A/N: Chapter five officially begins the battle at the Southern frontline, showcasing the start of combat, while chapter six will finish it off. Chapters seven and eight will set up and conclude the battle on the western frontline. I will be updating once a week for the next four weeks.

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Southern Frontline, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera

“Move. Move. MOVE!” Lieutenant Joseph Power cried out, his words spurring those nearest to him into a frenzy of activities. The Lieutenant himself grabbed his M16 rifle with his left hand, kicked dirt into the small fire he had built with his right foot, and pressed the radio communication button with his right thumb. The forward scouts had reported that the Alliance was moving out of their base, regiment-strength, and the extra commotion inside the base itself suggests that a full frontal assault was being mobilized. Lt. Powers spoke into his radio, “all units, we got incoming!”

Along the southern Independent frontline, small fires winked out as the men made ready for the coming engagement. Since the frontline was established a week ago, the Alpha, Charlie, and Easy Companies of 3rd Battalion made camp just behind the line of foxholes dug on the hill that rose into a mountain behind them and sloped down onto the flat valley floor before them, resting in sleeping bags under the starry sky. The weather had been accommodating, and aside from daily skirmishes with Alliance probing elements, the men might even describe their deployment as being pleasant.

They were later joined by two Companies of the 58th Reserved, bringing the total number of defenders up to a thousand men along the frontline. When the Alliance shuttles started landing heavy machinery that looked suspiciously like artillery pieces, the men expended their individual foxholes to connect with neighboring foxholes, creating isolated tracts of trenches and fortifying them with sandbags on the parapet. Luckily, the artillery shelling never came, and the frontline became more elaborate as squads dug passages to one of several underground ammo dumps established midway between the frontline and support line, while camouflaging their short trenches with dirt and branches. Each fireteam occupied their own elongated foxhole, and the entire frontline was thusly spread out a kilometer across the direct passage between the Alliance camp and the Frontline HQ.

Powers landed in the trench with crunch, his steel-plated boots crushing the gravel underfoot. Next to him, Corporal Zachery Browne unfolded the bipod on his Mk 48, and set his lightweight machine gun on top of sandbagged parapet. He shouldered the machine gun, feeling the buttstock fitting snugly against his shoulder joint, before setting it down and checking on his sidearm. Powers did likewise, holding his M16 in a comfortable grip while leaning forward against the walls of the foxhole. Looking down the sight, he could see a small cloud of dust raising a few klicks away.

Two more thumps marked the arrival of the last two riflemen of Power’s fireteam. PFC Hicks and Booth carried with them two ammunition crates, one of which Corporal Browne immediately grabbed, and the other was placed on the ground for anyone to restock their ammo . Powers relaxed, rolling his neck to loosen the tension, and glanced up the hill. There, a second line of foxholes marked the location of their long range support, mortar and sniper volunteers from various broken Brown Coat armies that made their way to Serenity Valley.

The enemy’s forward elements will arrive within the hour, and the full might of the Alliance invasion force will crash upon them later that day. The time has come to test the strength of their resolve, and Powers hoped that the test will not prove to be fatal.

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Beachhead Command Base, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera

The gloved duo walked with matching strides, their destination shining brightly before them, the sole beacon of light in a sea of depressing grey fatigues and dark green camouflage. Its entrance was blocked, an Army staff officer tapping incessantly on the entrance monitor while an accompanying squad of security personnel formed a loose ring around the officer. The duo did not hesitate, their expressions as emotionless as they first stepped off the Aether Transporter.

Two of the security personnel moved to intercept them, but a quick flash of their Ident Card with the words “Ministry Personnel” in red ink caused the two soldiers to waver, an opening that the duo took by pushing right on through. Long strides closed the gap between the pair and the door, and the staff officer finally gave up on opening the door and took notice of the two strangers now rapidly approaching him. His face was one of fury, and upon seeing the duo his eyes narrowed.

The white gloved man turned his head slightly to glance at his partner, a tiny nod preceding a soft whisper. “Alfred, take care of this.”

The blue gloved man gave an imperceptible tilt of his head in acknowledgment, and the pair’s path diverged. Alfred continued straight, meeting the Army officer with an emotionless nod and the presentation of his Ident Card. The white gloved man headed for the entrance monitor and entered a simple six letter password, causing the white door to hiss and slide open. The operative slipped through, and the door shut itself once more, a series of loud clicks signaling the engagement of titanium locks.

