KSK

As pointed out on Ars Technica (so I can't take any credit for this although I find it amusing). From Wikipedia: Orion was Artemis' hunting companion. In some versions, he is killed by Artemis, while in others he is killed by a scorpion sent by Gaia. In some versions, Orion tries to seduce Opis,[28] one of Artemis' followers, and she kills him. In a version by Aratus,[29] Orion takes hold of Artemis' robe and she kills him in self-defense. (Emphasis added)

I suspect the reason is rather more political given that it was launched by the Soviet Union. But I have nothing to back that up.

Gets back on topic after a schoolboy snigger at the last post.

I heard they had plans for a mission to Saturn but somebody called them on it.

I'll be very curious to see that program in action! Negation is in the word order again. Subject-verb-object = positive action Subject-object-verb = negative action. Akhat is the verb 'to trade' (the Veiidan port city of Boladakhat literally translates to 'place which we use to trade*) so your translation is pretty much spot on once you take the above into account. * As previously mentioned, my kerbals are not an imaginative lot, although even the most banal name looks better in Old Kerba. Depending which theory you subscribe to, the sister city of Boladakhat, Boladanerbat, is a slightly mangled version of boladerbat or 'place which we use to talk (probably for historical reasons to do with ease of pronunciation). Or, alternatively, its literal translation is 'place which we all use to talk, the an signifying inclusion as usual.)

