by Tripp Ellis
"Have you ever fired a rifle before, recruit Jamison?" Nyvor asked.
“I’ve fired a crossbow."
"Not exactly the same thing, but close enough.
Nyvor stepped back several paces and drew his sword. He assumed a defensive posture, holding the sword upright before him, crouching at the knees.
"I want you to take aim at me.”
Nolan hesitated for a moment, wondering if this was some type of set up.
"I said, take aim."
Nolan brought the weapon to his shoulder and lined up Nyvor in the reticle of his sites.
"Do you think you can hit me at this distance?"
"Yes, sir."
Nyvor grinned. "You sure?"
"Positive, sir."
Nyvor’s eyes sparkled. "Give it your best shot."
Nolan's face twisted, confused. "Sir?"
"You heard me. Open fire."
Nolan hesitated again. As much as he wanted to kill the Emperor, he didn't really have a beef with Nyvor. Other than being a hard ass, he seemed like a fair man. He was just doing his job, trying to make the best soldiers that he could.
"I'm waiting, Recruit Jamison."
"Yes, sir." Nolan replied. He held his breath and steadied the rifle. His finger pulled the trigger and the blistering bolts of energy launched from the barrel, streaking across the compartment toward Nyvor.
The gunnery sergeant deflected the deadly bolt with his spell sword. It seemed to absorb the energy. Nyvor displayed impressive responses.
The platoon looked on with awe.
"I want you to keep firing until you hit me,” Nyvor commanded.
"If you say so, sir."
Nolan took aim again and squeezed the trigger several times in rapid succession. It was a semiautomatic weapon. The rifle would fire as fast as you could pull the trigger, but it didn't have a select fire switch. There wasn’t a burst mode—the crystals couldn't handle that kind of energy output.
The blazing bolts streaked across the compartment with deadly intensity.
Nyvor twirled his sword, deflecting each bolt with ease as he advanced forward.
Nolan kept firing.
Nyvor closed the gap between them, deflecting bolt after bolt until he was close enough to knock the rifle from Nolan's grasp with the blade of his sword.
The weapon clattered against the deck, sliding across the surface. The impact of Nyvor’s blade against the barrel rattled Nolan's hands. He stared at the gunnery sergeant in amazement.
Nyvor sheathed his sword and addressed the platoon. "This is why I will always choose a sword over a rifle. Learn to master the blade. It will be your best friend on the battlefield. Your spell sword will never run out of energy. It won't malfunction or jam. You must master it as you must master your life."
The platoon was practically speechless. The gunnery sergeant’s skills were impressive. With that demonstration, he had earned a degree of respect from all of them.
"All right, it's chow time. Report back here in 30 minutes for advanced swordsmanship training."
The recruits rushed toward the exit.
Nyvor called after Nolan, Caleb, and Darvak. "I need to speak with you a moment."
The three of them looked disappointed that they were going to miss out on chow time.
"Don't worry. You'll have plenty of time to chow later. I've got good news and bad news for you."
“What's the good news?” Caleb asked. "Are we being offered an early retirement package?"
"Much better. I’m moving you out of recruit training and into a combat unit."
"But we've got another week of training, sir." Nolan protested. As much as training sucked, combat had to be worse. Nolan wanted to be as prepared as possible.
"I know you'll miss me," Nyvor said sarcastically, “But the needs of Star Legion dictate that you replace the lost ranks of one of our elite units. Of course, if you don't think you're up for it, I could always suggest you be discharged. I hear the vacuum of space is really nice this time of year.”
15
Nolan tossed and turned all night. He had gotten used to the snores, the people chattering in their sleep, and Timmons who farted all night, making the compartment smell like rotten eggs. Well, Nolan hadn’t really gotten used to that. But he was anxious about the transfer to a combat unit. It wasn't that he was afraid to fight. He was more concerned with fighting on the wrong side. The fear of getting maimed or wounded during combat was always there, but his true concern was that he was going to be part of the most destructive force in the galaxy. How was he ever going to be able to live with his actions? If he survived and lived to old age, how would he feel about the course of his life? He wanted to make choices that his future self would be proud of. He didn't want to live to old age just to be filled with regret. There were no easy answers, and the dilemma weighed heavily on his mind.
