“Well, you are certainly not the most damaged recruit I’ve had to patch up,” the base medic said to Mor-oik as he poked at Mor-oik’s face, none too gently. A particularly strong jab with a slab of a finger caused Mor-oik to wince, further compounding the pain. The medic squinted at Mor-oik through his glasses.
“Your facial nerves don’t seem to have been damaged. You’ll heal nicely enough”, Medical Sergeant Koe-pas said in his slow, measured voice. The medical sergeant was a strange Swrun who was a little light on the bedside manner, but he was servicing Swrun military and he knew his stuff. A little matter of bedside manners was not important as a military medic. His job was to patch up those who needed it. “Which is more than I can say for your Sergeant.”
Mor-oik coughed, scrunching his face into an expression of shame as best he could against the bruised flesh. It would be best if they thought he was remorseful about the fight’s outcome. Mor-oik wasn’t. He wasn’t in the slightest.
Koe-pas stepped back from the examination table Mor-oik was sitting on and gave him one last glance over. “I suggest not getting into any fights for at least three weeks. And I’m forbidding excessive physical exertion for three days. You need time to heal.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Mor-oik said as he slid off the table. His sides screamed in protest, but he ignored them. “Same time next week?”
The medic chuckled slightly. Mor-oik had visited the medical wing enough times before his banishment that it had become a point of humor between the two of them. Medical Sergeant Koe-pas was one of the very few Swrun who Mor-oik enjoyed interacting with on the base. The others being the cook and the quartermaster. They were not as bad as the rest of the Swrun on the planet.
That was likely the reason they had been sent out here, Mor-oik mused. They were not wanted in the main army, as they did not fit what was expected of them. They actually cared. A Swrun soldier was to be was not supposed to care. They were to do their job and be done with it.
A knock came on the door. Both Mor-oik and Koe-pas glanced at it in surprise. After a moment of startled silence, Koe-pas walked over and opened the door. Straightening sharply, the Swrun backed up and saluted.
“At ease, Medical Sergeant. I’m only here to check in on the recruit.” Mor-oik felt his bruised face twinge with the expression of shock. His brother Mor-wir stood in the doorway, dressed in his full Captain’s uniform. It fit perfectly, tailor-made to complement the hard muscles and sharp lines of Mor-wir’s body, adding to the grace and terror of his presence. A true Swrun Captain.
“You are dismissed, Sergeant,” Mor-wir said as he walked into the room. With a quick glance at Mor-oik, Koe-pas did as he was told, shutting the door behind him on the way out. Mor-wir walked smoothly across the room, uniform moving like a second skin. Pulling a chair from the side of the room, Mor-wir spun it around and sat reverse across it, resting his arms on the raised back. Closing his eyes, Mor-wir rested his chin on his arms.
Mor-oik stood there, not sure what to do. Mor-wir outranked him by a wide margin and, as the highest ranked officer on the planet, he was technically in charge of everything. But Mor-wir was also his brother. His legs groaned in protest and Mor-oik went to sit back on the table. But he stopped again, still unsure of what to do.
Mor-wir cracked an eyelid. He focused on Mor-oik immediately, beady eye boring into both of Mor-oik’s. It was disconcerting to see. He’d never been that intimidating as a child. Waving a hand, Mor-wir said, “Sit down. I’m your brother, at least behind closed doors. No need to stand on ceremony.”
His tone was friendly, and calm. Mor-oik was suspicious, but gratefully took the chance to sit. Mor-wir shut his eyes again, appearing for all the world to be sleeping. Mor-oik watched him carefully.
“You know, I never would have expected to see that from you,” Mor-wir said abruptly. “You never seemed that violent as a child.” He snorted. “Glad we never got into many fights.”
“Uhh…” Mor-oik was unsure of what to say.
“Looks like the military was good for you. I know it was for me. It’s good to see you apply yourself.”
Mor-oik hesitated again. He had not, in fact, enjoyed his time in the military. He didn’t apply himself beyond what he needed to in order to survive. Mor-wir sighed, evidently noticing Mor-oik’s continued hesitation.
“I’m serious,” he said, his voice rising slightly. “In here, we are not Captain and recruit, superior and inferior. I’m not acting as a Swrun militant, nor will I use anything said in here against you. We are brothers and that is all.”
