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"...Yes, but the revenues have to come from SOMEWHERE," Barton replied.
"I know, but it's not about MAKING money, it's about TAKING money," Calchus returned.
A massive explosion rocked the ruins. Careening above them, a one-winged valkyrie spun out of control, flinging flaming debris everywhere before slamming into the side of the bastion in a massive fireball.
"No institution," Calchus continued, watching the spectacle before him, "should have the power to be able to remove your property by force. Nothing gives them the right to do that."
"Well force is force, mate. Force itself gives them the ability to do what they want. Otherwise, it's just an arbitrary constraint on power. What gives YOU the right to set up such limits? I mean, perhaps if you had some force of your own. Otherwise than that long-las, that is."
"No, but they don't have the RIGHT to it, is my point. Nobody has the right to use force pro-forma."
"Don't be obtuse, my good friend," Barton replied. A great, groaning roar filled the air as a thunderhawk swooped up out of a dive mere feet above the ruins where the two sharpshooters had taken cover to survey the battlefield. The engines cascaded a blast of noise and heat over the two as it just barely managed to roll out of the way of hitting the bastion. It just managed to clear the building when anti-aircraft fire frantically swept the sky after it.
"Don't be obtuse!" Barton shouted again when the aircraft had passed, "You've got to have force SOMEWHERE, or else you don't have the rule of law. Arbitration is meaningless without the ability to enforce the will of the arbitrator."
"Yes," Calchus replied, "but the parties could agree by contract to uphold the decision of the arbitrator."
"But how would you enforce the contract without force? I know you don't want to be forced to pay taxes any more than the rest of us do, but if you're going to attempt to fundamentally restructure society just so that you can - hang on a minute, I think I see something."
A massive wave of enemy soldiers poured out of their barricades in a massed assault against the bastion. It had begun.
"Melchoir!" Barton shouted down to the officer, "I hope you're ready, because here they come!"
"Already?" the officer shouted back, upset that he had lost the initiative. The officer turned on his micro-vox and gave the order to attack.
***
The Foleran forces were in a bad state. Everything had been thrashed by freezing, violent storms over the past few days, which had brought nearly everything to a halt on the ground, and kept air cover out of the skies. Using the storm, the enemy had made a stabbing thrust right for the jugular of the region's defenses. In a massive assault, they had attacked Beta-3 landing field, a vital link that connected tens of thousands of loyalist troops to their resupply from the fleet above. If the spaceport fell, the remaining forces on the ground could be butchered piecemeal, with battle command useless to help them.
Two entire regiments had been lost against this massive attack, but they had bought imperial commanders valuable time to order reinforcements. Melchoir had been on a forced march for two days, parts of his line slowly straggling in behind him as it wrestled with the rain and the mud. Miraculously, he had managed to make it to Bastion 3, one of eight major perimeter defenses for the field itself, and just in time before the enemy, so it seemed.
The next morning had broken cold, but clear. The enemy hadn't been able to make it all the way to the spaceport before the storm passed. They were, however, present, and by noon, the enemy was making their one last, great push to take the airfield before loyalist aircraft had the ability to sweep them from their positions.
Melchoir was working hard to get what few troops he had into some semblance of cohesion as a massive air-war erupted overhead. Loyalist and rebel aircraft swarmed over the airfield in a desperate attempt to buy enough time for their ground forces to finish off each other in one final push. The air was nearly a thick haze of contrails and burning oil, fighters swooped back and forth, chasing each other and strafing ground targets at will. Melchoir wished his own fleet support was as good as his enemy's. Despite being outnumbered, they seemed to hold the upper hand.
Just when things started to look like they could get moving, the enemy had begun its assault on the bastion. The officer now had no choice but to send his troops in, whatever level of preparation, and prevent the enemy from taking the bastion at any cost.
Two massive waves of guardsmen crashed towards each other.
"Alright, men, let's move up! Go!" The officer shouted. His shapshooters took a moment to snap off a few shots before following the officer and the priest as they began their charge towards the bastion. It was difficult for the officer to see, what with the bastion between him and his enemy, but what he could see was a massive wave of enemy as far left and right as he could tell, shouting as they advanced on a broad front.
To his right, he could see his forces begin to engage in lasgun fire with the enemy. He could see his own casualties. He only hoped that his enemy's were as high. The officer looked up as a valkyrie swooped overhead and cast a shadow down on him and the side of the bastion. 10 kingsguard repelled out with frightening speed, and the last few were dropped onto the roof as the flier was already taking off. Even this had been too much of a delay.
