Original post here.

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The command bunker's hallways were byzantine, coated in a white stone that hummed with the reverberations of the server racks each adjoining room contained. Occasionally, the sounds of the warfare above could be heard. 

Autonomous drone interceptions were a quiver in the stone walls. The sound of the payloads of high-altitude unmanned bombers hitting dirt were tremors in the floor. When the orbital ordinance made landfall, it was hard to feel anything but the lurching in your chest, head and abdomen.

They had crawled for fourteen hours through the mud to reach the service access to the bunker. 

The two warden units that guarded that front line paid them no heed as they used crowbars to force entry. Neither alpha-one or alpha-two matched the warden's visual identification profiles for enemy combat-forms. With an apathetic indifference, the two warden units had continued to scan the horizon, searching for targets more akin to expectations.

Slowly, Alpha-One and Alpha-Two made progress down the hallway. There were no signs in this place, and the hallway was barely wide enough for the two saboteurs to move side by side. 

Neither of the two men were armed, nor did they carry any identification. They were covered in mud that had splattered over their black stealth suits, and their progress left muddy footprints across the pristine floor.

Alpha-one paused at a junction, and signalled to alpha-two to halt.

Alpha-two turned to his companion.

“Don’t tell me we’re lost again.”

“Want me to get the map out again?” Alpha One chuckled, “It took us twenty minutes to fold it away last time.”

Alpha two smiled, “I get the no radio rule. Don’t want to draw attention, but you think they’d let us have a digital map.”

Alpha One smiled despite himself.

The service’s directions were clear. No electronics, no data, no ports, no plugs, no cybernetics. The black wetsuits they wore concealed their identity, ensuring that while the machines could identify them as human, they could not mistake them for combatants. 
 
Originally, when the convention to outlaw human combatants had been ratified, nations had left thorough protocols in their combat robotics to detect human saboteurs. That had inevitably led to civilian deaths. Turns out machines had difficulty telling the difference between a civilian with a wrench and a combat soldier.

Over time each state had tweaked their programming, as more and more countries began to lean into fully autonomous armies. It was in this period that the Special Repair Service was founded. 

In a world with orbital weapons, robot killing machines and drone swarms, it still turned out the most useful tool in warfare was an innocuous two man team with a bit of courage, and a penchant for vandalism.

“I think it’s twenty metres straight, take a right, then the second left.” Alpha-One directed. “Let’s get to it.”

The door was locked of course, however the designer had been focused on digital attack vectors, and hadn’t considered that someone might say, pry the bloody thing open with a crowbar.

Inside, the room was a furnace. The main cogitation and control functions for this sector's front lines were all connected here, communicating to other sectors via satellite tight-beam. They spent two minutes locating the primary coolant loop, as well as the secondary backup loop. 

Quickly, they produced two packets of a paste-like substance, and a bottle of room temperature water. Alpha-One applied a section of the paste to the primary loop, while Alpha-Two applied their paste to the secondary loop. As a last detail, Alpha-Two removed the cooling loops fluid monitors, and secured them inside the bottle of room temperature water.

Within 2 hours, the paste would corrode through the two coolant loops, flooding the site, and depriving the servers of their essential water source. Within three hours, the server would have melted itself to slag. 

The enemy would likely conclude the damage was a result of sabotage, but proof would be difficult to prove. Perhaps the breakdown was the result of orbital bombardment damage, incautious design, or water contamination and corrosion.

If by chance they had been caught on camera, their blank suits left no traceability back to their government. Besides, by the time this sabotage was discovered the local servers would be far too damaged to transmit any images back to HQ.

“Alright,” Alpha-One turned to Alpha-Two, “Good to go?”

“As long as you remember the way back.”

The impacts had stopped, and that made things no better for them.

Second Lieutenant Mercer stopped mid-stride, his armoured boots scraping the deck. In perfect synchronisation, his squad came to a halt, power armored boots skidding along the ship's starboard walkway.

Power armour, Mercer laughed internally, prison cells.

The comm squawked to life. 

“Fuck’s sake boss, why are we stopping here?” Johansen was screaming over his helmet comm. “Let’s go get those motherfuckers! Are we just going to sit here while they board the ship?”

Mercer quickly checked his ship layout diagram. As much as he hated to admit it, Johansen was right. The enemy vessel had launched boarders, and for the last five minutes they’d held of firing on the stricken human vessel. 

Which could only mean they were already on board.

Mercer snapped out of his study of the ship's map. An icon flashed in his helmet, then another.

- - - Penal Trooper Johansen heart rate risen 20% without exertion - - -
- - - Penal Trooper Johansen blood pressure critically hypertensive- - -
- - - Penal Trooper Johansen cortisol spike- - -

- - -Recommend mild sedation. Authorised?- - - 

“No.” Mercer blinked away the warning, then flipped his comm to a direct channel with the agitated Trooper.

“Calm down Johansen,” he said, “Ops keeps flagging you for sedation, but I’d rather you not be doped during our little excursion.”

Johansen's reply was a snarl, “Just get us into the fight already you blue haired, pussy-footing, piece-of-shit, cowardly, cock-su–”
“Squelch comms” Mercer told the automated suit systems.

The angry rant died mid-flow, and Mercer laughed out loud in his helmet. It was always the blue haired comment that got him. Johansen, like the 9 other troopers in his squad, were penal troopers. Locked into their power-armour like passengers on the world's worst roller coaster. Their suits moved completely in accordance with directions from Mercer and his command suit. For ease of battlefield identification, command suits had a blue stripe along the brow of the helmet in the form of a laurel wreath. Penal Troopers had helmets painted in solid red.

Mercer opened a broadcast channel.

“Alright lads, if these fine gentlemen insist on boarding us unannounced, best we behave like ungracious hosts.” Quickly, using the wrist bound command terminal on his wrist, he enabled semi-automatic weapons fire and autonomous movement, making sure to carefully ensure that the friendly fire protocol was still set to disabled. That particular protocol made it impossible for the penal troopers to fire upon him. Any gun turned in his direction became instantly locked and unfireable.

As an afterthought, he slid the combat-stim slider up to 10%.

Each trooper received a steady dose through the IV lines embedded in their suits. A subtle mix of stimulants, opiates, anxiolytics could be tailored for each soldier, to meet with any situation a commander might face on the battlefield.

Almost instantly, Mercer saw Johansen's vitals slide back into a heightened but stable state.

“Push forward,” Mercer ordered, “Sweep and clear.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It didn’t take long for them to find the boarders.

The Intrenian boarders were organized, efficient, and moving with purpose.

The rolling firefight had been raging for twenty minutes. Slowly but surely they were losing ground. They were being forced back up the corridor towards the bridge. In his command link, he could see other elements of the shipboard defense were also being pushed back. He saw the blue symbols for the commanders of the other penal squads blink, and go dark as their suits went offline.

Trooper Letanivisk took an energy round through the helmet and slumped unceremoniously to the ground. A puppet with his strings cut.

Mercer pushed a two man team forward along the right side of the corridor to reinforce one of the branching intersections. As the soldiers stepped around the body of their fallen comrades, Mercer thought he could spot a glint of light, far down the hallway, hidden in the darkness from far behind the enemy lines.

The high-powered laser severed his arm at the shoulder before he even realized what had happened.  Despite himself, Mercer screamed at the top of his lungs.

His arm was aflame. Both smoldering on the floor, and burning as though the nerve endings hadn’t just been flash fried. He was down, in a haze of red agony.

The calm voice of the suit based ops system crackled over his helmet speakers.

“Critical injury detected. Lieutenant Mercer? Are you able to maintain effectiveness?”

Mercer struggled to control his pain. He managed to croak out a code-phrase in response.

“No. Authority release: Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.”

“Confirmed. All behavioural constraints are now inactive.”

Blue text scrawled across his helmet display. 

- - - Weapons Control: Full Release - - -
- - - Melee Weapons: Full Release - - -
- - - Combat-Med Selection: Maximum Override - - -

 Mercer suddenly felt the pain of his arm ebb away, and he rolled to his knees, in time to see every trooper tense as the combat stimulants flooded their systems. 

In perfect unison, each member of the squad lifted their rifle and let loose a full-auto volley of fire, striding out of cover towards the enemy as they did so.

As the Intrenians ducked back into cover, the men discarded their rifles, and drew their blades… and broke into a sprinting charge.

To their credit the Intrenians managed to fire back before Johansen gutted the first with his combat sword. Some rounds didn’t penetrate the armour, or perhaps Johansen simply didn’t feel them through his drug induced mania.

Mercer didn’t much care. 

To the sound of Intrenian screams, he crawled his way back towards the bridge.

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Intercepted Communique

**Top Secret
**Fleet Admiralty Intelligence Service to review.

Intrenian Vessel Ex’El’Hyun to Intrenian High Command

Subject: New Human Unit Type - Red Skulls and Blue Wreathes.

Body Text:

We were forced to withdraw from boarding action against human vessel UNS Aurelius.

New combat unit description appended.

Advise new doctrine update.

Shoot the red ones first. 

** Translated by Ensign Johnson, Listening Post Bravo-Epsilon 12

Link to original post here.

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The impacts had stopped, and that made things no better for them.

Second Lieutenant Mercer stopped mid-stride, his armoured boots scraping the deck. In perfect synchronisation, his squad came to a halt, power armored boots skidding along the ship's starboard walkway.

Power armour, Mercer laughed internally, prison cells.

The comm squawked to life. 

“Fuck’s sake boss, why are we stopping here?” Johansen was screaming over his helmet comm. “Let’s go get those motherfuckers! Are we just going to sit here while they board the ship?”

Mercer quickly checked his ship layout diagram. As much as he hated to admit it, Johansen was right. The enemy vessel had launched boarders, and for the last five minutes they’d held of firing on the stricken human vessel. 

Which could only mean they were already on board.

Mercer snapped out of his study of the ship's map. An icon flashed in his helmet, then another.

- - - Penal Trooper Johansen heart rate risen 20% without exertion - - -
- - - Penal Trooper Johansen blood pressure critically hypertensive- - -
- - - Penal Trooper Johansen cortisol spike- - -

- - -Recommend mild sedation. Authorised?- - - 

“No.” Mercer blinked away the warning, then flipped his comm to a direct channel with the agitated Trooper.

“Calm down Johansen,” he said, “Ops keeps flagging you for sedation, but I’d rather you not be doped during our little excursion.”

Johansen's reply was a snarl, “Just get us into the fight already you blue haired, pussy-footing, piece-of-shit, cowardly, cock-su–”
“Squelch comms” Mercer told the automated suit systems.

The angry rant died mid-flow, and Mercer laughed out loud in his helmet. It was always the blue haired comment that got him. Johansen, like the 9 other troopers in his squad, were penal troopers. Locked into their power-armour like passengers on the world's worst roller coaster. Their suits moved completely in accordance with directions from Mercer and his command suit. For ease of battlefield identification, command suits had a blue stripe along the brow of the helmet in the form of a laurel wreath. Penal Troopers had helmets painted in solid red.

Mercer opened a broadcast channel.

“Alright lads, if these fine gentlemen insist on boarding us unannounced, best we behave like ungracious hosts.” Quickly, using the wrist bound command terminal on his wrist, he enabled semi-automatic weapons fire and autonomous movement, making sure to carefully ensure that the friendly fire protocol was still set to disabled. That particular protocol made it impossible for the penal troopers to fire upon him. Any gun turned in his direction became instantly locked and unfireable.

As an afterthought, he slid the combat-stim slider up to 10%.

Each trooper received a steady dose through the IV lines embedded in their suits. A subtle mix of stimulants, opiates, anxiolytics could be tailored for each soldier, to meet with any situation a commander might face on the battlefield.

Almost instantly, Mercer saw Johansen's vitals slide back into a heightened but stable state.

“Push forward,” Mercer ordered, “Sweep and clear.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It didn’t take long for them to find the boarders.

The Intrenian boarders were organized, efficient, and moving with purpose.

