Untergang-2012-02-02

Firewall SITREP: Following up on the infected data cubes reveals their destination as a farcasting station on the moon of Rhea. Speculation is that the station's purpose is to transmit stolen human minds to, and ultimately through, the Pandora gate. Firewall team onsite preparing a preliminary reconnaisance mission.

The team has had one close encounter with the exsurgent virus, one that has already cost them one copy of their egos; they are not eager to risk another. Accordingly, Damon's proposal to use disposable synthmorphs as suicide scouts has carried the day, modified by Katja's suggestion to have said scouts transmit their reports through an equally disposable relay satellite.

Katja works on the satellite, setting it up to relay from the morph to their cloaked ship. She also sets a routine up to calculate efficient escape routes should they need to flee. "Doc, do we know how long it will take a forward team to arrive?"

Menocal works on a proximity self-destruct program for the satellite, so that the device will blow up if the enemy gets too close.

Doc pings the Eye, Firewall's secure network. "A team was dispatched via farcaster. If we have sufficient raw materials or spare synths, we can actually instantiate them aboard ship. Otherwise they will be resleeving aboard Kronos."

The long-range images are not the best of military intelligence, but they will serve. Damon studies the layout of the habitats, projecting his best guess as to cover, fields of fire, and lines of approach. The ultimate target is the farcaster station itself, though Damon privately concedes there's little chance of achieving that objective with the low-quality cases they'll be able to construct from ship spares. At best, he hopes to supplement the long-range intelligence with observations on the ground and to gauge the settlement's response to a hostile incursion.

Damon pokes one of the cases as it rolls out of the fabber. "This is what we will be in?" he says, sounding disappointed. "I suppose it cannot be helped. It is a good thing this mission does not demand the best of our performance, because the me that is in one of these will not be at the best of his performance." He addresses Doc. "Are the new us'es pruned in the way we discussed? The us that will land on Rhea will not know where we are?"

"Just so," replies Doc, bowing low. "I laid in an additional patch to minimize the existential angst that will result from their lack of knowledge. By the time the forks begin to question their natures, their use will be... over."

"Then let us prepare for our departure," replies Damon. The cases, and the relay sat, are carefully stowed and prepared for launch. One useful thing about synthmorphs for a mission like this: life support is not an issue. "Come, friends," Damon adds, addressing the crew of the Nevsky. "Let us see ourselves off."

Katja says, "I always find forking to be an odd experience." She walks over to the launch controls, ready to jettison the package. She takes a deep breath. "What is done cannot be undone. Last chance to abandon involvement in total insanity.""

D.m.n powers up on the lunar surface. "What have I done to myself this time?" he thinks, and immediately receives an answer - after all, the mission is the main thing, if not the only thing, he needs to know. He directs his optical sensors toward the farcaster base. "I hope Damon appreciates this," he thinks - his own mental patch acting as the mindset of a soldier sacrificing himself for his buddies.

MCN swivels optics, looking around, then falls into line behind D.m.n.

Junk Kat flexes was passes as her hand and frowns. The security protocal tells her that she's on a mission that is probably going to end poorly, but at least she doesn't have to worry about losing her good sleeve. She shrugs and falls in line.

The little village isn't much different from the ground than from orbit. Here, though, some details become clearer. The spacesuited figures - biomorphs - move with the same jerkiness as the obvious robots. Perhaps they've already been taken over by TITAN technology, or maybe they're just pods, being tele-operated. There are no obvious guards and no weapon emplacements. Local mesh chatter has nothing more serious than low-grade encryption.

"No welcoming committee," remarks D.m.n. "They are confident that they can resist or ignore a small invasion like ours is until the cavalry arrives. Are we ready to see how they plan to do this?"

"I have music. Should I play it on the mesh to see if that confuses them?" MCN wobbles a little. "It might give us information about how they react to probes that are nonphysical in nature."

"I think that would be very interesting," replies D.m.n. No time was wasted in making the machines' faces expressive, but there is amusement in his tone of voice. "If nothing else, it will serve to give them something to think about other than that I will be running straight at their farcaster."

Junk Kat comments, "The way this place looks, I'd bet that anything out of the SOP is going to trigger something. Go for it."

"That is why we are here," replies D.m.n. "MCN, start the music. I always wanted my final charge to have a soundtrack!" And with that, D.m.n stands erect and makes a beeline for the encampment, jouncing across the regolith as quickly as his makeshift legs can carry him.

MCN actually giggles, and then the local mesh starts to reverberate with a deep, throbbing, pounding, fast beat, which then gets synthesizers - music to run around doing violence to.

Junk Kat mutters, "This is sneaking?" as she swiftly follows D.m.n. into the breech.

Reaction at the camp to a squad of cases is immediate. In a far too unified fashion, the various mobiles - suited biomorphs and synthmorphs alike - drop what they are doing and begin to converge on the intruders. A few detach and arm themselves from a pressurized hut. They begin distributing weapons bucket-brigade style to their fellows.

