The ground shook beneath Sika-dur’s new bulk. His armored feet sank into the dirt, leaving a trail behind him, stretching back to the burned village. They did not have the information he had needed. Sika-dur felt dull coals of rage in his chest. Clint Stone had managed to cover his tracks far too well. Two weeks in the field, and Sika-dur was no closer to finding the human than when he had started. But he would find the human. If he had to burn planets to ash, he would find Clint Stone.
“Sir!” A Stonebreaker stood to attention in front of Sika-dur as he walked. “A message from the Emperor!”
Sika-dur paused. It had been a month since he had heard from the Emperor, a month since he had been authorized to create the Stonebreakers and hunt down Clint Stone and his Bandits. The scientist Sika-dur had found floating adrift had taken two weeks to convert the men Sika-dur needed into an army of terror. Sika-dur had himself undergone the procedure, leaving him even more formidable than before.
“Very well,” Sika-dur growled, his voice booming and deep, newly augmented like the rest of him.. “What does His Highness Hye-out-edk have to say to me?”
The Stonebreaker’s face could not show emotion, but Sika-dur could see in the way the ‘Breaker held himself that he was deeply surprised by the General’s use of the Emperor’s name. Let him be. Sika-dur was senior enough to use the Emperor’s true name. He was a member of the inner circle.
The ‘Breaker was not easily shocked, not for long, and he conveyed the Emperor’s message. “The Emperor orders the Stonebreakers to cease searching for the Rebel Clint Stone and to report to the Mi’ehg system. Further instructions will be relayed there.”
Sika-dur growled deep in his broad chest. He was on the trail of the Apostate Clint Stone, the abomination who had dealt hard blows to the Empire’s outer regions, yet the Emperor had decided that the very reason for the Stonebreakers’ existence was less important than whatever mission he had thought up. But orders were orders.
“Gather the rest of the Stonebreakers,” Sika-dur ordered. “The Emperor has need of our service. We shall leave now.”
As the ‘Breaker left to carry out his orders, Sika-dur continued on his path, his thoughts filled with Clint Stone and how he would suffer when the Breaker General caught up to him. Thoughts growing ever darker, he hardly noticed when a single figure burst from the undergrowth and charged him, screaming.
It was a scream of helpless rage and impotence. The giant Swrun watched with disinterest as a survivor from the village the Stonebreakers had just burned to the ground attacked, plasma weapon firing incessantly into Sika-dur’s chest. It did nothing. He smiled inwardly at the look of shock on the survivor’s ash and tear streaked face. Striding forward, oblivious to the plasma fire, Sika-dur brought his arm down and across, catching his attacker in the side. The force of the impact threw the meager attacker into the air and out of the General’s line of sight.
He did not even look to see when the body landed. It had been a killing blow and Sika-dur did not concern himself with the dead. If he could have grinned, he would have. The scientist had done very well. Clint Stone would not be able to face the Stonebreakers and live, no matter what weapons he had. But that would have to wait. Sika-dur had a mission from the Emperor and he intended to see it carried out with extreme precision.
As the walls of the training camp grew larger, Mor-oik felt his stomach fill with apprehension. It had been a month and a half since he had left this place, banished in shame. He was almost certainly presumed dead. Not that anyone would have missed him. He had been a weak, untrained soldier. One who did not listen to his commanding officer and got his tusk removed. One who had finally failed enough times that his drill sergeant had banished him through the Wastes. He had been expected to die.
He hadn’t. Mor-oik was a stubborn Swrun and he had lived. He had also stumbled across a group of Rebels and was now trying to get them into the training camp so they could steal a ship and escape. In order to do that, though, Mor-oik needed to be on the inside, and the only way to do that was to prove he was worthy of the title Soldier of the Swrun Empire. That was the only way he would be allowed back in.
Shifting his shoulders to better situate his shirt, Mor-oik straightened his back and lifted his head, thrusting his tusk into the air. His stump hung there, just on the edge of his vision, proof of his past failures. He did not let it bother him. Mor-oik had long since stopped caring what others thought. It was the only way for him to survive.
The walls loomed overhead as he reached the side gate. From what he could see, there was no one on the other side. That boded well for his plan. Raising his fist, Mor-oik brought it down on the rough metal, weathered by the winds and dust of the planet. He knocked three times and stood back from the gate, waiting for a response. It was long in coming.
