Homeworld/TheShatteredFront

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Above the mountains and spires of western Valtaria, armed dirigibles do battle with great serpents. The guns and aerial forces of the Combine engage with Valtarian drakeriders and sorcery: an unstoppable force, meeting an immovable object. The result is… uncertain.

The region has been heavily affected by the devastation wrought on the Sublime Concord, a few days’ travel north. Dissonance has fractured the flow of events: both the People’s Combine and the Valtarians report overwhelming successes, and both of them are correct.

The lands are fragmenting into ever more disparate continuities, and citadels will appear in different hands depending on time, direction, or the convictions of the observer. The memories and identities of its inhabitants are coming apart. While a resounding public success for both sides, the Shattered Front is the clearest sign of decay in the fragile fabric of the Homeworld.

The Shattered Front is likely to feature stories from the People’s Combine and Valtarian Kingdoms, although no two tales are likely to agree. The Penitents are also present, trying desperately to patch together the disparate histories and restore some semblance of stability to the region.



Continuing Education Facility 3

Author: Fluidity

The clatter of cutlery and scraping of chairs announced the end of the meal. Spontaneously the crew helped with the after-dinner chores. Rhetonomic Engineer Fluidity delivered her plate and mug to the washing tubs. Usually she would have rolled up her sleeves with the rest of them, but duty called: a lesson was nearing completion. She exchanged beams with her sister Gatling on her way out.

There were only two RevCorps aboard now: Fluidity and Rivet. Hegemonic Engineer Ratchet had been lost in the destruction caused by Valtarian cannon three months ago and Rhetonomic Engineer Piston was redeployed somewhere on the Inner Sea. Hegemonic Engineer Tactics had gone out with one of the last forays, to the town they had liberated, to start hegemonically repurposing it. It was unclear how she had died, but it would have been glorious.

The Victory Through Persistence was a long-serving airship now, over six years in deployment, and rarely away from the Valtarian frontlines. They were truly glorious to have so many of the original crew remaining. Why, Liberator Dynamics was just a year off from nearing his mid-twenties. Exemplary.

Rhetonomic Engineer Rivet was zealous and idealistic, but they had long ago decided how to partition their duties. Fluidity was idealistic too, but her ideals could better accommodate the firmer aspects of education.

She made her way past the dissipating groups. A dozen chattering young recruits were heading to the ballcourts for healthy team sport. Comrades settled down on the dining tables and drew out cards. A pair of ProCorps strode nonchalantly to Engine Room 4; perhaps the latest vats had finished brewing.

Fluidity went to Continuing Education Facility 3.

The few small Education Facilities onboard were rarely mentioned, staying beneath the knowledge and consciousness of almost all LibCorps and ProCorps. Some battles were the burden of RevCorps alone. This battle was less heroic, less dashing and less dangerous, but sometimes it was just as … visceral.

She unlocked the facility door and let her eyes adjust. Here were stationed those pupils who were either unfortunately slow to accommodate their lessons, or woefully disruptive. Of course the bulk of VolCorps' reformation would take place in the Inner Assembly, where more refined techniques were available. But that could be many months away; this precious cargo, freshly liberated from their 'monarch', could not wait until then to begin processing.

They were positioned facing a wall-length screen, on which inspirational visions played. RevCorps' finest orated, Liberators posed, joyous factory workers smiled and saluted. To rousing music, the narrator promised camaraderie and glory.

She muted the film. It was unpatriotic, but she had learnt that often the voices were too weak to be heard over the blaring announcements.

“Good evening, Comrades.” She needn't have spoken. Every pleading eye was on her.

She hitched up her skirts as she stepped in: the floor was dirty. A red and gold footstool was provided for kneeling in front of the most promising pupil.

She knelt leisurely. She rested a finger on the lever. A whimper.

She waited for her answer. It was positive. The light of progress had dawned on this one. She released the mechanism.

“Welcome to the Combine, Volunteer.”


Family

Author: Gatling

In the photo they are smiling. Her elbows are resting on his shoulders where he sits, lounging in the chair, his cheek smeared just a bit with grease, her finger tips blackened by gunpowder. They look as if someone’s just told some marvelous joke about Veterans and they are about to burst into uncontrollable laughter. These days, it’s a famous propaganda piece.

She knows just hours before they had blood on their hands.

It’s dog eared at the edges and there are creases where it has been folded to be kept close to heart. It’s well loved. Well worn. Looking at it closely there is faded blood on the left hand edge, either hers or some Valterian, Walker or Opotunist, it didn’t really matter.

She remembers that he had called her name just in time as she ducked out of the way of the long sword. His blade came down right across the Monarchs back, craving a gash the size of the shattered front itself. Her gun raised and fired across his shoulder, taking out another Monarch behind him and saving Rebar from a nasty burn.

The words splashed across the front are faded but fingers can still trace the well worn path. His signature was still simple back then, hadn’t taken on the full curves and flushes of his ego. The wobble of nerves come through a wavering hand.

She danced with him, a waltz of grenades and knifes. Their arms locked to provide speedy turns then disengaged as they took fire. Back pressed together as weapons and ammunition changed hands, like an engine changing gear. They slaughtered an entire watchtower before Fluidity even had time to get the camera. She demanded they let her photograph the celebration of their first successful mission.

They were 18.

“For Family.

~ Dynamics”

Advantage Valley

Author: Dynamics

“Volunteer Crank! Behind you!”

There’s a burst of fire, as the dark red drake incinerates the Volunteer in front of the Liberator’s eyes. The light reflects of the goggles in the smoke and shadows of the fortress, and Dynamics stands frozen.

“LIBERATOR!” shouts Switchgear, “We need to get out of here NOW!”

Wrenched back to the moment, Dynamics scrambles backward as the dark silhouette of the Monarch-in-Shadow looms through the corridor, cackling.

“You, Combine Peasants, you really thought you could defeat me? Dark Lord of the Valley of Despair, Keeper of the Place of Madness-”

“The Combine will always overcome Valtarian tyrants!” shouts Driveshaft, charging forward. Dynamics and Switchgear shout out in unison top stop him, but with one swing of the Valtarian’s sword it’s too late.

Time seems to slow as Driveshaft’s body falls the floor: Dynamics and Switchgear beating a tactical retreat through the twisting dungeons of the Valtarian castle, a sword in the hands of one, and energy pistols in the hands of another, parrying blows and firing pointlessly into the dark armour of the Monarch.

“You incompetent fools! I am immortal!” the Monarch laughs, and that’s when the Liberator and Volunteer alike both see it: the gap in the armour.

In an immediate moment, Dynamics and Switchgear look at each other.

“NO!” they both shout in unison, “The Combine need you!”

Dynamics shakes his head, “I’m closer, I can do this: get out while you still can!”

“I’m a Volunteer: this is what I’m for,” Switchgear replies, loudly but simply.

“Equality, Volunteer, we’re both here for the same job -- let me do this!”

Switchgear shouts, “You need to survive this: Liberators survive, Volunteers die, that’s how it works.”

“But-”

“I Volunteer.”

Dynamics falters for a moment, the Monarch advances.

“Nobody will remember this if it’s you,” Dynamics says, his voice a whisper, “Your sacrifice… it’s…”

Switchgear turns to him, and holds out in her hand a simple golden medal, “If you want to remember me, take this.”

Dynamics holds out his hand, as the Monarch looms over behind Switchgear, dark sword raised high.

“Now, peasants, now you die!”

A hand tightens around the medal as Switchgear lets go and shouts, “FOR THE COMBINE!!!”

~

Three days later, Liberator Dynamics is retrieved, standing atop the ruins of a Valtarian fortress in a desperate area of the Shattered Front known as Advantage Valley. His sword shattered, his goggles cracked, his coat charred. The only respectable object remaining is a simple, unmarked, golden medal, clutched tightly in his hand.

Advantage Valley - Unredacted

Author: Switchgear

Those in the briefing room file out past the unassuming Volunteer, until Dynamics is the last one there, staring at a series of maps and charts. Switchgear sidles into the room and gives him a nudge.

“Hey, Dy,” she smiles, and Dynamics gives her a small smile back but the grim look on his face betrays him, “What’s wrong?” she asks.

“Just looking at the logistics for this operation in Advantage Valley,” he explains, “Valtarian fortress, hell of a lot of dissonance, I’m leading a group of Volunteers in to clear it out.”

“They want you?” Switchgear asks in disbelief, “A Liberator?!”

Dynamics shakes his head, “It’s too crucial and too dissonant to send Volunteers alone. It’d be cruel at best, and even Fluidity agrees there. So I volunteered.”

“So what, you’re going to get your head blown off as well?”

“Not if I can help it.”

Switchgear crosses her arms, “So who’s on the team going in?”

“Crank, Driveshaft, Chain, Axle, Motor, Clutch…”

“I’m going too.”

“No, Switch, you’re not. You need to stay here, I need you alive.”

“And I need you alive, Dy,” she says, grabbing his arm and pulling him round to face her, “It’s too dangerous, and you know we’re more likely to survive if we’re together.”

“Or we’re more likely to both get killed.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“Switch…” he puts a hand on her arm, a pleading look in his eyes.

“I’m doing this, Dy,” she responds firmly, putting her hand on his arm, looking firmly into his eyes, and he sighs.

“Go get kitted up.”

~

“Volunteer Crank! Behind you!”

There’s a burst of fire, as the dark red drake incinerates the Volunteer in front of the Liberator’s eyes. The light reflects of the goggles in the smoke and shadows of the fortress, and Dynamics stands frozen.


“LIBERATOR!” shouts Switchgear, “We need to get out of here NOW!”

Wrenched back to the moment, Dynamics scrambles backward as the dark silhouette of the Monarch-in-Shadow looms through the corridor, cackling.

“You, Combine Peasants, you really thought you could defeat me? Dark Lord of the Valley of Despair, Keeper of the Place of Madness-”

“The Combine will always overcome Valtarian tyrants!” shouts Driveshaft, charging forward. Dynamics and Switchgear shout out in unison top stop him, but with one swing of the Valtarian’s sword it’s too late.

Time seems to slow as Driveshaft’s body falls the floor: Dynamics and Switchgear beating a tactical retreat through the twisting dungeons of the Valtarian castle, a sword in the hands of one, and energy pistols in the hands of another, parrying blows and firing pointlessly into the dark armour of the Monarch.

“You incompetent fools! I am immortal!” the Monarch laughs, and that’s when the Liberator and Volunteer alike both see it: the gap in the armour.

In an immediate moment, Dynamics and Switchgear look at each other.

“NO!” they both say in unison, “The Combine need you!”

Dynamics shakes his head, “I’m closer, I can do this: get out while you still can!”

“I’m a Volunteer: this is what I’m for,” Switchgear replies, loudly but simply.

“Equality, Volunteer, we’re both here for the same job -- let me do this!”

Switchgear shouts, “You need to survive this: Liberators survive, Volunteers die, that’s how it works.”

“But-”

“I Volunteer.”

Dynamics falters for a moment, the Monarch advances, Switchgear turns to him, and holds out in her hand a simple golden medal, “If you want to remember me, take this.”

Dynamics holds out his hand to take it, as the Monarch looms over behind Switchgear, dark sword raised high.

“Now, peasants, now you die!”

A hand tightens around the medal as Switchgear lets go and shouts, “FOR THE COMBINE!!!” but she’s thrown to the side as Liberator charges forward, sword cold, and plunges his blade straight through the armour of the Monarch who falters, but plunges her own sword into his stomach. The Monarch’s eyes widen as the Liberator’s close, accepting his fate. The Volunteer can’t tell if it’s from the dissonance or the disaster, but everything seems to happen in slow motion.

The drake behind the Monarch lets out an almighty burst of fire, but it’s blocked by the Monarch, immolated by the flame. Switchgear grabs Dynamics, pulling him off the Monarch’s sword and out of the path of the beast. She hauls him down a corridor as the drake advances, but with the Monarch’s control broken the beast thrashes about bringing walls down separating it from them, trapping them from the outside by layers and layers of rubble.