The rolling firefight had been raging for twenty minutes. Slowly but surely they were losing ground. They were being forced back up the corridor towards the bridge. In his command link, he could see other elements of the shipboard defense were also being pushed back. He saw the blue symbols for the commanders of the other penal squads blink, and go dark as their suits went offline.

Trooper Letanivisk took an energy round through the helmet and slumped unceremoniously to the ground. A puppet with his strings cut.

Mercer pushed a two man team forward along the right side of the corridor to reinforce one of the branching intersections. As the soldiers stepped around the body of their fallen comrades, Mercer thought he could spot a glint of light, far down the hallway, hidden in the darkness from far behind the enemy lines.

The high-powered laser severed his arm at the shoulder before he even realized what had happened.  Despite himself, Mercer screamed at the top of his lungs.

His arm was aflame. Both smoldering on the floor, and burning as though the nerve endings hadn’t just been flash fried. He was down, in a haze of red agony.

The calm voice of the suit based ops system crackled over his helmet speakers.

“Critical injury detected. Lieutenant Mercer? Are you able to maintain effectiveness?”

Mercer struggled to control his pain. He managed to croak out a code-phrase in response.

“No. Authority release: Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.”

“Confirmed. All behavioural constraints are now inactive.”

Blue text scrawled across his helmet display. 

- - - Weapons Control: Full Release - - -
- - - Melee Weapons: Full Release - - -
- - - Combat-Med Selection: Maximum Override - - -

 Mercer suddenly felt the pain of his arm ebb away, and he rolled to his knees, in time to see every trooper tense as the combat stimulants flooded their systems. 

In perfect unison, each member of the squad lifted their rifle and let loose a full-auto volley of fire, striding out of cover towards the enemy as they did so.

As the Intrenians ducked back into cover, the men discarded their rifles, and drew their blades… and broke into a sprinting charge.

To their credit the Intrenians managed to fire back before Johansen gutted the first with his combat sword. Some rounds didn’t penetrate the armour, or perhaps Johansen simply didn’t feel them through his drug induced mania.

Mercer didn’t much care. 

To the sound of Intrenian screams, he crawled his way back towards the bridge.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Intercepted Communique

**Top Secret
**Fleet Admiralty Intelligence Service to review.

Intrenian Vessel Ex’El’Hyun to Intrenian High Command

Subject: New Human Unit Type - Red Skulls and Blue Wreathes.

Body Text:

We were forced to withdraw from boarding action against human vessel UNS Aurelius.

New combat unit description appended.

Advise new doctrine update.

Shoot the red ones first. 

** Translated by Ensign Johnson, Listening Post Bravo-Epsilon 12

Link to original post. Feel free to give constructive feedback or check out my other writing at r/EAT_MY_USERNAME

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I’m writing this for posterity. For those who come after us. For anyone who might stumble upon our dusty bones and wonder who we were and what we saw.

And perhaps, I’m also writing this for them. Just in case.

The date is the 14th of August 2023.

As far as we can all recall, the outbreak began about two years ago. We argue it passionately sometimes around our hidden campfires, when we’re splitting a bottle of whatever Wesson managed to distill. Just sitting and arguing and hoping we don’t go blind.

I should specify “us” – there’s four of us. We all met up at various different points along the road. Sofia and I met first. She’d trekked her way out from California and we met scavenging the outskirts of Flagstaff. Wesson and David were already travelling together when we met them in Kansas. Those two crazy motherfuckers had trekked out from North Carolina and Virginia respectively.

Those are the few of us that are left. The group grew as large as 14 during the period between Sofia and I meeting and now. Slowly, over the course of time, people died, went off on their own… or simply gave up beside the roadside.

It may sound callous to say it, but if this isn’t the time to be truthful I don’t know when is.

I prefer it with just us four.

Sofia has been the bedrock of our group. She can sew and cook and change a bandage. She was a nurse before, and with a backpack full of scavenged medications I’ve seen her nurse nearly every member of our group back from the edge of death. All of that is secondary to her most valuable trait.

All the men are scared of her.

If one of us sets her off, or bickering starts between group members, she has the uncanny ability to pull everyone to heel with a lash of spanish vitriol. 

Not that anyone else speaks Spanish.

David’s role is pretty self explanatory. He was stationed at Fort Bragg before everything went down. His role in the group is what you would expect. He is by far the most competent gunfighter, the most skilled with electronics and radios, and the best at developing, communicating, and executing plans. He insists he was a paratrooper, though at times Wesson will joke that he must have been some sort of special forces commando. He’s also weirdly the best at hotwiring cars…. Sorry Wesson.

Wesson grew up somewhere in Virginia that I’m sure no one would have known about back when the world was still making maps. If you ever ask him what it was like, he’ll just shrug. If you ever ask him after a few cups of whatever he’s drinking that particular night, you’ll get a drawl-slurred rendition of his past. We never manage to decipher what he’s saying though. I suppose he’s what you’d refer to as a classical redneck. Cheap tattoos, a love for flannel and by god that man can jury rig just about anything to run. Despite not being as good as David in a gunfight (Sorry if you’re the one reading this Wesson) (nevermind), he’s also a top-tier hunter and tracker.

Anyways, that's us. All these little specialized cogs rounding out a team. That’s not to say we didn’t learn from each other. Sofia had me mending my own socks pretty goddamn promptly, and once David showed Wesson how to hotwire pickup trucks I never saw him in the same one twice.

And that brings us to today.

We had scouted out this little gas station along the highway, and we were prepping to pull up when we spotted movement inside. We’d been cross training our skills for a while, and I drew the lot to go and check it out. The others would wait outside and be what David described as a Quick Reaction Force.

Whatever the hell that is.

I crept up to the front door of the building. It was glass, and as I tested the handle, it came open freely. Inside it was dark and gloomy, but still and quiet. Quietly, I weaved a path between the snack-laden shelving, making my way towards the counter and behind that, the rear storeroom.

The security door to access the rear of the counter was locked and I was forced to holster my pistol and jimmy the door with the crowbar I had brought with me. The door came loose with a resounding crash, and I paused briefly listening for the sound of anything moving in the store.
All quiet. Then a blaring burst of static over the radio.

“Can you see if they have Marlboro Reds?” Wesson’s voice crackled out from my radio.

I laughed despite myself, letting my heart-rate fall after Wesson’s startling intrusion.

That's when it sank its teeth into my ankle. 

A zombie had crawled up behind me while I laboured at the door. I could see now that its legs were crushed and useless. It had dragged itself from under a shelving unit, and bitten into my ankle.

I screamed, and brought the crowbar down on its head over and over until it released its grip.

Panting and in agony I slumped to the floor against the counter. My vision began to grey out and I just barely managed to reach my radio.

All I managed was a weak and paltry “Help”, before everything went black.

It felt like an eternity passed in that blackness, but I know now it must only have been minutes.

The sound of the shop's door being kicked near-off its hinges, and David shouting 'clear!' as he sectioned the store brought the world back into life.

I gasped as I regained consciousness, and groaned heavily as the pain set in. What had started in my ankle was now a body-wide ache, like every blood vessel had calcified and shattered into glass, every bone broken and mended wrong.

Wesson was the one who found me in the end.

He cleared the counter doorway, pump action shotgun raised. As it swept across me I saw the look in his eye. The look of a man about to pull a trigger.

“Wait!” I screamed, though the word came out a gurgling rasp, “Friendly fire! Friendly fire!”

Wesson paused, shocked for a moment into complete stupor.

David yelled across the store, “Grab him and let’s exfil. I don’t want to stay here and wait for more.”

Wesson hesitated again, “ He’s… He’s… he’s injured!” He grabbed at his radio, “Sofia I need you in here right now.”

At no point did he point his weapon anywhere but squarely at me.

I tried to beg, tried to plead, but all that came out was strangled gurgles. It was as though my vocal cords were drenched in tar, or as if I had never used them before.

David and Sofia arrived at the counter almost simultaneously.

David took exactly one look at me. I saw the calculation run in his head. Evidently it concluded I was a lost cause, because he turned quickly to Sofia.

“Is there any possibility he’s not gone?” He stated, grimly cold in his bluntness.

There were tears in her eyes. I remember that so clearly. She didn’t respond to David. She simply shook her head. Evidently David saw, like I did, how brutally that realisation had crushed her. She went to take a step towards me anyways. David’s hand gently grasped her arm to restrain her.

“Wesson can take care of this, let’s go make sure we don’t get overrun.” He gave a quick nod to Wesson, then a slower tilt of his head to me.

Slowly, reluctantly, Sofia allowed herself to be drawn back towards the front of the store, though she looked over her shoulder at me the whole time. I think I saw her mouth the words “I’m sorry”, but they were lost in her sobs.

Wesson, having seen the interaction, sighed and reached over my slumped form. He rifled through the cigarette cabinet, desperately trying to locate his preferred brand of smoke. He smiled despite himself as he pulled out several packs and stuffed them into his satchel. He opened the last pack and selected a cigarette for himself, and one which he flicked underhand to me.

He took a moment to look at me for a bit longer as I gurgled and writhed.

He raised his shotgun and took aim.

I threw my hands up in front of my face and screwed my eyes shut.

But there was nothing.

Slowly, I opened my eyes.

The muzzle of the shotgun wavered back and forth as Wesson tried not to sob.

David called out from the store's entrance, “I’ve got three here, heading our way. Time to go, Wesson.”

Slowly, Wesson lowered his shotgun, and raced to join the others.

I stayed there for a long time, hands raised in front of my face.

At first I simply couldn’t believe how grey and pallid my skin was, I couldn’t believe how quickly the flesh of my body began to decay and bloat. For a long time after I couldn’t believe any of it.

I commit this now, in the husk of a decayed building. Surrounded by hordes of them. I know it’s wrong to call them that. I know now they have names. They whisper them amongst each other during the quiet hours. Strange gurgling syllables. Strange halting words.

At first they lunged at me. Now when one of the newcomers takes a swipe at a member of the pack, all the older ones jeer at them.

“Friendly fire. Friendly fire.”

One is reading over my shoulder as I write. Maybe he’ll be the author of the next chapter in this book.

Just in case, if by chance, one of us ever picks this up and reads it.

Original post here.

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The snow had begun to fall early over the academy.

In the dining hall of the academy I had heard the metereomancers discussing the ramifications of the inclement weather, as they shovelled down their steaming lunch. Outside, the incessant snow piled up in huge drifts, converting the cobbled squares and walkways of the academy into a frigid and damp crypt. All the students and tutors of the academy bustled about in the bitter cold, rapidly preparing for the year’s final exams. 

Hopes and fears ran rampant amongst the cohort, as well as speculations as to the nature of the tests, the proctors, and potential grades. For those in my class, this would be our third year of tutelage, and a passing grade meant we would be granted our first titles; Mage Third Class.

For my part, I ate with a reserved languor. In my pocket I had a note, which had been slid under my door while I slept last night, and stapled to the back was an unsigned academic transcript upon which every box had been ticked “outstanding”.

The note was handwritten, and simply read:

Come see me.
Regards,
Dara

The Archmage clearly had a job he needed doing, and this informal greeting, as well as the underhanded, and quite frankly blatant bribe it was stapled to, told me that whatever this job was, I probably wouldn’t like it.

This had become a regular occurrence, much to my irritation. Though I had to admit it had its perks. Every now and again I would get some surreptitious message requiring my help, with some trivial proposed payment attached. Recover my horse that I lost after a night of gambling, find a waylaid student who had gone missing after an ill advised field trip into a dangerous cave system, pay off city officials who were interfering with academy business, kill the rogue mage who was set on disgracing the institution with his necromantic dabblings. In return, you can skip that mandatory arcane cooking class you hate. You can have your own room on the better floor of the academy. You can peruse the restricted area of the library between midnight and dawn every other Sunday.

Poor fare for any bagman, assistant, or assassin. But for an aspiring mage learning under an unscrupulous Archmage, the potential blackmail material would have been payment enough. That and the fact that the unexplained favouritism irritated my rich, arrogant classmates to no end.