“Who goes there?” The voice behind the gate sounded slightly shocked that there would be anyone on the outside. No one went outside. And no one came back through the side gate. For Mor-oik, hearing a Swrun voice felt strange. He hadn’t heard one since his banishment over a month and a half ago.
“I am Recruit Mor-oik, returned from the Wastes.”
There was a pause. “From the Wastes, you said?”
“That’s right.”
“But no one comes back from the Wastes.” This was true. It was the final test for the recruits, and they had to cross it to pass. If they did, they were immediately shipped off to another camp. Or the Wastes were used as an unofficial execution, and dead Swrun did not return. His confusion was understandable, and Mor-oik likely would have reacted the same, had he been in the same position. But right now, it was hampering Mor-oik’s mission.
“I did. Now open the gate, or I will be forced to break it down.” Not that he could, but it was best to appear as a hardened individual who had just survived one of the most hostile landscapes known to Swrunkind. Because he was, and he had.
“What is your business here?” Mor-oik wanted to yell at him that he had just returned from the Wastes and all he wanted to do was get in, get himself reinstated, sneak a few Rebels into the base, and then escape on a stolen ship. But he didn’t.
“I have returned from my banishment and I need to speak with Drill Sergeant Kri-lul. In order to return, he must approve it.”
“You are not a recognized recruit here. I cannot allow you in,” the guard said, his voice quickly returning to the infuriatingly dull tone the Swun who were assigned to gate duty on a desolate planet all seemed to have. Mor-oik assumed it was the sheer lack of weight between their ears.
“I was banished! I need to talk to Kri-lul to get reinstated,” Mor-oik half-shouted at the guard.
There was a long pause on the other side of the door. “Wait there for a moment,” the guard replied. “I shall find someone to escort you.”
Mor-oik inhaled heavily. Finally. He stood there, quietly, for several minutes. He heard the scuffling of feet on the other side and shrugged his pack to a more comfortable position on his back.
The locking mechanism clicked and the door swung open. There stood two Swrun, one dressed in full uniform, the other dressed in regular dress. The one in the uniform was the guard. The Swrun in casual dress stepped forward. “I will be your escort. You will not deviate from the path I take you on. You will not speak to anyone, and you will not ask questions. Am I understood?”
Ah. So he was one of the Squad Captains, then. While in training, the recruits were divided into different groups of equal number, chosen at random. These were the Squads. Squads trained, ate, slept, and bled together. One Swrun was chosen by the Drill Sergeant to lead it. They were always the hard-ass, no-nonsense types. The ones who made excellent officers and piss poor comrades.
“Yes,” Mor-oik said, nodding. Without a word, the Squad Captain turned on his heels and marched out into the sunlight. Mor-oik followed.
As he walked through the brief tunnel under the wall, he quickly orientated himself in the camp. A month and a half had done little to dampen the memories of this place. Now, where to find Kri-lul and prove his worthiness? The Squad Captain took him on a course toward the southern half of the base.
The sounds of the fighting ring carried over the faint breeze and Mor-oik nodded to himself. That would be the place to find him. Kri-lul seemed to take a disturbing amount of pleasure from beating the pulp out of new recruits. Mor-oik had been one such recruit, taking the full force of Kri-lul’s anger.
But that would change now. Kri-lul had banished Mor-oik for being weak, slow, fearful. Mor-oik was smaller than most Swrun and so he was not exactly soldier material. Neither did he find the killing of other beings enjoyable. He had not wished to join the Swrun Army. He had been content to stay on Swrun and help manage his grandfather’s store. But they had come for him, like they had come for his brother.
But Mor-oik was stubborn. Far too stubborn for his own good if his grandfather was to be believed. He was not going to let Kri-lul, or anyone, walk all over him and not get payback. Mor-oik needed to prove himself to return to the camp, and so he would have to face Kri-lul in the ring. Oh, there were other ways he could have proved his worthiness, but he thought the most satisfying way would be to beat Kri-lul in the ring.
