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.

Poor Choices

"He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And if you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you."

Friedrich Nietzsche

There was eight of them in total. The officers, four guardsmen and the two commandos. Moore had taken Kwame with him, leaving Valeri to take charge of those that remained. It was a play on the shvir's lack of knowledge. They did not know how many commandos were stationed at Centerpoint, and he hoped to keep it that way. Over a kilometer of debris and corpse strewn ground separated them from the nearest shviri positions. The shviri delegation was to meet them in the middle of this no mans land, but collectively, the Imperial officers had decided to let the aliens make the first move. Moore could feel the rising sense of trepidation as he gripped the hilt of his sword. It had become his trademark, a signature that even the aliens wouldn't miss, and he wanted the shvir to know exactly who they were dealing with. He carried his helmet underarm, but staring out into the gloom he felt blind without it. Kwame stood silently at his side, loosely gripping his Akarn, the only man seemingly unfazed by what the future could bring. It was why Moore had chosen him over Valeri. Theoretically, he and Kwame were of the same rank and seniority, but the last thing he needed was his excitable and loudmouthed second on this mission.

"Incoming, shviri APC, sector nine!" Moore tensed slightly at the sound of the sentry's voice, and could hear the sudden clatter of equipment as everyone snapped to full attention.

"That's our cue," Frey said needlessly.

Nobody moved. Finally, the SNC sergeant took the lead, pulling himself up over the edge of the breastworks and standing on the edge of the parapet. Behind him, the rest of the group finally did the same, following him out into the open. The light mist that covered no mans land gave the night an eerie feeling, reducing visibility and shrouding the shvir that waited less than half a kilometer away. Moore could vaguely make out the dark outlines of a hovering transport in the distance, along with a contingent of shvir standing in front of it, waiting in silence.

Almost immediately he could sense something different about the aliens facing off against them. There was a dozen arrayed there, and as they emerged from the murk, Moore saw a sight that sent shivers down his spine. Valkir, the shviri equivalent of special forces. Slightly hunched over, their equipment surprisingly pragmatic for shvir, unadorned, brutal and efficient, almost human. But it was not their weaponry or individual skill that made them feared, it was their capacity for restraint. Heavy augmentations of all forms enhanced their physical capabilities and responses, all while curbing the ordinarily volatile shviri fight or flight response that made their assaults so brutal and disorganized. The SNC sergeant had no doubt that the purpose of their presence was two-fold. On one hand, they were an escort. On the other, they were an obvious display of force and a thinly veiled threat of where failure to negotiate would lead. They stood in stark contrast to those Moore instantly identified as the diplomats in the group. He had never believed a shvir could appear truly benign or peaceful, but with their sweeping, embellished robes and professional air, the pair of emissaries definitely looked the part.

Slowly, quietly, the Imperial force spread out to face the aliens, silently coming to a sort of weary attention. Nobody moved, the seconds seemed to pass slowly. Then, as if satisfied that all was as expected, one of the two shviri negotiators stepped forward.

Moore felt uncomfortably small in comparison to the alien. He could see its pitch black eyes almost imperceptibly roaming down the length of the human line, before settling upon Thomas. He met the shvir's gaze, remaining un-moving, rigid. Nonetheless, he struggled to conceal his shock when the shvir bowed in his direction, addressing him directly.

"Sergeant Thomas Moore, you honor us with your presence, your reputation is most impressive," The alien spoke with a cold clarity, as if it were an AI reciting human speech, rather than a living being. Nonetheless, Moore could not recognize even the slightest trace of sarcasm or duplicity in the aliens speech, but he found the tone, and the fact that the creature knew his name disturbing nonetheless. The shvir knew it had caught him by surprise, but the sergeant didn't intend intend to let the shock go un-reciprocated.

"Avrak Dol," Thank You, he responded, keeping his voice level, bowing slightly in turn.

Moore smiled to himself, having noticed the split second hesitation as the alien realized he could speak shviri.