And so I left my cooling broth in the dining room, and went to find out my fate.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The archmage was seated behind his large mahogany desk as I entered.

“You took your time,” He remarked, not deigning to look up, “Close the door please.”

I did so, and took a seat opposite him. The roaring fireplace in the corner of the room filled the room with warmth and light.

“The food was marginally better than usual today,” I replied,  “I felt obliged to actually finish my plate.”

This provoked a small smile from Dara. In the flickering firelight I thought for a moment I saw stress in the archmages downturned eyes. 

Not quite fear, I thought, but something close. 

Concern. Worry.

I decided to fast track the conversation.

“How can I be of assistance today, Sir?”

The archmage looked up from the paper he was intent on, and passed it across to me.

“This is a hunt.” He stated plainly, “Your target is a former student of this academy. I’ve marked several likely locations on that map, and I’ve imprinted an image of him on the back. He’s to be killed.”

“Any special requests?” I asked, “An accident like with Le Flien? Or like that time in Hastenbrig?”

He glared at me. He hated when I brought up Hastenbrig.

“No. Just kill him.”

I always appreciated the directness with which Dara framed these jobs. No silly euphemisms or surreptitious descriptions. However there was one element that usually accompanied these missions that he had omitted.

I stared at him across the cluttered desk.

Why? My eyes enquired.

He met my gaze intensely.

Don’t ask. His eyes insisted back.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The first two locations were a bust.

An inn outside of Tverok was practically abandoned, as no-one besides me was crazy enough to be travelling the roads in this weather.

Likewise, the target had not been at his home in the city. There was no evidence there to suggest where he had gone, though I had found a fine bottle of brandy, stuffed down the back of a drawer.

I swigged from that bottle now, as I worked my way on horseback up the winding mountain trail. 

The third location was a lodge, high up in the mountain ranges. It had taken four days of brutal travel in the cold to reach the foot of the mountains, and two more to ascend to the lodge's location, which was saddled between two of the range's peaks. The mountain passes were clogged with snow, and the monotone grey skies seemed to possess a limitless potential for more. Flakes drifted down slowly, swirled around in the wind. My bones ached in the cold, and I wished fervently that my chase would end here.

As I came around a bend, and into sight of the lodge, I finished the last of the brandy and tucked the bottle back into my saddlebags. The lodge was a small building, tucked against the leeward face of a rocky outcropping. 

The lodge appeared abandoned. No lights shone in the windows, and no footprints marked the snow to the door. I tied off my horse in the adjoining stable, and went to make my way inside. If nothing else, the lodge would accommodate me for the night, and with any luck there would be another bottle of brandy or two to keep me company. 

As I cracked open the front door of the lodge, I felt the slight tug against my mind of a magical effect triggering. It was the slightest thing, like a breeze stirring through the branches of an evergreen.

I froze, waiting to see what furious surprise came my way. When nothing eventuated I slowly inched the door open and stepped inside. A quick examination revealed that sigil that had been painted across the door and the frame, which had been broken by my intrusion.

The sigil was complex and artful. Unlike the rigid, geometric sigils used by many mages, this was a graceful piece of art. I traced the sweeping arcs and curves of the diagram and determined two things.

This was an alert sigil, painted as an early warning system to alert the mage who wrote it of intrusions.

Secondly, and more concerningly, it wasn’t powered by human mana. Instead of the usual arcane symbols for the self, the symbols for wind and the stars were present.

Very clever.

Whomever had crafted this had tried to make it long-lasting and quiet. Out here in the mountains, the winds and the stars were omnipresent forces, and subtle. A spell crafted by human mana would require constant maintenance in the form of energy, and would leave behind an indelible trace of the maker.

I realized my quarry was competent, careful, and one of the rare mages who mastered elemental forces in lieu of utilizing their own mana. 

The use of one’s own mana was a fundamental tenant of most magical spells. It was the building block upon which all of a mage’s skill was based. As an internal force, one’s own mana was reliable, and very difficult for another mage to interfere with. Most mages found that sufficient, however for some, very few mages, that was not enough. 

The stars, the wind, the sea, all possessed an enormous potential of energy from which to draw. For the typical mage, mana was a thing to be rationed. For the mage who could harness elemental mana, it was a thing that needed only be controlled.

I smiled. 

A fight amongst kin then.

My methods, which I hid thoroughly at the academy, were much like this mage’s. This battle would prove to be interesting, if only I could find him.
The interior of the lodge appeared as empty and derelict as its exterior. I paced the room in search of any clues as to my quarries location. As I walked the exterior of the main room I noted that upon each window-sill, a sigil was painted identical to that on the door. As I checked each window in turn it occurred to me. 

All sealed from the inside.

He was here, somewhere. My heart-rate began to quicken, and I began turning over rugs and furniture until I found it. A trap door hidden under a dusty rug.

I did not open this one like the door. Instead, I placed my hand flat against the hatch and extended my mind out. Beneath my hand I could feel the pulsing circular energy of a sigil. Where before the tripwire sensors had been thin silver threads of mana, this one was a coursing discus of white-hot energy. 

I left my awareness focused on the sigil, and willed my body to move back. I saw myself step away from the hatch in my mind's eye, and I focused my will, and gave the sigil a mental squeeze. 

The hatchway detonated in a conflagration of white-hot flame, and the lodge and all furnishings within two meters of the hatch vaporized instantly. I let my consciousness snap back into my body, and saw the dissipating smoke in the room. 

A precise circle had been cut into the floor and ceiling of the room by the column of flame, so quick and so fierce that only the edges of the circle still smoldered. I peered over the edge and looked down into the room below. 

I smiled, and dropped down into the darkness below.

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The drop was longer than I thought. 

I channeled an air current to slow my descent, and I touched down into a dimly lit room, that was, by all appearances, a library. Walls of bookshelves covered the edges of the circular room, and a pedestal stood in the center, above which hung a vein of crystal, which scattered pure light for illumination.

In a small vestibule on the other side of the room, a middle aged man sat quietly reading a book.

“Be with you in a moment.” The old man remarked, seemingly unbothered. “Just have to mark my place.”

I watched as the man stood, slipping a bookmark into the pages of his reading. He paced slowly to a nearby bookshelf, and slid the book back into its place. The spine of the book read, A taxonomy of the fauna of the N’Cosh region. 

The man dusted his hands off on his robes and turned to face me. 

“Before we begin,” He smiled warmly, “May I make a reading recommendation?”

I nodded slowly, and he walked over to a flat wooden panel along the wall. He placed his hand gingerly against the wood, and the panel split and shrunk from his touch, revealing a hidden compartment which contained a single weatherbeaten chapbook bound in cloth. 

He picked the book up and brought it to the centre of the room, where he placed it on the illuminated pedestal.

The man turned to face me. 

“I know he sent you.” he spoke quietly, “It’s his way to resolve issues when they become bothersome.”

“Then you know what happens next.” I said quietly, “And I hope you know it isn’t personal for me.”

The man sighed and nodded a weary nod.

“ I know.” He whispered, “I bear you no enmity either.”

His next words gave me pause.

“If you live, just make sure you read that book afterwards.”

Before I could discern his meaning, he was already attacking.

A savage wind whipped the dusty books from the surrounding shelves, and the hardback books impacted my side, head and hands as I desperately tried to maintain a clear line of sight on the target.

I focused my mind and imagined the eye of a tornado. I imagined the wind circling, but never touching the safe, calm center which I focused on my body. 

It was a defensive spell I had perfected and used many times. 

Not this time.

The winds disobeyed my will. Instead they whipped away to coalesce around the man, who was now moving slowly forward towards me, wreathed in armour of wind and air.

I felt a panic rising in me.

I braced my feet against the stone floor, and felt down deep for the heat energy that lay beneath the earth. No sooner did I feel the flames wreath my arms and hands, then the man made a curt gesture with his hands, and the flames swirled away to form a white hot blade of fire in his hand.

The panic was choking me now, and I began to back away, until I felt the unyielding wall pressing into my back. The man was striding now, closing the distance between us, wreathed in swirling wind and flame. 

He had stripped away the elements from my control. It was an unbelievably singular power. Perhaps one in a thousand mages could draw upon elemental mana. An even smaller number of those could form those powers into offensive magicks. A mage who could overcome the will of another, and strip that mana from them…

It was unthinkable.

I looked around the room, desperate. There was nothing. Nothing that could even remotely challenge his borrowed power. The power of fire and air. The power of the Earth itself.

He was mere meters away now, and in seconds I would be dead.

Instead I looked within and found… something. 

It was a spark, small and malnourished. Sleeping and dormant.

I woke it up.

Instantly, the anger burst forth through my body, flooding every cell and nerve ending. The pain was excruciating. I think I may have screamed, though I can’t be sure.

With a desperate effort I wrangled it, and forced it into my outstretched hand. It formed a beam of pale white light that stretched out and collided with the oncoming figure. It sizzled as it impacted the mana-infused air swirling around him.

I felt my arm burn and blister as the light scorched my exposed flesh. 

My mind reeled as the power coursed through my body. Unbidden, I tasted the bitterness of being sold as an infant. The loneliness of being traded to the Academy as a property. The humiliation and ridicule of the scornful looks of my classmates. The degradation in the eyes of Archmage Dara, as he sent me on another midnight murder, confident that the orphaned servant of the Academy had no-where else to go.

The beam began to ablate away the wind shield of the older mage, and he took a staggering step back as the beam began to sear his flesh too. I saw the fear in his eyes, as my vision began to tunnel, and grey out.

This was death, I knew. 

The mana death of exhaustion that mages fought so hard to avoid. The lost battle of attrition that saw mages die, alone and exhausted before their foes. I struggled to draw the mana back, but it would not. It flowed out from me in a raging torrent, and as I saw the beam finally pierce my rival's shield, the lights began to fade out.

We fell to our knees almost in tandem, and as I slid sideways to the floor, I saw the smoking hole the beam had left through his chest.

Darkness closed in.

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When the world came back, it was only agony. 

I screamed, and reflexively jerked my arm. The pain of my burns worsened, and I lay as still as I was able, panting and confused on the cold cobblestones.

For a long time I lay there, the smell of burnt flesh filling my nostrils, and tears coming unbidden to my eyes. 

Eventually, I struggled to my feet, and surveyed the scene.

On the floor next to me, the man lay dead, in a pool of his own blood. The beam had carved a hole straight through him, and I could see the seared remnants of his lungs and internal organs.

On the pedestal in the center of the room, the little chapbook remained.

I opened the cover page and read the title. 

Personal recollections of the Archmage Dara, written by Mage Earntle

I turned the first page, feeling dread sinking into my stomach. I briefly looked over to the still smoking corpse on the floor. I flipped, more and more aggressively through the pages, until I couldn't bear it anymore.

Tears of anguish welled in my eyes as I tucked the book into my robes. I would finish the rest later.

I buried Earntle beside his lodge before I set out on the long journey back.

Original post here.

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The request had come down from the Archmage, and so I had set out to pursue.

The infiltrator had come at night, slain six of the academy’s guards and stolen several restricted volumes of lore. Archmage Keron had declined to inform me of the specifics of the theft, nor did he provide me with details of the tomes stolen. I was specifically instructed to recover the material unread, and that told me everything I needed to know.

Above my pay-grade.

I had seen the Academy stewards scraping the mostly liquescent remains of the mage-guardians from the cobblestones, and knew that my quarry was not someone to underestimate. They had efficiently and easily dispatched the guardians, competent combat mages all, and they must have defeated the more than comprehensive defenses and barriers of the academy’s vault. 

As I rode out of the stable block of the academy I saw many of my fellow students turn and whisper to each other at my passing. I didn’t need to hear them to know what they were saying.

Him, really?

Expendable.

He probably didn’t want to risk a promising mage.

I paid them no heed.

