AC Geist

by Gilt

A reimagining, of sorts, of Silent Line: Armored Core, with a stronger emphasis on the conflict along the Silent Line itself; not quite a novelization of the game as such, though shading in that direction. Parts one and two of three, or perhaps four.

2. Part One: Reconnaissance by Fire

CORVUS CORAX

The common raven was a remarkable creature, when one got right down to it. The cliché for over a century after man split the atom was always that cockroaches would be the species to survive, if opposing nuclear powers ever went to war. And it made sense, really - they were practically ubiquitous across the globe, and seemed to thrive in almost any place imaginable outside of the Arctic or Antarctic; it was a natural and logical assumption that they would be the real winners if the atomic balloon ever went up.

But that was before it actually happened.

Like the majority of the most horrific events in history, the Great Destruction was staggeringly obvious in its coming - and, therefore, missed all the more entirely by those best positioned to anticipate it. Almost before anyone realized what was happening, the proverbial lines had been drawn in the perhaps more proverbial sand, very much in the manner of a curious conflict that had been known as the 'Cold War', even though it was often anything but; had the world's blind and headlong flight toward the brink taken on a less break-neck pace, more people might have stopped to wonder at the similarity. History was nothing if not consistent, and rarely was it very innovative.

But along with that perpetual truth went an important, oft-overlooked corollary that few ever managed to grasp: while it had almost never shown itself terribly inventive, history had always proven quite adept at one-upping itself.

Hence, the aptly- (if simply-) named 'Great Destruction'. It was hardly anything new at all, in principle, and largely a story as old as urban civilization; but its scale - that was unprecedented in the sum total of recorded human knowledge. Devastation to degrees unthinkable two or three centuries before was the order of the day by the waning years of the war, and had mankind not been locked in mortal struggle with its most ancient of inner demons, it might have recoiled in horror at what it had wrought.

Conscience and morality were typically the first casualties of a battle for one's very survival, however, which was at least as true for nations and governments.

And more than that, there came a point, though neither spoken nor consciously acknowledged on any side, beyond which there was no turning back; too much blood had been shed, and too many lives had been lost to do anything but see it through to the end, paradoxical though it might have seemed to later generations.

And so mankind imploded. Seas boiled and land burned as a species polarized like never before hurled back and forth the most terrible and wickedly creative products of its vast, boundless imagination. The Earth would never again be the same, irrevocably altered both cosmetically and in more substantive ways by the apocalyptic fury that the last nations spent on one another.

But some things endured - the raven, incredibly, among them. Two centuries huddling in the shelter that subterranean life provided from the consequences raging up above had left a large gap in human knowledge of the world's goings-on during that time; but upon Emerging at Exile's end it became apparent that entirely unforeseen and (in some cases) almost inexplicable fragments of the former eco system had miraculously remained intact, somehow coalescing into a new natural order every bit as vital as - if more precariously balanced than - the old.

GILT RIVIN

Such was, of course, all completely and utterly lost on the small black bird perched atop Blue Asgard's rock-still shoulder. It had no idea of the fierce debate that it had engendered among ornithologists for the past fourteen years, nor could it, naturally, even fathom such things. Its sole concerns were those most basic in nature, and shared by every living thing - nourishment, shelter, and propagation, all of which it would seek wherever it could.

Perhaps that was the reason it had succeeded where other species failed, Gilt mused idly as he scanned the landscape displayed on the cockpit's wrap-around viewscreens; he was a pilot, not a zoölogist, but it seemed to him that at least a very many of the animals that had survived the turmoil of the Last War were in some way or another avid opportunists. Indeed, despite the quasi-stigma that had grown around them throughout history because of it, ravens were really little more than unfairly vilified pragmatists.

And maybe, he considered further, therein lay the answer to his periodic wonderings about why in the infernal depths of hell his most famous and accomplished of mercenary groups had been named after an altogether average bird. For what was a mercenary, at the end of the day, if not pragmatic? That was how they'd made their living since time more or less immemorial, and the comparison built into the shared name actually struck him as unexpectedly apt, now that he thought about it more.

But in response to this minor epiphany his tiny companion only shook out its feathers and began preening itself unconcernedly.

We should all lead such simple lives, he thought somewhat wistfully, returning from his momentary distraction to the task at hand. Not a living thing aside from the raven moved in the empty, if (starkly) scenic, expanse around their tiny, eclectic group, but letting one's attention slip could be dangerous out here, even fatal. Attacks near the Silent Line came without warning, and often with no particular rhyme or reason - even after two years of unremitting war, the Earth Government Defense Force's intelligence sections still had trouble predicting whether it would be a major city or isolated utility shed that was hit next. Not that it was any serious failing of theirs - the pattern to the attacks, if one could even be said to exist, simply made no damned sense.

But then, that summed up the entirety of the conflict dishearteningly well. For twelve years after E-Day man had enjoyed renewed dominance on his native surface, finding things, if not exactly as they once were - and who alive could remember that anyway? - then at least fresh, and full of possibility. The man-made cataclysm that had brought the Christian era to a hellish close had spared little, by the end, but with just under two hundred years for the wounds therefrom to heal the effect was an almost complete wiping clean of the proverbial slate. Everything old was new again, as the archaic saying went, and the virginal frontiers of der neue Kontinent - what it had been pre-Destruction was a matter of some contention, and it in fact went by several names, but Neue was the least controversial - lay open to anyone with the drive and means to plumb their untold reaches.

The myriad corporations that had risen to dominance during the long exile underground, certainly, needed no encouragement; they would seek profit wherever it was to be had, and were among the earliest to take the first, tentative steps out into the remade world. Progress was cautious, halting at the outset, but within the first year nearly a half dozen cities were in various states of construction across the great broad plain beneath which Layered lay situate; and, human nature being the indomitable creature that it was, that number inflated almost exponentially over the next eleven years, until the 'set-ward two-thirds of the continent looked almost as it must have in ages past, teeming with the busy activity of human existence. To look at some of the better-to-do cities, one who didn't know better would never guess that it had not always been so.

Then, as was inevitable in the case of all good things, the fitful renascence...came to an end.

Gilt cast a wary glance 'rise-ward as he rechecked his comm settings, making sure the channel was still nice and tight; 'Waylay', his partner and Bravo element for this particular CAP - though not aircraft per se, Armored Cores and Muscle Tracers both, flight-capable as they commonly were, had borrowed heavily against the centuries-old argot of traditional, fixed-wing air power - his partner for this particular combat 'air' patrol was about a dozen kilometers to the north and due to check in before long, and the best way to avoid any unwanted solicitors was not to advertise with stray wireless signals. Not that they were absolutely sure the...enemy...was necessarily attracted by such things, but there was ample evidence to suggest that it probably was, and it didn't pay to take foolish chances.

The truth of the matter was, though, no one really understood why they attacked, or what their motivations were - as far as that went, no two people were likely to agree on who or what they even were. The most anyone was much sure of was that the attacks had begun two years earlier, without warning or provocation, sometime in the early morning hours of just-winding down E-Day festivities.

Not that anyone had known it, at the time. Happily spent party-goers had stumbled back to their homes or slept off their earlier revelry in blissful ignorance - and when was ignorance anything but? - even as the first blow of the perplexing war to come was struck on the far 'rise-ward frontier. The world at large knew nothing until the first sketchy reports the next day, but that morning the mid-sized city of Isuka, remarkable only in its position farther 'rise-ward than any other at the time, was obliterated in an assault as shockingly violent and thorough as it was evidently brief; the best BDA techs and experts from surrounding regions had later determined that the city was effectively 'neutralized', as their antiseptic terminology phrased it, within an hour or so, two at most. Not since the Great Destruction itself had that level of...well, destruction been seen.

Corporate fingers were leveled at rivals almost faster than the story could cross the airwaves and hardlines, each blaming another for the tragedy and demanding reparations, the dismantling of their company, or their heads; tempers and tensions flared, and another attack just over a week later pushed the entire conflagration-in-waiting toward a dangerous flashpoint. If not for the Herculean diplomatic efforts of the small - and at that point still largely token - Earth Government, the entire continent on the Blue Side of the 'Line might have been plunged into a bloody internecine war. As it was, the first months of the Geisteskrieg - as it was soon commonly known - were a stay in Pandemonium itself, as 'rise-ward attacks mounted with hardly a sign or clue as to who the mysterious aggressor was; that an effective and cohesive defense had eventually been effected was nothing short of a small miracle.

Now, though, two years later, even the fractious corporations had managed to set aside most of their petty rivalries - or at least mute them somewhat - and rally behind the banner and common cause of the resurgent Earth Government, which had risen to the call in an amazing display of leadership utterly belying its flimsy, theretofore inconsequential existence. Originally a fairly minor institution instated with the sole purpose of returning humanity to the Surface, it was now almost as strong and vital as the long-extinct, pre-Destruction nations had been in their glory days, and wielded considerable power and influence in fact as well as name.

There was that curious knack history had for repeating itself, Gilt supposed; strong centralized governments had risen once before - albeit in fits and starts - out of the nomadic indifference of wandering tribes and bands, and he saw little reason to suppose that it couldn't happen again. He wondered if EarthGov might not try its hand at bringing the companies to heel, and putting an end to their incessant warring, once the present conflict was over.

But that was straying into the uncertain realm of the future, the prediction of which Gilt studiously avoided. Better to leave that to the para-religious crackpots and their ilk, who'd been coming out of the damned metalwork since even before the radioactive dust of the Great Destruction had settled.

Besides, that was neither here nor there, and there was a job to do. A small flashing icon in the corner of the heads-forward display marked an incoming transmission; his wingman seemed to agree. 'What's the good word, "Waylay"?' Gilt asked, accepting the hail with a tap to the comm panel.

'Lyssa and I are having fantastic sex,' came the prompt reply; Gilt laughed.

'I suppose that does qualify as good news, but I was more specifically referring to your end of the patrol.'

'Oh,' 'Waylay' said, feigning disappointment, 'well if that's all you wanna talk about...' His voice turned slightly more serious. 'No, it's all quiet out here; I haven't seen anything since we left Outpoint.' That had been early that morning - what was it with military operations and inhumanly early hours, anyway? - when their own wave of the never-ending CAP's had left Outpoint Station, currently the farthest flung of the numerous Defense Force outposts and stations that maintained a vigilant watch over the 'Line. 'You don't sound like you've had a lot of excitement either.'

'I think I made a friend,' Gilt said lightly, glancing out the side viewscreen at the raven, 'but other than that there's nothing out here worth mentioning. Head to the next waypoint - we're all done here.' Though theirs had left with the other routine patrols, this particular one was a bit different.

Conventional military wisdom held that a given force should, ideally, never cede the initiative, but rather force its opponent to react to its own maneuvers, and thereby control the prosecution of the conflict in question. Thus put on the defensive, a foe would perforce become easier to anticipate in their responses, many of which would be dictated by dint of simple military logic - a drive on his supply lines, accordingly, would elicit from any sane commander a swift and forceful response; a famous Corsican had once observed that an army moved on its stomach, which prescript had been understood as a key fundament of waging war by every competent general from Sargon the Great to William Sherman and beyond.

Such pearls of wisdom, however, were founded on the crucial - and in this case erroneous - assumption that the location and disposition of one's enemy were in fact deducible. Geist attacks, mimicking in microcosm the blitzkrieg of the Third Reich during the Second World War, began and ended with breath-taking celerity, and were so finely in tune with gaps in satellite coverage that all attempts to track their movements had so far proven maddeningly fruitless.

Where satellites and signals analysis had failed, it had early on been hoped that the Mark 1 human eyeball might succeed. The most innocuous reconnaissance craft that EarthGov Eastern Command could field were launched into ghost country with the simple objective of finding whatever they could, first at night, then at every hour on the clock in an increasingly frustrated attempt to exploit their phantom adversary's presumed circadian rhythms. Once it became clear that such had yielded no more than SAT- and SIGAN had, the order had been given to dispatch small recon teams, groups of two or three dropped at the nebulous edge of the 'Line with no more advanced a means of locomotion than their own two legs. Literally hiking through miles of high desert, and carrying the best man-portable surveillance gear in the corporate inventory - in their perpetual struggle for dominance during man's long sojourn beneath the Surface, corporations had honed industrial espionage to a keen and lethal point - the teams were for all intents and purposes invisible, and, it was theorized, far less likely to provoke a response.

