Southern Frontline, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera

The world was ringing, a sharp squeaking that drilled nails into his skull. Everything had turned white, the color of the purest of the winter snow, with the occasional black specks that randomly popped in and out of existence. First Lieutenant Joseph Powers lay prone, trying to wait out the effects of a flash bang grenade that had gone off in front of his face. He could feel his M16 in his right hand, its well-worn handle and a series of notches, and was at least partially reassured. Soon enough, he was hearing a low baritone thumping not so far from him, and he knew Corporal Browne was still alive and kicking.

Slowly, his sight was returning, small pieces of color that pierced the veil of white and black. Powers experimentally moved his knee under him, pushing up while his free hand reached for the parapet. His hand found nothing but air, and he toppled forward, nearly face planting but managing to catch himself in time. More noise was filtering through the ringing, and he heard Booth yelling nonsensical curses punctuated by gunfire. Powers tried again to get up onto his feet, and this time a hand grabbed him under his armpit and helped him along. Hicks said something to him, but the ground spun and for a brief second he had lost all sense of direction. Hicks clapped Powers on his shoulder, the contact grounding him back to reality, to the scene of carnage in front of him.

The two Alliance companies had moved up the hill without any consideration for casualties or coordinated suppressive fire. Their sheer weight of numbers acted as a formidable equalizer in the face of Brown Coat’s overwhelming terrain advantage. While Powers’ 3rd platoon charged a heavy toll for the distance traveled, it was not enough to stop the Alliance assault. The enemy had been despairingly close to breaching their trenches, the last time Powers had been lucid.

A shape flashed by Powers’ returning peripheral vision, and he felt a splash of fluid against the side of his face. Even as he turned to investigate, a boot sank into his stomach and a fist smashed against his temple. Falling ungracefully on his back, the cleansing surge of pain washed aside the lingering aftereffects of the flash bang, and Powers lashed out with his foot to catch his assailant in the groin. The Alliance soldier toppled over, and Powers grabbed his sidearm and performed a quick execution.

Looking around with sorely missed clarity, the dead corpse of Hicks was the first sight to enter Powers’ vision. Before the Lt could examine further, a shadow appeared over him, followed shortly by the body of an Alliance soldier crashing into him. Powers felt his pistol hand being slammed repeatedly into the trench wall, and with a savage cry he smashed his forehead into his target’s nose. There was a cry of pain, but the pressure on his pistol hand did not lessen. Powers stumped his boot into the enemy’s knee joint, followed by a knee to the chest as the Alliance soldier went down. Wrapping his free hand around the neck, Powers whipped his hand to the side, producing an audible crack.

In that brief moment of respite after dispatching the latest enemy, Powers saw a neighboring trench being swarmed by at least ten Alliance soldiers. Browne had turned his machinegun on that trench, firing wordlessly into exposed backs. Booth stood next to him, a combat knife in one hand and an Alliance neck under his other hand. A line of blood ran down the side of Booth’s face, a normally friendly visage twisted into a personification of hate.

A yell tore his attention back to his end of the trench, and Powers docked his head just in time to dodge a hail of bullets that kicked up dirt on the opposing wall of the trench. Pulling a grenade from his belt, Powers removed the safety pin and allowed it to cook for a few seconds before tossing it. The explosion went off immediately, and the gunfire ceased. Powers scrambled to pick up his M16 out of the dirt, just as three more bodies jumped down into his trench. Powers unloaded half of his clip into the chest of soldier that faced him, and was swerving around as the butt of a rifle slammed into the back of his head, his vision darkened ominously before returning.

Booth had jumped onto the back of the third Alliance soldier, his combat knife dug deep into the soldier’s neck. The second Alliance soldiers brought his rifle to bear, fingers reaching for the trigger when there was a crack and the enemy found himself short one trigger arm. The high velocity anti-personnel sniper round had chewed through fabric, flesh, and bone with ease. Powers swept this last invader’s legs out from under him, and Booth buried his knife into the heart.

