"No one would have believed that in the last years of the 19th century, that human affairs were being watched from the timeless worlds of space. No one could have dreamed we were being scrutinized, as someone with a microscope studies creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water. Few men even considered the possibility of life on other planets and yet, across the gulf of space, minds immeasurably superior to ours regarded this Earth with envious eyes and slowly and surely they drew their plans against us."

-HG Wells: War of the Worlds

Deep within human territory of the Milky Way lay their homeworld of Earth, clutched in the gravity of its sun, known as Sol. Around it, arrayed as the last line of defense for Earth, the 4th Fleet of the Systems Alliance Navy was in a state of barely-controlled chaos.

They had not prepared for war in years, and it showed.

Civilian and merchant ships kept getting in the way of military formations, in their attempts to get home or get out before the hammer fell. Massive, bulky freighters, sleek and swift cruise liners, and a handful of decommissioned military vessels in private hands, moving in a massive mob. They knew that the Alliance wouldn't mobilize like this for a training exercise.

Half of the 4th Fleet was still in docks across Lunar and Earth orbit, and secure in the knowledge that nothing could get by the entirety of the Alliance Navy.

Even mobilizing the fleet for an exercise would have been difficult. The heavy cruisers, fleet carriers, handful of battlecruisers, and the lone dreadnought were hangar queens. The things hadn't left the system in years.

To make matters worse, many ships in the 4th Fleet were ancient. Most still bore the insignia of their old units, each having belonged to the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd fleets at one point or another.

Immediately after the First Contact War, with all the new technologies coming in, dozens of ships were commissioned to bring humanity up to the level of the rest of the galaxy. Unwilling to lose the advantage of numbers, the Alliance also refused to decommission any of the vessels that had been produced in the year leading up to the war. Instead, all of the vessels were shunted into a rear guard force for Earth's doorstep.

Ever since, the 4th had become the dumping ground for dozens of ships and officers. It was the rear guard after all, there were seven fleets between them and any enemy force. It wasn't as though they might be expected to actually face combat…

Some of the vessels were minor names, that the public had clamored to keep in commission, but the navy considered out of date. The cruiser SSV Woking, for example, the first human vessel to encounter the Migrant Fleet was one. The fleet carrier SSV Ark Royal had been involved in the first of many standoffs with Batarian Hegemony forces, when they tried to annex an independent human colony.

Frigate Flotilla 29, one of the more well-known groups, had been the first human vessels to make an observation of a pre-industrial alien world. Through extensive research, they found that the world was occupied by, surprisingly, two sentient species instead of the average one. One of the races had been a feline race and the other resembled Earth velociraptors.

The dreadnought, the SSV Fuji, was a member of the Everest class, humanity's first class of battleships. Despite her age, the vessel hadn't been retired, given both the military and economic value of dreadnoughts.

Even vessels capable of rapid deployment were experiencing difficulty in doing so. Many of Earth's nations had control of the dock facilities, having lended some of their older space stations to the Alliance. This was causing some roadblocks, as many of these were smaller countries, that hadn't had political leverage in a long time. They could see how panicked the fleet was, and knew that the navy would be willing to pay any price to get the ships out there.

Logistics were a mess as well. Flotilla tenders were being misdirected by conflicting reports, and even when they got to the right place they didn't have much to spare. Units that had been on training maneuvers were forced to stay put wherever they were until they could get refueled.

Javelin missiles were hoarded like gold, as were standard disruptor torpedoes and most forms of major consumable ordnance. The javelins alone cost as much as a fighter each, and had been sent to those fleets most likely to face combat; IE, any but the 4th.

Frantic for armaments, warehouses for condemned weapons were being raided by marines; hoping that in the haystack, there might have been one or two still-functional warheads or missiles put in by mistake.

Still, despite what the reports were saying, if anything got through, the ships that had managed to get moving would be enough to stop them.

Across the system, around the Charon Relay, lay most of the 1st Fleet, the largest in the Alliance navy.

Being the largest meant that they had some of the latest equipment. While the 4th had to make do with ancient Sampson class frigates, or, if they were lucky, fifteen year old Havoc classes, the 1st had ready access to Fantasque-class frigates. Fresh paint glistening in the weak blue light of the relay, the Fantasque was the latest type of frigate to come off the production line. Fast, powerful, and smart, they could outclass batarian cruisers three times their size; Sampsons could barely put up a fight against a lone ship equal in tonnage.

There were even rumors that some of the new Normandy-class frigates were hanging around, ready to pounce on whatever may come through.

The frigate flotillas formed the first line, accompanied by Daring-class corvettes. They weren't mounted with spinal mass accelerators; they were instead armed with banks of missiles, metal storm CIWS guns, along with single dorsal and ventral GARDIAN cannons. They would swarm enemy frigates en masse, or wipe out squadrons of enemy fighters individually.