Yet their efforts, too, came to nothing. Whether the teams had run afoul of a Geist patrols, died of exposure, or been abducted by alien survey vessels, no one knew; all that could be said for certain was that they simply never returned, and whatever the reason, threat dossiers on Geist forces remained as anorexic as they had been at war's onset. It was clear that theirs was a sophisticated and competent adversary, but who - or what - the Geister were, or where they even came from, remained dark to EarthGov and corporate intelligence arms alike.

Then, not two weeks gone, a potential solution to their so-far intractable problem had appeared in an unlikely quarter. Bryas Toane, a mid-level analyst stationed at EastCOM Home, had hazarded the suggestion that, instead of the surreptitious insertion of under-armed forces beyond the 'Line - which efforts had, to date, been a resounding failure - more conspicuous incursions be launched with the express purpose of drawing the Geister out, and gauging their capabilities and response time via direct combat. Gilt had heard some of the Soldiers speak of 'reconnaissance by fire', of which concept the Toane Initiative sounded like a logical outgrowth. Weary of spending two years on the defensive, EastCOM Home had given the go-ahead and duly sent its orders to the various forward bases on the 'Line, where they were met with no small measure of enthusiasm; the S-2 whiz kids were tired of ramming their heads into the same unassailable brick walls, and had been clamoring for new intelligence for some time.

Accordingly, Gilt and 'Waylay' - whose affirmative double comm click indicated he was already speeding off to his next assigned position - comprised Outpoint's probing element, and were presently well beyond the boundaries of its usual AOR with orders to move still farther 'rise-ward before day's end. As part of the first stage of EastCOM's new operational disposition, their task was, in effect, to see how far they could go before 'Gus' caught wind of their movements; radio silence was to be maintained as per usual, lest they tip EastCOM's hand, but the two Ravens were otherwise meant to range out beyond the line in as relatively brazen and blithe a fashion as they pleased.

The pages of Toane's report had blandly outlined a 'compact, well-armed, highly mobile, and reasonably autonomous' Table of Organization and Equipment for the incursive force, which, for anyone with a slip of military experience - be it governmental, corporate, or 'diplomatic', as some Ravens fancied theirs - could not have more plainly called for the Ravens to spearhead the initiative. Gilt had leafed through a couple of Toane's other analytics out of mild curiosity, and in each a frank and forthright man typically emerged; the circumspect tone of his latest struck Gilt as uncharacteristic, and suggested that Toane was likely toeing a line with one or more of his superiors.

For, as the more vulturous media outlets loved to overdramatize, it was no secret that Ravens did not always integrate with military life on the Silent Line as well as their corporate counterparts. Their combat record in the war was all but unmatched; the razor-sharp reflexes and healthy dose of paranoia which they wore like a second skin in the tumultuous world of corporate 'dispute mediation' served Ravens remarkably well in ghost country, where attacks were generally initiated without either mercy or preamble. Yet the friction resultant of the ineluctable culture-clash between mercenary and G.I. sometimes flared into open dissension, and in three instances had terminated with the stormy departure outright of a Raven from their post.

If the corporate mentality often ran toward the headstrong and fractious, then on average Ravens were willfully and obdurately independent, lone wolves by both nature and necessity who, as a rule, put little stock in the self-important squawking that the military fancied 'leadership'; for their part, there were a large number of military commanders who regarded Ravens as undisciplined and inconstant opportunists, no more than pirates with loosely official sanction.

Yet it was precisely such qualities, however characterized, that rendered the Raven a custom fit for the force which Toane prescribed. Whatever their complaints to one another about the typical paucity of mission support from their clients, it was a point of personal and professional pride that Ravens were accustomed to often protracted operation with little or no back-up, and intelligence that was, like as not, patently fallacious. Experience taught them to rely only on themselves, their AC's, and their Operators, their own holy trinity beyond which trust became a ruinous liability. If it was self-sufficiency that Toane had envisioned when he had penned his report, he would find it in spades in the Raven Order.

Of course, that was not to say that it was without its share of idealists. If they tended to share certain traits, then Ravens were still as diverse a lot as any, and the truth was that their service in ghost country was strictly voluntary - if a Raven chose to put his life on the 'Line, it was probably because he believed in the cause, to some greater or lesser degree. Absent a clear - or even hazy - picture of his intentions, no one could say for sure how far 'set-ward Gus might push, but few were willing to gamble man's fledgling Surface beachhead on his good graces. The mass exodus following the end of the Controller's reign had deposited better than half the population of Layered on the surface over the first decade, which meant that the Interior - generally speaking the broad swath of the Neue continent that stretched from the Silent Line to the more heavily peopled 'set-ward coast - was now home to the lion's share of what remained of humanity. Naturally, no one knew how many people there might be wherever the Geister called home, but they clearly weren't interested in talking.

In the chaotic early weeks of the war, as EarthGov's meager military was moved onto its best impression of a war footing, the airwaves had hummed with diplomatic transmissions, all streaming 'rise-ward and proclaiming its peaceful intentions in a vain attempt to make contact. Just in case Gus didn't speak English or German, which had early on come to the fore as Layered's twin linguae francae, each message had been translated into every other language that had survived the stay underground - and there were pitiably few - but none seemed to work. They either didn't understand on the other side, or, more probably, they didn't care. Regardless, as it became increasingly apparent that the war had only two outcomes, and the Earth Government began its remarkable metamorphosis from token vestige to viable threat, what military resources there were to be had were mobilized and stationed at critical locations on the 'Line. For his own part Gilt was relieved to see them fighting back more aggressively; in the beginning the war was necessarily defensive, but necessity had become habit, which in turn had begun ossifying into something akin to policy. It was sound enough military practice to avoid marching into unknown territory against an unknown foe, but intelligence-gathering efforts had so far come to just a touch less than nothing, and few save the Byzantines had ever managed to successfully weather purely defensive wars. It would be good to start turning the tables, and maybe put a little pressure on Gus for a change.

Not that it looks like he'll coöperate today, Gilt decided as Blue Asgard's handsome form rose from the awkward prone position she had maintained for the past hour; the raven squawked indignantly and flapped off to find another, less flighty perch as the angular Armored Core - though she made ample use of Mirage components as well, her lines were undeniably Crest - moved off at a serviceable trot.

It was odd, though, that neither he nor his more junior partner had encountered so much as a sensor ghost this far out; installations were hit almost daily along the 'Line, and to be so audacious as to cross it was to invite almost certain attack. At least, that had always been the case in the past; now Gilt fought the most likely over-optimistic urge to think that they might have found that ever-important chink in the enemy's armor, a blind spot where their surveillance was not quite up to par with the rest.

Or maybe they're testing us too, he thought more pessimistically. That notion entailed all manner of unseemly possibilities, however, not the least of which was that he and 'Waylay' might well never see another sunrise. If they've tracked us from Outpoint, and know the route we took out here...

But that didn't bear thinking on, and he shook his head to scatter the gloomy line of thought. For now it was enough that they hadn't run into any trouble, and they could worry about it if or when they did. Gilt knew that he came nowhere close to the skills that some of the more famous Ravens had put on display in their time, but he and Blue Asgard worked together like a well-oiled machine, and he was quite certain that he was at least good enough to make one terrific fuss for any Geister who thought to take advantage of an ostensibly hapless AC in their territory. They might well take him down someday, but he would make damn sure that they wouldn't like it.

TYRE deLESNE

As Operator's deceptively lithe frame trotted along toward his objective, deLesne's eyes drifted again from their sweep of the countryside to the photo taped up in a convenient corner of the cockpit.

Surface Above but Lyssa was beautiful; even now, thinking back, he still wasn't quite sure how he'd landed her. She seemed wholly out of place in the noisy, crowded little sprawl of Outpoint, and looked more like she belonged in one of the big, glitzy cities of the Interior; nor would he ever have expected to share so many interests with someone who looked like she did - he'd swear she could have come straight off a movie poster.

He shook his head abruptly to clear it; distractions were dangerous out here, 'Gai' had told him his first day on the front, and could all too easily get one killed. He hadn't been lying, either - deLesne had seen it borne out firsthand not half a month later, as first the terminally-arrogant 'Corpse Maker', and then his similarly pretentious and bull-headed cohort 'Apophis', were killed as a result of their foolish antics on the battlefield. Which loss bothered him little, he had to admit, but for the lives of the younger, greener Raven that those two had nearly cost them.

It didn't pay to take needless risks out here in Geistland, though, and deLesne made a conscious effort to keep his eyes and thoughts from straying to the coquettishly-smiling young woman with whose visage he shared his cockpit.

But, conveniently enough, the next waypoint of his half of the mission was just ahead, and he slowed Operator as he searched the immediate area for a reasonable bit of concealment. Hiding a thirteen meter AC was no mean feat, usually, but covered in dust and grass stains as he was, Operator blended into the landscape surprisingly well.

Tyre chuckled ruefully at the memory that brought to mind of his first days at Outpoint, and how proudly fastidious he had been in keeping up Operator's appearance. He'd sprayed the machine down and then scrubbed away with the specially long brushes designed for such things, working for hours to keep him looking assembly line-new, and growing frustrated when the dust kicked up by the endless bustle of outgoing and incoming CAPs, passing trucks and jeeps and transports, and even Soldiers drilling would drift over to lay down a fresh coat of dirt on his hard work. It wasn't until Gilt had taken him aside later in the week that he'd understood the quiet laughter of some of the older veterans as they passed. 'Keep the joints and sensor windows clean, definitely,' he'd told him, 'but don't worry about the rest. All that dust and dirt you pick up out there will help you blend in, and it's cheaper than paint.' Now Operator bore his makeshift camouflage proudly - even handsomely, deLesne thought - and it was easy to tell by their respective mounts who'd been in-country for a while and who hadn't.

As Operator lay prone and the cockpit tipped forward to leave him half dangling, deLesne hit the comm and raised Gilt.

'Yeah, go ahead, "Waylay".'

'I'm in position, "Gai",' he reported. 'Still nothing to see but lots of nature.'

'Roger that, same here.' A pause. Then: 'listen, this is as far as we're supposed to go, and we haven't seen so much as a glint off metal today, but keep alert.' deLesne hadn't known him all that long or well, but something in Gilt's voice sounded just a bit off.

'Everything okay, bossman?' he asked, borrowing the nickname he'd heard EarthGov Soldiers use on occasion.

'It is for now,' his partner answered non-committally. 'Just stay sharp.' The channel closed, returning to its standby status to await future transmissions.

Weird, deLesne thought, settling into the by-now familiar quirks of his slightly disorienting lookout position. For, though he was effectively looking straight down, the perspective on his view screens was that of Operator himself, whose head was oriented for a somewhat more useful vantage. Is it just me, or does Gilt seem a little tense..?

But he shrugged his concern away to the back of his mind; if 'Gai' said everything was all right, then everything was all right.

GILT RIVIN

Something was wrong.

Force of habit made Gilt glance to his sensor readout, but he shook his head in mild irritation at the wasted effort. Not for the first time he distantly wished for some way to boost the range of Blue Asgard's on-board radar - here in Geistland's high desert, three hundred sixty meters was near to worthless. He could see to the horizon in most places - on average nearly thirteen kilometers away, from his in-cockpit perspective - with the surrounding land broken up, as it was, by only the occasional low hills, scattered trees, and some tenacious bushes.

But if wishes were MT's, beggars would ride; his wits and sharp eyes would have to suffice, as they always had before.

However, the uneasy feeling remained; even Blue Asgard seemed tense, wary of the hostile country around her.

Maybe it was just their close proximity to the shattered ruin of Isuka, a scant handful of kilometers distant, that had him on edge, but he didn't think so. Gilt had never been a superstitious man, nor was he prone to flights of fancy, and at most the dead city only heightened his sense of unease. Something felt...off, out of place.

