Band of Brothers, Season 1: Episode 2

Miriam watched El walking away. Her emotions would have been in a very different place if the subject had been brought out in the galley over a meal, but now, there just wasn't room for anything but what she could already feel herself doing.

"You've probably heard me talking bout parkour." she said, knowing McKenna was there, but not shifting her focus to his direction. "It's really old, from way back on Earth-That-Was. I don't know how unbroken the tradition really is, maybe we do a bunch of stuff wrong, but it's what we got. One thing we do know, there's no competition in parkour. No tournaments, no races, no champion. It's a community, not a league. That's how I run, and that's how I fly. When I sit down, my only rival is Krane's atmo, and anything that tries to chase us or get in our way. You're in here, so we're on the same side."

She looked over at him then, her pre-flight calm perhaps incompletely masking what she felt. The thought he might be actively lobbying to take her seat wasn't a blow to her ego, or a threat to her status, it was a reminder of what happened the last time she had been brought on board a ship and not allowed to pilot. She hadn't seen what had happened to the man who had been in that seat, but she hadn't had to see. It had been long, and loud.

"But maybe you do do the competition thing." she said. "Well, I'm not playing that game, but don't think it's going to be easy. I may not do competition, but I don't have and off switch, or a scale of effort. I've got standby, and full on, and that's all I do. I don't usually say stuff like "flying is my life," but if I did, it would not be a metaphor. You want to beat me, you can't just beat my skill. You have to beat me, as in, everything I am."

She closed her eyes, feeling the armrest of the pilot's seat beneath her hand, her fingers stroking upward to the mezuzah she had placed on it.

"I don't know if I'm the best pilot in the anywhere except for the seat I'm in while I'm flying." she said. "But I'm an unbelievably lousy passenger."

”Miriam flies down. McKenna flies out. Whoever doesn’t get us killed the best is my pilot, and the other asshole walks around with a ‘co’ in front of their name.”

The blue-haired saobi needed to make up her gorram mind, Jeremiah thought as his teeth ground together in a clench-jawed effort to keep his tongue. At least he was in the seat now. Saying the wrong thing now might get him spaced. Or worse, left behind on the surface of Krane, sans one atmo-suit. Not a prospect he enjoyed thinking about. But the woman still pissed him off in a way that no one else had ever managed to do and staying silent was a trial of huge dimensions. Still... Had she shifted? Just a little? It wasn't that long ago that there had been no possibility whatsoever of the Shangren having a co-pilot.

With the D-Tox setting his body ablaze with the kind of hypersensitivity that bordered on prescience, he listened to Miriam as she explained about parkour. Probably the most she'd ever said to him directly in one stretch since he'd come aboard. Turning to look at her, her face stood out with such clarity that it hurt. Her eyes were like burning black pits in the low light of the bridge and he suddenly understood that she wasn't flying to fly. She was running from something. Whatever that something was, it was bad enough that she would rather die than be booted out of the pilot's seat. An unbidden shiver ran up his spine and although he could blame the D-Tox all he liked for that, deep down, he knew that it was the ghosts that followed the girl in the seat across from him.

Turning away, he fixed his gaze on the screens on the console in front of him, the numbers and letters seeming to stand out from the displays to meet him halfway, inviting him to read every single one of them. D-Tox wasn't so much a high as it was clarity. A clarity so bright that it was near impossible to ignore what was happening around you. It was an excellent method to rid yourself of the effects of alcohol, but it came with a price. A few hours from now (if he was lucky, he would have four hours), the crash would come, quickly and brutally, starting with the shakes, blurred vision and nausea. Not too unlike a bad hangover with a side of the flu. But it was worth it. And the side effects were a price, Jeremiah was willing to pay for those few hours when absolute concentration and focus were essential for survival.

"Don't worry," he said, after a long pause and reached out to call up the map on the centre screen, the lines and dots jumping out at him, making it abundantly clear where they were headed: Enemy territory. "We get outta this alive, I'm gettin' off this boat firs' chance I get. Yer seat's safe, Miriam." He looked at her again, his gaze tracing every line and angle of her face in what seemed like a split-second. "So how 'bout we work t'gether on this? Ya said it yerself, we're on the same side. Way I see it, we cooperate 'stead o' makin' in inta a competition way the captain wants , we got twice the chance o' seeing another day 'stead o' ending in a ball o' flame."

