Mission 17 - The Magi Cabal - Part 3
While Moncha squared off with his strange foe, while Chas Collins began his long journey across the stars in hopes of aiding the home fleet in time, it fell as it so often does in life, to the little guys to keep up the real work.
“Tough nut, this guy,” Ensign Gemon muttered. His Vijiak Special dodged a small blast from a thin, snakelike arm. He and Yazan, along with some MBTs had headed for the shield structure of the Fortress, at the centre of the energy fence it was continuously emitting. There, as Moncha simply flew straight through, the two wingmen encountered a number of smaller appendages. Each linked back to the body of the Fortress on long, thick cables, and on each head was a sort of miniature energy shield, with a small flak cannon attached for good measure.
They seemed to be at a stalemate of sorts; the small arms would block any rifle shots aimed at the core of the Fortress and in between, shoot off little bursts.
“Aye, like a turtle with its head all tucked in,” Yazan replied.
“Tortoise, you mean.”
“I’m confident turtles do that, too!”
As the two men bantered back and forth, trading blasts of energy with the fortress, while the warships on either side of the fence hardly stirred, something else might have been seen. Chas Collins would have certainly seen it, but he had left. Commander Moncha might have had the potential, too, but he was preoccupied. Perhaps it is fitting, for this is not that man’s story, so maybe it is only right it should go unseen.
And so it is that the two humble men continued their stalemate with the silent body of the Fortress - none capable of witnessing a reaction occurring, that of the Fortress’s pilot syncing with it, becoming so close and resonating so strongly, so singly focused in its duty to serve its master, that a small memory ‘leaked out’.
<<<<
Five Years Ago,
Surface of Ghaelach, Abhailein Moon.
Defend, defend, defend, defend, defend.
Apahte Paneb had not always been fourth-ranked among aces, he had not always been a pilot at all. Long before mechs, he was on his first-ever royal assignment when he was shot by a gun far more ordinary than the energy rifle of a Vijiak. Being moved to escort duty for one of the nobles had been the highest honour. On his very first day of this duty, a man on the street had simply drawn a pistol and fired at his lord.
His action had merited him an award and, far more importantly, to Apahte, a promotion to the top level of bodyguard.
Defend, defend, defend, defend, defend.
He had dutifully watched over the various royals he was now tasked with. Taken acid to the face, stopped countless minor poorly-thought-out attempts on their lives. Took the slurs and cleared the roads. He had defended them with his everything.
Defend, defend, defend, defend, defend.
He was one of the very first appointed 'Vijiak Knights' with the advent of mecha. Escorted nobles and royals across the stars as the war raged on for three long years.
"--The King of Abhaile has fallen--"
and now it was all for nought.
Defend…
His proud mech stood upon the grey rock of Abhiale's moon, Ghealach. Deep below in its bowls was their force’s final stronghold, just beneath his feet, one of the hundreds of hidden escape routes the King could take. Apahte would stand here, ready to defend it at all costs.
His custom Vijiak Heavy, with its tower shield to block any stray round and its massive, beautifully engraved greatsword, to cut down any fool who dared come near their King.
But he would never come.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
"I beseech you all to retreat with me. I have told you the truth not because the King's death should spur you into suicidal rage but because it is up to us to make sure he has not fallen in vain.
Our king would not want our dream to end here. I beg you all to come with me so that our people might yet live!" the voice prattling over the comms lines belonged to one of the reformed fleet admirals, an Agitate or such like, but Apahte wasn't listening.
What had it all been for? That first bullet, the scars all over his body. The first comrade he'd cradled in his arms, the second, the hundredth. If the King had fallen, then what had they been defending, dying for?
His mech stood silently, not far off the battle raged, men in hastily dug trenches, mechs and fighter jets colouring the moon’s skyline, warships exploding vibrantly.
"Ah, hello?" a soft voice suddenly said - the voice of someone who'd hit puberty late and was barely out of it. Just how young were the men they were sending to die for no reason?
"You're a knight, right? My unit was wiped out, but then I saw you in the distance. The enemy, they didn't even take the position we were defending; they just wiped us out and left. ‘Must have missed me. Are you guarding something, too?"