The Bandits had trained him well in the last month and a half. They were as harsh and tough as Kri-lul had been, but they had not been cruel. Juiwa and Vyena knew exactly what to teach him, and when. Mor-oik had learned more in a few days than Kri-lul had taught in months. And because they had been out in the Wastes with very little to do other than train or sleep, Mor-oik had trained all day, every day, without fail. He had become good.
The three lesser Bandits had been better than him before his training, but now he was their equal. But Juiwa and Vyena were still far out of his league. And from what he heard from them, their commanders, Clint Stone and Tedix Jaku, were even better. Mor-oik looked forward to meeting them.
“We have arrived,” the Squad Captain said, roughly. “Wait here and do not move.”
Mor-oik looked up to see the fighting ring spread out before him, a wide circle of dirt, watered hourly, turning it into a vast sea of thick, sticky mud. It was incredibly difficult to fight in. Filling the surrounding area was a number of training equipment and other sparring platforms, where recruits could face off against each other, in preparation of the fighting ring.
Only two people ever used the fighting ring. Kri-lul and whoever he was beating the pulp out off. Mor-oik had been the unlucky soul before his banishment. Many times Kri-lul picked him out of the crowd and beat him as a “training exercise”. Mor-oik intended to change that today.
“Look at who has returned! The prodigal son returns from his journey through the desert.” Mor-oik looked around to see Kri-lul marching through the mass of training recruits. There was a good three feet on either side as he walked through. The Squad Captain followed close behind, a faithful henchman.
Standing his ground, Mor-oik did not flinch as Kri-lul strode up to him, close enough that Mor-oik could smell his breath. He had eaten Toeedfish recently. He stood inches away, using his greater height to stare down at Mor-oik, trying to cow him. He had done so many times before, and it had worked very well. But Mor-oik refused to let it happen this time.
He stood solid, meeting Kri-lul’s eyes. Mor-oik stared back into the eyes of the cruelest Swrun he knew, the meanest and most terrifying being Mor-oik had met. And he found he was not afraid. Oh, he knew Kri-lul could very easily have him killed, but he did not care. And so Mor-oik stared into the eyes of the Swrun who had tormented him and did not yield.
They stood there for several seconds, locked in a silent battle, Kri-lul seeking to force Mor-oik into surrender, and Mor-oik refusing to. Finally, Mor-oik saw the faintest flicker in Kri-lul’s eyes and the Drill Sergeant seemed to realize he would not win this one. Instead, he leaned in even closer and whispered, in a voice that ensured everyone around heard it, “I see you have survived the Wastes. But you will not survive what comes next.”
Mor-oik did not react to Kri-lul’s threat, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. Instead, he whispered back, “I think you will be surprised.”
The Drill Sergeant backed away, a faint, dark smile on his lips. In a normal tone, he said, “The Banished has returned from his Exile. But he has not yet proved himself worthy of re-entry.”
This was directed out into the mass of Swrun that had gathered during Mor-oik’s arrival. He glanced around, but he could not see any familiar faces. They had likely moved on to another training camp. That was good. Mor-oik had not liked any of them. Kri-lul returned his gaze to Mor-oik.
“Now, Tuskless, how do you plan on proving yourself? If I remember correctly, you can’t shoot, run, climb, or fight, so your option–”
“I wish to prove myself in the ring,” Mor-oik interrupted, smiling inside at the look of faint shock on the Drill Sergeant’s face. No one interrupted him. He was the top of the food chain here, and he was treated with, if not respect, fear. But he recovered quickly, enough so it hardly seemed he had been surprised.
“You do, do you? Very well, I shall indulge you,” Kri-lul said in a satisfied tone. “Who do you challenge to fight in the ring?”
As an Exile who needed to prove himself, Mor-oik was allowed to choose an opponent to test himself against. He was not free to choose anyone in the camp, only those whose skills surpassed his at the time of his Banishment. The rules were a little murky and not well versed, as no one had ever returned from Exile before.
And Kri-lul, as the highest ranked in the area, was allowed to approve or disapprove of Mor-oik’s choice. Mor-oik knew he would decline all of them, in order to spite Mor-oik. The last choice would be Kri-lul himself. He would expect Mor-oik to choose lesser fighters, then he would decline each of them. When Mor-oik had run out of choices and was growing desperate, Kri-lul would take pleasure in the fact that he would be the only one who Mor-oik could challenge, the one who had banished him in the first place.