Morning reveille seemed to come only moments after Nolan fell truly asleep. He shot out of bed and made his rack, then went about the usual morning routine of personal hygiene, inspection, and breakfast. After returning from the chow hall, Nolan received his official transfer orders and was assigned to new quarters with his combat platoon.
Nolan gathered his belongings. Along with Caleb and Darvak, Nolan made his way through the corridors and joined the new unit. The trio was met with unwelcoming stares as they entered their new berthing compartment.
These were war weary Soturi with eyes as deep as oceans. When they looked at you, they looked through you. Their adrenaline levels had been ratcheted up so high that the daily routine of life barely registered. They didn't seem to care about anything or anyone. Least of all the FNGs (fucking new guys).
The trio stood just inside the hatch, looking like fish out of water. Nolan caught sight of Tanc at the far end of the compartment. Great, Nolan thought. The last thing he needed was to be in a platoon with that jackass.
An NCO stepped up and introduced himself. He was the only one who seemed halfway friendly. “Staff Sergeant Hanson,” he said, introducing himself. He shook hands with the trio. “Welcome to Thrasher Platoon. Pick an empty rack and get your gear stowed.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” Nolan replied.
“We’ve been in desperate need of replacements. Don't mind the rest of the fellows. They’re good guys, but it might take them a little while to warm up to you. If you last that long.”
Nolan forced a grim smile.
“Once you get settled, head down to the armory and you will be issued full battle gear,” Hanson said.
“Yes, Sergeant.”
Nolan and the others picked out racks and got settled in.
“I guess they’re letting just anybody in this platoon now,” Tanc grumbled. He sneered at the new additions.
Nolan ignored him. One trip to the pain chamber was more than enough.
“They were hand selected by me,” Captain Avar said as she entered the room.
“Officer on deck,” someone shouted.
The platoon snapped to attention. Tanc looked like a scolded child. His cheeks reddened.
“As you were,” Captain Avar said.
The tension in the room dissipated.
“I hate to spring this on your last minute, but it looks like we're going to be assaulting the Citadel on Gamma Hydra. Mission prep will be at 0400 hours in the ready room on B deck. Get a good nights sleep and may the hand of Rynok be with us.”
The platoon responded with enthusiasm. Rynok was an ancient god of war, and his name was often invoked prior to engaging in battle.
Nolan stowed his gear, then made his way to the armory with Caleb and Darvak. Even when asked a direct question, Darvak never had much to say. That was fine by Nolan. The two had managed to avoid conflict since their initial scrap in the holding cell. But it wasn't like they were ever going to become the best of friends.
By this point in time, Nolan had a cursory knowledge of the ship and its layout. Though it wouldn't take much doing to get lost on the dreadnought. The pa
ssageways could easily blend together, all looking the same. It wasn't difficult to get turned around.
As usual, the hallways were alive with activity. The constant drone of the engines rumbled through the ship. Nolan was used to a rather solitary life with lots of wide open spaces. The cramped nature of the dreadnought was claustrophobic in comparison, but he was getting used to it. As nervous as he was about the impending battle there was a part of him that was relishing the opportunity to get off the ship and back on solid ground.
On the way to the armory, they passed by a chamber that was posted with two guards. It wasn’t an unusual sight on the dreadnought, but it piqued Nolan’s curiosity. “What’s in there?”
“That’s where the benders do their thing,” Darvak said in a rare burst of speech.
Nolan took a step toward the hatch to the compartment. The guards instantly drew their spell rifles on him.
“Step back, recruit!” a guard shouted.
