from the surface. Only then did he allow himself to relax. Only then. He toggled his communicator again and got hold of Krayek. “How many did we capture?” “Fifty, Mortok.” “And how many warriors did we lose?” “Thirty warriors and four vatsats.” “A shame on the vatsats… good spies are hard to grow, so the Flaymaster tells me.” “That is true, Mortok. Do you think she will count this mission a success?” “If we survive passage through the Gate, yes. How can she not? We will bring her fifty of the greatest combatants in the known universe.” “And the metal one?” “We will keep him safe… safest of all. She will want to see that one above all the others. Now, prepare our prisoners for transport through the Gate, Krayek. We do not wish to return with damaged goods.” Mortok shut off his communicator after that, giving Krayek no time to reply. Slowly, as if to compensate for all of the running he’d just finished, Mortok made his way to his quarters. The journey ahead would be interesting, perhaps even glorious. Would his plasm be immortalized for this? He wondered. <img src=http://home.earthlink.net/~ambushbugdtm/BugSig.jpg align=LEFT> Member: DTM, XMEN, SeXy The Drunken ArtilleryBug! "Roj, target is *hic* DAWWWG-meat!"Edited by: <A HREF=http://pub3.ezboard.com/uambushbug.show ... =EN>Ambush Bug</A>  <IMG HEIGHT=10 WIDTH=10 SRC="http://homepages.go.com/~keeter67/x.gif" BORDER=0> at: 10/29/01 10:50:44 pm

Spinning Hat · Post by **Spinning Hat** » Fri Oct 26, 2001 4:45 pm

very cool. <map name="SHMAP"><area href="http://xmenclan.org" target="_blank" shape="rect" coords="169, 72, 193, 143"><area href="http://dragontalonmercs.com" target="_blank" shape="rect" coords="0, 78, 25, 141"><area href="http://pub1.ezboard.com/uspinninghat.sh ... anguage=EN" target="_blank" shape="rect" coords="22, 3, 172, 30"></map><img border="0" src="http://www.xmenclan.org/sh3d2.gif" usemap="#SHMAP" width="194" height="144"> <h4>The only thing stopping me from greatness is my stupidity...</h4>

RedSirus · Post by **RedSirus** » Fri Oct 26, 2001 8:34 pm

I like it, Bug. As usual, I'm waiting for the next installment. Hell, I'm waiting for the next scene. <img src=http://www.ezboard.com/intl/aenglish/im ... /smile.gif ALT=":)"> <center><table border=0 cellpadding=0 cellspacing=5><td><img border="0" src="http://www.xmenclan.org/avatars/t2red.g ... ><td>RedSirus<a href=mailto:redsirus@dragontalonmercs.com>@</a> <a href=http://www.dragontalonmercs.com>Dragon Talon Mercenary</a> > <a href=http://server2.ezboard.com/bdragontalon ... > <a href=http://pub18.ezboard.com/bdtmonlinecommunity>DTM Community</a> > <a href=http://pub18.ezboard.com/fdtmonlinecomm ... s>RedSirus' Reviews</a> <a href=http://www.xmenclan.org>Brainwashed Fishmonger</a> > <a href=http://pub3.ezboard.com/bxmenclan>Forum ...

Ambush Bug · Post by **Ambush Bug** » Sun Oct 28, 2001 2:29 pm

I think I'm going to try out a serial approach to this. Never done anything quite like it before, but it seems to work better with my creative drive. Without further ado, here is the next segment. ---BEGIN---  A few weeks later... As a rule, Ambush almost never slept. Something in his physiology had been changed those many years ago, and his need for sleep was greatly diminished compared to his brothers. He could get away with four hours every three or four days, and had for some fifty years. It made him one of the more 'available' members of the DTM, and he got scheduled for perimeter guard more than any other mercenary. DTM insomniacs were well-used to running into him at all hours of the night. Ever since his blackout, though, Bug found that he was sleeping more and more. It had started subtly at first... an hour's nap in the middle of the week... and then grown. Now he found that he had to have at least six hours a night to keep from dozing off on duty. This in itself would not have alarmed him. 'Normal' mantis warriors could fend off sleep at a young age, like himself, but this ability decreased as they got older. The normal life-span for his kind was forty years, and here he was at sixty-five. He had wondered for a long time just how old he could get, and what would happen to him in the process. This was a little sudden for his tastes, but as far as he knew, normal enough. What tore at him, though, were the dreams. Every night, now, he was dreaming. Some of them were what humans called 'nightmares', dreams that so horrified him that he awoke suddenly, his breath whistling through the tiny holes in his thorax. Some were not so bad, almost peaceful, even. Tonight was a nightmare. Always, the dreams began with the strange feeling of a huge hammer of light blasting painlessly through his forehead and into his mind, as if to inform him that the dream was here, and it wasn't going to go away. After the hammer of light cleared and the bright spots in his vision had gone away, he found himself alone in a dark tunnel far under the surface. Instantly, he knew that he was home; all hives possessed their own distinct scent, and this one was unmistakable. In a few moments, he located a small indentation in the tunnel wall, then thrust his antennae into it. The scent contained within told him exactly where he was in the hive; all the way at the bottom, some three kilometers under the surface of his homeworld. At this depth, the air moved sluggishly. There were rooms scattered throughout the hive that contained nothing but winged drones, their never-ending job to beat at the air with their wings and circulate it through the hive. Their efforts were so powerful that, once at a main entrance to a hive, one could feel a breeze as the air rushed in and out. The effect was of the entire hive breathing around him. After a moment's thought, he picked a direction that led upwards and began walking. His antennae easily picked up the navigational scents embedded into the walls and ceiling, and he was able to traverse the pitch-black tunnel with ease. From far away, somewhere else in the hive, he heard a soft rumbling, and paused. Was it explosions? He didn't think so; the sound was too drawn out, even for a large bomb. He knew that whatever it was, he was too far away to do anything about it at the moment, and so continued on. For some minutes, he went up and up, spiraling around as the passages twisted and turned through their gentle elevation. When he'd first regained his mind and body after the implanting of his cybernetics, he'd wandered all throughout the hive, marveling at its construction and size. The hives truly were enormous things, and this hive had some thousand cubic kilometers of tunnels and caves, spread out over a massive portion of the hemisphere. There were levels, far under the earth, where cavernous rooms contained nothing but hexagonal egg chambers carved into the walls, floor, and ceiling. There were rooms dedicated for combat practice, and rooms for food storage that rivaled human warehouses in sheer size. There were rooms with noting but workers that created weapons, growing the metals in their bodies, then exuding them and shaping them into the right form. There were rooms--  There were no workers here. The thought struck him like a hammerblow. He should have run into some workers at least, scurrying through the tunnels on their way to whatever destination. Even the very bottom levels of the hive had workers all over the place. He stopped again, listening carefully this time. Faintly, very faintly, he could sense the shuffling of insect feet. Then, in an instant, almost as if the owners of those feet were waiting for him to stop and listen, the shuffling grew in volume and speed. He felt a small breeze against his antennae, coming from the tunnel ahead of him. On the breeze, he could smell the scent of many workers and warriors, and he could smell that they were prepared for combat. But why? What was down here to fight? Even the Blood Eagle had never gotten this deep. Now the shuffling was a rumbling, and it was headed towards him. The breeze became stronger as the insects picked up speed. He was forcefully reminded of how he and his warrior-brothers had caused such breezes as they rushed through the tunnels towards the enemy. The first tiny needles of fear found their way into his hearts, and he wondered if they were coming after him. The question was answered as a worker rounded a corner, scented him, and called back to its brothers.   Here! Here! Here! It turned back towards him, and charged. Only his reflexes saved him from the worker's boundless strength and huge mandibles. Bug found a Telamonian in his hand, and he pulled the trigger without thinking. Bright flashes from the barrel of the chaingun lit up the tunnel segment, and the explosive flechettes found their way through the soft shell of the worker and exploded inside, the fires lighting the worker's carapace from within for a moment. The worker squealed its death-cry, and collapsed to the floor in a heap. Bug had no time to wonder what was happening, for more workers barreled around the corner and came after him. Again he opened up with the chaingun, filling the tunnel with flying death. The unarmored workers fell easily to the explosive shells, though they were close enough this time to spatter him with blood as they fell. Now he could hear the hissing of the warriors as they readied themselves for a charge down the tunnel. He would not be able to fend that many warriors off by himself, he knew. They would swarm him, leaping over the dead bodies of their brothers to rip him to shreds. He knew that well--he'd done it enough times himself. Ambush turned around and ran, coaxing every last bit of power from his artificial muscles. He ran back the way he came, going deeper into the tunnels, away from the warriors that followed him. The blood from the workers dripped from his carapace as he ran, marking his trail, and he knew the warriors would be able to follow him easily. He came to an intersection of tunnels and paused just long enough to sample the scent-hole in the wall. Escape! One of the tunnels led up to the surface! If he could make it to the sunlight-- A strong breeze blasted his face from that tunnel, and he knew his escape route was already filled with warriors. He cursed, then wheeled around and headed down the last remaining tunnel, deeper into the hive. Moments later, he slammed face-first into a wall. A dead-end? Here? But the scents had told him--- A trap! He turned around and backed against the wall. He found weapons in his hands--a plascannon and a sword. How had they gotten-- There was no time to think--the warriors poured into the dead-end from the intersection, charging at him blindly. The first he shot with the plascannon, the superheated plasma melting and fusing its carapace, locking its joints. It tumbled forwards, then shattered as the weight of its brothers behind it broke the now-brittle shell. He downed three more, all in quick succession. Their burning bodies lit up the tunnel, filled it with acrid smoke. In the dim light, he could see many reflected points of light from the warriors' compound eyes. So many of them! Again the warriors surged at him, kicking their dead brothers out of the way. They were too close for plasma now, and he had to use the sword. He hacked off the head of one, then cut another one in half at the waist. A third leaped over its brothers and collided with him, fouling the sword in between their bodies. He lashed out with a fist, cracking the thorax of the warrior, then threw it off him. But it was too late--they had him now. More leaped on him, and he could feel their claws raking over his exoskeleton, carving lines into the living shell. He screamed as their weight bore him down, screamed as one managed to tear off a leg, screamed as his remaining eye was shredded--  "--my brothers! It was not my fault!" Hearts pounding, Ambush came awake at his own words. He found himself in his own quarters, which were dimly lit by a computer terminal. Nothing moved within, and there was no sound save the whistling of his own breath. The clock on the terminal told him it was 0300 hours. Shaking, Bug opened the storage trunk located against the wall. He withdrew a jar of honey and unsealed the lid. He quickly dabbed a finger into the golden syrup and put it to his antennae, then ran that through his mandibles, sucking the honey off. The effect was almost immediate, the calming chemicals in the honey forcing his breath to slow and his hearts to a normal pace. Why was he having nightmares about his exile? Those had stopped decades ago. <img src=http://home.earthlink.net/~ambushbugdtm/BugSig.jpg align=LEFT> Member: DTM, XMEN, SeXy The Drunken ArtilleryBug! "Roj, target is *hic* DAWWWG-meat!"Edited by: <A HREF=http://pub3.ezboard.com/uambushbug.show ... =EN>Ambush Bug</A>  <IMG HEIGHT=10 WIDTH=10 SRC="http://homepages.go.com/~keeter67/x.gif" BORDER=0> at: 10/28/01 4:33:16 pm

Jester DTM · Post by **Jester DTM** » Mon Oct 29, 2001 11:39 pm

looking good can't wait for installment two. <img src="http://www.thzclan.com/public_html/jest ... img> <a href="mailto:jester@thzclan.com">THZ*Jester[DTM]</a> Cerberus of <a href="http://www.thzclan.com">The Hounds of Zeus</a> Professional Hitman for <a href="http://www.xmenclan.org">The XMEN</a> Evil App Admin for the <a href="http://www.ryanaaron.com/dtm">Dragon Talon Mercenaries</a> HTML Comments are not allowed

