At some point during the journey aboard the RCX Yekaterinburg, someone had set up a display in the commons showing the names of all the militaries assembling on Omen, in order to boost the morale of the incoming Russians. Of course, the US’s forces were first on the list, being first to arrive, but then came the Bundeswehr, and then, curiously enough, the French Foreign Extraplanetaries. ANZAC, the Royal Marines, and the JSDF came next, followed closely behind by the remainder of Unified Combat Command. It was an impressive show of force, but it would be a nightmare to coordinate. Svetlana just hoped the people in charge of this whole operation hadn’t slept through their foreign language classes.
The Yekaterinburg dropped out of warp within visual range of the USS Montana, which provided yet another boost to morale. During the Contact Wars, the Montana had driven back a previous attempt to invade New Vancouver near-singlehandedly, routing an Intruder fleet with a mixture of genius maneuver and overwhelming firepower and achieving the highest kill count of any human spacecraft before or since. The sight of the hulking missile battleship and its veteran crew was a welcome sight. It would remain in orbit, raining kinetic impactors on anything impervious to regular bombing.
However, not all was well. When they were still a day out, word had made it to the Russians that the same fleet that had carried out the devastation of New Vancouver had arrived in-system, having more than recouped their losses in the engagement with Admiral Kuznetsov. Instead of a task force of six, it was a flotilla of more than two dozen, with more to arrive in the coming days. Already, there were nicknames for its enigmatic leader, some more vulgar than others, but the most popular of them was “The Cornered Fox of the Void,” the story being that they had escaped destruction by the Nikitovna by showing unbelievable aggression, driving them aside with threats of a ramming maneuver before using their own ships as shields to cover their retreat and evacuation of a further ten thousand captives.
Still, that wasn’t relevant to now. Svetlana couldn’t afford to distract herself with “what-ifs” and whatnot. Determining everything that could go wrong in a war was a one-way ticket to an asylum.
The Yekaterinburg quivered as though alive as it broke through Omen’s aerospatial boundary. Blinding orange light shone through every porthole, and the craft left a trail of white condensation behind it. Svetlana braced herself in her chair, clenching her body when the ship began to decelerate. Someone always braced a little too late and lost bowel control in these descents, and Svetlana was determined not to be the unlucky one.
The G-force let up after a minute or so and the ship settled into a gentle float about a kilometer in the air, its ventral guns scanning the ground below. A moment later, a general alert went over the intercom, instructing all ground forces to prepare for disembarkation. Svetlana stood, grabbing her cap and jogging from the commons to the shuttle bay. Along the way, she passed an embarrassed-looking maintenance tech, who hastily darted into a bathroom.
The shuttle bay was nothing if not hectic, but it was especially frenzied now. Exosuited technicians scurried around, arming and refueling the shuttles. Most of the aircraft were the common dual-engine variant, but there were also a few haulers, with an engine nacelle on each corner of the fuselage instead of wings. Those would be used to offload the various vehicles and heavy machines of their forces.
“Fall in!” their commander shouted. Svetlana and the rest of the officer corps rushed to their places in formation, the enlisted following shortly behind. The shuttle bay was just barely large enough to harbor the men, the shuttles, and the support staff.
Admiral Kuznetsov turned to face his charges, lips pursed and brows furrowed. His uniform was untidy, which was quite unlike him, and there were great big bags under his eyes. He looked like he had aged ten years in a few days.
“Today, men, you are doing what the Russian military has never done: you are landing on a real, not simulated, enemy planet. The backbone of this world’s force is broken, but they are far from pacified, and with the Cornered Fox in our orbit, it is likely they will be receiving reinforcements soon. USSAC is already gathering a fleet to intercept them, but it’s unlikely they’ll be able to decisively engage them before they bring themselves to bear upon us.
“I expect you not to buckle under their assaults, no matter how withering. You will perform to the best of your ability, and you will show these degenerates,” Svetlana cringed at the sheer vitriol in the word. “why Russia was feared and hated for so long. And you will show them that we are still to be feared today. Am I clear?”
“Sir, yes sir!” everyone called simultaneously.
“Good. Dismissed,” Georgy bowed his head and let them proceed to their shuttles. Svetlana, however, took a brief detour to him.
“Hey, are you feeling alright?” Svetlana asked.
“Oh, I’m fine. I’m… I’m just tired. I don’t think I’ve slept in a few days.” Georgy said. He was in his mid-sixties, and it was in these moments that Svetlana was reminded of his age. He seemed smaller and frailer than normal. He had already served long enough to earn his pension, but Svetlana suspected that he wouldn’t have anything left to live for if not for the military, so he remained diligent as ever.
