Battleheart
Battleheart
12,722 Words.
–
Her eyes were of the deepest, brightest, cerulean blue. That was his most striking memory of her. They seemed to shimmer as if lit by an inner light. It was that image, more than any other, that haunted, and comforted him. Each morning as he woke the dream of her faded into another waking nightmare. The pleasant azure of her memory fading into the drab grey monotony of another day.
This was Everett Caines sixth year on this frozen rock. The enemy called it “Templar Volanis”, but he had always known it as Rahle. His unit was the 3rd force recon, attached to the 92nd tactical operations group, which had orders to secure rahle and oust the templars, in the hopes that a breakthrough in this sector could break the enemy’s lines, and maybe even cause a generalised rout.
Rahle was a small, uninhabitable frontier world on the edges of known space. With no atmosphere, one-third of Earth’s Gravity, and an ambient temperature well below freezing, this place well earned it’s reputation for being “Hell frozen over”.
The templars had constructed a base there some decades ago, but it was only marginally more well equipped than the rusting metal outpost that Everett’s unit was holed up in.
The endless tedium of patrolling and observation was broken only by the frenzied terror of battle. Six years and thousands of lives, and nothing to show for it but bodies crudely entombed in the permafrost.
It was almost macabre in it’s irony. A true microsm of the futility of man. There was nothing here. Nothing worth fighting for. Rahle was a forgotten afterthought in a grand campaign of guts and glory, a graveyard for the bodies of the young, and their dreams.
Everett had joined the North Star Alliance at 24, his heart bursting with glory and honour that would put a propaganda telecast to shame. He had dreams of epic battles and even more epic victories, followed by medals and a short trip home.
That was nearly 9 years ago. Initially joining the signal intelligence division, he was assigned to the electronic warfare ship ANS-Morningstar, where he rose to the rank of Tech Sergeant in less than a year. That’s when the war started to go bad, and he was reassigned to force recon as a Specialist, and posted to Rahle during one of the reinforcement runs. It was hoped that his skills would allow him to quickly decipher the enemy radio communications, and pinpoint weaknesses in their defences.
The plan was a “short, sharp, shock” to break the Templars hold on the region, and then onwards to Orion, with the fleet in tow.
But the damn templars held on. They wanted this slice of frozen hell just as much as the Alliance, and they poured in just as many eager young men to die for it.
It’s hard to imagine how so much could change, and yet stay the same.
The screech of the warning klaxon blared, interrupting his thoughts, and he jumped from his bunk, already wearing his uniform. Cleanliness had long since given way to preparedness.
The perimeter radar indicated an attack by a few dozen men, most likely a single understrength company. The templars were stretched just as thin as the alliance, and were reinforced just as sporadically.
The defenders preparing to meet the incursion barely spoke. There was nothing left to say that hadn’t been said. Long gone was the camraderie, the fighting spirit, the brothers in arms. Hard men, cold and unfeeling, they had seen the deaths of many, friend and foe alike. It taught them to never get close, to burn the compassion from their hearts. A dead friend is a distraction, a liability, a one-way ticket to wherever they went. Instead, you disconnect, disengage. Find a place outside yourself and dream of a better future, or a better past. There is no other way to stay sane, when each day bleeds into the next, a monotony of bare survival, lost soldiers in a forgotten land.
Before leaving the relative comfort of their outpost, the men of the 3rd recon hastily put on their environment suits. Each man had their own one, and they were often customised or camoflaged to the tastes of their owner. The young Sergeant rememberd how stuffy and uncomfortable the suit felt when he first put it on. It was all he could do to avoid throwing up, or passing out. Now, after all he had been through, it felt reassuring and safe. True, it wouldn’t withstand a direct hit from a rifle round, but it’s ablative armour plates would soak up a lot of damage, and it had saved his life more than once.
Leaving the outpost, the men rushed to their assigned positions. It wasn’t possible to run in such low gravity, the best anyone could do was a kind of bounding walk, and even that took some practice. Rahle was so small that it was possible to see the planets surface curve as it stretched, featureless, into the distance. The inky blackness of space, pierced by a scant few stars served only to magnify the effect, and it took a strong will to resist the inevitable lightheadedness and severe nausea.
The fighting line was a requiem to the memory of the dead. Each time the klaxon blared, fewer and fewer men arrived to take up their positions. As the familiar glow of the tracers sailed towards them, more and more guns went silent. The only reason they hadn’t been overrun was that the templars stained the ground red with just as much blood, and neither side had much left to waste.
The muffled thud of their rifle blasts reverberted through his suit. He shot down one of the attacking soldiers at long range, his body crumpled, leaving just an indistinct heap against the ice. Another warrier made it into the outpost, and killed two men before being riddled with bullets. Everett could see his face as he died, contorted with a rage, a hatred seen only in the fires of war. It was a pure, animalistic rage, but was it directed at them? Or the God, or fate, or destiny which brought them to this wretched place?
As Everett and his remaining men poured rounds into his broken body, the warriors eyes widened, hate turned to fear, an existential terror of the beyond, and he fell, eyes now empty, devoid of life, eternally staring upward into a black sky.
Without so much as a moment to catch their breath, the squads officer ordered an immediate counter-attack. It was routine in it’s predictibility, and routine in it’s failure. Five more men were killed by defensive fire during the initial push toward the templar strongpoint, and one more had his leg blown off by a mine as they retreated.
Everett saw the man struggling, crawling, determined to cling to life, and broke the unwritten rule. He could have left him there, he was very unlikely to survive, he was a liability, but something stopped him. Thoughts of leaving a good man to die, bleeding to death on the frozen ground, were too hard to stomach.
With an almost nonchalant calm, he made his way towards the wounded man, before, in an instant, a blinding flash filled his eyes, and his world went black.
The low rumbling roar of a mortar impacting the frozen ground just meters away stirred the Sergeant back to consciousness. He opened his eyes, but all he saw was blackness. The dried blood from his head wound had glued his eyes shut. In a panic, he attempted to clear his vision, but noticed that his left arm was hanging uselessly from his shoulder.
As his vision cleared, he slowly began to take stock of the reality of his situation.
His squad were dead or dying. He could see a smear of vestigial human remains where the wounded man once was, and part of his commanding officer lay near a mortar crater to his left. The CO’s eyes were turned toward Everett, they seemed to stare through him in death, a grotesque visage of pain and fear.
In addition to an open wound on his head, and his destroyed left arm, the Sergeants right leg was torn by shrapnel and bleeding badly, staining the already filthy ice.
His suit was torn, and venting oxygen, he had but minutes of air left.
Everett called out for help, hoping that someone was still alive, but noone answered, his calls echoing uslessly into the abyss.
Using all of the strength he could muster, Everett managed to patch the leaking holes in his suit well enough. The rebreather still worked, so he was in no immediate danger of suffocation. This was a small consolation, however, since a death by exsangination may be an altogether worse fate.
For the next several hours, Everett drifted in and out of consciousness, contemplating death. The pain seemed to dull as he grew closer to the end, as if to ease his passing into nothingness.
It was almost peaceful.
–
The breeze was warm, with just a hint of the upcoming autumn chill.
The air felt light, delicate. It echoed his thoughts. There was a faint scent of pine drifting from the nearby forest, it’s aroma sweet and fresh.
The gravel crunched under his feet as he walked the familiar path to his home.
That word, “home”, still sounded alien. He had lived in many places, but none had ever felt like a “home”. A place to sleep, a place to escape to, or from, but never a home.