That was a very strange thing for his brother to say. From what little contact Mor-oik had had with his brother in the last four years, he knew his brother was the consummate soldier at all times. He would never not act as a Captain, or a soldier. Mor-oik could not see why…
Was his brother lonely? Mor-wir was the consummate Swrun soldier. Tough, harsh, obedient. Not exactly the friendliest Swrun even before the military. Really, the only people Mor-wir had opened up to were Mor-oik and his grandfather. Add that to the purely professional and rigid structure of the Swrun military, and that was a recipe for loneliness.
“Alright, alright,” Mor-oik said defensively, putting his hands up. “How’ve you been, brother?”
The corner of Mor-wir’s mouth twitched. “It’s been an interesting time. Much the same as you, I expect.” Mor-oik doubted that very much. He still twisted his bruised face into a semblance of a smile, trying to show his agreement with his brother.
Mor-wir inhaled. It was slight, but Mor-oik could hear the difference in its tone. “I can tell there is something you don’t want to tell me,” Mor-wir stated. “That’s fine. It’s been a while, I guess.”
Mor-oik let out an involuntary chuckle. His brother glanced at him, eyebrow half raised. “A while?” Mor-oik choked incredulously. “It’s been five years since I’ve seen you, Mor-wir. Four years since I’ve heard anything more from you than a token letter once a year.”
Mor-wir didn’t have the good graces to look even slightly remorseful for it. “The Empire needed me. What was I supposed to do?” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
His eyes widening in half shock, half anger, Mor-oik snapped at his brother. “You could have stayed! Grandfather needed you. I needed you! We had just clawed our way out of poverty, and when we were teetering on the knife’s edge, you up and left.” The anger Mor-oik had felt his brother’s abandonment poured out into his speech. Running a shop in the poorest section of Swrun, the Empire’s capital planet and city, was no easy task. It took all the family had to make ends meet. Then Mor-wir had left. “‘The Empire needed you’. The Empire doesn’t mean shit compared to your own family.”
When he had finished, Mor-oik realized that he had stepped forward off the table and was waving his arms violently through the air. He sat back breathing heavily, clutching his ribs in pain. Realizing he had likely gone too far, Mor-oik watched Mor-wir’s face intently for any sign that a line had been crossed.
There was a silence in the room, a heavy silence that Mor-oik could feel, pressing down on him. It grew longer and deeper as Mor-wir simply looked at Mor-oik, his face betraying nothing of the emotions beneath it.
“Oik,” Mor-wir began slowly. With that single word, Mor-oik knew how much he had upset his brother. Swrun names were a simple construction for the vast majority of the population–nobles and elites providing the exception–, merely combining the family name, or the name of the father, and the given name of the individual. Mor-oik’s name meant he was Oik of the family Mor. Only those close to the individual would even think of using simply the given name in conversation. Oftentimes, even lovers did not refer to each other by their given names.
If his brother was calling him by his given name, this was very bad.
“Oik, I am going to pretend that you did not just profane the Empire, and that you did not insinuate that the Empire, the greatest marvel of the Age, was worth less than a few lives of poor, valueless Swrun.” Mor-wir’s face and voice were unchanged, still in the laid back, relaxed manner with which he had been speaking previously. “The truth of it is that I needed out, and the Army gave me that chance. Here, I feel like I belong. Here, I make a difference.”
“Did you even think about us? Or was the Empire all you thought about?”
Mor-wi leaned forward. “Oik, who do you think got you drafted? Some random lottery? We haven’t used those for centuries. I told them to. I knew you would make a good soldier. They agreed. We are brothers, after all.
“And once you finish your training, you will be assigned to my old unit. You’ll do as I did, and become the best Swrun you can be.”
The way his brother spoke with firm, assured tones bothered Mor-oik, though he didn’t know what his brother was saying. He had stopped listening when he learned Mor-wir had had him drafted. The last two months, full of torture, pain, and misery, all of it was because of his brother. Had Mor-wir not said anything, Mor-oik would be back with his grandfather, running the store and maybe even working up the courage to talk to that girl who always came in for sugar and kynyn.
Slowly, his mind caught up to what his ears were hearing and he began to grow angry. Mor-wir had blatantly assumed control of Mor-oik’s life, dictating what his choices were and which he was going to choose. All this because that was what had worked for him. Naturally, what worked for Mor-wir would have to work for Mor-oik as well. They were brothers after all. That’s how Mor-wir saw the world.