The valkir remained unmoving, though Moore was aware of the fact that each seemed to have settled on a different target, ready for any sign of violent intent from the humans. With a swift flick of his eyes the SNC sergeant noticed that more than one was riveted on him and Kwame, identifying them as the primary threats in the group.

"I am Tal-Arak, emissary," the alien said simply.

And a member of the "Barbarian Negotiation Service", Moore thought coldly, taking note of the yellow denotation stripes on the hovering APC behind the shviri force, but he refrained from making any comment of the fact, it would have been pointless.

"Which of you is charged with conducting these negotiations?" the shvir added, tearing Moore away from his reflections.

"That would be me. Major Voronov, Imperial Army," the airborne officer stepped forward.

"As you are well aware. You are surrounded. No relief force is coming," the alien said, slowly, methodically.

It was all Moore could do to stop himself from shuddering at the clinical perfection of the language. Inhuman perfection.

"Your defense was most admirable, but you must know that you are doomed. But, there need not be any more blood shed," Tal-Arak continued.

"What are your terms," Voronov said bluntly. His tone was harsh and hurried, in stark contrast to the calmness of the alien.

"The terms are simple. Within two hours, a complete surrender of all weaponry and installations under your control. In return, all military personnel who remain will have their lives spared," the shvir said, "Those of the commando who remain will be given a honorable end."

At least he's blunt about it, Moore thought icily.

"What guarantee do we have that you will uphold these terms?" the Major asked.

"I can offer none but our word of honor," the shvir said, and the SNC nodded slightly, knowing full well the alien wasn't lying, at least not intentionally.

"You will be removed and handed over to your own people, those living in the protectorate, they will treat you according to your own custom, we are certain you will find that acceptable," Tal-Arak added, and Moore froze instantly.

It was certainly not acceptable. The protectorate was what remained of Confederate territory, lying under the control of criminals and traitors, those willing puppets of the shvir. He had no doubt that their treatment of any Imperial prisoners would be horrid at best. He had killed dozens of their ilk in the years before the war. They were the worst humanity had to offer, and in comparison, execution by the shvir seemed preferable, at least the aliens didn't revel in cruelty or vindictiveness.

Voronov had also grown rigid, and Moore knew all too well that he was aware the choice facing them was a harsh one. There was no explaining it to the shvir either. They barely distinguished between humans, to them, one was the same as the next, the divisions of allegiance and morality were almost impossible to understand. The aliens were unified. Humanity was not.

"A moment, if you will," Moore spoke to the shvir, wondering if he would understand the phrase. Tal-Arak simply nodded once, in understanding, or perhaps expecting the SNC officer to argue against the arrangement on the basis of his own fate.

He dragged Voronov aside, Frey following them. The sergeant was not in fact certain the shvir could not hear them, it was likely the valkir's enhanced senses would allow them to pick out their minute whisperings, and in a way, Moore felt foolish.

"It can't work, we cannot accept," Frey hissed, catching Moore by surprise with his vehemence.

"Should we first inform the General? Perhaps get the opinion of the others? They must have some input on this, no?" the SNC man asked.

"He will not agree. He knows all too well what would happen to us if we fell into traitors hands, and he has given us full authority to negotiate as we see prudent. The situation is a little too clear if you ask me," Voronov replied.

"If we refuse, we're all probably dead. You, me, everybody. Well, I'll be dead regardless," Moore said, a crooked smile crossing his face.

Perhaps the General should have sent someone else instead of Voronov, someone with a different mindset, or perhaps he had sent him precisely because he thought similarly enough to be most trustworthy. Moore expected the latter was more likely.

"Well, at least you won't be so lonely, yes?" the Major, and to the sergeants surprise, Frey, both snorted in laughter. Moore had not expected such easy agreement. There was also, of course, no guarantee that they would actually be mistreated. And of course, once rejected, the shvir would offer no quarter.