Single craft swarmed around the line, interceptors, bombers, and fighters. Devastator bombers were the backbone of the fleet. They were heavily armed, could stand up to a lot of firepower, and several squadrons had recently been upgraded with a classified form of ablative armor; enabling them to survive for (theoretically) up to a minute under sustained laser fire. While the rest of the fleet was engaged, they would rush in to launch torpedo attacks, escorted by the F-78 Zero fighters.

The zeroes were deployed in limited numbers, being heavy and expensive fighters designed to follow the bombers in. The standard fighter, the F-61 Trident, made up the rest of the fighter units. Tried and true, it was boasted that it could take on any contemporary craft in any arsenal in the galaxy.

Finally, the P-63, the Komet, made up the majority of the interceptors in the fleet. They dated back to the First Contact War, but only in name. The reliable airframe made it highly upgradable and resistant to damage, while being inexpensive at the same time. They could be on one side of the fleet shooting down torpedoes one minute, then be plugging a hole on the other side the next.

Intrepid-class heavy cruisers, the best in the Alliance's arsenal, formed the core of the second line of defense. They came equipped with three squadrons of single craft, easily reconfigurable for a variety of missions. Their computer systems were some of the best ever mounted on Alliance ships, and they even had automated emergency medical systems installed. In addition to their Thanix cannons, many ships had recently been installed with a pair of infrared anti-ship lasers.

A variety of more standard cruisers made up the escorts for the second line, as well as a large portion of the center of the fleet by screening the bigger boats. Light, or heavy, they were integral parts of the fleet.

A pair of dreadnoughts, the SSV Everest, and the Aconcagua, were some of those "bigger boats". Despite its status as the first human dreadnought ever built, the Everest was constantly being updated and modified, unlike the 4th Fleet's Fuji. Simulations suggested that she could give the Aconcagua, a modern Kilimanjaro-class, a run for her money.

SSV Hawking, Goddard, and Benjamin Davis were the supercarriers in the fleet, flanked by a handful of Akagi-class and De Gaulle-class light carriers. While not exactly the latest equipment, they were still front line warships, and could still carry fighters into battle.

The Goddard was the newest carrier in the fleet, quite literally. They had pulled her out of drydock above Mars with yard crews still aboard.

The 1st was ready for a fight, all the best equipment in the system had gone to them; hence the reason the 4th couldn't find a single bullet.

No one was going to get past the 1st Fleet. They were the biggest fleet, and the best of the best.

Even so, everyone was antsy. Each and every crewmember of every starship watched a screen, as video feed from one of Arcturus Station's external cameras filtered in.

The 2nd, 3rd, and 5th fleets were deployed in a similar fashion to the 1st, but were even more well equipped. Arcturus Station was home to the biggest drydocks the Alliance had, and they always had enough ammunition and fuel on hand.

Beyond Arcturus Station, vague reports of "monsters" and "unknown enemy" had been trickling in through the comm buoys; but their frequency had been dropping, slowly, steadily, and ever so mysteriously.

One word kept appearing, over and over again. "Sovereign".

Its frequency was ignored by military intelligence, who were confident that another ship the size of Sovereign couldn't exist without their knowledge.

Finally, the last reports from the relay, before all communication ceased, all indicated that something big was coming their way.

A message from Fifth Fleet's flagship, SSV Orizaba, rippled through the armada. "This is fleet Admiral Hackett to all ships," came the calm voice, "Hold fire until we can get a look at what we are facing."

Through the camera footage, everyone from the fleets and Arcturus Station saw several ships come through the relay in the distance.

The relay still emanated its friendly blue glow, and the calm, quiet rings continued rotating as they had for countless years. But the vessels were far from friendly.

They were too far away for the camera to see clearly, beyond a triangular shape, but they rapidly closed in on the fleets at an alarming speed.

2nd Fleet, the heroes of Shanxi, had been closest to the relay. They made swift and short engine burns to close the distance, and began to fire their opening volleys.

They would take casualties, but they sure would give the enemy a bloody nose.

The enemy met 2nd Fleet. And ended them.

The camera feed could pick out the dreadnought, the SSV Elbrus, being hit. A trail of debris drifted away as atmosphere escaped, and it twirled through space like a ballet dancer.

A frigate disappeared as the Elbrus passed through it, and an impact upon a cruiser finally sent its fusion plant critical.

The dust from the explosion obsured the rest of the fleet from view, but all that anyone could see were more explosions. Again, and again.

Finally, silhouettes emerged, as still more battle raged behind them. The triangular silhouettes-They were coming.

