by Andrew Iddon
The pilot got on the radio, announcing the countdown to the jump into hyperspace, and Greg started to grind his teeth and hold his breath. The pilot said zero, and suddenly the ship jerked forward hard, rattling Greg like a maraca. It shook his organs around, giving him the sick feeling. He felt immense pressure on his skin, and he could feel his scalp moving to the back of his head. He felt like he was being squeezed and pushed at the same time. The ship then finally quaked again with an abrupt stop; he shook forward, feeling very dizzy before standing up. When he stood up he could feel his stomach groaning, and ran towards the bathroom. Upon reaching it, he let loose his aching stomach, and threw up his breakfast into the toilet. He then made his way back towards the cock pit deck, where the pilot was eagerly awaiting Greg with a smirk on his face. Greg raised his hand, and held up three fingers, indicating the minutes before he puked. The pilot hooted with laughter.
Heilagur was now in sight; the small sapphire gem of a planet grew as the ships approached. It was a small planet; however, its grand cities and monuments to the gods could be seen from orbit.
The ships approached the surface of the planet. They were welcome there for the Amarosians were a part of the Imperium. The ships deployed their landing gear, and set down inside a large stone star port, built into a mountainside.
As Greg and his comrades walked down the ramp towards the large metallic doors to the city, a large robed figure approached, and stopped in front of them. He towered over them; he was seven feet tall or higher, greyish skin, with very exotic tattoos all over his body. He looked like most Amarosians, with glowing eyes which changed color depending on their mood, yellow being neutral. Amarosians had long faces, small pursed mouths, and an elongated cerebral lobe, giving them strong mental or psychic powers and abilities. Their bodies were thin, smooth, though very fit; it was against their religion to be overweight, or small and sickly. They had similar hands and feet to humans, five fingers and five toes, although varied in size and color, but the most unique feature to the Amarosians was that they had no spinal cord. Instead of a central spine, they had thousands of small spines all throughout their bodies, combining with their central nervous system. Having no spine allowed them to sustain heavy damage especially when falling on their large heads and it gave them extreme flexibility that would horrify most humans.
They favored melee combat, with very elaborate blades and axes made from a metal only found on Heilagur. It was thought to be indestructible. Even though they favored melee combat, they still had quite an array of advanced vehicles, and ranged weaponry, mostly using energy based projectiles or fuel sources. The Amarosians were a respected race, highly glorified by all, including their enemies. They fought with honor, and always respected their foes. They never insulted their enemies; they never taunted or boasted; they always quartered surrendering troops, and treated their prisoners of war with great hospitality.
Even though they were excellent warriors, masters of the art of war, they were surprisingly peaceful. They were pacifists by nature, only resorting to violence if it was absolutely necessary, and only if their gods allowed them. They were an extremely religious species, believing in multiple gods, and praying to them all throughout the day. They respected their gods, not doing anything they believed would displease them. They built statues and monuments of them that stood higher than buildings and mountains. They thought that the bigger the statues and monuments, the happier the gods would be. In the centre of the capital city of Kruistochtos stood the statue of their God of gods; it housed a temple inside, and it stood nearly two hundred feet tall. It was a statue of Amaross, the father of the gods and it was he that was to be prayed to first.
Greg and his fellow travellers walked through the city of Kruistochtos, following the guide from the star port, admiring the sights and sounds as they passed. All the buildings were perfectly clean and smooth; all the citizens were happy, and seemed to be wealthy, and there was no sign of poverty or crime.
They walked through busy marketplaces, taking time to stop in between to learn a little history from the guide, as well as to purchase some tidbits and souvenirs. Greg was amazed at this new culture; he had known what Amarosians were, and seen pictures of the planet in the academy, but to see and hear them up close and first hand was truly a great experience. They continued through the maze of streets and alleys until they came upon the heart of the city, the massive pyramid structure towering over the other buildings of the city, yet standing only half as tall as the statue of Amaross.
