NationStates Jolt Archive

OOC: This is open to IC and OOC comment, but is a story, not an RP. If posting IC, please take care to post only with reference to that which would be known/knowable.
Denotes past events

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As Anglerman fell, clutching the sputtering, frothing wound in his chest, he thought: “This isn't right!”

The day had started more or less like any other for Anglerman – reveille at dawn, inspection parade at 0700h, with the inevitable insane drivel screamed at them by their loony commanding officer, and then – finally – grub, with some actual coffee on the sly if you knew the right people. The rest of the day then normally ranged from boredom, to tedium, to mind-numbing monotony. Life at the Zantiu Corporation's Fort Thall – covering the Van de Grel region of Fehnmar, on the far south-east corner of the country – was the same day in and day out. Whereas in, say, Faenend, there was almost continual fighting between the Zantiu Corporation's mercenaries and the Lyrans, South Fehnmaris or loyalist Fehnmari Republicans, the war had barely reached Van de Grel. When Zantiu had declared its holdings within Fehnmar soveriegn and independent of either the Republic or its breakaway province of South Fehnmar, Van de Grel had been one of the first regions secured. By the time the shocked Fehnmari Republic, already fighting its own civil war, had mustered their counter-offensive, Van de Grel belonged well and truly to Zantiu. Which was fine, unless, of course, you ended up stationed there. In common with many of his fellow corporate soldiers, Anglerman enjoyed inflicting pain, enjoyed the thrill as some poor defenceless unfortunate was blown apart by his shotgun at close range. “Zantiu – kill, destroy, plunder!” He'd fallen for the enlistment-contract advertisement hook, line and sinker. Anything had to have been better than the slums of Argaz, surely. No-one advertised endless, pointless guard duty, watching out for attacks that would never come. But today... today was different.

After breakfast, the Duty Supervisor had summoned him, together with Pound, Claggart, Rimsley and Redhollow (mindless psychotic killers, one and all) to the command post. Their briefing was simple. Neutrals (sickening pacifists without enough backbone to pick a side and fight for it) had been discovered by a patrol living in the nearby town of Lutt, just eight kilometres from the fort. They were to be persuaded to leave.

None of them had needed to be told what 'persuaded' might entail. The Duty Supervisor knew well enough that their own sick imaginations would invent some indescribably horrible way of 'persuading' the neutrals to get lost. And so, gleefully anticipating the carnage to come, they had set out immediately for Lutt.

Always one for the dramatic entrance, Anglerman had opted to charge in on the back of Zantiu pick-up trucks, watching through the grill-like visor of his armour as the terrified neutrals turned towards the intruders. Enjoying himself immensely, he'd reached forward and wrenched the action on the tripod-mounted M2 bolted to the pick-up's tray in front of him, and then jammed his thumbs over the firing switches, sending staccato blasts of high-speed metal towards the people ahead of him. His shots flew true, throwing the civilians like ragdolls, and as they fell Anglerman moved. He leapt off the truck, brought his BGM15 up, and fired at a mud-brick building, blowing it apart. As rubble rained down around them, the people who could still move came to their knees, begging for mercy. They'd do whatever the corporates asked, if they'd just spare their lives. Anglerman had laughed. No, no – too easy. They had to have their fun first! Claggert, who – along with the others – had joined Anglerman, stepped forward, grabbing the nearest neutral by the throat. Smiling a toothy smile, he raised his other hand, complete with wickedly serrated machete. “Cutting time,” he'd said, and then Claggert's head disappeared in a crimson shower of blood.

It took almost as long for Claggert's body to realise it no longer had a head and topple over as it did for Anglerman and his fellow corporates to realise they were under attack. So inconceivable was this eventuality that they stared stupidly at the rugged, camouflage-patterned four-wheel-drive hurtling towards them down a hill, frozen – unable to act. But at the sight of the hated Lyran banner, flying atop its roof, limbs unlocked, minds moved from neutral to drive. As one, Rimsley and Redhollowreached for the automatic rifles slung over their shoulders, levelling them at the Lyran vehicle as it drew closer, intent – it seemed – on committing suicide. Too late, Anglerman – who'd also swivelled to fire – realised that the vehicle was diversionary, meant to draw their attention.

The shouted warning was drowned out by the blast from the high-explosive incendiary round that connected with Redhollow's back. Jagged bits of bone exploded outwards accompanied by a heat that seared even through Anglerman's armour. It was unclear to the reeling Anglerman whether Rimsley was torn apart by shrapnel and errant bits of his partner, or incinerated by the heat, but that he was dead was certain. Running back towards the pick-ups, Anglerman glanced over his shoulder to see Pound slammed by gunfire. One by one the rounds hammered into him, spinning him around once, twice, three times. As he fell for the final time, two conflicting emotions struggled for supremacy within Anglerman's mind. Rage! His fellows had been cut down, wiped out by the enemy... and by Lyrans – who he hated with every fibre of his being. Fear! He was alone, outgunned by at least four very highly trained soldiers. Reason told him to flee, make for the cabin of the pick-up and get clear.

Rage won.

With a savage howl Anglerman raised his rifle, pointing it at the nearest Lyran... and was hit four times, the blasts punching through his armour and ripping open his chest.

And he thought: “This isn't supposed to happen!” and died.

