Desolas Arterius, a Palaven cadet, started the engines of a brand-new hoverbike. The elongated, spear-like machine with six auto-cannon barrels and a rocket under the belly is one of the latest creations of Palaven engineers.
Everyone, including cadets and scientists, is studying the recordings of the invasion of Oma Ker. Everything that was managed to be transmitted from there is being viewed, systematized, and passed to specialists for study and preparation. Everyone who has something to offer can come forward with their ideas or suggestions. The technical staff generates the most ideas, but there are plenty of suggestions from the residents of the Hierarchy as well, including excellent and practical ones.
All Turians have seen these recordings one way or another. And if you can offer something needed, your name will be among the authors. This motivates many.
There, in the recordings of the battles, were two major problems that significantly worsened the position of the colony's defenders. Huge four-legged walkers that right now, step by step, are cutting through the defenses of Palaven's moons, carving paths through the rocks and creating roads and tunnels for their own.
The only reliable ways to destroy these machines: an orbital strike or a boarding party with the detonation of mechanisms. So the demand for jump kits and their improvement, including the creation of assault exoskeletons, is off the charts.
And the second problem.
Small, agile, single-seat flying machines called "Banshees," whatever that means. Six meters of flying purple death; large ships drop them by the dozens and hundreds during an attack. And then they race through the city like a vicious flying swarm, with grenade-launcher green fire and twin-mounted...
...plasma easily suppresses firing positions and kills Turians.
They must be shot down as quickly as possible before a new batch arrives; the enemy does not conserve these machines at all. Ten will perish, and fifty more will fly in. Presumably, almost anyone can pilot them, so there is no question of specialized pilots like those in the Hierarchy's fighters. A single enemy in a Banshee can easily take out a couple of dozen infantrymen on the ground before dying. The enemy is completely satisfied with such a trade; even one good shot can create a mass of problems.
And the Hierarchy had no equivalents.
Of course, these machines have their downsides. Their launcher in the air is only effective at short range, and the twin plasma rapidly loses accuracy during burst fire. A missile, mobility, or sufficient density of fire allows one to surpass the opponent in the air quite easily. One only needs to reach them and have room to maneuver.
Which an interceptor simply doesn't have. Interceptors are not designed to maneuver among the towers of high-rise buildings in dense urban areas. An experienced Banshee pilot takes blatant advantage of this.
And this is where the Turian engineers come in. Using the chassis of an ordinary flying car—of which there are millions and billions in every city—they assembled a single-seat combat machine.
Five meters long, six rapid-fire Mass Effect machine guns, the ability to move in three dimensions, sharply jerking the machine aside to dodge grenades and Banshee fire. Low speed compared to classic aviation, but exactly what is needed in the current situation.
If you are more agile, more cunning, you will win. If not, armor won't particularly help—and there isn't much of it here anyway, for the sake of greater mobility and lower weight.
In terms of overall mobility, the machines are comparable; in terms of firepower and accuracy, the Turian machine is better, but it lacks a grenade launcher, having at most one or two air-to-air missiles on a hardpoint under the hull—no more will fit. And their utility isn't guaranteed; Banshees can dodge with a sharp maneuver. Furthermore, almost anyone can pilot the Olen (Deer) after passing courses and a commission.
Desolas himself, as a top-tier cadet, earned the right to participate in a patrol with adults in the role of a wingman. The Olen (Deer) are not as low-maintenance as Banshees, and if a pilot screws up, a crash is guaranteed. Plus, they were only recently put into service; there hasn't been time to form permanent units or even determine their place in the general hierarchy. But these are all problems that can be solved in the process, and they are being solved.
But while this is happening, there is a blatant shortage of trained pilots authorized to fly these machines. Hence the admission of cadets. Today's patrol involves three adult leads and three cadet wingmen.
"Flight Six. Begin takeoff. Coordinates of possible enemy presence transmitted."
A keypress, and the machine lifted off the hangar floor with a steady hum, hovering a meter above the concrete. The narrow hull allows them to be launched even from a truck or an office building window, as long as the platform is cleared. A Banshee can't do that; it's too wide.
"Acknowledged. Taking off."
