Post by ingen on Aug 29, 2023 14:33:25 GMT
Beef - Marchanders
Khaos - Daskys
Imaginarium - Major Konstantin Maksimenko
Random Android - Morella Ptelera
MGLDerp - Xiuhpilli Huitzilihuitl
HappyHydralisk - Hia'shal
Justin - Cascadians
The enemy lurked in the great forests south of the city of Debrusk. Nestled beneath the feet of the Storrow Mountains, the city itself was a modest place by Marchander standards, home to a couple of hundred million Marchanders. The city was nominally loyal to the Federal Republic, the SAGA-backed government that ruled from the city of Hornqvist to the north-west, but that loyalty was kept in place only by subsidies and by the armies camped out along its southern reaches.
The 46th Democratic Guards Army had been in place for months now, its units rotating in and out of the network of trenches, outposts and bunkers that formed the unofficial southern border of the Federal Republic. The lands beyond it were de jure administered by the central government too, but outside of the fortified cities those vast and wild reaches belonged to the Cult of Carcaros. Only the lands north of the 46th's positions were 'safe', and even then they were riddled with spies, agents, agitators and rebels.
The forests loomed like a shadow, ever present, glowering at the tired and cold garrisons of the defensive line. It had been months since any real fighting in this part of Marchand, although there were always rumours of running battles in the lands to the west, violence haunting the towns and fields between Cass City and Hornqvist, and everyone knew that the lightbulb goblins were always about their wicked business in the sprawling GRZ industrial cities to the north.
Happily, here in the 46th, there were no Ingenious demons to deal with, no self-satisified torchbugs strutting around as if they owned the place. The only foreigners were the mercenaries and freebooters who formed the 'Special Group Advisory', the lofty term for the guns for hire that the weary Federal Republic had hired across the continent to shore up their inexperienced conscript armies.
In a forward dugout, Captain Zacha lit a cigarette and hunched over it to keep it alive in in the fragile moments of its birth. The wind was gentle tonight, but still could snuff out even the smallest of pleasures like a single smoke. Winter still gripped the land, even though spring was beginning to threaten itself on the horizon. Ice and snow gripped the land, only relenting to allow mud and mire to take their place. Blasted trees and the ruins of hedgerows and fences dotted the landscape, the debris of battles long past. Last fall the Cult had launched a major attack on Debrusk and been repulsed, but the 71st Shock Army's counterattack had been bungled and the fighting had lasted for brutal weeks. Finally the Cult had fallen apart, its ad-hoc organisation failing to solidify into anything more serious, but the Federal Republic had decided to dig in rather than push south.
In the long winter that had followed, nothing of real note had happened. Occasionally the Cult would send teams of raiders to try and penetrate the defensive positions, with varying degrees of success. Sometimes the Republic would push an armed patrol along the edge of the distant forest just to prove it could, never daring to go deeper. Mostly they all just shivered and waited.
He squinted through a pair of binoculars at the distant treeline and saw nothing. Sweeping the night vision device over the fields between, he saw no movement or glimmer of light that might betray an enemy attack. Nothing. Just like yesterday and most likely just like tomorrow. He spat, shoved the gear into a deep pocket of his voluminous overcoat, then struggled across the muddy planks of the trench and into a dugout. This was one of the uncomfortably large ones they had expanded to accommodate their alien comrades, and his gaggle of offworlders were inside.
Initially he had resented them, but they had proven themselves useful, at least compared to his conscripts.
"Dobryy vecher," he huffed as he staggered inside
Daskys’ head twitched in Zacha’s direction as he entered the dugout, giving the Captain a nod of respect, as he did everytime they crossed paths.
The Echo sat on a small pile of boxes, dressed in standard grey warmail and cloaked in brown-grey mesh. A warhelm covered his head to keep the elements at bay, though there was only so much that could be done in conditions like these. A rifle hung at his side, slung over his shoulder on a durable strap. At his hip hung a sword in its scabbard, wrapped in what used to be a fine red sash, now muddied by the months he had spent in the trenches. He had to admit, if the House of Wrath could see where he'd ended up, there would be no end to the taunts from his fellow warriors; held up in a hole with nowhere to hunt.
A pair of serpentine bodies curled around the Echos position, laying in a small heap of scrounged rags and loose earth. Kad’El, they were called; large dog-like creatures from the Echotian homeworld. Roughly two and a half meters in length, the six-limbed hounds rested at their master's heel, waiting to be roused.
Daskys stood, taking a careful step over his Kad’El as he approached the Captain.
“Any news, Zacha’vos?”
Major Konstantin Maksimenko lay across his bunk, legs crossed at the shin, hands clasped, resting on his chest. His eyes, one the piercing blue that he had had since birth, the other, a bionic hybrid mixture of lenses and lighting, rested. He had been resting upon the bed for some hours, after being 3 days out on the hunt, though he did not allow himself to drift to sleep, instead listening to the commotions of his other “alien” comrades here in the dugout.
His 4 months on the Debrusk front had followed the same routine. The collapse of any real progression on the front had led to a deadlock which allowed Maksimenko to hunt amongst the ruins and wreckage of the conflict. He would stock up on supplies and warmth, before heading out, days at a time, to a previously scouted location, overlooking a portion of the enemy’s defenses, where he would stay, hidden, waiting for the perfect moments to strike fear into the hearts of his opponents. He had been prepared to stay out longer, but the cold of the Marchand winter crept into his aging bones, limiting the willingness of the Imaginese Sniper to stay out, hunting his prey.
He was the only Imaginese operative on the front, and had been called in as a favour from one axis general to the other, as a moral boost for the SAGA forces, and demoraliser for the enemy. Now in his 59th year, the Major was a veteran of the Barlat campaign; a campaign which had cost him his right eye (the robotic replacement, and deep scar beneath it a sure sign of the original injury). Proving himself in that war, he had chalked up an impressive kill count of over 800 (or so the propaganda reports said), and was regarded as a legend amongst the Imaginese Liberation Army. After that war, he had stayed on, often operating in small groups or alone, tackling small levels of descent that had emerged during the collapse of the FB-1 universe, and the movement of Laptev.
Here, within the trenches of Marchand, he was called on to once again, do the same.
Here, he was just another operative. Granted, he was giving freedom to act on his own accord, but he was one of a larger group of foreigners, here as part of the larger war effort.
He listened, intently, as footsteps entered into the dugout. Captain Zacha, he recognised the pattern of his walk. He opened his right eye, the bionic one, letting the natural eye continue to rest. He watched as he entered through the doorway, the cold radiating off him, as he spoke.
Maksimenko watched, unmoving from his comfortable position.
The woman leaning against one of the dugout's walls barely turns her head in acknowledgement of the Captain's arrival, her attention focused on the object in her left hand.
Morella Ptelera is not a fan of the cold, but that's not to say she isn't wholly unused to it. With her padded clothing and overcoat the temperature is manageable, even as she leaves said coat open, though the discomfort she feels is amplified somewhat by the armored vest she dons. Her rifle is slung over one shoulder by its strap, and lying by her feet are two softball-sized spheres of metal, dormant and unmoving, though the myriad of antennae and optics present on their surfaces mark them as her drones. An angular, uninviting face is coupled with narrow green eyes and a thin-lipped mouth, and her straight black hair ends abruptly at her shoulders; two months of dirt and grime mar her clothing, boots, and the lighter in her hand, but she doesn't seem to care all that much.
Her attention is focused almost entirely on the repetitive, incessant motion of opening the lighter, lighting it, and shutting it, right before starting the cycle back up again. There's a gleam in her eyes as she does so, not too unlike a child being introduced to a toy store or some similar establishment.
A smaller figure nestled in the deepest corner of the foxhole flinches slightly at the entrance of the Captain, dropping the set of pliers in their hand when they reach towards the bullpup pump shotgun resting next to them before they see who it is joining them. The mild twitch almost causes them to drop the round object in their other hand and once they calm down, they pick up their pliers once more and get back to work.
Xiuhpilli Huitzilihuitl, shortened to "Xipil" by most, would seem entirely out of place with the rest of the troops, were it not for their attire, and even that is unusual. In addition to standard winter uniform, they are dressed in a "full body" plate carrier, complete with shoulder and thigh protectors, and stuffed with as many trauma plates as they can carry. The standard issue helmet with an attached face shield rests on their lap. Even their long greatcoat has a thick woven nylon layer inside to not only keep them warm but hopefully block some shrapnel to the rest of their body. Visible under all that protection is a strange figure with grey skin of various shades accented by touches of glimmering blue almost like crystals, and numerous ridges and peaks. They do not seem to have visible eyes, merely ridges and pools of darker grey where they should be, and their nose is a strange pair of angled slits.
Xipli is a new arrival, not only to the front, but to the galaxy in general. Just recently taken from their world of Xi'Tatl by the Svarthan, the barely adult Pltatotec enlisted in the Trust's armed forces, and was dispatched here as an engineer to try and fortify the defenses of their allies, and breach those of their enemies. As such they were almost unworkably timid upon arrival, and even now, almost 2 months later they still prefer to be in a trench, over anything else.
As the beings they consider superiors begin to speak, they put down the pliers and the rolling mine before turning on their oil drum like backpack to face them and listen.
Rifle resting on the bunk next to her, one leg raised, ankle resting on her knee, and face partly obscured by the fuzzy collar of her jacket, Hia'shal dug her gloved hands into her pockets, glancing over to the entrance as the alien commanding over them walked in and made himself known in a gruff voice.
The Dysonian woman, with short blonde hair, amber eyes, and light brown skin, regarded Zacha with a weary expression. After five and a half months on this contract, she was more recognizable with the bags under her eyes than without, and her already quiet demeanor had been further worn away after the weeks upon weeks of staring across a progressively more and more barren no-man's-land.
She felt rather foolish for thinking this form of warfare was dying out. As it turned out, hole in the ground was still one hell of a viable tactic... if you didn't mind the dreary misery and maddening boredom that came with it.
The main thing that came to mind was... well, at least her companions weren't boring.
"I hate the cold" The Cascadian contractor said to himself as he tried to warm his fingers by rubbing them together. It worked, but not to the extent that he wanted it to. See, he was from the Regal region, on the planet of Glass, where temperatures were a constant 30-40 degrees and stayed like that all year round. He was used to the humidity and sweat that came with it, but not to freezing tundra of... whatever this place was called.
Why did they select me to go? Suppose that the CSC just ran out of people, considering they were heavily involved in another black operation they wouldn't tell him about.
When the Captain entered, he made slight eye contact with him, before turning to look at everyone else. Seems like the cold had worn away most of their social energies, too. Not like they could become acquaintances here - combat was uneventful whenever it did occur. That's what he didn't understand. If it were the Republican Navy, or the Army, a stalemate like this wouldn't have occurred in the first place. They would've bombarded the grounds, leaving the troops to scavenge through the ruins for survivors.
That's also why he left the Republican Armed Forces. If the alternative to wanton death and destruction was a slow grind, so be it.
Zacha knew the offworlders were even more bored than most. Their specialist status exempted them from the dull duty of standing guard, so when they weren't training his unwilling conscripts or checking on their specific areas of responsibility, they had nothing to do but wait. There was little he could do to alleviate that, however - he didn't have approval or the resources to do anything else, and the only other distraction was actual combat, which he had no desire to provoke.
He shook his head to Dasky's question, scruffing the ears of one of the Kad'El. Other Marchanders were understandably wary of the beasts, as he had been, but in the weeks and months of trench life they had settled down and he had found out they were no different than the hounds and beasts of a dozen different planets. At least for now..
"No, comrade, nothing new," he said, crossing over to the stove and putting artificial firelog into the chamber, the door squeaking as he opened and shut it. He crossed to an empty nook and sat down, taking a moment before tugging out his canteen and taking a sip. He grunted something in Marchander and one of his men laded some stew into a copper bowl and handed it over.
Between mouthfuls, the little Marchander began to speak again.
"Spring will come soon. Then will be more work. We will need to repair and redig much of the line. Probably will take back the forests once the snow is cleared." he explained, some of his men perking up at the hint of a change in their dull routines...
Maksimenko sat up from his cot, and ran a hand across his face, as if switching on his expression from a moment of stasis and rest. The bionic eye twinkled in the shadow of the corner he occupied, but as he turned into the light of the fire, his entire face was cast in deep contrast, showing the age lines, and scar that adorned him.
He cleared his throat, as he swivelled his legs around so that his feet dangled over the side of the bed. He caught a moment looking at the room, at Zacha, now sat with warm stew for company, and the rest of the aliens, all whose attention rested on the Marchander.
Spring coming would be both a blessing and a curse, Maksimenko thought. The stillness of winter was boring, but it had made for a good period of rest for the Republic’s forces. That however was equally true of the enemy, and the thawing of ice in spring would no doubt bring chaos. He felt he knew the defence pretty well, having occupied them for a few months, and had a rough idea (from a strategic point of view) where would be the best points of attack for the enemy, and the weakest points in the Republic’s front line. He broke his silence.
“I was out, not but a few days ago, along the Eastern edge of the city defences. Out where the old biofarms are.” He announced to the room. “The Cult haven’t pushed it during winter, but they’ve left it shell damaged. Snow is deep across the open spaces, but once it thaws, it’ll be a nasty place for us if we allow enemy armour across it.”
He stood from his spot, his head nearly touching the ceiling of the dugout.
“Might be worth taking a look, seeing if there is anything we can do now…if anyone wishes?”
Daskys chuffed, an odd reverberating sound, like the rattle of distant AA-fire. He turned as Zacha moved further into the dugout, peering down on the Captain. It was disappointing, though not surprising. What Daskys had seen of the Cult had not impressed him; lacking both leadership or cohesion.
"Cowards to delay themselves; too weak to fight, too stubborn to die."
He adjusted his cloak, folding his arms across his chest for warmth as he listened, taking in what the Marchander had to say.
News of change likewise sent a sense of relief through the Echo, thankful even for the task of trenchwork. The idea of having something to focus on other than their 50th game of cards was enough to lighten Daskys' mood.
Maksimenko's proposal caught his attention, as well as the attention of the Kra'El, whose heads raised like a pair of cobra in the mans direction. Their two pairs of eyes were stark blue in the midnight air, poised and ready to rise at the word.
Daskys raised a brow at the Kra'El, then back to Maksimenko.
"You wont get any complaints from them, and it would do us good to take the initiative. I can get a lay of the land while we are out there, and check on the traps along the way. See if we've caught anything sniffing about."
Xipil stops tampering with his bomb and looks up, dropping off his cylindrical, and fairly huge backpack, and putting the mine back into the loading slot where it belongs. The grasp their shot gun, and check it to be sure it is clear before slinging it onto their shoulder.
They turn back to the group, their eyeless face moving over to their sniper ally. Together with the Echos trooper and his, frankly quite terrifying dogs, they consider Maksimenko to be their unofficial "superior", given their experience. Their other two allies seem to be less commanding as well.
"Umm, I guess I will be going too... If armor is an issue I could lay some mines, and ahh, maybe set up traps? I could even put in some uhh, real big stuff in the ground if you give me time and some big charges sirs."
They address both the Captain and the two going with them so far under that label. In fact they speak sort of formally to most everyone here, seemingly uncomfortable calling them by name. Even the former civilian, the ex contractor, and seemingly bored Dysonian get a sir or ma'am from the grey skinned alien.
Having said their piece they sling on the backpack, and look around.
"I will need to visit an armory since I don't currently have... anti tank mines..."
They seem almost bashful over their lack of "preparedness", despite not possibly having been able to know about the mission in advance and as such not possibly being able to have stocked up on the adequate supplies.
“I’m surprised that there are still forests to take.” Hia said. “Haven’t seen much green ever since the winter started. Figured all the trees were turned to splinters, especially when the snow began to cover them up.” The Dysonian ran her fingers through her hair. Spring was coming and she was ready for it. Winter had been a special kind of hell, and it dragged on for what had felt like years, as if the concept of time itself was out of energy and desperately needed time to rest.
Sprint brought change, an end to the monotony. Whether it was good or bad, she was ready to take on whatever mission her squad would be sent on.
Her eyes flicked over to the shorter alien, fretting over his equipment. His constant worrying was a bit grating at times, as if he was constantly under some kind of mandatory inspection 24/7 by the rest of the squad.
Drakys was one of the members where it was harder to get a feel for... She appreciated that his beasts were well trained, but the way they held themselves whenever someone passed by, like all it took was a single word from their master to tear out someone’s throat... it kept her on edge.
Maksimento, or ‘Max’ as she’d occasionally call the man, was a bit more on the approachable side... comparatively speaking.
“I’ll come with you, in that case.” She said to the man with the bionic eye, nudging an entrenching tool up with her boot and catching it in one hand. “Haven’t stretched my legs properly for a couple weeks now, could make for something to do while the snow begins to thaw.”
The mention of potential combat operations seemed to bring some relief to the former Corporal, as if the cold didn’t bother him as much as it did before. It took him only a few seconds to make up his mind, but he opted to let the others speak first. Watching and listening, he was able to make a few assumptions on what was going on inside their heads; an act he picked up in the still boredom of winter. Most were just as eager as him to get back into combat, but the words of Xipil and Daskys caught his attention.
He thought that the former was too tentative, intimidated by the thought of even being slightly unprepared. He knew that war wasn’t about who was the most prepared, it was about who could do the most with whatever they were given, in the shortest amount of time possibly. Similarly, he knew he couldn’t just classify insurgencies like this to be commanded, controlled and made up of cowards.
Finally, when the Dysonian finished, he let go of his thoughts, and spoke up.
”I’m down for some combat or recon ops. Any idea when we’ll be heading out?” His Cascadian accent was apparent - he dropped letters and pronounced others differently than what the locals might expect.
Zacha hesitated, annoyed and reluctant to go back out into the cold, but he knew they were probably right. His lines had plenty of anti-armour weaponry, but a nice flat open ground would let the enemy overrun his trenches and quickly turn any attack into a slaughter. He had not seriously considered the issue because since he had assumed command, the only enemy attacks had been scattered infantry raids, which naturally avoided the wide open biofarms because they lacked cover.
He finished his stew and dumped it with a clatter onto the folding metal table in the center of the dugout, then stood.
"Ok. We go in 2 minutes," he said, before turning to talk to one of his subordinates in muted tones.
A few minutes later, he met the aliens by the doorway as they finished their own preparations, then with a nod turned and headed out into the darkness. They tramped along a muddy trench, slipping on the wooden boards and rubber mats that had been placed along the bottom in an attempt to make it navigable, before turning down a communication trench and eventually climbing out of the network behind the lines. They followed a kankar road through small fields and woodland, some of it scarred by craters and with the occasional rusted out vehicle, stripped of usable salvage and useful sheet metal. Ahead of them in the gloom, the towering shapes of silos began to emerge against the moonlit horizon, some battered and others collapsed. They skirted the gaunt frame of a warehouse, reduced to a steel skeleton, Zacha pausing them for a good five minutes as he surveilled the ruin to make sure it was empty, before they slipped into the ruined farm to peer out at the fields beyond.
They seemed deserted, marked only by drainage ditches. In the great battles of the previous year, a huge tank battle had taken place north of here that had preserved it from the worst of the combat, but in the raiding since it had become a wasteland.
-
After another interval which seemed to stretch forever, Zacha stood, leaning against a steel post.
"Ok. This stretch here. From the trees over there to the lake north of us, that is their gap. So how do we protect it?"
He turned to look at the foreigners expectantly. Behind them, perhaps 200 meters away, was a series of disconnected trenches and dugouts which formed the federal defensive line in this area.
Maksimenko took the opportunity to remove his helmet, fastening to the straps that held his armour plating in place on his chest. His kit was Imaginese, but clearly modified from the standard gear produced for riflemen. The armour featured camouflage paint, done so by Maksimenko himself to match the terrain of Marchand’s current winter setting. Ditched was the standard face mask given to all members of the ILA. He knew this made him susceptible to gas attacks and a like, but he valued his own sensory abilities over the cautionary piece of equipment. A pistol was strapped to his thigh, and his rifle, once again not a standard issue, strung across his chest.
He had become familiar with “the gap” in the line. He had used it in his hunts before, and knew that the enemy was just as likely to explore it, which alerted him to the potential of the area being a threat come the spring. He was no engineer however, and so could only rely on experience from previous campaigns when it came to the possibilities of what could and couldn’t be done to sure up the gap.
He broke the silence first.