Everything was black and white for him. Mor-wir’s universe had no room for gray or even varying shades of black and white. Mor-wir saw the universe as the Empire wanted him to. There was right, and there was wrong. There was the Empire, and there was everything else. There was duty, and there was family.
“No.”
A look of disbelief flickered across Mor-wir’s face before he returned it to its flat state. “No?” he asked in a tone that suggested he was not used to hearing the word.
“No. I will pick my own path, Mor-wir. You cannot choose for me. I am my own being.”
Mor-wir laughed. His head fell back and his body rolled with the force of the laughter billowing from his chest. He laughed and laughed until he had to wipe tears from his eyes. “Oh,” he said, gasping for breath, “oh, that’s funny. You think you have a choice.” The laughter and mirth vanished, so quickly that Mor-oik was not convinced they had been there in the first place.
“You are property. You became property the moment you were born into the Swrun Empire. No one has any say, no one has a choice. Should I, or any higher rank, decide to kill you right now, no one would care. If I was killed, no one would care. If the generals were killed, no one cares. No one matters in the Empire, Mor-oik. There is just the Empire and the Emperor.”
With that final statement, Mor-oik knew the brother he had grown up with, had survived with, was gone. Mor-wir had been replaced by this soulless automaton who wore his skin. The revelation fully cemented Mor-oik’s thought that he had to get away. He had to join the Rebellion and bring down the monstrosity of a system that could take a Swrun and mangle him up so badly that his own brother couldn’t recognize him.
Mor-oik slid off the table and stood to attention. He had had enough of this. “I ask to be dismissed, sir.”
With a cool gaze, Mor-wir appraised him for a moment. Nodding curtly, the Swrun Captain said, “You are dismissed, recruit.”
Moving as briskly as his battered body would allow, Mor-oik exited the examination room. He moved quickly and purposefully down the hallway, waiting until he had rounded the corner to let out a gasping sob. Glancing around, he made sure no one had witnessed it. It would not do for them to see the returned Exile as weak.
Having given into his helpless anger and sorrow, Mor-oik collected himself again. His brother was lost. At least for the time being. He would have to ignore him and focus on the mission. Get the Rebels into the camp and onto a ship. Mor-oik could worry about his brother later. He had to. As he was walking away, Mor-oik realized he hadn’t discovery the reason for Mor-wir’s visit here. It was too late to ask, now. No matter. His brother couldn’t play too big a role in the events to come.
By force of habit, Mor-oik’s legs took him to his old barracks, one of the twenty squat, repugnant buildings that served as housing for the recruits. It was only as he lifted his hand to open the door that Mor-oik realized he didn’t actually know where he was supposed to be sleeping. Surely that had changed the assignments by now. After all, no one returned from the Waste.
The door opened before he had the chance to turn away and Mor-oik found himself staring at the chest of a heavily muscled Swrun who would put Kri-lul to shame. Mor-oik always disliked being small, but sometimes he really disliked being small. Usually when he might need to use force. Unfortunately, that had been the whole of his experience in the military.
“Crwar!” the big Swrun swore. “You’re Mor-oik! Come in, we’ve got your bunk ready.”
Before he could protest, Mor-oik was yanked into the barracks by his arm and led to his old bunk. Surprisingly, it was the same as he had left it. His spare clothes and few personal items were still there. “Did no one get my bunk?” he asked.
“No one wanted it. And no one took it,” explained a slender Swrun sitting on the next bunk over. “But now that you’re back, you can have it again.”
“Thanks,” Mor-oik replied. Lowering himself to the bed with a groan, Mor-oik flipped his legs up and lay back on the pillow. Before his Banishment, this bed had been the most uncomfortable thing Mor-oik had ever slept on. Now, it was like sleeping on a cloud.
Not a moment after closing his eyes, Mor-oik became aware of someone watching him. Many a someone. He cracked an eyelid to see what was likely most of the barracks watching him. he sighed. It looked like he wasn’t going to get out of this one.
“Look,” he said, without getting up, “let’s get something straight. Yes, I am Mor-oik. Yes, I lived in the Waste for a month. Yes, I did just best Drill Sergeant Kri-lul in the Ring. No, I am not here to do anything other than finish my term of service. Good night.”
With that, he rolled over and tried to ignore the scores of eyes boring into his back. Muffled whispering filled the air as the recruits descended into chatter around him. He groaned and pulled the pillow over his ears.