In the brief lull of combat, Powers reloaded his rifle and tossed Booth his sidearm, which was promptly reloaded. While gunning down another Alliance trooper that had landed in their trench, his radio crackled and coughed before disbursing the message. “All units retreat to support line. I repeat, all units retreat to support line!” The message was repeated a few times, and before the end what remained of Easy Company’s 3rd platoon was out of their decimated trenches and running for their lives to their next line of defense. Powers paused briefly in his run to toss his remaining belt of grenades into the ammo dump, refusing the enemy any supplies still left in it.

The same scene repeated itself across the southern frontline, scattered pockets of Brown Coats running up the hill while the occasional tremor in the ground signaled another ammo dump being incinerated. The Alliance soldiers quickly, if not already, took over the abandoned trenches, gunning down the retreating Independents. Booth found his legs cut out from under him in a flail of lead, and Powers hauled his wounded comrade into a fireman’s carry while Browne provided what covering fire he could.

Boots pounded the loose dirt, kicking up a not unimpressive cloud of dust, and by some miracle Powers could see the support trenches ahead of them, and drawing closer with each step. He felt Booth convulsing on his shoulder, but could not find the air in his lungs to utter words of encouragement. Browne was next to him, still holding onto his Mk 48 in a feat of endurance he was well known for. For the time being, the Alliance seemed content to regroup in the forward trenches, and bullets chased after the retreating bodies with increasing inaccuracy as distance lengthened.

---

Town Tavern, Dawns Plateau, Planet New Melbourne

It had been a year since Donald Marrero left home, and the situation at home wasn’t getting any better. Jobs were still hard to come by, and without access to the market of the Core planets the prices of crops were still down in the dirt. In this trying time, at least booze was still cheap and plentiful, and the able bodied men of Dawns Plateau found themselves inevitably drawn to the tavern to socialize, complain, and drown their sorrows in alcohol.

The day was just like any other. Joseph Powers left the farm at the crack of dawn to join the loggers, the only reliable work left in their town, and worked until near sun down before retiring to the tavern for a quick bite to eat before going home. The atmosphere in the tavern was somber, nothing out of the norm, and Powers focused on downing his bowl of meat dumplings and mug of beer to sooth the roaring beast that was his stomach. As he paid the owner for the meal, the man looked him in the eye and said, “you be careful, lad. Word is that the Alliance touched down in Morwell, think we could all be a mite more cautious to not draw their ire.”

Powers nodded, his movements sluggish from a long day of physical labor. He said his thanks and started walking back to the farm, his fatigued mind paying less thought to the danger of invasion and more to the comfort of his bed. Most of the other men were still seated in the tavern, seemingly determined to discuss this Alliance incursion late into the night.

The Powers Farm, like all other farms located around Dawns Plateau, was located to the south of the town, and could be reached by following a dirt road maintained by the farm owners for the purpose of going into town. The road also extends even further south, at one point transitioning to a paved road, and ends in Morwell, where the crops would be sold to traders who then transport it off planet. The Powers Farm wasn’t the furthest from the town, but it wasn’t close either, and the walk was long enough to sober Joe up completely from his pleasant dinner buzz.

As Powers was about halfway to his farm, a light appeared further down in the road, and it was growing bigger quickly. Remember the tavern owner’s warning, Powers moved off the road and hid in the irrigation canal on the side of the road, thankful for the cover it provided. Soon enough, a convoy of hover vehicles rushed by. Powers risked a look, and saw what looked like military soldiers sitting on those hovercrafts. Only one faction had hovercrafts, and that meant the Alliance was moving in on Dawns Plateau. Powers moved as quickly as he could along the irrigation canal, determined to get his Ma out of the area before violence erupted.

---

Valley Floor, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera

A massive fleet of Alliance vehicles rushed across the flat valley floor, APCs mixed in with wolf packs of B551 Pallas light mobility tanks and the solitary M47 Enyo heavy assault tanks. It was combined might of the 21st armored battalion supported by the 202nd infantry regiment, a full strength convoy of over 150 tanks plus 500 APCs that grinded the gritty dirt of the valley, producing a blooming cloud of dust and exhaust. There was no subtlety in this charge, for none was needed. Traveling at an average speed of 65 kilometers per hour, this vehicular battering ram was set to smash through what was left of the Independent southern frontline in less than twenty minutes.

