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.