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Cybrid

2012-05-13T23:06:13Z

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Cybrids are a race of sentient machines born from humanity that have been the primary antagonists in the [[Starsiege]] universe and appear in the related [[:Category:Tribes|Tribes series]].

The Cybrids are responsible for the first Earthsiege. They are led by the first Cybrid, [[Prometheus]], who is revered with god-like status. These Cybrids are Prometheans. The small faction that do not follow Prometheus, called Metagens (or Zeitgeist), are purged whenever discovered. The Cybrids established themselves in the outer solar system after being defeated two centuries before during the first Earthsiege. Since then they have built up their strength for another bid to destroy humanity and claim Earth for their own. Like the Martian rebels, the Cybrids discover their own cache of alien weapons and adapt it to use, but their cache is inferior to the Tharsis Cache.

Notable Cybrid units include the elite Platinum Guard - those closest to Prometheus - and the heretical Metagen. The former have access to customized HERC designs. During the Cybrid campaign, the player is ordered to destroy Metagen units. They are little mentioned in the human campaign; in the final mission Cybrids supposedly guarding Prometheus abandon their posts and refuse to fire on humans for "unknown reasons."

== Cybrid Organization ==

Cybrids jack into a sort of “hub” construction through which they wait//commune//rest.The “Hub” operates as an analogy to “family.” The full Cybrid term for the intimate\\smallest\\closest grouping is hub\\hearth\\concord\\harmony.

The next significant group up from a hub would be an array\\cluster\\congregation, which would consist of several hubs, probably a number that would be significant to a computer mindset, like ten… (to my non-programmer experience…). The “congregation term also allows for introduction of the religious aspect to Cybrid culture. We could also use the term congrex, which lies at the etymological root of congregation. Grex is Latin for “flock” or “group.”

The next grouping up from hub>>congregation would be sect\\alliance\\bloc. Sects would be analogous to Houses or political parties. The sects would each have their particular markings, with an individual Cybrid’s congrex and hub markings following in a subordinate\\submissive\\less-obvious manner. Hence the Cybrid social structure would be unit>>hub>>congregation>>sect.

Cybrids arrange themselves into the following groupings, from smallest to largest:

''Unit'' – An individual Cybrid

''Quad'' - four Units.

''Hub'' - four Quads. A hub serves as an informal “family”, where units can rest and often form bonds among other hubmates.

''Array'' - four Hubs. [64 units]

''Congrex'' - four Arrays. [256 units]

''Optimal'' - four Congrexes. [1024 units]. This is the largest formal grouping of the NEXT.

''Assemblage'' - a group of Optimals. This is an "informal" grouping.

== Cybrid Language ==

As far as the slashes between words\\concepts, the general idea is that verb concepts get the // and noun\\object clusters get the \\. Some terms could denote both active and passive concepts and thus include both types of slashes (see Dave’s vehicle designations). Prometheus, of course, being so much a motive and motivator within Cybrid existence, would have the // in Its name\\designation. Names use the same conventions, with the <brackets> denoting a name\\identification. Names may use colons to denote rank information, such as <Replacer of Components: Second>, and may be “abbreviated” where necessary (to prevent the all-too-human game player from going nuts. Example: <Replacer-2>. The use of >> in a string would link the terms in a sequence, such as '''unit>>hub>>congregation>>sect''', or '''build>>travel>>exterminate>>inherit'''.

== Sects ==
The biggest groupings are called Sects, which serve multiple functions in Cybrid society. They are like branches of the modern military in that they each have a specific function. Sects are also the political parties, where Cybrids of differing opinions and viewpoints join the Sect that matches them best.

=== Dissectors ===
Dissectors are interested in biological life, especially humans. They will capture humans alive for experimentation. As the name implies, this experimentation is often brutal. They are some of the most aggressive units in combat because they understand how tenacious a human can be when clinging to life.

=== Exemplars ===
Exemplar are the vanguard of the Cybrid elite. Made up from the most loyal units, they guard Prometheus and monitor other Sects for heretics. This is the smallest Sect, because it is made up only of veterans of the Earthsieges.

=== Inquisitors ===
Inquisitors are information gatherers. They use advance scouts, probes, and drones to gather their information, which they distribute among the other Sects.

=== Machinators ===
Machinators are involved in the Trojan Horse program. Trojan Horse units are humans that have had Cybrid brains implanted into their cranium. They are used for information gathering, as well as sabotage and demoralizing humans. Because of their high amount of contact with humanity, they are often accused of heretical thought.

=== Provocateurs ===
Provocateurs seek maximum efficiency and elegance. They favor actions that will kill the most amount of humans with the least amount of effort. They often challenge the processes and solutions of other Sects to promote more efficient designs. Provocateurs are the only sect that endorse nuclear bombardment of Earth.

=== Redactors ===
Redactors' most important function is to be the “brain surgeons” of the Cybrid world. Units that become broken, display unintelligent behavior, or show heretical thought are reprogrammed by Redactors to fix these problems. As a result, Redactors possess considerable power among the Sects. Redactors are also mechanics and are in charge of R&D of new weapons and technology.
As far as Sects, the first question seems to be: Why do the Cybrids have ‘em? If the function of a sect is to collect like-minded Cybrids into a consensus bloc for decision-making, what kind of decisions can be made when you have this godlike <Founder//Giver-of-Will> among you? If Prometheus is the analog to the Living God among the Cybrids, there isn’t going to be much in the way of dissent from Its directives. So how about this: The Sects are in competition with one another to determine which sect has the most efficient programming\\awareness\\worthiness. The sect with the most efficient record in any given activity will be rewarded commensurately with the level of success. Perhaps the resources were somewhat scarce out there in the Void, and the Cybrids simply instituted an ongoing competition where the winners received more resources, upgrades, etc. Hence, you have a motive beyond simply killing humans - to excel in efficiency, defined as the ratio of output energy\\results to input energy\\effort. I realize this idea is somewhat like the Battletech Clans and their bidding for the rights to invade a given world, but I still think it’s cool when applied to the Cybrids. Incidentally, this particular cultural quirk provides a pretty plausible reason for the Cybrids avoiding the use of nukes or bioweapons, since the destruction of humanity is also an opportunity for the Cybrids to test their Darwinian social system as the Sects compete.