With a triumphant shout, Parnell rose from cover, moving up to Anglerman's corpse, rifle pressed into his shoulder as he advanced. Though he took no pleasure in the kill itself (such feelings went against everything a Lyran stood for... didn't they?), he knew Anglerman from the days before the Zantiu Declaration. Lyran Intelligence had tagged him as a sadistic killer even then. The world and its inhabitants were better off without him. At least, he hoped that was the case. Still, like each of his Lyran comrades who had by now gathered around him, he felt a curious exhilaration, brought on no doubt by the brief battle. Should they feel this way, he wondered? As he looked at the smiling faces around him, Parnell wondered if anyone felt the sudden chill that ran down his spine. For a brief moment, with the sort of sudden, savage insight that sometimes sneaks up and gets in a good hit, Parnell wondered if each time they killed they lost a bit of themselves as well. Jameson, Sunder, Wheldon, Stanley, Innsman – did any of them wonder? Were his thoughts even appropriate for a Lyran?

The babble of excited, cheering voices cut through his thoughts, and all the Lyrans turned to see the neutrals heading towards them – smiling, grateful.

“You saved us!” cried one, grabbing the startled Jameson by the arm and hugging him tight, as if to reassure himself he really was alive. Jameson stammered a vague “It was nothing really...” but it was drowned out by the voices of the other neutrals, thanking them, praising their fighting prowess.

Parnell stepped back, beginning to smile himself. Their brief had been open ended. They were to make their way deep into Zantiu-controlled areas of Fehnmar, either Independent South, or Republican, and generally make trouble for the local garrison, operating a hit-and-run guerilla war against the corporates. Well, they had started already, hadn't they... and saved some lives as well. Yeah, that made it okay.

Parnell leaned over to Jameson. “Did we do okay?” he asked uncertainly, hoping that Jameson wouldn't interpret this as weakness. As team leader, and a newly promoted one at that, Parnell worried constantly that he would foul up, make some decision that would end up costing lives; theirs as well as others.

“Okay?!” replied Jameson, regarding Parnell with incredulous but amused eyes. “We did gloriously, boss!”

Parnell looked around, watching as the startled Sunder, revelling in every second of the praise and adoration, was lifted bodily off the ground and carried off on the shoulders of several cheering neutrals. Laughing, Stanley jogged alongside, trying to dislodge him. Sunder squeaked an anxious “Back off!”, worried that the half-starved Fehnmari neutrals might drop him.

“Yeah,” thought Parnell with a broad smile, “life is good. We are the Glorious Six – nothing can touch us!”



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Order-Marshal Lambert was talking, and had evidently addressed his last question at Major Parnell, who started guiltily, his mind having slipped unconsciously back to that time, which seemed so long ago now. He hadn't heard the question. Looking around the special forces briefing room in the Lyran fortress-city of Highcairn, Parnell saw similarly distant expressions on four of the other persons present. Neither Jameson, Innsman, Wheldon or Sunder seemed to have noticed his lapse, lost in their own recollections of that beautiful and terrible time. Only the briefing officer, commander of the 7th Order, Order-Marshal Michael Lambert, and the special forces detachment commander, Colonel Natasha Krell, were looking at him strangely. Lambert with surprised, almost angry eyes (not used to his officers almost dozing off in mid-briefing), and Krell with curiosity.

Self-consciously clearing his throat, Parnell apologised for not catching the question. Would the Marshal, sir, kindly repeat what he had said?

“I said, Major,” began Lambert, somewhat tersely, “that the task you face will be hazardous in the extreme. Though the Van de Grel has been declared able to support habitation, there is no telling who you will encounter there. I have picked you six, because teamed together you represent one of the finest reconaissance units I possess. Are you all willing to go?”

“Well, I - “ began Parnell, his mind still reeling from the memories the Order-Marshal's introductory speech had unleashed, memories he'd hoped long buried. But Lambert wasn't finished.

“I am sure I do not need to remind you of the urgency of this mission. With the Fehnmari Republic destablising, and Zantiu Corporation making takeover bids throught Independent South Fehnmar, we desperately need evidence of wrongdoing to establish casus belli against corporate assets, and to present to both Fehnmars, so we can fight on their behalf. Without it, Zantiu will take advantage of their weakness, and we can do nothing. Time is short. The answer may well lie here.”

Here? Van de Grel? The once-fertile but inaccessibly-remote Van de Grel crescent, now the Van de Grel badlands since -

“Van de Grel has been empty since those un-traced chemical weapons went off, fifteen-odd years ago, right?” asked Sunder, voicing Parnell's unspoken thought. “Sir, I mean, why search for something that no longer exists? We would be risking ourselves, and the investment and experience we represent to Lyras, needlessly.” Sunder had evidently been paying more attention to Lambert than the rest of them, thought Parnell. Or perhaps the years of simultaneously listening to comm-chatter had given him the ability to have his mind in two places at once. Lambert was speaking...

“...though the population itself may be gone, we have ascertained that many facilities, if present, may have survived. If so, they could contain crucial details of corporate orders during the last Fehnmari Civil War. Those orders might be all the evidence we need to take 600 divisions over the Straits of Argaz and into Port Zantiu.”

Lambert paused, looking at the six warriors in front of him. He knew that they were all – apart from Krell – loners, happier working alone, or in pairs. Unusual for Lyrans, yes, but he also knew they were among the best that the 38.8 million-strong 7th Order had. He felt sure that they would shelve their personal preferences, united by the knowledge that hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives hung in the balance. Success or failure here could be the difference between freedom and slavery for an entire country. Heart swelling with desperate pride, Lambert asked: “Is there anyone here not willing to journey into the Van de Grel badlands to find the site where Zantiu Corporate forces may have had a base of operations?”

He'd been expecting silence – perhaps a noble, stoic raising of the chin and a stare that said 'we are Lyrans, you should know better than to ask us that!' What he got was a confused, almost panicked babble of voices.

“Well, actually my back has been playing up. You had better count me out.” “I am not feeling quite myself at the moment. Do you think I could...?” “I am allergic to the residual elements of chemical warfare. Maybe someone else...” and so on.