The Pallas wolf packs formed the spearhead, their lighter frames giving them a higher maximum velocity. The Enyo heavy tanks trailed behind the Pallas, their massive treads swallowing rocks and crushing them into pebbles. The typical Alliance armored stratagem called for an overwhelming first strike of the more mobile elements to unleash their long range payload, then immediately splitting aside to let the heavier elements absorb the answering salvo. Depending on the situation, the lighter elements will then either move to flank the enemy position or maneuver behind the heavier elements for an attrition advance. The supporting APCs would unload their passengers as necessary, to secure overran enemy positions or to counter enemy anti-armor infantry units.

Against an enemy with no known armored assets and all known air assets tied up by Alliance air far to the east, this assault looked to checkmate the Independent southern defense, and bring the Alliance within artillery bombardment range of Serenity Base. Even the most well laid plans, however, can be pulled apart at one unattended seam. The Alliance intelligence was thorough in assessing the anti-armor capacity of the Independents, and the logistic corps was the definition of efficiency to deliver so many vehicles planet-side amidst so many simultaneous assaults across multiple theaters of conflict on Hera. However, no one, from the intelligence grunts to General Lawrence, could have imagined that the Independents could move an entire armored regiment through a heavily forested region of the valley, but worked a miracle they did, and a line of tree to the convoy’s right flank suddenly fell.

The forest disgorged a swarm of Sheridan light tanks from the 1st battalion of the 33rd armored, engines hot and munitions firing. A continuous salvo of shells and missiles cut a swath across the columns of APCs, wrecking the unprotected flank of the Alliance assault. Dozens of APCs ignited under the overwhelming explosive damage, while the ensuing chaos effectively mission killed dozens more as APCs crashed and collided with one another. The lucky soldiers were slain mercifully by shrapnel, the unlucky ones burned when fuel cells ignited to rain a fiery shower upon the battlefield. In this complete pandemonium a majority of Sheridan tanks pushed through the graveyard of wrecked vehicles and twisted bodies, cutting the Alliance armored column in half and quickly turning to engage the exposed rear of the vanguard tanks.

The 2nd and 3rd battalions of the 33rd emerged next from the forest, the 2nd following the 1st through to the left flank of the Alliance convoy, turning the other direction to engage the remaining APCs while the 3rd ran straight down the right flank, sandwiching the disorganized Alliance vehicles between two walls of fire. The APCs of the 2nd and 3rd then disgorged their troops, anti-armor and anti-personnel combatants that took up positions to encircle the Alliance APCs. From behind a burning line of wreckages the core body of Alliance APCs took up fighting positions, guns blazing as they reciprocated in kind.

Meanwhile, the 1st battalion swept across the Alliance armored vanguard, putting salvo after salvo of shells into the weaker armored flanks and rear of the Enyo heavies. The Pallas reacted promptly, disengaging from the convoy formation as the Enyo bought them time by being better targets of opportunity. Swirling clouds of dust rose into the air as the Pallas turned to face their assailants, and the battle was joined between the two light tank forces.

---

Alliance Armored Vanguard, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera

Sudden Death made a hard left, barely clearing the flaming remains of Wilful Murder. While the driver wrestled to bring Sudden Death back under control, the gunner turned the turret as Major Lauren McCarter identified the offending Pallas.

“Pallas, right six eight degrees, seven two meters.” McCarter gripped the scope, tracking the target.

“Target locked on.” Her gunner replied.

“Kill it.”

Sudden Death shuddered, belching out a shell that pierced the frontal armor of the Pallas. The target slowed to a halt, and the hatch opened. Several Alliance soldiers scrambled out, though not before the ammo cache cooked off, tossing the bodies high into the air as a column of fire erupted from the open hatch.

McCarter grinned, sweeping her scope across the chaotic battleground to find her next target. Next to Sudden Death, Spitfire unleashed her last missile, drawing a white trail to its target as the missile took out the treads on the Pallas. Spitfire followed up with a shell, placing it right under the enemy turret, pulping the tank commander.

Around the disabled Pallas came two of its pals, making the tight turns Pallas are well known for. Both turned their turret on Spitfire, and a second later Spitfire had smoke venting from two gaping hole in its frontal armor. Despite having a clearly damaged firing mechanism, Spitfire surged forward, and McCarter yelled into her radio. “Edward, report!”

