“Hey now that’s just cruel, you know I was gonna go pro, just as soon as some of the scouts from the big leagues on the core Worlds come on out here.”
Simon tried to speak in between the fits of chuckles, “Ok well, try not to forget me when you’re rich and famous.”
Luke grinned, “Yeah it’s your loss cause I was going to throw you a few cheerleaders, as they would be lost on me, but now you’re not getting anything.”
Luke decided to shift the conversation and so asked pointedly, “Anyway onto more important matters, what exactly kept you, I’ve been here for ages?”
Simon grinned warmly, “Hey what are you complaining about, you got to sit here all nice and comfy, while the rest of us had a battle to win.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Luke reached up to his bandage, “I was the one that got shot.”
“Yeah but it was blue on blue, little brother, that just doesn’t count, you have to get shot by a real enemy, if you want to get any sympathy, or a nice shiny medal.”
Luke shook his head dispassionately, “What I don’t even get a goddamn medal, that’s just bullshit!”
“Yeah, all you get, is that nice bandage and all those shiny new bones and skin and stuff that gave you.” Simon seized his brother’s head again teasingly.
“Hey that’s enough,” Luke pleaded, “I’m an injured man you know.”
Simon let go and stepped back, his face suddenly looking like the cat that got the cream. “To be honest I met a nice nurse, you know beautiful, kind and from one of the core Worlds as well.”
“Nice, what’s wrong with here, is she blind.” Luke responded, as he lifted his good arm up in defence.
“You little shit”
“Hey remember I’m injured here.”
Simon fumed, “No she’s not blind and I’m seeing here later as well, so it’s all coming up aces for me.” The beam returned.
“Shit so you’re telling me that I’m the one that gets shot and instead of me meeting a nice, male nurse, who can look after me, you’re the one that’s going to get laid.”
“Hey she’s not that kind of girl.”
“Shit you must really like her.”
Simon didn’t speak for an instance and then a simple crease of his lips was an answer.
“Don’t fucking tell me, that my own brother, the closed off, emotional stunted, man’s man, has got some real feeling for a girl.”
“Don’t think that just cause your hurt, I won’t give you a few punches here and now.” Simon brought his fists up.
Luke held his hand up in imitation surrender, “Come on bro you wouldn’t hit me in front of all these witnesses, would you?”
Simon peered away briefly and then turned his attention back to Luke, “Anyway, if you walking, your back on the line.”
Luke’s face dropped, he was hoping he would get to sit out the fighting for at least a bit. “You have to be shitting me?”
“No, sorry little bro, the fighting’s over for now, but everyone’s whose still in one piece and can hold a rifle has to get back on the line,” the smirk returned. “Anyway don’t want you hanging round here and causing trouble, especially if there are any male nurses knocking around.”
“Oh that’s harsh bro, you’re loving this aren’t you?”
“Hey who’s usually the one alone?”
“Good point bro, it probably is finally your turn to get some loving.” Luke got up slowly, the pain, had lessened to more of a dull throbbing, yet the tissue under the bandage still felt taut, like at any minute it could split open, so he moved carefully. He grasped his rifle in his good hand and swung round to leave. “I’m happy for you really.” He smiled.
“Thanks bro,” Simon responded gleefully.
“I mean it’s about time you removed the packaging from your dick and actually started using it” Luke uttered as he began to run or more hobble away quickly.
“You little shit,” Simon retorted as he set off after his brother. “I’m going to throw you such a beating, you better run.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
About two miles away on the roof of an immense water tower, sniper Valus “Eye one” Lurkuis, lay in silence, as he spied out over the barren landscape through the scope of his tech-ten, high ordinance, enhanced rifle. For some reason this scorched place made him think of his own home-world, a planet like this only in the fact that it was also desolate in its own way, and isolated at the very brink of the Empire. It was a place where hunting is not a sport, as he had found it seemed to be on many of the core Worlds, no it was for survival. They had hunted for sustenance and also for the rare, exotic, and highly valued coats of the “Lura” a very dangerous, four legged mammal, which they had traded with off world dealers.