Lambert and Krell stared numbly at the five of them, all trying to outdo each other in the excuse stakes, barely able to believe what their ears were telling them. And behind the excuses, Lambert saw something else. Something in their eyes that amazed him still further – fear.


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Vern Arian stared at the map on the wall, and dreamt of death and destruction on a massive scale. He was content.

Before, he'd allowed rade to cloud his reason, dictate his behaviour. The contracted soldiers under his command thought him insane, and perhaps he was. But, he reasoned, it was a magnificent insanity – a madness that would win unheard of profit for the Zantiu Corporation. Hang Senior Director Brandt, hang the entire board – he, Arian, would show them all. He dreamily pictured the scene...

Six high-lethality chemical weapons, planted at key points throughout Van de Grel and detonated simultaneously. Six chemical blasts, the effects killing life, but sparing property. The whole area purged of life, of impurities, leaving it truly fit for Zantiu re-occupation and asset realisation. With fallout significantly less than that from other non-conventional weapons, and the destructive blast radius that much smaller, they would be able to move in and colonise soon after the purge.

Regions would be cleansed, until governments saw the futility of resisting Zantiu's stewardship over their resources. He would be hailed as a genius, as a crusader of free enterprise, and elevated to the Zantiu governing board. He might even, thought Arian with a twisted smile, become popular enough, and sway enough stockholders, to challenge Brandt himself. Yes... that was how it would be.

His musings were interrupted by Ashton Knight, a youthful officer Arian had been cultivating in his own image. He recognised the pilot's considerable potential, sensing a total disregard for life, and burning drive and ambition, totally centred around himself. Fine leadership material. When Arian's bid for leadership came, this elite cadre of contracted soldiers he'd built up around him would be his strike force.

The news was not good. That bungling fool Anglerman had got himself – not to mention four of his fellow mercenaries – killed. It seemed that a routine clearance of neutrals from the nearby town of Lutt had been complicated by the arrival of a six-person Lyran patrol foolish enough to venture this far into Corporate territory.

Arian fixed Knight with his too-bright eyes, measuring him up. Yes, the lad was keen – eager to test his mettle against the best the world could offer. But he was not stupid enough to even suggest a course of action without Arian's approval. A superb pilot though he was, Knight was no match for Arian. He knew the score.

Indeed he did. Even as Arian was measuring Knight, so the young pilot was assessing his leader. As Arian stood, Knight took in the results of Zantiu 'enhancement'. Arian had been the poster-child for what Zantiu could do in 'military consultancy'. Arian stood at over seven feet, his custom tailored shirt and tie incongruous set against his colossal frame. Multiple rows of jagged teeth filled his colossal maw, and thick strands of corded muscle, visible through the thin cotton shirt, rippled across his torso as he moved. He carried a pair of pistols in a brace of shoulder holsters, and the back of his hands were studded with small, bony spikes. Arian had been a Zantiu attempt to cultivate soldiers the equal of Lyrans, while shortcircuiting twenty years of training and conditioning, and several hundred years of culturo-physiological adaptation, while also pushing aside the unprofitable Lyran preclusion for honourable conduct.

Yes, definitely insane, but powerful enough to make such reasoning irrelevant. Arian was Knight's ticket to greater things, of that he was sure.

Arian paused a moment longer, then turned and walked past Knight, indicating with an inclination of his head that he should follow. At this delicate stage, no interference could be tolerated. The governing board had outlawed his chemical warfare plans, forbidding him to even entertain the idea. They'd change their minds when they saw how well it worked here, in Van de Grel, but until then he wanted no words of his plans to leak out. If the Lyrans found one of his devices, they may be able to get word back to their superiors. Once out, word would surely reach Brandt and the governing board, and the CEO's punishment of Arian would be swift and decisive.

“Come, young one.” said Arian, smiling viciously. “Gather the others. We have Lyrans to kill.”

“Slowly, I hope.” replied Knight. “Slowly and painfully.”

“Goes without saying.” said Arian, with a short, hacking laugh.

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How many times had they seen this place in their nightmares? How many times had they imagined the skeletal, blackened buildings, their shattered structures reaching screaming towards the sky, their empty doorways and windows staring at them, blankly accusing?

Wheldon didn't know about the others – though he expected the same was true for them – but the sight of Lutt was every bit as bad as his nightmares had painted it. As the wind raged through the empty buildings, he could hear the neutrals' screams, their cries. And each one was saying 'you left us... left us to die!'

The journey through the Van de Grel badlands had been bad for all of them, even Krell. The zone had been far, far worse than they'd been prepared for. Though the chemical weaponry had left most of the buildings and expressways intact, the energies released had completely sterilised the soil. Not even bacteria grew. Toxins had made their way into the water table, and geography kept the same toxins rolling over the sky in horrific acid rains and freak weather. They'd seen no sign of life, and the sheer deadness of the place made them all feel uncomfortable. For those, like him, who'd been here before, it was far, far worse. With each dragged, reluctant step, the events they'd all tried so hard to forget were coming back with a vengeance. Old ghosts were stirring – ghosts none of them wanted to confront.

For perhaps the tenth time since they entered the badlands, Colonel Krell stopped, turning impatiently to stare at her five companions. Each time she'd remind them of the urgency of their mission and get them to pick up the pace, and each time they'd gradually start to slow down, start to drag their feet. It was clear that as they got progressively deeper into the badlands, so their reluctance increased. So, several Fehnmari patrols didn't make it out alive, so there's a chance bands of nomads/brigands still roam the badlands. So what?! They were Lyran warriors, and special forces at that. They'd all faced greater perils in their time. And anyway, with so much at stake, their lives were expendable. If just one of them got out with the information that Lambert needed, it would be worth it. They were Lyrans, their lives were expendable for the greater good.