"We're signing our own death warrant, who knows, perhaps the shvir could take charge of you all" the commando finally said.

"They won't, the shvir don't want to be dealing with prisoners. We've known about it since the start of the war. We're dead regardless, even if we do surrender. We'd just be dragging it out, as not all of us have your benefit of the shvir making it short," Frey whispered.

"So this is it I suppose," Moore said, turning back toward the alien diplomat.

"Have you made a decision?" the shvir inquired.

"We cannot accept your terms, becoming prisoners of the protectorate is unacceptable, as it guarantees a most, dishonorable, end," Voronov stated, picking his words slowly and carefully.

The shvir simply stared at him intently, finally parting its lip-less mouth into a smile, or at least an attempt at one, revealing its sharp teeth in full as it spoke. It was the first human, or near human display he had seen the shvir make, neither clinical nor perfect, "We expected no less. We are glad you did not disappoint. May you bring no dishonor upon your blade, commando. May your end be good."

"Maras, avalo dolo," And your end also. Moore smiled back, masking the unease and inner horror that he felt. The shvir remounted their armored personnel carrier, moving back to their own lines with the hum of anti-grav engines. The die was cast, and the sergeant knew, their fate was sealed.

Eva Faust lay underneath the burnt out gunship, eye pressed against the cold spotting scope. It had been two days since they had been deployed here, she and eleven others. Assassins, pirates, mercenaries, and then her brother, Robert. She could hear the gentle hiss of his mechanical lung in the night silence. Three years of Confederate service in a counter-terrorism unit before Robert had taken a bullet to the lung, the augmentic provided was an old model, inefficient and decrepit. He should have gotten a new one, and it had been less than a week before the scheduled surgery, but then the collapse had come.

They had been witness to the Confederacy's last gasps, as it's remaining strength decayed through corruption. The Imperium had torn away decades prior, dozens of systems had followed, to join it or to start their own small system states. There was no money, no security. Only kleptocracy, corruption and dissolution of all order. The shviri invasion had been the final nail in the coffin. Imperial troops occupied Confederate territory at sweeping pace, using it as a buffer zone against the alien tide, trading space and lives for time. Those planets deemed unnecessary or indefensible had been left to the shvir, or the depredations of the pirate clans.

Planetary governments collapsed, shviri puppets instated. All of them men and women willing to sell out their own people for a mockery of power. There was no room in such a system for whatever remained of the loyalist Confederate military. No room for people like Eva. Not that there had been much left of them in the first place, she thought bitterly. Even their commandant had sold out to the Tola Pirates, taking half of his command with him. Those who remained had been left stranded on Tola III. What followed had been imprisonment, starvation and torture. The only thing that saved them was the shvir searching for volunteers, auxiliaries. The Tola governor had formed a penal unit out of those imprisoned, and sent them off to their fate, knowing full well it would be a death sentence for most. Now, Robert needed a new lung more than ever, the time spent imprisoned having only worsened his condition. Thus, when the call came for experienced marksmen, with promise of high rewards, they had agreed to volunteer, and found themselves here, on the planet of Fyra, near the enclave of Bjorgensfjord, hunting Imperial commandos.

The others had dismissed the shviri briefing with scorn, they had not seen what Eva had seen, they did not know what the SNC was capable of. The Confederacy had been victim to their deep penetrations often enough, usually as they hunted pirates and smugglers attempting to flee Imperial space. She still remembered boarding the derelict hulk of a pirate vessel named Crimson Angel, and the horror she had seen within. Two-hundred seventy-two dead, butchered wherever they stood with ruthless efficiency. Now, they were hunting those same people, and one in particular, known only as the Butcher of Bjorgensfjord.

