1. Early Spring - Ground Party

To travel and uphold peace. To defend others. Fight those who would harm. That was the dream, the mission, sold to you as you signed up to be lancers. Some of you believing in that, others choosing to be an ace pilot for a different reason. You were told of the glory of fighting for the others, epic fights, of being treated as heroes.

Turns out protecting others was a lot more quiet than that. Trained as a rapid response force together, you have been on the Daedalus, a patrol ship for a few decades now, however most of those have been spent in cryostasis, rotating out with other lancers crews as the ship slowly patrols the vast Union space.

Its been around 8 of so months since you woke up for your turn. It's been a mostly uneventful time. You've chased off a couple of wannabe pirates, but other than that it been a mix of training and being left to your own devices to entertain yourselves.

So when you receive and alert to come to an urgent meeting in a moment of downtime at least some of you are excited for a change of pace. You all head from whatever you are doing to gather in a meeting room at the head of which is the current Commander of the Daedalus, Commander Atoli.

'Greeting Lancers. McBride. We have received a distress call from a nearby Landmark colony Evergreen. It is newly formed colony on the planet Hercynia. They appear to have been struggling with some sort of raiders, likely pirates.'

'This is not going to be as simple as you go and chasing them off. The raids are ongoing, and unpredictable, and even if you fight off one lot there may be more. Your unit is being assigned as defenders of the settlement for now, while other Union forcers are on route.' She speaks as a matter of fact, as if its just another simple mission, not sending you away from the ship.

'Union has more forces about a year away. If these raiders are more than you can route out by yourself your mission is to hold the line until they can make it to you. They will also be your lift off the planet. The rest of the Daedalus must remain on course.'

She stops to look at all of you, only now seeming to bother to take in your reactions. 'I trust you are all on board with this assignment. While we have limited information of the nature of these raiders, I can try an answer what question you have about the colony or situation. '

Charles arrived on time and in uniform, pressed and clean. The smart uniform sat neatly on him, though its simplicity (and lack of decoration) made his strangely sculpted features even more uncanny than usual. He took a straight-backed seat to the far side of the front row, expecting others to file in.

The alert stirred deep reflexes in him, drills that compelled him to prove his worth. After such a time dormant, it was all he could do to accept it. Though the nature of the assignment sent a pang through him. Had they not proven adequate? Being abandoned by their ship?

He cleared his throat, tentatively raising a hand as the Commander called for questions. "Hmm, what command or support elements are accompanying us? Is there anything we will need to protect that the Colony can't print? Printers, shuttles, technicians...? And..." he glanced to the side, not wanting to monopolize the briefing, "Are we integrating with local defense forces? Who's on the ground now... and who are we reporting to?"

McBRIDE is not physically present at the meeting, its coffin located in the storage bay of the ship where it's safely secured so as to not get damaged in case of any complications. But a regular pattern of different colors flowing into each other across some of the screens indicates its presence. The NHP hasn't chosen any more concrete or humanoid form to represent itself even if it easily could.
"So there is a chance that this unit will not be able to remove this threat by itself," McBRIDE concludes from Atoli's explanation. It's voice is calm and pleasant, almost entirely androgynous with only the slightest leaning towards femininity. "Is this due to their assumed number or the strength of their equipment. What kind of gear do these raiders possess?"

Chris swaggers into the mission briefing with the grace of someone who had partied a little too hard the night before. The apparent signs of a hangover clung to him like a stubborn shadow. Unfazed, he's sporting sunglasses indoors, a statement of cool defiance in a room where any sun's rays are absent.

As the latecomer, he made an entrance, tipping his sunglasses down just enough to peer over the frames with a lazy grin, his gaze sweeping the room. However, as the mission briefing unfolds, the grin fades into a subtle frown. "Defending a settlement? I thought we enlisted for high-octane action, not babysitting. But, hey, if they need heroes, who better than us?" He casually nudges Charles as he says this.

Turning his attention to Commander Atoli, Chris adopts a somewhat serious tone accompanied with a sly smile. "Commander, just point me in the direction, and I'll make those raiders wish they had chosen a different colony. My mech's hungry for some action, and I'm here to give them a show."

Among the bystanders, the first one that arrived there had yet to pronounce a single word. The Amazonian looking woman stood even taller with her white, pristine combat armor on, reaching a more than respectable six feet three now that she was fully armor clad. If anyone in the room would have known any other Wings, they would have known that she would have been classified as a small specimen.

Thankfully, and hopefully, no one in her current assigned lance had ever had the pleasure to know one of the valkirious looking Wings.