Mor-oik would not give him that satisfaction. “I challenge you, Drill Sergeant.”
“Den-” Kri-lul had already began to form the words to deny the challenge, expecting Mor-oik to pick one of the Squad Captains or similar. But he had not been expecting to be challenged so quickly.
The opportunity was too good to pass up. “Denied? You mean to say that you will decline to fight me? Am I so terrifying?” Mor-oik felt a little of the grin he felt show itself on his face and he quickly returned to a stone-faced exterior. It would do no good if Kri-lul ordered his henchmen to beat Mor-oik to a pulp.
As it was, the Drill Sergeant’s face grew red with rage. His authority had been questioned and now his ability had been as well. He nearly sputtered as he spoke. “I accept your challenge, Tuskless. I shall take great pleasure in defeating you.”
With that, he turned on his heel and marched into the center of the ring. The recruits parted before the Drill Sergeant, none wishing to incur his wrath. Mor-oik, for his part, smiled faintly and followed him into the ring. They both moved to the edge of the ring and removed their shirts, boots, and belts, leaving them naked but for pants. Stepping forward into the center of the ring, Mor-oik waited for Kri-lul.
He sized up his opponent. Kri-lul was a good five inches taller than Mor-oik, with greater reach and a fair bit more muscle. And he was vicious. Kri-lul took intense pleasure in harming his opponents and sought to do as much damage as he could. It was not uncommon for recruits to leave the ring with broken limbs.
When Kri-lul turned around, Mor-oik saw him falter for a brief second. The sight made him smile. He knew why too. After a month and a half of training with the Rebellion Special Forces, Mor-oik had been transformed from the small, weak Swrun he had been before. His body had filled out, and he had good amount of fresh muscle all across his body. He also carried himself differently. Mor-oik knew he walked with a smoother, more comfortable stride, and held his body in an unconscious ready stance. After a month and a half of surprise attacks by Juiwa and Vyena, it was second nature.
It was a strange feeling, knowing how much he had changed, but he had. Kri-lul had been expecting the same cowardly Swrun he had banished. The one he could easily torment and devastate in the Ring. What Kri-lul saw was vastly different than he had expected.
But Kri-lul was a professional soldier, one who had seen years of combat. He did not let many things affect him for long. He strode out into the center of the ring, eyes locked with Mor-oik. There was a certain formality to the Ring. Both combatants met in the center, silently respectful, but thinking of how to destroy their opponent.
Mor-oik pondered how he was going to destroy Kri-lul. His training was a unique blend of Swrun discipline and Rebellion ruthlessness. The Swrun way was ruthless as well, but the Rebellion style was to win by any means necessary. Mor-oik had tried the Swrun way in the past, and it had gotten him banished. It was time to try a new way.
The Squad Captain stood off to the side of the ring. He would be the official judge of this match. Most sessions in the ring did not have a judge, but this was not most sessions. “Combatants ready?” he asked, his voice betraying the excitement he was likely feeling. It was not every day he got to see his Sergeant beat the living daylights out of a recruit.
Both Mor-oik and Kri-lul nodded, each with a grim smile on their face. They backed away from each other, putting six feet between themselves. When the signal was given, that distance would be closed and the fight begun. When Mor-oik was in position, the rest of the world seemed to fade away. The noise of the gathered recruits, the heat of the sun, and the silent worries inside his head. There only existed the sensations his body felt, the sight of Kri-lul, and the arm of the Squad Captain, held upright. The arm slashed downward and the fight began.
Mor-oik rushed forward to meet Kri-lul in the center of the ring. His greatest advantage was that Kri-lul did not know the extent of his new training. Mor-oik knew almost everything about Kri-lul’s fighting style. He had gone up against him many times. He had seen the Drill Sergeant fight many more times. Vicious, overpowering, devastating. But none too creative, therefore, creativity would help. Before Mor-oik could begin to get creative, he had to show Kri-lul that he truly meant business.
The space between them closed in moments and Kri-lul began the match the way he always did, with a vicious blow from one of his fists. Every time Mor-oik had fought him, he had always tried to avoid that swing, as it was deadly. Every recruit did. One could not stand against that first blow. So Mor-oik didn’t.
