Warmachine

[Machao6]

She had no name. Apparently that was what the contest had been about - the right to earn a name from a Master, which Dexter understood to mean, a man of the village. Of which, there were very few. This exotic caste system was never satisfactorily explained to the Dafnese intruder, who's every question was answered excitedly by references to some kind of legend; a Goddess of Might and some tenuous link to the present in that all Amazons - as they called themselves - were descended from this deity. An Amazon lived and breathed for the day she was named by her master, or a scion who became her master. Thereafter she would serve and protect him with her life and cater to his every whim. Dexter inquired and even insisted on knowing what the catch was, but according to his erstwhile friend there was none. A master, or a scion, was under no obligation to do anything and basically featured as a kind of vulnerable pup in the mythos of this Goddess Vitalia - even though there were many legends or allegories detailing the numerous ways a master could get their amazon into a world of trouble.

They talked for what felt like hours, nursing each other using the paltry first aid supplies Natalya carried. Her gentle touch as she cleared the drying blood from his nose and forehead was a soothing balm. Then, when Dexter insisted he had to leave, the young amazon insisted on helping him fix his precious suit. She held the heavy arm - way too heavy for him to do anything with - in place while, at her invitation, he sat on her shoulders to extricate the mangled bolts and guide it into place for refit. She even held the thing one handed while passing him fresh fittings, and then waited patiently as he ran the bolts in with a special tool. It was noisy, but they seemed to be stranded way off the beaten track. When he was finished he bade her let go of the arm to see if it held in place, which it did. Next he took one look at the communications array and decided it would be a project for another time. Finally, the dents on the chassis and the damage to his air conditioning vents posed a problem until he explained that he didn't have anything that would bend the metal back into shape. The girl solved this by simply fiddling with the contraption, forcing the plates back into alignment and holding the errant vent covers in place while he screwed in fresh fixtures. Natalya looked decidedly better, and Dexter leaned on his new ally fondly until she took him by the chin and guided him into a gentle kiss.

"I have to go," the trooper mumbled reluctantly "I have some things I need to do."

"Where are you going?" The flame-haired amazon demanded.

"I have to find my friends, if they're alive. I'll come back here, I promise."

"I'm coming with you." It was a declaration, not a suggestion.

"No, it will be dangerous. There are Larinthians everywhere and I need to not worry about keeping someone else safe."

She laughed, and said nothing more even when he kissed her goodbye. When he climbed aboard his suit she was still there, and when he picked a direction and started walking she simply watched him leave. It was hard to walk away from her, but he had logged the village on his map and knew how to return when he was ready. For now, he had to find any survivors before the Larinthians did.

Picking his way through the jungle proved to be more demanding on his attention than he would have liked. He'd been trying to map the Walrus' flight path so he could patrol it for any sign of his comrades in arms, but he had to stop in order to plot a course. His route would take twenty four hours to walk, so he needed to find a river on the way. He found he could follow the river for a few hours before having to leave it, so resolved to make a proper charging stop there. The river led back to the valley floor sure enough, and he stayed on the northern bank as it widened out. Night was starting to fall and the sky lost its brilliance as wan strands of pink betrayed the sun's absence. Under the canopy of the trees the land grew very dark, and Dexter found himself using the light amplification to navigate.

He found a fortuitous point in the river where it had an island - little more than a few boulders with some young trees protruding from them. They would offer a degree of concealment, at least from one side, as well as an unapproachable defence on either side for a rest stop. He waded Natalya out into the river, which came to waist height, until he could rest an arm on the boulders of the island. Natalya promptly switched camouflage accordingly. Then he deployed the hydroelectric generator from its rear-mounted power pack, opened his hatch and clambered across the arm to the boulders. He was still barefoot from his encounter with the girls on the bridge and cursed as he'd left his boots behind running from the redhead. He fished out a bar of cereal from his pocket and tore at it impatiently. The rocks were mostly flat and offered an acceptable place to doze for a little while. The generator needed four hours to complete its charging cycle. He couldn't very well find anything by night, and he'd be totally doomed if he allowed Natalya to run out of juice during his search. So he took the time to make himself passably comfortable, and closed his eyes.

He didn't truly sleep. It was too exposed. While the climate was perfectly acceptable and the gushing water around him made for a relaxing sound that also disguised the low hum of the suit's generators, the idea of someone or something coming across him in this naked state was too great an anxiety to give way to slumber. So he tossed and turned as each position succumbed to discomfort against the hard rocks. He had managed maybe three hours before a splash prompted his mind to waken fully to alert status. It was over on his left, the opposite side from the suit. There was another. It sounded as if someone was throwing rocks into the river. When he turned to see he found very little indeed, only an inky blackness marbled with white crests where the scant moonlight was catching the twists and undulations of the river's course over its rocky bed. He had unconsciously drawn his pistol, a tiny Hawk Industries compact, but there was nothing to shoot at.

Until it jumped at him. 

He had an impression of teeth, rows of teeth in long, straight lines snapping together where his head had been milliseconds before. He was already falling backwards off his perch, crashing against Natalya's outstretched arm and sliding off into the river head first. In panicked submersion he writhed and flailed, afraid to be in the home environment of whatever was attacking him. As his exertions used up valuable air, he finally found Natalya's leg by painfully smashing a leg into it. He climbed up, faster than he had ever climbed anything, and cringed on the suit's shoulder with his pistol at the ready. Breathless, and dripping wet, a shiver of adrenaline ran through him. There was no sign of the beast.

Another hollow clap sounded just below where the thing - a long-beaked, scaly, lizard-like creature - had tried to catch his foot where it was protruding past the edge of his suit's shoulder plate. The water was over a meter below but the attacking creature was capable of leaping out to strike. He resolved to stop looking over the side, hoping his advantage of height would protect him. There was a splash again as something heavy dropped into the water, and he recognised now that this was the creature trying to leap out of the water and on to the rocks where he had been lying.

With a meaty slap, the creature finally made it onto the rock and gripped the surface. Dexter watched in morbid fascination as it clawed its way over the lip of the boulders. It was dark, but he saw enough. A long snout with powerful jaws, flipper-like appendages on a lean, wiry body, and powerful legs terminating in taloned feet. Dexter levelled his gun but hesitated, fearing firing a shot. The creature seemed to search for him for a moment before finding him and studying the metallic arm he was perching on as if curious how to pass this next obstacle. Dexter decided to get back inside the suit where nothing could hurt him and he could simply wait out the predators, but as he slid a leg down to the hatch there was another snap and he had to jerk his foot clear. Another of the monstrosities had found purchase on the open hatch and was now trying to climb up toward him. He had an impression of others in the water and readied his pistol to fire.

The report of its .22 calibre shot was comparatively tiny in the grand scheme of warfare, but in this pitch black the muzzle flare and sound seemed very conspicuous. He was certain he had hit the beast on the rocks in its face, but short of an irritated jolt of discomfort, it didn't seem too  bothered. He fired again and this time it reared its beak up. At first he thought he'd injured the creature, but it was readying itself for a leap, standing on its froglike hind legs and launching at him like a javelin. Time slowed as Dexter's mind flooded him with reactionary chemicals. He could feel his finger squeezing the trigger again and again, and each little shot seemed like flash photography as the monster came inexorably closer, long jagged jaws outstretched. Then something else came into view, a pendulum sweeping the predator out of the air. Dexter caught himself screaming as he realised the danger was passed, and crouching with her back to him was a familiar red ponytail and the sublime lines of a purple swimsuit. Or at least, the native approximation thereof.

[Machao6]

"Are you alright?" She asked, searching the water for any other threats.

"Y-yes, thank you. What the hell are these things?"

