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.

Old Favors

"In a system dominated by checks and balances, the SNC has none. Given free reign, it is an organization that could decapitate the entirety of the Imperium in a fortnight. No revolutionary, no military coup, no religious fanatic has the capability to unhinge this entire state with such ease. It cannot be tolerated, the SNC must be brought to heel."
Simon Wo, Head of Imperial Parliament, in an address regarding the Volis Massacre.

The IVS Moriarty was the first and last of its line, a one off prototype from the shipyards of Bryga, a marvel of modern engineering. The firepower of a battle-cruiser and mobility of a destroyer, with the sensor readout of a small fighter. Optical camouflage flickered like a mosaic, shielding the massive vessel from prying eyes.
It was a predator, a hunter, stalking the void with slow, measured movements. The soft white glow of its engines dissipated almost immediately, giving the impression of a lifeless mass, floating inexorably onward. Dozens of ships had fallen before its guns and missiles, annihilated before they had gotten a chance to identify their attacker, final distress signals drowned out in a scream of electronic countermeasures. None of the other commerce raiders could match it, even those made in its image. They fought in wolfpacks, but were merely pale shadows compared to their forebear. The technology contained within was too expensive for mass production, too slow, too inefficient for a war of attrition. And so the Moriarty plied on, wreaking havoc wherever it went, alone.

Twenty years of service in the Confederate Navy, another seven a smuggler and a further seven in Imperial service. Millions of tons of shipping destroyed. Case Blue, Nephilim, Archon, Strangler. All but a fraction of the operations in which Captain Porter had been involved before taking command of the Moriarty. Audacity and cold-blooded fearlessness had seen her rise within the ranks of the Imperiums merchant raiding captains. Even Issa's refueling stations had burned. None in the Navy had thought it possible, and by all rights it should not have been. It had been a terrifying ordeal. Slow, cautious movement, infiltrating through thousands of kilometers of stone and rubble rings to get in range of the massive platforms and their defenses. A harrowing run to evade the shviri patrol ships and monitors. Running combat and  But they had succeeded.
And yet, it was never enough. Every strike launched only led to another. Fuel reserves at less than a quarter, missile storage almost expended, ammunition magazines nearly dry. Even food stuffs were all but gone. The Moriarty was running on fumes. They had been ordered to return to port, to refuel and rearm, but that was before Albrecht had made contact. He had requested a diversion, one which would open a gap in the cordon around Fyra, another impossible job. Suicidal and hopeless. At least, that was what any other Navy captain would have told the irascible commandant. But debts had to be paid.
Albrecht had ended her criminal career, all those years ago, and had it been any other Imperial officer, it may have been a messy end for smuggler Felicia Porter. But the commando had shown leniency, perhaps on account of her former Confederate service, perhaps because the Imperium lacked enough officers or whatever other reason had struck the commandant at the time. Nonetheless, instead of facing a firing squad, she had found herself a captain in the Imperial Navy, a fully commissioned officer, back at the helm of a warship again. He had said there was redemption in duty, in service and deed. It had seemed like naive claptrap at the time, but she had long since learned that for the old commando, such ideals were his lifeblood. The man viewed the galaxy through his own lens, and was willing to lash out and criticize any who in his view, had failed in their duty. She had even witnessed him shout down the High Chancellor once, an act that no other high ranking Imperial leader or politician would dare to contemplate, let alone commit.
His rabid devotion to service was not endearing, but it had won Porters respect. Thus, when he had made the call, the thought of turning his request down had been unthinkable. Loyalty is bound in blood. It was a phrase he was fond of using, reminding those around him that solid actions spoke far louder than promises or posturing. It was a phrase he had told her on that first day, immediately after her capture. Now, the Moriarty merely waited for its captains orders, hovering on the outskirts of the shviri sensors arrays, anticipating its moment to strike.
Felicia could almost feel the ship quivering with excitement. Everything was in low power as the Moriarty plunged onward like a dagger aimed directly at the shviri perimeter defenses. Two destroyers and a frigate, a mere trifle for the ships rail guns. A single warning light flared briefly. They had passed the first line of detection, none of the alien ships moved, unworried by the "debris" approaching them. They couldn't see the raider, and its sensor readout was too small to be worrisome.
The plan had been well prepared and was simple to the extreme. Overwhelm the perimeter defenses and force the ships closest to the planet to reinforce them, opening a path for the Straggen.
"Turret's tracking, engaging Balar class destroyer on your mark captain."
"Torps armed and ready. Target locks ready to go."
"Jamming systems offline."
"Engines at seventeen percent output."
"Shields down and on standby."
Everything had been prepared to the tiniest of details. The opening pass was the most critical. They approached from below the shviri vessels, where the return fire would be the weakest, at least for the first precious minutes of the engagements. If everything went according to plan, the ship would slip away with ease. The shviri vessels still lay outside visual range, mere blips on the sensor array. The rail-guns and missiles, or torpedoes as some called them, were well within range, yet still they closed, wishing to ensure the greatest gain from their assault. Thousands of kilometers ticked off with agonizing slowness, and the minutes melded into one another. Less than thirty-thousand kilometers. The ambush was perfect.
"All guns stand by to fire," she said slowly, drawing her words out, not taking her eyes off the sensor displays. Now, now was the time to strike.
"Fire."
It was a simple, calm command, answered almost instantly by a sudden shudder that raced through the ships length as the forward turrets, all four of them, opened fire as one. Eight rail-guns, each firing a five and a half ton "dart" at tens of thousands of meters a second. Shortly thereafter, the "torpedoes" left their launchers, four hundred ton projectiles hurtling through the void to reach their targets. Surprise was their's.
"Shields up! Engines full ahead!" She snarled forcefully, even as the targeted shviri destroyer began to tear itself apart with explosions. Faster than their mortal users, the automated point defense systems sprung to life, turrets focusing down the incoming volley of four torpedoes. It was all for nought. Split seconds after being engaged, the entire shviri vessel broke in two as one of the missiles struck it amidships. Autoloading systems whined in their turrets as fresh projectiles were forced into the breach, sending a second volley racing towards the frigate, a Lor class. The shviri ships turned to engage them slowly, their elegant forms moving with an artists grace. It mattered not. The second volley struck home nine seconds after the first. Inadvertently, in their struggle to face their attacker head on, the aliens had committed a grave error. The weakly armored ships were not built to resist, much less with-stand the firepower arrayed against them, and their positioning simply made the incoming volley all the more devastating. Shielding systems overloaded, decks were torn apart and fuel tanks ruptured in a fiery flash as six of the eight projectiles struck home, tearing through the frigate from fore to rear. Over the communications intercept, Porter could hear the shviri speaking in their guttural tongue, no doubt calling in reinforcements. A second volley silenced the frigate for good, leaving its sputtering wreck to pass within less than a thousand kilometers of the Moriarty. There had been no spectacular explosion, no rending flash or sudden disintegration, but the ship was effectively dead, a helpless husk. Only one more destroyer remained.
Whether by luck or by skill, the shviri captain on the final vessel had positioned more carefully, aiming to stay out of the deadly arc of the human cruisers full firepower, exposing itself only to four of the main guns. The alien craft never stood a chance, no matter its position, but it maneuvered to engage nonetheless, seeking to engage in a gun battle rather than ramming as was common amongst shviri captains of outgunned vessels, or fleeing. Shielding flickered as the cruiser was hit repeatedly by the incoming barrage from the shviri laser cannons. The Moriarty was poorly protected for a ship of its size, a concession made to ensure the ships firepower and agility within such a compact frame, but against a lone destroyer, even that minimal shielding was adequate. Felicia smiled mirthlessly as she ordered the Moriarty change its bearing. The ships lower guns fired, four projectiles, three hits. The destroyer continued onward, seemingly unaffected. With its broadside exposed, there was less inside the destroyer to hit, and the shells passed through with ease, causing less internal damage than they could have had it attacked them head on. The only victory lay in the overloading of the destroyers shields, the alien craft was fast running out of options, all that remained was to land a death knell.
"Y and Z have reacquired their targets!" One of the gunnery control officers shouted over the internal comms.
"Pulverize them. Fire at will."
The shvir must have expected the human vessel to respond more slowly, for the destroyer tried to turn with the Moriarty, becoming trapped once more in its frontal cone of fire. Eight guns fired in a staccato as they were brought to bear, their projectiles tearing great chunks out of the small alien vessel. Sensors read fuel bleed, and small flares erupted where oxygen and flammable chemicals escaped into space and exploded. The return fire had greatly diminished. Only a handful of scattered hits registered on the cruisers outer hull. They hardly put a dent in the flicker-fields power reserves.
"Engine signals noted, two shviri cruisers incoming! A destroyer just registered at maximum range! They're closing on us now. Orders captain?" one of the sensor controllers cut into the torrent of orders Felicia was issuing to her crew.
"They responded faster than anticipated. Good. Get ready to engage, we're making half a pass, engage at max range. Get the jamming equipment ready. Do not slip inside fifty thousand kilos, we'll be risking too much. Send a coded signal to the Straggen, he has his gap."

