Chapter 33 - The Game of Life
Glass Plateau, Wei Hao Region. Local Time: 22:27
It was a thick, dense darkness that blanketed the landscape now. Not that the evening itself was lacking the means of illuminating itself, with neither stars nor moon to shine their glory upon the cruel scene of man slaughtering man in that ancient contest of wills.
Such are the capricious whims of war.
If anything, the exact opposite held true. Though night was still burning with the beginnings of the radiation storm, the otherworldly streams of green and blue lightning spilling across the roiling sky above were not yet brilliant enough to offset the constant barrage of molten fire as it scorched a blinding trail across the cold, snow-filled air. The superheated laser beam seemed to hungrily devour space as it soared in an impossibly straight line to its target, discharging all of its incandescent fury for the span of a few seconds before slowly dispersing into a white-hot afterimage burned into the eyes of every spectator. That would only last for the space of a few breaths, before inevitably the next flurry of starfire roared on its way anew, splitting the cold, snow-riddled air and spelling fiery doom for a new target.
“Sir, fuel cells are stable but the cooling chambers are showing signs of failure. Temperature readings are reaching critical levels, and the core nucleus is beginning to grow unstable. At the current rate of fire, critical mass and subsequent catastrophic containment failure is imminent!” came a nervous voice from behind my left shoulder.
I nodded disinterestedly as I kept my eyes fixed upon the grand scene laid out before me.
“Sir-” came the anxious voice once more, a little louder this time.
“Enough, captain,” I said lightly, though the steely undertones were unmistakable, shifting my gaze minutely let the man see that I meant it. “You have your orders.”
The officer flinched back, immediately saluted, then turned around and left at a brisk pace. I returned my gaze to the tragic spectacle taking place on the valley below.
The tattered formations of the United Federation Army’s 6th, 12th, 17th divisions were a writhing mass of bleeding flesh. The edges of the formation were visibly withering under the constant harassment of enemy small arms fire. Mercifully, the enemy still kept enough of a distance gap that most of their shots were wildly inaccurate. That was only a small mercy, since part of the reason for this were the thumping echoes - sonic booms - that would ring out from the center of that milling mass of desperately fleeing soldiers before bouncing from the walls below the plateau where we stood watching helplessly.
Another dozen or so such explosions beat their familiar drumbeat, and a chorus of screams from the wounded and dying quickly followed. The poor bastards weren’t even making an attempt at firing back anymore. Hell, half of them weren’t carrying any firearms at all, panic having taken over from their training as they dropped all their weapons and fled for the hills, for the treeline - anywhere but that blood-splattered slaughter field, where the relentless hammer of an avenging god ruthlessly slammed their bodies into bloody ragdolls and scattered what little will to resist or fight was left.
The strategic value of using wide-area suppressing fire against a demoralized opponent was amply demonstrated by the spectacle laid out before my eyes. What had previously been one of the most well trained, well equipped fighting forces on Earth had now turned into a mindless mob with only the most basic instinct for survival driving its every action. Rallying such a force would prove near impossible, were I even inclined to do so.
Hah. Like hell I would.
Though the burning cinders of my heart had been somewhat pacified with the constant pillars of light and subsequent embers of fire spreading across the hidden enemy artillery emplacements, this war of mine was still far, far from done. I had made them bleed, but I still had not made them suffer, not really. Not in the Michael Lee fashion. Certainly not in Seth the Godslayer, the Devourer of Souls style.
In the end, I would make them rue the day they crossed my path. Phantom meat puppets or evil soul god-like entities alike. I would make them watch as I crushed their precious Labyrinth of Souls in my fist and stuffed it down their throat.
This was just beginning. Now, it was time to end it.
Unconsciously, my gaze turned towards the west. It was there where I had placed all my chips. This entire battle would be won or lost in one single series of hair-raising, spine-tingling moves. It was like domino, and I had already set the pieces into motion. Now it was all a matter of letting the pieces fall where they may.
Most modern war strategists will tell you that there is only one true certainty in war: There are no certainties.
