As he witnessed the fighting intensify, he wanted more than anything to be in the trench alongside his troops. Most people would never truly understand why any man would want to become involved in combat that was so inhuman and primitive. Some would be under the mistaken belief that it was some insane blood lust, or homicidal rage. The answer was far simpler than that, it was because of the bond that only existed between soldiers. Men and women, who had trained together, slept together, frozen together, drank together and who witness death, and tragedy on a daily basis. It was a connection that you couldn’t explain to anyone else, it was a tie forged in the hell of conflict and one that could never be broken. He wanted to be brawling, because his troopers were and that is where a commander should be, where the metal meets the meat as the saying went. In this miserable universe, amidst the desolation of this never ending war, all they had was each other.
No one else cared whether they lived or died, not the pampered true members of the Empire, or in reality those rich enough to purchase citizenship, who inhabited safe, clean worlds far from the frontline and lived in opulent luxury. Or even the military leaders back on the mighty fleet battleships now in high orbit above the planet, to whom the Marines were simply numbers and statistics. Pieces on some giant chessboard they could neither see, nor fully comprehend. If the Separatists were victorious on this planet, wiped out all of his Marines and even exterminated the entire population, it wouldn’t matter to anyone, and in fact it was unlikely a single person would even hear about it, as the News Net wouldn’t even cover the story. Their names would just be added without fanfare, or feeling to the never ending list of the dead, and the conflict would simply roll onto the next destination, like a train upon an infinite track.
Without warning, a group of enemy soldiers vaulted over the barbwire and into the undefended foxhole in front of him, and his war contracted to the few metres around him. He counted five of them in total, all clad in traditional arcane battle amour and carrying heavy laser rifles. Every movement they made was violent and brutal, as if only ire and wrath was driving them, which could of course be true.
The first of them, who had the insignia of rank, two severed human fingers on each of the extravagant shoulder pads, was the only one without a mask or helmet on, and so his face if you could still even call it that was clear. It no longer possessed any real features though, instead it appeared to be like some kind of surrealist nightmare, the man had no eyelids, no nose, no ears and all that was left of the lips was weeping, scar tissue, behind which blackened stumps; which must have been teeth at some point, had been filed down to sharpened fangs.
The leader raised the rifle above his head and let out an animalistic howl, which made even Sam’s blood run cold, and sent a familiar if unwelcome shiver up his spine. Even now after so many years of combat, he still felt his stomach tighten when he came face to face with the enemy. A small part of his mind told him that they were still human, even under all the scarification and dark magic, yet it was difficult to truly accept that, when you were examining them up close. Once again like so many times before, his body prepared for the fight, muscles and sinews tightened, and he could feel adrenaline begin to course through arteries and veins.
“Find me fresh meat, find it now,” the leader spat. Every word seemed to drip with vitriol.
Sam had little choice now, he knew that none of his troopers were close enough to aid him and so he would have to deal with this by himself. There was no time to think at moments like this, your survival instincts took over and you face a simple choice, fight or flight. For the first time in a year he felt the familiar hand of death upon his shoulder, its warm embrace almost comforting. Fear wormed its way within his gut, and set up home. When the struggle was upon you, only two choices remain, you fight or you die, and he had no plans to die just yet.
Almost serenely he drew forth his two pistols from the holsters on his thighs, and brought them to bear on the first enemy soldier. There was no time for contemplation now, so he depressed the triggers, the weapons bucked and unleashed a hail of red hot, explosive tipped rounds. He stared with an almost macabre delight as the targets head literally vaporised in a pink haze. Before the fiend’s hulking frame could slump to the ground, Sam fired again and two more of his adversaries died in a storm of bullets.
He bounded into the trench as the two remaining Separatists began their own salvo, beams of high energy laser tore into the earth where he had been standing, discharging a thin mist of dirt and debris. He hit the ground nimbly, bowled forward and came up on one knee in the perfect firing position, which had been drilled into him at basic training. One of the enemy troopers was just in front of him now, a mask that had been crafted from the flesh of a young women’s visage, pulled taught over a grilled visor, shrouded his features. Time slowed to a trickle and the world around fell away, all he could see now was the soldier move his firearm down, yet he was too slow. Sam conveyed his guns up under the Separatists unprotected chin and vented a volley. He barred his eyes as gore and brain matter bespattered his face. A rush of visceral disgust spread within him and his stomach churned, and once more he could taste bile in his gorge. He had to stifle the urge to throw up and forced his mind to calm. This was war, at its most basic level and as always the dead followed close behind.
He never heard the shot, all he felt was the searing heat as the laser bolt seared along his cheek, the stench of superheated ozone, commingled with the acrid, almost sweet reek of his own scorched flesh and filled his senses; before even the nerve impulses from his scolded skin, could register within his mind. He swung around hastily, training and instincts taking over again, and he found the leader, the last foe alive glaring at him. The enemies’ hollow, sunken and opaque eyes were wide, while the mass of angry purple flesh that had been his nostril’s, splayed.
The enemy spluttered, “You die now.”