A call for help is immediately radiated from the surface antennae. The local radio frequencies immediately come under assault - Doc's work, no doubt, broadcasting from the Nevsky's radio with the full weight of the ship's fusion power plant driving it.

The interference causes the mobiles to grow uncertain as well. Many simply stop moving. Others begin to jerk around, orienting themselves slowly.

On her way to the tower, Junk Kat notices the morphs slow and stumble. She grabs for the weapon the nearest one is holding, trying to wrench it away.

D.m.n takes note - the response is coordinated centrally, with the 'individuals' having little initiative of their own. No doubt that central command is even now working on a way to restore communication - but it also may mean that taking out one thing can shut the whole place down. He diverts to the nearest confused-looking morph to rearm himself - Damon provided the bot with a supply of sticky grenades but didn't send any of his expensive and heavily customized guns - then resumes his charge.

As he proceeds, D.m.n sends a transmission to the relaysat, flagged as 'critical'. "There is a central brain. The full armed response should try to find and neutralize. Speculating that it is on site with farcaster - testing hypothesis."

MCN has been listening in and watching the other two, and starts to sneak towards the farcaster, stopping to get some kind of weapon.

The mobiles are starting to regain their coordination, and they are still armed. Overhead, Damon notices a brief flare. Some sort of spaceship is making course adjustments, heading for the village.

One of the advantages of being in a can is that you don't run out of air. Junk Kat makes it to the antennae after her sprint. She reaches for the grenade Kat helpfully painted with a stroke of red. It's a sticky EMP grenade, and it's the perfect gift for the mind-sucking aliens farcaster. She slaps on the device. Turning to the others she shouts, "EMP! Clear!"

JK runs off to the side to look for cover and lays down a spray of fire pointed at the now moving synthmorphs.

D.m.n doesn't bother much with trying to take out many of the enemy morphs - there are far too many, after all. Instead, he focuses on softer targets - any habitation hut he can reach with a sticky grenade, a few more stickies on the wall of the farcaster shack, and as a long shot, lobbing a sticky grenade at the antenna itself.

MCN looks around, having been sneaking, trying to see if there's some kind of storage device, log holder, thing like that which she can grab and throw far away out of the camp for later retrieval - something that might be useful. (Of course, she might get something wrong.)

Katja looks around for computer equipment, hoping to find plans just laying around. Who knows.

Overhead, the thruster flare shows again. Then there's a brief but intense fireball in the sky. A voice comes over the group's tactical network: "Alpha AFO, Beta actual. Team Oh Crap has your back. First wave of hostiles inbound from Kronos dealt with. Signal for pickup if you need it."

"Roger that, Oh Crap!" replies D.m.n gratefully. "Requesting close air support. We can learn a lot from these people if we can pry the intel from their cold dead hands and or actuators."

"Close air confirmed," comes back the voice of Beta actual. "We'll be out of position to intercept another Kronos launch, be advised."

"MCN, this is your department," D.m.n says, as fire rains from the sky. "You have until the next wave to find everything worth carrying that will tell us about this operation and what else it connects to."

JK looks for a crate with wheels to start placing electronics in. Every device she comes across that looks like it could hold operational plans she slides into the crate.

MCN skitters around, taking moments she knows they can't really spare (but have to) in order to try to do a data-triage and toss things into the box that, hopefully, JK can then get out of the strafe range.

The remaining mobiles are rapidly regaining coordination, as the central intelligence finds a way to circumvent the Nevsky's jamming. It is of little avail, though - their small arms and anti-personnel defenses are little match for the ship-mounted weaponry laid down by the orbital shuttle. Evidently, the TITANs, or whoever, had counted on their forces on Kronos to deal with any large-scale assault. Which will eventually work out - but not before Firewall can get out with the goods.

MCN tosses a small box into the crate - containing her, well, self. The body, now mindless, follows its last instruction: turns and runs back towards the compound waving arms to attract attention.

D.m.n is a military man, or a derivative work thereof, and therefore is rather more disciplined. Though a dupe of his experiences to date is left in the crate, the D.m.n fork itself remains behind in the case, taking advantage of the decerebrate MCN shell as cover and distraction to allow his own detonation to do as much damage as possible.

JK leaves her can with a final instruction before dumping her fork into the case. The can turns, arms the two remaining grenades, and runs toward a group of morphs as fast as it can.

Back on the Nevsky, the airlock indicates a docking craft. A boatload of crap is shoved through, and the Beta team's shuttle takes back off. At a good distance, they radio a final message back: "Alpha AFO, beta actual. My team is farcasting out. We 'borrowed' this shuttle from Kronos, it shouldn't trace back to you. Good luck." And there's an explosion on the sensors.

Menocal rubs her hands together. "I'm so glad I put together some barrier filters, just to be sure we don't get an infection. It will take some time to go through this all." She seems altogether pleased by all of this.

Damon is still somewhat twitchy, as is usual for him when watching a military op that he's unable to directly affect. "I must say, I expected a stronger resistance on the ground. I suppose our foes on this occasion were counting on security through not being located in the first place."