But while he trusted his instincts implicitly, he had nothing lanicrete to show anyone else, and saw no point in needlessly worrying Tyre. Not yet, anyway. On a sudden thought he reached for the comm panel again, then stopped, hand hovering a few centimeters above the interface. He could raise Lihnea, see about sneaking in a look from whatever satellite surveillance might be available, but that was risky. As with so much about Gus, no one was really sure how much he knew of EastCOM positions on the 'Line, but SOP was to assume he knew everything, and guard information as though he knew nothing. A wireless transmission from that distance would be necessarily more powerful, therefore easier to trace, and very possibly for no appreciable gain.

Furthermore, there was no guarantee that there even was a recon satellite overhead right now; the skies farthest above were perhaps more hotly contested than the Surface, filled with at least as many hunter-killer satellites as their more benign cousins, and the balance of power in that remote and remotely-managed theater seesawed almost daily. Gilt didn't like the idea of risking Outpoint's presumed secrecy on a hunch, especially when their eyes over the 'Line were unreliable at best.

So he resolved to wait, and watch. The designated Operator for this particular mission - Lihnea, in this case - was only to be contacted in the event of a genuine emergency, and he doubted Major Burke would agree that a Raven's 'bad feeling' constituted one such.

Besides, Tyre clearly hadn't seen anything amiss, or he would have radioed in. Gilt patted a console affectionately.

'Maybe we're just jumping at shadows, huh, baby?' But Blue Asgard seemed not to relax in the slightest, to his mind, and nor did he; the feeling persisted.

After an interminable half hour of increasing anxiety, the tension became nearly unbearable: something was wrong, even if he couldn't put a finger on it. That ineffable, wholly ephemeral yet distinctly palpable feeling at the back of his mind hadn't gone away, and had in fact only grown. It was time to go.

With deft and practiced skill he raised Blue Asgard from her erstwhile hiding place and hailed Tyre as he set off for his position at a near-run.

' "Waylay", don't mind the big blue 'Core coming your way,' he announced without preamble, 'we're just going over the say "hello". I would appreciate it mightily if you didn't fill us full of holes.' That evoked an uneasy laugh from the other end of the line.

'Sure thing, highspeed - but why the visit? Aren't we supposed to stay here for a while yet?'

Gilt frowned beneath his visor as he considered how to answer; finally, he settled on the unpadded truth. 'Something's not right,' he said simply. 'I don't know about you, but the feel is all wrong down here - I'm moving to link up with you, and should be there in a few minutes.' Their dozen-or-so kilometer separation stipulated by the mission outline was nominally a compromise between allowing them to cover more ground while still remaining close enough to support each other in the event of enemy contact, but the creeping sensation between his shoulder blades urged Gilt to pair up now, rather than waiting for something to happen. On level terrain at a dead run, Blue Asgard could cover twelve kilometers in half as many minutes, in fewer if he put to use her impressive thruster banks - in lieu of the weapons customarily fitted to an AC's back Gilt had opted to augment her already potent FLEET's with Mirage's supplementary WAKE boosters, and operating in fiery tandem they lent her an output that was second to none - but even that could be an eternity if Tyre found himself in an untenable position or situation. 'Once I'm there we'll take off, but we're going to swing by Isuka on the way back.'

'Whoa.' He could almost hear Tyre's eyes go wide. 'We're that close to it? Where is it?'

'Not five miles north of you, as the crow flies.'

'What the hell is a "mile"?' Tyre demanded lightly, Isuka momentarily forgotten; Gilt allowed a small, amused smile.

'Sorry, I sometimes forget in whose presence I babble; it's an archaic unit of measurement that didn't quite survive the Great Destruction.' And no small wonder, given how clunky the entire measuring system had been.

'Huh.'

'In any case,' Gilt continued on, 'as you might or might not have guessed we're right on top of where the old 'Line was.' Not that it had stayed out that far for very long; Isuka's founders had struck their claim well beyond anything else that had been established then or since, and with its fall there was simply nothing in between to hold on to. It wasn't exactly a secret, but nor was it common knowledge; for understandable reasons the EastCOM general staff preferred not to advertise the loss in territory, however unavoidable.

'How about that...' Tyre replied, half to himself. 'They never told us anything about that - how'd you find out about it?'

'I read too much, mainly,' came the half-joking answer. 'Or that's what Lihnea says, at least.' She was always playfully on his case about how much time he spent with his nose buried in books. 'But I want to check the place out before we leave - might as well, while we're here. We're effectively done anyway; it doesn't look like Gus is going to play ball today.'

'Fine by me, boss.'

'We should be popping up on your scopes in a couple of minutes - keep a candle burning in the window for us.'

TYRE deLESNE

As promised, the wait was brief. Even before she came within range of Operator's impressive sensors, Tyre spotted Blue Asgard's wavy, heat-distorted form loping through the afternoon sunlight toward his temporary post. Within another couple of minutes she was jogging by in the deliberate, unmistakably mechanical gait characteristic of nearly all humanoid 'Cores, and Operator took up the customary wingman's spot a few hundred meters to her left. The near half-kilometer between them often struck civilians and the otherwise uninitiated as excessive, but not many outside the ranks of the Ravens themselves had a good handle on just how quickly an Armored Core could move, or how far their weapons could reach. Especially in such open country as this, both evasive and offensive maneuvers were likely to be wide and sweeping, and indeed, even that distance was not much of a buffer - if both machines were to light off their thrusters and skim toward each other by mistake, their closing speed could climb as high as seven hundred kilometers per hour or more. But that was why Ravens trained hard and often with their individual mounts, frequently spending more time in the cockpit than out, until they knew them like they knew their own bodies. Tyre was new to the front, perhaps, but had been a Raven for far longer, and Gilt had been at both for longer still - neither would make so amateurish a mistake as to career into one another.

And frankly, Tyre was just as pleased to finally be at a sensible support distance, rather than that twelve klick bullshit that Outpoint's S-3 shop had dreamed up for the mission. He had been sure that Gilt thought it ridiculous too, and was accordingly surprised to be quickly silenced by the older man when he began to protest.

But it wasn't worth the bother, he'd been told later, once outside and in the relative privacy of the massive garage that housed their trademark machines.

'It's a comparatively minor detail,' Gilt had said - ' we can change that kind of thing on the fly and in the field, if need be, without the Ops kids looking over our shoulders. Well,' he'd amended with a sly grin, 'they might be watching the ADR scopes, but there's nothing they can do about it once we're out in ghost country, now is there. They're a good bunch, mind you,' he'd hastened to add, 'and their hearts are in the right place, but they can get twitchy about some things, and you have to pick your battles.'

That had made sense enough to Tyre, and he took the lesson to heart as he did with most such bits of advice from the veterans at Outpoint; he figured that anyone who'd survived for any meaningful length of time on the 'Line must have at least some idea of what they were talking about, and probably bore listening to.

His new partner was one such, he thought, casting a glance off 'rise-ward where Blue Asgard ran along in her easy, mechanical way. Gilt spoke of himself little, but there was a certain, indefinable, war-weary manner about him, and Tyre was sure he'd been there longer than almost anyone else, maybe even since the beginning. But if that was the case, he didn't know what had kept the man going for the past two years; though no one really talked about it, life out here was a tenuous thing, and death could come calling at any time. Wise commanders were relatively generous with liberties and leaves for the people under them, and as a rule any given man or woman would be rotated back to wherever they called home after a six month tour, circumstances permitting.

The Ravens, on the other hand, were a bit freer in their comings and goings. Most had contracts neatly laying out the terms of their services, naturally - EastCOM couldn't have its assets vanishing into the night with no warning - but their employment was, in fact if not in name, on an at-will basis; if a Raven decided to pull up stakes and go home, there was precious little that most commanders could do to stop them. The more obstinate might try to detain them by force, marshalling the often considerable firepower at their disposal to bring the 'deserter' to heel - in some cases, they might even succeed. But G.I. and mercenary both knew that the former would pay dearly in the attempt, and cooler heads would most probably opt to let them go without incident, preserving the remainder of their resources for more important battles.

And, of course, that was only a worst case scenario. If Ravens still were not fully trusted in most quarters, they were, at the least, the enemy of the enemy; however chilly relations between Soldat and Söldner sometimes were - although Tyre himself got on rather well with the military Outpointers - each knew that the other was as intent upon stopping Gus as they were. Beyond that, the Ravens were paid more or less monthly, and were free to leave at any time - with the simple understanding that remuneration for their services would be withheld if they left their post before the pay cycle had ended.

Gilt, however, was a different story, Tyre was almost certain. He couldn't say why he thought so, exactly, but he'd swear that the man was there for the duration, come hell or high water. Maybe it was the quiet zeal with which he went about his work - he seemed to have a genuine passion for what he did, for the cause that the renascent Earth Government had championed over the preceding two years. But then again, that seemed decidedly out of place for a putative mercenary; Tyre wasn't quite sure what to make of the man, when he got right down to it.

Almost as if sensing the direction of his thoughts, Gilt chose that moment to interrupt them with a short hail. 'If you have an eye or interest for history, you may want to take a look at what's ahead.' Blue Asgard's right arm gestured helpfully, in a surprising imitation of the human motion; Tyre peered into the artificial distance of his forward viewscreen, squinting instinctively for a better look before remembering the various enhancement subroutines and capabilities at his disposal. He zoomed in a bit for a clearer view.

Emerging from behind a short run of the region's ubiquitous low hills, just a klick or so to the north, a small city could now be seen, its jagged and oddly-angled buildings standing out sharply amidst the at-turns smoother and much more irregular lines of the land around it. Of course, it had not always been so; upon closer inspection it was evident that the city's borders had once extended much farther than they did now, though only the telltale straight lines of roads and foundations served as silent reminders of what once had been. Most buildings were gone, long toppled to be reclaimed by the harsh and unforgiving elements native to the area, but a few had survived, if it could be called that, and bore stoic witness to the violence visited upon the hapless outpost. It had been as brutal as it had been efficient and methodical, with load-bearing structures targeted almost to the exclusion of all else; most buildings had collapsed or burned to the ground, but a few remained that had not quite given up the architectural ghost yet, leaning crazily at angles they were never meant to accommodate.

Tyre felt just a touch numb as he took in the wanton destruction. 'That's..?'

'Isuka,' Gilt confirmed quietly, as they reached the former outskirts of the once-city; it was unnaturally still, and the very air hung over them heavily with oppressive silence. Both the Armored Cores slowed, almost of their own accord, as though they too felt the somber gravity of the place. 'This is where the war began.'

It felt to Tyre like there should have been a monument there, something to remind people of what had happened to foment the strange conflict that now raged along the 'Line.

Two hundred kilometers behind them. To 'set-ward.

He suddenly felt terribly and crushingly alone.

No living thing had set foot in the city for two years, and not a soul breathed within hundreds of kilometers. The closest friendly face was hours away, and at that moment seemed impossibly remote. The incalculable weight of the site pressed down upon him with suffocating force; his breath tightened in his chest.

Then Gilt broke the spell. 'Spooky, huh?' he said with almost uncharacteristic humor; the warm surety of his rock-solid presence flooded across the comm line, and Tyre almost gasped in relief at the reminder that his veteran partner was still there.

'Yeah,' he said simply, gratefully laughing off the remnants of whatever had settled over him moments before. 'Yeah, it kind of is.' He reached out to touch Lyssa's photo, drawing reassurance from her warm and mischievously alluring smile.

'Best then that we not spend too much time here, isn't it. Let's get going.' Blue Asgard resumed her steady march along the shattered thoroughfares and avenues, untroubled by the havoc wrought around her; Operator trailed behind, maintaining an escort position more befitting the closer confines of what had once been Isuka.

'Are we looking for anything in particular, boss, or just sightseeing?'

'Probably both,' Gilt answered somewhat cryptically. 'The cover here might be useful, too.'

'You think someone's going to come calling?' He didn't have to specify which 'someone' he meant.

'It's hard to say, out here,' 'Gai' said calmly - 'but keep your wits about you. There's no telling just how dead this place really is.' Blue Asgard emphasized the point by drawing her ever-present machine gun from the impromptu 'holster' - little more than a glorified, retractable hook, really - that normally held it on her hip when not in battle, taking on an entirely new demeanor. Her pace seemed to have changed, subtly, from a casual almost-stroll to a more predatory and wary stalk. She was no longer simply sleek and handsome, but suddenly looked...dangerous.