Ambush Bug · Post by **Ambush Bug** » Fri Nov 02, 2001 2:29 pm

Thanks for all the kind words, everyone! <img src=http://www.ezboard.com/intl/aenglish/im ... /smile.gif ALT=":)"> Gots the next section for you to read right here. ---- Saturday. Quite possibly the most favored word in the English language, it names a day of the week typically put aside for relaxing, goofing off, tinkering, and any number of hobbies and their tasks. Across the Wilderzone (and the Empire), Saturdays represent that one day of the week where what  you want, and not what The Man wants, is going to happen. It wasn’t surprising, then, to see both Sirus and Rogue deep in the vehicle hangar early Saturday morning. Rogue spent a good deal of time in the hangar anyway, as keeping the fleet in one piece was one of her duties aside from piloting. Sirus was there simply because he liked to tinker with  everything. Didn’t matter what it was, so long as it was a machine or device of some kind—he had a knack for being able figure out just about anything. Rogue was hardly visible save for her tough engineer’s boots and the legs of her mechanic’s coveralls. She was standing underneath the engine compartment of a Havoc-class APC, whose fins and pylons seemed to form a hemispherical cocoon of sorts around her. The APC was strapped to the ceiling as well as being supported by T-grav blocks. The early morning sun punched through the slit-windows of the hangar, throwing beams of light among all of the gathered vehicles. The result was a complex maze of shadows, sunbeams, and metal that boggled the eye as one looked upon it. Sirus surveyed it all from the pilot’s seat. While Rogue was rearranging the innards of the engine-block, he was at work on the dashboard, changing the displays to reflect the changes made to the engine. “Lord, I think this is gonna work,” Rogue called out from below the APC. “Yeah?” Sirus replied, looking away from the dash and peering over the side. He couldn’t see her, of course—the stabilizing fins got in the way—but the reflex was there. “What kind of improvement we looking at here?” “Forty percent, at least, Red.” Rogue ducked under one of the fins and looked up at him. “You ought to come down here and take a look.” “All right.” Sirus put his tools on the floor and hoisted himself out of the cockpit, then vaulted over the side. He landed smartly on the hangar floor. The soles of his boots weren’t quite enough to take away the sting of the nine-foot drop completely, but then again, the Havoc was designed with hardshells in mind, not regulars in casual uniform. Ignoring the sting, he ducked under the fin and looked to where Rogue had been messing with the guts of the engine. Panels hung open, and wires, cables, circuits, and magnetic containment rings were exposed. “Here,” she said, pointing into the depths of the engine. “I’ve re-routed around most of the governance systems, but left all the big safety controllers in place.” “Nicely done, Rogue,” he said, tugging on his goatee as he studied the changes. Engines were not something he was terribly familiar with—Sirus was far more familiar with the muscle systems in hardshells—but he could plainly see that Rogue had done some good work. “This thing is going to be a pain in the ass to fly, but I’m pretty sure that it’s going to outrun anything the smaller tribes can come up with. Should be more than enough for any special rescue mission Spec could come up with.” Rogue’s face broke into a wide grin. “And now, I’d say it’s time for some breakfast.” “You didn’t  eat?” Sirus asked incredulously. “Heck no… I tinker better on an empty stomach, Red. Let’s go on over to the mess hall… I want your input on the shield placement. You did such good work on Ambush Bug’s shielding.” “But that’s not the same…” he began, getting ready to go into the vast differences between vehicle and armor shielding. “No, it’s not, but then again, you’re more fun to talk to than those egg-headed entek engineers, Red. You actually have a good story behind most of your engineering decisions… like the addition of the collar mount-point for hardshell shields. Remember that?” “Well, yeah…” he said. “But—“ “No buts!  Food!” Rogue said, laughing. “March!” Puzzling. Utterly puzzling, Warren realized. Aside from the obvious difficulties in diagnosing and treating a non-humanoid patient, this latest development was enough for Warren to be thankful he was bald—he had no more hair to rip out. He surveyed the display on his desk again, watching the graph of Bug’s brain activity as the lines scrolled across the screen. Bug himself was on the other side of the room, standing quietly. A console next to him spewed bundles of thin wires that were attached to his head at various points. The whole assembly was supposed to be an EKG of sorts, but Warren wasn’t sure how accurate it would be, given the differences in physiology. Even so, the graph was very interesting. The first half was of the interview Warren had conducted, where he’d poked and prodded Ambush mentally, trying to get him to describe in detail the dreams. Aside from the content of the dreams (which, when you got right down to it, were scenarios straight out of a college psychology textbook; falling, dying, success, and so on), the graph showed a massive reaction to certain questions and thoughts. Most notably, there were huge spikes in brain activity when Bug’s homeworld, Queens, or his early past were brought up. Warren also noted a slow but steady increase in the production of a few hormones in Bug’s bloodstream. He didn’t know what the hormones did, and didn’t have any means of empirically determining what the effects were, but they still piqued his interest. They interested him even more because as far as he could determine, they’d started increasing at the same time Bug’s dreams had started. The second half was being charted right now, as Bug ‘sat’ in the room and dreamed. The activity results looked like a black-and-white photograph of a mountain range; spikes and valleys all over the place. The hormone levels didn’t radically change, but just kept increasing at their slow and steady pace. Suddenly, the lines on the graph quickly and forcefully rammed their way to the maximum value, and Ambush started and came awake, looking around. His antennae came up to full-mast, and he raised himself from his sitting position. “You all right, Bug?” Warren asked quietly. “…yes,” Ambush replied. “A nightmare. This one I can’t explain very well. I was…losing parts of myself.” Warren cocked an eyebrow at Ambush. “Was it like your tunnel-dream?” he asked, remembering the graphic descriptions Ambush had provided of that experience. “No, not at all. There was nothing in this dream save myself… and….” Bug paused for a moment, looking around as if the words he wanted were underneath a nearby piece of furniture. “…and I was losing myself. Parts. They just weren’t there. My mind, my body… parts just went missing. I can’t put the words to it, Warren.” “You told me a while back that you’d lost arms and legs in the past… was this dream about that?” “ No!” Bug said, more forcefully than he intended. “There was no conflict here, no war, no battle… no  contact, even. I was utterly alone, in some kind of void. Then things would disappear,  memories would disappear….” He paused for a moment. “Yes, memories would leave me… I don’t even know which ones, Warren.” “All right then, Bug,” Warren told him. “I need a little time to go over all the information I’ve collected here. Go get some exercise or something… take your mind off this. I’ll call you over the CC when I’m done.” Ambush wasted no time in quickly (yet carefully) removing all the wires from his person and leaving the examination room. The moment he was gone, Warren reached for a handheld PDA with CC access and started going through the directory of mercenaries. It didn’t take him long to find the name he was looking for. “…and we set it up so the fields overlapped right at the joint. Bug tells me that the thoracic/abdominal joint is a favored target among his kind, so he wanted all that extra protection there.” Sirus paused to take a bite out of his sandwich. He and Rogue were in the mess hall, which was fairly empty this fine Saturday morning. The cooks were busy cleaning and storing equipment on this ‘off’ day, and the few people eating were all in small numbers. The morning sun shone dimly through tinted windows that overlooked the central courtyard. “And, on top of that, those shields are tuned for indoor work.” “Oh?” Rogue stopped in the middle of slicing a sausage link in half to look up at Sirus. “And how exactly do you do that?” Sirus grinned. “Well, Bug and I did a bit of digging around for that… turns out that HERCULANs have several types of shields that can be tuned for various combat situations.” HERCULANs, or HERCs, were multi-story walking war-machines that resembled something from a child’s video game, but were easily capable of devastating entire battalions and divisions of infantry. “After some research, we found that we could do some serious tweaking to the recharge rate of the shields. See, ‘normal’ shields are set up so that they don’t draw a lot of power from the fusion cells, because so much of that energy is needed for the armor, systems, and jets. They resist impact well, but recharge pretty slow. Bug’s got it a little easier… since he doesn’t hardly use his jets, and most of his ‘armor’ is just plate metal, we could increase the amount of energy that gets funneled into the shields.” “Fast-charging shields?” Rogue said. “Exactly. We applied the same type of shields to a Juggernaut or two that we had lying around in the armory. It  really cuts into their mobility, but by Harabec, you can practically just keep shooting at them for almost as long as you want.” Sirus dug into his sandwich again, just as the communicator on his collar beeped at him. He gave Rogue an exasperated  it- never-fails! look, quickly swallowed the bite of his sandwich, and tapped the acknowledgement pip on his collar. “RedSirus here,” he said, wondering who it was. “Red, this is Warren.” There was a pause in the transmission. “You haven’t seen Bug, have you?” “Not today, no. I’ve been in the hangar all morning with Rogue.” “Good. Can you come down to my office in a few minutes? I have some things you need to hear.” The smoke from Warren’s  cigarillo curled lazily up to the ceiling of his office as the man himself leaned back in his chair. Sirus occupied the comfortably-padded chair on the opposite side of the desk. A display pad was in his hand, and he was looking over the results that Warren had collected from Bug. “Well, doc, I can’t say I’m a medical expert in any sense of the word, but—“ “—something’s wrong, yes?” Warren finished for him. “At least, that’s what I’m getting out of all this. Nightmares and dreams every night, a sudden, massive increase in sleep, some new hormone steadily on the rise in his brain, and no way to tell what the hell it is.” Sirus ‘hmmm’ed sympathetically. Warren dealt with the strangeness of Bug’s physiology, while he dealt with Bug’s mind. It was hard to say which was tougher. “What kind of dreams has he been having?” Sirus asked. “The good ones he won’t describe hardly at all, Red. He just says they are good. The nightmares, though, he usually describes in  exquisite detail.” Warren frowned for a moment—Bug’s description was clear enough that he thought he might be having nightmares himself later on. The prospect of running through someone else’s personal Hell didn’t please him. “’Usually’?” “Yes, usually. The dream he had here in the office, though, that one he couldn’t describe very well. He said he felt like he was in a void, and that parts of both his body and mind just went missing. I prodded him to elaborate, and he couldn’t.” “Couldn’t, or wouldn’t?” “Couldn’t. That was the thing that made me call you.” Sirus put the pad down and looked at Warren. “So, what are you going to do, Warren? Discharge him?” Warren jumped a little, for that was exactly what had been crossing his mind. “I’d thought of that, yes. He  is extremely dangerous—“ “You don’t have to tell  me that, doc.” “—but I’m not sure if a full discharge is the right solution,” Warren finished. “He needs to find out what is causing this, and I don’t think I’m going to be able to help him.” “What do you expect him to do, Warren, call home to his mother? He was exiled, man, and you heard the terms of that exile just as well as Spec and I did. How is he going to find out what’s wrong with him without getting in contact with his hive? He does that, and at the very least  he will end up dead, and at the worst, so will we.” Warren blanched a little. Sirus’s words were right on target, but they stung anyway. And that wasn’t the part that hurt—what hurt was that he couldn’t help, despite the oath he’d taken in medical school. But there had to be something he could do! “All right, you have me there, Red. I can’t just send him home.” Warren paused to blow a smoke-ring to the ceiling, watching it roll within itself. It bumped into a light fixture and dissipated without a sound. “You know, Sirus, it would almost seem like he’s suffering from some kind of stress disorder. Born warrior or not, has he ever taken a break?” “A break? Bug?” Sirus scoffed, smiling… and then the smile dropped off his face as he really thought about the question. “Why, no, he hasn’t, Warren. Not since I’ve known him. Always either fighting or preparing for a fight, or studying to be a better fighter, or training others…” he trailed off, beginning to realize what Warren was getting at. “You’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, are you?” Warren grinned widely. “If you’re thinking of an ‘enforced furlough’, you’re right on target. Get him off the planet, get him somewhere peaceful where he can roam around and ponder the whole thing out.” “Yeah, but where is that? What does a giant insect do on vacation?” “I imagine he’ll be asking himself the same questions, Red. Can you help him answer them?” “You suggesting I go with him?” Warren nodded the affirmative. “All right, you approve it with Spec, and I’ll go.” There was a brief silence in the room. “So who’s going to tell him?” “Flip ya for it.” <img src=http://home.earthlink.net/~ambushbugdtm/BugSig.jpg align=LEFT> Member: DTM, XMEN, SeXy The Drunken ArtilleryBug! "Roj, target is *hic* DAWWWG-meat!"Edited by: <A HREF=http://pub3.ezboard.com/uambushbug.show ... =EN>Ambush Bug</A>  <IMG HEIGHT=10 WIDTH=10 SRC="http://homepages.go.com/~keeter67/x.gif" BORDER=0> at: 11/2/01 2:33:33 pm

