Rise of the Defiant: Book Two of the Warpmancer Series

by Nicholas Woode-Smith

  The combat group split up into their squads. Erryn, not belonging to any, went down a familiar pathway with a lump in her throat and a pain in her lower back.

  Jilly’s street. It was a wasteland.

  Erryn ran, thoughtlessly, as her metal-clad boots rang out on the flooring. Corpses, civilian corpses, scattered the streets and peaked out between smoking scrap. The hostel in which Jilly had stayed was one of these piles of waste.

  ‘No, no, no,’ Erryn jabbered, using her hardy Titan rifle as a spade to dislodge rubble.

  ‘Can’t be dead. Too young. Can’t be dead.’

  A corpse. No, a little boy. Not Jilly.

  Blood stained the geradite.

  Broken toys. Broken arms. Appliances, now useless. The butt of the gun snapped. Erryn fell to her knees, and dug.

  Her fingers bled. She skinned her knuckles. Sweat bathed her.

  A cough.

  Eyes widened, Erryn stood and listened.

  A wheeze. A small, child-like wheeze.

  ‘I’m coming!’

  Erryn, knuckles and fingers already bloodied, lifted a geradite plate. Another was under it. Debris, shattered crockery underneath. It bit into her flesh. She didn’t wince. She dug, lifted, dug, shoved. Then stopped, her vision blurring from the exertion.

  Jilly lay, mask on, secure. No leaks.

  Erryn almost fell onto her, but retained her balance. She leaned down and felt for a pulse. A beat, another. Erryn breathed a sigh of relief. Jilly opened her eyes.

  ‘Erryn?’

  Erryn smiled, wiping some dirt from the child’s face.

  ‘Imperials!’

  Erryn jumped, drawing her pistol. A white-clad infantryman appeared just around the corner. She opened fire. The bullet ricocheted. He turned and fired a blast of energy. Erryn dodged to the side, leaving the blast to destroy a column.

  She fired again. A few shots found their mark and he fell to his knees, and then stood. Click, click.

  Erryn drew her knife. A bullet flew past her ear and the Imperial fell. Jilly lowered her high calibre revolver. Jilly passed the gun to Erryn, who accepted it.

  The sound of fighting permeated the dome. Dropships had landed and drilled through the roofing, allowing a steady stream of Imperials to enter.

  Erryn indicated for Jilly to follow.

  ‘Need to regroup,’ she muttered. If there was anyone left to regroup with. They bolted into the street, Erryn firing at a fortunately light armoured Imperial, then tackling its friend, stabbing it in the neck until it stopped squirming.

  Then she heard a buzz and a hum.

  A group of white and silver clad figures surrounded her, staffs levelled. They remained still. A shorter figure approached, and then there was a thud. Everyone turned as a frag grenade landed in the centre of the group. Erryn leapt upon Jilly as the flames consumed them. She no longer felt the pain in her back. She no longer felt anything.

  

  Yawning, snoring, gunfire, another blast from the orbital gun. Marshal awoke. Alex took his cue and fell asleep instantly. This cycle continued with most of them. Even the stalwart Grays could not last forever, as they took shifts, awaiting the inevitable next wave. At first, the sleepers would awake to fight the siege, but eventually, they grew too exhausted to aid their awake comrades. But with every wave, less and less could afford to remain asleep.

  Faint light shone through holes in the roof, where Imperial troops had attempted to infiltrate the facility. A mix of orange and grey. The light was as tired as they were.

  James sat, bags weighing his eyes down, but he could not find solace. His head was heavy, filled with cinderblocks but he could not bring himself to rest. The burden he now felt, pulling him towards the cold geradite floor, was what kept him standing. He stood for all those that had fallen, but not so much from a sense of honour – but of guilt. Of an insatiable anxiety that disallowed sleep or rest.

  In the sieges that followed the securing of the facility, the Defiant sallied-forth and fortified the rest of the structure. With the enhanced man-power from the Grays, they could man the anti-aircraft guns. With their expertise, Imperial fighters and bombers were not able to threaten the gun.

