So, working on a new project, and because the timeline didn't fill a full page, I needed something to fill it. So I decided on a little sidebar fluff piece, something short, relevant, and to set the tone for the rest of the project. So, the introductory piece will show the first diplomatic meeting between the representative of ComStar (billing themselves a religious order fleeing persecution!) and the 'representatives' of Clan Zombie Python of the New Clans.
Think psychotics in diplomat's clothing. Spoiler, since its late and time for bed; The welcoming party is one Galaxy Commander and a bunch of dressed-up farmers, and the airstrip is a trap with a nuke buried under it. There are also remote-controlled A-P machine gun turrets and buried tank turrets with heavy mortars surrounding it, and cell-missile launchers (more homebrew tech) with a mix of Thunder mines, LRMs, and inferno SRM launchers if they decide to just wipe out the Interdictor and everybody aboard without releasing all that radiation into the atmosphere.
Comments and opinions welcome.
A DEVIL’S BARGAIN
(Sidebar A)
The overcast sky hung low over the rural farmlands of Valhalla, with nothing but the echoing sound of DropShips in the distance to hint at the news that the New Clans had finally been discovered.
“Do you think they suspect?”
Angus didn’t take his eyes from the far end of the runway, watching though the overcast and light rain for the first glimpse of the new arrivals. “No,” he said.
“Good.”
The silence stretched on, the rain beginning to clear somewhat as the landing lights on the massive runway suddenly came to life and the Doppler sound of engines began to fade in the distance.
Reaching into his poncho, Angus was unsurprised when the small radio speaker forestalled his question with a status report.
“Crater bombs are armed, mortars and turrets on standby. Lawn darts incoming.”
He grunted. The DropShip in orbit operating as orbital traffic control had warned them the visitors appeared heavily armed, nor was it surprising they had the resources to provide an ASF escort into what may turn out to be hostile airspace.
Clenching the squelch button twice, he turned back to the runway.
The high-speed pass of an unrecognizable ASF at what must be maximum burn broke the monotonous cloud cover drawing the attention of both men for several seconds before disappearing once again.
“Looks new. White to black livery?”
The low rumble of the sonic boom covered the sound of the rest of the welcoming party coming up behind him.
“Medium to Heavy. Interceptor, mostly lasers, centerline PPC by the look of it,” came the excited voice from behind him.
A second ASF making a pass almost directly above them was gone in seconds, giving them a good glimpse of the glowing afterburners before seeming to turn off one side to throw off any ground fire.
Angus scowled, making his own assessment. “Veterans, probably Elite pilots. Good equipment, well maintained.”
The hammer of the sonic boom was far louder. The tension seemed to rise slightly as the incoming DropShip finally descended under the cloud cover. Somebody just had to give a low wolf whistle.
Glistening while fading to dirty black. Laser ports, barrels, and huge missile racks unmasked. The pilot seemed uncharacteristically clumsy, giving a slight bob before correcting – but the bright flares of Jump Jets clearly marked the squad of Battlearmor dropping just short of the runway.
Snatching at the radio again, he lifted the neck of the poncho slightly and turned to speak clearly into the handset.
“Battlearmor on the apron. Scratch and cover.”
Dropping the handset, he turned to leave for the converted bunker on the side of the runway. The Word had lived up to their reputation so far. Time to prove the Pythons were worth of their own among the New Clans.
The clicking of the radio was a welcome sound as the rest of the party began to follow. The sharp cracks of the mortar’s A-P rounds drowned out the sound of smoke rounds concealing the scouts and denying them the chance to secure the airfield.
(Side bar B)
The howl and shake of re-entry into Valhalla’s atmosphere was a welcome break to the monotony of the trip, heralding a long-awaited return to the open sky and fresh air soldiers and spacers always looked forward to. In contrast, the short flight to the landing field was simply more of the same.
“Do you think they suspect?”
Berith glanced at the ground commander of his security team at the console beside him and shook his head. “Unlikely. These are one of the poorest groups of these ‘New Clans’. Barely any weapons and trained personnel to go around.”
He shook his head again, turning back to the screens and controls in front of him.
“This is diplomacy. The only ones that are going to have any fun are the locals, getting to see what front-line equipment looks like. I’ll be lucky if they serve anything recognizable at the banquet welcoming us to the planet,” he said in resigned amusement.
“Blake Flight, peel off.”
The calm order of the Captain of the Blake’s Rage brought a rustle as the rest of the greeting party that didn’t have the Blessing of Blake’s enhanced hearing brought headsets up to listen in.
“ETA in five. Apron Team, stand by.”
These heretics couldn’t do more than make faces at the Rage, but the 49th Shadow Division had a reputation to uphold and the prospect of a change of scenery was good for morale. Seeing the cascade of video begin as the Rusalka ASF make a recon pass he stared at the screen, not trying to catch all of it, but noting the above Mach-1 fighter added an extra bob-and-weave intended to throw off ground fire and visually scan for pursuit or targets of opportunity on the ground. Seconds later his wingman uploaded the same stream of imagery with the same maneuver.
Sophisticated filters highlighted terrain features of interest, buildings, suspected weapons, and... Sheep? Caught off-guard and frightened by the sonic booms of the escort flight.
“Commencing final approach, crew, strap in.”
They were committed, now. Clearly the bridge crew shared his assessment of the risks here, choosing to ignore any irregularities as the rising howl of the Rage‘s engines made clear their agreement. Manipulating the keyboard set into the console he began idly searching the surrounding area. The patched but well-maintained airstrip was only the first question. Why here? Where were the supports every well-designed facility needed? Where were the bars, the hotels, the people? Other than a group of twenty or thirty people and what looked to be a pre-cast bunker and control tower, there was nothing here.
The small, tell-tale change in cabin pressure was as good as the sudden drop to alert the Servants of Blake around him – Holy Blake, let me serve you in battle, again! – that the first of the apron security teams had dropped, relying on the Battlearmor’s Jump Jets to get them to the ground safely.
Another waste of time – but the personnel behind the frightening visage of the
*Edit - No, Berith looks unaugmented. Sarna doesn't have anything, anyway, and I don't have minions and masters, so unless somebody can tell me its fixed.