“I don’t know if that is the right way we should look at this, Comrade Zacha. Sure, the enemy may push us here, but it is also the most likely place for our own advances.”
He took a glance out of the structure, and across the open space.
“Our engineering colleagues may have more know how in this matter, but I almost think we have ready this area for both an enemy wave, and our counter attack. We need to be able to push across this space quickly. To me, I would think we cannot therefore mine the gap. That means the gap must be covered by something else. How easy would it be to get more machine gun placements, viewing the field? Perhaps we cover the length with enough solid defensive structures, and bring up field guns, to zero in on enemy positions?”
On the topic of engineering colleagues, Xipil moves up next Maksimenko to look out at the blasted barren field. In contrast to the sniper, they push their helmet down more firmly onto their head, its visor flipped up for the time being. Their kit, if Xipil himself is to be believed, is one of the first production kits the Svarthan made for his people and has been modified by the little engineer to suit their own view of fighting. It its heavy trauma plates and thick padding on just about every area its practical, in tandem with the large round backpack speak to the general preference of heavy armor and robust supply that the Xipli prefers, and the huge shot gun is a testament to the weapon design philosophy of his new home nation.
As an engineer, Xipil is familiar with this section of the line, and their sensory package quickly gazes over it. Indeed, this area is a large threat, and while they would love to recommend not only huge anti armor mines but also anti infantry mines, concrete tank traps, and razor wire what their sniper ally says does make a great deal of sense. Attacking here would certainly be a viable option.
They reply
"Hmm, you do make a good point sir... An attack here would take less effort than elsewhere along the line, but what if the enemy decides to fortify their side, and forego an attack to bait out just such. We would be walking into a potential death trap..."
They reach behind them, and retrieve one of their rolling ball mines from the back, holding it out and up for the group to see.
"However I do think we can mine the gap sirs. Leaving the option for a rapid push would negate the option of tank traps, barbed wire, and other such static defenses, but if your people possess smart mines, like this but bigger, or even just mines that can be remotely armed and disarmed we could mine the gap while still enabling passage for our troops. Combine with weapon emplacements and artillery it could be quite effective sirs."
Daskys lifted a pair of binoculars, fitting them into a groove as they fixed into place on his helm. Taking a knee, he drew out a sleek looking rifle and peered downrange. His cloak had been pulled up over the back of the helm, obscuring his silhouette with an off-white hex pattern. He travelled near the back of the group, watching signs of their movements being tracked, and scanning the snow for fresh prints.
His Krad’El returned momentarily from their sweep through the nearby trenches, sitting quietly behind Daskys as he continued to survey the area. Having come up empty-handed, the serpentine creatures returned to their master.
Daskys turned; satisfying the caution in the back of his mind. He removed the binoculars, slipping them into their protective pouch before returning them to their spot on his belt. He took a deep breath, smelling the alien air and taking in the scenery, before catching up to the group once more.
Xipil’s mines forced him to pause momentarily as he inspected the small objects as he approached. Though the hunter despised the mines, their simplicity in deployment and general ability to dissuade attackers was almost unmatched. No skill or pride in them, but they were effective.
“Might not be a bad option, though with such an expansive stretch…”
Daskys looked into the distance, mental calculations running through his mind.
“I dread to consider the time it would take to seed the area. Concentrating them closer to our defences would provide additional protection, though if the Cult is already knocking on our doorstep, we have already failed.”
The Echo turned to the rest of the group, interested in any additional points that they might make.
“If I may...” came a response from the Dysonian woman, who had been taking a good look at the surrounding position, crouching next to a pile of now-useless, rusted scrap, staring out at the open territory out in front of them.
“A defense in depth approach may be the best way to handle this. Like Max here said- this would be a good corridor for your forces to make an assault, just as it would theirs. So it would be unwise to completely close it off unless we wish to look forward to a slog of an advance...” Hia’shal stood up and gestured in the direction they came from, before brushing some blonde bangs from her hair with an irritated huff.
“We could think of this less of a gap and more of a gate, if it helps to describe it that way. Which makes it simultaneously the most vulnerable part of a defense, but, if defended correctly, it can be extremely dangerous as well. We can use this as a bottleneck, a killbox to weather an enemy assault and quite possibly leave them vulnerable to a counterattack...”
She paused for a moment, and her amber eyes glanced back to the aliens that made up the rest of the strange squad she was a part of.
“...of course, that’s just the opinion of a mercenary. Take that suggestion how you will.”
The Dysonian's response seemed to warrant agreement from the Cascadian, who watched the field and listened to her (and everyone else's) words carefully while thinking about his days in the NRA, both as an enlisted infantryman as well as an independent contractor. The "gate" analogy was not so different from his own conclusion.
"The gate analogy is perfect." He said, shooting a glance into her and everyone else to gauge their reactions. "So are the mines. Ideally..." Trailing off for a second, he thought about the differences between here and everywhere else he had been. What this had that they didn't have, and vice versa. "Ahem. As I was saying, this is the ideal place for artillery duels or large armored formations. However, I propose that such a large expansive could best be used for an air or airborne based attack and defense. Aircraft have the perfect battlefield space, and so do helicopters. Concetrating our aerial and mobile forces here is a decisive factor."
Zacha nodded, weighing it all up. A smattering of smart mines, along with some air assets positioned to either break up an offensive or punch a hole through defenses, would be a relatively cheap way to control the area. Whether he could get them was another question, but it was more likely than convincing command to move an entire division here...
He turned to squint back across the fields. Something caught his eye in the distance. Had he seen movement? He stared at a fixed spot, hoping to catch it again, and this time he definitely saw movement but further off to his right.
There was a faint thwack noise and then a rustling noise. Turning, the mercenaries would see Captain Zacha tumbling back down into the ruins from his perch atop a broken piece of concrete. A heartbeat later, the resounding crack of a sniper rifle echoed across the still, silent night air.
Xipil's mines saved his life; as he twisted to put the remote mine back in his pack, another round clanged into the steel girder behind him, having missed him by mere centimetres, the air buffeting him. Ahead of them the fields seemed to suddenly seethe with activity...
The echo of the shot rang around the shell of a building, and Maksimenko watched as Zacha dropped to the ground. Time seemed to stand still as he attempted to process what he was seeing. It was sadly a sight he had seen many times before, but each time shock him, albeit momentarily, as the cold chill of death seemed to creep along his spine.
As he came to his senses, his instantly ducked down, searching for cover from any of the openings to the elements. He slung his helmet back onto his head, and picked up his rifle, preparing it for action. Getting his bearings, he moved, low, across the building, to a small opening on the right hand side, small enough to allow the smallest of peeps out into the front.
There they were, moving quietly across the expanse, the faint rumbling of vehicles in the back. He cursed aside, before addressing the room.
“We have company, friends. Looks like the bastards aren’t waiting until spring. There’s a few pushing now. They’ve moving across the field. Maybe supported by vehicles. If any of you have central command on the radio, now might be a good time to get artillery zeroed in!”
Daskys dropped low to the ground, heart pumping madly in his chest as he instinctively dove in the direction of the fallen Captain. Even as Daskys closed the distance, the hard thud of the little man's body against the cold, lifeless ground made the pit in his stomach tighten even more.
Adrenaline flooded his system, propelled by his O'ren, until the sound of the commotion around him was not but a muffled white noise.
The Echo knelt next to the body of his superior, though upon seeing what remained of the Marchander's head, understood that Captain Zacha had passed into the realm where he could not follow. A bitter, almost resentful feeling washed over Daskys as his clawed hands curled into fists around Zacha’s dog tags. He pulled them free of the corpse, before storing them in a pouch on his hip.
This should have been his death, but now the Captain had taken the fall in his stead. It was shameful, and Daskys considered if there was any true redemption ahead of him.
The sudden high of his O'ren subsided, jolting the Echo back to reality. Shock was taking him, and it was all the Echo could do but lift his shaking hands to his Kra'El, who stood ready to act.
The company of his pack was enough for now to get Daskys on his feet, before activating the macrys in his gorget. He tried to keep his voice level, but the amount of energetic chemicals in his body was making it hard to speak clearly.
-/-Mayday Mayday Mayday, this is Orros Daskys of the 46th SGA. We have encountered Cult forces and request immediate fire support due east of our current location. Over!-/-
As the timid engineer feels the bullet whip by their head, they immediately drop down to the ground, the mine dropping out of their hands and into the mud as they scream at the top of their lungs in some language the others cant understand, perhaps his native tongue.
Their left hand slams down their face shield, as the other pats around to their side until his fingers close around the round shape of the smart mine. With another yell, they wrench the arming pin free, and chuck the mine over the edge of the trench with all their might. Another follows as soon as they can get their hands to their back pack, and soon after it one more. They keep throwing mines until they have none left, managing to sit up in the process.
As their rush of adrenaline starts to fade and they stop yelling, they look around at their squad mates and decide to do what they do best, get ready to hunker down. Slipping off their backpack, they grab the spool of razor wire within and turn a key on its side. Chucking it over the trench rim, a spring inside the spool causes it to pop open, spreading the wire out rapidly. They then start shoveling dirt into the bags they carry, preparing to make their position more defensible.
Sssssssnap
There was a solid few seconds of just... confused staring as Hia watched the alien fall to the ground. Even after she heard the report of a firearm echo over the fields, she hadn’t fully processed what was going on.
Only when a loud clang could be heard just over where the small engineer’s head had been did Hia realize that getting into action was necessary.
“Via-“ She scrambled across the ground, keeping her head low in the meantime, and diving behind a pile of rubble, peering out only with her rifle and what little of her face she needed to look down the sights. "How many do you see, Max?? Give us an estimate at least!" She yelled to Maksimento as she herself tried to zero in on one of infantryman who attempted to push across. A burst of fire came from her rifle, and she quickly ducked back down behind the rubble, not checking to see if she hit her target.
Typically she wouldn't be so frantic in a gunfight, especially over the no-mans-land... but they were in the open aside from the ruined structures around them, not in the trenches that fortified most of the line.
This was going to be a miserable, freezing fight.
There was no shock or surprise within the Cascadian's face. The moment that Zacha received the shot that presumably ended his life till the moment that the sound of the shot registered, his reflexes had alreaddy told him what to do: Get down. Stay down.
So he did. He dropped to the ground, clutching the automatic rifle in his arms and crawling behind the nearest piece of cover he could find. Then he moved onto the next phase: Locate the shooter. Luckily, his allies seemed to have somewhat figured that out. He decides to find out for himself anyway. He peeks over his cover, looking to the general direction of the bullet, trying to locate a seam that didn't sit right, a dot in the distance, or the flash of a scope with his augmented eyes.
He looks for a few seconds before dropping back down, waits, then peeks back up. Where was he?
As the Cascadian watched, he spotted a faint muzzle flare, deep in the woods distant from them. A round pinged off a piece of concrete just in front of the group, just as elsewhere in the woods another muzzle flare splashed the trees with a brief orange glow.
Maksimenko and Hia had targets in their scopes. A force of enemy foot soldiers was making its way towards them, following a barren hedgerow at an oblique angle, flashes of movement visible above the humped earth whenever there was a gap in the bare branches. They were close, close enough that the crunch of their feet in the snow could be just about heard over the general din. The hedgerow ended several dozen yards from a nearby collapsed barn, and if they could cross that open space and reach the cover of the barn then they could lay down fire on the offworlders or else rush the defenders' position at short distance, hoping to overcome the Svarthan's field barricades and swamp the aliens with sheer numbers. Either way, it wouldn't be good.
Daskys was met with silence for an uncomfortably long time, the seconds stretching out into eternity, until eventually a bored-sounding voice in heavily-accented Common came back.
"This is Major Levshenko. Put Captain Zacha on the line, only he can request fire support, over,"
“An entire platoon? Shit, no…more…more advancing from the woods. It is a whole advance.” Maksimenko shouted, relaying what he could see to the group.
Shots continued to ring out. And bullets ricocheting around their concrete structure. Someone amongst the enemy’s march had their number and was firing upon their position. He scouted through his scope, attempting to seek out any who were taking the time to line up their own sights on the building. With the numbers crossing, it wasn’t easy to detect who was the most immediate danger.
A faint muzzle flash from the woods gave a vague indication of one of the enemies who was ranged on the building, and Maksimenko lined up his sights. There they were. Laying amongst the shrubs and undergrowth, a rifle sticking out, a head just above it. He levelled his sights, inhaled, and held his breath, and released a shot from his own weapon. The gun rang out, firing across the field.
He exhaled, keeping his eyes on the target to see if his shot was a success.
“Someone want to give the Major the bad news?” he said, his eyes remaining fixed.
"Captain Zacha just took an early retirement to the forehead, he isn't exactly in the state to be requesting any fire support at the moment!" Hia shouted into her radio, gritting her teeth as the cover she laid behind was sprayed with enemy fire. "But if we don't get that support now, we're going to be overrun!"
She was very tempted to add some very colorful commentary on the Republic's bureaucracy, but she bit her tongue.
Hia'shal flipped her assault rifle to full auto, and crawled on her stomach to the side, peeking out now from a different position of her cover. Hearing the sound of boots crunching through the snow on the other side of the hedgerow, and fired a long burst in an arc through where she saw the most movement, trying to hold them back for the time being.
A platoon was bad enough, especially with just the four of them possibly being the only ones to hold them off. With no sign of reinforcements anytime soon, the command structure fighting them almost as much as the actual enemy, and no prisoners probably being taken, she hid once more behind cover, pulled out a grenade, and slid it into the tube under the barrel of her assault rifle.
Xipil continues to fill bags with dirt and sand before chucking them over the edge of the trench, until they hear their comrades starting to yell around them. Filling up one last bag and tossing it onto their barricade, they sit back down at the base of the trench and dig around in their pack, producing yet another one of their Trust made tools. A recon drone.
However unlike the drones used by the vast majority of the galaxy, this one is a burrowing drone, made the the Svarthan for the subterranean operations, and in fact it looks an awful lot like one, with a teardrop shaped body made of a series of overlapping plates to keep the dirt out. As the engineer flips the switch, it clicks to life, turning left and right upon his palm, until he places it against the earthen wall of the trench, where it promptly starts to dig in with its rapidly vibrating front end. The little machine tunnels forward as Xipil looks on a small foldable screen with a series of buttons along the bottom.
At first the machine is only detecting vibrations, but the Trust know how to discern objects like that well, and soon Xipil has guided the drone into the middle of the enemy concentration, where it deploys its thin fiber optic camera cables just barely up through the mud to peer up at the enemy hopefully unnoticed.
"I got up close visual on the enemies sirs!" The engineer yells "Seems like this is a BIG push. I can see and feel distant movements along with those of the roughly platoon sized force approaching us. They are trying to avoid my mines!"
This last statement is punctuated by more swears, as if the engineer hoped the enemy would just walk through their hastily set up defenses and try to step on every mine the threw.
"My weapon is useless until they get in close sirs, unless any of you brought 4 gauge slugs that fit a Trust made weapon!"
Daskys bared his teeth, sickened by the tone in the reply.
He thought for a moment, about trying to mimic the late captains voice in order to save them from the incoming wave of cultists. Thankfully for the Echo, Hia removed all secrecy for them. Their choices had been narrowed, and Daskys worked best when not conflicted by the morality of impersonating his Captain.
Daskys listened for a reply as he looked to his Kra'El, who now stood ready to move at a moments notice, tails wagging excitedly.
The Echo made a strange noise in his throat, like a whistle or a chirp, shrill and pitched. Immediately, the Kra'El bellowed, bolting in the direction of the trenches they had come from.
Turning back to the frontline, Daskys lifted his rifle and awaited the response from HQ, drawing his sword in his lower hands.
"I have the sinking feeling they wont be out of range for long, Xipil'ra."
Whew He thought, as the round pinged off the cover that was infront of him. A few more centimetres and it would have changed his fate. Sliding back into cover, he though about informing command of Captain Zacha's untimely end, but Hia, the Dysonian, had cut off his intended reply. Thus he stood silent, listening in on the communications of his allies, silently lauding and cursing the Federal Republic's bureacracy in terms of calling something as simple as fire support.
Looks like it was going to be a losing fight if they stayed here any more. But where would they go? They couldn't reasonably retreat before they were gunned down in the back... could they? They also couldn't push out - they had the numerical disadvantage. Now what?
At last he spoke up. It came out in a slightly distressed tone.
"We need to gain some sort of advantage over them. Anyone know how to do that besides waiting for fire support?"
Gysh Frolov, an experienced sniper who had fired some of the first shots of the Path Of Resistance, as the Cult leadership called it, was pleased with herself. She had punched a hole through a traitor's head from nearly a kilometer away, clean as you like, and sent the offworlders scurrying for cover.
Another round missed by inches and she swore softly. She knew she should relocate, but other Cult soldiers were storming the enemy position now and they needed covering fire.
She breathed out, resighting, and spotted movement again. She swept the telescopic sights across the face of the ruined warehouse and that was where she made her mistake. Her view passed over the faintest hint of an outline, and instead of immediately rolling into cover she stopped and brought the sights back to investigate. In that moment, she knew she had messed up. There was a tiny flash of light and, a heartbeat later, a sudden wrenching sensation that took the air from her lungs. She slumped into the snow,, gasping for air that wouldn't come. Maksimenko had made his shot count...
THE WAREHOUSE
There was a pause on the other end as the Marchander tried to parse what Hia had just said, before eventually responding. "Say again, Captain Zacha is KIA?" was all it asked as Hia sprayed a burst towards the enemy in front of them. She was rewarded with a squeal of pain and cries, before panicked counterfire crackled into the concrete around her.
The fire directed at them began to increase in intensity, as more and more Cultists took up position to suppress them. Unlike the Cult of the early occupation, who were little better than an undisciplined mob, these ratlings were organised and trained. Not perhaps to the tier of the offworlders' militaries, but definitely enough to pose a serious threat. By the hedgerow, a pair of shadowy figures suddenly made a dash for the nearby barn over open ground as a third opened up full-auto in an attempt to give them covering fire.
MLGDerp989 (Svarthan Trust) — 01/03/2023 10:58
As the pair rush across the field, one of the smart mines suddenly springs into action. As the small spherical bombs vibrational and visual sensors picking up the intruders as they step into its range, its piston pushes it onto its side as it rolls towards the incoming pair at a running pace, before leaping between them and detonating in a circular plane of shrapnel at chest level.
Any other groups who try to cross to reach the warehouse would likely have a similar experience with one of the other smart mines littering the ground, not to mention avoiding the smattering of anti personnel mines there.
As their foes get closer Xipil continues to yell out the locations of the enemy whenever their drone spots any, trying to coordinate his allies fire to be more effective without his allies having to expose themselves to aim accurately. If they listen to his fairly high pitched but still quite loud yelling is up to them however.
The target slumped. Maksimenko’s shot had been a direct hit, and he allowed himself a slight exhale of satisfaction as he levelled the scope, surveying the field. He had hit his target, which meant that if any other riflemen were in the forests watching, they would no doubt be trailing their own scopes on him quickly. He had to survey the field, and move out of sight, to relocate or risk being a victim like the poor soul he had just gunned down.
The enemy moved across the field, too many for the small group of foreigners to handle, even with their expertise, advanced weaponry and alike.
He climbed down from the gap he was using as a window to the outside, and spoke across to the group.
“We need to move. Look here.”
He pointed to the back of the building, which faced back towards their own lines, albeit across space which would undoubtably leave them open.
“We need to get back to our own lines before either fire support comes crashing down on us, or those Jackals.”
He motioned to the enemy advancing.
“Anyone got anything at all which can make the enemy move it’s focus away from us, even if just for 30 seconds or so? Swap their focus so we can move out of this shell of a building?”
Daskys cursed under his breath as he adjusted his position with his rifle, looking over to Maksimenko. The man had skill, he'd give him that.
The Echo turned away form the frontline to put his back to a solid section of wall, giving him some moments to focus on a plan.
"I could cause a distraction, though don't know how long I can occupy their attentions without winding up like the Captain."
Daskys looked over to the still unmoving body of his superior officer, feeling another pang of guilt in his chest. His voice was serious, as we was not offering lightly.
"Regardless, I might have the best chance of crossing the gap alone, unless there's a better idea?"
"Uhhm, I may have one sirs. If we move back towards our planed exit route, I can remotely disable the detonators on the mines, and blow them all up at once when the enemy is upon them.