Dynamics is dying. Switchgear tries to stem the bleeding, but Dynamics puts a hand on hers and shakes his head. She carries on anyway, pressing hard on the wound to stop the blood pouring out.

“Damn it, Dy, you’re not… you’re not dying on me. This isn’t how it goes, this isn’t where you end,” she stammers, as the Liberator’s breath starts becoming more ragged.

“We all end somewhere, Volunteer,” he says, between deep breaths, each more agonising than the last, “Now go on and do something worth remembering.”

“I’m a Volunteer, Dy, I amount to nothing,” she says, tears rolling down her cheeks, “You’re the one who matters, you’re a Liberator, people will remember you.”

Dynamics shakes his head and holds up the medal in his hand, “Then take this, and make sure people remember me through you.”

“Dy, I can’t, I…”

“I believe in you, Switch,” he says, a tiny smile creeping onto his face amidst the blood, the dust and the tears, “Go make me proud.”

“I can’t do it without you,” she says, tears streaming, and she grips his hand tight, “I need you, Dy, I..”

Dynamics opens his mouth, but instead of words comes a strangled noise, and then life drops from his eyes. The Volunteer, clutching the body of her fallen Comrade, weeps, clinging onto the medal he gave her tightly in her right hand as the castle collapses around her. Rocks fall, the temperature rises, but the Shaper cares not as she holds on beneath the rubble.

Sadness becomes anger, becomes determination, becomes a motive. Dynamics will be remembered, and the Shaper pushes her power to the brink to change, to hide her face, and to make sure what he stood for, the change he represented, the promises he’d made her, that they all will be remembered throughout history. It doesn’t come without cost, with scars remaining and the medal burning into her hand, but it’s done. “Liberator Dynamics” stands, and the face of Volunteer Switchgear is left in the rubble.

Three days later, Liberator Dynamics is retrieved, standing atop the ruins of a Valtarian fortress. His sword shattered, his goggles cracked, his coat charred. The only respectable object remaining is a simple golden medal, clutched fiercely in his hand. The real body of Dynamics is buried in the rubble of the fortress: the Victory Through Persistence shells the place into oblivion, burying it in the Shattered Front for eternity.

Persistence

Author: Dynamics

The Liberator was in a good mood. An oddly good mood given that the Victory Through Persistence had just suffered major casualties in an assault against a Valtarian stronghold. And an exceedingly oddly good mood given that they’d lost.


“Dynamics, would you give it a rest with the humming?” sighed an exasperated Switchgear, “We get it, you’re impossible to get down, but the rest of us would sorely like to lick our wounds.”

The Liberator shook his head, “Why would I be down, Volunteer, when all this means is we get the chance to Liberate that Valtarian stronghold all over again?”

Switchgear groaned, taking off a boot and pouring ash out form inside it, before the boot itself promptly disintegrated, “Look, that’s great rhetoric and all, but just tone it down for one afternoon?”

“Rhetoric? What do you mean rhetoric?”

“You know, the whole ‘constant opportunity to liberate the Valtarian scum’ thing. I know you’re only saying it to try and make me feel better, but it’s me, you know me, you can cut the act.”

The Liberator looked puzzled, and Switchgear looked up at the eyes beneath the blackened goggles, something slowly dawning on her as she realised he was only smiling with his lips. Her expression softened.

“Sorry, Dy, don’t know what I was talking about,” she smiled, and then tossed the remains of the boot over the side of the ship, standing up, “How about we head up to the briefing room and plan another angle of assault?”

The Liberator smiled, and the Volunteer did too, each knowing exactly how sincere the other’s facade really was.

Old Habits

'Author: By My Crooked Teeth

Crooked knew the sound of engines. He was born beneath them, was raised to the hum, he could hear when an engine was broken or out of sync. It was a great surprise to some when he was chosen for the Revolutionary corps all those years ago. Others knew exactly why, he had a talent for people. The motion, the hum of conversation, he could read a crowd and know which way it was going. He was liked on his crew, he was seen walking up and down the lines with the battle lines of the Oncoming Storm of Progress shouting out encouragements and when that was not enough his revolver spoke for him.

He knew he was different to most around him even if he didn’t know it. The first time he showed his shaper abilities was small, a wounded citizen who took an energy burst to the gut. He held them up and told them they would be alright, and as he spoke the wound sealed. He didn’t like the fuss, he was not special, he was one of the combine, part of the machine, part of the whole. The next time the storm was boarding a Visions platform, holding a work force enslaved. Crooked jumped on the deck with his brothers and sisters and joined the fray. A pair of tempests blocked the way, they struck the boarding party with an energy blast. They were not feeling healthy. He was on the ground when he pulled himself to his feet his revolver burst out a reply towards the tempests. Then he threw his hands open and spoke words of morale to the Children of the Combine and their burns faded. The day was won. But that was the day the Concord noticed him.

All of that was long ago, and By My Crooked Teeth was in the bowels of a Combine ship, the Predator of Tyrants. A fine ship, but the engine sounded wrong. He knew the sound of engines. He also knew the ProCorp engineer would fix the problem soon enough. He stowed away to get from the Inner Assembly heading towards the Shattered Front. He figured it was the easiest way to get to where he is going was via a heavily armed ship that would stop at nothing to be there for the Glory of the Combine. Cloaked in a robe enchanted to be ignored he slipped aboard with the latest batch of VolCorp he sat below decks and kept out of the way. After a while he let himself drift off to sleep.

The Explosion rocked him awake. He knew the sounds of guns too. His hand went to his holster and relaxed slightly. That meant that he had arrived then. He gathered up his pack and made his way upstairs. He would slip out in the chaos. He stopped and heard the engine again, it was pumping out a discordant staccato. He looked towards the corridor out to the deck and he looked towards where the engine room would be. He exhaled and cursed himself as he ran down toward the engine room.

It was a shambles smoke and small fires were springing up all over the place the broken engine sounds were deafening. She was in pain as an old engineer friend of his would have said. He pulled his robe and jacket off. He reached into his bag and placed a pair of goggles onto his face and tied his scarf around his mouth and stepped into the fray. “Where is the tool kit?” he barked to the engineer.

“Who the hell are you?”

“A Volunteer. Tool kit. Where?”

The engineer was in no position to argue and pointed a cloth bag on the floor. Crooked snatched up a spanner and went to work, he was rusty but they needed all the help they could get. He cocked his ear and started to listen to the pipes of the machines. He followed it until he reached the hydraulics and spotted a blockage, and likely a deliberate one if he knew sabotage attempts. Which he did. He unblocked the pipes and he could hear the engines were sounding a little better. He took up a fire extinguisher and helped put out some of the fires, the worst was behind them and they could handle the rest. He dropped the tools back into the bag and strode over to his personal effects. He called over his shoulder. “Your hydraulics were sabotaged, you likely have a couple of Industroclasts onboard, likely one of the engineers to know what to do to screw over the engines. I leave your internal issues to the Consensus. Thanks for the lift.”

“Wait what? Who the hell are you?”

Crooked turned as he shrugged his robe on. “Just passing through.” He pulled up the hood and was out of the door, he pulled the scarf and goggles down and made his way out onto the deck. It was the chaos one would expect from a boarding action. Shouts, screams, gunfire and the smell of burning air. Valtarian Sorceries more than likely, which was confirmed when he saw a drake fly past and a resplendent Monarch Victor threw lightning onto the decks of the ship.

“Definitely time to go.” He saw that the Predator was engaged with a flying galleon with enchanted cannons firing into the ship. There was a dance of Combine and Valtarian troops swinging swords and discharging firearms. He saw a castle tower reaching up towards the sky like a hand reaching up to the sun. That was the closest piece of solid ground. All he had to do was get through the mess.

He assessed the scene. He was making note of the ships present. He figured he might as well be here to document as far as he knew there was no one else of his Order around. Besides note taking helped him think. He pulled a little pocket book and his pen and ducked behind cover. So far there was twelve ships of the Combine in this assault. He saw the Victor Ascendant, The Relentless Advance on the Tyranny of – that was a very long designation, he would get it properly when he was on more solid ground. The others were a swirl of confusion that he couldn’t see from his vantage point. He decided that it was time to move, curiosity could be satisfied later. He moved towards the loose ropes from grappling hooks stuck into the Galleon ‘Gilded Fortune’. He turned to a Volcorp that was firing round after round into the ship to bring cover.

“A little cover Citizen?”

The Volunteer simply nodded, his purpose was to serve the Combine in all things. Crooked swung across and landed on the deck, he drew his long knife on reflex and caught a halberd of a soldier. He knocked it aside “And how are you finding the day? The weather is charming?” and yelled “Conrad?” the confused warrior was cut down on a hail of Combine lead. Crooked smirked and walked across the deck, he only engaged when he was engaged. This was not his fight. He found some rope and tied it to the side of the ship dropping it lose. The rope fell too short of the tower he was aiming for. He cursed to himself and started to work out a way to get the ship to drop lower. At that moment there was a thunderous round of cannon fire and an Airship striking masts of the Gilded Fortune and it started to descend as the sails fluttered to the ground.

“That will do.” He looked at the ship, The Victory Through Persistence. He gave it a lazy salute as it went on its way looking for more glory and more people to liberate. He slid down the rope and landed on the roof of the tower. He scurried across the roof and through a window. It was an observatory for some monarch or another he expected, it was pretty if a little bomb damaged. He exhaled and started to walk towards the door out. When he paused, in an instant his knife was drawn and parried a stab towards his back, his hand dipped into his holster and his revolver was out and pointing in the face of a hooded, and masked face.

“Hello Crooked.” Rain Falls on the Snow said, his smirk audible through his mask.

“Rain.” He uncocked his revolver and put it away. “Trying to get shot.”

“Seeing if you were still sharp.” He holstered the flintlock he had drawn at his hip. “You are late, where have you been?”

“You know me.” Crooked shrugged, “Always a victim of Old Habits.”

Victory Over Resistance

Author: Fluidity

Fluidity crouched on the flight deck, feet carefully apart, camera steadied in both hands. On her lapel was clipped a radio which managed to be both small and clunky simultaneously, and through it, the logistics of battle were being channeled.

It was a major assault. The settlement on the precipice was a more challenging target than anticipated, and they had had to deploy reserves and more. From a crowded landing vessel parachutes tumbled onto the adjacent northern fields; a relay of cannon was constantly repositioning on the steep ascent; a troop of VolCorps stormed the south wall. Unfortunately, the cannon were uncompromisingly slow and the VolCorps soldiers had had to have the newest and unfinalised volunteers mixed in amongst them. This made the troop somewhat less disciplined and significantly more liable to seditious activity.

She should have been down there. The essential ship apparatus was being manned by three engineers, there was a single pilot at the helm, and just Comrade Amplitude controlling communications. Even the ProCorps who usually simply ran the kitchens and plumbing were on the ground aiming cannon, and in the dining hall were left only a couple of toddlers. Rhetonomic Engineer Tactics was giving birth alone downstairs – both medics were working frantically behind the cannon lines – and a few new Volunteers were too simply too chaotic to be allowed to leave their Facility.

She should have been down there. She wanted to be down there. Not winning the battle like Dynamics would, nor commanding the machinery into the most efficacious movements like Rebar; but she liked to think she could have steeled her feet in the mud and hauled a cannon rope no worse than anyone. No one in the Combine was above anyone else's work.

But in her current state, she was less than agile. It had been eight months since they had last travelled in convoy, which explained the condition of she and Tactics. At least if the mission failed, there would be two new Combine patriots at their next docking in the Inner Assembly.

