The Freeport 4 Run

[KaiserDietz]

Gustavo sat idly on the opened hatch of his Tarvos, watching weary refugees stand in line, a long trail of hunched over ants, waiting to climb over the piles of rubble. Flicking his cigar away into a mountain of rubbish he marveled at the uncleanliness of Leeds; it was nearly as disgusting as Gallia. The fighting had died down for now, with the Bretonian Armed Forces pushing back the Royalist to the banking districts. Air support was keeping overwatch, and the Occupation Force wouldn’t be able to break ground without their armor to batter down the barricades. A steady barrage of shells from above, doing some structural damage, but few casualties had actually been reported. In less than a day, orbital support would come and blast this stronghold to smithereens, so the Council had lent a couple freighters to move as many civilians off world as possible. Gus was beginning to regret throwing away that cigar, his head aching for something to ease it, and there was no drinking on the job.

The line had finally begun to move, the downtrodden ants with bright beady eyes struggling up the stairs to the landing pad. As they passed into the hold some averted their eyes, some thanked him, and some existed in worlds all their own, weary of the universe and its war. The hold had nothing more than basic amenities. Retrofitted with seating and handles, the Tarvos was bare minimum. A few crates of rations, water and pharmaceuticals stood to one side of the hold, and a dim news screen that Gus liked to call “inflight entertainment” was shoddily mounted against one wall. A young Kusari girl stood out from the rest, her black hair shining brightly in a sea of oily, unwashed brown and red, a bright white smile crowning her chin. On a whim, Gus pulled up her name on the shipping manifest. Camilla Ashigaru. According to the record, she was attending boarding school on Leeds on the dime of a wealthier member of the Ronin, but they had all died at this point, leaving her alone, except for a young aunt Emilia, who headed engineering aboard a Kusari Battlecruiser. She seemed happy as she approached him on her way into the cargo hold, singing cheerily the anthem of Imperial Kusari. Gus chuckled, and thought of a trip he had made to the Yamaguchi with a patrol of Exiles, carrying rations and supplies. He had had a little too much rice wine and received more than a couple demerits, but it was well worth the camaraderie of listening to them sing like this little girl, as if their world had not come crumbling down around them. It was funny to think of how she remained so carefree when adults needed alcohol to do the same.

The line now depleted, an air traffic controller started to motion to Gus to get ready for takeoff. Indeed the engines of the Tarvos had already started to hum at an elevated pitch, and the promethene engines glowed a comforting blue and then turned a burnt orange as the core stabilized. Hoisting himself into the dimly lit bed of the freighter, he saddled confidently past rows of sullen refugees, who had buckled themselves in, and wore breathing masks for good measure. The Tarvos hadn’t been designed for ferrying, so the pressure systems in the hold weren’t as perfect as Gus would have liked them to be.

“Evening Corporale,” he said in passing to the gunner.

“Evening Sir, clear skies I hope?”

“The Brets have given us nothing but the best it seems. They managed to overrun the Royalist anti- aircraft position last night. Nice little window.”

Gus grimaced a little. He hated trivializing lives, but when it came to the job of saving the ones in his hold, he preferred not to remind himself of the terrible fate this flight could proffer.

Corporale Lambard had been his partner even before he began flying for the Council, when they had run munitions from Picardy to the Nagasaki following the fall of Languedoc. Natives of Lorraine, they were more than experienced around heavy military occupation forces. They’re crowning achievement was aiding the revolutionary forces when they boarded the RNS-Pamiers. A freighter filled with nox from the Unione Corse was more than enough to get half the fighter escort of the Battleship away so the main assault force could hit the battleship.

Even though he felt a need to reminisce more, Gus straightened his face and switched on the Captain’s camera. The volume of the hold sharply decrescendo-ed into silence and Gus awkwardly cleared his throat.

“Bonsoir, Mesdames et Messieurs, I am Lieutenant Gustavo Voler le Chasseur of the Council assault and recon division, and I will be your captain for today. Please remain in your seats at all times. There are no facilities aboard the ship, so you will need to hold it in for the duration of our four hour flight to the Freeport 4 Refugee Processing Center. Light headedness is common in leaving the atmosphere, so try not to hyperventilate. I am confident today will be safe flying, but should this vessel be attacked and disabled, the entire cargo pod may be ejected for your own wellbeing. Should you be captured by Royalists, do not attempt to fight them, otherwise they will destroy the cargo pod and everyone aboard. Now sit back, try to relax, and enjoy the flight.”

Flicking various switches, the Tarvos’ cockpit lit up as it completed final launch checks: green across the board, except for a persistent yellow on the afterburner light. Puzzled, he opened up a channel.

“Tarvos-5 to Mission Control, can I get an explanation on a faulty afterburner?”

“One moment Tarvos-5, we’re getting in contact with engineering,” a long pause proceeded. “Engineering says it’s a sticky light, and that the Tarvos is so beaten up that its normal to have some negligible sensor malfunctions. We’re going to transfer you to Tarvos Actual to begin launch procedures.”

Already three freighters were lifting off overhead, streaming up toward the BAF comm satellite. A gruff voice entered the comms, “Tarvos Actual to Tarvos-5, we’re having problems with Tarvos-1, but you’re cleared for lift off, lifting locking procedures now. Good luck out there.”

