First Corporal Mirai of the Sixth New Guards battalion was shooting glares at the gossiping bastards of the Fifth Reinforced Infantry at the other side of what was once a lovely living room. Now it was rubble, and a makeshift camp for both of their units. She wished there only were New Guards here. They didn't speak with quavering voices, or nearly shat themselves at the prospect of combat. The cowards were here only to make up numbers and waste ammo. Two jobs they fulfilled well enough, she supposed.
They were so very unlike her and her unit. They were young, that was true. Inexperienced, some might say, and she could not wholly deny that either. What they lacked in that regard, however, they more than compensated with their zeal. They were the Confederacy's chosen few. All of them would have been lost without the Confederacy's mercy and help. Children from all the lower walks of life, picked up and given a new chance. Little wonder they had all leapt at the chance to repay their saviours. Mirai knew that, had it not been for the social worker picking her up, she'd have ended up like her parents; drugged to the heavens and a waste of cells. Now she was a soldier. Now she was useful. Now she was a member of the New Guards, and doing her part to save the Confederacy.
It wasn't an easy task, but that made it all the more worthwhile. She had lost count for how long they'd been guarding this spot, keeping the void-damned Imperial bastards at bay. Occasionally they'd hit their stretch of the line. It always happened in an instant. Warning beacons were tripped, those wretched sirens began to howl and she and everyone else would be up, weapon in hand, and rushing to the ramparts even before their brains would have fully woken up.
Then it was a matter of pouring enough fire into no man's land until the bastard went away. If they were lucky the SOB's own shots wouldn't hit a soul. Otherwise… The New Guards had buried six people so far. People she hadn't known until the planet-wide call to arms had come out. People she now mourned, more than her own traitorous parents.
She shook off the thought. The sergeant, another young, man who was willing to put down his life in defence of the nation, had warned her of following that line of thought too often. Traitors, he had argued, weren't worth the time she spent thinking on them, and she had no reason at all to feel guilty for what she'd done. They had tried to keep her from going, bringing all sort of lies to bear in a futile attempt to steer her in a different direction. She had always thought of them as useless before. As cowards and incompetents. It wasn't until that moment that she understood that they had been vile traitors. And that the Confederacy was rife with them. Enemies within, enemies without.
No, she chastised herself. Best listen to the sergeant. Still, that reasoning made it hard to suppress the urge to just grab her rifle and begin blasting those cowards of the Fifth to the other side. They were openly voicing their fears, like seditionists, like traitors. And they were supposed to be professionals. She spat on the ground, the motion catching the attention of her sergeant. She met his eyes. They were hard and determined. She hadn't asked who he had lost or what his story was. Nobody in the New Guards asked for another's stories. In time they would share them of their own volition, but for now all that tied them together was their patriotism.
He caught her thoughts and shook his head. "They're useless," he said, his voice just loud enough to carry to her. "Not traitors."
"That doesn't mean…" she didn't finish the sentence. All around the makeshift campfire, she saw her fellow soldiers nod. Even the sergeant. It suddenly came to her that she didn't know his name. Does he even know mine? she wondered. Or was she just Number Twelve? She didn't mind if he didn't. Being just a number wasn't an insult, but an honour. Only the most determined, most loyal and dedicated elements were chosen for the New Guards. They lived for nothing but the Confederacy. The rest of her class had been sent to other units, to let them do their part. She was better than them. She had been chosen. Names weren't needed amongst the New Guards. You called for the numbers to get things done. When everyone else was running, that's who you sent out. Too many soldiers, no, cowards, had run away from the fight. Refused orders. Some had even shot at their commanders! They were traitors, all of them, and they would hang if it was up to her, even if they weren't worth the rope.
"No, it does not," the sergeant calmly replied. He took the time to meet everyone's eyes. Nobody shied away from the deep hatred in his. Nobody shied away from the even deeper love, the love for his nation. "But not yet. Not now. There's an order to things." He said the last with a smile and she found herself returning it, despite herself. She wanted to strike now. To slaughter those cowardly bastards with impunity. The sergeant was right, of course. Priorities. First the Imperials. Then the traitors. Then the cowards and those who stood by the wayside. Only the true Novicans would be left standing at the end. As it should have been at the very beginning. She threw a sidelong glance at the junior lieutenant sitting at the other campfire, in the opposite side of the large room. The woman met her eyes, briefly, before sharply looking away. Coward, she spat in her mind. Soon you'll burn as well.
Lieutenant Vaskilji, Vasi for her platoon, shook her head warily. She'd seen that type of crazed look far too often. The New Guards weren't soldiers. They were brainwashed children, murderers and insane psychopaths spared an execution and put into uniforms. Most of them were literal kids, sent here from the schools run by the government. Even the most loyal citizens had regarded those with scepticism. Those who graduated from there had proven that whoever ran the things, focused on patriotism first, education second. It was less a school, more of a propaganda camp. Still, it had kept the orphans, the unfortunate and the kids with bad homes off the streets. Or children belonging to those who ran afoul of some bureaucrat.
