For Imperium Eternal

“They were going to lynch an innocent man, no judge, no jury. Perhaps it was horrible, I must have thought so at the time. Ha, I don't even remember now, it isn't important any longer. Just another execution. It was the first time I let the darkness claim me. I was unarmed, but a youth. There was a lot of them, they had clubs and knives- They were like chaff. So slow, so weak, so frail. The pop of breaking bones. The shrieks of pain. The stench of fear. The taste of blood in the air. I'd never felt more alive. I couldn't care less for the life saved, it wasn't worth the effort. But that thrill, that was something different. It was invigorating, exhilarating. And in that moment I knew- knew I was a damned man.”

Salazar Aktan, SNC Captain, reminiscing about his youth.

"Varga, Moss, you'll be coming down there with me. When we dock, we must be ready for anything. Sylas, you are staying with the ship in my stead," Albrecht spoke quickly as the Straggen began its final approach to Astina, the headquarters of the Confederate navy.

Varga smiled in anticipation, stretching the scar that ran the length of his jaw in a hideous grin as he shouldered his Mk 43 assault rifle and hung a sharpened entrenching tool from his belt. Moss was more reserved, simply nodding and slinging his own rifle into position. Normally, it would have been Sylas coming with him, not Varga, who even the brusque Albrecht viewed as impulsive and crass. As his second in command and aide, Sylas was far more stable and helpful, but not today. He had been leveled with accusations of treasonous activity upon his return to port, and had defended himself vehemently. The result had been an order for him to report here, to Astina, to face judgment. He had officially been stripped of all command, Anders and Sylas had been place in charge in his stead, ordered to deliver their dissenting captain to the trial. But that was not how the battle-group functioned. For all intents and purposes, Albrecht was still very much in control. His men were far more loyal to the captain that had fought by their side for decades rather than some far off bureaucrats in Astina. But Albrecht had remained dutiful, and had obeyed orders, even now, to face judgment.

"Sylas, if anything goes wrong, if you get news that I am convicted, you are in charge of the Straggen, do as you see fit,” it was painful to admit, but the nagging feeling that the court martial would turn sour had not dispelled.

Without warning, the door slid open, admitting Anders, who had remained on the bridge.

“Sir. There is a report. The governor of Fas. The head of the Savas Bay region. He was slain.” his words were quiet, but Albrecht could sense there was something underlying the mans words, something he did not want to mention.

“What else?” he had no patience for dancing around the issue, not normally, and especially not now.

“Several Red Blade operatives were killed alongside him. It would appear that he had been attempting to deal with them, taking bribes and such, working with them, some were those we had been hunting,” Anders licked his lips. Albrecht had never known him to show signs of nervousness or concern. If anything Gabriel was even more sangfroid than he was.

“They killed him?” he asked.

“No, it was one of our own, a Confederate commando. 513^th Special Deployment. 'Razor Section'. The governor had betrayed them to the Red Blades. Only one man survived, a lieutenant. Their commanding officer. He killed the governor. He killed him singlehandedly,” Anders added.

“How did you come by this information. Why wasn't I told earlier?” he slitted his eyes as they approached the Straggen's bridge.

“He and his ship was picked up by our fleet. He's on the comms now. He wants to speak to you. Rambling on about some sort of betrayal, he says the his higher ups knew and did nothing,” the young captain hesitated, wondering whether or not it would be prudent to continue.

It annoyed Skor greatly to see him continue to hide something so obviously.

“He'll have to wait until after the trial. Perhaps his immediate officers were compromised, who knows,” he said, before adding, “Anders, you still have something to say. What aren't you telling me? Quickly.”

“Sir, he didn't just kill the governor, he killed his whole household, butchered them to the last. Guards. Servants. Men, women. Children,” Albrechts second in command shook his head in horror and disgust.

“How do you know this? Perhaps it is a mistake. How can we be sure?” Albrecht couldn't believe it, that a servant of the Confederacy could fall so far.

But Gabriel instantly dispelled his hopes, the pain all too obvious in his voice as he spoke, “Albrecht. There is no mistake. Salazar told us himself.”

The roar of discharging weaponry was deafening, lasers crackled and the stench of burning propellants hung thick in the air. Albrecht could see the incoming shvir disintegrating under the barrage of incoming fire, crumpling in heaps across the flagstones. The fight had come here, to the heart of the city, to the massive avenues of the capitol. Fauler had died to an alien tank, his shielding giving out to the massed firepower of the enemy. The militia had been shattered, incapable of holding against the overwhelming tide of shviri infantry and armor. Only a few scattered pockets still held, usually in areas where they were stiffened by the regulars and commandos. But even the army was beginning to fail. Slowly, surely, attrition was taking its toll. The shvir could make good their losses, the imperials could not. Broken bodies and wreckage lined the roads where the battle had been raging. The entirety of the old governing quarter was aflame with the light of thousands of guns.

“Shviri tanks, incoming!” One of the army officers shouted, diving into cover as another barrage of rockets came in.

“Moss, Mola take a platoon of infantry, stop them!” Albrecht snarled, his voice a rasping growl through the helmets speakers,”Hold your fucking ground!”

“We need to fall back, we're going to be overrun.”

“No retreat! We hold here!”

They had to. The cities only hope for reinforcement was through Helesa. It was at the cities outskirts, and the closest to friendly Imperial lines. But already, Sylas was reporting shviri attacks on their perimeter defenses. There were no reserves. Somehow, the pressure had to be relieved, and if it came at the cost of dragging the shvir into the charnel house around the capitol building, so be it.

There was nearly a platoon of soldiers waiting for him as they strode out of the hangar, surrounded by military police. Ornate arms and armor of the ceremonial guard contrasting sharply with the utilitarian, war-worn uniforms of Albrecht and his men. A trio of confederate officers stood at the head of the unit. One, he could recognize as the plump form of Sturer. The others he did not know, but the one at the fore was bedecked in epaulets, medals and various orders. The other appeared to be his aide, and held a small data-tablet, which seemed to constantly be drawing his attention, as if he was still unbelieving of whatever he was seeing. Their very aura was one of inflated importance. The smug looks and pompous glares filling Albrecht with disgust. Yet as the captain towered over them, he could see the large congregation step back at the sight of him and his two guards. Something was wrong, there were too many people here. Too many armed soldiers. Albrecht scanned over the group, searching for a clue as to their intent. It was all so amiss,

The captain himself had come unarmed, leaving even his pistol on-board the Straggen. Behind him, Albrecht could sense Vargas hand tightening on the spade at his hip, the minute change in his breathing. The man had always been blunt in his approach to every problem. The decadence, the arrogance. It disgusted him even more than it did Albrecht, knowing that this was the pompous scum that accused his commander of treason. Neither group seemed willing to speak. Finally, the man at the head of the official confederate delegation stepped forward, taking the tablet from his aide as he did so. “As of 1203, I Vice-Commandant Horath am placing you under arrest. A special committee has found you guilty of violating official rules of engagement, violations of human rights conventions and war-crimes. You are to be brought in under guard, effective immediately.”

“Guilty? There must be a trial! This isn't how things are done!” Varga snarled.

“You forget your place, soldier. Consider yourself fortunate that I do not have you arrested as well,” Horath responded coldly.

Albrecht gestured for Varga to be quiet as he turned upon the senior officer, “He is right, I demand a trial, I demand to see those accusing me of these violations. This is wrong.”

“The order for your arrest comes straight from central command, your ruthless conduct has damaged the work and livelihood of some of our most respected citizens, and harmed thousands of others. Now come in quietly, attempting to resist will win you no sympathy,” it was Sturer, as spineless as ever.

“I'm not going anywhere, law must be respected” Skor could feel his anger welling up, he struggled to keep himself under control.

“Seize him!” Horath had made his decision.

Albrecht had split seconds to make his final choice. A pair of guardsmen moved from the main group, the others began to reach for their weapons.

It was not a command, and yet it bore all the weight of one as the Confederate captain curled his lips up in a hideous sneer, uttering his response, “No.”

