Cradle Aflame

The Battle of Earth, as it would come to be known, started not with a bang, but slowly building pressure. From the first news of the Coalition's successful invasion of Delta Pavonis to the unmistakable register of a fleet passing the Oort Cloud and its sensor arrays in FTL, the sense of impending conflict in the core of humanity itself grew and grew until the first shots were fired. Past the orbit of Jupiter, the fleets met each other and the Battle started in earnest. A few weeks later, they reached Earth.
It has been four months. The sky is burning and it is falling. The Coalition is coming, and the STUN is holding. Neither side had given in or up. Neither side will give up, not now. For many, for most, this feels like the end of the world. For the Sol System. It's not far off.
19.1.2880
The war keeps going, as reinforcements are brought in by both parties from systems not yet beset by war. One of the millions and millions more brought in is one Senior Sergeant Oecoel Streuford, from the Winterarch military, under the ASTUN. Her orbital descent shuttle is on its way down to a command center in Estancia Chusekani, where she is to take part in coordinating an assault on Coalition positions in La Paz. Within the thermosphere, on the way down to the planet below, the shuttle is struck by SPAA rail-fire, and begins descending far faster than it should as warning klaxons ring. It plummets, and it strikes. This was not the ship's first such experience, however, and it survives, reinforced and improved to prevent such a fate. The pilot, too, is skilled. They are off course and far away, nearly in the middle of the Amazon. She'll be fine, probably, she muses. There's an nearby village-turned-FOB that should have clear comms access. She assesses the situation, and begins to gather the surviving entourage.
The trek is long, and the terrain rough and difficult. But they do make it, and the village is there. No one is present but corpses, but the signal is clear from interference. A message is sent, hijacking a burnt-out IFV and its intact radio systems. A garbled nightmare of a transmission blares out. There are Coalition forces here and there nearby, but not in effective range. They are safe.
Soon, though, a small enemy patrol is noticed by their recently set up air monitoring grid, an enemy force which is full-strength and would destroy her section, weakened and not even half-strength. They must move, ASAP. GPS systems are locally down, seemingly. Standard operations, really. Taking the satellites offline is the likely explanation, and their accuracy and uptime cannot be relied on at this point. Remaining positioning systems are most likely focused on major operative regions. The wilderness they are in is not such a region. Fine. New Kuopio is close in orbit, and embroiled in its own war. It's low down, and while positioning is inoperative, the internet is not, and she can find details on its orbital path. She can see it almost with the naked eye, so it will serve as a good position reference. New Kuopio, huh. Apparently an important place for its orbital path.
22.1
Upon the Hoarfrost, Cisanti Superior Martos Consiglier beholds the destruction of the New Kuopio. The habitat was a locus of this section of orbital resistance, supplying the ASTUN fleets that had been a thorn in the side of the Vagary Urizen 5th. Now, he could focus on the main war once again.
The voice of the aspirant machine sings its songs: "Minister, new contacts approaching. Radio chatter patterns reveal them as ASTUN. Thirteen frigates, alone."
"Then we bring them illumination like usual," Consiglier replies. "Battle stations, 5th," He proclaims, with a voice dulled by two grueling months of void warfare.
He was there to bring down the Ring of Mars, to begin casting down the heathens that claimed the Second Earth. He ascended the ranks of the Hoarfrost in the last three months, was reassigned to the most sacred Homeworld itself, and turned the tide in this recent front.
He will not die here. The Hoarfrost is a battleship, an instrument of the priests of Vagary! It will not fall to some frigates. The Urizen 5th composes three Sacre-class Cruisers, and a procession of several smaller destroyers and corvettes. A few godforsaken frigates are nothing. The battleship alone outranges them. He thinks this true. He is wrong.
He sees it coming. The ship's sensorae alert them of incoming fire, fire which no frigate should have equipped. They do, and they railcannon rounds are coming. The shield will endure, the Cisanti thinks. His blessed ship could take on the entirety of the Urizen 5th by itself. A few rounds are nothing compared to the armour and shielding of the ship. They will endure a few strikes. Thirteen minutes to impact.