“Sir,” a hesitant voice sounded near his head. Sir? That was a new one. Resigning himself to the fact that this was going to be a long night, Mor-oik lifted the pillow and his upper body, pushing himself into a sitting position on the side of the bed. The slender Swrun standing near it scurried back quickly.
“I’m no sir,” Mor-oik explained, suppressing a wince as the blood returned to his swollen flesh. “And I’ll hit the next person to call me that.” Mor-oik was not going to be associated with those who had put him in here, with his brother. Several of the recruits visibly gulped.
Mor-oik almost dismissed it before realizing the implications. They…were afraid of him? That was almost too much to believe. But he could see it in the way they moved and how some–admittedly the smaller, weaker ones–flinched when he looked at them. Was this how I was? he asked himself. Surely not.
“I–that is to say, we would like to hear about the Waste, if it’s not too much trouble.” Mor-oik had to stop himself from staring at the Swrun. Were they children?
Mor-oik chuckled at the ridiculousness of it. Swrun recruits–some of which he would have been scared of a scarce month ago–were acting like he was a figure of authority. He decided he would oblige the recruits. There were several hours to kill before he had to meet Juiwa and the others outside of the wall anyway.
“Well,” he began. The recruits leaned in close to listen.
“This was a mistake,” Juiwa muttered. He kept his voice low, and spoke slower than normal to prevent the sounds from being distinct in the night air.
“Hush,” Vyena replied, her voice equally quiet and slow. “He has time yet.”
They were crouched at the very edge of the wall surrounding the Swrun camp, waiting outside the Waste side gate. It was the dead of night, perhaps three hours past midnight, the darkest time of night. Even the moon was gone from the sky, other than a slender sliver, casting no light on the open plains. The perfect night for sneaking about.
It was nearing the appointed time that Mor-oik was to appear at the gate and give the Bandits access to the camp. From there, it was a straight shot to the ships at the north side of the camp. Presuming Mor-oik was telling the truth. Fire burned, meat tasted good, and Swrun were not to be trusted.
Juiwa did have to admit that Mor-oik was not remotely similar to the other Swrun Juiwa had known, but that only got him so far. Vyena trusted Mor-oik and Juiwa trusted her, but that only meant Juiwa half trusted Mor-oik.
It had been a difficult month, trying to train Mor-oik so he could return to his barbaric Swrun camp. The small, underweight Swrun had been woefully untrained and physically unprepared for any life of hardship. Juiwa had expected him to crumble at the first sign of difficulty, but he had not.
Rather, he had been the most stubborn being Juiwa had ever encountered. Even more so than Clint Stone. Mor-oik had refused to stop. Even under intense physical duress and pain, the Swrun kept going. Juiwa thought he might have walked through fire and just willed it to not burn. Juiwa gave him a grudging respect for that.
Due to the Swrun’s stubbornness, they had managed to train him in half the time they had thought they would have needed. When actually trained and not abused–such as Mor-oik had described his training–he excelled enormously. Juiwa would like to have an army of beings like him. Not Swrun. You couldn’t trust a Swrun.
The gate creaked. Juiwa pulled himself out of the half awareness he had placed his mind in–a common tactic he employed while on long stakeouts–and alerted the others. Their senses not being what Juiwa’s were, they were startled at his sudden movements. Placing a finger over his mouth, he motioned to the others to stay where they were while he crept forward to the gate. It was very likely Mor-oik, as it was the appointed time, but Juiwa was cautious. It had kept him alive thus far.
The gate slid open, rusted hinges squealing. Juiwa silently cursed at Mor-oik for not oiling them. When one crept about in the night, especially around an enemy encampment, one took every step to be undetected. The familiar shape of Mor-oik filled the doorway, short body layered with decent muscle.
Juiwa stood to his full height and stepped in front of Mor-oik. “Was there a soldier on the west end who didn’t hear you?” Juiwa hissed quietly, voice just above a whisper. The Swrun turned toward Juiwa and jumped. When the sparse moonlight hit the Swrun’s face, Juiwa saw the gleam of tusks.
Tusks. Mor-oik only had one. Before the Swrun had a chance to react beyond jumping, Juiwa leapt forward and clamped his hand hard over the Swrun’s snout. With the other hand, he drew a knife from his waist and pressed it to the Swrun’s throat as Juiwa drove him backwards into the wall. He did all of this quickly enough that the other Bandits didn’t notice anything wrong until the Swrun slid to the ground, dazed and likely concussed.