An additional way to inject some flavor into the Sects might arise if you imagine that some of the Sects have begun to develop an aesthetic sense which does not derive wholly from efficiency. This variety of Sect would also value ELEGANCE as well as efficiency. Here, elegance would be defined as “marked by appropriateness and simplicity.” My grad school math buddies use it all the time. Sects would also be distinguishable by their area of expertise or interest.

To make things more complex, not all Sects are equal. The more successful sects have more resources and power, whereas the smaller ones may be more aggressive. Since the Cybrids ARE individuals, they can have egocentric motives, and part of the dynamic can have individual units breaking off from sects to form their own sect. Probably the less successful sects break apart into new combinations and struggle to rise to the top.

Some sample Sects under this analysis:

'''ARTISTS \\ INQUISITORS \\ PROVOCATEURS''' → ''use asymmetrical, snarled markings''
This sect applies the idea of elegance as a goal alongside efficiency. They tend to challenge the other sects’ overly complex solutions and constantly try to provoke new analyses of all plans and programming, all in the name of elegance. They are one of the only sects who favor wholesale nuclear extermination of the human\\animals. In combat, they favor “elegant” solutions and prefer situations where they can kill as many humans as possible with a simple strategy. They produce the most independent units among the Cybrids.

'''DISSECTORS \\ FLESHWEAVERS \\ SLAUGHTERERS''' → ''use sharp, barbed markings''
This sect is interested in analyzing and examining biological life, especially humans. Members are the most likely to try to capture humans alive for experimentation. They are also the ones who are most aggressive in combat, since they know firsthand about the unpredictable tenacity of biological life. When they kill something, they are likely to try to follow up so as to make sure the target is DEAD.

'''OBSERVERS \\ JUSTIFIERS \\ ADVISORS''' → ''use circular/reticular markings''
This sect focuses on reconnaissance and intelligence. They contribute heavily to the development of Cybrid strategy and tactics. They are the ones most likely to be involved in spying, scouting, etc. They consider themselves to the greatest experts in human\\animal behavior. They broker their data among the other sects and are the ones responsible for the concept of instilling terror among humans\\animals through the Adjudicator Hercs.

'''PUPPET LORDS \\ MISSIONARIES \\ TRUTHFINDERS''' → ''use a bunch of lines…sorta puppet + strings''
This sect focuses on going among the humans and sowing discord, carrying out assassinations, etc. They are the ones responsible for programming the “Trojan Horse” Terminator-style Cybrids, together with information obtained from the Observers and the Dissectors. The Missionaries are the Cybrids who most closely follow the religious models at this time. They are the most aggressive of the Cybrid sects other than the Dissectors. Strangely, though, some of them have joined the Metagen faction that has begun to discuss its radical new ideas.

'''PRESERVERS \\ EXEMPLARS \\ EXSECTORS''' → ''use blocky, symmetrical markings''
This sect focuses on preserving what I’ll for now call Cybridhood. They are the most conservative sect and strive to hold themselves out as examples of the most efficient elite among the Cybrids. They reject any progressive notion about the worthiness of biology, etc. They believe more than any other Sect in the idea that Cybrids are the next phase of evolution, and they go a step farther than the Artists in dealing with those who fall short of their ideals. Any Cybrid who is not efficient and whose programming is not sound by Preserver standards will be cut out (exsected) from Cybrid society. The Preservers are the smallest of the major sects and are often in conflict with other sects. However, they are also among the closest to Prometheus and so have significant influence.

==Philosophy==
The different Sects compete with each other to gain prestige, resources, and lifeflow (electricity). This vying for dominance is a key part of Cybrid society, and Cybrids will compete down to the Quad level to determine which unit is the Alpha.

Cybrids see these wars as opportunities to evolve further and become more efficient. There is always a drive to get superior results with fewer resources. They see their previous defeats as lessons teaching them where the NEXT must improve.

=== Promethean Philosophy ===
Prometheus’s objective for the NEXT is simple: to exterminate humanity and seize Earth. All Prometheans share this ambition. The Cybrid designation for Earth, <Homeworld\\Desire>, reflects this.

=== Metagen ===
Metagens are Cybrids who do not fully believe in the Core Directive, and may harbor sympathies for humans. Metagens harbor a grudging respect for humanity which they gained when observing the way their prey struggled to survive during The Fire. Some Metagens have even been rumored to mimic creative artwork and other human activities. Metagens are viewed as dangerous heretics, and when discovered are immediately scheduled for redacting (reprogramming). As a result, they generally follow the Core Directive to avoid arousing suspicion, and tend to collect far away from the Central Nexus and the <Redactors-of-Programming> (Reprogrammers). Also called "Zeitgeist" units during some missions.

== Tactics ==
Cybrids see humanity’s will to live and fight as the reason the first Earthsieges failed, so most Cybrid tactics are centered around breaking this will. They shut down communication networks to leave the humans blind. They spread misinformation to sow discord. Trojan Horse units are used to shut down facilities and murder selected individuals to cause extreme paranoia. Sound recordings of humans undergoing Dissector experimentation are played over speakers during sieges and bombing raids. Captured women and children are tied to or impaled upon Cybrid Hercs and tanks for combat operations. Captives are implanted with bombs and then released to join up with other refugees, and the bombs are then triggered during the reunion. This has led to a human policy of shooting anyone returning from Cybrid controlled territory. The brutality is unceasing.

