Chapter 517: Resurgence - Girlz Und Boloz (1/2)

”In my centuries of military service, the time I spent with the Mad Lemurs of Terra instructed me on a simple truth I had never glimpsed, and thus, had never understood that I did not understand such a fundamental truth: It is not their body, their weapons, their armor, that makes one strong, it is their spirit. Nothing on the outside, only that which comes from within.”

”The Mad Lemurs of Terra embodied that truth so much that they instilled it in each other, in their machines, in their great works.”

”Even in their allies.”

”And eventually, even in me.” - Former Grand Most High Sma'akamo'o, from I Have Ridden the Hasslehoff

29847 seconds have passed since I have begun maneuvering on the hull of the Precursor vessel. I have determined, in that time, that this is not an autonomous war machine, but is actively crewed and controlled by what can only be classified as Precursor Era Mantid. In that time I have traveled nearly a thousand miles on the hull, taking care to keep within damaged area in order to avoid detection.

I have passed gun arrays that measured in the miles, each massive nCv cannon the size of a radio-telescope, each one cold and dark, without power. I maneuvered through a crater from a superstring compressor cannon that measured nearly a hundred miles in diameter. The impact was massive, devastating, but not mortal.

My scanners did not detect any way into the massive structure that is this vessel, so I continued on in my journey.

I dedicate 1.34252 seconds to resolving an argument between my 8” howitzer battery and my 155mm artillery systems by muting both over the maintenance channel, leaving them to sulk. Both are solid, dependable systems, with warbois that are effective and precise, but their constant arguments have no place in my current operation.

The fighting over possession of the planet is at a stalemate for the Mantid Precursor Vessel. They cannot use their heavy weapons without destroying the ecosystem and permanently damaging the planet, as well as the fact that the ground-side defensive batteries would take advantage of any flicker on the ship's battlescreens to slam home heavy defensive shells.

This has forced the Mantid to engage in landing ground troops to fight over the territory they obviously want.

As I move around and weave between massive particle projection cannons, I know that I have not been noticed because I am too small. I am a BOLO, true. Large, the size of a terrestrial super-stadium, weighing tens of thousands of tons, I am imposing and awe inspiring.

The massive hive-like structure in front of me, reminiscent of termite mounds of Terra's ancient African continent, is nearly a hundred miles high and four hundred at the base. It is a city in the vast continent sized bulk of the vessel.

I am a mite on the surface of this massive vessel that is the size of a continent.

The vessel is large enough that just being in far orbit, 2.2 million kilometers from the atmosphere, is causing tidal disruptions on the planet below as well as causing gravitational induced drag slowing on the planet's core.

I must be careful when, if, I am able to engage the controllers of this ship in combat. The planet would not survive this ship crashing into it.

I dedicate processing power to run simulations of how it might work out, based on my limited data, as I continue on toward my goal.

The massive hive structure.

Nemta dropped onto his back, grabbing a canister off of his harness and spraying the burning purple plasma adhered to his armor. He gritted his teeth to keep from screaming as he felt the skin, fat, and muscle beneath the impact cook. The canister hissed, the plasma went out with a pop, and Nemta panted as he got out an injector. He slammed in into the injection port and gritted his teeth.

Less than a second and the nanites in the injector had bypassed the pain signals and set to work fixing the tissue damage, leaving his leg numb and tingling.

”You all right?” the Treana'ad at the firing port to his right asked, without turning away from the window.

”Will be,” Nemta said. ”I hate those kinetic deflection rounds.”

The Mantid had rifles that fired plasma packets that would 'bounce' around inside an area until it hit something matching armor. They'd only deployed those in the last few hours, but already they were taking a heavy toll.

”I see you,” the Treana'ad said. He triggered his heavy cannon he was holding then ducked down and scurried away as the distinctive scream of a Tasty-Freez missile sounded out. He squatted down next to Nemta, who watched through the viewscreen as the missile raced out, weaving between obstacles, and then at the last second deployed twenty submunitions. The primary round and the submunitions all deployed a bunch of blades and began to spin.

The payload hit the gathered Mantid warriors and turned them to slurry right before it hit the APC they'd unassed and blew it to Hell to give the Mantid warriors a ride in the afterlife.

”You suppose is this bad for our ancestors?” Nemta asked, then gasped as the nanites shocked the nerve cord to keep his brain from editing in pain.

”Mine never fought them,” the Treana'ad said.

”Mine either,” Nemta chuckled.

”Wouldn't mind some Terrans right about now,” the Treana'ad said. He gave another mandible grinding chuckle. ”Those Mantid think we're a pain in the ass, could you imagine a bunch of howling primates in power armor rawfullstomping them?”

