Chapter 3: Ad Victorium

  Six minutes until death. The thought slowly crossed the lieutenant’s mind as her fingers tore into the binocular’s straps. A bitter cold struck through her blood-stained fatigues. Her hand rested on a plasma rifle, fingers itching toward its trigger. It wasn’t long before the blinding sun of Aurumia, would rise over the horizon, casting its glow over the war-torn backwater planet. Grass swayed in the hot wind as clouds circled overhead, while swirls of vapour spotted the sky above, peaceful, serene and oblivious to what lay below. The murky planet was of little concern and faced imminent destruction. It would be a minor sacrifice in the creation of galactic trade routes with a series of Collective colonies being fabricated in the outer regions.

  Twelve years ago, a mighty garrison had been formed, mustering a force of over ten thousand, and now the planet was in the arduous process of being conquered and terraformed into placid submission. Its blissful fields burned red with the smell of gunfire. Its natives were being struck down and violently massacred one by one—eradicated from their own lands. The Collective banner of war, torn and weathered as it hung high, swayed amid the bloodshed. Yet, this planet was far from the core of civilization and teetered on the edge of the Collective’s domain—a speck in the distance of the towering might that was its empire. Slowly, the binoculars teetered, getting more accustomed to the growing light. A great mountain could be seen in the distance, its magnificent spire piercing through the heavens, light reflecting off the jagged rock.

  Colonel Baquil crouched in the mud-stricken trench, a mixture of dirt and sweat plastered violently across her torn uniform. She grimaced as she switched off the night vision, hoping to get a better picture of the terrain. With any hope, the mud would swallow them whole, but those were only a fool’s prayers. Around her, in a circular formation, five trenches formed a thin defensive line around a convoy of tanks and blackened ships. Formidable vessels were haphazardly thrown into a makeshift wall. Iron and steel protruded from various fragments which had been tarnished by the war in front as welder scarring and fraying could be seen from engineer’s harried attempts to throw up last minute defences.

  The faint hum of engines could be heard as an encampment officer warmed up their gun. Rounds of spent ammo littered across the ground as smoke billowed from the barrel.

  Baquil cast a look behind, taking the time to straighten her helmet. Her eyes spotted others that suffered the same horrid fate: a rigid cliff, an unrelenting hand of rock which blocked them from any form of retreat and sealed their fate to the wolf pack in front. She gripped her rifle in determination, mud on her face slowly being washed away by a mixture of sweat and grime. Splattered across her chest was a mixture of alien blood. She coughed for a moment, taking a look at battered foxholes as she chewed her lip in anticipation. The trenches were stained and watered with the blood of the corpses of countless Collective soldiers to the point where pools of entrails and carrion littered its ground like common muck. A lieutenant beside the colonel coughed for a moment, his own pistol drawn as his eyes flashed in horror. Training took over as his thoughts faded into the background. Under normal circumstances, he would have been over a thousand feet away, hunched over some console, battered with sleep-deprived eyes as his hands scrambled over a keyboard, but this was no army of drones. The company was entirely humanoids, enlisted volunteers from a scurry of newly formed colonies.

  The two shuffled, and for a moment only the wind spoke as they waited, every moment dreading anticipation. Baquil looked down at her side and placed a firm hand upon her sidearm, flicking up the holster and letting it sway loosely on her side, ready to draw at any moment. She then used her gloved hand to run a finger down her rifle, chiselling away the dirt plastered on its barrel.

  In front, where shelling had blasted the dirt into a crater, poking holes into the field, a young scout could be seen. His steel armour was lacerated by what could be observed as multiple lashes from an obsidian knife. His hair blew in the hot wind, as light from Aurumia's sun began to illuminate his path. Careful not to alert the enemy of his presence, he scoured the horrors of the battlefield, pulling various grenades, supplies and change packs off the littered corpses. As he worked tirelessly, his eyes stared wide, and an ungodly determination could be seen. Machinations overcame all thought and emotion.

  Behind the five trenches was a legion of hardened soldiers bearing the Collective’s signature dark green reinforced steel-plated armour. Their weapons and equipment had been painted in orbit no more than six weeks ago, yet this was no legion of fresh-faced recruits. These soldiers had seen death with their very own eyes. They had gazed into the antics of hell and witnessed the horrific death of their closest friends. They knew to think past the bitter propaganda of home. They saw through the veil and visage painted at the academy. No longer blinded by the glory it invoked, but rather saw its terrorizing, bloodcurdling implications, and comprehended the atrocities it commanded.