Eight months. They were far, far into Valtarian territory, an outrider mounting an incursion so deep Fluidity thought they would be in uncontested mainland Valtaria with another day's flight. The Victory Through Persistence was prestigious now, and trusted with ambitious missions. Both a scout and a lone offensive force, it had set out to scour this part of the mountains: neutralise a few towns, extinguish beacons, liberate farmers. The scattered settlements were thought to be paltry, but their neutralisation would have hindered Valtarian intelligence. The only other ship to scout this area, the Measure Twice Hammer Thrice, had six months ago reported a derelict old tower here, with shepherds eking out a living beside its walls. Not this. Not this well-manned and well-armed fort whose masonry was so smart its ramparts shone. Not this fort which when attacked had belched out charge after charge of armoured Valtarian fighters.

Was this Dissonance? Fluidity had received restricted-access comms documenting Dissonance in the Shattered Front. It created a logistical nightmare. Largely it was the Hegemonic Engineers who were trying to wrap their heads around it. Now it may have hit them, and hard, and Fluidity was trying to make sense of it. Was the derelict tower ever here? Could the Valtarians have built this fast? Were the other paltry settlements all castles and barracks too?

The crew had been taken by surprise this morning. Certainly, it had been a better-constructed town than expected, but not the place to hold regiments of cavalry. Since the wind conditions were unfavourable and the narrow aerial peninsula lacked airspace devoid of rocky outcrops, they had dropped their force for a ground attack. Liberators had descended to take the town. They were to bring supplies to the ship and leave freedom in their wake.

Instead, they had been surrounded and required urgent support. All the volunteers and reserve fusiliers were deployed. They had had to siege, and by that time the ProCorps and medics were on the ground as well, and the Boarding Vessels were offloading offensive machinery, and they lacked the engineers and navigators to launch their usual devastating airship ramming manoeuvres. The fort was not supposed to be here. They had had to throw everything they had at it, and were losing a lot of that. Because of Dissonance.

So here she was, clipped to a railing on the flight deck, carabiners jingling and radio crackling into the fierce winds. The swell of the deck and her belly was testing her surefootedness. Every time she opened her mouth to speak, it seemed she spat out more strands of hair than words. The Shattered Front was windy at the best of times, and they were more than a mile above the high edge on which the settlement clung. The view was everything, and no drakerider would be able to reach them here.

She had an unparalleled and vital view of the accumulation of piles of brave bodies.

Worse, there was a baby on her back. They may have been able to leave the toddlers in their play area in the dining hall, but you couldn't leave a five-week- old. It was wrapped up like a pillow of sheepskin and she had done the cot straps so tight across her chest that her breasts squeezed out around them. And little Comrade Spark, currently asleep against all odds, completed the crew of ten that was all that was left on the Victory Through Persistence.

How many hours until they were to pick up the remnants of the hundreds on the ground?

Fluidity had never hoped harder for victory.

She saw Boarding Vessel 2 scatter its miniscule Liberators next to the northern wall. The Valtarians were mounting worthy resistance: fire and steam rose along the fortications. Even as a tower crumbled and puffed a grey cloud over the main gate, a desperate counter-attack pounded out into the teeming VolCorps. Fluidity knew the soft plumes and puffs visualised from here would scream shrapnel and burns on the ground.

She flicked the radio and inhaled hair. “Fluidity to Amplitude. Tower 1 neutralised. Gate 1 accessible. Significant resistance at Gate 1.”

Her body shook from the buffetting. Below, the nearest cliff face trembled in explosions and Valtarian stonework fell into oblivion.

“Amplitude to Fluidity. Contact made with Troop Delta. Request evaluation of -- -- -- -”

The wind whipped away the words. Teeth chattering, camera shaking, Fluidity shouted for repetition.

“Golf Alpha Tango Echo One! Victor Optics Liberty! November Uniform Mechanics Bravo -- -”

“ADEQUATE!” Fluidity howled into the receiver. Her hair was all over her face. Those VolCorps had better be able to take that charge, if they were worth the weight of their guns. The Liberators seemed to be trickling over the northern defences now. A ripple of explosions traveled between buildings. Which faction had set them off was difficult to distinguish.

Did Gatling still have the same gun she had started the day with? How much blood was on Dynamics'; coat by now? Was it in tatters? Were they wounded? Had they eaten? They would be alive, of course they would be.

She thought that the Combine was turning the tide – just. After nine hours of siege, the fort was breached on two sides, albeit barely. Persistence indeed. Unimaginable Persistence.

“Come on, guys,” she mumbled, “We're with you in spirit, aren't we, Comrade Spark? Victory through persistence. We'll be seeing them soon, won't we, Spark? Let's chant for them, together.

Maybe they'll hear us. Argh, there's hair in my mouth. Come on now, Spark. VTP! VTP! V! T! P!"


Incidents

Author: Dynamics

The Victory Through Persistence had a bad record with retaining its assigned Hegemonic Engineers. Losing one, after all, could be perceived as bad luck, losing five in a row could be seen as carelessness, losing seventeen began to look like conspiracy. Of course, upon a full audit of the ship while it was docked at the Inner Assembly, every report Auditor Replaceable Parts reviewed made complete sense. Falling off the edge during a storm, hit by dragonfire during an assault on a Valtarian Fortress, food poisoning, failed to jump when Engineer Rebar shouted ‘jump’, failed to duck when Engineer Rebar shouted ‘duck’, revealed to be an Industrioclast, revealed to be an Industrioclast trying to find out what happened to the last Industrioclast…

It eventually became known in RevCorps that the Victory Through Persistence was cursed, and beyond the grizzled few who survived such as Rhetonomic Engineer Fluidity and her loyal assistants, RevCorps would generally avoid the ship, viewing an assignment for a Hegemonic Engineer to that ship to be a death sentence.

Naturally, this led to problems for continuing to guide the Volunteers on the ship.

...

Thunder crashed in the sky, as Dynamics and Canister burst through the door into the sealed briefing room. Furniture went flying as the two Liberators careered through into the darkened room, the barricade that had been created on the other side overthrown by their combined might. The lights had been disconnected, meaning the only light came from the glowing chamber of Canister’s plasma lancer, but that was enough to survey the contents of the room.

“What has she done?” Canister whispered, surveying the room with a hand over their mouth, as Dynamics counted and reported in over the radio.

“Fluidity, we’ve got 2 Liberators, 5 Engineers and a Volunteer. All deceased.”

Canister shook their head in disbelief, “I just don’t understand, what happened?”

Dynamics carried on looking round, eyes cold but wide, “You remember that radio broadcast we got in over dinner? The one about the Opportunity supply ship going down?”

“Yeah, I remember,” said Canister, not drawing the connection, “What of it?”

“I read her file, she was on that ship.”

“So you think…?”

“Unchecked Volunteer Incident.”

“Third time this month.”

Dynamics nodded, “We’ve got to find her before she does a number on the engines. Or worse, Rebar.”

Canister nodded, and Dynamics pulled out the radio, and attempted to radio in but with a crash of lightning, he looked at it and swore. “Storm’s scrambling the signal. We’ve got to move, and fast.”

The two Liberators moved out. Sword in hand, Dynamics led, with Canister covering with the plasma lancer. Following the trail wasn’t difficult: wires erupted from the walls, and oil leaks from punctures in pipes littered the path of destruction in the Volunteer’s wake. They trod carefully, the lights flickering as they did, the pair moving as a unit.

Then the lights went out, not even the plasma lancer able to illuminate the cramped corridor. There was a thud, then a voice.

“Liberator Dynamics and Liberator Canister” echoed the voice from no direction, “I wondered how long it would take you two to come and find me.”

Dynamics looked around, but unable to see anything in the darkness held tighter to his sword.

“This doesn’t have to be how things go,” he said, calmly, “We can still work things out, Volunteer-”

The voice hissed, “Don’t call me Volunteer. You know what the word ‘volunteer’ means, don’t you? Someone who freely offers to do something. You know I didn’t have that choice. That it was taken away from me.”

The lights flickered back on for a moment, and Canister wasn’t to be seen. Dynamics looked around, carefully gauging everything before the lights turned off again.

“Okay, sure, I apologise. What would you prefer me to call you?”

“Don’t pretend you care, ‘Liberator’,” the voice snapped with venom, “You took me and you gave me a new name, didn’t you? You decided who I was going to be and made me it. Who I was is just a piece of paper you tried to burn. A person you wanted to rewrite.”

Dynamics paused, absorbing the words, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?!” the voice shouted, the word echoing, “Sorry? The great Liberator Dynamics is sorry?! You know what I think of that?”

“I suspect I can guess,” the Liberator muttered.

There was a thud, and the lights snapped back on, and the Liberator winced at the sight in front of him. Canister had returned to the room, the word LIES adorning the dead Liberator’s coat in blood.

“You wanted to mess with a Margin Driver?” the voice growled, echoing from above.

“I want to work things out between us, Volun-, Comrade,” Dynamics said, moving around the room carefully, glancing cautiously at the ceiling.

“Don’t call me Comrade!” the voice shouted, “I’m not your Comrade, I never was. The person you created is GONE, and ‘Deadline’ is back, and this whole ship is going DOWN with y-”

Dynamics made a stab at the ceiling with the sword, the metal penetrating metal and then something softer. There was a short ‘oh’, followed by the collapse of a ventilation shaft, and a blood-stained Volunteer landing on top of it.

The Liberator looked down, a look of neither fear nor joy on his face, as the ex-Margin Driver looked up at him with a look of pure loathing. “I’m sorry, ‘Deadline’,” the Liberator said, “I really am.”

He turned to leave, and the Opportunist spat after him, “You’re all going to pay, Combine. Mark my words.”

Dynamics didn’t respond, but picked up the radio, hearing Fluidity’s voice on the other end and simply spoke, “Make that 3 Liberators, 5 Engineers, and 2 Volunteers. Out.”

Ghost of You

Author: Volunteer Vector

Gunfire painted the sky above his head in bright gold and reds, a thick black smoke drifted from the wreckage of a burning airship. Somewhere in the distance he heard the cries of a fellow Volunteer in pain.

He stood up and reached for a medical pack which wasn't there…

He was in sleek uniform, tight fitting well made camo cloak and his trusty knife sat by his side. He wasn't a volunteer, why had he thought that, he was Petrol, Liberator of the People's Combine.

Petrol pulled the camo cloak around his shoulders and slunk over the lip of the trench, gun held tight to his body, as he slipped between the shadows cast by the dancing fires in the distance. He’d been chosen to do this insertion on his own, Diesel his partner in most combat, was off leading a direct attack on the castle, being the distraction, Petrol was here to do the dirty work, as was his want.

He got close to the volunteer, they looked at him with big eyes, he leant down and dropped them a pistol, “Make the shots count Volunteer, keep them off me, I’m going to cut the head off this snake, I need you, the Combine needs you to do your duty.”

The volunteer nodded, shaking slightly “Yes Liberator.”

“What is your name?”

“T…. Turbo, Liberator”

“Very good Volunteer Turbo, you will be remembered, that I promise you. Now, can you draw the attention of those thralls for me?”

The volunteer nodded again, and Petrol slipped away again as the pistol began to fire into the enemy. These were some sort of undead thralls, raised by the Monarch-in-Shadow that ruled these lands, it was his job to cut the head off that snake.

Petrol moved silently through the enemy lines, occasionally letting off a silent burst to drop something in his way, and lowering their bodies gently to the ground, killing only those he needed to, ignoring the rest. Behind him he heard a shout of pain and the pistol shots abruptly cut off.

Eventually he made his way into the command area, the Monarch had his back turned to him, a tall, blonde man, overlooking his troops fighting Diesel’s push on the castle gates.

Petrol pulled out the knife from it’s sheath and stepped up to the Monarch, “Time to die Tyrant.”

He was met by cruel eyes and a clenched fist which sent him reeling “You really think I didn’t notice you, foolish Combine. You will die and then I think I will send you down to fight your friends, how about that?”

The steel shod boot of the Monarch pressed down on his chest, cutting off his breathing….