Inside, the glare of light increased tenfold. Even under the shade of his darkened spectacles the white gloved man squinted in discomfort. It took him a few seconds to adjust to the lighting, and in those few seconds a long moan escaped from a mass sprawled on the floor. The operative immediately stepped forward, going down on his knees so that he could lift and cradle the head of the trembling man in his lap. The operative took off his glasses, singing a soft melodious hymn that seems to calm the suffering man. Keeping his voice low, the white gloved man massaged the man’s temple in a slow circular motion, bringing his patient back to consciousness.

A pair of dark pupils contracted and pulsed, rotating around randomly before focusing on the face before it. A smile, “Lothair.”

The hymn stopped. “Yes Lucas. Do you want to start the amelioration process now?”

Weir exhaled in pain, the trembling of his body visibly becoming more violent. “Please do.”

Lothair leaned back and closed his eyes, his thumbs pressing on Weir’s temples. There was a flash of warmth that surged through his body, and Weir felt his eyelids starting to droop. The last thing he heard before falling into a peaceful unconsciousness was an angelic chorus about the savior and his apostles.

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New Dublin Executive Hall, New Dublin, Planet Londonium

It was twenty years ago.

The room, less of a room and more of a large artificial cavern built by the architecture of man, was hosting a fundraiser event, for the incumbent Londonium Prime Minster running for reelection.

The vast chamber was vibrant, a thousand different people generating tens of thousands of unique stimuli, while the gleaming chandeliers from above slowly rotated to shower the people below with a soft rain of sparkling light.

It was a—how did his father put it—high societal function.

Elegant silk dresses, heavy diamond necklaces, thrice ironed tuxedos pressed to perfection; this congregation was the image of opulence, the physical manifestation of economic dominance, and the very zenith of political power.

The conversation flowed around him—above him, to be precise—and he watched and listened, as cultured voices negotiated the fate of their world, plus that of the worlds next to theirs. Billion dollar contracts signed with a griping handshake, political cronyism promised with a laugh and a slap on the shoulder, and the future of the economy decided with a wry smirk and a knowing wink.

In short, it was everything that should not be occurring, by law or by morality. But inside the grand chamber, the rest of the system was a galaxy away, and when you have multiple densely populated planets grasped in your hand, you couldn’t help but play God. Power corrupts, and these high societal politicians were by no means saints in this life or any previous.

And he stood there, not by design nor by willingness, but rather because he was four, and if his father wanted to show him off at this high societal function, then it was to the tailor he went for a hand-sewn three piece suit that could feed an entire town for a month.

But he did not mind; the stuffiness of the room, the arrogance of those around him, the blatant lack of respect for personal boundaries when they try to pinch his cheeks, it was all forgivable. His tears would not be wasted over such trivial persons and irrelevant matters, because tears were reserved for special events, for the happy moments when his father smiled and made the world shine the brighter. His father often said that each tear droplet was a symbol of his love, overflowing because the heart could only hold so much. Tears were a cause of celebration, and now, in this chamber, there was no reason to feel joy, only excessive boredom.

He tugged on the warm creased hand wrapped around his own pink digits, and heard his father politely excuse himself from the two older gentlemen he was conversing with. He looked up, and saw a warm smile directed at him, not that superficial politician smile he sees on newspapers and on the Net, but his smile.

The smile was also a question, at least by his deduction. His father had taken him to the restrooms only twenty minutes prior, and he was still holding onto an unfinished macaroon in his other hand. His biological imperatives were already addressed, so was there a rational reason for his spontaneous demand for attention?

The question passed, and the larger hand gave his own a soft squeeze. His father shifted, bringing him into view of the two men who were conversing on a topic regarding some Academy. At the sight of him—a boy far too young to be present at such an adult function—the one of the older men paused to examine him with a keen eye while the other directed a question at his father.

He stood here, gazing back the older man looking at him. The man smiled, winked, while leaning forward so their faces were on the same level. The man had too many wrinkles, and his smiles made the wrinkles fold into unpleasant shapes and crevasse. He stared, impassive toward the man’s attention to engage him. He did not trust this man; a slight tickle just behind his eyes told him so.

Meanwhile, he heard his father voice, normally level and low so as to draw others in closer in order to listen, grew louder as a story flowed out, a story about his success, one of many, which made his father proud with tears.

“My son is, I say, a natural prodigy. Newton, Einstein, Oppenheimer of his generation! Just last week, when I took him to a music instrument store, he immediately grabbed the highest quality violin. Not some flashy, overly decorated instrument, mind you, but Itzhak Pearlman’s. The sound it made, one single note play by my son, had such joie de vivre that the store owner cried a tear. That single pure sound, it just resonated within your soul!” His father’s face glowed; his wide smile threatened to reach his ears as he radiated pure joy. The small crowd of career politicians that had been drawn in by the loud words was quietly whispering among themselves; none had seen Henry “Ironguard” Weir so impassioned. Already, the gears of the massive political machinery were turning.

