launch.sh

In the Beginning, God made humanity, and cleaved them in twain — Men, sanctioned protectors of humanity — and Women, those who inhabit society, the humble and lowly, the civilian, the non-soldier. Those not inducted into the Order of Mankind. He chose the Elect, and raised them above all others, promising them Rapture in the Age to Come, should they follow their sacred mission through the four corners of the world. In service of this, He gave the Elect two great gifts — the Birthright to rule humanity (men and women alike), and the Sword, to protect that rule. Thus was established our Way of Life — the righteous Rule of the Sword.

The Writings of Reverend Serrat Haywire, the Book of Starts and Stops 1:1-3

Hangar 16, UCFS Rumsfeld, low-earth orbit, UCF 09/30/453

I am the blade’s edge. I am that keen which separates one thing from another, the differentiator. First there is a whole. As I pass, I sever. In my wake there remain two things and a wound. I am the killing face of God’s left hand.

Flechette Jaydamn breathes in pre-launch meditation, floating in a dark womb of disembodied contemplation. The grim demands of combat dilate time. If you want to survive, you must be able to perceptually stretch microseconds into precious minutes, to precisely consider your next move. An errant twitch of the wrist or shift in weight, a casual misplay of resources and timing, and you face the reality of death. Social reality is like debate. It’s like rhetoric. It’s good business. There are margins of error, flexibilities, pressure points which can be exploited for better position, rules which can be bent farther than you’d expect. Death is not like these things. Death is a mountain. You cannot talk your way around it. It is a stone reality which does not care what you think of it.

And so, combat demands the ability to split time, stretch out the spaces between moments. Time to brace for impact before colliding with the hard mountainside of mortality.

Unfortunately, it also makes waiting burn like hell. Thus, Flechette recites the Creed. To pass the time.

The alert populates directly on her HUD, glowing red text violently shredding the perfect darkness of the uninitialized THRONE cockpit. Flechette waits — just another moment — before catapulting into action. Light floods the cockpit as the central optics come online, filling the holodisplay with the insectoid scuttling of the launch bay. Soldiers all around her busy themselves with the critical requirements for the start of a THRONE strike operation. Plasmic rifle rounds the size of troop transports are loaded into ammunition belts the size of a city street. Segmented vibrablades, each gleaming face like the side of a building, are slotted into waiting holsters. Catwalks stretch out in all directions like some kind of behemoth spiderweb. The launch bay of the UCFS Rumsfeld is so cavernous it has its own weather patterns, with misty wisps of clouds fading the furthest reaches of the bay into obscurity.

Four minutes till launch. Flechette calls herself back into the moment, taking stock of her cockpit, continuing her activation procedures. Primary weapons systems online. Doloric fuelcore at 47%. All sensor arrays at full activation capacity. Her synchronization rate with her THRONE is stable, despite her evident deficiencies — only about 0.2% variance, well within acceptable tolerances. A miracle, frankly. She still wonders at it. Her capacity to synchronize with her THRONE should, by all means, be essentially nil. She failed to graduate from girlhood into Manhood, failed the ritual of ascension from the rabble of humanity to the count of Mankind, that brutal trial of suffering in which impending Men are impregnated with the esoteric algorithms necessary for all requirements of warcraft: to pilot THRONE mechs, to interface with Thanatic weapons arrays, to sync with comms circuits and access the central uplink to the core UCF computer system, the Psychopomp Network. Yet despite being unblessed with true Manhood, she has managed to succeed thus far as an elite pilot — more than succeed, indeed, she has excelled, logging herself fifteen operations with 512 confirmed enemy eliminations. Truly, she’s a star. “A freak of nature,” her wingman, her cross, would affectionately say. He, of course, has no idea—Oh, speak of the fucking devil.

“Eh, sexy! You stay pumped or what? It’s your Sweet Sixteenth op, baby! We gotta celebrate when we get back — I gotta show you how we party back home, brother.” Her cross’ deep laughter fills the commsline, and Flechette can’t help but smile at his contagious excitement. The pull of his voice draws her in like gravity. She trusts her cross with her life — she has to, and she wouldn’t have picked anyone else for the job. Tanglewire Sidewinder, callsign TANG, a huge iron bomb of a man, and the third-best THRONE pilot she’s ever met.

