Day thirty-one, tenth month, thirty-fourth year of the Empire…
There were 100 of them crammed together: a full century’s worth of Star Army infantry stood jostling about as their Type 31 Dropship slammed through HX-13’s turbulent skies. Each wore a DAISY and Ke-M6-W2921 plasma rifle, their armor shining and new. Few among this particular unit had seen combat yet. Indeed, the Legion XII marking emblazoned on each suit’s shield saw its first scratches and dings here as the landing vessel heaved and swayed amidst the planet’s upper atmosphere.
Fleet and legion officers had briefed them all — the soldiers of the XII and I legions now in their controlled fall through the jungle planet’s clouds — and had assured every soldier that Operation Kōzan would be a quick mop-up affair. That’s why there were so many of them being sent in now; meet the enemy with overwhelming force and they’d fold quickly and painlessly. As painlessly as the battle above had been, where resistance to the Twelfth Fleet amounted to a few parting shots from an NMX force that jumped away. And while they’d been warned that the sole Mishhuvurthyar stronghold on the planet was dug-in, hence the fleet’s inability to crack its defense batteries and ground command’s decision to land troopers a hemisphere away, it wouldn’t be a tough nut to crack once the legions made the trek to close the distance.
“Looks like the first half dozen centuries have made a safe landing. Not much fight down there,” this century’s commanding shoi called out, the Nekovalkyrja’s smiling voice cracking in each DAISY’s helmet. The chosen beachhead had been painstakingly selected by SAINT for just such an outcome. It was a massive, idyllic bayline that spanned many kilometers — enough, indeed, for the entire Legion XII and half of Legion I to land their centuries and equipment — with wide, flat beaches of sand that stretched to the creeping forest that covered most of the planet. “Making our way down nice and smooth, now. T-minus 120 seconds to landfall!”
True enough, that. The turbulence abated, though the craft still shook as its thrusters engaged to slow its fall. A digital clock blinked down the seconds to landing, complemented by a lit red light shining next to it, along with its unlit green sister waiting its turn. The shoi up in front of her cohort turned to a console on the dropship’s bulkhead and plugged in a retractable cord pulled from the armor she wore.
Only 50 seconds now.
The craft jostled again, more violently than it had in the moments that seemed to all aboard like hours while they watched the countdown. Around them, the soldiers could hear a smooth whirring as some machinery aboard the ship clanked to life. Some of the infantry looked around, keying nervous questions to each other that mostly asked “what was that?” or “is something up?” And then another bump came, even greater this time. The shoi’s movements looked more direct and purposeful now as her body language told an ominous tale even though none could hear the conversation she was having on another channel.
Thirty-three, 32, 31, and now 30 seconds shone on the countdown monitor.
That “30” hung visible for eternity, its electric blue numbers etched in the century’s collective memory. It was the moment this mission was fouled up, as the Nepleslians put far more crudely, beyond all recognition. An intense rumbling suddenly reverberated through the entire ship’s hull as what could only be its anti-armor turrets roared to life for but a short second before every infantryman aboard felt gravity’s pull, signalling the dropship was pulling up hard.
“Brace, brace, brace!,” came the shoi’s command, more frantic than authoritative as she held on to the durable cargo netting provided along the ship’s interior. “Damn squids got us! Came out of the sea — the jungle!”
With a thunderclap, sparks, and flame, the dropship flinched again, this time spinning with such gees that it knocked down half the packed-in century. To the transport bay’s starboard, light and wind and smoke poured in and revealed a beautiful, horrifying scene below. The beach and water outside were as picturesque as the volumetric intel had showed back during briefing. Or would have been, if not for the streaks of aether and plasma that crossed the clear blue morning sky, scoring the sand and lighting HX-13’s wicked looking green fauna ablaze along the beachline. Mishhu constructs rose from the sea, the water sloughing off their organic forms as their weapons sizzled up from the depths. And the ground itself, littered with fallen Yamataian armor and the wreckage of the first landers, spun ever-closer, visible through the ripped hull with each revolution of the wounded dropship.
By now, the red light had turned green despite the continuing countdown and comms chatter had erupted throughout the century. Those designated radio operators heard even more — that fleet strikes were un-doable because of the Star Army personnel that now scurried, mingling and dying, too-near to their assailants. And then the dropship crashed, like so many others had and would, rolling a fresh cut in HX-13’s sand. DAISY armors were thrown out as the Type 31’s wings crumpled and bent against the earth, becoming barely recognizable as the same ship by the time it ground to a halt.
Yamashiro Sakura, Suriyama Aoi, and Tamahagane “Ojou” had all been on that dropship and now lay in the sand — in the trench torn by their felled lander — as the carnage raged around them. Above, weapons fire and damage craft streaked the azure sky, set against white wisps of cloud and dark, thick smoke. The three soldiers were all within five meters of each other, as well as close to a heisho who lay immobile, though they had not all been a part of the same fireteam. Not that organization mattered now, in any case. Because of where they’d been flung they were safe for now, but likely not for long.
