Comm Load 20 - thinking back part 2.

We'll be taking a break from Sharren for a bit, and have a brief interlude.

As always, critique and comments are welcome and encouraged.

Her thoughts drifted to her old life.  Her father had trained her to be a survivor. He had sold his gun arm for credits for over twenty years, mostly in service to the colonists of Gaia III.

As Greek ethnic colony, it was underfunded from the start, and new colonists were scarce. The locals had been happy to trade land for a protection contract.  

It had been a nice place. Gaia III was a little cold, but it had trees, and rivers. There was even local plant and animal life, tough nothing intelligent. At five thousand two hundred light years from Sol, Gaia was rarely resupplied by the UN. The UN could not spare the 250 day trip very often, it seemed. Colonists made do with what they had, or they did without. For the most part, it was not so bad. There were no real predators to worry about, and the arable land was well suited to Earth flora.

Still, one bad year could wipe out a homestead. Medicine was a guarded commodity, as were fuel cells and high tech goods.  The UN ban on auto-doctors meant that medical training was also in short supply on the colony.

She had learned young that only the strong survive, and ‘luck’ is the word lesser people use to describe skill. She had spent hours each day working the farm, cooking and maintaining the equipment her father had worked hard to acquire. Her father taught her basic mechanics, as well as math and history, such as he could.

Her mother had died in childbirth; she had been old enough to remember it. Her baby brother only outlived their mother by a few days. Her father was the only family she had.

His work defending the locals had been easiest when she was little. Gaia III was a far flung colony in those days, and bandits were scarce. Still, not everyone who took up work as a hauler or miner can make it, and the dispossessed have to go somewhere.   

As in the ancient times on Earth, desperate people would take to raiding to supplement their own failing fortunes. When Sharren was twenty, free trader ships started to show up, usually two or three ships each year. They had tech, medicine, data loads, and fancy booze. Everything folks needed.

One such ship touched down near her own stead. They had come in without any cargo, but were looking to leave with a full hold. Her father had gone to meet the ship, to make a show of keeping order as he always did. When he came home, Sharren had ben able to tell right away that something was wrong.   

“Bandits, my dear,” was all he had to tell her.  She set to helping him, as he had trained her to do. She set out their small collection of fire arms, mostly cheap, locally built jobs. She checked her knife, and honed it’s edge. Her father saw to his body armor, and the better of the rifles.

“They’ll be coming here first” He had told her. She remembered that. He had always believed in meeting problems as head-on as possible. He had set her up in a blind near the garden.  Her Job was clear, only fire if he engaged them first.

“We need to talk them out of this if we can. If it comes to fighting, it will be a hard one. ” He never really seemed to believe he could, though.  “They will come in force, so surprise is our game. “

They had not talked much more about it. The Bandits arrived early in the morning, rolling up in a clean but old looking cargo vertol. It settled in for a landing in their front lawn, between the house and the garden, partially cutting her off from where her father planned to meet them.

They piled out of the vertol in a military like pattern, fanning out from the side and rear cargo hatches, looking on all directions. Their gear was new looking, but poor. Resin and alloy turtle shells over a web rig, heavy resin helmets, and nifty looking shin guards. Neat looking, but most likely made aboard their ship. Their fire arms were no better than her own shoddy rifle.

The pilot got out last, bringing the total count of men to nine. They approached her father, who had donned a poncho in the cool morning air. Hopefully, it would help to conceal his armor, which was a fair shade better than theirs.

The bandit captain and her father talked for several minutes, but she could not hear them very well. She was a good 60 yards from their position, and her blind was only good for visual observation. One of the better equipped bandits broke out a thermal imager and checked over the house, and the captain became more angry. Her pushed her father, a hard shove to the center of his chest.

The captain was clearly not very observant. Her father’s armor was old, but it was a power assist infantry model. Her Father threw his left arm up under the captain’s right arm, and snapped the man’s arm at the elbow with a classic standing arm bar, even as he stepped back into a weapon retention stance and drew.

Sharren heard him scream in pain. Her father was a quick draw, and a veteran mercenary. He shot the two men nearest him, his high end pistol barking out three shots. He retreated to the shed, looking for cover as the Bandits opened fire. Their assault rifles had good ammo, and the concrete walls of the shed sprayed stone and dust and they were torn to shreds.

Seeing his cover erode away, her father made for the house, trying to use the shed as visual cover for as long as possible. The six men still on their feet moved in an organized pattern, two checking their wounded, four splitting up to circle the shed on both sides.  Sharren moved up from the blind, and took careful aim, shooting one of the ones closer to her father in the hip, just below his armor. The man dropped, and the other hesitated only to be shot by her father a moment later. Dad had switched to his carbine. The heavy 7mm round knocked the man to the ground, and her father shot him a second time to be sure before heading to the house.