He initiates evasive action, just in case. The enemy ships flash bright for a moment with reflected light from the sacred Homestar itself.
23.1
Another flash in the sky. One of three today. John Odesskild glances up through the skylight. Doesn't matter. Third group today. The corpses stack in the hallway. The Mars Irregulars still hold. They hold the one remaining entrance to the Olympos Mons research facility, 16.G23.Kadingir. The Coalition want it. They want what's inside. Who is inside. Still doesn't matter. They hold.
The command center fell two weeks ago. It was retaken six days ago. It fell in three. Plans are made to do it again. They were there, the Irregulars. Properly, the 15th Conditional Service Company. All assembled from who-knows-where. He volunteered. Got rejected five times. Criminal activity, illegal blood sport. They let him in only now. He wanted an even more real form of combat from the arena. It was to the death there, sure. But not like this. The commanding officer is dead. Tried co-conspirator in a rebellion. The second-in-command is as well. A gang boss. His squad is down to five. All reinforcements from the reserve. He is now in command. He survived the longest.
He wanted this, he remembers. He regrets that, somewhat. The arena had rules. Not many. But enough. The bodies were collected. You had reprieve. Breaks. Time-outs. None here. The bodies pile. His count is at 26. The total of his section goes to the hundreds. Fifteen hours. His armour was a dull reddish brown Mars-rock pattern. It is now red, crimson, and orange. Some is his. His axe is chipped and cracked. The layered chain generator is worn and choked with blood. He has long since run out of ammo for his rifle. He has taken many wounds. Five stab wounds. One destroyed his left battery bank. Eight slashes. One nearly took an eye. The view still flickers. Another a finger. Four bullet wounds. Out of hundreds of hits. The armour holds. A relic, won in the arena. He is tired. His reactor is working overtime. Synthetic muscle fibers strained from constant exertion. The air is choked with smoke. He can feel his reactor struggling to extract hydrogen from it. And the smell.
Blood. Smoke. Liquid coolant. Static electricity. Fusion-burn. Smells he knew before. Never this much. And the other smells. The human corpses and their postmortem release. Sweat. Vomit. It all mixes together. He'd be feeling sick to his stomach if he had one. A break has been promised. Reinforcements, from Olympia Einer. They will hold until that.
Another wave is coming. They have HAST suits. Three light tanks. The Irregulars hold.
23.1
The battle is held in stasis, for now. Verdun is once more a ruined battlefield. A courier drives through the grayed-out fields. She has always been a history enthusiast. She may well disagree with the notion, but the idea of history repeating itself does feel adequate. The combat has petered out now, the wounded gathered and logistics recommenced. It will resume, likely a few hours from now, but that is not now.
Her skim-bike is specifically designed for the ruined landscapes of war, of the endless mud and craters, and the mines, ordnance, and wire. It glides right past, only touching the ground on two skis. She drives past countless armoured vehicles, through abandoned trenches, through old bunkers and leveled city blocks. A few hundred kilometers to go. For a moment, he stops at a battle tank, Coalition, on its side in a trench. Corpses surround it.
"Another loyal soldier lost. Tragic. Wonder what caused that," she thinks aloud. Taking a step forward, she accidentally steps on a synthetic's head, or what remains. "An AB-FSP, perhaps. One of the strange variants with fists and such."
"Correct." A voice behind her. "I saw it, limping and barely standing. Put a missile into it. It's right there, fallen into that crater."
"Who-" She tries to turn, only to be met with a smack to the back. She glimpses a rifle pointing at her.
"Shut it. Who are you? ASTUN?"
"No, God no! I'm Coalition! Pricata Cyg, Courier, Arotackain Unified Orbitals Assault Forces, Gaion 45th Armour Company!"