It came from the right, this time. Kri-lul was equally skilled with both sides, and favored neither. Mor-oik did not stand against it, but neither did he flee from it. Kri-lul always followed the first strike with a second. So, Mor-oik redirected it. Stepping into Kri-lul’s swing, he gripped the Drill Sergeant’s wrist and moved it slightly to the side and upwards, so it passed over his shoulder. In the same motion, Mor-oik twisted and rammed his own shoulder into the Sergeant’s chest with enough force to send him sprawling into the dirt. Mor-oik’s smaller height allowed him to ram his shoulder into the center of the Drill Sergeant’s chest, eliciting an oof from the taller Swrun.
A collective gasp sounded from the gathered masses. It was rare for someone to give Kri-lul a hard enough blow to faze him, let alone knock him down. Mor-oik stood back a fair ways, allowing Kri-lul the chance to get to his feet. He could have moved in and attacked him on the ground, but Mor-oik wanted to prove himself. And he wanted to hurt Kri-lul. His pride was one way to do it.
For his part, Kri-lul snarled and scrambled back to his feet. His lips twisted in a deep anger as he moved towards Mor-oik. Much more cautiously this time, though. The Sergeant was angry, not stupid. He had seen his normal tactic had not worked and so he changed up his strategy. He closed with Mor-oik, and they began to circle each other, making probing jabs at each other.
Mor-oik felt his foot slip in a particularly wet patch of mud and Kri-lul took fast advantage of it. He lunged forward, foot lifted in a vicious kick. Mor-oik saw it coming, but he could do nothing to stop it with his own footing compromised. The best he could do was to lift his forearm to take most of the blow, but his poor leverage meant it didn’t block much. The blow impacted against his chest and he was thrown backwards, sliding in the mud.
Kri-lul wasted no time in exploiting Mor-oik’s relative helplessness. He viciously kicked at Mor-oik as he lay on the ground, with poor defensive ability. But Mor-oik did not seek to defend himself. Kri-lul had used this against Mor-oik many times before and Mor-oik had prepared for it. His fist lashed out, reflexes enhanced by his training with the Bandits, and collided with Kri-lul’s rapidly approaching ankle.
A faint yelp of pain told Mor-oik he had been successful in his attempt. But what he had not counted on was the unusual hardness of Kri-lul’s skin and bones. Hitting that with his hand hurt. Stifling his own yelp of pain, Mor-oik used the momentary distracted state of his opponent to clamber back to his feet.
They resumed circling each other, Mor-oik flexing his hand to alleviate some of the pain. He could see the Sergeant was limping just slightly and gave a satisfied grin. Kri-lul saw it and gave Mor-oik a burning glare of anger. That gave Mor-oik greater confidence. If Kri-lul was feeling truly angry, he wasn’t thinking straight, and he would become more careless. But it was a double edged sword. His anger meant he would be more dangerous if he caught Mor-oik, and anger bestowed strikes greater power.
Circling each other, searching for openings, Mor-oik saw one in Kri-lul’s slight limp. It was small one, and might have been negligible. But he took a chance and attacked, first feinting right, the striking left. Kri-lul did not fall for it. He easily blocked Mor-oik’s attack and countered with his own, one Mor-oik was hard pressed to avoid. But he did, barely. But the mud again proved to be his undoing. Used to fighting on the dry, shifting ground of the Wastes, the slippery mud was treacherous to Mor-oik.
But as he fell again, he grabbed the Sergeant’s forearm and dragged the bigger Swrun down as well. Kri-lul pulled against it, but the mud worked against him as well. He fell, landing in a tangle of limbs with Mor-oik. And down on the ground, size did not matter nearly as much. As Kri-lul came tumbling down, Mor-oik lifted his knee and drove it just under the Sergeant’s sternum, knocking the wind out of him.
Kri-lul fought for air, and against Mor-oik, but the need for air was a more pressing matter and Mor-oik was free to rain blows down on the Sergeant’s feeble defenses. He landed a number of good blows before the Sergeant recovered his breath and roared with anger. With frightful strength, Kri-lul shoved Mor-oik off him, gaining space enough to climb to his knees. Mor-oik scrambled to his knees as well, and tried to go further, but Kri-lul crashed into him before he could.
