"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.