This place was different.
And it was all because of her.
As grew closer he could see her through the window. Watching her unawares made him feel disconnected, as if in a dream, as if none of this was real.
She moved with all the poise of a dancer, and stood elegant as a highborn noble, but without a hint of arrogance.
Her beauty was as natural as it was striking, and her modesty despite it underscored her character and purity.
As he opened the door a delicious aroma awakened his forgotten hunger.
“Everett!”
Lyssa exclaimed rushing to embrace him without another word.
Her warm embrace awakened him from his dream. A powerful wave of emotion washed over him, and he held her tighter.
He felt the warmth of her soft skin and caressed her silky hair.The faint aroma of her perfume was sweet and welcoming.
He felt alive, he felt human again.
This was where he belonged.
Breaking the embrace, the two were lost momentarily in each others eyes. Hers, dazzling and cerulean blue like the sky, bright with hope. His dark, war-weary, witness to a hundred battles.
Her virtue and light seemed to flow into him, and soften his calloused, cold heart. He thought for a moment that in so doing his darkness might find it’s way to her, and that frightened him. But he couldn’t be apart from her again. Not even to save them both. He needed her, she was a part of him.
They seemed to speak silently for what felt like hours, conveying thoughts and emotions words could never express.
Of love, loss, hope and hopelessness.
“I made dinner” she said, her voice broke the silence, as beautiful as he had remembered.
Lyssa’s homemade meal was far better than the rations had been living on, and he told her so.
“I was hoping you’d like it”, she said, seeming relieved.
“Of course I like it, you made it” Everett replied, genuinely. She sometimes seemed to know him better than he knew himself.
The afternoon light soon faded to the amber hue of evening, but they barely noticed, so deep were they in conversation.
“Did you think about me? While you were away?” Lyssa ventured, quietly, as if afraid of the answer.
Everett noticed her somber tone, and as she turned away, as if attempting to hide her feelings, he gently reached out his arm and brushed the stray hairs from her face.
She closed her eyes for a moment, anticipating his answer.
“Thoughts of you were the only thing that kept me going Lyssa. You saved me. I saw men, stronger men than me, go under. They broke. You kept me strong. You were there with me when I needed you most.”
She smiled, her lips soft and innocent. She turned back to face him and without another word he drew her close and kissed her.
It was like the world outside ceased to exist, the only world they needed was each other.
The things that he had seen, the war, the killing, the death and wanton brutality, all seemed like faint memories of a dying dream when he was with her. Like dew evaporating in the morning sun.
Her laughter, her voice, god! He could live in her embrace and not want for anything.
As night fell, and the late summer chill cooled the air, they retired to bed.
They made love like they never had before, passionate and primal, and fell asleep still in each others arms.
–
Reluctantly returning to grim reality, resting on a blanket of melted ice and his own life blood, Everett found a new strength.
An unconscious knowing, indescribable but somehow certain, his vision was a message from beyond. Lyssa, his love, was out there, and she was waiting for him. He needed to find her. That was his mission now, that was his war.
Rolling onto his side, he used his good arm to grasp his rifle and heave himself to his feet. It was dark now, which would make him harder to spot.
The outpost was not much more than 5 kilometers, but as injured as he was, getting there would be a challenge. He had no medical equipment, but luckily the cold had kept him from bleeding out until now.
He was weak, badly wounded, and left for dead, but the fire of his love and his new found passion burned brightly.
Out of touch with his reality, his senses dulled, vision blurred, Everett existed somewhere between this world and the next. Acting more on instinct than conscious thought, something kept him going, kept him putting one foot in front of the other.
Even after an icestorm blew in, driven by the thin atmosphere, reducing his already limited vision to almost zero, he still, inexplicably found his way. At times, when all seemed lost, hopeless, a light seemed to illuminate the whiteout, guiding him to safety. It must be the searchlights of the outpost, or could it be something else? A manifestation of his desire, a non-corporeal bond to her?
A spectre, his form was black against the driving snow and ice, appearing and disappearing as the wind changed. The lookouts, frightened by his sudden appearance, fought off thoughts of the world beyond, of wraiths and restless spirits of the dead. Finally, common sense won out, and a rescue party was dispatched. Fighting away the stretcher bearers, the ever-resolute young Sergeant walked under his own power, half blind and half mad from his ordeal, into the only home he had known since he left the life to which he now vowed to return.
The medic at the outpost did what he could to stabilise him, but it was all meatball surgery. Drafting in several of the more technically adept soldiers, they fought to keep Everett alive. The floors were quickly soaked with blood, hastily mopped up with whatever rags could be found. His body a museum piece for the horrors of war, but yet still, inexplicably, alive, the warrior in him carried on, living only by the hope, the dream, of going back to her.
–
The next few weeks were a blur. He was evacuated to Atlantia Redoubt, a small, under-equipped deep space station near the outer frontier. Open to both the military and civilian traders and merchants, Atlantia was an oasis of civilisation in an ocean devoid of life.
This far out into the frontier, however, life was far from idyllic. Most of the military personnel were jaded war veterans with a tenuous grip on reality at best. The merchants were often involved in gun-running, smuggling, and trafficking of all manner of illicit items. What few business owners were hardy enough to survive out here catered to them, while running more than a few underhanded operations of their own.
Despite this, Atlantia Redoubt had the best medical facility on the frontier, and was home to the 7th fleet and it’s auxillary vessels, the same fleet that the Sergeants tactical group was attached to.
Thanks to their care, Everett was slowly brought from the brink of death back to the realms of the living, although he still spent most of his days drifting in and out of consciousness, struggling to tell the difference between his florid reveries and tormented reality.
Much more than mere dreams, they were full of fire and indomitable faith, of passion and purity of heart, they personified the love that still burned within Everetts battered, broken body, and granted respite from the suffering.
As his body healed itself, these visions offered a welcome escape to another world. She was there with him, her hair glowing in the sun, dazzling his minds eye with its light and colour. Their hearts were shared as one, his and hers together, as they once were, and will be again.
Their love was his unspoken, terrible hope. Something so fragile, so precious, and so rare that he dared not think on it for fear of losing it forever. In the harsh, brutal, unfeeling reality outside of this dreamscape, there was no love. For love is based on goodness, and there was no good in that fractured world. Just different kinds of evil.
But still he dared, with the last of this courage, to hope, and to shield the flame of love from the howling, screeching, winds of hate.
A flash brighter than the sun, and then another, yielded to a dense cloud of smoke and dust. The low, rumbling roar rose to a cacophony, louder than the cries of a thousand demons, and altogether more wicked.
Kyrre, his love’s home, had been glassed.
The dispatches had broadcast the attack, heavily edited for propaganda purposes of course, and in his addled state, Everett had created a waking dream, full of fear and death, of destruction and the violation of innocence. It was the only way that he could process the truth.
At least two thermonuclear devices had impacted the planet. Both were airbursts, which meant no fallout, a small mercy at least. With an estimated yield of 150 Kilotons, they were likely Smart Bombs from a Wraith, a small, covert, vessel designed to carry out long range surveillance and tactical operations without being detected.
Smart bombs, or “Jaggers” as they were called due to their distinctive electronic signature on radar, featured an attack profile that involved shutting down all thrusters and coasting, unpowered, for the final phase of flight, which left virtually no thermal signature until they hit the upper atmosphere. Kyrre would never have seen them coming.