  As the night sky shone bright with the stars of a million worlds, they stared on, their gazes like daggers piercing into the unknown.

  The soldiers had tasted the splattered pain of both victory and defeat, smelt the scent of their own burning flesh. Their desire to spite death and reap vengeance upon their enemy came no matter the cost. Yet, in the beginning, this was no ordinary battalion. The army which stood defiantly to defend the convoy was a mixture of mechanics, soldiers, doctors, and the remnants of a once grand platoon that had dwindled in number.

  Behind them stood the remnants of the Collective mining town that they were defending. Its people watched in destitution as they were trapped, doomed to scour the tunnels of the cliff until death. No help was coming to this settlement. The elite regiment that sent for aid was the very one that now manned the mud-ridden windy trails. They waited with bated breath on the war in front, pondering the horrors which were about to occur and whether they would ever see the light of day again.

  The colonel cast a glance to the field in front, an assault rifle clutched in her grasp. They were fighting down to the very last soldier, and on the horizon, a force of twenty thousand natives armed with spears, bows, and the guns of her fallen comrades would rush with the sun on their backs. A wave of torrential fury would sweep through their lines, leaving naught but ruin in its wake. Facing a force outnumbering her by more than 100 to 1, Baquil had begun her campaign commanding an army of nearly 1,000. However, every drone soldier she had was now littered in putrid scrap upon the marshes. They had been riddled down to less than eighty in a month—eighty facing off against an enemy army of over 20,000. Impossible odds for an improbable time.

  Beside her, two officers cast putrid looks of fear at their leader, their uniforms mud-caked and torn. Bleeding scars protruded from their chests or arms. Baquil gave them no response. She knew she was going to die. The colonel knew every single person in the settlement behind, and who manned the trenches, was going to perish. They all knew that, yet they kept fighting. A fiery passion of hate brewed in their tear-stricken eyes and the Collective army knew if they were to die, their banner torn from its place on top of the carnage and cast upon the murky floor, they would take down as many of their foe as they could. To the last soldier, the last chamber, the last gun, in honour of the fallen, and to maintain respect for the status of the greatest fighting force to ever curse the stars. The Great Democracy of The Collective.

  The colonel climbed out of the murky trench, boots etched in a thick coating of mud, as she walked into the command position of the inner circle, barking orders to what few soldiers remained. Spit flew from her mouth as she cried for troops to advance. Scurrying into positions held for countless hours, the soldiers waited as they saw the plains in front. Sunrise cast its rays upon the field of tall grass swaying in the wind, a vast arid meadow that disguised their hunters with its lush, bushy undergrowth. From the stars glowing overhead, it was certain that day would soon break, and an attack with the blinding light of the raging sun at their backs would soon envelop the infantry.

  Although superior in weapons, tactics, and technology to their enemy, they had no craft capable of flight, their long-range communications had been brutally destroyed by an enemy surprise attack long ago, and their strongest, most valiant soldiers had fallen long ago in the carrion-ridden mudflats. They were alone, and if the raging storm pushed them back, there was nothing but an underground mining town to run to—a settlement whose inhabitants were mere citizens with no fighting force within. The town was naught but cramped, barren rock, spiralling down in a labyrinth of corridors to the depths of the planet. Retreating into the caverns was itself similar to fleeing into a tomb. Once inside, they would surely perish in the onslaught of blood and anguish.

  In the trenches, the sea of mud stuck to the soldiers, almost pulling them inside, latching onto their legs as they seeped into its murky composure. But they stood strong. The bodies of their allies littered the area. A fallen captain could be seen face down in the dirt, pooling blood from a puncture wound caused by a sharp wooden spear. The Collective armour he bore chipped and scarred, its durable steel tarnished from the sight of an endless barrage. Four Specialists lay face down in a smouldering crate, smoke still rising from their corpses. The trenches were equipped with spikes and a wall of barbed wire. The mesh surrounded the front and clung onto the bodies of fallen aliens and unfortunate legionaries. A few landmines were also scattered about, hoping to wreak devastation upon the unsuspecting foe, pockets of sure death for their advancing enemy. Mortars caked the landscape in a spew of shrapnel. Baquil bent over and stuck her hand into the mud, running the murky dirt through her fingers. As the slush slowly trickled from her gloved palm, she cast a glance out into the horizon. Her eyes spouted ferocious determination.