One of the older man—the same that gave him a closer inspection—turned to face his father. A question left his lips, carried by a voice that was deceptively young. “Impressive innate judgment, few could boast to have an eye for perfection—” His father smiled triumphantly, and the whispers in the background hastened. “—but I do have to ask, because there is a physical limitation to playing an instrument which is longer than the arm that is supposed to hold it, how does your son actually hold the prized relic from the Earth-that-was?”

His father’s eyes brightened, as if he had anticipated the question and had successfully maneuvered his opponent into the perfect position to deal the crushing blow. His mouth opened, his tongue moved, but then…no sound came out. The world around him –me—warped, the grand chamber started to oscillate, and then a bright light.

Right before his—my—eyes snapped shut, the lasting memory he—I—had of that night brutishly forced itself before his—my—vision. It was of the older man and his even older companion, and they looked at him—me—with a curiously tactful smile, as if appreciating me with the new information my father was happily providing. But there was a hint of sinister desires, hidden right underneath the surface, beneath those two pale pink pairs of lips. It was the universal declaration of “prey insight,” a reflex so subtle that the consciousness rarely ever notices, but my inner eye caught it.

Just behind the two polite smiles, the two older men ran their tongue across their teeth. All that was missing was the smacking of lips and the tucking of napkins.

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Southern Frontline, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera

Lieutenant Joseph Powers stared down his barrel, lined up the shot, and pulled the trigger.

200 meters down, an Alliance soldier in gray fatigues jerked back, blood sprouting from his neck. His squadmates next to him immediately opened fire, pouring suppressing fire in random directions up the hill. In rapid succession, Power calmly aimed and fired two three-shot bursts downrange. Two more soldiers jerked and fell sideways, and the last member of the fireteam ducked behind a small dirt dune, his assault rifle muzzle flashing with each bullet that exited the barrel.

Next to Powers, the constant rhythm of staccato paused as Corporal Browne shifted aim and hosed automatic machinegun fire at the platoon of infantry that was making a dash up the hill. Metal met flesh, and a dozen soldiers fell to the ground while the rest kept on charging. Powers turned, one hand reaching down to grab a fresh clip of ammo while the other ejected the spent clip, and called out a quick order.

“Hicks, Booth. Your ten o’clock!” There was a quick shuffle as the two PFCs altered their body angle, a minute pause as they took aim, and two more M16 rifles opened fire on the exposed Alliance soldiers. In the next trench over, the commanding officer took notice of the latest attempt by the Alliance to breach the thinly held defense line, and four more rifles roared to crush the doomed squad under a hail of metallic fury.

By the time Powers was properly reloaded, the enemy momentum was entirely lost, and the few remaining survivors hugged the dirt. Taking one of the survivors in his sight, Powers let loose a short burst that impacted the crawling target. A stream of gushing blood seeped into the dark brown dirt, staining it further. The last three groveling soldiers of the failed charge died quickly under a second burst of fire by the riflemen in the next trench over.

With the immediate Alliance threat gone, Powers returned to the last gunman of the fire team he had previously dismantled. In the lull of battle, that rifleman had dared to emerge from his cover, and a trio of bullets to the chest quickly made him wish he had hugged the dirt dune all the tighter.

Powers relaxed, letting his shoulder muscles loosen as he quickly surveyed the battle before him. The Alliance forward elements made contact about an hour ago, two companies of light infantry that found themselves overextended as they began to climb the barren steep incline. The commanding officers were not concerned about their lack of support, and eagerly ordered the men to push forth as the surging spearhead of the Alliance grand assault. The reinforced 3rd battalion kept silent, hidden in their foxholes while spotters in the more distant support trenches tracked enemy movements. The order to spring the trap came as one of the spotters saw an Alliance private suddenly twisted towards his NCO with the look of revelation on his face when they were nearly on top of the Independent trench line.

The snap of a sniper rifle report marked the simultaneous collapse of the private and the surge of the 3rd battalion as the Independents pushed aside the dirt covering their trenches. A thousand rifles lit up the mountainside in a volley of murderous crossfire that sent the Alliance reeling. It was fortunate for the Alliance that the trap was spent on a meager four hundred soldiers as opposed to the full Regiment that had just reached the foot of the hill, who immediately reacted by unleashing an inaccurate but nevertheless daunting fusillade up the hillside, suppressing the Independent riflemen who were using their superior height to pour bullets indiscriminately into the mass of Alliance uniforms below.

