Bound in Blood

Jeffrey is dead, got incinerated by a plasma flamer two days ago, we couldn't stop the tank. We had no anti tank weapons, what good are rifles and knives against heavy weapons. We tell ourselves that at least it was quick, at least there was no body left to recover. Command was notified, but they don't care. Even if they do we're beyond all help. We're trapped here. Nobody knows how many of the fortresses are still standing. The first shortages have begun. Medicine is running out. Painkillers, bandages, antiseptics, all in short supply. More and more are dying from wounds that shouldn't be fatal. At least it means we aren't running out of food yet. The rationing is stringent, but we shouldn't die of starvation, not before something else kills us at any rate. But they say we must hold, if we don't, the only safe supply corridor to Fyra will be overrun, and then, then the battle will be over.

~Combat log of Sergeant Thomas Moore, January 22nd, 2747

January 30th, 2747

Chief Intelligence Officer Stella Marks saw the door slide aside, admitting her into the small office. There were three men there, standing over a map table and conversing in hushed tones. It was an unadorned and simple room, the only decor a massive long-sword that lay upon a mantle on the wall. She could see the eyes of the SNC officers slitting as she entered. One of them drew himself up, beckoning the others to leave. It was Albrecht Skor, commandant of the Special Naval Commando, the Imperial Executioner, and the last man she wished to see at the moment, but circumstances dictated otherwise. There was no emotion in his face, he was always inscrutable, cold and distancing himself from all other Imperial services. But where the relationship was distant with the heads of other departments, it was outright hostile towards Marks and her Intelligence Service. It had started out as competition, the two services both practiced a more subtle approach to warfare, albeit far more violent in the SNC's case. The real cracks had occurred when Marks had attempted to force a merge between the SNC and IS, seeing them as two instruments with much the same purpose. The SNC wouldn't even consider the possibility. Skor had not forgotten, and never forgiven. As long as he lived, he would not allow control of his precious commando, of his little cabal of assassins, assault troops and infiltration units, to slip to any other official. It had embittered both of the two, Stella and Albrecht, the two almost never spoke, except in times of utmost necessity. And now was a time when he and his services were desperately needed.

"Commandant Skor."

She nodded and spoke, breaking the stony silence, her bright green eyes remaining locked with the senior commandos. He was powerfully built, towering over her, his cold brown eyes staring back from beneath thick eyebrows. Stella had seen other officers, many far older and more experienced than her, balk at that brooding gaze, terrified of what he might think or be planning. She couldn't care less what he thought, he and the SNC were in demand and that was the end of it.

"Intelligence Officer Marks. What do you need this time?"

His voice was deep and gravelly, loud even at the half whisper with which he addressed her, she could barely make out his lips moving under the thick beard covering his face. He cut straight to the point, it was evident he did not want to be in her presence for any longer than was required. So petty and arrogant, Marks thought, though she kept her thoughts to herself. It would never do to antagonize the already unstable man further.

"My sources say the shvir are moving R-53 containers to Fyra."

"Poison gas? That's a new low, even for them. But not stupid."

His attitude was unsubtle, blunt and abrasive to an extreme. It was a mentality that, for good or ill, he passed on to his subordinates. It pervaded the SNC from the highest echelons to the lowest ranks. R-53 was a potent toxin, its development and composition kept under tight lid even in the Imperium. But it had one benefit compared to other, somewhat more potent toxins. Once inhaled, it was almost certain to induce a victims horrific death. But exposure of skin would do little more than uncomfortable blistering. For the shvir, who's sensitive nervous systems were weak to such weapons, the reduced potency was critical. More importantly, the willingness to stoop to such weapons indicated an increasing desperation in the aliens command and their inability to force an Imperial defeat. Of course, this was a useless observation for those on the receiving end. Something had to be done.

"The actual transport ships can't be stopped at this point. Some will be intercepted by the Navy's raider groups. Others will slip past. The troops in the sector will be alerted, there's nothing more we can do."

"So you've found where they're storing this stuff, or manufacturing it, and you want me to shut it down?"

