Spotting the colonel, he walked over beside him.
"How are things going?" he inquired in lowered tones.
The Colonel nodded in greeting, raising a finger to forestall any further conversation as he adjusted the throat microphone.
"Heroes control to all units. I show you as having the upper hand," he stated. "Sensors showing only scattered pockets of resistance now."
A voice came over the speakers, amplified and slightly distorted, the background noise of mech footfalls and weapons fire not entirely dampened.
<Control, this is Fuller, copy that. Alright guys, switch to precision targeting. Let’s see if we can take some down intact for prizes.>
The background whine of lasers was punctuated by other munitions as the fighting wound down, then suddenly there was a loud whump that the audio systems didn't quite suppress in time. It was followed by a thud of tremor as the ground heaved. Cups, styli and other loose instruments rattled on their perches on and around control panels. One tech had to make a grab before a half finished flask upended over his console.
<What the Hell? Who did that?> demanded Fuller.
<Sorry Boss, my bad.>
Mac and the Colonel looked at each other as the exchange played out over the airwaves.
<Jeez! At what point does precision fire mean deploy WMDs? Control, can I get a sit-rep after that?> demanded the Heroes commanding officer.
"Roger Boss," the colonel replied as he scanned the lidar images. "I show a group over in Kev's sector. That's all that's left."
Kev's voice cut across the airwaves. <On them Boss. Ouch... slippery... got a half dozen of them but the rest've shot gunned and taken cover.>
<Understood Kev,> Fuller acknowledged, then in a more authoritative tone continued, <All units, converge on Kev. And keep to the firing protocols this time... That means you Mike.> The last comment had been decidedly pointed.
Further sporadic weapons fire and a few muted explosions could be heard in the background, then after a few minutes all that could be heard was the whine of power plants and the thudding step falls of slow moving titans.
<OK Control, my threat sensors are showing clean. Do you confirm?> asked Fuller.
The Colonel glanced around the room, seeking the nodded confirmation from the technical crew, then cast a final glance over the master plot and nodded himself.
"Confirmed Boss, we have zero threat return. You may give the order to stand down."
Fullers tone went from pent up, controlled aggression to relaxed in the space of a heartbeat.
<You heard the man. Stretch your legs and smoke 'em if you got 'em.>
Mac leaned across and thumbed the built in microphone on the control desk. "Alright gentlemen, I'll bring the recovery teams out. Get your safeties on, non-combatants are entering the field."
* * * * * *
Nason III wasn't a particularly rich planet to start off with. Much of its meagre wealth came from agrarian produce, although it did (as most areas with excess grain tended to) have some moderately palatable whisky's on offer. With not a lot else going on except alcohol, wide open spaces and a lot of wheat fields, the population centres tended to be small townships dotted around the equatorial habitation belt.
Then Bismark and his forces arrived. A number of townships were torched as a matter of course, purely to set an example. In these cases, not a lot was left standing. By the time the Heroes had finished containing this particular incursion, that which had been left standing was now as flat as the surrounding fields.
General John Fuller sat on the steps of a shattered concrete monument in what had been the town square and sipped from a tepid and half empty disposable coffee cup. The town had been just large enough to boast a shopping mall, and its parking spaces as well as the square itself boasted just enough flat open ground for the Heroes to laager their mechs. A few of the other pilots were stooging around, winding down from three days straight combat, working out the cramps and coming down from adrenal and hatorade induced highs.
The whine of grav motors from a cargo-5 soft top load hauler encroached on his senses and he turned his head to regard the black vehicle with the silver dragon emblazoned on the canopy as it approached up the main thoroughfare.
He stiffly pushed himself to his feet as the hauler came to a halt and cycled down its power to touch down on under skids with a crunch of shattered masonry. His eyebrows raised in mild surprise as two figures clambered down from the forward cab. Normally his 2IC would be back on the dropship coordinating recovery and humanitarian teams as they descended from orbit after a gig like this. Seeing him out in the field at this time was... unusual.