3rd fleet lit their engines, on intercept courses. So did one of the smaller enemy ships. It ripped apart two flotillas of Fantasque frigates before they could even fire.

His voice awash with static, the commander of the 3rd, Admiral Singh, came over the channel. "Kill that thing!"

The SSV Logan emptied its main gun at the enemy, and something exploded along its hull.

A cheer rang up from those watching, as the ship broke off and retired to the rear.

5th fleet deployed as well, advancing alongside 3rd's ships. Combat was no longer at stand-off range. It had dissolved into the organized mess known as knife-fight range.

No one could tell what was happening...Until something big appeared in the center of the feed. The camera was mounted on Arcturus Station itself, a facility that could handle kilometer-long starships with ease.

And something nearly equal in size to the station was taking up most of the display screens. For the first time, they had a clear look at the enemy.

The enemy ship was eerily similar, yet different from the ship that had attacked the Citadel two years ago. It was covered in tentacles, and what looked like eyes shimmered on its purple hull.

Two Intrepids rushed to engage, firing their mass accelerators and anti-ship lasers.

It didn't even flinch. The enemy ship literally batted one cruiser aside, and gutted the second with an anti-ship laser of its own.

Silent guns mounted on the station began to pound away, shaking the camera. The ever-present kinetic barrier stopped any before they could even scratch the paint.

Finally, it seemed that the enemy dreadnought had had enough. It leaned back, and a red glare appeared, before static filled the feed.

45,000 people, including the Alliance Parliament, were now dead.

At this point, no one in 1st Fleet was watching the camera. They were instead all staring at what was coming out of the relay.

Each of the vessels that came through the relay was large, the smallest massed no less than the largest Alliance frigate. It wasn't the little ones that the humans feared, however. They feared the bigger ones. The ones that all looked like Sovereign.

The huge dreadnought had been destroyed by the combined firepower from the Alliance and Citadel fleets two years ago, but the name alone could still send chills down a veteran's spine; the single vessel having destroyed a third of each fleet that had engaged it.

It had returned, but this time it wasn't alone. It was only one of many in a fleet. And smaller copies provided escort.

This was an unknown force no more, for the enemy had a name, one that had been denied for centuries by almost the entire galaxy, accepted only as fiction.

They were called Reapers.

The Sovereign-class was two kilometers in length, and had a long hull shaped like a squid. it had an arrowhead-shaped upper hull, from underneath which six appendages stuck out. Right below that section was the lower hull, from which five larger tentacles emerged. The destroyers were designed in much the same way, but with only the the first six tentacles, and no lower hull.

As soon as the Reaper fleet emerged from the Charon Relay, a single order reverberated through the assembled fleet, repeated by every commanding officer.

"All ships, open fire!"

The Intrepids, Fantasques, and Darings, all lent their fire to the fusilade unleashed by the Everest and the Aconcagua.

Frigate and cruiser "wolf packs" began to close the distance, firing everything they had. Devastators charged in, followed by their escorts.

The attack did very little damage, if any at all. A few, here and there, limped back to the relay. Maybe an engine was out. Maybe their paint was seriously scratched.

The Reapers deployed interceptor craft, and fired their own anti-fighter weapons. Out of the thousands deployed, barely 200 devastators made it to the Reaper lines. The rest were simply gone.

The zeroes found themselves trapped and alone among the merciless machines. A dozen were all that managed to make it back to their motherships.

Now it was the Reapers' turn. Their bombers destroyed many of the frigates that tried to close the distance, and the biggest Reapers fired their main weapons at this standoff range.

Dozens of cruisers went up in smoke, as the Reapers did not wait for a second volley; they instead stampeded into the carefully arranged defensive lines.

They really didn't even need their main guns. Their tentacles and anti-ship lasers were enough.

1st Fleet scattered as their rigid lines shattered under the weight of the Reaper spearhead. Intrepids could not hope to match their processing power, they were left behind in the dust as some became dust.

A destroyer, barely larger than its victims, ran rings around a flotilla of Fantasque frigates. After a while, it became tired of playing with them.

The Daring-class was completely helpless. They could barely hold their own against enemy fighters, let alone try to swarm one of the destroyers. That didn't stop them from trying.

Hopelessly, the komets tried to hold back the enemy fighters; unleashing everything in their arsenals. They couldn't.

The Reapers were merciless, even to the most powerful vessels built by human hands. One of the largest went right through, not into, through, the flanks of the Goddard as she vainly attempted to escape the carnage. It snapped in two like a twig, escaping atmosphere sending both pieces into collisions with the tightly-packed escorts.

The Everest and Aconcagua continued firing along with their escorts, desperately trying to rally the fleet, and simultaneously stop the Reapers from getting to Earth. Anti-ship lasers flashed again and again, cutting into enemy ranks.

