AN: Inspired by the critique/AMA I had on reddit for this story, I've decided that I will be doing a rewrite, following the game's background more closely, delving into a little more detail, and separating combat and non-combat chapters.
Her armour gone, AI screaming at her to eject, Sergeant Elizabeth Stroud reached down and yanked on the ejection handle as a massive steel fist crashed through the cockpit of her Titan. There was a single moment of sheer terror as that fist closed around her, crushing her body to a bloody paste. Her mind fled, ripped out of her body by the Ripcord system, the Pull taking her back to orbit, and the Sentinel. In that moment outside of time she heard a voice.
"Elsa…"
Her father's voice, pleading with her to stay. She tried to turn, pulling herself deeper into the darkness, but light filled her eyes and she fell to the floor of the clone bay. Fell through the floor, back into darkness—one which she couldn't escape from; one which dragged her down like thick treacle. Choking, she heard nothing in this darkness, far more terrifying than any of her many deaths in combat. This would be her end, and her father would never know. She would never hear his voice again.
She woke with a start, almost banging her head against the roof above her bunk. Rolling awkwardly on her side, she fumbled around for her tablet, flicking through old files. She paused at the picture of her father, gently touching the screen. She blinked away tears. I still miss you. The message icon in the corner of the screen blinked for attention. She brought up the app.
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»Pilot Stroud, you appear to be in distress.
Elsa frowned, aware that the AI was probably watching her every move, analyzing her expression.
IMS/Sen/PltStroud»A nightmare.
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»You accessed [this] image. Your father.
IMS/Sen/PltStroud»The nightmare.
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»Query: Suppressed memory from the Outpost 084 incident?
IMS/Sen/PltStroud»Combat. Ripcord Pull malfunction.
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»… … …
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»Backups for your war and cosmetic clones are fully up to date.
IMS/Sen/Spyglass»Recommending further investigation. Accept/Decline/Delay?
Elsa sighed, trying to get comfortable again. She just wanted to get some more sleep, however much of the night cycle was left. She powered down the tablet. She knew Spyglass's internal records would log that as 'Delay'. Closing her eyes, she pulled the blankets higher, past her shoulders. The EC never was quite right in her cabin for some reason. That, or Laski had turned it down again.
Late in the morning the briefing came through—just as Elsa was jogging back to her cabin from running her usual calisthenics routine. Graves's deep baritone sounded out over the ship's intercom.
"All personnel, this is Vice Admiral Graves. We have a rare opportunity to destroy an entire Militia fleet." The fleet they had been chasing down for the past six months, one of the last remaining concentrations of Militia ships anywhere on the Frontier.
"We know these terrorists are almost out of fuel, but desperation will make them unpredictable." Just like that first attack, four years ago, on Outpost 084. "Do not underestimate them." After that strike, no one was going to underestimate what the Militia could do. With only three ships they had destroyed one of the most heavily defended IMC installations on the frontier. One her father had been stationed on. Graves was still talking. "They can't run far, and will most likely hit a refuelling facility in the next few hours. Spyglass will fill you in."
The AI's voice was cold and mechanical, all business. "Pilots, you will be assigned to dropships to cover all potential targets in the Yuma system. A heavy patrol rotation will be maintained at all sites. At the first sign of Militia forces you will deploy to the ground and ensure that the air defense turrets remain online."
Graves came back with one final comment. "You are cleared weapons free for this operation. Stay vigilant. Graves out."
Elsa moved a little faster, not quite running to her cabin. The one she shared with Duke Laski. When she entered she found him laid out on the lower bunk, his cosmetic clone's ridiculous moustache drooping slightly at the ends. He'd already been Pulled to a war clone. There wasn't time to shower, and she hated the thought of climbing on to her bunk dirty. Instead, she sat against the wall, trying to find a relaxing position. Then she activated a manual Pull with her Ripcord, whispers echoing at the edge of her mind as she awoke in a war clone.
