| abstract | - Finally, the 1658th was going into battle, and for obvious reasons Nadali was barred from the strategic conference. Initially, she was banned from attending the battalion commanders’ briefing also. However, this was resolved through the efforts of an Intelligence officer. It was more atonement for her bombing, likely. So she attended the briefing and met with the usual windstorm of euphemisms, enough to set her head spinning. The message broadcast from General Staff to the troops was far less cryptic. In bombastic language laden with clichés, an obscure general proclaimed Eskhar’s victories on some unpronounceable world of strategic significance. More divisions, including the 1658th, would be sent to continue the offensive. The normally cynical Novans responded with satisfaction, leaving Nadali incredulous. A maintenance battalion corporal explained. “GS didn’t say aught about Rep dead. If they had, it’d mean we lost and they’re putting a positive spin on it. They didn’t say aught about impending conquest of the whole damn rock either, so was a draw.” So, satisfied the campaign promised survivability, the 1658th prepared for battle, battle on planet Codenamed DF618V. For whatever reason, the soldiers just called it Hothouse. From Fort Kedtke Sachnar they were dispatched to Hothouse. Hours of pure boredom and innumerable card games passed time during their convoy’s jumps among the stars. Their trip, so Nadali was told, took longer than it should because secondary jump routes stood in for their contested betters. Five standard days later they arrived. Hothouse was a visually unspectacular world whose globally agreeable clime suggested terraforming. Any planet subjected to this time-consuming and expensive process possessed either great commercial value or political significance. Yet for all the hyperbole about its importance, neither the Imperial Dominion nor the New Republic maintained naval forces nearby. Two New Republic scout ships did make an appearance in system, but the cruiser accompanying the Imperial transports discouraged attack. Fifty-five Eskhar divisions were landed without trouble. Hothouse was one of those battlegrounds where technology prolonged rather than shortened conflict. Planetary shields covered most important regions, effectively precluding orbital bombardment. Ground-to-space and surface-to-air missile and turbolaser bases checkered the landscape where they did not, rendering direct drops too costly. This left ground based warfare. Millions of men deposited on the surface pummeled their ways towards opposing shield stations hoping to restore total warfare. Modern warfare, of course, depended on tanks, speeders, starfighters, computers and comlinks. Not to mention munitions, fuel and spares. The loss of even a small force thus equipped constituted major defeat. Also, satellite and information networking was absolutely vital. Without it even the most mechanized of armies spent its time flailing about, hunting its foes’ weak points. Eskhar, being less endowed with materiel than the New Republic, was familiar with such handicaps. Person for person, this made them better soldiers, although militarily less effective. Nadali had no doubt in the end Eskhar would reconcile itself to final defeat by blaming overwhelming numbers and comfort itself by trumpeting the honor of fighting to the very last. Before long the 1658th found itself plugging a gap in the front lines. The swathe of river-intersected continental plain was newly won in the campaign which necessitated the storm troopers’ summoning. It was not wholly pacified, meaning New Republic soldiers were not yet all killed or captured. Elegant cities and charming villages hosted angry battles that left retro-colonial architecture bombed and stolid farmsteads burned. Overhead the whistle of trench mortar projectiles was heard. Elsewhere artillery sounded. It targeted another quarter of the city, Nadali was assured, and anyway, it was Novan. Their own quarter had been suppressed earlier by gunships. One of the stormtroopers spoke, his voice slightly muffled by his helmet and faceplate. Nadali was uncertain, but she thought it was the man nicknamed Torque. “Frand, take a look at that colonnade.” Frand, a corporal, inclined his gaze towards the indicated structure. “What of it?” “My scanner went loops. Betcha it’s mined.” “So tag it and call the sappers. Not our problem. We’re here to flush out Reps.” Torque compliantly dropped from the speeder truck and trotted towards the colonnade. “Hey, don’t die,” Frand suggested. “Your taxes pay for those body bags.” Nadali looked hard at the corporal, who ignored her, wondering if he truly was so cynical. Torque hiked his thumb to his head in an obscure Novan gesture before stamping through a row of unoffending flora alongside the street and engaging in whatever tagging the structure entailed. “Contact, we’ve got Reps!” The warning came from a man aboard the speeder furthest forward. In response, there was a whoosh and a small orange shape flashed past. The vehicle beside Nadali’s erupted with flame and smoke. Those unfortunates riding it were either hurled off like armored human projectiles or else tumbled backwards with yells. Immediately, blaster fire blazed from second storey windows around them. More shouting as the stormtroopers reacted. “Dammit, ambush!” “Sergeant, ware the windows!” “Move that speeder!” “Break seventy-two!” The