She hears shuffling, a rifle lowering. "Give me your hand, let me scan whatever identification codes you should carry." He touches it, and after a moment: "Alright. Brigadier-Chef Goltie. Evening, courier. I'd like to ask you something. We're both Coalition, and that tank is as well."
As she turns around, she notes that the Brigadier-Chef is a Mode of some sort. His eyes are clearly no longer human ones, for one. "What about it, sir? It's fucked, though. Look at it. The turret's blown off."
"You'd think so, but those things are resilient. And I know the driver's still alive in there. I'd radio in for backup and a support crew, but the comms are still shot to shit from the battle. Fuckin' 'experimental jamming technology' my ass." He motions to the bike. "You actually have a vehicle; we can use that to haul the IPM open. It's stuck. Just help me open these emergency hatches."
"Why are you alone? Where's everyone else?" Cyg gestures to around him, "what is so important about this one tank?"
"One's under your foot." Goltie continues working on the tank. "The pilot's a friend. And besides, the tanks are plentiful. The factories of Luna's Seas churn out a thousand a week even now. But the pilots... the training is tough and long. If I can help it, I'm not going to throw away one."
"Alright sir, fine, let's get that asset out. Or so."
And so they work to help one another. A brief reprieve from the horrors of war, perhaps. The two will soon part, likely to never see one another ever again. At the moment, though, they are comrades-in-arms, and that is all that matters.
25.1
His comrades are dying. The Constantin is breached. The Coalition is aboard. In the command deck of the sea vessel, Yliluutnantti Ossi Värkänen plans out a defense. He's got little to go off of, but he'll try. He's not Navy, he barely knows the ship. This entire assignment is one born of terrible circumstance. A sitrep is delivered. A suborbital drop. Suicidal, often. But it worked, and now they're here. He has two guards with him, trusted men he knows and relies on. The ship is short-staffed, so all the rest of the officer corps, the four that remain, are elsewhere. Suddenly, the door is blown out. In steps three people, a squad, in standard urban combat formation. The guards are quick to respond. They fire, full-auto, into the door. Two of the attackers drop, though not before taking the guards out as well. They are hit, and go down. Dead, alive, doesn't matter this moment; they're out. Ossi also fires his Arphritai coilpistol, shooting a full mag into the door. Five hit, and fail to penetrate the last enemy's armour. Their weapon is out too. He tosses out his pistol, and leaps to action. He's a logistical officer, not meant to fight in the front, but only a moron neglects CQC training in a time like this. He grabs his knife, a LCB-dagger. In contrast, the opponent has a sword. They go toward each other, and the opponent swings. Ossi manages to parry it, and also stabs his knife right into the assailant's wrist, though he gets a punch to the face for it. He quickly grabs hold of his enemy, and slams them to a desk nearby. They manage to drive the pommel of the sword into his face, destroying an eye before they lose the grip. He doesn't care. He's far too focused fighting for his life. He grabs onto the opponent's head, and slams it into the desk. Then he sees a dent in the visor, likely from prior combat, and grabs hold. He pulls, with all his power, and rips it open. A woman's face is underneath. He pulls back his fist, and drives it into that face, full force. And again. And again. And again, until there is barely a face left, and she has gone limp on the desk. He then, finally, notices the fact his eye is gone, and collapses on the ground, beneath the steady drip of blood from the attacker's head. Reinforcements are likely coming, eventually. Hopefully.