Juiwa dropped with him, knife still held to the Swrun’s throat. He drew back a few inches seeking enough leverage to drive the knife through the Swrun’s windpipe. He was stopped by a hand on his arm. Assuming it to be another Swrun, Juiwa turned and slashed before pulling up short of cutting Kryl’s face.
“Wait a moment. He could be useful,” the Bonasi whispered. Juiwa considered for a moment. At the very least, it might be good to get a second view on the inside of the camp. Besides, there wasn’t anyone saying Juiwa couldn’t kill him later. Juiwa nodded in agreement, pulling his knife back.
Vyena came over from her position in the gate’s shadow. “Who’s this?” she asked. Juiwa shrugged.
“Watch the door,” he ordered Kryl. Heaving the Swrun to his feet, Juiwa kept his hand clamped down on his snout and the knife at his side. A wordless but effective warning of silence. Moving an appropriate distance away from the gate, Juiwa set the Swrun down carelessly. Still groggy from having his head cracked against the wall, the gray skinned soldier responded slowly.
He perked up a bit when Juiwa cut a small slice in his cheek. His eyes widening, the Swrun backed away from the knife, forcing himself into a sitting position against the wall. Juiwa pressed the knife, sharpened to a razor edge and needle point, against the Swrun’s stomach.
“I’m going to remove my hand,” Juiwa hissed at the Swrun. “Should you make a noise, this knife is going to be introduced to various parts of your anatomy that knives were not meant to be introduced to. Am I clear?”
The Swrun nodded, wide eyed. Juiwa slowly removed his hand, poking the Swrun as a silent reminder.
Vyena squatted next to Juiwa. She looked at the Swrun, eyes narrowed. “We’re going to ask you a few questions. It would be best if you answered them truthfully. See,” she menaced as she pulled out her own knife, “This here is a rather special knife. It can tell when you are lying.”
Juiwa could see the skepticism in the Swrun’s eyes. He could not blame him. No knife could know if you were lying or not. But the wielder could, and that was all that mattered. Vyena possessed a rare talent in reading body language and unspoken communication and she used that to her advantage more than Juiwa cared for. It was difficult to argue with her.
“Let’s begin with something simple. You are a recruit in this camp, are you not?”
“Yes.” Juiwa assumed he was telling the truth. There was nothing he could gain from telling that lie.
“As a recruit, who is primarily in charge of your training? Give me a name.”
The Swrun’s eyebrows narrowed. He was deciding whether or not a lie was needed here. Juiwa had interrogated his fair share in the past. Quick and crude field questioning was nowhere as reliable as a facility quality questioning–pain infliction not being nearly as an effective method as worming your way into a prisoner’s psyche–, but one had to make do with the resources on hand.
“Drill Sergeant Wyr-pol.” It was an appropriate time to lie, Juiwa assumed. Having been on the opposite side of interrogations, Juiwa knew the game that was played. The Swrun would be trying to assess what exactly they knew and if they could detect a lie. Of course, in this situation, the Swrun likely assumed they didn’t know anything about the camp. Where would they have gotten their information? But the Swrun assumed wrong.
Despite having his knife to the Swrun’s ribs, Juiwa let Vyena hand out the punishment for lying. She did so by sticking her knife in the Swrun’s hand, in between the last two bones, pushing the blade through the palm. Juiwa quickly reached out and clamped the Swrun’s mouth closed before anything other than a faint groan could escape.
Vyena yanked the knife out roughly, lowly threatening, “It’ll hurt a lot more if you lie to me again. Who is in charge of your training?”
“D-drill Sergeant Kri-lul,” the Swrun whimpered. Juiwa narrowed his eyes with contemp. That had been nothing. A little scratch. And the Swrun was letting it affect him. The Army must have been scraping the bottom of the barrel for this one.
“Good,” Vyena said pleasantly, reaching out to pat the Swrun on the cheek. “See, that wasn’t so bad.”
Juiwa had to hide his smile. She was a master at punishment and reward. Hurt them when they lied, reward them when they told the truth. Tried and true method.
Vyena continued to ask questions about the camp, general questions designed to obscure what she was really after. How many Swrun were inside, what exactly did they do here, how many ships, the layout of the various buildings and their functions. All of these things they knew from Mor-oik and so Vyena would know if the Swrun was lying. He only lied once more.
