Warrior Master Grel Sturmdri was frustrated, but confident. The primitives had violated the space and ground of Desyiv, dropping meager formations of what they think is ‘armies’. His chief had gave him the task of wiping out the primitives holding a tribute village, by any means necessary.
At the back of his mind, he wondered to what extent the mighty clans of the dracus had to be so crippled with incompetence, that the primitives even made it here. Being rather high in the social order, by mixture of birthright and unfortunate elimination of his direct superiors, he has owned many slaves, quite a few of them primitives. They didn’t seem like a warrior race, they were tiny, meek and subdued. They showed weakness in the company of other slaves, sharing food rather than letting the weakest starve. From what he heard of their ‘Alliance’, free primitives were no better. They wasted resources on pathetic trinkets of ‘culture’, rushed to aid the dead weight of society, and spent their time dangling over the cliffside of space.
Their fleets and armies, for all they brag about them, was tiny compared to the dracus hoard. They even allowed their females to play at war, instead of keeping them for breeding like a sane people. Most aliens deluded themselves in the dogma of democracy, but the primitives took it a step further. Can’t they see that decisions are made by those who earn their thrones, and the masses are a tool to be directed, and nothing more?
But, for all their apparent weakness, they and their alien masters completely wiped out the force that was to bring them under heel one and for all. Sturmdri was, in a way, thankful to them for that. Obviously, whoever was leading warriors in that mess of an invasion wasn’t needed anymore by the Hierarchy, and being slain by primitives was the only fate worthy for them. Only the strongest, the smartest and the most cunning can be allowed to survive.
But now, they had the gall to try a capture a dracus world, especially one belonging to Clan Stagnish, the largest and most brutal of all? They must want death if they set themselves such a futile goal. And as far as he can tell, they had executed their goal woefully. They didn’t concentrate their troops on valuable targets, instead taking towns and villages, the occasional city having some strategic value. The forces they landed with was nowhere near enough, a mere tenth of what was estimated to force a stalemate. The Desyiv garrison warplanes still held almost the entire sky. Most of all, they weren’t even doing anything, letting themselves stay trapped inside their landing zones.
Sturmdri stared down his opponent, a {few hundred metres} away. What they called a ‘regiment’ of marines, holding a battered old village for dear life. To give them credit, what they lacked in courage or willingness to take losses, they partly made up for in cold-blooded logic. The labour of his primitive slaves could be divided into two categories – the lazy, haphazard work of passive aggressive slaves that were yet to be broken, and their true capabilities, admittedly ingenious architecture, born from enough days of beating. Their defense of the village stank of the second category. Within {hours} of landing, before he could arrive with his men, the primitives put together a fortress.
Their tiny numbers was distributed through fortifications that put any who advanced towards them inside killing zones. He had ordered no less than five charges, each one being cut to shreds by their guns. Sniper towers, bags of sand, even holes in the ground helped give them more protection and his warriors less. The ground surrounding the village was now littered with craters from exploded mines, and if the last wave was to be believed, there was still a lot more yet to go off. Razor wire – little coils of wire spread across the perimeter of the village – stopped whole charges dead, easy pickings for the marines. Even tanks did little, soon destroyed by either handheld weapons or one of the few AT-guns they positioned around the line. The last surge of the most recent wave very nearly reached them, but was quickly decimated by artillery fire. The ground on which they fell was covered in body parts, stained with dracus blood.
But, with every charge, the primitives weakened, tired, a few of them being killed or wounded. Sturmdri could still count on massive reserves, his enemy had none. If by nothing else than starving to death, the primitives desecrating this village will fall. Some he’ll hang as an example to the others, some he’ll send as tribute to his chief, the rest he’ll keep for himself. Maybe, after he has proven his capabilities, he’ll be given a chance to bring death back to the primitive space, make a name for himself. One day, he might even become more powerful than his current chief…
“Master, we are receiving reports of a primitive invasion!”
His comm operator spook with fear in his voice, but it was usually fear of his superior. There was nothing written in the Commandments of War that forbade killing between members of the chain of command. Neither enlisted that can earn their place or officers that can watch their backs were tolerated. In fact, part of Sturmdri wanted to kill this whelp that wasted breath speaking of the obvious.
Before he was able to draw his blade, the operator spoke again. “I mean of a second invasion, a much larger one!”
Letting this one live for at least a little longer, Sturmdri probed him for more information. “What, reinforcements for those that’ve already arrived?”
“No, Master, reports say they are landing in new positions, near to command centres and supply depots! They strike where we are weakest! Contact with Chief Stenhil has been lost!”