But that was as good as a spoken order for Tyre to follow suit, and he flicked Operator over to combat mode. The 'Core's sensor 'eyes' flared briefly, and the large-bore plasma rifle that comprised his primary armament came up to a low ready position. Tyre didn't know what to expect, exactly, this far from friendly lines, but Gilt's quiet, unassuming confidence was contagious; with the same conviction with which a child knew that Saint Klaus would come on Christmas, he knew that whatever might come, whatever the Geister tried to throw at them, they would handle it.

LIHNEA TIHL

Lihnea sighed. It had been a long day.

She didn't so much mind the early hour at which Gilt's mission had kicked off; since girlhood she had been accustomed to getting up at or around dawn, and regularly rose well in advance of her Raven partner, whom she tried to let sleep for as long as possible out here.

That brought a wry quirk of a smile to her mouth. She had to let him sleep as late as possible, most of the time, since the lead-headed fool was too stubborn to know when to rest; she'd once had to threaten to bodily drag him to his bed, before he acquiesced. Typical man, the Operator thought with affectionate bemusement - they'll go to hell and back to save the world, but they can't even take care of themselves.

But no, Lihnea wasn't bothered by rising early - it was the mission itself that she found to be paradoxically wearying. Normally she would have been in constant contact, sending updates and pertinent information as she saw fit, and maybe trading a bit of friendly ribbing with Gilt - but with her two charges maintaining wireless silence, at least between them and Outpoint, there was little to do besides keep track of their respective Armored Core Data Relay signals. There were occasional other tasks with which she busied herself, like checking the spotty 'overhead imagery' (as the military personnel liked to call it) of Gilt's and Tyre's projected routes, but most of her time was spent maintaining stoic watch over the ADR console, which had reported more or less the same information for hours now. It was important, she knew, but it was hard to stay so focused on something so monotonous, and surprisingly taxing.

But Aya had kept her well-supplied with coffee, and was just now arriving with another steaming cup of her saving grace. 'This is the strongest stuff they have,' she told a grateful Lihnea as she handed the mug over. 'The stuff the Soldiers drink, apparently.' That was welcome news - EarthGov Soldiers were famous for, among other things, the paint-stripping coffee that most of their officers imbibed on a daily basis. If that weren't enough to wake someone up, then they were probably dead.

'Thanks, Aya.' Lihnea took a careful sip, and tried to stretch some of the stiffness out of her slender limbs.

'No changes, huh?' As Tyres's Operator, Aya Wynn was technically on 'standby' for the purposes of their assignment, meant as a back-up in case...well, in case of what, Lihnea wasn't sure. The chances that the Geister knew about Outpoint were slim, by her estimation, as they hadn't yet been spotted within fifty kilometers of it. Furthermore, the Command and Control center that was the heart of this and all other operations out of the station was located in a reinforced lanicrete bunker well underground; unless some Geist aircraft showed up with surface-piercing warheads and the knowledge of precisely where to drop them - which she also thought unlikely - the AC ops carrel snugged into the diminutive C&C was about as safe a place as there was to be found on the 'Line. But the EGDF, as did militaries in general, liked having its contingencies in place, and so wanted Aya close at hand. There was little for her to do, but to her credit she made herself as useful as possible, seeming to dislike inactivity as much as Lihnea herself did. And, like any good Operator, she was concerned about her Raven, and kept her own watchful eye on the scopes.

'No,' Lihnea shook her head, the long brunette forelocks that framed her pretty face swaying as she did so. 'They're still playing in the dirt where we left-' She cut off as unexpected motion on the map display caught her eye. Frowning, she watched as Blue Asgard's marker abruptly left its position and moved off to intercept Operator's. 'Well they were,' she amended half-distractedly, searching for whatever had prompted the course change, 'until Gilt decided to make me a liar.' But examining the map display was largely an exercise in futility, and she soon gave it up. Brighter lighting indicated places that they could monitor in real-time, and that faded out over one hundred kilometers behind the Raven pair; the only such bright patches to be found out that far surrounded the Armored Cores themselves, and extended only as far as their limited on-board sensors could see. There could have been an army just out of range, with Outpoint never the wiser.

'Weird that Tyre's still in place,' Aya said, leaning in closer. 'Wonder what spooked Gilt.'

Lihnea bristled slightly at that, unsure whether to take it as a back-handed insult to her Raven or not. Gilt most certainly did not 'spook', in any case, and she said as much. 'I'm sure he moved for good reason,' she stated evenly. 'He knows what he's doing.' Aya nodded absently, eyes still sizing up the ADR readouts, and Lihnea wondered if she'd maybe misinterpreted the earlier comment. She tended to be rather protective of Gilt, and bore any slight against the man as one against herself, but the offhand remark seemed to have been innocent enough.

'Well their weapons are still cold, so that's a good sign,' Aya pointed out; Lihnea had noted that as well, and nodded herself.

'If anything's really wrong, they'll call us,' she said, squeezing the other woman's shoulder reassuringly. 'Gilt's one of the best pilots I've ever seen, even if he won't admit it, and Tyre's got a good head on his shoulders. I'm sure they'll be fine.'

But the minutes that passed as Blue Asgard's azure contact made its way to Operator's olive drab were tense, and both women watched the display like hawks. Then both markers were moving, resuming Gilt's northward march.

'Where the hell are they going?' Aya wondered aloud. 'Do you suppose their nav equipment's out..?' Though Gilt had left his early, they had nonetheless reached the mission's last assigned waypoint, and should have been heading back home by now, to 'set-ward. But Lihnea shook her head, forelocks gently swinging again.

'No, if that were the case they'd still have the sun to use to get their bearings.' The afternoon sun would be beating down mercilessly at this time, in fact, and in a fleeting stray thought Lihnea was glad to be underground in an air conditioned room. 'I think they're looking or heading for something specific...and something tells me it's Gilt's idea,' she finished wryly. He could be curious to a fault, which quirk had gotten him into trouble on more than one occasion. Though she wondered what could possibly be out there, in the trackless wastes of Geistland's high desert.

Aya's eyes crinkled in momentary amusement. 'You sound like he gets you into trouble a lot,' she said, indicating the monitor with a tilt of her head. Lihnea smiled back and chuckled.

'He can, on occasion - you know how Ravens are.' This accompanied by a good-natured roll of her large brown eyes.

'They do keep life interesting,' Aya agreed, clearly recalling several misadventures of her own with Tyre. Then she grew more serious, and leaned back over the ADR console. 'I think ours've found something.'

Lihnea returned her attention to the display. It looked like they were standing in - she frowned as she looked closer at the screen - a city..? That was odd, she hadn't remembered anything being out that- Oh. Sudden realization dawned, a snippet of a conversation with Gilt that had swum abruptly out of her memory, and she began tapping quickly at one of the two keyboards set into the free-standing ADR station.

'What is it?' Aya asked, picking up on the subtle shift in her companion's mood; Lihnea pointed to the screen as a small symbol with a few vital statistics beside it popped up about where their Ravens were.

'Isuka,' she supplied. 'That's what Gilt wanted to check out, I'm sure.' He was nothing if not a lover of history, and if he was usually of the opinion that older was better, there was no way he could have passed up the chance to see something as historic as the first battleground of the war. Men! Lihnea thought with an exasperated look skyward - they'd been worried over nothing more than the boyish curiosity that refused to loose its hold on her partner. A quick look the other woman's face showed that Aya's thoughts largely mirrored her own.

'Boys will be boys,' she shrugged resignedly. Lihnea nodded in agreement and continued her scrutiny of the various bits of data coming in. On a whim she brought up the video feed from Blue Asgard's viewscreens, watching what Gilt himself saw.

'Surface Above...' Aya whispered beside her, all traces of their easy joking now vanished. The ruined Isuka spread out around Blue Asgard, a cruel parody of a city in the hard afternoon sunlight. 'I had no idea...' She seemed at a loss for words, as indeed Lihnea herself felt, staring at the heartless devastation. It was...horrible.

But she shook off her momentary shock, and resolutely took up the task at hand once more. The place made her feel uneasy, and she set to examining Blue Asgard's ADR readouts with renewed vigil. She had the growing feeling that something wasn't quite right...

A ghostly sliver of red suddenly appeared on what, three hundred kilometers 'rise-ward, would be Gilt's sensor screen, a contact just at the edge of radar range. Lihnea's hand shot to the comm panel.

' "Gai"!'

GILT RIVIN

' "Gai"!' the comm erupted, Lihnea's voice overlaid atop Tyre's simultaneous transmission.

But he'd already seen it - been waiting for it, in fact - and even as the signals had come he kicked Blue Asgard into motion. With the fury of an angry star her thrusters roared to life, and she swung out and away down a broad, open avenue. A flick of his eyes to the sensor readout confirmed that Tyre was on the move too, expertly seeking cover from the bluish-white energy bolts now angrily sizzling through the air. Good. The younger man was no fool, and seemed to know what he was about; but for all that he was new to the front, and had likely only read about their present adversary, if even that.

'Careful,' Gilt warned, 'the Bären are a lot faster than they look.'

'And loaded for fucking bear,' Tyre noted sourly, unaware of his inadvertent pun, as four missiles detonated on the heels of a massive rifle grenade - though thankfully all where he had been. 'What the hell are these things?' The end of his query was drowned by the terrific thunderclap of a nearby building, no longer willing to tolerate the new abuse hurled at it, that at last toppled over.

'Geist AC?' Gilt suggested with a shrug. 'Now one's really-' He dodged reflexively at a near miss as Blue Asgard hurtled down a street, eating up the distance between him and the Bär. 'No one's really sure,' he finished, throwing several bursts of machine gun fire downrange as he dodged behind an up-ended onramp. A few of them landed satisfyingly on the Bär's center of mass, though it seemed to care little.

Towering a full head and shoulders above even the heaviest Armored Core chassis registered with the Ravens' Nests, the hulking Bären which Gus periodically fielded were, to date, perhaps the most dangerous weapons in his phantasmic Table of Organization and Equipment after the satellite-to-surface weapons that prowled the orbital lanes above the 'Line, and periodically poured their wrath down upon the land. It was a given that, the larger the AC, the slower; by virtue of the most rudimentary physical laws, which even children grasped intuitively, larger, bulkier chassis were perforce limited to lower speeds than lighter models with comparable generator capacity and thruster output - the same force distributed across a greater mass was, in other words, productive of lesser acceleration. Simple math. But whatever infernal engines blazed at the heart of the Bären, they were evidently a generation or so ahead of the best tech on which either EarthGov or the corporations drew. Geist 'Cores - they looked like AC's, anyway, though Gilt couldn't be sure whether the underlying technology were truly of similar ancestry or not - boasted nigh bottomless capacitors, could move at velocities wholly unreasonable for their considerable bulk, and evinced reaction times that bordered on inhuman.

Oh, and they were armored like Surface-forsaken tanks. 'That plating isn't just for show, either,' Gilt told Tyre belatedly. 'That rifle of yours might get through, though.' As Operator rounded the corner of half a building to unleash his own swarm of mid-sized missiles, Blue Asgard rocketed to the top of another across the street and Gilt thumbed her Exceed Orbits to life, taking advantage of the Bär's distraction; the small energy cannons popped out of their twin housings on the AC's back, and began pulsing away at the same moment that two of Tyre's missiles connected. The resulting explosion knocked the Bär into the former skyscraper behind it, and several energy bolts lanced into its body as though to pin it in place.

But none of the others had died so easily either; even while it was regaining its balance, Blue Asgard had hurled herself into the air and was now descending on the shell-shocked Bär like an avenging angel, incandescent wings of blue-white plasma streaming behind her. Operator backpedaled rapidly as Tyre worked to clear out of the way, then lit off his own thrusters and skimmed backwards down the street with a couple grenades of his own to cover the retreat.