The two sides traded fire as the Alliance officers brought their battalions back into marching order, and began a Regiment scale fire and movement maneuver towards the Independent foxholes. Three battalions violently encouraged the Independents to duck inside their trenches while the fourth battalion ran up a few dozen meters before taking what meager cover they could find and opening fire on the Independents. The Alliance was thusly leapfrogging up the mountain, their sheer volume of fire allowing them to overcome their terrain disadvantage.

Or so it appeared. Once the Alliance moved sufficiently into range, the support line let loose with a rain of mortar shells that dug bloody holes in the Alliance formation, while the frontline pumped shrapnel grenades towards the battalion that had moved closest, sending equal part dirt and flesh into the air. Independent snipers wasted no time in picking off Alliance officers during the ensuing chaos, while their respective spotters combed the mass of blue uniforms below for more high priority hits. Across the frontline, heavy machinegun in well-dug pits sang a deep baritone as they revealed their presence, mercilessly scything down their exposed foes.

The surprise of this second ambush was complete, and the utter devastation wrecked by the Independents convinced the three Alliance battalions to quickly retreat down to the volley floor, leaving the overextended 1st battalion alone to bear the brunt of their enemy’s wrath. Alliance Colonel Carter, commander of the now isolated 1st battalion, screamed for his troops to respond with suppressing fire while ordering for corpses to be piled up for cover. Half of 1st battalion was massacred before Colonel Carter managed to get some resemblance of adequate cover up and running, but once he did, each new Alliance casualty only further strengthened their static position near the center of the Independent’s line of defense.

Meanwhile, the three Alliance battalions barely reached the foot of the mountain before their red-faced General, spit flying with every word, ordered the battalions to charge back up the mountain and probe the Independent flanks, or anywhere along the frontline, for points of weakness. Collectively, the three Colonels turned to face the mountain, their humiliated faces red with savage anger as they began to climb the steep incline once more.

As the enemy spread their battle line out across the entirety of kilometer long frontline, Alpha, Charlie, and Easy Companies of the Brown Coat 3rd battalion were frustrated in their attempts to dislodge the Alliance 1st battalion. Human bodies made frustratingly effective sandbags, and any attempt to charge the enemy position was discouraged by near continuous suppressing fire. The only uplifting aspect of the situation was that the volunteer mortar and sniper teams in the support line were performing admirably; the enemy 1st battalion was losing soldiers to every mortar shell lobed and sniper round fired.

Just as the Alliance 1st battalion was finally near its death throes, the Alliance 3rd battalion made a push against the Independent’s left flank, punishing the Bravo Company of the 58th Reserved for their insufficient manpower, while the 2nd battalion made a similar assault on the right flank, putting the Alpha Company of the 58th Reserved under extreme pressure. The Alliance 4th battalion rushed up and joined their brothers in the 1st battalion, timely reinforcing the battalion that would have routed after just a few more minutes of the harsh long range assault.

And here they were, once again barely holding back the tides of Alliance rampage. Mortar teams were painstakingly reallocated to relieve the pressure on the Independent flanks, while the three companies of Brown Coat 3rd battalion accepted the grim reality of a long and fatiguing slug match against their fortified assailants. Over on the flanks, the two companies of 58th Reserved were slowly being grinded into pieces as the military might of an entire battalion collided against a well-entrenched company over and over again, each time reaching a new tidemark that was stained into the yellow earth with blood bled by mortar shrapnel and conical lead.

1st Lt. Powers and his squad occupied a rare niche on the battlefield, situated between the entrenched Alliance troops facing the center of the Independent frontline, and the offensive Alliance battalion trying to break through the right flank. Both Alliance forces have probed this position, but neither truly cared to commit, as their attention were already focused elsewhere. However, it would seem that a third party was now interested in breaking through the Brown Coat line of defense at this position, as what appeared to be an entire Company was making a beeline towards the small cluster of ten isolated tracks of trenches under Powers’ immediate command.

Powers reached down towards his belt-hang radio, and flicked it on. “Alpha Actual, this is Easy Three. We got incoming, at least company strength—” There was a flicker of movements further down the mountain, a large cluster of grey bodies that were previously masked by incoming Alliance Company. “—scratch that, we got two Alliance Companies incoming; requesting long range support at our position, over.”