Letting our rate of fire go down, or even stopping return fire all together could bait them into the trap, but it would mean they would have to basically reach our position in order to step into my mine field.
However it would most likely cause quite the disarray in their midst for a bit as there are a fair few mines out there."
"Yes, Captain Zacha is KIA." She called back through her radio, and gritted her teeth as the sound of automatic rifle fire could be heard rattling through the air. Turning to her allies as they struggled to fight off the attacking forces as well from behind her cover. "A distraction'll be worth nothing if we don't know the way back to safety, or, well, the closest thing we have to it!"
She popped out of cover for a brief moment, and a loud DOONK could be heard as the fired a grenade in the general direction of the covering fire, hopefully at the very least blowing apart a segment of the hedgerow that some of the hostiles were using as cover.
"Whatever the plan is, we need to execute it now." The Cascadian's anxiousness was becoming more and more apparent through the radio. His staunch calmness was slowly being replaced by shaky hands and a nauseous stomach. At least he couldn't throw up - he hadn't had anything to eat for a while.
He looked over to where they could retreat to, and how they could get to such "safe location."
"I know how to get to relative safety. I'm gonna need some covering fire, though."
Two Cultists were vaporised by the Svarthan landmine, checking the others that had hoped to move around the defenders' flanks. The effect was emphasised by Hia's grenade which caused more screams of pain, stalling their forward motion for a few vital moments.
The respite was sure to only last for a moment though - ahead of them, the Cultists were thickening like flies. This was not some minor push, but the start of what looked like a huge offensive, and the Advisors were caught right in the warpath. Behind them the fields seemed quiet and empty, no movement or lights beyond the usual visible in the distant FRG positions. There were no enemy in those darkened fields, at least that the Advisors could see, but even as the Cascadian looked backwards a mortar round sent a gout of mud into the sky a few dozen yards north-west of them...
The mines were doing their job, though Makismenko knew that their effects would be momentary. The numbers advancing weren’t just a poke at the lines, but a whole offensive, which he and the rest of the foreign agents were sat right bang in the middle of. The position was untenable, and the fields out back of the building they occupied the only route back to their lines not directly occupied by Cult forces.
“Ok. I will lay down some fire on the field. Buy you all some time ok? You all must get out the back, and cross that field. Get to our lines. I will follow once you are across!”
He slung up his rifle once more, and lifted himself high into an opening that looked across the field the Cult now crossed. Bringing his eye to the scope once more, he lined up a shot against an unaware advancing enemy, and fired.
“Go then! Go!”
Daskys knew there wasn't a moment to waste, not with incoming mortars and no backup to speak of. He silently thanked Makismenko, before turning on his heels, barking to the others as his claws dug into the hard earth.
"Run!"
The Echo broke from their cover, sprinting headlong for the relative safety of the trenches. His movements were lightning-fast, kicking up chunks of snow and dirt as he crossed the gap. He could feel his heart beating furiously as he braced for the pain of gunfire, searching ahead for his Kra'El, but they were nowhere to be seen.
Xipils drone crawls back out of the ground and shakes the dirt of its armored body, before scampering up the arm the engineer extends down to it. He taps a few buttons on his arm mounted device and looks up at the sniper.
"Mines are disabled for a moment sir, just yell at me when you need them detonated. That should give you the cover you need to get away yourself and join up with us. Good luck sir."
Xipil waits for what seems like a lul in the firing before sprinting after the Echo. His own movements are not nearly as lithe and graceful as the one who ran before him, consisting of a chest back sprint across the field, his body armor shaking and rattling while he cradles his shot gun in both arms hoping that any shots are either absorbed by his back pack or find a plate of armor and not his exposed flesh.
Another burst of fire was directed towards the enemies not yet finding cover in the other building, and she finally climbed to her feet after two of the others got up and began sprinting to get out of there. There wasn't any way they could deal with that mortar, and the numbers that were encroaching on them were too much for the small team to handle.
They had the right idea.
"If you get hit, Max, then I'm dragging you out myself, so make sure not to make that extra work for me!" She shouted up at the sniper as she began to sprint after the the other members of the team.
The Cascadian knew that Maksimenko attempting to hold the entire offensive off while the rest of them retreated was going to be a bad idea. But he had taken the initiative, and him objecting would make no difference, other than perhaps delaying their retreat and reducing his chances of making it out. If anything happened to Max... so be it.
"Don't forget to fucking come back!" Another bit of emotion in his words as he ran after the others, not catching up but not being left behind either.
Hia and Maksimenko's shots did cause the enemy to pause, but nothing they had could halt the huge swarm of enemies approaching them. The Cascadian, Echo and Svarthan crossed the road tehy had arrived on, a road with embankments barely a foot high, and crashed through a bare and leafless hedgerow into a field beyond. Halfway across the muddy expanse a copse of skeletal trees offered scanty cover, and beyond them lay a gentle ridge, perhaps eight meters in height, upon which a sandbagged position sat just beneath the crest. Behind them they could hear footsteps, the rumbling of engines, yells and sporadic gunfire. Throwing a glance behind them, they could see the shadowed bulk of armoured vehicles off to the west, cutting off the road they had walked down to get here in the first place. Away to their right, the moonlight glittered off the frigid, partially frozen lake that lay to their north-east.
Maksimenko waited, taking shot after shot from his position in the concrete structure at the ever advancing enemies, until he could see that all of his comrades had left the building, and made it clear across the field. He knew full well he couldn’t fend off the whole onslaught by himself, and he sure as hell knew that his fire would draw attention towards the building. Though, that was the point.
They needed a larger distraction, and he was going to give it to his allies.
He crawled down from his position high in the roofing of the building, dropping firmly to the ground, and quickly slung his rifle on his back. He reached up, unfastening a pocket attached to his rucksack, and removed a small, unprepared piece of entry explosives, used typically to breach doorways, and placed it on the ground. Quickly, he unpacked his spare laser rifle batteries, and packed them around the explosive like wood around a campfire.
He unfastened the safety catch on the batteries, usually only done when plugging directly into his rifle. This, he knew, would make the elements unstable, and, he hoped, cause enough of an explosion that anyone who entered the building after him would be caught up and seriously hurt, or that those on the outside would assume the death of he and his team, and lose focus on them.
Finally, he primed the explosive, removing its pin. He stood, quickly, and fled, following in the direction of his allies.
Turning around halfway across the field to glance back at the building and their sniper comrade, Xipil sees him run from the building and out into the open beyond. Despite not receiving any orders to do so, he knows now is the best time for his distraction, lest the enemy enter the building and shoot their ally in the back.
Slowing for just a moment, he flips open the device mounted to his arm, which is currently displaying all the mines as "INACTIVE". Punching in a quick numerical code, he swipes up on the screen, before slamming his finger down on a red glowing button labeled "DETONATE".
Behind them, hopefully in the midst of the enemy advance, all of the mines trigger at once, leaping up into the air, reaching chest height before they detonate in a simultaneous flash of OAC explosives, and high velocity frangible metal shards that will hopefully tear the enemy open and spill their guts into the dirt under their feet.
She turned her head to look back at the building they were fleeing from, seeing the sniper sprinting from it as the warehouse lit up with a violent explosion that rattled her teeth and shook her quite a bit, almost stumbling from the shock and gritting her teeth.
She fumbled for her radio in the chaos, holding it up to her head with one hand awkwardly as she began to speak.
“This is Hia’shal- Our position has become untenable, unknown amount of infantry and hostile weapons have assaulted our position, as well as sniper and mortar fire, we are in retreat, I say again, we are in full retreat!” The Dysonian shouted into her radio.
The sound of vehicles and shouting were getting closer, and she cursed under her breath. “Sayyadina, I hope you’re somehow listening, because it’s not looking good right now and I could use some of your guidance.” The young woman spoke a hurried prayer to herself. “I’m sorry I cursed your name so many times after I left the city, but please, help me and my allies out of this.”
The ridge caught her attention and she pointed towards it. “There! Before they can recover and spot us!” She shouted to her allies, and sprinted towards it, practically at full tilt with rifle at the ready.
Daskys paused as the mines detonated behind him, fully expecting to see Maksimento's position crumbling under heavy mortar fire. When his assumptions were proven wrong, the Echo quickly made for the ridge, staying close to the group so as to not get separated. He chided himself for not hauling the remains of the Captain to safety. It was no place for a warrior to be left behind to be scavenged by the vultures of war.
His vision darted from one spot on the horizon to the next, trying to locate his Kra'El, but to no avail. They must have ventured further than he had anticipated, or maybe they had been spooked by the sounds of artillery. There was no way of knowing for sure, but Daskys had faith they would return to him, as they always did.
The Cascadian's warning to Maksimenko proved to be a tragically ironic one. His concern for his comrade cost him his life as a burst of gunfire stitched a pattern across her chest. Thrown to the dirt, he gasped for breath, his battle gear having saved his life, but as the tough soldier flipped over and began to commando-crawl out of danger, a mortar round pitched him into the air and sent him tumbling down several meters distant. This time he did not get back up.
As the survivors scrambled across the field, a ripple of explosions sounded behind them, the combined efforts of Max and Xipil sending a ripple of flame and destruction across the front of the Cultist advance. Their formation was thrown into disarray, many of the survivors going to ground or rushing into the ruined barn for cover from their unseen attacker, clouds of smoke and dirt choking and disorienting them.
This was all the team needed to escape, scrambling uphill. They were almost on top of the FRG position before anyone challenged them - the first to emerge were Daskys' warhounds, his Kra'El, who came bounding out from behind the sandbags to greet him. A frantic voice called out in Marchander, demanding to know who was there, but it was clear the position was in disarray. Movement flashed ahead of them and they spotted a Federal soldier simply sprinting uphill, without pack or rifle, whilst there was rummaging from the sandbagged dugout at their feet.
Head down, tucked and sprinting, Maksimenko darted over open space, counting down the seconds in his head until his explosion would rock the building. He could see his Cascadian comrade just ahead, bracing across to safety. A burst of fire rippled across the air, and watched as the bullets ricocheted off the Cascadian’s armour, causing him to stagger and fall to the ground. Maks found a new gear, and pushed forward to try and reach the comrade, but, was too late. The mortar round that engulfed the Cascadian knocked Maks backwards, the flash causing him to shield his eyes. When he returned to look at what remained, he found little.
The pause in his sprint across the field allowed the explosion in the building to catch up with him, causing him yet again to be knocked, this time forward, falling to his knees. He cursed allowed, picking himself back up, and stuttering back into a sprint along the field. As he passed the spot where the Cascadian had been killed, he mutter a few brief words of respect:
“Rest well, Comrade. Rest well.”
Reaching the crest of the hill and the positions laid there, Xipil throws his hands skyward, his heavy shot gun dropping down to be caught by the strap attached to it and slung over the engineers shoulders. He flinches slightly at the roiling detonations, but quickly recovers and stammers at the person who adressed them
"Don't shoot, Don't shoot!! We are the specialists you all had sent to this part of the line sir. Our position was attacked by unstoppable numbers but we managed a fighting retreat here sir."
They look around to ensure that everyone is present, seeing the Cascadian down the hill. Their voice catches a bit as they see their presumably dead comrade lying in the dirt.
"N-not everyone... made it..." Their voice cracks as they try to keep their emotions in check. The loss of one of his friends seems to weigh heavily on the inexperienced alien and they stare at the ground in silence.
Practically sliding into the trench alongside Xipil, Hia landed in the mud with a grunt and cursed under her breath, hearing the sound of the explosions behind her. "They're right behind us!" She shouted after Xipil called to the other soldiers, getting to her feet and pushing her helmet, adjusting it after her fall. "Infantry, Vehicles, supported by snipers and Mortars, this very well might be a full-on push!" She hoped it wasn't as large as she feared, but this section of fortifications clearly wasn't prepared to survive a dedicated push through it.
She clambered to her feet, holding her rifle over her shoulder, and peered over the trench, seeing the rest of her allies sprint across the terrain to cover.
Most of her allies. One laid motionless on the ground, and she cursed once more. She knew it was a long shot of getting out of there, but it still stung quite a bit...
Hia'shal managed to keep herself together, however, forcing a neutral expression on her face, as she glanced down to Xipil.
Not knowing what to say, she simply placed a comforting hand atop his helmet, before heading down the trench to the voice. "Did anyone report the incoming hostiles to Command? What's going on down here!?"
Daskys made a shrill chirping noise as he reached the trench, which his Kra'El warbled in response. The eyes of the war-hounds spoke of fear, but the Echo's presence was reassurance enough for the pair. Both Kra'El took their places at his side, awaiting orders like the loyal hounds they were.
Daskys however was not so easily assured; the disheartening sight of the others mourning their lost comrade sank deep into him like the cold edge of a knife. This was another warrior lost and another failure on his part to serve and protect the squad.
He crouched inside the trench, winded from the sudden burst of speed. He couldn't allow himself to become exhausted too fast or he'd risk becoming a liability to his peers. The helm about his face felt heavy, and he desperately wished he could remove it.
There were only two Marchanders left in the position, though it clearly was designed for an entire platoon. An LMG, mounted in a sandbagged redoubt, lay unmanned, whilst a ragged dugout behind the muddy trench had space for two dozen troops bunking on the desolate hillside. At the far end of the trench was a mortar pit, again abandoned. Overhead, the blue-and-white flag of the Federal Republic fluttered limply in the quiet night wind.
A nervous-looking Marchander, a corporal awkwardly clutching an old model Burnham rifle, watched the team warily as they tumbled into the position.
"What is happening? What do we do?" he asked. The only other occupant of the trench was an older soldier in a private's uniform, and he was quietly readying an anti-materiel rifle, a cigarette glowing at his lips.
Beyond them, explosions and gunfire grew in intensity as the attack spread outwards. From their elevated position they could see fire and tracer rounds blazing in the gloom, a tideline of violence slowly moving north-west as the massed and chaotic assault ran up against points of resistance and swirled aimlessly until finally gaining enough impetus to overwhelm them, one by one. Along the road at the foot of the hill they had just climbed, the dark shapes of armoured vehicles and mobs of infantry bustling into position. Hateful voices drifted uphill over the air, the words hard to pick out but the anger and bitterness clear in their tone
Maksimenko, his heart pounding in his chest, darted across the expanse of frozen open ground, his every instinct honed to survive. The weight of his sniper rifle clung to his back, a constant reminder of his role as a deadly force on the battlefield. As he sprinted, the enemy's advance roared behind him, a cacophony of boots pounding the earth and the rumble of armoured vehicles tearing through the war-torn terrain.
His cyber enhanced eye scanned the horizon, taking in the chaos that unfolded. Smoke billowed the trenches ahead, a sure sign of the enemy’s artillery that had kicked off the offensive, their once-sturdy foundations beginning to be reduced to rubble. The enemy's infantry, their faces obscured by helmets and gas masks, surged forward from behind him with ruthless determination. Armoured behemoths, their metal frames glinting under the sun, rumbled alongside, their weapons poised to unleash destruction.
Max could feel his legs burning with exertion, but he refused to yield. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, amplifying his senses. The battle raged all around him, bullets zipping through the air, explosions resonating in the distance. The Republic's trenches loomed closer, a sanctuary beckoning him onward. He could see the faint silhouette of his comrades.
With a final surge of strength, Max lunged forward, his body propelled by sheer willpower. He could almost taste the dirt beneath him, the protective embrace of the trench so tantalizingly close. And then, with a leap of faith, he dove into the safety of the trenches, his worn body collapsing onto the bloodstained soil.
Xipil seems to be gathering their strength, as if getting ready to say something, or perhaps just hoping someone else will instead. But finally, when no one speaks, they raise their head and speak, their voice still wavering, but at least trying to be confident in the face of the enemy.
"Uh-uhm, well first we, we should get a message to high command, sirs. W-we need to let them know what happened here and that th-they need to counter attack and defend the lines!"
They glance at the mortar with mroe confidence and move closer to it, seemingly slipping into well trained drills to keep themselves steady. and firm up
"I uhh, I can use this I think." They give the device a looking over before settling at its rear "Uh yeah I definitely can sirs. Someone please spot for me, and I can fire on the enemy. Someone should probably also get on that gun..." They look over at the machine gun and their voice patters out, apparently expecting reprimand from the more expereinced troops here.
They seem to have found some more confidence after their first taste of battle and death, but clearly they are still hesitant in their ideas.
Hia crouched down and offered a hand to help Max up to his feet while she looked to regard the two Marchanders. "Xipil has the right of it. First things first is to tell command that there is an offensive occurring where are lines are the weakest." She spoke calmly, at least calmly for what the situation could have called for.
She turned her gaze out into the night and felt her heart fall... This was a large offensive. Something the small squad was in no place to fend off.
Staying in these trenches would be a death trap.
"Are there any positions we can fall back further to?" She then asked the Marchanders, turning to them with an intense expression as she pointed her weapon in the direction of the voices.
Daskys' clawed gauntlet gripped the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white as he sought some comfort from the weapon on his hip. None would come; the odds of survival were swiftly dwindling into meaningless fractions and the feeling of impending doom was quickly casting its shadow over the Echo.
But there was still some fight left in him.
Daskys raised himself up as much as he could, inspecting their position and armaments. They were heinously outgunned, and remaining stationary would only serve to see them all mortared into oblivion. They would have to keep moving if they wanted to survive long enough for someone to finally give a damn.
"We need to keep moving." Daskys rasped through controlled breaths,
"We could requisition the LMG, and rig the trench with explosives to give us some cover to escape."
The Echo turned to the group.
"There's no sense in dying here."
Before the native soldier could reply, his comrade loosed a shot. The resounding boom shuddered the hillside, but seemed to do little damage, the shot's passage marked by only a small ring of superheated metal visible at the bottom of the hill. After a few moments flames began to spring to life around the orange ring, however, as the armoured car the Marchander had hit brewed up, two figures spilling from it aflame, screaming.
A silhouette of some kind of all-terrain bike moved in front of the inferno. A rookie mistake. The veteran fired again, the quad exploding violently, raining earth, burning debris, and body parts across the slopes.
The element of surprise was gone, perhaps squandered. As the older local scanned for another target, the sound of an entire company of enemies turning towards them drifted up the hill. A 30mm round, fired wildly, burst perhaps twenty meters from their position, and suddenly the night sky was filled with gunfire as the Cultists sought revenge.
The younger soldier rushed to the lip of the trench and began firing his rifle wildly, struggling each time to throw back the bolt. An explosion sent him tumbling back into the trench, half-buried by sandbags. Scrambling free, he abandoned his rifle and sprinted towards the communications trench behind them, an increasingly shallow trench that dog-legged almost immediately, heading north-north-west and away from the front lines...
With a subtle nod and a wordless gaze, Maksimenko conveyed his profound gratitude to Hia. He looked to the group, who were desperately trying to come up with a plan amid the assault. Witnessing the local soldiers fighting, losing ground, and retreating, Maksimenko's heart sank with a mix of empathy for their struggle and a grim realization of the daunting challenge that lay ahead. This front line had been in disrepair. It was the perfect weak point along the front, and the Cult forces would crash upon them like a hammer on an anvil.
“Daskys is right.”He spoke calm but loudly. “Until command can hit their assault with something heavy, this front line is going to be overran. We do not have the manpower or the defenses here. Our only course is to now delay the Cult.”
He turned, looking towards the LMG, then back to the group.
“I’ll get on that. The rest of you, as Daskys said, let’s rig this place to blow, as long along the trench line as we can. We’ll escape up this North-West trench to the backlines once we are threatened with being overran.”
"Well, if we don't have many other options..." Hia'shal slung her rifle and looked back down at Xipil. "You have any more of those mines, or anything like that? We could use whatever we can get to rig this to blow."
She flinched at the sound of an explosion, peering over the trench only to see a rising pillar of fire, and she let out an annoyed huff. This was one hell of a night already, and it was only just getting started.
A large round impacted distractingly close, and she cursed. "And let's hurry up with that- and keep your heads down, too."
Xipil opens their bag and digs through it before shaking their head and holding out what seem to be detcords and other igniters but nothing bigger
"N-nothing but these m'am."
They glace around the mortar looking for ammo while also starting to take the thing down although the refrain from disassembling it just yet
"If I can f-find some mortar bombs I could rig those to explode however. H-help me look please."
“I’m on it.”
Daskys snapped to it, military conditioning driving him to follow commands. Mortars would do just the trick, and he was more than ready to use his speed and strength to get the job done.
