The
Imperator Bellator - Three Days Later, Nearing Nirna
The
bridge of the Imperator Bellator hums with restrained tension, the
kind that precedes every campaign, heavy with the weight of
inevitability. The blue-white glow of the holotable casts long,
ghostly light across the three of them: Magnus, arms folded, his
red-black Tyrannus armor absorbing the glare; Spartan, hands braced
on the edge of the table, helmet under her arm; and Rho Voss, silent
shadow, watching with arms behind his back.
The
projection of Nirna hangs above the table, a wounded world painted in
red and blue. Most of the northern hemisphere burns crimson, enemy
sigils flaring across regions once mapped in Federation blue.
Karthane sits near the center, its lights dimming in and out as
signals falter.
"Here,"
Spartan says, gesturing toward the glowing contours of the Karthane
Valley. "That's where the Eldiravan are hitting the hardest.
They've already overrun the western mountains and are pressing toward
the colony. If they reach the city proper, it's over."
Magnus
studies the map in silence for a moment before responding. "We
drop here," he says, indicating a ridgeline to the northeast.
"High ground, natural choke points. The Federation can regroup
behind us while we break the Eldiravan spearhead."
Spartan
shakes her head immediately. "That buys time, not survival.
Their lines stretch from the glaciers to the coast. They'll push
around and crush us in a day. We have to cut them in half, here."
She drags her finger down the center of the holomap, right where the
densest clusters of red shimmer.
Magnus
frowns. "Dropping into the thickest part of their formation?
You'll be surrounded before you even hit the ground."
"That's
the point," she counters. "They'll focus on us. My pack can
take the pressure, draw them in, let your legions strike the flanks
once we have their attention."
Rho
Voss finally speaks, his voice low, modulated through his helm. "If
the Vardengard drop into the center, we'll need secondary packs east
and west to collapse the line. It'll work, if the coordination
holds."
Magnus
exhales, studying the model. "Fine. Spartan and her pack drop
into the heart. The others, smaller packs, will deploy along the
outer ridges. But you'll have full support from the Bellator's armor
companies once we're groundside."
Spartan
nods once, resolute. "We'll need every drop of firepower you can
spare."
Magnus'
gaze hardens. "You'll also have the Insarii Medicae with you."
That
makes her look up sharply. "No. Absolutely not. They'll slow us
down."
"They'll
save lives," Magnus replies.
"They'll
die before they can save anyone," she snaps back. "You know
they can't keep pace with us. The Vardengard move faster than any
standard unit. We break lines before they can even reach the field."
Magnus
doesn't flinch. "Then they will keep up or they will not. I am
not sending any soldier down there without medical support. We cannot
afford to bleed out half our strength before the real fight begins."
Spartan's
jaw tightens. "Master, "
He
cuts her off with a single raised hand. "That's an order, Zorya.
The Insarii drop with your pack. End of discussion."
The
bridge falls quiet again, the only sound the hum of the engines and
the soft flicker of static from the holomap.
Spartan
exhales slowly through her nose, biting down the retort clawing at
her throat. "As you wish, Master."
Magnus
looks back at the projection, his eyes narrowing as the data feed
updates. "The Federation lines are collapsing faster than
expected," he murmurs. "They have been fighting for months.
Time dilation has cost them more than we realized."
Rho
Voss tilts his head slightly. "Morale?"
"Gone,"
Magnus says. "They are exhausted. Command fractured. Their
officers are barely keeping the ranks together."
"Then
they'll break when they see us drop," Spartan says. "Either
in fear or in faith."
Magnus
almost smiles at that, almost. "Let us hope for the latter."
The
hologram flickers again, one of the red zones pulsing brighter as
orbital sensors pick up new Eldiravan signatures moving southward.
Spartan
studies it in silence, her expression unreadable. "They're
coming fast," she murmurs. "If we wait any longer, there
won't be a Karthane left to save."
Magnus
nods once, decisive now. "Then we do not wait." He looks up
to Rho Voss. "Prep the drop pods. We launch within the hour."
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Rho
inclines his head silently and turns for the exit.
As
he leaves, the hum of the holotable deepens, zooming closer to the
glowing battlefront below.
Spartan
stays, eyes fixed on the flickering outline of Karthane, her
reflection ghosted across the projection. "They've been fighting
for months," she repeats softly, almost to herself. "God
help whoever's still alive down there."
Magnus'
voice is quiet beside her. "Then let us make sure they know help
has finally arrived."
Drop-Pod
Wing, Hangar of the Imperator Bellator - An Hour Later
The
air thrums with motion. Hydraulic presses hiss, servitors march in
iron rhythm, and the dull roar of engines reverberates through the
deck plating like a distant heartbeat. The smell of burning coolant
and sanctified oil clings to everything.
Spartan
stands behind Rho Voss, tightening the feed coupling to his shoulder
mount. The locking rings seal with a sharp metallic hiss. She leans
forward, running a diagnostic along his jetpack's frame as the power
cells cycle green across her visor.
"Stabilizers
nominal. Fuel at a hundred percent. Don't push it past twelve seconds
of burn."
Rho
Voss rolls his shoulder, the weapon mount flexing with the motion.