Next chapter is up. Somewhat longer than I'd originally intended after a very much on-point comment (and some excellent suggestions) from my good editor. Fair warning - this one gets fairly dark. Literally and figuratively. Written in the Starlight Through these fields of destruction; baptisms of fire I’ve witnessed your suffering; as the battle raged higher And though they did hurt us so bad In the fear and alarm You did not desert me – my brothers in arms The rockets struck home, blowing three of the Kolan skirmishers into flaming wreckage and knocking a fourth onto its side. Chadmore swore as a pair of fighter jets screeched overhead, cannons gouging out a trail of fountaining dirt that missed his madly swerving armoured car by metres. He took one look at the sky and slewed his vehicle to a halt, one wheel bouncing over the edge of a shell hole with enough force to knock his teeth together. "Go, Go, Go!" Chadmore flung open the driver's door and dived out, tucking his head in and rolling as he hit the ground, before bounding to his feet and sprinting for the treeline. The remains of his platoon followed, one enterprising driver wedging his accelerator pedal down with a spare kitbag and leaping clear as his armoured car careered off across the battlefield. Chadmore glanced at the sky and ran on, screaming for his troops to follow. "Move it, you kaya-herding seffleks - move it! The platoon reached the edge of the copse and kept going, sudden blazes of orange seen from the corners of their eyes and the deafening crump of nearby explosions, marking the end of their vehicles. The distant howl of turbojets at full throttle rapidly built to a nerve-shredding scream as the second pair of Firesvarn ground attack fighters shot past, cannon shells smashing through branches and ripping gouts of splintered wood from the gnarled and spindly trunks overhead. The Kolan soldiers fanned out, hand signals flickering back and forth as they advanced, ducking behind whatever cover presented itself. The copse was not large and, as soon as Chadmore was satisfied that it wasn’t hiding any enemy forces, he ordered his troops back to its centre. They slipped through the sparse undergrowth, every kerbal alert for the sound of breaking twigs or other signs of movement. For his part, Chadmore kept one ear open for the sound of engines. They reached a fallen tree and came to a halt, one soldier unpacking a field radio at a gesture from his platoon leader. "Get me the Captain." The radio operator nodded, flipping his equipment to the day's memorised settings before passing Chadmore the handset. "Delta Command, First platoon." Gunfire crackled from the radio, followed by the all-too-familiar scream of aircraft engines and the thump of distant explosions. Then a terse voice came over the air. "First, Delta. Sitrep." "Location alpha zero-four by delta one-three. Under cover, down one section, boots no wheels." He heard the muffled thud of someone clapping a hand over a mouthpiece, followed by silence. Then, the noticeably less terse voice of his company commander came back on the air. "Copy that, Chad. Swing round to alpha zero-two by delta zero-niner tonight and find somewhere to hole up. We’ll come and find you. Delta out.” Chadmore passed the handset back to his radio operator and surveyed his troops. “Well the good news is that we’ll be getting a lift home. He opened his pack and pulled out his map case. “The bad news is that you good kerbals are going to be using your little legs first.” He squatted, laying the map out on the ground. “We’re heading southwest to here,” Chadmore jabbed a finger at one of the map squares. “Alpha zero-two by delta zero-niner. Then we find someplace for a picnic and wait for Command to come and pick us up. Any questions?” “Where did you figure on having that picnic, Sarge? Place looks emptier than a Veiidan purse.” “The rest of the walk isn’t much better,” muttered another trooper. “KKBT all the way.” “Say again, trooper?” Chadmore raised an eyebrow. “Klicks and klicks of… boring tundra, Sarge. We’re gonna stand out like bugs on a window to any sefflek coming our way.” “Which is why we’re travelling at night – assuming you lot can manage that without tripping over your own feet.” Chadmore checked his watch. “Four hours till sundown, so two hours sleep apiece, by the numbers.” Half of his remaining section fanned out through the sparse undergrowth, rifles at the ready. The others shook out bivouac bags from their packs and curled up inside them. One soldier grumbled under his breath and pulled a stick out from under his back, setting it to one side before rolling over again. A little over four hours later, the survivors of Chadmore’s platoon emerged from the treeline. Spreading out into two loose ranks, almost invisible in their charcoal-grey night gear, they marched across a landscape of shadows, the mountains in the distance silhouetted by a crescent Mün, its thin sliver striking silvery highlights from swathes of churned up mud and puddled shell holes. Elsewhere, the thin light buried the bleak northern landscape in convoluted folds of darkness. Chadmore pulled his kerchief over his mouth, puffs of frozen breath still escaping the woollen cloth. He glanced at the skyline, noting the position of one particularly distinctive mountaintop and nodded to himself. The compass strapped to his wrist told the same story. They smelled the burned out remains of the armoured car long before it loomed out of the shadows in front of them. Much to everyone’s relief, the freezing air and lingering sulphurous stench of charred rubber masked any other smell. One of the soldiers swore as she recognised the shape of the car’s boxy wedge-shaped hood. “One of ours,” Chadmore agreed, voice a little harsher than he’d intended. He watched her take a step towards the wreckage, hand reaching for the flashlight strapped to the side of her pack. “It does you credit, soldier but we don’t have time to search for tags or gear.” “Ammo will have cooked off in the heat anyway,” muttered another voice. “Probably,” Chadmore replied flatly. “As you were. Move out.” “How long till sun-up, Sarge?” “Time enough, if you quit bellyaching and start walking.” “Yes, Sarge.” ----------------- The Mün reached its zenith and began to descend, casting subtly elongated shadows over the weary kerbals marching across the tundra. Chadmore retrieved a pressed sunfruit bar from his pack and chewed on it as he went, washing it down with a mouthful of water from his nearly-empty canteen. He checked his compass before staring into the darkness, scowling at the dark shapes on the horizon as he struggled to distinguish landmarks from wishful thinking. KKBT. KK bjedla T. And how in the seven smoking hells are we’re going to find the Captain once we get there? Chadmore rolled his shoulders, shifting his pack into a more comfortable position. Grolnisch to it. We don’t find the Captain – we keep right on walking till we hit the forward operating base. There’s got to be something to eat in this Kerm-forsaken wilderness, even if we have to eat it raw. He turned his head, surreptitiously checking the soldier to his left for any sign of limping, then quickly looking away. Oblivious to the attention from his sergeant, the soldier marched on, swearing in an undertone as he caught a tussock of grass with his toe. Imperceptibly at first, the horizon began to lighten, the distant mountains emerging