"Leapjaws. They're scavengers. They only attack vulnerable prey." She still hadn't looked at him as she watched the creatures descend on their fallen compatriot with voracious appetite. Her words cut keenly and Dexter felt foolish for assuming he would be safe in such a precarious position. He knew nothing of this place, or its risks. After shredding the fallen leapjaw, the others slinked off downstream like a mob shooed away from a crime scene. When she was satisfied they had dispersed, the amazon crossed and scooped him up in her arms. In his fading panic he was quite grateful for the security she offered.

"I'm not so glad I got out of the suit that time." Dexter admitted. "I should have just slept in there."

"It isn't safe for you here. This whole jungle is alive. They're not even predators, they prey on wounded animals and stranded chicks." Dexter sighed deflatedly and she brushed his hair out of his eyes. "I was right not to let you go wandering alone."

"Why did you follow me? You don't owe me anything."

"No. But you owe me now."

Dexter nodded his assent. "Right. Name it." She turned him so she could look at him. Her gaze sharpened to a piercing intensity and he began to feel uncomfortable. "Oh whoa, no way, I'm not getting involved in all that stuff you were talking about before! I'm not a responsible adult and I shouldn't be trusted with that kind of...that kind of...commitment. I am a one-man operator on a mission, and you've already seen the kind of stupid fuckups I make."

She kissed him into silence and grinned. "I didn't say anything! But you're no longer a one-man operator. Did I say that right?"

"No, you mispronounced Solo. Singular. Without attachment or social considerations. It's very important to my frame of mind."

She leaned in very close, so that her breasts crushed against his body. "There are other things important to your frame of mind..." she whispered.

"Not right now there aren't!" he pleaded, almost wrestling his way out of her arms until she caught his errant leg and secured him again with a frown.
 
"I'm staying with you. And I'm taking you somewhere you can get some real rest."

"The suit is fine, just put..." But the words were just words, as she had already leaped with him from the rocky island to the bank of the river below. She took him to the nearest tree, climbed it easily with him sitting on her hip, and then swung a leg over one of its broad branches and rotated him so that he was sat facing her. Without another word she unzipped his boiler suit. "What the hell are you doing?!" The trooper demanded.

"How does this thing come off? You're soaking, it needs to dry."

"It's fine, just..." An ominous tearing noise ensued as she simply carried on unzipping. "Brilliant. I'm stranded thousands of miles in uncharted territory, my squad is blown to hell, there are enemies all around me, I almost got eaten by mistake, I lost my shoes and now I don't even have a uniform anymore!"

He extricated himself from her arms and stood to remove the tattered garment. With his arms out it hung around his waist and he paused. "Turn around or something, this is embarrassing."

"Why?" The amazon asked genuinely enough.

"Just...don't look at me. No one's ever seen me naked and its not a pretty sight."

"You're not nak..." But with a withering glare, the girl dutifully averted her eyes as he removed the torn boiler suit and draped it on the branch between himself and her feet. He sat then at the end of the branch in his boxers and hugged his knees.

"Safe place to sleep my ass. If I fall asleep here I'm going to fall to my death."

The redhead smirked as the young soldier muttered to himself. He was wet through and was starting to shiver. "So come here where I can keep hold of you."

He looked at her then and it wasn't hostility or annoyance, but guilt on his face. "Won't it be...uncomfortable?" He mumbled.

"I promise it won't. I'm much comfier than the branch. Come here."

Dexter nervously edged sidelong toward her, but as soon as he was within arms reach she leaned forward and grabbed him, pulling him onto her outstreched legs so that he was sat with his back to her against her body, and wrapping her arms around him tightly. After a moment's awkward stiffness, he eventually relaxed against the warm press of her body and rested his head on her shoulder, where she could nuzzle him fondly. "There. That's better, isn't it? Are you comfy?"

His voice was tiny. "Yes. Thank you. I'm really sorry about all this."

"You're very welcome." She breathed in his ear, and in not very long at all, he was fast asleep.

* * * * * * * * *

When he awoke he was comfortably numb, but he seemed to have an extra pair of arms that were stitching the tear in his boiler suit until he remembered their bizarre sleeping arrangement.

"Do you just carry those things around with you in case you destroy someone's clothes?" He murmured, sleepily.

"No, but you do. The little bag of medicine and wraps you used earlier was in one of the pockets. It had a needle and thread in it. The least I could do was mend it for you."

"The suture kit? I mustn't have put it back. Good thing I didn't. Thanks for fixing it. Did you sleep at all?"

"No, I was keeping an eye on your suit of armour."

Dexter turned his head to find her face. "You didn't sleep?"

"I wasn't tired. No Larinthians have been by, and with the exception of a Ghost Panther that sniffed us out and decided we weren't worth it when I met his eye, nothing else has come near. I've finished with this now and although it's not completely dry, you said your mission was important. So put it on and we'll go."
 
After some mumbling about the ease of putting on a boiler suit on terra firma, she took him down from the tree and waited while he zipped himself back into his overalls. When he returned to Natalya all systems were fine and he was able to use its self-repair system to administer a sealing agent to repair the air conditioning functions, thanks to the fine work his nameless ally had done bending everything back into shape. He used the suit's PA system on a low volume to speak with her.

"Everything is good as new here. I need to get my comms system up and running again, but I can't do that without some very specialised parts. You're welcome to hitch a ride if you like." She took him up on his offer and they set off. Dexter had planned three sectors to investigate, based on their proximity to the river which he needed to depart from and arrive at each day, and the trajectory of the Walrus as it went down.

Every now and then she would leave to walk on her own legs, or run off to investigate something and point out interesting flora or fauna, or swing from tree branches like an acrobat. She seemed to prefer being active to being idle, and although Natalya's pace was quite a bit faster than a normal person, the amazon could keep up with it even when Dexter tried breaking into a run. She could even keep up with the suit's boosts, laughing when it became clear he would sometimes do it suddenly and deliberately to try and get ahead. As they moved she explained about different trees, plants, and animals, and on a few occasions demanded he open up so she could feed him nuts and berries she'd picked. 

She also seemed to have a good knowledge of the area. Once he explained some of his decisions with regard to their route - how he wanted to use the terrain to hide the suit from observation, how he wanted to avoid any clearings or open spaces or well-travelled routes, and how the suit could and could not cope with certain slopes or jungle densities, she quickly incorporated his tactical considerations into the assistance she could render. She was fascinated by Natalya's adaptive camouflage, and at one point insisted on challenging her senses against its sensorium array, seeing who could guess most accurately where a bird was calling from. The girl's senses were very keen - Dexter tried listening out with his own ears and could only hazard a vague guess that made her laugh, but Natalya's finely tuned reconnaissance suite was designed to give every possible advantage to the user. He felt pretty cheap when a particularly harsh birdcall registered on its Gunshot Accoustic Director, and he could pinpoint its exact location almost immediately.

On the first day he covered more ground than he expected. They encountered a discarded parachute, but there was no sign of a body or any equipment. A few hours later they found another, and the redhead indicated signs of heavy Larinthian foot traffic on the narrow trails and suggested they'd dragged someone away from a bloodstained patch of brush. While he was able to tell the signs once he saw them and make a fair amount of deduction from the markings based on his own training, the environment did not lend itself to tracking at all. This was untamed wildland, and what trails existed seemed to be made by animals. The amazons maintained some, his beautiful assistant intimated, routes between villages and "meeting places".  He found it hard to imagine these warrior-women doing anything so mundane as roadwork, but reckoned they would have the same necessities as anyone other settlement.