By this time the Bär had recovered its bearings and set off - angrily, Gilt fancied - in pursuit of Operator. But it had taken no more than two steps before Blue Asgard landed deftly behind it, touching down with a grace that belied her multi-ton mass. The Bär spun to meet the more immediate threat, but she was faster - her ephemeral blue blade erupted from its back with rapier speed, and with two viciously efficient jerks of her arm Blue Asgard bisected the stunned machine from titanic armpit to titanic armpit. Its lopsided halves thundered to the ground, and Tyre started back for a better look at their handiwork as he congratulated Gilt on a job well done.

'No!' Gilt said sharply, yanking Blue Asgard out of her abortive flight away and into a skidding stop; sparks flew as her massive, angular feet bit into the lanicrete beneath. 'Get back!' Without waiting for him to comply, Blue Asgard shoved Operator bodily down a side street, and then leaped down it after him.

'What the he-' Tyre's protest was cut off as an explosion rocked the entire city block; shrapnel tore past the street mouth in an angry blur, and lanicrete dust rained down on the already dirty 'Cores.

'The Bären explode when they're too heavily damaged,' Gilt explained, 'and some of the MT's do too. We've lost some good men that way.'

'I see,' Tyre said sheepishly. 'Sorry, I, uh, I didn't know.' But Gilt waved away the apology, though the gesture was invisible to the other man.

'Don't worry, no harm done. But we need to get out of here and back to Outpoint right now.' Blue Asgard pointedly turned and left the side road, taking a 'set-ward-running highway at a brisk trot; Operator ran to catch up.

'What do you mean - is something wrong?'

'Isn't there always...' Gilt murmured half to himself; then, to stave off further questions: 'I'll fill you in in a minute.' Time was of the essence, and right now he needed to get through to Lihnea, and warn her of what was coming.

LIHNEA TIHL

It seemed an eternity before Gilt's incoming signal appeared on the comm. She knew he was more able than most to look after himself on the battlefield, but that never stopped Lihnea from worrying all the same.

' "Gai"!' she exclaimed, still careful to use his callsign. 'Are you all right?' The ADR data said that he was, but it was better to hear it from his own mouth.

'We're all fine here,' he assured her - 'not even a scratch between us. But listen, I think we have a bit of a situation...'

Relief gave way to the beginnings of uncertain worry. 'What do you mean?' Lihnea prompted. 'What's wrong?'

'I can't prove it, but I'm certain that Gus was shadowing me for a while. I only started to really pay attention when I hit the last waypoint, but I've had a bad feeling nagging at me for most of the day.' He paused to let that sink in. 'You'd better let the major know - it's a good bet the Geister know we're there.'

Lihnea resisted the urge to let fly some of the filthier language she'd heard from the Soldiers at Outpoint. For the nineteen months since its establishment the small Defense Force outpost had managed to slip under Geistland's radar, and they'd begun to think they might keep it up to the end of the war. But if Gilt's feeling was right - and she couldn't think of a time when his instincts had ever been wrong - they had perhaps fewer than two hours to prepare for the near-certain attack. 'Okay, roger that, "Gai" - you and "Waylay" get started back here, and I'll see if I can't scare up a transport for you guys.' The original mission outline had called for the two Ravens to return under their own power once they were done - air travel near the Silent Line was always a chancy business with Geist weapons satellites looming overhead, and never more so than for the ungainly transport craft on call at Outpoint - but given what Gilt was telling her now, that plan had just violently defenestrated itself.

'Copy that, we're already on our way. But don't worry about us - just make absolutely certain the Old Man knows what's up.' Lihnea almost laughed in affectionate incredulity. Typical, she thought, for him to worry about us when he's the one hundreds of kilometers deep into ghost country.

'I'll tell him just as soon as I'm off the comm with you,' she promised. 'And I'll have that transport out there the second I clear it with the major - make sure you stay out of trouble in the meantime.'

'Hey, don't worry - it's me.'

ALLIN BURKE

Burke was just sitting down to read the latest round of dispatches from EastCOM Home when a metallic knock sounded from the door.

'Yes, come,' he ordered gruffly, setting his trademark coffee mug off to the side. It was never very far from him, almost always at least half full, and had acquired something akin to an iconic status around the base; it just wouldn't be Outpoint without the Old Man and his EGDF mug.

He suppressed a grimace as the office door slid aside and his adjutant stepped through; he could remember a time when good old-fashioned pins and hinges still outnumbered these overly complex modern affairs, but now they were nowhere to be found, outside of a few obscure museums that specialized in obscure things. It made him feel damned old.

'I'm sorry to bother you, sir,' the lieutenant said as he punched the controls to shut the door behind him, 'but one Miss Tihl insists that it's imperative she see you immediately.' He looked and sounded skeptical, and then even more surprised when Burke ordered that she should in fact be admitted. 'Yes, sir,' he replied quickly, tapping the wall panel again. 'Miss Tihl,' his voice floated in from the corridor, 'the major will see you now.'

The Operator fairly ran into the room, and scarcely waited for the door to shut before she began speaking. 'Thank you for seeing me on such short notice, Major,' she began a touch breathlessly - had she run here from somewhere..? 'We have a problem.'

'It's no trouble, Miss Tihl,' Burke assured her. 'What seems to be the matter?' He swore, if it was another mess hall scuffle, he'd hang and quarter whoever started it - be they Raven, Soldier, or otherwise.

'It's the Geister, Major - I think they know where we are.'

For that possibility, he was considerably less prepared. 'What makes you think that?' he asked carefully. That the Gus might eventually stumble to the location of Outpoint was not completely outside the realm of reasonability - as far as that went, Burke accounted himself damned lucky to have gone this long without attracting their less than gentle attention; but just over a year-and-a-half of skillfully misdirecting enemy patrols and keeping skirmishes at arm's length wasn't a success rate one gave up without a fight.

'Gilt called in not five minutes ago, Major;' that did elicit a disapproving frown, but he decided to hear her out; 'he and Tyre deLesne were attacked by a Bär while investigating the ruins of Isuka, and Gilt thinks that it was shadowing him for some time before that.' Several questions came to mind - not the least of which being what in the blazes of hell they had been doing in that Surface-forsaken graveyard of a city - but one stood out above the rest.

'He "thinks" they tracked him..?' Burke paraphrased doubtfully. 'What gives him that impression?' Here Lihnea paused, looking momentarily troubled as she seemed to consider how to phrase her answer.

'A feeling,' she finally told him with obvious reluctance, looking as close to wincing as a person could without actually doing so. 'Gilt says he's had a bad feeling at him almost all day, and that he's sure the Geister were watching him at least most of the way out.'

Coming from just about anyone else, that would have signaled the abrupt end to their impromptu meeting, followed only by a curt dismissal. But Burke had known both Gilt Rivin and Lihnea Tihl for almost as long as the war had worn on, and they were both sensible, level-headed people whom he considered to be pretty squared away, for non-Soldiers. Rivin's loss to that outfit of jackals he hailed from he lamented in particular: he couldn't deny the individual combat effectiveness of the Ravens, and had to admit they'd done much to carry the war in the beginning - although he largely attributed that to the leadership of the Defense Force's own Colonel Opnoff - but there were times when he honestly wondered if they were worth the headaches. They were an arrogant, insubordinate, and undisciplined bunch, and, whatever the experiences of other officers, the Ravens frequently didn't mesh with the military personnel under his own command, sometimes resulting in incidents like the previous month's debacle that had nearly torn apart the mess hall.

More than that, though, he distrusted anyone for whom the bottom line was nothing more substantial than the cold hard credit. Ravens fought for themselves and for money, and not necessarily in that order.

Rivin was different, though. He didn't seem to like talking about himself, but Burke considered himself a pretty good judge of character, and something about the man rang truer than the other Ravens whom he'd met. He wasn't in it for the money, that was certain, or he would have left long ago; military contracts on the 'Line paid well, but not that well, and a reasonably competent Raven could easily make more working in the Interior under (moderately) less hazardous conditions.

No, Rivin was here because he believed in the cause, for which Burke respected him a good deal. Death could and often did lurk around unexpected corners, and most especially for the Ravens - still widely distrusted, and in some cases hated, for their central role in the end of the Controller's reign - it was almost literally thankless work. No mere mercenary would have stuck with it this long, and not for the first time Burke considered offering Rivin a brevet commission; the man did his job well and without complaint, he didn't cause trouble, he was on good terms with the Soldiers, and he was one of the best pilots that Burke had ever met. The Defense force could always use more people like that - sorely needed them, in fact, if not the added financial strain of another officer's salary.

But while he regretfully doubted that Rivin would take him up on such an offer, the man had his head screwed on pretty straight, and he might do well to heed his warning. Besides, he thought, settling the matter in his mind, what have we come to if you can't trust a good man's instincts?

Reaching to a discreetly inset comm panel on his desk, Burke raised Captain Garrand, the station XO. 'I don't have time to explain, Jim, but I have reason to believe the Geister may be on their way - sound general quarters.' He looked up from the brief hail to see surprise written across Lihnea's pretty features, who had plainly come prepared to argue her case. 'That Raven of yours is a fine man,' Burke told her, rising from behind the dreary, prefab desk to leave, 'and I've never yet done wrong by listening to his sort when they speak up.' Burke escorted the Operator out of his office and started down the corridor, mind already flying through the myriad preparations that awaited him. 'Most of me hopes that he's wrong,' he confessed in parting - 'but if he's right, he probably just saved a lot of lives.'

GILT RIVIN

As the heavy transport helicopter shot low over the arid land beneath and into sight of Outpoint, Gilt was met by a scene of well-ordered chaos. The station's small corps of combat engineers had put to good use the copious sand and dirt that stretched farther than the eye could see, and the last of their main battle tanks - the bulk of the force their tiny outpost had to project - scurried into the positions prepared for them a short distance from Outpoint's low but sturdy wall; turrets and cannons peeked out just above the crests of miniature sandy slopes, the rest of the vehicles sheltered behind the man-made berms. There were only a reduced company in the whole of Burke's modest command, but EarthGov had spared little expense in forging itself into a fearsome military power with the war's onset - though few in number, the eight General Dynamics Land Systems Sheridan main battle tanks below were arguably the finest in the reclaimed world, continuing a proud and impressive reputation that stretched back into the dim nether years predating the Great Destruction. Gilt had never understood why so many Ravens looked down their noses at tanks, and could only attribute it to arrogant stupidity; those Sheridans down there could absorb fire in quantities sufficient to crack open any Armored Core several times over, and their one hundred fifteen millimeter main guns would put down any but the luckiest of heavy AC's with laughable ease. Combined with the engineers' enterprising efforts they would make for a formidable main line of defense, and very likely were far more vital than the flashier 'Cores that would be flitting about the battlefield. The Raven's iconic mount was fairly versatile, true, but in essence they were the bleeding-edge, modern day evolution of the horse-mounted cavalry that had accompanied Roman legions on campaign. Though in practice it almost never happened, they were at their best when operating in support of sturdier forces, a hammer to an armored company's anvil. But somewhere along the line Armored Cores had acquired a grossly misinformed reputation as the be-all, end-all tool of modern warfare - even among the Ravens themselves, to a limited but disquieting extent, who should have known better.

But Gilt allowed such thoughts to slip away as his ride swooped down and around to Outpoint's southern edge, where the firebase gave way to several square kilometers of runway and landing pads. The airfield stood mostly vacant, now - Major Burke had ordered the pair of transports they maintained out to an anonymous staging ground several kilometers 'set-ward, the pilot told him as they made their approach, where they would be safely out of harm's way - and the four eH.27 Arbalest attack helicopters attached to Outpoint Station looked almost lost amidst the empty expanse of black and gray lanicrete. But Gilt was well-acquainted with a couple of the pilots, had seen them training, and knew they would be invaluable in the hours to come; anyone with any sense out here had come to feel naked without friendly wings - well, friendly rotary wings, anyway - in the skies above, and he was no exception.

'Well, here we are, boys,' the pilot announced. 'Prepare for drop on my mark.' With a short, perfunctory countdown Blue Asgard and Operator fell free, landing heavily on the reinforced lanicrete just a meter-and-a-half below - Lieutenant Flinn was one of the better pilots they had - as the transport jumped over a dozen meters with the sudden increase in its thrust-to-weight ratio. 'You boys watch your sixes,' he sent them in parting, speeding off toward the rapidly setting sun to join his waiting comrades.