Spinning Hat · Post by **Spinning Hat** » Fri Nov 02, 2001 9:16 pm

Keep it coming! I want more! More damnit! <map name="SHMAP"><area href="http://xmenclan.org" target="_blank" shape="rect" coords="169, 72, 193, 143"><area href="http://dragontalonmercs.com" target="_blank" shape="rect" coords="0, 78, 25, 141"><area href="http://pub1.ezboard.com/uspinninghat.sh ... anguage=EN" target="_blank" shape="rect" coords="22, 3, 172, 30"></map><img border="0" src="http://www.xmenclan.org/sh3d2.gif" usemap="#SHMAP" width="194" height="144"> <h4>The only thing stopping me from greatness is my stupidity...</h4>

Ambush Bug · Post by **Ambush Bug** » Wed Nov 07, 2001 2:32 pm

The plot thickens. <img src=http://www.ezboard.com/intl/aenglish/im ... /smile.gif ALT=":)"> --- &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp  On a seemingly deserted world far from the war… &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp The Inquisitor floated loftily in the air, its many dangling limbs swaying gently, as if from some breeze. There was no breeze here, though; this room was far underground, and ventilation was only what was necessary to breathe. It watched the Flaymaster, Render-of-Hearts, sitting below, waiting for scents, trying to detect any trace of fear or hesitation in her. &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Render-of-Hearts knew this. She sat in her chair, her eyes following the items on the large display in front of her. She was not about to let the Inquisitor scent any fear, uncertainty, or doubt on her—her plan was good, and it  would succeed. &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “So,” the Inquisitor rasped quietly. “You have captured some of their warriors, I see. Your squad lost vatsats in the process…. They are hard to grow.” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Rrrrh, I know that!” she replied, more forcefully than she intended. Or was that true? She wanted to hide her fears, not her anger. “I have replacements, Vortoth,” she said, naming the Inquisitor for the first time since it had arrived at her research complex. “And Mortok tells me that there was some good fortune in the process—though he lost many of his own warriors, what he has shown me so far is impressive.” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “And what would that be?” Vortoth intoned. “I see only a battered, stolen dropship, a squad of captured warriors, and a Flaymaster with ambitious research plans. When will you have results for us, Render-of-Hearts?” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp She sat back in her chair, containing the anger, hiding the scent of her efforts. It was a difficult thing to do with Vortoth so close by—the Inquisitor had many sensitive nerve-bundles on those tentacles—but she managed. She even managed not to narrow her eyes or flare her nostrils at the backhanded insult to her plans. She suppressed an urge to reach out with one heavily-muscled arm and rake her talons through the floating, diaphanous Inquisitor. &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “I will have results sooner than I expected. Mortok’s use of concussion torpedoes worked better than expected at Hel’s Gate, and he was able to easily navigate through the asteroid swarm. He is en route to the test planet now.” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Concussion torpedoes? Is that all it takes to get through Hel’s Gate?” Vortoth's tone was quiet, contemplative. &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Yes.” She snorted derisively. “One would think the humans would have figured that out by now.” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “The mental fallacies of the Enslavers are not my concern. What of this test?” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Now she  did narrow her eyes—Vortoth was not to be swayed from his line of questioning, it seemed. She took a deep breath and let it out quietly. “We must see if we can block out their normal lines of communication, and then we must try to control them. So far, we have been able to confuse them long enough to capture them. We were not able to give them commands while they were still on their planet—their master’s influence is still too strong for that. My plan is to take them far away from that planet, then attempt to override their command.” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “To what end?” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Now she smiled, her lips pulling back from her teeth, exposing the large, pointed rows to the dim light of the display. Gently, she asked, “Have you seen Mortok’s transmitted recordings of the capture?” She  knew Vortoth had not seen them, else he would not be asking such questions. She did not bother to conceal her pleasure at the realization, either. &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “No. Of what significance are they?” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “ Great significance, Inquisitor.” She turned to face him now, looking up as she did so. “What they did to Mortok’s squad is evidence enough. Would you care to see?” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “How many did he lose again?” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Thirty warriors. Thirty  excellent warriors, I might add.” She grinned wider, her teeth resembling an ivory bear-trap. Perhaps she would be able convince this Inquisitor of the validity of her plans after all. &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Sirus lost the coin toss with Warren, and was thus relegated to finding Bug and telling him of his new ‘assignment’. Red wondered how his friend would take it… probably just as stoically as usual, he concluded. If anything, Bug should have his picture in the dictionary next to ‘unflappable’ and ‘inscrutable’. &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Finding Bug wasn’t terribly hard; a few questions asked of passing mercs gave Sirus the location. Apparently, Ambush took Warren at his word and went to get some exercise at the gym. The first time Sirus had ever seen Bug in the gym, he’d been puzzled; weren’t his muscles artificial? They were completely artificial, he learned, but they were so true to the flesh they’d replaced that they could atrophy if not used. &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp When he entered the gym, he saw quite a number of people in there along with Bug, not at all unusual in a society that prized cardiovascular fitness. Almost all of the exercise machines were in use, and the track held several small groups of runners. Bug was in a corner, changing the weight settings on a t-grav weight bar. Sirus picked his way through the various people and their equipment, making his way to Bug. &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp When he reached his friend, Bug was already four repetitions into a set of two-arm curls. The numerical display on the bar read ‘600 kg’, and the warrior's arms trembled only slightly as he lifted that weight. Sirus waited patiently for Bug to finish his set; he knew just how annoying it was to have his rhythm interrupted. When Ambush was done, Sirus spoke. &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Six hundred kilos today?” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Yes. And it feels good to do it, too. Warren’s advice was good.” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Sirus smiled. “He’s a wise fellow, Warren. He’s also sent me out here to tell you about your test results. You want to hear it now, or do you want to finish up in the gym first?” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “I may as well hear them now.” Bug put the weight bar away after setting it to zero. &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Sirus leaned up against one of the walls and crossed his arms. “Well, first off, Warren hasn’t got a clue what all is going on inside your head. There’s hormones flying about, brain activity all over the place, and he has no empirical information with which to compare it all.” He waited for this to sink in, to see if it would get a reaction. It didn’t. He continued. “His current diagnosis, given the information that he has available to him, is that you’re suffering from some kind of stress disorder.” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp That got a reaction. “Stress disorder?” Bug asked as if hearing the term for the first time. &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Yes, he thinks you’re under too much strain. I agree with him, by the way.” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Too much strain? But Sirus, what have I been doing for the last few months save for training my squad?” He was referring to Masters, Peterson, and Birt, his would-be SpecOps squad. “That’s not very stressful, I think.” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Sirus waved a hand in deferral. “Hey, I’m just sending the news, Bug. Regardless of what you think is stressful or not, Warren is pretty worried about you.” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “I can understand why,” Bug replied, thinking of his blackout. “And yourself? Do you share the same worries?” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Of course, Bug.” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp There was what seemed to be a calculated pause on Bug’s part—Sirus wasn’t sure—and Ambush asked, “And what are Warren’s suggestions?” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Well, they’re not really suggestions, Bug…” Sirus said. “In fact, they’re orders, approved and signed by Spec, no less.” He pulled a small datapad from his shirt pocket and handed it to Ambush. &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Bug’s antennae twitched as he read over the pad. “’Enforced furlough’? What is that?” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “You’re going on vacation, Bug. You’ve got a free ticket out of this place for about two months. Your assignment, straight from the doc, is that you get out there and relax as hard as you can.” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “But…” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Doctor’s orders, Bug. He was going to discharge you for being medically unfit for duty, but I talked him out of it.” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Can he  do that?” Bug asked incredulously. &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Sure he can, Bug—he’s the Chief Medical Officer here, and CMO’s have the God-given right to discharge  anyone, even the currently ranking officer of the base, if they are found to be unfit for duty. Privates like you and me don’t really have a lot of room to argue.” Of course, neither of them were actually that low in rank; ranks came quickly within the DTM, for members came and went at all times. But it got Red’s point across. &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Wait, you said ‘privates like you and me’…. he did the same thing to  you?” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Sirus grinned. “Well, he had to have some kind of excuse to send me along with you, Bug. So, yes, we’re both currently on ‘enforced furlough’, as it’s called. You have your holo-camera ready, so you can make like a tourist?” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Ambush ignored (or didn’t get) the joke. “Where are we going?” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Somewhere a really long way away from the war, I would imagine. Warren doesn’t want you even thinking about impending combat. If it were possible for you to do it, I think he’d recommend you hit a pleasure-port and spend about six months’ salary on females.” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Ambush chuffed to himself. “You humans and your mating habits. So we don’t know exactly where we are getting shipped to?” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Haven’t a clue yet. Spec’s still going through the list of the planets. I already asked him to avoid all the cold ones so you wouldn’t freeze your antennae off.” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Much obliged, Red.” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp The two of them left the corner of the gym and headed for the exit. &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Say,” Sirus interjected as they exited past a line of treadmills, “What would you do on a vacation, Bug? I’ve been wondering.” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Bug’s antennae bounced up and down in a quick approximation of a human shrug. “Why, I’m not sure. If the planet has suitable wildlife, I may go hunting.” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Hunting?” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “You don’t expect me to just walk into a restaurant and order up a meal, do you?” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Sirus imagined the havoc that would ensue if his friend waltzed into a restaurant full of civilians. “Well, you have a point there, though I could just have it delivered or something.” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Bug laughed. “If I go hunting, I don’t expect to be close enough to a city for that, Red.” He stroked his ‘chin’, thinking. “I’ve been wondering about my own health as well, and perhaps I’ll be able to figure out what is happening to me while we’re gone. Hunting game is good for ordering one’s thoughts.” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Sirus cocked an eyebrow at him. “’Game’, huh? You’re going to stick to animals, right?” &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp “Of course. My days of assassinating humans for money are over.” <img src=http://home.earthlink.net/~ambushbugdtm/BugSig.jpg align=LEFT> Member: DTM, XMEN, SeXy The Drunken ArtilleryBug! "Roj, target is *hic* DAWWWG-meat!"

Ambush Bug · Post by **Ambush Bug** » Fri Nov 30, 2001 5:04 pm

Just a small update--no story this time, but that will change. I've been kicking around a few ideas, and had to write them down before I could go any further. I  am working on the story, don't you worry about that, and I hope to have the next segment up in a week or so. <img src=http://home.earthlink.net/~ambushbugdtm/BugSig.jpg align=LEFT> Member: DTM, XMEN, SeXy The Drunken ArtilleryBug! "Roj, target is *hic* DAWWWG-meat!"

