*(Editors note - this is not meant to offend anyone, just something Ron did in the editors group that we got a chuckle out of and thought we would share.)
Submitted by Ron Frye#879655
Sunday, December 6, 2015
Christmas Cup By Ron Frye#879655
*(Editors note - this is not meant to offend anyone, just something Ron did in the editors group that we got a chuckle out of and thought we would share.)
Submitted by Ron Frye#879655
When Is It Applicable To Boot A Clan Mate From The Clan? By Pat Willis#224534
We've all seen it coming up through the ranks in various clans, the announcement is made for Clan Wars, your clan leader does roll call of who is in and who is out, people are moved according to their levels, and then the war comes and so and so is no where to be found until the raid after the fact. We hear about it every other clan war. Whomever did not show up for the war but now they are making a killing in the raid and are probably just going to get all the good prizes!
So the debate here is, when is it acceptable to boot them? Oh I know you may have to make special exceptions for some folks just due to their weather being worse than yours, or power is out, an earthquake hits..... you know something truly understandable. But aside from that where do you draw the line?
There are some very large clan families in this game and if you let so and so go they may get snapped up by the competition, and if they are one of your clans top guns that is not an enviable position to be in their cross hairs as an enemy. At the same time ALTS are rampant in this game so trying to figure out if your pilot is sandbagging on an ALT in favor of his main in an opposing clan is a whole nother joy in and of itself. So what ground rules do you set? What do you do in such a situation? Obviously if it keeps happening boot the person, but most clans have some rules in play to try and prevent that from happening as much as possible.
Should there be some kind of game mechanic to go with this? Like maybe being able to brand a persons profile with a little quote along the lines of ,"Bags in wars, not trust able, take into clan at own risk." Or is that too harsh? Some may think not given their personal experiences with such. So what say you players? What is the best way to prevent this from happening , or at least cut back on it significantly?
Submitted by Pat Willis#224534
So the debate here is, when is it acceptable to boot them? Oh I know you may have to make special exceptions for some folks just due to their weather being worse than yours, or power is out, an earthquake hits..... you know something truly understandable. But aside from that where do you draw the line?
There are some very large clan families in this game and if you let so and so go they may get snapped up by the competition, and if they are one of your clans top guns that is not an enviable position to be in their cross hairs as an enemy. At the same time ALTS are rampant in this game so trying to figure out if your pilot is sandbagging on an ALT in favor of his main in an opposing clan is a whole nother joy in and of itself. So what ground rules do you set? What do you do in such a situation? Obviously if it keeps happening boot the person, but most clans have some rules in play to try and prevent that from happening as much as possible.
Should there be some kind of game mechanic to go with this? Like maybe being able to brand a persons profile with a little quote along the lines of ,"Bags in wars, not trust able, take into clan at own risk." Or is that too harsh? Some may think not given their personal experiences with such. So what say you players? What is the best way to prevent this from happening , or at least cut back on it significantly?
Submitted by Pat Willis#224534
Saturday, December 5, 2015
We May Be Looking For a New Editor Soon, Will It Be You By Pat Willis#224534
Hello all, we may be looking for new editor at our Galaxy Gathering offices, if you have the right stuff it could be you to join us. First off what do we do? We take player submissions for the site from both the onsite submissions page and from our Facebook group. We make notes of who submitted what to the site (Example for instance this post would look like this Pat Willis#224534- news x1) for the weekly payout list to Artemis Molly. When we have no submissions it is up to us to run "filler" pieces, so that the site is always operating on two posts a day.
Of course as the position title says we also edit submissions as they come in. Fixing punctuation here, capitalization there, and whatever else may come up with the piece in question. We also discuss game topics in the editors group which is how we came up with the game ideas, game debates, and even our videos. We get paid a straight wage per week plus half of the normal pay out for a story we write. Candidates are expected to be able to handle at least a couple days worth of posts per week, so at two posts a day, would equal 4 a week. The rest of the slack is picked up by submissions and us other editors.
So that is what we do, want in on it? Then submit a piece to the site, or myself directly via Facebook. It can be a short story, a long story, a mecha, weapon/equip review, whatever you like just please be sure it is a few paragraphs minimum. This is open to anyone in game even if they are at the other network and want to change sides, just saying we rule no one out and seriously consider all applicants. As always thanks for reading and happy hunting.