Six craft launched, rushing into the evening sky of Palaven with a hum. One after another, the Olen (Deer) left the car park that was being used for camouflage. It's safer that way when the enemy can deliver orbital strikes on troop concentrations. Every citizen of the Turian Hierarchy undergoes military training anyway, and when it became clear an attack was coming, they took up arms. Only very young children or non-Turians were evacuated from the planet—the latter were looked upon with blatant contempt for their flight. No one else fled. No one.
Saren, the younger brother, was unlucky. He didn't make the age cutoff; he's only twelve. The Turian Hierarchy isn't so desperate as to throw minors into battle. However, there will be work for them in the rear as well. For now, the main thing is the patrol.
"Split into pairs. Keep your distance and keep your eyes peeled; Banshees can hide between buildings."
The Turian Hierarchy's combat hoverbikes resemble ancient spears painted white with red stripes, widening from the tip to the stern. This shape is aerodynamic, so the machines are faster than the enemy's in a straight line, while pulse engines decide the outcome in close combat.
Plus, this elongated shape protects against plasma fire from the front; the energy of the shot is partially dissipated and distributed over a larger area, meaning the machine can withstand more hits. The nose might be melted, but the mechanisms remain intact and the machine remains controllable.
In a head-on engagement, the Olen (Deer) beats the Banshee, and if the pilot manages to dodge the grenade and shots, they can down two or even three machines head-to-head before the hoverbike is disabled. Pulse engines allow for sharp lateral jerks to dodge fire. This is why a medical exam is required; the G-forces are unpleasant.
But the machine is beautiful and worth piloting. In urban combat, the Olen (Deer) are decisive. Sharp, aggressive machines and young, stern pilots—the Turian women are delighted.
Three pairs of patrollers race among the city's numerous spires along three parallel streets. The setting sun reflects beautifully off the city's spires, creating a perfect combination of clear blue sky and a white-yellow-orange glow playing on the armor of the Olen (Deer).
There aren't many fires in the city; the enemy is currently limiting themselves to air raids, and even those are quickly repelled. There is damage to infrastructure, but it is a far cry from what Oma Ker was turned into (as shown in classes).
Entirely intact city blocks with rare traces of hits. White stone, silver windows, neon signs, orange light. If not for the multi-meter holes punched in buildings here and there and the scorched skyscrapers, it would be an ordinary day on the capital world. Well, there are almost no cars in the sky; if anyone is flying anywhere, they stay higher to spot danger in time, or right at the surface.
Flashes of battle are visible in the sky above the city, but the ships themselves cannot be made out.
"Banshees at two o'clock, four machines. Third line, regroup."
Desolas clicked his mandibles; after all, he was the wingman on the third line. And he hadn't seen the enemy in advance, though black dots were now visible in the distance. A mistake, fatal for a pilot—he had drifted off, distracted while looking around. It was his first real combat sortie, after all. Not good; he needed to become better.
A few presses on the control console, and the image on the screen zoomed in. Indeed, characteristic dark silhouettes were ahead, making a run somewhere below. Very noticeable blue and green flashes flying downward. Plasma.
Two other pairs jumped out from adjacent streets, taking positions above and below them. In dense urban development, maneuverability is limited; his lead and he would take one group, the pair below them would take the second, and the top ones would provide cover.
"Ready,"—here it was, the moment of truth.
"Wingman, afterburners," the adult Turian pilot ordered.
Inhale and brace. One press, and it began, almost simultaneously with the lead. The engine's hum became strained, and Desolas was pressed into his seat. The enemy, having climbed higher, turned for another downward run. They hadn't noticed; even if we are approaching rapidly, fire must be delivered with certainty. The enemy must not be given a chance. And now, you are my prey.
"The right one is yours."
Desolas tapped his finger on the speaker; speaking was difficult, his body felt as if it were under a press. A slight course correction—now we are four times faster than the Banshee, but controlling at such speed is tough. The enemy pilot managed to realize he was being attacked and turned, but Desolas hadn't made it into the combat unit for nothing. Release the afterburner to avoid burning out the engine and squeeze the trigger.