Albrecht Skor smiled to himself as he slowly stepped into the exo-skeleton behind him. It was a steel cage. Once going in, there was no leaving it. Bundles of wires, cables and synthetic musculature wrapped around his black bodysuit, enclosing him in their cold embrace. He could feel the front of the skeletal construct lock over his chest. The prison was sealed, the machines would do the rest. There was no weight, the whole contraption could support itself in a standing position without an operator. Sensing the commando inside, the suit began to activate. The reactor kicked in, thrumming softly as machinery whirred and clattered around him. The smell of oil and burning plastic permeated the air. Even now, after years of service, Albrecht found his nose curling up in displeasure at the stench. The breastplate came down first, slamming down over the metal skeleton that enclosed him. Composite slabs were bolted into place, screws tightened and wires secured. Power coursed through the armor plates, as the small shield generator burst into life. He deactivated it with a swift motion, there was no need, yet. Within minutes, the protective shell was complete. Skor stretched his fingers within their armored gauntlets. The thin synthetic musculature within whined its resistance as it bent and adjusted. In theory, the suit could even be donned in the field, but Albrecht knew there would be no such time once the Straggen reached Fyra.

"Suit sealed. Locks, disengaged," the tinny, nondescript voice of the machine AI equipping him stated the obvious.

The Armageddon suits startup protocols slowly began to activate, one by one, and Albrecht drew himself to full height, the rear of the exo disengaging from the locks that suspended it on the wall. The suits micro-motors sputtering slightly as it moved forward by the will of its user. With casual ease he reached forward, lifting his bulky helmet from where it lay. The lifeless eyepieces gazed back at him, as they always did. Gingerly, he set the helmet over his head, listening and waiting as it locked into place over the augmentic musculature around his neck, sealing him away from all outside contaminants. Without the suit, the helmets weight would have been too great for Albrecht to bear. The stench of oils was replaced with the chemical tang of filtered air as he took a deep breath. Flashes of blue scrolled in front of his eyes as the HUD sprung to life, updating him on the suits readiness. Only the finishing touches remained. Albrechts armored fist reached out, grasping the pommel of Godsbane. The ceremonial sword glittered in the light, revealing the carefully wrought lettering along its blade. He sheathed it with caution, the servo motors at his joints humming softly as the weapon came to a rest along his hip, resting opposite the stock-less Akarn he wielded in place of a pistol. He wore no officers stripes, no denotation of his rank. He needed no indicator of his rank, Godsbane was indicator enough.  His camouflage cloak, enlarged to cover the suits entire frame, slid over his armor pauldrons easily. Only here was there any sign of adornment, the clasp at his throat replaced with an Imperial Cross. It was an old icon, one that predated its namesake, but it had become a symbol of the fledgling Imperium nonetheless, and its highest award for valor. Albrecht had received his nearly a decade ago.
"Blink drives cutting in ten minutes," the Straggen's intercoms called out as he stepped into the adjacent chamber.
This was it, the final charge. He strode into the hangar to board his Drakken, the Sword of Damocles. Nine men stood inside, the survivors of the earlier raid. All that remained of his section. Each wore an Armageddon suit, and all but one carried the same standard weapon loadout. The only exception was Moss, in place of the underarm machine-gun, he bore a recoil-less rifle. It was an improvised affair, purely intended for destroying enemy armored vehicles, and an acknowledgement that Albrecht and his commando were headed for a war-zone that did not suit their training. They did not salute as he approached, although they straightened up slightly and made room for him to board the gunship first. He had never demanded such show of loyalty from his followers, from his commandos. The only loyalty is bound in blood. Albrecht thought to himself. It was the words he lived by.
"Moriarty is signalling the all clear, we're starting our run," the intercom sounded off again. Separated from the bridge, Albrecht had no other way of knowing what the ships current position was. Even the cutting of the blink drives had gone unnoticed. None of his men showed any signs of unease, they were too experienced. Each had gone to hell and back in their service, the nightmare that awaited them on Fyra was but a rehash of a hundred prior campaigns. Some replaced their helmets. Others, like Sylas, Albrecht's combat second in command, kept their helmets off, waiting until the last minute to seal themselves away. Albrecht didn't care, he kept his helmet on, hiding his thoughts and emotions even from those closest to him. None spoke, there was nothing to be said. The Sword was as silent as the grave. The transports loading door sealed shut with a clang, leaving the cramped space lit only by emergency lights. The minutes passed by slowly in the darkness.
"We're taking fire, there's a cruiser to our port. Be ready to disengage on my mark, get that fucking hangar door open!" There was an element of haste in the voice of the man on the comms now. Albrecht could feel the gunships deck shudder below his feet. The Straggen was taking fire.
"Doors open, Sword, you are clear for takeoff- Albrecht, send those bastards to hell!"
Albrecht smiled despite himself as he recognized the voice of the Straggen's captain, Bell, override that off the comm operator.
Then, they were off. The Drakken tore itself from the hangar bay, and through the single rear view-port, Albrecht could see the SNC destroyer taking fire, shields flickering as it tore away from Fyra's gravitational pull, seeking to escape. The SNC commandant muttered a silent thanks for Porter's cooperation. Without the former smuggler, he could never quite think of her as anything else, his attempt to reach the planet would have been suicidal. Now, all that remained was to make his landing worthwhile.

