9.120 - The Vanguards: Rapture

[Morgan Evanar]

"MARCUS, full passive." Morgan still chewed on the fact that someone used strobe jamming, a practice that had fallen by the wayside since before the Clone Wars. Modern communications jamming was either done by full spectrum blackout, or a game of counter-wave cat and mouse. Strobe jamming could be effective (it worked well here) but it was power inefficient if you knew the other party's relative communications protocols and frequencies. It required large, general EM bursts on large chunks of spectrum. Hence the "strobe."

"We're dealing with either old equipment and/or an unknown 3rd party. I would guess pirates flying Alliance colors." He said out loud, for the crew's benefit.

[MARCUS]

"Your hypothesis is likely. The Alliance Navy is built upon mainstay equipment that 'common market', which is to say there are no organizational controls to restrict their proliferation. A 'false flag' incident should not go unanticipated, as it is an endemic weakness to the Alliance.

It is an organizational inefficiency, but one that is unlikely to be solved in the near future."

The monitor refreshed, clearing off the previous dialogue.

"This conversation is not relevant to our task. Systems emissions now optimized for stealth approach. Be aware, our emissions mask will hamper sensor capability. Recommend visual approach for efficient data gathering."

[Cirrsseeto Quez]

"Rrjight."

He glanced to Glayde.

"Guess we go forr a closerr look then. Get yourr shorre parrty ready."

Novgorod pulled into a polar orbit of the planet, keeping indirect line of sight with the main settlement while maintaining distance. If nobody was looking for them, they were unlikely to be found.

[John Glayde]

Shore party. Glayde could have hugged him.

Fortunately he didn't; good sense and military decorum kept his response limited to a curt but enthusiastic: "Aye, sir."

He hesitated, part way through firing the nerve impulses to his legs that would send him marching out of the bridge, and down to the barracks level. This situation was very much a mystery; and while the selection of people skilled at destroying things was at an all-time high, he was a little low on people skilled in putting things back together again.

He never thought he'd find himself lamenting the absence of Alexander Tur'enne.

His gaze settled on a console; he never knew where to look when addressing the damned computer. "MARCUS; how would you feel about coming out for walkies?"

[MARCUS]

The console patched into MARCUS's terminal on the bridge, and a response was delivered promptly.

"My bipedal module is available for the completion of secondary tasks. I will meet you in the hangar bay."

[John Glayde]

Glayde shot a wry glance at the Captain, a rhetorical comment tumbling from his lips. "Can we requisition more of him? I could do with more people on my team who are that obligingly compliant."

He didn't stay for a response; a nodded salute was offered before he made for the hatch, tugging the comlink from his belt as he went. His mind searched through the over-abundance of skilled individuals that populated the ship's lower decks. Missions that required explosions were easy to select personnel for; but reconnaissance missions with absolutely no clue of what awaited you was something different entirely.

He flipped the device over to the military frequency designated for his team, and thumbed the talk stud.

"Dirge, Onashi, Porter; grab your gear and meet me on the hangar deck. We're going on a field trip."

[Serasai Onashi]

If there was only one good quality about Onashi, most people would be hard pressed to find it; and that was for the reason that they were looking for good qualities. Or one of them, at least. They bypassed certain qualities that one Serasai Onashi, mercenary and all around bad-ass (self described), had trained up.

He was usually very punctual, arriving right on time to everything for which he was summoned, down to last second.

He was diligent. His blaster and gear were always well kept, and the engraved "Vera" on a plaque on his blaster's stock stood out well, though it didn't shine. That would be bad on the battlefield.

And, despite his usually cocksure demeanor, he wasn't one for boasting; his actions bore him out well enough, both on and off the battlefield.

Even still, Dirge was there before him, looking as distractingly gorgeous as ever. It was too bad she was all business; she could probably be a wildcat in the bunk, and it was unlikely that he'd ever know.

"I can't ever get to the hangar before you, Dirge," he said, shaking his head. "Do you bunk here, or just have some secret turbolift you can get to that takes you directly here?"

[Maren Dirge]

Dirge stood at the hangar decks weapons bench, her back turned to Onashi. She slapped a fresh reserve of tibanna gas into a blaster pistol, the cannister releasing a satisfying hiss as it locked into place. The pistol joined its twin in the holsters on her hips as Maren turned to face the least convincing SpecOps operative she'd had the pleasure of working alongside.

“You're still here.”

It was a statement, not a question, spoken with just a hint of weary irritation.

[Sam Porter]

"No. No no no no no."

The voice carried across the small expanse of Novgorod's hangar bay, rife with aggravation and impatience.