They didn't waste time destroying an enemy vessel, they only knocked down their kinetic barriers to punch a hole for the fighters and frigates. They inflicted several casualties in this way.

Small victories. Nothing more.

The escort carriers afire on her left flank, enemy fire slamming into its kinetic barriers, the Aconcagua had had enough. She and her captain weren't going out this way. Defiantly, she lit her engines.

The dreadnought lumbered across space, her incredible power plant rapidly leaving her consort cruisers in the dust. Bravely, and valiantly, she gave the Reapers a taste of their own medicine; the Aconcagua entered their ranks.

Without her consorts, enemy fighters and destroyers were able to pound away at her, tearing away armor, thruster units, and GARDIAN lasers.

The Aconcagua, against all odds, held on. She continued pushing forward. She would not die cowardly, she would not die in flight, and she would not die hiding. She was a dreadnought. There was nothing she feared. She would die a battleship.

Utilizing precious little intel from the Battle of the Citadel two years earlier, the dreadnought swiveled all one-hundred and fifty-six broadside cannons; coming to bear on nearly a dozen Sovereigns. The targeting reticules did not fall at random. They all fell in the same spot. Right where the lower hull connected to the upper hull.

Aconcagua's fleet uplink systems enabled her to coordinate fire with dozens of other friendly ships in range, targeting, and pouring on their own fire.

For the first time in the battle, six Sovereigns were heavily damaged or destroyed. Several destroyers caught in the crossfire were as well. The assault temporarily slowed, giving dozens of ships the time they needed to escape.

This was partly because half the Reapers in the fleet wanted a piece of the ship that had killed their brethren.

Aconcagua was surrounded. There was no escape for her. Escape pods rocketed out alongside shuttles, as her guns pounded away. Slowly, but steadily, she was cut apart like a Thanksgiving Day turkey.

The Reapers didn't even go after the escape pods; husks didn't matter to them, all that mattered was that this unintelligent warship had to die.

Fighters ran up and down her flanks, unleashing endless amounts of hellfire. Reaper missiles rocketed into her intestines, exposing empty compartments to space. They surrounded her, and poured on the fire.

One by one, her guns fell silent. The mass accelerators, the broadside cannons, the anti-ship lasers, even the point-defense arrays. What little she had left could barely put a dent in their shields anymore.

The SSV Aconcagua wasn't dead, though. She still had one weapon left. A power plant the size of the original HMS Dreadnought. Not a contemporary vessel. The original. The Royal Navy sea vessel constructed two-hundred and eighty-one years ago, before space travel existed beyond the realm of science fiction. The craft that had coined the term dreadnought.

And had been about one-hundred and sixty meters long.

Afire, crew complement down to one brave woman on the bridge, Aconcagua drove straight into a Sovereign class.

Her running lights finally died, before Aconcagua disappeared.

The hammer fell on the 4th Fleet.

Orbital defense satellites turned to fire, fighters sortied out, and every ship found a target lock.

The few minutes of advanced warning weren't enough to eliminate thirty years worth of attrition.

The Reapers formed their own battle line, and opened fire. The Woking, along with half the cruisers in the line, cracked like eggs. Then the killing began.

Frigate Flotilla 29, escorting the Ark Royal, found themselves engaging a Reaper destroyer.

Instead of engaging in combat, they followed the protocol when a carrier was in danger: run like hell out of the line of fire.

Like the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 5th before them, the 4th Systems Alliance Fleet fell into a chaotic fighting withdrawal...Albeit one much worse than the others had experienced.

As the well-trained fleets of Humanity fell into chaos, no one noticed an odd energy signature appear on Luna, Earth's moon...

XXXXX

Deep within a massive hull of armor plating and weapons was a command deck, designed specifically for humans. Alongside the walls of the room lay lockers and hatches, and in the center of the room, a command couch sat, with a bubble Heads Up Display(HUD). The half sphere was located above the command chair so that the commander could get a view of the action in relative comfort.

Abruptly, the HUD began to light up once more, as one of the doors in the back of the chamber hissed open, and out stumbled a rather messy and sleepy soldier.

"Alright Hector," General Jamie Graham said with a tired grin, "What are you shooting at now?"

A voice replied that from the tank itself, "The vibrations that we felt were not my doing, General. My sensors went offline for a period of time, and they are only coming back online now."

Graham's grin disappeared as he hurried over to the command chair. Glancing at the seat, he winced once again as he gingerly sat on the dried bloodstain of the Bolo's previous commander.

A faint crimson outline lay on the deck plating as well.

"Give me a visual of the outside, Hector. Let's see what we're dealing with."

Hector did as ordered, both man and machine interested in what they were about to see. What was out there surprised them both.