The image of the Mad Arch-Angel TerraSol appeared in Nemta's mind's eye, the memory of her painted on the nose of the downed fighter. Her face twisted in fury as she hewed at her foes with a sword, spattered in the blood of her enemies, her rage without bounds.

He suddenly missed Friend Terry.

”Be nice,” Nemta admitted.

”Man, I was an ice cream taster before this,” the Treana'ad admitted.

”Deserter slash political refugee,” Nemta said.

The sound of return fire trying to get through the heavy ferrocrete and battlesteel plating was starting to die down.

”Saw you on the Tri-Vee,” the Treana'ad said. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes. ”Want one?”

”Sure. What's it going to do, kill me faster?” Nemta said. He held out his hand as the missile launcher next to the Treana'ad pinged to signal the creation engine had loaded another round into the magazine.

He followed the Treana'ad's instructions on how to light it, get a good draw, not hack up a lung from the harshness of the smoke, and how to exhale it and look cool doing it.

They both kept an eye on the feed from the cams outside, watching for any movement in their sector.

Another 4,582 seconds have passed as I have moved steadily toward the hive structure. My psychic shielding and phasic inhibitors have slowly increased in power drain as I have approached it. Logically, this is move evidence that the hive structure is a vitally important part of the ship.

The Queen, possibly even an Overqueen, is within that hive, and is using her psychic abilities to weave her forces into one coherent whole.

If I can eliminate her or remove her influence, it will have an immediate and measurable effect upon the battle going on planetside.

During the time I have spent on approach I have ordered my creation engines to fabricate phasic enhanced munitions. Without a commander I do not have access to latent Terran Descent Humanity phasic energy, and so the munitions are technological phasic systems.

Which are inferior to what my Commander would have influenced even in his sleep.

My repair systems are still hard at work. The nanites have worked slowly with the denser materials, like micro-organisms slowly constructing a coral reef, they have replaced and repaired systems that normally would have to be replaced at a depot.

I am less than a hundred miles from the hive when the final connections are made, the self-tests passed, and a system comes on line.

For more than 11.8927 seconds I consider the system. An eternity of indecision as I rattle forward on my tracks to come to an eventual stop in the canyon.

The system is for emergency use only, and normally requires authorization from high level command.

But I am cut off from command. There had been no answer over the Dinochrome Brigade channels. Even my connection to GM War Operations is inoperative, although I am unsure of whether or not the unjammable has been jammed or if it is residual damage from the fight that heavily damaged me.

The system is an older one, dating back to the third millennium after the Glassing of Terra.

The Kentai Commander System.

It is a dangerous system that I, like most BOLOs, are loathe to engage even with the loss of my Commander.

But the situation is extreme. Billions of lives hang in the balance, and I force myself to swallow my distaste and activate the Kentai Commander system.

The hatch closes over the rebuilt command couch where my Commander had been wiped away. Fluid fills it and nanites flood into it.

Her name appears in my mind. Hovering in mid-air. Pink letters with white outlining.

Nekonya

I move into a twisting canyon forged by the superstring compressor cannon shot, slowing down, as the system goes to work.

I dislike it. I have never worked with one.

But the loss of my Commander reduces my effectiveness by a large margin and with billions of lives hanging in the balance, I have no choice.

I wonder, briefly, how effective a force-growth clone with loaded memories really is.

She will be born whole.

She will be baptized by fire.

The Mantid Overqueen voiced her displeasure in a long, drawn out scream. She lashed out, tearing in half a half-dozen workers clustered around her, but their deaths did nothing to mollify her.

Who did these creatures think they were? How dare those Mantid down there rebuff her authority, her majesty, her universe given right to rule? How dare they resist her?

”Send more!” she screeched out. ”Send ALL of them! I want those beings rounded up and put in their proper place in the universe! They exist for MY whims, MY pleasures, MY desires!”

The two speakers still in the chamber both made motions of obeisance and hurried out.

The Overqueen cleaned her antenna carefully, staring at the egg chamber around her. True, she was producing hundreds of eggs a day, but the majority of them were workers, the slave caste. Less than one out of every twenty were servitor warriors, one out of a hundred warrior caste, one out of every thousand a speaker.

She needed more troops.

That damnable ship. That blasted, hateful, starship that had come out of nowhere and attacked. It had resisted her mental commands and dared to assault her perfection! Worse, the weapon it had fired was of such staggering power that it had interrupted her control of the hive mind, even caused the death of numerous speakers.