Through the visor of his atmo-suit's helmet, Reggie acknowledged Killi's glance and gave her a slight nod. He then went about checking his weapons one more time, before securing them to his body and securing himself to the wall with the cargo webbing. He took deep cleansing breaths as he waited for their clock to reach zero and the Shangren to punch through Krane's flimsy excuse for an atmosphere.

"Shangren wants to play rough an' I'm all strapped down? There's a hell of a triple-x graphic novel in this... If we survive."

"Eye 'ave a feeleen' dat we weell, Meess Crash." replied Reggie through his helmet's comm as he looked towards the musician. "At least dose dat weesh to dat ees."

He offered her a cryptic smile and then went back to focusing his mind, body, and soul on readying himself for the job at hand, and successfully accomplishing it without too much problems or setbacks.

Go Time


Krane, a Hell to every soul that walked its half terraformed surface, glowed green beneath its cloak of gas.

Whether guard or prisoner, the moon was a jail awash in an atmosphere of death. Like Charon’s voyage, no one went there willingly. No one was that crazy…or desperate.

At the very tick-tock of the appointed hour, The Shangren blasted into Krane’s space.

Normally, three Whippoorwills, a mid-class Corsair, and the capital class I.A.V. Trafalgar would have the moon surrounded, but something out of sight and off into the Black had pulled the flying monkeys away from their witch.

As The Shangren neared the violent atmosphere of Krane, the three Whippoorwills peeled away in the distance and moved to intercept.

At his current rate of speed, The Shangren would make the moon before the Alliance vessels…if just barely.

Flashes of weapons fire glowed from the Corsair and The Trafalgar, shooting at something beyond the scanners and sight of The Shangren and crew.

An ugly bastard had come to Hell…and neither knew what to make of the other.

Engine Room

”Give me the ‘go’, Rocket Jock, and I’ll give you in-atmo fire! “, Dade screamed into the ship-wide comm, trying to best the throaty bellow of his engine.

Flipping a switch to re-route a hint of power, Dade continued,
”Goin’ to have a few beats of freefall before the burners engage, so everyone strap the rutt in!!!”

Taking his own advice, Cooper clipped himself into a taut cargo strap hanging from the ceiling and another lashed to the floor. A demented Pinocchio still strung to the hand of Geppetto, the mech readied himself for Krane's embrace.

I don't believe in trouble, I don't believe in pain, I don't believe there's nothing left but running here again.

Krane hung below them like something three witches ought to be cackling over, dropping bits of stuff into the cauldron to boil away.

I don't believe in promise, I don't believe in chance, I don't believe you can resist the things that make no sense.

"You're just a rock. You can't even move. Atmo's dynamic, but it's just a dumb obstacle, and it's all you got."

Some might say otherwise, but she could feel the switch being thrown. Maybe she just knew it was coming, saw the readouts shift, they'd say, but most of them didn't fly. At most, they sat in seats and said they did.

She could feel it in her like she was the one dropping.

I don't believe in silence, cos silence seems so slow, I don't believe in energy the tension is too low.

What were the three witches anyway, but symbols for other symbols. The Norns, the Fates, the hand casting the die.

I don't believe in panic, I don't believe in fear, I don't believe in prophecies so don't waste any tears.

Krane wasn't an enemy. It didn't want to kill them. It would, if they let it, but it didn't want it. People were dangerous. The environment was just obstacles and challenges.

The shy, timid Miriam who turned and ran from the energy of the crowd at Skies was nowhere to be seen now. This was the devil she could dance with, because she knew every step, better than the devil did.

I don't believe reality would be the way it should. But I believe in fantasy the future's understood.

"So . . ." she said to McKenna, in the other seat beside her, not taking her eyes off of the cauldron below. "How do you get into cold water? Toe in, shiver a bit, wade some more? Or just take the plunge and dive right in?"

I don't believe in history, I don't believe in truth, I don't believe that's destiny or someone to accuse.