Samantha Porter had to keep herself from reaching out and slapping the man beside her with annoyance.

"The green wire goes there, and the yellow goes into that port. The red gets twisted around the blue one, and those get plugged into this cap."

She snatched each wire as she spoke, swift fingers completing each task as she explained.

"You're damaging my calm," was her last grumbled retort as she flipped the device over to check its' underside and make sure the paneling was securely fastened.

Satisfied, Sam turned it back over. Exposed wiring was soon enough covered by another plate, and this she screwed tighly into place.

That's how you do it. Get it right next time, eh? Last thing I need is to be blamed for a dud package."

Glancing over her shoulder, the blonde made a face at the small group beginning to assemble.

"Or a package that goes of prematurely."

Oh, she'd heard the call for the shore party, but her comm had been angrily switched off and slammed to the deck as she did her best to explain the delightful innards of her trade to the poor crewman that'd been assigned to her. They called her a 'special case', but considering the nature of her arrival aboard Novgorod she couldn't really blame them.

She had somewhat talked her way onto the ship, but that was neither here nor there. She was aboard. What's done was done, and if she wished to stay, then she'd have to deliver.

At least her situation was in better standing than that of Ledo Prent. The bastard. If there was ever a man that needed to be shot of of an airlock on principle alone, it was him.

Another glance over her shoulder, and Sam gave a groan. She lifted herself up from her crouch, bomb in one hand and a screwdriver in the other, and with a resigned sigh, set both atop the crate that'd been designated as hers.

The crewman stood also, giving her a disgruntled look, but she waved him off.

"You can go away now."

Sam jerked a thumb in the direction of the assembling group.

"Looks to be I'm going with them and well... " she looked him up and down.

"... your jumpsuit is red, and you know what they say about that."

[MARCUS]

MARCUS approached the sass-mouthed demolitons expert, and quickly examined the parcel in her possession.

"This mission is investigative in nature. The chance that we will be needing high explosives seems unlikely."

[Sam Porter]

As if the droid was a carrier of the Gungan plague, Sam snatched the package away from him.

"I don't recall saying anything about taking my party favors with me," she snapped defensively.

Her height at least put her eyes on the level of the thing's glowing, ocular receptor.

"Do you?"

[MARCUS]

The droid took on a posture that was designed to accentuate his misunderstanding.

"You have not. My comment was based purely on observation."

MARCUS gestured to the Comet where the other members of the shore party were stepping aboard.

"Our discussion is inefficient. We should embark immediately."

[John Glayde]

"Indeed we should," Glayde cut in, derailing their discussion before Porter decided to punch MARCUS.

It wasn't that he had any problems with the two going at it per se; he was sure that the droid - or whatever he was; Glayde wasn't entirely sure what the correct terminology was, and was reluctant to subject himself to the lengthy answer he'd no doubt get if he asked - was more than capable of handing himself. He just knew that Porter was too; and from what he'd heard she tended to punch for the face, and the presence of MARCUS as a scientific platform would be somewhat redundant if she dented his sensors.

Marching through the hangar bay without stopping, he led the way into the shuttle, the rest of his team filing in behind him. Again, he was silently greatful that the Novgorod came packing shuttle pilots; the less time he spent behind the controls of one of these bastard clap-traps, the better.

A glance in Onashi's direction suggested that the Lieutenant was inclined to agree.

"Strap in, boys and girls," he instructed, selecting one of the crash couches and following his own advice.

[MARCUS]

MARCUS prepared to step in, alongside Dirge and Onashi, and paused in front of Glayde.

"Major, a moment please. The probability of combat operations on our reconnaissance mission is distinct. This module contains uninstalled subroutines designed for small unit combat. The Captain has declined to install these programs, perhaps to insist that I divert all resources to the primary task.

With your command of the shore party, doctrine dictates that you determine the course of outcome. Shall I install?"

[John Glayde]

Glayde blinked at the automaton, silently cursing the fact that he insisted on phrasing things in such a damned long-winded way. It wasn't hard to decipher his meaning; it would have just been nice if it wasn't necessary.

The question seemed simple enough: I have combat protocols. Should I install them?

Something about what MARCUS had said gave him pause, however. The Captain has declined. While the Major was predisposed by career and training to want every last scrap of tactical advantage that he could get his hands on, he was well aware that the Captain had significantly more experience dealing with this walking talking program than he did. If the Captain had declined through lack of necessity, that was one thing; if it was because he knew something that the Major did not, that was another matter entirely.

