Deadzone Strider - A Closer Look...

The gentlemen at Titan Games have got hold of a Mantic Games Deadzone Strider (Apparently shops can pledge to Kickstarters as well, lol).

While it was lying around I took some pictures of an assembled version as well as some of the spare parts...this one hasn't been assembled completely as one version (It can be used by Enforcers, Plague or the Rebs) but rather has been primarily built as the corporate version with a few extra touches added from the other available accessories including a Rebs banner piece...

As well as the enclosed cockpit pictured above you also have the option of an open and a smashed version for the Rebs and Plague respectively though there's no reason why you can't swap them about if you wish. There's also three different pilot options so it's obvious that the possibility of an open cockpit with a corporation pilot had occurred to Mantic Games at some point...

The model in the pics has been assembled holding the rifle...

...though there's also a Flamethrower and a Chainsaw available if you prefer...

All in all it's an amazing kit with a lot of detail and a satisfyingly complete set of upgrade options and weapon variants and each version will leave you with a nice pile of spare parts for customisation. He was so keen on the model that he's even put some paint on it...

Thoughts and comments are (as usual) most welcome.

A Deadzone Encyclopedia 1.1 - Part 3 - N-Z

I decided to compile all the Deadzone background and stories from the various updates and newsletters into a single resource. It's alphabetical rather than chronological...well...sort of...I'm kinda ignoring the word 'The' if it's at the beginning...

A-C can be found here and D-M can be found here

N-Z

Contains...
Nastanza, Twilight Huntress, Nem-Rath, Nexus Psi, The Plague, Plague 2nd Gen, Plague 3rd Gen with Grenade Launcher, Plague 3rd Gen with Heavy Machinegun; 3rd Gen with Rifle, Plague Zombies, Predator and Prey - A Deadzone Story, Prefabricated Units, The Rebs, Rebs Commander, Rebs Grogan with Desolator Heavy Weapon, Rebs Kraaw, Rebs Yndij, Recon Unit N32-19, Ruined BattleZone, Sergeant Howlett, Sorok, The Survivor, Teraton, Wrath, Judwan Assassin, Yndij.

Nastanza, Twilight Huntress.
It is said that if one was to catch a glimpse of Nastanza they would be hollowed out – joyless, emotionless: forever empty.

A solitary figure, she is neither human nor Asterian, more an agent of something altogether more sinister. She is the silent reaper, stalking across the battlefield cloaked behind her camo shield, taking pleasure in the slaughter. She is the invisible executioner, a precision shot and expert head hunter responsible for the murder of countless soldiers.

She is the Twilight Huntress, and where Nastanza walks, only darkness follows.

Nem-Rath.
Shuutavar are observers, or "watchers" to translate their name literally. Their role is a passive one of observing the commander and his demeanour in battle. Should he fall in combat they will sometimes step in and take command of the Cyphers themselves, though this is not really their primary aim. Mostly they are interested not in the outcome of the mission as such, but the way in which the commander conducted himself. How did he cope with setbacks, loss, disaster even. These are of more interest than the result itself. Military losses can be replaced and battles re-fought. An individual's road to purity and calm can be set back centuries or stalled forever by a careless response. The Asterian way is a fragile one.

Even among the Shuutavar, Nem-Rath is regarded as being something of a stickler for the traditional. In a position that focuses on maintaining the Asterian way, Nem-Rath is a leading light. He is unflinching in his criticism of those who fail which makes his infrequent praise all the more valuable. His many years of experience and the finest battle gear available make him a formidable warrior in his own right - not that he will be pleased if he has to take part. Ideally his presence should not be felt by either side, save by the Asterian commander who will be hard pressed to avoid the sense that his every move and thought is being scrutinised which, of course, it is.

In the unlucky event of the commander being slain a Shuutavar’s objective changes. Nem-Rath, like any other of his class, will take over the command, completing the mission or recovering resources as he deems appropriate. The commander’s loss is regrettable, but need not be compounded by failure.

Nexus Psi.
Nexus Psi was just another mission.

The keyboard jockeys called this kind of operation R&R – Reclaim and Recover - or sometimes Sweep and Clear if they were feeling particularly aggressive. Here in the strike craft, running through weapon checks one last time as it dropped through the burning atmosphere, the veterans of Strike Team 91-Urilla called it what it was: Search and Destroy.

The briefing had been nothing new. An artefact had been recovered on Nexus Psi, and the fallout hadn’t taken long. Recon had swept the planet and tagged a prime vector, which had been designated their secondary target. Primary was the artefact itself, and tertiary was the retrieval team that had been unlucky enough to dig it up. No one in 91-Urilla entertained the notion that any of them would still be alive. Or human.

Just another mission.

The Plague.
There have been increasing reports of a terrifying virus unleashed by alien artefacts scattered across the Expansion Zone. Each primary victim is twisted into a brutal colossus hell-bent on spreading its contagion to new hosts. These second-generation victims suffer the same mutation to a lesser degree, becoming less massive but no less deadly. Once the virus reaches its third generation the physical changes are mostly superficial and some brain function is left intact; some say that these are the worst of the three, as they can still operate weapons and machinery. These beasts exist only to spread their Plague to new hosts, and once they arrive on a planet it can only be a matter of time before it is overrun and ruined.

Plague 2nd Gen.
When the first victim of the Plague succumbs to the deadly alien virus then become what is known as a 1st Generation - a brutal colossus hell-bent on spreading its contagion to new hosts. These massive beings spread the plague in the ensuing slaughter and those second-generation victims that are infected suffer the same mutation to a lesser degree, becoming less massive but no less deadly.

Plague 3rd Gen with Grenade Launcher.
Third-generation infected put a variety of weapons to use, and occasionally one of them will stumble across specialist weaponry such as a grenade launcher. Although these are not generally used by the civilians that make up the bulk of the first wave of Infected, they are standard gear for the military forces that accompany them. Their explosive ordnance can quickly throw organised firing lines into disarray, giving first- and second-generation infected the chance to break cover and charge enemy lines.

Plague 3rd Gen with Heavy Machinegun; 3rd Gen with Rifle.
By the time the Plague reaches its third generation, its mutating effects are considerably lessened, meaning a much higher number of victims survive to join the ranks of the infected. These third-generation troopers still undergo a physical alteration, but their minds are left almost intact. As a result, they are the only warriors in the Plague ranks that are capable of operating machinery, and quickly scavenge weapons to provide covering fire to their bestial masters.

Plague Zombies.
Towering men in shining suits of armour, hulking green monstrosities, the alien with a face full of tentacles… Ana thought she’d seen it all. But the sight of her friend, half of her face missing, clawing herself along the ground; that was too much to take.

Paralysed, too scared to even scream, listening to the sounds of the half-dozen Infected tearing flesh from bone in the next room, Ana resigned herself to death.....

In the aftermath of infection, many millions of citizens encounter the nightmare horrors of the Plague. Not all meet the same fate.

A handful survive, scratching out a living on the shattered remnants of their world. By far the majority are slaughtered, their minds and bodies succumbing to the infection.

The remainder are those who survive the first attacks, often horribly wounded and mentally scarred by the ferocity of the mutants. These regular citizens are infected by the mutating horror of the alien plague. This mutation creates the sadly familiar monsters you see on the battlefield, but these are just its greatest works. Far more common are the rejected mutations that have overwhelmed their host to the point of leaving little but a hollow shell of a twisted animal.

Officially these creatures are 3rd Generation Plague mutants. However, to distinguish them from the normal 3rd Gens who retain memories and skills from their former lives and hold a degree of higher cognitive function, these are coded as 3Z. They are bestial and savage creatures, driven by pain and hunger to attack, though lacking the fighting skill of the purer, more successful mutations.

Given their appearance it is hardly surprising that most combat troops refer to them as zombies.

Predator and Prey - A Deadzone Story.
Gregson fled across the ruined outpost, and somewhere behind him, a deranged beast followed.

He’d been hiding out in a network of caves less than a klick away since the first reports of monsters and gunfire, living off emergency rations he’d found on the way there. Things had been quiet – all the more so when the long-range comms signal died. One of the nights he’d ventured to the cave mouth to look out over the jungle canopy of Nexus Psi, he’d seen an incredible display in the skies; he’d seen enough CorpCast footage of orbital disasters to recognise a collision between two or more ships in the upper atmosphere. He’d fled back to the safety of the lower caves when the debris started falling like a series of flaming comets. He’d stayed there until the food ran out.