His father had been the one that taught him the ancient and sacred way of the huntsman, how to live in harmony with your surroundings, how to move with silence and stealth, unlike any other human. To only kill when it was necessary and when you did to make sure that the kill was quick. His memory stirred and an image of his dad, flashed within his mind. He had been a broad man, his kindly face usually hidden behind the bushy, beard he wore, still brown, even though his hair was predominantly grey and with streams of rust running through it.
The first hunt he had ever gone on, still burnt brightly within his mind, he couldn’t have been more than five and had ridden on his fathers, powerful shoulders, for most of the time as the ground was too uneven for him. Then when his dad had spotted the prey, he had taken him down gently and they had crawled together, as he had been taught. He could see the gleaming, wooden rifle, his father used, something passed down for generations, from parent to child and it could trace its roots back to the very first colonists, who had set foot on the world. He sees his dad now, the ancient weapon pulled in snug against his shoulder, his breath slow and steady. Then the shot rings out and his dad turns to him, his face set in a sombre mask.
His words rang out again, “Always remember my son, never pull the trigger, with anger in your heart. Only ever pull the trigger, when the shot is true and your heart is clear. Never take a life without thinking and always remember it may be the bullet that kills, but it is your responsibility. All life is sacred, my mother told me that, and now I am telling you, and one day you will tell your child.”
He hadn’t thought much about his home recently, this never ending carnage had a way of encompassing all his thoughts. The way of the huntsman was the tradition, which had ruled his World, a way that the people, lived in perfect balance with nature. They lived quiet and peaceful lives and although the people were not wealthy, they had a comfortable existence. That was until the Empire had decided to take a more active interest in the planet, it took them only a matter of weeks to decimate the balance of the eco-system which had flourished for millions of years. They had come in search of some kind of mineral or power source, he had never truly understood. All he can remember were the mighty machines they brought, that destroyed the trees and ripped apart the land, hungrily searching for the valuable prize which lay buried far beneath. Those who stood up to these strangers, like his father had done, had been dealt with swiftly and brutally. His father had been a strong man, yet, what they had returned was little more than a broken shell, the marks of torture still fresh.
Within only a few years, the atmosphere had been poisoned and the water had become like acid. He had no idea what the planet would be like now, yet he knew that nothing would grow from the soil or live in the seas again, and the tradition of the huntsman was dead; certainly upon that decaying world.
He still had the rifle, his father had given him, on his deathbed. Thin, emaciated muscle’s barely able to hold the weapon heft, tears in his one remaining opaque eye. Valus reached his hand out almost intuitively and felt the soft grain of the wood once again. It was the only reminder he had now, of his past, his dad and the traditions that had been bred into him. He would always be a huntsman and he would remember his father’s words.
In a way that is how he had ended up here, the Empire had arrived only days after his father’s funeral and told him his name had been chosen for the privilege of fighting, unless he had the funds to buy his freedom. Of course he hadn’t, he glanced at his mother, tears gushing down her already grief stricken face. She had died only two months after he had left, she had sent him a message saying that she had nothing left now to live for and wanted to see his father again. He could understand that.
He didn’t hate this decrepit realm, like a lot of others did, you couldn’t hate a thing, which is what the Empire was, just a collection of millions maybe billions of worlds, all under the command of something, maybe even someone. He sure as hell didn’t know, maybe past all the generals and planetary governors there was simply some giant computer that ran the whole show, or a tiny bald-headed old man, with a big, white beard, like some medieval god.
The truth was no-one really knew who ran this mighty domain, of course you had the elected council, or something, he had heard, but that was it. Maybe those rich folks on the core Worlds knew, with all their power and education, hell maybe it was them that ran this whole thing, or their corporations with the never-ending supply of credits and greed.