And now this town. They'd all stopped dead, all five of them, staring at it like it was some fearsome beast, risen from it's pit to consume them all. It was just another shell of a town. They'd passed several others just like it, both in their Fox 4x4s, and on foot, so why was this one so special? Krell's eyes narrowed suspiciously. Unless... they'd been here before. But why did they make no mention of this fact before? She regarded their frightened faces and wondered what exactly happened to them...

--

At Highcairn, Order-Marshal Lambert was wondering exactly the same thing. He'd accessed the computer records on the pre-detonation badlands, and uncovered an alarming fact. Years before he'd become marshal of the 7th Order, long before he'd even met Jameson and the others, six Lyran special forces troops had been sent on an infiltration into the Zantiu-controlled Van de Grel region of the Republic of Fehnmar. Only five of the six had made it out alive, all of them badly injured and shell-shocked, with little or no memory of what had occurred. Shortly afterwards, previously unknown chemical weapons had been detonated, creating the badlands and destroying the region's life. The accident was an embarrassment to Zantiu today, but Lambert needed more. An accident wouldn't suffice. There had to be cause for him to be able to take his concerns to Lyran Executive Command.

But it was this Lyran unit that fascinated Lambert. It was made up of Jameson, Innsman, Parnell, Sunder, Wheldon and a sixth man that Lambert didn't know, called Stanley – Corporal Alistair Stanley, to be more precise. Obviously he was the fatality. Why had none of them ever told him about this? Lambert began to wonder if their convenient loss of memory was a sham, and if they remembered exactly what happened in there.

--

It was like coming home. They'd been running from this place ever since that fateful time, running from their fear, their shame.

So utterly entranced was Innsman that he missed Krell's shout of warning. He was hit from all sides, as short, stunted and misshapen figures, grabbed at his arms, his legs, trying to pull him to the ground. More by well-honed reflex than anything, Innsman struck out, the big man landing a solid punch square to the centre of a head. He felt bone give, and blood sprayed up. As the tattered rags fell away from the creature, revealing its face, Innsman screamed. But there was no sound. He was mute with terror. The past had thrown up its dead to claim him.

Krell shrugged off the first few men who dropped around her from the high building rising up beside them. Evidently this was not as uninhabited as it had first appeared. Not that these emaciated wretches were much threat to six heavily armed Lyrans. They attacked with teeth and clawed hands, like wild animals with little obvious intelligence behind their red, sunken eyes. Though they had numbers – she figured on at least thirty, with more appearing all the time – the Lyrans had the skill and the weaponry to beat them off easily. As two more lunged at her, Krell slid left and kicked out, slamming one back into the other. She didn't want to start shooting, and had hoped that the six of them could subdue - whoever they were - without resorting to deadly force. Easier to interrogate for information as well...

Three more came for her, then a further three. Krell was forced backwards, ducking and weaving between them. One smashed a blow into her midriff. Her 'Dauntless' armour took the impact, but it had pushed her back again. Another, a bit bigger than the rest, managed to grab his legs, and she fell backwards, thumping against the wall behind her. Angry now, Krell hit out with her rifle, using the butt as a club. 6.8 Lyran would kill them easily enough, but she still didn't want to resort to that yet. The option was swiftly taken out of her hands as a mouth bit down hard on her wrist. With a yelp of pain, she relaxed her grip on the weapon, and it was gone, spirited away by one of any number of hands. Where were her comrades? Why weren't they helping her? The answer was all too evident as Krell's head surfaced from the blanket of bodies. Her fellow Lyrans had given up!

They were all on their knees, moaning pitifully as the creatures laid into them. None of them even tried to fight back. Krell's yell was drowned out by a guttural but commanding shout that rang out from behind them. The wretches broke off their attack enough for Krell to take in first the stark naked terror on her fellow Lyrans' faces, and then the huge figure that had risen up behind them.

Colonel Natasha Krell's jaw dropped. Melted and scarred though it was, the figure was still recognisable. She'd studied enough history tapes to recognise the monstrosity before them. The figure cackled brokenly.

“Welcome to hell.” said Arian.

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When had it started to go wrong?

Jameson wasn't sure, but he had an idea. It was such a little thing, he hadn't even consciously registered it. But now, thinking about the incident, he realised he should have paid it more attention.

It wasn't the second corporate attack; they'd anticipated that. When the somnollent stillness of the Fehnmari night had been shattered by the dirge of artillery and thunderous explosions, they'd simply settled in deeper to the trench fortifications they'd built at key points around and within Lutt's perimeter, and waited for the enemy to show themselves. All six knew that the fireworks were just to get their attention, heralding doom, and all that. The corporates were too used to terrorising non-combatants and Fehnmari militia.

It wasn't that the platoon attacking was infinitely more powerful than those previously sent; they'd all faced-off against the same before, most of whom still lay between the outskirts of the town and the cover from which the attackers had emerged, tight clusters of red holes marring the front of their chests. Even when the helicopter support came in, attacking again and again, a sleek, lethal and unknown design that unloaded ordnance on their position, they had been confident in their positions and their defence. When the mortars had opened fire, explosive impacts ripping up the ground, still they'd known they could handle them. When two squads had attacked, coming in under a barrage of fire and noise, Sunder and Stanley, operating the HMGs from remote weapon stations, had quickly driven them back, raking heavy calibre gunfire across their axis of advance. Time and again that night they'd attacked, and each time they'd been repulsed. But by the time dawn had come, the Lyrans – though successful – were dirty, tired and hurting. Somehow this wasn't fun anymore.

It wasn't even when they found out exactly whose territory they'd stumbled into; some of them had been in hairier positions, and survived to tell the story. But somehow the knowledge that they were under attack from Arian's elite guard was more terrifying.

