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1090-176 - 1095-306- 1098-215 - 1104-240 - 1104-261

In 1095 a rebellion by the Farm Workers' Revolutionary Party resulted in the imposition of Imperial rule and the Red Zone rating from the IISS.

Mikhel gains Pilot (Small Craft) 1, Rank Skill-Gun Cbt (Slug) 1, and Adv Skill-Medic 1 over this term during Discovery.

You are on the front lines of a planetary assault and occupation. Gain Gun Cbt(Ergy)-2

"Sir! Yes, SIR!"

Captain Rushanii nearly broke his neck doing the double take. His head came around quick time to see who Corpsman Dromah was addressing with a title he never, ever, used with respect.

Ah, crap. It had to be the nephew of the local baron. That particular individual was a complete waste of rations, and his only strong point was his vanity. Hence he was wearing the most decorative uniform anyone had ever conceived, covered in local medals and bling. The captian quick-stepped over to the two individuals as fast as he could move.

Captain Rushanii had visions of sodium dropping into water. And the resulting fall-out with Command would be ugly, for absolutely no gain. All because Dromah and that shit pump of a Noble were in the same star system, let alone the same room.

"Corpsman Dromah! You are wanted urgently at Aid Station Charlie! Move! Move, NOW!"

Corpsman Dromah saluted, "Captain! Immediately, Captain!" Corpsman Dromah was gone, post haste. Then, Captain Rushanii adressed the officer to see what frivolous thing was about to become the lastest, 'urgent' requirement.

Corpsman Dromah sighed with releif as he departed the command center. He had gotten the status report to the staff, at least, before the inept nob had accosted him. As a corpsman recruit, he had no position or authority to do anything. Yeah, he had lots of experience, and was working above his paygrade because of it. His uniform had a Ten Year service ribbon on it, and he should have been a Sergeant by now. However, Dromah always managed to piss off some high ranking asshole, and any promotion he might have earned was denied. Dromah didn't care, as that meant he was doing medical work, and not filling out paperwork.

This latest mission was likely to have Dromah in the stockade. It was a complete cluster-f. The Marines had been called in to put down a 'rebellion'. Right. Some incompetent nobles had been mistreating the peasants, and the peasants objected. Because the peasants were producing food for the nobles' tables, it became a Sector Emergency. Bastards.

Exactly like corporate high-handedness. Managers screw up, and when the workers object, instead of fixing the problem, the hammer falls. The Captain had probably just saved Dromah's life, if he was reading the pompous buffoon right. Damn it. Dromah was thinking that he'd have to add Rushanii to his holiday card list, now.

Dromah heard a sound above him. It was a medical shuttle decending to Aid Station Charlie. It wasn't possible, but the farmers were seriously messing up seasoned marines. Considering the level of training and equipment being brought to bear, these farmers were creating really wicked numbers of casualties on the marines' side. Not that the civilians weren't taking eye-watering numbers of dead on their side. They just didn't seem to care. Or, maybe they didn't see a win, either way?

Did they think they were on the "Death Ground"? That would explain the 'strategy' Dromah was seeing. The untrained, poorly equipped civilians were doing human wave attacks at very unexpected times. They were making up for their deficiencies with enthusiasm and desperation. And all the armor in the system doesn't protect downed marines, if the opponent then pounds on them with scythes and hammers until the marines are cubed and mashed flat. Absolutely no quarter was being given on their side. Should the farmers win a skirmish, there were no marine survivors or prisoners.

While Dromah had been milling thoughts around in his head, he had made it to Aid Station Charlie's Landing Zone (LZ). The shuttle was opening up, and the pilot was coming out of the passenger hatch, as bullets started ringing off the hull. Dromah ducked and scanned the trees around the aid station. Bad words! The farmers were attacking the aid station! More bad words!

Oh, right! The farmers had never signed any Rules of Engagement agreements, so they weren't remotely following anything like the Rules of War. This is a bad tactic. For the marines. It would play hobb with morale, if getting wounded wasn't bad enough. Dromah didn't have much of a choice, so he drew a weapon he had never used off the range. The snub pistol started barking, and farmers with clubs and sticks started falling.

Dromah quickly ejected the half-full magazine, swapping a new one into the pistol. Tranq rounds were not going to be effective in this fight. The farmers weren't going to be nicer when they woke up, if the marines didn't own the field.

And there were too many of them. Dromah wouldn't be able to stop this charge with his current load of ammo. He moved to the first tent near the LZ. This should have been the ready station for the urgent exacuees. If help didn't arrive immediately, there wouldn't be any need to evacuate anyone.

Dromah made every round count, but was out of ammo too quickly. Out came his standard side arm. It wouldn't be really useful, but it was something. Shots from the stunner dropped the targets, but they wouldn't stay down for long. Just enough time to pull an evacuee on a grav stretcher out and get it up the ramp to the shuttle.

Rapid fire weapons were sounding off on the other side of the aid station. A platoon of marines were redeploying from the front line. That might help. Eventually. As Dromah placed the last of the evacuees into the shuttle, another hail of bullets rang off the hull. And the shuttle pilot caught a round as the hatch closed.

Seriously bad words spewed forth. The wound was debilitating. The pilot wasn't going to be taking the shuttle anywhere. There arose a clammer on the hull. The farmers were pounding on the shuttle. Stars, were these guys ever focused on killing marines, or what!? The pilot said there was possible harm, if the farmers got to anything vital. The shuttle had to lift.

The pilot couldn't man the controls. Dromah could patch him up, but the shoulder wound wouldn't let him fly. Dromah stopped the blood loss, and strapped him into the co-pilot's seat. A shot of Stim, and Dromah strapped into the pilot's seat. Thoughts of imminent death floated through Dromah's head, as he followed the pilot's instructions to bring the shuttle to life.

The lift-off scattered the farmers out of the LZ, and the control pannel didn't show any warning indicators, nor did any bells or horns go off. The Master Caution light, thankfully, remained unilluminated.

Ascent was anticlimatic. The pilot was running comms, and had warned everyone away. However, there was no avoiding the INS Relief. The hospital ship was the destination. Even taking it slow, and with expert guidance and coaching from the pilot, Dromah still bent the docking clamps. The shuttle was able to dock, and the evacuees did get the timely medical assistance they needed. But the damage to both ship and shuttle would cost a pretty credit or two.

So, after the dust settled, the pilot, Lt Kiiliani, gave Dromah a few lessons on simulator boards, and even allowed a turn at the controls on a ferry flight or two. Dromah also got a bit more range time in. The scare of being overwhelmed in a conflict without quarter hightened the survival instinct just a bit.

Oh. And the saving of several wounded marines from certain death, and the untrained evacuation flight in desperate circumstances? No medal. The nephew had been 'offended', and the damage to ship and shuttle too costly.

But, as the saying goes, 'No good deed goes unpunished.' Dromah finally got a promotion!