The other four regrouped, and moved behind their vertol for cover, dragging the wounded with them.  Sharren moved to the other side of the barn, hoping for a better angle.  She heard a few more shots while she was moving.  Her father had seen them move and circled around, she had thought.

The bandits had moved to the back area of the vertol, and were taking shelter in the cargo bay’s opening, still dragging their wounded aboard. She fired a round at one of the bandits doing the dragging. It caught him center mass, and his armor held. He returned fire one handed, spraying his rifle in her direction. Sharren dropped to the ground, and shot at him one more time. This time she missed. She rolled closer to the barn as one of the other fired on her as well.

She shot him in the leg, and he went down in a shout of frustration. Sharren did not wait, and tried to crawl backwards, to get at least visual cover form the barn. The bandits began to fan out, flanking her in. she fired and missed again, and she remembered thinking that the bandits should have had her number.

Her Father had flanked them as well, and shot each one of them in the back with his heavy carbine. Seeing her on the ground, He forgot his training and ran towards her, crossing he cargo bay as he did.

Sharren stood, up, thinking it was over, when one of the wounded bandits inside the vertol sprayed a burst of fire into her Father.  He fell like a puppet with its strings cut. She screamed, and moved to where she could see into the vertol. She shot her lest round into the head of a bandit who was reloading his weapon. She drew her revolver and shot each of the other two inside 3 times. She kicked the man she had wounded in the leg, but he had grabbed her leg, less wounded than she thought.

He struggled to bring her down, but his grip was unshakeable. She fell Hard on her ass, but her father’s training showed through her fear and surprise, pain and anguish. She drew her knife, a simple affair of hull alloy. She slammed the point into the Bandits arm, but is glanced off, sparks scattering as it scored a mark along his fore arm.

His sleeve fell away to reveal an enhanced prosthetic arm. The bandit crawled over her legs in a single drunken effort, and punched her hard in the stomach. Sharren wanted to vomit. She had never been hit so hard in her entire life.

She focused through the pain, riding high on the adrenaline wave. His mechanical arm was still clutching her leg, and he drew back his other arm to strike her again. As he brought it down she slammed the edge of the knife into his forearm, hoping to at least deflect the punch. This arm was flesh. The knife held a razor edge, the arm was fileted from wrist to elbow, flesh waving like a flag on the wind.

She lashed out at his face, again and again, until it was over. 

Thinking back - Comms load 19

So, what is a war frame? Post humans can suffer from a certain degree of alienation when dealing with baseline humans. The less human the body, the more likely this is to be a problem. War frames are combat oriented cyborg bodies. Generally designers forgo things like eyes, faces, necks, and other fragile human features. also, these bodies are frequently tall, sometimes as tall as 2.5 meters, though 2 is more common. 

Having such frightening outward forms, and a great deal of physical power can lead these warriors to believe that humans are inferior, and develop deep psychological problems. 

In order to avoid these problems, some 'borgs maintain less monstrous frames, to use when "at home", where ever that may be. These lighter, more human bodies are often referred to as ship frames. This comes from the fact that most 'borgs only use such frames aboard ships. such supplemental bodies can be run remotely, or by directly mounting the brain into the frame. For this reason, modular life support is very common in heavy cyborgs.  Most cyborgs are nervous that their shipframe will be hacked if it is under wireless control. 

- - -

The next few weeks had a remarkably familiar routine, after she had sorted out the details with Dicemen.  She was not allowed into her war frame, but she had always maintained a separate ship frame. It made life easier in the close quarters of a crowded vessel. And it was easier to deal with the crew when you are the same height as everyone else.

She painted a camouflage scheme on her warframe, and ran several diagnostics. It was nice to be so close to it. It felt more like home. The new systems were interesting as well. It gave her a lot to consider.

Sharren rebuilt her Virtual training environment to help her train on the new features. The techs aboard the UN ship were helpful and loaned her some fairly decent code. The VI hostiles were better than she was used to, and she felt the training environment was most helpful. It also served to pass the time.

This was still a prison, and she wanted out. She knew that this was death sentence, but once she was free of this ship, it could at least be death on her own terms. She could not ignore the hope of escape, either. Freedom was why she had swapped out her body in the first place.

The crew she was to rendezvous with looked well enough on a spreadsheet.  The crew of 20 consisted 16 combatants and 4 pilots. One of them was a post human, like herself. Not as monstrous however, he had kept his face and some other bits.

Most of them were Prussians, caught in the web, just like she was. The gear was not too bad either. Midrange PAX arms stuff. No fancy ammo, but if this was half as easy as Dicemen had described it, that should not be a problem.  