Six guns roared, spitting a stream of tungsten toward the enemy machine. Now a jerk to the side—his vision darkened for a moment—and another burst. Another jerk down and a burst. The return fire mostly missed, though a few licked the hull, leaving molten dents.
The enemy machine's armor likely withstood the first shots, but then it was crumpled, riddled with holes. The Banshee's upper "dome" erupted in a plume of purple flame, and the machine went into a tailspin, rotating wildly around its axis. Desolas threw his own craft aside, evading shots from below fired by the downed enemy's comrade.
The second Banshee, attacked by the lead, also fell. The two remaining Banshees tried to fire at the nimble machines from below but only exposed themselves to the patrollers' fire. One of ours is smoking but not falling. He took a few hits to the vulnerable underside—weakling.
"Targets destroyed. Desolas, Tillus, damage report."
It wasn't so bad, actually. We tore them apart! The thrill of flight and victory was, however, diluted by the bitterness of insufficient observation. He must spot the next ones. Otherwise, honor would be compromised. Now, the report:
"One barrel burned out, a couple of holes, but dynamics are normal. Combat ready."
"Lost a pulse engine and some sensors, can continue, others are normal. Combat ready," Cadet Tillus reported.
So the damaged cadet has one of his maneuvering engines smoking. There are seven on the hull: four at the stern and three at the nose. If two are knocked out, it negatively affects mobility; with one gone, the fight can continue. Falling apart after the very first hits would have been very shameful.
"Excellent, continue," the commander confirmed.
As expected.
The pairs continued their flight over the city. The victory gave everyone confidence and a good mood.
"That wasn't hard," the least-damaged cadet remarked.
"Cut the chatter!" the lead snapped, "We aren't in the hangars yet."
"Sorry, got carried away."
Everyone fell silent, continuing to scan the area. A couple of new fire outbreaks, otherwise everything was fine. Palaven will hold.
A flash momentarily blinded Desolas, and he threw his machine aside. Just in time—a burst of purple flashes passed his Olen (Deer) from top to bottom. To dodge them, he had to work the maneuvering thrusters.
"Enemy above!"
The lead, failing to notice the threat in time, plummeted down like a torch, spinning wildly. Judging by the maneuvering thrusters, the pilot was alive and trying to stabilize the fall. But that wasn't the main thing; the evening skies suddenly became very bright.
An enemy ship, burning from several breaches, was making a run over the city with an escort, drenching both the city and its defenders in plasma. Buildings collapsed from the hits as if made of wet paper. Very brightly burning and popping wet paper, often several buildings at once. A force of nature. Overwhelming power against which... We can win. It is burning; it is bleeding. It can be killed, and the defenders are about to do it. The ship might be larger than Dreadnoughts, but it can still be destroyed. And it will be. Yes, yes, yes! There, that's better. What's around?
Compared to the giant, its escorts look tiny, but they aren't. Judging by their appearance, they are Frigates, which are quite good at exterminating Strike Craft. One of these little ships fired a burst at the patrol, forcing them to scatter. Then it switched its fire somewhere into the distance.
"Patrol Four, new objective. Support the attack on the enemy ship. Cover the bombers."
"Understood, attacking. Desolas, on me," the lead of the other pair ordered.
"Copy."
The squad gained altitude, turning toward the giant. Numerous targets were rushing toward the ship from all sides. Numerous Frigates were descending from above, shelling the enemy with Thanix Cannons and missiles. Interceptors and Volus bombers were making runs from the stern.
A missile volley from somewhere below struck one of the enemy escorts. The ship flew out of the cloud of explosions, its shields glowing, and at that moment, a tungsten slug caught it diagonally from below. The shield flared, and the slug exploded. A burst raked the escort from below from another point, causing the ship to lose its footing and fall onto the buildings below.
The Thanix Cannons, attacking the ships with a stream of metal under pressure, shear off the tops of buildings and simply cut through skyscrapers. But if the ship manages to entrench itself, the casualties and destruction will be far greater. Buildings can be rebuilt, but the enemy must be destroyed now. And yet, where the giant flew, a blazing hell remains. It can no longer be said the city is unharmed; a massive, burning wound will be laid across it. Especially since the enemy is in no hurry to die.
