So, sorry about the long update. I really have no excuse. Anyway, this is a new chapter, and the end of Part One. Hopefully, they'll be more to follow.
Pacific Ocean, 33rd Parallel
Ars cruised over the Pacific Ocean, carefully modulating the engine output of his Eladrin to minimize the thermal signature of his dive. Given the rather high energy output of the system, that was rather... difficult, but given his targets, that was less important. With the flick of a switch, Ars minimized the scanner readouts, turning his canopy into what seemed almost like an unobstructed view of the outside.
Waves crashed thousands of feet below him, whitecaps rising and breaking against the cold ocean. The water used to be warm here, but that was a thing of the past now, just like worry over rising global temperatures. The world was a colder place, both literally and figuratively.
A few seabirds circled far underneath him, wheeling and banking in wide, lazy circles without a care in the world. They lived just as they always had, unaffected by the blockade of the Fog.
The three Eladrins had been deployed to the San Diego region in response to an unacceptable buildup of Fog submarines occurring in the region. Due in large part to the devastation inflicted on the West Coast during the Fog bombardment, San Diego was the only large fortified port on the West Coast. The reason for that, like so many other things, lay seventeen years in the past.
Following the Final Battle, the remnants of the U.S. Fleet, along with a few allied warships, made their way out of the Central Pacific battle zones and took shelter along the coast. Taking cover under the canopy of the remaining Anti-Ship Ballistic Missiles carefully stockpiled by Admiral Viktor Antonov while the ports were constructed.
The Great battle had taken place in December of 2039 and was, as just about anyone on the planet could tell you, a complete disaster. In the aftermath of the event, President Regnold Maynard, who had been commander in chief during the event, committed suicide.
His replacement, Vice President Gilbert, was a skilled administrator, and perhaps would have managed to be an excellent leader in a time of peace. However, he was woefully unprepared for the chaotic environment he stepped into, a much of the power of his office slipped out of his hands.
One man, the future president Viktor Antonov, had been particularly foresighted with regard to the future intentions of the Fleet of Fog. He combined that foresight with a ruthless willingness take advantage of the times to step beyond his power as a military leader, promoting civil defense and military development programs which may well have seen him hanged, had they not proved invaluable in the aftermath of the bombardment.
His crowning achievement was securing funding and severely limited resources for the Strategic Assault Interdiction Defense System (Operational), a network of mobile interceptor batteries, vehicle-based tactical lasers, counter-missile launch sites, and, central to the whole effort, an array of massive nuclear-powered strategic pulse laser installations whose coverage canopies blanketed the country.
However, when the Bombardment came, the SAID SO network was not yet fully operational. Of particular note was the Palm Springs Strategic Laser, the only such installation operation in Southern California. When the Fog missiles began to fall, the order came down to focus defensive five on protecting San Diego, where the majority of the remaining U.S. fleet was anchored. The rest of the major pacific ports were devastated, and San Diego was left as the sole fortified U.S. port on the West Coast, and of critical strategic importance.
As he flew, Ars examined the readouts from the array of sensors which covered the Eladrin. Unlike in his previous battle, he was now using them to full effect. Far from having his enemies full in his face, the hunt for these submarines was a game of hide and seek. It was a game for children, played for the highest stakes with the most advanced weapons available.
So far, Ars had found all of nothing. They had been at it for hours, flying low and slow over the areas through which Fog submarines were predicted to travel. How, exactly, that prediction was done was something of a mystery to Ars.
A few times, the patrolling Eladrins had received a priority call from one of the support aircraft and lit off their drives to go rush toward a suspected contact, but if there was ever anything there, it was always long gone by the time the Eladrins arrived, either already attacked and driven off by other units or never there in the first place.
From somewhere several miles away, a beam of coherent ultraviolet light reached out from a similar craft and touched the Tesseract-Maxwell field of Ars' aircraft. It was scattered and reflected for a moment, then recognized for what it was, and the tiny fluctuations in the field it caused were observed, and then noted. The laser began to cut on and off, signaling a pattern to Ragnarok's central computer.
In the cockpit, a brief crackle announced the beginning of a message transmitted via communication laser. Given the short ranges between the Eladrins and the high levels of power available, burning through the Fog jamming was an option. However, the communication lasers were broadcast incredibly tightly which, when combined with the relatively low atmospheric scattering of the ultraviolet lasers, allowed for uninterrupted and largely unreadable communication between the various Eladrin units.
"SENDER ISAAC STOP." Ars read, looking up at his battlespace display and finding the coordinates of the other Eladrin. "FOG SUBMARINE SPOTTED STOP. LOCATION TWELVE DEGREES NORTH TEN THOUSAND YARDS STOP. HEADING DUE SOUTH SOUTHWEST DIVING SPEED FIFTY ONE KNOTS STOP. PREPARE TO ENGAGE QUESTION MARK STOP."
A Fog submarine had been spotted. Immediately, Ars fully engaged his sensor displays and began arming his weapons as he shifted his course toward the contact. As he prepared for battle, he activated his own communications laser and began to send.
"SENDER ARS STOP. ENEMY CONTACT CONFIRMED STOP. MOVING TO ENGAGE STOP." As soon as his message was sent, Ars entered a few commands, activating his own sensor net.
After a few seconds of fruitless searching, he pressed another button. A hatch opened on the base of the Eladrin and ejected a series of small black boxes.
The objects tumbled through the air for a few moments, then small internal gyroscopes stabilized the descent of each box. As they fell, small chemical rockets fired, scattering the boxes. A second after the rockets burned out, pyrotechnic bolts detonated, detaching the top of each box and revealing a sea-green parachute, which billowed out, slowing the drop of the objects to a fall a scant few dozen feet above the ocean.
As each box touched down, the remaining sides of the boxes blew out, revealing small sonobuoys of the same shade as the parachutes. It took them a moment to set up, then they began transmitting data to Ars' Eladrin.
As the feeds from the airdropped buoys came in, the displays in the cockpit of Ars Eladrin transformed. Ocean temperatures, currents, ambient noise levels, and more readouts appeared, along with a small purple dot.
"SENDER ARS STOP. SUSPECTED FOG TARGET DETECTED STOP. SUGGESTED INTEGRATION OF TARGETING DATA TO ALLOW MAXIMALLY EFFECTIVE STRIKE STOP. Y/N"
Ars waited a moment, reducing his speed as he did so. For the past month, he had been training with Isaac and Stel. While he seemed to have been able to make up with Stel, Isaac was still acting rather antagonistic toward him. Presumably, he still hadn't forgiven Ars for knocking him out during the cage lift, which Ars was beginning to think had actually been some form of training exercise.