  A severed alien hand could be seen protruding from the mud, its elongated fingers signature to the species. They were humanoids, intelligent beings that would have had a bright future if the Collective had not laid claim so early to their world. It was there in the pits of death that they had fallen to the clutches of their leader. All hopes lying in the skill and potency of their colonel, and a true test of leadership could be seen. Baquil had led the company through the hardest of battles, transversed through hell and back with her magnificent tactics and brimming intellect, able to devise a strategy that lowered the invading forces by a number of 500,000 to 20,000 with only the loss of 1,000 lives.

  She had earned the respect of every single soldier who served under her, and to death they would follow with uncanny glee. She was a military leader bred for the sole purpose of destruction, educated to the highest academic level. She would fight alongside her troops without hesitation and die for the Collective without question. Loyalty, service, diligence and strength were drafted into her subconscious from decades of endless training and experience. However, even with the Collective's best and brightest at their disposal, with soldiers who had seen battles transpire on countless alien worlds, and fought armada which traversed the galaxy, they were still destined to die.

  The outside number of enemies was too vast to comprehend, and they had bravely faced off against countless waves of attackers for far too long. The onslaught of death was relentless and unfazed. Running low on ammunition, guns, energy, resources and strength, they were at the point of a final stand. Only living to spite their enemy, every drawn breath was one reserved for the hounding plague of hell, which clouded the outskirts of the tunnels. Baquil drew a long breath and scoured the meadows and plains above with a pair of binoculars.

  Suddenly a sharp cry broke her focus, a voice echoing among the explosions.

  "Colonel," a soldier breathed.

  She turned to face the haggard salute. "Report," she muttered.

  "We've managed to partly repair the town's beacon hub."

  Baquil held her breath, fixing the soldier in her eyes. Behind her, more smoke billowed from the battlefield, creating a hazy glow.

  "Partly repaired?"

  The soldier shook his head. His hands and uniform were laced with grease, eyes glazed over from fatigue. "Signal may pass outward if luck holds"

  She cast a glance out into the horizon, resuming her scan of the landscape. The wind tore into the meadows in front. "It seems we've been given one last chance, Lieutenant. Tell the repair team to continually broadcast, until the last moment if possible."

  "Yes, Colonel," he replied, scurrying back along the trenches. Mud splattered across his back as he sprinted.

  Dawn would soon be upon them, and with it a horrific fight would ride until the bitter end.

  The lieutenant beside her, a recruit with a face splattered in a mess of dirt and grime, clenched a strong rifle in his grasp. He looked at Baquil for guidance before turning back to his position at the wall, his iron sights firmly fixed on the plains. The front five trenches were all manned by veteran soldiers, and they waited—waited for their fate.

  Finally, an impenetrable silence was cast about them all—every twitch, every trickle, every snip bit of sound to be heard as if it shook the planet with tenacity. The seconds drew out to minutes, and minutes felt like hours. At last, the horrified yet defiant troops of the Collective all glanced across the horizon to see horror. The sun shimmered out from behind the faraway mountains, the rays of light blinding their eyes from the battlefield in front. It was the glow of death, a sign that soon they would be cascaded into a fight of brutal and macabre quantity, and that they would subdue themselves to a higher power. The valiant hearts focused their affirmative faces of pure hatred and spite on the torrential waves of attacks that were about to throw themselves upon the barrage and battery of death emitted from the corps' guns.

  You could not call the natives savages, nor say they were demons descending upon a noble legion of bravery. They were honourable in this situation. They were the good. The bad lay behind the trenches. The bad were those about to die.

  The attacking armada was one of an immense noble cause: their villages and cities had been pillaged and ransacked without mercy, their culture spat upon with unimaginable cruelty, and their peaceful people mercilessly slaughtered by a foe who thought themselves superior in every way. It was those who lined the mud-baked trenches who were truly evil. Perhaps not down to the individual, but what they stood for. They hardly knew or comprehended the sheer quantity of blood splattered on the tattered twilight banner they stood behind.

  The moment a sliver of the sun blinded the eyes of the sharpshooters, a great war cry echoed, booming throughout the plains. It sent shivers down the spines of all the soldiers who stood in the army's path, and thousands charged forwards, swarming out from the hills and burrows, disguised during the night, lobbing spears and stones and brandishing stolen guns.