Multiple, simultaneous detonations would destroy any buildings over one story, fry any electrical devices, and their intense heat would turn even the earth itself to a radioactive glass called “Trinitite”, hence the name “glassing”.
When his body had healed enough to allow conscious thought, Everett’s pain was cast aside by fear.
She was from a noble family, a powerful family, surely she had escaped, or maybe she was waiting there for him? She could be hurt, or…
He needed to get to Kyrre, and find her.
But there was another problem. If he abandoned his post, it would be desertion. The penalty, during wartime, could be summary execution.
Even as the thought entered his head the decision was made and Caine was already heaving and stumbling his way to the clothing and personal effects stored at the far corner of the room.
One of the advantages of the 7th fleet being based at a civilian-run facility was that security was necessarily more relaxed. Everett managed to get into the crew rooms without presenting any military ID, ensuring that nothing would show up on record.
The sterile, grey, dimly lit corridors almost seemed comforting to him. Just a few years ago a young man walked these same halls, full of hope and glory, ready to fight the good fight. Now, hardened, aged by battle, humbled by fear, by hate, by the wickedness inside all of us, that same man could barely drag himself to his destination. Chest heaving from exertion, steadying himself with an arm resting on the bulkhead wall, Everett finally reached the personal quarters of Lieutenant Jade Sunne.
Her initial annoyance at the lateness of the hour was instantly replaced with concern at her former compatriots appearance.
There was little time to catch up, and Everetts wounds did most of the talking in any case. Sunne had been granted a senior role on an Electronic Warfare ship. Small, fast, and stealthy, these vessels were designed to penetrate enemy territory and gather intelligence and intercept communications.
With Kyrre under attack, Caine knew that Sunnes ship, the Strela, would not be far behind, and he needed a favour.
She was able to smuggle him on board without any questions, largely due to the clandestine nature of electronic warfare ships. They were frequently used for covert operations and crew members were trained not to ask questions.
Everett was given a bunk near the Strelas modest medical bay, where he could convalesce en route.
The trip was three months, and the ship operated on “grey mode” for most of that time, as per it’s standard operating procedure. This meant no communications in or out. This helped protect the Sergeants true purpose on board, but did nothing to allay his fears regarding the attack.
Her letter was his only solace. Written in her delicate, elegant hand, he had kept it with him since they last parted, a memory of her, created by her, it held special meaning.
He forced himself to read it sparingly, to avoid burning it into his memory, and preserve some of it’s magic. But gradually each word, even each stroke of the pen became engrained in his mind.Yet still its emotion poured forth from the pages, no less raw, no less muted. He still read with bated breath, as if afraid that each time the words could be different.
She spoke of love, of fear, and of regret.
This missive gave form and substance to his etherial desires, without it, he could have thought himself mad. It stood as an icon of the love she had for him once, and a beacon of hope.
This letter had once separated them, and now it would bring them together again.
–
An age ago, on another world, Everett had first seen the face of the most divine beauty. Demurely, she sat drinking tea in a small cafe in the old town, her face framed by the glass as if on a portrait. Her short, neon blue hair seemed out of place in this haven of tranquilitty, far from the starships and high technology that underscored their times.
The spec sheets and research materials, circuit diagrams and case studies that occupied Everetts mind so completely now seemed but a distant memory.
Frozen in time, their eyes met briefly, and she seemed to smile, before his courage waned and he looked away, hoping the milling crowd would hide his embarassment.
Cursing his lack of will, in the following weeks Everett began visiting the cafe more and more, even though it was out of his way. Unconsciously, his thoughts drifted back to her during the quiet moments of the day, and kindled a warmth and hopefullness that altogether redoubled his efforts to meet this subject of his fantasy.
Having almost given up on meeting the lady again, Everett nonetheless kept visiting his place of pilgramage, keeping that hope that hearts cling vainly to alive. Of course, he told himself it was for the ambience, for the rustic, simple atmosphere and good food, but travelling an hour out from the city for “ambience” was a sign of blatant madness.
A faint wisp of lavender perfume announced her presence, light and airy, the scent suited her.
“You’re sitting in my seat”
Her soft spoken, slightly exotic voice lifted him from the book he was reading, and as his eyes fell upon her she smiled, warmly.
“I was keeping it for you” he replied, with as much confidence as his fluttering heart afforded him.
They sat and talked for what seemed like hours. She had noticed him too, and they quickly became friends, and then more.
It felt like they lived an entire lifetime in those few months that they shared. They came to know everything about each other, whispering the darkest desires and deepest secrets that they dare not speak to another soul.
This felt like a world within a world. An oasis of peace within an ocean boiling for a storm.
The war was heating up again. More colonies had been razed in the past six months than in the previous two years. Templar units were better equipped, better led, and more aggressive.
But that didn’t matter, not at long as they were together. The war seemed like the beating of a distant drum, and bore no hint of the suffering that it heralded.
–
The Strela eventually passed close enough to Kyrre for an orbital insertion. Jade asked him to reconsider his hopeless cause, but his heart answered for him before his words did.
The droppod put him down less than 10 kilometers from the colony hub of Aren, which was about as accurate as they got. Precise troop deployment was not part of the design, they were meant for emergency evacuation, where the destination was simply “anywhere but here”.
After a short hike, Caine crested a hill overlooking the town and instantly cursed the strong midday sun and clear skies for it showed the once proud city in at it’s very worst. Its buildings were in tatters, crumbling into dust. Its streets were stained with blood and litered with debris and hastily covered, half-buried bodies. People darted furtively from building to building, their shoulders hunched, constantly searching for hidden enemies as intermittent gunshots reverberated around them.
Aren had fallen. What the enemy didn’t do directly human nature did in it’s stead. Even the greatest society is balanced on a precipice, a veritable sword of Damocles hanging above it, and it takes far less than anyone would care to think to bring that blade crashing down.
The Sergeant kept his weapon at the ready as he carefully wandered through the streets. His training instictively kept his eyes darting between neighbouring windows, doors, alleyways, always expecting the muzzle of a rifle. He had fought in many battles, but nothing cold have prepared him for this.
This wasn’t a battlefield, it was a city. It should have been bustling with people, ignorant and happy. Instead they were unwilling conscripts in someone elses war.
Throughout this hellscape, this bloody monument to the folly of mankind, his thoughts were drawn to her. The memories of her beauty and kindness, her gentle soul, were all that he had to warm his heart against the piercing cold of his bleak reality. She had to be alive. She had to be, because surely he would feel it if she wasn’t?
His keen eyes spotted movement in his peripheal vision and he spun, weapon at the ready, only to find a child, barely 5 years old, crawling into the debris that he had fashioned into a crude shelter. His stomach was horribly distended, swollen from malnourishment, his eyes white with fear. Everett knew the pathetic creature was close to death, and he coaxed him from his shelter with the offering of some water from his canteen. As the child drank, Caine picked him up and began walking towards the town hub, where the hospital would be.
Carrying a child meant that he wouldn’t be able to reach his weapon, but surely, even in this wretched place, noone would fire on a man carrying a sick child? His heart told him so, but his head wasn’t at all certain.
All colony worlds were built to a standard plan, so he found the hospital easily. He handed the child to a medic waiting just inside the door, and instantly froze.
In the next room, through the blood-splatterd glass panels of filthy hospital doors, he saw her. For a moment he couldn’t tell if he was hallucinating or if this was real, but then he was sure.