It was true. Each battle was a living thing, an entire organism that fed upon its every engagement. It swallowed men along with their hopes and dreams, crushing them within its gigantic maw and spitting out nothing but broken vestiges, mere remnants of what had once been human. What was left behind no longer bore any resemblance to such, for war knew its craft well.
War was hunger.
Conflict resolution? Only morons or blind idealists still believed that war was about that. Every scarred veteran will laugh bitterly if ever you spout such nonsense in front of them. They will cackle their heart out until tears ran down their crusty, sun-beaten cheeks. Then, if and only if you are watching very carefully, you will see it. A fleeting glimpse of the true face of war, set loose upon the world for one single, shuddering breath.
War was terror.
It was an instant of blinding realization of the fragility of your mortal coil. It was a baptism of blood as your friends and brothers in arms spilled their crimson life upon the thirsty sands beneath.
War was madness.
Chaos would swallow every conscious thought until all that was left upon the field of battle would be mindless automatons who somehow still knew how to lift a gun and snuff out another human life.
War was greed.
It is said a fearsome tyrant once had his cannons engraved with the words, “Ultima ratio regum.” - the last argument of kings. War was not about resolution. If it were, this world would have found lasting peace over five thousand years ago, never to know the meaning of this barbaric, archaic term, “war”. No, war was about breaking the will of your opponent under your own, imposing your own tyrannical resolve over the rest of the world.
Because right lay cradled within the fist of might.
Then again, they say strength ultimately prevails, that all the factors and elements must be lined up just so in order to clinch the win, to gain win the grace of the goddess of victory.
Bullshit.
I knew war for what it truly was. It was a contest of wills alright, but its elements are nothing as stale and boring as the set pieces everyone kept analyzing and scrutinizing. War was a fire that consumed everything in its path, and if you didn’t want to become part of its discarded ashes, you needed to become the catalyst.
War was a clash of wills, a test of strength. Not of intellect, nor wisdom. Not wealth, nor resources. It was about will. The madness that allowed you to delude yourself into believing beyond all shadow of doubt that it was your god given right to impose your will upon the rest of the world.
It is why emperors are born, not made.
My musings were rudely interrupted by a thundering explosion that made the world around me shudder violently. A translucent EM field crackled and whined as the containment shield rerouted power from its energy generator to sustain the barrier. That had been all that kept my current location, along with 4 quadcannon laser batteries and their core reactors, from turning into a flaming inferno.
“General, we’ve been hit by multiple shells in a coordinated assault from long range artillery emplacements. Our laser batteries are unable to counter-attack due to the terrain, and our missile launchers are unable to get a fix upon their coordinates,” came the frantic report.
Unbidden, a data report from my previous life came rushing to my mind. Given that Akatombe would deal with the main enemy artillery force, I should now be facing their auxiliary artillery unit: twelve ML412 166mm Howitzers, each with a range of 12.2 miles. The shells each Howitzer fired were 1.15 meters long, 166mm in diameter and weighed over 40 kilograms.
In short, they would pack one hell of a punch.
“Sir, our EM fields were not designed to withstand sustained assaults,” continued the voice, and mentally I agreed. With a standard rate of fire, we wouldn’t last the hour. Perhaps 46 minutes?
“Should we sound the order for a general retreat?” came the hesitant query.
That would buy us well over six miles of scrambling back over rocky terrain while the hidden enemy forces sent to flank us closed in upon our sides, all the while shell after shell would scatter what little resistance we could muster while retreating.
Been there, done that. Hell if I would lose over sixty thousand men in another disastrous retreat.
“General?”
“You have your orders,” I stated coldly, not shifting my gaze in the slightest. At least, the routing troops on the valley below were spared from the deadly shower of explosions and began to make better speed towards us as the enemy artillery focused their barrage on our own laser batteries. “Continue to fire.”
Stiff silence hung in the air for a moment before I heard a forceful, “Yes sir!” from behind me, then rapidly retreating footsteps.
Maybe I wouldn’t make a half-bad tyrant emperor myself. Heh.
A pity then, that I had no such ambitions. All I truly wanted was to watch my opponent bleed and die under my feet before I followed him into the grave. That is all.
I’m a simple man, with simple ambitions.