Albrecht swore as Wiedzmin's corpse collapsed to the ground, the rocket having punched clean through his chest plate. Mere moments later the firer was dead, a single rifle round through its thick skull, too little too late. A Cataphract died violently behind the SNC commandant, its turret slewing aside, sharp cracks and sputters emitting from within as the remaining ammunition cooked off. They couldn't hold much longer. Soon, the entire position would be overrun. Albrecht looked about himself, at the crumbling battle line. The order from Terr came through the comms net. A retreat had been sounded. He would not argue. The fight was being dragged into the old senate building and surrounding structures, ever deeper into the city. They had to draw the shvir away from Helesa. He could see the mechanized infantry mounting up into their carriers, falling back slowly, surely, retreating to their last lines of defense. Few of the tanks were still intact, he doubted they had much ammunition left regardless.

One of the shviri transports exploded, eviscerated by an armor piercing shell.

“Got one canister round left. Out of AP,” Moss shouted.

“Fall back, we'll draw them into the buildings. Stay low, don't get tied down,” the cycle of confirmations ran through the comms.

It was painfully shortened by Fauler and Wiedzmin's absence. Albrecht could hear his strides crunching against the rubble as he ran up the senate steps, shviri lasers still sizzling of his back armor. Dark clouds gathered in the sky above and wind whipped through the streets. The guns were falling silent as the two sides consolidated once more, readying for a final struggle. The commandant was the last to enter the halls of the vast governmental complex, leaping over the barricades that barred the entrance. Infantry massed inside for a final stand, taking positions at windows and various fire-ports. They could hold for hours here. The planets orbital star had begun to descend. Why wasn't Sylas reporting reinforcements yet?

What followed was a massacre. Varga had closed the distance in less than a second, moving with a lethal speed belied by his great bulk, the sharpened spade already swinging in a wide arc. Moss dropped to one knee, rifle spinning up to a ready position in the same time it took Varga to close the gap. His body barely moved as shot after shot rang out, utterly distinct from the panicked automatic fire coming from the military police and guardsmen.

Albrecht moved swiftly, bowling Horath over and drawing the officers pistol from its holster. In a flurry of shots, Skor had brought Sturer and officers aide down, not even pausing as he stood up and finished off the downed confederate. The die had been cast.

The fight in the hall didn't last long. Rifles clattered on full automatic, bullets ricocheting off the orbital docks steel walls. The fire of the military police and guardsmen had killed several of their own men as Varga used them as a human shield, keeping close to his foes to maximize the chance of friendly fire. The gleaming entrenching tool was lodged in a guardsman's neck as he wielded his rifle one handed, firing short bursts over the body of a dead military policeman. Moss stood a few feet behind him, still picking his enemies apart with controlled shots. The skirmish was over. It was time to retreat.

“Albrecht, the Galata is moving to engage, what the hell is going on? Shields up! Shields up! Break dock-” Anders cut in across the comms, his voice sounding shocked and horrified.

“We've been attacked! They left me no choice Anders. We're trapped down here,” Albrecht responded as he and his group backed off toward their escape.

“Hold station! Take them head on, everything into the shields! Albrecht, you better hurry, we can't hold this for long! They're blasting through the bridge” Anders shouted over the wail of the klaxon.

A destroyer could never hold against a cruisers firepower. Moss was bleeding from his leg, a through and through, but he didn't allow it to slow him down, it was a pitiful price to pay for the slaughter that had occurred. They had to reach the shuttle and escape. They had to retreat. Albrecht looked in horror at the dead and wounded surrounding them. What had they just done?

The infantry were screaming, burned alive in the scorching inferno as plasma fire consumed all before it. Only the commandos stood, invulnerable to the flames behind their suits of armor. The shvir had finally had enough, unleashing their bombers on the last imperial holdouts in the city center.

The shield fizzled and failed, the surface of his armor scorched and heated. It held, just barely. Warning lights blinked across Albrecht's helmet. His cloak was incinerated, only the chain and imperial cross remaining intact. They were being overrun, but the fight wasn't over, not yet. The commandant clenched Godsbane, the silver blade glittering in the firelight. The steel itself seemed alive, hungering for blood, even as the blue droplets along its length evaporated.

He stood alone, a halo of coruscating flame wreathed his stationary form. No, not alone. Not until the end. Boots crunched across the rubble as the silent, ragged line slowly formed on his flanks. The last of the flames slowly died down across their armor. All that could burn had been reduced to ash. The first valkir rushed through the doorway, firing at the heavily armored soldiers still standing in their path.

The ragged line did not waver. Motors started up one last time, spinning barrels up to speed. Laser cutters crackled to life. Combat knives and Akarns were drawn. Albrecht's imperial cross glinted, the fire having only cleansed it of all impurity. Helesa needed time. The Imperium needed more time. Seeing the shviri infantry leaping over the rubble in their hundreds, the SNC commandant silently wondered how much longer they could hold.

“Will he live?”

It was the question that hung on Albrechts mind as he entered the Straggen's medical bay. The man lay on the operating table, eyes covered with a bloodstained rag, the corners of his mouth twitching feebly as Albrecht entered.

“I'm not dying yet,” Anders said, his speech slurred from the pain killers.

“You got the ship off the docks, you saved everyone here Gabriel, I am indebted,” Albrecht looked down at the pathetic remains of his helmsman, his face grim and concerned.

“Albrecht, you are leading us down a dangerous path.”

“It had to be done,” Albrecht said, almost silent.

“I know. But this path, it's leading us into darkness. For me, it already has I guess, ha ha,” Gabriel chuckled weakly, barely moving the stump of his arm.

“We'll be entering the Massian Gulf within the next twenty-four hours. We should be able to get provisions and repairs there,” the captain said simply.

“No, they'll expect that. Albrecht, the Confederacy won't pursue, but do you think the clans will hold back? They can't have a man like you on the loose,” Anders was weak and weary, his words little more than a hoarse croak.

“Then we will hit first. We still have the strength. The battlegroup is still loyal, all our vessels are responding. They will follow us,” he said decisively.

“So they will. Albrecht, do what you think is right, we are lost, but perhaps we may yet find the way. Go away, let me rest, perhaps I will be thinking clearer once these damn drugs are out of my system,” Anders feebly waved him away with his remaining hand.

“Thank you, Anders,” the senior captain bowed his head and strode out of the room, leaving Gabriel to his delirious musings.

The exo suits reactor detonated violently, immolating the surrounding shvir and only adding to the conflagration that now engulfed the old senate building. Moss was gone. None of the commandos responded to their comrades death. There was no time for sentimentality. The aliens were seeking to isolate the commandos, to bring them down one at a time. The imperials were being driven back, deeper into the massive chamber. Their armor protecting them from the shviri small arms, they stood their ground. There was nowhere to retreat. Viscera splattered the ashes of the structure as the three remaining commandos fought their way through the shvir. Every motion measured, every bullet well spent, every weapon swing a death knell.

“Left flank. Incoming!” Albrecht shouted through the comms.

He never had time to see if Mola had managed to respond. Some of the valkir had scattered into cover, sniping at the surrounded commandos. They were nothing against the commandos as long as they kept them at range. Grenade fragments clattered against armor plating. His assault rifle jerked in his hand as he fired, the exo controlling the recoil flawlessly.

“Rocket launcher! Albrecht, move!” Varga suddenly shouted.

He saw the shvir just in time, lifting a bulky looking anti tank piece and centering it on the SNC commandant. His left hand swung up protectively, an all too human reaction, even as the bright flash emitted from the weapons barrel. All Albrecht could feel was the pain.

“Captain Skor, delighted to make your acquaintance,” the graying politician reached out and shook Albrecht's hand.

“Mr. Alleri,” he nodded once in response, sitting down opposite the old man.

The man had to be over three centuries in age, the soldier thought.

“Miss Stella Marks, a close ally of mine in these past few years, I would have never been able to track you down and contact you were it not for her,” he indicated the woman sitting alongside him.

Albrecht looked into her eyes as he shook her hand, seeing the light of conniving intelligence there. They were both judging, gauging each other. She was searching for something in his face, but he could not recognize what. In turn, she held his gaze, something he had seen very few people do.

“A pleasure,” she said, tactful and diplomatic.

“Much the same,” he responded, the delivery significantly less convincing.

“And you must be Salazar Aktan. Your reputation precedes you. How many was it that you killed on Fas, forty-five?” Senator Alleri inquired pointedly, nodding in the mans direction.