The UN crew stayed away from her unless she sought them out. She was restricted to the bay where they were storing her warframe. she hat a cot setup there, and she had over two weeks of food stored in the ship frame they had given her. 

Her thoughts drifted to her old life.  Her father had trained her to be a warrior. He had sold his gun arm for credits for over 20 years, mostly in service to the colonists at Gaia. A Greek ethnic colony, it was underfunded from the start, and new colonists were scarce. It was a nice place though.  It was a little cold, but it had trees, and rivers.

Life there was harsh. At 5200 light years from Sol, Gaia was rarely resupplied. Colonists made do with what they had. For the most part, it was not so bad. One bad year could wipe out a home stead, however. Medicine was a guarded commodity.  The UN ban on auto-doctors meant that medical training was also in short supply on new colonies.

She had learned young that only the strong survive, and luck is the work lesser people use to describe skill. Her mother had died in childbirth; she had been old enough to remember it. Her baby brother only outlived her mother by a few days. Her father taught her to farm, and hunt. To defend their property against bandits.

There were not many bandits when she was young, but as she aged, more and more dispossessed would take to raiding to supplement their own failing fortunes. When Sharren was twenty, free trader ships started to show up, usually two or three ships each year. They had tech, medicine, data loads, and fancy booze. Everything folks needed.

One such ship touched down near her own stead. Her father had come back empty handed, which was rare. The traders were extorting the local, and wanted 100 kilos of fresh foodstuff from every one in 100 klicks.

She was ready when they came to her door. 

Comms Load 18

When she woke up again, Sharren found herself in a simple, white washed office. She was in a light weight mechbody, not her own.  The desk was tidy, if well used. There was a man sitting at the desk, looking a work screen, but from her seat, she could not see what he was looking at.

He glanced up at her. He had a winning smile and understated features. She could not tell his age, and his hair was a perfectly highlighted shade of brown. She knew the type. 2^nd or 3^rd generation gene-mod. That meant earth born. He had on a white ship suit, with grey lettering.  His shoulder chevron proclaimed his rank as commander.  Like most earth folk, he had no jewelry or tattoos that she could see.

“What is your name?” he asked. His tone was warm, not the interrogation she had expected. “Your first name will do. I just want know who I am talking to”

“My name is Sharren” She ended on a note of surprise. The voice coming out of this body was a flat, boyish voice. She searched for a control feature, and found it quickly enough. She spent a short moment a selected a husky female tone form the default setting list. “My name is Sharren” she repeated with more confidence.

The Commander smiled again, and made a note on his work screen.

“I am commander Mills Dicemen. I am surprised that you are female. Most body jobs are, or were, male”. His smile never wavered. He slide a data tablet across the desk, with in her easy reach.  “Well, Sharren, you are in a rough place. Law requires me to destroy your war frame, and send you down to a level III indenture in the body you have now.” He gave her a knowing look, and the tablet in front of her flicked to a display of what she assumed was the mechbody she was in now.  She looked it over briefly.

“This thing is a piece of crap” she said flatly. “It’s inferior to flesh, and fragile. I’d be killed on a Level III”. She Thumbed her way into the more detailed specs, but found little to endear her to this shell. Low power supply, no strength, limited acceleration, and a weak plastic exterior.  Flesh humans were more dangerous.

“Indeed” Dicemen began, after a moment. “That’s what we are here to talk about.  You like being a monster, don’t you?” He did not pause, but while he spoke he changed the display on her tablet to her war frame, the mechbody she had lived in for over 15 years. “I can put you back in there. I can even set you loose” he looked up at her, his smile widening.

“The UN navy does not use cyborgs” She replied flatly. “How could you possibly use my war frame?”

“I need an incident to respond to.  I have a team of mercs ready to do some pillaging, but they need more punch” He was still cordial, but his expression was more guarded. 

“It doesn’t take much punch to pillage…” She was glad the frame she was in had no face. Sharren was not in the mood to frown.

“This a tougher nut. I need a glorious mess, and images of an unstoppable monster.” He brought up some news clips on her tablet. Scenes of burning prefabs and colonists firing shotguns at powered armor.  “This sort of thing. Keeps the dirt farmers paying taxes.” He glanced at her, a bit less of a smile on his face, and then made some notes on his screen.  Her display changed as well, highlighting certain parts of her war frame. New sensors, active armor panels with q-mag screens.

“Upgrades? I thought you would just leave me as I am.”

“I need you tough enough to do the job, and escape.”

“I do this, and I just leave? No follow up?” She made her voice skeptical.