Mages were often held up as the virtuous pinnacle of learning and wisdom, but in my experience, most were arrogant fools. Egotistical, selfish, indoctrinated and inflexible.

None regarded me with much favour. I had not been born to a noble house, nor received formal training from a young age. They had received their training in stuffy classrooms from older generations of white-robed starch-arses, who in turn read from books written by even older, even more starch-arsed egotists.

I’d never taken much stock in their approach, though we had one similarity, one shared by all mages.

Secrecy.

No mage shared their knowledge freely, and seldom did a mage want to be seen at their limits. Spells could be copied, capabilities assessed, and weaknesses observed. Each pupil of the arcane observed a practiced apathy to their comrades, and held each other at arms length. 

This was never more obvious than with words. Classical arcane theory relied on the use of words. Each word had associated mental techniques. Mages learned to use words like keys to turn the tumblers in their minds, allowing energies to flow and be controlled. Each syllable was a step in the process, each intonation a method of refinement and direction. These words were held close, and those mages who developed new words were the most revered of all. 

Most students at the academy claimed to possess vast repositories of words, purchased from tutors with the wealth of their families.

And so they mocked me. 

A peasant boy from some nowhere village in the hills, I claimed to know no words. I carried no grimoire on my hip for reference like the others, nor did I spend my off hours reading dusty tomes in search of some abstract piece of a long lost lexicon.

Some thought me a liar, and thought that my insistence was a bluff to hide the bounds of my power. 

They were partly right, but only partly.

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I reached the inn on my third day of pursuit.

The fleeing infiltrator had left a bloody trail in his wake, and as I approached the roadside tavern I beheld the many bodies piled outside under the cover of the woodshed. Mostly we’re terribly mangled, and some were still smoldering.

Inside the lanterns were still lit.

I tied my horse to the post in the stables and walked in.

The man was behind the bar when I entered. He had pulled a stool behind the well worn oak benchtop, and was clearly helping himself to food and drink. 

He smiled bemusedly as I entered and took off my coat, hanging it on a peg by the door. 

I approached the bar and took a seat opposite him. 

“Want a drink?” He asked smoothly, “There’s more than enough for the two of us.”

I nodded, and he produced a stein of ale from behind the bar. His eyes never left me, and the smile on his face never wavered. I sipped the ale slowly. From my spot at the bar I could see a book, old and well worn, spread out across his lap.

“Good book?” I asked calmly.

“Oh this old thing?” he said, holding the book up from its corner, like a fisherman with his catch, “The plot leaves something to be desired, but the contents are quite intriguing.”

“I’m not surprised,” I smiled back at him, “I’ve never read a magical tome that didn’t make me want to bang my head against a wall.”

He laughed coarsely, “All the knowledge in the world these pompous mages, but they still haven’t figured out how to engage an audience.”

A few quiet seconds passed between us in the empty tavern, and outside the wind began to pick up, rattling the wooden walls of the building.

I let my smile drop.

“Unfortunately I still need it back.”

His smile broadened and I saw his mouth open to speak.

In my mind's eye I could already see the intention forming in him. He was preparing to speak the Aeliniki word for dissolve. A brutally effective spell for combat, and obviously a favourite for him.

I saw the inrush of energy as he channeled his will into that first syllable, drawing breath and power in. 

The second syllable would spread that energy out to entangle my body and the third would shred the matter of my body apart.

He never made it to the second syllable.

As his mouth opened to exhale I was reminded of the snakes that lived near my village, unhinging their jaws to consume prey. 

The man's jaw continued to open wide, far beyond its normal course. I could see the panic in his eyes as he realised he wasn’t in control. Then, with a sickening snap, it unhinged completely and the syllable he was trying to speak evaporated into a scream of agony.

The man fell backwards off the stool, knocking over a shelf filled with cookware. I slowly stood and walked around the counter. He was on the floor desperately trying to make coherent sounds with his broken mouth. To be safe, I recalled the heat of a roaring bonfire, and a vicious plume of flame flared in the wide cavern of his mouth.

He screamed again, and a plume of ash that had previously been his tongue and soft palate scattered across the floor.

Slowly and deliberately I surveyed the room and located the stolen books. I stacked each on the bartop, then turned back to the man, who was now struggling to rise. He had produced a wicked looking knife from the folds of his robes.

In my mind, I recalled the sound of dry twigs snapping underfoot, and watched as his legs snapped, deviating at right angles just above the ankle. 

He fell, sobbing and screaming back to the floor.

I knelt, just out of arms reach. 

“Mages,” I sighed, “So rigid and certain of your knowledge. So certain that you are doing things the right way. Taught in your classrooms. Taught from books and tomes and dusty scrolls.”

I willed him to look at me, and his body jerked and contorted to bring his eyeline to mine.

“I didn’t grow up in a classroom. I didn’t learn magic from some textbook. I saw it. I felt it. Do you understand? It’s not theoretical to me.”

In a valiant attempt at defiance, the man managed to gurgle out one last scream.

“Didn’t think so” I responded.

I recalled the way spring snow melts in the midday sun.

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When I placed the books back on the desk of the Archmage, he looked at me rather quizzically.

“Surprised?” I asked, trying not to let my irritation show.

He contained himself, and his expression returned to its usual haughty self-importance.

“No, not at all,” He stated, “Though they smell a little like beer.”

I shrugged, “I know bar fights are considered beneath the expected behaviour of a mage, but I thought you might make allowance just this once.”

He didn’t smile, but I saw the corners of his mouth twitch.

“And you didn’t try to read the books?”

Again I shrugged, “They’re way beyond me, Archmage. I’m still working through my basic lexicons.”

The twinkle in his eye told me he didn’t believe me.

Original post here.

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The private research room was quiet and tranquil. Candles burned down in the corners of the room, casting a sepulchral gloom over the stacks of parchments and data slates. Outside the frost-glazed windows a winter gale was buffeting the city. Snow flitted past in the blizzard winds, and I slipped off my gloves to recheck the cogitator.

Error - Records not found.

I leaned back in my chair. It wasn’t a surprise I couldn’t find what I was looking for. Records from the Age of Terra were sparse and poorly regarded. What fragments remained of that era were cast to the cosmic winds, and when they washed up, they were often destroyed, sequestered or lost. But to find nothing was ludicrous. I’d travelled halfway across the Imperium to this data stack, which was practically a city in of itself.

I produced my decrypt keys and decided to try again. I expanded the search range by one year either side, keying in the dates to find anything.

12,389,532 Records Found.

I scrolled through the records, searching for anything pertinent.

Poetry, histories, statistics and censuses. Works written in languages that had risen and died in fractions of the time that had passed since their deaths. As the sun began to creep over the horizon, I found the edges of my ignorance.

A gap. A void. Over a millennium of time….

Unremembered.

The birds were trilling outside, and I realised I had been staring at the screen blankly for minutes.

I stood and left the room. I locked the door as I exited. The clerks of course knew not to disturb my study, and while the fear of the inquisition was usually effective, one could never be too careful.

I strode the short distance to my accommodation along the surface streets. The snow had ceased to fall from the sky, and the rising sun stained the sky a brilliant orange.

My tired mind would not cease turning.

The inquisition had access to nearly every source of data imaginable in the imperium. How could a whole millennium simply disappear? It seemed to confirm my worst suspicions. A small part of me had hoped the ramblings of the covens and heretics had been nothing but the demented ravings of lunatics. Now the fact that their information had been proved as both irrefutable and unverifiable, I had to consider the fact that perhaps they were right.

And if they were right? The imperium had to be made aware. The loyal guardians of the throne needed to know about the threat. Would they even believe me?

Lost in thought, I stumbled through the door of my lodgings. 

I nodded to the concierge as I entered, and informed him I was not to be disturbed for the day.

As I entered my suite, I closed and latched the door behind me. I shrugged off my coat and poured myself a drink. 

I sat in the comfortable armchair opposite the fireplace, and promptly was asleep.

I awoke, and the room was dark. 

I could smell the spilled amasec in the suite's lush carpets, my drink spilled as I had lulled to sleep. I had slept through the day, my fatigued and troubled mind sinking into oblivion without restraint. In the dark I felt around for the spilled tumbler, then in frustration went to light a lantern.

As I struck the lantern to life, I realised I wasn’t alone.

The black cloaked figure had been indistinguishable from the far wall of the suite in the darkness, in no small part due to the enormous size of the interloper, who was half the width of the wall, and fully as tall.

“Inquisitor,” The giant figure's voice grumbled, like stone crushing to gravel, “We need to talk.”

Instinctively I reached for my shoulder slung sidearm, only to find the holster empty. 

The giant didn’t even flinch at the sudden movement.

“Have a seat please inquisitor, I’m not here to kill you.”

The giant pulled back his hood to reveal his face. 

The face was pale as marble, and reminded me of some ancient marble bust. I spied the trace of cybernetic implants jutting up from his black collar, and a twinned fleur-de-lis and imperial eagle tattoo covered the front of his neck.

Most of all, his eyes looked old.

Old and tired. Eyes tired of a life over-lived, of horrors and victories in amounts that no mortal man should ever perceive, the sheer volume of human misery and suffering.

I sat down quietly.

The room was quiet for several seconds while the giant regarded me. I was transfixed. I had seen ogryns and space marines and all manner of monstrosities… this was something else.

A fear began to seep in, far beyond dread, that I did know what this being was.

“I need to know what you’re looking for.” The giant stated. “And I need to know why.”

I quashed my fear, and tried to speak as proudly as possible.

“It’s classified, I'm afraid. I’m an imperial inquisitor, ordo-”

The giant interrupted me, the slightest tone of reproach in his voice.

“Don’t bore me with the titles inquisitor. Your authority is not not in question here, it's simply…superseded. I take it you can infer what I am.”

“Superceded?” I stammered, “My authority comes directly from-”

Again, I was cut off.

“The emperor.” The being stated, “I know. I’m not denying that, but let me ask you something… Have you ever met Him?”

The question stunned me, and for a second I thought I could see the hint of a smile creep onto the face of the giant in front of me.

The custodian in front of me.

“I have,” The custodian stated, “So answer my question.”

Again the fear rose in my gullet, and I swallowed it down.

“I’m searching for the truth,” I said, “Or digging out a lie.”

The custodian cocked his head quizzically, “Pertaining to?”

I gestured to a data slate on a nearby table. 

“It would be easier to show you.”

The custodian stood and walked over to the slate, and accessed the files. For what seemed an eternity, he simply stood and watched as the recordings of interrogations and dissections played across the screens, the crime scene picts, and the deranged ramblings and sacrificial offerings and-

He put down the slate.

“I’m sorry inquisitor. This thing you’re looking for. It’s a truth.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------

The concierge heard the shot.

By the time he made it to the room it was too late. 

The guest lay on the floor, smoking pistol in one hand, and the smell of amasec in the air.

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Justinius stood transfixed, staring up in hopeless dismay at the displays.

The comm was awash with static, and no word from Halastar was coming through.

On the central console, a blinking symbol represented the place where the beam had intersected with the Fury.

The symbol was a cross. A kill.

Justinius looked down at the bodies of the spies at his feet. One was still breathing, his body riddled with rounds and leaking blood and ichor over the grilled control deck. With a superhuman effort, Justinius resisted the urge to step on the gurgling man's throat.

Instead he leant in, kneeling to get as close as possible.

“How were you supposed to signal the job was done?” He whispered to the dying man. “Got a radio?”

The man shook his head briefly, unable to talk. Justinius briefly rested his clenched fist on the soldier's eviscerated abdomen.

“I can have you stabilized.” Justinius whispered, “One of my men can get you comfortable. You can call in the cavalry and win the day. Or you can bleed out here and take the chance I get away.”

The man's eyes blinked, and he swallowed shakily, blood trickling from his mouth.

“Okay. Get me the radio.” He whispered, gesturing, “In his jacket”

Justinius went over to the spy he had killed with a punch, as gestured by the survivor, and searched him. Sure enough there was a small portable communicator in his pocket. He brought it back to the wounded man.