The others had no qualms about the job, many of them were men who the Counter-Terrorism unit had once been assigned to hunt down for the crimes they had committed. Some had already begun to engage the defenders in the days prior, harrying sentries and patrols, not even bothering to engage the commandos they'd been assigned to combat, simply relishing the terror they invoked. It horrified Eva, but she knew all too well there had been no real choice. It was do or die. It was simply a matter of surviving. But unless forced to do so, she intended only to shoot those she had been assigned to bring down, and none other. Perhaps there would be some forgiveness in that.

The night chill gnawed at her exposed fingers, turning the scope slowly, surely, tracking the dark shapes in the distance. Commandos. They had made several reconnaissance forays against the shviri positions, but this time they were moving straight into a trap.

"Range, thousand meters," she whispered to her brother, who adjusted his aim accordingly, moving the standard issue Mark VI sniper rifle with well practiced care.

They had been the best marksmen in the sector. Her and Robert. Sister and brother. The perfect pairing. Forty-seven confirmed kills and six separate commendations during their service. Every unit competition won.

"Hold fire until my mark," came the voice of the man in overall command, an old mercenary named Warrin.

The number displayed on the range finder steadily ticked down as the commandos drew near. Still unaware of the ambush waiting for them, or so Eva hoped.

"Target marked," her brother said quietly, aiming at the man in the center of the loose formation, most likely the officer of the squad.

"Range nine-hundred."

 She could still withdraw with her brother, avoid this unpleasant work. But then what?

"Range eight-hundred, still closing."

She ticked off the distance as the SNC operatives continued to draw nearer. Four of them in total, advancing slowly, not dropping their guard, but unaware of the ambush awaiting them regardless. It felt wrong.

"Hold fire," Warrin said icily.

"Range seven-hundred. They're almost on us Rob," she could feel her heart racing with trepidation.

One of the commando's suddenly halted, kneeling, then dropping prone. With a sigh of relief, Eva realized a shviri patrol was nearly on top of the commandos, not realizing they were ruining the trap that had been laid. Perhaps it would be a reprieve, perhaps ruin could be averted. The mercenary in charge had realized it as well. Time was up, a move had to be made.

"Open fire."

The command came suddenly, breaking the tension and nerves that had hung on her mind. It was all instinctive.

"Range six fifty-four," she said.

Alongside her, Robert Faust depressed the trigger of his rifle. The rifle crashed, sending a steel projectile hurtling towards its target. She knew it was a direct hit before it struck, the decision had been made in less than a heartbeat. There had been no other way.

Demons and Diplomats

"I am afraid of course, afraid that one day, the thrill will be gone, the sudden rush as you make a kill, withered to ash. Even death is preferable to such a purposeless life. They look at me in disgust. They say I'm a monster. Some say I am vile. But they don't understand. None of them do. Evil is fought with evil. Fire with fire. Fear with fear. Monsters kill monsters. And those who claim otherwise are fools."

-Salazar Aktan, speaking to the military heads of the Imperial Cabinet.

Three weeks. Thousands of dead. And the bodies kept piling higher. Bjorgensfjord had become a charnel house. The shviri tide had enveloped the fortified position, pushing onward across Fyra, leaving units behind to deal with what should have been a minor nuisance. But it wasn't. Hundreds died for mere meters of ground gained. Air support had long ago ceased to be meaningful. The handful of aircraft still functional had to weather a near impenetrable storm of ground fire and interceptors just to get anywhere near their targets and do near meaningless damage. Six major assaults had been made. Each had been beaten back. And now, the front had quieted. Only artillery rumbled in the distance, pounding fortified positions into rubble.

Sergeant Jones had heard the rumors, and at first they had seemed impossible. The aliens attacks had become cautious, slow. Fear had crept throughout their ranks. Fear he had initially not comprehended. They spoke of a monster, a terrible demon the Imperium had unleashed upon them as revenge, a monster the humans had created in their desperation. It stalked the wastes as it pleased, picking targets at whim, hunting, killing, slaughtering at will. A butcher. The butcher. The Butcher of Bjorgensfjord.

But we didn't create it, you did.