When they returned to the river to rest and recharge, he found he had barely touched his rations thanks to the forage his guide had produced during their travels - and in less than an hour poised in the river, she snagged a large fish with her bare hands that she assured could be eaten raw. Dexter sampled it but decided he wasn't a fan of seafood, so she ate and he finished off the berries she'd collected. He offered to take a watch so she could sleep in peace, which caused a minor argument. While he took a look at his comms system and made a list of what needed replacing, she used vines and treefell to fashion a shelf in one of the trees that they could sleep on more comfortably. Dexter was reassured to see there was no rot in the timber, and any anxieties he might have had about her workmanship vanished when she cuddled up to him to sleep.

The next day were woken by a helicopter passing, and from its trajectory Dexter knew it was coming from the base he'd found when he landed. It didn't seem to notice anything amiss and continued the way it was going, which seemed to be in line with the path the Walrus had taken. Dexter reasoned the Larinthians might know more than he about any survivors and decided to make that his next search sector for the day. His friend was up well before him and picked them some mushrooms for breakfast.

"Aren't you going to be missed back home?" He asked her as they marched on through the jungle.

"No. As long as I come back with something to eat on my shoulder, I've been out hunting."

"Is there much, you know, protocol for meeting random guys like me in the jungle? Didn't you say your tug-of-war thing was to decide who gets to be named by a master?"

She swiped at some vines hanging in her path irritably at the reminder. "It was, but I lost."

"So...I can't name you, for example?"

"I thought you didn't want to?" She retorted without looking at him.

"Well, I mean...what's to stop some random person coming to the village, naming someone, and lording it over them?"

"That...that's kind of what we all wish for. The contests are to keep order because there are so few scions. So when one comes by - which is very rare - there's a scrabble for who gets access to him. The Priestesses have to keep them under guard until the Trials sort it out. It's a pecking order."

"It sounds pretty draconian. Survival of the fittest and all that."

"Yup. Guess I'm not fit enough."

"Hey, you're plenty fit enough. I feel out of breath just thinking about how much...running here and there, climbing trees, jumping from branch to branch you do. Plus you keep up with Natalya, there's no way I'd be able to walk this far if I wasn't in an Armoured Suit."

There was a delay in her response. "Thanks. Does that mean you're going to name me now?"

"What? No, that's..."

"You don't want me..."

"Whoa hold on, it's not like that. I told you, I can't get involved."

"You are involved. You came to my home, bringing your war. You spied on me, I didn't spy on you."

"So why are you helping me like this? What do you get out of it?"

With a growl of annoyance she kicked a dead stump in her path, destroying it in a shower of dust and splinters. "Nothing. I'm going to hunt. We should have something proper to eat today. Don't follow me in your clumsy suit of armour."

"O...K..." Dexter breathed to himself, suddenly quite alone.

[Machao6]

He knew she could track his suit in the dark, not least by daylight, so he decided to continue with his search pattern. An hour down the path he found a dead Argonian hanging from his stranded parachute in a tree twenty feet up. There were signs of Larinthian foot traffic below but no one had made any attempt to get the body down. He found himself facing a moment of indecision. He wanted to cut the man down and bury him, but doing so would almost guarantee to the enemy - who had been here before and might be here again - that another survivor was afoot.

"Fuck it." He muttered, knowing full well that any Larinthian trackers would be able to see his passing here. He used Natalya's 5KW Laser to sever the strands holding the body up. The corpse crashed to the ground with an unceremonious thud and cracking of bone. He popped his hatch and stepped out to stare at the body. The cold, pale face of death. The man seemed disappointed - rightly so, being killed helplessly in the air before he could even raise a gun to fight back. Dexter summoned himself to extricate the dog-tags from around the corpse's neck. "Sorry pal." The trooper muttered, then hurried back to Natalya. He carefully picked the body up in a metal hand, walked a short distance from the trail and scooped at the earth with his free hand, placing the body and piling the soil back on top. The man's rifle was nowhere to be seen, but his helmet had rolled loose during the fall and Dexter placed this on the grave site as a headstone. He read the dog-tag aloud. "Corporal Miller". Same rank, almost the same name. The guy was older by a few years, but that didn't make much difference. He kept the fallen mans tags close, in his breast pocket.

The Larinthians had been operating on foot, and were clearly close enough to reach this site before he had in a powered suit. He knew from his earlier ELINT that there were more enemy outposts nearby, and decided to pay some of them a visit in the hopes of finding a living survivor. Maybe pay the debt of blood owed to those poor men who burned up in the aircraft before it crashed, and this guy caught helpless hanging in the air. He walked Natalya onwards.

Hours passed. His route took him onto the valley floor and a strong river some hundreds of meters wide cut through the length of it. He could cross in the Armoured Suit but decided it would be a day's work to do so, and resolved to cover his side of the banks this afternoon. He quickly realised that staying near this river was a mistake, as a Larinthian patrol boat spotted him, but after some quick hiding and adaptive camouflage, must have decided he was some sort of panicked beast of the jungle instead of an actual threat. The patrol boats were shallow drafted craft, sturdily armoured, with a variety of weapon options. This one seemed to be carrying two mortars on its rear deck, and a double-barrelled large-calibre automatic weapon in a cupola on the bow. He stayed in sight of the river but moved further inland, and saw another patrol boat with long, pipe-fed appendages that he later surmised must have been flamethrowers. He also saw a barge, a wide, flat think with a tiny wheel cabin, laden with cargo covered by tarpaulins, secured with ropes and steel wires.

Something clicked into place for Dexter. There was little clear area for aircraft to land, and in any event the land had to be cleared and that took manpower - manpower who needed securing from attack while they were working. The road infrastructure here was not far removed from nonexistent - dirt tracks highly vulnerable to the weather. Vehicles would make little headway in the jungle. The river offered the most efficient way of moving bulk materials, which meant it must be acting as a chief line of supply for the Larinthian forces. He paused to note down his observations as well as the approximate times of the vessels he'd seen.

His route took him past one of the positions he'd triangulated the day before, not long after landing. As he'd found no further articles from the stricken Walrus, save for a piece of its fuselage that had sheared through a tree and blocked the path, he decided to investigate. He'd been expecting an encampment, a forward operating base for a company or a platoon, but what he actually discovered was altogether more comprehensive. This site had a cleared area like before, forcing him to stay well back. A perimeter of defences included covered trenches and pillboxes, two watchtowers, several barrack buildings - dug in so that they protruded from the ground - and a helipad. There was no high ground to claim a vantage over this place, and one side of the area was met by the river, which had been worked on and within the defensive perimeter Dexter could see jetties for mooring and loading small vessels. There was a barge moored up, empty. There was also a statue, an immense serpent in what he assumed was bronze, rising out of the base like a deity. The Coiled King, the quasi-religious doctrine of the Larinthians. They revered it as a warrior cult, but his red haired ally had put a more developed spin on the beliefs. Why put it here? Of all the places to keep something sacred, why on the frontline in enemy territory? There was a tap on the top of Natalya's armoured carapace, jarring him from his investigation, but he reasoned it must be deadfall from the trees.

There was movement in the base. A section of infantry was heading out, toward him, and he watched them file out into a skirmish line. To sweep the jungle. Had he been spotted? His camouflage index placed him well below ambient. He searched frantically for any sign he had been detected, but there was nothing. Yet the troops came ahead, and he could even see the squad leader, a Trueblood in resplendent golden armour as conspicuous as the strange statute, craning a hand to his headset and directing his men's search pattern. As Dexter made to leave, he saw that beyond the perimeter defence there were emplacements - well-concealed emplacements - in the tree canopy. They resembled pillboxes but they formed a raised layer and, tracing their arc around the base, Dexter knew he had blundered through this hidden circuit. Evidently they only held snipers or observers, as no fire had been directed at him yet, but he was made and so it was time to leave.