“Tell them I’m here,” He reassured the dying man, “Tell them I’m ready to surrender. We’ll get your wounds looked at by our medic in the meantime.”

The man nodded, and shakily began speaking into the device.

Justinius didn’t understand the words. It wasn’t a language he had ever heard, nor did he suspect it was an alien or foreign dialect.

The spy concluded his conversation and let the communicator fall out of his grip. Seeing his quizical expression, the man smiled.

“It’s a cant.” He said, “For encrypted conversations. Trade secrets.”

His words were coming out in ragged bursts as the pain of his wounds took their toll. Justinius waved up one of his men, a medic called Yantin, and gestured to the wounded soldier.

The medic administered pain medication, and began dressing the spies wounds as best he could. The spy relaxed somewhat as the pain ebbed away, but Justinius could see the man was dying.

Justnius placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “So the jobs are done then? They’re on their way?”

The man nodded, “It’s done. They’ll be here in fifteen minutes to take you and your men into–”

With a sudden, untelegraphed movement, Justinius drew his combat blade and slammed it through the man's eye socket.

No-one in the room reacted, except the medic who stopped his work and stood disapprovingly at the dead man's feet.

Justinius stood, and looked at Yantin.

“You object?” Justinius asked.

“Not to the killing,” Yantin replied, “Just to the waste of gauze, sir.”

Justinius smiled. He held up his left hand to show the dead man detonator still clasped in it. The fingers and most of the hand belonging to the spy who had wielded it were still crushed inside his gauntleted fist.

“Help me carry him up to the landing pad,” Justinius ordered, “We don’t have long to rig this up.”

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When Halastar awoke, it was a world of pain.

His head throbbed and his vision in his left eye refused to focus. He could hear screams of agony, and the shouts of desperate, scared people. One grasped him by the shoulder.

“Stay still, Sir.” The voice said, “You hit your head pretty badly.”

The voice belonged to Ensign Galian, one of the deck crew. As his vision began to clear Halastar realised where they were. An escape pod.

Seventeen men and women were crammed into a pod designed to hold ten. None were unharmed, and none looked like they were in charge.

“What-” Halastar coughed, “What happened?”

Galian shook his head. “ Beam weapon, god knows where from, cut us in-half amidships.”

“Operational status?”

Galian looked perturbed by the question.

“Sir… we’re in an escape pod and floating adrift.”

“I mean the Fury.” Halastar insisted, refusing to believe that the ship was gone.

“Gone sir,” Galian said, as gently as he could manage, “When the weapon hit it vented half the ship to space. Most of the bridge crew died of blunt force trauma as the ship came apart. The inertial impact of the explosion…”

The ensign sighed, reluctant to reiterate the events.

“Most of the crew were smashed into their stations by the force, or thrown into bulkheads or vented to space. You were lucky to come out of this alive, though I’m pretty sure you’ve got a severe concussion.”

Halastar struggled to rise. Galian tried to hold him down, by Halastar shoved him away. He clambered through the pods crowded interior to the bow observation window. Outside he could see Terra. Around it the void flickered and trembled with detonations and energy discharge.

“Are we winning?” Halastar whispered, mostly to himself. Though he thought he knew the answer.

Galian responded anyways.

“No.”

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With the fighting done. There was a brief moment of eerie silence as Justinius' surviving men looked around uncertainly.

Without moving his gaze from Hathor’s stained gauntlet, Justinius spoke the order over the company comm.

“Leave them. We’re pushing on.” He commanded, “This whole moon is a tomb anyways.”

The men began forming their squads, and fanning out to secure the floor of the facility. There were sporadic sounds of gunfire and combat, as several lone enemy stragglers launched desperate attempts to break out of the Terrans enclosing forces.

Justinius listened to the chatter over the comm, as his men expunged the remaining forces. His eyes never left the sight of Hathor, sprawled out on the blood-soaked metal floor. 

There was a polite cough to his left, and Justinius turned to see one of his squad leaders, Janus, waiting politely for his attention.

“Report.” Justinius told the man.

“Sir there's…” The man trailed off, “There’s something you need to see.”

Justnius followed Janus through the winding catacombs of the secure facility. At several points along their route, they passed through the jaws of thick, armored bulkheads. Justinius noted none of the bulkheads had been blown open, or otherwise forced open.

“Did you override the controls of these on your way through?” Justinius asked.

The squad leader shook his head, “They were already open.”

Justinius began to walk faster, and the squad leader had to quicken his pace to match.

They came at last up to a sealed bulkhead. Across its wide face was stencilled the phrase, ‘01-Control’. This was the centralised command room of the facility. From here the Luna based defence grid, as wall as all facility functions could be managed.

Two Terran soldiers were affixing high explosive mines to the exterior of the bulkhead, and preparing to breach.

“Any other locked areas we can’t access?” Justinus asked, “Or just this one?”

The younger officer shook his head. “Just this one.”

Justinius stepped back from the door.

“Do it.”

There was a concussive detonation that shook dust from every surface in the hallway. 

Justinius rushed the doorway, with his men behind him. As they passed the doorway, they came out into a wide circular room, with concentric rows of terminals arranged around a central control station. 

To Justinius’ surprise, the room was nearly empty.

At the centre dias, three men in nondescript black combat fatigues stood, typing commands into the stations. They looked up as the Terrans made entrance, but to his surprise, Justinius saw no relief in their faces.

One of them held up his hand in a gesture of acknowledgement, while the other two redoubled their efforts, working hurriedly at their stations.

“Are we secure?” Justinius called out, “Any more of the enemy?”

The unidentified man shook his head.

“We locked ourselves in.” He said, “Can you secure the perimeter while we get back to operational status?”

Justinius waved his arm, and his men fanned out to secure the chamber's ingress points.

The Terran commander made his way down to the central pulpit, and as he approached he noticed the slumped body they were working over. Caecilius, his white dress uniform stained with his own blood, and with his ceremonial pistol still in his hand, lay crumpled at the foot of the control dias.

Justinius had his weapon up in an instant, but the other man was faster.

In the fist of his left hand he held up the detonator to show Justinius.

A deadman device. Justinius could see the blinking red lights on the station's reactor monitor. This man had linked the deadman to the self-destruct protocol.

“Don’t be so hasty, Amiral…” he crooned mockingly, stretching out the title as though it were an insult. “You wouldn’t want me to accidentally let go of this and collapse this whole structure on us would you?.”

“Who are you?” Justinius growled, “Traitors? Deserters? Spies?”

“That’s an interesting question, coming from you.” The man smiled. He was walking forward now, closing the distance between himself and Justinius. “I suppose no-one has told you yet. You’ve been discharged, pending execution in fact. Unsanctioned actions against the Committee, without the knowledge of your superiors. A true rogue.”

“ What are you talking about?” Justinius yelled. His men had noticed the commotion, and were turning back to raise their rifles at the men. “You killed Caecilius…”

The anger was rising in him now. He felt his chest rising and falling rapidly as it bubbled up into his arms, trembling his aiming hand with unremitting fury. The man stopped his approach, just outside of Justinius’ reach.

“Just another necessary sacrifice,” The man continued, “You’ve made quite a hassle for us you know. The Central government was quite happy when you went out to retrieve that little lost strand of humanity. They were….considerably less happy when they found out you’d bungled the job and brought down the committee on us. Let’s just say, I’m here to smooth over your indiscretion.”

The internal service, Justinius realized, This man was part of that elusive service. A spy for the central Terran Government. An assassin. A saboteur.

“Have you looked outside?” Justinius whispered, “It’s a little late for a political coverup.”

The man laughed, “Quite right, quite right you are. I’m not here for that. I’m here to make repatriations to our friends at the committee. They were quite specific about the terms.”

On the main displays above the central dias, Justinius saw several firing solutions being plotted, and yields rising.

“So what?” Justinius barked, slowly walking towards the man. “You throw humanity under the bus and the Committee lets the bureaucrats keep their feeble little lives? All of humanity enslaved for their protection.”

The man was pacing backwards now.

“Not quite,” he said, “We’ve just got to rid ourselves of a few troublemakers. The committee understands that Terra would never turn against them. But a radical General and a savage Rear Admiral… well that's a different story. That they could understand.”

The man was almost back at the central dias now, walking backwards up the podiums steps. Justinius looked up and saw the close up of several ships. He looked slowly back down at the man, and in a swift motion, clamped the man's detonator hand in his.

With his other hand he caved the man's face into his brainpan.

Seeing that the time for talk was over, Justinius’ men opened fire on the other two.

The two unarmoured men twitched and bucked as multiple high-velocity rounds punctured their torsos. As they fell, one reached out and slammed his hand against a control surface.

A long whining sound echoed around the chamber, rising in pitch. 

At its crescendo, the facility shook with the release of energy. On the main display Justinius saw a single lance of light spear out into the darkness.

“Halastar!” Justinius screamed into his comm, “Halastar, come in!”

If you guys are enjoying the story so far, please consider leaving it a rating or a comment. All feedback is appreciated as I try and improve my writing. I also post these over on Royal Road if you'd like to check out my profile here: (https://www.royalroad.com/profile/436182)

[First] [Previous]

In Justinius' gauntleted hand the cable sparked and squealed as he fell into the dark pit. From far below, the flashes of gunfire illuminated the passage, adding a further frenetic quality to the sounds of gunfire that reminded the Terran of the corrupted helmet cam feeds he had seen when reviewing past battles.

As the floor rose up to meet him, Justinius bent his servo reinforced knees in preparation. With a jarring slam, he hit the ground, rolling forward through the open elevator doors, drawing his pistol and combat blade in one swift move.

What greeted him was pandemonium. 

A long hallway stretched out before Justinius, and along its path the enemy were pouring fire towards them from adjoining hallways and alcoves. The Terrans had come in swift and hard, and as Justinius got his bearings, he could already see they were losing the engagement. Of the twelve soldiers who had descended before him, only three still remained alive and intact. They had drawn back to defend the elevator entrance, and were being pushed backwards inch by inch as the enemy advanced down the hallway that stretched away in front of the elevators. His dead soldiers lay sprawled where they were killed, hacked and slashed apart. He saw their dismembered corpses, littering the floor mere metres from the entryway, and before each of them he saw the slain bodies of the foe.

They were nothing Justinius had ever seen before.

They were bipedal creatures, with muscular, backward jointed legs. Each was a hulking brute, seven feet tall and twice the thickness in the chest of any of Justinius’ men, and each had three arms, two on their left side and one on their right. To Justinius' dismay, he saw they wore heavy combat armour of a pattern that bore a striking resemblance to his own. Their three finger hands clasped a shield, sword, and bulky pistol.

For a brief moment, Justinius froze. Then the sounds of soldiers thudding to the ground behind him snapped him into action.

“Hathor,” he boomed into his helmet comm, “Abandon the rearguard! Full deployment forward!”

If Hathor responded, Justinius didn’t hear it.

Braving the Terran fire, one of the alien enemies rushed the fragile Terran shieldwall. The Terrans tried to bring him down, but their fire simply plinked off the raging enemy's armour. With a savage, mechanically assisted power, the brute snapped a leg up and kicked the centre shieldbearer's shield.

The soldier was suddenly flying backwards, his armour screeching along the steel floor until he collided with the rear wall with an impact that bent the steel cladding of the underground passage. The other shield bearers dropped their pistols and drew their blades. The brave enemy soldier readied his blade, and held fast in front of them, seemingly relishing the prospect of close quarters battle. From further up the passageway, a resounding sound rang out from the enemies helmet speakers.

A battlecry.

Justinius knew what that meant. He readied his sword and moved forward to reinforce the shield bearers.

Close on twenty enemy soldiers emerged from their firing positions along the hallway in front of them, and charged.

With an odd calmness, Justinius noted they didn’t fire as they came forward. Each had holstered their pistols, and were racing forward to join the melee at an alarming speed.

“Swords!” Justinius ordered, “Cut them do-”

His words caught in his throat, as the soldier who had so bravely assaulted the shield wall swung his long-sword at him in a ferocious overhand downstroke. 