He whistled for his hounds as they swarmed around his legs, sending them slinking off in the direction of the mortar. The Echo made a strange series of clicks and growls, but the Kra’El seemed to understand. Their eyes narrowed into slits, and their nostrils flared with their throats, routing out what remained of the munition storage with their keen senses.
Daskys could feel his hands shaking as he clawed open the munitions crate, handing two of the remaining mortar rounds to his hounds, who ferried them to Xipil.
The rattle of gunfire cackled just over his head, sending the Echo diving into the dirt for cover. His claws racked the packed dirt as Daskys snarled again, biding his time to show these Cultists a real fight.
The veteran Marchander gave Maks a surly nod, before shuffling down the trench to a new spot and sliding the rifle over the lip of the sandbags and sending another round downhill. There was a crash and yells in the dark, and the sound of a vehicle shifting gear as the driver tried to escape the gunfire.
Maks' bursts of machine-gun fire caught the Cultists unawares. Clearly they had thought they were just dealing with a single marksman, but the muzzle flare spat out in the darkness and impacts danced around a squad of infantry advancing on foot, sparks glancing off the armoured car they were following, before the rounds swept left to catch a mob of disorganised militia .
Behind the two, Daskys, Xipil and Hia worked together to rig up the position with improvised mortar mines. Like ghastly Yuletide decorations, the strings of the antiquated detonator cable looped along the trench from shell to shell.
From their left, to the north-east, there was a sudden eruption of gunfire and explosions. Visible from the mortar pit, there was a skirmish going on along the shores of the lake there, the advancing Cultists having run up against some defensive unit that was offering the first real resistance other than the alien crew in their temporary trench. The numbers seemed one-sided though, and even though these Federals were putting up a good fight, it was only a matter of time...
Setting up the last 'mines' that she could hold, Hia flinched as more and more of the cultists ended up getting closer and closer, and she could hear the sound of another vehicle rolling up on their position. She took hold of her rifle once again, slid a grenade into the under-barrel firing tube, slid it shut, and peeked over the side of the trench, eyes narrowed and weapon raised.
She zeroed in on the swerving vehicle, aiming for it's wheels or it's underside, and fired the moment she had an opening, rapidly diving back behind the cover of the trench to avoid returning fire.
"We're all done down here!" She shouted over to the others. "Just give us the word to start heading back, because I don't know for how much longer we can hold this!"
Maksimenko's eyes narrowed as he swiftly maneuvered towards the machine gun emplacement. The weight of the weapon in his hands was both familiar and formidable. Though he was not a machine gunner by practice, this was not his first time operating such a gun, and muscle memory from times long past came flooding into his brain.
As his fingers wrapped around the cool metal of the gun's grip, Maks felt an electric surge of adrenaline once again course through his veins. He positioned himself behind the heavy weapon, looking over the lip of the trench, and back out towards the cult advance, the world around him fading into a distant blur.
The trigger was squeeze, the rhythmic thumping of his heart synchronized with the mechanical churning of the gun's mechanisms. This was not going to hold them for long, but he watched as Cult infantry scattered, shocked at the firing now coming from two locations (Maks was certain the veteran Marchander was giving them hell just metres down his flank).
The gun spat fire and lead, its roar blending with the shouts of the combatants and the thunderous percussion of explosions. The muzzle flash illuminated his weathered face, bounced off the metallic rims of his cybernetic enhancements etched into his face.
He heard the commotion, and Hia confirming the mines were set in place.
“How are the rest of you doing?!” He shouted, over the gun fire.
Daskys felt a moment of animalistic glee at the sound of the gun emplacement, its roar like that of an Echotian creature of myth. It’s wicked snarl snuck a prayer onto his lips, perhaps his gods were watching after all.
Daskys clutched his rifle in his upper hands, keeping a lower hand on the hilt of his blade should anyone get too close.
“This is as good as it's gonna get! Now we bleed them for every step and then get the hell outta here!”
The Echo turned to look at Xipil, his visor focus locking onto him intensely.
“I trust you’ll know the right time to wield this, just try not to get too many of us in the blast.”
The words were accompanied by a nod of respect, but he said nothing more.
*Xipil nods their head at the Echo as they swiftly connect the last of the detonators to the mortar shells and inspect their work for a momment, before the renewed sounds of gunfire make the flinch and duck their heads.
Activating their arm mounted display, they rapidly swipe and tap around on its surface, slaving the detonators to a single command and arming them. Once it is done they look up and yell to their squad mates. "Explosives all set. sirs! We should move now, befroe we become unable to clear the blast zone."
Even as they speak they are already retreating, although not quite out of the trench just yet, rather they are running to the mortar and starting to fold it up, before hoisting the tube up with a bit of effort.
"Uff, come on w-we got to move!" It is clear they are struggling a bit with the fully assembled piece, but they seem quite determined to have it for their own.
Even as Xipil wrestled with the mortar, there were yells from the far end of the trench. A platoon of enemy infantry had crawled up the side of the hill, through the freezing snow, and were now rushing down the position. The veteran Marchander was first in their path, and he barely had time to draw a pistol and shoot one of the attackers dead before a burst of SMG fire cut him down and he was trampled underfoot.
In the distance, the distinct roaring drone of hoverbikes echoed off the water and there was the snap of railgun weaponry, flashes of orange and pinks dancing off the lake surface to the north of them, but that conflict felt like it was a world away from them here.
Being one of only ones not currently firing out of the trench, Xipil sees the enemy cut down the veteran at the end of the trench. The engineer cries out in alarm, yelling at their comrades even as they heft the mortar and throw it down on the back side of the trnech hoping that it might roll down the other side of the hill so they can retrive it later.
"SWING THAT MACHINE GUN AROUND!! WE HAVE HOSTILES ON OUR FLANKS!!!" Their voice is panicky but they know what the must do. Hopping back down into the trench they flip down the visor of their helmet and heft their massive shotgun, rushing towards the enemy and hoping those double loaded plates will at least keep them a bit safe, as they raise their weapon and pull the trigger.
There is a flash of bright white flame and a thunderous crack as the 23mm shotgun sell bursts forth from the barrel and explodes in the face of the incoming infantry. It seems that Xipil has been given a thermate shell for one of his rounds as anyone caught by the blast would find themselves coated in burning metal powder. They pull the trigger again, this time disgorging a blast of octahedron shaped shot.
There were, what, five? Four of them still in the trench? Regardless of the specific number, they were outnumbered and outgunned in every sense of the words, fighting off what felt more and more like an unending horde. Hia’shal felt a pang of... furious hopelessness, seeing the enemy rushing down the trench, a deep instinct to throw her rifle into the snow and scream into the sky, as everything she tried to do to stem the tide felt completely and utterly useless.
But the feeling swiftly passed, and she gripped her rifle even tighter. Soon after Xipil fired into the onrushing crowd, she switched the rifle in her hands to full auto, letting out a yell until the magazine ran dry, only to swiftly replace it and continue opening fire.
“We have to retreat! She shouted over the gunfire, looking down the trench that led further back into (hopefully) friendly lines.
Amidst the overwhelming enemy advance, Hia’s call for retreat rang out, and Maksimenko acknowledged it with a nod.
"Well retreat then...and blow the trench as you go." he urged, steadfastly firing the machine gun until the last possible moment. Maks swiftly abandoned the machine gun, snatching a grenade and hurling it into the enemy's ranks.
"Run! Don't stop! Move now!"he roared, urging his comrades to flee the relentless advance.
Daskys felt his stomach retract as Xipil armed the mines around them, and bile swelled into his throat before he fought it off. One wrong move, one misplaced shot, and they were all corpses.
The Echotian turned as the swarm of Cultists clambered into view, followed by the shape of Xipil charging headlong into it. For a moment Daskys was impressed with his courage, but bite back a curse, lamenting the recklessness of leaving their position.
His angular helmet shot back to Hia as she opened fire, then back to Xipil, then back towards the “safety” of the trench line beyond. His instincts kicked in as he contemplated the situation, sending out a hissing click which sent his Kra’El into an excited frenzy, before bolting down into the trenches beyond.
He prayed that they would survive.
Daskys agreed, firing a few shots downrange to cover their retreat before turning and burning for the trench.
“Then lets get the hell out of here!”
The shotgun blasts threw the enemy into disarray, Hia's rifle punching down those few left standing. Seeing the butchery of their comrades, others threw themselves into cover, firing down the length of the trench even as the offworlders ducked up the communications trench, bullets hastening their retreat. A Marchander, more enterprising than the others, scrambled over the top and sprang down in front of them, some kind of jagged club raised in one paw. He was bowled over by Daskys' hounds, his screams of pain lost in the chaos.
A shell blasted dirt and smoke over them as they stumbled past the dying Cultist, throwing them against one wall of the trench. Xipil caught a glance of a Marchander with an assault rifle stepping out into the junction of the primary trench and the communication trench, levelling the gun directly at him. Acting out of instinct, the Svarthan triggered the detonator. The world shook twice in quick succession, fire leaping into the air and roiling up the trench.
Pushing clear, the group found themselves on the far side of the hill, the trench giving out onto a gently falling slope covered in scrub and snow, deep ruts showing where vehicles had moved to and from the position at least somewhat regularly. To their right, along the shores of the lake, yells and gunfire showed where a small unit of Federal troops was staging a fighting retreat that looked like it could become a rout at any moment. To their left, away down the hill, an enemy tank burst through a hedgerow and immediately exploded, hit by something from in front of them. Between them and the ruined tank, the silhouettes of infantry appeared over the brow of the hill, at the same time as the distant whine of hoverbike engines began to swell.
From their right, a roar of heat and sound resolved into the shapes of one-man hoverbikes, most of which ripped directly across their front and drove towards the infantry on their left, opening fire with chattering railguns that sparked orange and pink. One slowed down as it passed, and the occupant called out in Marchander.
"Keep going! was all the pilot yelled, the horns of her helmet outlined briefly by the flash of artillery, before she was gone. As they carried on down the hill there was an explosion from the melee, and several voices could be heard over the din screaming 'banzai'. There was another booming roar ahead of them, and this time the muzzle flare of an artillery piece was visible, momentarily illuminating a more serious trenchwork bristling with soldiers, the Federal flag fluttering in the faint wind over a true concrete bunker.
Hia’shal gave the Marchander a two-fingered salute as they passed by, taking a quick glance back towards the rest of the squad, doing a quick head count to make sure all the surviving members were here.
There was a flood of relief knowing they weren’t the only ones here fighting back the offensive, not quite enough to counteract the panic she felt from the rapid, uncoordinated retreat, but enough to make sure her legs continued moving to carry her body and equipment over to the more developed fortifications, even now that her legs were screaming at her to please take a break, we’ve been doing this all day.
“There! Get up to that trench line, we might be able to halt the offensive from that position!” The Dysonian called to her allies, pointing upwards as she was illuminated by the flash of artillery going off.
Daskys roared with his hounds as they tore into the man, gorging himself on their success as the pride swelled within him. He celebrated every successful kill, as their kind would have in his stead. Their energy seemed to increase as they ravenously dismembered the Marchander, spurred into a killing frenzy.
“Io’Vra’Shal, Mes’Rha!”
Artillery scattered nearby, and Daskys continued down the trench-line, keeping his head down as debris rained from above. Shards of rock glanced off his helm as he pushed onward, clawed boots propelling the Echo forward towards the defensive position.
Maksimenko felt a rush of relief coursing through his veins as they emerged from the claustrophobic confines of the trench. The bravery displayed by the chargers struck a chord in his seasoned heart. He had seen similar acts of valour during the Barlat War when Jade Marines made similar daring charges against overwhelming odds. The memory of those courageous moments resonated with him, a testament to the unyielding spirit of those who fought in the face of certain doom.
As they hurriedly moved away from the trenches, Maksimenko turned to his comrades addressing the group.
"Our job here is done. We can't stop this advance from where we stand. Let's regroup and head back to base. We need to report on what we've seen and help plan our next move wisely. It's a tough battle out there, but we're still alive, and that counts for something.”
As they approached the defensive line they began to wind through craters and corpses, the detritus of an offensive that had broken itself on Federal lines months ago. Barbed wire, torn and shredded, jutted from the morass while broken machinery sprang from the dark here and there. Suddenly a spotlight swept over them, passing them for a second before swinging back to focus on them.
"Кто туда ходит?!" demanded a voice from ahead, nerves hidden by anger. Another voice called out, in Common, telling them to keep running, to hurry. Behind them, Cult forces were spilling over the lip of the hill they had abandoned, flowing through the plume of dirty smoke left behind by their ambush. Guns spoke over their heads, muzzle flashes rippling along the trenches and bunkers. It seemed wrong to be running headlong into the gunfire, but it was their only option. Tumbling over the lip of a trench, they jumped down into a muddy walkway covered in boards that squelched beneath their feet. One Federal guard dropped a crate he was carrying and scrambled for his rifle, but a nearby officer pushed the weapon down.
"Посмотрите на их униформу. Они наши инопланетные 'друзья'." said the officer sarcastically, before turning to the outlanders. "Command that way," she said, pointing down a communications trench behind them before turning away to the firestep to lead her soldiers.
A few moments later, staggering through the comparitive peace of the communications trenches, they emerged into a wider dugout area whose rear was open to a real blacktop road, whilst bunkers sat on either side of it. A huge artillery gun thirty metres east boomed, rattling the crates and materiel piled around. Several vehicles were parked in the space, including one large armoured car that was idling. A group of officers were stood around, arguing animatedly. As the group approached, one in the uniform of a colonel broke away from the group and moved to yank open a door to the armoured car when he spotted the aliens.
"Who the fuck are you?!" he challenged them in fluent Common, before one of his aides muttered in his ear. He gaped for a moment, then turned and barked something at a nearby soldier who rushed to start up a flatbed truck.
As they charged headlong into the fray, Maksimenko felt a surge of exhilaration rushing through his veins, his heart pounding like a war drum against his chest. The world around him seemed to blur into a cacophony of chaos and colours, the stark contrast between the dark trenches and the blinding flashes of gunfire creating a surreal, almost cinematic scene.
The shouts and commands in foreign languages swelled over his head. He was lucky, he felt. Marchander was not too dissimilar linguistically from his own Imaginese, and the months on the planet had given him time to understand the native tongue. It was with relative annoyance that he read the tone and heard the words of the sarcastic officer who had directed them down the command trenches.
"Если бы не эти инопланетные друзья, культ уже раздавил бы тебя своей пятой." He almost spat as he walked past her, glaring.
They pressed on through more shouting and more challenges from the locals. Maks could understand their frustration at the situation, could even understand their resentment at the “alien” advisors being there, but he’d put his life on the line, just like they had, and would do in the battle to come. Sometimes, he reconciled, in dire situations such as this, it was easier to keep lose your head and blame your frustrations elsewhere.
Whatever the case, Marchand was burning. This wasn’t a normal push, this was a whole damned offensive, and would once again see the front go from stagnant to violent. Whatever the case, Maksimenko was not going to play hero, not today anyway.
He caught eyes with the Marchanders, who were scoffing and glaring at the offworlders, and simply gave them a sarcastically wholesome smile.
The voices of his Mentor Knights were in Daskys’ ear as he chastised himself for retreating once again. These were not the grand endeavors of a Knight Errant, these were the actions of a coward.
He kept his head low, watching their flanks as they crossed the more open terrain, feeling his heart in his mouth at the sudden lack of cover.
Jeers from the locals did little to improve Daskys’ mindset, and a well of guilt began to creep into his chest. He had fought the Cult for months now, only to turn tail at the first sign of a real offensive line. All bark, perhaps, but this was not his war to die in. Still, the Echo felt physically sick as they passed them by.
The Echo retrieved Captain Zacha’s dog tags, ensuring he still had them in his possession. He didn’t know the Captain as well as he would have liked but respected his leadership.
Daskys rubbed an armoured claw over the metal tags, before whistling for his Kra’El to board the truck.
He felt a moment pass, tempted to turn back and fight in the war until it was said and done. It gnawed at his skull and hung heavily on his ankles like chains.
The feeling in his bones subsided as the moment passed, and his armour flared with him as he snarled toward some of the more aggressive protesters. Who were they to judge him? He would not seek certain death and would be damned if walked blindly back into it.
He boarded the truck without another word, ready to get off this blasted frontline.
Hia'shal was confronted with glares and whisperings amongst the Marchanders when they arrived behind the defensive lines, and it felt like someone had wrapped barbed wire around her heart for one jolting second when she realized that the Marchanders were angry at them for retreating.
She was in the same boat as Max in this scenario. She understood their frustration, the desperation of trying to hold their lines from the cultists, but she also wasn't here to die. There wasn't much of a point continuing to fight for a client that she was fairly sure may not even exist in the following weeks to pay her, and so she slung her rifle over her shoulder and followed Max and Daskys into the truck silently.
She wanted to return to the Dyson city. This whole experience had given her some time to think, and some things to say to her sister. She didn't plan on dying on a burning world today.
They rumbled across the countryside, the sounds of warfare never growing fainter as the combat seemed to chase them. Once, the guns on the lead car opened fire, but the vehicles didn't stop, simply blowing past whoever or whatever was waiting out there in the frigid darkness.
After perhaps 15 minutes, however, they did stop. There was the roar of engines and the chatter of heavy weaponry, and suddenly heat and smoke roiled past them, an explosion battering their ears.
Dismounting to help protect the convoy, the offworlders saw a terrible sight. A Cantonese Sverkhu gunship, of Imaginese manufacture, was hovering nearby and was pouring fire into the remnants of their escort. Even as they watched, it sank to hover directly over the ground, its rear ramp lowered. A marine stood at the top of the ramp, one hand gripping a support bar, the other waving them fowards.
"Special Group Advisory, you are being reassigned! It's time to get off this rock!" she yelled at them. Once all who accepted had climbed aboard, the shuttle darted upwards, its engines whining as it fought to escape the gravitational pull of the planet below, its rear ramp closing with the hiss of pressurisation seals.
"You can debrief when we rejoin Fleet," said the marine, not toggling her visor to transparency as was usually polite. She seemed distracted, flustered. "You lost one? Lucky it wasn't worse. It's a mess down there...."
The shuttle reached high orbit and suddenly an emerald window appeared in front of them. The Cantonese had opened a gap in their drone-based interdiction field specifically so that a frigate could create a Slipgate for the ship. It ducked through, followed by another shuttle that had joined them two kilometers up, and the offworlders found themselves in the midst of a vast Cantonese fleet in battle posture.
"Brace, brace!" yelled the pilot. There was no other ship in sight, no potential collision looming in the viewports, but then a blinding light poured through the portholes which shuttered moments later.
"Oh fuck," gasped the marine sat with them "they actually fucking did it!"
Maksimenko's eyes widened in shock as the Cantonese Sverkhu gunship ruthlessly unleashed its fire upon the native escorts. The cold realization of the ruthless chaos they were fleeing from struck him like a jolt. Amid this onslaught, a chilling recognition dawned upon him –the Marchanders were but pawns in this larger, brutal game, and he was not to have a problem with it.
The marine's commanding voice cut through the turmoil, an unexpected lifeline amid the devastation. As he climbed aboard the shuttle, his steps felt heavy, each one laden with the weight of the world they were leaving behind.
A mixture of awe and trepidation washed over him as the shuttle hurtled through the void of space. Through the porthole, the infinite expanse of the cosmos stretched out before him, a stark contrast to the war-torn landscapes they had left behind. But his breath caught as his eyes fell upon the menacing super weapon orbiting ominously in the void.
Oh…," Maksimenko simply whispered.
They had narrowly escaped the clutches of one treacherous battlefield, only to be thrust into an audience, watching the planet’s destruction.
Xipil is swept up in the chaos surrounding him, ferried along by his allies, no, his FRIENDS as they run wildly along and away from the approaching enemy. The mortar is left behind and forgotten and indeed Xipil can barely recall anything after they started running. Flashes of memory come to him now as the shuttle rises high into the air.
Voices yelling, screaming. The terrified engineer following right behind his squadmates. Climbing into a vehicle, and racing along a raods. More flashes, more carnage, ignoring it all.
So much violence, so much death, so much-
The flash of light pouring in through the portholes blows all those thoughts away, like the Cantonese crucible blasted away the planet below them. Xipil can only stare in silence, their body quivering, as they shudder at the though of all those lives lost. If they had eyes, they would certainly be full of tears, but as it stands all the engineer can do is watch in silent horror.
