Author’s Comments: Combat Ops: Chapter One

In 2006 I was broke. Really broke. I put my house on the market and it was snapped up, but the shrew that signed the legal contract to buy it found a loophole and backed out of the deal with twelve hours to go before escrow closed. In the interim, I'd bought a house in Washington state and moved into an apartment, so that meant I was paying two mortgages and rent at the same time until someone bought the damn house again.

I took a second job, but even working 60 hours a week you still have free time. At first I played free flash games, but, even as fun as they are, they still get old after a while. Eventually I gravitated to MMORPGs (Massively Multi-Player Role Playing Games), and I found one called Vendetta: Online that was really interesting-- a twitch based (which means that your skill is more important than your level or your equipment) science-fiction game.

I made some friends online, and for sixty bucks I played for six months, about twenty hours a week, which sounds like a lot until you realize it was the ONLY thing I did-- because it didn't cost money. (Well, that and work out. I lost fourteen pounds.)

What impressed me the most about Vendetta was the backstory. Literally a novel written by the original writers of the game, it was rich in detail and extremely well done, and sparked a bunch of amateur fiction of its own, including Combat Operations. (I also discovered that about 95% of the online gaming community is politically leftist-- even admitted socialist. Makes the killing more interesting-- and gives a political conservative who can't keep his mouth shut like me all the incentive in the world to get really good as a pilot really quick!) A bizarre quirk of my humor led me to create a character called "Nigel the Indecently Dressed." Through several evolutions, and with a couple of the vowels pulled out, we get "N'gel S'nza P'ntal'ne," or "Nigel Without Pants."

No one gets my humor.

Unfortunately, I finally got the house sold and moved to Washington, where my school and work got in the way both of playing the game and continuing the fiction, but I still have some chapters written, and I think they still set an interesting and rather gritty storyline about fighting in space.

I do want to flesh this into a full-fledged novel someday, if for no other reason than that this is also my tribute to one of the best writers of military science fiction ever to grace this planet. David Drake is the king, but the heir apparent was always Christopher Bunch. His Lost Legion series, the Sten series he wrote with Allan Cole, his Dragonmaster series, these are some of the most compelling works of combat fiction (and essays about why we fight, from the eyes of soldiers themselves) that I have ever seen.

Even if you don't particularly like my writing, if you like military science fiction and fantasy at all (or some naughty sex scenes... hoo boy, check out The Seer King.) please investigate Christopher Bunch.

Christopher Bunch passed away on July 4th, 2005. He left several series incomplete, and many things undone. He was a member of the first troop battalion sent to Viet Nam, and it's fitting that his passing took place on the birthday of the nation he loved.

Fitting, but no less sad.

Chris

*****
Christopher Rivan

Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!

http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/

Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com

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Combat Ops - Chapter One

NOTE: This story is dedicated to Chris Bunch, author of the best military science fiction and fantasy I have ever read. The profane terms "drakh" and "clot" are used in homage to the mannerisms and speech he developed (along with Alan Cole) for the eight books in the Sten series, published 1982-1993.

Christopher R. Bunch
December 22, 1943 – July 4, 2005
Long live the Eternal Emperor!

***
N'gel S'nza P'ntal'ne's eyes seemed to glare at the screen. On it, his black-painted Corvus Vulturius was leaking smoke. The vacuum of space prevented open flames, but the impact damage from blaster cannon had warped and flashburned the heavy plasteel armor in several places. His hand flittered over the controls, smoothly expanding the screen to show the pirate Warthog MkIV tracking on his slim fighter from behind. The larger craft's gatling turret blazed fire at the smaller ship. N'gel's eyes narrowed until they glittered like the hatred of angels.

With a sudden sharp movement N'gel's nimble craft flipped sideways in a lateral Immelman turn made possible only by the lack of gravity in space. Caught flatfooted by the unexpected maneuver, the Warthog's pilot could only jam on his attitude brakes in a desperate attempt to avoid the stream of neutron fire that darted towards his ship. The flood crossed the Warthog's flight path; a flash of superheated gasses and the pirate was nothing more than an expanding cloud of frozen/toasted flesh.

N'gel's voice came over the ventrilo communications system. "Splash eight. Thirty-two percent hull. Miex, I'm jumping back to base for repairs."

The voice of his wingman, MiexonBionic, Commander of the Phoenix Alliance Guild, crackled back over the recording, "Roger. Quirc should be able to bring the load through now. Safe journey."

"Fly true." N'gel's slim-hulled fighter winged over and began boosting, heading away from the uncharted belt of asteroids that were all that was left of a shattered planet from a billion years before. Mankind's technology had progressed a thousandfold from the primitive stardrives that had first lifted him to the vacuum of space, but the three thousand meter jump distance was a requirement etched in vismetal. After the first hundred years of lost ships, navigation computers refused to even accept a jump order until the ship's radar judged the craft to be at least three kilometers from the nearest large obstruction, a limit that had killed thousands of pilots before it had been determined.

"There," N'gel's voice was low as his finger touched the pause controls. "That flicker." The flamelike acid scar on his right cheek pulled the corner of his mouth slightly upward in what those who didn't know him would assume to be a wry grin. "I noticed it just before the jump out, and you can see it clearly on the flight recorder."

Quirc Taranis, Lieutenant in command of Phoenix Alliance Logistics leaned forward. "Hmmm… most likely not an asteroid, not at that distance from the belt. 'Roids tend to collect in strips through a sector. Battle debris?"
"Not likely," N'gel replied. Most of the fighting was inside the 'roid belt. Miex got one of the rats about 1600 meters out, but that was on the other side."

On screen, the twinkle was frozen in the lower corner, a staggering distance from the hyperspace envelope beginning to form around the delta-winged fighter. Quirc's heavy eyebrows furrowed. "Computer, enhance C-16 though B-13." A flashing green square appeared around the anomaly before expanding to increase the relative size of the mysterious twinkle. "What the drakh is that?" He muttered, half to himself.

"Eo's guess," N'gel answered. "But look at this." He touched another control. Below the increased-resolution scan of the anomaly a number appeared. "This is the object's mass."

Using the archaic but still effective scientific notation, the relative metric tonnage of virtually any object could be displayed rather easily. Long ago Earth's mass, for example, could be scaled to 6.34x10 to the 23rd power. However the object on screen registered a mass that pegged the meter to "Error, out of range."

Quirc pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. "That can't be right."

"What if it is?" N'gel asked. Their eyes met. They both knew the answer.

"Then we've just discovered another wormhole."

*****
Christopher Rivan

Virgins Slain, Dragons Rescued.
Reasonable rates for all budgets!

http://chrisrivan.blogspot.com/

Chris.Rivan@Yahoo.com