The interior of the freighter lit green as mission control disengaged the lock on the flight controls. The auto pilot began to pull off the ground. “Roger Tarvos Actual, any word on flight conditions?”

“Minor ion storm reducing scanner efficiency in the smog cloud, but nothing to worry about otherwise. Navy intelligence sources suggest low threat of patrol interference with this run.”

“Alright, thanks for checking”

The Tarvos pitched upward and engaged the cruise engines. Gus kept an eye on the temperature gauge as it multiplied to fivefold output, the core shaking under the increased load. The ruddy surface of Leeds bellowed smoke out below them, and some areas of intense firefighting could be seen in the West, between the looming hulks of downed ships, stuck offendingly from the surface. The Hadrian Tower stood blackened against the sunset a broken staff. One of the intense areas of fighting in this region, it had eventually been demolished by Royalist orbital bombardment, bringing down a hundred tons of steel, glass, and concrete into the city below. The locals referred to it as Broken Friday, but to Gus, it was just another day in far too many. He thought of Remoulins, Bourgon-Jallieu, and the Democratie and was suddenly irate at the self-absorbed Sirians, quivering with fear. They had forgotten how long the Council had been struggling against the Royalists, long before Reunion. So much sacrifice to try and weaken the Gallic war machine. There was no mewling on Marne, there was only fierce struggle in the face of overwhelming odds. But maybe he was remembering wrong. Gus had a bad habit of assuming his struggles were greater than those of others, and he hate when he regressed into such outburst of burning anger.

They cleared the comm satellite without event, pushing away from the fire encrusted surface of Leeds, toward the dull earthy pastels of the smog cloud. A few Agamas had joined the four ship convoy, picking up point, rear and side guard positions. True to Actual’s word, sensors were picking up small radiometric disturbances in the field, which would only help to conceal their movements. They were still twenty klicks from the jumphole, where a Liberty Navy battle group was stationed and ready to receive. Quite suddenly, perimeter alarms kicked in, a flash of light exploded to port, and the comm link to one of the Agamas went dead.

“What the hel…” The Tarvos pitched wildly, its engines mistepping as a disruptor smashed into the hull just above the cockpit. Red lights flashed across the board as cruise engines died suddenly. Gus hadn’t had time to even notice the incoming missile indicator.

“Lambard, weapons to front! What’s the sitrep?”

“Gunboat patrol, coming in hot. Escort is losing manpower, and fast.”

Gunboats were the last thing they needed. The Agamas were a lost cause, their engines screaming molten fuel as their thrusters burst into grim explosions.

“Escort is swiss cheese, we need to get out of here,” Lambard shouted, but Gus was shocked for a second as he saw Tarvos-2 go down, the screams of the burning passengers audibly ringing through the comm speakers.

“Gus, wake up! We need to go!” Gus’ hands shifted out of reflex, and he pulled the
ship into a hard engine kill, aiming the nose of the vessel underneath the gunboat patrol. He heard the young Kusari girl wail in fright from the back of the ship.

“Keep her steady Gus,” Lambard growled, “I can’t see anything.”

“Lambard, shut your mouth and deploy counter measures, how long do we have till thrusters come back online?”

“Should be any second now. Shield aren’t going to take much more before they quit though.” Lambard opened fire on a nearby Serval, lighting up its shield until it was forced to peel away, the protective barrier successful overloaded by the EMP weapons.

“The afterburns have run out, engaging cruise.”

The weapons locked suddenly, the energy burst halting from the aft weapon systems.

“Core output is steady, keep dropping those CM’s.”

A steady hail of disruptors continued to rain in on top of them, but they were no match for Lambard’s gunnery skill. A well placed shot from a lynx disabled the shield in an instant, and the hull integrity flashed down to ninety percent. The Tarvos bucked wildly, but Gus steadied it. Violent hissing emanated from the rear of the ship, and pressure gauges began to decrease rapidly. Gus deployed nanobots as fast as he could, but he couldn’t be sure whether the passengers had made it safely.

His hands came off the controls as cruise suddenly reengaged, sending them spinning away from the fire fight, his heart pounding like it would burst. Pressure continued to fall, and some cries of distress could be heard in the back. The nosedive suddenly levelled, and then gradually rose to safe level. Gus breathed a sigh of relief.

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The ship moored with Freeport 4 a few hours later, and Gus sat alone on the flight deck, his head pounding now, a bottle of rice wine in his hand. He quietly hummed the Imperial Kusari anthem, and was so lost in thought, he didn’t even notice the shiny black hair of the girl as she skipped over and plopped down beside him. He only woke up when she started singing along in a soft, happy tone. Gus stopped abruptly, and her singing faltered and died away in a curious consternation.

She prodded the bottle of wine. “My aunt says that only bad men drink that. She says it’s for the cheap lower class to get drunk on.” Gus chuckled.

She responded, offended, “What’s so funny?”

Gus evaded the question. “Shouldn’t you be at the transfer center?”

“I was, but my aunt is coming to get me, she’s really pretty.”

“I’m sure she is”

There was a moment of silence.

“You were humming our old song weren’t you?”

Gus grunted in assent.

She continued, unfazed, “Well that’s only the first verse.” She paused, and then said gaily “I can teach you the second if you’d like.”

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