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."