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.

Bound in Blood

Jeffrey is dead, got incinerated by a plasma flamer two days ago, we couldn't stop the tank. We had no anti tank weapons, what good are rifles and knives against heavy weapons. We tell ourselves that at least it was quick, at least there was no body left to recover. Command was notified, but they don't care. Even if they do we're beyond all help. We're trapped here. Nobody knows how many of the fortresses are still standing. The first shortages have begun. Medicine is running out. Painkillers, bandages, antiseptics, all in short supply. More and more are dying from wounds that shouldn't be fatal. At least it means we aren't running out of food yet. The rationing is stringent, but we shouldn't die of starvation, not before something else kills us at any rate. But they say we must hold, if we don't, the only safe supply corridor to Fyra will be overrun, and then, then the battle will be over.

~Combat log of Sergeant Thomas Moore, January 22nd, 2747

January 30th, 2747

Chief Intelligence Officer Stella Marks saw the door slide aside, admitting her into the small office. There were three men there, standing over a map table and conversing in hushed tones. It was an unadorned and simple room, the only decor a massive long-sword that lay upon a mantle on the wall. She could see the eyes of the SNC officers slitting as she entered. One of them drew himself up, beckoning the others to leave. It was Albrecht Skor, commandant of the Special Naval Commando, the Imperial Executioner, and the last man she wished to see at the moment, but circumstances dictated otherwise. There was no emotion in his face, he was always inscrutable, cold and distancing himself from all other Imperial services. But where the relationship was distant with the heads of other departments, it was outright hostile towards Marks and her Intelligence Service. It had started out as competition, the two services both practiced a more subtle approach to warfare, albeit far more violent in the SNC's case. The real cracks had occurred when Marks had attempted to force a merge between the SNC and IS, seeing them as two instruments with much the same purpose. The SNC wouldn't even consider the possibility. Skor had not forgotten, and never forgiven. As long as he lived, he would not allow control of his precious commando, of his little cabal of assassins, assault troops and infiltration units, to slip to any other official. It had embittered both of the two, Stella and Albrecht, the two almost never spoke, except in times of utmost necessity. And now was a time when he and his services were desperately needed.

"Commandant Skor."

She nodded and spoke, breaking the stony silence, her bright green eyes remaining locked with the senior commandos. He was powerfully built, towering over her, his cold brown eyes staring back from beneath thick eyebrows. Stella had seen other officers, many far older and more experienced than her, balk at that brooding gaze, terrified of what he might think or be planning. She couldn't care less what he thought, he and the SNC were in demand and that was the end of it.

"Intelligence Officer Marks. What do you need this time?"

His voice was deep and gravelly, loud even at the half whisper with which he addressed her, she could barely make out his lips moving under the thick beard covering his face. He cut straight to the point, it was evident he did not want to be in her presence for any longer than was required. So petty and arrogant, Marks thought, though she kept her thoughts to herself. It would never do to antagonize the already unstable man further.

"My sources say the shvir are moving R-53 containers to Fyra."

"Poison gas? That's a new low, even for them. But not stupid."

His attitude was unsubtle, blunt and abrasive to an extreme. It was a mentality that, for good or ill, he passed on to his subordinates. It pervaded the SNC from the highest echelons to the lowest ranks. R-53 was a potent toxin, its development and composition kept under tight lid even in the Imperium. But it had one benefit compared to other, somewhat more potent toxins. Once inhaled, it was almost certain to induce a victims horrific death. But exposure of skin would do little more than uncomfortable blistering. For the shvir, who's sensitive nervous systems were weak to such weapons, the reduced potency was critical. More importantly, the willingness to stoop to such weapons indicated an increasing desperation in the aliens command and their inability to force an Imperial defeat. Of course, this was a useless observation for those on the receiving end. Something had to be done.

"The actual transport ships can't be stopped at this point. Some will be intercepted by the Navy's raider groups. Others will slip past. The troops in the sector will be alerted, there's nothing more we can do."

"So you've found where they're storing this stuff, or manufacturing it, and you want me to shut it down?"

He wasted no time beating around the bush, his eyes glittered as he waited for her confirmation.

"Yes. The location is deep in shviri territory. They're storing and producing it on one of the planets. They're shipping the chemicals there."

"Where did the shvir get the knowledge to make R-53. That was an old Confederate project, was it not?"

"Yes. Yass, the head of that team, slipped through our fingers. He's working with the aliens now."