In order to achieve that, however, I would need to employ every understanding of war I had at my disposal. It would push my abilities to their limits. And thus, I wisely chose to follow the strategy which would save my skin.
I stood there and waited.
I had already placed all my chips upon the most unlikely of champions. He was well past middle age, with no particularly remarkable physical abilities. No admirable displays of strength, no legendary feats of martial prowess. By most measurable physical standards, he could only be described as average.
However, if anyone could be described as an avatar of war, it would be one Dominik Stahl.
That was one tough son of a bitch, and either he would win this war for me, or he’d burn the world to ashes in the doing.
“Your move, Stahl. Make it count,” I whispered, as my eyes lingered over that distant horizon where the fates of nearly half a million lives would be decided.
***
Yangtze River, Wei Hao Region. Local Time: 22:25
Dominik Stahl suppressed the niggling desire to scratch his neck, instead focusing his attention upon the shadows beyond the river that lay before him. It was a pregnant silence that stretched across the banks of the Yangtze river as darkness slowly crept up upon the eerily quiet forest.
“Sir-” came the nervous voice from his left, only to be instantly pre-empted by Stahl’s raised forefinger.
It had been a silent, restless vigil of nearly half an hour now. The initial battle lust had cooled down as his troops slowly relaxed, like the coils of a spring that had been stretched too far. They had initially been expecting an all out assault across the fords of the Yangtze River. However, immediately upon arrival Stahl had issued dozens of orders, spreading his units out in a three-mile wide circumference around him. Then, they had sat there and waited. Then waited some more. Eventually, all the soldiers began to ease off on the trigger, letting their rifles drop from their shoulders, slowly stretching their shoulders and wiping the sweat off their clammy brows. In all their eyes, Stahl could see a hidden glimmer of disappointment. They had been ready for an all-out war, and what they got was a waiting game.
Stahl suppressed a wry smile, his hand unconsciously flicking a small, dark object within it.
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Likely not a single soul under his command, from his second in command all the way to the rawest recruit pulled straight from boot camp into the maws of hell itself, knew exactly the harrowing ordeal that lay ahead of them.
Of course, Stahl knew. He understood completely what his role would be in the coming night, and he had spent the past few hours preparing himself.
When Stahl had been pulled aside shortly before he had set out with his troops, the General had laid a heavy hand upon his shoulder and uttered a single sentence in his ear. The words were simple, the idea typically uncomplicated, as the General was wont to do.
Its execution would be hell itself.
Glass Plateau, Wei Hao Region. Local Time: 20:04
“Stahl, stand firm,” the General said softly, almost casually, squeezing his shoulder once before dropping something into Stahl’s hand. Without further ado and with one last exchange of looks, Michael Lee spun on his heels and waved a hand over his shoulder, dismissing him.
Stahl had an ominous feeling as soon as he heard the General’s words. However, the moment the General had casually handed him the objects his trembling fist now held in a deathgrip, Stahl’s blood had run cold and his heart had seized within his chest. Wait, how many were there this time? His pulse suddenly became erratic as his fist tightened over the objects and found to his shock that there were actually three.
Three at once! That had never happened before! Amsterdam, Dubai, Alaska - all those had only merited a measly one for each. Even the soul-curdling ordeal in Bohemia Plains had only rated two. Just two, and he’d considered himself fortunate to survive with only 27 stitches, 44 fragments of shrapnel extracted from his flesh, and second degree burns across 24% of his body.
Just what kind of hellhole was the General sending him into this time around? Three? Impossible! How could he possibly overcome such insanity?
Yangtze River, Wei Hao Region. Local Time: 22:25
After barely suppressing a grimace at the unpleasant memory and not for the first time within the last few hours, Stahl wondered if he’d made the right choice in dedicating his life to follow the footsteps of General Michael Lee. It wasn’t that it was an onerous task. Stahl did not mind back-breaking labor, nor did he fear death or torture. By this point in his military career, neither did he care about wealth or fame.