The radio crackled and hissed as Powers let go of the transmission button, and he turned to Hicks. “Your radio, Hicks.” A block of dark grey sailed through the air, and the 1st Lieutenant caught it with his free hand. After checking that the radio was dialed into the channel assigned for the 3rd Platoon, Powers spoke. “3rd Platoon, this is your lieutenant. We got incoming, at least two Companies strong. Ammo up now if you need to, and don’t waste your time going after kills; we got long range support coming, just get the Alliance frakers to taste our dirt, and our boys in the back will take care of the rest.”

Booth turned and ran down a branching trench towards the ammo dump, and Browne took a pause in his suppressive fire to request another two crates of machine gun ammo. Powers tossed the radio back to Hicks, even as his own crackled and spoke. “Easy Three, this is Alpha Actual, I got no long range assets left to spare. The only unit I can shift away from the flanks would be a single sniper. You are going to have to hold the line on your own, over.”

The Lieutenant’s free hand clenched into a fist, a curse nearly leaving his mouth; then, a deep breath, and his reply through the radio sounded as forced and choreographed as a first-time actor reading from a script. “Yes sir, a sniper will be a great help. We will hold the line, over.”

An actual sigh came from the radio, the wariness of the Captain seeping through. “I will do what I can, Lieutenant, but you are not seeing the battlefield like I am. Trust me when I say this, your platoon is being left very well alone by comparison. The sniper is on channel two dash three, and he doesn’t have a spotter. Hold the line, Easy Three. Alpha Actual out.”

Powers looked over the parapet, and saw a small dust storm being kicked up by a gust of wind. Beyond the dust cloud, shadows loomed. It was to be their doom, a platoon facing two full companies. His fingers fiddled with the channel dial on his radio absentmindedly, while his mind was torn between informing his troops that there was going to be no mortar support, and letting them have this moment of pre-battle optimism before the reality of war made corpses of them all.

“Powers, that you?” The Lieutenant nearly jumped when his radio came back alive. That voice, he did not expect to hear that voice, not while he was still alive.

“Marrero?” This voice, belong to Donald Marrero, corporal-acting-sergeant in the battalion of the 142nd Planetary Defense Force stationed at Fort Hendrick, presumed dead when the news that the anti-orbital defenses at the Fort malfunctioned, leaving them wide open for a low orbit bombardment.

“That’s me, Lieutenant sir!” The military title was spoken in jest, but Powers didn’t mind.

“It’s good to hear your gorram voice, corporal, and good to have you with us.”

“It’s sergeant now!” Laughter followed the words. Of all emotions to be felt at that particular moment, when the first of the Alliance Companies stepped through the dust cloud, happiness shouldn’t have been one of them. But emotions are fickle, they obey the whims of neither men nor gods, and hearing the joy of his adopted brother—living adopted brother—made Powers swell with happiness.

“It is good to have you with us, Sergeant Marrero. Be sure to give’em hell.” Looking down as he moved to clip the radio back onto his belt, Powers saw the channel dial had been changed to read two dash three. Serendipity, divine intervention, or pure dumb luck; whatever the reason, it gave Powers a spark of hope, the seedling of a tiny thought that they just might live to see and fight another day, if fate could be so kind.

Powers changed his radio to his platoon’s designated channel. “Easy Company 3rd platoon, engage enemy on my signal. We will hold this ground, no matter the cost.” He sucked in a deep breath, moved the radio further from his face so as to not cause feedback, and boomed: “onward we fight!”

The answering phrase to the informal motto of the Brown Coat army was roared across ten stretches of trenches.

“’TIL LIBERTY OR DEATH!”

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Powers Farm, Dawns Plateau, Planet New Melbourne

Feet pounded across the fertile farmland, golden weeds brushed against tanned ankles, and the Sun set the horizon on fire in a deep saturated red. The two adopted brothers chased and raced, the smaller sibling in the front, arms pumping as he broke into an all-out sprint to pull ahead even further. The bigger brother picked up his pace, and the large dying husk of an oak tree quickly filled his vision. The younger brother reached the tree first, pausing briefly before reaching overhead and began to haul himself up onto the sturdy branches.

The race had been divided into three stages, beginning with a short swim across the farm pond, followed by a dash across the farm, and ending with climbing to the highest branch of Grandpa Oak. The older brother reached the tree, and leapt, his powerful leg muscles throwing his body a clear feet off the ground. His left hand found purchase on a small branch, and with a powerful heave he pulled himself level and reached for a higher branch with his right arm. As quickly as the smaller sibling had left the older in the dust, the bigger sibling was climbing the tree with a reckless abandon that would make chimpanzees swinging through the jungle look like child’s play.