She said it in an emotionless, cold tone. Stella Marks was a professional in her field, just like Albrecht, and in some ways, far more unscrupulous and ruthless when needed. Such attitude and capability had ascertained her rise within the Imperial power structure, much like the commandant's. Skor blinked a few times, and she could see his jaw tense up. There was a dangerous flash in his eyes.

"We could have killed him. Twice. And both times you said no, that he was too useful. Too much of an asset to eliminate. And this is the result. Now he's a danger, a threat, and I have one section available, one! Not one platoon! One fucking section! You bastards never think ahead, all you do is scheme."

Albrechts voice had risen steadily, booming angrily in the small room, but he swiftly recovered his composure and drew himself up, almost whispering the last few words, his hands dancing across the table. Stella could see the streaks of silver in his dark brown hair, the contempt in those haggard eyes. He was younger than her by at least two decades, yet his face bore lines and scars far beyond his age.

"Have your people send me the intel," he almost spat the words out, his voice was an angry whisper, "I'll see it done."

"You?"

Despite her calm, aloof demeanor, Stella actually started in surprise at the Commandants words.

He merely looked at her coldly in response. He was ruthless and uncompromising, yet a man of principle. It showed, all too vividly. For him and his archaic view of the galaxy, it was a matter of honor to see it done. Stella knew the SNC motto all too well, "The Only Loyalty Lies Bound in Blood". Theirs or their enemies. Even here, standing like a statue, he seemed to reflect the image of a knight of old. Honor bound and foolish, Marks thought.

"You fucked up, and the gods know how many will die for it. But this organization isn't based here, or around me. It isn't based anywhere. I will take second-section the moment I have the intel, and we'll go mop up this mess, then I'll go see the Fyra situation for myself."

He reached for the sword on the mantle, she'd seen him wear it before, at official ceremonies and functions, on the rare occasions when the SNC's presence was requested. His fingers ran lightly along the razor sharp edge, honed to perfection. It occurred to her that the weapons function wasn't entirely ceremonial. No wonder their two organizations would never see eye to eye. The IS was far too subtle, too clever for the SNC. Where she sought to exploit psychological as well as physical weaknesses, Albrecht and his men only searched for the most expedient method of murdering their foes. It was efficient perhaps, but crude and heavily flawed.

"And who will take charge of the commando in your absence."

"Anders will remain. You know as well as I he runs this outfit in all but name."

It was an organization run by a trifecta, the only such command structure in the Imperium. Each of the three parts of the SNC were represented by one man, the logistical branch by a certain Captain Anders, and until his death in a raid, the reconnaissance branch by Captain Aktan. Skor represented the shock-commando units. Marks knew all too well that Anders may have managed the unit from behind the scenes. But it was Skor's leadership that truly molded the commando. He lead from the front and others followed, it had always been that way.

He who lives by the sword, dies by the sword. Those wise words echoed through Intelligence Officer Marks' head as her peer slowly stepped towards the door and gestured for her to depart. He moved like a ghost, his silent movement made all the more impressive by his sizable bulk. Even here, with him embracing what was an almost guaranteed death, she could not read him, or his motivations. She knew he wasn't telling her everything. It was her profession to understand people, to find their flaws and weaknesses, and how it could be used to undermine their position. With Skor, there was nothing to understand. He was the least conniving, the least ambitious of all Imperial leaders. He lacked the idealism and naive outlook that drove so many into service. And yet he was one of the most ruthless, efficient and successful of all of them. He and his band of psychopaths were one of the most indispensable parts of the Imperiums survival. In High Chancellor Alleri's mind, more crucial than any other. His strength lay not in his oratory nor in particularly high levels of cooperativeness, let alone the patience and smoothness for political power-play. It lay in his capacity for violence.

Albrecht curled his lips in displeasure and exited his office for what he knew would be the last time. There was nothing to take with him, all his worldly possessions of any note were still on his ship. He and his organization were the lepers of the whole Imperial structure. The IS and their leader sat back and philosophized, collecting information from safety while his men bled and died on a hundred worlds across the galaxy. They gathered intelligence, they infiltrated, they struck at a thousand points, seemingly mere pin-pricks in the grand scale of things. But war was not always won by attrition, by the blood of millions, sacrificed for some hopeless offensive or doomed defense. For all his bombastic appearances, Albrecht was a master of subterfuge. Entire divisions could be brought to a halt with the loss of supplies. Star-fleets couldn't move without fuel. The loss of single commanders and key individuals could bring whole army groups to their knees. All one had to know was where the weak-spot lay. Find that key-stone and rip it out. The whole structure followed. That had been the role of the SNC, and they enacted it, carrying out their shadow war for months as the battle lines approached Imperial territory. And as long as they were mobile, they did damage far in excess of their meager numbers. Forgotten and despised, feared by friend and foe alike, but successful and alive. Now, his commandos were dying, many trapped with regular troops, fighting as mere infantry, deprived of their transport and mobility as the war lost all semblance of fluidity. And the SNC was paying the price. Less than half of the commando was still mobile, too many ships had been lost in the Fyra fighting over the past few months. There was nothing Albrecht could do sitting behind a desk or in high command meetings, trying to organize what was left of the SNC or find the point at which it would be most useful. Anders could do all of that, and better. He was no fool to think otherwise. His place was at the front, in the bloody horror of battle. He had to call up the Straggen. The last of the SNC's new Razor class destroyers that remained in Bryga's orbit, waiting for the call to war.