The sallow faced soldier smiled, baring his teeth in a feral grin, “Forty-seven.”

The captain could see miss Marks slit her eyes slightly as she scrutinized Albrecht's second in command, her eyes glancing at the human knuckle bones hanging around Salazar's neck. The corners of Alleri's mouth merely twitched upward at the remark, amused by the statement, holding Salazars gaze for a few moments before turning his attention back to Skor.

“Albrecht, I know you are not one for idle chatter, so let me speak plainly,” the politician said, and Albrecht could sense his companions amusement, they had very different ideas of plain speech, but he knew Salazar would remain silent, “The Confederacy is dying, and the shvir are coming. Even the most positive of intelligence gives us thirty years at most, a mere flicker of time I'm sure you agree. And we are not prepared.”

“Ironic, coming from a professional revolutionary, and the founder of the Confederacy no less,” Albrecht said icily.

“A hundred fifty years ago was a different time. But now we need unity. Albrecht, to put it simply, I am dying. At best, I have a few decades. But I do not plan to die knowing everything I have fought for has gone to hell thanks to bureaucratic imbeciles,” Scipio Alleri said simply.

“And what would you have me do? I'm a mercenary, not a revolutionary,” the captain answered.

In response, the politician merely smiled, amused by the remark, “And yet you're no ordinary mercenary, are you? I've read your background. You were in charge of the operations that helped clear the Meringian sector of pirate and cartel operations. 74% drop. But something went wrong. Confederate deserter, but never turned to piracy like so many others of your ilk. Even the work you do, for a soldier of your caliber the reward is nowhere near adequate. Defending Mal IV was of no gain for you. You've even taken this ”

“My reasons are my own,” Albrecht responded icily.

“I'm sure they are, Albrecht, I'm sure they are. But it bothers you, does it not, the corruption, the terror, the collapse? The Confederacy is falling apart,” Alleri still hadn't wiped the smile off his face, “Albrecht, I intend to end the Confederacy. The Imperium will be brought back. It must be done. But there are many who oppose this move. I will need a strong right hand to secure order. Many of the aristos, the nobles and god knows how many political groups wanting their say. They will not be happy, but they will have to be brought to heel. You control the single most powerful, and uncorrupted, military unit in the sector, we need your support. It is as simple as that.”

“So you want me to be an executioner? To enforce your rule. A rule of terror?” Albrecht snorted in disgust.

“I suppose we are. But ask yourself Albrecht. Is there any other way? You know as well as I that they are corrupt. The people can be convinced, fooled if need be. Those who profit from the decay however, those are a tougher proposition,” it was Stella Marks who spoke, steepling her fingers and eyeing Albrecht coldly.

It disgusted him, everything being implied. The idea of such insurrection, the casual way in which they discussed such an overthrow. To them billions of lives were but pawns in a grand game of politics.

“Albrecht. You will be guaranteed anything you desire. If you need ships, weapons, supplies, men. All can be provided. Your support is not something we take lightly,” Scipio spoke eloquently, like far too many politicians that Albrecht had met.

But what they said was right. The Confederacy was damned. He had seen it himself.

“Albrecht, we are ready to meet your demands. Miss Marks and her people can provide you with any intelligence you need. It will be surgical,” Alleri implored, his voice soothing and calm.

“What is your opinion of this matter? Captain Skor? Will you join our movement?” Stella was cordial yet cold.

An arrogant air surrounded her. The aura of someone who already knew their job was done, and done well. He had seen that same emotion radiate from Salazar after a difficult kill. She already knew he would say yes.

“If I join you in this- Movement, as you so succinctly put it. There will be one condition, and you accept it if you want my help.”

“Name it,” senator Alleri said, like a wolf ready to pounce.

Stella didn't even blink, those two emerald eyes observing all that unfolded, once more, she knew what he was about to ask before he did so. She had studied him well.

“I will have complete control. I will have the last word on anything you wish to be done by my soldiers. My men, and any others who may join, will follow my orders and that of my successors, and not that of any other. We will serve this Imperium of yours, if it will truly be as you promise, fight and die for it if need be. But on our own terms,” Albrecht spoke forcefully, staring straight at the withered old politician before him.

Surprisingly, Scipio Alleri's lips twitched upward, a cold, cynical smile, eyes glinting with amusement, “We would have it no other way.”

The agony was almost blinding. He was bleeding. His left hand severed, a ruined stump, having stopped the rocket from striking his chest. And yet he still fought. Godsbane sang through the air, cleaving another shvir apart at the midriff. They were all dying. There was no escape.

“Sir, Cataphracts's are coming in. Thirteenth Armored is incoming! Reinforcements!” Sylas was shouting over the comms, the roar of gunfire still echoing behind him.

He needed to stand, to rise from where he had fallen. Two shvir were rushing him, attempting to find a weak spot in his armor. Albrecht cut one down with a single sword stroke, the alien hadn't even tried to parry him or avoid the blow. The other thrust a bayonet at him, the long blade aimed directly at the commando's neck. It was all over.

Varga came in with a roar, short handled axe decapitating the attacking shvir in a spray of blood and gore. Indomitable and loyal to the last. He grabbed his commandants sword arm, dragging him upward, the squeal of servos straining a mere whisper in comparison to the chaos around them.

“Get up Albrecht! We fight! There is still blood to be shed!” he bellowed over the din of battle.

Mola limped towards them, his suits right leg torn and sparking. They were battered, broken. Time was running out.

“Back to back. Unto the end,” Albrecht nodded once, turning to face the incoming shvir.

“Unto the end,” Mola mirrored his words, the sputter of the tortured machinery keeping him upright even more pronounced as he turned.

“It has been an honor, Albrecht,” Varga pivoted away with a flourish, his suit still fully functional and nearly undamaged.

The black rock was struck by the tide, surrounded from all sides and battered by their enemies. Albrecht saw Mola fall, his armor rent and torn, the damaged leg finally giving out. The charred remains of his tabbard disappearing beneath shviri boots as he toppled over. Somewhere behind him, Varga was still hewing his path through their foes. Albrecht was weak. Blood pattered against the ash choked ground. His blood.

He was too slow. They had been surrounded. The shvir separated him from Varga. A plasma projectile seared through the segmented plate on his midriff, fired at pointblank there was no way the alien could have missed. The commandant could feel a sharp burning pain, see the valkir soldier who had brought him low. His attacker got no time to rejoice as Albrecht cut the things legs out, driving Godsbane deep into its chest. He could not stand. He was leaning on his blade for support. Varga was saying something. His ears were ringing, it was all a far away echo. Lasers still pattered off his armor with their familiar sizzle.

Sylas' voice crackled over the comms, “Sir, we have your position. Re-routing seventh to you now.”

They would be too late. They would fly straight into a trap trying to save dead men.

“No”, he could feel the cold spreading through his body, time itself seemed to slow.

“Sir?” Sylas didn't want to believe it, Albrecht knew.

“Hold your ground. Hold Helesa. Find us- Find us after,” Albrecht could feel his breathing becoming shallow, painful.

All was dark. Albrecht realized he had closed his eyes. Their lids seemed oh so heavy, drawing closed of their own volition. Varga was still shouting something, he could have been a galaxy away, echoing in his mind. He forced his eyes open. He was a knight, an imperial knight. A shviri captain was rushing him, seeking to put him down at last, to slay the crippled warrior, kneeling, resting upon his own sword. Albrecht clenched his hand, he could no longer feel if it responded, if it answered his call. But he could sense that it closed around something, around the hilt of a sword. Godsbane with a will of its own, pulling Albrecht into his opponent. His final enemy. The faceless valkir officer rushed at him, emitting a guttural roar. Albrecht pushed up, his blade feeling no resistance as it passed through the shvir and up through its spine. Simultaneously the alien weapon pierced Albrechts armor at the shoulder joint, biting deep, a killing blow, severing the simple chain around his neck. The commandant slumped, suit crumpling against the ash strewn ground. An imperial cross fell to the dust, clattering for a second as it bounced around, before finally lying still.