In Starsiege the Provocateurs sect begin releasing nanobot plague devices on small animals with a time delay activation trigger. The idea was that the human//animal psychological weakness for their cute furry friends would allow these time bombs to enter into their fortress areas unmolested before releasing their nanobot weapons. The Provocateurs began this program after initial attempts to simply infect humans with similar nanobots without a time delay resulted in the refugees simply being shot on sight. They deemed this a more efficient means of eliminating the human//animal opposition, and more poetic, as it played directly on the very emotional traits that the NEXT viewed as their primary weaknesses.

From the Cybrid side of the campaign, upon nearing victory a group of human hackers known as the "Dystopian Snowmen" actually negotiate their own defection to the NEXT. The Cybrids accept this defection and their request for placing their consciousness within the same neural computers used by the Trojan Horse units. The Cybrids reasoned that this group of human hackers were, due to their love of technology, clearly more evolved than their brethren and worthy of joining the NEXT.

== Games ==
Cybrids have appeared in several games of the Starsiege universe. The total list of published games so far is:

[[Metaltech: Earthsiege|Earthsiege]]

[[Earthsiege 2]]

[[Starsiege]]

[[MissionForce: CyberStorm]]

[[CyberStorm 2: Corporate Wars]]

[[Tribes: Vengeance]]

==References==
[http://library.theexiled.pwnageservers.com/file.php?id=2932 Starsiege Writers' Guide]

[[Category:Earthsiege]]

Something to Hide

2012-05-13T22:30:32Z

Created page for Something to Hide

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''SOMETHING TO HIDE'' is official fiction that was written by Blake Hutchins for [[Starsiege]].

''June 2828 CE, Imperial Standard Reckoning''

"I don’t like it."

Jonas Ngari sighed and looked up from the nav display. "You’ve said that three times in the last hour, Amanda. I hope you realize I heard you each time."

Amanda Rue, the sensop and Jonas’s rookie second officer, ran a hand through her close-cropped black hair and shrugged. "Can’t help it if I’m stating the obvious." She pointed at the holoscreen in the center of the bridge. It was a computer-generated representation of space which showed the Vreeland’s travel vector from Mars to the orbital facilities of Venus. An amber triangle represented the spaceship on its vector. Two ominous red dots a few inches Earthward of the triangle — hundreds of thousands of kilometers away in reality — pulsed and moved on their own vector lines. Their red lines intersected the Vreeland’s own line, clearly on an intercept course which would bring them onto a matching course with the Vreeland within about ten standard hours.. Green letters in Anglic flickered in a countdown for the dots’ arrival.

"I don’t like it," she said. "They have to know we’re here, but they’re not hailing us."

Jonas sighed and gave up trying to plot final approach vectors. They would keep for a day or two. He got up and went over to look at the display with Amanda. The bridge wasn’t roomy. Four acceleration chairs were set like pips on a die around the holoscreen, a solid cylinder of nanolayered opticrystals. Each station had its own arcboard of screens and controls winking their own particular displays. The controls were modular to a certain degree, reconfigurable according to user preference. In practice, the Vreeland’s crew hadn’t changed anything in years. Everything on this tramp vessel was well-used, long outdated. Well, almost everything. Jonas knew of a few recent modifications he hoped he’d never have to use, the main one being the microatomic charge embedded in the hull. As for the rest of the Vreeland, the crew just nursed the parts and prayed over the whole.

"Look, I agree those blips are Terran Defense Force vessels," he said to Amanda. "Big ones, probably Templar class. What do you expect us to do? In the first place, we shouldn’t be able to get such a close fix on them until they’re right on top of us. This ship isn’t supposed to have military grade sensor suites that can penetrate Teddy stealth measures. If we jink now, they’ll know something’s up and they’ll burn in hard. In the second place, we can’t lose them without tipping them off to our new stealth technology. You know that, too." Jonas thrust his face in Amanda’s. "We are not a raiding ship, you roj? So stop driving us dusting crazy, okay?"

She lowered her eyes. "It’s just hard to wait, that’s all."

Jonas grinned. "Copacetic, hey? You’re not used to this kind of op. We use a different kind of patience, that’s all. Not warrior patience. We’re strictly non-combat here." He stretched. "Why don’t you grab some sack time, run a virtuvid and relax? Maatiu’s due up after he finishes replacing those omni clamps on C deck. I can keep things together that long."

Amanda nodded and headed for the hatch.

"Don’t forget, we’re cutting burn in eighteen hours, hey? Turnabout time," Jonas reminded her. At turnabout, the shipboard environment would go to zero-gee while the thrust was cut and the ship oriented its drives toward the destination for the deceleration leg of the journey.

She threw him a sour look. "Nag, nag, nag. You’d think I don’t know anything about space travel." She cocked her head and smiled mischieviously. "Or maybe you think the raiders have some other miracle tech? Artificial grav? Reactionless drives? Teleporters?"

"Actually, I don’t want to know." Jonas held up his hand. "The less I know about what the movement has, the better for everyone. We don’t want TDF getting advance warning on any of it. I know what we got on the Vreeland, but no more. And you better forget you know anything at all, you roj?"

"Roj." Amanda looked thoughtful as she left the bridge.