Instead of the refugee camp the pair had been escorting, and the green (slightly trampled) rolling landscape of their home, the planet Cloud, there lay instead a bleak, dreary, and grey landscape.

Desolate. Cold. Unforgiving.

"What...exactly am I looking at? Hector? Did the !*!*!...annihilate this hemisphere's atmosphere, or something?" Graham asked, his panic rising.

The AI's response was the opposite of what his commander expected. "Negative General. Our surroundings seem to give evidence that we are in a completely different environment. Perhaps even another celestial body."

My commander replies to my report, "So, did the !*!*! transport us to one of Cloud's moons? Knock out your sensors and snatch us with a ship?"

As I point out the flaws in transporting, rather than destroying a Mk. XXXIII Bolo to my commander, and not even attempting to dispose of me, I conclude an analysis of the stars. Simultaneously, I deploy launch a recon drone to determine our tactical situation.

This...cannot be right. My analysis indicates that the stars above us are almost synonymous in location with the ones visible from the Sol System.

My sensors alert me to an unidentified object. Scanning a specific area 200 meters from my position, I find that the area is another impact crater, similar to the others nearby, but not created by the kinetic force released from the impact of a meteoroid, upon this planetary surface.

The fragments left by the crash are much fewer in number than what would normally be generated by such an impact. My suspicions are further aroused by the fact that the fragments are made of refined materials.

Steel, glass, gold, plastics. None of which are found in nature in the observed form.

Upon further inspection, I confirm that the impact crater has not been created from a meteorite. In the center lies instead an object, composed of the same material as fragments, and is the creator of the indentation.

Moving closer to the device, I activate one of the gun cameras attached to one of my anti-personnel railguns.

Zooming in on the object, I see that it is a probe of a primitive design. It was powered by a solar collector positioned on the top, that is now bent out of shape and heavily damaged. It has thrusters positioned around the central casing, designed for maximum control, and possessed multiple landing legs that jutted out from the center.

The landing legs were created with this type of surface in mind, but nonetheless could not save the craft from destruction. Two have snapped off, and the third is bent out of shape.

As I scan over the remains of the destroyed lander, I spot an identification plate. Mostly scratched out, by time and the crash, but I can still analyze the remains and impressions left by the manufacturing tool.

I am able to discover what information it displayed. The probe's name was "Surveyor 2".

What follows is a list of numbers and identification codes, and I archive the data into passive memory storage with little attention paid. Instead, I focus attention on searching through my historical database. My my recon drone has moved over the horizon, and begins to gather data.

My hypothesis is correct. It is no trick. The data I have gathered from the sky, the ancient probe, and my own drone confirms my suspicions. The !*!*! could not have achieved this level of detail..

I know that we are on Luna, Earth's moon, even as my drone records the first Earthrise I have seen since I left Sol, and the Concordiat of Man.

My commander and I have returned to our distant home. Graham to his ancestor's homeworld, the one he does not know, and I to the birthplace I remember in absolute detail.

I begin to broadcast identification across all channels using my subspace communication suite. The Home Fleet should already be targeting my position. ODPs are most likely "drawing a bead" on me at this very moment.

Within five minutes, I have transmitted 8.6 hundred times, and received no reply.

This is no surprise. The Melconian War was already extremely devastating, and there had been reports of deep penetration units that were making their way deep into Concordiat territory, as well as the mathematical certainty of a counterpart Operation Ragnarok.

Perhaps Sol's defenses have been completely obliterated. Perhaps humankind has been enslaved.

Perhaps Cloud is all that is left.

Perhaps I am the only remaining Concordiat Bolo.

I archive the theories. Whatever threat that comes our way, I will stop it. I will free humanity if that is required. We will find a way back to Cloud if necessary. I will destroy empires if I am called upon to do so.

I am a Bolo Mk. XXXIII. Humanity's sword and shield.

Abruptly, I make contact. A quantum entanglement device. Only two points of contact at the moment, and won't be able to handle any more than a few extra. It is a museum piece.

I use my SWIFT array, based on the same technology, to make a third point.

"This is Bolo Mk. XXXIII Model HCT Hecate of the Line. Please respond."

"This is a secure UNAS Navy communication line," an automated transmission replies, "If you do not deactivate your quantum entanglement array immediately, you will be subject to the full extent of federal law."

A pre-recorded security transmission. How delightfully quaint. I attempt to speak its language...

"Program_Instruction: Run_Bypass." The computer's digital defenses are virtually non-existent, it is easy to gain access.

"Welcome," the voice says, much more agreeable, "How may I be of assistance?"

"I require immediate contact with an operator."

"I am sorry. That function is not available."

"I request immediate contact with someone from either access point."