Novans, excluding drivers and gunners, scattered from their vehicles for the relative protection of the roofed and pillared porches lining the street. Nadali attempted to do the same but an Imperial thrust her back in. “Don’t be stupid,” he snapped. “You’re safer in there.” Not with rockets about, retorted the journalist clambering back out. Not far from her another stormtrooper crumpled with a choke. Judging by his strangled gargling it was a throat wound. One of his comrades lunged to retrieve him but was caught in the explosion of another speeder and died. The writhing of the injured man drew continued fire until he perished, too. The soldier beside Nadali observed the deaths. With disconcerting calm he employed deft hand signals, and presumably his helmet’s comlink, to direct the fire of the remaining three speeders. Heavy turret bolts splattered against a particular building chipping concrete and splintering wood. From a window slumped a rocket propelled grenade fire team in New Republic line guard fatigues. The soldier signaled again and the speeders backed into positions where their hulks were less prominent. Raising one hand in yet another dexterous performance the soldier spoke, and Nadali realized that it was Rulph Obrikien. “Blazon, on me!” The score and more of stormtroopers thus summoned hastened to their commander. Rulph pointed at their officer and then at a seemingly defensible building some hundred yards away. “You, lieutenant...” “...Fretag, sir.” “Fretag, that place is our new CP. Get in there and gut it of Reps. Then get a platoon to flush the outliers. Dryad is available if you need backup. Keep it light on the big bangers. I want at least three walls. Roof is optional.” Fretag gestured around. “Sir, we’ve a few glops and flashballs. What of them?” “Glops and flashballs are fine, just no high explosives. Comlink or send a runner when you’re done.” “Any guns or armor we can call on, sir?” “Guns I can do. You want smoke, chemical, or explosive?” “Explosive’ll do.” “You’ll get them. Now get going, I need a command post.” Time passed. Soldiers died. Buildings were acquired room by room. However, eventually Eskhar’s artillery began precision shelling and the way was open to Obrikien’s new command post. The New Republic ambushers realized their ploy was foiled. Shouts, blaster fire, grenade blasts, and it began ending. Other Eskhar troops arrived, part of a battered Army battalion, and the New Republic soldiers scattered. Their parting fire was met and matched by a light tank arriving too late to otherwise contribute. — — — Around the command post more Novan squads were converging. Apparently the large building’s defensible nature had not been lost on the New Republic. It appeared to be their command post, too. Dead soldiers lay about. A three-legged dog howled miserably beside its master’s corpse. In an act of indeterminate motivation, an Imperial shot it dead. Nearby, a picket walker stalked among the wreckage. Imperial protocol insisted these machines work in pairs. Ah, there was the twin, charred and mangled before an anti-tank gun. Nadali removed her helmet, precautionary equipment the Imperial Dominion supplied to war correspondents, and wiped her sweating brow. One of the stormtroopers stopped beside her, resting his rifle against his shoulder. “Well, ma’am,” he said. “You’re in a war now, our war. How do you like it?” The journalist shook her head. This was not her first battlefield, of course, but no law required she learn to enjoy them. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “It seems...I don’t know. I hope the civilians here are alright.” “Civvies? They’re fine, I guess. Most in ESCO camps, I think.” Nadali stared at him. “Wait, camps? ESCO detention camps? You lock them up in those hell holes?” Startled, the man growled, “Yeah, it’s no secret. When we’re on a sweep we lock up the surplus civvies. Well, except those working for us. It makes telling who’s partisan a lot easier. Besides, it’s better than letting a walker run them over.” Plainly he saw the act as laudable, but the Imperial Dominion’s prison camps were notorious among civil rights groups for being crowded, undersupplied, brutal and strict. “So you imprison all of them?” Nadali pursued. “No, not all of them. Besides, a whole bunch turn refugee. Think we’re going to genocide them or enslave them or something. Idiots.” Nadali winced inwardly. Culture and indoctrination were almost inseparable. The point at which values were propagated and when they were propaganda was hazy. Besides, would an Imperial be an Imperial without the system within which he thrived? When the soldier departed, another approached. It was Rulph, his helmet removed and resting in the crook of his arm. His voice was tired and showing a trace of annoyance. “An enlightening conversation, I assume?” Nadali fixed her hands on her hips and turned to face the Novan commander. “Just when you think you’re getting to know people, they drop a proton torpedo in your lap,” she replied angrily. Rulph closed his eyes and exhaled wearily, something that seemed to calm him. “I’m sorry, Kaist. It can’t be easy seeing our world after living in yours. It is probably better if you don’t discuss these things with our men. I am trying to fight a battle, and I need them focused. I don’t need your kind of dissension.” He turned to leave, but the journalist, still angry at the trooper’s revelation, stopped him, calling after