All is Fair. Ch. 01

Authors note: Welcome to the very first chapter of this brand spanking new series. Just a little heads up, there will not be my usual amount of graphically described fornication in this series, but there will be some, where it is appropriate. As with all my writing, this is not a sex story, this is a story that has some sex in it. I hope you enjoy and please feel free to leave any feedback you deem warranted.

Stay Awesome

Nova

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Chapter 1 - The longest day

In the vast expanse of space, around the spiral galaxies, through the streaking colors of nebulae, past binary stars, burning balls of fire, and wandering comets, between asteroids, around all the planets and moons, and above all the species that call this part of space home, a ballet has been playing out for countless millennia; an opera that transcends time and distance. An ancient race had long ago shed this mortal plane and ascended to the next, leaving behind a spattering of their genetic material. Over millions of years, it was allowed to drift, blown on stellar winds, carried on comets, hitchhiking on passing freighters, until one particular group of cells - a few lines of ancient DNA - found itself falling through the atmosphere of Splanos II, carried safely within the bosom of a raindrop.

The settlers of a simple farming colony there led simple lives, intentionally separating and distancing themselves from the hardships, cruelties, and struggles of life in the Imperium. None were disloyal or rebellious; they just wanted to experience lives away from the politics and the endless rush toward technological advancement. The thing they wanted above all else was to live in peace.

It was the middle of the wet season. Crops, livestock, and colonists alike were being watered by the passing monsoons in a deluge that had lasted weeks and promised to last weeks longer. A couple danced in the downpour. The love between them was as timeless and perfect as the ascended DNA plummeting toward them. They smiled and laughed as they danced to the music that only they could hear, his seed quickening in her womb. The very moment of conception. With a gleeful laugh, she looked up to the heavens and held out her tongue, tasting the freshness of the water, feeling that indescribable zest for life that only the young and the in love can feel.

One very special drop splashed onto it, absorbed almost instantly into the young woman's blood, and washed through her body to the first sparks of life in her belly. Where the ancient DNA merged harmlessly and symbiotically with the embryo's. The child's course of life was altered, changed at the fundamental building blocks of his humanity. He would be born, like a handful of others over the centuries, with glowing blue eyes and the genetic knowledge of a race lost to the sands of time.

His name would be Elijah, and the galaxy would never be the same again.

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Michaels. 1

The Colonel was a severe and formal-looking man. His once jet-black mane of hair had been stripped of its color years ago, leaving him with a distinguished, almost silver, cropped style that peeked out beneath his dress uniform's peaked hat. Forty-three years of military service had imbued him with a sense of purpose and discipline that he felt would make the Imperium a much better place if applied to all manners of civilian life. He stood straight-backed and keen-eyed. His well-groomed mustache perched itself atop the grimly set scowl of authority. There were 20,000 of the Imperial Navy's most elite troops amassed in formation before him, and, as one, they snapped to attention as their Commander stepped up to the podium.

Colonel Michaels didn't need microphones or speakers to project his voice, no matter how cleverly they were hidden into the podium in front of him. This was a man who had cut his teeth shouting orders over the chaos of combat, rallying battle-weary troops, and snatching victory from the jaws of defeat. He knew how to make himself heard.

The Marines of the Imperium were among the most professional and respected of any military unit in any of the known species in this part of the Galaxy. Mankind's rapid expansion outward from the Sol system had demanded that they, along with the Imperial Navy, carry the weight of humanity's ambition. Only a few centuries ago, the people of Earth had looked to the stars and wondered if they were alone. Now, they knew with certainty that not only were there other species hiding in the cosmos, but most of them had distinct technological advantages over the fledgling spacefaring race.

Diplomacy and the ability to reach a compromise had set up healthy and mutually beneficial trading relationships with some of them, and had kept the peace with others. But it was only ever a matter of time before one species, or another, pushed back against the relentless march of human progress. When that inevitably happened, the Navy - against huge odds and with staggering losses - obliterated the enemy fleets in titanic stellar battles. But when it came time to forcibly seize control of a hostile planet, they called in the Marines.