Khaos - Daskys
Imaginarium - Major Konstantin Maksimenko
Random Android - Morella Ptelera
MGLDerp - Xiuhpilli Huitzilihuitl
HappyHydralisk - Hia'shal
Justin - Cascadians
The enemy lurked in the great forests south of the city of Debrusk. Nestled beneath the feet of the Storrow Mountains, the city itself was a modest place by Marchander standards, home to a couple of hundred million Marchanders. The city was nominally loyal to the Federal Republic, the SAGA-backed government that ruled from the city of Hornqvist to the north-west, but that loyalty was kept in place only by subsidies and by the armies camped out along its southern reaches.
The 46th Democratic Guards Army had been in place for months now, its units rotating in and out of the network of trenches, outposts and bunkers that formed the unofficial southern border of the Federal Republic. The lands beyond it were de jure administered by the central government too, but outside of the fortified cities those vast and wild reaches belonged to the Cult of Carcaros. Only the lands north of the 46th's positions were 'safe', and even then they were riddled with spies, agents, agitators and rebels.
The forests loomed like a shadow, ever present, glowering at the tired and cold garrisons of the defensive line. It had been months since any real fighting in this part of Marchand, although there were always rumours of running battles in the lands to the west, violence haunting the towns and fields between Cass City and Hornqvist, and everyone knew that the lightbulb goblins were always about their wicked business in the sprawling GRZ industrial cities to the north.
Happily, here in the 46th, there were no Ingenious demons to deal with, no self-satisified torchbugs strutting around as if they owned the place. The only foreigners were the mercenaries and freebooters who formed the 'Special Group Advisory', the lofty term for the guns for hire that the weary Federal Republic had hired across the continent to shore up their inexperienced conscript armies.
In a forward dugout, Captain Zacha lit a cigarette and hunched over it to keep it alive in in the fragile moments of its birth. The wind was gentle tonight, but still could snuff out even the smallest of pleasures like a single smoke. Winter still gripped the land, even though spring was beginning to threaten itself on the horizon. Ice and snow gripped the land, only relenting to allow mud and mire to take their place. Blasted trees and the ruins of hedgerows and fences dotted the landscape, the debris of battles long past. Last fall the Cult had launched a major attack on Debrusk and been repulsed, but the 71st Shock Army's counterattack had been bungled and the fighting had lasted for brutal weeks. Finally the Cult had fallen apart, its ad-hoc organisation failing to solidify into anything more serious, but the Federal Republic had decided to dig in rather than push south.
In the long winter that had followed, nothing of real note had happened. Occasionally the Cult would send teams of raiders to try and penetrate the defensive positions, with varying degrees of success. Sometimes the Republic would push an armed patrol along the edge of the distant forest just to prove it could, never daring to go deeper. Mostly they all just shivered and waited.
He squinted through a pair of binoculars at the distant treeline and saw nothing. Sweeping the night vision device over the fields between, he saw no movement or glimmer of light that might betray an enemy attack. Nothing. Just like yesterday and most likely just like tomorrow. He spat, shoved the gear into a deep pocket of his voluminous overcoat, then struggled across the muddy planks of the trench and into a dugout. This was one of the uncomfortably large ones they had expanded to accommodate their alien comrades, and his gaggle of offworlders were inside.
Initially he had resented them, but they had proven themselves useful, at least compared to his conscripts.
"Dobryy vecher," he huffed as he staggered inside
Daskys’ head twitched in Zacha’s direction as he entered the dugout, giving the Captain a nod of respect, as he did everytime they crossed paths.
The Echo sat on a small pile of boxes, dressed in standard grey warmail and cloaked in brown-grey mesh. A warhelm covered his head to keep the elements at bay, though there was only so much that could be done in conditions like these. A rifle hung at his side, slung over his shoulder on a durable strap. At his hip hung a sword in its scabbard, wrapped in what used to be a fine red sash, now muddied by the months he had spent in the trenches. He had to admit, if the House of Wrath could see where he'd ended up, there would be no end to the taunts from his fellow warriors; held up in a hole with nowhere to hunt.
A pair of serpentine bodies curled around the Echos position, laying in a small heap of scrounged rags and loose earth. Kad’El, they were called; large dog-like creatures from the Echotian homeworld. Roughly two and a half meters in length, the six-limbed hounds rested at their master's heel, waiting to be roused.
Daskys stood, taking a careful step over his Kad’El as he approached the Captain.
“Any news, Zacha’vos?”
Major Konstantin Maksimenko lay across his bunk, legs crossed at the shin, hands clasped, resting on his chest. His eyes, one the piercing blue that he had had since birth, the other, a bionic hybrid mixture of lenses and lighting, rested. He had been resting upon the bed for some hours, after being 3 days out on the hunt, though he did not allow himself to drift to sleep, instead listening to the commotions of his other “alien” comrades here in the dugout.
His 4 months on the Debrusk front had followed the same routine. The collapse of any real progression on the front had led to a deadlock which allowed Maksimenko to hunt amongst the ruins and wreckage of the conflict. He would stock up on supplies and warmth, before heading out, days at a time, to a previously scouted location, overlooking a portion of the enemy’s defenses, where he would stay, hidden, waiting for the perfect moments to strike fear into the hearts of his opponents. He had been prepared to stay out longer, but the cold of the Marchand winter crept into his aging bones, limiting the willingness of the Imaginese Sniper to stay out, hunting his prey.
He was the only Imaginese operative on the front, and had been called in as a favour from one axis general to the other, as a moral boost for the SAGA forces, and demoraliser for the enemy. Now in his 59th year, the Major was a veteran of the Barlat campaign; a campaign which had cost him his right eye (the robotic replacement, and deep scar beneath it a sure sign of the original injury). Proving himself in that war, he had chalked up an impressive kill count of over 800 (or so the propaganda reports said), and was regarded as a legend amongst the Imaginese Liberation Army. After that war, he had stayed on, often operating in small groups or alone, tackling small levels of descent that had emerged during the collapse of the FB-1 universe, and the movement of Laptev.
Here, within the trenches of Marchand, he was called on to once again, do the same.
Here, he was just another operative. Granted, he was giving freedom to act on his own accord, but he was one of a larger group of foreigners, here as part of the larger war effort.
He listened, intently, as footsteps entered into the dugout. Captain Zacha, he recognised the pattern of his walk. He opened his right eye, the bionic one, letting the natural eye continue to rest. He watched as he entered through the doorway, the cold radiating off him, as he spoke.
Maksimenko watched, unmoving from his comfortable position.
The woman leaning against one of the dugout's walls barely turns her head in acknowledgement of the Captain's arrival, her attention focused on the object in her left hand.
Morella Ptelera is not a fan of the cold, but that's not to say she isn't wholly unused to it. With her padded clothing and overcoat the temperature is manageable, even as she leaves said coat open, though the discomfort she feels is amplified somewhat by the armored vest she dons. Her rifle is slung over one shoulder by its strap, and lying by her feet are two softball-sized spheres of metal, dormant and unmoving, though the myriad of antennae and optics present on their surfaces mark them as her drones. An angular, uninviting face is coupled with narrow green eyes and a thin-lipped mouth, and her straight black hair ends abruptly at her shoulders; two months of dirt and grime mar her clothing, boots, and the lighter in her hand, but she doesn't seem to care all that much.
Her attention is focused almost entirely on the repetitive, incessant motion of opening the lighter, lighting it, and shutting it, right before starting the cycle back up again. There's a gleam in her eyes as she does so, not too unlike a child being introduced to a toy store or some similar establishment.
A smaller figure nestled in the deepest corner of the foxhole flinches slightly at the entrance of the Captain, dropping the set of pliers in their hand when they reach towards the bullpup pump shotgun resting next to them before they see who it is joining them. The mild twitch almost causes them to drop the round object in their other hand and once they calm down, they pick up their pliers once more and get back to work.
Xiuhpilli Huitzilihuitl, shortened to "Xipil" by most, would seem entirely out of place with the rest of the troops, were it not for their attire, and even that is unusual. In addition to standard winter uniform, they are dressed in a "full body" plate carrier, complete with shoulder and thigh protectors, and stuffed with as many trauma plates as they can carry. The standard issue helmet with an attached face shield rests on their lap. Even their long greatcoat has a thick woven nylon layer inside to not only keep them warm but hopefully block some shrapnel to the rest of their body. Visible under all that protection is a strange figure with grey skin of various shades accented by touches of glimmering blue almost like crystals, and numerous ridges and peaks. They do not seem to have visible eyes, merely ridges and pools of darker grey where they should be, and their nose is a strange pair of angled slits.
Xipli is a new arrival, not only to the front, but to the galaxy in general. Just recently taken from their world of Xi'Tatl by the Svarthan, the barely adult Pltatotec enlisted in the Trust's armed forces, and was dispatched here as an engineer to try and fortify the defenses of their allies, and breach those of their enemies. As such they were almost unworkably timid upon arrival, and even now, almost 2 months later they still prefer to be in a trench, over anything else.
As the beings they consider superiors begin to speak, they put down the pliers and the rolling mine before turning on their oil drum like backpack to face them and listen.
Rifle resting on the bunk next to her, one leg raised, ankle resting on her knee, and face partly obscured by the fuzzy collar of her jacket, Hia'shal dug her gloved hands into her pockets, glancing over to the entrance as the alien commanding over them walked in and made himself known in a gruff voice.
The Dysonian woman, with short blonde hair, amber eyes, and light brown skin, regarded Zacha with a weary expression. After five and a half months on this contract, she was more recognizable with the bags under her eyes than without, and her already quiet demeanor had been further worn away after the weeks upon weeks of staring across a progressively more and more barren no-man's-land.
She felt rather foolish for thinking this form of warfare was dying out. As it turned out, hole in the ground was still one hell of a viable tactic... if you didn't mind the dreary misery and maddening boredom that came with it.
The main thing that came to mind was... well, at least her companions weren't boring.
"I hate the cold" The Cascadian contractor said to himself as he tried to warm his fingers by rubbing them together. It worked, but not to the extent that he wanted it to. See, he was from the Regal region, on the planet of Glass, where temperatures were a constant 30-40 degrees and stayed like that all year round. He was used to the humidity and sweat that came with it, but not to freezing tundra of... whatever this place was called.
Why did they select me to go? Suppose that the CSC just ran out of people, considering they were heavily involved in another black operation they wouldn't tell him about.
When the Captain entered, he made slight eye contact with him, before turning to look at everyone else. Seems like the cold had worn away most of their social energies, too. Not like they could become acquaintances here - combat was uneventful whenever it did occur. That's what he didn't understand. If it were the Republican Navy, or the Army, a stalemate like this wouldn't have occurred in the first place. They would've bombarded the grounds, leaving the troops to scavenge through the ruins for survivors.
That's also why he left the Republican Armed Forces. If the alternative to wanton death and destruction was a slow grind, so be it.
Zacha knew the offworlders were even more bored than most. Their specialist status exempted them from the dull duty of standing guard, so when they weren't training his unwilling conscripts or checking on their specific areas of responsibility, they had nothing to do but wait. There was little he could do to alleviate that, however - he didn't have approval or the resources to do anything else, and the only other distraction was actual combat, which he had no desire to provoke.
He shook his head to Dasky's question, scruffing the ears of one of the Kad'El. Other Marchanders were understandably wary of the beasts, as he had been, but in the weeks and months of trench life they had settled down and he had found out they were no different than the hounds and beasts of a dozen different planets. At least for now..
"No, comrade, nothing new," he said, crossing over to the stove and putting artificial firelog into the chamber, the door squeaking as he opened and shut it. He crossed to an empty nook and sat down, taking a moment before tugging out his canteen and taking a sip. He grunted something in Marchander and one of his men laded some stew into a copper bowl and handed it over.
Between mouthfuls, the little Marchander began to speak again.
"Spring will come soon. Then will be more work. We will need to repair and redig much of the line. Probably will take back the forests once the snow is cleared." he explained, some of his men perking up at the hint of a change in their dull routines...
Maksimenko sat up from his cot, and ran a hand across his face, as if switching on his expression from a moment of stasis and rest. The bionic eye twinkled in the shadow of the corner he occupied, but as he turned into the light of the fire, his entire face was cast in deep contrast, showing the age lines, and scar that adorned him.
He cleared his throat, as he swivelled his legs around so that his feet dangled over the side of the bed. He caught a moment looking at the room, at Zacha, now sat with warm stew for company, and the rest of the aliens, all whose attention rested on the Marchander.
Spring coming would be both a blessing and a curse, Maksimenko thought. The stillness of winter was boring, but it had made for a good period of rest for the Republic’s forces. That however was equally true of the enemy, and the thawing of ice in spring would no doubt bring chaos. He felt he knew the defence pretty well, having occupied them for a few months, and had a rough idea (from a strategic point of view) where would be the best points of attack for the enemy, and the weakest points in the Republic’s front line. He broke his silence.
“I was out, not but a few days ago, along the Eastern edge of the city defences. Out where the old biofarms are.” He announced to the room. “The Cult haven’t pushed it during winter, but they’ve left it shell damaged. Snow is deep across the open spaces, but once it thaws, it’ll be a nasty place for us if we allow enemy armour across it.”
He stood from his spot, his head nearly touching the ceiling of the dugout.
“Might be worth taking a look, seeing if there is anything we can do now…if anyone wishes?”
Daskys chuffed, an odd reverberating sound, like the rattle of distant AA-fire. He turned as Zacha moved further into the dugout, peering down on the Captain. It was disappointing, though not surprising. What Daskys had seen of the Cult had not impressed him; lacking both leadership or cohesion.
"Cowards to delay themselves; too weak to fight, too stubborn to die."
He adjusted his cloak, folding his arms across his chest for warmth as he listened, taking in what the Marchander had to say.
News of change likewise sent a sense of relief through the Echo, thankful even for the task of trenchwork. The idea of having something to focus on other than their 50th game of cards was enough to lighten Daskys' mood.
Maksimenko's proposal caught his attention, as well as the attention of the Kra'El, whose heads raised like a pair of cobra in the mans direction. Their two pairs of eyes were stark blue in the midnight air, poised and ready to rise at the word.
Daskys raised a brow at the Kra'El, then back to Maksimenko.
"You wont get any complaints from them, and it would do us good to take the initiative. I can get a lay of the land while we are out there, and check on the traps along the way. See if we've caught anything sniffing about."
Xipil stops tampering with his bomb and looks up, dropping off his cylindrical, and fairly huge backpack, and putting the mine back into the loading slot where it belongs. The grasp their shot gun, and check it to be sure it is clear before slinging it onto their shoulder.
They turn back to the group, their eyeless face moving over to their sniper ally. Together with the Echos trooper and his, frankly quite terrifying dogs, they consider Maksimenko to be their unofficial "superior", given their experience. Their other two allies seem to be less commanding as well.
"Umm, I guess I will be going too... If armor is an issue I could lay some mines, and ahh, maybe set up traps? I could even put in some uhh, real big stuff in the ground if you give me time and some big charges sirs."
They address both the Captain and the two going with them so far under that label. In fact they speak sort of formally to most everyone here, seemingly uncomfortable calling them by name. Even the former civilian, the ex contractor, and seemingly bored Dysonian get a sir or ma'am from the grey skinned alien.
Having said their piece they sling on the backpack, and look around.
"I will need to visit an armory since I don't currently have... anti tank mines..."
They seem almost bashful over their lack of "preparedness", despite not possibly having been able to know about the mission in advance and as such not possibly being able to have stocked up on the adequate supplies.
“I’m surprised that there are still forests to take.” Hia said. “Haven’t seen much green ever since the winter started. Figured all the trees were turned to splinters, especially when the snow began to cover them up.” The Dysonian ran her fingers through her hair. Spring was coming and she was ready for it. Winter had been a special kind of hell, and it dragged on for what had felt like years, as if the concept of time itself was out of energy and desperately needed time to rest.
Sprint brought change, an end to the monotony. Whether it was good or bad, she was ready to take on whatever mission her squad would be sent on.
Her eyes flicked over to the shorter alien, fretting over his equipment. His constant worrying was a bit grating at times, as if he was constantly under some kind of mandatory inspection 24/7 by the rest of the squad.
Drakys was one of the members where it was harder to get a feel for... She appreciated that his beasts were well trained, but the way they held themselves whenever someone passed by, like all it took was a single word from their master to tear out someone’s throat... it kept her on edge.
Maksimento, or ‘Max’ as she’d occasionally call the man, was a bit more on the approachable side... comparatively speaking.
“I’ll come with you, in that case.” She said to the man with the bionic eye, nudging an entrenching tool up with her boot and catching it in one hand. “Haven’t stretched my legs properly for a couple weeks now, could make for something to do while the snow begins to thaw.”
The mention of potential combat operations seemed to bring some relief to the former Corporal, as if the cold didn’t bother him as much as it did before. It took him only a few seconds to make up his mind, but he opted to let the others speak first. Watching and listening, he was able to make a few assumptions on what was going on inside their heads; an act he picked up in the still boredom of winter. Most were just as eager as him to get back into combat, but the words of Xipil and Daskys caught his attention.
He thought that the former was too tentative, intimidated by the thought of even being slightly unprepared. He knew that war wasn’t about who was the most prepared, it was about who could do the most with whatever they were given, in the shortest amount of time possibly. Similarly, he knew he couldn’t just classify insurgencies like this to be commanded, controlled and made up of cowards.
Finally, when the Dysonian finished, he let go of his thoughts, and spoke up.
”I’m down for some combat or recon ops. Any idea when we’ll be heading out?” His Cascadian accent was apparent - he dropped letters and pronounced others differently than what the locals might expect.
Zacha hesitated, annoyed and reluctant to go back out into the cold, but he knew they were probably right. His lines had plenty of anti-armour weaponry, but a nice flat open ground would let the enemy overrun his trenches and quickly turn any attack into a slaughter. He had not seriously considered the issue because since he had assumed command, the only enemy attacks had been scattered infantry raids, which naturally avoided the wide open biofarms because they lacked cover.
He finished his stew and dumped it with a clatter onto the folding metal table in the center of the dugout, then stood.
"Ok. We go in 2 minutes," he said, before turning to talk to one of his subordinates in muted tones.
A few minutes later, he met the aliens by the doorway as they finished their own preparations, then with a nod turned and headed out into the darkness. They tramped along a muddy trench, slipping on the wooden boards and rubber mats that had been placed along the bottom in an attempt to make it navigable, before turning down a communication trench and eventually climbing out of the network behind the lines. They followed a kankar road through small fields and woodland, some of it scarred by craters and with the occasional rusted out vehicle, stripped of usable salvage and useful sheet metal. Ahead of them in the gloom, the towering shapes of silos began to emerge against the moonlit horizon, some battered and others collapsed. They skirted the gaunt frame of a warehouse, reduced to a steel skeleton, Zacha pausing them for a good five minutes as he surveilled the ruin to make sure it was empty, before they slipped into the ruined farm to peer out at the fields beyond.
They seemed deserted, marked only by drainage ditches. In the great battles of the previous year, a huge tank battle had taken place north of here that had preserved it from the worst of the combat, but in the raiding since it had become a wasteland.
-
After another interval which seemed to stretch forever, Zacha stood, leaning against a steel post.
"Ok. This stretch here. From the trees over there to the lake north of us, that is their gap. So how do we protect it?"
He turned to look at the foreigners expectantly. Behind them, perhaps 200 meters away, was a series of disconnected trenches and dugouts which formed the federal defensive line in this area.
Maksimenko took the opportunity to remove his helmet, fastening to the straps that held his armour plating in place on his chest. His kit was Imaginese, but clearly modified from the standard gear produced for riflemen. The armour featured camouflage paint, done so by Maksimenko himself to match the terrain of Marchand’s current winter setting. Ditched was the standard face mask given to all members of the ILA. He knew this made him susceptible to gas attacks and a like, but he valued his own sensory abilities over the cautionary piece of equipment. A pistol was strapped to his thigh, and his rifle, once again not a standard issue, strung across his chest.
He had become familiar with “the gap” in the line. He had used it in his hunts before, and knew that the enemy was just as likely to explore it, which alerted him to the potential of the area being a threat come the spring. He was no engineer however, and so could only rely on experience from previous campaigns when it came to the possibilities of what could and couldn’t be done to sure up the gap.
He broke the silence first.
