The Rask Rebellion

"What happened?" Sarif asked. "That damage looks like it was done by an anti-material railgun. If there are more AMRs on the field, then we need to find them. Our transports are vulnerable out in the open."

Through one of the helmet cams, Sarif saw another transport take a hit as it provided covering fire for a team that was fighting in the trenches, the slug penetrating the vehicle's cab from the left. It created a shower of sparks as it punched through the armor plating, liquidating the crew, blowing a ten-inch hole as it exited the other side. The vehicle rolled to a stop, its blister going silent. A second shot followed up the first, blasting through the troop compartment, filling it with spalling shrapnel that would have eviscerated anyone still inside. Mercifully, the IFV had already unloaded its troops.

A third shot rang out, this one hitting the side skirt of the nearby tank, a spray of molten metal erupting as it impacted. It penetrated, sending pieces of shattered track flying, slagging a couple of the wheels as it embedded itself deep in the tracks. The Kodiak lurched to a stop, disabled, but still spewing tracer fire from its gun pods. The next shot bounced off its front armor, the turret swiveling to return fire. It wasn't clear where the shots were coming from, but the crew saw fit to destroy a nearby pillbox all the same, the vehicle rocking as the shot kicked up a cloud of dust around the main gun.

Another view, this one showing a bobbing helmet cam feed from one of the Marines in the trenches. The squad was moving through the earthworks, clearing out the passageways, the resistance here seemingly more organized than anywhere else. As they rounded a corner, they came across a firing line that was lying in wait for them, the Marines dodging back into cover as one of their number was torn to pieces by flying tungsten. The microphones picked up the whistle of the slugs as they shot past the helmet, its wearer breathing heavily as he slammed his back against one of the wooden panels. He turned to one of his comrades, making wild hand gestures, the other Marine tossing him a grenade. Before he could prime it, something came flooding around the bend.

Sarif watched through the feed as one of the Marines was barreled over by a huge creature, one of the alien warbeasts that the men had begun to refer to as Razorbacks for the boar-like quills that ran down their spines. It was like a nightmare blend of a pig and a hyena, five feet tall at the shoulder, its skull the length of a human torso. It opened its jaws, its jagged tusks dripping with slaver, clamping them around the Marine's helmet. He reached up to beat his fists against its scarred snout, but the thing began to violently shake him like a dog with an old rope, his body going limp as his neck was pulverized.

More of the things hurtled around the bend with such haste that some of them skidded into the far wall, their clawed paws scrambling in the sand as the bulky things struggled to change direction, bounding towards their quarry. The Marines responded by firing wildly from the hip, cutting some of them down. The heavy creatures skidded to a halt as they fell to the ground, but more clambered over them as they jostled for space, the guttural snarls of savage beasts joining the chatter of automatic fire. The helmet's owner raised his PDW, the short barrel giving him a little more maneuverability in the narrow trench, struggling to control the recoil as it spewed hot tungsten into the hounds. Another Marine was dragged down by the pack, the creatures piling atop him like lions feeding on a carcass, their furry bodies hiding most of the grisly scene from view as they tore him to pieces.

The Marines were not so easily routed, quickly regaining their footing as they slew the warbeasts, blocking the trench with their bodies. As they began to advance, it became clear that they had only weathered the first assault. One of the men was decapitated as he trudged over the dead dogs, his head blown from his shoulders by a Rask's rifle, the leather-clad alien leaning around the corner. More followed, the enemy squad pushing deeper into the trench, covering one another with suppressing fire as the Marines dove for safety.

There was something off about these Rask. Sarif noticed that they moved differently, more like Coalition auxiliaries than the usual fare, their tactics far more refined. What's more, they were clad in full Shock Trooper armor, and the jackets that they wore over the top were embroidered with purple threads that flowed across the garments in elaborate patterns. Each one had a short cape made from purple fabric that hung over one shoulder, itself embroidered with gold trim, not unlike the dueling capes worn by ancient fencers.