Now here he was, sprinting for his life across blood-spattered neocrete as one of the creatures he’d heard so much about across comms chatter chased after him. He’d only seen it once, not having dared to look back at it once it started chasing him, but that was all he needed. It was burned into his brain forever, maybe to the end of his life; of course, given his current situation, that might not be too far away. The thing was apelike, with long arms ending in wicked claws. Its head was disproportionately small, protruding from a bony shell that looked like it could easily stop gunfire. Of course, being a senior technician attached to an Exploration / Retrieval team, he wasn’t armed, but the thought had still crossed his mind.

Given the beast’s mass, he was astounded that it could move so quickly. He’d only evaded it so far by ducking through narrow gaps and outmanoeuvring it across the tight confines of the outpost. It was gaining on him, though. He altered his course to duck down a covered alleyway between two habtainers, the entrance partly choked with rubble.

Gunfire barked behind him, and he almost sprawled to the floor in shock. He turned to look over his shoulder and saw no sign of the creature. Then it flashed past, clearly heading for whoever had opened fire. He didn’t know who his saviour was, but he muttered a word of thanks all the same. The poor wretch didn’t stand a chance.

There was a sound like a blade being drawn from a silken sheath and a hum that reminded Gregson of the energy cutters they used for deep-core extractions, followed by a squeal of agony that couldn’t have been human. Then… silence. He crept back to the mouth of the alley, half expecting to see teeth and claws flashing towards him, but something made him stay his course.

The creature was slumped to the ground no more than three metres away. The top half of its head lay a short distance away, and a disgusting smell of burnt offal hung in the air. His saviour stood silent, regarding him evenly. He was tall, encased in slate-grey armour, his face hidden by an enclosed helmet. The technician had never seen one in person, but there weren’t many citizens in the GCPS who would fail to recognise the ominous bulk of an Enforcer. A heavy pistol was held comfortably in one hand; the other was clenched into a fist, a blue-white energised blade extending from a device the warrior’s his wrist. He relaxed his hand and the blade retracted smoothly. He took two steps towards Gregson and began to speak, his voice amplified by external speaker grilles in the armour.

Before he could finish the first word, a second creature, almost identical to the first, sprang from hiding with a defiant shriek. The Enforcer span, raising his pistol and snapping off two shots at impossible speed, but sure enough they were deflected by the bony plates covering the creature’s chest. It hit him with its full weight and both fell to the floor. Gregson scurried back into cover, looking around for a weapon to defend himself with. There was nothing.

The armoured warrior rolled with the impact, trying to pin the creature to the ground under the weight of his suit, but it was too strong. It was as though it had been created solely with speed, brute force and resilience in mind; the ultimate predator. It threw the warrior off, and he skidded across the neocrete, raising a flurry of sparks. He didn’t waste the opportunity, bringing his pistol to bear with surprisingly good aim, and unleashed a salvo of shots. Gregson couldn’t tell whether they hit their target, but the creature ducked back long enough for the Enforcer to regain his feet. He clenched his fist and the energised blade flashed back into life. The respite gave the technician a better chance to look at the new arrival, and he saw that it wasn’t quite identical to the one that had been chasing him. It looked older, and its face was patterned with scars. Its carapace was gathered into ridges of sharpened bone. Blood-flecked drool dripped from between its needle-like teeth. It was nothing less than terrifying.

The two combatants seemed to size each other up for a moment. Each must have been a veteran of countless battles, Gregson realised. They circled, bloodshot eyes locking with hard red lenses. The Enforcer held steady, wristblade held up at shoulder height, pistol arm extended; the mutant dragged its claws along the ground, twitching and spasming with barely-contained fury. Then, with a roar of primal rage, it tensed to leap.

The Enforcer hesitated for the smallest of moments before firing a single shot. The beast was springing forward, legs extending like pistons, claws outstretched, as the round took it in the centre of the face. Time seemed to pass in slow motion; its stub nose caved in on itself, pulling its lip up in a sneer. Its head whipped back even as it clumsily took to the air. Something in its brain seemed misfire and its arms flailed almost comically as it overbalanced and rolled to the ground. It continued to flail spasmodically until the Enforcer stepped forward, pushed it onto its back with the tip of an armoured boot, and plunged his blade through its neck.

Gregson broke cover, feeling almost as though he could weep with relief. He knew he looked pathetic, but he didn’t care; he was going to get off-world, and this would just be a memory.

His saviour glanced up at him, and raised his pistol.

“As you were.”

The technician faltered, and the Enforcer fired a shot past his shoulder.

“Keep running. You’re drawing them out.”

The armoured brute fired a second shot that passed so close he felt it rush past his ear. Without another moment’s thought, he ran.

***

Gregson fled across the ruined outpost, and somewhere behind him, a deranged beast followed.

Prefabricated Units.
In the sparsely populated planets of the far reaches of Corporation space, the settlements all tend towards a familiar look – built from the same prefab units that are supplied by Shensig Interplanetary to almost every colonist collective and security unit known to man. These boxy and utilitarian blocks are formed into storage units, barracks, workshops, offices, armories, labs, holding pens, and medi-centres with equal ease. They are the defining architectural wonder of the Corporation and are commonly what alien races assume to be the pinnacle of human achievement. They are a far cry from the architectural marvels of the Core.

The Rebs.
The Corporation sells itself as a utopian society, but there are those among its citizens that disagree. For these free-thinkers, anarchists and dissidents there will always be the welcoming arms of the Rebellion. Following a crushing loss against Corporation forces thirty years ago, the Rebs have been slowly rebuilding their numbers, taking on recruits from alien races who share their grievances with the Council. They use hijacked corpcast scanners and planted agents to plan raids on vulnerable installations, slowly building their stocks of munitions and technology. Amid the chaos of a Deadzone it would be easy to ransack enough to fund an entire campaign, but the Rebs know that the Corporation don’t call for containment protocol lightly. Only their most dedicated soldiers are willing to take the risk, knowing that their lives could well be forfeit in the name of rebellion.

Rebs Commander.
Leading a group as diverse as the Rebs takes guts, character and wholehearted hatred of the GCPS. Thankfully, they say the Council makes a new enemy every three seconds, so the Rebellion has no shortage of candidates for leadership. Maybe they lost everything they cared about to a system-wide merger; maybe they were leaders in the Corporation Military who refused an order they disagreed with. In any case, their dedication to overthrowing the Corporation is absolute.

Rebs Grogan with Desolator Heavy Weapon.
Grogans are often looked down on by “civilised” society as brainless thugs. However, their straightforward demeanour and thick-set frame belies a keen mind and a knack for technology. Many of them have found their way to the ranks of the Rebellion, where they often act as both heavy-support troopers and engineers.

Rebs Kraaw.
The Kraaw have been clear opponents of the Corporation ever since the first exploratory fleet entered their space and was destroyed by swarms of fighter craft. They are fiercely territorial and little is known about them beyond their reputation as vicious predators, but occasionally small groups will approach the Rebellion and offer their services. On the battlefield they strike unexpectedly, bringing death to their hated enemies with Stingcasters and Talon Blades alike.

Rebs Yndij.
When the first elements of Mining Fleet 411 landed on Azure IX they came across the Yndij, a race of hunters living in the planet’s great jungles. They refused to leave, and would have been wiped out if not for a chance attack by the Rebellion. The invading forces were driven away, but not before the jungles were devastated. Now, the Yndij have taken a permanent place in the Rebellion, hoping to stop the same thing happening to others.

Recon Unit N32-19.
Gripping his weapon, his finger itching on the trigger, N32 breathed heavily, his back pressed against some low-lying rubble.

The Enforcer Pathfinder shifted slightly, reaching for his belt and unstrapping a metallic sphere from his belt. He tossed it in the air, a red glow bursting from the Drone's eye, and he opened the vidscreen. It lived.

He had eyes everywhere and still he couldn’t see where the beast had gone.

He’d been on the trail of the Prime Vector for days, even managing to unleash a salvo from his needle-gun into the colossal beast. And still it had kept going, luring N32 into the ruins of Nicorasi and it’s waiting brood.

Now he was cornered.

He knew the 3A’s were out there, he had heard their weapons fire, but it was the sight of the female that had concerned him – about as frightened as an Enforcer could get.

There.

He’d seen it, an oncoming pack – and the Female was with them!

The Pathfinder flicked open his Comms link, inputted the code and pulled himself off the ground...

<>

N32 is in danger, trapped by the Plague, his life in the balance. Can you save him?

Armed with a rapid-fire, neodurium-tipped Needle Gun and serrated blade, Recon Unit N32-19 was a fan favourite over on the Mantic Forums.

Ruined BattleZone.
Citizen Jael burst through the security door, weaving side to side as debris and rubble crashed to the floor. Warning sirens blared in the background and Jael tripped over lose wiring, electric sparks fizzing as he scrambled to his feet.