Ambush Bug · Post by **Ambush Bug** » Tue Dec 11, 2001 1:33 am

OK, if you guys haven't visited www.tribesroleplayers.com yet, this would be a good time to do it. Holiday season and all, and the stuff there is not only background for this story, but good reading, too. <img src=http://www.ezboard.com/intl/aenglish/im ... /smile.gif ALT=":)"> Use it to escape from all of your cantankerous relatives. <img src=http://www.ezboard.com/intl/aenglish/im ... s/wink.gif ALT=";)"> I also recommend "Prophecy of Tears", over on www.tribes2.com in the Universe section. That's by Hex himself, and though he might not approve of the way I've twisted certain elements around, I can only hope that I've remained as true as possible to his vision of the Tribes universe. The story continues now with Bug and Sirus finally getting underway on their 'furlough'. You will also see our good man RudeJelly make his entrance into this tale. The BioDerm plot begins to come into the clear as well.... ---- Sirus stood in the cargo bay of the  Flying Maelstrom, the freighter tasked with taking Bug and he off to the distant, peaceful world of Agronis. The bay, a rectangular room, lacked any form of aesthetics--not surprising given the ship's task. Only the door controls broke up the uniform grey of the walls. The loading door was open to the daylight, and sunbeams poured into the ship like liquid gold. Several large crates were at the back edge of the bay, secured to the floor with heavy metal cables. The crates easily came to Red's shoulders, and each was identical in shape and size. One stood open, and into this he placed his duffel. The duffel bag, loaded with everything he needed for the trip, was heavy, but not ridiculously so. The assault hardshell he was wearing made the task of stowing the bag child's play, but he could still manhandle the bag himself without too much of a problem. Baggage stowed, he checked the wrist interface of his armor for the time. He 'hmm'ed to himself as he saw that is was already past 0900 hours. Bug was late. "Unusual for him," he muttered to himself. "The big lug is usually so punctual it's painful." He knew this well--Bug, without fail, gave latecomers to his class a dressing-down, and Red had been late on more than one occaision. Not that there was any malice behind it, but Bug had to keep up appearances, friends or no. The only problem Sirus encountered when this happend was trying not to laugh out loud, for Bug ripped many of his 'threats' straight out of the holo-films of the day. Sirus straightened and made his voice deeper and flatter: "Next time you're late, merc, I'm not  only gonna make you peel potatoes until your hands fall off, but I'm gonna make you use a  spoon!" Ah, a perfectly suitable Bug-impersontation, he told himself. He chuckled to himself. The big warrior tried so hard to fit in with humans, and it left such  great openings for a well timed joke. More than once he'd pulled the wool over Bug's eyes through witty  repartee' or out-and-out physical gags. The last time he'd gotten Bug, he conned Warren into readjusting Bug's cyborg eye so that it flipped everything upside down when Sirus hit a remote switch. It was the only time he'd ever seen the insect trip over his own feet, too. He laughed out loud at the memory. And he'd gotten all on camera, too, with his hardshell's battle recorder. The clip went around the DTM barracks for months, and it wasn't totally uncommon for mercs to hail Bug with a hearty "Trip over anything lately, Bug?" Thankfully, Ambush had a good sense of humor... and a devestating talent for jokes himself, when he took the time to research the proper cultural references. Three months ago, he'd pulled the classic 'itching powder in one's hardshell' gag as a counterattack for the eye, and done it to perfection. It took Red almost three days to figure out who'd done it--no one wanted to give it away, and Bug's lack of facial expressions made him one of the best 'straight men' in the wilderzone. The footage of that gag was  also still around, much to Red's chagrin. But that was all part of friendship, a concept which Bug was slowly but surely coming to understand. Over the last year or so, Bug had warmed up, losing some of that icy chill in his demeanor that he'd brought with him. He still gave off the aura of 'ruthless killer', but he wasn't so...  machine-like any more. Still precise in his actions and thoughts, but he managed to loosen up when not in the battlefield. He'd even taken up some human entertainment--recently, he'd begun digging deeply into the fiction section of the library. The Renegades series was his favorite right now. Sirus didn't care much for it himself, for the series was an Imperial production, and portrayed the Tribes as nothing more than backwoods warriors, but he wasn't about to begrude Bug his choice. Then again, the last time he'd asked, Bug said it was the most hysterical thing he'd ever read, mostly because it was so widly inaccurate. Sirus shrugged. The insect sense of humor still puzzled him at times. He turned around to look out the cargo bay door again, to see if Bug was coming, and almost ran right into his friend. He let out an 'awp!' and stumbled backwards. Bug snapped his hands out and caught Sirus by the shoulders, hauling him upright, chuckling softly. "Sorry, Red, didn't mean to startle you there." "Geez!" Sirus got his feet under himself and looked up at Bug. "You know how to sneak up on a guy, don't you?" He did a double-take when he noticed Bug was wearing his armor. After the almost-fatal incident with the Marauders, Bug had commisioned new armor to replace the chopped-and-channeled Myrmidon he'd been wearing as armor plate. Two mortar shells had exploded at almost point-blank distance, driving the old Myrm's plates into his carapace, cracking it badly. That had been the last straw. He and Sirus set out to design new armor for him, armor that was designed to handle the punishment of hardshell combat, yet accomodate his unique anatomy. The result was an impressive piece of engineering. Normal hardshells relied on their built-in shields to take most of the punishment from weapons. The armor shell for humans was mainly just a suit to augment their strength so they could weild the heavy weapons that combat demanded. Bug, having artificial muscles already, didn't need that kind of assitance, and so the armor plate he wore was  really armor plate, several inches thick in some places. Bug had an internal layer of shielding in his carapace, put there some years ago during his days as an assassin. The armor he now wore contained another layer, albeit a layer that concentrated more on specific points than an overall shell. The entire thing used magnetically-reinforced clamps to hold itself to him. The shape was unusual as well, compared to humans. Humans just needed something to cover their flesh in combat, and their armor and shielding was meant mainly to reinforce the human body as it was shaped. Bug's armor, though, was designed so that it would transfer explosive force over a wide area of his carapace. Spreading the impact alleviated the pressure points of his old armor, which was the primary reason he'd been injured so badly before. The result was that his armor had many subtle curves to it, and several sharp ridges that served to direct the explosive force along those curves. His helmet, in particular, had a sharpened teardrop shape to it, broken only by the globes of his eyes and his long antennae. His torso was a solid mass of metal now, with a ridge in the center of his chest to divide the blast force. His arms and legs were wrapped in the metal, and reinforcing arcs covered the sharp edges of his forearm blades, so that he could use them against hardshells. His hands were free--this was something he'd demanded in order to keep from affecting his ability with hand-to-hand weapons. Slits behind the joint of his thorax and abdomen concealed the exhaust ports of his recently-installed jet-thrusters. The armor was the color of ebony, and unlike human hardshells, dulled in its finish so as not to reflect light. The only non-black portion of the armor was a golden dragon etched into the surface--this was the symbol of the DTM. It too, however, was non-reflective. Stealth and power, all in one package. "Bug," Sirus said, looking him over. "I know you look good in your armor, and it picks up the ladies like nothing I've ever seen, but didn't Warren say you were going on vacation?" He peered at Bug's warharness, a mass of straps and clamps slung over the armor, and hoisted an eyebrow at what he saw there. "And what's with the arsenal? You're carrying at  least half your weapons with you!" It was true. From Bug's harness hung not only his  chatka (complete with leather travelling covers over the blades), but several triangular throwing knives, a forward-curved sword called a  kopesh, an obviously stolen Blood Eagle push-dagger, or katar, and one DTM-standard-issue survival knife, complete with an auto-navigator in the pommel. On top of that, Sirus saw that Bug had brought a plascannon along for the ride as well. "Well, I know this looks, er... unusual, Red.." Bug began. "Unusual? You look like a twisted joke about Imperial tourists! Are you seriously going to bring all that hardware with you?" "Yes." The reply was the usual deep, commanding tone. "It has been too long since I've bonded with my weapons." An open expression of confusion spread across Red's face. "Bonding? Now you've lost me, Bug." Bug gestured that they should head towards the open crate against the back wall. He began speaking as they moved towards it. "Yes, I must bond with them. I'm not sure if that's the right word for what I will do, though. When warriors like myself are young, we are given our weapons, and in a long process of several months, learn every last intricate detail of them. Their weight, their balance and heft, the way they react when thrown, and so on. The end result is that we become one with the weapon; we know it better than we know our own bodies. It is what allows my race to be so quick and precise with them." Bug unstrapped his harness and began placing his weapons into the crate one by one. "This is not something I have done since I have joined the DTM. I have not had the time, for I have been dealing with the task of relating to humans." "Hey, we're not  that deep, Bug," Sirus snorted. "Look in the news." "Pardon?" Bug looked at him in confusion. "We're all pretty much alike, Bug. Complex on the outside, but similiar once you strip away the layers." "Oh. I see. The war, you mean." Sirus nodded. "Anyway, I have decided that this furlough would be an excellent time to perform the process of bonding, not only with my weapons, but with my armor." Now Sirus got it. "That's why you're going out hunting, right?" "Exactly. I will be able to hone my skills on targets far less dangerous than humans, and thus will be able to accurately observe my own technique." Sirus smiled at the thought. "Now you're beginning to sound like a 'Sworder, Bug." "The Diamond Sword are not entirely off-base when it comes to such things, Red. Though they may not be a flexible group, they do have an excellent grasp of the art of war in its higher forms." Bug carefully placed his  chatka into the container, making sure it was properly positioned so as not to roll around during flight. "The Sworders I have met in my travels have been, to a man, admirable for their skill in battle. I