Lieutenant Edward of Spitfire didn’t respond, and McCarter patted her driver on the shoulder. Sudden Death turned slightly to follow Spitfire in her path, and a thump on her right signaled her loader had finished his task.

“Left three degrees, four two meters!” McCarter all but growled, calling out the Pallas that was angling the strike Spitfire on her flank.

“Acquired!” The gunner called back.

“Fire!”

Another shudder, and the enemy Pallas found its turret torn away, though still continuing to move.

“Missile away!” McCarter yelled, and a second later the enemy Pallas went up in flames.

Turning her scope to range the third Pallas, McCarter had to choke down a cry. Its frontal armor was partially caved in, courtesy of the Spitfire ramming into it at top speed. Still functional, the Pallas launched a missile at pointblank range, the armor piercing tip made short work of the Sheridan. The resulting detonation had evidently ignited Spitfire’s ammo magazine, setting off an explosion that embedded lethal shrapnel into the Pallas.

“Confirm kill?” The gunner asked.

“Confirm kill.” McCarter replied coldly.

Sudden Death sent a shell into the third Pallas, easily piercing the wrapped armor and even exiting the other end. A plume of fire and smoke exploded from the corpse, and Sudden Death gunned her engine, hunting for the next prey in the close quarter tank melee.

---

Southern Frontline, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera

While the 1st, 2nd, and 3rd battalions of the 33rd engaged the Alliance 21st and 202nd, the 4th battalion of the 33rd armored branched off earlier and exited the forest closer to the Independent southern frontline. A majority of the Sheridan, accompanied by a small contingent of APCs, turned south to support the assault against the Alliance armored spearhead. The remaining tanks and APCs, plus four companies worth of infantry, tackled the same hillside that the Alliance forward elements had paid a heavy toll in men and equipment to claim the forward trenches. This time, however, the resistance was far more futile. Sheridan light tanks led the climb while APCs supplied suppressive fire from behind.

Caught between a rock and a hard place, the Alliance troops would have made an admirable, maybe even effective, last stand. Alliance issued HEAT grenades and satchel charges, common among forward and reconnaissance elements, would have inflicted a heavy toll upon the vehicles. The captured Independent heavy machine guns, in addition to the natural tactical advantage of holding the higher ground, would make an infantry assault equally costly on the 33rd as it had been for the Alliance.

Maybe it was the ingrained military loyalty, or maybe it was just the urge for a bloody retribution. Regardless the reason, the survivors of the 3rd battalion of the 142nd PDF and their reinforcements from the 58th reserved rose from their support trenches. Led in a charge by Captain Richman, three hundred Independent soldiers descended upon the Alliance, their mortar and sniper compatriots sowing chaos to prior to their arrival. It was a suicidal attack, facing against an enemy force that was at least five times their number, but in war there is always sacrifice, and these three hundred men would provide just enough distraction for the 4th battalion of the 33rd to climb up the hill with minimal harassment.

Lieutenant Joseph Powers ran alongside Corporal Zach Browne, who had exchanged his Mk 48 in favor of a more portable M16 assault rifle. The rest of the Easy 3rd platoon followed closely behind, a total of twenty three survivors that made up one of the most intact units left on the southern frontlines. The rest of the frontline survivors had been broken up into twenty odd men platoons, each tasked with overwhelming and holding the Independent-turned-Alliance trenches that housed captured heavy machine guns. The Easy 3rd platoon was given a target near the center of the frontline, with three heavy machine guns that were separated by four and five short stretches of trenches.

The downhill itself had been surprisingly bloodless, at least for the Easy 3rd. About halfway to their target the 3rd platoon split into three squads, each heading for their target trench. Powers, Browne, along with five others formed squad alpha, and their target was the center-most machine gun. With bayonets already fixed to their rifles and just about every soldier carrying at least two other combat knives on their persons, the three hundred was well equipped for the close quarter melee that they will force upon the Alliance.