Apahte didn't reply, but his camera automatically refocused on the boy. Through the red-tinted lens, he could see a grey camo-clad space suit, one hand touching his mech's leg. Just visible behind the helmet visor was a blonde-haired youth, no more than seventeen, surely.
"I heard the transmission about the king... I met him a couple of times. He was incredible, brave, and a great speaker. But the admiral is right. We've got to retreat, or everything is over. Abhaile will fall with our King at this rate.
If... you want to leave a nobody like me behind I understand, but you have to go, knights like you, you are all our people will have left now."
Apahte didn't reply, there was nothing to be said. The King is dead; the planet should naturally fall.
The boy fell silent, genuinely seeming to be giving this some thought, "A King is their country, but a people is their King, right? As long as we survive, even just one out of everyone here today, there's a chance of a new King, of our dreams, and people surviving. Don't you agree?"
"The King has fallen. It is over. I have nothing left to defend. Only a King can defend a planet, not me," Apahte finally said absently.
Despite this dismissal, the boy seemed positively ecstatic to have heard a reply. To know the person inside the knightly mech yet lived.
"There will be another king someday who'll need you to defend them."
Apahte was silent. The sentiments were nice, perhaps, but none could approach his resolve, his dedication, the sheer devotion he had known his entire adult life would not crumble so easily.
The boy fell quiet again, perhaps considering more options for debate. Apahte didn't care; he would stand where he was, cut down any who came near with ill intent and defend this door until his battery failed, his fuel ran dry, and his life was spent.
Defending this passageway was his final duty.
But the boy had one last move to play, one he'd hesitated to use, for it was a gamble with no proof.
"Alright then. Sir Knight, my name is Seth Sturman. I am heir apparent to the count of Glou, and I hereby command you, defend me, save me, get me out of here so that one day I can rise up to be the next King and save our people!"
Apahte’s eyes went wide. If he had been a less stoic person, he might have laughed. The boy had stood up straight, legs tight, slapping one hand against his chest in salute, head held high.
Even his voice had, for a moment, mimicked that of a true noble, full of authority and and noble zeal. It wasn't proof; it was a bluff. Any soldier worth his salt could have pulled it off, and yet…
The boy had to step back as the Vijiak Heavy's bulky feet shifted, as it lowered itself onto one knee, layed its ornate Calabar blade on the ground before it and let one massive pamp touch the ground for the boy to climb aboard, "Yes, My Lord."
>>>>
"Man, sure is one tough nut," Ensign Gemon mused.
"You can say that again," Yazan added.
Their battle with Apahte’s fortress was proving more a match of wills than strength. With twelve support mecha and their two Vijiak Specials, the duo of lesser aces had the theoretical advantage, but Apahte was singlehandedly repelling them. His Fortress was a one-of-a-kind prototype, deemed too impractical for mass or even limited production, but it suited the fourth-ranked to a tee.
Like most Fortresses, the sheer amount of Goihbnui required to power them made it a technical Casnel, but this one took its classification quite literally. No offence whatsoever, but for tiny little flak cannons - barely able to move lest it snap the ultra-thin wires connecting it to its field of shield generators - all its power dedicated to this task, to keeping the wall of interlocking energy screens bright, preventing a single ship or mech from passing through and interfering with Seth and Moncha's duel. The wingmen had done their all to bypass it, various decoy ploys, ranged attacks - coordination with the Curadh's cannons even - but the shield would not budge. Get close, and the strange machine would use the smaller shields held on flexible wire appendages to block rifle and arc staff alike.
All that said - "So we can't beat it, we hold it here," Yazan nodded.
"Yup, yup. It wants to stop us, and we want to stop it. Let's keep this dance going a bit longer," Gemon grinned.
The duo knew they had hit their limits long ago, but that wasn't so bad. With their skills, they could support the real 'heroes'. For as long as they kept this immovable wall focused here, Moncha would do the rest. That was their dedication, perhaps one not so divorced from the man inside the Fortress’s own.