  James stood at an observation window overlooking Nexus. The city’s flames had long since perished. It was just a ruin. For all the lies they hid, the silver towers of Nexus now lay in the crystal fields below. Its domes bore the holes of countless dead ships. The Hub, so proud, so large, could no longer been seen. Its shops, malls, hotels, apartments – gone.

  James no longer looked at Nexus. He only peered at an already dead world. Zona Nox was black in the sky, the morning light creating an eclipse around Nova Zarxa’s neighbouring world. James did not fear his current home, as much as it could be called that, becoming like Zona Nox. He knew that Nova Zarxa was already dead. It was a zombie world, with maggots infesting its rotting skin. Krag-Zot was still listless, despite his attempts at humour and his unstoppable fighting. But James knew that the Areq still mourned for his home. James knew that he would be the same – that even if they won this war, he would never have his home again.

  The boom-boom of the AA-gun sounded. Orange streaks flew through the sky. An Imperial fighter shot past the observation window, leaving a white blur in its wake. The exhausted gunner had missed. James made his way towards the direction it was headed. It was probably escorting another dropship, or providing cover for a ground force.

  After the roof assaults inevitably failed, and the facility’s shield proved strong enough to hold back the Imperial artillery at range, the Imperials resorted to ground infantry and armoured attacks. The Defiant had lost an entire squad as Imperials surged up the hill from the crystal fields below. It had taken an hour to dislodge them from their foothold. Now, Defiant watched the sky and ground.

  James arrived at the nearest shuttle hangar as rapid bursts of blue energy peppered his position and the entire back wall of the small room. He backed into cover and awaited a lull. A few of the room’s occupants opened fire with slug weapons and the sizzle of a plasma gun. The firing continued as there was a crash. Then it stopped. James dove around the corner, Warp shield ready.

  It was the fighter from earlier. It had rammed head-first into the shuttle force-field, crushing the craft on impact. It had simultaneously broken its own hull. A hatch popped open and the pilot opened fire with a hand-held device. James blocked a few of the hits but then his shield fell. The blasts seared his flesh. Gritting his teeth, he opened fire. The blackened visor was pierced with one shot. Its owner fell with a spray of pale yellow blood.

  ‘What in the void was it doing?’ James muttered.

  The Gray warriors didn’t respond. One knelt over his fallen comrade. The other stared at him, mouthing the word, ‘Grag-Po’.

  James left.

  The main control atrium was awash with activity. The lights on the control pod, where the nameless Ganru had been dutifully firing upon enemy ships for over thirty-six hours, still showed signs of life. The red streak lights on the exterior of the gun barrel were still on. Every few minutes, it fired.

  Krag-Zot was sitting cross-legged in the centre of the room. Despite serving alongside him for over a day, the Defiant kept their distance.

  ‘Report, Krag-Zot?’ James asked, standing in front of the black-armoured individual. James presumed him to be meditating, but his visor betrayed no information.

  The Areq looked up.

  ‘No attacks here since the sun rose, Boymancer. Perhaps, they have lost the will to fight.’

  James doubted that. ‘These are Imperials. They destroyed my homeworld. They can’t just have surrendered…They are probably amassing a larger host. Perhaps they have even occupied the rest of the planet – to strangle us.’

  A few Defiant within earshot began looking nervous, their tired eyes widening.

  ‘Speak carefully, Boymancer. A leader doesn’t sow fear among his followers.’

  James grunted.

  ‘Do you have any mor
e Warp crystals?’

  Krag-Zot shook his head and responded.

  ‘Rest…James. There is little more you can do for my…this planet.’

  James left.

  Shouting erupted, and then ceased.

  ‘False alarm. Attackers neutralised,’ James heard from a nearby radio.

  They are tricking us. James frowned. It must be. This is all a feint. They are testing our defences. They’re keeping us locked up while they take the rest of the planet.

  James left the atrium and entered the field hospital. Grays and humans lay side by side. Some bloodied, but breathing. Others with blankets over their faces. Human and Gray medic worked side-by-side, helping each other as best they could with such dramatically different anatomy.

  James passed them. Some glanced up, hopeful, as he passed them.

  James bit down, his eyes moistening. He didn’t know if it was just the exhaustion, or if it was something else, but he felt an overwhelming sense of anger towards Aven Smith. The man had a lot to answer for.