Instead, what prompted Dominik Stahl to constantly question his current course in life was mostly derived from, of all things, a sense of wonder. It was the quiet admiration with which he followed the General’s orders, minutiously studying them and exerting the full power of his impressive intellect and experience. Eventually, he would almost invariably arrive at the same conclusion. They were simple orders, an off-handed stroke from the brush of genius that was Michael Lee. The brilliance would come later, with all the glitter and glory that followed. This was merely a simple, ordinary affair.
How wrong he had been for countless times.
Dominik Stahl was not a vain man at all. He was an uncomplicated man, with simple tastes and few ambitions. Still, standing by the shadow of the General made him completely doubt his own competency at the only two passions that still smoldered deep within his heart. They were both cradled within his hands right at this moment.
His left hand held a SIG327, the standard issue sidearm for United Federation Officers. He could count all the times he’d discharged this weapon in the fingers of one hand. It was a source of quiet pride for him. He had seldom needed to be directly involved in any of his battles. His talents lay in far more important, higher pursuits than personally flinging lead at enemies one by one. He was a born leader and a strategist in the art of war, and this handgun represented his dedication to fulfill both roles.
In this aspect of his life, the General constantly made Stahl feel out of his depth, as though watching a massive peak rising up before him. The consummate strategist and leader that he was, it was his life’s ambition to reach its summit, to conquer its treacherous peaks. However, every time he gained an inch through an agonizing process that involved constantly challenging his own limits, it felt as though he would take a moment to look up and abruptly realized, much to his dismay, that the mountain had just become taller still.
It both infuriated and frustrated him, to the point where he often wished he could just quietly put down his gun, give a nod in appreciation to the titan-made-flesh that was the General, then leisuredly turn around and walk away from it all.
Such moments of doubt and weakness lasted for a mere heartbeat, before being ruthlessly crushed down by the weight of his pride in his craft, and his quiet yet unyielding ambition as a human being.
Dominik Stahl refused to yield, and would never retreat. Not even when it was he himself who was his worst nemesis. After all, the mountain was simply there. It was his own unyielding heart which kept forcing him to throw himself upon those icy peaks.
As for his right hand, it held within it his main passion, and what had been the driving force for much of his life. As the fingers on that hand slowly squeezed, he could feel the worn contours of the object - only one of three such which the General had seen fit to bestow on this occasion - dig comfortably into the skin of the palm of his hand. He rolled it around in his hand one last time, before slowly spreading his fingers open and dropping his gaze to study it once more, as he had already done countless times before.
“Three of them, this time,” he mused to himself, both exultant and deeply troubled.
It was a round stone, black without a single hint of discoloration and about one inch in diameter. Slightly flat on its axis, its smooth surface seemed to absorb the light around it, thereby drawing his gaze even more strongly. Ridiculous, he thought to himself, but he let himself be pulled even deeper into his study of the rock he held. Upon closer study, the surface of the stone seemed to reveal small imperfections and cracks. They ran in snaking veins all across the rock, following invisible patterns that told of many, many years of countless manipulation.
It was at this moment that one of the perimeter alarms he had ordered set out began blinking with a red light. Instantly, a wave of rustling clothes and metallic clicks covered the entire forest around Stahl as eager hands caressed their firearms, ready to coax them into deadly life at a moment’s notice.
Stahl didn’t bother to lift his head from the stone he was watching. He could hear the nervous shuffling of feet from his aide and second in command, Captain Worthy. Of course, the good captain did not utter a single word. He was far too professional, and too much of a battle-proven veteran to commit such a blunder. Still, he was familiar with his superior’s habits, and the more time Colonel Dominik “Ironmask” Stahl spent studying the oddly shaped rock, the harder Captain Worthy found it to suppress the shivers that ran down his spine.
After three minutes of torturous silence, during which three more proximity alerts had begun flashing urgently, not even Captain Worthy could stand it any longer.
“Sir?” came the low whisper, Worthy’s voice hoarse with anticipation. “What is it?”
Stahl did not seem to hear the question, and remained absorbed in the rock he held in his hand, his index and middle fingers rhythmically flipping it over and over within his grasp.
One more minute passed in such a fashion, during which Captain Worthy hardly dared to move his hand to wipe the many drops of sweat that beaded his forehead. He could have cut the tension in the air with a knife. Against his better judgment, he parted his lips to speak out once more when five more proximity alerts came to life, quietly screaming from the display monitor where they were burned into Captain Worthy’s sight.