"Go."

I BELIEVE!

The Shangren slipped from the witches' fingers.

I want you to try, try, to needing to know why, why, No kidding, no sin, sin, No running, no win, win, No angels, no girls, girls, No memories, no Gods, Gods, No rockets, no heat, heat, No chocolate, no sweet, sweet

No feeling, no secrets...
The silence you feel...
which hides you from
the real...
I want you to try, try . . .

Miriam was flying.


I Believe lyrics by Franka Potente, from Run, Lola, Run

This post has been edited by Miriam on Apr 13 2011, 08:02 PM

The Engine Room

"Go."

HEAD bangers in leather
Sparks flyin’ in the dead of the night

Around him The Shangren coughed in a tubercular prelude to a violent death by atmospheric suffocation. Sputtering and sneezing in rebellion, the ship convulsed against the foreign air.

It all comes together
When they turn out the lights
50,000 watts of power

Thrown like a tetherball back and forth against the limitations of his safety lines, Dade fought against the chaos and tried to orient himself in the madness of The Shangren’s battle with Krane. His hair spun around him and then below him, when he somehow became inverted in his makeshift harness. Worse than any hangover-induced vertigo, the mech couldn’t focus against the insanity of their fall.

And it’s pushin’ overload
The beast is ready to devour

A jet of steam erupted from the sudden pressure change causing the air in the engine room to heat and whip around him, a maelstrom to add to his enjoyment of the terrifying moment.

All the metal they can hoooooold
‘bout to overload
To explode

Somehow through the twisting and turning, his instincts separated a much more defined sensation, freefall. The Shangren had become a rock hurtling toward a much bigger rock.

It’s your one-way ticket to midnight
Call it Heavy Metal

Anchored by the strap clipped to the deck, Dade managed to get his arms out and like a skydiver glided against the punch of Krane’s gravity over to the bank of switches that would fire the Jo Lynn’s new in-atmo engine sequence.

Higher than high, feelin’ just right
Call it Heavy Metal

Veins burst along his neck and corded forearms, as he fought the planet in a bare-knuckle brawl-crawl, and though Dade didn’t realize it, he was screaming.

Desperation on a red line
Call it Heavy Metal

Finally, his fingers brushed the first of the ignition switches, and with a final stretch, he quickly keyed the entire sequence. Around him, The Shangren’s ‘burners’ sputtered to life, fighting against the strange atmo cocktail Krane was forcing down its throat, but like its caretaker, The Shangren could drink anyone or anything under the table.

To reach the stage
Can you feel the rage

From his yo-yo position between the floor and ceiling of the engine room, Dade’s sea green eyes focused solely on the engine’s readouts, and when they crept into a positive state, he screamed against the steam of The Shangren, the gravity of Krane, and the terminal nature of the moment,
”NOW ROCKET JOCK!!! PUNCH IT, PUNCH IT, PUNCH IT!!!”

It’s your one-way ticket to midnight
Call it HEAVY METAL!



(Lyrics by Samuel Hagar, inspiration for this post courtesy of Dave and James Durbin)

Hot Pursuit


The three Whippoorwills, members of the Trafalgar’s Air Group, smashed an entry into Krane’s atmo barely fifteen seconds after The Shangren. Already outfitted for the partially terraformed air, they transitioned easier than the Jo Lynn, but the trio still experienced hellacious turbulence, which seemed to be an appropriate description given the locale. Dependable visibility immediately vanished and scanners displayed only the relatively static positions of the moon’s surface.

The intruder had vanished into the soup.

”Beethoven, Tilt, Sweep Formation, spiral descent, you are weapons free, good hunting,” the calm voice of The Trafalgar’s C.A.G. issued his orders from behind the stick of the lead Whippoorwill.

”Roger, weapons free,” the other pilots responded simultaneously.

The C.A.G., Captain Leopold Brenner, call sign Lion, maintained his angle of descent but began sweeping his craft in a twisting arc designed to cover a wide swath in the low visibility. As luck would have it, the seasoned pilot’s eye recognized the barely perceptible disturbance in a nearby gas cloud, marking the spot as a potential track for the invading craft. Abandoning his spiral descent, The Lion throttled up and punched into a blistering dive. If the possibility of crashing into the craft crossed his mind, his poker face was superb.