He wasted no time beating around the bush, his eyes glittered as he waited for her confirmation.

"Yes. The location is deep in shviri territory. They're storing and producing it on one of the planets. They're shipping the chemicals there."

"Where did the shvir get the knowledge to make R-53. That was an old Confederate project, was it not?"

"Yes. Yass, the head of that team, slipped through our fingers. He's working with the aliens now."

She said it in an emotionless, cold tone. Stella Marks was a professional in her field, just like Albrecht, and in some ways, far more unscrupulous and ruthless when needed. Such attitude and capability had ascertained her rise within the Imperial power structure, much like the commandant's. Skor blinked a few times, and she could see his jaw tense up. There was a dangerous flash in his eyes.

"We could have killed him. Twice. And both times you said no, that he was too useful. Too much of an asset to eliminate. And this is the result. Now he's a danger, a threat, and I have one section available, one! Not one platoon! One fucking section! You bastards never think ahead, all you do is scheme."

Albrechts voice had risen steadily, booming angrily in the small room, but he swiftly recovered his composure and drew himself up, almost whispering the last few words, his hands dancing across the table. Stella could see the streaks of silver in his dark brown hair, the contempt in those haggard eyes. He was younger than her by at least two decades, yet his face bore lines and scars far beyond his age.

"Have your people send me the intel," he almost spat the words out, his voice was an angry whisper, "I'll see it done."

"You?"

Despite her calm, aloof demeanor, Stella actually started in surprise at the Commandants words.

He merely looked at her coldly in response. He was ruthless and uncompromising, yet a man of principle. It showed, all too vividly. For him and his archaic view of the galaxy, it was a matter of honor to see it done. Stella knew the SNC motto all too well, "The Only Loyalty Lies Bound in Blood". Theirs or their enemies. Even here, standing like a statue, he seemed to reflect the image of a knight of old. Honor bound and foolish, Marks thought.

"You fucked up, and the gods know how many will die for it. But this organization isn't based here, or around me. It isn't based anywhere. I will take second-section the moment I have the intel, and we'll go mop up this mess, then I'll go see the Fyra situation for myself."

He reached for the sword on the mantle, she'd seen him wear it before, at official ceremonies and functions, on the rare occasions when the SNC's presence was requested. His fingers ran lightly along the razor sharp edge, honed to perfection. It occurred to her that the weapons function wasn't entirely ceremonial. No wonder their two organizations would never see eye to eye. The IS was far too subtle, too clever for the SNC. Where she sought to exploit psychological as well as physical weaknesses, Albrecht and his men only searched for the most expedient method of murdering their foes. It was efficient perhaps, but crude and heavily flawed.

"And who will take charge of the commando in your absence."

"Anders will remain. You know as well as I he runs this outfit in all but name."

It was an organization run by a trifecta, the only such command structure in the Imperium. Each of the three parts of the SNC were represented by one man, the logistical branch by a certain Captain Anders, and until his death in a raid, the reconnaissance branch by Captain Aktan. Skor represented the shock-commando units. Marks knew all too well that Anders may have managed the unit from behind the scenes. But it was Skor's leadership that truly molded the commando. He lead from the front and others followed, it had always been that way.

He who lives by the sword, dies by the sword. Those wise words echoed through Intelligence Officer Marks' head as her peer slowly stepped towards the door and gestured for her to depart. He moved like a ghost, his silent movement made all the more impressive by his sizable bulk. Even here, with him embracing what was an almost guaranteed death, she could not read him, or his motivations. She knew he wasn't telling her everything. It was her profession to understand people, to find their flaws and weaknesses, and how it could be used to undermine their position. With Skor, there was nothing to understand. He was the least conniving, the least ambitious of all Imperial leaders. He lacked the idealism and naive outlook that drove so many into service. And yet he was one of the most ruthless, efficient and successful of all of them. He and his band of psychopaths were one of the most indispensable parts of the Imperiums survival. In High Chancellor Alleri's mind, more crucial than any other. His strength lay not in his oratory nor in particularly high levels of cooperativeness, let alone the patience and smoothness for political power-play. It lay in his capacity for violence.

