All is Fair. Ch. 01

With a simple muttered command, Han Wu set Elijah to task. The instructor appraised him with an expert eye as he went through the many forms of this particular kata. Each movement was designed to train the body to perform an impenetrable block, or perfectly timed counter-attack, or an unstoppable strike.

"What is the purpose of Umwhaan?" The Wu asked calmly, circling the younger man, watching the flawless flow through the procession of forms.

"To bestow justice, Master," Elijah answered. The question was more than a test. Being able to use your mind when fighting was the key to surviving; instinct was all well and good, but there were some things that training could not teach. Being able to think clearly when performing another task was vital. More than that, interrupting the steady rhythm of breathing was important too. Deep, steady breaths were all well and good in a safe practice environment, but in a real combat situation, you were rarely given the time to catch a breath.

Elijah was concentrating too hard to spot the flicker of a frown that washed over his mentor's face. "And to whom do we provide that justice?"

"To anyone fighting oppression or tyranny," the student intoned automatically, his breathing level calm despite the excursions.

"Ah, but who are they? How does one know the difference between an innocent victim of tyranny and, say, a fleeing criminal battling against the forces of the law?"

It was Elijah's turn to frown; that question was a new addition to the test.

"Moreover, what even is tyranny? How would one recognize it?"

The sandy-haired, blue-eyed student kept moving through the kata, albeit a little less flawlessly, as he considered the question. "Tyranny is a consequence of rulership," he stated slowly. It was more like he was thinking aloud than answering the question. "Tyranny comes about when a leader denies unalienable rights to the people they lead; it is the oppressive removal of the rights that those people are broadly expected to possess."

Wu nodded. "And who decides what rights a person should have?"

"Society," Elijah answered firmly.

"Really?" Wu raised an eyebrow. "Mankind is a society with a long history of tyrannical leadership and refusing the rights of one group or another."

"I disagree," Elijah replied, his arms moving through graceful but deadly transitions as he adjusted his stance. "Relatively small sections of human society have been consumed by tyrannical leadership. The rest of mankind invariably came to the aid of the oppressed and restored balance."

"When it suited them," The aging master added.

"Yes, Master, but that was not the question. Society, as we know it now, encompasses the entire species, as well as the alien species who have integrated themselves into the Imperium. If a planetary governor went rogue and started to oppress his people for the benefit of himself or a smaller group of the population, the rest of society would step in to restore order."

Wu regarded the younger man as he circled him, watching each precise movement. "You have heard the rumors, I assume?"

Elijah paused for a moment. This test was venturing into dangerous territory, but given the context, there was only one thing the old master could be talking about.

Wu took the nervous glance from his student as an affirmative answer. "Then how do you explain this secession movement?"

"They are criminals, Master."

"All of them? How do you know? Have you met them all and asked them?"

Elijah furrowed his brow. "They are traitors to the Imperium."

"Why?" Wu watched as Elijah glanced around the empty room, "It's okay; you are free to speak plainly here. There will be no retribution for asking questions that improve knowledge."

Elijah stopped his movements and stood himself up straight before turning to face the Umwhaan master. "They defied the will and the orders of the Emperor. They broke away from the Imperium."

Wu raised an eyebrow as if this remark answered the previous question.

"Are you suggesting that this is a form of Tyrannical rule?" Elijah asked, his eyes widening a fraction of a millimeter at the implication. "It is treason to even think of questioning Imperial will!" The elder didn't change his expression. "I do not understand, Master."

Wu took a deep breath but managed to stifle the sigh. "Let's move on to the next set of kata, young one."

Elijah paused for a moment, watching an unfamiliar expression wash briefly over his mentor's face. He had been training with the man for the last seventeen years, ever since he was old enough to hold a Danja. He had surpassed every other student; he had been the youngest in history to achieve the golden belt of the highest rank, yet the look that flickered over his instructor's face looked almost like... disappointment.

As quickly as the look appeared, it was gone, replaced with the tilted head of expectation. Han Wu had given an order, and Elijah still wasn't moving. The young man snapped to attention, offered the respectful bow reserved for the grand masters, and moved his body into the first defensive pose.

He would be certain to be ready for the next test.