One section of shock-troops, men from his old mercenary core. Soldiers who would follow him to hell and worse if he asked them to. And him. Thirteen men. Thirteen men were a small price for the lives of billions, or so the logisticians would say. An impressive feat, and well worth such paltry cost. But Albrecht had no intention of dying. They would take the objective and burn it to the ground. Even a clever individual like Marks didn't quite understand what a single section of shock commando's could do. In his mind, Albrecht was already running through all possibilities, deciding on the last orders to be handed out before he departed. The men and women working in the Imperial Defense Headquarters scattered before him as he headed for the landing pads, his hand firmly locked on Godsbane, his ceremonial long-sword. A Drakken gunship sat there, its outer paint scarred and burned, its engines howling at an ever increasing pitch even as the commandant approached. A pair of commandos in exo-suits stood watch. They were not the light, efficient outfits worn by the Army, mostly intended to increase a soldiers capability to carry equipment rather than survivability. These were hulking suits of composite armor plate, their bulky helmets supported entirely by the suits internal skeleton. Backpack mounted reactor cores vented steam into the chilly air, underarm mounted chain-guns and cutting lasers inert and hanging limply at the two soldiers sides. Each carried a heavily modified Akarn rifle, cut down to resemble a pistol, and holstered in similar fashion. The two helmets turned as one, cold black lenses reflecting from their recessed position within the face-plate. Neither of the two men attempted to salute, although both made way for their commander to enter. Albrecht merely nodded his acknowledgement and strode aboard the transport craft, shortly followed by the soft clangs of the two powered suits entering the vessel. One of the commandos, bearing the markings of a senior sergeant, removed his helmet, its black exterior painted to resemble a snakes skull, the mouth of razor sharp teeth surrounding its filtration unit. The mans face was worn and tired, a terrible disfiguring scar running the length of his jaw.
"Straggen is waiting Skor. Our 'friends' sent us the intelligence you requested."
"The rest of the section there? Everybody armed and ready?"
"Yes."
"Good."
There was no more need to talk. The Drakkens engines howled and the craft began its vertical ascent. Skor sat and closed his eyes, humming a senseless tune. There was nothing more to do.

Tannenbergs End

Notes: IVS is my acronym for Imperial Void Ship and is used to describe any named naval vessel utilized by the Imperium.