Submitted by Pat Willis#224534
Of course as the position title says we also edit submissions as they come in. Fixing punctuation here, capitalization there, and whatever else may come up with the piece in question. We also discuss game topics in the editors group which is how we came up with the game ideas, game debates, and even our videos. We get paid a straight wage per week plus half of the normal pay out for a story we write. Candidates are expected to be able to handle at least a couple days worth of posts per week, so at two posts a day, would equal 4 a week. The rest of the slack is picked up by submissions and us other editors.
So that is what we do, want in on it? Then submit a piece to the site, or myself directly via Facebook. It can be a short story, a long story, a mecha, weapon/equip review, whatever you like just please be sure it is a few paragraphs minimum. This is open to anyone in game even if they are at the other network and want to change sides, just saying we rule no one out and seriously consider all applicants. As always thanks for reading and happy hunting.
Submitted by Pat Willis#224534
Friday, December 4, 2015
They Don't Make Them Like They Used To... by David McCallum #701548
This isn't a rant about the lack of equipment for the big mechs... Pat has
that covered.
Of course, the problem is he's wrong.
It's deeper than that.
Oh, I know the RND have examined every aspect of the game in minute detail. The Brotherhood are supposed to have some of the best number crunchers in the
business. Even my own guys, the Heroes have some top notch analysts and min/max
designers.
The thing is I don't need to do in depth research to know the chemical composition or physical
characteristics to recognise that something is a .... poo.
And despite the fact that Mythbusters proved otherwise, its very difficult
to polish a .... poo.
I look at the battle results... not necessarily the numbers and hits, only
if I really need to cross check something that looks like a close battle.
Generally you can get the ebb and flow and feel what is going on. That’s when
the .... poo stands out.
We know how nasty the Huge class mechs are. We've been on the receiving end
too many times. Get up into BFMs though and it starts getting smellier. Not the
90s, they are good. Love a 90.
But 95s? On paper, my Boreas is the nastiest piece of hardware I have. I
know for a fact that to get even a basic equipment loadout that it deserves, my
budget needs to be around 2 to 3 times larger than any other mech I own. There is ample equipment for it and I'm more than happy with what its carrying.
Yet it gets into battle and falls over when sneezed at. Seriously, even
attacking the Pirate Moon, It spends more time getting rebuilt than it does on
operations. I'm seriously working on a combat zimmer frame just to keep the
bloody thing propped upright!
My Yallan and Glaccus are complete non events, but at least they are only crystal
and I can use that as an excuse as I hang my head in embarrassment.
Let’s go heavier. I don't own a Potatotron. The closest I've come is when
somebody has hidden one in the middle of their formation and my trusty 85s have
waved to it as they go thundering past the wreckage.
I did buy a Typhoon though. I started to work out how to equip it. I'm
pretty sure I can get it up to the same combat effectiveness that you get when
a half blind geriatric Labrador attempts to hump your leg.
See, the real problem isn't the lack of kit. It's an actual issue with the
chassis. Over 90 tons, they must be too big to polish or something like that...
just like other things I could mention.
These newer mechs.... don't hold with them.
Submitted by David McCallum #701548
Ignis... its Hot Stuff!! by David McCallum #701548
Suckfull...
No, that’s not a commentary on the Ignis, its a description of my luck when it comes to finding abandoned mechs out Yomi Reefs way.
I always wanted one of these little beauties but being unable to scavenge one for myself and with niodes in short supply, there was always something that was just that little bit more urgent.
That didn't stop me lusting though. There's a reason why of all the mechs on offer, this is the one that schoolboys have posters of. Its sleek, low slung, has built in spoilers and above all... its very very red.
Unless they have posters of that tennis player adjusting herself... in which case make them have a cold shower and give them a poster of an Ignis instead.
Old eczema head may have had the charm of a mass grave and the looks of a half chewed mouthful of cornflakes, but he could certainly build a beautiful looking machine. With its flexibility and handling, it almost begs to be filmed from overhead as it navigates the downward slope of mountain road switchbacks.
It has the sort of style where you want to ditch your flight suit for a tuxedo and trundle up outside a casino on some billionaire playboy resort and throw the keys at the valet.
Things shaken and not stirred could be called for....