The ship, which had been almost falling and was stripped of shields, began to level out, gliding smoothly over the city. And if from the front it seems merely large, from the side this multi-kilometer silhouette is simply colossal, like an oceanic leviathan, but flying. The same characteristic silhouette of a sea creature with a noticeable "head." Seeing it in person is impressive, terrifying, and it is burning.
It is impossible to compare the image shown in training to when a ship's shadow covers part of the sky, and other ships—Cruisers even—look like fighters against its backdrop. A swarm of Strike Craft detached from it, rushing to intercept the attackers—dots against the giant's background. Just the right size for the patrol, but there are many of them. Very many.
Desolas threw his machine and fired a missile just by the instruments, as many others did. The scattering enemies were moving so densely that the projectiles were simply destined to hit; it was enough to just fire in that general direction. The main thing was not to get carried away when the enemies responded with a rain of light-blue flashes.
"Now it's my turn," the Turian grinned, blowing up another Banshee.
It fell; from such a height, the pilot is a guaranteed corpse. Another burst, and another enemy went down, smoking. The other patrollers downed four more. And then they were noticed, and fire was opened from three sides at once.
Desolas dove his machine down, but two others weren't so lucky. One of the seniors exposed himself to a grenade; the front half of the hoverbike was simply blown apart, and he fell like a stone. The second followed him as a burning torch from a breached hull under the engine's howl.
The ship, a colossal silhouette, swept over the patrollers and flew on, gradually slowing and losing chunks of its hull under constant attacks from the left, right, and above.
Slugs struck the side of the ship; several more arrived from above. Some slammed into the city, breaking buildings like paper, but that was completely unimportant. What mattered was that the ship began to fall apart; an entire section of the side, the size of a Dreadnought, broke off. It didn't fall but bent at about thirty degrees, shaken by explosions. The cadet couldn't contain himself and shouted in delight:
"Give it to them! Yes! Burn!"
The giant glowed with a light-blue light, and a beam simply sliced two Turian Frigates into pieces at once. A purple sphere broke away from the damaged section and fell onto the city. Although the hit occurred at a considerable distance, the heat wave arrived instantly. A purple sea of flame turned the buildings of several blocks into a soft, plastic substance as the buildings folded under their own weight into a burning sea. Even where buildings weren't destroyed, the fire wave passed through, leaving behind more fires and shattering the glass of towers.
Volus bombers roared over the three remaining patrollers. Black machines, elongated rectangular hulls with turrets at the stern and launch tubes, soared upward to evade fire and released projectiles at the giant. Not everything reached it, but judging by the yellow and blue flashes—they hit.
Desolas himself didn't have time to admire the explosions covering the giant, which was fiercely spitting back plasma. A swarm of Banshees and transports descended, and he had to work the maneuvering thrusters actively to survive in this meat grinder. And that was not easy at all. Several dozen Turian pilots had gathered, including the patrollers, Shock Troopers, and even the Volus were helping with turrets.
And opposite them was a swarm no smaller—on the contrary, one that compensated for its problems with numbers. Desolas accelerated, hiding among the buildings to reduce the density of fire even slightly. Those who didn't do so hit their targets but were themselves falling down in a ragged rain. Without cover, the Olen (Deer) lose.
And above all this chaos, the enemy giant, left alone, withstood the shelling from all sides. A secondary explosion finally tore the section off, and it crashed onto the city, crushing and shearing buildings; flame poured from the exposed side, and plasma flashes bloomed on the armor, but the enemy held. And then, under its fire, another Turian Cruiser fell down in a rain of fire, breaking apart. Even the hits from MAC (Magnetic Accelerator Cannon) guns, which made the giant shudder, did not strip it of its combat capability.
And again, a second almost cost Desolas his life. A Banshee timed it right and struck from below, causing two lower pulse engines to turn black on the status panel immediately, while his legs exploded in pain. But the hover, thrown aside while smoking, dodged a grenade that shattered the windows of a building ten floors higher.
"There are still maneuvering thrusters on the nose. What if I do this?"
Overcoming the pain, he turned the machine, practically forcing it into an uncontrolled spin. But the main thing was that the Banshee was directly on course. A burst, and blue flame erupted from under the enemy's crumpled hull as the enemy pitched forward. The second one managed to fire a burst, starting a fire in the snow-white hull. The machine finally lost control.