No sooner had this happened, when Stahl flicked his hand towards the short-wave communication device held by Captain Worthy. “Captain, 1st and 3rd Companies are to engage immediately.”
Captain Arthur Worthy closed his gaping mouth and jumped to obey, rapidly manipulating the radio device’s dials. Although the shortwave radio transmitter was an obsolete antique, heavy as a block of stone and barely capable of sending a signal over 3 miles, its lower frequency waves were mostly unaffected by external factors such as the radiation storm raging above.
“1st and 3rd Companies, open fire upon all hostiles, over,” Captain Worthy called energetically into the radio.
“1st Company, copy and over.”
“3rd Company, copy and over.”
Immediately, a loud rumble of thunder shattered the silence of the night as the eight hundred men in 1st and 3rd Companies opened fire in a coordinated mass volley upon.. Upon what? Proximity alerts could issue an alarm when triggered, but as to what or who had set it off, who knew? Captain Worthy squeezed the radio in his hands hard as sweat began to trickle in small rivulets down his face. He turned his gaze from the darkness beyond his sight, realizing that he would never be able to physically see the enemy 1st and 3rd Companies were engaging. Then how had Colonel Stahl known the exact moment to issue the command? Was he firing as blindly as Captain Worthy himself felt?
Captain Worthy shook his head jerkily, refusing to believe such a ridiculous notion. Surely, his superior had clear intelligence upon which he was basing his strategy. Turning his head in Colonel Stahl’s direction, he let out a resigned sigh and shook his head to himself. But of course, had he really expected anything else?
Colonel Stahl stood impassively in the same spot where he had been resting for the past half hour. Furthermore, his gaze was still entirely absorbed in his study of the oddly shaped stone. More precious seconds trickled by as the rapport of gunfire echoed from the distance. One minute. Two. Five. Just as Captain Worthy was about to crack his teeth in all his helpless gnashing, another proximity alert began to flash.
“Captain Worthy,” came the calm, impassive words. “5th and 6th Companies are to advance and engage all hostiles upon the lower banks of the Yangtze.”
“Sir!” Captain Worthy hastily conveyed the orders. No sooner had received a reply from 5th and 6th Companies, however, when a new set of orders were issued to him.
“2nd Company is to cover 3rd Company’s right flank and suppress any enemy forces seeking to engage from vector 223-6,” came the rapid set of commands.
“Yes sir!” Slightly flustered, Captain Worthy cranked the radio for all he was worth as he transmitted the new set of orders. The night came alive with new sounds of fighting. Low explosions could be heard arcing across the distance, and the loud barking of gunfire began to fill the air, adding to the confusion Captain Worthy felt. That, however, was only the beginning.
“7th Company is to open fire upon hostile targets on sector Bravo. 8th Company is to advance upon enemy fortified position at coordinates 224.221. 10th and 11th Companies are to engage enemies on sector Delta. 1st Company is to withdraw towards the southeast for one klick, then dig into defensive formations upon the rocky pass. 2nd Company is to converge on coordinates 221.223 and rendezvous with 3rd Company, suppressing pursuing enemy units. 4th Company is to..”
It was the beginning of the longest night of Captain Worthy’s life.
Through it all, Colonel Dominik “Ironmask” Stahl kept his unflinching gaze upon the round stone dancing upon his fingers.
“Three stones, is it General? I fear you may have overestimated my abilities,” Stahl murmured to himself, although a wistful smile flashed across his lips, too fast for anyone to notice.
Dominik Stahl was a man of few extremes. Ironmask, they called him. It was because truly nothing seemed to ever shake the man. However, there were two passions which ruled over his life.
One was the contest of wits and ultimately, of wills called war.
The other, he held within his hand.
A rock. Dark, smooth and unadorned, it enticed him and pulled at him with irresistible force.
Ah, the General knew him well indeed.
“Three stones in the Game of Life,” Stahl whispered to no one, and his hand became a fist around the black object held within, trembling with barely suppressed excitement. “Time to earn them.”