********

Stevo. 1

Sergeant Stephen 'Stevo' Taylor wrung his hands over the grip of the sleek, black X-44 assault rifle that was cradled safely in his arms as his squad marched toward the dropship loading bays. There were twelve bays on the heavy carrier in total, six on each side, and each of them held more than a score of dropships. The rest of his squad was chatting excitedly behind him, eager to go into a proper battle for the first time since their enhancements. The sergeant checked his weapon for at least the fifth time. It was the peak of infantry weapon technology, able to fire magnetically constricted laser bolts at ranges close to a mile. It could punch through concrete, melt through three inches of titanium armor, and eviscerate a human body accurately at 1500 yards. The power dropped off sharply after that, but it could still pack a lethal punch at 2000. He had to agree with the eggheads; this was one hell of a weapon. The optical sights attached above the firing mechanism would allow him to effectively identify and engage the enemy with almost no risk of friendly fire - thanks to the IFF feature of the in-built computer. The 'Identity friend/foe' system would outline any friendly soldier with a green aura making it possible to instantly gauge his position in relation to the rest of his squad.

With integrated radio in his tactical helmet, titanium/ceramic composite full-body combat armor, and enough power packs to keep him firing for weeks, he was among the most combat-ready troops ever assembled for war by the Imperium. His father had been a marine and had fought in the liberation of Signus IV. Stevo had grown up hearing tales of combat and heroism from the aging patriarch of the Taylor family, but Signus IV was the one battle he had never spoken about. Every question about it had been met with a haunted look and a soft shake of the head. It wasn't until he had signed up himself and started basic that he understood the reasons.

The medal in the case on the wall of his study and the missing right arm were more than enough evidence that Mark Taylor was one of the valorous few who had made it out of that battle alive. How a battle with an 84% casualty rate could be called a victory was beyond Stevo, but he couldn't help but wonder how much better the marines of his father's generation would have fared with the sort of tech he was carrying with him now.

He took a deep breath and shook his head clear. It had been a long time since he had been distracted by thoughts of home. His father, a hero of the Imperium, had all but disowned him when he had announced he was signing up. "Honor and glory are not bought with the blood of innocents!" He yelled, his red face contorted in fury. Stevo couldn't even begin to understand his opposition to military service, given the prestige his family and his father owed to his own. "I will not have a murderer living under this roof!" He had gone on without offering anything in the way of an explanation for the totally unexpected tirade. "So your choice is between them..." He gestured contemptuously to the service papers in Stevo's hands, "... or us!"

Stevo had chosen them. That was the last time he had seen home.

His new family had been with him since the start of his new life. Bravo Squad, 2nd Platoon, Rifle Company Able, 4th Battalion, 7th Regiment, 381st Marine Division. At least that was the full designation; in all honesty, Stevo had only ever met people outside Able company on a handful of occasions and could run over a member of another regiment with a truck and wouldn't know who they were. The Marines were an enormous extended family, but like most extended families, you were vaguely aware that there were other members, but you only ever saw them during big events. For most of his time in the military, Stevo had stuck with the men of his platoon and with the rest of his rifle squad in particular.

"C'mon, Sarge, we don't wanna be stuck with the cheap seats!" McCaffery called as he jogged past, landing a staggering hard slap on Stevo's shoulders. Dylan 'Mac' McCaffery had been Scottish in a former life, but the man was a giant, one that was able to move with surprising speed for his size. He was the squad's heavy weapons specialist, and his rotary plasma cannon was balanced effortlessly over his shoulder as his power-assisted armor allowed him to move the enormous weapon as if it weighed little more than a few pounds.

"He's right, Sarge," Angel agreed with a wry grin. "First man on the bird is the last man off. If we time it right, we can use his fat ass as a bullet sponge until we can get to cover." Angel was the squad sniper and the only member to still be using a ballistic weapon. Bullets were considered obsolete, but the ones being fired by Angel's SR-91 sniper rifle were hyper-accelerated by magnetic rails that ran the length of the barrel and hit with even more power than the plasma bolts fired from Stevo's assault rifle. Add to that the fact that they were tipped with explosives, and she could take down anything without a shield at ranges beyond two miles with relative ease.