  The raving enemy rushed forwards with a burning desire to kill. It was a hoard so massive, so magnificent, the ground shook and rumbled with awe. Four legion machine encampments opened fire, releasing a piercing barrage into the enemy. Smoke swirled in the air as the mighty guns pounded the ground into a fine pulp, each of the thousands of rounds hurdling through the air. The Collective legionaries fired to the outside, with tenacious grit, unleashing a never-ending inferno of bullets. As they fired into the sunbaked reptilians, they saw their comrades perish one by one to the hearty shaft of a native spear, or saw the blood of their enemies splatter upon their pale, half-covered faces. Their armour sizzled with the fire of overheated blasters, and they felt a shower of sweat dribble down their faces. Baquil walked among them shouting orders and rushing into the heat of battle herself.

  They could tell she was no longer preaching the hollow syllables taught by the society’s generals; she was speaking from her heart. She roared a harrowing speech of death as she dual-wielded assault rifles, standing upon piles of bodies belonging to the aliens and her own troops. There were so many bodies the barbed wire had been rendered useless, the attackers simply walking upon the still-warm flesh of the rotting corpses.

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  A sergeant in the front trench, face splattered in enemy blood, clenched down on his rifle, mustering every inch of his might to continue a relentless barrage. With every sweep, he killed hundreds, piercing through their ranks as he fumbled to reload. Suddenly, a whistle pierced the air before a missile planted itself into the ground, detonating with a sizable explosion. Mud soared through the air as four warriors armed with spears poured inside. The gunners behind caught two in one sweep, however the rest crumbled through, taking over on the opposite wall. An intruder cast its spear, the weapon streaking through the air to plant itself into a gunner's chest.

  The sergeant ran forwards to his aid, arm outstretched, but he soon fell back. Seeing the man beside him killed, the sergeant scrambled, dropping his rifle into the mulch, and pulling out his pistol in retaliation.

  Looking down the smoke-ridden trench, he could see more of his friends fall. Though ongoing sweeps fell upon them from the encampments above, ten still made it across. He blasted the closest warrior, leaving the froglike creature to fly back. Yet a second came forwards in retaliation. Snarling, it leapt at his chest, striking the steel armour with a resounding blow. Arms flailing, and pinned to the wall, the soldier struggled, gasping for breath as the enemy continued to pound his breastplate. Using the pistol still clutched in his hand, he opened fire down the corridor, shooting at the three warriors approaching to aid his attacker. Charred smoke rose from their chests as the enemy soldier heaved the tool above and crashed it down upon his helmet, splintering the metal in two. Armour flew off as glass shards sprayed across the ground. His head poked out of the suit, exposed to the horrors above. The creature was just about to land a killing blow, when he swung his arm forwards, using the plating as a shield. Wires spouted from his hand's steel as sparks flew. Seizing this moment of confusion, he pulled out his own knife, plunging it deep into the warrior's thin chainmail before twisting upwards. Leaving the enemy shrieking in agony, he dropped to his knees, crawling through the mud to avoid detection by the hundreds of Aurumians which now inhabited the lines. Above, an encampment gunner continued their barrage, bullets spurring into the dirt and causing the air to warp from the heat of their energy. Countless spent shells spewed from the gun, carpeting the gunner's feet to the point they were almost knee high. Yet, as they finished a second sweep, ten warriors caught in a single blow, a sharp clang resounded.

  A charge deflected off the thick armour, causing the private to stumble back. He brushed it off, continuing to keep pressure on the countless enemies now taking cover behind the front trenches thick wall. However, a second one pierced the air—then a third—each blow punching into his armour, slowly pounding the steel into submission. His loader aimed in the direction of the shots, emptying a magazine into the air, but it was too late. Four more shots streaked across the sky, slamming into the gunner and leaving him face down in the mud. His loader jumped onto the encampment and cleared the magazine, ready to take the post, but it was too late. Twenty warriors had already charged, sprinting through the barbed wire and towards his position. Swinging the massive gun, he managed to knock one off its feet, causing its sword to fly through the air and plant itself into the ground.

  Two others tackled him, forcing him into the mud while they battered his arm plate with maces. The loader cried out in concussed pain, but he scrambled for his pistol, killing both with what remained of his magazine. The bullets easily pierced through their chainmail, leaving embers of steel to float downwards into the mulchy surface. Sliding backwards he pulled out his knife and clicked on the side, engaging the energy blade just in time to parry a blow from an Aurumian longsword. The blade clanged against his own, slowly melting away from the immense heat as it inched closer. Sparks flew in all directions as he stared into the eyes of his would-be killer.