From behind and above, an enemy fighter closed in on the temporarily vulnerable transport. It let loose its guns, strafing the valkyrie and the side of the bastion in a hail of fire. Just as the valkyrie took off, the enemy fighter all but cut it in two. Both engines instantly caught ablaze. The fighter peeled off as the valkyrie desperately fought to stay airborne. Listing to one side, its thick black billows of smoke disappeared towards the airfield out of sight.
Returning to the fight at hand, Melchoir saw his troops wavering out in the open. Their forbearance left something to be desired. As did their flak armor. Melchoir shouted at the troops to keep fighting. The bright, gleaming hand of the king on the officer's standard giving reassurance to the soldiers. The angry priest revving his chainsaw sword while scowling hatefully sealed the deal. There was nothing left, but to charge, and so charge they did, weathering murderous small arms fire, and trying desperately to give as good as they got.
***
The Kingsguard sergeant nearly fell out of his ride and onto the bastion roof. Not a moment after he landed, he came under a deluge of heavy weapons fire from above. The valkyrie burst into flames and careened off out of view. Just another close call in a war full of them, the sergeant noted, coolly. He quickly tried to take stock of the situation.
He peeked over the side of the bastion, and saw the fight developing below him.
"Kingsguard, we've got to move!" the sergeant shouted, opening up the roof hatch and motioning his well-trained soldiers inside, hopping down after them.
The inside of the bastion was dark, but they didn't have time to fumble for lights. Instinctively, the stormtroopers flicked on their night vision - their visors casting a pale green glow around the dark, abandoned room. With practiced speed, the men found the stairs down, and followed it all the way to the ground floor. They turned off their night vision as they quickly and silently entered the bunker.
The sergeant peered out of a vision slot. He could see the enemy bunching up behind the bastion, getting ready to launch an attack on the other side. The sergeant made hand gesutres towards his squad as a thunderhawk flew overhead. The two flamethrower soldiers moved forward towards the door. The rest of the men lined up behind them. With a silent command, the lead Kingsguard kicked open the door of the bunker, and the soldiers poured out of the other side of the bastion, face to face with the enemy.
With smooth, practiced strokes, the flamethrower stormtroopers opened up a steam of liquid flame onto the enemy. Screams filled the air as the fire spread among the enemy. The other stormtroopers carefully picked off those foolish enough to escape the fiery blast. With murderous efficiency, the Kingsguard comprehensively ended everyone in their way.
Through the flames, a black clad figure approached. More machine then man, the enemy officer glowered at the Kingsguard, slowly striding through the inferno. The sergeant ordered his men to target the new threat, but it was too late.
The sergeant pulled out his combat knife.
There was work to be done.
***
Melchoir looked behind him, the angry growl of aircraft humming in his ears. Another valkyrie was coming down to drop off more reinforcements when surprise
AA fire from some unknown corner slammed into the vehicle. Instantly bursting into flames, the vehicle careened out of control, flaming guardsmen jumping out the back in a desperate attempt to escape, only to plummet horribly to the earth. The officer watched as the valkyrie disappeared behind the bastion.
"Hail, Sanario!" came a shout from behind him, as another priest came jogging up to them, eviscerator in tow.
"Hail, Lucious!" Sanario returned a quick salute.
"Verily!" the other priest shouted in a tone of exacerbation, "Those to whom I have been attached have yielded their nature unto me as being that of right wieners. Boobs, in totality of their number! Of most losers, in major!"
Melchoir gave Sanario a blank stare.
"This is Lucious, one of my new interns. He's currently taking classes in florid rhetoric."
"Ah," Melchoir replied, unsure.
"Then whence, thus thither! Together!" Sanario replied in proper archaic form. The intern took a moment to decipher the more seasoned priest's words. After a moment, he agreed with a loud "Huzzah!"
Chainswords revved.
Melchoir turned around. In front of him, one of his officer squads came running at him... the wrong way.
"You there!" the intern shouted angrily, "Whence your orders to withdraw!?"
"Sir!" the junior officer replied with a hasty salute, "The bastion's locator beacon, it fell off the roof of the bastion." Melchoir instantly recognized the value of the find. If the locator fell into enemy hands, they would be able to falsely redirect support from the fleet. Without it, he would have to call for more aid and coordinate his forces by less ideal means. He'd have to reward this officer for his initiative.
"Great!" Melchoir shouted, "Take this back, keep it safe."
"Yes, sir," the officer replied, starting with his squad towards the rear at a jog. Melchoir would have to make sure that stayed safe. His first challenge appeared instantly:
The enemy had broken through the bastion! With scarcely any time to think, they flooded onto his unit. Melchoir lifted his powerfist into the air. The beacon must be defended at all cost!
The two priests formed up in front of him and viciously hacked apart the guardsmen in front of them, bits flying everywhere accompanied by screams of panic. The priests blocked the way for Melchoir to punch straight through for the enemy commissar. He knew well enough that if he could break the comissar, he could break the squad. Desperate times called for decisive action.