Nolan lifted his hands in the air, backing away. “Sorry. Just curious.”
“That’s a good way to get killed,” the guard said.
Nolan and the others continued down the hallway. “What’s the big deal?”
“What’s the big deal?” Caleb repeated, astonished that Nolan needed to ask. “They’re probably the most important people aboard the ship. If anything were to happen to them, we’d be stuck light-years from the nearest planet. Maybe one in a million possess the ability.”
“How many are in there?”
Caleb shrugged. “To jump a ship this size across the galaxy… I’d guess at least three. But that’s just a guess.”
“How do they do it?”
“You ask a lot of questions,” Darvak said.
“I don’t know how it works,” Caleb said. “But I know they need vacromium powder to do it. It allows them to alter consciousness somehow. Transcend the boundaries of space and time. That kind of thing.”
“Isn’t that stuff toxic?”
“If you do enough of it,” Caleb said. “You think we’ve got it bad… the benders have it worse.”
No one seemed to be fascinated by the process. It seemed unfathomable that anyone could manipulate space and time, yet the benders were moving the dreadnought across the galaxy with ease.
At the armory, they were greeted by an eccentric little man with wild hair and bushy eyebrows. He surveyed the men, sizing them up. He spun around and dashed toward a section of gear. The compartment was stacked with helmets and suits of armor. Rows of swords lined the bulkheads. Battle scarred shields were piled high.
The curator returned moments later and handed a suit of armor to Nolan. “This should fit you perfectly.”
“But you didn’t take any measurements?”
“I don't need to," he said, slightly offended. "Go ahead, try it on."
Nolan suited up. The armor was solid, but surprisingly light. It was an odd blend of high tech with a medieval aesthetic. As the curator had said, it was just his size. But once Nolan had the suit on, it conformed perfectly to his shape. The armor plating was rigid, yet flexible. The suit was more than an inanimate object. It was as if it had a consciousness and was aware.
Nolan slid the helmet over his head. He peered through the narrow eye slots that were covered with polycarbonate glass. The suit came to life with a heads-up-display, and a communication link. As with most things aboard the dreadnought, the armor was part tech, part magic.
“How does that feel?” the curator asked.
Nolan moved around, testing out the fit. He had full range of motion in his arms and legs. Visibility was good, and his head movement wasn't restricted. He barely felt like he was clad in any armor at all. “Good.”
The curator grinned. “I told you. Now try out the lift boots. The controls are tied into your thought patterns via the helmet.”
Nolan looked at him, skeptical.
“Go ahead. Try it.”
Nolan thought about lifting off the deck, but nothing happened.
“Focus.”
Nolan tried again, but still nothing happened.
The curator sighed. “Keep practicing. You’ll get the hang of it. Just be careful. The lift boots will bring you up and down, and they’re gyro-stabilized, but you won’t have much control, except for vertical ascension.” The curator hesitated a moment. “We had one recruit get a little too aggressive when activating lift boots. He launched from the deck and slammed into the roof, snapping his neck. Needless to say he received a medical discharge.”
Nolan swallowed hard. “You mean he was spaced.”
“We like to think of it as an extended vacation into the void.” The curator smiled. “Now, go pick your sword. Or, should I say, the sword will pick you.”
16
Nolan walked among the rows of swords, eyeing the different lengths and sizes. Some were plain, some were adorned with intricate etchings on the blade. He wondered if his sword that was taken back on Sargol was in here somewhere? But these were all swords that had been infused with Valdovar's magic. None of these blades could harm him.
Nolan heard one of the swords rattling. Through a forest of metal, he could see a blade pulsing with a blue glow as it vibrated. It was as if the blade was calling out to him. Nolan moved the other weapons aside and grabbed the glowing sword by the hilt. He picked it up and held it before him, marveling at the blade. He moved it around, examining its weight and balance. It felt good in his hand. The curator was right. The sword had chosen him—and the two seemed to be a good match.
Nolan sheathed the blade.