"SENDER ISAAC STOP. IS TRANSMISSION ADVISABLE STOP. UNDER NAVAL DIRECTIVE 33-6187 TRANSMISSION OF SECURE DATA IN COMBAT ZONE PROHIBITED STOP."
Ars gritted his teeth. Targeting data like this wasn't secure data! The idea was... something that could potentially hold water in a court of law. If Isaac claimed that the targeting data remaining in human hands was essential to preventing the enemy from relocating or fleeing, he could claim it was secure data.
In actuality, the idea was preposterous. If a Fog submarine could detect the stray photons that scattered from a broadband tight beam transmission, they could easily spot the Eladrins themselves. Since they almost certainly couldn't, the entire objection was a moot point.
SENDER ARS STOP. DATA IS NOT SECURE STOP. YOU WILL COMMENCE TRANSMISSION IMMEDIATELY STOP. THAT IS AN ORDER STOP.
Ars dove slightly as he waited for a reply. To keep transmission times to a minimum, the system waited until a whole message was spoken or keyed in before sending. Needless to say, it made conversation rather awkward.
SENDER ISAAC STOP. COMMENCING DATA TRANSFER STOP.
Ars blinked as he watched the additional targeting data from the distant Eladrin Salamander appear on his screen. The purple dot indicating a tentative unidentified contact vanished, to be replaced an instant later by a solid red target indicator.
SENDER ARS STOP. BEGINNING ATTACK RUN STOP.
The moment his transmission was complete, Ars reached out and grasped a joystick. Despite the neural control interface system the Eladrin employed, there were still a wide array of controls which were, for one reason or another present in physical form. Weapons firing controls, for one thing, were generally hardwired to physical interfaces. Apparently, the design team was understandably concerned about connecting the control systems of weapons like those the Eladrin carried to the nervous system of a teenager.
A control panel stretched out in front of the pilot's seat, covered in indicator lights, switches, buttons, and other, more arcane systems. Four joysticks were mounted on sliding rails next to the armrests of the pilot's chair, two to a side. They were sleek, shaped like pistol grips and inlaid with glowing red lines and buttons.
The weapons controls.
Ars took a deep breath and pulled the trigger.
On the flanks of the Eladrin, panels opened, revealing the internal missile magazines. The rotary magazines began to spin, and quickly ejected the first AUR-045 'Kingfisher' missile. Several more followed.
The anti-submarine missiles fell like pre-Fog Olympic divers, attitude jets firing to keep the heavy projectiles in line to conserve the most possible velocity from their high-speed deployment. The projectiles accelerated as they fell, just barely hitting their terminal velocity, was much greater than that of a human, before they reached the surface. The missiles angled like champion divers as they hit the ocean, entering the water with a surprisingly small splash.
The fog submarine, of course, picked up the sudden sound the missiles made as they shattered the silence of the open ocean. It began to change course and dive, but it was too late. As the Fog vessel tried to come about, pyrotechnic charges on the missiles Ars had dropped detonated and fins extended. As the weapons completed their one-way transition into torpedoes, they lit off their rocket motors.
The Fog submarine began to accelerate on its new vector, desperately attempting to clear the datum. As the missiles began their pursuit, several of them activated their long range search sonar.
Lit up on multiple sides by the sudden waves of sound, the core guiding the Fog submarine decided that escape and evasion was no longer the correct option. It went to emergency flank speed as anti-torpedo drones detached from the hull and dropped into the slipstream of water surrounding the speeding submarine.
The drones lacked much in the way of engine power, but given the immense speed approach speed of incoming torpedoes, they didn't exactly need to chase anything down. The onrushing torpedoes shut down their sonar, any pretense of stealth on the part of their prey forgotten.
However, the drones had already gained a fix on their course and heading, and shot into position to intercept the human torpedoes. The Kingfishers maneuvered frantically, but their immense speed greatly limited their maneuverability, and the drones successfully moved into the path of each torpedo that had emitted sonar.
The warheads of the intercepted torpedoes detonated, sending the blast fronts of tremendous explosions echoing through the ocean, completely overshadowing the blasts from the tiny and frankly unnecessary explosives the interceptor drones carried.
The remaining torpedoes continued onward, in some cases through the wreckage of their brethren. A few more torpedoes were intercepted, but dozens more continued onward.
As the blast from another destroyed issued through the water, one moving close to it suddenly failed, the engine cutting out. It was an expected flaw with the torpedoes; in exchange for the massive warhead required to overwhelm a Fog Klein Barrier, the Kingfisher carried only limited fuel, and its internal mechanisms were, for a drop torpedo, somewhat delicate.
The human weapons closed in on the fleeing submarines. As they drew near, the Fog craft desperately began scattering decoys, but it was beyond the point in the chase where that could work. A few torpedoes were draw off target, but it was too little too late.
Kingfishers moved into attack, living up to their name as they assumed precise positions around the target. As one, they detonated.
A Klein Field sprang to life around the submarine. The detonations arrived one after another, only fractions of a second apart. The Klein field glowed as the shock waves rocked it, separate flares appearing to collapse into one. The light reached blinding intensity, then cut out.
The next detonation struck the Fog Submarine, cracking the pressure hull. Another one hit, the detonating torpedo one hundred and eighty degrees away. A third struck from a similar bearing and then yet another at a right angle to the first.
A trio of further detonations struck practically simultaneously, sending a crack longwise down the hull.
The final torpedo detonated, the blast front from it washing over the stressed hull of the submarine. The underwater vessel continued onward.
Ars smacked his head backward into his headrest as the telemetry from the attack came in. "Uhhh... Computer, tell Isaac that-"
A chunk the size of a shipping container broke off the crack on the submarine's hull. Water rushed in, and for a brief moment, the inexorable pressure of the deep ocean battled the arcane alloys of the Fog hull. Then the inevitable happened, and the submarine crumpled and began to slide down into the ocean.
Ars smiled, fists tightening on the weapons controls. "Tell Isaac that we're detecting breaking up sounds. His attack won't be needed.
A massive fountain of water rose up from the ocean, vast quantities of water feathering out into countless streamers and droplets as it hung in strange influence of the gravatic field projected by the dying Fog vessel.
