This scene contains violence and death.
52nd of the Aster’s Gloom, 2030 D.C.E
Tambwe Dominance, City of Rangda — 8th Division Barracks
“G-1 this is Thunder actual, report.”
Behind the sandbag wall guarding the approach to the base gate, a soldier of the 8th Division’s “Lion Battalion” answered the radio. His response was swift: there had been no activity from the 1st Motor Rifles all night. He had at times seen flickers of movement, shades in the dark, but for all he knew it was his eyes tricking him. His enemy was invisible to him.
Across the street from his position there was a brick wall about five meters tall topped with metal spears. Barbed wire wound between each spear and barred entry to prospective climbers. These walls fully encircled the base save for a pair of gates: the one before him, and one facing north. They were strong steel-barred gates topped with barbed wire. Past the gate stood a pair of concrete structures for the gate guards, and then a road that wound down in the base proper. Quite distantly, if he squinted, the radio officer could see nondescript buildings, bereft of people.
“G-1, maintain a high alert. We’re reinforcing your position soon.”
With those words, the platoon commander became silent anew.
This was only the second set of orders G-1 had been given.
The radio-man felt like they were all being sacrificed to give an early warning of 1st Regiment activity. He looked around himself for support.
At his side, a young woman grabbed hold of the padded handles on the sides of a Khroda water-cooled machine gun, keeping the gun raised on the gate barring them from their old barracks. She was tense; her grip on the handles was stiff and rigid. Crouching behind the sandbags were eight riflemen, armed with a single grenade and a Bundu rifle with 100 rounds. In the middle of the night two men and two women had run in from around the corner carrying a light mortar in three pieces. It had been assembled just behind the bus bench, and they crouched around it.
“We may be getting reinforcements soon.” said the radio man.
“Thank the ancestors for that!” replied the machine gunner, exasperated.
“No matter how many reinforcements we get there’s still thousands of people in there.” one of the mortar crew said, pointing into the base.
“It’s fine, they haven’t moved.” said the radio man. “Once the governor gives the go-ahead we’ll surround them and that’ll be the end of it. They had their chance to attack and they didn’t all night. We’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, these folk ain’t Nocht.” said one of the riflemen.
Everyone went silent then. The rifleman’s clumsy implication was that the 1st Regiment was full of weak Ayvartans like themselves who had been bested by Nocht before. But that was not entirely true. For one, the 1st Regiment had defeated Nocht before. And most importantly, the 8th Division was, in a way, affiliated with Nocht. They were like Nocht, now.
Like them in allegiance, in whom they fought against; not in experience or equipment or in numbers, but in the dark deeds they committed.
But the fact was that there was nowhere for them to go but that sandbag wall overlooking the gate. It was either that or a stay in a prison camp, Nochtish or Ayvartan. Or worse. They had thrown their lot in with their own comrades over comrades in the broader sense. Without the mutual support of their dire pact they were nothing, and so, they remained.
So thought the radio man, until the machine gunner stomped her boot.
“Something’s happening!” She called out, holding her gun steady.
Across the road and behind the gate, a thin white mist had begun to spread. At first it the haze was barely noticeable, as thin as a cloud of smoke coming from the tip of a cigarette, blowing away in a gentle wind. Within minutes it had thickened into fog as thick as in a lowland swamp. Behind the bars there was no longer a road or gatehouses, only smoke.
“What do we do? What do we do?” shouted the machine gunner.
Forming a firing line to both sides of her, the riflemen aimed for the gate. Behind them the mortar crew scrambled to rip open the crates for their rounds, which they had not thought to unpack and lay out for use earlier. The radio officer thought his heart would climb out of his throat, so hard was it beating and thrashing in his chest. He mustered the will to speak.
“I’ll call it in.” He shouted back. “Calm down and don’t shoot.”
He lifted the handset to his mouth and switched on broadcasting–
From the speaker in his ear he heard a sharp, horrendous thrashing noise.
Wincing, he put down the handset and grabbed his head in pain.
But the noise was still there, distant, boring in his head. Was it a tinnitus?
He strained to raise eyes toward the gate, and found a black shape moving toward them within the smoke, tall as an elephant and just as broad.
In a split second’s glance the radio man noticed the gate had opened.
Everyone around him was paralyzed with fear.
At the edge of the cloud the black figure paused and shifted its weight.
There was a great thunderous cry and a bright flash that parted smoke.
From the edge of the street a 152mm round cut the distance to the sandbag wall in an instant. Detonating just over the sandbag wall it sent men and sandbags alike flying every which way. Metal sprayed in the faces of the riflemen, blinding and killing them; the machine gunner was flung back from her gun and died from the shock before hitting the floor again.
Surviving the first shot with only deafness and disorientation to account for it, the mortar crew rose from the ground and abandoned the position and their weapon, holding their heads low while hurtling down the street.
Lying on the ground, his stomach speared by an enormous chunk of shell casing, the radio man watched them go. He prayed for their escape with his last breaths; but in his final moments, he saw as a massive vehicle, with a turret like a destroyer’s mounting an absolutely enormous gun.
He did not see the vehicle shoot again.
Instead, seemingly a dozen men and women clinging to the tank’s rear and turret opened fire on the retreating mortar crew and picked them off before they could escape. In his final moments the radio man witnessed the birth of a new kind of Ayvartan warfare, and realized that nobody would know of his death, and that Nakar had dealt first blood.
She was throwing her iron fist right into the gut of the Lion battalion.
On the ground, at his side, the radio was still emitting alien noise.