The IVS Tannenberg was taking fire, every deck ablaze, its oxygen supplies bleeding into the emptiness of space. Only a few of its turrets were still intact, their guns blazing, delivering devastating volleys of fire to any alien ship that strayed too close to the wounded beast. The shields were gone, there was no hope of raising them again. The shiltron defense system had long since given out, defense lasers overheated and rotary cannons out of ammunition. One by one, all weapons that remained were going silent as the shviri ships began to pick apart the stricken cruiser.
Rear-Admiral Fisk stood on the bridge, listening to the screams echoing across the comms as the situation swiftly deteriorated. The convoy he had been assigned to escort was scattered, all ships doing their best to reach their objectives planet-side. The shviri ships had been held up far too long to interdict the mass of transport craft. He had succeeded, he knew it, and it came at the cost of his entire command. Nearly nine-hundred thousand men, and three million of tons of supplies would be making it to Fyras surface, but at a terrible price. Only two of his destroyers were still fighting, trying to flee the battlefield. The rest were tattered wreckage, their burnt out hulks floating through the vast scrap fields formed from the detritus of war created during the siege. Slowly, Fisk closed his right eye. The other had been shot out by shrapnel nearly a decade ago.
"Abandon ship."
His voice was almost a harsh whisper, but the battle was over, the only hope for the crews salvation was an immediate evacuation.
"Sir?"
The ships captain, Sean, looked at him, not comprehending. Hearing that his will was not being done, Fisk turned on the man, his one good eye boring into the man.
"You heard me. Abandon ship. Send out the order immediately. All non-essentials off."
"Yessir!"
It was a flurry of orders as the officer began shouting out the commands. Several of the bridge crew began getting up, moving towards the remaining lifeboats. Their chances of survival in space would be slim, even slimmer if their vessels landed in shviri controlled territory, but still better than the certain destruction that awaited all who remained aboard the Tannenberg.
"Sir. You should leave before it's too late, We'll will clear out whatever's left."
It was his adjutant, Lena, looking up at him, a concerned look on her face. Fisk merely shook his head.
"X turret isn't evacuating sir, communication is cut."
One of the technicians shouted at the captain.
"Go tell them in person, I want everybody off, now!"
"Captain, go with them. I want you off this vessel. Go, get out!"
He shouted the last orders with greater force, overwhelming any objections the man may have planned to voice.
The bridge was empty, only the helmsman, Sims, and Lena remained, one desperately trying to keep the ship on course, the other trying to convince Fisk to leave with equal desperation.
"Sir, you need to get off."
A slight, saddened smile came across Fisk's aged face as he looked at his adjutant..
"No, it's over. Everything that happened here needs to be recorded, take it to Scipio personally if needed. This blockade needs to end, or there won't be any more convoys making it through."
"There's still a lifeboat ready, we still have time," the young woman persisted, pressuring him to act. But for Fisk, this was the end. He had done his duty, won dozens of victories in the fighting retreats against the shviri armadas, but now, it was all over. Slowly, he descended the stairs to the steering controls.
"Sims, activate the blink drive, start the countdown to a jump."
"Fucking god! Fisk, it'll tear this ship to shreds. The drive's already damaged. There's no getting out. We can't blink away!"
Sims almost snarled the words at the officer. He had Fisks other eye. Both had been on the Mandrake when a corsair shell had torn her bridge apart. It had flown between the two officers as they stood mere meters apart. In an ironic twist of fate, both had lost an eye that day, a seal of blood upon their war-torn history.
"I'm not getting out. Give me the controls."
"Fisk, I object, you can't, this ship, I, I-"
He reddened a little and stopped talking, but there was no condemnation coming from Fisk, he was not used to being called "admiral" or "sir" by his closest associates, but he expected their absolute loyalty. Sims relinquished his post, moving to begin the work needed to activate the blink drives, stepping back to stand near Lena as he did so, the young woman merely looking on in confusion, frozen and unsure of how to act. Together, they were two of the closest individuals to the old imperial officer. Sims a relic of Fisk's mercenary past, a battle scarred veteran of a dozen battles. Lena a young protege fresh out of officers training, a symbol of the new navy Fisk had helped build for the Imperium. He looked on calmly, entirely out of place in the desperate situation at hand, eye locking with Sims for a second, his former first-mate merely shook his head, a grim smile stretched across his features. Fisk turned to Lena, quickly listing out his last will, "Three minutes, the grav generators will be out, and this will all be over. Get off this ship, make it back to Bryga, make it back any way you can, tell them everything that happened, you have your report. It's an order. Run!"
She gulped, snapped to attention and raced off, barely keeping her balance as the whole ship shuddered under a new set of impacts.
Sims smiled coldly at the admiral, stretching the long white shrapnel scars that pockmarked his face. His bionic eye focused past the admiral as he worked the controls rapidly, turning the ship.
"Think she'll make it? I know we will, but them lifeboats Fisk, they ain't safe."
Sims asked jokingly. He had never been serious, and now, facing death, all vestiges of seriousness were gone. Fisk accepted his friends morbid humor with a slight sigh, behaving almost bored. Giving Sims the response he was oh so used to seeing when others heard his jokes.
"Of course she will."
Fisk smiled to himself and began turning the ship, working the controls of the massive light cruiser with skill long since ingrained in instinct. The ship normally needed a massive crew, but with all critical systems failing and the only remaining function being steering, one helmsman sufficed. Fisk wasn't going to try and talk Sims out of joining him, the man wouldn't listen even if ordered to do so. Staunchly loyal to his Captain, from mercenary to imperial officer, he would follow him through to the very end. There was a fire blazing on the starboard side of the bridge but the admiral was no longer paying attention. Automatic extinguishing systems kicked in, and instantly ceased. The pipes bearing the fire suppressant were damaged beyond repair. It mattered not. In front of him, Fisk could see the sleek outline of a shviri battlecruiser, its weapons blazing at the human ship that fast approached it. The range-finder ticked down at alarming pace, the ship rapidly flooding the view-ports of the Tannenberg. The gravity generators gave out, and slowly, both remaining officers felt their feet leave the ground, only staying in place by the virtue of their grip on the control panels. Peace, serenity. It was so calm here at the end. He could hear a wild yell of defiance coming from Sims, a shout more appropriate for a victory rather than a violent death. Fisk released the panel, floating upwards ever so slowly, his whole world dying around him. He sucked in one last breath, and closed his eye.