respect them very much." The last weapon, his plascannon, went into the container as well, its ammo magazine stripped for safety. "That everything, Bug?" Sirus asked. "No. My carryall is next." Ambush reached down underneath the joint of his thorax and abdomen and removed the bulging sack slung there. Sirus distinctly heard the muted clinking of honey-jars from within the sack. "Damn, I forgot to bring something like that," Sirus muttered. Ambush reached into the sack and brought out a bottle of what looked like truly ancient tequila, complete with a worm at the bottom. "To make your trip easier," he said, and chuckled softly. "Thanks," Sirus said as Bug replaced the bottle. "That will help. This trip's gonna take a while due to the war, and there's nothing quite as boring as a freighter on a long journey." "You brought some reading material, I hope?" "Of course. Advanced Nano-Repairs and The Fine Art of Sword-Making. Four or five thousand pages total... I think I'll be plenty busy." "Excellent. Shall we tell the pilot we are ready to go?" "Sounds good to me." The pilot, they discovered, was none other than RudeJelly (RJ to his friends). Like Bug, he'd come to the DTM almost two years ago, and under equally 'odd' circumstances: he just showed up on the roster one day. That is to say that on the previous day, no one had ever heard of him before, and the next, he was not only on the roster, but at captain's rank. This, of course, caused an instant uproar when it was discovered. After much questioning by Spec, it was determined that RJ had somehow snuck into the Fenecian complex (a herculean task all by itself), broken into the main computers (another difficult thing to do), and signed himself up, bypassing the applicant process completely. Since then, he'd gone through the appication process as normal and gone on to do a lot of undercover work. Spying, to name it bluntly. He was extremely well-suited for it. Somehow, someway, RJ had the ability to change his facial features at will. One moment, he could be a limp-wristed programmer of hardshells that never saw the sun. A quick turn-and-fade later, he could be that lantern-jawed artilleryman that everyone shied away from in the local bar. How he did this was a mystery--RJ wouldn't tell anyone his methods, not even Spec. Some, like Bug and Sirus, had their suspicions. Maybe it was some form of bioengineering, or a cybernetic layer under his skin. Given the taboos on both such practices, RJ was wise to keep quiet about it. As a result of RJ's talents and predisposition towards gathering information, he often covered himself as a spacer--a pilot. Those types went everywhere in space, and usually managed to hear all kinds of gossip and scuttlebutt. As Sirus and Bug stepped into the bridge--a cramped, roughly spherical chamber packed with an astounding number of display screens and control panels--they saw RJ sitting in the captain's chair. They only knew it was him by the tiny dragon-earring he wore--this was his 'name tag' when he was around Fenecia. The rest of his face was completely unfamiliar. This time, he was a fresh-faced, blond-haired, blue-eyed young man of approximately twenty years. He looked incredibly naive and inexperienced, which was probably just the effect he was shooting for. "Boy, you're laying it on pretty thick today, aren't you?" Sirus asked as he found a chair and settled himself into it. RJ blew a long blonde bang out of his face with a snorting sound. "Always with the jab, eh, Red?" "But of course!" Sirus replied, grinning. "I got a new assignment from Spec, actually. Some recon work on that planet you and Bug are headed for." "Did Warren get you, too?" Bug asked, standing in the door. His wide stance wouldn't allow him to enter the compartment easily, especially in armor, and he had no intentions of contorting himself into an insect pretzel. "He's handing out enforced furloughs like they were single-credit notes." RJ laughed. "No, it's legitimate work this time, Bug. Spec wants a read on how the local populace is reacting to the war, especially since they've been hit up for massive food shipments as of late. He's worried they might get angry about it." Sirus rolled his eyes. "Christ, don't these people know there's a  war on?" "Oh, yes," RJ replied, turning back to his controls and fiddling with a few screens. "But from what I've been hearing, the folks from the Pact aren't being too friendly about asking for the shipments. There's been at least one farmer killed over it that I've heard." "Well, that could escalate..." Sirus mused. He was all too familiar with the Supply Riots of recent times--he'd been part of the group Spec had sent in response to a request for military aid to put them down. Nasty business, that. "Exactly, Red." RJ finished with the adjustments to the controls and turned to face Sirus again. "There's been enough trouble within the Pact, and Spec wants to do whatever he can to keep it down if at all possible." "I wonder about the Pact, sometimes," Bug said quietly. An alliance of the Tribes formed to beat back the crushing power of the BioDerms, the Pact could at best be described as 'rushed'. The Starwolf and Blood Eagle, in particular, could still let their differences overwhelm the cause. Considering what had happend at Hepta Ourobis, that wasn't surprising... but still, in the face of onrushing defeat, one would expect more cooperation between the two. "Bug, don't wonder about it  at all," chided Sirus. "You're on vacation, remember? When we get back,  then you can start worrying your angular little head." Bug twitched his antennae at Sirus. "You're not going to let up on that, are you?" Sirus spread his hands wide and grinned. "Me? Of course not!" "Curse this Slaver piece of trash!" thundered Mortok as he slammed a heavy fist against the bulkhead nearest to him. The metal, while it did not buckle or dent, gonged softly for a moment after the blow. "I would sooner fight on those ice-ridden Starwolf planets than wait like this!" He snarled loudly to make his displeasure perfectly clear. "Rrrhhh, we can not expect the highest speed of Slaver ships, Mortok," replied Krayek. Krayek sat in the pilot's seat of the old B-E dropship, his hands wrapped around controls made for far smaller humans. "We have traded stealth for speed, remember?" "I know that, Krayek! It still does not make it any easier to wait!" Krayek supressed a snarl of his own, though it was a hard thing to do. Mortok, anxious to get to the test planet, was taking out his anger on everyone else. Not that this was  unusual for the large BioDerm--even amongst his peers, Mortok was known to have a short temper. It made him an excellent combatant, but it also made life agony for anyone that had to be cooped up with him for any period of time. The fact that the large, spacious areas of the dropship were filled with slumbering captives only made getting away from Mortok that much more difficult. The vatsats, frail but all-important, were spared Mortok's wrath. They were the ones responsible for the slumbering cargo. Though they had to remain back there with the cargo (and that was not a prospect to warm anyone's blood, Krayek knew), they were at least in no danger of dismemberment. Due to the nature of the vatsats, they were also able to read Mortok's moods almost perfectly, and knew exactly when to make themselves scarce. Krayek wished dearly that he had their skill at reading and interpreting pheromones--but then thought better of it. Vatsats were frail and weak, for they were grown to mingle among the Slavers. Krayek, though he was no match for the raw physical might of a huge reaver like Mortok, was still far stronger than even the largest vatsat. Strength was everything. But speed, now... speed had its advantages as well. The cargo of warriors in the back, though they were not nearly as strong as the average BioDerm warrior, were  fast. Fast enough, at least, to outclass even the lightest reaver in raw speed. And they used it well--Krayek witnessed that personally during the raid on the warrior's home planet. Three times they had nearly gotten him, and only by the sheerest luck and his pilot's reflexes was he able to twist out of the way of their strange weapons. Many of his brother warriors had not been fast enough, and they disappeared into the whirling maelstrom of flashing weapons, never to rise again. He shivered slightly at the remembered images. Krayek turned his attention back to the ship's displays as Mortok paced behind him with thunderous steps. "We are coming to a Gate, Mortok," he said. Mortok turned his attention to the ship's displays as well. On the central display, he could see the shimmering rift of the Gate, many hundreds of kilometers ahead of them. "How many more jumps?" he asked. His voice was devoid of anger now--the sight of the Gate, a sign of progress on the slow journey to the planet chosen for the test, calmed him. "Five." "Five? By my charts, we should only need three." Krayek turned in the pilot's seat to face Mortok. "Rrrrh, yes, we could do it in three... if we want to be seen. This ship has been missing for half a century--the Slavers would certainly take notice if we travelled through one of the largest Gates in this quadrant." He expected an outburst from Mortok for the near-rebuke, perhaps even a fist. There was none. Mortok only smiled. "I see," he said quietly, rumblingly. "We would not want our surprise for the Slavers to be discovered beforehand, rrrh?" Krayek wondered how much of a surprise only fifty warriors could be. He nodded and went back to the controls, preparing the dropship for the journey through the Gate. Mortok, on the other hand, had no doubts. Though he only had fifty warriors now, that number would soon grow enormously if the test went well. He'd already planned it out with Render-of-Hearts, his Flaymaster. If successful, the test would soon be followed by a larger operation. That operation, the result of long observation of the warriors' desert homeworld, was risky. The threat of retaliation was real--the one thing he'd learned about these beings was that when they set out to conquer a planet or a system, they did not hold back. If they got wind of his operation before it was in place, the counterattack would be devestating, though it might take as much as a year to fully reach the Horde. Though they did not posess the ability to travel through space in ships, they had their own ways--highly effective ones, as well, and stealthy. If they truly desired it, they could become a third front in this war. But if his plan, and the test, was successful, they would cease to be a problem, and would instead become a benefit. The best part of his operation, as he saw it, was that it would require few warriors. Less than five hundred, all told, spread across the fifteen worlds known to house these beings. Compared to what he stood to gain, even the loss of those five hundred would be as nothing. He grinned widely, showing his teeth. Yes, his plasm and his name would be immortalized for this. He watched as they neared the gate, letting the multicolored lights soothe his burning impatience. <img src=http://home.earthlink.net/~ambushbugdtm/BugSig.jpg align=LEFT> Member: DTM, XMEN, SeXy The Drunken ArtilleryBug! "Roj, target is *hic* DAWWWG-meat!"Edited by: <A HREF=http://pub3.ezboard.com/uambushbug.show ... =EN>Ambush Bug</A>  <IMG SRC="http://homepages.go.com/~keeter67/x.gif" BORDER=0> at: 2/22/02 2:56:20 pm