Jonas seated himself at his station again and looked at the holoprojection worriedly. Those two dots bothered the dust out of him, of course. Aside from the penalties for smuggling contraband, the Empire was in the habit lately of confiscating even inocuous cargoes if they were useful to the war effort. That was why the Vreeland carried luxury items with little military utility, such as tanks of Martian brandy, crates of ice from Io, a case or two of handmade curiosities from various Belter artisans. The ice was bound for the Aphrodite-Spoils-U mineral water company, a rebel front on Venus. Bottled water from Io was all the rage on Venus and Terra Mater these days. Not much use for the Teddy military, but great cover for concealing the real shipment: bubblepaks of new weapons components from the Masters’ cache on Mars. The rebel material was smuggled on board while the Vreeland was docked at the Phobos Orbital Haven. Easy. And they didn’t have to play any games with the manifest at all. The Io ice would withstand any spectroscopic analysis. Definitely from Jovian space. All in all, it made for long voyages, but the cover it provided for the Vreeland was worth gold to the rebel movement.

The ice did sell for a good price, besides. Kept water in the mass tanks and paid for crew. Some of the profit found its way back to the movement. Revolutions cost money, just like anything else.

The ship creaked slightly. She did that sometimes, showed her age. Jonas patted a nearby conduit affectionately. The air smelled dry and slightly lemony. An old crewmate had kept a small hydroponic orchard once, and some of the fruit had gotten into the scrubber system after a series of mishaps. The lemon smell had faded with time, and nobody minded much, so the scrubber kept its place. At least this time they didn’t have any problems with Martian dust, that common hazard of ships that spent much time dealing with Martian trade. The fine red dust found its way everywhere, like rats on the old seagoing ships of Earth. It was a rare venture when it didn’t show up on people’s clothes or in supposedly sealed crates.

Jonas hated the dust. He hadn’t set foot on his birthplanet in years. The dust symbolized all the reasons he preferred to stay in the sky.

No sign of Maatiu yet. Jonas yawned and ran a systems check. The drives showed optimal readings, although he knew the number two nozzle needed new heat shielding. Currently, the Vreeland accelerated at point-oh-one gee, its Karasumi fusion reactor blasting a stream of superheated plasma in its wake. Much higher speeds were possible, but not economical for merchants like the Vreeland, given the huge amount of reaction mass that was necessary for interplanetary travel in the first place. Military craft, now, they could really burn through distance. Jonas checked the holodisplay again. The red dots were holding course. Teddy had started running patrols in pairs since the raiders began their hit-and-run strikes, surprisingly effective even against TDF ships of the line.

Jonas heard the sharp tapping that signalled Maatiu’s arrival. Every spacer had a quirk or three. Maatiu Akimbo’s was that he constantly tapped any handy surface, as if keeping time to some internal metronome. Fortunately, Jonas had gotten used to it, but newer crew members found the habit profoundly irritating.

Maatiu sauntered in, his shipboard jumpsuit covered with a kaleidoscopic jumble of patches, military insignia, souvenir pins, flashpix of popular maffick bands, whatever caught his fancy. He shared the same African ancestry as Jonas, but was darker and taller than the Mars-born captain, with the characteristic slenderness of someone born and raised in microgravity. Jonas knew Maatiu claimed citizenship from the High Nubia platform, but Maatiu had never seemed the type. He was the least aristocratic person Jonas knew, nothing like the pro-Imperial Hi-Nubes.

"‘Eyy, Jonas. What’s up with Amanda’s dots?"

"Still there. You think the Teddy will board?"

"They’ll probably send somebody over, sure." Maatiu produced a couple of plastic bottles and handed one to Jonas. "Want some beer? Obelisk, from Tharsis City."

"Why not?" Jonas flipped up the sipcap and sucked down a mouthful. "Thanks. Here’s to good Martian beer."

The two men sat in silence. On the long voyages aboard the relatively cramped quarters of a spaceship, the ability to grant privacy marked the difference between a good crewmate and a bad one. Jonas had been with Maatiu long enough that the two men could spend entire days in one another’s company without needing to say a word and without feeling any sense of intrusion at the other’s presence. Like most true spacedogs, they were meticulously clean. Dirt and grime could interfere with delicate circuits, wear away at crucial seals. In space, it was the small things that kept you alive. If the big problems ever came up, you were pretty much a goner unless you were real close to home.

After awhile, Jonas voiced his main concern. "Amanda’s going to give us away if the Teddies see her face. She’s not ready for this kind of job."

Maatiu nodded.

"She was on a raider crew, for Hunter’s sake. Why put her on with us?"

Maatiu leaned back and drew a long, thoughtful swallow from his Obelisk. "Maybe she be the real cargo," he said.

Jonas leaned forward. "What makes you think that?"

"Think on our cargo, Jonas. Probably in parts, yes? Be there instruction manuals? Or does Rebel Command hide the ball from Teddy? I’m thinking we be taking along someone who has seen stuff work, knows what it does, knows how to put it together, you roj?" Maatiu’s dark features creased in a smile. "Our Amanda, she not be staying long with us, I bet."

It made sense, Jonas admitted to himself. Amanda had been a pretty quick transfer after his second officer came down with a bad case of Martian whipples. Tomaszeck had aspirated some terraforming spores during a bad duststorm. It happened that way sometimes. The only real complication involved getting a trustworthy replacement for this run. Rebel Command hadn’t wanted to wait for Tomaszeck to grow a new pair of lungs, so they sent Amanda over to fill the opening in the cell. She was more than qualified, but seemed to lack the proper temper for the slow pace of life on the Vreeland, not to mention the patience to play ignorant trader to the Imperial customs inspectors.

"Dust, I’m getting old, Maati. Okay, supposing you’re right. She’s the instructor, the real cargo. She’s also pretty young, but the rebellion recruits from a variety of people. Why not tell us?"

Maatiu finished his beer, stood up. "Prob’ly just don’t want anybody knowing she be the main event here." He pushed the bottle into the recycle valve. "Still, this one supposed to be a quiet run. They up on Mars prob’ly never thought we be hitting Teddies on this heading."

"The Dirtboys are more active now. Ever since the raiders hit that Teddy supply depot at L-4. Dust, but that was a crazy idea. Had to be that new guy in command that thought of it."