“Halt, Citizen!” came a robotic voice from behind.

Jael has been in hiding ever since the armour clad super soldiers had arrived in the region, unleashing devastating salvos of laser cannon fire on the surrounding buildings sending them crashing to the ground in a bid to trap the mutant beasts inside. But that wasn’t the end of it - Jael was learning just what happened when the Enforcers quarantined an area.

After their transports had landed, scores of citizens had been killed at point blank range as the soldiers ensured that the Plague wouldn’t break out again...

Now Jael was being hunted and, as he rounded a corner, he felt a searing pain in his shoulder. Smashing his head on the floor as he fell backwards, a dark presence loomed over him, snarling.

The Marauder Raiders had landed in the ruins.

Sergeant Howlett.
Most Enforcer sergeants are steady in battle, calmly holding a line when others have fled, or advancing methodically by long-established drill. Sergeant Howlett comes from a different school of tactics.

Most Enforcer sergeants rise through the ranks through the tactical units and it has long been acknowledged that this offers the best all-round training for a prospective leader. Tactical units face the widest variety of combat situations and foes, so the mettle of a trooper is tested most thoroughly. Sergeant Howlett has only ever served with assault units.

Most Enforcer sergeants hang back slightly from combat, their duties being to direct the battle as a whole rather than show individual prowess. If personal leadership does need to be shown then they naturally lead an advance, but always as part of a key move within the structure of the overall operation. Sergeant Howlett leads by example, charging recklessly into the thick of battle to personally cut down as many of those who oppose the will of the Seven as he can. If others follow, that’s fine by Howlett. If not, then he’ll chew them out later, back at base. If they live.

Sorok.
The Sorok are a fierce race with a rigid warrior caste system. Their honour-duels are known to last for days, and a swordspawn is expected to make its first kill before it learns to speak. Despite this, they are often underestimated by those who do not know them, due to their outlandish appearance. The Rebellion boasts entire enclaves of Sorok warriors, who see the Corporation’s expansion policies as a threat against their traditional ways.

The Survivor.
A spacefaring traveller, The Survivor is the only known living being to have been infected by the Plague and survive a Containment Protocol. Since then he has had only one desire: to retrieve a piece of a Plague Artefact and try to synthesise a cure for himself. For The Survivor it is simply a race against time before the Alien Virus overcomes his biological defences and he succumbs to the infection - a race he cannot afford to lose.

Teraton.
Several decades ago the glorious Teraton Empire approached the Global Co-Prosperity Sphere, offering trade and counsel. Despite their reputation as shrewd merchants, the Teratons did not expect scheming and duplicity from what they saw as such as young, hopeful race. Now yoked to multifarious Corporations by galactic trade laws, contracts and treaties, the Teraton Empire is a shadow of its former self. Younger Teratons, lacking the patience of their elders, are now often found leading the charge for Rebellion forces.

Teratons are hulking soldiers that pack one heck of a punch. The hot-headed pups that have left the Teraton Empire strap vicious looking weapons to their arms, seeking to use their supreme strength, resilience and intelligence in the fight against the Council of Seven!

Wrath, Judwan Assassin.
Throughout their long and noble history, there has never been a Judwan warrior or a Judwan murderer, and certainly nothing like the psychotic assassin known as Wrath. At least, not until now. The following information has been pieced together from a variety of sources, and the truth of the matter will probably never be known for certain. The few that did know the truth of this code 8 secret operation are mostly dead. The handful that remain are running for their lives or hiding where they think he cannot find them.

It seems that he was taken from his parents at an early age and raised as an assassin for the Council of Seven. Producing such unwavering killers was probably only one order issued among many others and was long forgotten by the time he was old enough to be sent on his first mission. Still, he was their work.

His first mission was almost his last as the Enforcers he accompanied nearly shot him on the spot for disobeying direct orders under fire. Despite his excellence in training and simulation, when it came to reality he would not kill. He was, after all, Judwan.

The programme leader was give a month to persuade his subject to see reason. Failure would not be a healthy option for either of them. From that point the means of persuasion became increasingly blunt and desperate. Hypnotism, indoctrination, and behavioural therapy were quickly replaced by surgery, implants and mind-probes. These failed too, so more were tried, as was simple torture to break his will – to force him to obey. After a month the programme leader claimed a great success. He had broken the Judwan. Turning around such a high cost investment was such good news that even one of the Council saw fit to inspect this most lethal of new weapons in their arsenal.

Reports of this official demonstration are sketchy, but the results are clear. Today the assassin known as Wrath is the most wanted sentient in the galaxy. He is at the top of every Enforcers shoot to kill list and has been the target of no less than nine fleet sized actions. Small cities have been nuked in an effort to kill him, but he has slipped away quietly every time.

The main reason for this unusually costly pursuit is simple revenge. Wrath carries one of the Council of Seven’s ceremonial blades, and this he took from the dead hand of the Councillor himself. He cannot be allowed to live. His every breath is an encouragement to the Rebels and an embarrassment for the Council and the Corporation. The problem is that he was trained too well...

Yndij.
When the first elements of Mining Fleet 411 landed on Azure IX they came across the Yndij, a race of hunters living in the planet’s great jungles. They refused to leave, and would have been wiped out if not for a chance attack by the Rebellion. The invading forces were driven away, but not before the jungles were devastated. Now, the Yndij have taken a permanent place in the Rebellion, hoping to stop the same thing happening to others.

Swapping their homeworlds for the urban jungle, Yndij Hunters are agile troops for the Rebs and increasingly a mainstay unit of any Rebs attack.

A Deadzone Encyclopedia 1.1 - Part 2 - D-M

I decided to compile all the Deadzone background and stories from the various updates and newsletters into a single resource. It's alphabetical rather than chronological...well...sort of...I'm kinda ignoring the word 'The' if it's at the beginning...

A-C can be found here,

D-M

N-Z can be found here.

Contains...
Doctor Gayle Simmonds, Drones, Eddak P'mera, Enforcers, Enforcer Assault Marine, Enforcer Engineer, Enforcer Peacekeepers, Enforcer with Incinerator/Burst Laser, Forge Fathers - Don't call them short; they hate that - A Deadzone Story, Forge Father Brokkrs, Forge Father Brokkr with Muspell-pattern Rifle, Forge Father Inferno Drill, Fortified Defence Line BattleZone, Freya, Forge Father Smuggler, Grogun, Harsh Lessons - A Deadzone Story, The Helfather, Kish - Plague Named Character, Marauders, Marauder Commandos, Marauder Hulk, Marauder Mawbeast Bombers, Marauder Ripper Suits, Marauder Ripper Suits with close combat weaponry, Marauder Ripper Suits with long ranged weaponry, Marauder Sniper, Marauder Stuntbot.

Doctor Gayle Simmonds.
Doctor Simmonds was one of the genius minds on Nexus Psi, stationed as both an archaeologist and biotechnician.

By the time the Containment Protocol was ordered and the Enforcers landed, Simmonds had already lost her team to the mutant beasts roaming the streets. Having received basic training by the security teams on board her ship during spaceflight, Gayle managed to preserve her life a little better than the others – but it was only a matter of time before the Plague caught up with her.

Defiant in the clutches of a rabid second generation, her body succumbed to the mutant virus, warping far faster than any other victim previous. She eventually awoke from the turmoil, her need for knowledge greatly exaggerated, a base desire to cause pain greatly inflamed.

With vengeance on her mind, Simmonds vowed to destroy those that had left her to this fate.

Drones.
Survey Drones are used for a variety of military and civilian purposes across the GCPS, allowing a single operator to watch over a large area from a safe location. They are manufactured by various corporations in a multitude of designs; the Jetari One-Shot, for example, is a simple camera drone that is often used by exploration and retrieval teams because of its disposable design. Rebel forces often use survey drones to scout battlefield locations and gather intel before putting them to use in engagements to scope out enemy positions.

Eddak P'mera.
The twin moons were both full, casting stark shadows across the quiet remains of what had once been a busy loading bay at the Nexus Psi spaceport. A year ago this would have been bustling all 26 hours a local day. Now all was quiet. A lone sentry shifted his weight from foot to foot, scanning his assigned sector and trying to stay awake while his comrades snatched some well-earned rest.

Silently, unnoticed, one of the shadows slowly changed shape and merged into its neighbour. A gust of wind blew some loose papers across the open space in front of the sentry and for a moment he was awake, but only for a moment. It was rubbish in the wind. Nothing to worry about.

The sentry relaxed again and once more the shadow moved, always slightly outside his field of vision. It was as if the darkness itself was stalking its prey.