The demon stood before Jones. Slightly built, his arms hanging loosely in front of his body, slender fingers clutching at the massive rifle that lay in his hands. Johnathan Cain drew in one long, rattling breath of fresh air as he removed his helmet. If only he would keep the damned thing on, Jones thought. Pallid skin spoke of too much time spent sealed away within his suit, and gave the mans clean shaven face the semblance of a marble statue. But it was the mans eyes that made Jones, a battle hardened veteran of the SNC, shudder with unease. It was a haunted look. The look of a man who had lost everything, and cared not for what the galaxy threw at him. Many saw him as a damned man. Charmed by luck to avoid all injury while those around him suffered and died. They feared him, and in turn, he did nothing to assuage their fears.

He followed orders only as long as they suited him, operating alone, unconcerned with what Lieutenant Hess demanded of him. Choosing instead to operate as the fancy took him, often leaving positions he had been told to take in favor of other, superior vantage points, no matter the consequences. Worst part was, he was usually right.

He'll face a court martial after this, there's no avoiding it forever, you'll push Hess over the edge with your damned insubordination.

But Cain simply didnt' care. One of his hands dropped from the rifle, hands running gently along the gold brooch that hung at his waist. The only hint of adornment he carried, a reminder of days that would never return.

Jones wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else. He hated being assigned to the command post, the only SNC officer there. But he was the senior sergeant, and it was his duty to take the place of Lieutenant Hess when needed.

"Cain. There are strange reports coming in. One of the perimeter observers reported humans behind the shviri lines. Some were identified as former members of the Illit Sniper School."

Cain said nothing. He simply moved and began searching for fresh rounds in one of the ammunition crates, resupplying the small arsenal that hung scattered in pouches at his belt and on his bandolier. Jones had long ago learned not to wait for a response, the man would not speak unless he felt it necessary.

“Hess needs you to report. Fran and Wu are still out, but they haven't checked in since yesterday. The shockies patrols aren't getting the intel we need. We might as well be blind.”

“There is no intel,” Cain replied simply, his voice soft and listless. He stopped re-arming himself, securing a last few rounds with careful precision. It had been three days since Cain had last been here, back at base. The man often left for extended operations, sowing terror in his wake and striking the shvir where they least expected it. They feared him not for his ability to kill, but for the manner in which it occurred. Sudden, surprising, dishonorable. It was not the way a shviri warrior wished to go, turned to bloody mist from a mile away.

“Jones, the shvir are reinforcing, there are seven companies of valkir deployed at Pik's Pass. They have tanks, they have artillery, they have air support. There's at least five divisions arrayed down there. The shvir offensive will hit us before any counter is made.”

Cain spoke without any emotion, as if the fact that their position was soon to be steamrollered was of no concern to him, as if he was not one of those trapped at Bjorgensfjord, sentenced to die.

“So we're screwed,” the sergeant said simply, the corners of his mouth twisting upward slightly. Cain didn't respond. He merely replaced his helmet, the distinctive face-plate hiding his baleful gaze, its eye lenses as cold as the night chill. For a second, the sniper looked down at Jones, the targeting monocle placed over his right eye constricting as he squinted down at him.

“Go warn Hess, I'll head out within the hour. Mulders will have to evacuate whatever he still can, before we lost the landing zones.”

Cain didn't even nod, he simply turned on heel and strode out of the command post, departing as soundlessly as if he wasn't there.