“Why, what’s wrong?”
Georgy frowned, considering whether or not to tell her. Then, he smiled half-heartedly. “It’s nothing you need to worry about, Svetka. Just admiralty things.”
It was a flat-faced lie, but Svetlana understood why he told it. “Okay then. Just… tell me if you need me, okay? You can’t just go on working yourself to death.”
“Well, either I work myself to the bone out here or you do in a mine somewhere in the orgy of imperialism they call a state. Just…” Georgy teared up for a moment. Svetlana couldn’t bear to see the invincible officer cry, so she grabbed him in a powerful bear hug, choking back her own sobs. Georgy soon reciprocated the gesture, wetting her shoulder as he rested his head on her.
“You’re the only thing I have left, Svetka. Don’t let them catch you. Don’t let them take you and turn you against everything we stand for. Please.” Georgy whimpered. In this moment, he was just a fragile, pitiful old man, completely vulnerable, a war hero no longer. This was just too much.
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
“I promise! I promise, I promise, I promise.” Svetlana cried, bursting into tears. For a few minutes, they stood like this, propping each other up, trying not to let the horror of this situation overwhelm them completely. As Svetlana regained her bearing, a fell anger gripped her.
“War should be a curse word.” she spat.
Georgy looked up at her with a similar fire in his eyes. “In-fucking-deed.”
—
“Everyone unpack your weapons quickly! Los, los, los!” the 467th’s commander yelled as the first of the shuttles touched down on what would soon become Fort von Richthofen. As the loading doors of the hauler unsealed and descended, Hersch turned on the Leopard’s engine and eased it down the ramp and towards the rally point.
A Sternjager in a spacesuit waved them in the correct direction, his special-forces insignia glinting in the harsh blue sunlight. Johann couldn’t imagine what it felt like to be dropped straight from orbit and practically crash-landed into enemy territory. Hersch maneuvered the tank into its designated spot and switched it off, the crew dismounting.
“Oberst-leutnant Weiss, Hauptmann Hess and crew reporting for assignment, sir!” Johann saluted the 467th’s commander. Weiss returned the salute.
“Speak with Hauptmann Myers; he’s the Panzergruppen’s leader, he might have something for you to do.” Weiss ordered. Johann nodded, mouthing a quick “yes sir” before running to the outskirts of the camp.
The Panzergruppen were so named for their ultra-heavy suits of powered armor, treading the delicate line between exosuit and war stomper. Just barely short of three meters tall, their armor marked with tallies, an iron cross displayed prominently on each shoulder in metallic paint, they were nothing if not imposing. Johann and his crew were just lucky they weren’t armed at the moment, instead busying themselves carrying two-ton reinforced barriers to the outer boundaries, two men to a wall segment.
Captain Myers saw the three as they approached, no emotion visible from behind his composite-armored gas mask. “Captain Hess reporting for duty, sir.” Johann nodded.
“And I assume these two are under your command?” Myers’ voice was distorted and harsh; he must’ve “forgotten” to maintain his vocoder in order to sound more intimidating.
“Yes, sir.”
Myers grunted in acknowledgement. “String out the razor wire and set up the MG emplacements.”
“Yes, sir.”
The work was long and dangerous, even with cut-resistant gloves. Thankfully, none of them sustained more than a few nicks, along with a few bruises when Hiedrich accidentally dropped an M2 on Johann while they were bringing it to its place in the defenses. A few hours later, they, along with many other tank crews, had succeeded in setting up the beginnings of the perimeter. With luck, the engineers would handle the trench-digging, heavy emplacements, and other heavy lifting tasks of the construction.
With his work done, Johann was on his way back to the base when Svetlana appeared seemingly out of the blue.
“Did they really name this place after the Red Baron?” she asked.
“Gah!” Johann yelped, jumping back. “Don’t do that!”
Svetlana put her hand over her mouth, apparently a habit of hers. “Oh, did I startle you?”
Johann, flustered, tried to play it down. “You just caught me off guard. It’s okay, and, yes, they did name the base after him.”
“Wouldn’t it be a better name for an airfield?”
“Probably, but I wasn’t there to name it.”
Svetlana nodded pensively. “We’ve set up camp about a kilometer to the west. It means we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other, eh?”
A rush of worry flooded through Johann. “Svetlana, you can’t just say that in public.”
“Why?”
“Well, you outrank me, and if people find out about us, they’re going to ask if it’s consensual, if you pulled rank to force me into it…” Johann put two fingers to his lips, collecting his thoughts.
“Even if I say everything’s fine, they might not believe me. I don’t want you endangering your job, Svetlana.”