This darkness was the Rebel scout, Eddak P’mera. The sentry hadn’t spotted him yet. Probably never would. Humans were so inattentive. Without turning, P’mera signalled to the rest of his squad who slid silently out of the shadows and began to make their final approach. He would use his crossbow to take care of the sentry…

Enforcers.
The Enforcers are the Council of Seven’s elite peacekeepers, dispatched to tackle threats that are beyond the scope of regular military units. Each Enforcer is a superior soldier, trained in countless forms of combat and equipped with the best technology available. As a unit they are disciplined and fearless, ready to lay down their lives to carry out the orders of their captain. When a Containment Protocol is decreed, multiple Enforcers patrols are sent to the planet’s surface to retrieve important tech, repel raiders and terminate priority targets. Although they may be outnumbered, they will never be outgunned.

Enforcer Assault Marine.
A warrior should never be without his weapon, and the Dionetik Assault Blade was designed with this in mind. The blade is made of a bi-mimetic shape-memory alloy, meaning it can be deployed from its wrist-mounted sheath at a single command from the bearer. The Dionetik Corporation initially produced these with bodyguards and undercover mercenaries in mind, but they were soon adopted by Enforcer assault units. Several changes were made to the original design, taking into account the added benefits of powered armour, making Assault Blades a lethal addition to the Enforcer arsenal.

Enforcer Engineer.
Enforcer Engineers are integral to operations during a containment protocol, capable of laying deadly traps and automated sentry turrets.

Enforcer Peacekeepers.
Enforcers are tough agile troops. They get great equipment and excellent weaponry. With their training and discipline they are capable of fighting in all but the most difficult conditions.

However sometimes conditions are too hard even for an Enforcer detachment. Sometimes they need more.

The council equip the Enforcers with kit bought from the Forge Fathers. No expense is spared - they get the very best money can buy. Sometimes the Forge Fathers limit what they will sell, however. Sometimes the price is so high even the council blanches.

When a deal can be done the council purchase Peacekeeper armour. These suits are based on the Forge Father Orbital Drop Armour and have full-life support systems - capable of maintaining life for several days in even the most hostile environments - and they are armed with ordnance most armies can only dream of…

Enforcer with Incinerator/Burst Laser.
When the first artefacts were discovered, it didn’t take long for Enforcers to realise that fire is an excellent anti-Plague weapon – after all, infection can’t spread if the host is reduced to ash and cinders. The Recoil Industries MPFU-04 Incinerator became standard kit before long. Although short-ranged compared to some alternative units, its reliability and adaptability to multiple fuel sources makes it ideal for the claustrophobic skirmishes that usually occur in a Deadzone.

Forge Fathers - Don't call them short; they hate that - A Deadzone Story.
Another missile impacted against the habtainer wall, but miraculously it held. Fillon didn’t know how many more it could take, but her options were limited. They were surrounded on three sides leaving only an open kill-zone to fall back into. Of the Rebs under her command, only four were still capable of anything like a fighting retreat, and Joruk’s Desolator had to run dry sooner or later.

Belwin darted around the refrigeration unit he’d been using for cover and let loose a burst from his rifle. His only reward was the bark of return fire from the enemy position, shots chewing more fist-sized holes through the wall. Fillon barked at him to get down and stop wasting ammo. Not that she blamed him. If they didn't do something soon, none of it would matter anyway.

She replayed the past ten minutes in her head – her compad’s clock showed it was only ten minutes, but how was that possible? – and tried to work out how OTR-9 had been backed into the scant cover of a blown-out diner unit. It had been a routine sweep-and-keep, picking the area clean of resources for the good of the cause. Drone visuals had shown no enemy forces, so they hadn’t suspected a thing until the Forge Fathers opened fire. She knew it was nothing political or personal; the Rebellion had fought alongside them on a number of occasions. She guessed they just wanted what was on Nexus Psi enough to put aside common courtesy in favour of a “shoot first, talk later” policy.

The east wall exploded inwards and she was snapped back to the present. Three Brokkr were already charging through the gap as she began to raise her rifle. Radner looked up from treating Nolan’s chest wound in time to take a heat hammer to the side of the head. Ryla sprang from cover, drawing his long-bladed skinning knife. The Sorak, an expert close-quarters fighter, had been waiting for the chance to set aside his rifle ever since the Forge Fathers had revealed themselves. He wasted no time dipping his blade past the lead Brokkr’s defences and into its exposed throat, but the dwarf still managed to unleash three point-blank headshots in return.

Fillon’s gun beeped empty as she pulled the trigger. She slung it and drew her sidearm, yelling at Joruk and Belwin to fall back. The Grogan wasn’t listening, too intent on keeping any more dwarves from making their way through the blast-hole with bursts from his cannon. Belwin stood to run and was pitched over by a heavy-calibre round that vaporized his shoulder and half of his ribcage.

The enemy were all around. Time seemed to move at a fraction of its normal speed as a missile streaked through the smashed front window and took Joruk apart from the waist up. In the tinny aftermath of the explosion Fillon could hear the enemy fire slowing as they realized their targets were running out.

She dropped her weapon and raised her arms, hoping that the little she knew of their language would be enough to convince them to take her alive. The battle was lost, but as long as one member of OTR-9 was standing, the war wasn’t over.

The Forge Fathers are in the Deadzone for a very simple reason: resources. They are, at heart, miners and artisans, and the fact that the Corporation controls any resource-rich planets is like fingernails down a blackboard to the Forge Fathers. They want it all.

The moment that a Deadzone is declared, Forge Father ships are ready to move in and scour the area for the rich pickings they imagine must have attracted the Corporation in the first place. Often they are right, and their strike teams will be able to pinpoint likely sources of ores and other minerals that can be exploited by follow-up units. However, even the most avaricious of Forge Fathers knows that they must be wary of the original cause of the Containment Protocol, and so their forces arrive encased in the best armour money can buy, armed to the teeth and prepared for anything.

Forge Father Brokkrs.
Brokkrs are the metal scrap merchants of Forge Father society. They aggressively excavate an area for whatever materials they can find with the aim of putting them to good use back in the Star Realm – whether that’s raw minerals or concrete foundations. They are protected on their mission by the Forge Guard, though they aren’t bad in combat themselves. Each carries a Hailstorm Pistol to defend themselves with, and their heat hammers are perfect for swatting aside pesky Plague or irritating Asterians.

Forge Father Brokkr with Muspell-pattern Rifle.
Forge Fathers know better than to be left wanting in a fight and, in addition to the Forge Guard entourage a ship may carry, the armoury is stocked with heavy duty weapons. Too powerful for a Brokkr to use without power-assisted Aesir armour, a modified version of the Heat Cannon called the Muspell is used instead.

When the Brokkrs are forced into a fight, they do so with devastating fire power at their fingertips.

Forge Father Inferno Drill.
Brokkr Engineers have harnessed the power of one of their hull-mounted Inferno Drills – an industrial mining laser – and have bolted it onto a tracked base. On the battlefield it is difficult to manoeuver, often leaving the operator at risk from oncoming fire, but can cut through all but the toughest armour.

Fortified Defence Line BattleZone.
Citizen Jael had read all of the reports – colossal abominations, mutated aliens and rumours of supersoldiers executing civilians. He had hoped that the Enforcers would quarantine the area in Nicorasi on the south coast but the disease was virulent and intel was coming in suggesting the outbreak was more widespread than first thought. Jael looked up at the Laser Cannon Engineer Talbot had installed and over to the defence lines being erected. He hoped it would be enough.

Freya, Forge Father Smuggler.
With a crash the door smashed open and the Rebel trooper almost fell into the bunker. “There’s a… a… ” he gasped between gulps of air.

“Sanders!” barked the sergeant. “Report!”

The panting Rebel snapped to the best impression of attention he could muster, still gasping for air.

“Sorry sarge” he managed between breaths.

“Now lad, take your time” said the sergeant rather more gently. “What did you see then?”

“Private Sanders begs to report an enemy sighting, sir.” “Yes, well that is why we’re here son. Who’d you see?” This simple question seemed to confuse the trooper for a moment.

“A Forge… Father.”

“With the Orx? Hmmm, that’s unusual. Still, mercs turn up all over and you’ve seen them before. What’s got you so spooked about this one Sanders? Is he Forge Guard?”

“Not exactly, sir. He’s a she – a female Forge Father… er… mother... sister…” he trailed off into silence.

After a moment he continued “But they don’t exist.”

Grogun.
Groguns are often looked down on by “civilised” society as brainless thugs. However, their straightforward demeanour and thick-set frame belies a keen mind and a knack for technology. Many of them have found their way to the ranks of the Rebellion, where they often act as both heavy-support troopers and engineers.

Harsh Lessons - A Deadzone Story.
What was taking them so long?