He flung the double-doors open, his mind disassociated, out of body, his senses dulled.. The screams of the dying, the mourning of the living, the cacophony of human misery was lost on him. So too were the wretched, bloody, visions of war. The lame, the sick, the wounded, and the dead assaulted his eyes but made no impact on his consciousness.
What he saw was something altogether more humbling.
The presence of Lyssa Ardaren, youngest daughter of the founding family of the city, his former, and future, lover, and longtime friend, stood around a makeshift operating table, her white medical tunic stained red, her face likewise contorted, as if taking the pain of her charge into her.
Her patient lay almost motionless, his eyes rolled back in his head, his chest barely rising with his ragged, weak breaths.
Everett had seen death before, and he knew it’s telltale signs. This man was beyond hope, his wide, expressionless eyes alone betrayed that fact, and the medics surrounding Lyssa knew it too.
One crouched, leaning against a nearby wall, defeated, too ashamed to even raise his eyes from the floor. Another half-heartedly followed Lyssa as she raced around the table, faintly clutching his instruments, trying to at least appear useful.
Lyssa was a guardian angel, steadfastly denying death his prize, passion and brazen hope seemingly enough to bestow life into the lifeless.
Everetts heart sank as the second medic finally stopped and grasped Lyssas shoulders. She resisted for an instant, then broke down with a soundless cry, and stood defeated, her valiant efforts useless against the instruments of war.
Everett felt for her. His compassion unnerved him, it was an emotion that he had surpressed long ago. Compassion lends itself far too easily to danger on the field of battle. After a dozen dead friends, he had learned not to let anyone close, but this was different. He felt for her, and all he wanted was to go to her, and take her pain into him, just like she had tried to do with her patient.
Crossing the floor, he crept up behind her and placed his hand on her shoulder. She turned, and they exchanged years worth of raw emotion without a single word. She fell into his sympathetic embrace, her shoulders heaving, as his withered heart beat a little faster just for her.
–
“This too shall pass”
Legend has it that a King once asked his vizier for something that would make a joyful man sad and a sad man joyful.
The vizier provided him with a silver ring with the inscription, “This too shall pass”.
It ended as suddenly as it began.
Everett has almost finished his training at the technical academy, the reason for his stay on Earth. They had already discussed their future, and what they would do. They would find a nice colony world together, somewhere far from the war, maybe Vale, or Ria. He would find work as a technical specialist, even large colony hubs never have enough of them.
Lyssa would continue with her art, and maybe even start a gallery, or her own studio.
But they would be together, the details really didn’t matter.
He arrived to find her and all of her things gone, a letter, handwritten, in her stead.
Even as he read the words he knew that they would be forever burned into his memory.
She was afraid.
Afraid of the burning intensity that filled her, afraidr of the future, of the encroaching certainty of it, and, unknown to her, afraid of her own happiness.
She had gone back to her family on Aren, at their behest, and begged him not to follow, that if he loved her at all, he would respect her wishes.
The shock hardened his heart in an instant, and blackened his soul.
He did love her. More than anything.
So many questions raced unrestrained through his mind. Why would she leave, she seemed… happy? Was it something he did, or said?
Months went by, and Everett eventually finished his degree, one full semester later than he planned, and with a much lower final grade than he expected.
He wandered for some time, running out of money, and surviving on odd jobs far beneath his skill. Never once did he attempt to contact her, he remained true to her last, unspoken, request.
The war finally reached boiling point, and eventually even the home systems were under threat. Propaganda regularly blasted through everything with a screen. Honour, Glory, Sacrifice, Bravery, all these ideals worth fighting and dying for.
Without Lyssa, the only thing Everett had to believe in were these virtues, and so he signed up.
Was is honour? Was it duty? Or, could it be a desire to no longer exist? Could a life cut short be better than a life alone?
Too much armchair philosophising. It was time to act. There are times when even a bad decision is preferable to none.
He was assured, with his technical expertise, that he would be wasted on the front line, and true enough, he was soon posted to the MorningStar.
Fate, however, would make sure he didn’t stay there for long.
–
They shared their first meal together in over two years in the cramped mess hall of the hospital. Or, at least, what the meagre rations available would allow for a meal. Their earlier embrace forgotten, tension hung thick in the air.
They spoke like nervous strangers, their sentences short, stunted, frequently interrupting each other and apologising, afraid to make eye contact.
So much was left unsaid that it seemed to permeate the very air they breathed and yet neither was ready to acknowledge it.
“We have a friend of yours here, another soldier” Lyssa spoke, motioning to a figure veiled by shadow.. “His name is Arnault, he’s been keeping us safe”.
Arnault was a frightening visage of a man. Not by his stature, he appeared gaunt and almost malnourised, with pale, sickly skin, but by his demeanour. Lyssa, in her innocence, couldn’t see it, and treated him as her protector, impressed by her perception of his motives.
But Everett had seen much war, and met many men like Arnault. He was a killer. Not a soldier. Soldiers are true warriors, and kill out of reluctant necessity. Killers do so because they enjoy it.
Arnault didn’t have the somber, exhausted air of a veteran soldier, where even breathing seemed like a conscious effort. He didn’t have the thousand-yard-stare, with the tortured eyes witness to a hundred gruesome acts of barbarity and raw cruelty.
In fact, his eyes seemed bright, his movement sprightly. He seemed to be concealing a macabre joy, a shocking contrast to those around him.
Arnault enjoyed being around death, and being the cause of it. He wasn’t suffering in this conflict, he was revelling in it, and there was noone else he would rather be.
Everett spoke with Arnault, keeping his voice steady and slightly upbeat, to avoid arousing suspicion. The last thing he wanted today was more violence.
With a quiet voice, possessing an unnatural stillness, he told his tale. Arnault was a survivor from the towns garrison, moving there just a few months before the glassing. They were a militia unit, with regular jobs, training semi-regularly under non-combat conditions. It’s highly unlikely he would have seen any fighting until the war came to Kyrre, which explains why he was never given a psych consult.
Everett wondered if he had planned this. Choosing a posting in a milita unit to avoid the background checks, but close enough to the front line to be given a decent chance of seeing some action.
He knew then that the darkness inside this man would consume him, and would ultimately be his end, in one way or another.
Arn, as Lyssa called him, was not the only new face in the room. While they were eating, a mouse of a man shuffled into mess hall, as if ashamed of his own presence.
Tall, but deceptively so due to his hunched posture, sweat glistened faintly on his forehead, and it’s odour gradually permeated the room. Fear was written all over him.
Lyssa introduced him as Lucian, a kid of barely 20, who missed the last mercy flight out of Aren and had been helping care for the wounded ever since.
Everett had seen this type of man too. Good hearted, innocent, but wholly unsuited to the rigours of war. They were mostly sidelined to admin or logistics, but some possessed an inner strength that could surprise even the most hardened of warriors. Mostly though they froze at the first sign of enemy fire and got themselves or their squad mates killed.
He was a coward, there was no other way to say it. Imaginary thoughts danced through his head, visions of warriors and heroes, great battles and greater glory. Honour, courage, the love of a lady, and adventures told and retold through the ages. But his reality was a cold, black place, consumed by fear and self-loathing, a contrast between the man he wanted to be and whatever he was. A place lit only by these fantasies of what could have been, and might be. A pathetic spectacle, maybe, but a noble one perhaps, in his own way.
A greeting from the Sergeant was met by a warm, if wary smile. Lucian was the type to be chewed up and spit out by warfare. Keeping him alive, physically, and mentally, would be difficult, but it was a responsibility he needed to shoulder, for Lyssas sake.