Knights of the Straggen

"Captain Albrecht Skor. We have been receiving disturbing reports about your conduct. Deviation from official Confederacy rules of engagement. Intentionally avoiding taking prisoners. Men under your command dabbling into the occult, rumors of strange rites and rituals. And since when is Peacekeeping Force Emile 'Battlegroup Straggen'? Are you trying to start a war, are you so desperate for conflict? What is it Captain? You must answer these charges!"

-Part of the Transcript from Albrecht Skor's court-martial.

"Gabriel Anders, the captain of your ship. One of the older marks, a Type 5 destroyer. The Straggen," Major Allan indicated the young man standing at attention in the corner.

The senior officer was one of the few Albrecht respected for his honesty and personal discipline, striving to complete his duties despite the ever decreasing amount of Confederate support, and an ever increasingly detached high command. Fools like Sturer didn't want to see facts, only politically convenient results.

Albrecht examined the man who was supposed to be his ships captain, trying to come to a judgement of him. He had to be at least ten years his junior. His build was slight, he barely stood up to Albrecht's chest. But he was wiry and muscular, seemingly fit and ready. Skor thought he looked a little too calculating, his cold blue eyes too machine like. The man saluted perfectly, immaculately.

"A pleasure, sir. The ship is ready to go where commanded," his voice was soft, a near robotic monotone.

"At ease," Albrecht responded, "Forgive me, but you seem a bit, young, for a Captain."

"He's a rarity, just like you, Albrecht. Graduated first in the Academy, has a real knack for void combat and logistical management, commanded thirteen boardings with perfect success, not sims, real boardings, and dozens of smaller ops. Furthermore, I don't think I've ever seen a man with quite as organized a mind. Don't judge him by his age, you yourself are little older," Allan added.

Albrecht refrained from making any comment, the fact that the young captain had the full confidence of the Major was enough for him. He knew infinitely more senior captains with a far inferior, and far more checkered career than the one Allan had just described. There was a knock on the door, it was one of Allan's aides, a worried look on his face.

"I'll deal with it. You two can get acquainted," the Major nodded at the two and took his leave.

"I do not mind, captain Skor. I am however, certain that we will work well together. I did some reading into your records, if you'll forgive me, and I was very impressed, and very humbled to be chosen. I assume you don't care for pleasantries though, and if that is the case, than I think we shouldn't be wasting our time here," Anders added his own slight quip, albeit his voice seemed not to change from that flat monotone.

"I think. I think neither of us is much for words, but you are certainly better than me at this fine speaking," Albrecht chuckled slightly.

There was something about the mans quaint wording and careful speech that reminded him all too much of himself and his own priorities. He wanted to get things done, not sit in idleness waiting for events to occur at their own pace.

Surprisingly, the junior captains mouth curled into a tight smile, "I assume you would like to see the ship, Captain Skor?"

"That, I very much would," he nodded and made for the door.

"In that case, your vessel is waiting, captain."

"Sylas, you take B squad to the star-port, the militia won't hold without support. Varga, take Moss to the factory district, sector 43, you'll be dealing with militia as well, so the Sword will give you some fire support. Mola, Wiedzmin, to sector 31. Fauler, on me. We need to buy time, avoid getting tied down, don't let the shvir over run you. I needn't explain to you why this is crucial. Sword won't be able to extract you, get whatever transport you can, requisition it if you have to. All follow?" It was a rhetorical question. His section never failed to recognize his orders.

There were a few quick nods, the hiss of bated breaths through re-breathers. The shvir were coming, the spear-heads had already been reported entering the cities outskirts. No resource had gone untapped, and yet it wasn't enough. Albrecht looked about the small group one last time, each so different from the man next to him. Black suits adorned with artwork, religious etchings and warding runes. Protective totems, trophies and relics dangling on chains, clattering against each other amidst the keening wind. Reactors hummed softly, ready to propel half-ton exo-suits to inhuman speeds. A flight of shviri bombers rumbled overhead, their escorts rushing to meet the paltry force sent up to meet them. They would hold, they had to.

"Salazar would enjoy this, the tang of blood is in the air," Varga said simply, drawing himself to full height, even dwarfing Albrecht, revealing the barbaric blue religious icons and runes that haphazardly bedecked his armor, a short handled axe swaying gently along his hip.

Albrecht looked about him, he had never been one for speeches, and his men did not expect it of him. They merely waited for the command. He nodded once to Sylas, before reaching for the hilt of Godsbane, hanging at his side. Time was up.

"We've come this far, we won't fail now. Knights of the Straggen, to war!"

"Good work. Good work indeed. Varga, pass on the news to the major, and Sturer from there. Savas Bay is cleared of all hostiles. The Red Blades are on the run. We just need reinforcements to pacify the sector. For the first time in ten years, this corner of the galaxy might know peace after all!" Albrecht clapped Anders on the shoulder as he surveyed the small flotilla hovering around the abandoned pirate base.

Three thousand prisoners liberated, hundreds of the enemy killed, the whole installation put to the torch. All that remained was to hunt down their leader, Avas. But Anders was not celebrating. His cold, calculating eyes only seemed harder, more piercing, staring out into the blackness of the void, contemplating something.

"You are troubled Gabriel? Is something wrong?" he addressed him by his given name. Some had felt that Albrecht's loose obeisance to official doctrine was a flaw, yet all he cared for was results. Thus far, no matter the leeway, his men had never failed him.

The ships captain didn't look up, continuing to gaze out at the fleet reassembling before them, "Albrecht, there is something wrong, the ship that fled was one of our own. A Confederate model, Type 3 destroyer. No- no such models have been listed captured or missing. Albrecht, we're being undermined from within."

"Are you sure? There could be some other explanation. Perhaps the ship model was wrong?" Albrecht sensed it was not so, but he held on to hope.

"No. It is the correct vessel. Where they got it, I do not know, perhaps once we hunt them down, that will be revealed," Anders scratched his chin in silent thought.

"Should I alert high command? Major Allan must know, and Sturer. We must search for the fault," he nodded, already gesturing at Sylas, to order him to relay the message.

"No! Don't," Gabriel spun at Skor, a sudden vehemence entering his speech, "They must not be forewarned. Albrecht, I have done some estimates, of the possibilities. And this rot, this treason. It runs far deeper, only a captain, or his senior could release the Type 3, and there are very few of those not directly under your command. They do not know we are onto them, or so we can hope, and we must keep it that way as long as possible."

"Very well," Albrecht motioned Sylas closer, "Get the fleet regrouped, all five ships, tell Battlegroup Straggen we are returning to port with all due haste, to prepare our pursuit. The foe is beaten, but not out. That is all for now."

"Ambush and disengage, we need to draw them in. The shvir might be better at close quarters than we are, but there artillery will massacre us if we stay on the outskirts. Keep the tanks in reserve, try to patch the holes as they're made," Albrecht looked down at the divisional commander, waiting for the mans confirmation.

"We're simply abandoning our defenses? All that time spent preparing. All we have in the city is barricades, and too few of those. The shvir will flank us easily. And the city, the whole city will be destroyed." the officer shook his head incredulously.

"Quite frankly, General Wallenstein, I don't care. Out in the open, the artillery and airpower of the shvir will get you, and the city will be destroyed regardless. In here, we can draw them close. It will be brutal and bloody, but a fighting retreat into the depths is the best chance we have," Albrecht said, indicating the areas of the map where he wished to retreat to.

"And then what? What if the reinforcements don't come? What if the militia on our flanks folds?" just like Terr, the general did not wish to buy Albrecht's decision.

"Helesa will be where we make our final stand. I'll keep track of events on the ground in person. My men are scattered throughout the militia units, they'll keep you informed, they're in the comms net, even if the militia isn't," the SNC Commandant let no doubt enter his voice, total control was what the situation demanded.

"And if that fails, we all die," Wallenstein looked at him bitterly.

"Yes, so we do. Now get your men moving. We have an hour at best, and I'm not even convinced of that."

"The major is dead. Ambush in the Rifts," Sylas said, tight lipped, his body taut with tension as he strode into the control room of the Straggen.

Albrecht blinked a few times, unsure if he had heard correctly.

"Major Allan? Dead? And what news from high command?" he moderated his voice as best he could.

Anders simply stood silent, looking at the map that hung before them.