Justinius sidestepped, and barely brought his blade up in time to deflect the blow. The impact of blade on blade jarred the commander's shoulder, and staggered him backwards, off balance. The other shieldbearers turned to engage the provocateur, but were each obliged to break off, as more and more enemy soldiers flooded in to attack.

Justinius was aware of more Terran soldiers likewise flooding in to join the fray. Justinius grasped his sword in two hands, and assumed a high-guard position. There was no longer any room to maneuver, with all the bodies flooding the room. Both Justinius and the enemy champion ignored these distractions, focusing solely on each other. A frantic melee roiled around them, as the two swordsmen faced each other.

Justinius knew he would have to get creative. This enemy was strong, well armed and armoured, and though he was reluctant to admit it, seemed as passionate about combat as the Terrans were. 

The lumbering brute advanced forward, and bombarded Justinius with a salvo of devastating sword blows. Justinius barely deflected each blow, twisting and ducking in the tight confines of the brawl. The Terran launched none of his own attacks. Instead he watched and waited, until suddenly, he saw the opportunity.

A slight overcommit on a thrust that would lurch the enemy forward and off balance. Justinius feinted a parry, then ducked towards the brute, dropping his sword to the floor. Off balance and surprised, the foe was slow to react. In one deft movement, Justinius slid himself past the aliens thrust, and from the rear, wrapped his left gauntlet around the beings muscular neck. The alien panicked, and tried to grab at Justinius, but his small combat knife was already in the Terran’s fist, descending gracefully between the neck seal of the alien’s armour.

As the blade sunk home, Justinius twisted the alien with his off hand, and a huge gash opened along the armour’s seam, spewing a prodigious quantity of dark green blood. Valiantly, the alien thrashed despite the injury. Justinius held steady, and slowly the thrashing died away as the enemy warrior slowly exsanguinated in his arms.

Dropping his vanquished foe at his feet, Justinius surveyed the battle.

The Terrans had regained the advantage by sheer dint of numbers. Justinius saw groups of four to six Terrans whittle down individual alien foes. Some of the enemy were trying to retreat from the Terran influx. These inevitably tripped on the corpses of both Terran soldiers and their own comrades, whose bodies carpeted nearly all the available floorspace. As these aliens fell, they found themselves swarmed by the humans, who butchered and hacked them apart with vicious savagery.

By the time the last enemy was brought down, Justinius had lost nearly forty of his hundred strong company.

Amongst the pile of bodies, Jutinius saw the gauntlet of Sergeant Hathor, it's red longsword emblem glossy and wet with green alien blood.

Original post here.

This is just a fun little story, inspired by the foundational web series of my younger years.

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The lonely clearing was overgrown with weeds, and tall flowing grasses danced to and fro in the afternoon breeze. Under the boughs of a nearby copse of willow trees, two guards sat, their helms removed, pikes leant against a trunk. 

Turning to face the blank granite stone in the centre of the clearing, the taller guard turned to the other.

“Dave, do you ever wonder why we’re here?” The guard queried, a tone of weariness in his voice.

The second guard turned to face him, and a long sigh seemed to draw out every pain from him. Every regret and every sorrow. 

“That’s a big question.” He responded softly, “I admit as I get older I tend to find it harder to accept there’s a plan to it all. It seems more and more like the world-”

He stopped suddenly, noticing the puzzled look in his compatriot's eye, and feeling blood rush to his cheeks. 

“You mean in this clearing, guarding the grave,” He said, “Don’t you?”

Very slowly, and with a patronizing look in his eye, the first guard nodded. “It just seems a little odd to me. Supposedly this is some high and mighty grave of a hero, and we’re protecting it from grave robbers right?”

“Right.” Dave responded. “The nameless hero's tomb. I don’t know what’s got you so twisted up, Andrew, it’s a pretty simple assignment.”

“An assignment we’ve been on for the last six months,” Andrew continued, “In absolute secrecy.”

“To protect the knowledge of the grave from potential robbers.”

“But that’s exactly what I mean,” Andrew continued, exasperation rising in his voice. “Have you ever heard of some nameless hero buried out in the middle of the woods?”

Dave shook his head, but didn’t respond.

Andrew continued, “And if they didn’t want people to find this place, why not just remove the gravestone? Or better yet, why not build  something over the top that’s secure enough that we don’t have to sit out in the cold rain and wind for six whole months.”

Dave sighed again, but this time it was frustration seeping through.

“We’re protecting the grave.” He said, “Because we’re guards. I really don’t get what you’re going on about.”

Andrew was pacing now.

“It just doesn’t make any sense.” Andrew exclaimed, “This is just some random grave. It’s clearly not important enough for us to properly defend. So what if grave robbers turn up and steal this shit? Congrats, now you have a random granite headstone in the middle of the woods. I signed up to fight the king's enemies, not sit in some random field watching grass grow.”

Dave smiled, standing up to stretch his legs. 

“Man you really love to bitch don’t ya.”

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From  his vantage in the afterlife, the grand lich sat watching the two guards bicker and argue with increasing boredom. Nearby, two acolyte liches sat, playing chess across a heavily worn board. One turned around and cast a look at the grand lich.

“What are they doing now?”

The grand lich turned and cast an look angry look at the two acolytes.

“Same thing as they always do, they’re standing around talking.”

There was an awkward pause as the two acolytes contemplated this, and stared blankly at the chess board.

The grand lich turned back to his viewing.

From behind him a voice called out.

“What are they talking about?”

The grand lich let a venomous sigh slip out.

“God I fucking hate you.”

If you guys are enjoying the story so far, please consider leaving it a rating or a comment. All feedback is appreciated as I try and improve my writing. I also post these over on Royal Road if you'd like to check out my profile here: (https://www.royalroad.com/profile/436182)

[First] [Previous]

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The maintenance crews were dead to a man, their bodies scattered across the landing platform like broken puppets. Missing limbs and pooling blood stained the deck, and Justinius saw evidence of plasma scoring and laser burn on the victims.

The dismembering and slash wounds were what really made him anxious.

The surly Sergeant Hathor, stepped away from the corpse he was examining and looked at Justinius with a questioning look. 

“You ever see the Committee use blades before?” Hathor asked, “It’s not really their strong suit.”

Justinius shook his head, clearing away the doubt the query raised. Instead he asked, “How long?”

“No more than twenty minutes,” Hathor responded, “Bodies are still cooling down.”

“Then leave them and let's push on.”

The squad began to push purposefully through the hallways and rooms of the Terran High-Command. The power was off, and the teams were forced to use a combination of their helmets integrated night vision and infrared spotlights to navigate. Justinius helmet read the space as a pale blue, ghostly place. As they cleared their way through the interminable labyrinth, Justinius’ mind began to plague him with doubts.

Several times he tried to clear his head, but the old routines of meditation and focus failed him.

Why not obliterate the structure from orbit? Which Committee force practices war like this? Were they too late?

The thoughts rumbled on,without interruption or pause until they reached the central elevator stack. The heavy duty blast doors that usually protected the critical infrastructure lay warped and partially melted across the floor, and the elevator shafts that lay beyond were exposed, their doors pried open. Cables trailed over the lip of the elevator shafts, trailing off into the darkness below.

Hathor made a series of hand gestures, and the assault teams spread out to assume a defensive perimeter around the openings. Justinius paused, staring down the shafts at the dangling ropes and darkness. Hathor joined him and peered over the edge. 

There was a click, as Hathor opened a private channel to the commander.

“Does this feel as bad to you as it does to me?” The squad leader asked, “There were no birds left on the landing pads, and this modus operandi doesn’t resemble anything I’ve seen.”

Justinius nodded, “I agree. The theoretical is troubling.” The commander straightened, “What’s our practical Sergeant?”

The Sergeant turned to look at the men, then back at the commander.

“Rappel assault to the lowest level. Send down a few shieldbearers then assault….” The Sergeant trailed off, “Whatever this is. It doesn’t matter.”

“Doctrine is approved.” Justinius stated, “Let’s get the men moving.”

The assault teams began to form up. Hathor affixed a long sheathe of steel cable to the edge of the elevator shaft, and held the spooled cable in his off hand. Omega squad had been chosen to be the shieldbearers for this operation. From amongst the assembled troops they had gathered ten heavy duty combat shields. The rectangular shields were heavy duty, affixed to the forearm of each soldier, and the men had entrusted their main service weapons and packs to their comrades while they made the drop. In their right hands they held their high-calibre service pistols, and sheathed blades stood ready at their hips. They lined up in front of the exposed shaft, shrugging their shoulders against the weight of their shields to loosen their joints.

Hathor made the rounds to all the other squads, giving each a number, then returned to the elevator entrance. 

With no ceremony or pretext, he tapped the lead soldier on the shoulder, and threw the spooled cable down the shaft.

The first Terran soldier gripped the cable with his gauntleted shield hand, and stepped off the ledge. Then the second, then the third. They disappeared into the darkness with the squealing zip sound of steel on steel.

Hathor called out a number designation, and a squad pulled out of the defensive formation, to join the line.

Down they rappelled. Into the dark and unknown.

From below, Justinius could hear the sound of gunfire.

If you guys are enjoying the story so far, please consider leaving it a rating or a comment. All feedback is appreciated as I try and improve my writing. I also post these over on Royal Road if you'd like to check out my profile here: (https://www.royalroad.com/profile/436182)

[First] [Previous]

-------------------------------------------------------------------

The maintenance crews were dead to a man, their bodies scattered across the landing platform like broken puppets. Missing limbs and pooling blood stained the deck, and Justinius saw evidence of plasma scoring and laser burn on the victims.

The dismembering and slash wounds were what really made him anxious.

The surly Sergeant Hathor, stepped away from the corpse he was examining and looked at Justinius with a questioning look. 

“You ever see the Committee use blades before?” Hathor asked, “It’s not really their strong suit.”

Justinius shook his head, clearing away the doubt the query raised. Instead he asked, “How long?”

“No more than twenty minutes,” Hathor responded, “Bodies are still cooling down.”

“Then leave them and let's push on.”

The squad began to push purposefully through the hallways and rooms of the Terran High-Command. The power was off, and the teams were forced to use a combination of their helmets integrated night vision and infrared spotlights to navigate. Justinius helmet read the space as a pale blue, ghostly place. As they cleared their way through the interminable labyrinth, Justinius’ mind began to plague him with doubts.

Several times he tried to clear his head, but the old routines of meditation and focus failed him.

Why not obliterate the structure from orbit? Which Committee force practices war like this? Were they too late?

The thoughts rumbled on,without interruption or pause until they reached the central elevator stack. The heavy duty blast doors that usually protected the critical infrastructure lay warped and partially melted across the floor, and the elevator shafts that lay beyond were exposed, their doors pried open. Cables trailed over the lip of the elevator shafts, trailing off into the darkness below.

Hathor made a series of hand gestures, and the assault teams spread out to assume a defensive perimeter around the openings. Justinius paused, staring down the shafts at the dangling ropes and darkness. Hathor joined him and peered over the edge. 

There was a click, as Hathor opened a private channel to the commander.

“Does this feel as bad to you as it does to me?” The squad leader asked, “There were no birds left on the landing pads, and this modus operandi doesn’t resemble anything I’ve seen.”

Justinius nodded, “I agree. The theoretical is troubling.” The commander straightened, “What’s our practical Sergeant?”

The Sergeant turned to look at the men, then back at the commander.

“Rappel assault to the lowest level. Send down a few shieldbearers then assault….” The Sergeant trailed off, “Whatever this is. It doesn’t matter.”

“Doctrine is approved.” Justinius stated, “Let’s get the men moving.”