Down they went into another tangle, but with Kri-lul possessing the upper hand. Mor-oik struggled against the Sergeant, blocking his blows, but the Sergeant was bigger and stronger, and he soon had Mor-oik’s arms trapped together under his arm and leg. With his free hand, Kri-lul struck Mor-oik across the face again and again. Striking a Swrun in the face was difficult, due to the sharp tusks, but Mor-oik only had one, leaving the left side of his face unprotected.
He felt the side of his face growing numb, and he struggled harder against the Sergeant’s vice grips. It was no use. Mor-oik’s vision went became red as blood filled his eye on that side and he tasted blood in his mouth, felt it run down his throat. A wild anger filled him, the anger of an animal caught in a trap. He would not be defeated by this Swrun, lying in the mud, beaten senseless. With a roar, Mor-oik bucked his hips, and twisted wildly, shaking Kri-lul loose. Before he was fully dislodged, the Sergeant threw one more punch.
As Mor-oik twisted and writhed under Kri-lul’s weight, his body and head turned to the left and exposed the right side of his face to Kri-lul’s punch. The side with the tusk. Kri-lul’s desperate, final punch hit directly on the tip, and momentum carried it down onto the full length. Mor-oik saw the tusk enter the middle of the Sergeant’s fist and continue through to the wrist, ripping through skin, sinew, and flesh, effectively splitting the Sergeant’s hand in half.
Mor-oik felt hot blood splash against his face, gushing from Kri-lul’s ruined hand. He smelled the iron tang of blood and heard a shrill scream, piercing and overwhelming. Twisting his face further left, he ripped his tusk out of Kri-lul’s hand, pulling flesh with it. The Sergeant fell off, screaming and writhing in the mud. Mor-oik climbed to his feet, dizzy from the punishment inflicted on his face.
He stood over Kri-lul and spat blood. “Looks like I win this one. Sergeant.”
Backing away, Mor-oik half-fell, half-sat in the mud, trying to catch his breath. A strand of red hung from his tusk and he reach absentmindedly to pull it off. When his fingers made contact, he realized it was muscle from Kri-lul’s hand. A strangled noise of disgust escaped his battered mouth and he flung the strip of Kri-lul as far away from his body as possible.
He suddenly became aware of the silence around the ring. It wasn’t due to the damage inflicted on his ears, because he could hear Kri-lul’s labored breath just fine. No, the gathered body of recruits and, now that he looked, trained soldiers was dead silent. No one so much as cheered, booed, or made a sound louder than a breath. Mor-oik glanced around with his good eye, trying to see why. A single Swrun began clapping behind Mor-oik and he twisted in his seated position in the mud, straining to see who was clapping at his victory.
The identity of who it was nearly caused him to lose his precocious grip on consciousness. Before him, dressed in the full uniform of a Swrun Army Captain, was a face Mor-oik had not see for five years. Mor-wir, his brother.
His brother who had left Mor-oik and his grandfather, in poverty, in need of help, to join the Army. Mor-wir had left and not looked back, five years ago. From what little news Mor-oik got about his brother, he knew Mor-wir had climbed through the ranks quickly, due to his skill and ruthlessness. Mor-wir was the perfect Swrun soldier, loyal, obedient, and utterly, totally devoted to the idea of the Empire and Emperor. If he heard even a whisper about Rebels, he would burn the planet to ash, with all the inhabitants, and not lose a moment of sleep over the death of thousands.
Mor-oik’s job just got a whole lot harder.
“Mylak Wesq has never killed anyone, no. Mylak is merely a tech specialist and medic by choice.”
I nodded at the slight bodied Hyrth, listening intently to his story. Mylak was a strange individual, but one who was indispensible to the Bandits. One of the two hundred new Bandits who had arrived three weeks ago, Mylak was one of seven medics to arrive with them. I guess the higher ups finally decided we had enough fighters to warrant actual medics.
I couldn’t really blame them, though. Our casualty rate was significantly lower than any other unit that I knew of, and so we didn’t need medics. Not often, anyway. Clint and I attributed it to both training and to the IPDM suits that Clint had created. We were the only unit to fully implement them throughout, but that was only due to the fact that the Rebellion couldn’t make them fast enough. When the Rebellion was fully outfitted, the Swrun were in for a surprise.