  Those in the front trench had been massacred, overpowered by an advancing force of ten thousand to twenty. They had perished with honour, taking down at least nine hundred of their attackers in the demonic strife before the last scarred defier pulled out a belt of grenades and took his own life, along with thirty alien others in an inferno of self-sacrifice.

  Back in the safety of the second trench, a lieutenant turned to Baquil uttering a string of words between reloading. He stood upon the corpse of an Aurumian soldier, plate mail melted by a concussion blast. Two more Aurumians broke through the suppressing fire and charged the lieutenant, stolen blasters and shortswords in hand. Stepping to the side the lieutenant dodged the first swing, grabbing the hilt of his attacker's sword and prying it from their hand while he repeatedly blasted the other. The warrior fought back, shooting three times at the soldier's leg as it squirmed. However, Baquil turned to her companion, plunging her own bayonet through the enemy's helmet and into its skull, leaving the body to fall limp.

  “Fall back,” she cried. “Fall back!”

  A soldier heard her and turned around to be immediately struck through by an enemy spear. Baquil didn’t flinch, still screaming the same orders.

  "We need to fall back to the third trench," she shouted.

  Turning to blast another longsword-wielding warrior who had sprung up from behind, Baquil shot a flare up into the air. Its immense red glow filled the clouds above and illuminated the red dawn. Green blood ran like a river through the endless muck as they trudged, taking cover behind the third trenches thick, muddy walls.

  The spearman roared in anger, letting loose a horrific screech as it fell to the ground.

  Behind, several more aliens advanced. Distraught by the death of their comrade, they too charged to meet the same fate.

  The second trench was about to fall, only three soldiers left when the colonel finally sprinted forwards.

  “Cover me!” she barked. Descending into the mud, she used the broadside of bullets from her officers to rush through the fifth, fourth and third trenches, to sit at the front line. From there she shouted, her voice booming over the sound of gunfire, slicing into the minds of the troop which were about to lay down the line. “Fight! Fight! To hell with them, rally on me! Let it be remembered that we fought with such valour, the time will grasp at our war-torn feat. Tonight, we may dine in hell, but today—today—we stare defiantly in the face of death!” she screeched, and those around her followed. They understood and they believed in the potent motivator of revenge, and they fought. They fought, they stabbed and shot, blew up and howled, carried on for their fallen brethren, to honour the souls of the countless dead which lined the walls.

  For every single Collective soldier that was struck down, the resilient heart of their fellows increased tenfold, and for every soldier killed the more ferocious they became. In the end, they were monsters, terrifying beasts of war that slew and shot without hesitation. They had reached a point where nothing mattered more. They had no care for their lives, only a motive to kill, and to destroy.

  The aliens saw this, and even though their cause was far more just, and undoubtedly nobler, they perished a hundred to one at the armoured soldiers’ blades. In the end, as the sound of gunfire and howls of wounded cascaded through the sky, the soldiers had fallen back to the final two trenches. An alien sharpshooter, who had ripped a weapon off a fallen corpse, began their trek through the waste. Using powerful froglike legs, they leapt upon the enemy, unleashing a fury of bullets upon their foe. Three Collective ensigns caught this attack, dropping dead in the mud.

  Their enemy still stood strong at a number of 15,000, and soon the thirty legionaries left would be forced to flee into the mines and be hunted down—trapped in its stone walls which were soon to be catacombs.

  Just as Baquil wiped a mixture of sweat and blood off her brow, she plunged a sharp bayonet into the reptilian heart of a native gunman and blasted a spear-thrower who had climbed on top of the wreck of a dismantled vehicle. The sky lit up with a blinding yellow light. She and the lieutenant stopped what they were doing and gaped at the radiant glow, distracted by the recent arrival.

  However, unseen, a native spearman cast a wooden pike. Sailing through the air it plunged violently into Vanol’s chest. He sputtered and gasped, his eyes swirling with a mixture of fear, shock and wonder. Falling back into a mud wall, he breathed raggedly, hanging on for dear life.

  Baquil quickly shot the attacker, straight through the skull, brains gushing from the opening, pooling into the mud. She rushed to the side of her friend, held his dying palm in her hand.

  “Medic!” she screamed. “Medic!” Baquil shouted louder. The colonel turned, placing a hand on the soldier’s shoulder. “We can make it. It’s just a spear wound,” she whispered.

