"Cold: the air and water flowing,
Hard: the land we call our home…"
- Solaris work song, unattributed
Hosk watched Mirage stare at one descending barge in particular.
It was trailing smoke; an ugly plume of streaking fire that vented freely. An emergency landing was imminent. And yet the corrections to its bearing were deliberate, its intentions clear.
It aimed for the Plaza.
"What the hell is that?!" Hosk flapped in amazement. It was headed straight for the central plaza.
Sara seemed entirely unconcerned.
"Our opening."
Hosk scrambled for his com.
"All units, incoming contact. Watch the sky! Keep your heads down!"
Hosk snatched up his binoculars; gaping in disbelief as he tracked its descent.
There was a figure atop the descending barge. Literally riding atop it; clinging low to the hull for dear life; its blue cape flapping. Sara chuckled fondly.
"He did always like to make an entrance."
The Corpus guarding the ziggurat saw the barge coming. The crewmen scattered in all directions; all semblance of cohesion stolen by the sudden yet imminent arrival of a few hundred tonnes of descending metal. The Moa and the Ospreys remained as they were; a perfect tableau of order and discipline, as the shadow of the barge washed over them.
They were still neatly arrayed when the Short Position hit.
It impacted with a sound that was heard as far as the furthest weeping posts of the Frozen Sector: a metallic thunderclap that shattered most of the surviving windows in the Upper Tier and knocked every combatant within the immediate vicinity off their feet. Even Mirage had to steady herself, such was the ferocity of the shockwave.
The metallic shrieking was worse; as the barge scraped through the heart of the phalanx; scattering Moa like skittles or simply shredding them beneath the weight of the advancing metal. Ospreys burst as they were swatted; the shrapnel swallowed up by a plume of smoke that joined the vast columns of dust emanating from the ruins of the data stacks in the distance.
The dust would linger there for several hours; choking the heart of the Upper Tier in a miasma that clouded sensors and blinded the fixed emplacements seeded throughout the ziggurat.
Hosk shook his head, utterly stunned.
A lone figure emerged form the swirling, choking mist; wreathed in the very destruction it had just unleashed; seemingly unscathed.
A Warframe; twinned spikes out jutting from its arched, dome-like head. An ancient warrior from another era. It strode toward the Solaris line; crackling with electric power; oblivious to the Armageddon behind it.
It looked straight at Hosk even at this extreme range.
Hosk blinked, lowering the binoculars. He turned to Mirage.
"He with you?"
"With us, technically." Mirage was already moving, the kit-gun in one hand; her bladed whip in the other. "It's really more of a collectivist revolution, right?"
Mirage walked alone across the plaza; the bladed whip in her hand held aloft in salute to a comrade long thought lost.
Volt raised a jagged machete in return; the Frame's allegiance clear. A roar went up through the Solaris rank and file. One Tenno had been cause for hope. Two super-charged morale entirely.
Despite his exhaustion, Hosk grinned. He sounded the order.
"All units, forward to the ziggurat! Advance!"
The Boardroom had been designed to sustain all manner of punishment. In a society where corporate espionage and infighting were as real a threat as any worker insurgency, it paid to be paranoid. The glass around Kef Mehrino was bullet proof, beam-shielded and triple-reinforced; designed to protect against every conceivable threat. Airships had not formed part of the design brief.
Nevertheless, it held.
Kef Mehrino was a gibbering wreck, hiding beneath the boardroom table; clinging to a bottle seemingly for his own sanity.
Kren Maruk, thoroughly dazed, collected himself quickly. He had survived worse in his contract: he would survive this. Or give a damn good account of himself, at the very least.
Tactical assessment was grim. The entire frontal defence screen had been flattened in the most literal sense. Those that survived were either in complete disarray or entirely too isolated to be considered viable combat assets. Not that the Watch was beaten. This was their home turf. Even with the shift in initiative, they were not helpless.
Maruk ordered the auto-manufactories to continue deploying units at maximum rate; desperate to replenish their sudden losses. A calculated risk on his part. They were already at risk of over-heating. Then he shifted the majority of his forces within the ziggurat to the front elevation. There was a hole in the perimeter. He needed to plug it.
Kren Maruk's next order to the Watch was brief:
"All units, reinforce the forward line. This Temple stands, or we fall."
Then he picked up a cool glass of water, and stepped over to the plated glass of the mirrored window; taking a measured sip as he watched the Battle for Prospect 141 enter its next, brutal phase.
Visibility was awful. The fixed emplacements picked shots out; measured bursts that probed the twisting smoke, but they were firing blind. Nevertheless they maintained the cycle rate; hoping to discourage the Solaris advance if nothing else. Ammunition was of no great concern with plasma munitions. The only issue was overheating, and the City Watch were shrewd; disciplined. Staggered bolts of energy lashed out into the choking dust; sweeping the perimeter.
Moa units surged forth from access hatches dotted around the edge of the ziggurat; flowing out from great doorways mounted in the temple's side and down the fascia of the temple proper. They charged forth into the dust; sensors clouded but hunting for targets at minimum range. Corpus warriors charged out behind them; rifles up, Provas buzzing in their hands as they groped in the dark. Their helmets did little to aid them; serving only to further limit their comprehension of the choking chaos.