'Will do,' Gilt promised, sending a two fingered salute to the retreating aircraft. 'Now,' he said to Tyre, turning Blue Asgard around and heading for the southern entrance, 'let's go see where they want us for the festivities.'

TYRE deLESNE

The briefing was necessarily short, with time of the essence as it was, and lent an air of decided urgency by the techs and occasional Soldiers blowing in and out of the C&C on their own hasty errands; the air fairly hummed with anxious anticipation.

Tyre's part to play in all of this, he learned, was fairly straightforward - along with Gilt, he would be responsible for securing Outpoint's northern flank, mirrored by 'Sixer' and 'Scribe' on the southern. Roughly half the infantrymen of Fuchs company, the base's single heavy weapons detachment, were firmly entrenched in each position, book-ends on a north-south line running through the dug-in Sheridans in the center. To the Ravens fell the two-fold task of guarding the distal ends of this line, and funneling, as best as they were able, Geist forces toward the center, straight into the heart of the tanks' devastating weapons envelopes.

Which seemed like a sensible enough arrangement to Tyre. By virtue of their defensive disposition, Outpoint's forces were necessarily tied to one location, but if they could sufficiently curtail the enemy's ability to maneuver as well, they could conceivably tip the balance decisively in their favor. He had never been formally schooled in military tactics, but like most Ravens of experience he had an unconscious grasp of many of the basic principles of fire and maneuver, even if he didn't know them as such.

The meager remainder of the forces at Major Burke's disposal - a (much) reduced company of six eM.5 Crighton infantry fighting vehicles and the flight of attack helicopters - was out to 'rise-ward as a screening element, meant to spot the Geist approach and harass it to whatever extent they could on the way in. Once the battle at Outpoint was joined in earnest, they would provide additional fire support as they were able, with Falke flight acting as a rapid reaction force to exploit any weaknesses or opportunities that presented themselves; lacking a dedicated forward air controller to direct their movements, this responsibility would be assumed by Captain Garrand.

'This is where the rubber hits the road,' Major Burke finished. The activity around the comm stations abruptly kicked up into a minor flurry, the Falken having evidently made contact with the Geist force's leading edges. 'You know your jobs, and I know you'll do them well.' The ghost of a grin lighted on the middle-aged officer's lined countenance. 'Now go kick Gus's ass.' Motivated hoo-ah's sounded from the Soldiers around the large planning table that dominated the C&C's recessed briefing area, startling the techs beyond. For the Ravens' part they kept their peace, faint smiles playing about their lips, and Captain Garrand had a few quiet words with Burke before leaving to attend to his own duties. With the Falken already engaged, it wouldn't be long now.

'You ever fought a battle like this before?' Tyre asked of Gilt as they left the command and control center together. 'I haven't,' he went on, before the older man could answer. 'It feels a little weird, having to stay in one place like that. I mean, it makes sense, I think, but it's a little different from what we normally do. Or at least what I normally do.' He knew he was rambling a bit, but that tended to happen when he was nervous, as he was now. Tyre didn't fully know why, though - this was hardly his first time in combat, and by the military way of reckoning things he was an ace almost thrice over. The majority of those kills were MT's, but he'd also faced down two AC's - if in the most terrifying moments of his life, he admitted only in private - and the last hints of green had left him long ago. Or so he had thought.

But Gilt seemed to understand. 'Everyone's nervous their first time against the Geister,' he said, smiling wistfully as though remembering some far off time and place. 'But you've already seen your first,' he pointed out, returning fully to the present, 'and we made pretty short work of that Bär, as you'll recall.' That was true enough, Tyre allowed, though they both knew that had been mostly his de facto partner's work.

But still, he had forgotten about their brief engagement in Isuka, in his anxiety over the coming battle, and it did make him feel a little better to be reminded of the part he'd successfully played, however small he knew it to have been. 'Like the Old Man said, you'll do fine.' The elevator that ran between C&C and Surface arrived just then, and Tyre felt markedly better as he stepped inside. He had squared off against that Bär, and hadn't done half badly at all for his first time.

As the doors slid shut and the small car lifted smoothly off, he spared a glance to his right at the older Raven, standing quietly with his arms crossed in thought.

And more than that, he thought, he had Gilt to watch his back; he didn't know why the man had all but taken him under his figurative wing, but in a mutually understood, unspoken way, Tyre knew that the veteran frontliner would look out for him.

It was a comforting thought as the elevator bore them inexorably upward toward hammer's certain fall.

GILT RIVIN

It wouldn't be long, now. As Blue Asgard crouched near the northeastern corner of Outpoint's lone wall, looking for all the world as though it were she who surveyed the soon-to-be battlefield and not the pilot within, an unnatural stillness seemed to descend on the defenders, as though they collectively sensed the approaching storm.

But they were ready. The forces tasked with holding Outpoint Station were few, but Major Burke knew his own job well, and had made his command as defensible as Gilt thought it was possible to make it.

'But I don't get it,' Tyre had spoken up as they walked toward the AC garages - 'why don't we just get the hell out of Dodge? I mean, this place is pretty small - it can't have any real strategic value.'

Salient points, Gilt had thought, if more akin to the trees than the forest. Though of course he'd been the same way, once.

'Major Burke knows there's more to war than just the cold hard numbers. You're right to raise those questions,' he assured the younger man, 'but there are certain intangibles whose real value only becomes apparent with his kind of experience.' He'd had occasion to meet a lot of military types over his years, and Gilt had never met a finer officer than the major; he couldn't count the number of times he'd wondered how EarthGov's laughably inadequate, pre-Geist 'self-defense force' had produced a man like that.

'The major's going to hold this place because it does matter,' he went on, 'both to the civilians Blue-side, and most of all to the people out here on the 'Line. If we stand fast here, then we can do so anywhere - we have to prove, every chance we get, that we can and will stand up to Gus anytime or -where.' Tyre had nodded, seeming to accept his explanation, but Gilt had doubted then, and still did now, that he really understood, really knew it. Or really could. He was certain that he wouldn't have, at Tyre's age; he would have scoffed and made some sort of smart-ass joke or comment, shaking his head at the stuck-in-their-ways, stubborn bull-headery of foolish old men. But then, there was a lot he hadn't understood, back then.

'But maybe more than that,' he'd finished with studied jocularity, 'the Old Man's just too damned stubborn to give this place up without a fight.' That had elicited a genuine laugh, and seemed to satisfy Tyre almost more than the rest. To be that young again... Gilt had thought, shaking his head as he watched him jog off to mount up. He didn't regret his years - not that he had all that many on his wingman - but the world was a much simpler place in one's youth, and he almost envied Tyre that perspective.

Almost. Strapped into Blue Asgard's cockpit, eyes intent on the small hills in the distance, he was ultimately glad for the vantage of his more advanced years. The truth of the matter was, the world wasn't a simple place, and he preferred to see it as it was. Or at least more so, anyway - who knew what revelations awaited once he hit forty.

In a sudden blur of motion, Falke flight shot over the crest of the low hills to 'rise-ward, and then just as quickly hit the deck as tracers and a few missiles arced up into the sky behind them. The six Crighton's that had gone out with them appeared right after, careening around the base of the same hills as they drove hard for Outpoint.

'Kick the tires and light the fires,' 'Sixer' remarked from the southern flank.

'Nah, I think they just missed us,' Tyre said, drawing a few laughs.

'Cut the chatter, you two,' Captain Garrand snapped. 'Falke puts the Geister at twelve klicks out - that's one-two kilometers. They'll be here any minute.'

Both Tyre and 'Sixer' replied with an appropriately penitent-sounding 'roger that' as the Falken flew low over Outpoint, dropping rapidly toward the hastily assembled LZ at the relative 'back' of the base. Garrand had originally wanted to keep it inside, but that would have meant room enough for only one helicopter at a time to refuel and rearm, and he'd reluctantly ordered fuel and ammunition dragged out to a convenient spot below the 'set-ward wall, coming down in this case on the side of speed.

It grew still again as the helicopters powered down for their brief stay aground and the Crightons skidded to a halt in their own staging areas, and as evening descended the whole of the Silent Line held its breath.

ALLIN BURKE

The C&C was deathly quiet - even the ubiquitous background noise of the small mountain of computer equipment seemed muted. Expectant faces pointed as one to the large situation map that dominated one of the walls, a master display of everything transpiring above as reported by the myriad sensors arrayed around Outpoint Station. Helicopter and Armored Core sensors, FFI transponders and ADR signals, comm transmissions and camera feeds - all were fed into the C&C, whose computers in turn extrapolated a visual representation of the disparate data pouring in.

For a moment, nothing moved, as though Outpoint paused to take a collective, steeling breath.

Then...

Contact.

At the very edge of sensor range small red markers ghosted into view, moving silently toward the tiny outpost of humanity.

The sudden activity at the comm stations broke the spell entirely, as reports of the sighting flooded down from the positions above. Burke was across the diminutive command center in four long strides, and took up a headset.

'Eisen company, hold fire,' he ordered, addressing the dug-in tanks. 'All units, hold your fire.' It was hard to say just how much the Geister knew about the disposition of the forces opposing them, but the steadily advancing units on the situation map had every appearance and feel of nothing more than a probe, and he saw no need to give anything away for free. 'On my mark, gun emplacements only - repeat, gun emplacements only - will open fire.' The eM.2A3hb heavy machine guns mounted at the corners and a couple of other key spots along Outpoint's defensive wall were rated for anything up to and including light MT's, and would likely make short work of the half dozen ahead; and if that proved inadequate, the Falken were already roaring back 'rise-ward, eager to pounce on any target of opportunity foolish enough to present itself.

The seconds ticked away as the line of MT's plodded forward, inching toward the extreme upper end of the eM.2's range; Burke frowned at the almost mechanical mindlessness of it - they took no evasive measures, they sought no cover, and on the whole seemed entirely unconcerned for their own well-being. There was little more fearsome than an army whose soldiers had no fear of death, and that they faced one in the Geister was an unsettling prospect.

But if they were unconcerned with their own imminent demise, then Burke held no reservations about hastening it along. Putting the headset back to ear and mouth, he gave the simple order.

'Mark.'

GILT RIVIN

The pre-battle hush exploded as the eM.2's above thundered, hurling tracers and heavy fifty caliber projectiles out to the kilometer-distant first wave. Two of the boxy MT's toppled over with the first volley, then another as the eM.2 in the middle of the wall corrected for the stiff breeze that had picked up. The remaining three let loose their own bursts of machine gun fire, peppering the area around the gun emplacements liberally. Dust and millimeter-long flakes of reinforced lanicrete rained down behind the camouflage netting that covered the Sheridans, ten or so meters below.

Then with a sound like thousands of sheets of paper tearing the last MT's crumpled, withering away under the heavier cannon fire from the four Falken as they passed overhead. The walltop machine gunners waved as they shrank into the distance, hunting for more challenging targets.

'Well, war's over - let's go home,' Tyre joked over the wireless, again drawing several laughs. Garrand must have been busy with the Falken, Gilt figured, or he would have called him down a second time for cluttering up the comm channel.

As though summoned by his thoughts the helicopters popped back into view, jinking and generally maneuvering crazily as they slipped deftly between fire from the ground and retaliated in kind.

Then Burke was back on the line. 'This one's the real McCoy, kids,' he said, no doubt indicating the next wave of MT's just visible ahead; it moved with decidedly less caution than its forerunner, and Gilt was forced to doubt that it had Outpoint's very best interests at heart. 'Both wings, continue to hold fire; Eisen company: on my signal, unleash hell.' Enthusiastic shouts of hoo-ah! sounded from the tankers in response.

This newest wave of MT's was less reserved than the first, opening fire as soon as it was in range; again machine gun fire raked across the wall where the eM.2's sat, and a few missiles even streaked across the sand to slam into the lanicrete just below them. The volume of fire intensified as they closed the distance, as though the MT platoons were frustrated by the apparent lack of effect their weapons were having.

'Mark!'