Then, his ASW weapons exhausted, Ars turned to head for home.
Pacific Ocean, 45th Parallel
The ASH-103 'Inuit' anti-submarine helicopter flew low across the North Pacific, towing a sonar array behind it. The downdraft from the ocean case a strange ripple pattern across the water, disrupted only by the line cut in it by the weighted sonar system.
The helicopter itself was a large affair, a variant of the AH-103 'Cherokee' Multi-role assault and transport helicopter. It had a large, powerful rotor, with an equally powerful tail rotor. It was jet assisted, giving it a top speed considerably higher than could be expected from the blades alone. Interestingly, in an emergency the thrust from the assist jets could be vectored to counter the rotation of blades, preventing the helicopter from spinning out of control several minutes if the tail rotor was destroyed.
While the body of the aircraft appeared to have all the sleekness of a brick, it was engineered to slide through the air deceptively well. This one was painted navy blue, layered with transparent anti-radiation stealth material. The craft carried four Mk. 81 'Cyclone' supercavitating torpedoes, and a heavy dive-assisted X12 'Bubble Bomb' depth charge.
Of particular note was a small white device affixed to the right side of the helicopter near the nose, a brass decoration in the shape of a stylized harpoon. It was the symbol of a vehicle that had assisted in a confirmed kill on a Fog submarine.
"So," Chief Warrant Officer Jon Harris said, adjusting his controls and slightly changing the heading of the helicopter, "I wonder why they decided to put us so far out here anyway."
"You know how the brass is, man." His copilot and gunner, Steve Habbler, said, looking at the feed from the sonar. "There is no how or why where they're involved."
"True, I suppose, but still." He shook his head. "I mean, those guys down off San Diego are making kills, real ones."
Steve sat up in his seat and made an elaborate display of looking out the right cockpit window. "Huh, that's funny, there's this harpoon thing on the side of our ship. I guess that means we have a kill, too."
"Ha. Ha. You're hilarious, you know that?" Harris shook his head. "Still, why have one kill when we could have two? Or three? Just think of how that would look on our records."
"I didn't know you were so ambitious. Why'd you become a Warrant Officer, then? Wait..." Steve looked down at his screen. "I think I've got something. About the size of a whale, figure that's all it is."
"Oh, good. You had me worried-"
"Shit! This thing is growing!"
"What!"
"Multiple radar contacts!"
"Engaging countermeasures!"
"Brace for impact!"
North Pacific
Alaska leaned back in the warm water, letting her verdigris hair fan out behind her. She tried to let the water melt everything away, her concern over her previous defeat, the anxiety brought about by the discussion of the upcoming campaign, everything. The calm quiet was so...
"Hello Alaska!"
Alaska whirled around, startled. A young woman stood in the entrance to the baths, holding a towel under one arm. She was tall, with fair skin and long, luscious, straight brown-black hair. She had a strong face, large-ish breasts, and bright grey eyes that seemed almost to glow.
She was also completely stark naked.
Alaska sighed. "Iowa? What in the world are you doing? And at least put a bathing suit on."
In a single motion, Iowa wrapped the towel around her lower body and sprang into the air, the makeshift garment seeming to behave in complete defiance of the normal laws of motion, something which, on closer analysis, seemed completely plausible.
The Mental Model of the battleship soared through the air, high enough to have taken her over Alaska's head. She reached a zenith over the edge of the large, pool-like bath, seemed to hang in the air for a moment, then splashed down in the water near the center of the pool, sending up a massive wave, which rolled over Alaska, completely submerging her, then pushed outward onto the tiled floor outside of the bath.
"Why did you do that?" Alaska asked, pushing her upper body out of the water and turning to face Iowa, eyes narrowed. "Also, why put on the towel if you were about to jump into the water anyway?"
"But you said-"
"I know what I said."
"Anyway, sister," Iowa said, lowering her body into the water, then pushing off on the floor to send herself shooting towards a space just to Alaska's left, "how are things here back home?"
Alaska sighed, folding her arms under her breasts. "First of all, you have at least three sisters, and I'm not one of them. Second, this isn't our home."
"Oh, you know what I mean. I'm a battleship, and you could pass for one." She shrugged. "Any, things are boring in Indonesia. Every single day, it's just sailing around, scanning islands where I swear half the humans haven't even noticed the blockade, and occasionally cooking seagulls with the main radar. Sometimes I get to go to Japan, which is better, but not by much. That's just a bunch of starving people hiding behind their walls."
"That's interesting," Alaska said, "But why are you here?"
"This is my bath, silly. Why wouldn't I be here?"
"That's not what I... nevermind." Alaska cocked her head. "Why do you have this place installed, for that matter?"
"The original had a bathtub installed, for some human flagship or something. I added this in as a tribute a couple of years ago. Anyway, so what's the deal with this Eladrin thing I've heard so much about? From what I understand, that's why I've been reassigned here."
"T-That?" Alaska said, blushing slightly. "Oh, well, it's an impressive machine, for a human device, anyway. It's an aircraft, but it's the size of a corvette and goes as fast as a cruise missile. It's really well armed, and gave me a run for money."
"Wow. Sounds pretty impressive. What's our plan to deal with it?"
"I don't think it's just 'it' anymore." Alaska said, voice taking a serious turn. "I'm pretty sure there's more than one of them now. Anyway, that's the flagship's job, not mine."
"What do you think of her?" Iowa said. "She seems pretty uptight."
"She can be kind of mean." Alaska said, looking down and sliding slightly deeper into the water. "But I think she means well, and she is absolutely committed to a Fog victory.
Alpine, California
The Alpine County Airbase swarmed with activity. It was a wide expanse, divided into neat grid lines. In each grid space, isolated by an extra-wide paved road, technicians and ground personnel swarmed over an aircraft, returning it to combat readiness. Trucks carrying moved along the roads like ants, carrying much-needed fuel and spare parts to the waiting aircraft. Here and there, a plane would taxi along the roads to one of the long runways that ran parallel to the maintenance section of the airbase.
A few grid spaces were blocked off, with seemingly no activity occurring. The appearance was deceptive. Under each of the camouflage nets, under each of the anti-radar tarpaulins, lay a defensive weapon. Many would be SAM launchers, but a few would be flak guns, and even a few Mobile Tactical Battlefield Lasers. They stood ready, despite their protective coverings, to protect the airbase.