"The government, the Confederacy, reports suggest they're accepting a peace agreement with the Red Blades. They are saying all federal forces will be pulled due to lack of progress. The regional governor says the deal is perfectly suitable."

Sylas stopped his report, waiting for Albrecht's response. The captain merely stood, frozen, staring into emptiness.

When Albrecht spoke, his voice was hoarse, the betrayal he felt all too clear in his tone, "They must be joking. They don't give us the support we need. The reinforcements we requested. they hold us on the tightest of leashes, and yet we prevail. All that blood shed. And they dare claim we have no results! We bleed to protect them, and now this! They'll hand the region over to pirates, to slavers, to murderers! What has come over them? Does Sturer not know?"

"Sir, he is the one authorizing the negotiations," Sylas muttered, disgust apparent in every word,"But there is something else. I don't know how to put this. They want you tried. You're to stand before a court. You're being court-martialled for breaches of military law and violations of human rights."

Neither Albrecht nor Gabriel said anything, staying frozen and motionless.

"How did it come to this?" Sylas said, horrified, "What did we do?"

How indeed? A question Albrecht could not answer.

It had been three hours, and already Berrenburg was a living hell. Fires had spread with the alien bombardment and the lead shock units were fighting toward the heart of the city against ever more desperate resistance.

"The civvies are dying in droves, though it seems the sheevs are largely ignoring them. Militia is getting ground under. Regulars still holding strong. Sylas is saying the last reserves are out, the starport is practically abandoned, shvir haven't made any attempts to seize it though. They might not know it's significance," Fauler looked at Albrecht, waiting for orders.

"Tell Sylas to hold. He is not to abandon Helesa at all costs. It is our only fallback if the rest of the city collapses," Albrecht spoke calmly, ignoring the fire lancing toward their position from the end of the street in which he stood.

It was a position the shvir would have to flank or break through attrition. The regular infantry, supported by a single Cataphract pattern battle tank, were far too well entrenched to overrun. Already, three shviri vehicles, and nearly a hundred infantry and drones, lay shattered along the wide avenue, the remnants of the initial assault. And yet, the defense was tenuous. All rested on the weakest link, the militia, being capable of holding its ground. Albrecht was under no illusion about their combat capabilities. They were not commandos. They were not a match for ordinary line infantry. They were civilians with guns. Bodies for the grinder. Debris peppered his armor plate as shviri artillery struck the towering star-scrapers above him, allowing masonry and rubble to rain down on the soldiers below. His comms crackled, Mola was attempting to reach him.

"Sir, shviri assault, Sector 31 is gone, we're falling back to Sector 32 and 33. The militia is breaking, there's valkir here. They're burning a path right through us. Min's suit is damaged, shields fried and chain gun shot to shit. The sheev's are trying to flank us," there was a note of impotent anger simmering in the man's voice, it was not a good sign.

"Can you reform a defensive line? Will you be able to hold? If your sector goes, the rest of the line goes, they'll flank us and roll everything, quickly Mola, quickly!" Albrecht emphasized his last words, already motioning Fauler to ready a shift, the regulars could hold without them, he could remain patched into their command network from anywhere.

"No sir, the militia is fleeing. They don't have the will to fight. The civvies are folding," Albrecht could hear Mola break into a stream of curses, followed by the discharge of machinegun fire and the crackle of lasers. They were being overrun, and every second spent wondering how much longer they would hold was a second the shvir could push further.

"Fauler, get Wallenstein on the comms, tell him we're shifting and we need a battalion with armor to stiffen up the militia. Shorten the line, the regulars supporting the militia in Sector 43 and 42 need to pull back or be overrun. Varga, you and Moss need to fall back, now. Move to meet us in Sector 33. Order the militia in your charge to do the same, the Sword is to fall back to Helesa, don't try to engage. We need to shorten the damned line and hold our fucking ground!"

"They are going to lynch me. I'm supposed to stand trial for doing my duty, for defending those who could not defend themselves," Albrecht bowed his head, palms covering his face as he sat in the cathedral, the dark clouds blotting out the planets orbital star, allowing no light to penetrate the stained glass windows.

"Not all is set in stone, all will be as the gods will it to be," Celine sat beside the Captain, wrinkled hand resting on his back.

"Such platitudes do not help in my situation, all the paths from here are dark, there is only blackness," words bitter, rank with frustration.

There was no counsel to help him, no one to turn to. Those under his command could offer no advice, they would follow Albrecht no matter what he chose, but were unsure of what to do. And there were none above him to provide guidance, for they were the ones trying to crucify him. And so, this was all he had left, the one place he had always fled to, the Cathedral of St Stellichar.

"There are no easy solutions, Albrecht. The laws are clear, are they not? You are a soldier, you follow orders, if you break them, you pay the price," she spoke calmly, patiently, as she always did, as if speaking to a child.

"Those same laws condemn millions to suffering and abuse, the Confederacy does not care about those it is supposed to defend, nor those defending it," his speech was like an icy razor, the hatred he felt welling within only barely contained.

"You stride a dark path, Albrecht Skor. It is not one on which I can advise you. You think of a way out, of desertion, of turning against that which you defend. Be wary, for such a path could just as easily lead to your eternal damnation, no matter how good your intentions, there have been others who thought as you, and became far more corrupt" he could sense the sudden tension in her voice, as if she had realized where his mind was slipping before he had become aware of the fact.

"No!" there was a sudden surge of vehemence in his voice, it was not a fate he had ever contemplated, "I have come this far, and I won't throw it away over pride. I will explain myself, and the situation will be resolved. For all their flaws, those I serve are on the same side, we all seek the same thing. I must simply persuade them of the folly they are about to allow."

"Do not worry yourself, Albrecht. All will go as intended," the old woman said quietly, "If it is meant to be, it will be so."

They were leaves in the wind, rag-dolls. Disorganized rabble. No match for a knight. Albrecht tore through the shviri infantry like a thunderbolt, rifle blazing and Godsbane whistling through the fog of war. Terrified militia members scattered before him even more hastily than they had when faced with the aliens. Horror was etched on their faces as the commandos cleaved a blood soaked path through their foes. Black became smeared with soot and alien viscera, personal insignia obscured, tabards scorched, protective totems cracked and broken. A flight of shviri bombers tore across the sky, dropping their payloads upon those trapped below, reducing entire city blocks to rubble and ash. Another company of shvir, pushing the advance. They were animals, bestial and hungering for the kill. They had no control. Only instinct. Albrecht didn't flinch as they charged his position, chanting in their guttural tongue. The commandant could sense the militia fleeing, retreating from the barricade. The weakest link. The one that would fail first, and unravel entirely. They had already given way. Given way to the horror.

But not Albrecht and his knights. Godsbane rose in a slow arc, gleaming in the firelight, an unspoken challenge to their alien attackers. To his flanks stood five other commandos, his finest soldiers. Wiedzmin moved into position, rifle drawn, the shattered remains of his under-arm weapon abandoned. They had stood by his side for decades, and not once had they been found wanting. The plain gray tabard shielding Mola's torso fluttered, the fiery embers burning along its length suddenly quenched and extinguished. Chain-guns spun to life with a whine, targeting systems locking onto priority targets. Moss loaded a fresh flechette round into the breech, cold and calculated, the snakes head covering his helmet leering at the sight of fresh targets. All around them was chaos, they were in the center of the storm. Varga drew himself to full height, revealing the barbaric blue religious icons and runes that haphazardly bedecked his armor, throwing his arms wide and roaring defiantly at the shvir, daring them to attack. All brothers, with loyalty bound in the blood. Fauler didn't move, helmet bowed in moments contemplation, the single blood-red tear beneath his helmet dulled but proud beneath the soot. Albrecht knew they would not retreat, they would hold their ground, they would stand by his side and fight to the end. For they were his knights, the knights of the Straggen.

Times Long Gone

"You seem to forget that we too were once traitors. Every single one of us in this government would have been exiled, imprisoned or executed for what we stood for. Even you, Vorodin. We renounced our vows, we broke our oaths, we shattered our bonds to that which we had sworn to serve. And you mean to tell me anybody who does not accept the Imperium is a traitor? No, not all can be redeemed, but one must hold on to the hope that some, at least can find a redemption in service. Or we are all as damned as that which we replaced."