The Tannenberg plowed into the alien warship like a mailed fist, reinforced prow buckling shields and multi meter thick armor plate with ease. The explosions of munitions and power-cells on both ships tore a flaming path of destruction through the massive vessels, sudden oxygen loss throwing flares far out into the cold void. The damage was catastrophic, neither craft would survive the impact, but it no longer mattered to the Tannenberg, an unmanned behemoth in the throes of its last moments, unwilling to breath its last without dragging its foe down with it. Engines sputtered and rear-drives failed, silence, no more lights, last breath spent in one glorious charge. Then, the blink drives detonated. A violent implosion disintegrated the super-structure of the human light-cruiser with contemptuous ease, crumpling the vessel like tin-foil. For a second the alien vessel seemed to remain untouched, its graceful lines only marred by its slab-sided foe. Then it too was dragged into oblivion. Within seconds of the human cruisers death, the shviri vessel began to be torn asunder in . Armor plating stripped off in a matter of seconds, wreckage sheared off in great chunks and hurled into the void, the alien ship strained against its inevitable destruction, the whole vessel heaving and twisting in a sickening motion as it was utterly demolished, as if writhing in agony with the pain of its demise. Six thousand souls, human and shvir, annihilated in moments. All was silent, slowly, every flame died, snuffed out by the cold void, leaving the silent tomb of the two mortal foes to float away in silence. Another gravestone in the debris fields of Fyra.
Lena turned away from the external monitor, looking about the lifeboat. It was near empty, most of the crew had abandoned ship long before her, only a dozen remained aboard the bulky vessel. All seemed to be bridge crew, many heavily burned or injured. Wounded. Dying. One of the crewmen lay ominously still, dark blood spread across his tunic, while smaller crimson droplets hung within the stale, recycled air. The gravity-less lifeboat plied on. The charts indicated they would land upon Fyra proper. At least some of them would reach their destination Lena thought grimly. Even from space, she could see it was a warzone. There would be no salvation for them if they landed in no-mans land, or even worse, shviri territory. The life-boat had no real controls, it merely careened ever closer to the nearest habitable planet. One of the others was shouting over open comms, hoping against hope to get a response from down below. It was one of the few operable pieces of equipment on the lifeboat, but no response was coming. They were on their own.