Fillon peered through her scope yet again, playing it around the moonlit plaza. The area was still clear. Reports had come through on long-range comms that they might not be the only ones moving for the med-station, and the longer Zek and Uro took retrieving the package the more chance they had of enemy contact. If a secure line was even remotely possible she would have pinged her team by now, but on Nexus Psi that was a laughable notion. Comms were grakked planetwide.

She sighed and shifted her weight, rolling her shoulders. Yes, she’d seen some awful missions in her time, from the massacre at Uraxia City to the Cerno uprising, but this one was a new low. No backup, no heavy support, and no comms. It was a sweep-and-keep, cutting in under the Corp’s noses and picking their well-stocked facilities clean under cover of a global panic, and it should have been easy. Okay, there was the Plague to contend with, but they’d found what had looked like an isolated continent far away from the action. They just hadn’t realised how fast it could spread.

And it wasn’t like the Infected were their only problem. Sure, the Enforcers generally had bigger game to chase, but they still took a dim view of looters, especially ones on the payroll of the Rebellion. They were terrifying to stand up against. Fast, deadly, almost impossible to kill. And jet packs! Belwin’s standard topic of conversation when he’d been drinking had always been easy life would be with one of those suits; now he’d dealt with Enforcers face to face, she doubted he’d have the stomach to bring it up again.

OTR-9 had already fallen foul of the Orx once since coming planetside. They’d walked into an ambush that had turned into a fighting retreat against overwhelming odds. She’d lost five of her squad that day; Rhodd and Brel had been the first, cut down in the crossfire that sprang the trap, and Radna and Nolan had died in the furious close-quarters battle at the end of the engagement. Gonak had died like a true hero, fighting a trio of battlesuits. She fought with the cunning of a seasoned brawler, spinning to let blows clatter off her armoured shell before turning back to smash armour open with wide swings of her ceremonial blades. Fillon suspected the Teraton had known it was a losing battle, but had held on long enough for the remaining members of the squad to break away.

They’d learned a lot that day. The Orx were neither savage not stupid, and they’d paid the price for thinking they were. That’s why they were taking no chances. If someone else was making a run on the Mazon Labs station, it was likely to be a Marauder team. If it had been another Rebs unit they would have known about it, and it was unlikely the Enforcers or Plague would be interested in black-market medical supplies. That’s why she was watching from up here, with H’ryk waiting on a nearby rooftop to get the drop on any would-be attackers, and Ryla was waiting just inside the med-station door. The Sorak was a vicious blade fighter, deadly in confined spaces, and he was ready to jump on anything that got inside. Belwin was watching the Zees as they searched crates for their objective.

Fillon raised her scope and made another sweep of the plaza. Her heart jumped as she caught a flash of movement in the shadows. It took her a moment to focus, but then she saw the running figure and her heart leapt. She felt a mixture of tension and vindication as she recognised the long arms, loping stride and crocodilian jaw. If it hadn’t been for the twin rifles, he would have looked for all the world like a DreadBall player making a sprint for the endzone. Still, the creature was stealthy; if she hadn’t looked at that precise moment she would have missed him. Once again she found herself questioning what she thought she knew about these alien raiders.

The running Orx came to the watchtower behind the med-station and slung his rifles, swinging up onto the ladder with a grace that looked out of place on such a muscular creature. She nodded absently; when they’d arrived here, that was the first place she’d checked, too. It was an obvious location for a sniper, which is why she’d left it clear and plumped for the first-storey window instead. The warrior made it to the top of the tower, looking almost disappointed at the lack of enemies. Fillon watched as he took a small device from a pouch at his belt and lifted it. It flashed three times; a signalling device. He wasn’t alone.

She swung the rifle back in the direction he’d come from, searching for targets. It took her two passes before she spotted them: three Orx and one of their malformed hunting dogs, crouched in the cover of a burnt-out Habtainer. There could have been more of them waiting in cover. Radio silence suddenly became less important than warning her troops, and she opened a broad-burst channel.

“Fillon here. We’ve got incoming. One in the watchtower, four to the south, maybe more. Things are gonna get messy.”

The first acknowledgement to snap back was H’ryk. The Kraaw had probably already seen them, just hadn’t thought to let the others know. Typical lone wolf. Before she could give an order, she heard his ear-splitting screech and knew that the element of surprise was gone.

She lifted her rifle, feeling the cool of the stock against her cheek as she slowed her breathing, and picked a target…

The Helfather.
Many of the mercenary warriors who ply their trade on the fringes of Corporation space have blood-curdling nicknames and impressive ranks. Few are as well-deserved as that of Shadrek Mal-Raz.

The assumption is that he is a Forge Father by race as his armour and weaponry are all made by that most secretive and closed culture. However, it is clearly a customised or at least extremely rare form of equipment as no other examples have been reported on other battlefields.

In combat, the roar of his double-barrelled heat cannon is as distinctive as the clank of his massively armoured exo-suit. He is to be found at the forefront of the attack, destroying everything within reach. Vehicles are reduced to semi-molten smouldering heaps of slag, habtainers are shattered and their contents set ablaze, even the concrete foundations are cracked and blackened by the searing heat.

The survivors of this assault emerge into an inferno of destruction and it is these tragic few who have dubbed him Helfather.

Kish, Plague Named Character.
The exotic and sensual Sphyr have graced the pleasure planets and entertainment centres of Corporation worlds for generations. Nexus Psi was no different.

Kish was only unusual in that she had dreams of a better time, a distant and long-lost time, when her people had been their own masters and their rituals and traditions were still intact. She had avoided the most degrading of duties and merely stood in her traditional garb as an exotic curiosity to greet visitors to the convention hall and casinos of Lower Tiberia. Still, she had her ancestral shu-lith-nu and she had her pride – a pride that got her into a great deal of trouble, though never as much trouble as the Plague.

The fight against the mutant hordes had been fierce, but there were too many of them to resist for long. At first she assumed that she had died, then it seemed more as if she had been transported to some other realm. Perhaps she had been chosen – yes, that was it. Her faith in the old ways was to be tested. She was to face a trial by combat that would risk not only her life, but also her immortal soul itself. She could not fail.

At least, that’s what the unfortunate Plague victim Kish thinks is happening. The damaged and mutant remains of her once-proud mind muddle her proud dreams and her bleak reality into a strange mix of fantasy and fact. Her battles against the ancient foes of her race play out once more in her crazed mind as she slaughters the few surviving citizens of the shattered planet and fights with unbridled fury against anyone who crosses her path in an effort to cleanse her spirit and be at one with her gods.

Marauders.
The Orx were not always mercenaries and brigands. For a good time their considerable martial skill was put to good use by the Corporation; they were equipped and trained to act as shock troops and guards by decree of the Council itself. Once the Orx realised that they could use their new skills to their own benefit, they rebelled on a scale that demonstrated their cunning. The Marauders, as they became known after the Mandrake Rebellion, are now a terror of the shipping lanes, known for attacking cargo haulers and pillaging spaceports. They see a Deadzone as an opportunity too great to pass up, even if they have to fight their way through a fleet blockade to reach one.

Marauder Commandos.
The Orx were not always mercenaries and brigands. For a good time their considerable martial skill was put to good use by the Corporation; they were equipped and trained to act as shock troops by decree of the Council itself. Within the regime the Corporation secretly introduced the Green Watch Enhancement Programme, training the biggest of the Orx as elite Commandos. This need breed of soldier was faster, stronger and more intelligent than regular Grunts, trained in the art of subterfuge and sabotage.

Even after the rebellion the brutal elitist regime still exists within Marauder Society, the Dreadnaught-Class starship Supremacy, stolen in a legendary raid by General Gruik’s “Lucky Fives,” housing the Green Watch Training Academy. It is here where the Commandos learn their trade.

The Commandos are bigger, elite troops rather than regular Grunts and have been sculpted with the design of the Marauder Warlord and DreadBall Marauder Guard in mind.

Marauder Hulk.
It’s often mooted that the Lu-Fan Corporation’s decision to bring Hulks into the Orx training programmes was one of the key factors leading to the Mandrake Rebellion. While their destructive potential and stubborn refusal to die made them a terrifying prospect for the Corporation’s enemies, it didn’t take long for the Orx to realise that their dim-witted kin had been turned into deadly warriors. Hulks are now often found leading the charge during Marauder raids, delighting in the explosive destruction they sow with their Slam Cannons.

Marauder Mawbeast Bombers.
Mawbeasts are a common sight in Marauder camps. Bred to be intimidating and obedient and enhanced with mechanical “upgrades”, they are used primary as guard-dogs, but occasionally they find a place on the battlefield. In fact, it’s a surprisingly common occurrence for an enterprising Goblin to strap a Mawbeast with explosives and drive it towards the enemy. If the teeth don’t get ‘em, they say, the big bang will.