Arn stood and made his way to Lucians table. He seemed to glide along the floor silently, like a predator. Without a sound, he took Lucians plate from him and left the room, to eat alone. Lucian made furtive eye contact and then looked away, covering his fear, and his shame.
Any doubt Everett had about Arnault vanished when he saw the weapon slung across his back. It was originally an R-92, an outdated precision rifle given to second-line troops, it was already obsolete amongst frontline soldiers. But Arns was different. It looked like there wasn’t a single part of it was original. The stock, barrel shroud, sights, and grip were all customised. He had parts on it that even Everett had never seen before.
This was high-end special order gear that this lunatic must have spent years collecting and painstakingly attaching to his rifle, long before he ever even came close to a war.
It wasn’t just the functional parts either. There was custom engraving on the receiver and gold furnishings on the trigger controls and hammer as well.
It wasn’t a rifle to him, it was some kind of grotesque piece of art, he loved it, and he loved killing with it.
Later, when they were alone, Everett warned Lyssa about his concerns. He told her, as best he could, about men like Arnault, and the dangers they posed. How they could seem normal, even friendly, and then turn, and change, in an instant, and become a ticking time bomb for everyone around them.
But Lyssa had a good and pure heart, untarnished by hatred or fear, even despite the misery and the suffering that she had seen. She believe Arnault was good, and refused to accept Everetts warning.
He could only hope that she was right.
–
The next several days passed slowly. Lyssa refused to leave Aren, as Everett wanted, and so he made himself as useful to her as he could. He had limited medical experience, but was soon put to work splinting broken bones, applying bandages, and cleaning cuts and gashes.
It was a sobering reminder of the war that he had left. These victims however were mostly civilians, not soldiers. They had not chosen this, they wanted nothing more than to live their lives, raise their families, and try to find some kind of contentment in this failed world. But here they lay, broken, bleeding, burned. For what? For a war that begin before any of them had been born, and would end long after they had died? A self-perpetuating cycle of hatred.
A crash, followed by shouting interrupted his thoughts.
Amongst the din of a post-apocalyptic hellscape, this wasn’t an uncommon occurence, but something felt off this time, and he felt compelled to investigate. The noise seemed to come from a large storage room behind the hospital, where most of the rations and some of the remaining medical supplies were kept.
From the damage to the door, it seemed that some unfortunate residents of Aren had broken in, half starving and desperate. There were about five or six of them, their clothes were torn and dishevelled, but were of formerly good quality. Sometimes those that soar the highest fall the furthest.
But it was not these men that drew his attention. They hardly warranted an intervention, it wasn’t worth the risk. It was Lyssa, standing alone, and bravely, foolishing, trying to prevent the theft of vital supplies from the people she was trying to help. She pleaded with them, and then before Everett could get close enough to stop her, she strode defiantly into the middle of the group and stood, with arms outstretched, denying them their prize. Still, she pleaded, trying to resolve the dispute by offering a token gesture, but they were beyond reason.
In the few moments it took him to reach her, Everett felt his stomach churn as he saw almost a dozen hands grab her, pushing, shoving her roughly, striking her to the ground like she was nothing.
Nothing could describe the emotions he felt as he saw the kindest, purest girl he had ever known lying on the cold, bare, concrete floor, surrounded by these thieves and looters.
He had felt anger before, but it was anger borne out of adrenaline, purely with the intent of survival. This was new, this rage filled him so completely that he couldn’t even remember what happened next. It was like he was outside of himself, watching from a great distance, and could see only glimpses of flailing fists, spattering blood, and splintering bone.
When he felt his awareness return, as if waking from a dream, there were six men lying motionless on the concrete, and Lyssa, blissfully unaware of what he had done. He carefully, gently, picked her up and carried her into the hospital.
Fortunately, she had suffered no serious injuries, nor had she witnessed the violence Everett had displayed when rescuing her. When she was strong enough, he carried her to her room, where she continued to sleep.
The men were gone when Everett and some of the other medics went to help them. He had no idea how badly they were hurt, or even how they managed to drag themselves to safety, but he cared only for her.
–
Lyssa, exhausted as she was, woke at the sound of the door creaking open. Her once deep sleep had given way to a furtive, shallow rest, her mind both traumatised by the events of the day, and frightened by the possibility of approaching danger.
Slowly her eyes adjusted and she made out the features of Everett, and felt reassured. Even though the dim moonlight hid his scars, his wounds, his weathered face and tortured eyes, it wouldn’t have mattered. He was still gentle to her, and still good. She saw him with a purity and innocence all too rare and all too precious in this decaying world with it’s broken, corrupted people.
“I’m sorry to wake you” he said, softly. “But you don’t want to let those cuts get infected. I should clean them”.
“Ok” she replied, and turned turned on the small light next to her bed.
Everett had a bowl with some clean water and some bandages and a half-empty bottle of antiseptic Trexane fluid, part of their dwindling supplies of medical equipment. Even the Trex wasn’t official issue, it was a weak, commercial substitute scavenged from a local store before even those supplies ran out.
Everett slowly cleaned her cuts and and disinfected them. He took great care to avoid getting any of the Trexane in her eyes, or irritating her wounds any more than he had to. She noticed that without realising it, he winced every time she did.
She knew he loved her then. The compasion he showed betrayed his feelings even more than words could. He didn’t have to treat her, her wounds weren’t particularly serious, he was here because he cared for her.There was still good in him, even though he would never admit it, or perhaps, even believe it.
Her feelings for him was stirring too, but it was too early to speak of them. They were both wounded, in their own way, and neither were ready to put words to their unspoken desires.
–
The next day marked Everett’s sixth on Kyrre, and he awoke to the sky filled with the spectre of Alliance dropships. At least a dozen, carrying hundreds of men, fully armed. Their eerie silence gradually gave way to the dull roar of ion engines and the cheers of the bedraggled, war-weary citizens of Aren.
Welcoming them with open arms, the people gave them what little they had left, but as always, Everett saw what noone wanted to see. The fleet of dropships were outfitted for troop-transport only: no medical support or supplies. This wasn’t a relief convoy, it was an assault force. They weren’t here to rescue anyone.
Whats more, these men had the world-weary eyes of battle-hardened troops. They had been on the line for too long, and seen too much.
Tempering his concerns, Caine tried to partake in the locals rambunctiousness.
Realising that he would eventually need to interact with the new arrivals, Everett decided to rehearse his cover story. The penalty for desertion, was, after all, death.
Their leader, a Colonel by the name of Malcolm Colburn, was a typical gruff, hard as nails, type. A strict, no nonsense “leader of men”. He was here to fight a war, true, but a gentleman’s war. He could be reasoned with, Everett hoped.
In the makeshift operating room, the floors ran red with the blood of both sides. Mixing indistinguishably together, a macabre union in death.
Lyssa stood tall as always, fighting against the inevitability of mortality. She treated the most seriously wounded first, ignoring uniforms and rank.
One particularly stubborn templar soldier took most of her effort, so determined were his wounds to kill him. Multiple shrapnel wounds, probably from one of his own grenades that detonated too close, littered his body. His armour absorbed most of the impact, saving his life, but the multiple lacerations had caused severe blood loss.
Lyssa and her fellow medics fought for over an hour to stabilise the patient, using up much of their remaining stock of blood, but finally they seemed to be winning the battle.