"Mac, Colonel... I wasn't expecting you both out here..." He left the implied question hanging as he took another sip.
"Let's just say I thought I'd best be on hand when things went spectacularly wrong," supplied the colonel with a wry smile as Mac nodded acknowledgement to his commander and hurried off around to the rear of the truck. The Heroes weren't too big on spit and polish which was the way Fuller preferred it. The colonel wordlessly passed over a new coffee cup; extra-large, quadruple shot.
Fuller gave a sour look. "Mmm... let me guess. Mac has a scheme. I knew it was too good to last," he said, shaking his head.
At this point the pilot in question, generally known to his superiors as 'The Prime Suspect' or other phrases less acceptable in polite company, emerged from the back of the vehicle. In his wake came a small invasion force; each two foot tall, black and grey furred creatures sporting tool belts around their midriffs. The sight was interesting enough to cause a few of the Heroes pilots to wander over to see what drama was about to ensue.
Mac led his throng into the assembled crewmen, addressing them as he came in encouraging tones. "Alright chaps, gather round, get a good sniff. Come along, that’s it..."
Fuller took a large swig from the fresh cup, smacked his lips appreciatively and enquired politely, "Mac, why are there raccoons on my battlefield?"
Mac beamed at him in response. "Ah, dear boss man, but you are sadly mistaken." He swept a hand round to indicate the creatures. "These are our new recovery experts, Procyon Superior, a little something that Q has been working on for me."
Fuller gave this due consideration, processing the words as he took another drink.
"Nope, still look like raccoons," he concluded. The colonel bit his lip to hide a smirk.
Mac sniffed and went into lecture mode. "Q, while not in the same league as Drake, is nonetheless and accomplished gene splicer. Enhanced intelligence, rudimentary speech centres, greater dexterity and opposable thumbs for limited tool use," he counted of the points on his fingers. "To aid in recovery they also have enhanced musculature and increased bone density that gives them a size to carrying capacity ratio somewhere between a soldier ant and a small Peruvian Grandmother."
By now, the subjects of the discussion had split into small groups and were crowding around each pilot, snuffling as they came.
"Ugh, what are they trying to do?" asked Fuller nervously, trying to step out of the way while not stepping on any of them, all the while juggling his two cups in case any of the newcomers tried to reach for them.
Mac raised an eyebrow as if the situation were obvious. "They are gathering your scent... bonding to you if you will. They need to know how to differentiate between any clones you have out there and the rest of the dead bodies." Then, spotting a pilot who was approaching the mildly chaotic scene, he called out, "Kev, get over here and meet your new best friends!"
The newcomer looked less than impressed, probably because he had been on the receiving end of too many raccoon related items in the past. "Is this another one of your gags Mac?" demanded Kev. "I thought you'd left the raccoon jokes a while back. You did promise," he concluded pointedly.
"No gag Kev, I promise," calmed Mac, taking the other pilot gently by the elbow and leading him away a few steps before continuing excitedly, "But let’s face it, these little furry bandits have direct ancestors in Procyon Iotor that are amongst the best scavengers ever known... ergo, they have the kind of genetic gift for looting that we can only dream of. In other words... pay day!"
Fuller by now was down on his haunches, surrounded by and interacting with the furry multitudes, but his head snapped up and around at the mention of profit. Nux Raid systems couldn't have done a better job of homing in on a target.
"Now that’s the kind of language I like to hear... and they are kinda cute," he admitted as an aside. He came upright, businesslike now that the money was out on the table. "So how do we get them… doing their thing?"
Mac beamed and waggled his eyebrows. "We talk to them... “ Then, letting go of Kev he strode in amongst the pint sized kleptomaniac brigade and called out in crisp tones, "Alright chaps, attention please. Are you all listening?"
There was a chorus from around him in lilting yet slightly squeaky voices.
“Listening!”
“Listening!”
“Listening!”