Where Dreadfire was probably mad, there was no doubt that Arian was certifiably insane; as much a danger to the Zantiu Corporation as he was to the Lyrans and Fehnmaris. Something about the sheer unpredictability of his nature made him all the more dangerous. The Lyrans knew of his chemical weapon scheme – Intelligence had known of it for some time, although actual evidence was lacking - and wondered if he might just decide on a whim to waste the whole town. Of course, no-one actually gave voice to this concern, perhaps worried that to do more than think it would make the nightmare a reality. Glorious notions of a heroic death did not include being blasted from existence by a high-yield chemical weapon.

It didn't seem to be going too badly wrong even when the siege dragged into is fifth day. If the sat-radio had worked, they'd have called out... but that very first contact, on the first day, had put paid to that, and the mountains blocked the 4x4's sets. True, there was an undercurrent of unease running through the minds of all the Lyrans, carrying with it thoughts like: “We are in way over our heads here!” and “I think we really have issues, here.” But they were Lyrans, trained to push such counter-productive thinking to the back of their minds. They'd be okay. A bit of tiredness, the odd wound or two, a slight yearning for a shower and a bit of shut-eye – nothing they couldn't handle.

No, it was just one small incident that should have told them things had gone badly wrong. But they missed it... and paid for it.

As the siege progressed, the neutrals, once so warm and welcoming, had become surly and resentful. They began to count the casualties; the victims of the artillery bombardments that came every hour on the hour, so precisely timed you could set your watch by them. They began to dislike being cooped up within Lutt's perimeter, unable to get on with their day-to-day lives. They began to wonder if sooner or later, through persistence and weight of numbers, the corporates would wear down their would-be saviours and finally kill them, re-taking the town. Would they, the townspeople, be blamed for the Lyran actions and be summarily executed?

Things came to a head one clammy, hot day, a full week into the siege. The six man Lyran team had brought down over ten times their number by this point. Confidence, though fraying, was high, although ammunition was running low. Though expecting an attack, they weren't ready for what came.

The gunship helicopter came in low, skirting the defensive fire from below with almost unsettling ease. Instead of bombing the Lyran fortifications, as was usually the case, he had made straight for the town. Like some sleek, deadly bird of prey, the helicopter dropped toward's Lutt's town hall, a quirky circular structure, built in the Fehnmari style of about two hundred years ago, housing the town's treasured antiques and historical records – and fired a pair of missiles. For one infinite moment, the building's huge roof seemed to swell outwards, its reinforced concrete skin stretching in a way that concrete was never supposed to. Then it exploded. So vast was the sound, there was no sound. So bright was the flare, if failed to register. There was only a moment of mind-numbing emptiness – a forbidden glance at whatever void lay beyond – and then a force like a thousand blows punching those within range back at high speed. Then the world was full of noise, of light; a screaming, burning hell.

And then, almost as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Of the hall, there was no trace. It hadn't just been blown up, it had ceased to exist. Its grave was a smoking pit, its marker the stunned expressions on the faces of the neutrals. Of course, none of the Lyrans realised the significance of the structure. None of them realised that to the neutrals, their past, their history, their very existence on the face of the earth had been wiped out in seconds. But this was not what they missed.

They missed the incident shortly afterwards. Sunder was checking for casualties among the neutral civilians, murmuring polite sympathy where necessary. Lyrans, generally, are not good at sympathy, but Jameson gave him points for trying. Sunder had turned to Jameson, indicating with an amused nod of his head a neutral staring as if lost into the still smoking crater.

“You think I should go tell him the museum has had to close for renovations?” he asked, not cruelly, just digging for black humour from the cloud of still-blacker despair that was gathering around them.

Jameson had started to laugh, and then choked it back, regarding the bleakly hostile look he got from a passing neutral. Then it was gone, and the man had shuffled on, head lowered. It was a small incident, and Jameson missed it. He couldn't have known the man's name was Hrothgar, and that he had long held the voice of the Lutt townspeople, and long been the one they looked to for support... and guidance.

And that was really, Jameson now decided, where it had all gone badly wrong. That night the six Lyrans, mostly in response to the increasingly jumpy Stanley – the pressure of the siege, the long periods of inactivity and the constant barrage having got to him – decided it was time they took the battle to the corporates, regardless of the consequences. They were therefore pleasantly surprised to find the corporates' base camp deserted, its occupants seemingly moved on. Zantiu had given up, gone home.

“We have won,” Parnell had said, articulating the relief none of the others could give voice to.
“We have won!”

The shout broke the dam, and suddenly a floodtide of excited shouts and near-hysterical emotion burst free. Calmed, but still excited, the Lyrans had hurried back to Lutt, eager to break the news to its long-suffering inhabitants. Eager, if truth be told, to bask once more in their gratitude and praise. They found the townspeople gathered in the town square, heads lowered, shoulders slumped. The silence was thick, palpable, broken only by a haunted, whispered “we're sorry... so sorry!”

The voice continued, saying that they had no option, that they had to look out for their own well-being, but by then the Lyrans had turned unhearing, faces frozen in shock. Ranged behind them stood Knight, and two squads of corporates, smiling unpleasantly and with weapons levelled. From behind them, Arian stepped forwards, knotting his fingers, easily a head taller than the largest of his men, and with eyes alight with sadistic speculation.
“Which of you would like to die first?” he asked politely. And at that moment, Jameson wondered when it had all started to go wrong. Though not sure, he knew one thing for certain.

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It was going to get a whole lot worse.

Arian laughed. And laughed. And laughed.