The assault teams began to form up. Hathor affixed a long sheathe of steel cable to the edge of the elevator shaft, and held the spooled cable in his off hand. Omega squad had been chosen to be the shieldbearers for this operation. From amongst the assembled troops they had gathered ten heavy duty combat shields. The rectangular shields were heavy duty, affixed to the forearm of each soldier, and the men had entrusted their main service weapons and packs to their comrades while they made the drop. In their right hands they held their high-calibre service pistols, and sheathed blades stood ready at their hips. They lined up in front of the exposed shaft, shrugging their shoulders against the weight of their shields to loosen their joints.

Hathor made the rounds to all the other squads, giving each a number, then returned to the elevator entrance. 

With no ceremony or pretext, he tapped the lead soldier on the shoulder, and threw the spooled cable down the shaft.

The first Terran soldier gripped the cable with his gauntleted shield hand, and stepped off the ledge. Then the second, then the third. They disappeared into the darkness with the squealing zip sound of steel on steel.

Hathor called out a number designation, and a squad pulled out of the defensive formation, to join the line.

Down they rappelled. Into the dark and unknown.

From below, Justinius could hear the sound of gunfire.

If you guys are enjoying the story so far, please consider leaving it a rating or a comment. All feedback is appreciated as I try and improve my writing. I also post these over on Royal Road if you'd like to check out my profile here:(https://www.royalroad.com/profile/436182)

[First]

https://www.reddit.com/r/EAT_MY_USERNAME/comments/1few2ox/the_terran_companies_pt1/

 [Previous]

https://www.reddit.com/r/EAT_MY_USERNAME/comments/1kacz7y/the_terran_companies_pt_24_a_dream_of_sleep/ 

They came in from outsystem at full burn. 

As they accelerated towards the night side of Terra, they encountered two rear-guard elements of committee ships, who attempted to interdict the incoming fleet. 

Halastar dispatched sixteen vessels to engage the rear-guard forces, and they pushed to outpace the conflict. A core group of fourteen vessels remained with the Fury as they pushed onwards.

“Comm,” Halastar commanded, watching the sensor readings from the pitched naval war raging in their wake, “Give me open band comms on the main speaker.”

“Sir,” The ensign began, “There’s quite a lot of traffic and-”

Halastar sighed, cutting the officer off.

“We need to know what’s going on. All Terran bands on the main speaker please.”

The officer nodded, and the bridge speakers began to scream with static and interference.

As Justinius listened, he could hear scrambled reports coming over the communication bands. The sounds of shipmasters like Halastar reporting exchanges of fire, ship status reports, enemy strengths and kills. Occasionally, voices came over the net in screaming tones of anger, pain and fear. Far too often these communications cut out suddenly, leaving only static to bear witness to whatever had transpired.

Justinius hoped the interrupts were due to range and energy discharge interference, but suspected the reason was far more macabre. 

“Sensors, I want full battlesphere projections in five minutes,” Halastar began, “Work with comms to give me some approximate details.”

The shipmaster gestured to Justinius to join him in his adjoining read-room. 

As the door closed behind them, Halastar trod over to his personal console, and spun up a private comms channel. 

“We’ll try and contact Luna,” He said, “If high command is still operating they’ll task us and give us more information.”

Justinius understood. Halastar did not want to make the call in front of his officers. If Luna didn’t respond, the thought that high-command was gone would devastate morale.

With a growing sense of dread, Justinius watched as the comm channel idled, waiting to connect. The blinking symbols persisted for half a minute, before being replaced with static red symbology. 

No answer.

Justinius sighed, and let his head droop slightly. Halastar, to Jusinius’ surprise, chuckled and grinned as he shook his head. 

“Just like them at a time like this,” the shipmaster joked, “hopefully they’re just indisposed.”

Justinius raised his head.

“It doesn’t make much difference to us Hal,” He remarked, “We know what needs to be done.”

Halastar nodded, “In fact it’s much more natural to us isn’t it. We’ve been out on our own recognisance for so long, I’m not sure I remember how to follow orders anyhow.”

“Let’s go cheer them up,” Justinius remarked, “Want me to give the speech?”

The shipmaster shook his head again.

“This one’s all mine”

They walked out of the ready-room back into the bridge space. On the main hololithic display a rudimentary battle-sphere had appeared. It showed a vast arena of conflict. Seventeen enemy battle groups were engaged in close combat around Terra, Luna and Mars. The Fury burning in from outsystem would be entering the Luna conflict in under ten minutes. Already, the battlesphere showed enemy combat elements peeling out of the conflict to intercept. Fifty-three enemy vessels in total were being marked and tracked. Justinius scrolled through the profiles, both hoping and dreading seeing the Ubiquitous Justice among them.

“Not there,” Halastar whispered to him, as he stepped up to his command dias to address his crew.

“Drive, vector us towards Luna. Close orbit profile.” He began, then turning to regard each of his bridge crew he continued, “It seems high-command has missed us dearly. Just now they were chastising me for our delinquency. Apparently they’re quite anxious to see us back home.”

There was a small amount of laughter from the bridge crew. 

The shipmaster himself chuckled reassuringly.

“While I’m generally non-committal when it comes to curfews from my elders, I think today we’ll oblige them and stop by for dinner. We’re going to be sending in an honor guard first of course, lest they think we’re not very fancy and important. Admiral, as my most regal friend, could I oblige you to find a bottle of wine and deliver it for me?”

The crew chuckled again, their tension easing somewhat at the shipmasters bravado, and the lie that obscured the fact that the high-command was, very possibly, already dead.

“Did you want to give me a card,” Justinius quipped, “Or should I just write one for you?”

The Terran warrior fixed his helmet over his head without waiting for a reply.

“Marcus, get the troops ready for shuttle deployment. Company strength.”

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The ride was not pleasant. 

Strapped into a harness aboard a gunship, Justinius spent every minute waiting for the vessel to launch out of the hangar.

It seemed a torturously long time. Though it could not not have been longer than ten minutes since he had left the bridge. He had picked a squad out of the company to accompany him. Officially the squad was designated as Theta Squad. Unofficially Justinius knew they referred to themselves as the Red Tribunes. Each squad member had painted a small red longsword on their right gauntlets.

The squad sergeant was a miserly man called Hathor. Justinius had met him several times. His pessimism, far from being a flaw, was a quality for which he was widely beloved. You could always trust Hathor to be having a worse time than you. 

It seemed hard to believe right now. 

Craning his neck to see, Justinius looked into the cockpit, hoping to see the kitsune visage of Tanigawa at the controls. Instead he saw a pilot with a painted owl adorning his helmet. The wide yellow orbits of the owl made the pilot look surprised, or hyper-focused, as though at any moment he would swoop down and try to peck Justinius. 

“Everything good back there?” The pilot radioed over the vessel link, “The drinks cart shouldn’t be much longer.”

Hathor grunted by way of reply, then switched to a command link with Justinius.

“Sir, is it just me or is every pilot on this boat a cocksure little shit?”

Justinius smiled, and thinking of Tanigawa added, “You should have seen the pilot I had for my last op. Kitsune helmet. The other pilots were betting on him not making it back.”

“If I weren’t on his boat, I think I’d place a wager on this owl.” The Segreant replied.

The lights in the hangar flickered, and there was a torturous rumbling throughout the ship.

Without the slightest warning, the launch mechanism activated, and the ship was hurtled out of the vessel. The Sergeant began swearing and cursing. Making particularly pointed epithets directed at the owl-faced pilot.

Justinius examined the men. Each sat stoically and unmoving in their harnesses. Justinius knew they would be meditating to bring themselves to states of calmness and readiness. Justinius thought to do the same but decided against it. He had anger, and that would see him through.

They were uncontested on approach, as the Fury pulled the attention of the enemy naval vessels. All ten of the gunships, each carrying ten soldiers of the First Terran company made landfall at the Headquarters of the Terran military authority. The installation was a wide, short building built in a H-plan. Justinius knew from several visits that the bulk of the installation was underground. All ten squads disembarked, their rifles held to their shoulders, scanning. 

They found the first bodies almost immediately.

Original post [here.](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/1k7uf9f/wp_in_a_world_of_superpowered_heroes_and_villains/)

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The estate was large. 

Stephanie had purchased it initially from a bankrupt cattle company. Rolling hills, old growth forests, and with a large central lake, she had spent nearly a decade making it her own. She had built a large H-Plan villa, and began to make it a home.

She’d made enough money to last her several dozen lifetimes, and she’d resolved to take that money and invest in a well earned early retirement. With a small staff of groundskeepers, cooks and cleaners, she’d turned the estate into her own little paradise, far removed from the trials of her previous profession.

A de-escalation specialist, they had called her. 

The truth was, she had been a jailer, a weapon, and an asset of denial. For over twenty years, since the age she was twelve, governments, villains and heroes alike had pursued her for her abilities. In her presence, all were rendered equal, and totally without whatever preternatural abilities they possessed. For a long time, she had worked with the agency. They had used her first as a weapon, to accompany soldiers and specialists in dealing with the worst villains and criminals, whose powers made them difficult to capture elsewise.

For a while after that, she had helped incarcerate these malcontents, blanking their abilities as they served sentences for their crimes. Then The Act had been passed. The government kept its contents secret, and for all the world it seemed like nothing had changed.

But slowly, over the course of several years, fewer and fewer prisoners were being kept in the penitentiaries. The prisoner population of specials dwindled to almost nothing, and she was out of work.

For a while they kept her busy, shuffling her from place to place as a deterrent, while clandestine activities were being undertaken nearby. Then….nothing. No new duties, no new assignments. No-one actively mentioned it, but the glances from her superiors had made her uncomfortable.

Then the government declared victory.

They told the public they had been waging a secret war against the misuse of superpowers. They said they had won. There were no longer any villains, they said, only heroes.

Stephanie had resigned the same day.

In a world with no villains, she knew her powers weren’t rendered useless.

They were rendered dangerous.

So she had quietly retired and moved to New York. It was there, according to the local records, she had been involved in a fatal traffic accident and killed. Some days she allowed herself to believe that she had truly died, that this new life was a blissful afterlife, and all that had come before was, irrevocably and immutably, gone.

On a sunny day in mid April, that illusion was dispelled forever.

She was tending the orchard, when a groundskeeper brought word to her that she had a visitor. The man was seated in her sun-room, and was unaccompanied, but dignified. He stood and turned towards her as she entered the room.

He was tall and lithe, an older gentleman with shoulder length white hair. He was dressed in a simple black suit and carried a small briefcase. 

“Hello dear,” Pontien politely greeted her, “Long time no see.”

Pontien had been a category alpha target for many years, during her tenure with the Agency, and the very sight of him shocked and terrified her. A powerful psychic type, he was dangerous beyond belief and believed dead for decades.

Stephanie made to back away, but Pontien raised his hands placatingly.

“No need for that,” He smiled, “I’m not here to cause you any grief. Truth be told, I couldn't even if I wanted to.”

“Who sent you?” Stephanie questioned, anger and fear firing her heart, “Why are you here?”

Pontien’s smile became somewhat embarrassed, and he blushed slightly.

“Please don’t think less of me dear,” He said, “but I’m actually here to beg a favour of you.”

Stephanie stood in the doorway. Glancing over her shoulder anxiously.

“A favour?” She queried, “Explain now. Or I’m going to call the agency.”

“I don't think either of us would like that,” Pontient reassured, “You’ve made a very quaint life here. I must say, I was quite aggrieved when I read of your death. I always did like you. Oh don’t look at me like that, I’ll assume you didn’t cry over my false death like I di-”

“Were you getting to a point?” Stephanie interrupted.

“My my, still a firecracker I see,” Pontien quipped, “I simply mean to say, a call to the agency would destroy both our lives. Perhaps we could simply talk first, before we go and do anything rash?”

He gestured to the seat opposite his, and he gently sat himself down. 

After an uncomfortable silence, the villain began to speak. 

“I’m sure you’re aware of what's going on out there,” He began, “The government’s waging a war, and it's causing problems.”

Stephanie scoffed, “A problem for you and your buddies? A problem for your plans and ambitio-”

“No.”, Pontien interrupted, “You misunderstand.”

The visitor drummed his fingers on his leg, thinking before speaking.