When he broke cover, the first shots ricocheted off Natalya's armour. The carbine bullets were no threat, and even when they opened up with a squad support weapon the damage was only to his camouflage, nothing more. A rocket hurtled past and exploded in the trees ahead and to his right, and that posed a significantly greater threat. He changed trajectory, then changed again, thwarting a second rocket that, unguided, seemed to carry for a miraculous distance between the trees before crunching away in the depths of the jungle ahead. Something large calibre hit him twice, causing a threat alarm to sound, but the strikes had been glancing hits and before long he was safe from gunfire.

He circled around and away, until he was certain any pursuers would be hours away. He made sure to break his trail by heading into the river shallows, despite the risk of patrol boats finding him again, he used his radar to give him advance warning. They would know his vicinity if anyone was watching for it, but when troops arrived there would be no trail to follow. No boats came and he gave it a kilometre or so before switching the radar off and heading back onto land. So far, so good. Finally he came to a rest an hour short of their makeshift rendezvous, where the red haired girl had made their shelf in the tree. Dark was falling again, but he needed to inspect the damage and so popped Natalya's hatch and climbed out.

He noted nothing ominous. There were two very pronounced scrapes from some sort of anti-materiel weapon that had been defeated by the rear carapace. They would affect the adaptive camouflage and he could see the singed fibre-wires on each side of the grooves. No sooner had he tutted at the damage, he felt a sound on the air. A throbbing. Rotor blades! It came straight for him rocket pods puffing, and Dexter nearly trapped his foot as the suit hatch closed.

The first rocket exploded as Natalya's startup sequence initialised. The second knocked the suit forward onto its face and the third exploded between the main body and the outstretched left arm, shaking pilot and suit and causing his screens to flicker. Several sensor readouts showed faults and he had to push with the arms and bring the feet up awkwardly to right the suit from this face-down position while more rockets exploded as the gunship roared past. He tried to acquire it but his targeting sensors were knocked out. More hard-to-replace equipment...if he survived this encounter.

He boosted away, snapping through a dead branch and into the relative cover of some trees, from which he searched for the chopper. It was playing a good game with him, using its speed and agility to manoeuvre beyond his limited line of sight. The trees worked for and against him here, as they hid him from the helicopter's flybys, but also prevented him from observing its angle of attack.  He knew that activating his radar would be a death sentence as any guided weapons systems it carried would have no difficulty penetrating the jungle canopy to find him. So he waited.
And cursed when the helicopter attacked from behind again. Was it blind firing? It was a good guess if so. Rockets exploded, splintering tree trunks and felling huge timbers that he had to leap aside to dodge. The rockets had been right on target and if it hadn't been for his quick reactions, he'd have taken a direct hit. Was it out of rockets now?

He raised his 50mm gun in preparation for a shot, but again there was no sign of the helicopter. Night was properly fallen now and the helicopter had no lights to give it away. He checked his ammunition and changed it from "Explosive" to "Cannister". His right arm made a series of clicks and whirring noises and then his weapon indicator showed green for ready. It was about time the chopper showed again so he started moving, and as he searched behind him he saw it rise and bear down on him with all guns blazing. A stitch of cannon fire chased Natalya across the now-cleared patch of broken canopy while rockets exploded. Dexter paused to fire but a close call sent the suit, and his shot, veering off kilter. He was now getting indicators from his structural analysis showing shrapnel damage to the vulnerable joints of the suit. How did it know where he was?

There was higher ground nearby and he made for it, reasoning that if he could expand his point of view he might get the drop on the gunship while it was turning to make another attack. Again the chopper attacked, and this time the cannon raked the suit from head to toe and he felt tiny flecks of metal embed themselves in his arms and legs where the internal armour hugged his limbs and was flaking under the direct hits. Then there was a metal crunch and the suit staggered off balance, and his indicators showed the foot actuator was severed. There were no rockets this time however, and Dexter growled with desperation as he launched Natalya onto the rocky high-ground, latching on with the left arm and leaning out to aim with the right. He scoured the horizon using thermal optics and found the helicopter plain as day. Its cannon was tracking him despite Natalya's ambient ECM profile, and the two combatants fired on each other simultaneously.

The gunships cannon bounced off Natalya's armoured hide but its sheer weight of fire had both a concussive and cumulative effect. It hammered the joint where his left arm was holding onto the rock face, and in the hundreds of rounds that arrived, the arm severed at the shoulder just like it had done in the fight with the amazon. Dexter cursed as Natalya fell away, blasting away with his 50mm autoloader. The cannister shots were actually defeated by the gunships own armour plating, but he was only interested in the rotors, which he desperately aimed for even as the rock face partially collapsed under the onslaught, sending rubble following him to the floor.

It was not a steep drop, not like the one before, but coupled with his earlier whiplash injuries and lacerations, this impact struck him like a car crash. His left arm was exposed to the rubble that crashed down and he screamed as it snapped under the impact. He glimpsed the gunship spiralling out of control overhead, and heard it crash in an almighty explosion away to the right. Amid a cloud of rock dust and gunsmoke, hissing through tears of pain and rage, he agonisingly used the muzzle of the 50mm to scrape away the stone crushing his arm and then used it as a crutch to right the suit. He had to leave. But with one foot gone the suit could only limp, and he knew that the enemy had tagged him with some kind of designator. They would find him, and in this state, kill him. Bitterly remembering the vengeful vow he had made when his unit was wiped out during training, and even today when he buried the dead Argonian, he let the suit topple and initiated its self-destruct procedures. Scraping himself clear of the hatch, he hobbled up the rocks as best he could, careful not to take any route that needed both hands. Then he turned and watched the suit explode, each limb carefully detonating with a controlled incendiary that gutted the wiring and computer circuits until only a blackened shell remained.  The suit was his life, his livelihood, his one calling to redemption. Now it was salvage.

"Goodbye, Natalya." He cuffed some tears away and turned to look at the glowing smoke rising from the helicopter's passing. "And fuck you Larinthians!"

He started walking. He was going in roughly the direction he had been heading before the attack. But as he stumbled on he realised he had no idea where he was in relation to anything. All of his navigational apparatus, his reconnaissance notes, had been in the suit. His food and emergency supplies. He had nothing, and night was settled. As if to emphasise the point, something in the distance howled. It sounded much bigger than a wolf.

His arm was bleeding profusely. It had been too painful to try and extricate it from the sleeve of his overalls so it hung limply by his side, a medic's nightmare. He was barely three hundred staggering meters from the suit when he collapsed.

[Jaguar]

Machao, as you must know, in a novel the journey is the story. 

You don't need to worry about delaying the climax when the story has so many varied exciting scenes.


I'm retired and I read a lot of fiction.  This novel or novella of yours is really really excellent work !!!


First rate. 

Don't rush to end this, but keep the story progressing and varied, as you are doing.

And don't ever stop writing fiction again !

Again, first rate work! 

[ArkhamAsylum]

I agree with Jaguar. This is a fantastic story. Gre

[ArkhamAsylum]

Great work.

[Machao6]

Thank you so much gents. Your encouragement has kept me at this project an instea of eleting it as I was consiering before I ecie to chance it on here. I now inten to finish the job, but as I keep having ieas for it, it may take a while Gla to hear you're not bore by it.

Just a quick note - my keyboar has lost a key you can probably guess if I use enough wors with it in...so there may be a little elay while I sort a new one out!

I am aware that the balance of the story is currently a bit more on the military fantasy rather than erotic muscle sie of things, but it will move on in stages once I've got my ucks in a row, so to speak.