Ars hung over the bustle, watching it, knowing completely that none of defenses of the base had a reasonable possibility of hurting him. It was a strange feeling, intoxicating. It made him feel... Well, he wasn't actually entirely sure how it made him feel.
"This is RagnarokActual," Ars sent, using live radio now that he was safely outside the range of the Fog jamming. "Approaching airfield, requesting permission to land."
"We read you loud and clear, Ragnarok Actual." The tower responded, the Air Traffic controller sounding oddly excited, as if he were overwhelm to be talking to an actual Eladrin pilot. "Proceed to your designated landing point."
As the transmission cut out, a pathway to his designated Phoenix staging area, a solid three-by-three block of the airfield, lit up, appearing in the air on Ars' main displays. It was, he noted with a slight smile, a rather direct flight path, certainly straighter than he might have expected to receive. He noticed out of the corner of his eye a F-32 Hyperion on approach to one of the runways pull into a holding pattern to avoid conflicting Ars' unusually large air lane.
Ars dialed the power of his plasma thrusters back to the minimum level as he began decelerating over the airfield, powerful magnetic and Maxwell-Tesseract Fields vectoring the thrust from his engine downward to assist the lifting thrusters as the airspeed of the colossal Eladrin dropped below the point where it's lift could hold it aloft.
A massive downdraft swept over the busy airfield, with Ragnarok at its center. Flags snapped in the hot wind, and tarps covering supplies began to flap wildly. Here and there, directly beneath the massive the massive aircraft, small unsecured items rattled or were blown away. Across the airfield, heads turned to watch the massive black war machine float overhead like an alien craft from one of yesterday's daydreams. The blue highlights of the Eladrin began to pulse with light as it came to a stop over the Phoenix camp. Then, like a noblewoman disembarking from her carriage, it slid downward and out of sight.
Ars let out a sigh of relief, interrupted by a slight grunt as the 'legs' of the Eladrin extended and his craft dropped the last few inches to the ground. The engines shut down, and as they did so, suited ground crewmen rushed toward the craft, wielding a variety of implements.
One by one, the screens in the cockpit of the Eladrin cut out. Ars removed his flight helmet, reached up, and rubbed his eyes. After staring at the displays for far to many hours, he hadn't realized how much his eyes were starting to hurt.
Lastly, the neural interface deactivated. Ars shuddered slightly, chills running down his back as the interface needles disconnected. Now able to move freely, Ars flipped a switch to open the cockpit.
The control chair rose out of the command pit in the Eladrin and the canopy split laterally overhead and the armored plates covering it opened.
Ars took a deep breath of the exhaust-laced, fresh air of the base. He looked around at the bustle of activity surrounding his craft and spied Melissa approaching on a mobile catwalk that was being wheeled into position next to the cockpit. She stood, like a captain on the prow of her ship, at the tip of the walkway, looking at Ars.
"So," She said, pausing as the gantry locked into place with a jolt, "How did it go, maggot?"
"Fine, ma'am," Ars said, standing up out of the command chair.
"Hum. I believe I heard you killed a Fog Submarine, is that correct?"
"Yes," Ars said, "Though I had targeting assistance from Lieutenant Stevenson."
"Still, you were in the right place at the right time, and it was your missiles that made the kill." Melissa said, extending her hand. "Maybe you aren't as worthless as I thought."
"Thank you," Ars said, taking Melissa's hand and accepting her offer to help him out of the cockpit. "How did the operation go everywhere else?"
"Pretty well," Melissa said. "They pretty much bum rushed us with their submarines. There are dozens of them out there, and we've been putting up our aircraft in matching numbers. We may have gotten a few more of them, but it's hard to say for sure."
"How bad were casualties?" Ars asked, voice soft.
Melissa looked away. "Not too bad. These are submarines, so most of them don't have much in the way of effective anti-air. They only carry a few missiles, and only a couple of them have the high-angle heavy lasers that make aerial operations against the Fog so nasty."
"For conventional aircraft." Ars said.
"True."
Phoenix Field Office, San Diego
"So," Commander Marcus said, taking a sip of his cocoa, "I take it that the Anti-Submarine operations are going well."
"They are, sir," Kuroda said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "The latest report wired indicates that all three Eladrins were recovered undamaged, with one kill attributed to Ragnarok."
"Excellent." Marcus folded his arms over his mouth. "And how are the Pilots?"
"Less well." Kuroda said. "It's going almost exactly as well as could be expected, given that we've put children in charge of some of the most dangerous weapons systems ever created."
"I've been busy with the political aspect of keeping this program afloat." Marcus said. "Give me specifics."
"Teamwork and cooperation between the pilots is below the level we consider to be acceptable. While Stel, the third pilot recruited, seems to be willing to work with the other two, there has been considerable friction between the pilots of Ragnarok and Salamander."
"I see."
"In particular, one incident, a teamwork exercise which took place just after the pilots arrived, seems to have set the tone for their relationship."
"Tell me, have any of the Pilots ever visited the Bombardment Memorial?"
"Not on record, sir."
"Well, I believe it would do those kids some good to see what they are fighting for." Marcus said. "Would the operations schedule permit such a trip?"
"I believe it could, yes."
"Excellent. Make it so."
Platform 12
Ars waited on the platform, waiting for the train to arrive. He wore plain clothes, a white t-shirt and jeans, for the first time in what felt like forever. He had a large suitcase propped up next to him on the concrete of the train platform, which contained both more plainclothes, his Phoenix uniforms, and other items, including a sidearm and his practice sword.
Since the coming of the Fog blockade, trains had regained a prominent place, both in the transport of people and products.
It made sense, really. Airplanes were usually safe, but the Fog occasionally shot down an airliner, seemingly without any rhyme or reason. That made people understandably uncomfortable about air travel, and the added costs of insurance drove up flight, and thus ticket costs, more than the drop-off of demand lowered them. In addition, the sudden isolation of the United States from all foreign energy sources and the massive demand for energy from the Armed Forces made trains much more popular, and practical, then they had been at the beginning of the twenty-first century.
Next to him on the platform stood the other Eladrin Pilots, Isaac and Stel, as well as their training officer and overseer, Melissa. They were all dressed in plainclothes, similar to him, and carried their own suitcases.
