Meanwhile, aboard the Orphic Oracle ...
This is a fragment of screenplay, like traditional fiction but formatted in a particular way to make it easier for directors, actors, and producers to actually make a visual and auditory extravaganza for you to enjoy. Not everyone's been exposed to the screenplay format before and if you haven't, when you're done here go out and read the way that some of your favorite movies lay on the page before they slipped into your head. You're in for a treat.
In particular, this is formatted using Fountain, which is like Markdown but for screenwriters. It's definitely readable in the raw -- after all, it's designed to be -- but if you want to lay eyes on the properly formatted version, you can read Hell's Breather over on one of my other blogs.
When last we met, Gaea's Worst had just come off of a terrible mission, lost a goodly portion of the platoon, and had just been resupplied – with APCs instead of the light tanks they expected. After the failure of their reconnaissance mission, perhaps that was the best that they could hope for.
In the calm before the storm, looking down from on high, where do we go from here?
EXT. THE ORPHIC ORACLE - DAY
Everything proceeds in silence.
The Oracle is not the largest ship in any fleet. In fact, she's downright tiny compared to the bulk of the refueller that she's nuzzled up against, her sphincters dilated for easy access to her holds. Hydrogen and helium get pumped into bulging tanks above and rear. Men and women, like ants on a watermelon, clamber over her hull checking for micrometeorite damage or worse. The hull has definitely seen worse.
The rear is open, pressed against a large umbilicus, sealed tight against vacuum. Inside the translucent extension, shadows shift, casting pantomime shadows against the near wall.
INT. ORACLE LOADING BAY - CONTINUOUS
Abruptly, it's a hammer of noise as machines clank, motors strain, and people shout across the clamour.
HENRI LLOYD stands in a commanding position over the bay on a stack of supply crates, hands on hips, face a mask of conflicting emotions. He wears a bandage on his left shoulder, probably shrapnel from being flung from the exploding Chicken Scratch, or the roll afterwards.
A swarm of support techs in identical jumpsuits are marshalling a low-slung wedge of a tank into the bay.
ANDREW WINDGLASS, whipcord thin and long as if he'd spent time on the rack, clambers up on the boxes behind Lloyd. His tank commander's badging is the kind of shiny you never find on the battlefield.
Lloyd is consumed with watching the process of loading. Further down the umbilical, another low wedge of a Gaea Prime Sprint APC is pushed on its repulsors by a crew of ten. Both have the look of vehicles which are waiting to go back to the field and barely tolerate such dull interludes.
WINDGLASS
Well -- there's my coffin.
LLOYD
You mean the Bastard? Your faith in my abilities is amazing, Corporal.
WINDGLASS
You know this is where I'd usually have something snarky to say about the Scratch, right?
Lloyd turns just far enough that Windglass can see his tired smile.
LLOYD
It's good to see you here, Andrew. Though the Emperor knows how you managed to get assigned back to your homeworld. Steinler's a shithole anyway.
WINDGLASS
It's my shithole, though. Turns out that the local overseer has a taste for young boys --
LLOYD
-- and you blackmailed your way back in? That's so you.
Windglass gives Lloyd a solid punch in the bandaged shoulder, eliciting just a grimace.
WINDGLASS
You forget, I'm from here, Henri. I hooked him up with the best local supplier of fine and tender young boy-flesh in the sector.
LLOYD
Pimping? Really?
WINDGLASS
Procuring, thank you. And I got what I wanted.
He looks through the far side of the bay where the physical clam-shells yawn open to the stars and beneath them, Steinler. The terminator is just cresting the horizon.
LLOYD
You wanted to be assigned to the shittiest planetary defense force expeditionary team in the galaxy? On your homeworld, where slave trading --
WINDGLASS
Sex slave trading, thank you.
LLOYD
-- sex slave trading is one of the central pillars of the home economy --
WINDGLASS
More of a local craft.
Lloyd looks at Windglass with exasperation.
LLOYD
Aren't you from the aristos around here?
WINDGLASS
They never liked me much. I don't particularly care for them, either.
Lloyd shakes his head and gestures to the guy at the lead Sprint.
LLOYD
(to tech)
That one's got a dragging transaxe! Make sure it gets support on it!
The tech throws an overhead thumbs-up, never stopping the litany of directions streaming into his headset.
LLOYD
(to Windglass)
These guys are good for orbital guys. Free Companies, I'd bet.