They never saw it coming. With a thunderclap befitting the king of gods and men himself the Sheridans let loose, and eight one hundred fifteen millimeter shells found their targets. The front rank of MT's was swept away as though by a giant broom, and most of those behind either toppled or exploded - and then toppled - as well. The remaining three hastily came together into a loose formation, and belatedly opened fire on the area from which they'd seen the irrepressible muzzle flashes of the Sheridans' main guns. But the loaders were fast, and within five seconds of the first volley another, smaller one sounded, immolating the last of the second wave.

But now we've shown them ours and they've shown us theirs, Gilt thought. There would be no more freebies.

Falke flight's lead element was racing back 'set-ward just then, and the pair landed swiftly behind Outpoint to take on still more ordinance and fuel while their comrades busied themselves in meting out stiff judgment with their remaining munitions. Sun-like flares suddenly appeared in the air behind one, and it dropped like a rock to a cringe-inducing altitude of fewer than two dozen meters, swinging wildly over and around the contours of the land. Two missiles were fooled into thinking they'd accomplished something important, and spent their payloads on the gently falling masses of burning magnesium; the third only gave up the chase grudgingly, finally drilling a crater into a hillside as though too tired to go on. Gilt let out a quiet breath of relief that he'd only partially realized he was holding; still no friendly casualties.

Not that it could last, he knew; the real battle for Outpoint was only now just beginning, or would once Gus had rallied his main force, as he surely must have been doing by this point. He had to know a head-on assault would be costly, and the most logical option open to him, as Gilt saw it, was to sweep around to one - or both - of the flanks and press his attack there.

Which outcome it was up to the Ravens and 11-Hotels in the trenches to frustrate as completely and devastatingly as possible. Gilt's years of experience had long afforded him a proficient command of basic tactical-level warfare - which had been further honed to a quite serviceable (and more conscious) edge by his months spent side by side with the Soldiers on the front - and he clearly recognized that such simply could not be if Outpoint were to survive the night, much less the war.

Now Falke flight had regrouped to the rear again, taking advantage of the apparent lull to top off fuel and weapons. They'd so far seen the most action of anyone, and would be leaned on heavily as the only available air support; Major Burke had duly notified EastCOM Home of the situation, and had put in a request for reinforcements - 'with all possible speed' - but every installation on the 'Line was now at high alert, he had learned, with most bracing for a Geist assault within the hour. Most orbital coverage had already winked out as surveillance satellites fell prey to Gus' hunter-killers, the latest casualties in an eerily silent theater of war predominated by the unflinching dictates of mathematics and physics. Relief by dawn was possible, but wholly contingent upon the length and severity of the assaults impendent elsewhere on the 'Line - and in any case, the battle would surely be over by then, whatever the outcome that entailed. Outpoint was effectively on its own for the duration.

For most to whom the fuller scope of their circumstances were known, Gilt supposed it was an altogether lonely feeling. But Ravens were both by reputation and by nature a solitary lot, and he was no exception, accustomed for most of his life to looking out for himself, by himself; even a year-and-a-half on the 'Line hadn't changed that. This was nothing new - only the scale of it was different.

History was nothing if not consistent.

TYRE deLESNE

If he was anything, Tyre was disappointed.

Even he, tactician that he wasn't, knew the battle was far from over; but as his earlier worries had faded he'd found himself actually looking forward to it, eager to test his mettle in a real pitched battle and see just what he was made of.

Combat was often described as long hours of boredom punctuated by moments of stark terror, however, and so far that was at least as true on the front as anywhere else. Far more so, in fact, in his own experience; other Ravens might have been different, but almost every assignment he'd taken on back in the Interior had been short and to the point - he'd been dropped off in or just outside the mission area, made or fought his way to the objective, and then left as quickly as he'd come. It didn't pay to dawdle, and the corporations liked efficiency - sometimes they'd even throw in a bonus for a job done quickly and cleanly, if one were lucky.

But that was the downside to fighting a defensive battle or war, Tyre guessed - safe behind the redoubts and fortifications though one was, it was the enemy who dictated the tempo, having been ceded the initiative by default. It was probably unavoidable, in their case - bravely marching their minute force off to fight Gus in the open country and on an even footing would have been an act of lunacy - but it was still damned annoying.

'If you can manage to stay awake,' Gilt broke into his thoughts, 'there'll be excitement to spare before long.' Tyre grunted in mild consternation; again that uncanny ability to read him, like his partner had known him for years rather than weeks. He didn't know how he could have divined it from Operator' motionless form, but somehow he'd picked up on his impatience almost as though it were his own. Weird.

'Just as long as it doesn't go too late,' he sent back nonchalantly - 'I'm not allowed out past ten.' More laughs from the Soldiers on the line.

'Two weeks and Lyssa's already got you tamed and trained? You hardly put up a fight at all,' Gilt returned easily. 'Where's your pride?' Now the line erupted with ooo's and additional laughter, and he caught one Soldier's anonymous remark that Lyssa could 'train' him anytime; Tyre thought he heard a worked! from Eisen's commander.

'Right between my legs, where it's always been,' he answered smoothly. This time there came gleeful cries of oh! and snap! from the comm, accompanied by one Soldier who sounded like he might die laughing right then and there.

'I'm forced to agree with the Raven,' Garrand's voice interrupted gruffly, cutting off whatever rejoinder Gilt might have had waiting, 'since his G-slagged brain obviously doesn't work right - how many times to I have to tell you not to clutter up the Geist-humping comm channel, "Waylay"?' All banter abruptly died, and Tyre could picture the tankers and infantrymen returning with studious diligence to their jobs; but before he could answer, Gilt cut in.

'I'm sorry, Captain, it was my fault. Just easing a bit of the tension.' That earned him a non-committal, unimpressed-sounding grunt.

'Well if you apes are done monkeying around, it might interest you to know the Falken have spotted the main body of the Geist army that's still out there.'

'Roger that, Captain,' Gilt answered for everyone. 'Don't worry about us, we'll keep frosty.'

True to his partner's words, Tyre ran a practiced eye over his HFD and status board; all green. Operator was ready as always, and Tyre himself had been so for some time now. All they needed was Gus.

ALLIN BURKE

Burke called Garrand aside into the offset briefing area, which presently lay deserted. 'Rivin's right, our boys are just blowing off a little steam, Jim' he told his numberone quietly. 'There's no harm in that.' He watched the captain carefully, interested to see how he would respond.

'You're right, Al, I agree.' When in private they tended to relax somewhat the formalities of military protocol. 'But getting on their asses let's them know there are limits, keeps them from crossing any real lines.' Burke nodded, satisfied. That's what he would have done, in Garrand's place; it was the XO's job to be the 'asshole', as Garrand would have so colorfully phrased it - to keep everyone in line and handle the day-to-day running of a command while the CO maintained his distance, and his executive officer clearly had a firm grasp on the nature of their respective duties. He would do right by his own command, someday.

'Fair enough,' Burke said simply. 'But I've kept you from the Falken long enough,' he said, jerking his head toward the improvised FAC station; Garrand acknowledged the informal dismissal with a quick nod and returned to his post in the C&C proper.

Good man, him, Burke thought to himself. Hell, all of them are. He'd been privileged with probably the best command of his career in Outpoint Station and its people; if anyone could hold against Geister and odds alike, it was them.

GILT RIVIN

The rapidly dimming evening sky was alight with weapons fire as the Falken continued their dogged harassment of the incoming Geist assault. The incoming Geist assault. The big one.

Gilt flexed his gloved hands on the control stick and throttle column half unconsciously, and took a last look at his status board; all in the green.

Of course.

His semper fidelis Armored Core had never let him down, and he was sure she never would. They had a mutual understanding, he fancied, that each one would always take care of the other.

'That's my girl,' he told the big blue-gray machine, patting a console.

'You boys and your toys,' Lihnea broke in, rolled eyes evident in her tone; with the full-on struggle for Outpoint imminent, every Operator was maintaining an open comm channel with their Raven. There was little for them to do, as the pilots knew their jobs to the letter, but they would provide an extra set of eyes, and a relay for any updates or changes as the battle unfolded.

'Now now, no need to be jealous - you're still my girl too,' Gilt soothed. A mock-indignant hmph sounded over the line.

'I'm sure that's what you tell all the girls.'

'All two of them,' he laughed, finishing the familiar joke - 'you know you're the only women in my life.'

'Well in that case, I guess I'd better stick around, then.'

'Good to hear it.'

'I'm always here if you need me,' she reminded him; all evidence of her earlier mirth had gone. 'Gilt...'

'Yeah.'

'Be careful.' With that the channel clicked, returned to its stand-by status to wait until needed, leaving him alone with his thoughts once more.

Gilt double-checked to make sure his gloves were nice and snug, savoring that last moment of exquisite calm just before storm's break.

And then, it was time.

EHVAN FLINN

Both of the transport crews stood stock still, staring wordlessly 'rise-ward as weapons fire continued to arc into the darkening sky. It didn't feel like the main battle had started, to Flinn, not just yet, but it was only a heartbeat away, he was sure.

Surface protect you, he thought silently to the defenders.

TYRE deLESNE

Tyre tensed as Falke flight's heated air-to-ground battle inched 'set-ward, watching as the unseen enemy force edged inexorably forward. It was so close he could almost feel it, like a thing he could reach out and touch. He grinned a half-feral grin beneath his stylized flight helmet.

He was ready.

Bring them on.

GILT RIVIN

The deeply shadowed land before Outpoint exploded in a frenetic collage of tracers, muzzle flashes, and missile efflux, marking the renewal of the Geist offensive; clearly, the pleasantries were to be dispensed with, this time.

But if the Geister had chosen not to stand on ceremony, so too with the tankers of the 'Iron First' company; almost as one the entrenched tanks replied with their own resurgent fury, sighting in on the telltale flash of the enemy's weapons discharges. The MT ranks were abruptly alight with explosions as individual units fell before the wall of fire that Eisen company hurled at them, and for a moment it looked to Gilt, incredibly, as though they thought to try attacking along the same vector yet a third time.

But then their formation broke apart, as expected, splitting roughly in half as it swept around to flank Outpoint's more vulnerable sides.

Or at least it tried to. As soon as the newly-formed Geist wings had set foot in range, the trench-bound Soldiers opened up, pounding them mercilessly with ATA missiles and launcher-borne grenades. The corner gunners added their own brand of havoc to the mix, pouring down streams of machine gun fire into the advancing lines.

And the Armored Cores, not to be left out, contributed in whatever way they were equipped to do so, be it with missiles, machine guns, or some other manner of harnessed destruction.

Leaping away from the northeast corner in whose shadow she had been crouched, Blue Asgard let fly with machine gun and Exceed Orbits alike, yellow tracers and blue-green energy bolts competing for targets as she tore off at a run down the length of the trenchworks. Gilt was satisfied to see that most of them landed hits, dropping or seriously wounding MT's as they struck; from the corner of his eye he saw Operator, still prone, snapping out grenade and rifle shots with expert ease.

Amazingly, the Geist assault didn't falter so much as large pieces of it simply stopped, destroyed or too badly damaged to continue forward. Again that disconcerting lack of any indication that they cared for their own lives or well-being.

For his part Gilt could only take distant note, and file it away for later examination as he loosed another burst of machine gun fire and ducked behind a low rocky rise toward the end of the northern flank. He allowed Blue Asgard to rest a moment, to recharge the energy capacitor her EO fusillade had all but depleted, and then was out in the fray again, machine gun spitting cold, heartless death in calculated bursts. The 12.4mm ammunition it utilized was not as heavy as that of the eM.2's methodically working across the enemy's ragged wings, but it managed to compensate with slightly more advanced engineering than the venerable .50 BMG, which had no need of such technological wizardry.

Now Operator was on his feet as well, dumping missiles as fast as they would lock at the nearest MT. Chemically propelled projectiles streaked back and forth across the no-man's land between attacker and defender, forcing both northern 'Cores into some creative maneuvers to avoid the unpleasant consequences of too close an encounter.

The Geister bore this abuse with near-mechanical stoicism, each unit of their eclectic ranks firing until they could fire no more, brought down by a defending missile, grenade, or bullet. The front-most platoons lay down a vicious sheet of fire along the Soldiers' trench as soon as its rough location had been extrapolated, forcing large numbers of them to keep their heads down; Gilt clenched his jaw as he saw two infantrymen go down, angry at the loss he knew he couldn't prevent. Not that he wouldn't try - he'd be damned if anymore died than had to. Blue Asgard's mid-sized energy cannons were let loose once more, burning fresh holes in the Geist lines in concert with the missile salvoes Tyre had resumed.