Marauder Ripper Suits.
The Gorsch Corporation shot to fame when its Heavy Load Exo-Suit was adapted for combat use by Marauder units. With the addition of dense armour plating and support-level weaponry, the Exo-Suits became a common sight on battlefields across the galaxy. Although the Marauders no longer work for the Corporation, there are rumours that Gorsch still provides them with suit upgrades – for a price, of course.

Marauder Ripper Suits with close combat weaponry.
Orx believe that the most prestigious kills are the ones made at close range, so it’s no surprise that it’s become common practice to refit Exo-Suits for this purpose. Countless Orx have replaced their suits’ ranged weapons with heavy-duty combat weaponry, usually repurposed from industrial machinery. It might seem crude, but no one who’s been on the receiving end of a HammerJack can doubt its efficiency.

Marauder Ripper Suits with long ranged weaponry.
The Gorsch Corporation shot to fame when its Heavy Load Exo-Suit was adapted for combat use by Orc units. With the addition of dense armour plating and support-level weaponry, the Exo-Suits became a common sight on battlefields across the galaxy. Although the Orx no longer work for the Corporation, there are rumours that Gorsch still provides them with suit upgrades – for a price, of course.

Marauder Sniper.
Although Goblins are as much a part of Marauder fleets as any of the other greenskins are, their lack of obvious battlefield potential often goes against then. However, their keen eyes and penchant for stealth leads many of them to become marksmen, carrying long-ranged rifles that let them stay out of harm’s way while sowing chaos in the enemy’s ranks.

Marauder Stuntbot.
An older generation Strider combat suit, the Stuntbot is piloted by a single dexterous Goblin who, with a fully enclosed set of armour and a big gun, suddenly isn't’t that frightened of getting into a scrap.

A Deadzone Encyclopedia 1.1 - Part 1 - A-C

I decided to compile all the Deadzone background and stories from the various updates and newsletters into a single resource. It's alphabetical rather than chronological...well...sort of...I'm kinda ignoring the word 'The' if it's at the beginning...

A-C
An Unusual Day at the Office - A Deadzone Story, Asterians - Silent and Deadly - A Deadzone Story, Asterian Black Talon, Asterian Cypher with Fission Beam, Asterian Weapon Drone with Energy Cannon/Shield Generator, Bjarg Starnafall, Blaine, Convict Mercenary, Boomer, Marauder Grenadier, Chief Radgrad, Marauder Character, Chovar Mercenary, Codename Oberon, Nameless Mercenary, Crossed Paths - A Deadzone Story.

D-M can be found here, N-Z can be found here.

An Unusual Day at the Office - A Deadzone Story.

Radchik sat quietly behind his blaster-proof neodurium desk, watching his reflection in the polished obsidian walls of the Councillor’s antechamber. He was smiling slightly, though there was no-one else in the room to see it. Surveillance might notice, of course, though they would be unlikely to even recognise the emotion. They were a dour lot. Still, Radchik was pleased with himself. In his own, quiet way, he had much to smile about.

It had been five years exactly since he was promoted to the position of Conciliary Aide First Class. Five years since he had met the Councillor and first been inspected by the steady gaze of those dangerously unemotive black eyes. He had held the gaze without looking away, and suspected that this was what had earned him the right to work here, at the pinnacle of Corporation government.

It was a lonely job in many ways. He had no living colleagues – security required that there be only robots handling such sensitive documentation. Many of the Councillors had no living aides at all. At least, that’s what he guessed from the names on the memoranda and the way they were produced. There was no inter-office banter, no gossip around the coffee machine, no office parties, and so Radchik knew today would be like any other in the last five years.

The fact that he was here at all was merely a foible of the Councillor who preferred to deal with life forms rather than constructs. This put Radchik at a disadvantage when it came to speed of processing, though he was used to dealing with the various layers of internal politics by now. Mostly that just meant keeping his head down, ignoring the sniping and getting on with things. If he needed defending the Councillor could do that for him better than anyone else. As long as he was worth keeping.

There would be no doubt that the Councillor would replace him if he was found wanting. He strove, above all else, to be brutally efficient and was a man of few emotions. In all the time he had served the Councillor, Radchik had never seen the old man ruffled. “The Old Man”. Radchik smiled again at the thought. He never said the words out loud, but in his head that was how he thought of the Councillor. Old, wise, fatherly almost. Caring for the uncountable billions of the Corporation’s citizens without glory or recognition. The sense of responsibility must be enormous.

Radchik saw the problems as they came into the Councillor’s office, sorted through them and prioritised what should be presented to the Councillor himself and what could be safely delegated to the automated systems below. That was quite enough responsibility for Radchik. Thinking about this reminded Radchik that it was high time he began this process. He began by sifting through the accumulated comms from the overnight traffic. The Corporation never slept, though some of its operatives still had to pause every now and again. There was the usual round of petitions, trade agreements, minor security issues, and so on. A promotion here, a commendation there, punitive measures for cowardice in the face of…. All usual stuff. As they appeared on his screen, Radchik swept them into the appropriate file, mainly following the AI assisted recommendations, but not always. After five years Radchik had learned a lot about the Councillor’s preferences for dealing with certain aspects and leaving others to subordinates, regardless of the official protocol the AI was trained for. By the time the Councillor arrived there would be an accurate and up to the minute itinerary for his day waiting. That’s how he liked it.

Today there were probably only two items that needed the Councillor’s personal intervention: a supposedly minor rebellion on Drentil IV, and a trade embargo of the Snavan sector. Neither looked like much, and it was only because Radchik knew the background and the Councillor’s personal interest in these matters that he raised their priority. The AI would have delegated both.

Radchik had started to collate the complex background information on the various companies involved in the embargo when an alert sound made him jump. Not a fire or a security breach, just a discrete alert, but an unfamiliar one. He checked the screen. It was a visitor.

The alert stopped while Radchik stared at the word glowing quietly on his screen. Visitor? Nobody came to visit. Not in person. Not here. In five years he had never seen another living creature in the office apart from the Councillor. If he had any friends or family they were well separated from his work, as were Radchik’s. No matter how dire the situation, departments communicated digitally. What could be so important that it could not even be trusted to the multiply-redundant security of the council’s own comms system? What could be so dire that it could only be communicated in person? Perhaps it wasn’t dire at all. For a moment Radchik wondered if it had something to do with him, with his five years’ service. In his youth he had worked in offices where there would be cakes and presents for such a thing, but surely not here. It must be something else. He pondered for a moment the many threats and disasters that had crossed his desk and the more he remembered, the colder he felt. If assassination, rebellion, and planet-wide natural disasters were all things you could send a memo about, what was this?

Moments later, on the stroke of 7am standard, the Councillor strode into the office, on time as always. Radchik immediately rose to his feet. The Councillor still looked the same as when Radchik had first met him. If anything, even younger. With unlimited credits at his disposal, the possibilities of rejuvenating medicine were almost endless. He could be almost any age, though presumably chose this early fifties appearance with the salt and pepper hair to impart a sense of wisdom and experience. It worked.

“Good morning, Sir” said Radchik as the Councillor approached.

“Five years” was all the Councillor said as he passed Radchik’s desk, and for a moment Radchik thought he saw the glimmer of a smile on his face too. That was possibly the most emotion he had ever seen him show. Today was turning out quite dramatically, and it had barely begun.

As the Councillor went into his inner office, Radchik sat down again and turned his attention back to the screen and its peculiar alert. It showed that whoever the mysterious visitor was they had passed security and were approaching the Councillor’s offices. Radchik felt the first flutter of alarm. He had expected security to hold the visitor until he was summoned, but he was on his way. There was no time to do a background check and find out what this was about. All Radchik could do is hope that the unprecedented intrusion would not reflect too badly on him. He tried to reassure himself. It couldn’t be an assassin or anything like that - he’d passed security. What to do? There was no protocol for this. It never happened. “Still”, Radchik thought to himself, “it is happening. Best deal with it.” He rose from his chair once more and checked his reflection again in the polished obsidian wall. He was smart and well groomed, as one would expect from a Conciliary Aide First Class. He was ready.

The woman that stepped into the room was as nondescript as she could be. Medium height, plain grey suit, mid-brown hair raked back into a tight bun and bland features. She wore no badges or rank markings. She could have been anyone, from anywhere. She had to be 8th Directorate. Radchik’s blood ran cold.