from their midnight veil. The weight on Chadmore’s back seemed to lessen, as he looked up and found what he’d been looking for. Far off to his right, a reassuringly familiar W-shaped mountain pass stood silhouetted against the pre-dawn sky. “Platoon – halt.” The murmured command rippled down the skirmish lines, as the Kolan soldiers gathered round their sergeant. Chadmore turned on the spot, taking bearings on the mountain pass and other landmarks long since drilled into him. He spread out his map on a nearby rock and pulled out his flashlight. “Hold this. Everyone else – eyes out.” Blinking against the sudden piercing brightness, he, unclipped his compass from its wristband, pulled out a coiled-up length of thin steel tape from its recess underneath and busied himself with his map. “That’ll do it.” Chadmore straightened up. “Just like this whole operation, good kerbals, we’re going south. Another five or six klicks will take us into the designated sector, at which point we find the nearest lump of grass to hide behind and wait for the pickup. Let’s move.” His troops nodded and, moving back into their skirmish lines, resumed their march. At dawn, when Chadmore finally called a halt, they found themselves in the midst of a vast expanse of almost featureless prairie, carpeted in patches of dense, bristly undergrowth that barely reached over their boots. Needing no prompting, they spread out into a loose circle around their sergeant and his radio operator, before dropping to the ground, rifles at the ready. “Delta Command, First platoon. In designated sector, standing by.” The answering voice was barely audible over the engine noise. “First, Delta. Copy you at alpha zero-two by delta zero-niner. Sitrep.” “Last nav stop at approx. five klicks north of current position. Bearings and points are as follows.” Chadmore glanced at the pairs of numbers scribbled on the back of his hand and read them off, waiting for his compay commander to verify each pair before continuing. “There’s not a lot of cover out here, sir. Would appreciate an evac, soonest.” “Sit tight, Chad. ETA thirty minutes. Delta out.” The minutes dragged by as the sky slowly lightened around them, the crescent Mün fading out behind streaks of cerise tinged cloud. Then, at last, a cluster of dark specks appeared on the horizon and sped towards them. At a shouted order, the Kolan troops crawled into line, weapons braced against their shoulders. In the distance, the oncoming convoy fanned out and slowed to almost walking pace. “On your feet!” Chadmore sprang up and raised a hand, rifle pointed at the ground, the rest of his troops following his example. They were quickly surrounded by armoured vehicles, the Kolan flag painted across their hoods. Hatches popped open and soldiers poured out, grabbing packs and kitbags from Chadmore’s troops and slinging them aboard. Moments later, they shot off across the tundra, racing the rising sun, and leaving nothing behind but shallow dents in the undergrowth. By the time the convoy arrived, the Kolan forward operating base was abuzz with activity, soldiers hurrying to load the last of their equipment and ammunition into waiting trucks. As Chadmore climbed out of his armoured car, a lone kerbal walked over to the flagpole standing in the middle of the base. With a heavy heart, Chadmore watched the hand painted banners come to half mast and then lower, the flag of all Kerbin and a picture of a stylised rocket streaming fire, collapsing against the pole. “Permission to speak freely, sir?” He waited for a nod of assent from his commander. “What’s going on? Where are the reinforcements? And where in the seven smoking hells was our air cover out there?” “Denied, denied, and shot down, in that order.” His commanding officer clenched his jaw. “After the foul-up at Humilisia, we barely managed to hold the line at Foxham. We’re pulling back to Iskenar and awaiting further orders.” Chadmore’s jaw dropped. “We’re not even trying to hold the Northern Reaches?” “No.” The reply was bleak. “We’re stretched too damn thin, Chad. We evacuate the civilians as we go and leave everything north of fifty-two for the Firesvarn.” ----------------- Erlin clenched his calves, gritting his teeth against the tearing sensation from within his midriff. The healing vine twitched, crawling over his internal organs, the combination of pressure and ticklish movement making him queasy. Something slimy trickled over his stomach and he closed his eyes, resisting the temptation to look. A towel dabbed at the moisture. “You’re doing fine, Professor. Another five centimetres unless I my eyes deceive me.” Gentle fingers palpated the ridge around his waist. “If you manage to keep this up, the vine will be out in another three days.” “One down, many more to go,” said Erlin with a sigh. He tipped his head back, peering at the leaves over his head, the sigh taking on a note of wonder. “Although… abrath af kerbal akhad.” The medic blinked. “Something, something, no kerbal?” He unknotted the bandage wrapped around Erlin’s lower torso and began to unwind it. “Could you lift your back for me please?” “He wouldn’t trade places with any kerbal,” Gusemy supplied from the corner. “And I’d hope not, given the trouble he put us all to, to get there.” He threw a mock scowl at Erlin which didn’t quite conceal the concern behind his eyes. The medic looked up disapprovingly at his flippant tone then, seeing his expression, offered him a faint smile. “No indeed.” He turned back to Erlin. “This is going to sting I’m afraid.” The dressing pulled away with a ripping noise and a muffled yelp from his patient. “Ahh, very good. Secondary swelling is down and the exit wounds are healing nicely. The medic removed a fresh dressing from his bag and unwrapped it. “Little bit of seepage still, so I’ll put another of these on but I think it might be the last one you need.” He looked up at the Kerm trunk behind the bed. “You can tell Obrinn that he’s doing an excellent job.” He pressed a second dressing into place and began winding a clean bandage around Erlin’s middle. “You should tell him yourself. You've already Communed with Elton after all." Erlin gestured at the leaf cluster over his head ignoring the medic's disbelieving look. “I’m quite serious. Obrinn worries about hurting me with his vines and he’d appreciate a trained kerbal expert telling him that I’m healing well and that everything is alright.” Gusemy’s jaw dropped open. “He does what?” “He worries about me. It’s why I’ve stopped Communing with him whilst he’s moving the vines – he senses the pain and it makes him nervous and upset. Which then makes him clumsy.” Erlin lifted his hands. “You can see the problem, I think.” He sighed. “And yes, Gus – the thought had occurred to me. If we could get the world in here to witness a Kerm getting upset about hurting a kerbal, it might solve a lot of problems.” “I think it would,” the medic said soberly. He tied off Erlin’s bandage, eyeing Obrinn’s branches with a mixture of hopefulness and trepidation. “I could speak to him now, if you’re sure he’d want to?” “I’m certain he’d want to.” Erlin clasped his hands to his stomach and cautiously sat up. “Better if I don’t join you, so you can talk without my thoughts getting in the way, but let him know that I sent you. He hasn’t had a chance to Commune with too many other kerbals yet and I think he gets a bit shy.” “A shy Kerm?” The medic shook his head. “Now I