Albrecht curled his lips in displeasure and exited his office for what he knew would be the last time. There was nothing to take with him, all his worldly possessions of any note were still on his ship. He and his organization were the lepers of the whole Imperial structure. The IS and their leader sat back and philosophized, collecting information from safety while his men bled and died on a hundred worlds across the galaxy. They gathered intelligence, they infiltrated, they struck at a thousand points, seemingly mere pin-pricks in the grand scale of things. But war was not always won by attrition, by the blood of millions, sacrificed for some hopeless offensive or doomed defense. For all his bombastic appearances, Albrecht was a master of subterfuge. Entire divisions could be brought to a halt with the loss of supplies. Star-fleets couldn't move without fuel. The loss of single commanders and key individuals could bring whole army groups to their knees. All one had to know was where the weak-spot lay. Find that key-stone and rip it out. The whole structure followed. That had been the role of the SNC, and they enacted it, carrying out their shadow war for months as the battle lines approached Imperial territory. And as long as they were mobile, they did damage far in excess of their meager numbers. Forgotten and despised, feared by friend and foe alike, but successful and alive. Now, his commandos were dying, many trapped with regular troops, fighting as mere infantry, deprived of their transport and mobility as the war lost all semblance of fluidity. And the SNC was paying the price. Less than half of the commando was still mobile, too many ships had been lost in the Fyra fighting over the past few months. There was nothing Albrecht could do sitting behind a desk or in high command meetings, trying to organize what was left of the SNC or find the point at which it would be most useful. Anders could do all of that, and better. He was no fool to think otherwise. His place was at the front, in the bloody horror of battle. He had to call up the Straggen. The last of the SNC's new Razor class destroyers that remained in Bryga's orbit, waiting for the call to war.

One section of shock-troops, men from his old mercenary core. Soldiers who would follow him to hell and worse if he asked them to. And him. Thirteen men. Thirteen men were a small price for the lives of billions, or so the logisticians would say. An impressive feat, and well worth such paltry cost. But Albrecht had no intention of dying. They would take the objective and burn it to the ground. Even a clever individual like Marks didn't quite understand what a single section of shock commando's could do. In his mind, Albrecht was already running through all possibilities, deciding on the last orders to be handed out before he departed. The men and women working in the Imperial Defense Headquarters scattered before him as he headed for the landing pads, his hand firmly locked on Godsbane, his ceremonial long-sword. A Drakken gunship sat there, its outer paint scarred and burned, its engines howling at an ever increasing pitch even as the commandant approached. A pair of commandos in exo-suits stood watch. They were not the light, efficient outfits worn by the Army, mostly intended to increase a soldiers capability to carry equipment rather than survivability. These were hulking suits of composite armor plate, their bulky helmets supported entirely by the suits internal skeleton. Backpack mounted reactor cores vented steam into the chilly air, underarm mounted chain-guns and cutting lasers inert and hanging limply at the two soldiers sides. Each carried a heavily modified Akarn rifle, cut down to resemble a pistol, and holstered in similar fashion. The two helmets turned as one, cold black lenses reflecting from their recessed position within the face-plate. Neither of the two men attempted to salute, although both made way for their commander to enter. Albrecht merely nodded his acknowledgement and strode aboard the transport craft, shortly followed by the soft clangs of the two powered suits entering the vessel. One of the commandos, bearing the markings of a senior sergeant, removed his helmet, its black exterior painted to resemble a snakes skull, the mouth of razor sharp teeth surrounding its filtration unit. The mans face was worn and tired, a terrible disfiguring scar running the length of his jaw.
"Straggen is waiting Skor. Our 'friends' sent us the intelligence you requested."
"The rest of the section there? Everybody armed and ready?"
"Yes."
"Good."
There was no more need to talk. The Drakkens engines howled and the craft began its vertical ascent. Skor sat and closed his eyes, humming a senseless tune. There was nothing more to do.