And it remains a rich man's plaything. With a list price on the open market of 16000 Ferrite, 13500 Bioptics and 145 Niodes even for the most basic model, it’s not the sort of item you should be going out to buy on a whim. As most pilots will tell you, there are better mechs to be bought for that price, and you'd probably get some change on the deal to boot.
But then most pilots will also tell you that if you are thinking like that, you are missing the point. This is a niche machine for a very specific clientele, the ones who set trends rather than follow them. Not for them the massed torrents of 5 minutes ago, or the current fad of ice with everything or even the hybrid machines that attempt to carry out too many tasks and manage to do none of them that well.
In a story started by the Cindron and carried on by the classic Inferno, the Ignis is the final chapter to date. It burns things. Fast.
I mean, even without aftermarket parts, a fully run in Ignis gives a fire percentage damage increase of 98. NINETY EIGHT!!! LUDICROUS!!!
I'm going to give you a hint here... with 5 chassis slots, by the time you have added your obligatory Energy Aura for some much needed self-repair goodness, there are 4 left. It has 4 legs. Midori's Boots are red so you don't even have to do a re-spray.
The point though is that this is still a niche machine. Fire is one of those funny weapons... not fast enough to outshoot projectiles, not vicious enough to kill like lasers, not enough collateral damage like missiles and not able to stop the opponent dead in its tracks like Ice. It may be lesser favored, but you need them to be able to take advantage of the vulnerabilities that will inevitably be left in your opponents line up.
You need fire in the line... some fire at least.
The Ignis can bring it all in one go...
Submitted by David Mcallum #701548
Thursday, December 3, 2015
Frigis Overview By Pat Willis#224534
To Start with this isn’t a cheap mech. It costs 10,000 Ferrite, 9,000 Bioptics and 140 Niodes. It comes factory built with a Flash Freeze, an Arctic Gale, a Galaxy Eye, two Res Lasers and Two focused Icers. This a 80ton biped style mecha with emphasis on freeze potential. Some may already know this and some may have found it out the hard way on the battlefield but if equipped right the Frigis can and will produce a 100% freeze with its weapon shots.
This isn’t just corporate hype to get you to buy the mech it is true equip it right and it will freeze whatever it hits. Due to its immense power and regulation of advanced coolant systems it does contain a slight draw back with a 10% Ice vulnerability in the build. It does emphasize amplified laser damage, of course Ice damage and allows for a handy X2 & X3 damage abilities percentages varied by level of course. It allows for a decent buildup of Precision based weapons if that is your style in the build as well as shielding.
Now with all the tech babble and stats out of the way let’s get to the important part, how does it perform in battle? Honestly I love it. For a nasty surprise stick in your last place last line and watch it eat up mechs from the bottom up. This is a rock solid mecha, it has better armor than the beast mechas and can be outfitted for serious firepower. This is not a mech to pass up or underestimate at all. It’s pricey yeah but it is worth it in the end results. *Note- (Experience may vary based on play style and equipment involved I only am saying what I have seen from how I put mine together.)
Submitted by Pat Willis#224534
This isn’t just corporate hype to get you to buy the mech it is true equip it right and it will freeze whatever it hits. Due to its immense power and regulation of advanced coolant systems it does contain a slight draw back with a 10% Ice vulnerability in the build. It does emphasize amplified laser damage, of course Ice damage and allows for a handy X2 & X3 damage abilities percentages varied by level of course. It allows for a decent buildup of Precision based weapons if that is your style in the build as well as shielding.
Now with all the tech babble and stats out of the way let’s get to the important part, how does it perform in battle? Honestly I love it. For a nasty surprise stick in your last place last line and watch it eat up mechs from the bottom up. This is a rock solid mecha, it has better armor than the beast mechas and can be outfitted for serious firepower. This is not a mech to pass up or underestimate at all. It’s pricey yeah but it is worth it in the end results. *Note- (Experience may vary based on play style and equipment involved I only am saying what I have seen from how I put mine together.)
Submitted by Pat Willis#224534
Wednesday, December 2, 2015
Tinsel EMP A Mighty Weapon Reviewed By Germán Jaramillo # 685605
A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away… The Emperor stings the young Jedi Luke Skywalker with sparkling bursts of Force lightning, but Luke doesn’t surrender…
The Emperor - “Your feeble skills are no match for the power of the Dark Side. “ *Shooting again Luke with another burst of tinsel like electromagnetic pulse*… Wait, Tinsel EMP? Oh yes, quite the same.