WINDGLASS
So I'm told. Mercenaries don't usually get out here. Not worth the expense of travel, they say.
LLOYD
These guys ...
He casts a critical eye over the maintenance and security crew in the bay.
Few of them are particularly young, though the ones that are may be in their mid-teens. Their jumpsuits are clean orange but none are pressed, and they all have the shoulder and back patches depicting a vast, vortex-like mouth surrounded by needle teeth. Each wears a lightweight headset and wrist-comp. When they work together, they're organized but there are definitely a number who aren't members of the same fraternity. Many of them are missing limbs or have replaced them entirely. Their faces generally focus somewhere else, seldom looking straight at another tech unless its another like themselves, and even then it's brief and capped off by a shrug.
LLOYD
They're good. But I think they'd rather be somewhere else. Some of them, anyway.
WINDGLASS
Planetside, with a strong drink and a dangler on their lap, I'm betting.
LLOYD
Maybe. You ever think of joining up with mercenaries, Andrew?
WINDGLASS
Me? Ha! No, I'm Gaean born and bred, and I know what side that bread is buttered on. Too much risk for me, that many other guys around. Never liked that.
LLOYD
So you went into the PDF? Couldn't you have gone Star Army, even ISS? Your family is rich as shit.
Windglass turns away.
WINDGLASS
I could've. That's what my old man wanted, and his old man, and his old man. Not me. I just wanted to do my time in the service, make a little money on the side, shake some babies, kiss a few hands, and take care of a few things. Minimum investment, maximum safety.
LLOYD
Well, you're fucked, buddy. I just had two tanks blown out from under me, watched good people die, and still haven't figured out why the Hishen want anything to do with Steinler. There is nothing here worth taking. It is truly a shithole.
Windglass turns back to face the bay, avoiding Lloyd's eyes.
WINDGLASS
It's _my_ shithole, Henri. The fuckers have put their tiny grey feet on my shithole.
LLOYD
Your shithole. I'm more than happy for you to keep it, Corporal.
Windglass jumps down off the crates with easy grace while Lloyd clambers carefully after him.
WINDGLASS
If we've got a mercenary ship crew up here, we've got some mercenaries down there.
LLOYD
We do. The orders came through last week. These fine fuckers are from The Hungry.
WINDGLASS
The Hungry? Where'd Steinler find enough cash to throw down for a whole company?
LLOYD
Not a whole company, for one.
They move between the bustling techs, skirting the edge of the cargo, moving with authority across the broad transport aisles.
Ahead of them, the Sprints edge above the line of crates and refits. Over them and slightly behind, the mass of the remaining Thunder 1B has "Drop That Baby!" blazoned down the thin laser-guide from the turret.
Windglass paused, looking at the assembled platoon.
WINDGLASS
Your force looks good, Lieut.
Lloyd stops, looking up at them as if it were the first time he'd seen them.
LLOYD
They're new. To me, anyway. I wasn't expecting to be running fucking tin cans for squishies.
ANGEL CHI, sixteen, cute, perky, and carrying a pistol the size of a small planet comes swinging out of the crew hatch of the left-hand APC, directly under the obviously hand-stenciled "Ol' Dirty Bastard".
CHI
Don't say "squishies" like that, sir. One day I might just save your ass!
Lloyd works manfully at a scowl but it breaks into a smirk.
LLOYD
Maybe, kid, maybe. A little decorum for your old man, though. Someone has to take responsibility for the crazy shit you guys do.
Angel makes huge puppy-eyes.
CHI
But daddy, I really wanna go out and plaaaaay!
Lloyd open-palms Angel's face and playfully shoves her back into the APC.
LLOYD
Jesus, kid. Get back in there and finish cleaning up the ordinance. I can't fucking believe you're heavy weaps for the squishies. You weigh, what, fourty kilos soaking wet?
Her face goes all crafty.
CHI
You want to hear about me being soaking wet, daddy? You're dir--
Lloud points at the girl.
LLOYD
Shut it, soldier, and get on that task or I'll bust you down to camp follower where you fucking belong. Get me?
She smirks and strikes a sharp salute before turning on her heel and plunging into the guts of the Sprint again. Windglass stifles a grin behind Lloyd.
WINDGLASS
Can you believe that they pay us to do this job? Pay us!
LLOYD
I fucking can, Andrew. I fucking can. I hope the mercs are easier to work with than the PDF.