Killbert DTM · Post by **Killbert DTM** » Wed Dec 12, 2001 9:01 pm

Another triumph!! <img src=http://www.ezboard.com/intl/aenglish/im ... /smile.gif ALT=":)"> Good story AB...keep it coming! <img src=http://www.ezboard.com/intl/aenglish/im ... /happy.gif ALT=":D"> <img src=http://www3.nf.sympatico.ca/p.king/avatar.gif> <a href=http://ov.tribes-universe.com>=oV=</a> - Omnino Victoria: Together Victorious <a href=http://www.dragontalonmercs.com>DTM</a> - Dragon Talon Mercenaries: A guild dedicated to honourable gaming

Ambush Bug · Post by **Ambush Bug** » Tue Dec 25, 2001 1:17 am

If there was anything good to be said about a long trip in a freighter, it was this: it was quiet. Passenger ships had all manner of people running around, making noise and causing a general hum of background noise. Military dropships always exploded with the trash-talk and friendly jibes of eager (or frightened) warriors. Naval cruisers were too strict. But this ship was quiet. Not dead silent, for the sound of the engines and life-support systems made a soft whoosh just on the edge of one's consciouness, but it was quiet enough for long, involved reading. Sirus lay comfortably in his bunk, the thick volume of The Fine Art of Sword-Making propped up on his chest. The material was fascinating. It covered everything from dirks to the huge hand-and-a-half swords some warriors carried into battle. It dealt with with the tricky task of forging a hollow-core sword, and then injecting mercury into the weapon, the better to change the center of gravity during a swing. Most books were in electronic format. It was only to be expected, for almost everyone had at least some access to such forms of information. This copy, though, was hardbound--a rarity. He'd found it in a freshly-destroyed fraytown while out on assignment some time ago. It still bore the scars of the battle--the front cover was permanently blackened with soot from the burning fires. Never one to pass up such a treasure, he'd picked it up and taken it home. He hadn't had a chance to read it until now, for his duties at Fenecia were many and hard. This trip was the perfect opportunity to digest the vast tracts of information within the book. He thought he might try his hand at a little sword-making when he got back to Fenecia. His knife (still strapped to his leg, even though he was wearing plainclothes--he was nothing if not prepared) was a longtime companion, but he could think of several situations where a small sword might come in handy. There was no doubt in his mind that learning how to use one wouldn't be a difficult task to start, either. All he had to do was ask Bug for help. Ambush's fascination (or obession, if you asked some of the old, die-hard mercs in the DTM) with hand-to-hand weapons meant that he had an instructor on-call all the time. When Bug first came to the DTM, Sirus had asked him to show him the use of the strange  chatka staff. Sirus gave up on the weapon within a few days. It was almost too large for him to use--Bug's long arms allowed him to wield the six-and-a-half-foot weapon easily, but Sirus had to struggle just to keep it from scraping the ground when he swung it. On an impulse, he flipped the pages to the back of the book, where there was a pictorial index of known melee weapons. He wondered if he'd find it back there. There was a good chance of it, he thought, for the idea of affixing blades to the ends of a staff was not a new idea. After a few minutes of flipping through the index, he had nothing to show for it. It was nowhere to be found, not even in the footnotes, where all kinds of strange and unusual weapons were noted. Surely someone else had seen this weapon before? He closed the book gently and put it on his bunk. "Might as well find out, or it's gonna drive me nuts until I do," he said to himself, getting up and heading for the door. He put on a pair of rubber-soled slippers and hit the door release, then stepped out into the hallway as the door whooshed open. The hall was cool compared to his quarters. He could feel the air through his thin shirt as he walked towards the main cargo bay. Bug, unable to bunk in the small quarters, had set himself up in the bay, and that was where he was sure to be found. When he opened the door into the bay, he was greeted with the sight of what looked like an empty room. At second glace, he saw that it wasn't empty, but that the crates had been rearranged. They were all secured to the corners so that a large area in the center of the bay was clear of obstructions. The lights were dimmed, and for a moment, Sirus thought that Bug might be asleep somewhere in the room. That was not the case. Ambush, almost invisible in the darkness, stood in the center of the room, his  kopesh in hand, a large cloth tied around his head. The cloth covered his eyes and tied his antennae back against his head--this would render him effectively blind, Sirus knew. Though he was not wearing his helmet, the rest of him was covered in his jet-black armor. He made several motions with the sword, swinging it in fast, tight arcs, then bringing it close to himself, grabbing the blade with his other hand and making as if to bludgeon an invisible opponent with the back of the blade. He continued, parrying, hacking, punching, and switching the weapon to his other hand every few seconds. Suddenly he stopped, and turned to face Sirus as he sheathed the blade into its slot on his warharness. "Ahhh, Sirus!" he said as he pulled the cloth from his head. "Come to practice?" Sirus chuckled. "No, can't say I have, Bug." "Oh? You should come and spar with me before this trip ends. This room is quite well-suited for it." "Certainly is quiet and dark enough, eh?" "That it is. It reminds me of my old practice-room on my homeworld." Bug flexed his antennae in a wide arc, as if to stretch them after their confinement. "So, if you're not here to spar, what brings you?" "A question, actually." Bug cocked his head at him--even though he was not human, the gesture seemed to be universal as a sign to continue. "I was digging through an index of melee weapons, and curiously enough, I didn't find your  chatka in it anywhere. I was figuring that someone out there would have come up with a similar weapon at some point." Bug chittered in amusement. "I can't say I'm surprised, actually. Even among my kind, it's the most difficult weapon in our arsenal. The blades have a tendency to find one's own body, if you know what I mean, and humans are not known for their fondness of overly dangerous weapons. Most of my brothers used swords of some kind." Bug stripped off the armor on his left arm and pointed to a series of circular marks carved into his shoulder. "The chatka is a weapon reserved for those of my kind that attain the skill-rank of Tenth or higher. Most warriors don't live that long." "You have a ranking system?" Sirus asked, and was about to ask Bug's rank when the ship's intercom buzzed at them. "Bug! Sirus!" cried RudeJelly from the bridge. His voice was high and tense, and both insect and man knew it meant immediate danger. "Brace for impact!" The two of them exchanged looks. They were in the center of the bay, and if's RJ's voice was any indication, there was no time to get to a wall or a doorway. "Grab on!" Bug said, pointing at his waist, even as he used his other hand to draw the  kopesh. Red jumped forward and threw his arms around his friend as Bug drove the sword upwards. The point of the blade dug deeply into the metal of the bay's roof, and Bug put both hands on the hilt and locked himself between sword and floor. They were just in time, for the  Maelstrom violently heeled over to the left. Sirus's stomach did a flip-flop as the ship flipped completely over and the T-grav systems in the bay struggled to reorient themselves. Both of them heard the agonized groans of flexing metal as the ship's hull was stressed by the sudden maneuver. One of the crates by the wall broke loose from its restraining straps and went tumbling across the room, missing them by inches. It broke open on the opposite wall, sending foodstuffs everywhere. "Holy starkissing mother of God!" Sirus cried as the ship pulled another roll and righted itself "What the hell was that?" Though the  Maelstrom seemed to be flying on the level again, he did not let go of Bug. He knew better. "RJ!" Bug cried at the intercom. "What happened?" In response, they heard a stream of curses directed at some other pilot. "... damn fool!" RJ finished. "Learn how to fly, jackass!" "RJ!!" said Bug, more forcefully. "What?!" RJ replied, his voice still tense with anger. "Can we, uh, dig our fingers out of the wall now?" Sirus said shakily. "Oh! Yes, it's clear, guys. ...sorry 'bout that." "Thank God," Sirus whispered, and let go of Bug's waist, getting unsteadily to his feet. Adrenaline was still pumping into his system, and his legs and arms twitched. He watched Bug yank his  kopesh out of the ceiling; the point of the blade was noticeably deformed from his bracing maneuver. "What happened, RJ?" Bug asked. His voice was calm, but Red could see that his antennae were trembling a tiny bit, even as he examined the point of his sword. "Damn fool B-E came out of the Gate at maximum burn, that's what! No warning signal, no running lights, not even a friendly 'eat my space dust, loser!'" RJ's snarl of anger came through clearly over the intercom. "The huncher even had his tags turned off!" Sirus looked up at that. Flying without IFF tags was a great way to get shot down. The B-E pilot was either dumb or suicidal.. and judging from what had just happened, he might be both. No accounting for butchers, went the saying. "You get an ID?" Sirus asked. "No, blast it," RJ replied. After a pause: "I need a drink." Sirus turned to Bug. "Think that bottle of tequila survived that little tuck-and-roll, Bug?" "Probably. My carryall's got some padding in it." "Great. Let's get the man a drink." Sirus started towards the crate with their baggage in it. "Heck, let's all get a drink. We could use one, yes?" Bug only nodded at him emphatically. "Fool!" Mortok roared, then reached out and cuffed Krayek on the back of the head. Krayek slammed into the bank of controls and rebounded, stunned. "Did you not think to check before you went through the gate?!" The small reaver collapsed back into the pilot's seat, his head swimming and blood trickling down his snout. He said nothing in self-defense, for he was too wise to contradict Mortok and too stunned to think of anything else. He simply reached out and grasped the unfamiliar controls of the ship again. Eyes watering from the impact, he maxed the throttle of the ship and turned so the ship's name would not be visible to the freighter he'd nearly run into. "If I knew how to fly this ship, I'd tear you in half and do it myself!" Mortok snarled. "Get us away from that freighter and back on course! See that you do not make such a mistake again!" Mortok turned and stomped off to the rear of the ship, his heavy tread making the deckplates tremble. Krayek growled to himself very quietly, lest Mortok hear it. They'd fought together for years, and this was the kind of treatment he got in return? How many times had he aided Mortok in battle? Too many, he decided. Too many to deserve this. It wasn't as if he'd intentionally tried to ram the freighter--the B-E ship was, due to its age, unreliable, and the strain of passing through the gate had temporarily locked the controls on him. Not only that, it had shut down all of his communication gear as well--it was little wonder the freighter hadn't known he was coming through. He checked the displays and saw that the human freighter was now entering the gate. Good. They were not pursuing. But would they report him to other spacers? That he thought likely, but didn't fear very much. He didn't think the human pilot had gotten the chance to see his markings, or the ship's name--he would have been too busy trying to dodge out of the way. A marvelous job he'd done of it, too. A frieghter like that was powerful, but not very manueverable. He wondered how the human's cargo fared through that double-roll. Pah! Why was he thinking of the human's troubles? He had his own to deal with! Wiping blood from his nose (Mortok hit  hard), he set about the task of plotting a course and planning for the next gate. Next time he went through one, he would make sure he had enough power to run the communication relays. There was no point in angering Mortok again. The three of them sat, relaxed, in the ship's mess. This room was big enough for Bug to enter easily, and the insect warrior sat crouched at one end of the rectangular table in the middle of the room. Sirus was at the other end, and RJ sat in the middle of one side. The bottle of tequila sat in the center of the table, and the two men were quietly sipping glasses full of the stuff. Bug had a jar of honey out, and was taking small dabs of it every so often. Sirus tipped his glass at RJ. "Feel better?" "Much, thanks." He was no longer furious at the near-collision--the old tequila, smooth beyond words, had calmed his nerves. "I probably ought to report that guy, but I didn't get any identity on the ship." "Did you see anything of it at all?" Bug asked as he nibbled his honey. RJ chuckled. "Just the front end, mainly, right before I pulled that roll. Thing looked old though. I distinctly saw a bunch of blast marks all over the hull. Lots of dents, too." Sirus laughed. "I wonder why?" "Not hard to guess," Bug added, and chittered. "Ah well, once we set down on Argonis we can relax. This was just a bit of excitement on the way." RJ flipped his hair out of his face and leaned back in the chair, cradling his drink. "You guys figured out what you're gonna do while you're there? Two months is a pretty long time." "Nightlife, first of all," Sirus replied. RJ gave him a strange look. "Are you serious, Red? Argonis doesn't have a nightlife--I did some looking around before we lifted off from Fenecia." Sirus looked downcast at the news. "Nothing? Not even a bar?" "Oh, they've got a bar or two in the spaceport, but it's pretty bad, last I heard. Nothing but farmers and soldiers." "I bet that makes for some interesting fights," Bug mused. "Dance club?" Sirus asked hopefully. RJ shook his head. "Not unless you like square-dancing, Red." Sirus didn't look overjoyed at the prospect. "Red-light district?" Now he sounded a little desparate. RudeJelly smiled at him. "Too uptight. They kicked out all the prostitutes about a year ago." "Great," he said, rolling his eyes. "No offense, Bug, but two months of living out in the wild isn't my dream vacation, you know?" "None taken. I'll make sure it's interesting." Bug produced one of his triangular throwing blades and casually tossed it from hand to hand. "And enlightening, as well. You'd be surprised how good it can feel to concentrate solely on your weapon for all that time." "Hrrrmph. Maybe I can finally figure out how to use that huge  chatka, Bug." "Maybe so." Bug turned to RJ. "Will we see much of you while we are there?" "Probably not," RJ answered. "I'm heading out to the farms and the suppliers. Waaaaay out in the middle of nowhere." He took another slow sip of the tequila. "Bug? What about you?" "What about me?" Ambush replied, folding his arms on the table for a little support, a sure sign the honey was working its magic. "How are you getting off the ship? It's, uh, not like their port authority is going to let you through without some trouble." Sirus eyes went blank. "I  knew we forgot something..." he said quietly. <img src=http://home.earthlink.net/~ambushbugdtm/BugSig.jpg align=LEFT> Member: DTM, XMEN, SeXy The Drunken ArtilleryBug! "Roj, target is *hic* DAWWWG-meat!"Edited by: <A HREF=http://pub3.ezboard.com/uambushbug.show ... =EN>Ambush Bug</A>  <IMG SRC="http://homepages.go.com/~keeter67/x.gif" BORDER=0> at: 2/6/02 5:43:43 pm

RedSirus · Post by **RedSirus** » Fri Dec 28, 2001 5:27 pm

Excellent work, Bug. I'd love to see more of what Tribesmen do in their 'down time'. How long is this story going to be? <img src=http://www.ezboard.com/intl/aenglish/im ... /smile.gif ALT=":)"> And what ARE they going to do with Bug? I can't wait for the next installment. <center><table border=0 cellpadding=0 cellspacing=5><td><img border="0" src="http://www.xmenclan.org/avatars/t2red.g ... ><td>RedSirus<a href=mailto:redsirus@dragontalonmercs.com>@</a> <a href=http://www.dragontalonmercs.com>Dragon Talon Mercenary</a> > <a href=http://server2.ezboard.com/bdragontalon ... > <a href=http://pub18.ezboard.com/bdtmonlinecommunity>DTM Community</a> > <a href=http://pub18.ezboard.com/fdtmonlinecomm ... s>RedSirus' Reviews</a> <a href=http://www.xmenclan.org>Brainwashed Fishmonger</a> > <a href=http://pub3.ezboard.com/bxmenclan>Forum ...

Spinning Hat · Post by **Spinning Hat** » Sat Dec 29, 2001 1:20 pm

Very nice. I'm glad I didn't just click mark all read.... heh. <map name="SHMAP"><area href="http://xmenclan.org" target="_blank" shape="rect" coords="169, 72, 193, 143"><area href="http://dragontalonmercs.com" target="_blank" shape="rect" coords="0, 78, 25, 141"><area href="http://pub1.ezboard.com/uspinninghat.sh ... anguage=EN" target="_blank" shape="rect" coords="22, 3, 172, 30"></map><img border="0" src="http://www.xmenclan.org/sh3d2.gif" usemap="#SHMAP" width="194" height="144"> <a href="http://www.robohouse.com/myrobot"><img src="http://www.robohouse.com/myrobot/maximillian.gif" border=0 alt="Click here to find out what robot you really are"></a>

