Kusari Gold

[arvg]

Sir Jack Fraser blew air through his teeth as he stared at his wrecked ship, it was going to take a whole heck of a lot of work to sort that mess out. He just hoped they could do it before the Kusari destroyer that had done the wrecking in the first place, came back for a second round.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, how exactly had he let Chuck talk him into taking his beloved funboat up against a Kusari thug destroyer?

***

(Two days before)


Coffee cradled in his hands, and the sole of a boot resting against the edge of the holographic display in front of him, Fraser stared out at nothing. A deserted system, in a deserted hole in the ass end of nowhere.

It had been weeks of cat-and-mouse games with the Kusari. Escort missions, Recon, Ambushes attacking and defending, in a myriad of different patterns that all wore down the nerves and fuelled the nightmares that they were all suffering from.

The zip up woollen sweater he was wearing was staring to wear. Little bobbles of wool appearing all over it from the near constant use. It was the only thing that he had which was warm, and ever since the Kusari had knocked out the primary environmental systems on the Tzaht, the ship had a terrible time in maintaining its heat.

It was a low priority system which, whenever they returned to Tau-23, was constantly being shunted aside for more critical repairs. They could live, however miserably, without sufficient heat, they couldnt live without guns or engines or the list ran on.

It was like the Bretonia and the Kusari had suddenly reversed their roles. Lacking any brilliant leadership with Sir Andrew gone, the QCP were floundering.

They were loosing the war.

The Kusari were pulling off brilliant tactical manoeuvres, concrete in their resolve they had seemed, with the absence of the self-proclaimed King of Spain, the Zoners and a myriad of other colourful places, to be back on their game. There was no doubting that some brilliant tactical hand that was guiding them to victory, before it had clearly been the KNF wielded as a blunt instrument, their admiralty lacking artistry. Now they had an artist wielding his brush and restoring order to all things.

Chuck was his usual charming self, stalking onto the bridge, his hair plastered to his head, greasy. The showers, naturally, had ceased to function two days before. Leaving the crew and the cluster of Marines that manned the ship smelly and frustrated.

I dont want to do this anymore, Chuck commented as he sat down at the Comm station, hauling his tablet towards him and wielding the stylus to access the latest Intel reports that were updated every morning from TAC-net.

Six months, no leave, Fraser nodded. I can see why youd feel that way.

It isnt even that, Chuck grumbled. Remember what it was like to go to sleep and wake up to decide our own missions? Independent action where we can actually take our own time off if we needed it

Youre a privateer now, Fraser yawned, sinking deeper into his sweater and sipping more of the bilge-water coffee. You dont get to pick and choose your missions, I do.

Actually, Chuck said, sitting up, his deep brown eyes flashing. What if I found us a nice, plump, independent action target that the BAF would love us to be all over.

What? Fraser asked curiously.

Well, theres a unique opportunity in the Intel this morning, Chuck smiled.

Unique opportunities were normally good things, assuming all went well, something that hadnt been happening much recently.

Judging by sensor data retrieved from footage of yesterday of a fight between a Kusari Hatchet and the HMS Uranus, It looks like one of the cruise engines built into the Hatchet was knocked out by flak fire. Uranus was pretty shot up and had to withdraw, but it looks like the Hatchets still there. Ordinarily wed have expected the crew to have activated a self destruct but by the looks of things we must have taken that out too because this image was taken by an AWACs flight tracking Sierra 3 half an hour ago.

Chuck pressed a button on the console and a section of the holographic display changed to reveal an image of a floating, critically damaged Hatchet drifting peacefully through space.

The ships still reasonably intact, and we know that most of the systems on a Hatchet are compatible with Bretonian tech, we could get some valuable spare parts to repair oh I dont know the showers?

Or the heat, Fraser murmured wistfully. Were close right?

Yep, Chuck said checking the navigation board. Shall I put a call in to base that were going to go and collect code books and all that?

Sure, Fraser replied. After all, it doesnt hurt to go and take a look.


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