Cheers fellas!

[sgsg69]

Great story, all three points of view are expertly done............can't wait for Dexter to name his red-haired wonder Natalya, so she can protect him just as the suit once did!!

KARMA+

[Machao6]

Great story, all three points of view are expertly done............can't wait for Dexter to name his red-haired wonder Natalya, so she can protect him just as the suit once did!!

KARMA+

Oh, he's rumbled me! It doesn't count as a spoiler if you guessed it correctly XD

I wasn't too subtle about that one  I'll have to keep the surprise in the timing then!

[Machao6]

Dexter fell into deep water. He was underwater in a dark place where blueish-green light lanced down from some distant source above. His hair expanded in the water, his limbs rose idly on the currents, but he knew in this place the prospect of surfacing was not an option. There was no surface. His wounded arm stained the water dark where inky blood was still expelling from his wounds. Yet there was no pain now. Things moved on the edges of his vision, impressions of finned, fanged predators cruising with confidence around his body and its spilling blood, waiting as guests to be called to action by some prompt unknown. He was not drowning, and when he became conscious of this he breathed in and did not choke on water. Then he breathed out bubbles that rushed away. A thought amused him here.  Perhaps the fanged predators circling him were not waiting to eat him, but were forming a cordon around him through which no others could approach? Guarding him as he drifted, aimless and unpowered. There was no pain here, and so he closed his eyes and enjoyed the sensation of weightlessness.

He became aware of dryness and harsh light. When he opened his eyes again he was in a white room, so white it was hard to make out the dimensions, the corners, or even the ceiling. In fact there was no shadow at all and he realised there must be some immensely powerful light source above his head where he couldn't see it. He could hear nothing and, whether through exhaustion or restraint, he could not raise his head off the bed. He could however roll his head to one side to see that his wounded arm was missing.

He screamed. Everything changed. He had a flood of images, memories, fluid visions. Dank, primitive confines. Sweat on skin glistening in firelight. A man in doctors overalls with a mask and a skullcap glancing at him as he bawled out loud, raising tweezers and a clamp from open-wound surgery on his arm. Something was holding him down and he realised from the way their grip shifted on his feebly thrashing limbs it was people. Then one slipped an arm under his chin and exerted incredible pressure, and he was back in the white room. There was nothing here. No door, no window, no people.

"Am I dead?" He asked aloud, and his voice echoed as if a chorus were repeating him. He found that he could not move from the bed, indeed his only awareness of the bed was of a pressure beneath him indicating he had his back to something.

"Not yet my friend." The reply resonated and echoed, even though it sounded distant - a murmur at the far end of some ancient building. A man's voice, quiet and carefully pronounced, with an accent he couldn't place. He looked again at his missing arm. It didn't look like it had healed over - there was no bandage, just a sharp line halfway up his forearm where it used to continue on to an elbow, a forearm, a hand.

"I have something to tell you," the voice said again, booming yet subdued in the vast white "while you are a captive audience."

"Who are you?" Dexter asked. His voice was faltering, but every croaking syllable resonated.

"A friend. For now. Let's take a walk. Imagine you are at the theatre. You are here to see a private showing of a new play. A red carpet guides your steps through fine marble columns and alabaster walls to the seats. Your place is below, near the front, and there are ten steps to take. Take the steps with me: One, feeling warm and content in this place of culture. Two, noting the fresh scent of polish and the glint of the brass fittings. Three, enjoying the cozy darkness from the low lighting. Four, seeing how the seats stretch away on either side in perfect order. Five, feeling the spring of the soft carpet beneath your feet. Six, hearing the sound of your footsteps echoing in the hall. Seven, being excited and privileged to have this whole viewing to yourself. Eight, seeing the stage illuminated but empty like an open page waiting to be written. Nine, noticing the rich shade of the red curtains draping down. Ten, finding your place and your perspective once seated. Are you seated?"

Dexter's breathing had become slow and measured. He let himself be immersed in the fiction and the images it was conjuring. It was a conscious effort to answer, as if by making any decision to do so rippled the visionary pool he was enjoying. "Yes."

"The play is about a knight who has been given a dangerous quest by his king in a place far, far away. But the knight has not gone because his king asked him to. Why do you think he has gone?"

"Because he has nothing keeping him at home."

"Very good. The knight quickly becomes lost and surrounded by enemies on his journey. Why doesn't he surrender?"

"Because his enemies are merciless."

"I see. So what stops the knight from simply abandoning his quest and taking off into the sunset, never to return?"

Dexter's reply took a long time to come. "Fear. He's afraid without his duty he'd have nothing in his life."

"This play is very exciting. There is a segment where the cast require audience participation. Five placards are presented on the stage, each with a word, and you must choose a word from each selection. The words you choose are what the play mean to you."

Dexter's brow furrowed as he struggled with the abstract. "How do I know what the play means, you haven't told me what happens?"

"You tell me - Pierce, Joy, Find, Shadow, Beige."

"Uhh...Shadow."

"Strike, Excite, , Aquatic, Green."

"Ah, Strike."

"Lunge, Scared, Noise, Mirror, Red."

"Scared."

"Stab, Sorrow, Spell, Smoke, Sepia."

"Ahh...um...Sepia."

"Spend, Save, Shun, Send, Signal."

"S...Signal."

There was a delay before any reply came. "Very good Dexter."

"What does this mean for the play?"

"The Shadow is of course darkness, where dark deeds are done. When I say the word Shadow - listen to how I pronounce it, Shadow  - doesn't it make you think of hiding your intentions?"

"Yes, it does."

"To Strike is to hit something, it's an expression of force. The word sounds powerful, doesn't it? Strike. It's almost enough to make you violent. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yeah, kinda."

"Being scared is very natural, but it can make us act very unnaturally. People who are Scared will go to any lengths to escape. Isn't that right?"

" I guess so, yeah."

"Sepia is the colour of old photographs, like memories. Sepia. Are there things you want to remember when I say the word Sepia? Are there things you want to forget?"

"uhh...bit of both really."   

"A Signal is a message, like a beacon or a sign. Don't you look for Signals Dexter? Isn't my voice a kind of Signal? They tell you what to do, don't they Dexter?"

"Yes they do. Now, what about the play?"

"The play is about a knight who has to stop being Scared in order to Strike at enemies lurking in the Shadow. His banner is Sepia and when he is victorious he will wave it as a Signal to his king. But the play isn't quite finished yet Dexter, and the actors can only show you what they have so far. They take a bow and thank you for watching their performance. You leave your seat and head up the ten steps back to the outside world..."
 
* * * * *

When Dexter awoke again, he was in a dimly lit, stone-walled room. It was not a prison or gaol, but a nicely fitted and meticulously tidy place straight out of a fairytale. Hide throws adorned the walls and floor. Carved wooden chairs stood either side of his bed, which was hard-matted but well cushioned with an abundance of airy pillows and draped with linen sheets and a patterned, woven throw. A single open window made by the lay of the stones was open, allowing air to circulate in the dank jungle heat. It had wooden shutters. The light in the room was flickering, and he traced it back to a flaming torch on the wall near a strong, metal-braced door.

He looked for his missing arm, and found it was there. It was trussed up in a form of cast that, on closer inspection, seemed to be made from overlapping leaves sealed by a tacky substance unknown. He tried to raise his head and a bolt of agony shot through him from neck to shoulder. He could hear business outside coming through the window, female voices. But of his own building he could make out no sounds. He realised that this was the real world. He had been dreaming, or delirious, or possibly dead before.

