Next came the rebuilding and resetteling in different parts of the vast planet, easily a rival to Juipeter. New cities grew, and new colonies spread, until a squable over resources jetosened a whole war of independence, which grew and spread beyond anyone's control.
Then, when all was in shambels, Z11 Wave; the evolved zombies. Like wildfire, Apollo beget disaster after disaster, until even colonies friendly to the Human Federation turned to terrorism as a means of motivating intervention.
One such terrorist cell set of the TeskigiII; a non-nuclear, man-made natural disaster. Sufficent explosions coupled with noxious gasses caused an omnipresent cloud, while a vein of lithium charged by multiple generators made a lightly electric mist, blocking all transmissions outside a 50 mile radius. This effect later spread to the upper atmosphere, where radiation from Apollo's Van Hallen belts magnified the effect, making orbital support difficult.
By the time the worlds could muster the forces and tactics to respond, the situation had changed. Again. And again. Unable to communicate, different factions collided and spun off, until all Apollo was aflame. Sociological, geographical, environmental and communication issues all collied to create the "perfect storm" of ambiguous, hostile environments.
Finally, Army command came up with a solution; Operation Domino, the protracted engagement plan. The conflict, being on a larger scale, would, of course last longer, and would necessitate a spread out formation, requiring a degree of indepenece unprecidented in Army tactics. Each longitudinal sqare would be asigned a central base, which would act as the begining and end of a patrol. Patrols last two months, and spread out equidistant, before further dispursing smaller and smaller units, culminating in a Delta- P83, the Detroit model vessel.
Environmental circumstances prevented the customary hovering vessels, so inovation in the ground walking craft resulted in durable, low maintainance vessels, to facilitate the neccessary independence. Components were standardized, and made as similar as possible to the models used in creating and defending Apollo from civilization to civilization, to allow for scavenging.
With this wide spread net, threats were prioriized, with lower levels being handled more locally, and high profile situations being fed up the chain to the four primary polar bases. In this way, fast moving black op teams took care of major threats, while minor squirmishes were handeled quickly and quietly, with a minimum of wasted resources.
Brilliant and effective as this plan was, no one could know how long it would last, or what a fatal quagmire it would prove to be.
Eight generations after Operation Domino initiated....
The drone ship, a tiny bodied humming vessel, lifted clear, leaving the vast crate of munitions and supplies about a klick away. Lt. Cl. Hansworth lowered his scope, reaching for his com.
"Echo one to Detroit Vessel, bundel has been dropped one klick away, over."
The com crackled, then "Echo one, confirm. Bundel to be retrieved by team in minus-.30 hours. Return to Detroit, over."
"Copy. Over and out." Hansworth slowly straightened. Still smouldering wreckage marked a derivative battle of the Nurai Conflict, the most recent flare up in this godforsaken war. Miles and miles of melted rock, shattered ships and crushed ground forces, further than the eye could see, and that was just this suburb battle. The main event, as it were, was larger than could be comprehended by someone born and raised on Earth; distance was different here. As far as the Army was concerned, a package dropped away was a precision rondevu, worthy of praise.
Hansworth was broadly built, years of lean living and constant work giving him a cat-like physique, powerful and comfortable. Pale blue eyes and steely gray hair made him look older than his fourty two years, as did his care lined face, but a set to the shoulders hinted at his personal determination. He wore his heavy gear like a tee shirt, comfortable with the gray armour and exteranious supplies he was loaded down with. Stepping back onto his cycle, he turned and headed back to Moblie Recon Base Detroit 4683.
The Detroit was an insectoid creature of steel and carbons, an ant perhaps. Agile legs moved along, making for a surprisingly smooth ride. Suspended almost fourty feet in the air, delicately making its way through the wreckage, the head swinging this way and that.
Hansworth swung his lightly built recon cycle up and into its waiting bay on one of the legs with the ease of routine, then began climbing the hand holds on the front of the leg. Regulations suggested that he use a repelling line to ascend through the bay, but the haul was broken, and who had time to stop and wait anyway?