A Commandos Peace

-December 21st, 3246-

Moore moved like a shadow through the tunnels. They seemed devoid of life. The soldiers who they had passed by earlier were gone. The condensed space shook with constant, violent impacts from the artillery that now roared above ground. At least it wasn't naval guns. As long as the dug in rail-guns could defend against orbital assault, they'd be relatively safe from such incursions.  He looked at the map in his hand, he was almost there. Almost in the correct section of the tunnel network. He'd have to get the wounded out somehow. Somehow, it was always somehow. He had no idea what to do. There would also be infantry at the front, and those would have to retreat, somehow. He couldn't hear gunfire or any of the usual indicators of combat, but a dead paratrooper and a pair of shvir lay on the ground. Moore hoped he wasn't too late. The sergeant rounded the corner and heard a crack.
Instantly, he dove for cover, the bullet meeting empty air and striking the tunnel wall. Wait a second. No shvir would be using a solid slug rifle, or any small arm of that sort.
"Goddamit! Stop! Don't shoot! I'm coming to help!"
There was no response, slowly, the commando sergeant peered around the corner, only exposing his black helmet and visor.
"Blyad! One of you!"
Moore smiled to himself, the words spoken reminded him of Boris, one of his former colleagues, years back when he'd begun his commando training. Except for one thing, the voice was female. Crouched down and staring at him, smoldering pistol still in hand, was a lone medic. She wore the same standard exo-suit and camouflage common to the airborne, with the small addition of a dulled red cross on her upper arm-sleeve. Behind her, he could make out movement, there must have been at least a score of wounded soldiers lining the tunnel, some propped up on empty crates of supplies, others dropped wherever their comrades coming from the front had left them. A pair of stretcher bearers carried one of the wounded past Moore, the mans face was deathly white, a bloody bandage covering a terrible stomach wound. The sergeant shuddered, a motion thankfully hidden under his armor, and darted forward to the woman.
"You need to get out of here there's a shviri breaching team that's already breaking through the tunnels, they won't be able to hold them. Ya'll are gonna be cut off in minutes. They're shortening the front, everybody's moving to the second line."
She drew herself up, standing level with Moore, approximately. Even with the bulky exo-suit, her slight build meant she stood a good few inches shorter than Moore. Certainly not someone who could intimidate a room by their mere presence. Completely unlike Boris.
"And the wounded, what I do about them? They can't move, we don't move."
"You and your friend over there, start moving them, I'll make sure nothin' shows up from the tunnels."
"Yes, nothing ever goes wrong, no? We will move them, but it going to take time." She said sarcastically.  It sounded exactly like something Boris would say. To a letter, cynical insight included.
"What's your name again?"
Moore inquired, a tone of curiosity in his voice. She looked at him incredulously for a second, as if surprised by the question. The expression on her face was exactly like one Boris would make.
"Medical Officer Sokolov, Natasha Sokolov."
"You know a Boris Sokolov, shock commando?" Moore suddenly pressed, a grin spreading across his face, hidden beneath his skeletal face-plate.
"Misha, start moving the wounded!" Natasha hollered at her comrade, grabbing a hold of an extra stretcher, the two began loading up another wounded man. Moore turned away to make room, wondering if he'd get an answer as he began to move down the hall, looking for any sign of trouble.
"Boris, Boris is my brother, mister-"
"Sergeant Thomas Moore."
"Ah yes, he complain about you, I remember! Say you never shut up. But you were not sergeant then, just training."
Moore scowled a little under his mask.
"Well, good to know he said such nice things about me. At any rate, you sound exactly like him. Lot easier on the eyes though," Moore quickly joked as he made his way down the tunnel he had originally followed to reach the wounded. Natasha's eyes hardened and she muttered something under her breath as the two medics began removing another casualty. Moore chuckled in response. The previous pair of stretcher bearers was there now, moving another man. Moore vanished into the tunnel. It was all calm, almost as if the alarm had been entirely false, not that Moore could complain if it was. Moore behaved in a nonchalant manner, but he kept his wits about him, moving slowly through the tunnels. There was shouting behind him, it was the infantry from the outer line, retreating. Moore could make out a few men pass behind him, dragging their wounded, shouting. One of them, an officer, ordered two of his men to stay behind. Moore could hear gunfire somewhere far away. It was already in the halls. He tensed instinctively, the flicker of calm was gone.
"Where's the rest of you?!" he shouted at the officer.
"Gone! A few are retreating through secondary tunnels!"
The man responded, his voice filled with anguish as he raised his head to face the commando. Moore felt bile rush into his mouth as he saw the mans face. A cracked visor covered the mans eyes, but the flesh was burned raw, no doubt from one of the heat based weapons the shviri had a penchant for using, possibly a plasma flamer. He asked no more questions and merely turned to face forward. Looking for his first target and wondering how he could cover both flanks.

"Heyo Rat!"
Moore winced at Vals shout, even though he knew it was only inside his comms. He turned around and sighed with relief as he realized the rest of his comrades had followed. He fully understood Ryss' reluctance to risk those under his command. But from Moore's perspective, there was only one correct decision, and that was to aid the defense until their evac arrived. He nodded slightly to Ryss, who immediately motioned his squad towards the wounded. They'd take up positions beyond the medical chamber, where the shvir had already made their breach a few minutes ago. There was shouting at the end of the hall. Moore began making his way forward, his squad close behind him. A deafening roar. Gunfire, screaming, the shvir had made another breach.