She fired up a neural datalink and engaged her retinal implants. A path to her dropship was superimposed against the floor as a dashed orange line. On the left of her field of view were her loadout options, tailored to suit her particular fighting style. To the right were possible Titan builds. At the bottom were didact and upgrade options, useful for the life of a single war clone. She'd readied an Amped C.A.R.—the Combat Advanced Round submachine gun she preferred; an Amped Archer, a powerful anti-Titan missile launcher, and a prosthetic legs surgical upgrade for one clone—she wasn't entirely sure she'd need that one, but it was just in case.
Dismissing the loadout information as she walked purposely towards the dropship bay, she brought up the information on the Militia fleet, notably the ships, their load, and armament. Known kill tallies as well, where possible. Only a handful of those ships had any records pertaining to naval engagements. A lot of fuel tenders—just like the terrorist strike at Outpost 084—but all empty based on thrust profiles. Then a lot of oddball small and medium vessels, very few with any registered armament. Fewer still that had naval grade weapons. Flicking her eyes around the AR interface, she brought up more detailed dossiers on some of those ships. The files had been redacted. She tried a different tack.
Three heavy landers led the fleet, but only one was even close to being a match for the Sentinel. Her thoughts turned suspicious. Something doesn't add up. The Militia's heavy landers had ample Titan fabrication ability, and a swathe of heavy AEGIS weapons to cover smaller ships in close. Heavy naval weaponry—above that registered for their class—seemed to be a more recent addition. She tried to access the armament profiles for the smaller ships. Another redacted file. She was suddenly very glad war clones had implants hardened against E-war infiltration. The IMC was actively hiding something about the fleet they were pursuing.
Why is the IMC sending the entire Sentinel task force after so many light ships? Elsa frowned, dismissing the redacted files to get the fleet overview once again. Her neural hardware ran the calculations in primary mode. Assuming full load, the known tenders could supply that sized fleet for only a month, maybe six weeks at the outside. Heavy freighters might have parts for six months or six days—and mass estimates leaned towards the latter. The Militia fleet had been running for a long time. Something was wrong, very wrong, with the IMC's dogged pursuit.
The Militia would engage in battle, losing resources on the ground, but their fleet continually grew, adding a handful of ships after each engagement, running deeper into Frontier territory. They had been fighting so long now that she'd almost treated the whole thing as routine, but this one felt… different. A sinking feeling in her gut, Elsa called up the known Militia fleet roster from previous engagements. Even that file was redacted. What the fuck is going on?
One key reason she had stayed with the IMC was their usually transparent policies—but now, actually trying to investigate the mission, she was having second thoughts about that supposedly august corporation. Was it possible the conflict was being extended for profit? Using the Militia as today's boogeyman? And exactly who gets the most from such a—she stopped, noticing the logo on the patrol Titan in the dropship bay.
Hammond Robotics.
Everything—very nearly every single labour saving device, item of consumer electronics, and military asset on the Frontier had been provided by one company. Hell, they had even funded the goddamned colonization effort. And for an arms manufacturer, the best way to make money is to keep fighting. Elsa shivered, climbing into the dropship next to Laski's war clone, his Kraber AP sniper braced upright against the deck. How much longer can Hammond keep up the charade? And aren't they the ones writing the IMC's paychecks?
Elsa quietly offlined all those programs, bringing up the combat interface. She wasn't about to forget what she'd just learned—now she just had to make sure she didn't wind up in an earlier backup that hadn't had that revelation. She shook her head. She couldn't take that risk. Instead, she signalled her Ripcord to record her current state of mind and memories as the next backup, propagating to every clone she had—including off-site backups. She fervently hoped Spyglass would put it down to simple nerves after her nightmare last night. After all, it was fairly common for Pilots to verify the integrity of their backups before battle.
Annalise Corazon looked forlornly around her dimly lit cabin—this was home. It had been for the past four years. Or is it five now? They'd been on the run so long she'd lost track. And now, for want of a better word, it was dying. The old Annapolis class supertanker had been heavily converted, rebuilt almost from the superstructure out as a Titan lander, and it rivalled even the IMC Supercarriers in capacity. Now though, it was running so dangerously low on fuel that every non-vital system was offline, and several less vital systems were on standby. Only the Titan hangars and clone bay maintained full power. She patted the walls of the ship—it was a good ship still.