  “You know that’s not true,” he replied, removing his hand from the pressure point to show a putrid green venom dipped on the wood, the paste etching into his bloodied flesh. “It was an honour—the very best—to have you as my leader and to perish in the service of one so valiant and who I utmost respect,” he breathed. Tears slowly streaming down his slender face.

  “It was an honour to have you as my friend,” she replied. Her eyes watered but she would never dare let herself cry, hiding her emotions in a blanket of hate.

  With that, his grasp weakened, and life drained from his face, blood dripping from the gaping wound of a dead corpse.

  Baquil held his hand until she could feel his pulse no longer and heat began to fade. She closed his eyes, covering the blue pupils with the wave of a slender blistered hand. Beside her, a cadet cried that they had to move, the enemy was advancing faster, preparing for a full assault. Baquil turned to him and cried out a ferocious scream, picking up both her and the dead man’s rifle. She followed the cadet’s lead until they reached a trench of safer positioning. For a short while they continued fighting, releasing waves upon waves of bullets into the wastes. Soon, though, they noticed the wind around them intensified. The air began to heat up. Casting a bloodied glance into the misty sky, Baquil and three lieutenants paused and spotted a medium-sized battlehind break through the wispy clouds.

  It was a Collective gunship, high in the arsenal and low in the crew, a strange sight due to the fact it was a vessel used heavily in space combat. The advancing army soon saw this and the sound of a second horn blowing across the land pierced the air. A scurry of the native forces then fired a series of stolen blasters and rifles into the sky, a measly attempt to knock out the steel invader. Then, following the ship's arrival, another battlehind descended from the atmosphere and hovered next to its partner. Finally, a final craft appeared, its hull shimmering and shining bright with light. “Collective Blue Dawn” was plastered on its side.

  The latest arrival was a decently sized pleasure craft. It was only meagrely equipped with weapons but was of extreme beauty and vanity. Baquil and those around her sighed a painful sound of relief before turning to the battlefield, a stream of firepower directed by the inadequate guns of the attackers to be seen.

  They had lost ground, falling back into the final circle of walls and trenches around the convoy's ships. There the twenty-two survivors fought, machine gunners on encampments killing hundreds with a single sweep. Recruits fired endless amounts of ammunition into the horde before them. They dodged spears and bullets, yet something had changed. They were no longer doomed to die. They had hope—a glimmer of possibility—and soon the ships above would come to their aid.

  The eyes of the soldiers lit up with a fiery rage. Had it been another time—had they not become trigger happy monsters of war—perhaps they would have cried. They had no time for emotion, and no longer felt it, no longer knew who they were. The only thing were familiar with was the cold grip of a rifle, and the smell of death in the air. If the war stopped, and they were ordered to lay down their weapons, it was not certain they would be able to. Their hands froze on the steel rods after such prolonged use, and the only movements permitted was reloading and pulling the trigger.

  There was no longer a separation between soldier and gun. They were the gun. They were no longer human, just an extension of the weapon itself. Dodging the shaft of a spear and taking cover behind a makeshift barrier, Baquil saw the two ships above heat up their weapons and open fire, releasing a monolithic, relentless spray of bullets and projectiles upon the ground. The enemy forces started to thin, less and less of the attackers making it through the battlehind’s precision cuts and able to engage those in the final stand.

  The second battlehind did the same, protecting those on the ground. Its homing frontal cannons pierced through the ranks of the advancing enemy, mowing down hundreds in a blur of chaos.

  The final constitution class ship came down from the heavens above and landed upon the wastes. It took refuge directly in front of the entrance to the town and only a few feet from the dismantled tanks and Baquil’s mud-splattered forces. Its giant door came open with a hiss as it landed, mysterious vapours pooling onto the murky floor. It was so large it covered a vast portion of the trenches, crushing a regiment of natives underneath. From inside the bellows of the metal beast stalked four heavily armoured Collective specialists. Their magnificent green armour showed diplomatic status, and in their hands, they carried high-powered assault rifles and shotguns which tore through the air.

  These were no soldiers. They were highly trained bodyguards, supreme genetic creations who, like Baquil, were bred for one single purpose: death. Baquil quickly rushed over to the giant steel doors which marked the entrance to the mining settlement. Pressing her hand down on the intercom she breathed a few words to the lucky fresh-faced cadet who was stationed inside. She pressed upon the button with all of her might activating the console and spurring its screen to life.