"Jeez, gurl," Big G, the comms specialist, groaned with a teasing, beaming grin. "That's harsh, even from yo' fine ass!" His helmet was tucked under one of his arms, and his freshly braided cornrows swung freely around the top of his neck. Big G had earned his name by being easily the smallest, youngest member of the squad, a good six inches shorter than the hulking mass of McCaffery. Stevo had no idea what the G stood for. "That's not sayin' she ain't gotta point, though, Sarge."

Dusky, Ryan, and Rev all chuckled from behind him, shaking their heads at the intrasquad banter that often bordered on racist, sexually harassing, or downright hurtful. But these people were family, and none of them thought for a moment that the jibes were anything other than playful banter. "Hey, Sarge, we running the pool for this one?" Ryan called out. The ginger menace - as his squadmates called him - told people he was Irish. He wasn't. He was from Detroit and had abjectly failed to ever provide any sort of proof of any Irish heritage. He was also a bit of a gambling man.

"Yeah, Sarge," Angel called over her shoulder. "What was it in the last exercise, 100 credits buy-in, highest kill count get the pool?"

"Woo yeah," Dusky hollered, her caramel skin and chocolate eyes glowing with excitement at the prospect of combat. An odd response from the squad medic. "I'm going hunting. Hey Rev, you got a prayer for us?"

Rev was the son of a genuine Baptist preacher. Rumor around the platoon was that his father had even more of an extreme reaction to Rev's enlistment than Stevo's own. Despite the bonds of brotherhood and fraternity that existed in spades throughout the platoon, Rev was the only member who never spoke of home or his family there. Even with everything they had seen and everything they had done throughout their long military careers together, Rev had somehow managed to keep his faith. Stevo didn't know if he should be admired or pitied for that.

Rev held up his hands and looked towards the heavens - which was a surgical white deck plate three feet above his head in this case - and called out in prayer in a voice loud enough for every other man in the corridor to hear, too. "Heavenly Father," he started, falling into the cliche voice of a white Baptist minister that he swore was an accurate impersonation of his father. "We pray to you on this most illustrious day, beseeching you to grant us, the Three-Eight-One, victory in our hour of need. May Angel's bullets be straight and true as she delivers your justice..."

"Amen!" Angel called out.

"May Dusky and Ryan find their cover to be broad and tall and strong against the fire of thine enemies..."

"Amen," they both called back.

"May your most devoted son, Big G, fight with all the might that your righteousness can grant, and may his words be heard by all..."

"Amen, Reverend," Big G smiled, making the sign of the cross and kissing his fingers.

"May Sarge, our most noble leader, guide us with the character, the wisdom, the courage, and the fortitude that you expect from warriors of your armies..."

"Amen!" Stevo chuckled.

"Hey, whadabout me?" McCaffery arched an eyebrow as he lumbered backward, a few paces ahead of the rest of the troop.

"May your devoted son Dylan "Sun blotter" McCaffery keep his fat ass alive long enough to give us all cover to get off the bird..."

"Ah fuck you, man," McCaffery laughed.

"As we walk through the valley of the shadow of death, we shall fear no evil because the Three-Eight-One are the baddest mother-fuckers in the valley! Thy rod and thy staff and red hot plasma fire comfort me! Also, Lord, we pray, at the moment that we need your guidance the most, that you totally fucking ignore the prayers of the other guys cos those rebel assholes are about to get FUCKED UP!"

"AMEN!" The hundred or so men of the rest of the platoon shouted as one, smiling and laughing as they listened, sounding off and filling the hallway with a wall of sound as Rev finished his prayer.

Shaking his head and laughing, the ranking member of the squad just walked onwards. The fear and adrenaline were starting to take hold now; that knot of anticipation and nervousness grew as they got inexorably closer to the dropship hanger bay. It wasn't a fear of dying. It wasn't even a fear of being injured. It was a fear of letting down his men. One bad call, one bad move, and all of them could be killed in the blink of an eye. The privilege of leading men into combat, despite what his father had screamed at him, was one of the highest honors that the Imperium could bestow on a man, and Sargeant Taylor had no intention of letting his men down.