The woman had currently her pristine vambraces crossed over chest. Saria was a beautiful woman. In a way, she was too beautiful. Too uncanny. Too alien. Her perfect body simmetries and features highlighted the fact that she was the result of genetic sculpting and splicing.

That, and the fact that her deadlift record in the ship gym was thrice the weight of the strongest soldier on board.

Saria had served as a medical officer aboard the Deadalus. She had performed that role with consumate experience. The general review of her work was that she had been perfectly apt to the task, but aloof, distant, and cold. There was a general nervousness in being treated by someone who seemed to possess no emotion. She was cold, and efficient, and in a way, inhuman.

Then, Saria broke silence.

"You are expecting us to resist there. That means that the enemy possesses at least another Lance, or at least, a mechanized reserve of some kind".
Saria wasn't asking.

When the showoff stepped inside, Saria shot him a glare, but decided not to press his flamboyant aptitude. Not efficient.

Saria nods.

"Understood. Thank you, commander" she replies, nodding curtly.

"I do not have any more questions. I will make sure my Baal is ready for action". Saria doesn't say anything, for the moment, to her companions.

"No questions from me either, Commander. I was ready to roll long before this briefing kicked off." He punctuates his statement with a wide, self-assured smile aimed at the group.

"Requesting permission to download and potentially share tactical training data," McBRIDE says, the flowing colors indicating its presence calm and undisturbed. "Assuming failure of this unit to permanently end the threat posed by these raiders, it will become useful to further train the local militia. Using up to date military protocols would be the best way to do so."

Charles folded his hands and sat back, eyes turning towards the ceiling. Perhaps, in the ideal case, the presence of a real military unit would be enough of a deterrent to any sort of pirate or raider. Perhaps some time on the ground would let him decompress. The familiarity of shipboard life was starting to wear on him, and he worried about bad habits coming back to the fore.

And the thought of trees gave him a sense of strange delight. He hung onto that.

He glanced around the room, strangely aware that the vagaries of interstellar travel meant he may never see this place again. This may be the last briefing from the captain, the last time they might get side-eyed in the mess for the debacle with the flavor packets. They were all passengers on a figurative time capsule.

He gave a small nod. "Aye, Captain."

'Permission granted McBRIDE. You are all dismissed. Prepare and meet in the hanger bay in 3 hours. McBRIDE I will have someone make arrangements for your Casket. Evergreen has provide a secure location for you to be installed. The rest of you Evergreen has been sent your Mech schematics and they will work on printing them as soon as they are able.'





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The deck rumbles beneath your feet, and for the first time you hear the howl of wind shear as the autoshuttle breaches Hercynia’s thick atmosphere. Seen through a condensation-streaked porthole, the world below is an emerald smear, scarred by ragged tears of black and brown. Patches of gray cloud cover speak to the months-long rainstorms that plague the surface.

Two rows of fold-down crash seats face each other across a wide cargo bay stocked with bundled supplies and MCBRIDES Casket, carefully secured with cord and any other precautions the NHP may have insisted on. The cabin is not pressurized, and its passengers suits are plugged into the dropship’s onboard oxygen via umbilical. It isn’t comfortable, but it does the job of getting everyone down from orbit intact.

"Thirty minutes out." The flightcom’s voice in your ear, unaffected by the turbulence, comfortable back aboard the ship. "Leave your helms on for now, cabin’s not pressurized. And you’re going through a helluva lot of chop – don’t want to bang your head on something before we get you to the ground." His radio clips off. The cabin lights flicker from an especially hard knock, then the wind shear dies down, and the howling engines settle to a level cruising roar. The hiss of air through your helmet subsumes all other sounds.

Below, emerald Hercynia.

--------

30 minutes later the rear door of the shuttle drops and the humid Hercynian air rolls in, wet and warm. The shuttle’s engines wind down to an idle, buffeting the tall grass that surrounds the landing area with a steady blast of heat-shimmer air. The colony’s main landing bowl is out of commission today – flooding opened sinkholes under the pad.

A light, cool rain falls around you. Evergreen sits a kilometer away, backed up on the banks of a wide, muddy river. You can see the white wrapped towers of its first apartment blocks, built but not occupied, and the low gray of the first-generation habitats crowding around their feet. In the dying afternoon light, the settlement’s street lights are steady beacons illuminating the colony’s borders. Beyond, the panorama disappears into the solid green of dense, temperate rainforest, and the gray of low clouds and fog, obscuring the rest of the valley.