The pilots and company stood in the Denver Downtown Metropolitan Interstate Rail Station. It had been constructed after the Fog bombardment on land devastated by corrosive weapons, and was built in the nouveau-retro-Spartan-modern style that had been popular at the time, and never really gone away.
They were, at present, temporarily relieved from the duty of guarding the West Coast of the U.S. for the purposes of a trip to the Bombardment Memorial in Montreal, which none of them had ever visited. They had been flown to a Phoenix facility in the city of Denver, and then driven to the train station. It had been a somewhat pleasant trip so far. Perfect, in fact, if not for the company.
"All I'm saying is that the Fog Submarine Ars killed should have been mine." Isaac said. "I mean, he was practically out of his search zone."
Stel, to whom Isaac was currently monologuing, stood, plain faced, stoically listening her comrade. She gave no indication that she was paying attention, but in the short time Ars had known her, he had come to realize that such an outward appearance was typical of her. Inside, she seemed to be much harder to understand.
Ars put the palm of his hand on his forehead and ran his fingers through his hair. He was rather frustrated which Isaac at present. The guy just wouldn't shut up about anything Ars did. Ever since the incident with the fabricator cadge, he had constantly been on Ars' case about everything he did, and Ars wasn't really sure why.
Sure, he had kind of screwed the pooch with the whole fabricator cadge thing, but that didn't seem like justification for the kind of hostility he had been getting from Isaac.
"What's the problem, Isaac?" Ars said. "I killed that submarine, and I already told you I don't care whose kill it is, as long as the Fog bitch is dead."
Isaac turned toward Ars and glowered. "What do you mean you don't care whose kill it is? How are we supposed to know which of us is better if we don't count kills? That's how ever fighter program in history has ever done it."
"Why does it matter which of us is better?" Ars demanded, holding his hands out. "When did that become important?"
"It's been important this whole time!" Isaac shot back. "How are we supposed to know who should be in charge otherwise?"
"I'm in charge." Ars said. "I have the most experience, and I ranked higher than you, anyway."
"Well, maybe that's the problem." Isaac responded. "Why is that, anyway."
"Phoenix pick me to pilot first."
"By six weeks. You have one mission worth of experience on me and Stel." Isaac folded his arms and assumed a smug expression. "And I think we all know why that is."
Ars took a deep breath. "Don't you bring my father into this."
"Why not?" Isaac said. "He's the only reason you were picked to pilot first. It's pretty obvious, really."
"Well, I've killed Fog ships, and you haven't." Ars said coldly.
"Thus proving my point. You're counting kills, just like I'm saying that we should." Isaac said, his grin growing wider. "Thus proving my point."
Ars said nothing. He had just been outmaneuvered. Brilliantly. He had supposed to have been chosen for the Eladrin Program for his intelligence and ability, but Isaac had just made him look like an idiot.
"Boys, please." Melissa said, stepping between the two. "Ars is in charge, and that's the end of the story. Besides, when deciding who's in command, it doesn't matter who kills more Fog ships. In a way, it would be best to not have our best pilot in command, because then our best pilot could focus on killing the Fog, no on what everyone else is doing."
The whole group paused for a moment at that statement.
"I don't know." Isaac said. "It seems to me like our best pilot might be our best tactician, too. So then shouldn't they be in charge?"
"Isaac?" Melissa said, looking at the boy. "I'm in command here, and Ars is in charge until the commander says otherwise."
"Yes, ma'am." Isaac said, almost too quickly.
There was a distant rumbling, and Ars bent forward to look down the tracks. The train was approaching in the distance, almost shaking the ground with the force of its passage. A moment later, it swept into the station, pushing a gust front of wind before it. The train slowly came to a stop in front on the group of Phoenix personnel, and the door of the cars opened. Pressure releases from the brakes hissed as passengers stepped forward and began to board.
Ars shook his head, collected his suitcase, and boarded the train.
Outside Denver
"So, where are we going again?" Ars asked, looking around the inside of the short connector between the passenger compartments.
It was, in stark contrast to the rest of the train, decorated in a spartan manner, with the wall of bare metal made to be safely exposed to the elements. It bore some strange resemblance to an airlock. It was also made to be folded up into the side of the train car at a moment's notice.
That made Ars rather nervous. It may have been odd for a young man who had flown faster than sound and faced the guns of a Fog battlecruiser, but he was somewhat afraid of the metal beneath his feet buckling and dropping him to be crushed on the tracks.
Ars was, in short, afraid of poor engineering.
"We're going to the bar car." Melissa said, as if that was no big deal. She was standing in front of Ars and Isaac in the passageway, waiting for the door in front of them to cycle open.
"But... We're minors." Isaac said, frowning. "That would make most of the drinks they serve there illegal for us."
"Yes, but you're also active-duty military." Melissa said, waving her hand. "Ever since the Fog bombardment, a military I.D. is a good as a 2030 birth certificate at just about any institution of drink."
"Institution of drink..." Ars muttered. "That's an interesting term."
"But why are we going?" Isaac asked. "Isn't this supposed to be a work trip?"
"I won't let you get drunk." Melissa said dismissively. "Besides, both of you need to unwind. We've been pushing you pretty hard these past few weeks, and I should know just how bad I've made it for you."
She paused as the door in front of them slid open. "Besides, we don't want a repeat of that incident on the platform, do we?"
And she thinks that liquor is the best way to avoid something like that? Ars though, stepping forward to follow Melissa through the hatch into the passenger compartment ahead.
As they walked forward, Isaac spoke. "So, Melissa, I suppose you've read all our files and know all about us. Don't you think it's fair that you tell us a bit about yourself?"
"Meh, I'm nobody interesting." Melissa said. "Just another bombardment orphan. Commander Marcus picked me out of my foster home and offered me the chance to sign on to Phoenix. I took it, worked my way to my current position, and here I am."
"Huh." Isaac said as he took in the story. It seemed believable enough, and it was certainly possible that it had happened. There had been many orphans of the Fog bombardment.
They walked the rest of the way through the passenger car in silence. Ars looked around as they did so. The seats were two thick to either side of the isle, and sparsely filled. There were only a few places the train was stopping over the route to the New New York terminal that wouldn't require overnight accommodations.
They reached the end of the car and entered the not-an-airlock leading to the next car, the bar car if Melissa was correct.