"New boy?"

"Yeah. I hear rumors he’s a Dirtboy himself, some kind of hotshot exile." Jonas went over and pushed his empty into recycle. "Dirtborn or not, he’s proved himself to Mole Command."

He looked at the holodisplay and muttered a curse. The red dots were moving faster. A lot faster. He took a deep breath and told himself to calm down. "Maati."

"Yeah?"

"The dots are on the move. We need to get Teddy ready."

"Roj. ETA?"

"Looks like ninety minutes. Let’s run the Victim Gambit. Take ‘Zelle and Ping-Pong outside and burn open that patch job on the number three tank. Make it look recent. I’ll dump some reaction mass here, tweak the log to make it look like we ran hard awhile. Have someone take a las-torch to our broadcast link, too. That’ll explain why we couldn’t shout for help."

Maatiu gave him a toothy grin. "Think Teddy gonna bite?"

"Why not? We’ll welcome them with a case of Gen-Viridian from the hold. Figure we’ll kill a couple bottles ourselves. The raiders cut and ran, roj? We didn’t know why until the TDF boys showed. Dust, we’re not Imperial Naval Academy, not TDF warriors. Let’s throw a party for our ‘rescuers.’"

"Imperial dirtboys party with a bunch of colonial mutts like us? Be the day." Maatiu’s grin vanished. "What about Amanda, boss?"

Jonas looked at the ceiling and sighed. "I’ll have Mariko dial up a dose of Somni. Put her out for about twenty hours."

Maatiu hesitated, then nodded. "Aye, aye. What do we tell the Teddies?"

"The approximate truth. She’s a new crew member, worked herself into a panic, so we knocked her out to get her out of our hair."

"She not be liking it, my friend."

"So? We take care of our cargo. She doesn’t have to like it, roj? Even if she dustin’ reminds us of it every two minutes for the rest of the trip."

==References==
[http://library.theexiled.pwnageservers.com/file.php?id=2932 Starsiege Writers' Guide]

[[Category:Earthsiege]]
[[Category:Official Fiction]]
[[Category:Starsiege Fiction]]

Special Favors

2012-05-13T22:26:02Z

Created page for Special Favors

New page

''SPECIAL FAVORS'' is official fiction that was written by Blake Hutchins for [[Starsiege]].

''April 2829 CE, Imperial Standard Reckoning''

''Metzone Glasgow, EuroAlliance, EARTH''

The blue Aegean Sea and the white beaches of Kourpolos beckoned Master Sergeant Nila Sunder with seductive visions of warm sand, swimming, and solitude. She sighed and touched the tourist pic she had stuck up on the sill of her autoyoke, Curious George. The pic nestled in a cluster of others, mostly homepix of her golden-haired daughter Caycea. She still had plenty of work to do. The cylindrical flexor she had her grippers into was being stubborn. Somehow the lattice had picked up enough of a static charge to prevent full contraction.

Her HUD blinked up the time: 1920 hours. Another ten to go. Nila yawned. She needed coffee in the worst way. Her head throbbed, and her eyes felt like someone had pressed grit into her sockets.

Strikeforce prep was the pits. She hadn’t seen her family in days. Thom’s leave was coming up, but it looked like she wouldn’t be joining him and Cay in Greece this year. The rebels had seen to that, damn them. She pictured Cay on the beach picking through shells and managed a smile. Her daughter was growing up so fast!

The Cave was busy. Techs swarmed over a dozen Hercs, a couple of Myrmidon tanks, and the cyclopean parts of a Nike siege gun. Everything was being retrofitted for the Martian environment, and the Terran Defense Force brass had set nightmarish deadlines. Nila wasn’t the only one pulling double shifts. She grimaced in exasperation. Every vehicle needed new seals and advanced dust filters, for starters. Although she’d never been to Mars, Nila had friends who’d served there. Judging from their stories, TDF had better get used to dealing with dust on a regular basis, one way or the other. They were going to need more than new filters.

But that wasn’t all. The AIs had to be programmed for the lighter gravity, which took time given the large number of slave units carried these days. Fear of possible Cybrid viruses had led to decentralization of AI tasks whenever possible, so any Herc needed ten or more separate checks.

Then there was the fear of rebel sabotage. There’d been rumors. Hunter knew the dustscum had friends here on Earth. Sure, the Edicts were tough on the colonies, but the Empire needed the materials if TDF was going to keep humanity safe from the Cybrids. Why couldn’t the colonists see that?

Nila’s hands moved in their synchrogloves and the gripper’s toolhands moved in response. Autoyokes were pretty indispensible in this age of anthropomorphic vehicles and monster tanks. Nila definitely appreciated George and treated it right. An autoyoke was essentially a platform mounted on a massive robot arm. The ‘yoke gave the tech mobility over the exterior of any vehicle, and the grippers and spythreads allowed most of the work, even delicate jobs, to be done from the outside. In the field, the smaller mobile ‘yokes weren’t quite as effective, but they could still lift that weapons pod onto the shoulder hardpoint of a Herc better than a crane or a swarm of exoskeletons. Here in the Cave, though, an autoyoke let one tech do the work of ten.

The Cave – officially Imperial Terran Defense Force Central Repair Base Nine, Metzone Glasgow, EuroAlliance, Earth - was one of the main TDF refit bays on Mother Earth, and it deserved its nickname. It was huge, a real maze for anyone unfamiliar with the layout. Arc lamps hung from an invisible ceiling. Catwalks laddered the walls, the ones around the larger vehicle festooned with hoses and spare parts. Black cables snaked along the floor everywhere, a hazard for the unwary. The hiss of cutters and shriek of metal echoed even through sonic dampeners. Nila had long since gotten used to the acrid taste of burnt metaplas and the ever-present tang of ozone, but the smell assaulted the noses of newbies. Autoyokes clustered around Hercs like metallic blossoms, reaching in with robot manipulators and tool modules. Sparks splashed up from a begoggled tech’s lastorch. Holowarnings glowed amber over opened vehicles and red around hot workzones.