Bjorgensfjord

"War's are never won in a single battle. But sometimes, a single shot can turn the tide."

-Imperial Infantryman's Booklet, 3rd Edition

All of Bjorgensfjords air defense had been scrambled to halt the incoming alien attack. Two squadrons of Army Drakkens, two of Whirlwind heavy fighters and three of Javelin interceptors roared up to meet their numerous foes. The three SNC Drakken's had joined the assault, lending their firepower to the attack against the shviri landing craft. It had only been twelve hours, and despite the arrival of reinforcements from long range squadrons, the losses had swiftly become intolerable, and still the shviri assault came on. For every drop-ship brought down, a dozen more would take its place, delivering thousands of soldiers to the Bjorgensfjord station, itself fast devolving into a charnel house of horrifying proportions.

Captain Wulfram Mulders pulled the Fey Phantom into a steep climb, engines howling their frustration as he willed the craft to ascend faster. Red warning lights flashed and the SNC pilot cursed as he realized that their fighter escort had failed to stop the shviri interceptors. He could see the alien landing craft coming down, thrusters slowing the elegant vessels as they made their descent outside Bjorgensfjord. It was up to him to bring as many down as possible. They were massive ships, easily capable of carrying a five or ten times more infantry than the Drakken could ever hope to lift. But all of that came at a price, they could hardly maneuver, and their armament was nonexistent. Only their armor and shielding were powerful, to better withstand atmospheric entry, as well as resist incoming ground fire and aerial interception. The first target flooded his helmet HUD, its massive shape dwarfing his aircraft. His co-pilot and navigator, a certain Rudolf Junkers, focused on the route ahead as Mulders looked at the fast approaching blips that marked the shviri escorts, closing in to end the impudent gunships assault.

Mulders unleashed a torrent of profanity as he saw one of remaining Army gunships behind him get torn asunder by a missile. Unlike the Army aircraft, the three SNC Drakken lacked defensive turrets, but thankfully, this meant they had speed on their side, and that put them at the head of the strike force. He could hear a scream as another of the rear-ward gunships was torn apart by the fast alien aircraft. They passed through the flight of human aircraft like scythes through wheat, unslowing and agile beyond belief, weaving with an eerie grace Mulders would have sworn was impossible had he not seen it dozens of times before. In comparison to the lithe, slender alien aircraft the human gunships were ugly bricks, slab-sided and lacking any of their opponents artistic finesse. They had neither the speed nor the agility to match the enemy fighters, having been built to deliver and support ground assaults rather than fight in the air. In return, they were utilitarian, and for all their flaws, their sturdiness and brutal firepower could not be underestimated.

His last pair of Haywire missiles streaked away from their pylons, tearing apart the engines of the nearest transport mere seconds before Mulders pulled up and over the unwieldy craft engaged in its terminal free-fall.

"Sheevee rockets on our six. Three of them," Junkers said, absolutely sang-froid.

His ability to remain calm in the midst of combat was something Mulders envied.

"Got it."

A daisy-chain of flickering chaff sputtered out behind him as he juked to dissuade the pair of shviri fighters that were closing in on them, spewing a stream of lasers at the sluggish gunship. For once, the pilot wished their craft had a defensive turret. But it didn't. Of course, there were other ways of shaking off pursuit. Mulders smiled as he opened up the flaps. He had been a test pilot once, and he had pulled off insane maneuvers with far less agile craft than a Drakken. It slowed to near stalling speed, jerking violently in the still Fyran air as warning gauges blinked their protest. The timing couldn't have been better. In a heartbeat, the pursuing aliens had overshot him. One pulled up, out of range, the other flew below, a fatal error. The shvir had never put much thought into their individual pilots survival, do or die, it was the only way. An acceptable methodology for a species with numbers far greater than their foes. Mulders pressed down gently on the trigger. Instantly, the gunships nose guns roared their anger and cooled to silence, one burst, it was all it took. In milliseconds, the thirty-millimeter shells tore a fiery path of destruction toward their target, striking it down in explosive fury. The SNC pilot felt a slight thrill race through him as he saw the hapless craft crash towards the ground, but swiftly recovered his focus. They had brought over a hundred Haywire anti-tank missiles to Bjorgensfjord in anticipation of the tough combat, and already the commando's own reserves had run out, and Mulders knew they weren't making the dent needed. Another transport entered his vision, he still had time to change vector. He banked sharply, drawing a bead on the landing crafts cockpit. The nose mounted gun roared its anger, sputtering blue sparks marking the area where the enemy vessels shields absorbed the repeated hits. The SNC pilot swore and pulled up, just narrowly avoiding a collision. Down below, the transports were already disgorging their cargo, the infantry and armored vehicles unloading straight into a mass artillery barrage. And yet none of it was enough. With his helmet masking the look of horror on his face, Mulders dove down, the ammunition counter dropping in seconds as he strafed down the length of the shviri columns. It was like throwing pebbles at the ocean, but as long as he was in the Phantom, he could fight, and perhaps, eventually, the tide would turn.

It had been three days since he had found the perfect spot. Three days of waiting out in the wastes, bunkered down above Bjorgensfjord. Three days alone, preparing for a single shot. He could hear the roar of engines from the descending alien transports. Dozens of the vessels moved through the air, seemingly identical to one another, descending through a curtain of flak and human aircraft to offload their cargo. Below there were thousands of the aliens, swarming in a sea of violence and confusion. But the sniper only sought one. To seek one target, one general, in a teeming sea, was a seemingly impossible task. Yet Jonathan Cain waited patiently for his opportunity.

The wind picked up, tugging gently at the corners of his cloak, whispering softly to him, his only companion out here in the wastes. His slate gray eyes stared out, unblinking and devoid of emotion. There was no spark of life, no flicker of hope or trepidation. Nor did they reflect the all too human fear and dismay that must have come from the sight of the armada arrayed before him. Even the excitement and anticipation of the impending kill wasn't there, only the void.

The scope on his Aurora pattern rifle traversed incessantly across the forlorn landscape and slowly, surely, the square muzzle brake shifted along with it, searching for its chosen victim. As the black clad sniper moved slowly under the camouflage cloak, the material distorted the light about him. It hid the man from prying eyes, making him a mere ghost in the field, a patch of heated air to any unprepared observer. And so the killer waited.

He saw it in a heartbeat. A shuttle, descending stealthily among the transports. Smaller and better escorted than the freighters delivering the vanguard of the shviri onslaught, it was a mere afterthought for the veteran sniper that his target had indeed arrived. Assir Vass. The shviri marshal in charge of the landings, and the alien meant to mastermind the assault on Bjorgensfjord.