The Sun set further, and the first hint of darkness perverted the sky. The golden glow of the weed-infested fields was fading, and in the distance a town bell rang, declaring the end of the working day to the loggers who still fortunately had employment. The younger brother was panting hard, his progress in climbing the tree slowing to a crawl as he desperately kicked his legs in an attempt to haul himself up the third branch from the top.

But alas, fate was a cruel mistress that day, snatching away the hard-fought victory just when it became palpable. Muscles bungling, the older brother overtook his sibling, and there was little that the younger brother could do but watch as one meaty palm after another found purchase on that final branch.

“Joe.” The younger brother called out, “Hey Joey, gimme a hand?”

The older brother looked down, and let go of the top branch. Balancing rather precariously on a thin branch, Joseph Powers reached down with one hand and grabbed his brother’s wrist. “Come on, Donny, pull.”

Reversing his hand to clasp Joe’s wrist, Donald Marrero hauled himself onto the branch as Powers pulled, and promptly sat down. Sweating profusely, Don smiled in defeat. “Hey Joe, think you won this one.” A pause, and a deep breath. “Don’t think I could go up anymore. Came close though, eh?”

The occupied branch shook as Powers let himself down to sit besides his adopted brother. A silence lingered, as Marrero worked to bring his breathing back under control, and Powers looked with a small frown at red hue of dusk. It was a peaceful picture, two brothers, as different as could be, sharing a high perch, watching as another day fell on Dawns Plateau.

“When are you shipping out this time?” The question did not come as a surprise to Marrero; it had lingered in the air for the entire day, delayed by a silent mutual agreement.

“Tomorrow; they said the transporter had entered orbit this morning. Was supposed to take them about half a day to get to Dawns, what with them approaching from the far side of the planet and whatnot.” Marrero said, looking over his shoulder at his brother, who gave him a small smile.

“You never know, they could blow a fuse and decide to head back for repairs.” Powers mimicked a small explosion with his hands, fingers expanding outwards from a small ball.

“It’s possible.” The words were spoken with quiet mirth, layered with an undertone of sadness.

“Honestly, you don’t have to go—” Powers began, and Marrero cut in.

“—we will find a way to pay the mortgage on the farm.” “It is a good program, with good pay, and I could make a difference.”

The two brothers finished at the same time, neither really heard the other’s words, but they didn’t need to. The same argument had been played out time and time again, with all avenues of persuasion exhausted weeks ago.

“Well.” Powers exhaled deeply, one hand going up to brush through his hair. “Sniper, eh?”

Marrero chuckled. “Death from afar. And don’t pretend you don’t approve.”

“It…it’ll keep you safe. Just always be sure keep another soldier between you and those shooting at you. Soldiery ain’t about bravery. Staying alive to see another day is worth more than a moment of glory.” Powers lectured.

“Somehow, I think the training officers will say otherwise.” A smile still lingered on Marrero’s lips, which had appeared when his older brother switched to his low rumbling of a teacher’s voice.

“And don’t let those hairless frakers give you too much grief. You are a strong volunteer, not some random spineless drafter they dragged screaming from their bed.” Power remained serious, either oblivious to his brother’s smile or simply not caring that Marrero was not taking him completely seriously.

“Got it. Stand up to the officers when they scream in your face. That will go over really well.”

“And if they insist on making your life hell, send me a post, and I’ll go over and knock their teeth out.” And with this violent imagery, the curriculum that Powers recited to Marrero every day since he first announced his acceptance into the Specialist Training Program was concluded. It also served as a not-so-subtle reminder to write home.

“I will. Take care of the farm. And…and tell Ma good bye for me, would ya?” The smile faded from Marrero’s lips, the first hint of seriously entering his words.

“I will take care of Ma. You…” Powers reached over and gave Marrero’s shoulder a squeeze. “I expect to see you come home; you are not leaving me to labor on this farm alone, ya hear?”

Marrero nodded, and the two brothers fell silent. A soft wind brushed away beads of lingering sweat, as the brothers sat and watched the last hint of the sun descend beyond the horizon.

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Southern Frontline Head Quarters, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera

“Sir.” The young Corporal Hunter stood at the edge of tent, hand posed awkwardly to shield his eyes from the harsh glare of the setting sun. In front of him was a swarm of officers, each wearing equal weight in military uniform and musty sweat. The target of the corporal’s address was hunched over, his fingers drawing lines over a geographical map of the valley while four different sergeants attempted to transcribe the Colonel’s verbal and visual presentation of battle tactics.