A small group approaches the shuttle, weapons slung, the hoods of their dark ponchos held against the downdraft – representatives of the colonial militia. There are only ten of them, most arranged in a ragged line, crouched low, scanning the waving grass and the treeline beyond. Two however have what appear to be a motorised trolley that may be used to transported heavy goods

"You the pilots?" shouts one of the soldiers. Their leader, judging by her kit: a thin armature exoskeleton, powered by a blocky pack from which a tall spray of antennae emerge. She carries a long antiarmor rifle held with the assistance of a mechanized tertiary arm. "Brava Hadura," she says. "Commander of the militia here. Glad you’ve finally arrived. Listen, we shouldn’t be outside the walls too long – there’s a sniper in the area." Hadura looks around the waving grass, leery, hunched over her long rifle. "We should move – the bugs are good shots. Kiersta, Rains get that Casket loaded, then this bird can get back in the air. It’s an easy target on the ground." She waves to the two standing by the motorised transport who start to move forward to aid in getting McBRIDE off the ship.

"I have a name," the NHP's pleasant voice says from the speakers built into the black containment system itself when Hadura orders its casket to be loaded. "And while I appreciate the help in being moved and apologize for the inconvenience, I would appreciate being referred to by it instead of simply by the construction which contains me." Realizing it hasn't actually told them its name yet, it clarifies, "McBRIDE. That is my name." Less confrontationally, it then adds, "And thank you for moving me. I do not want to become a sniper's target or a hostage."

Saria had been silent for the entire duration of the entry, her transhuman physique compensating for the external forces that pulled and dragged the shuttle. She didn't need to say anything, not even a word of mild discomfort.

When the shuttle finally lands, making planetfall, Saria stands up to leave the craft, her hands busy adjusting the tall bun she sports. Her imposing, Amazonian frame, clad in armored white, occupies the catwalk. The woman stops in front of the patrol, her eyes assessing the capabilities of the militia.

She finds those capabilities wanting. Saria doesn't like their disposition, nor their bearing. Furthermore, the idea of picking such a rendezvous spot while knowing that there is a sniper reeks of incompetency. Saria would like to express her thoughts, but she stays her hand. These ones, after all, are just humans.

Still, Saria makes sure to don her helmet. With that, she towers among the militia men, a white, armored warrior among soldiers.

"Yes, commander. We are the pilots" Saria replies, addressing properly the woman and saluting the soldiers. Her voice sounds sharp. Frustrated, even. "Do you have casualties in need of treatment?" she adds, somewhat softer. Saria is a medical officer, after all, and she remembers well her oath.

Charles' hardsuit barely qualified as such, the smooth, navy black material cut for maximum mobility and minimum resistance. The only bulk was in his belt, where numerous life-support mechanisms, and his helmet, whose brim supported what appeared to be an impressive suite of optics and an armored blast visor, its only concession to being fit for battle outside of a chassis.

He emerged eagerly from the ship as it set down, perhaps unsurprising to anyone who had seen his legs bounce nervously during the flight. He dropped his rucksack and flight pack at the bottom of the ramp, reaching up to the sky, arching his back and stretching, taking in the panorama. Even in the wide clearing cut out around the distant settlement, he felt the encroachment of the natural world, and he could not resist lifting his visor and faceplate, taking in the wild and exotic scent of real wilderness, with its dirt and plants and animals. A stunted lifetime aboard carefully engineered habitats, and a brief diversion to an equally cultivated city did little to prepare him for the wildness of such places, chaotic and indeliberate.

He put his hands on his hips, shielding his eye with one hand and squinting rather than pulling down his visor again to engage his optics. This certainly beat screaming down from orbit in an ablative pod into a firefight.

At least, he thought it did, until the local militia warned him down.

He found himself back in the sterile air of his hardsuit as he brought the visor down to his brow, armored, polarized glass sealing again to the chinguard, as he looped the strap of his own rifle over his shoulder, pulling the power pack from his rucksack and clamping it to his belt. Taking a knee on the ramp, elevating just the top of his helmet above the tall grass, he scanned, less with wonderment, and more with intent, searching for signs of anyone lurking.

Charles was less critical of the choice of landing zone. In this rough terrain, with their primary facility disabled, a kilometer was a relatively short hike to find someplace to put down a shuttle. This was no military camp - it was a settlement, and it was doing all it could. Still, the threat of sniper attacks made his stomach tighten. Something was off. Why would raiders need snipers? Were they trying to contain the militia? But what other target could they have?

Those thoughts rumbled through his mind as he moved back up the ramp to start grabbing supplies and loading them up. But something did catch his ear.

As he passed the first satchel down the ramp to the locals, he turned to one of them, tipping his head quizzically. "Bugs?"