Ambush Bug · Post by **Ambush Bug** » Thu Jan 17, 2002 10:51 pm

Sorry for the long time between updates, folks. It's been a heavy mix of holidays, birthday parties, drunken rambling into the mike for Legends ( <img src=http://www.ezboard.com/image/emoticons_ ... /happy.gif ALT=":D"> ), and lots and lots of stuff at work. But here it is, the next section to  Dropship. I know you all have been craving some action... it will be coming shortly. This is the section of the story that was hanging me up. I have some twenty-five or so pages more to  Dropship ready to go after this. They just need some fine-tuning and a few holes filled, and I'll have 'em up soon enough. Enjoy! <img src=http://www.ezboard.com/image/emoticons_ ... /smile.gif ALT=":)"> --- After some deliberation (and a lot of tequila and honey), the three of them decided on a course of action that would suit all of them. RJ didn’t need any complications when he landed, so sneaking Bug through customs was completely out. Bug, who had no desire to be packed into a crate or made to act like a synthrall--a labor-bot--also wanted to avoid going through customs. The final solution was for Bug to jump out of the freighter on the way in. RJ’s route to the port was a low one that traveled over some heavily forested hills. There were a couple of spots on the route that were in deep sensor shadow--one of those would be the jump-point. Sirus decided to jump out with Bug. After what he’d heard of the town’s entertainment value, it seemed to him that he shouldn’t even bother trying. Though two months in the wilderness didn’t appeal to him very much, he figured it would be better than two months of complete boredom cooped up in town. At least the scenery would be prettier. As an added bonus, he’d be able to keep his hardshell on--most towns frowned heavily on soldiers walking about in armor unless there was an actual reason for it. One additional problem had to be overcome before Bug could make the jump; making sure Bug could jump at all. During the addition of jets to Bug’s armor, there came to exist the problem of putting gyroscopic stabilizers into the armor. For a normal hardshell, the stabilizers are necessary to keep the armor upright while jetting. For Bug, though, gyros would mean a huge reduction in his on-the-ground mobility. They would also interfere with his sense of balance during combat maneuvers. Lacking gyros made jetting a risky prospect for Bug--though Sirus had trained him well on using his jets to scale obstacles and make running leaps, these were simple maneuvers and plain ballistic arcs, which did not present much of a problem. A long, fast drop from a moving ship, though,  required some kind of stabilization, for the path was not ballistic by any means, and the jetting force would not be constant, or even in the same vector all the time. Without gyros, there was a great chance that Bug might just flip over during the drop and be unable to right himself in time to slow his fall. Sirus came up with a nifty solution for this problem. Rummaging around in the cargo of the Maelstrom, he found an old Myrmidon hardshell in bad repair. Its flexors were shot, but the internal computer and the array of powerful gyroscopes was still functional. These he plucked out of the ‘shell with the ship’s set of tools and the help of the other book he’d brought along, Advanced Nano-Repair. He then attached the gyros, a tiny power supply, and their computer to a metal hoop about two feet across at the center. The result was what he called a ‘gyro-chute’. The chute, once turned on, could not be twisted out of its original plane of alignment without extreme effort, even by someone in a hardshell. This would, in effect, create a gyroscopically stable platform for Ambush to hang on to as he dropped. Red and Ambush stood in the open cargo bay door of the Maelstrom, each surveying the land as it unrolled beneath them. Here, near the hills, the land was carpeted with trees, a deep green ocean that seemed to wash against the slopes. Few signs of human life could be seen, for this was an area of the planet cordoned off as wilderness. No farmland encroached on the trees here, and the forest, even from above, looked deep and primeval. “Peaceful looking,” Sirus commented through the external speaker in his hardshell. He was not using the radio in his suit, even the local-area frequency, for he didn’t want any hint of his presence to be relayed to the planetary sensor web. He’d even turned off his IFF module and dampened his hardshell’s emissions. “Yes,” Bug agreed, his voice loud as Red’s to carry over the roaring wind of the freighter’s passage through the air. “I’m hoping the game will be plentiful.” “I’m sure it will, Bug. This part of the planet is a preserve of some kind-there’s no farming here. Animals should still think they rule the place.” The intercom mounted near the door crackled and buzzed as it strained to overpower the sheer volume of the wind. “RudeJelly here! We’re coming up on that nice, deep sensor shadow in about a minute.” Sirus toggled the switch. “Roj that. Going through our final check now.” He turned and gave Bug a once-over, looking to see that the insect’s equipment and baggage was strapped down securely, that his armor was locked into place, that his weapons were all tight on his harness, and that the gyro-chute was in his hands. Bug’s antennae, green poking through the black of his helmet, quivered as he looked out over the forest. “Nervous?” Sirus asked him. “A little. I do not enjoy heights, as you know.” Understatement of the year. Bug was terrified of heights, and the mere fact that only his antennae were quivering as he stood over a two hundred meter drop was a testament to how much he’d progressed. Sirus well remembered the extreme patience he had to employ in getting Bug used to jetting. The first time was, of course, the worst. It was a simple parabolic leap down from a twenty-five-meter platform, but it took Bug almost twenty minutes to gather himself together and jump. Even though Sirus was controlling his jets, and he was tethered to a drop-line, Bug still screamed all the way down. Acrophobia, it turned out, was widespread among his kind. The reason was simple enough, but it wasn’t the reason that first came to mind when one thought about it. Sirus had conjectured that it was due to the insects being used to tight, deep tunnels all their lives. This was not the case, he learned. Instead, it was the fear of no longer being upright and on four legs. The insects’ stance was so wide and stable that for one to fall down was an extremely rare and frightening event. A fall meant certain death in battle, at least, and that was fear enough for anyone. Bug told him that up until Sirus had played his practical joke with the cybernetic eye he’d been able to count the number of times he’d fallen down on one hand. He pulled himself out of his reverie and clapped Bug on the shoulder. “Don’t you worry about it, Bug. Those gyros will keep you upright, and your jets are damn powerful for your weight.” He didn’t add that they were also short-duration for Bug’s weight, but Ambush knew that already, and didn’t need reminding. No sense in having him worry more than necessary. “Time to turn on the gyros, Bug,” Sirus said as he looked himself over--his hardshell was in good shape, and his duffle hung easily from his neck. Bug flicked a switch on the side of the ring, and both of them could hear the humming of the gyros powering up, even over the wind. Bug tried to twist the ring about its vertical axis, and was unable to do it without exerting himself hard enough to hiss. “Looks like it works fine,” he said, gripping it tightly. “Good.” He turned to the intercom. “We’re ready, RJ,” he spoke. “Great!” came the crackling reply. “We’re in the shadow now, and we’ve got about a minute’s worth. Guess I’ll catch you guys in two months, eh?” “Something like that, RJ,” Sirus replied. “You be careful out there, you hear?” “Roj that, Sirus. Bring me back some good wild meat, would you?” Red chuckled. “If I can catch it, I will, RJ.” He turned to Bug. “Time to go, pal.” Bug nodded at him silently, and after a moment’s pause to judge his trajectory, he took a standing leap out of the bay door.  Guess he’s still got the determination to make sure he does things right… Sirus told himself as he stepped out of the door.  He’s getting over his fear. He didn’t scream on the way down. That was something. Somehow he managed to keep himself silent, even as his body noticed that there was nothing under his feet and told him that he should be scared out of his mind. Despite all of the help Sirus gave him, jetting was still a completely alien experience, one that his body just would not accept as even remotely close to ‘normal.’ The forest below loomed at him, the trees like spears all pointed at him. For a moment, a bare moment, he felt the iron grip of gravity clench his internals and pull, dragging him downwards. It was the most distressing feeling he’d ever felt, and he began to shake.  No! he snarled at himself.  No! You are a  warrior, not a coward! Control yourself! He triggered a blast from his jets, which slowed him significantly. The invisible hand clenching his guts disappeared for a moment, but he could feel its fingers inside him still. He felt the gyro-chute straining his wrists as it kept him upright. He raised his arms and let it trail over his head, so that the influence of the chute would be over his head instead. Now he looked down, even though it was the last thing he wanted to do. Only a hundred meters left now, and he had plenty of energy left for his jets. He began to flutter them now, just as Sirus had instructed him. Fluttering of the jets served two purposes. One, to keep him below what was jokingly referred to as ‘cratering speed’ by APC crews. Two, to conserve energy for the final flare of jets needed to ensure an easy landing--this was doubly important, for he was carrying a great deal of weight in his armor and weapons. It wasn’t as much as a full artillery loadout would be--his  Wrath cannon weighed four times as much as he did without armor--but it was enough for discomfort. He left a blue trail behind him as the jets under his thorax stuttered rapidly, and it hung in the air. He wasn’t looking at it, though, for the onrushing forest grabbed most of his attention. He could not shake the thought that the trees were spears poised to run straight through him as he fell. He checked his descent and saw that he was doing better than he thought. He was still coming down pretty quick, but given his weight, it wasn’t too fast. At the rate he was using energy, he’d have about thirty percent left for the final flare... more than enough to ensure a soft landing. He descended below the tops of the trees now, branches slapping at him as he fell. Several of them he broke on the way down, for he was reaching out to grasp them with his free hand to slow his fall. Now, with just ten meters left to go, he opened the throttle on his jets all the way, and he descended to the forest floor on a bright blue column of ionic force. He landed softly, hardly even sinking into the forest floor. The gyro-chute, which he’d been holding over his head with one hand, he tossed to the ground. It hit the leafy floor and stopped, continuing to stay upright. He turned around to watch Sirus descend. It didn’t take him long to spot him, either. Red was still about seventy meters up, and descending smoothly, his hands clasping his duffel against his chest. He didn’t leave much of a trail behind him, but then again, Sirus was far more experienced at descents, and knew how to save every last erg of energy in his hardshell. He came down smoothly through the trees, jogging left and right to dodge the larger branches. He hardly made a sound when he finally reached the forest floor. “Pretty good run, Bug,” Sirus said, grinning. “I saw that landing of yours.” “I was still terrified,” Ambush replied. “I hate these.” “Yeah, but you didn’t freeze up, either. That’s the most important thing.” Sirus swung his duffel so it hung across his back. “So, what’s the plan, Bug?” Ambush looked around them, taking in the view. They were enclosed in a cathedral of trees, old trees which spread their branches like a gigantic roof over their heads. The forest floor was soft earth broken by roots and underbrush. Birds and other wildlife could be heard around them, though he knew they were not terribly close. The trees blocked out a large portion of the sunlight, and only thin, shimmering sunbeams made it through the canopy. He knew there were large hills nearby, but could not see them at all through the canopy. “Let’s make for the hills first, Red. I want to survey the land from there before we decide where to go.” He turned in the direction of the hills, as he’d ascertained it from the freighter, and started off, legs pumping up and down. He snagged the gyro-chute as he want, turning it off. “Works for me,” Sirus replied, following his friend. RJ watched his fellow mercenaries on the ship’s viewer as they hurtled towards the forest and disappeared into the canopy. Once he was certain they were down, he closed the cargo bay door and prepared for the rest of the flight into the local starport, a town known as Cibile. He had a plan for himself once he got there. Once through security, he’d start looking around. Though he told Sirus he was heading out to the distant farms for information, that wasn’t exactly the truth. He was really waiting for the farmers to come to him, for Cibile was the main shipping point for the planet’s crops. It would be a long journey from those farms, and RJ felt certain he’d be able to get a good feel of the planetary mood as he rambled around Cibile. He wasn’t sure what the mood was going to be, but he was fairly certain that Spec wouldn’t be too pleased with the reports. The Pact against the BioDerm Horde had suffered a huge loss at the very beginning, and the Horde’s innovative tactics and willingness to break every ‘rule’ of Tribal combat gave them the upper hand, even now, some years after the surprise assault on the Starwolf. The Horde was doing a marvelous job at disrupting the logistical chains of the Pact. The Horde seemed to gravitate towards planets that were supply-points for the Pact, and either destroy the population or cut the planet off from all traffic. It was working, and only too well. The smaller agricultural planets, like this one, were forced to increase production in order to keep the soldiers of the Pact fed. Like Sirus, RJ had been part of the crew sent by Spectre to quell the Supply Riots. He didn’t like remembering it at all, for he saw both sides of the problem. The farmers were struggling to keep production up and not work themselves to death, but every last morsel of food was needed by the Pact, and not having that food would mean defeat in the long run. The resulting clash between the farmers and the soldiers was bloody. Thankfully, Spec hadn’t asked his mercenaries to actively tangle with the crowd-instead, the DTM were sent to supplement the armed services drained by the exodus of soldiers to put down the rioters. Still, RJ saw too many things that made his stomach turn during that tour--acts of unprovoked violence, brutal killings, ‘overly enthusiastic’ soldiers… he still had nightmares about it every once in a while. He prayed that he wouldn’t have to live through something like that again. Ten minutes later, RJ was within sight of Cibile. It was, for its purpose, relatively small. The city proper was enclosed in a defensive wall. Turrets dotted the top of the wall every fifty meters or so. He saw that most of them were older-model plasma turrets--they could easily rip a ground-bound Juggernaut or Myrmidon to shreds, but any hardshell lighter than that could literally sidestep the powerful plasma bolts. There were a few newer models of turrets as well, along with a battery or two of anti-aircraft turrets. Inside the wall, he knew, would be the main buildings of the city, such as the barracks, the city electorate building, the warehouses, the merchant district, and a few houses of the well-to-do. Outside the wall, Cibile sprawled with normal housing, the ‘entertainment’ area, a park, and the schools. The spaceport was a large flattened area to the north, complete with a squat control tower that bristled with antennae. “Cibile Control to incoming freighter, please identify yourself.” The voice, complete with a nasal drawl, crackled through the bridge speakers.  