Albrecht Skor to Mikhail Vorodin, Chief Secretary of Internal Security

“There was an ambush. The cadet ship Serian was boarded. Frigate Aurelian was destroyed.”

“We can’t afford these losses. Two ships lost, to mere pirates no less.”

“One ship, sir.”

Major Alan looked at the captain, his curiosity suddenly piqued.

“You mean to tell me, the Serian is still intact, and it’s still ours? How?”

“Reports are still spotty, but it seems we have one of the cadets to thank. Reportedly he took charge of the Serian’s defense, killed three of the boarders with a knife and led the counterattack from the front,” captain Rogers responded. He was a trustworthy man, never known to exaggerate, but this tale seemed too far fetched to be true.

"Are you sure? Are you really, truly sure this was the case?"

"Yessir," the man responded simply.

“Fascinating. And who is this cadet, that butchered an entire pirate boarding party? What is his name?”

“His name is Cadet Skor, Cadet Albrecht Skor.”

Armor plate buckled as the half-ton exo-suit landed atop the tank. The shviri officer spun around in response to the sound, too late. Godsbane came around in a glittering arc, striking the aliens exposed neck and sending his severed head flying. With a squeal of straining metal the tanks hatch tore off its hinges as Albrecht pulled it aside to make way for a grenade. With a dull clatter, the steel orb tumbled through the open cupola and into the crew compartment within. The SNC commandant didn’t need confirmation of the kill, the dull thud of an internal explosion was drowned out by the surrounding battle as he leaped clear of the armored vehicle.

Shvir were swarming towards him, aiming to cut off the half dozen commandos retreating from the defensive line. An alien APC shuddered and tore itself in half as a reccoilless rifle struck its flank. Moss had good aim.

"Canister!" the commando shouted, loading a new round into the breech. The weapon barked, tearing through the shviri mass with a hail of razor sharp flecchetes.

"We're starting our approach Albrecht, high command is fled to Berrenburg proper, and they don't mean to stay long. Just hold on for us," it was Sylas, guiding the Sword of Damocles to make it's descent.

The aliens scattered like leaves before the commandos onrush, torn apart by machine-gun and blade. Shouts and screams hung in the air, thick with smoke and flame. The fury of combat, the purging fire of battle. This was what he lived for, what he was meant to do. It was all so instinctive, so simple, so pure.

Radiant light flooded through stained glass windows, filling the cathedral with its iridescent glow. The statue of an ancient saint stood above the pulpit, arms outstretched and head raised heavenward. Soft boot-steps echoed across the flagstones as the young Confederate officer strode through the doorway, looking about himself in silent awe and admiration. He was tall and muscular, towering above the empty pews as he strode forward, his clean shaven face and close cropped hair enhancing his youthful appearance. A ceremonial sword hung at his side, the symbol of his recent promotion, the elaborate engravings wrought about it's hilt gleaming in the light.

"Searching for something?" the quiet voice caused the soldier to spin on heel, an inhuman blur of motion.

It was an old crone, a priestess, the man concluded based upon her simple garb. She seemed ancient, at least two centuries, perhaps more, her white hair and wrinkled skin bearing testament to that fact.

"I don't know," the officer said helplessly, extending his hands outward in confusion.

"It has been years since I saw one of your kind, a soldier, in this place. What brings you here?" She pressed him, approaching the officer with slow, soundless steps, "You do not seek the God, that much I can see in your eyes. But you are searching, searching for something, Lieutenant Skor. What is it that you search for?"

She now stood before him, having read his uniforms nameplate, looking up into the young officers face. In turn he looked down at her, remaining calm and collected, his eyes 

"I have seen some terrible things madam. I have killed. I kill well. It is something I am good at, miss. But-" he stopped as suddenly as he had begun, frozen in thought, unsure of how to proceed, "Do not mind me. I just need to think."

"Sit down, let us talk," the woman responded, eyes slitted as she scrutinized him closely, motioning for him to sit at one of the pews, "Trust me, it will help."

"How do i begin- It's a madness. I feel it eating at me- the shrink says it's natural, adrenaline. But it is worse. It's a bloodlust. The tang in the air. The urge to kill. It's a thrill, a sudden rush, a high I never feel otherwise. It's addicting, corrupting me, it's terrifying. Far more than even death itself," he said coldly, his voice shaking slightly.

"Yet you seek to fight it. You are confused, scared perhaps. But not lost. It is something you must defeat yourself. I have seen others like you, you are not the only one," she said calmly, her voice cool and soothing.

"And how did those others fare? Did they triumph over this madness?" the young man asked.

"Some did," The old crone looked him directly in the eyes, answering in that same, listless tone, "Others did not."

The Sword roared to a standstill, thrusters whining as it lowered itself to the ash choked earth, waiting mere seconds for the half dozen shock commandos to leap aboard. They had been too late, the high command had already been evacuated from the outskirts of Berrenburg, leaving behind a rearguard to stall the shviri advance. That force was doomed. The shviri spearheads were already tearing past them, roving armored columns rumbling cross country to pincer the planetary capital. Losing the city wouldn't force instant surrender, but it would be a crippling blow to the Imperiums logistics, a blow Albrecht could not allow.

He turned to his second in command, addressing him calmly, allowing no emotion to taint his voice,"Sylas, hail seventh platoon, recce. They're five hundred kilos south, in Horrin. Get them to Berrenburg, immediately."

"Special Forces Captain Albrecht Skor! Congratulations. I heard about how you cleared the Syttian Rim. Most impressive, it is good to have a man of your caliber fighting for us," the regional commander, Sturer, clapped him on the back, taking a seat opposite the young captain.

"Youngest army captain in fifty years. You'll be getting your own ship of course. No more sharing a transporter with the plebs, haha! Why look so grim? You can lighten up every now and then you know!" he laughed jovially, clapping his prominent ponch. The man laughed, and yet he had done nothing for Albrecht. Leaving him and those around him to fight alone against the pirate clans of the Syttian Rim. The Confederacy had done nothing. Over three-hundred lost in what should have been a minor pacification campaign. Captain Singer had been assassinated only three days in. Individual platoons ambushed and massacred. A series of hit and run raids ordered by a high command that was too far away to care, leaving the young lieutenant the ranking officer in charge. But it had made Albrecht a hero. And Sturer, Sturer had taken much of the credit. Many of the bureaucrats such as him had. Far more interested in their careers than actual results, Albrecht thought in disgust.

"Of course, an Army man like you needs a captain for his ship. And you will be provided with one shortly," Sturer stopped himself for a second, twirling the ridiculous mustache that covered his face between a pair of chubby fingers, "I see that you remain ungrateful for what the Confederacy does for you, after all these years. Albrecht, this arrogant manner will lead you nowhere, this is not how you can progress."

He stopped once more, looking at the young officer in front of him, before shaking his head in disappointment.

"No matter. Go, you are dismissed."

"Get out of the way!" Albrecht snarled at the handful of infantrymen moving to block his progress. With contemptuous ease, Sylas and Varga shoved them out of the way, bullying the lighter exosuits out of the way of the commandant.

"This is the territory of High Command Fyra, you have no right to enter without the proper authorization," a young officer shouted as he tried to stand in the SNC mans path.

The commandant had to give him credit, allied or not, most other men would have shrunk out of his path long ago.

"I am High Command, whelp. Commandant Albrecht Skor, SNC," the man paled visibly as Albrechts gauntleted hand shoved him out of the way, wiping shviri blood and tissue onto the mans clean pressed uniform.

There was no time to waste, the marshals and generals in charge of Fyra may have planned to retreat, to pull back their forces, but Albrecht had no intention of letting them do so. The planetary capital had to be held. Its starports defended, and its civilian population kept as safe as possible. There was over a billion of them left on the planet, and the commandant had no intention of leaving any to the tender mercies of the aliens.

The sky was dark, clouds rolling over in silence as Albrecht took a seat in the empty cathedral.

"It is thankless work. I feel that what would be best is to flee, to give up this life, this life of warfare, to find peace," he said into the darkness.

"Why? You are a warrior, Albrecht. I remember when I spoke to you, those years ago. You live for the fight, it is in your very blood" sister Celine said quietly, the ancient priestess stepping out from one of the great structures annexes.