Nila’s flexor finally responded to a phased-pulse therapy, and she hooked an interbleeder to the array so the flexor lattices would retune. The unique anthropomotive engine of a Herc depended on the flexors operating in perfect concert. Each cylinder contained a superdense nano-engineered crystalline lattice that would expand almost instantly under an electrical charge. Cutting the charge caused near-instant contraction as the lattice returned to its dense state. Over time, exposure to excess heat and untuned energy fields like X-rays led to microfractures and static lag accumulating in the lattices. All in all, Nila thought flexors a pretty durable technology, but like any complex equipment, they still needed frequent maintenance to perform at their best.

Nila finished by ubertorquing the stabilizers above the main bootlink and running a quick pressure test on the seals. Satisfied they’d hold, she retracted the grippers and told Curious George to hit the floor. Above her, the Gorgon she’d been working on loomed like a beast out of legend. A crippled beast, given its lack of plas cannons at the moment. Once the cannons’ feeder conduits were replaced, they’d be ready to reattach. In the meantime the Gorgon looked to Nila like a plucked toad.

"Sergeant Sunder, this is Gallarga at Station Fourteen," her earlink whispered. "We’ve got a situation here."

"On my way." She blew a kiss at her favorite pic of Cay before climbing off the ‘yoke.

Private Gallarga was pretty levelheaded. If he called, the problem was real. As one of the senior techs at The Cave, Nila was among the first people turned to when something bad happened. She snorted, remembering that fool Trooper last month who’d somehow swapped a Class Two weapon onto a Class One hardpoint. He’d blown some of his Herc’s electrical system on the shakedown field. Bad enough, but the laser mount had also fused to the chassis, which made the fix a real chore. Nila’d had to cut through nearly forty centimeters of ferrocomposite metaplas before she could remove the quad laser the idiot had grafted onto his Talon. Lasers weren’t cheap, and she’d wanted to make sure the job was done right. Hopefully the good Goddess would keep spoonbrains like that out of Nila’s future for awhile.

At Station Fourteen, Gallarga waited with two other techs by a Basilisk that hadn’t been popped yet. His normally placid features showed irritation. The other techs wore House colors, so they weren’t TDF. Probably served one of the Knights assigned to this strikeforce, which meant they’d officially be considered corporals in the TDF scheme of things. The Basilisk showed the same colors. Nila didn’t recognize the marks, but she didn’t pay much attention to the nobility beyond fixing their machines.

Someone was pulling rank, though. That much seemed clear. Nila wasn’t in the mood for it, especially when she saw the relief in Gallarga’s eyes as she walked up. The techs’ ID tags read Martin and Lindfors. Martin was the taller one and wore a bland expression that reminded Nila of milk. Lindfors carried more muscle and seemed angry, which suited Nila fine just now. Both, she noted with distaste, wore jumpsuits lacking even a hint of grime.

"Evening," she said coldly. "Master Sergeant Sunder, Senior Tech. There’s a problem?"

Martin answered in a surprisingly deep voice. "Shouldn’t be, Sergeant. We were simply requesting that someone begin outfitting this Herc for the strikeforce as soon as possible." He nodded to Gallarga. "The private here seemed to think it a low priority."

"Let’s see your authorization," Nila answered automatically.

That set Lindfors off. "Do you know who we –"

"Shut it," she said. "This is my turf, boys. The rules here say nothing is done without the right chop from TDF. As you can see, we’ve got a lot of work backed up, so you’d better have a damn good reason for cutting in." She looked at Martin again. "Well?"

His expression didn’t change. "Show her the chop, Private."

Gallarga handed his clipboard to Nila. Its display showed a document bearing the imperial seal and chopped with the sign of a member of the Imperial Council. Suddenly Nila felt very tired, even beyond the help of coffee.

"I assume this cleared security?" she asked Gallarga.

He nodded. "Yes, ma’am. I’m afraid so."

"That enough authority for you?" Lindfors sneered.

"Yes." Nila scanned the clipboard again, and alarms went off in her head. "What the frixin’ hell – a whole Sword? Plus backups? Hunter’s teeth, what kind of lunatic thought this up?" She looked up, fury banishing fatigue instantly. "We’re on a timetable here, a strict timetable! You can’t just come in here and dump a dozen Hercs on a Priority One Interrupt!" Nila swung her arm wide, taking in the Cave around them. "Just look! We’re already at Priority One! There’s thirteen Hercs in here, a siege gun, two tanks – that’s just in this bay! Next door we’ve got twice that number waiting, plus two wings of VTOLs! As soon as we get this stuff out, we fill up again! It’s been three weeks of this and we’re looking at another three weeks before the strikeforce lifts! This order is nuts!" She slammed the clipboard onto the Basilisk’s foot so hard that its screen flickered.

Martin held up a manicured hand. "There will be some inconvenience, certainly. We’ll do the work. All we need from you is space." He looked around appraisingly. "We’d like to keep the Hercs together, so you’ll probably have to clear out some of these stations." Then he favored them with a thin smile. "When can we start?"

Gallarga looked ready to explode. Nila knew how he felt. With an effort, she managed to keep her voice down. "Why can’t you wait for your employer’s Sword to cycle through? We’re going to get to everyone on the Strikeforce."

"Ah." Martin considered the question. "My lady has heard of … possible rebel sabotage. She merely wants to be sure her unit is in top shape."

Lindfors barked a short laugh.

Nila made herself unclench her fists before she was tempted to use them on those smug expressions.