  He had never wanted to be a god. He didn’t even believe in a god. He wanted to survive. He wanted to help his comrades. He only became their deity as he was convinced it would help them – but it only led to their subservience. James didn’t want that. Zonians didn’t bleed easily – much less for a man they somehow saw as god. James stopped and rested his fist on the hallway wall. He could not continue with this. He could not stand the staring, the looks of hope, the admiration and worship. He wasn’t worthy. He was a false hope, a comforting lie. Not for loyalty, not for power – he could no longer see his people become slaves to his image.

  He heard footsteps. He straightened and steeled himself. The Defiant let him pass, stopping their patrol. He hurried along, even though he knew they would have let him go as slow as he wanted.

  He turned into a small metal room with a lone individual wearing headphones.

  ‘Any luck?’

  The headphone wearer jumped and turned.

  ‘Defiant? No, no. No luck. Can only hear chatter from within this facility. The jammer is not as strong as within the first hour, but we still can’t hear anything more than a kilometre away.’

  James left without responding, making his way to the atrium again. We’re the only ones left. The city is taken. They’re toying with us.

  A deafening explosion and quake sent the frail James falling to the ground. The few Defiant patrollers were too shocked to notice his tumble. James jumped to his feet and bolted for the atrium.

  A cacophony of voices and shouts infested the large room as many who had fallen asleep awoke, guns in hands. But no Imperial arrived. No white-clad demon descended from the holed rooftop. No armoured beetle burst from the doors. No bomb collided with the structure, or was intercepted by the AA-guns. James stood, FireBolt in hand.

  But they never came.

  Hissing and the shifting of metal made many a man and woman jump. But it was just the pod. The Ganru exited. His shirt was wet with sweat and vomit trailed down his front. His eyes were bloodshot.

  A fellow Ganru ran to him, bearing a bottle of water. He ignored the offering and limped towards James. He fell, his legs too weak. Two men lifted him up as James approached.

  ‘Defiant,’ the Ganru rasped and then coughed. James took the bottle of water from the other Ganru and told him to drink.

  He chugged and coughed some more. The men lowered him to the ground. James knelt in front of him.

  ‘Defiant,’ he began again. ‘There’s only black now.’

  ‘You’re going to be okay. Medic! We need a medic!’

  ‘No, no…there’s no more of them. No silver specks. Last of them escaped. The others. I shot all the others.’

  James’ eyes widened.

  ‘Did we win?’

  James put his hand on the Ganru’s shoulder.

  ‘Yes, we did. Thanks to you.’

  The Ganru smiled, closed his eyes and slumped to the floor.

  

  The room was cold. Not in temperature, but in aesthetic. It was smooth, clinical, utilitarian. The material housing the room’s sparse adornments was a sound-proofing mineral unfamiliar to James. In the centre of this symmetrical, unfeeling room, there was a microphone.

  James took a deep breath and entered. Yobu, wearing only black, shut the door behind him. He was alone. Just him, a microphone and a hastily written speech on a tablet computer in his hand.

  He walked towards the microphone. In front of him, a screen opened and he could see the face of a Ganru technician. He counted down with his fingers.

  Three. Two. One.

  James didn’t speak. He stared at the tablet in his left hand. The words and sentences blurred. The effort of himself, Aven and other speech writers became useless. It wasn’t good enough. For the gunner who died, for his friends who died. For his planet that was dead. For the victory, as hollow and as costly as it was. For all the innocents who died. For those who lost everything. It wasn’t enough. It was an insult to the battle that never got its rightful end.

  For the Battle for Nova Zarxa had not ended with a bang, a relieved guffaw and a deafening cry of victory. It ended with a wheeze. The shutting of eyes. The overwhelming exhaustion that comes from witnessing too much in so little time. The Fall of Nova Zarxa never came, but nothing else did either. All that was wrought from the descent of the final Imperial battleship was a chance to cry, a chance to scream, a chance to mourn the dead. From this brutal battle, years in the making, there didn’t come any apparent watershed. Its end heralded no relief – for those who were dead, and those who mourned.