 The SNC was never meant to fight holding actions. It was never meant to fight in a siege. They didn't have exo-suits to carry heavy equipment. They didn't have the ammo, or the armor. They didn't have the numbers. But there was nobody else. A few paratroopers were retreating down the tunnel, falling back, dragging another wounded man, his leg must have been torn off in the explosion. Moore guessed he wouldn't make it. The shvir turned the corner, crouching low in the tunnels, all of them far too tall for the low ceiling. He could hear another roar, a neighboring tunnel collapsed, the paratroopers were sealing the tunnels.
"Willy! Tell those fuckers to stop, or we're all dead men!"
He knew the young commando hated leaving and falling back from the fight, but he could easily make it back later, and Moore wasn't about to let his efforts be undone by the panic of a command structure trying to preserve the core of its defense at any cost.
"Affirmative sarge!"
Always so formal. Moore opened fire. Gobbets of blue blood spattered the walls. Val and Kurt were at his side, pouring measured fire into the attacking mob. Already, three or four shvir lay lifeless in the tunnel, slowing their comrades advance. These were no ordinary aliens though, Moore could see their modified bodies, limbs replaced with mechanical augmentations.  Grenades were being thrown, no time to kick them all away. The commandos split. Detonation. The brilliant light shut out by the helmets systems. Kurt was silent as ever, Val was laughing, Moore cursed as he felt a bit of shrapnel lodge in his chest-plate. But the black armor had held true. He swung out into the open again, firing at the aliens that now advanced two abreast. They could easily hold here he thought.
"Moore, we got a problem!"
It was Ryss, and he sounded worried, or about as worried as the steely commando ever got.
"There's three damn tunnels leading here, this damn medbay's a nexus. The sheevees are starting to find their way down all of them, we're gonna be flanked!"
Moore nodded to Val and Kurt.
"You two, go, I can hold here 'till Willy gets back!"
The two men didn't ask any questions or argue, they merely turned around and began making their way back to the other squad, firing a parting burst before vanishing like ghosts. Moore was now alone. The lighting flickered and failed.
"Hey, Willy, what's the status on the tunnels?"
 "They're holding off sarge, I'm headed back inside. Any idea how long 'till the wounded are out?"
Moore turned around and hollered behind himself.
"Hey, Natasha, ya there? How many more?"
"Not good sergeant, we need more time."
 "Goddamit, not moving fast enough. Willy, I need you down here, now!."
Moore turned back towards his front, too late. The shvir had taken advantage of his moments distraction to close the distance. He fired, bullets sparking against  their thick armor. One toppled to the ground, the wreckage of his augmented limbs sparking and twitching for a few seconds before finally expiring. Laser rifles seared into Moores armor. For once, he was thankful that the protection the bulky black carapace offered. There was no way Moore could slow down the sudden rush. The empty magazine fell from his Akarn. Too late to reload. He drew his pistol. The silenced weapon whistled gently as he emptied his entire clip, backing away as carefully as he could, giving himself distance to reload. Some of the shvir, led by an officer and obviously incited by the failure of their laser weaponry to put the little man down, suddenly charged. Moore only barely evaded the incoming sword stroke, lightly moving to the side, allowing the blade to smash into the ground. The sergeants hand darted to his hip. Out came the stiletto, a steel spike aimed directly into the aliens unarmored side. It slumped as the knife reached its heart, the creatures weight dragging Moore's knife down with it. Moore acted on instinct, dragging the officers sword clear of his hand as he crumpled. Suddenly, the hall was illuminated by light, gunfire, Moore could hear a shot ricochet off his shoulder plate as he jumped aside. Behind him, Natasha was emptying the remainder of her clip into the aliens, killing the two nearest the sergeant and slowing the press of bodies.
"Holy shit, thanks!"
The medic merely nodded in response, holstered her pistol and moved back, dragging one of the wounded back down the tunnel, illuminating the way with her headlamp. Moore swiftly reloaded his own weapons and hefted the officers sword. Moore was no stranger to the blade. A member of the finest fencing academy in the entire Imperium for over a decade, he still marveled at how light the saber felt. Even a rapier felt clumsy and bulky compared to the alien weapon. The balance was perfect. The weapons qualities were something he didn't have long to think on as the shvir pressed onward inexorably, unfazed by their lead officers sudden demise to an inferior creature like Moore. He drew the sword, letting his Akarn dangle empty at his side. This was not the situation he wanted to be in. His armor was good, but not proof, eventually it would fail, or the shvir would hit the joints, or his neck, or they'd bring up a plasma flamer. Moore shuddered at the thought of being immolated. He had to fall back, but there was nowhere to go.
"Sarge!"
It was Willy, rounding the far corner of the tunnel, rifle blazing in the unlit corridor. He fired a few controlled bursts and moved up. The tunnel was choking up with shviri dead and wounded, making it increasingly difficult for them to maintain the pressure. It was miraculous to see how quickly the tide could shift in such close quarters. The aliens numbers were working against them. Moore smiled grimly to himself and pressed forward, killing the nearest with a single strike of the officers sword. Willy was firing over his shoulder, advancing a mere meter behind his sergeant as the two pressed forward. The wall of dead and wounded wouldn't hold indefinitely, it wouldn't even hold for long, but it would hold long enough, they'd easily get everybody out and be clear at this point. The shvir were hesitating, their thirst for battle quenched by somewhat by the brutal slaughter being perpetrated by the commandos defending the hall.
"Willy, go help move the wounded! Hey Ryss, what's the status!"
There was silence on the comms. Damage and knockouts weren't unknown, Moore changed back to his own squad.
"Hey, Kurt, Val, status!"
"There's a lot of them. Ryss is in the other corridor, we got pushed back. Kwam and Jeff should be with him still. No contact with 'em."
 Kurt responded, his calm, cool voice seeming completely out of place when one considered what he was saying.
"Goddamit, get contact! Willy, drop the wounded, get over here, take my place. I'm movin' to bail 'em out!"
Moore turned and ran back down the hall, bypassing the wounded men that lay strung out along the hallway. There were only a few left. They should have plenty of time, but something told Moore that was no longer so certain.