“I need Ellis! Lieutenant Ellis!” Colonel Donovan suddenly straightened his back, his head rising above the still scribbling sergeants.

Hunter saw his chance, and his hand shot forward in an attempt to draw the Colonel’s eye while he called out: “Colon—”

“Sir! I’m here!” Lt. Ellis popped out of the uniform mass of staff officers occupying the command tent, his voice hoarse but nonetheless audible over the rumbling of overlapping orders being shouted across the tent.

“Tell General Beck of the 33rd to get his boys into combat! Strike fast and he will cut the main body of the Alliance advance in half.” With that, Colonel Donovan once again descended to study his map, while Lt. Scott Ellis melted into horde of Brown Coat officers, presumably seeking a path that would lead him out of the tent and towards the communication tents.

“Sir!” Corporal Hunter tried again, though again in vain. Another messenger somehow managed to sneak through the wall of sergeants and hand his report to the Colonel, who snatched it for a quick glance before emitting a crisp and screeching whistle. The noise level in the tent plummeted as all existing conversations ceased in favor of hearing the Colonel’s proclamation.

“Alright, listen up! Armories Charlie through Tango has been fully stocked and lined up in alphabetical order behind our medical tents. Jones, find as many of the 139th armored infantry as you can and take them to Armory Charlie. Close quarter combat configuration only. Carter–”

The young Corporal took a couple steps towards to the Colonel, snaking his way around at least five other messengers that had managed to inch closer to the Colonel by what looked like a liberal use of elbow jabbing if the number of officers rubbing their sides was any indication of.

“—and Pearson, round up the willing riflemen lounging by the motor pool, and direct them all to Armory Tango. Johnson, put them into five men fireteams. Go!”

A stream of officers quickly disappeared from the tent, an act which opened the floodgate of deafening conversations that resumed without losing a single step.

“Colonel, sir!” Hunter reached, his hand reaching forward to actually brush the Colonel’s shoulder, an act which finally grabbed the commanding officer’s full attention.

“Corporal Hunter. You got news from the front?” The Colonel questioned with a quick glance over his shoulder to confirm the identity of the new messenger.

“Sir, they can’t hold on any longer. Alliance’s got four battalions pushing along the entire line. Captain Richman is requesting air support if their flanks are to hold. They are getting mauled down there.” Corporal Hunter hinted of desperation, his tone matching that of Captain Richman, formally in command of Alpha Company of 3rd battalion, and informally in command of all five companies spread along the southern frontline.

Colonel Donovan’s hands, which had been visually depicting an encirclement maneuver to trap a small company of the Alliance advance that had gotten lost in the forest and was coming frightfully close to the base camp that the 33rd armored had set up before knowing the Alliance was launching their attack, paused. Corporal Hunter watched as the Colonel twisted and turned his head to read the troop numbers written onto the map, muttering as he went.

“I see” was the Colonel’s response, his eyes having scanned the entirety of the southern frontline before turning around to look the Corporal in the eye. “Tell him—the captain—Richman—that he needs to hold on, until nightfall.” His voice was low, but still managed to carry a deep sense of conviction.

“Sir, yes sir.” Hunter saluted, and turned to leave.

There was a pause in the Colonel’s movements, an unintended halt that caught Hunter’s attention out of the corner of his eye and made him turn around.

“And Corporal, tell Captain Richman and all his men. God Bless.” The Colonel saluted, his military boots clicking together with a loud clack. “Their sacrifice will not be forgotten.”

“Yes sir.” The Corporal saluted again, shoulders square and eyes hard. “Of course not, sir.”

---

Beachhead Command Base, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera

Weir coughed violently, his whole body trembled with each brutal heave. Still kneeling next to him, Lothair was in the process of wiping a stream of blood that originated from his tear duct. It was a warning sign, a scientist had once said, it was the body’s way to saying ‘please stop, I cannot handle anymore without sustaining severe injuries.’

Lothair folded up his bloodied tissue and tucked it into an inside pocket of his suit coat. If only half of the mental stress that Weir was shouldering left Lothair on the brink of insanity, then he shuddered to think the mental agony that the psychic had to push through to reach that level of psionic pressure.

“Hey.” Lothair spoke softly, letting the melody in his voice inspire a sense of calm in his fellow psychic. When Weir gave no reply and continued coughing, Lothair frowned. His power had never failed. Placing one hand on Weir’s shoulder, he reached over to touch Weir’s temple with his other hand.

“No.” Weir intercepted Lothair by swatting away the gloved hand as if it would shock him. “You can’t take anymore. I can.” His coughing stopped, though his words were mixed in with the rumbling of mucus still left in his throat.