"They do not care. The bureaucrats, the generals. They throw us out here, under equipped, under supplied. And expect miracles. One division, for a whole sector. I cannot work such miracles. For every pirate, every slaver, every insurrectionist we put down, two more spring up," he said bitterly, arms crossed across his chest, staring forward across the rows of pews.

"Yet you still fight. There are millions out there, Albrecht, who are thankful for what you do. They may not understand your struggles, they may not see you, or know you, yet they are still grateful for what you do," she responded, calm as ever.

"Cold comfort for those dying in their name," Albrecht said, a clear twinge of pain in his voice.

"The weak need a protector, Albrecht. Without those like you, others more ruthless, more vile would ascend, and billions would be damned, and that is why you must keep fighting Albrecht," it was so simple for her.

"Those are flattering tales for those of a bygone age, sister. Such times are over. Those warriors, those fabled heroes, those knights in shining armor. They are long gone. We are losing this fight, and I have little hope that those of us who remain may emerge victorious," he responded, the annoyance in his voice all too clear.

She clasped his palms in her warm, weathered hands, looking into his eyes with a severity,"And yet, you will continue fighting, Albrecht. You do not need me to tell you. You would do so regardless of my counsel. Because it is in your nature. Because sometimes, what mankind needs is one who protects innocent, one who can stand their ground in the face of dire danger. Because sometimes, Albrecht, humanity needs a knight."

"You cannot retreat! You must hold your ground," Albrecht snarled at the Field Marshal Terr, a terrifying sight that made even the tall, graying veteran seem to shrink into his greatcoat.

But the man held his ground over the tactical map that hovered above the table in the near abandoned command bunker. Most of the remaining commanders had already been ordered out, only two of the regional marshals remained, with half a dozen of their most trusted generals, and Terr was the most senior of the group.

"I cannot," he said coldly, "The government has already been evacuated, the civilians are being ordered to stay put and hide. Our armored forces are trying to move up but they need more time. We won't be able to hold the city long enough for reinforcements to come in from the rest of the sector. The forces here are barely worth mentioning. Three line divisions. Three. And only two have their armor support somewhat intact. The rest of it. The rest of these "divisions". They don't exist. They're fucking civies. Militia. They're young kids who don't know any better and old men who can barely operate their rifles. Volunteer units. They have no heavy artillery, no heavy armor, hell, they have no body armor. It's a joke"

He stared at the SNC commandant defiantly, daring him to say anything, but Albrecht was not one for idle talk.

"Even our air support is lacking. Half a dozen fighter squadrons. No tank busters, no strike craft. Even if we had them there aren't enough fighters to escort them. They'll be shot down in a single mission. We have nothing, the best we can do for the planet is evacuate." he said simply, his voice weary and angry.

"Field Marshal, we must hold, if you do not, nine million civilians will most likely die. The Korena and Malets corridors will be cut. We will lose thirty divisions in those pockets. You know as well as I we can't hold them if the supplies from Berrenburg don't get through," Albrecht responded, attempting to keep his own anger in check.

The officer had a point.

"Where will I get the manpower? Where will I get the reinforcements. It will be at least twenty four hours before Third Corps can make it, by then this place will be long overrun. You know the shvir are like a flood tide, they'll just overwhelm the defenses and it will be over."

"No," Albrecht said calmly, resolutely, "We will hold. I will make sure we hold. We will stall them block by block, drag them into the factory district, to the Helesa Starport, it's much more defensible. I don't care how, but we will buy the time you need. Better half the city be destroyed than the whole thing be lost for good."

"You will die, and die for nothing, Commandant. It'll just be a waste," The marshal said discompassionately.

"If we don't hold, we lose this sector, we lost the capital, the planet, and the war. If you won't do your duty, I will. Clear this city's divisions to follow my command. Do it now, before I deal with your next in command," the commandant growled at the officer, causing a hush in the emptying room. Some of the guardsmen at the doorway shuffled uneasily, shifting their assault rifles from hand to hand. Some of the officers moved for their sidearms.

Marshal Terr didn't move, he didn't blink, he simply stared at Albrecht, face no softer or more frightened than before, but when he finally spoke, it seemed that the wind had been taken out of his sails, "Very well. Do what you think is necessary. I will follow."

Echoes of the Lost

"The Confederacy failed because it did not adapt, because it did not learn. It festered, stagnated and grew corrupt. Those who criticize the Imperium for what it is are ignoring what it has grown out of, what it strives to avoid, what it must avoid if it is to survive. This is not a time for ideals and naivete, this is a time for harsh realities, and even then I am not certain we can be saved."

Stella Marks

It was midday and over a week since their initial engagement. One of the others had already fallen in an exchange with the commando's, torn apart by Imperial mortars when they called in artillery support. But the hunt continued. They had been deployed, redeployed and redeployed again, chasing after shadows as the SNC marksmen engaged their targets and vanished before their opposites could respond. And so they kept fighting, cat and mouse, searching for their prey. Now, they lay in wait, using one of the old Imperial fortifications for protection and shelter against enemy spotters.

A fireball roared across the sky, instantly turning Eva's eyes upward. The massive aircraft hurled past their position, flames leaping from its engines. For a brief moment she thought she could see a woman on its nose, laughing through the fire, but then ignored the idea as the black craft roared downward. It was an ungainly vehicle, distinctly Imperial in design, and it must have attempted running the shviri cordon to Bjorgensfjord, a suicidal mission if she had ever seen one. She tracked it through her spotting scope, watching its death throes as the pilot tried to pull up. He failed. With a rending crash, the aircraft slammed into the ground, plowing a deep furrow in the dust covered no mans land. It was a miracle that it never collided with the wreckage strewn across the battlefield, skidding to a halt as its starboard wing sheared off on impact, spinning the gunship around. Steel groaned and the fire licked the cockpit as the vessel came to a full stop.

Jones cursed as he saw the gunship come to a stop nearly two kilometers from where they were waiting. It only had one pilot, Mulders. The run had been deemed suicidal by all present, well before it had been undertaken, not worth risking two pilots. But it wasn't as simple as that, the Drakken was carrying vital supplies, and more importantly, orders and information. Bjorgensfjord had been under constant jamming and interference for weeks, and it had made getting orders and intel without alien interception nigh impossible. It was a lifeline the defense rested on and could not afford to lose. There was only his squad on call, three men. And Cain, another kilometer out, hunting, the next nearest commando. If only Francis and Wu were there, but they were in the north quadrant with Hess, too far to aid him, and he needed a sniper, a marksman to counter any more ambushes from human mercenaries. Two good men had already been lost. Mors and Stein. Three others wounded by treasonous hands. They would be avenged. The traitors would pay with their lives, it was as simple as that, but now was not the time. The only thing they could do now was ensure that such a situation would not be repeated

"Spencer, get the others, we're moving, now, we need to get Mulders in here," there was no time for argument.

The junior soldier simply nodded, grabbing his rifle and motioning to the others, Seris and Kell. As they strode through the doors, he was already raising his long range comms, "Cain, see the crash, get moving to cover us, we're moving in to recover Mulders."

There was silence, followed by a deathly cold whisper of response, "Moving."

It was simple, all that needed to be said.

You're a good man, don't let them change you too much Johnathan. The Butcher drew himself to full height, cloak flapping in the wind as he hefted his rifle, the golden pendant clattering against the stock. Shviri blood had spattered against the engraved rose, when it's bearer had gunned a valkir down at point blank range. Three days ago. It swayed slightly on its chain with every measured step. Just stay the way you are.

There were incoming soldiers, moving towards the gunship even as it came to a standstill. Commandos. Four of them.

"How many teams have we got in position?" The question went out from Warrin.

"Three," came the response from one of the others, a cartel assassin by the name of Sil.

"Get ready to engage," the old mercenary said.

The scope was centered on the gunship, on the figure leaping clear. The pilots suit was smouldering. No point in opening fire yet, the commandos weren't in range. The man stopped, to orient himself. The first shot cracked. The ambush was ruined.