At the joint of leg and ship, Hansworth swiped his card, opened the hatch and ducked inside, where the ubiquitous engine oil and cheap adhesive smell greeted him, a smell so thick it seemed like running into a matress.
Home.
The Detroit was deceptively fast and durable, the workhorse of the Army in its interminable campagne against....well, whatever. The mobile bases were spread out across the vast surface of the planet, each tasked with keeping up with the changes in each area.
Manuvering around, the Detroit positioned itself directly over the package, then gently knelt, moving its cargo bay doors closer to the prize below. Once close, the huge winches and pulley began to haul the plastoid box inside, where it was carefully opened, and stored. Materials that weren't burned or broken were scarse.
Within, a treasure trove of rations, the latest news and orders, subscriptions, novels and the odd letter were greeted with cheers and hoots; three weeks in, it started getting pretty lonely.
Hansworth glanced over the materials, largely uninterested. Instead, he took munitions boxes and began storing them carefully in their lockers, one caliber at a time. After a lifetime of Apollo, he was no longer interested in much beyond perfecting his craft; the art of adaption. He wrote memos on easily scrounged materials, letters to supirior officers about fuel cells that could be converted in order to use as temporary generators for broken crafts, suggestions for design changes in vessels, and requests for more R&D information to supliment his theories and expiraments.
The alarm, not overly loud but curiously piercing, sounded, and all the horseplay stopped. Immediately, men were dashing down corridors, hopping into turrets and readying the medical bay.
Over the intercom, the CO, one Col. Jackson Ream, announced "Confirmed enemies, Z21-Wave point niner engaged with civilians, in Denoid City. Command confirms they're friendlies, and we're to assist. Engine room, prepare for conversion and full deployment."
The Detroit stood, its joints creaking, then began the smooth, locomotive type motion that carried it faster than one might believe to look at her. Hansworth calmly checked his gear. Assault rifle, grenades, harness, armour, helmet, riot shield, pistol and baton all passed muster, and he calmly began preparing for ground engagement.
Part of being advance recon in the Detroit was engagement after the Detroit had eiher come to rest or moved on. Hansworth was easily the most senior of the ground troups, all of whom had long since ceased mocking him after they'd seen the weathered veteran in action. No one, absolutely no one knew the ins and outs better than Hansworth.
"Ground team, move move move!" Ream bellowed intot the headset, and the ground team repeled down from the open bay, toward the relative cover of a ruined store. Hansworth assesed the situation quickly; no zombies now, but the moan, which carried quite a ways, was fairly loud so they couldn't be far. Risking a peak out of a doorway, he saw one or two survivors, apparently uninfected, running.
Silently, he motioned, and two soldiers deployed out into the street, riot shields spread, rifles at the ready. Hansworth nodded, and the rest of the team moved out, following the refugees, who were all heading the same direction.
"Detroit, Echo one. What's the location of the Z21s, over?"
"Echo one, this is Detroit. Western wave seen approaching current position via alleyways. Recomend immediate withdrawl and regrouping, over."
"Copy." Hansworth swiftly ripped a few doors of their hinges, motioning to the sqand, who, gathering the collapseable polls used in rapid settelment construction, began piecing together a rude baricade, fastening the joints with a foam adhesive that kept the whole sorry ass planet together.
Four of the twelve assumed positions on the bericade, riot shields attatching to the top as impromtue crinalations, while the remaining eight and Hansworth ran after the refugees. At a major intersection, two remained as eyes and ears, while the rest continued, fining the stragelers gathering a mob at the entrance of a supermarket.
Hansworth switched on the megaphone setting on his com. "LISTEN UP! I'm Lt. Col. Hansworth from the HF Army. We have a craft that is underway with extraction ops, but we will need your cooperation." A chunck of concrete, heaved in a panic, clattered of his riot shield. Hansworth calmly continued "I know that you're upset and afraid, but I promise you, my men and I will do our best to help you, I swear it.
"First, calm down and file into the building. Those of you who feel up for it, show a soldier an exit, upon which, he will seal it. Two units will guard the main entrance, the rest will help you get situatied inside. I need you all to hurry, we don't have much time."
