Post by colonalrua on Jan 28, 2011 18:13:07 GMT -5
Hi everyone, i am colonalrua and here is the first of a short story i am writing for the IG. If anyone knows me from the Underempire you will be aware my style is dark and disturbing and i do lay it on thick. Hope you enjoy, this is the first of many.
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He was back. Right there.
Orthos. It was an agri world like many others. Endless fields of produce, a smattering of towns. the simple people that live there gruff and aloof, insular and backwards minded. They resent control. They resent their labour going on the plates of people on worlds whose names they can’t spell. A world like that is valuable. An army marches on its stomach. An empire lives by it. No food and order breaks down. Half of the skill of oppression is the art of making the man on the street fear his own demise. Without food, self preservation and control evaporate. For the good of all, Orthos had to be retaken.
On an agri world there are few people. The Guard smashed the main settlement and routed the insurgency. It degenerated into a bitter guerrilla war. Sergeant Drekkar was there.
He was newly minted, and sporting the extra stripe to all who would see it. It made him headstrong and eager to prove himself. He was there. It was by a strong river, the Saulja. There was a regicide board pattern of rock walls carpeting the surrounding hills. They were primitive, hand carved and without cement. The fields were bare, evidence of a bad harvest. The squad was hunting rebels.
The road was dirt and grass grew in the middle. Drekkar led his nine men in a column, four each side and he in the centre. A snap was heard. “Sniper!” he yelled and dived to the ground. He could see through the holes in the wall figures up against the sky. “Ambush! Targets on the hill!” a yell rang out.
Snaps and whistles came into the air. They had no lasguns, only bolt action auto guns. A meaty thump told of a man down. A burst of stubber fire smashed up the wall, killing another of his men- Brandt. Lenetov managed to get his rifle up on the hill and coldly opened fire. Gunshots ceased.
Drekkar rose to his feet. Two men down for five enemies. Another, Kamek, was badly wounded. He was bleeding badly. “Rajem! Get command on the vox. We need a lifter now!” he called to his adjutant. He spied around for shelter. There was a deserted shack on the edge of the river. It was shabby and ill kept. The squad marched over to it. Drekkar heel kicked the door in and retched. The smell was putrid. Drekkar immediately realised why.
Bodies. Two children, lying in a cot, throats slit. A mother, dead on the floor from a gunshot to the back of the head. Father, slumped in an old easy chair, guard issue revolver in his desiccated right hand. Bodies.
Drekkar turned only to find his squad the same way. Flesh rotted, eyes gone, gums blackened. Even the dead soldiers stood, accompanied by the rebels, wrapped in filthy trench coats and cloth caps. All standing, muttering his birth name. He staggered back to see the children biting into his leg and the man holding the revolver to his head. The cries grew louder, drowning out his screams
TAMAS! TAMAS ! TAMAS!..
“Tamas! Sir it’s me! Wake up and quit yelling the building down!”
It was sergeant Lenetov. It was a dream. Just a dream. Of course it was. After the bodies were found, the building was burned down and a lifter carried them back. They had won. Different year, different planet, different Squad. Same dream. Five years. Lieutenant Drekkar sat up and drank from his flask. The night was over. The nightmare was just starting.
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He was back. Right there.
Orthos. It was an agri world like many others. Endless fields of produce, a smattering of towns. the simple people that live there gruff and aloof, insular and backwards minded. They resent control. They resent their labour going on the plates of people on worlds whose names they can’t spell. A world like that is valuable. An army marches on its stomach. An empire lives by it. No food and order breaks down. Half of the skill of oppression is the art of making the man on the street fear his own demise. Without food, self preservation and control evaporate. For the good of all, Orthos had to be retaken.
On an agri world there are few people. The Guard smashed the main settlement and routed the insurgency. It degenerated into a bitter guerrilla war. Sergeant Drekkar was there.
He was newly minted, and sporting the extra stripe to all who would see it. It made him headstrong and eager to prove himself. He was there. It was by a strong river, the Saulja. There was a regicide board pattern of rock walls carpeting the surrounding hills. They were primitive, hand carved and without cement. The fields were bare, evidence of a bad harvest. The squad was hunting rebels.
The road was dirt and grass grew in the middle. Drekkar led his nine men in a column, four each side and he in the centre. A snap was heard. “Sniper!” he yelled and dived to the ground. He could see through the holes in the wall figures up against the sky. “Ambush! Targets on the hill!” a yell rang out.
Snaps and whistles came into the air. They had no lasguns, only bolt action auto guns. A meaty thump told of a man down. A burst of stubber fire smashed up the wall, killing another of his men- Brandt. Lenetov managed to get his rifle up on the hill and coldly opened fire. Gunshots ceased.
Drekkar rose to his feet. Two men down for five enemies. Another, Kamek, was badly wounded. He was bleeding badly. “Rajem! Get command on the vox. We need a lifter now!” he called to his adjutant. He spied around for shelter. There was a deserted shack on the edge of the river. It was shabby and ill kept. The squad marched over to it. Drekkar heel kicked the door in and retched. The smell was putrid. Drekkar immediately realised why.
Bodies. Two children, lying in a cot, throats slit. A mother, dead on the floor from a gunshot to the back of the head. Father, slumped in an old easy chair, guard issue revolver in his desiccated right hand. Bodies.
Drekkar turned only to find his squad the same way. Flesh rotted, eyes gone, gums blackened. Even the dead soldiers stood, accompanied by the rebels, wrapped in filthy trench coats and cloth caps. All standing, muttering his birth name. He staggered back to see the children biting into his leg and the man holding the revolver to his head. The cries grew louder, drowning out his screams
TAMAS! TAMAS ! TAMAS!..
“Tamas! Sir it’s me! Wake up and quit yelling the building down!”
It was sergeant Lenetov. It was a dream. Just a dream. Of course it was. After the bodies were found, the building was burned down and a lifter carried them back. They had won. Different year, different planet, different Squad. Same dream. Five years. Lieutenant Drekkar sat up and drank from his flask. The night was over. The nightmare was just starting.