A glow appeared in the nebulous distance, and the C.A.G. immediately recognized it as the firing of a ship’s engines,
”Trafalgar Actual, I have acquired the intruder and engaged.”

Knowing his people were safely split from his position, The Lion calmly depressed the firing trigger on his flight stick and roared a challenge of lead from his twin Vulcan canons.

Once upon a time, he'd seen a 'tex show about a pilot who had implants in her head that allowed her to become one with the ship, let her feel everything the ship felt and see whatever the ship saw through sensors. Now, sitting in Shangren's cockpit, strapped into his seat, Jeremiah couldn't help thinking about that show as Miriam guided the ship into the toxic atmosphere of Krane, and he could swear that he felt the wind sweep over his own skin, hear the roar loudly in his ears. His eyes were glued to the screens that showed mostly static and interference, leaving him virtually blind to what he knew would be coming from behind. Nothing he could do about that, nothing anyone could do about that. He figured that not even state-of-the-art gear could cut through the interference of Krane's atmosphere. The moon really did not want them there.

His fingers dug into the armrest, while his nerves sang, screaming to be allowed to do the job they had been primed to do. But as long as Miriam had her hands on the yoke, there was nothing for him to do except watch the useless displays, and offer advice; an arrangement that could only end in misery for both himself and the girl in the driver's seat, even though it was exactly what he had offered her not five minutes ago. When the screen cleared, he wasn't sure that it had actually happened. But for a second or two, there it was, burning bright and clean, showing him the state of play. "Company," he noted for Miriam's sake and opened the link to the gunners. "Keep yer eyes peeled up there. We got three o' 'em tailin' us." And that was it, the screen fuzzed again, showing nothing but the flickering rejection of Krane and its secrets.

Krane Penal Moon

Moira awoke with a start as four long weeks' anticipation honed her attention on the small, buzzing transmitter in her hand. She fought the adrenaline rush but did not let it slow her steps as she launched into the plan of attack that had also developed over those four weeks. Two seconds to double-check the signal's code, one to set off the infrared beacons set up around the area, their low frequency guides conveying their locations using the same signal code she had just received. Modulated to only transmit within a 100-foot radius, they would be more than enough given Krane's hard deck. Dodgy for flying, but Moira would just have to trust. Never easy.

Two more seconds gave Moira the confirmation she needed that the beacons were functional and their timers receiving, one to activate the burst transmission she had prepared for her angels. There was no way for her to know whether or not the approaching ship would receive it, but encoded with the parameters she'd been given, with any luck the following would appear as a TextWave on the ship's Cortex screen:

Without luck, a ship's computer would still pick up the beacons. Without the right decoding, though, they'd just be so much garbage messing up their readings. Moira never did like to do things half way, and these little high tech gadgets were worth every credit. Regardless of the message's success, within a minute, Moira was in her atmo suit, hopefully for the last time this mission. If no angels arrived, she had a backup plan, but for now, the action plan was everything. With the pull of a lever, the entire trailer began to depressurize, and the oxygenator whispered to a stop. Moira concentrated on keeping her visor clear as she opened that other door for only the second time since she had arrived on the dark side of the moon.

All twenty-four stood against the walls as if at attention, body-bags identical and faceless. Appropriate. Moira cursed herself for the shaky breath that followed. She was due some serious self-reflection when this was finally over. Still, action was everything. Leaving the door gaping behind her, she checked the peep hole one last time, praying to a disinterested god that timing would be on her side a little longer. Throwing open the door, she stepped into the harsh atmosphere of Krane, its toxic gasses immediately infiltrating the stale but safe air of the trailer. Pushing aside the camouflage and pulling back a bottom panel, Moira dragged the two hover sleds out of their storage area and placed them side by side outside the trailer. Then the real work began.

Within another five minutes, Moira had carried those body bags one by one out to the sleds, stacked again in their 3x4 formation. She looked to the skies, the wordless prayers never ceasing, then went to work cinching straps around the two dozen soldiers, readying them for their last escape.