The front ramp on the vessel dropped with agonizing slowness. Dozens of shvir marched down, guards, officers, and finally an APC. There was still no sign of the target. The sniper pulled back the bolt, an archaic mechanism that defined the Aurora. His camouflaged form seemed utterly immobile as he reached down to one of the ammunition pouches at his waist. Slowly, surely, he drew out a single, twenty millimeter round. It slid into the breech easily. The gentle click of the bolt being locked into place was the only sound as the sniper centered his rifle on the APC. Still there was nothing, no sign of his quarry, the quarry he was certain now sat in the personnel carrier. Cain's hand ran across the golden rose that hung around his neck, a reminder of a love he had lost long ago. The rangefinder read 1323 meters. An acceptable range. Then the opening appeared.

It took him a split second to recognize Vass as he dismounted from the carriers rear ramp, wearing a ceremonial suit of armor. Its appearance would have been ridiculous had it not been for the small, built in shielding system that gave it protection far beyond the armors mere thickness. It mattered not. The rifle swung up half a millimeter and Cain fired.

The Aurora's recoil would have torn off his arm had it not been for half a dozen separate dampeners built into the massive anti-materiel rifle, all working together to reduce the force to a mild kick, hardly greater than that of a common assault rifle. Almost instantly, the round exited the rifle, sabot petals splitting apart like a flower as they passed the weapons muzzle. Only the penetrator flew on. A single, three inch atterium rod, more expensive than the rifle from which it was fired. A projectile that could tear through a transport from front to rear, aimed with seemingly inhuman precision at a single shviri officer.

It took less than a second for the projectile to strike its mark. The shviri commander never heard the shot being fired. The shield overloaded, the sparks emanating from the device swiftly replaced by the gory remains of Vass' head as the penetrator hurtled onward, only halting after it had struck the APC behind him.

Cain didn't wait for further confirmation. He had done his duty. The strictly hierarchical and ill conceived nature of the shviri war machine would suffer without their marshals strong leadership. The surrounding alien officers and soldiery desperately searched for the source of the shot, not knowing that he lay over a kilometer away, too far for an effective response. Slowly, the SNC sniper pulled back and began his retreat. He had sown the seeds of doubt in a single shot, and that was good enough.

Specters

"There is no forgiveness for the things we've done. There sure ain't no forgiveness for the things we have yet to do. But damn, I sure as hell won't waste muh time feeling guilty 'bout it."

-Salazar Aktan, in reference to the First Purges.

Moore sat alone in the empty bunker, staring vacantly at the cold, gray wall. His skin was drawn and pale, his black hair overlong and disheveled. His eyes were glazed over and dead, and his hand twitched uncontrollably, as if knowing the terrible deed which now tainted it. The remaining men under his command had hardly spoken to him. None blamed him for what had happened, but it was a subject that only carried pain, and a reminder of what fate awaited them all if a relief force wasn't forthcoming. He could feel the darkness clawing at his mind, a living thing, hovering over him, imperceptible but there, calling for him to end it all, to end the suffering.

 They had been abandoned. Left out here to die. Perhaps it had always been meant to be so. After all, they had been gauged expendable enough to be spared from second platoon, a full year ago, when first platoon had been all but annihilated and needed to be rebuilt.

"Still here, sergeant?"

The officer snapped back to reality, his dead gaze looking in the direction of the sound. It was Natasha, a surprise visit for sure, as most of the medical staff were kept permanently tied down with the piles of dead and wounded. She had ditched the exo-suit two days ago, there was no more power for recharging the suits. Moore had already noticed many of the soldiers, especially those who operated in rear area and "low priority" roles, forced to abandon theirs in an effort to minimize the power consumption. The dark circles under her eyes and wisps of hair sticking out at odd angles bore testament to too many long, sleepless nights. She plopped down next to him, removing her mud and blood coated boots one by one, stretching out and blinking to try and stay awake.

"Don't you have your own unit quarters?"

Moore asked, his tone a fair bit more acrid than he intended.

"Not any more, my dugout was hit by artillery, it's gone. I'm homeless, yes? Plus, you, not much of a unit for me, right? I think most of the other staff will probably be moved here. Will be fun. Killers and doctors, perfect match."

She chuckled at her own wit and rubbed her eyes. He merely grunted an unintelligible response and looked down at his feet. The medic remained silent for a few minutes, pulling off her soaked socks and looking at them in dismay, the water and mud had done their work. They provided another unpleasant smell in the already stale air. Moore crinkled his nose in response, and noticed Natasha doing the same, coughing slightly and throwing them back in her boots, which she hastily moved away, stretching her toes, two of which appeared broken and hastily bandaged. Similarly, much of her webbing seemed torn and damaged. Even such simple articles of equipment were no longer replacable at "Kursk". For once, he appreciated the full body suit he wore, it was completely waterproof, and generally didn't suffer the same effects of wear and tear as normal uniforms. It also consumed far less power than an exo, and could be recharged slowly without the help of a generator.

"What do you think our chances are?"

"Huh?"

The medic had disturbed him almost as fast as he had gone back to his thoughts.

"Our chances of rescue. You are professional soldier, are you not? You should have a guess."

Moore smiled at that, not even sure how to respond, he knew she wasn't naive or stupid, like some fresh faced recruit or civilian, but he also didn't want to admit the truth. It was a frightening prospect, and he realized he was more afraid of demoralizing himself even further than anything else.

"So good you are speechless, yes?"

She smiled and laughed again. It sounded exactly like something Boris would say, except not to Moore, as he was usually the one doing most of the talking.

"I'd say our chances are pretty piss poor, that's for sure."

The sergeant responded, but it brought a smile to his face nonetheless. Somewhere in the distance, the orbital defense cannon opened fire, the whip-crack of its supersonic rounds incredibly loud, even from inside a bunker. It was the first time he had smiled in over a week. Ever since Kurt's death. He could still see his face, the bloody froth coming from his mouth, the desperate fear, and then, that final resignation. Moore's hand began to shake more violently and he hastily tucked his thumb into his belt to steady it. Natasha watched him, seemingly reading his thoughts perfectly when she finally spoke.

"You did the right thing you know."

Her tone was calm, even and controlled. Moore drew his hand across his face, seeking to wipe the specter from his mind.

"He trusted me. He trusted my judgement. And where has it led?! To death and damnation!"

The sergeants response was fraught with impotent rage as he vented his anger in a sudden outburst. The medic didn't flinch at the sudden explosion of violent outrage. Perhaps she was too tired. But her eyes didn't move from Moore, merely watching him with concern.

"Your men look up to you, and so does everyone else trapped here. You have more respect than every officer here."

Moore looked up from the floor, unsure what to think of what she had said.

"Have you not heard the whispers? Are you that detached down here, crying about what cannot be changed? I've heard some speak of 'The Rat' that even the shvir are afraid of. Some of the wounded told me you're the 'black angel'. To them, you are a hero."

The sergeant sat still, even his hand seemed to slow to a gentle shuddering. He chuckled coldly as he thought of the ridiculousness of their situation. A hero! When all of them were as good as dead.