Boots pounding solidly into the ground, Powers sprinted the last 50 meters, pulling ahead of his squad. The enemies were shooting, but by some grace the heavy machine gun was still facing the other direction, and Powers made it close enough to be within jumping range of the trench. With a flying leap Powers cleared the final meters, his knees soundly impacting the sternum of an unfortunate Alliance soldier, breaking ribs while sending the enemy collapsing against the trench wall. Powers continued to let his momentum carry him forward, plunging his bayonet deep into the enemy’s chest. The remaining Alliance soldiers reacted swiftly, swerving to bring their weapons to bear, though not before Powers unsheathed a combat knife and buried it hilt-deep into a thigh followed by a harsh pull, leaving a gaping wound that gashed crimson blood.

The ferocity of the attack caused the enemies to pause, if only very briefly, while they came to terms with the almost primitive savagery. That pause, however, was long enough for the rest of squad alpha to catch up, gun blazing and bayonets flashing as they conducted a very coordinated execution of the remaining Alliance soldiers. The soldiers who had suffered a grievous leg wound at the hands of Powers found himself with bullet in the skull, as Powers had quickly drawn his sidearm to finish the kill.

With the trench now clear, Browne slung his rifle across his back, going for the heavy machine gun to target the adjacent trenches. Before the dust had even settled, several round lobes came hurling into the trench, and someone yelled “out!” Immediately, squad alpha vaulted out of the now death trap, timely escaping the shrapnel grenades that went off seconds later. As more Alliance bullets filled the air, squad alpha found themselves in a crossfire as enemy trenches on both sides opened fire. Two caught a hail of bullets to their chest, dying instantly.

“Browne, get on that machine gun now! Blast your right to pieces! The rest of you with me!” Powers didn’t bother to stand up before moving, crawling rapidly on all fours as he built the momentum to transition into hunched-over sprint. His target was the trench to the immediate left of the captured trench, the ones who had thrown the grenades. Browne reacted quickly to the command, rolling back into the trench to finish repositioning the machine gun while slinging the belt ammo over his shoulder. Taking hold of the gun with both hands, Browne fired bursts of enfilade fire that shredded apart Alliance soldiers.

Instead of a leap, Powers dived into the target trench, shoulder ramming into the midsection of a soldier in the way. The collision started a dominos effect, sending half of the soldiers in the trench toppling backwards in an almost comical scene of flailing limbs and indignant outrage. Three more pairs of boots landed in the trench normal, M16 rifles chattering away on full auto while the returning fire came in bursts. Powers stabbed his tackled foe repeatedly, before leaping up and finding his Alliance targets already dead and two more members of his 3rd platoon bleeding profusely, one from the neck and the other from his stomach.

Grabbing one of the wounded comrades, Powers quickly returned to the trench where Browne was suppressing the enemies to the right. The second wounded Independent soldier was hauled onto his feet by the third combat capable member of squad alpha, and together they followed Powers back to a relatively safer trench. Immediately upon arrival, a flurry of activity broke out. Morphine shots, antibiotic and blood coagulant powders, and a mummifying amount of bandages later, the two wounded soldiers seemed to have stabilized, and Powers wiped a smear of blood onto his uniform before retrieving his M16 to lay down streams of suppressive fire.

---

Valley Floor, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera

Bullet pins rang loudly amidst a field of APCs. The smaller caliber rifle fire sang the sopranos, starting and stopping as infantry squads maneuvered to gain a clear line of fire. The vehicle-mounted machine guns supplied a constant baritone, filling the air with inexhaustible waves of lead that punished even a moment of inattention. The deceptively innocuous grenades bounced over covers and around corners, letting off tenor pops that drew equal part blood and cries. The unstoppable rockets smashed apart metal and flesh, providing resolute bass beats that marked the tempo of the battle.

The Alliance 202nd had withdrawn their APCs into a circular defensive wall, akin to the wagon trains that used to form into a circle during the Wild West era back on Earth-That-Was. The surviving soldiers were crawling among the flaming wreckages that lay outside of the APC circle, determined to maintain a buffer between their forced defensive positions and an Independent infantry incursion. In the southern portion of their circular fortification, a cluster of relatively undamaged APCs assembled in a spear formation, anti-armor personnel loading up to take part in a break out operation, to sally forth and punch a hole in the Independent encirclement. The rest of the 202nd was prepared to jump into the nearest friendly APC after the retreat route was established.