Juiwa glanced at his wrist and noticed it was five minutes past the time Mor-oik was assigned to meet them. It was likely something had gone wrong. That this Swrun had been on patrol, watching the gate was a very strange occurrence according to Mor-oik and so it was either a very big coincidence–which Juiwa did not put his faith in–or there was something wrong. Juiwa always prepared for the worst.
Motioning behind his back for Vyena to get to the point, Juiwa glanced around, surveying possible dangers. He could not see any. That made him uneasy. Rarely was there nothing wrong.
He signaled to the other three Bandits to keep a close eye on things and returned his focus to the Swrun. Vyena was currently caressing his shoulder in reward for telling her the exact positions of the water basins.
“What were you doing outside the wall? No one ever comes out here.”
The Swrun licked his lips. “We’ve been assigned to patrol extra duties by the Captain. He says we had to watch every entrance.”
Juiwa raised an eyebrow at Vyena. Mor-oik hadn’t mentioned any Captain. But the Swrun did not appear to be lying.
“Captain who?”
“Captain Mor-wir. Funny, he shows up then his brother returns from the Waste.” The Swrun shrugged. At that moment, the gate swung open again. This time, whoever was opening it propped it up as they swung it, relieving the pressure on the hinges. This resulted in a much quieter squeal that the one before. It was the best way to open a rusted door quietly with short notice.
Before the gate had fully opened, Juiwa slipped over, crossing the intermediate distance like a shadow over the grass. Holding his knife ready for any enemies, he watched the emerging figure with intent. “Juiwa?” the figure called out softly. “Vyena?”
That was good enough for Juiwa. “Here,” he replied. Mor-oik scanned the area for him, moving his head side to side. Juiwa was very tempted to poke him, but he deactivated his chameleon suit instead. Mor-oik still jumped at–to his eyes–Juiwa’s sudden appearance.
“You’re late,” Juiwa accused Mor-oik.
“Sorry,” the Swrun whispered back. “There were…complications.”
“Oh, you mean the fact that your brother is a Swrun Captain and is currently in the camp?”
“How’d you–” the immobile form of the captive Swrun answered his question. “That’s not going to be an issue. But we do need to hurry.”
Juiwa nodded in agreement. It had been far too long on this planet. Any more time spent here would be a waste. As the last month had been. Juiwa wondered what the Bandits could have gotten around to while he had been gone. Hopefully no one had died.
“There are increased guard patrols, so it will be difficult to get through.”
With a brief command, Juiwa activated his chameleon suit and became one with the night. “I’ll handle any difficulties.” Fire burned, meat tasted good, and Juiwa was silent.
Gliding over to Vyena and the captive Swrun, he patted Vyena on the shoulder. “We’re done here. Time to go.”
“Wait a moment,” she said. “If the camp is in heightened alert, it would not be a bad thing for Mor-oik to have protection in case of any trouble.”
She rummaged in her pack and pulled out the spare IPDM suit that was the whole reason for their being on this planet, or even in this sector of space. She held it out to Mor-oik. “Put this on.”
He looked at it skeptically. “I already have a uniform.”
Vyena sighed, in that way she did when someone said something she found foolish. It was usually directed at Juiwa. “This is made from specialized fabric that will allow you to survive being shot by a plasma bolt. About fifty, if memory serves.”
“…That might come in handy,” Mor-oik admitted. He accepted the suit without a further word and dressed quickly.
“Take this, too,” Pooi said, handing him the captive Swrun’s rifle.
“What about him?” Wees nodded at the captive Swrun, who was still propped up against the wall, his bleeding hand clutched to his stomach. Without a word, Juiwa slipped his knife out and buried it in the Swrun’s chest before he could react. He impacted just under the Swrun’s chest bone and drove upwards, severing the connection between the lungs and throat. If he had no air, he couldn’t shout an alarm.
Over his shoulder, he heard Mor-oik gasp. Wiping his blade on the dead Swrun’s uniform, Juiwa stood facing the gate. As he walked by the living Swrun, Juiwa placed a hand in the smaller being’s shoulder. “This is war, Mor-oik, and he was the enemy. We kill them or they kill us.”
Without any more words, Juiwa led the way into the camp.
