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.