The Solaris met them head on. With hammers and welding torches; plasma cutters and improvised clubs; wielding the very tools that defined their enslavement. They lunged through the dark and smashed into the Corpus with a mighty rattling clash; chopping and smashing; demolishing Moa and crewmen alike. Corpus beam weapons flashed through the swirling murk; lancing through rebels and splitting flesh from bone. Hundreds died on both sides; as a chaotic melee swamped the base of the temple.
Twinned shadows hunted through the fog; ripping a swathe through the Corpus rank and file. Hosk led his people through the gap, tripping over a carpet of disassembled drones and broken crewmen. Ahead he saw thunder clouds, lighting strikes and a brilliant starburst of yellow light; a savage, twirling beacon for them to follow as Volt and Mirage wreaked havoc upon their enemies.
There was a break in the fog.
The Warframes stood atop the slumped wreck of the Short Position, fighting side by side; felling the enemy with blinding speed. Mirage turned and urged the Solaris onwards. The rebels let out a resounding roar as they charged, crashing into cover beneath the shadow of the broken barge. It formed an unlikely defilade from the Watch positions spitting down from the ziggurat.
Spotters got to work; clambering through the broken hull and angling targeting scopes on key positions across the front of the temple. Resistance mortar fire began shrieking through the air, ripping great chunks of masonry of the temple's façade. The weight of return fire slackened, but the Corpus showed remarkable discipline, even under the wailing deluge of shells.
More Corpus fighters surged forth from the ziggurat; rushing the bulged and broken hull that now formed an unlikely bulwark on the defenders' very doorstep.
The Solaris were at a strategic disadvantage. The Corpus had elevation, and even in the smoky gloom; any Solaris that had the temerity to rush the staircase were swiftly cut down by the entrenched defenders.
Kael led the charge up the main stairway; a shield of pure surging blue energy held in his hands as he led a knot of Solaris with him. The weight of incoming fire was staggering, but the Frame continued its relentless advance, one step at a time. The rebels picked shots over his shoulder; hard-rounds super-heated as they passed through the energy shield and ripped clean through Corpus bodies.
Mirage held the salient atop the Short Position, a looted Cestra in each hand now; butchering incoming Corpus that tried assaulting from either side. Corpus snipers tried to pick her off, but blinked; finding themselves faced with five targets instead of one; that seemed to blend and sift with each twisting shift in the smoke.
The ziggurat's defences were defined by three firing slits; deep trenches inset into the surface of the sloping temple; protected by a front annex accessed by the primary stairway and two secondary stairways that fed in from either side. The Solaris had a foothold on each; converging on the annex from all three sides. The Watch did not cede ground lightly; the crewmen holding out and stubbornly licking out shots until their weapons glowed white-hot in the dun smoke.
The Solaris were not denied, however. They closed the gap on the annex. Now it was storm clearance; another frenzied push. Grenades thumped and starbursts of shrapnel sliced flesh to ribbons. The fighting became desperate hand to hand, or point blank, frenzied firefights that left dozens of fallen bodies steaming on the floor. Volt's machete sang as it chopped and diced; a blurring whir in Kael's hands.
Step by step, inch by bloody inch, the Solaris advanced up the front of the ziggurat; beset on all sides by the City Watch's finest.
Isolde and her companions paused atop ruins of a collapsed bridge way, surveying the battlefield from afar. Behind his faceplate, Brakarr's rheumy eyes lit up; revelling at the sight of so much carnage. Parson-Luk for his part said a silent prayer, kissing the ritualistic beads that hung around his neck as he shook his head.
Vern grimaced, then spat on the ground..
"No way we're getting through that. Not directly."
Isolde said nothing, her eyes on the horizon.
She saw the Northern Landing Pad, through the occasional gap in the mist. Saw the Orokin barge that awaited her; the House Eternal's sigil a silent challenge. Her eyes narrowed, her throat tight.
She made a decision.
"You won't have to." Isolde shook her head, starting forward on her own.
"You're mad, girl. It's a damn warzone."
"I understand that, Terrenus. Warzones are not unfamiliar to me. But this is my fight, my decision."
Vern shook his head.
"Nuh-uh, kid. We're in this together. Whether you like it or not."
"You go, we go." agreed Parson-Luk. Brakarr growled his assent.
Isolde regarded each of them in turn, inwardly touched; but shook her head, resolute.
"I'm afraid that's not possible. This is one hunt I do alone."
Vern bristled at that.
"Void take you! We do this together!"
Isolde smiled sadly.
"This isn't your war, Terrenus. You can't win it for me, and I won't ask you to."
With that the pale Tenno bowed deeply, then vanished, seemingly stolen by the wind.
Only her voice lingered; leaving them with a final set of parting instructions.
"Find a transport. Leave this place. I will look for you when it's done."
Vern snarled in frustration; eyes scanning on all frequencies. Void static, but little else.
Isolde was gone.