There were 100 of them crammed together: a full century’s worth of Star Army infantry stood jostling about as their Type 31 Dropship slammed through HX-13’s turbulent skies. Each wore a DAISY and Ke-M6-W2921 plasma rifle, their armor shining and new. Few among this particular unit had seen combat yet. Indeed, the Legion XII marking emblazoned on each suit’s shield saw its first scratches and dings here as the landing vessel heaved and swayed amidst the planet’s upper atmosphere.
Fleet and legion officers had briefed them all — the soldiers of the XII and I legions now in their controlled fall through the jungle planet’s clouds — and had assured every soldier that Operation Kōzan would be a quick mop-up affair. That’s why there were so many of them being sent in now; meet the enemy with overwhelming force and they’d fold quickly and painlessly. As painlessly as the battle above had been, where resistance to the Twelfth Fleet amounted to a few parting shots from an NMX force that jumped away. And while they’d been warned that the sole Mishhuvurthyar stronghold on the planet was dug-in, hence the fleet’s inability to crack its defense batteries and ground command’s decision to land troopers a hemisphere away, it wouldn’t be a tough nut to crack once the legions made the trek to close the distance.
“Looks like the first half dozen centuries have made a safe landing. Not much fight down there,” this century’s commanding shoi called out, the Nekovalkyrja’s smiling voice cracking in each DAISY’s helmet. The chosen beachhead had been painstakingly selected by SAINT for just such an outcome. It was a massive, idyllic bayline that spanned many kilometers — enough, indeed, for the entire Legion XII and half of Legion I to land their centuries and equipment — with wide, flat beaches of sand that stretched to the creeping forest that covered most of the planet. “Making our way down nice and smooth, now. T-minus 120 seconds to landfall!”
True enough, that. The turbulence abated, though the craft still shook as its thrusters engaged to slow its fall. A digital clock blinked down the seconds to landing, complemented by a lit red light shining next to it, along with its unlit green sister waiting its turn. The shoi up in front of her cohort turned to a console on the dropship’s bulkhead and plugged in a retractable cord pulled from the armor she wore.
Only 50 seconds now.
The craft jostled again, more violently than it had in the moments that seemed to all aboard like hours while they watched the countdown. Around them, the soldiers could hear a smooth whirring as some machinery aboard the ship clanked to life. Some of the infantry looked around, keying nervous questions to each other that mostly asked “what was that?” or “is something up?” And then another bump came, even greater this time. The shoi’s movements looked more direct and purposeful now as her body language told an ominous tale even though none could hear the conversation she was having on another channel.
Thirty-three, 32, 31, and now 30 seconds shone on the countdown monitor.
That “30” hung visible for eternity, its electric blue numbers etched in the century’s collective memory. It was the moment this mission was fouled up, as the Nepleslians put far more crudely, beyond all recognition. An intense rumbling suddenly reverberated through the entire ship’s hull as what could only be its anti-armor turrets roared to life for but a short second before every infantryman aboard felt gravity’s pull, signalling the dropship was pulling up hard.
“Brace, brace, brace!,” came the shoi’s command, more frantic than authoritative as she held on to the durable cargo netting provided along the ship’s interior. “Damn squids got us! Came out of the sea — the jungle!”
With a thunderclap, sparks, and flame, the dropship flinched again, this time spinning with such gees that it knocked down half the packed-in century. To the transport bay’s starboard, light and wind and smoke poured in and revealed a beautiful, horrifying scene below. The beach and water outside were as picturesque as the volumetric intel had showed back during briefing. Or would have been, if not for the streaks of aether and plasma that crossed the clear blue morning sky, scoring the sand and lighting HX-13’s wicked looking green fauna ablaze along the beachline. Mishhu constructs rose from the sea, the water sloughing off their organic forms as their weapons sizzled up from the depths. And the ground itself, littered with fallen Yamataian armor and the wreckage of the first landers, spun ever-closer, visible through the ripped hull with each revolution of the wounded dropship.
By now, the red light had turned green despite the continuing countdown and comms chatter had erupted throughout the century. Those designated radio operators heard even more — that fleet strikes were un-doable because of the Star Army personnel that now scurried, mingling and dying, too-near to their assailants. And then the dropship crashed, like so many others had and would, rolling a fresh cut in HX-13’s sand. DAISY armors were thrown out as the Type 31’s wings crumpled and bent against the earth, becoming barely recognizable as the same ship by the time it ground to a halt.
Yamashiro Sakura, Suriyama Aoi, and Tamahagane “Ojou” had all been on that dropship and now lay in the sand — in the trench torn by their felled lander — as the carnage raged around them. Above, weapons fire and damage craft streaked the azure sky, set against white wisps of cloud and dark, thick smoke. The three soldiers were all within five meters of each other, as well as close to a heisho who lay immobile, though they had not all been a part of the same fireteam. Not that organization mattered now, in any case. Because of where they’d been flung they were safe for now, but likely not for long.