"I am sorry. This relay has remained on standby for [29] years, [5] months, [10] days, [23] hours, [37] minutes, [59] seconds. Communication is impossible unless placed on alert by a senior officer. Maintenance is overdue by [28] years, [1] month. Primary power is offline. Communication is impossible without primary power."

Frustrated as much as a Bolo can be, I shut off the link. I activate more basic systems, designed for communication on a planet's surface but are easily reconfigured for interplanetary usage.

Now I am getting somewhere. Innumerable distress calls are flooding into my arrays now. It appears humanity is still in danger, though technology has fallen extremely far. Again, unsurprising, resources are most likely scarce in the aftermath of the war.

I inform General Graham of this new development, 5.6 seconds after initiating contact with the QET array. He acknowledges, but that is all.

He is upset.

Unfortunately, before I have a chance to sooth my commander, I receive a proximity warning, "General. Unknown contact ten kilometers out. Speed mach seven, bearing 90°. Altitude 5,500 meters."

Jamie snaps out of his emotional trance for the moment, and asks, "Can you see if they're hostile?"

The contact comes into visual range. I see that it is some sort of manned craft, of an unfamiliar configuration. Scanning the hull, I find identical identification plates located on either flank of the vessel. The ship's name is the "SSV Waterloo". It does not match with any known craft in my database, but it is likely 120 years out of date. It could also be heavily modified to the extent that its original design is unrecognizable.

"The vessel has Human life signs aboard. It seems to have sustained significant battle damage, reactor is nearing critical levels." I report to my commander.

He examines the image, soon responding, "The ship looks like some of the old Concordiat craft I've seen in images, but none were in active military service by the time you and the original colonists left Earth."

"Perhaps this is all the fleet can assemble anymore; there were many ancient vessels in mothballs on Mars. Judging by the conventional radio emissions, as well as the other outdated systems, the vessel is extremely primitive."

As we speak, the craft fires energy weapons at a foe out of visual range, and ultraviolet beams suddenly flash through the sky, impacting the Waterloo and cutting through its hull. Its reactor finally gives in. The ship explodes, shattering into 7.4 thousand fragments, none of which pose a threat to myself.

General Graham curses, "Check for survivors. Who the hell fired?"

I find no life signs, and the General curse again, saddened by the loss of life.

Though I did not know them, I feel some of the pain Graham is feeling, I feel anguish towards their killers.

I will avenge them.

Another contact appears on my sensors, and is roughly the same size as the last one. This contact does not even resemble any vessels in my database, as I know of no species that uses a craft shaped like an Earth-squid. The vessel is also emitting similar signals to unmanned craft, and it begins to slow as I feel its sensors detect me.

The sensor sweep by the potentially-hostile unknown contact moves me to Full Battle Alert mode. A three-missile salvo of Surface-to-Space Missiles are automatically readied, and loaded with standard warheads. I place them on standby however, unwilling to utilize expendable munitions so quickly without chance of resupply.

I swivel my #1 Hellbore in the bogey's direction, and within .01 seconds I am ready for battle, all weapons locked on target.

I inform General Graham. "Blow those bastards to pieces."

The squid-shaped vessel fires. My battle screens are unaffected. Nevertheless, I ensure that power flow is maintained.

Contrary to popular belief, battle screen strength is not measured in percentages. Either a projectile makes it through, or it does not. There is no middle ground as in typical science fiction. Whether or not a battle screen can stop a projectile is based upon the amount of power they are provided. Despite the inaccurate, percentages remain in works of fiction to this day, due to their usefulness as a means to build tension.

I designate the contact as hostile in reply, and open fire with my operational Primary 200cm Hellbore.

The round impacts upon the side of the craft, the impact tearing a massive hole in its side. Strange. I send maintenance units to examine the ammunition. That round should have eliminated it as a combat effective.

Still, the damage has forced it to withdraw; swiftly it fires main engines, and attempts to move behind a mountain. Momentarily unable to rely upon my Hellbores, I deactivate my anti-ship missiles and ready a tactical nuclear device.

The enemy is eliminated.

I run a check over all systems. My weapons and targeting arrays are fully functional. The round is at fault; it had been one of those manufactured during the Battle of Celeste, when total quality could not be verified.

I discard all remaining Hellbore needles remaining from that conflict, finding flaws in each one surveyed; simultaneously, General Graham and I discuss what to do next.

During our discussion, I receive another distress call, the only one that can be made out through the mass of static, and other distant voices too thin to be picked up…

XXXXX

Corporal Robert Thorne was the highest ranking Systems Alliance marine left in the vicinity of Surveyor 2 Research Outpost.

After the marine detachment from the Waterloo got shot down, the survivors had tried to continue in their mission to extract the outpost's personnel. A Reaper destroyer had chased off their frigate before the squad could do much, and blown up the remaining shuttles.