Just as they had done in the days of Earth's oceanic battles, the Marines held true to their doctrine of ship-to-ship and ship-to-land operations; all that had really changed was that those ships no longer floated on the sacred waters of humanity's homeworld, but floated through the endless blackness of space. The Army, if you could call them that, was responsible for defending human planets. A rag-tag group of organized combat divisions and local militias, they were a far cry from the brutal fighting forces he now commanded. The Colonel seriously doubted the men and women defending human soil could even accurately be called soldiers. They lacked training, discipline, unit cohesion, or even the most basic measure of pride. Luckily for the Imperium, it was the Marines who bore the burden of offensive campaigns.

But the men standing to attention before the aged Colonel were no ordinary Marines. These men had all volunteered - or had been volunteered - to join the elite 381st Marine Division, the highly classified "Three-Eight-One." Augmented through a combination of gene manipulation and cybernetic implants, Three-Eight-One was mankind's first attempt at creating genuine super-soldiers. But unlike the stories of Earth's ancient Sci-Fi theories, there had been no abducted children, no test-tube babies, no sickening experiments, and no crimes against humanity. Every man and woman before him had earned the right to join his beloved division through the crucible of combat. These were battle-hardened veterans long before they became super-soldiers. The experiment had been wildly successful. Even the most optimistic projections of the military's research departments hadn't come close to forecasting the performance of even Three-Eight-One's most lackluster recruits. These warriors were a force to be reckoned with.

Stronger, faster, more resilient, and more intelligent than normal soldiers, these men had been trained in every tactic known to the human military, taught to use any weapon or employ any vehicle, and equipped with the latest equipment mankind had to offer. They would do anything it took to achieve their objective, and they were utterly devoid of mercy or disobedience; they were the perfect combat unit.

They had been so successful that entirely new military strategies had to be developed to take advantage of their abilities. Boarding actions had always been dangerous and bloody engagements; a fully equipped unit of normal Marines could expect to take 50% casualties when boarding even the most lightly defended of targets. With Three-Eight-One's ability to utilize stealth equipment, they could seize control of an enemy craft before the crew even knew they were on board, and if discovered, they could bring overwhelming violence to bear in acts of unparalleled aggression. Deployed in small squads in larger planetary conflicts, they could survive behind enemy lines for months without detection, wreaking havoc on enemy supply lines, disrupting communications, and assassinating key leaders with impunity. But deployed on large-scale offensive assaults with full armor and air support, as they would be today, they would be unstoppable. Every training exercise had been a resounding success; every simulation had shown this single division to be able to outfight and defeat forces twenty times their number. Colonel Michaels had found himself wondering, on more than one occasion, how many of his old friends would still be alive today if they had the training, or even the backup, of any of the Marines in front of him.

Now, for the first time, they were being deployed in anger on a full scale, not against some marauding alien menace, not against some backwater Xeno stronghold, but against other humans. Rebels who had violently declared their secession from the Imperium. It was the ultimate betrayal, a slap in the face to everything that Michaels held dear, and an insult to the men and women who had paid the ultimate price for the comfort these rebels now took for granted. Michaels wanted them dead to a man.

The Emperor himself had ordered their merciless annihilation.

The Three-Eight-One would be his instrument.

Of the 20,000 combat-ready soldiers in front of him, 15,000 made up the ranks of the infantry. They would be the boots on the ground, the ones who would storm the enemy lines and establish a beachhead from which the reinforcing divisions would push out to pacify the rest of the planet; they were the armored fist of the Emperor's vengeful will. The other 5,000 were made up of crews of the armored detachment assigned to the 381st - piloting the three-man Monitor Mk V main battle tanks - and the air wing with their single-seater broadsword fighters. There were, of course, countless other men and women assigned to the Three-Eight-One, from medics and logistic workers to the crews of the three destroyers in low orbit providing heavy fire support, but only the armored soldiers before him had earned the right to say they were Marines of this elite division.