The order was given, and the column of APCs thundered past a temporary gap in their defensive circle formation. The gap was immediately closed, extra suppressive fire raised the noise by several decibels to prevent the Independents from exploiting this brief weakness. The vanguard APCs had only their pilots, brave souls who had volunteered for this likely suicidal role to clear a path with nothing but the law of conservation of linear momentum.

These particular APCs were tinkered with ahead of time, their engines modified to produce the maximum torque for highest engine power output by eliminating all safety cutoffs. The pilots were strapped in tight, everything except the two arms bound to the chair to keep the drivers mission-capable for as long as possible while crashing time and time again. Any illicit alcohol was given to these volunteers right before takeoff, a last sendoff that also doubled as a pain dampener and encouragement for reckless driving.

These pilots performed beyond admirably, and if the Alliance brass could get off their high chairs to acknowledge the lives that were saved by these sacrifices, the highest military honor should have been awarded to these heroes postmortem. Alas, some miracles cannot be worked, no matter how righteous the cause. Soon after the official decision reached the 202nd, there was a near mutinous sentiment running through the regiment. Treasonous words were muttered, and creative suggestions of where the military brass can place their heads were spoken brazenly. To keep the emotions from boiling over, the General of the 202nd offered an alternative memorabilia for the pilots who had given them lives to preserve the regiment, and cries of “just wreck’em!” would fill the air whenever the 202nd joined a battle.

Pushing apart the APC corpses to clear a driving lane had been easy. The Independent 33rd had yet to realize this impromptu escape operation, and the drivers found their APCs to have more than sufficient horsepower to bulldoze their metal obstacles aside. Next came the scattered squads of Independent infantry, some hiding behind scrapped vehicles, others relying on hastily dug earthworks. The regular rifle ammo pinned off the bullet-proof windows and armor of the vanguard APCs, while armor piercing bullets drawing spider cracks on the front windows while the occasional lead punctured the reinforced glass to dig holes in the Alliance pilots.

The APCs, however, proved to be unstoppable by mere bullets, and charged directly into clusters of Independent troops, sending them diving in all directions. Those in cover soon found themselves assaulted by the very defenses they had relied on, whether it be the smoking remains of a vehicle being toppled to crash down upon them, or the earthen walls serving as ramps that sent vanguard APCs flying to land in their midst. The unlucky ones would later be carried into the southern HQ first aid stations, heavy trauma all over their persons from having bounced off of a solidly built APC traveling at 100 kilometers per hour.

Even as the vanguard APCs rampaged over the infantry, the Independent APCs, formed in a line, began spraying their Alliance counterparts with larger caliber projectiles that scattered windows and shredded metal. More than a few vanguard drivers died a violent death under a brutal hail of bullets, though even in their death throes they would not take their foot off the accelerator, their APCs roaring until a missile or an object finally intercepted its path. Shoulder mounted rockets began flying, as the noise of conflict began to draw the attentions of nearby Independent squads. Soon, flaming corpses of former APCs graced the battlefield, their momentum carrying them forward until they erupted in defiance of their untimely demise.

The surviving vanguard vehicles pushed on, past the screen of dead allied vehicles to collide head on against those that dared to block their path. Those struck were unable to withstand the momentum, and so were forcibly pushed out of formation, opening holes in the line. In areas of stauncher resistance, the vanguard pilots elected to offer their ultimate sacrifice. After wedging their APCs into the highest concentration of enemies they can find, these drivers ignited their fuel cells to engulf the surrounding targets in a fiery grave. The last line of resistance thus scattered, the personnel-mounted Alliance APCs quickly unloaded their squads and fought to keep their path of retreat from closing.

Back in the 202nd circular stronghold, a flare screaming into the sky from the south signaled the successful conclusion of the breakout operation. With speed that only desperation mixed with a heaping dose of hope could lend, the 202nd infantry mounted the nearest APCs, and a chaotic fleet of vehicles roared through the open route, successfully disengaging from the devastating ambush to lick their wounds and fight another day.