The suits let us march on them without fear of death. They could pour shot after shot into our suits, and we wouldn’t even feel it. Of course, everything had its limits and the suit could and did get overtaxed and burn up, but it provided a good twenty seconds of protection under heavy fire, and on the battlefield, the difference of a second could change the fight. Every new Bandit who had arrived had their own suit and we did not suffer shortages.
Without the suits, we would not have been able to do the things we do with the effectiveness that we did. But the suits were just a tool. It was the wearers of the suits that got results. Each Bandit was more than proficient in combat, thanks to the instruction of Clint and myself. Able to function as a team and as individuals, the Bandits were growing to be a formidable force.
“Mylak does not care for bloodshed. But Mylak sees why the Rebellion must fight and wishes to help.” The Hyrth twisted a thin piece of wood between his fingers as he spoke. A keepsake or talisman, most likely. His speech pattern was strange, only referring to himself in the third person, but I had met stranger individuals.
None in the Bandits, fortunately, but there was always the chance. That was a partial reason I spoke to every new member of the Bandits at least once before going on a mission with them. It wasn’t that I had any particular interest in them, or cared too deeply, but I wanted to know the men I fought beside were not insane and could be relied on in tough situations. It wasn’t likely, as every Bandit had to pass their mental evaluations before becoming a Rebel, let alone a Bandit, but there was always the chance. I didn’t like taking chances I didn’t have to take.
I nodded at the slight Hyrth, and filed him away under the “strange, but not an issue” file in my mind. Besides, there was a feeling about him that I couldn’t quite place, but it made me trust him. Clint had a very similar feeling. And he was one of the most trustworthy beings I had ever met. Provided he liked you.
Clint tended to like most people fighting the Swrun Empire. Unless you were scum. Then he may kill you.
“Lieutenant! We’re coming up on the Battlecruiser!” the pilot called from his seat.
I gave my acknowledgement and turned to face the rest of the Bandits seated in the belly of the troop transport. Thirty of the hardest, deadliest fighters the Rebellion had. They had to be good to get into the Bandits, and after Clint and I got our hands on them, they became truly formidable. Now, we were going to take a Swrun Battlecruiser.
Clint had been dead serious when he said he meant to build a fleet. With three hundred Bandits, we attacked airfields, training camps, supply posts. With brutal and violent introductions to the life of a Bandit, the newcomers who survived their “trial by fire”, as Clint called it, quickly became hard fighters and skilled soldiers.
We laid waste to dozens of Swrun installations, suffering minimum casualties. The Swrun died by the hundreds. We gathered a fleet of support ships, troop carriers, and scout ships. The Illorian base became a staging ground for an ever growing army, one that was actually too large to fit in the base. We had struggled along with shifts and having a good number of Bandits out on patrol and missions, but the arrival of new fighters finally pushed the issue. We needed more room.
Which was why we were attacking a Swrun Battlecruiser by ourselves, without the support of any ship larger than a small troop transport. Ideally, the Rebellion would have lent us several full sized Cruisers and Battleships, but they did not have the ships to spare. So, Clint decided it would be best for us to attack with a fleet of smaller ships, slipping in under the sensors and shields before the Swrun noticed.
Once in, Clint would fly Susan, containing some of the bandits best fighters, into a hangar where they would quickly overwhelm the unprepared Swrun guards, and the hangar would become our staging grounds for the assault. The more technically inclined of the Bandits would lock down the hangar controls to ensure the Swrun could not vent the atmosphere and blow us all out into space. Which was exactly what we were trying to do to them.
Each team was tasked with taking control of key parts of the ship, the bridge, the engine room, the comms room, and other essential sections. Once command had been assumed of the key sections, the doors were to be locked, the rooms isolated, and the atmosphere vented across the rest of the ship. That would hopefully kill all remaining Swrun onboard.
The only problem was we had to first get there. Clint would be leading the vanguard, flying Susan in, under the sensors. He and his squad would assume control of the hangar and usher the rest of us in. I would be there with him, but if anything happened to him, the Bandits needed a leader. And so I remained behind, floating among the stars, waiting for the moment to attack.
It was not long in coming. A single word burst out of the comm and I could feel the ship accelerate under me. It was time. “Listen up!” I called to my squad. “You all know why we’re here, and what we’re doing. Stick to the plan and don’t get cocky. Keep that in mind and we shouldn’t have any trouble.”