Within a total of ten minutes, Moira and the 666th were waiting outside, ready for flight. The trailer was re-pressurized, the oxygenator on high. The transportable exercise barre had even been detached from the trailer's wall and now lay across one of the bodies with Moira's small backpack beside it. Moira had everything with her she needed, so when she activated the receivers inside the trailer, it was with no regret. She would give those angels five minutes. If they failed, she would disappear while the 666th made their last stand alone.

Jeth Riddle was in a storage room off the galley. Shelves lined one wall, keeping the various canned junk passing for food in place with ridged edges, while the others had drawers set within the walls, which Jeth had been using to store his various instruments. Very few actually belonged to him, but being a two person band, he found it necessary to borrow and rent to fill out their repertoire. Not that they had many real gigs these days, what with limited contact with Gray and even less venues to play in other than to taunt the Alliance, but it was all Jeth had.

Appropriate, he thought, to call this cramped space home.

The turbulence shook the small space with surprising ferocity. Luckily, Jeth had strapped himself in, at the advisement of no one other than his own paranoia. From what he understood of the plan, which is to say very little, he would only be called upon if a lot of their people ended up very dead. Fine by him.

His hands twisted in his lap, as if washing themselves in imaginary water. Around him, the ship shook with a desperate fervor. A sound from nearby that was likely the wailing of Daedalus, coupled with the minotaur of an engine he was hired to house cried out in feral fashion. The canned food and drawers violently rattled around him and together all of these elements became a cacophonous symphony that began transforming into a strange, almost supernatural number.

Years before, Jeth had heard of a traveling troupe of a cappella singers touring the underground scene of Beaumonde. Four men claiming to be of the cloth, who bore no instruments other than their own voices, sang haunting tunes of a fiery future. Doomsayers who would be laughed off the streets if not for the captivating way in which they prophesized.

Just as the eye can be deceived in optical illusions, the ears too are known to experience auditory treachery. When the four priests sang together in very specific harmonies, forming just the right timbre at precise intervals, a fifth, female voice emerged out of their own. This aural phantom chilled its listeners to the bone; a spectral singer who created a melody that was treated as a holy event.

Jeth, who never had the opportunity to confirm or deny the myth of the monks, felt like he was now hearing a similar phenomenon. The Shangren's voice, through the collective vibrations of its struggle with Krane's atmosphere, had emerged amidst the chaos. It was loud and maniacal, but very distinct from the madness of its creation. Not fearless, merely laughing in the face of it out of spite. Not crazy, but sneering at others who claimed sanity. It was that of a man burning at the cross for crimes unproven, bellowing out a single, sustained note while the flames around him colored the harmonies in a fantastical display of brazen and purposeful lunacy.

Not quite believing his ears, Jeth withdrew a small device from his pocket. He started recording everything around him, eager to replicate the sound later on.

All the while adding his own, half-deranged laughter to the chorus.

Cargo Bay - Team Dirt

Cooper’s screams filled the comm, as the mech battled to keep The Shangren from becoming just another permanent fixture on Krane’s hellish surface. Instead of issuing commands or demanding status reports, Lee remained silent. Perhaps she had learned, or finally realized, that her crew needed to do their jobs absent her oversight…or perhaps she simply understood her off-Broadway role in the current scene.

Or maybe she really didn’t give a baker's rutt.

An intense wave of vertigo had her rolling her blue lensed eyes in a sarcastic attempt to stave off the nausea Krane was gifting her stomach. Her gloved hands gripped the cargo netting that made up her harness, and by sheer will alone, she opened her eyes to the carnival ride on which she rode. They were in freefall, of that she was certain, but additional confirmation was given as The Shangren began to groan and whistle oddly.

Everything had been stowed or lashed throughout the common areas of The Shangren, but that still didn’t prevent little bits of overlooked life from joining the party as deadly projectiles or at the very least irritants.

One of the access hatches in the floor’s grating popped loose and its thirty-pound bulk flew with perfect geometric angles at Eleanor’s face. Calmly she threw her helmeted head to the left, just as the metal square exploded against the spot her azure mane had recently occupied.