Sarif watched as the purple Rask pushed up, closing into close quarters quickly to maximize their advantage. One of them was felled by a burst of XMR fire as he approached, but another took his place, knocking the weapon from the Marine's hands with a vicious swipe. The Rask was already reaching for his hip, letting his long rifle dangle from its sling as he brought up a giant, crudely-machined revolver. The alien pressed it beneath the Marine's chin, pulling the trigger, the hammer striking as the bulky cylinder rotated. Whatever ammunition the weapon was using didn't have the power to penetrate the helmet, but it turned everything inside it to paste, the Marine slumping to join the dead hounds at the bottom of the trench.

The two sides met, and what ensued was a short, brutal fight. Muzzles flashed as sidearms were discharged at point-blank range, cruel blades whistling through the air, Sarif's eyes darting between the windows as he tried to get an idea of what was happening. It was all blurred, chaotic, the sounds of labored breathing and yells of pain bleeding through the mics. When the dust began to clear, the only helmet cam that was still upright was showing a view of human and Rask bodies lying atop one another, its wearer leaning against one of the wooden panels as he sat on the ground. His helmet rose and fell with each rasping breath, the man glancing up as one of the surviving aliens made its way over to him. It drove a bayonet below-frame, a stomach-turning gurgle coming through the mic, the Marine slumping over onto his side.

"Get me Admiral Korbaz," Sarif snapped, the comms operator tapping frantically at his console. After a few moments, a flickering image of the alien appeared beside him at the table.

"How goes the battle, Lieutenant Colonel?" she asked as her voice crackled with static.

"Who are these men in the purple jackets?" Sarif demanded.

"Purple?" Korbaz asked, crossing her translucent arms as her brow furrowed. "Describe them."

"They have purple patterns on their jackets, and purple capes on their shoulders," he replied. "I just watched them butcher a whole squad of my Marines."

"Palace Guard," Korbaz hissed, baring her teeth as she bristled. "They are the Matriarch's most trusted soldiers, selected for their loyalty, and for their combat experience. Most are ex-auxiliaries who have previously served alongside Coalition troops. Their job is to guard the palace and other sensitive areas. I have never known the organization to be deployed against enemy forces in all its history, they are strictly bodyguards."

"Looks like they're rallying the troops on the left flank," Sarif muttered, examining the map. "We need to focus more of our firepower on that side. Let's divert Delta company to reinforce."

"If you wish, I can order Crewmaster Torzi to deploy her packs from the Volcano," the Admiral suggested, but Sarif shook his head.

"We have the situation under control, thank you, Admiral." He closed her connection, directing his attention back to the comms operator. "Find me some Shock Troopers and have them assault that position ASAP," he snapped, "and somebody figure out where that goddamned AMR is firing from!"

The right flank was making headway, pushing through the enemy fortifications, routing the defenders as they cleared out the trenches. Some of the broken packs fled into the jungle, while others surrendered in the face of overwhelming force, the Marines cuffing them and holding them at gunpoint as the tanks rolled past. The presence of these Palace Guards seemed to be inspiring the troops on the left flank, however. The aliens were deeply hierarchical by nature, and the purple-clad warriors were whipping them into a patriotic frenzy, coordinating them with tactics learned during their Coalition training. They had never been Coalition soldiers, not really. Their loyalty had always been to their Matriarch first and foremost, but Sarif couldn't help but feel betrayed all the same. If these Palace Guards fought to the last, all the better. He would take no small pleasure in seeing them eradicated.

"Change course to bearing two-four-zero," he commanded, the pilot beginning to tap at his console. "We'll sweep into them from the right, give them something else to shoot at."

The Yagda veered off, its sponsons still firing at what targets the gunners could make out in the storm, the occasional ping of a slug bouncing off their armor audible in the bridge.

He watched a platoon of four Kodiaks advance in a line through the feed, their tracks rolling over the trenches with ease, their prows cutting swathes through the tank traps and razor wire. The Rask were still putting up a fight, popping out of cover to take potshots and to toss grenades. None of it was very effective, the tanks pushing through relentlessly, their guns firing in all directions.

There was a sudden eruption of flame along the line, the entire length of a trench seeming to explode, as though a volcanic fissure had opened up in the planet's crust. Great plumes of sand and rock were thrown high into the air, the heavy Czech hedgehogs sent tumbling as though they weighed no more than jacks, the force of the blast lifting some of the tanks a clear foot off the ground. It wasn't enough to overturn any of the vehicles, but the shock rocked them as they landed, the MBTs listing as they became mired in the sand. Debris rained down on them, bouncing off their hulls, showering them with dust. As the smoke was carried away by the wind, Sarif saw that a couple of them had thrown their tracks, others sinking into the wide furrow that had once been the trench.