In low orbit over the Frozen Sector, the Corpus cruiser Dominant Factor began to slow; its belly hold yawning open; disgorging shoal after shoal of streaming dropships. They sped toward the surface; flaring hot as they entered the upper atmosphere; a meteor shower of white hot stars lit bright against the dark side of the planet. Aboard, Corpus Navy readied weapons and murmured incantations to the Void, giving thanks to the Prophet.
The boy watched them intently, hidden from their scopes.
He rose to his feet, padding over from the meditation mat that lay beside the vast viewing pane, nearly tripping over the kavat that mewled for his attention. He shoed it away as he keyed his com.
"Sara? You read me?"
No response.
The boy shook his head, making for the rear hold of the Liset. He stretched as he did so.
An old habit. It would not be his own muscles that carried him into battle. He would operate from within the confines of a Somatic Link. But the flesh he wore would be all the keener if his mind was attune, the Transference Link all the stronger for it.
His Cephalon bleated at him, warning him about this risk and that. He ignored it entirely.
Even for a Tenno as patient as him, there was only so much observation he could handle.
Sometimes, you had to get your hands dirty.
Vern scowled at the horizon, watching the war unfold. Brakarr prepped for war; giving his rig a shake test. Parson-Luk crept carefully about at the base of the mount of rubble, eyes hunting for a sign of a trail that Isolde may have left behind. He hissed in frustration. He had taught her all too well.
Neera crouched at the foot of the pile of rubble, still furiously trying to reprogram the com bead.
With a victorious hiss, it warbled to life. Crackling Solaris chatter filled the air. Panicked orders for the most part. Some were savagely cut short. She made another slightly adjustment.
It was a private channel. One they had reserved back when her parents had supported her uncle; warning him when a Watch sweep was passing through.
"Uncle Veng! Uncle Veng can you read me?!"
Vanger Hosk rolled back into cover, back into the annex. Volt marched ahead; the shield vibrating under the volume of energy rounds slapping against it. Hosk's ear-piece buzzed at him.
Reflexively he switched channels. Hosk strained to hear above the roar of the battle.
"This is Hosk!"
He blinked when he caught Neera's voice. Urgent, insistent.
"Neera! Where are you? Are you safe?!"
"I'm fine! I'm here with Vern and the others."
"Terrenus Vern?" Hosk gaped in disbelief "The bounty hunter?!"
"It's fine, uncle; he's a friend! I think. Where are you?!"
Hosk looked out over the city. Beneath him, the sweeping slope of the ziggurat gave way to a sea of smoke infused with lancing plasma fire and roving bodies. The Solaris swamped all sides of the citadel. They were winning, but at brutal cost.
"We're taking Watch Control. Stay away. The Tenno are with us."
A Solaris artillery shell sounded off above him. By the time the tumbling dust had settled Hosk only caught the tail end of his niece's transmission.
"- have to warn them!"
"Say again? Warn who?"
Neera's voice was gone; the transmission little more than static-laced soup; overwhelmed by the sheer weight of plasma discharge in the air.
"Neera? Hello?!"
Neera repeated the transmission; over and over.
"The Tenno, you have to warn them!"
She swore in frustration; finally breaking the connection.
Vern looked at her.
"Get through?"
Neera shrugged.
"Your guess is as good as mine."
"So we're on our own." Vern shrugged, "Fine by me."
Neera looked at each of the hunters in turn. "What's the plan?"
Vern sniffed, nodding at the Northern Landing pad.
"We know where she's headed. That's a start."
"You're going after her? After she just explicitly told you not to?"
Vern just nodded stubbornly; both hands holding his webbing.
"Seems that way."
"And the golden guy with the sword? He doesn't give you pause?"
Vern snorted at that.
"Gold or not, he'll bleed the same as any."
Neera shook her head.
"I'll never understand you people." She rose to her feet.
"Where you going?"
Neera pointed in the vague direction of the Northern Dock and the Watch Control. Another trio of explosions wracked the face of the ziggurat.
"That way. Same as you. My uncle's somewhere in the middle of that mess." Neera stabbed a thumb in Brakarr's direction. "And if it's all the same to you, I'd rather have him with me for the trip.
Vern looked at Brakarr, eyebrow raised.
The massive Grineer gave an expansive shrug of his massive shoulders, his chuckle muffled by his faceplate.
At the foot of the bridge, Parson-Luk cocked his head to one side, a mischievous smile on his face.
He had taught the girl well, yes. But for all her ability, she forgot that he was the great Parson-Luk. No detail was lost on him.
The tracker leaned close to the smallest displacement in the rubble, where the Tenno had stolen away; masked by the Void. The pattern was no footstep or overt boot marking. Nothing so sloppy.
But Parson-Luk was Ostron; Cetus-born. He had walked the Plains as a child, had smelled the touch of the Unum's power; had stalked between the stirring Eidolon as a young hunter; unmoved by their plaintive wails and trembling stomping feet. A land rich in the Void's taste; a battlefield from the Old War, it had been his home. You learned to sense the Void's work quickly, or paid the price.
He started after the scent, the bones around his neck jingling as he padded after the trail; going by nose and nose alone.
The companions followed, picking their way carefully through the ruins; bound for the maelstrom that raged at the heart of the city.