  “Help has arrived! Private, bring out the citizens. We need to evacuate before it is too late,” she hollered.

  The soldier on the other side froze for a moment, barely believing his ears. He seemed to dichotomize the battlefield, clean fatigues barely hinting a scratch as Baquil stood plastered in mud. “Help? Right away, Colonel,” he replied, beaming with excitement. The thought of living to see the sunrise one more time filled his soul with a glimmer of hope.

  Soon, the doors burst open and a stream of around four hundred citizens embarked outside into the mud pits. They were horrified by what they saw, the sprawl of bodies, and how just a few meters away, soldiers were still shooting at their hunters. The bodyguards ushered them all inside as fast as possible before the remaining twenty soldiers sprinted as fast as they could into the belly of the craft, the ship's own potent guns covering their hasty retreat. A torrential wave of gunfire ripped through the enemy lines, so loud the very earth seemed to shake.

  Baquil was the last to enter and collapsed on a nearby wall. The room was vast but was not meant for troop transport. Inside was an array of chairs, tables, and couches. A lounge and a hallway led to the control room. Around her, the others chattered. Some grieved, but many were shell-shocked. Their minds wandered, eyes twitching, unable to comprehend what had just transpired.

  The citizens and warriors alike were somewhat shocked to see the inside was so luxurious. The floors were plated in gold, and silk cushions were cast across a magnificent dining room. Finding a seat for all her citizens, she barked orders at them all, trying to organize some form of arrangement. Once she had assigned a role to each of the members, told a group of medics to tend to the wounded, and surveyed the dead, she stalked up to the bodyguards and questioned them of their arrival.

  “We were not expecting to have to perform a rescue mission, Colonel. You caught us off guard,” one approached.

  They were wearing standard fatigues. Collective insignias were burned into plated steel. Baquil could tell they were high-ranking, not through connections or birth, but through accolades of blood. A gun dangled loosely from the hip of their commander, a low-ranking officer who stared up at Baquil devoid of emotion.

  "Rescue mission?" Baquil questioned. She shifted her mouth, letting out a sigh as the ship shuddered to the sounds of war. “How did you find us? We never ordered a distress beacon,” she went on, not letting the two get a word into the conversation. She was distressed, far from her usual self, but still placed a hand against her pistol. Bounties had been placed on Collective officers in this sector and there was always a chance these two were frauds. She relaxed when she saw the ship’s dataframe and cargo storage. Firepower and technology like that would be hard to fake without notice.

  “We did not come here for aid, nor were we simply passing by. We were sent here to get someone,” one responded.

  Baquil leaned back against the wall, bandaging her hand as she spoke. Her muscles were like clockwork, methodically treating the wound as her eyes remained fixed in conversation. “A retrieval? One of the local diplomats perhaps?” she queried.

  “No.”

  "I don't understand," she muttered.

  The entire craft shook as it ascended, leaving the hordes of attackers to stare blankly at the sky, and the field of battle to be abandoned, apart from the legions of the dead. It was a strange sight: an army of fourteen thousand simply stood gawking with astounding hatred. Rage emanated from their eyes as they glared at their fleeing enemies. They would never forget the atrocities and pure horror of war. The fight would be something that stayed in the depths of their minds forever.

  “Someone? You mean you were not sent here for aid? That would explain the ship but, if you were sent, who were you sent for?” Baquil questioned.

  The two armoured guards stood at attention, this time almost raising themselves into salute. They paused for a moment, almost to appreciate the honour it was to stand in Baquil’s presence.

  “You, Colonel Baquil. We have come for you”

  “Me?” Baquil stood shocked. She was barely processing the past few events, her mind racing.

  “Director Qux wants you. It’s to do with the Immortalis Project.” He handed her a blue microchip, placing it into her scarred dirt plastered hand. “With the use of enhanced thrusters we’ll arrive at homeworld in a matter of a few days. We will drop the survivors and crew off at the planet’s garrison. The likes of them do not belong where we are going.”

  “Colonel,” one spoke before saluting.

  “Major,” she replied with a firm salute. Then she walked over to the foggy window and whipped her hand across the glass, peering into the trenches below. And then, while none watched, she shed a single tear for her friend.

  Below, the corpses would soon be forgotten as they were stripped of resources by the enemy, and the silence of death left its merciless rapture to be seen.