"And what do you think?"

The question took her by surprise, and her eyebrows contracted in thought.

"I think- I think you are in the wrong line of work."

She said, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards a little. It was poor humor at best, but brought a slight smile back to the sergeants face.

"Can't argue with that assessment."

The silence stretched for a few minutes as the Moore stared at the wall. Both were unsure of what to say, and Natasha rummaged in her pack for something. 

"Well, at least we can have a drink."

She announced suddenly, the insides of her bag clattered as she pulled a silver flask out into the open.

"A drink? Now? That's har'ly professional."

"Professional? You are concerned with professional?" she stared at him in mocking surprise, "I think you should go talk to your men then. I think some of them are getting- The term is wasted, correct?"

At first Moore scowled and shook his head, struggling to keep a straight face at the question.

"Well, they are getting wasted with one of the gun crews. Turns out your people are better at making friends than you are."

"Doesn't the gun crew have a job?"

"Gun is out of ammo, has been for three days now. What job then?"

"Well, that's great. Fucking Valeri, can't let him manage anything. Shouldn' have left him in charge."

"Oh, he's drinking with them, I think."

The sergeant drew his hand across his face one more time.

"You're right. I'm in the wrong line of work. Shoulda stuck with the marines."
Natasha shook her head and took a few gulps of whatever liquor she had in the flask.

"Do you want some, sergeant?"
She asked him, lifting an eyebrow at the commando officer. With a resigned shrug, Moore reached over and took the container.

"Yeah, sure, why not."
The liquor burned his throat as he took a long draught. The distinct aftertaste reminded Moore of the "torpedo-juice" he had once drunk aboard a navy frigate. Of course, that particular concoction had landed the sergeant in the hospital for a week. He could feel the warmth racing through to his tired limbs, making him feel relaxed and at ease.
"Better?"

Natasha asked.
"Is there a problem booze doesn't fix?"
Moore asked rhetorically, feeling some of his confidence returning as he took another swig from the silver flask.
"Hey, you're going to drink it all!"
The medic suddenly shouted angrily as she watched him. Moore smiled and leaned over, handing her back the flask and kissing her gently on the cheek.
"Durak!"
She shouted, but as Moore pulled away he saw the smile hidden beneath the exasperated grimace.
"Good thing you are 'professional' sergeant. Such a steely self control."
He put on a serious face, which ill concealed his flushed cheeks and the amused twinkle in his eye.
"Always was my strong suit."
The talk with Natasha, and the liquor, had lightened his mood significantly, the oppressive blackness a faint whimper in the back of his mind. For the first time in weeks, Moore felt hope.

It had been two weeks since they had been stationed here, on "Sentry Hill", and still there had been no sign of the enemy. Down below lay the small outpost of Bjorgensfjord, and most of the installation lay inside the deep bunkers hidden underneath the planets surface. Only the sensor towers and spires rising towards the sky gave it away for what it was. The center for intelligence in the entire sector, gathering and storing data from hundreds of its smaller brethren. What PFC Valence didn't know of was the archives, bearing damning evidence of the Imperiums less commendable achievements. All he knew was that his regiment, and now the entire division, had been assigned to guard the installation until relieved or ordered to withdraw. Up here, all he could see was the hurried preparations of his unit, the 78th Storm Division, as well as the Intelligence Services own private security details. Bjorgensfjord was a quiet sector of the front, but an offensive was expected. The remainder of the 78th had only arrived a few days prior, hurriedly requisitioned by the highest authority to defend the installation. Their heavy weapons and manpower was sorely depleted from months of combat, but they would have to make do without further reinforcement.

"Do you hear something?"

It was Mors, one of his squad mates and the machine gun operator, together, they manned one of the foxholes on the edge of the "Sentry Hill" fortifications.

"Hear what?"

Valence responded without thinking, but he could hear it too now, a thrumming howl, soft but steadily increasing in volume. Their sensors had picked nothing up, otherwise they would have been given warning.

"Sir, we got something incoming, north ridge, sounds like aircraft engines!"

Mors was already reporting to the central outpost. Valence knew they hadn't been given any promise of air support and he clutched nervously at his rifle. The engines sounded too loud to be shviri, but one could never be too careful.

"Stand down, it's out own."

Came the calm response from the other end. Valence cursed silently under his breath, angry that they had been given no prior warning of the friendly aircraft's approach. Seconds later, the roar of engines increased to a terrible crescendo as three black shapes tore from behind one of the only hills that marred the area. They had plotted their approach perfectly to avoid detection, and the three craft nearly touched the ground as they made their presence known. As they approached, he could make them out as Drakken gunships, their clean lines distorted by the heavy ordnance each carried underwing. They bore no visible identification markers, no squadron symbols or even Imperial livery, not even optical camouflage, the craft were painted in a uniform, matte black. In perfect concert, two of the aircraft tore away, aiming straight for Bjorgensfjord. The remaining gunship roared over Valence's position, forcing him to dive for cover in the depths of his foxhole. Reverse thrusters whined as it slowed to hover idling over the clearing between the main outpost and the foxhole.

Peering out over the edge, Valence could see the gunship in profile. Much of the camouflage was gone, and the steel underneath shone brightly in the mid day light. The ornate lettering beneath the cockpit glass spelled "Fey Phan-". The remainder of what Valence guessed was "Phantom" was marred by a scorch mark from a shviri laser. The source of the name was easily visible. A beautiful, scantily clad woman with wings adorned most of the aircrafts nose, smiling widely and clutching a boxy rifle. The vivid, lovingly crafted image contrasted sharply with the plain white number 340-1 stenciled on the gunships side alongside a dulled Imperial insignia. Valence scratched his chin as he noticed the sword that bisected the blue and red bars of the flag. He had never seen the markings and the informal appearance of the ship heightened his sense of nervousness. Slowly, he stepped out of the foxhole, pulling his goggles over his eyes to shield against the swirling dust before approaching the gunship, which had now settled on the empty field. The rear ramp dropped and the private shuddered as he saw the men who exited. He only saw three as they stalked out silently in their black uniforms, their camouflage cloaks distorting their forms. They were specters in broad daylight, motioning to whoever had remained inside. Each wore the same skeletal face-mask, the cold, pitiless eye lenses and bulky air filter only furthering the terrifying appearance. Valence felt the weight of their combined gaze, but they seemed not to care about his presence. With a keening wail, the engines of the Drakken tore it from the ground, sending it racing after its fellows down to Bjorgensfjord. Commando's, three gunships of them. The young soldier gulped in trepidation as he wondered why they had come here, and why they had come in such force. Almost immediately, the trio split. Two raced off towards the main outpost. The other merely unslung a bulky sniper rifle, the weapon appearing comically large in his hands as he moved off towards the abandoned meteorological outpost, a position that provided the perfect vantage point to overwatch the entirety of the installation that lay below.

"Sir, you got commandos incoming."

Mors stated flatly, though Valence could see that his pale face had become a shade paler already. Whatever was coming in the commandos wake, he wanted to be away from it. Not for the first time, PFC Valence wished he was at home, far away from the conflict.