He faded in and out of consciousness. His arm ached sorely and his throat was parched. He felt groggy and lightheaded. He was woken later in the day by the heavy door opening. When he rolled his head so that he could see who had entered he was smitten. A tall, statuesque blonde wearing a white robe, or series of strategically draped ribbons more accurately, was standing at the foot of the bed. She seemed startled that he was awake, then she smiled, and for all the world Dexter had to check that he was not still dreaming. Her face was framed by braids of golden hair almost as a wreath, but even so bound in a tail that curled around her neck to hang off a shoulder. She wore jewellery, a silver belt with turqoise inlay, a silver tiara of sorts with little hanging pieces that jingled gently when she moved. In her hand she carried a clay jug.

"Hello there." The woman ventured in well-spoken Dafnese. "It seems Edgar was as good as his word when he claimed to be a physician. He insisted on mending your arm himself. You've suffered immeasurable pain, young scion. If there's anything I can do to make you more comfortable, please command me."

Dexter stared at the woman blankly for a moment, then spoke. "Who..." his voice croaked and he wondered how long it had been since he last used it. In response the woman darted forward, offering the jug which was full of water. Dexter drank thirstily, then tried again. "...Who the fuck is Edgar, who the fuck are you, and where the fuck am I?"

The woman's lovely brow raised. She seemed to consider whether to respond at all, then answered. "Edgar Weismann is known to us as a Master. He said you were a part of his mission to these lands, that you fell out of a great flying craft and that he almost didn't recognise you without your suit of armour."

Dexter groaned as he remembered all of the grim events that put him here, and even a vague impression of a little bald man with a smug tone and a hot secretary. He had an accent, but where from?

The blonde lady sat beside him on one of the wooden chairs and took his hand in both of hers. "My name is Sophitia. I am a priestess of Vitalia. I serve the spiritual and emotional needs of both Scions and Amazons. I have responsibility for your care now that you have been brought here by one of our maidens." Dexter's heart wrenched as he recalled both the excitement of meeting his red-haired guide, and the folly of letting himself be separated from her. The priestess continued. "You are in our village, Kalena. You are safe now."

Dexter nodded understanding and regretted the pain it caused in his neck. The blonde woman seemed to have more to say, and visibly came to a decision to say it.  "What does fuck mean? I have a good grasp of the languages of the people beyond the Coils, but this is a new term to me."

The Dafnese trooper balked and felt very silly indeed. "It...its a curseword. It's impolite. I shouldn't have said it, I'm sorry."

"But what does it mean?"

"Ah...its a term for having sex. I think specifically its sex without any emotional involvement, a throwaway thing, something you don't care about. Like I said it was very rude and I shouldn't have said it, I was just confused about any of the things you were telling me."

"So...you want to fuck Edgar?"

"What? No!"

"You want to fuck me?"

"Ye...No, no, its not meant like that. It's like..." Dexter rubbed his forehead with his free, healthy hand. "...its..."

The woman smiled. "I know what it's like. I'm only teasing, I just wanted to see if you'd come clean about the meaning. You passed my test, young scion!"

There was an uncertain pause as the specialist came to terms with his embarrassment. "Good." he finally managed, and cleared his throat. "Can you tell me how I got here? You said a maiden brought me here. Did she have a red ponytail and a purple one piece on?"

"The very same! She found you collapsed and bleeding just as the Larinthians saw you. She was injured in the fight but brought you back here overnight. Poor girl nearly feinted when she handed you over."

"Where is she? I'd like to see her."

Sophitia's face dropped. "That is impossible just now. She is awaiting trial and punishment."

"What?"

"Eloping with a Scion is a...serious breach of protocol in our culture. There are a lot of people who are upset with her for making contact with you and failing to tell the rest of us. It presents a threat, both actual if you had been a Larinthian spy, and to our stability in so far as we have a way of doing things and that is considered to be cheating those ways."

"She saved my life. Is there something I can do?" Dexter felt anxiety tunneling away at him even as he spoke, and remembered that he no longer had the strength of Natalya to make any kind of difference with. He was just a crippled nerd in a boiler suit with whiplash.

The priestess slid from her chair to the bed, and lay alongside him as he rolled his head to face her awkwardly."Well, as it happens there is, but it will take some explaining about how things work here..."

* * * * *

[Machao6]

<I have two more characters to introduce. There will be a couple of others later but for now these are the initial threads I'm trying to tie together. Here's number 4.>

FISK’S ODYSSEY:

Lieutenant Commander Nathan Fisk awoke to see a sailor peering over his bunk, silhouetted by the open cabin door. “Sir – you’re needed on the bridge.”

Of course he was. He was the captain, for pete’s sake. Not just of this boat, but two others like it. Some captain, he thought to himself as he walked the metallic deck toward the bridge cabin, cramming his hat on as he went. Inside were First Officer Kitchener, Helmsman Greer and Engineer Trenner. They were surveying the coast with binoculars and gesturing. All Fisk could see was a stretch of golden sand dominated by an impenetrable wall of dense jungle, the infamous Fanteran malaise, their destination.

“Report.” Fisk said curtly.

“We can see the mouth of the river, but there are fortifications guarding the entrance. We don’t have the firepower to knock them out.” Kitchener dutifully reported, nervously stroking his moustache after finishing.

Engineer Casey Trenner handed him her binoculars. “Those bunkers can probably house anything up to 150mm guns. One hit and we’ve had it. Of course, they’ve only got a limited field and slow rate of fire but they’ll outrange us for sure. There isn't enough breadth to the river mouth to outrun their tracking.” As she spoke Nathan scanned the shoreline and saw two subtle lumps, one on each side of the river mouth. Less well concealed were camouflage nets that couldn't cover construction vehicles, and the telltale signs of increased fortifications under construction.

“Now or never...” He muttered, half to himself. Feeling the bemused silence that followed, he elaborated. “It’s what Admiral Gordon said about our mission. If we’re ever to find out what's down the river, we have to do it now.”

“You mean to attack?” Kitchener asked.

“No. I mean to sail straight past them faster than their gunners can track us. Signal all boats to follow our lead. Speed full ahead. Stand by to surrender the helm to me, Rating.”

“You can’t be serious? They’ll make mincemeat of us! They're going to get at least two shots off at our nose. We'll be sitting ducks! ”

“Kitchener, why do you think we're doing this in patrol boats? Anything bigger would be a sitting duck. We're faster than they can track. We have a numerical advantage, it will split their fire. Let’s do our jobs, shall we? Load our guns for smoke, fire as she bears.”

“Aye, captain.” Kitchener acknowledged grudgingly.

The boat, and the two following it bravely, turned in a wide arc so that they were facing directly the river’s opening. The Gulf of Fantay was fed by an intricate delta known as the Malaise, and their mission was to sail in to the maw of that monster and explore its anatomy. HQ believed that the Larinthians had established a naval base of some description somewhere in that region that was polluting the waters with submarines and small vessels. The presence of guns guarding the river entrance was the only confirmation he needed that the mission was not a complete waste of time.

Inevitably, there were two immense explosions that carried across the water. But although the sailors flinched and ducked, nothing came of it. For a while the ship continued to steer at a moderate rate, then the sound of trains rushing past and plumes of water rose to the height of monuments either side of them, showering the boat with spray and sending waves that rocked the propellers clean out of the water for a time. The boat’s own guns answered pitifully, the small 45mm pop-guns kicking out a smoke shell every few seconds. Slowly the small puffs of smoke began to form a screen in front of the bunkers, and as the other vessel’s guns joined in, the smoke completely obscured them from view. Safe in this protection, the crew visibly relaxed, until the sound of the next thunderous volley from the shore rolled across them.
 