What in the fires of deep Dreknai were the primitives doing?!
Lieutenant Colonel Sam Park was elated with the recent events. All dracus forces planet-wide had engaged with one human pocket or another, pushing their best and most well-equiped troops to the front. That in itself would be very bad news, if it wasn’t for the encirclement wave to finally make it ground-side, landing where it hurt hardest for the dracus. Even now, she could hear the guns getting quieter, as dracus troops desperately fall back to face the new enemy.
At the edge of her hearing, she could hear a Catatumbo CAS gunship peppering some poor souls with every cannon and minigun in it’s hull. For something so slow to be gliding over it’s target at such a low altitude implies the dracus air support is now nonexistent, and her holomap agreed with her deductions, showing all nearby airbases to be thoroughly dismantled.
“Tea, Ma’am?”
Sergeant Wood was standing next to her, a sealed flask in his hand. She accepted gratefully and took a sip, the hot drink burned her throat but soothed her soul.
“Thank you Sergeant. Now go get some rest, you look like shit.”
The junior officer, his suit covered in mud, grinned at that observation, and fired a lazy, but friendly, salute. “Yes, Ma’am.”
Most of the dracus that was surrounding her regiment was now either dead or focused on the encirclement wave, and fresh marines landed in the village to both relieve the Saturn 41st and break out and trap some dracus. Brigadier Stewart was leading the charge in this corner of the planet, and reported she was to soon receive prisoners of war. Not the most glamorous of duties, but a nice break from holding off the dracus war machine on her own.
Grel Sturmdri was furious. Furious at his warriors didn’t fight hard enough, furious at himself for actually trusting in their abilities, but most of all, furious at the primitives that was making him march in chains like a slave. Their faceless forms watched over every move of his captured hoard, funneling them into the village they were supposed to take by force like farm animals, trotting to the slaughterhouse. This isn’t what was supposed to happen!
The worst thing, though, is that he was grateful. The last few {hours}, his world was nothing but missiles from the sky raining death on his command. The ground was constantly shaking, only stopping once the primitives rolled into their positions, their tanks carrying on the bombardment. Some tanks had flamethrowers, hurling what felt like lava across the line, burning troops alive. And finally, the infantry marched in, demanding surrender and gunning down anyone who refused.
“Halt!” Commanded the primitive leading the prisoners. They had made it to the village square. “Prisoners will turn right in file, right turn!”
The prisoners, obediently, turned right, to face the village hall. There was a number of primitives standing in front of them, unarmed, but stood tall (by their standards) and with confidence, having an air of command to them, as evidenced by the pips on the shoulders of their suits.
One of them (one that had humps on it’s chest, obviously the mammary glands of a female) took a step forward. “Who is the commander of this unit?”
Sturmdri stepped forward from the line of prisoners. “That would be me.”
The primitive faced him, and walked towards him, double-checking that her troops had enough guns on him to take him down quickly. “I am Lieutenant Colonel Park, I run this fine regiment.” Her troops cheered at her declaration. “As of now, until you are told otherwise, I am your Commanding Officer. You and your men will be kept in this square, under guard, until you can be moved to a more permanent camp, in which you will stay for the remainder of hostilities. It is your job to keep the peace between your men until that time. Do we understand each other?”
Sturmdri couldn’t help but snarl at the primitive. “I do not take orders from primitive females.”
The primitive balled her fists, but managed to control herself enough to bellow a command. “Private Burnside! Put this guy on the floor!”
Quick as a whip, another primitive, wielding a rifle, jogged to behind Sturmdri, and kicked him in the back of the leg. He didn’t have the muscle of a dracus, but he was a fit specimen of humanity, augmented by gene therapy and servo-moters in his suit, and the blow was enough to put Sturmdri on his knees.
Knowing that fighting back would only get him shot, Sturmdri looked up at the female, her glare somehow breaking through the visor and carving into his eyes. “Your kind thought it could enslave mine, and now we stand on your most precious worlds, as conquerors. You are still alive only because we still have mercy to give, and it is running out fast. If you or any of your men move out of line, we have a problem. And if we have a problem, you have a problem. Talk back once more, and I’ll put you down like a dog. Are we clear?”
Sturmdri’s sense of self-preservation won out against his sense of loathing at the primitive. “…yes.”
“The correct answer is ‘Yes, Colonel.'”
Sturmdri, still on his knees, looked down in shame, feeling the eyes of both the primitives and his men. “Yes, Colonel.”
What has the Galaxy came to, when humans are Masters over dracus?