Vector awoke with a start from the dream, he rubbed away the sleep from his eyes, and took in his surroundings. The Symphony, they were on battle stations, he grabbed his battered rifle, and medic kit, heading out with a throng of roused Volunteers, on their way to the front lines to soak up whatever was trying to board them.

He shook with a spike of fear and adrenaline, he didn’t want to die, he wasn’t a soldier, he wasn’t really a medic. He was pushed along with the flow of bodies, he overheard enough to know they were being boarded by Walkers.

Sooner than he would have liked they were amongst the fray, comrades falling to poisons beside him, he fell into what little cover he could find, fumbling with bandages, trying to save someone's life, and then he saw a Walker turn the corner and draw a bead on him. Vector fumbled with the rifle, too slowly, the Walker pulled the trigger…..


And he was pushed down, by some larger body, the shot wizzing over his head, into, no, through the body above him. He looked up and was met with the grim smile of a liberator dressed all in black, a camo cloak around his shoulders and a smart rifle in his hands. “Come on Volunteer, we’ve got a war to win.”

Vector blinked, he was sure he recognised that face, was it from holovids? It must have been…

The Liberator moved quickly between cover, and motioned him to follow up “You can’t stay there, come here and shoot that walker”. The other man stepped out of cover and let off a volley of rounds cutting down one of the enemy.

Vector moved up and rolled into the cover the Liberator had left, something in his muscles remembered what it was doing, why was this so easy? He leant round and shot the Walker he’d seen earlier.

He turned around to see the Liberator charge a group of five Walkers, he ducked as more fire came his way, and when he emerged the Liberator had gone, as had the walkers…

And with that the battle had turned in their favour, they pushed the Walkers back off the ship and made haste for repair yards.


That was the first time Volunteer Vector would see his saving Liberator, but it would not be the last, something dredged from his memories to carry him through battles he was in no fit state to fight. Something old, something of his, though at the time he would not know it.

Things that make you go boom

Author: Dynamics

Hegemonic Engineer Mitre had only been appointed to the Victory Through Persistence a few weeks ago but he’d already identified a couple of troublesome areas. Or, rather, a couple of troublemakers. He’d never been able to catch them in the act, but wherever Dynamics and Gatling went, trouble usually followed. That changed today, though.

The Victory was floating not too far away from a Valtarian fortress. They were due to assault it in less than an hour, and were due to test an experimental bomb shipped to the Front from the Inner Assembly. The bomb, however, was nowhere to be seen, and the last people to access the armoury where it was being stored were currently whispering with smiles on their faces on the main deck of the ship.

“...remember when Pipe-Wrench had that bowl of chocolates?” Gatling whispered, Dynamics nodding, “and we put in that one piece of metal painted brown and he bit into it?”

“You mean the piece of metal that shattered his teeth and you chalked up to ‘an unfortunate kitchen error’? Yes, I remember,” Dynamics said with a hushed smile.

“Well the driving principle remains the same but I found what the dragon’s feeding on and-”

“Liberators!” Mitre barked, marching up to them, “I do hope I’m not interrupting, but I hoped you might be able to help me locate some missing equipment.”

“Missing equipment, Comrade?” Dynamics smiled, “well Comrade Gatling is best positioned to help. Anything missing, Comrade?”

“At our last count, Dynamics? Well there are fifteen grenades unaccounted for, two assault rifles, and a shoulder mounted missile pod, and that’s just the ballistic weapons, then there’s-”

“Enough,” the Hegemonic Engineer raised a hand, “I’m looking for the Mass Liberation Device, and I’m fairly sure you two know it. It’s missing from the armoury, and you two were seen there last, before your recon mission, in fact.”

“We were?” both of them said in unison, unable to hide their grins.

“Yes, you were, and you should wipe those smiles off your faces: this is a serious matter.” The Liberators put on serious faces, “that’s better. Now, I’ll ask once: where is the bomb?”

“Um…” Gatling glanced down toward the fortress.

“Liberator?”

The deep bass sound of something large coughing came from below them, and the grins returned to the Liberators, who both rushed to the railing and gripped it. Mitre looked unimpressed.

“Liberator, what are you smiling about? Where is the bomb, Liberator?”

“You’re not focussing on the bigger issue here, Comrade,” Dynamics said, looking at him, “you shouldn’t be looking for the bomb.”

“What? What do you mean? What ‘should’ I be doing?”

Gatling grinned, “Holding on.”

There was an explosion as a dragon far below swallowed the ticking time bomb, triggering a colossal BOOM. The shockwave shook the ship, and Mitre was thrown against a wall, knocked out cold.

Eventually the ship stopped shaking, and the Liberators examined the unconscious Hegemonic Engineer, and Gatling sighed, “I told him to hold on.”

Carrion Queen

Author: Carrion Queen

Vermilion the Unrepentant glares out across the valley. Above the peaks of the far side, the airships wait, brooding like stormclouds. If looks alone could kill – even a Monarch’s gaze – they would already be ablaze.

The peaks, the valley, the passes – all are choked with corpses. Screams echo through the camp as her own forces finish working their way through the captured deserters from her fallen lover’s army. The same choice, offered over and over – take up arms, pledge allegiance to the red banners of the Unrepentant and her quest for vengeance for the lord they failed, or die. Many kneel. Many others, whether through terror or courage, do not.

The scent of blood hangs heavy in the air. Ashes swirl on the breeze.

There is a soft cough from behind her. She turns.

“My lady...” Her battle-captain’s voice is unusually soft; the heavy-set woman has a pale face and blood spattered across her armour. “We have found what you required.”

“Good, good.” She moves to her throne, takes her seat; her eyes, now she is not staring out towards the enemy, drift inexorably towards the bier. She does not weep; does not permit herself to show such weakness. Mortals weep for fallen lovers; gods avenge them.

“Bring them to me.”

The half-dozen deserters dragged before her are a ragtag bunch; men and women in varying states of disarray, and uniforms of varying status. But well enough matched in height, and all reasonably intact, hale enough for what she needs them for.

Each of them has a noose still fastened around their neck; rope burns mar their throats, where the captain let them hang, as ordered, for long enough to feel death’s shadow upon them, before she cut them down.

“We- we chose,” the boldest of them manages to stammer. “Serve or die, that was the choice, and we chose-”

She lifts her hand, and they fall silent.

“You chose to die.” Her voice is level, even. “So be it, then.” She pauses briefly, watches fear and confusion play over their faces. “You are dead men, dead women. Do you understand me? You are the dead. And as the dead, you owe allegiance only to the dead.”

She nods to the bier. “There lies your lord, who was my love. You owe him service yet.” A gesture of her hand, and the ropes about their necks lengthen, strengthen, moor themselves to the bier’s poles. “You will bear him home. For the hero’s funeral he has earned. One last service, from the dead to the dead.”

She waits to see them nod, eyes widening in understanding, and leans forwards. “And remember – you are the dead. Should I ever have reason to think of you as other… well, there is dead and there is dead.” Her smile is cold and thin.

As the bier leaves camp, her captain brings her the rest of what she asked for. She draws the circle out in the blood and ash of the slain, kicks off her shoes to plant her feet firmly on the earth within it. Turns once again, to stare out across the valley. Reaches inwards, and downwards, and outwards.

And with the strength of rage and grief and love, she works magic stronger and more reckless than she ever has before.

The peaks, the valley, the passes – all are choked with corpses. The scent of blood hangs heavy in the air. Ashes swirl on the breeze.

Vermilion’s power flows out of her, power channelled from the ley lines flows through her, power harvested from the slaughter of the deserters slams into her. Her eyes glow crimson with the power; for an instant, she fears the magic may consume her – but then, then her Shaper’s will asserts itself in truth, and wherever on the battlefield is touched by blood and ash, there her power is too.

In the eyes of every corpse upon the field, a crimson spark takes life. Slowly, unsteadily, they rise, necromantic power taking hold. And then, all at once, they turn, and stare with their mistress towards her foes. And, as Vermilion begins to laugh, bitter and exultant and furious, the dead begin to march to war.

Gatling Knows

Authors: Switchgear and Gatling"

A storm wailed around the Victory Through Persistence, the same storm that had been wailing for the last week, or six days, or month, depending on who you asked. The rain hammered down on the decks sounded like the drums of a steadily approaching army, and the wind howled like a pack of wolves.

This storm hadn’t stopped the brave Combine taking advantage and taking on some entrenched Valtarian positions. The storm had given them cover in the clouds, allowing the ship to hover above while munitions were dropped on positions below before the ship came in for its final attack. “Docking through the enemy is sometimes easier than docking beside them,” Rebar had remarked, and that’s what they had done, but the assault had been bloody. They’d been forced to retreat.

The zipline lancing Liberator had not taken it well, and while most of the crew were inside drinking and laughing, a tall figure in a long coat stood out on the deck, watching the storm. So preoccupied with the rain that he didn’t notice the Fusilier slip out onto the deck as well.

“Hello Dynamics.” Despite the even tone of her voice, Gatlings words carried on the wind past the thundering roll of lighting, reaching the figure just before her foot falls did. “You’re not at the party.”

The Liberator looked over and shook his head, a voice quieter than usual but still heard above the raging storm replied simply with words that had been repeated more and more frequently in the last weeks, “I don’t really feel like partying right now.”

“Mmhmm. Kind of like how you didn’t feel like listening when I asked you to execute a hang bar 27.5 degree maneuver back there that nearly resulted in me shooting Knut in the temple?” The sky cracked with light, blurring the shorter Liberator’s movements as she kicked the back of the taller’s knees. Catching him while he was unsteady, she spun him round, using gravity to her advantage and slamming him to the deck, her forearm pressed hard against his throat. Her eyes were wild with fiery anger, teeth bared. “Who are you and what the turbines have you done with my brother?”

“What the blazes are you on about, Gatling?!” he protested, his arm swinging for a weapon that wasn’t there, his face hidden in the darkness of the night, “It’s me! I just didn’t hear you over the sound of the bombs! Let me up!”

“No! You’ve been acting strange for weeks! Dynamics would never miss a queue, he’s never late for breakfast, he knows every single word to “Liberator’s Lament” and has never once agreed to one of Rivet’s plans without questioning. At first I put it down to that massacre last month, no one likes to lose that many, but you’re are not Dy! So who the hell are you?”

“I’m Dynamics! Nothing’s wrong, Gatling, I-” there was a flash of lightning past the ship, illuminating the face and the eyes of the Liberator, showing a look of fear and uncertainty that had never graced Dynamics’s face, a look not seen since a young Volunteer first gazed in horror at a Valtarian dragon face to face.

Gatling froze.

“Switch… gear?”

Rain continued to thunder down on the deck, as the head of Dynamics slowly nodded, all resistance to Gatling dropped as she whispered, “Hey Gatling,” in a voice that was neither quite that of Dynamics or of herself.

The fight seemed to drop out of the liberator too, her arm drawing away from the others neck, her eyes flicking over shadowed features, trying to pick out the details. “But you died. In the macare. You… you sacrificed yourself… you… … Where is Dy?”

A crack of lightning showed the tears in the eyes of Switchgear, the eyes of Dynamics, as she bit her bottom lip and shook her head, “Advantage Valley… I’m sorry. He didn’t… he didn’t…”

There was a loud cheer from inside, a flash of a camera lighting up the windows and illuminating the crew for a moment before it returned to the dim shine of candles. For stealth, of course.

“Dynamics is dead.” Gatling concluded, her voice empty. “He’s the one who died.”

The eyes of a dead Liberator started to fill with tears, “I’m sorry, Gatling, I tried to stop him but he… he… I tried to… the Monarch… she…” Switchgear failed to end the sentence, only bringing a balled hand to her chest in a stabbing motion, “He took her down with him,” she finished.

Gatling rolled off her sibling, now thoroughly drenched through and the storm only growing stronger over head. “Switchgear, you know I have to-”

Before the liberator could finish what she was saying the door onto the deck flew open and Fluidity’s face was lit up by a lightning flash.