Sam’s mind was racing, all his faculties were heightened and his vision narrowed. He knew that the heavy laser would take several seconds to recharge, it was one of the downsides of using energy weapons, which was why the Marines still used the old fashioned projectile hardware.
“Not today,” he whispered. As he slid the pistols up and depressed the triggers, the weapons reared in his hands, as the bullets exploded from the still smoking barrels.
He caught sight, of what could only be described as a sardonic beam as it spread across the scarified face, then the Separatist dove to the right just as the rounds flew past him, and impacted on the mud wall of the foxhole, showering the area in clumps of dried earth.
Without a word Sam shifted his gaze down to his own armaments and saw that on each the action was back, meaning that the magazines were empty, and he knew he wouldn’t have time to reload before the adversary was upon him. He dropped the guns onto the ground, as now they were simply useless weights and primed himself for the fight that was to come.
Across from him the Leader got up awkwardly, it sneered, the dusky, mutilated skin wrinkled. His weapon came to bear, the recognizable hum of the rifle resonated through the frigid air. “You think you are a clever man, but you’re not. Now you die, and I will eat your heart, and gain your soul.” The enemy hissed, filled with ferocity and hatred. “And then I think I will cut your face off and keep it.”
Sam didn’t respond, he didn’t need to, instead he simply clenched his teeth and waited. Once again he felt the gloom of the grim reaper stalk him, waiting for the one moment to strike, and devour his soul.
He looked at the foe and watched as the Leader’s gloved fingers moved over the trigger of the laser weapon, his lidless eyes inspecting him hungrily, like some kind of hunter watches it quarry. Sam allowed his own hand to seek out the familiar serrated handle of the knife behind his back, the cold steel felt good, and almost reassuring within his grasp. All he could do now was wait and hope that he was fast enough. Or he would die in this arid red soil. Naomi’s image flashed in his mind, her gentle eyes upon him, the feel of her lips, the
way she breathed when she slept, the way she held him when the nightmares struck as they so often did.
Abruptly a high pitched, inhuman shriek echoed across the battlefield, the Separatist paused just for a second and tilted his head, as if listening out for a whisper lost on the breeze. That was all the time that Sam needed, he lunged to his left and launched the knife through the air. The Leader managed to lose a shot before the sharpened blade ripped through his throat, and severed the spinal column. Sam watched as the effulgent beam of radiance sailed past him and down the trench.
Automatically he shifted back to face his adversary just in time to see the bulky body buckle unceremoniously to the floor, the frame twitched for a few seconds and then was still. Quickly the soil around him was encompassed with a pool of murky, scarlet and rose, which seemed almost to match the tone of the soil itself. He had killed again and with that another piece of his spirit expired, not for the first time he wondered if he had any of it still left to lose. How could you try and hold onto everything that made you human, your empathy and compassion amid all this butchery, and horror. That was the ultimate question and he wasn’t sure that he had the answer.
CHAPTER TWO
Further down the line Lieutenant Tom “Last stand” Lavros, cleaved the bayonet from the Separatist’s abdomen and brought the weapon to bear. The enemy slipped down onto her knees and fought to desperately push back in the intestines that had spilled out, like a mass of raw, and slimy sausages. The woman glared up at him and flashed her sharpened teeth.
“Kill me!” she screamed, as clumps of viscous saliva and bloody foam escaped her lips.
He didn’t know if it was a request or a taunt, and at this point he was too tired to care. He levelled the rifle at her disfigured face and squeezed the trigger gently. Warm fluid and brain matter speckled onto his body, at another place, and time that would have revolted him. Yet now, he simply brushed the solid material from his uniform and pushed on.
Tom scanned the trench around him and saw his troopers had repulsed the final onslaught and the enemy were beginning to fall back, the few that still lived that was. For a moment he considered how similar this battle was to the first he had been involved in, where his own handle had come from. He was a new recruit then, just out of basic and deployed to a similar, desolate wasteland, he couldn’t even think of the name now, not that it was of any importance. Each battlefield was much the same as the last, sometimes there were trenches and defensive positions, and sometimes you had to make do with a hole you could dig with your helmet.
This particular conflict had taken place on a mountain, at the top of which had been an ancient church, not a puritan monstrosity, but a domed structure linked to some long forgotten faith. They had been sent to relieve the squad that was already stationed there, the skirmish itself was supposed to be over. As soon as they arrived though they realised that, it was far from finished.
Wave after wave of Separatists were assaulting the embattled defenders, who hunkered down behind, antiquated walls, already pot marked by shrapnel.
Their Captain, some kind of high born imbecile had ordered them to charge the enemy, which had simply lead to half of the squad being cut to pieces, the survivors had managed to make it to the church and sought shelter inside.
Even now when that specific vision came to him, he felt such peace, it had been serene and hushed, within the gutted shell of the building, even though the battle raged just feet away. He wasn’t religious at all, yet he had felt something in that place. A kind of tranquillity, he had never experienced since then.
The combat had raged for nearly a week, almost constant shelling and hand to hand fighting meant that when the reinforcements finally arrived only four people were still alive, and he was the only one that could still talk. The Marines had looked at him, covered in rusted iron, soot and grime. A barrel-chested brute who he later found out some sort of General had slapped a gleaming medal upon his chest, and given him the nickname.