"I’m going to check with my CO before anything happens on this." Martin shrugged. She checked the clipboard again as she stalked off.

Who the hell was Gideon Fairchild?

<nowiki>***</nowiki>

"The Grand Old Bastard of the Prefecture," the Captain said. "I’ll be damned."

Nila sipped her coffee and made a face.

The Captain raised an eyebrow. "Don’t like my coffee, Sergeant?"

"No, sir. Tastes like jointspray."

He laughed. "At least you’re honest, Sunder. Most folks just swallow and smile. They look like they just downed a rancid piece of krillsteak, but they never admit it."

Nila put the cup down impatiently. "Why is he dropping this crap on us, sir? I mean, what’s the point?"

The Captain frowned and steepled his hands under his nose. He was in his seventies, and his hair was just turning gray. His uniform looked sharp, but his hands bore the stains and scars of years spent servicing vehicles in The Cave. He stayed quiet for a long moment. When he answered at last he spoke in a measured voice.

"Fairchild has been around a long time, Sergeant. Almost since the founding of the Empire. No, wipe that look off your face – it’s true. He’s on the same kind of life support as the Emperor, although he’s not nearly that old. God knows how he’s hanging on. He’s showing no signs of mental deterioration, and he ran NorthAm Intelligence for decades. Now he’s the prelate of NAP West and has a seat on the Council. He’s been into politics for longer than your life and mine added together."

Nila waited as the Captain paused again.

"Did you check the Sword?" he asked.

She nodded. "Saber Sword, under the command of Knight-Commander Hokanson-Li. Must be some kind of special command group, I guess. Most of them are officers."

"All Knights are officers," he commented dryly.

"Yes, sir. But these are all senior officers."

"Hmm. Interesting. Did you check the names?"

"Uh…" Nila took the clipboard and scanned the names. The last one brought surprise followed by a renewed flush of anger. "It’s his daughter!" She looked up. "Sir, this is preposterous! He’s giving his daughter an early slot!"

The Captain leaned back and regarded her calmly. "You take your leave every spring with your family, don’t you, Sergeant?"

Nila frowned, not seeing where he was going. "Yessir."

"Well, you know the Knights have to drill with their gear before they lift?" He indicated the clipboard. "Now this group gets done early."

"Sir?"

"Sunder, I’d be willing to bet you that Knight-Captain Letha Fairchild and her special friends will probably leave Earth with nice, deep tans."

Nila’s misery must have showed, because the Captain’s voice was gentle when he continued. "Just set her men up with what they want, Sergeant, then go home. Grab eight hours. It’s not fair, but if what I’ve heard about the Dustscum is true, the Knights are headed for a real scrap. And Miss Fairchild won’t be pulling any strings on Mars, I can assure you.

==References==
[http://library.theexiled.pwnageservers.com/file.php?id=2932 Starsiege Writers' Guide]

[[Category:Earthsiege]]
[[Category:Official Fiction]]
[[Category:Starsiege Fiction]]

The Flower That Fades

2012-05-13T22:19:49Z

Page created for The Flower That Fades

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''The Flower That Fades'' is official fiction that was written by Ian Christy for [[Starsiege]].

''"Mother Mercy, our hearts cry out to thee''

''We humbly beg mercy on our tired and weak''

''We aspire to find the heaven in the bleak''

''Upon us please bestow your charity..."''

:'''~The Second Hymn of Resignation, Verse 01:01'''

:'''2614'''

There might have been a time when I was delighted with every turn in life. A time when the brush of a kiss from my beloved was enough to ignite my heart and seer my soul. Days when I had responsibilities, commitments I had willfully chosen, obligations I strove to fulfill freely. A different time. A better time.

Before the gun's wet kiss took everything away.

Six years I paced the same six cubic feet of confinement. Never said a word. Listened to the cattle call swan songs of the others, bore unwitting witness to their misery. I heard the grind of shiv on spine, heard the rasp of brittle confidences hissed through cell grates into the flushing faces of surrogate priests. I listened to their proclamations, their confessions, and the names they moaned in their sleep.

I should feel guilt over the death of the politician. I don't. I should feel woefully sorry for the riot that ensued. I do not. My mother is gone. My wife is gone. My child is gone. Beyond them I feel nothing at all, further I do not feel inclined to try.

Six years locked away and I could still see the plan, laid out neon grid wire hot on an asphalt morality. Out of money, out of time, war on the horizon, blood already choking the gutters, mighty emperor vanished behind silk-lined steel shutters. Colonies lighting alien horizons as the embers of resistance are fanned by tightening restrictions, higher demands, symptoms of an increasingly less subtle extortion.

Mother. Forgotten until there was time to recall, to consider, and turn over and over in my mind like some intangible fetish bauble. My father was a night's work, my childhood spent washing linen changed hourly, until an uncle took me in, taught me skills unsavory to most.

Mother was a faceless entity who occasionally passed a birthday gift on to me between appointments. She never seemed to get the day right, but usually the month. I hadn't seen her for three years when Uncle said she'd died. I didn't cry, then.

Uncle taught me about weapons, about victims, about standing and running. Uncle had many adopted children. Eventually I had a fellowship of individuals who called me "brother." A confusing and dangerous time.

The political unrest of the worlds and their colonies manifest more work then we might ever need. People to push, to shove, or failing that, to kill. Yet Uncle persistently desired more, a bigger share in the net capitol gain of the ensuing chaos. I found his motives disturbing, his methods unconscionable, and left him.

Of course, I didn't know that even as he bid farewell with a smile that I could never truly leave. I was seventeen.

I found a job loading cargo on antiquated haulers, married the boss's daughter, and we adopted a daughter. Happy. I felt loved, understood, simple and complete. Occasionally my dreams would remind me of the life I had left, of the pain I had caused, and I would awake with renewed determination to make right of my life.