Bugs. Right. Saria had forgot to address that mention of bugs. Now that her mind is focused again, the sound of the word does indeed sound distressing.

Chris, in the midst of gearing up for some name-dropping and camaraderie-building, abruptly halts at the mention of "bugs." His attention pivots sharply towards the leader, eyebrows raised in anticipation, waiting for more information with an air of intrigued curiosity.

Anita didn’t mind the journey down so much. She’d been in low orbit craft before, but her family weren’t exactly rich so low end fear-for-your-life types were their typical go to. She sat as calmly as she could, thankful that they weren’t dropping in a storm where you had just as much chance of death before arrival as being shot by a local.

Once the shuttle landed and the green to release clamps showed, Anita jumped to her feet. She grabbed her rifle from where she’d slung it, and a go bag. From that she extracted an inventory of supplies they’d brought before making her way down the ramp.

She greeted the locals with a salute, before turning her head away from the worst of the weather. She waits for the others to speak first, glancing at Chris to make sure he’s following protocol, before handing Hadura the inventory.

Noticing Charles heading back up the ramp, she joins him to unload and keeps her ears open.

Brava looks slightly surprised as MCBride speaks but dips her head. 'Apologies. the adrenaline is affecting my manners. Men get MCBride sorted and moving. '

She looks next to Saria 'Not here. Some back at Evergreen, a couple from the last attack, and one of those who found out about the sniper. Are you a medic?' She looks relived at the thought.

At the echoing question of bugs she grimaces. 'A slip of the tongue. Just a ..nickname of sorts. We'll explain more when we are back. We really should be mov...' She suddenly darts forward and grabs one of the over soldiers pulling them back. A moment later there is an echoing crack as a bullet hole appears in a nearby tree. 'Let's go. Everyone finish up and move out!'

You finish the last bit of unpacking and follow after the troopers as they lead the way to Evergreen, splashing through the culverts that run on either side of the muddy road that leads to town. You follow, ducking under as the shuttle lurches up into the sky. You’re on Hercynia now, and will remain until the job is done.

-------

Up close, Evergreen is a city brutalized by growth. The tall apartment blocks stand a dozen stories high, grime-streaked white monoliths wrapped in cling-tight plastic, looming above the low, mixed material buildings. The colony is bordered by a low wall, buildings bulging right up against the barrier as if it were a waistline cinched tight by an unforgiving belt. Smoke drifts up from the dense settlement, blending with the low rain clouds.

The final approach to the city is through a clear and ugly cut, across a road made from metal plates sunken into the brick-red mud. Massive drones chew away at the forest as work crews gather and process the fallen lumber, organizing the fallen trees into tall, stripped piles. The smell of sap and friction-singed wood is strong. Smoke drifts into the cool air from piles of controlled burns. Evergreen is growing.

Brava leads the way into the settlement, waving away the defense drones that buzz toward you as you cross the cut. "We’ll get your particulars entered in our database," Brava says, motioning toward the departing drones. "That way you can come and go without triggering the guns or drones," she says. "Or the mines, once we get them planted."

The troopers lead you into the muddy, churned streets of Evergreen, tromping across the soggy ground. There is little traffic to impede your
progress; what people there are scurry from overhang to overhang, crouched over their bundles of goods to keep them dry.

Grimy prefab buildings crowd the colony’s mudspattered blocks. Gutters burst with water. Power lines crisscross in thick bundles above the street, some hanging like black vines. Rain barrels have long since overflowed and spilled into the streets.

You approach an intersection where a trooper waits, pressed to the wall of a two-story apartment building. The first floor looks to be shops – the wares on offer include local breads and other foodstuffs, judging by the signs painted on the closed metal grates – below a flat or two, their windows also shuttered.

"Careful," the trooper says in a whisper. "That sniper likes this street. Go fast when you cross."

Luckily the Sniper does not try another shot as you move rapidly across, approaching what Brava explains is the Governor's Farm, the centre of Evergeen where all the administration takes place. It is a walled complex, built of local stone and what looks to be repurposed starship plating.

Seemingly unguarded, the gate grinds open as you approach. A few scattered subalterns patrol the courtyard, their dull metal bodies beading with rainfall. They bear the planted-flag logo of Landmark Colonial and are painted in Landmark’s pale orange and blue livery.

'Patience and Edena will be eager to greet you, however I understand if you want to settle and catch your bearings first.' Brava speaks as the other Troopers escorting you peel off, except the two moving McBRIDE's casket. She pause then looks to Saria. [b]'I can arrange for access to the wounded for when you are free to see them as well. You probably want more information on what is going on first though? I have some answers, Patience and Edena others.