As if on cue, as if picking up the faint whisper of hope, death arrived in the form of an alliance First Captain by the name of Maddock.
Striding into the hospital main floor with an arrogant swagger, 6 of his men accompanied him. One carried a wounded man over his shoulder, while two more walking wounded leaned against their comrades.
It was clear Maddock was not at all happy with the templars being treated at all, never mind before his men, and he made his position clear.
He demanded his men be treated first, and wasn’t in the business of taking no for an answer. Lyssa firmly pleaded, then begged him to give her time to stabilise the critically injured patient, but he roughly shoved her aside, drew his pistol, and fired four or five rounds into the wounded templar on the operating table.
“He’s stable now” Maddock replied, his face dark, cold, with thinly veiled contempt being the only emotion visible.
Lyssa wailed, an agonising loss of innocence, and collapsed to the floor, defeated. Her efforts, valiant, inspiring, were useless.
Everett almost killed him then. His pistol, hidden in his belt, never felt heavier, but he knew that any more shooting now would solve nothing, and would endanger Lyssa and the other patients.
Slowly he stood and walked to where Lyssa lay, sobbing. A young alliance Lieutenant watched him suspiciously, grasping her rifle, while Maddock stood with his back to the two of them.
Lyssa offered no resistance as Caine lifted her to her feet, and helped her from the room. Maddock’s face changed, slightly.. Was that a hint of remorse? Or just a trick of the light?
Lyssa was a skilled medic, she was valuable, Maddock could have stopped them. But he didn’t. His men, following his example, eyed the two but did nothing as they left. Was there some humanity left? Just a brief distraction from the killing of the day?
Back at her apartment, Lyssa was inconsolable, she barely spoke, and did nothing but sleep in fits, waking up to sob, or wail, before falling into restless slumber once more.
She had lost patients before, of course, but never like this. Never to such barbarity, such needless, wanton cruelty.
Everett could do nothing but watch over her. Through the night, he never left her side, not once, but even so he never felt so helpless. Eventually, sleep overtook even him, and the world faded to black.
He awoke to the morning light streaming through the windows, and to her touch. The bleary haze of sleep cleared, and he saw her standing over him, her face stained with tears and worry.
“Are you alright? ” She asked, before he had a chance to ask the same. He was touched by her compassion. At a time when she was so hurt, and so distressed, she would think of him?
“We need to go, Lyssa”, the words came out softer, less stern than he had intended. ” We need to leave…”
“I know” she said, interrupting him, her words just as sweet as ever.
They embraced, warmly, but all too briefly. Their first acknowledgement of the feelings they both shared.
“We can leave tonight”, Lyssa said “But we can’t go alone”. We need to take the others with us.
“Which others?” Everett frowned. More people meant a bigger profile, more risk. All he wanted to do was leave here with her, picking up strays was never part of the plan.
“Lucian and Arn” she replied. The coward and the psychotic. That complicates things, he thought. But he knew Lyssa wouldn’t be swayed. She had a great strength to her, perhaps greater even than his own. She wouldn’t give up on those she cared about, not even at the cost of her own life. She was the best of what it means to be human, in the midst of the worst.
Gathering what meagre supplies that they could find, and that Lyssa would allow them to take from the stores, they set out under cover of darkness.
Their destination was the starport. It had been in Templar controlled territory since just after the glassing, but the military presence would be light. Almost all of the civilian population had either left or been killed, and any military operation would use dropships and atmosphere-capable capital warships, not a civilian starport.
Lyssas family had left another ship, a small starliner, docked at their private pad. It was under repair at the time of the attack, and so wasn’t used for the evacuation, but Everett could likely fix it easily.
It had enough space for just a handful of people, and a long-distance flight with such a small vessel in a combat area would be treacherous, but for once, Everett was optimistic.
They were moving again. He hated being tied down, he hated waiting. He wanted to take action, to move forward, to act, not react.
All going well, they would be starbound in just a few days.
–
The small group left the remains of Aren shortly after nightfall. The sky was lit by a new moon, and only scattered clouds shielded them from it’s gaze.
Lyssa never seemed to look back, not once, as she left her home. She must have realised she would never be back, but it had lost it’s meaning in her heart. It was a place of pain now, and the home she one knew was just a memory.
The faint light emanating from the few remaining buildings grew more and more distant as the four entered the forest outside of Aren. They would hopefully be able to remain hidden in the trees for most of the way to the starport,and with a little luck, they could be on board Lyssa’s shuttle without a shot being fired.
–
Following Everetts advice, they walked through the night, and through most of the following day. They couldn’t risk stopping to sleep this close to the city. Both templar and alliance soldiers alike were potential threats now. Both sides were locked in a viscious, decades long struggle that had long since turned men to beasts.
Lucian and Arn were trailing slightly behind Everett and Lyssa as they proceeded deeper into the forest. Arn had given Lucian an old repeating rifle, and Everett had done what he could to teach him the basics. It wasn’t much, but there were soldiers that had gone to war with less.
Every snapping twig, every creaking branch, had Everett on edge, his body and mind were tuned to perfection. Leading his small team he carried his rifle in low-ready, chamber loaded, hammer cocked, safety on. This was where he was born.
Suddenly his heart grew cold, and he sensed danger. Raising his arm, he wordlessly stopped his companions.
There was no more birdsong.
Something had frightened them.
For moment after agonising moment he waited, until he saw shapes, moving in the distance. Gradually, a small patrol, probably squad-sized emerged from the trees, weapons ready, but with no targets yet in sight.
Lyssa saw his eyes turn black, his face taking on a steely determination that she had never seen before. She felt afraid, both of the soldiers, and of him.
“Everett!” her scream was silenced by the report of his rifle. The first shot cut a man to pieces, disentegrating flesh and shattered bone stained the ground a bright crimson. The low roar of muzzle blast, the metallic clink of the action, the rustle of the shells hitting the soft earth, he was home again.
In the fires of battle, he was in his element. Shot after shot found their mark, men fell like dead wood from a tree. They answered back with their own weapons, but the rapid flash of their muzzles and rattle of automatic fire betrayed their inexperience, and their panic.
“Don’t spray and pray” the Sergeant thought back to his training, an age ago “Full-Auto is for suppressing your enemy, Semi-Auto is for killing your enemy”. As the last of the men bled the ground red, and Caine’s muzzle smoked with bloody satisfaction, he barely noticed a wry smile escape his lips.
This smile evaporated when he turned and saw the face of his beloved. Tears streamed from her eyes, her mouth wide with shock, no, horror, at what he had done She had never seen him kill before. Everett hoped that at the very least she would never know how a part of him craved the adrenline, the excitement.
He went to her, but she refused his embrace, and turned away. Soundlessly, the little group gathered their things, and quickly moved on. Arn stood with his rifle at the ready, scanning the treeline. He seemed disappointed that he arrived too late to take part in the shooting.
Everett took the lead, alone this time. He couldn’t look at Lyssa, not now. He wasn’t sure if she would ever want him to again.
The forest thickened overhead, it’s dense foliage hiding the evidence of their deeds.
–
Hours later, as darkness gathered, Arn joined Everett at the front.
Do you know why I grow my hair long? Arnault finally spoke as he racked the bolt on his rifle.
“Why?” Everett gruffly responded, annoyed at the interuption during a time of intense concentration and danger.
“It’s because I have scars on my neck from when they used to use it as an ashtray”.
“The templars?” Everett said, surprised.
“The templars. The Alliance. Who cares”.