The small talk in the room was abruptly silenced as the SNC sergeant strode in. The mixture of fear, respect, and disappointment was apparent on the faces of the officers that filled the command bunker. He was not an imposing figure, and to many, his appearance was uninspiring. Short, slender, with a permanently disheveled appearance exaggerated by overgrown hair. Only his garb gave any indication of the qualities that made him the most feared man in Centerpoint. The indelible blood stains, laser scars and scrapes that covered his armor clashed with the white rats head that covered his shoulder pauldron in place of a sergeants stripes. The shviri long-sword that he had acquired months prior still hung at his waist, its ornate appearance seemingly irreconcilable with the nondescriptness of his boxy, standard-issue pistol. The chamber was almost empty, roughly dozen men stood in the room. He recognized few of the faces. A few regimental commanders as well as the divisional commander. All men of the 14th Airborne. Then there was Hewitt, Captain of the naval units on Fyra Five, a man whom Moore distinctly remembered from his efforts to secure transport to Fyra proper when he and his men had first been marooned on the moon. There was also Captain Frey, of the Intelligence Service, who managed the bases communications. And finally Captain Tanner, the senior officer of the 415th Armored Brigade, or whatever was left of it. The unit had suffered horrific casualties and he was the third commander of that unit the SNC sergeant had seen in the past month. At the last briefing, Moore had seen they were down to less than a company's worth of vehicles, greatly inhibiting the defenders ability to respond to sudden breakthroughs.

He had been summoned without explanation, but judging by the uneasy looks he was getting from the others, he knew the business was unpleasant at best. As soon as the sergeant had entered, both of the doors were sealed, a pair of guards taking their position at each entrance.

General Andreev, the commander of the 14th Airborne as well as in overall command of the entire installation, ran his eyes over every person in the room. The short, stocky man scratched his chin thoughtfully as his gaze settled on the SNC sergeant, as if considering whether he should share the news in front of him after all. Finally, he drew himself up and coughed loudly, as if to bring all attention to him. Such a gesture was entirely unnecessary. Every man in the room stood in silent anticipation, anxiously awaiting the news that was to be shared.

"Gentlemen," the old man began, "At 0200 hours. A ceasefire will be declared."

He raised his hand to forestall any incoming questions. All present were in shock. Several sharp intakes of breath and nervous looks passed among the assembled officers as they heard the announcement.

"The shvir. The shvir have requested the motion. And I have agreed. They are demanding that we negotiate. They are hoping we will surrender. I have agreed to negotiations."

The small group instantly erupted into disorderly chatter at the generals sudden declaration. Moore felt his blood run cold at those words. He had to order the rest of his squad to ready for immediate departure. If Centerpoint surrendered, he had no intention of handing himself and his men over to the aliens. They would run and die if necessary, but not without making an effort at attaining their freedom. Better a slim chance than facing the Morak Vows.

"Keep calm. All of you," Andreev said, slowly, calmly, "I have not made my final decision. That is why I have summoned you all here. Someone must negotiate with the shvir. And the decision as to our fate. It is a decision that I think is one best made by all of us."

All were silent. Moore pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to think. The other officers seemed unwilling to voice their thoughts. Either option was unappealing. If Centerpoint did not surrender, all still trapped within would die. If it did, the fate facing the defenders would be uncertain at best.

"I will not make the situation sound any better than it is gentlemen. Our ammunition reserves are at 10%. Fuel reserves at 16%. Two days ago, I was informed that most stocks of proper medical equipment have been expended. Based on our communications, a resupply fleet, let alone a liberation fleet is not forthcoming. And if it is, as Captain Hew-vitt informs me, it will prioritize Fyra over Fyra Five. The battle on the surface is one of far more importance to the Imperium than our fight here. And yet we still play an important part. If we surrender this fortress, we surrender one of the Imperiums last foothold on Fyra Five. Yes gentlemen. Beside us, only Fortress Altan and Sol still stand. Mara fell yesterday."

Moore drew himself up to full height, clenching the pommel of his sword with his hand. It shook horribly, beyond his control. But when he spoke, he spoke clearly and bluntly, not wishing to lie to the others in the room about his intentions.

"I, for one, can't surrender."

"The Morak Vows are of course, something that concerns you greatly," Andreev said, having realized immediately where Moore's line of thinking, at least in part, came from," But it does not concern the others here. There are still thirteen-thousand men and women on this installation who face certain death if we choose to fight. The shvir must negotiate with us as a whole, and we must consider everybody here, you have fought valiantly sergeant, but you are not the only consideration here."