Ignoring Radchik entirely, the woman strode briskly past and opened the door into the Councillor’s inner office. Radchik blinked and unfroze, dashing round this desk to apologise for the intrusion. But when he entered the office he just stopped. The woman had approached the Councillor’s desk and was standing there, waiting. She had moved so quietly that the Councillor hadn’t even looked up from his screen, and it was only the noise of Radchik’s hasty entrance that caught the Councillor’s attention. He looked up, and for the first time saw the grey suited woman. All the colour drained from the Councillor’s face. “You”, he said.

There was clearly no need for introductions. Radchik, afraid of compounding his mistakes simply stood as quietly as he could, hoping not to be noticed. To leave now would only draw attention to himself, and that would not be good. Whatever was happening here was obviously way above his pay grade.

It seemed like a long pause, but it was probably only a heartbeat. Then the woman spoke. “It’s happened”, she said. “Your area. Nexus Psi”. Her voice was even, uninflected by any emotion. The Councillor, started to rise. “I thought we had… ”

“So did we. Apparently we were wrong.” That seemed to settle things. There was another pause, and then the woman simply turned and left without another word. Radchik stood stunned, watching the Councillor.

Forgetting his position for a moment, Radchik spoke. “Sir?” he said. “Who was that?” The Councillor met Radchik’s gaze with his cold, black eyes. “8th Directorate messenger. I haven’t seen one in over seven years. You won’t see them often, but they’re easy to spot as they’re all identical and all have an overinflated self-importance about them. It’s not your fault she came barging in. They always do that. Bloody robots.”

“She was a robot?”

“Oh yes. One of a group that share a hive mind. They make ideal messengers as they simply dump the information onto another one of the group if they’re threatened and then self destruct. You can’t make them talk or bribe them. It really is a secure way to transfer news. And it’s always bad news. The worst. They’re probably all you’ll ever see of the 8th Directorate. At least, all you’ll ever see that you know belongs to them. Not my favourite department, but they have their uses. Unfortunately, this is one of them.”

Radchik was beginning to feel a bit embarrassed by his ignorance. Best to slip back into something more familiar. Following orders, for example. “Do we need to deploy a strike force, Sir, or is it a fleet action?”

“Neither. Containment protocol, Nexus Psi. Flash message to Senior Strike Leader Yemenkov. Immediate deployment.”

There was a pause. “I’m very sorry, Sir. I’m still not sure which sub-protocol we need to invoke.”

The Councillor said only one word. “Plague.”

Asterians - Silent and Deadly - A Deadzone Story.
I am a product of the greatest military programme in the history of the human race.

Standing alone I am a one-man army. With my squad by my side there is nothing we cannot overcome.

I am briefed on all forms of combat, and every enemy known to the Sphere.

My training did not leave room for emotions like fear, or hatred, or revenge.

That is why, as I sprint across the wreckage that used to be a motor pool or a mech depot or maybe a transit site, the only thing on my mind is a situational re-evaluation.

My heart rate is elevated beyond acceptable levels. This is understandable, given the loss of my right forearm. Subsequent loss of my assault blade gives a significant reduction in melee capability, but nothing I cannot work around. My uplink was scrambled by the first shot that was fired, and I cannot contact my squad. Beyond that, I am at full capability.

The enemy were strong, and they were fast. I have studied the Aster report, but we did were not given the opportunity to deploy recommended countertactics. I did not see the unit that fired the opening shot, but damage spread and aftereffect suggests a heavy drone unit. I saw 09 and 13 taken down by the shot. The rest of my squad took firing positions in response while I advanced with 07 and 10. I sighted three combat drones and made for them while 03 and 05 provided covering fire. Either the drones did not display the extent of their capabilities at Aster, or these ones were differently equipped; in any case, the report did not prepare us for their ability to capture our munitions from mid-air and propel them back. 04 was taken down with a burst of fire that, I believe, originated from 03’s rifle. Seeing that we could not necessarily match them at range, I advanced at speed. This was an error, as 07 and 10 had clearly realised as they broke off to take cover. My uplink was malfunctioning by this point but I imagine my squadmates were urging me to reconsider my actions.

As I approached the first drone, I caught sight of their leader. The alien was in fully-enclosed armour, almost mirroring our own. It directed the drones with hand movements and sweeps of its staff. Its motion was strange; too fluid; nonsensical. Under the creature’s direction, four drones raised their rifles and fired as one, aiming – I can only assume – at the members of my squad that were providing fire support.

This distraction may have been what caused my first strike to go wide. My target stepped aside almost indifferently. Furthermore, the three shots I fired at its supposed weak spots were less effective than I had expected. It grasped my overextended right arm and, with the care and precision of a surgeon, severed it at the elbow joint. The ease with which it neutralised my primary weapon was troubling.

I rolled aside from its return blow, noticing that its two allies had moved past me and were now engaging 07 and 10. In both cases, my squadmates seemed outmatched. It was clear at this point that disengaging had become a priority. On a positive note, the drone’s weapon had cauterised the stump of my arm, so blood loss was not a concern.

I ducked past its second strike and kicked out at its knee joint. It gave slightly, just enough to give me an opening. Without looking back, I broke into a sprint.

It is not often that an enemy takes us by surprise. Standard procedure in this unlikely instance is to scatter and regroup. The remainder of my squad will break away. I will circle around to the rally point. I will trade my sidearm for a rifle. We will reconsider and re-engage with the enemy.

We will not take revenge, for that is not our purpose. We will simply obliterate them.

-----

Among the Corporation troopers “Asterian” is a byword for treachery and underhanded dealings. They are sly and cunning and never to be trusted. Their every action betrays the fact that they obviously know more than they are telling – probably because they are responsible for the disaster in the first place.

From the Asterians’ point of view, things look very different. The Corporation seems to have an unending ability to stir up hornets’ nests of violence and disorder and the Plague is just the latest in a long line of calamities. Quite how a race can become so ungainly and inelegant is beyond the average Asterian who is horrified by the way that humanity rampages across the stars leaving nothing but carnage in its wake.

Asterian units within a Deadzone could be on a number of missions. Most are scientific to a degree, though all are also very well armed and protected. On Plague infested planets the Asterians are not so foolish as to risk their lives needlessly and only the commander of a force of Cyphers will be a living being. The Cyphers he commands are no longer living as such, and because of this their loss is felt less keenly should they fall in battle.

Asterian Black Talon.
Asterians employ a range of specially equipped Cypher-units on the battlefield, each controlled by an operator aboard a cloaked Starship. Lithe and dextrous, only the most capable Asterian pilots command a Black Talon unit, a nimble jet-pack equipped Cypher. Like vultures they circle the battlefield, committing to deadly strafing runs with their rapid-fire Flux Rifles at the call of their commander.

Asterian Cypher with Fission Beam.
Each Cypher is piloted manually from orbit during a mission, although they do have rudimentary artificial intelligence that can take control if the signal is lost for any reason. They are armed with a high-powered flux rifle that explosively destabilizes the target’s molecular structure. Some even carry Fission Beams that fire concentrated streams of blue, crackling energy.

Asterian Weapon Drone with Energy Cannon/Shield Generator.
The Asterians’ dependence on light units can lead to them being outclassed when coming up against heavily-armed opponents; the Support Drone is the standard response. They can be fitted with shield generators to protect those around them; Fission Beams, which mirror the flux rifle in tearing its target apart at a subatomic level, or the Force Cannon, which fires destructive blasts of concussive energy.

Bjarg Starnafall.
From the press release:

“Designed specifically as the premier equipment for the discerning modern scout, Hammerfist orbital drop armour is a fully enclosed, self-powered, autonomous survival suit. Its main use is to protect the wearer from serious environmental dangers including (but not limited to) exposure to hard vacuum, micrometeorite strikes and solar radiation – all common workplace hazards for the lead scout/prospector in today’s competitive resource-farming industry.

A secondary function of the Hammerfist design is to protect the wearer from indigenous life forms whilst performing his prospecting duties in the field. The inbuilt mining laser doubles as both a robust core-sampling tool and accurate ranged weapon with both burst and duration selectors as standard. Easily controlled manoeuvring engines allow the wearer to navigate in zero gravity or planetside with equal ease, with a duration in standard use of up to 4 days (depending on onboard supplies).

The Hammerfist has been tested under the most rigorous of conditions and the widest of environments without any reported structural or mechanical failures. Reliability is 100% and every suit comes with a lifetime guarantee.

Bjarg Starnafall says ‘I’m never without my trusty Hammerfist’.”

Blaine, Convict Mercenary.
It’s been said that Blaine has a face that only a mother could love, though in his case even that seems doubtful. According to the legends surrounding him, his first crime was to murder his family and burn down the family home. Certainly nobody claims him as kin. That’s just asking for trouble.