“I pull the trigger. A shot rings out. In the distance, a man collapses, unmoving. They’re all just men. They’re all the same to me”,Arnault said, as he flipped his rifles safety to “fire”.
“Another gunshot. Another life. I can’t see his face, but it’s burned into my head. Each one is a ghost from my past. Each bullet gives me back just a little more of my childhood”
“I once shot a man out in the open, running for his life. They said he was innocent, but he wasn’t. That was the man who broke my arm for looking at his girl. It was the man who put glass in my food because he felt emasculated when I proved I was smarter than him. It was the man who shattered my jaw because he didn’t like the way I spoke to him. They are all guilty. One way or another, they are all guilty.
Lowering the rifle, Arnault seemed to smile slightly, as he let his guard down, just for an instant. He looked almost childlike, innocent. Everett realised in that moment that Arnault was a victim like anyone else. He took the innocence of others in a vain attempt to regain his own. We were all at once victims and aggressors, the self-perpetuating cycle of hatred. There didn’t seem to be a way out, what was it all for?
What was the point to living one more day, if only to suffer and to cause suffering?
More than that, would Arn’s fate be his own? Everett had felt the anger, the rage, and the hurt. He reluctantly admitted to himself that there were times he had pulled the trigger and felt a sense of satisfaction, vindication. Would be someday lose his own humanity, while trying so hard to protect the humanity of others?
They eventually stopped, exhausted mentally and physically, and made camp for the night.
As the others slept, Everett noticed Lyssa standing alone, illuminated in the pale glow of the crescent moon. Her shoulders heaving slightly as she sobbed, and he went to her. Hesitantly, she accepted his embrace, and their eyes met.
“You frightened me” she began, “You killed those men without even thinking. It was like… you were enjoying it, you were excited by it”.
Everett began to defend himself, but stopped. He never wanted to lie to her, and she wouldn’t believe him even if he did.
“There is a side to me that you haven’t seen.” his words were well chosen, but truthful. “When you fight too often with monsters, you risk becoming one yourself”.
“I have never seen you like that” she said, as she turned away breaking the embrace, and stared into the darkness.
There was a rift between them. One deeper than the distance that had held them apart for so long. Lyssa didn’t know if this man was the same person that she had fallen in love with, and he wasn’t sure himself.
They spoke for a short while longer. The love was still there, but so was doubt, uncertainty. They slept apart that night, their thoughts still on each other.
The group moved quickly at first light. With luck, they would reach the starport by nightfall, and could reach Lyssas ship under cover of darkness.
Shortly after noon, they could see the distant towers of the starport emerge from the haze. They were getting close, but their hopes of an uneventful end to their ordeal were dashed when Everetts trained eyes spotted puffs of smoke emanating from the vicinity of their goal.
“Vehicle tracks” he said. The approach to the facility was well defended.
Assaulting a garrisoned position with 4 people would be suicide, they would need to be more subtle.
They would wait out the day here, safely hidden by the trees. Once night fell, they could slip past the patrols and hopefully be on board and starbound just before dawn. The ship still needed repairs, but according to Lyssa, there were only minor maintenance issues that shouldn’t take more than a few hours to fix. With no working air defences (Kyrre was a civilian world, there was no need for them) they shouldn’t have any problems once they got the ship up and running.
The rest of the day passed slowly. Boredom set in, a surprisingly familiar feeling for the soldier. Everett had mastered the art of active relaxation, saving his strength, but keeping his eye, and his rifle, on his surroundings.
Arn and Lucian had gone scouting for useful supplies amongst the debris of civilisation, while Everett stayed at their hastily constructed camp with lyssa. They were slowly learning how to behave around each other again, but things were still tense.
–
The heat and humidity of the day became oppressive. Sitting in silence, waiting to be discovered, the fear was palpabe.
They could hear the sound of engines and voices in the near distance, just some foliage separated them from view.
Suddenly, the familiar sound of gunfire broke the silence. The sound of Arn’s rifle began the exchange, followed by it’s reply from the Templar positions.
Instructing Lyssa to stay where she was, Everett ran, with rifle at the ready, towards the sound of battle.
Breaking through a thin line of tree cover, the Sergeant surveyed the scene. Arn was firing rapidly from behind a fallen log, with Lucian taking cover behind him. A group of over a dozen Templar soldiers was firing from some distance, their bullets striking the earth closer and closer to their targets, as they found the range.
Everett took up position behind a thick tree, and began firing. At this range, Arns rifle was more effective, but Everetts experience bridged the gap, and he began scoring hits.
Clouds of dust and splintering wood from near misses filled the air as the shooting continued. The situation was worsening, with just three rifles against a company-sized force, the enemy was closing in and they were in danger of being outflanked.
A bullet whizzed past Lucians position, and he went down. The bullet missed, but it was enough for him to loose his nerve. He dropped his weapon, and cowered, the fear finally pushing him to his breaking point. Everett could see that he was gone, he would be no further use, and was now a liability.
Without even a glance to his comrade, Arn continued firing into the attacking Templars with impressive accuracy, but still they inched closer.
As the battle raged on, movement in Everetts peripheral vision confirmed his worst fears: Lyssa was here, and was trying to reach Lucian by crawling through the low grass of the clearing.
He ran to her, and tried to drag her to safety, but she wouldn’t budge. She wouldn’t leave until she saved her charge, and despite his fear for her he felt a deep respect and admiration for her selflessness.
With Everett drawing fire from her with bursts of automatic rifle fire, Lyssa reached the now catatonic, but thankfully conscious Lucian and began to escort him to safety.
Arn continued firing, overwhelmed with a single-minded all-encompassing rage that consumed the souls of men. The same raw fury that Everett was starting to feel in himself. As Lyssa and Lucian reached safety, and the Templars broke the treeline at the very edge of their clearing, Everett prepared himself for a final stand.
The rage built inside of him as the exchange of fire continued. A bullet grazed his arm, splinters of wood from the tree he was taking cover behind sliced his face and hands, but he barely noticed. He was the embodiment of war, lost in a fury of lead and blood, the familiar sound of gunfire ringing in his ears, drowning out all other sounds.
Until he heard her. Lyssa, calling to him.
She needed him. This was a hopeless battle, but a glorious one. A noble death, a warriors end, but ultimately futile.
But what choice was there? The life of a coward? How could he live with himself knowing he had lost heart in the face of his enemy? A fate worse than death.
For the first time Everett felt something stronger than the fury, stronger than the rage, and the fear. He wanted to live, for her. War had never before seemed so pointless, so unnecessary. So much killing, so many lives cut short, all for lines drawn on a map far, far from here.
He lowered his rifle. Turned, and ran to her. Her eyes told him all he needed to know. He had chosen her, over the beast, the god of war inside him, and she knew it. Taking shelter from the heavy fighting, they embraced briefly, as close as they ever were. Nothing would be strong enough to come between them again.
They both called to Arnault, but he was gone. His face contorted with fury, he was in another world, and Everett realised that nothing could help him now. Catching his breath,he took Lyssa by the hand, and they ran, with the mute Lucian in tow, away from that place, the gunfire still raging in the background.
Soon the firing stopped. Arnault had fought well, he had died like a soldier, but in many ways, Evertts prediction had come true: His death was of his own doing. Consumed by his fury, and his fear, he had led himself to his own demise. Glorious, but ultimately futile.