“I don’t know if that is the right way we should look at this, Comrade Zacha. Sure, the enemy may push us here, but it is also the most likely place for our own advances.”
He took a glance out of the structure, and across the open space.
“Our engineering colleagues may have more know how in this matter, but I almost think we have ready this area for both an enemy wave, and our counter attack. We need to be able to push across this space quickly. To me, I would think we cannot therefore mine the gap. That means the gap must be covered by something else. How easy would it be to get more machine gun placements, viewing the field? Perhaps we cover the length with enough solid defensive structures, and bring up field guns, to zero in on enemy positions?”
On the topic of engineering colleagues, Xipil moves up next Maksimenko to look out at the blasted barren field. In contrast to the sniper, they push their helmet down more firmly onto their head, its visor flipped up for the time being. Their kit, if Xipil himself is to be believed, is one of the first production kits the Svarthan made for his people and has been modified by the little engineer to suit their own view of fighting. It its heavy trauma plates and thick padding on just about every area its practical, in tandem with the large round backpack speak to the general preference of heavy armor and robust supply that the Xipli prefers, and the huge shot gun is a testament to the weapon design philosophy of his new home nation.
As an engineer, Xipil is familiar with this section of the line, and their sensory package quickly gazes over it. Indeed, this area is a large threat, and while they would love to recommend not only huge anti armor mines but also anti infantry mines, concrete tank traps, and razor wire what their sniper ally says does make a great deal of sense. Attacking here would certainly be a viable option.
They reply
"Hmm, you do make a good point sir... An attack here would take less effort than elsewhere along the line, but what if the enemy decides to fortify their side, and forego an attack to bait out just such. We would be walking into a potential death trap..."
They reach behind them, and retrieve one of their rolling ball mines from the back, holding it out and up for the group to see.
"However I do think we can mine the gap sirs. Leaving the option for a rapid push would negate the option of tank traps, barbed wire, and other such static defenses, but if your people possess smart mines, like this but bigger, or even just mines that can be remotely armed and disarmed we could mine the gap while still enabling passage for our troops. Combine with weapon emplacements and artillery it could be quite effective sirs."
Daskys lifted a pair of binoculars, fitting them into a groove as they fixed into place on his helm. Taking a knee, he drew out a sleek looking rifle and peered downrange. His cloak had been pulled up over the back of the helm, obscuring his silhouette with an off-white hex pattern. He travelled near the back of the group, watching signs of their movements being tracked, and scanning the snow for fresh prints.
His Krad’El returned momentarily from their sweep through the nearby trenches, sitting quietly behind Daskys as he continued to survey the area. Having come up empty-handed, the serpentine creatures returned to their master.
Daskys turned; satisfying the caution in the back of his mind. He removed the binoculars, slipping them into their protective pouch before returning them to their spot on his belt. He took a deep breath, smelling the alien air and taking in the scenery, before catching up to the group once more.
Xipil’s mines forced him to pause momentarily as he inspected the small objects as he approached. Though the hunter despised the mines, their simplicity in deployment and general ability to dissuade attackers was almost unmatched. No skill or pride in them, but they were effective.
“Might not be a bad option, though with such an expansive stretch…”
Daskys looked into the distance, mental calculations running through his mind.
“I dread to consider the time it would take to seed the area. Concentrating them closer to our defences would provide additional protection, though if the Cult is already knocking on our doorstep, we have already failed.”
The Echo turned to the rest of the group, interested in any additional points that they might make.
“If I may...” came a response from the Dysonian woman, who had been taking a good look at the surrounding position, crouching next to a pile of now-useless, rusted scrap, staring out at the open territory out in front of them.
“A defense in depth approach may be the best way to handle this. Like Max here said- this would be a good corridor for your forces to make an assault, just as it would theirs. So it would be unwise to completely close it off unless we wish to look forward to a slog of an advance...” Hia’shal stood up and gestured in the direction they came from, before brushing some blonde bangs from her hair with an irritated huff.
“We could think of this less of a gap and more of a gate, if it helps to describe it that way. Which makes it simultaneously the most vulnerable part of a defense, but, if defended correctly, it can be extremely dangerous as well. We can use this as a bottleneck, a killbox to weather an enemy assault and quite possibly leave them vulnerable to a counterattack...”
She paused for a moment, and her amber eyes glanced back to the aliens that made up the rest of the strange squad she was a part of.
“...of course, that’s just the opinion of a mercenary. Take that suggestion how you will.”
The Dysonian's response seemed to warrant agreement from the Cascadian, who watched the field and listened to her (and everyone else's) words carefully while thinking about his days in the NRA, both as an enlisted infantryman as well as an independent contractor. The "gate" analogy was not so different from his own conclusion.
"The gate analogy is perfect." He said, shooting a glance into her and everyone else to gauge their reactions. "So are the mines. Ideally..." Trailing off for a second, he thought about the differences between here and everywhere else he had been. What this had that they didn't have, and vice versa. "Ahem. As I was saying, this is the ideal place for artillery duels or large armored formations. However, I propose that such a large expansive could best be used for an air or airborne based attack and defense. Aircraft have the perfect battlefield space, and so do helicopters. Concetrating our aerial and mobile forces here is a decisive factor."
Zacha nodded, weighing it all up. A smattering of smart mines, along with some air assets positioned to either break up an offensive or punch a hole through defenses, would be a relatively cheap way to control the area. Whether he could get them was another question, but it was more likely than convincing command to move an entire division here...
He turned to squint back across the fields. Something caught his eye in the distance. Had he seen movement? He stared at a fixed spot, hoping to catch it again, and this time he definitely saw movement but further off to his right.
There was a faint thwack noise and then a rustling noise. Turning, the mercenaries would see Captain Zacha tumbling back down into the ruins from his perch atop a broken piece of concrete. A heartbeat later, the resounding crack of a sniper rifle echoed across the still, silent night air.
Xipil's mines saved his life; as he twisted to put the remote mine back in his pack, another round clanged into the steel girder behind him, having missed him by mere centimetres, the air buffeting him. Ahead of them the fields seemed to suddenly seethe with activity...
The echo of the shot rang around the shell of a building, and Maksimenko watched as Zacha dropped to the ground. Time seemed to stand still as he attempted to process what he was seeing. It was sadly a sight he had seen many times before, but each time shock him, albeit momentarily, as the cold chill of death seemed to creep along his spine.
As he came to his senses, his instantly ducked down, searching for cover from any of the openings to the elements. He slung his helmet back onto his head, and picked up his rifle, preparing it for action. Getting his bearings, he moved, low, across the building, to a small opening on the right hand side, small enough to allow the smallest of peeps out into the front.
There they were, moving quietly across the expanse, the faint rumbling of vehicles in the back. He cursed aside, before addressing the room.
“We have company, friends. Looks like the bastards aren’t waiting until spring. There’s a few pushing now. They’ve moving across the field. Maybe supported by vehicles. If any of you have central command on the radio, now might be a good time to get artillery zeroed in!”
Daskys dropped low to the ground, heart pumping madly in his chest as he instinctively dove in the direction of the fallen Captain. Even as Daskys closed the distance, the hard thud of the little man's body against the cold, lifeless ground made the pit in his stomach tighten even more.
Adrenaline flooded his system, propelled by his O'ren, until the sound of the commotion around him was not but a muffled white noise.
The Echo knelt next to the body of his superior, though upon seeing what remained of the Marchander's head, understood that Captain Zacha had passed into the realm where he could not follow. A bitter, almost resentful feeling washed over Daskys as his clawed hands curled into fists around Zacha’s dog tags. He pulled them free of the corpse, before storing them in a pouch on his hip.
This should have been his death, but now the Captain had taken the fall in his stead. It was shameful, and Daskys considered if there was any true redemption ahead of him.
The sudden high of his O'ren subsided, jolting the Echo back to reality. Shock was taking him, and it was all the Echo could do but lift his shaking hands to his Kra'El, who stood ready to act.
The company of his pack was enough for now to get Daskys on his feet, before activating the macrys in his gorget. He tried to keep his voice level, but the amount of energetic chemicals in his body was making it hard to speak clearly.
-/-Mayday Mayday Mayday, this is Orros Daskys of the 46th SGA. We have encountered Cult forces and request immediate fire support due east of our current location. Over!-/-
As the timid engineer feels the bullet whip by their head, they immediately drop down to the ground, the mine dropping out of their hands and into the mud as they scream at the top of their lungs in some language the others cant understand, perhaps his native tongue.
Their left hand slams down their face shield, as the other pats around to their side until his fingers close around the round shape of the smart mine. With another yell, they wrench the arming pin free, and chuck the mine over the edge of the trench with all their might. Another follows as soon as they can get their hands to their back pack, and soon after it one more. They keep throwing mines until they have none left, managing to sit up in the process.
As their rush of adrenaline starts to fade and they stop yelling, they look around at their squad mates and decide to do what they do best, get ready to hunker down. Slipping off their backpack, they grab the spool of razor wire within and turn a key on its side. Chucking it over the trench rim, a spring inside the spool causes it to pop open, spreading the wire out rapidly. They then start shoveling dirt into the bags they carry, preparing to make their position more defensible.
Sssssssnap
There was a solid few seconds of just... confused staring as Hia watched the alien fall to the ground. Even after she heard the report of a firearm echo over the fields, she hadn’t fully processed what was going on.
Only when a loud clang could be heard just over where the small engineer’s head had been did Hia realize that getting into action was necessary.
“Via-“ She scrambled across the ground, keeping her head low in the meantime, and diving behind a pile of rubble, peering out only with her rifle and what little of her face she needed to look down the sights. "How many do you see, Max?? Give us an estimate at least!" She yelled to Maksimento as she herself tried to zero in on one of infantryman who attempted to push across. A burst of fire came from her rifle, and she quickly ducked back down behind the rubble, not checking to see if she hit her target.
Typically she wouldn't be so frantic in a gunfight, especially over the no-mans-land... but they were in the open aside from the ruined structures around them, not in the trenches that fortified most of the line.
This was going to be a miserable, freezing fight.
There was no shock or surprise within the Cascadian's face. The moment that Zacha received the shot that presumably ended his life till the moment that the sound of the shot registered, his reflexes had alreaddy told him what to do: Get down. Stay down.
So he did. He dropped to the ground, clutching the automatic rifle in his arms and crawling behind the nearest piece of cover he could find. Then he moved onto the next phase: Locate the shooter. Luckily, his allies seemed to have somewhat figured that out. He decides to find out for himself anyway. He peeks over his cover, looking to the general direction of the bullet, trying to locate a seam that didn't sit right, a dot in the distance, or the flash of a scope with his augmented eyes.
He looks for a few seconds before dropping back down, waits, then peeks back up. Where was he?
As the Cascadian watched, he spotted a faint muzzle flare, deep in the woods distant from them. A round pinged off a piece of concrete just in front of the group, just as elsewhere in the woods another muzzle flare splashed the trees with a brief orange glow.
Maksimenko and Hia had targets in their scopes. A force of enemy foot soldiers was making its way towards them, following a barren hedgerow at an oblique angle, flashes of movement visible above the humped earth whenever there was a gap in the bare branches. They were close, close enough that the crunch of their feet in the snow could be just about heard over the general din. The hedgerow ended several dozen yards from a nearby collapsed barn, and if they could cross that open space and reach the cover of the barn then they could lay down fire on the offworlders or else rush the defenders' position at short distance, hoping to overcome the Svarthan's field barricades and swamp the aliens with sheer numbers. Either way, it wouldn't be good.
Daskys was met with silence for an uncomfortably long time, the seconds stretching out into eternity, until eventually a bored-sounding voice in heavily-accented Common came back.
"This is Major Levshenko. Put Captain Zacha on the line, only he can request fire support, over,"
“An entire platoon? Shit, no…more…more advancing from the woods. It is a whole advance.” Maksimenko shouted, relaying what he could see to the group.
Shots continued to ring out. And bullets ricocheting around their concrete structure. Someone amongst the enemy’s march had their number and was firing upon their position. He scouted through his scope, attempting to seek out any who were taking the time to line up their own sights on the building. With the numbers crossing, it wasn’t easy to detect who was the most immediate danger.
A faint muzzle flash from the woods gave a vague indication of one of the enemies who was ranged on the building, and Maksimenko lined up his sights. There they were. Laying amongst the shrubs and undergrowth, a rifle sticking out, a head just above it. He levelled his sights, inhaled, and held his breath, and released a shot from his own weapon. The gun rang out, firing across the field.
He exhaled, keeping his eyes on the target to see if his shot was a success.
“Someone want to give the Major the bad news?” he said, his eyes remaining fixed.
"Captain Zacha just took an early retirement to the forehead, he isn't exactly in the state to be requesting any fire support at the moment!" Hia shouted into her radio, gritting her teeth as the cover she laid behind was sprayed with enemy fire. "But if we don't get that support now, we're going to be overrun!"
She was very tempted to add some very colorful commentary on the Republic's bureaucracy, but she bit her tongue.
Hia'shal flipped her assault rifle to full auto, and crawled on her stomach to the side, peeking out now from a different position of her cover. Hearing the sound of boots crunching through the snow on the other side of the hedgerow, and fired a long burst in an arc through where she saw the most movement, trying to hold them back for the time being.
A platoon was bad enough, especially with just the four of them possibly being the only ones to hold them off. With no sign of reinforcements anytime soon, the command structure fighting them almost as much as the actual enemy, and no prisoners probably being taken, she hid once more behind cover, pulled out a grenade, and slid it into the tube under the barrel of her assault rifle.
Xipil continues to fill bags with dirt and sand before chucking them over the edge of the trench, until they hear their comrades starting to yell around them. Filling up one last bag and tossing it onto their barricade, they sit back down at the base of the trench and dig around in their pack, producing yet another one of their Trust made tools. A recon drone.
However unlike the drones used by the vast majority of the galaxy, this one is a burrowing drone, made the the Svarthan for the subterranean operations, and in fact it looks an awful lot like one, with a teardrop shaped body made of a series of overlapping plates to keep the dirt out. As the engineer flips the switch, it clicks to life, turning left and right upon his palm, until he places it against the earthen wall of the trench, where it promptly starts to dig in with its rapidly vibrating front end. The little machine tunnels forward as Xipil looks on a small foldable screen with a series of buttons along the bottom.
At first the machine is only detecting vibrations, but the Trust know how to discern objects like that well, and soon Xipil has guided the drone into the middle of the enemy concentration, where it deploys its thin fiber optic camera cables just barely up through the mud to peer up at the enemy hopefully unnoticed.
"I got up close visual on the enemies sirs!" The engineer yells "Seems like this is a BIG push. I can see and feel distant movements along with those of the roughly platoon sized force approaching us. They are trying to avoid my mines!"
This last statement is punctuated by more swears, as if the engineer hoped the enemy would just walk through their hastily set up defenses and try to step on every mine the threw.
"My weapon is useless until they get in close sirs, unless any of you brought 4 gauge slugs that fit a Trust made weapon!"
Daskys bared his teeth, sickened by the tone in the reply.
He thought for a moment, about trying to mimic the late captains voice in order to save them from the incoming wave of cultists. Thankfully for the Echo, Hia removed all secrecy for them. Their choices had been narrowed, and Daskys worked best when not conflicted by the morality of impersonating his Captain.
Daskys listened for a reply as he looked to his Kra'El, who now stood ready to move at a moments notice, tails wagging excitedly.
The Echo made a strange noise in his throat, like a whistle or a chirp, shrill and pitched. Immediately, the Kra'El bellowed, bolting in the direction of the trenches they had come from.
Turning back to the frontline, Daskys lifted his rifle and awaited the response from HQ, drawing his sword in his lower hands.
"I have the sinking feeling they wont be out of range for long, Xipil'ra."
Whew He thought, as the round pinged off the cover that was infront of him. A few more centimetres and it would have changed his fate. Sliding back into cover, he though about informing command of Captain Zacha's untimely end, but Hia, the Dysonian, had cut off his intended reply. Thus he stood silent, listening in on the communications of his allies, silently lauding and cursing the Federal Republic's bureacracy in terms of calling something as simple as fire support.
Looks like it was going to be a losing fight if they stayed here any more. But where would they go? They couldn't reasonably retreat before they were gunned down in the back... could they? They also couldn't push out - they had the numerical disadvantage. Now what?
At last he spoke up. It came out in a slightly distressed tone.
"We need to gain some sort of advantage over them. Anyone know how to do that besides waiting for fire support?"
Gysh Frolov, an experienced sniper who had fired some of the first shots of the Path Of Resistance, as the Cult leadership called it, was pleased with herself. She had punched a hole through a traitor's head from nearly a kilometer away, clean as you like, and sent the offworlders scurrying for cover.
Another round missed by inches and she swore softly. She knew she should relocate, but other Cult soldiers were storming the enemy position now and they needed covering fire.
She breathed out, resighting, and spotted movement again. She swept the telescopic sights across the face of the ruined warehouse and that was where she made her mistake. Her view passed over the faintest hint of an outline, and instead of immediately rolling into cover she stopped and brought the sights back to investigate. In that moment, she knew she had messed up. There was a tiny flash of light and, a heartbeat later, a sudden wrenching sensation that took the air from her lungs. She slumped into the snow,, gasping for air that wouldn't come. Maksimenko had made his shot count...
THE WAREHOUSE
There was a pause on the other end as the Marchander tried to parse what Hia had just said, before eventually responding. "Say again, Captain Zacha is KIA?" was all it asked as Hia sprayed a burst towards the enemy in front of them. She was rewarded with a squeal of pain and cries, before panicked counterfire crackled into the concrete around her.
The fire directed at them began to increase in intensity, as more and more Cultists took up position to suppress them. Unlike the Cult of the early occupation, who were little better than an undisciplined mob, these ratlings were organised and trained. Not perhaps to the tier of the offworlders' militaries, but definitely enough to pose a serious threat. By the hedgerow, a pair of shadowy figures suddenly made a dash for the nearby barn over open ground as a third opened up full-auto in an attempt to give them covering fire.
MLGDerp989 (Svarthan Trust) — 01/03/2023 10:58
As the pair rush across the field, one of the smart mines suddenly springs into action. As the small spherical bombs vibrational and visual sensors picking up the intruders as they step into its range, its piston pushes it onto its side as it rolls towards the incoming pair at a running pace, before leaping between them and detonating in a circular plane of shrapnel at chest level.
Any other groups who try to cross to reach the warehouse would likely have a similar experience with one of the other smart mines littering the ground, not to mention avoiding the smattering of anti personnel mines there.
As their foes get closer Xipil continues to yell out the locations of the enemy whenever their drone spots any, trying to coordinate his allies fire to be more effective without his allies having to expose themselves to aim accurately. If they listen to his fairly high pitched but still quite loud yelling is up to them however.
The target slumped. Maksimenko’s shot had been a direct hit, and he allowed himself a slight exhale of satisfaction as he levelled the scope, surveying the field. He had hit his target, which meant that if any other riflemen were in the forests watching, they would no doubt be trailing their own scopes on him quickly. He had to survey the field, and move out of sight, to relocate or risk being a victim like the poor soul he had just gunned down.
The enemy moved across the field, too many for the small group of foreigners to handle, even with their expertise, advanced weaponry and alike.
He climbed down from the gap he was using as a window to the outside, and spoke across to the group.
“We need to move. Look here.”
He pointed to the back of the building, which faced back towards their own lines, albeit across space which would undoubtably leave them open.
“We need to get back to our own lines before either fire support comes crashing down on us, or those Jackals.”
He motioned to the enemy advancing.
“Anyone got anything at all which can make the enemy move it’s focus away from us, even if just for 30 seconds or so? Swap their focus so we can move out of this shell of a building?”
Daskys cursed under his breath as he adjusted his position with his rifle, looking over to Maksimenko. The man had skill, he'd give him that.
The Echo turned away form the frontline to put his back to a solid section of wall, giving him some moments to focus on a plan.
"I could cause a distraction, though don't know how long I can occupy their attentions without winding up like the Captain."
Daskys looked over to the still unmoving body of his superior officer, feeling another pang of guilt in his chest. His voice was serious, as we was not offering lightly.
"Regardless, I might have the best chance of crossing the gap alone, unless there's a better idea?"
"Uhhm, I may have one sirs. If we move back towards our planed exit route, I can remotely disable the detonators on the mines, and blow them all up at once when the enemy is upon them.