Mor-oik marveled at the way Juiwa moved through the darkness. At times, he was nothing more than a shadow, flitting between cover, building overhang to rock outcropping to signpost. Even at his most visible, all that could be seen of the Guen was a vague outline of an indistinct being that vanished as quickly as it appeared. The rest of the Bandits managed passably well, but they were like fledgling ijen trying to outpace a mature hunter. They could not compare.
Still, they snuck past the Swrun sentries well enough. Despite having been told to be on extra high guard and having the number of sentries doubled, they did not see a reason to be on such high alert and so they performed their duties as usual. And twice as many sentries did not mean twice as much ground covered. It meant twice as many sentries taking the same, trodden paths worn into the dirt and concrete from the countless feet that had passed over. It was fortunate that this was a recruit camp. Had this been an actual camp, with trained soldiers, likely only Juiwa would have gotten past unseen.
But in short time they found themselves at the entrance to the shipyard, meager though it was. There were simply three scout ships, a troop transport, and a ship Mor-oik did not recognize that he assumed was his brother’s. The only issue was that the entrance was a hundred feet from the nearest cover. Ahead, Juiwa motioned for the rest of them to stay where they were. Mor-oik watched as he crept forward, completely without cover other than his color shifting suit.
With his incredible skill, Juiwa traversed the open yard in what seemed like moments. Pausing a moment on the other side, he turned around and waved. Wees crept forward across the yard. Mor-oik scanned the edges of the yard, watching for any sentries. He couldn’t see any. It seemed they could pull this off.
Lights flooded the yard.
“Halt!” a voice boomed from the far side of the yard. A voice that sounded far too familiar. Mor-oik was not surprised to see his brother marching into the pool of light, flanked by a dozen Swrun soldiers. They were not recruits, but fully trained Swrun warriors, each of whom was carrying a rifle pointed at the Rebels.
Each of the Bandits froze. Mor-oik could see the thoughts warring across their minds. They were so close to freedom, should they make a break for it or surrender? Both carried the possibility of death. Mor-oik made the choice for them.
“Go!” he shouted, jumping out from his cover, firing wildly at the advancing soldiers. “Run!”
For a second, no one moved. Both the Rebels and the Swrun were startled by Mor-oik’s sudden mad rush. The Rebels recovered first. Firing their own shots at the soldiers, they dashed across the yard. Out of the corner of his eye, Mor-oik could see Juiwa crouch and begin to place careful, precise shots into the attacking Swrun.
Having given the distraction that he meant to, Mor-oik turned and ran across the yard after the Rebels, firing back over his shoulder. He felt several blooms of heat across his back and legs, but the suit Vyena had given had done its job. It was an incredible piece of equipment. Plasma had always been used in combat because of its devastating effect in flesh and materials, but it seems the Rebels had managed to overcome that. It could not be overstated how much of an advantage these suits would give in battle.
“Mor-oik, you traitorous bastard! I will kill you and hang you skull from my belt!” his brother roared. Several more unintelligible words followed, but Mor-oik could hear the rage in them. His brother always did have the temper in the family. Mor-wir clearly felt betrayed that his brother had chosen a cause other than his own, brainwashing Empire. Mor-oik would have his brother see reason, but it would have to wait. Right now, surviving and escaping the planet was much more important.
Despite having shorter legs than the others, Mor-oik managed to catch up to the Rebels, who had passed under the entrance to the ship yard and had angled towards the nearest ship. Mor-oik had explained the Swrun method of passlocking and so Juiwa was already at the ship, punching in numbers.
Turning his head, Mor-oik could see his brother at the head of dozens of soldiers and recruits, carrying a rifle of his own. Skidding to a stop by Juiwa, Mor-oik turned with the rest of the Rebels and concentrated his plasma shots at the mob. While nowhere as good a shot as the Rebels, he still made a decent impact. Behind them, Juiwa swore.
“It’s not working,” he shouted, before he sprinted to the next ship. Several plasma shots hit Mor-oik as he turned to look, but none struck his head, the only area unprotected by the suits. The Rebels all glanced at each other before Vyena yelled at them.
“Get moving then!”
They didn’t have to be told twice. They progressed in an orderly fashion back to the next ship, in groups. Two would fall back a ways, the other three covering them. Then the back pair would lay suppressive fire while the front three retreated beyond them.