26.1
FTL Transit concluded - integrity sufficient - escort regrouping >>> ETA: 5.2h = ACCEPTABLE
Estimate = 17.271221AU-2.583737886¹²m/68°latitude/-83°longitude
Ident/SOL SYSTEM/
RADAR scanning... - Operative
LIDAR scanning... - Operative
Gravitic scanning... - Operative
Signal chatter monitoring... - Operative
COALITIONOFFREEWORLDS strength... - estimation = 427000+-20000 Warships/524000+-11000 army craft/40000+-2000 logistical craft = 262% of original strength
ALLIANCEOFTHESPACETERRITORIESOFTHEUNITEDNATIONS strength... - inconclusive - estimation = 307000+-50000 Warships/314000+-33000 army craft/17000+-5000 logistical craft = 138% of original strength
Conflict approximation >>> Designating... XBG42-719 / TRM85-204 / KPL37-896 / ZQN90-153 / WDF62-478 / JCY74-025 / HXN51-639 / VTK83-214 / MQL09-587 / YFP26-340 / DRJ48-761 / GXN30-592 / TBM67-184 / CPL91-375 / WQK52-803 / FNY86-240 / JXT74-609 / VKR38-152 / MLD05-847 / ZFH21-630 / HRM94-275 / BQN58-013 / TPL76-408 / CXK23-591 / WDJ42-807 / YFN80-136 / GXT95-274 / VBM64-102 / MQH37-859 / JLK21-430 / TXR57-908 / CPL82-306 / WQK49-175 / YDN30-564 / FBT96-201 / HRJ78-432 / GXN50-184 / VML93-270 / KLF25-801 / JQH64-509 / ZXP47-183 / WTK92-305 / BQF81-476 / DRM53-208 / YNL70-549 / HXT36-902 / GVK84-157 / CPL29-603 / TXM58-471 / JLD03-896 / XRM42-815 / TQL97-306 / BKN58-204 / WDJ73-689 / YFP26-430 / HRM84-275 / GXN50-139 / VTK92-507 / CPL31-768 / JLD04-895 / ZQN65-213 / WFK80-437 / BXT29-601
!! THREAT !! >> approaching vessels... Identifying...
Ident_designation= C"250-24/II92=Agamemnon Judiciaris/Huriao Commune/STUN = + + H O S T I L E + +
fleet strength = 3+6+22+30+105=166
> BATTLESHIP = Destiny!cls-HEAVY/Conjugatoris/Sic_Semper_Tyrannis
> CRUISER = HCV_Origami!cls-HEAVY/Adjudication!cls-HEAVY/Upon_The_Steel_Wind/+3-unidentified-!2cls-LIGHT
> DESTROYER = White_Rabbit!cls-HEAVY/Fortification_Eternal/Macragge's_Honor/The_Luna_Wolf!cls-LIGHT/LtDstr_26-71/G/E!cls-LIGHT/+15-unidentified-!4-cls-HEAVY/8-cls-LIGHT
> FRIGATE = Cona/Vontrigerro_Classicone/Infernus/Sterbok/Thauma/Voss'_Mirrors/End_of_All_Creation/+23-unidentified-!2-cls-LIGHT
> CORVETTE = Corvette/Ayonterra!cls_HEAVY/Coastin'_Upon_the_Sea_of_Stars/+102-unidentified
ETA: 28.61h - acceptable > informing escort
fleet high command vessel dsg-Gloriana -- protection/PRIORITY ABSOLUTE
crew -> battle station > combat readiness 61% !! INSUFFICIENT !! >>> informing officers
28.1
While the officers kept themselves holed up under the city, the ASTUN 45th Air Protection Company has withstood it all. Well, it's probably just the transfer from the CICC, Viabel Varanesa, left, from what he's heard. Still, Air-Trooper Gandrek Buthuna continues past the street, in the ruins of Gavakhin. His section has holed itself up in a small compound, guarding the entrance into the underground ad-hoc command center. Kogir's Ridge, they call it. He can, for a moment, survey the outside. He has endured the relentless artillery bombardment. The rubble covers the old computer systems and datastacks, and dust covers his power armour. The Ridge held well enough. The rest of the city is little more than leveled rubble and dust.
He survived the firestorm invoked by the fallen Via Dolorosa. His armour, once a proper and camo lightly green brown, is blackened and stained by soot and ash. Charred corpses crack and break at his steps. He fell through the floor into the flames when they came. The armour saved him, there.