There was now just three. Lucian hadn’t spoke since the shooting, and had lost his rifle back at the clearing. Lyssa was unarmed, and Everett was running low on ammunition. The only good news was that they had managed to put enough distance between them to lose any trailing patrols for a while.
Moving slowly, they managed to stay undetected until nightfall, and reaced the starport complex. Fortunately, the interior of the facility was far more sparsely defended than that approach, likely due to the fact that it was empty, with only non-functioning vessels, like Lyssas, still present.
The trio reached the hanger where the ship was kept, and quietly entered. They couldn’t risk turning on any lights, so Everett worked in the dark to diagnose the problem.
Their great gamble paid off, the problem was simply a minor electrical glitch, and could be repaired in hours with the materials on hand. They should be ready to launch by dawn.
Lyssa and Everett worked side by side to repair the ship. They made a good team, they understood each other, scarcely needing to speak as they replaced damaged components and reconfigured complex systems.
But there was one thought neither one could bear to form into words. In order for the ship to leave, someone would need to grant launch authorisation from the control building, and that was the one place which was still full of Templar soldiers. It was a treacherous mission, but all civilian flights were governed by the starports automated flight control system. Without it the hanger doors wouldn’t open, and the electromagnetic launch rails would not be powered.
The ship was now repaired, fuelled, and ready, and Everett prepared himself to make the run to the control building.
As he embraced Lyssa for what he thought could be the final time, she made him promise to come back to her. He gave her his word, but his eyes gave away his lie. He knew they would likely not meet again.
He left the hanger, and prepared himself to meet his fate.
Everett felt his end approaching. He felt his senses heightening, his vision was sharper, he could hear more clearly, his reaction times felt faster. It was as if his body was preparing itself as best it could for the battle of his life.
They were finally together, himself and lyssa. They had a future together. They could run away, find a home somewhere, away from the fighting, start a new life. But that wasn’t to be, he could feel it.
How grimly ironic that the one battle in which he truly wanted to live, would be his last.
The control room was abandoned, operating the flight computer to grant launch authorisation was easy, but the noise of the gears and motors of the gantry crane and hanger doors was enough to attract dozens of Templar soldiers.
The ship presented a vulnerable target as it was carried from its berth to the powered launch rails. One bullet in the wrong place would result in it’s destruction. Everett placed himself outside the control complex, racked the bolt on his rifle, and waited.
Within moments, soldiers appeared in ones and twos, surveying the scene.
At first they seemed apprehensive, as if expecting more men to appear at Everetts side, but none did.
Still, they waited, safe in the shadows.
The Sergeant presented a formidable visage, standing in the half-light, rifle at the ready, defying the odds, a spectre of death. It was enough to give anyone pause, but not for long.
An unearthly silence underscored the palpable tension in the air as the armed men faced off.
Everett allowed himself to hope, for one brief moment, that there would be an end to this without violence, but it was not to be.
One of the Templar soldiers, a young, inexperienced trooper, cracked under the pressure and fired his rifle. It missed, of course, but it ignited the tension like powder keg, and soon gunfire pierced the night like shooting stars.
Life after precious life came to an end on the bare stone and steel. Their blood glistened in the moonlight as it poured from their wounds.
The sickening thud of the bodies hitting the ground, of bullet shattering bone, of blood gushing from veins echoed through the cavernous concrete of what was now a tomb.
Everett fought fiercely, but without the uncontrolled, primal rage that usually consumed him. He fought now for a noble cause, for something beyond survival. He fought for Lyssa, for her safety, and her future. She mattered more than his own life, and he felt, within the withered, battle-scarred remains of his heart, joyful, of the sacrifice that he was about to make.
That sacrifice came as he always knew it would, in the form of a bullet.
It pierced his armour and tore through his body, knocking him back a step and destroying one of his ribs. Even without looking he knew that would be the bullet that would kill him. It was a lung shot, without treatment, he would suffocate even if he didn’t bleed to death.
He returned the insult with a bullet of his own, and watched grimly as his mark crumpled into an unrecognisable heap on top of another fallen warrior.
Breathing heavily, Everett didn’t even see the soldier that scored the next hit. The armour stopped this one, but two more of his ribs cracked from the force of impact. Struggling to raise his rifle, he was hit again, and again, until he could no longer stand.
Locking his fingers around the trigger he rattled off a final burst of anger at the sky before he collapsed to the ground, utterly broken.
Through ragged breaths and bloodshot eyes he watched for the glow of engine exhaust soaring through the night sky, a fitting epitaph.
–
A dying mind is capable of some bizarre, unbelievable things. It can flash a mans entire life before his eyes, or it can make him feel like he is floating outside of himself. It can delight with the sight of heaven, or torment with the burning spectre of hell.
As his life blood ebbed away, Everett sank into unconsciousness.
Time seemed to slow down, then stop. He saw visions from his past, the day he first met Lyssa at the cafe, the times they shared together, and the last time they spoke before she left.
Past, present, and future seemed to merge together as one, the threads of time and reality unravelling and rejoining in a myriad of complex interactions.
That familiar darkness that he felt on Rahle encompassed him again, but stronger this time.
There was the flash of gunfire, but from which battle? One long since won and lost, or one not yet fought?
A man fell, a man that looked… uncannily familiar…
The distant rattle of gunfire continued unabated, with the battle-hardened Alliance regulars now engaging the remnants of the Templar forces. He recognised the hanger and the concrete control building, he was sure of it now!
Colburn and his men had arrived, and swept aside the remaining templar forces. He crouched over Everetts unconcious body, even dropping his knee slightly in a show of respect, then unhooked and removed the Sergeants Phoenix Medallion from his chest, a universal sign of a fallen soldier.
His vision faded in, and out, and Everett lost all remaining concept of time.
He saw Lyssa, weeping, then bright, white lights, and hurried, frenzied shouting. The white coats and masks of surgeons crowded over him, and the whirr and whine of their machinery assaulted his senses. Then there was pain, much pain, and more blackness.
The darkness was longer this time. Everett stared into it, wondering if this was eternity, if this was all there is, until he saw light again, and then shapes, sounds, and smells.
He saw the house, that he shared with Lyssa, but it wasn’t just a vision, it felt like another life. This wasn’t just an out of body experience, he was there. The sounds were sharper, the aromas more scintillating, the colours more vibrant.
As he opened the door and went inside he heard voices. Lyssa was there, and people who he didn’t recognise, but somehow knew were friends. They were gathered around a table, sharing a meal.
He felt himself join in the festive atmosphere, as if guided by an unseen hand. He laughed, and joked, feeling an innocence long thought lost.
The room glowed with a familiar warmth as the friends ate and drank into the night, until finally all had left but Lyssa and himself.
As they relaxed in this rustic hideway, far from the war, far from the past, Everett felt a contentment, a love, and even a joy that he had spent his life fighting for. A life worth the sacrifices that he had made.
He didn’t know if he was alive, or dead. Time and reality had lost all meaning, there was no frame of reference, nothing made sense.
Had he died on the cold ground of Kyrre, his brain firing erraticaly as it’s neurons and synapses fired, giving the impression of substance emerging from the void of nothingness?
Or was this a vision of a future waiting for him? Was he still down there, somewhere, his broken body defying death, watching visions of his life not yet lived?
Infinity flowed past his eyes, formless, unbelievable, unimaginable.
Accepting of his ignorance, and liberated by it, Everett was content to know just one thing:
Reality or illusion, Alive or Dead, he was with her now. Whether for an Eternity or just a moment, he was home.
–