Svetlana’s eyes widened. “I didn’t even think of that.”
“It’ll probably be fine, but we need to be careful. Just watch who’s around when you’re talking, okay?”
“Alright, then.” Svetlana nodded. They walked in silence from then on.
“Where are we going, anyway?” Johann asked. By this point, they had covered half of the camp.
“I was just taking a tour of the accommodations and thought you would make a good walking partner.” Svetlana shrugged.
“Fair enough.” Johann responded. Just at that moment, a transport ship steamed overhead, a blue-and-purple flag hastily stenciled on one side. It banked a few degrees to the right, then fired its main engines and flew north.
“Who was that?” Johann pointed at the outgoing craft.
“They call them the Free Poslush Army. Turncoats, basically.” Svetlana explained.
“They aren’t all brainwashed?”
“Apparently, they only do that for the people old enough to remember life before their conquests. Must be too expensive to brainwash every one of however many billions they have.”
“Even then, why would the Poslushi fight their own government?”
“Their culture puts a lot of value on mental and emotional abuse; it’s something about expunging hesitation and cultivating loyalty. It’s been this way for centuries, but I guess some people are just meant not to accept it.”
Johann pursed his lips and looked down. “Interesting.”
“Indeed.”
—
The bulbous, ovoid craft of the 1st Bombardier Legion were the first to reinforce the 1447th after Wakizashi put in a call for reinforcements, followed shortly after by the sleek, bird-like ships of the Aralu Janissaries and the bright iron-colored ships of Her Dominance’s Twelfth Judicial Guard. Rapier may have had his preconceptions about the Viceroy, but she sure had contacts.
“What do you know of the conquests of our great founder Sunsword, Captain-General?” Wakizashi asked from atop her throne.
“I’ve read every annal of her exploits that I could find, Viceroy.” Rapier replied semi-passively.
“Do you know of the Battle of Jhoda?”
“Yes, Viceroy; it’s the most famous of the Venerable Ancestor’s victories.”
“So you remember her heroic charge uphill to defeat the forces of the Tenth Warlord?”
Whatever divine exists, please no, Rapier thought. “Yes; her courage under fire won the day there.”
“There are two encampments of the enemy located on a ridge our forces can easily access. We can show that our great founder’s strategy remains sound to this day!”
Rapier went into crisis mode. Sunsword won a battle against greater numbers, charging uphill, but that was in the day of swords and spears, when her elite bowmen could devastate the front lines of the Tenth Warlord’s defenses and allow her shock troops to press the advantage. Now, the human forces could bombard the incoming forces with artillery and their odd, tracked vehicles before they could get close enough to start shooting. It would be a massacre, and Rapier knew Wakizashi would, as all Broodmatrons excelled at doing, find a way to make it her subordinates’ fault. He would start storing evidence to give to the Dynastic Commissariat if need be, but now he was undergoing damage control.
“Viceroy, perhaps you should consider what should occur if–and this is a small possibility–we were to lose this battle. Should it not go as you planned, we could besmirch the good name of the Venerable Ancestor, and surely you would not wish to do that?”
Wakizashi straightened her antennae pensively. “You make a good point, but what alternate strategy do you have?”
Rapier racked his mind for information on the ridge Wakizashi was speaking of. Then he found it. “Viceroy, if we could utilize the airmen of the Judicial Guard, we could suppress their forces with aerial and artillery bombardment and use the Janissaries to encircle them. Then our regular infantry and armor could wipe out their fortresses with impunity.”
“Ah, quite the tactic indeed. We will save the actions of the Venerable Ancestor for a later date, then.”
Rapier saluted, then silently went back to work. He may have ha–he stopped himself again, reminding himself that it was unsafe to even think such things. He tried to force himself to believe the opposite, that Wakizashi was his rightful and wise liege, who only occasionally required guidance to avoid being taken on flights of fancy. After all, it would be presumptuous to imagine that she was dependent on him in any major way. It was not his place to question, only to shape the occasionally-optimistic ideas of his liege in more pragmatic directions.
As he told himself this, he just couldn’t accept it. Not to say that he doubted his loyalties, as he never did, but perhaps Khopesh could’ve selected a Viceroy of greater pedigree. There had to be a reason behind her appointment, but Rapier wished he could have less reasons and more rationality.
Still, there was no point wishing for anything one could not work for, and any measure of control over his liege, or her liege, or hers, was soundly out of his reach. The best he could do was fitting the tradition of males of his kind, keeping his head down and bearing pain without complaint.
After all, in a world based upon his inborn inferiority, what else was there to do?