really have heard it all.” He lay down on one the beds left in the hut after Obrinn’s awakening, tucked a pillow under his neck and resolutely lifted his head towards the waiting leaf cluster. Erlin and Gusemy watched him stiffen as the leaf hairs slipped under his scalp, and then go limp, an incredulous smile spreading across his face. "That looks like a good sign." Erlin glanced up at Obrinn's slowly waving branches. "He doesn't seem too upset, no." He sniffed. "Bit more cinnamon than usual though. Curiosity maybe? Difficult to tell from out here." "They don't have the easiest body language to read," Gusemy said straight-faced. Erlin gave him a look before lying back on his bed, wincing slightly as his bandages shifted with the movement. The two kerbals settled into a companionable silence, broken only by the wind chasing through the eaves of Erlin's hut and the rustling of Kerm leaves. Erlin's eyelids began to droop when a blast of cinnamon and an alarming creaking noise jolted him awake. Gusemy came to with a start, eyes widening at the outstretched branches and splayed open leaf clusters overhead. The clusters snapped shut before opening more slowly, waves of movement rippling across the ceiling, twigs and branches waving with them. There was a groan from the other bed and the medic sat up, rubbing his temples. "What on Kerbin did you say to him?" Erlin's voice cut across the rustling. He received a peculiar look in reply, exasperation and laughter, vying with too many other emotions to read. "You've never had kerblets have you, Professor?" Erlin blinked. "No. Why?" The medic shook his head, muttering something inaudible. "He's not shy you great... he's lonely." "What?" "He's lonely. Of course he is - nobody to talk to but old kerbals. Well-meaning kerbals," the medic added hastily. "But kerbals nonetheless. Nobody like him to talk to - no Kerm." "Elton," said Gusemy suddenly. "You told him about Elton." "I did." For a moment he medic looked defensive. "He's the only other Kerm I've ever Communed with - it was hard not to." He frowned. "Besides, I got the strong impression that I was only confirming what he already knew. Or thought he knew. It was all a bit vague." Erlin shivered, feeling the ghostly impact of Kerm shards slicing into his skull as a forlorn figure turned his back on him and faded away. "It would be. I wasn't an-Kerm... I doubt we were linked for long enough for him to get more than a fleeting impression." His gaze turned inward. "And ever since Obrinn awoke, I've been too taken up with him to think much about Elton." The medic gave him a look but didn't answer. From his corner, Gusemy snorted softly. "Didn't want to think about him you mean. Or Jonelle for that matter. Although I don't blame you. Too many awkward questions to answer." Erlin jerked his head up, the half-formed protest on his lips wilting at the sight of Gusemy's sympathetic expression. He sighed. "Yes. Far too many." "It might be easier if all three of you were there to answer some of those questions," the medic offered. "Both of you and Obrett. Obrinn asked me to tell you that he'd very much like to speak to Elton, so it would probably be better if he knew who he - and Jonelle - were first." Gusemy's jaw dropped open again. "He wants to talk to Elton? And how in the name of the Twelve Pillars and all their wonderful ways is he going to do that?" He received a shrug in reply. "I have no idea - I'm a doctor not a Kerm expert." The medic raised his hands. "But if we can't find somebody at Kerbin's premier Kerm research organisation who can help, then I don't know where else we're going to look." Erlin's voice was distant as he stared at the corner of his hut. "Actually, Gus... If we could find the right species balance... Long lateral root systems – hmmm, an induced synomonic array might be better for long distance signal transduction. Bryophytes for preference for ease of maintenance." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Not straightforward by any means and we'd need to teach all three of the Kerm how to use whatever system we come up with..." Erlin looked up, a slightly abstracted look on his face. "Could you bring Halsy down with you this afternoon, Gus. I think we need to put a team together." ----------------- “Where in the First Grove are they, Sarge? We’ve been driving around these Kerm-forsaken hills for days now and they ain’t getting any prettier with age.” “They’re in the same place that your radio discipline’s hiding, trooper. Listening and laughing at you.” Chadmore waited for the belated apology. “First section – finish your sweep. Second section – you’re with me. We’ll be taking a trip down the highway, so keep your eyes peeled and don’t forget to look up.” Chadmore held one gloved hand against the cab heater for a moment, casting a wary look at the leaden sky. “Let’s get this done before the snow comes in.” The Kolan armoured section jolted over the tundra, drivers pushing their vehicles as fast as they dared. The wind keened through the radiator grille of Chadmore’s car in a discordant wail that set his teeth on edge even over the sound of the engine. They sped up a shallow incline, swinging round to parallel the skyline. Approaching the edge of the hill, Chadmore put his foot down, leaving the rest of his section standing and bracing himself for evasive action as he raced out from cover. A dark, low-slung shape shot across his path. Instinctively, Chadmore swerved, slewing his vehicle round before straightening out, one tyre slamming back down to earth. He eased off the accelerator, eyes turning skyward to check for enemy aircraft, before settling on the broken grey ribbon that marked the northernmost stretch of the Wakira to Kolus transcontinental highway. “Clear.” The radio crackled with terse replies as the rest of hiss forces fanned out from behind the hill and followed him onto the road, “I don’t like what I’m not seeing, Sarge.” Chadmore grunted and flipped his radio to the platoon command channel. “Speak to me, Ad.” “On our last leg now, Sarge. Nothing but rocks and scrub so far.” “Rocks and scrub and gronneks,” Chadmore agreed. “And snow,” he added sourly, watching the first white flakes streaking up his windscreen. “Both sections – return to base. I’ll see if the Captain has any news for us.” He braked, executed a precise three-point turn and shot off again, one hand reaching for his radio. “Delta Command, First platoon reporting.” “I hear you, Chad. Sitrep?” “Not a sign of them, sir. We backtracked to the highway and didn’t find so much as a dropped mess kit.” “Acknowledged.” There was a heavy silence. “They faked us but good, Chad. As of two hours ago, a major detachment of Firesvarn armour broke through the Wakiran lines, heading for the Sea of Kolus. Intel since then has been… spotty, but our best guess is that they’re driving for Nordham Bay.” The captain gave a quiet cough. “Hot mike, Chad.” Chadmore bit down on his first reply. “I’m thinking that sounds like a beachhead, sir.” “As do we, Sergeant.” Chadmore’s hands twitched on his steering wheel at the new voice coming over the radio. “General, sir?” “Firesvarn aerial assets will be operating at range, so the anti-aircraft defences around Nordham Bay should be enough to keep them out. The Wakirans are moving to reinforce but the garrison forces are limited and we don’t know how long they can hold out.” The general’s voice hardened. “We can not