  James stared at the screen in his hand. He dropped it onto the carpet below. It would never be enough.

  He took in a deep breath and turned towards the door. Then he stopped.

  The faces. The screen, where the Ganru technician stared, bemused. The glass separating him from Yobu on the other side. These people, from different worlds, had fought for him – for something. They died, they mourned…because of him.

  James turned to the microphone. He knew that no matter what he said, it wouldn’t be enough – but he owed them that much.

  ‘Nova Zarxa – five hours ago, the last Imperial foothold was eliminated. This threat to our home has been stopped. For those left, we can have respite. I would like to say that we can relax, and live a peaceful life for all days. But I cannot lie to you. I know that most of you may not trust me. I don’t blame you. I’m a foreigner. A refugee turned terrorist who destroyed your way of life. I cannot change that. I will not change that. Your views of me are your burden. You may not believe me when I say I will not lie to you. But then you should not have to worry. Your way of life was a lie. If I am lying, then nothing has changed. But I am not lying, no matter how much I wish I was.

  ‘The Imperial Council will not stop here. We fought them back, against the odds. We stood our ground. We lost along the way. We lost irreplaceable things. Beloved things We can rebuild Nexus, but we cannot bring back those we lost. I am not going to lie and say that their sacrifice was necessary, or even in vain. I don’t have that right. I will never celebrate the death of my friends, my comrades, my people. But I will glorify them for what they did. I will make sure they live on, in memory, for standing their ground against total annihilation. A soldier’s death should never be celebrated. It is never worth the ultimate price. But their actions: those are worth remembering. And remember, Nova Zarxa, the brave souls who fought for this rock. Remember them when you take your next breath, for without them, you wouldn’t be able.’

  James paused for breath and continued.

  ‘We have a harsh road ahead. The Imperials need this rock. They need these toxic minerals beneath our feet. We can’t let them take it. For the lives of every being on this planet and of all free races everywhere.

  ‘For this very reason, I ask you to fight alongside me. Not under me, not for me. A friend of mine once told me that freedom had to be given by the strong. That only the powerful could prot
ect us. But that isn’t freedom. Freedom is fighting for what is right. For what you deem is right. Freedom is independence. Freedom is waking up in the morning and knowing that, if willing, you can change your fate. Nova Zarxa, Zonians, people…I will not give you your freedom. I cannot. I can slay dictators. I can use my power to fight those who wish to enslave you – but only you -can make the choice to seize freedom, a gun in hand.

  ‘I don’t ask you to fight for me, but for yourselves. For this is not a battle of me, or the Defiant, or even humanity versus the Imperial Council. It is a war between a way of life that desires freedom and honour, against a leviathan that detests liberty.

  ‘Nothing I say can ever be enough to make the loss we have felt worth anything. But we can all make this day worth something. We can fight. We can resist. When the Imperials come knocking on the gates of our free world once again, we stand our ground! I cannot bring back the dead. I cannot tell you to fight for me, or for state or for any idea. All I ask is that you stand your ground, and refuse to be a slave!’

  Silence.

  ‘This has been James Terrin of Galis.’

  James switched off the microphone and left. Yobu opened the door, his expression stunned.

  The group outside stared at him. Ryan, Marshal, Yobu, Kota…friends, comrades. Then James heard the cheering. From the ruins of Nexus erupted a roar that could be heard from every listening post around Extos III. It was a roar so passionate, so honest in its veracity, that it reverberated across the galaxy. From the Outer Reach, to Mars, to Sekai, to the Imperial worlds of Glaris and Xerl. The roar hit – and no power could stop it.

  “The Confederacy of the Defiant, often called the Cult of the Defiant, accomplished what the Troopers barely managed less than a decade ago on Ganymede. A motley, bloodied crew of refugees not only defended their new home, they showed the galaxy that the Imperial Council could bleed.” – R. Rebeck, Human Historian

  Chapter 30. Epilogue

  Danny smoked his cigarette outside the Aegis embassy, hastily erected where the Nexus hub once stood. He savoured it. It wasn’t a fake cigarette like one of those chemical substitutes or lab-grown tobacco. It was the genuine plantation article, right from Grengen.