“Take care of your sword, and it will take care of you," the curator said.
Nolan took his admonition to heart. He waited for the others to acquire their gear, then the trio headed back to their birthing quarters. The night was sleepless. Nolan couldn't stop thinking about the impending invasion. His stomach rumbled with nerves, and his body felt electric. By morning, he felt like he hadn't slept a wink.
The ready room was packed with Soturi. Captain Avar stood at the front of the room. "The Citadel is heavily defended. You all know what happened to the last battalion we sent in.”
There was a grim silence among the crowd.
Nolan leaned over to Caleb and whispered? "What happened?"
Caleb shrugged.
An image of the Citadel appeared on the screen behind Kira. It was a grand structure with high battlements and towering spires. The Citadel was nestled in a valley between two towering peaks. There was only one point of attack from the ground—head on.
"The Citadel is protected by a spell shield. It will take the bulk of our firepower to dismantle it. But make no mistake, this battle is going to be fought on the ground.”
Nolan raised his hand. "What is the military value of this target?"
Captain Avar shot him an incredulous look—grunts weren’t supposed asked those types of questions.
The rest of the platoon sneered at him.
"We are taking the Citadel because that's what Lord Valdovar wants. You don't need any more justification than that."
Nolan said nothing.
"Your mission objective is to take the Citadel, kill the wizard king, Su Vu Jwon, and take his ring of power. We will take the resources and convert the citizens to soldiers. Are there any questions?"
"What about the gronks?” Someone asked.
Kira had a very simple straightforward answer. "Kill them, before they kill you."
Nolan leaned into Caleb again. "What are gronks?”
Caleb shrugged.
"I'm not sure how effective this mission briefing is," Nolan muttered.
Captan Avar glared at him. "Is there something you would like to add, Private Jamison."
"I was just wondering what gronks are?”
There were chuckles from the rest of the platoon.
Nolan looked perplexed. He didn't know what was so funny. He had never been off of Sargol, and there were many things about the galaxy that had never been exposed to.
"They're big and mean and tough to kill,” a Soturi said. "But other than that, they make great pets,” he added with a healthy dose of sarcasm.
"Just one of those things took out Echo platoon," another Soturi added.
Nolan shared an uneasy glance with Caleb.
Captain Avar wrapped up the mission briefing, and the platoon of Soturi marched to the flight deck.
Several armored troop transports were prepped and ready for launch. These were the same dropships that had invaded Nolan's home world, and the sight of them sent a chill down his spine. His heart thudded in his chest, and his skin grew cold and clammy. His stomach twisted in knots, and the sour acidic taste of bile crept up in the back of his throat. All of the horrible memories came flooding back. The image of his village smoldering in ruins, and the mangled faces of his friends and loved ones were seared into his mind. He was about to do the same thing to another unsuspecting settlement. The whole thing just stank.
The flight deck was abuzz with crews scurrying about, attending to the dropships, making last-minute adjustments and checks. The rumble of engines echoed off the bulkheads in the cavernous chamber. Dozens of platoons loaded into the various dropships.
Nolan climbed aboard with Thrasher platoon and secured himself in a seat against the bulkhead. Hydraulics whirred as the back ramp shut and locked. The compartment pressurized, and the pilot went through a series of preflight checks, pressing buttons and flicking switches. The instrument panel was aglow with various colors. Shades of blue and green. The light illuminated his face and cascaded across the platoon.
Within moments the pilot throttled up, and Nolan felt the craft lift from the deck. The swarm of gunships launched into space like bees exiting a hive. They spiraled down and angled toward the planet. Nolan didn't even know the name of the world they were invading, and it didn't matter. Was it Gamma Hydra? He wasn’t sure. Valdovar was moving from world to world, taking what he wanted, destroying settlements that had stood for centuries. Some targets were along valuable supply lines for the Republic, while others seem to have no military value whatsoever. There was almost no method to his madness.