"Good," he nodded. "Now, first thing... go sniff out what smells like your partner among the bodies out there."
The responses were part affirmation, part statement, part question.
"Sniff."
"Sniff?"
"Ah..Sniff sniff."
Mac carried on in an encouraging voice, glancing over then pointedly ignoring the smirk that was starting to appear on the Colonels face. "Yes, that’s right, sniff them out. Then get the thumb...." he pointed to his own in demonstration, "See, this one, thumb. Gather the thumbs."
"Thumbz?"
"Thumbz?"
"THUMBZ!!!"
"Thumbz, thumbz!" the recovery experts were now nodding excitedly at each other, holding their thumbs in the air.
Mac continued hurriedly, becoming acutely aware of the sniggers coming from some of the pilots now. "Yes, then go find things that are big and shiny, then find the lock on the door panel, then press the thumb on it to mark it for your partner. You've got your bags?"
"Bagz?"
"Bagz, thumbz?"
He produced one of the lightweight monomolecular weaves forage sacks from a pocket and held it in the air. "Look, these bags."
"BAGZ!!!"
"BAGZ!!!"
Dozens of furry hands held their bags in the air like weapons of power glinting in the sunlight.
"Yes, bags." Mac opened the bag and pointed inside. "Small stuff goes in the bags, you bring them back. Mark the big ones with the thumbs for recovery," he concluded by sticking his thumb up again for emphasis.
"BAGZ!!"
"THUMBZ!!!"
The colonel was by now beginning to turn beetroot and had probably been holding his breath for too long, so Mac continued to ignore him.
"Very good," he praised their earnest little faces. "Now, my team, be on the lookout for an Anubis please." He was met with a lot of blank stares.
Fuller chimed in at this point, grinning broadly at the theatre but going along with it for now. "Yeah guys, I could go an Anubis and another Ignis if you can find one."
"I've got dibs on the first Anubis boss," Mac pointed out with a raised finger.
Fuller beamed back at him. "And I've got rank... guess who wins?"
Shaking his head in mild disgust while managing to not quite eyeball his C.O., Mac muttered to the recovery team, "Look, OK, just go find the big stuff and mark it... go on, as the boss says, 'do your thing'." He attempted to wave them on their way with a shooing motion.
"Thingz?"
"Thingz..."
Dozens of fluffy bandit masked faces were looking at each other and around the human pilots in confusion. It didn't help that the colonel was now giggling uncontrollably and had tears streaming down his face, giving them yet another point of curiosity to examine. The recovery effort was going nowhere fast.
Seconds stretched by before Kev snorted and stepped forward.
"Oh for crying out loud Mac, you're making it to hard for them," he muttered, then placed his fingers in his mouth and gave a sharp whistle for attention.
"Boyz? GETZ MEKZ!" he declared, pointing out towards the combat zone."Getz Mekz.."
"Getz Mekz?"
"MEKZ, GETZ MEKZ!!!"
"GETZ MEKZ!!!"
As one, a furry tsunami broke around the pilots as a mass of stripped tails went bobbing at high speed across the rubble, a plume of dust raising in their wake.
Mac's jaw was hanging slack as he stared at Kev. "Getz Mekz? Is that the best you could come up with?" he demanded.
Kev shrugged non-committedly. "It's a valid command," he observed as he watched the departing mass go about their busy task. His eyes screwed up as he attempted to make something out through the dust cloud, then he asked with a confused look on his face, "Hey, how come the bosses raccoons are moving quicker than ours?"
Mac had to screw his own eyes to make out what Kev was describing, and shrugged as he glanced back at Kev then over at his C.O.
It was only then that he noticed two discarded cups, new and out of place in the surrounding ruins and dirt. Understanding struck.
"You fed them coffee! You utter, cheating bas..."
An upraised finger interrupted him.