Greg and the others entered the pyramid’s main doors, and followed the guide through the multiple halls, doors, and stairs until they reached the main chamber. The guide stopped, and pointed towards the large granite doors. Greg turned, and pushed them open, unveiling to him the source of their honor and glory, the birthplace of their lore and law, the conclave.
It was a huge room, tall, with a central podium surrounded by seats similar to that of the Imperium council chambers. Greg approached the central podium; his comrades remained at the door, too intimidated to be seen in the vastness of the room. He stood up on the podium, and then immediately felt his weight shift; it was an elevator, and it rose up into the air as the ceiling parted.
As it opened, Greg gaped as it revealed more seats, thousands of seats, and other podiums floating around in a ridiculous, bustling governmental metropolis. Greg’s podium rose farther and farther into the air, until it began to slow down in front of the largest seat in the building. It was the Amarosian Patriarch, known in the human languages as Talaerdoch. Greg’s podium came to a complete stop.
The Patriarch stood from his seat; he wore elaborate white and golden robes, with distinct tribal and religious symbols draped along the sashes and ropes. He was tall, and wore a decorative royal crown, shaped similar to crowns from the kings of old. However, it had cheek and chin plates which protected most of his face. His eyes emanated a dull mauve colour, indicating a relaxed state.
He finally spoke to the entire room, “I, Talaerdoch, of the Amarosian people, grant audience to this human of the Imperium.”
Greg was a little overwhelmed; the Patriarch’s voice boomed and echoed throughout the chambers with much grace and power. He breathed in deeply before making his request, “Oh great Talaerdoch of Heilagur, I, Sergeant Gregory Simons, request the Amarosian people to prepare for war against the Imperium’s enemy.”
“And just what enemy is this? We have fought and died for your Emperor many times, and what has he ever done for us? Nothing! Your false lords have never respected us in anything we have done for you. Victavius is as ignorant of our problems as his father Hephaesticles was before him. We are currently in danger from our nemesis, the Viron, who have recently awoken from their hibernation. Has the Emperor come for us? No! The Emperor has forsaken us!”
The crowd among the other council seats all rumbled and murmured in agreement; they were angry with the Imperium, and Greg understood why.
“Please, my lord, this is not like the other times the Emperor has called. This isn’t a mere colonial issue, or a mercenary uprising; this is a galaxy-wide doom that approaches. This is an enemy from our past; an enemy we thought was silenced for eternity. This is an enemy that sees no mercy, which knows no empathy. This is an enemy who views life and existence as nothing but scum, unless it is to their standards. They do not declare war on the Imperium; they declare war on history, and all we have achieved. They declare war on the lives of the impure, the innocent, and the weak. They declare war on the universe,” replied Greg confidently.
“Of what do you speak? You speak as though this enemy is a disease, a famine.”
“It is,” replied Greg.
“What is this enemy?” asked the Patriarch.
“Nazi Germany, a horde of soulless beasts who want to see everything destroyed except the Aryan race. The purest of human, tall, blonde and blue eyed, this New Nazi Germany wants to force
extinction upon everything except themselves, and they have the means to do so. They invaded less than a day ago, and, already have purged seven planets that we know of. The death toll is in the billions, sixty percent of which are alien species, including Amarosians. They fly the largest ships; they bear the most advanced weapons, and their will is unshakable. They will fall upon this planet like a blanket, and suffocate your civilization,” said Greg, with his head high.
“I have heard of these extremists. We assisted the Emperor in observing these Nazis when they were just a rabble of disgruntled cultists. The Amarosian prophet, Furloth, foresaw their doom, but they did nothing. They believed him to be a traitor with no faith in the Imperium. They believed him to be insane, just because he did not agree with their belief that this Richthofen was no threat. They locked away our prophet, and he still remains in Imperial hands, trapped among the common criminals of your kind.”
As he was saying this, Greg shook his head in shock. He turned to his comrades, who had the same puzzled look on their faces. The Emperor had failed to mention that.