Letting our rate of fire go down, or even stopping return fire all together could bait them into the trap, but it would mean they would have to basically reach our position in order to step into my mine field.
However it would most likely cause quite the disarray in their midst for a bit as there are a fair few mines out there."
"Yes, Captain Zacha is KIA." She called back through her radio, and gritted her teeth as the sound of automatic rifle fire could be heard rattling through the air. Turning to her allies as they struggled to fight off the attacking forces as well from behind her cover. "A distraction'll be worth nothing if we don't know the way back to safety, or, well, the closest thing we have to it!"
She popped out of cover for a brief moment, and a loud DOONK could be heard as the fired a grenade in the general direction of the covering fire, hopefully at the very least blowing apart a segment of the hedgerow that some of the hostiles were using as cover.
"Whatever the plan is, we need to execute it now." The Cascadian's anxiousness was becoming more and more apparent through the radio. His staunch calmness was slowly being replaced by shaky hands and a nauseous stomach. At least he couldn't throw up - he hadn't had anything to eat for a while.
He looked over to where they could retreat to, and how they could get to such "safe location."
"I know how to get to relative safety. I'm gonna need some covering fire, though."
Two Cultists were vaporised by the Svarthan landmine, checking the others that had hoped to move around the defenders' flanks. The effect was emphasised by Hia's grenade which caused more screams of pain, stalling their forward motion for a few vital moments.
The respite was sure to only last for a moment though - ahead of them, the Cultists were thickening like flies. This was not some minor push, but the start of what looked like a huge offensive, and the Advisors were caught right in the warpath. Behind them the fields seemed quiet and empty, no movement or lights beyond the usual visible in the distant FRG positions. There were no enemy in those darkened fields, at least that the Advisors could see, but even as the Cascadian looked backwards a mortar round sent a gout of mud into the sky a few dozen yards north-west of them...
The mines were doing their job, though Makismenko knew that their effects would be momentary. The numbers advancing weren’t just a poke at the lines, but a whole offensive, which he and the rest of the foreign agents were sat right bang in the middle of. The position was untenable, and the fields out back of the building they occupied the only route back to their lines not directly occupied by Cult forces.
“Ok. I will lay down some fire on the field. Buy you all some time ok? You all must get out the back, and cross that field. Get to our lines. I will follow once you are across!”
He slung up his rifle once more, and lifted himself high into an opening that looked across the field the Cult now crossed. Bringing his eye to the scope once more, he lined up a shot against an unaware advancing enemy, and fired.
“Go then! Go!”
Daskys knew there wasn't a moment to waste, not with incoming mortars and no backup to speak of. He silently thanked Makismenko, before turning on his heels, barking to the others as his claws dug into the hard earth.
"Run!"
The Echo broke from their cover, sprinting headlong for the relative safety of the trenches. His movements were lightning-fast, kicking up chunks of snow and dirt as he crossed the gap. He could feel his heart beating furiously as he braced for the pain of gunfire, searching ahead for his Kra'El, but they were nowhere to be seen.
Xipils drone crawls back out of the ground and shakes the dirt of its armored body, before scampering up the arm the engineer extends down to it. He taps a few buttons on his arm mounted device and looks up at the sniper.
"Mines are disabled for a moment sir, just yell at me when you need them detonated. That should give you the cover you need to get away yourself and join up with us. Good luck sir."
Xipil waits for what seems like a lul in the firing before sprinting after the Echo. His own movements are not nearly as lithe and graceful as the one who ran before him, consisting of a chest back sprint across the field, his body armor shaking and rattling while he cradles his shot gun in both arms hoping that any shots are either absorbed by his back pack or find a plate of armor and not his exposed flesh.
Another burst of fire was directed towards the enemies not yet finding cover in the other building, and she finally climbed to her feet after two of the others got up and began sprinting to get out of there. There wasn't any way they could deal with that mortar, and the numbers that were encroaching on them were too much for the small team to handle.
They had the right idea.
"If you get hit, Max, then I'm dragging you out myself, so make sure not to make that extra work for me!" She shouted up at the sniper as she began to sprint after the the other members of the team.
The Cascadian knew that Maksimenko attempting to hold the entire offensive off while the rest of them retreated was going to be a bad idea. But he had taken the initiative, and him objecting would make no difference, other than perhaps delaying their retreat and reducing his chances of making it out. If anything happened to Max... so be it.
"Don't forget to fucking come back!" Another bit of emotion in his words as he ran after the others, not catching up but not being left behind either.
Hia and Maksimenko's shots did cause the enemy to pause, but nothing they had could halt the huge swarm of enemies approaching them. The Cascadian, Echo and Svarthan crossed the road tehy had arrived on, a road with embankments barely a foot high, and crashed through a bare and leafless hedgerow into a field beyond. Halfway across the muddy expanse a copse of skeletal trees offered scanty cover, and beyond them lay a gentle ridge, perhaps eight meters in height, upon which a sandbagged position sat just beneath the crest. Behind them they could hear footsteps, the rumbling of engines, yells and sporadic gunfire. Throwing a glance behind them, they could see the shadowed bulk of armoured vehicles off to the west, cutting off the road they had walked down to get here in the first place. Away to their right, the moonlight glittered off the frigid, partially frozen lake that lay to their north-east.
Maksimenko waited, taking shot after shot from his position in the concrete structure at the ever advancing enemies, until he could see that all of his comrades had left the building, and made it clear across the field. He knew full well he couldn’t fend off the whole onslaught by himself, and he sure as hell knew that his fire would draw attention towards the building. Though, that was the point.
They needed a larger distraction, and he was going to give it to his allies.
He crawled down from his position high in the roofing of the building, dropping firmly to the ground, and quickly slung his rifle on his back. He reached up, unfastening a pocket attached to his rucksack, and removed a small, unprepared piece of entry explosives, used typically to breach doorways, and placed it on the ground. Quickly, he unpacked his spare laser rifle batteries, and packed them around the explosive like wood around a campfire.
He unfastened the safety catch on the batteries, usually only done when plugging directly into his rifle. This, he knew, would make the elements unstable, and, he hoped, cause enough of an explosion that anyone who entered the building after him would be caught up and seriously hurt, or that those on the outside would assume the death of he and his team, and lose focus on them.
Finally, he primed the explosive, removing its pin. He stood, quickly, and fled, following in the direction of his allies.
Turning around halfway across the field to glance back at the building and their sniper comrade, Xipil sees him run from the building and out into the open beyond. Despite not receiving any orders to do so, he knows now is the best time for his distraction, lest the enemy enter the building and shoot their ally in the back.
Slowing for just a moment, he flips open the device mounted to his arm, which is currently displaying all the mines as "INACTIVE". Punching in a quick numerical code, he swipes up on the screen, before slamming his finger down on a red glowing button labeled "DETONATE".
Behind them, hopefully in the midst of the enemy advance, all of the mines trigger at once, leaping up into the air, reaching chest height before they detonate in a simultaneous flash of OAC explosives, and high velocity frangible metal shards that will hopefully tear the enemy open and spill their guts into the dirt under their feet.
She turned her head to look back at the building they were fleeing from, seeing the sniper sprinting from it as the warehouse lit up with a violent explosion that rattled her teeth and shook her quite a bit, almost stumbling from the shock and gritting her teeth.
She fumbled for her radio in the chaos, holding it up to her head with one hand awkwardly as she began to speak.
“This is Hia’shal- Our position has become untenable, unknown amount of infantry and hostile weapons have assaulted our position, as well as sniper and mortar fire, we are in retreat, I say again, we are in full retreat!” The Dysonian shouted into her radio.
The sound of vehicles and shouting were getting closer, and she cursed under her breath. “Sayyadina, I hope you’re somehow listening, because it’s not looking good right now and I could use some of your guidance.” The young woman spoke a hurried prayer to herself. “I’m sorry I cursed your name so many times after I left the city, but please, help me and my allies out of this.”
The ridge caught her attention and she pointed towards it. “There! Before they can recover and spot us!” She shouted to her allies, and sprinted towards it, practically at full tilt with rifle at the ready.
Daskys paused as the mines detonated behind him, fully expecting to see Maksimento's position crumbling under heavy mortar fire. When his assumptions were proven wrong, the Echo quickly made for the ridge, staying close to the group so as to not get separated. He chided himself for not hauling the remains of the Captain to safety. It was no place for a warrior to be left behind to be scavenged by the vultures of war.
His vision darted from one spot on the horizon to the next, trying to locate his Kra'El, but to no avail. They must have ventured further than he had anticipated, or maybe they had been spooked by the sounds of artillery. There was no way of knowing for sure, but Daskys had faith they would return to him, as they always did.
The Cascadian's warning to Maksimenko proved to be a tragically ironic one. His concern for his comrade cost him his life as a burst of gunfire stitched a pattern across her chest. Thrown to the dirt, he gasped for breath, his battle gear having saved his life, but as the tough soldier flipped over and began to commando-crawl out of danger, a mortar round pitched him into the air and sent him tumbling down several meters distant. This time he did not get back up.
As the survivors scrambled across the field, a ripple of explosions sounded behind them, the combined efforts of Max and Xipil sending a ripple of flame and destruction across the front of the Cultist advance. Their formation was thrown into disarray, many of the survivors going to ground or rushing into the ruined barn for cover from their unseen attacker, clouds of smoke and dirt choking and disorienting them.
This was all the team needed to escape, scrambling uphill. They were almost on top of the FRG position before anyone challenged them - the first to emerge were Daskys' warhounds, his Kra'El, who came bounding out from behind the sandbags to greet him. A frantic voice called out in Marchander, demanding to know who was there, but it was clear the position was in disarray. Movement flashed ahead of them and they spotted a Federal soldier simply sprinting uphill, without pack or rifle, whilst there was rummaging from the sandbagged dugout at their feet.
Head down, tucked and sprinting, Maksimenko darted over open space, counting down the seconds in his head until his explosion would rock the building. He could see his Cascadian comrade just ahead, bracing across to safety. A burst of fire rippled across the air, and watched as the bullets ricocheted off the Cascadian’s armour, causing him to stagger and fall to the ground. Maks found a new gear, and pushed forward to try and reach the comrade, but, was too late. The mortar round that engulfed the Cascadian knocked Maks backwards, the flash causing him to shield his eyes. When he returned to look at what remained, he found little.
The pause in his sprint across the field allowed the explosion in the building to catch up with him, causing him yet again to be knocked, this time forward, falling to his knees. He cursed allowed, picking himself back up, and stuttering back into a sprint along the field. As he passed the spot where the Cascadian had been killed, he mutter a few brief words of respect:
“Rest well, Comrade. Rest well.”
Reaching the crest of the hill and the positions laid there, Xipil throws his hands skyward, his heavy shot gun dropping down to be caught by the strap attached to it and slung over the engineers shoulders. He flinches slightly at the roiling detonations, but quickly recovers and stammers at the person who adressed them
"Don't shoot, Don't shoot!! We are the specialists you all had sent to this part of the line sir. Our position was attacked by unstoppable numbers but we managed a fighting retreat here sir."
They look around to ensure that everyone is present, seeing the Cascadian down the hill. Their voice catches a bit as they see their presumably dead comrade lying in the dirt.
"N-not everyone... made it..." Their voice cracks as they try to keep their emotions in check. The loss of one of his friends seems to weigh heavily on the inexperienced alien and they stare at the ground in silence.
Practically sliding into the trench alongside Xipil, Hia landed in the mud with a grunt and cursed under her breath, hearing the sound of the explosions behind her. "They're right behind us!" She shouted after Xipil called to the other soldiers, getting to her feet and pushing her helmet, adjusting it after her fall. "Infantry, Vehicles, supported by snipers and Mortars, this very well might be a full-on push!" She hoped it wasn't as large as she feared, but this section of fortifications clearly wasn't prepared to survive a dedicated push through it.
She clambered to her feet, holding her rifle over her shoulder, and peered over the trench, seeing the rest of her allies sprint across the terrain to cover.
Most of her allies. One laid motionless on the ground, and she cursed once more. She knew it was a long shot of getting out of there, but it still stung quite a bit...
Hia'shal managed to keep herself together, however, forcing a neutral expression on her face, as she glanced down to Xipil.
Not knowing what to say, she simply placed a comforting hand atop his helmet, before heading down the trench to the voice. "Did anyone report the incoming hostiles to Command? What's going on down here!?"
Daskys made a shrill chirping noise as he reached the trench, which his Kra'El warbled in response. The eyes of the war-hounds spoke of fear, but the Echo's presence was reassurance enough for the pair. Both Kra'El took their places at his side, awaiting orders like the loyal hounds they were.
Daskys however was not so easily assured; the disheartening sight of the others mourning their lost comrade sank deep into him like the cold edge of a knife. This was another warrior lost and another failure on his part to serve and protect the squad.
He crouched inside the trench, winded from the sudden burst of speed. He couldn't allow himself to become exhausted too fast or he'd risk becoming a liability to his peers. The helm about his face felt heavy, and he desperately wished he could remove it.
There were only two Marchanders left in the position, though it clearly was designed for an entire platoon. An LMG, mounted in a sandbagged redoubt, lay unmanned, whilst a ragged dugout behind the muddy trench had space for two dozen troops bunking on the desolate hillside. At the far end of the trench was a mortar pit, again abandoned. Overhead, the blue-and-white flag of the Federal Republic fluttered limply in the quiet night wind.
A nervous-looking Marchander, a corporal awkwardly clutching an old model Burnham rifle, watched the team warily as they tumbled into the position.
"What is happening? What do we do?" he asked. The only other occupant of the trench was an older soldier in a private's uniform, and he was quietly readying an anti-materiel rifle, a cigarette glowing at his lips.
Beyond them, explosions and gunfire grew in intensity as the attack spread outwards. From their elevated position they could see fire and tracer rounds blazing in the gloom, a tideline of violence slowly moving north-west as the massed and chaotic assault ran up against points of resistance and swirled aimlessly until finally gaining enough impetus to overwhelm them, one by one. Along the road at the foot of the hill they had just climbed, the dark shapes of armoured vehicles and mobs of infantry bustling into position. Hateful voices drifted uphill over the air, the words hard to pick out but the anger and bitterness clear in their tone
Maksimenko, his heart pounding in his chest, darted across the expanse of frozen open ground, his every instinct honed to survive. The weight of his sniper rifle clung to his back, a constant reminder of his role as a deadly force on the battlefield. As he sprinted, the enemy's advance roared behind him, a cacophony of boots pounding the earth and the rumble of armoured vehicles tearing through the war-torn terrain.
His cyber enhanced eye scanned the horizon, taking in the chaos that unfolded. Smoke billowed the trenches ahead, a sure sign of the enemy’s artillery that had kicked off the offensive, their once-sturdy foundations beginning to be reduced to rubble. The enemy's infantry, their faces obscured by helmets and gas masks, surged forward from behind him with ruthless determination. Armoured behemoths, their metal frames glinting under the sun, rumbled alongside, their weapons poised to unleash destruction.
Max could feel his legs burning with exertion, but he refused to yield. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, amplifying his senses. The battle raged all around him, bullets zipping through the air, explosions resonating in the distance. The Republic's trenches loomed closer, a sanctuary beckoning him onward. He could see the faint silhouette of his comrades.
With a final surge of strength, Max lunged forward, his body propelled by sheer willpower. He could almost taste the dirt beneath him, the protective embrace of the trench so tantalizingly close. And then, with a leap of faith, he dove into the safety of the trenches, his worn body collapsing onto the bloodstained soil.
Xipil seems to be gathering their strength, as if getting ready to say something, or perhaps just hoping someone else will instead. But finally, when no one speaks, they raise their head and speak, their voice still wavering, but at least trying to be confident in the face of the enemy.
"Uh-uhm, well first we, we should get a message to high command, sirs. W-we need to let them know what happened here and that th-they need to counter attack and defend the lines!"
They glance at the mortar with mroe confidence and move closer to it, seemingly slipping into well trained drills to keep themselves steady. and firm up
"I uhh, I can use this I think." They give the device a looking over before settling at its rear "Uh yeah I definitely can sirs. Someone please spot for me, and I can fire on the enemy. Someone should probably also get on that gun..." They look over at the machine gun and their voice patters out, apparently expecting reprimand from the more expereinced troops here.
They seem to have found some more confidence after their first taste of battle and death, but clearly they are still hesitant in their ideas.
Hia crouched down and offered a hand to help Max up to his feet while she looked to regard the two Marchanders. "Xipil has the right of it. First things first is to tell command that there is an offensive occurring where are lines are the weakest." She spoke calmly, at least calmly for what the situation could have called for.
She turned her gaze out into the night and felt her heart fall... This was a large offensive. Something the small squad was in no place to fend off.
Staying in these trenches would be a death trap.
"Are there any positions we can fall back further to?" She then asked the Marchanders, turning to them with an intense expression as she pointed her weapon in the direction of the voices.
Daskys' clawed gauntlet gripped the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white as he sought some comfort from the weapon on his hip. None would come; the odds of survival were swiftly dwindling into meaningless fractions and the feeling of impending doom was quickly casting its shadow over the Echo.
But there was still some fight left in him.
Daskys raised himself up as much as he could, inspecting their position and armaments. They were heinously outgunned, and remaining stationary would only serve to see them all mortared into oblivion. They would have to keep moving if they wanted to survive long enough for someone to finally give a damn.
"We need to keep moving." Daskys rasped through controlled breaths,
"We could requisition the LMG, and rig the trench with explosives to give us some cover to escape."
The Echo turned to the group.
"There's no sense in dying here."
Before the native soldier could reply, his comrade loosed a shot. The resounding boom shuddered the hillside, but seemed to do little damage, the shot's passage marked by only a small ring of superheated metal visible at the bottom of the hill. After a few moments flames began to spring to life around the orange ring, however, as the armoured car the Marchander had hit brewed up, two figures spilling from it aflame, screaming.
A silhouette of some kind of all-terrain bike moved in front of the inferno. A rookie mistake. The veteran fired again, the quad exploding violently, raining earth, burning debris, and body parts across the slopes.
The element of surprise was gone, perhaps squandered. As the older local scanned for another target, the sound of an entire company of enemies turning towards them drifted up the hill. A 30mm round, fired wildly, burst perhaps twenty meters from their position, and suddenly the night sky was filled with gunfire as the Cultists sought revenge.
The younger soldier rushed to the lip of the trench and began firing his rifle wildly, struggling each time to throw back the bolt. An explosion sent him tumbling back into the trench, half-buried by sandbags. Scrambling free, he abandoned his rifle and sprinted towards the communications trench behind them, an increasingly shallow trench that dog-legged almost immediately, heading north-north-west and away from the front lines...
With a subtle nod and a wordless gaze, Maksimenko conveyed his profound gratitude to Hia. He looked to the group, who were desperately trying to come up with a plan amid the assault. Witnessing the local soldiers fighting, losing ground, and retreating, Maksimenko's heart sank with a mix of empathy for their struggle and a grim realization of the daunting challenge that lay ahead. This front line had been in disrepair. It was the perfect weak point along the front, and the Cult forces would crash upon them like a hammer on an anvil.
“Daskys is right.”He spoke calm but loudly. “Until command can hit their assault with something heavy, this front line is going to be overran. We do not have the manpower or the defenses here. Our only course is to now delay the Cult.”
He turned, looking towards the LMG, then back to the group.
“I’ll get on that. The rest of you, as Daskys said, let’s rig this place to blow, as long along the trench line as we can. We’ll escape up this North-West trench to the backlines once we are threatened with being overran.”
"Well, if we don't have many other options..." Hia'shal slung her rifle and looked back down at Xipil. "You have any more of those mines, or anything like that? We could use whatever we can get to rig this to blow."
She flinched at the sound of an explosion, peering over the trench only to see a rising pillar of fire, and she let out an annoyed huff. This was one hell of a night already, and it was only just getting started.
A large round impacted distractingly close, and she cursed. "And let's hurry up with that- and keep your heads down, too."
Xipil opens their bag and digs through it before shaking their head and holding out what seem to be detcords and other igniters but nothing bigger
"N-nothing but these m'am."
They glace around the mortar looking for ammo while also starting to take the thing down although the refrain from disassembling it just yet
"If I can f-find some mortar bombs I could rig those to explode however. H-help me look please."
“I’m on it.”
Daskys snapped to it, military conditioning driving him to follow commands. Mortars would do just the trick, and he was more than ready to use his speed and strength to get the job done.