The group cycled through the airlock, and walked into the bar. It was decorated like a tastefully updated version of a 19th century frontier saloon. There was a lot of varnished wood and metal fittings. A long, narrow bar ran down one side of the car, and a row of small tables down the other, with a narrow aisle between them. A single waiter in black attire stood in the center of the car, attending to the small number of patrons. Through the row of large windows down one side of the room, the amber light of sunset filtered into the bar.
Melissa led the pair of teen to one of the tables and sat down, prompting them to do likewise. Once everyone was seated, they opened up the menu and looked down the list over available drinks.
It was all Greek to Ars.
The waiter walked over to their table and removed a pad from his pocket, which had been tailored to conceal it. "Would the sirs and ma'am care for a drink?"
"I'll take a bourbon." Melissa said. "Straight, with ice."
"I'll have a beer." Isaac said. "Whatever is most expensive."
Ars had only the faintest idea what any of those things were. He had isolated himself from such things as a child, and he had never had a foster father explain the intricate varieties of alcohol. "I'll take whatever she's having." He said at last.
The waiter nodded and walked toward the end of the car to go behind the bar.
As the waiter-slash-bartender was preparing the drinks, Ars considered his situation with Isaac. He decided to try an attempt to bridge the gap.
"So, Isaac," he began. "What's your favorite part of piloting the Eladrin?"
"I've never really thought about that before." Isaac admitted. "I like the feeling of flying, I guess, and the power of being connected to so many awesome weapons. Plus, the pay isn't bad. What about you?"
For Ars, the answer was simple. He hated the Fleet of Fog, and by far and away the best part of piloting the Eladrin was the chance to get his revenge on them. He enjoyed, even just from the one time he had done it, the feel of dancing with the wind on the edge of death to continue his father's work and bringing fiery destruction to the nanotech bitches who had killed him.
And that scared him.
"I suppose I like the pay." Ars said, smiling. "And the chance to be a part of something so great is pretty nice, also."
"I see." Isaac said.
"You know what I like about working with Phoenix?" Melissa said, leaning forward across the table toward the boys and speaking in a terse whisper. "The chance to have an opportunity to clobber the Fog and get some payback for what they did to use seventeen years ago."
"Agreed." Ars muttered under his breath.
They sat in silence for a few moments, until the waiter returned carrying a tray, which carried a bottle of dark glass and two glasses of dark liquid with ice cubes floating in them. He placed the glassed in front of Melissa and Ars, and then the bottle before Isaac.
"Your drinks, sirs and ma'am." The waiter said. "If you need anything, please do not hesitate to call me."
The waiter walked away, and Melissa reached forward and picked up her glass. She regarded it for a seconded, then took a long sip. Ars looked at his glass, then took a sip.
It was actually pretty good.
Alongside him, Isaac popped the cap off of his bottle and did the same.
After a few more sips, Ars felt comfortable enough to confront Isaac. He turned toward him, then took a deep breath. "Isaac, what's your deal? Why are you always on my case, for everything?"
"What do you mean, why am I on your case?" Isaac said. "You're the one that's always trying to be better than me. You steal my kills, try to always be in charge, and always act so stuck up. I bet it's all because of your dad. You think that just because he killed all those Fog ships, that you get to be in charge. Am I right?"
"No, of course not!" Ars shouted. "What does my dad have to do with any of this? And what do you mean, I'm stuck up? You're the one who wants to track kills and run the show here!"
"Well, maybe that's because we don't all have a rank to fall back on!"
"Maybe you want the Fog to win this war!"
Isaac stood up and looked down at Ars. "What did you just say?"
"I said that maybe, if you're so intent on disrupting operations, you want the Fleet of Fog to beat us." Ars said, glaring up at Isaac. He didn't mean what he had said, but it seemed like a good retort.
"You do not get imply that." Isaac said, slamming his fist on the table. "You do not get to say that."
"I-" Ars opened his mouth to speak, when on of the other patrons of the bar sprang to his feet.
"BAR FIGHT!" The man shouted as he grabbed a mug off the counter, which he proceeded to throw at Ars.
Ars ducked the thrown mug and looked around in confusion. What was-?
A drunkenly thrown punch caught him in the jaw, knocking his head around. As he stepped back and assumed a fighting stance, he saw that a man in a business suit had joined the growing bar brawl and taken it upon himself to assault Ars. Well, if he wanted a fight, Ars could oblige him.
Ars stepped forward and launched a straight punch toward the man who had assaulted him. The man stumbled backwards, clearly drunk, and raised his fists in an unsteady mirror of Ars' own stance.
The man stepped forward and punched at Ars. Ars sidestepped, getting clear of the table, wishing he had brought his practice sword with him.
As the man recovered from the blow, he stumbled toward Ars, ready to press his assault. However, before he could do anything, a fist took him in the back of the head.
The man fell, revealing the person who had decked him. Ars expected it to be Melissa.
It was Isaac.
"What are you-" Ars was cut off as another of the patrons them themselves at him. He raised his arms over his head and prepared himself to deflect the charging body.
The man struck him like a tidal wave, but Ars successfully deflected much of the force of the impact. His opponent tried an underarm punch, but it had been visible from a mile away, and Ars lowered one arm to block the attack.
Ars retaliated with a pair of quick jabs toward the man's center of mass, knocking him back. His opponent teetered for a moment, but stayed up, and proceeded to unleash a barrage of punches on Ars.
As Ars desperately fended off the wave of blows, he glanced to the side and caught sight of Isaac desperately fending off his own assailant. Melissa was still sitting at the table, sipping from her beverage as she watched the boys fight.
Ars's attention was jolted back to his fight by the impact of a fist on his shoulder. The man he was fighting had managed to slip an attack through his guard. He needed to pay more attention to the fight.
His opponent continued his rain of blows, and Ars maintained his defense, turning aside blows with a surprising ease.
As Ars fought, he marveled at how different it was from fighting in an Eladrin. That was man-machine synergy, this was something else. Something infinitely older. In that moment, Ars wished the conflict with the Fog could be resolved with fists, or perhaps with swords. It would be better that way.
Ars dropped his opponent with a hard uppercut, and turned to face his next adversary. Two men, also dressed in suits, threw themselves at him. Ars took a step back as he began fending off the storm of blows.
It was surprisingly similar to sword fighting. Hit the opponent, don't get hit yourself. Easy as pie.
Ars stepped forward inside the reach of one of his opponents and elbowed him in the face. He flowed up with a strike to the stomach, and his enemy went down.