Laughed as Krell, overcoming the mental paralysis that had locked her limbs at that first terrible glimpse of the dead mercenary's melted face, had pushed off her attackers, grabbing for her sidearm with newly free hands.

Laughed as Krell drew and fired, 10mm bullets hitting him full on, driving into his body. Laughed as he moved inexorably toward the wide-eyed Lyran, weathering the reports that threatened to finally bring his sham of a life to an end, before clicking empty. Laughed as he raised one studded hand into the air, ready to strike. Laughed as the panicked Lyran shouted to her comrades for assistance, frantically trying to reload. Laughed as he drove the clenched fist down on the Lyran's head, buckling her knees and pitching her forward onto hard unyielding ground.

Lying there, drifting in some unconscious dream, Krell fancied she could still hear Arian laughing.

In fact, he had stopped, turning away from the crumpled Natasha Krell to regard the others. His eyes took them all in at once – Jameson, Sunder, Innsman, Parnell, Wheldon. Yes, they had all come back to him!

“Your friend doesn't know you as well as I,” whispered the ghost of Arian's voice, as he lumbered towards them, dragging a leg that looked twisted out of shape. “Doesn't know you'll do nothing to help her, doesn't know what spineless cowards you are.”

He paused, as if the effort of the last words had drained him. Mistakenly sensing hope where there was none, Jameson looked up. Arian's hand closed around Jameson's throat, fingers gouging into the flesh. Jameson's eyes goggled. Though worse for wear, clearly Arian was every bit as deadly as before.

“Do you recognise them?” asked the whispering giant, indicating the tatty, withered and emaciated shapes that had attacked them with a sweep of his free hand.

“They're your shame... your greatest failure.” With an effortless motion, Arian hauled Jameson into the air, thrusting his face towards the nearest figure. “You abandoned them, left them to die in the holocaust!”

Jameson stared into the face of one of the Lutt neutrals and suddenly the past yawned wide before him. “Yesss!” hissed Arian. “I see your terror, Anthony Jameson. I see your despair. I know you would all welcome death, welcome the relief from these ghosts that haunt your waking nightmares.”

Arian laughed. “So I intend to make your deaths slow and painful... and very long in coming! Just like last time...”

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Through a haze of terror and pain, Jameson came to the conclusion that he was beginning to melt.

Suspended upside down over a vat of bubbling smelt metal, the intense heat was making his skin bubble and peel. For some insane reason, Jameson thought this was incredibly funny, and – to his torturer's intense shock – started to laugh hysterically. He couldn't stop, and was laughing so hard the pain in his sides and jaw tendons eclipsed that of the searing heat below him. On this, the third day of almost unremitting torture, Jameson knew with sudden clarity that he was going mad. More frightening even than this insight was the certain knowledge that he welcomed the oblivion this would bring.

Watching, Arian ordered one of his men to cut the Lyran down. He intended to delay such sweet reliefs as madness or death for as long as possible. This patrol had dared to cross him and would now pay the price in full. After giving instructions for the torturer to start work on Sergeant Wheldon with a soldering iron, Arian turned to regard Corporal Alistair Stanley. There was no doubt in his mind that this was by far the greatest torture he had ever devised for a captive.

Stanley had not been touched, save to bind him securely and threaten to clamp his eyes open if he didn't watch. Stanley had no suffered the electrodes, the beatings, or the neural stimulator. He had not been boiled in oil, or pulled over a rack. He had simply been made to watch as all these things and more had been done to his five comrades.

Stanley sobbed, a broken shell of a Lyran. Begging to be involved, to share his comrades physical torment. Arian simply laughed. He was saving Stanley for his coup de grace. The only cloud on Arian's horizon was Knight. His lieutenant watched the proceedings with hooded, disapproving eyes. This was no way to treat a valiant enemy, he thought, but did not say. They fought well, held off immensely superior forces for a week – longer if the cowardly neutrals had not betrayed them. They deserved a quick, honourable death, not the slow, agonising torment. For the moment, Knight decided, he would do nothing, stay quiet... and alive. But his commander had slipped several notches in his estimation. And no future act could ever gain that respect.

Seven days into the Lyrans' ordeal – one day for each day that they had held off Arian's troops – Arian decided he'd had enough. Amusing though this sideline was, his chemical purge took precedence.

In a barren, desolate cell, the broken Lyrans were gathered together. Each, with the exception of Stanley, had a rifle placed on the ground in front of them, and told to listen.

“I am going to kill Stanley.” said Arian, as if he were discussing the weather. “Each of you has one chance to stop me, one free shot. If you kill me, your friend will live, and my men have orders to let you go free. Simple, is it not?”

Grabbing the almost catatonic Stanley by one shoulder, Arian grasped his head securely in the other hand, bracing himself, ready to twist.

“I will count to six...” said Arian.

“One...” Jameson stared stupidly at the rifle lying in front of him.

“Two...” Wheldon reached out to the rifle. Why was everything suddenly moving in slow motion, he wondered.

“Three...” Parnell's fingers touched his rifle and stayed there, unmoving. He wondered suddenly why he'd put them there.

“Four...” Innsman tried to reason it. He had the rifle in his hands, all he had to do was shoot. So why couldn't he?

“Five...” Sunder realised he was terrified of failing, afraid of dying. Sobbing, he let the weapon fall.

“Six.” said Arian with a satisfied snarl. And twisted.

Arian moved away, leaving the five remaining Lyrans behind him in their barren, comfortless cell. There was no point in killing them now. Let them live in the knowledge they failed a brother, let him die. As Lyrans – they were finished. Arian looked around him, well satisfied. In four hours, this whole area would be purged with chemical fire. His victory would be complete.

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She looked at them – all broken, despairing shells of the honoured Lyran warriors they once were – and fought hard to stave off despair herself.