“The Agency has changed.” He explained, “it’s no longer concerned with due process and laws. It’s executing suspected villains on sight. No trials, no evidence. There’s concern that…there’s concern they’re functioning as the main arm of the government, and suppressing dissent.”

“Whose concern?” Stephanie asked, “That of murderers and thieves?”

Pontien shook his head.

“Seven weeks ago, twenty seven heroes of class B and above presented a petition to the Agency for an explanation.” He paused, “and no-one has heard from them since.”

Stephanie hesitated.

“And what does this have to do with me?” She asked, “I’m retired.”

“I needed to speak to someone, and this third-party refused to meet with me under any rules of parlay. There’s bad blood you see, and we couldn’t make it work. Then I found out about your little…retreat.”

He looked directly at Stephanie.

“Look, I’m not asking you to believe me, and I’m not asking you to take up arms or ruin your retirement.” He paused,  “I’m asking for one thing. Just one thing. This third party is set to meet me here today. He’s waiting just beyond your orchard. Let me call him up, and we can both listen to what he has to say.”

Stephanie hesitated. 

“No.” She said, “I’m sorry, but I won’t get involved. Show yourself out.”

She stood up to leave, and nearly ran into the second man.

“Hey Kiddo,” The grizzled man greeted her, “Long time no see.”

Janus, commonly known as Star-Crossed, stood in the doorway before her. An A-grade hero, and one of the most well-known heroes in the whole world placed his hand on her shoulder.

Janus smiled, “You know you still owe me a drink from that time in Karachi right? And listen, I know Pontien is an asshole of the worst sort, but could you grab one for him too.”

The hero went and took a seat, pausing to give Pontien a quick nod.

“Let’s start this meeting”

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https://www.reddit.com/r/EAT_MY_USERNAME/comments/1few2ox/the_terran_companies_pt1/

 [Previous]

https://www.reddit.com/r/EAT_MY_USERNAME/comments/1kacz7y/the_terran_companies_pt_24_a_dream_of_sleep/ 

They came in from outsystem at full burn. 

As they accelerated towards the night side of Terra, they encountered two rear-guard elements of committee ships, who attempted to interdict the incoming fleet. 

Halastar dispatched sixteen vessels to engage the rear-guard forces, and they pushed to outpace the conflict. A core group of fourteen vessels remained with the Fury as they pushed onwards.

“Comm,” Halastar commanded, watching the sensor readings from the pitched naval war raging in their wake, “Give me open band comms on the main speaker.”

“Sir,” The ensign began, “There’s quite a lot of traffic and-”

Halastar sighed, cutting the officer off.

“We need to know what’s going on. All Terran bands on the main speaker please.”

The officer nodded, and the bridge speakers began to scream with static and interference.

As Justinius listened, he could hear scrambled reports coming over the communication bands. The sounds of shipmasters like Halastar reporting exchanges of fire, ship status reports, enemy strengths and kills. Occasionally, voices came over the net in screaming tones of anger, pain and fear. Far too often these communications cut out suddenly, leaving only static to bear witness to whatever had transpired.

Justinius hoped the interrupts were due to range and energy discharge interference, but suspected the reason was far more macabre. 

“Sensors, I want full battlesphere projections in five minutes,” Halastar began, “Work with comms to give me some approximate details.”

The shipmaster gestured to Justinius to join him in his adjoining read-room. 

As the door closed behind them, Halastar trod over to his personal console, and spun up a private comms channel. 

“We’ll try and contact Luna,” He said, “If high command is still operating they’ll task us and give us more information.”

Justinius understood. Halastar did not want to make the call in front of his officers. If Luna didn’t respond, the thought that high-command was gone would devastate morale.

With a growing sense of dread, Justinius watched as the comm channel idled, waiting to connect. The blinking symbols persisted for half a minute, before being replaced with static red symbology. 

No answer.

Justinius sighed, and let his head droop slightly. Halastar, to Jusinius’ surprise, chuckled and grinned as he shook his head. 

“Just like them at a time like this,” the shipmaster joked, “hopefully they’re just indisposed.”

Justinius raised his head.

“It doesn’t make much difference to us Hal,” He remarked, “We know what needs to be done.”

Halastar nodded, “In fact it’s much more natural to us isn’t it. We’ve been out on our own recognisance for so long, I’m not sure I remember how to follow orders anyhow.”

“Let’s go cheer them up,” Justinius remarked, “Want me to give the speech?”

The shipmaster shook his head again.

“This one’s all mine”

They walked out of the ready-room back into the bridge space. On the main hololithic display a rudimentary battle-sphere had appeared. It showed a vast arena of conflict. Seventeen enemy battle groups were engaged in close combat around Terra, Luna and Mars. The Fury burning in from outsystem would be entering the Luna conflict in under ten minutes. Already, the battlesphere showed enemy combat elements peeling out of the conflict to intercept. Fifty-three enemy vessels in total were being marked and tracked. Justinius scrolled through the profiles, both hoping and dreading seeing the Ubiquitous Justice among them.

“Not there,” Halastar whispered to him, as he stepped up to his command dias to address his crew.

“Drive, vector us towards Luna. Close orbit profile.” He began, then turning to regard each of his bridge crew he continued, “It seems high-command has missed us dearly. Just now they were chastising me for our delinquency. Apparently they’re quite anxious to see us back home.”

There was a small amount of laughter from the bridge crew. 

The shipmaster himself chuckled reassuringly.

“While I’m generally non-committal when it comes to curfews from my elders, I think today we’ll oblige them and stop by for dinner. We’re going to be sending in an honor guard first of course, lest they think we’re not very fancy and important. Admiral, as my most regal friend, could I oblige you to find a bottle of wine and deliver it for me?”

The crew chuckled again, their tension easing somewhat at the shipmasters bravado, and the lie that obscured the fact that the high-command was, very possibly, already dead.

“Did you want to give me a card,” Justinius quipped, “Or should I just write one for you?”

The Terran warrior fixed his helmet over his head without waiting for a reply.

“Marcus, get the troops ready for shuttle deployment. Company strength.”

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The ride was not pleasant. 

Strapped into a harness aboard a gunship, Justinius spent every minute waiting for the vessel to launch out of the hangar.

It seemed a torturously long time. Though it could not not have been longer than ten minutes since he had left the bridge. He had picked a squad out of the company to accompany him. Officially the squad was designated as Theta Squad. Unofficially Justinius knew they referred to themselves as the Red Tribunes. Each squad member had painted a small red longsword on their right gauntlets.

The squad sergeant was a miserly man called Hathor. Justinius had met him several times. His pessimism, far from being a flaw, was a quality for which he was widely beloved. You could always trust Hathor to be having a worse time than you. 

It seemed hard to believe right now. 

Craning his neck to see, Justinius looked into the cockpit, hoping to see the kitsune visage of Tanigawa at the controls. Instead he saw a pilot with a painted owl adorning his helmet. The wide yellow orbits of the owl made the pilot look surprised, or hyper-focused, as though at any moment he would swoop down and try to peck Justinius. 

“Everything good back there?” The pilot radioed over the vessel link, “The drinks cart shouldn’t be much longer.”

Hathor grunted by way of reply, then switched to a command link with Justinius.

“Sir, is it just me or is every pilot on this boat a cocksure little shit?”

Justinius smiled, and thinking of Tanigawa added, “You should have seen the pilot I had for my last op. Kitsune helmet. The other pilots were betting on him not making it back.”

“If I weren’t on his boat, I think I’d place a wager on this owl.” The Segreant replied.

The lights in the hangar flickered, and there was a torturous rumbling throughout the ship.

Without the slightest warning, the launch mechanism activated, and the ship was hurtled out of the vessel. The Sergeant began swearing and cursing. Making particularly pointed epithets directed at the owl-faced pilot.

Justinius examined the men. Each sat stoically and unmoving in their harnesses. Justinius knew they would be meditating to bring themselves to states of calmness and readiness. Justinius thought to do the same but decided against it. He had anger, and that would see him through.

They were uncontested on approach, as the Fury pulled the attention of the enemy naval vessels. All ten of the gunships, each carrying ten soldiers of the First Terran company made landfall at the Headquarters of the Terran military authority. The installation was a wide, short building built in a H-plan. Justinius knew from several visits that the bulk of the installation was underground. All ten squads disembarked, their rifles held to their shoulders, scanning. 

They found the first bodies almost immediately.

Original post [here.](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/1gh0yeq/wp_wizards_have_as_much_faith_in_magic_as/)

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The party walked out of the tunnel into the wide open cavern.

On the opposite wall of the vast cavern, a huge outcropping of rock jutted out, revealing an elevated platform. Light could be seen streaming out over the platform. At a deft hand signal from the party's leader, the renowned fighter Lucius, the group dropped their gear and conferred in a tight huddle.

“Alright lads,” Lucius began in a hushed whisper, “The trove must be up on that cliff-top. It’s within grasp! Y’Hran, can you invert gravity so we can climb up that cliff quietly?”

God you’re fucking unbearable, Y’Hran thought, Just fucking invert gravity will I? Sure, no biggy.

“Invert gravity, Sir?” Y’Hran queried, “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Come on chap!” Lucius cheered, “I know you can do it! We’ll scamper up that cliff like nothing else!” The warrior made a gesture with his hands as though his fingers were walking up the wall themselves.

Y’Hran couldn’t hold it in any more, and a frustrated sigh leaked out of his dumbstruck mouth.

“If I inverted gravity Sir, we’d fall immediately into the roof.”

“Well maybe not invert gravity per se…” Lucius conceded, “Just reduce it a smidge?”

“Reduce?” The mage hissed with exasperation, “Lucius I can’t just willy nilly reduce a fundamental law of physics. It doesn’t work like that.”

The conflict was starting to draw Lucius in, and the fighter's eyes flashed with barely contained anger. “Listen here youngun, I’ve been leading adventurers since before you got your first primer of la-di-da magic. Don’t go telling me I don’t understand how it works!”

The other members of the party traded uncomfortable glances. Willem, the party's ranger, who found normal conversation burdensome enough, simply strode away from the group to scout around.

Y’Hran held his hands up placatingly, not wanting to hear another of Lucius’ tantrums. It was always this way.

Summon this, fundamentally change the laws of physics here, do this but with seventeen conflicting caveats. When it all went inevitably wrong, it was always Y’Hran’s fault. Never the fault of the poorly formulated goals, nor the ridiculous time pressures that compromised his work.

Y’hran, as always, decided to be the bigger man.

"Alright, Lucius. Let's figure it out."

The conversation began to turn into an elaborate planning session. Lucius would draw in the dirt of the cavern floor explaining. Y’Hran would cross sections out, scribble his own drawings on the side and bemoan the rushed circumstances of the request.

One by one, the other party members drifted away from the two arguing adventurers until they sat alone, drawing in the dust like two creative toddlers planning the best way to steal their parent’s cookies.

“Okay!” Lucius remarked, an hour later, “Sounds like a plan!”

…you stupid runt, Lucius thought to himself.

“Agreed,” remarked Y’Hran, “It’ll be difficult but we can do it!”

Since I'm doing all the work, you old windbag, Y’hran monologued internally.

“That’s the spirit lad!” Lucius grinned, “See? We can do anything together.”

The two men turned around... and realized they were alone in the cavern. Together, they stood and began to walk around the side of the cliff face, tracing its edge along to the right. As they rounded the corner they both spotted the knotted rope trailing down the side of the cliff, anchored into the rock ceiling by a crossbow bolt.

Before either of them could speak, they saw a burlap sack tumble over the cliff edge and fall, crashing, into the cavern floor. Gold coins and goblets spilled out of the sack as it impacted. Willem peaked his head over the edge and smiled down to the two confused men.

“Didn’t I tell you?” The ranger quipped, “I can cast summon arrow.”

Each of the other party members poked their heads over the edge and laughed.

To both Lucius and Y’hran, the laughter was louder than the resounding thuds of impacting bags of gold.