"If you wanna surrender. I will not interfere. But I cannot let myself and muh men be tortured and killed for nothing. The shvir may show you mercy, but they will show us none. They consider us too dangerous to be left alive, no matter the circumstances, their vows make that exceedingly clear," Moore responded, his eyes boring into the general, refusing to back down from his position.

"We should at least hear the shvir out," Hewitt cut in, seeking to placate both of the officers, "Send a party to meet them and negotiate."

"If we do hold out, however," Frey interjected, his voice carrying an aura of authority, and at least in Moore's mind, distinct sense of superiority to the mere "fighting men" present, "Then there remains a chance, no matter how slight. Of a rescue fleet reaching us. Furthermore, general, when you say we must consider the greater picture. Remember that there are billions of men and women on Fyra, relying on us to keep our little corner of space secure. As long as Fyra Five and its batteries stand, we are denying the shvir total control of the planets orbit. Our presence will also guarantee that the liberation fleet will have a point above Fyra from which it can deploy troops, even as the battle continues to rage."

"I still say we at least negotiate," Hewitt said. Moore strongly suspected that the naval commander still hoped to save his own skin. Given the situation, he couldn't entirely blame him, but that didn't change his need to evade the shvir.

Most of the combat officers in the room remained silent, merely watching the debate unfolding.

"I agree with those two. We should hold. Our duty to the Imperium is clear. And sir, I do not trust the shvir. They can promise us anything but we have no guarantees, once we surrender, they can slaughter us like animals," One of the younger looking officers joined the discussion, indicating Moore and Frey. Ironic, Moore thought. For all their flaws, the shvir were rabidly honor driven, he was almost entirely certain that the aliens would never go back on any of their promises, including safe conduct for the soldiery of the 14th. But it was not a truth he was about to share.

That was why he couldn't surrender. The Morak Vows had come after one of SNC's first raids, during Case Green. Moore still remembered his platoon, what they had done. Three battleships disabled at dock by three dozen men. Dozens of other targets had been struck by other SNC platoons, crippling much of the shviri fleet at anchor. Upon discovering the culprits, the aliens had sworn that any commando caught would be handed over to the shvir's own special commando, the Valkir. Barring that they were to be executed immediately. It was a vow Moore, and all other commando's, took all too seriously.

"And I for one say we should negotiate," Tanner interjected, "There are four-thousand wounded, three quarters of the 415th is out of action. If we continue this fight, not only will everyone still capable of fighting die, but everybody else does too. Every cripple, ships crew, every doctor, every medical officer, every supply officer. All dead. If we can end this honorably, then we should give it some effort."

Moore's thoughts slipped to Natasha, she would die too. His stubbornness would sentence her to death as well. It hadn't even occurred to him until now, but it struck him with great force. He froze in place, but the conflicting emotions that passed in his mind were ignored by the others, who were still listening to the argument unfolding. Two more men spoke. Moore didn't even hear their words. His mind raced as he thought of the possible outcomes. There had to be a right course.

He thought of Kurt. As he'd lay on the ground, coughing up blood and retching from the gas. Dying a terrible death. He couldn't allow that to happen again. They had to try and live, if nothing else. If Centerpoint surrendered, they could flee, leaving the shvir and Andreev none the wiser. It would be a simple solution, best for all. The SNC operatives could easily vanish like ghosts.

"Our duty to the Imperium demands that we stand and fight! It will be an honorable end, and one that will aid our ultimate victory!"The younger officer burst out. Moore could finally read his nameplate in the dim bunker lights, a certain Major Lapkin. He detested fanatical Imperial loyalists, it was a type of person he had been warned about during training. But in this case, such a mentality was what he needed.

"Enough!" Andreev shouted, instantly bringing the meeting back to order. Moores mind was made up, as he did his best to exude a calm demeanor.