He was lied to, again, and he was getting very sick of it; his hopes for help were now crushed.
Talaerdoch continued, “And, as justice is law here, among our people, I believe that justice should be had against these meddling incompetent humans. The best route right now would be to deny their request for help and wisdom. This is my final word; this conclave is now adjourned.”
Greg swore to himself, and got up in a huff. As soon as his podium landed, he stormed out of the building. He walked out into the street angry, not just angry at the Patriarch, but angry at his Imperium. It was an Imperium built on lies. He had been played over and over, and was losing faith. If they hadn’t been so corrupt and dishonest, they wouldn’t be in this damn situation in the first place.
The sky suddenly began to change; it turned dark, and slowly began to rain. Not only was he pissed off at everything, but now he had to deal with being soaked in rain. The streets were strangely empty and quiet; it seemed the Amarosians didn’t much care for the rain, and all took shelter. He didn’t quite understand why.
He decided not to trouble his already troubled brain about it, and continued down one of the main streets. He stepped off the curb, and stumbled from the drop. The water was deep; it completely covered his feet, and went up a portion of his shin. Now, it made sense. It didn’t rain often on Heilagur, but, when it did, it came hard, and it came for a long time. He splashed down the street, trying to recollect where the nearest place to sleep was. He didn’t know if the Amarosians had hotels, but it couldn’t hurt to try and find one, for he needed to rest.
Greg trudged through the growing levels of the water in the street, until something caught his eye, and he stopped. Something was standing in the middle of the street, about a hundred yards ahead of him. He wiped the water from his face, trying to get a better glimpse of what it was. The figure didn’t move, so he called out to it. He yelled friendly greetings to it at first, and then began to curse at it for not responding, thinking it didn’t understand, so he took a few more steps towards it.
The figure shifted; its arm went behind its back, as if reaching for something. Greg waited to see what it was, and felt a shiver go down his spine, as the figure pulled out what looked to be a sword of some kind. It must have been a long dagger; it was too short for a sword, but it was jagged, with large curved hooks all along the blade.
In an instant, the figure’s head lit up bright, almost as if it was activating or turning on. Its helmet was a large red dome, covering most of its face and jaw, with regular black armor covering the back. The colour was similar to the Nazi infantry he saw on Nuevo Mundo and Nassau, so he looked at the figure’s left arm to see the same swastika badge the Chancellor had, and his face immediately went white as he realized that he was in for a wild fight.
Greg then remembered that he was a soldier, an Imperium soldier. He couldn’t let this kraut bastard take him down, so he threw off his coat, and began running through the rain down the street. The figure responded almost instantaneously, as if expecting it, and began running towards Greg. He was a lot faster, ploughing through the water, the rain turning to dust as it pegged his armor.
Greg used his adrenaline to run faster, thinking of a way to outsmart the Nazi. He thought too slowly, however, as the Nazi leapt into the air like a frog, and extended both of his legs railing Greg in the chest. The drop kick was the hardest impact Greg had ever felt, as his momentum from running so hard completely reversed, sending him another ten feet backwards on his back. As he splashed into the deep frigid water, the Nazi sprung to his feet, and charged a second time, this time with his blade ready. He went for a slash but Greg got to a crouch position, weaved under the swing, and countered with a knee to his stomach, halting the Nazi’s charge, although not doing any damage, but enough to force him to drop the dagger.
The Nazi was getting angry; he stood up straight and grabbed Greg by the neck. Greg was getting worried at this point. The Nazi was nearly a foot taller than him, which was inhumanly large. He could feel the metal fingers squeezing around his neck tighter and tighter; he began to flutter before using the last of his strength to swing his leg back and ram his metal combat boot straight into the Nazi’s crotch. The Nazi immediately groaned in pain, as he dropped Greg, who splashed into the flooded street once again, coughing as he stood up. He took a swing at the Nazi’s face, bashing the solid red visor with all his strength. His fist bounced off like rubber, and his hand cracked from the recoil. Greg swore to himself as he threw a few more punches in a flurry of adrenaline and anger. The Nazi responded with a few blocks and quick strikes to Greg, who did his best to dodge, and block some of his own.