The shells hurtled overhead and reared up harmlessly behind the small convoy. Twice more the big guns fired and twice more the shells went nowhere near, but then the boats were in the smoke and could only hope that their cover would protect them. They knew that the enemy gunners would be looking desperately for any sign of the emerging boats and that they would make it their last attempt to hit anything. Or, Fisk wondered to himself, perhaps they were preparing smaller, more manoeuvrable weapons to attack them with – that would be a bigger threat, but at least they could return fire.

As the smoke thinned the guns fired again, and this time the shells took only moments to pass them. One fell so close it blew the hats from the officers’ heads, before ploughing into the sea ahead of the next boat behind them, causing it to rise into the air and sending sailors flying. There was no time to stop for them. Fisk watched as one clung desperately to the railings on the back of the boat, right above its propellers. The small boats’ guns returned fire in defiance, but their small shells slapped against the concrete bunkers ineffectually. Another mighty shell rocked the boat off course, and Fisk had to wrench the wheel round to get them lined up properly. The risk at this speed was that if they veered too far to either side they could quickly run out of keel depth and strand themselves on the shore.

Then, the guns fired no longer. Instead Kitchener reported soldiers moving onto the beach with small arms and rocket launchers.

“Switch to flechettes and give fire!” Fisk ordered brusquely, though the order should have been obvious. Luckily for him his gunners had already started to load and their first shell landed just so, a few yards short to spit shards at the advancing infantry, felling three. One of the fallen sent a rocket high into the sky, like a lance. The other boats were also firing, trying to get the drop on the Larinthians before they could establish their aim. A scatter of machinegun fire pounded off the boat’s armoured side and caused the exposed crew to lie flat. Fisk crouched over the wheel and watched for incoming rockets. A telltale column of smoke and dust told him a rocket was on its way and he jinked the boat left toward the firer. The missile flew between his boat and the next. A second rocket from the starboard side ploughed into the water ahead of them and for a moment Fisk was afraid it had punctured the ship below the keel, which ought to have sunk them in moments at this speed. But despite an ominous metal clunk, very little happened.

Bullets were rattling across the boat like rain now, and the decks were quickly scoured of any crew, who took what little cover they could. Two of Fisks men were injured by the small arms fire and their blood was washing away with every splash and plume of water. They were so close that they could see the faces of their enemies now, the hateful expressions, the bared teeth as they drew aim at the fast boats. A rocket came at them from scarce meters away and he had to jink sharply to avoid it. In the stunned deafness of its passing he could think only of correcting their course. The boat steered straight in to the river’s mouth and they were now moving away from the shooters.

The boats behind had enjoyed comparatively safe passage as the enemy had concentrated their fire on Fisk's closer boat. Now they  followed vengefully, anti-air guns hammering stitches of bullets across the Larinthians’ positions. Although the enemy pursued from the banks, firing a last ditch salvo of rockets that went wide and exploded in the thickening jungle, they eventually found themselves at peace and able to slow down a little.

“Report!” Fisk ordered. He listened carefully for anything urgent, but miraculously their only damage was structural and the crew cabin was exposed to the elements. The two men injured by the shooting were in great pain and their wounds were too serious to be treated properly on the boat.

“What now, captain?” Kitchener asked, still recovering his breath from the ordeal.

“We sail downriver. Find the Larinthian base. Photograph it, and get out. I want a double watch while we’re in this jungle, there could be any number of ambushes and outposts.”

“This is the worst place we could possibly be. No room to manoeuvre, and enemies behind us...”

“Are you going to get on with my orders, Kitchner, or just stand here bemoaning the state of the war?”

The first officer turned red in the face and busied himself with the watch. Casey Trenner propped a piece of solid bulkhead from their stores and looked at him. “Should I bother with this?”

“Just make sure we’re watertight. I don’t think we’ll be seeing much rain.” Fisk looked up pointedly, where a crystal clear sky burned above an increasingly thick canopy of towering tropical trees.

Strange bestial noises groaned from the depths of the jungle, and a single flare rose behind them where the enemy’s defences had been breached.

[ArkhamAsylum]

These are great additions to this awesome story.

[potatocarrot]

Fantastic effort! Love the pace and how it is not rushed! Interesting concept and looking forward to where you take this... Very interested to see more of Natasha as it seems she may be the biggest strongest amazon the tribe have had for a while and I'm sure with his enthusiasm and pushing her she could be even better!

I'm strapped in and ready for the long ride! Bring it on!

[Machao6]

They had been sailing for two hours down the Malaise, picking their way through overgrown waterways and rocky outcrops. In some places there were strange boulders planted randomly in the middle of the river, protruding dangerously, causing their boats to swerve to avoid them. They needed to keep a keen watch for hazards, be it from the water itself which sometimes produced floating jetsam or hidden rocks, or from above where overhanging or fallen trees and branches could sweep a deck clear.

Fisk had taken the wheel personally, since there was no telling what lay ahead. As they rounded a deep oxbow, they heard the sounds of a terrific battle. Explosions thudded dully in the heavy midday heat, and missiles rushed skyward to arc down from the river to a position further inland. Fisk signalled his boats to action stations and they cautiously rounded another corner to see the river broaden out. At this junction of waterways, a Larinthian corvette was idling along with two shallow-keeled landing craft, now abandoned as their troop compliments were ashore. The corvette was flattening a simple-looking village of rock-walled buildings and wooden huts, most of which were ablaze. Its guns and missiles were making short work of the fragile structures. Meanwhile, the troops fought cover by cover against unseen assailants in the jungle, who fired back sporadically with what looked like arrows and rocks. The defenders evidently had some sort of catapult or ballista, as huge tree trunks and boulders were being thrown against the corvette to whack with a metallic crunch against its hull or superstructure. In response its guns angrily fired back.

There was no way to sneak past the corvette, so Fisk gunned his engines and ordered an attack run. With the corvette providing the basis of their assault, the isolated infantry could be made short work of once it was out of the way, and they had the element of surprise. Nathan booted his ship into flank speed and ordered his gunners to aim at the armaments of the corvette. Distracted and completely unprepared, the enemy ship was powerless to react as the column of gunboats approached with all guns blazing.  Some of the enemy's weapons were unarmoured machineguns and flak cannons, or half-turrets, and the little boats wrought terrible damage on these fixtures and their crews. The Larinthians panicked on their deck, running to and fro and bumping into each other only to be cut down in a pink mist by automatic weapons designed to bring down aircraft. A brave few tried to turn machineguns on the small boats, but they only got off a short burst or so before perishing as the boats sawed past. Fisk note with some satisfaction that the Corvette's main gun was perforated several times by their little 45mm cannons, and after the second boat strafed it licks of flame began to emerge from the punctures. The vessel's rocket launcher fired a last salvo before cannon fire found its ready magazine in an impressive blast that seemed to bloat out from within the ship, sent a plume of flame and smoke into the air, and flattened the superstructure in a mess of gnarled and blackened metal. The Corvette was not a large ship, but to see it split in half and founder in the shallows in the wake of three gunboats was a rare but familiar elation to the Mymadon crews.

To his dismay Fisk saw that the majority of the Larinthian crew had left the ship and joined the attack on the village with small arms. Unable to target them cleanly from this side of the corvette, Fisk ordered his men to flank round and disembark, forming a cordon against which the enemy could not fall back. His crews were an elite group of volunteers, drawn from marine and Special Operations Bureau volunteers, as comfortable behind the wheel of a boat or loading a torpedo as they were slitting a throat or scaling a seawall. With their repeater rifles and dismounted machineguns, they took cover among the ruined stone structures and layed down a backstabbing fire on the sheltering Larinthian troops. It was classic Myrmad action, small ships wreaking havoc and even landing a shore party to harry the foe. He regretted disabling the Corvette so efficiently, as its weapons could wreak havoc here.