“Hey, Tang. Good to see you’re lively as ever.” Flechette rolls her eyes in mock irritation.

“Always. Nobody I’d rather play house with, O Brother of my Sword, Flechette Jaydamn.” He responds with mock formality, invoking her ritual title as his cross.

“And the same with you, O Rod to my Staff, Companion of my Blade, my Cross to bear, Tanglewire Sidewinder,” Flechette responds, saluting, and completing the ritual greeting.

“Ahhh, save the formalities for the office. Playtime now. Ready fo' drop some heathens?”

“Ready we stay, brah. Lookin' fo' one scrap.” Flechette intentionally butchers the pidgin response.

“Chee hoo! We going get that haole blood out you yet, talking like that, brother! Hahahaha!”

“Let’s keep chatter at a minimum, boys. Mission prep takes priority on comms.” Southern drawl dragging on the commsline — White Meniss, callsign SERAPH — pure Protestant wet dream, slicked blonde hair, elegant jawline, unsullied Aryan features, and the second-best THRONE pilot she’s ever met. Top grad of the ARC Academy, with a personal recommendation from a Rapture. He’s also a massive fucking dick. Might just come with being old Northern Virginia money.

“Yes, daddy.” Fuckin’ Tang. Flechette makes an active effort to stifle her snicker.

“Watch your cross, Edge,” Seraph responds, referring to Flechette’s callsign. “Wouldn’t want anything to happen to him in the crossfire.” There’s no play in the line with Seraph.

“Are you gonna prep for launch? Or are you gonna sit there offering us pastoral care all day, Father Seraph?” Father, of course, for the man who loves to preach.

Seraph growls, almost inaudibly, an attack dog being held back by his handler.

Two minutes till launch. Then: the Voice of God booms over the comms.

“Two minutes till launch, Boys. Remember what you’re here to do.” It’s more than enough. Lieutenant Dominion Wing Erra is an arresting presence — a man of few words and even less patience. Slender, gaunt, with incredible silver hair and sporting spotless and perfectly creased fatigues, everything about him demands mathematical perfection. He expects nothing but excellence. He accepts nothing but victory. And as the commanding officer of Squadron 16 of the Mechanized Corps of the Advance and Restraint Choirs, his record is spotless, earning his squadron the legendary title of the KILLBOYS. The aura he exudes is heavy, as if saturated with the weight of all the bodies he’s left behind.

The mission is straightforward. Par time for operation is 13 minutes. Launch from the Rumsfeld in low-earth orbit, make angelfall precisely 20 km south of objective. Advance towards the objective and engage any active Heathens that intercept. Target is an enemy weapons lab. Heavily fortified. It’s not Flechette’s station to know what kind of weapons lab, but rumor has it that the People’s Republics of Asia have finally gotten close to figuring out how to make Thanatic arms. A chilling prospect. It’d render THRONE halo-hallow fields useless. Your average small-arms plasmic rifle round can melt through 16 inches of lithosteel in an instant, but barely registers as a spring shower against halo-hallow — but a single Thanatic blade would cut through halo-hallow as easily as it would cut through butter. THRONE combat would change overnight. Mech superiority means nothing in a world where the enemy has Thanatic arms.

One minute till launch. Flechette takes a deep breath and settles back into combat meditation. She runs a hand through her short black hair — a gift from her mother. Her father always regretted that she didn’t inherit his graceful blonde waves. 

No distractions. She activates acupressure points along her forearms, wrists, and palms. Flechette feels her awareness sharpen, that familiar feeling of time stretching to fill the space in front of her. Thirty seconds till launch.

“Clock in, Killboys! Time to put in some work!” Tang’s callout draws whoops and hollers. Throughout the massive launch bay, THRONE mechs are loaded into gargantuan drop pods. A great hissing, like the Edenic snake returned, as airlocks close and pressurize. 

Five seconds till launch. Four. Three. Two. All systems go. Good luck, soldier.

And Earth rushes forward to embrace her children.