It was a ferocious defense for so small an outpost, and had thus far managed to hold the Geister at bay, but Gilt distantly worried how they would keep it up. His ammunition levels were hovering fitfully around half, and Tyre's were likely about the same by this time, he estimated; there would be a lot of pressure on the Soldiers if one or both of them had to leave to reload.

The arrival of the IFV's provided something of a solution, their added fire support almost driving the Geist advance back in places as they swung out beyond the edges of the present line of engagement. Gilt ground his teeth as one took a missile and was thrown spinning off on its side, but the other five kept up their attack without missing a beat, dumping their own anti-tank missiles and heavy cannon fire into the Geister with wild abandon.

The Eisen Line, as Gilt thought of the bermed up Sheridans, was holding its own expectedly well, all but impervious behind its made-to-order redoubt. They continued to thunder almost merrily away, dispatching MT's as fast as their reloaders could yank out the spent shell casing and slam in a new.

And so the defense held, tenuous though it was. An hour passed, then two, and as evening gave way fully to night Blue Asgard burned hard for the third time to the back of the base and the makeshift ammo dump that was there. Her machine gun's empty box magazine banged loudly to the ground as her massive left hand took up a fresh one, slamming it home as she first ran then skimmed back to the beleaguered but still-holding flank. Another of their Crighton's had been knocked out, and lay burning at the edge of the battle, but its crew had sold themselves at a high price, dropping MT after MT even as they were cornered and their vehicle shot to pieces.

The fire from the entrenched Soldiers had never flagged, warhead after ATA warhead roaring away into the chaotic half-darkness to strike at whatever target was available.

Gilt blew out a tired breath as he dodged out of the way of a particularly nasty stream of fire, then spun to retort with his own machine gun and its more effective results.

So far so good.

TYRE deLESNE

There was little in the way of conscious abstract thought on his battlefield, but somewhere in the back of Tyre's mind he knew that this was nothing like he'd expected.

It was better.

Ducking behind a small rocky outcrop and out of a missile's path, then around and out from behind the other side to return fire, he grinned as the offending MT toppled backwards, charred body awash with the flame of a magazine that had cooked off. He felt truly alive, like it was here that he really belonged, cheating death on the battlefield.

His hands fairly danced on Operator's controls, and he often felt like he could see two moves ahead; the world's crystal clarity at such moments was exhilarating.

A quick leap backward saved him from an errant rocket, and he retaliated with a pair of the mid-sized missiles that comprised a figurative half of his ranged arsenal. 'Nice try, ground pounder,' he mocked the fallen MT, middle fingers of both hands coming up in final insult.

Operator bucked hard then from a warhead detonating right at his feet, and the machine stumbled backward for a few steps before his AUBAL system compensated. Tyre just shrugged, and returned to the never-ending hunt for the next target.

ALLIN BURKE

The Old Man took a sip from his ever-present mug, the outward appearance of imperturbable calm itself; his eyes left the master display only occasionally, mind constantly scrutinizing and reëvaluating the ebb and flow of the minor war raging up above.

His kids were doing well, tirelessly keeping to their equally tireless defense as they worked to stem the relentless tide of the Geister. Though he hated the loss of each and every casualty as only a good CO could, he was also fiercely proud of the effort the men and women up there had put forth.

Everyone's a hero today, he thought, hand tightening on his mug, no matter the outcome.

GILT RIVIN

He couldn't pin it down to a precise time, but sometime within the foregoing hour, the fighting had taken a vicious turn.

Outpoint's own personal No-Man's Land was strewn with shattered and burned out hulks of former MT's of all kinds, which lay so thickly in places that the oncoming Geister had to move well out of their way to press forward.

The three remaining infantry fighting vehicles still roamed the field of battle, slaloming crazily in and out of the Geister on their own deadly errands, but their armor was shot away in more places than not, and badly scored where it still hung on.

Neither Operator nor Blue Asgard had remained unmolested either, both bearing a motley collection of dents, energy scoring, blast patterns, and, in a few places, holes; the latter had even had a magazine shot out of her hand, once, when Gilt had taken a bit too long to reload.

But the first real sign of trouble, he supposed, had been the missile that slipped through to impact horrifyingly in the heart of the Soldiers' position. There was nothing large to target, nothing to which a guided weapon's on-board computer could lock on in the trench, and the MT's could only fire in its general direction, hoping for a lucky hit; but somehow, through the Devil's own luck, one such had flown true. Half a dozen bodies had flown sickeningly through the air in twice as many pieces, some of them landing on top of their mortified comrades somewhere down the line.

The one sliver of good luck had been that that particular fireteam had just sent the last of their own Anti-Tank and Armor missiles on their way, and there were no munitions to cook off; a quarter of the Soldiers might have died, otherwise.

But even as the nearby survivors were picking themselves up, the Geist assault reached a particularly intense peak, no doubt seeking to capitalize on the inadvertent havoc it had wrought. Blue Asgard's and Operator's firing rates both rose to near incessant levels as they pushed their weapons to the very brink of their absolute bottom-line tolerances, but fresh MT companies had pressed dangerously close before the stunned Soldiers below had recovered and renewed their stalwart defense. Gus looked to be on the verge of turning the northern flank when out of the ghostly shadow of the 'rise-ward wall charged Eisen company's second platoon, guns blazing fit to match the wide-thrown gates of hell.

'Yeah! How 'bout that cavalry!' Tyre whooped, and a distant cheer was taken up by the Soldiers on the ground as the tanks barreled into the ranks of MT's like the bulls of long-dead Spain. The Geist attack faltered, and then failed completely before the armored onslaught and the tankers' battle cries of 'the Iron First!'.

It was a remarkable sight, but Gilt's instincts had suddenly flared, and he cast hurriedly about the Sheridans' position for whatever had set off his growing dread. Nothing about the Geist MT's falling back appeared to be cause for concern, and he couldn't see anything else out there besides-

Oh no.

Oh, dear God, no, he thought in horror, invoking a name not uttered in decades and more save by one other whom he knew.

Beyond the fiery pool of illumination demarcating the ever-shifting borders of the battlefield, Gilt could just resolve the unmistakable lines of a Bär, speeding out of the dim distance on deceptively powerful thrusters, and looming huge and menacing in the pale moonlight. The missiles and grenades those monsters carried were worrying enough, but it was their punishing energy weapons that he truly feared; the Sheridans had never been designed to stand up to that kind of firepower, and would die as quickly as they fought bravely. If they even saw the Surface-forsaken thing coming.

But even while the archaic epithet sounded in Gilt's mind Blue Asgard threw herself viciously into the air, clearing a startled Tyre and the befuddled Soldiers in the space between heartbeats. The tiny sun at her heart surged, and over twenty-four thousand kilograms of star-hot plasma thrust roared forth from her unequalled thrusters as she shot across the battlefield at a frantic third of the speed of sound.

But the Bär was closer, and for all her incomparable speed Gilt's 'Core was still bound by the laws of physics, damn them all to hell; she would arrive just a scant second or three too late.

In a baldly desperate gambit Gilt hurled his empty machine gun at the unholy Armored Core, the only thing he could think of that might possibly buy him the time he needed. But Blue Asgard aimed true, and the boxy weapon smacked hard into the startled Bär with a resounding clang; it looked up at him, most probably stunned more by the flat inanity of his tack than by the impact itself, and paused momentarily in its pursuit of the still-fighting second platoon.

It was enough.

Like a wrathful archangel Blue Asgard tore over the tanks, ramming her angular shoulder squarely into the hapless Bär with bone-jarring force and immolating the powerful, but now incidental, auxiliary thruster mounted there. The oversized Geist tumbled backward under the assailment of the smaller Armored Core's not-inconsiderable mass, and it scrambled madly to regain its equilibrium.

No quarter was given.

The energy blade on Blue Asgard's left forearm snapped to life with a distinctive, ominous buzz-hum as she continued her implacable pursuit, setting her prey and the immediate area awash with a cold blue light; she whirled, and in a textbook perfect Zwerchhau Gilt drove the weapon mercilessly home. For the second time that day a Bär died at his hands.

TYRE deLESNE

Though the battle continued unabated all around, at the scene before him Tyre could only stare, dumbfounded. He had scarcely been aware of the Bär and the danger presented thereby before it was ruthlessly cut down, its molten-edged pieces not yet settled before Blue Asgard was on the move again.

For the second platoon's heroic charge had not been without risk, and he saw now - belatedly - that it was in very real danger of being surrounded and cut off.

But he could only watch, transfixed, as Gilt carved a fiery swath through the intervening MT ranks, Blue Asgard not so much moving as...flowing from one to the next. Her...his...their movements were almost- 'Classical' was the only word Tyre could think of, something he'd heard from Gilt once that seemed the only fitting description for the unabashed swordsmanship before his half-disbelieving eyes.

Then he saw the danger, the new threat upon which his partner was so lethally intent. The five or six heavy MT's of the erstwhile Bär's slower, would-be escort were just now catching up, their also-heavy weapons a very real threat to the embattled Sheridans.

The mission frequency suddenly sounded with Gilt's voice: 'Heavy weapons-north, on the second platoon!'

The spell broken, the theretofore entranced Soldiers shifted their angle of fire, missiles and grenades tearing across new paths to the MT's trying to encircle the friendly armor; Tyre too snapped out of his stupor, adding the electric fulminations of Operator's plasma rifle to the fray. MT's toppled and collapsed before Gilt's Armored Core-turned-Reaper, clearing a path for Blue Asgard as she bore down on the heavy platoon that had already opened fire.

Then the blue-gray Armored Core was by them; around them; among them. Her right shoulder found purchase a second time, and as the bulky MT careened into its neighbor from the impact Blue Asgard whirled, decapitating the one behind. From the two still standing behind her she swung away and around, out from the path of a large rocket that surely would have taken her arm, coruscating blue efflux trailing beautiful and deadly in her wake. Completing the spin as she arced with lethal grace around to their rear, Blue Asgard's ephemeral brand lanced through one's back, then halved the pair in a single stroke as she swung her arm in a broad, sweeping motion that encompassed both.

Again Operator's weapons had fallen all but silent, as Tyre looked on numbly. For the first time he truly began to understand why Gilt carried that energy blade, spurned by most younger Ravens in favor of simply another machine gun or rifle - no longarm could wreak the kind of havoc that Blue Asgard wrought now. She whirled and pirouetted and slashed like Minerva herself, ghosted among her prey like Thanatos, like Orcus.

She was Death.

A cruel downward thrust finished a twitching, headless MT completely, and her wide upward stroke bisected thence the just-rising recipient of her earlier shoulder ram; a whirl even as she swung brought her around in a tight circle, flawless Zornhau ending the last of the heavies with a terrible finality.

Holy fuck... Tyre thought in wonderment, profanity the only response he could summon in the face of the stunning spectacle. The Geist offensive had shattered, splintered at last by Gilt and the Eisen second; the forward units were still heavily engaged, but beyond Tyre could see that the now-diminutive enemy rear had halted its advance.

' "Waylay", on me,' Gilt ordered, and as Blue Asgard took up position near the second platoon Operator leapt across the trench to join her, this time answering the call with rifle and missile volleys. Cheers sounded over the comm as the rag-tag 'cavalry' unit charged dauntlessly into the breach.

What had begun as a jagged halt in their advance degenerated into a complete rout, and Gus' forces broke into full retreat, chased beyond the range of the Eisen Line's guns by the fierce 'cavalry squadron' with Blue Asgard at its head.

The first Battle of Outpoint Station had been won. Deafening cheers sounded at the second platoon's triumphant return, whose selfless valor had snatched victory from the fell jaws of defeat. Gilt and Blue Asgard they cheered almost harder, the fearsome, collective instrument of destruction whose Herculean feats under the pallid moonlight, not unlike Caesar himself on the Sambre so many centuries earlier, had not only halted the Geist assault, but broken it utterly.

Gilt Rivin.

'Gai' and Blue Asgard.

Geistbrecher.