"Marines!" He called out to his men. "Today, we go into battle with the worst kind of enemy. Humans have spent the last six centuries overcoming petty aspirations such as greed and the thirst for power, but there will always be those who resist Imperial rule and put themselves above the collective good. These cowards have plotted and schemed on the edges of Imperium space, thinking themselves safe from the protective gaze of our beloved Emperor, and now they have declared open war. Three weeks ago, the rebel fleet ambushed and destroyed a small, peaceful flotilla led by Admiral Vadek, the hero of Rigelus IV. All hands were lost. More than three thousand men were killed as they transported food and supplies to the suffering people of Orpheus VI. Then, the rebels moved to the planet of Vallen and took over! The civilians of this peaceful planet who couldn't be convinced to join them have been bought, those who couldn't be bought were coerced, those who couldn't be coerced were threatened, and those who would not bow down to threats, those who stayed loyal to the rest of humanity, were killed. Now, rebellion runs rife on humanity's sacred soil.

"Thousands have already been murdered by the rebel scum. The traitors responsible have forfeited the right to the impartiality of Imperial justice; they have declared war, not just on the Emperor and the Imperium he leads, but on humanity itself! Today, we answer that challenge!"

A resounding "Hoo-rah!" burst from the ranks of men and women in the hangar before him.

"You are the Three-Eight-One, the best of the best, the finest soldiers that the Imperium has ever produced, and it is my profound honor to lead you into combat for the first time! Together, we will reimpose law, order, and Imperial control over this wayward planet. Together, we will rescue the innocent and the loyal who were caught in the crossfire. Together, we will show the rebels what happens to traitors. We will rain fire and fury down on their strongholds, we will break their armies and then break their spirits, we will crush this rebellion in its infancy, and we will do it together!"

Another "Hoo-rah" was barked into the echo chamber of the carrier's interior.

"Now, for the battle." Col. Michaels said after the vocal surge of support faded into nothing. "The entire 381st will be deployed for this assault. The first two waves of infantry will secure the landing zone and will engage any enemy in the open under the cover of the entire air wing. Then, when the armor has been landed with the final two waves, the entire division will advance in force on the enemy command complex and cut the head off the snake. There are to be no prisoners taken among enemy combatants. If they are holding a rifle, they are targets, and you are under orders to kill them all. Civilians may be there under duress, so unarmed personnel are to be detained for questioning.

"Platoon commanders will have local authority on the ground, and each company commander has been given detailed objectives. They will brief you on your individual unit's orders. I will be landing with the armor and will retain overall strategic command for the main offensive push. We are the best; we are elite, and I expect nothing short of perfection from each and every one of you, something I know you are more than capable of giving. Keep your heads down, remember your training, and watch out for each other. I have no doubt that we will all be celebrating our victory by tomorrow together!"

"Marines of the Three-Eight-One. TO WAR!" With a fist held high, the Colonel roared the battlecry into the hanger; his words echoed back at him by the thousands of battle-hungry soldiers ranked before him. Nodding in satisfaction, he turned and headed through the door he had entered as the division filed out to their individual units. The heavy carrier, along with its cruiser and destroyer escort, would arrive in-system in less than an hour. Then, all of hell would be unleashed on the witless fools who dared defy an empire.

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Elijah. 1

Elijah took a long, deep breath, centering himself and calming the whirlwind of thoughts that rushed through his mind. These kinds of meditations were ones that had been drilled into him since he was a small boy. His parents had never known what to make of his glowing blue eyes, and neither had their doctor. But when the doctor had raised the question to Imperial medical, he had inadvertently started a series of events that culminated in the abduction of the infant, the murder of his parents, and the destruction of his colony. They may not have known what those eyes signified, but Imperial Intelligence certainly did.