While she'd been unconscious, they'd been brought here – to a featureless metal cell in what must have been the town's justice building. It seemed to Krell that Jameson and the others knew this place well, and she decided it was about time she found out exactly what was going on around here. Or better still, what HAD gone on around here.

“I am curious.” said Krell, biting her lip, and leaving the statement hanging like a question mark in the air.

Innsman bit.
“Curious about... what?” he asked, dragging the last word out as though fearing the answer.

“About what Order-Marshal Lambert would say if he were here to see how far his brave warriors have fallen.” replied the colonel, allowing her top lip to curl into a contemptuous sneer. “Then again,” said Krell, as though weighing the situation up, “he probably expects it. Probably will just chalk it up to another defeat for the 7th Order's resident failures.”

“Watch it, colonel,” muttered Wheldon without looking up. He'd almost spat out her rank, more than said it.

Krell was on her feet, laughing, clapping her hands together delightedly.

“Oh, that is nice... a threat? I am shaking. Really!” She leaned over, lifting up Wheldon's chin with a finger, and patting his nose. “What are you going to do? Cry on me?”

Wheldon was up in one fluid motion, shoulder charging Krell and sending her crashing back into the wall. A deep, black well of anger boiled over, and Wheldon launched himself at the dazed woman, screaming for blood. As Wheldon's hands locked around her throat, Krell spat words at the frenzied man, baiting him still further. She knew she was risking her life, but options were limited.

“Stop.” said Jameson, placing a calming, restraining hand on Wheldon's shoulder. “Though part of me wants me to let you carry on, Wheldon – it is about time we five faced some cold, harsh facts. All these years, it has been eating away at us, like a cancer... it has to come out.”

Released, Krell stepped back, rubbing the deep bruises in the flesh of her throat.
“It is going to be a painful process,” she croaked, “but a necessary one if we are to get through this.”

Jameson lowered his head, nodding.

“You took a big risk, ma'am, but it seems that your strategy has worked.” Jameson steeled himself, seeming to draw a deep breath before beginning...

Jameson started. Then Parnell. Each ventured part of the tale, drawing it out from the depths of their souls like the festering malignancy it was.

“You have to understand, we had been tortured almost to death, we had watched our battle-brother die, and not lifted a finger to help him. We were not quite at our best.”

“Anyway, Arian was not finished with us, not by a long stretch. With just two hours to go before his five chemical weapons detonated... he set us free.”

“Of course, there was a catch. With Arian, there is always a catch. He had hidden the neutrals somewhere in the surrounding area. We had until the detonation to find and save them. Or, as Arian himself suggested, we could just leave.”

“We searched. What else could we do? Arian had killed a lot of our spirit, but we were still Lyran enough to try. We failed. Arian – we supposed – had hidden them in some underground chamber we had not been told about. Time was running out. If we were going to get ourselves clear, it had to be done soon. We already had one death on our conscience, could we cope with a whole town more?”

“What we knew was that Arian was watching, eager to see which way we jumped. He was circling the town in an Mi-24, just in case we cut it too fine, and he had to get out of there in a hurry.”

“Imagine his surprise then, when he comes back over the town square – what was left of it after the week's siege – and finds us gone, not a trace. He must have been frantic. He was not to be denied his sport so easily, though, and when his aerial search yielded nothing, he came down with a short squad of infantry to see for himself.”

“That is when we hit him. Hit him with everything we had... or at least everything we had left. Even with surprise on our side, it was touch and go. He and his men nearly got Parnell and Wheldon before we managed to bring them all down. In that firefight, one of Arian's legs was smashed... he could barely walk, let alone run. He was as trapped as we were... with just ten minutes left on the clock.”

“We tried everything. We told him that unless he gave up the neutrals, we would all die there, together. Maybe it would have been better if we had. Arian refused to give in. He told us he would rather die than lose to us. And it did not take a genius to realise he was telling the truth.”

“We- we left. God help us, but we left. We ran to the four wheel drives... still where we had left them two weeks earlier, and drove away from there. We all knew we had had no other option, but that was no help to our consciences. We left Arian there to die, to go up with his own insane dreams. And all we could hear as we drove away was him shouting, telling us we were cowards, not fit to live, let alone fight as warriors. Deep down, each one of us knew that he was right.”

“When the bombs went up, part of us died in there.”

Jameson lowered his head, ashamed to meet Krell's eyes as he concluded:
“The shame, the knowledge of our fear, our vulnerability... we,” he stammered, took a breath, then continued, a little stronger, “we could not, would not own up to those things, even to ourselves. We would have been finished, useless to Lyras, and even more so to ourselves. So we concocted a story about amnesia, and let our lies eat away at us.”

Krell watched as Jameson shook his head, looking up at her, eyes full of pain and hurt.

“Do you see now?” he asked.

“Do you understand at least some of what we are going through?”

Krell did... only too well. One of the most difficult things to admit, especially for a warrior, is fear. You survive by being beyond such emotions, even if you are only fooling yourself. To function properly you must have the respect of your fellow warriors, even if you know it is all a sham. She had thought her career was over when she had been taken in combat herself, violated by her captors, and left for dead. Her, Natasha Krell, daughter of the Warmarshal, and fearless combat officer of Lyras, had become afraid of her own shadow.
She had tried to hide it, oh how she had tried. But, like all skeletons, it had finally poked its head out of its closet. What was surprising was that not only did it not finish her as a combat officer, but admitting it had helped her conquer her fears. Instead of scorn at her weakness, she got help and support. Her comrades-in-arms rallied around her like never before, trusted her where they should – by rights – have doubted.