---

Alliance Armored Vanguard, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera

The two light tank battalions pulled no punches while sledging each other into scrap metal. Burnt out husks of man and machine were scattered across the dusty valley floor, their passage into the afterlife marked by the sounds of shell against armor explosions. The initial contact had been brutal, dozens of tanks going up in flames on both sides. The subsequent maelstrom took even more vehicles out of commission. Neither side could afford to disengage, for neither side had the numbers for a fighting retreat, and a disorderly withdraw would simply be inviting wholesale slaughter.

The Alliance Pallas, having the upper hand in terms of technological specs, had been steadily whittling down the numerical advantage held by the Independent Sheridans. That did not alter the reality that the battle was still one of attrition, even though for every four Pallas lost, five Sheridans were mission-killed. The Alliance 21st simply did not start with enough numbers to win this fight, and that fact became ever clearer as more and more Alliance radio channels went silent.

“Pallas, right ten degrees, nine two meters!”

“Target acquired!”

“Fire!”

Sudden Death lurched backwards, recoiling as it fired the final shell of the battle. The high explosive ammunition struck its target in the rear armor, and the resulting detonation took out their engine in a spectacular flash of orange and white. Two 4th battalion APCs immediately charged alongside, Independent soldiers muscling open the hatch and lobbing in several shrapnel grenades to finish off the crew. The hatch came slamming down a second before the grenades went off, and the screams could be heard even through the closed hatch.

It took the 1st battalion of the Independent 33rd several more minutes to confirm the complete destruction of their Alliance counterpart. When they finally did, the surviving tank crews let off a cheer of celebration that surely would have echoed all the way to the southern frontline, had they not been sitting in cramped metal boxes that trapped most of the sound inside.

---

Southern Frontline, Serenity Valley, Planet Hera

At the same time the 33rd let off their roar of triumph, Lieutenant Powers was in a world of hurt. His left side was burning, having been shot just moments earlier. The thumping of blood was deafening in his ears, and still he tried to line up his shot. Wounded or not, he was still stuck in a very vulnerable position with hostile fire coming from both sides. If Powers wanted to live past the next minute he had to fight on, and onward he fought.

Having finally placed the enemy’s center of mass in his crosshairs, Powers pulled the trigger, and a short burst of bullets sent the target sprawling backwards to the ground. Letting off sigh, Powers finally allowed the gravity to take hold of him, sliding down to the trench floor as the effects of blood loss began to take hold. The world spun for a moment, and the vision of an apocalyptic future appeared before his eyes.

The Powers farm burned, along with every other farms running into Dawns Plateau. The flames grew demonic, reaching ever higher as support beams crackled and fell. A burst of ember erupted from the dying house, and a gust of wind carried them onward, beyond field of browned weeds and the dried out pond, all the way to the solitary tree where something green still grew. A single ember landed on a leaf, slowly chewing through the tender tissue to leave a smoldering wound. The wound spreads, and small flames of fire began licking at the surrounding branches. Before long, the tree was engulfed by an all-consuming flame, the dark ashes of the burnt carbon dripping to the ground like molasses.

A light entered into view, a small bobbling dot that grew larger and larger. It came from beyond the flames, its piercing rays not losing any intensity as it penetrated the raging fire. The land shook, and a zephyr lightly brushed the weeds while spreading the fire beyond just the tree. The flame took to the dried fuel with vigor, fanning out faster than it had overtaken the tree. Still the light came, now fighting through multiple walls of a reinvigorated fire. The scene was almost hypnotic, and Powers felt magnetically drawn to the sight.

Out of this oddly peaceful revere Powers suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder, rocking him. Looking down, he was no longer standing in the field of dying weeds. Instead, his legs were folded under him, stained with dirt and blood. Looking up, the horizon was deep red, the glowing orb of the sun almost completely set behind the mountain. Browne was calling and shaking him on the shoulder, trying to get a coherent response from the Lt. Powers opened his mouth, but found the air painfully dry, and he closed it without a sound.