A
few pods down, Samayel, Ashurdan, Naburiel, and Belqartis perform
their own checks; servo clamps snapping shut, power cores flaring in
red sequence. Between them, four Insarii Medicae finish locking their
armor seals, pale robes now hidden beneath combat plating and shock
harnesses.
Samayel
glances over the row, visor light flicking toward Spartan. "Where's
our Master? Thought the General would be dropping with us."
Spartan
straightens, magnetic wrench still in hand. "He's with the
Praevectus and the armor columns," she answers, her tone clipped
but steady. "He'll meet us on the ground."
Ashurdan
steps closer, helmet under one arm. His tone carries the faintest
edge. "And them?" He nods toward the Insarii, who are
performing final rites over their equipment, murmuring the Oath of
Healing and Fire. "They'll just get in our way."
"They're
not your concern," Spartan replies, crouching again to lock her
wrist blade's reservoir line. "If they keep up, good. If they
don't, leave them."
Ashurdan
frowns. "That's Master's order?"
"That's
my interpretation of it."
Rho
Voss lets out a low chuckle, sheathing his blade. "Good enough
for me."
Spartan
stands and slams her gauntlet against the side of the nearest drop
pod. The echo rings down the line. "Check your seals. We drop in
two. Our aim is the heart of the Eldiravan formation. The smaller
packs will strike east and west; pin them, drive them toward us. We
are the spearhead. The rest of the war will follow where we break the
line."
Across
the hangar, green lights begin to pulse over each pod in sequence.
The hum of the launch systems deepens into a growl.
Samayel
tightens his restraints, muttering a prayer beneath his breath.
Naburiel answers by slamming a gauntleted fist against his
chestplate. The Insarii Medicae do not join the exchange; they remain
a step apart, whispering their benedictions over stimulant injectors
and blood filters, their motions precise, reverent, almost delicate
beside the Vardengard's brutality.
Spartan
steps forward, visor polarizing until the hangar is drenched in
crimson light. "Brothers," she calls.
The
pack forms in around her; Ashurdan, Samayel, Naburiel, Belqartis, and
Rho Voss. Their armored boots scrape the deck in heavy rhythm as they
close into a tight circle. Spartan grips the pauldron of the warrior
to her right; the others follow suit until their gauntlets are locked
across each other's armor, an unbroken chain of steel and oath.
For
a heartbeat, the hangar goes silent.
Then,
one by one, their helms dip forward, horns meeting in the center with
a hollow clang that rings like iron struck on an anvil. Once. Twice.
A third time, louder, resonant, the sound echoing down the entire
bay.
A
howl rips through the comms, primal and unified, a warcry that shakes
the air itself.
They
break apart in perfect synchrony, each thundering toward their drop
pod. Restraints hiss and lock. The Insarii nod to one another,
wordless, stepping into their own pods beside them, their rituals
softer but no less solemn.
Spartan
slams her palm against her pod's interior seal. "May the Forger
watch our descent."
The
deck trembles beneath their boots.
Above,
the launch siren screams, long and piercing.
And
the Imperator Bellator opens its maw to the void.
Armored
Drop-pod Wing, The Imperator Bellator - Continuous
The
deck quakes beneath them as the hangar sirens wail. Red emergency
strobes slice across the metallic expanse of the vehicle bay,
flashing over the ranks of armored vehicles lined nose-to-nose across
their launch rails.
Tanks,
massive, angular beasts of black and steel, sit hunched like
predators ready to drop from the heavens. Each is magnet-locked above
its hatch, engines idling, venting short bursts of steam. Between
them, lines of APCs rumble as soldiers climb inside, the clang of
boots against hulls lost beneath the roar of the launch turbines
spooling to life.
Magnus
moves down the central aisle, the vibration in the deck plates
pulsing through his boots. His helmet is sealed, his visor dim,
reflecting the infernal light of the hangar. Every soldier he passes
straightens instinctively, no words, only the silent acknowledgment
of presence.
He
reaches the final APC as the last of the troopers clamber aboard. The
interior is already packed tight: twelve men locked into their
restraints, hands gripping their rifles, the clatter of buckles and
gear a staccato rhythm beneath the blaring alarms.
Magnus
steps inside. There's no seat left for him, there never is. He
prefers it that way. He plants his feet at the rear, one hand
gripping the overhead bar as the hatch behind him slams shut with a
resounding clang. Hydraulic locks hiss into place. The interior
lights shift from white to red.
"Status,"
he calls over the vehicle comm.
"All
units green, General Supreme," comes the reply through the
intercom, steady but tight. "Launch sequence in final countdown.
Thirty seconds to drop."
Magnus
gives a curt nod, unseen behind his visor. He leans slightly forward,
feeling the vibrations build through the hull as the rails beneath
them hum with lethal charge.
He
can almost feel the planet below, Nirna, pulling at them like gravity
made manifest.
"Blood
and steel," he murmurs.
"Forged
as one," the squad answers in unison.
The
deck lights strobe once, then go dark.
Then
the world lurches.
The
APC rockets down the launch rail. The tank columns beside them ignite
one by one, falling from orbit like meteors wreathed in flame. The
ship's massive hatches peel open above the blue curve of Nirna, and
the Imperator Bellator vomits its army to the surface.