"We will negotiate with the shvir. Some of you here, must go. We will have to make sure we are understood, and we must make sure the shvir do not try to fool us."

"The sheevee negotiators should speak basic, at least some of them, they'll understand well enough, right? After all, they didn't send us that open message in shvir," Hewitt interjected.

"Of course, the scum could always try to backstab us," Frey sneered at him, drawing looks of approval from at least some of the officers present.

"Not likely," Moore said simply, in spite of his earlier intentions, "The shvir have more integrity than most humans. Their culture is rabidly centered around it. Deceit isn't their strong suit."

He could instantly feel the sudden anger coming from the other officers in the room. His comment had come across as an insult, the SNC sergeant realized too late, but there was no two ways around it. It was the simple truth. Nonetheless, he felt obligated to attempt and soothe over any hurt egos. While he would have normally felt no such compulsion, the dire situation demanded that all present maintained some semblance of respect for one another.

He swept his upturned hands around the room, “What, as if you haven't seen their brainless offensive tactics.”

That seemed to satisfy the others, some of whom chuckled at the comment, others nodded knowingly, seemingly satisfied. The young SNC sergeant tried to remind himself to think ahead next time he spoke.

"Nonetheless, it would be best to be sure. Can anybody here speak the aliens language? Can anyone here speak shviri?" Frey said. To Moore's surprise, the mans tone was conciliatory and placating, as if he had realized the SNC man he had earlier dismissed might very well know more about dealing with shvir than he himself did.

Nobody responded. Nobody except Moore.

“I can. At least somewhat, and I should have a pretty close grasp on their cultural tendencies, if we're worried about offending them that is.”

The comment drew a mix of curious looks, snorts of laughter, and suspicious glares from those arrayed around the table. This time, Moore passed up on explaining how he knew so much. A mixture of university and SNC training had seen to it that he knew the intricacies of dealing with aliens like the shvir almost as well as dealing with humans, if his tactless blundering through this meeting was anything to go by.

“Understanding is all well and good, but who will lead these negotiations?” Hewitt asked, scratching his forehead nervously.

“Serzhant Moore will go, Captain Frey, you will go too, finally Major Voronov will go, as the representative of the 14^th. We will provide you with an escort from one of the assault companies,” Andreev concluded swiftly, indicating one of the regimental commanders, an older man who seemed to be the most experienced of all the 14^th divisions officers present, with the exception of the general himself. It seemed that, having found a middle course of action he liked, the general was quick to make decisions. To Moore's surprise, Frey did not argue, he merely inclined his head slightly as if he had expected to be on the negotiating committee.

“I'd like to take one of my own, they don't know how many of us are there, but if we bring a second commando, they might think there's more of us and treat this all more cautiously,” the sergeant said flatly.

“That will work. Your men are good, if things go wrong, that might give you a better chance of getting clear,” Andreev conceded before continuing, “Well gentlemen. I do believe that is all for now. Major, captain, sergeant. Get ready for departure. You have an hour, we will discuss the exact details once you are ready.”

A brief exchange of salutes followed, with some of the 14th's officers, as well as Tanner, staying around for what Moore assumed would be a second briefing about the bases defenses.

Moore didn't even nod as he strode out of the command center, Frey and Voronov at his side.

“Do you really think negotiating with them is possible? Do you think it will be fruitful?” Frey pressed him, his manner conveying a sense of doubt and distrust.

“Possible? Of course it's possible, the shvir might not be human, but they're not entirely savages. As for having even a shred of a chance of working. I doubt it.” Moore looked at the major, who didn't seem to be disconcerted in the slightest, although he was clearly following the conversation with great interest, seemingly sizing up the two men he had been assigned to work alongside.

“Well, I guess a shred of a shred is still better than nothing,” the intelligence officer said simply.

“I suppose it is,” the sergeant responded, knowing full well it wouldn't be.