The people seemed to calm somewhat, responding to authority, no matter what kind. A few men came forward, and pointed out the loading dock, with was then blocked by a vehicle, a side exit, which was foamed shut, and finally a fire escape, which was foamed, barricaded, then foamed some more. The six men outside were contacted, and arrived just before the doors were sealed, relieved to not have to engage yet.
Hansworth informed the Detroit of the situation, then began to take stock of the situation. About forty refugees, including children, no soldiers or security personael, no obvious infected, no supplies and no armaments.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
The com crackled "Echo one, this is Detroit. Be advised, we are opening fire on primary wave, take cover on my mark."
"GET THE FUCK DOWN!" Hansworth screamed.
"Mar-" the operator began, then the impact hit. The people were by and large too shocked to scream, as the building shook with after tremors, then, starting with the children, the screaming began. It was understandable; your home destroyed, friends and neighbors trying to kill you, and then what seemed to be an earthquake on top of it all. Oh well. At least it was over now.
With bitter, bitter irony, it was only after the tremors ceased and the cries were silenced that the roof caved in.
Hansworth woke up in the Detroit's medical bay, warm tingeling filling his body. Sitting up, he discovered that he was now missing his left forearm and hand, to which he grunted. Well, shit. At least it wasn't his right hand. They put you on permanant stationary duty if you lost your hand of choice, prosthetics be damned.
Then he heard the cries that had woken him up.
Groaning as he stood, fighting off a moment of dizziness, Hansworth stood, cradling his bandaged stump as he looked around the cramped infirmary. what the fuck could be making that racket? Did any of the civilians survive?
From a basenette, a baby screamed, his face contorted and flushed. Hansworth stared at the child, who flailed his tiny arms in wordless fury and panic, all the emotions the veteran's callused soul could not quite feel the way they should.
You and me both, kid. You and me both, Hansworth thought, reaching out with his hand, only to find that it was his stump. Well. Fuck it.
Strangely, the child subsided, inspecing the ruined limb as if it were an answer to his dilema. His dark eyes flickerd, his tiny hand moving with urprising care and precision across the surface that would normally be wreathed in flesh and blood.
Hansworth, long time trainer and veteran of the savage planet that seemed to embody all man's darker impulses, watched the child, so obviously marked by the tradgedy, yet finding the time to wonder at someting new, and with such eyes.
"That's the only one," Ream said from behind him. Hansworth nodded absently, watching the child begin to look around the room, wiggeling in the bassenet.
"My team?" Hansworth asked, strangely gentle.
"Mitchel, Ainsbury, and that new kid, the blonde one made it. Other than that, no," Ream said, his voice strained. Hansworth was an institution on this ship. No one, including him, knew the protocol, the tricks, the ins and outs, the factions and politics better than the crusty old vet, and he had never, not even with the Detroit had crashed, seen the old timer like this. If he had snapped...
Hansworth gingerly picked up the baby, cradeling him with his ruined arm, and patting him on his tiny back, comforthing him. "Better than I expected, I guess." He looked up at Ream, his icy eyes seeming to nail the colonel to the wall. "What's next?"
Ream fidgeted. "Damages and losses are not within the perameters of returing to base. We're to finish our patrol, and then register our little orphan there with the civilian services."
"Hnn. I doubt it."
Ream looked confused. "Beg pardon?"
"That explosion couldn't have come from out little salvo. You used spread rounds, right? Mostly fire and superheated gas?"
"Yeah, the A-11 models. How could you tell?"
"The streaking sound they made before imfact. Anyway, that explosion was set off because one or more of the infected were carrying explosives. At that magnitude, it was either one really fucking big one or a bunch of grenades. Either way, something big is going down, and if East Bumble-fuck Denoid City, with nothing desireable, no tactical position, no good salvage, no resources and no hostages worth taking is getting hit, it's a sure fire bet that it's a Spiral attack." Hansworth began softly rocking the child, trying to get him sleepy.
"Spiral?" Ream asked, almost but not quite remebering.