Moore could hear the fighting long before he reached the scene, and what he saw seemed to be a situation straight out of a nightmare. The shvir had sent combat drones down from the surface and were flooding in from two of the three tunnels, all converging on the medical bay. Far better armed and armored than any being of flesh and blood, they were pressuring the three commandos back, unhindered by the small pile of demolished machinery strewn across the hall. So far they had kept the alien forces from pincering the last tunnel, but it would only be a matter of time before that changed. There was only one course of action to save the trapped commandos, attack.
The sergeant flew past the his squad-mates like a black lance, Akarn raised and ablaze, bayonet affixed and glinting with every flash of the rifle.
"Shit, sarge is going in! Kurt, watch my six!"
Val jumped to his feet, Moore knew he'd be the first to pick up the slack, always keen to follow in his sergeants footsteps. Sizzles of laser fire, a sudden flare of pain in his shoulder. He'd been hit. Moore fired a final burst and let the rifle hang at his hip, then drew the shviri officers sword. The aliens never got a chance to register the shock of the assault as the slight human cut them apart with impeccable precision, the blade a whirling arc of death in the darkness. Behind him came his comrades, the only indicator of their position being flash of rifle barrels.
"Right hand hall sarge!"
"Let's go!"
 Moores voice was a harsh snarl as he led the way. Up ahead he could hear the gunfire, echoing in the cramped space. There they were. Kwame and Jeffrey, firing at a cluster of incoming shviri automatons.
"Where the hell is Ryss?"
"Gone, took a shot in the throat. The fuckers killed him. Killed the two paras with him too."
Kwame spoke the words without any sign of emotion, keeping his focus locked on the shvir in front of him. Moore's eyes widened with shock. He cursed under his breath. It had been his fault. He had dragged the rest of the unit down here, to defend wounded who weren't even their own. He pushed to the front, searching for a glimpse of the sergeant anywhere.
"He's gone Moore, all we can do is get the body."
Asch shook his head slightly. Moore suddenly felt the pain in his arm, the agony of the laser hit. The weight of guilt. No! There was no time for such stupidity. They had gotten breathing room. He was the only man left in charge, he had to decide what to do immediately.
"Fall back!"
He ordered the group to retreat.
"What about Ryss' body?!"
"We either get out or we all die, Ryss has his peace!"
He knew that Kwame and Asch were weighing his words, deciding whether or not to listen. Moore could sense their anger, their disgust with him and his decision. The pall of resentment hovered over them even as they kept shooting at the encroaching shvir. Finally, as one, wordlessly, soundlessly, they began to back off, rifles still firing at every alien and machine that poked around the corner.
"We're all clear sergeant! We're all out!"
It was Natasha, Moore could hear the relief in her voice, but all he felt was bitterness, fury. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. Hatred. Rage. Wrath. All evident in every motion he made as he tailed the column of retreating commandos. A shvir charged out of a side tunnel. The sergeant impaled him with a single sword stroke, not bothering to confirm the kill, he knew it was a death-blow before it had even struck. His shoulder burned, but not nearly as much as the shame. He had betrayed his own peers for pride, for unnecessary and illogical heroics. Moore shook his head. Natasha was urging them onward. Willy was still firing at something Moore couldn't see. Detonation. The tunnels began to explode. Debris fell around the retreating commandos. A chain reaction seeking to obliterate, annihilate. Strike down anything within reach. An all consuming roar. They were all running. Fleeing. The sliding blast door slid shut a heartbeat after Moore threw himself through, dropping the shviri blade to the floor.
"We're all clear boss. We did it."
It was Valeri, striding over to Moore, a grim look on his face.
"Yes we're all clear."
There was nothing more to say.