He lived through the neurotoxin bombardments. The distorted patches of air, telltale signs of the heavier-than-air compounds, still hang slack on the street. There is nothing moving through it, not even the flies or rats. His visor is worn and dented, not far from the airtight seal being compromised, and the few remaining nanomachines and corrosive substances deployed alongside the gas still try to breach his armour, fruitlessly.
He managed through the killbot assaults, so inexorable and unrelenting. The gas did nothing to them, naturally. The roaring machine guns that failed to penetrate the walls and the horrendously efficient plasma cannons that easily did all lie silent in the hands of the unthinking automata, not that they could think anything now.
He barely endured the subsequent bombardment runs. The rubble is piled high in the streets. The dust climbs. The distant rumble of supersonic strikecraft still sound out in the sky.
He is still reeling from the infantry assault. He took several rounds, two of which managed to penetrate. His chest took one, lessened by the plate, and another struck his neck. Medical aid took nearly too long to arrive. The soot and dust that covers his armour is now accented by a deep red there.
The enemy retreats, most likely. There is a shape in the distance. A building that wasn't there before. It is flashing with the tell-tale signals of shield projections and point-defense fire. What is it? Whatever it is, it's coming closer.
1.2
The approach to the station is an uneventful one. Lieutenant Primaris Akkaluca Clanaice is tightly strapped in, mag-locked via the back attachment point of his HAST suit. The small dropship group designated to this high-risk task glides through the darkness, undetected and unnoticed by the defenders, too busy focusing on the cataclysm of solar war around them. The massive orbital battery, previously silent, is firing. Enormous waves of raw power shake it with every blast, and the dropships must evade the counter-thrusters' superheated plasma trails. Concealed by a billowing cloud of chaff clippings, angled reflective plating, and a small strike group of actual warships a hundred meters that way, it creeps forward. It is soon in position, and from each shuttle, a torpedo of a sort emerges, and quickly fires toward the orbital defense platform. And the torpedoes find their mark, slamming into and through the hull. The whooshing air combines with the sparks and debris from the crash, and in a moment, the heavy thump of Cesanti's HAST suit is interrupted as his flamethrower roars and incinerates a pair of soldiers. Stepping through, Clanaice lifts up his own weapon in his right hand, Ysikuutonen, a ScII-2772 heavy coilrifle. It has served him well for the past nine years, and it once again does so, ripping through three men in an instant. They have now taken up arms, and a few are rushing toward them with melee weapons. They start taking fire from elsewhere, too. He hoists Manreaper off his waist, grabs the glaive in his hands, and scythes down the attackers. Ileycenai is blasted apart by a well-placed grenade from a brave, now-late soldier. By the time it takes her legs to buckle, the remaining two HASTs advance. Up the stairwell, Cesanti takes point. Room clear. Second room cleared. The flames lick Cesanti's feet as he takes a right into a small hallway. Two railguns await him. One. Two. He falls, chest blown open by the sheer kinetic energy of the ferromagnetic rods. Damn STUN tech. His home could never make them that compact. Clanaice steps over him as the railguns attempt to reload, and Ysikuutonen sings a reaping melody, and the breach is again clear. The heavy rifle is jammed. Moving onward toward a nearby open area to link up with the rest of the assault group, Manreaper collects a further tally of men and women. As he kicks in a door, a person, a woman from a quick glance, awaits him, with her own weapon drawn; a small sword. They charge, and Clanaice strikes. She dodges, and her follow-up cleaves through his shoulder pad, harmlessly. He strikes her in the face, and she grabs onto the fist, and pulls him forward. Taken off guard by her strength, He attempts to pull Manreaper back and into her chest. The last thing he feels is an immense pain all over his chest, and before his vision dims, a spray of blood tints it a deep crimson.