“You are not yet operational. You have to be operational. My status is insignificant in comparison to your mental condition.” However scientific and emotionless those words might have seemed were they written on paper, Lothair managed to infuse a sense of loyalty and hope into his every syllable.

“Stop!” Weir pushed himself up with one elbow, he looked almost angry if his face weren’t so drained of blood. “Belay that order! I declare myself operational, and our mission objectives stress the importance of haste. I have mission-critical information!”

As if a switch was hit, Lothair straightened his back and stood up. “Would you like a hand up?” The words were cold, mechanical, sounding almost like the primitive Audio Input Navigation Integrated Engine currently being tested by Alliance cruisers as replacement to the conventional supercomputers dedicated to plotting a course through the void of space.

“No.” Weir got on his knees, his arms shaking but managing to bear the weight of his body as the young Brigadier General attempted to get his legs under himself and stand up. “I need you to open a line to General Jarvis Lawrence, and another line to AMV Venus. Authorization code Sierra Reagan Python Seven Two. Ask for transfer to a General Polekoski on Planet Osirus. Priority override Victor Zulu Kilo Nine Five.”

Lothair nodded as he moved to the nearest point-to-point laser communication terminal, gloved fingers moving with practiced ease as he brought the device online.

“Also—” Weir got onto his feet, his stance a bit shaky but he moved with complete confidence as he moved off to a nearby office, one complete with sound-proof walls and eye retina locked door. “—get Alfred to find me a picture of a Brown Coat soldier: one volunteer sergeant Malcolm Reynolds, born on Shadow, the more recent the better. And have it sent to my terminal in this office.”

“Yes Weir.” Again, the answer lacked its usual melodic qualities, and Lothair did not even look away from his communication terminal.

Lucas Weir labored his way through the door of the office, and the smooth metal barrier slid close behind him with a soft hissing of hydraulics.

---

Academy Codex, Entry 5, the Academy

The Academy, when seen as a whole, is the equivalent of a mega corporation that receive a large sum of Alliance funding for reasons that will be explained in a later codex entry. The initial founding of the Academy could be traced back to Artemis, whose scientists formed the core intellectual think tank that was later augmented by a few select businessmen and corporate executives from other Arks.

The main goal of the Academy, no matter the political era or social conditions, had been and will always be the exploration and advancement of the new Homo ascendus species. As the Academy grew in numbers, and colonization began taking place, the Academy diversified its portfolio of research projects. To supplement their flagship research project, the Academy scientists branched into military technologies, theoretical physics, medical advancements, and even horticulture. All products and findings of these research groups were initially used to further the ascendus project. As times passed, and the scientists began surpassing their previous technological advancements, the Academy began monetizing their “outdated” products to the civilian and military markets.

Very early on, the Academy established a discrete system of information and technological dissemination. It was and still is not the goal of the scientists to become famous in the eyes of the public, nor do they wish to become bogged down in the restrictions, financial and ethnical, that come with being recognized as a corporation. To that end, the businessmen of the Academy splintered off to create a wide variety of front companies that would release the research results obtained by the core body of the Academy. Thus, the anonymity of the Academy is maintained, and the no longer needed fruits of its labor successfully sold to the general public.

This is not to say that the scientists of the Academy lived as hermits, isolating themselves from civilization to uncover the mysteries of the world. All but a few of the most sensitive research facilities are located in the major metropolises of the Core planets, though for field testing the Academy uses a number of discrete subterranean sites or sparsely populated moons. To some degree, the population is aware that “science” is being done in these visible research facilities, though thanks to the bargain between the Academy and a certain body within the Alliance, privacy is assured.

The study into the Homo ascendus, because of its strict subject requirements and the Academy’s willingness to kidnap even the family members of powerful officials, is where the Academy is the most vulnerable for detection. Because the Academy had and still does maintain a high level of separation between its research groups, and contingencies that will allow the organization to disavow a compromised branch to save the whole, this vulnerability does not extend into the other areas of research. Of course, without the ascendus project, progress in the rest of the research branches is meaningless.

To advance the Homo ascendus project, special facilities were set up early on to accommodate the housing and experimentation on living human subjects. Changes were made to these facilities later on to present a more innocuous front after the Academy elected to step up ascendus discovery by opening onsite schools for specially gifted children. Now, instead of a detective team scouring the planets for potential subjects, ecstatic parents would voluntarily notify the Academy of possible ascendus children. The increased risk of public exposure has thus far been completely justified by the vastly accelerated statuses of the Homo ascendus main and branch projects.