Why is it, RJ mused to himself,  that all comms officers must have a drawl? It’s like some cosmic law. “Freighter NJAX129,  The Flying Maelstrom, requesting landing route, Control,” he replied. “Roj that,  Maelstrom. Pad 2 is open. Make your heading 002, speed 50 KPH.”  Hunter, 50 KPH? I’ll be wallowing to the ground at that speed, RJ sighed to himself.  I bet their AA turrets can’t track anything faster. He adjusted his controls and brought himself around. “Heading and speed set, Control. Where’s a good place for a spacer to get a drink around here?” The controller laughed, the drawling sound grating on RJ’s ears. “You guys are all alike—always wanting a drink. Head on over to the Ornery Pigeon, spacer. They’ve got great beer there.” “Roj that, Control, and thanks. Good beer is hard to find.” “They sell cases, by the way.” RJ laughed. “Now that’s news I can use, Control. Thanks again.” “Not a problem. Just check in with the Port Authority before you hit the bar,  Maelstrom.” “Will do.” RJ toggled the comms unit off and concentrated on getting the  Maelstrom down to earth safely. Carefully, he nudged the heavy freighter toward Pad 2. Its engines, which were just fine for going from ground to orbit in less than ten minutes, were not the best for landings. Oh, it could be  done, yes, but it was one of those hellishly difficult maneuvers that made pilots cringe internally. Harabec only knew why the designer hadn’t added some kind of low-speed thrusters. Through his internal cursing of the shipwright, RJ managed to get the  Maelstrom down safely. It was with a great sigh of relief that he let go of the controls and unstrapped himself from the captain’s chair. Though he was trained as a pilot (among many other things), it was not his favorite activity. Soon enough, though, he would be in the city proper, swilling beers and pumping locals for information. That was work he could really enjoy. Before he got off the ship, he plucked the golden dragon earring from his ear and placed it in his pocket. He wouldn’t be seeing anyone he might know, and there was no reason to have it on. That done, he grabbed the ship’s manifest and headed for the Port Authority building.  Some hours later.... Mortok growled contentedly to himself as the planet swung into view. Soon... soon he would be able to unleash his captives upon that planet, gauge their abilities, and show Render-of-Hearts that his idea was sound. It was a lush planet, he saw. Even from well outside standard orbit, he could tell that huge bands of ancient forest encircled the planet, broken only by equally large (and square) patches of farmland. Perhaps there would be a true invasion after the test, he thought, but dismissed it as a dream. This planet, though ripe, was too far from the war to be useful as a food supply. “Do you have the distress signal prepared?” he asked quietly, his voice deep and rumbling. Krayek indicated a large switch near the controls. “Yes, Mortok. Once that switch is thrown, the ship will send out the message we recorded.” “Excellent. Can you make our... landing... believable?” Krayek snorted. “Rrrrh.. if this ship holds together, yes. If it decides to play tricks on us, I will not have to make it believable.” “And the cargo?” “Secured in shockgel in the bay. Unless something goes very badly, they will certainly escape any injury.” “Rrrhh... wonderful.” Mortok looked at the planet once more. “They will never know what is coming, will they?” “No... they won’t,” Krayek replied.  And neither will we, if Mortok’s vatsats cannot maintain control, he added to himself.  How will the captives react to battle so far from their home? They might very well go berserk, he knew. It was not a prospect he looked forward to. He shoved the thought out of his mind. For one, he would be staying with the ship. Two, if they did get to him, his death would be very quick.  Messy, but quick. At least that was something to hope for, anyway. Sirus stood on top of a large boulder jammed into the brow of the hill like some stony pimple. His helmet was off, and his brown hair ruffled in the crisp wind that swooped up the hillside. The hill was bald, save for the stone and thick, springy grass, and he had an unobstructed view of the vast forest around him. “Harabec, what a view!” he exclaimed. “And the air!” he inhaled deeply, the brisk air filling his lungs. Bug, who stood in the shadow of the boulder, looked up and chittered to himself. “Weren’t you the one that wasn’t looking forward to this?” he chided. Red waggled a finger at his friend. “I only said it would be  boring, not beautiful, Ambush.” He grinned widely at the insect. “You ought to come up here and get a look, Bug. It’s really something.” “I can see just fine from here,” Bug replied, not budging from the shadows.  Typical assassin, Sirus thought.  Still can’t break the old habits. He grinned again. “I’d tell you that I can see a small lake with scantily-clad women bathing in it if that tripped your trigger, Bug. Even so, it’s still worth it. C’mon up here, pal.” Ambush laughed. “All right then, Red, I’ll humor you.” Bug gave the side of the boulder a once-over and started to ascend, his taloned feet digging easily into the cracks and crevices of the towering stone. It only took him a few seconds to clamber to the top, which was more than large enough to hold them both. “See? Take it all in, Bug.” Ambush turned his head and looked out over the vast expanse before him. The forest was a new thing to him, at least one of this massive scale. The trees, which had seemed so deadly to him during the drop, now resembled a lush green carpet that followed the gently rolling curves. It was not unlike the rolling dunes of his homeworld, and though it was the wrong color to his eye, he found it soothing anyway. “It reminds me of the trackless sands of home,” he said quietly. “You are right, my friend. This is worth it.” Red clapped him on the shoulder. “Vacation, Bug. Vacaaation. This is what it’s all about.” He looked to the sky, where the sun was getting ready to descend into a low bank of clouds on the horizon. “Say, if we stay here a little while longer, we can watch the sun set. Those clouds ought to make it quite the sight.” “You’re determined to make me enjoy this, aren’t you?” Bug said wryly. “Every single minute of it, Bug,” Sirus replied, smiling. “And I’m gonna keep doing it until you get it, too.” “Get what?” The question, amazingly enough, was completely innocent-sounding to Red’s ears. He barked a short laugh. “Why, how to relax, Bug!” He sat down facing to the west and gestured for Ambush to do the same. The insect obliged, crouching down until his thoracic joint brushed the ground. They sat for some time in complete silence, watching as the fiery globe of the sun slowly slipped behind the clouds, illuminating them from behind. Some twenty minutes had passed when Bug jerked his gaze upwards suddenly. “Is that a meteor?” he asked quietly, pointing it out. Sirus clapped his helmet on his head, looked up, and cranked up his optiks. He could see a glowing scratch of flame arcing down from the heavens. “Sure looks like it, Bug. Moving a little slow, though.” “Maybe it’s large,” Bug suggested. “Hmm.” Sirus gazed at it again, studying it carefully. It was large, he could see, and moving pretty slow for a meteor. And it wasn’t burned out yet... that was strange in itself, for rocks hurtling through the thick shield of a planetary atmosphere usually didn’t last very long. In fact, it reminded him of... He gasped softly as he realized what it was. “It’s a ship!” “What?” Bug tried to resolve the image for himself, but his electronic eye just didn’t have the power to make out something that small. “A ship?” “Yes, it’s definitely ship, Bug... I can just barely make out the shape, but it looks like an old dropship to me.” “I feel sorry for the passengers,” Bug murmured. He was right to feel so, for any ship in that situation was as good as dead. It would either burn up on re-entry, or, failing that, would roast the occupants alive.  Then it would ‘land’, making a huge crater, forcibly ensuring the deaths of the entire crew and anyone unlucky enough to be within a half-mile. “Hang on, lemme get the emergency band, see what’s going on.” He fiddled with his hardshell’s controls for a moment, bringing the traditional frequency in through his armor’s commo gear. “...We have lost much of our T-grav  *shzzr*-acity, Control. We are coming in hot and fast.  *shzzrt*—try to put down as soft as we can, but can’t guarantee we won’t crater.” The voice was professional... cool, even. “That pilot’s got some brass ones,” Sirus said wonderingly. “Failed engines and he’s talking about trying to  land.” “What should we do?” Bug asked, tracking the ship as it came ever further down. It was now large enough in his vision for him to easily discern the shape through the corona of heat. “Not a damn thing we can do, Bug,” Sirus sighed. “No equipment, and it’s probably going to hit a long way from here.” “We should watch it, though. Just in case.” “That we should do.” Sirus wiggled around on the hard rock. Though it couldn’t dig into his rear through his hardshell, he was strangely uncomfortable. He thought it might that he was watching the imminent deaths of who knew how many people, and not doing a thing about it. He wanted to bolt down the hill and head off to where the ship would land... maybe someone might live though it. If so, they would certainly need help. But from what he knew of dropships, this one was as good as dead. It was simply coming in too fast. He sighed internally at the inevitability of it all. He could stand combat and the death and gore that went with it—Harabec only knew how many warriors he’d defeated on the plains of battle in his time wearing the black armor of the Dragon Talon Mercs. No, combat didn’t upset him. He didn’t  enjoy it either, but it certainly didn’t wreck his mind. It was a job, and he was damned good at it. But this--and here he turned to look at the plummeting dropship--this was just wrong. It was as wrong as the ending of his first real combat mission. His squad left him behind in the middle of a fantastically bloody brawl in the mountains of a far-away planet. They left him to deal with three warriors all by himself, using him to ease their escape. He’d survived... somehow, for he still couldn’t remember it clearly. He didn’t want to, truth be told. Just watching the dropship fall made him feel as if he were leaving the occupants of that ship behind as well, not even making an attempt to help. It twisted his heart. “It just isn’t right...” he muttered to himself. He heard the big warrior next to him hiss in surprise at the exact same time. “Understatement.” Bug’s voice was cold enough to make Sirus look at him directly. Bug’s antennae were flattened back against his helm as if he were ready for combat at any second. “Look, Sirus.” Sirus turned to watch the ship, and was shocked by what he found. The ship was no longer out of control. In fact, just as it came into his view, it stopped plummeting like a rock and leveled out, atmosphere thrusters flaring brightly. It made a quick turn and bolted right for the lights of Cibile on the horizon. “What the hell?” he exclaimed, getting to his feet. “For a ship without engines--“ “It’s a trick!” Bug cried, standing so quickly that his feet left the ground for a moment. He landed hard enough for Sirus to feel it through the stone. “It’s attacking the city!” “RJ’s probably still there, too--damn!” Sirus grabbed his duffel and slung it around his neck. “C’mon, Bug! Let’s get on the bounce!” He leaped off the side of the boulder, his thrusters flaring brightly in the gloom. He heard Bug scrabbling down the side of the boulder behind him, his armor clacking against the rocks in his hurry. “How long?” Bug asked from behind him as Sirus took long, quick hops down the hill. “Thirty minutes' travel is my guess,” Sirus replied, looking back. Bug wasn’t jetting, but galloping along the ground. His legs were a blur as he cruised smoothly down the hillside. He’d already undone the clasps on his  chatka and plascannon, and they were ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice. Bug increased his speed and caught up with Sirus. “Here, Sirus,” he said, drawing his  kopesh and holding it out hilt-first. The hilt stayed steady in the air, even though Bug was running at full speed over uneven ground. “You’ll need something other than your knife.” Sirus took the proffered weapon and stuck it to a handy clamp on his utility belt. Even though the point was still blunted, he expected the weapon would be  more than adequate enough for close combat. “Didn’t happen to bring anything else with a trigger besides that plascannon of yours, did you?” “Sorry, but no, Red. I imagine there will be plenty of salvageable weapons by the time we get there though.” Sirus frowned. “I hope RJ is either out of the city or in the  Maelstrom--at least there’s the standard blaster carbine in one of the lockers there.” “He brought his hardshell along for the trip, Red,” Bug added. “I found it in one of the crates.” He noted the concerned manner of his friend. “I think he’ll be all right until we get there, Red--he’s very good at staying alive, I’ve found.” They said nothing more as they continued through the forest, on level ground. They could not see the lights of the city through the canopy, but they could easily discern the bright electric blue of anti-aircraft turret fire streaking far into the sky. Cibile was under attack. <img src=http://home.earthlink.net/~ambushbugdtm/BugSig.jpg align=LEFT> Member: DTM, XMEN, SeXy The Drunken ArtilleryBug! "Roj, target is *hic* DAWWWG-meat!"Edited by: <A HREF=http://pub3.ezboard.com/uambushbug.show ... =EN>Ambush Bug</A>  <IMG SRC="http://homepages.go.com/~keeter67/x.gif" BORDER=0> at: 1/17/02 11:00:37 pm

Dropship: Prelude to Death

Dropship: Prelude to Death

Re: Dropship: A sneak peek!

Re: Dropship: A sneak peek!

Re: Dropship: Prelude to Death

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Re: Dropship: Prelude to Death

Re: Dropship: Prelude to Death

Re: Dropship: Prelude to Death

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Re: Dropship: Prelude to Death

Re: Dropship: Prelude to Death

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Re: Dropship: Prelude to Death