He wasn’t making any progress; he needed to end this, and soon. Greg was getting tired; he was in pain, and was cold from the frigid rain. He threw a few more punches, before trying to go for another cheap shot of some kind. He ducked and swooped under the Nazi, then launched himself into his stomach like a rocket, throwing the Nazi back, and pinning him into the water. He began to punch the visor again, ignoring the pain completely, as he continued to smash, and throw in the occasional elbow.
The Nazi’s visor cracked, and began to splinter, and, finally, he had enough of this. The Nazi raised his left arm as he made a jerking motion with his wrist, and out of the armor on his arm extended a blade. It swished out, making a quick sharp noise as he backhanded Greg, slashing him across the face. Greg fell off the Nazi, screaming in pain, feeling the blood pour out of his face, and trickling away with the dabbing of the rain.
As he fell, the Nazi stood up, and tried to fix his visor. As he did, Greg placed his hand under the water, and felt something sharp; it was the Nazi’s first dagger, and it had forgotten that it was dropped. Greg lay there motionless, his lips barely protruding out of the water to breathe. He relaxed his body, and began to float calmly, almost as if he was a corpse.
Greg was a little puzzled; the Nazi wasn’t finishing him off. He wondered why; perhaps the Nazi thought he was dead. So the arrogance of the Nazi would be his downfall, thought Greg.
He got to another crouching position, right in front of the proudly standing German enemy. He cocked his leg back, and using all the force he could muster, thrust it forward, directly into the German’s right leg.
The Nazi gasped in pain, as Greg’s leg crashed into his knee, breaking it and pushing it into a reverse position. He could hear the bones in his leg snapping and cracking as his leg was shattered, and the angle of his knee bent backwards. He fell down screaming under his visor.
Blood was flowing into the water in the street, quickly expanding into multiple red streams and trails. His leg was so badly mangled and bloody, that his armor had torn, and his shin bone was protruding from his skin, getting numb from the cold rain.
As he screamed and squirmed, Greg drew the blade from the water, and plunged it into th
e Nazi’s throat. He covered his eyes from the spraying of blood, as the arteries began to splice and break.
The Nazi then fell silent, aside from the drops of rain, and the squirting of blood from his throat. He let go of his leg, and sank into the water; he was dead.
Greg had emerged victorious, but not without paying a price of his own, for he was still bleeding profusely from his face wound. He stayed near the body to keep it safe. They needed to study the body. He had never seen this kind of Nazi enemy yet, and he needed to know everything he could about them.
CHAPTER 15
Greg stumbled over the makeshift battlefield, tired and cold. He dragged the corpse to the nearest cover, so the rain wouldn’t wash too much of the evidence away. As he tugged at the huge broken body in front of him, an Amarosian who witnessed the fight emerged from a nearby alley. He was a curious little guy, a lot smaller than the other Amarosians. He must have been a child or adolescent of some kind. He walked across the street, and approached Greg, who held up his fists with a startle; he was still in a fighting mode. He quickly realized that it was a safe person, and finally let go of his adrenaline; he collapsed, and fell into a deep sleep, unconscious from the cold and wounds.
The Amarosian child called for help, running back into the conclave building, finding Greg’s human comrades. They all rushed out to find the two bodies. They brought Greg’s unconscious and wounded body into a nearby temple, where most Amarosian warriors are brought when wounded in battle.
Greg’s eyes began to flutter; he was regaining consciousness. He rubbed his eyes, and yawned, while stretching his aching muscles. He looked around the strange room he was in. He looked around at the symbols and writings on the walls; he was clearly in some sort of religious structure.
He remembered his wounds, and felt around his body; he touched his face to notice the gash had been sealed, and his bones had been mended. Apart from being very bruised and nearly having broken his fists, and a couple of scratches and cuts, he was in fairly good shape.