Down below, on one of the steel decked landing pads, Lieutenant Hess nodded to his pilot and activated the Drakkens commlink. On the other end was an operator at the MIRS relay site at Tyr, 750 kilometers away. He heard a woman's tinny voice complaining and griping as he overrode all other dispatches with his priority clearance. It was a simple message, conveying all that needed to be said.

"First platoon has arrived at Bjorgensfjord. Evacuation commencing."


As usual, any comments/criticisms are appreciated. Feel free to follow.

The Engineer

I apologize to my readers for the long wait. School, work and some of my other writing has been taking up the time I would normally have liked to dedicate to this blog. Here's a small post I finally got around to finishing. As usual, any constructive comments/criticism is welcome.
Thank You,
Jakub Simacek

The recent resurrection of the capital ship as a weapon of war has shocked many in the upper echelons of the Confederate military, but in fact, it must be professed that it is an altogether logical step forward, one in the making for decades, if not centuries. Modern disruptive shielding, or flicker fields as the navy men generally call them, allow ships thus equipped to survive all but the most powerful, concentrated firepower. The only disadvantage to this system is the immense power consumption, taxing the power systems of a vessel immensely. The strain is made worse by the near universal use of lasers for point defense, as well as the ubiquitous blink drive, an absolutely mandatory item for space travel over any significant distance, which, as was seen in the Sevarnian Conflict, is becoming a more common occurrence and will most likely remain a factor in all future wars. This progress has meant that only ships of considerable bulk can house the massive reactors necessary to maintain such systems, as well as the mountings for weapons powerful enough to defeat their similarly equipped peers.

-excerpt from Captain Mott's History of Modern Naval Warfare 2544-2650

The man, if you could call him that, looked calmly at Stella, or so she imagined. The steel fingers of his left hand steepled upward to meet the organic ones of his right. The beetle black orbs that made up his augmentic eyes constricted and dilated in and out of focus, causing her to shudder. The result of the “industrial accident”. Stella was no fool and knew it was no such thing, but it was the official story. He could have had normal eyes, either cloned or mechanical replacements that could not have been recognizable from the ones he had been born with. But he had seen the loss as an opportunity, and adjusted accordingly. Although it was a rarely spoken fact, the mans augmentics gave him an unparalleled range of sensory input. Gabriel Anders was not Albrecht Skor, that was clear as day. Short and skeletal, he cut a gaunt figure, his mechanical augmentations appearing fuller than his frail mortal frame. He was the most different of the trifecta. Salazar, a psychopath who took everything as a joke, Albrecht with his dogmatic world-view and explosive outbursts, and then Gabriel, “the Engineer”. He exuded absolute calm, unflinching, waiting. The metal hand moved in a slow, measured motion, indicating the empty seat alongside his desk, the only one in the whole room.

“It's a bit of a mess, haven't really had time to keep things clean.”

Anders said in a matter of fact tone. He had never despised her with the same vehemence displayed by Albrecht or Salazar, always remaining polite and collected. Somehow, she always suspected that he had not opposed the merger, but had been drowned out by Albrecht and Salazar's pride. Despite this he was the only one of the trio that actually struck her with a degree of fear. In all her years of espionage and intelligence gathering, Stella had never met an individual quite like him. He was not a military man, a fact evident in both his physique and the appearance of his office. Unlike the austere quarters occupied by both Salazar and Albrecht, the room was large and cluttered with machinery, computers, papers, and various detritus. It was an absolute mess, unfitting for a man in charge of one of the Imperiums most powerful organizations, yet the fact seemed not to bother him in the slightest. How such a man had risen to any level of power within the Imperium had always come as a shock to most around him. But then again, Chancellor Alleri allowed Albrecht to pick and choose his associates as he saw fit, and that decision had yet to prove detrimental. Anders was one of the finest logisticians anywhere, capable of managing the SNC's assets with a fine eye for detail, not letting anything go to waste.

"Fyra won't hold."

Stella said flatly, matching Anders calm monotone with her own, masking the trepidation she felt saying those words. Fully 25 percent of the Imperial Army was trapped on the surface of that one planet, alongside over a billion civilians who hadn't been evacuated in time. Anders ignored her statement and responded with his own.

"Albrecht dealt with your R-53 problem. Just so you know."

The head of Intelligence already knew this. By some ungodly miracle, Albrecht had managed to lead his lone section straight to the enemy production facility and level it with coordinated naval bombardment and planted charges. It had been too late for many though, and the poison gas had been deployed at dozens of locations. Nonetheless, she nodded at Anders confirmation.

"Your heart rate has gone up since you came in here, got a meeting with Skippy after this?"

The young man said sarcastically, referring to Chancellor Scipio Alleri. He wouldn't be fooled by her calm exterior for a second, his augmentics saw to that. The familiar, arrogant manner the SNC used when referring to him, as well as their peers, had often aggravated Stella to no end.

"I'll be giving him the rundown of the intelligence situation after this, yes. But that's irrelevant."

"Mhm. So what do you want me to do? Shouldn't you be discussing this with the Army or Navy? They're the ones in charge down there."

"They already know. There isn't much they can do. The Navy is too focused on organizing the relief effort. They're already assigning six battlegroups to the operation. Shatterpoint, Broadside, and Leander are already above Bryga. It'll take at least another month to marshal up Sovereign and Eternal. And Arrogance is still waiting on the Fist to be repaired and refitted after Dan Bay."

Each of the Navies battle-groups was named after the leading capital ships name, or at least part of the name in the case of the Imperium Eternal and Fist of Arrogance. However, these groups often operated independently, and in recent months, they had been striking indirectly at the shvir, avoiding the slaughterhouse of Fyra at all costs and instead destroying outlying outposts, forward bases and isolated alien fleets. Battle-group Rastavan was theoretically in charge of the Fyran sector, but the Glory of Rastavan now lay under repairs with months left before she'd be battle ready, and most of the battle-groups ships were damaged or destroyed. The last convoy had only gotten through at the cost of almost the entire escort group, the cruiser Tannenberg having gone down with nearly all hands. No further protection was available. Time was running short for Fyra.

"The shvir are sending new convoys. My people on Earth, Issa and the Navy's pickets have picked them up. If they make it through, Fyra will simply not be able to hold on the ground. All they have to do is get rid of the orbital defense guns, or most of them, and it's all over. There's a week at most. Then Fyra will be leveled from orbit."

"Then the fighting moves here, to Bryga."

"It can't be allowed to happen. We can't make the same effort again Anders, and you know that. We don't have the manpower, equipment, and with a loss at Fyra, confidence will be out."

"No, we can't. But it is up to the ground pounders and flyboys to win. We can only guide their hand, at most."

"If someone doesn't interdict those reinforcements, we are going to lose Fyra and this war. The relief force will be forced to race to their deaths. They'll never make it down there in time even if they try."

"They still have to get past Fyra Five, the garrisons are holding out over there from what I understand."