Jameson was talking: “We are cowards – all of us. We have no real excuse - ”

Krell glared angrily. He was wrong. They were all wrong. By simply being able to stand there and admit all this they are proving themselves wrong. Surely the greatest act of bravery for a warrior is admitting fear, facing their shortcomings head on. Krell talked on and on, arguing, defending, pushing.

And slowly, step by painful step, she began to get through.

--

Arian was annoyed. Where were those blasted neutrals. They were supposed to bring him Jameson, so the tortures could begin. They were ten minutes late, and Arian's patience was wearing thin.

Fifteen minutes.

Twenty.

Arian had had enough. Those imbeciles would regret crossing him.

With an angry snarl, Arian hoisted himself painfully out of his makeshift throne, hauling his shattered leg into a standing position. Every twinge, every moment of discomfort – they would pay for them a thousand fold. They would come to understand that their previous sessions were nothing compared to what was to come. He had had fifteen years in hell to perfect his methods.

“Where are you?” howled Arian, tearing through – rather than simply opening – the doors of his throneroom.

The shout died on his lips, and for a long moment, Arian simply could not believe what his eyes were seeing.

Ranged in front of him, weapons levelled at his chest, were Jameson, Innsman, Parnell, Wheldon and Sunder. None of them spoke a word – they didn't need to. The hate and cold fury in their eyes spoke volumes. They fired.

Arian staggered back through the doorway, reeling under the multiple impacts. Howling with rage and fury, Arian drew his own weapon and fired blindly back, PDW ripping through the makeshift surrounding walls, exploding electrical circuits. Severed cables danced snake-like through the air as the ceiling collapsed, and Arian was suddenly in a world of hissing, sparking fury, a tangled nightmare of lethal coils. A second burst of gunfire took him in the back, punching through his overcharged and overdense frame, thrusting him forward, receiving multiple shocks from the electrical jungle in front of him. A kaleidoscope of colours erupted in front of his eyes and he staggered blindly on, firing at shadows and movement, blasting furrows into walls, ceiling and floor. Dust and wreckage spiralled through the air, already thick with acrid smoke.

“Where are you?!” screamed Arian, flailing through a world of confusion.

“Right here,” said Jameson, from inches away. Arian whirled and Jameson hammered savage blows to his chest and stomach, cracking the super-strong sternum and ribs. Then he was gone, back into the ozone fog. His voice cracking with rage and pain, Arian fired in the direction Jameson disappeared. The impact forced aside supporting struts, and a fire and smoke-shrouded wall collapsed, rubble hitting Arian like a battering ram, and he was hurled brokenly back through space, landing mere feet from his throne.

Sunder and Innsman were waiting for him, feet and fists lashing out in a vicious staccato of blows that pitched Arian forward to his knees. He looked up in time to see Parnell bearing down on him, an impossibly large piece of metallic rubble held above his head. Parnell stopped, frozen – the killing blow a mere thought away. He turned his head, seeing Krell watching from the smoke-filled doorway. She said nothing, but Parnell knew what she was thinking. Lyrans do not kill helpless enemies – even cases as richly deserving as Arian. Not courage, skill or tenacity, but honour was what set them apart from the enemies they fight.

And yet... here is a monster, with the blood of countless on his hands, a being insane enough to detonate chemical weapons, a being sadistic enough to torture and kill for pleasure. Would the world not be better off without such as he?

With a savage howl, Parnell threw the chunk of building aside. “I am taking you in,” he informed the broken man kneeling in front of him, “for crimes against humanity.”

“You weren't listening before,” croaked Arian, looking up through his one remaining eye. He coughed wretchedly, a dark clot of blood spraying out from beneath rows of jagged teeth – teeth which now contorted into a mockery of a smile. “I would rather die than admit defeat to you, Lyran... and if I take you with me, so much the better!”

With that, he wrenched a lever on the arm of his throne, showing glass canisters held side by side. He drove clawed fingers through the canisters, ripping out wires and valves, before plunging his hands into the chemical soup within. His hands disintegrated in seconds, but it was enough. The foreign matter had started the solution reacting, and as it bubbled higher and higher it came ever close to the now-exposed contents of the second tank of hypergogic fluid.

“Out!” screamed Parnell, “Now!”

Followed by the broken cackles of Arian, the six Lyrans fled the throneroom, emerging into the Fehnmari night beyond.

“I thought I said that I wanted you to get the neutrals clear and wait for us?!” yelled a breathless Parnell to Krell as they ran.

“Sorry,” replied Krell, tripping, stumbling forwards and running on. “ I got them out of town, and then came back. Once we had beaten the ones who came to get you from the cells, the fight just went out of them. I guess I wanted to make sure I could trust you to remain true to the code. Like I said... sorry.”

“Forget it,” said Parnell, but the words were drowned out by the colossal explosion behind them. Like stringless puppets they were picked up on a raging wind and thrown the last few dozen metres beyond the Lutt town limits. Jameson looked back at the rising cloud that marked the end of Arian, the end of his madness and, perhaps, and end to their guilt.

Dawn was approaching as the Lyrans and neutrals reached the site once, long ago, occupied by the Zantiu Corporation's Fort Thall.

“Let us get on with it, people.” said Krell. “We still have a mission to complete, you know. So move like you have a purpose.”

Parnell smiled, turning to Jameson.

“It is almost like before, no? With Krell, we are the Glorious Six again.”

Jameson paused before replying, turning to look at the dust cloud that still hung in the air, marking the graveyard behind them.

“No. Not like before. We have grown, learnt. There is nothing glorious about what we do, save that we do it for others. It is dirty, messy, soul-destroying. It forces you to do things you can never really live with, though live we will, and live we must.”

“Six we may be,” said Jameson, his eyes – though still full of hurt and remorse – beginning to clear, “but not glorious.”


-END-