Whether this is true or not is anyone’s guess as he has surgically changed his appearance a number of times and the Blaine you see now is as much a result of reconstructive medicine as nature. Even his true race is the subject of some debate.

One of Blaine’s many peculiarities is his DNA: he’s got more than one profile. This isn’t possible naturally, which implies that Blaine has had more than cosmetic surgery done to alter his appearance. Certainly reports of his combat abilities and the arrest report of those who finally captured him on Deskin 4 support the idea that he has some inbuilt enhancements. Those that have seen the security vid of his breakout are even more sure. Unfortunately all the actual witnesses died in the escape and all we have is degraded and partly jammed video files. That was the last confirmed sighting.

He has since been reported in a wide variety of places, fighting alongside any number of different factions. None of these sightings have been reliably corroborated and he always slips away in the confusion of combat, invariably leaving a bloody wake of maimed and dead in his path. He seems to prefer the close kill and the fact that he manages this against even highly sophisticated enemies such as Forge Fathers and Enforcers is a testament to his extraordinary skills of stealth and evasion.

Boomer, Marauder Grenadier.
Boomer’s odious habits and utter lack of personal hygiene skills are gaggingly obvious from several metres away. Few would socialise with him voluntarily without some pressing incentive for his undoubted skills with explosives and encyclopaedic knowledge of grenades. What’s also obvious from the briefest of encounters with him is that he is completely insane, and whilst somewhat worrying in an explosives specialist most commanders assume that one follows from the other fairly naturally and so accept his foibles to have his skills.

In terms of who he is and where he came from, nobody’s asked. Boomer probably had a real name at one point; probably had a family, clan or other group to which he felt allegiance. Maybe people even liked him. Who can tell? These days he is nothing more nor less than an expendable asset who hires his not inconsiderable skills out to anyone who can pay the exorbitant fees (and stand his presence for more than five minutes). He has quite a few takers.

Chief Radgrad, Marauder Character.
Zrakan let rip with another massive burst of fire, his grinning green face shuddering with the fierce recoil. “Raaaagh!” he shouted out of pure excitement. “Eat that!” He fired again and again, pausing only to shout abuse and reload. The mutant bodies were stacked high now, but still they kept on coming, clambering over the shattered corpses of their fallen comrades to get down the narrow alley to the Orx’ position.

The click of another empty magazine and Zrakan was looking around for more ammo. Only one clip left. Where were those reinforcements? The enemy certainly didn’t seem to be running out. Things might be getting interesting pretty soon.

Slapping the last mag into the weapon, Zrakan aimed down the alley once more, but before he could pull the trigger he noticed that the attackers had paused. Saving his ammo Zrakan watched and waited for the next surge that was sure to come. Then, without warning, a body flew through the air, smacking into the alley wall. Another mutant was smashed against the others and several went down in a tangle of limbs. From the shadows a massive figure crashed into the horde, slashing this way and that with buzz-saws and blades, tearing into them with point blank fire from a dozen guns that ripped great holes in their ranks. In mere moments the blood-spattered figure had smashed through the broken attackers to stand in the alley entrance, gore dripping from his blades and armour.

“Oh Radgrad”, said Zrakan “there you are.”

Chovar Mercenary.
The Chovar are among the strangest sentient creatures encountered by the GCPS, intensely telepathic creatures that bear a striking resemblance to the jellyfish of Old Earth. They exist in a shared consciousness, but despite this (or possibly because of it) they are fiercely individualistic and consequently keen to seek out new cultures and technologies. They are traditionally employed by corporations to witness important contracts, but are often sent to scientific outposts on frontier worlds where their mind-networks are capable of astounding computational feats.

A multi-tendril alien capable of computing immense calculations in seconds, having the Chovar in your ranks can only lend your squad a tactical advantage.

Codename Oberon, Nameless Mercenary.
The DreadBall MVP known as John Doe is not the only one of his kind within the Corporation, though they are rare. Like John Doe, Codename Oberon has been given a name that his human superiors can pronounce easily, though the irony is that Oberon himself cannot. Still, he is a creature of few words at the best of times. And this isn’t the best of times.

Someone has affronted Oberon’s masters, and though they try to remain in the shadows those masters are plain to all those who care to look. He is one of the Council of Seven’s fixers, able to slip invisibly through official security screens and go where he pleases, containment protocol or not. The fact that he is here at all does show one thing clearly though: someone important is about to die.

Crossed Paths - A Deadzone Story.
Darkness, Ogrut knew, was relative. His unit’s last contract had taken them to Draven, a planet at the edge of the Arklyte cluster, where the sun hardly graced the sky. They’d carved through Corporation Army and Secessionist troops alike for six days straight as they made for their objective, all under cover of total darkness. Now they found themselves bound to a new contract, this one on Nexus Psi, where midnight didn’t look much different to dusk. It made their job more challenging, but if there was one thing Orx were good at it was overcoming long odds.

There were twelve of them currently planetside, but only four on this patrol. Five, if you counted Yagh, the vicious mawbeast Khurza insisted on taking everywhere he went. To the creature’s credit, she could hunt with the best of them. Khurza had raised her from a pup, and Ogrut suspected he prized her almost as highly as the battered flame unit he carried.

Now Yagh led the group, padding along silently next to her handler as they stalked through the deserted streets of Outpost T9. Ogrut followed them, and behind him came Ragnak, hands held loosely at his sides. Countless enemies had taken the Sergeant’s relaxed posture as a sign of weakness, but Ogrut knew that he could draw his blades in less than a heartbeat. Ragnak was a brawler at heart, despite his decades of military service, and was always happiest wielding nothing more high tech than a hrunka. Lurking at the back of the pack, turning to sweep his paired rifles behind them every few steps, was Morkul. The tall, broad warrior had parted ways with the unit some time ago and taken his chances on the professional DreadBall circuit, where his particular brand of deranged violence was much more appreciated than it had ever been on the battlefield. Ogrut didn’t know how Ragnak had tempted him back for this mission, but he suspected it had been financial. The payout for this mission would definitely have been big enough to grab his attention.

Ahead of him, Khurza ducked into the cover of an old storefront and raised a hand, signalling for the group to close up. Up ahead was their objective: an abandoned med-station. Mazon Labs were at the cutting edge of medical research, and it had come as no surprise to discover that they had a station all the way out here on the frontier, where regulations were a little less strict than the Core. Of course, the moment Containment Protocol was called, none of it mattered; anything on the surface was forfeit, to be written off as a loss by order of the Council. Officially, the corporations didn’t have any options, but that didn’t stop them hiring contractors to retrieve their valuables.

The outpost wasn’t much to look at from the outside. A squat building with frontier-standard Habtainer walls, it was hardly bigger than the shuttle they’d come down in. A lone watchtower loomed behind it, a common sight in the more isolated settlements, and it was flanked by taller buildings, probably warehouses or vehicle sheds. Ragnak made several sharp gestures with one hand, instructing Morkul to circle around towards the watchtower.

Less than a minute later three flashes came from the tower, signalling that their brother-in-arms had scaled it and found it clear. Ragnak drew his pistol and gave the signal to advance cautiously. They broke cover in a staggered line, Khurza on the left flank and Ragnak on the right. They were halfway across the open ground that stood between them and the station when an ungodly screech broke the silence.

Ogrut dropped into a crouch, rifle swinging up as he tried to see the source of the noise. He swung his head to the left just in time to see a winged creature drop onto Yagh, stabbing frantically at the beast’s flank with a heavy blade. Khurza roared in fury and raised his incinerator.

Before he could pull the trigger, a shot rang out. High calibre, suppressed, but still audible across the open plaza. Khurza’s head snapped back, dark blood spraying from a ragged hole at his temple. Ragnak shouted an order at Ogrut, and the two Orx threw themselves into the scant cover of an overturned supply pallet. Over to the left, they saw that Yagh was not out of the fight. Her winged attacker was scrabbling backwards, one arm dragging limply, trying to fend off the wounded beast with its knife as she lunged again and again.

From the other side of the plaza, they heard the satisfying tunk-tunk, tunk-tunk of Morkul’s rifles. Eager to make use of covering fire while it lasted, Ragnak clapped Ogrut on the arm, and they rose from cover to sprint for the med-station. They threw their backs up against the wall either side of the open door and paused to take stock of the situation. As they’d broken cover the twin flares of Morkul’s rifles had marking the sniper as somewhere in an elevated position off to the left, and the mawbeast was still pinning their other attacker. Of course, there could be any number of enemy inside the building, waiting in ambush, probably chasing the same objective they were.

Ragnak holstered his pistol and drew his knives. If they were going in, things were going to get messy very quickly…

D-M can be found here.