"They still have far too much open space left to make landfall."
"How long until the landing takes place?"
"Initial landings will be there within a day."
"Rest delivered and offloaded within the week?"
Stella nodded in confirmation.
"Do you know where they're marshalling the transports? This kind of operation needs to be well organized, and in the shvir's case, well organized means pure mass."
"Issa, but the fleet and orbital defenses protecting them are too strong for anything short of a full battlegroup, and as you know, we can't spare any of those."
Anders activated a small holo projector on his desk, swiftly scrolling through to an image of the planet Issa. It was an uninhabited gas giant, and entirely insignificant were it not for the massive orbital shipyards and space stations that hung above its surface, shielded by several large rings of stone and debris, as well as the planets seventeen moons. Almost instantly, a small smile began to crease across Gabriel's scarred features.
"They're fucked! You really think this is a problem?!"
He said, displaying far more enthusiasm and emotion than Stella had ever seen from the taciturn logistician.
"How?"
"Those damn ships need to clear the rings to make the jump, they have to abandon their defenses to leave. Contact the Navy, Moriarty should be within range already. Get every wolf-pack within a three system radius on it. If the navy boys do their job, it'll be a massacre. Ha, your people got the right intel, that's for sure."
Stella calmly nodded to her aide, Maurice, who had been standing silently at attention up until this point. Quietly, he slipped out of the room to make the arrangements.
"Of course, some might get through, and there's several ships that are already on the way."
The intelligence officer continued calmly, nonetheless feeling some relief at the news. Despite the generally poor relationship the SNC enjoyed with the other Imperial services, it always surprised her how much they knew, and how well they were informed on the movements of their compatriots. In comparison, the SNC's movement was an enigma.
"Where will they land?"
Anders inquired, his initial excitement rapidly returning back to the cold, phlegmatic attitude he normally displayed. Well, they didn't know everything.
"My sources project they'll make planetfall at Bjorgensfjord. It'll be an easy landing. The area is currently undefended except for a regiment of the 78th Storm, and they're recuperating from heavy losses."
Bjorgensfjord also housed the site of one of the largest intelligence storage facilities in the Imperium, as well as a class A forward post, spying on all Shviri activities in a wide arc of the front, but Stella did not feel the need to tell Anders that. He just had to provide enough manpower to help secure the facilities evacuation. Simple enough to assign the commandos to it once they arrived.

"Perfectly flat above the fjord itself and good amount of space for LZ's, within assault range of thirteen orbitals. Don't see why that should be wrong. Something will have to be done."

The skin on his forehead furrowed above the expressionless implants as he thought about just that something, or perhaps looked at whatever he was being shown by the machinery wired to his body.

"The main force will have to come from the army, of course. But defending Bjorgensfjord is suicidal. The forces that will be redeployed there will not hold."
She eyed Anders slowly, waiting for a response, he made none, merely watching her calmly, waiting for her to continue.
"I have reports, that some of the units are becoming unmanageable. There's no mass desertion, yet. But the siege is taking its toll. Much of the soldiery is beginning to believe that the war is over, and that we left them to die."
Still nothing, Anders was as silent as stone.
"I do believe it would be beneficial, to stiffen their morale, if you were to deploy some of your own men there. Embed them with the higher ups perhaps. Make sure resolve doesn't weaken."
She knew Albrechts reaction to such a suggestion would have been violent and impulsive, Anders was nothing of the sort. It seemed as if he were made of stone, absolutely passive. But when he spoke, there was a slightly mocking tone in his voice.
"More a job for the MP's I think. We can't be threatening to shoot our own. Hell, the SNC has no authority over the Army. And Albrecht would never approve of it."
"It's what you do. You are a tool of fear. And in this case, if something doesn't stiffen the resistance on Fyra, if Bjorgensfjord does not hold to the last man, everything will be lost. Propaganda has failed, and now is the time for fear to take its place. As for the legality of it. They do not know you don't have the authority, the Army will be forced to accept it. The Chancellor will confirm the order."
"What do you know about morale?"
The question took her by surprise, especially from a man like Anders. He said it calmly, as with everything, his voice only slightly touched with a hint of genuine interest.
"Admittedly not much. But I do know how to motivate people. And in a situation such as this, the strongest motivation is needed. Even if the raiding groups pull it off, the reinforcements that will slip through will be too much. And you know that as well as me."
"Well, I won't say I'm an expert on such things, and I have no doubt Salazar would have agreed with you, were he still around. But Albrecht is still in charge of deployment."
"You are in charge. It was his explicit order when he left."
Stella said icily.
"That is beside the point. I will not confirm such orders. I will however, authorize a shift."
His fingers danced on the table on the table, the metal digits clattering against the wood in a steady staccato.
"We have seven platoons trapped planetside. Part of one is stuck on Fyra Five."
For an organization dedicated to small unit raiding, reconnaissance and assassination, such a loss was simply unacceptable.
"Hess' first platoon is nearby. I'll order them to move. We should still have the Drakkens planet side. A thousand kilometers should be smooth sailing. They'll stiffen your defense. No doubt save your little spy-house."
So he knew. She wondered if he was angered by her omission of its presence. If he was, he made no indication of the fact. He was also a thing of the shadows, and respected the Intelligence Service accordingly.
"I think they can make it in six hours once I contact the MIRS crew."
Mass Intelligence Relay Sites were the core of the Imperiums inter-planetary communications, and the shvir had failed to jam the one on Fyra Five. Thus, it managed to relay everything from Fyra out to the greater Imperium.
"Good. There'll be other landing sites, no doubt."
Stella said, as if to placate any fraying caused by her prior omission.
"And we'll respond in kind. You go deal with Skippy and just don't let whatever nightmares you have hidden down there in your post get picked up by the sheevees."
With a flourish, he began typing into the large keyboard on his desk, mechanical and human fingers dancing across the keyboard in a gentle clatter. As she turned away, she could hear him muttering under his breath with a dramatic flourish.
"And now- If you'll excuse me. I have to contact the MIRS."

Allfather Calls

There was panic and rising despair. The stench of defeat hung in the air. And in stormed the angels of death. The thin white mist crept across the ground, reducing lungs to bloody froth and blinding exposed eyes, yet still they charged. Cloaks billowed in their wake, black armor shielded their frail mortal frames. Cold eye lenses moved across the ground, carrying no emotion, hiding the all too human fear and terror beneath. Only hatred and frigid determination emanated from the small group. Rifles blazed in the eerie stillness, tearing into the unholy machines that poured towards them, followed by monsters out of nightmare, clad in thick protective suits and breathing apparatus'. The enemy drove the terrified soldiers before them, some had pulled on their gas masks, others had been too slow, the sentries of the outer line lay dead, having suffocated where they stood. There must have been hundreds of the aliens pouring forward to secure their easy victory. Yet the angels held. Unbidden, the saviors of the eleventh hour had arrived. In the lead was the Rat, storming onward, as he had on countless occasions. He raised his pistol, leveling it at the fleeing men, his helmets hollow gaze sweeping across them. He snarled his commands, the sound inhuman, feral, enraged.