“What the turbines are you two doing out here? Are you insane? What’s going on?”

Out of the corner of her eye, Gatling could see her brother-- no sister’s face, eyes wide, pleading silently. The older liberator swallowed thickly.

“Nothing, Comrade.” She called back, effortlessly forcing her best cheeky grin. “Just making sure Liberator Lubricant here actually gets a decent shower!”

“Again?!” The two shared a laugh, though Gatling’s mind was speeding as she planned how to make sure the showers were tampered with once more before the engineers were sent to fix them again. “Well if either of come down with the flu, I’m not sitting by your bed side and feeding you soup.”

Relief flooded Switchgear’s stolen face as Fluidity returned to the party, but it was short lived as fear of uncertainty returned. Her mouth opened and closed as she began to start explanations, but found herself failing to give one. Eventually, weakly, she said “are you going to turn me in for re-education?”

“If I did that now, they’d have me too…” Gatling sighed, pushing the damp hair back from her face. “I’m not going to lose another sibling. Not today.”

Switch smiled, a smile that almost looked natural on Dynamics’s face, yet was certainly the Volunteer’s, not the Liberator’s, “Thank you,” she said, quietly, “I… I didn’t know what else to do…”

Gatling looked at the other, lightening flashing once more, highlighting her red eyes, tear irritated eyes. “You are going to need to pull your act together if you want to get away with this. You are not yourself anymore, you are Dynamics.” She pushed herself up, pausing a moment before reaching a hand out to Switchgear. “So act like it.”

Advantage Valley: The Full Story

Authors: Liberator Switchgear

Those in the briefing room file out past the unassuming Volunteer, until Dynamics is the last one there, staring at a series of maps and charts. Switchgear sidles into the room and gives him a nudge.


“Hey, Dy,” she smiles, and Dynamics gives her a small smile back but the grim look on his face betrays him, “What’s wrong?” she asks.


“Just looking at the logistics for this operation in Advantage Valley,” he explains, “Valtarian fortress, hell of a lot of dissonance, I’m leading a group of Volunteers in to clear it out.”


“They want you?” Switchgear asks in disbelief, “A Liberator?!”


Dynamics shakes his head, “It’s too crucial and too dissonant to send Volunteers alone. It’d be cruel at best, and even Fluidity agrees there. So I volunteered.”


“So what, you’re going to get your head blown off as well?”


“Not if I can help it.”


Switchgear crosses her arms, “So who’s on the team going in?”


“Crank, Driveshaft, Chain, Axle, Motor, Clutch…”


“I’m going too.”


“No, Switch, you’re not. You need to stay here, I need you alive.”


“And I need you alive, Dy,” she says, grabbing his arm and pulling him round to face her, “It’s too dangerous, and you know we’re more likely to survive if we’re together.”


“Or we’re more likely to both get killed.”


“That’s a risk I’m willing to take.”


“Switch…” he puts a hand on her arm, a pleading look in his eyes.


“I’m doing this, Dy,” she responds firmly, putting her hand on his arm, looking firmly into his eyes, and he sighs.


“Go get kitted up.”



“Volunteer Crank! Behind you!”


There’s a burst of fire, as the dark red drake incinerates the Volunteer in front of the Liberator’s eyes. The light reflects of the goggles in the smoke and shadows of the fortress, and Dynamics stands frozen.


“LIBERATOR!” shouts Switchgear, “We need to get out of here NOW!”


Wrenched back to the moment, Dynamics scrambles backward as the dark silhouette of the Monarch-in-Shadow looms through the corridor, cackling.


“You, Combine Peasants, you really thought you could defeat me? Dark Lord of the Valley of Despair, Keeper of the Place of Madness-”


“The Combine will always overcome Valtarian tyrants!” shouts Driveshaft, charging forward. Dynamics and Switchgear shout out in unison top stop him, but with one swing of the Valtarian’s sword it’s too late.


Time seems to slow as Driveshaft’s body falls the floor: Dynamics and Switchgear beating a tactical retreat through the twisting dungeons of the Valtarian castle, a sword in the hands of one, and energy pistols in the hands of another, parrying blows and firing pointlessly into the dark armour of the Monarch.


“You incompetent fools! I am immortal!” the Monarch laughs, and that’s when the Liberator and Volunteer alike both see it: the gap in the armour.


In an immediate moment, Dynamics and Switchgear look at each other.


“NO!” they both say in unison, “The Combine need you!”


Dynamics shakes his head, “I’m closer, I can do this: get out while you still can!”


“I’m a Volunteer: this is what I’m for,” Switchgear replies, loudly but simply.


“Equality, Volunteer, we’re both here for the same job -- let me do this!”


Switchgear shouts, “You need to survive this: Liberators survive, Volunteers die, that’s how it works.”


“But-”


“I Volunteer.”


Dynamics falters for a moment, the Monarch advances, Switchgear turns to him, and holds out in her hand a simple golden medal, “If you want to remember me, take this.”


Dynamics holds out his hand to take it, as the Monarch looms over behind Switchgear, dark sword raised high.


“Now, peasants, now you die!”


A hand tightens around the medal as Switchgear lets go and shouts, “FOR THE COMBINE!!!” but she’s thrown to the side as Liberator charges forward, sword cold, and plunges his blade straight through the armour of the Monarch who falters, but plunges her own sword into his stomach. The Monarch’s eyes widen as the Liberator’s close, accepting his fate. The Volunteer can’t tell if it’s from the dissonance or the disaster, but everything seems to happen in slow motion.


The drake behind the Monarch lets out an almighty burst of fire, but it’s blocked by the Monarch, immolated by the flame. Switchgear grabs Dynamics, pulling him off the Monarch’s sword and out of the path of the beast. She hauls him down a corridor as the drake advances, but with the Monarch’s control broken the beast thrashes about bringing walls down separating it from them, trapping them from the outside by layers and layers of rubble.


Dynamics is dying. Switchgear tries to stem the bleeding, but Dynamics puts a hand on hers and shakes his head. She carries on anyway, pressing hard on the wound to stop the blood pouring out.


“Damn it, Dy, you’re not… you’re not dying on me. This isn’t how it goes, this isn’t where you end,” she stammers, as the Liberator’s breath starts becoming more ragged.


“We all end somewhere, Volunteer,” he says, between deep breaths, each more agonising than the last, “Now go on and do something worth remembering.”


“I’m a Volunteer, Dy, I amount to nothing,” she says, tears rolling down her cheeks, “You’re the one who matters, you’re a Liberator, people will remember you.”


Dynamics shakes his head and holds up the medal in his hand, “Then take this, and make sure people remember me through you.”


“Dy, I can’t, I…”


“I believe in you, Switch,” he says, a tiny smile creeping onto his face amidst the blood, the dust and the tears, “Go make me proud.”


“I can’t do it without you,” she says, tears streaming, and she grips his hand tight, “I need you, Dy, I..”


Dynamics opens his mouth, but instead of words comes a strangled noise, and then life drops from his eyes. The Volunteer, clutching the body of her fallen Comrade, weeps, clinging onto the medal he gave her tightly in her right hand as the castle collapses around her. Rocks fall, the temperature rises, but the Shaper cares not as she holds on beneath the rubble.


Sadness becomes anger, becomes determination, becomes a motive. Dynamics will be remembered, and the Shaper pushes her power to the brink to change, to hide her face, and to make sure what he stood for, the change he represented, the promises he’d made her, that they all will be remembered throughout history. It doesn’t come without cost, with scars remaining and the medal burning into her hand, but it’s done. “Liberator Dynamics” stands, and the face of Volunteer Switchgear is left in the rubble.



Three days later, Liberator Dynamics is retrieved, standing atop the ruins of a Valtarian fortress. His sword shattered, his goggles cracked, his coat charred. The only respectable object remaining is a simple golden medal, clutched fiercely in his hand. The real body of Dynamics is buried in the rubble of the fortress: the Victory Through Persistence shells the place into oblivion, burying it in the Shattered Front for eternity.


Between Ten Thousand Leaves

Author: Endless Radiance

Through the gates, he passed into the chamber just beneath the mountain’s peak.

His breath caught in his throat, as it always did, at the sight of it - a symphony in glass and crystal, turning and turning and- coming into focus.

Endless Radiance sank to his knees, and a humming chorus spoke as if a single voice.

Situation overview. The city of [First Step On The Path To Freedom|Lyanna’s Triumph] - the perfect harmony split into dissonant cacophony - is the centre of a compounding dissonant fracture pattern.

...

A lone figure, plate-armoured and hooded, crouches at the lip of the crater. Far below is a city, ravaged by war - burned-out buildings and patches of bare rubble dot the neat rows of buildings, walls scarred by shell and spell. At the centre, a stark fortress, walls hung with bright golden banners over faded red paint, all lit by gentle magelight.

Endless Radiance breathes deeply and slowly, deliberately; sets his feet; shifts the flow of energy through his body.

Takes a short, deliberate step to the side.

(Commandments follow. Infiltrate the central fortress using stance Between Ten Thousand Leaves.

Radiance’s head snapped up to gaze into the heart of the Oracle. “Between Ten Thousand Leaves exacerbates causal fracturing. Am I supposed to mend this pattern or worsen it?”)

He stands on the lip of the crater. Far below is a city, ravaged by war - burned-out buildings and patches of bare rubble dot the neat rows of buildings, walls scarred by shell and spell. At the centre, a stark fortress, walls freshly painted in bold scarlet and lit by the harsh brightness of floodlights.

Now the real test - for all Between Ten Thousand Leaves was developed from Axis Moves the World, dual-stance techniques are always difficult. He turns to get the angle just right, and steps across to the fortress parapet.

A guard - close, too close - falls to Radiance’s sword, a half-formed curse screeching wildly away to detonate against the ground.

So much for quiet.

An entrance - there. Radiance dashes across the parapet and dips a shoulder to burst into the tower. A quick slash to dispel the magelight; a turn, and the room is bright again. He punches out the lightbulb with his swordhilt. The room is plunged into night. Three quick cuts, and three Combine guards fall dead.

No need to limit casualties on this mission, after all.

Endless Radiance stalks through the fort’s halls leaving darkness and corpses in his wake.

This fracture-pattern is bilateral, extending from a core primacy-conflict between Shaper world-perspectives. Tracing your world-line through both perspectives with Between Ten Thousand Leaves ensures the flowering of a vitreous mandala will proceed from and conclude both core narratives, preventing further propagation of the fracture.

Nearing the central hall, he turns a corner and sees heavy steel doors, alert guards - a machine-gun nest? Time he can’t afford to spend. He checks his pace, ducks back into the shadows, and steps around the corner. Heavy drapes and an open door, the sounds of song and feasting from the Monarch-Victor’s court.

Better.

Slowing his pace, he slips into the hall, sights the balcony, and steps.

Not onto the balcony, just a little forward.

He swears under his breath. If his perspective doesn’t have primacy, then- yes, there’s the Monarch, not at the high table but walking among her adoring subjects.

Time for something a little flashy, then.

The hall erupts into a cacophony of shouts and screams as an armoured figure dashes in and leaps high into the hair, kicking from wall to wall and sailing gracefully-

Lyanna Spellbreaker shouts a Word of Power.

Endless Radiance smashes face-first into the wall.

He catches, clutches the balcony railing. Pulls himself up. Points his sword in challenge, and steps backwards, never breaking eye contact, into her personal chamber.

Thus. Assassinate the Shaper [Hegemonic Engineer Derivative|Lyanna Spellbreaker] - that ear-splitting doubled speech again - and plant a vitreous mandala.

The command centre falls silent, and Hegemonic Engineer Derivative springs to her feet. “Shaper! Everyone out!”

Shots ring out, deflecting from the flashing silver sword, pinging from a mirror-bright breastplate. Radiance ducks and dashes forwards into a thrust, parried and countered, and the swordplay begins in earnest.