Several smaller objects: a pencil, a spanner, some old protein cases and what looked like a gorram flag swam through the cargo bay’s air looking to make the most of their animation by causing what mischief they could, as quickly as they could.

Not one to outwardly display her emotions, Eleanor Lee glanced over at Team Dirt, taking in the forms of Killi, Reggie and Kelker. She told herself it was just to check on her assets, but a smaller voice whispered behind her blue eyes…

…Liar

Facing forward once again, Lee bit her lower lip before spitting out a forceful,
”For rutts sake, Dade, do your fuc…”

Just then the mech, who hadn’t heard her demand, screamed into the ship wide comm.,
”NOW ROCKET JOCK!!! PUNCH IT, PUNCH IT, PUNCH IT!!!”

With the proclamation came near instant relief, and the short lived lives of the access hatch and the debris of the cargo bay ended with a crash.

Composed again, Lee glanced over at her Team and triggered her mic,
”Get ready to rutt because we’re on in five.”

In the Black surrounding Krane

The Trafalgar spun its massive bulk and unleashed a volley of ship-to-ship missiles at a much smaller craft, but defensive flares and target-foiling jammers sent the beasties spinning away from the attackee.

Unable to catch the faster craft, the capital ship and its corsair escort were forced to admit temporary defeat, as the intruder dipped into Krane’s atmo and disappeared.

But before it vanished a small patch of metal gleamed in the light of an exploding rocket, revealing a name…a name that did not match the digital footprint of the craft.

Given recent events, never had a moniker been more appropriate…

…Dauntless.

Cargo Bay

”Get ready to rutt because we’re on in five.”

This was it. There was no turning back now. In just a short flicker of time, Reggie and the others who composed Team Dirt would be getting their boots wet in Krane's dirt. If all went well all of them would be back on the ship, celebrating victory in their own ways. If things went sour, then those who managed to return to the ship alive would be mourning those dead and cursing at their mistakes.

Reggie wasn't going to let the latter happen. Not by a long shot. He was determined to see to it that everyone who called themselves part of the Shangren's crew made it back in more or less one piece. He was armed to the motherrutting teeth and he wasn't going to go down without taking half an army with him. Yep. He was ready for whatever Krane could spit at him, his Captain, and his fellow crew mates.

What was about to go down on that crap hole of a moon they were about to land on, was going to be the stuff of legends for ages to come.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uFZu5Ol7fe4

Resurrection energy inside,
Something that I can't define.
Mystery- I leave my fears behind.
Something that seems so divine.
over and over again....

The ship was shaking, rhythm of crazed panic and roaring destruction at her back, and Killi shut her eyes, found her center, and rode the beast. It's actions seemed to match the echo in her gut, and she found herself exhilerated by the ride, a crazed carnival gone mad.

Intoxication's running through my veins.
Confusion - I'm going insane.
Fever waves are smashing up my brain.
Illusions and madness remain,
Over and over again....

”Get ready to rutt because we’re on in five.”

Killi squeezed her eyes open, her thick-gloved fingers locking on the strap-down, ready to release it in a heartbeat. Surprisingly, the nausea was gone, and as she glanced to either side, to Abe and then to Reggie's determined face, she realized the fear was gone, too.

There was nothing but the rhythm of her heartbeat. The rhythm of life.

And it was louder than her drumbeats, louder than the howl of Shangren through the burnt-red atmosphere of the most feared planet in the Allied Worlds. It was louder than the voice of common sense, the one that was asking why she wasn't hiding in the storage closet with her song-making partner. It was the rhythm of insanity, of danger, and of facing the future with eyes wide open.

It was the rhythm she lost herself in.

The rhythm of life. A river of life.
On my way to paradise,
The rhythm of life, a river of life.
The one that keeps us all alive.

As the ship jolted down, she glanced aside to Lee, and gave an audacious wink, a half-smile, "Ready on your mark, Captain."

and a one
and a two...
and a one ... two ... three ... four...

The rhythm kept playing, and Killi realized that though her only audience would be the lost and forgotten dead of this horror swept moon, it was all just another kind of a stage. And she was ready to play it.


OOC: Lyrics: Freedom Call- Rhythm of Life