him, “No dissension, huh? I suppose you could always try imprisoning them. It seems to work with all the civilians here because I can’t hear them dissenting.” The major shrugged. “Nowhere is without its agitators,” he replied philosophically. Then, almost disinterestedly, he began reciting an old COMPNOR political mantra from the early days of the Empire. “Disharmony creates disorder, and disorder begets chaos. Chaos begets oblivion, and oblivion threatens life. We make order, order from chaos, and in doing so, we fight oblivion. In fighting oblivion, we defend life itself.” Like so much else in the Imperial Dominion, the words were fervent but empty, seemingly meant to convince speaker and listener alike. They were an echo of other’s words. And like an echo, they lacked substance. “Is that so?” asked Nadali. “Maybe for demagogues or politicians. You and me, we’re in the real world. Why do you fight?” Rulph slowly turned to face her, and to Nadali’s shock, his usual emotionless demeanor was suddenly changed into something almost febrile. His lip twisted contemptuously. “You don’t believe me, do you? I can’t possibly be fool enough to believe in the Empire? Servants of evil have no virtue, is that it? “You want to know why I fight? I’ll humor you. I fight because I’m a damned idealist. I fight because I believe in the New Order. But mostly I fight because I’m Novan. These are my people now. I’m Novan, dammit. This is our place, not yours. These are our planets that we tamed from wilderness! Our fields we sowed and reaped! Our cities we built with our hands! Our homes where our parents and their parents lived and died! Our fathers, mothers, brothers, and sisters we defend! Our sons and daughters we raise! We fight for freedom, too! Freedom to live our way, act our way, talk our way, think our way! “All fine and good, say you, but why fight for Eskhar? She’s not the Empire. She’s corrupt, self-serving, and violent! You’re right, of course, but I’ll tell you why! She stood by us when none else would! She fed us when none else could! She fought for us when all else should! Where was the great and noble New Republic when warlords savaged our own? Where was it when pirate fleets burned our worlds? Where was it when plague hit? And where was it when Harrak suffered famine? Where was the New Republic? We called for help, we begged for help! It isolated us! It left us to die because we were Imperial!” Nadali flushed red. That was not how it had happened. At least, that was not what was meant to happen. Sanctions were in place to secure civil rights concessions and prevent the Imperial Dominion from exporting its authoritarian philosophy to innocents. And the famine had come when the New Republic suffered others problems. Rulph closed his eyes and breathed deeply to regain his composure. “Kaist,” he finally said, “we made our choice already, and now we pay the price. Now if you don’t mind, I have a battalion that needs me. You are welcome to join me at my command post or you may continue with my soldiers. If the latter, then don’t die. I have no time for a dead foreign correspondent.” Imperial storm trooper Major Rulph Obrikien then replaced his helmet and departed to confer with some officers who awaited him respectful distance away. “...as said, sir, we lost eleven.” “And a walker, it seems.” “Yes, the driver is among the eleven.” “We lost seventeen, including Shiridis, Panges, and Alekz.” “Panges is dead? He was a good kid.” “Nineteen dead and three speeders destroyed, for our part.” “How many injured?” “Five.” “Eight.” “Six.” “Do any need priority evac?” “No.” “Negative.” “Three.” “Alright, do what you must. Patch up the others and keep them at the CP. And keep up the pressure. I don’t want Reps back here anytime soon.” Nadali apprehensively joined the departing stormtroopers aboard a speeder. There had been something dangerously wrong in Obrikien’s eyes, and it was something she recognized. Rulph Obrikien was hiding that he was unwell. In fact, he was hiding that he was almost insane. And she was inexplicably fascinated by it. — — — The fighting continued. Building and houses were searched and the Novans proceeded to astonish. One instance had Novans callously grenade a suspect building and then meticulously treat the wounded civilians inside. Another saw them kill a surrendering opponent then help his injured comrade to safety. Finally, an outraged Army man shot a drunken New Republic soldier found molesting an alien female who had avoided the mass arrests. The Imperial then proceeded to add her household valuables to his satchel. Nadali was disturbed, but recorded her video in silence. Truth be told, for all her private protestation otherwise, she had foreseen such madness. It was reprehensible, but she had foreseen it. In the words of an impenitent Novan general captured and set on trial for war crimes, “War is a dirty business, your honors. If you won’t dirty your hands, then don’t play in mud.” Resistance increased as the Imperials progressed. Burned and gutted vehicles from the last battle to grace the streets made progress still more difficult. Explosive encounters and bloody dying by Eskhar’s entangled battalions, and not a few New Republic ones, eventually converged on an apartment complex wherein the New Republic had chosen to concentrate. Here broken tanks and walkers found new life as barricades and strong points. Blaster cannons were everywhere and