"Ah, still got the rank Mac," Fuller gently admonished him. "And besides, it’s going to be a long day’s work, I was just making sure my crew were hydrated." He flashed a grin at the fuming pilot, then turned away to get back to the real world and the associated tasks of running the band of misfits that could loosely be called a clan.
He paused and glanced down. "Hmm, Kev?" he asked. "Do me a favour and pick CT up before he gets a hernia from all that laughing would you?" then added, "oh, and a coffee would be good..."
* * * * * *
Fuller stepped through into the drop bay hanger and rolled his neck to some satisfying crunches. A few hours sack time and a long shower had done wonders, and he was feeling refreshed, if not fully alive. That would only come with another coffee; he was only on his second.
Chaos reigned in the midst of the salvage efforts and the eye of the storm was his number two; haggard, sweating and starting to show dark circles under his eyes. Fuller strolled over to him.
"You're looking overworked again CT. What’s up?" he queried, taking a sip from his mug to punctuate it.
The colonel threw him a filthy look and growled back, "Oh, just absolute chaos and everything’s up in the air. We've just had to re-work the recovery protocols from scratch." He paused in his complaint to direct the removal of a pile of scrap from one of the loading docks.
Fuller nodded and observed, "It looks like absolute carnage down here. Raccoons not working for you?"
CT gave a mirthless laugh. "Oh they work. They work good. On their own terms," he concluded pointedly.
The general nodded, more in placation than understanding as he asked, "How so?"
The colonel paused in his oversight of the ongoing work and turned to give the boss his full attention. He considered for a few seconds, then began an explanation.
"Ok, let’s take an example of the item recovery. They are bringing in a ton of pre-sorted stuff so our human teams don't have to go digging, but then we have to re-sort what they dump in the hanger.... hub caps, window glass, Kev's got a nice collection of trash can lids and your furry minions seem partial to foil food wrappers and reversing mirrors. But at least we are getting some useful gear in amongst the garbage... we just have to get the garbage out of the way quickly before the next bag gets dumped on top."
"Doesn't seem too bad," noted Fuller.
"Yeah, you'd think," the colonel countered, "But when I say dumped, I mean literally dropped... not laid down gently." He paused to emphasise his next comment. "Things got real interesting real quick when we found that they'd been bringing hand held nukes in like that... hence the reason why they are getting Geiger'ed at the hanger doors." He gestured over to the entranceway where a pair of human crew were playing a sweep stick over a newly returned recovery raccoon and its implausibly large haul sack. "Thermal scan and chem sniffed too in case they've got flamer or refrigerant tanks. Touch and go for a while, but we've got that ironed out."
Fuller nodded, understanding the implications. "Good to know, good that we've got a process," then he gestured towards a row of large vehicles off to the rear of the cavernous area. "So how come the tractor units aren't out?" he asked, then added, "Did Mike's big bang take out all the good stuff?"
The colonel’s eyebrows shout skyward as he let out a single laugh.
"Oh hell no!" he exclaimed. "That was the next "protocol change". About an hour back, they started dropping their loot bags, then making off with every grappling hook and tow cable they could find. Oh, except your crew... in addition they started scavenging and emptying every half-filled coffee cup they could sniff out," he concluded pointedly.
"They're good boys..." murmured the C.O. around another sip of caffeine.
CT gave him a flat look. "Yeah, well don't come complaining to me if you don't get a cup in the morning because we've run out," he admonished.
Fuller shrugged. "It’s ok, I've got emergency backup supplies in the cockpit."
"You did..."
"Oh." A worried look was starting to cross the general's face with that news.
"Anyway," the colonel continued briskly, "one of the hauler crews went to see what they were doing. They came back minus their tractor, throwing a fit because the raccoons had got aggressive when they approached, then raided the tractor for anything looking like a tool or a tow cable..."
He trailed off, realising his boss wasn't quite paying attention.
"Did they get all of the emergency coffee?" asked Fuller in a worried voice.
CT sucked his gums, trying to formulate a politically correct answer that would both get Fuller back on track while breaking through the paranoia of a caffeine crazed loon.
