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."