He caught he enemy commander completely off guard. He hacked at Melchoir, but the officer got too close too fast. Sparks and the smell of ozone reached out into the air as a few poorly-aimed sword swipes glanced off the refractor field of his better. Melchoir grabbed the power sword with his power fist, wrenched it out of his grip and threw the now-broken sword away. The enemy commissar could only watch in slow motion as Melchoir's massive armored gauntlet drove straight for his face.
Melchoir, dabbed in spatter, looked around. Ahead of him the enemy continued to come on in waves. Behind him, his forces largely killed or fled. It was now up to him to literally save the day. Melchoir gave Sanario a nod as the screaming horde approached. The priest smiled and nodded back.
"Oh, hey, wait!" the medic called, interjecting himself into the action, "I'm sorry, I totally forgot to make you take these before we started". The medic took out his pill bottle, flipped off the lid and threw it away, dumping several small white capsules into to his other hand. "Here, everybody, make sure you take two of these", he said, passing them out.
"Just take one everybody," Melchoir commanded, onrushing throng on-rushing.
"Wait, no," the medic protested, "It totally says right here on the sticker thing that you're supposed to take two."
"One will suffice!" the officer growled.
"Oh, yeah, sure. Don't trust the 'doctor', yeah, that's real cool. I'm sure whatever information you came by is more relevant than my years of medical training."
"But you don't HAVE years of medical training." The mob raced ever closer to the command squad.
"Fine! Don't do what the sticker things says!" the medic retorted, "I'm sure you can shove as many of these little white jobbers in your mouth as you want. Don't blame me if you ignore literally probably like a hundred years of medical studies just so that..."
At this point, Melchoir took his medicine and ignored the medic. He gave Sanario the cue.
"Men!" The priest shouted, silencing the medic, "We now are all that stands left between these slathering traitors and the utter annihilation of our army! It is up to you! It is up to your very bravery and skill at arms that you will decide the outcome of the day. What say you, men? Is now the time to run like cowards, or is now the time to charge forward for your Emperor, for your king, and for a new day where all shall know your eternal glory!"
The priest hefted his mighty chainsaw sword and revved it mercilesly. The men gathered around him cheered, lifting their weapons up into the air. "Verily!" the intern returned, "That which thou hast spakest!" Melchoir turned around. He saw the enemy in front of him. Time suddenly seemed to slow down as the drugs coursed through his veins like fire, seeping into his temples and up the back of his spine, leeching into his brain. He felt a massive erection swell in his loins. He felt the hair on his chest burst out amongst rippling biceps. His clean-shaven face quivered at the thought of a massive, flowing beard basking manfully in the sun. The enemy before him began to literally shrink, both in size and in terror.
The officer stood there mutely for a moment, vividly hallucinating the very epitome of masculine violence. Then, without a word, he suddenly sprinted forwards.
The taste of flowers and turpentine leaked out into his mouth. His head hammered each of his footfalls into his brain. Around him were the screams of drugged-up priests preparing to hack apart whoever was in front of them with chainsaws. The screams only matched by the massive swords themselves.
He could feel the air oozing into his lungs as he beat his way forward. He could feel time flowing around him like an oily breeze.
"COMMISSAR!" the crazed officer bellowed above the fray. Already the priests had done their work. One of the snipers was reaching into the hacked apart bowels of a hapless victim and began ripping at the wound with his bare hands, smearing everything with blood as the man on the ground cried out in hideous pain.
"COMMISSAR!" Melchoir shouted again. He was there. The officer could SENSE it.
Then, appearing out of space and time, the enemy commissar darted into existence, smashing his power sword across the officer's helmet. The shot glanced off and landed in his right arm. The officer staggered backwards for a moment. He looked at his bleeding arm. The blood rushing from his body was exhilarating. His spirit pumped out of his wound and was finally free to fly. The rush hit the officer in the back of his eyes. He looked at the enemy commissar.
With a massive, silent, implausibly fast swing of his armored gauntlet, he punched the commissar with an undercut, hitting him square in the abdomen. The shock caused the enemy to explode as he was punched in half, spraying Melchoir and everyone around. All the little droplets. Like a fine late spring rain shower spent on the veranda with a nice glass of white wine.
Melchoir's breath pounded in his throat, someone else's blood seething out of his teeth.
Murder overtook him. He could not be said to control his actions, much less fathom them. He glared at the enemy. Desperately, they were trying to form up. Melchoir uttered a primal scream and charged.
As his drug-enraged cohorts followed him into battle, the enemy began to melt before them. Gunfire from around them cut down their enemy. At the sight they had just witnessed, and their commissar having been just so conveniently picked off by enemy fire, the enemy broke and ran. They desperately attempted to flee, getting shot down in the back and side by nearby Foleran forces.