It had been a noble ship before they'd been branded as terrorists by the IMC. Outpost 084 had been a massive propaganda victory for the IMC, painted as a terrorist strike rather than a rescue gone horribly wrong. Thousands had died. Most people in the Frontier Militia knew at least some of the story. MCOR teams had infiltrated the place, and found all number of horrors, not the least of which was weapons research being carried out on live subjects—detainees from Frontier colonies. There was a black ops naval research lab as well—so black even the IMC didn't have clearance to enter. All anyone knew was that it had something to do with the fuelling facilities at Demeter, and the massive jumpgates linked to them.
The decision to use fire-ships hadn't been made lightly. General Anderson had carefully considered every option at his disposal. Two older Annapolis hulls had been packed with explosives. A third had been loaded with decoys and E-war gear. Inside it had been heavily armoured, and converted to carry hundreds of passengers—the detainees and the MCOR operatives. In the end that had amounted to nothing, the entire outpost destroyed in what was later confirmed as an anti-matter detonation. The IMC had managed to spin it that the fire-ships had been a distraction to allow the third, AM-laden tanker past the defense batteries.
Thousands had died, and everyone blamed the Militia. That was the spark that had started the war, tensions already running high with the IMC's mistreatment of colonists and Frontier settlers. Sympathizers stole what they could from IMC hangars and warehouses, and sabotaged what they couldn't carry. The first few months had been utter chaos on both sides. Now it looked like fate had finally caught up with the Militia. Out of fuel, out of options, the civilian fleet pursued just as relentlessly as the First Militia fleet itself; Anna knew that this coming raid would mark the end of the Militia as an effective force. Without fuel, they couldn't do anything. General Anderson had impressed that upon them time and time again in his briefings.
And now Anderson was dead, a heart-attack brought on by extreme stress. That left only Bish and Sarah in charge, and they hadn't led any large scale operations before. Untried, unproven—but Sarah had led a lot of smaller MCOR raids for Anderson, and Bish had never failed as a datasphere/tactical advisor to Pilots on the ground. Anna was willing to trust them. Whether or not they could be as successful as General Anderson at directing the Militia's overall efforts remained to be seen. They were still pursuing his policy of making fuel the number one priority.
Lying in her bunk, stripped to the waist, Anna activated a manual Pull on her Ripcord. She fell several inches to the ground, enhanced reflexes landing her in a tight crouch. Checking the integrity of her neural implants, she pulled on a helmet, rapping the side for good luck. All the AR displays registered full functionality. Flexing her shoulders and tensing her legs, she took a quick step forward, activating the cloaking system. Her hand was flat and transparent. She placed it against a Spitfire in the rack. The weapon turned transparent, nano-coating responding to her touch. Slinging the LMG across her back, Anna holstered an RE-45 autopistol, slinging several satchel charges around her ordnance belt. Slung under the Spitfire was a Sidewinder anti-Titan launcher, loaded with micromissiles.
Ready at last, she stepped out of the clone bay and into the main corridor of the Freedom. She looked at the mission timer, breaking into a jog, then a run. Sprinting, Anna slipped on one of the many, many slick patches of—well, something she couldn't quite identify. With her war clone's enhanced reflexes she turned the slide into a roll, coming up into a crouch before continuing her sprint. It didn't take long to reach the dropship bay in the aft section of the Freedom's port tine. Skirting around a patrol Titan, Anna sprinted for the Crow resting on the deck, planting her foot against the lower hatch coaming and climbing inside. The entire dropship filled with the whine of engines spooling up to maximum. Time to go.
The Crow slid through the containment field and into the void. Anna looked back at the Freedom, hoping it wouldn't be the last time she saw the ship. They weren't just fighting to get fuel, they were fighting to keep their home alive. Anna racked the bolt on her Spitfire. Anyone that tried to take her home would have to go through her. She smiled a savage grin beneath the helmet. Let them try. A sudden whine filled the cabin, Bish and Sarah bracing themselves near the cockpit. Everything turned white with the distinctive whip-whumpf of a trans-atmospheric jump.