"Look, why don't you go and check your hanger for yourself," he finally said.
At a half jog, trying not to appear too anxious over the fact that his stash could have been raided, Fuller crossed the cavernous hold and turned into the bay holding his own mech phalanxes. He came up short, his eyes bulging at the piled salvage that greeted him.
"What the...! Are these mine?" he stammered.
CT gave a wry smile. "Maybe you want to forgive your new furry bandits for making off with the caffeine. Dreadnought, Aspis..."
"Is that a Boreas?" cut in Fuller, regarding a mech sized mound that was all white painted parts.
The colonel nodded, "Yeah, and under the tarpaulin is a Torrent. They did good by you," he added in an understatement.
Fuller stepped forward to check, lifting the corner of the camouflage sheeting. "Wow... uh, why is there something taped to the windscreen?" he asked, noting the oddity as he leaned closer. There was a chuckle behind him and he half turned to hear the reply from his grinning 2IC.
"Yeah, well, some instructions they just couldn't get the hang of. That’s their version of putting a gene ident on a scavenged mech. They just take the thumb from the clone like they were told, duct tape it to the canopy and let us work out who it belongs to." He shrugged; what can you do?
"Thing is," he continued in a more matter of fact tone, "the tractors aren't out because the raccoons are dragging them in by themselves. Mac wasn't kidding when he said about their carrying abilities."
"Uh, how is Mac?" Fuller queried, still distracted by the haul in front of him. "He got anything nice yet?"
Mentally noting that his commander had momentarily forgotten about any impending coffee catastrophe, CT replied, "He's sulking in his hanger, refusing to talk to anyone." He shrugged. "I think he got a few high end crystal based weapon rigs, certainly going to be an upgrade for some of his mechs, but nothing else to write home about."
Fuller frowned as he looked over at the colonel, then off in the direction of Mac's bay. "That’s not like him. He'd normally be reveling in the mayhem and telling us all how he told us so."
CT snorted and shrugged again in response. "Oh, he was doing that to start off with. Then he saw what was getting dragged through the door, around about when your mechs were arriving. He was going to do the happy dance." His face was deliberately bland as he delivered that particular piece of information.
Fuller's face hardened. "I specifically banned him from that particular activity!" The 'happy dance' was something that could only be consigned to dark legend, a thing that middle aged men could take delight in terrifying children with.
The colonel wrinkled his nose, attempting to scrub the memory of that incident as well. "Yeah, well he didn't end up doing it," he supplied. "He realised it was Kev's 'coons."
Fuller pursed his lips. "Don't tell me. Anubis?"
"Ok, I won't. I mean, Kev was apologetic about them getting the orders mixed up, you know how he is. Problem is, he was also right. Simple they can understand. Mac was trying to get too particular. If they can't tell weapons from window glass, they certainly can't tell the difference between mech types. But "getz mekz" they certainly understand... it's us that just have to understand it's going to be the same crap shoot on what we haul out as it ever was."
Then he paused, gesturing toward the four mechs. "Still, that right there is a very strong argument that his nut-job scheme could be worth it. A haul like that certainly indicates they are better at salvage operations than any we've done by ourselves before."
Further conversation was curtailed by the sudden wailing of klaxons and activation of red strobe lights casting the hanger bay into a hellish inferno's half gloom. Personnel scattered, pilots racing for ready mechs while others took cover behind crates, mech parts and trolleys while they pulled out side arms.
Both the general's and colonel's wrist comms chimed and went automatically on to loudspeaker as the duty watch informed senior staff of the emergency.
<Threat sensors! Something just went active close by!> came the report in slightly distorted stereo as their communicators were so close to each other.
Fuller squinted through the drop bay door into the twilight. There certainly was something big out there, close to the ground, but as soon as he had homed in on it, what had perhaps looked like cockpit illumination dimmed out.