Mor-oik found himself with Vyena as the back pair. The Swrun recruits had made it close, but as they did not have IPDM suits, they did not have the same low disregard for personal safety that the Rebels had. The result of that was two lightly armed beings could hold off nearly fifty attacking enemies. But the Swrun had an effectively limitless supply, as more and more of the recruits joined the battle. Mor-oik recognized one of the Swrun, the big one from his barracks, just as Mor-oik’s plasma bolt took him in the forehead.
Beyond the sheer difference in numbers, Mor-oik could feel the suit he was wearing heating up, some parts of it nearly burning his skin. From what Vyena said, it would not last much longer. Mor-oik didn’t know if that meant the suit would just stop working or if it would release off its stored energy, but he had no desire to find out either way.
“I’ve got it!” shouted Pooi. She must have gotten the lock opened. Freedom was inches away.
“You ready for this?” Vyena asked without taking her eyes off the attacking Swrun, panting from exertion and the heat she was assuredly feeling. Mor-oik nodded.
“Let’s get the hell off this planet.”
As one, they turned and sprinted toward the ship. The door was open, the rest of the Rebels having already boarded. Pooi and Kryl stood in the doorway, giving Mor-oik and Vyena cover as they ran.
The blood pounded in Mor-oik’s ears as he ran. His tired, battered body screamed at him, but he ignored it, pushing the pain down into the bottom of his mind. Freedom was merely a dozen yards away. He faintly heard a shriek, but he ignored it as he hurtled into the open ship door. Rebounding off the metal wall, Mor-oik spun to see if Vyena had made it.
She hadn’t.
Instead, she lay on the ground, screaming in agony. That had been the noise Mor-oik had heard. The source of her pain was not immediately evident to him, but as she rolled, he saw her left leg smoking. It was a black, thick smoke, pouring from the hole burned in her leg. Her suit had been overloaded by the plasma fire and now it was discharging all of its energy into the breach.
Mor-wir stood over her. He silenced her screams by slamming his rifle into her head. Whether Vyena was dead or simply unconscious, Mor-oik could not tell. Smoke still rose from her leg.
“It seems we’re at a bit of a standoff,” the Captain shouted towards the ship. “I would much prefer you not leave, and I would guess you would much prefer I not shoot your friend in the face.” He pressed the barrel of his rifle into Vyena’s cheek, emphasizing his point. “I propose a compromise. I will let your friend go if you give me Mor-oik.”
The ship was silent. Mor-oik could feel the weight of attention being given him. He could not read minds, but he knew what the others were thinking. Before anyone else could say anything, Mor-oik stepped forward. “Alright!” he called out. “But do you swear the rest will go free?”
“I swear it in the name of the Emperor, long may he live. So long as they leave and do not return, I shall not harm them on this planet.” The venom and glee dripped from Mor-wir’s voice. Here was Mor-oik, giving himself up. Concrete evidence that the Empire had won and Mor-wir was right.
Juiwa placed a hand on Mor-oik’s shoulder. His mouth moved like he was going to say something, but he did not. Instead, he simply looked Mor-oik in the eye, something he had never done before, and nodded. More passed between them than any words could say.
Stepping out into the open, Mor-oik raised his hands and walked towards Mor-wir. In that long walk across the yard, he resigned himself to his fate. In truth, it was a better one than he could have expected the last time he was in this camp. Before he would have been lucky to become a soldier and die on a forgotten field somewhere in a battle that had no meaning. Mor-oik did not hold false assumptions about his skill as a Swrun soldier. He would not have survived, not with the training the Swrun had given him.
In all likelihood, he would have died in training. For some reason, he just rubbed his instructors the wrong way. Perhaps it was the way he refused to grovel before their inflated self importance, or how he dared to think for himself. Kri-lul had even sent him out to die. But Mor-oik had survived and shown him what he could do.
This way, he was ensuring that the Rebellion got some of its best fighters back, and that his death would mean something. These Rebels had become the closest thing he had to friends for many years. After what felt like an hour, Mor-oik found himself standing before his brother, Vyena lying on the ground between them. He was pleased to see she was still breathing. Her leg looked terrible.
A hole the size of his fist was punched through the meatiest part of her thigh. The black smoke still poured from her leg, and he could see the flesh disintegrating from the heat as he watched. She would likely lose the leg.
“She’ll need some help getting back to the ship,” Mor-oik told his brother. “Unless you want me to take her.”