"Halt! Halt or I'll shoot every last one of you! Fight for everything you're worth you bastards!"

His voice was a whip-crack. How he thought to shoot the men retreating behind him none knew, for he charged at the forefront, pistol whistling as it laid the enemy low. In his other hand hummed an archaic shviri blade, sheathed in energy, carried with expert poise, as if wielded by a knight of old. Behind him came the others, bayonets fixed and ready. They were implacable and grim, like specters hungering for blood. They were butchers, death incarnate, meeting their foes where they were strongest. And in that dread visage was inspiration. Some of those fleeing began to turn, seeking to aid the phantoms which had all of a sudden halted the shviri advance. The aliens were maddened and in violent fury, focusing their fire upon the humans arrayed against them. Their supporting drones felt no fear, no intimidation, but it availed them not. One was shorn from shoulder to hip by the crackling saber, another felled by the rifles of the soldiers that followed in the Rat's wake.
There was no blazing tank fire, no roar of artillery, no aircraft racing through the clouds. Only man versus shvir, rifle versus laser, sword vs bayonet, depraved fury versus sheer determination. Gobbets of blood were sent sizzling through the mist as the glinting arc claimed more lives in the name of Imperium Eternal. The enemy tide had faltered, having surged to its high point and now found that it had struck the breakwater. But still they would not yield, holding the entrenchments they had swept with impossible tenacity. Grenades roared from all sides. The screams of agony were cut short by the gurgle of murderous chemicals. There was only the death and its black clad heralds. None stopped when one toppled to the ground with a cry, pushing the assault through to the finish. The corpses littered the trench floors, paratrooper and shvir, stacked atop each other. The aliens asked for no quarter. The humans offered none. The charnel house of Fyra Five had merely claimed more souls.
A breeze arose, sweeping through the dense fog, lifting it, as if to give a brief moments respite. The sudden clarity only revealed the full extent of the slaughter. Dead infantrymen, disabled tanks and burnt out bunkers all lining the dull gray and brown battlefield. It brought no comfort for the
survivors, struggling to recover their dead and wounded before another attack was launched.

Kurt was writhing in pain, bubbles of blood formed around his mouth and nostrils. He had inhaled some of the poison gas, R-53 judging by the intelligence briefing a few days prior. It had been a brief moment, when his helmet had been struck by shrapnel, the protective seals breached and allowing the toxic chemicals to leak inside, it had been enough to seal his fate. Now he was dying.

"It's ok, Kurt, you're gonna be alright. Medic, we need a fucking medic over here!"
Valeri tried to comfort his comrade, supporting his head and looking about for some sort of help. Sergeant Moore was searching for a doctor, Kwame, Wilhelm and Asch were mere helpless observers, watching with terror in their eyes as Kurt slowly suffocated.

"There's nothing I can do! You're wasting my time with a dead man! He'll be gone in an hour!"
The doctor cursed at the sergeant as he dragged him to the scene.
"There has to be something! You fuckers can't just let him die!"
"There is nothing! He is finished, I need to help those who can still be helped."
"Natasha, can't you do something?!" Moore shouted at the medic as she finished stitching up an injured paratroopers leg. She looked around the room full of wounded, then at the young sergeant, the desperate appeal in his eyes. And she owed him, he had, after all, saved her life in the weeks prior, if it would give him some comfort that an effort be made, no matter how futile, so be it.
"Damnation. We save the fucking line, and this-"
 She looked at the sergeant, his armor covered in damage, the blood that stained his black body suit and the soulless helmet that hung in his hand. The man's face was covered in sweat, his un-shaved chin and the greasy strands of black hair giving him a distinctly disheveled appearance. The wild look in his eyes only enhanced the impression of a madman. Such judgment wouldn't be too far off the mark, Natasha thought, not that she was willing to tell the sergeant so to his face. Somehow, she sensed that he knew the cause was lost, but remained in denial nonetheless. The man was doomed. There was no need to check close. She could see him clutching at his dog tags, desperately clenching his fingers at the silver plates that must have been hidden under his palm. No, not dog tags, some sort of religious icon, a spear of Odin. His eyes were unfocused. He coughed and retched terribly, his skin was turning blue. His free hand grasped for something that wasn't there. Natasha licked her lips, unsure of what to say.
"I-"
She didn't complete the sentence and stopped. Sergeant Moore looked at the medic once to know the answer. There was nothing to be done. Kurt had seen her reaction as well, and his head dropped back, his lips moving as he tried to say something. He motioned with his hand, gesturing for Moore to come closer. Slowly, Moore knelt beside him, moving close to the dying man.
"I'm here Kurt."
The commando's voice was a hoarse croak. Gone was the calm attitude that had, in Moore's eyes, always defined the man.
"Sar- sarge. I don't want-" He fell into a fit of coughing, blood came up and dribbled on his chin. His hand shook where it held the small golden spear.
"Moore. Send, send me on. Please."
The sergeant had heard the euphemism before. One of the few things Kurt had taken seriously, was his faith in "Odin the Reborn", religious mumbo jumbo as Moore, and most other commandos disdainfully called it.
"I can't, Kurt, don't ask me to do that."
Moore responded, feeling the bile rising in his throat as he realized the implications of what he wanted.
"Please. The All-father. It has to be this way," he coughed again, his eyes disoriented, free hand weakly clutching Moore's arm. He was desperate.
"Moore, I can't die like this. It can't be. You- Please. Make it quick. The pain, it's too much."
Moore knew the belief's, a warriors death was one which guaranteed redemption, and reward in the eyes of the gods. He could see the pleading eyes. Kurt didn't deserve this fate. Damned the leadership, the idiots that had put them in this position and left them here. Why? Why him? Why them? Moore wanted to turn away. To disappear. There were others suffering the same fate. But why did Kurt have to be one of them. It wasn't fair.
"Make the pain, make it stop."
The veteran commando descended into another fit of coughing. Bloody phlegm covered his gloves and he tried to keep his head up. It was terrible, to see him brought this low. Moore could feel his hands shaking. He felt like he would be sick.
"You have to. Please."
Slowly, Moore stood up and pulled his pistol from its holster. He could see the relief in Kurts eyes, gratefulness. It made the sergeant sick. It didn't matter that the man wanted it this way, that it would probably be a less painful way to go. Moore saw the pistol shuddering in his hand. Kurt closed his eyes, the breathing slowing down. Why did it have to be this way?
"I'm coming Father."
He whispered into the nothingness. Moore saw the mist forming before his eyes. His hand clenched the grip, finger locked over the trigger. His men watched, Valeri took a step back from his ministrations. Kwame was inscrutable, Asch gulped. He could see the eyes of those around him, locked in. Willy's face turned pale as he realized what would happen, and he walked out, his hands shaking, reciting some strange invocations that sounded almost like the SNC oath of loyalty. Natasha looked up from one of the wounded, but made no comment. Moore blinked away the pain, his hand clutched the trigger. The metal gave way so easily. The silenced weapon sang once.