A troop transport had deployed a large amounts of husks to hunt down the survivors after the destroyer left, most likely to prepare an LZ for an assault on the nearby secret weapon ranges.

Most of the squad had been killed, along with nearly all of the base's security team and civilian researchers.

There were only nine people left, and they had been hiding in the fuel depot near the shuttle pad, desperately trying to keep the distress beacon working. Thorne had been watching his field of fire over the launch pad, when the fireworks started.

At first all they could see was a flash of orange over the mountain, in the direction the Waterloo had fled. Poor Captain Sumner, Thorne thought, and the rest of the crew! I doubt any managed to get out alive…

Thorne's thoughts were shattered by another flash of light, blue this time. Tremors followed the blinding light, knocking over the husks on the other side of the launch pad. Inside the shelter the Systems Alliance troopers were hiding in, the grenade box fell over and spilled everywhere along with the ammunition. Their small amount of spare pistols and rifles that sat in a corner were scattered, an already heavily damaged computer fell off a table into tiny pieces, and the carefully protected, but already heavily damaged transmitter shattered on the titanium floor. Their technician, Private Gagarin, said cynically "Dammit, there goes our only hope." as one of the scientists began sobbing.

Thorne meanwhile, was trying to figure out where the tremors and light were coming from; after a quick analysis, he found that both came from the direction of the frigate's retreat.

The Reaper suddenly returned as he mused. But instead of attacking, the destroyer seemed to be...fleeing?

They could see why. A streak of light followed it, and struck the enemy vessel. Atomic fire completely obliterated it.

All the husks that could be seen ceased in their activities, and began moving towards the mountains, where whatever had destroyed their master lay.

In disbelief, but thankful for the distraction, Corporal Thorne moved his unit out of the shed; towards the relative safety of a bunker in the mountains.

The troop transport shuddered to life, and readied what looked like a pair of heavy railguns.

Thorne gave a silent salute, knowing that whoever had been manning that artillery piece was almost certainly dead.

To his surprise, the transport never got the chance to even take off. Another streak, probably a missile, hit its engine compartment. The missile blasted the rear end apart, the pieces flying outward, and the burning forward section crushed a portion of the base.

That wasn't what they were watching, however. They were watching the moving mountain.

A turret poked out from the the top of a hill, or behind it rather. Two more turrets appeared, and a rectangular shape appeared beneath them. A streak of light reflected off metal, blinding the group momentarily. What they saw afterwards was a huge vehicle, nearly as big as a frigate, but unlike any Reaper or Human device they had seen. It had driven out of the mountain range, and was working its way towards the Surveyor 2 outpost.

It bristled with weapons, everything from three giant guns on the top, to tiny anti-personnel turrets in the lowest area. There were massive treads carrying the whole leviathan, each bigger than a Kodiak shuttle, with dozens of the little turrets stationed right above them. There were rows of larger ball turrets mounted a few meters above the anti-personnel guns, and above that, on the sloped hull section and the top, two rows of two types of artillery sat. Sitting on the highest area of the vehicle were three massive turrets, one of which, the highest one, was damaged, but the lower forward ones were very much alive. They pointed towards the sky, and the valley should have shaken as they began to pound away.

Thorne continued to watch, and saw the Reaper husks bearing arms shooting at the vehicle. Thorne was quite surprised to see the ease with which its anti-personnel guns cut up and with ease, blast apart the horrid Cannibals; those that he and his friends had barely managed to drive off.

The moving mountain drove carefully around the base, hitting each and every husk with every shot.

The marine realized it wasn't moving at random. It was coming specifically for them.

Though they felt fear, they did not run. It had just saved them from a Reaper, and if it wanted them dead, they wouldn't even know it.

It stopped short of the marines, and a hatch opened in the hull near the treads. An armored figure appeared, and started waving, while a voice suddenly came through the radios of the group. Clearly Human and male, it said "What are you waiting for? Let's go!"

The unknown person, after failing to get the outpost survivors moving, began to hop out to them. Thorne's instincts overcame his shock, and he immediately aimed his rifle at the new arrival, "Halt! Identify yourself!"

The figure stopped short, holding a strange type of weapon in his arms, and wore a set of armor that was even more unusual, completely different from the marines. Thickly padded armor plates covered the torso, with similar plating over the leg and arm sections. Even his gloves were armored to an extend, so much that barely half a centimeter of fabric was revealed. His helmet had only a small slit to see out of, but the mouthplate was grilled, carried a headlamp, and a number of other parts that Thorne couldn't even tell what they were.

On the chestplate was an area that seemed to be for a nametag, but was currently blank. On the shoulder plate was a unit patch, that read, "1st Armored Assault Brigade, CDF", and under it was a silhouette of the massive machine.