Still it was crazy to worry about such things, in an Empire this big all you could worry about was what was right in front of you. It was like when you get trapped in a freak fog storm, the kind of thing, so thick you can’t even see your hand in front of your face, you can’t think about what’s ten metres away, all you can do is stick your hands out and try and feel what’s right in front of you. That was the way of the world and of the Empire. It was the way of the huntsman as well, protect those closest to you and strive to survive.
Sure he had heard stories about the good old days, his father had told him some as a boy, those that he knew, past down from the very descendants of the Sol who had first come to their world and called it home. Tales of the days when man had first stepped foot into space, first stepped upon alien soil, how it had all been rosy and great, a time of science, peace and hope. With great heroes, fighting for the light against the darkness. Yet if he was truly honest, he could no longer believe those tales, perhaps it was only natural that each generation glances back and sees the past with rose tinted glasses. Remembers only what it wants to and glosses over the truth. He was sure though that they still had the mega-corporations, who only cared about the almighty credit, and how to get away with paying as little tax and tariffs as possible. He was sure injustice, war, famine, death and hunger had all still existed. Perhaps that was simply how life was meant to be, as in nature, the constant struggle to endure.
He left such academic ideas behind and returned to the job at hand. He was a huntsman and this was what he did. He panned the magnified scope along the bloody frontline and back behind the line to what was left of the main colonial hub district. It was then he spotted them; they were good, damn good, moving in a tight formation using the crumbling remains, of the buildings as cover.
He counted them quickly eighteen men and women, three of whom had high powered rocket launchers strapped to their backs and they were moving towards the trench line, they thought they were good; he would change their opinion.
“Stalker this is eye one, you have some stranglers moving up on your position, grid ref, four-two, three-seven, bout one click from you. Am gonna light’em up, but just keep your eyes open, in case one gets through.” He whispered into the secure implant in his throat.
“Good eyes, will keep our guard up down here.” Sam’s voice crackled back over Valus’s earpiece.
Slowly he relaxed his shoulder, as he used his fingers to zoom the sight in on the Separatists who were now huddling in a deserted alleyway.
“I remember the lessons I was taught” he whispered, the mantra glaring within his mind, he could almost feel his father’s hand upon his shoulder.
Calmly he ejected the magazine of armour piecing rounds and without taking his eye away from his targets picked up a fresh one filled with explosive tips. At this distance that was what was needed, he wasn’t sure his father would have approved of using bullets that explode. Yet this was war and he had to adjust the way of the huntsman.
He drew in a relaxed, shallow breath, lined the cross hairs up with one of the enemies, who had a decomposing human heart attached to his breastplate and prepared his mind, and body for the hunt.
He barred his eyes for a moment, “I will only pull the trigger when my heart is pure, when I feel no anger.” He whispered the words carefully, as he leaned into the slim line weapon to avoid any kickback and gently squeezed the trigger just as his father had taught him.
He observed in reverential silence as the round tore silently from the barrel of his rifle and bore into the targets armour. Before his colleagues had time to react the projectile detonated; sending super-heated shrapnel and waves of luminous fire in all directions. The eight Separatists closest to the blast were killed instantly, the flames melting through their armour and searing flesh to bones. Two more lay writhing in agony limbs missing and their exposed skin scorched and blackened. The remaining seven fiends ran for cover, leaping behind a partially collapsed concrete wall.
For Valus time had slowed down as it always did, he could feel his heart pump inside his chest, feel the very blood thrusting through his veins, he was in the calm of the hunt as his father had called it.
“I only pull the trigger, when the shot is pure,” He murmured as he expelled the magazine and slammed a fresh one with armour piercing rounds in. He chambered the first bullet and felt his tendons and sinews tighten as once again he prepared for the shot. “I remember that it is the bullet that kills, however it is my responsibility.”