He could still remember their faces. The pride in his father's eyes as he looked into the crib, the overwhelming joy on the face of his mother, and the indescribable love emanating from both of them. He wasn't supposed to remember them; he had no idea what had happened to them and was happy to live under the assumption that they were still alive and well somewhere out there. Nobody knew, not his instructors, his guides, or even the women who had raised him. They all assumed that no child would be able to remember their parents, who were secretly and mercilessly killed when he was only a few months old. But an ascendant one forgot nothing. These were the things he focused on when he needed to be centered.

Another deep breath. He could feel his senses heightening. His eyes were blindfolded, but he already knew that three opponents were stealthily approaching; his hands gripped a little tighter onto the Danja practice swords. He could hear them moving. A sound far too faint to be picked up by even the most sensitive surveillance device was crystal clear to him. He could hear the stretching and compressing of the ligaments in their knees, the padded grinding of bone against bone as joints flexed, the level, determined breaths. He could smell them. He could feel the change in air currents wash over his skin. All of it painted a picture as vivid as sight onto the backs of his eyelids.

Elijah had heard all of the proverbs, and he accepted them for what they were, but where his lesser sword masters taught him to move like water, he surreptitiously ignored them. Water could be caught, captured, and contained; it had substance, its movements could be predicted. Elijah moved like a shadow dancing away from the light. Defeating an opponent - or three of them in this instance - was a forgone conclusion, but he strived for perfection. If they landed a blow, he would have failed. He felt the ripples of the air and the whistle around the thrusting wooden blade as one of his assailants lunged toward him. His body moved by instinct, stepping to the left and pirouetting forward around the outside of the attacker's arm. His hand gripped the swordsman's wrist as he barged his shoulder into him, knocking him forward and then rolling over his back. The man's arm was bent backward at a hideously unnatural angle before his wrist, then his elbow, snapped. Elijah twisted his body around as he landed; his free hand, holding his own sparring sword in a reverse grip, drew the blade along his opponent's throat. A sharpened Danja would have almost sliced his head from his neck.

The other two attackers were moving now as well, both of them hoping to overwhelm him by attacking from different angles. Using the momentum from his roll over the first attacker's back, he let his body fall to his knees, bending backward under the wild but practiced swings of the temporary enemies, and slid forward. One of his blades smashed into the kneecap of the man to his right with a sickening crunch. Spinning as he rose, Elijah trusted his sensitive skin to translate the rolling currents of air around him. The loud slap of one Danja deflecting another echoed around the room, then again, then again, as the anonymous swordmaster sent a flurry of attacks his way. Block, block, and then stepping back, the sudden shift in position causing his attacker to over-extend, leaving himself open to the perfectly placed counter. Elijah stepped forward inside the swing of the man.

A few broken ribs and a cracked sternum were not an injury to be scoffed at, but in real combat, the razor-sharp Danja would have pierced through his ribs and eviscerated his heart.

The heavy breathing and pained grunts coming from the floor of the practice area gave away the position of the man with the shattered knee. Elijah calmly strode toward him and finished him with a tap of his blade on his head. Of course, real combat would have seen his blade buried into the man's brain, but it was a practice bout, after all.

A loud clap from the corner of the room signified the end of the bout, and Elijah reached up to remove his blindfold. He turned and bowed first to his opponents. The three of them lay in crumpled, painful heaps where they had fallen. Medics were already rushing toward them. Imperial medicine would have those injuries fully healed in a matter of hours, so each man, despite their pain, returned the bow as best they could. Elijah then turned to offer a respectful bow to his robed and bearded instructor.

The ancient-looking warrior nodded his head, the closest he would ever come to offering one of his students a bow in return. Bows went up the chain of ability. Age, rank, and status had nothing to do with it. You bowed deeply to acknowledge the presence of someone more skilled than you; you offered a nod to acknowledge it. As good as the young prodigy was, Han Wu could break him like a dried twig with little more than a few well-practiced gestures. To even receive that nod of acknowledgment was an honor bestowed on very few, and Elijah was profoundly grateful to have earned the master's respect.