afford to lose that city, Sergeant. If the Firesvarn are allowed to move their air support down to Nordham Bay, it will pose a serious threat to our control of the Wakiran Sea. I trust you understand the implications?” Chadmore swallowed hard. “A wedge between ourselves and the Wakirans. Leaving us facing the Doreni alone and them with their djo… the Wakirans between a rock and a hard place, sir.” “I believe your first comment was more accurate, Sergeant. Return to base immediately and prepare for immediate redeployment to Nordham Bay.” ----------------- “I appreciate that, Gus. We’d just hoped you could spare a few more.” “Our shipyards are working flat out to replace our losses at Humilisia and Foxham.” Fleet Commander Gusden massaged his temples. “But the Kerm seed checkpoints are slowing us down, even with security exempted transport and some unofficial civilian help to move the necessary materiel.” He looked up. “You’ll get me and the Regionality plus supporting vessels and as many anti-aircraft capable ships as we could detach.” “Then between us we shall make that enough.” Gusden nodded. “We shall.” He opened his cabin door. “After you, Admiral.” He led his Wakiran opposite number up to the Regionality of Kolus’s main deck, where an honour guard of Kolan and Wakiran marines awaited them. Around them, resupply operations continued unabated, a steady stream of shells zipping down the highlines from one logistics support vessel and being hauled over to the magazine hoists by a bucket chain of sailors. Portside, a second shift of sailors were rigging the fuel lines from a second support vessel. One three-tone whistle sounded over the waves followed by a second, differently pitched one, signalling that two more ships in the taskforce were on station and ready to receive supplies. Out of the corner of one eye, Gusden watched yet another logistics support vessel heave to alongside the nearest Wakiran destroyer and, with a sudden flat boom from its air cannon, launch a guideline towards the combat vessel. Around them, the rest of the task force rode at anchor, by orders of both Gusden and his Wakiran counterpart, both flag officers chafing at the delay but unwilling to risk the additional complications of underway resupply with so many auxiliary vessels. With a discreet cough, the Wakiran admiral saluted him. “Fair winds and Kerm speed, Gus. For Nordham Bay.” “For Nordham Bay.” Gusden returned the salute. “Wisdom of the Kerm, Admiral. And may you have the strength to follow your course.” --------------------- They drove through a sea of canvas, the few faces that turned to watch them go staring through them rather than at them. Civilians and soldiers alike huddled around their tents, ragged and filthy, ponchos mingling with Kolan and Wakiran uniforms. Elsewhere, figures lay on temporary cots, some whimpering or crying out, others white-faced and dead-eyed, too spent to notice their injuries or watch the silent work crew struggling to erect a marquee over them. Clouds of black smoke stained the horizon, a backdrop to the distant lines of refugees still fleeing the burning city. A motley assortment of armoured vehicles fled with them, the larger troop transports picking up what few civilians they could, dropping them at the camp before turning around and going back for more. For an instant, images of an empty hillside and deserted highway dancing mockingly before Chadmore’s eyes. They faked us but good, Chad – and this is the price we paid. His knuckles turned white against his steering wheel. All we can do now is try and make a difference. Stop things from getting worse. His thoughts flicked back to a trampled down swathe of tundra and a young officer with copper-brown eyes. At least you got out of this mess, Valentina. I wonder what little brother Al has you doing now? The second convoy cleared the last of the roadside tents, Chadmore’s armoured car in the lead. Turning off the main road, they drove across country, skirting around the outskirts of abandoned Groves and redfruit orchards, the ripening fruit providing an incongruous splash of colour against the sooty skyline. They reached the edge of the airfield, the terminal buildings and air traffic control tower still standing at the far side of the runways. Then, at a terse radioed command, they charged. The tanks went in first, smashing down sections of chain-link fence, their tracks tearing up the runway and leaving chunks of ripped-up asphalt in their wake. The lighter vehicles poured through the gaps, racing around the perimeter and converging on the airport buildings from all sides. A salvo of rockets screamed low across the ground, slamming into the lead tank and bursting into flames. Another salvo ripped into the tank behind it, setting off its ammunition racks and blowing its turret skyward in a deafening explosion. The Wakiran crews returned fire, shelling jet blast deflectors and anything else that offered the slightest bit of cover to the enemy infantry. Heavy machine guns opened up with a roar, laying down a vicious suppressing fire. Soldier after Firesvarn soldier died in a ghastly mist of blood and fragmented bone. But where one soldier fell, another two rose up in their place. Coordinated salvos gave way to sniping, missiles slamming into the oncoming tanks from too many sides for their gunners to track. One by one, the heavily armoured vehicles went up in flames. -------------------- “Ten o’ clock low!” Chadmore wrenched at his steering wheel, the back end of his armoured car skidding out, studded tires squealing in protest. The staccato thumping of autocannon fire sounded over his head, his gunner reducing the Firesvarn machine gun post to a tangle of twisted wreckage and smashed concrete. A fireball to his right marked the abrupt demise of another Firesvarn installation and then they were through, bearing down on the airport buildings. A Kolan vehicle hurtled off the runway, fishtailing wildly as its driver fought to avoid incoming fire from yet another direction. It struck a flat grey object and disappeared in an eruption of burning fuel and detonating ammunition. “Mines, mines, mines!” Chadmore swerved, another Kolan vehicle exploding behind him. “Stay on the runways – they need those!” “Incoming!” Chadmore recognised the panicked yell of his section leader. “Firesvarn at our three!” “I got something! Can’t see them through the smoke. Low and… oh Kerm, oh Kerm, oh K…! The radio fuzzed out in a roar of static. “Tanks! Coming around the main terminal!” “Delta Company – fall back.” His captain’s voice sounded suddenly weary. “Keep to the runways until you clear their perimeter and wreck what you can on the way out.” Chadmore flipped his radio to the platoon-wide channel. “You heard the Captain! By the numbers – rolling retreat. Any sefflek coming home with ammo left will be answering to me!” A thunderous detonation from outside cut off any replies from his troops. His vehicle lurched under him, the blast lifting it onto two wheels, fragments of shrapnel and concrete clanging against its armour. He felt something snap and the steering wheel went slack in his hand, the armoured car skidding sideways and flipping onto its roof. Chadmore just had time to register a choked-off scream from beneath his head, before everything went black. --------------------- “They can’t do this to you.” His sister-in-law’s voice caught in her throat. “They promised you a month off and