His fingers nimbly clicked the sight to infra-red and now he saw the world transformed into masses of oxblood, amber, yellow and white. Now he viewed the surrounding in terms of heat signatures. The seven Separatists showed up as blobs of coloured hues, all were huddled together, thinking they were safe behind the foot or so of concrete, they were wrong again. They were his enemy and they would kill him and those that he cared about. So it was the huntsman way to slay them first, it was simply a matter of survival. Yet he took no pleasure in it, it was necessary and that was all.
“I remember my father and the huntsman,” He spoke the words serenely and then fired.
Within five seconds four of the Separatist’s lay dead, their heads missing and holes in the reinforced walls, where they had knelt. Before the remaining three had made it ten metres, two more buckled, pools of murky liquid quickly encapsulated their still shaking frames. The final soldier made it another two metres before the round tore through his back and exploded through his chest. Valus watched in an almost placid stillness, as his foes body crumbled to the ground.
“Stalker, this is eye one scopes are clear.”
“Roger that eye one, good work, move around to second platoon, they are having some problems. I’ve sent Naomi and squad four to give them some fire support, but that might need some extra cover. Set up an over watch and see what you can do to help, Stalker out.”
“Roger that moving now.” he retorted languidly.
He shuttered his eyes for a second, the kills replayed in front of him like a movie, he observed in silence as the bullets tore through the air, spied as they ripped into his enemies’ bodies. Then he saw himself as a child within the Forrest, the feel of the earth under his bare feet, the sweet, transfixing scents upon the summer breeze, the sound of life all around him. Birds singing that was one of the things that he missed, even to this day. He hoped one day he would live long enough, to once again find a place like that, somewhere far away from the fucking Empire and all their shit. All the propaganda and secret police and political prisoners. A place where he could find some harmony again, become one with nature and lose all the memories he had, that would be fine with him, but for now he did what everybody did he fought, what else was there to do.
“I shoot true and prote
ct those that I love,” He whispered “And I remember my father, I am a huntsman.” As he finished he began to pack away the rifle and one last time glanced down upon the battlefield, even without the scope he could see where second platoon where, he scanned the area and saw what was left on a habitation tower, the metal warped and bent, yet he was sure that he would be able to find a good vantage point.
He shouldered his rifle and then reached down and took up his true weapon, the wood felt reassuring in his grasp, he pulled back the action and chambered a round. He let the weapon sit loosely in the crook of his arm. He barred his eyes and saw his father once again.
“I never take a life without thinking,” he spoke softly, “As you told me, one day I will tell my children.”
He opened his eyes and allowed a sly smile to crease the camouflage that covered his face. Without another word he set off to the next battle, he was a huntsman after all and this is what he did.
CHAPTER TWELVE
General Ilius Normaskon sat in quiet contemplation in the rear of his heavily armoured personnel carrier, flanked by twenty members of his personnel honour guard, clad in what could only be described as ostentatious, amethyst hued ceremonial armour and carrying chain cannons. They made an imposing escort, which he simply adored; he cherished all the pomp and majesty, which came with his position. Even now amidst the hell and carnage of this battle, he had his stately troops and surrounding his APC four heavy battle tanks all flying the regimental colours.
A wry smirk crept across his youthful face, as he thought of all his loyal soldier’s knee deep in mud and gore, the likes of which very few could ever even imagine. Dying he was sure in some massive numbers. To most that would have seemed to be a tragedy, yet that was not how he saw the Universe. He was not a heartless man, at least not entirely, what he was though was a realist. This mighty game of war, would continue, until either the Separatists, were killed off or the Empire was, and until that day he would continue to make use of it for his own personal gain. He was simply a survivor, he had learnt that from his Mother, his real Mother that was, not the prudish, witch who had officially raised him, her title was far too long for him even to remember now, so he was simply told to refer to her as the Baroness.
The Last Foxhole (The Forgotten War Saga Book 1) Page 11