With a loud honk an APC came to a sliding stop next to his trench. Army corpsmen jumped out, a most welcomed sight, and Powers tried to make a comment. Again he opened his mouth, and again it didn’t work. The two other wounded members of the Easy 3rd platoon were being moved into the APC while a corpsman came straight to his side, ripping open his uniform to access the bullet wound. The work was quick, professional, and a shot of morphine later, Powers lolled back and drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

All across the southern front trenches, the 4th battalion of the 33rd moped up the operation, handling the prison transports to the southern HQ and lending APCs to the corpsmen from the 3rd battalion of the 142nd. The fallen soldiers were carried off to the tree line, a mass burial that separated the Alliance bodies from the Independents. The soldiers of the 4th battalions took over manning the trenches, allowing the remaining 3rd and 58th troops to return to the HQ for some much needed rest.

There were not many survivors from the three hundred brave that charged down the hill. They had suffered a ninety percent casualty rate, many platoons were wiped out down to the last man. Those lives, however, bought the 4th more than enough time to climb the hill without facing heavy fire, and there came a sudden shift in the atmosphere when the APCs screeched to a stop next to the trenches, rifle squads firing even as the back ramps was still lowering. It does bear mention that most platoons were successful in their capture of their objective trenches, and even those few that did not, the soldiers all managed make it into their target trenches, wrestling the Alliance troops to the ground before finally expiring. Captain Richman was among the first to die, a bullet catching him in the throat just as he was about to drop into the trench, momentum carried his dying body onto a wide-eyed Alliance soldier, knocking him over.

---

Academy Codex, Entry 6, Formation of the Alliance

The political entity known as Global Exodus Alliance, which was given almost unlimited political power by a joint agreement between the first world countries and their allies on the Earth-That-Was, was not formally a government. The GEA ruled over no people or land, it was merely given authority by the signees of the agreement on all matters related to the Exodus, which snowballed to include absolute economical and military control over the relevant resources of the affiliated nations. The individual governments still maintained control over their own civilian and political policies, though that line blurred when the loading of the Arks began.

Once the Exodus transitioned to the spaceflight stage, there was effectively no government left active. As mentioned previously, only a small maintenance crew remained awake on each Ark. The only resemblance of a ruling body was aboard Prometheus, where several GEA technical officials rotated in and out of cryogenic sleep. These officials would read over the reports submitted by all the Arks in the fleet, double checking the analysis and conclusions reached by the Ark’s crew, to ensure a mistake was caught on time. These officials also consulted on any problems that arose, making the final call on the urgency of a machine failure, along with other such technologically complex maintenance tasks.

When the fleet neared the White Sun system, more high level executives began waking, to plan for the terraforming efforts and other colonization details. Representatives from the GEA affiliated governments vied for first picks of colonization locations post terraformation. CEOs from corporations demanded unlimited mineral rights to the untapped caches of natural resources detected by the scanners from Arks. Manufacturing moguls fought for complete manufacturing rights to components vital to the colonization efforts.

Back on Earth-That-Was, these were the exact issues that GEA had been given right to handle. Falling back on habit, the GEA leadership began mediating these disputes, elevating their status to that above the affiliated governments in this new solar system. The business leaders did not care who were in control, and was only happy to work with such a pro-business governmental organization. The affiliated nation leaders, however, soon realized their diminished state, and a power struggle began aboard Prometheus as alliances formed between former nations to gain the right of being the top executor.

All in all, this power struggle was completely futile. GEA had complete control of the military, and so any political maneuvers by nation leaders really meant nothing in the grander scheme of things. However, the GEA leadership was nothing if not pragmatic, and they realized this power struggle could blow up into war decades down the line, and so private discussions began between the heads of GEA and the various nation leaders. Out of self-interest and a keen sense of self-preservation, the nations went into these discussions willingly, offering concessions to the GEA if the GEA would provide military support for their reign.

Out of these discussions, the leaders of the former nations of United States and People’s Republic of China offered the most appealing, which some would call the most self-degrading, deal to the GEA. They called for the creation of an entirely new political entity, built from the political talents of the three leaderships, thus effectively giving GEA an equal seat at the table, while still maintaining control over the present and future military of this new political entity. In return, the US and PRC would take over the economics and other colonization-related decision making. Thus decided, the Alliance was born, a political and military powerhouse that no other alliance of nations could match. Over the course of decades after colonization took place, all other political contender were either peacefully or forcibly subjugated to fall in line with Alliance policies. To this day, the Alliance maintains its position as the rightful governing body for all colonies, regardless of planetary locations.