"About nine or so years ago, a faction of the indiginous terrorist cell, the Iron Brand discovered an effective tactic for engaging our forces over a wide space, with little man power. It relied heavily on the Z virus, a varient of the Z18.8, if memory serves, to spread chaos over a wide area right around delivery of supplies. Enough scrambeling meant that reports were almost never filed, which meant that most of the support that could help a base would be occupied with bull shit like Denoid City there.
"Then they would attack the regional base, one of the four derivitives of the district's main base, swamping the region with construction crew, tightened perimeter, and decreased patrols, giving them a fair opening." Hansworth gently laid the baby down, and delicately covered him, his face peaceful."
"You mean..."
"Yeah. Something's probably going down now, there's nothing we can do to stop it, and we won't be able to register this little guy through the right channels until he's at least four, at which point he falls under Operation Argonaut, the forced recruitment for refugee orphans to continue this fucking war." Hansworth looked up, his face suddenly strained. "He's now a child of the fucking war machine and we can't stop it. All we can do is teach him right."
"Why didn't they continue the tactic?" Ream asked, confused.
"Resources. We have more people and more support, and they mostly died out causing the distractions in the one or two cases of Spiral warfare we had. I guess someone remembered it." Finally asleep, Hansworth returned the child to the bassenet, covering him gently with the blanket.
"I guess that just leaves the question of what to do with the little guy," Ream said, leaning on a bulwark.
"we train him. Teach him how to survive on this world. Teach him to scavenge, to hunt, fight, kill and defend. All the things his parent never knew." Hansworth stretched, slowly rolling his muscles. "After that, it's up to him."
"Shall we give him a name?" Ream asked, half ironic.
"Davey. For me dad."
Eighteen years later
The youth looked out at the horizen, such as it was. Cloying smoke and mountains of debris clouded the view, but if you didn't look too hard, it almost seemed like a misty valley, rimmed with mountains. A pale, faint dawn wound its way through the murk, and in its face, the savage young man bathed.
"Ready?" a deep voice intoned from behind him. A muscular black man of medium height stood in heavy gear, as he always was, waiting for the young man. There was no answer. The black man, who went by the name of Bear sighed, but grinned at the same time. That's our Davey, he thought.
The young man leapt down, landing lithely inside the hatch. "Ready."
Mike opened his mouth and spat, the sour sensation of having inhaled in a pool magnified by the bitter flavor of the water. His head was thrown back roughly, and he sat, driping, in plain view of the camera.
He was being kept in this dismal room, criss-crossed by pipes and flooded, the cold, brackish water finding its way everywhere, dripping from pipes above, leaving him chilled and shaking. His capotors, whoever they were, didn't speak but a word or two of Standard, which were delivered accompanied by some form of violence.
This wasn't one of Mike's better vacations.
He had gone under the freeze while underway to Apollo, the newly remodeled resort world, and the next thing he knew, he was being dragged from the freezer, not completely thawed. An arbitrary vicious beating took place, and now he was being held as a political prisoner, as best he could tell.
The filming was over, as best he could tell, as the tones became much less harsh, and far more genial, as with a cigarette break. Mike remained tense: this was when the politically motivated beating was exchanged for personal, leisure beating.
Great. Fucking great. Paradise to hellish KGB death sqaud. And it would happen to him, wouldn't it. Spitting more water, Mike tried to see what was going on without blatently lifting his head. Obvious motions were greeted with pain, as were any attempt to look at any of the terrorists.
Distantly, the doors slammed open, and Mike heard crying, growing closer. Another prisoner? A man by the sound of it. Cautiously inclining his head, Mike listened to the panicked screams. The rooms doors slammed open, and a splashing noise indicated that the new prisoner had been launced inside, now soaked with the filthy water. Blubbering cries and more splashing as well as the harsh language indicated the newcomer was being tied as well.
Laughter now; they were beating him. Somehow, the military boots the terrorists wore made a different sound as they crashed down on your exposed body, the splashes different. The barbaric sound of bullies, found everywhere sounded, as the young man was beaten over and over, before they subsided.