Then the other man he was fighting hit him in the back of the head.
Ars had forgotten about him.
As he turned to deal with the new threat, the man tumbled down, falling at Ars' feet.
"Can't have them knocking my flight leader around." Isaac said.
"I had him." Ars said.
"Sure you did."
Isaac and Ars stood back to back as three more bar patrons, including the one who had thrown the first mug, moved to surround them.
Their opponents fell on them with a strange coordination, and Ars and Isaac stood their ground, fending off blows while striking back with their own attacks.
Another man joined the fray against them, but it didn't matter. Ars stepped inside the reach of one of his opponents, and Isaac covered his back as he dropped the man.
Soon, a second drunk went down, and then a third.
"Who's next?" Ars shouted, turning toward his one remaining opponent.
"I don't see anyone!" Isaac responded, raising his fists.
The man they were facing stared at them for a moment, then his eyes rolled up in his head and he fell to the floor, unconscious.
Ars looked around the bar. It appeared that all of the drunk patrons had either been defeated by the pair or bludgeoned into unconsciousness by their fellow carousers.
The bar was also a complete mess.
Ars lowered his fists. "What just happened?" He muttered.
"I'm not sure." Isaac responded.
"Did we just beat up a bunch of drunks?" Ars asked.
"Looks that way."
Ars turned to Isaac. "Why did you pull my ass out of the fire back there? A little brain damage, and you could have your wish of being flight leader."
Isaac sighed. "That would be the wrong way to do it. Besides, we need every Eladrin we have in the air. Losing you here would be a waste."
"So they you-"
"Not only that," Isaac continued, "but if you had gotten killed here, then I'd never have the chance to be better than you."
Ars took a deep breath. "Look, I'm sorry if it felt like I was being an ass earlier. I didn't mean to come across as stuck up. I know you don't like me, but if we're going to be going into battle against the Fog together, we need to be able to work together."
"Ars-"
"But I'd like to be friends with you, Isaac, and not out of necessity." Ars held out a hand. "For now, how about a cease-fire?"
"I'll do you one better." Isaac said, shaking Ars' hand. "How about a mutual cooperation of forces agreement against the Fleet of Fog?"
"Agreed." Ars said. Then he let out a sigh of relief.
"Wait a second." Isaac said. "Where's Melissa?"
Western Kansas
"It would appear that Operation Drunken Forge is a success, commander." Melissa said, adjusting the position of the secure communication by her head. "It appears to have gone off flawlessly."
"I'll admit, I had my doubts." Commander Marcus said. "But if it worked... Well, few prices are too high for our Eladrin pilots to be an effective team. That will be essential in the days to come."
Melissa stood, completely against regulations, on a balcony on the back of the last car of the train, watching the sun set on the western horizon. She held a bulky secure communicator up to her ear, trying to enjoy the scenery while talking to the commander.
"You will be arriving in Montreal soon enough." The Commander said. "I trust that you will see to it that the pilots visit all the necessary monuments."
"Yes, Commander." Melissa said. "I understand. If I may ask, why are we doing this?"
"Waging war is a terrible thing, Melissa." The Commander said. "Never forget that. However, when we must fight, it is import that we do so with full knowledge of why we fight. Besides, I perceive that our quest will become very difficult in the future, and seeing what the Fleet of Fog have wrought will be a source of strength for our pilots, who must bear the brunt of our war effort."
"On that topic, Commander," Melissa said, sounding reluctant. "Is what we're doing really right?"
"We are ensuring the survival of the human race." Commander Marcus said. "This is the part where I say that anything is justified, to that end. But..."
"What, sir?" Melissa asked.
"I don't know. I'm not sure if it's right anymore." The Commander said. "But we must not let ourselves be concerned by that. I suppose that it's better that we do wrong than we let our entire nation, our entire species, perish."
"I don't see the difference, sir." Melissa muttered. "Wouldn't that mean what we do is right, then?"
"No, Melissa." The commander said. "They're not the same at all. Someday, you'll see that."
"I hate it when you get like this, sir." Melissa responded.
Somewhere else, the Commander smiled. "Good night, Melissa. I suggest you rest while you can."
Montreal, United States of America
During the Fog bombardment of the North America and the Battle of St. Lawrence River, the city of Montreal had been devastated, more so than nearly any other city on the continent.
When the dust settled, the city was in ruins, and there weren't enough resources, to rebuild it, nor were there enough people in the area to make full reconstruction worthwhile.
Eventually, the city was chosen as the site for the Memorial to the victims of the Fog Bombardment. Part of the reason for the selection was as a olive branch to the then-newly annexed Canadian people, but mostly it was because of the high casualty rate the city had suffered under the tender ministrations of the Fleet of Fog.
When it was all said and done, the city was partially rebuilt away from the river, and much of the devastated old city, that which hadn't been picked over for resources, was preserved in its 'pristine', post-bombardment conditions.
The rest of the space was converted into the memorial. Tall white marble spires, statures of heroic rescue workers and civilians, and rolling hillsides of green.
All covered in grave markers.
It was said to be the largest mass grave on the planet. Over twenty million Bombardment victims, brought from all over New England and Quebec, had been brought there to be buried. Some of the deceased had possessed surviving family members who had said that they would have been wanted to be buried there.
Many, thought, were buried with all known relations.
Ars lay his hands on the white marble hand rest and looked over a green hillside dotted with white. It looked like the pictures he had seen of the D-day cemeteries in France, but on a much larger scale.
Stel said nothing as she looked over the fields of grave markers. She supposed that she might have some family members buried out there, in the sea of graves, but she didn't really know enough about herself to go looking.
Isaac traced his fingers over the wordings on a marble wall behind the other Eladrin pilots. In theory, every victim of the Bombardment was listed twice, once on this wall and once on their grave marker. In practice, that hadn't always worked out.
Unlike the other pilots, he hadn't really lost anyone closely related to him in the Fog Bombardment. His family had always been in the farming business, and the cities had been the worst hit by the Fog, and where the majority of the casualties had been, at least at first.
As Ars looked over the field of graves, he felt anger and sadness rising him in equal measure. So much had been lost in the Bombardment. This is what we fight to prevent. He thought, as the history lessons on the Bombardment rose, unbidden, in his mind.
On December 8th, 2039, ten months after the Great Battle, out of the blue, the Fleet of Fog abruptly started raining down shells, and corrosive missiles on cities across North America. Almost immediately, millions died in fire, or with their atoms rendered apart by the arcane technologies of the Fog.