And now those very kids had been shoved into combat units. And they were being led by people who had graduated from those schools years ago. Who had often been plucked straight out of a prison, as —surprise surprise— people who had been fully brainwashed to see traitors everywhere tended to not mesh well with normal society.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
No sane soldier liked the New Guards. No civilian did either. They were untrustworthy, violent and reckless. They didn't know how to fight as soldiers, weren't beholden to the same standards. When left unsupervised they often began to pillage and rape at will, under the guise of cleaning out traitors. Not all of them, Vasi had to admit, as some units did pull through and behaved heroically (and suicidally) in an attempt to kill the Imperials. Not these kids though. They had a reputation, and that was before the Crazies, as they had been nicknamed, had caused some "accidents".
She let out a sigh and tried to steer her thoughts in a different direction. Things were bad enough already, she didn't need to make them worse. Instead she shifted her attention to practical problems.
She prodded her second in command with her elbow. "Any word on when our new ammo shipment is going to arrive?" she asked him.
"Last I heard was oh seven hundred. If the Crazies don't get to them first. They tried to loot the last delivery," came the far too calm answer. Garuvin was a strange NCO. For one, he was far too happy and active for a person his age and rank. For another, he kept twiddling his fingers. All the time. Constantly. Drove people mad that did. Now the happiness was from his eyes and he sat still, almost motionless. His fingers were no longer twiddling. Instead his one hand held a fork as he slowly ate his heated rations, while the other was glued to his sidearm. The man didn't trust the New Guards, the Crazies. None of her platoon did.
It was useless to try and talk sense into them They weren't simply patriotic or zealous, they were utterly insane. Her captain had tried to reason with them, and he'd suffered a friendly fire accident shortly afterward. Naturally the Crazies had denied that it was one of theirs who'd fired the shot, casually ignoring all the evidence pointing their way. Vasi had chosen to bury the argument rather than let it escalate into a full-blown firefight. The Crazies were in a shit position, and all the fanaticism in the world didn't count for crap compared to actual training, but they'd have paid in turn. Too many Crazies, not enough of hers.
And Command had still refused to shift them to another zone. She understood why. It was the Fifth that was holding the Imperials at bay, not the kids. They didn't understand, hadn't suffered the original losses, and couldn't comprehend that all the patriotism in the world didn't do shit against the Imperials hounding them. The Fifth was holding, but it was with gritted teeth. The jokes had dried up first, along with the cigs. Now… Now complaints were steadily dwindling, alongside their ammo reserves. And if those reserves went out, they'd be gone. The resupply runs were the only things keeping the Imperials hemmed in. If a bastard showed up in his tin can, everyone, literally everyone, ran to the ramparts, fortifications, trenches or whatever-the-hell was present, and opened up. You didn't take the time to aim, you didn't zero in, you pointed your barrel in their general direction and opened up on full auto. Screw the safety regulations each of them was taught when they first touched a rifle, you fired and kept firing until sheer mass of fire would overwhelm the bastard's shields and threaten to bury him in a mountain of lead, steel and whatever else bullets were made from these days.
And in the meantime you prayed to god his shots wouldn't hit anyone you knew.
Those green blobs had become a thing of terror for the Novican forces. A single hit blasted straight through body armour and minor cover. A glancing blow would shatter bones, tear out organs and demolish limbs. Near misses slammed into solid objects with enough force to propel the shattered shards straight through body armour, let alone bare skin. Another reason why the kids took so few losses compared to the Fifth. The morons stuck to burst shots, and therefore weren't a real threat to the monsters. They thought it was more efficient. Morons! They hadn't seen those Imps wade through seas of fire, shrugging off the combined fire of entire squads while returning fire with impunity. Machineguns would throw them off, heavier weapons could hurt them, but first you had to deplete their shields, and they tended to disappear before that happened.
And in the meantime the orbital bombardment thundered on above them, never lessening, never abating. But after so long even the screeching of the shields as the continent-scouring firepower continuously slammed down onto them, became just one of the many noises of the battlefield.
She could live with that. She could live with what it signified. She could even life with countless soldiers throwing down their arms in a desperate bid to pacify the Imperial invaders, foolish as the notion was. Hell, she could even sympathise with the idiots who began shooting at their commanders after being ordered into the shields even as hellfire rained down on them from above, not to mention those turned entirely as their own families were threatened by friendly fire.
No, she could live with all of that. What she couldn't live with was the stare of that damnable girl. Couldn't be an adult yet. Sixteen, seventeen at most. And she kept glancing towards her officer's insignia. That accusing gaze. The madness in her eyes, muddled with insanity. There was nothing human left in it. They were like rabid dogs, and ought to be put down. She had heard the rumours about that bitch. The ruthless violence she'd committed. More of a monster than even the Imps. It was a matter of time before the girl snapped. She would have to make sure it was her side who shot first when that happened.
She cast a glance at her platoon. Solid, good men and women. All of them holding their weapons close. Speaking no louder than a whisper. But she could see them keeping watch from the corners of their eyes. Nobody complained that safeties were off. Nobody said anything about Corporal Steyvit as his finger ran across the pin of a grenade. She met their eyes, one by one.
Not yet, her gaze spoke. Not yet. A shiver ran across her back as the girl's angry, hungry stare fell on her again.
No, not yet. But soon.