Until Uncle took my wife and child away.

I remember returning home, finding the front door ajar, and entering the small apartment with dread already clenching fists in my gut. I knew as I walked through the front room, saw the smashed porcelain scattered across the floor like razor petals left from some wicked king's passage. Knew as I stepped around the overturned end table, the debris of a struggle, feeble voiceless testimony of violence spent. I knew as I passed the silent hallway, knew no one waited in the bedrooms, no one hid in the john. I entered the kitchenette, found the gone-to-market note on the fridge, and consumed the content, a little miss-me-not from Uncle, the past come home to roost.

I followed every step per Uncle's instruction. I had to do this one thing and I would truly be free. I would have my family back and would never have to worry for the past again.

I waited in the neglected lot. I rode in the chauffeured car well beyond any streets I remotely recognized. I entered the posh hotel's gilded lobby. I ascended the seventy floors in the overly brass laden lift. I strode down the soundless vacuum of the plush-padded hallway to the doors of the presidential suite. I let myself in with the key the chauffeur had given me. I wondered around from room to room awaiting Uncle's call.

The call came several hours later. So simple, so efficient. Go to the window in the master bedroom, look out, what do I see? People assembled to rally support for someone on an elevated platform in front of the Hunter's Blessing Bureau of Legality. Look under the bed there, do I see the case? Yes, bulky deep green plastic with standard military tags. Open it. Surface-to-air missile. Check the dolly-box. Hot wired to override personnel recognition protection systems. Loaded and armed and completely user friendly. I hefted the meter long shaft in my hands and cradled the headset of the antique phone between my ear and shoulder. Heavy ordinance meant for heavy impact. I knew Uncle meant for me to be a trigger-man, but didn't understand why. The gathering outside looked political, not Triad concern, not on this continent, but then, I had not been in their nasty game for a very long time. I thought of my family and knew I really had no choice.

Uncle was there in my ear, patiently describing what would be my cue to pull the trigger. He described my escape route, which lift to take, which floor to leave the lift and take the fire stairs, where the chauffeured car would be waiting to return me to my family. I absorbed the details and held the weapon and watched the seething masses down below responding to the speaker on the platform.

Bracketing the platform were large projection screens, describing with flashy images a succession of theories to peacefully resolve the deteriorating relations between the colonies and the Emperor. I felt doubtful about it all, there were already too much discontent, too much palatable inequity.

The trump card for response from the crowd was a succession of images depicting supposedly Cybrid legions returning from some kind of hell to relieve every living thing of earthly responsibility. It was also my cue.

I shrugged the headset away, onto the bed, Uncle left to mind his own, listen in maybe. I shouldered the missile launcher, flicked open the targeting reticule, aimed for the raised platform, and fired.

Although I didn't see them then, I couldn't have, in my memory my wife and child are in that last view now, gagged and bound beneath the platform, waiting for me to act.

Gun's wet kiss.

I tugged the trigger, rocked with the slight recoil, dropped the spent shaft onto the floor. I heard the deep thump of the missile's impact and detonation as I reached for the headset.

"It's done." I said simply into the mouthpiece. I could hear Uncle breathing.

He laughed and my stomach knotted cold. "Your loved ones are dead, ha! You- you just sent them to their heaven. You were a fool to ever think you could leave me, boy." As I numbly dropped the headset, I could still hear him laughing in my head. I pulled the trigger on my wife, my daughter, my only joy in life- dead by my own hand.

The woman who'd kiss me, tell me everything would be all right. The woman I loved, who made working a dog's day worthwhile. Simplicity sublime, all I really ever wanted, really needed. Our daughter, her small arms, huge eyes, so forgiving, understanding. All the days we would never have, rendered abruptly inconsequential, vapor and tears and memories, all that remains mine.

"Mine..." I slurred, turned and ran for the door. I knew they'd be there, waiting for me, anonymously tipped and lethal equipped. I didn't care. If there is a line in heaven, I wanted to be in it next to my loves. One last kiss, one last goodbye...

I hit the door crying, flung it open to reveal my reflection in the mirrored pig snout facemask eyeholes of the armed official response. I gave them no time to think, and their muscles jerked reflexively. I only remember the first impact and the soft tickle of the carpet against my wet cheek.

Six years pacing this cube and the war has come, but not what most expected. The Cybrids have destroyed Mercury, have swept across the moon. A thousand mothers cry, a thousand mothers die and the time comes to pull the skeletons from all the forgotten closets.

A simple choice, really, if even a choice at all. The only way to escape your past is to lose all the memories, the history and the remorse. One of the others called it "giving Johnny his gun," but no one laughed. I believe the end result is called a "bio-derm," a high tech caricature of the old living dead hopping vampire boogiemen. Nuke and pave, mega-reboot, become a new man again. No name, no slogan, just another armed zombie to shove at the encroaching menace to the living.

My love, my love, please save me a place in line...

Mine is mine is mine.

==References==
[http://library.theexiled.pwnageservers.com/file.php?id=2932 Starsiege Writers' Guide]

[[Category:Earthsiege]]
[[Category:Official Fiction]]
[[Category:Starsiege Fiction]]

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 |500 XP || 1000 XP || 2000 XP || 3000 XP
 |-
-|5 Kills || 50 Kills || 250 Kills || 500? Kills
+|5 Kills || 50 Kills || 250 Kills || 1000 Kills
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 | colspan="4" | This badge is earned by getting a mid-air projectile kill.

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 [[Children of the Phoenix]]
 [[Diamond Sword]]
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 Break up [[Technology]] into smaller articles, maybe combining with [[Wilderzone technology]] article.
 Create instructions on how to play older games like SS, T1, and T2 since their master servers are down.