“Until we catch you again. Then you own me more work. You stay out of my way, and you’re just another merc, one more fish in the sea. “Dicemen smiled. “ You are my job security”

Sharren didn’t like the thought.  Still, this was the work she’d been doing for years. Her troupe would land on a new colony and use force and terror to extort from the locals, and leave.  Not a lavish life, but one that was familiar, and could lead to a lot wealth. The improvements to her frame were substantial. She’d need more fuel, but in saver mode, the unit could run for over a year on one F-cell.

“How do I get off world?” she asked after a long moment. “This frame is good, but it can’t fly”.

“You’ll have a team, with a ship and a good lander. They’ve been give and similar deal, and we have a commissar aboard to make sure things go well.” He was smiling again, and looking pleased. “The commissar will bail out as soon as you reach anywhere civilized again. UNCN intelligence will get her home again.”

Sharren was skeptical, but her tablet was now showing the specs of a DEVIL DOG class dropship, and small cargo jumper, one that was new enough not to attract negative attention form most police forces. Either ship was worth a fortune, and the dropship was armed.  DEVIL DOGS were good landers, better in many ways then the Spencers most ships used. She could even go legit with ships this nice.

“What’s the catch” she asked. Her tone was back to neutral.

“This mission is brutal, and you will have one shot to make it work.” His smile change subtly. He grinned with malice now. “You’ll probably be killed, and we will not support you.”  He moved new information onto her tablet. The name on the colony was highlighted. Sharren now understood the catch.

“I’ll do it. Get me some paint for my war frame.“

The commander smiled, and guards escorted her to where her frame was. A tech had set out a paint sprayer. It’s on now, she thought. 

Comms Load 17

So, Sharren Vickers art contest comes in with a victory for Justin (chester the jester).

So, here is every one's favorite armored monster, your own 7 foot love machine, Sharren!

For Next Month, I hope one of our brave artists will have a go a piece of equipment, the "hotbox" Surface to Orbit shuttle.

The hotbox is a Prussian design, with all the brutal efficiency that they are known for. These are long bodied, short winged Vertol that have more in common with an attack helicopter than an airplane. The engines are mounted on either side of the cargo/troop area, which is where it gets it's name. The over sized drives tend to heat the ships interior to 90 plus degrees during combat ops.

See what you can do, and email me your entries!
redwolf.79@gmail.com

Jesse Out.

Comms Load 16 - 2013

Well, we're 383 years from the beginning of most of these stories, and much much closer to seeing the Role Playing Game that goes with them completed.

While were waiting, I thought I'd share a little more about Sharren. Turns out she was very popular with the readers of this blog.

Also, I wanted to remind you that the current sketch contest is for the best Sharren, our own 6'8" female cyborg. She is a bit of a monster, having retro-grade knees, and she keeps hidden behind an inch of heavy armor. She's also a big fan of 12 mm assault rifles. Really, who isn't?

As always, please leave comments, it gives me more warm fuzzies than looking at the page view counter. that thing is really bland. It also helps me improve my writing.

with no further ado, here's our favorite bad girl.

--

The boot screen was a shock. Her mother had told her killers end up in hell. Sharren was pretty sure she was dead. She tried to blink, but the boot screen remained, cycling through it's diagnostics. She mentally went over a brief recap of her last moments. She had slipped a grenade into her own damaged chest, and detonated it. There was a flash of white, then black, then nothing.

The boot screen was still cheerily spitting out data on her vitals and body condition. it was taking a really long time. then she realized, of course! Hell is a eternal boot screen, never reaching 100% on the load bar. Damn. that was not at all what mom had described. She shook her head.

Or rather, tried to shake her head. there was no motor response. She tried to curse, but there was no verbal or comms response. Wow. Hell was thorough. as soon as she thought it, the boot screen gave her an all clear, and vision kicked in.

It was disorienting, just like after her first body-swap. The room she was in was very white, and there where men and women in matching white jumpsuits looking over her body. Her body was in front of her, in what looked like a very expensive cyber-maintenance chair. It looked in good order. There was some minor carbon scoring in some place she did not remember, but the torso had clearly been repaired.

More importantly, she was not in it. she was across the room looking at it. Now she understood hell.

"Hey, your awake." the voice came from a younger man, who had paused to glance down his data tablet. "I bet you thought you were toast. You surprised the marines, popping off one of your own grenades." He crouched down level with her vision. "Well, you're here now. Look, you want back in that monster rig over there? You'll get your chance."

Sharren's mind raced for a moment. she was not sure what they would do to her, but holding her body as collateral was terrifying.

"Calm down there lady" The man said. the UN wold not spend good money patching that thing up if they weren't gonna put you back into it." He stood up and walked over to the body. His had brushed it's elbow, like a new car salesman does to a sleek new model. "Your getting this back, it's just a matter of what we let you do with it. That however, is between you and the Commander." He smiled with a bit a malicious delight shining is his eyes.

Sharren reconsidered hell.