Spitting disgustedly, the terrorist filed out, the last one to go finding time to smack Mike in the head. Asshole, Mike thought. The whimpering continued, now joined by a steady stream of cursing.
Mike lifted his head and inspected the newcomer. He was a little younger, in his early twenties or so, dressed in civilian clothes and with strageldy, dark hair. Lean in a fit sort of way, an athlete or something. He shook his head frantically, trying to get clean, and sputtering. Mike sympathized; the water wasn't something you trusted in your mouth.
Mike grinned. Hey, now he could be the angel of mercy in a time of need! Girls love that shit. If he ever got out, he was going to have the best story to tell, bar none. "Hey, kid," Mike whispered. "Kid! What's your name?"
"D-Daniel," the kid whimpered, cowereing.
"Good, Daniel, I need you to listen to me. It's okay. They want us alive, so they're not going to kill you. Calm down buddy." Mike leaned back, watching Daniel take stock of their surroundings. What little light there was filtered down through a partially blocked window, the glass too filthy to see through.
"W-who are you?" Daniel whispered, looking terrified.
"I'm Mike Lassen, my dad's vice president of VLA Productions," Mike rattled off. In the past, this had been a formula for getting surprised and admiring or jealous glances. Daniel merely looked blank. "Who now?"
"You know? The guys who did Enamored? Risen? The movie producers?" Mike asked, his tone increasingly condescending. Where did they find this retard? Oh Christ, if they were in the middle of nowhere, then he was so screwed.
Daniel shook his head. "Sorry man, nothing." He seemed a little calmer, under control at least. "So, Mike Lassen, right?"
Mike nodded. "Yeah."
"Do you know how you got here?"
"No, just them digging my ass out of the freeze pod."
Daniel blinked. "Freeze pod? How old are you?"
"I'm twenty three, how old do I look genius?" Mike snapped. What was this kid's problem? He didn't know one of the largest movie companies out there, and now he was acting like Mike had crawled out of the fucking dirt with a shovel up his ass.
"DUde, freezers are like eighty years old. You were under for longer than you grandparents were alive." Daniel looked shocked.
Mike gapped. "Bullshit." Something was bothering him, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. The door rattled, and Mike quickly assumed the contrite posture that seemed to work the best for satisfying his captor's desire to bring him down. Ironic, Mike thought, careful not to let a smile touch his face. The only answer to fanaticism is contrite worship; those who take the name of God to use upon others, demand his dues.
"Oh god, please don't hurt me! Oh god oh god godgod--" Daniel whimpered, suddenly back to the panicked child. Mike looked at him out of the corner of his eye. Pathetic kid. Thinks he's safe for a minuite, then goes ape shit when things don't go his way.
The terrorist, seemingly low on the food chain, was ragged, his gear poor and his expression bitter. "Shut," he sharled at Daniel, then kicked at him. Mike winced on his behalf--
--and somehow, the guard was collapsing, Daniel already rising to his feet, massaging his wrists. Leaning over, he retrieved the shoddy assault rifle, and with surprising expertise, checked the chamber, the magazine, then cocked the weapon with laser like precision.
"You're Mike Lassen, right?" Mike nodded mutely. "I'm acting sargent Davey Hansworth. HF Army, Detroit Delta- P83 niner niner. I've been assigned to retrieve one Michael Avery Lassen, and bring him back to base." Daniel, or rather Davey flashed a quick grin, then peered out the door, then motioned Mike to follow.
Everything about him was differet. He now moved like a cat in the jungle, his shoulders seeming wider and his face possitively predatory. Mike was hesitent; what Davey had said back in the cell seemed much more likely.
A soldier of some kind wandered out into the hall, but before he could make a sound, Davey heaved the rifle forward, like throwing a javelin, then dived after it. The rifle missed, but Davey didnt; his seaking hand found the man's throat, slamming the man's head up against the wall. Quick as greased lightning, he had the man's knife, then rather professionally slit the man's throat, grabbed his rifle, and passed it to Mike. "Keep up!: he hissed, and they were off again.