The Engineer’s good - good enough that this won’t be quick. A heavy blow sends Radiance stepping back to regain his footing, and Derivative flourishes her blade. “You’ll never take this city, Valtarian!”

It’s a good performance, perfectly angled for the omnipresent cameras to catch, but Radiance can’t let it see the light of day, especially not with the next part.

He rolls out of sight behind a console and between the leaves, and the Spellbreaker yells as she sees her prey. “There you are! I should have known that Combine sorcerer would find an assassin somewhere!”

Her bright-glowing axe moves faster than sight, and Radiance’s sword meets it. They test one another’s guard, each feeling out the rhythm of the battle, fencing from bed to wall and back again.

It’s time. Radiance shifts again, and his vision doubles. He parries a thrust of Derivative’s saber as Lyanna’s axe glances from his spaulder. Cut and counter, step and strike, he fills two Shapers’ minds with his presence.

But he can’t keep this up for long. A bullet slashes across his shin and he stumbles, flinging his sword up to parry an axe blow meant to separate his head. He staggers back as two figures stalk towards him - towards Endless Radiance, the centre of two worlds.

Hegemonic Engineer Derivative raises her pistol and the armoured, hooded invader leaps back, then - somehow - braces in empty air to thrust his sword into her throat.

Lyanna Spellbreaker, Liberator of the Chain-Cursed, sees the armoured, hooded invader hop back onto her bed and lunge forward, as if striking an invisible figure with his sword. No matter; she presses the attack.

Radiance’s head is aching now with the weight of holding onto an entire perspective suddenly bereft of its anchor. Only one opponent to fight, though - his sword sings out and suddenly the Spellbreaker is on the defensive.

He circles around, letting her push him back. Ducks, grabs the fallen Combine soldier’s gun, and fires three quick shots.

There’s little chance to cast a shielding spell when the gun appears, sudden, from another version of the world.

Endless Radiance pulls a complex shape of sharp glass from a pouch at his belt, and places it in the centre of the rooms. With exquisite care he pricks a finger, staining a point with blood; the vitreous mandala flowers in light and fire and begins to spread.

He turns to leave and then it hits him.

“That Combine sorcerer,” the monarch had said.

There’s another Derivative out there.

...

He steps from rooftop to rooftop with the dizzying shifts of Axis Moves the World, silhouetting himself as a black shape against the fire and the sky.

Then the shift refuses to happen, and he knows he’s found his prey.

All around, people are fleeing from the blazing light of the vitreous mandala, but one figure slips into the shadows.

Endless Radiance drops silently into the darkness.

It’s blow for blow the fight they had before, and he almost laughs.

“We will retake this city, Valtarian!” she hisses, but he’s got her measure this time, and he presses the advantage. A little too hard, a little too fast - a bleeding cut on his forehead for his troubles - but as The Art Of Cutting always says, aggression ends fights, if you’re willing to bleed.

For the second time that night, Endless Radiance slays Hegemonic Engineer Derivative.

He is the only Shaper in the cities.

He turns to leave, and sees a figure watching him. A young man, firelight glimmering in his eyes.

“She’s dead?”

Radiance nods, stepping closer. The shadows reluctantly surrender him to the light.

The youth is gazing up at him with waning trepidation and waxing joy.

“They kept fighting, the Monarchs and the Engineers, but you’re not either, are you? We’re free of both of them. We can be something else now!”

Radiance smiles, but not happily. “Do you want my guidance?”

The youth nods and scurries forward to listen.

Once flowering has begun, ensure total conclusion of the city’s observation-lines.

Radiance leans down to whisper in his new disciple’s ear, and snaps his neck.

...

A lone figure, plate-armoured and hooded, stands at the lip of the crater. Far below is a plane of glass, swirled with jagged fracture-lines that lead the eye astray. At the centre, where once stood a fortress, is a vast crystal lotus; a memorial to a city that is no more.

Every one of the city’s stories ends thus. There is only one witness; he looks a moment longer on what his works have wrought, turns, and disappears back into the shadows.

When the Heart Stopped

​Author:​ ​Lieutenant​ ​Bennet,​ ​Engineer​ ​Crankshaft

The raid against the Valtarian supply lines was not going as planned. What was supposed to be a quick and clean raid into enemy territory against a convoy carrying mana crystals and drake food turned out to be an ambush devised by the enemy. The target was too good to be true. Thus the two Combine sky locomotives quickly found themselves locked in a desperate struggle for survival as dozens of dragonriders pelted the heavily armoured monstrosities with fire and brimstone.


Onboard the Heart of the Machine, alarms blared from all sides as the engineers rushed to the site of the newest hull breach. Crankshaft, a wiry ProCorp engineer ran through a corridor just as a blast caved in the hull in front of them. “Blast and damnation! That nearly got me!” they exclaimed after they stopped coughing. “Those dragons will be our death” they muttered while quickly sealing the entire section. They opened a nearby hatch and shimmied into a jeffrey tube.

Further along the hull, past the collapsed section, a tall man was desperately fighting the fires in a broadside gun battery. He already closed off the munitions but the fire could still spread and overwhelm the section. The inferno seemed to be unstoppable until Crankshaft dropped from a vent overhead and grabbed an extinguisher. Together the two comrades made quick work of the fire. Laughing with relief, Crankshaft turned to the man: “Piston, you should be damn glad we decided to overhaul the jeffrey tubes last year. I told you it would pay off in the end.” Piston, looked over the smoldering embers and melted steel. “That it did, mate. But you didn’t know it would be like this.”


The battle was short and brutal. The Combine did not have sufficient forces to reinforce the two locomotives in an ambush, especially since they already fulfilled their purpose and scattered the convoy. When the grand sorcerer on the ground channeled a large amount of crystal mana and unleashed a lance of lightning that broke The Heart of the Machine in half, it was almost a mercy.

Crankshaft wobbled unsteadily as the ship started breaking apart. Failing to get good grip and launch themselves off, they tumbled into an uncontrolled fall. This was much, much higher than the comfortable disembarking height of a few hundred metres. Landing in a tree, they managed to only break their wrist, a testament to their proficiency in falling off things. They looked over the massive crater of fire and steel. There were no survivors. They surveyed the remains for a long time before turning away from the wreckage of their former home and starting the long walk back towards the Combine.

Piston awoke bruised and battered near a massive flaming crater where a half of his home lay dead. There were no survivors. He surveyed the remains for a long while before turning around and walking away from the Combine.

Perspective

Author: Rain Falls On The Snow

“And one last copy for you, Liberator Turbine. Now, everyone understands that this is the Consensus of the Strategic Committee, yes? Are there any questions before you all return to your groups?”

There was a pause as Hegemonic Engineer Dial looked over the gathered engineers and liberators, irritatingly broken by a small squeaking noise.

“… Engineer Flux. Didn’t I ask if some Volunteers could be placed on mouse-catching duty? They’re a danger to our operational reliability. Contamination of food supplies, chewed wiring, all sorts of trouble.”

“Some were, Engineer Dial. They’ve not had a lot of luck so far, I’m afraid.”

Dial stopped himself from wincing at the engineer’s casual tone. “Hegemonic Engineer Dial, if you please. And luck has no bearing on it. The Volunteers clearly just need a little more incentive to shape up. Perhaps you should suggest to your fellow Engineers that the Volunteers’ usual food rations be replaced with allowing them to eat whatever they can catch. Let them know the suggestion came from me, and I’m sure you’ll have no trouble achieving Consensus.”

“I… Yes, Hegemonic Engineer Dial. Of course.”

“Thank you, Engineer Flux. That will be all. Glory to the Combine.”

“… Glory to the Combine, Hegemonic Engineer.”

Flux scurried away, although unfortunately the mouse did not follow them, and Dial tapped his papers back into line, adjusted his spectacles and turned his attention back to the meeting. Where someone was already waiting to question his plan.

“Yes, Liberator Hammer?”

“Hegemonic Engineer, I believe there’s been a printing error of some kind in my copy. I can see where Thread Company have been advised to deploy, here, across from where we expect the Valtarian knights to emerge, but I can’t find anything about our supporting elements. Surely you don’t expect that we can hold off an entire lance of war lion cavalry without heavier support to hold down our flanks?”

“Third page, Liberator. The Fire of Industry will be air-dropping a heavy autocannon battery on the hill behind you. Once the knights have engaged Thread Company, they’ll be easy prey for our artillery. Too many heavy infantry units, and the cowardly Valtarians will simply slink away.”

“With respect, Hegemonic Engineer, you’re using us as bait?”

“The duty of all soldiers of the People’s Combine is to risk their lives in service of the People, Liberator. The Combine expects that you and your comrades will do their duty. Do you understand me?”

“I understand precisely, Hegemonic Engineer.”

Dial smiled. “Have no worry. Citations for Hero of the Combine, Second Class are already being drawn up. Any survivors of Thread Company will receive their medals as soon as we secure the enemy keep.”

-

Weapons Technician (Second Grade) Reciprocate rolled her shoulders slowly, leaning back against warm skin and toned muscle. Her shift would be first up in the morning, and she’d have to get some sleep at some point, but perhaps she could get a little pillow talk out of this interesting new officer first. Not an officer, she quietly rebuked herself. No such thing as a sergeant or a lieutenant here. Just a junior member of Dial’s circles. So, same thing, but less formal. Might know something, might not. Still, even if he doesn’t, it’s not been a wasted nigh-

Two simultaneous thoughts interrupted her musings. Firstly, that the long hair she could see out of the corner of her eye was now black, not blond. Secondly, that the pattern the officer – Liberator, don’t screw it up – was idly tracing on her back with his boot knife was not an abstract doodle, but a recognition sign.

There was a sharp clearing of a throat behind her, and the voice that addressed her was suddenly much colder and more precise than it had been.

“Observer-Aspirant Halloran Goldeneyes. It’s after midnight, so today’s pass-sign is Compendium.”

“Counter-sign is Marble. Is this room secure… Enlightened One?”

She turned slowly, looking at the first other member of the Order she’d seen in months. He’d pulled himself up into a sitting position on the bunk, watching her carefully with his boot-knife held casually in one hand, ready to throw. Apart from the hair, his face was almost the same, shifted just enough that any similarity between the two could be dismissed as coincidence. His eyes, though… His eyes were pools of ice, and she looked away first.

“It’s secure, yes. I checked it while you were recovering. And don’t call me that. My name is Rain Falls On The Snow, of the Hellions. I bear a mission from the Oracle. Before that, though, let’s have your report. What do you know about tomorrow’s battle plans?”

-

The Hellion – Rain – was frowning now, as she went over again what she’d been able to overhear of the strategies for tomorrow. “This is the second time Dial’s ‘suggestions’ have put Thread Company in an exposed position, Enlightened One – I mean, Hellion. The last time, they only survived because two of their number suddenly manifested Shaping abilities. I’m not sure that will be enough to help them this time.”

He shook his head slowly, idly tossing that boot-knife from hand to hand without even looking at it, as he had been for most of the time she’d been talking.

“Lightly armoured infantry against heavy cavalry is a bad position, even with Shaper support. And worse, I’ve already been into Lighthand’s war council. He’s going to be sallying out with the cavalry. Two fresh, inexperienced Shapers against a battle-hardened Monarch will be a slaughter. A slaughter the Oracle wishes to avert.”

Halloran paled. “The Glorious King of Summer is going to be fighting there? Oh, dragons. How are the two of us supposed to stand against him?”

A flash of silver was her only warning before the boot-knife was suddenly embedded in the wall, quivering gently an inch from her ear. “Language, Aspirant”, the Hellion chided her. “What you swear by is a deeply embedded instinct. Watch it carefully. Now, I’m going to draw up some papers. Your shift will be advised that their efforts would be appreciated helping out the Fire of Industry in maintaining and deploying their artillery. Make sure you’re on the team that goes down with the cannons. Take this transmitter, conceal it about your person – once you’ve got something to be concealing it under – and as soon as you hit the ground, get your eyes on Lighthand and press the button. As for the Monarch, well...”