you need it.” She looked at her brother in law, his immaculately pressed uniform unable to hide the slump in his shoulders or the engrained creases at the corners of his eyes. “Gusden wouldn’t let you onboard any of his ships, looking like that.” “Gusden should listen to himself. How long has he been at sea now?” The look in the other’s eyes told him all he needed to know. “I’m sorry, sis,” he said more gently. “That was unkind.” He pulled his sister-in-law into a brief hug before bending down to pick up his kitbag. “I just wish that either of us had the choice.” He sensed a sudden tension in the air. “What is it?” “It looks like you’re getting escorted back to base.” “First I heard about it.” The officer turned to face the living room window and froze, weariness turning to sick despair. A black car with military plates was parked outside, the pennant of the Kolan Border Security forces flying from its hood. He watched the passenger door open and a uniformed kerbal climb out. Silent hatred convulsed him, hatred for the other’s polished black boots, for the medals pinned to his dress sash, for the carefully sympathetic expression settling over his face. There was a knock, his sister-in-law already in the hallway, waiting by the door for her guest. He heard a murmur of polite greetings followed by the sound of the front door closing and the scraping of chair legs against tiled floor. “Please sit down, ma’am. I’m afraid I have some bad news.” ------------------ We can’t do this. Not the Doreni and Firesvarn together. The officer stared at himself in the mirror, noting the haunted look in his eyes and bitter twist to his mouth. Kerm knows I never wanted it to come to this. He barked a laugh. And the Kerm are what it comes down to in the end, doesn’t it? His brief bravado crumbled. So, what in the First Grove are you doing? The episode of Engines and Engineers ran through his head like a mantra. …that's a big If, Tom and at the moment I'm not about to promise anything either way. All I can say is that we're looking at all the options for our colony ship designs. Now, I'm happy to answer any questions as best I can but please bear in mind that I'm not a nuclear engineer.” “Thank you, Hanbal.” Tom took a sip of water. “Let’s start with a question from the front. Yes, you ma’am, with the silver torc.” “Will the exhaust from a nuclear rocket be radioactive. And if it is, how are you going to test it.” “Both good questions. Hanbal?” “The exhaust will indeed be radioactive but only mildly.” The engineer smiled. “But before anyone gets worried about it, it’s also far too valuable to throw away. Analysing the exhaust gases will give our scientists a lot of valuable data about the nuclear reactor and how well it stands up to being treated as a rocket. So, we’ll trapping them and storing them somewhere safely underground.” “That’s reassuring to hear. A question from the middle next, I think. You, sir, in the dark blue poncho.” “Won’t a high-powered reactor be dangerously hot for ages after you’ve finished with it? Um, I mean hot as in nuclear hot.” Hanbal paused for a moment. “That’s a very good question. As best I understand it, the hottest fission products are also the most unstable, so don’t stay nuclear hot for very long. A few months maybe, or a couple of years. The reactor is still nuclear warm for many years after that – I wouldn’t use it to heat my moss room.” A polite chuckle rippled through the audience. “But most of the radioactivity is released in the first few months.” “And that’s a good answer too – thank you Hanbal. Now, a question from the back…” The face in the mirror stared back at him with a stony expression. A few months. Not permanent but long enough to hold the line until… we can find a better way. The officer straightened up, running a finger along the top of the mirror before inspecting it for dust. He straightened the blanket on his cot, pulling it taut and tucking it under the mattress. His hand reached for his collar insignia but then he shook his head. Unsnapping his belt holster, he withdrew his sidearm, unloaded it, and laid the ammunition and empty weapon on the centre of his bed. Then he turned on his heel and marched out of the room, not bothering to lock the door behind him. The mess hall was emptying out as he arrived, the catering logistics personnel sweeping the floor and stacking the chairs. He walked over to the tray rack where a group of junior officers were stacking their dishes. “A moment, if you please, Mister Lenger.” “Sir.” Lenger made his apologies before following his commander out of the hall. A shiver of anticipation ran down his spine at the sight of the tension in the other’s shoulders. Casually he looked around, increasing his pace until they were walking side by side. “We’re ready, sir,” he murmured. “Good. Assemble at the lot at nineteen hundred and secure transportation. We travel under cover of darkness, lay up near the objective then advance at first light. By tomorrow, Mr Lenger, we will end this war.” “Sir!” Lenger saluted and strode off towards the barracks. ------------------ Twilight faded into night, as the officer crossed the parking lot, the bright pools from the floodlights throwing the shadows lurking around the edges of the parking lot into stark relief. As expected, he found Lieutenant Lenger and his troops gathered by a logistics support vehicle. They came to attention as he approached. “At ease,” The officer inspected the LSV, water bowser already hitched, its beige-and-tan camouflage paint washed out by the glare overhead. “Mr Lenger, are we ready?” “Sir.” Lenger pointed at the armoured personnel carrier parked two spaces back from the LSV, driver just visible through the forward slit window. “On your orders, sir.” “Very well. To victory, good kerbals. To victory.” The officer watched Lieutenant Lenger and his troops climb into the back of the APC before swinging himself up into the LSV cab. Engines grumbling, the two vehicles pulled out of the parking lot and drove towards the compound gates, stopping in front of the armed guards barring their way. One of them, wearing a sergeant’s insignia on his collar and a stony expression on his face, marched towards them, only to snap to attention as he caught sight of the officer. Gravely, the officer returned his salute before gesturing at the gates with a chopping motion. The sergeant turned and barked an order at her guards, who scrambled to obey. Moments later, the armoured convoy rumbled out of the compound, gates closing behind them, and turned onto the main road. They came to a junction and turned right, following the signpost to Balcabar. The officer stared into the night as the APC turned onto the Balcabar bypass, the eyes of some unidentified creature gleaming briefly from the side of the road. They drove past Balcabar International Airport, long since commandeered by the Wakiran border security forces, just as an Airhog heavy transport plane came lumbering in, landing lights bright in the darkness. Then the two Wakiran border security vehicles left the bypass, turning off onto the main desert highway, and heading north for the Kerbin Space Agency’s Site D. Now the sun’s gone to hell. The Moon’s riding high Let me bid you farewell. Every man has to die But it’s written in the starlight. And every line in your palm We’re fools to make war on our brothers in arms Dire Straits – Brothers in Arms << Chapter 96 Chapter 98>>