If you were jealous about the Emperor Powers, now, you can use them entering into the wild path of the Force with this amazing weapon, but let’s take a deeper view!
. . .
1. INTRODUCTION/HISTORY:
Released during Christmas Eve, this marvelous weapon returns from time to time, appearing in black markets, some KOTMs and Xmas Mystery Vortex sales. Long ago a pilot told a joke about the EMP seeming like a Xmas tinsel decorating his enemy’s mech and soon the joke got spread baptizing the weapon as Tinsel EMP.
. . .
2. TECHNICAL CHARACTERISTICS:
Manufacturer: Mysterious Bad Santa’s factories.
Quality: High mysterious niobium tech.
Damage: 111 (You won’t find many weapons in this damage rank)
Speed: 111 (Lightning Speed, faster than any huge weapon)
Abilities: Crit-Kill 10%; Freeze 55% (Superior ability to disable enemy systems)
Availability: Sometimes get’s released during Xmas offers through the mysterious vortex (with odds to get it as high as 2 or 3%) as also gold reward for top divisions in KOTMs.
. . .
3. OPERATIVE LIFE:
Unlimited.
If you were one of the lucky pilots acquiring one or more units of this deadly freezing dispositive, you will keep it forever equipped in your starry mechs.
. . .
4. DESCRIPTION:
This dispositive assembled in the mech’s carapace releases at large and medium range a magnetic pulse capable to disable the critical systems of the enemy mechs.
. . .
5. EVALUATION:
Tier XIV
Score: 10/10 (This is your perfect Xmas present)
Really… Aside a lightsaber, you will need a Tinsel EMP for your Galaxy domination goals… Hmm… Wrong game?. Anyway, for a real damage you won’t find a faster weapon than this one nor with as effective capabilities to shoot down your enemies.
I want it… You want it… We want it. This is Tinsel EMP.
Submitted by Germán Jaramillo # 685605
The Emperor - “Your feeble skills are no match for the power of the Dark Side. “ *Shooting again Luke with another burst of tinsel like electromagnetic pulse*… Wait, Tinsel EMP? Oh yes, quite the same.
If you were jealous about the Emperor Powers, now, you can use them entering into the wild path of the Force with this amazing weapon, but let’s take a deeper view!
. . .
1. INTRODUCTION/HISTORY:
Released during Christmas Eve, this marvelous weapon returns from time to time, appearing in black markets, some KOTMs and Xmas Mystery Vortex sales. Long ago a pilot told a joke about the EMP seeming like a Xmas tinsel decorating his enemy’s mech and soon the joke got spread baptizing the weapon as Tinsel EMP.
. . .
2. TECHNICAL CHARACTERISTICS:
Manufacturer: Mysterious Bad Santa’s factories.
Quality: High mysterious niobium tech.
Damage: 111 (You won’t find many weapons in this damage rank)
Speed: 111 (Lightning Speed, faster than any huge weapon)
Abilities: Crit-Kill 10%; Freeze 55% (Superior ability to disable enemy systems)
Availability: Sometimes get’s released during Xmas offers through the mysterious vortex (with odds to get it as high as 2 or 3%) as also gold reward for top divisions in KOTMs.
. . .
3. OPERATIVE LIFE:
Unlimited.
If you were one of the lucky pilots acquiring one or more units of this deadly freezing dispositive, you will keep it forever equipped in your starry mechs.
. . .
4. DESCRIPTION:
This dispositive assembled in the mech’s carapace releases at large and medium range a magnetic pulse capable to disable the critical systems of the enemy mechs.
. . .
5. EVALUATION:
Tier XIV
Score: 10/10 (This is your perfect Xmas present)
Really… Aside a lightsaber, you will need a Tinsel EMP for your Galaxy domination goals… Hmm… Wrong game?. Anyway, for a real damage you won’t find a faster weapon than this one nor with as effective capabilities to shoot down your enemies.
I want it… You want it… We want it. This is Tinsel EMP.
Submitted by Germán Jaramillo # 685605
Tales from the Raid by David Mcallum #701548
Mac strode into the command centre of the dropship Juno, his eyes adjusting to the dimmed level of illumination that allowed the duty staff to have greater contrast of the digital displays and read outs for ease of use.
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
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
Tuesday, December 1, 2015
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