They nodded their affirmations. I did a last minute inventory of my gear. IPDM suit, check. Plasma rifle, check. Pistol, check. Various knives, check. Working comm, check. Helmet, check. Odds and ends, check. I could see several other Bandits doing the same as me, methodically going over their gear, making sure it was where it was supposed to be. Mylak rustled through his medic bag, his lips moving silently.
“Here comes the hangar. Looks cleared.” At the sound of the pilot’s voice, my squad tensed, preparing for the assault. I tensed too. There wasn’t anything quite like the feeling before battle. My muscles were tense, yet relaxed at the same time. My heart beat sped up and I could feel every thump distinctly. I inhaled and the air filled my lungs to the brim, spreading out into my blood. I could not feel it, but I knew my eyes dilated and I curled my lip in a faint snarl.
The ship thumped when it touched down and several Bandits stumbled in place. I stood firm. “Door up in three!” called the pilot.
With a hiss of mechanics, the door slid up, exposing us to the space outside our ship. It was clear of all Swrun, Clint’s team having mopped them up when they landed. The wide hangar was now home to a handful of small Bandits ships and a dozen guards, ensuring our only means of escape–should things turn bad–was not taken by the Swrun. I glanced around the hangar, searching for the right corridor.
I overlaid the mental map of the ship Clint had us all memorize. It was a good thing the Swrun stuck to the same design building their ships, or this would have been a touch more difficult. I ran towards the correct door once I saw it, and my team followed. Our objective was to take the communications room. There was quite a bit of delicate equipment that would not do well in a vacuum.
I did not expect heavy resistance for a good while. We were taking the same route as Bor My and his squad, and they had landed before us. I could see plasma blast marks on the walls and dead Swrun littered about the corridor on our route. Bor was doing his job well. I lead with a quick and determined pace, but I did not sprint. There was no reason to tire my team and myself out before we even got to the comm room. At the pace I had set, I could run for the rest of the day. Even Mylak, the diminutive medic, could keep up at this pace. I glanced back to see him in the middle of the cluster, protected as much as possible. He was wearing an IPDM suit which would ward him from most harm, but it never hurt to protect your medic.
Despite Bor having cleaned out the route before us, I still kept my head on a swivel and instructed my team to do the same. There was no good that could come from being careless. A Swrun poked his head out from a door and three plasma bolts reduced it into ash before I could pull the trigger. The body slid slowly down the wall as we ran past.
I could hear the sounds of plasma fire echoing around the ship as the Bandits overwhelmed the unprepared Swrun. It was too easy. No one had ever assaulted a Battlecruiser without at least three other cruiser sized ships and so the Swrun thought nothing of a swarm of small ships. Oh, how wrong we were proving them.
The sound of plasma fire grew sharper and more distinct as I travelled down the corridor. We must be catching up to Bor’s team. From the sounds of it, he was engaged with a sizable force of Swrun. Glancing behind me, I saw my team had prepared themselves for a fight. We rounded a curve and the battle came into view.
Bor and his team were crowded around a wide doorway, firing into a cavernous room that, as far as I could see, was empty of everything but Swrun. At the other end of the room, a large number of Swrun were barricaded behind raised metal sheets and a stack of what looked to be chairs. Looking closer, I could see the sheets of metal were tables, laid on their sides. So this was the mess hall then. The Swrun must have gotten word we were coming and prepared defenses.
They were doing an admirable job, I had to admit. Bor’s advance had been ground to a halt and several of his men were down. They were all moving, so I did not worry overmuch. With a signal from my hand, I told Mylak to look to them. I motioned for my team to take up positions with Bor’s team, making my way to Bor himself. They started to exchange fire with the Swrun as I reach the Hryth with unusually bright red tentacles.
“These pigs giving you trouble?” I asked Bor. He glanced at me before returning to his study of the enemy position. I didn’t know exactly what a pig was, but Clint told me it was an animal from Earth, whom the Swrun shared a remarkable resemblance to. He meant it as an insult, though, and so I used it too.
“Not too much,” Bor replied. “They’re just stubborn. As far as I know, there’s no easy way around them. I was attempting the tried and true method of blasting through them.”
I nodded sagely. “That does seem to work.”