The bombardment continued for hours, slowly spreading out to the suburbs. The roads were choked with people fleeing in vehicles, but there was no mercy for them as Fog weapons fell like rain on the interstates. Many who thought to flee on foot survived, but they were left with nothing, and at the mercy of those who assumed it was the end of civilization and turned to barbarianism.
Tens of millions died as the attack continued.
When the smoke cleared, Washington was decimated, and the government was essentially decapitated. As massive refugee camps formed on the plains outside of major cities, President Elect Viktor Antonov stepped into the power vacuum left by the destruction of the government. He sent the Army into the country to restore order, and instituted a series of draconian policies to ensure the the nation did not collapse.
Despite his valiant efforts, tens of millions more died of starvation, thirst, and infection in the refugee camps. The sad fact was that while there was food and water enough for them, the Fleet of Fog had destroyed too much of the transportation infrastructure needed to bring it to the camps. Wheat and corn rotted in the fields in the South and Midwest while people starved to death.
Then the next blow came. On Christmas, the Fleet of Fog attempted to force it's way down the St. Lawrence River to seize the Great Lakes, the last major body of water held by humanity.
Fierce shore-to-ship fighting ensured, as the fog Battleships dueled with the coastal batteries and mobile artillery. The Fog advanced in a line, and when the battleship in the lead had taken too much damage, it submerged and retreated, allowing the next in line to continue the assault.
Eventually, the Army repulsed the Fog, with heavy losses and massive damage to New England and Quebec.
All told, eighty-five million died in the United States alone. Sixteen million died in Canada, and at least seventy-five million more died in Mexico as the pseudo-nuclear winter set in. It would have been far worse, was it not for the Shore Assault Interdiction Defense System Operation, a comprehensive plan of continental air defense spearheaded by then-Secretary of Defense Viktor Antonov.
As spring came and order was finally restored in the United States, anarchy raged in Mexico. The legitimate government had collapsed, and drug cartels turned warbands openly battled in the streets.
President Viktor Antonov sent in the army again, crushing the cartels and bringing in much-needed aid. Deciding it was a time for North American unity, he proceeded to annex the entire county. Bread flowed south, enough that the Mexican people wholeheartedly supported the move.
The President entered into talks with the Canadian government as flowers began to grow on the plentiful graves. Treaties were signed, and Canada became the sixty-third through seventy-second states.
Ars knuckles became white as he gripped the rail. What must we do to stop something like this from happening again? He wondered. Would fighting be enough, or would it simply invite another attack from the Fleet of Fog?
"Are you okay?" Isaac asked, walking up behind Ars.
"Yeah." Ars said, choking back tears. "The Fog just killed so many people..."
"What are you going to do about it?" Isaac said in a low voice.
"What?" Ars asked.
"I said, what are you going to do about the Fog killing so many people?" Isaac said. "You have power, more than most people can ever hope of attaining. You can do something about this. So what will it be?"
Ars took a deep breath and looked up. "I'm going to fight." He said.
"Good." Isaac said. "And I will stand by you."
North-East Pacific
Hello, ladies, and welcome to the first strategy session of the North-Eastern Pacific Containment Fleet." Arizona said. "Until now, we have not faced anything from the humans that has presented a significant challenge to us. This has changed, and we must develop new tactics to counteract them."
Arizona stood in front of a chalkboard, pointing at a map of the West Coast of the Unites States. The other Mental Models, Alaska, Saratoga, Seydlitz, and Saratoga, sat at a long table facing the board. Iowa had her laptop out on the table, and the quartet of seated Models looked on intently.
"I have downloaded all the major human tomes on tactical and strategic theory." Iowa said, leaning back in her seat. "Armed with the knowledge of their greatest scholars, we should be able to crush them easily."
"Who do you have?" Saratoga asked, looking up at Iowa with wide eyes.
"You know, Clausewitz, Sun Tzu, Guilliman, Machiavelli, Thucydides, Rommel, Maurice." Iowa said. "You know, the usual. They were pretty clever, though."
"Oh! I've read some of those." Alaska said. "They were pretty good."
"Well then, you two, what do we do to defeat this new human thing?" Arizona said.
"I tried shooting it, but that didn't work." Alaska said. "I'm not sure how else to defeat an airplane. Besides, it's not a thing it's an Eladrin."
"That's not what I mean!" Arizona said, smashing her fist into the blackboard. "Of course we shoot it. How do we do that in a way that leads to our Victory? And who cares what it's called anyway?"
"Well, if guns didn't work," Iowa said. "We could try using more gun."
"I like that plan." Arizona said. "How do we implement it?"
"Well, one of us could move coast, and then rest of us could hide underwater." Saratoga said softly. "Then when the Eladrin appears, we pop up and surprise it."
"I don't think that will work." Alaska said. "Last time, before the humans attacked, they launched sonar buoys with their rocket-assisted artillery. They put out more soundwaves that any of us surface warships could hide from."
"That's a problem." Iowa said raising her hand to her chin. "Unless we shoot them down."
Alaska looked down. "Consider the radius involved. Our best point defense guns only have a range of a few miles. Five for you, maybe. That gives them a coverage area of eighty square miles. A single human artillery tube can put buoys over thousands of square miles of ocean, and they have whole batteries up and down the coast. Even with the entire Fleet here, we could never catch them all."
"Huh." Iowa said. "Then we have to count on them knowing where we are."
"And they have the speed and mobility advantage. If they want to escape, we can't really stop them." Alaska said.
All five Mental Models sat in silence for a moment.
"What if..." Saratoga began. "What if we make them want to attack us?"
"Great idea!" Iowa said, tussling Saratoga's hair. "If they want to attack us, they won't pull out until it's too late!"
"But how do we do that?" Alaska asked.
"Bomb their cities." Arizona responded.
"We can't." Alaska said. "The Admiralty Code forbade that after the Bombardment."
"I keep forgetting that." Arizona muttered. "Makes no sense."
"But it means that we completely surrender the initiative to the Humans." Alaska said, resting her head on her fingers. "We have to keep our forces spread out to prevent anything to slip through our blockade, but they can concentrate all their forces at one point, and Clausewitz said that is the most important aspect of war."
"How do we make them attack us when we lack the initiative?" Arizona said. "We offer them a tempting target."
END OF PART 1