Confused, Melchoir stopped his charge. The enemy were routing faster than his racing mind could keep up. He turned and looked. There he was.
The enemy warlord.
Striding forwards towards him.
The enemy let off a few shots from his plasma pistol. "Egaaaaaaaaaadsss!" the intern priest shouted as he dove in front of Sanario, valiantly taking the hit from the sunpistol.
"No!" Sanario shouted, as he bent down over his wounded undrestudy, "No!" he shouted again, "You were my favorite intern! I will avenge your likely mortal wound!" The priest got up, righteous anger in his eyes.
"No," Melchoir stated, putting a hand on the priest, "This one is mine."
Melchoir and the enemy broke out in a run against each other. Pace by pace, the two picked up speed until they were at a dead run. At the last moment, the two leaped into the air. A shower of sparks exploded as the two refractor fields slammed into each other, fist and blade struggling to cope with the energy surge released as the two men dueled. With an inhuman swing, the enemy officer would have cleaved Melchoir in two had not his refractor field skipped off the blow. The air became thick with ozone, a misty haze beginning to form, backlit by the glow of showering sparks. A horrible electric screech filled the air as Melchoir returned the blow, everything lighting up in another massive shower of electrical fireworks.
Time seemed to a crawl around him. Thousands of fireflies glittered and danced around him. He was going to end the life of someone.
With uncanny speed, Melchoir grabbed the enemy sword mid swing. With as much apparent effort and interest as filing paperwork, he reached his pistol over and shot the enemy in the arm, causing him to release the hold on his sword. Melchoir wrenched the sword out of his hand and slammed it into his opponent's face, dazing the officer and knocking his helmet clear away. In the same move, he brought down his bolt pistol on his foe. The heavy steel magazine hitting him square in the face.
The enemy crumpled. Melchoir threw the sword away and shouted to no one in particular.
Around, him, aircraft began to drop in out of the sky. They were friendlies. They were dropping off more Kingsguard!
He rubbed his eyes to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. No, they were really there. Foleran air forces had won the battle for the skies.
This was it. He had held. He had won.
Melchoir slowly looked back at the priest. Behind him, another wave of enemy was charging in. The priest turned and looked for a moment, and then looked back at Melchoir, wiping his bloody face with his sleeve.
"For the king, Melchoir," the priest spoke in level tones.
"For the king, my friend," the officer responded.
The two turned and charged headlong into the onrushing enemy horde.
***
The officer shivered uncontrollably.
"Therapist!" Melchoir called hoarsely from his reclining bed at medicae. He was being intravenously fed a bag of chemicals that helped him detox, and to replace lost liquids and prevent infection. A flap in the tent opened and a nurse came in.
The officer pointed at his IV bag, nearly empty. "Of course, sir," the nurse replied, "Is there anything else I can get for you?"
"Yes, something to eat, please, I'm famished." His hangover was beginning to abate, but he knew he'd feel a lot better if he had something to eat. "Something with roast beef, if they have it," he called to the nurse as she left the ramshackle tent.
Once Foleran forces had managed to hold the enemy at bay, and the clouds departed, the Aeronautica Imperialis had managed to sweep the skies clean of enemy fighters. With the landing field secured, reinforcements could pour directly into the hot zone. With air and land superiority, the enemy was broken. Air power continued to strafe the enemy all the next day as ground forces pushed forward to new, much more secure locations.
By that afternoon, though, Melchoir's shattered advance forces had been relieved. Despite being caught on the wrong foot and badly outnumbered, the officer and his men had been able to hold off the attack of an enemy regiment against the airfield and bastion 3, but at considerable casualty.
"Well, there's our hero of the day," Sanario said as he strode into the tent, still caked with blood.
The officer smiled as the priest entered.
"I talked to the therapist, and she said you'll be ready to go by tomorrow. I brought you some books." The priest laid some literature down on the thin, bloody blanket draped over the officer.
"You better be ready by then," the priest continued, "we'll be needed, I'm sure."
"No rest for the victorious," Melchoir quoted, reaching down towards the books. A sudden sharp pain stabbed into his arm.
"Oh!" the officer cried "Ow, ow!" He looked at his arm and saw that it had been bandaged up. When had he received THAT wound? It looked like a deep one.
"Ah," Sanario noted, "You'll start feeling pain again as the drugs wear off. If it makes you feel any better, I can quote you the litany of Our Physical Pain is a Joy Unto His Holy Sublimity."
Melchoir expressed a look of disinterest. What he needed wasn't chanting and prayer. What he needed was now roast beef.
***
10,000+