vomited their usual rain of slaughter. No artillery support was available, except for a few assault guns and a damaged self-propelled gun. Two picket walkers crashed. Nadali listened to several exasperated officers order, request, and beg for backup. Blaster bolts pricked the road, chipped walls, and pinged off vehicles. Shoulder rockets ripped from both sides. A building’s wall exploded into smoke and fragments. The self-propelled gun fired in return. Near where Nadali crouched, an Army trooper was kicked backwards, crumpled and fell as a burst of blaster fire caught him in the chest. She did not need to look twice to know he was dead. Combat armor did only so much. Shooting continued. Soon the third and last picket walker fell to a rocket round. Its legs buckled and its driver hurtled from his seat. One platoon obediently made a suicidal rush and died. Finally, a captured New Republic speeder drove up. Out stepped an irate Rulph Obrikien, apparently intent to see his soldiers’ obstacle himself. He was wholly absorbed in the battle and did not even see Nadali. Another officer explained the situation laconically. Rulph growled a response and snatched a comlink from a soldier. “Listen, you bastards!” he shouted into the speaker, barely audible over the noise. “What? I don’t have a damn codename! Who am I? I’m an angry man whose soldiers are dying, and more importantly I’m an angry man who can see you flayed alive if you don’t cooperate! I want an air strike now! Yes... Yes... Those are our coordinates, yes... What? Dammit, man! Just send one!” Dejarik... That’s what it is, dejarik... The parallel startled Nadali only because it was so obvious. The whole operation was one lethal board game. Stormtroopers and Army troopers continued dying, the last as he shouldered a rocket launcher. Two of his comrades ran to drag him aside. One of them died, too. No, wounded. He rose and continued to help drag the corpse. Nadali involuntarily shivered. Heroism? Idiocy? Others would decide. The air strike arrived with low pitched whines. A flight of Imperial gunships appeared and circled overhead. Recognizing the danger, the New Republic soldiers inside the apartments turned their fire on the new arrivals. No use. Rockets rained down, blasting holes and scattering rubble. Taking advantage of their opponents’ preoccupation, the Novans scurried forward, scrambling over debris and dodging shrapnel. The gunships circled for another pass. A corporal barked into his radio. “Negative! Negative! Don’t strike! Peel off, you bastards! We’ve moved in!” One of the officers placed a hand on Rulph’s shoulder. “They could raze the upper stories without troubling us, sir.” Rulph raised an eyebrow. “So have them do it.” The corporal relayed the message. “Ground to Reaper. Blast the top floors...” “And try to knock out those cannon nests.” “...and try to knock out those cannon nests. Over.” The radio crackled with interference. “Affirmative, Ground. We’ll see what we can do. Have fun down there. Over.” “Confirmed, Reaper. And go kriff yourself. Over.” Metallic snaps preceded airborne shrieks as one of the gunships loosed a pair of guided missiles. Nadali winced and covered her ears. The stormtroopers and Army men were untroubled because, unlike her basic headgear, their helmets possessed sound dampeners. Impact... The three uppermost floors of the apartment complex blew into an orange cloud. Concrete chunks, twisted metal, and dust showered those below. Auto-cannon bolts pummeled the remains. There was a conspicuous absence of New Republic cannon fire. “Reaper, watch it! Some of that rubble hit our men! You trying to kill us?” Before long, the New Republic defense collapsed. With their ersatz fortress shattered, they lost the will to fight. Divisional headquarters reported a New Republic counterattack towards the city had been halted a good deal short of its objective, knowledge of which must have contributed to the defenders submission. They surrendered in batches of fives and tens to their grim conquerors. The Novans rounded them up with much rough treatment but no summary executions. Several medics began treating both sides wounded. Overhead the sun was setting. The battle had taken the better part of the day. The prisoners were a mixed lot, it turned out. Some were regulars. Most were contingents from sector forces and planetary defense forces. One of them made a two fingered gesture at his captors. Nadali singled him out. “You there, soldier. Where are you from?” she asked in Basic. The prisoner looked her over with distaste and spat at her feet. “Go to hell, Novan,” he grumbled in the same language. That stopped Nadali short. The prisoner, she realized, thought her to be an Imperial Dominion propagandist. Several of the 1658th’s members within hearing burst into laughter while their Army comrades looked on smugly. Nadali glared at them. It took effort to convince the prisoners she was, in fact, not Imperial. No help was obtained from the Novans who found great amusement at her ordeal. The prisoners remained suspicious until she told them her name, showed her News Corps armband, HNN correspondent flimsi and ID. However, at that point an Imperial trooper named Gottoch stepped in, took her arm and said something about prisoner-of-war regulations. Abruptly, a sniper’s shot sent him spinning, and soldiers from both sides went scurrying for cover.
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