Tom hadn’t wished to celebrate, he had simply found a quiet corner of the old building and slept for two solid days that was the last time that he had closed his eyes without the nightmares coming.
The whirling sound, tore him from the memory and he flashed his eyes up.
“Incoming!” Was all he was able to shout, before the artillery pummelled into the trench, he dove to his right and all he heard were the detonations and the screams.
After the bombardment, there was the briefest instance of silence and then the screams began. Tom opened his eyes and glanced down at his own body, hands snaking over limbs, and checking for any wounds. Once again he couldn’t find anything, he reached for the chain that hung around his neck. The faded, metallic symbol wasn’t something that he recognised, yet somehow it had kept him alive once again.
Around him troopers lay, bodies ripped apart, while various severed limbs still squirmed and twitched. The fetid aroma of excrement, sweat, vomit and burnt flesh filled his senses. He could feel his own stomach turn and he swung around, and vomited.
“Medic!” he hollered, as he wiped the sick from his mouth and pulled out his own diminutive first aid kit and raced over to the first soldier, and began to fight to save as many of his soldiers as he could.
CHAPTER THREE
PLANET ABSYLL FOUR, CENTRE OF EMPIRE SPACE, 200 MILLION LIGHT YEARS FROM SOL
The small unmarked military shuttle tore through the dense, electrically charged clouds, which completely shrouded this most secretive place. Very few people knew of its exact location, although rumours of its existence, could be heard on any planet throughout the Realm. This was the Temple of the Empire, the very heart and soul of the Conclave, which controlled the lives of every man, woman and child within known space. The religious leaders of the puritans, along with the governing council, were born, lived and died here, within the rich, opulent confines of the various palaces that pot marked the surface of this once tranquil World. Few if any every left this, ivory tower, to see how the rest of the citizens of this mighty domain, actually lived. All of them existed in a sheltered cocoon, of wealth and privilege, every whim and desire met by an army of indentured servants, whose very survival depended upon the happiness of their masters.
The military vessel was constantly broadcasting its clearance codes, so as not to be targeted and destroyed by the millions of orbital defence platforms, which littered the manmade ionised storm. The weapons were necessary for the Empire had a great many enemies and not simply the Separatists, plenty of home grown anarchist and terrorist groups would have given anything to be able to actually assault the very heart of this, bankrupt and degenerate kingdom.
Although most of the ordinary citizens, would have no idea who the members of the governing Conclave were, as they were neither seen in public, or on broadcasts for that matter. Each colonized planet, could elect its own representative to go to the parliament, yet in all truth this was simply a publicity stunt, as these elected officials had no real power or influence. The actual authority was centred on this World, here every decision that mattered was taken, tax levels, food prices, healthcare costs, education charges and of course the conduct of the Great War.
No, the only time the general population would see anyone from this secluded haven, was when the chancellor of the puritans made his yearly address, on the moral state of the Empire. Apart from that, the people lived in ignorance, of the people who actually controlled and monitored them.
Once through the heavy veil that cloaked the entire surface of the planet; the small vessel slowed down and floated majestically towards the metropolis that covered almost the entire surface of this secret place. It was an awe inspiring sight to behold, even to those who held no love for this elite, ruling class.
The megalopolis was ablaze with lucid radiance. It had been designed and built by an army of the best architects, and artisans that money could buy. Vast pyramids of glass and steel, commingled with ornate golden palaces, and immense statues of ancient heroes. At the ce
ntre of this colossal city, two gargantuan building stood, next to each other and intricately carved semi-circular bridge linked the two structures. If you were to observe them from orbit, they appeared like two outstretched hands, fingers intertwined.
The headquarters of the council, was the first structure, it was a visual depiction of order and discipline; it was a mass of perfect straight lines, and gleaming translucent panels. It seemed to most to be some sort of physical representation of the perfect mathematical equation, as if its very construction was the result of some seamless formula. The second was the cathedral of the puritans, it was a simple, yet grandiose pyramid, which culminated in a giant, golden statue of the founder of the church, his severely wrinkled face set in a thin, almost chased smile, while his gnarled hands where held outstretched to the heavens.
In the cramped hold of the vessel, Supreme commander Selina Tellin, glanced out through the reinforced porthole at the monstrous conurbation below and felt her stomach drop. It wasn’t necessarily the architecture which caused her discomfort, the city itself which was perhaps the most beautiful, if sterile that she had ever seen, it was that just that being summoned to this place was usually an ominous sign.
She had received the invitation, although to her it might as well have been an order, less that twelve hours ago, for an audience with the Conclave. That alone would have struck awe inspiring terror into the hearts of most, to make matters worse, over the past six months ten of the other Supreme Commanders had been called to visit this cold and miserable place, and none had returned alive.
She allowed an awkward smirk to curl her lips, a nervous tick she had suffered from since childhood. She drew in a shallow breath, the recycled oxygen had a metallic tinge, which set her teeth on edge.
The Last Foxhole (The Forgotten War Saga Book 1) Page 2