<Situation Update! I read a ninety ton mass, niode matrix, forerunner signature... definitely not human origin. It's dropped off the scope now... I think we've got a dino-mech that just gone hull down.>
Fuller considered the situation for a moment and took a sip of coffee. Then he tapped the speak button on his comm unit.
"Control, Fuller here. Pretty sure I had visual on your contact, and I'm pretty sure it’s a recovery team. It wouldn't have gotten past the sentries otherwise. I think they got visited by a bangshee... let’s move the ready mechs out on over watch just in case, or in case it goes active again, but cancel the alert."
A bangshee was pilot slang for residual energy in downed mechs or equipment. Not substantial enough to do anything dangerous, but enough to show up on sensors and set every alarm wailing. It wasn't common, but it did happen.
Fuller gazed off into the gloom for a few more moments, swearing he could make out movement, then shrugging he turned away and trying to take another sip realised his cup was empty. Momentary panic set in, but keen senses homed in on a steaming cup that had been left unattended on a nearby tool trolley.
There was a small pang of guilt that was assuaged when he caught the aroma of alcohol mixed in with the steam. A sip confirmed a hefty swig of brandy had been added. Not necessarily his regular taste, but he was the boss and it wouldn't do to have his people drinking on duty. He could either make a fuss and have somebody up on charges or simply confiscate it.
Making the correct command decision, he was happy that a mere confiscation was in order and took another sip. He was about to turn away and head for the door back to the interior of the ship when he felt a gently restraining hand on his elbow.
"John, you might want to see this," said the colonel as he gestured back toward the hanger entry ramp. "It's impressive."
Just coming into view was the mound that Fuller had seen earlier, but now he could make out detail. Hogtied and immobile with cables, a mech was literally being dragged across the rubble. He could make out that it was a Regis class, definitely the one that control had detected just a few minutes ago.
However the really impressive part was the motive power. The mech was being hauled by multiple tow cables on the end of each was a raccoon.
"I'm looking at a half dozen raccoons dragging a Regis over broken ground," he stated, taking a large gulp of coffee.
"Yes," confirmed CT.
Like a great ocean liner coming into port in the wake of its pilot ships, the massive war machine smoothly slid up the ramp and entered the hanger.
"I make that 15 tons apiece," continued Fuller.
"Yes," the colonel responded once more.
The Regis came to a halt not 10 metres in front of him.
"There's more than just brandy in this coffee," Fuller commented.
"Yes.. I mean no, possibly, probably not," stammered the colonel who had been caught out (and really shouldn't have been) that Fuller's train of thought had swung to coffee again. "No, you aren't hallucinating and yes, they just dragged a Regis into the hanger. I told you Mac wasn't kidding that these... I don't know, are we calling them recovery specialists now?"
Fuller nodded in confirmation, not trusting his voice.
The colonel nodded as well and continued, "These recovery specialists were bred for heavy carrying." Then he sniffed and pondered, "Wonder who they got this one for?"
"That's Mac's little guys," observed Fuller offhandedly.
CT turned and looked at his commander curiously. "You can tell them apart?"
Fuller shrugged. "I make a point of knowing who everyone under my command is," and took a sip of coffee.
One of the raccoons did indeed lay down its cable and scampered over to Mac where he was sitting forlornly on a crate. Stopping before him, it raised itself on its hind legs and looked at the pilot with large, black eyes.
"Getz mekz?"
Mac looked up into its small furry face and glanced over at the Regis. The other raccons in the group were staring at him. A moment passed, and then a smirk played across the corner of his mouth.
"Yes. Yes you did", he said softly, reaching forward and gently stroking a fluffy ear. "You all did very well."
Then he broke into a grin and shaking his head, stood up.
"And now," he announced, "when you getz mekz, you need to do the happy dance... here, watch me..."
Fuller advanced across the bay, his colonel in tow, an outstretched finger pointing directly at the pilot.
"Oh, Hell No!" he proclaimed...
Submitted by David Mcallum #701548