2.2
The city is lit by crimson lights, the emergency alarms blaring. The Coalition showed up here a week ago, and they're calling evac now? Cynthia Merriwetter runs along the street, though in a brisk jog. She's not in a hurry. She seeks the evacuation point, only two or three kilometers thataway. Frigoris Causeway, the city she moved into only nineteen years ago, has not been breached. The attackers would not breach the domes, though they easily could. They are sturdy, but she's heard starship weapons are another level from random meteor rains. She runs, even while her head bleeds all over her neat clothes. Shame, really. The cafe she was gossiping away the approaching enemy in got reduced to rubble with her in it, and only the restraint of the enemy let her live. That was new. The city is all industry, volatile and valuable. Bad combo for collateral damage, she reasons. Damn Coalition, no better than the Celleans.
There is a constant, steady thump of distant explosions accenting her steps.
As she runs, she glances up. Her artworks, underappreciated as they are, were of the beautiful Earth above. She moved here for that view alone. Now, it is blocked by smoke. Clearly, those collateral restrictions only go so far. Someone ought to do something.
"The evac point is just ahead, keep going, citizen!" She hears a soldier tell her, in a supply point of some variety. She stops for a moment.
She ought to do something.
"Are you short on troops, by any chance?" Her voice, stronger that what her aged looks suggest, sounds out.
"Huh? Uh, well, I suppose so. But that doesn't matter, get moving, citizen!"
This'll take a moment. The killbot beside the soldier spares a quick glance with a cracked eyestalk, keeping its heavy weapon trained down the street.
"Trust me, Mr. Soldier Man, I can shoot plenty well. I've heard of the civilian conscription; my cousin got stuck into one two months ago. Who says we couldn't invoke an emergency version here now?"
He thinks. He really is contemplating it. She can tell even past the dented faceplate.
"Fine, you get a chance. Go report to Vinric Astolai inside. He'll decide what to do with you, and so on from there."
"Glad I got you convinced. Look, don't worry about me too much. I was there when Cellea first burned half a thousand years ago, and again in a colony conquered by the Machine Empire in the 2590s. I know my way around a total-war-type invasion. The war will be over in no time, now that I'm here!"
She chuckles to herself. The 'Battle of Earth', as she's heard it called, will probably be over pretty soon, honestly, regardless of her meagre heroics, but she will protect her current home as best she can until it really is over and those bastard Coalition dogs fuck off of the Moon of Earth.
4.2
The war is over, they say. The Coalition is falling back, bit by bloody bit. Billions, tens of billions by some estimates, dead. Well, the big war won't be over for a long time, but the battle of the Sol System is, for now. It definitely is for Ossi Värkänen, aboard the Sarkophagus, the Unrelenting, Scion of Intrepidis, gliding through the outer rim of the system, toward the Lagrange-orbital forts of Uranus, recently freed from Coalition assault. He lives, for sure, as barely as that is, but he will not be commanding anyone any time soon, much less fighting. About damn time, he figures. He's fought all over Earth, from the STUN headquarter district in London, to the evacuation of his birth-habitat, New Kuopio, to the north of the Atlantic. By now, he's lost an eye, gone half-blind, and has two distinct holes in his chest, as well as a simple stick for a left leg. Maybe when the broken and bleeding chain of logistics that are the Sol System's ASTUN forces manage to pull themselves together, he'll get a proper replacement. Maybe one for his eye, too. What a story, though; "Ylil. Värkänen, victim of the Fifth World War and veteran and survivor of the Battle of Earth." Maybe they'll call him that some day. Maybe he'll make a fine quotation in some history book. Maybe he'll get a promotion, too. Maybe, maybe. "Kapteeni Värkänen", wouldn't that be neat. The Constantin survived all through his command, didn't it? Not many could lay claim to survival in the crucible that the English Channel was, but he could. For now, he lies his head back in the cool pillow, and tries to go back to bed. His eyes both ache, even the one that's barely there. The war is over, in the First System at least.
He should probably request a continued assignment here in the Sol System. Yeah, there's an idea.