He smiled. Halloran shivered.

“Just leave him to me.”

-

Liberator Hammer swore as she ducked under another spear, a burst from her rifle punching into her assailant’s plate. Liberator Gauge swung round at the sound, firing over his friend’s shoulder, and his heat cannon carved into the second knight’s shoulder, knocking the Valtarian scum to the ground.

“Where the rust is that fire support?” Hammer shouted, putting another burst into the leg of a massive war-lion that was coming round to try and flank Thread Company’s impromptu square. “We’re going to be completely cut off in a minute or two!”

“I think we’re already cut off,” Gauge replied with a frown, pointing at the five knights that had dismounted and were using another lion’s corpse to shield them as they moved round the left hand side. “Won’t be long before – huh.” As he watched, the knights rapidly toppled over, one after the other, each with a large hole suddenly appearing in their chests. “Okay, I guess we have some fire support after all. That’s never the Fire’s autocannons, though. Hey, Hammer. Do we know any snipers?”

“I don’t think we do, Gauge. Not that I’m complaining. With any luck, we might actually make it now.”

“Rejoice, puny peasants! The Exalted Blade of Gold, the Light of the Imperatrix’s Court, the Glorious King of Summer, has granted you the great honour of being slain by his sword!”

“You just had to say it, didn’t you?”

-

As the massive airship slowly skimmed the brow of a hill a mile to the south of Thread Company, engineers already leaping down from the cargo doors and hauling on cables, Weapons Technician (Second Grade) Reciprocate took a slow, calming breath, slipped one hand into her belt pocket, and pushed a button.

-

“Pathetic! Is this the best the Combine has to offer?” The shining sword lashed out again – how do you even make a useable sword out of gold, Gauge’s inner monologue grumbled, no way can it really be holding an edge on its own, he must be Shaping it constantly, what a waste – and Gauge’s second sword shattered. He stumbled backwards, trying to put some space between himself and the Valtarian tyrant. He couldn’t see Hammer, or Beam, or Coil. The battle around him was chaos now, Valtarian knights pouring into the middle of their formation through the hole the Monarch had punched, and unless he could find some way to beat the other Shaper and close the lines, they were all done for.

Wait. There was a whistling noise, behind him and above. He knew that noise.

“Stop running and fight me, peasant! Don’t you Combine scum at least know how to die properly? Why are – What’s that noise?”

Gauge threw himself backwards into the mud, and so had a perfect view as the boarding torpedo slammed straight into the Monarch’s face.

Struggling to pull himself upright, he saw that the other fights around him had frozen. Everyone was watching as the Valtarian pulled himself to his feet, grimacing and touching his hand to his cheek. His shining gauntlet, somehow untouched by the mud, came away red. Gauge raised his heat cannon. Although if a boarding torpedo had left a tiny cut on the other man’s cheek, he wasn’t sure what good it would be.

Someone slapped him suddenly on the shoulder, and he almost shot them before he realised they were already pushing past him, sword drawn.

“Chin up, Liberator! Let’s show this shiny idiot what the People’s Combine make of his fancy Valtarian moves.” Long, curled brown hair. A coat in Combine red, long boarding sword in one hand and an old style laser pistol in the other. The other Liberator turned suddenly, flipping the pistol and offering a hand to pull him out of the mud, and he knew that face, from a propaganda reel they’d swapped with another ship a few months back.

“Hey, you’re Liberator Flashbulb. I saw your interview about the assault on Firepeak.”

“I bet you did, comrade. Dash good show, that. Like any interview with me in it, of course. Hah! Now then, let’s have at this tyrant! Here, have this! I’ve got plenty of weapon already, and a sword as well! Hah!”

Gauge caught the sword that the other Liberator had produced and thrown at him, admiring the red hilt. It fit his hand as if it had been made for him. After the battle, maybe he’d ask the other Liberator if he could keep it.

First, though, he had a Monarch to kill.

-

Weapons Technician (Second Grade) Reciprocate closed the door to her bunkroom, still coming down from the fear and excitement of the battle, and took a few slow, measured breaths, trying to find a level of calm that would let her get some rest at some point tonight.

Any calm she achieved was instantly shattered when she realised there was a sword lying on her bunk.

“What – why -” She cast her head around, hunting in vain for the Hellion she knew had to be responsible. A few steps forward – she merited a bunkroom, but not a big bunkroom – took her to the sword, which looked awfully like the one that flashy Liberator had been wielding when she’d watched the Shapers duel through her scope (purely for operational reasons, of course). In fact, it was definitely the same one.

“That’s a Liberator’s sword!” she hissed, still unsure where she should be looking. “A Shaper’s sword! You can’t just… steal it! They’ll notice for sure!”

“Oddly enough,” came the voice from directly behind her how the dragons had he – how the rust had he done that, “I actually didn’t steal that one. Well, I did, but not recently. Don’t worry about anyone here noticing it missing. I’ve taken care of that.”

Halloran took a deep breath to steady herself and spun round, raising a finger and prodding it angrily into the Hellion’s chest. “Are we done now?” she growled. “You’ve saved the two Shapers, the battle’s over, you’ve nearly given me a heart attack three times over – can I please just go back to quietly listening to meetings and writing coded reports?”

He just grinned at her, and she could almost have slapped him just for the grin alone. “So you do have a little fire in you. Good. Even the Archivists need to be able to push back every now and again – in fact, when you get back to the Summit, remind me to introduce you to a few of the ones I actually like. But to answer your question, no, we’re not done. I remember what you said before. Hegemonic Engineer Dial. He’s going to keep throwing those Shapers into harm’s way. I like you, Aspirant, but I don’t want to be back here in a week’s time doing the same mission all over again. It’s boring. So we’re going to take care of Hegemonic Engineer Dial, break his little clique and their control over the local Consensus, and get this whole mess of Combine looking a little more like the Combine should and a little less like a school playground.”

“A little less like… what, Enlightened One?”

“Never mind that. Listen. Here’s what you need to do...”

-

“This is preposterous! You can’t do this to me! I demand a new accounting of Consensus!”

Rhetonomic Engineer Coil shook her head slowly. This was always the worst part of the job – dealing with the fallout. She reached up and clapped the tall Liberator who had brought her the message from the Inner Assembly on the shoulder.

“Thank you, Comrade. It’s disheartening that it took some investigations from the Inner Assembly to uncover his treachery, but at least now we can get on with the good work of rebuilding these villages and teaching the people here about Liberty.”

“I’m happy to be of service to the People, Rhetonomic Engineer. What do you think will happen now?”

“It’s the Volunteer Corps for ex-Engineer Dial, I’m afraid. Inner Assembly doesn’t want to waste that brain of his, but they could do without the personality. And the treason. Mostly the treason.”

“I hear the documentation from the Inner Assembly was quite extensive.”

“Oh, not just that. There were all sorts of documents in his quarters, behind a hidden panel. Notes on our battle plans, the weaknesses of some of our ships, all sorts of things. And a collection of capitalist gadgets. He must have been trading information to the Opportunists for years.”

“Tragic, just tragic. One who rose so high in everyone’s estimation, fallen so low. Say, Engineer, do you think I could have a look at those gadgets before I head off again, to record them for the Inner Assembly? Just so they know what to watch out for.”

“Of course, it’s just along here, er… Sorry, I don’t think I actually caught your name.”

“Liberator Cannonade.”

“That’s quite an unusual name, Liberator. I think I like it.”

He smiled at her, a broad, cheery smile that warmed her heart.

“Why, thank you, Rhetonomic Engineer Coil. I think I like your name too.”

“I don’t think I actually know the word, though?”

“Well, no reason for you to, if you’re not on the front lines that often. It means a rain of artillery shells.”

He slung the slim, red-hilted sword on his hip over to the side, and took her arm, letting her lead the way.

Pocket Full of Aces

Author: Liberator Spectrum

The air in ready shelter 4 was thick with cigarette smoke, making the already cramped corrugated iron space feel all the more claustrophobic. I strained my eyes upon the card I had just drawn against the dim sodium lighting, dimmed yet further by the humid smoke. I slotted it into my hand and considered my options whilst trying to keep my face and posture calm. Ratchet was probably bluffing, but the pot was currently riding at 4 lots of latrine duty and 6 ration chits. I fumbled the half empty pack of smokes in my flight suit pocket, my last pack, before realising what I was doing. Trying to act natural I drew one of my last and placing my cards on the table lit up whilst giving Ratchet an attempt at a sly smile. Ratchet cocked an eyebrow and I knew I had been made and wasted one of my last smokes in this attempt at a bluff.

“Well?”

Ratchet drawled in their thick accent that I had never been able to place.

Taking a deep drag I picked up my cards again, everyone at the table was looking at me.

“I…”

A near deafening piercing wail filled the room and cut me off. I shrugged dramatically whilst beaming chirpily at Ratchet:

“Guess duty calls, too bad!”

I slapped my hand, face down, upon the table and took back my single ration chit. It wasn’t enough for a pack but least it would buy me into another round. Ratchet and I shared a jovial stare as we shrugged on our flight jackets and made our way to the door. The siren began to fade a little, no longer no deafening but certainly wailing audibly. The tannoy crackled into life.

All hands stand by for action stations, all hands stand by for action stations.

The exterior of the shelter couldn’t have been in starker contrast. From the dim and claustrophobic shelter I now stood amid a massive plane of tarmac. I squinted as my eyes adjusted to the harsh sunlight and dazzling blue open sky. The air was slightly thin at this altitude but crisp and fresh and a welcome relief.

To my left and right extended the other four ready stations of West quadrant, their occupants also filing out in a regimented fashion and standing to attention in rank and file.

Beyond that lay the barracks, mess, latrines and other living facilities. A scant hundred metres beyond that the ground abruptly stopped, a waist high railing and then a drop of hundreds of feet. No.5 turbine loomed far behind and to the left of the barracks casting it in shadow.

I had always questioned the logic of placing the barracks so close to a main lift turbine, though it was hard to find anywhere on this base that was more than a hundred metres from an engine or piece of heavy equipment.

I counted off the crew assembled before the shelter then lifted the handset kept in a little wooden case mounted on the front of the shelter.

“Ready Station 4 to Control, all hands present and correct, awaiting orders”

“Received Station 4, standby”

I replaced the handset then took my place at the end of a file.

I took a few deep breaths, tensing my hands open and closed. Even after these years this always filled me with the same excitement I felt as a fresh recruit.

The tannoy crackled into life once again

All hands prepare the Thunder of Salvation for immediate take-off, recon wings 1 and 2 standby

A siren blared accompanied by a strobe of orange light as the floor beneath us lurched. The airfield slipped from view as we descended into the heart of Zephyr base. Down through near 20 feet of asphalt, deck plating, girders and a vast network of cabling and plumbing.

My breath caught as we emerged into to heart of Zephyr base, just as it did everytime

The lift emerged into a vast space that formed the beating heart of Zephyr base. The space followed the inward slope of the outer hull forming an oblique pyramid. The walls ringed with a great series gangways running concentric circles down the slope, studded with a web of machinery, storerooms, workshops; rows of zeppelins and aircraft hanging in cradles and storage racks.

The shaft of light from above narrowed as far above us the shutters began to close.


With a shudder the platform stopped at the first gangway, but barely a breath before with a series of mechanical thuds and clanks the platform was handed over to the funicular rail and we were whisked away to a lower platform.

The two platforms to our left stayed behind and their passengers rapidly disembarked and made their way to the launch bays. Racks of a half dozen fighters slid from their storage compartments into launch positions, their crews readying to embark from the gantries overhead, and before them the launch rails extended into position and locked into place against the surface hatches. Harsh shafts of light poured into the space as the hatches wound open and the launch rails extended out above the surface.

The Salvation loomed over us, the pride of Zephyr base, first in a line of prototype catamaran hulled zeppelin, one of the most advanced designs in the Combine fleet.