"They've booby-trapped some of the trenches!" Sarif yelled, his eyes fixed on the display as the IFVs that had been advancing behind the Kodiaks pulled up to assist. "Put a call out to the entire battalion, tell them to watch out for improvised explosives. God damn it, we're going to need to send in teams in to clear the rest of the trenches before any vehicles drive over them. What the hell was that?" he demanded.

"The sensors are picking up high levels of ammonium nitrate," one of the crew replied, tapping at his readout. "They're probably industrial explosives intended for use in mining."

"Can't sell them cargo crawlers, can't sell them mining equipment," Sarif muttered to himself. "We should have left them in the goddamned state we found them."

"Shall I alert the combat engineers?" the crewman suggested, Sarif giving him a nod.

"Make it so, and direct the Kodiaks to start deploying their line charges to clear a safe path. Where are my Shock Troopers?"

"We have two packs moving in on the last known position of the Palace Guard," the comms officer replied.

"Show me," Sarif said, their helmet cams appearing on one of the monitors that ringed the bridge. The display showed the view from a dozen tall figures as they made their way along one of the trenches, stepping over the bodies of friends and foes when they encountered them, nearby explosions shaking sand from the reinforced walls. Driving them there in an IFV would have been faster, but Sarif wasn't about to let any lightly armored vehicles advance any further on the left flank until the AMRs had been dealt with.

The trench was a winding maze of wood and sand, it was so easy to lose your way when you couldn't see out to get a look at any landmarks. They came to a T-junction, their Alpha leading them down the rightmost passage as streams of tracer fire arced back and forth above their heads. As they rounded a blind corner, a slug hit the wooden panel right beside the leader's head, the feeds blurring as everyone scrambled for cover. There were exchanges of inaccurate fire as the Troopers ducked behind corners and into dugouts, one of them taking refuge below an abandoned machinegun nest.

"Clawless!" someone bellowed in English. Their gruff, hate-filled voice echoed through the trench, the insult seeming to anger the Elysian auxiliaries. A figure strode into view from around the bend, a large weapon clasped in her hands. It was a Palace Guard, identifiable by the purple cape that was draped across her right shoulder. She was brandishing an XMR of immense proportions, large and unwieldy even for an eight-foot Borealan. It was the LMG variant of the platform, commonly fielded by Krell Linebreakers. The long barrel was packed with dense magnetic coils, a large gun shield that was mounted on the receiver helping to protect the wielder. It had a drum magazine the diameter of a dinner plate, hundreds of tungsten slugs visible through the translucent polymer. The Rask was wearing a rig that was laden with extra magazines, along with some spare barrels, as they would often melt during sustained fire.

She began to spray molten tungsten into the trench, firing from the hip, making little effort to control the immense recoil as she hosed the pack's position. The sand did a fairly good job of stopping the projectiles, the heat turning it to glass, splinters of wood flying through the air like shrapnel where they impacted the paneling.

Under the suppressive fire, more purple-clad Rask joined the fray, firing their rifles as they advanced behind their comrade. As they neared, some of them drew blades and sidearms, the Shock Troopers able to do little besides wait for them to close. One of them leaned out of cover in an attempt to take out the machine gunner, but the Rask swept the glowing barrel in his direction, a hail of slugs eviscerating the exposed area of his torso. The ceramic armor stood no chance of stopping a railgun round, his perforated body thrown to the floor by the force of the blows.

The trench was too narrow for more than three Borealans to stand shoulder to shoulder, the gunner eventually lowering her LMG to let her companions race past her, the magnetic coils now melted to the steaming barrel. At least a dozen of the aliens launched themselves at the Troopers in a bayonet charge, a war cry that resembled the roar of a lion emanating from beneath their visors, the blades on the ends of their long rifles glinting.