He looked up at the numbers above each door they passed, each one marking an entrance into the upper hanger where the drop ships were waiting to be loaded. Twenty-three, the door to the bird that Bravo had been assigned to; the number loomed overhead, black numbers on a plain white placard that jutted out above head height on top of the doorway. McCaffery, ever the eager one, was leaning against the wall a little beyond the door, letting other squads go in first as the rest of Bravo caught up with them.

"You good, Mac?" He asked, turning back to watch the others slowly approaching.

"Aya, Sarge, Fightin' fit and ready ta go!" The certainty on his face wavered for a moment. Under any other circumstances, Stevo might have missed it, but that look of nerves perfectly reflected how he was feeling himself. They were the best trained, best armed, and best-led military unit in Imperium history, and that was before he took into account the augments that had been built into his body and into his DNA, but they were not mindless drones. None of the men and women boarding the birds had a death wish; none of them were beyond the fears of mortality, and despite their overwhelming advantages, all of them knew that a stray bullet or an unlucky step could be the difference between life and death. Zigging instead of zagging could get anyone killed.

Stevo nodded at the heavy gunner. "You got this, Mac. No stupid risks; just get off the bird, get to cover, and trust your training. We'll all be coming home."

Mac sighed heavily but nodded back. "Dun' nae worry about me, Sarge. I'll get the job done. I just... I don't wanna let the others down, ya know?"

"You and me both, man."

"Any final words of advice, fearless leader?" Angel grinned as the rest of the squad finally arrived at the docking bay entrance.

Stevo looked around all of them. "No heroics today, no showing off, and no unnecessary risks. You all know your roles. Stay fluid, keep moving, use cover where you can, watch your six, and watch out for each other. I want loud, clear, and concise communication from all of you. I'll take point; you follow me in. I want Dusky to be very bored on this one; if her med kit needs to be opened for any of you, I am gonna be pissed!"

"So, to be clear, Sarge," Ryan grinned, not a shred of fear in his voice, "we don't have permission to die."

"That's a big fucking negatory, dipshit," Sarge chuckled back. "Now, you head Mac, the first one on the bird is the last one off. Let's load up."

He stood aside to watch the other six members of his fire team clamber up the rear loading ramp of the DS-12 Condor Dropship, then followed him in. He paused for a moment at the base of the ramp, reaching up and placing his hand against the cool titanium hull of the craft and whispering a prayer of his own. "Look after my people, M'lady. Get us down safe, and bring them home alive."

********

Almark. 1

Flight Lieutenant Emylee Almark ran through her pre-flight checks for the second time. At 32, she had flown dozens of sorties in dozens of combat zones, not to mention countless numbers of simulator hours. A two-time ace, she was considered to be one of the best fighter pilots in the Marine Corps. Launching from the Goliath was new, though. Most of the older carriers had massive fighter bays; the craft would power up, raise from the deck of those cavernous hangers under the power of their anti-grav thrusters, and then, when the hanger doors were open, they would launch into the void with the thrust of their main engines.

The Goliath was a newer design. Broad hanger doors represented a large, indefensible, and very obvious chuck of real estate on the side of these gigantic ships. Unable to be reinforced by the super-structure, they were also a very obvious weak point for enemy gunners. The four flight decks were not just home to 250 fighters each but also the fuel and ordinance that came with them. Even a moderately lucky shot that managed to breach the hangar doors had a good chance of triggering secondary explosions, rendering the whole hangar completely inoperable and ending the lives of countless deck crew in the process. The newer designed Argonaught class carriers, of which the Goliath was a member, had the fighter and bomber bays run the length of the ship's interior, but individual aircraft would be catapulted through a series of launch tubes dotted along the lower part of the hull. It allowed entire wings to be launched simultaneously and also ensured that they were close to top speed when leaving the carrier, a massive tactical advantage if being scrambled directly into a close-quarters dog fight raging close to the carrier. With fifty tubes on each side of the vessel, the entire combat wing of 1000 fighters could be launched in a little over seven minutes. Today wouldn't need that level of rapid deployment, however, but with the whole squadron being tasked with escorting in the drop ships, followed by combat air patrol and close air support for the marine landings, it still promised to be more exciting than normal.