Shrike Nanowrimo 2009 Day 3
977 Words
Chapter 1
“Remember, type one and type two Boojums are basically colony workers. That doesn’t mean they’re harmless, but you’ve got acceleration, agility and firepower on your side. Keep them at range and fill them full of railgun slugs, they’ll go down.” Flight Commander Patrick Vostrak flexed his fingers on the controls of his Gawain mobile frame as his four-craft element advanced towards the inbound bogeys, a motley collection of feral drones. His wingman was Flight Sergeant Chad Mailof, fresh from Montana – this was to be his first actual combat mission. “Don’t worry if there’s a couple leakers. We’re backed up and they’ll complain if we don’t give them at least a few things to shoot at.”
“Roger that, Pitchfork Lead.”
The kid sounded a bit nervous and a bit eager. Shooting at feral drones wasn’t exactly out mixing it up with ZOCU HK squads or Magnate bioroids but it was a lot more survivable. A lot of good pilots had been shot down by the ZOCU transgenes; compared to them, type ones and twos were easy street and more exciting than a simulator.
“And finally, whatever you do, your first objective is to stay alive. If it’s a choice between a kill and dodging a hit, dodge. You can always get the kill on the roll, and I’ll be covering your six. We certainly don’t need any dead heroes today. You good?”
“I’m good sir. Loud and clear.”
“Just what I wanted to hear. Here they come!”
The ‘Boojums’ were one of the meta-species of feral drones that humanity had encountered in its march to the stars. The result of some sort of techno-hybridization between posthuman construction drones and the strange and ancient AIlife found scattered across the known galaxy, they were more aggressive and dangerous than both and were popularly compared to the ‘killer bee’ epidemics of the 20 and 21st centuries.
Except these bees were a dozen meters long and could – and did – attack ships and even colonies.
Ahead and to the left of Patrick, Chad’s Geraint raised its 95mm railgun, pointing the weapon at the lead drone, a type one. The computer-controlled display painted glowing streaks over the slugs as they snapped across the intervening distance. Black ceramic darts, they’d be invisible otherwise. Sudden flashes of vaporised alloy marked hits and then suddenly something exploded inside the drone, possibly a superconducting battery-organ. A gaping hole torn in it, the drone began yaw uncontrollably, blue thrusters flames stuttering.
“Good shooting Pitchfork Four. I’ll finish it.” A pair of slugs from the Gawain’s heavy railgun shattered the drone’s internal components and took it out permanently.
Workers weren’t particularly dangerous as drones went, at least if one had a few effective weapons to drive them off. The warrior breeds were significantly more dangerous and had been a major driver of human military technology in the first half of the 22nd century. Few noteworthy attacks had happened since the Breakdown, probably because for most of those three decades human expansion into ‘drone territory’ was effectively nil. The few scattered swarms had been efficiently disposed of by national fleets with little else to do but maintain the peace.
The ZOCU war had also kept drone attacks low, but for radically different reasons. The resurgence of common star travel had reopened the various backwater routes that were natural encounter spots but during the war those were commonly patrolled by substantial and powerful fleet formations that were only too happy to give their crews a bit of bonus target shooting. Within the first year it was pretty much the norm for EU ships to have excess ammunition allocated for ‘drone allowance’, and Patrick had heard that ZOCU continued to do the same.
By this time the second pair of Pitchfork flight had joined the engagement, their pilots calmly putting the drones down one after another. There wasn’t many of the Boojums, mostly type ones. They were vaguely insectoid techo-life, with fat abdomen housing their primary fusion drive and remass tanking. Their forebodies were a mass of optical and radar sensors and various manipulator arms. They mostly had crude lasers for weapons, welding or cutting devices refocused for ranged combat, weapons that would barely penetrate the armor on a Gawain or Geraint. Up close they could bring their multiple arms to bear as well as something similar to a plasma lance, but they were still slow and clumsy, built (or was it grown?) for work, not war.
Recently though reports of drone movement had been on the upsurge. Some analysts said it was the inevitable result of the demobilization and demilitarization in the postwar years. Others claimed that the drones were evolving and getting more aggressive. There was good evidence for both arguments, and that’s why the Algiers was out testing the reaction of some drones in the ass end of the Expanse.
“Got another one! Whoa, big momma’s painting me!”
‘Big momma’ was a type two, a bulky piscine shape the size of a mobile armor. They were precision miners and constructors, slagging asteroids or feedstock to fuel their smaller brethren in whatever construction task they were doing. By virtue of size alone they were tougher, and they also had a plasma pulse gun that was actually a threat, albeit a short-ranged one. Some grew particularly large and could pose a real danger to even warships.
Patrick spun the Gawain around, levelling the heavy railgun at the worker. A trigger pull sent a 120mm slug into its carapace. He adjusted the gun and fired again, smashing its primary forward sensors. Angered, it tried to turn towards him but five hundred tons had a lot of inertia. His third shot took out a cluster of widgets that looked like they might be important, the fourth blew the mechanical being’s plasma emitter – a modified thrusters, really – into metallic confetti and venting gas.