You're not just a soldier anymore, Glayde, his mind muttered at him. You're a Navy XO too. Make a smart decision; do what's best for the ship, not just what's best for the mission.

A question occurred to him. "How long would it take to install these subroutines, MARCUS?"

[MARCUS]

The bipedal module's visual receptor narrowed its iris slightly.

"Installation would be immediate."

[John Glayde]

Glayde nodded.

"Well then, MARCUS: it's probably best to wait. It would be -" He searched for the best word. "- illogical to clutter up your memory banks with unnecessary subroutines."

"If we need you combat-ready, I will order you to install them," he assured. "But you are only to install them on my express instructions; is that understood?"

[MARCUS]

The droid nodded in affirmation.

"Affirmative."

Without further delay, he strapped himself into crash webbing inside the shuttle, just as Porter, Dirge, and Onashi had already done. Once Glayde strapped in, they were ready to launch.

[Serasai Onashi]

Onashi ignored the dialogue between Glayde and the droid (he had no better term for it, and he truthfully wasn't thinking too hard about any possible distinctions between a droid and whatever was conversing with his commanding officer), and strapped himself into the shuttle, sharing a look with Glayde indicating his preference for riding shuttles instead of flying them.

He was of the personal opinion that flying anything save for, maybe, a snub fighter was better left to droids.

"Let's get moving then," he said, a bit of impatience leaking through his expression of continuing cynicism.

[John Glayde]

On orders from the bridge, the shuttle pilot engaged the repulsorlift, hefting the unaerodynamic block of a shuttle from the deck, and easing her out through the magnetic containment field that held in the hangar bay's atmosphere. Ion drives pulsed into life, sending the ship hurtling through space towards the planet below.

As the ship began it's furious shaking, Glayde idly remembered the barely-stable and allegedly stealth ship that SpecForce had sent him on a mission to Dar Akuz in. He'd thought that shuttle was a death trap. This one was worse.

The shuttle itself seemed oblivious to the distain felt towards it by it's occupants however, hurtling along like a brick hurled towards the window that was Karalon's upper atmosphere. It smashed against the upper surface belly first, sending a jolt through it's passengers, and sending a plume of burning oxygen trailing off into space, making it look from a distance every bit the comet that the Novgorod crew had nicknamed her.

Luckily Glayde had a strong stomach, else the violent shaking stood a damned good chance of fulfilling the vomit part of the nickname too.

The sound barrier burst, and a few thousand feet later the fires went out, the brick tumbling to fly face-first again. Glayde hoped to any gods that were listening that the repulsorlifts hadn't just been roasted off; nothing about the shuttle's descent ever felt controlled, and Glayde had no desire to suffer the indignity of dying in a metal box that hit the ground too hard.

To his credit, the shuttle pilot coralled the Comet with ease, riding her like an enthusiastic nerf herder on the back of a rodeo bantha. His control shifts weren't the smooth and graceful transitions that one reserved for a responsive shuttle; they were bold, confident movements that slapped the ship into submission. Assuming they survived landing, and made it back to the Novgorod alive, Glayde vowed to buy the kid a beer.

From his vantage point, Glayde could see little; but the glimpses he snatched through the viewport caught him by surprise. Karalon was a beautiful place, with clear skies of blue, and architecture of ice white. It looked every bit the ideal of a peaceful, safe world that the Empire promised to all it's citizens; practically a postcard for everything remotely positive about the Imperial regime.

A knot twisted in Glayde's stomach, as he remembered the snatches of transmission and the accusation it levelled against the Alliance. Had secret elements of the Rebellion sunk so low that they would attack the innocent people on a tactically meaningless world like this?

Sometimes, he thought bitterly. I'm not sure who the good guys are in this war.

That thought haunted him the rest of the way to Karalon's surface.

*

Glayde took point, leading the crew up the long approach to the colony. Through their entire descent, the shuttle hadn't been challenged: not by landing control, or by airborne patrols. Glayde would have loved to have given all the credit to their pilot; but the comm channels had all been quiet. Too quiet.

His grip tightened on his blaster rifle, already pressed against his shoulder, his eyes sweeping every nook and concealed corner for signs of the ambush that his gut told him was waiting.

"Spread out," he ordered, voice loud enough to be heard by the team, but not so loud that it disturbed the eerie silence of what seemed to be a deserted city. What was going on here? Had the citizens fled to bunkers during the alleged Alliance attack? Were they all cowering in their homes like characters from some nerf herder gunslinger holoflick?

He glanced with half an eye in the direction of the droid - the only unarmed member of his contingent. "You picking anything up, MARCUS?"