"No, no, no!"
Spinning wildly, the Olen (Deer) began to descend. The Banshee managed to fire a few more shots before a missile struck it. Thank you, unknown shooter. Now he had to land the machine somehow. An ejection seat wasn't provided; there wasn't enough room. With this kind of spinning, it's hard just to move, let alone unbuckle. It didn't work.
The Olen (Deer) smashed through the glass of the nearest building with its hull, somehow ending up in the space of a floor rather than hitting the concrete floor between them. With a roar and a screech, the machine continued to decelerate; the light armor couldn't withstand such treatment, grinding against the flooring. The young Turian screamed in pain and lost consciousness for a couple of seconds.
When Desolas came to a bit, the roar of battle outside continued. What was bad was that the hull of the Olen (Deer) had heated up, and thick, black, suffocating smoke was coming from the hull, slowly filling the empty floor of the skyscraper. Attempting to move, the Turian hissed.
"Damn, I can't feel my legs."
A few clicks, and the armor injected painkillers. He needed to crawl away from the machine, which was clearly ready to catch fire. The Turian tried to unbuckle, but the straps wouldn't give. He tried to jerk away, but couldn't do that either. Until the straps were cut, nothing would work.
The hum and gunfire outside continued. Okay, he needed to cut the straps. An attempt to reach the knife on his belt was unsuccessful; the Turian was sitting on it. More and more smoke. He had to try. Another jerk. His hand reached it, but he couldn't extract the knife. It was getting hot. He barely managed to suppress a surge of panic. It wasn't over yet.
"Okay, calm down and try again."
On the third try—success. The knife left the sheath, and the straps were cut without problem. That meant he now had to climb out, pull his legs from under the burning mechanism, and crawl away, preferably far.
"Okay, and now—raaaaaa!"
The pain caused his consciousness to flicker for a second. And tongues of flame began to poke through the holes left by the plasma. Come on, he had to try! One more time!
The second attempt brought nothing but new pain. It seemed his legs were not only broken but also quite firmly pinned when the struts crumpled. A design flaw that might cost him his life right now.
The Turian coughed, inhaling smoke, but tried one more time. He had to break free, one way or another! Unexpectedly, the mechanism gave way, and he literally flew out of the cockpit, hissing to himself. But it was a success! Okay, what about the legs? It was bad; they were bleeding, mangled cutlets pressed together with the armor. But he hadn't lost consciousness yet, which meant he had to crawl. Leave the floor before this thing exploded and burned everything here. Crawl, forward and forward!
A massive roar sounded outside. The battle continues. Hopefully successfully. The Turian crawled toward the office exit. Hissing in pain, but who has it easy now? And there's no one here to comment on the situation. So left, right, left, right. Now, if only the office door isn't locked; breaking it down in this state would be difficult. Left, right, left, right.
Lucky—it's open. I don't know who didn't close it behind them, but the cadet is definitely grateful to them; the fire had already begun to spread behind him. And if he had lingered, that would have been the end. The main thing is not to lose consciousness, or you'll burn. It hurts, but he must crawl. More. And more. Drills save lives, as the sergeant used to say. A few more meters and the stairs.
Trying to start an elevator during a battle that isn't letting up is a risk. Power might go out, or the building might be hit, and that's it, game over. Is the staircase open? Again, yes. Offering prayers to the spirits, the Turian crawled onto the stairwell. Rough, with a minimum of fire-hazardous surfaces. Now descend a bit, and salvation will be so close.
His consciousness began to drift. Looking back, he realized he was leaving a bloody trail and tumbled down the steps. That's good, right? Or maybe bad? Probably bad. No strength left.
In theory, even if he loses consciousness now, they'll find him by the beacon. So the pain and the fact that he just tumbled down the stairs isn't a problem as long as he's alive. He needs to be as far away as possible when the car's engine detonates. In theory, the floors will protect him already, but there will be a fire.
The building shook noticeably. It seems it exploded. The Turian managed to tumble down two floors, but he simply has no strength left to move further. He just fell asleep. And didn't wake up.
***
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