All hope of recovering supplies was gone. Seris dragged the wounded man into cover as shots began to whiz past the commandos. Mulders was bleeding, crimson droplets staining the dust choked ground around the gunship. He had taken a shot to the head, clipping him as he stopped outside the aircraft. They had walked straight into an ambush. Spencer spat curses as bullets snagged at his camouflage cloak, forcing him to press himself against the Drakkens side. None of them wanted to be so close to a burning gunship, but the alternative was even worse, at least, unless the shviri artillery opened fire on them. The fire was coming from an old bunker complex that had been lost in an early alien assault, nearly a kilometer away, too far for an effective response from the SNC's assault rifles. The sylph painted on the nose was smiling at him, amused by the situation, despite her charred form, mocking the commandos huddled alongside her. All they could do was wait, holding calm until support arrived.

Are they treating you well? How is training? Let me know. The bipod made a muffled click as it rested among the rocks, steadying the massive rifle. The silver of the atterium penetrator disappeared in the breech of the Aurora, the bolt clicking into position with finality. Please write soon.

Warrin had called in artillery, the shviri guns needed only to be ranged in. But there was something wrong, the commandos were holding their ground. Waiting. Waiting for someone. Eva shifted her scope, scanning the field, searching for an enemy scope. For a flash of light, any sign of a counter-sniper. There was nothing, only the wind whipped field and swirling dust clouds.

"What is it?" Robert asked, not looking up from his rifle.

"Something is wrong. They should have tried to make a break for it by now, or called in their own artillery for smoke," she said calmly, still searching the terrain.

"Maybe they're hoping to wait us out?" he said simply.

Eva shook her head slightly,"No. There's a counter out there, they're waiting for him to find us."

Her brothers mouth barely twitched as he maintained his focus on the commandos position,"Are you sure?"

"Where the hell is Cain? We're fucking pinned. Those bastards got us good," Spencer cursed as he pressed himself against the gunships side.

"Cain, you in range yet? We're running out of fucking time!" Jones snarled into the comms.

Silence, stone cold silence, there was no response. Cautiously, he poked his face over the nose of the Drakken, peering past the ruined cockpit. Instantly, the sergeant was forced to dive into cover, the glass cracking and metal hull plates sparking under the impact of the enemy fire. They were safe behind the hulk, at least for now, but soon the shviri artillery would have them.

"Cain, where the hell are you at?" Jones was too professional to let fear take hold, but his impotent rage was slipping through. The frustration at his inability to fight the enemy snipers engaging them.

Mulders was moaning at his feet, bleeding from a head wound. The rest of the squad was formed up, waiting for the call. For his command. But Jones had nothing to say. They were pinned. They were screwed.

"What was that?" he had heard a whisper, a cold and listless tone through his comms. Or had it been his imagination, desperate for good news.

But the voice was real, as cold, and soulless as the man behind it,"In position."

That was all he needed to hear.

Is the Imperium as terrible as they say? What is it like? Steady aim, a single shot. The sniper froze in position, his targeting monocle constricting, finger gently pulling on the trigger, moving the rose that hung from a chain in his hand. Is it all worth it? The rifle roared.

"Holy shit, something just tore through the wall, Hayer is dead. What the hell-" Sil's voice was suddenly silenced by the sound of exploding rubble and a wet smack of a projectile striking him.

"We just lost contact on Sil and Hayer! Has anybody seen the shot, where the hell is he shooting from? Somebody get me his position!" there was no panic in Warrin's voice, years of experience no doubt suppressing the shock and urgency he felt, but he was angry, raging, furious that the trap had backfired.

But Eva knew, she had seen what the SNC could do. She had seen what they had done. They were fighting monsters. She swivelled the spotting scope, searching for a glint, a tell, any sign of the hidden snipers position. There was none. It was like chasing a ghost.

"Seris, you're going first. We'll cover you, just wait for my mark," The SNC sergeant said, barely exposing his helmet to watch the puffs of exploding rubble as Cain opened fire. Jones nodded to the junior commando, holding Mulders over his shoulder, there was blood dripping from the mans flight helmet, but he was still twitching, holding on to life, barely. They had to make a break for it soon, the distraction would not last forever. The shviri artillery was drawing closer.

How long will you mourn? It's not your fault Cain, there was nothing you could have done. The golden pendant swayed gently in the breeze as the sniper shifted target, and pulled the trigger once more.

Mills had been torn in half, and his spotter had barely escaped, deeper into the ruins. But Eva had seen the shot, she had seen where the SNC man was, almost two kilometers away. It was a long-shot, his rifle had to have been far more powerful than the standard confederate model her brother was using.

"Rob, he's over there, two kilos, on your one, he's shifting now, it's him, it's the one we're searching for," she whispered to her brother.

"Too far, can't hit him at this range I don't think," he responded, the hiss of his augmentic lung breaking up his speech.

Eva wanted to argue otherwise, but it was all but true. They had to try though, that was the point of it all.

"Give me the rifle," she whispered, "I'll take the shot."

"Suppressive fire! Aim for the old fortifications, on our twelve!"

Their rifles weren't powerful or accurate enough at this range, but all they needed was to buy time and get clear of the ambush. The burning aircraft would help mask their escape, but only partially. As one, the three commandos swung up into the open, firing controlled bursts at the supposed enemy positions. Seris broke into a run, the wounded pilot bobbing over his shoulder. He was no longer taking fire. The enemies attention broken by Cain's counter-sniping. They had their opening, it was time to run.

Come back Cain, can't you see what's happening?The spent shell casing glinted as it was ejected, catching the light as it tumbled earthward. The squad was retreating, carrying the pilot. They would be clear soon. A scope caught the light as it shifted to line up the SNC sniper. What have you become? The air was torn asunder with a hiss.

She had missed the man, just barely, the round passing above his shoulder. The commando slid back, his cloak shimmering to turn him into a mirage. The long rifle he grasped was unmistakable, she had seen the images in the shviri reports. The Butcher of Bjorgensfjord himself had engaged them.

His rifle swung up, the muzzle flashed as she pulled back instinctively, the projectile shattering the parapet where her head had been a split second earlier. Eva breathed and poked back over the edge. Too late. The ghost had vanished over a slight ridge on which he was positioned, disappearing from view. She cursed, seething at her failure. It was an anger that had not filler her in a long time, not since their betrayal on Tola. She shifted her aim to the fleeing commandos, zeroing in on the man at the rear.

"Shoot him goddamit!" Warrin was shouting, enraged, seething.

They were barely more than a kilometer away, running in a straight line, an easy shot.

"Kill the fuckers!" the mercenaries rage was driven by madness.

It was wrong. This wasn't what she did. She couldn't lose control. She wasn't a cold blooded killer like the others, a butcher like the commandos. She hesitated. Measured breaths. Eva was an officer of the Confederacy, she had her limits. And this was plain murder.

"Shoot him you stupid bitch!" the man had lost all control.

"You got a bead?" Robert asked, calmly, quietly.

She centered her scope on the mans back, at the center of his heavy pack, bobbing up and down. And held her fire.

Jones was shaking as he slumped against the bunker wall, the last man to reach the safety of their lines. Seris was already handing Mulders over to a pair of army medics, following them to the field hospital. They were alive, and if Mulders had followed protocol, he should have had the orders on his person in a data-chip. He wondered if the pilot would survive, or if he had died from the rough retreat. There had been so much blood. He had been lucky to survive the initial hit. They were all lucky. He was thankful for his initial instinct to have Cain come support them. Where had he gone?

Take care of yourself. Cain sat alone on the edge, staring out at the Bjorgensfjord installation below, wind whispering amongst the rocky mounds, helmet resting by his side, allowing the light of Fyra's orbital star to creep across his features. Don't you remember what you once were? The golden rose glittered brightly, reflecting in dead gray eyes. Don't you remember what it's like to live? Gloved fingers caressed the warm metal, cleaning away the blood and dirt with tender care. What are you? A sad smile creased the mans features, a brief spark of sanity returned to those haunted eyes, a momentary flicker of humanity. And just as suddenly the vision was gone, replaced by the maelstrom of madness. Hand shaking, he closed his palm, clasping the tiny trinket tightly in his grasp. His mouth formed soundless words, voiceless, desperate. Searching for what wasn't there. What are you? His hand opened, exposing the flowers beauty to the light for one last time. I don't know Elise, I don't know.