It's a satellite magazine! Lock and load, team. And hopefully unlock again, once you get to space...

I'll have to figure out this newfangled Discord thingy first. But yeah, the worlds (and worldbuilding) in KSP aren't super detailed so if its what you love doing anyway, then I see no obvious problems! That green skin really isn't that thick when it comes right down to it.

Hey Bonn, Managed to miss your latest update until last night - sorry about that. Completely understand your reasons although I am sad to see a promising looking kerbal tale nipped in the bud. The crazy thing is, that I'm betting you didn't / don't have to do very much to separate your story from KSP. Best of luck with the new project, wherever it takes you! Edit: And because I wrote that without the benefit of caffeine, it didn’t come out quite right. Should have added - ‘and I plan to be around to see’ or some such wording to the end. Oops.

What - the DLC is about cheating and lack of realism? *ducks* I mean - look at the size of that train compared to those engine plumes. And no way is that thing going to have enough propellant on board to fly anywhere. Clearly a craft that relies on OP mod parts and the infinite fuel option.

Huh? I thought nine Merlin engines would do an excellent job of blowtorching the old paint off.

Nah - paintwork on the barge needed redoing. Step 1: Remove the old paint.

And I'm glad to see you still keeping up with it. Not to mention being deeply flattered that it's influenced your own style. Next chapter is done and sent off to the editors. Last section came in a bit of a rush this afternoon, which probably means it needs another going over or two. The next few chapters have been rattling around my head for quite a while, so hopefully they'll come relatively easily!