He replied to Thorne's question, "I'm General Graham, commander of this Bolo. We don't have much time! You need to get onboard now."

Thorne's surprise turned to relief, not caring at all what black ops unit this guy was with, or who exactly he was, just that he seemed to know what to do, and was offering shelter from the Reapers. "Sir, yes sir!"

Orange lights flashed as the ramp closed behind the nine survivors staggering into the bay. As blue interior lights winked on, the room came into view. Dozens of crates, boxes, containers, and storage racks filled the room, covered in various labels and images. None of the equipment did they recognize.

XXXXX

General Graham led the shocked group of survivors into Hector's storage bay, he gestured to the supplies, "You all can use the cots and aid supplies we have in here, just don't touch any of the weapon systems."

Hector chimed in, "If assistance is required, I would be happy to provide it using the visual display."

One of the soldiers groaned, "Someone turn that thing off! A VI's the last thing we need!"

Graham yanked off his helmet, and went to the soldier who had helped move the group, and was now slumped over a crate, "Trooper, you in charge here?" the general asked.

The poor man went, "Wha…?", then jumped to his feet and saluted, saying in a tired voice "Corporal Robert Thorne, formerly attached to the SSV Waterloo. I'm the highest ranking officer left in our little group," he sat back onto the crate, "Thanks for saving us, the battle has been going badly we last heard. No one was responding."

Graham nodded, thankful that he had listened to Hector's briefing, and put a reassuring hand on the other man's shoulder, "Well, you're safe now. We've got 32,000 tons of armor and Hellbores above our heads. Follow me up to the command deck."

Barely waiting for an answer, Jamie led Thorne through a short confusing network of tunnels, filled with only guidance lights. They emerged into the command center, right above the Bolo personality center.

Graham jumped into the commander's chair. Thorne settled down in an observer seat, as he muttered, "This is all 'gonna shoot you for seeing' classified, right?"

The general ignored that comment, and instead asked Hector for a status update. In response, the tank said,"Two 'Sovereign' class vessels eliminated in lunar orbit. Seven destroyer class vessels also eliminated."

"Wait, what?" Thorne asked in disbelief.

"We've been trying to help out in the battle upstairs," Graham explained rapidly, "But it hasn't been going too well. We're having too much trouble picking out friendlies from the hostiles. So we can't do anything about enemy units beyond lunar orbit."

"Lunar orbit? What the hell are you talking about?"

Graham facepalmed, Earth had to become a Leibowitz-type planet, didn't they?

Leibowitz-types were always a pain. Their past forgotten, it was always hard for Concordiat forces to convince colonists that they were part of the same people; even harder to bring them back up to speed.

"Do you know where the nearest spaceport is, corporal?" Graham finally asked, "Even with our help the battle's already lost."

The blue lights to indicate the "Systems Alliance" craft, as the successor to the Concordiat called itself, were rapidly blinking out even as he spoke.

"But...But…"

"Corporal Thorne!" Graham roared, "Pull yourself together! Where is the nearest spaceport?"

Before the shell-shocked marine could break down in a superior's arms, relief came. "General, we have three contacts inbound to our location," Hector reported, "One cruiser sized, two corvette sized. They appear to be trying to avoid detection by hugging the ground. The smaller craft silhouettes bear a strong similarity to the SSV Waterloo, indicating a 90% probability that they are friendly forces."

At the mention of the Waterloo, Thorne snapped out of it. He requested to see the ships, images immediately appearing in front of him.

"Corporal, do you recognize any of these craft?" the general asked.

Thorne studied them carefully, then said to Graham, "Those are Alliance ships alright, but they have some odd configurations I can't recognize, sir. The largest one looks like an SA carrier, and the other two look like frigates. Old ones at that."

Hector cut in and said to Jamie, "The Systems Alliance carrier is attempting to contact us, shall I put them through, General?"

"Yes, please!" the general responded urgently.

An exhausted voice, but filled with authority nonetheless, echoed within Hector's command center, a little choppy as it started.

"...Repeat, this is Major Marshall of the SSV Ark Royal to unknown craft. Identify yourself immediately."

Graham responded calmly, "This is General Graham of the Cloud Defense Force, in command of Bolo Unit 'Hector'. We request immediate assistance."

The channel was silent for a few moments, then Marshall responded in a stunned voice, "Affirmative sir! What assistance do you require?"

General Graham grinned as he relayed their needs, "We need immediate evac to the closest friendly stronghold for repairs and rearmament. As well as an update on the battle…" He paused, thinking of an excuse, "You could say...we've been out of the loop a bit."

Information flooded Hector's comm relays like a river as Marshall said, "General, haven't you heard? 4th Fleet's nearly gone! All remaining ships have been ordered into a general retreat!"