We quickly descended past the massive zeppelin to the platforms and web of gantries beneath.

The Salvation was the eye of a maelstrom of activity. Above, its mooring ring loomed, a great halo of girders, cranes and machinery. Beneath, vast machinery moved with the inexorable, impossible, grace of a glacier. Vast in scale, and yet utterly perfect in its movement. Great armatures reached into the lowest depths of the base, and returned grasping a construct the size of a small building. A half dozen spider like limbs tucked against each side, and between each a series of equally vast grapnel launchers. The construct was proffered up to the Salvation and with a heavy drone of hydraulics it was clamped to the underside of its main hull. A pair of compartments ran the length of the hull on each side, which me and my compatriots were now entering, the steel ramp thundering under our bootsteps, crew 5 shortly behind as they entered the far port side of the Salvation.

We took our positions stood with our backs to the alcoves that lined each wall shortly beyond the ramp. Reaching behind me I secured the straps for my jetpack at waist and shoulder. I took the flight helmet offered in front of me and the stand lowered back down into the deck plating as I secured it about my head, adjusting the fit and clicking the respirator fans onto minimal setting.

Finally I reached above me and grabbed the twin handles of the padded flight restraint bars and ratcheted them into place, securely holding me into place and ready for launch.

Final launch prep complete, Salvation is go

The pair of hydraulic pistons dragged the ramp shut as the gantries outside retreated and swung aside. The ship lurched as it began to rise to the surface, carried on enormous tracks. Outside through the portholes I could just make out the recon fighters launching, with great thumps from the steam cannons flung up the launch rails into the great blue expanse above.

Sunlight began to sweep through the compartment as the massive surface hatch opened above us. Soon the airfield loomed into view once again as the Salvation breached the surface.

Heavy machinery thundered beneath as the runway and launch rails slid into place and clamped onto the undercarriage. Then again above as the docking halo disengaged and trundled on massive tracks behind and away.

The interior tannoy crackled into life.

All crew, brace for takeoff.

5

The ship fell with a short lurch as it came to rest fully in its launch cradle.

4

Steam lapped at the portholes as the launch catapults built up to pressure.

3

With a hissing and clattering the umbilical lines ejected and fell aside

2

The engine nacelles roared as they built to speed.

1

Launch!

With the hiss of steam and sound of a hundred locomotives the Salvation streaked across the runway. My head rattled between the padded restraints as we gained speed and the thundering of rails grew ever louder

And in a moment the sensation was replaced by a heady weightlessness as the Salvation soared over the edge of Zephyr base.

Later

Shortly after launch our jump coordinator descended into the compartment and carefully brachiated their way from handrail to handrail towards the fore. We were all still secured in our flights restraints as the turbulence had been getting ever more severe as we approached our destination.

The coordinator took position just in front of the ramp and braced themselves firmly between the floor and ceiling. They pulled down their microphone built into their flight cap and gave it a few experimental taps. We adjusted the volumes on our helmets and gave a thumbs up. It’d be tiresome to try and shout our briefing over the drone of engine noise and hum of machinery that permeated the compartment.

“There are two ships the Alacrative Missive and Ascendant Horizon, we are now on approach to engage Horizon with the grapnels and evacuate the crew as it is the most critically damaged. Your mission is to stabilize the Missive with limpet buoys until we can begin a full evacuation. Understood?”

We all signed our agreement.

Behind us flight crew were hauling equipment from lockers set further back in the compartment. They were loading the limpet buoys onto a rail set into the floor. Each buoy was the size of a footlocker and massively heavy, requiring two crew to haul them into place whilst contending with the now violent movements of the ship.

“We are flying at 12,000 feet, we’ve got 4,000 feet to work with before we hit mountain. Be prepared for extreme wind shear.”

The Buoys clattered into place between us, hauled into place along the rail running through the middle of the room.

A pair of orange lights either side of the ramp blinked on accompanied by the muted chirp of a siren. In unison we detatched ourselves from the flight restraints and took position in pairs either side of the buoys. One hand steadying ourselves against the rail on the ceiling the other on the stout handle of the buoy.

The flight crew went down the compartment and triple checked our flight packs. They were always thoroughly tested before launch of course, but it was always worth checking the one thing that would be between you and a 4,000 ft drop to a jagged mountain range. I felt the familiar thrum in the back of my teeth as my pack was switched on and checks performed. The crewmember signed their approval then moved to the lancer behind me.

Ratchet and I turned to the buoy between us and took a hold of a stout handle on either side. Nodding to Ratchet I cranked the dial set atop the buoy from the red “Off” to yellow “Neutral” position. The buoy thrummed into life and began to rise off the deck, now seemingly weighing almost nothing at all.

The flight crew signed their approval to the jump coordinator who took position to one side of the ramp, clipping their flight harness to an anchor point by the controls. The flight crew retreated to the cargo compartment and sealed the bulkhead door.

The coordinator worked the oversized controls and the ramp began to slide into the floor beneath us. The compartment was flooded with an icy howling wind that threatened to tear us off our feet or rip the buoys from our grip, but we stood fast and held our ground.

The light turned green and the coordinator waved us through. We all ran to edge of the compartment and leapt into the–

The wind hit us like a brick wall. We angled ourselves down and into the wind, gathering speed and letting it take us to the port side of the Missive.

We plummeted through the sky, our eyes fixed on our target, the rearmost port engine nacelle.

In unison we flared out flight packs and my stomach lurched as rapidly slowed our descent as we pushed forward. We were rapidly approaching the Missive, I could see out the corner of my eye that the others teams where rapidly approaching position as well. Ratchet and I lent back and flared our packs, taking position hovering some 100ft away from the engine. We daren’t not approach any closer for fear of being sucked into the massive turbine.

I looked around and took stock of the situation.

Before us, the Missive, two gasbags ruptured and loosing lift fast. It’s turbines where keeping it stable for now but that wouldn’t last for long.

Below us to the right was the Ascension, losing lift rapidly and in a flat spin. The Salvation was approaching from above and attempting to match its spin. That was going to be fun for the crew. It’s grapnel launchers angling into position and readying to catch the rapidly descending ship.

In unison our teams swooped into position, one for each of the Missives engine nacelles. The only part of the ship structurally suitable for bearing the ships weight, but we couldn’t approach whilst the engines where still engaged or we’d be sucked into the turbines. Our flight helmets were good but, not that good.

Our helmet intercoms crackled into life

“All buoy teams standby, on my mark the Missive will cut their engines and allow you to approach. Be as quick, once they lose their turbines they will drop rapidly.”

Ratchet and I tensed as we prepared, there would be no margin for error on this one. Time stretched on, something was wrong. The Missive was noticeably beginning to sink faster as it lost more lift gas and the turbines struggled to compensate, audibly straining at the load placed on them. Ratchet and I were struggling to keep position against the howling arctic winds and match the fall of the Missive. One wrong move and we could be blown into the fully spun up turbines.

“Buoy team 5 report in”

Oh, it’s going to be one of those days…

Ratchet and I reached up and toggled our intercom.

“Buoy team 5 reporting”

We said in unison.

“The Missive is experiencing difficulties with your engine nacelle. They say the hydraulic throttle control has seized and they can’t disengage, you will have to do it manually.”

I turned to Ratchet with a concerned gesture.

“What do you mean, manually disengage the throttle?”

“One moment…

“Do you see a pair of hoses extending through the nacelle strut terminating in a junction box assembly about three quarters along?”

I strained my eyes, wiping the lenses of my helmet with the back of my glove.

“Er, yes I think so” “Sever the hydraulic hose before the junction box. But be sure not to hit the fuel line which is immediately adjacent. The fuel line is marked by a yellow and red stripe on the hose.”

I glanced over at Ratchet who by the way they glanced back at me had the same concern.

“Bridge, both hoses are black”

“…

One moment…”

“Apparently they put in for repairs last week and they run out fuel hose so they used hydraulic line instead, they didn’t think it would be an issue at the time apparently.”

Brilliant…

“Bridge, is there an engineer to hand who could tell us which hose is which?”

We didn’t have time for this, we already lost a thousand feet, and their rate of descent was accelerating. We’d need at least another 1,000 to secure the buoys. And as we descended the winds blowing over the mountains grew more fierce.

Ratchet gestured at me to pass my handle on the limpet buoy. I drew my raygun from the holster on my thigh.

I paused for a moment and considered.
Range, 110 feet.
Wind, 30-40 knots.
Hydraulic hosing, ballistic reinforced sheath...

I thumbed in my calculated setting.

I had to make sure to sever the hose, but not risk rupturing the neighbouring fuel line or comprising any struts holding the nacelle.

“Confirmed, top hose, repeat top hose.”

“Confirmed bridge, top hose”

I cradled my raygun in both hands and steadied my breathing. The wind was tearing at my limbs and my pack strained to keep steady.

I tensed the trigger, held my breath, and waited for a lull in the wind. The moment stretched on…

I squeezed the trigger and a searing bolt the size of my thumb streaked forth like a comet, crossing the distance in a blink.

It melted straight through the hose and smashed into the strut behind that began to glow with an amber heat.

The hose erupted in a stream of thick black hydraulic fluid.

The massive turbine began to slow as the engine thrummed down. We dived forward, ideally would have liked to wait a little longer but we didn’t have the time. Besides in these winds it wouldn’t truly come to a stop without the brakes being applied, and given I had just severed the hydraulic line…

We swept in from below angling ourselves against the draw of the turbine. We slammed feet first into the nacelle and with a scantly audible electrical whine our grapple spurs locked onto the hull.

We hauled the buoy into place against the hull and in unison threw a lever on either side. Twin green lights flicked on as the powerful magnets clamped the buoy to the engine.

We paused as we waited for the signal, we would have to activate the buoys in unison or risk throwing the missive off balance. I glanced below and somewhat regretted it as I saw through the thinning clouds the mountain approaching.

“Activate buoys, now!”

The buoy thrummed to life as we cranked the dial, though painfully slowly. We had to be careful to put too much strain on the support struts, the Missive was almost in freefall now and too much lift too suddenly could shear a strut clean off. Especially given I had just shot at this particular nacelle not a minute ago. Ratchet and I braced ourselves hard, our spurs digging into the hull and leaving jagged scars as they inexorably creeped towards the still spinning turbine. The Missive was slowing, but painfully so. I checked my altimeter, 1,00ft to go. The struts beneath us where groaning worryingly. We adjusted the settings on the buoy, gradually increasing the lift whilst trying to keep the Missive on a level whilst also stopping it from plummeting into the mountain below.

Ratchet crackled over my helmet com.

“So what was in your hand?”

“You want to discuss cards now!”

We both shared a chuckle as we desperately clung to the outside of the plummeting airship. Of course, any sane aviator might have jumped ship by now but, not the crew of the Salvation. We’d ride this out to the bitter end.

Literally if we had too…

The ship was protesting audibly even over the gale force winds tearing at us, every girder and strut screaming under the strain. A rivet exploded from the strain with a bullet like crack and skimmed my helmet by an inch. The ship was on the edge of tearing itself apart.

But, the Missive was slowing.

The ground was still looming beneath us, but no longer rapidly and worryingly racing towards us.

“Good work teams, the Salvation has evacuated the Ascension is on approach.”

I looked up to see the Salvation piercing the clouds as it descended to approach us. It angled itself downwind of us and began its approach. The massive spider like claws clamping the Ascension in place disengaged, sending it plummeting into the cloud strewn rocks below. Some of the crew might complain about the loss of cargo, but I think the passengers will be glad at least.

“All teams, fall back to the Salvation, the flight crew can take it from here”

Ratchet and I let out a sigh of relief as we kicked off from the nacelle and began our approach to the aft of the Salvation, keeping clear as it prepared to engage the Missive with grapnel launchers and secure it for evacuation.

“Ratchet, why do we always get dealt the difficult ones?”

“Don’t know what you mean, I thought you had a winning hand.”