He whistled for his hounds as they swarmed around his legs, sending them slinking off in the direction of the mortar. The Echo made a strange series of clicks and growls, but the Kra’El seemed to understand. Their eyes narrowed into slits, and their nostrils flared with their throats, routing out what remained of the munition storage with their keen senses.
Daskys could feel his hands shaking as he clawed open the munitions crate, handing two of the remaining mortar rounds to his hounds, who ferried them to Xipil.
The rattle of gunfire cackled just over his head, sending the Echo diving into the dirt for cover. His claws racked the packed dirt as Daskys snarled again, biding his time to show these Cultists a real fight.
The veteran Marchander gave Maks a surly nod, before shuffling down the trench to a new spot and sliding the rifle over the lip of the sandbags and sending another round downhill. There was a crash and yells in the dark, and the sound of a vehicle shifting gear as the driver tried to escape the gunfire.
Maks' bursts of machine-gun fire caught the Cultists unawares. Clearly they had thought they were just dealing with a single marksman, but the muzzle flare spat out in the darkness and impacts danced around a squad of infantry advancing on foot, sparks glancing off the armoured car they were following, before the rounds swept left to catch a mob of disorganised militia .
Behind the two, Daskys, Xipil and Hia worked together to rig up the position with improvised mortar mines. Like ghastly Yuletide decorations, the strings of the antiquated detonator cable looped along the trench from shell to shell.
From their left, to the north-east, there was a sudden eruption of gunfire and explosions. Visible from the mortar pit, there was a skirmish going on along the shores of the lake there, the advancing Cultists having run up against some defensive unit that was offering the first real resistance other than the alien crew in their temporary trench. The numbers seemed one-sided though, and even though these Federals were putting up a good fight, it was only a matter of time...
Setting up the last 'mines' that she could hold, Hia flinched as more and more of the cultists ended up getting closer and closer, and she could hear the sound of another vehicle rolling up on their position. She took hold of her rifle once again, slid a grenade into the under-barrel firing tube, slid it shut, and peeked over the side of the trench, eyes narrowed and weapon raised.
She zeroed in on the swerving vehicle, aiming for it's wheels or it's underside, and fired the moment she had an opening, rapidly diving back behind the cover of the trench to avoid returning fire.
"We're all done down here!" She shouted over to the others. "Just give us the word to start heading back, because I don't know for how much longer we can hold this!"
Maksimenko's eyes narrowed as he swiftly maneuvered towards the machine gun emplacement. The weight of the weapon in his hands was both familiar and formidable. Though he was not a machine gunner by practice, this was not his first time operating such a gun, and muscle memory from times long past came flooding into his brain.
As his fingers wrapped around the cool metal of the gun's grip, Maks felt an electric surge of adrenaline once again course through his veins. He positioned himself behind the heavy weapon, looking over the lip of the trench, and back out towards the cult advance, the world around him fading into a distant blur.
The trigger was squeeze, the rhythmic thumping of his heart synchronized with the mechanical churning of the gun's mechanisms. This was not going to hold them for long, but he watched as Cult infantry scattered, shocked at the firing now coming from two locations (Maks was certain the veteran Marchander was giving them hell just metres down his flank).
The gun spat fire and lead, its roar blending with the shouts of the combatants and the thunderous percussion of explosions. The muzzle flash illuminated his weathered face, bounced off the metallic rims of his cybernetic enhancements etched into his face.
He heard the commotion, and Hia confirming the mines were set in place.
“How are the rest of you doing?!” He shouted, over the gun fire.
Daskys felt a moment of animalistic glee at the sound of the gun emplacement, its roar like that of an Echotian creature of myth. It’s wicked snarl snuck a prayer onto his lips, perhaps his gods were watching after all.
Daskys clutched his rifle in his upper hands, keeping a lower hand on the hilt of his blade should anyone get too close.
“This is as good as it's gonna get! Now we bleed them for every step and then get the hell outta here!”
The Echo turned to look at Xipil, his visor focus locking onto him intensely.
“I trust you’ll know the right time to wield this, just try not to get too many of us in the blast.”
The words were accompanied by a nod of respect, but he said nothing more.
*Xipil nods their head at the Echo as they swiftly connect the last of the detonators to the mortar shells and inspect their work for a momment, before the renewed sounds of gunfire make the flinch and duck their heads.
Activating their arm mounted display, they rapidly swipe and tap around on its surface, slaving the detonators to a single command and arming them. Once it is done they look up and yell to their squad mates. "Explosives all set. sirs! We should move now, befroe we become unable to clear the blast zone."
Even as they speak they are already retreating, although not quite out of the trench just yet, rather they are running to the mortar and starting to fold it up, before hoisting the tube up with a bit of effort.
"Uff, come on w-we got to move!" It is clear they are struggling a bit with the fully assembled piece, but they seem quite determined to have it for their own.
Even as Xipil wrestled with the mortar, there were yells from the far end of the trench. A platoon of enemy infantry had crawled up the side of the hill, through the freezing snow, and were now rushing down the position. The veteran Marchander was first in their path, and he barely had time to draw a pistol and shoot one of the attackers dead before a burst of SMG fire cut him down and he was trampled underfoot.
In the distance, the distinct roaring drone of hoverbikes echoed off the water and there was the snap of railgun weaponry, flashes of orange and pinks dancing off the lake surface to the north of them, but that conflict felt like it was a world away from them here.
Being one of only ones not currently firing out of the trench, Xipil sees the enemy cut down the veteran at the end of the trench. The engineer cries out in alarm, yelling at their comrades even as they heft the mortar and throw it down on the back side of the trnech hoping that it might roll down the other side of the hill so they can retrive it later.
"SWING THAT MACHINE GUN AROUND!! WE HAVE HOSTILES ON OUR FLANKS!!!" Their voice is panicky but they know what the must do. Hopping back down into the trench they flip down the visor of their helmet and heft their massive shotgun, rushing towards the enemy and hoping those double loaded plates will at least keep them a bit safe, as they raise their weapon and pull the trigger.
There is a flash of bright white flame and a thunderous crack as the 23mm shotgun sell bursts forth from the barrel and explodes in the face of the incoming infantry. It seems that Xipil has been given a thermate shell for one of his rounds as anyone caught by the blast would find themselves coated in burning metal powder. They pull the trigger again, this time disgorging a blast of octahedron shaped shot.
There were, what, five? Four of them still in the trench? Regardless of the specific number, they were outnumbered and outgunned in every sense of the words, fighting off what felt more and more like an unending horde. Hia’shal felt a pang of... furious hopelessness, seeing the enemy rushing down the trench, a deep instinct to throw her rifle into the snow and scream into the sky, as everything she tried to do to stem the tide felt completely and utterly useless.
But the feeling swiftly passed, and she gripped her rifle even tighter. Soon after Xipil fired into the onrushing crowd, she switched the rifle in her hands to full auto, letting out a yell until the magazine ran dry, only to swiftly replace it and continue opening fire.
“We have to retreat! She shouted over the gunfire, looking down the trench that led further back into (hopefully) friendly lines.
Amidst the overwhelming enemy advance, Hia’s call for retreat rang out, and Maksimenko acknowledged it with a nod.
"Well retreat then...and blow the trench as you go." he urged, steadfastly firing the machine gun until the last possible moment. Maks swiftly abandoned the machine gun, snatching a grenade and hurling it into the enemy's ranks.
"Run! Don't stop! Move now!"he roared, urging his comrades to flee the relentless advance.
Daskys felt his stomach retract as Xipil armed the mines around them, and bile swelled into his throat before he fought it off. One wrong move, one misplaced shot, and they were all corpses.
The Echotian turned as the swarm of Cultists clambered into view, followed by the shape of Xipil charging headlong into it. For a moment Daskys was impressed with his courage, but bite back a curse, lamenting the recklessness of leaving their position.
His angular helmet shot back to Hia as she opened fire, then back to Xipil, then back towards the “safety” of the trench line beyond. His instincts kicked in as he contemplated the situation, sending out a hissing click which sent his Kra’El into an excited frenzy, before bolting down into the trenches beyond.
He prayed that they would survive.
Daskys agreed, firing a few shots downrange to cover their retreat before turning and burning for the trench.
“Then lets get the hell out of here!”
The shotgun blasts threw the enemy into disarray, Hia's rifle punching down those few left standing. Seeing the butchery of their comrades, others threw themselves into cover, firing down the length of the trench even as the offworlders ducked up the communications trench, bullets hastening their retreat. A Marchander, more enterprising than the others, scrambled over the top and sprang down in front of them, some kind of jagged club raised in one paw. He was bowled over by Daskys' hounds, his screams of pain lost in the chaos.
A shell blasted dirt and smoke over them as they stumbled past the dying Cultist, throwing them against one wall of the trench. Xipil caught a glance of a Marchander with an assault rifle stepping out into the junction of the primary trench and the communication trench, levelling the gun directly at him. Acting out of instinct, the Svarthan triggered the detonator. The world shook twice in quick succession, fire leaping into the air and roiling up the trench.
Pushing clear, the group found themselves on the far side of the hill, the trench giving out onto a gently falling slope covered in scrub and snow, deep ruts showing where vehicles had moved to and from the position at least somewhat regularly. To their right, along the shores of the lake, yells and gunfire showed where a small unit of Federal troops was staging a fighting retreat that looked like it could become a rout at any moment. To their left, away down the hill, an enemy tank burst through a hedgerow and immediately exploded, hit by something from in front of them. Between them and the ruined tank, the silhouettes of infantry appeared over the brow of the hill, at the same time as the distant whine of hoverbike engines began to swell.
From their right, a roar of heat and sound resolved into the shapes of one-man hoverbikes, most of which ripped directly across their front and drove towards the infantry on their left, opening fire with chattering railguns that sparked orange and pink. One slowed down as it passed, and the occupant called out in Marchander.
"Keep going! was all the pilot yelled, the horns of her helmet outlined briefly by the flash of artillery, before she was gone. As they carried on down the hill there was an explosion from the melee, and several voices could be heard over the din screaming 'banzai'. There was another booming roar ahead of them, and this time the muzzle flare of an artillery piece was visible, momentarily illuminating a more serious trenchwork bristling with soldiers, the Federal flag fluttering in the faint wind over a true concrete bunker.
Hia’shal gave the Marchander a two-fingered salute as they passed by, taking a quick glance back towards the rest of the squad, doing a quick head count to make sure all the surviving members were here.
There was a flood of relief knowing they weren’t the only ones here fighting back the offensive, not quite enough to counteract the panic she felt from the rapid, uncoordinated retreat, but enough to make sure her legs continued moving to carry her body and equipment over to the more developed fortifications, even now that her legs were screaming at her to please take a break, we’ve been doing this all day.
“There! Get up to that trench line, we might be able to halt the offensive from that position!” The Dysonian called to her allies, pointing upwards as she was illuminated by the flash of artillery going off.
Daskys roared with his hounds as they tore into the man, gorging himself on their success as the pride swelled within him. He celebrated every successful kill, as their kind would have in his stead. Their energy seemed to increase as they ravenously dismembered the Marchander, spurred into a killing frenzy.
“Io’Vra’Shal, Mes’Rha!”
Artillery scattered nearby, and Daskys continued down the trench-line, keeping his head down as debris rained from above. Shards of rock glanced off his helm as he pushed onward, clawed boots propelling the Echo forward towards the defensive position.
Maksimenko felt a rush of relief coursing through his veins as they emerged from the claustrophobic confines of the trench. The bravery displayed by the chargers struck a chord in his seasoned heart. He had seen similar acts of valour during the Barlat War when Jade Marines made similar daring charges against overwhelming odds. The memory of those courageous moments resonated with him, a testament to the unyielding spirit of those who fought in the face of certain doom.
As they hurriedly moved away from the trenches, Maksimenko turned to his comrades addressing the group.
"Our job here is done. We can't stop this advance from where we stand. Let's regroup and head back to base. We need to report on what we've seen and help plan our next move wisely. It's a tough battle out there, but we're still alive, and that counts for something.”
As they approached the defensive line they began to wind through craters and corpses, the detritus of an offensive that had broken itself on Federal lines months ago. Barbed wire, torn and shredded, jutted from the morass while broken machinery sprang from the dark here and there. Suddenly a spotlight swept over them, passing them for a second before swinging back to focus on them.
"Кто туда ходит?!" demanded a voice from ahead, nerves hidden by anger. Another voice called out, in Common, telling them to keep running, to hurry. Behind them, Cult forces were spilling over the lip of the hill they had abandoned, flowing through the plume of dirty smoke left behind by their ambush. Guns spoke over their heads, muzzle flashes rippling along the trenches and bunkers. It seemed wrong to be running headlong into the gunfire, but it was their only option. Tumbling over the lip of a trench, they jumped down into a muddy walkway covered in boards that squelched beneath their feet. One Federal guard dropped a crate he was carrying and scrambled for his rifle, but a nearby officer pushed the weapon down.
"Посмотрите на их униформу. Они наши инопланетные 'друзья'." said the officer sarcastically, before turning to the outlanders. "Command that way," she said, pointing down a communications trench behind them before turning away to the firestep to lead her soldiers.
A few moments later, staggering through the comparitive peace of the communications trenches, they emerged into a wider dugout area whose rear was open to a real blacktop road, whilst bunkers sat on either side of it. A huge artillery gun thirty metres east boomed, rattling the crates and materiel piled around. Several vehicles were parked in the space, including one large armoured car that was idling. A group of officers were stood around, arguing animatedly. As the group approached, one in the uniform of a colonel broke away from the group and moved to yank open a door to the armoured car when he spotted the aliens.
"Who the fuck are you?!" he challenged them in fluent Common, before one of his aides muttered in his ear. He gaped for a moment, then turned and barked something at a nearby soldier who rushed to start up a flatbed truck.
As they charged headlong into the fray, Maksimenko felt a surge of exhilaration rushing through his veins, his heart pounding like a war drum against his chest. The world around him seemed to blur into a cacophony of chaos and colours, the stark contrast between the dark trenches and the blinding flashes of gunfire creating a surreal, almost cinematic scene.
The shouts and commands in foreign languages swelled over his head. He was lucky, he felt. Marchander was not too dissimilar linguistically from his own Imaginese, and the months on the planet had given him time to understand the native tongue. It was with relative annoyance that he read the tone and heard the words of the sarcastic officer who had directed them down the command trenches.
"Если бы не эти инопланетные друзья, культ уже раздавил бы тебя своей пятой." He almost spat as he walked past her, glaring.
They pressed on through more shouting and more challenges from the locals. Maks could understand their frustration at the situation, could even understand their resentment at the “alien” advisors being there, but he’d put his life on the line, just like they had, and would do in the battle to come. Sometimes, he reconciled, in dire situations such as this, it was easier to keep lose your head and blame your frustrations elsewhere.
Whatever the case, Marchand was burning. This wasn’t a normal push, this was a whole damned offensive, and would once again see the front go from stagnant to violent. Whatever the case, Maksimenko was not going to play hero, not today anyway.
He caught eyes with the Marchanders, who were scoffing and glaring at the offworlders, and simply gave them a sarcastically wholesome smile.
The voices of his Mentor Knights were in Daskys’ ear as he chastised himself for retreating once again. These were not the grand endeavors of a Knight Errant, these were the actions of a coward.
He kept his head low, watching their flanks as they crossed the more open terrain, feeling his heart in his mouth at the sudden lack of cover.
Jeers from the locals did little to improve Daskys’ mindset, and a well of guilt began to creep into his chest. He had fought the Cult for months now, only to turn tail at the first sign of a real offensive line. All bark, perhaps, but this was not his war to die in. Still, the Echo felt physically sick as they passed them by.
The Echo retrieved Captain Zacha’s dog tags, ensuring he still had them in his possession. He didn’t know the Captain as well as he would have liked but respected his leadership.
Daskys rubbed an armoured claw over the metal tags, before whistling for his Kra’El to board the truck.
He felt a moment pass, tempted to turn back and fight in the war until it was said and done. It gnawed at his skull and hung heavily on his ankles like chains.
The feeling in his bones subsided as the moment passed, and his armour flared with him as he snarled toward some of the more aggressive protesters. Who were they to judge him? He would not seek certain death and would be damned if walked blindly back into it.
He boarded the truck without another word, ready to get off this blasted frontline.
Hia'shal was confronted with glares and whisperings amongst the Marchanders when they arrived behind the defensive lines, and it felt like someone had wrapped barbed wire around her heart for one jolting second when she realized that the Marchanders were angry at them for retreating.
She was in the same boat as Max in this scenario. She understood their frustration, the desperation of trying to hold their lines from the cultists, but she also wasn't here to die. There wasn't much of a point continuing to fight for a client that she was fairly sure may not even exist in the following weeks to pay her, and so she slung her rifle over her shoulder and followed Max and Daskys into the truck silently.
She wanted to return to the Dyson city. This whole experience had given her some time to think, and some things to say to her sister. She didn't plan on dying on a burning world today.
They rumbled across the countryside, the sounds of warfare never growing fainter as the combat seemed to chase them. Once, the guns on the lead car opened fire, but the vehicles didn't stop, simply blowing past whoever or whatever was waiting out there in the frigid darkness.
After perhaps 15 minutes, however, they did stop. There was the roar of engines and the chatter of heavy weaponry, and suddenly heat and smoke roiled past them, an explosion battering their ears.
Dismounting to help protect the convoy, the offworlders saw a terrible sight. A Cantonese Sverkhu gunship, of Imaginese manufacture, was hovering nearby and was pouring fire into the remnants of their escort. Even as they watched, it sank to hover directly over the ground, its rear ramp lowered. A marine stood at the top of the ramp, one hand gripping a support bar, the other waving them fowards.
"Special Group Advisory, you are being reassigned! It's time to get off this rock!" she yelled at them. Once all who accepted had climbed aboard, the shuttle darted upwards, its engines whining as it fought to escape the gravitational pull of the planet below, its rear ramp closing with the hiss of pressurisation seals.
"You can debrief when we rejoin Fleet," said the marine, not toggling her visor to transparency as was usually polite. She seemed distracted, flustered. "You lost one? Lucky it wasn't worse. It's a mess down there...."
The shuttle reached high orbit and suddenly an emerald window appeared in front of them. The Cantonese had opened a gap in their drone-based interdiction field specifically so that a frigate could create a Slipgate for the ship. It ducked through, followed by another shuttle that had joined them two kilometers up, and the offworlders found themselves in the midst of a vast Cantonese fleet in battle posture.
"Brace, brace!" yelled the pilot. There was no other ship in sight, no potential collision looming in the viewports, but then a blinding light poured through the portholes which shuttered moments later.
"Oh fuck," gasped the marine sat with them "they actually fucking did it!"
Maksimenko's eyes widened in shock as the Cantonese Sverkhu gunship ruthlessly unleashed its fire upon the native escorts. The cold realization of the ruthless chaos they were fleeing from struck him like a jolt. Amid this onslaught, a chilling recognition dawned upon him –the Marchanders were but pawns in this larger, brutal game, and he was not to have a problem with it.
The marine's commanding voice cut through the turmoil, an unexpected lifeline amid the devastation. As he climbed aboard the shuttle, his steps felt heavy, each one laden with the weight of the world they were leaving behind.
A mixture of awe and trepidation washed over him as the shuttle hurtled through the void of space. Through the porthole, the infinite expanse of the cosmos stretched out before him, a stark contrast to the war-torn landscapes they had left behind. But his breath caught as his eyes fell upon the menacing super weapon orbiting ominously in the void.
Oh…," Maksimenko simply whispered.
They had narrowly escaped the clutches of one treacherous battlefield, only to be thrust into an audience, watching the planet’s destruction.
Xipil is swept up in the chaos surrounding him, ferried along by his allies, no, his FRIENDS as they run wildly along and away from the approaching enemy. The mortar is left behind and forgotten and indeed Xipil can barely recall anything after they started running. Flashes of memory come to him now as the shuttle rises high into the air.
Voices yelling, screaming. The terrified engineer following right behind his squadmates. Climbing into a vehicle, and racing along a raods. More flashes, more carnage, ignoring it all.
So much violence, so much death, so much-
The flash of light pouring in through the portholes blows all those thoughts away, like the Cantonese crucible blasted away the planet below them. Xipil can only stare in silence, their body quivering, as they shudder at the though of all those lives lost. If they had eyes, they would certainly be full of tears, but as it stands all the engineer can do is watch in silent horror.