The Elysians were not deterred, emerging from cover to meet them head-on, the Alpha barking orders in their native tongue. They formed a firing line with practiced speed, three kneeling at the front, and three standing behind them. The Alpha gave the order to fire, the crack of semi-automatic railguns blowing out their helmet mics. The Rask at the front of the pack crumpled, the kinetic force of the slugs enough to stop them in their tracks, viscera spraying as exit wounds the size of a fist were punched in them. Some of the shots overpenetrated, going straight through one Rask and into the one behind him, the charge losing its momentum.

They were so close that the Elysians only had time to get one volley off, the surviving Rask leaping over their slain comrades, the two sides crashing into one another. The forces at play were incredible, the eight-foot, five-hundred-pound aliens clashing with strength far in excess of anything in human experience. One of the Rask drove what looked like an oversized hunting knife into his opponent through a gap in the armor beneath his arm, lifting him off his feet, another running his target through with the serrated bayonet on the end of his six-foot rifle. Nobody dared to fire their weapons in the midst of this melee, the risk of friendly fire was too great, the fight descending into primal savagery. These were Borealans in their natural state, unrestrained, as ferocious as wild animals.

It looked more like a prison riot that a military engagement, daggers and machetes swinging, the Shock Troopers turning to their combat knives. They fenced and scuffled, blades sparking where they met, yowls of pain and bellows of rage joining the chorus of far-off gunfire.

Sarif saw a Shock Trooper cleanly beheaded by a vicious swing of a giant machete, his helmeted head sailing through the air as his body dropped to the floor, the assailant's short cape whipping with the motion. On another helmet cam, he watched as one of the Elysians overpowered a Palace Guard, pressing him up against the wall of the trench with his armored forearm. The Rask slashed at his visor with his hooked talons as he snarled and spat, but to no avail, the Trooper pulling an XMH from his belt. He pressed the sidearm's muzzle against the struggling Rask's sternum and squeezed off three shots, blood splattering the camera's lens.

Another view showed a Rask hacking at a felled Elysian with her machete like she was trying to split a log, one of the Troopers coming to his comrade's rescue, driving the butt of his rifle into the side of her helmet. She toppled over, kicking up sand as she began to struggle to her feet, but not fast enough. The Trooper pinned her beneath his foot, putting his weight on her chest, and jabbing his bayonet into her throat like a spear. Dark blood poured from beneath her helmet, the machete falling from her hand.

The stalemate was broken as a squad of Marines suddenly appeared on the left side of the trench, taking potshots at the Rask below, the rumbling of a tank shaking the fortifications as its barrel loomed above them. They had used it for cover during their advance.

The Palace Guards were now caught between a rock and a hard place, unable to retreat, the newcomers turning the tide. The aliens fought to the last, refusing to give in, even as the remaining survivors were brought down. The gunner with the LMG raised her weapon to fire at the Marines, but she was cut down in a hail of gunfire.

Now that the coast was clear, the Marines slid down into the trench to join what Shock Troopers were still standing, the medics already bringing out their first-aid kits. The place looked like an abattoir. With all the blood, it was hard to tell friend from foe, but the medics wouldn't be making such distinctions regardless.

One of them knelt beside a Palace Guard who was leaning against the wall, his once purple cape now soaked crimson, a broken bayonet jutting from his gut. As the medic neared, the Rask swiped at him, the surprised human stumbling away. His reward was a barrage of XMR slugs as two Marines moved in to put him down, loosing a few bursts of automatic fire into him for good measure.

"Crazy fuck," one of the Marines spat, making his way along the trench as he checked for more survivors. There was another loud gunshot off-camera, presumably from another Marine who had encountered more uncooperative patients.

"That's one of the Palace Guard packs down, at least," Sarif muttered. "Let them know that we're coming, some of those Shock Troopers can't wait for pickup."

The Yagda glided across the battlefield, veering to the South, its thrusters kicking up clouds of dust as they burned brightly. Every so often, one of the sponsons would spot a target, sending a burst of gunfire in their direction.

When they eventually arrived at their destination, they coasted to a halt beside the Kodiak that was already on station next to the trench, Sarif ordering the vessel to descend to one meter and lower the ramp. The two blisters mounted above it scanned the terrain for targets as the vehicle's contingent of Marines descended, fanning out to establish a perimeter. They took cover, using the craters left by the artillery company as foxholes, ducking behind the scattered hedgehogs.