Hmmm, none of those options look terribly appealing. Cancelling the project altogether would be disappointing. Starting a new series would give you the most creative freedom but, as you said, you would probably lose the audience from here. Continuing with the KSP story but relying on patreons to fund the day job looks like a pretty big gamble since you're relying on enough folks to read your kerbal stuff and like it enough to buy your non-kerbal books. Possible but (and I hate to be a downer here), not probable in my experience. KSP remains a fairly niche fandom, although I expect you have considerably more practice in reaching out to audiences than I do, so my experience may not count for much. Which leaves us with item 2. The Take Two conditions of service aren't terribly kindly here either: "The Company welcomes input from the gaming community. You hereby grant the Company an exclusive, perpetual, irrevocable, fully transferable, and sub-licensable worldwide right and license to use any submissions you submit to the Company of any nature whatsoever, whether through a posting on a Company website, email to the Company, mail, or any other means and without any obligation to account, credit, or make any payment to you for any use thereof. No purported reservation of rights incorporated in or accompanying any submission shall have any force or effect." So, regardless of the licensing terms / IP considerations, Squad / TT are not obliged to credit to you as an author, and are actively trying to get you to waive your moral rights in, anything you post on these forums. Personally, I think that's a disgrace but I appreciate that your mileage may vary. My own solution has been to write my kerbal story in my spare time whilst not giving up the day job, and to post it here despite my misgivings, for the sake of the readers I'd accumulated before TT waded in with their +10 legal boots of crushing. However, my day job doesn't involve creative writing, which has made it easier to separate the two endeavours and it's also meant that progress on my kerbal story has been slow, tending to glacial in places. With all that said, I think 2 is probably the best option, if you can do it without forsaking the day job altogether. That would be above and beyond, in my opinion.

According to rumours, monkeys have been spotted escaping from my rear end. Personally I don’t believe them but there you go. Edit. Hat tip to the sensible answers up there, posted by people with more tolerance for conspiracy theories than I can be bothered to muster.

So, it seems that Blue Origin’s first crew carrying capsule will be called First Step. Wonder if they’ll call the second one, the Next Step.

*taps dial* Sir - it's under 9000! But only just.

Hoo boy. Can't wait to see the reaction to the next chapter then. Which is moving on nicely. No promises but I'm hoping to have it written by the weekend, to be released some time the following week, once my good editor has had a chance to kick it around a bit.

Not going to quote the whole piece but that’s very much the kind of thing I had in mind when I mentioned texture. The animals aren’t mentioned in any detail but how they react is both familiar and easy to imagine, which helps flesh out the story world a little, whilst that last line gives you a very clear idea of how successful Vlad’s experiments are!

You're welcome - and the taster paragraph sounds good!

Agreed. Wildlife adds texture to a world, even if it doesn't feature particularly heavily in the story.

Yeah. The space battles in Star Wars always were governed by Rule of Cool rather than the laws of physics (I may be elitist but I get that much ) but even allowing for that, the battles in Last Jedi were definitely it’s weakest part for me.

The first step in solving a problem is acknowledging that there is a problem. I stand by everything in my post. Three of the four points I made certainly apply to me and the fourth one does indirectly. I like to think I’m making (slow) progress in fixing the first three, fixing the fourth is going to be a lot harder.

To be honest, the only reason I can think of for using those bombers is that there was literally nothing else available. Even in-universe, I’m struggling to think of a good use for them. I’m probably misremembering as it’s been a long time since I saw the film but I thought the issue was not so much Poe using the bombers (as you say, they were out for a reason) but for pressing the attack when a retreat would have been the wiser option. I don’t think Poe did get screwed over by the plot. But even so, I’m fine with ‘Hero gets screwed over by plot’ as a break from ‘Hero succeeds only because of plot armour’. And yeah, we may well see those chickens come home to roost. Much as I enjoyed The Last Jedi, it didn’t leave an obvious way into the next film. Killing off your Big Bad midway through a trilogy was a bold move but I’ll be disappointed if it turns out that an older Big Bad was pulling the strings all along. Hopefully my first impressions of the trailer are flat wrong but I’m not encouraged by the shout-outs to the original trilogy. I also hope that the negativity around Last Jedi will prove to be more fan dumb (to use the TV Tropes term, I’m not trying to be deliberately insulting) than fandom and that it doesn’t impact on Rise of Skywalker. Let that film succeed or fail on its own.

Because charismatic leaders never get promoted beyond their competence (for example because of a lack of other leaders) or make stupid decisions and get their subordinates killed. And you’re mistaking snooty elitism for plain old sarcasm. Not very polite of me I admit and I apologise. But if not getting bent out of shape by a film in which the good guys are less than infallible, makes me elitist, then damn right I’m elitist. Oh - and if we’re talking about commercial success, $1.33 billion gross, off a $451 million opening seems pretty successful to me. For interest (as far as I can tell from the flurry of numbers on Wikipedia), The Force Awakens grossed $2.07 billion off a $529 million opening. So The Last Jedi wasn’t anywhere near as successful as The Force Awakens but still scored some respectable figures, including a total take of approximately 3x opening take. Which seems to suggest a couple of things: one - that a lot of people were either unaware of, or didn’t care about the negativity from the die-hard fans; and two, that whilst it might not have been an ironclad commercial strategy, it was a pretty damn watertight one.