As the Larinthians realised they were now attacked from behind, confusion reigned. Those committed to pushing out from the village could not turn about, and in any event were not yet threatened by the newcomers. Those caught unawares in the village tried to warn the squads closest to themselves of the new danger, only to be met with confused dithering. Whoever was in charge of these poor conscripts failed them utterly as each squad fended for itself. Some ran from the initial engagement. Others ran valiantly into it, only to be mown down by the waiting Myrmadons.

“What are they shooting at...?” One of the Myrmadons muttered, referring to the outlying squads creeping toward the jungle where unseen assailants rained arrows, rocks and boulders on them. But they had other concerns. The Larinthians who were organised were stopping to direct cover fire at their position from the stony ruins of broken buildings. Shattering those redoubts was the best way to ensure they kept running.

“The crew of B-31 with me, B-32 to the right!” Fisk shouted, waving his rifle to direct the sailors. Engineer Trenner was directing a machinegun team with her wrench and now helped them to redeploy to support his orders. Fisk and Kitchener led a hasty attack on the closest knot of enemies, some Larinthians crowding behind a bellowing Trueblood as he tried to direct their fire on the advancing sailors. A grenade from Fisk’s team fell short, but then the sailors were on them with cutlasses and rifle butts.

Fisk fired from his hip, wounding a man and putting him to the floor, then cracked his rifle into another man’s face and slammed home a boot. Discarding the rifle, Fisk drew his cutlass and swept aside a lunging rifle bayonet, cramming his free hand into the enemy’s neck and pushing him at a rating that clubbed him down with a shotgun. Turning to continue, Fisk found himself face to face with the Trueblood, a giant of a man with gold-ringed ears and heavy, segmented armour. The man grinned with battle-relish and used his assault cannon like a scythe, sweeping its vile-looking blade laterally at hip height. Nathan skipped backwards like a dancer to avoid the swings, but one of his men staggered into the danger zone and the Larinthian leader flattened him with a halberd swing. Fisk leaped in to attack, but his sword glanced harmlessly off the man’s armour, and he had to fall out of the way of the reprisal. The Trueblood arced his weapon down in a blow that would have cut Fisk clean in two, but he parried the attack, sending the bayonet plunging into the soil beside him. He kicked the man in his face, sending him back, and leaped to his feet. Now he had the advantage, and swept high and then low. The high attack was avoided with a surprisingly nimble lean, but the low attack caught a shin-guard and lodged, sweeping the man off his feet but trapping the sword in the process. Fisk reached for his pistol as the Larinthian fumbled for his own. As the Trueblood produced his, Fisk shot him six times, the last round finally finding the fallen man's unarmoured chin, spattering blood across the green leaves all around.

The bitter fighting closed off with a few final gunshots. Fisk recovered his sword and gathered his surviving men, all but one in fact, and looked across the battlefield. There were more Larinthians than it first appeared. He had wondered if the Larinthian ground forces were a little thin, but evidently more had disembarked from the corvette in the initial attack than he first counted. Some sixty enemies were regrouping across the village site, descending from the jungled outskirts to take cover behind the shattered huts and walls, firing sporadically at his men and the advancing villagers. At their centre was a tough unit of Truebloods in the husk of a ruined building, all in their bulky gold and silver armour, standing out with heavy weapons. That group was coordinating the others, having such a concentration of bellicose slave drivers to act as both a menace and an armoured core for their conscripts.

Lieutenant Porter was nowhere to be seen and Fisk knew the young officer had hedged his bets and stayed with the boats where his squads fire would have limited effect, but also be under little threat themselves. He had hoped the lad would bring his crew up to the fight, but it wasn't to be, leaving him with close to forty troops in his party. A rush of noise drew his attention to the outskirts again where,  with a whooping cry, the native villagers attacked. Statuesque women rushed forward with terrifying speed and power toward the Larinthians, using gymnastic tumbles and somersaults to confuse the aim of the Larinthians trying to gun them down. Some leaped from high ground, bounding across the rooftops or ruins with incredible agility and inhuman displays of agility. The average Larinthian seemed hopelessly outmatched against this foe. Fisk watched as a soldier, surprised by one of the charging women appearing on the ruined wall above him, fired five or six shots into her. But she simply dropped down onto him, smashing through his head with a fist before laying about his comrades who swung wildly with bayonets or simply broke and ran.

“Something is wrong about all of this. Those people...they’re not human!” Kitchener breathed.

“But they’re fighting the Larinthians, and if we don’t do something, they’re going to lose.” Fisk responded, pointing to the shattered long hall where the Truebloods were firing at the ‘mounted’ riders, rockets and automatic weapons felling them in seconds despite their valiant displays of courage and tenacity. One woman was gunned down three times by the gatling cannon, her body showing hundreds of bloody gouges and perforations that seemed to be stymied by her muscular build. Some unnatural quality was evoked by them. Fisk watched in astonishment as one of the young women swatted aside an incoming rocket, sending it cartwheeling overhead. Another took a direct hit from a grenade launcher but was merely felled - blackened, bruised, cut and dazed, but alive. A normal person, or group of people, would have been vaporised. The high-ups had been right all along. There were certainly people here, and if they could be persuaded to help the war effort, what a fighting force they could be!

But the Trueblood's seemed to have a plan, and they concentrated fire methodically if brutally. Hand-to-hand fighting  that had engulfed their right flank was laid waste to as the heavily armed slave drivers hammered friend and foe alike, scouring the ruins and punishing the tenacious female warriors for their courage. As heavy weapons converged, no amount of endurance, agility or force of will could resist the devastating firepower. Finally this cresendo in the battle died away, and the former Larinthian position was a smoking charnel house of broken bodies and slung, bloody flesh clinging to the walls. The remaining villagers were huddled together as if waiting for the battle to finish, or waiting for some opportunity to attack safely which would never come. The women with them seemed young, barely older than teenagers, yet they still herded them like guardians. It was then that Fisk noticed the majority of survivors in this group were aghast males who seemed rightly despondent in the loss of the brave female warriors. Some clutched old-looking rifles but their shooting died away as the Larinthians  now turned their attention to Fisk's forces.

“What is wrong with those people?” Someone demanded.

Fisk was completely confused. They fought as if they had no knowledge of modern technology, and because of that they threw themselves to their deaths. A few were separated from the rest, sniping carefully and with some success at the entrenched enemy with scavenged carbines, and even a few crossbows. These seemed to be - utterly bizarrely - men riding on the backs of women, who had rushed out behind the initial wave of attacking warriors and taken positions unseen while the close combat went on. They wore a variety of armours, none of which seemed especially suited to resisting bullets or shrapnel, and certainly none of them offering reliable coverage of their bodies. Fisk noted that some of the girls were firing bows and arrows or hurling javelins which nearly perforated the stone rubble and easily posed a threat to the armoured truebloods, who ducked out of sight. Fisk realised these were a people in whom the female was the warrior and protector. But against a foe such as the Larinthian war machine, no one could be protected. Somehow these people had survived without the industry that now dominated the war, and against the firepower of technology, their might and courage counted for little.

[Machao6]

Fantastic effort! Love the pace and how it is not rushed! Interesting concept and looking forward to where you take this... Very interested to see more of Natasha as it seems she may be the biggest strongest amazon the tribe have had for a while and I'm sure with his enthusiasm and pushing her she could be even better!

I'm strapped in and ready for the long ride! Bring it on!

Thank you for your encouragement!